“You are to be executed.”  Ofeig’s voice is low and without emotion.  “Thane Bolwerk has decreed, for your transgression, you are to endure the trial of the Bloody Eagle.  You are to never leave this table alive.”

Guiromélans grunts but doesn’t try to look around.  He is well restrained, face down on this unforgiving wooden table.  He cannot even relieve the pressure on his crushed nose and lips, much less turn his head.

“Tell me,” he sighs, “What is this Bloody Eagle?”

Ofeig circles around him.  The chamarling is either nervous or angry.  “You shall be sacrificed to the Thunderer,” he says.

Ah.  Human sacrifice.  How civilized.

“Laying as you are, we shall make two cuts along your spine and then turn your ribs inside out.  We shall then remove your vitals one at a time, until you die.”

He chuckles without humor, “It will be considered a great honor for you if you can endure this without a moan.”

“I will do what I can,” Guiromélans murmurs through the wood, “but I make no guarantees.  I see no reason to entertain you and Bolwerk any more than necessary.”

“Jâ, I completely understand, Korp.”

“When is this to happen?”

“Soon.  Night has fallen, and Bolwerk sees nej reason to delay your execution.  You will be cut apart, and your pieces fed to the draugr in the woods.”

How quickly your status can change, Guiromélans muses.  How funny!  Serve the court well, risk your life, and save those of others on countless occasions, earn the love and respect of all, but only once try to kill the Thane’s mother, and everyone turns on you!

“So, why the delay?”

“Bolwerk was injured in some kind of riding accident,” Ofeig says.  He sounds as surprised saying it as Guiromélans is hearing it.  “Huld is seeing to him now.  As soon as they are done, I imagine…”  He leaves the rest of the thought unsaid.

“Jâ,” Guiromélans agrees.  “We have been friends for nearly as long as I’ve been here, jâ?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Jâ, I suppose you can say that.”

“I am hoping then that you can put aside your anger at the crime I committed and do me one last favor?”

“What is that, Korp?”

“Please protect Caidryn.  Do what you can to make sure she escapes this place safely.  Try to protect her from the creature until she is far from here.”

Ofeig chuckles.  “Think I can protect her better than you did the boy?  Nej?”

Guiromélans is silent.

“Nevertheless, you are mistaken, Korp.  I bear you nej ill will or anger for what you have done.  I understand what it was that drove you to it, and I wonder if I would have had the same patience and restraint had I been in your place.  And as far as your request, I will do you one better.”

The huskarl moves next to him, and he hears the thick slices of a knife cutting rope.  Suddenly, the pressure on Guiromélans’s back and head is gone.  He sits up and stares at Ofeig in surprise.

“I don’t understand,” he wonders, shaking his head as Ofeig puts away his thveita.  “You told me once you would nothing to encourage the anger of your Thane, especially for me, especially now.  So, why?”

“Jâ,” Ofeig nods solemnly, “You would raise your hand to Volva Huld, mother of Bolwerk.  It was only by the grace of God and the Great Lords that you did not kill her.  But I have been shown that your cause is just, and so now I shall help you.”

“You’ve been shown?  By who?”

The huskarl shakes his head.  “Soon enough, you will know.  But now, we must leave.  Not all of the huskarls share my views, and they may object to your departure.”

Guiromélans climbs off the table and flexes his hands and shoulders.  “And how are we to leave?  Through the front doors?”

Ofeig smiles, “Perhaps not quite, but if we leave quickly, it will be nearly as easy.  Come!”

Ofeig pulls Guiromélans from the room and into the halls beyond.  Guiromélans tenses immediately.  There are guards in all the usual places.  However, as they pass, some turn away, others nod in silent acknowledgement, still more appear to be asleep on their feet.  Ofeig guides him past them all.

What is this?  Guiromélans wonders.  What is going on?

In the back of the longhouse, he finds his horse waiting.  Caidryn sits upon hers, looking more frightened then he has ever seen her.  When their eyes meet, however, she favors him with one of the most genuine smiles he has ever seen on her.

“It’s yä!” she sighs with a mixture of relief and joy.

Guiromélans throws himself over the back of his horse and is suddenly acutely aware that the saddle he is sitting in is not his own.  No, that one belongs to Balen now.

When Caidryn offers him his saber, he takes it automatically, cradling it under his arm.

Ofeig grabs Guiromélans’s reins and looks up at him.  “Now you ride out of town.  Remember the roundhouse where we fought the draugr?  Follow the main railway there out of Hardanger.  The guards at the gate are friendly, but do not speak to them.  Follow the rails.  About a mile beyond the farm steads, you will be met.”

Guiromélans looks up at the dark sky.  “It is night, chamarling.  What of the draugr?”

“They have been taken care of as well… for now.  Follow the tracks, and you will be safe.”

Guiromélans salutes his friend before leading Caidryn away.

 

The two karls that met them are unknown to Guiromélans.  Hardanger is a large place—there are many here he hasn’t met—but these men appear to be warriors, perhaps even ridders.  He wonders were they are from.

He has a long time to ponder this and other questions as they make their way across the fresh snow.  They follow no tracks, no trails, no roads for miles.  There is no sign of their passage.  Wherever these men came from, they did not come by this way.

Who is it that could have arranged for his escape?  They would have had to have great power within Hardanger, power enough to sway the loyalties of the guards.  They would have had access to these stranger karls as well.  They would have had to be persuasive enough to recruit Ofeig.  They would have had to be powerful enough to restrain the wild ghuls in the forest and enchant those guards who were uncooperative.

It is close to dawn—they have been riding half the night—when a small camp materializes out of the thick weather before them.  At least five small fires are burning beneath some rough shelters.  This place may be temporary, but it was built with great care.  The men here—nearly 100 in number—appear intent on staying here for a while.

By the time they are led to the commander’s böth, Guiromélans is fairly sure he knows the identity of his savior.

Oh, how he had hoped to see the smiling Bolwerk step out to greet him.

Instead, he is met by a leering Huld and her grim second son, Hrobjart.  “So tell me, Korp,” she cackles gleefully, “is this how Medianism treats you?  Has your God has abandoned you?  Perhaps you should consider Rænn’s tender embrace?”

Everyone around him bursts into laughter, making much sport at his expense.

 

They are all here.  Huld.  Rig-jarl Hrobjart and his small army.  Chamarling Orkning.  In one way or another, Guiromélans has done each of them harm or disservice, and he has difficulty being in the same room with them.  Orkning is the worst, merely staring at him with sad eyes.

“What is it you want of me?” Guiromélans demands at last, unable to endure the suspense any longer.

“We mean to take Hardanger from Bolwerk,” Hrobjart says.

“Jâ, I know!” Guiromélans exclaims, “and possibly, you have the men to do it.  But why involve me?”

“Because you are involved!” Huld chuckles.  “Didn’t Dårlig ask you for help?  Didn’t Bolwerk request you to be his champion in the matters of the beast?  We ask only that you be our champion as well!”

Guiromélans stares at her in bafflement.  Her attitude, her tone, there is nothing about her that would indicate that she was nearly killed by him a short couple hours ago.

At last, he shakes his head.  “Around and around you go,” he says wearily.  “I have heard these words from Hrobjart before.  Hearing them again from you lends them no greater credence.  Attacking Bolwerk—attacking Hardanger—will not solve your problems!”  He points a finger at the Rig-jarl, “You use these reasons merely to promote your own jealous ambitions!”  He looks at Huld with sadness, “Why you agree with them—why would you choose one son over an other—I will never understand.”

Huld’s teeth click against each other with irritation.  “Hmmn, perhaps you will understand sooner than you think?”

“Bolwerk is not the best of men!” Guiromélans shouts, “but I will not be party to his deposement!  I will not be party to an attack on that stead!  I will not raise my hand against people that I have considered my friends for so many months!”

“Not all have been your friends, Korp.”

“Enough of your conspiracies!” Guiromélans shouts as he leaps to his feet.  “I have heard enough!  I swore by God that you would pay for Balen’s death!  Tell me now why I shouldn’t fulfill that vow now!”

There is a stir in the room, as the others realize the threat Guiromélans presents.  Only Huld appears unperturbed.  “Why does the Thane now walk with a limp?” she says suddenly, with great clarity.

Guiromélans pauses.  “Ofeig told me he had hurt his leg in a riding accident.”

“Hurt it, jâ.  But by a deep cut in this thigh.  Remember, Korp, I tended to it.  How could such a thing happen?  From falling from a horse?”

Guiromélans shakes his head, “I do not know.  Why would you ask me such a thing?”

Huld smiles, “Because you were there when it happened.”

“Jâ.  Perhaps he cut himself on a spur?” Hrobjart mutters.

Guiromélans frowns in puzzlement.  Slowly, his eyes widen.  “Orkning,” he asks suddenly, “Have you ever known these draugr to come out in the daylight?”

The outlawed huskarl shakes his head solemnly.  “Nej.  Never.  The forests are ruled by the udyronde by day, the draugr by night.”

Guiromélans nods.  “Jâ.  Everyone knows that, don’t they?”

By Kahedin’s forgiveness, how could he have been such a fool?

The draugr are Darkbloods!  Minor, petty, nearly mindless, but Darkbloods still.  They roam the forest at night because the power of God’s eye would incinerate them!

They are ruled by the beast.  They are controlled by the beast.

They are created by the beast.  Those that are slain by Darkbloods can become Darkbloods themselves.  This is the way they reproduce.  Those that are slain by the beast are fated to return as draugr.  The beast is no therm, no udyronde!  It is a Darkblood as well!

Balen cut the beast with his spur, and now Bolwerk is injured in the same place.

Bolwerk is the beast?

Bolwerk is the master of the ghuls?

Bolwerk is a Darkblood!

The Median would have revealed this right away.  Guiromélans realizes only once did he ever try to hold the Median to Bolwerk, during the oath declarations at the Harvest Festival.  The Thane’s nature would have been exposed then and there if only... Asmund hadn’t slapped it away.

At the time, Guiromélans thought it a reaction to a perceived attack, but now it seems too convenient.  Now he knows it was merely to protect Bolwerk’s secret.

So the evil-tempered goodman is involved as well.  Of course.  That would only make sense.

“He’s betrayed us!” Guiromélans gasps.  “All this time, we trusted him!”

Orkning nods, “He brought me out who took me here—and he had hands—and was more my friend than yours.  You see the truth now, Korp?”

“He hunts among his own people!” Guiromélans wonders.  “Raising them later as draugr.  And these he sends against the others!”

“He is a sword-dealer,” Hrobjart growls, “He is a traitor, oath breaker.  He is insane.  He kills or betrays all those who stand in his way, all who trust and love him.”

Guiromélans turns to Huld.  “I see now why you refused to hunt the beast.”

She shakes her head, “I cannot raise a hand against my own blood.  Such a crime is unforgivable in the eyes of the ovän.”

“But you knew!” he gasps.  “You knew he was killing all these people!  And you did nothing?  Is that a forgivable crime?”

“Two sons I have, Korp.  Both must I try to protect.  To expose Bolwerk was to threaten Hrobjart.  Jâ, I did what I could.  Many champions have come and gone.  Many champions bore the Median as their standard.  All have fallen.  You were simply the next in line.  What fate you have, only the Thunderer knows.”

His hand touches the Median tucked tightly against his breast.  There is one other here against whom he held the Median.  Slowly, he turns to look at Orkning.  The former chamarling merely stares at him.  Guiromélans approaches and raises the Median to his breast.

Just as the very first time, he sees the same vague tarnishing, the minor sins of a noble heretic, but nothing more.  Where is the corruption he saw within Orkning the day he was banished?

Guiromélans looks in the Orkning’s eyes.  The chamarling was being restrained by Asmund.  Asmund was standing behind him!

Asmund protected Bolwerk from the Median.  Asmund’s corruption helped Bolwerk outlaw Orkning.

“Orkning,” Guiromélans begins, searching for the words.

“Say nothing,” the huskarl states.  “Recall the sword-dance.  Consider our debts even.”

“We invite you into our sword-möte,” Hrobjart says, “to join us in our efforts, to slay the corrupt Thane and his allies.”

“There are too few of you,” Guiromélans says.

“Jâ, my wolfskins are fierce but too few in number.  That is why we need your sword as well.”

“We hope,” Orkning offers, “That perhaps you will be able to rally the remaining Medianists to our cause.  Such as the crew of the Blood Drake?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  He is still not convinced.  There is still a part of him that denies what the witch is saying can be true.  “Nej,” he says.  “I cannot condone this act.  There are too many in Hardanger that would be injured by such an attack.  There must be another way to get rid of Bolwerk.”

“Nej, friend,” Orkning says, “It is the Thunderer’s law that nej Things can be held during the winter months.  We cannot impeach Bolwerk until Melt Season!  He must be overcome by force.”

“To assault Hardanger is to endanger the very people you wish to save!”

“There is nej other choice, Korp,” Hrobjart says.

Guiromélans looks from Orkning, to Hrobjart, to Huld.  Turning, he sees Caidryn watching him.  He can also imagine Dårlig’s face.  What would she thing?  And Esmeree?  He imagines the expressions they would share.

Slowly, his face falls as he realizes what it is he must do.  “Very well,” he sighs, “I will join you, for I have made an oath to render aid to a lady, and I mean to fulfill that oath.”  He looks up at them, his eyes hardening, “But we will not do it in the way you are planning.”

“Ha!” Huld barks with laughter, “See!  I knew the Korp would see the path!”

 

Guiromélans stands before the great doors of Hardanger’s longhouse.  Light, heat, and music escapes from the building, inviting and welcoming Guiromélans inside.  The noise is raucous, the smells overpowering.

Tonight is the Söderkarl Feast of Mother Night.  The Winter Equinox.  The Burning Time.  Though no witches will be burned in Hardanger tonight, the herr still seems intent on enjoying the Burning Time’s festivities.

Behind him, around him, throughout Hardanger, he knows Hrobjart’s wolfskins and Orkning’s Thunderer heretics are creeping, finding their places, waiting.  Those Söderkarl warriors—grim, great, and black to look on—are mad with bloodlust.  In the days previous, they fasted and prayed for the Sword-Thing.  Each hammered iron nails into the Thunderer shrine before leaving for battle.  Many removed rivets from their spears so that the head would break off in the bodies of their enemies.  The time for battle could not come soon enough for them, but Guiromélans persuaded patience.  Tonight, all their enemies will be in one place.  They will be well-lubricated with drink and slowed with food.  The attack will be sudden, merciless, and overwhelming.

And it all hinges on Guiromélans’s signal.

Silently, he eases open the great doors and walks inside.

As the heat and light envelope him, he is reminded of his first visit to this place—the sensory overload, the overwhelming press of people—every place in the great hall is filled with sweating bodies.  The floor vibrates.  The music and smells and heat are oppressive, and immediately, Guiromélans breaks out into a sweat.

The feast he sees is greater than even the Harvest Festival, 3 months ago.  The geOl feast is grandest of the year.  A bright event for the darkest season’s darkest day.  At the center of the room, Bolwerk stands upon his highseat, laughing and waving about a mug, leading cheers and songs.  Even from here, Guiromélans can see that his eyes are watering from the light.  Now, Guiromélans understands why.  Behind and below him, Guiromélans can see Lady Dårlig.  Her sadness is omnipresent, but even tonight, she seems to be enjoying herself a little.

A thrall rushes forward to take Guiromélans’s outer clothing, but when he recognizes the Raven, he freezes in his tracks.  Fear dances in the man’s eyes, and Guiromélans can see him considering his options.  Does the outlaw come to shed blood?  Will raising the alarm mean his will be the first life lost?  Will he be punished if he remains silent?

Guiromélans smiles grimly at the slave and waves him away.  Almost gratefully, the frightened thrall flees, disappearing into the hidden halls that only bönder and thralls frequent.  Word of his presence will quickly spread.  Guiromélans wonders if the news will reach Bolwerk before he can spoil the party himself?

Keeping his woolen and fur cap pressed closely on his head, he pushes through the crowd.  Some recognize him, most don’t, but still the whispers of his presence spread throughout the boisterous herr.

Thralls arrive from the kitchens, carrying huge platters of meats and breads.  Aurauchs, mutton, liver of mammoth and wooly rhino, and more, the finest foods Bolwerk can provide.  The centerpiece is a roast boar of truly humongous proportions.  Bolwerk eyes the feast with shining eyes.  Even as Guiromélans slips closer, he rises to his full height and raises his hand for silence.

Placing his hand upon the steaming, smoking carcass, the Thane closes his eyes and breathes.  When his eyes open, he speaks:

“By the names of the Great Ones—Uspak, Thunderer, and Jorun—by the forgotten Name of God, in honor of this most holy night, I pledge fidelity to my family and people!  I vow to fulfill all obligations past and future!”

The herr roar with approval.

Taking up a huge carving thveita, Bolwerk prepares to make the first cut.

Guiromélans pushes to the front of the room and walks right onto the top of a table.  Those who were not aware of Guiromélans’s presence gasp in surprise.  “I have always been open about my ignorance of your ways,” Guiromélans says to the shocked Bolwerk, “but I am reasonably certain that boar can only be carved by a man of unblemished courage and reputation.  You, Bolwerk, are not that man.”

Bolwerk’s face had become wooden at the sight of Guiromélans, but now it slowly breaks out into a smile.  “I am the one in the highseat, outlaw.  I am the one holding the knife.  I am Thane of this bygthir.”

Guiromélans smiles.  “It remains to be seen for how long.”

The corner of Bolwerk’s mouth twitches.  “Strange words, coming from a man fated to die.  You dare assault my mother, and you think you can return to my longhouse in safety?”

“Considering that Huld has seen fit to forgive me—and even orchestrated my escape—I was hoping you would man enough to forgive me as well.”

Bolwerk’s eyes widen with honest shock.  “What?”

Guiromélans leaps down from the table and walks right up to the Thane.  “I have been most sympathetic to you, Bolwerk,” he says, “but certain truths have been revealed to me, and now I think it is time for you to disappear again.”

“You are powerless,” Bolwerk says in low, quiet tones, fully understanding Guiromélans’s meaning.  “There is nothing you can do, degkarl.  Even you cannot resist the numbers within this hall.  We shall take you and execute you swiftly.  Later, perhaps, I shall resolve matters with my dear mother.”  He gestures to the nearby ridders, “Your crusade is over, Korp.  We shall tie your corpse to the turning wheel and send it on to the Nâströnd.”

Huld coached Guiromélans well.  Even as the Söderkarl move to capture him, he scoops up a goblet heavy with wine, and holding it high for everyone to see, he throws its contents into Dårlig’s face and across her stomach.  Tossing the goblet aside, he then strikes her across the face.

A universal gasp runs through the crowd.  Almost the only sounds that can be heard are their heavy breathing and Dårlig’s quiet tears.  Two karls lunge at Guiromélans.  He draws and cuts them down almost without a thought.  Storming back upon the table, he raises his sword.  “Your Lady has been assaulted!” he declares, “I accept all challenges from those who wish to avenge the insult!  Will you let this stand, Bolwerk?  Will you?”

“NOOO!!!”  Guiromélans senses the attack even before he hears the challenge.  As Asmund charges into him, Guiromélans steps away and spins, slipping from the older huskarl’s powerful grasp.  Asmund tumbles past, tripping over chairs, and flies over the table, inflicting no small amount of injury upon the Söderkarl in his way.  Guiromélans smoothly cuts the air with his saber and steps back onto the table top.

Asmund scrambles to his feet and lunges for the weapons on the far wall.  He takes down an ancient sword and shield set and turns to face the Raven.  Guiromélans can see that familiar look growing in the bareserkr’s eyes.  Just as on the night of the sword-dances, the huskarl rapidly descends into a berserk frenzy.  He tears at his clothes with his fingernails and sword.  His teeth gnash at the edges of the shield, ripping up long splinters of wood, which he spits at the Raven.

Guiromélans remains implacable in the face of this violent display and merely waits.  The beating he suffered at the hands of the goodman is still fresh in his mind.  He remembers the goodman’s near invulnerability to pain and injury.

Asmund leaps upon the table, waving his weapons about.  “Enough of your insults, ergi!” he screams between mouthfuls of his shield.  “Enough of that bastard dreng of yours!  Enough of that whore!  Tonight, we cleanse our home of your Medianist filth!”

Asmund continues to rage, savagely biting at his shield, chopping at the table with his sword.  Without warning, Guiromélans jumps forward.  With a mighty kick, he drives the shield up into Asmund’s mouth.  The crack of breaking bones echoes throughout the hall.

Shock fills Asmund’s eyes, and his arms fall limply to his sides.  His lower jaw droops unnaturally, sagging loosely against his breastbone.  The upper part of his face is nearly unrecognizable from the distortions of broken bone.

Without hesitation, Guiromélans grabs Asmund’s hair and pulls him closer.  With a clean swing, he cuts off his head.

The huge body falls across the Mother Night feast with a mighty crash.  Much to Guiromélans’s surprise, there is no blood.  It is as if Asmund’s body was empty of it.  The flesh within the wound is pale and glistening, but there is no blood.  Guiromélans looks into the twitching features of the face and tosses the head away with disgust.

The hall is silent.  Guiromélans stands on the table, untouched.  The bodies of the men lay scattered around him, and he never even broke a sweat.  “Who else shall attempt to avenge this insult upon your Lady?” he asks.

All eyes are on the Thane, and he is nearly trembling with fury.  Guiromélans extends his hand towards Bolwerk, “Come.  Embrace me.  Prove your worth to sit in that seat and bear that blade.  Avenge your beloved wife.”

The circle around Guiromélans widens as Söderkarl back away from him and the corpses.  There are hisses and whispers all around, and Guiromélans senses a distinct shift in the herr’s attitude in his favor.

Realization dawns in Bolwerk’s eyes.  He is trapped in the web Guiromélans has so carefully spun.  The Raven can no longer be merely executed.  Though others may challenge him, eventually the Thane himself must eventually face him.

Bolwerk smirks darkly as he carefully sets the thveita down.  “You are clever, Raven,” he says in excellent Ehrech, “Strong and clever.  I can see now why my mother chose you.”

“Do not waste your breath in compliments, demon,” Guiromélans says, keeping his tone conversational, “I neither need nor desire them from you.”

Bolwerk slowly rounds the table, circling Guiromélans.  “Nevertheless, I must congratulate you.  In this one, simple act of yours,” he gestures towards the stunned Dårlig and the slain Asmund, “you have removed all suspicion upon yourself as well as succeeded in forcing me into an einvigi.  You seem to know our ways better than you have claimed.  Excellent!”

Guiromélans says nothing, always keeping his guard up.  Bolwerk kneels and takes up the bloodless long sword Asmund dropped.  He examines its blade closely.  “You will, of course, die tonight, my friend.  Whether or not you succeed in exposing my true nature is irrelevant.”  He looks around at the herr watching them with rapt fascination.  “All here will die as well.  It is a bit sooner that we had planned, but it should be nej trouble.”

“Careful,” Guiromélans warns, not really meaning it, “There may be folk here who understand the tongue of my homeland.”

Bolwerk smiles over the edge of the blade, “Nej.  Only those… friendly to my needs… understand this tongue.  But thank you anyway for your concern!”

With a sudden shout, Bolwerk leaps upon the table, dealing two quick cuts towards Guiromélans’s face and throat.  Guiromélans parries them both, but the second lands with such force that he is thrown backwards, toppling off the table, and landing hard on the floor.  He is dazed and temporarily blinded by the fall, but his Raven’s training does not let him rest.  He spins to his feet and lunges forward, fast and low.  Rounding the table, Bolwerk doesn’t expect the sudden charge, and Guiromélans collides with him, catching him around the waist and knees and hoisting him off the ground.  Before the Thane can find purchase in Guiromélans’s back or neck, the Raven throws him away.

Bolwerk skids across the floor, fetching up hard against a table.  Despite his landing, he laughs roundly and regains his feet easily.  “Excellent, Korp!” he shouts in his mother tongue, “Here’s to hoping you continue to put up such a good fight!”

Guiromélans wipes at his nose and finds blood.  His head and ears are still ringing from Bolwerk’s attacks.  The Thane may not be much of a swordsman, but he bears the unnatural strength and speed of a Darkblood.

The two men slowly circle each other, Bolwerk taunting, Guiromélans cautious.  Guiromélans cannot help but note the similarity to Dagnin’s duel with the ridder.  Only now, the stakes are much higher.

“Shall I tell you the last words of your friend, Dagnin?” Bolwerk mocks in Ehrech as he closes in on Guiromélans, “Or Baldruus perhaps?”

They exchange quick blows, Guiromélans now being careful not to meet any of Bolwerk’s directly.  Bolwerk steps back thoughtfully, testing the edge of his sword with his thumb.  “Nay, perhaps I should save those for your lady Caidryn?  I assure you, I’ll be visiting her soon enough.”

The Thane is enjoying himself too much, and he gets careless.  For a brief moment, his eyes waver away from the Raven.  Guiromélans lunges at the opening, surprising him.  Bolwerk tries to step away and parry, but he is too late.  Guiromélans feels his saber cut into cloth and flesh.  There is a collective gasp from the crowd as Bolwerk’s thin, watery Darkblood blood sprays upon the floor.

Bolwerk roars and counterattacks.  With uncanny, blurring speed, he scythes his long sword at Guiromélans.  Guiromélans dodges, side steps, and parries.  Countless times he feels the sword’s cruel edge nick and graze his face, hands, and shoulders.  One lethal swing misses by mere hairs’ breadths—Guiromélans slips away from the massive blow just in time—and it strikes a thick wooden table with enough force to lift it from the floor and nearly flip it over.  Large chunks of wood spray through the crowd like shrapnel.

Guiromélans struggles to weather the fusillade of blows, cuts, and stabs.  The attack continues with an intensity no normal man could maintain, and Guiromélans quickly finds himself flagging in full retreat.  In the end, however, Guiromélans’s experience finds the opening created by Bolwerk’s power.  Just as he is about to run out of room—excited and frightened Söderkarl pressing against him from behind—he sidesteps and spins around one of Bolwerk’s more enraged lunges.

With the Thane’s back to him, Guiromélans makes the killing cut to end the fight.

His blade stops short.  Much to his surprise, it is caught in the grip of Bolwerk’s fist.  It is a tactic no normal man could ever attempt or accomplish, and a confused hush falls across the watching herr.  Bolwerk slowly turns and grins, his fist tightening around the blade.  Pale blood squirts from between Bolwerk’s fingers and runs down his arm, but in his eyes, there is no pain.  Only hunger.

Guiromélans struggles to free his blade from that grip, but he cannot match the Thane’s inhuman strength.  With a violent twist, he jerks the saber from Guiromélans’s grasp and, with a backwards swing, strikes him across the face with it.

Guiromélans is spun around and collapses to the floor, his eyes watering, his mouth filling with blood.

Even as he gasps for breath and struggles to remain conscious—despite the ringing in his head and ears—he can hear Söderkarl cries for help.  The crowd begins to stir around him.  The stead is under attack, by draugr or udyronde or some such.

Even as he struggles to regain his feet, he can sense the crowd parting, separating, disappearing.  Karls and böndi are running about.  Some linger to watch the end of this fight, but many more rush to deal with the new threat.

He can feel Bolwerk standing next to him, above him.  The tip of his sword toys with his hair and clothes.  Guiromélans struggles to regain his strength, but his senses are denied to him.  He does his best to scramble away, but Bolwerk merely casually keeps pace next to him.  Every time he tries to stand, Bolwerk’s foot knocks him back down again.

“Maybe you would like to hear your boy’s last words?” Bolwerk asks conversationally.  After a thoughtful pause, he chuckles, “Oh, jâ, I forget!  You were there, weren’t you?  My pardon, my mistake!”

Guiromélans rolls to his back and looks up at the Darkblood.  Bolwerk isn’t looking at Guiromélans.  He is examining his saber.  “A Raven with a broken sword.  How noble.  How poetic.  How pathetic.”  He tosses it away in disgust.

Guiromélans looks around.  Much of the room is being cleared.  The noises that he once thought were the ringing in his ears, he now knows to be the sounds of fighting outside the hall.

Bolwerk looks down at Guiromélans sympathetically, “I must tell you—painful though it might be for you to hear—that your boy’s flesh was exceptionally tender, his blood especially sweet.  I truly regret waiting so long to claim him.  But that is my loss, I expect, jâ?  At least you were allowed more time with him.  Perhaps you should be grateful for that?”

When Guiromélans doesn’t answer, Bolwerk laughs and glances towards the main doors.  “Those would be my children outside, jâ?  For a long time, I struggled to grow their numbers.  Curse you, Korp, for whittling them down as much as you did!”  He looks expectant.  “Hardanger’s defenders are few.  My children should be here any time now…”

Guiromélans smiles.  “I must tell you, seeing as you’ve been so courteous to me, that it is quite possible that they’ve met with… unexpected resistance?”

Bolwerk frowns.  “What does that mean?”

“Your brother’s army is here.  As are the Thunderers you expelled.  I am sure they are causing your undead no small amount of difficulty.”  He shakes his head at Bolwerk’s surprised expression, “What?  Did you think I came here alone?  I may be a degkarl, but I am no fool!”

Bolwerk’s face tightens with anger.  “Ah, my friend, once again you have surprised me!”

Throwing his long sword away, Bolwerk grabs and tears at his collar and shirt.  The thick wadmal garments strain briefly and then rip, revealing the Thane’s muscular physique beneath.  Guiromélans watches in shock as the Thane shakes his head, and his long hair falls from his scalp in heavy clumps.  He smiles down at the fallen Raven and clenches his jaws.  There are the sounds of breaking, crushing bones, and one-by-one, Bolwerk spits his teeth out at him.

“You see now?” Bolwerk slurs gleefully through bloody gums.  “Now you have done it!  Drawn me out, you have!”

With vicious slowness, Bolwerk peels his fingernails from his hands and flicks the bloody bits at him.  “But as I said, it is of nej matter.”  Speech is becoming difficult for the Thane.  His mouth is filling with longer, sharper teeth, his face beginning to distort and stretch into a muzzle.  “All who witness your death shall die as well.  It is all part of a plan, Korp, and you are not strong enough to stop it!”

“God hates many things, Bolwerk,” Guiromélans mutters, “but most of all, He hates those of the Darkblood.”

Bolwerk howls as his spine and skull suddenly adjust to a four-legged form, and he falls upon his lengthening limbs.  Long, razor-like claws bite into the floor with ecstasy as he rushes towards the completion of his transformation.

Guiromélans does not wait for it.  Taking advantage of the beast’s distraction, he quickly casts about, seeking either his sword or Bolwerk’s.  Some distance away, he sees his saber on the floor beneath a table.

Without hesitation, he scrambles for his blade, ducking beneath a table and kicking stools and benches out of the way.  He is within feet of it when he hears something heavy land on the table behind him.  Guiromélans immediately knows his sword might as well be a mile away.  There is no chance he will ever reach it.

Less than a second later, the weight of the beast lands on him, crushing him against the floor.  Despite the claws seeking purchase between his ribs, he becomes acutely aware of another uncomfortable pressure against his chest.  Guiromélans reaches beneath him and finds the Empyrean Median.

He knows Bolwerk is finished mocking him.  He will not hesitate to land the death blow now.

Knowing these may be the last instants of his life, Guiromélans acts.  Rolling onto his back, he sees the great beast leering over him, its maw descending.  Without hesitation, he rams his fist as deeply down its throat as it will reach.  Once again, he thanks God that He made the gag reflex one of the many universal constants among the creatures of His world.  The beast’s eyes widen in momentary surprise as Guiromélans’s fist seizes the root of its tongue.  It draws back in that instant of uncertainty and panic, and in that opening, Guiromélans extracts the Median and swings.