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Fell Winter

  Copyright © 2012 Andrew James Cooper

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Fell Winter

  Book One of the Ulfr Crisis

  by AJ Cooper

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brand, son of Gutlaff, had hair as brown as chestnuts and eyes the color of the clear blue sky. At least, that’s what the women of The Lily House—Oskir’s best, and only, den of iniquity—told him. They were a little biased, however; Brand paid off the lovely-eyed, smooth-skinned women with coin. His father, the straitlaced swineherd Gutlaff, had told him of the dangers of big towns and how they could corrupt a boy’s morals. And corrupt Brand’s morals they did.

  Brand walked out, suppressing his guilt with a shrug. The visit had been a minor concession for a recent accomplishment; just an hour ago, the headmaster of the Skalds’ College announced that Brand’s mastery of the lute and voice was complete, and that he was worthy of servicing the court of any earl or singing the deeds of any warrior.

  A stressful audition followed by three years of hard work had finally paid off. He was still lowborn, but he did not have to work in the mines, or—gods help him—take up swineherding like his father. He could sing and pluck the lute to the tune of his own destiny.

  Within the college’s stone walls he had learned to play the pipe, the shawm, the horn, and countless other instruments. Yet his specialty—and the musical style his teachers encouraged in him above all—was the lute and voice. Now, he could pluck his faithful instrument and sing love ballads to girls, silly songs for the wide-eyed little children, and songs of valor and brave deeds to the warriors.

  Right after leaving The Lily House he ran into his best friend in the city of Oskir. Gunnar ‘Blackhelm’ Whoreson was his name: ‘Blackhelm,’ because his father was the highborn noble Magnus Blackhelm—Earl of Trowheim—and Whoreson because his mother once sold her body.

  Some, including the Blackhelms, questioned that Magnus was his father. But both Brand and Gunnar were certain beyond a doubt: Gunnar’s mother, right after she had taken the earl as her client, had left the life of the whorehouse for better things. She was pregnant and gave birth to Gunnar, who had the stern features of a nobleman and the famous flame-red hair of the Blackhelms.

  “Did you have fun with Lucia today?” Gunnar said.

  “Lucia wasn’t available, unfortunately,” Brand said. “She was with another man.”

  “So she’s cheating on you… is that what you’re saying?”

  “Whores cannot cheat, Gunnar,” Brand said, “though I admit her lack of devotion does tear on my heartstrings, as the old song goes.”

  “You are a singing dandy, with your head in the clouds,” Gunnar said. “You’ve completed your schooling and now, my friend, it’s time to celebrate.”

  “Where to?” Brand said.

  “The mead hall,” Gunnar said. “By midnight tonight, you won’t be able to walk.”

  It was not Brand, but Gunnar, that did most of the drinking. The women of the mead hall—some of whom also worked at The Lily House—brought drinking-horns filled to the brim with mead.

  “What now, Brand?” Gunnar said, wearing a moustache of foam. “Will you join an earl’s court and go to some far-flung keep?”

  “No,” Brand said. “I will bond myself to a warrior and sing of his deeds…”

  “And to which warrior?” Gunnar said. “To an earl’s man? To an earl’s bodyguard?”

  “No; the earls’ bodyguards only stand around all day and protect their liege.” Brand thought for a while, though he knew thinking was generally a bad idea in the mead hall. “It will have to be an adventurer… someone who travels around Badelgard and has deeds worthy to sing of.”

  “I will travel around Badelgard, and be an adventurer, if that is what it takes to have you as my skald,” Gunnar said. “I would be honored to have Brand Gutlaffson sing of my deeds.”

  Brand smiled. “Your axe is sturdy, Gunnar, and you wield it with skill. I will have to consider your request.” He sipped some mead from his drinking horn. “But if I am to sing of your deeds, you will have to leave Oskir, Gunnar. I’ve seen you practice with your axe often—and win duels, at that. But I have a feeling you’re content working with metal and staying inside the city walls.”

  “Ol’ Hennard is a mean old dog. Never let me keep a single sword I made. Doesn’t respect us highborn Blackhelms—guess he’s too common to understand our importance,” Gunnar said, and let out a loud belch.

  Brand motioned him to be quiet; if a lowborn claimed to be a highborn, it was a crime and punishable by flogging. Brand hadn’t yet drunk enough to forget that fact.

  “I don’t care about smithing at all,” Gunnar continued. “Only reason I kept doing it was waiting for you to quit that damnable college. Now, we can begin our journeying.”

  In the space of an hour, Gunnar guzzled five more horns of mead, growing dumber and dumber with each gulp. Constant rejection made even him, in his drunken state, realize that the women of the mead hall weren’t going to respond to his flirtations. He and Brand left.

  They hauled their drunken selves outside and into the crisp autumn air.

  “Chilly, isn’t it?” Brand said.

  “I don’t feel a thing,” Gunnar said. “Besides, winter’s coming.”

  Brand shivered at the thought. But those dark days were, indeed, coming: month after month of howling wind and endless snow. Winters in the nation of Badelgard were the worst in all human lands—not mild and rainy, like the immediate south. Because of its high elevation, even Badelgard summers required a heavy kirtle.

  They wandered down the stone-cobbled roads of low-town in the shadow of the king’s residence: the famous Golden House. The fading twilight illuminated a fortune-teller who had set up a table along the road. Judging by the whiteness of her eyes, she was blind. She was human, but, judging by the carvings on the table and the strange amulets she wore, she practiced some form of Ulfr magic. All magic was illegal in Badelgard; that of the ancient Ulfr above all. Yet in Oskir—under the lax reign of King Sven—the guards looked the other way and did not bother to report sorcery or witchcraft.

  Brand sat down at the fortune-teller’s table. “Tell me my future, witch!” he snapped, and offered his hand.

  The witch felt Brand’s palm with her coarse fingers, humming as if to enter a trance. “Ah!” she called out. “There is a future planned for you. Soon—by morning’s light—you will embark on a great journey, and gods alone know where the road will take you. The quest will take you to far-flung places; to places you’d never thought to travel. Yet at the end of it all… whether there are blue skies and long life, or dark shadows awaiting you, I cannot tell. Your fate is veiled in mist.”

  Brand looked at the witch for a few seconds, surprised by her grand prediction. “Thank you,” he finally said, and giggled. He turned to Gunnar. “It’s your turn.”

  “I will not take advice from an Ulfr witch,” Gunnar said. “The Ulfr were killed long ago, and it is a shame that one of our people practice their cruel rites!” Gunnar’s neck had flushed red. “The Ulfr were the most evil race the world has ever known. The things they did were against nature. Until the Dragon—praise his green scales—burned them all away.”

  “Can we not learn from them, also?” the blind witch said. “They were cruel to us; and yet, perhaps they have something to offer us.”

  “Lies!” Gunnar shouted.

  “Calm yourself,” Brand said, and stood up from the table. “It’s just a fun little game.” He brushed
Gunnar’s back reassuringly, then turned to the witch. “Gunnar gets angry when he’s drunk!”

  He guided Gunnar away from the witch, and stumbled further down into low-town.

  “We must go to The Lily House,” Gunnar said. “What’s the point of drinking mead if there are no women around?”

  “Settle down,” Brand said. “You’ve had a little too much, friend.”

  “Don’t talk down to me, boy!” Gunnar said.

  A king’s man stood just a few yards distant. Brand could tell he was a king’s man because he was dressed in steel chainmail—a costly item beyond the means of any lowborn or lesser highborn. Over his armor he wore a shirt that bore the royal Oster coat-of-arms: a gold rooster against a red field.

  Gunnar stumbled close to the king’s man, then let out a loud belch and stared at him dizzily. Brand walked up behind his friend and grabbed his hand. He tried to drag him away, but Gunnar was too heavy for Brand to move him.

  “What are you looking at, lowborn?” the king’s man sneered.

  “I am not lowborn!” Gunnar shouted.

  Brand winced and struck him hard. This could only end badly, and it woke Brand totally out of any drunkenness the mead had granted him. They were in serious danger, now.

  “You aren’t lowborn?” said the king’s man mockingly. “Then pray tell, milord, why you are dressed in rags and wield a crude axe.”

  “This axe has served me well,” Gunnar said. “It has felled many men.”

  “I’m sorry, milord!” Brand shouted to the king’s man. “He is drunk and doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “No, no; I’m very interested in him,” the king’s man said. “Tell me—”

  “Gunnar.”

  “—Gunnar, what noble line you belong to,” the king’s man finished.

  “I am Gunnar, son of Magnus Blackhelm!”

  Nausea seized Brand.

  “Ah! So you are the son of a great earl, and Brynja is your mother, I assume? Then why are you spending time with this miserable fop here?”

  “Brynja is not my mother,” Gunnar snarled. “My mother is Gertha, daughter of Agnar, and she… at one time… was a whore!” He belched again.

  “So you accuse the honorable Lord Magnus Blackhelm of whoring?” said the king’s man. He drew out his long steel sword, a weapon worth countless amounts of silver that only rich men could afford.

  “My lord, we apologize!” Brand said. “He is drunk! He isn’t capable of reason right now…”

  “No lowborns are capable of reason,” said the king’s man. “Only the highborns can reason. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, milord!” Brand said. “Please… I beg of you. Forgive us for our rudeness.”

  Gunnar was glaring. He had drawn out his axe. “If it’s a fight you want, highborn, then you’ll get one.”

  “Gunnar, stop!” Brand said, now in tears. But no sooner had the words left his lips than Gunnar swung down and slashed the wrist of the king’s man.

  Shocked, he stumbled back and gasped. Blood was spurting out of the wound like water from a broken dam. A red spray began to discolor the cobbled road. If the king’s man did not die of hemorrhage, he would—in all likelihood—die of a festering wound.

  “Gunnar!” Brand screamed. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Gunnar stumbled backward dizzily. “Aye, lad,” he rasped. “I think I have. I think I—“ He touched his head. “We must get out of here, now.”

  Neither Gunnar nor Brand owned horses. But they needed horses to escape and they did not have coin to buy them. They ran up to the hostler in the Oskir Stables. Gunnar pitched back his axe—its bit still dripping with blood—as he grabbed the short, timid man by the scruff of his neck. “Give me a horse,” Gunnar said, his eyes wide for fearful effect, “or I swear by the God of Death that I worship, I will send your head flying.”

  “Yes, milord!” the little man whimpered. “You may have Biscuit and Thimble!”

  “They’d better be the fastest you have,” Gunnar said, widening his eyes even further, “or I swear, I will come back here to this very stable and I won’t cut your head off—I’ll peel you like an apple!”

  “Okay!” the little man squealed. “You can have Lightning and Hellion.”

  As soon as they had mounted, they galloped through the streets at a breakneck pace. The people of Oskir stared at them in confusion. Why were these two well-liked, upstanding citizens making off like outlaws? The answer, of course, was Gunnar’s drinking.

  “Where do we go?” Brand said, almost weeping as the horse made its way up out of low-town.

  With one stupid mistake, Gunnar had ruined Brand’s life as a skald. If they survived, Brand would forevermore be a criminal; a wolf to be hunted wherever he went. And, as a lowborn, Brand would face torture before the execution. A trip to the rack, the burning of his flesh, or the removal of his fingernails, would come before the mercy-stroke of the headsman’s sword.

  As they raced out of the Golden Gate and into the forest of firs and spruces, they caught sight of a bandit-hunting party forming: king’s men dressed in the Oster coat-of-arms shirts. Instead of Gunnar’s light tunic, they wore chainmail; in their hands they carried swords, and on their backs were bows and arrows. If they caught up to Brand and Gunnar, they would stand no chance.

  “You are such a fool, Gunnar!” Brand cried as they galloped into the open.

  “I know!” Gunnar shouted, his eyes sad yet still shallow with drunk stupidity. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I know I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

  “I should blame it all on you and let the torturers have you! Gods, I should do that!” Brand said. “But—by the valkyries—you are my friend, and I’m not going to betray you.” He threw a cautious glance to the straw-covered stall. “Are you fit to ride? Or are you too drunk?”

  “I can ride when I’m drunk,” Gunnar said. “In fact, I ride better.”

  They were heading north on the path, and neither of them knew where they were going.

  “Name a place that no man wants to go!” Gunnar thundered, bouncing in his saddle at the horse’s gallop. “A place where not even king’s men will dare to tread!”

  “I can only think of one place the High King dares not tread,” Brand said, “and that is Blackfold.”

  A shiver visibly passed through Gunnar’s spine. “Be still my heart!” he said. “The land of ghosts… home of Ulfr magic! It is twenty miles away. I can’t bear the thought of entering that place—and yet—if that is what it takes to survive… then let us go.”

  They guided their horses down a northeastward path. They rode at full gallop toward Blackfold, that accursed land of ghosts that even fully-armored king’s men would not dare enter. At the thought of it, Brand’s stomach twisted to knots.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gunnar raced up the northeastern-leading path on his horse. Brand galloped just a few feet behind. It was sunrise and Blackfold was within reach.

  Sven’s agents pressed after them fast, hot on their trail. The High King wanted their heads. But once they left the jurisdiction, clan law would force Sven’s men to stop their pursuit. Besides, no sane man wanted to enter Blackfold, birthplace of witchcraft and magic, den of wolves and wolfish men, and heavy under the weight of a dark curse.

  Gunnar could see the Black River in the distance, flowing down from the mountains. The silt beneath the water gave it its color. Beyond lay Blackfold. Legend has it that three hundred years ago, the Ulfr gave the invaders such a powerful Evil Eye that they could not cross the river. A few intrepid warriors built a bridge that did not touch the water; they entered Blackfold and were massacred.

  Soon Gunnar and Brand arrived at the shore of the Black River. Gunnar’s horse bucked and whinnied; it would not enter the water. Brand’s horse would not even get that close. The beasts were afraid of what lay beyond.

  A loud horn sounded from behind; Sven’s agents pressed them hard.

  “It’s time to swim!”
Gunnar shouted and quickly dismounted.

  Brand dismounted shortly afterward and then they began to swim across the Black River, through the swiftly-flowing dark waters. Finally, sopping wet, they arrived in the accursed region of Blackfold.

  The region was covered in hills—not huge, mountainous hills but small ones, giving the grassy earth a rough texture.

  “What now?” Brand said as they ran in.

  “We stay here,” Gunnar answered. “We lie low a while. Hope Sven forgets. I do not want to leave the homeland; I am a son of Badelgard as you are. I cannot imagine going into the weaklings’ lands: the farmers’ fields, the soft cities of luxury...”

  “The outlanders would not accept a Badelgarder, anyway.”

  “You speak truth.”

  A flock of crows flew by, calling out in their hideous voices. Gunnar loosed his axe from his back and gripped it in his right hand. He shook his weapon and cursed the black-feathered crows, the most hated of birds.

  “Look!” Brand said. “I see smoke! A fire—a campfire—something!”

  Gunnar looked around. He spotted smoke coming from a nearby forest. “It must be a camp,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  In the pine forest was a gathering of tents. A dozen men and women sat around a large, bright-burning fire. They had on worn clothing that might have once been finely tailored, but now was patched-up, coming apart at the seams. Several wooden chests, doubtlessly full of gold and treasure, were strewn about the camp. These were bandits.

  The leader, a brawny blond-haired man with a sword, walked up to them.

  “If you’re looking for gold, we don’t have any,” Gunnar said. “We’re running from the law like you.”

  “You should never have come to this place,” the man answered him. “Blackfold is cursed, and more accursed than the gossip states.”

  “Then why are you still here?” said Gunnar.

  “High King Sven is after us for theft; Blackfold is the only place we could escape to. If Sven found me he’d give me the bloody eagle. He’d do that to all of us. But if we recover the Idol of the Great Mother, he’d forgive us for our deeds. He’d let us keep the gold we got.” The man spat. “But we’ve learned getting the idol is going to be hard, if not impossible. The land’s curse is so great we are lucky to have survived this long. A witch still haunts the barrows… she calls ghosts down upon us. We used to have children with us; the ghosts ate their souls and we had to bury them in this haunted earth. The witch is one of the Ulfr; she is a necromancer of great power.”