Contents
Dedication
Spring, Year 4221 (F.E.) Lochmire, The Cold Ones' Quest
Summer, Year 4221 (F.E.) Bracken Grove, The Cold Ones' Quest
Winter, Year 4221 (F.E.) Hevnkalt, The Cold Ones' Quest
Thus ends The Cold Ones: A Tale of the Realm Cycle
To all of you, for taking your first stride into the Realm.
-A. M. D’Addabbo
For all the warriors who have gone before, may the Bards sing your deeds for eternity. Welcome, travelers, to the Realm.
-J. Krowe
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Spring, Year 4221 (F.E.) Lochmire, The Cold Ones' Quest
As darkness fled, the last cascading slivers of the moon faded, and insects sang a hymn of the dying. It echoed over the murky bog waters of Lochmire, heralding the end of the moon’s cycle. Yet, even as the silver disk splayed its final farewell, the birth of the sun’s run marked a new day. And with it, renewed hope.
Despite a blossoming spring, frost coated the mud banks of Lochmire. Mist hovered over the swamp, clinging to the waters like a desperate embrace. As the sun crested the horizon, a warmth drifted from above to swathe the land. The growing heat fought to repel the chill, which clutched the air like a phantom. Now freed of its icy jailer, a stench — one that stung the nostrils and cloyed the tongue — rose from fetid depths like the undead clawing free of their grave.
Muted sounds of shuffling footsteps bespoke of life other than the mire’s animals. Bleary-eyed men gathered upon the thawing shores of Lochmire, devoid of proper formation. Some, weighted by anxiety, nattered incessantly; the remainder attempted to rebuff the early morning lethargy.
Amassed in the hundreds, this menagerie exhibited men originating far and wide within House Vinganz’s Province. Warriors of the Furyte Isles, the Horn, Bay of Blades, Grodalry Hills, the Blood Pits of Abayne, the Last Oasis, a duo born of the Sanguinary Archipelago — and even a singular Arcane Linguist who hailed from the warlock university at Zür — graced the muddy banks of the bog. Praised for exceptional skill on the battlefield, one and all received a formal invitation, hand-signed by the Lord Commander of House Vinganz’s armies.
A crusade to form an unwonted cohort, as yet known by the Realm, had begun. Although encouraged to mantle this undertaking, confirmation as a member was required. A warrior’s ethos, coupled with tenacity and mettle, was needed to prevail within the selection course the men already hailed the Quest. For it indeed was a Quest, one to prove to self and Lord, that each possessed the mental and physical fortitude to become the elite of House Vinganz.
For those wishing to join this prestigious cohort, a single order scrawled at the close of the missive:
Report to the western fringes of Lochmire at the first of Spring, Year 4221 after the Fall of the Empire.
Multitudes of hopeful warriors flocked to the swampland. Upon arrival, these men found a tent city ready for them — albeit these makeshift barracks held naught but an icy welcome. Soon, the population grew to near bursting, so much so that every tent held two or three occupants.
Spring was nigh, and the hopeful aspirants believed they were ready.
What prideful delusions they held in their hearts.
Alas, spring began without further instructions, nor was the Lord Commander present. Several days passed just so, followed by weeks. Nevertheless, every morn at the birth of the sun’s run, these soldiers rose to stand formation in the cutting wind. And every morning they found disappointment in the absence of the Lord Commander.
Irate, frustrated, and spurned — dozens of candidates departed, cursing and frothing with spite. The stalwart — or men too stubborn to quit — remained, greeting the golden rays with dissatisfaction.
This day was different.
All chatter ceased as the distinct clip-clop of iron-shod hooves announced mounted riders approaching. A surge of frenetic anxiety coursed through the horde, like lightning dancing through clouds. Several candidates began shouting orders, panic thick in their hoarse voices, striving to seize command of the crowd.
“Form ranks, you indolent curs! Form ranks!”
Many hustled, striving to obey, yet without set discipline, the gaggle remained as it was. All movement froze, a quietude blanketing them as a pair of silhouettes began to merge through the mist, ever gaining clarity. Lazy tendrils cloyed the legs of these two men as they, at last, became solid.
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Nearly the same height, the two men stopped before the massed flock. Despite both being slender, their lithe stances lent to the appearance of men well used to battle. While they displayed the confident swagger of warriors, a supreme grace — that of a dancer — exuded from the swarthy man on the left.
His clean-shaven cheekbones were angular and sharp; charcoal short-cropped hair mantled his pate. Adorned in simplistic, yet finely crafted, grey and black clothing, the man’s countenance bespoke more of a servant’s role than a military man. Altogether, he was unremarkable and a man quick to forget. To their chagrin, the aspirants dismissed him.
His companion’s appearance, on the other hand, told another tale. With the fury of a thunderstorm, a scowl-crowned brow shaded dark eyes. Those orbs promised agonizing death for any who defied his will. A well-used brigandine protected his chest, the iron studs imposed into hardened leather glinted from the sun’s new-born rays. Without a helm, this man sported a wild mane of brown locks. The lack of apparent weapons and armored grieves informed the few veterans that this man’s real armor was quickness and surprise. His true armaments ferocity and well-honed skills. His nostrils flared as if assaulted by something putrid; he scanned the cluster with a snarl like a feral cat ready to pounce.
Sounds deadened as the two men arrested everyone's attention, fear replacing early-morn lassitude. A palpable sense of impending doom hovered over the moment, the air pregnant with the anxiety of the unknown.
Voice like a harsh bark, the scowling man bellowed, “Form ranks! Move, move, MOVE!”
Bustling movement rippled within the host. Growls of irritation erupted from many as the candidates jostled one another. Like a violent tempest, thunderous scoldings hailed upon them until, at last, they established something resembling a formation. Panting quietly, they waited. It was then they realized that the clip-clop still carried through the mist.
Anxiety built near to bursting as they fought against fidgeting. Military decorum mandated that while at the position of attention, they would become still as statues. Eyes scanned the thick smog, squinting in an attempt to penetrate the frosty air, searching for the mount and its master.
With leisure, a third figure split the mist, dark and ominous as a depthless gorge. Indeed, a majestic death-dealing machine, the palomino destrier ambled forth.
Astride the enormous warhorse sat the Lord Commander of House Vinganz, seconded only to Lord Vinganz himself in nobility and power. His long, sanguine mane was drawn tight into a ponytail, fastened by a black hide thong. His complexion likened to pale granite; this legendary warrior gently pulled the beast’s reigns and halted.
High upon the well-worn leather throne, he sat motionless as a chiseled effigy. Taciturn, the Lord Commander cast his dun-colored gaze upon the assembly. His steely orbs perforated every man’s soul; all withered before the unrelenting onslaught. Alas, more unnerving than the Lord Commander’s piercing stare, was the pauldrons clasping a travel-worn cape about his neck.
Twin, howling-locked wolf heads, grisly and giant, sat on his shoulders. Bared yellow canines, white eyes, and black fur matted sporadically with congealed blood — these monstro
sities daunted all who beheld them. The Lord Commander’s aura conveyed death to any would-be foes. None could withstand the might of Lord Vandyr Kaide’s presence.
“My Lord,” the armored man said with a slight nod. His scowl lessened in deferring respect, yet quickly returned as he faced the throng again.
Voice raised, he snarled, “I am Captain Krell. For an undetermined amount of time, I own you! When I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to run nonstop to Hevnkalt, you will comply. You no longer have control over your bodies, your minds, or even your pain; they are mine, and I will do with them as I please. From now on, you are puppets, and I am your master.”
Captain Krell threw a sneer, seething with utter contempt, toward a cluster of men who remained separated from the other candidates. Numbered less than a score, these men sported elegant clothing. One and all, whether sown into gambesons or showcased as signet rings, sigils of their nobility displayed brazenly. Nobles in their own right, each of their Houses claimed fealty to House Vinganz and ruled their holdings within its province.
“Social caste holds no weight here.” Krell’s distaste washed over the gentry like the ocean waves. “Lands and titles mean nothing, you mean nothing. You will have no pages, no squires, no servants. Alongside the wretches of the Realm,” Krell gestured to the other candidates, “you will sleep, eat, piss, bleed, train, and even die! All the while, you will address me as Sir or by my rank of captain. I will not allow petulant fops in my cohort. You will have to earn every right, just like the lowborn scum.” The captain took several steps to stand nose-to-nose with a noble.
Broad of shoulder, slightly taller than Krell, the nobleman sported flaxen cropped hair and a severe face. Crowned by sunken bags, pale blue orbs glinted from within the depths. Unflinching, the man held Krell’s stare, his face emotionless.
“If any of you cannot contend with that, I beg you, raise your voice, and I will dismiss you. Quit now, for I possess neither the time nor inclination to deal with false motivation.”
Like a scratchy blanket, shock and disbelief enveloped all lowborn applicants within earshot. Fidgeting, eyes averted, they waited with bated breath for the noble’s wrathful demand of recompense. Severe flogging, possible imprisonment, or even death awaited the commoner who spoke as such to one of noble bloodline.
Alas, the highborn remained mute.
A wave of gasps erupted from the men; knees locked and some men staggered.
“Additionally,” Krell turned to address all, voice raised, and pointed at the swarthy manservant, “you will obey this man’s every order as if they were my own. And you will adhere my commands as if they came from Lord Kaide. If at any point you disobey or decline to comply with an order, you will have failed yourself and House Vinganz. When the time comes, and it surely will, that you finally realize how weak and craven of spirit you truly are, self-elimination from this selection course is approved. I will gladly provide suitable provisions for your journey home, as I do not want you here! There is no place for weakness, cowardice, laziness, or lack of discipline in this cohort. Now, who desires to withdraw?”
Silence stronger than death embraced the horde. Frantic glances rippled throughout the ranks, searching for quitters.
“No one?” Krell’s scowl deepened as his face split into a predatory grin. “No matter, soon enough. As of this moment, you are like flakes of snow; hopeful of one day becoming an ice-shard of Vinganz. Today, you puny Snowflakes have embarked on the Quest!”
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Before the sun’s run peaked, Captain Krell marched his fragile Snowflakes into the ground. He shouted, cursed, and bellowed, ordering them to sprint the perimeter of Lochmire — a league distance.
The quickest of the horde returned heaving and assumed the position of attention. The top performers waited for their slower peers to complete the task. Clumps of men finished together, staggering to find their place in the formation. Finally, the last man, drenched in sweat and wracked with rib-crunching gasps, stumbled into place.
Krell glared at them in silence for a moment; then his rage boiled like a teeming volcano, ready to explode. “Not good enough! Again!”
And so, they sped around the boggy lake.
And again.
And again.
Each circuit resulted in a slower pace and an ever-rising fury from the captain. He let his displeasure known with brutal demands of physical training.
“Hurry up! Your Flakes are melting before my eyes!” Like a tornado, Krell whirled around the candidates, pelting them with stinging insults. So much so, the men quit acknowledging failures. Their exhausted minds accepted that success would ever elude them.
Once again formed into ranks, the Flakes gasped excessive breaths of chilled air, while wobbling on unstable legs.
Krell addressed them, voice hoarse from shouting.
“From now on, if Hess,” the captain indicated to the swarthy manservant, “Lord Kaide or I give the order ‘hydrate’, you will have a five breath count to drink. Understood?”
Some candidates nodded, others murmured, and a few failed to reply altogether. Defeat writ on their faces as if etched by stonemasons.
“Front leaning rest, move!” Krell shouted. His scowl deepened, ire roiling just below the surface. Before him, the Flakes lowered themselves into a plank position — backs erect, arms locked, palms in the muck.
“Too slow! Recover!”
Men clambered to their feet, returning to attention, only to be met with, “Too slow! Front leaning rest, move!”
Back and forth, Krell ordered them to lurch into the push-up position, only to immediately hop to attention. At last, the captain returned them to the front leaning rest and held them. Groans rippled the air in waves, escaping grown men as their shoulders burned from the exertion. Shaking arms begat sagging midriffs, muscles searching for respite upon the mud.
Hess, thus far tacit beside the mounted Lord Kaide, let loose a furious howl. He ran in between the ranks, a feral mask of frothing wrath on his face. “Suffer in silence you maggots! Get your balls outta the dirt! Worthless scum!” With agility bespeaking of perfect self-control, Hess leaped to a candidate whose stomach rested in the muck. Yowling like a mountain lion, Hess kicked the lad in the side.
A wail of pain and surprise ripped from the man’s throat, yet he complied and forced his back as rigid as a rod. Sporadic in the ranks, men refusing to cede to weakness by lowering to the ground, arched their backs.
Yet again, that was a mistake.
“Get your arses outta the air!” Hess frothed, his eyes bulging as he shrieked. “THIS IS NOT A WHOREHOUSE!”
Unseen by the Flakes, Captain Krell stiffened — jaw bulging with his teeth grinding. He shot a malevolent glower into Hess’s back. The captain raised his voice over the moaning field. “When I give an order, I expect a unified, ‘Aye, Captain’. Now, am I understood?”
“Aye, Captain!”
It was weak, it was pitiful — yet it was unified.
“From now on, you will move, train, eat, bleed, and reply as a single unit!” Like a rudder swathing through water, Krell swept through the waves of groans. “When ordered into the front leaning rest, you will comply as one. Understood?”
“Aye, Captain!”
Krell cast his scowl upon the shaking backs of the horde below him. Moans echoed through the ranks, met with another barrage of curses from Hess.
“When I see everyone’s back straight, I will recover you.” Krell folded his arm as the patience of stone suddenly enfolded him.
“I still see balls in the dirt!” Hess raged and lashed at several aspirants. “Or is it cunts you ladies have?” He seethed as he raced through the struggling men. Fear of Hess overshadowed pain like a looming mountain. Men forced their backs rigid — muscles roared with displeasure, threatened mutiny, and begged for respite.
“Almost there,” Krell shouted. “Hold it, hold it! Recover!”
Shaky, yet grateful, the amassed men leaped to their feet and
resumed their position in ranks. Krell stood, silent as death, hard eyes eviscerating them with invisible daggers. He allowed the anguished men a moment's worth of clemency.
“Hydrate!” Krell bellowed, his voice undulating like crashing waves over the horde.
The aspirants remained stock-still, blinking with confusion at the captain.
Ignited yet again, Krell’s wrath erupted. Coming nose-to-nose with a Flake, spittle sprayed as he roared, “I ordered you to hydrate!”
“We don’t have waterskins, Captain!” A croaky voice shattered the air from the depths of the host.
“Who said that? Where are you?” Krell’s visage promised murder.
“Here, Captain,” the voice answered.
Krell whipped around; a man raised an arm. Krell and Hess descended upon the man with the fury of an avalanche. It was the noble with pale-blue eyes, sunken and glinting, and the austere demeanor. Hess bellowed inane noises into the man’s left ear, while the captain roared in his right.
“What do you mean, you don’t have waterskins?”
“We left them at tent city, Captain.”
“Front leaning rest, move!” Hess raged.
The nobleman complied in prompt order — crisp and efficacious. Despite having spent the last several minutes in and out of the front leaning rest, this man’s form was immaculate. Locked arms and stiff back, he held the position in silence.
Krell crouched to his haunches, eye level with the man. “What is your name, Flake?”
“Baron Grundhalver of Hevnkalt, Cap-”
“WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT LANDS AND TITLES?” Krell’s eyes bulged as he pulverized the ground on either side of the candidate’s head. “Beat your face!”
The baron performed the calisthenics like an automaton — fluid, natural, and silent.
Poison dripping from his voice, Krell spat like a pit-viper. “What is your name?”
Exercise uninterrupted, the nobleman replied. “My name is Pell, Captain.”
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