Mirian stood still in the Great Hall, holding her crying daughter. Maeghin. They had grown up together, played together, laughed together and whenever he was needed, he had always been at her side. Now he was dead …

Tears, streaming down her cheeks and her daughter’s, dripping to the floor. Beside them, Grandpa Brose sighed. Mirian thought about Maeghin’s last words. She was the last of them now, the last adult of House Norrtmark. She would honor her House, and protect Johanna, whatever the cost. Mirian wanted to scream, loudly declare her anguish and sorrow. Instead she hugged her daughter. Johanna was still a child, and this loss was hard on her. Mirian was an adult and a trained warrior-lady, it wasn’t the same, no matter how sad Mirian felt.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Mirian said with a broken voice, an order for Maki: Open the door.

Karn Strongarm entered, along with Eiron, his centaur sergeant.

They looked at Maeghin who lay washed and embalmed on a table. Marja and Tallir each sat on a chair in the corner of the hall while Svanhild stood outside in the kitchen. The monotonous sound that arose as she stirred the meat stew comforted Mirian somewhat. It allowed her a small moment of drifting away with her mind. A welcomed respite, at least for one moment she forgot everything.

“Mirian,” Brose said. “I know you are grieving his death; we all are. Fifty townspeople lost their lives that night…”

“And four hundred of my soldiers,” Karn interjected.

“We've all lost someone we love,” Brose gathered his breath. “Maeghin meant much for me too, but we can't let grief stop us. You’re responsible for the defense of this town. Without your leadership Norrtmark falls asunder.”

She barely heard him.

“Mirian … ” Brose said as Karn went to her. She looked at him without seeing him, then she focused on her grandfather.

“Why did he have to die?” Johanna said between her sobbing, and Mirian bit her lip.

“God moves in mysterious ways, dear child,” Brose said. “Maeghin is in a happy place now, that I can promise you.”

“I don’t want him to be in happy place!” Johana protested. “I want him to be here, with me. He was funny!”

“I want him alive too … ” Mirian said, and before reflecting on if these words of sorrow were truly wise to utter near her daughter, her words just came out, like some mangled stream of words: “That the gnolls never came here and that we all lived in peace that my husband never died and my father never met his fate … ”

Mirian had been speaking so fast she was gasping for air. Grandpa Brose hugged both her and Johanna. The three were united. Mirian felt their warmth and it helped her in her grief.

“That's what we wish for everyone in difficult times,” Brose said. “We long to go back to when everything was easy and happy. But now, it isn't so. Mirian: You have a responsibility. You are more than yourself. You are our Lady of the Keep, and you have responsibilities beyond yourself. You must come up with a plan for how we will defend Norrtmark.”

She looked up, meeting his sleep deprived eyes and nodded. “I will do my best.”

Brose smiled and nodded. “I'm proud of you.”

“We all are,” Karn said. Words Mirian met with an empty smile.

“And you are not forgotten.” Karn pecked Johanna on the cheek and Mirian was glad to see her laughing.

A horn sounded outside the hall's thick walls.

“What's the matter?” Mirian looked at Karn and Brose.

“It must be something important,” Brose said. His white curls fell down over his face and slowly, he waved them away.

“Mirian,” Karn said. “We captured the one who lead the gnolls two nights ago.”

“Good.”

“His name is Trerrgar, and he's locked up in the butcher's house, under supervision of my men.”

“Excellent.”

With those words they left the Great Hall and went through the hallway, further across the castle yard to the town square. The townspeople were out on the mustering field, practicing the arts of sword and spear under the supervision of the soldiers, so the town was unusually, even eerily empty. Mirian was met by two townspeople who came running. “Castle Lady.” The man stopped to breathe. “Your Grace, you must make your way to the gatehouse.”

“What's the matter?”

“Lots of warrior monks outside the gates. Three hundred … or more.”

“Then we must not keep them waiting. Karn, Grandpa: You’re coming with me.”

“Understood,” Karn said as Brose gave her a serious look.

“Bring me to them.” Mirian didn’t want to turn away anyone that seemed to be offering her help.

“With pleasure, Your Grace.” The two townspeople bowed.

They passed Arron's Tavern and the houses of the rich in the square, tramped across the main street. At last they arrived at the palisade, Norrtmark's outermost defense. The palisade repaired, thanks to Maeghin … Mirian forced her thoughts elsewhere.

The gatekeepers opened the gates and the monks marched into her town. They were dressed in leather uniforms and straw hats. Strange weapons they have. Sword blades attached to spear shafts. The monks also had slightly curved swords in black scabbards hanging in their belts and bows and skis hung over their backs. The warrior monks marched with thick winter boots and many layers of black, brown or red, thick coats. Leather harnesses cinched over the coats.

This was unexpected. What were the monks doing here? Ten years ago, her grandfather had helped a newly arrived abbot from the Wa-shi realm. Brose had invited him and his young, adopted child, to live in Norrtmark. Mirian had even played with the young boy. The abbot had taught her the Wa-shi sword, spear and bow arts, and even martial arts for unarmed combat. They had stayed for three years, before leaving. Could this have something to do with the whole group of warrior monks returning?

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The monk leader approached her. His scanted, brown eyes showing warmth. Now she recognized him.

“Irrai!” she called out, a genuine smile washing away her sorrow, if only for a moment. “It is good to see you again!”

“It is good to see you too, Mirian!” He answered, swiping away his black strands of hair.

They met in a hug as townspeople, mercenaries and monks watched on. A meeting of two different, yet similar, cultures.

Irrai released himself from their hug, bowed deeply, but his legs stood straight. “My abbot sent us, the whole martial part of our monastery, except for but a few. They’re guarding our dear abbot.

“From the Wa-shi Realm we voyaged by see and thousands of miles by land to reach your kingdom fifteen years ago. We fled from Shikari, the Great Lord who had deposed the Emperor.

“Our abbot began to form our monastery, but it was hard … Brose helped us, and when we were hunted down by the Inquisition for not being Kyrastanians, he gave me and my abbot safety in Norrtmark, until king Bend came to power and changed the Church Laws.” Irrai smiled, gave Brose a nod and Mirian noticed her grandfather’s elegant bow.

“Where is this monastery?” Mirian asked. “You must tell me all about it. It’s been ten years! Here is my daughter, Johanna.”

Johanna smiled as he went to greet Irrai who lowered himself to her level. “This is a good child,” he declared.

Irrai raised himself, meeting Mirian’s gaze. “We are proud to fight alongside you, Lady Mirian. All three hundred of us are elite warrior monks, honoring fighting traditions that are hundreds of years old. We have marched all the way from our monastery in Visstad. A week after our abbot had a vision from White and Black about the gnolls he remembered our friendship with house Norrtmark. We decided it was our quest to ski through blizzards and cold nights, through this Realm of Winter. It is the will of the Cats that we rescue you and for that we are honored to be here. Our destinies are intertwined, as White and Black have foreseen. Ara na mate.”

“And we are proud to have you here, Irrai, and immensely grateful.” Now it was Mirian’s turn to bow. Karn and Brose followed her example.

Irrai turned to his men. “Daranzei, warezo naindoka se narumas!”

The monks cheered, all three hundred of them.

Suddenly, Irrai stopped smiling. “Your father, is it true that he is dead?”

“Yes … ” Mirian answered. “And my cousin Maki as well, he fell in battle two nights ago.”

“Ne imma atori. Sheruva ei ma,” Irrai said with a hand on his chest. “I remember both of them fondly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Irrai. For all that you have done and will do for us.”

Townsfolk and mercenaries sat down, bowing in the snow while the warrior monks gazed at them. This was a moment of solemn gratitude for the whole of Norrtmark. Irrai turned to his men, in the leather harnesses and thick, garments and cloaks beneath. They were like guard posts, waiting for his command.

”Daranzei, warava no kushu ro!” Irrai’s clarion call was heard loud and clear in the silence of winter, and even louder the monks answered: ”Enozai!” They raised their sword-spears to the sky. Nagas, I think they are called.

*

This is the second time we burn good people.

Their victory in the Battle of the Swamp had been dearly bought. Forty of the town's men and ten women had lost their lives to the gnolls two nights ago. Among them Maeghin who always did everything to support her. In addition, four hundred of Karn's mercenaries paid with their lives. Furthermore, a hundred mercenaries and seventy townspeople were seriously injured. The only thing that pleased Mirian was that the gnolls were weakened. She and Karn estimated that probably around fourteen hundred, if not more, had died or been seriously wounded in the battle. The rest of the around three thousand gnolls who fought in that battle fled.

The flames licked the corpses given to the fire and gods of Frostmark. The Kyrrastanian mercenaries had been ordained in good soil.

The bonfire itself was huge.

Mirian was pleased that Irrai and his warrior monks were there. They showed their reverence even though they did not worship her gods. Irrai gave her a bow. He was the only one among the monks who spoke Frostlang, her language, and the lingua of her kingdom.

Maeghin. The deep wound of grief was still too fresh. If it was of some consolation, they could all grieve together. “Your father is proud for you, I know it.”

“Why would he die?” the boy said between his tears.

Mirian lowered herself to his level, sitting on one knee. “I know it can be hard to accept.” With a plea she looked into his brown eyes. “I think I understand how you feel, Maeghin meant a lot to me and now he's dead. But I can tell you that your father died bravely. He died to protect you and our town. He fought bravely the whole way through. You can be proud.”

The boy nodded.

“Good there! We’ll win, I promise you that.” She signed to Johanna to take the boy away from the pyre and Johanna grabbed his hand. They would play with the other children.

*

Trerrgar was chained in the butcher’s storage. He shivered despite his thick fur and winter clothing. There was no brazier in the storage, and barely any candles. How long have I been here? Two days?

His thoughts cut off when Mirian opened the door, followed by two mercenaries. “Gnoll,” she said, her voice filled with hate. “You’ll be grateful that we spared you, filthy beast.”

Trerrgar growled before he thought it wise not to. Remember that you are in captivity. Kept by a cruel woman who hates you, who wants to see you bleed. Don’t let her see your pain. Be polite towards her, she’ll like that.

“Mirian, I am,” He said.

Her blow struck him to the floor. His chains rattling as he rose, slowly.

She didn’t lower her fists, and the two mercenaries stood beside her.

“You have no right to speak my name, gnoll.”

“I … apologize, my Lady.”

“That’s better.”

She couldn’t keep her hate from him. Trerrgar saw it dearly. He noticed it thanks to her reddening face, her hasty breath, and most of all in he noticed her hate in her aggressiveness. Why did she hate him and his people with such a burning passion? There must be several, specific reasons. He was not stupid enough to ask her.

“As I understand it, you were their Chieftain?” Mirian said.

“Almost. I was Vyrrden for the assignment of taking Norrtmark, I guess you would call me captain. Thryngort Bloodtooth is our Grandvyrrden, you would call him Chieftain.”

“Who is he? What does he want?”

“Why would I answer? You’re my enemy.”

“It is foolish of you to resist.” Mirian Simonsdatur lowered her face, uncomfortably near now, her hasty breathing and angry gaze sending shivers up his spine. She called on her two mercenaries and they came, armed with Green Sooth Fungi. They put him right underneath his nose as the green, poisonous fumes rose. Trerrgar panicked and Mirian noticed it with a smirk. A gleeful smile of pure hatred. Her light, blue eyes glinted when she grabbed hold of his arm, took one of the poisonous mushrooms and pressed it right underneath his nose.

Trerrgar didn’t have much time left. His face went green as he suffocated. Grasping for breath, he tried to raise his arms, to push away his enemies, to use some magic, but his arms were chained. And so he noticed that he had been drugged, as he tried to call on his spirit animal Amemion. The connection was blocked by the drug, and he could do nothing.

“Do you want to tell me, or do you prefer death?” Mirian said.

Trerrgar steeled himself at first, thinking that he would die a brave gnoll, but then he thought about it. Why would he stay loyal to Thryngort, if Thryngort followed demons? He sensed that it was fate, his fate to betray Thryngort.

“All … right! I … Cooperate … ” Trerrgar managed to say. “I’ll give you everything you want to know.”

Immediately Mirian took away the mushroom, and he could breathe again.

Gasping, his intelligence slowly returned to him, though he was still drugged, chained.

“Good.” Mirian gave the fungi to the two men and asked them to stand in the corner.

Mirian started to ask him questions, and even though he cooperated, told her truthfully, she beat him. One beating, sometimes two, for every answer.

Mirian struck him, her fist bloody. She licked it, smirking to him. “Filthy beast,” she said and hit him again. Trerrgar fell to the floor. Blood running down his furry forehead, made it hard for him to see. He drifted out of consciousness …

The savanna stretched out in front of him as he run on all fours, following his mother and father.

“Come on Trerrgar! Faster!” his mother called to him.

“Mother!”

His paws feeling the dusty grass, his fur, caressed by the winds, his ears perceiving the song of the crickets, and all the birds.

His dream moved on, just like time, and a great wind swept the world. In the eye of the storm a screaming spirit flew. “It was me that you betrayed, Trerrgar of the Mardahani Tribe. I swear that I’ll find you. I swear I will have my revenge.”

Trerrgar awoke, suddenly, shaking and shivering. The Great Spirit of the Elements. Trerrgar was alone now, cold, and bloodied.