Kell was drifting in darkness. It was warm and welcoming, without pain or screams. A blessed relief from the Qalamieren and their torture. Away. He needed to get away.
Sitting bolt upright Kell banged his head on the pole, nearly ripping the tent from its moorings.
“They’re gone. You’re safe,” said Malomir. Kell’s eyes were still adjusting to the gloom when he felt a warm hand squeeze his shoulder. Lying beside him, wrapped up in her blanket, was the Alfár. Willow was deep asleep but her whole body was tense.
“Malomir?”
“I’m here. Rest easy, Kell. You need to sleep.” The Islander sounded weary but he wasn’t panicked, which suggested the danger had passed. Kell tried to ask what had happened but he was so tired he didn’t manage to say the words out loud. Malomir helped him lie down and before Kell had finished pulling up his blanket the darkness claimed him.
The next time he woke, the tent was empty. His stomach was gurgling and tight with hunger, suggesting quite a few hours had passed. Crawling outside with a blanket around his shoulders he found the others sat in a circle. A big pot of food was bubbling away and everyone was eating as if it had been days since their last meal. There was still no sight of Bronwyn.
“How long was I asleep?” asked Kell, as Malomir handed him a bowl and some bread.
“You all slept through the night and most of the morning.” From the deep shadows under Malomir’s eyes it looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. Looking at the others Kell saw all of their faces were equally haggard despite having slept for so long. Gerren’s eyes were red rimmed from crying and Vahli refused to make eye contact with anyone. Even the Alfár had been affected by the Qalamieren. Her yellow eyes were dull and she moved in a listless manner as if drunk.
It felt as if a great weight was pressing down on Kell’s whole body. His limbs were heavy and it took a long time to form any thoughts. He ate all of the food in his bowl and scraped it clean but felt no better. Something was missing, or rather, had been taken by the wraiths.
“Bronwyn?”
“Still asleep,” said Malomir. “She missed it all.”
“The Qalamieren?” asked Kell. Vahli twitched at the name and Gerren moaned, covering his face with a hand.
“Gone. A story for another time,” said Malomir, shaking his head. He didn’t have the energy to talk about it and none of them were ready to hear it.
He could tell from the haunted look in their eyes that each of his friends had been forced to endure nightmares of their own creation. “We cannot continue like this,” said the Islander.
Kell wasn’t sure they had a choice. After the fight with the maglau he’d thought they would have a reprieve before the next attack. He didn’t know if whatever was controlling the beasts could compel the Qalamieren but regardless their assault had been ill-timed. He was sure the wraiths had spelled their doom. They desperately needed time to rest before the icefields and whatever was waiting for them in the castle. Unfortunately in this desolate landscape there were no safe ports to shelter them.
A rhythmic tapping sound caught Kell’s attention. At first he thought it was just the dogs’ harnesses rattling in the wind but soon realised it was coming from elsewhere. The others had noticed too and were trying to ready themselves for another fight. On his third attempt Kell managed to stand up but then realised he had no idea where to find his sword.
The tapping was getting closer and in the distance he saw a dark shape amidst the endless white. Malomir drew his scimitar which was blackened in places as if it had been burned. The Alfár was standing but Kell could see she was leaning heavily on her weapon to stay upright. Malomir was the only one of them in any state to fight but he was on the verge of collapse.
The one shape became two and then ten but their features were still obscured by the whirling snow. Kell’s heart sank as their numbers continued to grow. He stopped counting as thirty shadowy figures marched towards them. Whether it was the Qalamieren or something else they couldn’t win against so many. They would fight bravely but in the end it wouldn’t make a difference. But he would not run. Even if this had always been his fate he would not go willingly like a timid lamb. Kell drew a dagger from his belt and prepared to fight for his life.
All of the strangers stopped a short distance away and one came forward by itself into camp. When the snow cleared he saw the stranger’s face and felt a huge surge of relief. Kell had been holding himself upright with sheer force of will but now he collapsed to one knee.
“You are far from home,” said the Frostrunner, a stocky woman with a broad smiling face. She was dressed in traditional reindeer clothing – jacket, trousers, boots, hat and gloves – and looked quite warm despite the snow. There was a healthy glow to her rosy cheeks and her eyes twinkled with mirth. “Do you need help?”
Malomir was eyeing the clanswoman with suspicion, perhaps thinking it was another illusion of the Qalamieren, but Kell knew this was no trick. The others had never been this far north so they had no idea about the customs of the Frostrunners. Bold face lies or even just evading the truth, no matter how uncomfortable, was a grave insult. If they accepted the hospitality of the clan, Kell and his friends would be treated as if they were family for the duration of their stay.
With a grunt of effort he forced himself upright and slowly approached the woman with empty hands spread to either side. “My name is Kell Kressia and we have been tested by the Frozen North. We fought against the snow bears, the maglau and the Qalamieren.” At mention of their name the clanswoman’s smile faltered. “We are in desperate need of rest. We also have a friend who is severely injured.”
“My name is Luopo,” said the clanswoman, stepping close to Kell and peering up at him with her dark eyes. “I have heard of you from ten years hence. Strange company you keep,” she said, glancing at the Alfár with a frown. Kell thought she wasn’t going to offer them hospitality but then her smile returned. “We offer you food and shelter. Join us and be welcome.”
“Thank you,” said Kell, clasping hands with Luopo. Her fingers squeezed his through her gloves and Kell felt the strength in her grip. As the most senior she spoke for the clan but, like all of those who chose to live on the ice, she was as tough as old leather. The old woman lent him her strength as she guided him back towards his tent.
Gerren was trying his best not to fall asleep or stare in open-mouthed wonder but it was difficult on both counts. For the first time since they’d crossed onto the ice he was warm and safe. The Frostrunners had taken them back to their camp a short ride away where at least a dozen hide-covered yurts sat in a circle on the ice. Beyond the camp roamed a large herd of reindeer under the watchful eye of a few warriors.
Gerren had thought the Frostrunners lived in bare homes devoid of luxury but he was completely mistaken. Inside the yurt he shared with his friends the wooden floor was covered with layers of overlapping warm rugs. Lightweight cleverly built furniture, made from a material he didn’t recognise, was dotted around the circular room, which made it feel homely. Thick fur-lined sleeping pouches had been laid out for all of them and light came from lanterns with yellow glass panels washing everything in a warm glow. Instead of candles or oil, the lanterns contained a swirling liquid that was constantly in motion.
Heat in the yurt came from covered braziers, apparently stuffed full of dried reindeer dung. Gerren had expected everything to stink but the air was clean and fresh with a faint floral odour. Kell had stressed that naked flames were strictly forbidden but he didn’t have time to explain why.
Their host, a cheery man named Nieman, was sharing a pipe with Kell and Vahli. Gerren had not been offered it, perhaps because of his age, and he didn’t ask. From the smell of the herbs it would only make him sick and he didn’t want to offend anyone by vomiting on the rugs.
Currently Nieman was serving them warm cups of something that looked like milk. Gerren was going to turn it down but Kell indicated that he couldn’t refuse. There seemed to be a lot of formality to the milk ceremony as Kell would only drink after their host had taken a sip. The milk tasted peculiar, spicy and yet sour as if it was fermented, but Gerren made sure he didn’t show any displeasure. He drank the whole cup and stifled a burp with a cough.
Gerren was glad to see he wasn’t the only one lost by the formality as the bard was equally reticent. Everyone was beyond the point of exhaustion from their encounter with Qalamieren but so far they’d not been left alone to sleep. Bronwyn had been taken to another yurt, where the clan’s healer resided, and Malomir had gone with her. He refused to leave her side and Gerren didn’t know if it was because Malomir didn’t trust the Frostrunners or he couldn’t bear to be apart from her.
With the milk ceremony complete Kell and Nieman exchanged a few pleasantries but neither of them spoke about their recent battles. He had the impression now was not the right time to talk about such an important events. The Frostrunners would want to know how they had survived and they were not the only ones.
Gerren didn’t understand what had happened with the Qalamieren but the images from his nightmares were still fresh. He just wanted to sleep and find peace in the dark. He glanced at the sleeping form of the Alfár with envy. Willow seemed more affected than anyone else and had lain down to rest the moment they’d entered the yurt.
Finally Nieman retreated outside to be with his people.
“Later,” said Kell, before Gerren could ask him any questions. “Sleep. It’s safe here and they would protect us with their lives.”
Vahli had been scribbling in his journal, probably making more notes for his grand saga, but he quickly curled up in one of the sleeping pouches. Gerren was afraid his whirling thoughts would keep him awake but he fell asleep moments after lying down.
Hours later when he awoke, feeling warm and rested, Gerren had a moment of panic. A face loomed over him and he thought it was the wraith again, come to torment him with its mix of pleasure and pain. He screamed and sat up, frantically searching for a weapon.
“Gerren, calm down,” said a voice. “You’re safe. It’s over.”
Was it? Was it really over? Then why did his body ache so badly? And why was his cock so hard that it hurt? There was also a deep and lingering pain in his groin as if he’d been kicked between the legs.
Gerren blinked and the vision of the Qalamieren faded. Slowly he recognised the familiar surroundings of the yurt. Willow was still asleep in her pouch but the others were empty. Vahli was standing a short distance away holding up two steaming bowls of food. Gerren’s stomach gurgled but his heart was still pounding.
“You startled me,” said Gerren. Vahli offered him a bowl which he accepted with a nod. It was some kind of meat stew swimming in thick black gravy. He spotted a carrot and what might have been a potato which was enough to set his stomach off again. The meat was rich and chewy which made him suspect it was reindeer but it didn’t put him off. He needed something else to focus on to keep the images in his mind at bay.
“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Vahli, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake Willow.
Gerren studied the bard, noting the haggard eyes, the tight muscles in his hunched shoulders and the deep ridges in his forehead. “Do you?”
Vahli vehemently shook his head. Whatever he’d been forced to endure by the Qalamieren had taken a toll. Gerren wondered how his own face had been marked by the wraiths. Were his eyes just as haunted?
They all needed time to rest and try to come to terms with the visions. Gerren had questions about what had happened but those who could answer him were elsewhere. With his hunger sated for the time being he lay down to sleep again. Fear of what he might see in his dreams was at the forefront of his mind but his body still craved rest. He balanced on the knife-edge between wake and sleep for a time but mercifully fell into a dreamless void where no nightmares plagued him.
Malomir’s knees ached from kneeling on the rug but he ignored the pain and bore it stoically. The Frostrunner healer, a gnarled walnut of a man, had carefully checked Bronwyn’s head only to reach the same conclusion as Vahli. Her injuries were inside and there was nothing he could do for her. There had been a brief and frantic conversation in their native tongue between the healer and Luopo but neither had shared with him what the argument was about. All he knew was that they had sent for someone else to help Bronwyn and he was to remain with her.
A short time later Luopo returned with an ancient woman dressed in black whom he’d not seen before. All of the Frostrunners wore multiple layers of hide, trimmed or lined with fur for warmth, but the old woman didn’t seem to feel the cold. Her hands and feet were bare and her long grey hair blew freely away from her face. Dozens of charms had been woven into her braids and Malomir picked out pieces of bone, crystal chips, tattered pieces of colourful cloth and even what resembled a shrivelled, dead mouse.
Luopo was the leader of the clan but even she deferred to the old woman. Her face was lined with age but her dark eyes were clear and unmarred by her years.
“This is Ammarok, our spiritual healer,” said Luopo.
The old woman ignored them both and immediately knelt down beside Bronwyn. Placing a thumb in the middle of Bronwyn’s forehead Ammarok closed her eyes and began to mutter under her breath. Malomir was about to ask a question when Luopo shook her head forcing him to wait.
After a while Ammarok opened her eyes and stared directly at him. “Her body is very strong but this is a wound of the spirit. It wanders.”
“Can you help her?” he asked.
Ammarok shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“I will pay any price. Give you anything.”
“You don’t understand,” said Luopo. “Ammarok has no magic. She will call upon the spirits for their help but then it will be up to your friend.”
“I will seek a guide,” said the old woman. “They will show her the way back to the flesh, but she must decide to return to this world by herself.”
“Is there anything I can do to help her?” said Malomir, gripping Bronwyn’s hand. The two clanswomen exchanged a look and Ammarok lifted one shoulder.
“Maybe,” said Luopo. “But it is risky.”
“You care deeply for her, yes?” said the healer.
“I do.”
“Then you can be her anchor,” said Ammarok. “But know this, if she chooses not to return, your spirit will also be lost. Your body will breathe for a time but then it will die.”
Malomir considered the old woman’s words carefully. He didn’t know if he believed in spirit guides but his encounter with the Qalamieren had opened his mind to the possibility. It was enough that they seemed convinced it could help Bronwyn. As traditional medicine had failed he was willing to give anything a try.
“Tell me what to do,” he said.
A short time later he and Ammarok were sat on either side of Bronwyn in an ice-house. It was a crudely made temporary structure fashioned from blocks of ice packed with snow. It would stand for a few hours and then fall apart and be reclaimed by the land. Once they were inside, Malomir was surprised to see other members of the clan seal up the doorway. A small vent in the roof was left for air to escape but even so the inside quickly became unbearably warm.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. A ritual. Perhaps a potion to soften the boundaries of the mind like some people at home drank to speak with their gods. Instead Ammarok ordered him to take off his clothes and sit naked on the ice. Bronwyn was allowed a thin blanket but it did not provide much protection from the cold.
“Shy?” asked the old woman with a grin. Malomir watched as she peeled out of her clothing without hesitation. The tan skin of her body was lined, the flesh sagging with age and her breasts hung flat against her round belly but she showed no embarrassment about her body. It wasn’t embarrassment that made Malomir hesitate but shame, which he quickly put aside. Just as he knew little about Ammarok’s beliefs, it was unlikely she knew much about his. He stripped off his jacket and shirt, revealing the jagged scar on his chest. He’d received the wound in his youth when he’d been arrogant. That day the beast had taught him a valuable lesson.
As he shrugged out of his trousers and boots Ammarok glanced at his body and raised an eyebrow. “You’re a big one. You remind me of my second mate, but his was crooked.”
Malomir tried not to wince as he sat down but the cold shooting through his legs and arse was intense. He hissed in pain and the old woman cackled at his discomfort.
“What happens now?”
“Now, we wait. Hold on to her hand and no matter what you see or hear, do not let go. And do not speak, not one word, until this is done,” said Ammarok.
Malomir clasped one of Bronwyn’s hands and Ammarok took the other before closing her eyes. He did the same and tried to ignore the growing pain and numbness in his legs, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. Another distraction was his balls which were trying to retract their way back inside his body.
Instead he focused on the sound of his breathing, trying to keep it slow and even. Water trickled nearby and Ammarok began to mutter something over and over in her guttural language. The rhythm suggested it was a litany but the meaning eluded him.
In such an empty space, cut off from the rest of the world, it became difficult to measure the passage of time. His only way was to count the number of breaths but that quickly became meaningless. Ammarok’s voice seemed louder, or perhaps it was the lack of other sounds. Her words echoed in his skull like the rhythmic beating of a drum. His feet were completely numb and Malomir couldn’t tell if wiggling his toes had any effect. Keeping his breathing even was becoming difficult as the pain continued to mount.
His teeth squeaked from clenching his jaw so tight. Ammarok’s chanting filled his head. The words had become a painful sound that was burrowing into his mind, changing him, creating something new from his flesh and blood. His skin was tingling while everything below his waist was frozen and absent. Malomir felt something brush past his shoulder and his heart began to pound.
There was someone with them in the ice-house.
He sensed a presence. It was massive and filled the space, pressing down on his body, rooting him to the spot. Malomir tried to move his hands but his fingers wouldn’t respond. It was also there in his mind, observing his thoughts, picking through his memories. He didn’t know if its intentions were malicious but it had an inquisitive nature. Malomir couldn’t help it. He opened his eyes.
He tried to scream but his throat was locked, his tongue frozen to the roof of his mouth. A small whimper was all that emerged. In Ammarok’s place knelt the outline of a being made of blazing silver and blue light. All of the details were clear and yet Malomir could see through it like a pane of glass.
It was part man and part beast. A strange blending of the two that filled him with fear and awe. The shaggy creature loomed over Bronwyn, staring down at her face with a quizzical expression.
Growing from the top of its skull was a huge crown of antlers with sharp points. Its shoulders and chest were covered with russet brown fur which ended at the waist. Squatting down on cloven feet he saw huge genitals dangling between its legs. Long green hair fell to its waist and the six fingers on each hand ended in red tips as if they’d been dipped in fresh blood.
At the merest whisper of his voice its head whipped around. As Malomir stared into its eyes he felt the walls of his mind begin to crumble. It was too late to look away and now it had seized him on either side of his head with its massive hands. Pain blossomed in his skull but he couldn’t escape. He felt its fingers pass through the skin and bone with ease. It penetrated his mind and everything was laid bare. Every memory. Every emotion. Every thought he’d ever had. A lifetime of choices that had brought him to this moment.
And in the whirlwind of his mind the image of Bronwyn emerged. She was sitting in the dark, alone and isolated from the world. He tried to reach out to her but he no longer had a body. Malomir had become an observer on a plane of reality he couldn’t understand. The ice-house and everything was gone. At first there was only the endless dark and Bronwyn but then the landscape began to change.
She was huddled under a blanket inside a cave while outside a storm raged. Thick gusts of wind blew flurries of snow into the cave mouth forcing her to inch backwards. Malomir instinctively knew this was a mistake. To retreat into the cave was to leave behind the world and surrender to the dark. There was peace and serenity in that choice, but that had never been her way. Life meant struggle and sacrifice. It meant pain but also joy. The brightest memories obliterated the suffering, the despair and the failure. It made it all worthwhile.
The crowned man appeared at the mouth of the cave only this time he was whole, made of flesh instead of light. Bronwyn initially pulled back in fear but then her familiar steel returned. She searched for a weapon and finding none stood up to face him with her fists raised. He spoke to her but for Malomir the words were muffled as if coming from far away. All Malomir could pick out was the tone of his voice. The being raised a hand in surrender so as not to startle her. Malomir saw its mouth moving and Bronwyn answered. Back and forth they spoke while the wind raged outside, promising struggle and pain.
At one point Malomir was certain there was mention of his name. He felt it, like a trickle of ice water running down his back, there and gone a moment later. Bronwyn’s eyes searched for him but he had no way to alert her of his presence. The wind blew harder, more snow poured into the cave but now Bronwyn stood her ground. Flurries whipped past the being’s antlers but he gave no mind to the storm. He said one final thing to Bronwyn then turned and walked away, leaning into the wind. In less than a dozen paces he vanished, swallowed whole by the endless white.
For a long time Malomir watched Bronwyn struggle with her decision. She was balanced on the precipice between life and death. The guide had done as Ammarok had promised but now the choice was hers to make alone.
So many emotions surged across her face. Malomir wanted to reach out and comfort her but he was powerless. He knew she had much to live for but perhaps she was simply tired of the struggle. To be the strongest, the toughest, the best. It was not without reward but also isolating. He didn’t know if she viewed the world as he did. There was still so much about her that he wanted to discover.
Finally, Bronwyn made her decision.
She cast one final glance into the quiet darkness of the cave before turning her back on it. The wind tried to force her inside but she leaned forward, braced herself against the storm, and took a step. Her jaw was clenched, her hands stretched out ahead and she refused to yield. Step by step she drove herself forward away from the darkness and into the eternal white.
Malomir felt someone squeezing his hand. He experienced a brief sensation of falling and then he was back in his flesh.
His heart was pounding, sweat ran down his naked body and the ice-house was full of trickling water. His legs were completely numb and when he tried to move bolts of pain lanced through his flesh. Ammarok was coming awake too, grunting in pain as she massaged the weary flesh of her thighs.
That was when he felt someone squeezing his hand again. Looking down he saw Bronwyn’s eyes were open.