The Wilds
Storm clouds besieged the horizon, launching volleys of hot red and purple lightning intermingled with swirling ice and snow. The moss and heather had gone brown only a few weeks ago; the temperature dipping sharply. The wind howled constantly these days, whipping decayed branches and thick dust across the landscape. Winter snarled like rabid animal; it set upon them with fury and would not relent for many months.
Their feet were wet, soaked by the freezing wetlands that fed the Tribe of Ships’ farmlands. Oria, wrapped in her black bear fur - a trophy she earned with her bare hands - was chilled, but did not shiver. She flicked the blade of her axe, running her thumb across its edge. It was sharp - it would kill many invaders.
Oria and her thousand clansmen slogged through the marshes, marching into a shallow valley between two snow-capped peaks. The natural gateway to their realm had been protected since their Tribe of Ships had landed ashore hundreds of years ago and converted their longships into homes. Their land was fertile both on land and at sea. The bay held many fish and the normally grassy hillsides kept the sheep well-fed. Legend says the hills are haunted, but it was only legend.
For months, word had traveled through the countryside of a gathering force of invaders bearing a Banner of Black. They moved from settlement to settlement, razing every building and slaughtering livestock, men, women and daughters. The sons were forced to slay their families; those that did remained with the Black; those that didn’t were maimed and left for dead. The Black had been circling the Tribe of Ships, decimating each outlying village until the time to strike appeared.
The army of the Tribe of Ships halted at the narrowest point in the valley - uneven mountainside on each flank. Behind them, the warm fires in their homes were a day’s journey away. Ahead, the grizzled Banner of Black marched towards them, shambling across the uneven ground.
Lightning flashed in a jagged arc across the afternoon sky as the storm sped towards the Tribe of Ships. Snow and ice fell from the charcoal clouds, overtaking, then obscuring, the Banner of Black. Only their shield battering war chants could be heard over the thunderous storm - and then only barely.
Wind charged across the valley and struck the Tribe of Ships with a powerful thrust of bitterly cold wind, cutting through their furs. The ice and snow arrived in a flurry, pelting them with hail the size of their eyes; the snow whipped and spiraled through the air, each flake stinging their exposed skin. Then battle was upon them.
The clang of steel mingled with the crack of wooden shields. Screams of the dying could not rise about the rapturous bloodlust of the Bannermen. Biting snow and javelins of ice enveloped the locked armies - lightning taking its fair share of warriors. The daylight disappeared beneath the blackened clouds above as the snow fell heavier. Warriors could barely see the tip of their swords, let alone the combatant before them; more lives were lost to Swordbrothers than foes. A wall of lightning struck down in a blinding blur of menacing power. It ripped a line through the center of the melee, a solid line of ungodly power, slaying scores. The Gods were not pleased.
Oria swept spattered blood from her face as it began to freeze. Her muscles twitched, not from cold, but from the adrenaline pulsing through her veins. Howls were drowned out by the unending roll of thunder. Numb fingers held frozen steel; she heard no sound of battle or cries for help. She was blinded by a burst of brilliant purple-white light, then her body became warm, warmer than the sun. She was the sun, bursting with heat, bristling with prickly white-hot all-encompassing heat. Then blackness.
Oria gasped awake, moisture freezing and scratching her throat. Her entire body ached with a pain she had never felt before; each minor movement set her head ablaze with agony. The storm still raged though the blinding fury of snow and ice had relented enough for her to see a few paces ahead, though darkness still enveloped the battlefield.
Beleaguered, Oria sat up and rolled to her feet. Axe in hand, she shakily stood as each step blinded her with white auras in her vision; the white never leaving her left eye. In the distance she heard the sound of pitched battle, though the wind belied its direction. She wandered across the broken and bloody heather, stumbling on dense thickets of corpses, guessing the direction of the fight.
The corpses began to thin and the terrain became rough, at first speckled with small stones, then overcome with craggy boulders. The howl of the storm echoed off the mountains, though now the wind was at her back, pushing her forward, almost toppling her. She dragged her axe across the stones, the grating vibration pulsing through her arm and numbing the pain.
Looking backward, she saw no activity; the sound of battle had long gone away. With the whipping wind still at her back, she marched forward, slowly, deliberately, placing foot after foot on the icy mountainside. The adrenaline had subsided long ago and, as the pain began to loosen on her, she finally began to violently shiver. Her arms tingled like a thousand sword tips pierced it. The fingers on her left hand and several toes were completely numb of feeling: frostbite was beginning to set in.
Blackness ahead revealed a towering cliff face that, even in prime condition and clear weather, would be insurmountable. Her forward path blocked, she followed the natural wall of stone, using it as a guide. The wall turned towards the mountaintop and she moved inward with it until halfway up the treacherous base of the mountain she found a small cave turned away from the storm.
Small mammal bones littered the floor of the cave, though most had been whitened by months of sun bleaching. The space was claustrophobic; had she been of larger stature her shoulders would not have fit through the tight opening. Little light poured through the crack in the stone face, but it was clear of the storm’s biting cold and harsh snow. Based on the speed of the wind’s echo, Oria judged the cave to be short in length, less than fifty feet. She sat huddled beneath her furs, somehow still warm and dry beneath the frozen outer layer. Painful feeling pulsed through her body as blood began to flow more freely, though several of her fingers on her left hand still did not regain feeling. Her body, awash with fatigue, half-frozen and half-blind, began to shut down.
Her eyes closed. Her breath slowed. Her heart pumped slowly, rhythmically like the beat of a drum. She slept and dreamed of a ghostly children’s rhyme from long ago.
“Storm over Sgorr Ruadh” by Steve Schnabel licensed under CC BY 2.0