Copyright © 2016 D.N. Erikson. All rights reserved.
Published by Watchfire Press.
This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.
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Storm Pale/D.N. Erikson. – 1st ed.
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1
The winter wind coursed stiffly through my frozen hair, bearing the twin scents of smoke and slaughter. I stiffened, adjusting the sword hanging by my side. The bronze blade clattered softly in its scabbard.
“It smells of death,” Argos said. His pointy ears were perked up, not in anticipation, but at the threat of danger. Muted sounds of war filtered over the frozen plains, warning us to turn around.
But there was a job to be done, and I was the man assigned to do it.
Pulling the loosely stitched hides over my shoulders, I said, “I gave the woman my word.”
“To enter a warzone?” Argos lay down in the snow, turning the black parts of his coat a misty shade of icy white. “It’s foolish, Kal. You’re four thousand yearsold, you don’t have—”
“I can send you back to Charon. Or summon Odysseus from the Underworld.”
The border collie growled softly, his protest covered by the shrill wind. “You’d give me back, after two hundred years by your side.”
“A hundred seventy eight,” I said, my eyes burning hot as the battle grew nearer. It was the demonic part of me, drawn out by bloodshed and war. I would have to do well to control it, and not to get carried away.
“You’ve been counting?” He stood and cocked his head, his brown eyes peering deeply into mine. Shaking the snow off, he bounded forward. “And who will be your guide if you send me back?”
“Good point.” Argos was responsible for the maps, understood the charts. As for me, all I knew was that we were in the northern wilds. The cold wasn’t unbearable, but it also wasn’t pleasant for someone with a demon’s constitution. Bumbling around alone wasn’t an option.
I reached into the leather pouch at my waist, pulling out a piece of amber. Within the orange resin was a single ant, frozen forever in time. On the back of the amber was carved a picture of a merchant’s ship—Filippa’s tradesman symbol. I was to show this to the chieftain of this tiny village, deep in Scandinavia. For Filippa had heard of a young woman, through the merchant’s network, of extraordinary ability.
And such was my magical salvage mission: to haul this woman back from her village and bring her back to sunnier climes. By any means necessary.
So instead of enjoying the warm Mediterranean sun of Thrace, I shivered near a village whose name I couldn’t pronounce, seeking the favor and blessing of a man who probably lay decapitated in the sub-zero snow. I could see why there was so much war up here, though. The people needed it just to stay warm.
“So?”
“So what?” I said, looking at the dog.
Argos cleared his throat and barked, waiting for an answer. Right, Odysseus. I loved yanking his chain about that. The border collie hated his former master.
I trudged past the expectant canine, heading into the skeletal forest ahead. Portions had been burned to make way for an invading force. The remainder had been ravaged by a brutal winter and the stampede of boots.
“You’re not giving me back to Odysseus,” Argos said, racing ahead to cut me off. “That sack of shit left me alone for twenty years.”
“Tough break,” I said, ducking beneath the spindly branches of a leafless birch tree. Its peeling bark indicated that it was unlikely to survive until spring. I shivered, but not from the cold. The dead forest carried a deep sense of foreboding amidst its barren branches.
“I’m serious, Kal,” Argos said with a whine. “Don’t—”
“Quiet.”
“But we’re having a serious conversation.”
I shot the dog a look, and his forty-pound black and white form slunk into a snow bank. Just in time, too, as a hawk dive-bombed us from the cloudless sky. Drawing my sword, I swiped at the massive feral beast.
I missed, and its razor-sharp talons ripped into my shoulder, straight through the leather. Flecks of diamond remained in the wound, glistening in the sun. Letting loose a magnificent battle cry, the beast soared through the air and then glided out of sight.
Blood dripped down my arm, staining the snow crimson.
“Fucking wildlife,” I said, gritting my teeth as I readjusted the now-ruined patchwork of hides draped over my back. In frustration, I cast the thing off. That left me bare-armed in the middle of winter, with only a bronze breastplate and leather leggings shielding me from the bitter chill. At least my boots were well insulated and constructed, with no snow running spilling over the sides. “I hate birds.”
Argos’ sharp snout emerged from the snow. “That wasn’t just a bird, Kal.”
“Because you were doing reconnaissance over there beneath that snowdrift.”
“That was Vedrfolnir.” I couldn’t tell whether the shakiness in his voice was because of the cold, or due to fear. He always had been somewhat of a coward. Then again, at his playing weight, being an attack dog was rather out of the question.
“An old friend of yours?” I helped him from the snow, and we pressed onward through the desolate forest.
“He was from the mythical tree, Yggdrasil.” Argos hacked up a chunk of ice and looked embarrassed. “But after Ragnarök, this ash tree connecting various worlds was no more.”
“Great story,” I said. We were close enough now that I could hear the clash of blades, the sound of spears slicing through human flesh. A demon’s senses are better tuned than a human’s. Argos paused, too, his plumy tail ducking between his legs.
“After his perch was destroyed, Vedrfolnir has sought vengeance upon any offspring of the Demon King. It is he who the hawk deems responsible for Ragnarök.”
“I’m not Marrack’s offspring. Don’t ever call me that.”
“There are others who disagree.”
“I have a code. I’m nothing like that bastard.”
“It is just a warning, Kal,” Argos said, hunkering down on a bare patch of ground near the edge of the forest. His ears flicked back.
“What does it mean?” I said, toeing the hard ground. Droplets of blood continued to stain the ice. Just as well. It warmed me up for the ensuing conflict, brought the bloodlust to the forefront. My eyes already glowed hot with the embers of demonic anger.
“It means he will do his best to kill you. But you are strong, so the hawk will surprise you, wear you down over many attacks.”
“I meant his name. Vedrfolnir.” I gave Argos a wry glance. “Unless you don’t know.”
“Storm Pale.” Argos raised his head up from the ground, displaying his chest proudly as I trotted over. “You must be careful.”
“I always am, old friend.” I gave him a firm pat, which he pretended was unwanted. “Thanks for leading me here.”
“Always.”
And then, alone, I walked toward the battle, touching the amber in my pouch.
2
The ground was blackened by the time I reached the village. Small fires smoldered, spitting acrid smoke into the air. The footsteps in the icy mud were fresh, but the marauders had mostly vanished, off to plunder elsewhere. The few stragglers were little match for me. Magic wasn’t even required to dispatch them, which suited me just fine. I generally preferred the blade.
Wiping the bronze s
word on my leggings, I rounded a corner in the path, where a caved-in dwelling blocked my advance. I nimbly leapt the torched thatch, my boots squishing in the dirt as I landed. A man—hunched over, tearing at the ground with bare hands—stood straight up at my presence, letting out a roar.
A mean fellow about twice my size. He grunted and bared his nubby teeth like a large dog about to enjoy a meal. Then he charged, clearly mistaking me for a pushover.
I kindly severed both of his arms from his torso before he could even swing his axe.
“Thousands of years of practice, my friend,” I said, as he burbled and bled out in disbelief. Not that he could understand my words. The tongue I spoke and his were far enough apart to be as dissimilar as the languages of woodland creatures and those from the ocean. Perhaps we were both born of this Earth, but that was about all in common we shared.
The bronze blade glistened with the dead man’s blood. I kept the weapon out, lest any more stragglers remained. I had made good time to the village—ever since hearing the strains of war on the horizon—but it was not unusual for the victories to be this decisive. With no spoils left to enjoy, the soldiers would either return home or seek battle elsewhere, scorching the land of opposition. Like a plague that left only ghosts.
I took the amber stone from my pocket and rubbed the etching on the back. Filippa would be disappointed, but I had completed my task. Salvage was often impossible. Much of what was lost remained hidden in the sands of time. Life much moreso than physical things, which could last forever.
A muted cry made me wheel around, sword outstretched. My senses were heightened by the bloodshed. Adrenaline and demon blood were a potent mix. Wispy embers gnawed at the edges of the dried straw. A tiny flame lapped at the corner of the ruined dwelling in the middle of the village path.
I poked at it with my sword, and a thin burst of wind rushed out. My skin grew warm, and I stepped back, sensing a faint aura. Something magical lurked beneath this wreckage.
And it was alive.
I glanced about the ruined village, scanning for signs of resistance or life. Nothing greeted my eyes except faint tendrils of smoke. Satisfied I was alone, I thrust the blade into the slushy soil and began tearing at the collapsed building with my hands.
“Hello? Yell if you’re able to move.”
It was no use. Whoever was trapped inside did not speak the same language, and would likely mistake me for an invader, anyway. There was no response as the fire picked up, orange flames eating at the dry grass. It wasn’t helped by the creature trapped in the collapsed hut, who sent small gales through the wreckage—perhaps to protest my appearance.
“That’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” My eyes glowed hotter. Better to erase this nameless place from the map and be done with it. Return to Filippa, collect my payment—essence be damned—and relax on the shores of the sea for a while.
But it was clear that, whatever was beneath here, it was most likely what I had been tasked to retrieve. The fire nipped at my arm, singing the hairs. I pulled back. Now, the female voice beneath the wreckage cried, throwing caution to the wind as it plead in an unknown tongue.
“Stop feeding the flames.” Surely she was sensing my demonic aura. Telling me to go away with her feeble magical powers wasn’t helping. If small breath-like gusts were all this woman had to offer, I had to question Filippa’s judgment. Perhaps this was what passed for promising abilities amongst mortals.
The entire roof the caved-in hut erupted like a pine-tar torch, and I scrambled back. The crackling inferno greedily ate through the ruined hut, growing in size. The cries grew more panicked. Perhaps the woman was pressed against the bare ground, shielded from the heat by the frigid mud and a layer of unburnt material.
But soon she would be ash, just like the rest of her village.
“You’re a fool, Kal,” I muttered, before dropping to the ground. Getting on my belly and crawling along my elbows toward the blaze, I briefly considered my sanity. At this level, I could see an opening that I might be able to snake through for a rescue.
Or I was looking at the jaws of the furnace that would be my tomb.
I slithered through the tiny entrance. Smoke choked the interior of the crushed dwelling, which had been flattened from the top as if stepped on by a giant. In a haze so thick I could hardly breathe, I held my breath and shut my eyes.
I flailed with my arm. Nothing but warm thatch and mud. Crawling further inside the ruined building, my head touching the roof timbers, I let out my breath in a gasp.
At the end, I said, as loud as I could muster, “Here.”
There was a cry in response, followed by a flurry of words and a sharp gust. The fire roared in response to being fed, and the room got hotter.
“Don’t do that,” I choked, trying to draw another breath but unable to because of the smoke. This time, when I banged about blindly with my hand, I brushed against rough fabric—the dress of a village girl. And its owner was still inside it.
I wrapped my fingers tightly around her leg and began to slide backward.
She fought against rescue, hissing and sending minor storm spells my way. A tiny surge of electricity jolted up my arm, almost causing me to release her ankle. But her skills were raw, and she was much too weak to put up a fight. As I felt consciousness begin to slip away, my boot shot out of the tiny, crushed entrance. It was like I had dipped it into a frozen lake.
Renewed by the prospect of survival, I shimmied backward, cargo in tow, dragging us both from the building. Opening my tear-streaked eyes, I saw that the home had erupted into a full-blown funeral pyre, its flames lapping fifteen meters in the air.
The woman slumped into the mud, her golden hair streaked with ash. One eye stood starkly open, examining me fiercely. The other one was pressed against the ground. She was too feeble to move.
“You’re welcome,” I said, massaging the deep scratches on my shoulder and minor burns across my chest. My only thank you was a wind spell that blew me back a few paces, laying me out flat on my back as the building collapsed in a massive, heaving fireball.
As I stared at the afternoon sky, a smile tugged at the edges of my mouth.
Maybe Filippa’s intel hadn’t been wrong at all.
3
I watched the skies during the entirety of the return trip across Scandinavia, but Vedrfolnir didn’t mount another attack with his diamond-encrusted talons. This despite the fact that I had an uncooperative third party in tow who slowed the procession to a crawl.
It took months to reach the sea, where I paid a local merchant the amber I had once carried for the chieftain. In exchange for the valuable resin, we received safe passage back to the mainland. Spring was in its full throes by the time I reached Thrace. The yellow-haired woman had tried to escape on four occasions, even throwing herself overboard into the frigid northern waters.
But my code only had three rules.
Don’t screw over anyone who doesn’t deserve it.
Always complete the job I was paid to do.
And never make promises I couldn’t keep.
This was my job, and damn if I was gonna let someone less than twenty outwit me. I had retrieved her every time, diving into the cold and wrangling her back on board that merchant vessel. The crew had been amused by my tenacity and willingness to risk death for a village girl.
I had been less amused.
But we had made it back to Thrace, despite the hiccups. Argos sniffed the flowers as we walked down the path from the docks. He glanced over his shoulder, since I was bringing up the rear.
“Still uncooperative?” Argos said, clearly relishing my annoyance, which was ready to boil over.
“I’ll put you on a leash, next,” I said, tugging at the rope tied around the woman’s hands. Most of the sailors assumed I had taken her for my concubine. Maybe she assumed the same. It wasn’t like I could explain to her why
I was whisking her away. Any attempts at communication were met with shocks of electricity, storm clouds or spit.
Hell, I didn’t even know why she’d been taken. A life of servitude could be what Filippa had in mind. Though given the amount the old merchant had shelled out for this little retrieval mission, I doubted my cargo was about to become a housemaid.
The yellow-haired woman glowered and sat down on the dirt road. Her plain brown dress was in tatters by this point, exposing glimpses of a figure that had encouraged a few crew members to try their dirty hands unsuccessfully at certain activities. A few crew members were now missing fingers or extremities, courtesy of my blade.
Behind the woman, the last remnants of a dying sun faded, bathing the horizon in orange-tinged gold. A ship set off into the distance, bound for some far off land.
“I saved you,” I said, miming a pulling motion. “You would be dead.”
She glowered, and then replied in a foreign tongue. Her smooth, velvety voice gave me shivers. It had this slight edge, a minor growl, that burned with unbridled passion. The nearby grapevines rustled.
I grinned, although I was unamused. “Still trying to use that magic. Yeah, yeah—”
A lightning bolt shot down in the middle of the road, severing the rope. The woman looked surprised, her bright eyes blinking rapidly. Then she turned to run.
“Better go after her, Kal,” Argos said. “Again.”
Cursing, I sprinted back toward the docks, gaining on my precious cargo. After five minutes, I managed to grab her shoulder and stop her from running further. She kicked and bit me, that lovely voice shouting threats.
Argos trotted up the wooden walk, his nails clicking against the surface.
“Thanks for the help.” I tugged at the woman’s arm, indicating it was time to go. Her nails dug into my wrist, and I almost released my grip.
“Good luck with that,” Argos said, cocking his head and letting out a bark.
With no other options, I threw the woman over my shoulder. She kicked and protested, even resorting to raking her nails along the still-healing scratches on my shoulder. Being attacked by Vedrfolnir was no laughing matter. I’d been pierced by burning arrows that had done considerably less damage.
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