by AJ Cooper
“They get it from their father,” Alysse said.
“Perhaps,” the High Dragonpriest said, “but I won’t let you have them. I need them to fight the trolls on the Ice Shelf.”
“You will let me have them,” Alysse said. “They are blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh. They came from my womb. You have no claim to them!”
“You gave them to the Order of the Green Dragon, milady,” High Dragonpriest replied, “and they will remain with the Order of the Green Dragon until their lord releases them.”
“Then release them,” Alysse snapped.
“I will not,” the High Dragonpriest said. “Skruga, the Green Dragon, does not approve of their release.”
“And how do you know that?” Alysse said. “How do I know you’re just imagining what he’s saying?”
“Milady,” Harald started.
“Don’t ‘milady’ me, Harald,” Alysse said. She looked back. “Guards, arrest him.”
The River Guard hopped off their horses, gold armor glinting in the sun, and drew their sharp steel swords. They waded through the snow over to the Dragonpriest.
The Dragonpriest let out a wild cry and blew into the torch. Fire spurted out like dragon-flame, and struck a guard, singeing his moustache. The Dragonpriest dropped the torch and drew a steel club from behind his back. “Skruga, grant strength! Ooh aye! Ooh aye!”
The guards circled around him, blocking any outward movement. They moved in and struck with their swords; he swung hard and bashed a guard in the helmet. No sooner had he done that than another member of the Guard moved in and disarmed him.
“The Order of the Green Dragon can fight trolls and the ghosts of the Ulfr,” said Lady Alysse, “but they cannot fight well against the River Guard.”
“You have disarmed me and put me to shame,” the Dragonpriest said. He seemed genuinely crushed. “This I will grant you: you may stay at the temple awhile, and if Razorclaw and Whitefang wish to come with you, then I won’t stop them. Nothing more I can promise. If they do not wish to come, that is their choice.”
“I know they will come with me,” Alysse said. “What kind of fools would want to live in a place like this when they could live in a castle overlooking the sea?”
The junior priests returned in late afternoon. There were about twenty of them: big, lumbering brutes with muscular chests and powerful arms gained by years of hard work. It was obvious to Brand which ones belonged to Alysse: two boys—perhaps nine years old—running side by side, with the blonde hair, light eyes, and button noses of their mother; and the large chins, stern features, and huge shoulders of another—Ragni.
“Milady,” the Dragonpriest said, “this is Razorclaw, and this is Whitefang.”
The twin boys looked at her in confusion. Alysse embraced them one after the other.
“My sons!” she said, half-crying. “My beautiful sons.”
“Mother?” they said in unison.
“Yes,” she answered them. “I am your mother. I am Alysse and—” She looked back; the servants were staring at them and she jabbed a thumb at Harald. “—your father is this man.”
“Alysse?” said Razorclaw, who was a bit larger than his brother. “You are dressed like a rich woman.”
“She is a rich woman,” Harald said from behind, “and I am a rich man. We are of the House Riverhall.”
“So you have a lot of gold?” Whitefang asked.
“Yes, that is what ‘rich’ means,” Harald said. “And it is all yours. You must come with us, and we will shower you with gold.”
“Gold is useless,” Whitefang said. “Gold makes bad weapons—it can’t kill trolls, and it can’t stop the Ulfr from coming back.”
Brand had a feeling these two were so sheltered from the outside world they would not go easily.
“Gold is not useless,” Alysse said, her tone becoming sharper. “Gold can buy things. Gold can buy food, and houses, and fighting men. If you buy fighting men, you can fight trolls and stop the Ulfr from coming back. Gold can buy anything.”
“It can’t buy anything here,” said Razorclaw.
The other junior priests left into the temple; apparently they had grown bored of the conversation. Of them, only the Dragonpriest and the twins remained.
“In the lowlands, it can buy anything,” Alysse said, smiling outwardly but her tone growing sharper with irritation. “It can buy a pig, or a goat… it can buy butter-roasted crab… it can even buy a sword!”
“Swords can’t split open troll-scales. You have to bash them,” Whitefang replied. “We have clubs.”
Alysse sighed. “Oh. You two definitely need to be taught some lessons about the outside world.”
The Dragonpriest interrupted. “Go on, you two.”
Razorclaw and Whitefang left into the temple.
“The temple is relatively small,” the Dragonpriest said. “The heating isn’t the best. But inside, we have some scrapings of food, and guest quarters for a few; but not enough for all of you.”
Harald turned around and shouted, “The River Guard and all the servants will sleep in the tents. Set them up.”
Immediately inside the stone walls of the temple was a blazing pyre. It burned in a great central fire pit.
“This is the Ever-Burning Flame,” said the High Dragonpriest. “It represents the powerful fire which the Green Dragon rained down upon the Ulfr. I require my junior priests to keep it burning at all times—it’s a symbol of our people’s hope.”
“And there seems to be very little hope in this bleak place,” Alysse said. “Perhaps the warmth and brightness of such a flame is all you really have in this frozen wasteland.”
“There is joy in working in the fields, and there is joy in fighting and spilled blood, my lady,” said the High Dragonpriest. “There is joy in dragging bags of stones up the mountains…”
“I do not think that would make me happy,” Harald said.
“That’s because you’re a fair-skinned nobleman who never gets out in the sun,” the High Dragonpriest began, “and your hands have no blisters, and you ride around on costly horses and wearing costly clothing. Until you know what it is like to serve the Green Dragon, though, boy, you have never felt true joy—only luxury.”
Brand had a hard time believing such difficult work and strenuous living conditions could bring joy, and he pitied anyone who could.
“You’d best be careful with your insults,” said Harald. “Remember what the River Guard did to you, despite your spitting dragon-fire.”
“And you, highborn, remember the mission of our priesthood—to protect Badelgard from the Ulfr, and guard the sacred Dragonmount. Let us both have respect,” he replied.
Passing the priests’ quarters, the rooms were of shabby stone and boasted only straw beds and chamber pots. Brand felt uneasy until he got to the guest rooms—of which there were four. They had modest furnishings compared to even a middling commoner’s house, yet extravagant furnishings compared to the priests’ quarters. They had wooden beds with feather mattresses, chamber pots, desks, and small, unadorned closets.
The relief was only slight. There was something so bizarre about the way Harald let Brand have his wife, and though Hilda was a thief, a killer of men, and a general vagabond—Vana grant her rest—Brand had been happier in her company. A thorny rose she had been, but a rose. And Gunnar… he did not even want to think about Gunnar, his best friend and bonded warrior.
For dinner, they had brown bear stew—a meal of heavenly richness compared to the meager travel fare they had eaten of late. The Dragonpriest then hauled in a large keg of mead. “This is rough stuff,” he grumbled, “and not what you lowlanders are used to. But it gets the job done, and there’s plenty of it. When the Green Dragon Priests prepare for war, we drink mead like oxen drink water.”
And it was true; the Green Dragons were a warrior order more than a priestly order. Unlike the pacifist, all-female Priesthood of Vana on the southwestern edge of the Sky Cliffs, the Priests of the Gr
een Dragon made war on many: on earls who did not pay tribute; on earls who made an insulting comment; on earls who looked at the High Dragonpriest the wrong way on one of his occasional visits. Now, they would fulfill their traditional war duty: to extinguish the Ulfr threat rising on the Ice Shelf and in the whole of the nation.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Escape was not an easy proposition; he needed a horse. All of the horses were protected by the River Guard outside the temple, both by day and by night, and the gods knew he could not defeat one of them, nor lullaby them to sleep. And he was not entirely sure he wanted to escape from Alysse and Harald: should he really retreat? He was a housecarl, now, and had escaped his lowly position as a common swineherd’s son. And Lady Riverhall was certainly—if not beautiful—comely in face and shapely in form. It was only Harald that was a strange bird.
Thus, three long weeks passed and Brand remained in the Dragon Temple as Alysse ceaselessly tried to convince her bastard sons to leave with her. Winter’s cold deepened and even the fire could not warm Brand’s bones. Though they were certainly not in any state of luxury, Yule Eve arrived, and the High Dragonpriest decorated the grim stone abode with holly and mistletoe. Even here, in this icy, snowy hell—on the darkest day of the year—they attempted to appease the Yule ghosts.
Brand stood in his room, deeply cold and having just debated the merits of escaping for the past hour. Alysse appeared behind him; he could smell the perfume, which she wore even in this frozen wasteland.
“Brand,” she said. “I have good news.”
Brand turned around. “What is it, milady?” he said.
“I have not bled at all this month,” Alysse said. “And I threw up in the morning. Do you know what this means?”
“No, milady,” Brand said.
“I am with child,” Alysse said. “And the child belongs to you. Your blood will further the next line of Riverhalls. Now we can depart these brutal, rabid bears of children… We can make for the warm lowlands. The Line of Riverhall will continue on, and it will be your blood that is in them.”
A breathlessness overtook Brand, and sudden joy filled him. He smiled brightly. “That is wonderful news to hear, milady.” Then he frowned. “Yet will there be a domain to give him? Will there be even a Badelgard for them to live in? What if the Ulfr witch succeeds?”
“The Green Dragons leave for the Shelf tomorrow,” she said, “or so the High Dragonpriest has told me. Let’s leave at the same time. We’ll make for the lowlands. This weather is making me ill. I am so cold… so horribly cold. And I want the child in me to be well.”
“And where will we stay?” Brand said. “We’ve been here three weeks, completely isolated… who knows if the darklings have spread? Who knows what has happened to the port? No news comes here. No people come here.”
“We make for Oskir and will join Captain Erik,” said Alysse. “Every noble family has a guest longhouse there. It isn’t a long journey, either.”
“It will be a long journey in the snow,” Brand said. “It’s a long journey in this weather—and without a fire to warm us, or a daily meal, at that.”
That night, Brand sang a quiet Yule song as he strummed his lute. Due to the chill of the air, and the fatigue of the living conditions, his voice had grown hoarse. He sang anyway, as best he could:
The week of Yule comes once a year
Mistletoe is in the hall
Hunger none may fear
Gifts for the poor and lights for all
Alysse and Harald clapped weakly. The Green Dragons did not clap or cheer at all; they knew nothing of applause or thankfulness, and Brand furthermore doubted their ability to appreciate music.
The next morning, the warrior-priests left for the Shelf—running in a pack like wolves—long before the sun arose. The two children of Alysse left with them and she did not say goodbye.
The servants packed up their tents, and, together on horses, they began a long ride through deep snow and ice. The snow now reached the horse’s bridles, and chilled their legs despite the long cloaks and thick kirtles and woolen breeches. With the warmth of Oskir at the fore of their minds, they continued on against the numbing cold—yet Brand did not know what to expect when he reached Oskir’s famed Golden Gate.
It began snowing hard again late that afternoon. They continued through it, though the wind was unbearable. Soon afterward, they reached some kind of path—visible because of the tall wooden posts sticking out of the snow.
“We’ve reached the King’s Road,” said Harald. “We’re not far off from Oskir.”
They hurried down the road in hopes that they might reach the capital city before nightfall. The snow had grown almost unnavigable. Brand’s horse began shivering underneath his legs.
The horses of Badelgard had thick coats and strong resolve. Yet even they could grow too cold and die. This snow—deep even for the uplands—slowed them down immensely, preventing them from gaining shelter.
Night fell quickly, as it did in winter, and the cold deepened. Even in his tunic, thick kirtle, and cloak, the chill seeped into Brand. His breathing became slow, erratic white puffs of fog. His joints stiffened despite his constant shivering. The cold filled him, deep and tender like a lover’s embrace, and numbed his bones. He thought he might be dying; and yet, somehow, in this winter of death, he did not care.
Well after dark, a welcome sight appeared in the distance: lights on King’s Hill. Now, the waters of the Great Falls were soundless: frozen in mid-run as they plunged into an equally frozen river far below. They had reached Oskir, the City of the High King. At the top of the hill sat the proud Golden House where His Highness lived, and just a few feet below sat Earls’ Court and the longhouses of the noble families. Even the Baron of Andarr’s Port—technically not an earl—had a residence there. Not in a thousand years did Brand think he’d ever be staying in Earls’ Court, even for a short time.
The Golden Gate, oddly enough, lay open.
At the side of the street, a madwoman in rags called out to them. “All hail the High King! The King of Skulls! The King of Death! Cross him and die!” She bared her few rotten teeth and growled at them as they walked by. “In his hand is a statuette of gold. In his command is an army that does not eat, sleep, or die! And on his head is a crown!”
Brand was so numb from the cold that he did not react to her. But he did notice that the coat-of-arms of the Oster family—a golden rooster against a red field—had been replaced with a white skull against a purple field. That was an Ulfr symbol.
In the cold, all he could think about was reaching Earls’ Court and sleeping by the fire. Yet he did not know, even if cast into a furnace, it would cure the chill inside him.
Brand awoke in the light of a blazing fire. It was silent, and the light of the sun filtered through glass windows
“The cold got to you,” Harald said. “You nearly died.”
“Dying in the cold,” Brand said, “is worse than being peeled, or drawn-and-quartered, I imagine; but I don’t want to do those either.”
“The High King can do no such thing to you,” Harald said. “You are a housecarl now. The worst thing that could happen to you is a beheading, and I won’t let that happen. I swear on my honor.”
Brand was still shivering. He rubbed his hands in the fire. Slowly, he stood up. They had wrapped a bearskin blanket around him but it didn’t help much. “I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again,” he said.
“Oh, you will,” Harald said. “Give it a few more hours.”
A plate sat on a nearby wooden table, offering the morning breakfast—three strips of crisp bacon and two boiled eggs—and a large stein of mead sat next to it. Outside the window, the snowflakes had stopped falling and the sun shone in the blue sky. The snow reached the window of the longhouse.
“And what of the High King, and the Golden House?” Brand asked.
“We have not yet seen him,” Harald said, “nor have we been in the Golden House. He is not accepting visitors
until dusk.” Harald smiled. “It is no matter. We are safe and indoors, and the blizzard did not claim us.”
“Where is Alysse?” Brand asked.
“My wife is resting in the other room. Had a bad morning sickness today,” Harald said. “But it is good that we are safe in Oskir, and we needn’t worry while the baby grows inside her.”
Brand wasn’t so sure. Worry seemed healthy in this situation.
“My wife has not taken a lover since Ragni died,” Harald said. “Now she is content to be with child… now, hopefully, with dark hair like me. Your hair is dark like mine, after all.” He smiled again. “If it is a son, he will be the next head of the House Riverhall. If it is a daughter, we will marry her to someone of Riverhall blood; the chief scoutmaster’s son is only nine, and a nine-year discrepancy is not terribly much.”
“Is he still alive?”
Harald frowned. “I don’t know. Woodhome is filled with Riverhall-blooded scouts, and they are expert archers and swordsmen—skilled enough to rival the elves of the north.”
“And what of Captain Erik and the rest of the River Guard?” Brand asked.
“He and his five men are outside,” Harald said. “The High King would not grant audience with any lowborn, so he stayed in the Riverhall guesthouse until we made our return.”
There was silence for a while. Brand awkwardly got up onto his feet and grabbed his plate of breakfast. As he turned to sit back down in front of the fire, he caught Harald’s eyes staring at him.
“You have had my wife,” Harald said. “She loves you, you know.”
“Harald,” Brand said, “you are a strange man.”
“I am a strange man,” Harald said. “I admit that full well. But you are strange as well. All sensitive artists are. I have never met a musician of normal disposition. Something about the humors, the blood and the bile…”
Brand grew uncomfortable. He placed an entire boiled egg in his mouth and chewed it, then washed it down with the mead stein.
