Tales of the Vangen: The Dead King of Danic (Book 3)

Chapter 17: Cold Dealings

Fenris was falling, air rushing past his ears, limbs flailing as he tumbled endlessly, endlessly through the abyss. His head reeled for answers, scrambling amidst the madness and finding nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing, but the infinite dark. A rumble filled his ears, louder than his own thundering heartbeat. He gasped as twin giants burst into being, shredding the darkness as they grew, and grew, and grew, dominating his vision.

To his left a tower of bronze and bone stood steadfast, an ivory mask of sheer indifference painted over burnished copper skin, draped in a sweeping dress of marble and brass.

To his right rose a frigid tower of ice and snow, weathered face chiseled into the mountainside, a hardened frown on craggy lips. Two glacial eyes leered back, a crown of black glass placed upon its peak.

Fenris wanted to scream then, but he was trapped in the never ending free fall, unable to stop the two massive creatures as they turned to him, edging closer, eyes hungry and wanting.

"Wake up." A hard nudge to the ribs pushed Fenris out of his dream. He sat up with a snort, wiped drool off his beard as he looked up, saw Rorickson standing over him. "Sleeping on the job again?"

"First offense," Fenris muttered, wondering when exactly he'd nodded off. "What, gonna run off and tattle on me to Corvere?"

"Fark all that. Like I need to give him one more thing to complain about." Rorickson held out his hand. "Come on. Night shift's over. Get to bed, you sleepy bastard."

Fenris glared at the outstretched hand, surprised by the man's friendliness. Most of the other Forsaken either feared him, hated him, or were actively planning to murder him. He'd thought one of them might have loved him, but that was a lie. Another Danic trick played as his expense.

"Thanks," he said, taking hold of Rorickson's hand. The man hauled him to his feet, the world spinning for a second as the fatigue finally caught up to him.

"Riding drag's a bitch. I should know. So is staking up tents every night. Corvere's got you working like a dog, you know."

"I know."

"Want to trade spots tomorrow? They got me riding tail, but it beats eating snow, I reckon."

"Sure. Thanks" Fenris hunched his shoulders, the cold already seeping back into his bones. Didn't know why Rorickson was being so nice. The man barely spoke to him unless it involved sparring or mission briefings. Even then, it was polite but terse.

Fenris trudged off without another word, brushing the snow off his coat as he left Rorickson behind. Fat flakes were already starting to fall by the time he reached his tent, the air crisp and quiet. He stood there for a moment, focusing on the eternal silence around him. That particular stillness you only find once a year. When the world finally exhales.

A fat clump of snow fell from a tree branch, crunching into the dry grass, time ticking once again. Fenris sighed and slipped into his tent, brushing more snow off his heavy coat, his dark blonde curls, his pants.

He unhooked his belt and set it aside, not even bothering to shrug off his coat as he pulled a heavy blanket over him and crumpled into the pile of furs he'd been calling a bed these past several weeks.

He slithered onto his back, felt the weight of existence press into his eyelids as they drifted closed, the last vestiges of his dream flitting away. Ivory and Bone. Ice and Stone. His eyes crumpled shut.

But sleep did not come for him. A shiver ran down his spine, the unknowable feeling that someone else was in the tent with him creeping into his soul. His eyes flew open.