Game of the Gods - Chapter 1

Chapter 1
Warrior of the Frost

The barren wind pushed at the bundle of furs, biting through the many layers to chill the huddled man inside.  He followed behind one of his companions, second in a procession of six men stumbling through the arctic snow, heading south for a city known as Tosche.  He could barely see the man in front of him through the blinding snow, even though his companion was less than a dozen paces ahead.  Following the footprints left in the snow, which were already beginning to disappear in the blizzard, he pushed against the harsh winter wind.  Occasionally that wind would slam into him, holding him back as if it never wanted him to reach his destination.  He continued forward despite the cold, his mind occupied with images of battle and glory.

The taking, his people called it, that thirst for battle and adventure.  The man was a barbarian, as were his companions.  Or at least that was how they were known to the outside world.  Barbarian, he thought.  That word left a bitter taste in his mouth.  He was deca'lar, a Warrior of the Frost, or at least he would be after returning from his taking, which is why he and his companions journeyed to the city of Tosche.  They traveled south from Radik, their coastal village on the island of Konan-Schlar, crossing the Lorne Strait, between the land of their village and the rest of the world.  The ocean waters froze every year in the dead of winter, allowing foot travel to the peninsula of Milay, where these men hoped to sate their taking.

The man reflected on that reason for his travel.  The taking was more than a yearning for adventure.  True, the training of his homeland no longer suited his battle lust or his skill, but the taking was much more.  Every village elder had fulfilled their taking when they were the same age as he was now.  After sixteen years he was ready to experience more of this world.  While he could have ventured anywhere alone to quench his taking, he had joined a group of barbarians heading south.  Although south was not his first choice, he thought it best to travel with someone else since he had never been this far from Radik before.  Besides, he had always wanted to see what a real forest was like; only the occasional deep green of the everfir trees could be found this far north.  Some young men from his village opted to travel north into the Aloontha Magdierno Mountains, but they seldom returned from their taking.  Even some of the best warriors he had known, and some he had looked up to as a boy, had not returned.

Upon these thoughts he found himself fondly caressing the huge sword hanging at his back.  This sword had been handed down many generations, and each recipient planned to gain more glory with the weapon than his father had.  The sword hung in a new leather scabbard his mother had fashioned for him before this journey.  He remembered her last touch; her one hand resting on his cheek while the other pushed his shoulder length, stringy hair behind his ears.  For a moment he could see her face in the white before him, the usually hard features soft with tear-filled eyes.  Theminor had her blue eyes, unnatural for a deca'lar, but his broad forehead, wide nose, and thick lips were from his father.  He quickly silenced his musings, trying to forget those thoughts of his family before his longing for them outweighed that for the taking.  Even if he could have lived with the shame of failing on his taking, there was no possibility of return anyway.  The spring thaw would be upon them soon, melting the ocean ice until next winter.  Even if he could turn back, he had already traveled well over a month with his companions, and they should reach Milay soon.

He stumbled to one knee, tripping over a large chunk of ice he had not noticed.  The barbarian, known as Theminor, cursed himself as he rose to his feet.  The freezing wind returned, chilling his body once more.  Not paying attention was often a lethal mistake out in the frigid wastelands.  Theminor forced his concentration to his surroundings, fighting to catch a glimpse of anything through the blanket of white.  He could now barely make out the form moving ahead of him.  Ten paces separated him from his companion, yet he could barely follow the movements ahead.  The snow now covered the majority of the man's dark fur coats, which was the only contrast to the blinding white.  Theminor kept a tight gaze upon the moving form ahead of him and trudged through the ever deepening snow.

The travelers continued on through snowy valleys and frozen peaks of ice, each following the man before him as if in some cruel game of follow-the-leader.  The snowfall began to ebb, but the vicious wind persisted, numbing the face, dulling his fading senses.  As the snow slowed, Theminor lifted his eyes from the footprints to find himself being led into a narrow valley of ice.  He surveyed the surrounding land features for some kind of landmark, but all he found was more snow and ice, and silence, thick permeating silence.  White silence, he thought to himself, laughing at the statement or at the cold, he wasn't quite sure which.  Maybe he was losing his mind already; some men were known to have gone mad on their taking.  Shrugging off these thoughts, the barbarian returned his attention to the valley stretching out to meet him.

The valley had all of the appearances of a canyon; two walls of sheer ice rose perhaps six feet on either side of the small gorge.  Theminor watched his leader step into the pass and continue stomping through, not realizing that those who followed him had stopped.

"Jorg," Theminor shouted to the man, but his words died in the wind.

A scraping sound emanated from the canyon, beginning as a low rumble and building to the sound of a hundred avalanches.  The icy walls splintered and slowly sank away from each other, leaving a gaping hole between them.  The dark, salty ocean broke through its frozen barrier to peer out at the travelers.  The waves seemed to mock the man trapped in the canyon.

Time slowed down for Theminor.  From his vantage he watched in horror as Jorg flailed at the ice, searching for a hold that would keep him from sliding down the smooth surface into the water.  But the more Jorg flailed about, the faster he slid down the water-smoothed ice.  He splashed into the ocean, his head disappearing beneath the hungry waves as if the sea was starved and this man would appease its appetite.  For a moment, the man broke free of the descending current.

"Theminor," Jorg cried to him.

Adrenaline pumped through Theminor's blood as he ran towards his drowning friend.  He glanced quickly at his other companions who remained motionless, eyes fixed to the terrible scene unfolding before them.  Theminor devised a plan. He yanked the huge sword from his side and leaped as far as he could across the gap.  His strong legs carried him to the other side, and with savage strength, he plunged the weapon deep into the slippery wall.  The sword pierced the glacier and continued through until only the hilt of the sword remained visible.  Theminor clung to the sword hilt with one hand, and with the other reached towards his companion.  Jorg stretched out his dripping arm to Theminor, but could not reach high enough.  He struggled against the current once more, screaming to Theminor as he disappeared beneath the water again.

Before Theminor could react, the ice wall shifted and slid high into the air, suspending him for a brief moment high above the sea.  He grasped the sword hilt, swinging around to clutch his only anchor with his other hand as well.  Foolishly, he glanced below him as the wall of ice came crashing down, smashing into the other side to seal the frigid waters from the snowy sky once again.  Theminor lost his grip upon the sword's hilt and crashed to the ground.  He groaned and rolled himself over to relieve the constricted feeling in his chest.  He sucked a huge burning breath into his lungs and forced himself back up to his feet.

The shock from the closing ice gap woke Theminor's companions.  They snapped into action, unsheathing their swords and jumping to the now sealed chasm that led to the dark ocean waters.  They pummeled the slab of ice with their blades in some desperate attempt to save Jorg.  Theminor grasped the hilt of his trapped weapon.  He yanked upon the sword several times in rapid succession, freeing it from its frozen mooring.  He tossed the weapon to the ground and slid his fingers into a small crack between the two recently joined walls of ice.  Veins stood out on his forehead as he strained to lift the ice upward.  Theminor heaved with all his might, but even his extraordinary strength could not move the ice.  Exhausted, he collapsed near his already panting companions, who had given up on their futile efforts to chisel through the ice.

The remaining men sat for some time.  Jorg's death had been swift, leaving Theminor dazed in hopelessness.  He had never felt so helpless, he had always relied upon his strength to aid him through dangerous situations but even that had failed him.  Nightmarish visions of Jorg's face danced through his already weary mind, depressing him further into despair.  If only he had reached a little farther, if only he hadn't been so slow, if only...

Theminor rubbed at his own face, tracing a finger along the scar that ran from his right temple to his chin.  The dark stubble of his beard still did not grow over that scar.  Theminor's blue eyes stared at the snow.  He could feel the burning tears welling up, whether for Jorg's untimely death or his inability to save him, Theminor was not sure.  As he hung his head, the long tendrils of his hair hid his shame at failing Jorg from the notice of his companions.  If Theminor had looked up, he would have found that all of his friends' faces mirrored his own.

Holding back the tears, he shifted his gaze towards his companions, who glanced up at him with defeated expressions.  Theminor felt their pain, and knew that he must do something to ease their grief.  He gritted his teeth in determination, his jaw looking even more square than usual.  Barbarian indeed, he thought.  Their pleading stares moved him and he momentarily forget his own pain.  He had to take control.

"Brothers," Theminor said, "Darkness is descending upon us.  We need to find shelter."

"I am done walking through this cursed snow," one of the men said, an older barbarian named Talius.

Theminor took a deep breath.  While he agreed with Talius, he dared not to express this.  They had to get as far away from this canyon as possible.  Not just because the ice could break apart again at any moment, but because Theminor kept seeing his friend drowning over and again in his mind.  He wanted that sight out of his head.

"Just a bit farther Talius.  It is not safe here," Theminor said.  "Margor, Grendar, Igloth," he addressed each man in turn, "Come, let us go."

He offered no eulogy for the dead, but none was needed.  Death was a natural part of the taking.  Theminor turned away from them, expecting and hoping that the others would follow.  He headed south through the falling snow, making a conscious effort to keep to higher ground.  The men trailed after their new leader.  None of the other men would have dared what Theminor had almost accomplished and they all knew it.  He had shown courage.

Among the barbarian clans, courage was perhaps the highest acclaimed virtue.  Tales of glory told by the village elders not only captured the attention of the entire clan but told of their rich history.  Courage and leadership came hand in hand for the tribe.  The dunkai, or head of each clan, was always the most courageous, and the most respected.  Even this high level of respect was no buffer from challenges to the title though.  Rarely did a dunkai sit on his seat for long, as there was always a long line of contenders.  The challenges were always heeded, frequently resulting in both a celebration of the new dunkai, and the death of the old.  In fact, the legends of the deca'lar spoke of only a few dunkai, the most revered dunkai, who had never received a challenge.  Supposedly it was their prowess and courage in battle that allowed them to sit uncontested, dunkai that were so powerful that any challengers they may have had simply sought out to start their own clans.

For an hour the men trudged through the knee-deep snow before dusk began to settle around them.  The men behind Theminor had not uttered one word since they had resumed their journey, and none of them said a word when he stopped before a large snowdrift.  They needed shelter soon, as what little light remained was disappearing quickly.

Igloth and Grendar dug into the side of the snowy mound, passing the powder to the others who packed it around the rapidly forming entrance.  Theminor knew that this crude shelter would protect them from the howling wind, keeping them fairly warm for the evening.  While inside the temperature would still be close to freezing, their combined body heat would keep them alive, if not comfortable through the chilly night.  He had built shelters like this many times, being accustomed to the barren wilderness of their homeland.  Each year on the long awaited caribou hunts, the barbarians camped on the frozen northern plains, building shelters like this one to allowing them to watch the endless herds of deer.  His father had taught him how to stay warm during those cold nights.

As the men finished their snow house, Theminor turned his attention to their defenses.  He was confident that his companions would build an excellent shelter and felt no need to oversee their efforts.  Their dunkai would never have allowed his friends to leave Radik on their taking if they could not even build a proper shelter.  Theminor searched through the packs that had been tossed beside the mound, and pulled forth a length of thin rope and several stakes of scrub pine.  Tying the rope around each stake, he pounded them into the ice, forming a large circle around the shelter.  Hopefully this would warn them of any unwanted visitors.  Even out upon the ice bridge, wandering predators were present, and usually hungry enough to risk attacking men.

The darkness cast heavy weights upon Theminor's weary eyes.  Fighting off his drowsiness became an ordeal and he began to revel in the thought of oncoming rest.  Shaking his head, Theminor momentarily chased the blanket of sleep from his mind and rose to examine the makeshift defense.  Satisfied with his work, he crept to the mound of snow that was just now barely visible.  His companions had done a superb job, he reminded himself to tell them that tomorrow.  Hopefully it would raise their morale a little.

For a moment, Theminor thought about trying to stand watch, but his drooping eyelids told him that he would never be able to stay awake.  Besides, he hoped that there would be anything this far north on the ice.  Even if it was an unusually harsh winter, they were most likely many miles from the mainland.  Crawling through the opening, Theminor found his friends already in the arms of sleep.  He located the remaining area they had left for him with his hands and stretched out upon the furs, fitting snuggly between them.

"Theminor," a soft voice said.

He had thought that all the other men had been sleeping, but Igloth must have been fighting to stay awake just to talk with him.

"Theminor," Igloth said again.  "I'm so tired of walking."

"I know," he replied.  He did not really want to think about tomorrow and the next day, walking through snow, not knowing where they were.  But Theminor knew he had to say something to Igloth.  "I'm tired too, Igloth.

"It can't be much farther, can it?"

"In truth, I do not know.  But we will continue," Theminor hoped his words sounded positive enough.

"Maybe we should turn back..." Igloth said.

Theminor thought on Igloth's words for a moment, wondering if it would be best to head home to Radik.  It would be nice to sit beside his mother again, staring into the hearth fire.  The thought of roasted caribou meat made him salivate.  But an overwhelming desire to see the shores of Milay and the city of Tosche suppressed the urge to turn back.  His taking forced his reply.

"No.  I think that I must go on," Theminor said at last.

"But we may never reach Milay.  We may never see our families again."  Igloth's voice was higher pitched as he let out his feelings.

"Quiet, Igloth.  Let the others sleep," Theminor said quickly.  "You know that it is up to the gods if we are to see our families again," Theminor said.  He wondered just how strong Igloth's taking was.  And he wondered if Stratura, the god of battle, ever meant for him to see his mother again.

"Yes, I know," Igloth replied.

"Then sleep," he said.

Theminor listened until he could hear Igloth's breathing become deep and slow.  Before giving way to his own impending sleep, Theminor gave thanks to Hloshim for keeping him alive.  Although not a god that he usually prayed to, he thought it appropriate to speak to the Giver of Life.  Perhaps his prayer may even keep them out of Now'chi's fires.  Not long did these conscious thoughts form in his mind.  Soft, feathery sleep caressed Theminor, enticing him away, and he followed.

Outside the frosty dwelling, a bitter wind howled at the door, as if enraged that it could not reach the sleeping men inside.  Snowflakes whirled about the air as complete darkness covered them, taking its usual turn in ruling the sky.  Besides the chill wind, not a sound escaped from outside the dwelling, at least not one louder than the wind.  Silently, a pair of large, yellow eyes watched the mound.  For a brief moment those eyes rested upon the shelter as if seeing through it, and then they were gone, leaving the wind and darkness to reign.

Please read on: "Game of the Gods - Chapter 2"