Arena of the Ice Queen: Book 1 of The Restoration

By Clyde B Northrup

Five hundred years have passed since the evil Lord Gar was banished into the Void. The world is plunging into an age of ice, and not even the caretakers--Master Klaybear, Master Thalamar, Sir Blakstar, and Lady Kovaine--understand why. As the ice flows mercilessly from the north, the seas withdraw, leaving all the ports high and dry. Crops begin to fail, and many people have begun to migrate south to escape the ice. A new generation of heroes, guided by the caretakers, must rise up to face this new challenge, first discovering why their world has turned cold, and who is responsible for this change. . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clyde B Northrup
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020

Clyde B Northrup

Who am I?–a question I often ask myself, without ever coming up with a satisfactory answer: am I just a husband, father, professor, scholar, writer, poet, or some combination that changes from moment to moment, depending on the day, and time of day. . . . Nah, not really–but it is an intriguing way to begin–kind of mysterious and tormented, with a hint of instability that promotes empathy in the reader, and lets all of you know that I am a professor of English, down to my bones, and I cannot help but play around with language. My areas of specialty are 19th-20th century British Literature, the novel, Tolkien & fantasy; my dissertation was on Tolkien’s 1939 lecture “On Fairy-stories” in which he created a framework, as I discovered, for the epic fantasy that I used to critique several modern/contemporary works of fantasy, including Tolkien’s. I have taught at the university level for 14 years. My wife, of 30+ years, is an elementary school teacher.As a poet, I am much like Wordsworth, while as a novelist, I am more like his pal Coleridge, both of which illustrate the influence of my education and areas of expertise. My poems are predominantly narrative in nature, reflecting, no doubt, the overwhelming impulse to tell a story, using the compact, compressed form of the poem to narrate significant moments in the daily life of the poet. As a novelist, my biggest influence is Tolkien, flowing out of my study of his ideas for what he called a “fairy-story” for adults, what we term epic fantasy.

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Arena of the Ice Queen

Book 1 of The Restoration

By Clyde B. Northrup

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 Clyde B. Northrup.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my mother, who always believed in me and my gifts.

Table of Contents

Author’s Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

About the Author

Author’s Preface

As I finished The Final Sacrifice, the conclusion of The Redemption series, I decided to include as its prologue a piece of cosmology that I had drafted many years before. One of the challenges of epic fantasy, or any fantasy, that creates a secondary world, is creating a background that establishes all the tenets of this created, secondary world. Thus I drafted, while waiting outside an office for an appointment, a creation myth for my secondary world. Instead of the normal, single antagonist, I had a pair. This resulted from choices made as I established the magical system of this world, based on elemental forces–air, water, and earth as the fundamental elements, followed by fire and ice, with light, void, and time. The first rebel, Gar, or Elker in the myth, became a creature of elemental fire, with a number of followers who also rebelled against the One, the deity of my secondary world. A second rebel, Guengle, with a larger following, became a creature of elemental ice, these two elemental forces always in opposition to each other. Elker, later Gar, wanted to rule the universe as his own; Guengle, on the other hand, cared nothing for conquest, wanting to be left alone. Both rebels were imprisoned within the world, Gar in the world’s fiery heart, Guengle beneath the world’s icy south pole. The Redemption series focuses on Gar’s attempt to escape imprisonment and rule the universe, thwarted by the chosen.

Once The Final Sacrifice was finished, I turned my attention to this other antagonist, positing that the power vacuum left by the destruction of Gar, would be filled by ice and Guengle. I began to calculate the speed of the ice as it flowed down from the poles, this speed increasing exponentially over time, pointing to the year in my world’s chronology when the ice would impact on those living in the land. Many generations would pass away before this point of impact would be felt. Since the world was moving into an age of ice, the seas would begin to recede, so the prologue for this volume and new series begins with the fortunes of a poor fisherman, who can no longer practice his trade. The story proper begins about five centuries after the Great Year, when the chosen defeated Gar, as the wall of ice moves into the inhabited northern lands.

This passage of time creates a second decision, regarding the language. All languages, while they are what is called a living language, change over time. Linguists call this drift, the changes that occur to a living language while it is actively spoken. If we consider the English of 500 years ago, we are in the time of Shakespeare, what we call early-modern English. The differences, or drift, are readily apparent, since the average person requires a large glossary to fully understand Shakespeare’s plays. If we move further back, to the time of Chaucer, the English of Chaucer’s day is incomprehensible to all but the specialist. However, with a good glossary and understanding of the difference in vowel pronunciation, even the layman can learn to understand Chaucer’s Middle English, for Shakespeare’s, and ours, are based on Chaucer’s dialect, which we call the London dialect. If, in the 14th-century, we move to the west or north from London, the English spoken is a foreign language. To the west, the Wessex dialect was spoken, its precursor what we call Old English, or Anglo-Saxon. The most well-known writing in Old English is Beowulf. To the north is what we call the North-Midlands dialect, its most famous text Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, both of these dialect areas require a translation for all but the specialist in these dialect areas.

The reason for this short diversion into the history of English illustrates the idea of language drift. A little over 600 years ago, and English is incomprehensible to all. This period of time in our tale necessitated alterations in the language. There were two ways that I illustrated this, the first, and most obvious, is in the names: all names have been shortened, a common feature in most modern language drifts, so place names like Shigmar, Karble, Melbarth, and Holvar, become Shimar, Karle, Melar, & Hovar. Personal names drift similarly, so the reader will notice that all of the names are familiar, based on the original names. The second, less obvious, means of illustrating the drift involves the introduction of a new group of people, whose language drifted in different directions. Although both descend from the same Ancient language, this new group, with a totalitarian system of government, drifted less from the original, and so the maghem and kailum, who speak Ancient in their spell work, are able to understand this group, who will be called northerners, as they live on the polar ice cap, their social system very different from what the reader saw in The Redemption series, and the reader will witness one of their rituals in the Prologue of this volume. . . .

I issue my thanks to those who have read and commented on this volume, improving its quality, my loyal readers who have been waiting patiently for this new series, and my inadequate and undying thanks to the Father of us all, who continues to inspire me, giving me breath to continue telling stories!

Clyde B. Northrup

August 2020

Prologue

Atno 3785, Early Spring

The old wethi rose before the sun, as he had done every morning of the seventy-six years he had lived. He was thin and wiry, of average height, had jet black hair, streaked with gray and straight-cut just above the nape of his neck. He dressed in the dark, grabbed his lunch from his tengle, and slipped a wrinkled apple into a pocket of his sea coat; he grabbed a hard biscuit, leftover from his evening meal, and began chewing it as he left his small hut. One glance at the sky told him all he needed to know–clear skies meant good weather. He uttered a prayer to the One, hoping that there would be fish in his net this day. His face wrinkled, making him look more weather-worn than normal, his nose long and crooked, having been broken when he was young–a stupid disagreement over something that he could not now remember. He scratched his nose and frowned, trying to recall what had happened all those years ago, but no hint came to him of what he had been arguing about, or who had been involved beyond himself. He pulled the door shut behind him and walked stiffly forward, reaching the brow of the hill upon which his hut sat, brooding over the shore. He stumbled several times as he climbed down the narrow, winding way leading to the dock where his fishing boat waited. The wood creaked ominously as he walked across it, reaching the end in a few steps, then backing down the ladder. When he reached the bottom rung, he looked down and behind himself and cursed.

"Karsun! he spat, seeing that his fishing boat was no longer in the water, that the water had receded again, as if someone had drained the Inner Sea, like a washtub. He dropped to the ground, his feet sinking deep into the mud, causing him to curse louder. Garspawn and pokas! What am I supposed to do now!" He turned awkwardly, looking toward the west, looking for the sparkle of the rising sun on the water, and he saw the expected sparkle at the edge of sight. For a time, he struggled to free both feet, then slogged through the mud up the bank; he stopped, grabbed a stick and tried to scrape the mud from his boots. After scraping most of it away, he hurled the stick away from himself and stalked up the hill, turning north and walking the quarter of a mile into the village of Westor.

As he made his way along the narrow track, he was unsurprised to pass other sets of muddy boot prints coming up from the shore, other fishermen abandoning their boats and heading to the village. He found them gathered before Mayor Kinru’s house, one of them arguing vociferously with the mayor.

What do you mean, the Inner Sea is cut-off? Aranik shouted. How is that even possible? he added, gesticulating angrily.

Kinru shook his head before answering. I can only relay what the messenger told me, he said tiredly, and he stated clearly that it is no longer possible to enter the Inner Sea from here or anywhere else south or west. The sea has dropped even more than before. . . .

But, why? Aranik implored. What has happened? Has someone offended the One that he withdraws the sea from us? The other mud-footed fishermen nodded in agreement.

Kinru sighed. I cannot answer your questions, he said, no one can. All any of us can do is change with the times; we will have to build another dock and path to the shore, and find new markets for our fish. . . .

Again, Aranik interrupted, this time with a snort of laughter. What fish? he snapped. We haven’t caught any fish for months! The others grumbled in agreement.

How can we fish, the old wethi, named Jon, put in, when the sea is gone?

Aranik turned and nodded to him before turning back to look at Kinru.

The mayor threw up his hands. I don’t know, he said, and I have no idea what we can do to change it. We have to change or perish; if that means move away or become farmers, then we must do whatever we can to survive. The sounds of grumbling increased, but the mayor went on. We have no other choice–we must adapt or perish. I will call a council meeting, and we can extend the path leading down to the sea; now gather your boats–we have work to do. He turned on his heel and reentered his house, slamming the door shut behind him.

I’m no farmer, Aranik complained to the others. I only know fishing.

And I’m too old to do anything else, Jon put in, shaking his head and turning away. Aranik followed, catching up in two strides and walking beside him.

Maybe he’s right, Aranik said, looking south, maybe we should just pack up and move south.

Will that change where the shore is? Jon asked. If the seas are receding here, they are receding in the south, so what difference would moving really make?

Aranik shrugged. We cannot fish from here, he sighed, so we have to move to where the fish are.

Jon stopped and turned to face Aranik. And where is that? he asked, and when Aranik had no answer, Jon turned and strode toward his home.

ù

The boy shivered; the cold bit his bare skin, stinging wherever it touched. He wore only a loincloth of seal skin, fashioned by his own hands, and boots made of the same tough leather. He walked out of the hut and toward the bonfire roaring in the night, the way lined by older pekum, all dressed as he was, their skin painted blue, their iron collars sparkling dully in the firelight, and the boy, although young, stood as tall as the pekum lining his path. Each held a wooden staff, topped with feathers, and all pounded the icy ground with their staves in a slow, heavy rhythm. The boy strode past them, trying not to shiver from the cold, approaching the bonfire and passing around it to where one of the mothers waited, flanked on either side by two black-robed healers, one of them holding the iron collar that would be his, a sign that he had entered the adult world, and the wetha was only slightly older than he was. Each wetha wore fur lined robes, white with silver fur, and each watched him as he approached; around their necks each wore a necklace of sapphires, the center one largest of all, and the one close to his age, the smallest. As he had been instructed by his peku mentor, he knelt before the mother, bowing his head in submission.

Will this one survive? he heard one of the two flanking the mother ask as she passed the collar to the mother.

We’ll know soon enough, the mother answered, bending forward and snapping the collar around his neck.

Pain and agony arched the boy’s back, and he howled from the pain that gripped his body, emanating from the iron collar and searing every nerve. The pain increased, his screams grew louder, until some threshold had been reached; he collapsed on the snow, limp and unfeeling.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer next to the bonfire, but he could hear the heavy rhythm, along with chanting, somewhere nearby. His neck burned; he scratched at it feebly, trying to ease the pain, but reaching for the collar increased his pain. His hand and arm fell limp at his side.

Don’t, a sweet voice said. It’ll only make it worse.

He looked up and saw one of the two healers, the one who had been silent as he bowed before them, the one closer to his age, and she smiled kindly, her round, cherub-like face encouraging him. Her brown eyes smiled at him as she brushed back her straight brown hair.

It is my duty to determine if your collar is working, she said brightly, reaching out and touching one of the spikes. At her touch, his insides sang, and he felt sudden urges that he had only felt in his dreams, focused at the center of his being and coursing outward. He realized then that the young healer had dropped her robes and knelt before him naked. Almost at the same time, he realized that he, too, was naked, and the processes begun by her touch had produced a reaction from his body, a reaction so powerful it hurt. Her other hand reached out and touched another of the spikes on his collar, and all thought ceased; his vision became cloudy and indistinct. He became a creature of action, actions completely foreign. For a time, he was gripped by animal passions, a creature wholly controlled by these passions, focused and altered as the healer held the spikes on his collar. Suddenly he shuddered and collapsed in exhaustion, his vision cleared and he found himself resting on something warm and soft. He jerked and shoved himself off the healer, panting from his exertions. He felt dirty, soiled by actions he did not fully comprehend, actions beyond his control.

The healer moved beside him, and he saw her turn toward him, his eyes focused on her bare skin, and shapes he had only before dreamed of. She stroked his arm, smiling warmly, if condescendingly, at him.

"You performed well, my peku," she spoke in a soft, wet voice, and her tone, and the way she said peku, made his feelings of filthiness increase. He tried to move away from her, escape from the look in her deep, brown eyes, but found himself next to the wall of the tent, his back seared by the cold outside, forcing him closer to the young healer and her soft, inviting embrace. She grinned impishly at him, reaching out again with her hands to hold the spikes on either side of his neck; the feelings returned violently, and his body’s reaction to her touch hurt more than he thought possible, but she was in complete control, fanning the flames that had ebbed and causing him to act again. He became an animal, a ravening wolf only satiated by soft, curvy flesh.

Sometime later, he opened his eyes, finding himself alone among the furs covering the healer’s low bed. His body ached, muscles he did not know he had burning from his animal actions. He heard voices nearby and recognized the three wetham who had overseen the ritual.

Well? the mother asked.

I think I’ll keep him, the voice of the younger healer replied. He responds well to the collar.

He heard the other healer snort. You are too easily satisfied, Renna, she noted, and too young to judge. He should have been given to me; I could have proved him in a shorter time.

The only question that matters is did he impregnate you? the mother asked.

"I think so, mother," the younger healer, Renna, replied, and their was adoration in her voice for the mother. A few more hours and I will be sure.

Then he must be given to the others, the mother said, "and given the elixir to ensure his virility; we need strong female offspring, and to build up our armies. Madeyem commands it, and we must obey, she added, then all fell silent, waiting for her to speak again. Go to him, child, she went on after several silent moments, but do not develop any feelings for him–he must be given to all, and he must be kept strong. See to it, Galla."

Yes, mother, Renna replied.

It shall be as you command, mother, the other healer, Galla, agreed.

The tent flap twitched to one side, and he saw Renna reenter; she slipped off her robes and let them fall to the tent’s floor. She resumed her place by his side, throwing the furs over them both. "I’m cold, peku, she whispered, and then added, as her fingers wrapped around the spikes at his neck, warm me," she added, and the flames returned, as hot as before, and he was again her creature, her puppet, acting according to her desires, all soreness forgotten, all filthiness gone as the wolf consumed him.

Atno 3988, Fall

Marsa, it is time, Klare said, looking up at her apprentice; Klaybear stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, tears already forming in his eyes.

Surely you are acting prematurely, my dear, Klaybear said, trying to control the emotions threatening to overcome him. You still have many more things to teach her, he added, looking at the young wetha, called Marsa, who too much resembled his beloved at that age: she had the same eyes, the same honey-flecked brown hair, and a similar temper, begging her to help him convince his wife to stay longer.

You knew this day was coming, dearest, Klare spoke, and her voice sounded weak to his ears, knew this parting would eventually come. My time has come, my days are complete, and I am weary of this world.

Klaybear sobbed once, knowing she was right.

It is inevitable, grandpa, Marsa spoke, and her voice pierced him, sounding too much like his Klare, it is my turn to assume the role of healer; I have been well-trained and am ready to take grandma’s place.

Yes, but I’m not ready to let her go, he said, and laughed, feeling Klare shift under his hands and seeing Marsa assume a stance that he knew so well, the one she used whenever he had, according to her, done or said something stupid. He saw the fire burning in Marsa’s eyes, and knew without seeing that the same fire burned in Klare’s eyes.

How many times do I have to say it, Klaybear! Klare snapped, some of her old fire returning, although her body was weak and frail. "You don’t have to let go; I will be with you, always, only I will be young and strong again, as you can become at will. I will be beside you, although you cannot see me, but you will feel me there, supporting you through all the trials of your future here. You accepted this charge, to be a caretaker of this world, from Elos himself–you cannot back out now. Thal and Blakstar need you, to help against the coming storm, a storm beyond anything we experienced during our long lives together. Don’t stumble now, at the end of my life!"

Yes, dear, he replied contritely. It shall be as you say.

Of course it will! she snapped again. Now carry me down to my resting place; lead the way, Marsa.

Marsa spared a single, sharp glance for Klaybear before turning and opening the door beside the fireplace, then descending the stairs into the Healer’s Library. Klaybear moved around Klare’s chair, bending and kissing her, his tears wetting her cheeks. He lifted her carefully and found her lighter than she had ever been; he carefully negotiated the door and stairs, stopping before the door into the place where all previous healers rested. He helped Klare remove the chain and symbol around her neck, passing it, along with the Healer’s Staff to Marsa, who accepted both, removing her own chain and symbol and hanging them around Klare’s neck before turning and opening the door to the tombs. She led Klaybear forward, stopping when she reached the niche where Kovaine had rested for a time, bending and carefully placing his beloved wife on her stone bed.

She reached up, touching his cheek gently, smiling up at him, and mouthed words that he knew so well.

And I, you, my love, he replied, bending and kissing her for the last time. She smiled again, closed her eyes, and passed into eternity, his kiss still wetting her now dead lips. He sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around her lifeless body, sobbing like a child, tasting again the bitterness of being chosen.

Chapter 1

Atno 4059, Summer

We cannot remain here any longer, my lord, Belki stated simply; he was the thuro of Kalan, a wethi a head shorter than Blakstar, with gray hair and eyes, his hair chopped-off just below his ears. The growing season has gotten shorter and shorter, and we can no longer support ourselves, let alone supply food to anyone else. Most have already left, going south to warmer climes, he sighed and shook his head, his shoulders hunched as if he carried a burden too heavy.

You are not alone, Belki, Blakstar replied, the growing season has shortened all across the north; the remaining farmers are also moving south. Hardest hit are the coastal towns and villages, for the withdrawal of the sea is as damaging as the approaching wall of ice, Blakstar pointed across the frozen surface of Krystal Lake; they stood next to the outlet of the river on the shore of the lake, the river only a trickle beneath the ice, the ground around them frozen and covered with packed snow. He turned, hearing a soft footfall behind him, and his face widened into a grin, seeing his lady moving gracefully toward him, the thuro’s wife in tow. The Lady Kovaine appeared to be in her late twenties, with golden hair and blue eyes, dressed in dark-colored divided skirts and a cream colored blouse, high riding boots in a shade that matched her skirts; a fur-lined cloak rested on her shoulders, and she carried her gloves tucked into her belt. The thuro’s wife, named Lenna, was an image of her husband, same height, same strong build, her hair gray with hints of brown; she moved to stand beside Belki, taking his hand and shooting him a weak smile.

We have informed the last family, Belki, Lenna said, her voice harsh compared to Kovaine’s musical voice.

Stop that! Kovaine said as she moved up to Blakstar. His hair was still black, with streaks of gray at the temples, falling straight to his shoulders.

Stop what? he asked.

Stop grinning like a newlywed! she snapped, but her mouth, too wide for her elfin face, reflected his grin.

I cannot help it, every time I look at you, my dear, he said, but he did manage to stop himself from grinning down at her; he took both her hands in his, then kissed her forehead.

This is why we are out here, she said, rather than in our sanctuary with our brothers; Klaybear has not stopped mourning the loss of Klare.

Mistress Klarissa, the healer, has died? Lenna asked.

Blakstar snorted, and Kovaine shot him an angry glance.

It has been over seventy years since she died, Kovaine noted, her place as healer taken by one of their descendants, Mistress Marsa.

Belki’s eyes widened. That’s longer than either of us have lived! he exclaimed, disbelief coloring his voice. And he is still in mourning?

Sadly, yes, Kovaine answered, but remember that they have been together since before the Great Year, almost five-hundred years.

Belki shook his head. People don’t live that long, he said. It’s not right.

Do not envy us, Belki, Kovaine said. Our long lives have not been without excruciating losses: how would you like to watch your children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren all grow and die, while you never age a day?

We were appointed caretakers of this world, Blakstar added, and it is our duty to deal with problems such as this one, he went on, pointing again to the wall of ice moving inexorably across the lake toward the nearly abandoned village.

We still think this may only be a natural cycle of the life of our world, Kovaine put in, trying to pacify the thuro.

Blakstar shook his head. "This ice feels wrong to me, he said, and you sound like our brothers, endlessly debating long past the time for action."

Kovaine reached up and touched his cheek gently. Yes, my husband, she said, our brothers do tend to over think things, but that is what they are best at, especially Thal; no one knows better the science of our world, and we would do well to listen to his arguments.

Blakstar shrugged, knowing she was right, as she had been time and time again. There is still something about this ice that is wrong, he told her, and I think it might be time for us to act. He looked at Belki, hearing him begin to protest. "All you can do, thuro, is see to your own, and lead everyone south to warmer climes. My lady," he added, bowing once to Lenna, then turning to go; Kovaine followed, catching up quickly and taking his hand.

That was abrupt, she noted when she was sure they were out of earshot.

I think we need to start changing our names, Blakstar said.

Kovaine stopped, pulling her husband around to look at him. I suggested that centuries ago, she said. Why now?

I’m beginning to see the wisdom in it, he admitted. It’s all those envious looks, as if we have been given some kind of reward; they do not see, or understand, what a burden this life is.

They cannot possibly understand, dearest, Kovaine replied. Do not take out your frustrations on them.

Blakstar smiled and squeezed her hand. Five hundred years later and you are still teaching me manners, he said, turning and leading her on to the place where their horses waited. He helped her mount her gray mare, then he climbed onto his red stallion. They rode south out of the village, heading toward the city now called Shimar, the former Shigmar, where their sanctuary was still hidden. In the late afternoon, he turned aside from the road to the west, skirting the small lake before Shimar’s gates, choked with ice, moving up the hill and past a screen of low, tangled bushes, covering the entrance to a small cave. They dismounted, moving around the shrubs and leading their horses into the hidden cave. Handing his reins to Kovaine, Blakstar drew will-giver in a shower of golden flames, drawing a small circle on a large, flat rock, flattened just for this purpose, opening a small archway to Thal. His head appeared at once, his hair no longer red, although there were hints among the gray; his face was long and free of wrinkles, his nose as prominent as ever.

Good day, Blakstar, Kovaine, Thal said, to what do I owe the pleasure of your contact?

Kovaine laughed her musical laugh. Dear Master Thalamar, she said as she laughed, you are ever the charmer.

"We were wondering how he was doing? Blakstar asked. We will not return if he is still mourning."

You mean, moping, Thal replied, smiling widely.

He must be sitting with you, Kovaine said, or you would not be criticizing him so.

Actually, he is in the garden, working, Thal replied. Was I this bad? he asked.

Hardly, Kovaine replied. You moped only for decades, while he has been moping for nearly a century!

Thal laughed, and Blakstar saw a flash of the former white maghi, looking like a deranged scarecrow escaped from some field.

I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt, Thal went on after controlling his mirth. "He was with