Awakening

by P D Dennison

  Seeing the wealth of their plentiful spice and herb gardens, the stores of lumber and hides, the looters often returned in the winter moons when the pangs of hunger would be far less bearable and stealing from a victim, even one as formidable as the Winter Wolf, seemed worth the risk. Of the entire northern Barbarian horde, the Winter Wolf possessed the most skilled hunters, the wealthiest of furriers, the finest spice and herb farmers, the heartiest of Rowenwood loggers. They were amongst the best bowyers and fletchers north of the Mystpeaks, second on Midgaard only to the superior skills of the elven folk to the south who dwelt in the Kingdom of Rowendale. Also among the mightiest of warriors, renowned across the entire breadth of the Land of Shaarn for their prowess, their fame for their skill in battle could not be matched. In spite of their private and seemingly peaceful nature, they held fast to a generations’ old penchant for extreme violence in the face of an enemy. The ancestors of the Winter Wolf played an instrumental part in aiding the South in reclaiming lost land during the Goblin Wars, having pushed back the hordes by the thousands with only minimal losses.

  For so few, so very small and as poorly armed as these rutterkin raiders, it stood to reason they had a much larger force now stationed somewhere much closer to the village than the Winter Wolf would like. Perhaps these goblins and their kin had not the ability to read or the inclination to heed the tales of their medicine men when they spoke of the Goblin Wars and how the ancestors of the Winter Wolf had culled their numbers to near extinction in the First Age.

  All the land knew how viciously the Barbarians fought in battle. Heads left on pikes lined the road of the High Pass leading from the south into the Mystpeaks, the main route onto the Great Northern Plains. Everyone from the dwarves of Stone Hammer Keep in the west to the roving nomads of the Black Desert knew of the blindingly quick archers and the agile hunter-warriors armed with only spears and axes. They knew of the swordsmen of the White Bear clan; the ferocious clatter of their broad swords against their round shields creating an almost mystic fear in their enemies. They knew of the foreign face painting the clans did to prepare for battle, intended to strike terror into the hearts and minds of their foes, which it accomplished well.

  The Winter Wolf warriors appeared to be savage and untrained in spite of their strength, size, agility, and skill. Trained with their weapons of choice well beyond the abilities of thugs who sought to steal from them. Their fighting styles may have been imperfect when compared to that of the armored and trained divisions of the High Tower Ranger Garrison or the Tower Warrior Priests from the south, but they conscripted hard men who lived hard lives in a rugged and terrible wilderness that forgave no one for their mistakes. They fought with a mystic rage their foes didn’t understand. Only the strongest of each clan ever survived on these unyielding and expansive Great Northern Plains. Those who did counted themselves amongst the most excellent specimens of wild men in all the Land of Shaarn.

  The heads they displayed on pikes served as a warning to would-be marauders feeling especially brave. The message was clear; while the road was open for trade, the territory of the Winter Wolf and that of the clans beyond was not for the taking. They stood to warn outsiders that the Barbarian horde of the Great Northern Plains would not tolerate any acts of aggression against its people, and that any such acts would be met with swift and savage retaliation. They were Barbarians after all and these men who had invaded the lives of the Winter Wolf in the night to visit terror down upon their innocent families would learn what it meant to cross paths with a Wolf, but they would not likely live to tell the tale.

  The room was warm and bright in spite of the sadness its two inhabitants felt. The morning sun filtered through the little round windows and the fire crackled behind Ravak as his mother went about her business. Utensils clattered and pots bubbled away rhythmically.

  Ravak sat with his fist pressed up under his chin, leaning heavily on his arm. His knuckles burned as they rubbed up against his face. They were raw from handling the charred timbers of his uncle’s ravaged home the night previous. He stirred at his porridge with little interest. He could think about nothing save the terrible sights and sounds of the night before as his father came into the hut for breakfast. He’d already been up for some time with the rest of the elders in an early Council assessing the damage and determining the next course of action.

  “You’re up, boy. Good! You have work to do today. You have to help your old Uncle Gerenaan bury your cousin, your aunt, and your uncle.” He sat down beside Ravak at the table with the usual clatter that men of his stature unconsciously do.

  “Don’t bang the table, Ekes!” Ravak’s mother entered the room quickly from the larder carrying a large bowl of porridge and two smaller bowls all carefully balanced in one hand while in the other she furiously brandished a large, long, thick-shafted wooden spoon.

  Ravak had crafted it for her ten summers prior as a gift on her birthday. In recent seasons, he and his father had sorely wished he’d never made that spoon. She’d taken to using it regularly to discipline the two raucous men in her house. Ravak and his father Ekes may have been Winter Wolf hunters, but she was the head of the household and had no qualms about doling out her own fierce brand of maternal justice to preserve the peace.

  She walked right over to Ekes as she spoke with a very cross, motherly look on her face and slammed a bowl down in front of him. Still glaring at Ravak’s father, she took her seat, preparing to dish out hot porridge for her husband and herself.

  “I think you slammed those bowls down a might harder than I hit the table, luv’,” Ekes spoke coyly while smiling in his son’s direction.

  Ravak wanted to laugh away the thought of his dead kin at his father’s brazen words, but knew better than to even raise his head, let alone show any form of reaction to the comment.

  The second Ravak’s father stopped talking, his mother rapped Ekes on the back of the head with that large wooden spoon and she did it good and hard. Old Ekes rubbed at the back of his pinkened noggin as he held his bowl up for his wife to fill for him.

  Ravak risked a peek in his father’s direction and saw the corner of his mouth curl into the slight twitch of a smile.

  She filled Ekes’ bowl with great care to give him a healthy portion, smiling lovingly all the while. While she may rule with an iron fist, it came from her heart.

  Ekes was one of the village elders and was well respected in the community for his hunting ability and great skill as a logger. He was also a well-respected member of the village war party and now, so was Ravak who had passed his rites of manhood not two seasons past.

  He’d learned his lessons well, showing skill in tanning and tailoring hides. His mother was proud of both of them and proud to be the woman who had raised these two men to such great heights within the community.

  Ravak thought of her as a strong and sturdy woman and that she was, standing some five feet ten inches tall with a broad back and long legs. While his father was tall for a man, he was of no great height for a Barbarian. His mother was attractive for her age and looked a good ten seasons younger than all the other mothers. There was nary a streak of grey in her long black, ringletted mane. Her cheeks shone rosy and her eyes bright and green like the fields of the Great Northern Plains midsummer, while these days mostly stern, had a way of showing love and tenderness that only a mother’s eyes can.

  Ravak had grown to be a proud young man, though he often felt underappreciated by his father. Ekes pushed him to the point of collapse more than once. He knew the old man meant him well, but sometimes felt that he pushed so hard more for himself than for Ravak’s own good. Ravak learned early on that a father’s pride wasn’t always a good thing, and Ekes had taught him that lesson over many hard seasons as he’d grown into a man under the stern old hunter’s tutelage.

  “Are you going back to speak with the Council again after breakfast, father?”

  “Yes I am, boy, but it’s of no concern to you. You have a lot of work to do today as I’v
e already laid out for you plainly. You must bury your kinfolk and help clean up their property. You’ve a full day’s work ahead.” He pointed at Ravak with his porridge spoon, one eye closed. That’s how Ravak knew that if he pressed the issue any further, he’d cause an argument. He didn’t care, not this time. Not after what happened the night before. As much as he loved his father, he was tired of constantly being told how to live his life and being held back from participating as a man in the clan of the Winter Wolf, which by passing his trials, he had a claim to. Every man had the right to request the audience of the Elders, even if only to hear them speak at one of the regular gatherings. But until now, Ekes had forbidden it. Ravak believed that his father saw him as soft; soft in the heart where the heart of a wolf was to be stony and unyielding.

  Ravak sighed. When would his father ever trust him to join in Council meetings?

  Ekes heard his son’s sigh of exasperation and turned his attention back to his porridge, hoping to stave off any further discussion. What Ekes could not say to the boy was he knew his son to have a great heart, that of a true leader; the kind that legends are told of. Ekes was also plenty wise enough to know that with legends come legendary challenges, and as a father should, he worried for his son as he introduced him to the Land of Shaarn and her Great Northern Plain, upon whose bosom his kin made their home.

  She was a cruel mother and Ekes knew what the stories told of her children’s past. The legends, her voice speaking to him and his kin, warning them of their ancestors’ missteps and abuse of power. The stories told of how many of their ancestors had begun to realize it was wrong to oppress other nations and creatures and to understand that their pride-filled place as the conquerors of the Land of Shaarn had corrupted them. How this resulted in segments of the Dragon Rider Clan splitting away, moving out of the mountains and forming the many Barbarian clans of the present day scattered across the Great Northern Plains. How their mother punished them for the prideful path they had walked for generations before Ekes’ own, even though oppression was no longer his peoples’ way.

  As the seasons passed, those that had left the security of the Dragon Rider Clan and moved out onto the Great Northern Plains had become more connected to the land and so, they changed. Over time, smaller clans formed who took on their own identities tied to the land they inhabited.

  The Winter Wolf were among the first to form their own clan. As they grew out onto the punishing landscape of their motherland, they realized they needed interaction and trade with southern societies not only to survive, but to thrive. They began to understand that trade with the South would be prosperous for all the clans. Over time, with their prowess as warriors, they became invaluable in aiding the peoples of the South who suffered under tyranny. They freed them from not only the oppression of the remaining Dragon Riders who lived in the mighty city of Dragon’s Maw Keep, but also from the oppressive rule of the raiders and greed centered kings of old who had laid claim to lands in the South for which they had no right.

  It was a bright and shining moment in the evolution of a people coming out of a primitive age and finding hope and understanding in the concept of moderation and balance with their wyrld and the other peoples that inhabited it. All saw how well this union worked and so it remained for many generations.

  The Barbarians by that time had become so dispersed out onto the plains that they became known to the more populous South more simply as ‘the clans,’ or ‘the horde.’ Only those who never gave up their dragons or their oppressive ways still lived at Dragon’s Maw Keep in the Eastern Mystpeaks under the Dragon Rider Clan. And so life in the Land of Shaarn for many seasons thereafter rested in balance until the evil Graxxen rose to power at the end of the First Age and betrayed his brethren and mentors of the Tower of High Sorcery. When Graxxen took up with the darkness, he sought those still under the banner of the Dragon Riders. Seeing that they now numbered so few, he took the moment of opportunity in their weakness, greedy to steal the power of dragons under their charge for his own ill-conceived goals and struck with a handful of his cohorts who also pursued the dark arts. In the ensuing battle, Graxxen and his wicked Blood Magi brought the reign of the remaining few hundred Dragon Riders to a gruesome end.

  Graxxen seemed to vanish after his victory. Prophecy spoke of his immortal self at sleep, gaining dark, unspeakable power in preparation for his eventual rise. Yet memories are short and legends too often overlooked as the Land of Shaarn recovered from Graxxen’s little war against the Dragon Riders. Now, after thousands of seasons, in the Second Age, the clans still came together and helped one another to fend off the would-be looters from the South when needed. The banner and stories of the Dragon Rider Clan were all but lost save for the Annals of Time. These were then little more than the scribbling of but one mage who kept them in his book that would one day become the history of the Land of Shaarn.

  Though they had found peace in their connection to the land and their newfound understanding of trade and relations with the peoples of the South, the Winter Wolf continued to be known as vicious warriors in battle, along with the other Barbarian clans. Readiness for swift and furious retaliation kept their lands safe and made the clans strong. Weaponry and physical training still tested their young men into adulthood. Even though the Winter Wolf warriors’ strength and prowess were now seldom used for battles beyond their annual struggles with a rugged wilderness on the Great Northern Plain, the precepts of vicious preparedness stood as the pillars to training their young men right through to Ekes’ and even Ravak’s generations.

  The previous night’s attack only fueled Ekes’ fear of a shamanic prophecy now told to children at fireside. He couldn’t express fear, let alone that it was rooted in legend now thought of as a children’s tale. During the Goblin Wars, the great keep of the Dragon Riders in the valley below the Sarandanus River was sacked and reclaimed countless times. All the while, legends whispered of its dark secret burrowed down deep at the heart of the stone monster. If those legends held true, then yes, Ekes was right to fear for his son. For a legendary foe born of blood and hatred can only be defeated by a legendary hero possessing a heart fueled with great love, and Ekes had seen his son’s heart.

  “Father, I want to come with you. I want to listen to the Council speak and learn the ways of diplomacy amongst the clans. How will I ever learn if I’m never allowed to attend Council with you?” He looked eagerly to his father though inside he knew the response he’d receive wouldn’t be the one he wanted to hear.

  “Boy, you’ve work to do! I’m only going to say it this one last time! Honour your cousin and bury that lad. Your old Uncle Gerenaan is burying our brother and your aunt and then you’ll help him clean up the property of these poor unfortunate souls, and I don’t want to hear another word on it! Gerenaan is a good man and a fine brother. If it were not for the Council, I’d be there beside him that we might send our brother to Valhaalla together!” He gulped down the last bite of porridge, stood up, and took a big swig from the water basin, then wiped his thick beard with his forearm. “You may have passed the rites, but I can still whoop your hide and you’ll do as I say! You’re not yet ready to sit with the Council! Too young! Too careless with your words, which you’ve just proven again!” He turned and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Ravak knew what they would talk of at the Council, war and vengeance and making their enemies pay. He viewed this talk as small-minded, but he never dared say so to anyone in the clan, especially his father. A warrior was strong and ready to fight at any time. A warrior did not hesitate, for to hesitate was a sign of weakness. When attacked, the warrior was to strike back swiftly and furiously, revisiting upon his foe tenfold what happened to him to show the foe the foolishness of trifling with such power, the power of the Winter Wolf.

  Ravak pushed his bowl aside and took a big swig of water himself before he headed out the door to begin his chores.

  “Don’t take it to heart, son,” his mother tried to console him
, placing a loving hand on his shoulder. “He loves you and is very proud of all of your accomplishments. He just has trouble showing it.”

  Ravak nodded, eyeing the floor, though her words had done little to dissuade his resentment toward the old man. After all, he was in the eyes of this village and his clan, a man now for two years. But his father still called him “boy” and held him back from fully committing to the life of a Winter Wolf man.

  Ravak worked furiously alongside his Uncle Gerenaan all morning, taking out his frustrations with his father on the dirt as he dug his kins’ graves, all the while almost ignoring the poor, sorrowful man beside him. Other men from the village had come to help, making the work lighter.

  Every once in a while, Ravak could hear Gerenaan choke up on a very quiet sob. He pitied his uncle. The poor man couldn’t even express what he felt at the terrible loss of his brother and nephew or it would be perceived as weakness and he could stand to lose his right to carry a spear.

  They were all but done with their work by noon and Ravak headed over to the bathhouse to clean off the sooty sweat of his morning and prepare for lunch.

  His father was there when he arrived home and his parents seemed to have been in the middle of some sort of argument just as Ravak opened the door. They stopped talking immediately and turned toward him as he entered. They were both looking at him, his mother smiling, his father with one eyebrow turned upward, and his arms crossed. Ravak lowered his eyes as soon as he saw his father.

  “Don’t stop talking on my account,” he muttered as he shuffled over to the water basin for drink.