Jarn’s haggard breath could no longer warm his numb hands. The talisman that the tribe’s shaman, Almok, had gifted him, had not been enough to keep the chill from creeping insidiously into his fingertips and did nothing for his hunger. It was known that such magics were only as potent as the belief that one had in them.
It’s not that Jarn didn’t believe in such things. He had seen Almok breathe life back into Charla when she had fallen through the tok, the thin layer of spring thaw ice. Jarn remembered holding her flaccid blue body, remembered feeling empty, because her spirit had already left. It was Almok who found her in the Nether, the land of spirits, and reunited soul and body. He knew Almok’s magic was strong.
Jarn’s shuddered.
No, the spirit world, and the people who practiced with such dangerous forces were not to be trifled with. The shamans worked with such things for decades before being trusted to heal and guide the tribes. Jarn had been on the ice for over seven suns now. He had wandered the brutal Sevik Glacier in pursuit of his soulvander, a mystic vision of purpose achieved when one’s mind and body had parted ways. His rations had run out three days ago and his mind began to stray in earnest over the last two days.
Jarn slipped into a memory as his grasp on reality faded.
***
Two winters earlier, Jarn and Charla had slipped out of their families’ tents to meet with their friends and go swimming in the nearby hot springs. It was in the cacophony of laughter and voices that their hearts intertwined. His heart beat in rhythm with hers. <baBum> Their hearts beat so loud, <baBum>, the surrounding discord faded into nothing <baBum>.
Hours later in the quiet of the night, beneath a billion stars, they swam in each other’s arms. The cold night air prickled their exposed skin. They had never known such joy, such intimacy. In this intimacy they dreamed.
“Jarn?” He had never noticed how beautiful her voice was before.
“Yes, Charla?”
“Do you think your father will approve of me?”
Protective anger welled in his breast. “I don’t care what my father thinks! If he does not approve
I will run away and take you with me.”
He stared up at the billions of stars.
“I would defy the very gods themselves to be with you!”
***
He snapped back to reality. “Potoc!” Jarn said, admonishing himself, spitting the last thoughts from his mouth. He looked around to make sure he had not garnered the attention of a wandering spirit. His mind was beginning to disconnect from his body on its own accord. Such is the way of the soulvander.
He shook himself back to his senses and the blasphemy from his mouth. No, it was safer not to trade in the things of the spirit world. Safer to trust in only what he could do with the sweat of his brow and the brawn in his back.
The solstice marked Jarn’s sixteenth winter. Over that time his muscled frame was honed as he learned the ways of his father, Karlic One Eye. Karlic worked iron for the village and Jarn was his prodigy. So skilled was Jarn that even at his young age he earned the trust to shape the sacred black metal, zell.
To distract himself from his gnawing hunger, he unslung the hammer from his back and admired the weapon that he and his father had forged together. The runes on the side were an old Kjeldovian script that roughly translated to bone breaker. He holstered his hammer.
He spotted the sea-green discoloration he was looking for through the stinging wind. Still, a shadow could look deceptively like a patch of the edible lichen grüp. His stomach rebelliously growled. He had pursued countless false patches earlier; however if he didn’t eat soon, no shamanic talisman would keep him alive.
The biting wind made it hard to verify. Regardless, his hunger propelled him forward chasing yet another mirage. The wind harried him from all directions, blowing in the faint scent of some dead animal that reminded Jarn of how unforgiving this land could be. He pushed on. The patch looked no more than a mile away. And as he pushed on numbly, his thoughts drifted to the last time he saw his father alive.
***
“Father?” Jarn asked. “Tell me about your soülvander.”
They had been at the forge for hours working the black zell into the brutal head of a large war hammer. Karlic pulled the head from the forge’s flames and laid it on the anvil. The black metal glowed bright violet signifying its readiness to shape. Jarn began hammering out tiny imperfections with expert skill.
“Jarn, you know that everyone’s time on the ice is different. Do not vex. Have I not taken you out and shown you the ways of the ice? Do you not know the song of snowy seetle? Or the signs of the spring-toothed seal? Have you not learned of the Sevik bear and how to avoid him? Your soulvander will be for you and you alone. It will last as long as needed, and when you return, you will be a man. My son, you are ready.”
And so was the head of the hammer. It was perfect, and before it cooled, the etching needed to be performed. Karlic took a bone tablet that Almok had prepared. As he began to read the letters written in a flowing Kjeldovian script, his voice, gentle at first, gained intensity and strength. Strange incense and ozone tinged the air. His voice reached a crescendo. Eldritch energies arced from the tablet striking head, yurt, Jarn, and Karlic.
Fiery runes burned themselves into the head surface, and when Jarn could bear no more he thrust the head of the maul into the temper bath. The oil hissed and guttered, releasing an odorous cloud of mauve smoke. When the haze had cleared, the head thrummed as its runes slowly pulsed with power. Elated, Járn looked up from the hammer to share his joy. He spotted his father’s body lying motionless on the ground.
Even though Jarn had pleaded, Almok had said that it was the spirits’ choice to return or not. He would not rob Jarn’s father of his place with his forefathers.
***
Jarn slipped, jarring him to the present as he slid down a ten-foot embankment. The smell of death was stronger now. He ignored the gagging smell; the patch was only a stone’s throw away. He staggered towards it.Tears filled his eyes as he realized it was indeed grüp. Jarn dropped to his knees on the nearest mound. He grabbed at it, stuffing handfuls of ice and lichen into his mouth. The flavor was a mix of rotten meat and lichen. His stomach twisted in protest, and something was wrong.
The wind died, and even the normally boisterous snow crickets seemed to hold their breath. Then the mound next to him exploded, throwing ice and lichen in all directions. Rising from its snowy tomb came a large skeletal horror. Only a few scraps of meat and sinew clung to its great frame, along with a miasma of death. But it was the pinpricks of red glowing hate that came from the creature’s otherwise empty eye sockets that made Jarn’s skin crawl. It lunged for Jarn, raking him. Bright lines of blood began to well up across his chest.
Jarn scrambled back to his feet and just out of reach of the skeleton. And in a smooth well-practiced motion, he slid the great maul from his back to his hand. As if sensing the danger, the hammer-fired to life, energizing Jarn’s exhausted muscles with crackling violet vigor. The thing was fast and agile and would duck and dodge Jarn’s every swing. Jarn swung his hammer in a wide arc. The thing ducked to the left, slicing into Jarn’s side. He brought his maul around while turning to face it, but it followed Jarn’s steps, turning faster, and dug its bone claws into Jarn’s back.
Jarn was now bleeding from a dozen wounds. He would have to do something more than just react. As he swung clumsily, exposing his flank, the skeleton struck. Jarn took the hit and pain erupted from his side. Yet his feint paid off. Mid-swing Jarn brought the butt of the maul down on the thing’s skull with an impactful crunch. The thing staggered back three or four steps, shaking the remains of its skull. However, its shattered head slowed the skeletal monstrosity little.
Back and forth their strange and desperate dance played out. Even with the supernatural energy coursing through Jarn’s veins he was beginning to tire. His arms began to grow heavy again. Nevertheless their pas de deux served Jarn. He was beginning to see a pattern in the horror’s strikes. The thing had a bobbing repetition in its swings. Left, left, right. Right, right left. His father’s voice played in his head: “My son you are ready!”
Jarn spotted a hole in the fell creature’s defenses and struck with all his remaining might. He struck the creature’s chest and violet lightning exploded from the maul’s head. The creature’s chest had a big semicircular hole blown in it as it slowly sank to the ground and ceased to move. He checked the rest of the patch to make sure no other surprises were waiting for him. None were. The lichen towards the outer edge was not tainted by the foul creature. Jarn nursed his wound, then began to gather more grüp.
The soulvander had shown Jarn many things. Not ignoring signs of enemies was one of many lessons he would learn on the ice. He would return to the village a man and take Charla to wife. He would honor his father for the many gifts bestowed on Jarn. He would raise a son of his own and prepare him for his own soülvander.