The frost-laced windows shuddered against the fury of the winds outside The Frosty Hearth inn. Lord Aldridge pulled his coat tighter and inched closer to the meager warmth of the hearth fire, whose dying embers did little to pierce the unnatural chill that had settled into his bones.
The common room was silent as the grave, empty save an ancient man hunched in the corner, slowly nursing a tankard of ale. His wizened face was obscured by a battered hat, pulled low against the chill. The innkeeper had long since retreated, leaving Lord Aldridge alone with the popping and hissing of the flames.
Unease trickled down Aldridge’s spine as he strained his ears against the moaning gale outside. No natural storm this fierce should last so long without respite. It was as if some malevolent entity controlled the winds, trapping all within Winter’s End under its icy veil.
The man in the corner raised his tankard in a mocking salute. “Come to wait out the storm, milord?” His reedy voice carried oddly through the room.
Aldridge started at the sudden voice. “Indeed. I expected to pass straight through Winter’s End, but it seems the fates had other plans.”
“Oh, aye. This storm’s been brewing for years now.” The hat tipped back, revealing the man’s face for the first time. Aldridge recoiled in shock. The man’s skin seemed thin as ancient parchment over sharply jutting bones. But it was the eyes that drew Aldridge up short - two caverns with naught but the faintest sparks in their depths. They seemed to pierce his very soul, and Aldridge fought the urge to shudder.
“Begging your pardon?” Aldridge managed.
“Let me tell you a little story.” The man grinned, revealing missing and blackened teeth. “Have you heard tell of why this place came to be called Winter’s End?”
Aldridge mutely shook his head, unnerved but curious as to what tale the locals told about themselves.
The man cackled. “Not surprising - they like to keep the old legends quiet around outsiders.” He leaned forward. “Let me enlighten you...”
As he launched into his tale, the storm continued its relentless assault upon The Frosty Hearth, making the flames dance and glow and sending odd shadows dancing about the room. Aldridge found his attention fracturing - straining after the sounds of stray voices or ghostly movements in the edges of his vision. Again and again he had to force himself to focus on the ancient man’s words.
“...the Fellwinter clan ruled these lands. Wolf kings, they fancied themselves. Lords of snow and ice who could command the very storms to do their bidding.” The man paused to take a long draught of his ale. “Their true power was over men, though. Brutal warriors all, who defeated every army sent to face them. For an age they dominated the countryside, demanding tribute and fealty from hapless villagers.”
“One year, the winter was long and harsh beyond even the wolf kings’ command. Game fled, livestock died, and the villagers grew gaunt and desperate as the snows lingered into spring and summer.” The man leaned back into the shadows, his voice dropping. “The elders among the Fellwinters read the signs. Their grim gods demanded blood sacrifice to turn aside their wrath. And so the tribute wagons rolled out, seeking their terrible dues...”
Aldridge sat enthralled as the tale unfolded, telling of the wolf kings dragging villagers to their mountain fortress. Of arcane rituals to appease their demanding gods. Of pits filled with bone and ash, overflowing as winter dragged on. He envisioned the desperate villagers, starving and shivering as screams echoed out from the mountains. The nameless storyteller wove a gruesome picture.
A particularly fierce gale slammed snow against the windows, making them both jump. The man peered sharply around before continuing. “Finally, as the year turned towards autumn, a band of heroes emerged. Great warriors and cunning rogues. Mighty wizards wielding elder spells. Together they led the villagers in a righteous crusade against their tormentors. Oh, the legends say they fought for days and nights without end within those dark mountain halls!”
His voice dropped, as though imparting some secret truth just for Aldridge. “In the end they cast down the Fellwinters and cleansed their fortress with fire and steel. But all was not finished! Even as the first snows began to fall, the wolf kings returned from hell itself to have their vengeance...”
A mournful bell tolled then, long and low through the stormy veil enveloping Winter’s End. Aldridge shot upright in sudden fear as the flames slowed their dance. A bone-numbing cold emanated from the very stones at his feet. In the shadows, half-seen shapes flitted and capered.
The ancient villager smiled. “Ah, the witching hour begins...”
Lord Aldridge cast his gaze about the now-sinister room, eyes wide. “Surely these are but stories?” he uttered in a breathless rush. “Ghost tales to frighten children?” Fear constricted his voice to a strangled croak.
The man tipped his head back to drain the last drops of his ale. “The Fellwinters care not if man names them legend or nightmare...they live yet in the endless blizzard, their power waning and waxing with the storms.” Once more his unsettling gaze arrowed toward Aldridge. “Their wrath ever seeks fresh fuel for the sacrifice pits...”
With a sudden shriek of wind, the dying hearth fire guttered completely out. Shadows leaped and capered manically as an eldritch light suffused the room. Lord Aldridge recoiled as long-taloned hands reached for him from every corner. The last thing he saw was the villager’s horrific grin as foul magics took hold, plunging him into darkness...
~*~
Aldridge jerked awake with a strangled cry, heart racing as adrenaline flooded his system. Frantically he groped at coarse wool blankets heaped over him, struggling to sit up and make sense of his surroundings. Weak winter light filtered through square panes of rime-fogged glass. The small room held only a narrow bed and nightstand, with a rough hewn armoire in one corner.
“Easy now, milord. You’re alright.” A weathered but kindly face peered down at him, lined with concern. Aldridge grasped at fleeing memories...the inn, the storm, ghosts in the darkness! But no, here stood naught but an older woman, dressed in humble village garb.
“Just old widow Garron, sir. I keep the inn when Master Talbot can’t be here. You’ve had a nasty turn in the night it seems.” Her eyes narrowed. “Let’s get you up and we’ll see if we can’t chase off these shadows, eh?”
~*~
The simple porridge and weak ale restored Aldridge greatly as he sat near the hearth in the Frosty Hearth’s common room. Despite the unrelenting storm he felt worlds better beneath bright lantern light with others nearby. Indeed, a few stooped farmers braved the weather for a brief pint, speaking quietly among themselves. Of the ominous villager or his chilling tale there remained no sign.
Widow Garron clucked over Aldridge’s condition, muttering about fever dreams and storm shadows. But her gaze carried a hint of...fear? Wariness? Before he could ask further she bustled off to tended to clattering dishes.
Unease still lingered around Aldridge’s edges. He rubbed fingers over his family’s oak leaf signet ring to ground himself. Outside the storm continued its barrage against shuttered windows. He studied what little he could glimpse of Winter’s End through the frosted glass. Beyond this small inn it almost appeared a ghost town - naught but vague outlines of buildings barely visible through the icy torrent.
Shivering, Aldridge decided distraction was key. When the widow returned he indicated her bound ledger full of guests’ remarks. “I should like to add my own thoughts on The Frosty Hearth’s hospitality. Have you ink and quill?” After a puzzled moment she handed them over.
Dipping pen to bottle, Aldridge spread the ledger flat to begin. Alongside bland notations about bed quality and suitable meals, he carefully penned a question.
“Mine host - I pray last night’s strange events were mere figments of sleeping mind. Yet I find myself most curious if isolated villages still whisper tales of wolf kings in the high peaks. A fascinating oral history, if so!”
There - innocuous enough to seem a traveler’s idle curiosity. Aldridge dusted his message with fine sand to dry the ink, then shut the ledger and returned writing supplies. If anything of substance lay behind the chilling tale, perhaps the innkeeper would respond upon the morrow.
When the widow returned Aldridge gestured to a small display of herbs hung by the hearth. “A thoughtful winter remedy for your guests - both wholesome and decorative.” He gave her his most charming smile. “Might I trouble you for another of your excellent tea infusions?”
Such gracious flattery went far. The widow dimpled prettily and excused herself to the kitchen. Aldridge leaned forward intently, fingers drumming. When almost out of sight, the widow glanced back with a complex expression - apprehension? resignation? - before departing.
Most odd. Aldridge stared after her for a long moment before settling back. Clearly the locals harbored secrets, and the night’s tale hinted at deep roots. He must unravel this mystery, layer by layer, to learn what truly lay within these shadows. Outside, the storm keened on as if eager for the challenge.
~*~
Over the next few days Aldridge employed every trick and talent learned across long years of society and court intrigue. A lord’s son learns early the necessity of subtle manipulations. Prod judiciously at social mores to provoke revealing reactions. Layer innocuous questions between gracious compliments. Seed unassuming rumors to flush out secrets.
Yet the insular villagers of Winter’s End seemed masters of evasion. Noncommittal murmurs and rote assurances never wavered amidst Aldridge’s persistent inquiries. The innkeeper in particular met his gaze squarely while somehow deflecting even seemingly innocent remarks.
Initially Aldridge accounted the general reticence to rural simplicity. Suspicion of outsiders or embarrassment of perceived ignorance could nurture reluctance and shyness. Yet as days passed within The Frosty Hearth something more than simple diffidence clearly armored the Winter’s End residents against his campaign.
Meanwhile the tempest raged on. Despite hope the roads might clear for travel, snow piled ever higher. Attempts to hire sledge transport were met with averted eyes and claims of lame horses or broken equipment. Whenever Aldridge managed to engage someone on the topic their initial receptive nods soon turned to shrugs and apologies of, “Couldn’t say, milord” and “Mayhap the storm eases come spring”.
Worse, an oppressive gloom permeated the village itself. Any villager entering The Frosty Hearth soon made excuses to bolt back into the frigid shroud outside. None tarried long for drink or company. The few visitors sat silent and morose, warily eyeing dark corners and jumping at loud noises. Even the inn’s servants neglected customary gossip, scurrying about with mouths pinched and brows furrowed.
Further confusing matters, Aldridge sporadically spied the vaguely sinister villagers from that first night apparating in shadowy corners, only to vanish upon second glance. The stooped farmers were somehow just inconsistent enough in height, dress, and manner to feed doubts of their corporeality. And late each evening the nameless storyteller himself seemed to manifest across the common room for several heartbeats before fading into spectral mist. None else marked these phantoms, though unease woke Aldridge frequently following the midnight sightings.
He feared a brain fever brought on by isolation take根. Yet second-guessing his very senses only sharpened his resolve to resolve this deepening mystery.
On the sixth night a heavy knock interrupted Aldridge’s brooding. He lowered his neglected book, watching sidelong as a tall figure stomped snow from heavy boots before approaching the hearth’s meager warmth. The sizable man shook back a hood, revealing a thick black beard frosty with ice. Aldridge raised an inquiring brow at the intrusion.
“Beg pardon, milord. The hour grows late to come calling, I know.” The man doffed his leather cap respectfully. “Jonn Whitbrach, horse-master, at your service.” Despite the formal greeting, blunt shrewdness emanated from winter-pale eyes peering hard at Aldridge. “Understand you’ve need of sturdy transport, and I’m of a mind to provide such.”
Intrigued, Aldridge waved him closer. Any previous requests for travel aid met inevitable excuses, yet here stood a volunteer! “Well met, good sir! Indeed your arrival seems most timely.” He indicated the bench opposite. “Please, join me. I’ve need of hale beasts and stout wagons if we’ve any hope of departing this frozen purgatory.”
Jonn's mouth quirked briefly at the dramatic phrasing as he lowered onto the creaking bench. “My old wagon and last team of four should handle these drifts well enough.” He held up one gloved hand to forestall the enthusiastic thanks on Aldridge’s tongue. “LET me lay plain though - this help ain’t without cost. I’ll carry you and yours from here without argument...”
His next words sent prickles of foreboding down Aldridge’s neck.
“...but only if ye vow to NEVER speak of Winter’s End or ought that transpired ‘neath this storm once back amongst civilized lands.”
~*~
Unease warred with frustration in Aldridge’s gut as Jonn crossed his arms, eyeing him levelly. Never speak of his time here? After the bizarre events and inexplicable reticence clenching Winter’s End like a fist? What truth must these people hide away that spawned such desperate isolationism?
Aldridge steepled his fingers, brooding over how to respond. Blunt refusal could lose this sole chance at freedom, yet acquiescing without full understanding felt beyond foolish. He pursed his lips, eying the stone-faced horse-master.
“A compelling offer, Master Whitbrach, but I must confess puzzlement at this... restriction.” Aldridge leaned forward intently. “Winter’s End seems pounded by quite the unnatural storm, yes, but hardly enough to warrant protective secrecy once I escape the snows. What harm could a few travelers’ tales incur?”
Jonn snorted. “You’ve wintered here near a week with no clues to our plight?” His eyes narrowed, gleaming oddly in the firelight. “Mayhap you need incentive to spur those gentlemanly wits.”
One broad hand withdrew a bundle of cloth from his coat, dark stains marring the frayed edges. Jonn slowly peeled back a corner, keeping his gaze focused tight on Aldridge. “Know how your pretty inn girl perished?”
Aldridge blinked hard against the stench of copper tang and death. Crimson splashes shone wetly within the soiled cloth. His mind recoiled from the implications even as recognition clicked - lovely Guinevere who served tables, whose absence had puzzled him this very morn...
His stomach clenched at the bundled proof. Quickly he parsed the layered message. Winter’s End clearly suffered some arcane affliction they perceived spread by contaminated outsiders - thus the demand for future silence. And poor Guinevere outlined the gruesome consequences if obligations went unmet. A crude bludgeon of warning, but undeniably effective.
Swallowing bile, Aldridge met Jonn’s hooded gaze. “I begin to perceive the shape of your plight.” He held up one hand helplessly. “But I’ve seen no evidence any sickness resides here! What afflicts this place so, and how might my conversations invoke such...dire penalties?” Fear and frustration braided his voice taut.
Jonn leaned nearer, cloth held ready to show further proof of their predicament. “You claim curiosity regarding wolf kings of old, do ye not?” At Aldridge’s terse nod he pressed on. “Expeditions and scribblers oft beat at our borders seeking heroic tales.” His mouth flattened. “We’ve naught to offer anyone save this!”
With that he tossed the bloodied rags onto the low flames. Crimson wisps briefly danced upwards before the cloth dissolved into ashes. Locking eyes with Aldridge, Jonn solemnly drew one finger across his bearded throat in unmistakable warning.
~*~
Though stomach still roiling from gruesome evidence, Aldridge clung to fragile manners as Jonn tracked muddy slush across the inn floor. He found himself trapped at a crux between answers finally within reach and the acute need to escape this dread place. Were the answers even worth the gleaned knowledge, if merely repeating them invoked savage consequences?
Jonn sank back onto the bench, squinting at Aldridge. “Your type fancy lively gossip full of capering faeries and wizardly heroes battling the dark unknown, I’ll warrant.” Derision weighted the horse-master’s tone. “Cold truth holds a different shape here, milord. Best prepare yourself as the price for leaving be telling you their story.”
The fire sputtered fitfully in the hearth, flames dimming further as if responding to Jonn’s ominous pronouncement. Shadows swelled, writhing with half-seen forms that leered from every corner of the room. A wet sucking noise reminiscent of pulled boots from mud broke the ominous silence, sending shivers skittering down Aldridge’s neck. Jonn merely watched him, making no move towards any source as the sound came again.
Stiffening against the pervading threat, Aldridge gave one tight nod. He fiercely quashed a swell of superstitious dread. Whatever truth awaited telling, he could withstand its blows. Had he not walked bloodied battlefields without flinching? Endured crushing disappointment at court without tears? He must know and understand the antique heart of this eerie place.
Jonn threaded his thick fingers together, peering intently at Aldridge from beneath his heavy brow as he began speaking in hushed, rasping tones:
"Know you of how some folk can sense a coming storm - how their bones ache fierce and their heads pound with its approach?"
Aldridge shook his head mutely even as a phantom ache built behind his temples.
"The elders of Winter's End have such skill in abundance. For as long back as any here can tell, a black tempest brews slow yet inevitable every generation. Those attuned to its signs prepare..." Jon gripped the table edge, knuckles paling. "They fortify the village against spectral wrath soon to crash over this vale. It's the curse of legend - the lingering fury of dead wolf kings unsatisfied by age upon age of blood tributes."
The clopping suck of mud outside resumed its ominous refrain as Jon's story unspooled. Helpless, Aldridge felt himself falling under its spell.
"The worst of winters brings them ravening back from abyssal barrows, blind to all save an unholy craving for warm lifeblood and screaming souls." Jonn's voice dropped until Aldridge strained to hear. "The ghastly shamblers need make no pacts with elder fiends...they are glutted with infernal might towards their vengeance!"
He leaned even nearer, raw fear etched across weathered features. "Picture an army arisen from mass graves beneath the snow, my lord! Spectral warriors and gruesome beasts with darkness Hungry at their heels. The phantom king exalts as they surge down the mountain to the only village in miles..."
Aldridge's mind feverishly painted the scene in horrifying detail as Jonn's account continued. He heard the awful din of otherworldly roars. Saw horrific, gnashing teeth wet with blood and graveyard dirt. Felt the black blizzard screaming at their backs, shot through with glowing eyes and slavering mouths. And riding the crest came an implacable figure of bone and sinew and silvered helm turned toward remote Winter's End.
Aghast, he could only stare speechless as Jon finished. "So it has gone for time uncounted. The village fortifies against the storm. Somehow they weather the assault when the wolf king's baleful attention turns upon them." Jonn sat back heavily.
"Then the tide retreats, and we few left standing bind our wounds and repair damaged homes. We dare not speak of the ordeal lest others seek this place, ignorant of its peril." His lip curled in cold anger. "Poking and prodding for heroic chronicles which exist nowhere but their pulpy fictions."
Silence reigned in the little room. The fire sank to sullen embers as if cowed by the tale. Jonn watched Aldridge expectantly while spectral voices seemed to echo outside between thunderclaps.
Finally finding his tongue, Aldridge whispered. "Truly? It all comes again for Winter's End?" At Jon's stony confirmation he pressed on. "But why? Did they not defeat the Fellwinter lords to end their cursed reign?"
"Can vengeance ever really be sated?" Jonn sighed bitterly. "Evil leaves wounds even victors cannot mend. 'Tis the doom we bear for the sins of our fathers."
~*~
A log split in the hearth, spewing sparks with the force of Aldridge’s pounding heart. All sought a simple folk legend rooted in this tiny village, unaware that every generation lived and died beneath the sword-stroke of imminent doom!
He stared sightlessly into licking flames, imagining the isolated dread as storm clouds gathered each decade. Did parents mask foreboding from laughing children? Did sweethearts shiver in sorrowful embraces? Did silvered elders toast the fallen young in the spring thaw with grim certainty that next winter would reap the same? Even now families barred windows and prayed 'round anxious hearths mere miles distant...
He envisioned the phantom ruler raging against endless exile, raging against those who defied his will...an immortal arcane hatred tapping the abyssal void for ever greater power...
Aldridge shuddered despite the renewed fire’s warmth. “God’s blood, man...how endure you all?”
Jonn watched him somberly across the flames. “Endure because we must, lordling. We few are Winter’s End beyond this fight. The wardings and charms handed down since the crusade help our warriors thin ghastly ranks so that less slip past to run riot.”
He shook his head as if arguing with silent voices. “We lose good folk yearly, but dawn always returns. And so shall we in the spring melt, ready to bind charms anew and brace for the next tempest.”
The bleak resolve in Jonn’s eyes melted Aldridge’s gathering arguments. No outsider decree could break this grim cycle etched into their very souls. To even speak of cursed wolves risked leading others into the same grinder that perpetually ground Winter’s End down to grim grit.
They two sat wordless, watching the flames dance macabre shadows across the walls. Helpless frustration roiled in Aldridge’s chest. The truth he sought stood plain yet did nothing to unclench icy fear digging deeper. What good allowing doomed history to spread if doing so strengthened the destroyer? But how could the civilized world abandon Winter’s End?
There lay his crossroads of understanding their plight even so none but they could force change. The only path left was departure and a difficult promise to never glance back or speak thereof.
Squaring his shoulders, Aldridge met Jonn’s hooded gaze with stoic resolve. “Your terms stand clear, Master Whitbrach. Upon the marrow I shall away to spread no accounted words of cursed truth.” He held up a hand against Jonn’s nod of satisfaction.
“Yet HEAR me that I shall act in what ways I may against this darkness once away!” Aldridge stabbed one finger down. “On my honor I so swear - let the land forget you all if it must be so, but forget YOU I shall not!”
Jonn searched Aldridge’s face intently for long heartbeats before finally grunting acquiescence. “Your oath speaks fair enough by mine ears. Come dawn we provision for the mountain road ahead.” He pushed stiffly to his feet, joints popping against the cold. “Prepare yourself, milord. Once we depart this place offers naught but death for the stubborn that linger...”
With that ominous warning hanging in the air Jonn tromped towards the exit, sending fresh powdery snow across the warped floor. Behind him the fire snapped and jittered febrile patterns against the walls. Ghosts spun wildly before vanishing into wisping fog. The clopping suck of mud slowed yet did not fully cease even after the slamming door heralded the horse-master’s full departure into the storm-wreathed night beyond.
And Aldridge sat alone amid empty chairs by a fitful, fatigued light, staring sightlessly at his family’s ring as he struggled to accept that soon enough he would abandon Winter’s End to its icy grave.
~*~
Dawn brought no respite to the fury battering narrow shutters as Aldridge hastily readied to depart The Frosty Hearth. Snowfall obscured all but murky shadows of surrounding structures as he tramped across the small courtyard to Jonn’s broad-bedded wagon hitched impatiently near the stable entrance. Steam rose thick off the horses fluffed against icy gusts while Jonn secured heavy trunks.
The normally bustling inn stood oddly muted save wind howling the length and breadth of Winter’s End. Indeed only the innkeeper had emerged to bid formal farewell, worry lies etched at his mouth and eyes. He clasped Aldridge’s hand briefly in calloused fingers.
“You’ve a long road ahead in such foul magicks, m’lord. Would that we had no need to cast you and Jonn out into the storm!” Sincerity weighted Talbot’s rough tone. “Know we all shall offer prayers and fire charms for your arrival at safer lands.” His eyes held profound relief mixed with sympathetic regret as he turned towards the inn.
The creak and slam of oak on iron heralded finality as effectively as chapel bells. Squaring his shoulders, Aldridge looked expectantly toward the wagon and their readied departure...
...Only to nearly falter mid-step at the unexpected sight of a woolen-bundled widow Garron climbing stiffly into the bench beside Jonn’s driver perch. Gray wisps escaped her bright scarf as she glanced uncertainly toward Aldridge.
Jonn scowled at his obvious surprise. “Mistress Garron brings knowledge of wardcraft ‘yond what most here know. We’ll need such arts to make it through.” He lashed the reins with a challenging glare. “Have no fear, milord - she knows the value of sealed lips as well as you and I.”
Hiding his dismay at entangling another against her will, Aldridge inclined his head politely towards the woman who had shown him previous kindness. She offered a slight smile in return as Jonn roared at the team. With a lurch the heavy wagon moved forward into the blizzard.
Thus did Lord Aldridge Aldenridge, guest of the tragic village of Winter’s End, abandon its accursed bounds toward lands anew with far more questions than answers.