Chapter 2: Ivory Branches

  Lances of orange struck his face through the shutters. Their sting forced a retreat under the pillow, but a grievous wound had already been struck. Stig was awake. As his eyes opened, so too did his ears. Hushed voices wandered inside from the main room. Bits and pieces filtered past the wooden door untouched by morning light. Through his groggy stupor, two things became clear. His father was finally home, and this was not a conversation he was meant to hear.

  “Fifteen of them and half as many wolves. You saw their colors?” his mother asked.

  “Grunland green laid bare for anyone to see,” his father said.

  “Could be deserters from the battle heading into the mountains. Fleeing prying eyes and taut rope.”

  “Could be.”

  “But something you saw makes you doubt that they are.”

  “Men running away from war aren’t so disciplined. Nothing strips away order like fear of a traitor’s noose waiting behind every rock and tree. Three patrolled ahead scouting their trail, seven walked behind to cover the rear, and five rode in the middle. Barely managed to get close enough to eavesdrop.”

  “Do they know?”

  “About us? No, I don’t think so. Still, they’re not just wandering the woods. I heard the commander mention Pelzstrom by name. He knows the village is here.”

  “Then what are we still talking about? Let’s leave while there’s time,” she said, struggling to stay quiet.

  Stig slid from his sheets and tiptoed towards the door. Caution dictated his steps as he dodged the floorboards that would betray him. A little further was all he needed. Pressing his ear to the door, he closed his eyes.

  “It may be a trap. A way to lure us out of hiding,” his father said.

  “Osmund, we’ve hidden away from them for nineteen years. I haven’t regretted even one day of it, but how much more careful could we be? What more could we have done?”

  “Nothing, but I just can’t… I just don’t want all our sacrifices to be undone because we grew lax. The both of you are too important to me for that.”

  “You always did have a talent for stating the obvious.”

  “And you always knew how to make light of the deepest darks.”

  “Only because you forced me to practice so much. So what if you’re right? Maybe it is a trap, but what about the villagers? We can’t just leave them to the wolves.”

  “We shan’t, but this is a job for three Dammerungs, not two.”

  The door swung out, and Stig went with it. The realization that they’d known he was there hit him just before the floor did. Looking up revealed a smirk ever so slightly twisting his father’s face.

  “Looks like you’re up,” Osmund Dammerung said, offering his son a hand. Grabbing it, Stig felt himself get yanked up onto his feet.

  “Funny,” Stig said.

  “Sorry about your face. Didn’t think you’d actually press up against the door like that.”

  “How’d you know? Was I really so loud?”

  “You weren’t. The sun stopped shining out under the door.”

  “Osmund, I know you hurried home, but surely you could hasten this explanation. What are we to do? I fear we may hear howling by the time you’re finished,” his mother said.

  Osmund Dammerung put up his hands as if to surrender. Bowing his head a little and conceding whatever planned speech he had for something tailored to their troubling lack of time.

  “In brief, we need a bribe. Or rather four of them. Three are already waiting in the shed, but I need you to get the last one from the eastern woods,” his father said.

  “A deer could work. Put together with mine, yours, and Stig’s goat that would be enough to feed them all the way to the mountains. Ought to make the prospect of a fight far harder to swallow, I’d say,” his mother said.

  “Assuming they’re deserters,” his father said, letting the words hang in the air.

  “What’ll you do if they aren’t?” Stig asked.

  “Make them wish they had been.”

  Something else was struggling to slip past their lips. Unpleasant and vile, it was held back by smiles, words unsaid. There was a third possibility for him to return to. Burnt wood, empty husks, and dirt made wet without rain.

  “Osmund, I’ll pack Ferna’s saddlebags. Carrying a deer is hard enough without taking a horse,” his mother said swiftly making her way towards the door.

  “Take your time, Tala,” Osmund said before putting a hand on Stig’s shoulder. His father’s smirking expression vanished, leaving only a shred of a smile.

  “Father?” Stig asked.

  “Son, I can’t believe it’s already been nineteen years since we came to this town. You were so small then. Like a loaf of bread that never grew cold. I was afraid that the wind would rip you out of my fingers. Now though, I almost wish it would.”

  “Don’t worry, I won't be long. You can count on me.”

  “I know, but please listen. I don’t think I can say this twice. If upon your return we are nowhere to be found, don’t bother looking. Even if the village is a smoldering ruin, I want you to fly through the woods like a hawk. Take Ferna, and don’t let your feet touch the road until you’re standing before Kreudorf’s gate. From there, head to Nordwuste and ask for a Stralkan by the name of Ludwick Koziel. He’s an old friend who can help. Understand?”

  Stig hesitated. He’d never heard his father’s voice quiver so much in all their years together. The strongest man in the village of Pelzstrom was trembling.

  “Father, I don’t... I couldn’t….” Stig tried to say before his father hugged him.

  “You will if it must be done. Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “It seems neither of us can shield you from this world any longer. No matter what happens, know that we love you. Now go and may luck ride with you.”

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  His father left Stig standing there in their empty home. Only memories remained to keep him company. He felt the notches in the carving table from when his fingers had slipped. Smelt a hint of comforting scents waiting to be unlocked in the books upon their shelves. Ascending lines carved into his door to mark another year seemed to deepen in the morning light. What had seemed as eternal as the mountains now felt terribly fragile.

  The air had grown chilly as Stig walked towards the stable. Its boards weathered from countless storms, and yet there were no gaps for him to peek through. One of the doors lay ajar and swung away without complaint. Inside, his mother looked towards him with two icy eyes melting in the warm barn air. Even from the entrance, he could see the bags crammed with food and tools poking out from overstuffed pockets.

  “She’s ready to go. Made sure to pack everything you’ll need,” his mother said.

  “I’ll help you unpack once I get back, promise,” Stig replied.

  She fussed his hair before enclosing him in an iron-tight hug. His shoulder quickly grew wet.

  “Nothing would make me happier, dear,” she said.

  “Mother…” he said, unable to find the words he wanted.

  “I know you’re not going to listen to your father.”

  He froze and stammered before weakly protesting, “I promised.”

  “Yes, you did, but I raised you, and you’re a terrible liar. Not so bad as your father mind you. His fingers fidget. That’s why he always likes to hug me first. Makes it harder to sneak a peek.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’m a mother. Every note you’ve ever uttered is a sweet song to me. Even the ones you don’t want me to hear.”

  “So what do you want to hear? I’m leaving just when you’ll need me. I can fight!”

  “You are not the only one I promise.”

  “Then tell me the truth. Promise me I won’t need all this food. Promise me that you’ll both be waiting for me, please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

  “None of us know how many pages are left to be inked in our stories, but remember that you always have the choice to pick up a pen.”

  “Who did you steal that from?”

  “Someone I should’ve listened to.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I know you will.”

  She left him with a kiss upon his cheek before putting two calloused hands upon the doors. Both barriers to the cold world outside flung open. Any warmth from his mother or the barn seemed to be sucked away. Black trees waggled like fingers at the framed edges of the barn. They left no ripples upon the blue sea that was growing greyer every time he looked up.

  Fetching his toll from one of the pockets, Stig clambered onto the leather saddle woven with a story he’d never heard. Only drawings rendered in loving detail that always seemed equal parts familiar and strange. A stralkan’s eye next to a human’s intermingled with knights wielding sharpened flames. Buildings of impossible grandeur so small he could cover them with just one of his fat thumbs. But there was no time to dwell on the past, and so Stig waggled the carrot next to Ferna’s chestnut-colored head. A set of snow-white teeth reached out for a nibble. The first of three more until there was no toll left to take.

  Gripping Ferna’s reigns, the two of them left the barn. With a gentle turn and a pat, Stig guided the reins towards the trees. Neither of his parents was waiting to wave goodbye. Trails of chimney smoke from the village snaked upward along the morning breeze. They joined the plume coming from the ocean where the city he’d never visited was still burning. However, that was not what concerned him. A wall of grey had covered the mountains, and every blink was bringing it closer.

  Stig knew the stakes of losing this race, and so he pushed Ferna up the meandering hills. Gusts of snow danced around pillars of bark to music he could barely hear. The occasional island poked through the landscape of white as boulders began to outnumber the trees. Specks of blue-green moss clung to the stones. Signs of the road ahead. They were heading in the right direction, even if the only hoofprints they encountered were the ones Ferna left in her wake.

  At the end of the sea of swaying maple and oak rose a wall of impenetrable rock. It soared dozens of feet above his head, both ends running for miles before vanishing beneath undulating hills. Patches of ice looked down at them like flocks of nesting birds. Some small pebbles and much larger boulders stood watch along the ground. Stig gave the cliff a respectful berth as they turned left to ride along its border.

  His father had taught him there were three entrances along the wall, but the first was locked tight in winter’s grip. A door of snow stood guard that he didn’t have time to pry open. Each step beneath the shadow of the cliff felt colder even as the woods filled with sunshine. Countless boulders reveled in its rays as he was forced to bathe in the shade for fear of losing the path. Mid-day arrived just as soon as he glimpsed the second entrance. Mercifully, the wind had spared much of the snow from falling into the crack. It was a slow climb up shoulder-wide gaps of craggy dirt as blustery winds bit at his skin. One last gusting howl echoed through the ravine as the cage of stone fell away, revealing a sprawling plateau that crawled back under its powdery blanket fifty feet from the edge. After searching for a few minutes, Stig found a nice spot sheltered from the wind just before it dove back down the cliff. A rocky outcrop in the salt and pepper forest with a view that could pierce the trees.

  Long before he was old enough to appreciate the idea, his father had taught him that hunting was not for the hasty-hearted. Every time a dammerung walked beneath these branches they entered another realm entirely. Its inhabitants saw for miles, heard every snowflake crash upon the ground, and could sense your essence in the wind if you were foolish enough to unsheath it too early. Steep odds that demanded strategy rather than just snares. So, patient as a stone, Stig sat above this world and watched.

  First, there was the snow. Dots of white descended from above that careened with the wind as each flake began heading in the same direction, west. Soon after, another hunter began prowling the air in an endless loop skyward. Stig hoped he would find his prey first, but it was not to be. The hawk dove into the trees before emerging with what looked like a squirrel. With no horse to take it home, the bird soared towards the mountains on outstretched wings. No doubt a warm nest waiting nestled among some unreachable rockface. Stig could only envy the animal as it eventually vanished from view amongst the trees.

  Hour by hour, the sky grew darker from sun and snow alike. Noon was now a distant memory, unlike the storm which had been barreling down the mountain. The air was hazy, and his eyes slumped half-open until he blinked. A bite of a red apple helped him stomach the bitter feeling building in his stomach. His father knew there were no deer to hunt. Without an appetite to sate, Stig handed the fruit to Ferna, who gobbled it up before putting her big warm head on his lap. Looking down at the brown object nuzzling his chest Stig noticed a similar color moving between the trees.

  “Up, Ferna, up,” Stig practically yelled as the deer down below took no notice.

  Jumping onto her back, the two began flying across the stone plateau just like the hawk before them, hearts beating in anticipation of the task ahead. Together they descended between the walls of stone towards the door they’d passed beneath hours before. A river of pebbles followed Ferna’s thunderous steps as rolling hills came into view. The music was no longer silent, and the forest was alive with the howls of the storm.

  Straight as an arrow, Stig guided them down hills and through gully’s whose water flowed beneath sheets of ice. The time for patience had passed, and now speed was all that mattered. Every tree they raced by seemed to grow closer. Snow flew into the air as the grey sky had been absorbed by rolling clouds of white. Nothing was brown, not even the tree bark, but Stig kept looking forward. A lifetime of experience would let him see what winter hoped to hide, and between two of the mountain’s roots, he finally glimpsed it.

  Through the flurries, the deer’s coat was a deep chocolate color crowned by two ivory branches sprouting from the head. Each one like a rose covered in thorns. Frozen in his saddle, Stig watched silently. The blizzard had concealed their approach as the animal buried its head in the snow. Never letting his eyes wander, Stig dismounted before pulling the bow from his back. One arrow was all he’d get in this weather.

  Wind crashing against his back, he began to climb slowly. The snow had grown deeper from the morning, and with each step, a little more of it slid down the hill. Moving between the trees, Stig kept focusing on the deer. Every time its head turned away, he crept closer until stopping up against an old oak. Concealed by the massive elder of the forest, he was blinded by its size. Nervous fingers reached for the quiver, before nocking the fate of Pelzstrom Village to the bowstring.

  The wind roared as he closed both eyes. Wind essence flowed across the feather, wood, and sharpened steel. A flawless coating to make Cedarson and his parents proud. Their smiles faded as his eyes returned to the white winter storm. Stig’s grip tightened as he pulled the string taught. Rolling silently around the tree he saw the deer, but it never gazed back. Stig never gave it the chance to. The magically protected metal ignored the storm’s gales as it sunk below fur carving a path into a still-beating heart. A splash of red escaped the hole before the animal collapsed to the ground.

  Stig sank to his knees and shouted triumphantly. Frozen to that spot, he exhaled before whistling as loud as his lips could bear. Ferna appeared from the snowy fog in moments. Swiftly he hoisted the deer from the ground and tied it to the saddle’s back. There was no time to revel as white walls pressed upon them from every direction. Icy fingers tried to clutch Stig’s chest, but a fire had already been ignited inside. Into the blizzard they dove.