A pronunciation guide
A Winter’s War is essentially a translation of my Swedish debut novel, Vinterkrig.
In the Swedish version some characters have names like Björn – meaning Bear – or Göte, a medieval Scandinavian name. These names are not meant to be translated as they are from the “real language” the book is “supposed” to be in: Frostlang. This language sounds a bit like old Norse, or Icelandic. Frostlang is the language they speak in Engsmark, the land most of the characters are from. Therefore, to keep the authenticity of this novel I have decided to keep these names in this English version as well. However, since the ö letter is known to be hard to pronounce for English readers, I have written this guide.
To pronounce ö, think about the ae sound in the English word earn. Take away the rn of that word and you have ö, basically. So the name Björn should be pronounced Bj-ae-rn, like earn with a Bj in the beginning. Göte is pronounced like G-ea-te. Good luck!
Some words
This book is my first, and a part of a larger tale. It is an epic tale, recording the exploits of my mother, and others, in the time leading up to the Great War, as this worldwide chain of events that unfortunately befell us has been called by the chroniclers. I have tried to stay faithful to history; tell the tale as it happened, unless for some dramatic inclinations. An author must have some freedom after all. I am deeply grateful to the spirits of the dead, who gave me their transmission of their lives and events, for all the official records of historians. Most of all I am thankful for my mother’s diary, and my great grandfather’s maps. These has been of great help in the writing of this whole saga.
No power without honor!
- Johanna Miriansdatur, the Year of our Lord, 1333
The town of Norrtmark [https://i.imgur.com/oDV1EM1.jpg]
The KIngdom of Engsmark [https://i.imgur.com/ENHgtKh.jpg]
A king’s heart
Hatred.
Beaten, mocked, and executed. It was in a previous life. The eleventh one. Raazoul had almost lost count of how many lives he had lived. An endless toil it had been, for nothing is new under the sun.
“Master?” the elf man beside him asked. Uvenor was dressed in a similar cloak, a white one with a hood, just like Raazoul.
The Twelve gathered and Raazoul began his speech: “They would call me evil, but in this they are wrong. Their words reflect naught but their own sins. Engsmark, with its’ nobles who rob, rape, and murder their own subjects. This evening we will slay their king. This evening the time of vengeance will come to this realm. Take heart, my brothers and sisters, for the Old World shall fall and from fire and ashes shall the New World be formed in our image. A world where we can do what we wish, where not even death will stand in our way!”
“Long live the Liberation!” his followers chanted. “Long live Raazoul, the Conqueror of Death!”
He was proud of them. The twelve were masters among mages and each one was more than knowledgeable about the forbidden arts.
The snowstorm howled, blowing hard. Raazoul left the tree and his faithful flock followed with muffled steps in the snow. A league away laid the royal capital. A large city in light and darkness. I will feast on his hearth. Raazoul smirked. He would take vengeance and prove to the world that he and his followers – yes everyone who was worthy – deserved a whole new world. A world where they were free to do what they wanted without anyone stopping them.
*
I hate Sverker Menvedsson.
King Tyrimer took his goblet. The mulled wine was sweet, even though it burned, hot in more ways than one. The queen held his hand under the table, and that comforted him. Despite everything, he had agreed to the Earl’s suggestion. For three long months Sverker’s sweet daughter had been engaged to Tyrimer’s only son. And soon we will have the wedding feast. Tyrimer suspected that house Svitjar committed high treason with the Moot, but there was no evidence.
“Your Majesty, it is an honor to join you tonight. Yes, today has been a pleasure. To think that you were the one who slayed the boar. A great and mighty king cannot sit alone with his wife. Those who are loyal are honored by your gaze alone.”
There was silence at the king’s table.
“Loyal – like you?” King Tyrimer raised an eyebrow and Sverker swallowed. The Earl reminded Tyrimer of one of those cheese wheels the monks used to make. Sverker vas as old as Tyrimer, but no songs would be composed about Sverker’s courage on the battlefield. Tyrimer smirked and Sverker saw it. It was fitting that Sverker would never be considered a real man.
“How is it going, ruling our realm?” Sverker said.
“Good.” Tyrimer only grew more and more irritated. The question bothered him, and he wondered what the Earl had planned.
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“What are you insinuating?” Tyrimer asked. The mulled wine refreshed him, and he felt the queen’s hand beneath the table.
“I’ve heard that the beasts are assembling amongst the White Mountains,” Sverker said. “The Earls are worried, and several of our church fathers are burning with restlessness. They dislike that you follow the Gods of Frostmark. You know how the church folk are with their prayers, their disliking of your refusal to a crusade against the gnolls, and your faith.” Sverker smirked and took one of the chicken bones, to gnaw and throw it to the dogs. May the giants take him and his arrogance.
“Are you questioning your king’s faith and good sense?” Tyrimer shouted, louder than he should have.
People turned their heads, sitting by the tables. Where there was song silence reigned and all laughter was no more.
Sverker swallowed the salted meat and threw the bones to the floor.
“Not at all, Your Majesty. I am just stating the truth. The Earls of our Moot on the other hand … ”
Tyrimer understood why Sverker felt such joy. He wants to depose me. “How is my position among the Earls?”
“Oh, it is dreadful, Your Majesty. Not even your dear brothers are supporting you fully, or at all.”
Such insolence. The comment stung, for Tyrimer’s brothers were not even present at the feast. Only his uncle was.
Tyrimer struck his fist on the table as he rosed up. “From this moment you are judged for high treason against your King and for conspiracies against the Crown. You can come with me by your own free will or be taken with force.”
Sverker rose with a surprising swiftness for a man of his size. His chair fell echoing to the floor. “How dare you, King Tyrimer? You have no proof for your accusations.”
Swords gleamed in the candlelight, but Tyrimer felt safe. He had the-One-Hundred-And-Ten by his side and many housecarls. The support of three houses and dozens of hedge knights. His enemies were fools if they were to try anything.
“Behold your tyrant,” Sverker said. The Earl believed that the Moot’s paper shield would protect him. But power belonged to Tyrimer, and he made an oath to himself that he would crush the Moot once and for all. It did not do to have a king that said one thing and the Earls of the Moot who said another. Engsmark would become a peaceful realm ruled by Tyrimer alone. He would see to it.
“Your father was a king slayer,” Tyrimer said while a knight put Sverker in chains. “My father fell for his poison, and I will not let you spread your poison, neither at the Moot nor here. I will not allow your mad conspiracies against me. To lure me with peace and engagement to later turn my Earls to your plots.”
“Flee,” Sverker shouted. “Flee and avenge your lord!”
“He who obeys him will be branded a traitor to the Crown.”
Anger. This violent rage Tyrimer had inherited from his father. It blossomed with full force when Sverker's housecarls attacked his knights. They were mad. Mad housecarls, and battle begun across the black-white stone floor. Sverker's kin left the hall. Their men gave their lives to protect them. Swords gleamed in the candlelight and men fell to the floor screaming, cut down by Tyrimer's knights. Two other houses followed the Earls of house Svitjar. Tyrimer looked at Sir Alvar, the second in command of the-One-Hundred-And-Ten.
Alvar bowed and ordered two of his knights to arrest Sverker's daughter. Margaret had tried to get close to her mother but now she screamed as she was picked up by a knight and carried over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
It felt like every member of house Svitjar froze where they stood. The high lords stopped in their tracks, their ladies shook, and the children gaped. Anger gleamed in their eyes, but Tyrimer savored the moment. Margaret was carried back to the king’s table where the knight threw her down at the floor, beside Earl Sverker, her villainous father.
“What are you doing?” Sverker managed to shout before Tyrimer struck him. Blood dropped from Sverker’s lips, down to the black-white stone floor, and Tyrimer stared at the rebels. They stood as if frozen in ice in the empty, wide space between the long tables. Tyrimer looked at Sverker’s two brothers. At his son. “If any of you rise against the Crown or conspire through the Moot, Sverker and Margaret will lose their heads.”
“No, I beg you …. ” Sverker’s wife wiped away sweat from her brow and shook her hands in a silent prayer while Margaret stood quiet. She did not even seem to notice how the two knights laid their hands on her. Margaret had participated in Sverker’s plot. Sverker was a foxy man and Tyrimer would not allow him to use his daughter as a pawn in his game of power. Not for another moment.
“Tyrant!” one of Sverker’s brothers roared. People shouted and Tyrimer raised his hand. The musicians just stood there; their instruments forgotten.
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“Leave my hall, you traitors. I give you free leave, but if you turn against me, you know what awaits you.”
Tyrimer’s will would be the law of the land, he would see to it.
*
The troubadours nourished the soul as they sung the Song of Iguldun. The servants had swept away the corpses and scrubbed the floor clean from blood. Sverker and his daughter had been sent to the dungeons where they belonged. The Earl was a fool if he believed that two houses were enough to take the throne, but perhaps he had not thought so at all. Perhaps he counted on every house but my own to betray the Crown. To kill me. Tyrimer gazed into the hazel eyes of his queen. You. Our son. All at this moment, on my own birthday feast. Tyrimer shuddered and shook his head. He had The-One-Hundred-And-Ten and for them housecarls were easy to defeat. More than that, it was child’s play. It was silly how easy they had gotten rid of the housecarls who had tried to protect Sverker’s brothers.
But if The-One-Hundred-And-Ten would betray him also … In his mind Tyrimer saw his own head, separated from his body, and Sverker who raised it, with that damned triumphant smile on his lips.
To stop thinking, Tyrimer asked his son to take Sverker’s seat at the table. “Do you know why I did it?”
“Because you had to?” Bjarne guessed.
“Yes … My son, when you are king you must remember that any defiance and all acts of rebellion against the Crown must be punished ruthlessly, for that is the only way for a king to keep his throne.”
Bjarne swept his hair to the side. His long, blonde locks used to annoy him. “So, it is better to be feared than loved?”
Tyrimer thought for a moment. “Yes, and no,” he said. “You must be feared by your enemies. Save your chivalry for your friends, but most of all for the people.”
“The people?”
“Despite our hard-fought-for peace agreement, the years of war burden the realm. The people still suffer under the cruelty of the noble houses, and I can of course do nothing about it. The houses are protected by the Moot.”
“It’s up to us to do what’s right,” Bjarne said.
Doubt took Tyrimer again, the dark thoughts. He stared into his goblet of wine, saw a man with forty-seven springs behind him. Gray hair, a sturdy chest and a beard that grew fast. Blue eyes in a face colored red from all the mulled wine, and his emotions. Who was he really? I am the king.
One could believe that the king had most power among all and could do whatever he wanted. Tyrimer wished it was so, for then he had done everything for his land. But he had discovered that wish to be just that, a dream. “I wish Mirian was here.”
“Yes,” Sigfrid said. The queen gave him a smile. “She’s a good woman.”
“And an even better knight,” Bjarne said. Tyrimer gave a smirk for he could guess who his son was thinking about. “A lady and a knight.” Her father had been Sir Simon, the greatest knight Engsmark had raised in a long time. For his services as the grandmaster of the One-Hundred-And-Ten he had been named Earl, and given the new town of Norrtmark, far to the north, near the cursed Shadnaya forest.
Tyrimer’s uncle, who sat beside the queen, took the words from Tyrimer’s mouth: “She should be here, along with Earl Göte.”
“Yes.” Tyrimer drank his wine. “Marc. Marc Estman!”
“Yes, Your Majesty!”
“Take my goblet and bring me more and by all the gods Marc, bring me a plate of the Krakar.”
The Krakars were infamous. As the largest squids in the known world they were terror for any ships save for the largest, but they tasted like food from Saagard, the gods’ own realm, with their often sung about mead hall. Well, often sung about in the olden days, before the Church and its priests.
Marc peered at him with those hazel eyes. Tyrimer remembered them …
Tyrimer couldn’t stop looking. The beggar boy sat by a house wall, dressed in clothes that had seen better days. Tyrimer ordered a knight to pick up the boy. The same day the lad was given his own room and named Tyrimer’s personal page. Now he came carrying a plate filled with Krakar slices. “I hope they taste good, Your Majesty.”
“I’m sure of it,” Tyrimer replied.
King Tyrimer looked at Marc when he went to his seat in the furthest back of Ravenhall, among the pages. The krakar tasted like food from Saagard and the whole experience was only enhanced by all the smells. Tyrimer drank more wine.
“Your Majesty, I don’t want to disturb you, but … ”
“What is it, Haer?” Queen Sigfrid took Tyrimer’s hand, and he faced her worried gaze.
“I’m afraid you’ll be in mortal danger tonight.”
Tyrimer couldn’t miss the fear in those words. Drops of sweat dropped down on the table.
“Mortal danger you say … Is it a plot? Are enemies left in my hall? Men loyal to Sverker?”
“No, Your Majesty. Those aren’t … I … ”
The court wizard had never been this pale of a fellow. The aev was old, that was true, but Tyrimer doubted that age had anything to do with Haer’s fear. Haer’s beard was more grey than white, scruffy looking, with crumbs from white, honeyed bread. He reeked of wine and vinegar. He was dressed in a purple, elegant cloak. An old student of Aindale, The Wizard University, personally recommended by Headmaster Crevir himself. For ten years he had served, largely contributing to King Tyrimer’s victory at the decisive battle of Hymlegard that ended the civil war.
“What do you mean then?” Tyrimer asked. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear the answer.
“A Darkstorm is keeping my far sight from me and magical forces dangerously close to the Dark Arts have crept up through the city.”
“Then why didn’t you warn me earlier?”
“I wanted to be correct, Your Majesty.”
The thrills of fear ran up Tyrimer’s spine, made his fingers tremble.
The gate flung open, and thirteen beings floated through the hallway.
The court grew silent, as the music died out. The strangers were dressed like those of the Cloth, in white coats with hoods. Tyrimer held his son and wife by their hands. “Who are you?” He raised himself from his throne at the King’s table.
No one replied and the strangers floated forward. Six of them had gold-white feathered wings. They were elves. However their leader seemed not to be, for he had no wings. He carried a black staff in his left hand. A staff with a decrepit, small head at the top. “Engsmark have fallen,” he said. “And from ashes, blood and death shall the Bloodweave be woven. Liberation awaits. Hear me, ye who wants freedom.”
By all the gods, he’s smiling! Tyrimer trembled when he gave Haer a gaze.
Sir Alvar led the One-Hundred-And-Ten forward with swift steps. They would lay down their lives for their king without question, and they brought the housecarls and a dozen hedge knights with them.
Haer conjured flames. They were burning with an unusual heat and Tyrimer took a deep breath. “Who are you?” he asked.
The intruder stood in the middle of Ravenhall, beneath the King’s table. He pulled back his white hood. His face beamed with a strong light and his hair shone like woven gold, but his eyes were blue, ice cold. “My name is Raazoul, the Witch King.”
“Seize him.” Tyrimer had mustered the voice of a commander, and Sir Alvar sent forth some housecarls. Raazoul waited, resting by his staff. One of the housecarls laid his hand on the Witch King’s shoulder when all five housecarls were thrown into the wall without Raazoul even moving. Tyrimer stared at the blood stained corpses that had been his men.
Guests screamed and put their palms in front of their children’s eyes. Why hadn’t Haer told him before? Perhaps he couldn’t. The Dark Arts must have clouded his far sight until it was too late. Tyrimer remembered how skillfully Haer had defeated the enemy mages at the battle of Hymlegard. He was forever grateful to the aev for that accomplishment.
Haer sent his flames towards the Witch King who just raised his hand. The flames disappeared and Raazoul floated onwards, toward the King’s Table. “Step aside, knights.”
“Kill the others!” Haer cried out. “You must kill the others!”
The aev stood beside Tyrimer, waving his arms like a mad man.
Raazoul snapped his fingers and Haer’s head exploded. Blood and brain matter flew everywhere. Bjarne sat as if nailed to his chair, pale like a corpse.
Sigfrid acted quickly, laid her arms around her son. Haer’s body was a gruesome sight, so Tyrimer didn’t judge his son.
Raazoul called a raven who flew in through the gateway, past the pillars with their outwards bulging raven sculptures. The raven landed on Raazoul’s outstretched arm. The Witch King smiled, patted his pet. The bloody bird looked at Tyrimer with blood red eyes, piercing his soul.
Raazoul floated towards the King’s table with his twelve followers behind him. The guests had gathered their children near the walls, as far away from the dark sorcerers as possible.
“Don’t touch the king,” Sir Alvar warned while leading the One-Hundred-And-Ten in lines. They came from all sides, surrounding Raazoul and his followers. The best knights in the world.
“I haven’t been reincarnated thirty-three times just to waste time on a puffed-up ignoramus,” Raazoul said, his voice soft like silk.
Sir Alvar charged in with a roar, ran his sword right through Raazoul. Blood splattered, but Raazoul just stood there, laughing. He strangled Sir Alvar. The knight fell to the floor and Raazoul took the sword out without any sign of pain and threw it onto the knight’s body. Down went Sir Alvar, the second in command of the world’s finest knightly order.
Tyrimer’s knights seemed paralyzed by fear, like the housecarls and hedge knights. No one did anything to stop the twelve dark wizards. They had seated themselves in a circle in the middle of the hall, right on the floor. Whispering in a strange language. Alvar’s blood ran on the white-black stone floor, called by the voices of the dark sorcerers. It ran in already decided lines and Tyrimer realized to his astonishment that the knight’s blood drew a pentagram on the floor. However hard to imagine that was, indeed, it happened.
But the main reason for the knights’ fear were Raazoul himself. He shrieked, a black storm of dark magic pouring out of his mouth like a swarm of locust, and dark vapor took shape as wraiths with icelike swords.
Tyrimer peered at his son. Bjarne had left his chair, he stood completely still by the table, white-faced.
“My son. Take my hand … Sigfrid … ” Tyrimer felt their hands shake while his knights rushed towards the dark mages.
The wraiths fell on the knights like robbers springing an ambush, surrounding them with great ferocity. Tyrimer drew his sword and took his shield from the left side of his throne. They were crafted with dragon’s fire. A gift from the matriarch of the Drakechain mountains. With his sword and shield Tyrimer would protect his loved ones.
Those who tried to charge the dark mages in their circle flew into the walls, crushed. Guests screamed or tried to make themselves as small as possible while others still made protective circles around their children in the hall’s end.
“This way, Your Majesty!” Marc yelled.
Thank the gods for him! Tyrimer led his son and wife and rushed behind the King’s table, followed by two knights. They sprinted onwards, away from the raised part of the hall where the King’s table were and scurried behind the long table at the right side. Children were hiding behind the table with their parents. Tyrimer had never believed that grown men in chain mails could be so frightened. But he didn’t judge them, for he felt the same.
“Hear me,” Raazoul, the Witch King bellowed. “Bend the knees and I will spare you all. Save the lives of yourselves and your children.”
“Never!” An old nobleman gave his reply.
“Very well.” Raazoul hurled a black bolt at him.
Tyrimer forced himself to run, ever onwards, leading his family. Well, not all of them. His brothers weren’t at the feast and his uncle Assar was … Gods know where.
“Servants,” Raazoul said. “You haven’t done anything to me or my kin, therefore no evil will befall you. Neither the children, for they carry no responsibility for their fathers’ deeds.”
Tyrimer turned his gaze towards the middle of Ravenhall. Uncle Assar was kneeling in front of Raazoul like all the other noblemen. Only the One-Hundred-And-Ten were still fighting, giving their all to protect King Tyrimer and his kin from the wraiths. What if Raazoul was telling the truth about saving his court? And if so – why? What would he gain? Tyrimer scarcely believed it was about mercy. No, it must be something else, but what?
Tyrimer rushed past a knight. Blood flowing from the knight’s throat, his body fell to the floor while his helm crowned head rolled away. Bjarne shrieked and his mother tried to comfort him. Queen Sigfrid, the only woman Tyrimer had ever loved.
Not many knights were left alive now. They were the best knights in the world, but against the wraiths they fell, one by one.
“In here,” Marc grunted while pointing at the wall. He pressed a stone shaped button that looked like a part of the floor and a secret doorway revealed itself.
Tyrimer shook. How could he have forgotten the secret entryway, leading beneath the sewers? The tombs of the kings of old. He was lucky to have Marc by his side.
“Your Majesty … ” Marc was marked by terror and exhaustion.
“Where does it lead?” Bjarne was still white faced.
“To the sewers,” Tyrimer replied. “Come on!”
Marc drew breaths like a sprinter, taking a torch from its hanger, and entered the secret passage.
Tyrimer swallowed. Our only chance. Marc’s torch glimmered yellow and red, waterdrops echoed far inside the passage. Tyrimer would give everything to save his kin.
His son stepped into the passage. Bjarne took a few steps and queen Sigfrid followed. She turned towards Tyrimer, motioning him to step inside. She took his hand. “Come on, hurry up.” Her hand was paler than usual, and wet.
Tyrimer were just about to step inside when something cut his stomach. He looked down at the two whips that circled around him, pulling him away, dragging him through the air.
“Tyrimer … ” Sigfrid begged while trying to keep his hand in hers. It was in vain, for Tyrimer was taken from her with great speed. He would never forget her face, marked by sorrow and fear, nor the face of his son. His gaze turned towards Marc. “Protect them.”
Marc bowed, took the queen’s hand and showed Bjarne into the passage. He pressed a button, and the doorway was no more, covered by the stone wall. Tyrimer heard their steps as they ran.
The whips forced Tyrimer to turn in midair. Tyrimer floated above his court, carried by the two whips flowing from Raazoul’s hands. The pale, glowing elf with ice cold blue eyes gave a smirk. The One-Hundred-And-Ten had fallen, and the wraiths sucked on their corpses.
Tyrimer couldn’t face the children. They were sitting like shaking rabbits, surrounded by parents taken by terror. Tears fell down their cheeks, their eyes bloodshot. They only wanted to save the children; how could he blame them?
“Uvenor,” Raazoul said.
“Yes, my master.” One of the white cloaked elven men arose from the circle of dark wizards and crossed the white-black stone floor, bowing before Raazoul.
“Travel to the Republic of Bazyn-Evenhem and keep up the pressure on our good friends, the goldsmiths. Alert our kin and guard our interests with an iron fist.”
“Yes, my master.” Uvenor was a highland elf, with white-gold feathered wings and a beautiful, glowing face beneath his hood. For he looked up at Tyrimer, smirking.
“I’ve trained you well, apprentice and friend.” Raazoul’s voice was soft again. He seemed the master manipulator. “Together we’ll win. Together we will bring about the Liberation.”
Uvenor smiled. A true smile this time, filled with pride and accomplishment. He turned towards the gateway. Leaving Ravenhall, all eyes followed him as the howling wind brought snow into the hall. The black pillars with their outwards bulging raven sculptures now gave a whole new mood. A dark one, marred by fear. Tyrimer shuddered when Raazoul pulled him in, like a fish on a fishing hook. Now he was only a foot away from the Witch King, staring into his cold, blue eyes.
“I’ll have my reward,” Raazoul said. “The heart of a king.”
Uncle Assar looked at Tyrimer. A face of sorrow, of fear … and shame. It is not your fault Tyrimer wanted to say. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t say anything. For he panicked, more afraid than ever on the battlefield.
Raazoul took his long nail and pressed it right through Tyrimer’s chain mail, gambeson and linen cloth. Tyrimer felt like a ghost, nailed by fear. Raazoul stretched forth his arm, and Tyrimer felt his heart being grabbed, taken swiftly from him. His heart. Raazoul had taken it and Tyrimer stared at it with glazed eyes as Raazoul held it in front of him. It was still beating. The last thing Tyrimer saw was Raazoul, opening his mouth. The Witch King took a bite.