Whispers on the Wind: The City of Clouds

1: No End for a Warrior

The sigil of the Usjitūn of Shorvor is two dragons intertwined. One is black and one is white, and at the base of the royal symbol their tails merge. The teaching is that even within opposites we may find part of ourselves, that even enemies may discover common ground.

It was this concept that drove me far from the temperate groves of Shorvor and into the frigid climes of the CloudtipMountains. For in the land that had exiled me there was a great part of my soul that was missing, and surely in the bleak rocks of the Mountains I may find completion, restore the totality of my soul.

It is said that the winds in those peaks will only be silent when the world of Nurolia ends, and all are judged by the spirits of their forefathers. They showed no sign of abating as I stumbled through the winter snow, desperately seeking the solace of a warm cave.

It was the second year of my exile, and I had discovered an aptitude for seeking desolate locales and empty caves through each land that I journeyed. And there had been so many, such a variety of faces and names, that they had blurred into one continuous succession of images in my mind. All I desired now was solitude. All I required was time to reflect on how a hârdan’s daughter, who wanted nothing more than a life of devotion to a family, should find herself a vagrant.

The ice had settled on my cloak and woollen tunic. It fell in tiny chunks as I moved through the snowdrift. The wind was unrelenting. It whipped up the snow into a dense blizzard, driving cold needles into my eyes.

The path I trod wormed between two gigantic mountains. Their shapes were barely discernible through the white flurry. It was steep, and to one side a slope fell away towards a stream.

I could make out the salvation of a cave mouth thirty feet away, and my heart soared. I had lost my staff several miles before, and now used my sheathed sword as a make-shift stick.

My feet slithered and slipped as I ran towards the cave. It was my enthusiasm that lowered my guard.

A slender form hissed through the air and struck me. The impact dislodged my grip of the snow and I tumbled down the incline. My vision was obscured by snow and ice, as I came to a halt close to the edge of the stream.

Instinct took over. The fire of battle-rage ignited within me, and within an instant I was insensate to the frigid wind. Flakes of snow coated the perfect blade of my sword. My eyes evaluated the scene.

There were bodies strewn about, the snow half covering them like shrouds. There were several men—their grey hair marked them as Eerians, the natives of the land in which the Mountains lay. There was one wizard—his bald head, tattoos and gem of power marked him as such. The gem, a diamond, had a faint glow which faded before my eyes. As it became dull it crackled with magic, and disappeared.

A moan drew my attention from this rare sight. The creature who had struck me was slumped in the snow. He was tall and slim, with the head of an eagle. Golden feathers were soaked with blood that ebbed from several grievous wounds. A shredded tunic clung to his torso. He was near death.

“What are you?” I asked. My eyes squinted past him into the opaque air.

“Hirk... of Jelez Arc. Nitreptan... Ranger...”

A Netreptan—one of the bird-men of Eeria. I had heard of them only in the childhood tales of my father.

“Dangerous... you must flee, girl...”

“I do not run. I am a warrior, a woman of honour,” I said. I readied my sword.

“No, you can not... giant...”

It loomed through the maelstrom of snow at that instant. Thirty feet of terror, with legs as thick as a ship’s mast, its flesh was akin to the rock of the mountains. Dark blood ran from a dozen wounds on its vast trunk. It flecked the snow like droplets of night.

For its size it moved swiftly. I lunged to the side as its enormous club struck the snow, sending a cloud of white powder into the air. With my free hand I unclipped my cloak. Its sodden cloth was weighing me down, and there was no room for error.

I slashed with my sword, and the enchanted edge carved a furrow into the giant’s leg. It roared and swung its club again. I weaved under the deadly blow, my mind racing as to my options.

This dance of death would not last long—one lucky blow, even from a wounded giant, would kill me. Plumes of snow exploded like geysers in my wake as I dodged the club. Each jab and cut of my magnate-steel sword hit true, but the blood soaked legs of the giant were undaunted.

The cold was a deadlier foe in many ways, more insidious in its assault. There is such a fine balance in battle, that even the tiniest wound can make the difference. It was thus with my reactions.

The giant’s club skimmed my shoulder, yet even a glancing blow was enough to shatter my collar bone like it was a mirror dropped on stone. The pain was nauseating, intense. I flipped with the impact and landed in a mound of snow, occupied already by the frozen corpse of an Eerian knight.

Spirit of my father, the pain, I thought as I struggled to rise. The numbness of the snow was intoxicating. It invited me to rest, to ease the agony of my shoulder, to await the death blow from the giant.

And then there was a voice on the wind, oscillating between a whisper and a scream. My father, my brother, my ancestors, calling from the Land Beyond Twilight. There was much left to resolve.

I focused every iota of fury within my soul into my muscles. The giant’s blow missed me by inches as I rolled. My foot found the knight’s shield. I kicked it, and it skimmed across the snow and under the giant’s feet.

He tottered above me, losing traction on the slick snow. With a scream of pain I lunged under his legs and hacked my sword through his ankle. The metal grated on the bone. Hot blood poured on my arm.

The giant fell forward with a roar. Snow rained around me with the impact. The creature scrabbled to push himself out of the stream, his face and arm submerged in the freezing water. I leaped onto his back. His rough hide allowed my boots enough grip for me to scamper across him towards his neck. His head was like a boulder, with scanty patches of rope-like hair.

I threw my whole weight behind the sword thrust as it entered the base of his neck. The mystic blade plunged deep, halting only when the sword-guard reached the skin. Blood welled over my one good arm, and the death throes of the giant almost threw me from his back.

Then all was still.

Tranquillity washed over me, the vigour of battle diminishing in my heart. The ache of my shoulder seemed distant, removed. The cold touch of the snow contrasted with the heat of the giant’s blood as it soaked my arms and chest.

The chill embrace of the mountain was one of death. This was no end for a warrior. Pride stimulated my limbs to move. My beloved sword slid from the giant’s neck. I was vaguely aware of tumbling off the gargantuan corpse and onto the snow. Between the shapeless mounds of death I staggered, my mind now focused on the sanctuary of the cave I had seen but minutes before.

Through the lament of the wind I heard a plea.

“Help... help me... please.”

Hirk, the Netreptan Ranger, had rolled over. His black eyes regarded me. I could feel a wave of fear strike me. Every instinct screamed at me to escape. My guts were like ice, my heart hammered in my ears.

The fear was coming from Hirk.

I can not take him, I thought. It will be challenge enough to clamber up the slope with a broken shoulder. If I try and carry him we’ll both die.

The sense of terror was near disabling. Hirk evidently had no control over it. I grasped my sword tightly. Surely it was better to end his misery swiftly?

This was no end for a warrior.

I sheathed my sword, and hoisted Hirk over my good shoulder. His tall body was astonishingly light. The two of us stumbled into the swirl of the blizzard.

Copyright Ross M Kitson 2013