In the early hours before dawn, the great hall of Bolwerk’s longhouse is almost completely deserted.

Two thralls slowly scrub at the stained floor beneath the tables.  They are in no hurry to finish.  To finish merely invites their karline to find new chores for them to do.

In one corner, two huskarls and a ridder eat an early meal (or is it a late one?).  They speak quietly, their voices heavy with exhaustion.  Frozen mud is caked on their boots and trousers, evidence of their late night rides.  Last night’s incoming storm brought bad news:  Two more people have turned missing, stolen from their beds in Hardanger by the udyronde.  This night was busy with vengeful search parties.

Guiromélans and Dagnin drift through and around the chairs and tables, examining the weapons hanging from the walls.  Seen up close, the knights realize they are not weapons for display.  They are prizes taken from fallen foes, tribute from vassals, or gifts from allies or lords.  They are deadly and real.  Balen watches them with quiet anticipation.

“Spatha?” Dagnin asks.  “Oh, hearty weapon of the Bracks.  To crush, to cut, to rend, to maim!  Death comes served by a cing!”

Guiromélans glances at Balen and shakes his head, “No.  We’ve already covered them in some detail.  Perhaps more when he is older and can hold one on his own, but not now.”

“Bwyell then?” Dagnin grins maniacally as he caresses the hooked axe.

Guiromélans hesitates and then nods.  He returns to the boy as the older knight carefully removes the great war axe from its peg.

Balen watches it with quiet amazement.  Its broad blade shines in the firelight.  “Me Bracks really fights with those?” he gasps.

Guiromélans nods slowly.  “They have been known to.  It is the holy weapon of the demon lord Johlpa, or at least so they say.  The Bracks consider it the blade of kings and priests… but few ever actually fight with them.”

Balen squints with surprise, “Why?”

Carefully, Guiromélans takes the bwyell from Dagnin and holds it at Balen’s level so he may examine it closer.  The great blade is teardrop shaped, broad and wide near the haft, curved and thin at the top, creating a hook-like stabbing point with a sharpened inner edge.  It is heavy, heavier even than a spatha, and Guiromélans has to take a wide, two-handed grip to marshal it.

“It is an old weapon,” Guiromélans says, “Perhaps older than the Brack people themselves.  It is also very difficult to make and even harder to wield.”

“Sä?” Balen demands.

Guiromélans sighs, “They say, a long time ago, the Bracks were a lot more powerful, that they were masters of great kingdoms, that they had mastered a lot more of the learning and tools magics than they have now…”  He pauses and looks down at the boy.  There is a frown on Balen’s face, as he struggles to comprehend his people’s past.  Caidryn insists he is Brackish, but to Guiromélans, he still looks Palpi.  “For today’s cings and riges and gwledigs, it is easier to just pick up a spatha than it is learn how to fight with such an elegant weapon.  Their training in it is reduced to merely learning the Bwyell Dances.”

“It’s hard tä learn, uh?”  A look of determination flashes across Balen’s eyes.  Guiromélans suppresses a smile.  He’s seen that look before, both on the boy and on his adopted guardian, Caidryn.  “How do yä fights with it?” he asks simply.

Guiromélans looks up at Dagnin, who shakes his head, “I’ve never fought with such a thing.  Never ever, ever, ever, ever.”

“Have you ever fought against one?”

The Ehrech knight chews on his moustache nervously and then shrugs, “I can try…  I try.”

Guiromélans gestures to the section of the wall where a set of Ehrech sabers are displayed.  Dagnin examines each before selecting one.  Standard issue for most Medianist knights—especially among the Ehrech and EroBernac—the sabers are long and curved, not unlike a Raven’s, though far from the same quality.

Guiromélans watches the man’s body language change as Dagnin returns.  Now armed, he stands somewhat straighter—his torso is kept turned slightly, to present a smaller target for attack—his pace and eyes are a little more wary, a little more hungry.  Guiromélans sees glimpses of the old Ehrech knight in him.

As Dagnin settles into en-guarde, Guiromélans slowly raises the bwyell.  “Think of the bwyell as something of a spatha,” he says to both Balen and Dagnin.  “A cing would hack at his opponent in much the same way.”

Without further ceremony, Guiromélans swings at Dagnin, performing a series of basic spatha attacks, feints, and stabs.  A look of panic quickly crosses the older knight’s face as he fends off the chopping strikes.  With a sudden howl of fear, he drops the sword and cowers.  Guiromélans stops the bwyell’s blade inches from the man’s breast.

Setting the axe down, he picks up the saber and returns it to Dagnin.  “I—I’m sorry, so sorry!” Dagnin moans, “I can’t, can’t, can’t!  C—can’t!”

“What are you apologizing for?” Guiromélans asks quietly, still offering the saber.

“I can’t fight!  I—”

“We’re not fighting, Dagnin,” Guiromélans corrects.  “There is no danger here.  Trust in my control, I shall not harm you.  And from what I’ve just seen, I can trust in yours.”

In truth, Guiromélans is impressed.  From what he’s just seen, Dagnin is a far better swordsman than he’s ever let on.  If he can get him to fight, they might actually have some fun here.

“Not f—fighting?” Dagnin wonders.

Guiromélans gestures with the saber he still holds.  “This is a good sword.  It bore my attacks well.  If you don’t wish to keep it, fine, but please do me the favor of helping me instruct my young squire here?”

Dagnin glances down at his sword and then back at Guiromélans.  With a weak smile, he nods and straightens.  Slowly, he takes the blade back.  “God says!  God says!  Sweet words, calm, calm…  Yes.”

After another pause, he settles into his en-guarde.

Guiromélans turns back to Balen to hide his smile.  Fire still burns in the old knight.  He hopes he can fan the ember into a blaze.  “You recognize those moves?” he asks the boy.

Balen nods, “Yäh!  Just likes a spatha!”

“Close enough at least.  The difference being that you hold a bwyell with two hands rather than one.  That means your blows are delivered with greater force, but some of your cross-body cuts are going to be a little limited.  That is a weakness you must compensate for.”

Guiromélans runs his thumb along the edge of the broadest part of the axe.  “Those moves use this part of the weapon, the strongest part, meant for cleaving and bludgeoning.”  His fingers now explore the point and inner curve.  “But with these parts, you can stab, draw cut, even disarm and dismember.  The Bracks of the past used the hook-like part for attacking men on horse, to sever the legs of the riders or the steeds as they passed.  Such attacks required a great deal of skill and finesse to accomplish successfully.”

“And bravery!” Balen chirps.

“Yes.”  Guiromélans’s eyes meet Dagnin’s.  “We shall start slowly.”

Guiromélans begins simply, teaching both Balen and Dagnin the moves and the appropriate counters.  Balen devours the scene with his eyes.  Slowly, their speed increases, and Guiromélans speaks less and less.

As Dagnin’s confidence grows, he relaxes, his speed increases, his technique improves.  Though he has never faced a bwyell before, he quickly requires little coaching from Guiromélans.  His saber flashes as if disconnected from his slight frame, meeting each of Guiromélans’s attacks.  He is a brilliantly intuitive fighter, and the moves seem to come naturally to him.

Quickly, Dagnin’s swordsmanship is more than Guiromélans’s limited experience with the bwyell can match, and the Raven has to tap techniques from other disciplines.  He smiles as he sees the light growing in the old knight’s eyes.  In deed, he begins to see the man as he was before the Masks destroyed him.

They have both worked up a healthy sweat when Guiromélans plays his final trump.  With a spin meant to draw an attack, he catches Dagnin’s saber in the hook and twists it from his hand.  The sword pinwheels through the air and buries itself into the top of the great table.

Guiromélans moves in to finish the duel, and then it is his turn to be surprised.  Dagnin scoops up a stool and throws it.  Guiromélans instinctively bats it away, but as he tries to bring his axe back into play, he is driven backwards by a healthy kick to the stomach.  Like a flash, Dagnin leaps onto the table and wrenches his sword free.

The two knights stare at each other and then lower their weapons.

Guiromélans nods, “Thank you, Dagnin!  Excellent!”

Dagnin smiles as he climbs down from the table.  “God burns!  I burn!  Bringer of death, Hell’s hatred!” he exclaims happily, trying to catch his breath.  “I like this sword!  It is much like the one I lost on the island!”

Even as the shadow of recollection falls across Dagnin’s face, Guiromélans deftly changes the subject.  “Do you see, Balen?  The bwyell is an effective weapon… or at least it can be in the right hands.”

The boy approaches again and runs his fingers along its haft and across the blade.  “I like this one!” he whispers.

Guiromélans smiles, “I thought you might.  We will cover it more often then.  A knight should be skilled in all weapons but a master in at least two.  For you, it will be the saber and the bwyell.”

“Yä’ll teach me how tä fight with it?”

“As much as I know,” Guiromélans nods, “and then we’ll make up new tricks together.”

Gingerly, Balen tests the big axe’s weight.  “I knows how I’d fight the alfs with this,” he hisses.  “Chop, chop!  Just like a tree!”

“Alfs, yes, we’ve already covered.  But the Bracks and the Muttese and even the Ehrech.  They all fight differently, all with their own tricks.”

Balen glances past Dagnin and nods at the three Söderkarl.  “And the Söderkarl?”

Guiromélans looks back at them.  The huge karls, tired though they are, have watched Guiromélans and Dagnin’s duel with much amusement.  “What of them?”

“Yer goin’ tä teach me their tricks too?”

Guiromélans meets the ridder’s eyes and nods, “Oh, yes.  Of course.”

“Yäh?  Yä knows their tricks too?”

“I know a few.”

“Yä used their tricks when yä helped them beat the udyronde, uh?”

“Every people have their ways.  Some are good, some are not.  The battle for the stead was a hard one.  I did what I could to help carry the day.”

“Like their guns?”

Guiromélans looks back at Balen with surprise, “Guns?”

“Yäh!  All yer Söderkarl had guns with them, but accordin’ tä yä, they only used them once!”

Guiromélans looks back at the karls.  The trio is now listening intently.  Do they speak Palpin?  “If there is one thing I have tried to teach you, Balen,” Guiromélans says carefully, “is that every people has their own way of fighting.  If you are to fight against or alongside them, you must know the tactics they prefer, which they dislike, and what they absolutely will NOT do.  A Raven must take all these into account and plan his strategy appropriately.”

He gestures down to the battle-axe Balen is cradling, “Beyond chariots and the occasional rare cing, Bracks do not use horses in battle.  They prefer to use them only for transportation and then dismount before fighting.  Hence, the hook on the bwyell.  Hence, the absence of curved swords.  Hence, the proliferation of spears among the Brackish cottars.”

Guiromélans gestures back towards the three Söderkarl, “Bracks prefer longbows.  In battle, they will stand at range and enjoy their relatively quick rate of fire.  The Söderkarl, however, prefer crossbows and rifles.  They have little use for firearms once a battle is joined.  They will fire a single volley on the first charge and then rely solely on the power of their swords and halberds.”

“And yä knew this?” Balen asks.

“In the battle for Mostheath, yes, I knew they would fire their rifles once and then turn to their swords.  For whatever tactics I devised, I had to take these things into account.”

“But yä knows some of their ideas are wrong!  Dumb!  How do yä gets them tä do only the cäll things?”

“Don’t ask me questions whose answers you already know.”

Balen frowns, “What—”

“What have I taught you?” Guiromélans chides, “Think!  Remember your studies of the Certu.  Speak the words of Hoël when he addressed the Drungi of Prum.”

Balen stares at Guiromélans in shocked silence.  Slowly, he begins to recite, “To speak the truth is to enlighten the soul…  But for those with the stain of sin and ignorance, that light can burn…  Reveal the Truth carefully to the ignorant, steer the thoughts of naïve, guide the actions of the childlike.”

Guiromélans smiles, “Exactly.”

“So impressed!” Dagnin murmurs quietly in Ehrech.  “Turning the barbarian boy into a Medianist squire.  To turn cold iron into steel!”

“CHILDLIKE are we?”

The ridder had moved so swiftly, so quietly, Guiromélans never saw him coming.  Now he stands over the northern knights, his eyes glittering in the firelight.  It takes Guiromélans a couple seconds to realize that he has spoken in Palpi.  Palpi and not Söderkarl.  This man has heard and understood every word they’ve said.  It seems these Söderkarl aren’t as provincial as he thought.  It is too bad Baldruus isn’t here to rue this moment.

“My apologies, karl, if you have been offended,” Guiromélans says, switching smoothly to Söderkarl, “but these are the words of the holiest Prophet Hoël.  As I am sure you already know, the opinions expressed in his writings can tend towards the rather indiscreet.”

“Hoël was wise,” the ridder growls, “for among the degkarl, he was the only true warrior, but your use of his words takes many liberties.”

Guiromélans bows his head, “My apologies again.  I did not realize you were a religious scholar.  The dreng recites from my teachings, and I admit my education in the monastery of Gaph was unforgivably brief and inadequate.”

“Then you should take greater care with the things you teach the young!” the ridder snaps, jabbing Guiromélans’s chest with a meaty finger.

Guiromélans looks the larger man in the eye, “I teach only what I know.  To do more would be either dishonest or divine.  I am neither.”

“And so you claim to know the ways of the Söderkarl?” the ridder spits, rising again with anger.  “Care you to prove it?”

Guiromélans glances at Dagnin.  The Ehrech knight is pale, his free hand trembling.  The hand gripping the saber is steady and relaxed.

“Dagnin and I are knights of Ehre,” Guiromélans says.  “We study the ways of war and the ways of our enemies.”

“You call Söderkarl your enemies?” the astonished karl shouts.

“You were once, not so long ago.”

“Shall we see, then, how fresh the lessons are?  Show us how childlike we are!”

Quite suddenly, the ridder’s long sword is drawn, its tip hovers before the Raven’s face.  Guiromélans doesn’t move or flinch.  Instead, he looks at Dagnin.  “Friend, Dagnin,” he says, “I admit to being a bit tired after our sparring.  Perhaps you can meet with this good ridder and provide Balen with some further examples?”

Dagnin swallows and eyes the leering karl.  “An exercise?” he asks.

Guiromélans looks back at the ridder, “This is nej einvigi or holme-gång?  A simple exercise?”

The big Söderkarl smiles, “A simple exercise, jâ.”

“A simple exercise,” Guiromélans says to Dagnin.  “Saber versus long sword.  Most importantly, show Balen the importance of understanding your foe.”

“Oooh, nej, nej.  God would be displeased.”  Dagnin moans, clutching at his head, “The Lord would be pleased.  What to do?  What to do?”

After a long pause, the Ehrech knight sighs deeply.  “Jâ, jâ, Guiromélans, but only because your fatigue is due to my over-exuberance.  Try too hard, now I must fight.”

“I’ll not fight a lunatic!” the Söderkarl says uncertainly.

“Do not worry, friend ridder,” Guiromélans promises, “he won’t embarrass you too much!”

The ridder bares his teeth and tightens his grip on his sword.  Guiromélans smiles and steps aside, leading Balen away.

“Yer not tired,” Balen hisses quietly.

“Reveal the truth carefully,” Guiromélans whispers.

The knight and ridder square off, Dagnin slowly sinking into his en-guarde as the Söderkarl circles him.  The time among the Söderkarl has benefited the old knight.  Their rich food has filled-out his meager frame.  His limbs are no longer skeletal.  His eyes and skin are no longer dull and lifeless.  But he still seems a mismatch for the towering brawn of the karl.  This truth is not lost on anyone, especially Dagnin’s opponent.

Without warning, the ridder leaps forward, cutting long and low at the knight.  Dagnin doesn’t seem to be surprised, and he steps forward to meet the attack.  Their blades meet twice as they pass, Dagnin ricocheting away from the blows.  The Söderkarl laughs, arrogantly tossing his sword from one hand to the other and turning away to mug for his comrades.  They laugh at his antics and beat the top of the table with their fists.

“He boasts for his friends,” Guiromélans whispers to Balen, “Hiding his fear, he hopes to diminish his enemy.  Hopes to shatter Dagnin’s confidence.”

Dagnin laughs overly loud, and with a glance at Guiromélans, he returns to his en-guarde.  His sword points steadily at the Söderkarl’s back, though tears stream down his face.  “I have killed him!” he moans, “I have killed him!”

Balen frowns at Guiromélans.  Guiromélans nods his head, “He turned his back to his enemy.  Had the fight been real, Dagnin would have slain him right there.”

Dagnin’s moans cause the ridder to spin around.  He stares at the knight’s saber and sneers.  Twirling his long blade, he attacks Dagnin again and again.  The smaller knight parries and feints, never presenting the Söderkarl with a solid target.  Always moving away just before the weight of the blow lands.

Guiromélans can feel the frustration build within the ridder.  Fighting with Dagnin is like battling smoke.  His hardest attacks never strike anything solid, and so he is always off-balance.  With a roar, the karl lunges.  So smoothly it appears as if in slow motion, Dagnin steps forward again, the flat of his saber’s blade slapping against the ridder’s belly.  The Söderkarl gasps as his knees buckle.  Another mild slap across the back of the head sends him tumbling into the stools.

“Another deathblow,” Guiromélans murmurs.

The ridder moans in an exhausted and beaten heap.  Slowly, he rolls onto his seat and looks up at Dagnin.  His eyes glitter, but his mouth splits into a grin.  At last, he sighs, “You fight well, ridder.”

Dagnin steps closer and nods, “As do you.  Fight more?  More?  More!”

Smiling, the Söderkarl extends his hand up to him.  Dagnin hesitates, and then his mouth tightening, he extends his arm and takes the man’s hand.  The ridder sneers, and with a mighty jerk, he throws Dagnin to the ground, driving him into the legs of the great table.

Dagnin lays stunned and bleeding on the floor.  Leaping to his feet, the Söderkarl laughs with as much confidence as he can muster.  “Enjoyed your lesson?” he shouts at Guiromélans, “Much good the knowing of our ways has done you!”

“You have taught us a valuable lesson, ridder, thank you.”  Guiromélans bows, and the ridder limps away with his huskarls.

Without another word, Guiromélans walks over and helps the stricken knight to his feet.  Blood runs from a gash in his forehead, and his arms are shaking.  Guiromélans sighs as he examines the wound.  “I think the lessons are over for the day,” he murmurs.

“Yä lost!” Balen exclaims.

Guiromélans nods as he hands Dagnin a cloth.  “Yes, he did.  Wisely.”

Dagnin smiles as he presses it against the flow of blood.  Tears still stream from his face.  “Friend Guiromélans, tell me something, something,” he says in Ehrech.  “A little something?”

“Ask, and I will answer as best as I can.”

“For how long were you raised with the monks in Gaph?”

Guiromélans smiles back, “Fifteen years.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Balen insists.  In the rooms of their böth, the winds of the storm are merely distant moans.  Guiromélans carefully leans the borrowed bwyell against the wall and takes a seat.

Dagnin examines his blood-soaked cloth and the presses it against his head again.  “I still bleed,” he murmurs.  “If I bleed and live, do I not become stronger?  If I continue to bleed, do I not weaken and die?”

Guiromélans nods and calls for a thrall.  “Bring Baldruus here,” he tells the slave when he arrives.  “This ridder needs healing.”

The thrall bows and scurries away.

“I don’t understand!” Balen repeats, “Yä were supposed tä beat him!”

“He did,” Guiromélans says.  “Three times over.”

The older knight smiles knowingly as he caresses the sheathed saber.  Guiromélans is pleased to see Dagnin has chosen to keep the sword.  Little by little, the man’s soul is healing.

“Know your enemy,” Dagnin laughs as a trickle of blood drips from the tip of his nose, “enemy, enemy…”

“Our friend, Dagnin, knew the only way to win that match was to lose.  For any other outcome, the ridder would have demanded blood to save face.”

“Yä knew the Söderkarl was goin’ tä fight dirty?”

“All fighting is dirty,” Guiromélans corrects.  “Never forget that.  When in battle, you do what you need to do to win, to survive.”

Balen chews at a fingernail as he mulls this over, staring hard at the bwyell.

Suddenly, he says, “Yer goin’ tä teach me how tä fights like a Raven?”

Guiromélans nods, “Yes, God willing.”

“Teach me the bwyell and the saber?”

“Yes…” Guiromélans says, sensing that he’s being carefully manipulated by the boy.

“There’s more tä bein’ a Cathubodua than fightin’ with swords, yäh?”

“What are you asking, Balen?”

“There were a lot of guns in that hall,” Balen observes brightly.  “Maybe yä could teach me how tä shoot?”

“Shoot?” Guiromélans wonders.  “Learn the rifle and the pistol?  Are you old enough?”

“He is strong,” Dagnin suggests, “Strong Brackish boy.  So strong!”

Guiromélans nods, “Strength and discipline are important in the use of firearms.”  He looks down at Balen, “You must cultivate both.”

“How?”

Guiromélans considers this for a moment.  Then he stands and picks up the bwyell.  “Here,” he says, handing it to the boy.  “Hold it away from your body, arms extended but slightly bent at the elbow.”

He helps Balen position his arms properly and then steps away.  In seconds, they begin to tremble from the strain.  “Hold it this way for 2 minutes—then 5—then longer.  When you can hold it for 10, we will begin to teach you how to shoot.  This will build up the strength you need to load, to aim, to fire with accuracy.  Doing this will prove to me you have the discipline to handle such weapons.”

Balen struggles for a few moments longer before surrendering and dropping the weapon.  He looks at Guiromélans despairingly.  “Don’t worry,” the Raven assures, “It isn’t as difficult as it seems right now.  You will do it soon enough… if you have the heart.”

He tosses Dagnin a fresh cloth and then looks at Balen.  “In the meantime… come tomorrow, we’ll continue your saber exercises, and if the weather permits, we’ll do some riding as well.”

“But I want tä learn more now!” Balen sulks.

“Practice patience,” Guiromélans intones didactically, “so you may share in the sufferings of Kahedin, blessed-be-His-name.”

“The day has hardly begun,” Dagnin observes.  “The sun has just risen!  Does he sleep now?  Shall he waken?”

“The light of the day—what little God chooses to provide us in these old lands—we shall use in the studies of the Latria and Dulia.  The strength of your soul is just as important as the strength of your body.”

Balen glances quickly at Dagnin’s shaking hands.  The look is quick, furtive, but Guiromélans still notices it.  “You will take note,” Guiromélans adds sternly, “of the trials endured by others far more worthy than you, and you will learn by their example!”  He nods at Dagnin, “Perhaps for starters, the noble Sir Dagnin here would care to tell you of his struggles against the Masks?”

The knight’s pale face grows a little paler, but he nods nevertheless.  Balen sighs quietly.  “Now, go!” Guiromélans orders, waving the boy away, “Continue your studies of Pennenc.  Once Baldruus has attended to him, Dagnin will come and help you.”

With a baleful glare at the bwyell, Balen bolts from the room.  Guiromélans sighs and picks the weapon up from where Balen dropped it.  “Have you ever had children?” he asks.

Dagnin shakes his head, much more sobered now.  “No.  None that I know of, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But I was married, married.  Beautiful woman, fair, pale, kind, quiet.  God smiled on me on that day.  Perfect, perfection for the arrogant knight.”

“What became of her?”

Almost immediately, Guiromélans realizes his mistake.  Dagnin’s washed-out eyes become moist again.  His hands tremble even more.  “I—I don’t know, no, know!  Gone, I left her!  Gone, I left my lands!  Seeking fame!  Seeking danger!  Then the Masks took me.  Never again will I see her.”

“I’m sorry,” Guiromélans says.

“I—I still remember her face.  Crying, crying, please don’t go.  Watching me leave her, watching me ride away.”

“Perhaps now you can go back to her.”

Dagnin nods and suddenly regains his composure.  “I wish to thank you, Raven.”

“Oh?  For what?”

“Your help.  Your support.  Your confidence.  This is a difficult place for a Coward Knight.  You make it… easier.”

“Easier?” Guiromélans frowns, “Make what easier?”

Dagnin clenches his eyes shut, grinding the backs of his fists into them.  His whole body shakes with frustration.  “These Söderkarl!  They have little patience for old broken warriors like me.  They call me ergi and feiging.”  He looks down at the floor, his arms dropping to his sides, “It is difficult being the wet nurse for a barbarian’s bastard.  It is difficult being a coward in the halls of heroism.”

“Then I must remind you now what I told you before.  Cowardice is more than merely the absence of courage.  You have had your courage stripped away from you by the Masks.  You merely have to find it again.  It was lost but never destroyed.  These Söderkarl make big noises, but I think you’ve proven yourself their equal today.”  Guiromélans smiles, “Brave men can live well anywhere.  A coward dreads all things.  Or so says Saint Ragnvald.”

Dagnin is chuckling when Baldruus enters.  “I hear there was some wounding this morning,” the sorcerer says wearily, stilling rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  “One or both of you had better be missing at least one internal organ for you to wake me at this hour.”

“Sir Dagnin got the best of a ridder this morning,” Guiromélans explains as the sorcerer examines Dagnin’s wound, “and for that, he paid the price.”

“A ridder?” Baldruus exclaims with surprise as he begins to summon, “What, have you two switched places or something?”

“I must admit,” Dagnin says softly in Ehrech, “It was good to hold a sword again, to feel its weight in battle.”  He sounds more lucid to Guiromélans than he ever has before.

“I am pleased,” Guiromélans answers.  “I had hoped you would feel that way.”

“I do speak Ehrech, you know,” Baldruus interjects.

“I—I think I would like to be a better man again… a better knight.”

“And how would you like to do that?”

“If you think you’re keeping secrets,” Baldruus sighs as he finishes his casting and stands back up, “You’re not.”

“I would rather not be mocked,” Dagnin says as he gingerly touches the fresh pink flesh on his forehead.  “It is best if a knight is not mocked.”

“The Söderkarl have high standards for their ridders.  How do you expect to meet them?”

Dagnin shakes his head.  “I don’t know.”

“Courage seems from courageous deeds,” Baldruus offers.

“What does that mean?” Guiromélans asks.

“They are planning a hunt this morning—“

“They are always hunting,” Guiromélans sighs.

“Yes, well, they enjoy hunting,” Baldruus says, looking at Dagnin, “and they admire the men who hunt well.”

The older knight meets Guiromélans’s eyes and smiles.

 

The riders burst through the trees in an explosion of snow and branches.  The lead jaktfadir sounds his great, curved horn, its rich tone heralding their arrival, serving as their vanguard through the woods.

Snowdrifts pile high wherever there is shelter from the wind.  The screaming, bitter wind carries it through the trees, stacking it heavily upon the riders.  Never have the Söderkarl seen such weather so early in the year.

Great hunting hounds, bred from dire wolves for strength and size, lead the way, baying madly as they seek the scent of their prey.  In many places, the paths of the hunted are clear.  Creatures such as wooly rhino or great elk don’t bother to hide their tracks.

The huskarls and ridders lead the way, their great warhorses steaming in the chill air.  Each is accompanied by two or more karls and a handful of bönder.  Guiromélans is surprised by how many have joined the jakt.  The times are grim indeed, and many are seeking to raise their spirits with the joys of the hunt.  Riders extend on all sides of him, most of their numbers lost to his sight in the trees, but their shouts and horns are easily heard.

The jakt is a necessary diversion.  The herds of walking meat—as Putras calls them—have begun their northern migration early.  If Hardanger is to spare its lands from destruction, the wholesale slaughter of the animals is necessary.  Many Söderkarl are eager to take up their weapons and answer the call.  At best, they can cull the herds to a manageable size.  At worst, they can hope to drive them out of Thane Bolwerk’s lands where they will become the troubles of another thane or jarl.

Most Söderkarl in the jakt have grouped into large parties, eagerly seeking great beasts like aurauchs or wooly rhino or black swine to wet the blades of their spears and halberds.  They seek only the largest, fiercest of prey.  The Söderkarl never do anything small.

Guiromélans and Dagnin ride together, accompanied only by Balen and a sole böndi porter.  Their rifles and slender javelins seek smaller, more nimble prey.  Ehrech hunts have always been more of a delicate dance than a thuggish slaughter.  It is not the weight of the carcass you return home with that matters; it is the skill with which you killed it.

As they peel away from the others, exploring more virgin woodlands, the sounds of the rest of the hunt quickly fade in the snow-darkened air.  The trees are tighter here, with less room for their horses to maneuver.

Despite commands to the contrary, Balen rides far ahead of the others.  Guiromélans shakes his head and tries to warn him back, but the boy doesn’t listen.  His youthful exuberance and natural skill in the saddle demand an outlet.  Laughing and shouting, Balen winds through the trees at breakneck speed, ducking perilously under low-hanging branches.

Whether or not to invite Balen to the hunt was a difficult decision.  Certainly, he enjoys his time on horseback.  Certainly, their chances of flushing prey are much reduced with all the noise he makes.  Certainly, Caidryn was furious when she heard.  Guiromélans smiles.  He is glad he made the right decision.

After some minutes, Guiromélans sees movement in the darkness beneath some trees.  Angling closer and slowing to a walk, he is shocked to see a trio of dire wolves foraging in the snow.  The canines are huge and powerful—larger even than a man—and their pale eyes betray no fear of the Raven’s spear.  Guiromélans pulls his horse up short and summons Dagnin with a shrill whistle.  Dagnin and their böndi immediately reply with whistles of their own.  At the approach of the other horses, the great wolves grudgingly lope away.

Guiromélans dismounts and investigates what the wolves had found.  Buried in the early snow, he finds corpses, human corpses, chilly, dull, and gray.  They look to be Söderkarl herr, probably from Gylling.  He cannot tell how they died, though their bodies are naked and worried by scavengers.

Oblivious to the grim scene nearby, Balen rides by, taunting the Raven.

“Don’t tire that horse, boy, lest you want to walk home!” Guiromélans shouts back, “Remember, he’s got to carry you all the way back to Hardanger!”

Balen mutters something rude and Brackish under his breath but obediently slows his horse to a walk.

When Dagnin and the böndi arrive, Guiromélans raises his hand for silence and listens.  There is no sound of the hunt in the air.  Guiromélans looks at the böndi, “You know where we are?”

The wizened man nods and points, “That way is Hardanger.  There, Dalheath.  There, the Black Fée road.”

Guiromélans nods, satisfied.  “Pay attention to where we are.  Whatever happens, we must be back in Hardanger before nightfall.”

The böndi bows in his saddle.  He needs no convincing.  By day, men and wolves rule these woods.  By night, it is ruled by the udyronde and draugr.  Like all herr of Gylling, he knows this all too well.

“I just saw some dire wolves,” Guiromélans says, gesturing in the direction of their retreat.  “They’ve found some bodies for us.”

“Hmmn,” the böndi nods, dismounting and crouching by the dead, “The great wolves are not the most skilled with the jakt.  As often as not, they choose to feed at the tables others have laid.”

Guiromélans frowns, “Forgive my ignorance of these beasts—we have not dire wolves in my homeland—but are you saying these wolves don’t kill people?”

The böndi squints up at him and shakes his head.  “Nej.  I’ve never heard of dire wolves killing any herr.  Maybe the occasional traveler, but not this many.  Not all at once.”

Guiromélans gestures past him, “Then surely they didn’t do that either, jâ?”

The böndi stands and looks.  Deeper in the dark glade, there are bones, countless bones, scraps of flesh and skin, cloth, and bodies.  The Söderkarl’s jaw drops.  “Protect our flame!” he gasps.

Guiromélans grunts at the heretical oath, “This is the good your Thunderer serves you?”

When the Söderkarl falls silent, Guiromélans pushes through the branches and steps into the clearing.  He is stunned by what surrounds him.

How many dead are here?  It is nearly impossible to tell.  Arms, legs, broken skulls.  His saber gently nudges pelvises aside as he walks, his boots crushing fingers like eggshells.  He tries to count the dead by the skulls he sees, but he gives up at 20.

It is a den, a lair, the stark dead becoming older and more gnawed the deeper he goes.  He crouches at the center and shakes his head.  The cold mutes the smell, but now that he’s surrounded with it, he can easily detect the stench of rot and the musty presence of a big animal.  Everywhere, he finds long, heavy hairs, layered among the dead, tangled in the trees and underbrush.  He picks some up and tests their wiry strength.  Therm hairs?  He cannot tell.

Dagnin steps in and almost immediately recoils.  “By the Fire!” he gasps.

“By the Ice,” Guiromélans answers.  He gestures past the older knight towards Balen, who is already watching them with concern, wondering what they’ve found.  “Don’t let him in here.”

Dagnin nods and, taking one last look around, gratefully retreats.

Slowly, carefully, the böndi creeps into the lair, gingerly picking through the bones with his thveita knife.

“I see Söderkarl here,” he murmurs, “I see udyronde.  I see draugr.  I see others too.”

“You are jaktfadir,” Guiromélans says, “These lands and woods are known to you.  What kind of animal would do such a thing as this?  Udyronde?”

The böndi shakes his head as he picks up the tip of a huskarl’s geirr.  “I know of nej animal that would do this… other than an udyronde.”  He looks around him helplessly, “But so many!  Not even an udyronde…  And to kill their own kind?”

“Man does so,” Guiromélans nods, “Why not the beasts?”

He stabs thoughtfully into the hairy bedding at his feet.  With a metallic clink, his blade makes contact with something solid.  Not bone.  Possibly metal?  Frowning, he crouches and gently begins to clear away the hair.  Nestled amongst the thickest, he finds a small ceramic object.  A dark chill seeps into his fingers as he looks upon the same evil rune, dyed red with old blood.

This evil is here too?

With a sneer of rage, he crushes the rune in his fist.  As he lets the pieces fall, the forest around him seems to gasp.  Despite the moaning of the wind, the air becomes silent with a new presence.  The böndi looks at him as he senses the change as well.

Guiromélans knows now, they are not alone.  The master of this place of slaughter has returned.

“Tell me, good böndi,” Guiromélans murmurs quietly as he stands and draws his sword, “What is the condition of your soul?  Does God smile upon you, or have you turned Him away with all your Thunderer vulgarities?  Are you a brave man?  Would you care to tempt death this day, or would you rather sleep in safety for a few nights longer?  Answer me quickly, lest the decision be made for you.”

The Söderkarl appears shaken as his eyes dart around.  Slowly, he takes in the countless dead surrounding him, straining to hear that which stalks them now.  At last, his eyes drop, “I wish to live a few days longer, Korp.”

Guiromélans nods.  “Dagnin!” he shouts, pushing his way out of the lair.  “Mount up!”

The Ehrech knight is holding the bridle to Balen’s horse.  Now he nods as he rushes to do as Guiromélans ordered.  “What is it—it?  What?” he stammers.

“You and the böndi take Balen, head back to Hardanger!” Guiromélans barks as he takes the reins of his own steed.  “Tell them of this place!  Bring them!  Bring Aybert, for this place will need to be blessed and cleansed.”

“What abouts yä?” Balen asks, suddenly sensing the fear around him.

Guiromélans smiles.  “Make haste to Hardanger.  Return swiftly with friends, and I will be fine.”

Gratefully, the böndi leaps into his saddle, and with an ashamed nod to Guiromélans, he leads the others away at a gallop.

As he listens to the sounds of his friends growing fainter and then disappearing in the noises of the storm, Guiromélans wonders what God has in store for him now.  He sighs.  Time enough to find out, he supposes.  He stares into the eyes of his horse.  It shows its whites, its ears flicking, its haunches trembling—it senses their stalker nearby as well—but it is a good horse and stands its ground with him.

Slowly, he leads his horse around the lair.  He forgoes his light hunting rifle—somehow, he suspects it lacks the firepower to bring this beast down—and instead, he brandishes his saber, holding it low and away from him, ready to brace against any animal’s charge.  Against the snow, the broken blade shines like white fire.

He listens, as much with his whole body as he does with his ears.  The snow-heavy wind masks much, but between its gasps, he hears… something.  He feels the crunch of the snow beneath its heavy paws.  He can feel its black eyes on him.  Its breath hisses through long teeth, the wind whipping away any fog that might betray it.

He can feel the heat of his body and that of his horse radiating away from them, a veritable beacon to the predator.  He calls to it silently, inviting it to come closer.  He grins as his body trembles with the thrill of true fear, the first he’s felt since he faced the Masks.  It is a good thing to feel, like an old friend.  Never is he more alive then when he is about to die.  Such are the sentiments of a Raven.

Something moves softly in the trees behind him.  Guiromélans turns and waits.  His horse whickers nervously, and he pats its neck as he listens.  There is nothing more.  A diversion?  Can it be toying with him?  Such are the tactics of the therm, but not of a stupid beast.  The wind rises and falls, snow blurs his vision.  Was that it?  Did he just see it moving?  Were those its long, leaping strides?  Or was it merely the waving of the branches?  A trick of the snow and light and darkness?

Moving further away from the lair, he finds the tracks.  He knows little of the art of tracking; he is no jaktfadir.  Dagnin is the hunter, not he.  The animal is unknown to him, but its paws are large and heavy, larger even than a man’s hand, and its steps are long.  Guiromélans looks around him again.  Whatever it is, it is large, larger than a man.  This is no wolf, no dire wolf.  Quite possibly a therm, but the tracks seem somehow… wrong.

No, it is not likely that a therm like Putras made these tracks… but there are many, many different kinds of beastmen.

He moves and circles around the lair, keeping mindful of the tracks, ignoring the tricks and distractions.  He can feel the animal following him, hunting him, taunting him.  It moves closer, it retreats.  Guiromélans does not fall into the trap, he does not let his fear master his actions.  He merely waits, moving only when he senses its location, always moving closer.  He knows he cannot outrun it.  He can only hope to force a confrontation, one where either he or it will be killed.

He hears the beast chuffing, growling.  It is close.  He is nearly certain it is keeping hidden just beyond his sight, on the other side of the glade.  He moves slowly, carefully, into the circle of death.

Suddenly, his ears pick up a noise.  Soft at first, it is nearly swallowed by the scream of the storm.  Adrenaline surges as he abruptly senses a huge presence behind him, much closer, moving much faster than he could have predicted.  Behind him.  How could it move so quickly?

The Raven wheels around desperately, trying to face this unexpected attack.

The huge horse barrels past him, through the clearing, scattering bones and hair everywhere.  Even as he tries to raise his saber, the butt of a spear collides with his collarbone and sends him sprawling onto his back.

Scrambling to his feet, he spins around to see many familiar bearded Söderkarl faces.  Asmund leers down as he turns his horse around.  “How goes your hunt, degkarl?” he bellows happily, the butt of his spear prodding at Guiromélans’s stinging shoulder, “You’ll never bring down anything of size out of your saddle like that!”

The Söderkarl bellow with laughter.

Speechless with rage, Guiromélans turns away.  Distantly, he hears the beast rapidly retreating into the forest.