The Rider in the Night

by Brendan Noble

  He still saw the wolf at times. It watched him from the shadows, never speaking again, but its message rang in his mind. What had it meant?

  With a shake of his head, he pushed Oleh on, down the path to Dwie Rzeki. They weren’t far now based on the number of scattered villages they had passed. Soon, he could sleep. He would deliver his message before slumping somewhere with far too many horns of oskoła to forget what he’d faced. Then, he would ride home.

  It was late on the night of the equinox when the farms and cottages increased in number. By now, Andrij’s mind had long numbed to both his thoughts and the sound of Oleh’s hooves against the dirt, but when they reached Dwie Rzeki’s eastern gate, he smiled.

  Almost there.

  Not all hope was lost. Though Mykyta had fallen and Valentyn had been wounded, Andrij clutched to Boz’s promise. This had been the longest week of his life, but in the end, it would be worth it to see his family, his mother, again.

  “Come on, Oleh!” he said, patting the stallion on his neck. “Let’s finish this.”

  Oleh felt his excitement and burst down the trail to where the Wyzra and Krowik rivers met. It was the Drowning of Marzanna, and if the festival was still in full swing, they would surely be conducting the rituals representing the goddess’s death. The smoke rising from the northwest confirmed his suspicions. He had made it in time.

  Besides a couple sneaking away to disobey their parents, the trails were clear as Andrij neared the source of the smoke. A similar festival would be celebrated that night in Kynnytsia as well—the first Andrij would miss. Each year before his father’s passing, his family had traveled to the capital for the spring equinox. Distant memories.

  Crowds appeared as a fire flickered ahead. They screamed and scattered when Andrij passed, but he gave them no attention. The only Krowikie that mattered were the chiefs and the pair that Dziewanna had spoken of.

  He’d wondered each day about who they were—the two who could stop Marzanna. Dziewanna had given little information, but he promised himself he would find them someday. If Marzanna truly was plotting to defeat spring, then they were his tribe’s only hope.

  The trees split at the confluence of the two rivers, and Andrij leapt from Oleh’s back as he entered the clearing, landing before a group of gawking women. But it was not they who drew his attention.

  A boy and girl stood beneath the trees’ shadows, apart from the crowd. The girl wore the traditional flower crown of the festival, but unlike most, her wreath and dress were white with black streaks instead of the bright colors others donned. She watched him with distrust. Her partner, though, had awe in his blue eyes. The Firebird feather burned in Andrij’s pouch at the sight of the blond boy, as if it knew something he didn’t.

  But he was not here for speculation. There were hundreds at the confluence. Any of them could have been the pair, and besides, it was only his message that Dziewanna had claimed would begin their journey.

  So he spoke.

  “Where is High Chief Jacek Lechowicz?”

  His voice hung in the air, only interrupted by murmuring and the crackling of the great bonfire. Then, the high chief stepped forward, his shoulders draped with fur of both wolf and bear and his eyes as piercing as the sharpest sword. “I am here,” Jacek said.

  Andrij swallowed as the high chief approached, but he continued as loudly as he could, “My name is Andrij Myroslavovych Yakymchuk, and I bring a message from your great ally Boz Vladyslavovych Kramarenko, king of the Astiwie. An army has amassed itself east of our lands. We are all in danger.”

  END OF THE RIDER IN THE NIGHT

  Keep reading for an exclusive preview of book 1 in The Frostmarked Chronicles, A Dagger in the Winds.

  A Word From The Author

  Writing this prequel ahead of the epic journey of A Dagger in the Winds was a lot of fun, and I hope you enjoyed this preview into the life of Andrij. Be sure to keep an eye out for him throughout The Frostmarked Chronicles!

  If you have enjoyed reading this story as much as I have writing it, please take the time to post an honest review on whatever retailer you purchased this book from (or wherever your favorite retailer is if you received the book as part of my newsletter). Every review helps new readers discover the series.

  Be sure to read on for the first few chapters of A Dagger in the Winds. If you liked this story, I’m sure you’ll love meeting Wacław and Otylia.

  Brendan

  About the Author

  Brendan Noble is a Polish and German-American author currently writing fantasy books based on Slavic mythology. He is fascinated with history, economics, and politics in both reality and fiction.

  Brendan is a recent graduate in Economics from Hillsdale College in Michigan. In 2019, he moved from his hometown of Canton, Michigan to Rockford, Illinois when he married his wife, Andrea. Brendan began his writing career in November of 2018 with a challenge from his wife to complete NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and has been an author ever since.

  Outside of writing, Brendan is a data analyst and soccer referee. His top interests include German, Polish, and American soccer/football, Formula 1, analyzing political elections across the world, playing extremely nerdy strategy video games, exploring with his wife, and reading.

  The Story Continues:

  A Dagger in the Winds (Book 1 of The Frostmarked Chronicles)

  Keep reading for a preview of the book. (Cover coming May 15th)

  Prologue – Wacław

  We’re going to be in so much trouble…

  “WAIT FOR ME!”

  I scampered into the moonlit woods, clutching my wool cloak in one hand and my makeshift spear in the other. It was nothing more than a poorly sharpened stick. In my mind, though, it was a mighty weapon, capable of killing the demons and monsters lurking in the shadows.

  Otylia glanced back with a smirk. Her bright green eyes pierced the sea of white surrounding us as her breaths fogged the air. “Hurry up! Dziewanna waits for no one.”

  With a sigh, I hopped through the snow after her.

  Otylia was my best friend, but all she’d wanted to talk about recently had been the wild goddess. Like me, she’d turned twelve last summer, and she would soon be initiated as a szeptucha—a channeler of the gods, capable of amazing sorcery. She wanted to be chosen by Dziewanna more than anything. I worried I was going to lose her.

  “You’re so much faster in your soul-form,” she quipped, hopping over a log once I caught up. Her herb bag flapped against her leg as she ran, but even with the hindrance, she was quick. “Why don’t you just stay in it?”

  “I have to wake up eventually,” I replied.

  Whenever I slept, I emerged from my body in what we called my soul-form. I was invisible when I wanted to be but could interact with the world like normal. Mom and Otylia were the only ones who knew about it, and Mom had forbidden me from exploring at night. Tonight, though, was the eve of the spring equinox.

  With Otylia’s father, High Priest Dariusz, out late preparing the festival’s rituals, Otylia had snuck to our cottage once Mom was asleep. I had slipped out to meet her.

  This wasn’t our first time wandering the dark woods, but tonight was supposed to be special. The stories said you could see the spring gods as they traveled to kill Marzanna, goddess of winter and death. Dziewanna was among them, so Otylia had demanded we go.

  I shivered as I leaped over another log. The snow had lingered unusually late this year, but Dziewanna and Jaryło, god of spring and war, would rid the world of it come morning. Part of me would miss its beauty.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, stopping as Otylia ducked deeper into the forest. “Mom says there’s demons away from the trails.”

  She stomped back to me with her nose wrinkled. Her long black hair, braided and wrapped in twine, swept behind her as she snatched my hand. “It’ll be fine! Mother showed me the way to a grove in autumn. We’ll be able to see Dziewanna flying from there.”

  “Why do you always
talk about her and not Jaryło? He matters too.”

  Furrowing her brow, she pulled me along. “Because he gets all the attention from Father and the tribe. Dziewanna’s the one that Marzanna can’t kill in winter. She keeps the wilds alive during Marzanna’s moons, but she’s been forgotten by everyone except Mother and me.”

  We wandered on for a long time. I had no idea how she knew where she was going in the darkness. Though I knew much of the forest around our village of Dwie Rzeki, to me, every tree seemed the same this far from home. And with the clouds obscuring the stars, it was impossible to tell which direction we were headed.

  The eight winds whistled through the branches above when we finally reached a small clearing.

  Otylia grinned and twirled, swinging the skirt of her deep green dress around her. “Come on, Wašek!” she said, using the affectionate ‘little’ version of my name—Wacław—that only she and Mom called me. “Drop your spear and dance with me!”

  “Of course, Otylka!” I replied with the same form of her name.

  We danced hand-in-hand, spinning with the gales as they blew our hair and stung our cheeks until they turned red. Joy filled my heart. Otylia brought me the freedom I was too afraid to fight for by myself. With her, I felt like I could fly.

  A growl ripped through the night.

  I turned, placing myself between Otylia and the noise. My heart pounded as six pairs of ice-blue eyes glared at us from the trees. Wolves. They closed in, their snarling growing louder.

  “Wašek, don’t,” Otylia said with a grip on my tunic’s sleeve. “You can’t fight all of them.”

  She was right, of course. But on the wolves’ jaunt faces, I could see Marzanna’s winter had been hard on them. They were hungry. Both of us would die if I didn’t do something.

  “Run,” I whispered.

  Otylia screamed as I dove for my spear.

  The wolves charged, but my hands found the spear’s shaft. The first wolf’s jaws raced toward me as I swung its tip. Wood struck flesh, and with red streaking from its throat, the wolf yelped and fell, dead.

  What did I just do?

  The strike was just instinct. I had never wielded a real weapon before, let alone hunted something larger than a rabbit. My breaths shortened as my stomach churned. So much blood…

  “Wašek!”

  I spun as the other wolves charged, angered by the first’s death. They came from every side. Their sleek white fur flashed through the shadows with the moonlight gleaming against their fangs. There’s too many.

  I stabbed at them as they reached me, but it wasn’t enough. Teeth closed on my arms. Claws scraped my face and chest. I collapsed, screaming for Otylia to run.

  Time slipped away. I prayed to Weles, god of the underworld of Nawia, to bring me paradise’s peace. But death’s release did not come.

  A blast tore across the grove, flinging me through the snow as a brilliant light shone behind my eyelids. The wolves whimpered. My whole body shook against the frigid snow, the fear too much for me to look. Though the wounds were to my soul-form, when I awoke, the damage would remain on my physical body. So would the pain.

  Eventually, the grove went quiet, and I gasped as I opened my eyes.

  All six wolves lay dead, their bodies strewn amid a pool of blood that merged with the snow, staining it a deep crimson. Otylia stood at the grove’s edge. Her fair skin glowed bright enough to illuminate the carnage, and her sharp green eyes were fixed on me. Horror filled them.

  “What… What just happened?” I stammered, struggling to a knee as I clutched my throbbing torso. My head was woozy. Blood trickled down it and dripped to the ground. Am I imagining this?

  Wide-eyed, Otylia stared down at her hands. “I think I just channeled.”

  A new fear struck me as I studied her. “How?” My best friend had channeled before being chosen by a god. What did that make her? I tried to stand, but my legs failed. I fell as Otylia rushed to my side.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice trembled as she tore open her herb bag and pulled out a small clay poultice. “Just stay with me. Mother’s healing salve should help.”

  I took her hand as my mind began to drift. “Whatever you just did, Otylka, thank you.”

  “Stay awake, Wašek.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Stay awake!”

  My grip slipped. I tried to call her name, to beg for her help, but tiredness washed over me. With my last breaths, I met her glowing eyes one last time before I fell into the black.

  Part One: The Drowning of Marzanna

  Chapter 1 - Wacław

  FOUR YEARS LATER

  He’s winning… again.

  “STOP HESITATING,” XOBAS DEMANDED, circling me with sweat beading on his olive-skinned brow and his shield held tight to his chest. When he lunged, his cavalry sword clashed against my shield, knocking me to the dirt. “It’s not your day, Wacław, is it?”

  My arms ached as I pushed myself to my feet and sighed. It’s never my day when we’re sparring.

  At Father’s command, Xobas had trained me to fight ever since the wolf attack four years before. I was sixteen now. Still, the swordsman repeated the same instructions. Though Father believed his general’s foreign style would teach me to adapt to any opponent, all it had given me was a sore butt.

  A wicked grin crossed Xobas’s face as he took his stance. “We go again. It’s time for you to shake off the winter’s chill and become the warrior the high chief expects you to be.”

  With a deep breath, I readied myself for the next blow, holding my wooden shield in front of me and my short spear alongside it. The cold shaft burned against my fingers. Despite the sun now hovering at the tips of the trees, its warmth had yet to reach our sparring ring.

  “Why must we spar at first light?” I asked. “It’s the equinox, and… you know…”

  He advanced, chuckling as he did. “You Krowikie and your festivals. You believe this one is your time to find a girl?”

  “Maybe…” I whispered to myself, unsure whether to hope as I thought of Genowefa dancing with the grace of the winds.

  Xobas yelled and swung again, catching me in my thoughts. His sword sliced toward my head, and though I raised my shield to block the blow, the force was enough. I stumbled before he swept my legs and sent me to the ground.

  His jagged gaze met me as I picked myself up for the fifth time that morning. “You can’t be distracted like that in a battle,” he said. “Solgawi swordsmen won’t spare you if you let down your guard thinking about a girl’s pretty eyes. In solo combat, you must take charge, understanding how your opponent will react.”

  I had grown up listening to warriors telling stories of Solga’s many invasions from west of the Krowik River. Our tribe was named after that great river, and only it and a few miles of swampland separated their latest advance from our territory. Father had spent his life as the high chief working to unite the other Krowikie chiefs against the Solgawi. That unity had been enough to maintain peace for the last six years, but warriors in Father’s inner circle were demanding we retake our lost land. I could only hope cooler heads prevailed.

  Xobas’s words spurred me. Despite my body aching from the beating, I gripped my spear tighter. He smiled as I shuffled forward, bending my knees so the circular shield covered more of my torso.

  While he danced back and forth, I waited for my moment. I had seen this game far too often. He wanted to throw me off balance and strike the opposite direction. This time, I promised myself that I wouldn’t let him.

  For only a second, he hopped to the left. Don’t flinch. I held my position as he spun back around, using his momentum to swing the curved cavalry sword. His stomach flashed beneath his tunic as his shield lagged.

  Now!

  I thrust my spear through the gap, striking Xobas just under his ribs and sending him to the ground.

  As he wheezed and pushed himself to a knee, guilt swelled within me. The training spear had a blunt end, but he would be sore through the festival regardless.
While he had given me more than my share of scrapes and bruises since we’d started sparring, I didn’t enjoy hurting him.

  “That’s more like it!” he said, reaching his hand out to me as the light of Dadźbóg, god of the sun, split through the bare trees.

  Grabbing his arm, I pulled him to his feet. He never covered his forearms, and on his right one, a tattoo of a horse traced the lines of a gruesome scar. I had always wondered if it had come from his time with the eastern Simukie clan before he’d joined our tribe. My curiosity had gotten the better of me once, but I had learned my lesson. Little angered Xobas. That question did.

  “Have I earned myself a rest?” I asked, failing to hide my anticipation. There was much to do before the start of the two-day spring equinox festival surrounding the Drowning of Marzanna, but Father would be angry if I left before Xobas excused me.

  Dirt covered his brown tunic, but he brushed it off without breaking eye contact. “Yes, you may go. It would be a shame if your gods struck me down for keeping you away from your true love.” He chuckled. “Run along. Paint your pretty eggs and set your doll on fire.”

  “We’re all part of the egg hunt, but only the girls paint them,” I said, strapping my shield to my back and doing the same with the spear. “And it isn’t a doll.”

  He sheathed his sword and crossed his toned arms. “Ah, yes. The burning and drowning of the winter goddess’s effigy sounds like the perfect time to woo a beautiful woman.”

  He has a point. I blushed. “Won’t you be coming? Last time I heard the stories, there was no age limit on having fun.”

  “But there definitely is on the belief in true love.”