Happy Holidays everyone! I hope wherever you read this, that you’re happy, content and able to relax, even for just a few moments. This is the last story I’ll be posting in 2024, and I cannot state enough just how grateful I am for all of you here, reading my stuff. You’re the best. I’m so excited to keep sharing my writing on into next year. I’ve got some fun plans for January!
Thank you. Happy Holidays. Love Ya!
Max
Now for the tale, set in the fantasy world of my novels (coming soon!) and The Flute Thief
The wind blew hard and forced its way through the cracks in the grout between stones and the gaps held by fasteners on the window's stone shutters and the openings so deep in the walls that they are only known by the darkest of shadows dwelling within the cellars and the attic. It pushed the thick fur curtains at the boy's windows, passing over top his blankets and covers, going around the open space to find the fire burning in the far side of the room.
The flame flickered and snapped with the moving air. It’s' calm orange glow thrown into a momentary torrent, cascading a violent mix of light and dark through the room, telling the story of seconds and ages on the stone walls.
The boy woke and saw the story told in the dancing shadows and yelled. He tried to move, but the weight of the heavy fur blankets held him still. Before he could cry out a second time, the doors to his room opened, orange light flooding in. The light of the fires of the hall below followed the boy's caretaker.
"Hush, my prince, hush," said the woman as she approached the bed. "What wakes you at this hour?"
"The fire and the wind and the cold and, and,"
"Shh," said the caretaker. The boy focused at her shushing, watching her violet eyes flutter and wave as the fire did with his vision obscured by the edge of tears.
“Do not shed a tear, my prince. No son of Logihjarta shall fear the cold, nor the fire. The flame of your father’s heart is in you too.”
The boy held back his tears and swallowed. He looked the caretaker in her eyes, vision clearing.
“There is your father’s bravery.”
The prince was still unconvinced, though. He wiped his eyes and looked towards the curtains. The wind yet made them dance.
“Is that why you are so afraid?” said the woman, standing and moving towards the windows. “Do you know what gave you these curtains?”
“The elk!” said the boy, jumping with excitement as his fear left, almost forgotten.
“Yes, little prince, the Great Elk gave their pelts to thee for warmth when the hearthfire dims and the nights get cold.” She pulled the thick furs closed about the window and walked to the hearth. “The hearthfire shall not dim tonight though, my little prince.” She put another log on the fire and approached his bed. Fit for a human king, the Prince’s bed was merely large for a boy of the Donar-kinder, the giants.
“The very elk who gave you these curtains and the blanket which you hold now, gave your father Novash and the domain of all the Donar-kinder to rule.” Her voice was quiet now. Soft, like a calm winter breeze dancing across snowfall. The boy fought a yawn, and she pulled the blankets up to his shoulders, tucking him in as she had hundreds of nights before. “The king was not yet Logihjarta. He had the flame in his heart, but his father had died before the rites could be complete. The great war of no fathers began and your father seemed to flee. The people spoke of the weakness in his heart. ‘There is no flame there of a king,’ they said. He did not muster his friends to war, there was no bond or blood he called, for your father left the Weeping Peaks and journeyed north. ‘Coward and fool,’ were the words that rang out in Novash as the war raged between the other would-be kings.
“But it was in the north beyond north, the frozen lands beyond the Dead North, that your father was met and humbled before the greatest of the Elk, Aldranri Elgr…”
The caretaker paused. Wind howled past the curtains, stopped by the great furs, but she ignored it. All that touched her ears were the soft breaths of her prince. Asleep once more.
The wind left the northern mountains and pushed south. It wove through the lands, pushing the snow, then nudging the grasses, then weaving between the trees.
Barvol shivered and pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders as the treetops above him danced in a cold breeze. He thought once again about the sweet warmth of the fire he could make. His fire kit sat ready in his pocket, but no, that was easy and would undo the work he’d put forth over the past days on his journey here. A journey to a true woods. Unblemished by Orosso’s curse and unheld by the giants who had saved the forests of the land. It was now a natural wood once more, tucked into the corner of the southern mountains in the far east of the world.
All around him, Barvol felt as though the trees were closing in. Unless the wind whisked the treetops into motion, all was still in the woods. He could not even see the stars above.
His life now was darkness.
He waited, knowing what happened next, but only had a wish for the warmth of the fire.
He sat on a dense, mossy floor in the woods, watching as a light mist rolled through the trees. It came from nowhere, but was there all the same. It was as a layer of light grey that slicked through the darkness passing within him. This was not the first time he’d seen the mist, but it felt right here. The woods welcomed the strange and the dark. As it had done for the past three nights, the mist separated around the man.
It floated and spun, becoming a hundred tiny balls of light, all growing in intensity, and they began to shine. The forest grew stars of its own as the canopy hid Barvol from the sky. The lights floated about him, no larger than a closed fist. They danced among the trees. They felt right here. Barvol felt that. Had he felt that before? He could not remember any feelings of before, only the journey to the woods, yet alive in the mountains, spurred on by the wisps of the mist.
A noise pulled him from all thought. A howl among the trees, echoing and flowing through the forest, undampened by the canopy above and the moss below. The howl was of the woods. The wolf beyond had found a home. Barvol steadied his racing heart. Deep breaths filled his lungs. The air of the forest, humid yet delicious, sat with him as the man took a step forward. The wisps danced around him, avoiding his touch, yet not afraid to flit about him. Barvol walked deeper into the woods, stopping only as he saw a shadow.
The wolf who had howled stared at the man in its woods.
Barvol stared back. He took a step towards the beast, and the wolf did not move. The man leaned forward, placing a hand on the mossy ground beneath him. The soil gave way as his weight pressed on it, his hand sinking slightly into the dirt. He placed his other hand down, forward, and the wolf watched this man approach it on all fours.
The spell required three things: Time, Place, Agreement.
Would the wolf agree, the man would join the pack in sleep tonight.
The wind pushed against the canopy of treetops and danced away in the night.
Austoor Zeldek looked up at the dark night sky as the last of the clouds moved away. The night grew brighter, and the stars seemed to dim as the full moon rose on the horizon behind him. With the light, he could see the silhouette of the hills to the west, beyond which lay the town of Telmir. Lost now.
The tops of the foothills looked mottled in the darkness of the night. Rough and soft. There must be clouds above them. Zeldek watched them, angry as he thought of rain. They’d been told to race to these foothills and wait. This was to be the line. That is what the Commander had been told, thus that is what Zeldek was told.
The last four days had been dry at the edge of the Shrinking Desert, and now the southern flank was ready. Everyone would leave the desert tomorrow. Zeldek looked at the clouds on the hills ahead and knew their gear would be soaked through. Wasn’t life great?
The night was a warm one, despite the clear sky above him. Zeldek could not sleep, so he watched the moon. As the great green orb of light, floating in the sky amongst the stars, moved to the west, the clouds moved to meet it, putting a blanket between the light of the moon and the land below. Zeldek pulled his oilskin over his blanket as he lay. He’d be hot, but he would not carry a wet blanket as he marked tomorrow.
They were the first group to march. The point of the spear, as the Commander stated. They would march to the hills and hold as troops amassed at their heels to take Telmir back from the ships that had invaded its shores. Zeldek began to sweat under the oilskin. He saw the moisture from his breath build up as droplets, hovering above his head, inches away on the tarp. Then he heard the pitter patter of heavy raindrops as they fell from the clouds above.
He prayed for a wind to pull the rain away. He prayed for a dry day tomorrow. He prayed to be home safely once more.
Marten’s father shook him awake. It was still hours before dawn.
“Omas has started a fire for drink,” said his father, voice quiet in the dark of the night.
“Yes?” Marten replied, waking slowly. He opened his eyes and saw only predawn shadows, but the dark did not make his eyes any easier to open at this hour.
“Yes. You don’t have to get up and move yet. Sleep for a little while, but nothing too deep.”
As his eyes adjusted to waking, Marten saw his father, still in his bedroll. Behind his father, Omas was sitting above a small fire, oil burning in a small metal dish. All three now watched the small flame lick the bottom of a pot, balanced atop the metal dish which held the fire, not yet boiling.
Omas was already dressed. His thick fur Ushi was pulled down tight on his ears. Marten saw the condensation from the old man’s breath reflect the small blaze in the cookpan and he felt the wind on his face. He quickly tucked himself back into his bedroll.
Marten imagined how Omas had already packed away his bedroll. It would be tucked away next to his other things, tidy as always. How did the man wake so early? How did he get dressed in the brutal cold without a warm drink in him to battle the chill? Marten barely made it out of his bed, even with that.
Omas never seemed to leave a hunt empty handed either. He was quiet about his skill and accomplishments. It wasn’t until he arrived back at camp, dragging a deer or splithorn worthy of making a trophy, that anyone would know he’d even found a beast. He never asked for help or called for aid. He did what he needed to do, and if Marten or his father needed aid, he was there.
This morning and every morning in camp, Omas woke up early and heated the milk for their breakfast drink. He did what was needed for the three of them to go sit out in the cold fields on the cusp of winter and hunt.
Marten woke again, shaken gently by his father. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
“Yes?” he asked, sleep still thick in his voice.
“Its time to get up.”
Through the black and white haze of the predawn light, Marten saw his father holding a steaming cup. Reaching out from the warmth of his bedroll, Marten grabbed it and drank.
“It’s a cold one today,” said his father. “They’ll be moving.”
Marten nodded, warming up from the drink in his hands. Omas walked over. "Yes,” he said. “It’s going to be a good day for a hunt.”
The breeze blew gently across the fields as the men headed out towards the morning.
(12/18/2024)
Thanks for giving this a read! This was the 2nd story I ever wrote in the world of Breiar, years ago. I’m excited to share more of this world next year.
For now, the best way to support my work is to share it and comment below. If you’d like to join the original discussion on this piece, which I split into two parts for ease of upload, check out the comments here
Thanks!
Max