A Job's End (Prologue 1/2)

***Below is the first half of the prologue to Stone & Shield: Tales from the Emrosian Empire: Book I

Prologue

1095th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Summer Solstice

Breshk

He felt the wind brush along his ear as the arrow flew past. He tried to slow his charge but his momentum was too great; the toe of his boot caught the rough, packed sand, spinning him off balance. With a crack, his knee struck the ground, pain shooting through his leg, the iron platelets scaling his leather cuirass clattering. Another arrow whizzed over his head as his left hand hit the ground and he shoved himself back to his feet, his forward momentum slowed, but not stopped, his charge continued. In mere moments he was upon the archer as the man dropped his bow and scrambled for the knife at his hip. Diirg’s axe came down with a crunch into the archer’s skull. The man crumpled.

His breath was heavy, his lungs burning, as he pulled his axe free. Alongside him his comrades had already disposed of the other archers. Good. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked to the others. Yahmu stepped up beside him, wiping the blade of his short sword on the tattered shirt of a fallen archer, his shield held at the ready. Diirg raked his fingers through his tangled and sweat-soaked beard as he stared ahead, squinting his eyes as he peered through the bright desert sun to the large, domed building at the city’s center.

They’d been on contract with the Empire. Baking under the summer sun. Bleeding on the desert sands. Fighting Ahnveshii rebels. This day would see the leaders of the insurrection dealt with.

A calmness settled on Breshk. Its streets emptied of civilians. Diirg’s heart continued to race as he and his comrades began toward the domed building at a slow but steady march.

“Let’s… get this shit… over with,” he panted.

“C’mon, old man. Enjoy the fun while it lasts.” Fiirla called from behind him as she caught his pace and strode ahead, black-iron great sword resting casually over one shoulder. “We finish off these last few bastards, all we’ll have left to do is march in this damned heat. And by Byrn’s cursed forge, marching through an Azalian summer isn’t my idea of a good time.”

Fiirla let out a roar and began charging toward the building. Diirg looked over to Yahmu, grinning wildly back at him. The stocky Chendese man shrugged, “There’s always more work to do.”

They joined the charge.

*

Captain Esher led his horse through the dusty streets of Breshk as the sun slowly sank behind the foothills that bordered the deserts. Faces peered through windows backlit with candlelight. The streets were empty save for the cooling bodies scattered near the town’s center. The gates of the wall surrounding the palace were battered and broken, torn from their heavy hinges and tossed aside.

The captain’s eyes scanned the bodies. The mercenaries did good work. He recognized several of their number stretched out amongst the rebels, but not many. Far less than the number of Imperial dead he had left behind in Gokras. Breshk stood as the last bastion of the rebel forces; their work here could mean an end to the wars in southern Azal.

Within the palace was mayhem. Blood pooled about the tile floor, growing sticky as it dried. Crumbled stones were scattered about, the indiscernible remains of crushed statues. Captain Esher followed the trail of wreckage toward the palace’s inner rooms. He heard voices in the distance.

The hall ended at a set of large, white double doors with fanciful handles of gold. Smeared blood drying across their faces, slashes from sword and axe marred the painted woodwork. They creaked on their hinges as Captain Esher pushed them open, scraping as they dragged over the marble floor.

A tall woman dressed in thin rags sat in a throne at the room’s center, one leg draped over the chair’s arm. In her right hand spun the hilt of a massive black-bladed sword, its point scratching into dried blood upon the marble floor beneath the dais. A man lay motionless on the floor before the throne, his fine silks matted with black blood. A smaller woman sat nearby, a green cowl hiding her face, as she disinterestedly picked at her fingernails with a knife.

On the far side of the room the wide, red-haired man and a one-handed Glassian sat against the wall passing a water skin between them. The red-haired man glanced up, catching Captain Esher’s eye. He nodded and raised the water skin in salute.

“Aye, Esher. Job well done isn’t it.” He tilted the water skin to his mouth, ale spilling into his wild beard. He wiped his face with a dirt smeared, tattooed forearm. “The Marshal should be by shortly to go over the details with you. Then we can be on our way. Back north to get paid and get our asses home.” The man slowly pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his knees straightened, one hand rubbing at his leg. “By whoever’s gods, do we need a damned break after this one.”

Rite of Passage (2/2)

Hilga gathered the last of the logs Beld had brought in the previous night and set them near the central hearth. She pulled out her hand axe and began chopping thin slivers from a log, placing them on the coals. Once a reasonable amount of slivers were in place, she lay across a few larger pieces. Taking a deep breath she blew steadily on the coals, feeling the warmth of freshly born flame licking her face.

She returned the stew pot to its place over the fire, reheating the stew for the morning meal.

Her father did not expect Beld to return soon. Though, he seemed confident he would. Hilga was scared for her brother. She remained hopeful for his return, but she remembered the toils of the trial. She had only taken it herself two years prior. It was unlikely her father remembered the awful ordeal. It seemed the older a warrior was, the more they reminisced on their youth, age forcing away the truth. Blinded by the memories of so-called better times.

She opened the door, squinting in the dawn light, she glanced outside. It was warmer. There was no sign of Beld. She sighed. Soon. He would be back soon.

“Go ‘bout yer chores,” her father limped up behind her, “he won’t be back today, took you two days, gonna take him more.”

She closed the door and returned to check on the leftover stew. “He will be back though.”

“He’s a stubborn kid, that’ll see him through.” He winced as he eased himself back down into his chair, carefully lifting his broken leg back into place, and tossing his crutch aside.

 

For three days the sun shone and the air warmed. On the fourth day the temperature plummeted. The sky was grey with a coming storm, more snow to smother the hopes that were First Thaw. And Beld had yet to return.

Hilga paced around their cabin as the snow piled anew outside. Her right hand continuously scratched at the coarse threads of her canvas pants. She rubbed at her forehead with her left hand, running her fingers through her hair, tugging at handfuls. Over and over again. Hours had passed and she paced. The sun, barely visible behind the grey and black cloud coverage, disappeared entirely as the short day drew to an end. And Hilga paced. And Hilga pulled at her hair, rubbed at her forehead, scratched at her leg. And she paced.

Her stomach rolled, as much with worry as with hunger. She had not eaten in… she did not know. The storm rolled in from the north, a bad one. Beld was still in the Ice Wastes and a storm like this in the Ice Wastes… She shook her head. Don’t let yourself think on that.

Damn the gods! She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t continue to pace. She had to find him.

Hilga stormed through the cabin as if the blizzard torn through the door. Digging through a scattering of possessions near her straw bed, she found her pack and began stuffing it with blankets. She pulled her heavy cloak over her shoulders and grabbed her sword belt.

“You know you can’t do that.” Her father was at the door, leaning on his crutch, his face flush with the effort. “He must do this on his own.”

She glared at him. She knew the restrictions of the rites. She didn’t care. She had lost one brother already and would not lose another.

“He will return.”

Hilga stood for a moment, sword in hand, pack slung over her shoulder. Her father’s eyes softened, and he shifted his weight on his crutch, reaching out a hand and taking her shoulder.

“He will return,” he repeated.

She nodded her head and sighed. If she went and helped him, he would never earn his marks, he’d never be welcomed on the Ice Breaker raids. She let her pack drop to the floor.

The wind picked up outside, whistling over the cabin. The tall pines creaked under the weight of wind and snow. She helped her father back to his chair before stoking the fire. Her stomach continued to churn. She needed to eat. It would help no one to let worry eat a hole in her stomach, it would help no one to starve. Better to put on some dinner, if Beld returned he would need to eat as well. Hilga hoped the chore would be able to distract her, if only briefly.

Despite the storm First Thaw was only days away. If Beld did not return in time, he’s not be able to finish his rites until the following. While Hilga’s concern rested solely on his well-being, she knew he’d be torn apart if he returned too late. He’d awaited this day for a long time.

Dinner made and set beside the hearth, Hilga sat next to the door, picking off bits of bread and listening. Time and again she’d crack the door, peering out into the darkness of the storm. Time and again she’d gaze out to only find a fury of snow squalling along a canvas of blackness.

Her eyes began to drift closed as she leaned back in her chair beside the door. Faint sounds, whispers at the edge of her perception, causing her to jump back to awareness until her eyes began to slowly close, beginning the cycle of near sleep again. Another whisper. Another jump. She slipped and fell from the rickety wooden chair. Her elbow cracked against the floorboards. This is ridiculous. She needed to sleep, her mind was playing tricks on her.

The door swung open, creaking on its hinges. The wind swirled, blowing snow into the house, a pile building up on the floor. She struggled to push it back closed fighting the wind the whole way. A hand pushed through. Hilga jumped back taking in a surprised breath. The door hung open and she stared at the figure standing in the doorway, wreathed in darkness.

His face was pale. Paler than any she had seen. His skin seemed almost translucent; it had taken on a blueish hue. His jaw chattered. His hands were caked in dried, black blood. The bloody, matted fur of a giant ice bear was draped over him, streaks of frozen blood lined his face. He was nearly unrecognizable.

“Brother!”

He stepped in, a distant look in his pale eyes. He was hesitant as she raised her arms to him. Finally, he fell into her. They wrapped each other in a tight embrace as she drew him in towards the hearth.

Rite of Passage (1/2)

***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

1044^th 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.