Daggers of Ice

Chapter 8

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Edmund.

The road was little more than a track through stone and frost. The wheels of the merchant caravan creaked and jolted over frozen ruts, and every gust of wind seemed to find a way beneath Edmund's cloak.

The cold bit at his cheeks, but he said nothing, drawing the hood lower over his brow.

He and Nasus rode near the rear of the small column: half a dozen carts laden with trade goods, barrels of salted meat, and bolts of wool bound for the outposts near the border. Their escort were rough-looking men, northerners by their accents, wrapped in furs that smelled of smoke and blood. They paid little heed to the two "travellers" in plain leathers.

"The Wild Lands of the North truly are wild, your Majesty," Nasus muttered, keeping his voice low so that only Edmund would hear. His breath came in visible puffs, and his hooves made soft, dull thuds on the frozen dirt. "There is no order in this lawless land."

Edmund's gloved hands tightened around the reins. "These lands are within our borders," he said curtly. "They fall under our laws."

Nasus's ears twitched – a small, betraying flicker of unease. "I meant nothing by it, your Majesty," he said quickly. "But those of the north have always been... different. This land is empty on our maps for a reason. Most who go too far north do not return."

"Then it's past time someone did."

The faun sighed softly, rubbing at the frost gathering on his beard. "You're a stubborn man, Edmund Pevensie. The kind of stubborn that makes statues crack and rivers change course."

Edmund smirked faintly, eyes scanning the horizon. "And you're still talking, Nasus. Which means I haven't gotten us killed yet."

That drew a snort of laughter from the faun, but it faded quickly. The hills around them rose higher with every mile, snow dusting their slopes, the trees growing sparse and twisted by the wind. Ravens circled overhead – black specks against a sky the colour of steel.

He could feel the change in the air. The further north they rode, the heavier it became – not just colder, but thicker, as if the land itself held its breath.

The sun was already sinking when the caravan slowed. The last of the light stretched thin across the snow, turning the hills to silver. Edmund rode up beside the leader, squinting through the wind.

"There," the man said, pointing ahead with his whip.

Nestled in the hollow between two ridges was an inn – smoke curling from its chimneys, its windows bright with the amber glow of firelight. A weathered sign swung from an iron hook above the door, creaking softly in the wind. The painted stag upon it was faded almost to white.

"The White Hart," the man said with the relief of someone nearing safety. "Last mark of civilization before the passes."

Nasus tilted his head, nostrils flaring. "Civilization," he echoed. "That's generous."

But even he looked grateful for the sight of warmth.

As they drew closer, the air changed; softer somehow, heavy with the smell of woodsmoke, ale, and roasting meat. The sound of laughter drifted faintly through the cracked shutters. It felt wrong to call it welcoming, but it was certainly alive.

Edmund swung down from his horse, stretching his shoulders beneath the weight of his cloak. His joints ached with cold; his breath misted white. "We'll rest here for the night," he said, loud enough for the merchants to hear.