Cold

            Malcolm loved the temple. Its grand image was one of his first memories. Large, intimidating towers watched over the city. Magnificent stained-glass windows, depicting a blue phoenix rising from its ashes, looked upon the citizens like the glowing eyes of a giant. It was a marvelous scarlet edifice, rightfully named the Red Star Temple. The temple could be seen from anywhere in the city. It even outshone the king’s palace, Blackrock Castle, a rather dull monolith made of jet stone. 

As the capital city, Redhaven was often filled with citizens going about their day, but none more so than early in the morning. The temple was so revered that all of the city’s residents would congregate at its steps every morning for the scarlet hour, a dazzling moment when the sun’s first light hit the temple. The sun would bathe the temple in its light and in return, the temple would glow a brilliant blood color, like a giant red star. The citizens would watch in awe and pray to their god during this hour. 

Today, the crowds were packed thick, but all made way for Malcolm. He smiled at the mothers with their children and nodded at the men at their work. When he reached the temple Malcolm took the obsidian steps two at a time. He was eager to see his adopted father. 

Religion was held deeply within the heart of every citizen of Redhaven. It was also held deeply in Malcolm’s heart. He was orphaned as a child and left at the Red Star Temple, where he was raised by the High Priest himself, Saint Jonathan Fireborne. The saint graciously taught him how to worship the Burned God, and Malcolm eagerly learned. Saint Fireborne was like a father to him. So when he sent a message to Malcolm telling him to report to the temple, Malcolm immediately came.

The inside of the temple was just as impressive as the outside. Elaborate tapestries and paintings of the God of Flame setting his enemies ablaze hung from the halls. The god’s righteous flames burned all that stood in his way and those who opposed him screamed in agony. This was Malcolm’s home. 

 His surrogate father was kneeling at the main altar, silently praying. Crimson robes with gold trim pooled around his prone form. Malcolm didn’t want to disturb Jonathan’s prayer, so he respectfully stood aside and waited for him to finish. When he was done, the holy man struggled to rise. It was moments like these that reminded Malcolm of how old Jonathan was. He was sixty 

when he took in Malcolm, but Malcolm was no longer a child. Jonathan was eighty now. Malcolm quickly raced over and took Jonathan’s arm. Once the elder was standing under his own strength, he gently patted Malcolm’s face in gratitude. ‘Thank you, my child. It seems as though I need help with everything nowadays.’ 

Jonathan's voice was weak and hoarse. It pained Malcolm to see him like this. The Jonathan he remembered as a child had a strong, clear voice. He had a head of thick silver hair. He was a strong man who would often lift Malcolm on to his shoulders. Now, his hair was sparse and pale white. His skin was like translucent paper, revealing a spider web of blue veins underneath. His body was fragile and in constant pain. 

‘It is my duty as a knight,’ Malcolm said, trying to hide his discomfort. His rose-colored armor clinked as he fidgeted with his feet. 

‘Yes, I remember the day you became a Knight of Flame,’ the old man said with a nostalgic smile. 

            ‘You blessed me with the holy ashes yourself.’ Malcolm remembered that day fondly.

            ‘Never was a man more deserving of the honor and never a father more proud.’ As Jonathan spoke Malcolm bowed his head at the praise. 

The saint’s smiling face had now adopted a serious look. ‘You’ve been a knight for two years now my son, it is time to prove your worth to the church.’ 

‘What would you have me do, Your Holiness?’ Malcolm asked. 

‘We have recently received disturbing reports of abductions and an unnatural presence settling over the village of Sparkhill. Villagers shiver in their sleep. Their own breath becomes visible at night. My son, I need to tell you that what they are experiencing is cold.’ 

Malcolm gasped. The threat of cold was only ever spoken of in legend. It felt alien and unruly to the mind of a child of Redhaven. 

‘This sensation is often a sign of the Followers of Frost,’ Jonathan continued. ‘Along with this, a total of twelve villagers have gone missing within two months.’ This too was surprising news. The appearance of Followers of Frost was a rare occurrence. They worshipped the Cold One, the sworn enemy of the Burned God. Malcolm had always been told that these heretics wished to bring down the entire country. They wanted to end the Age of Summer and bring the world into an Age of Winter. 

            ‘The rumors also say that they are trying to bring the Son of Winter into the world.’ This shocked Malcolm to his core. The Son of Winter was said to be the herald of the Cold One. The Cold One would lead an army and attempt to create an everlasting winter that would freeze the entire world. The legend also spoke of the Son of Summer, whose identity would be revealed upon the arrival of the Son of Winter. This son was the champion of the Burned God. These two champions would battle for the fate of the world and whoever won this fight would open the way for their respective god to rule. 

            Malcolm had always thought the Son of Winter was a monster, conjured up to scare children, but many people in Redhaven believed that Malcolm was the Son of Summer. Malcolm had secretly hoped that they were right. 

‘You do realize what this could mean if these rumors prove true? Don’t you?’ the saint asked, interrupting Malcolm’s thoughts. 

‘Yes, sir,’ Malcolm quickly answered. 

‘If these fanatics are preparing to welcome the Son of Winter, we must stop it before it begins.’ 

 Malcolm solemnly nodded at his master’s statement. 

‘Kneel, my child.’ He hurriedly followed the saint’s command. 

Saint Fireborne pulled a scroll from the sleeve of his gold and red robe. ‘Sir Malcolm Darkfire, I give you the task of investigating these rumors and abductions in Sparkhill and reporting your findings back to the church.’ The priest’s voice spoke of how important this mission was. It filled Malcolm with pride that he was trusted this much. ‘For this mission, you will speak with the king’s voice and act with the king’s power. Do you accept this task?’ Jonathan asked. 

‘Yes, Your Holiness,’ Malcolm replied, without hesitation. 

            Fireborne gripped Malcolm’s head in his shaking hands. The elder’s pale hand contrasted dramatically with Malcolm’s bronze skin. Malcolm’s entire being was a contrast when it came to his adoptive father- his black eyes with Jonathan’s off-white, half-blind ones. His coal-colored hair with Jonathan’s milk-colored, thin locks. Youth with age. Strong with weak. Master with student. ‘Good luck, my son. May the Burned God guide you.’ The religious man then softly kissed Malcolm’s forehead and handed him the scroll. 

            It took about a week for Malcolm to reach Sparkhill. When he first left Redhaven, Malcolm had been finely dressed, adorned in the lively red, gold, and yellow of the church. He soon noticed that this provided him with far too much attention and he quickly decided to dress down. He stopped at a village about two miles south of Sparkhill and bought brown clothes of wool that were customary for a peasant. When he came to town he was just another poor traveler looking for work. This would make his investigation a lot smoother, for the past five years, the countryside had been full of men and women in hungry mobs looking for employment. 

Sparkhill was a small mining town. Nothing about it stood out. Mediocre houses were randomly scattered around and small farms mundanely decorated the countryside. Sparkhill was nothing compared to the behemoth that was Redhaven. There were only about a hundred or so people living in Sparkhill, while Redhaven had hundreds of thousands. 

 The first thing Malcolm needed to do was gain information on the missing twelve. His feet trudged along the dirt road as he made his way to a farmhouse just outside the town. It was a painfully simple structure made entirely of wood with two small windows at the front. As he got closer, Malcolm watched a small child poke his head out of one of the windows then quickly run off deeper into the house. When Malcolm reached the front door and knocked, he heard voices arguing. Malcolm had his fist raised to knock again when the door opened about halfway. A middle-aged man with brown hair and a grey beard blocked most of the opening with his body. He jumped when he saw Malcolm’s raised fist.

‘What do you want?’ asked the man. Malcolm could hear the suspicion and fear in his voice. He was about to recite the lie he had been preparing during his trip when he was cut off by a shrill voice. 

‘Are you with the church? We told you people last time we got nothing left to give!’

    Malcolm hadn’t even noticed the woman standing a few feet behind the man. She was much older than the man, probably his mother. Her body was trembling but her green eyes stayed focused on Malcolm. In her shaking right hand, she carried a large kitchen knife. With her left, she was holding the boy that Malcolm had seen in the window behind her skirt. Malcolm was a little surprised to see that the boy had a crude wooden club clutched in his small hands. The man turned his head but kept his body toward Malcolm. ‘I told you to keep quiet!’ The man’s hands were hidden behind the door. Malcolm realized he probably carried a weapon of some kind too. These people were obviously expecting trouble but Malcolm wondered why they were worried about the church. He cleared his throat. He didn’t want this to spiral out of control. 

‘I don’t mean to cause any trouble, sir. I just came into town and was hoping if you knew if there was any work going,’ said Malcolm. The man looked conflicted and kept glancing at the sword Malcolm kept on his belt. It was as if he was trying to find the trick in Malcolm’s question. His mother decided to answer for him. 

‘There’s probably some work at the mine since those men disappeared.’ 

The man hissed at his mother without turning to look. Malcolm gave a reassuring smile and thanked them for their help. Before he was even a foot away from the house he heard the door slam and the arguing started again but much louder.

Malcolm spent the better half of a day questioning the other townsfolk in the same way. Not a soul had heard or seen anything strange on the days of the abductions. Farmers, shopkeepers, and miners alike all reported the same thing. Many had assumed that the missing had simply packed up and left for hotter fires without telling anyone. Not even family members of the missing could add more to the story. Each person Malcolm asked acted in the same suspicious and scared way as the first man and his mother. 

Malcolm thought hard about his findings – for twelve people to go missing in such a small town without any clues meant two things, he realized. Firstly, that there must have been multiple kidnappers, possibly an organized group. This did point to the Followers of Frost as the culprits. Secondly, that the abductors were in high positions of power within the town. It would be the only way for the abductors to kidnap and possibly dispose of people without anyone knowing. He learned that the only people in Sparkhill with that kind of power would be the governor, Susan Brightflame, and the captain of the guard, Caleb Redstone. Those two had enough power and influence to do whatever they wanted. The only connection between the people who had been abducted was that seven of the missing twelve had been employees of the local mine. All seven had disappeared during their shift inside the mine. This added the mine’s owner, Rodrick Ashlife, to Malcolm’s list of suspects. One of the townsfolk mentioned an abandoned section of the mine that would be the perfect place for the abductors to stow away their victims. 

Having theories and suspects was all good and well but it meant nothing if he didn’t have any hard evidence. Malcolm knew he would have to find something to link Susan, Caleb, and Rodrick to the abductions and decided that searching the mines would be the best place to start.  With a plan formed, Malcolm waited until night fell and headed down into the mines, a sword at his hip and a torch in his hand. After about a minute of walking, his torch began to flicker and fade. He cursed when the fire was extinguished. No light entered the cave, so Malcolm was plunged into a world of darkness. He thought of Saint Fireborne and his milky white eyes, stumbling blindly around the cathedral. This must be what life was like for his adoptive father, he realized. The thought made Malcolm’s chest ache but he pushed on deeper into the mine all the same. Knights of Flame know not how to retreat. 

After an hour of searching through the dark, Malcolm’s blindness ended when he saw a faint blue light up ahead of him. Following the light, Malcolm finally found what he had been looking for. From a relatively safe hiding spot, he watched as ten figures in total, all wearing powder-blue cloaks trimmed with white that hid their features, stared at a shimmering sapphire light emanating from the hand of one of the group. 

The cloaked figures lowered their hoods and began a chant that echoed throughout the dark cavern. Their chant was musical in nature and filled with desperation. Like someone longing for the embrace of a lover or a lost child calling for its mother. The beauty and sorrow of it all caused tears to well in Malcolm’s eyes. He suddenly had the intense urge to go home and tell Saint Fireborne that he loved him. But he didn’t. He wiped the tears away and bit the inside of his cheek. Malcolm forced himself to stay and watch. 

             The moment the hoods came down Malcolm’s suspicions were confirmed. He could assume, from the descriptions given to him by the villagers, that three of the members were Susan Brightflame, Caleb Redstone, and Rodrick Ashlife. Caleb was a redhead in his thirties. He had a lean face and a hard jaw. Rodrick was much older and bigger than Caleb. A brown-haired man with a touch of grey in his beard and at his temples. He had a second chin that touched his chest. Susan had hair like spun gold and looked to be about the same age as Rodrick. In her hand she held the source of the sapphire light, a glossy, transparent rock with a sharp edge that reminded Malcolm of a shard of glass. This changed the magnitude of the situation. It was clear now that Followers of Frost had established a foothold in the country, and three of its members had risen to the highest positions of power in this village. Sparkhill was small, but who knew how many other towns and villages the Followers had wormed their way inside. They could even be within the walls of Redhaven. 

As he watched, a strange feeling came upon Malcolm. His body began to shiver and his breath came out in white puffs. The small hairs on his arms began to stand on end and his skin pebbled. Malcolm had read books on this bizarre phenomenon. It was the same feeling that the villagers of Sparkhill had reported. Those reports were what started Malcolm on his journey. He was experiencing cold first hand. 

Malcolm focused on the glassy rock. It wasn’t a rock… It was ice! An object he had never seen before, only read about. Was that where the horrid sensation was coming from? This was more than enough evidence. He moved quietly back into the darkness of the mine, away from the blue light and away from the cold. 

When he was outside once more, he raced to the village’s hawk coop. Malcolm wrote down his findings then tied the message to the thin legs of a messenger hawk. The bird swiftly took flight, back to the Red Star Temple.  His mission was done. All Malcolm had to do now was to wait for reinforcements. He should be content. He had succeeded. He had proved himself as a Knight of Flame, but desire gnawed at his being. He wanted more. He always wanted more. He wanted to be the Son of Summer. If he stopped the Followers of Frost now, that would prove that he was the Burned God’s champion. Malcolm could already imagine the look of pride on Saint Fireborne’s face. The way the crowds would cheer his name during his homecoming. It was all so vivid and within his grasp. 

With ambition leading the way, Malcolm went back into the mine. This time he didn’t bother with a torch. What would be the point? He paid no mind to the darkness around him for he knew where he was going and he knew what he would do. 

            Malcolm felt the cold creep in around him before he saw the light. The Followers were still chanting their heartbreaking song but Malcolm felt nothing this time. His heart was awash in fire and no sorrow or beauty could reach it. Malcolm drew his longsword and marched toward the cloaked figures. The weight of the red handle of his sword was familiar in his hands. Before anyone could react Malcolm slashed at one of the figure’s back. The figure’s cloak split like paper as the blood poured from the wound. The Follower turned toward his attacker as he fell and Malcolm saw that it was Ashlife. He screamed for only a moment before he went still. 

While the other nine were staring dumbfounded at their dead comrade, Malcolm turned to his right and attempted to run the next enemy, Redstone, through the chest. The captain of the guard proved to be a better opponent than Ashlife. He was half the portly man’s age and probably three times as fit. Redstone sidestepped the thrust with the instinct of a warrior. He shrugged off the powder blue cloak and revealed the black leather that he wore underneath and the sword at his hip.

Malcolm heard a female voice and assumed it belonged to Susan Brightflame. ‘You three, get the others!’ She barked out the orders with the confidence of someone used to command. 

Three of the Followers ran past Malcolm without complaint. It hurt his pride to let them escape but he couldn’t risk turning his back to Redstone and the others. There was an unnatural silence as no one moved. For a few moments, they just stared at each other. Malcolm gripped his sword with both hands, its tip pointed at the six remaining Followers. Redstone still had his sword sheathed but stood in a ready stance. Every now and then he would spare a glance at Rodrick Ashlife’s body. A pool of blood was spreading underneath the corpse. There was restrained grief in the man’s face. The four guards stood in front of Susan Brightflame. She stood tall and leveled a steady gaze at Malcolm but he noticed the hesitation in her stare. She stepped forward past the guards. 

‘You’re not stupid. One of you. Six of us with more to come. Yield.’ There was a little bit of desperation in her voice but it was eclipsed by the force of the command. Malcolm’s only response was to rush Redstone with the point of his sword. The captain ducked under Malcolm’s swing and he could almost swear that he heard Redstone sigh before he drew his blade. All the others removed their cloaks except Brightflame, who chose to stay cloaked, holding the ice shard. The four guards, two women and men, all wore black leather, similar to Redstone. They unsheathed their swords and began circling Malcolm. He charged at the one to his left and clashed blades. Malcolm was staring into the eyes of a woman with a scar on her nose. He saw another guard try to move in on his right side. Malcolm kicked at the knee of the female guard to his left and felt the bone snap. She collapsed on the ground with a scream. 

Malcolm pivoted to his right, parried the other guard’s swing and shoulder-tackled him. They both hit the ground but Malcolm found his footing first and stabbed the guard in the chest. He jerked violently for a moment before going still. Malcolm looked up and saw Redstone moving towards him with quick steps. Malcolm decided to run at Redstone headlong. The two started trading blows but it wasn’t long before Malcolm realized that Redstone outclassed him by a large margin. Every attack was blocked without effort. But then it dawned on Malcolm that Redstone was actually pushing him back with nothing but parries. When Redstone would force open Malcolm’s defense, one of the other guards would only make small cuts on Malcolm’s arms and legs. It was like they were afraid to cause any real damage. 

 As the fight wore on, Malcolm’s swings became more desperate and haphazard. His cheap peasant clothing ripped easily, the brown wool of his clothes soaking up his blood. The cold made his teeth chatter and he could barely keep his eyes open. 

Malcolm never saw Redstone throw the final punch but he definitely felt it. He hit the stone ground hard and the taste of copper suddenly filled his mouth. His sword clattered on the ground, still within his reach until one of the guards kicked it away. In his daze, Malcolm heard Redstone speak. ‘Pick him up. It’s time to bring an end to this madness.’ 

Two guards each grabbed an arm and dragged Malcolm over to Brightflame. She still held the ice shard in her hand tenderly. 

Held down on his knees before her, Malcolm expected to see hate and disgust strong enough to match his own, but he only saw pity and disappointment. 

Malcolm’s shivering became much worse now that he was so close to the glowing chunk of ice. The left side of his face was beginning to swell. It was difficult but he managed to speak. 

‘Do you plan to kill me like you did the others?’ he asked. 

Brightflame refused to meet his eyes, but the genuine emotion with which she spoke could not be denied. 

‘All those that died did so to bring you here, Darkfire. Even if they didn’t know it, they all died for an honorable cause.’ She made a sweeping motion with her arm toward Ashlife and the dead guard. 

‘And what cause is that?’ Malcolm spat. 

Redstone stepped forward and answered for her. ‘The only cause worth the sacrifice of life. Freedom. Freedom from the church. Freedom from the church’s puppet king. Freedom to control our own lives.’ Redstone spoke without spite. There was only conviction in his voice. 

Brightflame looked to Redstone and for a moment Malcolm was forgotten. ‘It’ll all be worth it in the end.’ Her voice was soft. It was almost as if it was a question. Redstone placed a firm hand on her shoulder and nodded his head. 

To be confronted with failure was something new to Malcolm. Despite the cold, sweat was collecting on his forehead and mixing with the blood. He was afraid to die here alone. He closed his eyes. 

His eyes flew open again at tearing pain in his chest, sharp and unfathomable. He looked down to see that Brightflame had stabbed the ice shard deep into his heart. No blood came from the wound. The once blinding light of the ice began to fade and the world grew darker. Malcolm could feel a terrible sensation run through his body. Before he blacked out he saw tears in Brightflame and Redstone’s eyes. 

When Malcolm came to, he felt horrible. The bloody brown wool of his clothes stuck to his body and itched in a terrible way. The dozens of cuts that had littered his limbs were gone. He noticed that the ice that was stuck in his chest was gone as well. There wasn’t even a wound to prove that it had been there. The only evidence left was the deep pain that persisted in his heart. He felt the rough stone and smelled stale air and knew he was still in the mines. There was nothing around him but the darkness. It took hours of stumbling, but Malcolm eventually made his way outside. 

Large plumes of black smoke filled the air as an inferno devoured Sparkhill. On unsteady feet, Malcolm walked into the burning village. Yellow, red, and orange flames licked at the surrounding buildings and homes, charring them black, yet no matter how close to the flames he got, he could feel no heat. Malcolm saw villagers screaming and crying. He saw them looting and fighting. He saw them carrying burned children away from the fire. He also saw his fellow Knights of Flame setting any untouched structures to the torch and fighting figures in powder-blue cloaks. They must have received his message. If Followers of Frost were found in a town it was customary to burn the town to the ground. 

            Malcolm walked through the fire but was not burned. The only thing he could feel was a familiar sensation that he hated. Anytime a knight or Follower would see Malcolm they would stop and stare. The Followers would drop to their knees and bow before him. The knights would just look at him with mouths agape. Their eyes held nothing but fear edged with hate. Malcolm was confused, these people were his friends and brothers. Then he caught a glimpse of his image in the shattered window of a store. His fragmented reflection revealed a terrible truth. His coal-colored hair was now white, his black eyes were now blue, and his bronze skin was now sickly and pale. Feeling the ground grow slick under his feet he looked down. It was icing over, and quickly. Strong winds blew as white flakes began to fall from the sky. Malcolm identified the flakes as snow. Snow hadn’t been seen in the world for more than four hundred years, and, now that he thought about it, neither had ice. In no time at all, the fires were snuffed out and buildings were encased in snow and ice. The whole town was frozen. All around him Followers of Frost surrounded him chanting their painfully beautiful song. Malcolm recognized Redstone and Brightflame within the melancholy choir, and it was then that he knew it was true. He would never be the Burned One’s champion. 

Malcolm finally figured out the sensation he was feeling. He was… ‘Cold.’ For Malcolm Darkfire was the Son of Winter.

This short story received the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize: Author of Tomorrow Highly Commended by Wilbur and Niso in 9/16/2019