The Passing Years, by Matt Gilbert

3870.CE

The door thumped closed, shutting out the cold and the evening’s bitter wind. A few errant snowflakes drifted to the flagstones and nestled there waiting to melt, if the room ever warmed up. 

Orlaf, once-skjoldcarl of Talannar, shrugged the heavy furs from his shoulders and let them slide to the floor. His axe was placed on a wall mount, and he unbuckled his weapon harness, slipping it free and dumping it on the table. Unwrapping the packet of roasted hare and spiced turnips he’d taken from the tower’s kitchens, he sank into his favourite chair, grimacing at his stiff back and weak knee. When did I get so old? 

Lifting his supper to his face he inhaled deeply through his nose, savouring the smell. As his stomach growled in response, he scooped a portion into his mouth. Despite the long, cold walk through the city back home, it was still as hot as the Abyss and scorched his tongue. Spluttering, he grabbed for a mug of weak ale, left from breakfast, and gulped it down, dripping beer and meat down his beard and onto the floor. He grabbed a rag and frantically began mopping up the mess. He paused. When did I get so bloody fastidious? And become such a mewling fox-cub that I can’t handle hot food! 

Having finished his meal, he slumped back into the chair and sighed. Yes, despite his formidable reputation, he knew he was slowing down. He felt the cold now more than ever, and his best years were behind him. Nestling further into the seat, he heaved his feet up onto the table and folded his arms. Closing his eyes, he wondered where his old friends were now, knowing none of them would feel the sands of time as he did, running through the hour-glass, and through his grasping fingers. 

Rordin was making a name for himself among the dwarfs, both Free and Imperial. News was patchy, but the Alliance understood that trouble was brewing and that there had even been clashes between those loyal to Golloch and those of the Free Clans. How that would play out, only the gods knew. Probably true, actually. He might ask the Oracle, although her response would probably be infuriatingly cryptic. 

The last he’d heard of Madriga, she’d returned to her homelands, looking for some sort of adventure on the seas. He could well imagine her leading a ship. Running a ship? Ship-thegn? He had no idea what boat-users called anything. But he was sure she’d be good at whatever it was. 

Danor. Now he was interesting. Younger than Orlaf, his experience with Valandor meant the wizard didn’t look a day over thirty. Orlaf knew he’d gone back to Basilea but there had been little news of him since. Maybe one day he’d see one of them again, to talk about old times. Well, old for Orlaf. The others would all outlive him. They would become his skalds. They would remember him and tell his story. 

Fame and wealth had broken him after their time together. Yet Clarion had found him, lying in the gutter in a town in the middle of nowhere. The herald never said how he tracked him down, but he was glad that he had. The Alliance had saved him, and since that day, it was all he’d devoted his time and strength to. 

He knew his time was near. Having been a pivotal figure in the defence of Chill, once the danger had passed and life began to return to something resembling normality, he’d spoken in private to his prince. Despite his reluctance, Talannar had acquiesced to Orlaf’s request. The great barbarian would retire from the front lines, letting younger, fresher warriors take on the responsibility. Orlaf would take a seat on the Witan, advising and lending his experience; but primarily he would lead the household guard that stood watch over the White Pylon and the treasure inside, Azuon. The Oracle. It had taken several months, but the Celestian now seemed to trust him and would even discuss casual matters with him from time to time. In such moments, she seemed almost… human. 

Just has he felt his body dropping into sleep, the door banged open and Brigga stomped in, shaking frost from her clothes and hanging her sword up next his axe. She glanced at the table and then looked at him, one eyebrow rising quizzically.  Orlaf guiltily removed his feet from the table and then noticed the empty buckskin packet that had carried his dinner home. 

“Er. I didn’t get you anything.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Good thing I’m not hungry.” She rubbed her hands together to warm them. “At least not for food. It’s cold tonight and it’s warmer upstairs.” 

Orlaf’s eyes followed his bride-wife across the room and as she made her way up the thick wooden stairs. She stopped and turned back when she realised he hadn’t moved. 

“Well, old man, are you coming?” 

Orlaf grinned and leapt to his feet, knee and back miraculously cured. Not so old, he thought. There’s still some years left in me yet! 

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