***This is the first in a series of stories I'm writing, specifically for this blog. The story of Beld One-Hand, who later goes on to become a mercenary amongst the Stone & Shield. This is an ongoing saga that will be added to this blog periodically and does not have a written end yet.***
Rite of Passage
1044th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
End of Frostbern nearing the First Thaw
The
Isles of Glass
Beld grunted as his axe
arced downward. His shoulders and forearms ached, still sore from his work in
his father’s forge before. Sweat dripped down his face despite the brisk air.
He tossed his axe aside, rubbing his calloused hands together, blowing warmth
into them, before gathering the pile of freshly split logs.
He trudged down the muddy
path cut out of the deep, melting snows. He shouldered open the front door and
stumbled into his family home, nearly dropping his armload of firewood.
The warmth of the fire,
burning at the center of the room, hit his face. It stung as his skin adjusted
from such frigid cold to fiery warmth so suddenly, his face itched, his fingers
tingled. He dumped his load of firewood into a large, curved, wrought iron rack
near the fire pit, taking a moment to lift the lid of the large cauldron
hanging from the spit over the flames. He breathed deep the steamy aroma of
stewed mutton.
“Beld, get in here,” his
father’s gruff voice called from the back room.
He slammed the lid back
on the cauldron, his stomach growling in protest. He pulled off his heavy cloak
of bear hide, hanging it on the wall, taking his time, he had done enough
chores for today, he didn’t know what his father would have in store next.
Beld stepped into the
back room. Before him, his father sat, splinted leg stretched out, crutch
leaning against the wall beside his chair. His older sister Hilga stood beside
him, tall and stern faced, much like their father’s. Long blonde hair hung in
braids over a chainmail hauberk. The sword that had once been their father’s
and their elder brother’s after him was belted at her hip.
A man Beld did not know
stood at the center of the room. His long beard in three braids, pulled through
iron rings. He stood at rigid attention hands clasped behind his back. The
swirling blue tattoo work of the Ice Breaker Clan marked the side of his face.
Beld looked back to
Hilga, to the chainmail, to the sword, to her grim, tattooed face. What’s
going on?
The unknown man stepped
forward, grabbing Beld’s wrists, looking at his calloused hands. “It is his
time,” he said, “prepare him for First Thaw, we go south with the warmth.”
The man dropped Beld’s
arms and walked away, not another word said.
It is his time.
Beld’s heart raced, he looked at his hands. Hands that had split firewood. That
had skinned the deer his father brought back from hunts. Hands that aided in
the smithy, hammering away at iron.
Hilga helped their father
to his feet and handed him his crutch. “Outside,” their father commanded before
hobbling out. Hilga followed behind.
Beld hurried behind. He
had awaited this day since he could first grasp its meaning. A nervous mixture
of fear and excitement rushed through his body. He could feel his hands
trembling. His father and sister stood in the doorway, door swung open, cold
air rushing into the warm house. He passed the stew hanging over the fire, his
hunger forgotten, anticipation of his rites dominating his thoughts.
He reached for his bear
hide cloak.
“Leave it,” his father
said.
Hilga shook her head at
him.
He knew what was coming,
he would be allowed no comforts this night. His excitement made him forgetful.
They left the path, Hilga
and their father in their sled, drawn by the family’s dog pack, Beld trudging
through knee deep snow, following closely behind. Beld’s breath came out in a
great plume, his jaw already beginning to chatter. In the south of the Glassian
Isles the days would be growing warmer, in a matter of days, with the First
Thaw spring would begin. Further north where the Ice Breaker Clan made their
home, near to the Ice Wastes, the snows would remain for weeks to come.
The moons lit the
outlines of thick clouds in the night sky. The snows had begun to fall again as
they continued northward, blanketing the tracks they had made.
Ahead, a great cliff of
ice towered above them. Moonlight glimmered on the sheer cliff face, the ice
clear as glass.
Beld’s father pulled a belt-wrapped
warhammer from his sled. A grisly weapon, one Beld had helped to make. Its
handle wrapped in blue-stained leather, opposite its crude iron head, a curved
spike protruded. He dropped it at Beld’s feet. Next, Hilga removed her pack,
upending it, unloading its contents before Beld. Hooked iron blades with
leather wrapped handles fell to the snow, along with two sets of spikes with
leather straps. A small hunting knife and a tinder box.
Beld shivered as he
strapped the spikes to his boots. He looked to his family, his father nodded
his head once, his crystal blue eyes holding Beld’s for a moment before he
hobbled back to their sled.
Hilga gripped Beld’s
forearm and pulled him in close, her arm wrapping around him tightly. The
brief, albeit minimal, warmth was welcome. “Return home, little brother,” she
whispered into his ear. “You can succeed in this, and when you return and
receive your marking ritual, we shall venture to the shores of the Empire and
earn fortune and glory.”
He felt a smile tugging
at the corners of his mouth, for a moment he almost forgot the freezing
weather. He watched as the sled was pulled away, back toward their house.
He turned to face the
wall of ice gripping the iron hooks tightly. He tilted his head back to look to
its top.
He plunged the picks into
the ice, again and again, slowly, painfully, dragging himself toward the top of
the cliff. He reached a ledge, jutting from the cliff face, he flopped himself
down upon it, breathing heavily. He lay there, using what felt like the last of
his strength to rub the ache away from his forearms. He didn’t know if he could
go on.
He crawled to the edge of
the ice ledge, risking a glance down. He had come so far, he could not give up
now. He had awaited this day, he’d prove himself worthy of his naming, of the
rites. He’d make Hilga and their father proud. He rolled over onto his back,
breathing slow and deep, telling himself over and over again, that the cold
wasn’t so bad. Ignoring the pain in his toes and his fingertips.
This was only the
beginning of the trial, reaching the top of the cliff. Once atop the ice cliff
he’d continue on through the Ice Wastes. He had heard of many children that
never returned from the journey, said to be frozen, statuesque in the Wastes to
stand vigil and watch over those yet to make the journey.
He hadn’t rested long
when his body began to shake and he shivered violently. Sitting up and shaking
warmth back into his hands, he realized he must keep moving. He was near enough
to the top, he could do this. As before, one hand over the other, he’d climb
his way.
Finally, he reached with
his right hand, hammering the pick into the top of the ice cliff. He kicked his
boot spikes in and pushed himself to the surface. His lungs felt as though he
had breathed fire, his chest heaved. But, he could not rest, he must keep
going. Nothing grew in the Wastes, he’d no chance to start a fire. He’d need to
continue to move for warmth.
Beld knew he would not be
alone in the Wastes. Stories filled his mind, tales he had been told since he
could remember, of the beasts that stalked the wastes. Of the great white bears
twice the size of their kin to the south. The massive, spike-toothed cats. But
the monstrous animals were not the only concerns, the Wastes were the vast
expanse where the spirits and the gods converged, where the living world met
the spirit realm.
Beld’s eyes danced about,
darting left and right, scanning vast flatness of the horizon. Fear sent chills
up and down his spine. His stomach rumbled, his entire body ached, his eyelids
drooped. He wanted to eat, he wanted to lay near the fire, he wanted to sleep.
He wanted to go home. Without this accomplishment he’d never be able to join
Hilga on the raids to the Empire. He’d never be able to help her learn what
became of their elder brother. But, how he longed to be home. He remembered the
smell of the stew. He wanted to cry.
He saw a figure standing
tall in the vast expanse. He paused, controlling and quieting his breath, and
he listened. The wind whistled around him, all else was silent. The snow had
ceased. The moons shone brightly through partial cloud cover. He was alone, he
felt utterly alone, yet his eyes remained on the figure.
Slowly, he walked toward
the silhouette, pulling the warhammer from his belt, feeling its weight in his
hand, gripping its leather-bound handle tightly for reassurance. He neared the
figure, stepping around quietly, carefully. The moonlight glistened on the form
and Beld saw eyes. He froze. He felt as if his heart had stopped. Trembling, he
took a step back.
The form had not moved.
Beld’s eyes did not stray. He searched the figure’s eyes, a look of fear. Of horror.
Of Sorrow. He felt a tear begin to drip down his face, freezing solid below his
eye. He shook his head. He must continue on lest he suffer the same fate.
Leaving behind the poor
child that had come before him, he continued northward. There would be no
turning back, he would not survive the return, he needed to press forward, he
needed warmth, and food.
He felt as much as he
heard the low, rumbling growl. This was it. Were he to die now it would at
least be a quick death, he’d not suffer to slowly freeze on the Wastes. On
this, his twelfth winter, he’d either leave his spirit to wander the Wastes, or
return home prepared to take his rites and become a proud warrior of the Ice
Breaker Clan.
He gripped his
warhammer tight in his right hand and turned slowly, legs bent, ready. Waiting.
