JP Koenig
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Chapter 10 - Out in the Cold (Part 2)
🕑 Added 2025-03-17 18:57:09 +0000 UTC“Heard about your mother, kid,” said Hjorvarth as he paid her four full marks for the pig. “I’ll be at the funeral. So will the other hunters.”
“Thanks. Need a new place to sleep. Know anywhere?”
“I’ll ask around. Town is pretty full these days. You don’t have to worry for the next week or two while we’re on the hunt, at least.”
Aina nodded, her grief tight in her chest. She was grateful for Hjorvarth, even though his help was purely transactional. She had no one else. The people from her own village couldn’t take her in, for they were refugees just as she was. Besides, most wouldn’t bother to try. The townspeople were even worse, but at least she could buy a spot in a barn for the marks she’d just gotten. She might even be able to trade her mother’s morning-gift clothes and fabric for an attic space.
That night, with most of her village’s people in attendance, Aina lit her mother’s funeral pyre. Normally, as her mother’s daughter, Aina would have to speak. Instead, a priest from the town spoke on her behalf. The villagers listened to the generic eulogy and prayed for Dalla’s soul to pass on to one of the better parts of Hel’s domains. She’d had a hard life, and done what she could. Hel would be merciful.
That only left Aina’s vigil. The rift between refugee and townsperson was never so obvious to her. She’d been referred to as Dalla’s daughter, but the locals thought she was a son. The priest was oblivious, and the villagers uninterested in Aina’s deception. That left Aina free to act as she liked, with no one attempting to step in and act as her guardian or chaperone. Now, she had only four days to pray on her mother’s behalf.
Funerary prayers were traditional signs of extreme grief and desire to secure the best possible afterlife for the departed as possible. A beloved parent, love-matched spouse, or young child all typically warranted such prayers, and were typically done twice a day for up to five days. Aina wasn’t close to any gods in particular, but she was a devout believer. She’d been both cursed and gifted by them, and did not dare risk her mother’s soul. The one good person in her life deserved the best afterlife Aina could win for her, so she resolved to long hours of prayer.
Several hours in the morning and several in the evening on the first day left Aina feeling stiff and tired, muscles sore and a runny nose and headache. Sleep did little to help her recover but her resolve was unwavering. The second day was similar to the first, only the temperature outside was dropping. Aina had been forced to use one of the nice cloaks from the morning-gift that she’d planned to sell, but it was a small price. She was strangely sweaty and didn’t really even feel the cold when she went to sleep that night.
On the third day, Aina barely dragged herself out of bed. She was feverish, but her mind was too muddled to recognize that she was ill. Instead, running on sheer stubbornness, Aina went back outside to continue praying. She wasn’t sure which day it was, only that she had to keep praying. Her mind was stuck in a rut between delirium and grief, and could only fathom one goal.
By the end of the day, Aina realized she’d been crouched on the ground shivering more than praying, and had failed to take any break at all between the morning and evening prayers. She dragged herself to her feet and barely managed to stumble into the tiny pit house that would likely soon return to the cooking thrall. She fell into a deep sleep which she couldn’t seem to escape.
“Are you dead, boy?” said the cooking thrall.
Aina couldn’t answer, only shiver. Samuel’s rough hands searched her, and she felt her hidden pouch with her money being yanked away. She tried to protest, but could only groan in pain.
“Damn, not dead yet. Too bad, I can’t have you surviving now. These coins will let me pay my man-price and get this damn collar off my neck. Sad for you, but good for me.”
The world lurched around and suddenly Aina was being carried. She passed out at some point, only to be woken by voices again.
“He’s dead, huh?” came Galti’s voice.
“Close enough,” laughed Samuel. “I’m just going to toss him in a ditch. No one will miss him now that the village cunt is dead. I’m sick of freezing every night in that barn.”
“Bors ain’t gonna raise a stink?”
“That ass will just be glad he’s gone.”
“Well, hurry up before the other guards get back. They are starting to get soft on the village trash. I’m sick of it stinking up our streets.”
Aina tried to struggle, but she was just too sick to move. She passed out again, only now she was in the snow. The good cloak she’d been wrapped in was gone, leaving her only the ratty old one she’d used while hunting. She felt her mother’s necklace still wrapped around her wrist and was paradoxically grateful that the thrall hadn’t bothered with a more thorough search. If she was going to die, she could at least go with the memory of her mother. Aina fell asleep just as the blizzard started, happy in the knowledge that she’d join her mother soon, and she was out of that damned town once and for all.
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It was early afternoon before the caravan was ready to finally move, but move it did. Taliesin spent the morning talking with soldiers and villagers, men and women alike as his linked Ring of Health finished healing his arm and ribs. It seemed every person there wanted something from him - assurance, comfort, or authority. Several seemed intent on ingratiating themselves, while others simply wanted to meet the man they just swore themselves to. They’d only had a single glimpse of the raw power at his fingertips, but in troubled times, it was a sliver of security they could cling onto after their previous protector fell in battle.
Viggo, the caravan master, managed to secure a set of fresh clothes for Taliesin, proper winter clothes of good cut and quality that marked him as being noble, rather than the haphazard scavenged outfit he’d secured from the bandit fight. The tunic was heavily embroidered and sturdy. The new cloak had a white fur collar and was stitched double thick, for which he was very grateful. The winter wind had come in with a vengeance that morning, freezing over the dampness left from Taliesin’s storm and making everything that much more miserable for everyone.
As the caravan began to leave, Taliesin climbed into Lady Solveig’s carriage once again. Arbiter Katla glared at him from her seat next to the drover, and soon transferred that glare to Runolf, who climbed onto the footman’s seat at the rear of the carriage. Lap blankets were the order of the day, soon spread across laps to try and retain what meager body heat escaped cloaks and thick clothing, and the added wool layers did help.
Gunther was fast asleep in one corner, while Lady Solveig stared out the window, withdrawn and solemn. The seat next to Gunther was open, while the one next to Lady Solveig was piled with trunks. They’d managed to cram many more people in during their escape from the bandit fight, but somehow it felt more crowded with less people and more baggage. Nevertheless, it suited Taliesin, who settled in for his own nap. He’d gone nearly two days without sleep, which was long enough.
It was only a scant few hours later when Taliesin awoke to find the sun had set. The short days and long nights of winter were upon them. Yet the caravan had not slowed. Rather, they’re still slow, they just haven’t stopped, he thought to himself. Gunther was awake as well.
“Are we pushing through?”
“Not much choice. The roads are dangerous and Beruvik is close enough that we can get there by morning. It’s not much of a town, but it is home, so they’ll open the gates for us, even at night.”
“Small favors, at least,” said Taliesin. “The sooner we’re off the road, the better. The raiders will regroup and find us soon. I expect we’ll see their scouts tonight.”
Gunther frowned. “So soon?”
“If not sooner. This has the hallmarks of a winter offensive. The more damage they can do before it gets too cold to move, the more the weather can work in their favor.”
Gunther noticed the sudden somberness from Taliesin, as if someone had flipped a switch. While they hadn’t spent a lot of time together, they’d been crammed into a carriage for a number of hours so far. The normal demeanor for the man was one of quiet amusement, but that humor was gone at the moment.
“Perhaps I should work on more vestments. My defenses are weak, and by all that is holy, it is getting cold out there! I think I’m going to start with a warmth enchantment on my boots.”
Gunther smiled. “Hey, if you’re happening to be working on those, I wouldn’t mind one myself.”
Taliesin’s humor seemed to return at that moment. “Sure, but it’ll cost you a few coins. I used mine up already.”
Gunther looked confused until Taliesin tapped the torque around his neck.
“Ah, you need something to hold the enchantment.”
“Sure, but something like boots or a cloak don’t take much. A small buckle or a brooch will do.”
“So why the coins then? We both have metal buckles on our boots.”
Taliesin gave a roguish grin. “You don’t think I’m going to work without a commission, do you?”
“Ha!” Gunther laughed. “I hardly carry many marks on me. I should have a few pennies.”
“That works fine. I mostly need materials. Give me your boots.”
A simple warmth enchantment took scarcely any time at all. The buckles on the boots were plenty large, so it wasn’t difficult to [Shape] them and carve the appropriate runes into the metal. Taliesin enchanted one buckle to solely gather and store mana, while the other was used to hold the warmth enchantment. Initially, Taliesin wanted to simply warm the entire boot, but then thought better of it. Any snow that landed atop the boot would promptly melt, and become water. While most boots were reasonably waterproof, there was no need to push the luck with that one. It was better to just warm the inner boot soles, right where the feet would be.
It scarcely took twenty minutes before he handed them back, and Gunther slid his socked feet into the boots with a pleased sigh. “Now that’s just lovely.”
“What’s lovely?” asked Lady Solveig with a yawn. She sat up from where she’d been slumped against the carriage wall, and adjusted the wool and fur cap on her head.
“Our dear Taliesin here just put a warmth enchantment on my boots!”
“Is that so?” She sat up with a sudden interest, and spoke with a shy tone tinged with hope. “Such a luxury to have warm feet. It feels as though mine have been frozen for ages.”
Taliesin was charmed by her demeanor. He gave a wry smile to Gunther. “Swap places with me, so I can help your beautiful mother.”
Gunther frowned at his phrasing, but Taliesin put on his most innocent expression. Gunther couldn’t help but notice the twinkle in Taliesin’s eyes that gave away the lie, but couldn’t think of a good response. Instead, propriety demanded he allow Taliesin to assist his mother. Taliesin was highly entertained by the confusion on Gunther’s face as the competing instincts warred within the poor man.
Once in his new seat, Taliesin motioned for Solveig to put one of her feet up in his lap, and began to regale her with a tale from his early days as he worked. The tale was light hearted and self-deprecating. Midway through the story, he swapped to the other shoe.
“... and so I wound up half-dressed, covered in mud and probably a fair amount of pig shit, standing before Duke Uther and the Merlin. The Merlin was mortified, but then the Duke turned to him and said, ‘at least he brought back the flag.’”
Taliesin guided Lady Solveig’s other foot back to the floor of the carriage as Gunther and Solveig laughed at the end of his tale.
“What I don’t understand is where you put the weasel,” said Gunther.
This time it was Solveig and Taliesin that shared a laugh, but Taliesin declined to answer the question. Instead, Lady Solveig shared a story of her own that wound up equal parts adventurous and raunchy, which left Taliesin highly amused and Gunther bright red.
“Mother!” he hissed as the story finished. “That’s not appropriate!”
Lady Solveig shrugged, unrepentant. “I may not have been a shield maiden, but I was no wilting lily either.”
Gunther seemed poised to bicker with her, so Taliesin took the opening as a chance to get some fresh air. His own boots were now magically warm, and the small spattering of pennies that Gunther had coughed up would be [Shaped] into his next implement soon. For a noble, Gunther’s purse had been surprisingly light. The hour was growing late, and the deceptive calm and comradery of the evening barely covered a distinct tension in the air.
The carriage was moving at a slow walking pace, which allowed Taliesin to easily step to the ground and close the door behind him. Runolf stepped off the carriage to walk beside him. Snow was wafting down from the sky at a steady pace, with the wind swirling in a pattern that belied the storm pushing it forward. If he had a roof overhead and a warm fire, this would be the perfect night to share songs and tales with warmed cider in hand. He’d even had a book of epic poems once that he’d bought off a destitute noble. The book was an extravagance that even with his privilege he could rarely indulge in.
“How far from the next town are we?”
“Hoping to see the walls at any time now. Can’t be soon enough. Some of the hunters are out looking for enemy scouts. No word yet, but they’ve seen signs of travel.”
“With the weather coming in, it will be a mixed blessing. It’ll slow any forces heading this direction but it’ll make it harder for us to move. We can only hope to make the walls before any pursuit finds us.”
“And that they’ll open the gates for us if we’re being chased to the walls,” said Runolf with a snort.
“Oh, we’ll get inside the walls. The only real question is if the gate will still be standing when we get through.”
Runolf did a double-take at Taliesin’s comment. After a heartbeat, he said, “Of course, milord.”
A flash of something in the corner of his eye caught Taliesin’s attention. It was a faint hint of magic, in a place where no magic should be. He turned towards the side of the road, or at least what passed for one in these parts, and spotted an odd, snowy lump. The hint of mana emanated dully from the misshapen pile.
“That’s odd,” said Taliesin, who walked over to the lump.
Runolf drew his seax, the long dagger gleaming in the torchlight of the caravan. But Taliesin already realized what he was looking at. He flipped the small body over and felt for a pulse. Under the thin, ratty cloak and dirty clothes was a tiny measure of warmth. The pulse was thready but strong, and a faint moan of protest was barely audible.
“Runolf, get this child into the carriage,” ordered Taliesin. He turned to the carriage and shouted, “Gunther! We need your healing!”
