SOLDIERS OF WINTER
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AIELUND SAGA PRELUDE
STEPHEN L. NOWLAND
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2018-2019 Stephen Louis Nowland
Map Illustration by Cornelia Yoder
http://www.corneliayoder.com
The Author asserts the moral right to be
identified as the author of this work.
Table of Contents
World Map
Local Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About the Author
1
Pacian
Though he wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself, Pacian Savidge hated this place. The run-down cabin where he and his father lived had barely enough space for them to live, let alone run a small bakery. An extension hammered into place on the front of the cabin a couple of years ago helped for a little while, until they outgrew that as well.
On a chilly morning before the sun was even up, Pacian started his day. He was seventeen years of age, thin and wiry, not overly short or tall, but certainly not built to lug around sacks of flour. His hair was blond and his feature refined, a far cry from the rugged craftsmen and lumberjacks who populated the small hillside town of Coldstream.
Lazy at heart, Pacian looked for every opportunity to get out of work, but these first few hours in the morning were unavoidable. If he didn't set up the bakery, there would be no bread to sell or eat that day and his father's fury would be enormous. And so every morning without fail, Pacian emerged from beneath his covers and braved the cold floor to stoke the fire and get things moving.
On this particular late autumn day, right near the end of the season, Coldstream was already feeling the oncoming winter. The sun was rising later and later so Pacian had to light a candle to find his way around the sparsely furnished cabin. They hadn't always been this poor, nor had they always lived in this cold place. Pacian had memories of a place near the sea, of a larger bakery his mother and father had run together, before everything went wrong somehow.
Better times.
Pacian sighed in resignation when he entered the kitchens and saw his father slumped over a table, a rattling snore coming from his mouth and a bottle half-filled with cheap wine on the table before him. He was slightly overweight, with a receding hairline and streaks of gray through what remained. Aside from some superficial similarities, Pacian bore little resemblance to his father, but one of their shared traits was a short temper. He stifled the urge to swear loudly at what was becoming a regular occurrence.
What had begun as a way of dealing with grief at the loss of his wife, had grown into a full-blown addiction over the last few years. Now, Pacian was finding his father here more often than not, usually unconscious after a night of drinking himself to sleep. Soon he would awaken, and Pacian hoped to be out of the house before that happened, before things became unpleasant.
Before he started work though, he crept over to the table and gingerly took the bottle of wine. He came very close to his father in the process and caught a whiff of his odor, a nose-rankling stench from a man who bathed rarely and drank too much. Hurrying to the door as quietly as he could, Pacian carefully poured the remainder of the wine outside so that his father couldn't finish it off. Removing the booze was the only way for Pacian to help him.
After replacing the empty bottle on the table, Pacian went to work kneading dough and stoking the oven, working until after the sun finally rose and his father stirred, earlier than usual. By the expression on his face, it was not going to be a good day.
“Did you remember the yeast?” Pacian's father Bryce croaked in a dry voice, after taking in the scene around him.
“Of course,” Pacian answered, easing a tray laden with carefully arranged dough into the oven. “I'm not a complete idiot, you know.”
“If you've forgotten it again, we'll have naught to sell but rock cakes,” Bryce snarled. “People don't want bloody rock cakes Pace, they want bread.”
“I told you, I got the mix right,” Pacian retorted, unwilling to back down in the face of his father's typical hungover fury. “But if you want to do it all yourself, go right ahead.”
“Don't talk back to me you little prick,” Bryce snapped, staggering around the room as he tried to get his bearings. “You should be grateful I still allow you to live under my roof, after all the trouble you've brought down upon me. You're no good, and you'll always be no good!”
“I'm twice the man you are, you sodden drunk,” Pacian spat. “Unlike you, I'm gonna make something of myself one of these days, you'll see.” He sliced some cheese off a block and tried to ignore his father's outburst. Bryce actually tried to take a swing at Pacian, but the agile young man easily sidestepped the clumsy attack. In the same motion, he picked up a chunk of yesterday's bread, pocketed the knife and ran out the door, making sure to slam it shut behind him.
The sound of his father's incoherent ramblings receded as Pacian walked along the snow-crusted trail, making sure to cast a dark look back at his neighbors, who were peering at him through their windows as usual.
“Mind your own business,” Pacian warned, taking a small amount of satisfaction as they disappeared behind their curtains. The Savidges had a reputation in town for loud arguments, but in spite of what they thought, and what his father told them at the shop, it was never Pacian that started them.
Glad to be out of the house at last, he chewed on bread and cheese as he took in the glorious blue sky and resolved not to let the bad morning ruin his day. Coldstream wasn't a busy place, not by the measure of larger cities, but everyone else seemed to be out and about already. Solidly-built men carrying their heavy axes and saws were heading out to the forest, while those in town were preparing food, sewing clothes and otherwise going about their lives.
Some of the local children were hurrying off to the town's only school, which provided the basics in life — reading, writing, commerce, and the history of the Kingdom of Aielund, the nation in which they lived. Pacian had attended for a few years but was an indifferent student. Something had happened in his youth, a traumatic event that changed his perspective and wasting time learning about how great their king was didn't seem all that productive. There were more important things in life.
Pacian veered off the trail and followed along the edge of a high fence surrounding a large house with on an even larger piece of land. The tops of apple trees could be seen above the fence line, enticing passers-by with ripe fruit glistening in the morning sun. Listening carefully, Pacian could hear the sound of at least two people working on the plot of land, picking the fruit before the cold of the oncoming winter really took hold of the land.
It was tempting to simply reach up and grab an apple, but Pacian was truly a selfless man, generous of spirit, who only wanted to spread the wealth around — one apple wouldn't do. So, he reached down and picked up a small rock, then carefully aimed towards the house and tossed it over the fence.
It struck the wooden walls with a loud clack, and a heartbeat later Pacian reached up and picked several apples from the tree, confident the occupants of the garden were looking elsewhere. With the second half of his breakfast in hand, Pacian stuffed the rest of his catch into his belt pouch and continued on his way.
Most of the buildings in Coldstream were clustered along the main road, which ran from the lower lands in the north towards the majestic mountains in the south. They had been a source of wonder to a younger Pacian when his family had first arrived in town nearly ten years ago, but now they were just part of the background.
His reverie was broken by the sound of young people around his age
having a spirited discussion. Ahead, Pacian spotted two local girls with whom he was well acquainted, being harassed by four boys Pacian also knew quite well, mostly by reputation. He'd gone to school with them years ago but lost touch when he dropped out to help his father at the bakery. By the reaction of the girls, they'd grown from annoying kids into proper bastards.
“Come on, don't be like that,” the largest of the boys called Nevan said to Millie, a brown-haired girl with large brown eyes and olive skin, who had bloomed into an attractive young woman of late. “You should give me a chance to show you what sort of man I am.”
“I've heard all about the sort of bloke you are,” Millie retorted, not buying into Nevan's honeyed words. “You and your mates can bugger off.”
“You're not getting it,” Nevan responded, grabbing Millie by the wrist. “I'm not asking. Now stop making me look bad in front of everyone.” Millie was a spirited girl but Nevan was much bigger than she was, and her expression went from defiance to fear.
“Millie, there you are,” Pacian called after getting a sense of the situation. They all turned to watch his approach with a mixture of emotions. “I've been looking for you all morning. Hey, Nevan, could you do me a favor and sod off?”
“You've got a lot of nerve saying that to me, Pace,” Nevan warned, releasing Millie's wrist, which she rubbed with her other hand. In spite of his strong words, Nevan took a step backwards when he laid eyes on Pacian. Sensing his discomfort, Pacian closed the gap between them, walking right up to stand nose to nose with the bully. Nevan was actually about six inches taller than him so it was more nose to throat, but in spite of the difference in height, Pacian looked up at him without fear.
“I'm full of nerve today, mate,” Pacian said, and though his voice was cheerful, there was an edge to it. He noticed Millie had picked up a large chunk of wood from the edge of the trail and hefted it in both hands as a makeshift club, and her expression indicated she was in no mood to bandy words. “Well, look at that. I think Millie's not interested either, so you should probably piss off. Right now.” Pacian locked eyes with him until Nevan understood what was going to happen if he didn't back down.
Even with a few of his friends around him, the big kid didn't seem willing to go toe to toe with Pacian. Maybe it was his reputation as a dirty fighter that scared Nevan, or perhaps the look in his eye that made him think twice. But it was more likely hilt of Pacian's knife sticking out of his belt that gave Nevan pause.
“Easy now, we're going,” Nevan responded, raising his hands as he backed away. Millie began thumping the piece of wood in her other palm, which was finally enough to make him and his friends turn tail.
“Nevan doesn't know where to draw the line sometimes,” Millie sighed in relief, lowering her improvised club and smoothing down her plain dress. “I won't let him take us by surprise next time. Thanks for backing me up, Pace.”
“Not a problem,” he answered. “It was pretty bold of them to try it in broad daylight actually. Where are the town guards?”
“I saw a couple this morning,” Millie answered dubiously, “but yeah, it's strange.”
“Probably slacking off again,” Pacian surmised with a shrug. “Anyway, you might want to consider carrying that club with you, so if they give you any grief, just hit 'em in the family jewels. Works every time.”
“Not a bad idea,” Millie conceded. Next to her was a cute, sandy-haired girl with green eyes named Lyn, who seemed very happy to have Pacian's attention.
“Always happy to help, ladies,” he said with a slight bow, giving Lyn a jaunty smile. He then withdrew two pieces of fruit out of his pouch. “Have an apple,” he suggested. They accepted his gift, but before Millie took a bite, she looked at Pacian with suspicious eyes.
“This doesn't mean we're getting back together,” she cautioned.
“Wasn't even thinking about it,” Pacian lied. If he thought she was open to the idea, it would be the third time they'd patched things up.
“You're so brave,” Lyn said, and from her tone, Pacian knew she was interested. Unfortunately, Millie was well aware of this and moved to intercede right away.
“Alright, enough of that,” she said, grabbing Lyn by the arm and pulling her away. “We're late for class. Bye, Pace.” He grinned and nodded, knowing that in a small town like this, they'd run into each other again soon.
Pacian continued on his way, and turned left when he reached the main street of Coldstream, and followed the sound of someone hammering nails into wood until he reached a modest house with a shed built onto the side. Unlike his own cabin, this place seemed to have been built by a professional craftsman, where the doors, beams, and windows fit together perfectly. The whole place was a statement to doing things properly.
The builder and owner was the man hammering away in the workshop, Gareth Wainwright. He was of average height with dark hair, a graying beard that was short yet thick, weathered skin and gnarled hands used to hard work — essentially the opposite of Pacian. The workshop had three small wagons awaiting repair, and judging by the way he was hammering, Mister Wainwright was in a bit of a mood.
Fortunately, Pacian wasn't here to see him. He stepped lightly through the open door to the house and through the kitchen, where a pot of soup was bubbling away on a wood stove. Much like the workshop, it was a neat and orderly place, with plates and ingredients all sitting on shelves. By the tantalizing aroma, the soup involved ham in some way and Pacian couldn't resist picking up the ladle and taking a sip. It tasted as good as it smelled, so much better than the food he had to eat around his own house. He only had a moment to enjoy it however, before someone smacked him on the back of his head.
“Have some manners, Pace,” a woman admonished him. She had long, brown hair tied up in a bun and wore a practical brown dress with an apron tied around her waist. Her blue eyes narrowed at Pacian, expecting him to be up to no good, as always.
“Sorry, Missus Wainwright,” Pacian apologized, having the good grace to at least appear ashamed.
“If you're here to see Aiden, he's in his room... as usual,” she grumbled, taking the ladle from his hand and placing it on a table.
“I'll see if I can drag him outside for some fresh air,” Pacian promised, drawing a curious expression from the woman, a mixture of relief and suspicion at his intentions. “Is uh... everything okay?” he asked. “Mister Wainwright looks a bit put-out.”
“Never you mind,” she answered, taking up a broom and quickly heading for the door. “Oh and one more thing,” she added, sticking her head back inside the doorway. “If you're heading out today, don't get him into any trouble or there'll be no more pies for you.”
“I'll be good',” Pacian hastily assured her as she vanished again. He considered this a serious threat, and didn't want to risk losing access to one of the best cooks in town, one who also didn't charge him to eat here. Resolved to keep his promise, he turned to head through the doorway further into the house, but on an impulse, reached into his pouch and placed an apple on the bench for when she returned.
The house was quite old, but well maintained by the resident expert out in the workshop. As such, it was made with lower ceilings, small rooms and an even smaller hallway. Not that Pacian could complain — it was a palace compared to his own house, which was well overdue for some maintenance.
Pacian walked down the hall until he reached a closed door, which he didn't bother to knock on before opening. Before him was a tiny room, with a small bed under siege from a number of towering book cases, each of which was laden to the point of being ready to topple over. Pacian's reading skills could not exactly be called exemplary, but he was sure most of these books were in languages he'd never even heard of before.
Behind one of the book cases was a desk, though Pacian had to squeeze inside the room to find it. Seated there was his best friend, Aiden Wainwright, who hadn't yet noticed Pacian's arrival. Aiden's attention was completely focused on the tome opened before him, a crumbling old thing filled
with squiggles, symbols and lines that baffled Pacian.
“What on earth is that gibberish?” he muttered, startling Aiden who whirled around to look.
“Knock next time,” he advised, settling back in his chair in relief. Aiden was definitely his mother's son, with the same blue eyes and fair features, but his hair was dark like his father's. The two boys were roughly the same age, though Aiden edged Pacian out by a few months.
“So what are you reading this time?” he asked, sitting on the bed which was within an arm's reach of the small desk.
“The work of some artificer who cataloged relics for study about four hundred years ago,” Aiden replied, half-turning in his chair to face his guest.
“You could have just answered 'magic', you know,” Pacian pointed out.
“You know me Pace, it's always about magic,” Aiden responded.
“You've been buying up old books like these for nearly five years, mate. Can you actually do any magic?” Pacian asked dubiously, though part of him was hoping for a 'yes'.
“Not really,” Aiden answered.
“That's not exactly a 'no',” Pacian pointed out.
“Well it's a language, when you get right down to it,” Aiden explained. “Wizards can memorize incantations and read them off the top of their head, but the formulas are really complex, and none of these books are that detailed. They're mostly historical notes about artifacts.”
“But if you came across some of the language, like, a spell or something, you could read it?”
“Probably?” Aiden hedged. “Only if it's fairly simple. That's not what I'm doing here anyway. I'm trying to trace the source of certain sigils, words of power that I saw a few years ago.”
“So, this is all to do with that thing you went through in the cave a few years back, right?”
Soldiers of Winter Page 1
