Guiromélans steps into the chambers, and his eyes blink against the darkness.  The gaslights burn meagerly at their lowest settings, illuminating little, and he is grateful for his somewhat casual knowledge of the lay of the room.  Lady Dårlig had entertained him here on several occasions, and he gingerly navigates around the furniture.  Everything is cast in deep black shadow, the lamps hiss with burning gas, and the orrery in the corner clicks and groans as its gears and weights endlessly spin and oscillate.

Guiromélans hesitates.  Is he in the wrong room, he wonders silently, the wrong time?

“Thank you for coming, Korp Guiromélans,” Bolwerk’s voice answers him from within the darkness.

Turning towards the voice, he can barely make out the Thane’s black shape sitting in the plush EroBernac chair.  A low pyramid shape rises from the table in front of him.

“It is my pleasure,” Guiromélans says as he bows, “to attend to your summons.”

Bolwerk chuckles, “Then come, sit with me.”

Guiromélans’s eyes are adjusting to the darkness slowly, and he carefully makes his way closer.  “My lord, Thane, the darkness…?”

Bolwerk clucks.  “Is it so dark?” he asks wearily.  Sighing, he leans forward and adjusts the flame of the lamp on the table.  In that burst of light, Bolwerk’s face flinches as if in pain.  Guiromélans can see the drawn, haggard expression of the Thane.  He looks tired, worried.  “I apologize for the lighting,” he says, “After a year in the darkness of my captors’ cave, I’ve found any bright light to be nearly intolerable.”

“This, I have heard,” Guiromélans nods as he takes his seat across from Bolwerk.  Just as he expected, the pyramid shape on the table is a castles board, the pieces arrayed for a new game, the attackers having already made their first, ceremonial move.  The flickering light of the lamp glitters across the gold and silver accents on the pieces.  They are crafted in the manner of the ancient Söderkarl hnefatafl game, crudely cut, brutal, and in all likelihood, nearly priceless.

As a gesture of courtesy, Guiromélans reaches over and dims the wick slightly, “Thank you for accommodating me then, sir.”

Bolwerk laughs, sitting back in his chair and unconsciously shielding his eyes.  “I do what I can for my wife and my people, Sir Guiromélans.  I sit in my longhouse and enjoy the parties and the feasts.  But when I am alone—or with trusted company as I am now—I prefer the darkness.  The light causes a pain… in my head.”  He shakes his head as his hand kneads his shoulder, the back of his neck, his temples.  “Like long needles straight into my eyes.  When it gets bad, there is nej relief other than sleep, or sometimes drink, and of course darkness.”  He laughs suddenly and waves it away with his hands, “I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.”

Guiromélans nods, “You might be surprised, my lord.  I too suffer from ailments that drink all too easily eases.”

Glancing down, he sees that Bolwerk has advanced a rukh down the slope of the castles board.  It appears he wishes to play and has taken the side of the defenders.  Reaching out, he advances some infantry to threaten its flank.

“But you nej longer drink, I see,” Bolwerk comments, examining the move with surprised interest.

Guiromélans’s face looses some of its color, though in this light, there is no way Bolwerk could notice.  “I have chosen the more difficult path, for the easy cure is worse than the disease.”

He advances his asps and infantry further up and around the pyramid, using their superior numbers and mobility to restrict the movement of the defender’s pieces at the top.

Bolwerk grunts as he analyzes Guiromélans’s tactics.  Guiromélans learned how to play castles from one of his masters in Gaph.  The cenobite was as devious an opponent as he was unconventional.  Guiromélans has found multiple uses for his teachings.

“Then I admire you,” Bolwerk says.  “It has been a long couple of weeks, and we have missed you in the hall.  It is good to see you have returned.”

Guiromélans’s hand freezes, artillery suspended in mid-move.  “It is good to be back, my lord,” he answers in surprised honesty.  “I am far from my strongest, but I am better than I was before.”

He fidgets thoughtfully with the cannon before setting it down in its new place.  The tenor of this conversation has not been what he anticipated.  He halfway expected Bolwerk to demand his departure from Hardanger—or to confront him on the rumors about him and Lady Dårlig—but not this mutually complementary repartee.

He has had to admit that after his initial reaction, his impression of the Thane has improved.  Time and sobriety have eased his jealousy.  There is something about Bolwerk—his strength and cunning, perhaps—that both impresses and worries him.  He is not to be underestimated.

Bolwerk maneuvers his queen down from her aerie, supporting some infantry but dangerously exposing her to attack.  Guiromélans subtly adjusts his strategy to exploit this opening.

The Thane smiles.  Guiromélans can see his teeth flash in the dim light.  “You are strong.  Even now, I can see it.  I can smell it on you, when before all I could smell was the last night’s øl.  But even before that, you were stronger than any of my huskarls.  It was your leadership that held things together until my return.  For this, I am eternally grateful.”

“You do me too much honor, Thane.”

“Do I?  I think not.  My chamarling told me of your martial service, of your victory in Mostheath, of your hunt for the beast in the forest.  My dear wife told me of the wise council you gave when the degkarls arrived and threatened my rule.  I saw with my own eyes how you availed yourself during the Test of the Einheriar.  I am impressed by your fortitude.”

“My duty is to serve.  To do so halfheartedly is to sin.  Faithful service to my lord is faithful service to my God.”

“Ah, jâ.  Obedience given to superiors is as if given to God, jâ?  Part of the Korp’s oath.  An admirable pledge.  The good Hoël must have had Söderkarl blood running in his veins.”

“Hoël was Muttese, my lord.”

“A cousin then,” Bolwerk coughs.  “I can see you are both learned and devout in your faith.”

Guiromélans frowns, “I must be.  In my crusades for God, I am answerable to no one other than Him and His Prophets.”

“Jâ, of course.  You are a Korp.  Even the cenobites and Inquisition defer to you.”  Bolwerk shakes his head and fidgets with the pieces on the castles board, “I must admit, I am not the Medianist I should be.  With my father dead, my mother a häxa, and Asmund my foster-father, my studies of the Latria and Dulia were much neglected.”

“Is this something you regret?”

Bolwerk considers this for a moment, “Perhaps.  It is difficult to regret that which you do not truly understand.  I attended the appropriate services, I received the appropriate sacraments, but I held little faith in them.”

“Your faith follows the path of the Thunderer then?”

“Jâ, of sorts.  I was raised to follow what you would call the Thunderer Heresies.  The Swords of the Dømme-Ring, the Brand of Uspak.”  His eyes glitter as he chuckles at Guiromélans’s expression.  “You find my confession shocking?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Guiromélans admits.  “Korps such as I are devoted to the rooting out of heresy in places of power… of exposing and denouncing people such as you.  You risk much in revealing this to me.”

“As you must have realized, sentiments such as mine are not rare here in the Southern Territories.”  Bolwerk laughs, “I can only hope that my bit of heresy is the worst of my sins!  But please don’t embarrass me by measuring your artifact against my soul.  I am not prepared to yet see God’s opinion on these matters!”

Guiromélans’s hand instinctively seeks the Median’s weight against his breast.  “You should not fear the truth.”

“I suppose I’m just not ready for such a revelation right now!”  Bolwerk sighs as he plans his next move.  “But I must admit, you have served the Medianist effort in Hardanger well by your example.  There are few here who could deny your skill and ability.  There are many here who admire you and would seek to emulate you.”  His eyes glitter in the darkness, “In time, you may find yourself with more converts than merely that boy and his ill-tempered guardian, jâ?”

Guiromélans’s lips purse.  “That would be beyond my wildest expectations.”

Bolwerk shakes his head, “Do not underestimate us Söderkarl, good Korp.  We do not ignore wisdom when it’s displayed right before our eyes.”  He completes his move, “With successes such as yours, even I and Dårlig may deem it appropriate to abandon our old ways and seek a more… northern approach?”

Bolwerk’s fingers had barely left his piece when Guiromélans begins his attack.  The assault is withering, with scorched-earth tactics intended to clear the board of pieces.  Bolwerk’s eyes widen slightly with surprise as he responds, and both sides begin trading pieces in a bloody exchange.

“Oh, in my childhood, we observed all the proper Medianist rituals,” he says thoughtfully as he makes his moves, “Enough to assure Lethrasholme that we intended nej Thunderer rebellion, but in truth, that was the extent of my Medianist education… and devotion.  I can hardly call myself a Medianist.”

In the game, much to Guiromélans’s surprise, Bolwerk has not taken his bait, forgoing easy counter-attacks in lieu of bolstering his defenses and regrouping.  The stack of captured defender pieces grows at Guiromélans’s side but not as quickly as he had hoped.

“Medianism has served me well, Thane,” Guiromélans says, “It is all I have known, and I have dedicated my life to it.”

“Jâ,” Bolwerk says, rather dryly, “I can see that.  You are devout.  I admit, I pursue it only for the advantages such appearances lend me.”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “A dangerous philosophy.”  With an asp piece, he abruptly captures Bolwerk’s queen.  Guiromélans examines her before setting her down.  “Structures built without substance are doomed to collapse from within.”

Bolwerk leans back into his chair and stares at the Raven, “Jâ, so you’ve said before…  That was an interesting story you told us last night…  I assure you, your message was not missed.”

“I meant no offense, my lord,” Guiromélans says.

“Nej, nej, of course not,” Bolwerk assures, waving the apology away.  Leaning back over the board, he shakes his head, “You just took my queen.  I will be hard pressed to win now.”

“Jâ.  You left her vulnerable on the left flank.  I was able to capture her when you diverted your rukh and musketeers to meet my attack.”

“Hmmn, jâ.”  Taking his last rukh, Bolwerk brings it down and captures Guiromélans’s flag.

Guiromélans blinks at the board for a long moment, digesting what Bolwerk had just achieved, and then he smiles.  He was so distracted with the vulnerability of the queen, he never saw the subtle opening Bolwerk was creating.  The Thane had offered his most powerful piece as bait, and Guiromélans fell for it.  He sacrificed his queen to win the game.  “An excellent move, my lord.”

Bolwerk smiles, “I must admit, you nearly had me with your frontal assault.  Are such a brutal tactics typical among the Korps?”

“Only where the Söderkarl are concerned.”

Bolwerk laughs roundly.

“I did not expect you to be quite so proficient at castles,” Guiromélans adds, gesturing at the board.  “It is considered primarily a game of the EroBernac courts.”

“Jâ?  As are the Courts of Love and cortegiania, hmmn?  I am not the Söderkarl purist you may think me to be.  The northern lands, EroBernd, Ehre, Palpin—the Seven Kingdoms and Medianism in general—they all have pleasures that I most enjoy and embrace.  You might say that possessing a certain understanding of my rulers helps me better relate to them?”  He inclines his head, “Helps me to deal with them better?”

Guiromélans nods, “Throughout my stay here, I have observed the Söderkarl expending an inordinate amount of time and effort struggling to ‘deal’ with their EroBernac rulers… as if they are some kind of puzzle or problem that requires working out.”

Bolwerk’s shadowed eyes narrow.  “Deal with them?  There are many ways to deal with someone.  Some are pleasant, cooperative, and some can be very ugly.”

Guiromélans nods slowly.  “Such as the Thunderer cell growing within Hardanger.”

Bolwerk blinks in surprise and then breaks out in a wary smile.  “Here I had hoped to veil the issue with vague portents, and you simply cut straight to the point.  Jâ, the Thunderer cell.  It seems you have better sources in my stead than I expected.”

“Perhaps I am merely better at guessing than you expected?  But thank you for confirming my suspicions nevertheless.  So, there is a Thunderer cell in Hardanger?”

Bolwerk barks a sharp laugh.  “You play these games well!”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Nej better than I do castles, my lord.”

“I was right about you!” Bolwerk says happily.  “Dårlig was right!”

“What does that mean?”

“That you were her first choice as Thane, had I not returned.  And that I now agree with her!”

“Despite the fact that I’m a degkarl?”

Bolwerk nods.  “A degkarl?  Hardly.  Northern you are, but you are far from soft and unready.  In your breast beats the heart of the strongest of karls, and I have nej question that my people would have embraced the appointment.”

Guiromélans shakes his head as he digests this.  “So Dårlig has said.  But what does your being right about me have to do with the Thunderer cell?”

“Only that I know I can trust you with what I am about to say.”  Bolwerk leans forward, “Raised as a Thunderer I was, a weak Medianist I may be, but the Thunderer cell in Hardanger is not my doing.  I neither desire nor seek the deaths of the Medianists in my care.  What some fail to realize—or refuse to admit—is that Söderkarl independence is not necessarily desirable at this time.  What some fail to realize is that the slaughter of our masters here in Hardanger will most certainly not bring about the freedom of the Southern Territories.”

Guiromélans frowns and shakes his head, “What are you saying?”

“This cell,” Bolwerk says, “must be rooted out before it can act.  If they act, everything here, everything I am trying to build, will be destroyed.”

“Nice words, my Thane.  Easily spoken, especially to me, in private.  If you are not the source of this cell, if you do not condone their agenda, how do you propose to stop them?”

Bolwerk smiles, though there is no humor in his eyes now.  All Guiromélans sees is feral hunger and rage.  “I know some things.  Things I’ve learned in my short time here since my return.  Things that would surprise you.  Just as you have those who whisper in your ear, as do I.”

“Your mother, Huld,” Guiromélans says.

Bolwerk’s eyebrows rise.  “Jâ.  The häxa.  And others.”

“And so I ask again,” Guiromélans says with careful patience, “What do you propose to do about these heretics?”

“When the time comes, I will expose them publicly.  Things may become… violent.  The guilty will not surrender their positions easily—”

“Positions?” Guiromélans interrupts in surprise.  “These are titled men?”

“When that time comes,” Bolwerk continues, “I will need you, Guiromélans, Korp, Raven, Templar of God.  I will need you to enforce my wishes.”

“Enforce?” Guiromélans asks, “but what about Orkning?  He is your chamarling.”

Bolwerk looks as if he is about to speak when a chime rings from the corner of the room.  Both men turn to regard the orrery as it rings nine more times.

“That is quite a device,” Guiromélans remarks.  “I’ve seen ones like it in the universities of Cærimonia and CastitasDecus but never one belonging to a private collection.”  Guiromélans raises an eyebrow, “Quite a contraption just to tell time.”

Bolwerk smiles, “It is more than just that, of course, though the time it keeps is far better than any mundane clock.  Nej, time, it is a passion of mine—time, the seasons, the passage of the sun and the moon—I had it built at great expense when I came of age.  Next to my wife, perhaps, I missed it the most during my captivity.”

Guiromélans nods as if he understands, “Ah.”

“But in this case,” Bolwerk chuckles, “It is just marking the passing hours.”

Guiromélans looks back at the whirling device and wonders at Bolwerk’s obsession.

“I must add,” the Thane says, “that you have had some interesting thoughts about my captors.”

Guiromélans turns back to him, “I beg your pardon?”

Bolwerk inclines his head, “The night of the Harvest Festival, you asked some very interesting questions about my abduction and captivity.  Questions that since have given me pause.  I have been reflecting upon them very carefully, for I wish to better understand the circumstances around that terrible experience.  Perhaps you don’t remember?  You were rather drunk that night.”

Guiromélans nods stiffly, “Oh, jâ.  I remember.  If I caused you any embarrassment—”

“Think nothing of it.  As I said, your questions were enlightening, for they have forced me to examine aspects of that experience that I had never before considered.”  Bolwerk’s eyes stare intensely at Guiromélans.  “You seem quite knowledgeable on the nature of the udyronde.”

“Knowledgeable?”

“Your skill in battle against them.  The questions you posed about their ways.  The story you told last night.  You seem to know much about the race of beastmen, jâ?”

“Hardly,” Guiromélans says carefully.  “I know what I have been told or taught.  Nothing more.”

Bolwerk smiles broadly and slaps his knees with his hands, “Nevertheless!  I can see there are few in Hardanger better equipped to deal with this problem!”

Guiromélans straightens in his chair, “I beg your pardon?”

“I understand that you are currently traveling without assignment?  That you are a knight unattached to a lord at this time?”

“I am, but—”

“Then I would like to enlist your aid and, at least temporarily, make you officially part of my court!”

Guiromélans stares in surprise at the Thane.  “My lord, I fully appreciate the honor you have offered me, but I have made a pledge to God to pursue other interests.”

“Ah.  Your crusade against heresy.  Jâ.  Might I point out that the elimination of the udyronde might be seen as a noble step in that direction?”

Guiromélans shifts uncomfortably in his chair.  There is a loud noise outside in the main hall.  When both men turn back from the door, Guiromélans answers, “You must have realized, my lord, that the udyronde are not the real threat here?  That you and your bygthir are being manipulated into this war?”

“Jâ,” Bolwerk drawls, his smile slowly disappearing, “I have heard of your theories.  The artifacts of black magic.  The unseen beasts in the forests.”

“Beast,” Guiromélans corrects sharply, “Thus far, I know of only one.  And it has been seen.”

Bolwerk straightens.  “What?  Rumor is that it has killed all it meets.  How can you know it has been seen?  At worst, it is nothing but a figment of your imagination!”

A minor commotion is breaking out outside of the chambers.  Both men become distracted, glancing at each other worriedly.

“Jâ,” Guiromélans says, “Goodman Asmund has been most critical of me and my efforts in regard to its existence.  However, it is true.  My suspicions are true.  The creature exists.  There is a witness.  I have an excellent description of it, and so I happen to know it is nej udyronde!  At least no normal one.”

Bolwerk is about to answer when the door bursts open.  Blinding light spills in, and Bolwerk looks away with a mild curse.  Guiromélans sees Ofeig standing in the doorway, blood covering his face and clothes, dripping upon the floor and rug from many wounds.

 

The carnage and panic outside is evident.  Even as Guiromélans rushes across courtyard, Ofeig close behind, he can hear the clash of battle and the shriek of draugr.  The torn bodies of women and children litter the icy ground.  The hungry undead had swarmed over the walls, overwhelming the sentries almost before they could raise the alarm.  Many innocents were cut down before the karls could respond.

There are at least two groups of the undead.  Thane Bolwerk left to lead the effort against one, Guiromélans and Ofeig race for the other.

Leaping over a cluster of fallen huskarls, they nearly collide with an injured ridder.

“Where are they?” Guiromélans demands.

The ridder gestures deeper into the collection of buildings and homes as he nurses his injuries.  “They’ve burrowed deeper into Hardanger.  They’re everywhere.  Five other ridders and huskarls are hunting them down.”

“How many are left?” Ofeig asks.

The ridder shrugs and winces as the deep scratches across his chest and face begin to bleed anew.  “Too many.”

Guiromélans embraces the man and quickly passes the Sign of the Median over him before moving on.

The buildings of Hardanger are tightly placed, creating alleys too narrow for both men to advance abreast.  The signs of serious fighting are everywhere.  Doors and windows, sealed against the cold, bear the ugly, frantic gashes of the ghuls’ claws.  Dead ghuls and Söderkarl lay stacked on the ground.  In the distance, they can hear the howls of the ghuls, the screams of their victims, and the war cries of the karls.

“This is strange timing,” Guiromélans mutters.

“Why is that?” Ofeig asks from behind him.

“Have they ever ventured into Hardanger before?”

“Nej.  They have always kept to the forests.”

“Jâ.  So why now?”

They exit the alley and find themselves in a small courtyard, the intersection of five alleys.  The signs of an intense battle are everywhere.  By the number of black, ghul bodies, it seems the Söderkarl have carried the day so far.

Guiromélans hears a low moan, and they find a wounded karline huddled against a wall, clutching at the wounds in her side and arm.  “Where are they?” he asks, “Where is the battle?”

The woman gestures down an alley littered with even more dead.  “There, they were driving them back.  Towards the south walls.”

Guiromélans stands and looks first south and then north.  “Ofeig, where did these draugr first come in?”

The huskarl gestures north.  “At the north wall, en-mass.  Very close to the gate.”

“And then they drove straight south?”

Ofeig shrugs impatiently.  “Some of them.  I think they split into two groups.  Our one drove straight south.  The other drove towards the docks.”

Guiromélans frowns with thought.  “What?” Ofeig shouts.

“What is their goal then?” he wonders.

“Goal?  They’re animals!  They seek only to kill!”

“Nej, nej, if they were only animals, then they would have broken up, spread out, hunted independently.  They would have inflicted more damage that way.  But these draugr seem to have a purpose.”  He looks back south, “They arrived from the north, and they drove straight south.  They arrived from the north, and they drove straight to the docks.”  Guiromélans looks at Ofeig, “Your karls were not driving them away.  They were following them.  They are being led.”

Ofeig frowns, “To the north wall and the docks?  Why?  A trap?”

Guiromélans nods.  “They mean to gather all of Hardanger’s karls together.  So I ask you again, what is to the north?”

Ofeig thinks.  “In the north, freight warehouses, the railroad.  There is a roundhouse and turntable for the railway.”

“Take me there!  Quickly!  We must get there before the others!”

The tall structures loom blackly against the night sky.  It is a starless night, and snow falls fitfully, lending the air only an uncomfortable chill.  Ofeig proves an efficient guide, and despite his injuries, he leads Guiromélans swiftly around the fighting.

There is no time to warn Thane Bolwerk, who had rushed to lead the effort against the ghuls in the docks.  Guiromélans can only hope his suspicions are unfounded or that the Thane is equally insightful.

The driveways and loading docks among the warehouses are silent and abandoned.  Dark tracks wind in from all directions like a tangled spider’s web, disappearing into the black maws of the roundabout and linking in the large turntable at the center.  The air is still thick with the smell of oil and coal smoke.  In the distance, the Raven and huskarl can hear the approaching fighting.

There is no sign of the watchmen or night crews that work here, and that is a bad sign.

Circled on all sides by the roundabout warehouses, the turntable would be the perfect place for an ambush.

“So we’re here,” Ofeig says, obviously frustrated that he’s not back in the fighting.

Silently, Guiromélans gestures for Ofeig to follow.  Hand on his saber, he presses close against the wall of the roundhouse and carefully moves towards the nearest garage door.

Despite the subtle distractions, he begins to hear quiet clicks and snaps from inside, as if from countless claws flicking against each other.

Looking up and around him, he surveys the huge door of this end of the train barn.  Nearly a hand’s width thick, the heavy door is set into deep rails and is designed to roll shut.  There are at least eight other like doorways in the roundhouse.  God knows how many ghuls are hiding in them.

He takes up position at the end of the door.

“What’re you doing?” Ofeig hisses.

Guiromélans gestures for quiet.  “They are inside.  We must close and lock as many as possible before they can spring their ambush.”

The huskarl glances at the door and then around at the others.  “We might get this one closed, but as soon as we do, the others will fall upon us.”

Guiromélans nods.  “We close this one.  You’re injured, so as soon as we do, you run for the next.  I will guard you as long as I can.  We close as many as God allows.  We will buy some time for your brothers.”

Ofeig looks back in the direction of the fighting.  It is getting closer quickly.  The Söderkarl defenders must think their draugr are in full rout.  The huskarl nods, “Jâ.  Let’s get to work.  But when there are too many, you will call for me, and I will join you.  I would rather die in battle than be cut down from behind.”

Guiromélans smiles.  “Jâ.  I promise.”

Ofeig nods and prepares to push.  With a nod from Guiromélans, they both grunt with effort.  The door groans, shifts, and begins to roll.  Inside the barn, the ghuls shriek in surprise as the door begins to close.  Even as the door accelerates, he can hear their nails scramble across the stone floor inside.  He waits until the last possible moment and then lets go.

Just as the first ghuls emerge from the barn, his saber is scything towards them.  The top of the first’s head spins away into the night.  The second looses an arm and then its bowels.

Guiromélans keeps pace with Ofeig, cutting viciously at the ghuls as they struggle to escape the barn or slow the door’s progress.  Grabbing one last jerking body, he pulls it out of the way as Ofeig slams the door shut.  Inside, he can hear them pound and wail in frustration, and he wonders just how smart these things are.

Ofeig taps him on the shoulder and gestures across the roundhouse.  Ghuls are spilling out of three of the doorways opposite them, loping towards them with surprising speed.

Guiromélans points at the next, “Forget the others!  They’ll be empty before we get to them!  Go for the next!”

Ofeig nods, and the two men run for the next doorway.  Ofeig hits the door running, while Guiromélans runs past to meet the ghuls.

He cuts and spins, adjusting his tactics to blend with his enemies.  He abandons body strikes—he doesn’t know enough about these creatures to know where the fatal spots are—instead he focuses on cuts to the throat, eyes, and claws.  If he doesn’t kill them, at least he can disarm or disable them.

The undead are easily distracted, and most of them pursue Guiromélans only.  His motion and shouting must make him irresistible to their brutal instincts.  His blade is a whirlwind, cutting down ghul after ghul, but it quickly becomes close quarters fighting, as they begin to press in around him.  He keeps moving backwards, struggling to keep their claws and teeth at bay.

Something closes around his ankle like a vice.  He moans in pain as he falls backwards.  Glancing down, he sees one of the injured ghuls gnawing feverishly at his leg.  Even before he hits the ground, he drives his saber into its skull.

He lands awkwardly on an uneven surface, part twitching ghul, part ground, part railroad tie.  Jerking his blade back, he cuts a wide swathe across his body, hoping to clear away the closing draugr.  One leaps upon his chest and lunges for his face.  Guiromélans drives the handguard of his saber into the side of its temple.  He hears the skull crack as it falls aside.  Others are picking up his legs, fighting with each other for the prize.  Even as he is dragged across the ground, he swings up, cutting at their backs and legs.  “Ofeig!” he yells, “Ofeig!”

Another grabs his free arm, and soon, he is buried beneath the weight of ghuls.  He swings madly, making them pay dearly for every bite and scratch, but it is only a matter of time before he succumbs.

Suddenly, the pressing weight is gone.  Guiromélans looks up to see Ofeig throwing aside several ghuls with his charge, enough for Guiromélans to fight his way back to his feet.

Guiromélans darts up, favoring his slashed leg, and cuts down a ghul about to leap upon Ofeig from behind.  Grabbing the huskarl by the shoulder, he pulls him back violently.  “MOVE Ofeig!” he shouts as he desperately defends himself, “If they surround us, we’re done!”

Ofeig grunts in agreement, and the two soldiers backpedal across the turntable, slashing at the fearless, implacable wall of undead.  The dead fall three and four deep, their fetid blood making the already treacherous tracks even more difficult to negociate.

The onslaught blurs as exhaustion begins to darken Guiromélans’s sight.  He no longer sees individual enemies, he is no longer selective about the targets of his attacks.  He merely lashes out at whatever claw, tooth, or body strays too close to him.  So it takes him several seconds to notice the lagging intensity of the ghul assaults, the sudden lack of pressure in their onslaught.  Slowly, he realizes the wretched condition of their enemies.  Slashed, maimed, and dismembered, they are the injured remnants of the ghul pack, crawling mindlessly after the two men.  Many are blind or missing arms or legs.

Guiromélans and Ofeig stagger backwards, leaning against each other for support.  Before them, the turntable and roundhouse is a squirming mass of dieing draugr.

Ofeig laughs as he kicks a struggling ghul off his sword.  “A good effort, eh Korp?”

“Jâ, Ofeig,” Guiromélans nods.  “I’ve never seen so many draugr before.”

“Ten upon ten fell by your hand alone!”

Guiromélans shrugs, “I hardly think that many, but thank you for the compliment nevertheless.”

Slowly, they walk through the mass, driving their swords into the heads and throats of the surviving ghuls.  Still in the contorted, enraged faces of these creatures, he can see hints of the Söderkarl they once were.  Men, women, warriors and peasants.  On nearly all, he can see signs of their first deaths and of where they had been staked to the ground.  The bloody scene strikes Guiromélans as somewhat absurd and outrageous.

Fates like this are happening to the people of Hardanger, and Thane Bolwerk wages war with the therm?

“Huskarl Ofeig!” Guiromélans shouts.

“What is it, Korp?” he answers, grunting as he drives his long sword into another skull.

“You must recognize some familiar faces amongst these draugr, jâ?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you must have seen them at least once before… as you took them to the stead and staked them to the ground.”

“Jâ,” Ofeig answers after a long pause.  “I had thought you meant something else.”

Guiromélans turns to the huskarl, “Ofeig, why… is it you are always the one to deal with the corpses?”

Ofeig pauses in his work.  “The corpses?”

Guiromélans nods, “Jâ.  In the ruined stead.”

With a sneer, the huskarl drives his boot in the jaw of a crawling ghul.  “You wish to provoke me, jâ?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Nej.  Nej more than these draugr.  You seem a man of honor, a skilled and brave warrior.  I am wondering why you are subjected to the duties of a mere… böndi.”

Ofeig turns back to his work, viciously cutting at the twitching bodies with renewed rage.

Not expecting any further answer, Guiromélans sighs and goes back to his business.  An injured ghul unexpectedly lunges at him, and in his reaction, he nearly cuts it in half.  The moldering creature falls back, displaying the horrendous injuries of its mortal death.  Guiromélans is about to turn away when something about the creature strikes him as familiar.

“I am sent to the stead,” Ofeig says unexpectedly, “because I am not considered a very good Söderkarl… and a worse huskarl.”

Guiromélans plants his saber deep in the stack of gasping ghul flesh and kneels at the corpse’s side.  Carefully, he rolls it over.

“Nej,” Ofeig continues bitterly, “I do not observe the Thunderer heresies as the others do.  I am a pious Medianist.  And I do not follow the word of the Thane and his council quite so blindly, as some would like.”

The body is mutilated—ruined by its first death, twisted by its transformation into an undead, and further wrecked by the second death delivered by Guiromélans’s sword—but it is not the body nor its injuries that Guiromélans finds familiar.

“You have warned me of the rumors of the Thunderer cell in Hardanger,” Guiromélans says.

“Jâ, I have.”

“Have you also heard that Bolwerk is preparing to expose that cell and eliminate the heresy?”  Guiromélans looks back at the huskarl, “That he is rejecting the Thunderer faith?”

Ofeig stops in his slaughter.  The bodies move in the darkened courtyard as if covered by countless insects, twitching and rustling in the dim gas lit night, but no more ghuls crawl or walk.  Straightening, he listens.  The sounds of fighting are very close.  The fleeing ghuls and their pursuing Söderkarl will be here any second.

“So he says,” Ofeig sneers defiantly, “And yet he sends me away to deal with the korp’s food, to risk my life traveling through haunted and hunted forests.  All the more proof that he wishes I would fall silent or go to the mound.  And though I accept gladly these deadly tasks, I have yet to oblige him with either.”

“You have been lucky,” Guiromélans says.  Turning back to the corpse, he slowly unwinds the long braid of hair from around its body.

Ofeig grunts, “Luck is one thing, brave deeds another.  I fear not plague, nor udyronde, nor draugr.  I serve my lord with my life but not unthinkingly, and it is this that angers him.”

Guiromélans nods as he stares down into Baldruus’s contorted face.  Twice has he seen this friend killed, and it is a pain he can hardly bear.  Caidryn should be spared the same.  With tears in his eyes, he takes up his saber and slashes down at his friend once more, twice more, three times, obliterating the face and cutting away the braid.  Even if they inspect these dead carefully, Baldruus will not be recognized.

Straightening, he looks back the solemn huskarl.  “You are a good man to know, Ofeig.  You are a wise man in a stead of the blind and the foolish.”

“You call them fools only because they do not blindly follow the faiths you champion,” Ofeig counters.  “You are wise while they are foolish.  A wise man’s heart is seldom glad.  And I have never seen you glad.  I have never heard you laugh.  Is it that you are too wise for laughter?”

Guiromélans hesitates.  “I have sworn never to be too ready or quick to laugh.  And lately, I have found little to be glad at and little reason for laughter.  I have committed foolish deeds.  I have consorted with foolish people.”  He looks down at his mutilated friend.  “And perhaps the men of this place are the most foolish of all.”

He wipes at the tears in his eyes but finds his gloves and sleeves already soaked in foul-smelling blood.  “You have been most honest with me, Ofeig,” he says with resolution, “and so now I will be honest with you.  Fools or not, the question we are posed with is whether or not the udyronde are the threat or the draugr.  On this matter, these things I know.  The udyronde are not your enemies.  Your people, your land, and your leaders are being manipulated into a war with them, for reasons I have not yet devised and by parties I have not yet uncovered.”  He looks down at the remains of his friend and makes the sign of the Median over them.  “And I know a creature stalks your forests as well, seemingly with impunity.  It fears not Söderkarl, not udyronde, nor draugr.  It is the key, though it seems only I believe it exists.”

“And you tell me this, why?”

Guiromélans looks at Ofeig, “Because I mean to go against the wishes of your Thane.  I will not wage his war against the udyronde.  Instead, I will hunt this beast, and I will kill it.  I will stop the rising of your corpses.  And if Bolwerk or Asmund or Orkning stand in my way, I will knock them down.”

Ofeig smiles and nods his head, his teeth shining whitely through his gore-soaked beard.  “Take care of else who you tell, Korp.”

Guiromélans smiles grimly, “Jâ.  Tell one your thoughts but beware of two.  All know what is known to three.”

“Jâ, Saint Ragnvald is wise.  And so you’ve told me your plan… and your lady, I suppose?  Nej others?”

“Nej, nej others.  Nej more than two.”

Ofeig laughs, “Jâ!  Saint Ragnvald is wise!  You tell nej more than two!”

Silently, Guiromélans faces the corpse of his friend and draws a small knife.  Seconds later, he drops Baldruus’s stone into his bag.

There is a commotion at the entrance to the roundhouse.  Both men look up as dozens of ghul leap in from the streets.  The lanky creatures stop in their tracks when they see the carnage of their brethren around them, their dim minds slowly understanding what they are witnessing.  Then the storm of Söderkarl arrives behind them.

* * *

The night screams for vengeance.

Tonight, the Söderkarl howl for blood.  Tonight, the beast has claimed yet another victim.  Guiromélans stands over the torn corpse of Deacon Aybert.  Eight men in as many nights.  And with them, Guiromélans’s theory of the single, cunning beast has begun to gain credence within the stead—evidence of vengeful udyronde has begun to wear thin—but Guiromélans wishes there was a better way to have had his point proven.

Tonight, Thane Bolwerk calls together the sword-möte to discuss this frightening turn of events.

“It was one thing when our people were preyed upon in this manner,” a ridder shouts in frustration and fear, “hunted down in their steads and in the remote places of the woods and mountains!  But this is within Hardanger itself!  And our own honored guests are being claimed!  How do we address this disgrace?  How do we get vengeance?  With whom do we bloodfeud?”

“Must we point out,” Asmund observes blackly, “that these more… personal attacks began with the arrival of the Korp and his band?  Perhaps these udyronde have a taste for degkarl blood?”

Guiromélans finally turns away from the displayed corpse of the Inquisition clerk.  “These attacks occurred long before our arrival, goodman Asmund.  Was not your priest the beast’s first victim over a year ago?”

“Jâ, the udyronde took him first… another Medianist degkarl!”

Bolwerk watches the debate from his highseat.  Tonight, the great hall of Hardanger is frighteningly empty.  Last week’s assault by the ghuls was brutally effective.  Through Guiromélans and Ofeig’s efforts, the Söderkarl at the roundhouse were saved, but those who gathered at the docks were not so lucky.  Guiromélans shudders to think what would have happened had both efforts succeeded.  Where would Hardanger be then?

“The udyronde demons first took our holy cleric,” Bolwerk shouts.  “Then the honored Bersi, brother of Lady Dårlig.  Then mighty Gizur, father of our Lady.  Then well-liked Flosi, second brother of our Lady.  All of whom later returned as death-hungry draugr.”

Guiromélans looks at Dårlig with alarmed surprise.  He had no idea of the personal toll she had already suffered in this conflict.

“…and the blood has continued.  Crow-Hreidar, Frirek the greater, Frirek the lesser, Nefjul Peace-Offering, Thorleik, Fridgerd daughter of Ubbe, and Magri the strong.  The steads of Eidth, Hornblud, and Arness are now empty and lifeless.  And countless others were claimed as the udyronde curse roamed across Gylling.  And now with the coming of Korp Guiromélans and the coming of the Harvest Festival, the evil has once again returned to within our halls.  Honored friends and guests Baldruus the häxa, Sir Dagnin of Ehre, Captain Dumart of the Blood Drake, as well as Atle Mjove and Herlaug, pious knights of the Median.  And now tonight, good Aybert.”

There were many others slain during these past few bloody days.  Eight men in as many nights, including two of Quintian’s scribes and two crewmen from the Blood Drake—all Medianists, all men of low profile and low importance—Guiromélans has seen them around for months, but he never bothered to learn their names.  The fact that Bolwerk doesn’t name them somehow diminishes them further.

“Too many!  And more still!” Orkning bellows, as if reading Guiromélans’s mind, to the approving shouts of other huskarls and ridders.  “Our guests and ridders are being slain within our very own halls!  This can only mean nej one is safe!  Not you or your karlines!  Even Korp Guiromélans or Thane Bolwerk may be the next victims!”

The chamarling wheels about the hall, addressing each of the frightened, outraged Söderkarl.  Turning suddenly, he seems to make a horrified realization.  “Or Lady Dårlig!”

He draws his long sword, and holding the weapon aloft, he bellows, “I make this never-dieing oath!  I vow to protect Lady Dårlig from all threats, and I shall lay down my life in pursuit of this effort!”  Leveling the point at the collected soldiers, he demands, “Who among you will likewise make this oath?”

The karls shout in agreement, many drawing their weapons and making a great display of also vowing to protect their beloved Lady.  Dårlig bows her head in modest embarrassment.

“We must hunt these udyronde to their lairs and end the spilled blood of this arrow-storm!” Orkning shouts to the assembled men.

“An honorable, noble deed,” Bolwerk says, looking somewhat surprised by this turn of events.  “But I assure you, we shall be taking great steps towards ending the threats against our homes and our loved-ones.  Every day, victory and security is a little closer.”

“Is it?” Guiromélans asks.  “In all due respect, Thane, I see no improvement of security today over yesterday.”  He glances back at the body of Aybert, “Just the contrary in fact.”

Bolwerk stares long and hard at Guiromélans.  “You must trust my judgment in this, Korp.  Victory is near.”

Guiromélans nods, “The priest measures victory through prayer—the Inquisitor, with the ordeal—the Raven, with the sword.  My lord Thane, how do you gauge success in the efforts against the evil within Hardanger?”

Bolwerk smiles humorlessly, “An excellent question.  There are many wars being fought within Hardanger.  To win one may be to lose others.  It is the secret wars that we must win…  On this, I am reminded of the war against the degkarls, of the axe-ages of years ago, and of the death of Yngvi Gulskeg Drotnersson.”

With those words, near total silence falls upon the great hall of Hardanger, such is awe these people hold for their long, lost fallen King.  Such is the power those events still carry in the memories of these people.

Guiromélans feels the silent stares immediately falling upon him, one of the few symbols of Medianist rule left in this stead.  Instinctively, protectively, Caidryn moves closer to his side.

“Your words carry heavy weight, my son,” Asmund says unexpectedly.  “But what is your meaning?”

“It was over 200 years ago,” Bolwerk says, “and Yngvi Gulskeg had united the four cythths of Ledus, Fornjotnr, Frostthing, and Mynydd.  Then came the bloodfeud between the families of Agnar the Younger and Hjalti Breakspear.  The brothers of Gulskeg joined their cousin Agnar, while Hjalti persuaded the Hersirs of Fornjotnr and Mynydd to join with him.  Gulskeg pled with his father, Vemund, Hersir of Ledus Cythth, to join with him and his brothers, but Vemund was old and tired of battle, and he abandoned his sons to the whims of the Fates.  And so it was that Gulskeg’s circle of cythths was broken, and Frostthing stood alone against Mynydd and Fornjotnr.  The drums of war were beating, and the axe-age had begun.  Gulskeg’s mighty armies of karls and bönder were gathering, their great karves were heavy with their shields and swords, and they sailed off to embrace their brothers in bloody sword-storm.”

“The tale you tell is well-known and well-remembered, Thane,” Orkning says, “but what is your point?”

“My memory also recalls the day Trygve, Hersir of Mynydd, was to issue the offering of peace—to pay the weregeld of 100 of the finest steeds for Gulskeg—a token to finally end the wars between the Söderkarl lands.  Upon the arrival of the beasts, what was it Gulskeg found?  The greatest of insults!  The horses were disfigured and useless!  Their lips had been cut away, as were their ears, tails, and eyelids!  With this worst and final insult, the bloodfeud between Frostthing and Mynydd burned hot, and war continued in to our lands in earnest!”

Bolwerk leans forward in his chair and stares at his assembled men.  “This was the war he pursued in proper Söderkarl fashion.  The Söderkarl cythths were broken, destroyed.  Mynydd abandoned the Thunderer and sought the Median.  Weakened by our own foolishness, our lands were conquered by the Superbus Tyrannus of EroBernd, and we have been slaves ever since.  And what we know now, of course, was that Mynydd and Fornjotnr were not the true foes.  That fatal bloodfeud between Agnar and Hjalti was manufactured,” Bolwerk’s eyes fall upon Guiromélans, “crafted by the agents of the EroBernd Empire and the Medianists of Mynydd.  What we know now was that the final insult to Gulskeg, the disfigurement of the horses, was not committed by Trygve but by other agents of the Median!”

Bolwerk stands and slowly walks towards Guiromélans.  The Söderkarl part, creating a wide circle around the two.  Guiromélans frowns, unsure of what Bolwerk is planning, but he can almost hear Caidryn grinding her teeth, her nails digging deeply into his arm.

“Our good Yngvi—our last Yngvi—was betrayed,” Bolwerk says softly.  “Tricked into fighting a phantom war, he failed to recognize the real enemy until it was too late!  Though he knew of the degkarl threat in the north, instead he pursued his distractions.”  Bolwerk stands before Guiromélans and glares hard into his eyes, “Such is the state we are in now.  Shall we pursue the distractions?  Or shall we address the true threats?”

“Are you saying the degkarls are behind these evils?” Orkning blurts.

Bolwerk smiles at Guiromélans before turning towards his chamarling.  “Nej.  On the contrary, in fact.  It is in our case that the Medianists are falling prey to the evil.  Look upon most of our fallen comrades and guests and see that they were all agents of the Median.  It is my assertion that these wars—these udyronde, these draugr—are mere distractions against the true threat:  The elimination of the Medianists and the end of EroBernac rule in Hardanger!”

The room stands in stunned silence.  “This is a bad thing, my Thane?” Orkning mutters.

Bolwerk walks up to the huge huskarl, “How appropriate of you to say that, my friend.”

“What?”

“The death of all Medianists in Hardanger, in Gylling, or even in all of Ledus would not solve our troubles!  You must know that?  The Söderkarl cythths are still divided.  We are still caught in our petty squabbles, our endless bloodfeuds.  The degkarls would return, and it would be the deaths of all we love and treasure.”

Bolwerk turns to address the entire hall, “I say this!  Korp Guiromélans is correct!  The war between us and the udyronde is manufactured!  Designed to distract us until all signs of Medianist rule have been eliminated from this bygthr!”

“What are you saying?” Guiromélans asks.

“I say the goal is and has always been the deaths of all Medianists within my stead.  I say that I have known for a long time of the cell of Thunderers within my home.  Even before my abduction, I knew of their agendas, I knew of their movements,” Bolwerk turns and looks at Orkning, “and I knew of their leaders.”

Slowly the chamarling’s face grows red as all eyes turn to him.  “You are Thane Bolwerk,” he hisses, “Son of Hraerekur, son of Huld the häxa, foster son of Asmund, initiate of Uspak, follower of the Brand of Uspak, and yet you lay this at my feet?”

Bolwerk nods, “I have admitted to having partaken in the Thunderer heresies.  I admit I am only a casual follower of the Median.”  His voice drops to a deadly whisper, “But I have never wetted my blade with Medianist blood!”

“YOU ACCUSE ME OF THESE CRIMES!” Orkning bellows.  He would have flung himself upon Bolwerk if Asmund hadn’t held him back.  One, then two more ridders rush up to help restrain and bind the raging chamarling.

Bolwerk turns to Guiromélans.  “I told you I would take steps against the Thunderer.  Now you know why I could not rely on Orkning for help.  Now you know why I must rely on you.  As I stand here with you, I stand with a Raven of the holy Medianist church.”

Guiromélans finds his mouth has been gaping open, and slowly he closes it.  “My lord,” he stammers, his tongue dry and pastey, “Orkning is your chamarling!  There are none here more loyal!  By God, he just vowed to defend your Lady unto his death!”

Bolwerk shakes his head, “Some of the greatest crimes are committed by the most loyal of vassals.  The defense of my wife is most noble, but I point out, she is not a Medianist.  And the oath is a Söderkarl one, not a Medianist one.”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Bolwerk, this—”

The Thane nods towards the raging huskarl, “I have yet to hear him deny it.  Go.  Raise your Median to his breast, and see what the Medianist God thinks.”

The collected hird gasps.  Guiromélans glances at Bolwerk and then at Orkning and then to Asmund restraining him.  All eyes are on him as he slowly walks to the huge chamarling.  “You have shown yourself to be the most noble of men in this stead, Orkning,” Guiromélans says.  “Few others have welcomed me and mine as warmly.  Please tell me these claims of murder and heresy are false.”

Orkning spits.  “That you even ask should be your answer!”

Guiromélans draws his Median and holds up to Orkning.

“This is the second time you’ve held that pretty silver thing to me,” Orkning demands.  “Does it tell you anything different this time?”

Guiromélans looks.  The Median tarnishes.  It corrodes, as if held against the blackest of evil.  Guiromélans is stunned.  He looks up at his former friend.  “It tells me one thing,” he says.  “All abide their time, and you abide evil.”