A thorough understanding of the k’Lida is necessary to notice their reaction to the loss of their alchemist.  A thorough understanding is necessary to see any kind of reaction in the k’Lida… unless they’ve been offended.  Then, their reactions are very easy to see.

After Guiromélans and Bolwerk rescued Rosterus, there were no protests, no outbursts from the k’Lida.  There was no saber-rattling, no threats, no pleas.  The designated leader of the k’Lida—a gold by the name of Soffut—merely made some quiet, polite inquiries as to any activity south of Hardanger.  At Guiromélans’s recommendation, Ofeig, Bolwerk’s new chamarling, did not express any of the outrage he felt at the treatment of Rosterus.  All questions regarding a missing passenger were met with ignorance, all requests for search parties were refused.

Guiromélans refused to be present when Huld inspected the rescued alchemist, but he has heard that there is nothing she can do for his injuries.  The man is crippled.  Probably a fitting fate for one who would truck with the k’Lida.

But enough of that, he decides, there are brighter things to dwell upon today.

“What’re we doin’ here, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles down at Balen and looks around them at the clearing he has chosen.  Throwing his leg over his saddle, he slides off his horse.  “Dismount here, Balen,” he says as he opens a saddlebag.

Balen looks around them with an uncertain expression.  Obviously, the news of the beast is weighing heavily upon him.  In these thick forests, it could be lurking anywhere.

“But, what’re we doin’ here?” he asks as he leaps off his horse.

“We need some privacy,” Guiromélans says simply.  “The forest serves just as well as Hardanger’s halls.  Better even.”

“Why?”

“Remember what I have taught you.  The Söderkarl cannot be trusted… at least, with certain matter.  They think nothing of betraying the trust or breaking an oath made to an outsider.”  Guiromélans’s mind drifts to Orkning.  He would have never thought that man to be a traitor.

“Yäh?  Sä?”

“So there are some things best done in private.”

He can see that Balen is about to ask the question for the third time, and he chooses to cut him off.  “Know you of the manifest destiny of mankind?”

Balen closes his mouth and frowns.  “We’re tä wage war upon all the other races.  Upon the demons and the heretics and the witches!”

Guiromélans nods, “Man is the Sword of God, His mighty, vengeful Fist.  It is our fate, our privilege, to destroy those who malign and profane Him.”

“Yä sayin’ we’re God’s chosen, yäh?”

“Yes.  Precisely.  We are the cure for an ailing world.  We are the defenders of this old, fragile place, too weak now to hold its own against the diseases that now infest it.”

“We’re the mightiest?” Balen wonders, “but I’ve heard of—”

Guiromélans waves him silent.  “I know what you’re about to ask.  Yes, the traellern have strength.  The ahrounoi are wise.  The tonttu are agile and quick.  But man was given all these traits, less than some, but more than most.  Of all races, mankind is the most perfect, with the perfect balance of all skills, magics, and traits.  We have been placed on Zå as the masters of all others, and only we bear the stones of power.  Only humans can practice all six forms of magic.”

“But what about alfs?”

Guiromélans pauses and then nods.  “The Tribe of Fée is the largest of the Great Tribes, their numbers and strength are almost limitless, but they are vulnerable to iron.  Man was created to war with Fée, we were created to use iron.  Iron runs through our veins.”

“Just like that story Baldruus told us!”

“…Yes…  Know you the alf rhyme?”

Balen screws his face up with distaste, “That’s a child’s song.”

“Tell it to me anyway.”

Rolling his eyes, Balen recites:
“In Spring’s green vastness, comes alf’s fastness.
Come summer’s golden light, alf’s might.
With autumn’s colors running, rises alf’s cunning.
In Winter’s frozen bloom, man’s doom.”

“What do you suppose it means?” Guiromélans asks, tossing some small silver objects he pulled from his saddlebag from one hand to the other.

Balen shrugs, “It’s just a stupid Fée tale.”

“No, it’s not,” Guiromélans corrects.  “It tells some very important truths, truths you must know if you are ever faced with the task of defending mankind from the alfs.”

“Yä’ve fought the alfs, didn’t yä?” Balen asks.

Guiromélans pauses before nodding slowly, “I fought the alfs for a very long time.  We know each other very well, they and I.  Of the foes I’ve trained you against, the alfs are the most… dangerous.  You must respect them.”

“Yäh, OK.”

“So, the poem?”

Balen shrugs.

Guiromélans shakes his head, “Our alf foes change as the seasons change.  To my knowledge, they are the only Fée to do this.”

“They change?” Bale frowns.

“In Spring’s green vastness, comes alf’s fastness.”

“They become fast?”

Guiromélans nods, “Quick, fast, agile.  In the spring, the trees and shrubs grow their branches long and thin.  From these, they make their arrows, and their bows take a heavy toll against our men.  Thin and wip-like they become.”

“Come Summer’s golden light, alf’s might,” Balen murmurs.  He looks up at Guiromélans.

“Strength, anger, power.  In the heat of the summer, the alf lines are unstoppable, tearing apart any man they can reach.  They are mindless, uncontrollable.”

“With Autumn’s colors running, rises alf’s cunning.  They become smart?”

“Yes, smart.  In the autumn, they are nearly at their weakest, physically.  Their numbers dwindle, though I’m not sure why.  Perhaps autumn is the time when their old or ill choose to die.  Autumn is the time that they retreat, and man can advance.  Autumn is the time when the attacks of the next spring and summer are planned, for it is the time when they are at their most cunning and devious.  Man uses this time to retake all the land he has lost throughout the year—we use this time to burn and cut the advancing forests—but we must always be careful, for the clever alfs always leave deadly traps behind.”

“And Winter?”

“In Winter’s frozen bloom, man’s doom,” Guiromélans’s voice grows soft and he looks around at the snow shrouded trees surrounding this clearing.  For the first time in days, weeks perhaps, it is not snowing.  Though still heavily overcast, he can almost sense the sun trying to break through.  “Gock’s season.  The time of evil’s greatest power.  It is in the winter, that the alfs are at their most… magical.  Their forces are almost invisible.  I have never seen a living alf during the winter… but once… and that was nearly the most horrible day of my life.  Black magic and curses are summoned by them during this time.  Sometimes it is a time of peace…  Sometimes it is a time of terrible, terrible death.”  Guiromélans looks down at Balen, “Have you heard of the White Wounds Plague?”

Silently, Balen shakes his head.

“The province of Ventdômes, in Ehre, a place of many battles between man and alf.  That winter began quietly.  We had struck them hard the previous year.  Burned two whole forests during the months of Last Summer and Harvest Season.  We thought they would use the winter to regroup and heal.  We thought we had at least until Melt Season before the war would have begun anew.”  Guiromélans looks away and strokes at the mane of his horse, “We were wrong.”

“The plague…  It killed a lot of people?”

Guiromélans nods, “It killed a lot of people.”

“And the alfs sent it?”

Guiromélans hesitates.  “Many think so.  Some said it was merely a coincidence.  And for truly foolish, self-centered reasons, others even thought it was a punishment sent by God.”

“Is that why yä hates the alfs sä much?”

“I do not hate my enemies.  As I told you before, if you harbor hatred in your heart for your enemies, you are fated to underestimate them.”

“Sä are yä afraid of them?”

“No.  If you fear your enemy, then you are doomed to exaggerate their strength, and that can be just as dangerous.  No, you must respect them.”  Guiromélans looks down at the boy and suddenly feels very sad, “And above all else, you must not love them.”

Balen frowns, “What?”

Guiromélans smiles at the boy.  By the Prophets, how he as grown in the half year he has known him!  “Perhaps a better way to phrase it is:  Learn to recognize who is your enemy and who is your friend.”

Balen shrugs as if such wisdom is obvious.  And perhaps it is.  “Sä, what about the rraakks then?”

“Of that race, I know very little,” Guiromélans admits.  “I have never heard tales of them being burned by iron, so I doubt they are Fée.”

“What’re they then?” Balen presses.

“I don’t know, and frankly, I’m not convinced of the threat they present.  To my eyes, the alfs and ahrounoi and tonttu and others are much more dangerous.”

“Then what—”

“What I want you to understand,” Guiromélans says, changing the subject, “is that man is the most important of the Tribes.  We serve God.  We follow His teachings and obey His commands.”

“What of the men that are not Medianists?” Balen asks.  “They are men, but they do not obey God.”

“There are some,” Guiromélans nods, “who have fallen astray… or have lived in ignorance.  They are heretics and demon-worshipers.  They are as dangerous to us as the other races.”

“Yä can be strong and brave without bein’ a Medianist!”

“Such as?”

“Like the Einheriar!” Balen blurts, “They followed the Thunderer and mastered the ways of Sword Cults!  They would charge into battle wearing nothing but the swirling blue woad that covered their bodies.  They were known as bareserkrs—bare shirts—and they were the origins of the word berserker.”

Guiromélans freezes and looks at Balen.  “How would you know of this?”

Balen smiles shyly, “The old woman, Huld, told me.  She thought it important that I should know.”

“Hmmn… of course,” Guiromélans sighs.  “Then it is important that you learn of another name… asp.”

“Asp?”

“Over 800 years ago, there was a war, a war between the saints and knights of God and the asps.  The asps were powerful, dangerous warriors.  Knights of the Devil.  In these southern lands, they were known as Einheriar, but they were everywhere, and everywhere they had their own names.”

“They were bad?”

Guiromélans nods, “They were the sacred knights of Gock the Dragon, the Devil!  Led by Saint Bredbeddle, the crusaders of the Median drove them away, banishing them from the Seven Kingdoms forever.”

“Have yä ever seen one?”

Guiromélans’s mouth twists in an awkward smile.  Finally, he shakes his head, “No, I don’t want to get distracted with this now.  We have more important things to do here.”

Balen cross his arms and frowns, “Like what?”  This is their normal time for sparring and riding.  Balen is obviously feeling cheated.

“Tell me, have I taught you what it is to be a Raven?”

Balen shrugs.  “Yäh!  Yä doesn’t makes na pretty picture of it either, that’s fer sure!”

“Do you understand the meaning of obedience for a Raven?”

Balen nods again and frowns.  “He’s gotta renounce his own will tä do battle fer the Prophets and Their God.  He’s gotta wield the strong, bright weapons of obedience as well as those of steel.  Sä yä’ve said many times!”

“Do you understand the meaning of humility for a Raven?”

“Yäh,” Balen says with sudden gravity.  “Yä and Dagnin taught me that well.”

“And killing?” he asks.  “Are you prepared to shed blood in the name of God?  Can you kill?”

Balen’s face hardens.  “Yäh.  From the things I’ve seen, I knows I can kill.”

“Can you?  Killing is more than driving a blade through the heart of a beast or a heretic knight.  Can you harden your heart?  Can you ignore the pleas—and then the screams—as a witch is sent to her pyre on the Burning Time?  Can you punish the sinner even if you don’t fully understand the guilt?  Are you willing and able to wage war for God, with all the ugliness that it requires?”

Balen blinks and looks down at the ground.  “Yä keeps tellin’ me tä never hates me enemies.  I can says only that I’ll do what I gots tä do.  I’ll try not tä hates those I’m doin’ it tä, and I promises not tä enjoy it.”

Guiromélans smiles.  “That is good.  I am proud of you, Balen.  A Raven must choose a squire who is wise and able, sometimes even more so than himself.  One who does all things in the fear of God… and I see those traits in you.  Do you still seek to be my squire?”

“Yäh!  More than ever!  I sees what’s happenin’ here!  I saw the graney dusios, I hears about what it does!  I wants the silver bird and the saber!  I wants tä help yä kill it!”

“But you must understand what a difficult and arduous task it is to be a Raven’s squire…”

Balen laughs with sudden wisdom, “Yäh!  That yä’ve taught me fer sure!”

“If you choose to become a squire, you should expect your master to be kind, merciful, and fatherly.  Can you see these traits in me?  Do you accept me as your master?”

Balen’s laughter slowly fades as he looks up at the Raven.  “Yer makin’ me yer squire, uh?  Right now?  Yer makin’ me yer squire.”

“Yes.  If you’ll have me.”

“Cuall question!” he blurts without much feeling.  “’Course I do!  Wouldn’t have wasted sä much time doin’ all yer dumb prayers and exercises and buachar…”

Guiromélans circles the boy and then draws his saber.  “Back home… in Orqueneles… the initiation of squires is a great event, held only twice a year.  The first of the year is on New Years, in Green Season.  The second is 9 months later, in Hard Winter, during the Burning Time.  It is said that those initiated at New Years are of lesser quality than those of the Burning Time, that their appointments are more due to politics and nepotism rather than true merit.  Perhaps this is due to the short 3 months separating it from the Burning Time?  Regardless, I am proud to induct you at this time.”

“Is it goin’ tä hurt?” Balen asks warily, eyeing Guiromélans’s sword.

Guiromélans pauses and then smiles.  “Not at all.”

“I wish Caidryn was here,” Balen says in a small voice, looking down into the snow.

Guiromélans nods, “Believe me, she will understand.  I’m not certain how she would react…  I’m not sure she knows either.”

Balen begins to fidget with nervousness, “Sä what happens now then?”

Guiromélans nods.  “Kneel.”

When the boy has taken the position in the snow, Guiromélans turns his saber tip downwards and clasps the blade with both hands.  Standing before Balen, he closes his eyes.  “By the God of Katsarloki, by His holy Prophet Pennenc, I hereby swear this boy is man.  I hereby swear this boy is ready.”

Guiromélans opens his eyes, “Swear unto me the Oath of Chivalry… as I taught you.”

Balen swallows and concentrates.

“I swear to love God and am willing to spill my own blood for Him.
I swear to possess loyalty and justice and never fail to act upon it.
I swear to remain pure in flesh and spirit, be abstemious, and avoid the sin of lechery.
I swear to strive for candor and flee from pride.
I swear never to witness false judgment or treason…
And… I swear never to deny protection to a lady or maiden.”

“I hear your words, Balen, and am gladdened by them.  God hears your words and is gladdened by them.  But you seek more than to become a mere knight.  You seek the title of Raven, and so you must answer to a higher order.  Swear unto me the Oath of the Raven.”

Balen makes the sign of the Median and recites:

“I swear, by the God of Katsarloki, by His holy Prophet Pennenc, making them my witnesses and judges…”

“Swear unto obedience!” Guiromélans barks.

“I swear to render unquestioning and immediate obedience to God and to my master without delay.  I do this gladly, for the obedience given to my superiors is as if given to God.
I swear to do nothing other than what is commended by the most Holy teachings of the Prophets.
I swear to hide from my master none of the evil thoughts that enter my heart or the sins committed in secret.”

“Swear unto the office of the Raven!”

“I swear to remember that first and foremost I am a knight, and I shall always follow the precepts of chivalry.
I swear to recognize that all who do not exult God are lower and of less account than anyone else and to wage merciless war against those deemed His enemies.  This I shall do not only with my tongue but with the whole of my heart and the strength of my body.
I swear to be content with the poorest and worst of everything and to endure the discomforts and deprivations of war and battle quietly and without murmuring.
I swear to teach and show those I meet all that is good and holy, by my deeds even more than my words, expound the Prophets’ commandments in words to the intelligent but demonstrate them by my actions for those of harder hearts and ruder minds.
I swear to make no distinction of people when dealing with laity, regardless of rank or wealth or in any way other than merit through their good works and humility before God.”

“And on the maintenance of your soul, how do you swear?”

“I swear to keep the fear of God before my eyes and beware of ever forgetting it.
I swear to be ever mindful of all that God has commanded.  Let my thoughts constantly recur to the Hells that will burn and freeze for their sins those who despise God.
I swear to not indulge in my own will, nor take pleasure in satisfying my desires, for they are the gateways to sin.
I swear to restrain my tongue and keep silent.  I shall be not ready and quick to laugh, and when I speak, I shall do so gently and without laughter, humbly and seriously, in few and sensible words, and be not noisy in my speech.
I swear to always remember that I am a Raven and I am called a Raven and let that manifest in my very appearance and being.  Êtqra.”

“Êtqra,” Guiromélans answers.  Dropping to his knees in front of Balen, he suddenly turns his sword horizontally, pointing its jagged end against his belly and pressing its handle against Balen’s.  “In this way, the inverted Median is complete,” he sighs.  “Do you intend to despise or profane God?”

“Na.”

“Do you intend to deny His Prophets?”

“Na.”

“Do you intend to shame or betray me?”

“Na!”

“For if so, run me through now!”

“NA!”

“Keep your tongue from evil, supplicant,” Guiromélans warns, “and guard your lips that they may speak no guile.  Turn away from evil and do only good.  Seek peace only after the blood of the enemy has been spilt.  Do you understand?”

“Yäh.”

“As a knight, you must walk without stain and practice justice—speak truth from your heart—do not use your tongue for deceit—do not commit evil upon a pious neighbor.”

“Yäh, master,” Balen says quietly.  “I shall not—I shall never—betray or disappoint yä.”

Guiromélans violently plants his saber into the snow between them.  Rising, he turns to Balen’s horse and strips it of its saddle.  Dropping the Söderkarl saddle onto the snow, he proceeds to remove his knight’s saddle from his own horse.  Balen watches, wondering but not questioning.

Guiromélans drapes the large knight’s saddle across the back of Balen’s steed and begins to adjust it for fit.

“What’re yä doin’?” Balen blurts, no longer able to contain himself.

“A Raven requires a suitable steed and a suitable saddle.  You have the best mount these lands can provide…”  He turns and smiles at the boy, “and I shall see to it, you have the best saddle as well.”

“But that’s yer saddle!  Yer the Cathubodua!”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “I was a Raven.  What I am now… is unclear.  What I do know, however, is that you are the only true Raven here.”

Balen’s jaw drops.  “I am?  I’m a Raven now?”

Guiromélans steps forward and helps the boy to his feet.  “You are my squire.  So, you are of the lowest level of the Order of the Raven.  You are not quite a Raven yet…”

Leading Balen to his horse, he helps him into his new saddle.  Balen smiles, getting himself comfortable in the leather.  “Nice!” he sighs.

Opening his hands, Guiromélans reveals three pieces of silver.  A Raven’s head brooch and two spurs.  Balen’s eyes widen at the sight.  “These were the best the artisans of Hardanger could provide,” Guiromélans says, “In time, if we find ourselves in better territory, I can see about replacing them—”

“Nage!” Balen sighs, “Never!  These I want forever!”

Guiromélans smiles and takes Balen’s nearest boot.  “It is customary, my squire, for the one who knights another to attach his new spurs…”

Balen watches in rapt fascination as Guiromélans attaches the silver spurs to his boots.

Straightening, Guiromélans smiles at him and offers the third piece of silver.  Reverentially, Balen takes the silver raven’s head and turns it over in his hands.  “It’s nicer even than yers!”

Guiromélans nods.  “Mine is worn from years of service, squire.  May you wear yours as honorably.”

Balen attaches the brooch to his throat in the manner he has seen Guiromélans wear his.  “I swear I will, master!”

“In the months since we have met, I have seen you grow from a surly, bitter-mouthed urchin into a powerful, pious young warrior.  I am proud of you.  Believe me when I tell you, I have given you this honor only because you have earned it.”

“I will see tä it that yä won’t be disappointed,” he answers solemnly and bows.

Guiromélans smiles and slaps his horse’s rump.  “Then ride!  Test your spurs and saddle for fit!”

Laughing, Balen suddenly spurs his horse forward.  Guiromélans watches him race through the trees, galloping with the skill and speed leant by the fearlessness of youth and near constant training.  Many things are ending here in Hardanger, the Raven reflects, but this is a good beginning.

He is watching his laughing squire when he becomes aware of a chill sensation creeping through him.  Has it always been there?  Had he missed it?  Had he just been ignoring it?

The long, shaggy creature appears out of nowhere, materializing from the trees, bounding with surreal speed after Balen’s horse.  Guiromélans’s blood freezes, and his legs become weak and difficult to control.  He howls after the boy, charging for his horse and reaching for his saber.

With a sickening feeling, he finds his scabbard empty.  Looking back, he sees his saber where he left it, thrust into the snow at the center of the clearing.  Wheeling his horse around, he charges back, bending low to snatch it up as he passes.

Without his saddle, his horse is difficult to control, difficult to master, and he looses his seat.  Tumbling hard into the snow, he leaps to his feet with hardly a pause and charges after the beast and his squire.

Balen tries to flee—Guiromélans can see his joy turning into stark terror as the ragged beast bears down on his horse—but there is no way for him to outrun it.  Guiromélans’s screams echo the boy’s as it catches his leg and drags him out of his saddle.  Balen crashes to the ground, thrashing around as the creature almost casually seeks comfortable purchase in his flesh.  His legs kick, and the blades of one of his spurs connect, gouging his attacker deeply in the hindquarters.  The beast rears in pain and surprise, howling with fury, and then descends violently upon the boy.

Guiromélans screams in helpless fury, but he is too far away.  The beast turns to look at him, Balen’s blood running from its jaws, and there is that leer again… nearly a grin.  With almost a laugh-like cough, it leaps away from Balen’s twitching body.  Long before Guiromélans reaches him, it is out of his sight.

 

The world has closed in around him.  He can see the others standing around him.  Staring at him.  Staring at the small, shrouded corpse on the table.  Blood still runs from the wounds, spreading dark red ribbons across the pale cloth.

He can feel Caidryn’s arms around him, cradling his head.  He can feel her soothing words vibrating from her body into his, but he cannot hear them.  Somehow, the rage he expected from her at the news did not come.  Sorrow, certainly.  Pain, certainly.  But not the rage.  Instead is only her close, warming presence.  Her mourning blends with his, the two of them sinking deep into the black earth.

The boy is dead.  The boy is dead.

He can feel his body shake as he screams in fury.  He can see Ofeig raising his hands, doing what he can to calm or placate the raging Raven.  He says something, though Guiromélans cannot hear.  All he sees is him mouthing the words “Bolwerk, Bolwerk” over and over.  Bolwerk is coming, Bolwerk is coming.

The boy is dead.  The beast has taken him!

He tries to demand a Medianist funeral for Balen, but all that escapes are animal-like screams.  He tries to call for Deacon Aybert to do the ceremonies, only to remember that he is dead too.

His eyes catch sudden movement across the room.  Before his horrified eyes, the witch Huld enters with her son, Bolwerk.

The Thane walks strangely, but Guiromélans’s eyes are only for Huld as she shuffles over to inspect Balen’s body.  Pulling back the cloth, she sniffs at the blood, poking at the wounds.  Guiromélans can feel his muscles tighten and clench.  He can feel his blood grow hotter and hotter.

She turns and mutters something urgently to a nearby bönder.  Men quickly gather around the table.  They are to take him to the ruined stead.  They are to stake him to the ground?

Even as he watches her shifting eyes, the way her withered hands rub against each other in anticipation, his fury rises.  He recalls an oath he made, a vow made in the names of Hoël and Guiot.

There is nothing else in the room but Balen’s body and the häxa.  There is no sound, no light.  Nothing but the stench of death.  Silently, he pushes Caidryn away and stands.  Even as Huld turns away, Guiromélans moves forward and draws his saber.