The Chronicle of Rogin the Bulwark
Chapter 1 - The RockThe silence in the room was only broken by the occasional pop of the dying fire. Gingras kept her back to Rikard; the angry silence emitting from her deafened the room. Rikard kept his head low as he ate his meal. Sitting at the table and bent over his plate, he would occasionally glance up at her back and then quickly return to his meal. Finally, she broke the silence.
“The storm is on us. You let him go out there knowing the storm was coming.” It was an accusation and her words dripped with bitter accusation.
He knew there was nothing left to say, so he continued eating, allowing her words to hang in the air.
“And if he doesn’t return…what then. When will you look for him?” She slowly turned, her gaze lowered directly on him. Without even thinking she hurled the pot of stew she had been stirring, and it exploded against the table next to him. “WHAT WILL YOU DO!”, she screamed at him.
Rikard slowly looked up from his plate at the stew now dripping from the table top. Still chewing his food, he looked up at her. “The boy will be fine.” Breaking off a piece of bread, he dipped it in his bowl and soaked up some of the remaining stew.
Anger welled up in her eyes as hot tears began running down her ruddy cheeks. “Rikard, he is my only son. He has only seen ten winters. That’s three winters sooner than the other boys have been sent. Of all the damn months you could have sent him on the trial, why now? Why in the middle of a blizzard?”
Pushing the bowl away from him, he looked to the fire. “The fire’s burning out.”
She crossed the floor quickly and slapped the table with her palm. “You will answer me, and you will do it now! Are you trying to kill my son?”
He stood, slamming a mailed fist onto the table, his anger finally rising to the surface. “He’s my son as well Gingras; he’s MY son! And my son will not swing a hammer, or till a field, or hunt game fur a livin. My son will fight. My son will grow ta be a Nord that I’ll be proud of, or he’ll not be me son at all.” Kicking the bench he had been sitting on away from him, he walked angrily over to the axe and shield leaning against the wall by the door.
Standing her ground, she glared at him. “He will be your son no matter what he does with his life. Who are you to decide his future?”
Glancing over his shoulder, but refusing to meet her eyes, he said “The trial will be over at first dawn. If he has not returned by then, we will find his body. And you can have your son back again.” With that, he slammed the door behind him, pots and pans hanging from the wooden walls banging together with the impact.
The heavy pack only grew heavier as the snow began to stack up on top of it. He had started up the mountain with heavy clouds threatening to blanket the peak, but the snow did not arrive until he was half way up. From beneath the heavy furred hood, he looked up the trail that he had been following. Somewhere up there was an axe, buried deep in a cut stone. His task was simple, make a rubbing from the hilt of the axe and return it to the village elders. He wrapped the cloth tighter around his mouth as he began to trudge through the deepening snow. The furs draped about his broad shoulders were thick with snow, and if he could be seen in the blowing gales of winter, he would look like a snow bear trudging his way up the mountain.
He lost track of time or distance as the snow covered everything around him. The wind ripped around him, dropping snow on him so thick that he could only see the distance of his hand in front of him. Thick furs wrapped around his legs had long since frozen to the snow shows that allowed travail the unpassable terrain. In the silence of the journey, his mind drifted to pleasant thoughts to keep him moving like the warmth of a fire and his mother trying to be strong, producing a fearful smile. As much as those thoughts pressed him forward, nothing kept him moving like the stern eyes of his father. In the village, he was simply known as Bear. He was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered and thick-chested. It was said that his father had faced a bear during his trial and wore the beasts skin when he returned, forever earning the name. But a childhood encounter with a bear was only the beginning of his father’s long legacy of battle. He was the first to fight and the first to charge into an enemy’s front line. The Bear was someone you feared and loved at the same time. He smiled beneath the cloth at his father’s handshake as he had shouldered his pack. It was the only time he could remember that his father had shown affection to him. “Keep moving, never stop. If you are breathing, you are living.” His father’s last words rang in his ears, and it pressed him ever forward.
So focused on his thoughts he didn’t hear the distant howl of a wolf in the darkness. The crunch of snow beneath his feet and the wail of wind and snow drowned out everything around him. The trail lengthened out in front of him as he finally cleared a rock strewn section and entered a sparse forest of Mountain Pines. He stopped for a moment and eyed the tree line. The closer he had traveled to the protection of the trees, the more visibility increased. He pulled the cloth from his mouth and lowered his hood back for a moment. He should have been at the axe long ago, but the storm had slowed him more than he had expected.
The wind gusted up again, so he raised a hand to pull the hood back up when he froze as a howl cut through the wind behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, but only dark blankets of snow filled his vision. Wrapping the cloth around his face and pulling his hood back up, he turned back to the trail and began to walk quicker towards the tree line. The snow shoes pressed deeper into the snow as he hurried his pace. He could feel cold sweat trickling beneath the heavy furs when another howl ripped through the night, this time, closer. Puffs of steam blew out of his face covering as he pumped his thick legs towards the trees. Reaching the first tree, he leaned heavily against it to catch his breath. The cold air burned through his lungs as he removed the wrap and tried to gulp in the thinning oxygen. Almost on cue, the howl cut through the night, ever closer from the trail he had just traveled.
The boy wrapped the covering around his face again, adjusted the pack and pushed into the cover of the trees. The snow here wasn’t as deep as on the open plain, so he picked up speed moving from one tree to another. The howl pierced the night again. The wolf had quickly covered the distance, and it sounded like it had reached the tree line. He unshouldered the heavy pack to the ground and knelt down beside it. Ramming frozen fingers down into the pack, he searched for flint, stone and a small pouch that contained an oil soaked spool of cloth. Pulling the hand axe from his side, he quickly wrapped the axe head with the cloth and began to furiously strike the flint against the stone close to the cloth. The night grew silent around him as he grit his teeth. Sparks began to jump from the striking stones and he leaned them close to the cloth, slightly blowing to help the flame kick up.
Crunching snow caught his ear from behind him, the opposite direction from the howl and he slowly turned to see two wolves emerge from the darkness. They were both spread some distance from one another almost as if they were flanking him. He stood to meet their glare and held the flaming axe out in front of him. “Get back! Go hunt somethin else!” He waved the axe out in front of him, the blaze leaving a stream of flame in the thin air.
He began backing away from the two and never heard the third stalking him from behind. The wolf’s jaw clamped down on his calf from behind, and the boy screamed with pain as he slashed down without thinking, slicing the burning blade into the wolf’s shoulder. Burning hair filled his nose as the wolf released its grip and fled into the night trying to rub the flames out in the snow. The other two wolves crossed the distance in a silent run. One leaped at the boy’s head while the other ran to his legs.
Stumbling backward, he caught the leaping wolf by the lower jaw. The muscles in his arms bulged as he absorbed the impact of the launching animal, knocking him from his feet. The boy’s head slammed into the tree behind him, and he collapsed to the ground. Stars filled his vision, but he instinctively raised his hand to grip the snapping jaws of the animal. He tried desperately to keep it from his face, but the wolf was mad with hunger.
He screamed again as the second wolf bit through the furs into his leg and began trying to pull him backward. With the pain of the bite, the snapping wolf slipped passed his restraining hand and clamped down on his shoulder near his neck. Both animals began tearing through the thick furs trying to get to the flesh beneath.
Hopeless tears welled up in his eyes as he felt the wolves biting into flesh. This was it. He would never see his mother’s face. He would never complete the trial. He would never become the man his father was. Almost as if summoning his father by thinking of him, he looked up into the snow and saw his father’s angry glare. “Keep moving, never stop. If you are breathing, you are living.” The wolf released its grip and bit into his shoulder again, blood now running freely beneath the shredded furs. A low growl began forming in the back of his throat, and he screamed at the wolf “I am breathing!”
Pressing his head backward into the snow to create some distance, he curled his frozen meaty fingers into a fist and began slamming it into the side of the snapping wolf’s maul. The wolf yelped and backed away and then lunged back at his throat. The boy roared in defiance at the wolf and caught it by it’s jaws again. It's hungry muzzle slowed towards inches of his face as lean arm muscles stretched taunt to stop the lunge. Spittle flew from the wolf’s mouth, and it pressed forward feverishly. The boy looked down at his feet where the other wolf was still tearing away at the skins wrapped around his leg. He reared a foot back and kicked the wolf in the head knocking it back for a moment. He turned back to the wolf and glared at him, his eyes mad with rage, “I..” his muscles bulged “…am…” the wolf's eyes widened and its tongue lolled as it felt its jaws separating “…breathing…” bone and muscle ripped in two. Still sitting, he tossed the twitching body to the side and stood up. The second wolf took a few steps back glancing at the twitching body at the boy’s feet. Growling, it turned to pad off into the night.
The boy stood there for a moment, breathing heavily as he looked at the dead wolf. The furs that had protected him from the cold were shredded and revealed the bloodied muscular torso within. Clearing his throat, he spat at the wolf and grinned. “If I’m breathing, I’m living.” He reached down and grabbed the carcass and walked over to his pack.
The horses stamped the frozen ground, and puffs of steam clouded the morning as the men began their final preparations. Twenty men were strapping packs onto horses, kissing their women goodbye and discussing the best route up the snowed-over mountain pass. Elder Sven watched Rikard for a long moment before approaching him. He was silent, but purposeful in his movements. His face was stone, covered by a thick reddish beard. The Bear was always a hard man to talk to, but words needed to be said. He hesitated another moment and approached him as Rikard was about to swing up into the saddle.
“Rikard…I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good boy.”
Rikard hesitated a moment and then pulled his foot out of the stirrup and back onto the ground. Turning quickly, he grabbed the Elder by the front of his furred jerkin and glared at him. Angry tears had welled up in his eyes as he tried to control his rage “Until thar’s a body, thar’s no loss. If thar is a body, then thar’s no loss. Now don’t fuckin talk ta me agin.” The other men looked at them, not knowing if it was worth interfering. The two men stared at each other a moment longer and then Rikard released him roughly. Taking a couple of steps backwards, he turned and swung up onto his horse. Without a word, he kicked the horse into a gallop towards the mountain.
The foothills of the mountain were coated with a thick blanket of white rolling hills. The snow had fallen all night and had completely transformed the terrain. The horses had to be eventually left behind, and the men began shouldering packs and making their way on foot. As the slow incline of the mountain began, they had to pass through a small stand of woods and then the open mountainside would have to be crossed before entering a thick tree line towards the peak of the mountain. As they grew closer to the small stand of trees, a voice further up called out movement, maybe a bear in the trees. All the men loosened blades as they gathered together. Rikard moved to the front of the group and peered into the trees. Something was rambling towards them. He strained his eyes towards the creature as he stepped out of the trees and slowly approached them. The axe slipped from his hands as he slowly began walking towards it and then he began to run. The other men stood frozen in place as The Bear raced towards the strange sight.
The snow covered boy looked up from beneath his furs and dropped to his knees at the sight of his father running towards him. Was this another vision? He looked down at his bandaged soaked wounds. Thankfully the blood had frozen on his body, and they only opened up again with the wrong movement. He looked back up to the running man and sighed. It couldn’t be his father. His father didn’t cry, and his father never smiled.
He covered the distance quickly and fell onto his son, wrapping him up in his massive arms. Tears flowed freely into his beard and he gasped for air as he buried his face into his sons matted hair. He held him there for a long moment, not able to speak. Finally, he lifted his tear streaked face and held his son away from him as he looked him over. “Kyne be gud son, I knew ya could do it.” The boy's face seemed paler than normal, and he grimaced when his father held him back.
“Are ya injured lad?”
The boy looked up at him and weakly smiled, “If I’m breathing, I’m living.”
His father smiled again and nodded “Aye, ya are. And did ya complete tha trial.”
The boy shook his head no, “I had ta use tha paper ta start a fire, so I had nuthin to get a rubbin.”
His father’s face fell a little at that. “Ya didn’t complete it?” The other men had now gathered around father and son. All of them smiling at the boy’s ability to survive a winter’s night on the mountain.
The boy reached inside his furs and slowly pulled out the axe from the stone, “No, I didn’t get tha rubbin, so I pulled the axe frum tha rock.”
A slow smile began to spread across his face and then a rumbled laugh echoed across the hills. It seemed Rikard had stored laughter for years and had finally allowed it to explode. Looking around at the gathered men, he stood and held the axe above his head. “Me bruthers, my son has completed tha trial and frum here on out, he will be known as Rogin, “Rogin the Rock”.
RoginFeb 20, 2016