Tundra

Pale as the sailing ships when the moon came in, and cold and callous as a hunter, the wind blew against the longboats rowing north for the Everglade. With nothing but hymns of battle to keep them warm, the rowers persevered through time and tide, up river and towards land again. The sun was setting, no longer swollen, but amber and ringed around with circles of leaking light as a stone cast ahead of the prow is ringed with ripples. The men remembered a time when it had sparkled on the sea like a net full of diamonds. They remembered home.

Heaving, the rowers drew ashore. Tired and lonely were those who remained. They had struggled a whole day inland, and now were far from their homes and families, and from the rest of the Cleaved Tide clan. None knew where they were going. All followed Eiron’s orders, with enforcement from Jesson, at times. No questions were asked.

At a gesture from their Prince, they pushed their boats aground where the sand of the riverbank gave way to a thicket of oak trees all wearing garlands, and hiked up a slope that ended in a precipice. There they stood, and there they waited. Eiron held up a hand, which meant that no-one was to come forward. He intended to make the kill on his own, and the destination described to him by the druids who had given him this errand was not too far from here.

He could not have known, as he left the cliff top to venture further into the forest, what was becoming of his crew. Only when he heard the shout go up was he alerted to his peril, and by then, it was too late.

Erasmus stood, pointy faced and black-haired, fair skinned and foreign, in his way. The half-immortal wore a wolfish look, which boded accurate as he circled in. A knife like a fish hook, stolen earlier in his journey, jumped back and forth between his nimble hands. ‘Give it up, Seafarer,’ he snarled. ‘Your crew are dead. It’s over. You’ve lost. You heard them crying? Not a soul survives, I guarantee it.’

‘I don’t know who you are, southerner,’ Eiron bellowed in reply, ‘but I’ll make short work of you. I’ll leave your body here for the crows and the north wind.’

Erasmus only laughed, throwing back his head of hair to expose his throat. ‘The north wind cannot harm me!’ he declared. ‘This land is nothing to me. I am Erasmus, and I am your destruction. You and your whole race will bow before me.’

Eiron was circling too, now, his axe heavy in his hands. ‘The seafarers will never bow to the likes of you,’ he growled. ‘I’ll chop you to bits and feed you to the dogs in my father’s longhouse.’

‘No,’ Erasmus crooned. ‘Only one of us is masterless, and that is me.’ He glanced sidelong at the axe, still flicking his knife, and let it slip, just long enough to draw a bloodless slice from his forearm, which healed over almost immediately. ‘You’re outmatched,’ he said. ‘Lay down your weapons, and let the spirits in. We have use for a Prince.’

‘No!’ Eiron yelled, knowing now the fate that awaited him. He had seen it in the eyes of the possessed men, those curious other who had taken half his fleet. Determined to remain fearsome, he snarled back, ‘I’ll not become one of your monsters!’

‘Oh well. That’s unfortunate, but I suspect we can find some other Prince.’ Erasmus circled closer, his weapon neither in one hand nor the other, ready for the spike. ‘On the off chance you survive,’ he said, ‘know that this is just the beginning of what I’m going to do to you and your people. I won’t destroy the Cleaved Tide, I’ll rule them. I will make them into my slaves… But, of course, you probably won’t be around to see that.’

The knife was dropped. Eiron’s eyes, icy as the tundra itself, yet dark blue as the open ocean, followed it into the dirt and dead leaves. The moment was enough. Erasmus lunged, grappling with the larger man shoulder to shoulder. A foot sent the knife flying, and a hand caught it in one fluid motion. The next second, the knife was in Eiron’s side, and the Prince was flying, falling– flung over the cliff top at the edge of the world.