The Frostbane Saga - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

The dawn had barely broken over the horizon when the smoke from the burning pyres began to rise, painting the sky in shades of gray and crimson. The air was thick with the acrid scent of charred flesh, mingled with the sweet aroma of pine. The frost-covered ground, usually pristine in the early morning, was stained with the blood of the fallen, and scattered weapons lay half-buried in the dirt.

Beowulf, the chieftain of the Frostbane clan, stood amidst the devastation, his broad shoulders stooped with the weight of the night’s events. His face was rugged and weathered, marked by countless battles, and his thick black beard and shoulder-length hair swayed in the chilly wind. Clad in Frostbane style clothing made of fur and leather, he looked every bit the warrior, though there was an undeniable heaviness in his eyes today.

He moved slowly, with a grim sense of duty, helping his men lift the bodies of their fallen comrades onto the funeral pyres. Each motion was deliberate, and he muttered a prayer to the gods with every body he touched, speaking words meant to guide their souls to the Hall of Heaven. He showed no distinction between friend or foe; they were all warriors who had given their lives, and they all deserved the honor of a proper farewell.

“Chieftain,” a young warrior called out, his voice tinged with respect and weariness. “The last of the bodies have been gathered.”

Beowulf nodded, not speaking immediately. His gaze lingered on one of the pyres where an older man lay—one of his oldest friends, killed in the defense of their home. It had been a vicious raid, the enemy attacking in the dead of night, taking advantage of the clan's weariness. They had fought them off, but not without a heavy cost.

“Light them,” Beowulf finally said, his voice deep and steady, carrying the weight of a leader who had seen far too many battles. The warrior obeyed, striking a flint and sending sparks into the pyres. Flames began to lick up the sides, crackling and popping as they consumed the bodies, and the scent of burning flesh grew stronger.

Nearby, Eric stood silently, observing the ritual. He was tall, with the build of a seasoned warrior, his face scarred from years of battles fought on behalf of the Frostbane. His blue eyes were sharp, yet there was an unreadable expression as he watched Beowulf, the man who had once killed his father and brother and taken him captive.

As the flames grew higher, Beowulf noticed Eric's presence and beckoned him over. “You fought well last night,” Beowulf said gruffly, not looking directly at him but rather into the flames. “Many of our people owe their lives to you.”

“It was my duty,” Eric replied simply, his voice even, though there was an edge to it. He could never forget that his duty was born from an oath of servitude, one that kept him bound even now.

Beowulf nodded, accepting the response. “It’s a duty none of us wish to bear, yet you carry it with honor.” He glanced at Eric, and for a moment, the air between them grew tense. “The men speak of how you killed their leader, how you fought with the strength of ten warriors.”

Eric stiffened slightly. “It had to be done.”

“Aye, it did,” Beowulf agreed, finally meeting his gaze. “But remember this: the blood we spill, even in defense, stains us all the same. We honor the dead, but we must live with their ghosts.”

The two men stood there, side by side, watching the flames climb higher, consuming the bodies of their fallen comrades. They were not bound by blood, but by oaths, and by a fate neither of them had chosen. And as they stood amidst the smoke and ash, Eric felt the weight of his unspoken vengeance burning as hot as the fire before him.

In the distance, Beowulf’s son, Eadwulf, observed them with narrowed eyes. Where others saw a bond of respect forming between his father and Eric, Eadwulf saw a threat, a rival, a man who had once been a slave now being treated as an equal. It stirred something dark within him—jealousy, resentment, and a yearning to prove himself.

Astrid, Beowulf’s youngest daughter, watched from her place at the edge of the gathering, her heart aching at the sight of Eric’s solemn, scarred face. Her feelings for him were tangled, forbidden, yet undeniable. She turned away before he could catch her gaze, tears stinging her eyes as she whispered a prayer for the fallen and for the man who stood among them, neither truly free nor entirely bound.

As the day drew on and the last of the pyres burned out, Beowulf raised his voice to address his people. “We have suffered loss, but we stand victorious. Our enemies sought to break us, but they have only made us stronger. We will rebuild. We will heal. And we will not forget the sacrifices made this night.”

The clan responded with a cheer, though it was subdued, weighed down by grief and exhaustion. As they began to disperse, returning to their homes to rest and tend to their wounds, Eric lingered a moment longer, staring into the embers.

Beowulf clapped a hand on his shoulder, offering a rare, small smile. “Come, Eric. There’s more work to be done. We’ve buildings to repair.”

The Misty Plains stretched as far as the eye could see, an expanse of rolling hills, dense forests, and winding rivers that served as both home and battlefield to countless clans. It was a land as beautiful as it was brutal, a place where bloodshed was as common as the morning dew and where warriors grew up with swords in their hands before they could even walk. Here, might was right, and strength was the only currency that mattered.

Almost a hundred clans lived within this vast territory—some mighty and renowned, others small and struggling for survival. They ranged from formidable war bands numbering in the hundreds to tiny groups no larger than a single extended family. Despite their differences, all were bound by one truth: in the Misty Plains, no clan could afford to be complacent. Every piece of land, every harvest, and every woman was a prize to be fought for, and the line between friend and foe was as thin as a blade's edge.

Alliances were common, but they were always temporary. One day a clan could be your ally, sharing meat and mead over a roaring fire; the next day, they might be raiding your village, slaughtering your kin, and taking your women and cattle as spoils of war. Treaties were nothing more than words etched into the wind, promises made and broken with ease as soon as one side saw an opportunity for gain.

Yet, amidst this chaos and constant warfare, there existed one unbreakable bond—the oath sworn by Deana,the Goddess of Harvest. The tales of this sacred pact had been passed down through generations, whispered around campfires and spoken with reverence by the elders of every clan. It was said that the Deana watched over the fields and forests, ensuring that the harvest was bountiful and the land fertile. Her blessings were vital, for without them, even the strongest warriors could not feed their people, and a starving clan was a defeated one.

When an oath was made in her name, it was no ordinary promise. The Goddess would bear witness, and to break such a vow was to invite a curse upon one's bloodline. Not just upon the oathbreaker, but upon their ancestors and descendants, both past and future. It was said that those who violated an oath made by the the name of Deana would be forever barred from the Hall of Heaven, their souls doomed to wander the misty plains as restless spirits, denied the peace of an honorable death. Their ancestors would be dragged from their places of honor, their names tarnished, and their descendants would be born with a shadow over their heads, forever marked by the sins of their forebears.

This curse was feared above all else, for the clans of the Misty Plains lived for the promise of glory in the afterlife, a place at the great feasting table where warriors drank and sang for eternity. To be denied that was a fate worse than death itself. As a result, no one swore an oath lightly in the name of the Goddess. Even in the direst of times, when clans sought alliances against common enemies, they would never invoke her name. For they knew that in the Misty Plains, alliances were destined to crumble, and every clan dreamed of standing above all others, their banners fluttering in the wind, drenched in the blood of their rivals.

This way of life had created a culture of fierce independence and relentless ambition. Even the smallest of clans held dreams of greatness, and every victory, no matter how small, was a step toward realizing that dream. The strong devoured the weak, and only those who fought hardest survived. It was this harsh, unyielding reality that had shaped men like Beowulf, who understood that strength was not merely the power to crush one's enemies but the ability to endure, adapt, and grow.

As the leader of the Frostbane clan, Beowulf had lived his entire life following the ways of the Misty Plains. He had fought and bled for every inch of territory his clan held, and he had made and broken more alliances than he could count. Yet, deep within his heart, he felt the stirrings of something different—an understanding that there had to be more than this endless cycle of bloodshed. He had begun to question if the path they walked, one paved with bones and soaked in blood, was truly the way to honor the Goddess and the ancestor

Frostbane clan members gathered in a wide circle around the prisoners, their faces etched with a mixture of exhaustion and grim determination. The air was still heavy with the scent of smoke from the burning pyres, and the wind carried with it the lingering cries of battle that had filled the night. This was the price of survival in the Misty Plains, where life and death were decided in the blink of an eye, and even the strongest warriors were reminded of their mortality.

Beowulf stood at the center of the circle, his eyes cold and hard as he surveyed the captives from the Warhorn clan. His thick black beard and shoulder-length hair fluttered slightly in the wind, and his presence commanded the attention of every man, woman, and child present. His hands still bore the dried blood of his enemies, a reminder of the violent struggle that had taken place mere hours ago. He glanced over at his son, Eadwulf, who stood beside him with a nervous energy, clutching a small slate on which he had recorded the number of fallen and captured.

"Eadwulf," Beowulf said, his voice deep and steady, "tell me again how many fell last night."

"One hundred and eight dead from the Warhorns," Eadwulf replied, his eyes flickering to the prisoners before looking back at his father. "Eighty of our own, and sixteen were captured. Fourteen men, two boys."

Beowulf nodded, his gaze returning to the captured Warhorns. He felt the sting of every loss, but he knew that such was the way of life on the Misty Plains. Each death was a name that would echo in the halls of memory, a sacrifice that would be honored in song and story. But the living demanded his attention now, and he would not let sentimentality cloud his judgment.

He raised his arm, and the gathered clan fell silent, waiting for his words. "We stand here today as warriors of the Frostbane, but also as those who know the burden of loss," he began, his voice carrying over the crowd. "We fight for our kin, our land, and our honor, but in doing so, we take from others what they hold dear. This is the way of the Misty Plains. But today, I offer you a choice. To those who have been captured, you have but two paths before you."

He turned to face the prisoners, his eyes sharp and piercing. "Swear an oath of servitude in the name of Deana the Goddess of Harvest, and you shall live. You will be fed, clothed, as long as you honor your vow. But should you refuse... you will meet your end here, under the same sky that watched over your kin as they fell."

There was a murmur among the prisoners, the defiant glances they shared with one another suggesting that even now, their spirit had not been entirely broken. They had fought for their clan, their families, and the memory of their ancestors. To swear an oath of servitude was to surrender not just their freedom but their very identity—a fate that many considered worse than death.

One of the older Warhorns stepped forward, his face etched with scars and his body still bearing the fresh wounds from last night’s battle. He stood tall, despite his chains, and met Beowulf’s gaze with a steely resolve. "I would sooner die than serve the man who butchered my kin," he spat, his words dripping with venom. "May the Goddess curse you and your descendants for what you've done."

Beowulf did not flinch. He had expected this defiance, this hatred. "Then you have chosen your path," he replied solemnly, and with a swift motion, one of his warriors drove a blade through the man's heart. The Warhorn fell to the ground without a sound, his blood soaking into the earth.

One by one, Beowulf moved down the line, offering each of the Warhorns the same choice. Some cursed him, others wept, and a few stared blankly ahead, already resigned to their fate. Their bodies soon joined the fallen on the pyre, another sacrifice to the endless cycle of blood and vengeance that defined the Misty Plains.

Finally, only four prisoners remained—three men and one boy. Each of them had tears in their eyes, their bodies trembling with fear and exhaustion. And yet, they lowered themselves to their knees and swore the oath, their voices barely more than whispers, carried on the wind. "By Deana the Goddess of Harvest, I swear to serve the Frostbane until my dying breath."

The words, though spoken softly, carried the weight of an unbreakable bond, and the clan members murmured in approval. Even among enemies, the sanctity of an oath to the Goddess could not be denied. They were no longer Warhorns but slaves of the Frostbane, bound by a vow that would be etched into the tapestry of their souls.

As the ceremony concluded, Beowulf turned his gaze to the edge of the crowd, where he spotted Eric watching from a distance. The young man stood apart from the others, his eyes locked on the captives with an intensity that suggested he understood their pain all too well. Beowulf approached him, his heavy footsteps crunching on the frost-covered grass, and placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder.

“You watched them swear the oath,” Beowulf said, his voice softer now. “You know what it means.”

Eric nodded, though he did not meet Beowulf’s gaze. "It is a choice between living and dying," he replied, his voice steady. "But to live as a slave... sometimes that is a fate worse than death."

Beowulf studied the young man, noting the flicker of emotion that crossed his face—the hint of resentment, of anger, and something else, something deeper. He had seen that look many times before, in the eyes of men who had lost everything. It was a look that spoke of a wound that had not yet healed, one that festered and threatened to consume the soul.

“It is true,” Beowulf admitted. “But it is also an opportunity. In time, they may find a place among us, just as you have.”

Eric’s jaw tightened, and he finally met Beowulf’s eyes, his gaze unwavering. “I am not one of you,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a bitterness that he could not hide. “I am a slave. Nothing more.”

Beowulf nodded slowly, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said. “But remember this, Eric—chains are not always made of iron. And freedom is not always granted by the breaking of them.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Eric alone with his thoughts, the echo of the oath still lingering in the air.

Eric stood near the back, his heart pounding in his chest, memories of the battle surged through him—the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, and the moment he had taken the life of the Warhorn chieftain. He could still feel the warmth of the man’s blood on his hands, could still see the fear that had flickered in the eyes of his enemies as their leader fell. Now, his body was tense with apprehension as he stood under the scrutinizing gaze of the clan.

Beowulf raised his hand, and the murmurs of the crowd fell silent. “Last night,” he began, his deep voice carrying over the assembly, “we faced our enemies as we always have—with steel, with fire, and with unyielding hearts. The Warhorns came in the darkness, hoping to burn us out, to break our spirits, and to take what is ours. But they failed. And they failed because of one man.”

He paused, allowing the tension to build before turning to Eric. “Step forward, Eric Greymane.”

At the sound of his true name, Eric felt a shiver run down his spine. It had been years since anyone had called him by that name—his clan name, the name that tied him to the family he had lost. He stepped forward, the crowd parting to let him pass, until he stood in the center of the circle, facing Beowulf.

“This man,” Beowulf continued, “was once a member of the Greymane clan. He fought against us as a boy, and when his clan was defeated, he was captured. He swore an oath of servitude to the Goddess of Harvest, binding himself to our service. And for years, he has fought alongside us, shed blood alongside us, and proven himself to be a warrior of great strength and courage.”

The Frostbane clan members whispered among themselves, the realization of Eric’s true identity is not new to them. They had known him as a slave, as a warrior bound to them by an oath.

Beowulf took a step closer to Eric, his gaze unwavering. “Last night, when the tide of battle turned against us, it was Eric Greymane who struck down the Warhorn chieftain. It was he who shattered their resolve, who turned their warriors back and saved many of our own from death. In doing so, he has proven himself worthy of more than the chains that have bound him.”

A hush fell over the crowd, and Beowulf’s voice grew softer but no less commanding. “Eric Greymane, I stand before you now to do something that is rarely done in these lands. I free you from your oath of servitude. From this day forward, you are no longer a slave. You are a free man, and you may once again bear the name of your clan with pride.”

The weight of Beowulf’s words struck Eric like a physical blow, and for a moment, he could only stare at the chieftain in disbelief. Freedom. It was a word he had not allowed himself to dream of, a hope he had buried deep within himself. And now, it was being handed to him by the very man who had killed his father and brother, who had taken everything from him.

Eric fell to one knee, his voice thick with emotion. “You honor me, Chief Beowulf,” he said, barely able to keep his voice steady. “I… I do not have the words.”

Beowulf extended his hand, helping Eric to his feet. “There is no need for words. You have earned this freedom with blood and steel, and I would be a lesser man to deny you your due.” He turned to address the crowd. “Let it be known that from this day forth, Eric Greymane is no longer bound to us. He is a member of the Frostbane, and he may walk among us as an equal.”

The clan members erupted in cheers, some shouting Eric’s name, others clapping him on the back in congratulations. Yet, not all eyes were filled with joy. Eadwulf, Beowulf’s son, stood off to the side, his expression dark with resentment. His eyes burned with jealousy, for he had always been overshadowed by Eric’s martial prowess, always reminded of his own shortcomings as a warrior. This act of liberation only deepened the wound in his pride.

Eric could feel the weight of Eadwulf's gaze, but he pushed it from his mind. This was his moment, a moment that belonged to him and no one else. As the cheers of the clan filled the air, Eric felt a sense of belonging that he had not known in years. He was no longer a nameless slave, no longer a forgotten warrior. He was Eric Greymane once more.

But even as the warmth of acceptance washed over him, a flicker of doubt remained in his heart. Beowulf had freed him, but that did not erase the blood that had been spilled, the lives that had been taken. His father and brother’s faces still haunted his dreams, and the desire for vengeance still burned in his soul.

For now, he would stand among the Frostbane, would bear their colors and fight by their side. But in his heart, he was still a Greymane, and that name carried with it a weight that would not be easily lifted. He would find a way to honor both the past and the future, even if it meant walking a path that few would understand.

And as he stood before the cheering crowd, Eric felt a surge of resolve. He was no longer a slave, but his journey was far from over.