“We were hard-pressed,” Ofeig mutters, blood still running from his head and face, “There were a lot more draugr than we ever could have imagined.”

The longhouse is in chaos.   Much of Hardanger is burning.   In places, the fires would be out of control if it wasn’t for the ever-present snow and cold.   Karls run in and out, seeking their Thane, and rush away to spread the word of his passing.   Guiromélans has been arrested and then released at least three separate times.

“The dead of both man and udyronde,” Ofeig shakes his head, “We never imagined the kind of toll Bolwerk took on those creatures as well.”   Orkning scratches at his beard as he looks down at the bloody display on the floor.   “And then they all fell, as if all struck down by the same blow.”

Guiromélans nods, “They died when their master died.   It is the Darkbloods’ way.”

“But how?” Ofeig asks, “How did you inflict such a wound?   Nej even a sword…”

Guiromélans looks down at the corpse of the Thane, permanently trapped in a state between man and beast.   His throat is gouged away as if by some great scoop, the skin and muscle curled as if exposed to some great heat.   Merely the spine and the smallest of scraps of skin still connect the head to the trunk.

“How?” Guiromélans grunts.   Kneeling at Bolwerk’s side, he carefully extracts the Median and presses its silver orbits against the dead flesh.   The skin immediately swells and splits like a ripe blister.   Blood and muscle boil and melt away at its touch.

“By the Ice, what—” Ofeig gasps.

“By the Fire,” Guiromélans nods as he rises.   He holds the Median before the huskarl and gently spins its orbits.   They flash with living fire.   “The Median is made of iron and silver, my friend.   Iron to ward off the Fée enemies of God.   Silver to ward off the Darkblood.   The metals are purely symbolic, but at times… they can also prove very useful.”

Hrobjart bursts into the longhouse, sword drawn, with many Wolfskins following.   “Where is he, Korp!” he bellows, obviously prepared for a fight, “Is what I heard true?   Is my brother dead?”

“Yes, Rig-jarl,” Guiromélans says, “Thane Bolwerk is dead.”

Hrobjart rushes forward with a happy shout and stares down at the naked corpse.   “A good job you’ve done, it seems!” he mutters.   Without another word, he plunges his sword into Bolwerk’s breast.

Behind him, near the walls, Guiromélans sees Huld lingering.   There is sorrow in every aspect of her being, and despite whatever evil Bolwerk became, he suspects she waits to pay final, private respects to her fallen son.   Guiromélans looks away, unsure of his feelings at this moment, not wishing to witness the human despair she is awash with.   Huld is a witch and a Thunderer heretic, but he also sees her now as a mother.   Just like a Paqa, she had a curse of her own.   She had two sons and was forced to pitch one against the other, and the best she could hope for was that only one would die.

Guiromélans blinks with sudden realization.   The mother knew of Bolwerk’s nature, the foster-father knows of Bolwerk’s nature.   How could not the wife know as well?   A pit begins to open in his stomach.

He looks around quickly and realizes he has not seen Dårlig since before the duel.   “Ho!” he shouts to everyone nearby, “Have you seen Lady Dårlig?   Where has she gone?”

Confused whispers sweep through the room as people begin wondering the same thing until one böndi points him towards the royal couple’s private chambers.   “In there, Korp,” he says, “She fled in there the moment Bolwerk fell.”

Without preamble, he pushes past Ofeig and rushes towards the back of the hall.   He collides with the door to the chambers and fetches up hard when it doesn’t open.   He drives himself against it again and again, rocking it in its leather hinges.   Ofeig joins him, and together, they drive open the door.

Within, the room is well-lit for once.   Candles and lamps burn throughout.   But there is no Dårlig.

In her place, they find Orkning.   The outlawed chamarling looks up at them from his place on the floor and slowly takes his feet.   His eyes are wet and red.

“Where is Dårlig?” Guiromélans demands.   “Is she here?”

“Jâ,” Orkning nods, “She is here.”   He gestures behind him, to the sleeping quarters beyond.

Guiromélans rushes forward, only to be surprised when a beefy hand catches him by the throat and throws him backwards.   He pinwheels across the room and collides with Ofeig, sending both men to the floor.

Guiromélans looks up at a Orkning with surprise.   “What is this?   What are you doing?”

Orkning stands ready, an immovable barrier between him and the Lady.   “Lady Dårlig does not wish to be disturbed.”

“But you must!” Guiromélans shouts, climbing to his feet.   “Bolwerk was the beast!   Huld knew it!   Asmund knew it!   Dårlig must have known as well!   She did as much as tell me when she asked for my help!”

“So it would seem,” Orkning nods sadly, “but still, I cannot let you pass.   These are her wishes, and I cannot deny them.”

“My friend,” Guiromélans urges, “Think of all the fallen friends.   Think of the treachery committed here!   Had she spoken—”

“I know your words, my friend,” Orkning nods, “but I cannot let you pass.   I made an oath, Guiromélans.   I made an oath that I would protect my lady until my dieing breath!”   He draws his long sword and stands ready, “and this I will do!   Come if you must, but at the cost of either your life… or mine.”

Guiromélans’s jaw clenches as he draws his own saber.   Orkning is considered perhaps the best warrior in Hardanger—second only to Asmund—but unlike the ogre, this man will not be blinded by fury and hatred.

Slowly, the two approach each other.   “Orkning,” Guiromélans pleads, “I mean her nej harm.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” Orkning moans, “but you are a Korp, and I know your nature!   I cannot take that chance.”

Orkning swings mightily, trying to clear Guiromélans away from him.   Instead, the Raven slips forward, raising his saber to meet the blade, and letting the long sword glide across it and over him.   Pressing himself suddenly against the huskarl, he wraps up his sword arm with his free arm.   “Please, Orkning!” he urges.

Orkning grimaces with surprise and likewise wraps up Guiromélans’s sword arm.   With a sneer, he lifts him off his feet and drives him across the room, ramming aside tables and other furniture until they ultimately collide with the far wall.   Guiromélans gasps as his back and ribs suffer the worst of the collision.

“Orkning,” he gasps quietly, “She must be held accountable!”

Orkning presses his face close to Guiromélans’s, and he can see the sorrow in the chamarling’s eyes.   “Jâ, I know.   As does she.   She knows what must be done.   You know my heart, Guiromélans.   This is something I do not do lightly.”

“I do not wish to harm you, my friend,” Guiromélans whispers.

Orkning’s face crumbles into sorrow, and he presses his against Guiromélans’s, cheek to cheek.   Softly, he weeps.   “Without my Lady, Korp, I have nej heart to live.   You understand?”

Guiromélans nods.   Yes, he does understand Orkning’s meaning all too well.   “Orkning,” he says, “Look at me.”

Orkning pulls away slightly too look the Raven in the eyes.

Without warning, Guiromélans drives his head forward, crushing the huskarl’s nose.   Orkning grunts in surprise and takes a step back, releasing Guiromélans from his hold.   The Raven quickly drives his knee into his belly and pushes him further away.

Orkning staggers backwards.   His nose filling with blood, his lungs emptied of air, he has difficulty finding his breath.   Nevertheless, there is still fight in him, and he moves forward to charge.   Guiromélans cuts upwards twice, biting deeply into the huskarl’s beast.

Orkning moans, suddenly losing the strength in his arms, the muscles severed.   Fire burns in his eyes, though, and he still struggles to raise his sword.   With a simple turn, Guiromélans drives his saber through his belly.   Then he twists it.

Orkning’s shuddering legs collapse, and the huge Söderkarl falls to the floor, gasping.   Rocking back on his knees, he clutches at the Raven’s saber and begins coughing.   Blood and spittle spray from his lips and thicken his beard as the coughs turn to laughter.

Guiromélans rests his hand on his friend’s shoulder.   “I am sorry, my friend.”

Orkning looks up at the Raven, and his eyes are bright.   “ Óriás!   My friend, do not apologize and do not mourn, for I go to meet Uspak and the Thunderer.   I go to the Halls of the Einheriar, where I shall prove myself in endless battle!   I shall miss you, my friend!   And I shall look forward to the time when we are reunited!”

Guiromélans smiles, amazed.   “Jâ.   I shall look forward to that as well.”

His shoulders sag, and the chamarling falls onto his side.   The brave Söderkarl spends his dieing breaths in laughter.

Guiromélans rushes to Dårlig’s chambers, though he knows there is no need.   Within those comfortable spaces, he finds her crumbled upon the floor.   She had fallen upon the longsword given to her on her wedding day, driving the sliver blade into her womb.   Her blood stains her dresses, along with Guiromélans’s wine.

All along, she knew.   She knew of the evil burning in her husband’s heart.   She knew of the plans he and Asmund had hoped to carry out.   She carried all this with her, and even when she was asking for Guiromélans’s help, she remained silent.   With the passing of the Thane, she was at last free of her obligations.   She chose the only honorable path left to her.   At least her sadness is finally over.   Söderkarl women keep secrets well.

Once again, Bolwerk sacrificed his queen.   Guiromélans can only wonder how the endgame will turn out.

 

It is nearly Midnight.   Nearly the Burning Time.

Huld stands in her chamber, silently washing the naked bodies of her fallen kinsmen.   Bolwerk, Dårlig, Asmund, Orkning.   There are others, karls and bönder slain by the draugr attack, but there will be time enough for them.   For now, it is time for Huld’s mourning.

Guiromélans stands in the doorway, nursing his own bruises and cuts, and watches her, waiting patiently.   Her rag wipes across the pale, powerful flesh of Asmund, though there is still no blood to clean.

“He has no blood,” Guiromélans murmurs.   “How can that be?”

Though she has known him to be there for a while—she had summoned him here herself—she turns to look at him as if for the first time.   “He is óriás, Korp, what you call an ogre.   They are strong, quick, tough.   And they do not bleed when cut or killed.”

Guiromélans nods.   He remembers the sword-dance, when Asmund fell upon the blades and yet seemed to come away unhurt.   “You knew,” he says.   “You knew Asmund was an ogre all along?”

“Jâ,” she says, meticulously cleaning every part of him.

“Just as you knew Bolwerk was a Darkblood?”

“Jâ.”

“That is not possible,” he scoffs, “You must be lying to me.”

“How so?” she asks with bemused surprise.

“Because if you knew Asmund was an ogre, how could you have given your son over to him?   How could he have become Bolwerk’s foster father?”

Huld chuckles.   “I was younger then, Korp, much younger.   I did not know then what I know now!”

“Such as?”

Huld laughs harder, “Such as that Asmund was óriás!   All I knew was that he was sweet Hraerekur’s best friend and most loyal vassal.”   She steps back and looks at the collected bodies before her.   “These are the hard lessons life teaches us, jâ?” she murmurs, more to them than to Guiromélans.   “Little did I know he would eventually turn my son’s heart against me, that he would turn my son into a loupsgarou.”

“How…   When did Bolwerk become a loups… Darkblood?”

Huld continues with her washing.   “Not sure, raven-friend.   Probably not long ago… not long before his kidnapping.”

Guiromélans shakes his head.   “Bolwerk claimed to have been held for a year by the udyronde.”

“You heard his story?”

“Jâ.”

“You heard him relate the names of the dead?   Those who fell the day he was stolen from us?”

“Jâ.”

“All he said was true.   Those were the names of the brave karls and bönder who rode with him that day.   But they fell at his hands, his claws and teeth, not at the udyronde’s.”

“Jâ,” Guiromélans nods.   “Drunk as I was when I heard it, I could tell his tale didn’t make sense.   I know the therm.   They do not act in the way he described, and I cannot imagine those beasts would have been able to confine such a creature as your son captive.”

Huld chuckles again.   “They were lies.   Bolwerk was never held by the udyronde.   We had always been at peace with the therm.   During the year of his absence, he was a new loupsgarou.   He hid in the darkness.   He grew in strength, hunting his own people, building an army of draugr, until at last he caught the attention of the Medianists.   Strife between the Median and the Thunderer, he sought.   Such strife he nearly achieved.”

“Bolwerk was clever,” Guiromélans admits.   “He attacked his own people, weakening them and bolstering his own dark army.   And at the same time, he nearly sparked a full bloodfeud between man and therm…   In a war between man and therm, who would have thought there was a werewolf hunting as well?”

Huld cackles quietly.   “But the therm were not as easily fooled were they?”

“Nej, they are more than simple animals.”

“And he did not anticipate your arrival.   Your coming was both his boon and his bane.   You brought about his return, only to bring about his death.”

“His return?   What do you mean?”

“He was a Darkblood!” she exclaims, “Yet he walked the day!   How could such a thing be?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.   “The draugr came out only at night…”

“They were pathetic and weak.   Sad shadows of my son’s power.”

“Bolwerk hated the light,” Guiromélans recalls.

“But he still walked the day.   He hated the light, for it caused him pain, but the sun, there was none!   That which would have burned him alive was robbed from us!   With your coming, the storms came!   The clouds came!   And the sun never showed its face!   With your return, at last Bolwerk was able to return and take his place in the Highseat!”

Guiromélans stands stunned.   Bolwerk was only able to return because the storms that came blocked out the sun.   The storms came because Guiromélans came.   They were his punishment, his curse.   God’s curse allowed the return of the Darkblood?   God’s curse brought about the death of Balen.   And Dagnin.   And Putras.  And all the others.

Guiromélans buries his face in his hands.   More deaths for him to atone for?

“Is this why you called for me?   Did you wish to lay this guilt at my feet?”

“In part, jâ.”   Her hands move rhythmically across the dead skin.   “I want you also to witness this gathering of honored dead.   I want you to think on your involvement in their deaths.   I want you to think on the repercussions, had you not become involved.”   She gestures around at her fallen kith and kin.   “This is the price I paid to help ensure Gylling’s future!”

“You knew all this—you know everything—and you did nothing?”

Huld shakes her head.   “I could not raise my hand against my own blood, Korp.   It is against the laws of Jorun and the Thunderer.   This is why I needed you.   Korp, degkarl, outsider, crusader.   I could only read the signs and hope.   I couldn’t move against him until the time was right!”

Guiromélans suddenly looks up at the witch.   “You said you would protect them from the beast,” he says quietly.   “You said you would protect the boy.”

“And you said you would kill me if I didn’t,” Huld laughs.   Her humor fades as quickly as it appeared, and she looks down at her slain son, “And you tried, didn’t you?   Jâ, you did.”   She becomes solemn.   “I never imagined you would take him into the woods like you did.   My charms could not reach him there, and Bolwerk ignored my pleas.   There was nothing I could do on that day, and I’m saddened by it.”

“You have lost much more than I, witch,” Guiromélans says bitterly, gesturing at the corpses.   “Mourn more for your losses than mine, and know you could have prevented them.”

“Why would you say such things?”

“Because you were hardly powerless against the beast!   Despite your Thunderer Laws, you were still able to act against Bolwerk.   You just chose not to.   You were able to champion Hrobjart’s cause.   You were able to enchant the guards and repell the draugr.”   His voice thickens with emotion, “So why is it you waited until after Balen was killed before you chose to intervene?”

“It was not a matter of my choosing, Korp.”

“I asked for your help!” he shouts, “and all you gave me were useless riddles!”

“The timing was wrong, Sir Guiromélans.   I told you that then...   Had you listened to me and waited...”

“Timing?   For what?   What were you waiting for?”

“I could not intercede until both my sons became involved.   And that didn’t happen until you became fully involved.”

“What?”

“It was your actions that brought about this sword-storm.   It was your arrival that drew my son out from the wilderness and into the light.   The darkness of your storms allowed his return to Hardanger.   It was you who placed him back on the highseat of this stead—not the place we would have preferred, but at least we knew where he was—it was you who started the crusade against the draugr and championed peace with the udyronde, and it was you who helped drive out Okning’s Thunderers.   It was you who first vowed to cleanse Hardanger of its true evils, vowing in essence to expose Bolwerk.   Without these things, he may have never turned his eyes to the Medianists and their kin.   Without these things, Hrobjart may have never decided to move.   And without Hrobjart’s involvement, I could not raise my hand against my other son.”

Her eyes are wide and wet with sorrow, and Guiromélans wonders if some of it might be sympathy for him as well.   “Do you see?   The signs were right!   You were the one!   Without you, Bolwerk might not ever have been discovered… or if he was, he might have been too strong to stop.   Without you, the evil would never have been expunged!   You did this, Korp, but you were too impatient!”   She shakes her head.   “Had you only waited a little longer…”

Guiromélans buries his face in his hands.   God brought him to this place for a reason, and despite his incompetence, it seems he succeeded.   If only he hadn’t gotten his squire killed!

There must be vengeance!   There must be attonement!

A sudden thought occurs to him.

“If Bolwerk was a Darkblood,” Guiromélans moans, desperately grasping at straws, “that means he was created by an even more powerful Darkblood…”

“Do not go planning your next crusade, Korp,” Huld warns, quickly getting Guiromélans’s meaning.   “There is always a greater Darkblood.   You kill one, there is always another before for you to chase.   Their bloodlines are as twisted as aíhvatundi vines.   It is a game you cannot win.   You cannot worry about things like that.”

“Wait a moment,” Guiromélans realizes.   “Asmund was an ogre, Bolwerk a Darkblood.   Yet they were working together?   Conspiring?   You said Asmund turned Bolwerk into a Darkblood?   How can that be?”

“Your degkarl’s ignorance of our ways and our lands have done you a disservice, Korp.   The óriás are true evil, bastard sons of Tygg, driven by their hunger and hatred.   They would think nothing of an alliance with the Tribe of E šhar.   Together, they would drink our blood and pull our flesh from our bones.   In Óriásjord , that black alliance is so close and so old, the two breeds are barely distinguishable.”

Guiromélans looks stunned, broken, confused.   Nodding, Huld gestures to him.   “Come.   You seek a new crusade?   You seek to avenge your son’s death?   Then look and listen.”

As Guiromélans approaches, she inspects each of Asmund’s fingers.   Finding one to her liking, she clenches the nail in her teeth and wrenches it off.   Spitting it out, she gestures for Guiromélans to approach.   “Look.   Come.   See what I have summoned you to see.”

Gingerly, Guiromélans looks.   He inspects the pale flesh once hidden beneath the nail.   There, he sees a red tattoo.

It is the same evil rune he found twice before.   “They are jealous of our works, Korp,” Huld whispers, almost as if she fears the corpses are listening.   “They are ancient and powerful, and they are coming.”

Guiromélans looks up into the old woman’s eyes and, for the first time, sees true fear in them.

“Who are?”

Her long nail taps at the tattoo on the outraged flesh.   “They are.   Just as they grow here in Gylling, they grow elsewhere.   There is something standing between us and the warmth of God.   It casts a shadow upon us all.”

“Between us and God?   Which God?   The Thunderer?   Or mine?”

“Jâ.”

Guiromélans nearly smiles.   Instead, he shakes his head.   “You   are right.   One crusade at a time, witch.”   Rising, he turns to leave, pausing only when he reaches the doorway.   “Huld,” he asks, “With the passing of Bolwerk, does this mean Balen will not rise as a draugr?”

Huld hesitates, and she seems to consider her answer far too long for Guiromélans’s comfort.   “Jâ,” she says at last.   “He is safe from that fate.”

Guiromélans nods and turns to leave.

Just as the room explodes.