Fear crawled up Ayrin's spine and he sat up, tense as a drawn bowstring. The knocking stopped briefly, time enough for Ayrin to find his feet. Adrenaline pushed its bitter way through the ice in his veins and his weariness faded to the background. One breath seemed to drag on forever.
The knocking. Something living was on the other side of that door. Northerners. Of course. Every story Ayrin had heard of the northern savages flashed through his mind. Necromancer-worshiping, pagan killers. Braun himself was half- or part-northerner, he had their blood in him. His impressive size and strength spoke for his lineage. He had heard the tavern-tales of their kind. A civilization of murderers, bred for war under the guiding hand of the necromancers.
Not one was under six feet tall. Barbarians. They built nothing, made nothing, grew nothing in their gods-forsaken land. Suffice to say Ayrin found his fear bubbling to mix uncomfortably with his adrenaline-frayed nerves.
Ayrin had nothing to defend himself with save a rotten plank he had pulled from the ancient furniture of the stone shelter. Isiri had magic to call upon, though she was unlikely to be able to do more than stand.
Ayrin thought he could hear voices, muffled by stone and just barely audible over the sounds of the violent snowstorm above. Voices. Certainly more than one voice. Perhaps if Ayrin was lucky, perhaps if he and Isiri fought tooth-and-nail and prayed, they could overpower a single opponent. But certainly, any more than one would be more than enough to overpower a small boy and a crippled huntress. But Isiri was not standing, she simply watched wide-eyed as Ayrin stood to face whatever passed through the door.
The small door opened with the soft and hollow sound of wood scraping against stone, it hung in the quiet air before it was pushed out of the way by screaming winds as they barrelled into the opening. Snow like flying razors flew in almost horizontal lines into the small shelter, carried on strong winds. Ayrin grunted as the cold struck him. The fire guttered slightly as the wind struck it, before, like bellows on a forge-fire, the stove roared to hot, orange life behind Ayrin.
With his newfound light, Ayrin could see a shape. Arms pushing through the twilight of the shelter's door, followed by a body. Firelight caught the outline of snow-powdered firs, the intense orange made the approaching figure appear as if they were set ablaze.
Ayrin would have struck but something stayed his hand. It was not fear that paralysed him rather something else, perhaps it was the combination of his lethargy and adrenaline mixing strangely in his body. There was a casualness to the figure's movements that disarmed him.
His northern opponent stood to their full height. It wasn't the six feet of the stories he had heard, in fact, the northerner opposite him stood barely an inch taller than Ayrin himself. They dusted the snow from their boots and said something with a voice that Ayrin found surprisingly soft, not the animistic growl he had expected.
Their words were foreign to Ayrin's ears. But it did not sound hostile. It sounded gentle, welcoming. it sounded like a greeting. As if to show exactly this, the northern stranger raised a gloved hand in a sort of salute. They surveyed the room and stepped quickly past Ayrin, almost ignoring him in favour of the fire.
Another figure followed, then another. Both 'greeted' Ayrin in a similar fashion before hurrying past him to the fire. A half-dozen smaller shapes passed through the door and a third figure followed them, sealing the shelter behind them.
It took a small moment for Ayrin to think through his shocked stupor but he realized he was looking at a half-dozen dogs. Of course, he had seen dogs before, mangy, thin wild dogs that prowled the roadsides and woods or hunting hounds he had seen pass through his hometown with some rich merchant's retinue. But they were nothing like dogs he saw now. Where the mutts had been emaciated and patchy with wild hair, these dogs were stocky with thick coats of white and black. Where the hunting dogs had sported vicious features and a general wickedness about them, these dogs were work-built and seemed friendly.
Ayrin laughed at the absurdity. After what he and Isiri had experienced through the last few days, this was what greeted him. What his imagination had presented to him as violent, warmongering northern savages had simply been three cold travellers and a handful of dogs. Dogs. "Gods' bastards," Ayrin exclaimed in a mutter. This drew the attention of the three strangers.
Their heads turned sharply at the words, at language different to their own. Ayrin froze as something resembling hostility took the air. The three strangers remained seated but exchanged three short words. One turned away from the fire to face Ayrin and spoke with a thick accent. The voice that found its way through the stranger's snow mask and hood was surprisingly feminine. "Southerner?"
The word hung in the air for a second before Ayrin managed to push himself from his daze. He nodded with a stunned expression, not expecting to hear familiar words from these strangers. "Southerners," Ayrin said in affirmative, feeling some of the tension in the room slack a little. The strangers seemed to relax a little bit. Ayrin took this as a good sign and returned to Isiri's side.
Isiri had not moved through the entire confrontation, she sat with eyes half-lidded as exhaustion pulled her close to sleep despite the three unfamiliar and quite possibly dangerous guests. Ayrin was concerned but he had more pressing matters to attend to at that moment.
The three strangers removed their snow furs with practised movements, hanging them from empty hooks on the ceiling that Ayrin hadn't noticed. Without the heavy furs, the three looked smaller, less imposing. Ayrin was surprised to find that all three of the northerners sitting opposite him were women. They still held the north-hardened features he had expected of them but were far from the brutes he had assumed they would be. He felt a small, private flush of embarrassment. Two looked to be older than at least fifty, weathered and worn. One was barely older than Ayrin, fresh-faced and bright-eyed.
The Northerners talked to one another quietly, two ignoring Isiri and Ayrin pointedly, the third and youngest, the one who had spoken earlier, watching them intently. "You're far from home." The young woman said slowly as if having trouble with unfamiliar words. Her tone was conversational but enquiring; her eyes were friendly but cautious.
Ayrin fumbled for a response as the stranger's words pushed away the tense silence. "We got lost," Ayrin said quickly, answering the unspoken question as best he could. Without knowing much about these northerners, he couldn't come up with a better lie.
The northerner snorted with short laughter. "Lost? How do you go over a..." She stopped to think, sighing and giving up shortly after. "Bafjell and not notice?"
"A what?" Ayrin asked, confused.
She frowned. "I know little of your language." The northerner made a gesture. More of an action, really. She brought her hands up to a peak in front of her. "Bafjell, big. Stone. Between north and south."
Ayrin guessed at what she was trying to say. "Mountain?"
"Yes, mountain. How did you go over mountain and not know?" She said unsurely, her accent catching a little on the word.
"We didn't, we came through the pass," Ayrin said. "We got lost in the snow." He said. it was close enough to the truth.
The northerner looked at him suspiciously. "Soldier?" Her hand went to the heavy knife at her belt. The two beside her looked worriedly at her before drawing their own weapons slowly.
Ayrin raised his hands and stood to a half-crouch, ready to react. "Not soldiers, hunters." He said, desperate to defuse the situation.
"Hunt? Animals?" She stood and levelled her blade. It was small but glittered dangerously in the soft orange light. "You're a bad liar."
"Monsters," Ayrin said, standing fully and taking a half-step back. "We hunt monsters."
"What is monsters?" The northerner demanded, stepping around the small stove. She held Ayrin at the edge of her blade.
Ayrin stopped, his mind raced. He was too afraid to think straight. Any answer he gave would not be enough. He didn't have to. Apparently, Isiri had been listening to the exchange. She muttered something just loud enough to hear before settling back down. "Ferath."
The northerner stepped back quickly and sheathed her blade. She barked something at Isiri in her native tongue. Isiri answered slowly, speaking half out of her dreams. Ayrin was stuck between the two with his hands up, his heart pounding wildly in his chest and a look of profound confusion forming on his face. Ayrin heard his own name through the exchange.
The stranger nodded and pointed to herself "Ashkr." That must have been her name. She pointed to the two others "Haust. Lysa." The two elderly ladies waved absently, returning quickly to their own conversation. Ashkr laughed suddenly, "You speak Vestrmul?"
Isiri would have responded had she not fallen back into sleep at that moment.
Ashkr turned to Ayrin instead. "You? Speak?"
Ayrin shook his head.
The northerner shrugged and sat down. "I know little of your language." She said again. After a long silence, she looked at Isiri. "What is wrong with her?"
"Isiri? She's hurt." Ayrin said. Ashkr's blank face was his only answer. "You know, hurt? Injured." He moved aside so that the northerner could see the blood-stained bandages that bound Isiri's wounds.
The woman said something that could have conceivably have been a sharp curse. Cautiously, she approached Isiri. She barked an order to Haust and Lysa. The two women rose and approached slowly. Ashkr spoke softly to Isiri, pulling her gently to her feet by her collar. She led Isiri carefully to the bed, laying Isiri on her stomach.
Caring not one bit for Isiri's modesty, Ashkr and Haust peeled away Isiri's bandages while Lysa pawed through the hanging plants and pottery jars of the stone structure. With fresh eyes, Ayrin could see his inexperienced suturing in excruciating detail, every jagged, black line. The three women worked and Ayrin watched helplessly, pushed to the farthest edge of the room. After minutes, the flurry of activity had died down to near-silence as the elder women worked. Ashkr was pushed aside shortly after, having outlived her usefulness in the situation. So the old worked and the young watched.
"What did this to her?" Ashkr asked as she crossed the room to sit. "Wolves?" She rifled through the contents of her packs for food.
Ayrin eyed Isiri nervously. "Swords."
"lot of swords," Ashkr said with no small amount of surprise in her voice. "She's tough to survive." She chewed idly on a dark, dry meat that Ayrin couldn't put a name to. She seemed entirely undisturbed by the blood. Her meal looked to have the texture of leather.
In the long silence that followed, Ayrin wondered whether he and Isiri had been staying in the northerner's home for the last day or so. It might have belonged to the northerners, though the contents were too old too dusty to have been used in a long time. The fact that the northerners didn't seem shocked to find two strangers in the structure told him that it likely wasn't and that they had all decided to take shelter from the coming snowstorm in the same building by sheer coincidence. Ayrin asked Ashkr.
Ashkr's response was not what he was expecting. Ayrin asked the question and Ashkr laughed, high and heavy as if Ayrin had just asked if snow was white or if the sky was blue. "No." She finally managed between breaths. "This is Hridt house." She scratched her head, trying to remember a word. "Storm. It is storm house."
"Storm house?" Ayrin frowned. "So it's not yours?"
"They belong to everyone. They are on the stone roads, a day's walk between them. So that we don't get trapped in snow. All can use them." Ashkr said in way of explanation. One of the snow dogs padded up to her, pressing in to her warmth. She ran her hand through its smoke-coloured pelt. "Your fire is low." She said, nodding over to it.
"I'm afraid we don't have anything for it," Ayrin said in way of apology.
"Afraid? Afraid of what? A little bit of cold?" Ashkr raised an eyebrow, completely misunderstanding Ayrin's statement. "There is fuel in that box there." She stated simply, pointing across the room.
Ayrin stood. Sure enough, in a battered box were old, dried-out bricks of what looked to be turf or peat. Even as dry as they were, they smelt damp and foul. It caught slowly when Ayrin fed it into the stone stove.
"You two should know all about the storm houses by now. You walked far enough north." Ashkr said, biting off another solid mouthful of the dried meat. Ayrin frowned. Far enough north? How far north had they come? He was quiet and in thought.
Behind Ashkr, Isiri stirred, muttering something incoherently as pain wracked her body.
"How far north are we?" Ayrin asked slowly, fear added an edge to his voice. He dreaded the answer.
"We are barely a week from the Crown," Ashkr said as if it meant something. She explained further. "The Frozen Crown. The northern... mountains." She struggled again on the unfamiliar word. "As far north as the north goes."
Ayrin's heart sunk like a stone. "And how far from the south?" He braced himself for an answer. Even that wasn't enough to prepare him.
"A month. Maybe more." Ashkr said in a somewhat offhand manner. "We are far to the east, too. The pass between the mountains is far away."
A month? A few days could have killed him. A few days nearly killed Isiri.
"If you need to go south, this road meets the war road north from here. Shortest road south." She explained to Ayrin with a sort of casual shrug. "We're going north. We can show you the way and stop you southerners from killing yourselves in the snow."
Ayrin thought about the offer. It was their best option if he and Isiri wanted to survive the journey south. He didn't like the idea of walking further north to find an easier journey south. He didn't even like the idea of leaving the warm shelter. They had to leave, though. Back to the safety of the south, back to Shep and back to whatever was left of Forfort.