The Mortal Soulbinder (Severed Gods, #1)

Chapter XVI: Tymund

"We should start back," Mykal urged as the darkness began to creep its way into the Frozen Forest, writhing and seething around the group of men like tendrils of smoke. "Nightfall is approaching." He glanced up at the darkening sky, a mahogany tinge splattered above them.

"It does that every day around this time. Is the night daunting for you, Mykal?" Tymund asked, with just a hint of a smile.

Mykal stood with his arms crossed, unimpressed, and did not rise to the bait. He was the eldest male, past twenty, but his courage was softer than steel. He had been with the Ardanmen for nine years, one of the longest-serving men, yet he was one of the weakest.

"We have a long and hard ride before us," Mykal pointed out. "It will take us several hours to ride back to the Bastion, perhaps more."

"We must wait until Osric returns, we gave him our word," Tymund replied in a cold voice.

Mykal opened his mouth to challenge him, but Tymund knew full well he did not have the courage. Tymund was the commander here, and they had all pledged their loyalty to him. Tymund's gut burned with pride and could see that it scorched the others.

Tymund was smug. "That's settled then. We shall wait for Osric's return here." He looked inside his small cotton bag, hands rummaging around for food. It was empty. "You two – go and gather some food. I'd wager that we shall be here for some while."

Bennard instantly bolted off into the trees, his chain mail making a loud cling, cling, cling. Mykal, however, did not move. He stared at Tymund, his mouth a hard line, a strange tightness around his mouth. He did nothing to suppress it. "What will you be doing, Tymund?"

Tymund slowly placed himself onto a wet fallen log and sighed. "I shall be sitting here, giving these poor trees a little company, which you should be giving Ben, no?" When Mykal showed no sign of movement, Tymund looked up at him through narrowed eyebrows, giving him a wry smile. "Come on Mykal, these trees deserve company, they need all the warmth they can get; the long winter will soon be upon us."

A sympathetic look flashed across Mykal's face. "Gods give you mercy when it comes." Without saying another word, he slithered off behind the trees, his footsteps making no sound.

Hours passed by. The surrounding forest had grown quiet, too quiet. The singing birds had returned to their nests and even the owls were not making any sound. A cold wind blew from the north east, whispering past the dead trees, dragging the leaves away unwillingly, the winds violent screams circling in the air above. It had begun to rain heavily, as if the heavens above could sense his underlying sorrow and were crying the tears that he could not; the tears he had held back since his father...

Tymund cared not for this forest. All he yearned for was home, the warm of their house fire blazing at his feet, the caressing arms of a woman wrapped around him, his sister's pretty smile and his uncle's hand patting him proudly on his shoulder. Tymund said he was doing this for his uncle, but he was really doing it for his father.

Tymund thought of the other two lads. They had known each other for many years, but seldom acted as friends when away from the Bastion. Only he and Osric got along. Despite this, they were all excellent in battle and always obliged Tymund's orders, which was all that mattered.

Mykal was the eldest of some ancient house down in the south. He was handsome for a man of his age, to say the least, grey-eyed and lips made for frowning and pouting. All of the Southeners were pretty, so he said. Tymund doubted that. He hated the south; a hatred so furious and unruly that it kindled an angry fire in his gut, spreading like wildfire. Tymund to this day was still disgusted by the Lord of Ardanfall, for pardoning Mykal's family and allowing them to make their home in the North. If he was the Lord, he would have had their heads off in an instant.