Within the Ice

by LaPolla, C. J.

  How did they catch us so unaware? Devyn thought to himself. They must have attacked our mountain outlooks first.

  The blurry view of the room revealed injured men and four heavily armored, burly guards. Two of the guards stood in the center of the tent and two stood with their hands resting easily on the hilts of their swords at the entrance to the tent. Devyn remained where he was thrown for a long time while he tried to regain his wits. Three other men that were within the cart that dragged him here lay next to him. Once the ache in his head subsided, he could clearly see that one of the men lying next to him was his good friend Dorm.

  Dorm and Devyn often ended up unloading the same ships at the ship yard, even more often they ended their evening with a few drinks at the pub after work. When Devyn first moved into Northspire, he kept to himself, as he was still not sure how often raids hit Northspire nor how often he would lose his close friends. It took years for Devyn to open up to anyone with the constant threat of a conscription raid hitting the town, but as time went on and the raids were very rare he opened up to a few people. Dorm was one of them. He had even begun to teach Dorm the basics of combat from his experience serving in the southern wars. While at the time Devyn was being generous by helping out a friend, he could not help but be selfish now in knowing he would have at least one man by his side that was able with the sword and ax.

  His face felt like it was on fire as he lifted his hands to assess the damage. Nothing seemed broken as his fingers traced the sore regions along his brow, nose, and jaw. He sighed with relief, while the bruises will take time to heal, he would be at his full ability immediately without any niggling injuries from his encounter with Hrodny. Still lying in the center of the dimly lit tent, Devyn wrapped an arm around Dorm and slowly began to drag himself to an empty edge of their prison. The guards cast a suspicious eye on Devyn as he slowly and painfully positioned himself and Dorm against a crate towards the edge of the tent.

  Devyn was amazed at how quickly this army had set up a camp, it seemed to appear in an instant and led him to worry a bit more about the situation. This was a tried and trained army with practice packing and setting up on a whim. He eyed the battle hardened men who were guarding them. Scars marred their faces and hands, even the hilts of their swords were scratched and dented from their heavy use in combat. He could imagine that the blades within those scabbards had been drawn in the heat of battle many times and in his injured state, Devyn worried he would be unable to defeat them. The last men that raided the town were weak and scared, they were the prey running from the predator that was now occupying Devyn’s home. These men were filled with bravado over the victories they’ve had in the past. Fear and courage are equally contagious on campaign, Devyn could remember that clearly.

  In Devyn’s past life, each day was filled with the dread of the next battle. Once the war horns sounded, and your enemy stood before you, no man could resist the allure of a battlefield. Even now, as the screams of the past echoed in his ears he could feel his blood pumping at the memory. The cries of battle filled his mind. Devyn squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the memories that surged through his aching head. Fifteen years was not enough time to forget the atrocities he witnessed while on campaign, nor forget the conscription raids that he himself took part in. Getting conscripted by a war band was a strange experience, every man began by despising his captors. That same man thought of nothing but escape, a few would even try, as those men were inevitably returned to the army, the realization sunk in that escape was impossible. After a time, the conscript began to feel a part of the army and a part of the cause. A man would spend so much time with the army that he would accept his fate and learn to cope with his life. That is, if the man lived that long, many die in their first battle, terrified and alone in a land unknown to them. Devyn was a special case, he became quite accomplished with the sword and on the battlefield. He began to love the battle and combat with another man. Devyn did not want to lose himself to the lust of battle once again. He knew he had to escape. He just had no idea how he was going to get out of this in one piece and keep his family safe at the same time. If keeping his family safe meant he must depart with this army, then so be it.

  Dorm groaned painfully next to Devyn, who leaned over to his friend and shook his shoulder gently. He was only met with a gruff grunt, which in light of all things made Devyn chuckle to himself.

  Devyn leaned closely to Dorm, trying his best to make it seem like a natural movement, not to draw the attention of his captors. “Dorm, wake up.” Dorm’s head turned slightly revealing a large bruise on the side of his face, one eye opened while the other had been swollen shut.

  “I thought we got through this Devyn.” Dorm wore a frown which was a rare sight on his friend who was always so easy with a smile and a joke. “The alarms. What happened to the blasted alarms?”

  Devyn only shook his head in response, eying the guards who could hear them speaking and were paying more attention on them then Devyn would like. Devyn placed a hand on Dorm’s shoulder and with the other hand put a finger to his lips.

  Once their attention had returned to their vigilance over the entire group and not just the two of them Devyn continued. “I don’t know, alarms never sounded, the guard houses must have been assaulted first despite our efforts to keep them hidden.” He paused and passed his gaze over the room at the men and guards, no one seemed to be paying any more attention to them. “Doesn’t matter though Dorm. There are four guards in here. We’re both hurt, I don’t know if we can fight our way out. Nor do I know how many are outside.”

  “We are in a river of piss then.” Dorm exclaimed sullenly.

  Devyn caught his friend’s eyes and smiled. “We’re alive. That means there is hope.” Rubbing his hands over his wounded face and through his blood crusted beard. “How did they get you?”

  “Sleeping. Mari screamed and the last thing I remember was...” He paused and reflected. “A boot I think. The bastards kicked me in the face!”

  Devyn chuckled again, hearing some of the fire coming back to Dorm’s voice.

  “What now?” Asked Devyn’s friend.

  “We wait. We wait for an opportunity. They are setting up camp, they don’t seem to be in a rush to depart like the last army. We are still close to home, there is still hope we can slip away.”

  Dorm nodded.

  Hours past and the screams and turmoil outside seemed to calm. A few crackling fires and the distant sounds of shouting could be heard from the town, but over all the raid seemed to have ended. The army was most likely tallying up their catch like a fisherman out at sea.

  With the slowly fading sounds still outside and the winds picking up the tent flap opened. A large man in furs and armor entered the room. He eyed the amount of men in the tent, easily fifty, and spoke to one guard so quietly Devyn could not hear.

  A voice that sounded like grinding stones from years of battle and smoke broke the silence of the room. “I am Lord Bola and you have been selected to fight within my armies. Service will be rewarded while thoughts of escape and causing trouble will be punished severely.” He halted his speech eying each man in the room, some who were paying their full attention while others stared resignedly at the ground. “Real men fight wars. Real men battle others. Real men do not sit in a small town and fish. I look upon all of you as real men not the pathetic husk of men you’ve become.”

  Bola turned to his guard. “Split them up.”

  Devyn and Dorm caught each other’s eyes as Bola exited the tent. “Inspired?” Dorm said with a grin.

  Shaking his head, Devyn moved away from Dorm in hopes they would not think they were acquainted in any way and would be placed in the same tent just by luck. Eight more guards entered the tent and began picking up the sullen gathering, despite the moans and objections of the men they moved. One by one each man was taken, to Devyn’s dismay, he and Dorm were taken to separate tents. As he was man handled through the sea of tents, Devyn caught sight of the dread in his fri
end’s eyes as they were torn apart and he was taken in another direction. It was a short trip for Devyn, he was tossed roughly onto the dirt floor of another darker and smaller tent. There were no crates to lean on and no light to see. Just the cold darkness awaited him with three other men. Two of the men seemed healthy if not slightly beaten, the third appeared to have been stabbed through his side and clutched his wound. Devyn was surprised he did not recognize any of the men in the tent with him.

  “Devyn.” He said into the darkness. “The name is Devyn.”

  “Idun, I live on the east of town as the blacksmith’s apprentice. This is my son Myrin.” Said a middle aged man while wrapping his arms around his son who appeared to be in his mid teens.

  All eyes fell on the man on the ground as he groaned and wiggled slightly in the dark tent. Devyn reached over and placed his hand on his arm. The man did not react so the three men turned him over delicately and watched the man’s face wince in pain as they lay him on his back. Blood oozed from a wound in his side, a wound that could be none other than a spear point had been thrust into him while he was being taken.

  “He must have fought. But he isn’t going to be much good to them soon.” Devyn said looking in the direction where he could just make out the whites of Idun’s eyes.

  A dim light suddenly entered the room as the flap of the tent was lifted. A masked face peered in and moved his head to each of the men in the tent. “What’s going on in here. Stay quiet!”

  “This man is injured! He needs his wound patched up or he will bleed to death in this tent!” Devyn exclaimed at the soldier standing in the entrance to the tent.

  The man merely shifted his gaze from Devyn to the man on the ground and he closed the tent flap. Devyn shook his head in frustration and began to look over the man on the ground. He found only one injury but it was a deep gaping wound into his side. He lifted the man’s leg and tore off a large swath of his pants and began to wrap the wound tightly. The man cried out as the cloth tightened around the wound. Devyn did not know if what he was doing would help the man, but he knew if he did nothing the man would bleed to death. Even in the darkness, Devyn could see how pale the man’s skin was becoming. And in that moment, the full emotion of the entire evening thus far hit Devyn like the shovel had earlier. He felt his chest stutter and tears well in his eyes at the blood on the ground and the terror of not seeing his family again. Devyn slowly lowered himself to the ground and folded his knees to his chest. Idun and his son retreated to the corner of the tent opposite Devyn to give him time to himself, it was obvious to anyone that he needed it.

  Devyn was unsure how long he laid there useless, and helpless, to fight his emotions. Many years ago, when the killing and battle had become too much, he swore to put down the sword to leave the fighting behind him. When he came to Northspire so many years ago, his goal was to find a wife and have a family and never take another life again. And he had stood true to his word for fifteen years until this very night when three men lay dead in front of his home while another’s fate was unknown. He did not regret killing those men, they were going to hurt Rana and his daughters, but he was angry that the world forced him to do what he promised himself he would not. So much had occurred in just the last week that every man was beginning to feel the weight of the events.

  It was deep into the night when the tent flap opened and the blinding light of a torch pierced the inky darkness. Everyone awoke from the sleep they had all struggled to capture and averted their eyes from the brightness. The invaders ignored the three men who awoke and focused their attention on the pale figure on the ground who labored for each breath. With a grunt the first soldier who entered pointed with his torch and left the tent, those remaining grasped the injured man on the ground and hoisted him up dragging him from the tent. Devyn and Idun’s protest fell on deaf ears as the sounds of their boots faded into the distance.

  Silence fell over the tent as Devyn and Idun stared at one another. Idun was the first to speak. “What do you think they’ll do with him?”

  Devyn only shook his head but he knew the men they have taken only serve two purposes. The first purpose was the obvious one, to serve in their army. The second, was more sinister and would be a blood sacrifice to the gods they believed were listening. Blood sacrifice to the gods was common among the armies as they believed giving blood to the gods would guarantee their victory. Devyn, took part in many such sacrifices during his time in the south and never did he feel the push of a god. Never did the outcome of the battle shift in their favor because of a divine wind. Devyn decided a long time ago, either the gods no longer cared or they had fallen eons ago.

  Chapter IV

  He could stand it no longer, as he watched the chaos and terror fall upon this small town before him. It seemed that whatever drew the Aelaar to this land also attracted the humans, despite them not truly understanding their reason for being here. These armies unwittingly came here to witness a great event that they had no idea would occur and the only way they knew how to react to was with violence. It pained Graen greatly to watch what was happening before him and he wanted nothing more than to enter the town and push the forces away. He also knew he would risk the mission he had been sent on to discover what the power emanating from the Isindril was. The other Aelaar would not stand idly by while Graen entered the town and it would draw them into open combat. And while Graen was confident he could win against the Aelaar who was clearly younger, he did not want to compromise his purpose here.

  He knew that soon the event they were all drawn here for would come to pass and the turmoil he was witnessing now would only get worse. Graen rose from his meditating position and began to ritualistically attach each piece of his armor. He laid out his blade in front of him and bowed solemnly. His sword, a tool which Graen had used for the past three hundred years, has served him faithfully. Graen, while of the lineage of Thalas, was a follower of the Qui sect of the Aelaar line. Within the ways of Qui the sword was the only holy instrument required. Graen whispered softly to himself as he bowed to his blade.

  “We step forth together into the depths of powers unknown. May we be swift and powerful and strike down all foes before us. May we be victorious and right in our actions.”

  Graen rose to his knees and concentrated on the blade before him. After a short time he began a series of movements which attached the scabbard firmly to his side. Graen could feel the power rising, and the imminent change in the air. He could feel how it grew colder and smelt older as he inhaled deeply dreading what was about to occur.

  He bowed his head one last time and spoke only to himself. “It is time.”

  Devyn huddled sullenly to himself in the corner of the dark tent despite Idun’s multiple attempts at conversation. After the injured man was torn from the tent the already somber mood was expounded, which left everyone feeling a bit darker. He tried not to reflect on the fate of the man that was taken away and only hoped that he would meet his end quickly. Hatred bubbled up from deep within Devyn for this army, even more so than the army that came in a few days prior. He could feel his old self grasping for control of his mind and wanting nothing more than to be released upon the world. He knew he could contain his former self for only so long and knew he would need to let go to survive the ordeal that lay before him.

  He knew he was a very different man from when he was a soldier. The things Devyn had done while under the service of Lord Malark in the south were things he could not fathom doing as the man he is now. It was just a spark of his old self when he had slain the men who had threatened his family, but that was in self-defense and in the defense of his loved ones, he felt no shame or anger at sending those men to their deaths.

  The silence of the night wore on, with the only sounds being the occasional soldier trudging through the tent city in the shin high snow. He could hear talking, the occasional laughter, and the incessant cough one commonly hears in any roaming army. Boredom and exhaustion found Devyn bobbing his head and waking with a s
tart multiple times. On what may have been the thousandth time he awoke in such a way, he heard a new sound within the camp. He heard the sounds of a scuffle and a muted cry that were so faint that almost no one would have been able to discern what it was. His ears perked up as he strained to hear what was going on outside. He could feel in his bones that something had changed in the air, that the silence was no longer the silence of a sleeping camp, but the silence of sneaking and caution. He was unable to place why he felt this way but he could feel deep inside this was true.

  Huddled in the corner, Devyn had felt almost warm. He had no idea how cold it had gotten in the tent until he rose and his muscles were stiff and rigid. He slowly regained full motion as he moved over to where Idun lay and his muscles warmed up.

  “Idun, wake up.”

  Idun groaned, obviously feeling similar to Devyn in the cold tent. There were no rushes beneath the tent, it was haphazardly thrown together with the snow lightly brushed aside. The air had become so cold that whenever Devyn took a breath, ice formed around the edges of his beard. Devyn’s whispers went unheard so he was forced to shake Idun more intensely. Idun woke with a start.