Four boys approach Balen aggressively, solid clubs of southern ash held firmly in their hands.  Though they are the same age, their Söderkarl blood makes them nearly a head taller than him.

Balen watches them without fear.  As they near, his raises his own stick.

“Time to learn, Brack dog!” the largest boy shouts, “Time to learn your lesson!”

Balen doesn’t respond.  He doesn’t wait for the attack.  He has already sized up each foe and picked his target.  Without preamble or warning, he leaps.  The surprised dreng is caught off-guard, and he raises his stick to defend himself.  This is unfortunate because Balen strikes him at the knees.  A second blow lands across the back of his head as Balen ducks behind him.

Even as the unfortunate boy howls in pain, crumbling to the ground, the other three fall over him and themselves in an effort to reach Balen.

In any fight against multiple people, three-on-one is the most dangerous.  Fewer than that evens the odds.  More, and your opponents tend to get in each others’ way.  Balen has learned this and uses his enemies’ numbers against them.

The leader with the threats kicks the injured boy aside and lunges at Balen, only to find himself facing the business end of his club.  Balen attacks, feints, and attacks, using a mixture of nearly perfect Muttese and Ehrech close quarters strikes.  The boy tries to defend himself, only to find his knuckles and elbows barked with harsh blows.

With a scream of mixed fear and frustration, he swings wildly and connects with another of his friends, striking him across the bridge of his nose.  Balen circles around behind the lead boy, keeping him between himself and the fourth.  A sudden strike across the shoulder encourages the bigger boy to drop his stick.  With unexpected viciousness, Balen grabs him by the hair and pulls him back, delivering two more quick blows to the kidneys.

The lead dreng’s cries for help are squelched as Balen presses his stick across his throat, choking him in a deadly headlock.

Balen looks the last boy in the eye.  “You fight still?” he asks in broken Söderkarl.  He punctuates the question with a quick jerk that leaves the lead boy gagging.

The fourth reads the look in Balen’s eyes and drops his stick.  With a sneer, Balen kicks his captive away, and the four boys limp away in ignominious retreat.

Balen sniffs and dabs at the blood trickling from his nose.  “I think one of them got me, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles and rises from his bench, “No, actually, you hit yourself.  Had you been fighting with a real sword, you would have cut your own nose off.”

Balen smiles with embarrassment and prods at his abused nose.

“And might I point out,” Guiromélans says, picking up the abandoned sticks left by the drengs, “that while the choke hold you used to end the fight was most ingenious, had you been using a real sword, the effect would have been much more… uh… dramatic than perhaps you would have intended?”

Balen laughs.  “Do yä thinks they’ll still want tä talk tä me now?”

Guiromélans smiles.  “Go ahead and ask them.  The Söderkarl respect strength and bravery.  So long as you don’t lord it over them, they’ll still be your friends.”

Grinning broadly, Balen bows and runs off after the boys.

Guiromélans returns to his bench and sighs deeply.  Now that he doesn’t drink, he seems to find himself with a lot of time on his hands.  He sleeps less.  He thinks more.  He’s had a lot of time to think.  It has been nearly 2 months since the Harvest Festival, 2 months since the return of the Thane.  True to his oath, it seems Bolwerk has eliminated all signs of Thunderer resistance.  He outlawed every member karl, including Orkning, banishing them all into the unforgiving southern winter, and executed the böndi.

Has it made a difference?  Guiromélans wonders.  The deaths have stopped, at least for now, though he isn’t sure how the Thunderers were connected to the beast.  Regardless, it seems to have settled things with the people of Hardanger.  At the very least, it has allowed them to focus more on the war with the udyronde.  The fact Bolwerk has admitted this war is false has not been lost on the Raven, but thus far, he sees no one making any effort to make peace.

Söderkarl making peace is almost a contradiction in terms.  Their wars tend to end in total victory, or total defeat, or more often, mutual ruination.  He’s never known the Söderkarl to sue for peace unless they’ve been forced to.  More often then not, once the fight’s begun, right or wrong, they’d rather play it out to the end just to see who wins.

Guiromélans wonders how he can persuade Bolwerk to sue for peace?

Guiromélans turns and sees Caidryn sitting on the table next to him.  She gives him only the most fleeting of glances before returning to her wary watch of the room.  She’s never seemed totally at ease in this Söderkarl place, and now things have only been getting worse.

“You sit and sniff the air like you’re not sure you’re welcome.”

“This graney place has the feel of doom, boduus,” Caidryn mutters.  “Och fi!  Trougo!”

Guiromélans nods, looking up at the tall Söderkarl rafters, as if testing the air himself, “Yes.  This place is deeply troubled.”

“Then what are we doin’ here, uh?”  Grabbing Guiromélans by the shoulder, she turns him around to look at her, “Really.  Yer lady’s lover is back.  Death is hauntin’ these halls.  It’d be only a matter of time before it comes tä claim us too.”

“What do you propose?”

“Leave!  Flee!  We can goes anywhere!  Why stay here?”

“Because I made a promise to help here.”

“Yä means with that ice princess?” she asks bitterly.

Guiromélans nods, “Yes.  I refuse to abandon a lady, I refuse to break an oath.”

“Yä keeps all yer promises tä the ladies?” she mocks in disappointment.

“Yes.  I obeyed your plea and that of the lady of the Mask’s castle.  I will obey Dårlig’s plea as well.”

“And what has she done fer yä, uh?”

“She has asked.  That is all she needs to do.”

Caidryn bares her teeth in anger, “Then maybe I’ll leaves without yä, uh?  Me ‘n Balen can takes off on our own!”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “That would be fleeing.  Is that what you do when things get tight?  Run off?”

“Yäh!  It’s served me well enough sä far!  I sees na reason tä take unnecessary risks!”

“And how did you come to be here?  In this deadly place?  By running?”

“Yäh!”

“You ran to here from the decks of the Knight’s Torment.  You ran there from the streets of Cliffs Reach…  Tell me, have things been improving for you with all this running?”

When she doesn’t answer, Guiromélans gestures towards the departed Balen, “And you’ll take the boy?  Wouldn’t you run faster without him?  Isn’t he an unnecessary risk?  Why take him?  Why wouldn’t you just leave him behind?”

“I won’t.  I’ll never.  I never have.”

“Then you must understand why I must not leave.”

“They are completely different!” she sputters.

Guiromélans inhales and thinks before asking, “Why haven’t you left Balen behind?”

Caidryn looks stunned, almost as if he just struck her.  Her eyes flash with anger.  “I’ve come close enough many times, yäh?.  Yä just doesn’t understand!  It is only by keepin’ him closer tä me that I can remain strong!”

“You’re right.  I don’t understand.”

“Yä boduuses likes them young, yäh?” she says, bitterness and hurt cutting deep in her voice.  “Gets ‘em young, marries ‘em young, bangs ‘em young.  Knocks ‘em up as soon as they starts tä bleed and keeps ‘em that way.  Squeeze out as many as yä can, uh?  That’s the boduus way.”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Caidryn, you don’t understand.  In a sense you are correct…  There was this war, you see—”

“But the Ulbandi and Synesi are different!  They takes pleasure from boys or girls.  They just don’t care, sä long as they gots something tä stick their cocks intä.  In places like Cliffs Reach, where sä many people meet… tastes become mixed… confused.  Ain’t safe tä be a boy or girl on their streets.  There’s always someone lookin’ tä sink it in yä high and hard.  If yä doesn’t have protection… yer just coolin’ meat.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Guiromélans asks gently.  “What does this—”

“I had me a vision… when I was trapped in that castle with the Masks… of me sellin’ Balen tä a whoremaster.  T’wasn’t a vision of the future.  It was a fantasy from the past.  Back when I ran in those streets, I needed lots of bay, see?  Have taken it fer as long as I can remember.  Sellin’ fry we caught, that’s how I paid fer me fixes.  But when I found Balen, somethin’ was different about him.  I swore I could see it in him!  He was stronger than I was.  I couldn’t just give him up.”

Guiromélans watches her closely.  It is at times like this, when she has dropped her guard, when she doesn’t know or doesn’t care about how she is seen by others, that what Guiromélans thinks is her true self becomes apparent.  He sees a young Brackish girl, soft of skin and features, beautiful and tender, with lonely, lonely eyes.

“Many a night, I would lay sufferin’,” she says softly, her eyes wide and wet, “feelin’ the burn… knowin’ layin’ right next tä me was the solution tä me problems.  All I had tä do was grab him, hustle him off on the street, sell him tä whoever who fancied him, and me pockets would be filled with coppers.  Coppers enough tä buy the bay and make me burnin’ go away.  It would have been easy enough.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Caidryn shakes her head, as if baffled herself.  “I lived a hard life in Cliffs Reach.  Did many things yä boduuses would think was wrong.  Bad.”  She smiles grimly, “Yä wouldn’t have liked me much then.  Would want nothin’ tä do with me.  Believe me.  Balen was me last chance, me last test, before it was too late fer me.”

She looks down at her hands, “I was close, Guiromélans.  Very, very close.  Either tä diein’ or fallin’ sä far down, na one would ever see me again.  Things weren’t goin’ sä well fer me.”

She looks at him, her hand rising to her scar.  She smiles awkwardly.  “Me man.  He started out sä sweet!  I thought we was goin’ tä happy forever!  Then things changed.”

Guiromélans stares at her in surprise.  Her scar is clean and brutal, a deep cut from the right-hand corner of her mouth, across her cheek and then drastically down across her throat.  It is almost as if…

“He tried to cut out your tongue!” he says softly.

Caidryn nods sadly.  “Chatty as a Brackish dona I was.  There came a time when he thought it best tä silence me…”  Her fingers trace the line of her injury.  “Wouldn’t face me, couldn’t face me, sä he tried tä do it as I slept.  I woke, moved.”  Her eyes squeeze shut.  “Don’t remember much after that.  Woke up in me old home, in the Lady’s Mill, with me old gang.  Seems after he cut me, I managed tä run clear across the whole city, made it tä the Lady.  She saved me life, though she left me with the scar.”

“I’m sorry for that, Caidryn.”

“Baldruus was a lot better, yä knows,” she says suddenly, angrily, as if he just challenged her.  “He wasn’t perfect like yä of course, but he was better than the others.  He didn’t approve of me attitude.  He always had tä shut me up.”

“He beat you?”  Guiromélans tries to sound surprised.

“He had a women like me, uh?” she laughs bitterly.  “What else could he do?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “I don’t know.  Love you?”

Caidryn laughs once in surprise, as if the thought had never occurred to her, and then covers her mouth as her lips begin to tremble.  “I ain’t never goin’ tä love again.  Hear?  Never again!”

Guiromélans hesitates.  “Love is very, very difficult.  I can easily claim to understand the hearts of my enemies better than my own or any woman I’ve ever known.”

Caidryn wipes at her eyes but refuses to look at him.  “Yä’ve loved before!” she mutters.

Guiromélans nods, “I’ve had idle fancies with maids and ladies in my youth.  My future in Gaph was ruined when I became too… attached to a lady, and I was compelled to abandoned my future as a monk.”

“Yäh!  And the witch!  Yä loved yer witch!”

Guiromélans hesitates, unsure if he wants to explore this old wound.  “She was my love,” he agrees slowly.  “My finest, deepest love.  She was my love, she was my doom.  Everything I am now, good or ill, is due to her.”

“What’re yä talkin’ about?”

Guiromélans sighs deeply.  “I met the young sellâria over a year ago.  She was serving in the home of a prominent noble in Cliffs Reach.  Black hair, dark skin.  She was smart, beautiful, of fiery spirit and keenly honed mind.”

He smiles at the memory, “She was oh so much smarter than I, though she would never presume to show it.  She was the perfect sellâria, the perfect companion for a Raven.  I fell for her almost immediately.”

“And yä still claims never tä have fucked her, uh?” Caidryn asks.

Guiromélans ignores her.  “I loved her—I still love her—though not in any kind of physical way.  Oh, we both knew that was available to us—and welcome perhaps—but somehow we both knew it to be unnecessary.”

Caidryn sniffles and laughs but otherwise remains silent.

“Shortly after our… relationship began, she began making polite inqueries on my behalf.  A question here, a remark there—sellâria can make many, many powerful connections—it wasn’t long before my name reached the ears of the Dux Bellôrum himself.  I was awarded the office of Raven and sent away to Ehre to war with the Fée.  We wrote frequently.  Became closer, at least in words.  And then we lost contact.”  He shakes his head, “I heard nothing from her.  The next time I saw her, it was best day of my life, it was one of the worst.”

“Best?  Worst?  This when yä learned she was a caragus?”

Guiromélans nods.  “She revealed her power to me as she saved my life.  And in gratitude, I condemned her as a witch.”

“Yer an ungrateful bastard,” Caidryn says without heat.

“Oh, the worst is yet to come!” Guiromélans assures.  “We parted badly, but we were not yet enemies.  At least she wasn’t mine.  I remember hearing her pleas, her asking for forgiveness for being a witch, but I didn’t listen.  I just walked away…”

“That’s the worst?”

“No.  The worst came some months later.  My lord Beaudous, the Duke of Ehre, informed me that the very Primate of the Holy Medianist Church himself was calling in some favors.  I was to invade the Ymyl Gwland Baronies on his behalf.  I was given command of an army of over 1500 men, including cannon, cavalry, and an entire company of Ravens.  I was to go to Ymyl Gwland and hunt down and capture or kill a rogue witch that had set herself up as queen there among the Bracks.  No one bothered to wonder or ask why the Primate cared about some witch in Ymyl Gwland, so far from Cærimonia, least of all me.  The conflict with the alfs was, and is, going badly for us, but no one bothered to wonder what the transfer of so many skilled troops would do to the war effort.  All that mattered was that the Primate had spoken and this witch had to be eliminated.”

“The witch?  This was yer lady?”

Guiromélans nods, “She was a powerful witch.  She must have been to threaten the Primate so!  There were some delays in our journey to Ymyl, and only 1000 of my men and none of my Ravens arrived in Ceilbyrig in time, but time was short and we marched anyway.  And we met with our Brackish allies—commanded by an evil, opportunistic rixueramos named Naw—and we encircled her fortress.”  Guiromélans shakes his head at the memory, “The enemy’s defenses were pathetic.  Simple.  Their tactics rudimentary.  Even with my diminished army, we outnumbered them by over seven to one.  We had cannon and rifles, they had none.”

Guiromélans stands and paces around the table, Caidryn watching him closely.  “We met on the field, she and I, before the battle.  Again, she tried to plea with me, to reason with me.  Begged me to remember the happiness of our past.  Begged me not to carry out my orders.  But I ignored her.  I had my orders, from both my Duke, my Superbus Tyrannus, and my Primate.  From God Himself.  And she was a Gock-condemned witch.”

Guiromélans looks into Caidryn’s face.  She looks horrified.  “She tried reason, she tried pity.  She even tried to remind me of my knight’s obligations to render aid to ladies in distress and not to carry out any dictates I know to be wrong or immoral.  I would not be moved.  In the end, we went to war.”

“And what happened?”

Guiromélans looks at Caidryn in surprise.  “She defeated me!  Can you believe it?  In the war between good and evil, Raven and witch, God chose her cause to champion!  My armies were swept aside and laid to waste!”  He rushes towards Caidryn so quickly, she nearly falls backwards off the table.  His hands slam down on either side of her, and his face presses close to hers.  “She even had the nerve to save my life!  Nearly at the expense of her own!”

Caidryn is speechless, staring into his eyes with pain and fear swimming in hers.

“It was at that moment that I knew my relationship with God was deeply troubled, yes?”

He jerks away from her and paces the room for a long time in silence.

“And so this is why I’ll never abandon a lady in need,” he says at last.  “I did once.  I’ll not do it again.  Never.”

He stares at the floor for a long time.  He nearly jumps when he feels her hand on his shoulder.  “Hey,” she mumbles, “sä we both have fucked up love lives, uh?  Me man tries tä cut out me tongue, yä just tries tä kill yer lady.  It’s just the price of bein’ in love with us, uh?”

Guiromélans turns and cradles Caidryn’s face in his hands.  “She was much like you,” he says, staring deeply into her eyes.  “Strong, fearless.  She kept her past closely hidden.  I never learned any details, but like you, I suspect she endured great hardships in her youth…”

Guiromélans looks even closer.  “She changed me,” he says.

“How?” Caidryn whispers.

Guiromélans shakes his head and lets Caidryn go.  “Have you heard of the Courts of Love?”

“Nage.”  She is trembling and doesn’t know why.

“It’s a game, played among the highest echelons of Seven Kingdoms royalty.  The lords and ladies of the land make light of love, of the suffering of lovers… perhaps because true love is denied to them.  In the Courts of Love, they compete on who can mock true lovers the best.  It’s a sad display, a vain effort to prove they are beyond love and above those petty fools who succumb to it.  When I played, few could match me.  And now, I don’t think I can ever play again.”

“Why?”

He smiles, “She taught me true love.”

Caidryn stares at Guiromélans for a long time before violently shaking her head, as if to clear it.  In her eyes, the old fire returns.  “Have yä been drinkin’?” she demands.

“No.  Not since the Harvest Festival.”

She nods in surprise, “Yer a different man when yä haven't been drinkin’, Sir Guiromélans.”

* * *

The courtyard nearly glows with the blue light of the storm-shrouded moon.  Meager gas lamps sputter in the streets beyond, but they create only deeper shadows in the connecting alleys.

Though it snowed all day today, the efficient bönder of Hardanger have cleared most of it away, even in this isolated corner of the city.  Guiromélans is impressed.

He sits silently at the center of the courtyard, oblivious to the discomfort of the icy cobblestones.  Even as he waits, new snow begins to fall furiously.

“Gock damn these frozen southern nights!” Caidryn curses, pacing from corner to corner.  “I don’t understand why yä makes me come out here with yä!  I coulda been sittin’ in the longhouse, drinkin’ bad beer and hearin’ worse stories!”

Guiromélans doesn’t open his eyes.  “I invited you because you asked.  I might remind you that you practically demanded you come.”

“Fuck that!” she spits, “Yä shoulda warned me at least!”

Guiromélans shrugs and continues to wait.

This is the place.  This is the place they are supposed to meet.

Beneath Caidryn’s continued complaints, he hears the crunch of a tentative step into some forgotten snow.  Guiromélans opens his eyes and turns to see the figure standing in the darkened alley.  Smoothly but not threateningly, Guiromélans stands and turns to meet it.  “This is the place,” he says suddenly, making Caidryn jump, “We came at the time you requested.”

“By the Ice!” Caidryn gasps as she sees the figure for the first time.

“By the Fire,” Hrobjart drawls solemnly as he steps into the light of the courtyard.  There is no piety in the Rig-jarl’s response.  Quite possibly, there is the opposite.

Hrobjart looks agitated, paranoid.  His eyes glare into Guiromélans’s and then look away, restlessly seeking some new perch.  When they fall upon Caidryn, she hisses angrily.  She stands close behind the Raven, not quite touching him, but Guiromélans can feel her squaring up for a fight.  Hrobjart’s eyes flash as he welcomes the challenge.  Guiromélans can see right away that he and Caidryn are playing poorly off each other, and causally, he steps between them.  “I was surprised to hear you were still in Hardanger,” he says, “You have kept a low profile since the Harvest Festival.”

The Rig-jarl looks ragged, unkempt.  Where has he been these past weeks?  “Low profile?” he hisses, his glare darting from the Raven to Caidryn and back.  “Jâ, thanks to you!  Thanks to your Medianist meddling!  My friends are now outlawed or driven into hiding!  You seek to do good—the good of the degkarls—but you serve only evil!”

“Outlawed or hiding?” Guiromélans asks with surprise.  “You mean Orkning and his Thunderers!  The traitors to Bolwerk?  The murderers!”

“Murderers?  You FOOL!” Hrobjart shouts, “Blinded you are by your hatred of the Thunderer and by your faith in the empty degkarl God!  I warned you before, but the proud Korp would not listen!  This place is death to your God and those who follow Him.  The walls of Hardanger already drip with Medianist blood, and much more will be sprayed soon!  Only through the might of the Thunderer dømme-ring can we be saved!  Mourn for yourself, for the hunter is not yet finished with you!”

“Hunter?” Guiromélans demands, suddenly stepping forward.  “Hunter, jâ!  You mean the beast of the night?  The beast that Asmund so adamantly denies?”

Hrobjart’s face twists in distaste, as if irritated with his slip of the tongue.  “Jâ,” he drawls, “I know of this beast.  I know of the demon that stalks the halls of Hardanger, but I tell you this:  It does not follow the whims of the Thunderer!”

“Conveniently said!” Guiromélans barks, “Considering admitting it to be your lapdog is tantamount to a confession to its murders!”

“I say nothing!” Hrobjart shouts back, “Other than this demon seeks the deaths of both the Median and the Thunderer!  That it hunts us as though we were lambs and Hardanger is our pen!  And now you’ve seen to it that all our allies are outcast from here and far from us!  The God of the Median is dead here!  The Thunderer is driven away!  There is nothing left to protect us from this evil!”

“Protection?” Guiromélans asks, “Last I saw, Hardanger still had many strong and able huskarls and ridders.  Last I saw, Bolwerk still rules this land, and he is a powerful warrior.  This place is far from helpless.  This beast has proven efficient at killing solitary men, but should it try to overtake this stead, I would assume Bolwerk’s hird would have much to say on the matter.”

“They are blind!” Hrobjart shouts, violently waving Guiromélans’s words away, “And my dear brother is a fool!  He listens too much to our aged mother and that scheming Asmund.  They point, and he acts without thought!  The draugr, feh!  The udyronde, feh!”  He spits copiously.  “Empty wars with empty goals.  Without the Thunderer to guide our Thane, we are all lost!”

“You say much, Hrobjart,” Guiromélans says grimly, “and most earnestly, but all I hear is frantic Thunderer rhetoric.  Chamarling Orkning is guilty of his crimes, God has shown me that.  The Thunder heresy in Hardanger was a cancer, and it was rooted out and destroyed.  Your vague threats and rants do not change any of that.  The beast does stalk these halls, and, Thunderer or not, I will kill it.”

“You are not listening!” Hrobjart shouts.

“You are not saying anything worth listening to.”

“I say the deaths will continue—”

“Thus far, they seem to have stopped.”

“I say the danger remains!”

“Danger remains, jâ, but we take actions to diminish it.  There is much, much work still to do, jâ, and we shall do it.  And we shall continue to address the danger.”

“The worst thing that could have happened to Hardanger was for Bolwerk to return,” Hrobjart moans angrily.  “This was a waste of time.”

Guiromélans nods, “So it is true.  Dårlig was right.  You are jealous of your brother’s title and lands.”

Rage flashes in the Rig-jarl’s eyes.  “My brother’s privileges are due him as firstborn.  His place as thane has been earned.  But through his foolish decisions, he has lost those privileges.  If he is not careful, he will lose much more than that!”

Guiromélans frowns, “And what does that mean?”

“While he is in power, things here will never be right.”  Hrobjart shakes his head and looks at Guiromélans with wild eyes.  “You are misguided, Korp, but I believe you mean well.  So listen carefully to what I say.  I have sent word to my home, to all the steads in my control.  All my karls, all my bönder are coming.  We shall come here, and we shall make things right.”

“Are you looking to wage war against your own brother?” Guiromélans asks in shock.

“I asked you here to warn you of your follies, and perhaps to see if you would be willing to join us, but you are not listening.  Do not think the removal of the Thunderers shall make you safe, for they are not your enemies.  Do not think this beast’s hunger is sated, raven-feeding one, for it will return, and perhaps next time, it will sniff at your wounds?  You are a strong karl and an able warrior.  The best thing for you would be to flee—take your may and your dreng and flee Hardanger—though I am sure you will not heed me.  Perhaps in your blind flailings, you can entertain the evil long enough for my karls to arrive.”

Guiromélans’s hand falls to the pommel of his saber.  “Perhaps in my flailings, I can capture you, as you have just confessed to a plot to overthrow the Thane?”

Hrobjart freezes, his face falling into shadow as he steps back into the alley.  “You can try.”

Guiromélans takes a step forward and then stops when he sees two men enter the alley behind Hrobjart.  Caidryn gasps and presses against his back.  He can hear the long hiss as she draws her spatha.  Glancing around, he sees men approaching their courtyard from each of the adjoining alleys.  “It seems you had other motives for summoning me here?” Guiromélans asks, gesturing to the men behind Hrobjart.

The Rig-jarl turns and looks at the men. “I see you’ve brought friends,” he mutters.  “Jâ, you’ll need them.”

“W—what?” Guiromélans sputters.  “They are not your agents?  We—”

The Söderkarl, eight men in all, bellow their challenge and charge.  Not waiting to see Hrobjart’s reaction, Guiromélans draws and turns to face the six spilling into the courtyard behind him.

Caidryn screams and assails the closest with powerful swings from her broadsword.  Her technique is much improved since last he saw her fight though she’s still a bit wild.  She must have been listening in on some of Balen’s lessons.

Guiromélans runs forward to protect her back and parries a sharp jab from a long sword.  A second warrior lunges wildly, mistakenly assuming Guiromélans was unprepared.  Side-stepping the blade, he catches the arm and turns, spinning the Söderkarl around him.  His saber scythes out, beheading another man, and he throws his disorientated attacker into the headless body.  Even as the Söderkarl tries to fend off the fountains of blood, he is run through the kidneys by Guiromélans’s blade.

Running from the first, he cuts down two of the three that have cornered Caidryn.  Then he turns and faces his last opponent.  The Söderkarl skids to a stop, slipping slightly on icy stones now covered in steaming blood.  He holds his long sword aloft, his eyes nervously glancing around at Guiromélans and the four dead men.

Guiromélans doesn’t give him any more time to consider his situation.  He charges, viciously parrying stab after desperate stab as the Söderkarl tries to back away.  Drawing back for a broad slash, he gasps as Guiromélans knocks the sword from his grip and guts him with two quick cuts.  His bowels spit out of the wounds and fall upon the stones in ropey piles.  With shaking hands, he falls to his knees and tries to gather them up.  Guiromélans cuts away his surprised, frightened expression.

The Raven looks down at the bodies littering the courtyard.  By their clothes, he can see that they were thralls, probably compelled with promises of freedom by whoever organized this ambush.  Glancing down the alley, he sees the bodies of the two thralls that faced Hrobjart.  It seems the Rig-jarl bested his foes as well.

Turning, Guiromélans sees Caidryn still struggling manfully with the last Söderkarl.  “Take care and don’t kill that one!” Guiromélans shouts.  “We’ll need him alive to learn who his master is!”

Caidryn doesn’t answer, grunting with effort as she delivers blow after punishing blow against the suddenly defensive thrall.  Guiromélans watches for a moment before turning and running down the alley.  She will fare well so long as she doesn’t tire herself too much, and he needs to try to catch up with Hrobjart.

Sliding out of the alley, he looks up and down the dark street, but doesn’t see the fleeing Rig-jarl anywhere.  Up the street, in the direction of Bolwerk’s longhouse, he sees a group of torching-wielding huskarls rapidly approaching, probably summoned by the sounds of the fight.

Turning back to the alley, he considers helping Caidryn when he hears the thrall’s death cry.  Oh dear, Guiromélans sighs.  Caidryn never does listen to directions very well.

Guiromélans is about to meet the approaching guards, when he shudders with an unpleasantly familiar feeling… as if his tiny life was suddenly discovered by something dark and evil.  Holding his saber at the ready, he looks around and then up.  There on the roof, he sees a black shape.  Covered in long, heavy hair, the creature crouches like a gargoyle, its eyes burning into Guiromélans’s.  Long ropes of saliva fall from its maw, tossed and blown by the frozen night breeze.

His mouth goes dry as he stares up at it.  The beast is terrible to behold, and Balen’s terrified description did not do it justice.  This is no therm, and if it is another kind of Anwar Clobyn, then it is the most cursed breed ever to be spat into existence by God.

Guiromélans raises his saber and salutes it.  “Care you to come down here?  I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

The beast bares its jagged teeth, almost as if in a grin.  With a glance at the approaching guards, it turns and bounds away, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with astonishing speed.  Guiromélans watches it flee with a puzzled frown.  Of all times, why was it here now?

By the time the karls arrive, it is long gone.