text: The wind was cold as snowflakes whipped through the air like frozen razors. A blizzard was blowing in, and could be seen on the horizon across the icy tundra. Great, white clouds flowed from the northern scene, soon to blanket the red-stained terrain and cold bodies in the storm’s path. The sea to the north was sloshing with icebergs, and the wind crashed great chunks of ice against each other which cracked and shattered as loud as thunder. A figure moved through the knee-high snow across the tundra, away from a blood-soaked battlefield. The only survivor of the brutal fighting. In his own wake, he left a trail of crimson snow, courtesy of the wound on his torso. He saw the blizzard in the distance, and knew that it would be his death. His only salvation would be the mountain to the west of the battle. If he couldn’t climb high enough to avoid the worst of the snowfall, perhaps he could find a cave to shelter in, he thought. Skjold was his name. A name that was given to him by his mother, in hopes that one day he would become a great warrior worthy of a name that meant “shield”. But the blood pouring from his waist made him feel undeserving of it. As many in the harsh northern lands were pressed into service by the numerous warlords, he was made to believe he would return a conquering hero. Instead, fate seemed fit to let him die in the cold tundra. Due to this, a question repeated itself in his mind. Why did he press on? He was hopeless, wounded, near death. He shook off the doubt. Succumbing to despair would kill him faster than the cold. If he was not to survive, he would make every effort to spite fate. As Skjold stepped onto the foot of the mountain, the winds picked up whilst he traversed the shallow incline. The softer snow was more difficult to walk on, and the battle had already exhausted him. Above the gray clouds that hanged low in the sky, the sun was already beginning to set. It was still light enough to keep the wolves confined to their lairs, but the light would not last long. As the walk took him further up the mountain, his sweat began to freeze to his face and under his jack as well as inside his socks. His feet were numb. What few chin-hairs he had were beginning to form glassy beads that melted as fast as they froze. Skjold pulled the hood of his thick woolen cloak further down over his head and lifted the collar of his shirt over his nose. His breath thawed his face, even if his posture had to remain awkward as he climbed. It was a grueling hour of walking as the incline slowly increased. The blizzard drew ever closer, but his salvation was within sight. With shivering hands, he crawled up a small outcropping and found himself at the mouth of a small icy cavern. At last! Desperately, Skjold ran into the shelter and collapsed, finally free of the chilling winds. He would have seen fit to curl into a ball and wait out the blizzard, warmth finally returning to his hands and feet. But he felt eyes on his back before he could strip off his boots. Deeper inside the cave, he heard a low, quiet growl. Startled, he turned to see a pair of golden eyes in the cave behind him. Beneath the eyes, in the dim shadow of the cave and the waning illumination provided by the darkening sky outside, he saw the white shapes of fangs glistening with saliva. Instinctively, Skjold reached for the axe in his belt and held it high above his head, threateningly. He shouted and growled at the wolf in a vain attempt to scare it away, he was in no shape to fight the predator. Undeterred, it stalked closer to him and pounced, jaws gnashing towards his face. It knocked him onto his back, and Skjold wrestled with the creature. In a moment of desperation, he recalled a technique his father told him of. Curling his hand into a fist, he thrusted a punch into the wolf’s mouth and forced his hand into the back of its throat. The animal thrashed and made gagging noises, but he kept his hand in its maw as he struggled to free his axe from the wolf’s weight pinning it to his chest. The wolf stamped its claws onto his wound more than once, and pain shot through Skjold’s body each time. The predator’s breath warmed his hand, and with the return of feeling came pain as he felt its teeth rip the skin from his flesh. Finally, he pulled his axe free and slammed the blunt against his foe’s head. It yelped, and he freed his bloody fist from the wolf’s throat. Taking the axe in both hands, he bludgeoned the creature in the eye, and it went limp atop him. Skjold pushed the unconscious animal off of his body, breathing heavily. He stood, sucking enough air into his tired lungs to release a weak cry of victory. The instant it left his lips, he heard more growls deeper within the tunnel. His stomach sank with dread as he saw more wolves appear from the darkness. In a moment of panic, he yelled at the creatures and threw his axe-- his only weapon-- at the pack. The wolves scurried aside the weapon, giving Skjold enough time to throw himself back out into the snowy mountainside. The cold washed over him, and in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy he clawed and tore his way up the sheer rock outcropping the cave led into. When he finally summitted the crag, he fell onto his back as his muscles screamed in pain. His left hand was slicked with blood. More of his precious life flowed from it and froze to his skin. The corners of his vision blurred as the snow continued to fall onto his slowly dying body. With great effort, he pushed himself to his feet. Immediately, the wind whipped into a howl and snow began to batter him. He was too late; the blizzard had arrived. He couldn’t return to the cavern, not unarmed. The sky grew yet darker. It was night, and what light could be salvaged from the moon was snuffed by the massive clouds overhead. Following the incline of the mountain, Skjold continued further up. He clung to no distant childhood memory to keep himself motivated. He had no young sweetheart in his village to keep his aching legs moving. Even the spark of fury in his soul had died out, he felt no motive to spite the gods, or fate. In truth, he did not know why he marched on. An hour later, his vision was blinded by the haze of snowfall. His ears were deafened by the howling of the wind. Darkness of the night shrouded what little he could see. But with the darkness, he was able to see something through the snow. A golden glow, hidden amongst the trees and much further up the mountain than he could walk. A camp? A cabin? He did not know, but the spark of hope burned brightest in his heart. He couldn’t die here, not so close to safety! With his muscles burning yet numb at the same time, he shot towards the light as fast as the thick snow could permit him to move. He pulled himself up the incline using tree branches and exposed stones for handholds, but his vision blurred more as he came closer. He saw that the light was a lantern, sitting on the porch of a cabin. With a strained cry of effort, Skjold sprinted uphill and tripped on a stone. He fell face-first into a snow bank, and felt a rush of warmth in his body. Rather than relief, this sensation brought him fear. It meant he was succumbing to the cold. He found no strength in his arms to bring himself to his feet. With his last ounce of will, he crawled through the snow and barely reached the stairs to the porch of the cabin. His will gone, Skjold rested his head onto the stairs of the porch and passed out from the exhaustion of his climb.