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If you’d like to try-before-you-buy, so to speak, keep reading below for one of the stories included in the bundle: “An Omen in the Snow,” the prequel to my Viking-inspired series The Runewar Saga.

AN OMEN IN THE SNOW

PREQUEL TO THE RUNEWAR SAGA

He stared into the flames, swaying, sending shadows dancing along the walls of the small, drafty tent in which he hunched. Smoke, trapped temporarily before meandering out of the vent in the top, burned his eyes and throat. His back ached and his legs were cramped from sitting cross-legged on the cold winter ground, only a thin tarp for padding and keeping off the moisture from the melting snow.

Yonik wanted nothing more than to look away, to rise and leave his shelter and hunt. He was a man of the wilderness, born to run through snow and woods, to stalk the greatest stags and wolves and return with his prizes held aloft for all gods and men to admire. He craved not only the pursuit, but their adulation upon his return.

But I can't, he told himself, not forcefully, but with heavy resignation of a decision long ago made. I will be a gothi now.

So he stared into the flames, and stared, and when he grew tired of staring, he heated his khnuum stone until it was too hot to touch, then doused both stone and fire and covered the smoke vent to fill the tent thick with steam. Sweat poured down his back, chilling even as it beaded down, but he ignored it, breathed in the khnuum steam, and willed the visions to come.

But the things he saw were ordinary dreams, hallucinations unfit for one nearly a priest of Skoll, God of the Hunt. He imagined his wife, her dimpled smile and lively eyes, her body that had always willed him to heat even during mundane tasks, her mind that had cut through their arguments like a hoe through tilled earth. He thought of his two daughters, running through the woods around their house, laughing and shrieking as they played when they were supposed to be about their chores, and he watched, smiling on, indulgent as ever.

Too indulgent. Though the steam made his limbs go lax, he tightened his fists, fighting its effects. Had you been more vigilant, they might still be alive.

The visions turned then into hazy memories, half-remembered, stretched and swirling. His house, built by his and his wife's hands, burning. Their bodies, blackened and falling ashes, the wounds of their deaths still visible where their skin unnaturally split. His wife’s torn clothes flapping around her, signaling that the raiders had taken their filthy pleasure before they were through.

As a gothi, Yonik was supposed to see the future in the flames and steam. Yet all he was supposed to see was obscured by the ashen past.

He forced himself to stay and breathe in the steam for as long as he could before his will bent. Rising on legs shaky from hunger and disuse, he ducked out of the flap of his tent, donning his thick fur cloak as he exited, and stared, blinking and dazed, into the white world around him.

He'd chosen a small clearing among the mountain pines, hoping the tall trees might provide him protection from the winter. But the snows of the Teeth were ever-falling during the long, dark months, and snow had drifted down among the branches to pile up around his tent and the trunks of the trees. Strapping on his snowshoes — wide, cleverly designed wooden frames with animal skins pulled tight across them — he fought his way up to the top of the snow and stood, panting, as he stared into the shade of the woods.

Midday, he guessed. Despite the winter storm, bright, diffused light filtered down through the branches. If he moved quickly, he might fit in a hunt before darkness fell once again.

Guilt turned his stomach as he contemplated the escape. He knew it wasn't what the Silvers of Eilderspräll, who had trained and mentored him for the past five years, would wish him to do. He was on the sixth day of his khuulnisham, his vision quest, the last rite he must perform to be inducted as a gothi, a priest. It was meant to be a time of reflection, to breathe in the khnuum steam with its hallucinogenic properties and discover the path and purpose for his calling.

But in the six days that he’d been meditating within the tent, he’d failed to see anything beyond the memories that haunted him.

He began walking before the familiar doubts could stop him. Doubt had ever been his companion, ever since his wife and daughters had been killed by barbars. Doubt that he’d been a good father. Doubt that he had done right by following the tracks and spraying the snow with red. Doubt in the gods. Doubt that it was worth carrying on living.

But though his doubts dragged at him like a sled through ice-crusted snow, Yonik had marched on. He had dedicated himself to becoming a gothi, seeking to atone both for failing to protect those he loved and for the blood he’d shed in vengeance. Where sating his sense of justice had not left him any fuller, he turned to the old faiths, in hopes that the gods might still have a purpose for a broken man.

He was no stranger to doubt, and knew, too, how to keep it at bay.

So he did as he always did when he grew restless: he hunted. As he was on his vision quest, he only carried a spear in addition to his belt knife. The spear was to be used only for protection. But Yonik had hunted with less. A spear could be thrown, and in the many hours of idleness, when his mind wandered and his hands itched for something to do, he had carved it to be finely balanced for just such an occasion. 

Now all he needed was his prey.

He trudged through the forest, glad to be moving and stretching his legs and working his body. Hunger had hollowed him, but it eased a little with the exercise. Still khnuum-addled, he saw things flitting in and out of the shadows from the corners of his eyes, but he knew to ignore them. They were not his visions, only mischievous sprites of air and shadow seeking to waylay him from his course. When his vision came, he would know it.

If it came.

Shoving the doubts down again, he wandered until he discovered tracks. Crouching, he studied them, and his heart leaped in his chest. Bear. Perhaps even a greatbear. The tracks were clear enough to identify by the pattern, but its size was harder to determine. Only by following could he be certain.

He'd never killed a bear before, much less a greatbear of the Teeth, nor had he heard of anyone alive who had done so. To accomplish such a feat, alone, with nothing but a spear and knife, would name him the greatest hunter in Oakharrow, his home city, perhaps even the whole of the Baegardian Clans.

Yonik sighed and rose. Even if he were fit for the hunt, it went against his present purpose. I should return, he thought, looking back over the trail from his snowshoes. Two more days of meditation lay before him, and he still had to discover his calling.

Reluctance dragging at his feet, he turned back when something caught his eye between the trunks.

He froze, watching. Something stirred out in the forest, bright and full of red and orange and yellow, all the more strange in a landscape of blues, whites, and greens. Yonik watched as it grew in intensity, then came into view, the barest outline of a shadow visible: a stag, silhouetted, but for its crown of antlers set ablaze.

No sooner had it revealed itself than the buck turned and ran back into the forest. The light then began to fade as it moved quickly away. Yet still, he delayed. Perhaps it was only a stray fire sprite come to play on his imagination, he reasoned. 

Yet it was the first glimmer of possibility he'd had for his vision quest. He couldn't afford to let it slip away.

Setting off in pursuit, Yonik tried to close the distance between him and the stag. But if it neared, it still didn’t show between the snow-laden trees. Ever it stayed afar, out of sight and reach, no matter how hard he pushed.

The glow of brightness faded from the canopy above. He knew he should turn back or he risked wandering the pines all night, but he could not force himself to look away. The effects of khnuum must have long since left him, and his head felt clear and his senses sharp for the first time in a week. Yet the stag’s light ahead of him had not faded but kept fleeting just ahead, growing brighter as the rest of the world fell into darkness.

Just as his resolve was nearing its breaking point, Yonik stepped clear of the woods to find himself on a precipice overlooking a valley. Between the mountains that surrounded him, he could glimpse the glow of the setting sun, violent orange and pink radiating in a band across the bottom of the clouds. The glow caught on the snow covering the valley, the white turning to gentle warm pastels, and the silvery river that cut through it setting ablaze with the sun’s reflection. Of the stag, there was no sign.

Only then did he realize he had not seen a single track from its hooves.

But even as the chill of his blatant overlook battled with the thrill of discovery inside of him, his gaze caught upon a dark figure at the bottom of the valley. For a moment, he wondered if he’d found the stag after all, its antlers doused. Then his gut squeezed tight.

He recognized the form of a greatbear.

It was undoubtedly a greatbear, and a male one, for its bulk was massive despite the diminutive pawprints it had left in the forest. And it was not the only dark shape in the valley. Four other figures were sprawled in the snow, the dark patches around them and the stillness of their forms telling what their fate had been. A fifth, Yonik saw, was slowly sating the bear's hunger.

Not the stag, he could see, but humans fallen to the greatbear.

Despite his earlier dreams, Yonik backed out of sight. His breathing came fast; blood pounded in his head. Those had been barbar hunters, he had no doubt. Baegardian men didn't come into the Teeth in winter unless they were mad, and the furs the corpses wore matched the typical cut and colors of the Woldagi tribe. He found himself gripping his spear so tightly he felt it must snap beneath his hands, even as a savage grin began spreading across his face.

Serves them right, he thought, the bastard savages.

It had been Woldagi men, after all, who had slaughtered, raped, and burned his family. 

But his smile faded as soon as it had come. He knew who he was now. Gothi were supposed to leave behind the differences between mortals. Gothi were supposed to serve a higher law. And the Inscribed Beliefs told of how any beast who slays a man, woman, or child, regardless of tribe or race, must be returned to the earth. 

As nearly an inducted priest, he was oath-bound to avenge the deaths of these Woldagi.

The smile turned into a bare-toothed, silent snarl. This was no vision quest! This was not what five years’ labor should come to! Yet even as he struggled against the final challenge the gods had placed before him, he knew the truth. Skoll, God of the Hunt, had seen through to his flaws and weaknesses and, by the buck’s guidance, placed before him the very challenge he least wished to pursue.

Doubt had been his companion for many years. What, he reasoned, was one hunt more?

He eased forward again and espied the greatbear.

At the distance, a hundred paces or more, it was as small as the size of his thumb. But he could still see that the five barbar hunters had not fallen easily. Red wounds opened along his flank, and emerging above his front right shoulder was the shaft of a broken arrow. Yet for all of his injuries, the beast ate with abandon, ripping through what seemed to be his victim's intestines and heartily chewing them down. 

He will not die easily. Sweat trickled down Yonik's back. He was not old, but he was growing no younger. He still had life to live. You do not know this is your calling, he told himself. You do not have to try and slay this beast. 

But despite his inner pleas, another part of him had hardened and observed the lay of the land. One barbar lay nearby on the upper part of the slope, weapons scattered about his body, including a bow that looked unbroken. The river, partially frozen and weak as it was, lay between them, a further obstacle. If Yonik fired down on the greatbear, he might get in four or five shots before it reached him, perhaps enough to fell him in his condition. Possibly.

But if he didn't attempt to kill it — what then? He could not return to the Silvers in Eilderspräll and pretend he had discovered his guiding vision. He could not lie and keep silent about the beast who had slaughtered humans and condemned itself. He had already failed his first chance at a life; he would not invalidate his last.

The doubts had not left him. But now, he doubted they ever would.

This is my khuulnisham, he affirmed as he eased himself into a ready crouch. And Djur be damned if I won't see it through to its end. 

And so, as the greatbear bent its head again, Yonik made his move.

He darted forward at a crouch, making for the nearest barbar. Against the glowing snow, he knew he would starkly stand out. Every moment counted now. He snatched up the bow and breathed out in relief seeing it was indeed whole, even its string. Skoll be praised, he thought as he located the quiver and looped it onto his belt. A war-axe, too, he claimed from the dead man's hand, then looked up.

The greatbear's head was turned toward him. He had seen him, Yonik had no doubt, yet the beast did not charge or make any move to protect its kills, but only stared at him as if curious. For a moment, Yonik wondered if it were not the Wild God himself staring out of those eyes, but he shook the stray thought from his mind, knowing the lingering effects of khnuum must be behind it.

No time for doubts now. Yonik plucked the bowstring experimentally, and when it didn't snap, he notched an arrow, drew, and quickly aimed. Wind blew down the valley, not strong, but enough to affect an arrow's flight. Adjusting slightly, he breathed out slowly, and his quarry in sight, he let the arrow fly.

It whistled as it arced up, then dove down toward the other side of the river — and into the greatbear's chest.

That freed the beast from whatever stupor had taken it. Rearing on its hind legs, it rose to its twelve-foot height and roared, its challenge echoing up and down the valley. Yonik felt his hands shaking as he fumbled for another arrow, notched, aimed, and fired.

But the bear had begun charging toward him, and his aim was poor, the arrow falling a few feet beyond the beast. The greatbear charged into the river, and though Yonik had hoped it would slow him, it did little. Ice shattered before its huge bulk, and water churned as it pushed its way up the opposite shore and made quickly for Yonik's position up the valley wall.

Wasting no time, Yonik fired once more and desperately praised Skoll for guiding his arrow, for it lodged itself just above the creature's eye. Stunned for a moment, the greatbear faltered in its lumbering run, swatting at the arrow and bellowing in pain. But it had not pierced the skull, nor found the eye socket; the greatbear might be in pain, but he was far from dead.

His breath hissing through his teeth, Yonik notched what he knew would be his last arrow. This one must hit its mark, or the beast would reach him, and then nothing in his power would likely stop it. Djur, Skoll, Skirsala, any who listen, he prayed as he aimed. Let one of you guide my arrow, and I will serve you until the end of my days.

He let the arrow fly.

The greatbear jerked as its other eye sprouted the shaft, its roar stuttering with startlement and confusion. The arrow had sunk deep, almost to the feathers, and Yonik knew he had pierced the brain. Soon, the creature must fall.

“Yield,” he whispered, watching the disoriented greatbear flounder. “Yield to the will of the gods.”

The greatbear lowered its paws to the earth and shook its head once more. Then it focused its remaining eye on Yonik.

It charged.

Acting on instinct, Yonik dropped the bow and grabbed the spear next to him, hefting it and throwing it, all the strength of his fear behind it. He barely saw it catch a glancing blow across the beast's chest before he took the war-axe in hand and turned tail. His snowshoes still on, his run was awkward and stumbling, in danger of sending him sprawling into the deep snow at the slightest misstep. Through the blood pounding in his head, he heard the greatbear heaving its bulk quickly up the valley. He was mere feet behind him.

Reaching the precipice where he'd first overlooked the valley, he spun and faced the beast. It had slowed, but not nearly enough to outrun. Here, he'd make his stand and die. 

He bared his teeth at his fate and snarled, “Djur be damned if I won’t take you with me!"

The greatbear lunged, and Yonik threw himself at it and chopped down with the axe. With the higher terrain, he nearly landed on the beast's shoulders, and his war-axe cleaved into the spine at the base of its neck. But no sooner had the blow landed but Yonik felt himself torn free and sent flying, fire burning along his body where claws had ripped through his flesh.

He hit the snow, and all became snow and stars. Sick roiled in his gut, but Yonik stumbled to his feet and drew his knife, his last remaining weapon. He swayed as he stood and took sight of his enemy. The greatbear had slowed to a walk now, but it still came on, breath hissing in a rumble from its throat. Half of its mouth hung open grotesquely, slobber dripping from its lip — a sign, he hoped, that the end was near.

But in a burst of movement, the greatbear surged forward, and there was no leaping onto its back now. Yonik let loose one last, desperate cry and, as the beast's jaws clamped onto his shoulder and darkness infringed on his vision, he drove his knife into its remaining eye.

Then he relented to the darkness and fell away into nothing.

* * *

He opened his eyes to colors the night had never before shown.

Breath was no more than a wheeze in his lungs, and pain radiated down his body, yet he didn’t try to move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, couldn’t do anything but stare at the glorious display burning across the darkness. 

Reds, oranges, and golds covered the stars in a swirling, fiery cloud on one side, like an inferno had set the very sky ablaze. The other half of the sky was dominated by a sea of greens, blues, and violets, rolling and crashing like the waves of a stormy lake.

The colors, both warm and cold, clashed in a wavering line, and it was this divide that inevitably drew his eye. Figures formed from the misty colors, figures both familiar and terrifyingly strange. They rose, tall as the highest mountain, their forms vaguely human, but their features belonging to beasts. Tusks, each as long as a mountain river, tangled and tore, and hands, thick-fingered like the paws of bears, grappled with each other. But though they fought with fury and hate, the front never shifted more than a hand's width in any direction before it began to curl back.

Jotun and Surtun. The figures took recognizable shape, and his thoughts leaped to the giants of myth, the legendary enemies that had driven his ancestors to the middle continent of Enea. In the stories, they were said to be as tall as mountains and to demand allegiance of all the lesser creatures they towered over. And now they tower over me, Yonik thought.

There was more lurking just at the edges of his mind, the whispers of ancient words. But even as Yonik came back to himself, he could not recall them. Instead, the many pains across his body announced themselves with urgency, and the cold stiffness that had tried forever to drag him down clung tenaciously to his bones. He slowly looked away from the vision of lights and sat up, groaning, to feel down his body for wounds. Several slashes were crusty with frozen blood, but though they hurt under his probing fingers, no wound went deep.

Gods be praised. He smiled into the vision still undulating above him and felt he could have laughed. "Gods be praised!” he repeated aloud.

He had succeeded where he knew he must fail. He had killed a greatbear. He had found his calling, though he still little knew its meaning. 

He would become a gothi of Skoll.

Despite his wounds, triumph filled him with a warmth that made little of the pain. Yonik stretched his limbs out slowly, ensuring nothing was broken, as he continued to watch the cloudy lights. And as he stared, the moment of victory bled away. The ancient words that had been whispers a moment before suddenly coalesced in his mind, and he cringed before their meaning:

Rulers of dragons, spare us the sun’s blight

Blind her not, nor cover her spirit’s light

Jotun and Surtun, spare us of your fire and frost

Men cannot live through the Eternal Night

“The Eternal Night,” Yonik murmured. “Is this your message, Wolf Hunter? Is this to be my purpose? To be the harbinger of the end times?"

He continued to watch the vision, wishing it would change to something, anything else, but knowing, too, that it would not. 

“Can it be true?” he asked himself. “Can the giants of old return? Did they truly ever exist?”

But he had no more answer than the gods had shared, none but the whistle of a gust billowing through the snowy valley.

Yonik lowered his head to the huge black form of the greatbear next to him and balked at what still lay ahead. He would have to harvest the kill, both as proof of his victory and the sign of proof of Skoll’s blessing. Before, such a prize would have filled him with pride. Now, he saw how thin the victory was.

What was the killing of a greatbear next to a war between legends? Next to the ending of Baegard and the whole of Enea itself? 

If that is what my vision meant.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. Tomorrow was soon enough to deal with sorting that out. For now, he had many long and hard tasks before him. He would survive and become a gothi dedicated to Skoll, for this was a hunt that would likely take his life. And he would follow the calling of his vision to its end.

Rising, Yonik tottered over to the greatbear's corpse, pulled the knife free from its eye, and began to cut.

I hoped you enjoy the story! If you did, the first book in The Runewar Saga is currently available, with the second book coming in early 2022. Read or listen to The Throne of Ice & Ash on Amazon, Kindle Unlimited, or Audible!