‘I often wonder,’ Mjel murmured ‘that I may be favoured by the gods, you know.’

Ida lifted her head in curiosity.

‘After all, only half our scouts got torn apart.’

Heavy silence fell upon the tent. The sound of crackling flames in the firepit felt too loud, too harsh.

‘It’s not—’

‘Don’t even start on whose fault it is,’ Mjel cut in before Ida could finish. ‘I’m aware it’s mine and lies won’t make them come back.’

They sat by the fire, cloaked in furs and hides. Mjel ran her fingers through her unbound hair, then leant back, resting her head against one of the wooden poles of their tent.

‘We could abandon the beach, come the morn.’ Ida was quiet, hesitant. ‘We could make haste inward, camping only at the top of the hills. Quickly search for a village or town. They must have some kind of roads or paths here, right …?’

Mjel was not paying attention at all.

‘One Gods-fucked day,’ she stared into the flames, ‘and I’ve already lost seven of my people. Our people. I wonder how many Snowdogs are to survive this hellborn place.’ Her gaze met Ida’s eyes. ‘Could it really be? Punishment?’

Ida remained silent, though her face seemed to tremble, her eyes begging for forgiveness. For not being able to provide an answer or for her soul lost beyond redemption, Mjel would never know.

The young woman closed her eyes. They were in an unfamiliar place. Unfamiliar vegetation, unfamiliar sea, and unfamiliar creatures surrounded them.

They spent a whole day on the shore after she and Ida saw that mountain erupt. That same evening, they gathered half their scattered scouts, and gave up searching after dawn broke. The next day, she set out with the scouts again. This time, they did find the missing patrols—torn, disembowelled, with hellhounds gnawing on their remains.

Maybe her uncle was right. She is simply not worthy of being Warchief of the clans. She seriously considered setting sails. But the aftermath of that and what could play out when they return to Velardhar scared the shit out of her.

A kid stormed into the tent, leaving the canvas walls flapping in his wake.

‘Lady Warchief!’ he gasped. ‘Hurry, it’s—’

‘I’ve told you a thousand times I’m not a Warchief, Harak,’ Mjel rose. ‘And I’m definitely no Lady.’

‘Yes, ma’am, I understand—’

‘No, you don’t.’ Mjel shook her head. ‘Chief is all right. Now, come on, cousin. What’s happened? Why are you here? You shall be sleeping.’

‘Well, I’ll be twelve this winter, so I’m old enough to—’

‘Harak.’

‘Yes, sorry.’ The kid dabbed his face with his palm. ‘There’s a man outside. The boys told me to run for you. This one looks ab… abor…’

‘Aboriginal?’ helped Ida. She had already begun to dress.

‘Yes!’

Mjel put on a linen shirt, took up a coat made of the fur of a bearling, and put on a headband. ‘Why were you awake at all? And with the others?’

‘I … couldn’t sleep, really.’ The kid visibly became embarrassed. His leg started kicking at the ground. ‘And you know, the boys are always cheerful when they drink and play. So, I joined them.’

‘We’ll talk about this later. Lead on.’

Harak swallowed but quickly nodded and turned to ran out of the tent. Mjel and Ida exchanged glimpses; a faint smile played on the blonde girl’s lips. Mjel rolled her eyes.

She was grateful beyond words that Harak had been safe and sound when they found him. Frajla and Gromvar looked after the kid upon the separation of the scouts. The kid was coming of age, though, and it was highly inappropriate for Mjel to show signs of sisterly affection towards her cousin. She did know many of the Kingdoms regarded Velardhar as barbarous and unforgiving for some of their inhumane practices—such as sending a twelve year old boy to a never-before-seen continent with a handful of warriors to prove that he is worthy of becoming one of them in case he survives—and even though she could usually live with the codes and laws of her clan, she had never been good with her feelings.

They followed Harak into the night, who steered them across the makeshift camp they had pitched three days before. At the edge of the tents stood a handful of men, axes and hammers at the ready. Although, the picture was somewhat ruined by their occasional sways as they could not be able to stand still. A figure stood at the centre of their ring, wearing battered armour, deep red in torchlight.

‘At ease.’ Mjel stopped before the stranger, arms crossed, an eyebrow lifted. Her warriors blinked, some stepped back, some coughed politely, and some continued the art of standing awkwardly.

‘Chief, Herald,’ spoke Draggan, a broad-shouldered giant whose face seemed as red as his hair and was second only to Mjel. ‘This man here was caught near the camp.’

He was clearly in a spirit-fugue which left Mjel with mixed feelings. Second chief or not, drinking with the night sentries must not be left unpunished. She put the matter aside.

‘He says he was only going to ask for some supplies. His comrade or whatnot has been injured.’

Mjel took in the stranger. He was older than her, certainly, albeit he could not see more than thirty winters. The stubbled jaw, the scars-draped features, the ruined attire all was telling, but she saw it in his eyes. Those piercing green eyes held no secret—this man has lost a lot and understood he could lose much, much more. He was ready for anything.

‘You caught this man because he wanted you so,’ observed Mjel. She seemed to upset the warriors. Draggan’s face reddened even more and was threatening with blowing up.

But Mjel was watching the stranger, the faintest of changes in his posture, his face. Is he surprised?

‘He’s a Herald,’ said Ida.

This brought silence upon everyone. Mjel glanced at Ida. The girl nodded without dropping her eyes down from the man.

‘Heretics cannot speak with the Frozen Saint,’ stated Draggan, as if convinced this could end all arguments.

‘Are you?’ Mjel asked the figure directly.

‘I’m not sure what that means.’ His voice was surprisingly soft if a bit coarse.

He didn’t say no.

‘You can use gemstones,’ said Ida. ‘No need to deny it, I can feel it in you, much as you can feel it in me. Question is whether you are currently holding on to any gems or not.’

The man contemplated the question only for a moment before looking at Mjel and said, ‘I am.’

I like him.

The warriors tensed, many of them lifted their weapons. The man in the middle did not even flinch, only his eyes narrowed a bit. Mjel knew he was dangerous, but she seemingly found a local whom she thought might be willing to cooperate.

More and more people were gathering around them. Mjel sighed.

‘All right, he’ll come to my tent. We’ll have a bit of a chat and find out if we see eye to eye. Draggan, handle the people and continue your watch.’

‘He has a sword,’ Draggan protested.

‘He may keep it.’

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

She turned to leave, but the stranger spoke.

‘My companion is severely injured. Please, I need to get back to him as soon as possible.’

Mjel wanted to see if she could push her luck. She looked back over her shoulder.

‘You saw fit to leave him on his own somewhere in the forest, at the mercy of whatever roams there. Don’t you think a few more minutes won’t make a difference?’

‘Please.’

He was defiant. Mjel kept staring at him for a few more moments, then shrugged.

‘I will have my men look for him and take him inside. Does that sound good to you?’

The stranger seemed hesitant. He could have just realised that he was placing himself at Mjel’s mercy by walking up to the guards. Then, reluctant, he nodded. ‘Very well. He’s not so far from here, you will find him in a recess at the base of a cliff beyond a silkoak. A … very large grey tree.’

‘You’ve heard it, Draggan. Take enough men with you. Make haste. Harak! You are going to your tent.’

Draggan and the others went back to their posts, took up even more arms, hatchets, bows, knives, and ventured beyond the camp and into the forest.

And Harak, this time without any words, went to seek out his tent.

The stranger slowly walked inside the camp, up to Mjel, who then led him to her dwelling with Ida on her side. The people who woke up at the incident began to trudge back to their tents.

‘Do you have a name?’ Mjel asked after the canvas folded back to its place behind their guest. ‘I’m aware you may lie, and I don’t care. It just makes speaking easier.’

The stranger gave her the same look he had when Mjel had accused him of revealing himself deliberately.

‘I am Vardille Reylynn.’

‘Greetings, Vardille.’ Mjel put down the headband and the coat, making herself comfortable, and sat by the fire. She saw the man taking a very quick glance at her chest; she struggled with smothering a smile, while intentionally pulled her shoulders back and pushed her torso forward. ‘I am Mjelgralah of the Snowdogs, Chief of this little group of people. This is Idamin, Herald of the Frozen Saint. Now, Vardille, do you know why you are here? Why did we let you inside our camp?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You deliberately showed up at our gates instead of trying to steal. Which would either make you a fool, or quite the contrary. Correct me if I’m wrong but you don’t strike me as a fool.’

Vardille remained silent.

‘Would you reveal your gemstone?’ Ida stepped closer to him, looking at the man, expectant. He did not move immediately, but then grudgingly reached for his neck and pulled out an onyx from under his armour.

‘I presume you expect me to hand it to you.’

‘That would be the case,’ Mjel nodded. ‘You need not worry. We don’t want any trouble. But I do admit that I’ll feel safer knowing you can’t pull any tricks on us.’

Vardille pressed his lips, but offered the gemstone to Ida, who quickly snatched it from his hand, and immediately held it in the light, inspecting it closely.

‘It wouldn’t work anyway,’ Vardille shrugged. Ida nodded.

‘There is a crack on it. Did you—’

‘We will come back to it,’ Mjel interrupted. ‘Now, if I understand it correctly, you need supplies. I’d guess food, water, medicine.’

The man nodded in silence.

‘Then let me offer you a proposal. I know not what kind of theories you have made about the appearance of a Velardhari band here in your island, but you probably came to the conclusion by our numbers that we are not here to conquer. I assure you: we mean no harm to you nor to your people. As you can see, we are even willing to help you.’

Vardille stood there without uttering a word, he only nodded here and there. Mjel believed his manners ought to be taught to her warriors.

‘My people and I are envoys. We seek the leader of this land before all.’

Mjel saw it, even though he really tried to remain collected. The faint shift in his posture again.

‘Do you know perhaps where we can meet them?’

‘I … know where he resides.’ He seemed rather uncomfortable about the subject.

‘Splendid! Here’s the deal. You help us meet this king, baron, or whatever, and we help you and your fellow comrade.’ Mjel suddenly got an idea, and she believed she figured out why did her guest acted overly conscious, where his manners stemmed from, his discipline. ‘Is your friend also a knight?’

‘I never said I was a knight.’

Oh, he was good. Indifferent expressions, not the slightest of stirs. But his voice betrayed him.

Mjel smiled.

‘So, deal? You can travel with us and share our ration.’

Vardille bit his lips, then took a deep breath.

‘Deal.’

‘Great! We’ll set up a tent for you and your friend. We can begin our journey tomorrow. Unless your friend is in a condition so terrible he can’t walk. But even then, we’ll manage.’

‘I’ll help you tend to his wounds,’ Ida said. She dropped her coat and sat down beside Mjel. ‘Why don’t you tell us your story until Draggan comes back with your friend? I am eager to hear it.’

‘Take a seat,’ gestured Mjel towards the furs lay down around the firepit. Vardille hesitated.

‘We don’t bite.’

‘Too much,’ Mjel grinned.

A shadow of a smile appeared in the corner of the man’s mouth. He dropped to his knees, made himself comfortable, then his features grew careworn.

‘First of all, you need to understand that right now Amrith is divided, and we might have … pushed ourselves into a civil war.’

----------------------------------------

‘And since then, you haven’t been able to use it?’

‘No, I haven’t. It is not working.’

The blonde girl sank into a thoughtful silence.

Vardille tried to omit as much information from his story as he could. For example, that he was Crownguard. That they were on a mission of restoring Amrith inside the Ghatra. That instead, they confronted Anru Stormwalker, and quite possibly brought something horrible to the kingdom.

That his companion was King Bryne Khryssalan.

The tattooed blonde may have believed his made-up story, she seemed quite involved with the gems and a bit scattered. The other, though, the tall, muscular redhead saw straight through him like a sieve.

‘You do realise that you sound ridiculous, right?’ she asked without beating around the bush. ‘A vinedresser, whatever that may be, and his good friend, getting into the fray between Royalists and Rebels on the slopes of your mountain. I truly mean no offense, but you don’t seem like one who could enjoy working with vines. Aren’t you two lovers by any chance?’

‘We are not.’

‘I thought so.’

Vardille fought the urge to glance down at her chest again. He never really was driven by the pleasures of the flesh, but this woman had … captivating curves which she seemingly did not intend to cover up fully. He knew it was a deliberate move to confuse him, and frankly, so far it proved to be a success.

‘What’s with the armour? Surely not all vinedressers roam the land in armour and sword. Especially so since, if I’m not mistaken, swords are exceptionally hard to get. Even on the Mainland.’

‘It’s safer to travel. As I’m sure you have already experienced it by now, Amrith has become quite the playground for all kinds of foul vermin. And the sword? I snatched it from a dead man.’

‘How could a vinedresser be in the possession of an onyx?’ asked Idamin, the short blonde girl.

‘My uncle gifted it to me a long while ago.’ Half-truth, but it is not entirely a lie.

‘And what does your uncle do?’

‘Did. He was a vinedresser as well. I inherited his land.’

‘You are a very strange man, Vardille Reylynn,’ Mjelgralah observed. ‘Are all the people of Amrith like you?’

‘I’m afraid no, they are not.’

‘Pity.’ The young woman cracked her neck, then straightened a bit. ‘I’m not interested in your dealings as long as it doesn’t endanger my people’s lives. I do need your help, just as you need ours. Lie all you want, but fulfil your end of the bargain, and lead us to your King’s residence.’

Vardille blinked but nodded.

He tried to recall what little knowledge he possessed about Velardhar. The people from the far North were widely regarded as overly traditional and were often seen as barbarians. He had never been to Velardhar himself, nor had known anyone from there. But these two did not look like barbarians to him.

What he knew for sure, though, that theirs was a warring kingdom—land, that is, he was not sure whether they had kings. Even if they did come to Amrith as envoys, he must not reveal Bryne’s identity to them, not until they are safe and surrounded by allies. Amrith needed his King now more than ever.

‘So, vinedresser,’ Mjel stood, ‘I hope you know we’re not going to let you roam about on your own. You’re part of our group now, and since you’re able-bodied, you’ll have some tasks just like the rest of us. I’ll be quite grumpy if you try and flee. I’ll keep an eye on you. But don’t you fret,’ she smiled mockingly. ‘We can defend you in case we run in some nasty beasts. I don’t expect vinedressers to know how to handle a weapon.’

Vardille knew it was an open challenge, but he decided he would play along.

‘Thank you, milady.’

‘I’m no lady,’ Mjel sighed. ‘You can call me Chief. Or use my frostbitten name, for all I care. Now come, I won’t wake the others for a menial task such as pitching a tent, so you will help me doing so. It’ll be yours for tonight, after all.’

Mjelgralah slipped into her fur coat and left. Vardille followed along with rising anxiety. He was alone and surrounded by potential enemies.

However, he could not ignore that sense of thrill, that growing excitement that started to rush over him. He was alone and surrounded by potential enemies, after all. He had not found himself in a situation like this since … long years.

Since he left the Order, that is.