Cold, white the land, frozen and dead in appearance. The trees skeletal, their limbs draped in great white burdens of snow and ice. The hills are a grey silhouette visible through the great billowing clouds of mist.
To the East a pale watery disc begins to raise itself above the hills, the Sun, it sheds rosy-gold light made silver by the miasmal air. The sunrise reminds the rider of a tired man pulling his head above the sheets after too few hours sleep.
A centaur in ice, the rider, his horse. Man and beast blur into a single figure in the indistinct misty twilight. The man is swathed in furs and a great black cloak, his size and even his race indistinct, yet somehow his gender is apparent, his mount is a grey hunter, a stallion.
Twin plumes of vapour jet from the mouths of man and horse as they breath the bitter chill air. The horse’s steel shod hooves making muffled crunching noises as the frost sheathed grass bends beneath his great weight.
The man guides his mount slowly upward, through the trees to stand upon a hilltop. Below him in the valley he sees the settlement, not a town, not yet anyway. Twenty or so ramshackle huts, a white ribbon of frozen muddy road dividing them, chimneys pouring forth thin grey strands of smoke from hearth fires, to the north the dark line of a watercourse. The only movement below, a small black dog, which the man watches for a moment as it trots along the makeshift street and into an alleyway. No people, no horses, no animals bar the cold defying dog.
He spurs the mount on, down the treacherous slope. He leans back in the saddle as the horse walks and slides down to the community below, the sound of the horses breathing and the jangle of harness audible in the stillness of the morning. At the bottom of the slope he dismounts, he lands stiffly, stretches his back and wraps the horse’s reins about his left hand.
Walking slowly he enters the settlement.
Every building has its windows tightly shuttered against the cold. In the dawn light the frost sparkles, it’s beauty a perilous lie. Stopping at the largest of the huts the man lets the horses reins fall and strides forward to the door and begins pounding on it. The noise shrill and harsh in the near silence of the morning, the light soughing of the breeze a murmur in the man’s ears, he calls out, his voice muffled by the scarf bound about his face, yet loud.
“Dathan! Wake up you runty little sluggard, I’m freezing out here open the door damn you! DATHAN!”
There is no response although the echo of movement can be heard from several adjacent huts, the residents wakening to the uproar. The man repeats the knocking on the door, louder this time.
“Dathan! It’s me Brannan. Open your damned door before I kick it in!” he shouts, his voice more tired than annoyed.
The man, Brannan, unties the scarf to show a pale young face, blue eyed, handsome but drawn and tired. He is about to resume his knocking when a sound from above causes him to pause.
The sound of a bolt drawn back followed by several loud thumps and a creak is heard, followed immediately by a shower of ice and snow from the upstairs window as it is opened.
Brannan raises his hand to shield his face from the debris and steps back, muttering to himself. A face appears at the window, a round head surrounded by a mass of unkempt hair and beard, dark of skin and eye. Rubbing sleep from his eyes the apparition looks down at Brannan before speaking.
“Bloody hell! It is you. Couldn’t you arrive a little more conspicuously; you know blowing a trumpet with a marching band and a column of knights in tow? My neighbours might not have heard your damned noise you young bastard.”
Brannan grins up at the dishevelled figure above.
“Charming as ever my dear Dathan, are you going to open up or am I to freeze to death on your doorstep?”
Dathan glares down for a moment before grinning hugely.
Saying simply, “Wait.” He slams the shutter, a bolt can be heard being drawn locking it.
A muffled sound of movement is heard from within and some minutes later Dathan opens the front door.
He has on a pair of leather trousers and a heavy jerkin, buckskin boots upon his feet. In all he stands a little over five feet tall, but his shoulder span is greater than that of most men who top six feet in height, an aura of strength and vigour pervades him. Grinning Dathan steps forward and embraces Brannan.
“How are you my lad, you’ve avoided the headsman at least?”
Without waiting for an answer he takes the horses reins and at a trot leads it off to a lean to cum stable. Bustling back to the front of his home he grins and half leads, half pushes Brannan indoors.
As Brannan enters momentarily he is unable to see in the gloom of the shuttered room, standing still for a moment he allows his yes to adjust and around him he sees Dathan’s home. Unlike Dathan himself it is immaculate, tidy, clean.
Dathan begins pushing Brannan into the room.
“Come on move your arse my laddo, how am I gonna shut the door else?” Dathan asks.
Brannan moves forward a pace, smiling.
“You’ll never change will you my little cutpurse?” Brannan responds.
Dathan gasps, and stumps forward.
“Cutpurse is it, my buck? Cutpurse! You know I’m a royal Zephani scout and….”
Brannan laughs and cuts in.
“Peace master Dathan, your pardon, merely an ill-considered joke.“
Still smiling Brannan removes his cloak and larger outer clothing, Dathan takes them and stows them tidily away. Meanwhile Brannan finds himself a chair near the small fire and adds fuel to build it back up.
Dathan comes to join Brannan. He sits on a small stool on the other side of the hearth.
“Well, out with it. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of ye for close on four years and you turns up on my doorstep in midwinter at the crack of dawn. What have you done? What do you need?” Dathan demands.
Brannan continues ministering to the fire before speaking.
“Shelter Dathan. Nothing more, well maybe a little coin too.” Brannan comments.
Dathan grins and shakes his head.
“Shelter? Food no doubt to fill your worthless stomach as well. Gods you have nerve Brannan I’ll give you that. Coin you’ll be wanting? Go on wanting then for I have little enough, and none to spare on the likes of you.” Dathan responds hotly.
Brannan sighs, rubbing his eyes, obviously tired.
“Food and a bed in the warm will do Dathan. The coin is unimportant.”
Studying Brannan, Dathan’s expression softens.
“What have you gotten yourself into boy? Are you in trouble then? Come on speak, you’re in my house damn you if there’s trouble I have a right to know!”
Brannan sighs once more, looking up briefly at Dathan, before dropping his eyes once more he speaks slowly, sounding tired.
“It’s Jael,” Brannan answers.
Dathan looks on open mouthed, shaking his head once more.
“The red man? What has that scullion to do with the likes of ye and me?” Dathan demands.
Brannan shakes his head in turn.
“It’s more what I have to do with him Dathan. You see he’s a man disgraced, outcast. That’s the good news. The bad news is I tricked him into actions that brought his disgrace, and he knows that I did so. He’s also got a group of twenty followers loyal enough to go into exile with him and they are perhaps thirty hours behind me.” Brannan utters, his head beginning to nod.
Dathan stands and taking Brannan by the arm and shoulder he lifts him to his feet.
“Come lad, to bed you need rest. Four or five hours won’t hurt.”
Allowing himself to be led, Brannan finds the proffered cot, removes his boots and falls head first into a black sleep.
Dathan watches him for a moment. Muttering he shakes his head again.
“Damn fool. You’ll be the death of me yet.” He comments to no one in particular.
The daylight has come, a grey sky and the promise of more snow. An hour or so before noon.
Brannan, sleeps, has slept for four hours. He murmurs now in his sleep and Dathan concerned moves to his side.
“…Caine… what … No! When I’m ready…”
Dathan shakes his head, turns and returns to his place near the fire and his book. Meanwhile Brannan sits up with a start, fully awake he looks around almost startled, then sighs and smiles.
“Hello Dathan. Any breakfast?” he asks in a bantering tone.
Dathan frowns puts his book down upon the table, plants the flats of both palms on the table too.
“Breakfast? Breakfast! Gods you have a nerve Brannan, gone for years and then turn up with enemies after yea and I’m to feed yea and shelter yea. Whisht man, why should I bother with the likes of yea?”
Brannan smiles again.
“Because you like me my little cutpurse, we’re friends remember?”
As Dathan is about to answer, Brannan’s face loses focus, he appears to be staring at something or someone who isn’t there. He speaks.
“Yes Caine it is I. What is it?”
Dathan stands stares at Brannan and almost shouts as he asks.
“Brannan, what are yea prattling about, are yea mad boy?”
Brannan merely holds up his right hand palm facing Dathan, perhaps indicating that he is to be quiet, and then Brannan speaks again.
“… A native... Yes I trust him he’s a friend... Brannan? That’s me, it’s how I’m known here anyway…”
Brannan’s face becomes serious. He seems to be listening to something again. Dathan looks on incredulous and slightly afraid.
“Oh it was you. I’m sorry I was asleep… No, I’ll not return just yet. I’m in good health and no real danger.”
Brannan says matter-of-factly, and smiles as he says the final sentence. He pauses listening again.
“Very well, I will consider returning but shall not do so today. How is everyone? No deaths I hope?”
Brannan grins at the mention of deaths, apparently a private joke that he considers very amusing for some reason. He listens again, nods and smiles as he says.
“Thank you uncle, I will speak with you soon.”
Brannan then turns to Dathan, smiles ruefully and offers.
“Would you believe sleep walking?”
Dathan grimaces.
“What tomfoolery is this Brannan? Who in the seven hells is Caine? And you said that you are known as Brannan hereabouts? Speak up, what are you about?”
Dathan meanwhile has been sidling towards the door. An act not lost on Brannan.
“I’m not mad Dathan, believe me. Aagh…”
Brannan sighs in exasperation, before speaking.
“Very well Dathan my old footpad, the truth. I am not Brannan. My name is Brennus, the same as the wargod. My family are sorcerers and I’ve just been contacted by my uncle asking me to return home, and as you just heard I have refused to do so.“
Dathan’s grimace becomes even more pronounced.
“Alright don’t tell me then…Did Jael set the fire demons on yea? Are you cursed man. ”
Brannan laughs and shakes his head.
“I doubt it my friend, I don’t believe the followers of the fire god are trained in sorcery.”
Brannan smiles ruefully then sadly comments.
“Perhaps I am cursed? But if so it’s by my birth not by any enemy I’ve made!”
Dathan frowns, then grins.
“Family, boy, what family? I’ve known you for ten years or more and I’ve never heard you so much as mention family. “
Brannan sighs. “Time to move on Dathan, a little food would be welcome and fodder for my horse.”
Dathan frowns again before speaking.
“Gods man, are yea in that much of a mire? Will they follow you here? Am I safe man?”
A look of fear enters Dathan’s eyes.
“I don’t know my little friend, perhaps you’d best move on too.”
Brannan replies, all trace of humour now gone from him. Brannan moves off to gather his belongings with Dathan in tow.
“But how can yea come here looking for shelter then leave me in the shite man? Jael is not a man to cross.” Dathan pleads.
“Neither am I Dathan old fellow me lad, neither am I.”
Dathan retreats to his hearth, brooding, watching Brannan fetch his gear and take his pick of the food. Perhaps a quarter of an hour later Brannan speaks.
“I’ll be going now Dathan, hopefully I’ll see you again.”
Dathan’s face grows red in anger.
“May yea wither and rot in your own fecal filth yea treacherous bastard.” He shouts.
Brannan smiles and bows, before speaking one last time.
“Thank you for those kind words friend Dathan, but I must correct you I am no bastard, I have two brothers who are, but I am not. I bid you farewell.”
With this Brannan turns on his heel and is gone.