The Warmth of Frostbite

“Slowly now..” Sara raised her right hand, the signal to slow down. As the double file line of horses crested the hill, they saw why. Below them sat a small but bustling village. After one night and almost two days of travelling, this was the first settlement they had seen.

“We’re going to make camp a half hour’s ride past this village.” She paused, reluctant to continue. “But, in keeping with Saffremi tradition, we must ask permission of the local lord. He knows of our purpose, and will not deny us, but the symbolic request must occur.”

“The Saffremi are an odd bunch, huh.” Salah said wryly.

Salah had been noticeably upbeat since they began their journey. Hashim suspected he was glad to be on a mission that seemed to be of importance. Having grown up hearing battle stories from his father and grandfather, Salah was anxious to have some stories of his own to tell.

Hashim scoffed. “Sara is a Saffremi, they don’t seem all that different to me.”

“Well, a Saffremi in Wirrshol is sure to be different from a Saffremi in Gahlal,” Salah said defensively. Hashim shrugged.

As they neared the village, a single figure rode out to greet them. As he came into clear view of the group, they became quiet, looking in awe at his elaborate armour. The man was tall, even for a Saffremi, and towered over both the naturally smaller Snoweyes, and Sara, who was of an average height among her people. He wore a set of armour made of leather, with steel layered over it to protect vulnerable areas. The leather had been painted white and black in complex swirling patterns. Elaborate nets of jewellery were draped over his shoulders, hanging down over his chest. Hashim struggled to remember any information from his education concerning Saffremi dress customs, and eventually recalled that this jewellery indicated that the man was a high-ranking soldier. In a town of this size, he was almost certainly the head of the local garrison.

Even more striking than his armour was his helmet. It was steel, and covered his entire head, leaving only a slit for his eyes. Over this, a semi-transparent cloth was drawn. This cloth was intricately dyed in whites, blacks, reds, and blues. Hashim easily recognized this as the defining garment of any Saffremi soldier, used to display their heritage, rank, and exploits, all expressed through a complex language of symbols. The soldier reached Sara and pulled up his horse beside hers. She raised her arm again, and the group stopped. The two exchanged a few quiet words, before grasping each other’s forearms in a customary greeting. Sara turned to face the group.

“This is Sub-Commander Akash. From this moment, you are under his command. You are no longer Gahlalian soldiers, but warriors in the Wirrshol army. You will remain as such until the threat to our nations is quelled.”

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably in their saddles, exchanging worried glances with each other. Two soldiers near the front of the group began to climb down from their horses to bow to their new commander, in keeping with Gahlalian tradition. But before they could, Sara waved a hand at them.

“There is no need. In Saffremi military tradition, assent is expressed through silence, and silence alone, unless you are asked a direct question.” The two boys scrambled to return to their saddles.

Akash spoke for the first time, his thick Saffremi accent muffled slightly beneath his helmet.

“Welcome to Inarahi. I can’t say I’m pleased to have my Saffremi men removed from my command, and replaced with Snoweyes. But, I do respect your adherence to our treaty, and I will not treat you any differently. In return, I ask that you respect my command as you would a Gahlalian commander.”

Hashim glanced at Salah and saw him clenching his jaw. Salah bought into the nationalist rhetoric a little more than Hashim, and Hashim could tell he was uncomfortable with this new situation. Before Hashim could say anything, Sub-Commander Akash had wheeled his horse around, and begun to ride towards the town. The group scrambled to follow him. Hashim glanced at Salah again, before squeezing his legs to tell his horse to speed up and pulling up next to Sara.

“Um, excuse me, Instructor.”

Sara turned her head and raised her eyebrows expectantly. Her irises, like all Saffremi, were entirely black.

“So, you’re no longer in charge? Are you going to be accompanying us?”

Sara didn’t appear upset by the encounter, which surprised Hashim somewhat. He had expected her to be upset by this loss of command. “No. The treaty stipulates that you are to be primarily under the command of a Wirrsholi commander. I will be advising Sub-Commander Akash, however.”

Hashim nodded slowly. Sara turned her head back towards the road, and Hashim sensed that further questions would not be appreciated.

“I see… thank you.” He let his horse drop back, and rejoined Salah. He was about to recount his conversation with Sara, when Salah spoke.

“My father was here.”

Hashim was taken aback. “Hm?”

“Thirty or so years ago, there was a brief territorial dispute surrounding this town. We attempted to take it from Wirrshol, but they pushed us back. I remember him telling me about it.”

“Oh, I see.” Hashim was puzzled — Salah seemed very concerned about this fact. “Well, there’s a Galyrian threat now. And hopefully, once we deal with that, the relationship between our nations will improve. You know, we used to be great allies! I think we were part of the same empire once. Or, wait, maybe that was…”

Salah spoke again, sternly. “Hashim… there were civilians killed.”

Hashim rode in shocked silence for a moment. It was not just that the fact of the matter was disturbing. He was surprised to hear this from Salah, from whom Hashim had only ever heard nationalist sentiments, moderate as they may have been.

“Did… Did your father… you know”

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“I don’t know. But either way, it’s difficult to be here.”

Hashim attempted to offer a comforting response, but he could not find one, and so they rode in silence into the town. Hashim mulled over this as they rode through the main street while apprehensive Saffremi looked on, their dark eyes shooting glares through thick, curly hair. He found himself preoccupied throughout the ceremony at the lord’s meeting room. The lord himself was barely dressed more extravagantly than the average citizen, and his welcoming hall, though the largest structure in the town, was only slightly larger than the barracks they had slept in at home. He gave a short speech, and after some forearm clasping with Sara, he granted the group, perhaps somewhat begrudgingly, permission to make camp on his territory. They departed the town immediately afterwards, anxious to have their camp set up before the sun sunk below the horizon

An hour later they had reached their destination and set up their tents, one for each pair, and one for each of the two leaders. While in training, Hashim had pictured the army as being much more strict and rigorously hierarchical, but he supposed that this was an unusual, and impromptu mission. Having set up his bedroll and finished his rations, Hashim stepped out of his tent. They had set up camp in a clearing that seemed to have been used for this purpose before, judging by the remnants of a fire in the centre, and the tree stumps near the edges of the clearing. Sara had explained to the group that the town of Inarahi was often used as the last stop for Wirrsholi troops headed to the border. They were less than half a day’s ride from Gahlal, and only a little further from the Galyrian border. Hashim was keenly aware of this fact, and it made him a little uncomfortable. He sighed, casting the thought aside, and returned to his tent.

“Missing home yet?” Salah was seated on his bedroll, drinking a traditional Gahlalian tea, haztu.

“Not at all. Watch yourself with that, we have a long day of riding ahead of us.”

Salah rolled his eyes. “Some of us can handle more than one mug.”

Hashim chuckled and collapsed onto his bedroll, exhausted. Salah spoke again, this time in a much more somber tone.

“Do you think they could take Ironhorn?”

“What?” Hashim propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Salah, concerned. “What makes you ask?”

“I’ve heard stories about their army. That they fight viciously even while bearing wounds that would kill the mightiest of Gahlalians. I’ve heard that a single Galyrian warrior took out a five-man squad of Wirrsholi warriors, even after they had cut one of his hands clean off.”

“Oh come on, Salah. These are just tales. If there’s one thing the Galyrians are good at, it’s making people think they’re unstoppable. But they’re just men.”

Salah furrowed his brow for a second, then nodded in agreement. “Yeah, you’re right. Just men.” Satisfied, he finished off his haztu, laid back, and closed his eyes. Hashim followed suit, but he found himself consumed with worry, despite the comforting words he had offered Salah. Eventually, he slipped into an ill-fated sleep.

His worries would be answered much sooner than expected, as the two awoke to screams.

“Salah! Throw me my sword!” By the time he woke up fully, Hashim was out of the tent, his breastplate thrown on top of his sleeping gown, and his sword in hand. Fire and running figures filled his vision. A figure clothed in all white robes cut down one of his former classmates, before springing to another with a speed that seemed… inhuman. As he looked on in horror, a roaring voice confirmed what he already knew.

“GALYRIANS!” Sub-Commander Akash screamed as he ran towards Hashim and Salah. Before he even arrived, a figure sprung out from behind their tent, steel flashing orange momentarily as it caught the reflection of flame. Hashim threw himself to the ground, hearing the blade whistle by his head. Before he hit the ground, Salah came to his aid, swinging his sword at the Galyrian. His sword found nothing but air. Faster than they could react, the Galyrian pounced again, letting out a hoarse scream as he fell on Hashim for the second time. Hashim closed his eyes, expecting the man’s blade. Instead, the Galyrian’s full weight fell on top of him, limp. After a second, Hashim pushed him to the side, finding himself covered in blood, and the daunting figure of Sub-Commander Akash standing above him.

“GET UP. GET UP FOR MALOK’S SAKE.”

Hashim started for a moment at the invocation of that name, but this thought was pushed aside as he grabbed Akash’s hand and was pulled violently to his feet.

“RUN. YOU NEED TO RUN.” The commander bellowed, clutching his side. Hashim looked down and saw the dark liquid pouring out from between the commander’s fingers. Too shocked to say anything, Hashim nodded and joined Salah in sprinting to the edge of the clearing. Hashim uttered a silent prayer of gratitude that they had set up their tent close to the treeline. The two threw themselves over a fallen tree and crouched behind it, gasping for breath.

“Hashim, Hashim, where is your sword?!”

Hashim looked around frantically, realizing with horror that he must have dropped it in his attempt to evade the Galyrian assassin. Salah realized this too, and let out a yell of frustration. Hashim would have be concerned that this would give away their hiding spot, but the chorus of screams from the camp masked it more than well enough.

Hashim spoke through ragged breaths. “We can’t… just hide here… we… have to go back.”

Salah nodded. “We have to find Sara.”

Hashim was filled with dread. If Sub-Commander Akash had been wounded in battle with one of these assassins, then how much of a chance did an ageing instructor face, regardless of her tactical prowess? The two exchanged a look, and then ran back towards the camp. It was not lost on Hashim that he was likely running to his death, but he did not feel that he was in control anymore, but simply a spectator of his own actions.

As they approached the camp, they saw a group of four of their fellow soldiers, crouching behind a tent. Salah recognized them before Hashim did.

“SOPHIA! HUMEERA!” The two women looked up, surprised. With them were two other women, but Hashim did not recognize them. Humeera motioned frantically. They sprinted to the tent, crouching as low as they could, and peering around the side. There were two other girls there, but Hashim could not remember their names.

“Are you all okay?” Salah asked quickly. They all nodded. “How many are there? When did this start? Is Sara okay?” The questions spilt out of him in a jumbled mess, but Sophia caught on to a couple.

“I think there were only five. Sub-Commander Akash killed at least one. I think Instructor Sara is okay, I saw her leading a group of soldiers away a moment ago.”

Humeera muttered something in a low voice, and it took a second for Hashim to realize what she had said. “There are… so many dead.” The group sat in stunned silence for a fraction of a second, before Salah’s face twisted in horror.

“GALYR-“

His cry was silenced by a boot to the chest. The Galyrian appeared out of nowhere, seeming to literally fall from the air onto the group. He twisted as he planted a foot on Salah’s chest, causing a sharp cracking noise. Without hesitation, he pushed off Salah, jumping as he swung a dagger. Before anyone could react, he plunged it into the throat of one of the girls, prompting a sickening gurgling noise. He ripped the blade out after a moment and swung it towards Hashim. This time though, Hashim saw it coming. He stepped backwards, letting the dagger whip in front of his nose. Despite his lack of a weapon, he was not going to go down without a fight. Seeing the Galyrian a little off balance, he threw himself full force at the man, and the two tumbled to the ground. The Galyrian dropped his dagger and cursed loudly. Hashim, unable to reach the dagger quickly, opted to kick it away. But before he knew it, the man was out from under him, and back on his feet. He pulled a smaller knife from his boot, and would surely have ended Hashim right there if Sophia had not jumped to his defence.

“Grab the dagger!” She yelled as she swung her sword at the Galyrian. The man, shockingly, brought up his forearm to counter the blow, and the blade bounced off. The sword cut a hole in his snow-white robes, revealing bright red metal beneath. Sophia continued to swing, each time hitting the Galyrian’s armbands hard enough to shatter any normal man’s arm, but he did not flinch. As Hashim stumbled to his feet, looking around frantically for the dagger, the Galyrian let out a scream. Hashim looked up to see the assassin’s white robes suddenly staining bright red, blood pouring from a long slash along his stomach. Humeera stumbled as she followed through her swing, and the Galyrian, unable to bring his arm up again, flailed weekly at Sophia with his dagger, before her sword finally connected with his shoulder. Hashim looked up at his face for the first time and saw the man’s jet-black eyes widen in shock. He dropped silently.

They all stood there for a moment, gasping for breath. The girl whose name Hashim did not know stared in stunned silence at her partner, who lay dead. Salah grabbed her by the arm, and everyone got the cue. They began to sprint away from the camp, attempting to find a hiding place once more. Hashim glanced at Salah as they ran, and the firelight illuminated the agony twisting his face. Salah’s ribs were surely broken, but he still ran, kept standing by adrenaline, and likely the painkilling effects of the haztu he had drunk. Hashim forced himself to run, pushing the memory of the slain girl out of his mind, even as it threatened to bring up the contents of his stomach. When Salah fell to his knees, the group stopped. They were far enough into the forest that they probably wouldn’t be seen by someone at the edge of the clearing.

Sophia crouched beside Salah to attempt to aid him, and Humeera threw her arms around the girl whose partner had been killed. He thought he made out a name as they spoke frantically — Kashira. He turned to face the camp, staring in dumb shock at the orange glow. He barely registered Sophia’s presence to his left.

“Look.”

Hashim strained his eyes and saw what she saw. Two figures sprinting away from the camp. “They’re leaving.” He said numbly. Sophia nodded.

Hashim slumped against a tree, completely unable to feel anything except bewilderment. Tomorrow he would be consumed by grief, shock, and anger. But tonight, he was unable to grasp the reality of what had happened. Pulling his knees to his chest, he let a warm numbness wash over him. Perhaps, he thought, this is the warmth a dying man feels as the snow begins to bury him.