The small room is cluttered with things old, unclean, and impure.  Painted fetishes hang from pegs in the rafters and walls.  Animals, insects, and demons, dead and dieing, lay in forgotten pieces on the tables and floor, scattered and kicked about in disarray.  Runes of uncertain meaning are carved deeply into every wood and stone surface, highlighted luridly in a brown ink or dye that is in all likelihood blood, though of animal, man, or demon Guiromélans is not sure.

Guiromélans drifts through and around the detritus as he waits.  His mouth is a tight line, his expression placid and distant, but his eyes burn with the fury of an Inquisitor’s pyre.  It is one month before Winter Nights—one month before the Burning Time—one month before the most holy day of the Medianist calendar.  Oh, how he would like to set this place ablaze as part of his own Burning Time!

He does not look too closely at the things in this room.  He need not pay them too close attention.  He has seen them all before.  It was upon this table that he was laid when he was first brought to Hardanger, sickened and wounded by ghul claws.  It was under these eaves that he laid as the häxa Huld tended to his injuries.

Feverish though he was, he still remembers her words:  “We shall heal you proper, my Korp, and then you shall make things right!”

And so, Guiromélans waits.  He has been in this stead for more than a quarter of a year, and he has yet to make things right.  It is obvious the witch knows something of what is going on.  Perhaps it is time to ask her?

There is a shocked gasp.  “You would invade this place!”

Guiromélans looks up to see the bent old woman shuffle into the room.  He smiles grimly at the steely surprise and rage shining in her black eyes.

“As a Korp, I am allowed a certain latitude that others do not enjoy.”

“But you do not claim yourself to be a Korp!” she cackles wrathfully, “A Korp nej longer, you always say!  Cursed by God, you always say!  It seems it is a title you claim only when it suits you, jâ?”

Guiromélans’s eyes harden.  His hand drops to the hilt of his saber.  “Whether or not I am a Korp is between me and God.  As far as you are concerned, I am a Korp.  I am a Korp, armed with the tools of the Median and charged the duty to eradicate all signs of evil from this stead.”

“You threaten me?” she squawks, “You threaten me?  You break into my sanctum—without me or my Thane’s bidding—and you threaten me?  I am a far-seeing volva, wise in talismans, caster of spells, cunning in magic!  You would do well to treat me with gentler words and deeds, sometimes-Korp, lest Thane Bolwerk learns of this!”

“Speak to your son, and you would find he was the man who requested my help.  I am here on his behest.  He and his wife’s.”

Huld looks surprised for a moment, and something new flickers in her eyes.  Hurt?  Fear?  Betrayal?

“You are invading my place, degkarl,” she mutters bitterly, “You defile my sanctum.  Speak your piece, Korp, and begone from me!”

Guiromélans nods.  “Then listen carefully, for your life may well depend on the answers you give me.  You had me brought here.  You saved my life.  You healed me.  You did this.  You did all this for a reason.  I would know now what that reason is!”

“Did I?” she asks, her words slick and oily.

Guiromélans nods.  “No games now, witch.  I remember your words.  You may try to despise me, but you also need me.  You need me to solve the problems of your home, but for me to do this, I need answers!”

“You need nothing from me, intruder!”

“You know what is going on here!” he says sternly.  When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “If all things were spoken in truth, Bolwerk and Dårlig would not be the only ones asking for my help.  You would be as well.”

She glares at him, her withered lips mussitating almost at random.  Her tattooed tongue clicks loudly as she thinks.  “Would I?” she wonders aloud, “Jâ, I suppose so.  You are useful.  There are needs—there have been needs for a long, long time—and at long last, Gro saw fit to deliver you to me.”

“Witch, I will be your servant, I will be your knight, but I will not be your pawn.  You need me as I need you.  You will tell me what I need to know.  It is time for you to speak to me on the matters of this place!”

“Wider and wider through all worlds I see,” Huld sighs, almost with despair, “and in all places, I see the hunting beast.  It follows me, shames me.  Tortures me.”

Guiromélans frowns, his eyes slowly widening.  “You know the beast exists.  You have always known!”

“Nej, I don’t deny it, you fool!” she snaps.  “I have always known of its existence, from the moment of its creation!  I have watched it grow stronger and stronger, as one brave karl after another succumbed to its jaws.  And now it walks and stalks the forests and halls of Hardanger and feasts upon the degkarls it finds!  It is the wrath of the Thunderer, brought down upon the Median and its thin-blooded collaborators!”

“So, you too say it answers the biddings of the Thunder?”

“I too?” she looks surprised at the idea.  “Nej.  It answers nej call, but it seems bent on destroying the enemies of the ovän.  And now it is too late to stop it.”

“Too late?” Guiromélans frowns.  “How can you say that?  How can you know that?  You are obviously a powerful sorcerer.  Your stone alone protects this stead and keeps its people healthy.  Why can’t it be stopped?  Why can’t you stop it?”

“I cannot intervene.  It is not a matter for me.  The laws of Jorun and the Thunderer prevent me.”

Even as Guiromélans’s mouth drops open, Huld adds, “The signs say the time to strike is soon, but all who could have stopped it are dead… or blinded by its powers.  All are.  Bolwerk is powerless.  Orkning is outlawed.  Even you are blinded, though you don’t know it yet.  The time is soon, and yet we are already lost.”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “You will forgive me if I reserve my own judgment on this matter?”

“Ha!” Huld laughs.

“Why doesn’t it attack you?  You are the only witch in Hardanger.  You know of its nature and its existence.  Why not kill you?”

Huld laughs again.  “Mayhaps because I am the beast, jâ?  Mayhaps it does not have a taste for my flesh because I am not a degkarl?  You fool!  I cannot intervene, and it knows this.”

“It doesn’t kill only Medianists, witch.  I saw its lair.  For every Medianist corpse, there were 20 Söderkarl.”

Huld shakes her head.  “It is of nej importance who it kills.”

“And how would you know that?”  Guiromélans steps closer to her, peering into her face.  “You know it, don’t you?  You know what it is!”

“I know NOTHING!” she shrieks.  The explosion is sudden, violent.  Just as quickly, she composes herself.  Unconsciously, her hands pat at her clothes, her hair, perhaps a habit started long ago in younger, more beautiful times.  “Other than its evil,” she finishes quietly.  “Other than it seeks to ruin all we have fought for here.  It seeks to kill all those of power and influence and send us into chaos!”

“Chaos?  What are you talking about?  You say this creature has a plan?”

“Know you the óriás of the south?  What you degkarls call ogres?”

Guiromélans nods, “I have heard of them, though I have never seen one.”

Huld laughs. “Methinks perhaps you have!”

“Riddles within riddles!” Guiromélans blurts with frustration.

“The óriás, they are strong, Korp!” she urges, “Wiley!  Dangerous.  They envy the Söderkarl for their works and sweet flesh.  The óriás are coming, Korp.  They come, and they seek the war between the Söderkarl and the Median.  They seek the chaos of the sword-storm.  They seek to soften us up, so as to eat us easier!”

“You are saying this beast is an ogre?”

“Nej!”

“That it serves the ogres then?”

“Close!” Huld laughs, “but not quite!”

“You are playing games with me, witch!  Do you not understand the seriousness of this situation?  People are dieing here!”

“Oh, I understand far more than you know, raven-feeding one!”

“If you know, why don’t you do something about it?  I do not understand these laws of Jorun and Thunderer of which you speak, and I do not see how they would prevent you from helping your son!  Protect Hardanger!  Why don’t you help him seek out this demon?  Trap it!  Kill it!”

“This deed is not mine to realize.  The signs say it belongs to another.”

Guiromélans sputters in disbelief.  “So, you are saying you could, but you won’t?  WHY?  Because of signs?  I can’t understand why you wouldn’t help Bolwerk!  Help your son to claim the honor of capturing and killing this creature!  For you to remain silent, everyday is another day this creature can kill again.  Don’t you understand that?”

“I… seek not the death of this creature.  I seek not glory for my son.  I seek only to protect Bolwerk and see that justice reigns in Hardanger.”

“But you have two sons, witch!” Guiromélans counters, “What of Hrobjart?  Do you not seek justice for him as well?”

Huld suddenly looks smaller.  “…Jâ.  Flesh of my flesh.  Their victories are mine, their failures are mine.”

“Then you have a problem, witch.  Hrobjart does not agree with your conspiracy theory.  He does not think the beast hunts only the Medianists.  He blames Bolwerk for Hardanger’s troubles, and he says it is through Bolwerk’s weaknesses that the beast is allowed to commit such atrocities.  He says to replace Bolwerk is to drive away the beast.”  Guiromélans pauses and observes Huld’s reaction.  “And he is coming.  To Hardanger.  With soldiers.”

Slowly, Huld’s eyes widen in surprise and horror.  “Oh, Kogr!” she moans to the ceiling, “that You would bring an old woman such woes!  I blame Asmund for giving Bolwerk such foolishness!  I blame myself for Hrobjart’s jealousy!  The time is wrong!  The time is soon, but not now!”

Guiromélans nearly smiles at her distress.  “So now, the stakes are raised, Huld.  I do not claim to understand yet your concerns, but if things are not resolved quickly, soon your sons will be at arms against each other.  Perhaps now, in their interests, you would be motivated to aid me?”

Huld stops the wringing of her hands and glares at Guiromélans.  Slowly, a black smile breaks across her face.  “Seek you knowledge?  Seek you the means to find this beast?”

“Jâ!” Guiromélans shouts in exasperation.

“Kill you, it will,” she assures.  “Suck at your flesh, lap at your blood, crush your bones.  I have watched you, Korp, and though your body is strong and skilled, your soul is wounded.  You cannot defeat it by strength and weapons alone, and so you will die.”

“A heartening endorsement,” Guiromélans drawls, “for the man you chose to help you.”

“Watch your tongue, Korp, lest something greater than you pluck it out,” she snarls.  “You cannot coerce me by threat or flattery or guile.  I will tell you only what I wish and nej more.  I will give you the knowledge you seek—I will help you—and how you use it will determine whether you succeed or die.”  She chews on her gums momentarily as she examines the Raven, “I say you will die, however, and we will be left here where we started… worse even.”

“I shall endeavor not to embarrass you too greatly, witch.  Give me this knowledge, and I will use it in the best way I know.”

“Guard yourself against witchcraft,” she says, “for few things are stronger than the ancient spells.  You might be surprised by who and what may possess them.”

Guiromélans forces himself to bite his tongue and remains silent.

“Our forests are thick with the draugr plague, but know you this, not all those good Ofeig takes to the ground are fated to rise again.  Only those slain by the beast are afflicted to return as draugr.”

Guiromélans stiffens, suddenly much more attentive.  “The beast and the ghuls are linked?” he asks.

“How many curses do you think this poor land can endure?” she laughs, “Of course they are linked!  The draugr stalks the night-darkened land, doing their master’s bidding.”

“The beast controls them?”

“Weak and mindless things, they are, jâ, servants of their greater master.”

“Tell me more!”

“The beast is clever.  It is wise.  It sees things clearer than you ever will.  It understands the ways of Hardanger.  Its victims, it chooses carefully, all the better to effect the chaos it so very much desires.  It has nej fear of you or your God.  You will be hard pressed to out-think it.”

Guiromélans shakes his head angrily, “How would you know that?  How would you know its mind?”

“The beast has haunted these halls far longer than you would know, Korp.”  Huld hesitates, suddenly looking surprised and disappointed at Guiromélans.  “I shall tell you one last thing, Guiromélans of the Iron Fist.  Seek not this beast now.  If you are the fated one, your time to strike is not now!  Great harm may you do to yourself or others if you succeed in facing it now.  Wait for the signs.  They will tell you when it is time to slay the beast.”

Guiromélans’s lip curls in unconscious disgust.  “I will not listen to any of your diabolic auguries.  I shall obey none of your prophecies.  I follow the Law of God!  I follow His Word!  When my fist strikes, it will be by His timing, not yours!”

Huld slowly nods her head.  “Then I have spoken enough.  You know all you need.  What you do with it is now in your hands.”

“Spoken enough?” Guiromélans shouts, “You have spoken nothing!”

“It is as I said.  Use what I told, use your mind, and find the beast.  If you refuse to wait, in all likelihood, it will slay you.  Only if you are worthy will you prevail.”

Guiromélans clenches his hands as he stares at the old witch.  The rage rises in his breast until it cannot be contained any longer.  “I have had enough of your double-speak and veiled warnings!” he shouts.  “It was you who dragged me into this place!  It was you who asked me for help!  That you would not now be of greater assistance is of much concern to me!  I shall try to stop this demon, but if any more herr die by this beast, their blood is on your hands!”

“Do not tell me what which I already know—”

“Then I tell you this,” he interrupts, “Should this beast claim any close to me, I shall hold you equally responsible.  By the Prophets Hoël and Guiot, I will most certainly kill you and send your black soul off to God’s judgment!”

The witch looks stunned.

“Your oath is heartfelt, Korp, and I most certainly believe it.  I will give this to you—and not because of your oath—regardless of what fate the Thunderer has in store for you, I shall do what I can to ensure the safety of your lady and child.  As for the treatment of my spirit, I know the mind of the Medianist God, and I am already beyond the reach of His judgment.”

“That,” Guiromélans spits as he turns to leave, “remains to be seen.”

“What is it that Guiromélans wants?” she suddenly wonders aloud, stopping him in his tracks.  “What is it that brought him here?”

“You brought me here, witch.  Ofeig brought me into your care by your order.”

“Nej,” she coos.  “Hardanger and Ledus County are a long ways from Ehre and your warm Medianist lands.”

Guiromélans glances back at her, the anger still burning in his blood.  “What does it matter?  What do you care?”

“It matters!  Oh, it matters!  Perhaps, to know your past, to understand it, will open your eyes to the present!  The trials of yesterday may unlock the puzzles of today!”

“Rubbish.  Empty speech.  If you are as far-seeing as you claim, you already know what brought me to these shores.  If you do not, you’re not worth telling anyway.”

Huld laughs long and hard.  “Jâ!  It is true!  I do know your past!  I understand your failures.  The question is whether you understand them, jâ?  A failed suicide, foolishly executed?  A shameful swath of death and destruction through the Weaning Shores?  The theft of a prized relic from the cathedral of Peiné Païen?  How far must we go?”

“Nej further than that, I’m sure,” Guiromélans says quietly, suddenly feeling uncomfortable and claustrophobic.

“But nej!  We must go further!  Back to the beginning, jâ?  Just as your degkarl philosophers seek the Prime Mover to prove the sole existence of your God, so must we seek the true beginning of your pilgrimage… for that it was it truly is, is it not?”  She sidles in closer to Guiromélans, forcing the Raven to step away, “You are on a pilgrimage.  You seek nej holy place.  You seek only your faith.  You seek an understanding of your God.”

Guiromélans nods warily, “I seek to heal the wound in my soul.  I seek to right the wrongs I have committed.  But there are nej words you can provide that will aid me in that effort.”

“You cannot atone for sins you do not understand.”

“I know my shame!” he snaps.  “I—”

“Do you?  The war you waged in Ymyl Gwland was doomed, for God was opposed to your cause.  How can it be that the command to wage war against your Esmeree was wrong?”

“Wrong?” Guiromélans gasps.  He had never considered that before.  The command came from Primate Klemm himself, God’s living representative.  Some say he is also the fifth Prophet.  His orders are said to be the consummate Word of God.

“How could the Primate’s order be wrong?” Huld asks, echoing his own thoughts.  “Can it be because the young witch was not the enemy of God?”

Guiromélans flinches as if shocked.  “Not the enemy?  Of course she was!”

“She was evil, then?” Huld asks.  “She was bent on destruction?  Corruption?  Desecration?  She commit great harm against the people and works of the king?”

“Nej…” Guiromélans hesitates.  “She did none of those things.  She was a good soul, in fact.  She loved me… and I her.”  He looks away, “If only…”

“Ah!  If only she weren’t a witch, jâ!”

“What’s your point?”  The fact that Huld is also a witch is not lost on him, and he guards himself against any trickery in her words.

“Listen close, Korp, for I will impart upon you prized wisdom.  Think on it carefully before you choose to discard it, for it will not come your way again.  How can it be that the order to slay your witch was wrong?  Because the words of your Primate were not those of your God.  How can it be that your God did not see the witch-girl as evil, when the words of your Prophets so clearly say he should?  Perhaps because the words of your Prophets were not those of your God!”

“Heresy!” Guiromélans shouts.

“Jâ!  Dangerous words I speak,” Huld cackles, “but dangerous only to those who would presume to speak the word of God, jâ?  Heresy!  Close your ears and heart!  Wield that word like a shield, Korp, and forever will you suffer for your sins!  Walk in darkness!  Walk in storms!  I am a far-seeing häxa, and Vigdis shows to me the secrets of all the worlds!  This I know, Korp:  A new Prophet comes to your Medianist lands, and she will bring the true Word of the Gods!  May you have the strength to listen.”

 

Guiromélans walks through the forest as though in a trance, the deep snow sighing and crushing beneath his broad Söderkarl snowshoes.  The wind whispers and gusts in his face and ears.  There is a lot for him to think about.

Surely the witch is trying to deceive him; surely there is nothing she said that he could believe at face value.  But perhaps some unintentional clues were left for him in those words?  Huld is bound by the laws of Jorun and the Thunderer?  Ghuls that walk the night?  A woman is the fifth Prophet?

There is so much he’s still missing, he wonders as he looks around.

Bolwerk circles around a tree, beating his mittened hands against his chest for warmth.  An old-fashioned, yet fearsome, helm encloses his head and shields his eyes against the indirect brightness of the cloudy sky and glowing snow.  “It is cold!” he exclaims happily, doing his best to conceal the discomfort he feels from being outside.  “Grandfather Vasud certainly picked this one just for us, huh?”

Guiromélans smiles but doesn’t answer.

Ever since the beast stepped up its attacks, the Thane has insisted on accompanying Guiromélans in his daily hunts.  For Bolwerk to travel out here without any other bodyguard—hunting the beast with no help other than Guiromélans—strikes the Raven as unnecessarily dangerous, but the Söderkarl are known for their feats of foolish bravery.  The Raven stares at this powerful ruler and wonders at the character of one who was raised by the likes of Huld and Asmund.  Frankly, he has been surprised so far.

Today, they are south of Hardanger, following the gentle curve of the bay’s shore.  Beyond, where there was once blue water and angry breakers, there is now nothing but groaning ice and snow.  The bay has frozen solid, trapping the EroBernac cutter and k’Lida galleon in its creeping embrace.  In all likelihood, both vessels will be here well into Melt Season.

The passengers and crew of the Blood Drake took this news with as much enthusiasm as a death sentence.  The presence of the beast is now well-known in Hardanger, and few of the Medianists are willing to show their faces outside their böths by day or night.  Guiromélans reflects, they are like lambs waiting for the slaughter, already resigned to their fates.

On the other hand, the k’Lida seemed completely unaffected by their predicament.  They had sought shelter in Hardanger’s bay from the harsh weather, and it seems they are content to wait until it turns favorable again.  An interesting change in face, considering the hurry they were in to leave the paqa outpost 3 months earlier.  They seem unconcerned by the politics raging within the stead—the k’Lida have no interest in the doings of outsiders—and thus far, the beast has not claimed any of their number.  Segregated from the rest of Hardanger’s citizens and guests, they’ve remained on their galleon, often and regularly sending forays across the ice into the southern forests.

Guiromélans and Bolwerk now walk those southern shores.  On the icy, snow-covered rocks where they are standing, they can see the rough, make-shift camp the k’Lida have made here.  Simple wooden ramps lay stacked to one side, apparent used to bridge the uneven and difficult rocks between the land and the ice.  The snow is beaten down by frequent passage, and the surfaces of the ramps are worn from use.  It looks like they are either dragging something up from the ice onto shore, or they are taking something from shore down to the ice.  Guiromélans glances across the bay to the silent, lightless galleon.  Or can it be both?

Guiromélans sighs deeply, and his nostrils catch the tang of old smoke in the air.  Turning away from the bay, he can see the well-worn trail of the k’Lida winding deeper into the trees.  This, he and the Thane follow, letting it and their noses be their guides.

Just out of sight of the water, they find a new clearing, the trees here have been recently hewn down to their roots.  Great piles of branches and needles are scattered near the center, and large fire pits dot the edges.  Some of the great gray and black bruises are still smoking.  Ash is everywhere.

“Can the k’Lida be planning some kind of invasion or attack?” Bolwerk wonders out loud as he examines one of the smoking pits.  “Nej, nej,” he sighs at last, “That would be impossible and foolish.  There are simply too few of them for that.”

“Then what?” Guiromélans asks, “What can they be doing here?”

The k’Lida have set up quite an operation here.  In typical, meticulous k’Lida fashion, every stage is clearly defined.  Guiromélans can see where they stripped the trees of their branches and bark.  He can see where the trunks were chopped up.  He can see where the pieces were carefully burned.  While all the trees were felled, only certain ones were burned.  The lumber of the rest has been left in a tidy pile.  He can see where the charcoal was loaded in to sledges.  And there, things become a little less clear.

Guiromélans frowns as he circles the great pile of branches and sees a series of low, roughly-made buildings.  Whenever the wind blows over them, it carries the faint taint of sulfur.

Guiromélans’s step slows, and he becomes a lot more careful.  It is obvious this place is far from abandoned, and it was obviously meant to be secret.  He waves at Bolwerk for caution, “Nej good would come of it if they caught us here.”

Bolwerk nods and then points.  Guiromélans’s eyebrows rise.  It seems someone is already here.

A weak sliver of smoke coils up from the roof of the smallest of the huts.  His eyes wary for movement within the trees, Guiromélans eases himself around the crude building.  There are no windows and only one door, and it is barred on the outside.  On the wood of the door and its frame, he can see the stains of blood.

There is movement inside, and when Guiromélans freezes, it stops.  He can almost hear the breathless anticipation of the occupant inside.  Guiromélans and Bolwerk exchange glances, their hands on the pommels of their swords.

“Are you here to help me, friend?” a weak voice whispers from inside.  It is in Söderkarl.  Seconds later, it repeats, this time in Muttese.

Guiromélans silently draws his saber and carefully lifts the bar with it.  Letting it drop to the ground, he eases open the door.

Wide white eyes peer out at them.  The karl is bent and thin, covered from head to toe in black soot and filth, and he kneels on the ground before him.  His moustaches and beard have grown nearly down to his waist.  His hands are blackened and burned.

“What is this?” Bolwerk whispers, “Who are you?”

The surprised Söderkarl stares back at him, “Please help me!  Before they come back!”

Guiromélans remembers his brief stay at the paqa outpost.  The galleon had just arrived from Brûler in Ehre and was bound for Ptakkal in Mynydd.  He remembers Adalgis telling him that a boduus was with them.  They had just purchased sulfur and were preparing to obtain saltpeter.  He looks at the broken creature and then back at the fire pits.  And now it seems the k’Lida have been burning trees.

Guiromélans looks down at the man.  “You are Söderkarl?”

The prisoner nods.  “Jâ, from Fornjotnr.  My name is Rosterus, I am the son of—”

“Never mind all that,” Guiromélans snaps, “You Söderkarl can waste a whole day with your introductions.  Just tell me how long you have been helping the k’Lida make gunpowder?”

The man called Rosterus blinks at Guiromélans and then into Bolwerk’s outraged eyes.  “G-gunpowder?”

“Listen carefully!  I am Guiromélans of the Iron Fist, Vavasour of Ehre.  I have been a Korp of the Seven Kingdoms.  Do not presume to lie to me.  How long?”

Rosterus flinches, his eyes darting from Guiromélans’s face down to his saber and back again.  “A Korp?” he wonders, “with a broken sword?”

“Jâ,” Guiromélans drawls, “I am overcome by the symbolism of it as well.  Now, speak!”

The prisoner cracks a weak smile and nods.  “Jâ, jâ,” he coughs.  “I am an alchemist.  The k’Lida had enlisted my aid in the making of gunpowder.”

“And so you taught them how, did you?” Bolwerk asks bitterly.  Guiromélans understands Bolwerk’s anger.  Should the k’Lida master such skills, the Southern Territories would be the first to face the repercussions.

“Oh, nej, nej!” Rosterus shakes his head quickly.  “They already knew much.  Sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal.  But not the combinations, not the correct mixtures, nor how to mill the correctly-sized pellets.  They asked for this knowledge, and I refused.  They became more… persuasive, and I still refused.  And then we became trapped here, and so they decided not to wait until they got home to begin fabrication.”

His eyes glance around the miserable shed.  “I’ve been here for a very long time, my masters.”

Guiromélans nods, “Jâ.  Over 2 months, I imagine.  Of course, there is something to be said for being responsible for the kinds of company that you keep.”

“I will not burden you with my hardships, Korp,”  An old fire burns in the Söderkarl’s eyes.  “But I will tell you that the price they offered at first was sufficient to allay my concerns over the k’Lida’s nature and reputation.  Obviously, I was a fool.”

“How much have you done for them?”

“Nearly all of it.  Just yesterday, we ran out of sulfur.  I believe my masters are now attempting to locate or purchase a local source.”

“Nearly all?  That’s a lot of gunpowder.  Where is it?”

Rosterus nods towards the door, “On the ship I think.  They took away the barrels as soon as they were filled.”

Guiromélans looks around the inside of the hut.  It is sparse, bordering on barren.  Only a small stool and workbench for furniture.  A simple alembicum for milling the powder stands in one corner.  Only a wooden bowl and cup for utensils.  Only a tiny fire and smaller pile of wood for warmth.

Guiromélans tests the strength of the door and walls and finds them flimsy.

“Not the sturdiest of prisons,” he sighs.  Looking back at the Söderkarl, he adds, “and not the best of places to stay.  I’m surprised you did.”

Rosterus grimaces unhappily.  “Recall, sir knight, that I said the k’Lida became more persuasive?”

He gestures down at his legs, and Guiromélans’s eyes widen.  Both feet have been nearly severed at the ankles.  They have been crudely healed and hang only by the flesh of the shins.  There will be no running or walking for this man ever again.

“I see,” Guiromélans sighs.

Sheathing his sword, he and Bolwerk prepare for the long walk back to Hardanger.