Lady of the Snow
Jerick awoke with a sudden jolt.
Blades of sunshine cut through the verdant forest canopy above him, smothering his surroundings in dappled shades of green and gold. For a moment he thought he had truly died and gone to the place where his forefathers rested. A place where all a man could ever wish for was provided - be it food, a woman, or the finest wine in New Eden.
The warmth of summer cradled him as he lay sprawled on a carpet of pine needles and soft bracken. He closed his eyes again and began to drift back into the realm of sleep.
He shifted his position without much thought and a searing pain shot up his left side like a hot blade through flesh. His eyes widened as he stifled a cry which became a guttural moan. He carefully put his hand under his tunic and when he drew it back it was painted crimson.
He remembered now. It was a glancing arrow which had caused his infliction. The iron head had merely skimmed him, but he feared the tip had been dipped in something foul like poison or human waste. The wound was three days old and showed no sign of healing.
Jerick was a man of the forest, but no natural salve, herbal paste or leaf covering he applied served any assistance.
“Get up,” he said to himself through gritted teeth.
The night before he had stopped simply to hide and wait whilst his pursuers searched for him. He had tricked their dogs by discarding items of his clothing off of his intended path. First a torn off piece of his greaves, then a sock, and finally an old rag he used to cool his brow from the sweltering summer heat. Each item was strong with his scent, and placed nowhere near where he was likely to ever be.
That night, he had stopped to rest for a few minutes, just to catch his breath and recover some strength. He remembered sitting up against a large elm tree, looking up at a star-pocked sky, adorned by an eerie copper crescent moon. The leaves and branches above danced and swayed in the cool night breeze, and before he knew it, he was lulled into the deepest sleep he had had in years.
Now he had awakened, and he feared it was well past noon. He got to his feet and continued to head north, treading with care as not to disturb the forest floor too much, as he did not wish to be tracked.
Every other step he took caused him pain as the open wound on his side chaffed against the rough fabric of his tunic. He was in a miserable state, but he was relieved to be free from the bonds of incarceration. If this is the price of freedom, I am glad to pay it, he thought.
A crow cawed from above causing him to jump slightly. Looking up he saw the great black shape glide amongst the branches above. If only I had wings, he thought as he continued to work his way through the dense growth.
After what may have been an hour or two, he heard the nearby faint trickle of a running stream. He stopped in his tracks and cocked his head, eager to find the source of the noise. Pushing through a thicket of elderberry bushes he eventually found the stream. It was narrow enough to jump over and carried crystal clear water from the mountain springs of the north.
He knelt instantly and began to scoop handfuls of the thirst quenching liquid into his mouth. It was a welcome treat. The cool water tasted better than any mead or wine he had ever drunk. It soothed his dry throat and softened his hard, cracked lips, instantly filling him with energy, life and hope.
After he had drank enough he washed his face, neck and hair. He then wet a torn off piece of his sleeve and dabbed his seeping wound. It was beginning to smell, and that worried him. An infected gash would not only hinder his speed, but it would eventually poison his blood and kill him - painfully and slowly. As he rested by the stream he caught a glimpse of his reflection, distorted by the water’s movements. He looked older than he remembered, his eyes were dark and sunken, and his cheekbones were gaunt. I need food, he thought as he ran a hand through the mess of brown hair upon his head.
He was tempted to rest by the stream for just a few more moments, but then he heard the distant horn of the guards who had pursued him deep into the woodlands. The horn was answered by another and the baying of hounds.
Keep moving, he thought as he rose with a brief struggle. He crashed through the elderberry bushes and followed the route of the stream, away from the mountains and towards the sea.
The sea meant certain freedom. He would merely have to board one of the many trade ships or galleys and make his escape from New Eden. Then he would start a new life wherever his voyage took him. He would find a wife, have children, and not mention a word of his dark, tortured past to anyone.
A thick veneer of cool fevered sweat coated his tanned brow as he loped over fallen logs and dodged low hanging branches, but he kept pushing. As the afternoon faded into the early eve the pain from his side became more and more unbearable. The slightest movement caused him agony, and the blood which pulsed through his tunic was black and thick like tar. He ploughed through more dense vegetation, his movement laboured but steadfast, as his determination to escape his pursuers was still strong. But in time, his sense of direction and time began to fade.
Jerick was so severely fatigued, that he barely noticed the amount of blood he had lost to the forest floor. The sound of hounds just a hundred feet behind him was muffled and dull, as if he was hearing it all from under water. His head felt as if it weighed a ton, and his ears were hot and felt fit to burst from within.
Whatever poison the arrow tip had been treated with had served its purpose, and Jerick slowed to an erratic jog, then to a stumbling walk, and finally he fell to the ground defeated. He rolled onto his back and raised an arm which took nearly all of his energy. He tried to speak. I surrender, I surrender, he wanted to say, but the words never left his swollen tongue. Help me, he thought as he lay with his eyes half open.
“There’s the bastard,” said a loud voice. Jerick’s eyes slowly found the source as a heavily armoured guard crashed through the growth of the darkening forest. He carried a torch in one hand and a bundle of leather leashes attached to three large bloodhounds in the other. The dogs barked furiously, snapping and snarling mere feet away from Jerick’s virtually lifeless body.
More men came rushing through the hedges and bushes, all of them carrying torches and most of them trying desperately to control the drooling dogs which had led them to the escaped prisoner.
“You’re in a sorry state Jerick,” said an even larger man as he walked into the clearing. The others made way for him and his hound which was bigger than the others and leashed with a thick iron chain. Jerick could not turn his head as he lay on the ground, but he knew the voice well. It belonged to Hareld, the chief gaoler of Blackhaven Prison. “You did well to come this far. Never seen a man live so long from an arrow dipped in Moon Snake venom.” Hareld stood at nearly seven foot tall, with a beard which reached his belt, and hair on his head as wild as the forest around him.
Jerick moaned in agony when he heard the words “Moon Snake”. The creatures were rarely seen, mostly because they were nocturnal and only found in certain parts of the western borders of New Eden and its neighbouring Nidia. But the snake’s venom was renowned for its potent and painfully debilitating effects.
Hareld crouched next to Jerick and yanked his tunic up to expose the wound. Jerick screamed with a ferocity he did not know he possessed. The pain made his vision blur and his mouth fill with a coppery tang, the taste of his own blood.
“It’s only a scratch, but it will be enough. He’s as good as dead,” said Hareld. “No use in dragging a corpse back to Blackhaven, I’ll do for him here,” Hareld said as he rose and drew his longsword. Jerick had lost count of the number of times he had watched the man beat, flay or execute prisoners at Blackhaven for the slightest wrongdoing. He once saw Hareld punch his mailed fist straight through a man’s stomach and out of his back for merely asking what time the evening meal would be served. “Have a belly full of this,” Hareld had told him as his guards watched on and laughed.
Hareld towered over Jerick as he lay on the soft forest floor and held his longsword as if it weighed nothing. The blade shone with the red and gold of the flames from the torches around it, and its edges looked as sharp as any blade’s could be. This is as merciful an end as I could wish for, Jerick thought as he lay staring up at the forest roof above him.
He felt cold. So very cold. Blood loss, he thought. He had seen many a man bleed out, be it on the battlefield or within the cursed walls of Blackhaven, and they mostly always complained of the cold.
Jerick closed his eyes and awaited the sword’s blow. He doubted he would even feel it. At least you tried to escape, you never gave up until the end. A wind blew through the trees, bringing with it a melancholy sigh. Jerick shivered, he had never felt such cold before. He curled into a ball, ignoring the pain and wishing for the sword’s strike to come. He was so cold. So tired and so very cold.
He couldn’t have guessed how long he had been lying there, curled up tightly, shivering and whimpering. It took him a while to notice that he was still alive. His breath was hot against his chest, and it was his only source of comfort. He then realised that it was eerily quiet. The guards had ceased their jeering and the dogs had stopped barking. He opened his eyes.
To his surprise he was lying in several inches of thick fluffy snow. Half of his body had been submerged, and the snow around him was melting slightly from his body heat.
Impossible. It’s the middle of summer, he thought to himself.
He licked his lips, and the melting snow soothed his dry mouth and sluggish tongue. For a moment he felt cured. Slowly he sat up, forgetting the pain that should have been shooting through his body. The entire forest around him was white, and as still as a graveyard.
The torches of the guards had all been extinguished, plunging the dark forest into a world of deepest sapphire and darkest ivory. Then Jerick saw Hareld standing mere feet away from him with his longsword drawn and raised high above his head. Jerick cowered, throwing his arms in the air to protect himself from the blow.
But none came.
Lowering his arms slowly Jerick saw that Hareld was as still as the marble statutes found in the market quarters of New Eden’s Capital Square.
Looking around him, Jerick saw that all of the guards were present, standing deadly still in the twilight gloom of the snow covered forest. They stood with their arms raised, holding their fireless torches, with snow settling on their heads and helms. The hounds tied to their leashes were also deadly still, some were crouched, ready to pounce whilst others were caught with their mouths wide open in a frozen snarl.
Frozen! Jerick thought to himself and he crawled towards the closest dog. There was the thinnest crust of white which covered the beast, and its eyes were pale blue pearls. Jerick touched its fur cautiously and realised it was covered in the slightest layer of ice. Jerick stared at the frozen men around him in wonder as yet more snow fell in large flakes from above.
Jerick looked up and saw the dense canopy of oak and pine trees which completely blotted out the night’s sky. There was no way snow could have reached the forest floor. Even a blizzard would have had trouble getting past the thick roof of branches and leaves above him.
“Impossible,” he whispered to himself.
“No,” said a female voice behind him.
Still on all fours, Jerick span around as quickly as his poisoned body could allow. Behind him stood a dark silhouette of a woman, elegant and still. She wore a gown of azure silk, covered with a thick coat of cerulean fur with a sapphire mantle. Upon her head flowed hair of the deepest black, around a face and neck as white and flawless as the snow which fell around him.
A thin chain of silver caressed her slender neck. Hanging from the end of the chain was an oval stone of a blue so deep it was almost ebony. Her face was emotionless. Full dark blue lips and dark blue eyes set in a visage of perfect frost-tinted ivory. She was so beautiful and Jerick was so afraid.
“Not impossible,” she said. Each word brought with it the sound of winter - the sadness, the darkness and the death. She walked towards Jerick, and he tried to crawl backwards, only to find himself backed up against one of the frozen guards. As she advanced, Jerick realised she was walking on top of the snow, yet she left no footprints.
“Please,” he said. Not sure what he was pleading for. His breath came out in thick white clouds as he exhaled.
“Do not be afraid,” the woman in blue whispered, her mouth barely moving and not a trace of her breath in the frigid air. “Stay with me. Forever.”
She approached Jerick and crouched, her skirt, coat and cape falling around her gracefully. He whimpered and closed his eyes.
The last thing he felt was the touch of her lips on his own, so cold they were almost hot. A tear left his eye and crystallised before it reached the stubble on his chin. It was the sweetest kiss he had ever tasted. And it would last for an eternity.
© Matt Lee Marshall
Blades of sunshine cut through the verdant forest canopy above him, smothering his surroundings in dappled shades of green and gold. For a moment he thought he had truly died and gone to the place where his forefathers rested. A place where all a man could ever wish for was provided - be it food, a woman, or the finest wine in New Eden.
The warmth of summer cradled him as he lay sprawled on a carpet of pine needles and soft bracken. He closed his eyes again and began to drift back into the realm of sleep.
He shifted his position without much thought and a searing pain shot up his left side like a hot blade through flesh. His eyes widened as he stifled a cry which became a guttural moan. He carefully put his hand under his tunic and when he drew it back it was painted crimson.
He remembered now. It was a glancing arrow which had caused his infliction. The iron head had merely skimmed him, but he feared the tip had been dipped in something foul like poison or human waste. The wound was three days old and showed no sign of healing.
Jerick was a man of the forest, but no natural salve, herbal paste or leaf covering he applied served any assistance.
“Get up,” he said to himself through gritted teeth.
The night before he had stopped simply to hide and wait whilst his pursuers searched for him. He had tricked their dogs by discarding items of his clothing off of his intended path. First a torn off piece of his greaves, then a sock, and finally an old rag he used to cool his brow from the sweltering summer heat. Each item was strong with his scent, and placed nowhere near where he was likely to ever be.
That night, he had stopped to rest for a few minutes, just to catch his breath and recover some strength. He remembered sitting up against a large elm tree, looking up at a star-pocked sky, adorned by an eerie copper crescent moon. The leaves and branches above danced and swayed in the cool night breeze, and before he knew it, he was lulled into the deepest sleep he had had in years.
Now he had awakened, and he feared it was well past noon. He got to his feet and continued to head north, treading with care as not to disturb the forest floor too much, as he did not wish to be tracked.
Every other step he took caused him pain as the open wound on his side chaffed against the rough fabric of his tunic. He was in a miserable state, but he was relieved to be free from the bonds of incarceration. If this is the price of freedom, I am glad to pay it, he thought.
A crow cawed from above causing him to jump slightly. Looking up he saw the great black shape glide amongst the branches above. If only I had wings, he thought as he continued to work his way through the dense growth.
After what may have been an hour or two, he heard the nearby faint trickle of a running stream. He stopped in his tracks and cocked his head, eager to find the source of the noise. Pushing through a thicket of elderberry bushes he eventually found the stream. It was narrow enough to jump over and carried crystal clear water from the mountain springs of the north.
He knelt instantly and began to scoop handfuls of the thirst quenching liquid into his mouth. It was a welcome treat. The cool water tasted better than any mead or wine he had ever drunk. It soothed his dry throat and softened his hard, cracked lips, instantly filling him with energy, life and hope.
After he had drank enough he washed his face, neck and hair. He then wet a torn off piece of his sleeve and dabbed his seeping wound. It was beginning to smell, and that worried him. An infected gash would not only hinder his speed, but it would eventually poison his blood and kill him - painfully and slowly. As he rested by the stream he caught a glimpse of his reflection, distorted by the water’s movements. He looked older than he remembered, his eyes were dark and sunken, and his cheekbones were gaunt. I need food, he thought as he ran a hand through the mess of brown hair upon his head.
He was tempted to rest by the stream for just a few more moments, but then he heard the distant horn of the guards who had pursued him deep into the woodlands. The horn was answered by another and the baying of hounds.
Keep moving, he thought as he rose with a brief struggle. He crashed through the elderberry bushes and followed the route of the stream, away from the mountains and towards the sea.
The sea meant certain freedom. He would merely have to board one of the many trade ships or galleys and make his escape from New Eden. Then he would start a new life wherever his voyage took him. He would find a wife, have children, and not mention a word of his dark, tortured past to anyone.
A thick veneer of cool fevered sweat coated his tanned brow as he loped over fallen logs and dodged low hanging branches, but he kept pushing. As the afternoon faded into the early eve the pain from his side became more and more unbearable. The slightest movement caused him agony, and the blood which pulsed through his tunic was black and thick like tar. He ploughed through more dense vegetation, his movement laboured but steadfast, as his determination to escape his pursuers was still strong. But in time, his sense of direction and time began to fade.
Jerick was so severely fatigued, that he barely noticed the amount of blood he had lost to the forest floor. The sound of hounds just a hundred feet behind him was muffled and dull, as if he was hearing it all from under water. His head felt as if it weighed a ton, and his ears were hot and felt fit to burst from within.
Whatever poison the arrow tip had been treated with had served its purpose, and Jerick slowed to an erratic jog, then to a stumbling walk, and finally he fell to the ground defeated. He rolled onto his back and raised an arm which took nearly all of his energy. He tried to speak. I surrender, I surrender, he wanted to say, but the words never left his swollen tongue. Help me, he thought as he lay with his eyes half open.
“There’s the bastard,” said a loud voice. Jerick’s eyes slowly found the source as a heavily armoured guard crashed through the growth of the darkening forest. He carried a torch in one hand and a bundle of leather leashes attached to three large bloodhounds in the other. The dogs barked furiously, snapping and snarling mere feet away from Jerick’s virtually lifeless body.
More men came rushing through the hedges and bushes, all of them carrying torches and most of them trying desperately to control the drooling dogs which had led them to the escaped prisoner.
“You’re in a sorry state Jerick,” said an even larger man as he walked into the clearing. The others made way for him and his hound which was bigger than the others and leashed with a thick iron chain. Jerick could not turn his head as he lay on the ground, but he knew the voice well. It belonged to Hareld, the chief gaoler of Blackhaven Prison. “You did well to come this far. Never seen a man live so long from an arrow dipped in Moon Snake venom.” Hareld stood at nearly seven foot tall, with a beard which reached his belt, and hair on his head as wild as the forest around him.
Jerick moaned in agony when he heard the words “Moon Snake”. The creatures were rarely seen, mostly because they were nocturnal and only found in certain parts of the western borders of New Eden and its neighbouring Nidia. But the snake’s venom was renowned for its potent and painfully debilitating effects.
Hareld crouched next to Jerick and yanked his tunic up to expose the wound. Jerick screamed with a ferocity he did not know he possessed. The pain made his vision blur and his mouth fill with a coppery tang, the taste of his own blood.
“It’s only a scratch, but it will be enough. He’s as good as dead,” said Hareld. “No use in dragging a corpse back to Blackhaven, I’ll do for him here,” Hareld said as he rose and drew his longsword. Jerick had lost count of the number of times he had watched the man beat, flay or execute prisoners at Blackhaven for the slightest wrongdoing. He once saw Hareld punch his mailed fist straight through a man’s stomach and out of his back for merely asking what time the evening meal would be served. “Have a belly full of this,” Hareld had told him as his guards watched on and laughed.
Hareld towered over Jerick as he lay on the soft forest floor and held his longsword as if it weighed nothing. The blade shone with the red and gold of the flames from the torches around it, and its edges looked as sharp as any blade’s could be. This is as merciful an end as I could wish for, Jerick thought as he lay staring up at the forest roof above him.
He felt cold. So very cold. Blood loss, he thought. He had seen many a man bleed out, be it on the battlefield or within the cursed walls of Blackhaven, and they mostly always complained of the cold.
Jerick closed his eyes and awaited the sword’s blow. He doubted he would even feel it. At least you tried to escape, you never gave up until the end. A wind blew through the trees, bringing with it a melancholy sigh. Jerick shivered, he had never felt such cold before. He curled into a ball, ignoring the pain and wishing for the sword’s strike to come. He was so cold. So tired and so very cold.
He couldn’t have guessed how long he had been lying there, curled up tightly, shivering and whimpering. It took him a while to notice that he was still alive. His breath was hot against his chest, and it was his only source of comfort. He then realised that it was eerily quiet. The guards had ceased their jeering and the dogs had stopped barking. He opened his eyes.
To his surprise he was lying in several inches of thick fluffy snow. Half of his body had been submerged, and the snow around him was melting slightly from his body heat.
Impossible. It’s the middle of summer, he thought to himself.
He licked his lips, and the melting snow soothed his dry mouth and sluggish tongue. For a moment he felt cured. Slowly he sat up, forgetting the pain that should have been shooting through his body. The entire forest around him was white, and as still as a graveyard.
The torches of the guards had all been extinguished, plunging the dark forest into a world of deepest sapphire and darkest ivory. Then Jerick saw Hareld standing mere feet away from him with his longsword drawn and raised high above his head. Jerick cowered, throwing his arms in the air to protect himself from the blow.
But none came.
Lowering his arms slowly Jerick saw that Hareld was as still as the marble statutes found in the market quarters of New Eden’s Capital Square.
Looking around him, Jerick saw that all of the guards were present, standing deadly still in the twilight gloom of the snow covered forest. They stood with their arms raised, holding their fireless torches, with snow settling on their heads and helms. The hounds tied to their leashes were also deadly still, some were crouched, ready to pounce whilst others were caught with their mouths wide open in a frozen snarl.
Frozen! Jerick thought to himself and he crawled towards the closest dog. There was the thinnest crust of white which covered the beast, and its eyes were pale blue pearls. Jerick touched its fur cautiously and realised it was covered in the slightest layer of ice. Jerick stared at the frozen men around him in wonder as yet more snow fell in large flakes from above.
Jerick looked up and saw the dense canopy of oak and pine trees which completely blotted out the night’s sky. There was no way snow could have reached the forest floor. Even a blizzard would have had trouble getting past the thick roof of branches and leaves above him.
“Impossible,” he whispered to himself.
“No,” said a female voice behind him.
Still on all fours, Jerick span around as quickly as his poisoned body could allow. Behind him stood a dark silhouette of a woman, elegant and still. She wore a gown of azure silk, covered with a thick coat of cerulean fur with a sapphire mantle. Upon her head flowed hair of the deepest black, around a face and neck as white and flawless as the snow which fell around him.
A thin chain of silver caressed her slender neck. Hanging from the end of the chain was an oval stone of a blue so deep it was almost ebony. Her face was emotionless. Full dark blue lips and dark blue eyes set in a visage of perfect frost-tinted ivory. She was so beautiful and Jerick was so afraid.
“Not impossible,” she said. Each word brought with it the sound of winter - the sadness, the darkness and the death. She walked towards Jerick, and he tried to crawl backwards, only to find himself backed up against one of the frozen guards. As she advanced, Jerick realised she was walking on top of the snow, yet she left no footprints.
“Please,” he said. Not sure what he was pleading for. His breath came out in thick white clouds as he exhaled.
“Do not be afraid,” the woman in blue whispered, her mouth barely moving and not a trace of her breath in the frigid air. “Stay with me. Forever.”
She approached Jerick and crouched, her skirt, coat and cape falling around her gracefully. He whimpered and closed his eyes.
The last thing he felt was the touch of her lips on his own, so cold they were almost hot. A tear left his eye and crystallised before it reached the stubble on his chin. It was the sweetest kiss he had ever tasted. And it would last for an eternity.
© Matt Lee Marshall