Brother Moryson, a tall, lean man with a deeply furrowed brow, regarded his Brother-Leader with fondness and respect. They had known each other for many decades, having both been appointed as the Seneschals representatives to the royal court in their youth. Later they had moved to the royal household itself. Too many years ago, thought Moryson, looking at Jayme’s hair and beard which were now completely white. His own thin brown hair, he knew, had more than a few speckles of grey.
When Jayme had finally accepted the position of Brother-Leader, a post he would hold until his death, his first request had been that his old friend and companion Moryson join him as first assistant and adviser. His second request, one that upset many at court and in the royal household itself, was that his protégé, Axis, be appointed BattleAxe of the Axe-Wielders, the elite military and crusading wing of the Seneschal. Fume as King Priam might, the Axe-Wielders were under the control of the Seneschal, and within the Seneschal a Brother-Leader’s requests were as law. Royal displeasure notwithstanding, Axis had become the youngest ever commander of the Axe-Wielders.
Moryson, who had kept out of the conversation to this point, stepped forward, knowing Jayme was waiting for his advice. “Brother-Leader,” he said, bowing low from the waist with unfeigned respect and tucking his hands inside the voluminous sleeves of his habit, “perhaps it would help if we reviewed the evidence for a moment. If we consider all the reports that have come in over the past few months perhaps we might see a pattern.”
Jayme nodded and waved both his assistants into the intricately carved chairs that sat across from his desk. Crafted generations ago from one of the ancient trees that had dominated the landscape of Achar, the well-oiled wood glowed comfortingly in the firelight. Better that wood served man in this way than free-standing on land that could be put to the Plough. Thick stands of trees were always better cut down than left standing to offer shade and shelter to the demons of the Forbidden.
“As always your logic comforts me, Brother Moryson. Gilbert, perhaps you could indulge us with a summation of events as you understand them thus far. You are the one, after all, to have read all the reports coming in from the north.”
Neither Jayme nor Moryson particularly liked Gilbert; an unbrotherly sentiment, they knew, but Gilbert was a rather pretentious youth from a high-born Carlonite family, whose generally abrasive personality was not helped by a sickly complexion, thin shanks and sweaty palms. Nevertheless, he had a razor-sharp mind that could absorb seemingly unrelated items of information from a thousand different sources and correlate them into patterns well before anyone else could. He was also unbelievably ambitious, and both Jayme and Moryson felt he could be better observed and controlled if he were under the eye of the Brother-Leader himself.
Gilbert shuffled back into his seat until his spine was ramrod straight against the back of the chair and prepared to speak his mind. Both Moryson and Jayme repressed small smiles, but they waited attentively.
“Brothers under Artor,” Gilbert began, “since the unusually late thaw of this spring,” both his listeners grimaced uncomfortably, “the Seneschal has been receiving numerous reports of … unusual … activities from the frontier regions of Achar. Firstly from our brethren in the religious Retreat in Gorkentown, who have reported that the commander of Gorkenfort has lost many men on patrol during this last winter.” The small municipality of Gorkentown, two hundred leagues north, huddled for protection about the military garrison of Gorkenfort. Centuries previously, the monarchy of Achar had established the fort in Gorken Pass in northern Ichtar; it was then and remained the most vital link in Achar’s northern defences.
“One shouldn’t expect every one of your men to come back from patrol when you send them out to wander the northern wastes during the depths of winter,” Jayme muttered testily, but Gilbert only frowned slightly at this interruption and continued.
“An unusual number of men, Brother-Leader. The soldiers who are stationed at Gorkenfort are among the best in Achar. They come from the Duke of Ichtar’s own home guard. Neither Duke Borneheld, nor Gorkenfort’s commander, Lord Magariz, expect to get through the winter patrols unscathed, but neither do they expect to lose over eighty-six men. Normally it is the winter itself that is the garrison’s enemy, but now both Duke Borneheld and Lord Magariz believe they may have another enemy out there amid the winter snows.”
“Has the Duke Borneheld seen any evidence for this with his own eyes, Gilbert?” Moryson asked smoothly. “Over the past year Borneheld seems to have preferred fawning at the king’s feet to inspecting his northern garrison.”
Gilbert’s eyes glinted briefly. These two old men might think he was a conceited fool, but he had good sources of information.
“Duke Borneheld returned to Ichtar during Flower-month and Rose-month, Brother Moryson. Not only did he spend some weeks at Hsingard and Sigholt, but he also travelled to the far north to speak with Magariz and the soldiers of Gorkenfort to hear and see for himself what has been happening. Perhaps, Brother Moryson, you were too busy counting the tithes as they came in to be fully aware of events in the outside world.”
“Gilbert!” The Brother-Leader’s voice was rigid with rebuke, and Gilbert inclined his head in a show of apology to Moryson. Moryson caught Jayme’s eye over Gilbert’s bowed head and a sharp look passed between them. Gilbert would receive a far stronger censure from his Brother-Leader when Jayme had him alone.
“If I might continue, Brother-Leader,” Gilbert said deferentially.
Jayme angrily jerked his head in assent, his age-spotted fingers almost white where they gripped the armrests of his chair.
“Lord Magariz was able to retrieve some of the bodies of those he had lost. It appears they had been … eaten. Chewed. Nibbled. Tasted.” Gilbert’s voice was dry, demonstrating an unexpected flair for the macabre. “There are no known animals in either northern Ichtar or Ravensbund that would attack, let alone eat, a grown man in armour and defended with sword and spear.”
“The great icebears, perhaps?” Jayme asked, his anger fading as his perplexion grew. Occasionally stories filtered down about man-eating icebears in the extreme north of Ravensbund.
“Gorkenfort is too far inland for the icebears, Brother-Leader. They would either have to walk down the Gorken Pass for some sixty leagues or shortcut across the lesser arm of the Icescarp Alps to reach it.” He paused, reflecting. “And icebears have no head for heights. No,” Gilbert shook his head slowly, “I fear the icebears are not responsible.”
“Then perhaps the Ravensbundmen themselves,” suggested Moryson. Ravensbund was, theoretically, a province of Achar and under the administration of the Duke of Ichtar on behalf of the King of Achar. But Ravensbund was such an extraordinarily wild and barren place, inhabited by uncouth tribes who spent nearly all their time hunting seals and great icebears in the extreme north, that both the King of Achar, Priam, and his loyal liege, Duke Borneheld of Ichtar, generally left the place to its own devices. Consequently, the garrison at Gorkenfort was, to all intents and purposes, the northernmost point of effective Acharite administration and military power in the kingdom. Although the Ravensbundmen were not much trouble, most Acharites regarded them as little more than barbaric savages.
“I don’t think so, Brother Moryson. Apparently the Ravensbundmen have suffered as badly, if not worse, than the garrison at Gorkenfort. Indeed, many of the Ravensbund tribes are moving south into Ichtar. The tales they tell are truly terrible.”
“And they are?” Jayme prompted, his fingers gently tapping his bearded chin as he listened.
“Of the winter gone mad, and of the wind come alive. Of ice creatures all but invisible to the eye inhabiting the wind and hungering for human flesh.
