Nessalir the Red

Upon finishing her tale, Nessalir looked upon Iarius. She wondered what the scholar must think of what she'd told him. The Empire seemed to have forgotten much of the ways of the old; perhaps he would insist that the Winter King could not have laid waste to her home, that such a figure of myth could not possibly have been walking upon the earth within their lifetimes.

However, instead of challenging her narrative, Iarius simply nodded. His expression was sad, his eyes distant. "I see," he told her. "I understand."

Nessalir's lips curled back into a snarl. "You understand?" the drakkowar demanded. "How could you possibly understand? I have lost my home, my people, all that I knew! I am a warrior sworn to no king, a lowly mercenary loyal to coin and coin alone! And you claim you understand? What do you know of me, Iarius ex Maritoris? What do you know of my pain and my regret?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, and her hands were clenched into shaking fists. Nessalir wished, in that moment, to set ablaze the whole of this forest. To burn away all traces of bandits and giants, and herself along with them.

"Very little," said Iarius. "I know very little. And yet, I believe I know enough, now." He nodded. "Yes, very well. Let us find this giant. I look forward to seeing you put him down."

And now a bitter new emotion crept through Nessalir's anger, dulling it if only for this brief moment. She turned away from Iarius, and spoke softly: "Thank you. Now let us be done with this work."

Without looking back at her companion, Nessalir began trudging forward through the forest. Her boots sank into mud, where snow melted into water and was absorbed into the earth. Branches reached down to grasp at her crimson hair, but Nessalir shoved them out of the way. Her shoulder ached and burned, yet this too she shoved away, for there was precious little time to worry on such trivialities as her own injuries.

Heavy was the heart of Nessalir the Red. Memories of Koroth resurfaced in her mind, each one bringing with it a pain of sorrow, the ghost of a wound so sharp that it seemed fresh and new. Koroth had been small, compared to her, with a beard that couldn't quite grow in fully or evenly. Where other men braided their beards, Koroth had been forced to settle on cutting it into something resembling uniformity. There was a handsome boyishness to him that almost seemed innocent, and when he lay upon her, his head resting on her chest and his fingers lightly stroking the muscles of her arms, she felt a warmth and contentment unlike anything else she had ever experienced. Yet when they coupled, he revealed a ferocity well hidden by those boyish charms. He was insatiable, virile. He knew when to strike hard and when to be gentle. She knew, as he did, how easily she could have crushed him, but gladly had Nessalir surrendered to him, time and time again, and ecstasy had been her reward.

She bit her lip. Those memories, so full of passion and joy, now took on a sharp edge, a harsh coldness brought on by the knowledge of how he had died. Koroth had devoted his life to caring for others, and he had done so until the very end, when the Winter King had slaughtered him and all his charges with one blow.

Again, anger rose up within her, now clear and focused. The frost giants, sons of Yovarth, had stood and laughed as their father killed her love. They had devoured her countrymen, destroyed her home, taken everything from her.

Hatred spurred her forward. When Lorveg fell, Nessalir had sworn an oath that no jolatar who crossed her path would survive, and this was a vow she intended to keep.

So she continued on through the woodlands, aware that Iarius was stumbling behind her, ashamed at herself for her outburst, but unwilling to care too much about his presence. The scholar was a distraction.

"Is there no end to this shrubbery?" he snapped, and Nessalir heard the cracking of wood and shuffling of leaves as he clumsily fought his way through the vegetation. "Could these bandits not have chosen a more convenient location for their lair?"

Nessalir did not reply. Her quarry was confident, bordering on arrogant, and had made not even a token attempt to disguise his passage. Heavy footprints marred the snow, mud, and dirt, and disturbed plants too marked the giant's passage. It was child's play to follow.

Behind her, Iarius yelped and tripped on something, landing in the muddy snow with a wet thud. Nessalir paused, turned around, and helped him back to his feet.

“Please tell me that Grjeil has a bathhouse,” the scholar said, wiping mud from his furs and grimacing in disgust.

“It has baths,” said Nessalir. “Why they should require a house, I do not know.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Whatever it was he's wanted to say, evidently he had either lost the words or thought better of it.

“Come.” Nessalir continued on through the woods, and Iarius cursed as he hurried to follow her.

She stopped. Iarius gasped. Before them stood the remains of a great tree. The stump stood lonely and shattered, the wood splintered as though some force had broken the rest of the tree from it in a display of animalistic strength, without the aid of tools such as axes or saws.

“Is that…?” Iarius began.

“Yes,” said Nessalir. She'd seen, among the giant's tracks, the signs of something large being dragged through the woods. That she would find the source of it was no surprise. “The tree the bandits used to block the road. It once stood here.”

“If a giant can do this,” said Iarius, “then how can anyone hope to defeat one?”

“To face a giant is not a complex matter,” Nessalir told him. As she spoke, her eyes never once left the shattered stump. “You hack his shins until they are gone. Then you hack his knees, then his thighs, until at last you and he stand eye to eye. Then, as always, you must pray that luck and skill are in your favor.”

Iarius did not reply. Nessalir approached the stump, ran her fingers along the splintered wood and broken bark. She noted where the frost giant's fingers had forced their way into the truck, where the creature's immense strength had brought destruction to this old oak.

What incredible strength the giant must possess. Nessalir smiled. Energy and anticipation sang through her muscles. She felt her fire rising in her blood. Her eyes found the trail once more.

She could not wait to spill the frost giant's blood.