By James Fadeley

“—ou kendrless cur! Sooner cut your own horn off to blow for your tiny friends than side with your own kind!”

“I wouldn’t be talking about friends right now, Nefr. Seeing as you don’t have any,” Hund replied, shoving the unruly varl into the largest gaol cell. The iron door handle was chilling to touch, even for the giant, yet the satisfying slam and thunk of the lock bar warmed the cockles of Hund’s heart. “If you be quiet, I’ll have the gaoler get you some water. Else you can dry out on your own.”

“Faen you, watch dog!”

Hund sighed at the prisoner’s needless obstinance and walked towards the exit, passing a few beams of morning light peeking from apertures carved into the stone walls. He moved slowly, studying the passage and reflecting on his contributions to the architecture. How the height was just enough that a varl didn’t have to bow his horned head, how there was even a couple of rooms large enough for his kind.

I could do so much better now, he thought. I’ve learned and practiced so much since then. He couldn’t help but feel some shame for his inexperienced handiwork all those decades ago. Or was it more than a century now? Hund frowned, struggling to remember. The long lives of varl turned memories into labyrinths of time.

Nefr began to ramble and howl at him, his words so slurred that only their hostility could be felt, not their meaning. Hund didn’t spare him a second look, stepping out of the prisoners’ hallway and shutting the door. The litany of drunken curses was lost behind a barrier of wood, leather and wool designed to muffle the gaol’s most vocal occupants. Hund marveled at the ingenuity of the design. That must be made by a man. Gods be good, why didn’t I think of that…

“You’re up early,” someone said.

Hund spun around, then nodded to the speaker. The human was getting on in age, his hair and long mustache a mix of grey and brown. In the embers of the nearby fire, his wizened eyes sparkled with wisdom and intellect. “Sorry if I woke you, Sigketill.”

“Nah. I was up ages ago. Don’t sleep much anyway.” He hunched down to place a log into the fire pit built into the wall between two rooms, and stirred it back to life. Hund stared at the flames, remembering long ago when he was on his back, carefully chiseling the rock inside the wall. The hole that rose up formed a stack chimney through the hill, providing ventilation which allowed smoke to escape. It was a technique that Hund had learned long ago in Grofheim, as the giants much preferred stone homes that would live as long as their occupants.

“So, who is our customer today?” Sigketill asked.

“Nefr. Again. Drunken argument at The Caroling Giant that turned into a fist fight. The hall owner banned him this time.” Hund unslung the sheathed greatsword over his back. “Glad he didn’t use this or I’d never have gotten him out alive.”

“No offense Hund, but you bring me the lousiest Yuletide gifts.”

Hund threw his head back and laughed, his mirth echoing in the cavernous gaol.

Sigketill’s thick mustache hid his amused grin, and he turned towards another door. “Follow me.”

Hund dipped his horns to fit through the entrance of Sigketill’s quarters, warmed by the opposite side of the firepit. Some seasonal fruits dried on a board next to the heat, while finished batches hung from garlands nailed to the wall. Across the room, a shutter was open, letting in a beam of sunlight that struck an opaque stone on a table, illuminating the chamber with a candle-like glow. Hund marveled at the sunstone. Such “diffusing” types were exceedingly rare. The varl knelt down to examine the carved, glowing rock, realizing that the utter smoothness of the surface was perfect. Not something that could be wrought by the hands of men nor varl…

“Where did you get this?” Hund asked.

“Gift from the Governor a couple of years back, but I don’t know where he got it. I think… it may have come from our other ‘friends’ in the north.”

Hund smiled faintly. The gaoler was no fool, and that was undoubtedly why the varl liked him.

From a carved shelf in the wall, Sigketill withdrew a small book and carefully set it on the table nearby. In the sunstone’s light, he slowly flipped pages until he found what he sought. “Let’s see… yes. Nefr was a guest in our humble lodgings almost a month ago. Charges included a fight with another varl and smashing a merchant’s stall. He was drunk then, too.”

“I remember. The varl turned out to be the merchant’s guard, so only Nefr was taken in.”

Sigketill flipped through further pages until arriving at a list of names, dates and crimes that didn’t reach the bottom. He reached for a quill on the table’s corner, dabbing it in its vial a few times before adding Nefr’s fresh charges to the paper. “Well. That’s the second foul up for our good friend.”

Hund shook his head sadly. Had Nefr committed anything more serious then he would have been banished immediately. As it was, Strand’s patience was at an end. One more arrest meant kicking Nefr out of the city and seizing his property. It wouldn’t be a duty Hund relished.

“I don’t suppose he had any coins for his fine?”

“The barkeep insisted on collecting what little he had to pay for the damages,” Hund replied.

Sigketill sighed, the ends of his mustache streaming like a banner in the wind. “Well… I guess we’ll feed him out of kindness and seasonal cheer.”

“Maybe have him work for it?” Hund offered. “Haul somethings around perhaps. He’s as strong as a yox though twice as stubborn.”

“Hmmm. Maybe. Or maybe we could sell that.” Sigketill gestured to the weapon the varl held.

“That won’t go over well.” Hund placed the greatsword against the wall. “He’ll turn into a lunatic if you do. He loves that sword.”

“Alright, but if we have to arrest him again, we will take it for good.” Sigketill let the book sit for a while, the ink drying. “Since you’re here, got time for another game?”

“I think I could manage it.” A smile spread across Hund’s face as he saw his chance. With no seats his size, he sat on the floor beside the table. “Ready to lose again?”

Sigketill chuckled as he drew a bag and a panel of wood from the shelf. The board bore a beautifully engraving of ships on the edges, and a carefully aligned grid. Hund had once asked Sigketill who had carved it, but the gaoler did not know. From the bag came several black pieces shaped as men, and larger white pieces with shields carved in the bodies. Varl.

“Such a sad looking king,” Hund commented, as the final piece was set. Placed in the center, the king was cracked along the top, the crown gone. With a grin, Hund reached into his pouch and withdrew something, gingerly planting it before Sigketill. “Merry Yuletide.”

The gaoler laughed and gently lifted the newly carved king piece. It was made of whale bone, regal and stern faced with a mighty set of horns instead of a crown. “When did you have time to make this?”

Hund shrugged. “Here and there. Took patience.”

“I never understood why you bothered to join the City Watch when you could be rich as an artisan. This is truly something beautiful.”

Hund smiled sadly. He was the only of his kind officially in the watch, a fact that earned him much disrespect. “I could do so, making beautiful things that would outlive my kind. But you know, too many varl dwell on a bleak future or a glorious past. Not enough focus on the problems at hand. I want them to wake up, pay attention. Be mindful. And sometimes that means pulling a few horned heads out of their arses…”

“Now that is an image I did not need.”

The two friends burst into a guffaw that lasted a long minute. Despite his loneliness, Hund did feel better. When they settled, Sigketill reached beneath the table, pulling out a large clay pot he set before Hund.

“What’s this?” The varl removed the lid, his brows rising in surprise at the golden liquid inside. “Good gods! How many skeps did you destroy to get this much?

There was a mischievous twinkle in Sigketill’s gaze as he smiled. “None.”

Hund’s brow rose. Often, cultivating honey meant drowning or smoking out the bees from the skep basket, killing the colony. “How?”

“Let’s just say I have my ways and leave it at that. Maybe I’ll write them down and share it with you when I’m dead. But since you clearly made the better gift, why don’t you choose who goes first?”

“Ha. I’ll be the varl then.”

They set up the board. The white varl pieces stood in the center around the king, and after a moment of deliberation, Sigketill decided to align the black human pieces along the edges rather than the corners. Then they began.

With the king totally surrounded by his guards, Hund’s first turn was to move a varl out of the lord’s way. He carefully turned the piece’s shield towards the nearest group of humans. If two black pieces surrounded a varl on the unshielded sides, it would be taken. The possibility of that was quite real as Sigketill had a larger, more mobile force in every direction. The gaoler moved two human pieces towards the king, one of which stopped at the recently-moved varl’s flank. Hund moved another varl diagonally, taking the flanking human and creating a shield wall; a vital defensive maneuver.

But it was not about defeating the enemy force. Indeed, fighting was a losing strategy, as tafl was about escaping to fight another day.

The board became a complex formation as the other groups of men were moved to surround the king’s varl, cutting them off from the exit point corners. Hund paused and thought carefully over any sacrifices, such exchanges inevitably favoring Sigketill. He was glad they elected not to allow reinforcements, which would have permitted the gaoler to return captured men to the board each time a varl was taken. Oh, how I loathe that rule, Hund thought. As if I need to be reminded of men’s fruitfulness.

“Can I ask you something?” Sigketill asked.

Hund narrowed one eye, suspecting the gaoler of trying to distract him.

“Do varl have any stories about Yuletide? We tell a few to our children, but they never sound too realistic. I’ve always been curious about how it started, but man is notoriously bad at record keeping.”

Hund cracked a smile as he moved another varl forward, capturing a black piece. “Well, there’s one. It’s more historical than a myth for us though. A kind of lesson.”

“I’d like to hear it,” Sigketill made no captures, but moved more humans into position to block escape. “Were you there during it?”

“Me? Nah. I met a few varl who were though, old timers. Veterans of the First Great War, during the final days, not long before it ended.”

Sigketill leaned back in his seat, the leather shuffling. They were both content to pause the game, to reflect on their forthcoming decisions. Sigketill’s forces almost blocked Hund, who would have to fight his way through. A single mistake would unravel the shield wall and doom his king. A break from the tension was welcome.

“It started with a winter storm. A bad one, one where the clouds hid the sun for days while the snow fell almost unceasingly. Sometimes it fell hard, sometimes softly, and any breaks felt like the clouds were only drawing a breath before continuing. It was during this wretched time that a varl leader named Jolnir led his warband south. Jolnir and his varl were tired and hungry. Tired of the war, tired of the endless raiding. The chill of the wind was bad enough that even the biggest kiln-kin felt the ice in their very bones. Some even wondered if the world was ending. If the gods had turned their back on them. If the sun had died forever and left them to be buried in tombs of snow and ice. But more than anything, Jolnir missed the laughter. The mirth he enjoyed with his fellow varl, over warm meals and good drinks. He cherished those simple joys that eased the burden of living, having forgotten or lost his reasons for warring long ago.

“During their venture, one of Jolnir’s scouts came back with a prisoner. It was a man, a forager who had been scrounging for food or firewood. Jolnir’s warband, also hungering, first thought to have the man lead them back to his village, so that they may raid and plunder what they could. But Jolnir looked at the starving forager and knew they had little, or else he would not have ventured into this storm. The leader bade his warband to wait, and he went with the man to his village.

“When Jolnir returned, he brought with him several huntsmen. The men knew the land, the woods and where to find game. They feared betrayal, but Jolnir had each of his varl give oaths not to attack the men, striking a truce. Together, they journeyed into the snowcapped forests to begin their task. At first, they found little, until Jolnir plucked several holly plants and bundled them together, their berries bright red against the green. Popping one of the berries, the men and varl hid as deer and other game sought the bait. They repeated this trick again and again, relocating to escape the strong smell of blood. And by the end of the joint hunt, they gathered almost more than they could carry.

“But their return was not without perils. Before they left the forest, they were assailed by armed bandits, ravenous for their prized game. Jolnir’s varl formed a shield wall while the huntsmen fought with bows and boar spears. Before long, the bandits were routed, and not a member of Jolnir’s comrades had died.

“Still, troubles dogged them as they left the forest. For they came upon another small raiding party of varl. ‘Kiln-brother,’ said their leader to Jolnir. ‘My varl starve, and you depart the forest with meat enough to sate even the Winter Bird. Let us take the human’s share and leave them to their fate.’

“Yet Jolnir refused. ‘I shall not turn my back on these huntsmen, for they have shared in the hunt and in battle. I will share our spoils with you as fellow children of Hadrborg. But theirs is their own, as my varl and I have pledged that they would live to see the sun reborn, for peace begins with a kept oath.’

“The raiders were enraged. They called Jolnir and his varl traitors as they attacked, shields and horns slamming together. Once again, Jolnir’s band stuck together and fought as one. Soon, the hunters were victorious as the enemy varl retreated, weapons slick with the blood of giants and men alike. Jolnir’s beautiful white fur coat was crimson with their grim but honest deeds. And the party returned to the village as welcome heroes, the storm miraculously ending with their arrival.

“The humans welcomed them back by preparing a feast. Word spread of Jolnir’s honesty, and every home in the village offered him a drink out of respect. And the more he drank, the more jovial he and his varl became, reminded of the value of life. Finally, Jolnir offered the village a toast and pledged he and his varl would never again attack the holdings of men.

“Then one of the wives of the huntsmen came forward. ‘But how will varl and men get along?’ To prove her point, she gestured to a young calf, a kendr of one of Jolnir’s varl, who was roughhousing with one of the village’s boys. Jolnir scratched his beard thoughtfully, then smiled. He took the bones from the feast, cleaned them and carved toys and game pieces. From these came the first tafl sets, for men and giant meet on the board as equals, the mind being as important as any other muscle.

“The night before Jolnir’s band left however, it was said he had a dream. He saw a beautiful woman beside a grand loom. When he approached, she smiled at him, the radiance of her joy blinding. And while his eyes were shut, he was stunned as he somehow felt a warm, gentle kiss upon his forehead, as though she were taller than he! When Jolnir woke, his fur coat was changed. The blood was gone, replaced with a crimson hue and a trim of pure white, while well-stitched gloves and boots awaited him, perfectly suited for his size. And when Jolnir went out to thank the villagers for their wondrous gift, they were confused… for none of them came forward to claim they had sewn it. Before he left, Jolnir took the crown of holly he made for the hunt and put it upon his head. Then, wishing the village peace, he and his varl began their journey back north… the clouds parting at last, and the warm sun shining upon their path.”

Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Sigketill stared at Hund, his mustache twitching in deep thought before finally speaking. “What became of him?”

“I don’t know, and I doubt anyone who claims they do. I heard a rumor once that Jolnir’s real name was Karl. Others are adamant that Karl was Jolnir’s kendr, and that the rest of his warband were among the first to advocate the end of the war.”

“He certainly sounds familiar, this Jolnir. Sometimes, we tell our kids of the Yule Father.”

Hund tilted his head. “Go on.”

“Hmm? Well, there’s not much to tell really.” Sigketill grinned bashfully, rubbing the back of his head. “It is usually a story some of us tell our kids to keep them on their best behavior, with promises of gifts if they do.”

Hund stared at him a long moment before finally snickering. “Let me guess. This ‘Yule Father’… big fellow, red fur coat, gives lots of toys and games. Uses a walking stick that might have once been a spear…”

Sigketill seemed reluctant to speak. “Possibly.”

“Sounds to me like your lot might have kept the parts you liked best. Tell me, does your ‘Yule Father’ have holly-clad horns?”

“I don’t recollect such a detail,” Sigketill admitted, chuckling.

The varl laughed. “What is with men that you always want to see varl as your big, helpful friends or benevolent folk? You are enamored with the idea, staring at us with the awe your children reserve for you. Like we’ll go out on a tree limb to save you anytime you find yourselves in trouble.”

“What? You don’t like being the heroes of your own sagas?”

“Faen no. Jolnir wasn’t some skipping human lover who rewarded them for ‘good’ behavior. He was a warrior who lost his taste for raiding, used his ingenuity to feed his varl as well as a village, and get kids and calves to play with each other. But every deed done was so he could remember what life was like outside of war. Hunting, eating and drinking, games… he needed to remember what joy was.”

The friends were quiet a long, faintly tense moment. And a little voice in Hund spoke, reminding him. Just like you. You joined the City Watch for yourself, because enforcing the law was the only way you could respect yourself and your kind. Because you hated to see them squander their gift.

The truth stung. Hund had been there the day the bridge of Einartoft was finished. How the varl had celebrated, but little else. Never once during the festivities did they ask what they would build next. Never did they look at their calloused palms and dare to dream beyond that moment, content in their complacency. Only the Pathlayer, the bridge’s architect, shared in Hund’s disappointment, a sympathetic hand on the younger varl’s shoulder. “Such is our immortal lament, Hundr. How we waste our true blessing… time.”

At least I met one varl who understood my sorrow, Hund thought as he remembered the Pathlayer. Here were the varl, longer lived than perhaps even the gods… wasting away in drink and pursuing money, debasing themselves, fighting, grumbling and staring at the snow. And perhaps Hund had hoped that enforcing the law might wake some up to the idea of doing more with themselves, of carving their name into something worthy of history’s marvel, just as Jolnir had. How simple an idea. Simple, and futile.

Hund shook his head, shaking off his morose thoughts before finally indicating the board. “And I need to remember what joy truly is… seeing you weep when I beat you again.”

Sigketill barked a laugh. “It’s on now!”

“After you.”

What happened next was a series of rapid maneuvers as the varl pieces crashed through the human line. Other black pieces were brought up to surround and capture the aggressive white ones. The situation was going Sigketill’s way until Hund moved the king up, slaying another human and clearing a path.

The gaoler studied the board intensely, and Hund smiled. Even moving a single human two spaces, the king was still a varl, and would capture any lone black piece. They both knew Sigketill could not shore up his forces fast enough, and at last he folded. “Looks like you got away again.”

“It was a good game. Let me give you a hint though. Even if you brought up that group there more, I’d simply have gone the other way. You need to be patient and stall me more.”

“I’ll catch you next time then,” Sigketill said, giving him a stern eye.

Hund returned the glare, his brows slanted with his own earnestness. The two stared each other down until the varl’s sight stung horribly, and he finally blinked hard. “Bah!”

“Hah!”

“Ah faen you,” Hund said as he stood, grinning as he scooped up the jar. “Have fun with Nefr, I’ve got fish to fry and honey to enjoy.”

“Not together, I hope. Merry Yuletide, Hund.”

“Likewise, Sig.”

Stepping out of Sigketill’s quarters, Hund pushed through another door, finding his way to the windy outside. The rising path before him was dusted white, and the varl followed it around the hill until he stood beside the Great Hall.

He walked slowly, trying to work off the numbing sensation in his hip, but also enjoying the view. In the distance, beyond the Right Foot of Denglr’s Bay stood impressive mountains. Hund frowned, trying to remember if they were ever given a name. To the west, across the bay and upon a peak of the Long Reach Mountains stood the tower of Ridgehorn. The tower’s impressive shadow turned the snow beneath it blue.

And below stood Strand, with its many stone watchtowers and landings, the many neighborhoods of huts. The more affluent stood atop the rising ridge to the west, while the “earthlier” farmers and loggers occupied the groupings of huts both below the ridge and even the slopes across the water. White was everywhere, upon every roof, every landing. Yellow flags fluttered against the eastern winds, as a scattering of flurries heralded more snow to come.

Rounding the hill, the Great Hall itself was a sight to behold. Sprigs of mistletoe wrapped with red berries hung from beams. Wreaths of holly adorned the gates, sticks pointing outward from the center as if the decorations were each a small, leafy sun. A young watchman with dark features ran down the stairs from the gate, wrapping himself in his robes to stay warm. “Eirik! Tell them to wait! I’m almost there!”

“Hurry up, Valgard!” another young man replied.

Hund returned his attention to the magnificent view of the city. Over the faint whistle of the wind, the varl could hear a woman screaming for help from the market quarters below.

He sighed. The pain caught up to him, and he leaned his paunch forward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. That floor had done something fierce to Hund’s spine, and if he were going to keep playing with the gaoler, he’d need a chair his own size.

The woman’s pleas gave way to the howl of watchmen’s horns. The chase was on. The chase was always on in Strand. Always some plot, some mischief, some victim in some trouble. But it did not matter, not at that moment. Finally, his back gave a loud pop. Hund groaned as he felt sweet relief wash over him, exhaling ecstatically.

He snorted, whispering to himself. “Another Yuletide in bloody Strand…”

From everyone at Stoic, wishing you all Happy Holiday and a Merry Yuletide this season!

← Previous Part

By James Fadeley
Special thanks to Dan Riggins and Erik “Frown” Bergman

Sigbjorn moaned as he finished relieving himself against the side of a small shed. He couldn’t believe how long he had held it, and his mood improved as nature was satisfied. Redoing his leggings, he took in the view of the eastern horizon’s forest.

Just over the tree tops and upon a hill laid Bjorulf’s godstone. If Hadrborg had created varl, then the god of drink and mead was the kind uncle Sigbjorn had grown fondest of. He had promised himself that he would visit the godstone one day, and felt a pang of guilt. He had not done so yet, and today would be no exception.

He remembered that some folks buried their dead in the earth, carving stones over the burial site. Tombstones they were called, the domain of sentimental fools. Despite himself, Tomas’ immolating corpse came to his mind. Would the old spearman, once a gothi, have preferred that to a pyre? The thought made Sigbjorn wonder if the gods themselves were buried under the slabs dedicated in their honor. Surely after they died, they too left mortal coils…

A flock of birds took flight from the trees around the godstone. Something moved amongst the forest. When Sigbjorn squinted he thought he could see… people, leaving the woods. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked almost like a caravan.

A cry stole his attention. Grabbing his great sword, the varl ran towards the clamor.

When he arrived at the yox stable however, Sigbjorn discovered a familiar, weeping girl struggling in Marteinn’s grasp. Something glinted in his hand.

“Come on now,” Marteinn said with a leering grin. “This isn’t all I could take if I wanted.”

“What the faen are you doing?” Sigbjorn asked with strange calm, his drunkenness making the situation seem surreal. “I told you to get everyone to the mead house.”

“Can’t I enjoy a little Reynivik hospitality?” Marteinn twisted his head to ask. The girl took advantage of the distraction to scratch his cheek with her nails, drawing blood. Shouting painfully, he slapped her hard across the face, sending her back. Her tunic ripped as he tore the necklace, her chest spilling out. Marteinn raised the prize high, and Sigbjorn saw the shine of crafted gold.

“What is going on?” Freylaug approached, her eyes widening at the girl’s exposure. “What is he doing with Jofast?”

Marteinn snarled and raised a fist at Jofast, who was about to pounce to reclaim her property. She cringed away, cradling her bared chest and grimacing with rancor at the man and varl. Something about her reaction angered the lunatic and he stepped before Sigbjorn. “I fight and kill dredge like the rest of us! These people owe us their lives, so why the faen can’t I claim payment? You know who we are better than anyone!”

Sigbjorn’s cheek twitched in annoyance, vexed as to why Marteinn would expound justification to him. The yelling and violent motions Marteinn made cut through his inebriated state, triggering something primal. Something defensive, as though the varl was the one being accused. He growled, low and dangerous.

“I can’t believe you!” Freylaug screamed with an aggravating shrill. “Who are you to do this to our people? You’ve done nothing for Reynivik except drink yourselves senseless, and now you think you can take that which isn’t yours?”

Sigbjorn’s teeth flashed. He was on the red edge, the cliff beyond which there was no reason. Freylaug, realizing something terrible was amiss, stepped back and silenced herself. However, Marteinn recklessly waved his seax as he shouted, his face both rouged and bloodied. “Who the faen do you think you are t—”

Sigbjorn palmed Marteinn’s head with tightened fingers, and deftly twisted.

There was the sound of eggs cracking, and the seax fell from nerveless fingers. Marteinn’s convulsing body dropped into a pile on the ground, his eyes rolling upward in death.

“You…” Freylaug stuttered. “But, he was…”

“Was what?” Sigbjorn asked, his tone calm. He gazed at Marteinn’s fresh corpse and felt… little. No remorse, no pity for the lunatic. At best a coldness swept over him, a sensation that might have been regret for losing control. But not for the consequences.

“I…” Freylaug swallowed, her complexion lighting to a pallor. Her gaze went to Jofast, who clutched her torn shirt as she stood. “We are, grateful, for your justice. But we need fighting men,” Freylaug’s hands trembled as she raised them defensively. “Perhaps, disciplining him for… assaulting Jofast, could have been less severe? Or after we are safe?”

Sigbjorn took the void within him as a sign, and rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Being an ungracious guest would have gotten him a warning. It was mouthing off that got him killed.”

Freylaug’s gaze widened, her mouth gapping like a fish out of water. Rubbing her stricken cheek, Jofast stepped to the corpse. She pried open Marteinn’s clutched fingers and reclaimed her necklace, before again covering her chest. “Freylaug? Shall, we go?”

“Yeah,” Sigbjorn said. “Let’s all go back.”

The women huddled together as they walked, checking the varl behind them several times. His brooding presence kept them silent as they entered the hall.

Aron awaited them, armed and ready. “Didn’t find anyone. You see Marteinn?”

“Yep. Dead.” Sigbjorn responded in a nonchalant tone.

Aron was stunned, but recovered. “Dredge?”

“Nope.”

Aron opened his mouth to reply, but glanced at Freylaug and the half-naked Jofast, both of whom whispered to the crowd. The villagers whom they spoke to glared at them in horror.

Sigbjorn snorted and walked over to his drink. After downing the mead, he turned to a large barrel, setting his sword against the wall before tapping the spigot. The slowness of the pour told him that it was the last of Bjorulf’s Blessing, save whatever was stashed in the keg under the nearby table. As he sipped, his mood rapidly improved. Faen Marteinn, he thought. He knew he would not miss the ass-shining lunatic.

Yet when the respite passed, the hall’s oppressive silence bothered him, and his mind sought relief. Before long, a hum built in his throat, a joviality that even the villager’s scared looks couldn’t kill. He remembered the gist of it, but not the lyrics. “Hey Aron. The mood in here is a bit cold, don’t you think.”

“I…” Aron started but didn’t finish, his mouth twitching. The youth refused to meet Sigbjorn’s gaze.

“How about you sing that song again? How did it go?”

“Uh, if it’s alright, I’m going to check Marteinn’s path again. He may have missed someone,” Aron said glumly, opening the door.

“Fine, do that.” Sigbjorn replied as the youth departed. He took a long gulp, then another. His head began to spin, and the silence and stares were getting to him. At last, he stood and pointed to a group of people. “What’s a matter with you all?”

The people of Reynivik froze.

“You’re alive, dammit!” The varl sloshed some of his drink as his arms swept to either side. “You’re alive and surrounded by mead! C’mon! Have a drink while you still can!”

The villagers glanced at one another. Uggi was the first to get a horn and give himself a pour, followed by his wife. Others soon followed, some trembling as they did.

Sigbjorn laughed. What was it about fear that could be so funny, so amusing? He raised his stein in a toast. “To Reynivik! Skal!”

He drank it all. When he returned his gaze to the room, he realized he might have been the only one to partake. Their eyes were turned away, or stared at nothing. There was resignation to them, a death of the spirits that was worse than death itself. Snorting derisively, Sigbjorn turned to a different keg and refilled his stein.

“Well, I’m not about to leave all this for the dredge!” He gulped it down, coughing slightly when a more tangy, spiced flavor washed over his palette. When he finally lowered his stein, he caught something in his molars and chewed, recognizing the pulp of a tart elderberry. Laughing giddily, he wiped the blue from his lips, relishing the taste of the melomel.

Still, few partook, their features remaining glum and empty. A woman in a corner crumbled onto her knees, sobbing. Sigbjorn couldn’t believe it, and shook his head despondently. What was with most humans that they so often fell into this pit rather than enjoy what little time they had? A long life only proved that most of it was overrated. Scoffing, he opened his mouth to berate them again.

“Sigbjorn! Sigbjorn they’re here!”

Slamming his stein on the table, the varl charged out of the mead house, grabbing his sword on the way. Turning a corner around a home, he saw Aron in the street. A grunt was down before him, an arrow sticking from the slag’s neck. But more figures approached, including a few larger ones from behind.

“Aron!” Something seized the varl just then. An inexplicable dread, a need to save the youth. He ran, trying desperately to reach the fellow Raven as the dredge closed about him. But no matter how hard he pumped his legs, time slowed. Time slowed as a scourge stepped from behind a corner, raising his double-pronged great sword.

The youth screamed, gurgling as the scourge ran him through. The bow fell, and blood splashed against the muddy road. Aron’s face contorted in agony, his eyes pleading with the varl to help him, before he went slack.

And the century-old cracks in Sigbjorn’s heart painfully grew wider.

He roared and charged, his world a blur of speed and drunkenness. The dredge were ill-prepared. A grunt turned in time to take his speeding sword through the throat. A stoneguard swung but Sigbjorn stepped behind, his head spinning dizzily as steel bit his foe’s back. The scourge too staggered forth, and as Sigbjorn parried he recognized a familiar, triangular sun rune on the dredge’s chest.

With a burst of bitter laughter the varl turned and ran, the dredge giving chase. A thrill overtook him, a taste of life that could only be appreciated on the keen edge of death. A place where skill was the only immortality. He had forgotten that morbid joy, and relished it as he hid behind a home. Taking several deep breaths, he struggled to contain his laughter.

And his tears.

How drunk was he that he could ride on the high of battle, and ache within like this? Sigbjorn grit his teeth and shut his eyes. But a tear escaped anyway, running down his cheek to be lost in his beard. He tried desperately to block it out, but arrow wounds hurt less.

“He didn’t… didn’t deserve…” He swallowed, unable to say the youth’s name. His resistance crumbled as he knew he was alone again.

Just remember Sigbjorn. I often joke about men and their short lives, but… the final kendr will be a man. So if you find yourself the last of us alive, just do me a favor. Die as we have lived. Die laughing. Laugh so that the mountains rumble as they join in. Laugh such that the wind will forever echo with our mirth, on and on until the end of time. So that the heir of our people will never forget us.

Sigbjorn winced and rolled his jaw contemptuously as the memory came back to him. It was too much. He would, could not, do it. He would not be the last of his kind.

Then he saw them.

People. In the distance, a caravan with an incredibly long red banner. Probably the very same ones who had spilled out of the forests near Bjorulf’s godstone. But his joy turned to horror when the scattered dredge began to amble their way.

“No,” Sigbjorn muttered, his voice building with his ardor. “They’re mine. This is my death, not yours! Not yours! Hey slag! It was me! It was my sword that carved your clansfolk!”

A stoneguard unleashed a warbled scream, pointing a weapon Sigbjorn’s way. With a howl of delight, the varl ran back. Back into the mead house, where he slammed and bolted the door.

“What have you done?” Freylaug screamed hysterically. “We saw you cry out to them! You’ve led them here!”

The doors thudded. Then thudded again as wood splintered, a piece falling away. The villagers huddled in horror as the dredge continued to chip away at the entrance. Still, it would hold long enough for one final drink. Sigbjorn wobbly sauntered over to collect his stein, then scooped the keg from the table.

“And I was hoping to enjoy this on the road.” The door buckled and the beam securing it cracked down the middle. As Sigbjorn drank, he finally remembered the lyrics. Lowering his stein, he licked his lips and chuckled as he began to sing.

“Fly the black and let them know… fly the black and let them know.”

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By James Fadeley
Special thanks to Dan Riggins and Erik “Frown” Bergman

“… And I kid you not, that is how Sparr joined us!”

The end of Sigbjorn’s tale, which never once mentioned Bolverk or the Ravens, left Marteinn and Aron laughing. Even Tomas cackled, the sound like a crow’s caw as he clutched his side with a pained expression. Aron raised his drinking horn with a wide grin. “Skal!”

“Skal!” Marteinn and Sigbjorn echoed the word and gesture, Tomas the latter, and they downed their mead. The varl smacked his lips after, feeling a weight lifted from his shoulders. It felt amazing to drink again, his cares melting away as his mood improved.

Aron sputtered during their revelries, coughing mid gulp. Marteinn burst into hysterical laughter, prodding Sigbjorn with an elbow. “No wonder they sent the dead weight with us, eh?”

It was more of that ass shiner behavior. The varl found himself loathing the excuse-for-a-man more and more. “And what exactly did you do to earn your place on this critical duty?”

“How do you think?” Marteinn smirked, then took a long sip. Sigbjorn figured it was a feint to buy the lunatic time to scheme a lie. “A girl of course.”

“Was she pretty?” Aron asked with a perked brow. The varl snorted in exasperation.

“Aye, you know it. Fine girl with hair the color of straw. Ruddy complexion with freckles, and a goodly bust. Her father didn’t let that one go hungry!” Marteinn burst into lewd laughter as Aron’s brows rose from whatever image his imagination painted for him.

Sigbjorn’s scowled, rather glad Hadrborg never deigned to curse varlkind with such distractions. “So, a woman got you in trouble, did she?”

“Well, heard the Governor took a fancy to her.” Marteinn replied, scratching his nose. “May have complained to Bol— the boss.”

Now it was Sigbjorn’s turn to smirk as Marteinn’s big mouth solved the puzzle. “Yox dung.”

Marteinn said nothing.

“Heard a little tale from Folka last week. Somethin’ about a meal in the Governor’s court to discuss our defense strategy. She heads off to relieve herself and happens across one of our men getting a little forward with a girl. Or rather, a well-dressed lady too deep in her cups to know better. So, our trusted shieldmaiden escorted her away, but not before a huskarl got an eyeful.”

Marteinn’s head moved in a twitchy fashion, like that of a bird, as he turned his attention elsewhere.

Sigbjorn continued. “So, the huskarl whispered something to one of the Governor’s guests. Some merchant or caravan master, who knows. Unfortunately, this trader is one of the last with ample food supplies, and enough guards to protect it. And our well-meaded little girl just so happens to be his daughter.”

Tomas coughed laughter, his stump of a tongue wagging between his open lips. Aron shook from a giggling fit, covering his face to hide his amusement. For a moment, Marteinn scrunched up, as though ready to explode in fury. But soon, even he grinned. “Faen maiden-shield of a shieldmaiden.”

Sigbjorn guffawed. So Marteinn could take some humiliation after all. Perhaps the varl could like him, someday. Until then, drink would help, and the varl tossed his back. Yet he frowned when he realized his horn, so tiny in his hands, was already empty.

“Hey barkeep…” He spoke loudly enough to be heard in the other room. “Uggi, you there?”

There were some mutterings before a middle-aged man peeked into the hall from the kitchen door.

“You got anything more fit for a varl to drink from? Maybe a bit to eat too?”

Uggi groaned and stepped away. A moment later he returned, polishing the dust off a large metal stein. It was tall as a man’s forearm and wide as one’s neck. Uggi’s arm trembled from strain as he poured from a massive barrel in the collection.

“My wife is preparing something,” Uggi said, his voice tense as he carried the hefty drink to Sigbjorn. “I can have some fruits and cured meats brought out in the meantime. We did not anticipate guests.”

“Sounds good Uggs,” Sigbjorn replied as he accepted the drink, his host frowning at the nickname. The varl’s eyes lit up as his lips touched the stein, the foam washing over his tongue with a bouquet of sour cherries and something vibrant. “What is this fantastic drink?”

Uggi stopped in his tracks and spun. After studying the carving on the cask’s top, he slapped his forehead. “That… that is one of our best brews. Made with Tistelberries for an added kick. We call it Bjorulf’s Blessing.”

As he disappeared into the kitchen, Sigbjorn stood. He took his blade from the wall and sauntered over to one of the small barrels.

“That’s a fine-looking sword you got Sig,” Marteinn said, as though the compliment was a peace offering. “Steel?”

“You bet your scrawny ass.” Sigbjorn gently stabbed the top of the tiny keg and removed the lid, still stuck on the point. Setting his blade on a bench, he lifted the container with a single hand and began to chug.

“Has it got a name? All great ones do.”

Yeah, it’s ‘shut the faen up and let me drink, you slack jawed idiot.’ Sigbjorn thought as he finished off the keg, then ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. The dry mead was without fruits or spices, cloyingly sweet over his tongue. He carried the empty container to the larger barrel and began filling it with Bjorulf’s Blessing, wanting to save some for later. “Hmmm, a name.”

“How about Dredgehamarr?” Aron offered.

“Vedrstal!” Marteinn countered.

“Both terrible,” Sigbjorn said. The keg filled to the brim, he plucked the lid from his sword’s point and began resealing the container. “I name her… Olkerbani.”

“Cask slayer!” Marteinn screamed in delight. He slapped his leg, roaring with laughter before raising his horn again. “Skal!”

The axe whirled through the air, clattering against the stone wall as it missed.

“Dundr’s beard, you’re terrible.” Marteinn shook his head. “Guess those skills with the bow don’t transfer over.”

The youth rubbed the back of his neck, the last of his throwing axes expended. “I guess not. Anyway, your turn.”

Sigbjorn downed another stein of mead. The men were getting tipsy but his buzz had only begun, the pain of his headwound long abated. Leaning back in his seat, he slapped against a barrel which echoed from emptiness. It was the second they had finished, and the varl began to feel hungry. In the far corner, a table stacked with dirtied dishes marked all that remained of the snacks Uggi had provided.

Marteinn took his place and readied his axes. The first hit the bottom of the target mounted on the wall. The second whipped across the room and sank a hand below the bullseye. Marteinn was about to toss his third when the kitchen door opened. Uggi’s plump wife Drifa stepped out, carrying out a steaming bowl. The lunatic grinned lecherously. “What’ya got for us?”

Drifa scrunched her face at Marteinn’s leer. “Skause.”

Sigbjorn grunted. He couldn’t say he was in the mood for stew, less so after catching a whiff of the meal. He spotted bits of white carrots and cabbage leaves, and smelled no spices but the muddy scent of river carp. The woman’s hostility suggested she hadn’t even bothered to remove the bones. Sigbjorn had no doubt his hosts were ridding the worst of the pantry over unwelcomed guests. As she set the large bowl down on a table, Sigbjorn reached for his sword.

Steel whooshed through the air. Drifa screamed, the bowl spilling over as the blade sank home.

The target cracked and fell, split from the bottom.

“I win!” Sigbjorn declared, raising his fists victoriously. He stumbled a bit, blinking in surprise before glancing at the panic-stricken Drifa. “Oh no, our meal. I’m sure you make a most delicious carp skause too.”

Marteinn snickered while Tomas smiled meekly. Aron, to the varl’s surprise, giggled. Uggi’s wife trembled, her features twisted in a mixture of anger and terror.

“I suppose you don’t have anything else to share? Perhaps something more rib sticking?” Sigbjorn offered, smirking as he cracked his knuckles. “We are fighters, after all.”

Drifa paled, her temper outmatched. She retreated to the kitchen over Marteinn’s laughter.

“Woo,” Sigbjorn said as he tried to sit down. He misjudged his balance however, and landed hard on the bench. The wood cracked and broke off-center, the varl sliding sideways onto the floor.

His men burst into hysterical laughter. Even he found it hilarious.

“Gods, how much have we drunk?” Marteinn asked, slurring.

“Only Bjorulf knows,” Sigbjorn replied, feeling a bit dizzy. Drifa had provided them with steaks after her chastisement, but whatever rejuvenation the meal offered was wearing off. He leaned over and knocked on several now-empty barrels. He, of course, had downed the whale’s share of drink.

“You ever think of owning a mead house, boss?” Aron asked, his eyes half-closed dreamily.

The varl took another sip while he pondered the question, his tongue too coated to taste the sweetness anymore. “Now there’s a thought. Sigbjorn’s House of Mead.”

“Hey, that’s got a nice ring to it,” Aron replied.

“Yeah, not bad at all! What do you think Tomas?” Marteinn asked, turning to the man.

Tomas was hunched over, head drooping and eyes shut. Marteinn snorted and brushed the spearman with his elbow. The mute fell off his seat, clattering upon the stone floors. He did not move.

Marteinn covered his forehead, his mocking laughter a harsh bark. “Tomas passed out!”

“No.” Sigbjorn paused, catching a glimpse of Tomas’ soaked bandage. “I think he’s dead.”

Marteinn guffawed and thrust a finger at the mute. “You weakling!”

However, Aron stood and ran over to his comrade’s side, his expression full of concern. After checking his breath, the youth felt for a heartbeat, his jaw dropping. “He’s… he’s gone.”

“Maybe we could prop him outside with a horn and a sign that reads, ‘Welcome to Sigbjorn’s!’” Marteinn offered. The varl found the idea amusing.

“Hey, enough jokes already. He was a comrade,” Aron said, balling a fist. “Are we at least going to bury him?”

Sigbjorn sighed and set his stein down, pointing a finger at the mug as he rose. “Don’t move, I’ll be back real soon.”

Near the nameless river’s edge, they placed several logs and sticks, and laid Tomas’ remains upon the bed. At his side they placed his spear, a capped drinking horn, and a purse with a few coins inside. It was paltry, but all they could spare.

A part of Sigbjorn’s mind screamed at him that a funeral pyre was a terrible idea, that the smoke would attract the enemy. And like all varl, he had no love of fire. However, that voice seemed muddled and distant behind the hazy layers of alcohol clouding his wits. Just before he lit the bed of firewood beneath Tomas’ body, Aron spoke. “Aren’t we going to say something?”

The varl’s shoulders drooped and he heaved a sigh. Tomas meant little to him, and his inebriation did nothing to expound those feelings. Burying the dead was tantamount to regaining his freedom, but if a few words could give Aron peace, so be it. “Fine. Marteinn, you start.”

The lunatic rubbed the back of his head before finally commenting. “Tomas, I’ve fought with worse. May you prove yourself a master spearman to Lauga on the other side.”

He concluded his eulogy by patting his crotch.

Sigbjorn rolled his eyes at the gesture. “Aron?”

The youth stood perfectly still, staring at Tomas’ peaceful form. He didn’t speak until the varl moved to start the pyre. “He told me through notes once, that he used to be a gothi.”

Aron’s statement stopped Sigbjorn cold, the bed still unlit. “What?”

“A gothi, a priest. He had a wife and daughter and lived in some small village. Kept preaching and preaching about an afterlife where the gods awaited us. The villagers got rather tired of it too. Then one day, bandits struck. They raided, seized the crops and took advantage of his family. And he… he kept screaming at them that only Baldringr’s inferno awaited them for what they were doing.”

Sigbjorn shuddered.

“The bandits left soon after killing his family. But the surviving villagers, they were furious. Tomas kept ranting about divine justice, so they forced him to the ground and took a knife to his tongue. ‘Have a real taste of Baldringr, you lying, worthless faen,’ one said as they cauterized the stump. Then they left him alive.” Aron rubbed a tear from his cheek, lowering his voice. “I don’t think Tomas ever really bothered to grieve for his family. He was… broken. He buried them, picked up a spear and just… marched. Ended up in the Ravens sometime after.”

Sigbjorn almost ignited the pyre, but stopped again. Something about Aron’s story gave him pause, a nagging sense of uncertainty. “Why?”

Aron blinked. “Why what?”

“I never understood why there were humans who felt a compulsion to become ‘priests,’ other than madness really. The gods existed, although they died long before you or Tomas ever knew them. They carved their words in stone and taught their children. When they lived, they spoke for themselves. So why should anyone speak for the long dead?”

Aron stared at the sight of Tomas’ body for a hard moment before finally replying. “Is it true that Hadrborg himself created you?”

“It is.” Sigbjorn closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop his sight. The trepidation grew, his pulse quickening, but he forced himself to see the radiance of Hadrborg. His memory of the god’s profile may have grown hazy through the years, but he could never forget. “We all meet him on the day we were taken from the fire. Varl are born fearing, and so we’re ready for the rest of life.”

All except one. Sigbjorn’s mouth twitched.

“And we are human,” Aron replied. “We put on airs and feign bravery, but we die afraid. And can only hope that when that day comes, we will see our creators and ancestors. That is what many of us hope for.”

Sigbjorn considered this, and slowly nodded. He still didn’t believe that the dead, divine or not, cared. But it did no harm to let the old spearman have his spiritual comforts. When no one added anything else, the giant touched the torch to the pyre bed.

As the flames took, the three watched. Despite the urge to edge away, Sigbjorn forced himself to stand before the heat. He watched through stinging vision as the fire blackened the old man’s flesh and turned his clothes to cinders.

They waited until the blaze died down and Tomas’ remains were more ashes than flesh. Content, Sigbjorn dusted his hands and then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m thinking a drink to his memory.”

“Aye!” Marteinn said. Aron sighed with melancholy, and solemnly followed.

Unfortunately, they were greeted by perhaps two dozen people as they returned to the mead house. Frightened faces huddled in the corners, next to travel packs. Some had drinks in their trembling hands, trying to soothe shaken nerves. A few even nursed wounds.

Sigbjorn already knew the story as Freylaug approached. “The families from the outskirts have been pouring into town. Dredge, they claim. Some were even attacked,” her voice turned frantic. “You promised us protection!”

The varl rolled a palm over his temple, glancing at his mug in the corner. Admittedly, a fight did sound good about then, but score-to-one odds didn’t sound appealing. Instead, he reclaimed his sword from the wall. “Whatever you say, ‘Laug lady. Aron, Marteinn, split up. Gather any lingering villagers and bring them here.”

“Where are you going?” Aron asked as Sigbjorn pushed the door open.

“Well no one wants to visit Sigbjorn’s Pisshouse, do they?”

← Previous Part | Next Part →

← Previous Part | Next Part →

By James Fadeley
Special thanks to Dan Riggins and Erik “Frown” Bergman

Sigbjorn heard Aron swallow, and couldn’t blame him. There was at least a score of them, though smaller ones seemed to hide behind their ranks. Far too many for four Ravens, caught out in the open, to take on. Worse, the hills were no longer too steep to charge down.

“Back,” Sigbjorn hissed. He began to crawl in reverse, dragging his weapon across the grass. “Get to the river.”

His men obeyed, slinking along. Until a warbling scream cut through the air, a thick blade pointed their way.

“Run!” The varl screamed, scrabbling to his feet. “Pass the river! Get to the forest and stick together!”

Aron snapped around. “But you sai—”

“Now!”

They charged towards the wood line, fiery rock raining down around them. Most of the smoking slag missed, though Marteinn yelped as a round blazed past his ear. Sigbjorn heard the din of thundering stone. The enemy warriors pursued them.

The sound was drowned out as Tomas hit the river first, almost slipping over on a slimy rock. He recovered, and without finesse wallowed through the current. Marteinn and Aron followed, but Sigbjorn noticed the wolves still gathered about their meal. They were readying themselves to pounce on the spearman.

With a sprinting start, the varl launched himself, sailing half over the river. Descending, he took a bounding hop, splashing a geyser of water skyward and finishing his flight.

Landing before Tomas, Sigbjorn roared. His voice echoing through the trees.

The wolves, once ready to spring, instead shrank before the deafening howl. The largest turned and bolted, his tail between his legs. The smaller ones chased after him, no braver than their leader.

As Marteinn and Aron ascended the banks, the varl reached down and grabbed a large rock.

“What do we do?” Marteinn asked, huffing. His seax was drawn, as was one of his throwing axes.

“You remember the Halsar weave?”

They nodded. Tomas grinned, reaching for the hunting javelins over his shoulder.

“Aron, with me. Marteinn, Tomas, go west. And shout when you throw, dammit!”

The two men rushed to obey just as they heard the splash of the dredge hitting the water. Sigbjorn snorted and stepped away from the tree line. At this distance, he could discern their open helm faceguards and angled horns, rancorous grimaces on their beige faces.

“Right back at you, cave faeners,” he uttered as he picked a target, reared back and hurled his rock.

The payload sped through the air and struck the brow of a stoneguard who failed to raise his tower shield. Sigbjorn laughed at the agonizing, shaking yelp of his victim, and snatched another rock before dashing into the forest’s shadows.

He heard them give pursuit with renewed vigor. Aron fell into step alongside, and Sigbjorn slowed to allow the youth to maintain pace. There was a snap of tree branches as the stone men entered the woods.

Someone shouted. Something clanked.

The varl counted his steps. One, two… and on the fifth, he turned. “Throw!”

Aron spun about, plucking an arrow from his quiver and nocking. He fired without reservation and Sigbjorn saw leaves zip and flutter, caught in the missile’s flight. There was another clank and Sigbjorn waved the youth on. “Go!”

It was six or seven steps before the next cry came from the west, the sound as horrible as death. Sigbjorn feared the worst, then remembered Tomas’ ailment. He barely suppressed the urge to laugh. Don’t. It’ll weaken you.

Another five steps, and Sigbjorn spun and hurled his stone. In the flash, he counted five on their tail as the stone caught a grunt in the chest. Seeing nothing more he could throw on the ground, the varl ran. Aron pulled alongside him and he waved the youth away. “Split! Go!”

As Marteinn’s scream echoed in the forest, Sigbjorn knew it was time. Cupping a hand over his mouth, he faced the west and shouted. “Flock!”

Flipping around, Sigbjorn took his sword with two hands, holding it defensively. A trio of grunts charged, their bizarre axes raised and yellow eyes alight with fury. Angling away, Sigbjorn clenched his teeth and aimed low, launching himself into a whirling tempest of steel.

Spinning, the world was a smeared blur, but he felt the resistance against his weapon. He heard the reverberating wails and relished in their suffering. Recovering, he saw two thrashing against the leaf-covered earth, the third still standing upon a deeply gashed leg. Black oozed from the wound, dripping upon detritus.

The grunt stood, raising his weapon. Hate them as he did, Sigbjorn respected his enemy’s bravado. Before his foe could strike, the varl sank steel into the dredge’s chest. As the life went out of the grunt’s eyes, Sigbjorn kicked outward, freeing his blade.

The remaining pair still struggled. One had lost his leg, the stump spurting dark ichor. The other was wounded but intact, almost to his feet. Sigbjorn met this one with a raised blade. Yet he swerved as he chopped, cleaving his foe’s axe-arm.

The maimed grunts’ howls chased the varl as he ran east.

Shuffling from the right drew his attention, and Sigbjorn realized it was Aron falling into step. They charged on until coming to a few shrubs large enough to hide them.

“You,” the boy huffed as he ducked down. “You fought them?”

“Yes.”

“But didn’t… didn’t slay them?”

“No.”

“Why…?”

The varl met the boy’s gaze with a stern glare. “Because it grinds them down, makes them waste food and care on the helpless. Burdens them with those who cannot fight and survive on their own, and weakens their will. You’re not the only one who should sing tales of the Ravens, got it?”

Aron’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish out of water. He managed a weak nod.

“Good. Now shut the faen up.”

Trembling, Aron obeyed.

They waited and listened. The forest echoed with the clamor of dredge armor, but the din came from many directions. After a moment they heard rapid footsteps, far softer than the stone men could make. Sigbjorn whistled, and Marteinn and Tomas appeared around the bush.

“Anyone pursuing?” the varl asked.

Tomas shook his head. Marteinn smirked.

“Alright, follow me.”

Sigbjorn led them north. Occasionally, they spotted the shapes of dredge wandering about the forest gloom. Each time, the varl altered their course, avoiding engagement until they at last reached the river again. Despite their urgency, they forded the slow stream as quietly as possible, keeping splashing to a minimum.

Their drenched clothes dripped over the northern bank as they rose. Marteinn whipped droplets from his sleeves, and spoke. “Next stop Reynivik.”

Slag struck the sand, sizzling and scorching the dirt.

Sigbjorn fixed his sight to the base of the hill from which the dredge had appeared. Several figures huddled there. Dredge of some kind but far smaller, more proportional to men than varl. A few whirled raised slings, preparing another volley.

The varl felt his brow twitch and he stepped toward his foes. Then took another step. He heard the men behind him follow. He began to jog. Then run, even as another salvo of hot rock sailed over their heads. He could see the slingers grow unnerved by their charge. They edged away, threatening to rout.

Sigbjorn bowed, ramming the first with his horns.

The slinger flew back, bowling into another. As the pair tumbled to the earth, Sigbjorn raised his sword and swung down, cleaving through a third. He thought he heard a high-pitched shriek as black splattered against the dancing grass. The limbless dredge dropped, grasping their fresh stump.

Taking a moment to survey the battle, Sigbjorn witnessed Tomas spear one of them, before kicking his foe away. The impaled slinger managed to remain standing, cradling a dripping abdomen and scrambling back. Marteinn guffawed during battle, twirling as he slashed a foe’s arm, then using his momentum to hurl an axe behind him. The spinning blade found its mark in a fleeing slinger, forcing them to a knee. Before that dredge could recover, an arrow found their flank, finishing the task.

Sigbjorn looked to Aron as the youth reached for another round. One of the downed dredge stood behind him, drawing a stone dirk from their belt and preparing to stab down.

The varl sprinted, and stabbed just above Aron’s shoulder. The tip sank into the slinger’s neck. The dredge’s poised arm dropped listlessly to the side before they toppled to the ground. Jerking his blade free, Sigbjorn realized that Aron stared at him with eyes more white than blue. With a grunt, he patted the youth’s shoulder.

Marteinn ducked a knife swing, and hamstringed the last foe. A pained shout reverberated from the dredge’s stone helm, black spreading over the hem of their dark orange sash. Marteinn grabbed the slinger’s head from behind and held them down, a kick to the elbow sent their stone blade flying into the grass. “Hey, Aron! Get over here!”

The youth warily approached, scanning the remaining dredge. No more had the will to fight— the remaining handful huddled together, shivering with bowed heads. Marteinn smirked and flipped his seax over, offering the handle to the boy. “Do it.”

Aron stared at the blade for a moment, before looking to Sigbjorn for approval. A faint murmur came from the cowering dredge who watched, but none moved.

You should stop this, a voice whispered to the varl. Yet he waved a hand regardless. “Go on.”

Aron swallowed, slipping his bow over his shoulder. He took the seax with both hands and focused on the restrained slinger. The dredge’s breath rattled, while the dark pool on their robes widened under a heraldic mark of a triangular sun.

“It’ll be merciful,” Marteinn promised.

Tomas glanced away.

The youth tightened his grip on the weapon. With a shrill cry, he stabbed. The tip followed the curve of the slinger’s outfit, burying itself in the grooves of the sternum. The blade stuck halfway, and Aron leaned forth to thrust further within.

The dredge gasped as the light of their eyes dimmed, before going slack in Marteinn’s grasp.

A powerful wail came from the crowd. A pair of the dredge clansfolk held a smaller, robed figure in check. The little one struggled to escape their grip, desperate to reach the dead slinger. The howl sank into a haunting and low groan, until the dredge lowered to their knees, defeated. Aron stared at the pitiful figure, his eyes sorrowful as he realized what he had done, and released the embedded seax.

Marteinn chuckled as he dropped the body, which fell against the soil with a dull thud. Something tumbled from the slain dredge’s pouch with a chime. The lunatic grinned as he plucked two blue crystals.

“I’ve always wanted to play with these,” Marteinn said, bouncing one of the gems in his palm. He stepped toward one of the shuddering clansfolk, who stared at his mad grin. Marteinn cracked the twin crystals together, causing them to glow. With a cackle, he slipped them into the dredge’s robes.

The other dredge edged away, while the one Marteinn chose stood there, strangely calm. Then they turned and ran, tearing past their peers. The dredge got a considerable distance before hurling themselves forward, the Shatterstones igniting. The flash was swiftly lost in the black cloud of smoke, the bang echoing over the plains.

As the dark mist cleared, Sigbjorn saw the ashy remains of the dredge. They were nothing more than a limp pile, split into at least two parts. The only noise was Marteinn’s sinister giggling, a haunting rhythm that the varl found himself echoing. Until he looked at the others.

Tomas grimaced, his jaw drawn tight while his knuckles whitened over his spear’s haft. Aron winced painfully, his whimpering voice cracked as he repeated to himself. “It’s what we got to do. It’s what we got to do.”

He was wrong, Sigbjorn. Fearing death is natural, but a life of terror drives us to seek our own tomb. The thoughts weren’t the varl’s own, but they came to him like a carrion bird coveting a meal. They were slag, Hadrborg damn them. They deserved it. A faint taste of the horror they’ve inflicted.

Marteinn sauntered back and stomped a boot against the corpse bearing his seax, withdrawing it with a squelch. “Well boss, what do you think? Fingers?”

Sigbjorn looked at the lunatic and saw something in him. A fetish for violence that was everything the Ravens were, are and ever would be. And for the first time in more than a century, it sickened him. Yet that was what he, and they, were. The varl shook his head. “No, no time. But we have to slow their warriors down.”

Marteinn nodded and took a step forward, before a huge hand barred his way.

“No. I’ll do it.”

The dredge clansfolk raised their gazes as Sigbjorn strode forth, gripping his massive blade to render them the mercy of steel.

No one spoke as they left the carnage. Blood dripped from Sigbjorn’s sword with every heavy footstep. With each droplet upon the grass, the wonder grew heavier in his mind. Even before the onslaught, the dredge did not run. They simply sat there, bowing their heads and accepting execution. Not one had attempted to escape. He realized that Marteinn’s Shatterstone victim had fled only to save the other clansfolk from harm.

Someone nudged him. Sigbjorn realized it was Tomas.

“What?”

The mute pointed at the varl’s blade.

“Ah, right,” Sigbjorn said, taking a cloth from his satchel. Best not to leave a trail.

“That was some fun, eh kid?” Marteinn asked, elbowing Aron. “How does it feel? To be a real Raven?”

Aron said nothing, staring at the ground as he walked.

“What? Too good to—”

“No more talk,” Sigbjorn bade as he finished cleaning his weapon. Truthfully, he was in no better a mood than the youth, but thought to offer a reason. “Keep your ears keen for any more trouble. I don’t want to be caught blindsided again.”

Marteinn sneered, but obeyed.

They traveled for some time when they heard a sound on the wind. A howl of anguish, wavering at the precipice where grief becomes rage.

They all stopped to listen, glancing at one another at a loss for words to explain.

“Go, swiftly,” Sigbjorn ordered, taking off. The others were right behind him.

← Previous Part | Next Part →

Folka heard the yox’s long moan outside and sighed. It had a tendency to free itself from the barn and yowl, trapped in the cold. Yox are not intelligent, and this one was nearly as old a family member as herself. Her boots were conveniently by the door and she trudged into the dim night.

Though, it was not as it seemed. Immediately Folka was aware that she was weaponless as she watched her yox get dragged through the crunchy snow. There must have been three thieves, their shadows barely visible in the night, and sounds from the barn suggested more. Folka had nothing with which to attack, but that’s never stopped a lumberer from fighting. Though the preference was strategy, she had learned to be resourceful. This would not be the first time it saved her.

Without even a grunt, she ran toward the stolen animal, eyes searching for something to grab and swing. The figures had stopped shuffling away and stood ready, when—

An enormous bulk dashed into them first, bowling into the mass and leaving deep gashes in the ice-crusted snow. It was impossible to tell the ruckus from itself, all screams and growls and the yox’s wails. Folka did not slow her pace, but leapt into the fray, twisting the first arm she saw and releasing leathery reins from its grip. It was mayhem and the yox reared back, the yoke catching a brigand in the gut and Folka in the face. Her blood joined the others in the moonlight, splattering on a sword she wrenched away from the wielder, hearing the pop of his wrist breaking under her force.

The barn was not in great repair before the night began, and Folka saw the shadow just before the roof crashed down by her side. Groaning, the rest of the structure could not hold as remaining brigands slammed open the doors and fled.

The white beast was upon them in an instant. Wood creaked, snapped, and the walls folded forward, toppling around the struggling figures. Dropping everything, Folka reached out her arms to stop a falling door–

And slammed it onto the outstretched heel of a brigand, causing him to drop his sword mid-thrust. Reactively, she hefted the barn door and crashed it to the ground, sending a flimsy buckler skidding across the ground. At her side, the white creature kept its stance ready to charge. But there was no longer anything to fight.

A trail of blood, dragged limbs and ripped clothing signaled the departure of the thieves, faster than Folka could bother to chase them, fast as it all began. She dropped the door deep into the snow and pushed past the beast to reclaim her yox, but death had claimed it first. Damned shame. The bear-varl, panting and familiar, was looking at her, then his eyes searched the glowing, empty windows of the house. His voice was hoarse as she remembered, the voice of an animal. “Where is your family?”

“I am all my family.”

The night smelled like pine and iron.

He huffed into his beard, “Your nose is broken.”

Folka held his stare, “I didn’t notice.”

The bear-man stood, taller than the home in which she lived, “You pretend to be so strong.”

“Why would I pretend? What would I pretend for? The trees don’t care. The sky does not care. I bring down the forest whether it believes me or not.”

She felt she owed him no thanks nor explanation. His appearance was a boon, but it did not save her yox nor her livelihood. At least there was good meat to be had, and she would get another animal somehow.

He stretched his arms and tossed a tightly-bound leather package to her feet. Folka didn’t need to open it, she had made it herself. It contained a cloth and salve, but she had no intention of using it, just as he had not. Folka had fought her brigands with a broken nose, and did not find it as difficult as the town stories said.

The land was frozen around them, so the yox would keep until morning until she was ready to prepare the meat. But dinner was on, and the warmth of the house beckoned her. Gathering an extra log for the fire, she walked back to the open door of the house. The bear-man had not moved, still surveying the night that held no other disturbance. He looked feral and fearsome, but something in him had placed him there. The gods may be dead, but their work was ever an enigma.

“I’ll finish cooking the stew,” she called out the door, “don’t leave the door open long.”

Folka walked back into her modest family home, remembering how many people it once held around the table, remembering the ordinary sound of living. A hulking shadow appeared at the door and for the first time in a year, she fetched two plates for the table.

The bear within Bolverk had awoken and he lumbered through the cold forest, hands and feet digging into the icy soil. The rites spoke of primal living, of natural existence, and shouldering the cruelty of desperation. Living at all costs was what mattered. Bears were built to withstand the harshest and worst winters, to flourish in the verdant summers. They could sleep through the cold months if the land had been kindly, but Bolverk shared the winter nights and days with the less fortunate and more hardened kind. His kind.

The rites of the berserk were strict and secret. Every few years, or any time as desired, they reconnected with the ursine spirit within them through trial and distance. Bolverk was wrong to keep any thoughts in his mind, wrong to use words in any capacity, but ever so rarely they crept back in.

The Ravens were temporarily absent of their captain. To what would Bolverk return?

Back to the woods, if all was gone. The Ravens were motley and not of his creed, nor of his capability. A finer bunch he could never find, but no fellowship among them. Bolverk was not the man to create it. He did not nurture, he enforced. The wind bit at his shoulder, an aching twinge from the scabbed arrow wound, making the cold feel deeper. That foolish girl. He broke the rites when he spoke to her. He should have chased her where she stood. That was the true way.

More land passed beneath his legs. Walk on until varl instincts were left behind.

Brigands held no interest to him, their presence only spoke of trouble elsewhere in the civilized world. Bears do not pick fights when there is naught to gain. Bolverk stayed high in his tree, watching the thin-skinned ones communicate and trek so inefficiently through the cold. Bears do not bother with talk, and Bolverk did his best to keep his ears full of the forest and not words.

But words crept in.

“Aye, the only smoke we’ve seen for days.”

“Across an entire valley, and we’re supposed to trust it?”

“Rotten yox stew is not as satisfying as it once was,” they bickered back and forth.

“Whether a camp or a home, our packs will be filled.”

To think, bears were the ones noted as savages.

Their talk grew distant as the sun hit peak in the sky. Off to make waste of their own kind. A putrid thing, civilization, rotting in its own juices.

A gust stung his cheek, his shoulder prickled with the fresh memory of the arrow. Unlikely it was the girl’s homestead that was the target of the brigands. They were a shoddy sort in any case. If she was any evidence, her family was a strong clan and would benefit from the supplies they gathered from the lowlives headed towards them.

The wind bit his new scar. He leapt down from the tree, cushioned by the crisp snow.

A bear does not use words, just instinct. Bolverk’s arms and legs followed the path cleared by shuffling human feet. He pushed out thoughts and followed the scent of battle towards a distant smudge of smoke on the side of the valley.

Folka part 4 ->

Bolverk knew this sensation. It seared and held on tight, digging as deeply as it could, and he roared in unexpected pain.

The little arrow wasn’t so buried in his shoulder after all; Bolverk sat upright and nearly dislodged it from its place. He shrugged the thin frost off his bare arms, covering them in his bearskin cloak and growled, expecting a fight.

Finding a girl.

Her feet were solid in the deep snow, and her face showed no signs of intimidation. A bear would retaliate against the attack, Bolverk knew, but her bow faced the ground and she made no further effort to draw. In this ice-quiet place, sounds muffled by peaceful snow, Bolverk was at a loss for how to respond. He grasped the arrow, tearing it out of his skin.

“Your arrows are weak.”

“My aim is worse,” she said back, rigid as any tree in the clearing. “I’m not cut out for hunting. Thought I’d give it a try.”

“A bear,” his unused voice growled, “would have eaten you.”

“No,” she stated, “but it’s unlikely I would be eating bear. Hopefully there are other creatures to hunt in the forest that I am more accustomed to.”

She wasn’t as young as she seemed, with her hair tucked back with ribbon and her arms wrapped in thick leathers. The girl, though a woman after all, shrugged at him. “You’re not a bear.”

“You know so little, girl. I’m more bear than varl. And you’re no hunter. A tiny human has no hope of hunting either.”

“Clearly.” Her gaze dropped to the pack slung across her shoulder and rustled around to withdraw out a tautly-wrapped handful. She tossed it to his feet; neither of them flinched. “Salve and a cloth bandage. It helps.”

“Why would I need that?”

“I might have shot you in the shoulder just now, if you’ve forgotten.” She closed her bag and shouldered her bow. Unafraid–like a smile on a stone wall.

Bolverk glowered, stepping forward and covering her in his shadow. He kicked the leather package past her and growled, “Are you trying to tame a bear?”

“Are you trying to threaten a woman?”

Snow filled the silence.

“I’m due to tend my family, chores await.” She turned away, “I’ll shoot no more bears.”

Bolverk watched her cut a path through the gentle snow, making the only sound for miles. She knew her way around the forest, even if she couldn’t tell the difference between a bear and a berserk.

Not his problem.

He tucked the leathery gift under his bearskin cloak and lurched further into the woods, feeling the icy wind on his bare chest and in the hole of his shoulder. Using civilized goods went against the nature of his rite and of this journey, but damned if he’d be taken down by the wayward arrows of a girl.

Folka part 3 ->

He hadn’t even left a letter. There was merely an absence where he was, a hollow where he and their marriage vows might have been. She had heard it from other people, and eventually from her father. If the story was true, it was improbable.

“He had broken his nose, you see, and they say he was weak and prone when the menace found him…”

Folka did not see how a broken nose could be so debilitating as to cause an end of life. If he had run away from this town and their future together, he should have been able to run from the brigands just as easily.

Either way, he was not coming back, and the story seemed to hurt more than the reality of it all. She forgot all but the parts that stung, and kept those inside and quiet. There was work to do.

Father was not so old, but years of cold hardship had weathered him like the trees he cut down. Folka, being of sturdier build, was accustomed to her share of the work, whether it was felling or transport of the lumber, or the things in the house that needed to be done. They ate the same food almost every night, because it was easy enough to acquire and prepare, and neither of them had much in the ways of cooking. Her calloused hands held the wooden utensils, the caricatures of better-crafted cutlery made with the limited skill of a family who had rarely encountered any. She wondered if their crude manners were the real reason there were not more people at the table with them each night. Her hair was tucked primly, with the memory of her mother and sister in every braid. Her arms preferred the bite of chill air and the scrapes of bark. Did her lover’s resolve fall like a branch from under the power of her swing?

If only hearts were as strong as trees, she thought, they could weather the cold all alone. Her axe tore through the pulp, one after the other. She would stay warm somehow.

On the third night when her father had not come back, Folka was not worried.

On the fifth night, she stopped preparing meals to share.

On the tenth night, they told her how peaceful her father had looked.

On the eleventh night, Folka prepared to do the next delivery, because a livelihood is not easily gained or upkept.

He had gone peacefully, they said, and she grimaced away her thoughts into a knot of coarse rope. The wagon was overfilled but the yox was trusty and Folka wasn’t riding, she walked. More room for the wood. Snowflakes disguised the tears on her cheeks. She would stay warm somehow, and she would buy a ribbon like her late mother’s, and she would be all the family she had left.

The town was a day’s trip away, and it was time she sorely needed.

Folka part 2 ->