Gauntlet of Winter, Sword of Spring

“I am the guardian of Ashwood Village,” Sanluth called out. He glanced about, trembling, his knuckles white on the oak staff that was his only weapon. The beech trees stood huge and gnarled around him in the failing evening light, their trunks and branches glittering with frost. He repeated his statement in a louder voice.

But the wood wisp didn’t show herself. Sanluth glanced at the two wolves that stood guard beside him. Their fur bristled and they growled. “Easy,” he said, stroking them. He could sense mischievous magic in the air. Whispers seemed to speak to him, telling him he’d made a terrible choice in coming to this region of the forest.

Laughter and a burst of blue sparks erupted in the treetops, as a dark shadow dove toward Sanluth. He raised his staff defensively, the wolves roaring their challenge. But the shadow vanished, leaving a trail of curling fog that groped at Sanluth like fingers.

He waved the fog away. “The ancient trees are dying!” he cried. “The winter has gone on too long and has stung them too bitterly. Won’t you help me, for the sake of the trees?”

A finger of mist beckoned to him, and he followed it to a small clearing. His boots crunched loudly in the snow, his breath coming out in pale gusts. A few stars shone in the deep blue heavens above the clearing. He waited, shivering beneath his fur cloak. “Enough with the games,” he said. “Time grows short. The elder trees are your kin.”

At last, a pale-skinned woman stepped into the clearing. She was covered only in a gown of fog that wound about her in a spiral. Her eyes were like blue ice, her hair a wavy ribbon of silver. She walked atop the snow.

The wolves whined and hunkered down.

“What would you ask of me, Sanluth?” she said. “I don’t control the weather. I can’t make the winter give way to spring, as long as it lies in the grasp of an iron hand.”

“Then you can’t help me?” Sanluth said. His knees sagged beneath him. “I’ve come so far to see you. You’re the wood wisp who guards the forest, who knows everything and whose power cannot be matched. If you can’t end this winter, who can?”

“You’ve come on a fool’s quest,” she said. “I’m not the guardian of this forest, and I certainly don’t know everything. I’m just a creature who lives here. And you’re just a boy expected to do the work that a hundred men wouldn’t be able to do. Your village declared you guardian because the wild wolves came to you and offered their protection. Is this true?”

“You know it is, my lady,” said Sanluth. He was weary, hungry, and cold–to the depths of his soul. But the magnificent creature before him held him spellbound to the point where he couldn’t so much as blink. She seemed to have absolute power over him.

“Yes, but it still amazes me,” the wood wisp said. “You’ve barely lived eighteen years, and yet they send you off on a quest to save the forest.”

Sanluth nodded. “I’ll do what I must. If the elder trees die, the magic of the woodlands will fail. Many blessed things will pass from the world.”

She looked away. “Yes…I know it to be true. But if I point you to the right path, I fear you will be going to your death. The deepest frost and the darkest greed choke our land, born from a place where no warm-blooded human should ever go.”

“But I have to,” Sanluth said. He knew he appeared young and weak to her. He was slight of build, his smooth face bearing only a shadow of a beard. He tried to stand taller and straighter.

The wood wisp stood in silence for several moments. At last she spoke. “I will give you answers. But your death will not be my responsibility. I am immortal, and I pity those who must shed their bodies and leave the earth behind. No one should have to leave this precious world.”

“I don’t fear death,” Sanluth said. “My people believe it leads to a better place.”

“I could never imagine straying from this forest,” she said. “But you humans are strange.”

“Where must I journey?” said Sanluth.

“North,” she said, “to the Iron Teeth Mountains. There you will find the frozen heart of insanity–a place even I wouldn’t dare venture into.”

Sanluth didn’t know what she spoke of, but for a creature as ancient and powerful as the wood wisp to make such a statement terrified him. “The mountains are vast. How will I find whatever I’m seeking?”

“I will send a guide,” she said, “one of my kin. It deeply saddens me to do this, because the creature I’ll send with you should never leave this forest. Yet unless I send this guide, you have no hope of success.”

A figure that seemed to be made of twisted roots crept into the clearing. It was hunched over, with long, crooked arms. Two crimson eyes smoldered in its gnarled head.

The wolves growled, and Sanluth took a step back.

“Do not fear,” the wood wisp said. “This is my brother, the root master. I think you’ll find him to be charming company.” But the sour expression on her face said otherwise.

***

Sanluth camped in a small cave that the wood wisp led him to. The next day, he set out for the Iron Teeth Mountains with his wolves and the root master for company. The root master seemed to antagonize the wolves constantly, deliberately walking close to them and making them nervous. Often, he crept along silently behind Sanluth atop the snow, prompting Sanluth to keep glancing behind him. Most troubling of all was the fact that the root master never spoke.

Sometimes, the creature raced ahead, and Sanluth had to struggle to keep pace. Sanluth found himself questioning everything. Not long ago, he’d been proud to be named guardian of his village. But he wasn’t well trained for combat or survival. He had no idea why the wolves had chosen him. They were mysterious creatures with motives no human could fathom.

That night, it began to snow heavily. They made camp under a massive ash tree, Sanluth setting up a small tent of animal furs. He ate a dinner of jerky along with some bread that was so hard he could barely chew it. He fed some of the meat to the wolves, but the root master didn’t seem interested in eating. He crept about through the trees as if searching for something, occasionally peering at Sanluth with eyes that shone bloody red in the light of a campfire Sanluth was barely managing to keep lit.

Later, Sanluth awoke to gnawing sounds and he left his tent. The root master was chewing on a dead oak branch. He held the limb up to the cleft of his mouth, and his twisted jaws ground back and forth, wood chips falling down the beard-like roots of his chin.

The wolves took position beside Sanluth, snarling. He patted them on their heads to reassure them, and they flinched. Slowly, he approached the root master.

The creature glanced up and tossed the branch aside. A hiss escaped his jaws, and he shifted about, his long arms tensing up.

“Can you speak?” Sanluth said. “If so, can you tell me what awaits me? The wood wisp was right–I’m no experienced warrior. I don’t know why I’m the village guardian or why the wise men sent me on this quest. But you’re a magical creature and you must know!”

The root master raised a hand, its tapering fingers like bony spider legs. He squeezed his hand into a huge fist, his eyes gleaming with malice.

Sanluth shrank back, but the wolves threw themselves at the root master. The creature caught one wolf in each hand in mid-air by the throat. He shook them, and then he whispered in their ears–first in one wolf’s ear and then the other. He released them.

The wolves trotted over to the campfire and lay down.

Sanluth gazed in disbelief. “Whisper in my ear,” he said, “like you did to the wolves. Give me answers!”

But the root master simply gazed at him, his eyes now revealing a hint of sorrow, and once again he clenched his hand into a great first. A freezing wind whipped through the forest, warning that spring would never warm the face of the land again, and the snow became blinding.

***

The journey into the Iron Teeth Mountains became treacherous. The winds howled down the slopes, the snow drifting up beneath towering pines. Sanluth and his wolves hunkered down against the blizzard, their progress slowed. The root master seemed unaffected, though, as he scurried over the snow. The wind seemed to blow around him, and the snowflakes never settled upon him.

They camped beneath a stone ledge that night. Sanluth couldn’t get a fire lit, and he sat shivering with his wolves, eating frozen jerky.

The wolves gazed at him with sad eyes, as if they sensed there was no return for him. Sanluth wondered why he should continue. There were other lands, other villages. And the wood wisp had all but predicted he would die on this journey. Was it any wonder the wise men had sent him with only the wolves as company? If he didn’t starve or freeze to death, whatever awaited him in these mountains would surely finish him off. Something had held spring captive for nearly a decade now–something of such power he dared not try to imagine it. He could see no point in continuing on.

“Should we turn back?” Sanluth asked his wolves.

They raised their heads.

The root master took interest, creeping close, his crimson eyes widening.

“That’s right!” Sanluth yelled at him. “I want to give up. This is pointless. Come morning, I’m heading off to a village somewhere to get a job, get married, and raise a few children.”

The root master pointed toward the tops of the peaks and hissed.

“No,” Sanluth insisted. He pointed down away from the mountains. “No more climbing.”

The root master lowered his head. Suddenly, he looked withered and dried up, ready to break apart and fall into a heap of rot.

Sanluth gasped, and the illusion vanished. The root master looked healthy again.

Sanluth thought back to the ancient trees, remembering sitting in clefts in their roots tossing stones into the river–how they’d spoken to him so soothingly in whispers. They needed him now, or soon they would wither away as the root master had showed him, their magic lost forever from the world. The forest would become pale and weak, the trees small and mindless. The elves, gnomes, wisps, and fairies would move on.

The root master again pointed upward.

Sighing, Sanluth nodded. The wolves whined.

***

The root master led them higher and higher into the mountains, until at last they stood before an ancient and crumbling stone castle. This was the frozen heart of insanity that the wood wisp had spoken of. The castle was draped in huge icicles that hung down like spears, beneath an ugly gray sky.           Sanluth had to struggle to steady his nerves and force his legs to carry him onward.

They entered a frozen courtyard. Stone statues of knights stood covered with snow, missing limbs or heads that had crumbled away. A huge iron door marked the castle entrance beyond the courtyard. The icicles hanging above that door were like teeth waiting to chomp down on anyone who dared enter.

The wind sought to shove them back, but they fought their way forward. A devilish whirlwind whipped through the courtyard, spinning the snow into a giant hand. The hand closed into a fist and tried to smash them.

Sanluth and the wolves leapt aside, the fist crunching down where they’d been. The fist rose again, preparing to squash them.

The root master glanced knowingly at Sanluth. Then he stepped in front of the boy and his wolves, and the snowy fist crashed down on him. The fist sprang open as it descended, and it seized the root master and lifted him into the air. It began to squeeze him, and noises like breaking branches arose.

Sanluth howled and smashed at the hand with his staff, but it did no damage. The hand dropped the root master into the snow, then broke apart into a cloud of snowflakes and settled all over the courtyard.

Sanluth knelt by the root master, brushing snow from his face. His eyes were open wide, but he was as still as a log. The wolves sniffed at him.

Sanluth rose, wondering if he should flee. But the wolves had other ideas. They bounded to the iron door and stood waiting.

“What are you doing?” Sanluth yelled. “We can’t defeat this foe.” But the wolves were stubborn, and once they made a decision there was no changing their minds.

Sanluth lifted the root master’s body and went to the door. The root master was as light as driftwood. Cracking noises split the air, and Sanluth looked around in confusion. The wolves seized him and dragged him backward–as several massive icicles dropped from above the door and stabbed into the snow where he’d been.

Then, with a rumbling screech of metal, the door slid inward.

“Wait!” yelled Sanluth, but the wolves had already disappeared inside. He ran in after them.

They stood in a long hall with a huge wooden table. A great fireplace stood at the end of the room, holding only gray ash. Otherwise, the room was bare.

Seated at the table was an old man counting silver coins. He had a big heap of them laid out before him. As he spotted Sanluth and his wolves, he pulled the coins to him defensively. “Wretched thieves!” he snarled. “Why have you come to torment me?”

“We’re not thieves,” Sanluth said. “We’ve come to break the spell that holds springtime hostage. We’ve heard the spell originates from in here.”

“I know nothing of any spells,” the old man said. “As far as I know, you’re here to steal my silver. Well, you won’t get so much as a coin. It’s all mine, forever!”

Sanluth stepped close to him. “So, you’re nothing but an old miser, shut away in here with your treasure. How could you be responsible for the endless winter?”

The wolves growled as a gray mist engulfed the old man. Something was lurking behind him, around him, but he didn’t seem to be aware of it.

“What is that abomination you carry?” the old man said. “Some type of forest filth. I’m glad he’s dead. Now he can’t steal my money, either. Soon you’ll be joining him.”

The old man lifted an iron glove off the table that was engraved with runes. “Don’t think I’m not capable of defending myself against thieves.”

“What is that curse you bear?” Sanluth asked, pointing at the gray mist.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the old man. “All I care about is my money. Don’t you understand? All my life, people have wanted to rob me blind. That’s why I came to this castle, to hide away with my wealth. Yet still they seek me out.”

The old man put on the iron glove and rose. “Now I shall crush you, thief.” Before Sanluth could react, he lunged forward and seized Sanluth’s shoulder. His touch was like burning ice. The wolves leapt forward, but the phantom mist left the old man and shoved them back. They snarled and bit at the mist, to no avail.

Sanluth grew weak, as if his life force were being drained. He thought he was finished. But then he felt the body of the root master shudder, and it burst into green flames. With a cry, the old man reeled back, throwing his hand over his face. Sanluth tried to drop the root master, but he found himself paralyzed for a moment. The flames didn’t harm him, though. The root master burned away, revealing a wooden sword.

Sanluth lifted the sword.

The old man sneered. “What trickery is this? You may get one strike with your toy sword, boy. But then you’ll be finished.” He extended his iron hand and leapt forward.

Sanluth prepared to meet his charge, then wheeled about and plunged the wooden sword into the gray mist. With a bloodcurdling shriek, the mist flew out of the castle and was gone.

The iron gauntlet split apart and fell to the floor.

The old man dropped to one knee, looking dazed. Sanluth helped him up.

“My greed,” the old man whispered, bowing his head. “My greed led me here, to this cursed place. My heart was frozen with the love of coin and the phantom fed off it. The curse spread like frost all over the land. How could I have been so foolish?”

A beam of sunlight broke in through a window.

Sanluth patted him on the back and together they left the keep. Already, the ice was breaking off the castle, and the snows were melting. A new magic was sweeping the land–the magic of spring. The floodgates were open, and the earth was hungry for warmth.

Sanluth felt a tugging on the sword, the tip being drawn to the earth. He plunged it into the snow, and it shuddered as it planted itself in the soil underneath. The root master would live again.

The old man turned about. “My silver,” he said, starting toward the keep.

The wolves threw back their heads and howled. Then they blocked his path.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps I’ll just find a job, then. Of course, I could always return later for it, right?”

Sanluth smiled. “Not very likely. The wolves have claimed this keep, and soon it will be overrun with them. I’m guessing it means something quite significant to them.”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

“Because they’ve abandoned me,” said Sanluth, knowing in his heart it was true. He could see it in their eyes. That was the sadness he’d glimpsed before. The wolves had accomplished some important goal, and their pact with Sanluth’s village was ended.

Sanluth seized the old man by the arm. “Come on, my friend. We’ve got some walking to do. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day.”