Guiromélans kneels in the abandoned cathedral.  There is no longer a Medianist priest in Hardanger—other than Aybert perhaps—and so there was no one to lay Dagnin’s and Baldruus’s bodies properly to rest.  Much to his sadness, they both were sent away with Ofeig to be treated as the rest of the fallen Söderkarl, taken to the ruined stead and staked to the ground.

Guiromélans kneels and prays.  He prays and weeps.  He prays to God for the salvation and succor of his friends’ souls.  He weeps for his own loss and for their terrible final moments.

He prays, too, for Putras.  Though he was a demon, a loathly creature in the Eyes of God, his heart held a worthy spark.  He deserves to be mourned, and perhaps, just perhaps, his final act of sacrifice was enough to win him God’s good favors.

Guiromélans looks down next to him at Balen’s kneeling form.  What was once a slender, surly street urchin, scampering across a Brackish privateer, is quickly becoming something else.  His arms and shoulders are filling out.  His hair is cut and groomed.  He is still, focused.  The positions of his hands are correct for the prayer he is offering.

The boy has flourished under his and Dagnin’s tutelage.  He can only hope he can complete alone what the two of them began.  He is certain Balen can become a knight, if not a Raven… so long as Guiromélans’s failings do not corrupt him.

Balen finishes his prayer and makes the sign of the Median across his breast.  When he looks up, Guiromélans can see tears in his eyes.

Smiling, he wipes them from the boy’s face with his thumb.  Balen returns the awkward smile and likewise wipes away Guiromélans’s.  “I miss them,” Balen says.

“As do I.  Truth be told, I have lost many close friends in my life, and I miss them all.  It is the lot of a soldier and a knight.  If you choose to become a Raven as well, you must be prepared to lose many during your travels too.”

Balen’s mouth trembles.  “Why does yä weep then?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Because it is always painful.”

Balen tries to harden his expression but fails, “Then I won’t lets it, uh?  I won’t lets the pain come!”

Guiromélans rests his hand on Balen’s shoulder, “No, let it come.  You must.  Even for your enemies, you must weep.”

Balen considers this for a moment, staring angrily up at the three Prophets above them.  “Yä means likes those Muttese cings yä killed?”

Guiromélans remembers his duel with the 10 þiuda, the rain, the mud, the tears he shed over their bloody corpses.  “Yes.  You must weep.”

“Nage!  I don’t wants tä cry!” he cries despite himself, “I wants tä hurt it!  I wants tä hurt that thing!”

“Do not give in to anger,” Guiromélans warns.  “Weep for the fallen, remain strong in your convictions, but do not succumb to hate.”

“Yä hates!” Balen yells, “I’ve seen yä!”

Guiromélans grimaces and nods.  “I have been weak.  In the past, yes, I have been a poor knight and a worse Raven.  But it has been by your example, by your presence that I have overcome my weakness.  Now let me help you.”

Balen’s face collapses into tears, and Guiromélans embraces the boy.

“It was a bad thing!” he bawls, “I saw it!  It was a bad thing!”

 

Guiromélans sits quietly at the back of the cathedral, watching Balen’s exercises from a distance.  The cathedral is open, unlocked, hardly a suitable fortress against a beast that seems to stalk this stead with impunity, but in a place where a creature of such corruption hunts the night, perhaps the House of God would lend some kind of protection?

Regardless, the two of them have claimed this place as their own, and hardly no one bothers them here.

As he watches, Balen performs a series of complicated spins and thrusts with his bwyell.  They are not strictly Brackish techniques, mainly a fusion of Brackish, Ulbandi, and EroBernac movements.  While Guiromélans was initially unsure of their effectiveness when he taught them to Balen, at least at this distance they look pretty deadly.

He notes a new intensity in the boy, a new purpose, as though he is battling a true enemy.  There are nightmares behind those young eyes now.

It was an animal—long, lean, powerful—with a body more slender than that of a therm, with long brown fur, and four limbs.  Only four limbs, not six.  It was no therm then, but it certainly could have been another member of the beastman race.  The Tribe of Anwar Clobyn.

Against it, Putras fought fiercely, bravely, and futilely.  Though he was larger than the strange creature, it seems it was his ala to die by its claws and teeth.

Three friends in one day.  Guiromélans watches Balen as he practices.  Three of his own friends.  And if it wasn’t for Putras, probably four.

No doubt it was a challenge, a game, just as the stalking in its den was.  It knows about him.  It is smart, aware.  It is no mere animal.  No doubt, it has agents in this stead or some other means of watching him.  It struck deeply into his heart yesterday.  It’s tasted his blood.  It will be hungry for more.

Short of his own life, there is little else it can attack.  Caidryn.  Dårlig, perhaps.  Certainly Balen…

Guiromélans frowns slightly.  The bwyell sags slightly as the boy begins to tire.  He still needs to work on his upper body strength.

“Lord Guiromélans?” a tentative voice asks quietly, “May we speak?”

Guiromélans turns to see Lady Dårlig standing in the nave.  Guiromélans glances back at Balen—he hasn’t yet noticed her arrival—and then nods.  “Jâ, of course.  I am always available to you.”

She looks down at her feet and, without meeting his eyes, silently glides into the pew next to him.  She sits still, frozen like a statue, staring straight ahead at Balen, hands folded together, fingers coiled and locked with inner tension.  Guiromélans merely stares at her, watching the flakes of snow slowly melt from her golden hair and slender shoulders.

“Your dreng fights well,” she sighs at last.

“Sir Dagnin was an excellent teacher,” Guiromélans answers.

“As I’m sure you are.”

“Perhaps.  That remains to be seen.”

Her eyes squint slightly, the first change in her expression since she’s taken her seat.  “I recognize that blade…”

“It is the Brackish bwyell from your hall.  We borrowed it.”

“Ah.  We had thought it a useless thing.  It hung on my Thane’s walls for years, collecting nothing but dust.  Bolwerk once played with it, but he found it wanting.  Not quite a halberd, not quite an axe, not quite a sword.  Clumsy… but in your boy’s hands… it is beautiful… deadly.”

“Jâ.  Such is the case with anything… in the right hands.”

“It was a brave thing you did for him last night, a noble thing.”

“Not all would agree with you,” Guiromélans counters.  Certainly Asmund wouldn’t.  For some strange reason, the man has almost an obsession with removing the boy from the stead.  But there is nothing he can do about that now, beyond expelling Guiromélans as well.  “And as my son, he is now culpable for all my crimes.”

“Crimes?  And what crimes would these be?” she wonders, but Guiromélans doesn’t answer.

At last, she turns to look at him.  Against her pale skin, her cheeks and nose glow with the cold from outside.  A deeper flush is slowly rising from her bosoms, from a warmth perhaps not from this cathedral, and it slowly lends her skin a radiant aura.  Her eyes meet his, then look away, and finally return.  “Lord Guiromélans, I find myself in a most… difficult predicament.”

“Jâ?”

“This night is Winter Nights.  Tomorrow comes the Harvest Festival.  It has been made clear to me that I must choose a new thane for my gylling.  I must choose him tonight, else a new one will be chosen for me tomorrow!”

“Jâ,” Guiromélans nods slowly.  It is just as Aybert suspected.  So the matter now comes to him.

She stares at him in silence, apparently waiting for something else to be said.  When Guiromélans says no more, she adds, “Please help me!”

Guiromélans smiles awkwardly.  “Tell me first, is this a matter of the heart or one of reason?  For they have different answers, of course.”

Dårlig looks as if about to cry.  “Oh, Guiromélans!  How I wish it could be of the heart!  If it was of the heart, I would cling to the memory of my sweet husband and never let it go!  But I am the Lady of this stead, and the fate of its rule appears to be in my clumsy hands.  And so it seems I must follow the dictates of reason.”

Guiromélans nods, “Reason it is, then.  You must determine the best fate for your people, for your stead, and then pick the man most likely to lead you towards it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your relations with Count Edgar, Ledus County, and Lethrasholme, with the Medianists.  Do they matter to Hardanger?  Do you wish stronger ties or do you seek independence?  You must decide and then pick accordingly.”

“I… see,” she says slowly, “and of course, you would advocate stronger ties with the Medianists?”

“I would seek stronger ties with the Medianists,” Guiromélans agrees, “though that doesn’t necessarily mean stronger ties with the Count.  Or even the Superbus Tyrannus.  From what you know of them, who would be EroBernd’s favored suitor?”

“The Viscount known as Brandsson.”

“Ah, jâ.  The man educated in Mynydd and EroBernd.”

Dårlig briefly looks surprised.  “True!  And how would you know this?”

Guiromélans smiles, “I have ears.  I choose to use them.”  He looks back at Balen, “So, should you pick him, how would he be received?”

Dårlig laughs briefly, bitterly, “Not well.  Some would remain loyal—Asmund, Orkning, others—but there would be rebellions.  Within a year, 2 at best, we would all be dead, and one of my other suitors would claim the highseat.”

“Such an extreme reaction?  You are certain?”

“Jâ.”

“Then he is not your man… not unless you and your people have severely underestimated him.”

Dårlig nods, “Perhaps.  But currying the favor of the Superbus Tyrannus is not the only issue important to me or my people.”

“Nej,” Guiromélans agrees, “There are others.  There is the matter of the draugr.  There is the matter of the war with the udyronde.  The man you choose must be able to guide your people safely through these trials as well…”

“And they are only the short term troubles,” Dårlig sighs dismissively.  She shakes her head with irritation, “Your rhetoric is excellent, Guiromélans, and you have succeeded in not really answering my question.”

“Oh?” Guiromélans asks with surprise, “Really?”

“Who would you choose?”

Guiromélans stares at Balen for a long time.

“Sir Guiromélans?” Dårlig asks, “Will you not answer my question?”

“You are asking a degkarl, an Ehrech knight.”

“Jâ.”

“I am loyal to the Superbus Tyrannus and the Primate.  I am a devout Medianist.”

“Jâ.”

“But I am a Raven above all else.”  He looks at her, “Do you know what that means?  Romance, petty stratagems, love.  I have no interest in them.”

“Really?”  She almost sounds disappointed.

“I believe Quintian is wrong.  I feel you have served as ruler of this bygthir well enough alone.  There is no vacuum in the seat of power, for you have filled it.  To me, it is not a matter of which man is the best ruler for Hardanger, because you are its best leader.”  He nods at her stricken expression, “To me, I see the issue of leadership as irrelevant.  For your husband, I would look to acceptance by the people as well as the EroBernac.  I would look for a malleable man, one who would not know or would not care that he is not the true leader.  And yet, he must be brave, strong, an excellent warrior when it comes to battle.”

“You know of such a man?” she asks.

“Jâ.  He is charismatic and well liked.  He is a proven warrior.  And he loves you above all others.”

Dårlig freezes.  “You cannot mean Orkning?”

Guiromélans merely looks back at her.

Dårlig sighs and nods.  “He is a loyal man, he is a good man.  He would be silent in the days of peace, and in times of war, he would be fearsome.  There will be blood-enough for everyone to shed in the coming arrow-storm.  He would avail us well.  Jâ, he is a good choice.”

“Jâ.”  He leans closer to her.  “So you have chosen then?”

“Nej.”

“Why?  Why not Orkning?”

“I… have my reasons.”

Guiromélans blinks.  “The war with the udyronde is a sham.  You must know that.”

Dårlig smiles a tiny smile.  “Jâ, I know.”

“You know?”

“I… have suspected for a while, jâ.”  She looks up at him, “We are not quite the fools you take us for.”

Guiromélans bows his head, “Forgive me if I have offended…”

“Nej,” she sighs, “I apologize.  At these times, I may speak too harshly.  My people are quick to anger, Guiromélans, and slow to forgive.  I cannot move towards peace with the udyronde until I can provide my ridders with the true foe.  And this foe has been… evasive.”

“The beast,” Guiromélans says.

Dårlig nods, “Perhaps.  So you say.  But can only one beast do so much harm?”

“I would kill it for you.”

“Of that I have nej doubt… if you could find it.”

“It is only one creature.  I could gather your best hunters, your bravest karls.  We could hunt it down, hound it endlessly, until we can corner it and kill it.”

“You speak as if you were the thane of my bygthir, Korp Guiromélans,” she says with a knowing smile.

Guiromélans is momentarily taken aback.  Is she suggesting what he thinks she is?  “Nej.  I would not presume.  Your people would never accept me, Lady.”

“Far easier than they would Orkning,” she replies, “You underestimate yourself, Lord Guiromélans.  You have proven yourself strong and brave.  You have proven yourself in battle.  You have earned the title of Óriás.  You have proven yourself a leader of men.  You have proven yourself dedicated to God and to the Median.  You have proven yourself loyal to EroBernd.”  She smiles at his stunned expression, “Can you think of a better man to occupy Hardanger’s highseat?”

The celebrations of Winter Nights fill the stead of Hardanger.  It is a lunatic parody of EroBernac traditions, with Söderkarl boasting and fighting in the place of proper etiquette and norms.  They ape their rulers and, through imitation, hope to rise to their level.

Guiromélans sits in his place of honor next to Lady Dårlig’s empty stool.  Despite the dances, the singing, the celebrations, he does not move.  He sits alone at the table, watching.  Watching.  What he sees sends chills up and down his spine.

It is a feeding frenzy, and there is only one piece of meat.  Lady Dårlig.  Hundreds of dignitaries and guests have arrived—some of the greatest men of Ledus County and beyond—but only a handful has any true chance of claiming her.  The rest are retainers and locals, guests and friends, allies and foes.  The blizzard and the holiday have even attracted the attendance of foreigners and stragglers—a whole shipload of k’Lida and an assortment of ragged, unshaven forest-men—Guiromélans is unsure if their presence is by design or pure happenstance.  The early storms would make any harbor appealing.  Neither group bodes well for the next couple of days.

“This cold is unreal!” Captain Dumart exclaims between deep drinks of hydromel.

The young ridder he speaks to nods his head.  Age has not yet granted him a full beard, but it makes a valiant effort nevertheless.  “Never have I seen it so, though I have counted only a few winters in my brief life.  But never so early.  Never so endless.”

Guiromélans recognizes the young man from his introductions.  He is Vandrisson, son of Thane Vandril from the bygthir to the south.  The boy is barely older than Balen!  The thought of him bedding with Dårlig is nearly laughable.  The father is elsewhere, boasting with Asmund and Orkning.  It is an unfortunate happenstance when father and son compete for the same woman.  No good can come of it.

Dumart shakes his head, “The bay is nearly frozen solid.  Though my cargo is not yet finished with its duties, I suspect my ship must leave soon before it becomes trapped.”

“Cargo?” Vandrisson laughs.

“Jâ!” Dumart laughs as well, “Those two beaurocrats and their whining scribes…”  Their voices fade as the currents of the crowd carry them away from Guiromélans’s seat.

Justiciar Quintian speaks with a well-groomed, tall lord of about 20 years.  The man stands among these Söderkarl like a beacon.  His beard and hair are trimmed tightly against his face, his clothes display the latest in EroBernac fashions.  At his hip hangs a fine cavalry saber, probably an expensive imitation of a Raven’s blade.  This must be Viscount Nikolas, Guiromélans suspects.  By the Prophets, what he would do for an opportunity to speak with him!  For just a taste of the life within the courts of Aquilaleon…

Guiromélans senses eyes upon him.  Looking right, he sees a ridder standing nearby.  He stands calmly, watching.

“Do I know you, sir?” Guiromélans asks.

“You are the Korp who presumes to advise the Lady of this bygthir?” he asks.

“I am Sir Guiromélans, Vavasour of Ehrech and Raven of God.  I answer Lady Dårlig only when asked, and then I speak merely from my heart.”  His eyes narrow, “Who are you?”

“I am Rig-jarl Hrobjart.”  He nods at Guiromélans reaction, “So we have heard of each other.”

“Thane Bolwerk’s brother?” Guiromélans replies.  “Jâ, Lady Dårlig has spoken of you.”

“High praise, I hope?” Hrobjart chuckles.

“Hardly,” Guiromélans says carefully, “At best, she would consider you an opportunist.”

“But then, who isn’t?”

Guiromélans hesitates, “By the same token, I hear the EroBernacs favor you as thane nearly as much as they do Viscount Nikolas.”

Hrobjart looks surprised.  A wariness that was in his eyes previously is now gone.  “Truly?  Why would that be I wonder?”

“They feel you would be receptive of the Medianist’s agendas.”

“Then they are mistaken,” the Rig-jarl snaps darkly.

Guiromélans shrugs, “Evidently.”

“Let me tell you a bit of news I’ve heard then.”  Hrobjart steps closer, and his attitude causes Guiromélans some concern.  Before he is within arm’s reach, Guiromélans stands and steps away.  His fingers rest upon the handle of his saber.  The Söderkarl’s eyes are wild, feverish.  “I have heard that the Lady might even consider a degkarl as her new mate!” he hisses.  He inclines his head slightly, “Have you heard anything of the sort?”

“Something of the sort, jâ,” Guiromélans answers, “Though I have considered them only epithets and curses.”

Hrobjart laughs, his mouth leers, but his eyes are steel.  “Let me give you some advice, degkarl.”

“You do not know me well enough for that, sir.”

“Let me give it to you anyway!” he shouts.  “This stead is cursed.  Your God and the Thunderer have both forsaken it and all who reside within!  The highseat of Hardanger is a tomb, and all who sit upon it would most surely die!”

“Truly, I had no designs for the title of thane,” Guiromélans admits wryly, “and now I am doubly set against it.”

Hrobjart looks at Guiromélans as if he were crazy, and then, spitting on the floor in disgust, he turns and walks away.

 

It is close to Midnight when the guests realize something is going on.  News reaches them that thralls and bönder have been working down at the docks, diligently chopping away at the ice of the bay.  Whispers spread through the party that a dragon boat, certainly a relic from Hardanger’s past, brought out of storage and assembled with great secrecy, now floats in the frigid water.

Guiromélans can hardly believe his ears.  What could Dårlig be planning?  The guests’ excitement was building as the evening wore on and Dårlig remained absent.  Now, this only heightens matters.  As one, the crowds spill out of the longhouse and migrate towards the harbor.  Joining the others, he pushes his way into the freezing night.

Standing just outside the stead’s doors, he can see the bay of Hardanger is aglow with countless fires.  Every rooftop, every wharf and pier, every ship and boat in the water blazes with great, angry pyres.  Only the Medianist cruiser and the k’Lida galleon stand dark.  There are even burning rafts resting upon the frozen water, illuminating the whole bay.

The assembled crowd reacts with a unified gasp as they rush down towards the water’s edge.  The streets have been diligently cleared of snow—though more still endlessly falls—and the way is well lit with gaslights and torches.  As Guiromélans makes his way down—more carefully perhaps than the Söderkarl—he reflects how similar the scene is to the night of the Burning Time.  Eerie.  Frightening.  Foreboding.

The other Medianists who likewise walk with him—Aybert, Dumart, Pliamin—also seem to sense it.  They exchange worried looks.

“Astonishing, really!”

Guiromélans slows his step and turns around.  The Viscount Nikolas Bransson walks abreast of him.

“What is, my lord?” he asks.

The cultured Söderkarl gestures around him.  “This. Quite a spectacle.  It seems Lady Dårlig will be taking her duties very seriously tonight.  Jâ, very seriously.”

Guiromélans shakes his head in confusion.  “You know what all this is?  You recognize it?”

Nikolas smiles, “Oh jâ.”  His eyes narrow.  “You are not from the EroBernac cruiser, jâ?  Are you the Korp I’ve heard so much about?”

“I do not know what you’ve heard, but I am a Korp.”

Nikolas laughs.  It is an unpleasant, forced sound.  “I admit you don’t wear the garb I would expect of an Ehrech nobleman.”

“I am from Ehrech,” Guiromélans admits as he looks down at his Söderkarl clothes.  “The miles have been harsh, agreed, but there is more to a Raven than his garments.”

“True, true!  But in your wadmal you look more the wild-man than the knight.”

“Indeed?” Guiromélans asks, wondering how insulted he should be.

The ships of the harbor are now in sight.  The crowds before them have slowed as the people begin to press together.  Nikolas gestures towards the prow of the Blood Drake, the EroBernac crew watching the passing Söderkarl with suspicion.  “I have heard our navy has captured a privateer off the Frostthing shores... a rare thing for this time of year… and Brackish no less!”

Guiromélans tenses, “Really?”

“The crew was lost, starving, freezing to death, nearly at each other’s throats.  A sorry sight if it was anyone other than Bracks...”  He laughs loudly before becoming lost in his own thoughts.

“And why do you tell me this?”

“Hmmn?  Oh, jâ!” he sputters, “From what I’ve heard, the crew’s claimed to be innocent of their crimes.  Can you believe it?  Apparently, they pillaged all along the Muttese and Weaning Shores coasts for months.  Claimed they were under the power of a cursed Korp when they committed their atrocities.  When I heard about you, I immediately thought of him.  I mean, how many Korps could be in the Southern Territories at one time?  And when I finally saw you—your clothes—well, I knew it had to be you!”  He laughs again.  “I am only jesting, of course.”

“Of course.”  Guiromélans’s eyes turn towards the k’Lida galleon.  How many Ravens can there be in the Southern Territories?  How many k’Lida galleons can there be in the Skudd Sea?  He eyes the ship’s blocky lines, even at this distance still concealed by darkness.  He can see only the hints of movement on its decks.

Can this be the same galleon as he saw in the paqa outpost?  Were they returning home from Mynydd when they were caught in this storm?

Why would God have delivered to him this ship at this of all times?

“I mean, a cursed Korp?” the Viscount laughs, “Something of a contradiction, that, jâ?”

“Or a redundancy,” Guiromélans answers gravely, finally taking his eyes away from the galleon.

“Hmmn.  Jâ,” Nikolas says, seeming to consider this seriously.

“What was the curse they said this Korp had?”

Nikolas frowns and then shakes his head, “I didn’t hear.  Perhaps the affliction merely forced others to commit terrible acts of barbarism?”

“Perhaps his curse was to prevent others from hiding the darkness that already resides in their hearts.”

Nikolas looks surprised.  “Why, with an affliction such as that he would be more saint than outlaw!”

“More Fallen Lord, I fear.”

“Ah!  Perhaps!  Jâ.”

The Viscount’s overly familiar nature irritates Guiromélans to distraction.  Without realizing it, he collides with the Söderkarl ahead of him.  To two big karls turn with sharp retorts but moderate their reactions when they see whom they face.

Guiromélans doesn’t wait for their apologies.  Excusing himself from the Viscount, he pushes his way deeper into the crowd.

The faces of all the Söderkarl around him reflect the same anticipation.  It seems Viscount Nikolas isn’t the only one who realizes what Lady Dårlig is planning.  Not for the first time does Guiromélans wish he had Baldruus nearby to advise him.

Söderkarl villeins part quietly for his approach, and he eventually makes his way to the wharf itself.  A single voice pierces the drone of the crowd, and instantly the harbor is silent.

“Hear me, sons of Uspak!  Hear me, daughters of Jorun!”  It is Dårlig’s voice.  “Hear me, children of the Thunderer!  I address you according to the Old Ways, for I wish to invoke the Old Ways!”

Guiromélans circles around the bulk of Orkning and gets his first close look at the scene upon the bay.

It is indeed an ancient Söderkarl karve, an artifact of their barbaric past, calmly at rest in the hole chopped into the ice.  Long oars sprout from its sides, a fearsome dragon’s head arches high overhead.  Bönder stand ready at the oars, as if the ship is preparing to set sail.  Ringed with fire, Dårlig stands upon the deck, arms outstretched, head back to address the storm above.

“By the ice of Elivagar!  By the fires of Muspelheim!  Beneath the eyes of the Thunderer, this I swear, nej man will take the highseat of Hardanger unless they pass the Test of the Einheriar!”

A lone cheer rises from the crowd.  Guiromélans looks to see Asmund roaring with approval, the elder ridder shaking his long sword at the sky.  His cheer is picked up by Orkning and then by others.  Soon, nearly every Söderkarl around the harbor is shouting their challenge to the storm.

“Come!” Dårlig screams.  “All those who would presume to replace my husband!  Come and accept the Einheriar’s challenge, for only the mightiest can rule!”

There is a push among the crowd as Viscount Nikolas emerges.  With barely a glance at Guiromélans, he steps up to the side of the karve and places his foot on its deck.  “I accept your challenge!”

The crowd roars, and Guiromélans knows that act will certainly improve his standing with the herr.

Two more men angrily push their way through.  It is Thane Vandril and his son, and they are companied by a handful of retainers.  Whatever this Test of the Einheriar entails, it seems only a select group is willing to endure it.

With the arrival of the champions from Frodis-water, many others are now stepping forward.  An officer from the Blood Drake (although not Captain Dumart or Officer Pliamin), several ridders and jarls from within and without Gylling Bygthir, even a couple forest-men, obviously hoping to lift their outlawry through the promotion of marriage.  A certain buzz fills the crowd as Bolwerk’s brother, Rig-jarl Hrobjart, joins the men on the karve as well.

Guiromélans looks up to the chamarling standing next to him.  The huskarl looks grim.  “You should step up there,” he says.

Orkning shakes his head.  “It is not my place to woo the wife of my Thane.”  He looks down at Guiromélans, “but you should step forward.”

“What?  Me?”

He nods his head, “You wish it?  There is much affection between the two of you, I think.”

“Foolishness!”

“You are wise, strong, and grim in battle.  Though you are small in stature, you would be an excellent thane.  I am not alone in thinking this.”

Guiromélans looks back at Dårlig.  She does not look at the men who presume to claim her and her lands.  She remains unmoving, challenging the storm above her.  She is akin to an angel, lit from the fires behind.  She is like a pagan goddess.

“Step forward, you must!”

Guiromélans wheels around to see the bent form of Huld.  The crone glares up at him.  “You must!”

“Why?  Why must I?”

“Lead my people with your sword!  You are a slayer, you are the avenger!  Save us before the beast rises!”

“But why must I wed Dårlig to do this?”

“To save us, you must lead!  To lead, you must sit upon the highseat of Hardanger!”

Guiromélans looks back up at the ancient dragonship.  Standing with Dårlig are some of her most hated enemies—men who had waged war against her husband in the past, men who represent the hated conquerors from the north, men who represent the worst criminals and opportunists her people have to offer—from among this pool, her new husband will be chosen?

“She has sworn to marry a degkarl before she would wed one of them!” Huld hisses luridly.

Guiromélans looks back at her.  It is true, she did.  Or so he heard.  Earlier this morning, she even suggested it herself.  Did his refusal drive her to this desperate act?

Or did she intend this all along?  Certainly, he was right.  No Söderkarl in Gylling would support him as the new thane.

But if he succeeded in the Test of the Einheriar…

“Ah, jâ,” Huld murmurs, “The Korp sees clearly now…”

He has vowed to render aid to all ladies who have requested it, and most certainly, Lady Dårlig has requested it.

Before he realizes what his legs are doing, he too is standing upon the deck of the karve.

 

“In the name of the Thunderer!  In the name of God!  Are you prepared to prove yourselves worthy to rule?”

The suitors onboard the karve shout their assent.  Guiromélans remains silent, not knowing what is being asked of him and not approving of the Thunderer tone of this ceremony.

The great ship rocks gently, creaking in a way that is unsettlingly familiar to him.  Each suitor stands by the locks of an oar, waiting in anticipation.  Many make quick, furtive glances down at the icy water overboard.  If Guiromélans didn’t know better, he’d think some of these fearsome Söderkarl warriors are actually frightened.

He glances back to the wharf and sees Orkning and Caidryn watching him.  The Brackish girl grins back nastily.  She seems to know something that he doesn’t.

“In the Age of Man, Uspak called together His young race into the first dømme-ring.  The call to rule was made, and many answered.  By the wisdom of Gro, the Test was fashioned.  The contestants bore the mark of the Thunderer, those who have mastered the skills of battle, and these have become the most sacred Einheriar.  In their footsteps, you  must follow!  In man-möte, now, take you their places and prepare for the Test!”

Guiromélans stands in mute shock as each of the suitors steps up onto the ship’s rail and then actually steps down upon oars below.  Many struggle immediately to keep their balance, but others, like Rig-jarl Hrobjart, stand easily, one foot upon each oar, hands crossed behind their backs.  Hrobjart watches the efforts of the others with quiet amusement.

Frowning and clearing his throat, Guiromélans steps out upon his oars without any further hesitation.  The wood is old and worn, and the two oars provide good traction beneath his boots.  The rocking of the ship is manageable, thanks to his time onboard the Knight’s Torment.

Even as he makes his way down closer to the waterline, he hears a cry and a splash.  Already, the EroBernac officer has fallen from his place and plunged into the freezing water.  He breaks the surface, swimming desperately, and struggles for the shore.  Bönder on the ice catch his clothes with gaffs and pull him to safety.  By the time they pull him out of the water, he is already limp and blue.

Guiromélans looks down at the water.  Tiny chunks of ice cover its surface in a slush.  Falling into it would be an unfortunate experience.

Thane Vandril engages in some loud boasting and challenges with a few of the outlaws, and the ruler of Frodis-water stomps and jumps upon his oars in defiance.

Guiromélans shakes his head and prepares to settle in for a wait.  If this is to be a test of endurance, so be it.

These expectations are shattered when he sees bönder onboard the karve taking positions at the ends of each oar.  He looks around quickly.  Many of the suitors are laughing, jumping up and down in anticipation, daringly stepping and jumping from one oar to another.

Dårlig claps her hands loudly, and a drum beats deeply.  “So it shall begin!” she shouts.

Begin? Guiromélans wonders.  Hasn’t it already begun?

Much to his surprise, the suitors begin to run, stepping and leaping from one oar to the next, running from fore to aft and back again.  Guiromélans’s hesitation nearly costs him dear as Hrobjart shoves him violently out of his way.  Guiromélans staggers, looses his balance, and falls.  The crowds scream in excitement, but Guiromélans catches himself in time, hanging precariously from one oar.

Before any other suitor can kick him off, he swings himself back up and, finding his footing, begins to gingerly make his way up and down the ship as well.  It is matter of timing and balance, and Guiromélans performs as well as he can.

But then, the bönder on deck take up their ends of the oars… and they begin rowing.

The oars remain above the water—there is no room for the karve to move—so the oars bite nothing but air.  They jerk alarmingly beneath Guiromélans, and he pinwheels his arms as he fights for balance.  He keeps moving, trying to time his leaps with the rhythm of the rowers.  It is a comical dance, Guiromélans always inches or seconds from falling into the water below.

All around him, he can hear the splashes of falling suitors as their aim or balance fails them.  The shouts of the bönder on the ice come frequently as they are suddenly very busy rescuing the men from the water.  One man actually becomes trapped between the ice and the ship, and his yells echo in the air.  Guiromélans tries to filter out the sounds, the distractions.  All he needs to concentrate on are those narrow rods of wood, and where his feet are to be placed next.

After mere seconds, Guiromélans finds himself and Hrobjart alone on the port side of the karve.  They have quickly established a pattern so as to keep out of each other’s way and only have to pass each other amidships.  The Rig-jarl runs easily, without effort, making Guiromélans’s struggles look all the clumsier.

Guiromélans slows his pace slightly and risks a look across the deck.  From what he can see, only one man, maybe two, remains on the other side.  Dårlig stands at the prow, watching both sides with a grimmer and grimmer expression.  As he runs forward, Guiromélans catches her eye.  Something is wrong.  Something about this contest is not turning out the way she had planned.  Guiromélans pauses and looks back at Hrobjart.  The Rig-jarl leaps like a stag, as if he was born to this.  There is no sign that this man will fail this test.  Guiromélans is skilled, but if this is the only test, he is sure he will eventually make a mistake and fall.  He is not sure of the same with Hrobjart.

Is that what Dårlig fears?  Is she fated to marry her husband’s brother?

Or does she fear having to marry a degkarl?

He stops completely and looks at the karl on the other side of the ship.  By his long beard and ragged clothes, he is probably a forest-man—a vagrant at best—but he runs across the oars with hardly a misstep.

Guiromélans’s presence is irrelevant.  This contest is between Hrobjart and the outlaw.

The crowd on the wharf begins to shout their displeasure that Guiromélans has stopped.  Even as Hrobjart shoulders past him, Guiromélans look back and catches the eye of Dårlig again.  Briefly, her expression softens, as if in silent entreaty.

Please.  Help me.

What is the best decision?  Is this a matter of the heart or of reason?  If of reason, Hrobjart is the best choice.  Despite what Dårlig feels, he is an honored, respected Söderkarl noble.  Being Bolwerk’s brother, one could even argue the highseat belongs to him by birthright.

But Guiromélans knows, such a marriage would break Dårlig’s heart.

Is this a time for reason or a time for the heart?

When Hrobjart comes leaping back towards him, Guiromélans starts running again.  As the men near each other, Guiromélans’s foot catches a rising oar.  He trips, pitching forward, and collides with the Rig-jarl.  Both men become airborne as the oars beneath them disappear.  Hard wood strikes Guiromélans in passing, stunning the Raven.

The embrace of the freezing water takes his breath away.

Breaking away from Hrobjart, he kicks upwards, reaching for the air even as the cold robs his arms and legs of feeling.

He breaks the surface, gasping loudly.  Hovering above him are the rocking oars.  Lashing out quickly, he catches one as it passes, and it partially lifts him from the water.  With the last of his strength, he pulls himself up.

Shouts from the deck of the karve reach his ears, and the bönder begin pulling their oars in.  Strong hands grab him by the shoulders and pull him back onboard.

The contest is over.  Already, the ship is being pulled back against the wharf, and the herr of Hardanger are rushing onboard to greet their new thane.  Once Guiromélans gets his bearings, he sees the outlaw kneeling at the feet of Lady Dårlig, head bowed in humility.  The crowds keep a respectful distance from him and his lady.  This is their new ruler.

Thralls quickly strip Guiromélans of his freezing clothes and wrap warm furs and blankets around him.  He meets Dårlig’s gaze and sees little reaction.  Was this the outcome she desired?  He cannot tell, and she has little time for him right now.

“You have passed the Test of Einheriar,” she says in a quiet voice.

“Jâ, my lady,” the karl says.

Guiromélans pushes his way closer as he tries to get a better look at the man.  Which forest-man was he?  He cannot remember this particular criminal.  He is rugged and dirty, with long, dank hair, and wearing little more than rags.  Scarves wrapped around his head for warmth conceal his face.  He is an outlaw for certain.  What crimes could he have committed?

Dårlig hesitates, “And now you may take your place as thane upon the highseat of Hardanger.  Look upon your vassals, for you are now their ruler.  Look up me, for if it pleases you, I am to be your wife.”

The outlaw remains kneeling, his body trembling.  “I have seen your highseat of Hardanger, and it pleases me.”  His voice is strong, powerful.  “I have looked upon your vassals, and they please me.  I have looked upon you, and you please me.”

Dårlig frowns at the words, and she steps backwards.  “Rise,” she says, her voice cracking.  “Speak your name.”

Something is wrong.  There is an expression on Dårlig’s face that Guiromélans cannot quite read.  It is a supreme effort to keep himself from rushing forward.

The outlaw unwraps his face and looks up at her, and all color drains from her face.  Tears spring from her eyes as he rises.

“My name?” he asks, his voice suddenly taking on an authoritative new resonance.  “I am Bolwerk, son of Asmund, Thane of Hardanger.”