A Crown Of War (Book 4) (41 page)

As recorded by Azzeal, Ralliad of Elladrindellia,

Keeper of t
he Windwalker Archives

Volnoss

Winter (
Vetr
)

4980

The wind blew across the frozen world, sending phantoms of snow dancing and twirling in the half-moon light. In the night the cry of the timber wolf echoed throughout the wood. Stars twinkled brightly in the clear winter sky. All but the hungriest of predators huddled in nest and burrow.

The cold of Volnoss killed men without shelter and fire; the freeze crept through stitched seams and clung to the bones. The winter was one of the coldest and harshest told by the elders, and none disputed their claim. The fall crops had long been eaten, and the ice grew thick upon the waters. Fishing spots had to be moved, often by more than twenty thrown stones. Every day the catch was less, partially due to illegal fishing near barbarian territory. Each season disputes erupted between the barbarians of Volnoss and the Kingdom of Shierdon, and every year the elders called for patience.

A sickness had taken hold of many of the children and elderly of the tribe. The terrible sickness had come with the harsh cold and, as such, had been named the Frozen Plague (
Frjosa
Mien
). The disease came in the night with a high fever and nightmares that left victims thrashing in madness. By morning the victims slept as if dead, their skin cold to the touch. About their hands and feet started a discoloring of the skin like frostbite, which slowly crept across the body until death.

The sickness had taken hold of a tribeswoman by the name of Kvenna Windwalker, wife of circle member Kreal Windwalker. Kreal had been tending his sick and pregnant wife for nearly two weeks. The frozen plague had crept along her limbs to her shoulders and waist. Nothing the shaman or witchdoctors tried did anything to slow the sickness.

Kreal had been beckoned by duty to a gathering to address the issue. The women of the tribes had become furious in their demands for action, but the men remained impotent to do anything about the sickness. The people demanded answers from the chiefs, but they had none.

Being no good to his wife fretting by her side, Kreal finally took his old mother’s advice to go to the
Samnadr
. When he entered the long tent, he found his tribesmen in chaos. A few fights had broken out; men and women alike screamed and cursed each other, while others cried at the spectacle or clawed at their hair to announce their grief. Babies cried and children mimicked their parents. Teen boys full of wolf piss and fire pleaded to be sent to Agora on a quest for medicine; others promised they would bring back ships full of food, supplies, and medicine if only given a chance.

The elders, however, knew the truth. No help was to be found from any of the nations of Agora, and should they seek to steal its resources, they would be met with devastating force. What trade agreements they did have with pirates and smugglers were tedious enough, and war with Agora—namely its most northerly nation, Shierdon—would break those trade ties. If Shierdon set embargoes on Volnoss, the kingdom would need only wait until the dead of winter, at which point the starved barbarians would be forced to return to the negotiating table. Once again they would sign an unfair treaty they must adhere to whilst Shierdon never did. Always the Agoran kingdoms broke treaty, and ever more the barbarians raged for war. No love for the barbarians was to be found within Agora; the wounds of the past were still too fresh.

Kreal looked upon his once-strong people now gripped with fear and panic, and he pitied them and was ashamed.

To gain the gathering’s attention, he grabbed the closest man and punched him in the face, sending him backward into the crowd. Charging across the tent screaming, he tackled two men who had begun fighting. He pummeled one unconscious, and as the other scrambled to get to his feet, Kreal pulled the man back down and beat him until his eyes rolled. With powerful arms and legs, he heaved them both into the crowd.

Kreal gained the crowd’s attention.

Most barbarians stood heads over any Agoran; even so, while the tallest of the mainlanders stood only to a barbarian’s shoulder, the tallest of the barbarians stood only to Kreal’s eyes. The man looked up to no one. His broad shoulders and thick arms were a testament to the might of Timber Wolf Tribe. Such was his size and strength that he could wrestle a snow bear to the ground and break its neck, as he had once done during a hunting trip in which two tribesmen had died. He wore the snow bear hide as a reminder to his kin and to other bears. Four long, deep scars ran the length of the left side of his face from brow to chin, as a reminder to him.

The room became quiet and all eyes fell upon Kreal. There were nearly three hundred in attendance in the Sudroen Hall on this night. At the center of the large tent, logs burned, sending smoke twisting steadily up and out of holes in the peaks. Bones of ritual hung from the high ceiling, along with other herbs and enchantments of the shaman. Each of the tribes was represented within the Sudroen. The skulls of the snow cat, timber wolf, bear, fox, and dragon hung, respectively, above each tribe’s designated space, along with the beaks and feathers of both eagles and hawks.

Kreal walked behind his chair at the circle of the seven tribes. Each tribe had seven seats at the circle, and in the center sat the seven chiefs. Each tribe’s people dictated to their seven members sitting in the outer circle, who in turn dictated to the chiefs. Men and women sat within the outer circle, though only men could be chiefs. Kreal eyed his chief, Winterthorn; as usual, the grizzled man wore no expression.

Kreal addressed the crowd with a deep, snarling voice that demanded to be heard.

“I too feel the pain of hunger; I too tend to dying kin; I too see no end to this winter of death. I feel as you feel, and I would feel it no more! Long have we sat waiting for this circle to decide upon a course that might lead us from our miseries, but
neinn
! More talk! We vote down measures that might bring us food and medicine. And why?”

The pain of his sorrow showed on his face and in his voice; he was a man come undone. He glared at the seven chiefs and pointed a shaking finger. “I am done waiting; I leave tomorrow to search for a medicine that will save our people, and I will not be stopped.” He eyed the gathering
slowly; many eyes found the floor, unable to match the intensity of his gaze. “Any who share my mind would do well to join me—any from all tribes.”

Amid the howls and cheers of the people, Chief Winterthorn stood so quickly that the many necklaces of bone danced loudly against his barrel chest. Without gesture or word, he quieted the gathering. All eyes fixed themselves on him as he stared back at Kreal; there was no love upon his face.

“This matter is settled, Kreal Windwalker of Timber Wolf Tribe. The circle has spoken.”

“And the people have spoken! If the circle’s will were truly that of the people, we would not sit idle while we starve to death and die slowly from the
Frjosa
Mien
!” Kreal yelled, and many of the barbarians nodded and cheered in agreement.

Winterthorn walked slowly and purposefully until he stood before Kreal. He was not as tall; his shoulders, however, were as wide as a pony’s body was long. The large tent fell silent for many breaths as the two stared each other down. Kreal wanted nothing more than to challenge his chief for his title and once again bring honor to the tribes. But he could not. Barbarian custom dictated that only a man with a strong heir could challenge a chief. Kreal’s wife was pregnant with their first child. Kreal had not yet a son, while Winterthorn had two grown sons. Winterthorn knew this, as did everyone else within the tribes. Kreal could not challenge his chief—at least not openly.

“You would defy the counsel of the circle
and
the will of the chiefs?”

“I would defy any who stand in my path, for I will find a cure, or I will not return to this land,” he promised.

Kreal left the gathering, followed by the cheers of the tribesmen. Those within the circle eyed each other. Few of them spoke; the people already had.

The next morning Kreal kissed his dying wife’s forehead for what he knew may be the last time, gathered his things, and left for the docks. He said nothing to his old mother but accepted a kiss upon his cheek when she pulled him down to her.

At the docks he was met by the cheers of nearly two hundred men and women. They boarded four icebreaker boats and headed south to the shores of Shierdon. Word had come from pirates to a man of Bear Tribe that a similar plague had devastated much of western Shierdon, and a cure had been found. Rumor held that the cure had been discovered by the distant Sun Elves of Elladrindellia; whether the rumors spoke the truth or not, Kreal hoped to find out.

He and his men were gone for three tenday and returned by the next crescent moon. They had been successful in their quest and brought back the plant that was used to make the cure, forever after it grew along the coast of Volnoss and was incorporated into many new remedies.

Kreal and his men had saved the tribes, yet he had not been quick enough to save Kvenna Windwalker. Just as he was returning to administer the elixir to his wife, she died. So close to seeing her alive was Kreal that he witnessed her extended hand fall to her deathbed even as he raced into the tent.

A wailing cry escaped the big man as he ran to his wife and took up her frail, discolored body in his arms. He sobbed into her chest and screamed with fury, cursing the gods and the women who bore them children.

A baby’s cry pierced the air, instantly silencing Kreal. He jerked his head and looked to his mother-in-law, Gretzen; in her arms she held a bundle wrapped in furs. From the top edge of the furs, a small, clenching fist shook with the baby’s wailing.

“It’s a boy,” said Gretzen, her dark, leathery hands holding the bundle tight. “Kvenna name him before death. He is Talon; your son.”

Kreal went to the infant's side quickly. The gods had taken his wife from him, but they had blessed him with a son, an heir who might stand beside him against Winterthorn and his sons. As Kreal looked upon his newborn son, the hope and awe on his face disappeared, and he was left horrified and quaking. Talon was born at only seven months and was small—too small. Kreal could have held him inside one palm.

Kreal backed away from the baby, shaking his head.

“That’s no son of mine; he’s a Throwback, a
Draugr
, a
Skomm
! He’s small, weak. This Draugr
will never bear my name; he must die. He must be cast to the stones as was the way in the past!”

Searching around frantically, he finally found a skinning knife and turned back on Gretzen and her bundle.

“I seen his stars,” she said, turning the baby behind her defensively. “He was forced into world on night of Dogstar Moon!” Gretzen screamed, furious at his words.

Kreal began stalking toward them, staring at his dead wife. “Throw him into the ocean. We do not keep the weak.”

“I’ve right to keep him if you refuse him. Until he stands for his
Miotvidr
,” Gretzen proclaimed. “His life be legend one day; I foreseen it. It in the bones and in the stars; he will do glorious things. Songs will be sung of man he becomes; mark my words, Kreal. Talon will make legend the name Windwalker!”

“Give him to me,” Kreal growled.

“Kvenna kiss him before she die; she smile on him, she loved him,” said Gretzen, circling around the tent away from him.

“Shut your mouth!” Kreal flipped over the small table in his way, stalking her.

“Would you kill child your wife loved?” she pleaded, reaching down quickly to scoop up the iron fire poker.

The fury died in Kreal and he hunched, defeated. To Gretzen he seemed small.

“Do what you will, old lady; I will not have him. He will not live to see the summer,” he said in a low, faraway voice and left the tent.

Gretzen wiped her grandson Talon with a soft cloth and sang the very song she had sung to his mother; she cried as she sang, yet she smiled as she cried.