Winter's Gift - Part II

Part two of Gidwyn's tale takes us ten years into the future. We re-join Gidwyn, Eoina, Galahad, and Kiryae - now a child grown - on what should be a normal day upon the slopes of the Great Mountains...

...that is, until an unwanted guest arrives at then door asking for sanctuary.

I hope you're all enjoying Winter's Gift so far. Part three shall be released sometime towards the end of next week. Happy reading - and have a great Sunday!

The flickering flame from the deepwax candle danced in Kiryae’s large, ice-blue eyes. ‘But why do we have to keep it lit, father?’ the Elf-girl asked.

                ‘Because, sweetheart,’ Gidwyn said, standing beside where the ten-year-old Elf-girl knelt, ‘it’s our way o’ sayin’ thank-ye to the Fire. ‘Tween Fire an’ Stone, the whole World ‘as been made; tha’s includin’ ye and me. So we keep this lil’ candle as a way o’ sayin’ thank-ye.’

                Kiryae nodded slowly. ‘But the Syladrian Dwarves don’t agree with you, do they?’

                Gidwyn sighed. She’s too damn smart fer ‘er own good. ‘Aye, they don’t,’ he said. ‘They believe in the Great Creator, or the Maker; a great celestial bein’ who works at ‘is anvil all day forgin’ worlds and folks to live on ‘em.’

                ‘That’s not so different from what the Dwarves of the Great Mountains believe about the Fire, is it?’ Kiryae asked, affixing Gidwyn with her piercing, innocent eyes. ‘You believe that all things come from the Fire, which crafts the world from the Stone, and-…’

                ‘Kiryae,’ Eoina said gently from beside the fire-pit, ‘leave yer pa alone, ‘e’s ‘ad a long day!’

                ‘But I want to know!’ the she-Elf girl protested.

                ‘It’s alright, Eoina,’ Gidwyn said, sitting down beside Kiryae. ‘What d’ye want to know, exactly?’

At ten years old, Kiryae was already taller than both of her Dwarven foster-parents by at least a hand-and-a-half’s height – perhaps two hands if Gidwyn measured by the long, pointed ears that extended past the crown of her head. In fact, Gidwyn was pretty sure she was the tallest person living within the lands of the Underkingdom. She was lanky and gangly, stuck in the extended period of near-adolescence that long-lived Elves suffered for a good decade, with silver-white hair that every Dwarf on the Hrudun mountains secretly envied. For hours, Eoina and Kiryae would sit by the fire pit together whilst Eoina cared for Kiryae’s hair. The Dwarf-woman would tell Kiryae stories of ancient Halflings – and Elves, if she could think of the right tale – and comb, plait, and braid Kiryae’s long, silver cascade of hair until it was a glittering work of woven art.

                As soon as she had been old enough to ask why she did not look like other Dwarves, Gidwyn and Eoina had told her the truth of how she had come to be with them. They had told her they had not known her name, or who her parents were, or what they were doing so far north in the Great Mountains on such a stormy night. They had told her that her name Kir-yae meant ‘Winter’s Gift’ in High Dwarven. She had only been five or six years old at the time, but Gidwyn had been proud of the maturity with which Kiryae had handled the truth. She had never asked about it again, though.

                As Gidwyn sat beside the pretty Elven girl with ice-blue eyes and a wit as sharp as a honed dagger, he found himself looking back on the days that followed her rescue. Whilst his lips told the young Elf-girl of how the Flame Pontiff and his Burning Deacons had once upon a time been little more than a cult, but now played a direct role in the governance of the Underkingdom, images of walking through the snow, desperately searching for any sign of the strange killers of the Elven party, flashed through his mind.

                ‘What do the Men believe, Father?’ Kiryae’s question brought Gidwyn back to reality.

                Gidwyn let out a chuckle. ‘Careful wit’ yer questions, girl: Humans ‘ave fought wars o’er less.’

                Kiryae looked at Gidwyn, puzzled, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

                ‘Open up, Giddy, ‘s cold as a greatgoat’s arse out ‘ere, and the company smells about as good as one!’ a voice said.

                Eoina was at the door before anyone else and quickly pulled it open. The bright light of the early afternoon day outside flooded in, and was followed quickly by a stocky, cloaked figure.

                Eoina embraced Galahad as he stepped through, and he kissed her forehead. ‘Not frozen yet?’ Galahad asked with a laugh, as he always did every time he came to visit.

                ‘Nae,’ Eoina replied. ‘How’s Torith?’

                The last decade had been unkind to Galahad. A year after Gidwyn had found Kiryae in the frozen wilderness, Queen Ffyon of the Unerkingdom had passed a writ allowing for certain members of the Synod of Flame to hold both secular and ecclesiastical offices, which came at the expense of the seats of some old aristocratic families. A rebellion had begun that had taken six years to be put down. As a loyal soldier of the queen, Galahad had been called upon to do his duty – a duty which had almost cost him his life.

                ‘Uncle Gally!’ Kiryae cried, jumping to her feet and crossing to embrace the bald-headed but magnificently-bearded Dwarf. ‘Can you tell me the story of how you lost your arm again? You make it so exciting!’

                Galahad gathered Kiryae up in his one good arm and squeezed her tightly. He’d be a great father, Gidwyn thought as he watched on with a smile. Although Galahad had married Torith, the woman of his dreams, she had fallen terribly sick whilst he had been away on campaign, and when Galahad had returned, she had been unable to bear any children. The couple had been heartbroken.

                ‘Kiryae, he’s barely through the door, give the fella a chance!’ Eoina cried.

                Galahad kissed Kiryae’s cheek – it was as high as he could reach – then turned to his younger brother and embraced him.

                ‘Too long,’ Gidwyn said as he held his brother to him. ‘Far too long.’

                ‘Bein’ a commander ‘is ‘ard work,’ Galahad said, shrugging his shoulders.

                ‘Farmin’ goats ‘is ‘arder.’

    Gidwyn’s eyes fell to his dear brother’s left arm. He still was not used to seeing Galahad with no lower-left arm – though he had grown tired of listening to the tale of how he lost it fending off a score of Yaghu alone. Instead of let the limb go to waste – or so Galahad had said – he had a solid metal buckler with a long spike protruding from its centre belted to the end of his handless forearm.

                Another figure stepped into the doorway, a large number of Dwarf-folk in armour and heavy cloaks behind him. ‘Good afternoon, Mister Greylocke,’ a higher-pitched, nasal voice said.

                ‘Ramscoldt,’ Gidwyn said, stepping away from his brother and bowing his head cordially. ‘Your journey was easy, I trust?’

                Phineaus Ramscoldt and Gidwyn had known one-another for a long time, though the length of their relationship was not reflected in any kind of amity. Ramscoldt, a sour-faced Gnome, was head of the Queen’s Caravans; as such, it was his job to ensure that all farms in the Upper-World from which the queen demanded tithes remained stocked at all times. Passage down from the various farms dotted over the Great Mountains was extremely difficult and hazardous – many of the Halflings that made the journey died. Gidwyn himself had not been down to the Old City and the rest of the Underkingdom since he had found Kiryae, though Eoina tried to make an annual trip to see her father.

Although there was a small village called Sky’s Anvil roughly three miles down the mountains, where travelling merchants from the Underkingdom and the Halflings who lived upon the mountains regularly convened, it was no trade hub and could not support the hundreds of Dwarf men, women, and children who lived on the mountains by necessity of the kingdom. And so, because of the dangerous journey, every month or so, Ramscoldt would appear by the queen’s instruction outside Gidwyn’s home with his greatgoat-drawn wagon and his small army of hired Dwarven mercenaries to supply goods to Gidwyn – for a price. He was, as Gidwyn often called him, a glorified travelling merchant.

                He was small, even for a Gnome, with a hooked nose and large, outward-sticking ears. His eyes were hidden behind a thickly-rimmed pair of brass spectacles, and his relatively feeble, thin body was encased within at least half a dozen layers of furs. He wore an expression Kiryae once described to Gidwyn as looking like “someone who has just had a fistful of snow dropped into their britches.”

                ‘D’ ye ‘ave much stock left, Ramscoldt?’ Gidwyn asked, eager to see the unpleasant little Gnome on his way.

                ‘There’s no rush, Mister Greylocke,’ Ramscoldt said in an infuriatingly flat voice. ‘I invoke the Right of the Queen’s Sanctuary. As her representative, I am hereby legally allowed to spend one night at your home and-…’

                ‘I bloody know, ye sod,’ Gidwyn grumbled, ‘ye pull the same thing every time ye come ‘ere. Get ye and yer boys’ backsides inside an’ close the door behind ye before ye let all the warm out.’

                Ramscoldt narrowed his beady eyes. ‘Very well,’ he snapped. He looked over his shoulder and waved a hand. Sound erupted from outside as Ramscoldt’s mercantile wagon was driven into Gidwyn’s barn and the two large greatgoats that drew it were unharnessed. A few moments later, eight hefty Dwarf-folk – four men and four women, all dressed in leather and chainmail beneath layers of thick fur – entered the farmhouse and closed the door.

                ‘How ye manage a six-day trek wit’ ‘im is beyond me, Gally,’ Gidwyn said with a grunt.

                Galahad shrugged. ‘His hirelings ain’t so bad. He’s too aloof t’ talk wit’ ‘em anyhow; spends most o’ ‘is time hidden in ‘is cart, complainin’ about the cold.’

                Gidwyn rolled his eyes. ‘Ye won’t mind spendin’ evenin' wit’ ‘im, then.’

                Galahad’s face fell. ‘I didnae say tha’!’

                Gidwyn was already on his feet. ‘C’mon Kiryae, let’s go an’ see ‘ow the kids are doin’.’

                Kiryae, who had settled amongst Karveth, Coren, and Synera near the fire-pit in the middle of the large room, looked up, her brilliant blue eyes shining as she scratched Coren’s chin in the spot he liked. ‘Of course, father,’ she said. She rose with an effortlessness and grace no Dwarf could ever muster, picked up her heavy cloak from beside the door, and joined Gidwyn.

                ‘Father?’ Gidwyn heard Ramscoldt say. ‘She still hasn’t accepted she’s not a Halfling, then?’

                Gidwyn gritted his teeth as he whistled for his three wolf-dogs, all of whom obediently rose and followed him. ‘She knows well wha’ she is, Ramscoldt,’ the Dwarf said as Karveth, Coren, and Synera padded over to him. ‘Family is more than blood – ye’d know if ye ‘ad a friend.’

                There were a few muffled chuckles from the Dwarves around the fire as Gidwyn led Kiryae out through the heavy doors and into the thick snow below. Gidwyn could feel Ramscoldt glaring at him as he left, as the irritable little Gnome always did.

Gidwyn had little choice but to offer Ramscoldt shelter for the night, as much as he despised the Gnome. He was the Gnome’s last call on his passage through the mountains, and he would never make it back to the Sky's Anvil before nightfall – and the mountains were not a place to be caught in the night. If something were to happen to Ramscoldt, Gidwyn knew the blame would probably fall on him.

Still, Gidwyn knew he was going to need a few moments of quiet before facing Ramscoldt that day. He took a deep breath of the freezing-cold but blissfully sharp mountain air and enjoyed the mist and cloud-fogged view. The day had been overcast and the clouds above were heavy and grey as the sun sank towards the horizon. Light snow tonight, nae doubt, Gidwyn thought as he hoisted his crook and stepped forwards.

                ‘Father?’ Kiryae said as she stepped through the door behind Gidwyn and pulled it closed. ‘What did Ramscoldt mean?’

                Gidwyn began to walk through the snow, grumbling and muttering to himself for a moment. ‘Ramscoldt’s an ol’ coot,’ he said.

                ‘He doesn’t like me, does he?’ Kiryae said without as much as a hint of resentment in her voice.

                Gidwyn sighed, looking into the churned-up snow at his feet. ‘Herd’s gone eastward, as usual,’ he said, hoping to ignore Kiryae’s question – though he knew better than to try. ‘We should probably round ‘em up an’ get ‘em back in if there’s t’ be snow this eve.’

                ‘Why doesn’t he like me?’ Kiryae said, gliding through the snow as if it was a fog. Her blue eyes sparkled, her pretty face quirked in curiosity.

                Gidwyn sighed. ‘Some Halflings are like tha’,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Lots o’ us believe tha’ we’re better off without the Upper-World.’

                ‘But we live on the Upper-World,’ Kiryae said. ‘If we did not have the Upper-World, the Underkingdom would get no greatgoats. Then what would they do?’

                Gidwyn tramped through the snow, his large dogs around him and Kiryae at his side. His home disappeared behind a rise as he walked further and further away. ‘Tha’s a question I don’t know ‘ow t’ answer, Kiryae,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I’m a greatgoat herder, no’ a politician.’

                ‘I’ll ask Ramscoldt,’ Kiryae said airily, turning her gaze to the clouds around them. ‘I’d be interested to see what he has to say.’

                Gidwyn sighed again. Strange girl, he thought to himself as he whistled for his three large dogs. He and Eoina often asked one-another if they were raising Kiryae right. She was unlike any Halfling or Upper-Worlder the Dwarf couple had ever met. She was reserved, quiet and insightful, yet simultaneously seemed very detached from reaity. It were as if there were a pane of glass between her and the rest of civilisation – she was standing outside looking in.

But, as Gidwyn was reminded as he followed the greatgoat’s tracks with the she-Elf child beside him, there was a wisdom to her that he could not put his finger on. There was a depth in her piercing blue eyes that was almost a world-weariness. She looked at Esdaria through melancholy eyes that seemed distant and far away - as if she had seen it all before ten-thousand times before.

Maybe it’s just what Elves are like, Gidwyn thought as he ascended a steep bluff and paused at the top to allow Kiryae to catch up. She strode effortlessly, her heavy hide-sewn dress and thick boots worn as lightly as she stepped.

It did not take the two of them long to arrive at their destination: a huge, icy plain tucked in the cleft between two peaks. Tall, jagged rocks rose and fell like trees across the tundra-like space. Here and there, a few of the hardiest birds circled, including what looked like a rock-tailed falcon to Gidwyn’s eye.

‘Father?’

‘Aye, Kiryae?’

Kiryae, blue eyes flashing with their strange, icy beauty, smiled. ‘May I sing for the greatgoats?’ she asked.

Gidwyn’s smiled broadened. ‘Always.’

Kiryae turned to face the eastward horizon. Snow-covered peaks rose high and wide above the skittering clouds, and the few rays of sun that made it to the snow danced and shone upon the sea of snowflakes. She took a breath and began to sing a sad tune in High Dwarvish.

‘Kunyiera, mythrela commen!

Kunyiera, mythrela rugel!

Kunyiera, mythrela commen;

Fyr thundaarstel foult ist commenel.’

Kiryae’s voice was crystal-clear and high-pitched, echoing around the mountainside, carried far by the whistling wind. ‘My loves, come back to me,’ Gidwyn repeated after his foster-daughter, ‘My loves, to me come running. My loves, come back to me, for a terrible storm is coming.’

Hearing Kiryae sing the old herder’s song brought a tear to Gidwyn’s eye every time. As he watched the young Elven girl call over the mountains, sure enough, a few far-off, dark specs appeared in the distance and began to quickly move towards where he, Kiryae, and his three enormous wolf-dogs were standing.

‘Perfect every time, eh,’ Gidwyn said, wiping his eyes. ‘Best voice in the Underkingdom.’ Best voice in the World.

Kiryae turned to face Gidwyn and gave him one of her rare, genuine smiles. As she turned to face Gidwyn, the three dogs who had walked around him all the way from the home crossed to Kiryae and sat by her feet. Karveth, the alpha, even nuzzled Kiryae for affection. The Elf-girl laughed and patted the huge dog’s nose.

             Strange girl, Gidwyn thought fondly and turned back to look at where his herd of greatgoats were making quick progress towards where they stood. Karveth ne’er pesters anyone else for a fuss.

Quite suddenly, Kiryae interrupted the silence. ‘Have you ever seen the world that lies below the mountains?’

‘You mean the lands o’ Men?’ Gidwyn shook his head. ‘Only from upon high where we live. I’ve ne’er walked the roads tha’ criss-cross the Upper-World.’

Kiryae nodded slowly, peering down through the clouds around them at the Imperial Heartland below. ‘It seems sad.’

Gidwyn frowned. ‘Wha’ makes ye say tha’?’

Kiryae’s gaze almost seemed to glaze over for a moment. Her fingers tickled Karveth’s ear-tips absent-mindedly and a forlorn expression passed across her smooth features. ‘Human-folk are so short-lived,’ she said. ‘They are born into the wars of their fathers and their grandfathers and fight for people they’ve never met. They toil and suffer in the names of kings and emperors, and then they die, never once seeing the fruits of their labours. They leave the toil to their children, and the cycle continues.’

‘Aye, but,’ Gidwyn said, taking Kiryae’s slender, pale hand, ‘Humans are a driven folk. Many achieve more afore breakfast than some Dwarves will in a decade.’

Kiryae looked pained. ‘But their wars,’ she said. ‘Why do they fight so long?’

Gidwyn shrugged. ‘So do Dwarves an’ Elves,’ he said, patting Synera’s head as the huge wolf-like dog nuzzled his free hand. ‘We fight an’ bleed jus’ as much as Humans.’

‘But we live long,’ Kiryae said. ‘We see our wars come to an end; the Humans die before any resolution is reached, and their kin blindly fight too!’ The Elf-girl seemed almost distraught for a moment. ‘Why, father?’ she said. ‘I don’t see the sense in it!’

‘And nor do I,’ Gidwyn said gently, a small smile on his lips. ‘Yer a very clever girl, Kiryae, with a heart o’ gold an’ more love to give than all others. Don’t let yerself be pained though, m’ love.’ He lifted his foster-daughter’s hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘I’m very proud o’ ye.’

As the herd of greatgoats flocked around them, enticed by the sound of Kiryae’s voice, the young she-Elf smiled down at Gidwyn, her yes still sad. ‘Not everyone is like you, though, are they, father?’

Gidwyn sighed, casting his eyes over the animals flocking around the Elven girl. ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘No, they aren’t.’

*

As Gidwyn and Kiryae made their way back towards home, the goats keenly following Kiryae who sung to them every now and then, the wind brought grim tidings to them. Voices were on the air – angered, raised voices.

             ‘Oh, Fire preserve,’ Gidwyn growled and set off at a jog back towards his home. Soon, the wide, squat stone building and its stone barn swung into view, and the raised voices grew even louder. Gidwyn hurried towards his home, dogs at his heels, and threw the heavy oaken door open.

‘All I’m saying,’ Ramscoldt snapped as Gidwyn opened the door, ‘is that Queen Ffyon and the Council of Flame have a right to know that there is an Elf living within the jurisdiction of her kingdom!’

             ‘And ye’ll wha’?’ Eoina growled, pointing a fat finger into the Gnome’s chest. ‘Tell ‘er? Ye’re a coward, Ramscoldt.’

             ‘It’s simple bureaucracy,’ the Gnome said, putting his hands in the air. Around the room, the armed mercenaries the Gnome had brought with him began to fidget. ‘Queen Ffyon has a right to know-…

             ‘Wha’s all this?’ Gidwyn yelled as he strode out of the evening and into his warm home, Kiryae and his three dogs with him. ‘I could ‘ear the yellin’ ‘alf a mile away!’

             Eoina, her face flushed with fury, span to glare at Gidwyn. ‘This hook-nosed rat,’ she spat, ‘this spineless, snivellin’ piece o’ dung wants to take our daughter away from us!’

             Gidwyn looked from Eoina to Galahad, who was standing with his fist clenched behind her. ‘He wha’?’ Gidwyn said, eyes wide.

             ‘What I said,’ Ramscoldt began, his lips tight, ‘was that, as a form of due process and as an observation of judicial laws in the Underkingdom, yourself and your good lady wife-…’

             ‘Shut up, y’ worm,’ Eoina spat.

             ‘…have a duty to the kingdom to inform the queen that there is an Elf living amongst us!’ Ramscoldt concluded and folded his arms, glaring at Eoina.

             ‘Ye’ve known about Kiryae fer a decade, Ramscoldt!’ Gidwyn said through his teeth. ‘Why bring this up now?’

             ‘I thought you’d informed the queen of-…’

             ‘Mister Ramscoldt,’ Kiryae said, stepping forwards and cutting the Gnome off. ‘May I ask something of you?’

               The Gnome’s eyes widened and for a moment, he looked taken aback. He visibly shook a little under the scrutiny of Kiryae’s ice-blue eyes. ‘What is it?’ he said, his tone sharp.

               ‘What is it that I have done to offend you so?’ she asked in a kind, gentle voice.

                Ramscoldt went red. ‘You have done nothing, so to speak,’ he stammered. ‘It’s more that Upper-Worlders have no place in Halfling society.’

                ‘I have never visited the Underkingdom that lies beneath the Hrudun Druria,’ Kiryae said, her gaze strange and thoughtful, yet completely unperturbed. ‘I have never looked upon the Old City. The furthest I’ve ever been from home is to the village of Sky’s Anvil, where I have broken bread with your Halfling-kin, shared in your songs and your tales, played with your children, and prayed to the Fire, just as you have.’

                Ramscoldt looked visibly uncomfortable. He glanced back at his hired men but found no consolation from those sitting by the fire. A few shrugged their shoulders, but none spoke. ‘You are an Elf, though,’ Ramscoldt said slowly. ‘I’m not trying to imply that makes you any less of a person or-…’

             ‘Tha’s exactly what yer tryin’ ta do!’ Eoina cried. ‘Yer actin’ like ‘cos she’s no Dwarf she ‘as no right to be ‘ere!’

             ‘She doesn’t!’ Ramscoldt cried. ‘The Underkingdom is for Halflings! The Upper-World is for the Upper-Folk, and that is what she is!’

             ‘She lives in the Upper-World, are ye thick as stone?’ Gidwyn yelled, waving his arms wide. Around him, his three dogs, sensing their master’s anger, began to snarl, their long, sharp teeth bared and their hackles raised.

Slowly, Karveth, the largest of the wolf-dogs with his one golden and one blue eye, stepped forwards. The enormous wolf-dog loomed over the Gnome, his jaws large enough to close around the small figure’s head. It was at this point that Ramscoldt’s guards stood up, their hands on their weapons and began to cry out. ‘Control tha’ animal!’ one said. ‘Control ‘im or we’ll put ‘im down!’

‘Call your beast back,’ Ramscoldt cried, his voice trembling, ‘call them back or I’ll-…’ he swallowed, stepping backwards towards his mercenaries – none of whom looked particularly comfortable putting themselves in-between their master and the enormous dog, but knew well enough that should the hand that payed their salaries be bitten off by a gigantic dog, they were unlikely to receive any gold for their services. The mercenaries instead continued to yell and brandish their weapons, ready to leap forwards should the source of their money be put in further danger.

             ‘Karveth!’ Gidwyn cried, taking hold of the huge animal’s scruff and trying to haul him away. ‘Back, boy, back!’

But Karveth would not listen. The huge dog loomed, slavering, snarling, his eyes fixed on Ramscoldt. ‘Karveth!’ Gidwyn cried again, but it was no use. The yelling of the Dwarven mercenaries was upsetting the huge dog further, and beside Gidwyn, both Coren and Synera began to slowly pad forwards, following their lead of their alpha.

             ‘Gidwyn!’ Eoina cried through the noise. ‘Gidwyn, stop ‘im! Stop ‘im afore he kills someone!’

             Gidwyn hauled on the dog’s scruff to no avail, but as he did so Kiryae called out. ‘Karvie,’ she said in a gentle voice that was almost lost to the din in the room. ‘Karvie.’

             Very suddenly, Karveth lowered his hackles, stopped his growling, and padded over to where Kiryae was standing. The huge dog nuzzled her outstretched hand before curling up at the she-Elf’s feet as if nothing had happened. Both Coren and Synera followed his example, sitting either side of Kiryae, their shining eyes fixed on Ramscoldt.

Silence fell.

            Gidwyn looked from his brother, to his wife, to his foster-daughter, his mouth hanging open. He had never seen Karveth be subdued so easily. Once, when Gidwyn had taken him to Sky’s Anvil on one of the sparse market days the small village held, Karveth had locked his teeth around a stray wolf-dog. It had taken six brawny Dwarven farmers and an ox-bone the size of a Human leg to wrench the enormous beast from his prey – who had died within moments.

             Ramscoldt broke the silence. ‘That thing,’ he said in a shaking voice, ‘that monstrous beast almost killed me! I demand compensation from you, Gidwyn Greylocke! I demand-…’

             Gidwyn was about to yell when Galahad walked forwards and stood square in front of the Gnome, his one hand balled into a fist. ‘Ye’d best take yer cart an’ be gone, I think,’ he said in a low, dark voice. ‘An’ ye’d do well to leave yer good hosts something by way o’ a token as an apology for yer rudeness.’

             Ramscoldt seethed. ‘I invoked the right of-…’

             ‘I don’t care,’ Galahad said with a curl of his lip. ‘If ye want to stay in my brother’s house, ye show his daughter some respect. She’s more goodness in ‘er lil’ finger than you’ve in yer whole wretched body. Get out, or per’aps next time Kiryae won’t call the dogs off fer ya.’

             Ramscoldt twitched, glaring at Galahad for a moment, before spinning on his heel and marching out into the snow. His mercenaries followed him. One of them muttered an apology to Eoina and thanked her for her hospitality as he went.

             As the door was closed, Galahad turned to Gidwyn. ‘This ain’t finished,’ he said.

             ‘Nae,’ Gidwyn sighed. ‘Nae, it ain’t.’

Winter's Gift - Part I

In a departure from what I was originally planning, I've decided to follow up the re-launch of this blog with the first part of the first story I've been itching to share. Winter's Gift is, at its core, a story about family. The tale follows Gidwyn Greylocke, a Dwarf of the Great Mountains, and the bond he shares with his daughter.

Winter's Gift will be released in nine parts over the next few months, and will then be followed with a couple of relevant Lore posts pertinent to its background. 

I would also like to draw your attention to the new style of banner that heralds this story, lovingly put together by my talented and beautiful girlfriend. Previously, I've used edited photographs I've taken myself or free for commercial use images that have been edited. This is the first time a story has had its own artwork - very exciting!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the first part of Winter's Gift!

That night, the snow fell harder than it had ever before.

        Above the jagged and impassable peaks of the Great Mountains, the pitch-black clouds were so thick not even a sliver of moonlight could break through their oppressive, swirling wall. Wind screamed through the narrow gullies and craggy pathways that criss-crossed the faces of Ulan-Dûz, Basrad-Fol, and the peak that Men called the Skytalon, along with the hundreds of other mountains in the huge range. Their cracks and fissures were quickly lost beneath a flawless blanket of white, becoming death-traps hidden beneath a curtain of cold white – a single misstep would mean certain death for anyone foolish enough to risk the passes in such weather.

        Yet, cloaked and hooded, Gidwyn Greylocke weathered the storm. Heavy crook in one hand and the other keeping his cloak wrapped around himself, he forded the snow-swathed mountains he knew so well. The snow and wind burned his face, though his thick, dusky-blonde beard protected his cheeks from the worst of the winter’s onslaught. He even hummed a jolly song to himself as he pushed through the waist-deep sea of snow – though none could have heard his quiet singing over the wind’s scream.

There were few Hrudun Dwarves permitted to spend time in the Upper-World. Though in recent years the Synod of the Flame had allowed more and more Halflings to leave the Underkingdom and return from surface lands beyond, it was rare to find a Dwarf who lived on the surface and so frequently made passage to the Old City. But that was part of Gidwyn’s job.

The plucky Dwarf raised a hand to shield his small, beady eyes from the onslaught of slashing snowflakes. ‘Kunyiera!’ he cried in a sing-song voice, the final syllable a high-pitched, musical inflection. ‘Kunyieri, mythrela commen!’

My loves, come back to me, Gidwyn thought as he cried out his strange, song-like call. He paused to listen as the roaring wind plucked and carried his voice high over the mountains, silencing him in moments. This storm; t’is no place fer ye.

For a few moments, the Dwarf held his breath and leaned hard on his crook. He focused all his attention on the blaring wind around him and tried to listen through it. He closed his eyes, strained his ears, and focused with all his might.

A sound: singular, faint, distant. It was little more than a quivering cry, almost completely lost to the wind and snow, but Gidwyn could hear it.

There.

         The Dwarf set off at as much of a run as he could manage. He pulled his heavy fur cloak around his shoulders and adjusted the hood as he went, barrelling head-first through the snow. His huge, heavy leather boots sent great clouds of white flying into the black wind as he ran. I’m comin’, he thought as he went. I’m comin’.

           Gidwyn knew the crags of the Hrudun Druria – the Great Mountains – as well as the braids in his beard. He knew that three more paces to the right was a fissure hidden by snowfall that, should he misstep, would swallow him up and shatter his body. He also knew that, up the sharp stone rise to his left, was a particularly loose-looking wall of rocks. He watched them as he ran past, getting ready to dodge and roll should they come tumbling down upon him – but they did not. Praise the Fire that they do not fall this night, the Dwarf thought as he ran.

The inhospitable, jagged landscape that touched the clouds above could support precious little life, but Gidwyn had found a way. In fact, he saw a great beauty in the hostility of the land: the razor-like peaks and jagged gullies were more beautiful than any statue the masons in the Underkingdom could forge, and Gidwyn loved how first thing in the morning the sun danced in the ice that froze like glass around the grey stone of the mountains.  It was all part of the wonder for the stocky Dwarf.

The sharp, cry-like noise came again, much closer this time. After a few more moments of near-blind advancement through the battering wind and snow, Gidwyn could see his goal. Faintly highlighted against the great white sea all around them, and clinging to the edge of a crag, was a small shape. It was, perhaps, the size of a dog, though the small knobbles on the small beast’s forehead and its cloven feet identified it as otherwise.

Gidwyn raced through the swirling snowstorm to the edge of the deep crag. ‘There y’are, m’ love,’ he said as he laid flat on his stomach, dangling his arms over the edge of the rise.

The baby greatgoat before Gidwyn was terrified; its eyes were wide with fear and it shivered in the freezing cold. Somehow – a miracle of Fire, Gidwyn thought – the small creature had managed to balance itself on a jutting stone a few feet below the edge of the precipice. The Dwarf had no idea how it had manged to get out of his sturdy stone barn, let alone how the creature had managed to get itself stranded in such a place.

The Dwarves of the Great Mountains had a long and rich history of empires, kingdoms and conquest. Wealth flowed like blood through the hallways under the mountains, yet few realised the importance of one simple animal to the survival of the Hrudunni. Without the greatgoat, there would have been no kings, queens, palaces or temples. The greatgoat was the humble animal which carried the Underkingdom on its back: providing everything from milk, leather and meat, to muscles that could bear burdens and backs that could be ridden. Peace and gold may have been plentiful in the Underkingdom, but Gidwyn knew that it was the broad shoulders of the greatgoat that had carried it to prosperity.

‘Too clever fer yer own good, eh?’ Gidwyn muttered into the snowstorm as he shuffled towards the edge of the precipice, his arms and hands extended below him. He ignored the two-hundred foot drop before him; he had seen much deeper, after all. Throatslash Crevasse ain’t all tha’ scary, aside from its silly name, Gidwyn thought as he reached out towards the baby greatgoat once again.

With more than half of his short frame jutting out into the nothingness of the crevasse, Gidwyn finally placed his large hands on the goat. The small animal let out a bleat of joy as it felt the well-known, rough hands of the Dwarf on its small body. Despite the urgency and danger, Gidwyn carefully picked up the small animal and cradled it for a moment, before tucking it inside his thick cloak, retreating back over the edge, and making a run for home.

It took the Dwarf little more than a half-hour to reach the robust stone structure he called his house. The farmhouse in which the greatgoat herder lived was shaped like an iron pot: squat and round, with bulging sides and a heavy, timber-reinforced roof. It was a large building, set in the shadow of a large rocky rise. A fat chimney stuck from the centre of the roof, though the house lacked windows which, in the cold of the Great Mountains, did little more than let warmth escape. Beside it was a structure of similar shape, size and build in which Gidwyn kept his goats. It even had its own chimney, for on cold nights like this, Gidwyn would light a furnace in the centre of the room to keep his greatgoats warm.

When he had built his home, Gidwyn had done so with nights such as this in mind: every greatgoat herder knew a story of a distant friend or relative who had built his home with windows and had them shatter in a wind, slicing his face up, or who had built his house too high, just to have it topple onto him during a storm. But Gidwyn knew he was safe – his home was a veritable fortress which the screaming cold and furious wind would never breach.

Gidwyn rushed to the thick wooden door and hammered on it with his fist. ‘Eoina,’ he called out, ‘it’s me. Let me in afore I freeze!’

There was a clunk from the far side of the door and the heavy wooden bolt was drawn back. Golden light spilled out into the snowstorm for a moment as Gidwyn rushed inside, and seconds later the mountains were once more plunged into darkness as the door was slammed and bolted behind him.

Gidwyn paused for a moment on the other side of the door to catch his breath. Blessed heat washed over him and he felt himself smile. It was strange to step from such boreal savagery into the gentle warmth of home; a large fire-pit sat in the middle of the single, circular room that made up the house, over which a dinner of sausages and bacon was cooking, filling the warm air with a rich and salty smell. Around the fire sat a number of figures: three large, wolf-like dogs, five greatgoats, and a single Dwarf-man. To one side of the home was a large bed covered in furs and cushions, and beside it was a small shrine to the Fire: a stone altar no larger than a loaf of bread, atop of which sat a candle of deepwax, a thick, herb-scented blood-red stick of wax that took months to burn down. The rest of the home was undecorated, for its character came from the dried meats and herbs that hung from its rafters and shelves, and from the pots and pans that were hung from a large rack over the fireplace.

‘Did ye find ‘im?’ Eoina said from behind Gidwyn.

Gidwyn turned to look at his wife – A finer and more ‘andsome woman I ne’er saw, he thought as he looked at her. Stout and strong, with arms that could wrestle a boar and a face ringed with fire-red hair that could make hearts melt, Eoina’s expression was one of concern. Gidwyn let her wonder for a few more moments, enjoying the way her small nose twitched as she waited anxiously.

‘Aye,’ the Dwarf said gently, opening his cloak and letting the greatgoat kid hop onto the stone floor. The small greatgoat bleated appreciatively before rushing off to join the others around the fire, where it nestled in amongst its pony-sized kin.

‘Course lil’ brother found ‘is goat!’ A voice cried from the fire. ‘It is wha’ ‘e does after all!’

Gidwyn smiled at the Dwarf-man beside the flames. ‘Ye didnae worry fer me even a lil’, Galahad?’

The other Dwarf-male, Galahad, waved a hand. He was a broad fellow, with heavy shoulders and arms, a head full of braids and a beard plaited into a great, ornate rope. ‘Nae,’ he said, picking up a large tankard and taking a long glug. ‘Ye woo ‘em goats like ye wooed Eoina – not sure ‘ow ye do it, but yer damn good at it, Fire be praised!’

Eoina clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. ‘Pipe down Gally, ye cheeky sod,’ she said, picking up a blanket and crossing the wide, warm space to find the stray kid. ‘When are ye gonna ask Torith to marry ye, anyway?’

‘Eh,’ Galahad grumbled, ‘probably never if ‘er pig-‘ead father gets in the way any more.’

Whilst his wife and elder brother discussed Galahad’s struggling love-life, Gidwyn removed his cloak and filled himself a mug of mead from a barrel he and his wife kept close to the door.

‘Any other visitors recently?’ Galahad was asking Eiona as Gidwyn sat down by the fire amongst his three wolf-like dogs: Karveth, Coren, and Synera.

The three animals were enormous by the standard of both dogs and wolves: closer to ponies in size, Hrudun Vjalhindes were exceptionally rare and highly intelligent creatures – allegedly the forefathers of werewolves. Gidwyn had found the trio when they were pups, abandoned by their mother, and reared them as his own.

 ‘Visitors?’ Eoina responded, reaching down to pat Karveth – the largest and shaggiest of the three wolf-dogs, with mismatched, gold and blue eyes. ‘Oh aye. Had a Human party from Altmeria a few weeks back, remember Gid?’

‘Oh, nice bunch,’ Gidwyn said, sipping his mead, enjoying the warm flavour spreading down his throat. He reached down and scratched Coren’s chin in the spot he liked it. Coren was the smallest of the three wolf-dogs, with a soft, light brown coat and a sharp face. The enormous animal let out a low, happy grumble. ‘Shame, awful shame.’

‘Aye, t’is,’ Eoina said with a sigh. ‘We always try an’ dissuade ‘em, but tha’s the thing wit’ them Humans: they’re determined t’ ‘ave a first person t’ do everythin’.’

Gidwyn nodded his head reached across to where the silver-coated female wolf-dog, Synera, lay and slowly ran his fingers through her shaggy haunches. She was his favourite – Although a father shouldnae ‘ave favourites, he told himself.

‘Aside from them, nae,’ Eoina continued. ‘Explorers getting’ fewer an’ fewer. Those Vidorians rarely get far either, oft not beyond Axefall Canyon.’

Galahad laughed. ‘Really? I know Dwarf-lads still wet behind the ears and wi’ no hair on their faces who could make it further than tha’!’

Gidwyn shrugged. ‘At least the Empire’s boys turn around an’ go ‘ome. Others don’t.’ Gidwyn chewed his lip for a moment. ‘Sometimes find ‘em frozen stiff out by Axefall a few weeks later.’

‘Y’ ever search further?’ Galahad asked. ‘Go up to the Last Cairn?’

‘No,’ Gidwyn said, shuddering. ‘Ne’er beyond there.’

There was a moment of melancholy silence as the weight of Gidwyn’s words sank in. The Great Mountains were a notoriously inhospitable environment, even amongst the hardly Halfling-folk. The Humans of the Empire and its adjacent provinces, however, had a fascination with the Great Mountains. Legends of trolls and wyverns, of giant wolves and dragons guarding ancient treasures often attracted parties of adventurers to try and scale the Great Mountains. They would struggle through the snows up beyond Axefall Canyon, towards the Last Cairn and then head beyond it towards Orthân Vaarl. After that, none of them ever returned.

Some of the Halfling-folk told stories of a curse upon the mountains; those who were not pure of heart and light of soul would be cast down from lofty heights, to fall and be broken on the rocks below, a punishment for their transgressions. Others told tales of terrible creatures that dwelt in the black crags and encircled the mountainous peaks: ancient basilisks and wyverns, creatures of pure frost and snow with a hatred for all life that would torment and destroy any warm-blooded creature that dared enter their frozen realm. Gidwyn put little faith in such folklore, but he himself never dared to take the highest paths around to the north side of the Great Mountains. Occasionally, he lost a goat up that way – but when he reached the Last Cairn, he would go no further. The crags and fissures of Orthân Vaarl wait beyond the Cairn, and nowt but death lingers there.

Gidwyn’s farm was, as far as he knew, the highest-altitude settlement on the southern side of the Great Mountains – he knew little of the north-facing side, for the crags and gullies he would have to navigate to get around the mountains were too dangerous even for him. As a result, every now and then, a party of adventurers would appear at their door. Some simply wanted to spend a night in the warmth, whilst others often threatened loot and plunder, having realised the Great Mountains held nothing but snow and death. Gidwyn and Eoina never had a problem with the looters, though; one snarl from Karveth, Coren or Synera often saw off any would-be thieves – even some of the older greatgoat rams could get extremely aggressive. An’ no-one wants a goat the size o’ a bear buttin’ ‘em.

‘Any thoughts on when yer gonna ‘ead back to the Old City?’ Gidwyn asked his brother in order to break the silence.

Galahad shrugged. ‘Not outstayed me welcome already, ‘ave I?’

Gidwyn laughed. ‘Yer always welcome, brother.’

Galahad grinned at his younger sibling. ‘Few days,’ he said. ‘Wait fer the worst o’ this storm t’ pass, then ill ‘ead back with the convoy tha’ delivers yer next load o’ supplies. Sound good?’

‘Very good,’ Gidwyn said with a nod. ‘No campaigns?’

‘Nae,’ Galahad said and shook head slowly. ‘Queen Ffyon’s like ‘er mother – peaceable. Though rumour ‘as it there’s trouble in the south.’

‘Above or below?’ Eoina asked.

‘Above,’ Galahad responded. ‘Tha’ Empire o’ the Vidorians ‘as been on-an’-off at war wit’ itself for the last year or two. Looks like things may be heatin’ up again.’

Gidwyn sighed and shook his head. ‘Well, ye jus’ be careful, brother,’ he said to Galahad. ‘Ye an’ Eoina are all the family I got left, an’ I’ll no be seein’ either o’ ya taken away jus’ yet.’

Galahad grinned at his little brother and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Ye’ve nowt t’ worry ‘bout, Giddy,’ he said with a broad-faced grin. ‘Nowt at all.’

The rest of the evening was spent sitting around the golden-glowing firepit amongst the snoring greatgoats and Gidwyn’s wolf-dogs. Light-hearted tales of old were told, and laughter was had as more mead flowed and the small family spoke of happy times shared together. They were oblivious to the chaos outside the walls of the squat home, and of the darkness that the screaming wind brought to the mountains.

*

Gidwyn and Galahad arose early the next morning, leaving Eoina to rest. Clasping wide-bladed shovels in their hands and dressed in thick fur cloaks, and with Gidwyn’s three wolf-like dogs at their heels, the two brothers stepped out into the beautiful, white-light of the stunning new day.

         The storm had passed and left only the thinnest, fluffiest clouds in the sky. The cold sun shone down on the Great Mountains, making the ice-capped tips of the jutting, jagged rocks that surrounded Gidwyn’s home glitter like stars. The snow, almost up to the brothers’ shoulders, was untouched and lay like a flawless carpet across the flat places amongst the mountains. The white world shone like the sky, and Gidwyn sighed happily.

       ‘Yer a lucky fella, Giddy,’ Galahad said to his little brother as they stood in the doorway together. ‘Very lucky indeed.’

       Galahad smiled. He and his brother were looking south. Through the gaps in the jagged peaks and a few scudding dregs of cloud below them, lay the land known as the Imperial Heartlands. Long, rolling green pastures stretched out below for hundreds of miles, basking in the sunlight of a bright winter day. Miles below them lay a patchwork of fields, villages, estates, and towns, all so perfectly placed Gidwyn often found himself wondering if he was looking down upon a painting drawn by a divine artist.

        Gidwyn and Galahad stood for a few moments longer, following the thin, vein-like rivers and tributaries that wove their way across the emerald green lands miles below, before eventually Galahad pointed to a large, white shape on the horizon, glittering under the sun like the new snow.

         ‘Is that the Imperial Capital?’

         ‘Aye, Vidoropolis the Humans call it.’

         The two stood in silence for a few moments longer, drinking in the incredible view. ‘How come I’ve ne’er seen it before?’ Galahad asked.

         ‘Rare t’ get a day this clear,’ Gidwyn replied. ‘C’mon; the goats ain’t gonna wait forever.’

         Shovels in hands, the two Dwarf-brothers set to work clearing the snow outside the wide, round, stone-built home and its adjacent barn. They laughed and joked as they went, jolly in the crisp-cold morning. As soon as they had carved a pathway to the stone barn in which Gidwyn kept the rest of his herd, the younger of the two Dwarf-brothers pulled back the heavy bolt on the wide wooden doors and flung them open before standing to one side.

      The herd of sturdy, pony-sized goats with heavy, curved horns and wide, cloven feet began to pour out into the snow, gambolling and kicking as they went. One Dwarf-brother stood either side of the doors and began to count as the large goats spilled out into the fresh snow, kicking and leaping as they went.

       ‘How many did ye get?’ Gidwyn called to Galahad once the final kid was out.

       ‘Twenty-four,’ the elder brother called back.

       ‘Praise the Fire, ye can count.’

       ‘Cheeky sod.’

       Gidwyn directed Galahad to the heavy sacks goat’s feed – a mixture of dried grains and the hardy lichen and bracken that the goats foraged beneath the snow that the goats ate when wild – then set off with his three dogs at his heels to find the kid that had been lost in the storm the previous night. He found the young animal close to its mother’s hooves, standing in the snow she had already stamped down. Gidwyn was glad to see the kid was unharmed and apparently unfazed by the traumatic events of the previous evening, and bleated happily when it saw him.

             ‘Did y’ hear tha’?’ Galahad called suddenly, his voice quietened by a sudden hiss of mountain wind.

              Gidwyn turned to look at his brother, who was carrying a large hessian sack out of the house. ‘Hear wha’?’

              Galahad held up a hand for a moment, a heavy frown on his brow. ‘Tha’!’ he called again.

         Gidwyn’s eyes narrowed. He pricked up his large ears and held his breath, listening hard through the chorus of bleating and hoof-stamping around him.

And there it was. Far-off and just caught on the gentle wind that blew through the peaks, was a high-pitched, pained cry. To Gidwyn, it sounded like a greatgoat kid in distress. But tha’s impossible, he thought as he listened to the strange, distant sound. I’ve counted ‘em all – I’m no short.

It came again and Gidwyn’s eyes narrowed. It was too high-pitched to be a greatgoat of any age. ‘Somethin’ ain’t right, Gally,’ he said darkly. ‘Somethin’ definitely ain’t right. Stay ‘ere wit’ the herd, I’m gonna go ‘ave a look.’

Without another word, Gidwyn set off through the snow, heading north-east. Soon, his home was far behind him and he could barely hear the sound of the bleating greatgoats and Galahad’s curses as he struggled to empty the feed-bag into the large wooden trough attached to the side of the stone barn.

Soon, the only sounds Gidwyn could hear was the whistle of the winter wind through the high peaks and crags around him, the sound of his heavy boots in the deep snow, and the strange, faint cry borne to him on the whistling wind.

It was definitely getting louder the further northwards he headed. He passed Iron Peak, the twisted spire of stone that jutted like a spearhead from the mountainside, and soon had gone as far as the fissure he called the Devourer – a massive, maw-like opening in the stone that swallowed up anything that did not know of the small, rickety rope bridge built across it a half-mile from where Gidwyn was standing.

Gidwyn never went beyond the Devourer unless he could not help it – it was his border with the North Passage, the deep, rocky gulley all adventurers went into and never returned from. But still the high-pitched crying was on the wind, and it was perilously close now. Gritting his teeth, Gidwyn hurried onwards, a chill colder than ice touching his heart – that of fear.

The Dwarf soon found the rickety, swaying rope-bridge, and the cry was louder than ever before. On the other side of the wobbling wooden structure lay a flat, snow-covered plain the likes of which Gidwyn infrequently walked upon and did not know so well. There could be all manner o’ new cracks an’ fissures formed since I was last ‘ere, the Dwarf thought as he hesitated. Yet the cry came again – piercing and shrill. With a growl of anger, Gidwyn stepped onto the swaying, ice-covered bridge.

It was wide enough for a wagon to fit across, though why anyone would bring a wagon this far northwards in the Great Mountains was incomprehensible to Gidwyn. Gripping the rime-scarred rope to his left, Gidwyn carefully made his way across the ice-covered wooden planks that made up the bridge. ‘Whoever built this was a bleedin’ fool,’ the Dwarf muttered as he went. He was not afraid of heights, but the dizzying drop down into the Devourer below him was enough to make even Gidwyn’s stomach turn. Fang-like rocks glittering with ice and frost thrust up towards him, promising to tear his fragile form apart. Yet still the strange cry continued.

Gidwyn breathed a sigh of relief when he made it to the other side of the bridge and immediately began his pursuit of the strange noise again, doing all he could to forget about the nauseating trip across the bridge. Treading carefully, Gidwyn made his way across the wide, flat, glittering plain of snow that stretched away from the Devourer and towards another set of rising and falling peaks. ‘Ow much further? he thought as he went, but he knew it would not be long, for the cry was almost piercing now.

But even though the sound was close, his courage began to wane. As he hurried over the darkening mountainside, pushing through the thickening fog of cloud that closed in around him and began to sap his breath from his lungs, he saw a squat, pillar-like shape slowly materialise through the mist before him.

The Last Cairn.

Gidwyn felt his heart beat a little faster. Framed through the clouds against the dark stone of the mountainside, the Last Cairn was little more than a large stack of heavy rocks around which someone had tied a long length of blue cloth that snapped in the wind like a whip – a crude effigy for the mountainside, its ancient meaning long since lost. But behind it loomed Orthân Vaarl – the terrible maze of ice-scourged and frost-entombed crags and canyons that twisted and writhed in between the great peaks to the north.

But Gidwyn had given the Last Cairn a new meaning. The Last Cairn was, for Gidwyn, the point of no return. Nothin’ lives beyond there, he told himself as he slowly walked up the steep mountainside towards it. Crags and gullies that could swallow entire armies, creatures left long-undisturbed, and a world scarred by an aeon of unbroken and infallible cold.

Then Gidwyn put his foot on something. He frowned, for it did not feel like the snow-covered stone. Alarmed, he fell to his knees and began to frantically dig away at the snow beneath him with his hands, tossing great white plumes into the air as he went.
As he dug through the recently fallen layer, the snow at his fingertips began to change colour: first, there were a few spots of red, but before he knew it, Gidwyn was scooping whole handfuls of red snow and tossing them aside. This is no’ good, he thought as he dug. Really, really no’ good.

Suddenly, his fingers touched something that felt like cloth beneath the red-dyed snow. Gidwyn closed his fists and pulled. The object was heavy, but Gidwyn was strong – decades wrestling greatgoats had left him as sturdy and dependable as the creatures he farmed, and that was in addition to the natural brawniness most Dwarves developed from adulthood.

Rising to his feet and clutching whatever lay beneath the snow in his strong fists once more, Gidwyn gave the object one more heave and felt it come loose. The snow shifted, like a sheet of fresh parchment being crumpled in a fist, and Gidwyn almost leapt back in horror.

Gidwyn found himself looking straight into the frozen-blue face of what looked like a Human. A pair of cold-hardened green eyes stared up at Gidwyn, the frost transfixing them into an expression of shock and horror. A snow-filled mouth hung open, and twisted, icy fingers grappled at a long, heavy arrow buried in the figure’s stomach.

For a moment, Gidwyn was at a loss. He stared at the corpse, dressed in a heavy green cloak and wearing ornate, fur-lined leathers and with the crude arrow embedded deep into his stomach. When Gidwyn went to put the corpse down, the figure’s hood fell back, revealing long, brown hair and a pair of pointed ears.

‘An Elf…?’ Gidwyn breathed. He looked like a soldier, but Gidwyn had never seen an Elven soldier before so he did not know for sure. There was an empty scabbard at the figure’s waist, though other than that there was no signs of looting on the body.

The cry came again. This time, it was extremely close.
Gidwyn sprang to his feet and began to run through the snow as fast as he could. Great flakes of white stuck in his beard and the sunlight breaking through the clouds onto the snow before him made his eyes hurt, but he was determined.

Suddenly, he noticed an odd shape sticking up out of the white carpet before him – ornately decorated and green-painted wooden sides with a canvas covering straining under the weight of the night’s snow. A wagon? Here? Gidwyn thought, continuing to hurry forwards.

As he reached the snow-battered wagon, he stumbled into the remnants of a campsite. The handful of tents had collapsed in the snowstorm, and around the guttered-out campfire in the middle of the small ring of ropes, poles, and torn cloth, were more bodies. All were Elven, all were dressed like the first, and all were full of arrows and criss-crossed with bloody slashes.

For a moment, Gidwyn stood in the snow-covered camp utterly dumbfounded. He had seen the dead before – sometimes he would happen across unfortunate climbers or Dwarves who had mistimed their voyages – but he had never seen anything like this. There was so much pain. So much blood.

The cry came again, long, pained, frightened. Gidwyn turned and looked at the snow-covered wagon. Partially hidden beneath the fallen snow he could see two dead horses, their flanks and throats full of the same crude-looking arrows that peppered their frozen masters. Gidwyn took a step towards the wagon as the cry came once more and carefully clambered onto the driver’s step, then poked his head inside.

Gidwyn’s heart sank as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom within. It was a large space, full of furs, cushions, and a few boxes and barrels of foodstuffs. There were two adult figures Gidwyn could make out: a man wearing a fine silver-blue robe, his body covered in stab-wounds and a long dagger in his frozen fist, and beside him lay a woman, her dress torn where she too had been slashed and stabbed.

The two Elves held one-another in death, their faces frozen in pain and sadness, their bodies covered in blood and wounds. Between them, wrapped in a thick bundle of furs, was the source of the piercing wail Gidwyn had heard from his home.

On the edge of tears, Gidwyn stepped into the wagon and crossed to the back where the couple were sprawled. He looked down at the bundle that lay between them and into the bright-blue eyes of a tiny baby she-Elf, wailing and bawling in fear and sorrow, knowing that something was terribly wrong yet unable to comprehend the tragedy written in blood around her. The hair on her head was as white as the snow through which Gidwyn had charged to find her, and her ears were long and narrow, pointed at their tips.

Gently, smiling as best as he could despite the tears in his eyes, Gidwyn reached down and picked up the bundle. ‘Hush now, lil’ snow-child,’ he said gently, rocking the baby in his beefy arms. ‘Giddy’s got ye, ye’ve nowt t’ fear anymore.’

The baby girl looked up at Gidwyn with her enormous blue eyes and let out a happy squeal, before reaching out of the furs around her with a tiny hand and taking hold of his beard. Despite the horror wrought around them, Gidwyn could not help but laugh.

‘You’re a wee thing,’ he said gently, getting to his feet, ‘but don’t ye worry. Giddy’s ‘ere. Giddy’ll look after ye, little gift o’ the snow.’

With one last glance around, Gidwyn tucked the baby girl inside his cloak and leapt from the wagon. He set off at a run back the way he had come, going as fast as he could. He left the slaughter behind, cradling its only survivor in his arms.

The Dawning of a New Age

Greetings, Esdarians!

It has been over two years since my last post on this blog – far too long if you ask me, and a length of absence for which an apology is owed.

So, I am very sorry. Truly.

I loved writing for TFE, and the feedback I received from the people who read the work I shared here was truly wonderful. Being able to take a group - no matter how big or small - on a journey through this world was one of the most uplifting and rewarding things I have ever had the pleasure of doing as a writer, and something I have longed to do ever since. As such, I dearly hope some of you will join me again over the next few months.

And now, something of an explanation: a lot has happened since the 12^th September 2017, and a lot has changed – particularly where both this blog and the world of Esdaria is concerned. But more on that in a moment.

It’s been a bit of a wild ride: having completed my master’s degree in medieval history, I graduated in 2017 with a first-class award and a prize for the best dissertation produced by a master’s student for my work on death, dying and the living dead in Anglo-Saxon England. I moved out of the student house in which I had lived (with some fantastic friends and my wonderful partner, I might add) for three years and headed back to my parents’.

The last year or so has been spent bouncing between various jobs and moving house two more times (from a ramparted Victorian cottage in the middle of eighteen acres of land attached to a sixteenth-century manor house to an agonisingly normal terraced house in an equally plain cul-de-sac, I’m sad to say). Understandably, at various points over the last two years things have been very difficult, so Esdaria has had to go on hold; stories have sat unfinished, and though this blog has had occasional visitors, those searching for new content will have been woefully disappointed.

That is, until now.

It’s taken some time for me to find both the right moment and  the correct headspace to begin to write in Esdaria again. I like to think that the ideas and stories I’ve been working on over the last few years have aged and matured during my inactivity, as I’ve been able to spend real time thinking about what goes into them and how they pan out – and, of course, where they sit in the wider Esdarian arc.

Now, I am ready to begin sharing some of the work I have produced. I’ve taken some time to redress the site to try and make it friendlier on the eye yet also more varied in colour and image – all feedback is welcome: I want you, as a reader, to be able to read what is here at no toll to your eyes. If you have any suggestions about how I can improve this for you, do please leave a comment.

Now, good news: stories abound over the next few months. New tales from corners of Esdaria hitherto untouched are currently being finalised for your reading pleasure. I can promise that over the next few months you will be transported from the icebound peaks of the Great Mountains to the dark woods of Westernaea, and will be met by a host of vibrant characters – some friendly and familiar, others dark and dangerous. As ever, these will be supplemented with the history and lore of the land, giving you as the reader a chance to gain a deeper and more nuanced understanding of the world in which these stories are set.

I can’t wait to show you what I’ve been working on, so watch this space over the next few weeks to see what appears. Though I won't be committing to a regular posting schedule, I will aim to have new content available at least once a fortnight.

First up, I can promise you that we shall be visiting a group hitherto untouched by the stories that have so far been made available here.

Oh, and you might want to bring your thermals.

Best wishes and many thanks to you all for your support (and patience!),

Rob

Where We're At...

Hello! It feels like forever since I posted anything here; it's been well over a month since Where the Moonlight Dances was shared here, and I've been somewhat radio-silent ever since.

Well, I think you deserve an update. I've now finished my course, and am no-longer a student. as I've eluded to in a few other posts, this last year has been extremely tough on me: I've had various health problems that have sometimes made the going extremely tough. There have been points where I've wanted nothing more than to simply throw in the towel and give up, when finishing seemed impossible and utterly pointless. But I've been blessed with the most incredible and wonderful group of friends over the last year, and I owe more than I could possibly ever give to these wonderful people who've stood around me through everything. I've truly never had such a wonderful group of friends in my life, and I love each and every one of you.

I'd also like to thank you, the reader, for sticking with my work over the last twelve months. It'd been disjointed, varied, and inconsistent, but knowing people wait for my posts on Sundays has genuinely made the world a bit of a brighter place for me. When I started this blog last year, I had no idea so many people from all over the world would be interested in my work.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've been asked by several people when the next TFE installment will be. I'm sorry to say that, once again, I don't know. I'm in the middle of searching for jobs and trying to readjust to life away from university, so the amount of time I can dedicate to writing is, much to my dismay, quite small. There are cogs turning, though: I'm currently working on part three of the long stories set in Esdaria, and suspect this is where my focus shall be for the next few months. I have a few shorter stories currently in the works which I no-doubt shall return to should the creative pot begin to run dry - so I hope to do at least one more short(ish) story before this year is out.

I've also had a few questions about the promised Jaedor and Derryk follow-up. For those of you who have not read it, Of Fire and Shadow remains my most popular short(ish) story to date, and I'd thoroughly recommend it to anyone. I completed a follow-up to it several months ago now - another story which I think does terrific justice to everything that took place in the original. Unfortunately, however, I'm still searching for an appropriate platform to share the finished follow-up on as it is far too large to be put on this blog in its current state. I've had self-publication suggested to me, but I'm trying to steer away from this option. I'm loathe to self-publish, as I feel it discredits me as a writer and gives people no real reason to read my work. Essentially, I believe that self-publication lacks the legitimacy bestowed upon a writer and their work by traditional publication. As a result, the search for a platform for Jaedor and Derryk pt. II continues...

So that's how things currently are. Again, I thank you all for you for your patience and for sticking with Esdaria through everything. You're fantastic, and I'm so grateful to be sharing this journey through this fantasy world with you. And, for those of you who are interested, here's a photo of my thesis in its finished state.

So, it's been almost two weeks since I ventured back up to #Norwich #UniversityOfEastAnglia #UEA to give this in and thus complete my #Masters in #medieval #history. If this time last year someone had told me I was set to spend twelve months reading and researching early medieval #ghosts and #zombies, I would've laughed. Instead, two 6,000 word essays and a 16,000 word #thesis later, I've found my #academic niche. I've never looked at a piece of work quite like how I look at this; though there are things I would change in hindsight (as there is every piece of work) I've never been so proud of something I've produced.

A post shared by Rob (@robh_666) on Sep 10, 2017 at 3:07pm PDT