“Unbelievable!” Guiromélans sighs sadly.  “Their cathedral is empty, always!  The pews are filled with dust rather than laity.  Their priest is slain.  No wizard to guide the flock.  And yet they do nothing!”  He shakes his head.  “No faith here?  No love of God here?  How can that be?”

The branches of the forest groan beneath their burdens of snow and ice, filling the gaps between the gusts of howling wind with a strange sort of silence.

Guiromélans looks into the wind, flecks of ice stinging his eyes and face.  He remembers Orkning’s prayer in the longhouse.  “No,” he says with sudden realization.  “It’s not that there’s no love of God here…  There is no room for God!”

“What are you speaking of?” Putras asks at last.

Guiromélans wraps his heavy cloak tighter around him.  The blizzard rages with new ferocity today, and it seems intent on ruining the impending Harvest Festival celebrations.  From what he’s heard, the storm has shut down nearly every stead and fästning on the Ledus peninsula, from Hardanger all the way down to the Óriásjord outposts.  Even the railway is stopped, the tracks buried beneath feet of early snow.  Only the most foolish or most dedicated would brave weather like this.

In many ways, Guiromélans knows himself to be both.

“In this place, there is no room for God, because someone else is already here.”  His eyes harden.  “The Thunderer perhaps?  Can Huld be their godi and their stone-summoner?  Such trickery would be typical of a Hells-spawned witch!”

“This genton faith of yours is a strange thing.  Is not one faith the same as the next?”

“No!  Of course not!”

“And the God of the Medianists is not the same as the gods of the Bracks or the Synesi or the other genton?”

“No!”

“How is it you can know the difference?”

“There is a story, a parable, that we tell our children, especially those being trained for the clergy.”  Guiromélans glances at Putras and sees only honest interest in his eyes.  “There is the musketeer and the musket.  When he raises his weapon and prepares to fire it at you, to whom do you plead?  The man or the musket?”

“It is not an enchanted musket?”

“No.”

“Or possessed by spirits?”

“No.”

“Then I would have to plead with the man.”

Guiromélans nods, “Exactly.  You deal with the man, not his tools, not his clothes, not his weapons.”

“And what does this mean?”

“The faiths of the Bracks and the Synesi and all the other pagan races, they worship only shadows, images, tools of the True God.  They plead with the gun and overlook the man.  Medianists worship the source, the Median.”

“Interesting.  Two of the same, and yet different.  It is like the game you play.”

“What?  What game?”

“The game you play, genton, with your suchis, this story-game…  I am curious about it too.”

“Story game?” he asks.  His visits with Putras are always brief, and today, he decides it is best not to waste time railing against Söderkarl fools.  Instead, he chooses to enjoy his time with his inhuman friend.  Despite the war between their two peoples, despite the weather, despite even the implied sanctions laid upon them by God, Guiromélans would never miss an opportunity to see him.

He discovers that a chill has somehow found its way through his defenses.  Looking for shelter, he finds himself a place to sit in the leeward side of a snowdrift.  A strange, manic sort of happiness replaces his sadness, as if in exaggerated effort to deny something deeper.  “You mean the saints game?” he adds.

Putras seems unbothered by the weather, and he merely gazes down at the seated Raven with his golden eyes, “If that is what you wish to call it, yes.”

Guiromélans shrugs.  “It serves as an easy way for Balen to learn and practice the Dulia.  It teaches him about his heritage.”

“Heritage?” the therm asks, settling down next to him.  The heat radiating from its great body is like a furnace, and Guiromélans warms himself against it.  “Is he not of a different dentu than you?”

Guiromélans smiles, “I speak of his future heritage.  The one he wishes to adopt.”

“Ah, yes.  You guide him through his atu—it leads him in the Didza—and so he joins your zalmos, your dentu.”

“Something like that.”

“There is one story… this tale of the ver… this Dieudonnée.  It caused some trouble with you and he.”

Guiromélans is startled.  “Wha—what?”

“The tale,” Putras presses, his stare becoming invasive, “It troubled your ala, it threatened even the vair-us between you and the child-pup.”

“I… I,” Guiromélans stammers, “I wouldn’t say precisely that.”

“You nearly threw your paivis from the cliff, yes?”  There is no judgment in the question, merely honest curiosity.

Guiromélans scoops up a fistful of fresh snow and rubs it into his face.  Its cold edges burn.  It restores.  It hides.  “I nearly did, yes.  But he is not my son.”

Putras cocks his head, “He is the suchis of your iltea?”

“Not my son!  Not my woman!” Guiromélans snaps with heat.  “The two are wanderers who have chosen to follow me.  I welcome their company, nothing more!  Are we settled on that?”

Putras blinks slowly, “Settled.”

Guiromélans stabs his gloved hand into the snow, creating deep, murderous gouges.

“It threatened your vair-us, yes?” the therm presses.

“Yes,” he answers bitterly.  Somehow, the good humor he was desperate to capture is slipping through his fingers.

“In your story, why wasn’t the ver female Dieudonnée spared?” Putras wonders aloud.  “Why did she have to die while others of less worth were saved?”

“It is a simple matter,” Guiromélans mutters.  “A witch is a witch.  I told Balen the same thing.”

Putras nods slowly.  “The question is simple, yes.  Why must a good and pious ver be sacrificed while a saut of evil is saved?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I speak of the condemnation of Dieudonnée and the salvation of Gaudin.  The same as what your paiv— what the suchis spoke.”

Guiromélans is quiet for a long time before he says, “Why must we speak of this?  Our time together is so brief, why don’t—”

“Why must a good and pious ver be sacrificed while a saut of evil is saved?” Putras presses.  “It is a question I put to you, for you are knowledgeable in the ways of the genton God.”

“It is the Word of God,” Guiromélans says carefully, measuring each word.  “Women with stones are witches.”

“And are evil and to be slain?”

“Yes.”

“But your Gaudin was turned into a demon—his saut corrupted completely—and yet the genton God forgave him.  He was even elevated as a suras.  Why then are some evils condemned but others forgiven?”

“I do not question the Word of God or His decisions.”

“But you must obey them, revere them, enforce them.  How do you do that?”

Putras nods when Guiromélans doesn’t answer.  “It is a quandary.  I see why you became angered with your paivis when he asked it.”

“Part of my faith is the not needing to ask why.  It is something Balen must learn and accept before he too can become a Medianist.  Faith is the core.”

“Ah, faith.  The faith again.  Faith among the genton is so unique.  So different from the therm.  So strong and powerful.  Matchless among all others.  But when betrayed, it shatters so completely.  This is why your kind is so prized by the dumas.  It makes your souls so sweet to their tastes.  I wonder, how is such strength accomplished?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Yes.  Because I am a demon and condemned in the Eyes of your God.”  The therm sighs, “I wonder.  When the time came.  Did Gaudin understand?  Did Dieudonnée?”

“This conversation is pointless.  You only seek to anger me.  You won’t succeed.”

“Your paivis asked the question—”

“HE’S NOT MY SON!” Guiromélans shouts.

“—how could Gaudin receive a second chance but not Dieudonnée?  You claimed it to be merely the inconsistencies of your God.”

Guiromélans bristles but remains silent.

“The genton child has an innocent’s point-of-view,” Putras admits.  “But I see things differently.”

“Oh, really?  Then enlighten us worthless genton,” Guiromélans grumbles.

“Regardless of whether Dieudonnée was killed by God or merely by His followers, the message you Medianists convey is clear.  It is simply an issue of your peoples’ fear of outside sorcerers and the gods they worship.  Nothing more.”

“What?” Guiromélans almost shouts.  He didn’t expect this.

“Of course, the fact that she was a female didn’t help matters.  History—and the writings of your so-called Prophets—have shown you genton do not revere your females the way you should.”

“And how would you know so much about humans?” Guiromélans spits.  “You’re nothing but a—”

“Demon?” Putras asks, almost bemused, “Animal?  Can you call me anything lower in your genton tongue?”

Guiromélans looks away, ashamed, furious.

“I know you because it has been my life to study you.  My atu has been to follow you, through the lands of the north, Synes, Tonsa, Dëstör, Ihiti.  I have read much—”

“You know how to read?” Guiromélans exclaims.

“Yes,” Putras nods, “as I also speak many genton tongues.  I have studied with masters of your kind in Synes.  They are much more… open to my kind than those of your land.  Their centaur breeds are revered and respected.”

Guiromélans’s anger rapidly crumbles as he listens to the therm’s words.  Grief overcomes him, and he begins to cry with an intensity that surprises him.  He doesn’t know why.  All he feels is a bottomless pit of loneliness opening beneath him.  He reaches out and finds the comforting warmth of the therm next to him.  He clutches its powerful limb, feeling the muscles tighten and relax within his grip.  Putras watches him silently, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of his friend’s sorrow.

Looking up, Guiromélans finds the therm’s eyes examining him, not with the intensity of a predator, but with a calming, understanding gaze.

“What is faith?  How can it be so strong?” Guiromélans sobs, “You really want to know?  Faith can be a fragile thing too.  Especially when you don’t know what’s expected of you.  Faith can be the rudder that steers you through the rapids, but if you loose it, you can be lost…”

“At least until you find a new one,” Putras supposes.

“Or until you find the original again.”  Guiromélans wipes at his eyes, already feeling the tears begin to freeze against his cheeks and in his beard.  He smiles, “You know, I was told almost the exact same thing once… by a Mask.”

“Ah.  Interesting.  You have never spoken of that before.”

“What?  Never?  You mean, of all my fevered babblings—the witch, my shame, my games with Balen—I never mentioned the Masks?”

“No.  Was it long ago?”

“Hardly.”

“Ah.”  Putras seems unaffected and unconcerned, as if it is then of no interest to him.

Guiromélans looks at him with a mixture of anger and sadness.  “For one who claims to be my friend, you ask me many painful questions.”

“It is my ala, to seek, to learn, to know.  To understand.”  He inclines his head, “Just as it is perhaps for you to not.”

“Are you saying I seek ignorance?  Idiocy?  Am I that stupid to you?”

“Hardly,” Putras says, baring countless white teeth.  “But just as you said, to ask for answers is to deny your faith.  For you, you covet your faith and the truth it carries.  You and I, we are opposites in many ways.  This is why I have questions, and you have answers.”

Guiromélans blinks away the freezing tears and stares at his friend in mute awe.  Putras asks questions because he has no answers.  He has no answers because there is no faith to provide them.  He is alone, isolated, wallowing in his ignorance, struggling one question at a time to find the Truth.  He must seek others for his answers because he cannot seek God.

How terrifying it must be for him.  Guiromélans’s heart swells with pity for his poor friend.  “I understand,” he says at last, nodding, “I think I understand now.”

“Do you?”

Guiromélans smiles weakly, though his eyes still run with tears.  “As well as any genton can, I suppose.”

“That is good.  You are a good vair-us, genton.”

Guiromélans leans back against his friend and stares up at the black sky.  Snow continues to fall, and he has to blink the flakes from his eyes.  In this cold, his tears are indistinguishable from the snowflakes.

Such a strange pair the two of them make.

“You love the iltea?”

“Hmmn?” Guiromélans asks.  “Who?”

“The black-haired female.”

“Which one?” Guiromélans asks cautiously.

“Which?”

“I’ve known two black-haired women.  Both are equally inappropriate mates for a Ehrech Raven.”

“Ah, yes,” Putras snorts.  “The witch you betrayed.”

“Yes.  Esmeree.  I love her,” Guiromélans says quietly.  The sorrow of her memory nearly drains the tears from his eyes.  It hides in a darkness so deep within his heart, he doubts it will ever see the sun.  “By the Fire.  By the Ice.  By all that is holy and pure.  Kahedin save me, Guiot forgive me.  Through all that has happened and all that I’ve seen and done, God save my soul, I still love her.”

Putras pauses as he digests this.  “And the one you travel with?  What of that female?”

Rage rises once again as the question replaces the precious visage of Esmeree with the sneering one of Caidryn.  Guiromélans violently wipes his face clear, through with this woman-like display.  He is through with this line of questioning.  Leaping to his feet, he shouts, “She is bonded to another, Putras!  Leave it at that!”

“Does that negate your love?”

“It makes it irrelevant!” he shouts.

“You are a strange breed, genton.”

“Yes.  Yes we are.”  He looks angrily at his friend.  “You ask many questions, Putras.  Now it is time for you to answer one.”

“Is it?”  The therm sounds amused.

“Yes!  You’ve been prodding me, taunting me, mocking my beliefs.  You’ve stabbed your words into my heart, just to see what kind of pain you can pull out.  Now it is your turn!”

“Speak, vair-us.”

“How is it you came to be chained in that stead, waiting for the ghuls to take you?”

Putras bares his teeth again, though this time it is a much less friendly gesture.  His muscles ripple and flex.  “This, you have been told before, genton.”

“Really?” he sneers, unconcerned.  The nakedness of his own anger emboldens him to Putras’s aggressive display, “Probably during my delirium, yes?  You are the second one to beg off from my questions for that reason.  Regardless, I am awake now, so please remind me.  I seem to have forgotten.”

Putras’s eyes narrow as he examines Guiromélans’s attitude.  “You seek the raskus, genton?  You choose to force your ala upon the atu?”

Guiromélans’s fingers toy with the handle of his saber.  “I seek only answers, Putras,” he says coolly.  “Now give me one.”

“There is danger in this ala.  Perhaps you run the turm with your own zalmos afterwards, yes?”

“What are you saying?”

“The dead walk the forest.  They dance the tranas.  Genton die by the tooth and claw and then rise come night.  You seek an end to this?”

“If you know of one, you’d better tell me!” Guiromélans shouts, his hand going for his sword.  “What are your people doing to our dead?”

“Left I was,” Putras says quietly.  His great, powerful body seems to sag as though defeated.  Slowly, he rises to his feet.  Guiromélans backs away, wary of tricks or surprise attacks, but the therm merely turns and begins to walk away.  “To die, I was left by my own zalmos,” he says sadly.

“Why?” Guiromélans bellows at his back.  “Sacrifice?  WHY?”

“To die.  To ask.  To meet Desa, to witness the weaving of atu.  To learn.  To learn why.  This was my atu.  This, you broke when you save me.”

“Why?  What were you there to learn?  What could you learn by dieing?”

Putras turns back and looks at Guiromélans.  “I sought to learn why the therm die too by tooth and claw.  Why the therm that die also rise at night.”

“WHAT?” Guiromélans shouts with surprise and outrage.  “Your dead are turning to ghuls too?”

Putras looks up at the sky and seems to sniff the wind.  “Our meetings must end now.  I must say farewell.”

All anger drains from Guiromélans, replaced only by desperation.  “What?  Why?”

“The snows come early.  Soon, the walking meat will come.  My zalmos are gathering for the slaughter.  We will dance the turm, and the snows will be pras with blood.  Soon, the war between our peoples will begin in earnest.  We will kill you.  We will find you in your davas.  We will find you in your homes.”

“No!” Guiromélans shouts.  “Don’t you see?  We don’t need to war!  If the therm are not—”

“This, we have already known, but the genton would not listen.  Blood is shed.  More blood will be shed.”  He nods at Guiromélans, “You are not afraid.  That is good.  Your skills are great.  You will avail yourself well against the therm.  It is a shame more genton are not like you.”

* * *

The Raven paces drunkenly around the böth like a frantic, caged animal.  Its other occupants instinctively stay clear of his path and merely watch him with wary eyes.

“She must agree to see me!” he bellows.  All monastic composure is lost.  His serenity is broken.

Ofeig shakes his head, “She is in seclusion, Korp.  Lady Dårlig knows the degkarls will force a marriage proposal come Harvest Festival.  She has refused contact with anyone out of protest.  Only Asmund and Huld have been allowed to see her.  She will not even hear Orkning’s words.”

Guiromélans thrusts an accusing finger at the huskarl, “Not a wise decision considering her bygthir is about to be overrun with udyronde!”

Ofeig nods his head but says nothing.

“There is a third party here!” Guiromélans shouts.  “We are being played against the udyronde!  This war has to be stopped!”

“What do we cares about these boduus fools?” Caidryn laughs bitterly, the angry bruise on her face darkening her features even further.  She juts her chin contemptuously at Ofeig, “If they wants tä die, let them.”

“Caidryn!” Baldruus says sternly, “Whether you want to admit it or not, we have friends here now.”

She grows silent, but Guiromélans notes the flinch at the first sound of the sorcerer’s voice.

“What of Huld?” he asks, “Or Asmund?  Would they be willing to listen to reason?  Hate me they may, but they must want to avoid such a useless war!”

Ofeig shakes his head.  “I am a huskarl of this stead,” he says, “and they will not hear even me.”

Baldruus adds, “Huld says you have far too much influence over the Lady as it is…”

“And you already know Asmund’s feelings towards you,” Ofeig agrees.

“You told them what I’ve learned?”

Baldruus nods and looks at the floor.  The angry huskarl curls his lip, “Jâ, I did, though flight of fancy it seems to me…  It would help if you told us where you learned these things?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, ignoring the question.  “This is unacceptable,” he murmurs quietly.  “And it doesn’t make any sense.”

He is quiet, thinking for a long time before his eyes meet Ofeig’s.  “Ofeig, of the Söderkarl here, I trust you the most.”

The huskarl snorts, “How am I to take that, Korp?”

“Tell me what you think?” Guiromélans presses.  “To me, it seems there are elements within Hardanger that are eager for war with the udyronde.  To what good would that achieve?”

Slowly, Ofeig smiles, “Anything to offend or embarrass the degkarls, hmmn?”

“But this is war!  Men will die—”

“The Söderkarl do not fear war or death.”

Guiromélans turns away in exasperation.  His eyes scan the comfortable böth and locate the pitcher of øl sitting on a table.  He pours himself a tall mug.  “Can it be that simple?” he mutters, “that foolish?  Just to barb the EroBernac, they would sacrifice their own people?”

“Yäh, possibly!” Caidryn laughs.

“Huld hates EroBernd because she is a witch,” Baldruus offers.

“And Asmund hates them because they are the conquerors,” Guiromélans nods.

“And you seek to kill our thane,” Ofeig adds.  “Claim his wife a widow and have a stranger warm her bed.”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “Then explain this.  War with the udyronde.  The dead haunting the forests.  Lords and nobles from all over the Southern Territories arriving to lay claim to Hardanger’s highseat.  All these things, Dårlig ignores.  It may spell the end of her rule.  It very well may spell the end of Gylling Bygthir itself.”  He frowns at the huskarl, “Tell me how this makes sense.”

“I don’t know,” Ofeig admits, “That’s why I’m still standing here, listening to you.”

“These are passionate people,” Baldruus says, “Their oath is their bond.”

Guiromélans drinks as much as his lungs allow, slamming the mug down with a gasp when he finishes.  “Nej,” he says, “Lady Dårlig is a reasonable woman…  It is Asmund and Huld I do not trust.”

Ofeig laughs at the remark.  “And what do you propose to do about them, huh?”

Guiromélans finishes his drink.  “Thank you, Ofeig,” he says abruptly, “Thank you for your candor and your help.”  He looks at the huskarl, “When the time comes, I hope you will make the right decisions.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps.  “I don’t care what you’re planning!  I’m not going to make any moves against Lady Dårlig or her lords!  Not yet at least!”

Guiromélans smiles, though there is little warmth in it.  “I’m not asking you to.  Right now, all I need you to do is watch Asmund and Huld.”  He looks Ofeig in the eyes.  “Can you do that?”

Ofeig looks from Baldruus to Caidryn to Guiromélans.  “Jâ.  I suppose.  There are ways.  Could be Hells to pay though.”

Guiromélans smiles.  “Good enough.  I owe the Hells enough already.”

“When do you want—”

“Now.”

Ofeig’s eyes dart between Guiromélans and Baldruus, but he nods.  “You will make your minds known to me, Korp.  Before I make any enemies within my home, this you will do.  Else, right or wrong, I will stand against you.”

Bowing to both Guiromélans and Baldruus and Caidryn, he steps out into the night.

Caidryn whistles low and loud.  “Yer lookin’ tä make lots of enemies, uh?”

Guiromélans looks at Caidryn.  “Go find Dagnin and Balen.  Bring them both here.  From now on, whatever happens, it would be best if we all kept together.”

Caidryn glances at Baldruus and then nods.  Guiromélans watches her leave before pouring another mug of øl.

“You trust him more than any other Söderkarl?” Baldruus laughs as Guiromélans finishes the mug.  “I’m not sure he believed it, but it was a good line nevertheless!”

Guiromélans carefully sets the mug down and then approaches the stone-summoner.  Without warning, he grabs the Mynyddi by the base of his long ponytail and slams him into the doorframe.  Baldruus gasps in surprise and anger, his arms and fists pin wheeling about, but Guiromélans easily pins his arm behind his back.  When the sorcerer tries to summon, Guiromélans slams him against the wall again.  The wood becomes stained with the sorcerer’s blood.

“Done?” Guiromélans asks calmly.

“What?  What is this?” Baldruus whispers, a distinct tinge of panic running through his voice.

“It has not been spoken to me,” Guiromélans says calmly, quietly, “and so it is not entirely my business.  And I must make sure you know that I still consider us friends…”

“What?” Baldruus asks.

“But I need to remind you,” Guiromélans adds, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone, “that I have vowed to defend all ladies—and this lady in particular—with my strength, with my life… and with my sword if need be.  Understand?  Treat Caidryn well, Baldruus.”

The sorcerer tries to laugh, though his bruised lips are pressed against the wood.  “Caidryn is hardly helpless, Raven.”

“Helpless or not,” Guiromélans hisses.  “If I again see such marks upon her as I do today, it will go very poorly for you.”

With a sneer of disgust, Guiromélans throws Baldruus aside and pushes his way out the door.

Baldruus backs away from the door on weak knees.  His lips and nose throb, but it is the rapidity of his beating heart that frightens him the most.  His stone summons, and he feels the ache and sting of his split lips and bloodied nose begin to ease.

By the Cruth, could that muscle-bound Raven be serious?  Laughing, unconvincingly even to his own ears, Baldruus turns and refills Guiromélans’s mug.  He and Caidryn are merely establishing some boundaries.  Words have been exchanged, tempers flared—tempers always flare when Caidryn is involved—and then some regrettable things have happened.  He couldn’t imagine that sexless Medianist would understand.  Baldruus drinks and makes a disgusted face at the weak brew.  Drinking again, he chuckles.  Perhaps good old Guiromélans is merely jealous.  With that icy Dårlig freezing him out, perhaps what Baldruus has is looking better to him?

Baldruus laughs when he hears the door open.  “Now, Guiromélans,” he sighs as he turns, “I yield!  Your point is well—”

* * *

“He was found some 10 miles south on the road to Dalheath,” Asmund says solemnly.  “Nej idea how he got all the way down there though.  Nej horses are missing from our stables…”

Guiromélans stares down at the torn body of Baldruus.  His eyes are still open, the man’s final terror still evident on his face.

Outside of his talks with Putras and the battle for Mostheath, Guiromélans has had few encounters with udyronde, but he is quickly learning to recognize their handiwork.  The suddenness of the attacks.  The savagery of the wounds.  He sees that they have earned their reputations well.

We will kill you.  We will find you in your davas.  We will find you in your homes…

They were some of Putras’s last words to him.  As Guiromélans looks down at the body, he reflects that they didn’t waste any time.  Other than his face, there is little recognizably human left of his friend.

In a land as inhospitable as the Southern Territories, the death of a guest is a serious matter.  Asmund is here.  Quintian is here.  Dårlig is here.  Of Baldruus’s friends only Guiromélans is present.  Dagnin and Balen are occupied with their saber practice—they don’t yet know of Baldruus’s final fate—and Caidryn refused to come.  She could not bear witness to the remains of her lover.

Guiromélans senses more than hears Balen’s stealthy footsteps beneath the tables.  So the boy knows.  That means Dagnin probably knows as well.  That is unfortunate.

Guiromélans stares down at the frozen corpse.  His face twitches as the häxa, Huld, begins to pick over the wounds.  Her lips smack wetly as she peers close.

“What say you?” Dårlig asks, breaking the long silence at last.

Huld looks from Dårlig to Guiromélans and smiles maliciously.  “I says this häxa is missing his kilde…  Your Korp is one to collect the stones of sorcerers.  Perhaps he is the slayer?”

Asmund laughs loudly, unabashed that he is the only one to find humor in her words.

Dårlig looks impatiently from Asmund back to Huld.  “Cease your jests, Disir.  Speak.  What say you?”

Huld’s face twists with anger.  “He is as the others,” she spits, “I have nothing more to say!”  With a sneer at Guiromélans, she storms from the room.

Guiromélans looks back to see Dårlig watching him.  “I am sorry for your loss, Korp,” she says.  “Please… convey my sorrows to the Lady Caidryn as well… and the others that accompany you.”

“You say you left him in your böth last night?” Asmund demands.

Slowly, Guiromélans looks away from Dårlig and into Asmund’s eyes.  “Yes.  I was away from the böth for less than 15 minutes.  When I returned, Caidryn and the others were there, but he was gone.  If he left Hardanger, that was when he did it.”

“Six hours to run 10 miles?” Quintian mutters, “On foot in this snow?  In this weather?”

Dårlig nods.  “We have all seen this before.”

“They crawl into our böths?” Asmund sneers.  “They take our people from their beds?”  His enraged eyes fall upon the envoy.  “When will we say enough is enough?” he bellows.  “When will we take steps to see that these filthy udyronde will pay for these assaults?”  He shakes his fist at Quintian, “WHEN WILL YOU COWARDLY MEDIANISTS LIFT A FINGER TO AID YOUR VASSALS?”

To his credit, Quintian hardly flinches at the tirade.  “It is not a matter of manpower, huskarl.  It is a matter of leadership.”

“What?”

With a meaningful look at Guiromélans, the envoy says, “I believe these things are happening, are allowed to happen because Hardanger is missing its thane.  I believe these attacks will continue until—”

“Nej!” Dårlig shouts.

“SILENCE!” Asmund rages.

“I believe,” Quintian presses, “that it is time to declare Thane Bolwerk dead and for Dårlig to choose a new husband!”

“Never!” Dårlig says coldly.  “My husband lives.  He shall be found yet.”

“Jâ?” Quintian asks, “and who will do the searching?  The draugr or the udyronde?”

“I will not declare my husband dead!” Dårlig insists.

Quintian nods.  “Then know this.  If you hesitate too long, I have been authorized by Count Edgar to choose a thane for you.  This, I am prepared to do, even if you are not.  Come this Harvest Festival, there will be a new thane sitting upon Hardanger’s highseat.  Whoever is chosen, whether you remain lady of this stead will be up to him.  Therefore, it would be in your best interests to participate in the selection rather than oppose it.”

With a final glance down at Baldruus and a bow to Dårlig, Quintian leaves.

“Do not listen to the degkarl’s threats,” Asmund mutters.  “The herr of Gylling would not accept any thane other than Bolwerk.”

Dårlig looks up at Guiromélans.  “Jâ.  God save us if that is true.”

Guiromélans becomes aware of Balen’s presence next to him.  Slowly, the boy steps up to the table and peers at the slain sorcerer.  “How coulda this happened?” he whispers after a long pause.

Guiromélans touches Balen’s shoulder and slowly shakes his head.  He can see, beneath the caked blood, the bruises of his beating on Baldruus’s face.  Such a terrible parting they had!  Did it somehow have something to do with his death?

“This shouldn’t have happened!” Balen cries beating the table with his fists.  He turns and stares up at Guiromélans with despairing fury.  “Yä shouldn’t have let it happen!  Yer a Cathubodua!  Yer a hero!  Yä nots supposed tä lets this happen!”

Guiromélans can only shake his head, “I’m sorry, Balen.  I’m truly, truly sorry.  There was nothing—”

“Yäh!” Balen shouts.  “Yä weren’t doin’ yer job, uh?  Yä were off moonin’ after that boduus bitch!”  He turns and stabs a vicious finger at Dårlig.  “Yäh, yä bitch!  Yer the one behind these killin’s!”

“HOW DARE YOU!” Asmund screams, his whole being swelling with outrage.  He doesn’t seem to understand Balen’s Palpin words, but he certainly understands the tone.

“BALEN!” Guiromélans shouts.  “Be SILENT!”

“NAGE!” he screams, turning around and leaping on Guiromélans, beating him with his fists.  “She IS!  She IS!  Yä just don’t sees it because yä loves her sä much!”

Guiromélans is stunned by these words, and with one more mighty shove, Balen pushes away from him.  “But I can proves it!”

Asmund reaches for him, but the agile youth easily avoids his clumsy grab.

Guiromélans frowns as he watches the chase.  There is something held in the boy’s hand.  Instinctively, he reaches for his Median.  It is gone.  The boy is holding the precious silver artifact.

Just as Asmund corners Balen, Guiromélans grabs him, pulling the karl aside.  The two men struggle briefly, Guiromélans straining to contain the larger man.  Before their horrified eyes, Balen rushes Lady Dårlig, Median outstretched.  He stops, pressing it before her.  Its silver rings spin and flash.  “She’s evil!” he screams.  “SEE?”

He can hear Balen’s dismayed gasp as the Median remains pure.  Smiling sadly, Lady Dårlig reaches out and stops the spinning rings with her finger.  Guiromélans exhales as he relaxes his grip on Asmund.  Suddenly, he is puzzled.  What else did he expect?

With sob, Balen shoves past her and flees the room.

Guiromélans looks from Dårlig to Asmund and back.  The Lady stands mute, her face flushed with embarrassment and shame.  Asmund’s is blood red with barely controlled fury.  “Steps will need to be taken,” the huskarl growls.  “That… dreng… is too difficult.  He is out of control.  These insults… his contumacy… this behavior was the last straw!”

Silently, Guiromélans looks back down at his slain friend.  He frowns with sudden concern.  What is the boy going to do now?  What is he going to do with that Median?

Realization dawns alongside terror.

Guiromélans dashes out of the böth and into the courtyard.  Above the howls of the winds, he can hear the outraged shouts of bönder within the stables.  He sprints towards the fell-böth, his legs churning through the deep snow.  Too late, too slow.

Balen bursts out of the stables, mounted on his favorite steed.  Böndi and thralls dive for cover as he spurs the horse forward.  Before the karls can close the gates, he is gone, disappearing into the forest.

Guiromélans stands and stares.  “What is he thinking?” he wonders aloud.

* * *

Horsemen fan out into the forest.  It is much like the hunt of several days ago, Guiromélans reflects, though perhaps now the stakes are higher.

“How hard can it be to find one boy and his horse?” Ofeig shouts in frustration.

Guiromélans nods.  They have been searching all day.  Soon, it will be night.  The storm will worsen.  The temperature will plummet.  The dead will rise.  Orkning has insisted that all search efforts end an hour before dusk.  “Dear, God,” Guiromélans prays, “Guide us to our charge.”

Almost as soon as Balen fled Hardanger, Guiromélans, Dagnin, and many of the ridders rode out to find him.  They were mere minutes behind him, but somehow, Balen managed to get away.  Guiromélans knows it is his fault, of course.  He taught Balen how to ride.  Perhaps even before fighting, riding is the most important skill for a knight.  He and Balen and Dagnin have explored and raced and trained in these woods day after day after day.  The boy knows these woods.  He knows how to control his horse—he knows how to pace it for distance—and with his small frame, God knows how far that mount can carry him.

Caidryn insisted on joining the search parties as well, but she has no riding skills.  She was quickly resigned to remaining close to the stead and searching the many hiding places that Balen was certain not to be in.  She was furious, and Guiromélans understands her frustration, but they cannot afford to let her slow them down.

As the afternoon drags on, it becomes evident that Balen is nowhere close to Hardanger.  It occurs to Guiromélans that he knows perhaps where Balen is headed.  Without notice or warning, he breaks away from the search parties, and Dagnin in tow, he rides hard and fast through the trees, ducking beneath branches treacherously burdened with snow.

After all these days of endless blizzard, the terrain all begins looks the same.  Yet somehow, Guiromélans’s path is true.  Within hours, the two knights are standing within the abandoned lair of the beast.

Or is it so abandoned?

New snow has covered the gruesome evidence.  The fur and bones are nearly completely buried.  Fresh tracks mar this white shroud.  Horse tracks and the footprints of a boy.

Guiromélans looks at Dagnin desperately.  “The tracks go everywhere!”

Dagnin nods.  “We should circle the clearing.  No matter where he went from here, he will have arrived by one direction and left by another.”

Guiromélans nods, deferring to the older knight’s judgment, “You are the tracker here, not I.”

Dagnin chuckles, and Guiromélans has to admire him.  He holds himself so differently in that saddle.  His face wrapped against the cold, only his eyes are visible.  They are no longer the eyes of a Coward Knight.  There is fire burning in them now.  There is pride, eager to prove itself.

Dagnin examines the borders of the clearing and then peers back down at the tracks.  “We should split up.  The boy is around here somewhere.”  As if to prove his point, he stands in his stirrups and bellows Balen’s name.  The two knights listen carefully.  There is nothing but the sounds of the storm.  Dagnin nods.  “We should split up,” he repeats.

Guiromélans hesitates.  “Perhaps we should stay together?” he asks, watching Dagnin’s eyes carefully.

Those eyes smile.  “It’s OK, my friend.  I am not afraid… not anymore.  Thank you, however.”

Guiromélans returns the smile and nods.  “Very well.  You search north, and I south.  We shall call for Balen frequently, and we shall listen for each other’s voices.  We must stay within earshot of each other!”

Dagnin salutes as an Ehrech knight and wheels his horse around.

“Remember,” Guiromélans calls after him, “Better men than us have been killed in these forests!”

Dagnin laughs as he spurs his horse out of the clearing.

Guiromélans turns and, ducking beneath a branch, leaves by the same way they came in.  In the snow below, he can see their two sets of tracks entering the lair.  He scans the forest around him.  Stands of fir and spruce and pine are all around him, separated by thick blankets of snow.  All the underbrush has been either buried or long since killed.

Behind him, Dagnin’s voice calls for Balen, regularly, strongly, reaching him despite the storm.

As poor a tracker as he is, in this virgin snow even Guiromélans can still see the signs of animals’ passing.  Tiny, spotty prints of the hare.  The delicate path of a deer.  Wind gusts, doing its best to knock him from his steed, and he squints through the stinging onslaught and rides forward.  There are other tracks too.  Something with a heavier foot has passed by here recently.  Another horseman?  Whosever they are, he sees that they cross his and Dagnin’s.  Whoever it was, he passed by after they arrived in the glade.

Nearing them, he sees the deep troughs of a four-toed pad, the gouges of thick claws.  These are no horse tracks.

Guiromélans turns towards the clearing, his hand going for his sword.  Dagnin calls for Balen no more.

* * *

Shivering in the cold, Balen hears the shouting knights in the distance, but he doesn’t reply.  Silently, he guides his horse away from them.  The tracks are there!  Though the noble Cathubodua would never recognize them, good Dagnin would.  And in their quiet studies together, Dagnin has taught Balen well.

Sliding out of his saddle, he crouches in the snow and examines the animal’s trail.  He has seen tracks like these before.  Once, when he was littler, a capalus strayed too close to Cliffs Reach.  It was spotted quickly, and the cottars killed it.  Balen and other fry from the Mill found the carcass, and it became the focus of their play for days.  All around the kill-zone, he could see the tracks left in the mud, and through them, he read the animal’s last anguished moments.

These are like those tracks… but bigger.  Could it be an udyronde?  He wishes he had seen some of their tracks to compare them to.

Balen freezes.  Was that a sound nearby?  He looks around quickly.  His horse snorts, rocking its head left and right, tugging at its reins.  Its nostrils flare, and the whites of its eyes show.  In the distance, Guiromélans’s shouts have become desperate screams, falling, rising, pleading for him to return.  He doesn’t hear Dagnin anymore.

There is another sound.  Closer.  Drawing his small thveita blade, Balen backs towards his horse, reaching for its stirrups, preparing for flight.

Without warning, the dumb beast bolts in a flurry of ice and snow.  Balen lunges after it, but he is too small, too slow.  He trips and falls, plowing into the burning-cold snow, and the stirrups drag him several feet before he lets go.  He looks up to see his horse disappear into the woods.

Shivering, he picks himself up and shakes the snow from his hair and clothes.  Behind him is a deep trough carved by his body.  The skin of his face, chest, and arms is raw and bleeding from the abrasions of the rough ice.  Somewhere in all this snow, his knife is buried.  Crouching timidly, he begins to fish for it.

His breath and heart pound in his ears as the forest grows quiet around him.  He doesn’t hear Guiromélans anymore.  His hand closes around the handle of his knife just as, behind him, there is a sigh.  Or is it a growl?

Balen turns and gasps.  The huge creature is mere feet from him.  Its front legs are like great, clawed arms, but higher up, around its neck, it has two more smaller arms.  It is an udyronde.  Great white teeth are bared in its mouth.  Its golden eyes bore into him.

Slowly, Balen backs away and crouches, cutting the air violently with his knife.  The crushed snow is peppered with his blood.  “Don’t yä come na closer, else yä’ll gets the worst of it!” he shouts.  It is a brave display, though his voice trembles.

The udyronde briefly investigates the blood before looking back at the cornered boy.

“You are the paivis Guiromélans has spoken of, the suchis of the iltea.”  It almost sounds amused.

Balen’s mouth drops open.  “You speak Palpi?” he asks.

“I know not this word.”  It tilts its head, examining the tiny morsel before it.  “I speak the tongue of the EroBernacs…  Perhaps it is close enough to this Palpi you speak of?”

Slowly Balen raises the Median.  The creature’s eyes flash.  “That belongs to your vair-us.  He’s been calling for you.  These woods are dangerous to your kind, genton.”  It inclines its head, “Why do you come here?”

“I am tä be abandoned,” Balen says quietly, his teeth chattering with fear and cold.  “The gwledig of our home is goin’ tä make me leave.  Goin’ tä sell me tä the factories, uh?  Not a good fate fer a Cathubodua’s squire?  Maybe bein’ eaten by yä is a better way fer me tä go?  Better tä go in battle?”

“Remnants of a terrible war,” it sighs.  “Treaties and contracts are signed over your bodies.  Why would the genton treat their pups in this way?  I understand why.  Your ala is to find your death.”

“I was hopin’ not tä die,” Balen admits in a small voice.  “I was hopin’ tä track yä down… prove yä was evil…  Maybe earn me keep, sä they don’t send me off?”  He raises the pure Median again, “But God says yer not.  Not like the ghuls.  Not like those little clay bits that Guiromélans keeps breakin’.”

“You, suchis, are unlike any genton pup I have ever met.”

Balen’s eyes narrow.  “I knows yä!  Yer that udyronde Guiromélans saved, yäh?”

“So we recognize each other.”  Putras moves closer and peers into the boy’s eyes.  “I smell your bravery, your saut.  Your ala is strong.  I can see why the sura chose you.  You—”

The therm freezes, its hackles raising.  Slowly, it turns its head left and right, testing the wind with its nose.  Then it looks down at Balen.  Without warning, it scoops him up in its upper arms.  Even before Balen can scream, he finds himself high in the branches of a tree.

“Be silent, suchis,” the creature warns as it drops back to the ground.  “Be brave.  Guiromélans will find you soon.”

Turning around, it soaks the ground around the tree with its urine.

Balen huddles in the branches, shivering, terrified and confused.  His numbed fingers have difficulty keeping their grip, and before he realizes it, the Median falls to the snow below.  Around his tree, the great beast paces and circles, snuffling and growling loudly.

Suddenly it stops and crouches.  A low, dangerous growl rises from its throat.  Its shoulders tremble, and it seems to swell to twice its size.

Something new approaches.  Balen watches as the Median corrodes.

 

Guiromélans rides hard.  He can feel his horse straining, but he urges it faster and faster.  Bare, frozen branches lash at his face and shoulders, laying open his flesh and blinding his eyes with blood, but he pays them no mind.  The tracks lead in this direction, and the screaming noises of battle also guide him.  The sounds were inhuman, terrifying, filled with horrible, desperate fury.  He can only pray Balen had no part in them.

Now all is silent.

So focused on speed, he almost doesn’t see the small form in his path, and he narrowly avoids running it down with his horse.

His mount rears in protest as he forces it to a halt, and turning in his saddle, he sees Balen kneeling in the snow, soaked and pale, covered in blood, looking smaller than he’s ever seen him before.

With saber drawn, Guiromélans vaults to the ground and embraces the boy.  “By God!  By the Prophets, blessed-be-their-names!”

Balen returns Guiromélans’s embrace weakly, his whole body shuddering in his arms.

“Where were you?” Guiromélans demands.  “We have to leave!  We have to get you out of here now!”

Slowly, silently, Balen extends his hand and points back the way he came.  It is covered in blood.  Guiromélans looks at the hand and back through the trees.

He throws the boy into his horse’s saddle, and taking the reins, he follows his directions.

Beyond the trees, the snow is scarred with the signs of a terrible struggle.  Blood soaks the snow and has sprayed high into the branches.  The beast had killed Dagnin and his horse quickly, easily, almost casually.  This however was a fight in earnest.  He looks up at Balen in the saddle, and the boy trembles.  Did he witness it?

As if in answer, Balen points down to the base of a tree.  Guiromélans steps forward and kneels.  There, he finds his Median, soaked in gore but otherwise unharmed.

There are scraps of hair and skin here.  Bits of muscle and other organs.  A great bloody trail leads away from the tree gouged in the snow.  Something large has pulled itself through the snow here.

Cautiously, Guiromélans follows it.  He peers behind a fallen tree.  He stares at the great, bloody corpse.

He closes his eyes.

* * *

“Lady Dårlig!” Guiromélans shouts.  The great hall of Hardanger stead has been decorated for the impending Harvest Festival.  Tomorrow night is the Winter Nights celebration, the eve of the Harvest Festival.  Winter Nights has traditionally been the merriest, the most exciting of events, in some places surpassing even the excesses of the Harvest Festival itself.  Even a day before, the air should be electric with anticipation.  With the pallor of doom hanging over the bygthir, however, tonight seems more like a funerary wake.

And appropriately so, Guiromélans observes.  In the past 36 hours, he has seen three of his closest friends slain.  He is in no mood for merrymaking.

“Lady Dårlig!” he bellows again.  The herr of the stead sit at their tables as they always have at mealtime, but the highseats of the Thane and his lady stand empty.  The Thane is dead.  His lady has retreated to her rooms.  In response to Guiromélans’s display, the musicians slowly stop their playing.  Eventually, all conversation stops as all eyes turn to him.  The great hall is more filled than usual.  Guests and dignitaries for the Harvest Festival have been arriving all day, even as Guiromélans had been searching for Balen, even as Dagnin and Putras were being slaughtered.  Come Harvest Festival, there will be a great celebration.  Come Harvest Festival, Gylling Bygthir will have a thane.  Whether it survives the winter remains to be seen.

“She will not see you, degkarl!” Asmund shouts from his stool, pounding the table with his fists.

Guiromélans guides Balen forward and shouts, “She does not need to see me.  Only hear me!”

“Speak your words, Korp,” Orkning says firmly, silencing the older huskarl, “The herr-möte is listening.”

“I am here to speak of the future of this dreng!”

“This dreng of yours has nej future in this stead!” Asmund shouts back.  “It has been decided!  Nej bastard child will tarnish the image of Hardanger with his presence!”

“Nej more than it’s image is already tarnished,” Guiromélans murmurs.

The laughter comes from only the non-Söderkarl—Caidryn, Captain Dumart, Justiciar Quintian—and Ofeig.  Asmund doesn’t find the quip amusing.  Orkning merely shakes his head, approving of Guiromélans’s baiting of Asmund but perhaps questioning his methods.

“Make your jokes now, Korp!” Asmund roars.  “The bastard is soft like you!  They have uses for drengs like that up in Lethrasholme!”

“Jâ, so I’ve been told.  Then let me put your concerns at ease.  I wish to guarantee that no bastards will interfere with tomorrow’s Harvest Festival!”

“Jâ!  That is good!” Asmund laughs.

“WHAT?” Caidryn shouts with sudden understanding.  She is faster on the uptake than Asmund.

Quintian and Aybert lean forward in their seats.

“Lady Dårlig!” Guiromélans shouts again, loud enough for her to hear within her chambers, even with her doors shut.  “Before you and all those assembled in your stead, I come to make the following declaration!  As Korp of the Seven Kingdoms, as knight of Ehre, I hereby declare this dreng, Balen, to be my son and squire!  He is to be afforded all rights and privileges, as well as debts and penalties, as if he is of my own blood!  By God, this I swear and oath!”