Prologue

Prologue to Shadow of the North. Introduces the main conflict of the novel.

Prologue

"There exists a never ending conflict between the two sons of Rhickall. Vhorarn, the elder, led the warriors north of the mountains, while Mhorarn, the younger, held the farmers to remain in the south, where the weather was fair and crops abundant. Vhorarn, finding himself starving, was barred from a return to his brother's lands. For centuries his sons would never forgive those of Mhorarn, and so the first bloodfeud was borne not from blood spilled by iron, but the still blood of the starving."
         A          History of the Liberation of Man, Yohan Wycliffe, 856 of the First          (Human) Era


"What's the point, captain? I mean seriously? The knights and thanes sit back in our keeps, feasting all day and playing haplehotten, swinging hammers at each other like they're kids, and where are we? Freezing to death in the fucking sticks? It's a disgrace! Let them range for once!"


It was a classic objection levied by Aegbert, and, in truth, Yavin agreed with him. It was a disgrace, but it was his disgrace. He alone led the rangers, those plucky smallfolk who'd been exiled for debaucherous, but not illegal, acts, or were orphaned at a young age - they were his men, and he'd trained them damn well, too well not to put to their best use.


"We don't have any time to mope, Aeggy. Keep riding and your mouth shut, or you're on first watch tonight." Yavin replied, grunting through each bump on the road.


The journey had been long, aggravating, long, and too fucking long! These days, with more and more northmen turning up at the gates of each castle along the Mountains of Mourne that held back the cold winds of the north from Yavin's homeland, rangers were sent far and wide on missions that were complete shots in the dark. It was as if the Grand Warden and his adjutants were wrapping a cloth around their eyes and hurling a spear onto a map, sending a group of highly-skilled men on a wild and potentially fatal goose chase to see what was there. The fact of the matter was that a famine was clearly taking place here, and hungry people got angry, while angry people grabbed weapons. But we've been safe so far as to not run into anyone hostile. Most folk round these parts give us information and supplies in exchange for the Knights' aid whenever their rivals go after their herds anyway - they're hardly a threat.


Another of his tutees, Strawhead, called as such because there were a hundred other lads called Rhickall about the place, spoke up. "Where we actually going, Captain? The last village had nothing, and sun's falling fast. You really expect us to camp out in the open? Last I came round these parts there weren't no forests for a league this way and two in the other!" He cocked his head to the side like usual, mimicking a dog awaiting a scrap or two from the table from its master.


"Gods no!" Yavin replied. "We'll camp if we have to but we'd have to keep constant watch. Instead we'll visit an old friend named Sigurdr Torssune who has his own hall at Urkala. We fought together against Jurgen Hvitserk at Helmsfjord and he owes me his life, so he'll be sure to give us a bed for the night. There are only five of us, after all."


Yavin, of course, was careful to omit the main reason for his caution, so as to not offend the others; he was the Chief Ranger, and his death in such a time of paranoia would spark utter chaos within the Knights of the Mountains, who followed the institutional practice of nothing but constant, borderline insane, fear mongering of the genuine threat that constantly dwelled in these uncharted lands, which only the now-extinct Rhickallings had seemed to be able to tame. By the Owl, if only their wise rule were never extinguished, perhaps I could be boozing in a tavern right now.


Aegbert opened his mouth once again, despite explicit instructions not to. "Northern beds? Pah! We'll be scratching the flea bites for weeks and stink like boars. Besides, I hear they drink booze made from wild honey that tastes so sweet they puke it up and keep drinking."


Anselm, his right-hand man in Gaethold's absence, spoke in Yavin's place. "Are you seriously complaining about a free bed and booze? Find some humility, greenhorn, or I'll knock some sense into you myself."


"Alright, alright. Can we at least spur the horses on? I'm getting bored, and tired, and hungry, and-"


"Enough! You'll be the end of me, Aegbert. We'll pick up the pace, but not because you're bored. We need to get there before they shut the gates and the night guards get paranoid." Yavin asserted.


The rest of the journey passed without issue. Their horses were all fairly cheap, with rough saddles and shoddy horseshoes - the bare minimum to leave them intact on hours-long rides but not enough to leave them without one or two sores. Nonetheless, they did their jobs, and were quick and fit enough to carry the ranging party with considerable speed, passing across the relatively sparse pastures belonging to Clan Rolf and their allies. From time to time they passed small parties of men, but they all looked well-fed and unoffended by the sight of southern warriors, likely thanks to their strong reserves of meat in the form of their easy access to the Woods of Jamkhalla, packed with game. In fact, many of these northmen were even polite, exchanging a 'goddag' - one of the few common words shared between their languages - and on occasion asking to trade a silver or two for fresh meat. Of course, in the spirit of ever-warm relations with the central clans of the lands beyond the mountains, Yavin obliged those who offered a reasonable trade, finding his pocket a little lighter than before.


After a long ride had brought them to the Hour of the Badger and light began to wane, Strawhead scratched at his crotch and began to moan. "My bladder's buggering me 'gain, Captain. Let's stop?"


"We can't be more than ten minutes from Urkala, Straw. Is it that desperate?" Yavin replied, grasping at his forehead in frustration.


"Swear by the gods, Captain. I'll piss meself before you can say 'Cyneredshichelming' if you don't let me." Gods be damned. This is what happens when you teach a man to read by handing him a book listing the noble houses of the Plainlands.


"Fine. Do it." said Yavin, trotting to the side of the road and dismounting as his men did the same.


Without warning, a horseman raced into view from the top of the hill further ahead. He carried the rough resemblance of Sigurdr but was marked out by his wild red hair, whereas Sigurdr was most certainly blond. The man was haggard and seemed exhausted, his heaving breaths from an arrow wound audible from twenty feet away. Locking eyes with Yavin, the lad, despite his impressive stature, revealed only fear.


"Suutner, genej! Hujelde dunseler!" he yelled as he passed them, not daring to take another look behind him.


Yavin turned back to his men to see that Straw's breeches were soaked in piss.


"Cyneredshichelming!" exclaimed Aegbert, laughing. The kid won't keep his mouth shut, even in moments like these. The day I make him a captain is the day I've either given up or become the finest tutor the world has ever seen. I can only hope that it's the latter.


Anselm whacked Aegbery around the ear, causing the lad to whelp in pain. "One more word Aeggy and I'll take away your rations."


"That's my prerogative and mine alone, Anselm." Yavin chastised.


His second bowed his head. "Of course, Captain." Uneasily, he turned to look at the road by which the redhead had left. "What did that northerner say?"


"Go away, southerners. Save yourselves." he recited with dread, facing away from his men. "He looked like he could've been Sigurdr's son, too."


"Right, so we're fucked then!" Aegbert snapped. "Let's just follow him and run away. I don't want to die today, Captain."


"It might be a coincidence." Anselm suggested.


"Probably not." Yavin allowed. "Regardless, Sigurdr is a personal friend of mine and a longtime ally of the Knights. If he and his clan are in danger, it is the right thing for us to help them. Let's mount up and approach them slowly. No loud noises."


"Captain!" Strawhead protested, cocking his head to the side. "I've bloody well pissed meself! How's I'm s'posed to fight anyone?"


"That's an order, Straw. At the first whiff of danger beyond our capabilities we'll run, don't worry." Yavin told him, putting on his stern, fatherly voice.


With a nod from their last man, Fenric, the five of them mounted up once again and began a slow walk to the top of the hill where the redhead had approached from. Yavin felt his heart slowly sink as he ascended, dreading what would appear next. For once, I fear death. The consequences it'll have on the Knights are one thing, and it'll mean I've failed Sigurdr. As he, at the head of their column, could finally peak over the hill, his sinking heart thudded at the bottom of the ocean that was his sea of internal dread. Flames, dreadful flames, peeked over the stone walls of Urkala where sentries would've once stood. At once a fierce fire leapt up too to lash out at the wooden keep in the centre of it all as if the whole thing had been doused in oil. What was once the proudest keep in the lands of the Free Folk shivered in agony under the burden of the inferno. Sigurdr, I'm sorry. Whoever did this to you will pay, and if you're dead, they will die too. That is only just.


"Fuck! We've got to speed up, Captain - if Sigurdr's still alive, he won't be for much longer without our help." Anselm urged.


With a nod, Yavin sent them all breaking out into a desperate sprint towards Urkala, eyes glued to the tower that began to crumble, charred by the flames. They swung around to the north where the entrance lay, squeezing the last drops of energy from their tired steeds as they kicked and kicked at the spurs. Even the lads who've never met this man still don't want him to die. Allies out in these parts are invaluable... and our only source of a good night's rest. As they came within twenty yards of the walls, men with pointed leather caps popped their upper bodies above the stone parapets with bows in hand and began to loose erratically at the five of them. Making what little evasive manoeuvres he could while maintaining a steady pace, Yavin watched helplessly as iron arrows whizzed through the air around them. Looking back, he saw one slip free from its bowstring, arch cleanly through the frigid air, and draw the attention of Fenric, who turned his head to face it. In a mere second, the lad had sealed his doom, as the projectile burrowed itself into his face and he immediately slumped onto his horse, which lost all sense of control and careened off of the road. Fenric... six years of training with me, five years of shared ranges. Gone in an instant. Gods be damned.


The rest of them weathered the storm of arrows and wheeled around to the gate. Such was the sharpness of the turn they had to make that they were caught blissfully unawares. Yavin felt terror grasp his whole being as five men each bearing a spear in both hands lunged towards them while they turned, catching their horses in their most vulnerable moment. He watched helplessly as Aegbert, then Anselm, then Straw collapsed to the ground, their feet stuck in their spurs as they writhed in panic on the saddle, desperately trying to break free. Yavin reared his horse in an attempt at evasion, drawing his sword as he managed, using all the extension his arm was possible of achieving, to bat away the spear that thrusted towards him. Alas, no matter how valiant his effort could be, a second spear came darting in from before him and his steed collapsed onto it, breaking free from its hind legs but finding its belly pierced as a result. Yavin wrestled his feet from his spurs and as the beast began to crumble he rolled off to the left, sword in hand, striking the ground with a great thud.


It was his knees that struck the earth first, causing a burst of agony to envelop them and radiate up to his thighs, while his spine shuddered. Pushing through it all, Yavin slinked up to his feet with rehearsed skill as he grabbed his sidearm. Noting that the northmen were still several paces away, he carefully sliced through the straps that held his kite shield to the side of his saddle and picked it up, before bracing himself behind it. Using this reprieve, he took a look around him. It was a dire scene. Aegbert and Anselm had both managed to pull off the same feat as him, and now rallied to his side, the three of them bracing behind their shields and weathering the continued pitter-patter of arrows. Rhickall Strawhead, however, was completely buggered. His left leg was stuck under his horse, and the man was crying out in agony, waving his sword in the air to try to deter the northmen, who had stood back and raised their spears. What are they playing at?


"Captain, Yavin!" Straw wailed, wriggling his leg with frantic urgency.


"A moment, Straw! Let me figure this out!" Yavin yelled back. If he knows me well enough, that's my speak for 'we're completely fucked'.


However, Straw suddenly fell quiet, and looked back to them with dread in his eyes. As Yavin looked over to the entrance, he saw the reason for the spearmen's restraint. A figure in full mail armour with a closed Mournish bascinet strode through them all, with an axe in one hand, and a head in the other. As he looked closer, Yavin noted the cleanly-shaved blond hair of Sigurdr Torssune which stood in stark contrast to his blood-splattered face and vacant eyes. By the gods. You did not deserve such a fate, friend. You were honest, and true, and-


"Yavin Quickfoot, Chief Ranger of the Knights!" called out a feminine voice with a thick north-eastern accent from under the bascinet. She lifted her visor to reveal a young woman with dull brown eyes.


"Who are you? Why by the gods who are good would you do this?" Yavin asked, a single tear rolling down his cheek.


She cackled. "No gods of yours are good, southerner. I am Freja, daughter of Ketill, son of Ghalla jha Minrak. I am clan-chief of the east, and I do this because Sigurdr Torssune was a dirty, fandejne traitor. He, like many of the milk-drinkers in these parts, bent the knee to you, and his punishment was death."


Freja threw the head to the ground, laughing to herself.


"I thought Ketill had just weeks ago assumed the mantle of clan-chief?" said Anselm.


"Fah! My father was weak, and would not join our brothers and sisters in delivering justice! He had to be killed, and I had to take his place, for all to be right in this world." she proclaimed, chuckling just a little, but with a slight crack in her voice.


"Justice? Justice! You call this, this murder, justice? Sigurdr was a good man, a worldly man, who gave what little wealth he had to those who suffered and welcomed all travellers into his hall. He deserved no such death by your hands."


Freja did not give him the respect of a reply, and instead, giggling to herself, stepped forward, and pulled Strawhead from under the horse with her free hand, causing the man to scream in agony. She stood him up, supporting his weight, patted him on the head, and as the three of his companions watched helplessly, she cut at his neck with her axe, cleaving through it. Yavin didn't flinch, but instead fearfully stared at the display as Freja turned his ranger and friend to face him. Rhickall's eyes had rolled to the back of his head, his mouth agape, as his head, clinging onto the rest of his body from a mangled strip of his remaining neck, cocked to the side for one last time. Laughing, Freja jha Minrak then threw his lifeless body to the ground, breeches still soaked in piss.


"Fuck!" Aegbert cried. "You'll pay for that!"


"Oh, I don't think I will." said Freja, giggling once more. "The winds change, southerners, and now they buffet your walls, not ours. Our people are starving, and hungry for green fields. We will make them ours, and avenge our abandonment in this fandejne wasteland we've had to call our home against our will for centuries. You will die, your friends will die, your families will die, and we will live, victors in a sea of southern blood. The age of plump southern farmers is at an end, and we Vhorarnr are coming for you all."


With that, she pulled a second axe from her belt, and leapt cackling towards the three of them. Aegbert was quick to rush her with his shield, bashing her in the head. The lad had overextended himself with this move, however, and, unfazed, she swung her right axe around to strike him in the neck. Aegbert shrieked, stumbling backward and falling to the ground.


"Stay with me, Anselm." Yavin commanded, the two of them approached her steadily.


With calculated precision, the pair of them each bashed her with their shields, causing Freja to stumble. Anselm then struck towards her head, occupying her with the task of dodging. This achieved, Yavin quickly shimmied around to her left, hooking his shield around her axe and attempting to wrestle her to the ground. Freja responded quickly, kicking Anselm fiercely in the knee and causing him to drop down, before throwing her weight into Yavin, swinging her free axe at him in a crazed frenzy, laughing the whole while. He carefully dodged each swing, conceding ground until he could safely dislodge his shield and assume a more steady stance. The two of them seemed evenly matched, Freja the greater in strength and ferocity, attacking with no respite, but Yavin the greater in speed, able to evade her strikes and continue giving ground. I just need to tire her out.


Eventually, Yavin won some ground with a careful bash, and looked behind his adversary. He noted that Anselm had risen to his feet and drawn his shortbow, aiming it at Freja's back. With a cry of 'Mourne!' he let loose an arrow which hurtled through the air and, through some divine fortune, managed to strike Freja in the inside of her right leg, which was unprotected by mail. The woman glanced behind her, laughing through the pain, and the two combatants watched as Anselm grinned, drawing another arrow. Such grinning, however, was cut short, as a flurry of arrows struck him in the flank. He fell to his side, screaming, and began scrambling for cover. It was a good shot, Anselm. It was a good damn shot.


Freja now moved with much less precision, but much more anger and speed of arm. Yavin kept up with her as best as he could, dodging most of her blows, but soon found himself forced to catch them with his shield instead. This couldn't last. He found himself soon enough standing almost still, weathering a brutal assault of axe strike after axe strike that tore his shield to shreds. Frustrated, Yavin leapt back and cast aside his shield, before drawing his dagger with his left hand. Let us both play the two-handed game. Advancing swiftly, Yavin struck at her with his sword, causing her to block with a new sense of fear in her eyes. For Fenric! He then threw his dagger toward her face, forcing her to parry it with the blade of her axe. For Rhickall! The upper hand seized, Yavin thrusted at her belly, failing to pierce the solid mail but winding Freja and throwing her backward. For Aegbert! With one great, final burst of energy, Yavin dropped his dagger and held the hilt of his sword with both hands, thrusting with all his might towards Freja's unprotected face. For Anselm!


But she caught it, by some miracle, with the hilts of her two axes. Yavin managed to wrest his blade free, but stumbling, he was struck in the ribs by one axe, then in the head by another. Confused, his head spinning and ears ringing, Yavin yelled out in agony. With one last, sluggish attempt at an attack, he threw himself forward, but found himself stumbling into her.


Freja dropped her left axe and removed Yavin's helm, caressing his sweaty hair. Her touch felt as cold as ice and as tender as the jaws of a wolf. "You were an honourable opponent, and Urik will welcome you into his halls. Now be free to join him."


Yavin felt a sharp pain slice in one clean motion through his neck, and closed his eyes. His last thought was of a warm hearth, and of home. May Mourne be forever safe, my protection gone.