A Warrior's Life

The time for winter weather had long since ended, and still the relentless breath of winter screamed loud and long against the hide exterior of Clan Ironhilt's tents. Snow and ice bent the boughs of barren trees beneath their unyielding mass. White smoke billowed from the top of the ritual tent at the back of the camp, where the elders were trying to read omens in bones, ashes, and feathers to discover the cause of the elements' rage. This was the time of year where the foraging parties would return laden with fresh fruits, roots, and meat from the bountiful mountain steppes near the Ironhilt Clan's encampment. Except during this season, there were no foraging parties, as the desolate woodlands provided no sustenance. The food stores from the plentiful harvest season had long since been emptied, and what precious little food that was found was rationed out in meager portions to the starving clansmen.

Kaia Ironhilt poked her head out from behind the flap to her families tent, the harsh gale stole the breath from her lungs, she gasped. "Why do the Spirits torment us with this unnatural chill? Even the High-Shaman herself cannot sate their wrath," she thought aloud. Though Kaia never cared for the pursuit of magical studies herself, she did not deny its existence. Witches and magi were a dangerous, untrustworthy lot, their power did not come as a boon from the spirits, but from moldering books written by mad men from long-forgotten times. Kaia had heard tales of mortal men giving up their soul in exchange for everlasting life, of death-speakers, desecrating the ancient bones of their ancestors with no respect for their eternal rest. The High-Shaman, Grath warned against any interactions with such people for fear of morbid curiosity turning the more rebellious clansmen away from the call of the spirits.

A few months prior, Kaia herself had seen the foul work of unnatural magic on one of her kin, she remembered the man's face as he lay writhing at the High-Shaman's feet. Grath called upon all the might of the Spirits to aid her in breaking the terrible curse on the man. The air was thick with the smoke from hundreds of bundles of incense and herbs burning, and a deafening hum hung in the air as the entities clashed against one another in a fight for the man's essence. In the end, the man died, though the hex was finally lifted from his spirit when he was place on the ceremonial funeral pyre. Juskarr Ironhilt, chief of Clan Ironhilt, scowled at the dancing flames of the pyre, was this an omen of evil to come?

The hiss of an extinguished fire brought Kaia back to reality. Catching sight of her older brother Broald near the burned-out fire pit, she strode out into the chilled air to meet him. Something needed to be done about this endless season before the entire clan was swept from existence like smoke in the breeze, leaving only their tattered and wind-swept tents behind.

"They are at it again, brother," Kaia nodded towards the plume of white smoke billowing from the ritual tent, "The divinations go on for hours each and everyday, yet I wonder if they draw closer to an answer at all." Broald looked where she indicated, but did not answer, though, Kaia knew better than to take offense at her brother's disinterested behavior. He never seemed to have much to say, though when Broald did speak, people were sure to listen closely. Kaia and Broald were not alike in any way other than being borne from the same parents. Kaia was of average height, but stronger than the other women of the clan, and some of the men. She was headstrong like her father, and quick to temper. Magic of any kind made her wary, but she loved nothing more than to feel the leather grip of a good, strong sword against her palm. Broald was quiet and a little short for his age, despite being older, he still was a head or so shorter than his sister. He was thin and agile, with a wiry frame. Broald had taken to druidic lore, and spent much of his time alone among the trees with the animals.

Their father, Juskarr Ironhilt was a mountain of a man. Some whispered that he had the blood of giants in his veins, born in a roaring gale the likes the world had never seen. He played with his father's sword before he could even walk. It was clear to all that Juskarr Ironhilt, the stormborn child of Raelgor Stonemantle was to be a fearsome warrior that would one day be a steadfast leader. Juskarr's father was beloved by the whole clan, but none admired him more than Juskarr himself. In his childhood, many days were spent swinging sticks at imaginary foes, reveling in the glory of battle, just like his warrior father. He had always hoped one day to lead with pride and be revered by his people the way Old Chief Stonemantle was.

Chief Raelgor Stonemantle ruled during a time of great turmoil, other clans, highway men, and conquest-hungry lords threatened the Stonemantle Clan's claim time and again. As battle was a nearly daily affair, Raelgor practiced constantly with a variety of arms, though his favorite was always a sturdy claymore. In all of the Northlands, there was no man, woman, or beast more skilled in swordplay than Chief Raelgor Stonemantle. His clansmen lovingly referred to him as The Bear, as his size, strength, and ferocity knew no match. "Any child can lift a sword," The Bear was always saying, "but it takes a true warrior to make it sing the dirge of your enemies."

For many days, the forces of one Thane Sigmun Olanson tried to force the Stonemantle Clan from their fertile lands on the mountain steppes. And for many days, The Bear waded into battle with his men to hold his clan's claim. Olanson's forces wilted before the humming claymore like chaff before a scythe. Everything soon changed the day the archers came. The coward Thane Sigmun knew his soldiers could not match The Bear or his men in close-quarters combat. Longbows were sent for and distributed, and then the thane's men set out to the wilds on a bear hunt. Having been told they would receive one hundred gold pieces for each arrow they landed in Raelgor The Bear's corpse, every soldier was eager to make his fortune.

The hunters soon grew frustrated at their failed attempts to catch the Bear off-guard. Unlike his pursuers, Raelgor was fighting in familiar terrain, and he knew to stay clear all the best ambush sites. In an effort grant themselves an easier target, the invaders sent word to the Stonemantles that they wished to parley with their Chief about the negotiations of the clan's surrender. Within the hour, Chief Stonemantle was at the meeting place with the head of Olanson's messenger. The cunning thane was already there, waiting for him when he arrived, flanked by a handful of hand-picked personal guards. "Name your terms dogs, but I already gave my answer." growled The Bear, gripping tightly to his mighty sword and holding the head aloft in his free hand. Olanson cautiously stepped forward, he looked disdainfully at the Chief.

"Well then, if you want to take the name of an animal and behave like an animal, then I will have you put down like an animal." He smirked and then nodded to his guardsmen. The seven shafts seemed to hang a moment in time before striking true into the noble warrior's chest. Down went Raelgor, gasping and whispering hoarsely under his breath. "Is this all it takes? Seven. Little. Sticks." Olanson swaggered forward, accenting each word with a step, gloating in his victory, "What are you mumbling about, you barbarian fool? Did your 'mantle of stone' not protect you from simple sharpened twigs?"

Raelgor forced himself upright, he staggered forward to look his killer in the eyes. "I was asking the Great Bear Spirit, Urson, for the strength to stand one last time."

"Why? So that you can kneel at my feet while I order my men to burn your village to the ground?" Before any of the guardsmen could react, The Chief struck his adversary like a thunderbolt, his arms bulged with muscle as the strength of dying wrath surged through him. The Bear as he plunged his sword deep into the gut of Thane Sigmun Olanson. Sigmun hung like a marionette, screaming and grabbing uselessly at the blade protruding from his chest. All courage left the seven guardsmen, the fall leaves crunched underfoot as they retreated into the forest. The feet of the terror-stricken thane kicked feebly above the ground as the roaring behemoth drove him backwards. Chunk! Timber splintered and cracked under the force of the blow, barely stopping the momentum of the warrior and his prey. From the backside of the rowan's trunk came the point and most of the Chief's blade, on the other side dangled the Thane with the mighty sword buried up to the hilt.

"Look upon my face as I send you to hell, coward. If you want to plot and scheme like a worm, then you will gut you like a worm," he bellowed into the horrified face of his would-be conqueror, "I am the last thing you will see on this earth, you will die with my name on your lips." With a final cough, the invading thane's head sagged limply forward. The Bear's endurance was waning fast, with his last reserves of strength, he heaved hard and snapped the iron hilt from his once-legendary weapon. Stonemantle leaned against the rowan, hilt in hand as the lifeless corpse slid from the bloody blade and toppled into a crumpled heap on the ground. "And I will not give you the honor of dying holding my weapon." And so died Raelgor Stonemantle, the greatest warrior his clan had ever seen, holding his trusted weapon and standing over his defeated enemy.