Ghosts of Midnight Winter
an excerpt

The wind howled, low and lonely, a blast of cold air from the ocean that rattled through the trees, dislodging heavy loads of snow as it went. Behind him, the surf thundered against outcroppings of rock submerged by the rising tide, while gentler waves ran up the rocky, hard packed beach to pool briefly around his boots before pulling away again, leaving him a little lower in the sand than he had been before.

Kiertan let his eyes drop from the endless trees that lined the beach to the corner of wood that briefly nudged his boot before tumbling back in the receding wave's wake, a sound he heard but did not turn to follow with his eyes. He knew what it was, some splinter of the ship's side or hull, or maybe even a shattered bit of table that had skittered out from the split innards. He could not easily say if this was a part of the polished, jagged edged collection of boards he'd called home for the last several days, clinging desperately in the face of sudden storms and even more sudden drops in temperature, but fresh breaks made him think it probably was.

He'd been half conscious when he'd finally realized the roaring he'd been hearing hadn't been a product of yet another dream and that his perch on the wood had become increasingly unstable. He'd sat up blearily, every movement painful as damp clothing and the most sudden drop of temperature he'd yet endured had made his skin feel thick and not entirely his own as sluggish blood vessels protested the movement. His first thought was it was another weather pattern coming, possibly a storm, and wondered if he could endure even another small one before dying of exposure. He'd been lucky so far as, after each storm had been a period of sun that dried his clothes and warmed his bones, but both the storms and the sun had shown with less frequency, and for too long now he couldn't recall seeing the sun at all.

There had been a moment it was impossible for him to recognize what he saw, where he stared mindlessly at the waves that crashed into the rocks just ahead, so close the spray from the blast was flung stinging into his face. Then his eyes widened in horror and he was desperately scrabbling for a handhold at the next wave lifted his raft and slammed it violently against the rocks. He was lucky, the raft took the brunt of the damage, shattering to splinters, and then all he knew was deep water and the sound of muffled thunder.

Adrenaline and sudden wild hope burned away his stupor and lent flexibility to stiff limbs, and the next few moments were a confusion of light and dark and a desperate struggle for air. The thick, fur lined cloak he wore was instantly soaked and tangled in his legs and sword, dragging him farther under. He lost no time in removing it, but grabbed it before it could sink, and somehow managed to haul himself and the heavy material to the surface. He'd known, even when fighting for air, that to lose it was to die.

Somehow he'd struggled on until his feet found purchase, until he was emerging from the waves into the biting wind, cloak dragging heavy behind him, until he staggered out of a surf that threatened every second to send him sprawling onto the hard packed sand and scree that made up the beach. Then he'd finally looked around wildly, ready to collapse to his knees and let his exhaustion take him, but whatever instinct had kept his hand clenched around his cloak again took over, preventing his knees buckling even when the weight of despair made it almost impossible to stand.

Trees, nothing but trees as far as he could see.

They were old trees, twisted and gray and gnarled but otherwise huge and ancient, untouched by man. The branches were bent wild by storm winds and, in places, broken, and they tangled together so closely that at times he could not tell by sight alone where one tree ended and another began. Here and there were evergreens, clumped together as if warding off outsiders, but even these trees were stunted and miserable in size, their greens so washed out they were nearly as gray as the overcast sky. The wind moaned low through the branches, setting them to dancing and clacking gently, dislodging snow as it went.

He looked closely, but he could see no break in the trees, no beaten trails in the snow, no boat docks or cast off nets, no old remains of fishing gear or old buckets or even fish skeletons left to be picked clean by scavengers. Above the canopy of trees, no smoke wound its lazy way towards the cloud cover above, and not a light glimmered from between the branches. This place was as pristine as the world must have been the day the first man laid foot on soil, and he nearly let despair lay him down until the cold took him quietly away.

He felt the weakness in his knees, felt the darkness wash over him as the noise of the waves receded, felt his body start to crumple, but he wasn't even allowed the respite of death, it seemed. The moment his eyes closed the noise of the waves was replaced by screams, battle cries mixing with anguish, and the smell of blood filled his nostrils, as real as if he were again on the battlefield. He jerked upright, stiff, and though his eyes flew open, he couldn't see the dreary woods at all.

He was awash in memories of blood and pain, of bodies so numerous that footing became treacherous, of the smell of charred flesh, hacked limbs, spilled entrails, and...shadows. Dark shadows, shadows that one never saw when looking directly at them, but that rent and tore and did things to the dying the clutched in their arms...things--

His mind shuddered away from the memory as his eyes had once tried not to see, his ears tried not to hear. Instead he was snapped back to the turning point of the battle, to the horror of watching his father brought down, of seeing the page that held his banner sink slowly to the ground, still desperately trying to hold the flag aloft. Still trying to give hope with his last dying breath.

Our king is not dead, long live our dead king.

So much darkness after that, so much he couldn't recall. There was a jumble of fragmented memories buried under a haze of sorrow and fear and desperation, and he knew the death of his father, his people, the fall of his kingdom had sent him into a dangerous shock. Had he been stronger perhaps he could have stayed his brothers on their course, escaping into their father's old hunting grounds, the woods thick and wild around them, browning with the coming autumn and a cool nip in the air.

But he hadn't been, and in a fever of grief and anger Roelande had turned back, certain he could muster enough support to take back the city from the invaders. Terrified by his state of mind, his brothers had turned back with him, and later watched, helpless, as his naked and gutted body was hung as a warning along the castle walls.

Then there had been the second terror-laden flight through their father's woods again, hunted like animals until finally Dalian fell, his back full of arrows and his eyes full of pleading. He'd set fire to his brother's body, not caring if it took the entire fertile woodland with it. He'd started with his brother's face, in the hopes that if he was unrecognizable, his body would not hang on the castle walls with Roelande. Then he'd fled.

It was only he who, heartsick and alone, stumbled aboard the vessel waiting at the prearranged meeting place, only he, the unimportant middle son of a once powerful king who watched with trepidation as they waited for nightfall, for the tide to turn, for pursuit. Only he who watched as black smoke rolled like a living thing into the fading sky, growing ever wider until, even in his grief his heart clenched with fear as he wondered how many of his own people he had killed.

Days turned to weeks on the ocean, and the sailors began to whisper the Prince had lost his mind. He never slept, never relaxed. He paced the deck with his sword strapped to his side and the peace knot untied, one hand on the pommel as if readying for assassins to spring from thin air. His belt was always heavy with travel gear, knife, dagger, food, waterskin, all his necessities tucked into assorted pouches on his belt and pockets secreted in his cloak. He never parted from it, in fact felt naked and exposed without it, and so clutched these things close as a child might a doll. He stalked the deck like a wild thing, his eyes feral with an inner fire that could not be quenched, and as he passed sailors made signs against evil when they thought he would not see.

But he was still their Prince, so never a word was said, and in return he pretended not to hear the whispers, see the wards, pretended not to know why they lit bowls of exotic incense in their quarters, wore their talismans openly and added charms, or poured libations of rum where he walked. He gave no sign he saw or heard, but simply stayed as far from them as possible, as all he desired was to be alone. Perhaps they sensed that, perhaps a few even came close to understanding his loss, for even as they warded against him, at times he thought he saw sympathy or even pity on their faces, quickly hidden as he turned.

They had been flying before the teeth of a gale when fate finally caught up with them. As screams filled the air again and the too familiar smell of blood poured into his nostrils, he became a demon in truth. Cannons had crippled the ship, the enemy had boarded, and though there seemed no hope, the death of the last of his true loyal people was more than Kiertan could bear. He became nothing more than animal eyes and a flashing blade, and the violence sung through him with a pleasure of vengeance that was almost physical. He became aware he was smiling, a snarling, vicious smile that bared all his teeth and caused men to quail back in fear. Around him the enemy soldiers were thinning, and sailors were beginning to swing back to the other ship, trying to take it before their own ship sank.

It could have been a victory; but then the gale's full force struck, making the quarrels of mortal men pale in comparison. He never knew if it was a last barrage of cannon fire or simply the screaming winds that snapped the mast, but it was the wind that propelled it, slamming into Kiertan and cracking the already damaged ship. He'd been flung wide and hit the water with violence, and he wasn't sure if it were luck or not that caught his cloak on the debris that would carry him for days, since it caught his neck so suddenly and violently he near blacked out, and it took him a moment to realize he hadn't broken it. Feeling bruised in every bone, he climbed his cloak to the boards, then somehow clung to the slippery surface, watching in horror as both ships, already too close together in the battle, collided into each other and sank.

Then all was violence and howling winds, followed by exhaustion, hunger, and a rationing of food and water so extreme there were days he could do little more than roll over. Or perhaps that was another sort of exhaustion as the days and weeks of sleep he had been missing came crashing down on him, and with them nightmares so intense he'd wake howling to the empty skies.

So many sacrifices, so many deaths, all given for those who had ultimately failed them. The king was dead, and so was the heir apparent. For all they could know, he was as well, lost in the storm. He was a Prince without a kingdom, driven through the three hells, and his reward was to die, alone and unlamented here on this barren beach soft and white with the chill of a corpse, the wind the moans of the dying.

The crunch of snow beneath his feet surprised him, rousing him enough to look outside his memories, and he was even more surprised to find he had moved. He had passed the point where the waves had bled away the snow and was already well past where the drifts began. He started to laugh, broken laughs from a rusty and unused voice that came out half brays, half rasps and hurt his whole body, but he couldn't stop. He found something perversely funny in his body's unthinking determination to live in the face of what would make most normal men simply lay down and die. But as he moved, as the laughter shook him, he felt his body warm, and a wild hope of survival suddenly seized him.

It didn't last long. It was cold, colder than even the coldest winter he could recall, and where his clothes weren't tight against him, ice froze. His cloak was a godsend for, though soaked, the outer lining had been treated to be waterproof, so the snow that dropped from the trees tended to roll off his back, and the inner lining was soft, thick fur, and insulated where it fell against him in a sort heated muggy dampness, as long as he didn't allow it to fall open. Once opened, drafts of cold air blew through, suddenly chilling him to the bone.

High above in the trees the wind howled like a creature dying, but closer to the ground it was blessedly calm, with only a light wind to add to his miseries. After a time he couldn't feel his feet and, though he was otherwise as prepared as any sopping wet soldier or woodsman could be, never had he imagined needing gloves. He kept flexing his hands, trying to keep some mobility in them, but he had too little body heat as it was, and he feared if he didn't find a way to get warm soon they might suffer permanent damage. The woods around him were monotonous, endless, and though he tried to keep moving, keep himself focused, he found himself rousing in and out of a sort of mental stupor.

"I'll tell my father what you did!"

"Boy, your father doesn't care if I call his spoiled brat of a son to heel. Why do you think he assigned your education to me? Now you'll sit and listen, boy, this'll save your life someday."

The memory was so crisp and clear, Kiertan looked around, startled, swearing he had actually heard the voices of himself and his old teacher from somewhere in the woods. He blinked slowly, realizing he'd stopped walking altogether, then shook his head like he was shaking off a dream. He tried to gather his thoughts, pull himself in a direction, but his body was heavy, it felt too heavy to move, and thoughts skittered away before he could catch them. The idea of how good it would feel to sit down rolled through his head and he found himself looking down woozily.

The wood he held in his arms startled him. Wood...wood meant life. Fire.

Where had he gotten wood?

He looked around and saw a great deal of it sticking out of various snowdrifts, victims of the close knit branches and the storms that blew in off the ocean. He hadn't disturbed them, though, but for one far behind him which he'd apparently dug out and then discarded. Though he didn't recall actually picking it up, staring at it brought the feel of the wood to his hands, wet through and half frozen, though maybe that had been his own flesh he'd felt, cold against the icy branch.

"You can survive lad, there's always a way to survive." The boy he'd been snorted in disdain and looked at his teacher with an easy contempt that hadn't quite been knocked out of him. Tul had just smiled. "Yes boy, even in a blizzard, separated from your troops, on the run from an enemy, and only with your soldier's gear on your back. Even if you fall in a river or get soaked rolling in snow, you can survive. Anyone can. All you need is a snowdrift, a candle, and to know what you're doing."

"And if I don't have a candle?"

"You still have the snow, and the only places that don't have bushes and trees you'd have bigger worries than the weather. Just remember to keep the fire small, or else you'll melt away the only thing keeping you alive."

Kiertan swayed in place, the shook himself again. He realized he held the wood in a death grip and forced himself to loosen his arms. His hands needed what little circulation they had left; already it was harder than it should be to move his fingers. He tried his toes, and welcomed the screaming pain that brought. He did it again, the pain waking him a bit and reassuring him he wasn't as close as he'd feared to having bits of his body freeze solid.

A handful of snow fell on his head, spattering off the cloak's hood and causing him to look up. Ragged branch ends told him where he'd finally plucked the wood. Lightning had struck the tree beside him sometime long ago, and while the thicker portions of the tree were solid still, the branches had become brittle. The wood was wet, but not as bad as branches that had been submerged in snow. He'd pulled off everything in easy reach his hands would grip, and there was still more to be had.

He moved around the tree, tugging and sometimes hanging from branches in an attempt to get them to break, and became so warm under the cloak he actually began to sweat. His hands and feet were still numb though, and a sense of urgency began to awaken with the exercise. When he realized he simply did not have the strength to break any more branches off this tree, he looked around, knowing the wood he had wasn't enough. It seemed the trees this close to the shoreline had been ravaged by multiple storms, and he had his pick of the dead.

He headed towards a likely candidate, torn in two at sometime in the past, one half slumped over and in places completely covered in large snow drifts while the other half, still erect, showed the snow beneath it littered with branches and small sticks. It looked old enough even his waning strength could pull the wood. He yanked on the wood a while, becoming rewarded with more branches, until finally he had as many as he could hold. He paused, wondering what to do next.

"Build a shelter, boy. You dig in the snow drifts like this and you can build a place so snug its like being in your mommy's womb," he heard the voice of his old teacher say, but he knew he hadn't the strength for that. He looked around, scanning for caves, large cracks in old trees, anything that might keep him alive just a little longer but was disappointed by nothing but snow and twisted trees as far as he could see. His eyes fell on the drifts over the broken half of the tree and he paused, mind working furiously. It wouldn't take much to hollow out a cave there.

He dumped the wood into the snow and went to his knees, putting himself below the level of where he thought the lowest branches must be. He looked at the snow skeptically, then at his already chilled hands. They would never survive the digging. Instead he pulled out his dagger and began to use it to carve out the soft snow. At first he got frustratingly little, since daggers were not generally shaped to be digging tools. But as he enlarged the hole, he was able to move faster, using the long flat of the dagger and sometimes a hand wrapped in a fold of cloak to dig away larger chunks. No one could have been more surprised than he when he broke through to a hollow area under the branches.

He crawled inside to find a low but long area, much lower than the snow cap above. It was crowded by smaller branches sticking out everywhere, and divided by larger ones that held up the broken portion of the tree. There was almost no snow here, and apparently any that used to remain had been trampled away by some animal who had used this as a den, but whatever it had been it had moved on long ago, leaving broken branches, tiny skeletons and an ancient waft of musk in its wake. Kiertan was stunned by his good fortune.

As quickly as stiff and protesting muscles would allow, he pulled in all his fire wood and used his hands and the dagger to break it into smaller pieces. Then he pulled out the flint and steel that had been well secured in a pouch on his belt and prayed. After several fumbling minutes he realized his fingers were too numb to work the mechanism, and that was assuming it wasn't too soaked or even damaged. He looked at his hands, far too pale and tinging blue and sighed. This was going to hurt.

He wove his fingers through the stacked sticks until he knew he must be touching the tinder at the bottom, though he could barely feel the pressure of the smaller sticks against his skin. Then he braced himself and concentrated. It didn't take much, a thought, a breath, and then green fire edged his skin. He scowled and tried again, and suddenly his hands were wrapped harmlessly in an orange flame. It made no noise, for it consumed nothing, but he gritted his teeth as its warmth gave his hands the same painful shock one gets when suddenly plunging ice cold feet into hundred degree water. He forced himself to hold his hands steady, waiting until the wood dried enough to catch.

A true son of his family line indeed. Tales often spoke of a family birthmark or crest, entire fictional epics that hinged on the timely revealing of a joke of nature such as a sixth toe or a birthmark in the shape of a platypus. But the truth behind the tales ran deeper, into something much less accidental than if a playful god had decided to mold a snake wearing a bonnet on a princess's duff, and much harder to fake or mistake.

For his line it had always been the mark of flame. He hadn't understood what it meant, and most thought it mere legend. Paintings showed the royal rulers surrounded by ethereal fire, or holding up a hand that glowed like the sun. One of his ancestors was said to have once called down the wrath of the gods themselves upon his enemies, so that when the firestorm passed there was nothing left of the castle and immediate surrounding lands but glass and rubble. You could still see it, even today nothing would grow there, which is perhaps why, even as they waned in power they were still treated with cautious deference and even respect by the kingdoms who surrounded them.

Until--

He told himself it was the fire, true fire, lit from his fingers to the wood that caused him to jerk back, scattering some of the wood. He told himself it was his hands, burning with the fervor of newly rushing blood as they thawed too fast under the flames, and not the memories he was trying to avoid. Monsters lurked on the edges of his mind until he found himself starting to things his tired mind insisted were on the edge of his vision. He doubled over, eyes closed, his hands over his face as if he were a child curling away nightmares and tried to think of anything else. He'd come so far, he could not afford to fall apart now.

It was the cold that brought him back, cold that the fire was still too small to beat back, and he uncurled painfully, adding some more fuel to the flames. Later it was smoke that spurred him again, and climbing in and out of his new bolt hole drove away all other thoughts as he danced between the rapidly warming interior and the sudden chill of the outside air. At one point he came in to some of the packed snow above him melting and reduced the fire again, then tended it until he was certain the size wasn't so big as to bring down his shelter. By this time his fingers had begun to thaw, protesting their unhappy state with pain.

He didn't look forward to what he knew he had to do next. He had to leave the increasing warmth of his tiny snow cave and find bedding. He couldn't sleep directly on the frozen ground, and to continue wearing this wet clothing was to die. He needed more wood, needed a way to keep warm even after his clothes were removed, and that meant hauling his wet and now thawing body out into the cold. Before he could think about it long enough to give up, he came back out of his hole, not realizing how well the tiny fire was working until he felt the temperature drop as he emerged.

Working as quickly as clumsy, exhausted limbs would allow, he trekked twice more to the dead tree, gathering everything he could carry and dropping it outside his shelter. Then he paused, sighting the nearby evergreens, and cut a new path, this time to a nearby thicket. The snow was lighter beneath the densely packed trees, the branches reaching all the way to the ground, and Kiertan drew his sword. He couldn't recall it ever feeling so heavy in his hands, but finding the shelter had revived a second wind, and he worked by rote, never thinking beyond his next swing. He left the core of the branches alone, instead cutting their smaller offshoots, the thinner the branches and the thicker the leaves on those little branches the better. He cut and carried until a large pile rested outside the shelter, and only then did he start the laborious process of getting everything inside.

He had to slide them in carefully, only two or three pieces at a time or risk widening his original hole and possibly bringing down the wall of his shelter. He'd been lucky the first time not to shake it to pieces, he wasn't banking on being that lucky again. By the time he was finished his legs were practically numb, but he had stocked enough wood to keep the small fire stoked for several days, and a considerable amount of bedding. He crawled back into his shelter, carefully displacing the bits that had built up in the doorway, and busied himself arranging it all until he had a pile of wood, a pile of evergreen branches, and flat, thick carpet of more branches separating him from the cold ground. He ducked out one last time, relieving himself against a nearby tree, then crawled in again.

The air was warmer, much warmer. It wasn't balmy, but after the terrible cold outside, he found it no chore to contemplate stripping himself bare in the warmer air. He could almost come to his knees in some places, but mostly the web of branches and low snow above him kept him on hands and knees or almost flat, and he lay down for most of the process, laboriously removing his clothing with fingers that were no longer numb, but still clumsy and thick with cold. The web of branches made it convenient to hang various articles of clothing, and soon he felt like he was in a washerwoman's chamber. Shivering, he lay down on the bed of evergreen branches, finding it prickly and uncomfortable, but much too tired to care.

He turned his cloak—much too large and heavy to weight any of the branches with—fur side up, and spread it so the full sideways length stretched across him. Then he got into the second pile of evergreen branches, putting a thick layer between himself and the sopping cloak until he was sandwiched in the insulating leaves, the cloak on top locking in the warmth of his body and the cloak stretched enough there was a good chance it would eventually dry in the warmer air.

He'd done everything he could, everything he'd recalled how to do to keep himself alive. It was with a sense of relief he finally let consciousness slip away.
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Nightmares plagued him. Creatures he had never been able to look upon fully out on the battlefield came to him now in vivid detail, and he would sometimes awaken to his own keens of fear and horror. He was aware of it being too cold and too hot by turns, and placing more wood on the dimming fire or stumbling into the snow to relieve himself seemed only another part of the nightmares until he was no longer certain what was real. He was dimly aware he had stumbled out more than once, naked but for his boots, and barely felt the cold, and just enough of him retained sense that he knew this was a dangerous sign. He was careful with the fire, careful to keep himself covered in his bed of branches, and as his clothes dried he was careful to keep as many on as he could, but still he sweated and shivered, barely aware of anything but the curved teeth and obscene limbs that rent him to shreds again and again in his dreams.

He had no idea how much time had passed when he finally awoke to himself again, panting and sweating as if he'd just run for miles. The entire cave smelled of sickness, and his little fire was down to the last pieces of wood. He found himself in clothes that could use a good wash, but were warm and dry, and the majority of the branches were now on the floor making almost a nest for him, while the cloak's fur wrapped him in warmth.

He felt weak, thirsty, and cast about for his water skin. He found it beside the fire, near enough the leather was hot to the touch, and shaking it revealed a slosh of water. There wasn't much, but he greedily drank what was there, allowing the lukewarm water to pull him that much closer to life. Then he crawled to the entrance. Deep gouges in the snow surrounding his shelter mutely attested to how often he had been here before, cramming bits of snow down the slender neck of the waterskin. He did so again, silently thanking his old teacher for hammering his lessons into him so that even in his illness he still knew better than to try and eat snow. He brought the skin back beside the fire and left it there to allow the snow to warm and thaw. Then he made his shaky way out of the hole, carefully dragging the cloak behind him.

Once outside he fastened it and once again trekked to the dead tree. It had been some time since he passed this way, and he had to forge new furrows in the snow, feeling the sweat gather beneath his clothes. Once he was at the tree he realized he hadn't brought his sword and cursed himself for a fool. Instead he bent again to gathering and breaking what he could, carrying a large pile back to his shelter. He again went through the laborious process of sliding the sticks inside, then following himself, removing the cloak before he made his way in.

Stoking the fire was relatively swift, though somewhat clumsily done, and he reflected he would need gloves if he stayed in this weather any length of time. The cold took his hands too quickly, numbing the fingers and making all his movements feel like the fat fingered attempts of an infant. He didn't like to think of the damage the cold would eventually do.

Once the fire was blazing well, he looked through his things, searching for the traveler's food he knew had been stowed in a pouch on his belt. The hardened wayfarer's loaf, thin slices of hard, slightly sweetened bread that more closely resembled a cracker in thickness and a cookie in texture he found pushed haphazardly away, as far as he'd been able to reach when ill. Though dry now, he could well imagine the soggy, crumbled state he'd found it in before he'd cast it away in disgust. The cheese had fared the same and was barely recognizable. The fruit and meat, though saltier than he would have liked, had survived well, but there was precious little left.

So he'd eaten when he was ill. That was good, it had probably helped keep him alive. However, it was no help to him now. He'd have to hunt, and soon, sooner than he would have liked. He still felt weak, and he had no idea what this land had to offer in the way of food. He chewed some jerky and thirstily drank the snow that had melted in his skin, then returned to the entrance to laboriously pack more down the narrow neck and return the waterskin back to the fireside.

He looked through the hidden pockets of his cloak and the pouches on his belt, taking a quick inventory. He was gratified to see almost everything remained. It had all been built not just for hard travel, but for combat. It was expensive, hand crafted to survive anything from some of the most skilled laborers in the land. Every clever trick that had ever been designed to secure goods had been implemented, and for the first time Kiertan thanked gods he barely believed in for what he once thought of as pretentiousness. Though the result was a set of clothes that looked only slightly more expensive than ordinary soldier's garb, it was actually much more functional, allowing for any possibility. Apparently that included ocean storms.

A test of his equipment showed that it was still functioning, and he was relieved the oil for his weapons was still unpolluted by sea water, though before he could care for the weapons he would need to rinse the salt out of the cleaning rag. The rest of the equipment was much the same, in need of some care, but functional. Now that his hands were thawed even the flint and steel responded to him, sparking satisfactorily.

He prepared the fire as much as he dared, then grabbed his weapons and his waterskin and once again crawled his way out of the shelter. The sky was as gray as it had been since he'd arrived, with no hint of the sun, the snow undisturbed but for the marks of his passing. Only the low moan of the wind through the upper branches made any movement, and the land was more desolate than any he'd ever seen. With a sigh he set out not so much to hunt as to explore.

The sun was nearly set before he returned, discouraged and feeling as if he were the only living creature in this land. He's seen not so much as a rabbit, though some of the trees had shown bark stripped as if deer might exist. Instead he had gathered roots and other bits of various plants, anything he recognized as edible. It wouldn't be pleasant or flavorful eating, but it would keep him alive.

The next several days he spent doing much the same thing, stocking supplies as he could and trying to find any sign of life. He did happen across a herd of deer once, but with nothing but blades and bogged down in snow he could only watch helplessly as they sped away. However, the sighting gave him hope, for if they lived here, other animals must as well. Despite the half frozen fingers he thawed every night, he found himself beginning to believe he might be able to survive in this desolate place, perhaps even get an idea of what land he was in, find his bearings and from there make his way back home.

And then...

And then what? Pull an army out of my ass?

Tomorrow, he would think on that tomorrow.

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Another seven days found him once again on the move. His strength had returned, and he was as prepared as he would ever be for the frigid land beyond his shelter. He emerged with trepidation, eying the dark sky warily. At first he thought the clouds were a reflection of the storm that had blown them off course and blown apart his ship, but after a while he began to doubt that the sun ever found this desolate land. The wind never ceased to howl, though blessedly the strongest part of the wind often stayed above the tree line. It was probably all that stopped the snow from becoming an impenetrable ice, as it pushed it around ceaselessly, though on occasion he had found himself suddenly up to his armpits in what he'd thought was much shallower snow.

He'd already chosen his path, in the direction the deer had taken several days ago, for no better reason than a food source gave him hope, even if he was unsure for now how to catch that food. It turned out to be a fortuitous path as, after about a day of hiking, he found himself boggling at a swath of emptiness that cut its way through the trees. It had been long since overgrown and snow drifts hid the ground, so it had taken him almost an hour of trudging before he realized that though it wasn't perfect, it was still much too straight to have been created naturally. He gazed narrowly at the the overgrown treetops, the eldest trees still lengths away from one another, only some younger ones near the road that had struggled for life, at least until the cold took them. Half were dead, the other half seemed as if they'd never grow again.

Kiertan looked around, but the ever present wind had blown clear any tracks that would have shown the road being used, if indeed it was still in use at all. If so it was not heavily, for he doubted even a road in this snowy land could fight the slush that built up under the combined pressure of hooves, wheels, and hundreds of marching feet. However, by the sheer width of the road he could tell once it had once seen heavy traffic. That meant there was a city around here, or at least the ruins of a city. He peered around but if there had ever been a visible clue on this road as to which way the city lie, wind and weather had long since erased any trace. With a mental shrug, Kiertan once again trudged on. Following the deer had brought him this far, perhaps continuing to go in the direction they had fled would bring him more luck.

The way was easier now, though he often found it harder to see. The very wind that scoured the road, lifting the snow and tumbling it into the trees also whipped the loose powder into the air, often blinding him. The cold numbed him until he was again trudging mindlessly, his only thought to put one foot in front of the other. He didn't even realize he was hearing the ocean once again until an especially large wave crashed nearby, startling him out of his stupor.

He looked around, startled by what he saw. He had walked without realizing into the ruins of an empty town. There was nothing left of the houses but burnt beams and rafters, the insides long since gutted and taken by the elements. Here and there the houses had collapsed into little more than piles of charred wood and fallen chimney bricks, and even through the ages the air still smelt faintly of smoke. He walked up to a nearby house, touching one of the remaining supports, then jumped back, tumbling into the snow as the structure collapsed. Old, they had to be very old. He couldn't imagine why they hadn't been blown down by the ocean tempests already.

There were enough structures for an entire village, as if a tiny community had once thrived on this shore before the long ago fire had destroyed their lives. Perhaps that was why this road was no longer used, whatever tragedy that had befallen these people had made people shy of this direction. It wouldn't be the first time the legend of a haunted or cursed village caused a road to become disused, though if that was the case, it was by far the largest one Kiertan had ever seen abandoned.

A war, perhaps? Something that obviously didn't plague the land now, but once may have, and destroyed trade enough to cause the traders to take a different route. Perhaps even now he was traveling towards a town or village that boasted an extended marketplace, some last remnant of long ago prosperity. It would be a welcome change from the feeling he was alone in the world.

He slowly became aware of a sound so low that at first he didn't distinguish it from the nearby crash of the ocean surf. Frowning, he turned his head, listening, and was startled when it finally resolved itself into a child's cry. The weeping was soft, miserable, and achingly hopeless as if that child lost everything bright and good in their world. It was the way Kiertan might have cried for all tht was lost to him had he still been just a little boy.

His brow creasing, he tried to locate the sound, moving slowly and as softly as he was able, listening between the waves and the crunch of his feet in snow for the thread of that cry. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, dancing on the wind until he found himself turned around several times, and at least once he glanced about wildly, locating his own prints so he could be certain he wouldn't lose the road. The structures were swallowing him up, replacing the trees with a forest of blackened supports and houses that, though little more than rough outlines of the homes they used to be, still echoed hollowly as if mourning their lost occupants.

There was a sudden loud crash of ocean waves, and he cried out as his foot met empty air. Even as his balance began to tilt he found himself flailing backwards, twisting on the foot still planted in the snow until he had half fallen, half thrown himself to the ground. Snow tumbled down on top of him, half burying him, and he lay there panting, staring at the overcast sky with wild frightened eyes.

As his heart rate slowed, and the cold began to creep in he finally stirred, struggling out of the snow and carefully levering himself upright, afraid to move too quickly. Before him was an abrupt drop off, one that he was sure, almost sure hadn't been there before, and he feared he was on unstable ground.

He started to push himself backwards, carefully sliding until he felt he was far enough away to stand. Then he unbuckled his sword belt, using the scabbard sword as a sort of walking stick, pounding roughly on the ground as he approached the cliff again, testing for weak spots. When he was as close as he dared get he went to hands and knees, the move instinctual, making him a smaller target for sudden gusts of wind or attackers who might want to push him over the edge. He couldn't explain why he suddenly felt he wasn't alone, or why the hair was standing on the back of his neck, and he put the feeling off to the sudden shock he had received.

The ground seemed solid enough, even near the cliff's edge, and when he peered over he could see that there had been more land there once, land the village had probably spread to before it had crumbled away, shaken loose by forces he couldn't imagine. He could see the jagged edges where it had given away, but weather had long since smoothed the wounds of the land so that, but for the fact that the top of the cliff was irregular and the surf unusually noisy--probably due to debris--he would never have guessed. In fact, he may not have thought anything of it anyway, except that when he had taken that step, he could have sworn he was stepping onto solid land, following the sound of that small sad voice.

He leaned forward, peering as far down as he could, but could only see the murky ocean and the flying spray of breakers far below, the base of the cliff being too shadowed to show detail. He couldn't be sure how far down the water was, or what exactly was at the bottom, was unable to see if ruins of houses were wedged between the rocks, barely recognizable as the remains of walls, or if the doll of some tiny girl long gone still drifted in the waves. The image was suddenly so clear he was actively surprised when he didn't see it in the water below, and he found himself shaking his head as if to dislodge it.

Carried on the winds that blew along the cliff face he heard again the child, her lost lonely sobbing like the last dying gasp of the village that surrounded him. He leaned forward, strangely drawn to the sound, peering into the shadowy darkness at the bottom of the cliff as if somehow he would see her there, this sobbing child who was impossibly safe, despite the crashing of the waves. He felt the wind shift around them, the air currents strange as they broke against rock walls and were pushed around by the violence of the waves. They first tugged his clothing one way, then another, its push against him demanding, insistent, the pressure alternately gentle and rough by turns. He found himself leaning forward on all fours, craning his neck as if that would help improve his view when suddenly the wind whistled up the cliff face, the sobbing turning into a sudden unearthly shriek. He clung to the edge of the cliff, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted, elbows half bent as his body instinctively crouched even lower. The sound was too familiar, the pained cry of someone being rent in two, and his heart sped in his chest, his first instinct to become as small as possible, to hide from the monsters that haunted his dreams.

The wind shifted, and there was a sudden hard push that, had he not been on his hands and knees would have pushed him straight over the edge. As it was, he found himself once again pushing himself backwards and again falling clumsily into the snow. Around him the shrieking grew, the wind becoming more violent as if angered by the loss of its prey. Kiertan found himself in a ball on the ground, his fists shoved against his ears as the primal fear gripped him. The wind pulled and tugged his clothing but could no more move him than it could a rock and, after a long while, its shrieking died out until he was again only brushed by a light breeze. Still he lay there, letting his heart rate calm and waiting for the fear to release the grip on his limbs.

How was he to take his kingdom back if even the thought of those creatures paralyzed him with such fear?

With a huff of air, he rolled again to his knees, but thought better of getting to his feet. Instead he grabbed his sword belt and crawled back from the edge, not standing again until he was a goodly distance away. He busied himself rebuckling on his sword belt, his fingers clumsy and half numb with cold. Then he pulled his cloak shut and plunged his fingers beneath his armpits, wincing as they once again began to thaw painfully.

He glanced around, trying to find his own pathway, the trail that would lead him among the gutted structures and back to the deserted roadway. He froze, looking wildly around him. Though his path was clear, the only disturbance against the pristine snow, his surroundings had changed. There were no houses here now, and for a wild moment he feared he had only dreamed them. Then he saw what looked like nothing so much as a set of snow covered steps leading to a squarish mound and realized he was indeed looking at the same burnt out village. But what had happened to the charred and gutted shells?

He trudged forward, noticing the fresh powder that had blown across the tracks he had left and looked at the gutted village with new eyes. It hadn't been a gentle wind; it was very likely that the houses were simply so old that they finally gave way to its demands. Then the wind had tumbled the snow over the remaining ruins, giving the area the unfortunate air of a graveyard. And the child's voice, obviously a trick of the wind, probably blowing through some unseen hole in the cliff. It was simple, really, and his fears unfounded, the result of too long spent battling an undefeatable enemy.

If that was so, then why was the snow across the ruins so deep, while the snow in his prints were so shallow? Why was there no charred poles sticking haphazardly out of the banks? And why now, right now, when they must have endured that and worse in the years they had stood there? Why--

It was wind, only wind, and the precariousness of nature. No child had sobbed, no false village had haunted his view. He was simply mentally exhausted and on edge, prone to putting more significance to things than they deserved. He was not cracking up.

Firmly he shoved his racing thought to the back of his mind, concentrating on making his way back to the road.