The Frost Pilgrimage

By N.M. Senger and Jullian Greenman

Tragedy and war have struck the small frontier town of Kelengrad, and in its wake the community reels as it buries its dead. With raw wounds and aching hearts, they have pled for their Sovereign to act— and received nothing but silence in return. Desperate, they turn to the Alkonis family for help, and take up arms against this threat themselves.
But courage can only go so far before cruel reality intervenes. A year and a half later, the Sovereign’s armies have arrived at last— but not to help. Stripping the population of its weapons, its independence, and of the Alkonis family who helped them through it all, Kelengrad is plunged into adversity once more.
In the face of this new calamity , Sevastien and Rhoya Alkonis— sole heirs to their family’s Name— must make a desperate journey to escape. With winter fast approaching, they take the Frost Road into the Cold North, facing perils they could never have predicted, and bearing a cost more terrible than they could imagine. This is the tale of their Frost Pilgrimage, and of their burdens in Book I of The Annals of the North.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.M. Senger
• Release date: Jan 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777542825

Book preview

Pilgrimage

The Annals of the North: Book One

N.M. Senger

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2021 by N.M. Senger

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2021

ISBN 978-1-7775428-2-5 

www.nmsenger.com

Cover Art by Jullian Greenman

Instagram Brand Resources @jullian.the.greenman

To Owen,

For all the stories we have shared

And all those yet to come

This one is for you, old friend.

When the blades of thine enemies draw near,

And thy fortunes slip away,

Take the cold road to Kandar,

And get thee to forsaken Irakolm.

Take upon thyself the Frost Pilgrimage,

To fill thine hands with blood and gold.

In forsaken Irakolm, make of avarice your salvation.

Make of it a temple.

- Copied from an unsigned note posted to the Kelengrad public messageboard

c. 526 Post-Sundering

Prologue

The Frost Road, Valden Sovereignty

c. 529 Post-Sundering

Nadya of Kelengrad, fourth Sword of her section, knelt next to the still form of her sister. Zinovia lay amidst countless others, eyes closed, her gentle features slack and pale from exsanguination’s course. Mud still clung to her dark hair where it had been trod upon by unfriendly boots, her girlish braid now partially unwound. Her helmet, sword, and cherished fighting knife— a gift from their Section Chief and match to Nadya’s own— was gone, as was the crossbow quarrel that had slain her.

Either in macabre apology or ironic reverence, someone had taken the time to arrange the corpses. Row upon row, bodies lined the hillside, staining the dry grass with their fluids. The fallen men and women lay with their feet pointing downslope, hands folded over their chests— or at least, those that still had hands to fold. Eyes closed, the dead lay as if in sleep, but for the terrible wounds they bore. Crimson stains coated their mangled frames, drying to a dull brown in the day’s unseasonal heat. Their shredded gambesons remained as the only indication that they had once been soldiers.

Flies swarmed the hillside: crawling black motes that ignored the battle’s survivors still walking amongst the fallen. Further upslope, where the dry grass gave way to stands of pine, carrion birds dotted the trees, cawing out their impatience as they waited for their chance to feed. They were not as indifferent to the survivors’ presence as were the insects, though a few had tried their luck nonetheless— only to be driven off or shot outright for their boldness. Those unlucky blackbirds, riven through by crossbow bolts, spotted the upper hill in tangled bunches of feathers and wings. Of the dread enemy that had so savaged the Valden ranks, there was no trace. They had taken their dead and stripped their conquered foes of any useful materiel that could be salvaged— they had even taken the time to cut out their quarrels from the victims.

It was not the death wound, Nadya decided, that made a corpse terrible to look upon. Nadya had seen many a grievous injury, both on the farm and in the military, and Zinovia’s was not so horrid by comparison. The hole punched into the right side of her neck, just above the clavicle, seemed a minute horror; the clotted mass of blood darkening the skin around it and soaking the front of Zin’s gambeson equally superficial.

No, it was the unnatural stillness that unhinged her. Her sister’s face— once so lively, with myriad expressions, quick to smile— was now permanently etched in a slack grimace. Her voice, so full of laughter and song, would never be heard again. All that was left of her sister was this thing; a terrible simulacrum, mocking the essence of all her beloved kin had been. That, and the memories Nadya carried within her— forlorn echoes now, bringing her only the sweet pain of having lost something irreplaceable.

Nadya swallowed the lump in her throat, ignoring both the dry pain the motion elicited and the mounting pressure in her chest. A scream lay trapped inside her, but she dared not set it free.

She tore her eyes away, hands knotting into fists where they rested against her knees and looked around her as if for the first time. The rows of dead stretched on across the entire length of the hill: well over a hundred bodies, the exact numbers still being tallied. Roaming amidst the fallen, the remaining soldiers bore the accoutrements of three distinct companies. Along the forest fringes, the Coldclan Rangers remained watchful for the enemy, distinguishable from the others by their long cloaks, patched and patterned in mottled hues of green and brown to match the landscape. The Rangers carried their bows and crossbows at the ready with an almost fervent energy, and those that had not lost their swords and axes left them in place along their belts. Their numbers had suffered only in the initial contact, where the enemy’s lead elements swarmed them from the trees, forcing a fighting retreat to friendly lines. To Nadya, they seemed the most eager for a chance to prove that their fighting spirit remained unbroken in the face of staggering loss.

Downhill from the Rangers, soldiers from Frostbite Company counted their dead, gathered mainly along the southern limits of the field. Clad in simple grey gambesons with bright blue patches sewn onto the left breast and shoulder, they were the most numerous of the survivors, having held the rear. Nadya’s thoughts skittered away from those violent recollections: skirmisher elements had raked their lines, forcing them to hunker behind their shields. Then came that desperate charge, scattering the enemy and winning a line of retreat for the Valden forces. Most of their casualties were in wounded, back safe at Sawgate.

Most of them…

Amidst Frostbite Company’s survivors, the last regiment wore heavy chainmail hauberks over their gambesons, their helms, gauntlets, and greaves forged of blackened steel. Of their sections, only a handful stood with the living, each reduced to two or three soldiers apiece. The Old Kelen Infanteers paid the steepest price of all, having held the frontline during the ambush— and having withstood the enemy’s attempts to overrun them during the army’s frantic retreat up the valley. The signature orange and black tabards of the Infanteers flecked the hillside in blossoms of bright colour, morbidly reminiscent of wildflowers locked in a spring bloom.

Below the hill, a dirt road spanned northward through the mountain-flanked valley, breaking off in sharp ascent towards a stunted and solitary peak that loomed over the battleground: Mount Histrom, its name already a curse upon the lips of the survivors. At Histrom’s feet, the road divided a stretch of forest and transformed into a churned mess of red mud where the battle itself had taken place. Flies throbbed in a seething carpet of motion, drinking deep from the stinking pools of gore that filled every furrow dug into the ruined earth. Further up the road, a pair of rough barricades had been erected of lashed stakes and timbers, with only a narrow ingress left between them for the road to carry on. The makeshift barriers bore their own stains from the morning’s conflict, soaked deep into the thirsty wood.

Listless, Nadya allowed her eyes to roam higher towards Histrom’s summit. The mountain was an ugly, misshapen thing, its jagged peak shaped like a crooked arrowhead with too much material taken off one side. Few trees grew along its upper slopes, and those that did were as malformed as the mountain itself. The dirt road ran as a single dark vein towards Histrom’s eastern side, where it vanished from sight— but Nadya knew precisely where it ended.

The Azenhold is lost to us. She could feel a grimace twisting her lips, which she made no attempt to hide. They duped us all. We thought the garrison had been cut off, but no— our messengers weren’t being killed before they could make contact. Making contact itself was getting them killed.

We bled for a fortress already in enemy hands.

Blue skies shimmered above the mountaintop, marred only by the faintest wisps of cloud, thus leaving the hot sunlight to sear the realm below unchecked. Nadya could feel it blistering the left side of her face, where only a few locks of hair kept it from shining into her eye. She felt its heat like a warm and comfortless hand, pressing against her cheek.

Lords of the Abyss, a voice said from over her shoulder, hoarse and masculine. Not Zin too.

Nadya started, unaware that someone had approached. Sergeant Tarek, an officer of another section in Frostbite Company, stood alone a few paces behind her. His tattered gambeson clung to his bulky frame, clean but for a few drops of crimson down his front. A squared jaw, blunt nose, and a single blue eye comprised his features— the other eye lay swathed in bandages, wound about the side of his head and stained through.  His short hair bore the hue of dry straw, glistening with sweat above his furrowed brow.

I lost her just before they sounded the charge, Nadya croaked, her voice dry and brittle in her parched throat. One moment she was standing next to me, and then she was down. Everyone pushed forward, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t get to her, Tarek.

The hillside was far too quiet. Hundreds of living soldiers still moved across its length, yet few spoke. The gnawing drone of flies and greedy calls of the carrion birds— these were the sounds of their world.

The others? Tarek said at last, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand.

Nadya shook her head.

Lords…

Don’t tell me you’re…?

He grimaced. Yeah. I’m it too.

Nadya closed her eyes, feeling the weight of their deaths bow her down closer to the sodden earth. Were she not already kneeling, she would have fallen. 

Look at them, Tarek whispered, and Nadya pried her eyes open, following Tarek’s gaze over to the Old Kelen Infanteers wandering the hillside. One man sat alone, gazing into the empty sockets of his own helm held aloft before him. Nadya blinked; the man sat upon a fellow Infanteer’s corpse, sitting high on its chest, his legs drawn up beneath him. His hair had fallen forward over his face, but Nadya could see the glint of teeth as he wavered between a grimace and a mad, manic smile.

Poor bastards, Tarek murmured. They’ll be disbanded, I reckon. Lot of empty beds back in Kelengrad, now.

And empty hearts.

Aye, those too. The Reds have a lot to answer for.

Nadya glanced back in the Azenhold’s direction, expecting a flicker of rage to stir within her— anything at all to awaken her numb body, and alleviate that terrible pressure in her chest.

The Red Tide.

They are indeed a tide, she said. Crashing against the shores of our realm, and in their wake, they leave only blood and bone.

Tarek gave her a strange look. How long has it been since you last drank something? When she made no reply, he cursed and tugged the waterskin from his belt. Here, he grunted, shoving it into her hands. Drink.

Nadya stared at the pocked brown skin, the leather cracked and flaking near the stopper. She suddenly noticed how dried-out the skin of her hands looked, the webbing between her fingers as cracked as the old waterskin. Spots of blood appeared when she flexed the digits, and she frowned.

Nothing. No feeling at all.

Drink, soldier.

She complied and sweat instantly beaded on her forehead. After a few swallows she passed the waterskin back; the taste of water alerted her to the full breadth of her thirst, and she pulled her own waterskin free— astonished to discover it was nearly full.

What’s to become of us now, Sergeant? she murmured, letting the skin fall upon the grass when she was done.

We mourn. And we rebuild, he said with a sigh, stubble rasping as he rubbed at his face. Our company is in shambles, but I imagine some of those Infanteers will join us. Beats training up fresh recruits. We’ll need those too though, I suppose.

Flies, drawn to the sweat upon her face and neck, now swarmed Nadya. Rising from her sister’s body, they dove at her in a frenzy, and no matter how many times she slapped them away, they returned undaunted. Are the dead not enough for you, vermin? She let her hands drop, and the flies settled upon her— she made no further attempts to fend them off.

Fine. Devour us both then.

This is a broken army, she said, watching one of the Rangers swing his sword against a stone. The sharp peals of protesting steel rang out across the hill, and while everyone turned to regard him, nobody said a word.

It will heal. We have no choice— not while the Reds occupy our lands. He lifted his head and raised his voice, calling out over the sound of ringing steel. Someone get that thing away from him! Piss and blood, what a waste of a good blade.

Grunting at Tarek’s command, another Ranger edged his way forward, and the man with the blade spun on him. After a brief exchange, the second Ranger gently pried the sword away, and the man fell to his knees before him, weeping. The second Ranger sat down next to him, the ruined blade across his lap, and stared hollow-eyed into the distance.

This isn’t over… Tarek growled. And we’ll need every blade we can find, of that I’m sure.

Nadya lifted her head and turned to regard him, her sunburned skin feeling tight across her brow as she frowned. You think the army is going to pursue this? We can’t try for the Azenhold now, not after…

With a livid gleam in his eye, Tarek gazed upon Histrom’s summit, his teeth bared as he replied. "Oh yes, we’ll be pursuing this. For all the friends we’re about to bury, we have to pursue this. If this mountain is to be our curse, then it’s a curse we’ll share—"

Something snapped inside Nadya, the vast pressure in her chest suddenly gone. She surged to her feet, and a wave of dizziness made her stumble. She seized the front of Tarek’s gambeson even as he stepped forward to help her, righting herself.

What in the Abyss are you talking about? she snarled at him. "Is this not enough for you? Look at them. Tell me, how high will we pile our dead before you all realize that hate is not a weapon? It cuts everyone it touches— us and them alike!"

Laughter, coarse and febrile, made her pause. She turned away from the sergeant’s paling visage to see the Infanteer seated upon the corpse staring at her, shoulders shaking as he laughed. The mad gleam in his eyes made her recoil, and she released her grip on Tarek’s gambeson.

There won’t be any retribution for this, she whispered, ignoring the eyes of the other soldiers around her. None. We lost them, and no amount of vengeance is going to change that.

She sank back to her knees, took Zinovia’s hand in her own, and silently wept. After a few moments, she heard the soft hiss of boots across the grass as Tarek walked away, muttering to himself. I should say something. Apologize. He just wants something to make this right— we all do. But she did not say anything. He left her to her misery, and she left him to his unease.

War would never be enough. If it were, I’d pile the Tide’s dead high enough to rival Histrom’s summit with my own two hands. There would be no host large enough to keep me from bringing her back.

But the Abyss never returns what it takes back. And I… I never want to see another battlefield again.

Nadya lifted her eyes skyward, seeking the brilliant sun. How can you shine still, when she’s no longer here? How can the world still look the same, when it feels like it now spins backwards— turning back since the moment she fell?

Oh Lords, I am unequal to this.

Trembling, she stared unblinking into the light and waited. She waited for her tears to burn away. She waited, in vain, for everything to disappear.

I

Sawgate Fortress, Valden Sovereignty

c. 530 Post-Sundering

(One year and six months after the Histrom Massacre)

In the bitter cold of the winter morning, Nadya knelt upon the unyielding earth, hands gripping her thighs. Her breath misted in the frigid air, and shivers wracked her poorly clothed body. An ache pulsed in her knees where the snow had melted into her trousers, and a light breeze ran its fingers through her loose hair. Around her, the remainder of Frostbite Company and the Sawgate Garrison knelt with her— some six hundred men and women total. Only those who had been on duty when the call came were dressed appropriately for the outdoors; the rest, like Nadya, shivered on in uncomfortable dread. To make matters worse, she was hung over— the steady throbbing between her eyes and the splashes of nausea writhing in her stomach made every passing minute a torturous trial of will and endurance.

Ahead of her, a wall of soldiers stood before the kneeling mass of troops. With fur-trimmed gambesons the hue of darkest Night, and steel helms shrouding their features, this second army looked as though they had crawled from the Abyss itself. Sewn upon their chests was a simple grey patch, decorated by a pair of red horizontal lines slashed across the centre by a jagged, thunderbolt-shaped cut.

Gatebreakers— an entire battalion of the Sovereignty’s finest urban counter-operatives in the Dragorad province; men and women who should have counted Nadya and her fellow soldiers as allies. Instead, here they were, disarmed and kneeling in the cold like convicts lined up for the scaffold.

Behind her, Sawgate’s ramparts shadowed them all, with the great mountains of the Mandible dwarfing the fortifications on either side. With the sun having crept just over the east-facing mount’s summit, Nadya could see flickers of motion tracking across the shadow’s upper edge. Gatebreakers, armed with crossbows, watched the kneeling figures below like the Eyes of the Abyss themselves.

Nadya’s gaze centred on one figure, who stood just ahead of the front line. Blackened chainmail hung down to his knees, his helm tucked under one arm, revealing a dark and sun-blessed face that regarded the kneeling captives with cold indifference. Sunlight glinted upon the bared Dal-Kaladim longsword in his right hand, its grip wrapped in green leather— a signifier of rank in their strange, militant religion, though Nadya knew little more than that. At this distance, it was impossible to tell for certain who he looked upon, but she could feel his regard settle upon her time after time— and she met it with as much defiant poise as she could muster, despite her weakened constitution.

She heard a soft groan on her left. If they’re gonna kill us, can’t they just get on with it? Splinter whispered, and Nadya caught a glimpse of her fellow soldier fidgeting away once again— he had been at it all morning, displaying an impressive amount of variance in his elicited moans and whimpers. I can’t feel my legs.

Quiet, Tarek snarled from somewhere next to him. They might just accommodate you.

On Nadya’s right, Mads issued a low chuckle— she could see him grinning out of the corner of her eye.

After a brief silence, Splinter groaned again, the ground scraping as he shifted about. It’s no good, Sarge. I needed to piss hours ago.

Go on. Piss yourself then, Nadya grumbled, closing her eyes in an effort to think past her own mounting discomfort.

Like the Abyss I will. Ain’t giving these bastards the satisfaction of seeing me with a wet spot between my legs when they come picking at my corpse.

If it’ll give us a moment’s peace, Splint, then I say it’s worth the indignity, Nadya retorted. Besides, you’ll be dead, and the dead don’t care.

Tarek growled in response, and Mads snickered, his humorless mirth raising the hairs on the back of Nadya’s neck.

I’m sure you’re loving this, you freak. There was no doubt in her mind that the diseased soldier would— if he survived the volley— rise and sink his teeth into whomever came to finish him off. He’d do it with a smile, too.

Ah shit, here it comes.

The Dal-Kaladim stepped away from the assemblage of troops and approached them, storm clouds gathering across his visage. As he drew near, Nadya was surprised to see how young he was— a handful of years her senior, at most. He stopped a few paces short of Mads, taking in the kneeling man’s disheveled, non-regulation haircut with a sneer, until his focus found the bright orange-and-black patch sewn just below Mads’ Frostbite Company blues.

He eyed that tattered patch for several heartbeats before finally speaking. Something amusing to you, soldier? he said, with a voice as commanding as the beat of a war drum. Nadya made a quick count of the silver bars upon his bracers.

Don’t mind him, Master Sergeant, she said, offering the Gatebreaker a rigid smile. He’s been like that since Histrom. Never says a word— just laughs at everything, whether it’s appropriate or not.

I fail to see the humor in any of this.

That’s ‘cause you’re looking at it from the wrong perspective, Splinter replied, wincing as he pulled his knees further apart. Down here, it’s fuckin’ hilarious. Sir.

It was Tarek’s turn to groan, and the Master Sergeant turned his glare in that direction. You have an issue with discipline in your ranks, Section Chief.

I’m not actually their S.C., sir, Tarek grunted. Just a sergeant.

The Gatebreaker looked up and down the line, tapping the longsword against his boot. Who’s your Chief, then?

Don’t have one. Mads’ head isn’t the only thing that’s been fucked up since Histrom— sir.

A long silence passed, like a breaking wave on a distant shore. You mean to tell me that nobody has filled out your section rosters in over a year?

That’s right, Tarek said. Not just us— whole damned company has more holes than an ambrosiac’s arm. I’d suggest you take it up with Marshal Soen, but I somehow doubt she’ll survive that meeting your Grand Imperator hauled her off to.

She’s your Grand Imperator too, Sergeant, the Gatebreaker snapped. He hesitated, glancing past them thoughtfully.

Nadya tensed, her knuckles turning white and livid across red, swollen hands.

As for the fate of your Marshal, and the rest of you… we’ll just have to see. He grimaced, and to Nadya’s surprise, some of the condescension left his eyes. There’s been enough lives lost over this senseless crisis already. I truly hope the Grand Imperator is not given cause to doubt.

Doubt what, sir? Nadya said.

Your loyalty. With that, he turned away and rejoined his troops, donning his helm along the way. His features hidden, the man soon blended into the rest of the host, but for the green upon his sword.

Idiot, Nadya seethed. Our loyalty was never the issue. We have always defended these borders from foreign threats... and when we faced a foe we could not overcome alone, and we begged you for help, where were you?

Where exactly do your loyalties lie, Master Sergeant?

She peered beyond the rows of steel helms, black and glistening in the sharp morning sunlight, and sought the walls of Kelengrad, rising from the plains in the distance. The city shared the bleak style of Sawgate’s fortifications, composed of the Dragorad province’s famous black granite. She could only make out a few towers from where she knelt, but the dread she felt extended to more than just her own wellbeing. For the people of Kelengrad, things were about to become… complicated.

Behind her, the door to Sawgate’s front redoubt suddenly heaved open— the grating of iron and wood across icy stone sending a visible shudder through the captive soldiers. Nadya ground her teeth as the loud thump of hooves left the fortress and crossed the frozen earth, circling round the soldiers to the front of the line.

Grand Imperator Farande sat astride a brilliant white destrier, her gaze beating down upon the kneeling figures with unconcealed contempt. Short for a soldier, yet solid, she wore her plate-and-mail well, with sunlight playing upon the silver filigree that decorated the slate-colored steel. Her grey-washed hair was cut close to her scalp, with facial features creased with age, while her frigid blue eyes gleamed with timeless vigor and dagger-sharp