Prologue
360 Years Before Present Day
“What ails Tarn that he lies motionless through a moon cycle?” asked Kieron, headman of the Ice Rock clan, referring to the warrior who lay unconscious on a pallet of furs at his feet.
“A portion of his spirit has been dislocated, torn asunder by Wotan’s sword, Soulreaver. Had Tarn not dislodged the soul-drinker from his thigh when he did, his life would be forfeit. As it stands, that which defines him has been shredded. He clings to this world by a tenuous thread,” explained Darksky, shaman of the Ice Rock clan.
“What of your magic?” Kieron petitioned.
“There’s a remedy of sorts, though you’ll not favour its prescription,” Darksky said, his voice a sombre mix of regret and sadness.
“His body withers and wastes do we not act. Asgard owes him a debt of gratitude. Tarn slew Wotan and rescued our nation from slavery. There isn’t any hardship I would not endure to succour him from his ail, hale of body and mind,” Kieron vowed.
“The skill to heal a shorn soul lies beyond my knowledge,” Darksky admitted. “That which is missing resides in limbo between our world of substance and the spirit hereafter.”
Barath remained silent, deeply troubled by Darksky's words. Although Barath had been raised a nobleman in Mycenar, and Tarn a commoner in Asgard, the year they shared battling the Rings of Mahnaz, risking life and limb against assassins, and finally Wotan’s hell-spawned horde, forged a bond of friendship stronger than steel. Now Tarn lay stricken with an affliction Barath was powerless to change.
“What do you propose Darksky?” Barath asked, breaking his contemplative silence.
“Although I lack the knowledge to reunite what has been ripped apart, I can place Tarn in a state of hibernation like a bear who sleeps in winter, to be awakened once I learn the remedy. He will neither crave food, nor suffer the ravages of time, nor thirst for water.”
Kieron gazed long and hard upon Tarn. Tides of brotherly loss flooded his soul. Tarn was the Chosen One, wielder of Kalen's sword, slayer of Wotan, and his sword brother who championed their nation’s freedom. More than that, Tarn was his friend.
“What if you should die before acquiring the healing skill?” asked the stalwart headman.
“Fear naught. It’s a relatively simple spell that my apprentice shall be taught.”
“Will the hibernation spell work on me?” Barath solicited.
Both Kieron and Darksky turned in surprise at the unthinkable question, shocked by his words. Barath wore a stone mask, giving neither hint nor clue of his motivation.
“To what end?” Darksky asked, the first to recover his wits.
“What of my curse, will your magic keep me asleep during the twilight hour?” Barath repeated, ignoring Darksky’s question.
Darksky’s creased, furrowed brow, signalled his attempt to puzzle through the factors involved. One of Imaran’s subordinate wizards cursed Barath to become a wolf for all but the twilight hour between day and night. In wolf form, Barath was bound to the animal’s instincts. The natural urges of the beast continued to grow in strength. One day he would no longer be able to separate his humanity from the instincts of the wolf—forever cursed to abide by the lupine’s predacious, primitive thoughts and desires.
Barath endured Darksky’s penetrating gaze, permitting the white magic adept probe his mind and heart. Poignant, vivid memories ran rampant through Barath, beginning with the day he refused a request to build a temple of Mahnaz on his holding—a denial that provoked the curse that transforms him into a wolf. Darksky relived the battle where Tarn was ensorcelled, his limbs paralyzed while a demon stalked the big youth’s immobilized figure. Barath slew the wizard, freeing Tarn from the wizard’s spell, but in doing so condemned himself to the curse. The scene shifted to a black tower where Barath and Tarn journeyed to face the sorcerers of Mahnaz, and the High ring Lord, Imaran. Barath charged into a smallholding chamber where he slew two temple guards, and rescued Tarn’s sister, from being sacrificed.
Darksky discovered Barath loved Tarn’s sister, a forbidden love he denied himself; deeming it unwise to consummate a union that possessed the potential to produce cursed offspring. When he died his bloodline died with him, but so did the curse. Stronger than Barath's forbidden love existed a puissant bond to Tarn. As oath-brothers they shared hardship and strife, linked by a common cause to defeat the Rings of Mahnaz. After Imaran slaughtered Tarn’s village, and one of Imaran's subordinate wizards cursed Barath, the pair united to exact retribution for those who lacked the ability to do so.
Everything Barath was, and ever would be, was fused to this singular purpose. A purpose that maintained his identity and slowed the inevitable outcome of his sadistic fate—to aimlessly wander the land as an animal, seeking sustenance, and safety from predators. Were it not for Barath’s brotherhood to Tarn, and his vengeance nourished—an all-consuming need to vanquish Wotan’s dark followers—he would have long ago abandoned his tie to humanity. Darksky broke the link.
“Aye, but there’s a danger,” Darksky paused to gather his words. “Due to the nature of your curse, there’s a strong possibility that if you stay in hibernation too long, you will never again assume human form. The longer you sleep, the greater the likelihood of this occurring. I haven’t enough experience to offer an exact number of years, nor can I grant assurances. It could be you will wake up unaffected, and then again—” Darksky held up his hands, letting his voice trail off.
“I understand and accept the risk. In all the land there is nowhere else I belong than at Tarn’s side. To live among your people or in the forest, ill serves my needs. When Pentath cursed me, he exiled me from humanity. It’s fitting that I join Tarn in his sleep, since he, too, lies exiled,” he finished, donning a determined expression.
“Nay, Barath. You’re not exiled. We fought and bled together on the battlefield. You’re welcome to live among us as an honoured clan member. Not a man or woman in all Asgard would gainsay me,” Kieron implored.
Barath closed the distance between them and laid a brotherly hand on Kieron’s shoulder, saying with deep sincerity, “You honour me, my friend, but what role would I fill? What purpose would my life have? Nay, friends, at Tarn’s side will I remain. Fate’s fickle finger united us, indelibly binding us to one another. The same fate now demands that I share his destiny—whether that destiny includes an eternity of blissful sleep or just a few short months until Darksky discovers a remedy.”
“The people of my village shall remember the noble Barath,” Kieron said. “Already the bards sing songs of Tarn and his wolf brother. Likely Tarn would scoff and scowl at the heroics attributed to him, as I have witnessed you do when the little ones plague you to recite your role. Now you gift the bards with additional fodder. When you and Tarn rise there will be many new songs for each of you to deny,” smiled Kieron, tilting his head, acknowledging Barath’s right to live his life the best way he saw fit.
Kieron ordered Tarn transported into the crystal chamber within the heart of the surrounding mountain where two pallets were laid out in readiness for Darksky’s hibernation spell. Barath clasped Kieron’s forearm, offering a silent farewell ere he nodded his head ready to the shaman, and then laid down across from Tarn after studying his oath-brother’s expressionless face with a philosophical gaze.
As Darksky promised, it was a simple spell requiring no great effort to invoke. In moments the chests of the two prone figures ceased to rise and fall, giving the illusion of death, but this was not so; they slept the deep sleep of the ages, immune to the ravages of time. Before Darksky magically sealed the crystal chamber he turned to cast a final, ineffable look upon the two figures, wondering if he would ever speak to either again.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and still Darksky was no closer to unravelling the enigma of uniting Tarn’s bisected spirit. The old shaman neglected his other duties, delegating them to his apprentice so he might scour the land for a cure. Unlike Darksky’s obsessive searching, Kieron adopted a thoughtful view, interspersed with periods of philosophical solitude, smiling wistfully when a new song described his friends’ embellished participation in one escapade or another.
A season slipped by and then another and another. The years melded into a decade. The stalwart headman married and sired three children: two boys and a girl. Due to infirmity, Darksky ceased his wanderings and finished training his apprentice in the arts of white magic—a faithful successor to keep the lore of the Ice Rock clan well remembered. He retired in his golden years to continue his quest for the knowledge to unite Tarn’s shorn soul. The aged shaman passed on to Valhalla to sit among the honoured warrior kin without ever discovering the cure.
Now a grandfather, Kieron spent reminiscent evenings gathered around the central village fire listening to the greatly embellished stories about the battle against Wotan in the land of the eternal ice. The years and decades were good to Kieron, but every now and again he found himself missing his friends and cast long glances upon the crystal chamber entrance. Just as Kalen’s prophecy promised, peace reigned throughout Asgard. The nation prospered. Kieron died at the ripe old age of sixty-six winters, surrounded by his children and many grandchildren.
Time stands still for no man, no matter how courageous his heart or noble his blood. One generation became two, then two slid into three, and still the Ice Rock clan’s shaman failed to find a curative spell to return Tarn to health. Eventually, after many generations, the quest for the elusive knowledge became an intellectual pursuit sought after in spare time, and on rainy days. The stories and tales of the battle at Wotan’s fortress grew and grew until the participants would not have recognized themselves, having been deified with each new telling.
Words and stories are fluid, insofar as the more times they are told, the more they change. Over three centuries later, Tarn and Barath became silent guardians, part-mortal and part-demigod, entombed in the crystal chamber, sleeping until called upon in a time of great need. No longer did the shaman seek to discover the answer to their descendant’s enigma, believing like everyone else that Tarn and Barath watched over Asgard, safeguarding her from all threats.
Gathered around the central village fire on wild autumn nights, bards sang the songs of Tarn and Barath. Small children listened wide-eyed, enthralled by the Atlantean whose mighty sword slew thousands of the hell-spawned, aided by a bear-sized, colossal black wolf that made the ground tremble and shake with each giant footstep. Now and again a young, awe-filled face turned toward the cave’s entrance, and in that turning, was transported by youthful imagination back to the days when the heroes of the crystal chamber rained heroic death upon Wotan’s legions.
