Part 3:  Absolution

Harvest Festival

Guiromélans sits as if in a daze.  He shows no indication that he is aware of the festivities occurring around him.  It is the Harvest Festival.  The Thane has returned.  With just those few words, the character of the Winter Nights festival has changed, the bearing of the entire stead has changed.

The celebrations fill the streets and the halls and the böths and the longhouse—celebrations that were last night only going through the motions are now in full earnest and spirit—laughter and song and cheering and excitement fill the air.  All this and more, despite the war and the curses and the oppression, for there is a new element in the air this Harvest Festival that no one had expected:  Hope.

Guiromélans sits in his chair—he has silently yielded his place of honor next to Dårlig—there are enough heroes in this longhouse to take that place tonight—and he watches the activities as if in a daze.  Last night, when Bolwerk revealed himself on that ship, everyone was in too much shock to really react to what happened.  Bolwerk and Dårlig were hustled away by Orkning and Asmund, and the rest of the herr could only mill around and wonder if what they witnessed really happened.

But tonight, now they know.  Their Thane has returned.  He has escaped from his udyronde captors and has returned to once again to lead his people.  In timely fashion, he has returned.  In time to save his people from war, in time to save his land from the curse of the undead, in time to save his wife from marrying another.

It is the ultimate Harvest Festival gift, one no one could have ever dared ask for.  The naked happiness, the pure joy is infectious.  To nearly all but Guiromélans.

Everyone in the stead waits for the reappearance of their rulers.  All day, Bolwerk and Dårlig have remained sequestered in their chambers, refamiliarizing themselves to each other after over a year’s separation.  Guiromélans grinds his teeth at the thought.

Everyone waits with anticipation.  The celebrations fill Hardanger, but they cannot truly begin until Bolwerk and Dårlig emerge and join them.

The moment Orkning appears in the great hall, Guiromélans’s eyes follow him carefully.  The chamarling tries to act calm, casual, but already Guiromélans’s hair begins to prickle.  He knows what the karl is here to do.  He is here to begin the Harvest Festival.  He is here to announce the coming of the Thane and his lady.

As Orkning moves towards the center of the hall, all conversations stop, and all attention falls upon him.  First it is Asmund, then Viscount Nikolas, then Thane Vandril and others.  All begin to chant, “Bolwerk!  Bolwerk!  Bolwerk!”

Through the crowd, Orkning passes, and the chants become incessant, deafening.  Just as quickly though, when he reaches the highseat and raises his hands, the hall falls silent.  “Hereby do I declare peace between all men!” the chamarling bellows, his resonant voice filling the room, “Full bönder, all men of war and bearers of arms, all other men of this bygthir of the Hardanger stead whencesoever they have come, both named and unnamed, for the duration and enjoyment of this Holiday!  I declare peace and full Immunity of all crimes to all who may venture here, and while abiding here, and during their journey home, whether they sail or whether they travel, whether by land or whether by sea.  And I establish this peace on the behalf of our fond returning Thane Bolwerk, on the part of ourselves and of our kinsmen, our friends and belongings, alike of karline and of karl, bonder, and thralls, youths and adults!”

The crowd applauds with a unified shout, and Orkning’s voice bellows with renewed power, “Be there any truce-breaker who shall violate this peace and defile this faith, so be he rejected of God and expelled from the community of righteous men—be he cast out from Heaven and from the fellowship of the holy—let him have NO part amongst mankind and become an outcast from society!  A vagabond he shall be and a wolf in places where laity pray and where heathen worship, wherever fire burns, wherever the earth brings forth, wherever the child calls the name of mother, wherever the mother bears a son, wherever men kindle fire, wherever the ship sails, wherever shields blink, sun shines, snow falls, fir-tree grows, falcon flies, and the fair wind blows straight under both her wings, where Heaven rolls and earth is tilled, where the breezes waft mists to the sea, and where corn is sown!”

The herr roar with excitement and beat the tables with their fists.  Orkning raises his hands again for silence.  “Far shall he dwell from church and Medianist men, from the sons of the heathen, from house and cave and from every home, in the torments of the Hells.  And so, therefore, at peace we shall be, in concord together, each with other in friendly mind, wherever we meet, on mountain or strand, on ship or on snow-shoes, on plains or on glaciers, at sea or on horseback, as friends meet in the water, or brothers by the way, each at peace with other, as son with father, or father with son, in all our dealings!”

Orkning grows silent as the cheers swell up to embrace him.  This is it, Guiromélans muses silently as he drinks stein after stein of øl.  Like a returning champion or resurrected Prophet, he shall announce the arrival of the Thane, but only when the peoples’ excitement is at its peak.

He is surprised, when a nearby karl suddenly reaches down and takes his hand in his.  Guiromélans looks around to see everyone in the room joined hand-in-hand.

“Our hands we lay together,” Orkning announces, raising his clasped fists.  Every man follows suit, and Guiromélans’s karl nearly lifts him bodily from his seat, “All and every to hold well the peace and the words we have spoken in this, our faith, in the presence of God and of the Prophets, of all who hear my words and here are present.”

“Êtqra!” the crowd shouts, and at that moment, the doors are flung open, and Bolwerk, the long absent Thane, strides into the hall.

Retreating back to his chair, Guiromélans swallows at the sight.  Bolwerk looks much improved, hardly the ragged, dirty outlaw he appeared to be the night before.  He is powerful, handsome, perhaps strong enough to wrestle even one such as Asmund into submission.  Dårlig is a small, white slip behind him, radiant, demure, almost embarrassed by the attention she and her husband are receiving.

Nearly every man leaps to his feet when Bolwerk appears.  They scream and pound the tables and stomp the floor with their feet.  Guiromélans can feel the thunder through the soles of his boots, and he stoically watches his stein dance across the table.

“Uspak bless you,” Bolwerk says to his chamarling.

“May you light many fires, my lord,” Orkning answers as he bows.

“Peace is declared!” Bolwerk shouts to his gathered people.  He makes a complicated gesture over the room—the heretical sign of the Thunderer’s spear—and makes the following oath:  “and by the powers of God and the ovän, I say these festivities cannot continue until we have proven the worthiness of this host!”

He smiles and nods to each of his officers and honored guests.  “Great fortune have I enjoyed by my escape from our enemies!  Rest I by my laurels?  Seek I quiet and solitude?  Trouble stalks the land and the forests!  There is much work to do, and yet we sit here in our safety and our glory?  Eating and drinking and making merry on this Harvest Festival?”

“NEJ!” the crowd shouts.

Guiromélans remains silent, warily watching lest he be caught up in another outbreak of sword-dancing.

“Then I say this, before these festivities can continue, I must hear great oaths from the mightiest among us!  Stand, and let us hear your pledge for the health of our land and people!  Stand, and let us see the strength of your hearts!”

“Êtqra!  Bolwerk!  Êtqra!” the crowd shouts.

Bolwerk raises his mug and shouts, “Great deeds I require, and I shall vow the first!  By my sword, by my faith, by my fire, I swear to rid our lands of the udyronde plague!”

Guiromélans frowns as he hears the cheers around him.  The therm kidnapped the Thane?  The therm kidnapped the Thane.  But no ransom was ever demanded.  What good would kidnapping him serve?  According to what Putras said, the therm only attack humans because they are being caught up in the whole ghul mystery.  Guiromélans shakes his head as he drinks again.  Something is strange here that he just cannot figure out.

“I swear,” Orkning shouts next, “to defend my Thane and his lady in all matters!  To serve as their champion and most steadfast servant!”

And so it continues, circling the room—much like the pledge of love—each Söderkarl who wishes to stands and gives his oath.  They all begin to sound the same to Guiromélans, and he stops listening.

“And you, mighty Korp?”

Guiromélans’s head snaps up to see Bolwerk looking at him.  “Care you to make a pledge as well?”

Guiromélans stands, staring the Thane in the eyes.  The big man looks back, calm, honest, confident.  Great jealous hatred for him begins to grow in the Raven’s breast.

“Jâ,” he says, “I have a pledge.”

Bolwerk smiles, “Then speak!  Tell us what is in the heart of our northern brother!”

Guiromélans walks around his table and approaches the Thane and his lady.  Asmund fidgets nervously, as if he suspects Guiromélans actually intends to attack them.

Guiromélans nods to Dårlig and then bows to Bolwerk.  “Great Thane, my heart gladdens that the search for you is finally over.  Your people, your vassals, your court have been gracious hosts and have embraced me warmly, despite the fact that I am a foreigner without credentials or notoriety.”

“You have served us well, Korp,” Bolwerk laughs, “or so I have been told by my wife and bönder.  Your courage and your sword were invaluable in the battle for Mostheath.  And I saw how you so nearly won my highseat and title during the Test of Einheriar!  All this and more you have provided.  You need not do any more for us if you do not wish it.”

Guiromélans bows again.  “You speak generously, as one who rules a place where generocity comes easily for you and yours,” he says quietly, “So, I vow this, Thane, that I will free this stead from evil.”  He draws his Median and raises it aloft, “This I swear by God and His Prophets!”

Asmund shouts at the sudden movement.  Overreacting—in retrospect, Guiromélans suspects he probably thought it was a knife—he lunges forward and slaps the Median from Guiromélans’s hand.  The Raven reacts immediately to the insult, quickdrawing his saber.  Asmund is not quite as fast with his swordplay.  Rather than go for his long sword, he meets Guiromélans’s saber with his øl stein.  The blade bites deeply into the wood and øl splashes everywhere.

“You dare draw a weapon after peace has been declared?” Asmund screams.

“You dare strike a Median from the hands of a Korp?” Guiromélans answers coldly.

Asmund’s face turns red with fury.  Already his teeth have begun to grind and gnash in his growing berserk frenzy.  “You are an outlaw!” he screams, “You—”

“Nej!” Bolwerk shouts.

Both men startle at the ferocity of the Thane’s outburst.  Bolwerk storms forward and pushes himself between the two of them, forcing Asmund away.  “In this matter, Korp Guiromélans is correct!” he says, “You acted rashly, foster-father, and wrongly.”

“He drew—” Asmund protests.

“Only after you broke the peace first!”  Bolwerk smiles and gestures to Guiromélans.  “You cannot assault a karl like that, much less a Korp, and not expect him to take offence.  There is nej harm done, I hope, Sir Guiromélans?”

Cautiously Guiromélans sheathes his sword as he examines Bolwerk.  Perhaps he has underestimated this man?  “I am not harmed,” he answers carefully, “so long as the Median is not harmed.  The insult is between Asmund and God, and they will resolve it at a time of God’s choosing.”

Bolwerk gestures towards a nearby karl, who returns the Median to Guiromélans.  “Then it is all settled,” he says, turning back to Asmund, “once you have apologized.”

Every eye in the hall is upon him.

Asmund shudders with surprise, his eyes flashing.  “What?  I’ll not—”

“You will apologize to our guest!” Bolwerk laughs, “You will do this before you spoil the spirit of our celebration!”

Asmund twists his face in a grimace before suddenly grinning.  Just like that, the famed Söderkarl fury is gone.  “Jâ!  I apologize, Korp.  I meant nej harm to you or your Medianist trinket!”

Guiromélans carefully inspects the Median before returning it to his jacket.  “I accept your apology, goodman, and thank you.  May you pray that God accepts it as well.”

Beneath the cheers of the crowd, he thinks he hears Asmund answer, “Jâ, and we shall see about that…”

And on that note, the Harvest Festival begins.

 

Music flares across the room.  The people dine on chamois and boar, aurochs and mutton, bison and walrus.  Even rare stag-moose steak, wooly boar shank, mammoth trunk, liver of black bear, great-horn marrow, and rorqual blubber are served.

Balen scampers through the hall, under tables, and around legs, playing with the other children of the stead—they are mostly the dreng of bönder—Bolwerk and Dårlig have not yet produced an heir.  Guiromélans watches him fondly.  The boy is nearly a man.  Soon, the time for play like this will be over—soon, he will be the squire of a Raven—but for now, he can have his time of fun.  Childhood is brief enough as it is, and he knows elements have conspired to make Balen’s even briefer.  There is no reason to accelerate matters.

He stiffens when he sees the children cluster together, paying far too much attention to the table occupied by the k’Lida delegation.  A dreadful suspicion grows within him that they are planning something unpleasant and ill advised.

The k’Lida would welcome pranks about as warmly as Asmund would, and unlike the goodman, they never feign to be in a jovial mood.  These peculiar people surely would have preferred to weather out the winter sequestered in their ship, but Asmund insisted that some of them attended the celebration.  Right now, Guiromélans is certain they would rather be nearly anywhere else but here.  Each brown-clad k’Lida sits silently at their table, hands folded, faces pinched and frozen with horror at what is going on around them.

When Guiromélans catches the boy’s eye, he gestures for him.  After an appropriate period of surly disobedience, Balen grimaces and sidles over, and when he is in reach, Guiromélans grabs him and pulls him close.  “Boy,” he mutters quietly.

Balen makes a half-hearted attempt to escape and then surrenders.  “Yäh?  What?”

Guiromélans nods towards the k’Lida.  “Stay away from them.  Tell your friends too.”

Balen suddenly looks guiltily stunned, and Guiromélans is gratified to know his suspicions were accurate.  Thank God for his timing.  “What?” Balen squeaks, “Wh—what’re yä talkin’ about?”

“The k’Lida,” Guiromélans says, “Stay.  Away.  From them.”

“Why?” Balen asks, suddenly looking angry.

“They are not like you or me or the Söderkarl.  Their hearts are black and angry and fearful.  They do not worship God like you or me or even the Bracks.  Their existence and their minds are unfathomable to people like you and me.  They cannot be trusted.  And,” Guiromélans sighs as he looks past Balen to the k’Lida table, “they should never be approached or spoken to.”

Balen grimaces at the stink of alcohol on Guiromélans’s breath.  “Yer drunk.  Caidryn always says not tä listen tä yä when yer drunk.”

“You will listen to me now, however,” he urges.  “Never speak to a k’Lida unless he is displaying gold upon his person.”

Balen stares at Guiromélans, fathoming his sincerity.  “Gold?”

“Yes.”

Balen breaks out in an uneven smile.  “Yäh.  OK.  Whatever.  I hears yä.”

Guiromélans smiles with relief.  “That’s a good boy.”

“Maybe we’ll pick on Asmund instead, uh?” Balen laughs as he runs off.

“Balen!” Guiromélans shouts, but the boy doesn’t stop or listen.  Guiromélans sags back onto his stool.  He can only hope he was jesting.

As the evening progresses, Guiromélans drinks.  Tonight, the flames in his soul burn brightly, though he’s not sure why.  Can it be his old shame?  He had thought he had already resolved that issue.  Can it be some new shame?  Though he hardly wants to admit it, he knows his animosity towards Bolwerk is due to his feelings for Dårlig.

Jealousy.  Nothing but petty jealousy.  Such a disappointing, unworthy new shame.

He grunts and drinks some more.  Whatever it is that fuels this fire, he knows drink is the surest way to quench it.  He drinks copiously and rhythmically, no longer even bothering to taste it.  The music and wassailing of the party mix into a dull drone in his skull, lower and lower and lower…

“I trembled but once in my life!”

Guiromélans’s head snaps up.  He blinks at the light.  Had he fallen asleep?  What hour is it?

The hall is largely emptied.  Herr are gathered around Bolwerk’s table, the Thane beaming from the attention.  “Countless numbers of udyronde surrounded me,” he relates with tense excitement.  “Their teeth and claws sought to guide me to my death-mead.  Along with my hird, we joined them in the brave shield-storm.  The enemy fell on all sides, our blades and heptisax drinking deeply of their steaming blood, but with each demon we felled, two karls fell as well.  Thrand fought at my side, as did Krok and Habrok, sons of Styrbiorn.  The twin warriors Ve and Ragnar were there, as were Arnfid, Budli, and Karl.  All lost their lives and fell to the Thunderer’s service.  Olboge was beheaded.  Smiorbalte was torn apart, limb from limb.  Vidkunn’s living flesh was eaten before my very eyes.  Nej matter how many of the hated udyronde I slew, soon there were none of my hird left but me.”  Bolwerk becomes solemn, bowing his head in the sorrow of remembrance, and many of the herr rise to silently touch his hands and shoulders.  “The Thunderer reveled at how many brave ridders filled His hall that day.”

Slowly, Guiromélans rises on unsteady feet and approaches the hersing.  He listens carefully to the Thane’s story.

“The udyronde saved the worst torment for me, however,” he sighs.  “Nej death did they give me, nej brave release.  Felled by my injuries, they bore me away to their lair, and in that dark chasm, they kept me.  Away from the touch of man and God.  Countless days I suffered, sustained only by the food they chose to give me and the water I sucked from the stone walls.  In darkness, I struggled to survive, slowly learning the passages and rooms of my prison whenever my captors were absent—”

“There was no light?  No fire?” Guiromélans suddenly blurts.

All heads turn at Guiromélans’s interruption.  A smile passes like a shadow across Bolwerk’s face.  “Nej.  They kept the cave in complete darkness…”

“But they carried spears into battle?”

“Jâ.  Jâ, they did, just like any other udyronde.”

Guiromélans frowns as he falls silent.

“I am told by my kinsmen that I was held for over a year, kept from the light and the fire of my people.  One day, I felt I had mastered my prison sufficiently.  Waiting until all my captors had left for the hunt, I stole away and escaped my cave.  I fled—”

“How could they forge their weapons without fire?” Guiromélans wonders aloud.

Bolwerk hesitates, taken aback by the interruption.  “I don’t know.  I don’t claim to know their ways.  Magic perhaps?  Perhaps the fires were kept elsewhere?”

Guiromélans nods slowly and falls silent again.

“I fled,” Bolwerk begins again, keeping a wary eye on Guiromélans now, “through mountains and forests and dark terrain.  I followed the path of the sun, until I found myself upon the shores of the Skudd.  Then I moved north, until I arrived home.”

The herr around him sigh with relief.  Bolwerk shakes his head, “I know not why they spared my life—”

“Perhaps,” Guiromélans slurs, “They knew you were the Thane of Hardanger?”

“Perhaps, but in my time with them, none gave me the impression they knew what a thane is, much less who I was.”

“None of them spoke to you?”

“Nej,” Bolwerk looks puzzled, “I have never met an udyronde that could talk, nej more than I have seen talking elk or dogs.  Talking udyronde?  Such things do not exist.”

“Not even one?” Guiromélans presses.

“Nej,” Bolwerk laughs.

“Where was this cave?  What tribe of udyronde kept you?”

Caidryn is suddenly at Guiromélans’s side.  Her hand takes his forearm in a tight grip.  “You are being rude,” she hisses in his ear.

Guiromélans tries to shrug her away and nearly falls as a result.  It is only her grip on him that saves him.  “What kind of udyronde were they?” he demands.

Bolwerk shakes his head.  “The common type?  Four powerful legs, with two smaller ones sprouting from their chest.”

“How can you be sure?” Guiromélans challenges.

“What do you mean?”

“If you lived in darkness, your captors could have been almost anything!”

“You are right!” Bolwerk laughs after a thoughtful pause, “but since I was attacked by udyronde, I have assumed I was being held by them as well.  I know not where the cave is.  When I was carried there, I was unconscious.  When I escaped, I paid attention only to my flight.  I am sorry, Guiromélans.”

As angry murmurs mix through the Söderkarl, Caidryn begins to pull the Raven away.  “Why did you disguise yourself at the contest last night?” Guiromélans asks as he is lead away.  “Why hide from your people?”

Bolwerk smiles even broader and gestures to the men around him.  “I wanted to test myself, good Korp!  To see if I was still worthy to lead!”  He laughs loudly, “Besides, it was more fun that way!”

 

The Raven drinks.  He doesn’t see where the drink comes from.  All he knows is his stein is always full, and he keeps trying to empty it.  The fire.  The fire of shame is there, and it needs to be extinguished.

The music and laughter and shouts mix in the longhouse and distort in his ears.  He wipes at his face and finds his hands wet with tears.

What’s going on?  Why does he weep like a weak girlchild?  Did something just happen?

How late is it?  The party still rages in places, though most of the food is gone and most of the guests have retired.

A presence sits heavily next to him.  Strong, delicate hands pull his mug from his numbed fingers.  His companion sniffs at the contents and then pushes it away again.  “Sä this is a kick in the calliacus, uh?” Caidryn slurs drunkenly.  She has been drinking too, it seems.  She glances at him and smiles, the missing tooth in the front of her mouth somehow all the more noticeable now.  “Me man is dead, and yer bna might as well be.  At least tä yä anyways.  Instead her corpse is warmed by that handsome, brave gwledig.”

Guiromélans is silent, staring at the mug of øl in front of him.  He reaches for it, but Caidryn teasingly nudges it further away.  “Yer drinkin’ a lot tonight,” she says.  “More than I’ve ever seen yä before.  Aren’t yä drinkin’ too much fer a knight?  Isn’t that one of yer oaths?  A knight’s supposed tä be ab—abstem…”

“Abstemious,” Guiromélans slurs, lunging suddenly for the stein.

She sighs and shakes her head as he draws it back to him.  Even as he cradles it in his hands, Caidryn laughs, “Yäh, that’s what I meant.”

Guiromélans drinks deeply, his eyes glaring at her.  “Drink is allowed, Brack, so long as it isn’t abused.”

“Yer not abusin’ yer drink?”

“No.  Never.”

“Nage?  Yä sure about that?  Even if yer without it fer only a couple days, yä gets all twitchy and witchy!  Yä flails around, yä pukes, and yä sees things that ain’t there!”

“Only when I do not have it, does this happen!” he corrects, “And when I do have it, I perform my duties, I serve my masters and my God!  What more can you ask for?  In battle against evil, I am victorious!”

“Victorious?” she laughs.  “Like in yer fight with Asmund?”

“That was hardly a battle to which I was accustomed,” he grumbles, suddenly defensive.

“Oh!  Sä yä means like against the udyronde?  Or the ghuls?  Or the Masks?  Or Mogens?”

Guiromélans finishes his mug, and a thrall rushes forward to fill it.  “I was victorious,” he mutters.

“Yä got yer ass kicked!”

“I was victorious!” he shouts, loud enough to cause others to turn and look.

Caidryn shrugs and laughs, “Maybe sä, maybe na.  But I wonders, how much better yä would be if yä were not drinkin’?”

“I am a good knight, a good Raven!”

“Yer flawed,” she needles.  “Yä were flawed, and yer still flawed.  And yer still na Cathubodua.”

“I was flawed!” he sputters, struggling to keep up with her arguments.  “I’ve purified my soul!  I’ve atoned for my sins!  I am a good knight now!  A pious Medianist!  I AM a Raven!”

“Lookit, yä,” she sneers.  “Pathetic!  Drunken!  Cla!  Always whinin’ about yer crime, yer shame!”

“My shame… it was atoned for!”

“Yer shame,” she sneers, “A bna begs, and yer supposed tä help her, uh?  That’s yer boduus knight’s oath, yäh?”

“Yes.”

“But yä didn’t, did yä?  Yä hung her out tä dry.  Yä went tä war against her.  Whatta nice knight.  Yä thought yä was servin’ God by wagin’ war against a witch, but yä was wrong!”

“It wasn’t wrong!  I was serving God!  The Prophets said—”

“Yä was wrong!  Yä got yer ass kicked!  Yer own God kicker yer ass!  Yer defeat was a punishment, but yä still don’t knows yer crime!”

“I know my crime!” he moans.

“What crime was that?  That yä didn’t help that oainjyr yä says yä loves sä much?  Yä said yerself, yä was just doin’ yer God’s work!  She was a witch, uh?  She deserves anythin’ she gets, yäh?”

“Yes!” he blurts, burying his face in shaking hands.  “No!”  The words catch in his throat.  “I—I don’t know.”

“Yäh, of course.  Yä’ve atoned fer yä crimes.  Yer soul is pure, yäh?  Sä tells me.  Where’s the sun?  I haven’t seen it since our paths crossed.  First it rained, then the fog, now the snow.  Why do clouds cover the sky?  Why does the storms follow us?  Tell me, has yer God forgiven yä?”

“I’ve made my peace with God in regards to my shame.  I will atone, I will amend.”  Slowly, he pushes the stein away from him.

“Are yä sure?”  She taps the mug.  “Yä sure it ain’t the drink?”

“And as far as the drink is concerned… it has not yet become a problem.”

“Sure,” she laughs, grabbing the mug and finishing off its contents.  Before a thrall can refill it, she stands and throws it across the room.  The distant Söderkarl duck and curse loudly as it ricochets by their feet.  “Sä tell me this, uh?” she mocks, “Why is a bna adgarios sä bad?  Only because yer Prophets say sä, yäh?”

“Yes,” Guiromélans says quietly.

“Really?  And that’s enough of a reason tä try tä kill the woman yä loves?  Och fi yer stupid!”

Guiromélans is silent.

“Seems tä me, yer a bit confused, sä maybe I can gives yä some advice.  Maybe it’ll help, maybe it’ll hurt, uh?”

“And what is that?” he slurs angrily, “What can you tell me?”

She hesitates momentarily and then nods at his tone.  “Yäh, I’m just a street whore.  I grew up poor and mean and loose.  I’ve never seen the insides of yer fine boduus palaces.  I’ve never heard yer music or filled me gut with yer fine food.  And I’ve never kneeled tä yer beardless boduus God.  What does I know that a mighty Raven doesn’t?  But maybe I can helps anyways, uh?”

Guiromélans looks at her but remains silent.  “Listen,” she says, “Maybe it is time tä listen tä yer God and not sä much tä yer Prophets…  He did give yer witch the victory after all.  Maybe those Prophets didn’t know sä much about His will after all?  Maybe God was on her side because she was right!”

She jabs him sharply in the shoulder, “And sä He punished yä fer not helpin’ her when she asked, uh?  And now yä continues yer crimes with yer constant drinkin’.  How can yä absolves yerself when yer drink shames God?”

“You say my drink shames God?”

“Of course!” she laughs, slapping the table.  “Just look at yerself!  Sä drunk yä can’t even see straight!”

“And you would know?  You know nothing of me and less of being a Raven.”

She stares at him and then stands.  Almost instinctively, Guiromélans flinches, expecting the blow, unwilling or unable to defend himself.  The blow doesn’t come.  “Have yä forgotten?” she sneers, “Just days ago, two of yer only friends were torn apart!  Who says whatever it was that did it won’t come back fer the rest of us?  Maybe tonight?  How would yä fare if yä had tä fight tonight?  Think on it, Cathubodua.  How can yä serve God if yä can’t serve yerself?”

Guiromélans slouches and mutters to himself as he watches her stalk away.  What does the bitch know, anyway?  She is an admitted whore, a bay addict.  Besides, he’s reasonably certain no attack will occur tonight, so why not drink a little?  He can be suitably prepared for nearly anything as early as this next morning.  This afternoon at the latest.

His eyes follow her as she pushes her way through the crowd.  She has always been loyal, always been brave.  Of the friends he’s known, the truth is, she has been one of the truest, if not the strangest.

His watches as she butts up against Ofeig.  The two exchange words, Caidryn pointing angrily back at Guiromélans.  Ofeig nods solemnly, then smiles and laughs, then sobers when she slaps him across the face.  With a final gesture at Guiromélans—the sign of the fig in fact—she storms out of the longhouse.

Guiromélans redirects his attentions back to his hands and his table.  Without his mug, he wonders how he’ll get anything to drink?

“Heavy words, my friend.”

He startles as Ofeig sits next to him.  “What?”

“So, the may says you admit your weaknesses, but you still call yourself a Korp?”

“The girl is an ignorant barbarian and a whore,” he mutters crossly.  Suddenly, he looks up at the big Söderkarl, “What did she say?”

Ofeig jabs him in the shoulder, the same shoulder in fact that Caidryn jabbed.  Guiromélans winces and awkwardly bats the hand away.  “She said,” Ofeig presses, “that you were weak.  That you are filled with sin.  And yet you still have the nerve to call yourself a Korp!”

“I am not weak!” Guiromélans shouts.  “I am a knight!  I am a Korp!”

“And she said you claimed to be unbeatable in battle,” Ofeig sneers.

“Jâ!” Guiromélans blurts, slamming his hands down on the table.  “Much to their woe, many enemies have discovered this!”

Ofeig leans closer and whispers in his ear, “You survive only because you pick your friends well.  Without them, you are merely a disgraced ergi, too drunk to be of any threat to anyone.”

Guiromélans’s fists clench.  “You call me that?  You call me that!”

He lunges for the karl, but Ofeig knocks him away with a single shove.  Guiromélans sprawls across the floor, disorientated and surprised.  As he struggles to his feet, Ofeig slowly stands to face him.

With a shout of rage, Guiromélans charges.  Before he realizes what’s happening, he is slammed against the tabletop, something heavy pressing against the back of his head.

He is confused.  How did this happen?  He’d never let a mere huskarl out-fight him like this before!

Something is wrong!  A spell?  An illusion?  This Ofeig is not what he seems!

His hands scramble for his saber, only to find that Ofeig has beat him to it.  He draws the curved, broken blade from Guiromélans’s scabbard and throws it on the table in front of his face.

Holding Guiromélans by the hair on the back of his head, Ofeig stands and jerks the Raven to his feet.  Without a word, he picks up the sword and pushes Guiromélans across the room and towards the doors.  He weeps with shame as Söderkarl on all sides step aside as they pass.  The cold air blasts him in the face as he is pushed outside.

Rounding a corner, Ofeig shoves him against the wall.

Free at last, Guiromélans lashes out but hits only air.  His knees buckle, and he falls, sprawling across the snow.  “How dare you!” he screams, “You would not dare handle me in this way if—”

“If what?” Ofeig asks quietly.  “If you weren’t so drunk?”

He throws the saber at Guiromélans’s feet.  “Caidryn is right.  You drink too much.  As a ridder, you are shamed.  As a warrior, you are useless.  As a Korp…  Well, you are nej Korp.”

Guiromélans paws through the snow and picks up his sword.  “You will pay for this!” he sobs.

Ofeig nods.  “I welcome your vengeance, Guiromélans.  It means, for you to enjoy it, you must first master your desires and overcome your flaws.”

Guiromélans freezes and then begins to cry.  “I have shamed her.  I have shamed myself.”

“She means well, you mean well.  I must admit, you do drink more than three of the largest karls I have ever met!”

“I cannot stop!”

“You must.”

“Why?”

“Best is the banquet one looks back on after and remembers all that happened.”

Guiromélans covers his face with his hand, “Now even Saint Ragnvald must weigh in on my situation?”

“You speak with the heart of a warrior, Guiromélans, but your actions belie your weaknesses.”  He gestures down at him, “This groveling…”

Guiromélans looks at the saber in his hands.  His tears fall upon the mirrored steel and freeze.  “I cannot afford the sin of pride, Ofeig.  Nej longer.”