Snowfall on the Edge of the World

1 - THE KNIGHT

Outside in the cold distance
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl

- All Along the Watchtower, Jimi Hendrix

As always, the valley was consumed by the blizzard. 

Not a normal blizzard, most folks of the southern baronies considered the thick clumps of snow visited upon them in winter a blizzard, but they had never felt the bite of true cold. The blizzard in Norscairn tore through the land, crashing through the ancient forests that had never seen a feller's axe, burying fledgling civilizations in a night, drowning beasts unaccustomed to cold with its smothering grasp. No, this was true cold. The men of Norscairn were harder than rock, and more brutal than the most vicious of southern animals. The creatures of Norscairn made the menfolk look tame, they were invariably massive things with tangled fur, matted with half frozen blood, teeth as sharp as Hypatian swords and colder than the heart of winter. None would be foolish enough to brave this place, none save myself, The Knight. And foolish was my presence, make no mistake. The lands of Norscairn are not made from those of the south.

I stood outlined by the fierce storm, armour cracked in places where the dregs of my sweat had frozen, pulling apart the plate with the ease of a tree tearing cinderblock apart, and almost as insidiously slow. I hadn't realized it was happening at first, taking sweating for granted to begin with when I first crossed into the colder climate, not thinking to dry myself before crossing the border. My folly, of course, but that was nothing new. The now cracking armour was simple, but effective. As cheap as one could buy plate armour, it was strong steel, buffed slightly with wear near the arm sockets and elbows where it had chafed against the gambeson underneath. I wore a cloak, thick hide that had cost some of my last precious coins and thick hide boots I had taken off the body of a Norscairnian. I had found him in a broken log cabin, surrounded by dead sheep that I had mistaken for snow sculptures. The building hadn't been able to stave off the cold, the roof having caved in from too much snow. Not slanted enough, I realized.

The man was already dead, his eyes had stared glassily into the sky past his broken roof, frozen forever in a look of surprise. Such things didn't disturb me anymore, men died and that was the way of things. I just wished I could stop thinking about the smaller bodies nearly hidden under a blanket of snow, a woman's hand bearing a thick iron ring. While crude, it had borne a large blue gemstone as pale as the summer sky. I couldn't bring myself to take it from her, it was all she had left.

Another folly of course, I found myself more of a fool than a knight as of late, and no wonder. I could have traded that for something, I was sure. The people in the north wouldn't have questioned this acquisition and wouldn't have the imagination to cheat the price. I remembered the words of my mentor, Silas Flarenze, the Fire Knight. It had been bitterly cold that night, colder than most in the Barony of Curlstone and Silas had decided to treat his young recruits to a drink in the taphouse.

The Fire Knight imparted many words of wisdom that night, many to do with women or drink, but it got more interesting we asked him of his travels. The Fire Knight was old, you wouldn't believe it from his bright red hair or fair complexion, but he was much older than most men in his profession. A travelling knight, honour bound to right the wrongs he came across. He had become famous for his weapon, a sword of glimmering perfection, smoky red and warm to the touch, at the pommel sat a gem of unsurpassed quality. I swore that it glowed a fiery red, but none believed me. Rumour had it he could summon fire from its tip to destroy his enemies, but most of this was dismissed as fairy gossip.