Bolwerk’s stead of Hardanger is a relatively modern city by Southern Territories standards.  Certainly it is one of the largest.  Gaslights burn on the three main thoroughfares criss-crossing it.  Air horns bang through tidy buildings, echoing from the steam engines down in the stockyard railroads.

Thane Bolwerk ruled the westernmost bygthir of Ledus County, Gylling.  He was a man some would say was second in power only to Count Edgar, the appointed ruler of Ledus County.  When such a man disappears, the rulers in Aquilaleon become concerned.

Today, that concern has finally manifested.

On this frozen day, Guiromélans stands at the right hand of Lady Dårlig, enduring with her and the others the icy driving rain.  Orkning stands at her left.  Huskarls, ridders, and bönder stand with them upon the docks, watching the EroBernac cutter slide into its berth.  Dockhands bark and shout as they expertly handle the moorings.  On its prow, Guiromélans observes the image of a serpent writhing in pain as a lance pierces its breast, its coils wrapping around the shaft, blood and flame vomiting from its maw.

The Raven’s presence among the assemblage was intended to raise eyebrows.  Dårlig’s designs were to send a message to her EroBernac visitors, and by the looks he gets from the cutter’s crew, she succeeded.  The size and firepower of the cutter was to remind everyone in Hardanger of the true rulers of the Southern Territories.  Guiromélans presence is to remind the EroBernac that Medianist power doesn’t lay in Cærimonia alone.

Guiromélans smiles to himself.  He doesn’t mind being the pawn, so long as he’s well played.

One after the other, the pale EroBernac clerks and scribes disembark and make their way up the dock.  Orkning snorts quietly as he eyes the procession, “They’re nothing but children and godar and mays!  To this we must kneel?”

Guiromélans tries to see them through a Söderkarl’s eyes.  They are thin, underdressed, overly fed.  Their arms look as though they’ve never lifted anything heavier than a sheaf of papers in all their lives.  They are hardly a Söderkarl’s conquering ideal.  He can see why Orkning would be slow to see any threat.

Guiromélans politely clears his throat.  “Respect the power of these men,” he warns softly, “It is by their pens that taxes are collected, that maps are drawn, that treaties and marriages are signed and sealed.  They control food, steel, coal, and armies.  And behind each one of them stand 10-thousand EroBernac rifles.”

Orkning snorts again.  Lady Dårlig only glances at Guiromélans from the corner of her eye before looking away again.

“I’ve never dealt with the degkarls,” she says suddenly, slowly.  “Such was always the pervue of my husband.  Guide me, Korp, what should I do?”

“The realm of politics is a dangerous one,” Guiromélans answers.  “What transpires here and now will determine the outcome of this visit…  You must establish authority quickly and firmly.  If you do not, things can go very badly.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Do not speak to them until they speak first.  Do not bow or courtesy until they bow first, and do not bow as deeply.”  Guiromélans eyes the approaching procession.  Five junior clerks, lead by a senior envoy, and accompanied by a priest.  Guiromélans squints his eyes.  Best he can determine, the priest wears the Median of the Inquisition.  “And when you speak to them,” he says at last, “Make eye-contact with the lead envoy but not with the priest.”

He glances at Lady Dårlig and sees her looking at him again.  Minutely, she nods before looking away.

“It would help if we knew what exactly they wanted,” Guiromélans gently presses.

But the Lady remains silent until her guests arrive.  The troupe of seven, bracketed by EroBernac musketeers, approaches Dårlig’s party.  The lead envoy carries himself with the air of arrogance that immediately annoys Guiromélans.  This man knows his power for all the reasons Guiromélans had outlined.  His clerks and assistants are shivering and distracted, knowing they are not welcome.  The knights are professional and stoic, giving only the slightest of nods to acknowledge the Raven in their presence.  The Inquisitor merely huddles against the cold within his heavy black robes, pulling his cowl low over his face.

The two groups regard each other in silence, Lady Dårlig following Guiromélans’s advice and merely waiting.  The rain falls steadily, soaking everyone beneath it.  Guiromélans is well dressed for this weather.  The Söderkarl are used to it.  The EroBernac silently suffer.  Water beads upon the envoy’s headdress, running down his face and back.  His eyes flicker from Lady Dårlig to Guiromélans.

“By Hoël!” he blurts at last, full of false jocularity and breaking out into an exaggerated grin, “It is plenty cold enough out here!  And wet!”

“The weather is early, jâ,” Dårlig agrees.  “It has been such for the past week.  It proves to be a bad autumn.”

The envoy gestures towards the great pyres burning on the rooftops of Hardanger, “With all those fires, you’d think it wouldn’t be so cold!”

Dårlig doesn’t turn her head.  Guiromélans notes with some pleasure that she is actually a little taller than the envoy.  “Our fires are not for warmth, sirrah.”

The envoy’s face screws with distaste, and Guiromélans nearly smiles.  With that single word, Dårlig has established who is in charge, at least for now.

The envoy bows slightly.  “I am Quintian, Vavasour of Sorelois.  I have been assigned as justiciar to your stead by Count Edgar, the lawfully appointed ruler of Ledus County.”

“Justiciar?” Dårlig asks slowly, “For what purpose?”

“Lady,” Quintian smiles, “Your husband has passed, and for some time, your land has been without a ruler.”

“Thane Bolwerk is merely missing!” Orkning snaps.

Quintian’s eyes flicker to the chamarling and then back to the Lady.  “I am accompanied by Deacon Aybert of the Holy Medianist church,” he says, changing the subject smoothly and gesturing to the Inquisitor, “as well as the rest of my staff.”

“We are honored by your presence, Holy One,” Lady Dårlig says, lowering her eyes and addressing the Deacon.

Guiromélans watches closely as the Deacon looks quickly from Dårlig to Quintian and back again.  He doesn’t say a word, merely nodding in acknowledgement of Dårlig’s greeting.  Quintian simply stands woodenly, pointedly ignoring the deference Dårlig shows the Inquisitor.  His teeth have already begun to chatter.

“Then I wish you all welcome to Hardanger,” Dårlig smiles at last, “Come.  Join the light of your fires with ours.”

Quintian the envoy meets with Lady Dårlig and Orkning and Asmund at length.  They speak of Thane Bolwerk and of his disappearance.  They speak of the future of Gylling Bygthir, of Lady Dårlig’s plans for the court.  There is much shouting on Asmund’s part, many measured words on Quintian’s.  Dårlig merely sits high in her silver chair, listening in silence.

Guiromélans excused himself from these talks—he has no interest in becoming further embroiled in this stead’s politics—but he does watch from a distance.  Dårlig is clad in coat of golden mail and a rich mantle bordered with ermine.  She is beautiful, distant, holding her silver sword in both hands.  He can see from Asmund and Orkning’s reactions that the envoy does not bring welcome news, but Dårlig appears to remain unaffected.  Compared to the glacier of her sadness, Quintian’s words are mere snowballs.  The envoy speaks evenly, rhythmically, continuously dabbing at his temples with a cloth.  Now sheltered from the storm outside, he seems more distressed by the heat of the hall than by the intimidating presence of the brooding huskarls.

Guiromélans slips away and leaves the longhouse.  Outside, the storm’s winds are briefly refreshing.  The beads of sweat on his brow quickly blow away from his tightening skin.

The icy streets are busy with running karls and bönder.  There has been much activity in and out of Hardanger, despite the war with the therm.  Men and carts race from the docks to the warehouses to the roads.  These sudden storms have forced an early harvest of the autumn crops, and the herr are struggling despite the risks to save the food.

Knowing he is the cause of these storms, Guiromélans cannot bear to watch their efforts.  Looking for an escape, he sees a nearby böth that echoes with the sounds of merriment and the scent of barley beer.  Shaking his head, he ducks inside.

The group that looks up at his entrance includes Caidryn and Baldruus and members of the cutter’s crew.  Skalds play quick Söderkarl music.  Ofeig shouts a greeting when he sees him.  “See?” he bellows, “The Korp arrives!”

The cutter’s Captain and his officers regard the Raven with interest.  “Jâ,” the Captain says in poor Söderkarl, standing and saluting, “We heard there was a Korp serving Lady Dårlig.  I heard you were standing on the docks, but until now, I didn’t believe it!”

“I am merely a guest,” Guiromélans murmurs as he returns the salute and slowly takes a seat between Ofeig and Caidryn.

The Captain chuckles, “So it seems.  I am Captain Dumart of the Blood Drake.”

Guiromélans nods in acknowledgement and tries to look like he’s paying attention as Dumart introduces each of his officers.  The only name he remembers is Pliamin, the First Officer, because he shares the name of the Patron Saint of lost causes.

“Guest he may be,” Ofeig interjects, “but he has already heaped much glory and blood upon his name!  He is an ogre in battle!  Óriás!”

“There is blood enough on my name already,” Guiromélans murmurs in Ehrech.  The Captain’s eyebrows rise, and too late, Guiromélans wonders if Dumart might speak the Ehrech tongue as well.

“Guest he may be,” Caidryn slurs, “but to me, he’s just a pain-in-the-ass!”

The Söderkarl erupt in laughter, their EroBernac guests merely smiling politely.  Guiromélans likewise smiles at Caidryn.  With the language spell of the häxa, Caidryn’s can now speak with her hosts, and her mood has been improved.  Guiromélans wonders why it took so long for Huld to cast it.

“Tell us, Korp!” Ofeig insists, pressing a stein of øl into his hand, “Tell us of your victory over the udyronde of Mostheath!”

Guiromélans rolls the stein between his palms, watching its weak foam slowly pop away.  The Söderkarl do many things well, but their øl is no match for Muttese weißbier.  Gradually, he looks back up at the others and shakes his head, “Nej.  I’m sure our new EroBernac friends have nej interest in hearing about the mud tracking of a wandering Korp.”

“Not so!” Dumart encourages happily, “From what we’ve heard, it was most exciting!  I’m sure all of us would like to hear the tale from the man himself.”

Guiromélans’s eyes flash.  There was something less than welcome in the man’s tone.  He smiles, “Perhaps another time then, for I am tired of hearing it, even if it is from my own lips.”  He watches the Captain as he waits for the polite chuckles to die down, “Perhaps you can tell us a tale?  What news have you of home?  It has been nearly a year since I was last in Aquilaleon.”

“Ah, yes,” Dumart sighs, “The Crown of the Seven Kingdoms…”  He thinks for a moment, “Well, our good Superbus Tyrannus is having problems with his wives, as always.  There are claims that one has kidnapped the infants of another and claimed them as her own… or some such nonsense.  A couple of their fathers have actually threatened war on the matter…”  He frowns and looks to his officers for assistance, “A Count… Pharamont?  Of Goort in EroBernd, I believe, and Duke Lolthebert of Mynydd.”  He shakes his head as he laughs, “It is of no matter.  The simple foolishness of two women and their over-protective fathers!”

“And other news?” Guiromélans presses.

“Primate Klemm has defrocked two more self-proclaimed prophets,” the sorcerer offers.

The blood in Guiromélans’s veins freezes.  “Prophets?  From where?” he asks quickly, silently praying it is not in Ymyl Gwland.

The Captain shrugs and glances at his officers.  “Din Guayrdi, I believe,” the First Officer says.  “They had quick inquests and executions.”

“Most-holy Klemm seems to have a nose for rooting out heresy,” Dumart laughs.  “The quicker he kills them all, the better.  They say he is the next Prophet, you know.  Can you imagine?  An actual Prophet in our time!  Walking among us!”

Guiromélans glances at the others in the room.  The Söderkarl have fallen quiet and listen with growing impatience.  The skalds have stopped playing, resting their weary fingers.  These aren’t the kinds of stories they like to share.  Ofeig grips his stein, quietly grinding his teeth.

“And news of a less… provincial nature?” Guiromélans presses.  “War perhaps?”

“War?” Dumart frowns.  He shrugs, “Valven had 12 Ulbandi diplomats executed in Red Telman.  It seems he felt they were too conciliatory to the Synesi.”  He smiles nastily, “Frankly, I look forward to war with those boy fuckers.”

“Many say war with the Synesi is only a matter of time,” Pliamin agrees.

“Why?”

“Ah!” Dumart nods, “You have been out of touch for a long time.”

“What does that mean?” Guiromélans asks, frowning.

“The Superbus Tyrannus has begun defaulting on his loans.”

Guiromélans’s eyebrows rise.  “Indeed?”

“Jâ.  The Serlian bankers and merchantile concerns haven’t made much of a fuss, nor has Stolest and the other smaller lands, but the Synesi are not likely or willing to forgive debts of such size.”

Guiromélans nods.  “Valven has bolstered his armies on borrowed monies for way too long.”

“All the better to keep Mut and Ehre at bay, jâ?” Dumart speculates.

“Indeed…”  Valven defaulting on his debts may have far-reaching effects.  Powerless though the Serlians may be politically, they are honest merchants and prolific traders.  Other merchant nations such as Palpi City-States may also defect from EroBernd’s side, and if you defy Palpin, you’d might as well sink your own navy, else they’ll do it for you.

War with Synes.  War with Palpin.

Things may soon become very complicated for the EroBernd Empire.

Dumart nods towards Ofeig and the other Söderkarl, “If war with Synes should come to pass, it is a matter of great speculation as to which side the Ulbandi and Söderkarl will take.”

“Jâ,” Ofeig hisses.  “We are eager for the opportunity to snap at the hands of our masters.”

Dumart shrugs, “With such instability, the Bracks are also of concern.”

“Many say war with the Bracks is imminent as well,” Pliamin agrees.

“War with the Bracks is always imminent!” Caidryn laughs.

“I was thinking of Ehre,” Guiromélans interrupts quickly.  “The war in Ehre.”

“Ah, jâ!” Dumart exclaims.  “The war with the Fée.  Your homeland, is it not?”

“It has been some time since I’ve seen Ehre,” Guiromélans admits, “but, jâ, it is my homeland.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Pliamin says, “The war goes well for the most part.”

“For the most part?” Guiromélans asks hurriedly.

“The city of Flay was lost, burned by the alfs.  A forest stands in its place now.”

Guiromélans’s heart sinks.  “We’ve known that city was at risk,” he sighs.  “That is heavy news indeed.”

“Indeed?” Dumart asks, “And why aren’t you fighting in the wars for your people?”

Guiromélans is weighing his answer when Ofeig cuts him off.  “ENOUGH of this!” he bellows.  He turns to the other Söderkarl in the room, “These degkarls don’t know how to tell proper stories!”

“And give us an example of a good story,” Baldruus laughs as the EroBernac naval officers grow silent, some of them visibly intimidated.

After some consideration, Ofeig levels a beefy finger at the skald, “You!  Compose a song!”

Even as the skald begins to fidget with his instrument, Ofeig glances slyly at Guiromélans.  “Compose a lay where ‘Korp’ appears in every line!” he adds.

The young skald glances around the room and then cradles his lute.  Strumming the strings until he finds a tune, he sings:

When the skald falls silent, the Söderkarl pound the table with applause.  Guiromélans good-naturedly applauds as well, though he’s not sure how he feels about being the subject of a skald’s poem.  Baldruus pounds him on the back as he rocks with laughter.  Caidryn merely stares at him with a strange smile on her face.

“A worthy lay,” Guiromélans admits once the noise has died down, “Though one of the lines is missing a ‘Korp’.”

“True, true!” Ofeig admits, rewarding the blushing skald with øl, “but it was a good effort anyway!”

“Well, being I was the target your last jab,” Guiromélans protests, “I have another request.”

“Speak, Korp!” Ofeig barks.  “Make your request, and we shall grant it…  So long as it is not for any more tiresome news from the Northlands.”

“You tell me a tale, good huskarl,” Guiromélans answers.  “When you found us, we were taking shelter in a ruined stead.  Bodies were staked to the ground, and the dead roamed the woods.”

“Jâ,” Ofeig admits, his mood suddenly sobering.

“Tell us, then, of your errand.  Why were you going to such a place?  What were you doing there?”

Ofeig glances at Baldruus as he sets his stein down.  “Such things are well-known here in Hardanger, and I related them to you and your companions when we first met.”

Guiromélans smiles, “I was sorely wounded and near death when we first met.  I have no recollection of the telling of your tale.”  He gestures to the EroBernac sailors, “and I’m sure our new friends here would be interested in hearing as well.  The walking dead?  It would prove to be a fine tale, if well told.  Indulge us.  Please.”

Ofeig’s lips purse within his heavy beard as he considers his words.  “The dead walk at night, Korp.  They burn come dawn.  They stalk the darkness between the trees, hunting for the living.  It is a curse cast by the udyronde—nej one knows how or why, not even Huld the volva—but those felled by their teeth and claws are doomed to rise again as draugr.”

Guiromélans sits back in his chair as he considers these words.  Putras never mentioned such a thing.  “And so this is why you stake your dead to the ground?”

Ofeig nods solemnly.

“But not every corpse rises.  At the stead, there were many…”

Ofeig takes a long drink before nodding again, “Not every dead becomes a draugr.  We cannot tell which, so we treat them all the same.”

“So why were you going to that stead, Ofeig?”

The huskarl chuckles.  “The cart that carried you to Hardanger was the same cart that carries the dead.”

“You were bringing corpses?” Guiromélans asks.

Ofeig explodes in laughter.  “You were hardly more than a corpse when I first saw you!  Eaten by draugr, mauled by udyronde, I asked your friends if I should stake you down too!”

Dumart frowns with distaste.  “Nailing bodies to the ground?” he asks, aghast, “That’s hardly the best way to deal with the dead!”

“The best way we have!” Ofeig snaps.

“How about burying them?  Or burning them?  That’d take care of the walkers!”

The huskarl sobers, “Huld advised against it.”

“Why?” Guiromélans asks.

Ofeig shrugs, “Don’t know.  I don’t question the häxa’s ways.  She is wise in the ways of the far-seeking worlds.”

Guiromélans massages the Median within his shirt, “Perhaps you should.”

Ofeig’s eyes narrow.  “It is a hard time for us, Korp.  Our Lady mourns.  The herr die.  Or freeze.  Or starve.  Our flame dims in these storms.  I have nej inclination to question the ways of our volva.  Many of our woes arose with your arrival, Korp.  Perhaps it is your destiny to ease them?”

The skald sings:

Ofeig’s barb strikes deeper than he could have known.  Guiromélans is silent for the rest of the evening.

* * *

The falling snow makes the air brittle.  Sunlight shines through the occasional gap in the clouds, lighting the fields like a million candles.

Guiromélans works hard, bare-chested in the cold, sweat steaming off his arms and back.  He works shoulder-to-shoulder with the bönder and thralls, cutting at the cabbage stalks with his curved knife, tossing the heads over his shoulder, and moving on to the next plant.  Balen follows patiently behind, collecting the heads and carrying them to a waiting cart.

The ground is nearly frozen.  Ice crystals glitter and grow across the soil like lichen.  Snow collects across the cabbage heads.  Many of the cabbage’s leaves are already curled and burned from frostbite.  Darker clouds are gathering out over the Sea.  The field is alive with activity as the workers struggle to save the last of the crop before the coming weather arrives.  Although close to the forests and the dangers they conceal, the workers are relaxed and merry, trusting in the Raven’s presence to protect them from udyronde and draugr.  These storms are Guiromélans’s fault, and he works hard, desperately, setting a pace the others have difficulty matching.  It is the least he can do for bringing such hardship to these people.

News of the Raven who works the field like a common bönder has spread quickly, and a small crowd of herr has gathered.  Most merely watch, entertained by the spectacle, but some are shamed by Guiromélans’s efforts and choose to join him.

The sun has passed its zenith when the arrival of new horses interrupts his work.  A thrall gently touches his shoulder and points.  Looking up, he sees Lady Dårlig and some attendants waiting at the edge of the field.

“Ach,” Balen whispers in Palpi, “The boduus bitch!”

Guiromélans looks at the boy in surprise.  “Guard your tongue, boy, even if you do speak the Palpi tongue.”  He looks closer and sees true dislike in the boy’s eyes.  “You don’t like her?  Why?”

Balen grimaces, “Yä remembers those flyin’ bitches?  The ones lookin’ tä eats yä and Caidryn?”

“Yes.”

Balen nods, “I’d rather cuddle with one of them.”

Guiromélans look back at the riders.  Lady Dårlig waits patiently, watching the workers steadily make their way across the field.  Her ridders fidget nervously, eyeing the nearby forest.  “Such an unfortunate sentiment,” he says at last, “and one I’m afraid you might be alone in sharing.  She seems a fair woman, Balen, and she is well-liked and respected by her subjects.”

The boy makes a rude noise.

Guiromélans squeezes Balen’s shoulder affectionately, “Then consider this.  You don’t know who among her court speaks your tongue, so I suggest you hold it.”

Balen smiles, and Guiromélans tousles his hair before walking across the field to meet the lady.

“Yer not goin’ tä talk tä her, are yä?” Balen exclaims, running after him.

“Of course!” he answers, “It does seem that she’s here to see us.”

“Well, I’m not sayin’ nothin’ tä her!”

“And that would probably be best.”

Guiromélans hurriedly washes and dries his hands and arms before approaching the mounted lady.

“You are a small man, Sir Guiromélans,” Dårlig remarks when he nears, eyeing his frame and the cut of his muscles, “but you are built well.”

Beneath that penetrating stare, Guiromélans is momentarily taken aback.  He retreats into custom and simply bows.  “My Lady,” he murmurs.

“When I heard that our mighty Korp was working the fields with the herr, I could scarcely believe it.”  She looks around at the scene, “but here you are.”

“I apologize if my presence has caused you any embarrassment,” he says.

“Oh, nej!” Dårlig laughs.  It is an automatic, polite noise, without any humor or happiness.  “You seem to work as hard as any böndi.  If it raises the spirits of my people, it does my heart good.”

Guiromélans is silent, and the silence grows.  At last, she says quietly, awkwardly, “I desire to ride through some of my husband’s lands, to enjoy the sun and the air before cold winter sets in, yet my entourage advises against it, for fear of the udyronde.”

“That is probably wise,” Guiromélans admits.

“Would you deign to join us?”

Guiromélans blinks up at her, “My Lady, why would you desire me to join you?”

“Your presence pleases me.  I would that you ride with me and raise my spirits with tales of your Korp’s adventures.”

“My Lady, the tales I tell are poorly told, and few would raise your spirits.”

“Then would you lend your arm towards my protection?”

Guiromélans rises from his kneel without hesitation, “Of course.  It would be my honor.”

A servant automatically brings his horse, a huge and handsome Söderkarl steed.  Dårlig examines it as Guiromélans slips on his shirt and swings into his knight’s saddle.  With a single pull, he lifts the wary Balen into the saddle in front of him.

“That is a fine charger you have,” she remarks.

“It was a gift from Jarl Bolli of Mostheath,” Guiromélans says, stroking its neck affectionately.

“A fine gift for your help against the udyronde, Korp.”

“The udyronde attacked and killed most of Bolli’s livestock, but they were unable to catch this one…  It was a purely unnecessary gift,” he smiles a rare open, happy smile, “but I must admit it is good to ride again on a horse that can take my saddle.”

She smiles back, briefly, softly.

The two ride slowly together, Dårlig’s attendants and guards following at some distance behind.  The woods around them are silent, magical, empty.  Ice and snow cling to their branches and litter the ground beneath.  Snow drifts steadily, lazily from the sky, coiling around the trees and branches with the occasional gust of wind.  Guiromélans watches as a hare startles from their approach and bounds away into the underbrush.

“Guiromélans?” Dårlig says hesitantly, after a long silence.

He feels more than hears Balen’s low groan.  Boxing him lightly on the ear, he turns to the lady, “Jâ, my Lady?”

“I wonder at your oath of love the other night.”

Guiromélans is silent.  She looks at him.  “What does it mean to declare ‘duty’ to be your greatest love?”

“I am a man of duty.  My word is my oath.  There is nothing I love more than God’s Plan and my place in it.  My purpose is to do nothing but serve.  I have sworn to do nothing other than what is commended by the most Holy teachings of the Prophets.  Duty is what I love most in this world.”

“Such dedication!  It is a shame that it is not directed towards a woman.”

Guiromélans’s shocked expression betrays him.  “There is a woman?”  She shakes her head, “I don’t understand.  Surely not that scarred, impolite creature?”

“No, not Caidryn,” he snaps.  It’s funny, he reflects.  He’s forgotten the last time he’s notice that scar of hers.

“Then who?”

Guiromélans sputters and at last says, “It is something I do not wish to share with you right now.”

Dårlig sighs and nods with understanding.  After another long pause, she asks, “The Justiciar from EroBernd.  You are not curious about him?  About what he came to say?”

Guiromélans considers for a moment before answering, “Nej.  Should I be?”

“He is one of your people.”

Guiromélans looks at her, “My people?”

“He is a Medianist.”

“We are all Medianists here.”

“I mean, he is from the North.”

“I am Ehrech, he is EroBernac.”

“Is there a difference?” she asks with honest curiosity.

Guiromélans smiles, “Is there a difference between the karls from Ledus and Mynydd?”

She smiles and bows her eyes, “Point taken.  But he is from the court of Valven, and you are from the court of Valven.”

Guiromélans is silent.

“Tell me then,” she presses, “Does the calling of your homeland supplant the obligations of being a Korp?”

“Above all else,” Guiromélans answers softly, “I am a knight and a Korp.”

“Duty.  Your only love.”

“Yes…”  Guiromélans looks down at the back of Balen’s head as he feels his lie stain his soul.  Shaking his head as if to clear it, he asks, “So tell me, then, how goes the talks with Justiciar Quintian?”

“They continue,” Dårlig says carefully.  “This is not a happy time for me or my husband’s bygthir.  The honorable Justiciar has informed us that our land requires leadership… that Superbus Tyrannus Valven requires new leadership in our land…”

Guiromélans looks at her.  Her pain is evident on her pale face.  Tiny flecks of ice cling to her lashes, like frozen tears.  He begins to comprehend Quintian’s mission.  “You are not used to dealing with the EroBernac?” he asks.

She looks away and waves one delicate hand.  “They are our rulers.  Rather than be united within a mighty cythth, we are carved up, gelded, with degkarl masters to lead us.  It is our lot, and we must live it.”

“What are the implications of EroBernac interference in Gylling?”

“There are few perhaps,” she says quietly.  “At best, they will declare my husband dead and force me to marry.”

Guiromélans nearly stops his horse, “Wh—what?”

She looks at him and wipes at her cold-blushed cheek.  “My land requires a ruler, one who is able to protect and enforce the interests of Count Edgar and Superbus Tyrannus Valven.  Apparently, they do not consider me up to the task.  Unless something changes, I will have to take a new husband, and a new Thane will rule from Hardanger.”

“Who—who would this be?” Guiromélans stammers.

Dårlig shrugs, “There appear to be many candidates.  Nearly as many as those who courted Storrada.  I can turn all of them away some of the time… I can turn some of them away all of the time… but I cannot turn all of them away all of the time.  I fear, soon I will have to make a choice.”

“Who are these men?”

“Most you would not know of or care about.  Friends of Count Edgar.  Friends and foes of my husband.  Friends even of the good Justiciar Quintian.  There is Vandril, Thane of Frodis-water, the bygthir south of Gylling.  He is ambitious and seeks to join our bygthirs.  Perhaps one day, he seeks to challenge Edgar for rulership of Ledus?  Then there is Vandrisson, son of Vandril.  He seeks fame and glory at the expense of his father.  There is Hrobjart, a rig-jarl and vassal of my husband.  To reach the high chair of Hardanger, he is willing to crawl over Bolwerk’s cold corpse.  By far, he is the worst.”

She looks away and gently spurs her horse back into a slow walk.  “And there are others.  My time with sweet Bolwerk was far from perfect—many nights I spent in the hof of Jorun, praying for happiness in our union—but I would give anything to have him back again.  Anything to have these new men taken from my sight.”

“I am sorry,” Guiromélans says at last as he catches up to her.

They ride for some time before Dårlig speaks again.  “I have told you now of myself, what can you tell of yourself?”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Can you tell me of your time at sea, when you led the pirates?”

Guiromélans automatically slows his horse, “Pirates?”

She looks at him with her pale eyes, and a smile flickers across her lips.  “Jâ.  The Brackish pirates.  I’ve heard my herr call you ‘sea-king’.  Were they in error?”

“Nej,” Guiromélans coughs, “It is merely a delicate subject.  There are other accomplishments in my life that I would much prefer to share.”

“I seek only to learn of the events that brought you here to me.  Tell me only as much as propriety would allow.”

After long consideration, Guiromélans begins slowly.  He tells of his battle with the häxa and his storm-queans.  He tells of his duel with Mogens, of his crucifixion by his crew, of his struggles with the Masks, and of the long boat ride to the Ledus shores.  He carefully omits the circumstances of his defeat in Ymyl Gwland, of his flight from Ehre, and of the true goals of his journeys through the Weaning Shores.  He is not sure how Dårlig would react to his crusade against heresy, especially the Thunderer, and he surprises himself with how much he cares about her view of him.

Balen looks up at Guiromélans.  He hasn’t benefited from the languages spell as Caidryn had, but he seems to understand the tone of the words nevertheless.

Dårlig stares out ahead of them as they ride.  Her face and expression lightens as she listens, escaping into the events of his adventures rather than brooding upon her own troubles.  When he finishes, her sadness descends so quickly, it nearly breaks his heart.

“Lady Dårlig,” he says gently, “Grant me a boon.”

Her eyes glance at him, “A rash boon?  I am to consent before I know your terms?”

He smiles, “You must trust that I would not ask something impossible or onerous.”

“Very well,” she sighs, “I consent to grant your unknown boon.  Now, may I know what it is I have granted?”

“Please tell me why you are so troubled and sad.”

Her mouth twitches.  It is obvious that she expected the question.  “Why?” she sighs.  “Perhaps it is because I belong to a conquered people?  Perhaps it is because my husband is missing, and now my northern masters demand that I declare him dead?  That I am soon to share my land and my bed and my body with a stranger, whose touch and wisdom I’ve never known?  My bygthir is at war with the udyronde, early storms have ruined countless crops, and undead roam my forests.  Can this, good Korp, be reasons enough for my sadness?”

Guiromélans nods, “Jâ, and then some.  But… I suspect there is something else?”

She looks away, a bitter smile crossing her face.  “Söderkarl women keep secrets well, Korp.”

Guiromélans sighs and looks around for a new distraction.  He finds they have stopped at a crossroads.  Just beyond, the forest ends abruptly with the trampled ruin he and Putras explored days ago.  His eyes drift down and discover a small cairn of rocks, partly hidden within the underbrush at the side of the road.  “What is that?” he asks, pointing.

Dårlig peers and sighs, “Ah, nej.  Another one.”

Guiromélans frowns at her, but she doesn’t elaborate.  Setting Balen down, he kicks his leg over and slides to the ground.

The rocks are carefully stacked and mortared with mud.  It is obvious that whoever made it intended it to remain for some time and to survive the harsh seasons.  It is a low, ugly thing, and the sight of it sends chills down his spine.  Instinctively, he reaches for his Median and examines it.  He is shocked at its condition.  He hasn’t been in the presence of such corruption since the tyggskins.

He looks up at Dårlig.  “What is this?” he demands.

She merely shakes her head.

“What is it!”

“I don’t know.  We are finding them more and more often.  Whatever they are, nothing good comes of them.”

Guiromélans looks back at the shrine.  There is only one thing for him to do.  Gritting his teeth, he kicks at the pile with the heel of his boot.  Rocks shift, and shards of mud scatter.  Balen eagerly digs in as well, and soon, the two of them have obliterated it completely.

Laying in the remains is a small red object.  Guiromélans clears away the rubble with the toe of his boot and picks it up.  It is a rune, crafted in crude ceramic and carelessly painted red.  He doesn’t recognize the figure, though its twisting, evil lines seem to writhe of their own accord.

Silently, he shows it to Dårlig, but she refuses to look at it.

Guiromélans sighs.  A new evil cursing this place?  Or are all these evils connected?  It doesn’t matter.  It is obvious this thing and what it represents is anathema to God, and it troubles Dårlig.  Throwing it to the ground, he crushes it beneath his boot.

Abruptly drawing his sword, he approaches Dårlig and kneels before her horse.

“Lady Dårlig,” Guiromélans states, “by my sword, I vow here and now to remove the curses upon your land and lift the weight upon your heart.”

A tear runs down her cheek.  “And I fear that you shall.”