THE RAVEN —EPILOGUE: Salvation

Prologue ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... 14 ... 15 ... 16 ... 17 ... 18 ... 19 ... 20 ... 21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24 ... 25 ... 26 ... 27 ... 28 ... 29. ... 30 ... Epilogue... Glossary

Terrible Thunderer, fierest of the sword-storm,
Mightiest of the Great Lords,
Man-friend.
His name lost forever,
Forgotten so that men may have names of their own.

Was it stolen by Trickster?
Jealous Tygg speaks not the truth.
Was it stolen by Alfdis?
The Black Häxa reveals no secrets.
Only far-seeing Gro knows the truth, and Her price is high.

Through Thunderer’s wounds comes man’s strength.
He is the master of all who are weapon-dead,
Einheriar,
Merciless masters of the battle.
By the honor of our names, we serve Him, the Nameless One.

Dødensögur
Manuscripts of the Thunderer Heresies

* * *

The great fiery wheel rolls down the hill, crashing through the trees, leaving a steaming trail in the glittering snow.

In the hours and days after the Burning Time, life slowly returned to normal as people shook the dust from their hair and shoulders, washed the blood from their hands.

At the moment of Bolwerk’s death, every ghul fell as well.   Their corpses were everywhere, piled high in the streets of Hardanger.   It seems, Bolwerk intended to finish his black work that night, to destroy Hardanger and all within.   All of his draugr were within the stead or its surrounding lands.   It seems, Huld’s signs foretold the truth afterall.   The time was right.

Now, the herr must begin to repair the damage, extinguish the fires, and carry away the dead.   They must search for the rotting draugr corpses in all the corners and holes they found to hide in.   For many, they must put to rest those whom they had already buried.

And through all this, they must also prepare for the coronation of a new thane.

Tall as a böth, broad as a wagon, the great wheel gathers speed as it rolls downwards.   With each rise, with each bump, it becomes briefly airborne, casting sparks and flame across the night sky.

The fates of Officer Pliamin and the rest of the crew of the Blood Drake were of immediate concern to Guiromélans.   They had no part in Partinial’s attack, and he needed to make sure no retribution is exacted upon them.   Pliamin’s safety and security is crucial.   Now that Justiciar Quintian is dead, Pliamin is the last Medianist officer who can vouch for the leadership of Hardanger.

Concerning the crew of the dreadnaught, far more survived than Guiromélans expected.   Shell-shocked sailors and soldiers trickled into Hardanger by the ones and twos, and sometimes in larger groups, surrendering to whatever ridder, karl, or simple citizen they can find.   They were battered, hungry, and freezing.   Guiromélans and Ofeig recommended that Hrobjart treat them kindly as well.   Now is not the time to further alienate the Medianists.   A response from Aquilaleonis coming.   On that, everyone in Hardanger is certain.   Soon, ships and soldiers will be coming from Lethrasholme.   Hardanger must ensure its troubles are over long before they arrive.   They’ll need these men and Pliamin’s crew to help convince the Count that the threat to Mediansts is now over, and that no Söderkarl revolt is imminant.

For the handful of surviving Bracks, Hardanger has become both an oasis and a prison.   They now seem to be safe from Medianist authority, but they have no escape from the Southern Territories.   The Knight’s Torment was damaged by the galleon’s explosion, and it will succumb to its wounds without repairs.   Their new Captain, Adalgis, will have to repair their reputations with the Söderkarl before they can repair their ship.   This will be a difficult chore, but Guiromélans is certain his friend is up to the task.

The burning wheel emulates the cycling rhythm of the universe.   Just as the stars and sun and moon turn in the sky, the spinning wheel turns, plummeting down the hill.   It is the Söderkarl’s reminder of spring and summer’s warmth, it is their Burning Time promise that the sun will someday return.

Hrobjart took his place in the highseat of Hardanger quietly and with little fanfare, which was probably wise.   After the chaos of the past 3 months, the herr have no interest in another self-congratulatory spectacle.

Huld’s skills were taxed with the healing of injuries, the easing of pain, and the quickening of death.   But in the fullness of her time, she did manage to spare good Ofeig’s life.   Partinial’s blade was cruel, but the chamarling lost only one eye.   The Raven’s second cut was just below the mark, leaving Ofeig with a scar that makes him appear to be smiling all the time.   Henceforth he is known as the Laughing Warrior.

Even if the Medianist threat passes, and the powers in Lethrasholme do not seek vengeance, the turmoil in Gylling may not be over.   Thane Vandril and his son were not happy with the way Hrobjart so easily walked into the highseat.   They have sent notice that their claims will not be ignored.

War may be returning to Hardanger sooner than anyone would like.

Striking one last rock, the great wheel launches into the air, spinning high over the breakers of the sea.   Here, outside the bay of Hardanger, a small distance north of the stead, the ice-thickened sea still surges and rocks with the waves and tides.

Sparks and flames leave long trails as it soars through the air before the wheel at last plunges into the ocean, extinguishing violently and suddenly.

* * *

The horses wicker nervously in the frigid air.   Their group is small and vulnerable—Hrobjart, Ofeig, Guiromélans, and two escorts—and their mounts seem to sense the danger around them.   Bolwerk’s dead, black head, his face twisted in mid-transformation, is staked on the end of Hrobjart’s spear.   Ofeig’s spear bears Asmund’s.   They can only hope these tokens will be sufficient for their safe passage.

Brutal winds howl through and around the riders, their hair catching the ice and snow.   Black shapes seem move through the trees all around them, though it is difficult to be sure through the thickly falling snow.

Hrobjart takes one look around and curses.   “This is madness!”

“Nej,” Guiromélans says, “To not do this is madness.   You must realize that.”

The new Thane glares at the Raven.   “To fight honorably, that is the only true path!   To die bravely, that is the only true path!”

Guiromélans looks around him and then settles back in his saddle.   “If that is the truth in your heart, then here is your opportunity.   I pray to God, you make the right decision.”

The therm materialize from the dark woods all around them.   The horses stamp and dance in near panic as they shy away from these predators.   Guiromélans remains stock still in his saddle, mastering his mount effortlessly.   They are in dangerous territory here, in woods the Söderkarl would never dare enter even before the war.

Guiromélans examines the therm, sensing the atu of each, seeking which is the leader.

“You come for the turm, genton?” one asks with quiet menace.

Surprise ripples through the Söderkarl.   Until now, they had never believed Guiromélans’s claim to the udyronde’s intelligence.   Guiromélans smiles and dismounts, facing the therm leader fearlessly.   “We have come for the turm,” he answers, “We are zenésturm, but we will not join the raskus with you.”

The lead therm approaches and circles Guiromélans, inhaling deeply.  “ Zenésturm or not, you are still genton.”   Slowly, it reaches out with one of its upper arms.   Its talons lightly rake down Guiromélans’s cheek.   “Shall we eat you, soft genton?”

In a move that catches both sides by surprise, Guiromélans’s saber leaps into his hand.   Before the therm can react, its jagged tip is dimpling the soft flesh beneath its throat.   “Shall we cut you down, skilasbúzas?” he answers.

The tension vibrates the air as the therm’s golden eyes stare down at the Raven.   His face is implacable, calm, dedicated.   His work in Hardanger is complete.   He is prepared for death if it be God’s wish.   There is no fear in him.   The therm seems to sense this.

“I sense your atu, genton,” it says, its golden eyes glittering, “Your ala is strong.   Tell me why you invade our lands like this, if your intent was not to feed our suchis with your flesh?”

“Much blood has been spilled in the raskus between our zalmos,” Guiromélans says, smoothly sheathing his sword, “We seek to end that lest our Didza turns to tranas.”

“You seek an end before the turm has truly begun?”

“We seek not to dance the turm with you,” he corrects.

“These genton you have chosen,” the lead therm says, looking over at Hrobjart, “They claim to follow their atu fearlessly.   They claim to be suras one and all.   They started this turm, they spill the blood of my zalmos, now they seek to end it?”

“No,” Guiromélans corrects.   “This turm was not started by us, no more than it was started by you.   I know this, and I know you know it as well.”

Slowly, Guiromélans turns and points to the two heads on spears.   “They were the instigators of this tranas.   They were the ones who broke both our atus.   They are not part of our zalmos.”

He looks back at the therm.   “We do not seek the turm with you.   We have our own troubles.   We ask that you go back to the turm with the walking meat.   We ask that you save our lands from becoming knisas, as you always have.”

The therm looks down at him for a long time.   “We may not be genton,” it says at last, “but we are not fools.   We know the work you did for us.”

“I am sorry for your losses.”

The therm looks at the Söderkarl and then back down at Guiromélans, “The putras was right.   You are strong.   You served the ala well.   We shall not pursue the turm with your zalmos.”

* * *

It took 2 days for Hardanger to finally stop reeling from the Medianist and draugr attacks.   Only then could it finally begin to come to terms with what had happened.   So many dead, so many injured.   So much damaged or destroyed.   Their Thane and lady are dead, and a new man sits upon the highseat.

It took 3 more days to secure and confirm the peace with the therm.   Brave karls raced away on sled and ski to spread the word.   No more shall man hunt the udyronde, and no more shall the udyronde hunt man.

It took one full day to prepare for the funerals.   Dozens must be prepared for the fallen of Hardanger, but in truth, only two really count.   It is in the funeral of Thane Bolwerk and his lady, Dårlig, that everyone has a stake.   With their memorial, all others will be remembered and mourned as well.   It is unabashedly a Thunderer ceremony, and they make no effort to honor the Medianist God.   Guiromélans says nothing on this, and preparations are made without his consent or contribution.

Bolwerk’s ancient karve still floated in the bay from Dårlig’s Test of the Einheriar.   At Hrobjart’s order, a team of men was sent to break it out of its icy prison and drag it back on shore.   They then disassembled it and carried it to the site where the great wheel was extinguished on the Feast of Mother Night.   There, it was reassembled and prepared for its final launch.

Bönder worked deep in the woods, hewing and carrying down to shore a vast amount of fuel, selecting only particular kinds of wood for this purpose.   This, they piled high on decks of the Thane’s dragon-ship.   Its rails and masts and cabins were decorated richly with tapestry hangings, garlands of flowers, vessels, weapons of all kinds, golden rings, and countless other objects of value.

And now it is just prior to the commencement of the ceremony.   The tide is leaving, and the ice-heavy waves rush around and under the ship, rocking it with their force, struggling with its restraints to suck it out to sea.   The herr of Hardanger has arrived to witness this, despite the ferocity of the winter storm that rages around them.   The flames of each man’s torch are bent down and stretched by the howling wind, seeming to threaten to extinguish them as easily as if they were tiny matches.   It is cold, it is dark, it is wet, but yet each karl and karline, böndi and thrall, Medianist and Thunderer is here to bid their rulers goodbye.   Guiromélans marvels at the site, and wonders if they have so quickly forgotten the troubles Bolwerk was responsible for.

Somewhere, a great drum begins a slow beat, somehow audible over the wind and surf.   All eyes turn south, and soon, a ragged line of torches becomes visible.   As they get closer, Guiromélans can make out the most honored ridders and huskarls of Hardanger, with Ofeig in the lead.   Between them, they carry the biers of the royal dead.

All is silent except for the drums and the storm and the sea, as Bolwerk and Dårlig are carried through the herr and brought to the karve.   Ofeig bows to Guiromélans as they pass.

Guiromélans hesitates for a moment, and then much to the surprise of all, he too takes a place at Dårlig’s side and helps bring her corpse on board, where she is laid next to her husband on the deck.   Together in death, they remain a couple of striking contrasts.   His corpse remains twisted and deformed in his transformation, his grotesque head only superficially reattached to his trunk, and all is covered with funeral veils.   Dårlig’s corpse is immaculate and richly attired.   Death has done little to diminish her beauty, and her expression is peaceful, with what Guiromélans thinks might even be a hint of a smile on her lips.

Bolwerk and Dårlig are laid together so that they might accompany each other even in death.   Despite Bolwerk’s evil, few in Hardanger would deny Dårlig’s love for her husband, and in some small, quiet way, Guiromélans believes Bolwerk loved her too.

Each of the Söderkarl bow to their lord before leaving the ship.   Ofeig pauses and looks back at Guiromélans, waiting for the Raven to join them.   Guiromélans stands and stares down at the slain lady for a long time.   How much did he love her?   Did he lover her at all?   Does it matter?

With a deep sigh, he slowly draws the blade hung at his hip.   It is Dårlig’s silver longsword, and this he places between the two lovers.   He smiles slightly when he sees Bolwerk’s corrupt flesh blacken at its proximity.

Horses and hounds are slain, Bolwerk and Dårlig’s favorites, and they too are placed upon the karve to join their masters.   The entire pyre is entwined with thorns, a Söderkarl symbol of sleep.

There are no words spoken, no prayers, no speeches.   For the Söderkarl, none are needed.   The spirits of these two are already gone.   They have already been embraced by the Thunderer.   Already they are within the Halls of the Einheriar, drinking and singing and sharing their tales of life and death and battle.   They have already died a thousand times upon the battlefields of Niflheim.   Nothing said now will change that.

A great bonfire is built.   The burning logs are spinkled with rare woods and flowers, and the flames burn blue and purple.   From this blaze, Bolwerk’s most honored huskarl, Ofeig, withdraws a firebrand and holds it aloft.   Many among the herr weep, as does Ofeig, for this would have been the duty of Orkning, had that great chamarling chosen life.

This torch he throws upon the karve, and almost instantly, it ignites into a violent blaze.   Thralls rush forward, wading in that frigid water, and attack the wood holding the ship in place.   With the next wave, the wood groans and snaps, and the great dragon-ship is drawn away.   For the next few minutes, the herr watch as it plays a cat-and-mouse game with the waves, teasing them, first advancing and then retreating back towards shore, but with each pull of the waves, it eases further and further away from shore.

Even as the ship becomes more distant, the flames of the pyre present a magnificent spectacle, their tendrils reaching high into the sky despite the weather.   The light grows with each passing moment with greater and greater glory, until the ship becomes a star and then a sun, and when at last it nears the western horizon, it seems as if the sea and sky themselves are on fire.

Slowly, the ship disappears beneath the water.   No one among the crowd turns aside or speaks until the last spark of light has vanished.   At last, all the world is enveloped in a mantle of darkness, and Bolwerk and Dårlig are gone.

* * *

Of all the dead within Hardanger, it was Bolwerk and Dårlig that the people mourned for the most.   There were smaller ceremonies following theirs—smaller pyres, smaller ships, even one or two Medianist burials—but only the royal couple’s passing ilicited so much unified attention.   It is a sentiment Guiromélans cannot understand or share, for he cannot separate the people from their actions.

He moves slowly through the nearly abandoned graveyard, his back bent beneath the weight of his burdons.   Prior to his arrival, the last Medianist buried here was the slain priest.   Since then, this place had become merely a garden for weeds and vermin.   But now, new graves scar the landscape.   Now that the curse of the draugr has passed, those Medianists the Söderkarl could find have been laid here.   Aybert is here, as is Dagnin and Captain Dumart.

As is Balen.

Even as the young Raven’s gravestone comes into sight, Guiromélans sees he is not the only one who chose to visit the boy at this time.

Caidryn sits on a nearby stone—elbows on knees, hands clasped—not in a posture of mourning but of deep reflection.

“You come here to mourn still?” he asks.

Caidryn startles briefly but relaxes when she recognizes his voice.   She doesn’t even turn around but instead merely shakes her head.   “Nage,” she sighs, “Not really, at least.   I just likes tä keep him company.   Can’t imagine these other stuffy dead boduuses can be much fun tä be around.”

When she looks over at him, she is smiling warmly, though her eyes do frown slighty when she sees what he’s carrying.   They have never really spoken about the day of the battle, the day that the Knight’s Torment returned, the day Bolwerk died, and the day she killed Captain Forré, but Guiromélans can see that she is a changed woman now.   There is a new spring in her step, a new brightness in her eyes.   She walks taller, more secure, and strangely, more pleasant than he has ever seen her.   It is unfortunate that people cannot personally slay their demons more often.

“And yä,” she asks, “What’re yä doin’ here with all that?”

Guiromélans self-consciously sets each of the parcels down, Balen’s saddle, Partinial’s saber.   “They are for Balen,” he says.

Caidryn watches with surprise as he lays the saddle over the mound and drives the saber into the soil next to the it.

“Yer not keepin’ them?”

“No.   The saddle was his.   He was the true Raven.   He deserves the best I can offer.”

“But the sword…   Yers is broken!”

Guiromélans regards the shining sliver of steel rising from the ground.   All Ravens are given sabers, but Partinial’s—like Guiromélans’s—is a masterpiece.   “Partinial was an evil man, Caidryn.   Only a knight of Balen’s calibre could cleanse the shame from such a blade.”

“What?” Caidryn stammers in astonishment.

Guiromélans smiles at her.   “If the Söderkarl vision of the afterlife is true, then I wish for Balen to have them, to take them with him, for he will most certainly need them.”

Caidryn gestures towards the pistol tucked into Guiromélans’s belt.   “Yäh?   Then what about that shooter, uh?   Why not leave that too?”

Guiromélans’s hand rests on the polished handle of Partinial’s wheel-lock.   “You know, had we ever covered firearms in his training, I would have considered it.   However…”

Caidryn stares at Guiromélans for a long time, and he is pleased that after all their time together, he can still surprise her.   At last she shrugs and nods.   “Yäh, whatever helps yä get by, I guess.”

“Thank you, Caidryn.”

She shakes her head and gestures down at his own saber.   “Sä, yä wants tä give Balen the good sword, fine.   But yers is broken!   There were other Ravens killed that day.   Why not take one of theirs?   Their swords may not be as fine as Balen’s, but they’re better than that broken thing, uh?”

Guiromélans draws his saber and examines it.   Despite its injury, its blade still shines like new.   He smiles.   “This sword works well enough, I think.”

“Ochfi!” she spits in exasperation and shakes her head, “Damn fool boduus!”

“Balen would understand.”

“Yäh, I’m sure he would.”

“Did you know that the broken sword is an important symbol to the Söderkarl?”

“Yäh,” she nods, “I sees it everywhere!   It’s even on their flag!   Heard it had somethin’ tä do with their last king.”

Guiromélans nods.   “Yes.   It is an important story,” he says as he sheathes his weapon.   “Remind me some day to tell it to you.”

Caidryn laughs, rising and slowly circling Balen’s grave, testing the weight of the knight’s saddle with the toe of her boot.   “Sä, what next, Cathubodua?”

Guiromélans shakes his head.   “What do you mean?”

“Yä lifted the draugr curse, stopped the udyronde war, uncovered Bolwerk and his plot, stopped the attacks on the Medianists, saved Hardanger from Medianist reprisials, exposed and wiped out a Thunderer cell, and fulfilled yer lady’s request fer help.”   Her eyes shine as she looks at him.   “What does yä have planned fer tomorrow?”

Guiromélans grins and shakes his head.   “Only God knows, Caidryn!”

She laughs.   “Yäh!   And through it all, who woulda expected tä see yä helpin’ the Thunderers?   Wonder if God saw that comin’?”

Guiromélans startles mildly.   “What?”

She smiles, “A Cathubodua workin’ with heretics?   What’s the world comin’ tä, uh?”

Guiromélans hesitates when he realizes she is right.   He remembers his first raid with the Bracks of the Knight’s Torment, upon the village of Praggan.   He remembers the old godi’s curse, spat from his lips as he laid dieing amongst the blood of his sons.   He was cursed to serve at the right hand of God’s enemy, and for a time, he did.

And somehow, it was OK with God.

Caidryn laughs at his thoughtful expression and punches him in the stomach.   “C’mon.   Enough moonin’.   It’s nearly dinnertime.   I’ll buys yä a water, and yä can buys me some øl.”

Caidryn leads the way, and Guiromélans begins to follow when he hesitates.   Her last observations have stuck with him.   If not the Thunderers, what now constitutes an enemy of God?   A strange feeling passes through him, and he is compelled to look back at the grave.   He has passed on to Balen all that he could—his knowledge, his skills, even his most prized possessions—but there is something still missing.   Almost as if of its own accord, his hand reaches into his jacket.   When it emerges, it holds a black leather bag in its grip.

Ah yes, he ponders, his duty.

Slowly, he tips the bag over, and one-by-one the witchs’ stones fall upon the soil.

When the bag is empty, he tosses it away with sudden disgust and rushes to catch up with Caidryn.

Some time after they are gone, a bent figure appears at Balen’s grave.   One-by-one its long fingers meticulously pick up each stone and drop them into the discarded bag.   It counts out each stone it finds and does not stop until every one is accounted for.   Only after this is done does it take up the saber and saddle and disappear with them into the night.

* * *

Only a handful of Söderkarl have gathered here to see him off.   Many of them still believe the quiet slander spread by the likes of Asmund and Bolwerk.   Despite all he has done here, they still mistrust him as a Medianist.   Such are the ways of Men, and he doesn’t hold it against them.

Ofeig is here, as is Pliamin.   Being the last great threat to his authority, Hrobjart is also here, more than eager to see him go.

Guiromélans circles his horses, adjusting the fit of the tack and gear, checking his supplies.   It is frigid today and snowing, endlessly snowing.   It has snowed here unlike any winter any Söderkarl has ever seen.   In those places that are not fastidiously plowed and cleared, the drifts rise to the roofs of buildings, and in some places, higher.

Guiromélans is not concerned.   He expects, as soon as he leaves, things will return to normal.

“You going south?” Pliamin asks, his third time asking, as if he still cannot believe it.

“Jâ.   And east.   Into that place you call Óriásjord.”

“The óriás will most certainly greet you warmly, Korp,” Ofeig says.

“I have learned they may soon threaten my Medianst lands.   I’m thinking they might benefit from some lessons in Medianist Law.”

“Einfætingaland stands in your way as well.”

Guiromélans raises his eyebrows.   “I look forward to meeting them as well.”

Pliamin shakes his head.   “God go with you then, Raven.”

“Thank you, Pliamin.”   He and the new Captain of the Blood Drake shake hands.

Perhaps sensing the end of the conversation—perhaps impatient by the cold and delays—Hrobjart abruptly stands in his stirrups.   “You have served my bygthir well, Korp.   And now I discharge you from my service.”

The Raven stares up at the Thane and smiles.   “I suppose I’d best be going then.”

“And what of your lady, Caidryn?” Ofeig asks.

Guiromélans shakes his head as he climbs into the saddle.   “I have not seen her…   If she asks about me…”

Ofeig nods, “Jâ.”

“And… please remember my request.   Please do what you can and see that she reaches safer lands.”

“Jâ.   I shall, Korp.   Take care, my friend.”

Guiromélans leans down and takes the charmarling’s hand.   “Thank you, my friend.”

Straightening in his saddle, he salutes the brooding Thane and leads his horses out of Hardanger.

He rides south for a long time, sticking to the deep canyons in the snow made for the railroad tracks.   There are no roads now.   Only the mighty rail plows are powerful enough to challenge this weather.

Guiromélans wonders what he will do if a train approaches.   He looks around himself.   There is no way he and his horses could climb these walls to escape should it become necessary.

The snow level drops the deeper into the forest he gets.   Perhaps the trees have borne the brunt of the snow.   Perhaps he is getting far enough away from Hardanger for the effects of his past presence to have diminished.   Perhaps there are other forces at work here.

He is reminded that wherever man’s realm ends, the land falls under new stewardship.

Dark shapes flicker through the trees.   They make no effort to hide themselves.   Many carry torches, and these they raise in salute to him as he passes.   The therm keep pace with him for a long time, perhaps escorting him, before they silently disappear.   Guiromélans waves goodbye to the last of them.

It is at Gylling’s southern-most marker that he finds her.   Caidryn is leaning against her horse for warmth, patient and without care, almost as if there was no question in her mind that he would eventually pass by this way.

Perhaps she knows him better than he thought?

When she hears him coming, she turns and smiles.   Tucked into her Söderkarl furs, her face is rosey and welcome.

“Bout time yä made it!” she shouts, “Yä has na idea the kinds of propositions those animal-things were makin’ tä me!”

Smiling, Guiromélans dismounts.   “Well, I’m glad they didn’t trouble you too much then.”

“Yä!” she nods as he approaches, “Not too much.”

When he reaches her, she grabs him forcefully by the collar and pulls him closer.   The look in her eyes is suddenly intense.

“Caidryn,” he says, wearily.

“Sä I hears yä goin’ tä take on the ogres, yä?   Yä thinkin’ yä kin leaves me behind, uh?”

Guiromélans covers her hand with his own.  It is trembling.   “Caidryn, my crusades are not yours.”

“Yäh!   I believes they are!”

“We don’t even believe in the same God!” he almost laughs.   “How can we share the same crusade?”

Pain flickers in her eyes.   “Is that what yä thinks?”

Gently, Guiromélans extracts his collar from her fist.   “Caidryn, have you not yet realized it?   It is my goal—my fate—to die.   It is truly the only way I can attone for my crimes.   It is my duty to fight the wars of my God and then die at a time of His choosing.   Be it against Thunderers or Masks or draugr or therm or werewolves or ogres, I must seek out my death and do endless battle until it is finally granted to me.”

“Yer startin’ tä sound like a Söderkarl there, boduus,” she murmurs.

“God has decided that this wasn’t the time—the place—of my passing, and so I move on.”

“Then we move on together.”

“No—”

“Yäh!”

“Caidryn, no!   It is not right to burdon you with this—”

“Right?” she mocks.   “Nothin’ in me life has been right or fair, vitchoor!   Not me birth, not me childhood, not me time with the Artaithto-Cing, or me time with Balen, nothin’!   Only the time spent with yä was good.”   She shakes her head, “I goes with yä, because life or death, it’s the best future I gots.   And yer not takin’ that away from me!”

She raises her other hand.   In it, she holds a cold iron coin.   “I still gots me lispund, if’n yä cares tä draw lots again…   Just tells me the mark tä draw on it.”

Guiromélans looks at her, looks deep into her eyes.   He sees fear and desperation in them, but deeper still, he sees something else, something much more powerful driving her.   Just as she needs him, he realizes he needs her.   If he can help her conquer her demons, expunge her sins, then perhaps she can help conquer his?   Alone, they are weak.   Together…

Cradling her hand in his, he carefully bites the fingertips of her glove and pulls it from her hand.   Then he does the same with his.   Bared against the cold, their fingers entwine and are somehow warmed.   Her hand is callused and rough, her nails split, but the touch is so welcome, he nearly weeps.

“Put away your coin for another time,” he says, “I know better than to tempt fate by drawing lots against you.”

Caidryn’s lips twitch and then smile.   Suddenly, she takes the back of his neck and pulls him against her, crushing their clasped, bared hands between their bodies.   Her lips seek and find his before he can gently but firmly push her away.

He smiles at her frown.   “Need I remind you,” he says, “that Bracks don’t kiss?”

That ever-present anger flashes in her eyes.   It is his only warning before she slaps him sharply across the face, the cold and bare skin leaving an eye-watering sting.   Just as quickly, she pulls him into her again, her breath and tongue warming his lips.   Just as firmly, he pushes her away again.   This second time, he catches her hand when she tries to slap him.   Fear and panicked uncertainty play across her eyes and face.

Smiling at her, he brings her hand to his lips and kisses its fingers, its palm.   Cradling her head in his hands, he pulls her to him and kisses her lips.

* * *

Since his defeat at the hands of a witch over 9 months ago, he has seen many kinds of rain—hard rain, gentle drizzle—from brittlely cold, to luridly warm—from foggy rain that seems to rise up from the ground, to brutal downpours that pummel you from all directions.   He has seen hurricane winds and fogs that could drown navies.   He has seen sleet and hail and endless, endless snow.

As they ride south together, the sun at last breaks through the clouds.