The Shroud

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Just a little delurk to post another story of mine. This one was originally supposed to be a frame story for a bigger tale (and it might be yet ), and the lack of explanation for some of the names might make it a bit obscure to anyone not familiar with the setting (the Land of Argyle). I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

I'll briefly explain the names if asked, but for now it'll have to be enough saying that the Shroud is a huge, dark cloud or fog that covers the entire region called the North Cape. Few ever venture into it and very few come back, for in the Shroud nothing lives, and the dead walk.

Now on to the story...


*****


Sonas always shines bleak, here on the fringe of the Shroud. I do not know why I bother to write that, everyone knows it. It is a waste of ink. Though today, I suppose, it is especially true. I see the Lifegiver’s sad face sink into that sickly haze, soon to be altogether enshr... - veiled. A depressing sight. It shall be dark within the hour; I do not expect to see the stars, and the moon - what poet could love that moon? The patrol should soon return, and I must hasten. There is much to tell.

On a small highland plateau, near a frozen mountain mere, we came upon the dismal remains of an ancient village. Bare and broken skeletons of what once were sturdy houses huddle closely together, as if seeking to shelter and warm each other when in the jagged Crackclaws icy winds blow. But they all found death, death and oblivion in the snowdrifts. And yet, after ages of not seeing a living being, they stand as a testament to days now drowned in the river of time, buried under the snow and lost to the Shroud, to days that were happier than ours. A testament in more ways than one, it would turn out.
We would not have lingered if not for Haldeth’s discovery. Most of the Men of Hemdale are not men of letters, but he recognised marks of writing on a wall and found it strange. The dialect was one I had a hard time understanding, for that manner of expression was provincial and has been extinct for many centuries. But I was curious, for soon we found similar writing on other walls too.
I said to the men it was an account of sorts, an account of the last days of this village - for so much I could tell almost immediately – and that I would like to study it. On their pointing out that we must press on, I replied that I would rather wait for them here. They smiled. They do not share this zealous fascination for history which I possess (or which possesses me), and nor do I think they understand it. Most likely they just thought I needed an excuse; that I was too faint of heart to continue. But I was allowed to have my way, for, as they said, Sollist was with them and they should have no need for me. (Sollist is a light and fair man of about twenty-five summers, whose name they seem to have confused with that of his Goddess.) Only Haldeth remained to protect me. Haldeth, who as I pen this ceaselessly gazes out west from his perch on a rock above the lake, searching the barren landscape for signs of his comrades returning.
I spent the day translating this unusual record. Soon it became apparent to me, however, that it was not so much a historical account of the last days of a small mountain village as a tale of two of its people. Sadly, I have not now the time to retell it, but by Wodan, another day I will return, and the land will know the names and the fate of Eld and Víde. By Wodan! Their saga shall not be lost.

Forgive me for digressing, dear reader, but this talk about the ancient village and the tale on its walls made me forget something I should have related much earlier. I would have left it out for the sake of consistency, but I think one or two of you might find it of interest, and hence it shall be told. Besides, sometimes it is as if this pen has a life and a will of its own – it would not let me finish my text without this episode.
On the eastern shore of the mere lies a mound, on which a stone is erected. On this stone, these lines are inscribed:

Eld and Víde
Lost in the Year of the Shroud

Your earthly remains are at rest in this ground,
May Spirits of Stone keep them safe to the end.
But let not this mound under soil hold you bound:
Fly with the doves and the swallows, my friends.

When we came, the mound and the stone lay half-hidden in the snow. But the Men of Hemdale saw it. Around it they stood in a semicircle, with their sword-hands on their chests and their heads bowed to honour the dead, for such is their custom when they pass a grave in the wild. I did as they, using my pen-hand in want of a sword-hand, and I considered the epitaph for a while, but then thought of it no more. Until just now, when those names brought it back to my mind.
But enough now. I, who wished for time enough to pen everything, now only wish to get back to warm meals, ale and laughter as soon as possible. Even the ink is freezing and nigh on useless. The patrol should soon return.


A warm hearth works wonders on frozen souls. Back in Hemdale I am, and no longer with fingers too stiff to write. I will now recount what happened when last I lay down the pen, for I feel it is worth a line or two.
We had now but to wait for the men to return. Climbing the cliff that overlooked the lake, I joined Haldeth. The view would have been magnificent, but the looming, rugged peaks, the jagged ridges, the snowy vales and the narrow gorges; all appeared sombre and dead in the twilight like a long forgotten churchyard, and cast shadows so dark that it weighed on your heart and chilled your bones.
Closer to the edge I stepped. I looked down on the lake and saw its frozen surface. Then out of the Shroud came a wind. It lifted the snowflakes, it whirled about us. I thought I heard words on the wind, words in a melody sung by a fair but deeply sorrowful voice:

One hundred thousand whirling flakes of snow
do carry him away on winds of woe…

The wind whirled, and it was gone. The snow fell slowly to the ground again. I looked at Haldeth, he looked grimly at me.
“Ill tidings on the western wind,” he explained. Reaching out with his arm he made me aware of a group of black specks slowly moving towards us.
“They return.”
And return they did. We climbed down and met the men beside the lake, just in time to see one of them spread a bear fell on the snow and another carefully lay a body upon it. It was Sollist. He was alive, but almost blue of face and he bled fiercely through some hastily laid bandages. I hurried to his side, but when my lips began to move and my hand reached out to offer its soothing touch, he stopped it. He smiled to me.
“I am beyond aid now, my friend. Already it stoops over me…” With some effort, he ran his fingers along the bear fur.
“Come, wrap this about me and help me find Solace.”
I did as he wished, and he seemed to relax a little, but suddenly also appeared infinitely more weary. He looked on us all. His frozen lips moved ever so slightly, speaking a silent farewell. And with that, he breathed out his soul.
Quietly we stood by the cold deathbed. The men were grim and sad, for they mourned a dear friend. I mourned him too. And as we stood there, I felt the icy hand of guilt clawing at my heart. I can still not help thinking that it was I who killed him. For, had I but been there, could I not have helped him immediately? Could not his life have been saved with mine and Wodan’s help? But I was not there, I chose to stay behind. Why could I not study the walls another day? For Sollist it is too late now, but I beg my brothers to remember this in days to come, when they might find themselves in a like situation.
At length a cairn for the man I knew as Sollist was erected on the lakeside, beside the other grave. Wishing to complete his memorial with his true name, I asked it of the men. By some strange chance, it was Eld.

Sonas always shines bleak on the fringe of the Shroud. That day, it was especially true.


Fengild Vistfara, Year of Rebirth 502 on the Oneweek of Geon, for Wodan’s Temple-Library in Shroudgard.

 

Say, have you ever considered writing a whole book?

Your writing surely is great you know!
With class, so to say.
Very much different from gnome and his vampire revenge (iirc that's the title).

 

Hey, thanks. But no, I've never seriously considered writing a whole book. Though it'd certainly be fun if I could pull it off.

(A Gnome and his Vampire's Revenge is part of the title. Glad you still remember it. )

 

I liked it a lot, great style!

(you should write more often)