(Art by Elizaveta Lebedeva)
Dear friends, I am following up on my promise to deliver yet another fairy story. Set in one of my first fantastical realms, the Metropolis of Krart, I will publish each chapter for Warrior Wednesday.
Massive to say the least, behind the giant magical walls of this grand city live, love, and die (and some keep living after) a grand multitude of fantasy races. By way of ancient magic, sword, arrow, and even rare alchemical tech, are issues settled when the word and the thought is not enough.
The climate is brutal. There are only two seasons; Frost and Warmth. Food can only be attained by mundane means and is often quite expensive. Fuel, because during the terrible Frost people need it to stay alive, is in high demand and strictly regulated by the Temples.
The three gods of Krart are mighty and ever present. People cannot imagine their lives without offering a prayer to either Iroh The Brilliant Flame, Mara Protector of Mothers, and Kan Keeper of Souls.
Now, without any further adieu, I present the first chapter of this novelette!
Index: Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15
Chapter 1
The lives of snow
Unopposed, Frost began his triumphant march across the streets of Krart. The ancient metropolis swiftly donned the snow’s white cloak and a top hat of fluffy clouds. Its denizens’ breath was transmogrified into tiny patches of mist, when they attempted to blow some warmth onto their freezing fingertips.
A frosty gale soon followed, forging thick, double-edged swords from a throng of icicles. The swirling winds ravaged streets and city squares, carrying away everything that wasn’t properly secured, to the dismay of those who had hoped for yet another day of warmth. Yet no matter how gelid and oh, more than one person had their socks frozen stiff, this was nowhere near blue snow cold.
Doors and window shutters sang their slamming song, and anyone who still walked outside rushed back home with all haste. For the coming of the Frost was deathly! One need not even be touched by a glowing blue snowflake to be turned into a horrid-to-behold pillar of ice. No, the potent beyond measure speck of magic snow killed every living being in three feet radius of its fall.
Cliques of roving Doomers, those who drank and partied their precious few hours before the coming of the Frost, wallowed and shrieked their way across snowy streets. High on potions, elven smoking leaf, cheap booze, and heads swimming deep inside their self-absorbed gloom, these bands were soon swallowed by screeching wind and snow. They would never see another night, their frozen stiff remains uncovered at the coming of the Warmth.
That unfortunate occurrence, however gruesome, was many months in the future...
Unperturbed by running people, squealing Doomers, and the panic of ill-prepared fools, a stalwart man walked out on the street, closing shut the door behind him. He winced his golden eyes at the snowy gale, blowing a puff of breath as if to test the might of the Frost.
He was stocky and powerfully built, his advanced age was betrayed by a small multitude of gray hairs. These had had a wild party at his expense, growing all over his belly-long black beard and longish mustache.
“Ye be old, Joel,” – whispered he, wiping the blood off his callous-covered hands – “but ye still has it.”
Grumbling down the street, the gale swirled around him, playing with his robes. Dyed in a rare hew of dark red, ‘tis were priestly colors of holy repute. Such that when people saw a man so dressed, they bowed their heads and often took a knee. Those who wore a dark red robe, they delivered new lives and hope into this world.
The door behind Joel slammed open and a panting young elf stepped out, a hefty handbag in hand.
“Doula, thank Mara you came!” – said he with a happy grin – “I thought me and the wife would have to struggle on our own.” – a newborn babe’s cry followed his words.
“Life waits for no one, young father.” – said Joel, and reached for his doula bag.
He raised a bushy eyebrow when he noticed the elf left him a small purse inside.
“See, that you don’t have to do.” – and the doula dangled it, trying to count the coin inside by hearing – “I am a simple dwarf, and the Temple of Mara giveth me a generous allowance.”
“One does not refuse what is freely given, my old mother always said.” – shoving the purse back in Joel’s hand, the elf gently nudged him down the frosty street – “Consider it... yes, a newborn’s tithe for the Temple!”
“Young father,” – and Joel leaned in, a question on his smiling face – “you do have everything yer babe and wife needs?”
“Yes, Master Doula, we stocked on extra supplies! Worry not, for we are prudent.” – answered the elf and there was no smidgen of a lie in his eyes.
Joel’s priestly soul told him these words were true.
“Fare thee, thy fertile wife, and thy babe well, good elf. May Mara, the ever vigilant, watch over your household day and night.” – Joel recited a blessing, singing into each word a boon his goddess had gifted him.
Reddish, wholesome to behold energies coursed through and through the singing dwarf. Words became holy tones which fluttered around the elven father, fluttered inside his abode and graced both mother and child.
“May this Frost last fewer days.” – Joel uttered a farewell traditional for all citizens during these times.
Priestly duty done, the dwarf donned his white cloak and pulled its hood over his face. Lined with thick animal furs, this garment was emboldened with a powerful anti-frost enchantment. Priests of Mara never left their temple without it when they scoured the glaciated city streets in search of lost souls during the Frost.
Joel had to be quick since in but an hour or less, the accursed blue snow would fall. Not even his order walked the streets then, for it was folly to do so. Dead Marrites saved the unfortunate not, as it was written in Mara’s most holy scripture. Few were daft enough to remain outside during the coming of the Frost, yet more often than not, some were forced to do so.
Donning the cloak and carrying the doula bag opened many a door to him, it was true. Yet as Joel stomped through the freezing snow, he checked if his blade was swift to unsheathe. Scum who preyed upon others, they always found it opportune to strike right before the Frost came.
Grip steady, he swirled a short arc with his oiled blade, cutting through the gale. Forged by humans, its runic spell carved by elven fingers, the edge gently shimmered. Rills of golden smoke emanated from the blade when he activated its magic with a thought. Sheathing “Deliverer”, the dwarf made another few steps and he stole a look back.
The elf’s home, he could feel his prayer still ring even from this distance.
He turned left and took another street, guided by a strange gut feeling. It was dark this wynd and even with the torrent of icy snow battering his face, the dwarf had picked up a familiar smell.
Fresh blood...
Joel was no stranger to many a horror, as a doula he witnessed plenty of death. More, in times he had to defend himself and others from murderous villains or flesh-craving creatures. However, this felt supremely unnerving and gut clenched, Joel gripped tight the handle of his sword. All manner of vile crimes occurred now, for those with filthy intent assumed that cometh Warmth, all trail of their misdeeds would be lost.
The foulest of them all were those who denied others shelter, stole their food and fuel—the Lifestealers.
He reached for the leather strap of his doula bag and secured it firmly on his back. Having endured an hour full of sleet and frost, the priest resembled a moving pile of snow. Patting himself to shake at least some of it off, Joel remembered he’d left his suit of plated chain mail home in the hurry.
Joel grinned against the frozen wind, his mustache and beard cracking with ice as he did so. For all his sixty Turns on this suffered land, he’d survived near death fights aplenty. A faithful Marrite would never back down from a battle and that counted double when facing Lifestealers. If need be, the priests of Mara and her Paladins would chase the scum until the ends of the Spawn spilling fissure, but send the parasites before the Death god.
His sharp dwarf eye picked up movement, a slender silhouette swaying through the piled up snow. Without wasting a breath, Joel advanced forth with hurried, longish steps. To him it mattered little who’d he meet deep in the stormy wynd. For if it was a criminal he’d give no quarter, yet he would offer succor to all unfortunate innocents without shelter.
Lunacy deserved no consideration. Those of honest persuasion who worked their fingers off for what was theirs, they merited sacrifice... in blood if need be.
The priest whistled another prayer, for even his sharp eye was in need of guidance. His irises turned red so the dwarf could discern between mundane and magic. Lest he fell into a trap weaved by wizardly thieves, Joel prayed to Mara for this boon nigh every evening, before bedtime.
Shards the size of daggers showered him and Joel’s voice roared – “Amenthrifaz!”
With a bright flare, his magical cloak became aglow with hearth-like warmth and the icy blades melted away. Thus, a prayer emboldening his vision and the cloak shielding him from the ever-increasing bite of the gale, Joel closed the dozen paces between him and the silhouette.
Shuddering, clothes covered in frozen blood, there stood a lonely child. Eyes wide and full of terror, the boy’s mouth twitched open, yet his lips blue from the cold he could not speak. Longish elf ears stuck under his once well kempt golden blonde hair and what whitish skin was spared from ice and cold by ragged clothes, bruised bloody.
“Mmmaaaa...” – waning breath escaped the boy’s open mouth and with moves practiced on hundreds of rescued people, Joel wrapped him in his fiery warm cloak.
“Dddaaaa...” – the boy whimpered, frozen tears on his scarred face as he attempted to point something in the far distance with a limp hand.
The priest did not have the luxury of time for his tiny charge was dying. He spared not even a look as he ran with all haste towards the nearest guard post, leaping over piles of frozen trash. Wriggling in his lap, the dying child somehow found strength enough in his freezing body to wail one last word before he fainted:
“Keryln!”
Not sure how I ended up here. BUT I really enjoyed reading this, tthe atmospheric description of the coming Frost creates an immediate sense of danger and urgency. I particularly enjoyed the character of Joel, the dwarf doula-priest whose compassion and strength are well-balanced. The ending with the injured elven child creates a compelling hook that makes me want to read the next chapter to find out what happens with the boy and who or what "Keryln" is. You got a new subscriber. :)
This would be a good story to read during a snow storm.