Winterfire

Prologue

Prologue

In the Far North, cold is a living thing. It arrives playfully in September as a chilly finger running down the back of the neck, a pleasing freshness in the air, a cheerful quickening of the step, a longing to return to a comfortable fireside. By January, its sharp claws pierce the lungs, and its icy breath freezes the eyes. It is a dread of venturing out, hurrying with stiff-legged footsteps to outdoor chores, and the ceaseless demands of a ravenous fire within. It stalks the unwary on silent, snow-cushioned feet, always in pursuit with a cloak of darkness to trap the foolish traveler. It seeps beneath the cottage door and lingers at the window, held back only by the continuously burning fire, always waiting for its chance to come in to the room. It twirls in icy spins, flinging rain, sleet, ice, and snow. Cold is Chaos.

But the warmth, also, lives. It wrests the land from Cold’s icy clutches in spring. Its gentle breezes caress the cheek. Its nurturing sunbeams bring forth fields of wheat and oats and barley as lovely and golden as a woman’s hair. It beckons children outside, to gambol and laugh in its sun-dappled forests and its green, fragrant meadows. It welcomes dancing bare feet on its lush grass and its neat rows of plowed earth. Warmth is Order.

 The struggle between Cold and Warm is the constant concern of the people. Beneath the joyful buzz of the insects and the chirping of the birds, they hear the warning honk of the geese heading for warmer climes. Always, in the back of the mind, when chopping firewood or churning butter or weaving cloth, Cold’s icy voice whispers, “I am coming for you.” The purpose of the people’s every action is to stall the Cold and to nurture the Warm. They know their actions are in vain; Cold’s return is inevitable.

The magnificent ash tree, Yggdrasil, cradles four worlds of Warmth in its sturdy branches and entwines four worlds of Cold in its roots. The elves and the gods—the Aesir and the Vanir—live in the Warm worlds. Jotun—the Frost Giants, the dwarves, and the sleeping dead live in the Cold worlds. At the ground beneath the tree is the land some call Midgard and others call Earth. In Midgard, neither Cold nor Warm has full command. For half the year, the people struggle against Cold, and for the other half of the year, they bask in Warmth. In warm months, they do not waste time hoping the cold will never return, and in cold months, they do not lose faith that the warmth will come back.

Some day, Cold and Warm will fight one last time. There will be no survivors.