The snow lay in heavy drifts, clinging to the walls of the fortress as if trying to claim some of its warmth, even though such warmth would bring destruction. Such conditions were not unusual this far north, on the fringes of Kislev, but still the winter was hard. All across the Oblast, families huddled together; drawing their furs closer to them in a desperate effort to stave off the slow death that awaited any that succumbed to the cold. Food was scarce, made scarcer by an uncaring monarch, one who saw her subjects as little more than cattle to be fed upon. Kattarin’s court of blood had ruled Kislev for nigh on 100 years, and it would be another 50 before the land would find salvation, the vampiric queen cut down and imprisoned in a block of ice. That deliverance would come was but a hope for the people, and another generation would pass before it would be so. The generation facing that cold winter, 887 of the Kislevite calendar, was doomed.
***
“Irisa!â€Â
A figure, dark against the snow, stumbled towards the river. Though hindered by the ever-falling snow, he advanced with grim determination. The others had fallen back, unwilling to risk their lives for this fool’s errand, but he continued. “She is lost,†they said, “forget her; do not risk your life for hers.†But he could not.
“Irisa!â€Â
What was it that drove him on? Stubbornness? Guilt? Love? Emotions battled within him, but all demanded he continue; continue towards the river where he knew he would find her. When she had left, he had called her mad, deluded by visions surely sent by the dark gods. He could have stopped her, he should have stopped her, but he himself had been deluded. “She will return,†he said, “like she always does,†but when the day had passed and she was no longer beside him, he grew afraid. She had never been gone so long, and though night was falling he resolved to find her, to travel to the river where she had spoken of meeting a noble friend. A friend whose voice had called to her across the snow and through the wind, calling her to meet on the river bank. Time and time again Irisa had been there, waiting for the voice to come to her, and yet it never had. He had hoped she would recognise it as a trick of the spirits, designed to lure her to her doom, yet she had been so sure it was something more, sure enough to risk her life day after day and travel to that place, that frozen river bank.
“Irisa!â€Â
A fierce wind clawed at his eyes, whisking up the snow and driving it to swirl all around him. Squinting into the field of unending white made it possible, just, to see the track he sought, the route that would guide his feet through this folly. A wise man would have surely turned back, kept at bay by the blizzard that was brewing, but what is wisdom when measured against the cry of the heart? Even the four gods of the north, aided by their daemonic legions, could not have made him falter in his step, even if it brought his doom.
“Irisa!â€Â
It would not be daemons that barred his path that day. A ghostly howl echoed on the wind, and instinctively his step paused, his grip tightening on the axe held in his hand. It was a simple weapon, its edge continually dulled and sharpened during its years of use. Innumerable nicks on the blade carried the memory of past enemies, be they beasts of the wild or trees of the forest. The handle seemed shaped for his hand, while the weight was a familiar companion, almost an extension of his arm. To a trained warrior, this axe was no weapon, but in the hands of a man who had known no other blade it was kin to the Runefangs themselves.
He continued his pace, his voice silenced for fear of drawing attention from the wolves he now knew to be nearby. It was not enough. Dark shapes moved through the snow to either side of him, keeping their distance but undeniably following. They were cautious, but once they had determined he was no threat they would move in for the kill. Normally beasts such as these would not risk attacking prey such as he; bulked up as he was with furs and armed with the steel of man, but the winter had been long and food scarce. Hunger drove the hunters, a goal as powerful as that which forced the man onward, into the jaws of the wild.
A low growl caused him to cease once again. The foe were closer now, their lupine bodies clearly visible despite the hindrance of the blizzard. For what seemed like an eternity they surveyed each other, man and beast, sizing each other up. Each was ready for whatever move the other might make, for whatever trick they might use to gain victory. A howl, and then feral teeth closed around his arm, tearing into the thick fur covering the warm flesh beneath. The two combatants tumbled on the ground, the man rolling with his assailant as it leapt at him. The axe fell to the floor, useless in this fight, as each called upon their strength alone. Ancient instinct flared, and man became as beast, clawing at his foe in the desperate struggle for survival. It was over in moments; crimson blood spilled onto the snow, melting it with its heat and steaming in the air. The pack would feast well upon this bounty, even though it was one of their own. Kinship holds no place while hunger rules.
Taking the long hunting knife from its sheath in the neck of the wolf, he wiped its edge on the snow and returned it to his belt. The furs on his arm had been torn away, the canine fangs leaving thin trails of blood where they had cut through and into him. Cold lessened the pain, but there was no time to fashion new protection from the hide of the corpse before him; the pack which had so recently called it brother were already closing in. He had to continue, else he would be torn apart and fill the bellies of the wolves alongside that which he had killed. Savage cries followed him, but he paid them no heed; to falter now would bring death, and now there could be no return. Onwards he must go, following the call of his heart.
“Irisa!â€Â
In time he reached the end of his trail, the riverbank where she had gone so often. No figure stood there, no comforting sight to tell him it was all alright, that she was safe. It was a desolate place, shrouded in snow and armoured with ice. No trees grew here; no plants broke the frozen ground. There was only the river, slicing through the endless waste of the Oblast. It was solid, frozen by winter’s touch; a glassy surface such as might be owned by a noble, the friend that had called Irisa here. Intricate patterns of frost twisted and turned within it, all looping around and above the precious item beneath it.
“Irisa...â€Â
She lay as if asleep, held beneath a blanket made of ice. No breath flowed from her lips, no blood beat to banish the paleness of her skin. All had been for naught, and yet still he swung the axe, desperately trying to break the ice that formed an impenetrable barrier between them. Again and again he swung, yet with all his might he could only make the slightest scratch in the surface. Finally exhausted, he fell to his knees, only now allowing himself to cry the bitter tears that fell to the frozen ground, their forms mingling with the ice that lay all around. She was gone. He had failed.
“Did you love her?â€Â
The voice made him turn, and though his mind warned him to be wary, his heart could no longer go on. A woman now stood at the edge of the river, clad in fine furs and observing him with an impassionate gaze. She took a step forward, and though some primeval instinct told him to run he stood transfixed, no more able to flee than he had been able to abandon his quest to find Irisa. As she moved past him he saw her face, a face that was as unnerving as it was beautiful. She showed no emotion, not in her frosted eyes or ivory skin, and yet he knew her entire focus was upon him, that the strength of her will would hold him there as long as she deemed fit. Stepping daintily onto the ice, his new noble friend moved to stand over Irisa, pausing a moment before kneeling to the ground and delivering a single fist into the ice at an impossible speed. The surface shattered, dividing and cracking as would panes of glass. Water welled up from beneath, carrying with it the body of his beloved.
“Go to her.â€Â
There could be no compulsion greater than that now delivered by his heart, a sudden joy seemingly at odds with what he still saw before him. Caring not for the chill touch of the water he drew her close, dragging her still form from its premature grave beneath the ice. This would be the last time he would hold her close, he knew that, and so he clung to her, not heeding the swiftly freezing water that dripped onto his skin and from her clothes, binding the two together. So overwhelmed was his mind by grief that he did not question when she moved again in his arms, nor care when she rose her mouth to his neck and bestowed on him a kiss that drew the blood from his body. The warmth of his life flowed from one into the other, stolen away from its rightful owner to feed another. Only when all his precious vitae had been drained did she release him from this deathly grip, and only then did she see what she had done.
“Mikhail...â€Â
Kattarin looked upon her new child, and her ivory face was crossed by a cruel smile. Her frosted eyes gleamed, and she bade Irisa rise.
“Welcome to the winter of the heart.â€Â
***
“Irisa!â€Â
A figure, dark against the snow, stumbled towards the river. Though hindered by the ever-falling snow, he advanced with grim determination. The others had fallen back, unwilling to risk their lives for this fool’s errand, but he continued. “She is lost,†they said, “forget her; do not risk your life for hers.†But he could not.
“Irisa!â€Â
What was it that drove him on? Stubbornness? Guilt? Love? Emotions battled within him, but all demanded he continue; continue towards the river where he knew he would find her. When she had left, he had called her mad, deluded by visions surely sent by the dark gods. He could have stopped her, he should have stopped her, but he himself had been deluded. “She will return,†he said, “like she always does,†but when the day had passed and she was no longer beside him, he grew afraid. She had never been gone so long, and though night was falling he resolved to find her, to travel to the river where she had spoken of meeting a noble friend. A friend whose voice had called to her across the snow and through the wind, calling her to meet on the river bank. Time and time again Irisa had been there, waiting for the voice to come to her, and yet it never had. He had hoped she would recognise it as a trick of the spirits, designed to lure her to her doom, yet she had been so sure it was something more, sure enough to risk her life day after day and travel to that place, that frozen river bank.
“Irisa!â€Â
A fierce wind clawed at his eyes, whisking up the snow and driving it to swirl all around him. Squinting into the field of unending white made it possible, just, to see the track he sought, the route that would guide his feet through this folly. A wise man would have surely turned back, kept at bay by the blizzard that was brewing, but what is wisdom when measured against the cry of the heart? Even the four gods of the north, aided by their daemonic legions, could not have made him falter in his step, even if it brought his doom.
“Irisa!â€Â
It would not be daemons that barred his path that day. A ghostly howl echoed on the wind, and instinctively his step paused, his grip tightening on the axe held in his hand. It was a simple weapon, its edge continually dulled and sharpened during its years of use. Innumerable nicks on the blade carried the memory of past enemies, be they beasts of the wild or trees of the forest. The handle seemed shaped for his hand, while the weight was a familiar companion, almost an extension of his arm. To a trained warrior, this axe was no weapon, but in the hands of a man who had known no other blade it was kin to the Runefangs themselves.
He continued his pace, his voice silenced for fear of drawing attention from the wolves he now knew to be nearby. It was not enough. Dark shapes moved through the snow to either side of him, keeping their distance but undeniably following. They were cautious, but once they had determined he was no threat they would move in for the kill. Normally beasts such as these would not risk attacking prey such as he; bulked up as he was with furs and armed with the steel of man, but the winter had been long and food scarce. Hunger drove the hunters, a goal as powerful as that which forced the man onward, into the jaws of the wild.
A low growl caused him to cease once again. The foe were closer now, their lupine bodies clearly visible despite the hindrance of the blizzard. For what seemed like an eternity they surveyed each other, man and beast, sizing each other up. Each was ready for whatever move the other might make, for whatever trick they might use to gain victory. A howl, and then feral teeth closed around his arm, tearing into the thick fur covering the warm flesh beneath. The two combatants tumbled on the ground, the man rolling with his assailant as it leapt at him. The axe fell to the floor, useless in this fight, as each called upon their strength alone. Ancient instinct flared, and man became as beast, clawing at his foe in the desperate struggle for survival. It was over in moments; crimson blood spilled onto the snow, melting it with its heat and steaming in the air. The pack would feast well upon this bounty, even though it was one of their own. Kinship holds no place while hunger rules.
Taking the long hunting knife from its sheath in the neck of the wolf, he wiped its edge on the snow and returned it to his belt. The furs on his arm had been torn away, the canine fangs leaving thin trails of blood where they had cut through and into him. Cold lessened the pain, but there was no time to fashion new protection from the hide of the corpse before him; the pack which had so recently called it brother were already closing in. He had to continue, else he would be torn apart and fill the bellies of the wolves alongside that which he had killed. Savage cries followed him, but he paid them no heed; to falter now would bring death, and now there could be no return. Onwards he must go, following the call of his heart.
“Irisa!â€Â
In time he reached the end of his trail, the riverbank where she had gone so often. No figure stood there, no comforting sight to tell him it was all alright, that she was safe. It was a desolate place, shrouded in snow and armoured with ice. No trees grew here; no plants broke the frozen ground. There was only the river, slicing through the endless waste of the Oblast. It was solid, frozen by winter’s touch; a glassy surface such as might be owned by a noble, the friend that had called Irisa here. Intricate patterns of frost twisted and turned within it, all looping around and above the precious item beneath it.
“Irisa...â€Â
She lay as if asleep, held beneath a blanket made of ice. No breath flowed from her lips, no blood beat to banish the paleness of her skin. All had been for naught, and yet still he swung the axe, desperately trying to break the ice that formed an impenetrable barrier between them. Again and again he swung, yet with all his might he could only make the slightest scratch in the surface. Finally exhausted, he fell to his knees, only now allowing himself to cry the bitter tears that fell to the frozen ground, their forms mingling with the ice that lay all around. She was gone. He had failed.
“Did you love her?â€Â
The voice made him turn, and though his mind warned him to be wary, his heart could no longer go on. A woman now stood at the edge of the river, clad in fine furs and observing him with an impassionate gaze. She took a step forward, and though some primeval instinct told him to run he stood transfixed, no more able to flee than he had been able to abandon his quest to find Irisa. As she moved past him he saw her face, a face that was as unnerving as it was beautiful. She showed no emotion, not in her frosted eyes or ivory skin, and yet he knew her entire focus was upon him, that the strength of her will would hold him there as long as she deemed fit. Stepping daintily onto the ice, his new noble friend moved to stand over Irisa, pausing a moment before kneeling to the ground and delivering a single fist into the ice at an impossible speed. The surface shattered, dividing and cracking as would panes of glass. Water welled up from beneath, carrying with it the body of his beloved.
“Go to her.â€Â
There could be no compulsion greater than that now delivered by his heart, a sudden joy seemingly at odds with what he still saw before him. Caring not for the chill touch of the water he drew her close, dragging her still form from its premature grave beneath the ice. This would be the last time he would hold her close, he knew that, and so he clung to her, not heeding the swiftly freezing water that dripped onto his skin and from her clothes, binding the two together. So overwhelmed was his mind by grief that he did not question when she moved again in his arms, nor care when she rose her mouth to his neck and bestowed on him a kiss that drew the blood from his body. The warmth of his life flowed from one into the other, stolen away from its rightful owner to feed another. Only when all his precious vitae had been drained did she release him from this deathly grip, and only then did she see what she had done.
“Mikhail...â€Â
Kattarin looked upon her new child, and her ivory face was crossed by a cruel smile. Her frosted eyes gleamed, and she bade Irisa rise.
“Welcome to the winter of the heart.â€Â
