An Axe in the Flames

Njal

The Frozen Cliffs were aptly named, covered in ice all year round. The sheer rock face of the Great Northern Pass stood out for miles on end as a tribute to the wintery lands beyond. For centuries no southern army had crossed its borders, let alone climbed its massive cliffs. For the Berserkers of the North, this was not only a point of pride but also a way of life. The southern people were thin skinned and weak, unable to cope with the harsh winds and relentless snows. The foraging for berries and meat were not something any southern man could do. These were the real warrior lands.

Njal clung to the face of the cliffs, his iron pointed shoes dug in to the ice while he set his pick just above him for balance. Far below him the snow covered pines dotted the landscape. A fall from this distance and all the world would know him as would be but a stain on the forest floor. The thought propelled him upwards to his destination as the winds howled around him. His gray and white, thick fur clothes rippled and tugged at him. His wild black beard was white from frost, but his body had long ago accustomed itself to the cold. These were his lands. These were his winds and snows.

He was almost to the cliff edge, where his pack of Berserkers had already reached their camp. He could see tendrils of smoke, from camp fires, reaching into the skies like ribbons in the wind. The skies were a dark gray that he knew were the inevitable signs of a hard snow and even harder freeze. He had a leather bag slung across his chest and hanging from his back, filled with eggs of the Cliff Divers. Giant birds that built nests on the side of the cliffs. He adjusted the bag as he dug his feet into another hold, slowly making his way to the top. It seemed quieter than it should above him, but the fires were still being stoked. The wind ripped across him in a violent torrent and he hugged closer to the ice.

"Keep the fires roaring boys, it's cold like a witch's titty!" Njal yelled.

He squinted his eyes through the almost blinding snow, trying to see if anyone peaked their head over the cliff to acknowledge him. He didn't see anyone, but he could barely see at all. He set his feet again and brought his pick down, a chunk of ice gave way and for a moment he was dangling above a certain death. His breath caught in his chest as he quickly regrouped and stuck the pick closer to him. He watched the ice fall through the air, tumbling and rolling as it fell and crashed into the dots of pines below him. He took a deep breath and made himself relax. You couldn't be afraid or hesitant on the cliffs. That would be a sure way to have everything end and your soul sent to beyond.

The wind died down and he could hear men above him, muffled sounds through the falling snow. That was the beauty of snowfall, it captured the sounds around it and made the world quiet. Another gust of wind and snow tore at him, was that a scream he heard or a yell? It was impossible to tell as all he could hear now was the howling of winter's unending embrace. He peered up and thought he saw a head look over the cliff, but the snow quickly washed his vision. He was only three to four body lengths from the top and from a good meal and fire.

His pack was always sent to the cliffs to gather the eggs every two days, as they were the most proficient at maneuvering the ice covered rock face. He imagined his men laughing and wrestling while a fire roared in the center of camp, a great pig being roasted on the flames. His mouth watered at the thought and he could almost smell the sweet traces of roasted meat. He set his feet and pick again and was within a handhold of setting his feet on solid ground again. Another violent burst of snow and wind assaulted him and he could hear his men again. Muffled but certainly there.

He squinted through the driving snow to pick his next hand hold and finally be back on less precarious grounds. There was a ear piercing squeal from above that startled him and caused him to nearly miss his grip. By Asher, what could that have been? He thought. His hand gripped the frozen grass of flat land, crunching under the weight of his palm as he started to lift himself over the edge. He scanned the immediate area. Low hanging brush, covered in the days snow and ice followed by the pitched heavy linen tents of his men. The fire was blazing in the middle of the hasty camp but something was off. His feet were dug into the ice and he mostly held himself over the edge by his arms. He scanned slower, there were bloody foot prints in the snow. Not the leather hide shoe prints that he knew for his people, but odd elongated feet prints. There were blood spatters around them, and as he continued to look, there were blood spatters everywhere.