The boy peered out from behind the trees. His every breath released a great cloud in front of him. The tall pines he used as shelter were thick and heavy with snow. Every now and then a bitter gust of wind released a fresh flurry that coated his head and shoulders. He barely noticed. His attention was fixed on the far side of the plain, away through the trees and across the brittle, rough snow-coated ground that he called home. He tried to guess how long he had been waiting, but quickly gave up. It seemed like days. He was twelve and very bad at waiting, but today he would stand patiently behind the trees for as long as it took. He knew that the enemy was coming and that his father was ready. Two great men would meet in battle. One came to take his home, seize his land and humiliate his people. The other came to protect and defend those people, to repel the arrogant Southerners who dared to march this far away from their homes. Two great men and two great armies would meet in battle, and despite his father’s warnings, he was not going to miss it.
As he stood and waited, he remembered his father’s words. It was early in the morning, still dark and with the world at its coldest. When he woke up, his father’s face was looking down at him. As he peered through one half-open eye, he saw an unfamiliar look of worry knitted across his father’s brow. It was quickly replaced by a broad smile that his thick heavy beard could not diminish, but he saw it nonetheless and he remembered it in the days and nights since.
“Gunther,” his father said gently. “Gunther, wake up.”
“I am awake, Father,” he said, and pulled himself up onto his elbows, forcing both eyes open.
His father leaned in closer and tousled his hair. His hands were large, but his touch was gentle.
“It is time, my boy. I have to go now. The people need me to lead them - to be strong. And I need you to do the same. Be strong, for your mother and for your sister. I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring you a gift.”
Gunther did his best to smile.
“Good luck Father,” he said, struggling to keep his eyes open.
He felt the large hand tighten on his arm.
“I do not need luck, son,” his father said, his voice low and hard. “Strength and bravery are what my people expect. Luck will have no part.”
“Yes, Father. Sorry, I…” began Gunther.
His father smiled again, letting go of his arm.
“Don’t be sorry. I will be back soon.”
With that he was gone. Despite himself, Gunther drifted back to sleep. When he finally awoke to the sharp cold sunlight he was unsure if his father’s visit was real or a dream. As soon as he saw his mother’s face that morning he knew it was real. Her cheeks were wet with fresh tears and he could feel her silent sobs as she pulled him close and squeezed him tightly to her.
Now, two days later, hunched behind a thin pine tree, he waited to see his father again. He prayed for the hundredth time that everything he had been told was true. The wide, white plain before him was as good a place as any for a battle, but he was already old enough to realise that not everything always ended up as you planned. In the meantime, he would wait.
He was used to the cold but not to standing still for so long. He closed his eyes for a moment, his forehead rested against the brittle bark of the tree, when he heard something. He opened his eyes. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. From close behind him came a thud. He swivelled around fast, both hands up in front of his face in an instant. A fresh deposit of snow lay at his feet. He glanced up and saw the branches high above him shiver against the wind. He let out a long, thick stream of breath. Just snow.
Then it came again. It was a muffled, indiscriminate noise, nothing that he could recognise or name. Yet even as he listened he thought he heard half a cry. He concentrated hard, his head cocked to one side. A steady hum was building now, the rumble of someone, something, away across the plain. He felt a surge of excitement and fought an urge to leave the shelter of the trees and head out towards the sound. He pressed both hands tightly against the tree and listened again.
The sounds were still faint, but were slowly growing louder. Gunther pictured his father. He imagined him arriving from the far side of the plain, growing larger and larger as he crossed the great expanse and prepared to meet the invaders in battle. He could see his great axe, slung across one shoulder. He could smell the thick furs that clung to his broad chest, mottled and heavy with the dried blood of his previous conquests.
The drumbeat snapped Gunther out of his daydream. It was coming from away to his left, from the opposite direction to the other, earlier noises. Thrump thrump thrump it sounded in a quick, marching beat. The boy felt his stomach lurch and he gripped the tree even harder. Away to his left the drumbeats grew steadily stronger. As he peered through the trees he saw for the first time a flash of colour against the blank canvass of the snow. Was this the enemy or could it be his father’s men? Unsure, Gunther stood stock-still and waited. He hardly dared to blink. His heart beat hard in his chest, marking out double-time to the nearing drums. There was a second flash of colour, then a third and then the whole plain was filled with men; a huge and growing horde, bold against the crisp white. Men in strange bright dress, unlike anything he had ever seen. These were the Southerners, come to take his father’s land. Gunther held his breath, unmoving and wide-eyed, as they grew closer, their numbers still growing. A cough or a sneeze now and he would never see his family again.
Gunther stared through the trees. He felt the fear twist through his stomach and he grabbed the thin tree hard to stop his hands from trembling. There were too many. Far too many. The first of the Southerners were now straight ahead of him, yet still more and more arrived away to his left, filling the plain with their colour and noise. His father’s men were strong and brave, but they would be no match for so many. The scouts must have been mistaken, or been tricked. A shiver ran through Gunther that had nothing to do with the cold. In an instant, he knew what he must do. If he hurried, he could make it. The plain the Southerners were marching on bent in a long and gentle curve, following the line of the forest around to their right. If he turned around and headed back through the trees he would reach his father before the enemy could. If he warned him, they could retreat, hide away amongst the trees - anything but face such an overwhelming force head on.
Thrump thrump thrump the drums beat on and still the plain filled with men. It was time to go. He must warn his father. Gunther braced himself, his arms and legs tightly wound and ready to spring free after so long stood quiet and still. He moved, carefully at first, as his father had showed him. His steps were deliberate and measured as he picked his way through the trees. His legs wobbled; part in fear and part due to the after-effects of too long standing out in the cold. As the strength came back to them and the distance from the Southerners grew, Gunther increased his pace, widening his stride with ever more confidence as the trees thinned out. He glanced away to his left with almost every step. He could still see the flashes of colour as the men headed on. He would need to hurry if he was to reach his father in time.
Above the crackle and snap of his feet through the snow, Gunther could still hear the drums beating out their remorseless rhythm. He could no longer hear what he thought were his father’s men. He hoped that they were further away than he first thought. He was now almost running and kept his glances back towards the plain to a minimum, concentrating instead on where he was going. Now was not the time to run into a tree or trip over a snow-covered clump of roots.
The ground began to fall away ahead of him. After a few more strides he realised he was heading down the side of a small valley enclosed within the woods. With every step the descent grew steeper and steeper. At the bottom Gunther saw the dark ribbon of a river, laid out in sharp contrast to the untouched white background of both banks. He was moving too fast. Try as he might, he could not slow down. His legs were working of their own accord, pumping mechanically in response to the desperate slope he was now hurtling down. His arms were outstretched, his palms raised as he tried to fight against his own momentum. It was no good. His foot caught something hard beneath the snow and he lurched crazily even as he carried on towards the stream. His right foot slipped from beneath him. He was flying, clear of the snow. He closed his eyes and waited to hit the ground.
Gunther landed upside-down on one shoulder and flipped over before coming to rest face down in the water. The huge splash was loud against the still background. Swollen by the snow, the river was deep and fast moving and violently cold. He was immediately carried away downstream. Fighting panic and shocked by the freezing temperature, Gunther tried several times to stand up. The water was too fast and too deep. He gave up and concentrated instead of trying to catch hold of something on the bank. Trees rushed past on both sides. He grabbed at a tree root that stretched out over the water but managed only to brush it with a desperate fingertip. On and on, faster and faster the water carried him. He grabbed again at a low-hanging branch and this time he made firm contact. There was a thin snap and the branch came away in his hand. He let it go, trying to concentrate on the banks ahead of him. On and on he was carried, the roar of the water filling his senses.
Finally his luck changed. He struck a large boulder, half-submerged in the water, with his right shoulder. The force spun him sharply across the river toward the bank on the other side. Instinctively he threw out both arms and managed to grab a thick clump of reeds with one hand. Despite the sharp pain in his right side he forced himself to grab hold with his other hand. He clung there, sucking in great mouthfuls of air. The pounding pain in his shoulder was all he could feel from the neck down. He felt a terrible urge to let go, to float away on the water. He was so cold and so tired. He closed his eyes. He snapped them open again. Father. Must warn Father.
Somehow he managed to pull himself out of the water. He crawled a few paces to the foot of a pine tree and lay on his left side, shivering uncontrollably. His face and arms were criss-crossed with scratches from the reeds and his right shoulder still pounded. He thought he could still hear the faint thrump-thrump of drums. He tried to listen harder and realised it was his own heartbeat. It sounded a long way away. Sleep pulled at him, reaching with icy fingers.
Father. He forced himself up onto his hands and knees and began to crawl up the bank, away from the river. The snow was thick and progress was slow. His hands burned with the cold as he plunged them time and time again into the thick blanket that covered the ground. He could not stop shivering. He tried to raise his head to see where the next tree was, but the effort was too great. Must warn Father. He was panting hard. His right shoulder was already becoming stiff and he winced as he pulled himself onwards again. His hand slipped and he sprawled forwards, face down in the snow. He willed himself to get up but his body would not obey him. Father he thought and then came oblivion.
*
He opened first one eye and then the other. There was nothing but the white ground and the cold. His lips stung as he forced himself to swallow. He closed his eyes again and instantly felt himself begin to drift. He snapped them open and tried to force himself into an upright position. The first time he got no further than his knees before slumping back into the welcoming blanket of snow. He cursed, and at the second attempt he managed to stand. He took three careful paces towards a tree and clutched hold of the trunk. Father he thought and panic seized him. At once he set off, his arms outstretched to steady himself. I am too late he thought and he quickened his step, pushing his body as fast as he could.
He could have been walking for days or it could have been minutes. He walked with his mind empty, his thoughts lost to the cold, his mind reduced to nothing but the simple commands that kept his legs working through the thick snow. Time passed and he drew nearer to his father, but it was time he could not count nor later remember. One moment he was pulling himself up out of the snow and the next he was running. He was running through the ever-thinning trees and ahead of him he could see where the wood gave way to the plain. He thought he glimpsed men through the trees. He had reached his father.
He ran without thought to what or who he would find. He ran past the last of the trees and burst out onto the plain. He thought he was shouting for his father, but no words were coming from his lips. All around him the snow had disappeared, lost under a thick coating of red. Everywhere were bodies and parts of bodies. Some were naked but some still wore the heavy furs that he knew so well. Gunther stopped, his hands on his knees. He sucked in great lungfuls of air that burnt in his chest. Apart from his breathing the only other sound was the cry of watchful birds high above his head. He was too late.
Gunther followed the trail of bodies along the plain. He moved slowly, ignoring the uncontrollable shivering that had taken hold of him. Father. Must warn him. Even as he checked body after body, he refused to believe the battle was over. He would find his father and he would know what to do. He would put right this terrible wrong. On he stumbled, pausing only to bend over and retch. He wiped away a thin strand of bile and moved on.
Ahead of Gunther the woods closed in on both sides of the plain and formed a narrow channel. The bodies were thicker now, piled closer together or on top of each other. He glanced up and saw something upright in the snow ahead of him. It was little more than a branch stood in the ground. A branch with something stuck on top of it. Gunther shivered, squinting forwards. Was it a head? He broke into a staggering run, his boots slipping and sliding on ruined bodies that he now paid no heed. A head. It was head. And it was a marker of some sort. Beyond it the trail of bodies stopped and the snow resumed its endless white unbroken cover. On he ran.
He saw his father’s eyes, wide and staring straight at him. He saw his long hair, braided for battle, and his thick, full beard. His neck was no more than an inch or two of lop-sided flesh above where the sword had wrenched it from his body. The stick the head sat on was soaked and smeared in blood and a wide red pool, thick and greasy, collected where it was rammed into the cold hard ground. Gunther let out a scream. He came to a stumbling stop in front of the stick and collapsed to his knees, sobbing. He let his head fall onto the dirty, stained snow and as he did so he saw a twisted pile of limbs and the thick bloody block that was his father’s torso. His scream faded into a long moaning wail. He opened his mouth to be sick but there was nothing left in his stomach.
“Father. Oh, father,” he sobbed, his face still pressed into the earth, his eyes now shut tight against the horror before him. No more words would come and he wailed and wailed in a ceaseless, keening cry of mourning.
He could hear voices. They were faint, some way off, but he could hear the voices of two men at least. They were behind him, heading towards him, no doubt following the bloody trail of dead. Gunther opened his eyes and forced himself to look into his father’s face once more. He half-sobbed, half-gulped and with one trembling hand, reached out to close his father’s fixed and staring eyes.
“They will pay,” he said. “I promise.”
The voices were nearer now. They would see him any moment. Gunther staggered to his feet. Although the shivering would not stop he no longer felt the cold and knew this was a bad sign. He scanned the ground, looking for a weapon, thinking for a moment that he would die a glorious death in front of his father. He could see nothing apart from bodies. He cursed, the words ringing out in the otherwise still air. Ahead the two men saw him and broke into a run, yelling and pointing as they came. Even from this distance Gunther could tell they were soldiers. He saw clearly now the bright colours of their strange uniforms, saw the flash as the sun lit on the long blade of a sword. Gunther paused, considering what to do. He looked down at the blood-soaked snow and at his own shaking hands. He ran.
He headed back into the woods. He heard a cry from behind him and the muffled beat of boots giving chase. He ran as fast as he dared and he did not look back. He heard fresh shouts, fainter now and then laughter. There was silence, then a final shout and another accompanying cackle. Gunther ran on, fresh tears soaking his cheeks and threatening to obscure his view. He ran with their mocking laughter still ringing in his mind until finally the pain in his side forced him to slow. When he stopped and looked around he recognised nothing. The formless, unending trees and the narrow twisting path provided no clues. He looked up but the sun was lost between the tops of the trees and the clouds. His father was dead and it was his fault. If only he had reached him in time, warned him of what was coming. But he had failed. He had failed and his father was dead. What did it matter that he was lost in the woods? Would there even be a home for him to find? Gunther’s head lolled against his chest and he fell to his knees. He stayed on all fours, panting hard, his head spinning, until he summoned enough energy to get off the path. He turned and crawled into the woods, not feeling the thick snow all around him. He made for a tree stump straight ahead, squinting as it moved in and out of focus, as the white all around him faded to black and then came back to white. It took a long time to reach the stump, but he finally made it and threw his arms around it. He closed his eyes and waited for death to take him.
*
Gunther could hear voices. There was the crackle and hiss of flames. Was he not dead yet? Were the woods on fire? Perhaps he was dead after all. Perhaps the flames were very close. With enormous effort he opened first one and then the other eye, hoping to see his father. He looked at the brown walls and rough roof of a small room he did not recognise. He turned his head and saw a fire in a hearth. The effort was too great and he closed his eyes again, welcoming back the blank, comforting depths of sleep.
He stirred again later and thought he saw someone standing over his bed, but he could not raise himself to wake. He dreamt of the woods. He dreamt of his father, first alive and then dead, his ruined body in a heap in the snow, his head stuck fast on the pole. He dreamt he was in the water. He was being carried away, the river moving faster and faster and faster, until finally he was emptied out over a great waterfall. Far, far below him, through blinding bright crystal blue skies, was the sea. He was falling, falling into the sea.
With a start he woke. Someone was standing over him again. The shape swam into focus and he recognised his mother. Joy at being alive gave way instantly to a thick, swamping guilt that soured his stomach.
“So, they were right. You live,” she said, and smiled sadly.
Gunther studied her face. She looked older, much older.
“Where am I?” he said. His voice was a dry rasp and his throat hurt.
“You are safe. We are somewhere safe.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry about father. I tried to warn him, I tried, but...”
“Oh Gunther,” his mother said, but she could not continue. Tears soaked her cheeks.
Gunther turned away from her and closed his eyes. Why did I wake up? he thought before he faded away again, the sound of his mother’s sobs echoing in his ears and invading his sleep.
*
When he woke up again it was light. The fire was out and his mother was gone. He sat up in the thin bed, wincing as pain shot through his shoulder. The river. I hit a boulder. He pulled back the thick skins covering him and examined his right side. He marvelled at the enormous, purple-black bruise that spread across his upper arm. He swung his legs off the bed. He wanted to know where he was and how he got here.
He pushed open the door of the small rough-timbered room. Sunlight hit his face and he stopped, half-blinded, whilst all around him bright whites and blues spun and twisted across his vision. He was looking over a small valley covered in a variety of tents. A handful of women were moving between them, or working to dig away piles of snow. Away to both sides climbed steep banks of deep white. He did not recognise where he was, although he guessed that the snow meant he was not too far from home. He sucked in a big breath of crisp, cold air. It was not like the air at home. It was thinner somehow. Perhaps he was further north, somewhere near the Wastes? Despite the cold, despite everything, the sun on his face felt good. He turned to face it directly and shut his eyes. He stood and basked, ignoring for a moment the needling, gnawing voice of his guilt and the heavy weight of his sorrow.
His peace did not last long. He could hear the soft, slow thump of approaching footsteps.
“Gunther! Gunther!” called a familiar voice.
He opened his eyes. Striding towards him with his familiar long-limbed gait was Olaf. As he drew closer he could see the concern etched in his friend’s face. It reminded him of his mother. And of his father the night he woke him, the night he left for the battle. The last time he…
“Gunther,” Olaf said again, snapping him out of his thoughts. He stopped several paces away and dropped to one knee. He bowed his head.
“Your highness,” he said. Gunther said nothing but stared at the top of his friend’s unruly hair. Olaf straightened up with a grunt. He spread his long arms wide and Gunther stepped forward into his embrace.
“How are you, friend?” he said.
“Olaf, where are we?” said Gunther, ignoring the question.
Olaf broke their embrace and stepped back. He looked him up and down. Again Gunther saw that serious, concerned look on his face.
“We are on the edge of the Wastes, Gunther. We reached here two days ago. I helped carry you part of the way, you great lump. This shack they put you in was the only thing that was here. Everything else we brought with us. I’m so sorry about your father, Gunther,” Olaf said with the same grave expression.
A sudden chill struck Gunther. It ran down his spine like a snowball.
“Where is my mother?” he asked. His voice sounded far away. “I must talk to my mother.”
Olaf grinned at him again. “They’re having some kind of meeting. There’s talk of going home – well, to whatever’s left of home. I think we might be about to move. I overheard…”
“I think that’s a very bad idea,” said Gunther. He was already past Olaf and striding towards the huddle of tents in the middle of the valley floor.
Olaf sighed and followed after him in long, lumbering strides.
“What men are here?” asked Gunther once Olaf finally reached him. Despite his height advantage, Olaf was struggling to keep up.
“There are none, Gunther. My father fell with yours. It was a slaughter.”
Gunther stopped suddenly and turned to his friend.
“Olaf, I didn’t think...of course. I’m so sorry.”
Olaf could only manage a weak, thin smile. Tears pricked his eyes. He swallowed hard.
“Our fathers were brave warriors. Papa would have killed a dozen men before he finally fell. The Southern scum who did this must pay, Gunther.”
They stood facing each other in the cold. A fresh wind blew through the valley, skidding up the light topping of fresh snow. It swirled around both boys’ ankles like fine morning mist.
“Do you know what happened to me, Olaf? Out in the woods?” asked Gunther.
His friend wiped dry his damp cheeks with the back of one long, mittened hand.
“They found you in the snow. They thought you were dead,” he said, shifting from foot to foot as the wind again made the snow rise and dance.
“Before that,” said Gunther. “Before that. I went to watch the battle. I waited in the woods for hours. I saw them, Olaf. I saw the enemy marching past, beating their drums. There were too many - many more than the scouts could have seen. That’s when I finally ran, ran to warn Father and the men. But the ground…There was a slope and I slipped and ended up in the water. When I got out I was so cold. I tried, Olaf. I tried to warn Father, but I was too late. He was...he was...I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your father.”
Gunther looked at the ground, blinking furiously. He bit his lip hard. He would not cry.
“It’s not your fault, Gunther,” said Olaf gently. “It’s not your fault.”
Gunther turned away, his mouth still closed tightly. Olaf was only making matters worse, curse the big oaf. He wiped his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.
“Gunther?” said Olaf. His voice barely carried against the piping wind which again swept up through the valley.
Gunther turned back and looked up at Olaf. The mixture of concern and pity he saw on his face knotted his stomach. He should worry about himself. He has lost his father and his mother is not as strong as mine.
“What are you going to do?” said Olaf. Gunther saw a different look on his face. Expectation.
“We are not going back. One day, but not now,” said Gunther. He paused. His mind was blank and he suddenly felt exhausted. If Olaf was right and there really were no men left, he didn’t know what to do. Lost in his thoughts, he watched as his breath drifted away in thick clouds. Something told him that heading back was a bad idea. Should we stay here? He looked down the valley, scanning the small scattering of tents. It was not much of a home. A sudden spike of anger shot through him. The Southerners were to blame for this. They killed his father and Olaf’s father and all the other men, and forced the women and children to flee. They would pay. He would make sure of it.
“I need to talk to my mother,” he said.
Olaf did his best to smile.
“Come on then, your highness. It’s colder than a wild boar’s ears out here.”
Together the two boys trudged through the snow towards the tents.