Then there were always the strange and horrific creatures that were rumored to stalk the peaks. Marcellus spoke of white-furred beasts that feasted on flesh, and blue-skinned Jonarr that roamed the most forbidding regions.
Despite that, one of the most powerful of the Kingdoms of Erseta called the region home.
"Behold Castle Glacia."
Marcellus' voice was barely audible behind the heavy muffler wrapped around the lower half of his face. He had not spoken much since making his decision to stay. It had not been easy. She saw shadows clinging to him like a seond skin. She knew the Reaver raged inside of him, fighting to be released once more.
A heavy cloud of vapor exhaled as she sighed and looked where he gestured. Set against the towering peaks was a gargantuan fortress of bluish-white marble set by the hands of Aelon-trained masons. On each of the rounded towers was a tomb, said to hold the bodies of the craftsmen so they would forever be with their masterful creation. The fortress was carved from the mountain itself, both formidable and captivating to look at.
The fortress was surrounded by a lake of ice that had never thawed in the memory of Norland. Atop the looming towers hung the standard of Norland, where the great white Isbjorn roared in angry defiance at the winds that battered it. The castle shone like an ice sculpture by day, and at night glowed as though painted by moonbeams. It was the jewel of Norland, the realm that represented their strength and grandeur.
Not that it mattered to her. It was hard to find appreciation for such splendor when you were absolutely freezing.
She thought she knew misery in the Dragonspine, but she almost wished she could return. Snow did not fall in the Alpens; it pounded. The wind never ceased its angry howling, as though furious at their trespassing. Why any sane person would choose to live there was beyond her understanding.
But then, the Norlanders could hardly be called sane, from what she knew of them. Legends said they had sought the Alpens for the challenge after the Age of Chaos. For the call of battle against the Jonarr — or Frost Giants, as some called them. For the sheer adventure of conquering an unconquerable land.
And now they stared at the result of that challenge. Castle Glacia loomed strongly, a testament to the enduring spirit of the Norlanders. Only strength came from Norland, they boasted. The weak could never thrive in that icy tomb of a kingdom. The weak lay buried under mountains of snow and ice, frozen for eternity.
It had taken weeks to get there. Their numbers had increased as they traveled. Word had spread that Marcellus Admorran was on the move. Men seeking fortune, battle, and notoriety sought them out. They had arrived at the trade town of Brumar with three times the number they had set out with. Many of their recruits looked downright villainous, men she was sure were guilty of crimes of violence.
Marcellus took them all.
"They may have been foul men before, true." He didn't even look ashamed when she cornered him. "But they've entered a new line of work now. My work." His smile was unsettling. "All they have to do is fight and die for me. They are fools seeking riches and glory. Don't worry about them. They won't take a single step out of line." His expression darkened when he looked at them. "They fear me."
In Brumar they traded their horses for teams of Chukshas. She had heard of using sled dogs for travel, but experiencing it conveyed a far more singular perspective. They looked almost alarmingly like wolves in shades of black, white, gray, and reddish brown. Yet they were playful and enthusiastic about their work. It was exhilarating to be whisked across the ice and snow by a team of howling dogs. For a good while, she enjoyed the feel of flying as though across frosted clouds. As the miles stretched and the cold increased, even that appeal lost its luster.
When they stopped, the band huddled around the largest fire they could make, as Fregeror regaled them with tales of Norland — Dunnar the Thunder Lord, and Wortan, the chief god who rode in a silver sleigh pulled by Isbjorn, the colossal white bears that roamed the Alpens. Fregeror was in jovial spirits. He said it was the time of Winterfest, when the cruel weather finally forced Norlanders into their city to wait out the season. The celebration would last throughout the month. At last they were free to do what they enjoyed most: eating, drinking, and all-around carousing.
Nyori found the nights to be even worse. Even the layers of wisent fur blankets could not keep out the cold, which seeped right through and clutched her like dead fingers. When Meshella asked to share her blankets, Nyori had gladly accepted until she discovered the woman slept in the nude. Meshella had almost choked laughing at her discomfort. Finally, she agreed to wear a shift, but that had only lasted until Creyshaw captured her interest. The former pirate had joined their ranks, and Meshella was quite taken with the man. For what reason, Nyori could not see. Meshella seemed to like her men rough-looking. There was no accounting for some women's taste.
Meshella told Nyori that Creyshaw did not mind her sleeping naked, or the many other things they did under the blankets. When Nyori's face reddened, Meshella laughed again.
"Are Shama required to remain maidens?" She asked the question some nights later when she took a rare break from 'warming' Creyshaw.
Nyori nearly choked. "How…how do you know—?"
Meshella' laugh was a contradiction, a pure sound of joy that belied the fierceness of her demeanor. "Anyone can know this, Shama. You are wise in many ways, but in the ways of men you are a child still."
Nyori felt her cheeks burn. "It is no requirement. But it is a rare thing for a Shama to marry."
"I said nothing of marriage. What of a man coming to your bed? Where I come from, if a maiden woman asks an unwedded man to her bed, he cannot refuse without insult. That is what we call taking a man. No woman should deprive herself of being filled with a man now and again, Shama. If you knew what it feels like…" She shivered, as though experiencing it then. Her devious smile made Nyori want to hide her face in mortification. "You should ask Marcellus to your bed, I think."
Nyori's eyes widened, and heat flushed across her face as she tried to find the words for a proper response.
Meshella threw back her head and laughed. "Shama…you should see…your face!" Tears trickled down her good eye. It took a few moments for her to control her mirth while Nyori looked at the floor, mortified. Finally Meshella was able to speak, though between chuckles.
"It is no big thing, Nyori. He is a handsome man, and lonely. You are a beautiful woman. I have seen many men stare at you when you pass. Marcellus does the same when you aren't looking. It would be a shame to waste all that opportunity for fear or shame."
Nyori wondered if it were possible to die from embarrassment. Yet…she caught the looks men gave her at times. Those looks of…hunger. Lust, she knew. It was strange, almost impossible, to think Marcellus would look at her the same way. For some reason, she recalled those nights on the road. A few times they had been forced to sleep in makeshift shelters with only each other's bodies for warmth. The feel of him so close…she flushed again.
"Yes…" Meshella grinned like a naughty kitten. "I think Marcellus would love to be taken. All that tension and pressure in his muscles…released." She chuckled richly.
"I…I must get some sleep." Nyori pulled her blankets over her head and for once felt an almost unbearable heat trapped beneath the covers. She still heard the other woman's soft laughter. Meshella left soon after, murmuring about finding a "special kind of warming." Nyori knew what that meant. Meshella's amusement lingered long after, it seemed. Nyori felt it mocking her.