Freezing rain showers down from the blackened sky, turning to brittle ice wherever it lands.  Everything—the trees, the ground, Guiromélans’s clothes—is covered with a thick coat of hoar.  All around, branches groan and snap beneath the weight.

As Guiromélans walks through the wasteland, his footfalls cracking the ice are only sounds he makes.  His companion walks in stealthy silence, seemingly oblivious to the weather and the sights around them.  Neither has spoken for a long time.  The therm appears lost deep in thought, and Guiromélans cannot bring himself to break the stillness.

“You are strong again, suras,” Putras observes at last, inhaling deeply.  “The genton have taken good care of you.”

Surprised, Guiromélans ponders the comment.  He flexes his hand and then instinctively touches his throat and chest.  The new skin and muscle are flexible and strong, unlike the healing Baldruus had offered.  Aside from the scarring, one would never know he was near death from the ghuls’ attack.  “Yes, their sorceress is powerful.”

“Perhaps we can pursue the turm together.  It would be good to join you in the raskus.”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “Perhaps, but not here…”  Guiromélans looks around at the savaged terrain, almost as if for the first time.  “What happened here?” he wonders.

The therm hardly glances at the stripped, barren trees.  Scrub, rising nearly to a man’s waist, is all that grows now; though with the coming frosts, they too will die.  The wreckage around them only hints at its former splendor.  It will be tens of decades before this forest is restored.

“Walking meat, genton,” Putras answers.  “Traveling food for countless davas.  They come and rape the land.  It is left thus.  Knisas.”

“Walking meat?” Guiromélans wonders.  He is startled when Putras suddenly responds with a trumpet that is amazingly similar to an Ulbandi war elephant’s.  It is likely this therm has never seen such a beast—they are certainly creatures of warmer climates—but now he understands.  “Ah.  Mammoths.  Mastodons.”

“The tusked ones, yes.  And the horned ones.  And the antlered ones.  And others.  They come from the south when the days become short and cold, in numbers that shake the earth.  Zå cries out, and the therm answer.  The turm burns in our blood, and we follow our ala.  We kill all we find.  We kill and kill and kill.  We eat their flesh until we are fat and want to sleep the winter slumber like the wood grandfathers.  We bury the rest to appease Zburul that She may restore the knisas once more upon their passing.  We do what we can, as is our atu, but there are always too many.  Every year, there are more.  More and more,” Putras sighs as he looks around.  “The walking meat eat until they starve.  Come zilmas, their corpses litter the land, and then Desa comes.  She dances Her tranas, and many more die.  Therm die.  Men die.  Evil springs from the soil.”

Guiromélans pulls at a branch.  The wood, long ago stripped of its bark and made brittle by countless freezes, snaps and crumbles in his hand.  “Too many animals?  How can that be?”

“With the passing of the Great Ones, only the therm are left to pursue the turm.”

Guiromélans stops.  “Great Ones?”

Putras looks reverentially into the sky.  “They that flew upon great wings and breathed the fire of the gods.  Zum.”

“Dragons?”

Putras is silent.

“But they’ve been gone for centuries!”

“And so the raskus has been broken, and there is none to dance with the prey except the therm.”

“Surely there are others?”

Putras sighs.  “There are others, yes—the pack brothers great and small, the bladed ones, the wood grandfathers, others—but they have their own atu.  They are still close to Zå.  They feel Her agony but do not understand it.”

“They are dumb animals,” Guiromélans paraphrases, “and they cannot kill more than they need.”

“A skilas point-of-view, genton, but essentially true.”

“I am sorry.  Forgive my ignorant words.”  Guiromélans shakes his head and throws the scraps of wood away.  Putras’s golden eyes follow the pieces until they settle among the shrubs and then slowly turn back to the Raven.

“You surprise me, genton.”

Guiromélans glances back at the therm.  “Surprise you?”

“You have changed much, suras.”

Guiromélans frowns, “Changed?  Hardly!  You’ve not known me long enough to say such a thing!”

Putras’s upper arms wave strange patterns in the air.  “You forget.  We have spoken many times before.”

“Before?”

“As you slept, as you bled, and your genton left in search of the turm, you and I spoke.  We spoke of many things.”

“You mean in the stead?”

“Yes.”

“As I was healing?  And under Baldruus’s spell?  In my illness?”

“Yes.”

“You say we spoke?  I spoke?  In my sleep?”

“We spoke of many things, genton.  I know much about you.  Of your shame.  I know you seek to change your atu.  I know you struggle against the flow of the ala, to deny the path your God has set for you.  I know you have brought shame upon yourself in the eyes of your own zalmos.  And I know you did this only in the hopes of bringing ever greater glory upon them.”

Guiromélans stares at the therm, his mouth left open in surprise.  “It seems,” he murmurs at last, “that perhaps I know my heart better in sleep than I do when awake.”

“Perhaps.  Such it is with many things.  It is by this that I know you have changed.”

“And how so?”

“Would the Guiromélans of old accept a therm as vair-us?”

“I… I don’t know,” Guiromélans admits, “Perhaps not.”

“And would the Guiromélans of old seek council from a therm?”

Guiromélans looks at Putras in surprise.  “Council?  What—”

“I am evil, yes genton?  I am demon in the eyes of your God, yes genton?  Have you even thought of raising your pitye to test the resolve of my saut?  Have you sought to judge me?”

Guiromélans is stunned, and his hand rises to his breast where the Median rests.  Putras is correct.  It had never occurred to him to check this creature’s standing in the Eyes of God.

“Thus far,” the therm says, suddenly changing the subject, “we have spoken of things you can learn easily from the genton.  What is your true purpose of calling me here?  What is it you would ask of me that you would leave the safety of your genton’s poltyn and travel alone into these forests?”

Guiromélans eyes the therm carefully.  As always, its body is relaxed yet somehow poised, as if always ready to spring or attack.  Its feral, predatory face is impassive, but those eyes pierce straight through him.  Now he knows how the mouse feels as the viper prepares to strike, yet somehow, he knows he is safe with this creature.

Safe enough to ask the next question?

Guiromélans breathes deeply and speaks at last, “The karls of the stead tell me the udyronde are hunting men now.”

Those golden eyes flash.  Putras is silent for a long time before speaking.  “I expected such.  The genton speak like the pack brothers.  They bark and bark and only grow silent when it is time to kill.  I am saddened that they would drag you into their… conflicts.”

Guiromélans straightens, fear and adrenaline tightening around his heart.  “I am a Raven, Putras!  I am the defender of the people!  Their conflict is mine… if it must be that way.”

“An unfortunate choice of words,” Putras growls.  “Forgive my ignorant words.  Consider them ‘affairs’ rather than ‘conflicts’ if you wish.”

“So you say the therm are in conflict with the humans?”

“If the therm hunted the squealing long pig, there would be none left, eh genton?”

“Don’t say foolishness,” Guiromélans snaps, “Just answer the question!  Are your people attacking humans?  Those corpses where we found you, at the stead, they were slain by claw and tooth.  Yours?”

The therm begins to circle restlessly, as if something deep within is causing it distress.  Even as Guiromélans’s blood races, the therm likewise becomes excited.  “In the raskus,” it hisses, “there are many zenésturm.  They feed upon each other as they spin in the wake of ala.  Blood is shed, blood is drunk.  Our pelts are pras in it, anointed with its death, and both our tribes are diminished.”

“What does that mean?” Guiromélans demands.  His hand fingers the hilt of his saber  “Are you killing men or not?  Are we friends or enemies, Putras?”

“If you think we run the raskus with man, then draw your skalme and pursue it with me!  Step to the brink and embrace me!”

“Is that yes?  Do you admit to the murder of men?  Men are dieing, Putras!  Is it by your peoples’ hands?”

“We hunt.  We defend ourselves.  Know this, genton, you and I are vair-us—and no harm will ever come to you by me—but other therm will dance the raskus with you.  These forests are not safe for genton or therm!”

“Then it is war,” Guiromélans sighs solemnly.

“Such is the atu your eyes tell you, genton.  Does your heart also tell you so?  If so, it is not my atu to argue.”

“Now you say my heart and eyes lie?” Guiromélans shouts in surprise.  “What then is the truth?  Enlighten me!”

Putras shakes his head, but his eyes shine in true rage.  “The truth is hidden to my eyes as well, genton.  I tell you all I know.  Men are dieing.  Therm are dieing.  Since the last zilmas, two score of my zalmos have been slain by the genton.  Our blood burns with their atu, and their loss will be repaid.”

 

When Guiromélans emerges from the ice-heavy forest, the bönder sentries of Hardanger shout their surprise.  Even before he is halfway to the garthr walls, the main gate opens for him.  Within, nearly every böndi, herr, and thrall stands to greet him.

Guiromélans endures the embraces, the clutches, and the back pounding as he pushes through the crowd, though he suspects some are harder than necessary.  Of this, he takes note.  Söderkarl are not known for their subtlety.  Many objected to his journey into those woods alone.  Whatever happens now between man and therm, he will be a likely target for blame.

“He emerges!” Orkning bellows good-naturedly, “Like the Prophet Kahedin, he emerges untouched from the lair of the Beast!”

Guiromélans stares up at the huge chamarling as he looms forward.  Orkning is a giant even among the Söderkarl.  “It is but a forest, good Orkning, nothing more.  Hardly the pit Kahedin had to endure.”

The huskarl eyes the trees beyond his walls and doesn’t look away until the gates are closed.  “Nej,” he rumbles, “but these forests are far from safe, at least for now.”

Guiromélans frowns, “You know, you’re the second person to tell me that today!”

“Then it was a wise man!” Orkning laughs, “And you would be wise to heed him!”

Guiromélans smiles, “Man, indeed.”

He catches the eye of Baldruus as the Mynyddi steps out of the longhouse and waves to him.  “Good, Orkning,” Guiromélans says, taking the Söderkarl’s forearm and leading him towards the approaching sorcerer, “This war with the udyronde.  There are some matters that concern me.”

“Only some?” the chamarling sputters angrily, pulling himself away, “You’re an ordained Raven, ridder, and for as long as we pay the hersir’s scatt, you’d better make it your affair!  With the Thane gone missing, we’ll need battle lords such as you to resist the udyronde!”

“No, no,” Guiromélans assures, “My sword and my skills are yours, as I promised—a fair trade for the healing your häxa leant to me—but this war, this war against the udyronde…”

“What of it?” Orkning asks, his eyes narrowing.

Guiromélans’s eyes glance up to the grim Söderkarl warriors standing guard at the walls and gate.  Wearing heavy Synesi sagum to ward off the chill, they are ever vigilant, ever ready.  He struggles to piece together the proper words—there was something about Putras, something beyond the obvious, that worried him—Guiromélans has deep reservations about this conflict but is unsure on how to broach the subject.  He is grateful when Baldruus finally pushes through the crowd and interrupts them.

“Uspak bless you, good Orkning,” the sorcerer bows to the chamarling.

“And you,” the huskarl answers, “May you light many fires.”

Baldruus turns to Guiromélans and lowers his voice.  “And did you learn what you wanted,” he asks in Palpi, “oh, mysterious missionary?”

“Hardly,” Guiromélans sighs.  “Except there is more to this war than these Söderkarl can see.  I must learn more before I can take action.”

Baldruus shrugs and rolls his eyes.  “Caidryn is in a state,” he hisses, “And Balen has taken off.  Probably to look for you… again.”

“I told you to keep an eye on him!” Guiromélans answers with alarm.

“Yes, I did!  But the little street rat’s quick as shit, he is!  As soon as he heard you were gone—”

Guiromélans moans, “We can only hope he is still in the compound.  Perhaps word of my return has reached him already…”

“You know,” Baldruus warns quietly, “These secret escapades of yours, this slipping out of the stead, especially in those udyronde-infested woods, I would recommend against them.  If these elfajzotts ever caught wind you were leaving to meet with the enemy, that’ll be the end of you.”

Guiromélans gives an alarmed glance up at chamarling.  The big Söderkarl merely listens politely, though he doesn’t seem to understand a word.  “I would recommend,” Guiromélans answers conversationally, though there is steel in his eyes, “that you guard your tongue as well.”

“They don’t speak a word of Palpin,” Baldruus says dismissively.

“They understand more than you think!  Guard your tongue.  Speak wisely.”

“Talk sense or be silent,” Baldruus laughingly intones in Söderkarl.

Orkning’s bushy eyebrows rise in recognition.  “Jâ, wise words,” he rumbles, “It would do you degkarls well to remember the words of Saint Ragnvald.”  His eyes focus on Guiromélans, “Something now troubles you, jâ?”

With a warning glance at Baldruus, Guiromélans switches to Söderkarl and answers, “Jâ.  It seems our boy, Balen, has gone missing.  We fear he may have made his way outside the walls.”

Orkning laughs and slaps Guiromélans on the back.  “The stead of Thane Bolwerk is a big place, my friend, with many places for a dreng to hide!  We shall find him and return him to his wet nurse.”

Baldruus suppresses a laugh, and Guiromélans nearly smiles as well.  Caidryn has had enough difficulties dealing with these towering, boisterous half-barbarians.  The last thing she needs is to be called a wet nurse.

Most of the crowd has already filtered into the inviting warmth of the longhouse.  Each Söderkarl lights a small fire from the tapirs left at the door and carries the flame across the threshold.  Fire, light, and warmth are more than just comforts to these people.  Great pyres burn in braziers at the top of every roof and tower.  The rainy night glows with their light and heat.  They are testimonials to the Söderkarl’s defiance of the icy nature of their lands.

Orkning takes Guiromélans and Baldruus by their shoulders and squeezes painfully.  Ice already covers his head and shoulders, collecting in his thick beard and moustache.  His eyes and teeth shine through the frost like some predatory snow beast’s.  “Come!  It grows nej warmer out here, nej matter how much breath we waste talking!  We go inside, we bring our light, we drink and eat!  We make merry, for tomorrow the Ice may come!  And you shall tell us of your meditations and prayers in those woods!”

 

Guiromélans steps through the doorway, carefully shielding his fragile flame from the gust of hot air that greets him.  The heat inside the longhouse is always surprising.  The impact of the noise and smell strikes mere moments later.  Waving away a fawning thrall, he adds his flame to the pyre pit at the door and shrugs off his ice-shrouded cloak.  More thralls gather around him, dressing him in fresh clothes of wadmal and wool.

He is no connoisseur of Söderkarl of architecture, but the longhouse of Thane Bolwerk is a fine place indeed, even if a little crude.  Built with what he supposes is the best Ledus County could offer, its design hearkens back to the days of the Thunderer barbarians.  The main hall is a tribute to the great longhouses of earlier times, the doors to its adjacent rooms hidden so as not to spoil the illusion.  Ornamental shutbeds are tucked into alcoves along each wall.  Sputtering gas lamps burn along the walls—countless candles dance in silver branches—but the majority of the light comes from the great pyre pits burning in the floor, their flames reaching for the rafters.  Heat radiates from the flagstones, and almost immediately, Guiromélans breaks out in a mild sweat.

Karls and karlines frolic and dance to the skalds’ music, stripped down to the barest minimum that Medianist propriety permits.  Hydromel and øl are drunk in quantities only the Muttese could match, and bönder and thrall women, their noses grotesquely severed from their faces, mill through the crowd, tending to the freemen’s needs.

Despite the festive spirit in the air, however, tension beats just below the surface.  Guiromélans knows, for everyone here, all these festivities are is little more than a wake.  Their thane is lost, and his body is yet to be found.

Among these people, every karl is heavily armed, and every man’s movement is measured.  Careless glances turn to shouting, pushing matches before Guiromélans can even blink.  It is only through the interference of others that blades are not drawn.  Seconds later, the two combatants are drinking and embracing like old friends, which was what they probably were to begin with.  Such is the nature of the Söderkarl.

The walls of the hall are covered with leather richly decorated with gilt designs.  Guiromélans is hardly surprised to see again that the artists’ talents were wasted with still more images of obscene Fée and other demons, and he pointedly ignores the carved alfs leering at him from the woodwork on all sides.  As many Thunderer runes decorate the room as Seven Kingdoms Medians.  In the ceiling and along the walls, great chimneys of marble roar as they suck the smoke and thickened air from the palace.  The glass panes in the window frames sweat from the humidity of so much human contact.

The hall is well outfitted.  Before his death over a year ago, Thane Bolwerk appears to have been a ruler of great distinction.  Brackish bwyell, Synesi dolâbra, EroBernac firearms, and countless other weapons decorate every wall.

“They claim to mourn for the loss of their thane,” Baldruus murmurs in Guiromélans’s ear, as he watches the orgy of dance and drink, “but I don’t see it.”

“These are a people at war,” Guiromélans answers back in Palpin, “Ever at war with their neighbors, ever struggling with those above them or resisting those below.  And now they wage war with the udyronde.”

“I hear war is a celebration to them, and pain is the same as pleasure.”

“They are barbarians, barely trained in the ways of God.”  Guiromélans looks at Baldruus and smiles, “Run one of them through, and we’ll see how much laughter we hear.”

A commotion nearby attracts their attention.  From where he is standing, he can see Orkning shouting at a cluster of bönder and thralls.  Though the music is too loud to hear his words, he assumes he is instructing them to seek out the boy.  With a final bark that reaches even the Raven’s ears, Orkning shoves them away.

The chamarling espies Guiromélans and approaches, arms outstretched.  “It is done, sea-king!  Many of our bönder have seen that boy of yours recently.  He’s still in the stead for sure!  We’ll find him!  Don’t you worry none!”

“The storm is getting worse,” Guiromélans answers, nodding towards the door, “And it is very cold out there.  The sooner we find him, the better.”

“It is nej longer of your concern,” Orkning says good-naturedly but with an edge to his voice, “You are in our longhouse now.  You are to rest now.  Drink!  Drink before it spills from your veins!”

Another quote from Saint Ragnvald.  Guiromélans looks at Baldruus and whispers in Palpi, “He means well, but I think we should go and help, yes?”

“No!” Baldruus answers quickly.  “It would be an insult.  We must trust them to do as they say.  It is difficult, I know, but we must try to enjoy ourselves at their party while we wait.  Truly, Balen is in good hands.”

“You speak in your little children’s tongue,” Orkning bellows happily as he embraces the two men.  “What is it you speak that is not for our ears?  What plots could you be hatching?”

Guiromélans extricates himself from the grip with an ease that the chamarling finds disconcerting.  Baldruus merely moans with the effort of breathing.  “I merely had a question about customs, and my friend was instructing me,” Guiromélans answers.  “We meant no offense.  We are merely concerned about Balen.”

Orkning’s face creases in genuine puzzlement, “Now, why are you worrying so much—”

He is interrupted by the shriek of a storm-quean:  “Yä fuckin’ dubi-gnatos bastard!”

Only the fleetest of instincts warn Guiromélans that these words reached his ears as Palpi and not Söderkarl.  He ducks and turns.  Caidryn’s swing would have broken his jaw, had it connected.  Instead, it sends her pin wheeling past him and tumbling into the arms of the chamarling.

“What is this?” Guiromélans asks in surprise.

“Yä takes off like yä pleases, uh?” she screams at him, struggling against the grip of the suddenly interested huskarl.  “Yä leaves intä those forests, with those dusios, not carin’ what we’re thinkin’, what we’re goin’ tä do if yä dies, uh?”

“Caidryn,” Guiromélans tries to reason, “I assure you—”

“He followed yä!” she shrieks as if her heart is breaking, “He followed yä!  How could yä not know he’d do that?”

Caidryn’s shouting is attracting a small crowd, and Orkning seems to enjoy her struggles.  “She spits like a serpent and fights like a shield-may!” he exclaims happily.  “She is strong but willful.”  He looks from Guiromélans and Baldruus, “Which of you does she belong to again?”

Guiromélans clears his throat.  “She is mine,” Baldruus answers defensively.

“What’re yä sayin?” she screams, wild-eyed and enraged, “What’re yä talkin’ about me, uh?”

Orkning rolls his eyes and, tiring of Caidryn’s display, tosses her into the arms of another karl.  “The fierceness of men rules the fate of women,” he advises.  “It shout not be the other way around!”

Baldruus almost laughs as he watches Caidryn passed from Söderkarl to Söderkarl.  “It is a good thing,” he warns, “that she doesn’t understand you.”

At the sound of Baldruus’s tone, Caidryn instantly tires of being manhandled.  The next time she is passed off, she reaches out and grabs.  The unfortunate Söderkarl gasps, and Guiromélans winces.  The Brackish girl can wield a spatha easily.  He knows what kind of grip she has.

The herr around them explode in laughter as Caidryn’s grip tightens, but she lets go only when Baldruus gently puts his hands on her shoulders and whispers into her ear.  The stricken karl slowly sinks to his knees.

“That’s good!” Orkning bellows with laughter, “That’s good!  She is strong!  Very good!”

The chamarling approaches and tries to embrace Caidryn, but she angrily shoves him away.  Orkning frowns, looking to Guiromélans and Baldruus for an explanation.  Guiromélans merely shakes his head.  “She doesn’t understand your ways, good huskarl,” he says quietly.  “Go on and enjoy yourselves.  We will speak with her and join you later.”

The chamarling shrugs and nods, “The sorrowful woman endures countless agonies.  Tend to your karline and extend to her our apologies.  We meant nej harm and will offend her nej longer.”

As Orkning and the others lead the limping karl away for further teasing, Baldruus brings Caidryn back to Guiromélans.  He can see she is trembling, her face flickering between terror, rage, and pride.

Caidryn glares at Guiromélans, and her eye twitches.  In the heat of the room, her face shines with sweat, and her hair plays nicely across her shoulders, clinging in places to her skin.  Guiromélans steps back and frowns, surprised by these observations.

“I am told the servants here have seen Balen relatively recently,” Guiromélans says before she can erupt again.  “He didn’t get beyond the walls.  They will find him and bring him to you.”

A mixture of new emotions passes across Caidryn’s face.  Guiromélans fears she is about to descend into another fit of rage, but then without warning, she sags with exhaustion.  “I’m sorry,” she admits sadly, “I fuckin’ hates this trougo place and this trougo land!  I hates this weather!  I hates that I don’t understands a word they’re sayin’!”

Guiromélans’s mouth drops open.  “Ah,” he stammers, searching for a reply, “The land, the weather, the language?  I fear there is little we can do about any of them!”

She looks at him with large, wet eyes.

“Actually, that’s not entirely true,” Baldruus interjects softly.

“What?” Guiromélans sputters.

The sorcerer nods towards the center of the hall, and Guiromélans’s eyes follow the gesture.  There, past the countless masses of frolicking Söderkarl bodies, on a dais stands the Thane’s highseat.  The place from which Thane Bolwerk had ruled, it has been left empty in his honor.

But this chair is not the focus of Guiromélans’s attention.  Next to and slightly behind the highseat is the Thane’s mourning bride, Lady Dårlig.  She is seated sideways on her small stool, as is the custom in the Southern lands.  Guiromélans’s mouth goes dry instantaneously, and he takes a long pull from the stein of øl he finds in his hand.

“Another reason why I doubt they mourn too deeply,” Baldruus murmurs, observing Guiromélans’s reaction.  “With a fine widow like that, the sooner they declare the Thane dead and gone, the sooner someone new can warm her bed.”

“Yä would do well tä remember that I’m still standin’ here,” Caidryn hisses, “and speak in yer foreign tongues when yä says such things!”

Baldruus coughs nervously and then prods Guiromélans in the lady’s direction.  “Speak to Lady Dårlig,” he urges, though Guiromélans hardly hears him anymore, “And request help from her volva.  She has the power, I know it!”

“Power?” Guiromélans asks, hardly turning his head, “Power for what?”

“Tä cast a language spell fer me, yä cuall!” Caidryn shouts.  “Sä I can understands yä all when yä speaks in yer boduus tongue!”

“Ah,” Guiromélans nods, already moving towards the center of the room, “This I can do.”

The lady’s back is turned to him, but as he approaches, he can see her head is bowed, her hands resting in her lap.  Draped across the back of her stool is a mantle of rich green cloth with crossed patterns, lined with white ermine even in the sleeves.  At the wrists and neck are more than 200 marks of beaten gold, and gems of great presence—violet and green, deep blue and gray-brown—are everywhere set upon it.  A silvered long sword leans against her thigh, the weight of its naked blade bruising the fine silk of her gown.

Slowly, Guiromélans circles to the front of the highseat and, kneeling, waits to be recognized.  He drinks in her delicate features, the fine curve of her jaw, the long lashes veiling her stark blue eyes.  In his time in this stead, he has seen her many times, but never this close.  He fears everyone around him can hear his heart beating.

He is not greeted by the musical voice he expected.

“What is this degkarl littering my daughter’s step?  Shall I scrape it away with my boot?”

Guiromélans looks up to see an aged karl looming over him.  His face is deeply lined, his hair stark white, but the muscles of his arms and bared chest are still powerfully built.  Guiromélans’s eyes narrow as he considers how to approach this challenge.  It is too bad Baldruus is too far away to lend advice.

Hearing the old ridder’s challenge, Lady Dårlig turns her sad eyes towards Guiromélans, and the briefest of smiles passes across her lips.  Her face is white, and God has highlighted it with a pure and rosy tint.  Her blonde tresses fall about her shoulders and back, and she coils the locks with her fingers, wrapping it around her neck with self-conscious modesty.

“Goodman Asmund,” she says softly, “Who is this man kneeling before my husband’s highseat?”

Somehow, her voice carries over the clamor of this hall, and almost instantly, all are turned to her in attentive silence.

“He is the dead man volva Huld raised,” the ridder sneers as he stares down at Guiromélans.  “Little more than a thrall in strength or courage I’d wager.”

“Ah,” the lady sighs, “The Korp.”

Standing, she carefully places the silver long sword across her stool and then steps down to Guiromélans.  She is graceful, beautiful, and elegant, tall and erect, and she wears a gown of silk so fine Guiromélans can see the blush of her bosoms through its fabric.

“You have stood for some time in my husband’s longhouse, jâ?” she asks of him.

“I have been in your stead for some days, jâ.  I’ve been ill and do not know for how long.”

“And you have been in attendance of my party tonight?”

“We just arrived from outside, my lady,” Guiromélans answers.

“Ah!” she sighs, “but took your time, you did, to visit me?  Time enough for your lady to dance with some of my karls?  Time to seek your missing boy?”

Guiromélans bows again, “My apologies.”

She glances down at the kneeling Raven and then up at the Söderkarl assemblage.  “By whose hand was this man’s fire added to our own?”

“By mine!” Orkning bellows from behind Guiromélans.  The Raven turns his head slightly to see the big chamarling push through the crowd.

“Five hundred curses be on the soul of anyone who brings into a fair lady’s longhouse a ridder who won’t approach her and hasn’t tongue or words or sense enough to introduce himself!” Asmund shouts.

Orkning bows his head in apology, but his broad grin remains.  Guiromélans relaxes.  All this is a show, he realizes, perhaps for his benefit alone.

Without warning, Orkning grabs Guiromélans by the arm and lifts him to his feet.  Spinning the Raven around to face the crowd, the chamarling shouts, “This be Sir Guiromélans, Korp of the Medianist lands of the North!  Recently deceased by wounds suffered by draugr and udyronde, raised from the embrace of the Thunderer by volva Huld!  These are his first steps within our longhouse!”  He abruptly makes a sign over the crowd, a sign everyone appears to recognize and react to, though it is not the sign of the Median.  “By the Great Lords, we add his fire to our own!  By Jorun and Kolbein!  By Rænn and Skafhog!  By Uspak and Thunderer!  By the power of Almighty God and His Prophets!  Êtqra!”

The Söderkarl applaud as one with a loud shout.

 

The meal is served by thralls and bönder.  Many of the servant men are disfigured by terrible battle wounds, conquered foes perhaps.  Many of the women are missing their noses, deliberately cut away in some barbaric ritual.  The Söderkarl of Bolwerk’s court sit around the great table, pushing, shoving, shouting, eating, drinking with abandon.

Guiromélans sits on the dais, at the right hand of Lady Dårlig, her guest for the meal, but he broods in silence, merely picking at the choice offerings of roasted chamois, mammoth, aurauchs, fish, and walrus.  His stein of øl is nearly untouched.  The antics of the acrobats and skalds before him are ignored.  Instead, he stares down at the table, his fingers caressing the Median through his clothes.  In his mind’s eye, he remembers the sign Orkning passed over the assemblage during his introduction.  He remembers the names he invoked.  Of course, he invoked the names of God and the Prophets at the end, but that hardly hid the fact that the oath and the sign were purely Thunderer in origin.

He remembers the first time he saw Hardanger, when he noted the lack of crucified heretics outside its walls.  Right then, he knew either the church had a weak Inquisition presence in this place or they are tolerant of heresy.  He knows their priest was killed nearly a year ago—one of the first casualties in this war with the udyronde—and he has yet to be replaced.  Their cathedral stands in neglected ruin.

Have these lands been so poorly tamed?

“Your brow is darkened and heavy with care, good Guiromélans,” Lady Dårlig startles him from his brooding, her voice kept low for only him to hear.

He looks up to see her watching him.  “You do not drink,” she says, “You do not eat.  Tell me what darkens your heart.”

“Lady,” he answers with as much tact as he can muster, “Though I was late in introductions today, I have been here for some time, and I have watched you.  I see you mourn and yearn for your absent lover.  I do not wish to add my cares to your own.”

She smiles at his words and for a moment, the weight of her world lifts from her shoulders.  “Speak!” she says, “I insist it!”

Guiromélans’s mouth twists in thought, and he takes up his stein, drinking half the øl in one toss.  The weak alcohol fills his body like a welcome friend.  “I am not… comfortable with your Thunderer traditions,” he murmurs, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dårlig makes a quiet noise and nods.  “Jâ, I can understand that,” she nods, “but it is our way.”

“Your way is the way of God!” Guiromélans sputters, “Or, at least it should be.”

“Old habits die hard, good Korp.  Thunderer was driven from our lands at the point of a bloody sword.  The murder-age has passed, and we have embraced the love of God and His Prophets and Primates.  But our old ways are still our ways.  We see nej contradiction in that.”

Guiromélans looks, and his stein is already filled with new drink.  He drinks deeply again.  “How can that be?” he demands as he gasps for breath.  The øl is weak, hardly more than flavored water, but it warms his blood and fires the fervor behind his eyes.

After a moment’s pause, Dårlig asks, “Know you the Festival of the Harvest?  The great day comes soon.  All villeins and cottars in the Seven Kingdoms gather to celebrate the successful harvests of the summer seasons and to prepare for the coming winter.  Streets are adorned with decorations of straw and flowers.  Children are Dedicated.  Captured demons are slain.  Know you this holiday?”

“Of course,” Guiromélans answers, “It is one of Medianism’s four greatest.  It is one of my favorites.  I was Dedicated on a Harvest Festival when I was a child.”

Dårlig nods.  “Jâ.  Know you that these traditions came from the Drungi of Vis'I Qira?  And before them, from the ancient tribes of the Northern Bracks?  In truth, the Dedication of the children is the only purely Medianist tradition of the holiday.  The rest is pagan.”

Guiromélans is silent as he mulls this over.  Now that she mentions it, he does remember learning such things as a boy, but the priests of Gaph carefully downplayed any pagan involvement in the origins of the holiday.  He smiles darkly.  Taking up a piece of meat, he salutes to her, “Your point is well-taken, Lady.  And but for one small problem, I would accept your explanation.”

“Oh?  What is that?” she asks honestly.

“The traditions of the Harvest Festival—Brackish though they may be—have one advantage over yours.  They have been accepted and embraced by the holy Prophets of God.”  Picking up his stein, he finishes his drink in one swallow.  His breath hisses through his teeth as he slams it back down.  “Your Thunderer rites have not, and they remain heresy.”

Lady Dårlig blinks as she stares at him.  She shakes her head subtly, letting her golden ringlets cascade around her ears and temples.  “Must you always seek the heretic wherever you go?”

“I am a Korp.  It is what I do.”

“I am sorry if our ways offend you, then.”

Guiromélans considers his words carefully.  Does he confess his rage?  That even now, he wants to throw this table aside and drive his saber into as many hearts as he can?  Does he admit his uncertainty?  God hates the Thunderer, but does He hate these people?  Does He hate Lady Dårlig?

Almost unbidden, his hand reaches for the Median hidden against his breast.  He stops and considers and slowly lets his hand fall.

He smiles a small tight smile.  “Nej.  I am not offended.  I see this as merely… an opportunity to teach you the ways of true Medianism…”

“It lightens my heart to hear that,” she smiles.  “You are a valued guest here, Korp, and I would like to keep you as long as you wish.  Please do not hesitate to ask if there is anything else I can do or provide?”

Guiromélans sighs and then glances down the table.  Bracketed by Baldruus and Dagnin, he sees Caidryn sitting sadly.  Worry plays across her face, almost exactly mirroring that of Lady Dårlig’s.  The sorcerer and the knight do what they can to lighten her mood, but the Brackish girl merely sits miserably, bumped and jostled by the activity of the Söderkarl around her, eating without enjoyment and drinking heavily.  Many of the karls try to speak to her, but they give up quickly when she fails to respond.

Guiromélans sighs and looks back at the lady.  “Lady Dårlig, there is something I would ask.”

Again, the tiny, brief smile, “Speak your heart, good Guiromélans.”

He nods back to his comrades, “It is a hard thing to be in a strange land, not knowing the customs, not knowing the tongue.  I have heard that the powers of your häxa could ease my friend’s unhappiness.”

Dårlig’s eyes glance towards Guiromélans’s companions and then back to him.  “What is it you would have her do?”

“Merely loosen her tongue.  An enchantment that would help her speak with your karls?  So that she may enjoy the boasts and songs they are sharing around this table.”

“That is nej small thing.”

“And I do not ask it lightly, fair lady.”

A blush spreads through her cheeks and down her neck.  Her fingers toy with her hair as she struggles for words.  “I will do it,” she says at last, “On the condition that you stay with us at least through the Harvest Festival celebrations.”

Guiromélans considers this only briefly before agreeing, “I am at your service.”

For the first time since he’s seen her, she enjoys a true smile.  Covering her mouth self-consciously, she looks away and struggles to regain her composure.

Guiromélans likewise allows himself a smile, happy that he somehow touched her heart.

It is as Dårlig turns back to her meal that Guiromélans sees the stare of Asmund.  The older karl glares at Guiromélans with naked rage.  Before he can react, the ridder leaps to his feet.  “You ask a boon for the Brackish bitch, jâ?” he spits with fury, “The one who cheapens this hall by bringing her bastard son?”

Guiromélans’s mouth drops open.  Part of him is grateful that Caidryn is out of earshot—and wouldn’t comprehend Asmund’s words even if she wasn’t—the other part of him is outraged.  “There are two kinds of bastard,” he answers quietly, “One you are born into, the other you become.  The first is sad.  The second is an infinitely more wretched, despicable thing.”

“A bastard boy has nej place in this hall,” the Söderkarl warns, “has nej place traveling with a whore and a ergi and a häxa.”

“Asmund,” Guiromélans says evenly, “I can only hope you know comrades and warriors that are half as brave and loyal as they.”

“You hold truck with such a whore, and now you seek to enjoy the attentions of our Thane’s lady?” Asmund shouts, leaping to his feet.

Guiromélans stands as well, unsure if a fight is to ensue but prepared for one nevertheless.  “I was not aware that conversation with the Lady was not permitted,” he answers.

“What is this?” Dårlig snaps, looking at Asmund, “That you would speak to our guests in such a manner?”

“I am foster-father of Thane Bolwerk, and I will not see his memory insulted by the leers of this stranger degkarl!”

“Is this how you mourn your loss?” Guiromélans asks, “To deny your lady conversation and company?  To ensure her sorrow lasts eternally?  You might as well cut out her tongue like the Bracks.  It is a shame you would speak in such wise—”

“Is it love I hear?” Asmund sneers.  “Do you like our Thane’s lady’s fine features, do you envy our Thane’s power?  Do you fancy yourself worthy to take his place?”

“What does it say about you,” Guiromélans asks so quietly only Asmund, and perhaps Dårlig, can hear, “that you would ask a guest such a thing?”

“Jâ!” Orkning shouts as he leaps to his feet, drowning out Asmund’s outraged reply.  “Love!  It is our love for our Lady that brings us together!  And as our good guest Guiromélans has shown, it is our duty to bring joy to our Lady’s death-darkened brow.  So will I, so will us all!”

Another karl stands.  Guiromélans recognizes him as the Söderkarl that escorted them from the ruined stead, a huskarl by the name of Ofeig.  “Jâ!” he shouts, “Who stands ready to declare his love for Lady Dårlig?”

The room roars in approval.

“I do!” Orkning shouts above the growing din.  Making a show of it, he pounds his breast with his fist.  “By all that is holy, under the Eyes of God, I declare my love for my Lady!”  He levels a stern finger at Asmund, “What is it you love most, goodman?”

The old karl glares at Guiromélans as he slowly returns to his seat but then addresses the Söderkarl around the table in a loud voice.  “What I love most is the memory of my foster son, Bolwerk, and the glory he earned in life!”

The Söderkarl applaud with loud shout.

And around the table, each karl and böndi stands and declares what they love most.  With few exceptions, nearly all declare their dedication to Lady Dårlig, and with each oath, the cheers that follow become louder and more impassioned.  Baldruus declares his lady Caidryn as his greatest love, and with that declaration, he earns many cheers and toasts.  It is too bad, Guiromélans reflects, that Caidryn doesn’t understand a word of it.  Perhaps others will fill her in once the häxa’s enchantment is cast.  With help from Baldruus, Caidryn announces the boy Balen as her greatest love.  Guiromélans is not surprised by such sentiment, though he is by the angry glare he receives from her as she speaks.  Dagnin quietly pledges his love to nothing more than God Himself, and many of the others tease him, though not too harshly.

And as each declaration of love is made, and as each karl makes his pledge to Lady Dårlig, Guiromélans sees the growing sadness in her eyes.  It is an old sadness, a haunted look, and he wonders at what could be weighing so heavily on her heart.

He remembers the words of Saint Ragnvald:  The sorrowful woman endures countless agonies.

“Ho, good Korp!” Ofeig bellows across the table.  “What is it you love most?”

Guiromélans looks up from his thoughts.  The ritual, which began with Asmund at Dårlig’s left hand, has now come full circle and waits to end with him.  Guiromélans stands.  “What do I love most?” he asks.

He looks from Dårlig down the table to Caidryn.  She is now eating heartily and ignoring what is going on around her.  At least her mood hasn’t affected her appetite.

“What is it you love most?” Ofeig insists.  The energy level in the room is at its peak.  Everyone waits for Guiromélans’s answer to complete the climax.

He takes a deep breath and prepares to answer.

Caidryn’s cry breaks the spell.  Looking down the hall, a group of bönder has entered with a child.  As everyone watches, they carefully unwrap the furs and blankets, and slowly reveal a chilled Balen within.  Even as they carefully dry him and clothe him, Caidryn is out of her seat and running.  Shoving the servants aside, she embraces the boy and holds him tight.

Guiromélans smiles.  Looking down at Dårlig and then back at Ofeig, he answers.