The debate raged on, voices rising in the warm room while below, in the cold dark, Gwendolyn shivered, steeling herself for what came next.
CHAPTER FOUR
The wind howled across the frozen tundra, a relentless banshee that tore at Thorgrin's tattered clothing and stung his exposed skin like a thousand needles.Each step was a battle, his boots sinking into the snow, his wounds screaming with every movement.Blood seeped from the gash in his side, leaving a crimson trail that the blizzard quickly buried.His breath came in ragged gasps, visible as fleeting clouds in the dim twilight.
The scorching heat of earlier was long forgotten, replaced by a freezing cold that was like a living thing, wrapping around him, sapping what little strength remained.He staggered forward, driven by instinct and the faint hope of finding shelter, though the vast white expanse offered no promise of salvation.
Thorgrin's mind flickered between clarity and delirium.Images of Gwendolyn and Guwayne danced in his vision, their faces blurred by the snow.The Ring—his kingdom, his duty—felt impossibly distant, a dream from another life.He clutched the spear he’d taken from the longhouse, using it as a crutch to keep himself upright.The druidic power within him flickered weakly, a candle flame guttering in a storm.He had pushed it too far in his escape, and now it was little more than a whisper in his blood.
He didn’t know how long he’d been stumbling through the snow—hours, perhaps days.Time had lost meaning in this endless white void, and the dark storm clouds meant there was little difference between noon and midnight.His legs trembled, threatening to give out, and his vision swam with dark spots.The cold was winning, creeping into his bones, promising a final, numbing rest.He shook his head, growling against the temptation to lie down.Not yet.Not like this.
A sound broke through the wind’s wail—a low, rhythmic crunching, like footsteps in the snow.Thor froze, gripping the spear tighter, though his hands were too numb to feel it properly.Shapes emerged from the blizzard, vague at first, then resolving into figures: five of them, clad in furs, moving with the cautious grace of predators.Their silhouettes were unmistakable—the same tribespeople he’d fled from, their azure tattoos faintly visible even through the swirling snow.They had come to reclaim him, to return him to be sacrificed.Panic surged, but his body betrayed him, too weak to run or fight.
He braced himself, raising the spear in a trembling grip, ready to make a final stand.But the figures didn’t charge.Instead, they halted a dozen paces away, spreading out in a loose semicircle.Their weapons—spears and short, curved blades—remained lowered, though their eyes gleamed with wariness.The leader stepped forward, a wiry man with a mane of gray-streaked hair tied with bone beads.His face was weathered, one cheek marked by a tattoo of a snarling wolf’s head.Unlike Kragthar’s towering menace, this man carried an air of quiet authority, his movements deliberate.
“Peace, warm-lander,” the man said in a guttural accent, his voice carrying over the wind.He raised both hands, palms open, showing no weapon.The words were halting, as if pieced together from a half-remembered tongue.“No harm.Grimolf, I am.”
Thorgrin blinked, struggling to process the words through the fog of exhaustion and pain.“Grimolf?”he rasped, his throat raw from the cold.“How can you say peace and no harm when your people tried to burn me alive?”
Grimolf tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as if parsing Thor’s words.He gestured to the others, who remained still, watching.Then he pointed to Thor’s side, where blood soaked his torn tunic.“Wounded.Dying.We… help.”He tapped his chest, then pointed to the sky, muttering something in his own tongue:“Eyldra na’korr.”Thor recognized the phrase from the ritual, the words that had pulsed with the drums.His stomach twisted—had he misjudged them?
“Help?”Thor spat, though his voice lacked strength.“You tied me over coals.Chanted like you were summoning demons.”
Grimolf’s lips twitched, not quite a smile.He gestured to the others, who murmured among themselves, their tones less hostile than curious.One, a woman with braided hair adorned with feathers, stepped closer, her eyes scanning Thor’s injuries with clinical interest.She spoke rapidly to Grimolf, pointing at the gash in his side, then mimed a gesture of fire, her hands fluttering upward like flames.
Grimolf nodded, turning back to Thor.“Fire… not to kill.To heal.Old magic.Clean wound, drive out death.”He struggled with the words, his hands moving to illustrate: cupping them as if holding fire, then pressing them to his own chest.“Vyrka—spirit flame.Save you.”
Thor’s spear wavered, his arms trembling from the effort of holding it.His mind raced, trying to reconcile the terror of the longhouse with Grimolf’s claim.The coals, the herbs, the chants—had he mistaken a ritual of healing for one of sacrifice?The crone’s herbs had dulled his mind, and Kragthar’s dagger had looked anything but benevolent.Yet these people stood before him now, not attacking, their faces open, almost imploring.
His strength gave out before his suspicion did.The spear slipped from his hands, sinking into the snow, and his knees buckled.He collapsed, the cold ground rushing up to meet him.Darkness seeped into the corners of his vision, but he felt hands—gentle, not grasping—lifting him.Voices murmured, urgent but not unkind.The woman’s hands pressed against his side, and a sharp sting followed as she applied something cold and pungent, like crushed herbs mixed with snow.
“Hold, warm-lander,” Grimolf’s voice cut through the haze.“We take you.Safe.”
Thor tried to protest, but his tongue was leaden, his body no longer his own.The world swayed as they hoisted him onto a makeshift litter of furs and branches, the tribespeople moving with practiced efficiency.The blizzard raged on, but their steps were sure, navigating the tundra with an ease that spoke of lifetimes spent in its embrace.
When Thorgrin awoke, the world was no longer a frozen void but a warm, dimly lit space that smelled of earth and smoke.He lay on a pallet of furs, his body swaddled in coarse blankets that scratched against his skin.The pain in his side was duller now, a throbbing ache rather than a screaming wound.He touched it gingerly, finding it bound with strips of hide smeared with a green, earthy paste.His fever had broken, though his head still felt heavy, as if stuffed with wool.
He was in a smaller longhouse than the one he’d escaped, its walls lined with woven reeds and animal hides, decorated with intricate carvings of beasts and spiraling runes.A fire crackled in a central pit, its flames low and steady, casting a soft glow over the room.His stomach growled as the aroma of herbs and roasted meat assailed his nose, and a low hum of voices drifted from nearby.
Grimolf sat across the fire, carving a piece of bone with a small knife, his movements precise.The woman from the hunting party knelt beside a wooden bowl, grinding herbs with a pestle.Two others—a young man with a shaved head and an older woman with a scar across her brow—tended to tasks near the fire, their glances flicking to Thor occasionally, curious but not hostile.
“You wake,” Grimolf said, setting the bone aside.He stood, crossing to Thor’s side with a waterskin.“Drink.Slow.”
Thor accepted it, sipping cautiously.The water was cold, tinged with something bitter—herbs, perhaps.It soothed his parched throat, and he felt a flicker of strength return.“Where am I?”he asked, his voice steadier now.
“Clanhold,” Grimolf replied.“Ours.Safe.”He gestured around the longhouse.“No Kragthar here.He… too fire-hot.Wrong.”
Thor frowned, piecing together the man’s meaning.“Kragthar.The ritual—was it really to heal me?”
Grimolf nodded, his expression somber.“Vyrka.Fire of life.Clean blood, burn sickness.Kragthar…” He hesitated, searching for words.“He believes strong fire, strong pain, makes strong healing.Too much.Scares you.”
Thor’s mind flashed to the longhouse, the searing coals, the dagger in Kragthar’s hand.“Scared me?He nearly killed me.”
The woman grinding herbs spoke up, her voice softer but firm, her accent less halting than Grimolf’s.“Kragthar is… zealous.His clan, they trust old ways but push too far.We find you, see wounds.You are strong, warm-lander, but near death.We try to save, not sacrifice.”
Thor studied her, noting the intelligence in her eyes.Her hands moved with skill, mixing herbs with a precision that spoke of deep knowledge.“Who are you?”he asked.
“Lirna,” she said, inclining her head.“Healer.I study wounds, plants, spirits.”She gestured to the paste on his side.“This stops blood, fights poison.You live because of it.”
