10 YEARS AGO
The air was so cold it was almost suffocating. Snowflakes drifted through the glacial air like white bugs, twirling under the gentle push of an arctic wind. Icicles hung from tree branches like small, sharpened knives. The wind bit at the traveling men and wrapped around them like a cloak. One hundred men in their leathery animal skins and fur-lined brooches trod upon frozen ground. The ground was frozen, the path treacherous. Patches of black ice collected in divots along the path.
The men were a long way from home–and had been for a very long time. Some hid their discomfort, refusing to let the cold win. Couldn’t let the cold show, or the cold would show on you, had become the mantra. The cold would win that battle, if you let it. Hypothermia would set in. They were in the cold’s territory now anyways. They had known it would be like this.
Other men in the group kept their heads down and eyes squinted as the bitter cold snapped at their eyes. Tears drew down their rosy cheeks and threatened to freeze over before it reached their bushy beards. Weariness was plastered across their soft faces, the men doing little to conceal their disdain for this faraway place. The cold sealed off any sense of smell, their olfactory senses were no use here. Many of the men had frozen snot where their beard met their nostrils. There was one man who embraced the wind’s gnawing bite at his ashen red cheeks, actually enjoyed it. For those who knew him–it came as no surprise.
His name was Gareth Blackthorn, Lord Commander of the King’s armies. The family name preceded him. Gareth and his fathers before him bore the name with menace and with pride. There were battles won under the name of Blackthorn. Wars were waged…strategized. Political uprisings were scaled and subdued under the name of Blackthorn. Famines and plagues were quelled. The name went back over a thousand years. It was a warrior’s name. A leader’s name. And now, as they traveled through the arctic blast of the northern reach, it was his time to put his own stamp on the lore of House Blackthorn. Gareth Blackthorn III would be especially noted in history books as the Blackthorn who achieved the impossible–at least, that’s what he intended before setting out.
The men of the Kingdom of Windem were hunting. It was an unprecedented undertaking, different from any hunt, attack, tactic, or decision ever made before by a Lord Commander of the King’s Armies. There was no foe to assassinate, no army awaiting them, no disease lurking in the brothels or the taverns, no band of raiding thieves to track down..there was just…
The orc-eel of the north. A creature of lore and mystery. The foul beast lurked deep into the unrelenting ice-lands of the north, underneath the frozen tundras which spanned hundreds of miles. The land was called Northrock. Its name was tame, but its climate was death. The orc-eel of Northrock was heard of only in fairytales and seen only by the eyes of dying men who could never live to tell the tale. There were no visible sightings or valid reports to back up its existence, but there were few that were brave enough to consider finding out. No (sane) man would have dared gamble on finding this creature, let alone killing it and bringing it home. But Gareth was not worried about what sane men did. He wanted to find it. And kill it.
Hundreds of sharp sticks, pikes, and staves poked into the ice in a rhythmic sound. It made a series of thud sounds, which coalesced with the sound of boots scraping the ground as men dragged their feet. It sounded similar to men chipping away at a rock with a chisel. Weary bodies stumbled along the icy trail, exhausted. Spent. White spruce and pine trees lined either side of the trail and scaled high into the frosty air. The skies were painted a lazy mixture of purple and pink. The colors sent streams of pale light through the trees. This was as bright as it ever got this far north.
“Watch your step,” said a man.
“Shallow ice there,” another man pointed underfoot where a thin layer of ice had cracked under the weight of a boot.
Eventually they would emerge from the thin trail and a long frozen tundra of eight-hundred miles would await them. Beyond that was the Black Mountain where no man dared journey unless they risked seeing the Shadow. Such was the risk of adventuring this far north. Ominous things dwelled in the ice-lands, the orc-eel being one of them. The Shadow was another. The stories of the orc-eel’s elusive nature and its legendary lore had drawn these men here under Blackthorn’s contagious spirit. The goal was to have the creature baited to the surface of the frozen lake, and then harness the strength of one-hundred spearmen to hook the beast and capture it. Once the orc-eel was secured by hooks, Gareth Blackthorn had planned to take the lethal shot with his crossbow. As the legend went, one singular shot to the weak point below its gills was enough to fatally wound it.
Gareth carried his crossbow slung across his chest by a leather strap and the wooden beam hung across his back. It was a burdensome weapon and it made his back ache, but to him it was worth it. He visualized the lethal shot in his head every night before he slept, the crossbow’s frame held sturdily in front of him. The bolt would release with a powerful thunk, and puncture the orc-eel’s weak spot below its gills. He could hear that mighty roar of the beast, a sound that sent the hairs on his neck straight up. In his dreams, it always ended horribly. The ice would crack underneath him and his body would slide into the deadly waters. That was when he would wake up to find himself shivering, the shrieking wind grabbing at him. A chilling vision that Gareth could only hope would never become reality.
The score of a hundred men had brought horses for their journey, but they had gone no further than the border of Silverkeep. Any further than that checkpoint and the cold temperatures and ice underfoot would have been too perilous for the horses. There also was not enough vegetation this far north to keep the horses nourished.
It had been three days now without horses–traveling only on foot. Their legs ached but none would dare show it. Some men feared letting Blackthorn down more than the sight of the orc-eel. Blackthorn’s approval was paramount to these men. Each man was hand-picked, and no one was about to make Blackthorn second guess his choice. The first man to complain of fatigue would have to be Blackthorn, and all men knew that wouldn’t happen. He was the lord commander of the King’s armies.
Blackthorn’s breath swirled like a busy vapor. Frost clung to his thick, unkempt locks of dark hair. Snowflakes and icicles decorated his beard. His second-in-command and good friend, Elric Drakonstone, staggered behind him. Like Gareth, Elric was a mammoth of man. He was tall and strong as an ox. Layers of furs atop his cloak made his figure appear bulkier than it already was. He followed behind his good friend, Gareth, who led the way and showed no sign of slowing. If men began falling behind , encouragement could be heard from the men beside them.
“C’mon, we mustn’t slow now.”
“Aye, don’t slow. It’ll be harder to catch up.”
“Let’s go! Keep up! Don’t let our lord commander down.”
Gareth Blackthorn let a smirk come across his face. His hard-set features eased up and the lines of his drawn-up scowl disappeared. His scowl was not to do with the disappointment in his men, but rather it had to do with the nagging wind that tugged at his back and whipped his face. He let his mind wander. He thought about the families that awaited them back home. He was not the only one who had left his family behind. These were hard working men. Loyal and determined. Each man knew the prestige that awaited them back in Windem if they were successful. The kingdom had hit a golden era of ten years without famine, war, drought, or disease. Of course there were the unavoidable border disputes and skirmishes—but the King wanted something to be remembered as the crown jewel of his reign. He would already be remembered as King Tarren the Great someday. He knew that. But to be remembered as the king that brought prosperity to Windem and capped it off with the greatest kill and capture of all time–across all kingdoms? That would certainly cement himself in history and cement a formidable legacy.
If ever there was a man brave enough to go to Northrock and back in one piece, it was Gareth Blackthorn. However, King Tarren was not unrealistic. Finding the beast was one thing. Killing the beast was an entirely different prospect. Rumor of its existence was the most speculated aspect of the creature’s lore. Reports always came through. The reports would be falsified and debunked by the royal court. The King would put forth a royal decree that outlawed such fear mongering discussion and all public discussion of the orc-eel would end for a time. Years would go by and then the rumors would inevitably return. Most men weren’t believed simply because trekking that far north usually meant that you were facing your own death. It was too cold. It was too far. The land itself was disorienting. Eight-hundred miles of frozen waters, tundras, snowy mountains, and snowstorms. Forget returning to the Southlands. One would be lucky to make it back to Silverkeep without losing limbs or digits to frostbite.
Glistening ice crushed underfoot as Blackthorn jammed his sharpened hiking sticks into the ground. He held a long, three foot stick in each hand. He had found nearly seventy miles back before all the sticks to be found along the side of the path were frozen into the ground. He spent nights by the warm glowing campfire sharpening the sticks point with his sax knife. As he pushed on, he couldn’t feel his legs. His chest was tight. His limbs were numb. Frozen. But there were multiple things that kept him going. First, he thought of his little boy. Then, his lady. She was lovely. He could still see them waving together as Gareth set off with his hundred men. They were given a proper send off by King Tarren and the kingdom’s citizens. They had climbed atop their mounts, round shields tied to their packs along with a bundle of blankets, food rations, warm furs, snow boots, swords, spears, bows and arrows. It was cool back then, because even though the temperatures back home couldn’t compare to the frigid glacial climate of the northern reach, winters in Windem were still cold. As Gareth thought back to the winters of his homeland, it seemed mild comparatively. This was a different cold. This was a cold that chilled a man down to his bones. Gareth’s heart fluttered as he imagined his wife’s pretty smile. She had alluring bright brown eyes and a braided head of healthy brown hair. His son’s face was etched into his mind as he threw his hiking sticks forward again. They ascended a slightly elevated slope. Groans echoed through the dry air. The miles they put on their legs were starting to wear them down. He heard some men slipping and some quiet cursing behind him. More encouragement was heard in response to the curses. A couple men drifted off to the side of the trail, tempted to take a quick rest. Gareth’s good friend Elric paused, glancing back. Frost covered his eyebrows, turning them an arctic white. It made him look like a native of the cold.
“Up! On your feet! We won’t stop now. Not while there is light still upon us,” Elric shouted. His words sounded slurred since his mouth was numb and tingly with the cold. He could hardly move his lips. He pulled a covering of wool cloth up over his nose. Only his eyes and frost-covered eyebrows were exposed.
Elric was an inch taller than Gareth, but they were both towering men. Both were well over six feet tall, pushing closer to six-foot-five. Windem had been known to produce mighty warriors that were strong as an ox and tall as a pine. Elric Drakonstone did not have the lore to his name such as Blackthorn, but he had carved his own reputation through the years. He was fearsome, like Gareth, but more shrewd in his methods. When something needed to be done, he preferred the less graceful method. He was not a man of the people, as Gareth was. He despised Gareth for it, but he also loved him. They were close friends and more like brothers than anything. But, even still, there was spite towards Gareth because of the King’s preference for Gareth–for the next Blackthorn in the family line. Gareth was the lord commander of the King’s armies. And, as such, he had worked his way into a position where he was King Tarren’s right-hand man and his closest advisor (not only on war strategy but on personal issues).
Elric, feeling as though he had proven himself to be a worthy knight and superior in combat to Gareth, had always felt hard done by. He wanted that position and that title. Not only that, he wanted Gareth’s wife. He wanted Gareth’s boy. He wanted the life that Gareth had. In fact, he had even gone as far as to spend quiet evenings with Gareth’s wife when Gareth was busy pouring over the issues of the kingdom with the King. He knew Gareth could never know about this, and he guarded these secret desires like his life depended on it. In a way, his life did depend on it. If Gareth were to find out, or God forbid, the public were to learn of these quiet evenings spent with Gareth’s wife…there would be hell to pay and a reputation diminished. He would surely be publicly shamed and banished by King Tarren, if that is what Gareth had wished.
Gareth and Elric marched side by side now. They had finally beaten the gradual ascent of the wooded trail and were now able to coast down a light hill. The trees and the woods on either side had begun to thin out and die off. Downhill was not any easier than the hill they had just trudged up. The challenge was preventing themselves from losing their footing. Gareth felt his quads burning as he restrained himself from sliding down the icy hill. The spikes on his boots hardly seemed to help.
“Take it slow. The ice is firm here and the slope is tricky!” Gareth shouted over his shoulder. The wind cut off his shouts, preventing the men from hearing more than a muffled shout.
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Hours later, the sun had begun to set behind the horizon and the group stopped to set up camp. Flat land was found at the top of a hill to lay out blankets, get tents erected, and find some relief from the bitter wind. A few managed to get a fire going while others opted to sleep in the refuge of their tents. Those seated around a fire pulled their hoods close and warmed their hands until feeling returned.
Elric seated himself next to Gareth in front of a flickering fire. The stars cast a soft, yellow light upon the hill. The clouds had cleared, providing a beautiful sight for those who lay on their backs and stared upwards.
“Northern lights,” said Gareth, softly. Elric muttered his acknowledgement, craning his neck. Soft swirls of pink, blue, and green had turned the night sky into a breathtaking display.
“I miss them,” started Gareth. “My wife…my boy–my beautiful little boy. I can see their faces now, so clear...” Gareth let a slow smile crawl onto his face.
“That boy…he’s going to be some warrior one day, just like his fathers,” said Elric.
Gareth chuckled, nodding. “He’s always got a wooden sword in his hand. I’ve got bruises all over my knuckles from him.” Gareth smiled at the thought, hands folded behind his head.
Elric changed the subject after a few minutes of silence. “You think we’ll find it?”
“What, the orc-eel?” asked Gareth.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah…we’ll find it,” replied Gareth. He gazed at the shifting orange and green lights in the sky.
“Didn’t train for an entire year for nothing, eh?” said Elric, his soft tone being forced. He was a crude man, but willing to subdue that part of his nature for Gareth’s sake. He needed Gareth on his side, in case he should ever suspect. Keep your enemies close, thought Elric. He almost laughed out loud at the idea of Gareth being an enemy.
“We trained well. We’re ready,” replied Gareth. Gareth withdrew a weathered looking map from the pocket of his fur coat. It was frail with a million wrinkles. The parchment was soft from being folded so many times. He rubbed his hands together over the fire, trying to regain some feeling.
Elric sat up beside Gareth and the two poured over the map for about an hour. Most of the things they discussed had already been hashed out countless times, but it didn’t hurt to get refreshed.
After pouring over the map, Gareth and Elric were the last ones to sleep. Gareth envisioned finding the orc-eel. He imagined the creature erupting from the ice, hooks and spears snagging its body and pulling from all directions and angles. He imagined himself lining up his crossbow, spotting its weak spot. The bolt of his crossbow setting in place with a loud click and the arrow releasing with a splitting sound. He could hear wails of the orc-eel, screeching out in agony, thrashing itself against the ice. He would etch himself into history. Gareth Blackthorn the…Slayer? Warrior? Hunter? He said each title to himself, even muttered them quietly, to see how they would sound. He settled on Gareth Blackthorn the Slayer. Shortly later, he drifted into a deep sleep. Light snoring filled his tent.
The next morning was full of animated discussion. The men had been recharged with a full night’s sleep and the sun had come out to offer a sliver of generous warmth upon their backs. The group set about packing up camp and gathering their things. Gareth was grateful for the temporary sunshine, humming peacefully as he gathered his things. Gareth Blackthorn III, Slayer of the Orc-eel, he thought to himself.
“I think we’re getting close,” said Gareth. He was talking to Elric. They were leading the pace of the group again.. They were now on flat land now and ahead of them was a long and disorienting trek across a vast and daunting tundra. The wind began to snap at their faces and the chilly air began to pick up. The sun retreated back to its usual place behind dark clouds, its brief offer of warm sunshine had been retracted.
Elric kept quiet, imagining Gareth missing his shot with the crossbow. He could see the creature wiggling its massive whale body, churning up bits of tundra and ice. With all hope quickly dwindling, Elric saw himself leap onto the back of the orc-eel with his spears and jamming the spearhead into its weak spot, causing it to release an agonizing squeal of pain before it went limp with death.
He thought of the recognition that awaited him by the King’s court. Gareth would be forced to award Elric with a medal, cementing that he would forever be remembered as the hero who killed the legendary creature of Northrock. That would turn heads. People would begin to wonder, should Elric be named lord commander of the King’s armies? Is he more mighty than Gareth Blackthorn? Perhaps people would begin to question whether Gareth’s appointment to lord commander was simply down to tradition.
“There,” said Gareth. Elric snapped out of his daze. Gareth was pointing. Elric and multiple others paused to see what he was pointing at. Gareth looked down at his map and up again. “That is the rock formation that is on this map. Three jutting black rocks that point in three different directions. Beyond that rock formation, we are walking over frozen seas.”
The men glanced at Gareth’s map, and then back at the three rocks pointing in different directions. There was no mistaking it. It had an uncanny resemblance to the drawing on the map. Elric snatched the map from his hand, “It can’t be,” he whispered in disbelief. But it was, and Elric knew it.
“Watch your step,” shouted Gareth. There would be no surviving if someone were to fall through the ice. “There is no ground below the ice here. The water is deadly. If you feel the ice start to crack…well, we’re in trouble.” Gareth gave a hearty chuckle and then took the first step out onto the ice. He seemed careless as he did so, striding across the ice as if it were just another stroll down the aisle of the king’s court.
The men had rehearsed this part of the journey before leaving the kingdom. They would need to travel approximately five miles before they were standing above the area where the orc-eel had long been rumored to have been lurking. Its shadow would be visible through the ice, hovering near the surface like a bloodthirsty predator. If it was lucky, it would find a penguin or a polar bear. More commonly it would snap up through the ice to enclose its jaws around a small bird like a Snow petrel or an Arctic tern.
All along the frozen layer of ice there were various shards of rock sticking up from underneath. Some rocks were tall as a mountain, but with the water levels being so high only a few feet of the mountain’s highest peak was showing. Most men tried to stay near a rock or two if they could—knowing that if the ice were to start cracking they would need to find a sturdy surface immediately.
The King had asked them to bring back as many tusks, teeth, fins, and other parts of the creature as they could. It was already arranged that the blacksmiths of Windem would fashion weapons out of the tusks and the teeth. Many of the King’s closest advisors had tried to warn him that bothering a creature from the northern reach was never a good idea. Fabled creatures like sea monsters and winged lizards were better left unbothered. The northern reach was a land where such things existed.
The other danger had to do with the possibility of seeing the Shadow. If any man were to lay eyes on the Shadow, its influence would once again be relevant in Windem like it had been in the Dark Days. The Shadow’s existence was not speculated. It was known. Any and all fears of the Shadow were scoffed at by the King. Too many years of peace had blinded him to such a possibility. Windem was flourishing now. It was difficult to imagine things becoming so perilous again.
There was a shout heard coming from the back of the group. They were only three miles into their march across the ice. Gareth winced at the shout. Then he ran. Elric was at his heels. The others were frozen in place as Gareth brushed past the others, somehow not slipping on the ice. He came sliding to a halt where the man claimed to have seen a shadow below him in the ice. Gareth and Elric waited there a while, staring at the spot. No shadow was seen.
“Just hysteria,” said a man.
Gareth held his breath. He heaved it out slowly, once he was assured that it was a false alarm. “Onward then,” said Gareth once the danger was cleared. A few moments later another man claimed to have seen a large creature dwelling below the ice.
“It was swimming just below my foot!” He exclaimed.
“Was it big?” asked Elric. His face was tight with apprehension.
“Bollocks yes,” replied the man. He held a defensive stance, ready to smash the tip of his spear at the ice at any moment.
“Let us journey forward slowly,” said Gareth. The group did just that, taking slow steps–but only after Gareth led them. The group of men appeared like young children cowering behind their father. They were encroaching upon the location in which they expected to see the orc-eel. The men had nearly forgotten the possibility that the creature did not actually exist after all. It had never been confirmed that the monster really did exist. This had factored into the protests from King Tarren’s closest advisors. Why send some of the kingdom’s finest men marching into an arctic blitz where few ever returned? Because it’s Blackthorn. They will return, the King had simply replied.
Gareth wielded his sword. He held it in his right hand, peering at his feet with each step as his boots walked gently along the ice. Strangely the wind seemed to have died off almost completely as soon as Gareth had withdrawn his sword from its scabbard. The cold, metallic blade was a sight for sore eyes. With a sword in Gareth Blackthorn’s hands, the others felt more assured. Elric gripped his spear tightly with two hands, keeping it angled down towards the ice.
An unexpected thud startled the men. Everyone heard it, down to the last man out of the one-hundred. The sound of steel hissing in scabbards and spearheads hitting the ice clang together at once. Then it was eerily quiet.
Their fears were once again diminished when one man finally confessed. “It was just me. Sorry. I slipped.” Everyone sheathed their weapons again except for Gareth. He knew the confidence that his blade inspired. It had seen many battles and as many victories.
The group continued on slowly over the ice. A few more slips occurred but by now the men were used to the thud that a man’s body hitting the ice would make. The longer they walked, the lighter their footsteps became. Eventually Gareth had started putting his finger over his lips as if he did not want to wake the creature. No one questioned this decision. It felt right. It felt safe. Nobody wanted to alert the creature to their presence.
Another twenty minutes passed. The air changed. A cold blast of wind nearly blew men back onto their backs. Elric had slammed his spear into the ice and held his shaft with all his might to keep from sliding back on the ice. Somehow it did not crack the ice. Gareth’s hair was flailing wildly in the wind. A sudden feeling of dread overcame the group. The sky became darker, although it was afternoon when the sun should have been at its brightest. It seemed as though the sun was setting early.
Gareth spotted it first. Whether it was the Orc-eel or not, no one knew just yet. But whatever it was, its shadow was immense. The thing swirled under the ice, just below the surface. It looked like a dragon, minus the wings. Gareth gestured hurriedly for his men to spread themselves around the creature. It became increasingly evident that this had to be the Orc-eel. Every man had a spear or harpoon in hand, scurrying to their stations just as they had trained.
There were dozens of rocks, big and small, jutting up out of the ice. Men took their positions there now. Gareth took the tallest one rock, lining up his crossbow with a bolt and aiming it at the shadow as it moved. Elric had tied up the dummy they had brought with them to coax out the orc-eel. He coiled rope around the dummy’s torso and tied a firm knot. Gareth gave him a nod and Elric slowly lowered it out onto the ice. He tossed the end of the rope to a man on a rock beside him who then passed it to the man next to him. The dummy was hoisted out onto the ice. The straw-filled, pig-skinned dummy slid out across the ice, eventually coming to a halt in the open where no man dared show himself for fear of becoming bait. The man who had the end of the rope began pulling and the dummy slid over the ice, mimicking a sizable piece of bait for the creature to stalk from below the surface.
At first, the monster followed it. Stalked it, slowly. It was difficult to make out any details about the creature besides the fact that it just looked like a very large shadow. But then there was a bang. The creature’s teeth sank into the ice from the underside–right where the dummy was laying. The ice was thick. It would take a long, momentous start (even for the enormous orc-eel) to break the surface. The ice appeared to be at least two feet thick, and that was only because they were still at the outskirts of this long icy tundra. Further “inland”, the ice would be nearly a thousand feet thick. The creature’s shadow disappeared from view, presumably dropping deeper into the water. But it wasn’t long before it returned.
“It’s coming!” shouted Gareth. “It’s coming!” Elric and Gareth exchanged excited looks. Most other men had fear painted over their faces. Time ticked on…and on…
But the creature did not surface again for a long time. It had been nearly an hour and the sun was low in the sky. Too much later and it would be too dark, although the moon and stars did reflect faint glow off the shimmering ice. They did not want to carry this into the night–things would get complicated at night. The Orc-eel would have the advantage on them, and the air also grew exponentially colder. The wind would pick up as well, and it already whipped and slashed at their wind-burned cheeks.
“What now?” mouthed Elric, perched on his rock. Gareth pursed his lips. He thought for a while and then looked back to Elric when he came to a decision. “I’m going out there,” mouthed Gareth. Elric’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. Before he could motion for Gareth to reconsider this crazy idea, it was late.
Gareth dropped gently to the ice, careful not to crack the ice. He sauntered over to Elric, tossing his crossbow up to him and carrying only his sword. Gareth examined his shiny, beautiful blade. It was pristine. It was one of Windem’s finest swords ever created. King Tarren had their finest blacksmith in all of Windem craft it for Gareth as a gift after being named Lord Commander of the King’s armies. Gareth preferred it to the spear, and had always preferred his sword. It was shorter than a spear, and less awkward to wield. To Gareth, his sword was like an extension of his arm.
Elric thought Gareth’s decision foolish. But, then again, Gareth had done foolish things before and it had paid off. Gareth Blackthorn had a way of doing that. If Gareth’s idea of becoming the bait himself worked, and the orc-eel broke the surface to go for the prey, then Gareth would risk falling in and dying within minutes due to the freezing temperatures. If Gareth managed to stay on the ice, or even climb onto the orc-eel, Elric did not see how Gareth could survive either of those possibilities.
Let him do the dangerous part, thought Elric. I’ll be here to take the lethal shot if he does manage to bait it to the surface. He thought of the glory that awaited him if he were to return as the hero. The man who took down the fabled Orc-eel. He lined up his crossbow to where Gareth was standing. He wanted to be ready with the perfect shot.