NORTHERN FURY

Jason Grekor

THE DYING SUN bled across the horizon, painting the distant riverbed in fiery hues of orange and crimson. From my vantage point high in the castle window, the world below seemed to shrink, its worries and concerns fading into the tapestry of twilight.

Hours had slipped away since my arrival with urgent tidings from Slacia, yet the Duke remained elusive. His chamber, a frigid expanse devoid of life, offered no solace. Only the soft, mournful crackle of the dying embers in the hearth and the hushed murmur of servants beyond the heavy oak door broke the silence.

Outside the heavy oak door, two guards stood sentinel, their faces impassive masks, a requirement, it seemed, for serving the Duke. They had scrutinized me, their eyes sharp and suspicious, before granting me leave to enter.

Now, within the Duke's chamber, I paced restlessly. I'd never been fond of these Highlords, with their airs of superiority and veiled disdain. Lord Merwin, of course, was an exception – a man of quiet strength and genuine humility. But here, surrounded by the trappings of the Duke's power, unease prickled my skin. My gaze drifted across the tapestries, their intricate patterns a stark contrast to the starkness of the room itself. The scent of aged leather and polished wood hung heavy in the air, a world away from the fresh, earthy aroma clinging to my travel-worn clothes.

Dust motes danced in a solitary beam of sunlight that sliced through the gloom, illuminating the intricate carvings on the Duke's massive oak desk. Hunting trophies adorned the walls, their lifeless eyes staring blankly – a magnificent stag with antlers like a crown, a snarling wolf with fangs perpetually bared, forever frozen in a silent snarl. Each seemed to follow my every move, silent witnesses to my growing impatience. The Duke, it was clear, was a man who reveled in the thrill of the hunt, in the power of life and death.

A massive oak table dominated the room, its surface strewn with scrolls, maps, and quills. A half-finished letter lay open, the elegant script a surprising contrast to the Duke's imposing surroundings, hinting at a refined hand. Behind it, a towering bookshelf stretched towards the vaulted ceiling, overflowing with leather-bound volumes edged in gold.

My eyes scanned the titles – philosophy, history, geography, literature – a testament to the Duke's varied interests. But it was the books on war and empire that truly captured my attention: "The Reminiscence of the Civil War," "Truemage: The Catastrophes," "History of the Empire." Each spine seemed to whisper of past conflicts, of power struggles and the weight of history.

A faint creak from the hallway shattered the silence, pulling me from my contemplation. I straightened my tunic, my hand instinctively falling to the hilt of my sword. The heavy oak door swung inward, revealing the imposing form of Duke Alvarez. He moved with a surprising grace for such a large man, his steps measured and deliberate, his presence filling the room. His face, framed by platinum hair and a neatly trimmed beard, was an austere mask, his eyes as cold and sharp as glacial ice.

He wore a simple tunic of dark blue, devoid of ornamentation save for a silver signet ring that glinted on his finger. The faint scent of pine and iron clung to him, a subtle hint of the armory, perhaps.

The Duke stalked towards his chair, his gaze raking over me with an intensity that left me feeling exposed, a mere insect pinned beneath his scrutiny. I knelt, head bowed in deference, acutely aware of the silence that stretched between us. He moved with a predator's grace, each step deliberate and measured, until finally, he settled into his chair with a heavy sigh. The leather creaked beneath his weight, a sound that seemed to echo the burden of his authority.

"Rise," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the chamber, a voice accustomed to being obeyed.

I obeyed, my gaze remaining fixed on the floor, the intricate patterns of the rug suddenly fascinating. "You bear news from Slacia," he stated, his tone flat, devoid of inflection, yet somehow conveying an underlying sense of ... expectation. Perhaps even a hint of ... impatience?

"Yes, your grace," I replied, my voice barely a whisper, the weight of his presence bearing down on me. "Lady Rayeesi has given birth to a healthy son. And this..." I extended the letter from Lord Dreynoir, "from Lord Merwin."

Even before I could fully present the missive, a tremor of mana pulsed from the Duke. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it sent a shiver down my spine. The air crackled with unseen energy, a sudden chill sweeping through the room, leaving a residue of icy dread. But just as quickly, the Duke regained his composure, the fleeting display of magic vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared.

I extended the letter, my hand trembling slightly under his unwavering gaze. The Duke accepted it, his eyes flickering across the parchment, yet he made no move to break the seal. It was as if he already knew the contents, as if the letter itself was a mere formality, a confirmation of something already known.

"A son," he repeated, his voice barely audible, a mere breath escaping his lips. A fleeting flicker of something – was it disappointment? Resignation? – crossed his face, then vanished as quickly as it appeared. His eyes, like obsidian pools, held mine with an icy intensity, a tempest of darkness roiling within their depths, a wasteland devoid of warmth. I had hoped to see a spark of joy, a flicker of paternal pride, but instead, I found only an abyss, an icy void reflecting nothing but... emptiness.

Lady Rayeesi, the Duke's mistress, had borne him a son. A bastard son, yes, but a son nonetheless. And in a world where lineage and bloodlines held immense power, this child, born out of wedlock, could disrupt the delicate balance of power within the duchy. The Duke's legal wife, a woman known for her ambition and ruthlessness, would undoubtedly view this child as a threat to her own children's inheritance, a potential usurper to their claim.

The Duke's silence stretched on, the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing down on me like a physical burden. I could only imagine the turmoil brewing within him, the conflict raging between his personal desires and his political obligations. He was a man trapped between duty and desire, his heart a battlefield where love and ambition clashed in a silent, deadly war.

Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, measured tone that betrayed nothing of the maelstrom within. "You have done well, Jason," he said, his words clipped and formal, a dismissal cloaked in politeness. "You may return to your duties."

I bowed my head, relieved to be dismissed, and stepped out into the relative warmth of the corridor, escaping the oppressive chill of the Duke's presence. The guards saluted with practiced efficiency, their eyes following me as I went.

The towering castle walls, adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and long-dead heroes, rose above me like the cliffs of a mountain range. The air buzzed with the murmur of hushed conversations and the clinking of swords as knights and guards carried out their evening duties. I navigated through the bustling crowd, their colorful cloaks and tabards fluttering in the gentle breeze like a field of exotic flowers.

The enticing scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat wafted from the kitchens, a welcome contrast to the sterile air of the Duke's chamber. I nearly collided with a portly cook carrying a precarious tower of pies. "Mind your feet, lad!" the cook bellowed, his face as red as the cherries wobbling precariously on the top of the uppermost pie. "These are for the Lady's birth-nurses, and they wouldn't appreciate a floor-flavored filling!" I gave an apologetic bow and hurried towards the exit, eager to escape the confines of the castle walls.

As I stepped through the grand archway of the castle gate, I paused, taking a deep breath of the crisp evening air. Below me, the city bustled with life, a welcome sight after the stifling formality of the Duke's court. Those high nobles could be quite intimidating, I thought to myself, shaking my head. Descending the steep stone steps, I was quickly swallowed by the vibrant throng crowding the narrow streets.

Icia was divided into distinct districts by two concentric walls. This structure gave the city the appearance of a fortress within a fortress. The outer wall, a towering sentinel, guarded the inner, its fortifications a stark reminder of the city's past struggles.

Walking towards the outer district, I was surprised by the lack of a clear distinction between the homes of nobles and commoners. While the inner district was more expensive, it remained accessible to those with sufficient wealth, offering a degree of fairness to all. This egalitarianism would likely be scorned by southern noble lords.

After passing through a sturdy gate set within the massive inner wall, I entered the outer districts. Here, the shops were a riot of color and sound, their wares spilling out onto the cobblestones in a tempting display. The air was a heady mix of aromas: exotic spices, fresh-baked bread, and cured leather mingling with the scents of everyday life. A blacksmith hammered rhythmically on his anvil, sending a shower of sparks into the twilight sky. A baker's wife called out her wares in a singsong voice, competing with the joyous cries of children and the insistent braying of a donkey laden with baskets of ripe fruit.

After a long walk, I found the tavern where I had lodged upon my arrival in the city. It was located in the outermost region, a rough-and-tumble area known as the mercenary district.

Lord Merwin had recommended this place, having often stayed here disguised as a mercenary in his younger days. I stepped inside. The burly innkeeper was talking to a maid at the reception desk. His face lit up with recognition when he noticed me.

"Brida, take this young man to his room," he ordered to the maid he was talking to. The maid nodded and then looked towards me. Her round green eyes signaled me to follow her. We walked in silence to the third floor, sound of our footsteps echoing on the wooden floorboards.

"This will be your room, sir," she said, breaking the silence. The interior was modest but cozy, with a single bed adorned with slightly rumpled sheets, a table, and a small window that framed a view of the winding streets below. "The bathroom is at the end of the hall, and dinner will be served in the main hall. Is there anything else you need, sir?"

"No, this will do,” I replied, sensing her palpable disdain as she hurriedly left the room, closing the door with a firmness that bordered on rudeness. I was left to ponder her icy demeanor, yet fatigue weighed heavily upon me. My body needed some rest as the journey to the northern garrison would be long and arduous, with few taverns along the way.

After cleansing my weary body in a steaming bath, I descended to the bustling main hall. I found a secluded corner, thick with the scent of liquor and the cacophony of drunken voices, and summoned a serving boy to order a meal.

As I awaited my sustenance, my attention was captured by a tense exchange between two merchants at the adjacent table. Intrigued, I leaned in, straining to catch their words.

"Have you heard? Siria, that poor lass, up and vanished without a trace," a burly man grumbled, raising his ale to his lips. "Harold's mind has been shattered by his daughter's disappearance."

"Poor Harold. He adored his daughter," a fellow patron replied, his voice filled with sympathy.

"That's not all," the burly man continued, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. "There have been more reports of young girls disappearing in the villages near Whitewoods."

"Could it be the frost..." The other man began, his words trailing off as the serving boy arrived with my order.

The tantalizing aroma of the soup filled the air, surpassing my expectations for a tavern meal. The ale was equally satisfying. As I savored my food, the two men's conversation fell silent. Young girls were vanishing near the woods, located within Garrison territory. Interesting.

I strained to eavesdrop on other conversations as I savored my meal, gleaning snippets of information from the surrounding tables. The majority of the chatter centered around the escalating border tensions with Rhoadnia, which threatened to ignite a full-scale war. Satisfied with my meal and the information I had gathered, I retreated to my room, eager for a night of restful sleep before the long journey ahead.

*********

“Good morning, young lord,” the old stablehand greeted, his weathered face creasing into a smile that spoke of countless sunrises. “If you're ready to ride out, I’ll get your horse prepared. Need anything else?” I nodded, my heart quickening with anticipation. Moments later, he emerged leading a sleek black mare, her coat shimmering as if kissed by a thousand stars. “A fine creature indeed,” he remarked, running a hand along her velvety neck. “She’s perfect for the harsh journey north.”

I swung into the saddle, ignoring his ramblings, and felt the mare's muscles shift beneath me, eager for the open road. “Best not ride through the night, young lord,” the old man warned, his voice tinged with genuine concern. “Winter’s breath is near, and the cold will be bitter. Seek shelter somewhere and build a fire.” I merely nodded, defiance flickering in my heart as I headed toward the looming gates.

The massive northern city gate was bustling with activity. Carts rumbled through, knights patrolled, and guards carefully inspected everyone entering or leaving. As I strode through the gate, a knight approached me. When I presented my knight's badge, a metallic square with a fox head identifying me as a member of House Dreynoir, he saluted and granted me permission to proceed. The first gust of wind that greeted me hinted at the chilly journey ahead.

As my steed took its first step beyond the city gates, a short, rotund man burst forth from the crowd, his belly quivering with each frantic stride. I pulled my horse to a halt, my gaze fixed on the approaching figure. He collapsed onto his knees, his hands clutching his sides as he gasped for air. "Don't die on me now," I muttered under my breath. Finally, he managed to catch his breath and stand upright. His face flushed with exertion, beads of sweat clinging to his temples.

"I assume the esteemed young knight is headed toward the northern garrison," he said, his voice dripping with a syrupy sweetness that made my skin crawl. "Perhaps you would be so gracious as to join us on our journey?" His eyes, wide and pleading, seemed to bore into my soul.

"You'll only slow me down, merchant" I replied, my voice laced with a hint of steel. And why should I protect your possessions without compensation? To my surprise, he did not appear disheartened. His expression remained unchanged, as if he could read my thoughts.

"Of course, good sir! I would never ask a knight of House Dreynoir to work without... appropriate reward." He rubbed his hands together nervously. "Gold, provisions, whatever you need, we’ll make it worth your while."

Nestled along the banks of the Vine River, a vital artery of trade that snaked through Elaecia, Icia was a mercantile hub. The river's tributaries, like veins nourishing the land, ensured a steady flow of commerce to its shores, making it a haven for merchants and traders alike.

I surveyed his caravans, two imposing structures that stood out against the backdrop of the city. I tugged on my horse's reins, guiding it toward the lead caravan. The middle-aged man followed, his eyes filled with anticipation.

"What is your destination, merchant?" I inquired, my voice firm and direct.

"Gilbert," he stammered, wringing his hands. "My name is Gilbert, sir. And we are headed to Redkon Town, sir."

Redkon Town was likely a three-day journey from here on horseback. With two heavy caravans, it would take even longer. As per the map, it was the last town before the garrison. A mischievous grin crept across my face. Why not make some extra money along the way?

I swung down from my horse, my eyes boring into his. He flinched, stepping back slightly. "And what, exactly, are you afraid of? Bandits?" I leaned forward, narrowing my gaze. "Or something worse?"

The merchant paled slightly, his smile faltering.

"Bandits, yes, but..." He hesitated, then lowered his voice to a near whisper. "There have been... disappearances. Young girls. They say the woods aren’t safe. Rumors about... things lurking in the trees. My daughter—" His voice cracked, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in his eyes. "My daughter is traveling with us. Please, sir, I beg of you."

He gestured toward one of the wagons, and I saw them—a woman and a young girl, both watching me through the small window. The mother’s face was set in worry; the girl’s eyes were wide with innocence and curiosity.

I exhaled slowly, weighing my options. Escorting them would slow me down, but the promise of extra coin... and the rumors of girls disappearing near the garrison... were hard to ignore.

"I had hired a mercenary from the guild. But at the last minute, he backed out due to illness." He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "That's when I saw your knight's badge from House Dreynoir."

“Please,” he implored, his voice thick with emotion. "Please... milord... I... I beg you. We'd... we'd be so grateful. I wouldn't ask... but my wife... my daughter..."

He gestured toward one of the wagons, and I saw them—a woman and a young girl, both watching me through the small window. The mother’s face was set in worry; the girl’s eyes were wide with innocence and curiosity.

Tears welled in his eyes, glistening like jewels as they trailed down his cheeks. Don’t make me feel like a bad guy, I thought, wrestling with the weight of his plea.

"A knight's duty is to protect the civilians, Gilbert," I said, my voice firm and resolute. "I will not abandon you in your time of need." I placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I will escort you to your destination."

As I mounted my horse, I turned back and winked at him, "But it won't be cheap."

"Of course, sir! Anything you ask, we’ll pay." the merchant gave a grateful bow, hurrying off to instruct his drivers. As I watched him scurry back to his caravan, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this journey might hold more dangers than just bandits or wild animals.