A Mountain's Cold Heart

The first thing he realized was the pain in his head.
“…Aaaaaagh…blast…” He muttered, reaching up a hand blindly to feel his head, which felt as though it was burning inwardly. As the world seemed to come back into focus again and he opened his eyes, however, slowly everything came back, piece by piece. The whole bizarre nightmare of it.
At first he was half afraid he had gone blind or some such horror when he opened his eyes and nothing happened, and the darkness remained. Slowly, though, his eyes adjusted, and rather than the total darkness, the dim light showed Gaeljwen where he now was. Bruised, bloody, and still alive.
He was sitting against the very cold wall of what appeared to be prison cell, lit only by a single torch in the wall nearby, a room that was barely big enough to hold a horse. Gaeljwen straightened up a little, in a rather odd position in the far corner as though he had just been roughly tossed in and the door shut, and took a better look around. Blinking and still rubbing his head, grimacing at the fireworks that seemed to still play dimly through his brain, he made a discovery.
The entire cell was built of solid ice. In fact, it didn’t even look ‘built,’ technically…perhaps cut out of solid ice, or even just some kind of small ice cave that a door had been fitted on. A few icicles hung from the ceiling, but other than that the room was without any decoration or adornment. And very cold. Extremely cold.
Gaeljwen’s teeth began to chatter as he pulled his cloak a little closer about him. “Ach, God protect me.” He begged fervently, and felt for his own things. Except for his weapons, strangely enough, he seemed to have everything on him…but naturally his sword, axe, and shield were gone, and the knife in his left boot was also missing. He bit his tongue in frustration, grumbling. As he fumbled in his pockets however, further, he found his few gold pieces, cooking herbs, and other odds and ends. His pack and supplies, including food, was also gone.
Realizing further that he was very hungry, he wondered how long he had been there…
…And how long before they come to get me? If at all? That’s a thought.
It wasn’t till about then the memory of his friends, and Diana, suddenly nailed his memory like a ton of bricks slammed against him, and if he wasn’t fully awake before, he was then.
He quickly scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the door. A few shots of pain ran through his arms and torso, reminding him sharply that his few wounds were still there, but the angry young recruit didn’t heed their warnings.
“WHERE IS SHE?!” He screamed at the door, hearing his own voice resound in his ears like thunder until he had to sit down and cover them. If anyone on the far side of the prison cell door heard him, they didn’t make a move to open it.
With a few more nasty insults and black remarks aimed at snow elves, elves in general, and particularly himself, Gaeljwen slumped back against the wall in despair, gritting his teeth and fighting back tears that tried to leak out of his eyes.
How did the world, inside of a few weeks, suddenly go so incredibly and strangely wrong? In every single way?! …What did I do to deserve this?!
The last question, which he dared to mouth, struck him again. And again. Did he really want to know the answer to that?

How long it was, he wasn’t sure, but eventually there was a sound outside the door. Perhaps some hours, but whatever the case, after some time the sound of footsteps in a passage made him prick his ears and come out of his dark musings from his corner in the cell. Though the boy looked up at the door from his sprawled position, he didn’t move anything else but stared a black, cold stare at the wooden frame.
At length, there was some quiet, vague voices outside the door, and eventually it opened, shedding light into the room. Gaeljwen blinked. He looked up slightly.
After a moment, striding in through the light (which wasn’t that bright, but being in such a dim cell made it bright to the imprisoned boy), came three forms. Three figures of persons made their way in through the door, and as soon as they were all inside, closed it behind them, quickly becoming fully visible to the human boy. He had to suppress something like a growl.
Three snow elves, Norns, stood before him and looked down with cold, expressionless, pale white faces, studying him with their jet black eyes that stood out so vividly. The boy set his dark brown gaze determinedly on theirs, though inwardly he shivered. They seemed so…inhuman. Something he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around. Though every one of them was dressed in the same bright white cloak and robe, that seemed light and easy enough to be a very long tunic, the Norn in the middle stood a little taller than the others, and stood in front of the two.
There was a small silence before the Norn spoke. The human and Norns continued watching each other very intensely.
“You, boy.” The forward Norn spoke at length, his voice halting and careful. “Why were you at the castle which was destroyed?” Gaeljwen raised an eyebrow. This Norn spoke in a voice that sounded as though he were unused to or very limited in the human’s language.
“That is my affair.” The boy growled.
This seemed to take a moment for the Norns to process, though Gaeljwen doubted it was because they were slow. The chill in the air deepened.
Then, without warning, the two Norns on either side of the speaker suddenly stepped forward, and made a grab for the boy. Gaeljwen was roughly hauled up to his feet, standing some inches over his captors…but still very aware of the tight, freezing, iron grip they had.
Suddenly, with a cry, he was flung back against the ice wall and pinned there, with a Norn on each arm. They weren’t gentle.
“Why were you there, mortal boy?” The speaker questioned again in the same expressionless, black tone.
How did one understand these beings?
“That…is my own…affair.” He replied again, chancing his luck.
His luck died out. This time, the two Norns on either side both suddenly increased their grip on his arms, and suddenly twisted, bringing the boy’s strong limbs down into a agonizing position. He grunted and felt them as though they had suddenly set on fire. Even then…their grip was too strong to even dare try moving.
“Why were you at the castle grave, boy?” The relentless questioner didn’t even flinch or move throughout the entire torment, but asked his same question in the exact same expressionless tone.
“I…was…scouting! Looking with my commander!” Cursing himself inwardly for giving in so easily and unable to withstand the agony anymore as they continually twisted his arms further, he blurted what information he dared. “We were looking for clues! That was all…GET OFF ME!”
With a sudden push, Gaeljwen grit his teeth and quickly shoved with all his might, ramming into the Norn captor on his right in a desperate attempt to free himself.
That was a large mistake. The Norn flinched and gave up a step, but the boy was very surprised to find he didn’t fly into the wall…and Gaeljwen was not a small, weak boy by any means. The iron grip gave a little, but was instantly renewed, and this time, the black eyes snapped up with a dark, cold fire in them. This made Gaeljwen nearly flinch.
That was yet another mistake. Within seconds, he was flung back against the wall, pinned, and this time, the grip was much harder. He suppressed a shout of pained rage.
“Do not do that again, human boy.” The Norn before him folded his arms over his slender, lithe chest, not even moving his black gaze. “That will cost you dearly if you do.” He paused a moment.
“Give me the names of your friends. All of them. Starting with the Amaras warriors.”
This took the boy by surprise, and he thought a moment. Why did they want to know that? What game were they playing?
He didn’t have much time to think about it. The grip slowly began to twist again, on both sides.
“Agh…” The reply was pained, “…Suppose you tell me…where my friends are? Then I might…”
This time, the speaking Norn suddenly flicked a gesture with a finger towards the guards on either side, a minor, fluid gesture.
Gaeljwen felt the grip loosen for a split second, tighten again, and then nearly did a flip through the air and landed painfully hard upon the ice floor on his stomach, gasping for the wind that was knocked cleanly out of him. As he gaped and struggled for air like a fish, the Norn went on, unmoved in any way.
“You will tell me exactly what I ask, without price, without hesitation, and the truth completely.” His words seem far away at first, as the boy’s spinning vision came back. “For your own good and the good of your friends. Each one of them is going to be asked the same questions, word for word.”
Pausing for a moment, he waited until Gaeljwen’s wrathful, dark gaze was on him again. He looked like a caged wild animal.
“Therefore if any one of them tells a story other than the one you tell me, and gives names different from any names you give me, I will drag you out and have you witness that person’s execution. Immediately.” Letting this sink in for a few seconds, the Norn went on with his painfully emotionless questioning.
“Again – give me their names, starting with the elder Amaras. Now.”
There was a painfully long second of silence, until the boy answered. His mind spinning, he dared not gamble this time. Not with the lives of his friends.
“…Asa.” He spat, like a foul taste, in the direction of the questioner. “The Amaras warrior is Asa. The girl…is…” This one took longer. The Norn began to move his hand again, as if motioning his helpers to do something else.
“…Diana.”
Curse you, curse you wretch! Screaming far worse names inwardly at himself, the boy went on, gritting his teeth in sheer hatred of these snow elves, their icy prison, and particularly himself.
“The elder soldier. Fraeduin. The younger…Jyonahal.” With this, the boy hung his head, a hot tear of sheer rage and shame suddenly forming. His mind, already lost in a snarling storm of wrath and hot fear and shame at his surrender, made him quiver a little. The snow elves, as if feeling it also, tightened their grip.
“What were the Amaras doing there?”
To this, Gaeljwen thought. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell us much.” He paused, looking up, resisting the temptation to spit at the Norn. “I have known them for very little. Just a few hours.”
Hanging his head again, he didn’t see the looks the three prison guards exchanged with one another, or the guesses hidden behind each pale face. After a moment, Gaeljwen was surprised. They dropped him, leaving him feeling like a loose sack of meal left on the floor as he fought for air and for something of his sanity.
“That is all for now. Well done, boy.” The Norn interrogator finished, suddenly turning on his heel and striding out with all the quietness of a cat. The other two black-eyed elves quickly followed suit, and the young Savarica recruit heard the door softly, but firmly, shut behind him again. Again he was left in the dim icy cell, in the heart of the far mountain city.

The Siege of Kire'Sephal

A light, silvery snow was starting to fall once more in the fur woods, filling the evergreen branches with sparkling flakes and covered the ground in a light layer of white. Some several days fast ride northwest of House Herrsan, deep in the heart of the western forests that made up Savarica’s west entrances, the Herrsan forces plunged toward Kire’Sephal as hurriedly as they could…but it was slow going.

Only about four days out from Kire’Sephal and on the main road, the cream of Herrsan’s armies continued on towards their destination, the relief of the besieged castle, bewildered though they were by the news of its danger. Some seven thousand huscarls, glinting silver in the sunlight, marched on relentlessly, axes strapped to shoulders and shields upon their backs, covered in heavy hauberks and armor, some of the toughest and most grim men of the northern realms.

However, they were still four days off from the relief of the Spire. Kire’Sephal needed aid now.

Which was why Count Chace was far ahead of his army.

Nearly eighteen hours ride away from Kire’Sephal, now close enough to see its glittering white spires in the distance, the count rode ahead of twenty mounted men and cavaliers, grimly galloping up the road his army followed behind on, cutting his way through the snow-laden wintery land and pulling the hood of his cloak low over his face against the falling snow. As the mountain peaks to the northwest, the rugged walls of Savarica glaring down on them from so far, the foothills began to grow out of the ground, making the road winding and the forest harder to navigate. The road, slowly disappearing under snow, was still easy to see but harder to stay on now. The count kept to the road however.

“Blast this wretched, cursed storm.” He muttered into his hood, riding up a steeper hill and waiting for his men behind him, twenty armed cavaliers, to make it also. It had been a long, hard ride for them, and he knew it…but they were also slowly losing speed because of it. Not a good sign.
“Come on, now! Move!” He barked at the coming riders, who continued to climb up the slopes. Some grumbles and dark mutterings vaguely reached his ears, but Chace easily tuned them out. He turned again in his saddle to see the glinting towers of the Spire, his particular ward. His eyes narrowed. Another day, at least.
“Lord Count!” Someone rode up beside him, making it up the incline. Count Herrsan turned to see one of his lieutenants coming to a stop, looking tired but determined. A young, dark haired, slender man.
“What?” The Count’s brow furrowed slightly. He tapped his saddle impatiently.
“The men need to rest, good count, they cannot keep going like this! All night and now most of this day…” The man wiped some frozen sweat from his brow and pulled some snow off a tree branch, pouring it into his mouth for water.
“…at least for the horses’ sake, count! They’ll be dead if they ride another full night or even part of one at this rate.”
The count grumbled darkly, a frown on his lips. He knew there was some truth to the words…but the fact of the pressing need of his Spire burned his mind like hot iron.
“Blast it! They’re soldiers, man!”
“They’re men, my lord!” The slightly irritated soldier snapped back, “Besides, what condition will we be to fight in if we reach the siege lines exhausted?”
“He has a point, my lord.” Another voice broke into the heated conversation, and Chace turned to see Christopher, the gray ranger, make it up the trail on his gray horse. Though not armored and armed like the Herrsan cavaliers, Chris and his picked few men each wore their hunting bows and slender swords, and the count knew them to be quite dangerous as well as inconspicuous.
Chace looked about to quiet both men and urge them on again, as his column made it generally to the top of the rise, but after studying the ranger’s calm, set countenance, the count sighed grimly.
“…Alright, so be it.” Count Herrsan waved a hand wearily, as though his men and their constant pleas tired him. “Fine! But if the Spire…well, if…if this is all for nothing, I swear, I’ll make you regret it, soldiers!”
Both of them, knowing full well it was an empty threat, kept back thin smiles. “Of course, lord count.” Christopher offered a slight bow from his saddle, turning his blue-gray gaze to the glinting towers in the northwest. As the column rode down the hill on the opposite side, a campsite was quickly located and a fire lit for the men, and as twilight came, they rested. Tomorrow, they would reach Kire’Sephal.
Unfortunately, their smoke plume gave them away to seeing eyes, eyes that watched and scouted from far, far above them in the gray skies, in the falling snow.


Kire’Sephal was burning.
From her perch high up in the mountains overlooking it, high cliffs that looked down on the white towers of the Spire, the youngest dragon hatchling surveying the siege with amusement, though perhaps a little bored at the waiting. However, dragons are a very long-lived species. Patience is one of their virtues.
Folding her bloodless, blue wings back against her back, the massive dragon lay down upon the high rocks, leaning her bulk back out of sight. The freezing high mountains temperatures little affected her, and she was certainly well out of sight of the defenders below. More importantly, the defenders were distracted by more pressing problems than the appearance of a hatchling overlooking them from above, in the crags and rocks. Though human eyes never would have been able to see so far and so clearly the siege, the dragon’s red eyes saw easily every soldier slain on the walls. Even now, the snow elves, hiding camouflaged in the white snow, shot volleys of arrows up into the keep, and snow trolls pounding the walls and gates with ice and boulders. The fierce and veteran Herrsan defenders were nothing to be take lightly, and had pressed off every attack; but it was simply a matter of time before the food ran out. Then it would be over. Pitiful humans, that couldn’t live a full revolution of the moon without some kind of food and water. No wonder they were so short lived.
A flap of giant wings forced the blue dragon to look up, snorting her icy breath as she gazed into the gray sky. Dimly, far in the distance, the dragon heard the cries of the battle. Miles below.
At last, a dark, massive form of yet another dragon made its way out of the clouds, flapping towards the rock where the blue one sat, angling out of the harsh winds to lose altitude. At length, there was a flash of bright, cardinal red, and the form of a brilliantly crimson dragon appeared. Circling once, the crimson dragon grunted and swooped, landing on the rocks slightly above his blue sister.
Folding his wings back, the red dragon bared his teeth, each once as long as a sword blade. “Sunning your scales, child?” He mocked, curling his red tail around the rock he sat on. The wind howled louder.
The blue one snarled. “Not quite, Jorshekon. There’s little sun to be had.”
Jorshekon shrugged his massive, red shoulders, his scales shimmering brightly. “They tell me that in Savarica, the sun is warm, and green grass actually covers the ground for miles in all directions.”
The younger blue drake chuckled. “I would not believe all snow elves say, brother.”
“I don’t. I can see green glinting from afar, impudent wretched sister.” The red growled, and turned to look down at the siege also.
“You didn’t reveal yourself, and only fly down at night to give orders still?” He questioned his sibling.
At that, the blue drake tensed again. “Do you think I am entirely witless? Yes, I have done all that big brother has commanded! Peace, Jorshekon!”
“Well done then, Iradsekon.” The red dragon, undeterred by his lesser’s impudence, did not take his eyes from the battle below. “How goes the siege?”
“Well enough. It is slow going. But our…connections within the keep are going well. Soon enough the shield will be down, and both of us will be able to attack at will. Then it will be a matter of minutes.” Iradsekon, the blue drake, allowed a dragon smile to fill her snout for a moment.
“How long until the shield of the Art is down?” Annoyed Jorshekon pressed. His wings fidgeted.
“Perhaps a week, at most. Little more.”
“Good. Perhaps just in time, if this storm keeps up.” The red one turned his gaze up at the clouds. “An enemy army of humans, good fighters, is coming out of the south. Thousands of them.”
To this, the blue dragon’s ear perked. She turned to face her brother, her long neck swiveling. “Thousands of humans? Trudging this way?”
“Yes, quite a few. And a smaller band leading the way, on horses. They will be at the Spire in four or five days, perhaps more if the storm slows them. Which we hope it will, at this rate. Thanks to our black brother.” The red grinned. “Plenty of delicious bites, do not worry, foolish sister.”
“Shall we go and pay them a welcoming visit?”
“Perhaps.” With that, the red one lay down also on the rocks, closing his red eyes.