Tundra

The climb up Ice was feverish. His every muscle burned, but with every particle of mist that beaded on his skin, he could feel himself growing more solid. He had been a cloud at first– an amorphous cumulous of sensations. Eventually, he situated himself in his surroundings, and the peak he had to scale had appeared. The tools he had forged at first, for grappling with Fire and arming himself against the individual animals that could never rival the elements, were not beside him anymore.

Gradually, his body reappeared. The cold made it solidify. Crystals formed on his eyelashes, so that the scorching light glancing off the permafrost was disguised by tiny rainbows.

Direction came back. Pain came back.

‘Eh! Eh!’

Eiron awoke in a dark landscape, only vaguely aware that he had made it to the elder’s location. Weird shapes flitted around him, some roughly the height and size of men. Two were shaking him roughly, rousing life into his aching limbs.

‘Hail, brother,’ said one shadow heartily, as Eiron sat up for a closer inspection. ‘From a distance, we thought you were some kind of monster!’

‘No,’ Eiron grunted, gauging his aches and pains. ‘Just a Seafarer.’

‘That’s good,’ said the first man to speak. He buckled a sword he had been holding back into its thick, leather holster. ‘I’ve had my fill of monsters for one evening,’ he finished, and spat on the ground for effect.

‘What band are you?’ Eiron asked, cautiously.

‘We’re Silt Stranglers, and you?’

‘Cleaved Tide,’ he said, managing pride.

There was a flash of dull silver, and the sword was out of its socket again, and rushing through the air. Eiron’s pick caught it and tossed it aside, but was itself easily shattered when a blow came from another direction, knocking the wind out of his chest. Scrambling swiftly to his feet, he drew out the axe from its sling on his back, and brought it around in one fluid, disarming motion that sent three other weapons scattered. Eiron stood, breathing heavily, almost unable to believe his own luck.

‘Now, here’s how this is going to work,’ he panted. ‘You men are going to take me to where the greatest concentration of those monsters are, and we’re going to set about them in a manner that would make our ancestors proud. You can try and run, but I’ll kill you before you get far enough to warn anybody. You can try and backstab me on the way, but honestly, do you think your ancestors would be glad to witness what you’re doing here? Do you think they’d want you bending the knee to someone who isn’t even a Seafarer? He’s not even from the tundra, is he, this Erasmus. He’s from the south.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked the first Seafarer, wiping a streak of blood from his face.

‘Have you met the man?’ Eiron countered.

‘I’ve seen him at longhouses,’ said another of the party.

‘Well, I’ve fought him, so I know him,’ Eiron said with finality. ‘He doesn’t care about you, or about the Seafarers, or about anything except his own ascent. Say what you like about the other High Thanes, but they were Seafarer kings, which is more than you can say for Erasmus. It’s me or a monster. Your choice.’

Only after a few seconds had elapsed did Eiron realise that one of the men in particular was regarding him awkwardly, almost with daring knowledge. ‘Wait,’ he fumbled over his words. ‘Cleaved Tide… Are you Turon? The leader of the clan?’

‘No,’ said Eiron, disapprovingly. ‘I’m Eiron. The Prince.’