The Line in the Snow

When he had been born, the tribe had rejoiced. A strange thing, given that the cause for their joy was the death of his mother in childbirth. Their shaman of the time -- Zanbor -- had said this was a good omen that Melkor would know the Power and become the next shaman.

His path had been chosen for him at that point. Learning to wield the Power had taken many years under Zanbor's tutelage, and he had first thought it strange when the other children he had grown up with began developing grey hairs and crow's feet, yet he remained the very picture of a young man.

As he was soon to learn, though, the tragic cost of being the next shaman brought with it certain benefits. While he had learned to channel the energies of the world through his body, he was still required to learn the ways of his father, one of the hunters who spent their days feeding the tribe.

He soon found he could do more than just conjure gusts of wind from nothingness and heal fresh wound with nothing but his will; using the Power easily made him the strongest and the fastest of the men of his tribe, outclassing all the other boys as they trained to hunt and fight.

When he threw his spear, he already knew exactly where it would land, and he could track game through the tall grasses without even needing to see it.

Sometimes, he could even sense the intentions of those around him. As a boy, this had helped him hunt by letting him know if an animal had been startled or not; and as a man it had saved his life more than once -- it was hard to stab someone in the back when they would turn to face you the moment you thought to try.

By the time he left his people -- many years after all those he had grown up beside had died, Melkor already considered his life to be one well-lived, and sought to further expand his knowledge and experience of the world beyond the savannah.

And when he found the idyllic little village by the forest, he realised he had found a place to settle at last.

Alas, it seemed that fate had a sense of irony.

His peaceful haven was being threatened now, and he suspected that protecting it would require him to be anything but peaceful.

***

The next morning Melkor awoke, and went about the tedious process of dusting his long-neglected home by hand -- he never was a morning person, then stopped when he sensed an air of foreboding emanating from Jinnsfjur down below.

Peering out his window, he saw several men on horseback entering the village, and many of the villagers walking outside to meet them.

He watched Milena walk up to the largest man he had ever seen -- it must be this Cruvik she spoke of -- and stare at him defiantly. The bandit leader only deigned to spare her a dismissive glance before casting his gaze over the people gathered.

"Milena." he acknowledged without meeting her face. "I expect you'll be ready with the next tribute soon."

His tone may have seemed pleasant to one who had never seen the beast in action, but everyone present had seen him the night Luka had died. The night the monster disguising itself as a man had stolen so many lives from them. The villagers' eyes saw nothing but the horrors of that night every time Cruvik returned to them.

"There will be no more tributes! Come down here and speak to me!" Melkor declared as he strode to Cruvik's side and demanded he dismount. The old man carrying the staff spoke as he would to a petulant child.

The murderous warlord could not believe his ears. No one dared speak to him like that. Even these pathetic villagers, with their impotent anger, never spoke as though he was beneath their concern. Yet this stranger did.

Bristling at the attitude of this old man, Cruvik did indeed dismount his horse, he was intent on teaching this vagabond a lesson. Melkor was a large, tall man to be sure, yet still Cruvik looked down upon him.

He opened his mouth, ready to spew terror and vitriol at this man who would dare oppose him. If his stature and his anger were meant to intimidate the hooded foreigner, they failed.

Melkor spoke first. "You will leave this place. If you return, you will all die." He said it so calmly, and with such certainty, that for a moment, Cruvik hesitated.

The seasoned marauder recovered quickly though, he would not be intimidated by some old man. He laughed at the defiance before raising his hand and using two fingers to signal to one of his men.

The man behind him to his right raised a crossbow and took aim at the hooded man's chest before almost lazily letting the bolt fly.

A collective gasp took the villagers and Cruvik only smiled, anticipating a hasty solution to his newest problem.

Yet Melkor still stood. Quicker than anyone around had seen, his hand had shot out to grasp the bolt before it had struck.

It was a simple enough trick Melkor had learned long ago, to sense the ripples of energy incoming danger signaled. In battle he would know how to move and what to do to avoid things as simple as crossbow bolts, but catching them mid-flight had often proved an impressive enough act to avert further conflict.

Both Cruvik and his men, as well as the gathered villagers were astounded, none of them had seen someone do such a thing before.

Melkor held the missile in his left hand, hefting its wait and considering the thing. He could sense the mind of the man before him, there was no mercy there, no kindness. This would not be resolved without conflict.

The astonishment in the air soon turned to confusion, and then to panic, as Melkor threw the bolt back at its source, impaling the crossbowman on his own projectile.

Seeing this instantly sent Cruvik into a rage, yet before he could do anything about it, Melkor attacked.

The Power flowed through him, strengthening his muscles and quickening his mind. Using his staff, he swiftly struck the giant raider on the head, then twice in the gut before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Cruvik fell to the ground with quite a loud thud, and his men scrambled to engage this new threat.

Several more bolts fired out, yet with movements faster than any could see, Melkor knocked them aside with his staff, the final one which would have struck him in the head instead lodging itself firmly in the head of his staff.

The wizard's hand struck out and a wall of invisible force propelled all the remaining bandits from their saddles, startling the horses and causing them to scatter.

Melkor stood over Cruvik, looking down on him. "This village is under my protection. If you return, it will be at the cost of your lives."

Cruvik sprang to his feet, pure rage painted on his scarred face, ready to fight tooth and nail. He didn't survive this long by being foolish, though. He hadn't brought enough men with him for a proper fight, and this dark-skinned newcomer had clearly proven himself a formidable foe, so for the second time Cruvik left Jinnsfjur in defeat.

Melkor's watchful gaze was cast over the raiders as they trod back towards their lair. When they were far enough away he relaxed his control over his breath, and drew in deeper lungfuls, it had been some time since he had last fought, and it had tired him more than he had expected.

When he finally turned back to the villagers who had watched the whole encounter, several more gasps came from them as the retreating marauder attempted to replay an old trick.

Melkor simply raised his staff aloft, and the crossbow bolt aimed at his back simply hung in mid-air, before dropping to the ground.

Vexed once more, Cruvik could only scream in impotent rage before following his men away from the village.

Relief washed over everyone gathered. Though she was happy at the turn of events, Milena still cautioned Melkor. "It won't be enough to stop him. He'll be back soon, with more men."

"With all of his men, hopefully." Melkor replied. "I will be ready to face them, but the rest of you should consider hiding in the forest, in case the fighting spills into Jinnsfjur."

***

The mage returned to his tower and set to meditating upon a solution to the threat, Milena had told him everything about their battle with Cruvik and his men, she had said they numbered a few dozen. If he simply killed their leader, the others may retaliate on the village later. He would have to kill them all, or else terrify them enough to ensure that they would never return.

Cruvik had also boasted to Milena that there were other groups of raider under his command, but when Melkor inquired further, she said that each year it was always the same men who came to collect the tribute.

This was good, it might mean that those other encampment he spoke of knew nothing of Jinnsfjur. In Melkor's experience, these kinds of people seldom shared their spoils. With Cruvik and his own camp gone, there was a good chance Jinnsfjur would be forgotten about once more.

Melkor's rumination was soon interrupted however when the sound of tiny footsteps ascending the stone staircase reached his ears.

"Katia?" he called out. The eight year old entered the doorway with an inquisitive look on her, one that would've seemed more befitting on an adult.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, planting her fists on her hips, and looking more like a young girl now.

"The stones whispered it to me." Melkor said enigmatically, wearing a cheeky smirk and waving his arms about for effect.

In truth, most everyone in the village had quite a distinctive gait, and he had learned to recognise them all when he first lived in Jinnsfjur. It helped add to his air of mystery.

"What are you doing here?" he then asked her. "You should be at home with your mother."

"Mum's scary to be around right now. She can't stop fretting about the bad men coming back! She's really ank...ank-chus?" She tried to say.

"Anxious?" He supplied.

"Yeah, anxious!" The little girl looked sad now. "I'm really worried about her. When Dad died she was broken. She barely moved around at all... I had to stop asking about what happened to him because it only made her cry. I don't want her to be like that again!" She was frantic.

Melkor motioned the girl towards him and took her in his arms, offering her what comfort he could.

"Shh." He whispered to her. "She won't be. I'm going to make the bad men go away and never come back!"

"Promise?" The girl implored him.

"Promise!" He said, smiling.

In all his centuries Melkor had never had a child, he didn't know of any shaman, witch, sorcerer, or oracle who had. But in his idle thoughts while waiting for sleep to take him, he had sometimes pictured a family of his own, and he thought now that he would have liked to have had a daughter such as Katia.

"I wanted to ask you for something, Melkor." Katia said, quietly.

"What is it, child?" the old shaman asked, trying his best to sound paternal.

"I asked Mum once what happens to people when they die. She said that they go to another world. And I thought, well, if you could bring Dad back from where he's gone, then Mummy wouldn't have to worry so much, and we could stay here."

The girl's earnestness made Melkor's heart ache, he wanted more than anything to be able to grant her wish. It was something he had been asked before, many times in his centuries of life, to return loved ones from the grave.

Yet he had never known anyone, no matter what powers they claimed, to have the ability to restore life to the dead.

"I'm sorry, Katia." He said, shaking his head.

The finality in his voice was a disappointment to the heartbroken little girl, but not an unexpected one. She had held on to the faint hope that he could do the impossible, but deep down she had known that hope was misguided.

"There is no 'other world', is there?" Katia asked him, holding back tears.

"Not that my old eyes have seen, child." Melkor replied, holding her tighter. "And they've seen a great deal."

Melkor had to send her off soon, or else he would spend the whole time he should be preparing for the bandits' raid trying to comfort the sweet girl. Setting her down he said "I'm sure your mother is worried about you, and I have to prepare to make the bad men leave so, off you go."

She looked up at him with a pleading expression. "Can I have some magic first?"

Melkor chuckled, 'some magic' is what the children of the village had taken to calling the simple enchanted trinkets he would give them from time to time.

Scratching his beard, he realised "You know, I think I have just the thing." And went to the knapsack he had carried in his travels. Rummaging through it he retrieved a short length of pitch black twine and went over to Katia.

"A seer I met in Solan Nor gave me this." Reaching his palm out, a simple hand mirror flew across the room to him and he handed it to the girl, instructing her to look into it.

Katia, like her mother and many of the people in these lands, had bright blonde hair. The old wizard gathered her locks into a ponytail and used the length of twine to tie it together.

Katia's mouth dropped open in awe then, as she watched her hair turn the same pitch black as the binding. "Wow!" she exclaimed, marveling at her ponytail. "She just gave you this!?"

"She did. I think she meant for me to use it on my beard." Melkor told her, stroking the grey curls. "In case I wanted to look like a young man again!" he said, laughing, the many wrinkles under his eyes becoming prominent with his smile.

Katia gave a girlish little laugh, and reached up to hug him about the neck. "It looks like Daddy's hair now. Thank you!"

"Just tie it into your hair whenever you want to activate it, and take it out to go back to normal." He explained, then ushered her outside.

Melkor returned to his tower room and sat in meditation, as he always had when battle was imminent.

Annoyingly, worryingly, he wondered more than once how many more battles he had in him.

Shortly before sunset he heard the hoof beats coming. That he could hear the marauders before he felt them was a concern, it meant there were many more than last time.

Melkor took his staff, donned his robe, and leapt from his tower window. Channelling the Power to slow his descent, he landed sprightly, and broke into a sprint towards the invaders.

Passing by the villagers' homes, he could no sign of them inside. Good, they had heeded his advice and hidden away.

He met the marauders near the entrance to Jinnsfjur, they numbered almost forty this time. Cruvik had brought his horse to a halt at the front of their formation, no doubt wanting to posture once more.

Melkor knew that this conflict would not be resolved with words -- monsters could not be reasoned with. He let the Power flow into him once more, and felt the rush of strength and vitality it brought with it.

Without breaking his sprint, he leapt high into the air and kicked Cruvik square in the chest powerfully enough to unseat the mountainous marauder, and before landing swung his staff around and struck another of the raiders in the head, knocking him from his mount as well.

The second battle for Jinnsfjur had begun.

The invaders swiftly dismounted and advanced on the old man and, bringing daggers, swords, axes, and spears to hand, a vicious melee broke out as each one of them attempted to bring down the wizard.

That was what he had to be, Cruvik had concluded. The way he had thrown his men from their mounts, the way he had stopped the bolt without touching it, without even looking at it, could only be the result of sorcery.

Cruvik's rage that day had been unlike anything his compatriots had seen from him before, even more so than after his forced retreat years ago at the hands of a single soldier and a mob of farmers.

He had called every one of his men to come with him this time, single-mindedly determined to teach the upstart village that he was not someone to be defied.

His closest comrades -- that was all they could ever be, someone like Cruvik didn't have such things as friends -- had tried to sway their leader from investing so much time and energy into the tiny village.

Certainly, it was useful to have such a steady supply of food and materials close by, but the caravan's coming to and from the nearby cities were the real source of their profits.

Cruvik, however, would not be swayed. Somehow, for reasons known only to himself, it had become a point of pride for him to harass and terrorise this insignificant hamlet.

And so his men had come, and they were regretting that loyalty right now. As much combat as the forty odd cutthroats had seen between them, it seemed it was not enough to fell one old man with a stick.

The shaman's staff moved in a blur, swinging around his body and connecting with the heads, legs, and bellies of any who dared stray too close to him.

The clang of weapons and the crunching of broken bones were heard all around, but for Melkor the reverberations of the magical energy flowing around him, and within him, created a symphony of sounds only he could hear.

When attacked, Melkor handily batted away the flats of blades and the hafts of spears and axes, sometimes even connecting the head of his staff with the edges of the weapons, only for powerful bursts of invisible force to propel the offending weapons and their owners meters away through the air.

By the time Cruvik had risen from the ground and drawn his jagged greatsword, half of his forces lay around him bleeding and broken, with those remaining letting a sensible amount caution keep them from provoking the dangerous old wizard.

Undeterred, Cruvik strode towards Melkor. He was audibly huffing, a prominent vein in his temple bulging at his ire. He would deal with the insipid old sorcerer himself.

He lunged at Melkor, almost forgetting that fights were won through skill. Almost, but not quite, as he dodged Melkor's swing. The old man was struggling for breath himself, he could not keep this up forever. Yet as skillful and experienced as he was, Cruvik was no match for Melkor, and continued to lose ground as the fight wore on.

Melkor was too fast, and deceptively strong for a man his age. Again and again the bloodthirsty giant's blows were parried and countered by a simple length of wood. And each blow Melkor struck only heightened the fear Cruvik's men were feeling.

Several had backed away all the way to their horses, retrieving their crossbows to engage Melkor from a distance. It was a good idea on their part, for as Melkor now had to concern himself with deflecting the incoming projectiles, he was barely able to hold off Cruvik.

He was wearying, the toll of pushing his old bones past their limits showing as his movement continued to slow. Even the Power flowing through him had its limits. Melkor took his first step backwards for the battle.

Suddenly a rock struck one of the bowman in the head, causing him to grunt in pain and fall to the ground. His comrade beside him looked towards the source of the new attack.

Upon the eaves of the nearby stable Katia crouched by a bag of stones. She had slipped away from Milena's side while her mother was preoccupied with following Brin through the forest. She was going to help Melkor beat the bad men, then without them she and everyone else could stay in Jinnsfjur.

The bowman's comrade fired back with his weapon, narrowly missing the girl, but causing her to tumble from the stable's roof and fall heavily to the ground.

Melkor saw her fall and a spike of worry shot through him. "Katia! Get inside!" he yelled.

When he saw the man she had hurled the stone, now back on his feet, and aiming his crossbow towards her, his fear intensified. The shot rang out, and Melkor turned his back on Cruvik, thrusting his staff towards the projectile and stopping its flight before it struck her. Cruvik took advantage of his momentary lapse and slashed a deep cut across Melkor's back.