Tem was freezing! The animal hides barely covered his goose-pimpled flesh. Drawn with hunger and seeking only a place to make shelter from the harsh cold, he headed for the only sign of habitation in the barren tundra. A plume of smoke rose in the distance, and at the edge of nightfall, a warm glow radiated from behind the spires and crags of a lonesome rocky outcropping.
Tem carefully approached, for he knew well that barbarians and worse could be the source of the warmth he sought, and none such beings could be a promise of security for him. Tem was sent from his tribe to map the cold waste with fourteen other men, none of whom he had seen in nearly two months. It was both an honor to be an explorer and a glory to the goddess to render this region to scrolls for the sake of future generations of the people of the whistling reeds. Dale’iri would be a pleased goddess when he returned with his portion of the tundra completely mapped. He hoped the others would be as fortuitous on returning home.
Peering over the top of a rocky ridge he saw something unexpected. Magma crept through cracks in the icy tundra. The hot air rose over the area. Smoke was rising from the depths of a deep channel of glowing lava. Atop one cliff, remains of a massive building stretched for the dark sky. Another ruin sent curtains of dust spilling into a crevasse carved by molten rock. The remains of a crumbling wall deteriorated by ages of frost and wind still guarded a section of old buildings. This called for a record.
Tem hastily rifled through his belongings for the charcoal and rolled hides that served to preserve his thoughts and discoveries. In the flowing ideograms of his people, Tem recorded detailed descriptions of the world around him. The serene but blustery plains all around, the majestic outcroppings of stone backlit by the fiery glow of the volcanic trench, the desolate ruins nestled inside the crumbling hollow of an ancient tribal market.
Food, long hence unfit to eat, was frozen on racks and tables in the crumbling remains. Ratty furs, most likely once valuable cloaks and clothing hung coated in frost and scented with brimstone. The eye-watering stench that hovered in the air was rising from vent grates in the cobblestone walkways, for streets would have been much broader. Everything was as if the end had come in the middle of the day with everything progressing according to routine. Oddly Tem found no bodies, and realizing this hastened to stow the record he was making of the place. It was not safe here. No bones or bodies— Who had taken them? Who had removed them? Was it possible, in spite of the stillness of these ruins, that Tem was not alone?
He had to flee into the cold night again, well away from these ruins—and quickly—before whatever was here caught his scent. He rifled the racks of furs looking for anything to keep him warm. As they crumbled at his touch he whispered a silent prayer to Dare’iri. Something else answered him instead.
“Tem of the Saga’eri tribe. I am Thal’dor, once known as Snowbear. I have dealt with your goddess for help and she has sent you. This is the truth of your mission. You are mine until your return. Dale’iri and I will aid you, but to speak with you, you had to first find my home. The ruins you stand in are the home of my ascension. The people were proud barbarians, masters of winter, and I was their protector. I failed them. Even my champions were destroyed. I am in my end days, unless you teach my word and bring my message to a new people.”
Dale’iri’s musical voice whispered through the wind as it always did, “Thal’dor does not deserve the fate that has caught up with him. You must bring him to a new people, Tem, son of Ergoss. I will gather the others now that you have found his lands. Together you will be Thal’dor’s new champions; I believe he called them Brothers of Frost. He is weak, so I will outfit you. Take a fur cloak by its chain, and then do as Thal’dor commands.”
Tem nodded confounded by his goddesses desire to aid this dying god. He asked no questions of her, but took the fur cloak before him by the chain clasp at its collar. The frost and age melted away and the cloak glistened with fresh thick black fur.
Thal’dor again spoke to his new Brother of Frost, “You will need a weapon. I have one artifact I have kept empowered. You will be its wielder.” A voice called to Tem from behind, “Here!”
Tem turned and saw a large and imposing form standing along side a rocky outcropping beyond the river of magma. Covered in garments of thick lustrous fur with a thick billowing cloak of white, Thal’dor stood in his full glory. His young face was accented with a black goatee and his balefire green eyes glistened like emeralds. With his massive hands, Thal’dor dug the snow and ash from the place at the foot of the stones where the unnamed beast met his end ages before.
Tem approached, putting on the cloak, and carefully found some footing to cross a ledge overhanging the magma. Chunks of stone toppled from beneath him into the superheated rock flowing below. Splashes of lava burned into the walls of the crevasse and sent smoke dancing up the rocky crags. A blast of heat sent Tem’s hair whipping up around him. He grasped the stones to keep from falling off his ledge. He reached the solid ground of the snow shrouded plateau and dropped to his knees. Slowly he crawled away from the ledge and found himself at the booted feet of Thal’dor. He raised himself to his feet slowly.
The Snowbear held out his hands flat. On the cushion of his firm palms, an axe, the haft wrapped in black fur, rested, glistening with a red tinge embedded through the blade. “This was my only remaining weapon of power, once called Rækfyld, the Axe of Frost. It was the sign of the leader of my chosen. You would be called Ice-son, but you cannot. Take the weapon.”
With fear and uncertainty Tem took the axe from his new master’s massive hands. He examined it more closely and admired the craftsmanship of the finely designed metalwork. Ideograms he knew and other symbols he did not recognize decorated the center of the blade on both sides. He ran a finger along the edge and pressed his fingertips to the stained metal.
“It has been soured by the reeking blood of the beast that destroyed my people. The foul taint has become a part of the purity that once wedded the Winter’s chill with the perfect metal of the blade. I am too weak to cleanse it. Until you can find a method to wipe the putrid stain from the weapon’s core, it will be called Dyrbærdin, Bearer of Doom. You shall be called Redeemer, for it is my hope you will find a way to restore my people to greatness. Use Dyrbærdin wisely.”
“But great lord Thal’dor, my liege. I am not a warrior. I am not a priest. I am a scholar.”
Thal’dor stood still, crossed his arms at his wrist with his hands balled into fists and began fading out of existence. “Redeemer, I need a teacher to spread my word, not a priest. Besides, Dyrbærdin is a wonder to be cleansed before you are to wield it. A warrior would see only a weapon. Draw it for battle only in times of dire necessity.” As the words echoed over the snow, Thal’dor was gone. Tem the Redeemer packed the God of Winter’s gift and curse under Dale’iri’s parting gift.
A noise roused Tem to attention, and he turned. Crawling from under piles of rubble and seeping out of cracks in the walls above the pyroclastic flow, black reptilian beasts began digging claws into stone and crawling to the edge of the surface. Tem began to shake and reached for Dyrbærdin, but stopped.
A warrior sees only a weapon. Tem drew the axe and took a running start away from the monsters. Saying a short prayer, accidentally addressed to his former goddess, he leaped over the nearest rocky outcropping. Thrusting the flat of the axe’s blade to the ground under his feet and planting them firmly, Tem rode the axe in a crouch while holding the leather cords gathered at the pommel like the reins of a horse. Leaning left and right became second nature to Tem as a means of making turns as the axe coursed down the steep slopes of snow covered rock.
Suddenly, a drastic change in the terrain turned the speedy trip into an unexpected lesson in flight, as a sudden ramp of snow built up from storms over a small ledge collapsed and thrust Tem forward off his makeshift sled. The head of Dyrbærdin caught on a small woody root sticking out of the ledge overhead, and Tem dangled helplessly over a deep crevasse grasping precariously to the gathered leather bindings he’d been holding like reins by only one hand. He climbed, straining to get over the top of the ledge and scanned the rocky crags and Kjeld ruins with only the ruddy glow and his former goddess's blessed moon for illumination.
Subject: Resurrecting the Dead of Winter 
Thu Feb 21, 2008 2:12 am
