Ballad of the Bladesong

Book One

Prologue

Flight through the Snow

> The prison forts above the Spine, once designed to hold the most dangerous criminals, have become the preferred exile for the politically defeated. Lavish within, these gilded cages offer comfort in exchange for freedom, but the relentless weather and wild beasts ensure they remain inescapable; palaces of pleasure amidst the rocky ice.

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> –Historie and Geographie of the Provincia Empiris

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> Gaius Elvianus

The black wind howled, careening through pine limbs long since shattered in the frigid air of Northern Brella, as Halt, Knight-Captain of the Hand of the Empire, polished his shield and prepared to die.

Around a campfire struggling to stay alive against the insistent, icy wind, three Soldiers moved with the deliberate calm of seasoned warriors, their actions deceptively casual, masking the tension that crackled in the night air.

The fire’s light flickered across their weathered faces, casting sharp shadows that danced with every shift of the flames.

Though their words were light and their movements unhurried, each man was acutely aware of the unseen eyes watching them from the darkness beyond the fire’s glow—the ambush was imminent.

Hawker, a sinewy man of three dozen years, stood like a coiled spring. His red hair was wild and dusted with frost, etching lines of white determination across his pale, scar-laden face. His sharp gaze traced the narrow road to the west, now fading into the encroaching darkness, before sweeping back to the dense line of snow-blanketed trees that loomed just beyond the firelight.

The wind rustled through the underbrush, carrying with it the faint, unsettling signs that had confirmed his suspicions long before. He turned back to Halt, his expression grim yet vindicated.

"I told you," Hawker murmured, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with the satisfaction of being proven right. "Someone is tracking us, and guiding them towards a purpose. They shouldn’t have followed the road—they should’ve kept to the ridge, only coming for us if they were desperate. But these... they’re following us too closely. This campsite—as I have already said—will be our grave if we remain here much longer."

Halt grunted in affirmation, his gaze steady as he processed Hawker’s assessment. He continued polishing his large steel kite shield, each stroke meticulous and unhurried, as if the impending danger was of no consequence. Halt’s aged frame defied expectations with its solid build, exhibiting muscle and lean power that might have appeared out of place, yet on him, it served as evidence of a life shaped by battle. His full plate armor, heavy and imposing, sat heavily upon his shoulders.

Beneath the frozen steel, a thick woolen gambeson served as the only barrier between his body and the unforgiving metal. The environment had no visible effect on Halt, but rather intensified his aura of sharp lethality. The Captain finished his inspection of the shield, his movements still stoic, then lifted his gaze and glanced expectantly at John, the youngest among them, who had been silently observing the exchange with a keen, thoughtful expression.

John’s eyes swept over the clearing, his eyes sharp as he assessed the situation. "They’ll surround us," he said, his voice steady, "tightening the noose until there’s no escape. They’ll stay just out of sight, waiting for us to make the first move, hoping we’ll panic and exhaust ourselves fending off probing attacks."

He paused, then glanced at Halt, his expression more intense. "But we can’t play into their hands. We stick to the original plan, or as best we can now—keep them at bay until we can break through to the road, and undergo a fighting retreat until we reach better ground. We’ve positioned ourselves terribly, but there is still time. There’s no need to walk into checkmate, not yet."

There was a subtle plea in his tone, an unspoken appeal to Halt to reconsider, but Halt’s face remained impassive as he looked, finally, at Tarlow.

Tarlow’s eyes gleamed with a mix of fear and anticipation as Halt’s gaze settled on him. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his falchion, fingers tapping out an eager staccato, tap-tap-taptap, tap-tap-taptap.

“When the time comes,” he said, his voice calm yet charged with excitement, “we’ll need to dictate the pace of the dance. They’re cunning, yes, but they’re also predictable. They’ll strike hard, try to overwhelm us with not just sheer force, but grace and style as well, yes. But if we keep our movements sharp and precise, we can disrupt their rhythm.”

Tarlow glanced at the dark treeline, the movement sending crackles through his frozen blonde hair, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “Focus on the leader first. If we can throw him off, the rest will hesitate. They rely on instinct, and if we can break that, we can turn their own momentum against them. It’ll be a deadly dance, but one we can lead—if we stay sharp and keep them on the back foot.”

Halt considered his Soldiers. He was proud that he had taught them what he could, while he could. He had pushed them to their limits, and they had learned well, taken his lessons to heart. But there was one thing he couldn’t teach them—how to see this mission through to the end. He regretted that, though he didn’t let it show. No time for regrets, not now. It was time.

Halt rose, then slowly drew his bastard sword from where it rested against the log on which he was sitting.

“They come,” he muttered, his eyes flicking to Hawker and John. “I understand your concerns. Still, this will work, and if it does not, you will have your opportunity for a fighting retreat.”

He locked eyes with John and added, with a weary smile, “You’re right about the danger, but tonight, I’ll be dancing without a partner. Do not hesitate, follow my orders exactly when the time arrives.”

As the unforgiving wind blew down the fire in the pit to glowing embers, the four men moved into position, forming a defensive square around the dying coals, casting a dim, flickering light. The forest around them was alive with movement—dark shapes flitting through the trees, barely visible in the shadows. With steady breaths and taut muscles, the men were acutely aware of the unseen threat closing in.

From the shadows, a true monster of the North emerged. Fur as black as the void, dusted with frost that glinted eerily in the dim light. Its every movement exuded a terrifying grace, muscles coiling beneath its thick coat, each step a deliberate and deadly calculation. The beast’s cold, unblinking eyes locked onto the group, and in that moment, it was clear—this was no ordinary predator, but a force of nature, intent on fulfilling its grim purpose.

The black wind howled once more, sending shivers through Halt’s body; and, as the wind called, the beast, silhouetted by the light of the dying fire, shifted its immense weight, reared its head, and answered. The howl that tore from its throat was as thunder—deep, resonant, and rolling through the night—followed by the flash of icy fear that struck the hearts of the four men, sharp and unyielding.

The beast's call faded, its lupine head lowering with the weight of intent. Its black, stony gaze did not linger on the men, not even on the one who stood facing it; weathered, the gray in his beard a quiet testament to battles fought and years stolen, the defiant snarl on his face contrasting heavily with the potent scent of his fear.

Instead, the direwolf’s gaze settled on a small bundle lying beside the fading embers. The beast went still, its hackles bristling, as frosted breath streamed from its scarred snout in measured, ominous billows. It did not advance, but remained fixed on the bundle, saliva gathering and freezing upon its sickly pink gums. The beast had found its prey.

"Good," Halt said, his voice weary yet commanding, resonating with the authority that had instilled both fear and respect in countless Squires across the Empire. "Hawker, you and the boys need not die. The beasts are Compelled, but their wits are dull. This will work."

"No, Captain, I don’t think so," Hawker replied, his bloodshot eyes flitting anxiously between the beasts. Despite the terror gripping him, his voice remained steadfast, the acceptance of his impending fate clear. “The pack won’t let us escape. They can track us through these woods better than I could. I will stand with you, to the end.”

"I taught you better than that," Halt spat, his weathered face etched with disappointment, though his gaze remained fixed on the lead beast. "The eyes, Hawker. They’ve locked onto their prey, and once they’re… finished… they will scatter, confused. But it needs to be convincing. Take the boys and go, now."

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“Sir—” Hawker began, his voice trembling with fear, but edged with defiant outrage.

“That was an order, Soldier. I can hold here for a little more than a minute, and the Compulsion will end soon thereafter. Your destination is downwind. There should be no pursuit if you move quickly.” Halt’s voice, usually hard as iron, was now laced with a rare tenderness reserved for the man that had once been his Squire, now a Soldier of the Hand. The boy, as Halt considered all of his charges boys until Knighthood; brave yet foolish, Hawker had been ready to lay down his life without question, in keeping with his vows. Halt hoped the boy wouldn’t be foolish enough to keep all of his vows, but there was no time for that now. No time for anything, in fact.

“Go. Now. Do not turn back for me, no matter what you hear,” Halt commanded, leaving no room for argument.

Hawker still tried. “Please, si–” Hawker began, pleading.

“NOW, SOLDIER!” Halt screamed, and as he did so, he shifted his weight and attention forward once more, with finality, a third dismissal which dared Hawker to disobey.

Hawker recognized Halt’s tone with an instinctual clarity, honed over countless hours of training beneath the resolute Captain of Arms. His deepest fear surpassed the darkness of battle, the menace of direwolves, and even the uncertainty of his fate beyond this mission. Above all, what terrified him most was the prospect of disobeying an angry commanding officer.

“John, Tarlow, we are moving!” barked Hawker to the two Soldiers who were busy scanning the treeline for the rest of the pack. Hawker, John, and Tarlow broke from the defensive square, and formed a triangle. They began to shuffle to the edge of the warm, shifting light cast by the coals which had nearly expired in the icy wind, still convinced the rest of the pack would descend upon them as the group split.

The Soldiers continued to retreat, and they were surprised when the wolves in the trees ignored them and, seemingly oblivious or apathetic that three potential meals were escaping, simply closed the rapidly shrinking cordon around Halt, who had not stopped gazing defiantly back at the alpha direwolf. Even at the end, the old man had taken the time to teach his Soldiers another lesson. His last lesson.

Soon, the Soldiers lost sight of the dwindling light. They broke their tight formation and began an unnatural, urgent jog, a rhythm born of disciplined training. Hawker, his rucksack awkwardly unbalanced for the first time, carefully ensured the weight remained steady during the escape.

XXX

The boys were gone, and as Halt suspected, the Compelled beasts gave no chase. That was good. Instead, the wolves advanced while continuing to circle. The lead direwolf—a truly massive beast, twenty hands tall at the shoulder and twice again as long—continued to stare at him. Unmoving, expectant.

The beast was challenging him. Odd. But it told him something; whoever Compelled the pack had a twisted sense of honor. Curious, given their target.

Halt knew he would die here. He had lived long enough, 56 years. Not a good life, but he’d tried. Hawker would be fine. Good man. Halt had seen it the first time the boy had hurt another Squire. Hawker had been horrified at the blood, spent the night in vigil. No one asked him to, but he did. Wanted to apologize when the other Squire woke up. Halt couldn’t remember the other boy’s name. Jack something. Died later, lost in the wilds. Hawker tried to track him, but the boy had wandered into a river after eating the wrong mushrooms.

Memories swirled, tinged with the absurdity of the moment. Was this his life flashing before his eyes? How cliche. The thought tugged a chuckle from Halt's lips, a sound that made the alpha beast tilt its head, curious. The sight was so incongruous, so bizarre, that Halt couldn’t help but laugh, a bellowing sound that echoed through the frigid air. Tears stung his cheeks as they froze, but the laughter continued. He hadn’t felt this good in years, most likely because he had just flooded his brain with a cocktail of humours, a final gift to himself before the end. Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Halt’s mind sharpened. His heart rate surged, then steadied with a mental command, channeling blood where it was needed. His left wrist, injured during the flight from the prison fort, required a quick fix as he would never have access to Mithra’s Resonance again. He triggered rapid bone growth, calcifying the broken bones, the pain intense but manageable. Good, that would hold for a bit, at least. The repercussions of this process did not concern him; he would never see another sunrise.

He would never see Mithra again. He shoved the thought away, somewhere deep.

Halt considered. He would not need to worry about any backlash ever again. So, Halt infused his body with every ounce of strength he could muster. Muscles swelled and hardened, tendons tightened, bones enriched with iron digested strategically for this moment. He choked off blood flow to non-essential organs. Finally, he cut off the sense of fear that he had been purposefully coursing through his body.

Halt breathed one last lungful of the frozen, bitter air. The cloying, rank scent of fear that had blanketed the small campsite was gone. He thought of the ocean, and home. Yes. This wasn’t so bad.

Halt smiled.

The first thing the beast noticed was the cloying scent of fear abruptly vanishing, causing it to visibly hesitate.

The second thing the beast noticed was the frozen mud beneath Halt’s back foot cracking, a sudden shatter spreading like ripples across still water, the force of the sudden movement sending mist and tiny shards of ice flying.

The third thing the beast noticed was its reflection in the Halt’s shield—buffed religiously every night through a habit only veteran soldiers could claim—before its snout crumpled and its head shot backwards. The force of the blow was such that the great wolf’s forepaws were sent skyward, like a bucking stallion.

Halt advanced behind his shield with a forceful thrust, spinning in a masterful display of acrobatics. With precise, economical movement, the tip of his steel pierced the beast’s heart. He twisted his arm and slashed away, tearing through flesh and rib with savage efficiency.

The backlash was already hitting him, and he swayed on his feet. He did not have much energy left in his body to sustain this level of Control and Focus, not after the long march through the cold dark. He Focused his mind anyway, not bothering to temper his humours given the circumstances.

Halt’s vision narrowed to a pinhole, the world shrinking to a sliver of reality. The hesitation he could sense from the remaining beasts after the sudden and shocking violence was waning. The wolves were now nothing but shadows, moving in a quick, tight circle, a dark dance in the dying light of the embers that would make Tarlow weep. The beasts’ eyes gleamed with hunger, rage, and an unnatural need. Halt smiled again–a mirthless curve of his lips, knowing what came next.

As the first beast lunged, he began his own deadly dance, each movement precise and lethal, placing him perfectly to protect the small, innocent bundle next to the fleeting coals.

Halt felt the familiar power surging through him—a desperate, consuming fire—as he pushed his body beyond its limits, every movement becoming a deadly blur. His muscles screamed in agony, devouring themselves from within. Left, right, left, right, the wolves were struck down. The dance became a staggering struggle as the Control Halt asserted was consuming him rapidly. As the wolves closed in, he collapsed beside the dying coals, his vision darkening. With a final, trembling breath, he wrapped himself around the small bundle, his body breaking apart even as he shielded it, and the wolves, seeing their prey was finally vulnerable, tore into and, eventually, through him.

Halt's body lay motionless, surrounded by the bloodied remains of the direwolves that had dared to challenge him. The dark shapes circled him no more, their snarls silenced by the brutal efficiency of his final stand. The wolves, driven by an unnatural compulsion, focused all their fury on the small bundle he had fiercely protected, their sharp teeth tearing into it with frenzied violence.

But as the last shred of cloth was torn away, revealing nothing but empty rags, the wolves hesitated. Their bloodlust ebbed, replaced by confusion as the Compulsion that had bound them to this deadly task began to unravel. The direwolves, no longer under the thrall of their unseen master, shook their massive heads, nostrils flaring as the scent of men—real men—reached them.

They were far from home, in a land not their own, and the realization brought a shudder through the pack. The wolves backed away from Halt’s lifeless body, now understanding that the true prey had eluded them, but without the Compulsion they felt no need to pursue.

The wolves, once controlled to a single purpose, now scattered, driven by a deep, primal urge to flee from the scent of men and fire, returning to the wild where they belonged. The coals glowed briefly before fading, the last witness to Halt’s sacrifice.

XXX

The Soldiers pressed on through the night, their breath heavy in the cold air, leaving trails of mist in their wake. The path to Oakvale through the Shattered Expanse was rough and narrow, forcing them into single file, with Hawker leading the way. The weight of the rucksack on his back seemed to grow heavier with each step, but he kept his pace steady, his thoughts focused only on the next step, the two younger Soldiers following close behind, their faces set in grim determination. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the crunch of their boots on the frozen ground. None spoke; no words were needed, or wanted.

The men made a cold camp fifteen miles south of the clearing where they had last seen Halt. There was no fire this time, only the distant glow of stars partially obscured by the heavy clouds above the peaks of the Brellan Spine. The air was frigid, biting through their cloaks and armor, but none of them complained. The silence of the night was broken only by the occasional rustle of branches and the soft crunch of snow beneath their boots as they shifted uncomfortably on the cold ground.

Hawker kept watch throughout the night. One of the first things a young Squire is taught at the Institute is to alter the mind such that sleep cannot claim them. The cold camp was silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind and the distant call of a nightbird. John and Tarlow lay curled beneath their cloaks, their breathing deep and steady. They had been through much, all of them, but they were resilient, as all Soldiers had to be.

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold, Hawker finally allowed himself to exhale. The cold, relentless night had passed, and with it, the immediate danger. He gently eased the bundle from his rucksack, unwrapping it with care. The small face within was serene, untouched by the terror and bloodshed that had claimed so many lives.

Hawker gazed at the boy, a glimmer of hope igniting within him. He had an idea to cling to, like so much flotsam in a tempest. The road ahead would be long, filled with danger and uncertainty, but in this small thing, this tiny life, there was a chance for redemption, for a future beyond the shadow of the Purge, the degradation of the aristocracy. The Soldier’s resolve hardened. They would protect this child; him, and Tarlow, and John, no matter the cost. Halt had given them that chance, a chance at both life and renewed purpose. Now, it was up to them to see it through.

As the cold began to nip at his face, Godfrey, last son of the Androgae, last of the Royal Blood of the Thels, began to give a soft cry; a sound of life, of survival against all odds. This was the secret the Captain had given his life for.

In the distance, the first birds began to sing, their voices carrying on the cold morning air. The world was waking up, and with it, came the promise of a new beginning.