Mox Magnusson

The Province of Vinterlund

 

The good news was that during the fight with the Blood Knight’s forces, Mox and her siblings had subdued their bloodlust by consuming just enough of their enemies’ blood. And although their stomachs kept growling, their disfigured bodies finally reversed, and they appeared normal again. Not that this did them too many favours regarding the Jörds’ opinion of them all.

Once Mox and all of her siblings—Halldor, Analia, Lilja, Freya, Brynhild, Atli, and Stella—were all in chains, the Jörds had taken them and the surviving grey elves back to their home, the World Tree itself. Before they set off, though, they were taken to the spot where the mounts of the Jörds were tied to some trees—a group of fluffy, winged bulls that had a peculiar, sweet scent. It was there that both of Mox’s older brother—Halldor and Orn—were forced into a cage.

The two brothers were the only ones to receive this special treatment, as they were the only ones who brutally fought against their hosts’ attempts to chain them. In fact, they fought so badly and viciously, the dryad of the World Tree herself had to reinforce their chains with thorny roots, and she threatened that if they didn’t calm down, she would grow the thorns of the roots until they grew long enough to pierce their black hearts, swiftly killing them. Any further hope of breaking out of their chains later on was also quickly dashed when they realized that the chains and cuffs in question were made of ironglass—one of the few metals that a vampire could not easily break or at least bend to their might.

It was Eddie’s idea to go along with being chained in order to ease the nerves of the Jördlings as far as the vampires went. Or at least, that seemed to be the only realistic option when their limited understanding of the North-men’s tongue failed to get them anywhere.

When they reached the base of the actual World Tree herself, Mox nearly fell over as she tried to look at the top branches of the tree. The base of the massive tree was entombed in ice formations that took the shape of peculiar arches reflecting the sunlight and bearing Jördic runes. She looked up ahead and back behind her to catch the reactions of her sisters, who were all chained in a line with her; they had wide eyes; they were grinning ear to ear, some of them were visibly getting dizzy looking upwards like she was, and even her brothers had ceased hurling slurs at the Jörds for a moment so that they could take in the majesty of the World Tree through the bars of their cage on wheels.

But someone’s cursing forced Mox’s head to snap back down to the ground, sending a jolt of confusion coursing through her.

“Pathetic! I thought vampires were supposed to be scary?” one man taunted in Zanish.

“Go back to the Dark Province! We don’t want you here!” cried one woman. “We will kill all of you!”

While Mox was busy admiring the tree, a large crowd of the Lundis had surrounded their long procession. They understood some of what they said—the ones that were speaking in Zanish, at least—but while the rest spoke in their native tongue, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what they were saying. All of them were angrily shouting profanities, slurs, and a few of them threw snowballs filled with ice shards at them.

“Where did all of these people even come from?” Mox whispered to Brynhild, who was directly in front of her in the chain-line.

“In there, I think.” She pointed to the opening that was at the base of the ice structures that were surrounding the majestic tree. People were still pouring out of it and adding to the already angry mob. “Something tells me we’ll be getting more of this, too.”

“I mean…I know vampires don’t have the greatest reputation outside of home,” said Mox, “But…I didn’t think they hated us like—”

Mox suddenly yelped as a large shard of ice hit her right in her temple. It was mostly a shout of shock than actual pain, but it was enough to send her caged brothers into a frenzy.

“You think you’re tough now,” Halldor spat at the man who had through the ice, as Orn snarled profanities of his own back at the crowd. “But just wait till we get out of here! We know your scents now, you worthless worms! We’ll track each and everyone of you down and rip you to shreds for daring to hurt our little sister!”

“Hey, Midlanders.” came one haughty voice that drew Mox’s attention off of her brothers.

The voice had belonged to a tall, bald man with a handlebar moustache, a sleazy grin, and an arm around two of his friends. There was a whole smaller crowd, centred around this one man, and they all had sleazy grins of their own, and their leering at Mox and her sisters made Mox’s skin crawl in a way that she’d rather never feel again.

“Ah-ha! You see that, boys?” said the man with the moustache. “Looks like my Zanish isn’t that bad after all—I got their attention! Hey now, sweethearts, why don’t you lot come over here, nibble on our necks for a bit, and turn us into your thralls? We’ll be good, we promise. We’ll do whatever you tell us to.”

“Ignore them.” Said Brynhild, a clear look of nausea etched onto her face. “They should let us loose to dispense with them, at least. I highly doubt anyone would miss them.”

Through a series of pull-system elevators and staircases of both wood and ice, the Magnussons and the grey elves were paraded through some settlements that were built into—and on the top of—the World Tree on their way to whatever destination the wardens—as Eddie said their warriors had called themselves—had in mind for them.

Their actual destination had been a settlement called Branch’s End; it was a series of what they could only describe as colossal, abandoned termite hive tunnels made in the upper bark of a branch whose end had been snapped off. The tunnel systems—and the extensive network of buildings and other community areas that had been carved into it was lit with the same glowing blue veins of light that ran through the rest of the World Tree, making any sort of torches unneeded.

Mox’s heightened senses were assaulted with several sights, sounds, and smells that made up the scene, like the smells of roasting mammoth meat, the sights of dancing children coming to a halt as they all stopped to stare at the strange possession that she was a part of, as well as what Mox could’ve sworn was the distinct smell of someone cooking merfolk meat—a very rare delicacy indeed.

“What are those?” one whispered woman to her husband. “Are they…idols above…those are vampires, aren’t they?”

“Mum! Mum! Can I go talk to them?” Asked on adorably curious little boy. “Aw! Why not?! I’ve never even seen a real vampire before, though! You never let me do anything fun!”

“Silverbrew! Get high quality silverbrew at low, low prices!” Called out one man standing on a stump of some sort. “Fresh and mass produced to cure many of your health issues, straight from Aureate!”

With every step they made further into Branch’s End, though, Mox became more and more painfully aware of how naïve they had been about how they would be received by the people here; every Lundi that met their gaze—whether they be imagebearer or frost elf—did so with either utter contempt, disgust, or outright fear. There would be no trade with them, and if they were lucky, they might only just escape this place with their lives.

And it was upon this realization that a sense of foreboding settled deep within Mox, and she first grasped just how cold this new world was.

 

*

 

Runolf

The Throne Room

The World Tree

 

“But look at how easily you were able to take them into your custody!” said one woman amongst the grey elves. “Shouldn’t that tell you all you need to know about what kind of people they are? Do you really think that you lot—a bunch of regular humans, as mighty as you may be—could just subdue and apprehend nine vampires all on your own? It took all of your men and your dryad queen just to fend off the one Blood Knight.”

Her name—as Runolf had come to learn—was Inga Pendle. All six of her siblings—her brothers Willem, Elvin, Sandor, Bjorn, Eddie, as well as her sister, Vor—all knew just about enough Jördic to hold a basic conversation, and all of them were grey elves apparently running away from the accursed Dark Province.

“What it tells me, girl, is that I should be even more suspicious about what the mosquitos’ intentions are—not less, little elf,” Runolf retorted. The elves weren’t really little per se—they were about the same size as any average adult human. However, the Lundis were so large that they typically towered over those around them, including the elves in this case. “Besides, you lot should be thanking us. There aren’t many Jörds who would even think of lending a helping hand to an elvish soul.”

Runolf and his wardens had escorted the elves and the vampires all to the heart of Vinterlund: The World Tree herself. As the name suggested, Aslauga’s tree was so large that it towered over nearby mountain peaks; entire mini-settlements had been built within the very groves of the bark itself on branches, within knots, holes, and upper brambles of the magnificent tree. Beasts of all sorts took refuge there too, and in the settlements lived many tribes of Jörds that Aslauga was gracious enough to allow residence for several generations.

Where they were now was the Dryad Queen’s own throne room, and while Aslauga herself was not present with them at that moment—she of course was not omnipresent, after all—Runolf was sure that she was listening in keenly on their discussion through the ears of one or several of the many wee critters that were about and also called the World Tree their home and matron.

“They are not mosquitoes,” Inga shot back at him. “They’re vampires.”

Whatever clever retort Runolf was about to say was lost to him when the sounds of wailing filled the room once more. Off to one side of the room was the youngest of the Pendles—Vor—wailing loudly and being consoled by two of her older siblings.

Runolf had learned from them that the night prior—when their camp had initially been attacked by the Blood Knight—the Pendles’ parents were the first to be cut down that night.

Poor things. A very real part of Runolf hated to berate them with questions when they were clearly grieving—even Inga and her other siblings’ brace face couldn’t totally hide the sorrow in their eyes—but as the realm’s chief warden, a firm hand was needed.

“How long are you going to keep us here?” said Eddie. “We have to get going before that Blood Knight tries coming after us again!”

“Speaking about that,” said Runolf. “I’d like to know, how did all of you manage to make it all the way to the Jördlands on foot while being pursued. I find it hard to believe that a massive group of grey elves were able to make that kind of trek and evade two vampires and their horde of thralls. Even if you had those mosquitoes helping you. So then? How did you do it?”

The elves went quiet and shared uneasy looks amongst themselves.

“We had a ship.” Elvin started, as he untangled some cobwebs from his antlers.

“A ship?” said Runolf.

“A flying one.” Said Eddie. “It took us pretty far. We got to the Jördlands border…then the Knight caught up to us and shot us down with fireballs. Then we started making our way on foot until we made it here.”

“And where were you headed?”

“…We heard of a place where there’s always sunlight. All year long. We want to make it as difficult as possible for the other vampires to come after us again.”

“A land where there’s always sunlight? I wasn’t aware there was a place in the Jördlands. And I’ve been all across the land in my time.”

The elves once again shared uneasy looks—some of them looked outright panicked.

Runolf didn’t really lie about this. He vaguely remembered hearing a long time ago about a place where the sun was lasted for six months rather than all year round—but nothing concrete enough to give any sort of advice about. There were other places that he could have offered to them as tips for where they could hide out, but he needed to get a much better feel for them first. Vinterlund couldn’t be responsible for just letting a bunch like this run free across the Jördlands. Especially not when they keep such…predatory company.

“What about the other elves that you mentioned you lost track of in the woods before we found you?” asked Soggar, one of the other wardens. “Aren’t you worried about whatever happened to them? What if the Blood Knight got a hold of them?”

“No, we can’t risk it.” Said Eddie.

“We have to keep running.” Inga sobbed. “Even with the Magnussons helping us. The magic of the Knight they sent after us was so strong…and he had so many thralls following his orders. They would’ve swarmed us if we had lingered for too long, and the Magnussons aren’t even at their full strength now either…they haven’t all properly fed in ages…”

The Magnussons. That was the surname of the red-haired vampires that were accompanying them.

“Hmm…I see.” Said Runolf, glumly. “My condolences then, little elf.”

“Runolf,” whispered one warden, a man named Maulk. “A moment, please.”

Runolf then turned to the elves and said, “Excuse us for a moment.”

When they were out of earshot, Maulk said, “I think it would be wise to make sure this family is contained for the time being. Their story is compelling, but it still could’ve been planted in their minds by the mosquitoes for all we know. I’ve seen no bite marks on them, but how do we really know that the vampires didn’t enthral them? Or perhaps they’ve been under the control of the vampires for so long that they have total control over the elves’ minds?”

“Yes, I completely agree.” Runolf nodded. “Their story is compelling…but we must take precautions. Until we can be sure of their characters—and their autonomy from their travelling companions—we will keep them contained in one of the diplomatic dwellings.”

 

*

 

Later on—after they had escorted the elves to a more secure holding area to be further accessed by an apothecary—Runolf found himself with a moment of peace in one of the bramble-gardens of the World Tree’s upper branches.

The moment didn’t last long, though. For just as he was unwinding from the events of recent hours, the sharp, chronic pain that had long since afflicted his aging joints came biting back at him once again.

It could all go away, said a mutinous thought as the fiery pain flowed down his legs and to his toes. All you have to do is say yes to her. How bad could it be? Imagine it…Champion of Vinterlund. Champion of the World Tree…Champion of Aslauga.

It wasn’t the first time these thoughts came to mind. But there was a cost to that title, as he often had to remind himself. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, a part of him did silently linger on that thought following a conversation with her on any given day.

No…the real issue was that the Dryad Queen had had many champions over her lifetime. And many of their stories were known—or rather, the end of their stories were known. And the ends of the recent former champions were brutal: spontaneous fits of bestial rage that would drive them to take on beasts that they had no hope of subduing, their minds would be eaten away by strange moss that would lend them some of Aslauga’s powers, and in these cases, their skin would turn to bark at the end of their suffering—entombing them and fusing their bodies to the World Tree. Whatever power or companionship the World Tree might offer was hardly worth that…or so he kept trying to tell himself.

There, in that very bramble-garden stood one of such examples of why he should be very wary of Aslauga’s offer.

The bramble-garden was one of many nooks where a mini-ecosystem had long since taken root. There were pine trees that had taken root in one of the World Tree’s massive decaying branches, frost covered winterflowers that glowed a variety of florescent colours, and resting there, embedded in the snow-covered bark of another branch and snow was a man whose skin had long since turned to wood. The flesh trapped inside had long ago rotted away, the eyes were hollowed out, and the wooden body as a whole was now merely a bone-filled husk.

This man—whose wooden face was permanently fixed in a state of absolute rage—was Runolf’s great granduncle: Hakon, Captain of the Dawnfrost. Former Champion of the World Tree.

“I won’t forget the lessons your life taught me or my family, Grunkle.” Runolf muttered to the wooden corpse. “I promise. Whatever troubles I face, I won’t let them lead me down the path that took you from us…I swear it.”

 

*

 

Sylvi Narin

Her Bedroom

The Royal Inner Chambers of the World Tree

 

Sylvi hopped into bed, her hand instinctively reaching out to stroke the pulsating veins of sap embedded in the walls, coaxing them to dim and create a soothing ambience for sleep.

News of what had happened just outside of the province’s borders was all anyone could talk about, and Sylvi’s grandmother had made it her mission to ensure that Sylvi had no time to even think about trying to rush out there to help the wardens with their fight.

“Make sure Her Majesty’s doilies are properly dusted, Sylvi.” Nan had said. “And don’t you dare leave this room until they are! What if you finish that really quickly? Then dust them again.”

Dusting the doilies, Sylvi thought to herself as she tucked herself under her covers. Who ever heard of dusting doilies?!

The fact that she knew her Nan was just trying to distract her made her even more annoyed by the subject—the fact that she also seemed to think that Sylvi wouldn’t see it all for the clear distraction that it was made her blood boil.

As if the Queen would even care whether they’re dusted. I’ll bet that she doesn’t even know she has doilies!

Eventually, when she calmed herself down, sleep came for her and she slowly descended into the realm of dreams and memories. In the moments that followed, Sylvi was consumed with the images of the day that led her to being a handmaiden.

A routine patrol with her friends and fellow wardens, a crossing of paths with her parents’ patrol, a brutal ambush from prowling raiders., blood-soaked snow as far as the eye could see, and a hard fought victory with a heavy price: the death of several of the wardens present that day, and the capture of her parents by the raiders who escaped and lived to tell the tale.

Sylvi remembered the rage that consumed her that day and the days that followed, like a wildfire burning within her. With her heart pounding, she was ready to charge into the treacherous tundra, determined to hunt down the raiders and reunite with her parents. Her friends—both hers and the friends of her parents—had rallied together, their spirits high and their resolve unshakable.

Then came the summons: the dream shifted and once again, Queen Aslauga had called for her and her rescue party to come before her in her throne room the day that they were to leave.

“Sylvi Narin,” the dream Aslauga began, “You and your grandmother have my greatest sympathies for the barbarity and heartache that has befallen your family in recent days. And while I find your efforts to find them and rescue them more than admirable, I cannot allow you to go.” Sylvi remembered how the Dryad Queen lifted her hand and continued, “Please, young one, let me finish. I will allow the group you have assembled to find your parents. However, at the request of your own grandmother—”

“What?!” With her eyes, Sylvi had shot daggers at her grandmother, who was standing next to the Queen’s tall throne. Her poor grandmother’s tear-stained face did little to cool Sylvi’s rage or the pang of betrayal she felt in her heart at that moment.

She tried her best to convince the dryad, but her words fell on deaf ears. And so, she had to watch as her friends went off to fight her war, the sight of their determined faces etched in her memory. Later on, she watched in horror as every one of their heads was violently propelled over the border by a makeshift catapult built and operated by the same barbarians a mere month later.

As the scene changed and the dream gave way, Sylvi remembered everything inside of her sink as the realization that she might never see her parents again had too sunk in, along with the haunting fact that she had just sent most of her friends to their deaths.

Enough! Sylvi cried out to the whirlwind of her nightmare. I will not be stuck here all night. I need peace!

Seemingly at her command, the dream shifted, and in an instant, the storm of her thoughts cleared. In its place was an image of the Jördlands. Sylvi was floating in the air, in the middle of the snowy North; to one side was the World Tree in all of her glowing, towering splendour, the mountains at her feet, and the Province of Vinterlund surrounding them. And on the other side was a series of other mountain peaks, hills, and blizzard-filled wilderness of the Jördlands that laid underneath the Northern Lights.

This majestic, glittering sight was Sylvi’s happy place. Where others might see a frigid, unforgiving tundra, she saw a veritable winter wonderland, even then in the Autumn months.

But there was something wrong with it all. Sylvi looked to the World Tree and the great, glowing veins that went throughout it were no longer blue. Instead, the colour of them had changed completely to black, and the surrounding ground had seemed to be swallowed up by a luminous blue fog.

The dreamblight, Sylvi thought to herself, and the memories of seeing Aslauga becoming more and more strained over time came to mind. Why though? Will we ever know what caused this?

Then something caught her attention. In the other direction, off on the horizon, the Northern Lights flickered and danced out of sync from the rest of the aurora—it was like a flashing beacon or signal that was demanding her attention. It was in moments like these that Sylvi was grateful that she always had some measure of control over her dreams. With said control, she pulled herself forward and zoomed across the imagined tundra until she reached the source of the strange phenomena: it was a prison. A vast and old building of stone and iron that loomed from a cliff-side over the land surrounding it like a dark shadowy figure ready to pounce on anyone who dared to go up against it.

Sylvi couldn’t remember the name of the prison, or anything about it, really. Just above the prison, the strange phenomena took the form of a trail of light, not that different from the aurora itself, only it seemed to trail downwards and into the barred window of a prison cell that was carved into the cliff-side. Then suddenly…

“Hear me…COME TO ME.”

The woman’s voice—equally alluring and imposing—struck Sylvi at her heart. There was a clear tinge of exhaustion and sorrow in the cracking of her strained voice.

The dream then swirled into another storm of colours and images. When it finally settled, the familiar sights of the World Tree were gone, and the frost elf suddenly found herself in what she could only describe as a dark, cold cellar. She arrived in the scene as if some greater force had hastily thrown her into it, leaving Sylvi somewhat reeling as she picked herself up off of the stone floor.

“Finally,” said a loud, raspy voice. “I was beginning to think that no one would notice us. It’s been…so very long now. Thank you for coming, fair friend.”

“Who are you?” Sylvi quickly rose to her feet, her eyes darting all around as she tried to get her barring. “What is this place? Why did you call me here? Who was that woman speaking to me just then? Is this…is this really a dream?”

“Please,” the sound of metal rattling filled the air as a shadowed hand raised in the air and the man continued, “I don’t know how much time we’ll have with you before your dream ends and you awaken. Forgive my intrusion, fair elf, but my friend and I have peered into your night terrors this nightfall, and we can see how much the plight of the great Lady of these lands weighs on your soul…and we believe we can help, both with that and with finding out the fate of your parents.”

“…What? Find my parents? Help Aslauga you mean? How? What do you know of it—of her illness or where my parents are? What do you know of them?!”

“Come to us.”

The woman’s voice sent a jolt through Sylvi, and she whipped around to find another shadowed figure leaned up against the opposite stone wall.

“Leave Vinterlund and come to Drachenhold Prison.” The woman continued. “Free us from our unjust imprisonment and…”

Then the woman’s voice trailed off into a series of muddled grumbles and murmurings as the dream itself swirled for the last time. Sylvi turned back around and a wave of dread washed over her as a giant hand grabbed her face and images of the path to get to the prison and how to break into it flooded her mind just before she sat bolt upright in her bed, blinded by the morning light of the waking world.