Tales from the Tavern

Fire in the Cold

Thanks for checking out this story! I wrote it a while ago, intentionally mimicking Jack London's To Build A Fire.

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Light waned in the Northern sky above Haglkorn, son of Brundt. Not only was it growing late, but forbidding gray clouds roiled in the heavens, and the first flakes of snow had already begun to fall. His toes seemed frozen, despite thick deerskin boots, and his fingers even icier, but they were the least of his concerns. He didn't know how far he'd come from his village, or in truth, where he was at all. That was his concern. He should never have gone out on such a stormy day, not in the heart of winter. The fresh white snow made everything look the same, one tree blending with the next. And when it was actually falling, it was worse; the whole world turned to a sea of white. He shook his head in disgust, nearly throwing back his fur-lined hood. His cloak was his warmest, yet the breeze sliced deeper than an arrow.

For close to the hundredth time, he stamped his feet, trying to force the blood to flow, and looked around. Still no hint of where he was, no landmark. Just dark, jagged mountains on the horizon, faint through a white curtain, and huge pines, their boughs overburdened by snow, with more accumulating each second. No longer just a few flakes falling, he realized; anything farther than a few paces seemed veiled by a thick white curtain. The breeze gusted, driving snowy crystals into his face like tiny knives and heralding the oncoming blizzard.

The cold bit Haglkorn, a monster stabbing icy fangs to his bones. His feet and hands had gone completely numb. He struggled on anyway, stumbling through snow that climbed nearly to his thighs. He shivered constantly and slipped to his knees more than once; each time, he found it harder to rise.

The night was as black as any he'd seen, and with the snow still falling, he could hardly see his hand just inches from his face. Yet he staggered blindly forward. Until he hit a tree. He managed to grab a branch before he fell, but it snapped in his hand like kindling. Dry kindling.

For a moment, resting on knees and one hand, Haglkorn stared at the branch he held. With sudden vigor, he stood and stamped the snow beneath his feet before snapping smaller twigs from the branch in hand. Those, he piled between his feet, somehow managing to lean them against each other despite frozen, fumbling fingers. When he had cleaned the branch, he grabbed his flint and struck. Sparks shimmered and died. Again, and there were more fading sparks. Then, on the third try, one small spark landed amongst the twigs and began to sputter. A small flame flickered to life, and Haglkorn smiled.

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