Ballad of the Bladesong

Act 2

Chapter 18

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

> On occasion, the Spine's hold on the northern winds weakens, and the heavens unbind early winter's fury upon the farmlands and forests of Southern Brella. The storms that follow—Gauntlets, they are called—leave no room for weakness. In their wake, only the strong endure, be it crop, beast, or man.

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> —Historie and Geographie of the Provincia Empiris

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> Gaius Elvianus

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>  

White.

Godfrey’s world had collapsed into a featureless monochrome, the blinding white seeping into every corner of his senses. The storm’s grip dulled everything—scent, touch, taste—leaving only the cold void of numbness in its place.

He stumbled forward, relying on the path Hawker had carved ahead of him. Each step into the packed snow was the only proof Hawker still lived. Where the snow resisted, where his feet found only sluggish progress instead of sinking to collapse in a pale approximation of walking, Godfrey knew he followed in Hawker’s wake.

Godfrey knew he could be warm. He could heat his blood, force it through his limbs, and banish the cold entirely. Blissful warmth would be his again. And in a dozen minutes, so would death.

So, he walked on.

Three days had passed since the nightmare at Oakvale. Three days since his own blind stupidity and arrogance had condemned his family to death. Three days since Elara…

Godfrey trudged forward.

The Gauntlet had torn through the woods around them, swooping upon their guilt-ridden flight as if delivering judgment. At first, he and Hawker had made good progress—silent, strained progress.

Godfrey couldn’t bring himself to speak to Hawker. A part of him knew his anger was misplaced. Most of him didn’t care.

He didn’t know the village’s fate. With each step, the growing belief gnawed at him—they had fled too soon. Hawker had forced the retreat before they could learn the outcome of Tarlow and John’s fight with Corvin. Corvin was a full Knight, and Tarlow and John were but old retired Soldiers, true. But nothing was certain.

And Godfrey had no idea what had become of the villagers—those he’d grown up with, been raised by. A stab of guilt twisted in his gut for Liam. His old friend had been trapped at the heart of Corvin’s cordon. It was unlikely he had slipped through the breach his family had carved.

Eventually, they reached a stopping point—or rather, Godfrey walked straight into Hawker. Hawker spun, hand snapping to the hilt of his weapon, eyes scanning Godfrey’s face. Then, he pointed to a darker patch of shadow within the blank infinite.

Hawker led them to a gnarled willow, its sagging branches heavy with snow. The space beneath was enclosed by walls of loose-packed snow, a cocoon of sorts. Godfrey could already tell—they would have to dig themselves out when the storm finally passed.

As they settled into the cramped space, the fierce snap of the wind softened to a low, mournful moan. The two men filled the shelter completely, shoulder to shoulder. Hawker broke the silence first, his voice low and steady.

“Get what rest you can. We’re here until the Gauntlet passes.”

Godfrey nodded, his hands fumbling for his last vial of whitefire—their emergency rations after the blizzard had destroyed their supplies. He stared at the milky liquid for a moment before uncorking it, downing it, and shifting to find a comfortable place to pass out.

Time blurred, and Godfrey drifted in and out of fevered dreams. He fought to impose order on the chaos, as John had taught him, but it slipped through his grasp. Dream-Hawker stood over him, stroking the edge of his skinning knife, eyes hollow and gleaming like molten glass. Dream-Elara appeared, kissed him, slapped him, then cursed him for her death. If only he’d been stronger, smarter, more useful. Maybe she’d still be alive.

Godfrey jolted awake. The wind outside their cocoon had quieted to a whisper, and Hawker sat asleep, head tilted back, his skinning knife resting on his lap.

Godfrey sharpened his vision, feeling the cold rush of energy pull away from his extremities, chilling him painfully. Hawker’s chest wound had soaked the now-filthy bandages, weeping pus and blood. The sickly-sweet smell of decay hung in the close air.

Hawker muttered in his sleep, his voice low and strained, as if speaking to someone far away. “Captain… the boy’s not worth it… he’ll kill us all… he killed us all.”

His words slipped into the still air, laced with the weight of nightmares, thick with the gasp of hopeless exhaustion.

XXX

When next Godfrey woke, all he could hear was silence. The stink of the cramped space was suffocating to him, and he began scrabbling at the snowy walls of their enclosure.

Godfrey dug for a considerable distance before the snow collapsed on top of him, and he rolled back into the space of the enclosure as loose snow piled in with a blast of stinging sunlight. He heard muffled curses, and he turned to dig Hawker out of the miniature avalanche.

Hawker pulled himself out of the snow with a grunt, the remnants of the avalanche still clinging to his clothes. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Godfrey, who was brushing snow from his own hair and tunic. The post-storm silence was deafening, the kind that only came after nature had exhausted itself. The air was cold, sharp, and almost too bright after the long confinement in the shelter.

For a moment, neither spoke. The wind had died, leaving only the creaking of ice and the distant sound of dripping water as the snow slowly began to melt around them. The anger simmered between them, unspoken but present, feeding off the exhaustion and uncertainty of the past few days.

Godfrey finally broke the silence. “That wound looks worse.” His voice was flat, half-concerned, half-annoyed. “We need to check it.”

Hawker’s eyes flashed, and before Godfrey could blink, he snapped, “I’m fine!” The words came out more forcefully than he intended, his breath ragged. He gripped the hilt of his knife as if he needed something to anchor him.

Godfrey clenched his jaw. “You’re not fine! You’re just too stubborn to admit it. What’s the point of dragging ourselves through all this snow if you’re just going to die from some infected wound?”

Hawker took a step closer, his feverish face tight with anger. “You think I don’t know how to survive? You think a greenhorn like you knows the first thing about surviving out here, in the mud?”

Godfrey clenched his fists, his voice rising. “You’re not fine, Hawker! What are you trying to do? Die out here? You’re ignoring an obvious problem, and for what? You think dragging me through this storm will fix anything if you’re already dead?”

The silence that followed was sharp, as both men stared at each other, breathless. Their chests heaved from the exertion, from the weight of everything unspoken hanging in the air between them. For a long moment, neither moved.

Then, Hawker faltered. His grip on his knife loosened, and he swayed slightly, catching himself on a nearby snow-covered rock. He muttered something under his breath, his other hand rubbing at his face, smearing the dirt and exhaustion.

Godfrey’s chest tightened, the anger still there but fading now, overtaken by a cold reality. He could see it in Hawker’s posture—in the way the older man leaned heavily on the rock, the fever clearly wearing him down.

“We need to move,” Hawker said, quieter this time, his voice raspy. His breathing was uneven, but he forced himself to stand upright, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Sitting here isn’t going to help either of us.”

Godfrey swallowed his retort, glancing down at the ugly wound on Hawker’s chest, the bandages soaked through with pus and blood. He wanted to argue again, to insist they stop and treat it, but Hawker’s tone left no room for debate.

Instead, he nodded, biting back the words. He turned and began gathering what little gear they had left, his hands moving stiffly in the cold. The tension between them lingered, neither willing to break it, but both knowing they didn’t have time for any more fights.

Neither of them spoke as they moved onward, the snow dense and deep, the sun glaring down on them from a cloudless sky.

XXX

Godfrey perched atop the oak limb, nestled in a deep crook in the gnarled canopy of a naked old tree. Below him, a rabbit was burrowing beneath the snow. With his slightly Focused eyesight, he had been able to spot the slight depression in the snow as the rabbit tunneled in search of food. The poor creature must have been caught just as unaware of the Gauntlet as Godfrey and Hawker.

Godfrey pulled his parrying dagger and as he did so, almost unconsciously he tried to hum—just a simple melody, like he had done countless times before before—but the sound faltered. The notes tangled in his chest, tight and suffocating, refusing to come out. His heart raced, faster and faster, until his vision blurred, and he couldn’t catch his breath. Panic clawed at him, twisting his stomach into knots.

The horror of Oakvale—the screams, the blood, Elara’s face—flooded his mind. His body trembled, and he barely noticed as his grip on the branch began to slip. The world tilted dangerously, and he almost tumbled from his perch, only managing to steady himself at the last moment.

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The rabbit he had been stalking, oblivious until now, froze for a split second under the blanket of powder and began a rapid flight.

Godfrey swallowed hard, forcing his mind to focus. He slammed his Control into place on his heart, dragging his blood pressure down with sheer will. The world sharpened as he steadied his breath, his pulse slowing to a painful thud in his ears.

With one swift motion, he spun his dagger and threw it, the blade arcing through the air. It struck the rabbit, a dull thud against the snow-covered ground, but the animal wasn’t dead. It twitched, struggling weakly.

Godfrey moved to climb down, but his hands, still shaking from the panic, slipped against the frozen bark. Before he could stop himself, he fell, crashing into the thigh-high snow below. The cold stung, numbing his legs, and for a moment, he lay there, breathless and dazed.

XXX

Godfrey trudged back to the pitiful campsite, the rabbit dangling from his hand, its blood dripping in a crimson trail across the pristine snow. Each step felt heavier than the last, exhaustion tempering his path.

Hawker was asleep again, curled up beneath both of their cloaks, his body shivering despite the layers. He muttered incoherently, lost in whatever feverish dreams plagued him.

Too tired to bother with properly cleaning the rabbit, Godfrey shoved the whole carcass into the side of the fire he’d started before setting out to hunt. The flames hissed and popped, the smell of burning fur filling the air.

Godfrey woke without realizing he'd even fallen asleep. The sharp scent of burning meat filled his nostrils, dragging him back to consciousness. The rabbit carcass lay blackened, fat sizzling and popping, with small fires dancing across its charred surface.

Grimacing, he stood and kicked the ruined carcass into the snow, watching the flames snuff out in a hiss of steam. Kneeling, he used his dagger to hack away at the rabbit, cutting off chunks without care for whether they were burnt, cooked, or raw.

Soon, a small pile of mismatched rabbit meat lay before him. He didn’t bother sorting it—hunger gnawed at him too deeply. He shoved a piece into his mouth, barely chewing.

Hawker was awake now, stirring weakly. Godfrey gathered the most passable pieces of meat, those that weren’t entirely ruined, and placed them next to Hawker without a word.

Neither spoke, too drained to muster words, their thoughts buried beneath layers of exhaustion and cold. The wind had died down, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake, but neither of them noticed. They focused only on the simple act of eating—surviving.

When the last scraps were gone, they sat quietly, the fire burning low, each lost in their own thoughts.

XXX

Three days later, it happened.

Hawker was ahead, trudging through the snow with the same grim determination that had carried them this far. Godfrey followed, his mind dulled by the constant cold and hunger, barely paying attention to the world around him.

Then, without warning, Hawker staggered. His knees buckled, and he crumpled into the snow, his body going limp as though something had finally snapped inside him.

“Hawker!” Godfrey rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside him. His hands shook as he grabbed Hawker’s shoulder and rolled him over. His skin was flushed an angry red, and when Godfrey touched his forehead, he recoiled.

Hawker was burning. Feverish heat radiated from his body like a furnace, yet he shivered violently, his whole frame trembling.

Godfrey pressed a hand to Hawker’s chest and felt the rapid, shallow breaths. His skin was slick with sweat, despite the freezing air around them. Hawker’s lips moved, mumbling something incoherent, lost in the haze of his fever.

Godfrey grunted as he dragged Hawker through the snow, struggling to get him to a nearby copse of trees where they’d have some shelter from the biting wind. Once there, he carefully propped Hawker’s head up, using a bundled cloak as support. The fever still raged through Hawker’s body, his breath shallow and his face flushed.

Without wasting time, Godfrey began packing snow around Hawker’s neck and wrists, the chill seeping into his own hands as he worked. He needed to bring the fever down, but not freeze him completely.

With Hawker stabilized, Godfrey turned his attention to starting a fire. His fingers trembled as he focused, channeling all the heat from his body into them, feeling the rest of himself go cold. His Control sharpened, pulling heat away from his core. His hands burned with heat, while the rest of his body shivered under the strain.

The spark leapt between his fingertips, and with a flick, the fire ignited. The small flame caught, slowly growing until it was enough to melt snow. Godfrey worked quickly, scooping handfuls of snow into his canteen and holding it over the fire. As soon as the snow turned to water, he let it cool slightly before bringing it to Hawker’s lips, easing a trickle of the precious liquid into his mouth.

Hawker stirred, his lips instinctively latching onto the canteen as Godfrey offered him water. He sucked at it greedily, the liquid trickling down his throat. His eyes fluttered open, fever-bright and wild, the sickness still gripping him hard.

Suddenly, his gaze locked onto Godfrey, and something dark flickered in his expression—resentment, anger. His lips curled into a sneer.

“It’s your fucking fault, you know that?” Hawker’s voice was hoarse, but the malice in it was clear. He sat up slightly, his movements jerky and unsteady, but his words cut deep. “All of it.”

Godfrey froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He wasn’t sure if it was the fever talking or something deeper, but the look in Hawker’s eyes—wild and crazed—sent a chill down his spine.

“If you weren’t so damn useless, maybe… maybe they’d still be alive,” Hawker spat, his breath ragged, his face twisted in a mix of rage and delirium. “You think dragging me through the snow will fix anything? You think you can make up for it? You should’ve died back there. Not them.”

Godfrey recoiled, the weight of the accusations settling heavily on his chest, but he could see the fever had its claws deep in Hawker now, warping his words into something cruel and spiteful.

Hawker’s eyes blazed with fever, his voice a jagged edge. “The Captain… the Captain was wrong about you,” he hissed, spitting the words like venom. “You’re not some savior. You’re nothing special.”

Godfrey flinched but didn’t move, his heart pounding as the words sliced through the frigid air.

“At best,” Hawker continued, his breath shallow and labored, “you’re a broken weapon. A failure. A forgotten bastard son of an inbred line.” His lips twisted into a cruel smirk, as if the insult gave him some kind of sick satisfaction.

Godfrey swallowed the hurt, pushing it down into the pit of his stomach, and turned his focus back to the fire. The canteen still needed more water. He grabbed another handful of snow, packing it into the metal container before holding it over the flames again.

The heat from the fire was a welcome distraction, warming his fingers as the snow slowly melted into liquid. Godfrey’s hands shook. He didn’t look at Hawker as the older man rambled behind him.

When the water was ready, Godfrey let it cool before offering it to Hawker again. He didn’t wait for thanks or acknowledgment.

Godfrey crouched by the fire, watching as the water began to bubble and steam in the small canteen. Once it boiled, he carefully lifted it away from the flames and buried it in a snowbank to cool. The crackling fire cast flickering shadows around them, but his focus was on the task ahead.

With the water cooling, he turned his attention to Hawker’s pack, rummaging through it until he found a spare shirt, worn and threadbare but usable. His fingers were stiff from the cold, but he managed to tear the fabric into long, thin strips. Makeshift bandages—they’d have to do.

“Oh, so he’s a fucking thief now too,” Hawker muttered, his feverish gaze hardening as he glared daggers at Godfrey. His voice was low, thick with bitterness.

Godfrey ignored the jab, though it stung more than he’d admit. “I have to clean the wound, and put new bandages on it,” he said quietly, focusing on the task. He knelt beside Hawker, the makeshift bandages ready and the cooled water in hand.

But the moment Godfrey reached for the wound, Hawker jerked back, his eyes wild. “Don’t fucking touch me!” he screamed, his voice hoarse but raw with anger and fear. “Don’t touch me, you mutt! Don’t fucking touch me!”

Godfrey recoiled for a moment, startled by the outburst. Hawker’s hands clawed at the air, trying to push him away despite the clear weakness in his limbs.

Godfrey’s hands trembled as he tried to pin down Hawker’s flailing limbs. The older man’s movements were weak at first, his body still racked with fever, but then Godfrey felt it—an unnatural surge of strength.

Hawker’s muscles burned under his skin, his face contorted with effort as his Control kicked in. The sudden burst of power was terrifying, and Godfrey could feel the heat radiating from him, a fierce energy that only made Hawker’s fight stronger. Hawker was burning his muscles, forcing his body to respond, even in its weakened state.

“Stop!” Godfrey gasped, scrabbling at Hawker’s arms, trying to hold him down. But it was like trying to wrestle a wild animal, Hawker’s strength growing with every second.

Panic rising in his chest, Godfrey’s frustration boiled over. In a frantic, desperate move, he balled his fist and swung, catching Hawker across the jaw. The impact echoed in the quiet, and Hawker’s body slumped back into the snow, dazed. His eyes fluttered, and for a brief moment, he was still.

Godfrey panted, staring at his unconscious mentor—his family—his hands shaking uncontrollably.

Without hesitating, Godfrey set to work. He dipped the torn shirt strips into the now-cooled water, wringing out the excess. The wound on Hawker’s chest was gruesome, an ugly gash, red and inflamed, with pus oozing from its edges. The infection had spread deep, the flesh around the wound swollen and tender.

Gingerly, Godfrey pressed the wet cloth to the wound, the coolness of the water doing little to ease the heat radiating from Hawker’s chest. As he wiped away the grime, bits of pus and dirt stuck to the cloth, staining it yellow and brown. His stomach churned, but he pushed through, carefully cleaning the edges of the gash.

There were chunks of dead tissue embedded in the wound, clinging to the raw flesh. Godfrey used the tip of his dagger—its blade still warm from the fire—to gently pry them free. Each pull was agonizingly slow, every second feeling like an eternity. His hands were slick with sweat, the blade glinting in the firelight as he worked.

Hawker stirred, a low moan escaping his lips as the pain began to reach him even through his fevered haze. His muscles twitched, his body recoiling from the touch, but Godfrey pressed on, biting back the sobs that threatened to break through.

“Just a little longer,” he muttered to himself, though his voice shook. He removed another chunk of dead tissue, this one larger, pulling it free from the sticky wound with a sickening squelch. He wiped the area clean, revealing angry red flesh underneath.

The cloth in his hands was filthy now, stained with the remnants of infection and decay. Godfrey dipped it into the water again, watching as the liquid clouded with grime. He wrung it out and resumed his work, wiping down the wound until the surface was as clean as he could make it.

Hawker groaned again, louder this time, his eyelids fluttering as he began to come around. His body tensed, but he was too weak to fight anymore. His breathing was shallow, and Godfrey knew the fever was still ravaging him from within.

“Almost done,” Godfrey whispered, though he wasn’t sure if it was meant for Hawker or for himself. His hands were shaking so badly now, it was hard to tie the makeshift bandages around the wound, but he forced himself to keep going.

With the wound cleaned, he carefully wrapped the strips of torn shirt around Hawker’s chest, securing them tightly enough to hold but not so tight that they would cut off circulation. His fingers fumbled as he tied the final knot, but eventually, it held.

Hawker had stopped moaning. His breathing had evened out, though it was still labored, and the tension in his body had eased. The infection was still there—Godfrey could feel the heat radiating from the wound—but for now, it was bandaged and clean.

Godfrey sat back, his legs trembling beneath him as the weight of the past few minutes crashed down on him. His hands were stained with blood and grime, the stench of infection still clinging to the air. Tears welled up in his eyes, and this time, he didn’t try to stop them.

His chest heaved with silent sobs. He stared at Hawker, lying motionless in the snow, and felt utterly helpless. No matter what he did, it never seemed to be enough.

With a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion, Godfrey threw his head back and screamed at the sky. The sound echoed through the trees, raw and ragged, filled with everything he couldn’t say. Everything he had no one left to tell. The sky offered no answer.