Lady Dårlig’s chambers are just outside of the main hall.  They are plush, perhaps even garish by EroBernac standards.  They are quiet, peaceful, comfortable.  The orrery in the corner steadily creaks out the minutes of the day, its rods and disks spinning the tiny planets, suns, and moons over and around the world.  This is a place of quiet contemplation, a place where the Thane and his lady can escape from the turmoil of the herr-möte.

But tonight these rooms are rocked with fury.

“The fool!” Guiromélans shouts, still shaking with rage.

Dårlig merely stares at him, listening, her hands carefully folded into her lap.

“He would not listen to me, and now our opportunity is lost!”

“How was he to know, Korp?” she says at last.

“Because I told him!” Guiromélans retorts, slamming his fist into a table.  “It was there!  We had found its lair!  With those men and horses, we might have been able to capture it, kill it!”

“Might I point out,” Dårlig says, “That he searched that area thoroughly, and while the dead you found were most distressing, Asmund found nej sign of this creature you described.”

“The tracks were trampled by his oafish men and buried in the snow,” Guiromélans snarls, “but the hair!  It was everywhere!  How could he deny that?”

“You did say you saw dire wolves there?” Dårlig asks smoothly, “Asmund says the hair came from them and nothing else.”

“Then Asmund is a fool!”

“Asmund is a jaktfadir, among the best in Hardanger.  He is also my husband’s foster father and my chief advisor.  He is the law-speaker to the All-Thing.  He is a renowned warrior, and yet undefeated in battle.  He is wise.  Wiser perhaps than you.  You would do well to remember that.”

Guiromélans struggles for breath.  He realizes he is behaving badly.  Closing his eyes, he masters his anger.  “And what of the rune I found?”

Dårlig looks down at her lap, “You say you destroyed it?”

“Yes.”

“So there is little more we can do.”

“Are you implying Asmund’s dire wolves had some use for this rune?” Guiromélans demands.

“Nej,” she sighs.  “But perhaps it belonged to one of the dead?  Have you considered that?”

Guiromélans steps closer and looks her in the eyes.  “Do you want these troubles to end, Lady Dårlig?”

She laughs sadly, wiping away a tear as she shakes her head.  “Dear Korp, there is so much that demands my attention.  The war with the udyronde.  The dead that walk the night.  My missing people, and my missing husband.  And that’s not to mention the troubles that have arrived with our good Justiciar and the circling korps that seek my hand and my husband’s lands, the korps that seek to peck clean the corpse of my dear husband even before his body is found.  I have little interest in phantom beasts and mysterious runes.”

“But they might all be related!” Guiromélans insists.

She nods, “They might.  But we don’t know that for sure, do you?  But I do know that my people will be hungry this winter because of the early freezes.  I do know that my countless enemies will walk this night, and I cannot spare strong men to search in vain for a monster that may or may not exist.  They must remain here and protect our homes and steads.  These are the matters of my concern.  You have driven off the beast—the rune is destroyed—the soil has been cleansed of its corruption.”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “I fear we may have only made things worse.  The creature is clever, it was no mere animal.  We found its lair.  It will move, and it will continue to attack.  It will seek revenge.  It will return.  Jaktfadir or not, Asmund is wrong, Lady, this I know.  That he denies the evidence of his own eyes, I fear he is either lazy or misleading you.”

“There are few men I trust, my Korp,” Dårlig says stiffly, “and I place them in positions of importance because I need them there.  Asmund has served me well.  He has served my husband faithfully all his life.  I am not prepared to reject his judgment in lieu of yours.  This disagreement, you must resolve between the two of you.  Resolve it properly, resolve it honorably.  Do not let it poison my home.”

Outside Lady Dårlig’s chambers, the music swells in the main hall.  They hear a shout and cheer as the herr celebrate another successful hunt.

Dårlig lays her hand over Guiromélans’s fist, and when he looks back at her, she is smiling softly.  “Now you must go,” she says, “and join my people.  Quickly before any more rumors of impropriety between the two of us can spread.”

Guiromélans smiles grimly and bows.  “Jâ, my lady.”

 

Fast, heavy Söderkarl music throbs through the great hall.  The huge karls and karlines dance and pound the floor with their feet, sweat trailing off their powerful limbs, soaking through their wadmal clothes.  Tonight, they honor Asmund, for he was the jaktfadir of the hunt.  Of all the hunters, he returned with the greatest kills.

The huskarls parade him about the room, carrying him upon the intermeshed blades of their long swords.  With each shout and cheer, they lift him into the air.  Asmund basks in the adulation, his arms outstretched, his face beaming.  Firelight gleams off his powerful arms and chest and makes the white of his hair and beard glow like a halo.  He is a commanding presence, and tonight, the herr love him as their champion.

Guiromélans sees many familiar faces in this crowd.  Ofeig and Orkning, Captain Dumart and officer Pliamin and other crewmen, even Justiciar Quintian and the monk Aybert.  Baldruus and Caidryn are here as well, and if they are, that means Balen is scurrying somewhere through this forest of legs.

Keeping his head low, Guiromélans moves through the crowds, seeking the exit as quickly as possible.  He is jostled and shoved as he pushes his way through.  He hopes to remain unnoticed.  It is not to be.  Despite his best effort, others recognize him, he begins to hear catcalls, sarcastic appellations of “jaktfadir,” and other snide remarks.

He nearly collides with the bulk of Orkning.  The chamarling stares down at him, arms crossed.  “You were speaking with our Lady?”

Guiromélans looks up at him, weighing the tone of his answer.  “Jâ,” he answers simply, “but I am finished now.”

He tries to push by, but Orkning’s arm blocks his way.  “Alone?  In her room alone?”

“Listen to me,” Guiromélans says sternly, “I am already aware of the risk of rumors.  I am hoping that at least you are wise enough not to spread that which you know not to be true.”

“And is this rumor true?” the huskarl asks.

Guiromélans smiles sardonically, “I assure you.  I have nej interest in your lady, even if her husband is proven dead.”

Orkning’s eyes twitch as he considers this.

“And,” Guiromélans adds, “Lady Dårlig is far too concerned with the current affairs of state to even consider shaming herself or her virtue with a degkarl.”

Orkning smiles at last.  “She is a good karline,” he admits.  “She rules well, better perhaps than even Bolwerk.”

Guiromélans subtly begins to move towards the doors again, and this time, Orkning doesn’t block him.  “She has good advisors,” the Raven says, remembering her words, “and she relies on them.  Serve her well, Orkning, and she will serve you well.”

The two walk in silence across the room, Orkning even clearing the way for Guiromélans at points.

The doors nearly within reach, the chamarling suddenly stops him.  “Korp,” he says with some gravity, “What you said of Lady Dårlig’s advisors.  Do you really believe it?”

Guiromélans stares into the other man’s eyes, trying to read the meanings behind the question.  At last he shakes his head, “I am new here, chamarling.  In truth, I know her voices very little.  I would say some are wise, some are not, some have her best interests at heart, and some… perhaps don’t.”

Orkning suddenly smiles broadly.  “Jâ!  They can’t all be like Huld!” he says laughingly.

Guiromélans is momentarily taken aback.  “Why would you say that?”

Orkning suddenly looks confused, his smile fading slightly, “Why… because… she—”

Guiromélans understands what Orkning is getting at, but he doesn’t understand his confusion.  “You mean because she is a häxa?  A witch?  Jâ, I am a Raven, and I have very specific feelings on these matters, jâ.”

Orkning’s eyes look around them, suddenly looking rather uncomfortable.  “I think perhaps you were mis—”

“So, jâ,” he continues carefully.  “In these matter of evil curses and walking dead, a witch would be a natural suspect.”  Guiromélans’s hand touches the reassuring weight of the Median, and he wonders where Orkning’s loyalties truly lay, “but it runs deeper than that…  When I first arrived here, I was direly injured.  She healed me.”  He looks up at the chamarling.  He is looking exceedingly more and more uncomfortable with this conversation.  Evidently, the häxa holds more power here than he expected.  “I have a memory of her, though I know not if it was real or imagined.”

This gets the Söderkarl’s attention.  “A dream?”

Guiromélans nods.  “Of her standing over me.  Mocking me.  Baiting me.  Challenging me to lift the curses over this stead…  It is for this reason that I suspect she knows more of the events occurring in your woods than she will admit.  I know Lady Dårlig does.  What this means, I have yet to devise.  If there are others involved, I do not know.”

Orkning nods slowly, his eyes drifting away from him.  Guiromélans wonders if he’s spoken too much?

“Asmund,” the chamarling grunts.

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Perhaps, maybe.  I doubt it.  He merely hates me.  He may not be the wisest of men, but—”

“Still looking for your terrible new beast, jaktfadir?” a voice behind him mocks.

Baldruus is the expert with the Söderkarl, but Guiromélans is familiar enough with their ways to know that he cannot afford to be made to look foolish or weak.  Amongst the laughter and hoots, he immediately turns away from Orkning to meet the challenge.  And faces a pair of knees.  Slowly looking up, he sees the imposing figure of Asmund standing above him.  The foster father of Thane Bolwerk stands proudly upon the blades of his huskarls, towering over Guiromélans, arms crossed, eyes flashing.

Orkning grunts humorlessly.

Guiromélans bows solemnly, not yielding an inch to the imposing display.  “New beast?  Jâ.  As should you.  The signs were there, Asmund, if you only chose to look.  You chose instead to ignore me, and you choose now to mock me.”

“Jâ, we saw the signs,” Asmund laughs, “How do we know you didn’t kill all those men yourself?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “So many dead, Asmund.  You would mock them?  A poor showing for you, jaktfadir, I’d say.  Any more blood this beast sheds is now on your hands.”  He glances around at the people nearby, “Are you sure you want to discuss this in such a public place?”

“With you, I will always welcome the argument!” Asmund laughs, though now with little humor.  “In such matters, I have nej fear of you!  My tongue is as sharp as my geirr!  Mother wit is ever a faithful friend!  I am always ready to stab at you!”

The old huskarl is drunk and itching for a fight.  Guiromélans can see it in every fiber of his being.  And for some reason tonight, he is eager to oblige.

“A paltry man and poor of mind is he who mocks at all things,” he retorts, his bland manner only emphasizing the taunt.

“Many seem wise who are lacking in wit,” Orkning drawls to both to them.

The room swells with laughter as the Söderkarl cheer the verbal fencing.  Asmund’s face remains frozen in good spirits, but as he kneels down to Guiromélans’s level, his eyes show cold contempt.  “I understand your meaning very well, Korp,” he hisses quietly, so only Guiromélans and few others can hear.

Before Guiromélans can reply, Asmund surges back to his feet and extends his arms to encompass the entire room.  “Brothers and sisters!” he bellows, “Our visiting Korp speaks the words well.  Shall we see how well he fares with the swords?”

The Söderkarl applaud with a loud shout, and before Guiromélans realizes what’s happening, he is caught up by the crowd, karls taking his arms in powerful grips.

“What is this?” Guiromélans shouts to Orkning as he is lifted off his feet.

“It is a small thing,” the chamarling assures.  “A test of strength, of skill, little more.”

“Come!” Asmund shouts as his own karls carry him away.  “We shall embrace in the sword-dance as Thunderer intended!”

The karls around Guiromélans draw their long blades.  Beneath his dangling feet, they interlace them, providing an unsteady dais of naked steel for him to stand upon.  With a shout, they lift him into the air, and Guiromélans pinwheels his arms as he struggles to keep his balance.  Landing harder than he wants, the meshed blades flex and bounce beneath him alarmingly, and he has to plant his hand upon the head of a laughing karl to steady himself.  He takes great care with where he puts his feet.  With one misstep, his leg could slip down between the blades and across their sharp edges.

Guiromélans’s efforts are immensely amusing to the crowd.  As his porters carry him around the room, the laugh and cheer at his efforts to keep his balance.

The music changes tempo, turning to something faster and heavier.  The Söderkarl pound their fists to the beat.  Guiromélans looks around him, unsure of what the change means.  Turning around, he sees a great fist flying towards him.

The Raven is fast, but not fast enough to avoid the blow entirely.  He ducks, Asmund’s fist glancing off his skull and shoulder.  Clutching at the shoulders of two of his karls for balance, he pops his head back up and sees Asmund’s porters circling away.  It’s all part of the dance, he supposes, attack and retreat.  Even as he watches, Asmund’s porters are carrying him back around, the huge huskarl leering at Guiromélans with murderous fury.

Much to his dismay, Guiromélans’s own porters are bringing him closer to meet the challenge.

Guiromélans stands, mastering his balance, and faces the attack.  Asmund’s fist strikes like a sledgehammer, staggering the smaller man.  His second swing misses, creating an opening for Guiromélans to return with a flurry of quick counterattacks.  His fists strike the Söderkarl’s ribs and kidneys, but it is as if striking stone.  Despite his age, Asmund appears to be extremely fit and solid.

Dodging again a clumsy swing, Guiromélans counters with strike to the jaw that nearly breaks his hand.  Asmund’s backhand retort is so quick, Guiromélans almost doesn’t see it.  The blow nearly knocks him clear off of his swords and onto the floor.  It was only the quick grab of one of his porters that saves him from the fall.

Asmund laughs, extending his arms to embrace the cheers of the crowd.  His porters take him on another triumphant circuit of the room as the stunned Guiromélans retains his feet.

“Know yer enemy, uh?” a small voice calls up to him.

Guiromélans looks down to see Balen materialize from the crowd.  He smiles up at the Raven encouragingly.  “Reveal the Truth carefully tä the ignorant, yäh?”

Guiromélans smiles and nods, he hopes, with more confidence than he feels.  When he stands, he sees he and Asmund are on opposite sides of the room.  As the crowd’s chanting and stomping increases, the two groups of karls move towards each other.  Faster and faster they charge.  Guiromélans watches the eyes of his opponent, the greedy way his hands clutch the air.

Suddenly, with a shout and a flourish of music, the porters launch their wards into the air.  Asmund roars with glee as he soars into the air and lands upon his swords with practiced ease.  Guiromélans’s landing is much less graceful, but he manages to avoid any injury or embarrassment.

Just as he finds his feet, Asmund is on top of him again.  A huge hand grabs at his throat.  He jerks back, and Asmund misses the grab, catching only Guiromélans’s face and beard in a vicious pinch.  This seems satisfactory to him, and he raises his fist as he tries to pull Guiromélans closer.

Guiromélans’s hands desperately attack the vice-like grip on his face.  Amazingly, he can find no way to pry this fist away.  Could this man’s hand alone be so strong?  Not wishing to be dealt any blows by its twin, he acts quickly.  Seeking its weakest point, his hands close around the smallest finger and wrench downwards.  The crack of bone and cartilage sounds like shattering ice.  Asmund’s eyes widen in surprise.

With a triumphant roar, Guiromélans grabs the mangled finger and squeezes with all his might.

The Raven’s victory is brief.  The huskarl’s eye twitches, but he shows no other evidence of pain or discomfort.

Guiromélans blacks out momentarily when Asmund’s fist collides with the side of his head.  He reels backwards, his knees buckling, and he collapses upon the swords of his porters.

When his vision finally clears, he sees some of his karls looking at him with concern.  The combatants have separated again, and Guiromélans has some time to recompose himself.  “You’ve proven your bravery, Korp,” one of them urges quietly.  “All you have to do is touch the ground.  Climb down, and it’ll be finished.”

Guiromélans looks up to see Asmund parading for the crowd again.  He looks unhurt, untouched by their conflict so far.  He roars and snarls at the crowd, his eyes rolling, his teeth gnashing.  Even as he watches, the old Söderkarl grabs his mangled finger and jerks the bone back into place.

For Guiromélans, there is red everywhere.  The last blow opened a gash in his cheek, and blood runs freely from the wound.  His fall upon the swords has cut him as well, and his knees and hands are slick with blood.

On unsteady legs, Guiromélans stands.  Once again, the foes are on opposite sides of the room.  Once again, the two groups charge to the chanting of the crowd.  This time, Guiromélans is ready when they shout, when his porters throw him into the air.

He is less prepared when while in midair Asmund shouts “Blodprøve!”, and with a hiss of steel, the porters turn their swords edge up!

With a gasp, Guiromélans lands on the blades, feeling their edges bite into the soles of his boots.  He looks up as the ridder looms nearer.  To be felled now would be mean almost certain maiming if not death.

Guiromélans waits, timing his actions very carefully.  As Asmund reaches out with his injured hand, Guiromélans offers up the back of his head.  Just as he expected, it is too tempting a target for the ridder to refuse.  Asmund lunges, seeking to grab Guiromélans by the hair.

Guiromélans waits and then ducks at the last possible moment.  His hands snap up, grabbing the outstretched arm, and with all his strength, he jerks backwards.

The Söderkarl champion is caught off balance, and as he reels forward, his arms searching for purchase, Guiromélans leaps up, driving his elbow into the bridge of the warrior’s nose.

Asmund is staggered.  Even as Guiromélans steadies his own position, he watches the big Söderkarl struggle for balance.  Nearly the whole room howls when he falls.  And then they cheer as he rises, unhurt and unbloodied.  Somehow, he managed to catch himself before he fell upon the blades.  He stands tall and proud again, encouraging the crowd to cheer him on.

Guiromélans’s eyes narrow.  He was sure he saw him fall upon the blades, but when Asmund turns to face him again, he sees no wounds on his hands, no blood.  “The degkarl is clever, like the snow fox!” Asmund bellows in fury, foam gathering on his lips and beard, “Clever though he may be, he is still small and weak!”

Guiromélans stares at the man warily.  The Bracks are known for their ve’co rages, but nothing comes close to the fury of a true Söderkarl bareserkr.  The huskarl bellows in fury, gnashing his teeth, gnawing at his arms and broken hand.  His shirt and leather bracers tear and split beneath the assault.

Guiromélans resolves not to let this man bite him.

The next time the two groups close, there is no hesitation in his attack.  There is no strategy, no tricks.  Asmund’s fists come hard and fast, striking at Guiromélans repeatedly.  The Raven fights as hard as he can, with all the skill and strength he can muster, but nothing he can do seems to affect the enraged warrior.  Asmund’s body is too slick from sweat to grab, his muscles too powerful to injure.

One particularly shattering blow sends Guiromélans reeling.  His vision winks in and out, as stars and fireflies illuminate the darkness.  He falls.  He sees the blades rushing to meet his hands and face and throat, but there is nothing he can do to stop them.  He lands.  And suddenly, the blades are gone.

He hits the wooden floor hard and lays stunned in the straw.

Quietly, his karls sheathe their swords and help him to his feet.  His ears and head are buzzing from the roars of the crowd and from the beating he endured.  He fought bravely, there is no shame, the karls assure.

He is seated onto a stool and a mug of øl is pressed into his hands.  When he looks up, he sees Asmund carried around the room in victory.  Someone has given him a mug of øl, and after downing the drink, he proceeds to tear the wooden cup apart with his teeth.  The herr cheer.  Tonight, the Söderkarl have defeated the EroBernac, at least symbolically if not in fact.

A böndi inspects Guiromélans’s wounds and dabs at them with a damp cloth.  He remains immobile, despite the pain of the prodding.  He was beaten by a Söderkarl nearly half again his age.  Does this mean the troubles between them are over… or just beginning?

Perhaps Baldruus can provide some insight on this matter.  Or Orkning.

As if on cue, the Mynyddi sorcerer sidles out of the crowd.  Sitting down next to him, he looks at Guiromélans with some concern.  “Have fun?”

“Hardly,” Guiromélans murmurs from swollen lips, drinking from his stein.

“What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t given a choice, if that is your question.”  Guiromélans sighs as he looks up to see Orkning standing over him.  “You lied to me,” he murmurs.

“I am sorry,” the chamarling says sincerely.  “I did not expect Asmund to do what he did.  It was not… the way we treat guests.  He treated you harshly.  Normally, the sword-dance is merely a bout of grappling, a friendly contest.  That he chose to come to blows with you is… unusual.  That he declared the Blodprøve…”  He merely shakes his head.

Slowly, Guiromélans stands and stares into the huskarl’s eyes.  His glare is intense.  He is Guiromélans of the Iron Fist, Vavasour of Ehre, Raven of the Seven Kingdoms, paladin of God.  He is not a man to be trifled with, and quickly Orkning senses that.  The larger man suddenly finds himself taking a step back.  “Tell me,” Guiromélans says with deathly seriousness, “You knew nothing of Asmund’s intentions?”

Orkning at first looks angry, then his eyes drop and he nods.  “I swear, Korp, I did not.”

When he looks back up, the Empyrean Median is spinning in Guiromélans’s hand.  “What is that?” he asks.

Guiromélans smiles through bruised, bloodied lips as he puts it away.  “A bauble, an echo of the Voice of God.”

Caidryn and Baldruus cluck with disapproval, but they say nothing.  “I believe your apology, Orkning,” Guiromélans says, “and I accept it.”

The giant Söderkarl seems to relax, and he smiles broadly.  “I am glad, Korp.  You seem to be one I would choose not to cross if I could help it.”

Guiromélans extends his arms and gestures towards his condition.  “Even now?” he asks, though it pains him to smile.

Orkning nods, “Even now.  I do not envy the goodman.”

“Revenge?” Guiromélans wonders, “No.  Perhaps, not in the way you are thinking.  Suffice it to say, I think he and I understand each other much better now.”

“As you wish, Korp,” Orkning mutters, sounding disappointed.

Guiromélans’s eyes look past them and follow the antics of Asmund as he accepts another challenge to the sword-dance.  Just as Orkning said, this match is much less intense.

Guiromélans nods, “The huskarl is strong for a man his age.  How old is he?”

Orkning turns and looks back at the goodman.  Squinting, he shakes his head, “In truth, I do not know.  I have never heard.”

Other Söderkarl who had been listening in also admit their ignorance.  Guiromélans is surprised.  Can it be that no one knows?  Everyone around him hazards a guess, but they are all wildly speculative.

Guiromélans shrugs, “He is Bolwerk’s foster father, yes?  Then what of his true father?  Who is he?”

Orkning shakes his head, “The old Thane died when Bolwerk was very young.  Asmund’s the only father he has ever known.”

“What of his mother?”

Orkning stares at Guiromélans in disbelief and then laughs, “His mother?  Don’t you know?”  He laughs again, this time with relief, “Of course!  You don’t know!  This explains it!”

Guiromélans can only shake his head.

“And here I thought you were joking with me before!”

Guiromélans frowns.  “What do you mean?  Explain!”

“His mother is Huld!  The häxa!  Your chief suspect in the conspiracy against Hardanger.”

Guiromélans freezes in surprise as Orkning and many others burst into laughter.  Huld is the mother of Bolwerk?  That twisted old witch?  What could that mean?

“She is his mother?” he wonders aloud.  “I find that hard to imagine.  She hardly seems…”

Orkning nods with understanding, “From what I know, the death of Hraerekur—Thane Bolwerk’s father—was sorely felt by her.  She was never the same…”

“And how were they together, raising Bolwerk?”

Orkning screws up his face, “Huld objected to Asmund as foster-father, though she saw them only rarely.  She was not reunited with Bolwerk until his twentieth year.  This is the way of the Söderkarl.  Their reunion was… awkward.  All of this was before my time, of course.”

Guiromélans slowly, painfully smiles.  “It seems I must reconsider my list of suspects, jâ?”

Orkning is about to answer when Balen rushes up and grabs Guiromélans’s knees.  The boy looks as if he’s about to cry.  “What were yä doin’?” he moans.

Baldruus tousles his hair.  “Don’t you worry.  It looks worse than it is.  Your good Cathubodua is bent but not broken.”

Balen jerks away from the Mynyddi and peers closer at Guiromélans.  “Yä let him win, yäh?” he asks in a whisper, “Yä let him win, just like Dagnin?”

Guiromélans glances at Orkning and Baldruus and then smiles.  “Yes, Balen.  I let him win.”

Baldruus laughs good-naturedly, but Balen seems to accept the lie.

Someone brings a bucket of snow, and Guiromélans selects a particularly solid piece to press against his swollen cheeks and lips.

“You needn’t worry about that,” Baldruus assures between bouts of laughter, “When we get back to the böth, I’ll—”

“Nej,” Guiromélans says, “There is no permanent harm done.  Don’t waste your talents on this.”  He smiles up at the chamarling, “Asmund did the best he could, but I’ve had worse falling off a horse.”

Orkning smiles broadly and then bursts out laughing.  “Jâ!  We’ll be sure to tell the goodman that!  He will be furious!”

* * *

The house of God is bitterly cold.  Weak light filters in through stained glass and creates deep shadows among the pews and misericords.  The smells of more than a year’s worth of seasons drift through the air.  Guiromélans moves through the abandoned cathedral, admiring the subtle beauty of the artwork and carvings.  Behind him, he hears Balen quietly praying, reciting his repentances to Kahedin, laying prone on the cold floor in penitence.  Goodman Asmund has never hidden the fact that he dislikes the boy—and after Guiromélans’s beating, perhaps Balen’s retaliation was understandable—but after such a grotesque prank, atonements must be made.  Guiromélans smiles as he clears away the dust from the pulpit.  Though it wouldn’t be wise to apologize to the enraged huskarl in person, God and His Prophets are always willing to listen.

Guiromélans stops in the chancel and stares up into the faces of the holiest men the world has known.  Standing above the apse, a triptych of the Prophets blesses the congregation.  Hoël holds a sword, Kahedin a Median, and Pennenc merely looks sad.  Only three Prophets.  Guiot was omitted, probably in a deliberate effort to insult the EroBernacs.

Each stained-glass window portrays a patron saint.  Their faces are strangely realistic and probably modeled after local officials or nobles from the time they were carved.  In each auxiliary altar, diptychs display the most prominent saints.  As always, Bredbeddle is paired with Adelelmus, Mommolin with Eanfleda, Delphina with…  Guiromélans sighs with weary disappointment.  Every time he sees the vandalization, it saddens him.  This set of panels has been changed.  The face of Paliesin has been removed, the delicate EroBernac workmanship roughly cut away by impatient hands, and the face of Saint Ragnvald inserted in his place.

Such is the nature of local politics and religion.  Guiromélans supposes he should be grateful that at least it wasn’t the Thunderer.

Guiromélans shakes his head.  No cathedral should be abandoned as this one was.  Meant to be a monument to God, it was built over 100 years ago, just after the last of the Söderkarl resistance was crushed.  A visionary of his time, Superbus Tyrannus Berengar allocated unprecedented monies towards the restoration and conversion of these proud people.  The cathedrals of the Southern Territories are some of the newest, most beautiful in the Seven Kingdoms.  There are few others that can match them.

Hardanger’s priest was killed by the udyronde over a year ago.  His was the first death among many in this war.  Ever since, this beautiful place was used only for winter storage.  As far as he knows, since his arrival, only he and Dagnin and Balen have visited this place.  Guiromélans meditates and prays here often, despite the cold.

Normally, it is a place of peace for him.

“By the Fire, this place stinks!”  The bitter, sarcastic tone echoes through the stone rafters.

Guiromélans turns to see Caidryn standing in the nave, her face twisted with disgust.

“By the Ice,” Guiromélans answers, irritated with her taunts.  She holds no Medianist beliefs, but she spoke the first part of the oath knowing he had to answer it.  “It smells far better than belowdecks of the Knight’s Torment.”

The girl momentarily looks taken aback, surprised that Guiromélans would bring up such a sore subject for both of them.  Eventually, she favors him with a twisted smile and nods, “Yäh, yer right.  I’m sorry.”

Guiromélans nods, accepting both the spoken and unspoken apology.

With a snap of his fingers and a stern look, he directs the distracted Balen back to his prayers.  Then he looks back up and watches as the Brackish girl paces through the aisles.  She is angry about something and looking to take it out on someone.

When she catches him looking at her, she sneers.  “What the fuck are yä doin’ in here anyways?”

Guiromélans gestures to Balen.  “This is the house of God, where the faith of the laity begins and ends.  It is the heart of God, and a heart can break if it doesn’t have some company once in a while.”  He smiles awkwardly at her surprised expression.

His smile fades.  There is a large bruise spreading across her left eye.  How did that happen?  Is she hurt elsewhere?  He has many concerned, worried, questions, but he knows her well enough now not to press the matter.

“What the fuck does yer God care anyway?” she mutters bitterly.

He sighs and steps closer to her.  “Now, you know better than to ask that kind of question of me.  You know I’ll have an answer for it.  Do you want to hear it?”

She waves him away angrily, “Go fucks yerself.”

Guiromélans nods.  “I thought as much.  What are you doing here, Caidryn?”

Her eyes become furtive, flitting around the room, looking anywhere but at Guiromélans.  At last, they settle on Balen.  “I was lookin’ fer me mosac.”

“Well, you’ve found him.”  He inclines his head and gestures at her.  “You’ve been playing sticky pegs with the karls again?”

Caidryn’s eyes frown with confusion, but something in Guiromélans’s stare clues her into his meaning.  Before she can turn away, her hand rises unconsciously to the bruise on her face.  “Yäh,” she mumbles, “Yä knows how I just never learns.  The goat scratches until it cannot lay comfortably, uh?”

“Yes,” he answers solemnly, “Of course.”

Suddenly she whirls on him, “What the Hells are yä doin’ with him in here anyways?”

“We spoke of this before, Caidryn,” he replies evenly, struggling to keep up with her sudden change in topics.  “If Balen is to become a knight, he must also become a Medianist.”

“A knight?” she shrieks, tears suddenly running down her face, “A knight?”  She turns on the stunned boy, “What’re yä lookin’ tä be a boduus knight fer?  Yä wants tä kill yer own kind?  Yä wants tä burn villages?  Rape inigenas?  Cleanse the souls of heretics?”

“CAIDRYN!” Guiromélans shouts, “That’s not what being a knight is about, and you know it!”

“Does I?” she shouts back, “Does I?  Does I see yä chargin’ off tä save helpless inigenas?  Does I see yä slayin’ dragons?  Does I see yä defendin’ the weak, avengin’ wrongs?  Nage!  All I sees is a boduus lookin’ tä do nothin’ but kill every caragus his god doesn’t like!  Tä sit around and drink and feel sorry fer himself!  Is that what yer teachin’ him?  Is it?”

“I’m teaching him much more that, much more important things than that.  You know that.  Why are you saying these things now?”

“Important things?” she nearly laughs through her tears.  “More important things?  Yä means like how tä pray tä yer god?  Which prissy caddos did what and when?  How tä knows yer enemy?  These are the important things?”

“A simplification, perhaps,” a new voice observes, “but essentially the truth.”

Guiromélans and Caidryn turn to see Deacon Aybert standing in the cathedral’s doorway.  “It was through such tactics that the EroBernac conquered these Southern Territories.  They knew the ways of their enemies.  It was the Söderkarl pride and their love of war that brought them to their knees.  Superbus Tyrannus Berengar baited the combined Söderkarl armies with many small victories, drew their forces together, and at the battle of Eyjafjord, crushed them completely.”

Guiromélans and Caidryn stare at him silently, each of them offended by his intrusion but for different reasons.  After an awkward pause, he modestly bows his head, “I am sorry to intrude, but I heard your voices, and I wondered who would speak such words of anger in this holy place?”

Caidryn’s eyes narrow as they drill into the little man.  Guiromélans senses the explosion of profanity building on her tongue.

“My friend has some concerns,” he says quickly, cutting her off just as she opens her mouth, “regarding the rightness of a Medianist upbringing.”

“Then she has come to the right place,” Aybert says brightly.

“I doubt that,” Guiromélans answers with certainty.  When the Deacon frowns, he adds, “Being that this cathedral is no longer being used, we saw no harm in speaking with unguarded tongues.”

“God is everywhere,” Aybert says, “You know that, Sir Guiromélans.”

“Is nowheres safe from His eavesdroppin’?” Caidryn laughs nastily.

“Suffice it to say,” Guiromélans quickly answers, “that He hears better in here, Caidryn.”

Aybert coughs demurely into the back of his hand.  “Lady Caidryn,” he says, “I would be happy to discuss with y—”

“Go fucks yerself!” she snaps.  “I don’t listens tä his words,” she snarls, pointing at Guiromélans, “why does yä think I have tä listen tä yers, uh?”

Aybert pales, his mouth dropping open.  He and Guiromélans watch her silently as she storms out of the cathedral, Balen in tow.

Guiromélans drops his eyes.  “I am sorry, Deacon, for the behavior of my friend.  She has no knowledge of Medianist ways, and she is proud of that ignorance.”

Aybert makes a show of straightening his robes and girdle, smoothing his scapular, as he struggles to regain his composure.  The man is completely unnerved.  He doesn’t have the disposition of most Inquisitors Guiromélans’s known.  He cannot imagine how he could administer ordeals.  He would end up confessing to the heretics.

“The Söderkarl still cut the noses off of women taken during their blood feuds,” he sighs at last.  “Perhaps we should consider such traditions ourselves?”

Guiromélans smiles without humor.  “The Bracks cut the tongues from their women.  Propose you that we descend to their level as well?”

“No, I suppose not.”  Aybert folds his hands together, “Sir Guiromélans, I have been sent to discuss with you a matter of some… sensitivity.”

Guiromélans eyes this man.  “Really?  On behalf of…?”

“Justiciar Quintian.”

“Ah.  And why wouldn’t the esteemed envoy come to me directly?”

“He has sensed some… friction between you and select members of Thane Bolwerk’s court.  He thought, being that we are both devout Medianists… though of different disciplines… you might be more receptive to questions if they came from me?”

Guiromélans slowly circles around the pews, closing on the smaller Deacon.  “Questions?  On what matter?”

Aybert delicately clears his throat.  “As you know, Thane Bolwerk has been missing for over a year.  The land is in turmoil.  War, famine, black magic.  Death.  Heresy.  Despite all reasonable evidence, Lady Dårlig and select members of this stead refuse to accept the truth… that Bolwerk is dead.”

“Yes?” Guiromélans answers, “So?”

Aybert nods and coughs again.  “It is in EroBernd’s interests—the Seven Kingdoms’ interests—that these matters are resolved and resolved quickly.  For the sake of Hardanger and Ledus County as a whole.”

Guiromélans nods.  “I am listening.”

Aybert blinks in surprise.  Guiromélans can feel the Deacon trying to read him.  “Where do your loyalties lay, Guiromélans?”

“I love God above all else,” he answers immediately, “and I will never take up a cause contrary to His wishes.  I am second a Raven of the Seven Kingdoms, and third a knight of the Duchy of Ehre.  I have vowed to render unquestioning and immediate obedience to God and to my master without delay.  I will commit my life and my sword to the wishes of Superbus Tyrannus Valven and Duke Beaudous, so long as they do not violate my vows of knighthood or the Will of God.”

Aybert smiles, “I think you will find what we will ask of you to be in the interests of both God and Valven, yes?”

“What is it?”

“Lady Dårlig is fond of you.  She speaks highly of you.  You must help us convince her.  It is time to set aside this childish mourning and finally declare the Thane dead.  Her land is crumbling around her, and she is blind to it.”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Why the pressure?  These people have their ways.  Why not let them resolve these things on their own?”

“Yes, of course.  In time, Dårlig will accept the truth—or be forced to—but there are many factions vying for control now.  If we do not act, the wrong man will be chosen as Thane.”  Aybert steps closer, his voice dropping, “The truth of the matter is, EroBernd’s foothold in the Southern Territories is not as strong as some would like.  If war with the Synesi comes to pass, many in Aquilaleon believe we will not be able to retain these lands.  And then we’re looking at a war on two fronts… three if the Bracks and Ulbandi get involved…”

“And you know they will,” Guiromélans nods.

“And, of course, Palpin and Mut and Ehre are always waiting for that first sign of weakness…”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  The EroBernd Empire has always been aggressively expansionistic.  Now it seems they must reap what they sow.  “I understand what you say.  Gylling is one of the most important bygthirs in Ledus.  You want to ensure it remains friendly to EroBernd.”

Aybert smiles.  “You agree to help then?”

Guiromélans bows, “Of course.”

The Deacon rubs his hands together, “Good, good.  Tell me then, what do you know of this Sir Dagnin of Ehre?  How useful would he be in our efforts?”

Guiromélans smiles as he considers this.  “Dagnin is a loyal man, and a devout Medianist, but I would recommend you not count on him for much…”

“What does that mean?” Aybert asks suddenly frowning.

“He was the slave of a Mask for a very long time, and his recovery has been… slow.”

“Ah,” the Deacon nods, “The poor soul.”

“Yes.”

After another uncomfortable pause, Aybert clears his throat.  His hands fidget with the iron and silver Median hanging from his belt.  “We are thinking,” he says, “that the new Thane should be elected during this upcoming Harvest Festival.”

Guiromélans nods, “That would be a good time.  Spirits will be high, and it is a Medianist holy day.”

“There will be many distinguished guests,” Aybert points out, “some of whom would be suitable candidates… and some who would not.”

“I understand.  Who are these men?”

“There is a young Viscount from Frostthing, a most promising youth who wishes to make his bid.  To get him seated would be quite a coup for EroBernd.”

“What is his name?”

“Viscount Nikolas Brandsson.”

“I have not heard of him.”

“No, of course not.  He has been raised in Mynydd and EroBernd and is returning home to claim his heritage, so to speak.  He would be most friendly towards the status quo…”

“However?” Guiromélans asks.

“I cannot imagine he would be positively received here.  I think these Söderkarl will view him as a… a?”

“Degkarl.”

“Exactly,” Aybert nods sadly, “But he insists on trying.  What can it hurt?”

“What indeed?” Guiromélans wonders.  “And this is your best hope?”

“Our highest hope, yes, but not our best.  The man we would most like to promote is one Rig-jarl Hrobjart.”

Guiromélans’s mouth twitches.  He remembers his conversation with Dårlig in the forest.  Of all the suitors, Hrobjart was the worst.  “I have heard of him.”

Aybert nods, “Yes.  He also has the best case, should this ever be called upon the All-Thing.”

Guiromélans’s eyebrows raise, “Really?”

“Why, yes!  He is Thane Bolwerk’s brother after all!”

Surprised, Guiromélans can only stare.  Dårlig didn’t mention that!  “Tell me.  What are Lady Dårlig’s feelings on this matter?  On the possibility of having to marry her brother-in-law?”

Aybert looks pained.  “She has sworn she would rather wed a degkarl.”

“I can imagine,” Guiromélans says quietly, turning away to look up at the Prophets.

After a moment’s pause, Aybert sighs, “It really is a shame the condition of this place.”

Guiromélans barely turns his head to speak to him.  “Oh?  And how often have you visited since your arrival?”

Aybert is silent.  Guiromélans lets the silence lengthen before speaking again.  “Yes, well, it is a shame.  Perhaps this place can do with a good Inquisition cleansing, yes?  Being that you’re here now?”

“N—no, I don’t think that is necessary,” Aybert says quietly, sensing the change in Guiromélans’s tone.  “Performing inquests and administering ordeals is not my responsibility.”

Ah, so he is a clerk then.  Typical.

“Then perhaps you would be interested in performing a service or two for those Medianists here who might wish to seek succor in God’s house?”

“I am hardly a priest, Guiromélans,” Aybert laughs.

“But you are a deacon?  Isn’t that almost as good?”

Aybert shakes his head, “I am no priest.”

And he has no interest in the more sanctified aspects of his office.  Truly, he is merely a clerk.

“Perhaps then I should send a letter to the Bishop in Lethrasholme then?  And request a new priest for this cathedral?  And a team of inquisitors?”

“Ah, under normal circumstances, a very good idea.”  He can feel Aybert smile, “A very good idea, but perhaps one crisis at a time?  We wouldn’t want to antagonize our hosts, yes?”

Of course, Guiromélans wonders, at least not until after we declare their leader dead.

Guiromélans says no more, and eventually Aybert excuses himself and shuffles off towards the door.

“You know,” Guiromélans says suddenly, “Superbus Tyrannus Berengar played one other trick on the Söderkarl.  One other little tidbit did this brave race in.”

“Oh?” Aybert says, “What was that?”

Guiromélans turns and looks at him.  “The EroBernac used betrayal.”