The Line in the Snow

She was looking into his eyes, joy and disbelief warring within her mind. The smile he gave her bringing tears of relief, when suddenly he gasped, a ghastly rattle coming in place of his voice, and a choke of blood leaving his lips.

Just beyond the town's barricades, beyond the mess of dead men and horses, the ugly leader of the bandits had apparently determined that their happiness could not go unpunished.

He had stopped to pick up a bow from one of his dead comrades, knocked a single arrow, and took aim. Too caught up in the high of their victory, none of the townspeople had noticed.

But his skills extended beyond just his sword. Those people would know this, he decided. They would soon know the name Cruvik, and know to fear it.

What had been a moment frozen in place erupted with activity. In the seconds it took Luka to drop to his knees, then forward onto the bloodied ground beneath, several of the villagers rushed after the bandit leader, weapons in hand, anger in their eyes. But he was already gone, disappeared into the darkness.

The battle had seemed endless while it was happening. Each second filled with dread and adrenaline for the farmers-turned-soldiers fighting for everything they had.

Now it seemed like it had passed in mere moments, and the rest of the night was dragging into eternity.

The one pristine white of the snowy road was now a splashed all around with a grisly dark red, tainted with death for the first time.

Gathering the bodies of the fallen had been the first priority. Few words were spoken as they moved the dead to the side of Jinnsfjur's only road, they would have to start digging graves in the morning.

With Luka gone, the others had looked to Milena for leadership, but she was inconsolable. Several minutes had passed before she moved from her spot, eyes still staring at the fallen form of her love.

Eventually, Brigid returned from unlocking her root cellar to let the children out. She removed her fur cloak and wrapped it around Milena's shoulders, and took her -- walking slowly and listlessly -- to her house where the children waited with too many questions and too little hope.

Katia immediately ran to her mother's arms, the few hours away from her had been almost too much to bear. It wasn't until she asked after her father that the first tear crested Milena's eyelid.

Katia didn't know why her mother was crying, but she thought it must be something awful, her mother never cried no matter how bad things got.

She remembered that when her father had broken his leg one summer while foraging in the woods, her mother had only told him to "Walk it off!" Nothing ever scared her.

Whatever it was that could make her mother cry, Katia knew her father would be able to make everything better, like always. She hoped he would be back soon.

The children all slept soon after, they were the only ones; other than Freja, understandable given that she had chosen to fight despite expecting to bring a new child into her home in only a few months. She fought well, all things considered, but the exhaustion had caught up with her.

When she woke the next morning, she wasn't sure what sight she expected to greet her upon exiting her house. She hoped with all her heart and prayed to any gods who would listen that the last night had been nothing but a terrible dream.

The pit in her stomach knew it wasn't, vying as it was for size with the child growing inside her, and as she emerged into the village fresh tears sprang forth as she saw the bodies of her friends arranged in a row covered by dirty sheets.

She felt nothing but emptiness as the tears ran down her face. When Pavel and Brin approached her, it sounded like they were speaking from so far away that she could barely make out their words.

The barricades still stood there at the village entrance, and just beyond them the corpses of the dead marauders had been dragged into a pile, a grisly reminder of the horrors of the previous night.

When she came back to herself, she realised they were asking her how she was feeling. She assured them she was okay, that she wanted to help. Pavel suggested she help prepare food for those who would spend the day digging graves.

Brigid agreed, the less she had to see of what was to come this day, the better.

***

A week went by while everyone tried to return to their normal lives. A pall had hung over the village ever since that fateful night. Milena had tried countless times to tell Katia what had happened to her father, but could never get the words out.

The only hope shining through the gloom was that while the cost of their freedom had been high, they had paid for and won it.

Or so they had thought.

On the eight day after the battle, Cruvik returned to Jinnsfjur. Casually riding into town with twice as many men as he had brought with him that night. Several of the people outside ran, either screaming into their homes or to retrieve the weapons they thought they would never have to use again.

He waited patiently while all the villagers gathered and armed themselves, a smug smile on his scarred face as his horsemen squared off against the rag-tag mob once more.

Milena pushed her way to the front of the crowd, the rage in her eyes was the first feeling she had felt beyond despair in over a week. The calmness in her voice betrayed that fire in her eyes as she asked the bandit leader why he was back.

Cruvik told them of himself and his band, told them that the force he had brought with him before was but a small number of the men he commanded. That he in fact led all the marauding gangs throughout the Mehann Mountains.

He told them, in no uncertain terms, that he would have the tribute he expected and that if they continued to resist him, the "soldier" as he described him, wouldn't be the last example he made.

His dismissive tone as he spoke of her late husband was the last straw for Milena. She lunged at the giant with her hands outstretched, seeking only to satisfy the burning anger that had been building inside her since she watched this man take what was most important to her.

Olan was quick to hold her back however, and the only response this display elicited from Cruvik was an amused chuckle. He then turned and left with his gang of raiders, promising to return.

And return he did the very next day. Olan tried his best to fill Luka's shoes by trying to inspire resistance in his fellows, but it was in vain.

The barricades that had been so hastily erected before had already been dismantled and used to build coffins for the fallen. They had no materials from which to build new ones.

When Cruvik and his men returned, the people of Jinnsfjur were woefully underprepared to resist this time. Olan made a brave stand, declaring to the bandit leader's face that they would not submit. The stocky, muscular blacksmith seemed small next to the giant, and he was cut down within moments of speaking his resistance.

Whatever hope they had left was gone, no one was left who was willing to fight. Jinnsfjur and its people stood silent as the raiders took what they wanted from their homes, fields, and shops.

For the next three years the marauders would return at the start of each spring to announce they were expecting their tribute soon. Wanting to minimise their interaction with their oppressors as much as possible, the villagers always prepared a pallet loaded with food, skins, and anything else they produced.

Each year Milena spent a few hours by the prepared pallet, staring at the food they painstakingly grown and harvested, slowly fingering the bottle in her pocket.

The occupant of the stone tower at the forest's edge had given it to her before he left. After she had complained of the rats infesting her bakery, he had handed her the small round bottle and told her a single drop on a piece of bread left as bait would kill any pest that ate it.

The first year Pavel came up to her side. "I've thought about it too, Milena. Maybe stuffing some of the meat with hemlock. But we don't know if it would kill him, or any of them for that matter. They would just come back and slaughter us all!"

Milena replied sullenly. "I know, but I still like to think about it."

She knew she would not risk her daughter's life on a vain attempt at revenge which may not even work, yet each year she stood there, fantasising about killing the monster which had taken so much from her.

And each time one of their tormentors thanked her for her offerings, each time they took more than they needed, each time one of them threw one of the young girls over his shoulder and took her kicking and screaming into the common house, Milena inched ever closer to throwing caution to the wind.

They continued to provide their tribute, but it was never enough. Each year, the gang rode through the village taking all that they could carry, and the pallet as well. The most valuable thing they stole however, was Jinnsfjur's hope for the future.

Those three years marked the end of the town's growth. Some had already packed up and left; Brigid being the first, after her baby had been born. She had resolved that her child would not live under Cruvik's yoke, even if it meant returning to the crowded slums of the cities.

And as time passed, more agreed with her. Some of them had looked longingly at the empty stone tower at the forest's edge, but that hope was a distant one at best. He had been gone so long, they didn't know if he would ever be back.

Jinnsfjur had been a dream of a better place, for a people passed over by history. Cruvik and his gang had now turned that dream into a nightmare.

The last snowflakes had fallen, and spring would soon be upon them once more. The single road running through Jinnsfjur remained a pristine white as no one left their homes anymore.

Katia had eventually stopped asking about her father, Milena wasn't sure she even remembered him anymore. That thought saddened her, but also left her conflicted when she though that it might be for the best. If her daughter didn't remember what she once had, then perhaps she could not mourn what she had lost. In her darker moments, she almost wanted to blame her daughter for forgetting the wonderful man who had been her father.

The wafting aroma of freshly baked bread coming from Milena's window was her daily attempt to bring some brightness to the lives of her fellow villagers. She felt dishonest doing it though, knowing that she was planning to take Katia and leave Jinnsfjur herself soon.

She was already packing a bag with the things she couldn't bear to leave behind, when her front door then burst open, as her now eight-year-old daughter came rushing in, tracking snow inside the house.

"Mummy!" she yelled.

"Katia! What have I told you about wiping your boots before coming inside?" Milena scolded her child.

"But Mummy, Mummy!" Katia pressed on, ignoring her mother. "He's back!"

"Who's back, darling?" She asked without even looking up.

"The wizard!" Katia exclaimed, the glee on her face the kind that had not been seen in four winters.

Milena could only stare at her child. Her first thought was how could this girl not remember her own father, but remember a man she hadn't seen since she was three? Old feelings resurfaced for a moment, despair and anger raging within her, before the meaning of her daughter's words finally sunk in.

Milena's eyes widened as she rushed outside, looking to the entrance of town she saw a crowd had already gathered, the other children of the village having done the same as Katia, and rushed to tell their families the news.

It all the remaining inhabitants of Jinnsfjur had emerged, gathered as they were around a hooded old man with a staff in one hand and a donkey's lead in the other.

It was true. Melkor had returned!

***

Ever since he first arrived he had caused a stir; his dark skin indicating he originated far from these lands. And now, years later, he hadn't changed at all. His wrinkled face and charcoal beard presented the visage of an old man, yet he stood tall and proud, standing over even the largest of the village's young men.

His garb was strange as well; the cut of his robe was not the kind the people of the south had seen before, and it always drew interest when he travelled these lands.

The sleeves ended at his elbows, the bottom hem at his knees, and the front remained always open. But the hood which covered most of his face gave the garment its air of mystery. Ordinarily only cutthroats and scoundrels sought to cover their faces.

He was not the usual image of a wizard that these people were accustomed to. In fact, when he first settled in Jinnsfjur some seven years ago, he built his tower at the forest's edge by using his magic to fly stones through the air straight from Mikhal's masonry workshop and into the form of the tower that now stood there.

When Mikhal pointed out that he would still have to mortar the stones before placing them, he had waved his staff and chanted out what sounded like a song from a foreign land; a grating sound rang out from the tower's stones and Melkor assured him there was no need.

It had been quite a spectacle for the little village at the edge of the world. Some of the children had asked if his skin was as dark as it was because he was magical. Their parents, and Melkor too, had laughed at that before explaining that he looked different because he was from a far-away land.

Melkor's presence in their village had proved to be quite the boon. Between his various expeditions to lands near and far, he had done much to help his fellow villagers; he had healed ailing crops, livestock, and people with his alchemical concoctions.

When Marko's wagon had broken an axle carrying trees to the lumber mill, Melkor had magicked the logs to float through the air and saved the effort of having everyone move them from the wagon by hand so that it could be repaired.

He had even provided entertainments the people had not known before - giving the children magical trinkets which gave off sparks of glowing lights, and sharing with the adults a particularly strong and sweet tasting beer from his homeland brewed from something called a "banana".

And each time he returned to Jinnsfjur he would sit with everyone in the common house and regale them with the tales of his adventures -- which he appropriately exaggerated in their excitement for the children's enjoyment.

Jinnsfjur's people had never had to fear for anything in this idyllic place, but his presence had grown to comfort them with a new sense of safety and security. When he had left five years ago, he had said he wished to see more of these lands, he had said he would be gone for quite a long time. Everyone had been disappointed, not for the wizard who would fix all their problems for them, but for the friend they had grown to care for.

But now he was back, and he was the only hope for saving them.

Melkor greeted everyone crowding around him, exchanging clasped arms and warm hugs with the many friends he had long been away from. He could see they were happy to have him back -- as they always were, but there was something else this time, he could feel they were deeply worried.

When he caught Milena's eye, the kindly old man gave her an exceedingly warm smile, the same one which had never failed to comfort her. Until now. Now all she could feel was desperation and the fleeting hope that he could succeed where the rest of them had failed.

"Melkor!" she said quietly, walking up to embrace him. "It's good you're back, we need you!"

Concern flashed in his eyes, and he passed his donkey's lead to Brin before taking her hand and leading her home, telling the others gathered that he would see them all soon.

In the front room of Milena's bakery Melkor sat in a simple wooden chair, slowly eating the freshly baked loaf she had provided for him. As the breadcrumbs sprinkled into his long beard, the joy on his face was unmistakable. He had always said her baking was the best he had ever tasted.

"What troubles you, my dear?" he asked her, finishing his food.

"Things have happened, Melkor." Milena's voice was barely a whisper. "People came to the village. Raiders."

Melkor stared intently at her face, the haunted look in her eyes telling him more than her words just how bad the situation had become in his absence.

"Luka?" he asked her, noting that he hadn't seen her husband since his return.

"He tried to get us to resist. We almost succeeded too. But then..." she had to stifle a sob.

Melkor stood and embraced her, understanding now why he hadn't seen Milena's husband yet.

"Without him..." she continued "The rest of us don't know how to fight. Don't know how to stop them from stealing from us. From killing us if we try to resist. Olan tried, and that vile monster who leads them cut him down without a second thought!"

She broke into tears. "So many of us are already preparing to leave, to abandon Jinnsfjur! This isn't the life we envisioned for ourselves, having to give so much of our harvests to killers. Even the tax collectors in the cities were never this bad."

Releasing her from his embrace, Melkor placed his hands on Milena's shoulders and looked down into her watery eyes, and with grim determination set on his face said "Don't worry Milena, you won't have to leave. I will make sure these people never return to Jinnsfjur."

Motioning her to sit down, he asked "Now, tell me everything."

***

That night Melkor sat in his tower, observing the accumulation of dust the past five years had brought to his scrolls, books, and various paraphernalia.

He briefly considered making a spell to clear the dust off and blow it out the lone window, but suspected he would end up with a wreckage more problematic than the dust itself -- that level of precision with his Power required more focus than his tired mind could muster at the moment.

Instead he looked out over the village, now illuminated only by moonlight. When Melkor had first come to this village, it had seemed a slice of paradise in which he could while away his remaining years.

He was old, to be certain. To look at his face one would guess him to be a man of sixty or seventy years, though in truth he was much older than that. The Power had sustained his body long beyond any mortal lifetime.

But in recent years, despite the strength he had always felt flowing through his limbs, he had found himself faltering, getting slower, making mistakes he hadn't in centuries. He could feel time's grip slowly tightening around him.

That was what made him leave Jinnsfjur in the first place. Melkor knew he didn't have many more years left, and had wanted to see more of these strange new lands before his time came.

Travelling the towns and cities of these cold, southern lands had been an interesting experience to say the least. While his strange, outlandish appearance was often met with looks of curiosity, shock, and sometimes suspicion, most of the people had been nice enough once they adjusted.

He had made something of a name for himself with his spells and potions he offered wherever he went -- The wizard of the northern deserts, they called him, although his home in the savannah was not near any desert these people were familiar with, being a journey of years just to reach his native lands.

Wizard. That term had struck him the first time he heard it. He still wasn't accustomed to the ways of the natives here, and had briefly wondered if it was meant as an insult.

They had envisioned frail-looking old men in flowing robes and pointy hats making profound declarations every time they spoke. Melkor would never wear a pointy hat, the very idea was silly.

In his home he was known as his tribe's shaman, the magic man of his people who would commune with the nature spirits to guide the tribe through their troubles, and the warrior who would protect them from great threats.