The Cold Ones

by A M D'Addabbo

  Unbidden, Krell squirmed beneath the unbearable onslaught of the Lord Commander’s scrutiny. With only a faint sliver of light from the moon’s cycle, Krell could see the disappointment writ upon Lord Vandyr Kaide’s face. He felt displeasure emanate from the Lord Commander and cast his gaze to his boots.

  “Do you understand what is happening, Captain?” Lord Kaide’s voice level, emotionless.

  “Aye, my Lord.” Krell forced himself to look into the steely-dun eyes of Lord Kaide — who stood closer to seven feet than to six.

  Bursting free of shadows and into the moonlight, a single arched eyebrow from the Lord Commander asked, ‘And?’

  Captain Krell sputtered his answer in a single breath. “They aren’t knitting together as they should be, my Lord; thus far, they’ve refused to become a brotherhood.”

  “If that is so,” Kaide’s voice was a whisper on the wind, “what was that near the end of the march?”

  “That was Cur-” Krell halted, startled by the subtle flare of Lord Kaide’s nostrils, accentuated by a muffled intake of breath, and clenching jaw. “My apologies, my Lord. It was Pell shouting encouragement. Some other candidates joined him.”

  “Aye,” Kaide nodded. He remained quiet, forcing Krell to continue.

  “Which bespeaks a forming of brotherhood.”

  “From?” Kaide spurred.

  “A select few.” A bitter taste rose into Krell’s mouth. The boiling rage, ever hiding behind the prison-bars of his ribs, shifted with malcontent.

  “From?” Kaide reiterated.

  “The nobility and a handful of the lowborn,” Krell said through gritted teeth.

  “And why do you think the others are recalcitrant to form a brotherhood with the nobles?”

  Silence.

  “Why, Captain?”

  “Because they can’t envision working with the noblemen as equals.”

  Lord Kaide shook his head, his sanguine ponytail softly whipping his shoulders.

  “A true leader, Krell, does not lay blame at the feet of his subordinates. Alas, he takes full responsibility, knowing well it is his beliefs and actions which dictate the cohort’s success.” Lord Kaide paused a moment, allowing his words to sink in and take an icy grasp on Krell’s spine. “Lack of adroit leadership is fatal to cohesion, and it will be the downfall of the Cold Ones.

  “I want to make myself understood, Captain. I chose you to head this cohort because I saw nigh eternal potential within you. As a man, a warrior, and a leader. But do not think for a whit, that I will not replace you should you find yourself incapable of harnessing your prejudice. The Cold Ones will disrupt ages old dogma, and be the vanguard which leads the Realm into a new epoch. We will not fail. We will be ready!”

  ◄►◄►◄►

  Captain Krell watched as Lord Kaide departed. Like barbaric marauders, fury roamed unchecked within his blood. Neck hairs erect, skull tingling with red-hot wrath — the captain’s lithe shoulders mantled contempt for Pell and the other noble candidates. Hands settled into the comfortable grips of his Furyte steel karambits, his forefingers enshrined within the finger loops.

  It would be simple to end this grief, Krell’s mind flashed bloody thoughts. Quick slashes to the carotid and those highborn dandies would choke on their own vitae.

  Krell’s wrath was a beast of its own, slithering serpentine around his thudding heart. It seethed, calling for recompense in blood, demanding retribution.

  “NO!” Krell barked aloud. He ripped his hands from the small of his back — from the twin, claw-like blades. Lord Kaide is the only one who believes I can be more than a hired killer. I will not betray that trust.

  Krell knew the twelve noble trainees never rendered him harm. Nor were any old enough to be his sire; yet, undisputed fury scorched his soul.

  Mothered by a courtesan and raised inside a brothel, Krell endured many atrocities — least of which being a bastard, sired by an unidentified noble client. At an early age, Krell discovered the abysmal depths of lechery the so-called ‘noblemen’ would stride. Carnal requests, despite how deplorable, would always be acquiesced if the client paid enough gem bits and links. The appropriate exchange of currency guaranteed all suitors a right to anything they desired.

  Again, the creature writhed inside Krell’s chest, its fury blossoming.

  He curbed its growth, his entire body shaking; sweat trickled into his eyes.

  Lord Kaide found me, Krell remembered, he instructed me in weaponry. I vowed I would never be victimized again. I will not fail the only ‘father’ I ever had, by letting my rage control me.

  Like a serpent coiling around his stomach, the rage jeered.

  Bold words. We shall see.

  ◄►◄►◄►

  Men, staggered on opposite sides, rested maple trunks upon their shoulders. Grunts of strain escaped each man as they exited the forest. The cadre awaited them. As swift as possible, each team hastened toward the three nightmare instructors, believing they would win some reward for being quickest. The group which exiled Pell allowed their trunk to fall with a deep thud. Regret assailed their souls.

  Captain Krell and Hess cajoled, cursed, and berated with merciless contempt.

  “Did we say you could drop that, scum?” Krell snarled.

  “Pick it up!” Hess bellowed, racing down their group and pushing each man toward the bole.

  With an incredible struggle, they did — finally resting it on shoulders again.

  “Lift it above your heads! NOW!”

  Pained gripes sang from the group as they heaved. Hoisted above their heads, the men stepped fully beneath the trunk, yet the enormous log began to sink. Panicked bleats ripped from exhausted men.

  “Lock-out your arms, you dolts!” Hess seethed.

  A surge, accompanied by shouts, and the log rested firmly in the men’s hands — arms locked at the elbow. The rest of the log crews assumed the same over-head position.

  “When I say up,” Krell ordered, “this is the position you will assume. When I say left or right, you will lower the log to the specified shoulder. Am I understood?”

  “Aye, Captain!”

  “Right! Up! Left! Up! Right!”

  Thus, it went for what felt like an eternity. Over and over the trunks went, to the lamentations of the candidates.

  Pell and the group of nobles — numbering only a dozen, opposed to the other teams with a score or more — struggled to manhandle their tree. Without the numbers to disperse the weight as effectively, the nobles lagged behind the called cadence.

  Yet, they never ceded.

  Pell’s chest puffed with pride when his former log crew, led by Arentz, self-eliminated. This highborn fop outlasted you!

  Pell understood the pettiness of the thought, but he failed to resist.

  Hess escorted the quitters away without a word.

  Pell was uncertain, his mind plagued with exhaustion, but he swore Krell’s lips twitched in a smile. The captain ordered the crews to drop their logs. The reprieve lasted long enough for them to hydrate. Trunks overhead once more, the nine remaining teams waited for their next punishment.

  “Upon my command, each of you will lower the trunk to your right shoulder,” Krell ordered, pacing in front of the teams. “After, you will turn and press your chests to the log, both arms wrapped beneath it. Then, you will squat to the ground and slowly rock back. The posts will rest on your chests, and over your bent knees as you assume the lowered sit-up position. Ready…Move!”

  Nine groups did as ordered. After a handful of grunts and one squeal of pain, they were ready.

  “I shouldn’t need to iterate this,” Krell began, his eyes settling on Pell, “but I don’t want those less learned to be confused. When I say up, you’ll sit up; when I say down, you’ll lower your backs to the ground.

  “Ready, up! Down, up, down, up, down!”

  Again, Pell’s crew suffered for lack of personnel. Many times, the other groups were forced to pause in the up position, log aloft ove
r their knees, until Pell and the nobles reached the prescribed amount of sit-ups. Then, as one, the entire cohort would continue.

  Pell’s childhood education taught him that history repeats itself, and as such, his crew lagged again. And Again.

  Curses gusted like gale wind from the other candidates. Hoisting their trunks, the aspirants paused, as the nobles strove to reach the counted reps. Sweat trickled in runnels, muscles quivered with exhaustion, and the men swore in desperation as they waited.

  At long last, Captain Krell ordered them to recover — logs grounded. He allowed a momentary rest for hydration. As expected, the command rent the night all too soon, and again the log crews hoisted their burden.

  Bleats of despair accompanied the gasps of exertion; over two score men submitted for self-elimination. They were ordered to return to their rucksacks, remain standing at attention, and await Hess’ return.

  Captain Krell rearranged teams, now down to seven, bringing ease to those whose crew had quitters. Pell didn’t miss the fact his group had yielded none, yet was also allocated no additional teammates.

  A savage twist to the captain’s blade, Pell thought as he gazed through hazy vision at his log crew. Exhaustion ravaged his mind; numbness and unbidden thoughts of self-elimination flitted into his being, singing a hymn of recuperating sleep. The baron flicked his eyes to the quitters in formation, standing beside their rucksacks. No, Pell growled mutely. I’ll persevere, I can withstand anything the captain sends me!

  That sentiment was sorely tested.

  “Logs up!” Krell ordered.

  The seven teams obeyed, sluggish with lethargy.

  “On my order,” Krell bellowed with the force of a lion’s roar, “you’ll race toward the gear, circle it, and return to me. If everyone does so swift enough, you will be released for the eve. Or, at least, what remains.”

  A weak scattering of cheers bounced among the aspirants, swiftly cut silent by the captain’s scowl.

  “March!” Krell bellowed.

  Off they went, their pace slow as a river cutting stone.

  Logs jounced as they rested on alternating shoulders. The crews, drenched in sweat, cursed and cajoled one another for haste. Ragged breaths and muffled footsteps trumpeted their race. Four hundred meters distant — with another hundred around the ranks of quitters — the crews staggered underneath the weight of the trunks, but the taste of victory and respite lingered in their mouths.

  Six groups reached the captain, dropped their logs, bent over heaving gulps of air. Those few quick to recover turned and watched the last team struggle to remain right-up.

  Unsurprising, the group of nobles lagged behind with insufficient numbers. Half-hearted shouts of encouragement rent the night sky. Exhausted, the six crews rested and watched the seventh’s return.

  “Not fast enough, again!”

  Vigor burnt to ashes, the candidates conserved their energy, instead of wasting it with a grumble. The highborn crew forewent dropping their log. Instead, they instantly turned and began their lap. Despite this, the six other teams hoisted their boles and, from the sheer strength of numbers, overtook them. The six awaited the seventh at the end, each cheering and fostering hope, yet to no avail.

  Time after time, like a phantom from the beyond, Krell spoke a single, grave word.

  “Again.”

  Rays of gold bespoke the nascent sun’s run, and still, the cohort sprinted, logs on shoulders. Like before, Pell’s group was last. Cheers of encouragement turned sour as vinegar, reborn as softly uttered curses.

  “Again.”

  Cries of despair, fatigue, and frustration met the budding morn. The sun’s run matured, beating across the backs of stumbling men.

  As before, six of the seven crews dropped their trunks, turned and watched the nobles stagger under their oppressive burden. The seventh crew had not yet reached the rank of quitters, let alone rounded it.

  Krell felt Lord Kaide’s eyes on him. The Lord Commander’s disappointment seared like embers, yet the captain refused to glance his way. Instead, he muttered under his breath, “Wait, my Lord, please wait.”

  “For?” Kaide intoned.

  Krell hesitated, waiting. Like boiling water, anxiety roiled within him.

  But, then…

  “Let’s go lads!” Boor shouted.

  Except, it wasn’t encouragement for the labored nobles, it was a command to his fellow initiates.

  “Our brotha’s need our help!”

  The burly man dashed away, followed by the figure enshrouded with preternatural shade — Boor’s perpetual shadow. Grandfather and his son, Mersh, launched themselves into a sprint. Many others sprang forward, to lend aid to their noble comrades.

  Captain Krell watched the handful of reinforcements replace the noblemen under the trunk. Spent and wasted, several unburdened nobles crumpled, only to be hoisted themselves and carried by their brothers.

  “That, my Lord,” Krell answered. He nodded, a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

  The faintest whisper of hope trilled in the morning sun.

  Winter, Year 4221 (F.E.) Hevnkalt, The Cold Ones' Quest

  An icy wind howled, ripping through cloth alleyways. Makeshift barracks, pitched by the aspirants, formed a tent-city several miles away from the capital of House Vinganz Province: Hevnkalt. Wet, heavy snow fell without surcease, piling into high mounds, blanketing everything with cold, white misery. The day’s sun hid behind the grey, impregnated clouds, lending to the weary travails of the men who toiled here.

  Huddled about sporadically placed fire pits, the surviving Flakes sought what warmth they could garnish. Captain Krell mused how welcomed they must feel among the newly fallen snow. Only five scores — or close enough as to make no difference — aspirants persisted with hopes of attaining the prestigious title of Cold One.

  As the Quest continued, impossibly, Captain Krell’s intensity increased along with his expectation. A subtle shift could be felt among the men as if one morn they awoke with brotherly-bonds forged. The men became something more than the individual. As a cohort, they knew without thought, that their existence was dependent on the whole, just as the whole was dependent on them — a lesson few men ever learned.

  Krell stalked through the camp, scowl-crowned brow knitted together underneath his sodden cowl. He tugged his winter cloak about him as he thought, Not seamless yet, but a definite improvement.

  The storm forced an early halt to the day’s training, which bristled the captain at first. But after a quick jaunt through the tent-city, he killed the emotion. Despite the frigidity, the men joked and regaled one another with tales of past conquests — or more recent ones from within the Quest itself. The lilting of a stringed instrument, accompanied by a trill of off-tune voices, warbled through the wind and into the captain’s ears.

  Krell understood for a brotherhood to mature, these seemingly pointless moments with comrades were paramount.

  Since fall began, training had leapt to new heights. At long last, the Flakes hardened, melding together to form dangerous shards of ice. Captain Krell segregated the trainees into four teams and began weapons training. With Lord Vandyr Kaide, he labeled them Squads and structured them after a fashion of the fabled Brokaan Battalion — a legendary cohort from before the Fall of the Empire.

  The Brute Squad consisted of the most stalwart men, those possessing the physicality to wage war under the burden of bulky armor and massive shields. Together, they formed an impenetrable wall of defense their brothers sheltered behind, allowing them to exploit enemy weaknesses. The phalanx brothers — these Brutes — one and all thickly muscled, each born with the fortitude to withstand a violent assault and refuse to break rank.

  The Cav Squad, of course, remained the least manned. Designed as a light cavalry force with the ability for lethal charges into the enemy’s flanks, they fought atop destriers armed with lances, kite shields, and longswords. Before Krell inquired of the candidates which of them could ride a horse, he knew the an
swer. Only the nobles owned warhorses, let alone had ridden them; since childhood, these men were fostered in the strategic art of the sanguinary charge. Like cogs in a death-dealing machine, their mounts shattered enemy ranks like lightning splits the sky. Cav Squad remained home to the dozen nobles, their craft known and respected — the fighting men welcoming their well-honed abilities.

  Krell spat, a repulsive taste lingered in his mouth at the very thought of the noblemen. Captain Krell demanded more and more of the nobles, yet he laid particular savage attention upon Pell. Begrudgingly, Krell was forced to admit not one of the nobles elected for self-elimination.

  Surprisingly, Cur remained stalwart, bearing the petty assaults without wincing, despite Krell’s attempts to break him. Even a warrior of the captain’s standing had to acknowledge that these young nobles had shown heart and humility. Attributes Krell would not have expected to admit before his current tasking. Despite his grudging respect for these men, Krell refused to admit such a fact out loud. His thoughts turned to the remaining two Squads.

  All the histories of war speak of heroism on the battlefield, yet no battle has been won on the field alone. Some men work behind the glory of sword, shield, and steed — in the depthless shades of subterfuge. These men seed the meadows of death with ingenuity to fulfill their commander’s design. Without a coward in their ranks, they work in the shadows to assure victory. Their names aren't on the roles of honor, nor have ever been ascribed in the annals of history, yet their deeds support the acclaimed. These men are of the Sneak Squad. Housed primarily by the scouts, spies, and assassin types, it also claimed a Linguist, an alchemist, and several weapons tinkerers. The Sneaks indeed belonged to a clandestine cohort, their skills complementary to the desired goal of utter domination.

  With all of the support elements in place, the cohort was prepared. Yet, in the final moments of war, it takes savages to fight in the pit of aggression. It takes warriors to win battles. These are not men of guile, large muscles, or learned arts of tactics. These are men who will fight in the most intimate confines of battle. Men who will cut an enemy's throat and surge to the next victim, hand slick with hot vitae. They refute fear, fatigue, and weakness. These are the Grunts. Their life pivots around the ebb and flow of close combat — smelling and tasting the iron-tainted blood of the vanquished and feasting on the sweat, fear, and excrement of their foes. Like the Sneak Squad, the Grunts held no uniformed weapon or armor, but whichever the blood-letters desired.