Cold from the north, p.6
Cold From The North, page 6
part #1 of The Onyxborn Chronicles Series
‘Fine, I am scared. And I am angry. That Prundan is always getting at me, Ogulf. He knows how to press me – for the life of me I don’t know why he does, though. What have I done to him?’
‘I know. But you did almost... How do I put it?’ Ogulf said.
‘I almost set his beard on fire. I know. It was rash,’ Melcun said. ‘The further south I am going the more I can feel this ... energy.’ He continued in a whisper. ‘You saw how it used to be; it would take me hours to conjure so much as a spark sometimes. And now, for some reason, I have it right at the ends of my fingertips. I can feel it.’ Melcun looked at his hand as he tried to have a spark from two striking stones catch on some tinder. Ogulf looked at his friend getting frustrated as he clattered the rocks together. Melcun dropped them and then looked up at Ogulf, as if he was waiting for permission to do something he had every intention of doing anyway.
‘Don’t,’ Ogulf said, his eyes wide with worry.
Melcun made the slightest circular movement with his hand towards the tinder and dried sticks in the fuel pile, and from nowhere, a flame began to flicker underneath and a few thin wisps of smoke trickled up as it came to life. Melcun gave an awkward, surprised smile when he realised what he’d done. Ogulf had seen Melcun do things like this when he had to, or occasionally when he was angry, but he had never seen him do it this easily. The flames grew, consuming the branches to form a hearty fire. Ogulf was still dumbstruck. He let his hands trail near to the edge of the flame. The warmth sunk in his fingertips and crept up his arms. It was a feeling he loved, the cold loosening its grip, bit by bit. Giving way to the soothing comfort from the fire made him remember what hope felt like.
‘You need to be careful, Melcun,’ he said, sitting up and letting the rest of his body feel the comforting heat from the fire. His eyes scanned the people nearby to check if anyone had noticed what had just happened. Since everyone around them seemed too busy focusing on their own tasks, Ogulf let go of the unpleasant worry in his chest. ‘No use getting labelled a spellbinder by your own people; they won’t accept it, circumstances be damned.’
Melcun was still gazing at his hand. He looked like he was about to try and create another flame so Ogulf reached out and struck him on the thigh. ‘I mean it, Melcun.’ His friend recoiled when he was hit and nodded nervously. ‘We have to prioritise getting south. You throwing hexes or spells around or whatever it is you’re doing will only cause problems, especially if one of them sees you do it.’ He gestured with a nod of his head towards the group of travellers nearby, tone still somewhat hushed so that the crackles of the fire were louder than the words.
Ogulf didn’t know much about magic and Melcun was the only person he knew who could wield it. Melcun knew next to nothing about magic either, other than that he could use it sometimes. In Broadheim, the majority of the population took a severe disliking to mages, but that hadn’t stopped Ogulf’s curiosity about the arcane, especially given the fact that his closest friend was able to call on the powers of magicka. Abilities like that scared Ogulf in a way, because using them was nothing like brandishing a weapon, but at the same time, that’s exactly what they were, weapons of death and destruction according to the old stories. These stories were tall tales of great heroes, the kinds that fathers told their sons at bedtime to prepare their minds for a peaceful night’s sleep. Melcun wouldn’t want to wield death in his hands, Ogulf thought.
‘You’re right, I’m sorry, Ogulf,’ Melcun said.
As the two friends sat by the fire, they saw some of the people start to move towards the edge of the forest with bags slung over their shoulders and determination in their eyes.
‘Looks like the first group will be leaving soon,’ Melcun said. Ogulf noticed his father approaching them, passing sideways between the people in the crowd heading for the treeline.
‘Thirty or so left in the night. Some of those on watch tried to stop them but they wouldn’t listen. They said a vision told them to come home,’ Rowden said. ‘Prundan calls them cowards,’ he said to Ogulf.
‘I suppose they are cowards in a way. Then again, they have courage by going back to what is surely an inevitable death, which must amount to something, but I’m not sure if it’s stupidity or cowardice.’
Rowden was smiling at Ogulf. ‘If we run into any problems on the southern side of the Trail, we will be going back to the old ways, sticking to the trees and the dark, just like you’ve both been taught. We’re not cowards, we fight smart, smart people live, stupid people die, and always remember, there is no need for us to fight unless we absolutely have to.’
It pleased Ogulf to hear his father talking this way again. Beyond the Trail, they didn’t know what awaited them, so they had to be more cautious; anyone could and should be considered an enemy. Even though the land past there was still technically Broadheim, it was not inhabited the way the main body of the country was. It was all but abandoned after the cold came and the citizens there were shut off from the citadels. Other than a few villages and the old South Hold, there wasn’t much between the Widow’s Trail and the border with the Shingally Empire.
‘Have we heard anything of Runa?’ Melcun said.
‘Nothing. I expected that would be the case,’ Rowden said. ‘Not even a trace of her group on the track as far as the scouts could see, which means they never made it this far or …’
‘Or Runa covered her tracks?’ Melcun said.
‘Unlikely, but yes,’ Rowden said with a sigh. ‘My group is about to leave. Prundan’s will leave in two hours’ time, Melcun at high sun, and you with Wildar two hours later. That should give us enough time to clear the narrow parts and take our time. We’ll wait at the foot of the mountain on the south side; don’t worry, you will spot us.’
Rowden walked closer to his son and embraced him. Ogulf was taken aback. His father was a loving man but displays of affection like this were not something he’d offered easily in recent years. As they parted, Ogulf noticed a coating of tears in his father’s eyes. They looked ready to spill onto his face at any second. Just as he was about to leave, Ogulf stopped him.
‘It’s good to see you like this again.’ The statement clearly threw Rowden off and he looked on at his son, puzzled. ‘You seem like you again.’
With a final squeeze of his son’s shoulder and a nod to Melcun, Rowden Harlsbane turned and made his way back through the scattered crowd on the edge of the forest.
Chapter 7
Assembled on the edge of the tree line with the treacherous mountain in front of him, Ogulf glanced at the group he was to lead around the Trail. He recognised most of them. Among the group was Evy, the blacksmith; Cohl, the butcher; Marcas and Manas, the twin brothers of Bharra farm; Sadie, the innkeeper; and a man Ogulf recognised only because he played the lute in the tavern. The majority of his group looked able-bodied, and while their most recent lines of work might not have prepared them for a journey like this, they had all suffered the same hardships in Keltbran. They were hardy people, and if they had come this far, then they wouldn’t turn back now.
The previous groups had left a line of heavy footsteps, making it easy for Ogulf, Wildar, and their group to follow their route to the base of the mountain where the path began to narrow. The wind was kind to them as they set off; the bitterness eased off slightly, and wisps of warmth touched Ogulf’s skin as he marched in the sunlight. There was plenty of daylight left to make their trip before nightfall. Wildar had guessed it would take them around five hours to get around, if they kept a steady pace, and if the Trail was good to them. Ogulf was not in a place to argue.
The closer they got, the more daunting the Widow’s Trail became. Ogulf looked at his group as they came to a path up the side of the ridge, their eyes went wide, their necks craned, and jaws dropped. On either side was a sheer, deathly drop down to the sea below, with jagged rock ridges shooting from the slopes like the teeth of a dark beast. The cragged edges of the cliff face went down for hundreds of feet, their rocks as black as the night, and the white foam of the water danced around the base of the mountain as the waves of the Sea of Blades crashed into it.
On a particularly narrow part of the path, Ogulf noticed severe degradation in the dirt where the other groups had walked. When he placed his feet even very lightly on the path, the dirt crumbled under his boot, a combination of frozen slush and loose rock causing him to slip. He managed to steady himself, then warned the group to take care. This was the kind of obstruction he had worried about; all those boots that had already stomped around the Trail meant that the final group would be met with severely deteriorated walkways, already battered by the fists of time and the weather.
‘If the rest of the Trail is like this, it will take more than five hours to get ’round, even with a good pace,’ Wildar said in a hushed tone, for only Ogulf to hear. ‘We’ll be making a descent at nightfall.’
Ogulf didn't protest; he knew that Wildar was right. But what choice did they have? Ogulf had to keep the group moving forward. ‘Like you said before, speculation costs time. We keep moving.’
‘Aye,’ Wildar said with a playful smile and a nod. Despite the fact that he outranked him, Wildar had given Ogulf command of this journey. While they were in the forest, waiting to set off, he told him this was because a fresh pair of eyes would look at the Trail differently; he had seen it before and turned back and he did not want his past experience to get in the way of his judgement now. Ogulf would have liked to decline, but then what kind of man would he be? I need to do it, for them and not for me, he told himself, thinking of his people. Wildar was also still preoccupied with something that he would not disclose to Ogulf. Every so often, Ogulf would look at the chieftain and see him fidgeting, shaking his head, or frowning as if he was at odds with a question in his mind. This in turn sent a quiver of unrest down Ogulf’s spine; he had never seen Wildar so uneasy in all his life.
Ogulf looked back at the line of people all carefully making their way across the narrow path, which was no wider than a doorway, with a precipitous drop on either side. The next person who wanted to attempt the Trail after the Keltbran people would have a very difficult time getting past as every step seemed to knock a spec of dirt down towards the raging waves, making the track taper even further.
The higher up the mountain the group climbed, the more biting the wind became. The path they were following was steep. It climbed the mountainside at a punishing angle, occasionally turning back on itself, but always, always heading up. Ogulf’s thighs burned and stretched more with every step as he pushed forward on the constant incline.
Ogulf could see the remains of what must have been the old footpath as they trudged on. It had once been a well-maintained road which connected North and South Broadheim, and despite the years of decay, the well-trekked road was still partially visible. At the same time the deterioration of the old path was substantial. At some points, stone edges jutted from the ground where there used to be carved steps. Ogulf could see the centre of each was worn away to a dip, showing him where the boots of long-dead travellers had once climbed.
The constant elevation of the mountain meant that the group’s progress slowed, and Ogulf reckoned that the ones who passed before them must have struggled here too as he’d noticed marks in the dirt where boots had slid free from the solid ground. Even with footholds becoming harder to access, the group proved resilient under Ogulf’s encouragement, and they powered on as the sun began its descent for the day. The winding path led them up and around the peak of the highest mountain on the Trail. Wind stung Ogulf’s eyes as he tried to catch a glimpse of the world below. It was like looking at the world through the eyes of the gods. Such a sight should be appreciated. Before he got the chance, the cold became too much. It was almost unbearable for Ogulf. The blue sky and shining sun taunted him again. This time, he thought they were luring him towards warmth. Ogulf grunted, tucked his chin to his chest, fixed his eyes back on the path, and began to move again.
He worked his legs cautiously through the dirt ahead as he began to make the slow, gradual descent down the other face of the mountain, glancing back occasionally to make sure the group were still following behind him.
Now a little further down and away from the harsh torment of the cold, he finally got a view of the lands to the south, and he was struck by the incredible clarity of it. From here, he could see for miles and miles in front of him, and to his amazement, much of the land looked clear of frost and ice. Fields of greens, yellows, browns – fields full of life – were clearly visible. He could see the South Hold far in the distance, its grey hue looming like a shadow beside the vibrant colours all around it.
A smile crept over Ogulf’s face. He made no efforts to contain it, just let the tingle of warmth it brought ignite in his chest. This is what hope looks like, he thought. Just as he was getting used to the serenity in front of him, he was bumped in the back by one of the people in his group who was still pressing ahead with their eyes focused on the uneven ground in front of them.
Ogulf forced his eyes back to the path and refocused. Hope was still quite a few paces away yet, he thought. Something moved on the slope to his left. It was only a flicker but it was enough to catch Ogulf’s well-trained eyes. He remembered Wildar’s story of the bones littered on the mountainside, but bones didn't move. Ogulf looked properly and noticed no bones, instead he could see the dead bodies of his people scattered down the side of the rock face. Some still had red in their cheeks, others had the grey-white coating of frost on their clothes, and some looked unrecognisable as their mangled bodies lay in horrendous, unnatural shapes in the snow. He counted at least twenty of them, his countrymen, his friends all now wrecked and lifeless.
A scream cut from behind drew his attention. It was louder than the baying cry of the wind. Ogulf turned to see that more of the group were making their way around the bend he had just passed. All of their eyes were lured to the source of the scream, and then to what the woman was looking at; the horrors of the slope were now clear for them all to see. Some began to sob as they looked on. Given that Keltbran was a small place, they must have recognised at least some of the glazed eyes staring back at them. Ogulf hoped they didn’t linger too long; they had to keep moving.
The hysterical reactions caused a number of people to lose their footing and stumble. They clung on to those around them, desperately trying to stop themselves from joining the array of empty vessels scattered below them. Ogulf, Wildar, and others near the front called out for the group to calm down, but the panic spread quicker than their shouts could ever have hoped to. Before Ogulf could cry out a second time, he saw a rock at the edge of the cliffside break away and two members plummet down the side of the mountain. As their bodies tumbled down the decline, blood sprayed from newly opened wounds as the sharp rocks punctured their skin. Their souls departed after the first impact, and their bodies became fresh additions to the barbaric collage of death on the side of the Widow’s Trail.
‘We must be careful!’ Ogulf shouted to the group. He couldn’t let them slow down, not over two deaths. He couldn’t even justify slowing down if they all died. They had to keep moving, and they had to be heedful, if they were to get to their people on the other side. Ogulf had to lead. He looked to Wildar. The chieftain’s face was flushed and red, but his eyes were filled with determination. He gave Ogulf an assuring nod.
At the front of the group, Ogulf began to make slow, steady movements onto the next part of the Trail, but his eyes kept betraying him as he stole glances at the south. It was so captivating that was it really any wonder so many people fell off of the edge here? They were lured by a land that looked like the land they used to prosper in, but it was a land they would never reach because they were too entranced by what could be to keep an eye on their footing. Here is the world that awaits you, it will steal you from the minute you lay eyes on it, Ogulf thought. He had to calm himself. He could hear people behind him hyperventilating and crying and he ached to give them strength, but it was all he could do to move forward and hope his path was tempting enough for the others to follow. Breathing deeply and studying the rocks in front of him, he took another few steps, each more mindful than the one before.
The path had narrowed significantly. In some places, he had to shuffle sideways with his back against the rough rock. Ogulf noticed the chunks of rock below him on some of the short, flat outlays of the mountainside. This pathway was decaying with every step and they had no other choice but to use it. The fact there were only a few dozen bodies now scattered down the side of the cliff meant that others had made it past this treacherous part of the Trail. Ogulf assumed the path must have been shoulder width wide just this morning and now it was half that at a push, worn away by fleeing feet with heavy hearts.
He felt along the wall to find handholds. The rugged rock felt harsh in Ogulf’s palms, their shape made them difficult and uncomfortable to grip. He tested his weight against them and they seemed firm enough to allow some support
The sun began to approach its last phase before setting, letting Ogulf know that time was running out.
Wildar was just behind Ogulf, navigating his way along the ledge in a similarly careful manner. ‘We must press ahead, Ogulf,’ Wildar said calmly, as if they were not on the edge of a sheer drop down the side of a mountain. ‘No matter what.’
Ogulf nodded, pressing his back to the rock face and beginning to shimmy sideways along the narrow path again, this time with more pace. The part he reached now was a foot wide at most. When a pang of bravery filled him, he looked down and noticed that his boots jutted out beyond the ledge at some points. As he stared at his feet, a bead of sweat rolled off his forehead, his clammy hands felt unsure as they gripped at the rocks and he tried to swallow what felt like a brick in his throat.
