Year 2222 C.R.
Prior to the founding of the Theocracy of Dern

Borrund wiped the enemy’s blood from his face, staring out over the carnage that his raiders had wrought upon the small fort of Morgrath. A grim satisfaction washed through his soul as the last of the adversaries were thrown in a pile and the outpost set to flame. It was a hard-fought battle, and his men were reduced to merely two score, but victorious, nevertheless.

A savage wind ripped across the huge barbarian’s bearded face, the only flesh he dared to expose in this hated bastard winter. His long black hair fluttered like tethered chaos, and he felt entombed in heavy furs. Still, the nights were cold enough to freeze a man without shelter and fire, and if he stood still too long, even in the day his extremities became numb and his body felt the bite.

Borrund smiled as he watched the enemy’s monumental holy symbol burn, red flames licking up the form of a stauros with a shield centered upon where the two great planks crossed. Kandra, they called their woman god, and the clan-king sacrificed her sign in the name of Tulok, his god of war.

“We have enough loot to return to Bjorsek and live as the Great Kings for a full season,” Vahrgul laughed, the grey-haired elder approaching from behind and slapping Borrund on the shoulder. “They must have stockpiled furs for over two years, stranded out here waiting for a chance to trade. They were half-starved and their food cellars near empty. We shall clear it out in a single feast!”

“Their god is a poor provider, it would seem.” Borrund laughed at the enemy’s misfortune. Indeed, their lack of food and strict rationing had weakened the soldiers to the point where they were barely able to defend themselves. If not for their accursed crossbows, Borrund surmised he would have lost half as many men. He now had almost a dozen of the weapons in his possession.

“The men want to know why we are burning the fort, my lord,” Vahrgul spoke, as often he was a go-between from the raiders and their petty king. “Are we not to stay here tonight and head back west to join our brothers at Buhr’lahg? If we do not hasten our return, they may ship off without us.”

“Nay, do not worry on that account. I have spoken to Drunnbar, and he will leave two longboats for our return to Bjorsek. We lost enough men taking Buhr’lahg, that he would be hard pressed to fill them all, anyway.”

“But my lord, burning the entire fort to ash? Is this wise? We will need the shelter if it is here we are to remain. What shall we do for fire once the fort has burned? There is not a tree for miles.”

Borrund laughed. “As for the fort, let the settlers rebuild it, and we will come and slaughter these frail men from the south yet again. We are not staying here, Vahrgul. When our scout returned earlier this morn, he observed another fort two days’ march south of here, newly built. A forest of white trees lies along that route, only a mile or two off the path. It is there we will rest through the night, and have our wood for the fires and lean-tos.”

Vahrgul’s eyes widened with surprise. “Borrund, my lord, please consider—the men are hungry and tired; the cold saps our strength. We have gained fine spoils and wish only for good food and shelter, and the warmth of our women. We are now but forty men—forty frozen, weary men. Let us forget this land and sail home! Next year, we will return with strength and sack the fort of which you speak.”

“We will take it now! There was a time when our ancestors raided lands far and wide, pillaging as we pleased. But we have been divided and have grown soft. Now enemies try to turn this very land that is right at our doorstep into a civilized nation. If this happens, they will begin attacking our homeland from these shores.

“We will give them something to think about. We will show them what savagery they must face to take this land. We will conquer them now, and slay all. They will not gain the foothold they seek.”

“Aye, my lord. I will tell the men, but they will not be pleased.”

“I do not expect them to be pleased. Only to serve.”

“What shall we do with the pelts? They are heavy and many.”

“Bring them, of course.”

“My lord, we hacked down all the enemy’s horses when attacking the riders. If our men must carry the furs, we may not make the white woods before sunset.”

“They must be carried. With the sleds, we will make for the woods and have fuel for fire and the pelts for comfort. Tell the men to feast on the cellar scraps and horsemeat, then we leave.”

Vahrgul nodded and left Borrund to his schemes. The petty king watched while the strong, savage men become angry as Vahrgul passed along the order that they would soon be marching south. Despite their anger, none would turn an eye towards Borrund, for the king was every bit as savage and brutal as his subjects.

Holgrun, a blond-headed brute and Borrund’s own cousin, dared to approach—though he kept his distance, eyeing the bold, young lord. “My king, Vahrgul says that you mean to march upon another fort to the south. Is this true?”

“Aye, it is true.”

“The pelts are prize enough, surely. Treasure to last us each the entire winter…and we could sack this southern fort in the spring.”

“Ah, it is Holgrun who questions his king. It is Holgrun who leads the clan.”

“No, my king. I follow you with all my loyalty, all my strength…but I am not blind to this bitter cold. It numbs us my lord. It kills our spirit.”

A number of barbarians had now gathered to listen, though pretending to continue their work, ears half-trained on the conversation.

“Step forward, Holgrun,” the king bade, his wind-burnt lips every bit as rigid as the words he spoke. The lord’s tone was such that Holgrun dared not disobey. He came to stand a mere several feet away from his king.

From its sheath, Borrund drew the greatsword of his father’s father. The blade was crude and plain; a frayed leather hilt was wrapped over the pommel, unraveled strands fluttering in the breeze. The crossguard ends both bore the rugged semblance of a skull, formed of hammered brass. The king stabbed the blade into the cold ground between them, a hand gripped to the pommel.

“Bow before me, and kiss the blade of my fathers. Show Borrund your loyalty.”

The words were spoken harshly, a portent of doom. And so it was uneasily that the king’s cousin knelt, and kissed the blade of his uncle and grandfather. When his lips touched cold, frosty blade, the ring of steel being drawn from its sheath was heard in the crisp afternoon air. In the instant to follow, Borrund stabbed his cousin in the throat with a thin skinning knife.

Holgrun gasped for air as he fell backward, blood already slithering down his neck like hatchling snakes, seeping into furs. Borrund dropped the knife and removed the great sword from the ground. Stepping forward, keeping the blade’s sharp point ever downward, he whispered a laugh unto himself, but the glee and satisfaction was apparent to all. When he stood overtop of his cousin, his joy faded as a ghost, and he stared emotionless at the man choking on his own blood, before plunging his father’s father’s blade home. That is where he left it, a stark reminder for all to see, a monumental warning to those who doubted his wisdom. Not until the feast of horseflesh and cellar meats and vegetables had been prepared and eaten, was the sword finally drawn from flesh, bone, and ground.

It was almost noon before they set out onto the open plain, sky grey and cloudy, the west wind ripping coldly from the Fridjian Ocean. Just under two score of men marched forth, six teams of six pulling sleds filled of furs and freshly butchered meat. Borrund, Vahrgul, and a man set to guard the rear were spared the extra burden. As the men struggled with weariness and exhaustion, Borrund realized his error in ordering the horses to be slain so that their riders could be more easily felled. Vahrgul had warned that the horses could be put to good use on this land. And now that the petty clan-king estimated their poor time marching on foot, he grew angry—not with himself for disregarding Vahrgul’s wisdom, but with his men for their inherent weakness. The ground was hard and frozen—familiar surroundings for the northern savages. Snow began falling, and the wind blew ever fiercer. The raiders were failing to make good time, and the woods would not be reached by nightfall.

Borrund strode alongside Vahrgul, who had realized this same dilemma much earlier. He finally found the boldness with which to speak. “My lord, perhaps my sense of time is faulty, but based on the scout’s report, I do not believe we will make the forest before nightfall. It may serve us better to stop and build what shelter we can from the sleds and pelts.”

“Bah! It will be a rough night without fuel for a fire. We will abandon the sleds for now, and pack what meat we need for a good meal. When we reach the woods and build a shelter and blaze, we will laugh at this cold.”

Borrund ordered his men to a halt. “You are too slow, you motherless dogs! Abandon the sleds. Each man carries a half-pound of horsemeat. We must make the forest by sundown or risk being frozen solid in this hoary Hell! March on! Hurry!”

And so the raiders abandoned their sleds, and marched forth, still weary and sore, and ever more numb from the cold. For miles they ran, hearts pounding and lungs heaving, struggling from the burning cold air. Sweat poured from their bodies, yet limbs were cold as ice.

Winds ran amuck, swirling in from every direction and snow began to fall, thick and heavy, sticking on the ground. The darkening sky was now filled with flakes from Heaven, and the men below felt powerless against it. They knew only one thing—to forge ahead.

In time they came to see a distant, brilliant white wood to the southeast, and so veered in that direction. Sporadically, the setting sun would cut through the falling snow to hit the forest just so, and the bark of the white pines would sparkle, as if encrusted with diamonds. This vision somehow played into the minds of the savages, spurring them forth through some murky sense of greed, though their rational minds insisted that the bark could not be inset with precious stones.

And their rational minds were quite correct, for as they approached the forest, it could be seen that the very trees were encased in dazzling ice. The men neared the scintillating, white bark with a sense of weary awe. And they shuddered in their dumbfounded trance, peering into the hoary wood even as the temperature dropped in drastic proportion to the setting sun.

“Some magick is at work here,” Vahrgul scowled, shivering beneath his layers of furs. “This wood is evil. Let us return to the sleds. Shelter and fur we have there. We can survive without a fire.”

“Nay,” Borrund countered, shouting over the winds. “We would become lost in this blinding snow. Our markers are too small. Let us find a good place to camp and build a strong fire. That is what will save us this frigid night. Hurry, the cold is biting into our bones!”

The men were spurred to action by their leader’s commands, and together, they struck off into the forest. For a few hundred yards they traveled, all the while feeling the coldness press in, ever more sinister upon their frail bodies. Warmth—it was all that they sought, all that they cherished. Hunger and thirst were forgotten, greed all but a memory; direction lost as they struggled to survive. Bloodlust nevermore.

“Over here!” shouted a stout young raider, pointing to the east. “A deep hollow that has forsaken the wind.”

Nearly forty men piled into the ravine, and finally luck was with them. Two steep hill slopes, nearly vertical on both accounts, buffered the northmen from the assailing winds. A small stream trickled through it, the surface iced over, but deep down there was moving water. Vahrgul licked his lips. Once a fire was blazing and strength returned to their limbs, fresh water would be most welcome. The men huddled about in their thick furs, numb and worn, thankful for their change in fortune.

Borrund stood before his men, looking at the frozen rabble of near lifeless things that had been humbled by the cold, the winds, the snow. Just hours ago they were bloodthirsty savages, with strength and mind to slay and pillage any who stood in their path. Now they were weak and pitiful, but slowly regaining some semblance of strength as they found a respite from the winds.

The clan-king mustered his most authoritative voice, shouting to his people. “Those of you who have axes, chop us thick logs to burn. You three, dig the pit. The others collect kindling. Let us build a fire so grand that our sons’ sons will speak of it in the years to come!” At those words, the men summoned the last reserves of inner strength to collect the wood—for their very lives clung by a thread.

Fire. It was the flame that would stir their slow, thick blood back into the raging fluid that pumped through their veins and made them not only alive, but passionate, vigorous, lustful men, who surrounded themselves with death and cherished life perhaps more than any.

Borrund and Vahrgul waited, backs against a cliff wall, but freezing nonetheless. Men disappeared into the snow, wielding axes or empty, searching hands. Minutes passed, time slow and bitter, and Borrund fought off sleep. Slowly, men began filtering back into the ravine, carrying pathetic armfuls of ice-coated branches—thankful to be done with the wind, though snow still drifted in upon them.

One by one they came, each dropping only three or four branches in a pile onto the ground. “These limbs are impossible,” one muttered. “They do not break,” spat another. “You must twist them and pull with all your strength. And none are found loose upon the ground.” This comment unnerved Vahrgul, for in their haste and blindness by the snow, no one had taken note of how peculiar and barren the forest ground had appeared.

The sticks were stripped of ice, a more difficult task than any expected, and during that time the grumbling axemen appeared, holding small logs only a little larger than the kindling. These, too, were, stripped of their frosty coatings, and placed in the bottom of the pit. Arranging the kindling strategically about, several of the raiders bent low with their steel and flint, while others stood close by and spread their fur capes, blocking light currents of wind. All waited in anticipation, their strength waning as the utter, desolate cold reached from the marrow of their bones into the marrow of their souls. Weakness overtook all, but hope offered some strength. Relief was only moments away.

Soon, wisps of smoke could be seen, climbing from the branches as the first tangible signs that all would be well. And a circle of toothy grins emerged from a sea of beard as grunts of elation sounded amidst the howl of nearby wind. Brutish men pressed ever closer, awaiting the warmth with utmost impatience. Some looked to their fingers or thought of their toes, determining which must be sacrificed when the life-giving fire allotted for such tasks.

The first of the flames caused a cheer, but then immediate concern as they noted the form was black as death, and instantly raging among the limbs. The sight was mesmerizing; whereas common fire burned with an inner spirit of fluidity, this blaze was soulless and dispassionate, almost rigid and calculated in its expanding movements along the ivory-white limbs.

And though the mere sight of the exotic flames caused concern, it was a freezing wave of bitter air that crushed upon the raiders which reeled their minds and sent them swooning, their thoughts spiraling from all possibility of salvation.

“It burns cold!” Vahrgul cried, falling back out of the hollow, unable to endure this cruel twist of fate. The winds blasted his furs and cape; this storm was considered the lesser of two evils, compared to that black, horrid flame which wrought nothing but chilling madness. And nearly forty of his kin followed him, running out into the night in all directions, exhausted and confused, thinking only of escaping the inconceivable flames.

In the blinding snow, howling winds, and thick forest, they lost track of each other. Many died alone, huddled against a large tree and freezing within the hour. Borrund was one of these, his mind filled with regret as he thought of every warning offered by Vahrgul that was ignored. Drifting off into his final sleep, the clan-king realized what his forefathers must have known—before you conquer a people, you must first conquer their land.