The Blood of Queens: A Tide of Sacred Ice, #2

By Alexander Saloen

War!

 

The Cyngellian army is on the march to Little Creek. For the harsh and acrimonious Captain Blackboot and so many soldiers of the newborn empire, this is the moment they've been waiting for – an opportunity to repay debt.

 

In the Hammer Mountains, Róinn bestows a dangerous magic key upon his most trusted student, Sam, who along with his hot-headed friends Fnugg and Betty Sue must set out to find the queen of Little Creek, a task that soon proves to be a far greater challenge than first anticipated.

 

With a handful of trusted men, Oliver leads a quest to the Moonsea to muster an army against the Cyngellian tyranny. But with the return of the seasons, an ancient evil has awoken in the ground, a terrible threat that should have remained buried under Aladria's ice and snow…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexander A Saloen
• Release date: Feb 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393586210

Alexander Saloen

Alexander Saloen's enthusiasm for stories and tales started early. He especially remembers his grandfather's ability to make small chatter seem like little fairy-tales. Back in 2013, he wrote the play "A Dance in the Necropolis" and had begun working on the novel "The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice", which he finished in 2017. ''​I hope that you, dear reader, enjoy my works and that it inspires you. Again, what would our world be without stories, art and music?''  Titles so far in the fantasy series:  The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice  The Blood of Queens  Children of the Pact  The Prince of Fire (the summer of 2022)   

Book preview

The Blood of Queens

A Tide of Sacred Ice

Copyright © 2019 by Alexander Amit Saloen (Sæløen)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For permission requests, write to the publisher/author at the address below:

ALEXANDER AMIT SÆLØEN

Wolffs gate 14,

5006 BERGEN – NORWAY

Or e-mail: [e-mail]

First edition, published 2019

ISBN: 9781731182678

Cover design, made by the author himself at befunky.com. 

Dramatis Personae

People of Little Creek

Émilie - the queen

Oliver - a constable

Big Barrie - blacksmith

Arthur - an innkeeper

Caldor - a swordsman

Ohb - a squire

Zalack - a councilman

Lilly - a daughter

Cob - a cook

The Cyngellians

Drusus - head banker

Festus - a banker

Fabius - a banker

Blackboot - a mercenary

Brusk - a squire/drummer

Mardicus - a retired general

Emperor - the emperor of Cyngellia

Baldwyn - a nobleman

Envoys

The Druids

Humbletee - man in red

Littlebrook - head of the druidic Order

Azûl - indigo druid

Gwyn the Green - green druid

Feather Tom - a bird (fieldfare)

Lubu - a donkey

The Snowlingers

Róinn - a teacher

Dórinn - a deserter

Ethlón - deceased lord

Boron - king of the Hammer Mountains

Felmar - a miner

Almar - a miner

Sam - a student

Betty Sue - a student

Fnugg - a student

Gÿn - a guard

Ïnur - a guard

Dambreen

Amara - queen of the forest

Ïngul - an owl

Ëlina - a warrior

The sisterhood - warriors

Redhoof – a horse

The Moonsea

Ghost - a girl

Narna Ïhm - a gambler

Rusty Jack - ruler of Éraz Lûna

Pricilla - a servant

The Stewards of Ûman Rÿn

Fisherwoman - a fortune-teller

Redplum - a gambler

Salt - a bowman

Curry - a bowman

Anwen - a refugee

Eilidh - a refugee

Murmillo - a gambler

Silverfall

Plabbe – a magistrate

Tamira – a fiddler

Ronna – an innkeeper

Others

Ingmar - deceased king

Nawina - Ingmar’s queen

Witches

Fallen kings/dark monks

Yellow druid

Turquoise druid

Orange druid

Bright blue druid

Former king and queen of Little Creek

Gunnilda - a deceased girl

Whitebear the Wise - a polar bear

Servilia - a girl

Anúr Sûn - fallen king/dark monk

The Noose - dark lord

Enya - queen of light and the first age

Children

Aladrian Calendar

BLUESTAR

January

It is said that it turns so cold during this month that even the stars sometimes freeze.

MIRRORLAKE

February

Every lake is still frozen, their surfaces like winter’s own mirrors.

GREYWIND

March

Spring approaches, winds are changing. 

RIVERWHISTLE

April

The ice is melting, birds are returning to the woodlands.

FLOWERWREATH

May

Nature is in full bloom, children are often seen with flower wreaths on their heads, playing in the woodlands of Aladria.

GOLDSUN

June

This is the time of summer solstice – the sun at its highest and brightest, a torch to all life.

GOLDBARLEY

July

Like the sun, the barley has a golden glow to it in the sunlight.

BROWNBARLEY

August

Autumn is coming. Gold fades to brown, and the barley is ripe for harvesting.

REDLEAF

September

A month of colours, grace, beauty, and of darker nights.

APPLEFALL

October

The fruit is ripe, falling from every tree. Also, the days are notably shorter, and the nights colder.

REDSTAR

November

Winter is near. Snow begins to fall, and one has to look to the stars to marvel at nature’s own colourful gems. 

WHITESUN

December

Winter solstice, a time of celebration, a month when the sun gets as cold as it can ever get. It appears white in the eyes of all living. Also, during this month it yet again turns its warmer side to the world.

The Ages of Aladria

First there was only darkness, an everlasting void ruled by the cold eyes of the One. Then came a twitch, a thought, and the light was born. But the Dark Lord sneered, for with that light he made certain the birth of all shades...

- Ancient note found in Master Gwyn’s mess.

Before the clocks were set by the White Spirits, the great designers and Creators of Life, there was only the drawn breath of Light. This was the time of Ëdorath, creation. There was harmony, and songs of new-born worlds were sung to the commencement of the great crafting of the countless stars. But darkness would not have it, and so it struck back. Great wars began between light and dark to forge the future. In the end, the Creators had to hide their secret of creation from the looming shades in the unknown regions of the universe. Their eyes fell upon the earth, the continent of Aladria to be more precise. It had with its humans and creatures existed for a long time, but under the shadows of darkness. With the light came the beginning and promise of a brighter dawn. 

There are five ages of Aladria. There was no mankind during the first two ages. The first of these prehistoric eras was known as Cratarûn, the age of fire, smoke, lava, water, and the oceans, the creation of the world. The second was known as Bellarûn, the age of gods, beasts, and giants, a time that began some five million years before the world saw its first humans. Whenever the first age is referred to, it is usually meant the first age of mankind, unless anything else is specified. This epoch lasted six times longer than any of the following ages, each of which stretched over a span of five thousand years. The most common name for the first age is Amerûn, ame meaning first in ancient druidic, and rûn meaning age. The second is called Dozorûn, dozo meaning second, and the third Driorûn, drio meaning third.

Cratarûn, the age of creation. The continents were cut, the mountains constructed, the countless valleys and gorges flooded with lava. This lasted for millions of years. The air was poisonous and black, too poisonous for anyone to breathe. The events that took place during this age are many, and all the more unnecessary to mention. Millions of years would pass until the birth of the gods found place, and with it the beginning of the next age.

Bellarûn, the age and rise of the ancient gods. The gods of the earth, the Shârz {Shârz, both singular and plural} were all given thrones by the Creators during this age, for they were protectors of all the land the Creators had made and had risen of the earth to guard it. There came, in time, many beasts and creatures from the earth during this time, and all of them dwelled under the mercy of the ancient deities. This is also the age when the great fire dragons were born. They were made by the god of fire, to guard the gates to the land of fire. Of the ancient deities, this was the only Shârz who regarded the Dark Lord of the Void as superior. He worshipped darkness from the earliest of moments, claiming that in the darkness his flames shone even brighter. Among the stars, the dichotomy between light and dark had been going on for a long time. The other Shârz were displeased that the fire god held the Dark Lord and not the White Guardians as his lord and master and created something that could withstand the might of his fire dragons. The ice dragons came into being. The Shârz are physical beings of flesh and bone, not floating or transparent entities like ghosts or spirits. They’ve lived for millions of years. Their bodies are of the earth’s elements and renew themselves after a thousand years of rest. There’s a multitude of Shârz, however, the most commonly worshipped are

Shârz Mortûl - god of unresting souls

Shârz Féorann- god of fire

Shârz Thastar - god of the woodlands

Shârz Dûrbuhk - god of ice and air

Shârz Azûdrûn - god of the seas

Shârz Valghaz - god of stone and earth

Shârz Arbathar - god of prosperity

Shârz Habathaz - god of vengeance

Shârz Elpída - god of hope.

The Shârz are tall, at least three times taller than the tallest druid, who stands among the tallest of humans. Each god has a different tone to their skin, painted faces with colourful contrasts, and some wear rings and jewellery of fire, stone, ice, or wood. The Shârz, except Shârz Féorann, approved the descending of the eight stars, the druids, who were sent to aid earth and its life in the battle against darkness. At first, the ancient gods were at peace with all creatures of the earth, even humans, until they too turned from their grace and mercy, and began worshipping the darkness. The ancient gods did not grant them the wishes they asked for in the manner the Dark Lord could and did. Worshipping him gave more fruits. And in return, he asked for nothing else than loyalty and sacrifices, unlike the ancient gods whose had demanded obedience of rules and laws among humans and other creatures, and how they used the earth for their survival and gain. 

Eventually, the ancient gods grew bitter and lost faith in the world. Some claim that many of them were behind the winter curse that brought Aladria under ice and snow for six centuries, however, this cannot be said for sure. What is certain is that they retreated from the realm of mortals, to places under strict spells that could only be broken by adepts, those few skilled in the art of magic. Of these were the fallen kings, the witches, the alchemists, sorcerers of black magic, and of course, the druids. It should be mentioned that the ancient gods are still used in many of the Aladrian dialects, and in the languages of the world in general. For instance, the snowlingers use the word god or Shârz while swearing or praying, usually referring to Valghaz, the god of stone and air. However, most of the snowlingers, unlike their dwarfish ancestors, have forgotten about the true ancient gods and their powers. All they know, and care about, is that uttering such words brings either luck, or puts curses upon others. 

Amerûn was the age known as the rise of the first humans, dwarves, and many other beings. For many, this also became the age of sacrifice. Before light there was darkness, and this darkness was eventually worshipped in every corner of Aladria. The Creators knew something had to be done, and so convinced eight stars to incarnate in human form. The druids were sent to the earth, along with the key of light, to restore order and peace. Of the chosen eight, Littlebrook was the first to walk the earth. The writing of mankind’s history, especially that of Aladria, began with him. There aren’t many verses preserved from these earliest days of the druids, but Littlebrook wrote a poem when first he saw the creation the White Guardians had set him to overlook and protect. A few verses of this poem are still hidden in Castle White. The first verse goes like this:

––––––––

Stars, brothers and sisters, I beseech you! Guide me, help me carry out my task.

I was blinded by my throne as the oldest star, too little did I ask.

No wind, no bird, no soft green grass, only a constant light to see the time pass.

That was all I’d seen from my throne of white, red and green.

This world, this creation, above both king and queen!

One cannot experience that which is close,

The rippling of a river, the fragrance of a rose,

From far and away, where blossom neither night nor day.

And where no words exist, neither in verses nor in prose. 

The druids taught the art of writing to mankind. The druids had their own language, the language of constellations, Luxarian, but their writing systems quickly spread and was soon to be read all over Aladria, each form and variant carefully adjusted to the needs of local dialects and phrases. Much is written in this language, tales and stories that only the druids still know. The languages of Aladria have changed greatly since Amerûn, and now only the wizards still speak the ancient druidic tongue. The first unique trait you will notice when hearing Luxarian is the long vowels. This was something that changed with the ages, and the vowels that had been made of diphthongs were shortened, either truncating the two vowels in combination, turning them into a single monophthong, or simply replacing them with a new shorter vowel. The signs above the vowels indicate the stress of each phoneme (vowel) in pronunciation. Luxarian was the language of stars, and with the first light came the first harmonious sounds of the universe, sounds that were partly preserved in the Luxarian vowel system.

Dozorûn was an age of wonder, prosperity and war. The dwarves marched north to fight alongside queen Enya, a battle they lost. They fully retook the Anvil Mountains (now known as the Hammer Mountains) during this age and claimed, yet again, rule over the ancient dwarfish kingdom. However, they were now known as snowlingers, not dwarves. This is also the age when the five kings and a prince of the north were accepted as the druids’ apprentices, and their fall to darkness. The six apprentices vowed to serve the Noose, and in return were given unnaturally long lives. Their cursed shadows lingered far into the age of Dozorûn, but after their leader Anúr Sûn’s crown was robbed and hidden they retreated to the land of fire and were neither seen, heard, nor spoken of again, until the third age.

Driorûn is the age where the ice dragon cast his winter curse over Aladria, the quest of Dórinn the Brave, and the return of the seasons (present time). It was Dórinn the Brave, Róinn, and queen Émilie, who was then a slave girl, that set out to find the legendary treasure in the north. They had no clue that the treasure was the Shimmering Tear, the White Guardian’s key, watched by the ice dragon. The ancient deity had made a deal with the red druid, known as the man in red, to guard the key until its rightful keeper was found. Seeing the slave girl, the dragon knew she was the one. He trusted the two snowlingers, who had entered his cave without permission, to bring back the key while he assisted Émilie in freeing her people from the corrupt king and queen of Little Creek. The key ended up in the Hammer Mountains, where it stayed, for a time.

As for the winter curse, which had lasted for more than six centuries at this point, it abated and withdrew by queen Émilie’s decision when the dragon asked what she wanted as reward for seeking him out, convincing him that there were still those who believed in good. As a result, the free folk of Aladria saw its lakes, valleys, hills, glens, heathlands, and rivers thaw and spring to life again for the first time in six centuries. Émilie chose the four seasons above mountains of wealth.

The Snowlingers

Here’s plenty of food, cuisines for every taste. Name it, and the Hammer Mountains will provide it. Here are books for the eyes and every imagination, and stories for those who care to listen. And yet you may find that something isn’t quite right about this place, and that something might just be the most peculiar identity crisis the world has ever seen...

- A druidic observation.

Let there be no confusion; the snowlingers are dwarves. The truth is, by the end of Amerûn, a time some consider to be the first part of Dozorûn, the dwarves of Aladria were driven to a great battle in the far north. Many died, and those who survived retreated to the legendary mountains of Rúh Hírín. There they dwelled for about a century before they ventured south to the prosperous kingdom of Árish Ûhm. The dwarves were welcomed as heroes and settled down. As the years went by, they mingled blood with the inhabitants of that ancient kingdom, a folk whose history is an entirely different tale.

Toward the end of the first half of Dozorûn, the dwarves sought to take back their ancient kingdom in the Anvil Fells, better known as the Hammer Mountains. Upon returning they were shocked to see that their ancient homes had turned into a mere myth, one covered in dust, cobweb, and ancestral remains. It took them thirty years to rebuild the ancient kingdom, and by that time they were no longer dwarves. Many meetings were held, and many historians and emissaries from neighbouring kingdoms came to write about them. The dwarves, as they were still called and otherwise referred to by most, felt remorse and shame toward the decisions made by their legendary ancestors. Leaving for the great battle, they had left behind the sick and the old in the Anvil Fells, most of whom died in their beds, abandoned. Therefore, the name of dwarves was omitted from the snowlingers’ history books, and only a few references to the great battle were left in their archives. The new name staggered many a scholar, but as the years went on it turned out to be a name that rolled off of the tongue quite easily - Snow-lingers. They dwelled under layers of ice and snow, deep inside the mountains, and so those who linger in, under, within, or below the snow was the idea behind the name many first thought of as uncouth. Some even went as far as to regard it undignifying to the glorious dwarves that once dwelled within the Anvil Mountains.

Though forging was a gift they inherited from their ancestors, they decided to keep the tradition alive. They were dependent on trade, and many a good bargain was struck within the re-opened kingdom of the Hammer Mountains. Otherwise, new traditions agreed upon within the Hammer Mountains became a matter of great import to the snowlingers. These were set to keep the peace and protect them from harm and evil. In the years to come, war and destruction took place elsewhere, and this influenced their trade. Therefore, at a historical meeting, it was decided that the world could neither be bargained nor reasoned with. In the following years, their economy suffered greatly. They stopped turning up at market squares to sell or trade goods and many snowlingers felt disgruntled and betrayed by this. At first, they stopped leaving the mountains, but traders could still seek them out on their own grounds. Then, after long, this also came to an end. The wars didn’t end, like the snowlingers had hoped and prayed they would. Eventually, only a few elected were granted access to their kingdom. 

The druids, the great guardians of peace and light, were among those permitted access to their kingdom, but that was pretty much it. Gradually, the snowlingers began to seclude themselves from the rest of the world. They would support those they deemed worthy, although many came to their doors for aid without much success. The kings and lords ruling the mountain from the age of Dozorûn were cautious as to who was let inside the mountains. Toward the end of that age, most records and archives of the ancient dwarves were hidden and/or neglected, and never again spoken of to their coming generations.

It should, for your safety, be mentioned that they inherited something else from their dwarfish ancestors; their fiery temper. All too often, they end up settling matters with bare hands, matters you and I (hopefully) see as minutiae, matters of paltry importance. Once, a mug of beer was knocked down from a table and fell into a blacksmith’s lap. He kindly asked for an apology, but none was given. Sod off, pig!, that was all he was offered. The blacksmith retaliated by clenching his strong fist, plunging it into the offender’s face. The nose broke, and about seven and a half minute later some forty snowlingers were beating one another with unquenchable rage. The king of the Hammer Mountains back then, king Rothofs the II, who was known to be a character of relatively bright intellect and great composure, totally lost his mental grasp, joining the fight. Some three days ahead, a meeting of great import was set to be held in the Snowcaves. Thanks to his men, the Hall of Thrones now looked like something between a butcher’s and a carpenter’s workshop. Tables were broken, chairs smashed, and amidst the blood on the floor lay a fine heap of gleaming teeth. And king Rothofs? He looked like a bludgeoned pile of meat and bone, like everyone else who had participated in the fight. His mailed fists had, however, put an end to the brawl. Eventually, seven guardsmen had to drag him off the last man whose nose he was pounding in – with his crown. For the rest of his life, some seventy years on, Rothofs would refer to his people as Alefists and Brawlmongers, titles that are still remembered by a handful of snowlingers. 

We have hitherto touched upon some of their history. But what makes a snowlinger so unique? There are many answers, none of which can be said with an absolute certainty. For now, we shall focus on some of their customs, and what they eat and wear. The best way of doing that is to pretend you’re a guest in their halls. 

If you ever have the honour of being invited to the Hammer Mountains, or the Anvil Mountains if you like, be prepared to stay for a few days. The snowlingers are a loveable people, fond of strangers, though outside their mountains they usually keep up a pretence of not being so. What’s more they are unbelievably curious (the seclusion led to much turmoil and tumultuous times, especially when it was first made a law). Once you get there you will be given a large mug of tea with (at least) three large spoons of heather honey poured into it. Your robe or cloak will be taken care of, washed and ironed if needed, and you will be shown to one of their great halls. Remember, let them ask as many questions as they please! They mean no harm; they merely wish to get to know you better. After much back and forth answering a ton of questions there will be food. And dear reader, make no mistake about it. The food they will be serving you is fit for any king or queen. There will be meats, salty and sweet, sauces, smoked fish and sausages, freshly baked bread with butter and garlic, and brewed ale. The ale, as you will quickly discover, is dark and has the scent and flavour of oak or pines to it. Never drink before the lord or king of the Hammer Mountains. Raise your mug together with him, let him praise your name (which he often will), and then drink.

After the meal you will normally be shown to your chamber. It is cosy, warm, though not as personal as those occupied by the inhabitants, but what can you really expect? Here you will be given candles, books if you enjoy tales and stories, and a tub of water with lemon in it (if they’re available). The following morning, usually around eight, someone will knock on your door. Breakfast is usually served between eight thirty and nine. There will be eggs and bacon, cheeses piled up in gaudy towers decorated with parsley, bread and milk, along with a various selection of herring in glass-jars filled with vinegar and pepper. When the breakfast is over, around ten thirty, there’s tea time. Tales will be told, and it will be expected that you too shall contribute. You are of course free to leave if you wish, so long as you tell them at least three hours beforehand. Leaving in a hurry, especially without a thorough explanation, is seen as rude and will be frowned upon. In worst case you will never again be granted access to their kingdom. Snowlingers like to plan things carefully, and when there’s no time to plan and they still act you can be sure they have a pretty good reason for doing so. Remember, it took Dórinn the Brave a long time to persuade his friend Róinn to come with him into the wilderness. Belief in that something great awaited them wasn’t enough, a promise had to be made. And as you might know, one such promise was given.

Snowlingers are shy and loveable. They thrive best alone, as the legends of Aladria do claim, but that doesn’t mean they do not care. Many a scholar and historian have made the mistake (and will still be making the mistake) of describing the little ones under the Hammer Mountains as abnormally selfish and crude. This is a terrible misconception. They seclude themselves, but that is not because they do not care for the welfare and wellbeing of the world. Their ragged history of warmongering past has made them a scared and wary people, concerned about their future and that of their younglings. Some of them grow old, and have therefore seen many a sad fate, especially at the hands of humans. Snowlingers often have a lifespan of more than two hundred years, and that my friend is a very long time! They age pretty well, and rarely suffer memory loss or fall sick. Those who do are usually plagued by a troubled past.

That being said, they are terribly superstitious! Don’t be alarmed if they wave hollies around you and sing verses of joy, or tell you to shove your feet into the aforementioned tub of hot water with lemons in it. These are but a few of the things that exorcise malicious spirits, according to their beliefs. Whether or not the snowlingers are a religious people remains an unsolved mystery. Some scholars claim they are, some don’t. They often refer to the gods (they have many), especially when swearing, praying or cursing. However, most of the kings since the age of Dozorûn have assured the free folk of Aladria they mean nothing about it. It is a mere figure of speech, nothing else.

What does a snowlinger usually wear? To answer that we must bear in mind there are three ways you are most likely to see them. One, inside their halls and chambers. Two, outside watching their cattle and livestock. Three, marching for war. The last one is a whole chapter in itself, one that will merely be touched upon here.

So, what do they wear at home? You are most likely to see their women in a long shift of wool or linen, and over that they commonly wear a woollen tunic. Sometimes, this is secured at the shoulders with gaudy brooches in bronze, pewter, or silver. They always, at all times, wear a leather belt around their waists, and from this hang their keys and other utility tools. They only wear headwear when outside watching the livestock, and that includes woven hats and wimples.

Men wear knee length tunics in various colours, the most common being red, black, grey, blue, and green. They also wear a belt from which hang many items, especially keys and knives. Outside they wear a cloak or cape fastened with much the same brooches as worn by their female counterparts. Their children wear tunics or gowns, usually in brighter colours until they are ready for their first exam, at the age of ten. The snowlingers, like most others, dye their fabrics by using plants, roots, tree bark, lichen, nuts, sea shells (if they dare venture to the coast unseen), and iron oxide. Their shoes are normally made of calfskin or goatskin. The laces are made from leather, and these, as you will learn, are dyed in unique colours for good reasons.  

In war, the snowlingers are known for their vast selection of fine armour and weapons. As before said, they are excellent blacksmiths, and their ancestral forges have created many a breast plate, shield, hammer, buckler, and spear to be witnessed in awe.

Their laws are many, and though I have known them for a long time I still remain unable to comprehend each and every one of them. But for now, let’s just say there’s one law that they’re widely known for. As a snowlinger, one does not leave the Hammer Mountains without an explicit order from one’s lord or king. Leaving is seen as an act of treason. The most renowned snowlinger to venture into the world without permission was Dórinn the Brave, as he was later called.

Finally, it is worth mentioning that the snowlingers have their own alphabet, the Bozno system. The ancient rune system of the dwarves was abandoned. Linguistically, this resulted in a few issues. The dwarfish alphabet was a well-established system. Still, there were great differences in the manner in which vowels and consonants were written. The snowlingers created new letters for the five vowels, each of them being a, e, i, u, and o. The consonants remained mostly the same, with the exception of the dental fricative of th, and the consonants of g, t, and z. Over the years, the ancient system of the dwarves faded into the shades of forgetfulness, and like most languages, theirs too was inevitably subjected to many a change.

You see, the snowlingers take great pride in their literature. They are fond collectors of books, aficionados of stories, and have a proud library to show for it. And so, dear reader, they are not ignorant. They prefer to study the world from a safe distance, and if the mood is right ponder upon the riddles of the world in safe halls beneath the peaks of familiar mountains. That was usually the norm until Dórinn the Brave nicked the sacred book, one bestowed upon them by a mysterious druid around the year 2299 of the third age. This was around the commencement of the ice dragon’s curse, a punishment that brought Aladria under ice and snow until roughly the year 2899. That is where we find the events concerning Dórinn’s quest to the north, and some three years later, the events in this book. 

The Druids

And so I ask of you, stars of the night, abandon your positions and offer us aid! Guard our secret, our mystery, our light... What say you?

- White Guardians’ request.

If you venture northeast during the winter, the star of Almanür should glow before you, like a colourful jewel, showing the way to the legendary valley of Annath Ǜbrin - the home of the druids. It is a long valley, with tall mountains whose peaks are always lain with snow. In winter, the golden fields protected by the brotherhood of magic lay white and sleepy, although a feeling of reverence and awe will strike you. Crossing those fields, you can feel the dormant life below the ground waiting for the moment to spring anew.

Before you stands the Winter Temple, one of the most legendary buildings in the northeast. It is large and is partly hewn into the mountainside. It has many towers and turrets, the most famous of them being the Tower of Constellations. It wasn’t built by the druids, but long ago by the early men of Amerûn. It was a gift from mankind to the druids, a token of their appreciation. And you may wonder why? As you know, the age of Amerûn was a time of darkness and sacrifice. Heliolatry, the worshipping of the sun, was quintessential to a good harvest, or so the people of Aladria thought. In order for the sun to shine they believed that each year a sacrifice of children had to be made, and under the green moon. The druids sent to the earth sought to put an end to the bloodshed. Still, there were many kingdoms that stayed true to the old ways, and thereof cursed the work of the druids. Eventually, the dark forces and their worshippers were driven from the lands; the free folk of Aladria were safe. So much did they value the knowledge and wisdom of the druids that they built the temple in Annath Ǜbrin in their honour. Here the brotherhood could stay during the harsh winters. Until then they’d resided in the far hostile north, in Castle White, where the druids’ true seat of power is known to be.

So, who are the druids? By now you know some of what they did and why they were sent to this world. But what about their customs, traditions, and laws? As with the snowlingers, they have many unique customs and etiquettes. However, most of these aren’t laws written and agreed upon by the brotherhood of magic, but codes held above them by the everlasting Creation, the Universe. A druid is set upon the earth to mend the wounded, still their pain, to comfort, to guide, and to observe. A druid never rules with an iron fist! Doing so wouldn’t just be an offence against the free folk, but against the Creators themselves.

As mentioned earlier, Littlebrook was the first druid to set foot upon the soil of Aladria. The following century his brethren followed. Humbletee was the last and therefore the youngest of the magicians. Each of their robes of fine wool and silk had a specific colour unique to their talents and skills. The hues were that of red, orange, yellow, green, turquoise, blue, indigo and violet, with Littlebrook as the oldest carrying robes in violet, and Humbletee as the youngest wearing robes in red.

The druids have many names, and this has often caused confusion as there are many in this world who are acquainted (and even highly skilled - adept) with the art of magic. But the druids remain the most powerful, although they hardly ever display their true powers. They keep them cloaked, concealed from the masses an instead lead by guidance and inspiration. However, they have been called wizards, which is correct, and otherwise magi, alchemists, men of witchcraft, brothers of magic, and a whole range of other things. But in Aladria they came to be known as druids, for the source of their powers lie in the Creation itself, with it, within it, and from it, and not in that of shades and mystique, like that of say an alchemist.

Furthermore, the druids are immortals. They don’t die until their tasks are completed. First then may they return to their constellations as reborn stars. When they first agreed to be sent to the earth, they bargained with the creator of the universal clocks, Nalwäé. He agreed that time, his most profound creation, was not going to crumble and corrupt their physical forms, as it would do with everyone and everything else; even the stars. It was a known fact that time was indeed the worst killer, and Nalwäé did often contemplate whether his invention was fair and good, but each time he concluded it was necessary. Losing one's youth and growing older, to thence fade into dust was a necessity, not a wish. Otherwise, the circle of life wouldn’t be turning, and old wouldn’t have to pass and give room for the young. Also, the perception of life itself was more heartfelt this way; the living learned to cherish the time they were given, knowing it would one day come to an end.

But with the druids he made an exception, for a good reason. Darkness would last forever, and a mere human life would never be enough to stand against it, not even thousands. The druids were granted eternal lives, but that does not mean they cannot be killed. Should this happen, they will be reborn into the same shape and form as they first chose, remembering who and what they are. When being reborn, this is a gift usually reserved for the druids, although the White Guardians have made exceptions. Otherwise, common mortals such as humans may remember fractions and fragments from their past lives, incoherent glimpses of certain events. Some seek the druids for their guidance, to find clarity and meaning in such visions. Others seek sorcerers and witches, even alchemists, paying a hefty price for the consultation. There is another option, the Shârz. However, this one often requires the greatest price of them all; one’s soul. 

The first thing you’ll notice if you visit the Winter Temple is the clutter. Hens, sheep, goats, and servants will be running hither and thither, and amidst all this (if they haven’t isolated themselves in a chamber deep in the mountain to write or invent) you might encounter the druids of Aladria. They are usually doing one of four things, studying and writing, enhancing their skills, smoking tobacco, or travelling the world. There is a good chance that many of them are absent when you arrive, but do not worry; there are always a few of them there. If you want to see them all, the best time to do so is under the green moon, which occurs once every century. That is when they pass the sacred key of the White Guardians over to the next keeper, to guard and protect.

At first the druids may seem rude, unwelcoming and arrogant, but that is because they’ve seen what the black hearts of mankind can do. A general (and should I say fair) portion of misanthropy has, over the long ages, become a part of them and their bearing, but remember; it is never meant to be taken personally.

You will be asked what brings you thither. The druids prefer to know who is visiting, so that no-one of dishonest blood may take away their secrets. While you stay at the Winter Temple, do not enter rooms that are private or forbidden. There will be signs. Breaking these rules can be dangerous. Most likely, the grandmaster himself would want to meet you (the Winter Temple isn’t frequented by many on a regular basis). He is a kind and loving man. He loves tea, and often stays up late as the red sun sinks below the horizon, pondering the matters of the world. He has a love for turtles and whales, indeed all living creatures, and will, if he’s permitted, talk about stars and constellations until dawn.

He does, like all druids, love his pipe. The white tobacco grows in only one place in Aladria, the far south on the eastern coast where the morning sun shines warm and bright. Otherwise it is found thriving in the craggy mountains between Arnarion and Cyngellia. There are many other tobaccos out there, but Muwëe, as it’s called, is the clear favourite.

You will be served a decent meal, at least once a day as a guest at their Winter Temple. What will differ from this place to a kingdom or a lord’s mansion, is that the servants often eat more and better than the masters they serve. Yes! It is no joke; the servants are served better food than the druids. The druids are somewhat ascetic. They prefer the simpler things in life, as magic and knowledge is their true goal, not delights. They eat to keep their physical form, not to revel. When the druids are travelling, you will find that they are utmost abstemious. And that goes for all of them. Surely, they can enjoy food and drink, but they have no craving for it, like mankind often does.

So, what will you be served? Fish, fish, and more fish! You’ll find the seafood, most commonly trout or salmon, baked in ovens, fried in pepper, salt and butter mixed with whipped eggs, or boiled along with a vast selection of herbs from Master Gwyn’s garden. If you are accustomed to meat, this might require some getting used to. Occasionally, deer meat will be served, but usually only during the summer or the winter solstice. Also; do not throw away food unless you have to! 

You dine with the servants, all of who are good men and women serving at the temple. They’re paid decent wages and return to their families twice a year for two weeks or so. They are not looked down upon, but treated with respect, have their own chambers, spare time, the right to leave if needed or wanted, and of course, the approval of the druids. They have many stories to tell, and many of them are quite adept in the art of healing, as taught by the druids. They will sing and dance, and some are talented musicians, too. They make good company, and you will always feel like you are part of something great while staying at the Winter Temple. When you leave you will be given food for your journey, a blessing, and sometimes even a small bottle of medicine in case you should fall ill or encounter somebody else in need. One of the servants will follow you across the arch bridge of stone and bid you farewell and good speed.

Should you visit the druids while the sun is either at its lowest or highest upon the heaven, don’t be surprised to see women and men seeking the temple, haggling over the price of medicine. Twice a year, during the summer solstice and winter solstice, the druids welcome those in need to seek them out. The temple is open for all travellers for about a month. Sometimes, as has happened, if there’s great disease in a town or village, a druid might decide to pack up and go with those in need. The most eager druids to leave are the ones in red, orange, green, and turquoise.

You may think a druid spends his time slacking off, pondering the ways of the world, keeping half an eye on it only when bothered?

No, my dear reader.

The druids are among the finest ambassadors, inventors, physicians, healers, guides, and arbitrators you will ever find. They do what they can to prevent wars, the rise of tyranny, starvation, and bloodshed, and that requires a lot of travelling.

Their inventions are many, so many in fact that I couldn’t name them all in a book twice this size. In brief terms, their creativity benefits the lives of commoners. Just to mention one artefact; the iron plough. It was their design. It offered the farmers a chisel, a mouldboard, and a share to be attached to an adjustable beam. Before that the farmers had had to make do with a mere stick or pole sharpened with axes. Needless to say, this revolutionised the cultivation of Aladria’s soil.

Of all the druids and their inventions, Gwyn the Green’s contrivances are perhaps the ones that will make you raise an eyebrow. It’s not that these are grand or excellent in shape and form, painted in gold or otherwise adorned by costly materials. And that’s just the thing! Gwyn’s prowess and excellence extend to nature and everything related it. Pay close attention to the gardens, visitor. You will find flour that never rots and always grows, even during winter. Flowers don’t lose their colours unless the green druid wants them to, and here are plants you’ve most likely never encountered. Many of them have contributed to the vast selection of excellent medicines in the druids’ possession. Don’t be alarmed if you see butterflies thriving among the many flowers in early winter, or blooming flowers amidst the fall of snowflakes. Most of the other druids, save Humbletee, Littlebrook, and a few others, find Gwyn a bit odd. He spends most of his time studying petals and leaves, peering through his magnifying glass, or meditating under mighty boughs in one of the many rich forests of Aladria, woodlands he calls his true home. He travels thither quite often, especially in the time of fall as he enjoys listening to the rustling of leaves in the wind. Usually, he only meets up at the Winter Temple when called or sent for, which is the main reason for so many of his peers’ dislike toward his character. Unlike his brethren of magic, his strength is not in speech. He seems clumsy because he tries to be succinct when that was not his true nature, not in the beginning. If you meet him you will understand. There’s a good chance he won’t talk to you, at first, but show him some roots or flowers you’ve picked up on your journey and he will quickly warm up to you. 

I’ve mentioned the colours of their robes, and that each colour has to do with their talents and gifts. Some are good spokesmen, others great healers and advisers. Some are acquainted with the mountains and hills, others with the stars, the ocean and the winds. They engage in many rituals, most of which are in the best interest of the people and the earth, although some are also of a darker nature. The druids can wake the dead, but only voluntarily when agreement has been achieved between the magus and the deceased. The last to be granted return from the dead was king Ingmar of Little Creek.

From the year 2299 of the third age, as the winter curse began, you wouldn’t have recognised the Winter Temple. After this year, the world was truly no longer the same. Most of the druids ventured north, and only one stayed behind. The servants had left earlier for their families and did not return. Slowly, over the next few years, what was once a prosperous valley transformed into a cold crevice, its reputation fading into legends, and legends into myths.

Not until the return of the seasons did the Winter Temple slowly begin to regain its former glory.

Six men in Annath Ǜbrin,

Fell to their knees while the moon was green.

Once they were kings of mighty realms,

With flickering banners o’er glossy helms.

But one by one, as none could resist,

The rope of fire, his hand they kissed.

One, two, they’re coming for you.

Three, four, lock your door!

Five, six, heads on sticks,

Seven, eight, they’re at the gate.

Nine, ten, you’ll never see light again.

The Blood of Queens

C:\Users\Stole\OneDrive\Skrivebord\Publication images\Ouroboros.svg.png

A. A. Saloen

A Tide of Sacred Ice

Prologue

The Order of the Eight

I tell you, last born of the eight,

This is your task, your responsibility.

There will be bloodshed, it’s inevitable.

Aladria’s rivers shall run red,

Her mountains shall tremble,

Her skies blacken and tear.

But you, my son, must walk on,

Hurt or unscathed, in the dark,

With your staff, your sword,

And the glowing sparks in your pipe...

-  White Guardians

The year 2299 of the third age.

––––––––

H

umbletee hurried across the stone bridge. He was late. His legs ached, his feet burning as if his boots had been stuffed with glowing embers. But there was no time to rest. My brethren need to learn of this. The world won’t be the same... Keep moving, you fool, keep on moving!

Before him, the Winter Temple was bathed in the unusual green moonlight which, for the past few nights, had made the white fields of Aladria glitter like an ocean filled with dancing plankton. Where the snow appeared whitest, the vast fields looked like a pinpricked shore mirroring the stars above. In all their grace, the familiar towers and turrets reflected the critical light from the moon, a light that to every druid meant something special. At the end of each century, the moon spent about a month rotating on its own axis, revealing its far side. The green rock of Ûlum Ihn, as the magicians called it, revealed the time for them to pass on the sacred key onto the next keeper. Ominous clouds were gathering above the turrets and towers, threatening to blot out the green light. The air was uncommonly cold. Crows black as the night peered at him from towers and trees, cawing, their eyes pearly, their talons clutching tight into slates and branches. Tormented by hunger, they looked for any prey available, and the druid knew it. He could feel it, their beaks hacking into his flesh, tearing apart muscles and tendons. For a moment, in his mind, the river below his feet ran scarlet with thick blood. The silence was interrupted with screams of agony and suffering. He could hear them clearly now, not the crows, but the voices of those he’d met on his journeys, twisted, crying, calling for his help. And yet he was helpless, incapable of coming to their aid. He took a moment to breathe, quickly finding that the air too was dictated by his vision. It was turgid and cloying, a rancid stench of searing flesh hung upon it, which could only mean one thing – bloodshed.

He slowed down, pulling to the side of the bridge. His hand touched by the cold parapet. Peeking over the edge and down into the river, he was appalled. Hands and feet floated to the surface, bubbling from the deep. There were heads, too, heads without eyes. He looked towards the crows again, touching by the key in his belt. Move on, you’re a magician. It is only a vision, one of many!

The crows behaved strangely. He turned to look back at the path from whence he’d come. What he saw made his heart sink deep in his chest. There, where he’d just walked, they waited, all five seated on horses, all garbed in black. Their horses were not of this world and stood idle, as if held back by time. Humbletee turned around again. It’s only a vision! He checked one last time, just to be sure. Good, the key was still there, in his belt. Now move on, they’re waiting for you!

The door opened, and the druid in red entered the Hall of Thrones. His brethren were all seated. Above the head of each master shone a gemstone, each one unique to the thrones they were seated in. The dim lights glimmered like robbed stars of the night, all but one. The ruby in red was matt and lightless. Humbletee’s steps echoed from the ancient stone walls. Only a few torches were lit, burning in the sconces along the walls. No one except the druids was allowed. The secrets of magic belonged to the wizards of Aladria and to them alone. Therefore, tonight’s issue was something they had to expound and solve without the company of servants.

His masters stared at him. He did not have the bearing of a druid. Their robes were fine, clean, and well cared for, and each with unique ornaments shimmering in the torchlight. Humbletee looked like a tramp, a simple fisherman from the eastern Moonsea, filthy, like a pig, his fine crimson cloak stained with mud and soil.

For three long hours they’d waited, and as the doors finally opened, a good fifteen minutes into the fourth had passed. During that span of time, the red sunset had transformed from sangria to purple, and thence turned black. At first it would appear the stars had no intention of showing up. But as the hours passed they’d become clearer and clearer, yet always glittering at a safe distance behind the moon, giving that pale gleaming eye room to watch them.

‘Where have so you been?’ inquired Gwyn, the druid in juniper green. His robe resembled the coniferous plants of Aladria, adorned by the species he had jotted down on his ever-growing list of defined floras. His face was round, and had the hall been better lit the intricate colours of his mossy beard would have stood out even more. He was the shortest of the magicians, and the one with the brightest voice.

‘I’ll get to that...’ said Humbletee, catching his breath.

‘May we offer you something, a warm cup of goat milk, or perhaps a bath infused in sweet herbs?’ said the druid in turquoise.

A mild chortle went through the assembly.

Humbletee didn’t smell like lavender or thyme, and it would take more than costly perfume from across the seas to make the malodour go away.

‘I’m painfully aware that I’m late,’ said the young druid, ‘and that I don’t smell like one of Gwyn’s gardens. But I beg you to listen; I know what must befall the key!’

The grandmaster rose from his throne. He was the oldest and was known as Littlebrook, a tall figure in violet, whose long shade stretched across the table. 

‘Then please be seated, Humbletee, and waste no more of our time.’

Humbletee sat down.

The throne was uncommonly cold, more than he remembered it to be. The last time he was seated by this table was a hundred years ago, under the last green moon. He’d been travelling ever since, until about a month ago. And all that time, the key had been in Gwyn’s care. A very special tree within the Winter Temple had been his choice of hiding, but that was going to change.

The grandmaster sat down again, his wrinkly hands resting on the edge of the round table. ‘Honoured members of the Order,’ he continued, ‘the council of Annath Ǜbrin is hereby seated. As I’m sure you know, a few days ago I passed the key onto our youngest brother, Mr Humbletee.’

His gaze glided from each and every one of them, ending on Humbletee. 

‘Please, my young friend, if you would be so kind?’

Humbletee loosened the key from his belt and held it above the table. He let go of it, leaving it hanging in mid-air. Littlebrook’s eyes glided into the centre of the table. The key followed, and as it reached the circular midpoint it rotated in a slow pace for everyone to see.

Even to a scholar of magic, the thought that such a small thing made by the amalgamation of tin and copper could retain such power was a mystery. It was made by the White Spirits long before the counting of ages, a time loosely referred to as Ëdorath.

Before they were obliterated by darkness, the White Guardians invested the eternal Light in the key and hid it on the earth. Their children, who were made from the light of different stars, were sent to Aladria along with it, to guard and protect it. They had no longer the appearance of starlight, but were beings broken into fractions of the pure light, thereby the colours of their robes.

Everyone took a second to behold the key. Littlebrook continued after a short silence. ‘My sworn brothers, I have sensed a great threat looming in the far horizon, a darkness we have to stand united against. As it was in my care I was shown the temptation of the darkness, of the void. I was shown what pulled our fallen brothers to their doom, a fall we are still to be blamed for. The Shimmering Tear, as I call the key, must not be taken by the Noose. I won’t tell you what would become of us then. But I can assure you it wouldn’t be pretty.’

When the grandmaster spoke the very walls of the Winter Temple obeyed the call for absolute silence. ‘Humbletee and I have had a little chat. The key must leave our care. He strongly believes the time has come for destiny to play its part.’

The assembly now took to a low murmur of disagreement. The druid under the tangerine gemstone lent forward, looking Humbletee in the eyes, ‘So, tell us, what do you intend to do with it?’

‘Before I answer that,’ said Humbletee, ‘let me tell you what I’ve seen on my journeys. Long have I wandered, faring hither and thither in the Aladria, and I can tell you that it is changing quicker than you might think, and not for the better. I have stayed in the company of men, beasts, birds, even plants and trees, and they’re all wary about the changes that are coming.’

They listened like grandfathers who can’t take the worries of a grandchild too seriously. The druid in red continued unaffectedly. ‘I’ve seen children sold to slavers, women ravished for the mere sake of sport, and boys pressed into military servitude just to be able to eat.’

‘These are but sad old news, Humbletee. We know what the humans did, we know what they still do, and we know what they’ll do a thousand years from now. The black heart of mankind isn’t pretty. But who lost faith in us?’ said the druid in turquoise.

‘I know,’ said Humbletee impatiently, ‘but hear me out, for I have not yet finished. Gentlemen, I think it has gone so far, the black heart of mankind that is, that the Shârz themselves are preparing to play their hand. Believe me when I say there are those who oppose this evil. On my travels north I was revealed many a secret, many of which there isn’t time to speak of tonight. But there is one I cannot keep silent about. Not all of the ice dragons left. One of them still resides in the southernmost mountains of Rúh Hírín.’

His words had raised many an eyebrow. ‘Noble members and brethren of the Order, the ice dragon is about to cast a spell over Aladria, to punish the wicked hearts of mankind. The winter that is now coming will last for a very long time.’

‘How know you of all this?’ said the druid in yellow. ‘I have written many and read all the books of spellcasting and arcana, and yet I have no recollection of ice dragons casting spells... that is our thing, young master Humbletee.’

Humbletee looked on him with reverence. ‘You are correct, but on my travels I bumped into Whitebear the Wise. He has seen...’

‘Whitebear...? Don’t speak to us of Whitebear the Wise,’ said the indigo druid in a deep voice, filled with contempt. ‘He’s a polar bear of the Silver Lakes, a mere watcher of rock and ice, nothing more.’

‘He’s a bear, yes... but he’s also a guardian and a close friend,’ said Humbletee.

‘Your love for this bear has clearly clouded your mind, so much in fact, that you’ve got the audacity to keep us waiting,’ the druid in indigo drawled.

‘Let him finish,’ said the grandmaster.

The assembly snickered no more. 

Humbletee continued.

‘The bears wandered northwards, to Castle White. On their way back, a terrible coldness came upon them, one springing from the southernmost peaks of Rúh Hírín. That, gentlemen, was the commencement of the ice dragon’s curse.’

‘But why?’ said Gwyn. ‘Why punish everything, the trees and plants alike?’

‘That is a good question, Gwyn... We’re all connected, and one cannot exist without the other. It is my belief the ice dragon wants to show everyone how dependent we are on each and every act of kindness, of every life that grows, and every bud of spring,’ said Humbletee. Then he addressed the assembly. 

‘Gwyn’s book has been given to me. In addition to this I’ve spent a few months sketching out a map. You see, brothers, I do not intend to let go of the key in the wilderness or drop it off from a cliff and see it plunge into an abyss, nor do I intend to bury it in the ocean, forever covered by