Strong smells of burning nettle and wild herbs wafted in the cool wet snap of spring among a grove of trees. Echoing among the pillars of old and ancient oaks, hardened and weathered all to some degree by the harshness of winter and the stones of the soil a solemn, long drum beat sounded in low steady beats on the hill top. Somewhere even more distant came calling the high whine of large horns as if answering and transmitting further the funerary march of elk-skin, pine-framed drums. From under his hood the former grand prince turned to the nearest drummer, an old man hunched over with pox-pocked hands rapping against the tight skin of his painted drum as a long salted beard hid his mouth and chin. Covering the rest of his face and veil of bone beads on lengths of wounded uncured leather dangled like vines from a black hood, crowned in a small deer skull, ornately painted in jagged patterns and a fading mark of thunder.

A younger assistant stood further away, plucking from a bowl the burning wild incense he threw atop the unlit pyre where a body wrapped in scrapped birch bark lay in solemn state. The former grand-prince could hardly give the hidden body a guilt-free look, and every time he looked up at it he turned his head away in shame and discomfort, hiding the solemn fact behind a facade of almost resigned disinterest as he watched some other part of the funerary proceedings.

Just several days prior, Perciv of the Ilmeshk and the Crooked Tree had killed his father in ceremonial combat.

He still felt in his hands the sensation of running the old man through the stomach in a failed charge against his own son. The soft resistance of the belly first flexing against the point of the blade before the skin finally gave out totally and it descended down the long broad blade of the sword freely with a wet slop as the gut was punctured and blood released. It had not been the first man Perciv had slain that day, but it felt like it had been again. And somehow it felt dirtier and less clean than it had been even then.

It overshadowed that day. The gurgling cough of his father's last breaths escaping from a mouth hidden behind a forest of winter-white hair whispered in his ear at each soft rattle of the tree branches in the King's Grove over Misrugłaz. And with it the phantom image of the droplets of blood that first stained his white beard before he slipped and fell to the ground like a tired elk that had ran for too long, his beard becoming for once nearly all red as it had been in his storied youth.

Perciv, son of Astonov of Milugłaz was by his reckoning a tall man who stood far above most. A freakish man who now walked as a king. Where by his stature his father Astonov inspired people to bow very low per his height, Perciv at times by his height and his bright, sharp green eyes he seemed to inspire only courtesy from others. It was as if by his build, his sharp green eyes that he didn't have to try hard to inspire people to see him as if he was a god incarnate on earth, where others tried to pretend for the image.

Incantations and ritual was finished at the pyre. The assistant stepped back from the stack of pine logs and set aside the wood bowl of smoldering incense and retrieved a torch from a nearby fire crackling in an iron brazier. He passed it on to the drumming priest, who dropped his music and inspected the flames. Muttering under his breath he offered a prayer to the fire to impart on the departing spirit, and passed it to Perciv. The ritual needed no further pomp, and stepping forward he touched the torch to the base of the stack of logs.

Quickly, with a spark of energy the dried tinder lit and flared to light. Within moments the bonfire was lit and the body of Astonov was engulfed in orange fires that lashed up and shot up into the still dark mid-morning sky.

A hint of sunlight brimmed over the south-western sky, but it came mostly behind clouds which choked the sky overhead threatening to storm. As the funerary fire burned and crackled a strong wind turned the breeze around and tore south from the north, bringing with it a biting cold that seeped in underneath the coat of wolf and fox pelts Perciv wore over his shoulders.

“The birds were silent in their branches.” the old priest said in a cold graven voice next to the king, “They predicted a spring snowfall to come. They were right.”

Perciv did not respond to the old man. Sensing his coldness he bowed gently to the tall king and stepped aside, taking with him the menagerie of shamans and augurs that had accompanied them to the funeral, their jobs completed so far. Later, the men would come to collect the ashes, pick the bones from the pile and inter them in a stone vessel. The ashes would be gathered in baskets, and taken to grow an oak. A stone-worker somewhere was no doubt working on a statue of the former king, the vessel that held his bones would rest in the statue's chest, and he would be formally interred on the hill.

But this was not part of Perciv's world. He did not want it to be part of his world. Neither did he not yet want to climb down the hill and find the throne that was his father's. The grief was still heavy in his heart, as it had been with many kings before him. He now entered that solemn few days of morning and cleansing of the deed from himself. He would return eventually, but not now.

Even still there was not a mechanization that would not stop for anything A figure stepped out of the shadows of the young oaks on this side of the hill and approached the new king, his hand resting on the hilt of a heavy sword at his hip. His thick cured armor absorbed the orange light and the heat of the fire as he came close and stood at the side of Perciv, watching the licking flames with a gaunt and dry expression.

“The queen stole a horse last evening as we were heading out.” he told the king. The warrior had to look up at his new king as he stood at his side, “Under the cover of darkness she left us. She returns home. We found out just now.” his tone was heavy and solemn, but trembled in anger for the subject in question, but a distinct fear for what might happen to him.

Perciv held his silence.

“I ordered some of the guard to follow. But she went light and well ahead. She I assume does not feel intent on offering you her fealty.”

“She poisoned him.” Perciv said suddenly, “I saw it the night before we fought. He knew he was dying then. I saw the coldness and the cruelty in her eyes, the bottle of crushed beetles. She never wanted to, she wanted to get out.”

“If you say so.” the guard sighed, dryly.

“Połan,” Perciv turned. His voice hallowed and rough. Like rocks rolling down a mountains or an old tree cracking as it was about to come crashing down. He spoke soft, having long lost his voice. It was said that it left him during a long shouting match at open sea, “I speak the truth, and I wish you would take this seriously.”

“I do your honor, but I do not think now is the time.” Połan pointed out.

“Then why do you inform me?” Perciv asked coldly.

“Because it is news and developments of your home. It was important, so I came forth-with. There is no wrong in telling the master of the house what has transpired.

“Though I admit, I do find it fishy.”

“By the agreement of my father and step-mother, her family's lands would pass under our purview with his passing as all land secession. That much we were assured. But if she is willing to break contract and run back to her dying family: so be it. We will come for it.”

Połan nodded gravely, “I am not to argue with you.” he nodded, “If what you think is yours by right. Then I shall not stop you.” He turned to go to leave. Perciv joined him, having had enough of the fire.

Połan was a stout man with a wide build, his pudgy arms swung at his side as he walked with an almost skipping gait down the soft grade of the kill. They passed from the far-side to the other city-side, moving passed the graves of the former kings whose statues either had yet to be swallowed by the trees they were planted with, or whose stone statues were in the process of being eaten and broken by the slow growth of the trees they were paired with. The earth here in the middle of this cemetery of the prominent chiefs and kings of the realm was broken with the roots of trees and both men had to look down as they walked over broken clay and through remaining banks of snow with roots sticking out of the solid ground waiting to trip would-be travelers.

“If she wishes to break the contract of marriage, then who with do you think she plotted with?” Połan asked.

“I don't know.” said Perciv, “But we will find out. Give me a courier and I will send a message along. Whatever reply we get, we will know.”

The great hall was dimly lit, shades of dark orange and red slowly dancing on the ceiling and wall hangings from the embers of the fire that had roared during the feast the night before. The air was thick with the smell of dried sweat, spilled mead and what food that had been left unmolested. It was a sour odor, with hints of sweet and salt. Enough to make Kadri sick. She was sprawled on her great chair in the center of the dais, observing through slitted eyes the devastation before her. Someone to the side of her grunted.

"By the dead." Paavo moaned, "I must have died and been taken by the wyrm. I can't see how else I could have deserved feeling like this."

Kadri snorted. "One and a half keg of Triinus sweet-drink would do that to you, you fool."

"Perhaps... Although I still suspect the wyrm and all of that."

She only muttered and nodded softly in agreement. That joy and revelry was rewarded with such pain and regret was surely the work of the great snake. Daring a glance at the food left to rot on the tables, Kadri wondered if she should try and eat some, and if any of it was still edible. She started reaching for it but gratefully collapsed back into her chair when Paavo resumed the conversation.

"What happened last night, anyway? I can't remember too much. Did we - ?"

"No. No, we didn't. But it wasn't on part of you not trying, that's for sure."

A sigh. "Shame. But it'd be twice the shame if we'd done it and I'd been to drunk to remember it."

Kadri turned her head sideways and gave the warrior what she hoped was a stern look. "I swear, someday Heino is going to find out, and then he'll kill you. You must learn to control that wriggling little worm of yours."

Another sigh, and a chuckle. "He could try it, but I dare say you'd be a husband poorer for it. Heino is weak."

Kadri reached down and slapped him on his shaven skalp at that. He looked up at her with feigned upset, but soon lost his act and gave way to a fit of laughter. "You're lucky Heino doesn't want me defending his honor for him, you know." she said, "I could have your tounge cut out for that."

"You could, aye." Paavo replied, a wolf grin on his lips, "But you wouldn't. You like that little bugger too much, and besides, you agree with me."

Kadri held his gaze a few moments longer before relaxing and slumping back into her chair, once more looking out over the waste-strewn battefield that had once been her great hall. "I suppose you're right." she admitted, "But, thinking about it, I could always tie that little bugger on a string round my neck so that it'd always be with me..."

Paavo was just about to reply when the double doors on the far side of the halls were opened. Daylight washed over Kadri and her lover like a wave of fire, and all she could do was keep from screaming out loud.

"Jarl Kadri!" a woman yelled, with a serious tone in her voice, "I bear urgent knews from the coast! There has been a raid!"

Shit, shit, shit. Kadri tried to open her eyes, but quickly conceded they would have to remain shut for the time being. A raid so soon after their victory? Could the Pale fuckers already have regrouped? It seemed unlikely, but she didn't put anything past those cave-dwellers. "Where, which village?" she grunted, "And when?"

"Külake, on the coast. We recieved word just now."

"That's not far." Paavo mused, "It must've happened last night. If we move quick we could probably intercept them, whoever they are."

Sure, but I'm not sure if we'd be doing more harm than good in this sorry state. We can't let them get away though. An attack on my holdings is an attack on me. Kadri rubbed her temples, knowing fully well what she had to do but trying desperately to find a way out.

The warrior at the gate spoke up once more. "What is your will, my Jarl?"

Kadri parted her eyelids and forced them open this time. "Muster the warriors." she said, "We're going hunting."

Waves quietly rolled towards the shoreline, kicking up small clouds of gravel and shredded seaweed as they began to slowly collapse against the beach. The darker, wetter sand formed a feint border between the ocean and the land, waxing and waning with every wave. It was low tide, and for the Seolhi, low tide meant an easy meal. Every ten or twenty meters, a Seolhi woman could be seen combing the shore for washed up fish with sharpened walking sticks, carrying baskets on their backs half-filled with chunks of briny meat -- Usually, with one or two loincloth-clad children trailing closely behind, kicking water and sand at one another. The sky threatened to erupt with rain at any moment, and coupled with the chalky bodypaint covering the sparse inhabitants of the beach from head to toe, the scene seemed as if it had been painted in grey. On one side of the women gathering fish was the open sea and sky, and on the other stood the Seolhi's sole fortress.

The Sea King stood on the balcony of his castle, watching the waves as he always had. In the room directly behind him, his bard pulled a bow along the strings of his Wularüt -- a Seolhi instrument made from a gourd chamber and horsehair strings -- singing for the king in the Seolhi's traditional, guttural manner. Seagulls circled the balcony, joining the singer in shrill squawks momentarily before returning to their nest on one of the castle's crumbling towers. The castle of the Sea King was better known to the world as The Ruins of Strandheim, which stood out on the horizon defiantly, in full view of the Maod on the other side of the gulf. The current Sea King had taken it thirty years prior, and though they did not know how to repair the cracking walls or crumbling towers, they were content with the changes brought by nature. The Seolhi did not trust places seals would not willingly enter, and though the second floor was accessible by a grand staircase wide enough for their seals to pull themselves up, the third floor and towers of the castle were either too steep or two narrow for the beasts, causing them to quickly fall into disrepair.

"Enough." The Sea King commanded. Immediately, the bard stopped, pulling the bow from his string mid-note, and ending the words he had been singing with a sharp inhale. Even in his old age, the Sea King was a frightful man, with a beard and set of brows too wild and bushy for clay to cover, and teeth sharpened like that of a shark. Though he trembled in his old age, he was still muscular and short-tempered, and was known for his increasing number of swings in mood. He wore nothing more than a long, sealskin coat and pair of leathery pants, exposing his sagging frame to the ocean wind. His authority was in the copper crown that had been stolen from southerners by the Seolhi centuries ago, which was now half-green from age, and the staff of driftwood in his right hand decorated with shells and thin metal rods that hung from strings of whale tendon, clattering in the wind like chimes.

The king stared at the scavengers on the shore, looking out beyond them to the churning sea, and further out at the glimmer of coast on the horizon. "Does the blonde thrall still live, Lolak?" asked the Sea King, keeping his unbroken gaze at the sea. His left hand raised to his beard, trembling slightly as he stroked it into a more defined point in his contemplation.

"Yes, my king. I believe so."

"Send for Ifryt the Runner and Forsi the Scribe. Send for the blonde thrall as well. I wish to send our neighbors a letter."

Uhtred of the Otr looked over the pall smoke that shrouded the village before him. Many of the earthen and wooden houses were aflame, the sound of their crackling masked by the screams of the people who had called this place home. They had fallen upon them just before dawn, four ships had beached on the next cove over and their crews made their way across the headland in the dark. When the fighting began the rest of the fleet closed into their harbour and joined the quick, bloody battle. He called it battle, in truth it had been a slaughter.

He sat atop an overturned skiff on the small stone quayside, behind him was his own vessel, a graceful longship with a shallow draught, tapered at both ends. Blood was smeared across its sails and prow, for this spring, they sailed on the Red Tide, the first in twelve years. That’s why they had come to this place. That’s why they would burn it and put its people to the sword.

Before him his men brought their plunder. This place was not rich, like most Maod villages, there was little silver nor iron to be had, but it would allow them to restock their provisions. One man dragged a girl, not yet into her blood, before him. Uhtred gazed coolly at the man, and with a level voice spoke to him.

“We take no thralls this year. This is a Red Tide, take her on land if it is your will, and then put her to the sword.”

The man bowed his head in concession to his Gunnar Jarl, and dragged the girl away. She made no fight, her eyes had been somewhat glazed over.

Uhtred of the Otr was the Gunnarr Jarl of the Otr Clan. He was still a young man, not having seen thirty springs since his birth. He was average to look at, somewhat handsome by his people’s standards, but not tall or strong. His skin was tanned and his beard and hair a lighter brown than most and were kept short, his hair barely being long enough to gather into a tail. His eyes were green, an uncommon trait for his people, but not unheard of considering the number descended from thralls of the inner lands. Were it not for the torcs of silver that adorned his throat and arms, he could be mistaken for a common warrior. He wore mail over good linens, a woollen cloak with an otter hide around his shoulders. His sword was well made but plain. There was a distance between him and those around him, save a golden haired man of similar age who stood companionably behind him.

Uhtred broke his fast on fresh meat and bread, it was good, but it somehow seemed that the only thing he could taste was the faint metallic tang of blood in the roasted joint. It was first he had eaten since they had set off from the isle of the Kópr many weeks ago, when the Tinvaal had last met. That was the place where this had all began. The place they had decided to go to the greatest undertaking of their people, the Red Tide. He could picture it now…



“TWELVE SPRINGS!” The Lord of the Walruses – Ormond Skull-Splitter cried out to his fellows as he strutted back and forth before the hearth of the hall. A cry in answer went up from the ranks of captains behind in from the Clan of Hroshvalr. It was joined in turn by those of the Nāhvalr, as well as many from behind the benches of the Bjarndýr, and jolt of realisation, many from behind Uhtred’s own bench as well.

“Twelve springs since we have been and honoured our Father-God in the true way, with red sails and sword in hand! For twelve springs we have acted in greed in and in cowardice! For twelve springs we have acted as Godless men, and abandoned the old ways! No long, the Hroshvalr say, this spring we shall see the Skrælingjar sail on the Red Tide!”

He was a tall man, and broad too, this Ormond. His arms were thick with muscle and his great beard was only starting to grey at the edges. His eyes were fierce and his neck draped in great pendants of Walrus ivory, the totem of his clan. A sword and famed axe that once belonged to the father of Ragnar Blood-Reign hung on either side of his belt, Uhtred knew from experience he could wield them both with fury.

Ormond’s bellowing voice could be easily heard over the chanting and stamping of feet, but he was already done, satisfied with the rising emotions in the longhouse. As he returned to his seat on the benches, Magnus One-Eye of the Nāhvalr rose to his feet to speak. He might have been the tallest man in the room, unstooped yet despite his advancing years, he wore the pelt of white bear over his rusted ring mail. The chanting slowly died down as he glared around the room with his single, icy, grey eye. Magnus spoke low, but firm.

“The Tinvaal knows great length of our opinion on the Red Tide and on honouring our Lord-Father Sil. We stand with Hroshvalr in this hall, and in war.”

Few chanted to this, although it did not mean that they were against the Red Tide. Uhtred knew of the mistrust of the strangest of the Clans, he himself agreed with that sentiment, despite their Godly nature. From Uhtred’s left, his companion, a golden haired youth of great beauty named Ragnar Broken-Blade leaned down and whispered into his ear.

“Oh of course they stand together, expect for when Ormond is pillaging treasure from his great niece, I expect that would get awkward.”

Uhtred couldn’t help but smile at the gossip, until he caught the sight of his older cousin, Axton Iron-Grip glaring at him disapprovingly out of the corner of his eye. He was right of course, this was the Tinvaal, no place for bawdy jokes, not until the offerings for a year of bountiful voyages and stormless seas had been made – only then the feasting and drinking would begin. And he was a new face on the front benches, he should not show any sign of disrespect. He set his face and turned back to the meeting.

The Kópr elder who was adjudicating had called up the Melrakki to answer the calls for the Red Tide. They spoke, as they always had, against war and in favour of trade with the green lands. Ragnar the Gold was eloquent, but his pleas for peace were increasingly wearing stale with the Tinvaal. He was called so for the gilding that dripped down ever surface of his fat body, they said that once he had been handsome, but as his wealth had grown so had his waist.

“My great and good War-Chiefs, I too hear the need to honour our Father Sil. I too feel the need for blood boil in my veins. But the Red Tide is not the way to do so, not for this spring at least. Have we forgotten the scouring of the last red fleet? When our ships were burned at Dunaeton? When mighty Sil threw the greatest storm of a generation at our fleet as entered the open oceans from the Aeldarsee? My Seiðr tell me that Sil must be displeased with the very notion of the Red Tide, if not why would He have acted so?”

The Gunnar Jarl gestured to a priest, one surprisingly richly dressed and well kept, to his right.

“I pledge ten maidens, riding ten bulls, dressed in silks and gold to be sacrificed before Sil’s temple at Thirsk! I will pour libations of southern wine over his altar! I will even have honour duels held in his name! This will appease Lord Sil, not the Red Tide He has already spurned!”

A great cheer went up from the benches of the Melrakki and the Ari, but the response was more muted in the rest of the room. Ancient Jarl Harlan of the Ari whispered to one of his nephews and it was proclaimed they sided with the Melrakki. The Old Fish, Seger Seven Lives of the Fiskr, tentatively motioned in support of the Melrakki, he had lost all his sons and a nephew to the storm that had struck the last fleet. The Kópr had remained silent throughout all this, their Young Jarl listening intensely to the whisperings of his advisers. Tides seemed to have turned. Then Gomer the Strong of the Bjarndýr came to his feet.

“Enough! My Jarls! Enough!” He roared, his nickname the Grey Bear was deserved, he appeared as one now.

“None can question whether I remember the scouring! Of the four Jarls that led the fleet, I was the only one who returned! When our fleet was betrayed and burned, and we were slaughtered upon the shores I swam in mail to my ship. As we returned to the Isles, I myself took oars and did not sleep for three days whilst Lord Sil’s storm wracked us and killed my shield brothers. I watched as Jarl Calder of the Hroshvalr’s ship was pulled under with all hands. None can say I forget!”

The room was silent as he stalked around the central hearth.

“For twelve springs I have no voted for Red Tide. We were broken, we were weak, we were scared. But I am no longer afraid! I watch us grow soft, I watch us grow fat, I watch us abandon the old ways and turn to Greenlanders! If we abandon Sil then He will smite us most surely than ever before. We should risk his wrath and take the Red Tide, for though he may smite us, if we do nothing and continue on this path, then he will smite us and we will be too feeble to recover!”

The quiet lasted for a moment, then it exploded into cries from all sides. The Melrakki and the Ari eager to refute and reply, the Hroshvalr and the Nāhvalr crying for war. All the years he had attended as a captain he had not seen such discord. The Kópr elder was calling for quiet, but his Gunnarr Jarl silenced him with a wave of the hand and rose to his feet. Narwin the Young of the Kópr had chosen to speak. After Uhtred himself, Narwin was the youngest of the Gunnarr Jarls, he was lithe with short black hair and clean shaven face, and with a clever mind and eyes. One day he might called Narwin the Wise or Narwin the Sly.

“I have listened to both sides, and all the esteemed chiefs make good cases. But the Kópr will side for the Red Tide on this occasion, the time has come to see if we still remember the old ways and along with the new.”

All eyes turned to Uhtred.

It came down to his vote. The Hroshvalr and the Nāhvalr had swayed the Bjarndýr and the Kópr to their side, but they needed a majority. If Uhtred chose to vote with the Melrakki, the Ari and the Fiskr, then they would be tied and would argue until one changed their vote or an honour duel between the clans was declared.

“Jarl Uhtred, how does the Otr vote on the matter of the Red Tide?” The Kópr elder asked him levelly, but he was more aware of the eyes of Narwin, looking cool and amused as he lounged on the bench opposite, like this was some kind of test. Uhtred did not rise to speak but tried to keep his words slow as he addressed the Tinvaal.

“My Jarls and captains of the Isles, as most of you will know this is my first Tinvaal as Gunnarr Jarl for the Otr and I was never one of those captains foremost in politick. I would be gratefully if you gave me leave to discuss with my councillors.”

There was a murmur of ascent and the nodding of heads. Uhtred breathed a sigh of relief, he would have a chance to consult Axton and Ragnar. They both leaned in from either side and spoke to him. Ragnar went first, his words tumbling from his soft lips.

“My Jarl, I say side with the Red Tide. The captains support it, as do most of the crews. The bad harvests and the price drops, they blame this all on the Gods, not on the Melrakki traders. Appease them and make a show of being holy, besides, there might be great wealth in this if done right.”

“Those are words of a young man, eager for glory.” The gravelled tones of his mother’s cousin were hushed but still rumbled. His face was creased with age and scars, his greying hair receding, but he was one of the most experienced captains of the Otr. “My Jarl, I counsel caution. I remember the scouring well, and how we were before it. Side with the Traders, give us more time to blood and harden our younger crews, then we take the Tide. The Kópr will be convinced to change sides, if the Melrakki offer him a large enough bribe, Narwin is in this for his own gain. And if the Melrakki value their trader prestige as much as I believe they do, they will. If we side with the Traders the Tide will not happen this spring.”

They were both right. Uhtred had not been with the fleet when the scouring happened, he had been but a boy then, but he remembered how different the crews were now. So many fewer seasoned veterans, many more green boys – the same was true for many of Clans, though less so for the martial Hroshvalr. But at the same time, he knew that he was young, he needed to be bold and prove his right to sit at this bench… unless he wanted to fight for his right to lead.

“Listen.” Ragnar leaned in again urgency in his voice. “Do you know what some have taken to calling you? Uhtred the Untested, Uhtred the Unblooded.” Unblooded? That was lie, but there were some who might believe it. “And besides that, there are other rumours too you know… regarding your… preferences.” At that was a touch of fear in his shield-brother’s voice, they both knew why.

That was enough for him. Uhtred stood to speak. The Tinvaal hung on his words.

“The Otr will vote for the Red Tide. The sail for war this spring.”



“My Jarl? Uhtred?” Ragnar’s voice awoke Uhtred from his remembrance.

“What was that?” He shook his head to clear it of the confusing haze of those days spent in conclave and the nights afterwards spent feasting.

“One of our sentries said they saw men on the horizon.”

“On foot or mounted?”

“They did not say.”

“Hmm. Come, my shield-brother, we must find Jarl Magnus and Jarl Ormond. Warriors to me!”

Celund, Kingdom of the Cels

Wine and an egg yolk, when mixed with pigment, creates a brittle paint that must be applied quickly before it dries, and in thin layers so it doesn't crack. Boiling the bones and skin of fish creates a glue that must be reheated before application. Moss, plucked fresh, dipped in green paint, and glued to a thin board, creates the illusion of grass in miniature. Buildings can be formed with clay, then decorated with wood shavings and plaster before the clay dries, creating towns and fortresses. The application of moss to twigs allows for trees. The use of glue alone with blue pigment creates the vague effect of water. With all of this combined, a landscape is created. When hundreds of small, hand-painted tin soldiers are arranged on the board, great battles are formed. This was the hobby that consumed King Woracs IV's spare time. For his nephew, the Karl Serdic of Estbyrn, watching the old man delicately paint tiny tin soldiers was like seeing madness incarnate presented on the illuminated pages of a morality tome.

The cellar room smelled of rotten eggs and human farts. It was the sort of smell that starts plagues. Vile, unhealthy. Serdic inhaled through his mouth to avoid overexposure. He stood on the stairs, wearing a red linen shirt and matching pantaloons, a red velvet vest with silver buttons, and a red velvet hat that flopped like a pillow emptied of its down. He stared down at the old man, his white hair frazzled, his faced sporting new growth, and wearing thick woolen underclothes. Paint stuck to the King's thick fingers like mucus.

"Bulfirth drove a party of Ice-men into the sea." Serdic said. "Some of them fell into his hands, alive if you can believe it."

"We all owe Bulfirth our dear respect." the King muttered. He did not look up from his work.

"I have it in mind to visit the site, uncle." He would have said more, but the smell choked back his words and he paused to hold his breath.

"Your right."

Serdic coughed. "I also have it in mind to take Sibetta. Would that meet with your approval."

"She is your betrothed. Do as you will." the King finished painting a soldier and put it on the table to join a shield-wall approaching the earthworks of his clay-brick fortress. "In glory came the Cels, shield by shield, to thrust the Glins from their parapet."

"You should dress yourself uncle. It is morning again. The people will expect you to hold court."

The King frowned. "You don't appreciate our history." he said, and in his voice he sounded older than ever.

"Glinbadl fell. There are academics who argue that the War of Glinbadl never happened, so perhaps it never fell. Either way, uncle, I have other things to worry about."

"An academic would argue his wife's lover doesn't exist if he ever heard of the affair. You can't argue with something just because you don't like it. They need proof that the war never happened."

"No matter."

The King looked up at the thin beam of light entering from the brick-sized window a the top of the cellar. "Go, do what you want to do. Take Sibetta."

"Gladly." Serdic said, and he retreated into the relatively fresh air of the castle's ground level.

Celund Castle, the home of the royal family, was an old fortification. The thick grey stone that formed it had been weathered and rounded with time. Stucco plugged the gaps, and then aged over the centuries itself, cracking, and requiring new stucco to plug it all over again. The effect indoors was a mottled pattern of egg-browns, creams, and near-whites, where spurs of stone occasionally stuck out. The further he got from the cellar, the better the work got, until the stucco walls were uniform and smooth. Tapestries appeared, presenting ancient myth in woven color. Whale-oil lanterns replaced the pitch-fueled torches. In the civilized parts of the castle, cinnamon and clove purchased from southern traders was burned along with the oil, making the air pleasant and Serdic happy to breath correctly again.

"Good morn', your excellency." The Ex-Chequer bowed, dressed in linen finery and draped in jewels, and with a black velvet hat much like Serdic's own. He was a short man with very few real duties since the Prince had taken to caring for the books. A minor noble with a title of honor and an apartment in the castle, that was all he was. Serdic politely nodded as he passed the man. Decics of Horelund, that was his name and breed. The Horii were an old family with a character present on the King's recreated battle. Still minor though. Ancientness did not necessarily denote real importance.

The exchange was recreated several times with different officials as Serdic ascended into the royal quarters. He strutted through the hall and knocked at the door to Sibetta's room.

"Dear Sibetta." he warbled. "It is myself, your betrothed."

The door opened. He was greeted by the pink-eyed albino handmaiden, Pari. The way her mouth and nose came close together reminded him of a small dog.

"Mistress is away." she said.

"Away? Where would she go at this time?"

"To visit." the ugly handmaiden said.

"Well, if she returns spare no time to inform me. I will go look for her in the mean time."

The first place he looked was her brother's room. He didn't expect a visit to Prince Hecte "The Lingerer" to achieve anything more than it usually did. He didn't bother to knock at the man's door - nobody did, because he would never answer if you knocked, and he never cared when you barged in on him. The room smelled almost worse than the King's hobby cellar, but for another reason. Hecte sat unbathed, unshaven, in a sweat-stained woolen robe. His servants did their best to keep the room clean, but they could never keep the Prince clean. If they asked he would sometimes get to it, but not always. The Lingerer sat at his desk, bent over the accounting of the kingdom, working on it as passionlessly as he did everything else.

"Hecte, have you see Sibetta? Her girl says she is out."

"Yes." Hecte muttered. The way he looked at the books, a man unaccustomed to the Prince's way might think him enthralled, but Serdic had seen him just as focused on staring at the ceiling for hours when he was a child.

"Where did she go?" Serdic asked.

"To meet the porters." Hecte said. Serdic retreated from his room as eagerly as he had his father's.

He found her in the kitchen where men were prying open shipping crates. Inside, packed among the straw, were a number of goods purchased from far away, wrapped in burlap covered in pitch. Sibetta stood nearby like a child receiving a gift. She wore a thick woolen dress, baby blue, covered in linen and silk finery. Sibetta was fifteen - ten years younger than Serdic - and still young enough to look boyish. Her mousy brown hair was done up in a bun and covered with a jeweled netting.

He placed his hands on her shoulders suddenly, and felt her should muscles twitch as she spun around. "Serdic, you are a bully!" she smiled.

"I should have been a spy rather than a bully." he replied. "To sneak up on a gazelle as quick as you? There are hunters in Hemet that couldn't do that."

"Some of this is from Hemet!" her eyes lit up and she turned to grab a small ebonywood box, handling it carefully to avoid touching the splotches of stubborn pitch still sticking to the surface. Inside were a number of something stacked side by side like cookies. To him, it looked like mummified scrotums. When she picked one and ate it, he didn't know what to say.

"Try one." she said. "It's dried fruit."

He did so, slowly. A nibble, and then the entire thing. It tasted like honey with a fruity tang. "This is interesting. How did you come about it?"

"Our agent in Hemet of course. I forget his name. He finds these things for us all the time." she put the box away and perused through the others.

"Bulfirth has won a great victory in Celsmuth. It is a short ride from here, so I am going to ride out and tour the battlefield. Your father says you can join me if you wish."

"Tour a battlefield?" she looked at him, startled. "Is that a safe place to be?"

"The battle is over. And I will ride armed, I promise that. If you wish, Bulfirth left some Good Men in the capitol. We could ride under escort."

"I would prefer it." she said, looking down, biting her lip, thinking. "It is good then. We will see this battlefield. I have always been curious about what an Ice-man looks like."

to call the road a road was a compliment beyond its worth. Merely a pebble-strewn path cut through the thin brush along the banks of the wide Rispruvan river, it was too overgrow to be anything but a wide deer-trail. Branches hung in thick clusters over it, inter-twined in the cold spring air and naked of even the slightest hints of this years buds. A light snow fell slow and meandering, with no breeze it drifted down without direction or guidance to the stony ground below where it came to rest between the fledgling new-growth grasses. The stillness of the air carried every sound in the deep woods, the knocking of birds, cracking of heavy branches as they sagged under some animal's weight. Reindeer and elk called in the eerie silence and their voices echoed without a source from the deep wilderness.

Across the wide Rispruvan, so wide in fact it could safely nest a whole city between its banks and still let long ships free passage through its still glimmering gray waters the mountains of the Ura; to some the Wyrm mountains, others: the Broken Teeth. The sheer, gravel strewn banks of the slate-gray cliffs rose imposing over the waters. Fleeting in and out of hidden crevasses large hawks and eagles jostled for spring-time real-estate, competing with the ocean terns who flew inland to breed. From that side, the sounds were greater and a seathing mass of cacophonous noise screamed and wailed from the high mountain tops, forever packed with snow that ran down into the cold valleys.

It wasn't these sounds though that the lone figure riding along the path was worried about though. Her ears were trained for what might be behind her. The glomping of hooves in stone, the cracking clop on stone. The breaking of a stick that might warn her of a nearing companion or pursuer.

She had rode through the night, and the dark morning. The sun was finally up and it was beginning to dip again from its high-day mark in the south skies. The clouds hid it, but breaks in the darkened clouds shone beams of warm yellow light that reached north and east.

Rostomariana had been the second wife of Astonov. She had felt she would have been a prisoner in the red stone citadel of the Misruvani kings, she had felt fear in her heart and a longing for home. She had been a martyr on the alter of matrimony to save the dying family. But she was asleep then, and when she awoke she saw the slobbering phantoms and houndish men around her and knew the contract was to save her people, the Ivalian of the people Voldagrad; but was a means of enslavement. The entire world became dark and terrible, and she had to reach Voldagrad, the Wooden City on the Hill and save them.

Astonov was sick, she had tried to save him. Purge him of the ghouls that had taken over his body. But Perciv had slain him! Perciv had stolen the throne and he would want to collect what he wanted as his! There was no man as tall as Perciv who was any good. Men as tall as Perciv do not bow. She knew that much. She had to escape his shadows, but she saw his shades in the twisted trees and deep-green conifers that still hung heavy with wet snow. She was being watched for as long as she stayed in this realm, Weles gaze was blind here, and the man who stole his sight had great hounds after her.

So she galloped on. Ever afraid. Heart racing in her chest. Every step of the horse was followed by two anxious throbs in her chest.

By no means a tall woman Rostomariana was short and round. A woman well fed on bread, vodka, and game meats and duck. She would have been a healthy wife, but a dillusional perception of the world dominated her wide blue eyes that threatened to spring from her beady sockets. Blonde hair dirty and unkempt hung about her neck and shoulders in a wild-woman's knot, like a peasant's underneath a fur hat. She chewed her fingers compulsively, scars of nervousness created gnawed rings of scars and fresh wounds on hands that held tight the reigns of her equally short round horse.

If for the last couple days, the concoction of herbal medicines had been given to her to dull her over-excited imagination she would not be in this mess.

“Waters of cold steel,” she said in a stammering staccato voice. A humming shrillness rang in her tone beyond her age, “Lead me home to where pure pastures roam. Take me back home to the land where I may heal.”

The hysteria in her voice wavered just shy of ecstatic madness, live a love held just shy of an orgasm. “I want to sleep on a bed of big cat. Drink from pools of honey wine. To be where the men grow strong and fat.

“Oh river Rispruvan take me back home. Bring me back to hallowed shores.”

It happened without ceremony or marker. Along the road-side was a carved statue of Katzcyk, whose shallow face stared out from the trunk of a wide-tree. His wide knife-carved eyes beholding the traveler as she crossed a boundary. Leaving the shadows of the Misruvani she cantered across the precipice of dark to light. And while it still snowed, she sensed the shades melting away as she came home. Despite the still cold still air the warm breath of Weles ran down her neck and charged her with energy.

With a kick, she goaded her pony into a hastened gallop and continued down the forested, river-side path.

"By the dead."

Kadri was sometimes irritated by the favorite expression of her secret lover, but this was no time to point it out. Sitting on her horse at the top of a ridge, she was just as shocked as Paavo and the rest of the warriors were, stunned by the surprise before them. They had expected a raiding party. Bandits, or Pale-men, or even Seolhi. But this, this was different. This was-

"That's an army." Paavo said, like if he'd had the same thought as her.

"You don't say." she replied, finding a little bit of snarkiness somewhere beneath all the terror she was currently experiencing.

He continued as if he hadn't heard her, eyes wide open. "But they said there'd been a raid, not that a fucking invasion was in the making!"

"Another brilliant observation." she retorted. biting her lip and wearing a worried look in spite of the cynical tone in her voice.

Paavo turned to her, all furrowed brows, an angry expression on his face. "This is no time for witticisms, Kadri! This is serious! We're in terrible danger here, in the field against this many."

"I know." she said, still sounding calm in spite of her speeding heartbeat, but having dropped the cynicism for the time being, "I can see that."

"I'm glad you agree with me! You go ahead and order the retreat, and I'll organize a rearg-"

But Kadri didn't hear him. She was busy observing the devastation before her. On another hill, not too far away, a group of invaders had become separated from the rest of the hoard. There were two banners there which Kadri had never seen before, although she knew perfectly well what they meant. Standards, much like her own. Leaders. Scanning the hill, she could see a man dragging a girl by her hair up the slope. She could not determine wether he was smiling or not, but she imagined he was. And she knew why. An attack on my people is an attack on me. If he takes that girl and I do nothing, he might as well have taken me instead.

"No." she barked, interrupting Paavo. "No, we're not going anywhere."

"What?"

"We cannot let them go unpunished. Send word down the column; riders are to remain with me, foot will return to Kinnisvara to warn the populace and prepare defenses. We are going to teach these mongrels about Maods and their honor." Her voice had started trembling by the end, terror having been replaced by fury.

"Kadri! Please!" Paavo begged, "You can't endanger yourself so, and what would be the point? Look, they have already spotted us! Soon they'll be forming ranks!"

She dared a peek towards the beach. He was right, they were already forming ranks. Shit, shit, shit. An attack now would be risky. Perhaps too-

"You can't do this!"

It might've been the insolence of his claim, or the whining tone of his voice. It might've been the situation as a whole, but at those words Kadri snapped. She turned in her sadle, slapped Paavo across his face and grabbed hold of his collar, pulling him close.

"I can't?" she roared, spit flying, "I can't what? Avenge my people? Reclaim my honor? Defend my lands? You sniveling coward! You dare slander your betters in their absence, yet you yourself cover like a beat dog in the face of an adversary! Retreat, then, if you're so unwilling to fight for what is right! Take the foot and go prepare Kinnisvara for my return. I insist!"

She let him go and turned from him with such finality that further argument was impossible. Instead she was staring straight ahead at that little group on the hill, only just now beginning to scramble to attention. Baring her teeth, she ripped her sword from its scabbard.

"Riders, to me! Let's show these shitstains what real warriors look like! Charge!"

And with a thunderous roar, the Maod did just that.

A light snowfall drifted over the city. Looming over the wooden town, protected by its low stone wall, its red granite facing covered over in crumbling red clay it sat idly in the new spring snowfall, idly biding its own time until the weather got warmer, the sun stayed out longer, and the fields could be watched for the young shoots of this year's scrubby hard wheat bursting out through the melting snow. Already in places grass was beginning to worm its way out of where the pack was lightest. But where it had drifted and gathered and lay heavy against the ground there was no such sign of life.

But the animals knew that much it was coming, and rabbit and deer dug up the snow and nibbled at the virgin shoots heralding spring. And the hunters hunted them; both man and beast. The world was awakening.

The fire from the previous day's funeral had died out, smothered in its own time and by the melting snow. It now smoldered indifferently in the cold and a faint gray trail wafted up from the forested hill beyond the inland walls of the king's city. It showed clear in the open doors of the massive wooden hall overlooking Misruglaz proper, a lingering reminder to the shifting of kings that had transpired there.

Perciv, standing in the courtyard perceived the lifting tendrils with shaded sadness. He held an indifference as he stood outside the stables. Chewing a thin strip of smoked venison he watched the last remains of his father travel to the next life, and he bid him farewell and best of wishes in the Gods' court. He would have liked to seclude himself for the next several days, but worldly matters called for him.

Misruid's Hall was an imposing structure, for a realm of wooden and earthen huts. Of even the disorganized shacks that made Misruglaz itself. Once a hilltop fort from which the Divine Kings controlled the confluences of the Ves and Devier it evolved to be the central axis of a wild town. But it had still all the fittings of it being a castle.

Erected atop a pile of boulders, pieced together like a jig-saw so they held without concrete or mortar it capped off and flattened the ancient hill-top that was its home. From there a rising tower of wood rose into the sky, each level capped with a high-topped roof. It went up in succession, some four stacked stories to its peak where the roof bowed down, sending its ox-bow tips up and into the sky where two wooden dragons roared into the cloudy skies; or truth be told Perciv believed they were dragons, the years had not been kind to the details and while the lower parts of the towering palace were well kept those ornaments at its peak were wisely ignored by workers.

The roof was shingled with ash planks of wood and the irregular sloped field they created made the roofs looked jagged and sharp, like a saw. Or fuzzy, yet coarse. And while it rose with successively smaller quarters each had its series of verandas, porches, and odd additions that made new rooms or expanded old ones so they came out to the very edge of the given space, or even over the edge. It later years trucks of trees had been dug into the earth and set up against the wall to help hold the weight of the structure atop the pile of stones that was its base from crumbling outwards, sending the wooden hall crumbling down, slate floors, servants, royalty and all.

On the ground, the court was muddied from fights, the business of servants and the riding of horses. While the ground now was frozen solid in late spring and summer and into autumn the ground would be covered in straw to hold the mud of churned earth. It was down here the quarters that served the greater whole were: the kitchen, the barracks, the armory, and a small shrine, with a stable, bowyer, and food cellar, in a corner the tightly packed apartments for servants and guests stood in a dark shaded corner of the muddy courtyard.

The thumping of steady hooves on frozen ground called Perciv's attention to the present and he turned away from the tower he now called home. Coming out of the stables was a young man, barely out of boyhood. He lead gently by the next a short stout pony, thick with gray and brown fur. Packs and Sacks were tied down to its rump and back, ready for a journey.

“Your honor.” the youth said quietly, looking up at the tall king and giving a courteous bow of the head. “Long may you live. You called for me?”

Perciv nodded, the youth stood just barely to his shoulders. His head was round, cheeks soft but sunken, distorting his contours. His head was a full mop of blonde hair so dirty it was reddish-brown and he looked up to his king with large blue eyes. “I did.” Perciv said with a gentle voice, “I need a message ran south to Voldagrad.”

The young man nodded eagerly. And through a smile full of uneven yellowing teeth he said, “Sure, I can do this.”

Perciv nodded, “Tell the Grand Chief of Voldagrad and the Wooded Cities on the Hills that King Astonov of the Misruvans, the Illmeshk, and of the Four Rivers is dead, his son: Perciv of the Lesser Yoké has ascended in his stead as King of the Misruvans and of the Illmeshk and of the Four Rivers. Tell him that with my ascendancy by the agreements brokered between Astonov and the ill-fated Varimy who was his brother by trade of blood that I wish to make real my claim on the Wooded Cities, and that whose chiefs live there swear their fealty to the Misruvans and the Illmeshk.

“And that in addition, I ask for the return of Rostomariana so that she may be retired safely to the Augurs of Dvarog. She may live her life as a queen retired as a maiden and gardener in His house.”

“Certainly...” the young man said, the eager yellow smile had faltered a bit as he took in the message, but returned swiftly.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

Perciv shook his head, “Ride swift and safe...” he trailed off, searching for a name. But he had none, he realized he had not spoken to any housekeepers under his care, not since he had been a boy who wandered the halls and courtyard; but many of those then were dead now.

“Ilk, your honor!” the youth said proudly. But Perciv could tell he was not very proud.

“Ilk?” asked Perciv.

“There is no other name for a homeless bastard, I am sorry.” he apologized, “The diviner Khorog brought me in, and took me to the keep. Astonov brought me under his care, I have worked his stable hand since then for my bread and beer, and only just a couple years ago been a courier for copper.”

Perciv nodded, “So then, Ilk the Courier: I bid you a safe trip.”

“And you a good life!” Ilk smiled, mounting his pony bareback and gripping to the mane cantered away and through the large pine gates of the parameter.

Perciv lingered for a little, watching the way he had come. He went to leave, to head back inside where it was warm when a grave voice behind him caught his attention. “He is a speedy and eager courier.”

The king turned on his heels and saw the slumped figure of Khorog, the chief priest and figure in Ilk's story. He was the one to officiate his father's funeral.

The elderly shaman had traded his dark robes for green and red as he resumed his daily duties. But the veil of bone-beads still hung down in front of his face. But the hood he wore was crowned with the dried head of a small wolf that sneered and snarled in its salted decay on the old man's crown. His long wispy beard fell across his chest, and the light of the mid-afternoon shone in his milky blue eyes and long knife like nose. “I would have taken him in, as an observer for rituals. But he was an impatient boy then and I don't think he's any less now. Moving around is his thing, and not staring into the sacred waters or to watch the sunrise. I don't think he would even listen to the bird-song.

“Throw sticks and bones to read he could do. But beyond that he was useless to me.”

Perciv nodded indifferently.

“He is dutiful still, and he knows who is in charge. It's the most I can say of some people.”

“Sometimes perhaps that is best.” Perciv answered the small, slouched priest. He came up shorter than Ilk.

“Men and women of the realm must know who rules them, else they will not kneel to power. It is having and knowing to use your authority and the gift bestowed upon you by the spirits around us that makes you respected.”

“As flowery as that is,” Perciv answered dryly, “I got enough attention as a retainer to my father, even kept at a distance I caught the eye of people not as someone to be respected but to be afraid of and reproached. They knowing makes me even less invisible.”

Khorog snickered disagreeably. Coughing he spit at the ground alongside him. “There has never been an invisible king.”

“I do not doubt that, and I believe I will be the first.”

“So you shall.” Khorog said, “But I am concerned.”

“Of what?”

“A king's reign that starts in a state of high activity dies quiet and sick. A king does not die quiet and sick. A king is a warrior that serves in the retainer of the gods, and to go outside of combat will deny you this, make you a servant to another king. I would take great care to make sure you do not die lying down.”

Perciv nodded apathetically. “I'll remember that.”

“Is your family prepared?” Khorog asked, the tone in his voice from a hard teacher to a soft chatty friend changed the topic of the conversation.

“They're on their way.” Perciv confirmed.

The Hunt
Southern Mountains from Mt. Jura just outside the Jura claim

Spring, when all life on earth begins to rise, hunt, gather, and explore what the world has to offer. Snow on the mountain was not quite finished with its residency but slowly the thick packed white fluff became no more than a thin layer of its former self. Rocks became more visible on the ridges, paths were clear of ice, and the wind began to change its persistence. Mountains to the south, where the Jura territory halts just shy, the sound of feet could be heard beating the surface as a group of seven humans were running close to the ridge line of their position on the mountain. Fear painted across their faces, each one gripping their weapon of choice until their hands became white, like the snow nipping at their toes. They weren’t ready, not for what was to come.

Moments Earlier…

“Father! Father! Look, over there, what is that?” a young boy dressed in fur of another animal called over to a man with broad shoulders, standing with the height of at least six young boys. This man sported a black beard, black long hair, with white peppered throughout. His demeanor showed confidence, and power, the one to be assumed leading the others. He began to ascend over to the young boy perched on top of a rock around the corner of where they had been resting, He used his back to climb, fingers to grab hold, and feet to push, reaching the rock with little effort. All of the males in attendance were great climbers, they needed to be, or this trip would have been unsuccessful.

“My boy, that is a mountain goat, a great spot, as it makes for a great meal.” He placed his large paw of a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and whispered, “But for another day, my little sapphire.”

The boy showed his disproval in his father’s last remarks but could not voice it, a sign of disrespect is to question elders. Nonetheless the man could read it on his boy’s face, he patted his son’s head and turned him around, sending him off the rock and back to the group. When he looked back to spot the goat, there was nothing to see, it had vanished.

Present…

“Where are we to go?!” One of the men called out as they entered a crevasse that provided no answers to their predicament. The group was now sandwiched between two large rocks and to their backs was a steep drop off that would send shivers down spines of even great climbers.
“My little sapphire, go with Gregur, Yalwe, Dunga, and Bramin, take the front, Gregur, take the two boys to the rear. We will wait this out, and move when the sun begins dropping below us.”
“I don’t know if we should wait Kain, we need to keep moving. We are trapped if we stay here.” Uncomfortable with the situation, Yalwe opposed the plan, but regardless took his position.

Moments Earlier…

Kain turned around on the rock and climbed down himself after the boy and approached the men gathering their things together. Breaking camp in the morning had always made Kain smile, a start to a new day with the fresh mountain air running through and escaping his lungs.

“We move East, and begin our descent, we have enough food that the climb will prove difficult but once finished, the bellies of our folk will not go denied.” The men grunted in agreement with Kain as the final packing had been completed and the group made their way down. It had been long into the afternoon with still a day out from their homes at the base near the river. Two kids had accompanied the men on this hunting trip, two of the oldest in the village from where they came, learning the ways of their fathers to better fit themselves with the skills necessary to become great hunters and provide for the village’s future. These two children were becoming fatigued much quicker than the men folk and it showed in their posture, they were tough, and willing to move forward, but setting up camp soon would be ideal before the night fall.

“Barta, Yalwe, take a look ahead as the path narrows here and the bend holds tight to the mountain side, make sure we have safe passage before the boys.” Barta and Yalwe both nodded and began their movement toward the path, everything looked just as it was left when they made the trek up.

“It is safe!” Barta called out, and began to walk further across the ridge and on the narrow path, if there were any loose rocks, he would be the first to know and warn the others. Yalwe awaited to see everyone catch up around the bend, and then turned toward Barta, but as the others began their approach…Barta met his end. A direct hit from a large spear impaled Barta in the side of his abdomen, penetrating across his body and through his shoulder on the other side. Barta had no time to give out any sort of yell as blood rushed through his innards and choked his throat from within. All he could do was try and turn to see the others one last time, but as he did his footing slipped and he fell down smashing the rocks below.

“BARTA!” Yalwe yelled as he turned to face the direction in which the spear must have come from, below…staring at him and the others were four lizard men, they each had a different color to their appearance, but all of them looked like Osai, having to of at least stood at 6 to 7’, three with broad shoulders and one slightly slender.

“WE MUST MOVE! MOVE YALWE! FORWARD!” Kain shouted as he picked up the pace for everyone in getting across the mountain side. A second spear came soaring by and penetrated the wall of the earth directly in front of Yalwe’s chest. He was not sure if it was meant to hit him, or slow him down. It did not do the first, but having to crouch and get under a spear that protruded from the mountain side on a narrow path was no easy feat and losing your footing would mark the end of the road, as did the spear for Barta.

Present…

“I understand Yalwe, but if we keep moving, we will be open to their attack, you know very well what we just saw out there.” Yalwe could not believe it either, Kain was right, but it seemed that they both knew the odds were not in their favor no matter what decision they made.

“Osai? This far South? They have never been seen this far.” Bramin was not a man of words but this was not common, nor expected.

“I saw them too Bramin, it is –“

One of the boys yelled and as the others turned to face where they were at in the crevasse, Gregur’s neck was cut, and all of them could only watch the horror play out. An Osai stood behind Gregur, standing just below 7 feet. Its skin was a light brown with a tan under belly, and bright green eyes. The Osai’s claws had come from behind Gregur’s head cupping his skull, one claw even penetrated the right eye of Gregur before the knife finished the job. Both boys yelled, running back to the group and Gregur’s body went limp to the floor, tossed to the side, lifeless.

Right after Gregur’s defeat, Bramin coughed up blood, Yalwe heard Bramin’s flesh being torn and spotted a spear emerging from his waist. Everyone had been startled by the boy’s screech that they took their eyes off the entrance to the crevasse. Yalwe quickly reacting turned around only to be smacked by large claws across his shoulder that sent him down to the dirt. Kain rushed the Osai who had just killed Gregur, first launching his spear and then drawing his sword to attack. The Osai had to move quickly, upon evading the spear he met Kain’s blade with his own, deflecting Kain’s assault as the dagger was not strong or big enough to take Kain’s sword head on.

Yalwe began picking himself up while Dunga battled the Osai who had just killed Bramin and sent him to the dirt, toe to toe they fought, Dunga using his ability to wield a spear, and the Osai staying agile and alert evading Dunga’s attacks as if it were a choreographed dance. It was on the eighth or ninth thrust, just before Yalwe got up, that the Osai was able to grab a hold of Dunga’s spear and pull it down at an angle, sending Dunga off balance. Drawing the dagger located in the sheath across the chest tied to leather on the Osai, the Osai met Dunga mid-way cutting the outside of his arm as Dunga maneuvered to protect his vitals.

Yalwe saw his chance and charged the Osai fighting Dunga, but before he could get there, a dagger whistled through the air and lodged itself in his calf. Yalwe didn’t see from where and again dropped to the ground just feet from Dunga on his belly. Here he would witness Dunga’s final moments, the Osai continued to out maneuver Dunga, and the Osai was at Dunga’s back, it launched its claws into Dunga’s shoulder blade, following up with using its other set of claws to stab the lower back of Dunga from the other side. The Osai gave Dunga a second before releasing both hands and ejecting the claws from which they rested inside of him, his knees caved from beneath him, dropping to his hands, still determined to fight, but unable to move, soon unable to live.

Yalwe could do nothing but watch as his friend and brother had been killed without mercy. The Osai looked over to Yalwe and then over to the kids.

“NO! NOT THEM!” Yalwe cried out as Kain was managing the other Osai from earlier. Cut for cut the two battled and it wasn’t until Yalwe’s cry that had Kain train his attention to his little sapphire. It was the moment the Osai needed to whip his tail into Kain’s abdomen, air broke from Kain’s lips as he smacked against the crevasse wall, ultimately finding the ground just as Yalwe did. The boys huddled in a corner as the one Osai who finished Dunga off approached them, Yalwe crawled on the ground toward the children trying to make an effort in defending them. A third Osai emerged, kicking the last weapon Yalwe held from his grip. The Osai slammed its foot on Yalwe’s leg that held the dagger’s blade, and Yalwe called out in pain as his nerves began firing off to his brain that this was really happening.

“This is mine.” The Osai said in a cold, dark voice.

The Osai pulled the dagger out and before Yalwe could scream showing his pain, the Osai thrusted a spear into the back of Yalwe’s neck, crushing the bone, and severing everything attached.

Kain was sitting against a rock and saw that the two young ones were grabbed by the Osai who slayed Dunga. The Osai, Kain battled prior to his down fall, met his gaze, the eyes had this menacing yellowish green hue to them with a tongue that nearly reached his face with ease, and then the Osai knocked him unconscious.

“Salanth, quiet the human spawns and report back to Shedani Galzra, take Drakkar with you, he already has the first human we killed, you can take the one you killed for the trip. Kieran and I will climb higher for observation and set up post, have Shedani Galzra return you to me for further duties, I believe there to be more in these southern mountains than we know.” Zul ordered Salanth and then wrapped his claws around the human who he had just knocked out cold, dragging him toward Kieran.

Kieran pulled the spear from out of Yalwe’s neck, blood sputtered out and dripped from the gaping wound, a crimson run that had Kieran licking her chops. She saw Zul making his way over and heard the orders when given to Salanth, she dropped to her feet and threw Yalwe over her shoulder as Zul did to Kain. They both left the Crevasse and began their ascension of the mountain to gain a better view of the surrounding area. This was new territory to not only them, but Shedani Galzra and the Jura.

Celsmuth., Kingdom of the Cels

"You see, the problem with the Ice-People is that they have no concept of military science. Words like 'Tactics' and 'Strategy' mean nothing to them. They all climb into boats with whatever they or their ancestors have stolen from better people, and if they have no stolen weapons, they grab whatever tools they have lying around, and they sail along the coast until they find a place to deploy. And when a band of Ice-People 'Deploy', what they really do is act like bandits, dashing every which way and stealing what they can. Militarily speaking, it's all very easy to mop such a mob. But arriving in time for the mop up? That's a complicated notion."

Serdic spoke to his companions on the road. It was him and Sibetta, him on a powerful white charger, her riding side saddle on a white mare. Behind them rode four Good Men in heavy armor. They were traveling a sunken road, old beaten cobblestones appearing in the kneaded mud like raisins in a pudding. Overgrown hedges and hoary oak trees leaned in toward them and formed a natural breastwork.

"I will tell you one thing, Sibetta. They don't understand cavalry. That is important. You show one of the Ice-People a regiment of our Good Men and they only see men in plate armor, with helmets and horses and such. But there is more to military science. A regiment of Good Men understand the value of the flank, of high ground, of how to divide and smash an opponent. The armor helps, sure. I don't believe I've ever heard about an Ice-Man in full plate." He looked back at their Good Men escort, conscious they were listening. Their true faces were not visible, hidden behind cylindrical helmets with small slits for the eyes. On the face of their helmets, the smiths had crafted metal faces with strong noses and thin mouths. Each metallic face had a mustache, some no wider than the nose, others arching toward the bottom of the helm. Thin ribbons of colored cloth flew from the back of their helmets and caught the breeze. A Good Man wore one ribbon for every battle he had fought, or tournament he had competed in, or personal duel he had survived.

"It is a gloomy day." Sibetta said, looking in the direction of the sea though she could not see it from the road. "I fear it might rain while we are out here in the open." The air was thick with a cold droplets, and grey clouds threatened from the direction of the coast.

"I will keep you dry, dear. Don't worry much about that. And a little bit of water is worth witnessing glory. Now... I was saying. Oh! I would reckon even a few hundred Poormen could destroy the entire race of Ice Men arrayed in their natural formation. Because armor isn't the most important part of a horseman's capacity, you see. Come in from the sides, drive them in fear toward the center, and squish them as if they were in your hands." he pressed his palms together for emphasis. "I would even bet that, if you took a few cavalrymen and arrayed them on their mounts as naked as babes, they would still destroy a mob of icemen. Even if the ice men stole stone armor for the dwarves. Military science, my dear... Ah, this is the hill. If you are afraid of blood, my dear, then steel yourself."

They crested a ridge and followed the road as it emptied onto the coast. At the edge of the grey-sand beach was a fishing village in the shadow of an abandoned castle. The fortification, salt and moss digesting its stones, watched the sea from a rocky escarpment like a forlorn fisherman's widow. Under the walls, silhouetted against the stone, were dozens of gallows, all in use.

A rider blocked their way. He sat a wiry mare, a smear of blood on it's shoulder but no sign of injury to its body. Except for a pointed steel helmet anchored by a nose guard, the man's clothing consisted of leather and padding. The butt of his lance, a simple wooden thing, was pressed into the dirt of the road. A buckler was strapped to his other arm.

"Humble friend!" Serdic shouted to the man in a tone more suited for a dress ball. "I am your Karl of Estbyrn. And this is your King's daughter. We are here to review the field. Take us to Lord Bulfirth, if he is still here."

"Aye." the rider said tonelessly. "Follow me, lords."

They moved at a trot through the village. Its huts were driftwood, stone, and thatch. Old jute fishing nets, made brittle and ragged from years of use, were hung over the outside walls of the huts, where flowers or seashells where attached as decoration. Women in woolen dresses were combing the battlefield for trinkets, taking jewelry off of corpses, or pieces of damaged armor, or pulling teeth from the gaping mouths, so that these souvenirs may be added to their netted walls. Those who looked up at Serdic and Sibetta recognized them for nobility and bowed their heads. Beyond, along the water, the village's men wrangled with the forfeited Longboats. Fishermen to a man, they studied them with the sympathy of professionals.

After crossing the beach, they approached the castle, and the hanged bodies became apparent. "Lord save us all." Serdic exclaimed. "They are only boys!" The bloating blue faces, their eyes made red as devils and their faces twisted from the struggle of strangulation, were otherwise boyish and without hair. They things they had brought with them - their jewelry, armor, weapons, shoes, and totems - had been stripped from them, so they swayed barefoot in the worthless seal-skin rags their kind preferred. It was disappointing. Serdic was further disappointed when he realized who the lynched Ice-Men were. The prisoners. He wished to see living Ice Man, but Bulfirth had put them down before he could arrive.

"Fair one." it was Bulfirth, riding down from the ruins with his own escort of Good Men, voice echoing in a thick conical helm fringed with victory ribbons like rays from a setting sun. The barrel-chested Lord rode up along side Sibetta, and Serdic noticed his betrothed was covering her face and looking away from the gallows. "You do not have to look at them." Bulfirth said, speaking in a hushed tone to Sibetta. "But do not make it so plain. Your people should not see their princess looking like a child." He took off his helmet and placed it on his saddle horn, showing the blushing princess a warm and fatherly smile on a care-worn face. A neatly kept brown beard followed the line of a thick jaw that would have been handsome if it didn't jut slightly to the side. His hair was kept manageable short, and was not maintained in any purposeful style. On the front of his plate armor was a thick steel device made out like a shield bearing the image of a venerable owl with wings outstretched.

"Lord Bulfirth!" Serdic greeted. "You have the praise of the King and his court. More victories like this and the race of Ice People will cringe from our shore."

"I thank you." Bulfirth replied. "But I hope the court will agree when I say that this victory belongs to God. I arrived, lord Karl, and did not find certain victory waiting for me. I found an enemy, and I fought him, and God found it suitable to reward me with the field."

"Yes." Serdic said. "Well, God has been very good to us."

"Very true." the big warrior said humbly. "I can only hope we have earned that blessing."

Serdic looked up at the gallows. "Did they give you any trouble?"

Bulfirth looked back, turning awkward in his heavy armor. "No. But there was no purpose in keeping them alive. Ice-People are profane little creatures."

"Did you have time to question them?"

"They could have nothing of value to say." Bulfirth replied. "What could they say? That they want to menace our people and steal their things? That he has a concubine at home who he wishes to rape before he dies? Maybe say prayers to the rotten hump of seal fur his people worship? I took what I needed. I have this..." he motioned to a hatchet hanging from his belt. "...one of them made this. It's not very good. And I have those..." he motioned to the longships swarmed with fishermen on the sand. "...they do have value to me. Come, join me. I am going to sail back home."

"In one of theirs?" Serdic looked out at them and wondered, for only a moment, how something they made so far in the north could be sea worthy. "Of course." he said. "Lead the way, my lord."

"I don't want to!" Sibetta blurted. Serdic looked blankly at her, not completely accepting she had said that.

"Sibetta, my dear." Serdic rode next to the skinny girl looking so frightened and small on the top of her horse. "If you don't want to do something, that is fine. If you are certain of it, say so, and I will send you back with our escort."

Sibetta looked ashamed, the offer rattling in her head. "I want to ride home." she confirmed. "I'm sorry, Serdic, but the sea..."

Serdic didn't want to admit she had let him down, so he smiled as warm as he could pretend and sent her on her way. What an honor she was going to miss. What an experience!

They loaded onto the longboats awkwardly. Serdic went first, climbing into a vessel and finding the angle of the thing uncomfortable to walk on. Bulfirth placed his helmet in the sand and, with the help of a young squire, took off his plate and placed it next to the helmet. Next came off a coat of chainmail, leaving him in a woolen padded suit that covered his head and hung down to his knees. He put back on his belt and scabbard and climbed in next to Serdic.

The sailors, mostly footmen with a few fishermen to help, pushed the boats into the water and jumped on board to man the oars. Soon they were off, skimming over crystal water like a spoon through cream, the sea spray cooling their faces, the sail cracking solidly in the wind.

"These are cleverly done." Bulfirth said. "The shallow draft must be for river travel. Brilliant speed. Their only disadvantage is they cannot stand in a fight against a heavier ship, but so far our heavier ships haven't been able to catch them."

Salt stung at Serdic's eyes, and he squinted to keep from crying. "It's a wonder those people can build something like this." he said.

"I think they were meant for us." Bulfirth said. "And if I can get the King to accept it, I think we can make use of this gift."

"I don't understand." Serdic said.

"These ships move fast and can be used cheaply. Group them in parties of three, place seasoned soldiers at the oars, and use them to patrol our coasts. Enough of this and we could clear our seas of these Ice-People."

"Can you build these?" Serdic asked.

"What would be the purpose of an empty gift?" Bulfirth asked. "We must be able to build them if they are here in our hands."

A thunderous roar came up from the hills above the coastal village and Uhtred was struck with a pang of nerves and excitement. A battle this early into the spring’s raiding? This was uncommon, and not a good omen. They had hoped to fall a number of ports before the Maod had rallied warriors to meet them, it was not insurmountable, but they would no longer have the element of surprise and secrecy that the fleet normally operated under at the start of the year.

“Someone find Axton! Bring me my arms!” He bellowed as the quayside swarmed in a confusion of bodies. “Where are Jarls Magnus and Ormond?”

“Jarl Magnus took to the hills with his prisoners, he meant to offer them to Sil and have his Seiðr read their entrails for counsel.” A young man in a tunic stitched with the bear of the Bjarndýr called in answer. “My captain went with him, Jarl Uhtred.”

Jarl Magnus was above the village this did not bode well. Magnus was a fierce warrior, but if he and his men were caught unawares in a cavalry charge they could be slaughtered. If Magnus was lost then this would be a sure sign the Red Tide (and by extension the Skrælingjar) had been forsaken by Lord Sil. Who knows what would happen if the men lost faith? For Clan to slaughter Clan was rare in the days of peace created by the Tinvaal, but tensions ran high, and the Melrakki and Ari were looking for any excuse to challenge the authority of the Jarls of the Red Fleet.

“How many men did he take with him?” A boy had brought him his helm and shield, he threw his cloak off and donned his war-like garb as Ragnar readied the warriors from at least four captains in the village.

“Not many, Jarl Uhtred. It couldn’t have been more than sixty.”

“By Sil’s wrath!” He cursed. “What is your name boy?”

“I am called Fenwick, Jarl Uhtred.” The Bjarndýr answered, he was young, not even into his beard yet and with an underfed and rattish cast to his face. But he looked calm, and there was determination in his eyes.

“Fenwick of the Bjarndýr, if you value the life of your captain, gather as many of men of your clan as you can and march them up that hill.”

He turned away from Fenwick and towards the hills and the men assembled before him by Ragnar. There was at least two hundred men, mostly from the Otr, but he could make a few Bjarndýr and Kópr amongst the ranks as well. Of the other clans there was no sign.

“Ragnar, where is Jarl Ormond and the Hroshvalr?”

They were fiercest warriors of the fleet, as well as its largest component, without their presence Uhtred was unsure if they would be able to secure victory against this unknown number of enemies. Ragnar turned to him, his beauteous face marred by a stern frown beneath his open faced helm. He held shield and spear in his two long fingered hands.

“The Jarl leads his men down the coast to sack a temple or shrine he spotted when sailing into port. Axton went with him. It is not too far, I sent men to rouse them.”

At that the clash of steel on steel mixed in with the screams of men rang over the small cove, it came from a ridge above a small patch of woodland, directly inland from the village.

Uhtred smiled sadly to his dear friend and drew his sword.
“It looks like we will have fight this battle without Jarl Ormond or my good cousin.”

He raised his blade into the air and bellowed to the men before him.

“Sil demands the blood of these Moad-men! In His holy name, we shall take it! Follow me, and KILL THEM ALL!”

And will a war-like cry they began to march from the village into the pasture beyond, towards the treeline, leaving churned mud and drying blood in their wake.



“Land!” Leigh cried as the ship sped forward through the waves of azure blue. He was clinging to the top spar of his uncle’s great ocean going Knarr. Two days ago they had entered the inner sea of Irea, following Jarl Harlan the Old with the other Knarr. Now they drew near to the shore, to the Great Port of Whitbeach, the capital of the people known as the Nahrets. Leigh had heard his uncle and the other traders speak of the fabled city many times before, but this was his first visit to the great city.

He firmly grasped a rope and swiftly climbed down, gripping it with both of his bared feet. The days were warming, but it was still chill in the afternoon sun, and he was glad to return to the decks where he could wear his boots once more. Once he had them on he ran to the rear of the boat where his uncle, Nyle, stood proud, conversing with the rudder-man.

His uncle had reason to stand so, he was a captain of the Ari, and more than that he was the captain of one the precious Knarr ships. The Knarr ships were not like other longships, they were much wider and with deeper hulls. Instead of mainly being powered by oars, they used the winds and had a much greater sail, meaning the crews were often smaller, only twenty or so men. But the great advantage of the Knarr was their ability to brave the wild and open oceans of the East without fear, they could cross vast waters when others kept to the coast, for this reason they were so valuable.

His uncle cut a striking figure, both tall and strong, with tanned skin and black hair pulled back into a long tail. His beard was neatly trimmed and shaved on the sides, his eyes were lively and had laughter in them. He was dressed in undyed linen and an open seal skin jerkin, with a magnificent indigo cloak thrown over them. A hoop of red gold was in one ear and a beautiful long dagger with an antler handle at his trim waste.

Leigh was envious of his uncle in many ways, he had his uncle’s height, but was still a skinny and gangly boy. His hair was a mousy brown and grew in tangled curls, unlike the smooth and silky waterfall of black Nyle sported. He had no beard, neat or otherwise, and in place of a fabulous cloak he had a worn coat of goat hide. His knife was old and nicked, its handle scales loose. He had not yet seen fifteen springs and this was the first voyage he had ever been on.

“Uncle Nyle! I saw land, I saw Whitbeach!”

His uncle smiled back at him. He was the oldest of Nyle’s nephews and seemed genuinely fond of him, or was so in comparison to his mother’s sisters at least.

“We should be there before evening at this rate. Sil be praised, He has given us good winds this year and Jarl Harlan’s memory of these waters are as sharp as ever.”

It was in Jarl Harlan’s fleet that they sailed. When the Red Tide had been announced, Leigh had first been disappointed that they would not sail with it. Jarl Harlan had only sent one of his raider boats to the Red Fleet, the rest he kept to sail south with, to trade with Irea and beyond.

They had casks of salt-fish and whale oil from the Fiskr, lumber from the Bjarndýr, as well as furs and ivory that had gained from trading with the ice people of the far north. Jarl Harlan also had amber, gold, and Narwhal horns to trade. But the richest cargos of all came from the Melrakki Knarr that sailed with them, one captain had filled his hold with thralls to sell as slaves in the green lands, another had chained a white bear cub to his deck to sell as an exotic pet.

“If His favour continues, we will have a good price for all these, then we can journey on south to the green lands, maybe Hemet this year if the winds are favourable.”

Hemet. The lands were near mythical in stature. It was so hot there that fruits withered on the vine and men’s skin turned black from the sun. The streets were paved with gold and even beggars wore silks so men said. If Leigh could go to Hemet on his first voyage, he could be rich man by the end of the year.

“But anyway, run along now and tend to the lines. We have work to do before we can dock.”

Over the next hour, Whitbeach came into sight. It rose above the white sands it was named for like a shimmering mirage. The city was a forest of close wooden docks, warehouses and ale houses, all raised up on piles and piers. Of ships, there were few, mostly empty galleys and great oared ships of the south, military ships. The fisherman came and went as they did at any port, but only a handful of traders had arrived yet.

The eight ships slacked their sails and drifted across the harbour, as the citizens swarmed along the docks like ants. This was it, Whitbeach, a real southern city. This was the first steps into his life as a trader. Leigh was ready.

The work of stone braziers kept the great courtly hall of the wooden palace warm and lit. While high narrow windows close to the ceiling moved the air throughout it was the fires that crackled in the middle of the slate-floored hall that helped to repel the bitter chill of spring and autumn and the biting hellish cold of winter. The floor did little favors, and was nearly covered in furs which softened the sounds of foot-steps so even the heaviest stomping was muffled by the fluff of wolves and deer skinned during winter. There was hundreds that littered the smooth stone floor, there had to be to cover it. And great piles of skins lay between the heavy wooden posts that held up the floors above. They covered the furniture that filled the spaces between, and the large pine chair that was now Perciv's throne.

Gently working at a wooden panel in the corner of the chamber, a spidery thin man with whispy wraith like hair knelt with a knife and rock in hand as he delicately chiseled away the wood. With the patience of a nature spirit he chipped away the wood to add writing to the walls. Later he would go over it again, not with a knife but with a stick dipped in paint, adding color to the words so they burned clear and bright from the faded dark wood. This was the story of Perciv's father, told in brief through the sacred sharp script of the Antevich.

The script was hardly a original device of the Antevich peoples, and really only a handful read and used it; the kings, the priests, and the carvers who deployed it. It was an import of Lesovichk's, or was an inspiration in part.

Standing at one of the carved panels, Perciv ran is hand along the faded beveled script etched into one of the first panels put up to recall the kings who had come before. It was old, and the sharp edges that had once defined the etchings had gone soft and round, barely indistinguishable from the graying birch slab used. If it wasn't for the red-paints used to highlight and give life into all the writing, to pull it out of the indistinguishable gloom of decay it would have been invisible to all but the close eye or the sensitive hand.

To speak more to its age, the writing on the panel was larger, cruder. Made by masters who had not yet mastered the skill or knew the entire story of the king. This one was of Lesovichk himself, but only put up well after his death, like so many of the early Misruid kings. Along with the crude writing there were symbols that no longer existed in the current form, long ago dropped or married with others to slowly symplify a style of writing that was as untrained and unrealized as Lesovichk's attempts to make his kingdom like those far-away Empires that the most ambitious and lusting adventurers sought after.

Still, they were not wholly untranslatable to the studied eye. Perciv read the panels again and again in solitude through the days, coming to his granduncle's and stepping back to start again. “Lesovichk son of Misruid. Slew his father in a duel of honor and became as his father, a conqueror and victor. Father of the Zemlyanarod. A wolf dragon who won the Battle of Vrāna. Brought word, and built up.”

It was hardly an epic. Misruid's own was hardly any more sparse. “Misruid, the great conqueror and unseater of power. A giant who killed many by his own hand. Conquered the Ves River. Subjugated the Devier. Killed not his own father for prominence, but many a man's own. Glorious: earthly hand of Tharun.”

As the placards went through the generations the practice refined itself and the skill of the artisans improved. Short bios with large child-like writing became detailed stories as long as a short fable written in small intricately crafted letters. A fuller list of details was recorded in chronology from memory. But it wasn't as if all was forgotten from then, song still existed. And there was many songs sung of the old kings.

Perciv looked over at the old man carving the words of his father's life as he felt a tinge of regret, sadness, and more mourning. But it was the way things had to be, he had to slowly resign himself to that. And here in the hall he could read of the many kings who have in their stories, “killed their father in honor to succeed him in life” written as parts of their histories. To be a king was not to be alone in one's regret, he was of a large court. What often appeared to be the most disparaging were those kings whose next act after succession was the taking of their own lives and the seeming desperate rules of their sons, even in the Misruid blood-line these figures did not achieve a relation with the gods and became cursory stepping stones of rulers to be later slain in battle by a cousin, nephew, even if the new king was only just a child.

And at a point, total usurpation by an unrelated family occurred.

“You've been moping, your honor.” the artist said in a low gravely voice. The sudden announcement by the only other soul in the room stirred Perciv and he spun on his feet to the wiry man working in the corner. They locked eyes, and Perciv stood, attentive and inquiring in his patience. “It's no good to mope about for too long. I understand who you are, what sort of person you are. I did this for your grandfather, and here I am to do it for you. Though I hope and suspect I shall not do one for you soon. But I can see you are still stuck on what happened, and good or ill and however it happened it's no good letting the weight lay on you like this.”

The old man had the dialect of the peasants. His tone rich and rough. Consonants accentuated and rough on his lips.

“How do you know this?” Perciv asked, quietly. There was a lingering pain in his heart and he felt he should be offended, but he did not have the energy as a slow malaise crept over.

“I have seen it.” the old carver announced.

He waited for Perciv to respond, and heard nothing. Without fear he continued on, looking back to his gentle work: “I lost a son many winters ago, when he was but a boy. I nearly drowned myself in the cold waters if it had not been so cold that the water had frozen clear over. I wandered the river up and down for leagues for weeks hoping to fall in. I tried to succumb myself to the Biting Blue, but I was ushered inside with the tears frozen to my cheeks.

“As it had happened when I lost my father one summer, and as I have seen for others who lived through great loss. Every man freezes in spirit. Some men die of it when it chills their hearts so solid it stops beating. You can see the distance in people's eyes when their soul if succumbing to mournful chill. And I am seeing its cold blue grip on you.”

He turned away from his carving again as he brushed his thumb along the edge of the dull metal knife in his hands, “It is the last thing we need, a king frozen on the inside.”

“I am not.” Perciv said plainly.

“So you think.” the old man sighed, “So why do you go and ponder these stories so deeply? Do you look to find reprieve in men who have killed their predecessor? This is doing nothing, your honor; if you do not mind me speaking so plainly.”

He stretched his neck, and went back to work. “I am waiting.” Perciv answered him.

“And letting the Soul Chill catch up.” the old man grumbled, “It was when I got myself back to work, and began to move my hands that I escaped the chill of a sad soul. I do not wish to see my king turned blue on the inside, so I ask that he finds a way to keep himself busy and moving ahead.”

“I am waiting for that moment.” Perciv said defensively, annoyed.

“That is what I worry for.”

A cave to a man, home to a Osai

The laughter of a child sung through Kain's ears as his heart filled with glee and joy from the presence of his little sapphire. Running in the fields, free from understanding the world that lay around him. Innocence was a blissful thing, what it meant to be naive and gullible, if only all creatures would stay in such a state of immaturity...would life be less violent...it was a thought, but not one that could be taken into serious pondering. His mind snapped from the image it projected and back to reality, Kain rest against a stone wall, the smell of dead drifted in the air, and drips of water droplets fell onto his cold face. He was too numb to shake, it had been quite awhile since his last meal and drink of water, the toll it took could be felt but the fear of what happened to his boy took presidency over all thoughts.

"What have you done!?" Kain shouted to the two silhoutte figures next to a fire that were bent over something he could not see. Reverberation of flesh being torn from its grip on muscle and bone was distinct, the very sounds sent a shiver up Kain's spine. One of the Osai turned to glare at Kain and then proceeded to get up from it's crouched position, revealing Yalwe's face. The Osai approached as horror flooded Kain's eyes, instantly burning an image that he wish he had never saw.

"Oh...my..." The Osai bent down before him and looked directly into his eyes, "Yes, a nightmare perhaps, or just you and your people happen to be where you shouldn't at the right time for us, wrong time for you."

"MONSTE-" As Kain yelled his head felt pressure in the side of his jawline, the Osai threw a quick elbow to end his sentence.

"I can't have you screaming, keep calm, tell us of who you are, where you come from, and just maybe you'll see the children again...yours or not, you want to see them again don't you?"

Kain kept seeing Yalwe's face stinging the membrane of his pupils, tears swelled up, muscles cramped, and breathing became more of a task that involuntary, "Why? So you can do to them as you have to us, monsters are not to be trusted."

The Osai smiled, a grin that was menacing just by the nature of him being a lizard, "Monster? No, we are merely different than you, making sure our people are just as safe as you do for your own. Did we hunt you? Yes, but it is no different than you hunting us or other life that is not of your own."

Kain did not comprehend what the lizard man was trying to say as all he could see was a beast, a beast that he could not relate to, "You are different, so different that I know your intentions with what you are trying to get from me will only be used to hurt my people, the boys are tough, and I will see them this day or the next...but you will get nothing from me."

Defiant to his last breath, Zul stood up and walked over to the dead body, cutting is what echoed next, and then Zul walked back over with Yalwe's head. Zul dropped it in front of Kain, the flames of the fire lit up the cave just partially to where the identification of Yalwe was recognized by Kain and the man fell even deeper into his own thoughts.

"The boys may be tough, but because of you and your unwillingness to help, let it be known before you die, your people will suffer as your companion has, because of you."

Kain had no words, body clamming and stuck in a trance of complete shock. He felt pressure in his chest, but the sensation was numb, his head looked down at the shaft of a spear just driven into him by Zul. Blood seeped from the wound, it was then that his hands began to move again, grabbing the shaft and trying to pull it out to speed his rate of blood loss or perhaps just a natural reaction. Regardless, Zul kept pressure on it, until Kain's hand fainted to the side, his body limp, stabbed up against a wall like a slab of meat. Zul yanked the spear out and grabbed Kain by the feet, dragging him over to the fire, and throwing his dead body onto the flames. The fire quickly went out, embers however still cooking Kain's flesh. Kieran was just finishing off the rest of what meat was left from Yalwe's body. She licked her chops and turned toward Zul, "What is the plan when our light touches the new day?"

"We will look for his people."

Mt. Nyrei - Salanth and Drakkar with Shedani Galzra

It would be hard to believe if told that there were lizard folk residing inside the mountains of a world ruled most by men. It would be hard to believe that these lizards were organized, even if not deemed civilized. It would be hard to believe, that they could construct such beautiful wonders staying true to nature's curves, ridges, and architectural design. Halls to Mt. Nyrei were carved by some of the Jura's best diggers, finding the path of least resistance while making it structural and true to the natural flow of the earth and rocks within the tunnels constructed. Smooth walls with jutting rocks for every 30 yards that had cylindrical holes carved through them to place wood that could hold a flame for hours. Osai can see very well in the dark, so having an abundance of light was unnecessary, but light was still helpful as the deeper into the mountain you went, the darker it became.

Salanth and Drakkar carried two sleeping boys into the mountain side where Shedani Galzra's hall is located, the other two bodies had been fed upon during the trip back to Mt. Nyrei by both the brutes before arriving. Making their way through the vast tunnel way, passing nurseries, guards, traders, commoners, and many others who called Mt. Nyrei home within the Jura claim. Human boys were not common, and the looks Salanth and Drakkar received were of those who were not prepared or expecting to see human children in their home. Of course only Shedani Galzra and those trusted knew of why the human children were being spared, which only raised questions for those who witnessed them being brought back.

The two walked up to the hall's entrance where two Osai guards with spears pointing directly up had been standing. Both guards had red dyed sashes across their forearms and upper bicep, they were Huventis, Huventis wear cloth on their arms, Shedani around their neck or draping over a body part, Masi around their tails or hands, Fellasi around their ankles.

"Huventi Salanth and Huventi Drakkar, here by order of Huventi Ossa Komod Zul, reporting to Shedani Galzra of Mt. Nyrei." Formality was key with the Osai, it seemed redundant at times but it was necessary to receive respect from another who had never laid eyes on you before. Understanding the formality, names, and class, meant that the words being said could be identified as truth or lie. Not always the best way to tell, but it worked for the better most of the time.

"With two humans?" One of the guards said.

"Shedani Galzra's orders."

The guard did not understand why the Shedani of Mt. Nyrei would want such pests in her presence but an order was not to be questioned among the Huventi class as their role was to protect and fight for the Osai, the only decisions a Huventi was allowed to make unless given permission were the decisions in combat and on the battlefield. The Guard turned toward the curtain that draped over the entrance, concealing what was on the other side. His hand brushing the drape to the side and walking in, Salanth, and Drakkar both followed as the second guard stayed at his post.

Shedani Galzra, a slender, athletic, and most exotic colored Osai that most would ever set their gaze upon. It was her mastery in wits that commanded most Osai, and then her experience with the blade. She was tough, standing at 6'7" which was abnormal for Osai females. Her tail was wrapped around a stone with a hole for a handle, a bowl was carved in the center and she lifted it to her tongue so that she could drain the water from it.

"Greetings Shedani Galzra, Huventi Salanth and Huventi Drakkar, both have brought gifts to you, upon your request they said." The guard bowed first before speaking, and when finished he turned his gaze to the two who knelt before her.

Drakkar and Salanth both placed the sleeping boys in front of them and then raised their chests to Galzra in a demonstration of pride to the success of their mission.

"Thank you, you are relieved, return to your post." The guard nodded to her command and made his way past the draping curtains once again.

"This is quite the treat, Zul's orders to send you here without his presence?"

Salanth spoke up to her question, "Yes, he asked if you may let us return to our duties with him once you are finished with what we have brought."

She nodded to Zul's request and then with fluidity in her stride, approached the children, delicately placing a claw on each cheek and assessing the young children.

"Very well, but first tell me of what happened."

Far, far beyond the familiar shores of the Seolhi there flew a sail, bearing the Seolhi's emblem; A seal, drawn in squid-ink and charcoal, swimming upwards in a semi-circle. The Seolhi were not known for their sailing, though they enjoyed flying their flag on the back of canoes for the dread and brutality their name was associated with, and the fear this inspired in their victims at a distance. Many emblems, especially those of pirates and renowned warriors, announced their arrival with depictions of snarling wolves or rampaging bears, though none inspired the same primal fear the Seolhi's innocuous seal did. Where the Seolhi were known, seeing a fleet of black seals whipping in the wind was cause to smother a babe in the crib to save it from being devoured. But the Seolhi were not known here, and this emblem did not fly on a flag.

The second Sea Prince Baothe had conquered sailing, as no Seolhi had in history, fashioning a sail from the intestine of a seal with knowledge given to him by one of his thralls taken from a fishing village. It was a distinctive yellow-white, transparent in the sun save for the ominous black seal painted onto its thin, membranous surface. It was tacked to the mast with a braided rope of whale sinew, adding to the strange, unearthly appearance of the ship. The ship in question was the first Seolhi sailboat of its kind, appearing oddly alien in its construction -- Its sails, from the mainsail to the jib, were made of translucent intestine, supported with thin wooden battens that made the sails resemble spiny fish fins. The hull of the ship was lined in stretched seal skin, waterproofing the thin hull, decorated at the edges with walrus tusks jutting out, as if to give the boat carnivorous teeth. To say it resembled a boat designed by a man who had never stepped foot on one would be a fair assessment, as it was true. What little Baothe knew of boats was taken from his study of shipwrecked and captured vessels, compounded with what little knowledge his slave could impart through their language barrier.

His older brother Varuuk was too proud to listen to the words of slaves, or perhaps too crude to learn their language in depth, and though his younger brother had given the Seolhi sails, he would give them land. They had sailed through the edge of the Skraelingjar isles all day and night, and were eager to set foot on beaches uncharted by their kind. Their sights had been set on the peninsula on the horizon for some time, though they were now only minutes from landing. There were only two sailboats yet made, each captained by a Sea Prince and crewed by thirteen men, the sacred number of the Seolhi. Though this left their quarters cramped, it made their voyage all the more likely to be successful in their eyes. His younger brother's ship lagged behind, though this was all for the better. Varuuk was better known as Varuuk the Black for his well-known cruelty and temper, whereas his younger brother had been given the title "The Reader".

---

"Genja. Bring out the sick pup." Varuuk barked, sitting at the deck's rocking edge, looking outwards at the fast-approaching beach. One of the chalky Seolhi behind him nodded, crawling into the ship's narrow deck, returning later with a small bundle in his arms. As Varuuk commanded, it was a small seal pup, heaving lightly with each breath, with eyes encased in a thin film of crust. Varuuk stood up, steadying himself on the unsure vessel with a taut rope connected to the mast, unsheathing an obsidian dirk and turning to meet the eyes of his crewmen and subjects. He cleared his throat and spat into the churning sea, looking over the crew he had gathered as he prepared to make his speech.

"The Seolhi," Varuuk began, "The Seolhi, we have never been feared as conquerers." He paused, soaking in the jeers of his crewmen. He brushed a hand through his shorn hair, which had grown enough over the voyage to stick out of his clay paint. "We are feared killers. Reavers and reapers. Murderers of the weak are we." He paused again as his men cheered, though he went on, pointing at individual crewmen as to single them out. "Man-Eaters. Rapers. Orphaners." He went on, taking the sickly pup Genja held out by the scruff, and opening its throat with his dagger in a quick swipe. It thrashed momentarily as Varuuk held it in the air, allowing it to bleed freely onto his head, cascading over his face and onto the frayed ink-dyed black pelt he wore. The men only cheered louder at this, as he held out the seal to Genja, who did the same.

"We are feared by the Maod, we are feared by the Skraelingjar." Varuuk rubbed the seal's blood onto his clay-covered body as he spoke, the beach drawing nearer and nearer behind him as the men passed around the seal's body. "Today, we will be feared by the northmen. Not as reavers. Not as murderers. Not as pirates." He raised his dirk into the air, inciting his men to follow. The coastal village they had seen was now close enough to see the villagers therein, who scrambled from the shore towards their huts for what little protection they offered. "They shall fear us, sons of Eshkag, as conquerors!"

The men cheered, thrusting their spears and daggers into the sky, shouting and beating their chests in a bloody fervor. Within moments, a deep grinding could be felt as the boat ran aground into the beach's white sand, and the Sea Prince leapt from his place at the head of the ship, leading the charge. He sprinted forward, hunched over in a wolfish stance with a sharpened dirk in either hand, ululating the high-pitched warcry his people were known for. The assault had begun.

The first man to charge at Varuuk was bulky and bearded, charging at him with a three pronged trident, better suited for spearing fish than men, thrusting at Varuuk's head. He was no seasoned warrior -- He was a fisherman, as were most of his fellow villagers, and it showed in his open stance. Varuuk bent his knees, dodging the trident and putting him at eye level with the man's belly, which he plunged his two daggers upward into, thrusting his head upwards at the man's jaw. The fisherman sputtered blood as he fell backwards, dropping his trident onto the sand as Varuuk unceremoniously stepped over him and locked eyes with the next villager, beckoning him to come forward with his daggers. This villager was not as large as the one that attacked Varuuk initially, and the Sea Prince saw this realization in the man's eyes. He hesitated, holding up a spear with shaky arms, stumbling backwards as the Seolhi approached him. He made a half-hearted thrust at the prince, who knocked the spear away with the flat of his dagger. The fisherman had time only to begin a shout of mercy as Varuuk swiped his second dagger at the man's throat, opening his neck and cutting his cry short.

Behind him, the second boat arrived, and Baothe and his crew leapt from the ship and into the shallow water, making their way towards the beach as they cried out their warbling battle cries, brandishing spears and axes. Baothe lead the charge as his older brother did, brandishing a weapon in each hand, though he preferred short-handled axes rather than the dirks his brother prized. He was shorter, and wore grey-white sealskins with a fox's jawbone tied to the center of his short mohawk. Unlike Varuuk, who had coated himself head-to-toe in blood, Baothe's warpaint centered around his eye sockets and cheeks, resembling the sockets of a skull. His crewmen carried torches as well, which they held upwards as they charged, flinging them at the thatched-roof cottages scattered across the beach as they ran.

It is a glorious day for the Seolhi, Varuuk thought as he surveyed the chaos. He raised a bloody fist, crying out more ululations and running towards a fleeing villager. The onslaught would continue for much longer, though it was clear victory was at hand.

The town was in a state of complete turmoil, and Paavo was in the midst of it. It shouldn't have come as a big surprise that news of an approaching enemy host of great proportions would send people into panic, but seeing it first hand could shock even the most hardened soul. He had spent the last few hours desperately trying to direct warriors and commoners to their appropriate places, but the fact of the matter was that things were in quite a sorry state. The other veterans did the best they could too, but without the authority that Kadri held over the populace things were looking grim.

"No, forget that!" he yelled at a passing man who for some reason had decided to try and bring a ridiculously large chest with him, "Leave it! Take only what you need and head towards the fort! There's no time!"

The man stopped in his tracks and stared at Paavo, his tunic turned dark from sweat, trying to find the right words to excuse his actions but looking more like a fish gulping for air. "But" he ventured, "My clothes... they're made from southern silk and-"

"By the dead, man!" Paavo interrupted, "Would you rather look poor alive or fancy as a corpse? There are warriors coming, and they won't care two shits about any of your-"

"Paavo!" Someone called, breaking Paavos rant off mid-sentence. He turned and saw Heino rushing towards him. Oh great. Just great. In the confusion, the man attempted to slip away with his oversized trunk. Paavo was just about to call out to him again when Heino reached him.

"Paavo." Heino wheezed, breathing hard, "I just got word; the sentries have spotted people coming this way. From the coast."

Shit. "How many? Were they mounted?"

"A company, the messenger wasn't specific. And aye, they were."

Well that's something, at least. "It must be the Jarl, then."

Heino looked more than releaved at that. "What do you reckon we should do?"

"Same as we're doing right now." Paavo said, "But better gather some warriors to meet her once she arrives. You go ahead and do that, Heino. I'll stay here and keep things moving."

"Good man." Henino replied and put a strong hand on Paavos shoulder, "Good man. I can see why Kadri likes you."

You don't know the half of it, Paavo thought and patted Kadris husband on the shoulder in return.

---

Kadri gritted her teeth and cursed under her breath as she came into her hold. The cut in her leg shot spikes of pain through her body at every bump in the saddle, but all things considered she'd been lucky. The charge and the following battle had been rightous but bloody. It had gone smooth in the beginning, but once the invaders'd had time to form up properly the situation had changed. They had managed to kill a whole lot of them, sure, but they had lost a good few too. More than half, as it were. Still, they got a few survivors with them and, best of all, one of the enemy commanders. She hadn't been able to get much out of him on the way back, but he'd talk before long. Heated steel had that effect on men.

Kinnisvara was in a possibly even worse condition than her band. People were running to and fro, openly ignoring commands from the few veterans trying to organize them. She would have to do everything herself, it seemed. But I suppose that's the way of things. If you want something done right... A group of warriors came to meet them as they entered the square. She spotted Heino among them.

"I'm so glad you're safe!" he said as she dismounted, "When Paavo said he'd left you there alone, I thought-"

"He didn't leave me," she forced out through clenched teeth as pain shot through her leg when she tried to put weight on it, "I ordered him to. Where is he?"

"Paavo?" her husband replied, looking somewhat taken aback, "He's over there, but I-"

"I need to see him. Take care of the horses and the wounded, and get people going. We need to reach the fort before sundown."

"Yes, of course, but-"

"I will speak with you later."

She left him there and hobbled as fast as she could towards where Heino had pointed. It didn't take long before she spotted the bald veteran through the crowd, waving his arms shouting furiously at a man trying desperately to pick up what looked like a large quantity of fine clothing from an overturned trunk. She went up to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"What now?" he shouted while turning, "Can't you see I'm- oh, it's you!"

"Indeed," she grunted, still struggling to speak properly through the haze of pain. "We need to speak, and quick. We hit them hard on the beach, but they're coming."

"That's what I reckoned." Paavo replied, "I got everyone working on getting to the fort as soon as I returned."

"Good, but that won't be enough. We can probably hold them there for some time, but we'll need reinforcement. I need you to go upriver and warn the Istung. Make them come here and fight these bastards off."

"What? I'm not going anywhere!" Paavo exclaimed, that same sickening worrying look that he'd had on the ridge above Külake, "Send someone else, send Heino! I'm staying with you."

"No." she began, slowly, "No, you're not. I need someone I can trust to do this. Do you understand? I need you to do this. Pick a handful of warriors and get moving. Every moment counts."

She looked him in the eyes, trying to get the message across. His face was filled with doubt and uncertainty, and she could see his mind was working furiously to find an excuse for him to stay. But she held his gaze, refused to let go, and slowly his resolve began to melt away. He sighed all of a sudden, shoulders going limp. "I suppose you're right." he conceded.

"I usually am. Now go."

But he didn't. Instead he kept looking at her, something else in his face now. She furred her brows. "What is it?"

"I just..." he croaked, "I suppose this is goodbye, then. I..." His voice trailed off.

She took hold of his collar then, as she had on the beach, and pulled him close.

"Aye, it is," she whispered, "But only for now." Then she kissed him. It wasn't deep or long, but hard and passionate. "Now do as I told you and go. We're depending on you. I'm depending on you."

He looked as though he was going to add something to that, but thought better of it. He turned and hurried off without looking back. That shut him up. And now, to clean up this mess... She turned to get back to her warriors so they could start organizing this debacle properly, and instantly met Heinos gaze. He had a strange expression on his face. She sighed. I guess I'll have to clean that mess up too, then. But first things first.

Hooves cracked against the pebble-strewn ground. A light dusting of snow covering the cool spring earth. Grass poked through the white covering. A stout horse with a pot-belly trotted along the path. Thick coarse fur flecked with flakes of snow. Riding on its back its master rode confidently and erect, eyes ahead as the horse cantered ahead at its brisk pace.

Across the might Rispruvan, its breadth greater than any city seen by any of the man's people the mountains of the land beyond rose indomitable behind a high cliff. Birds having traveled north for their spring nesting flocked in huge clouds above the river, singing their coarse discordant song.

And with the nonexistent ceremony bestowed on every traveler along this road Ilk passed the marker between borders. The courier turned his head to the idol of the god along the roadside. Raising his fingers to his head and bowed and gestured out to the watcher on the road, Katzcyk.

Having passed the statue, Voldagrad was no different from the Misruvani kingdom behind him to the north. The wooded roadway continued its lone dreary march along the river-side. The birds still cawed and cackled in the mountains on the far-side.

Ilk had made fair progress over these last couple of days. Without hesitation he rode through the day, breaking or even eating a meal from the saddle of his horse. He had packed a week's worth of rations of dried ash bread. The meal was hard between the teeth, and tasteless. But it carried him along the road. When he reached the river he had began stopping to dip his biscuits in the cold water of the mighty river to moisten and soften them.

To drink he had a large goat's skin filled with a fermented bread drink. Fermented with a black bread and sugar from beetroot it held its own without going sour or stale, neither would it turn. The kvass held a moldy flavor all the same, but it was a life-saver on long roads and voyages, keeping water from turning.

Between Misruglaz and the border he had stopped only several times to sleep at the open farmhouses or hunting cabins along the roadside to spend the night.

Ilk dropped the pace to a trot to give the horse a break. An hour later he drew up close the first village across the border. Climbing a gentle hill, he looked down at a low glade alongside the riverside. The spring melt of the snow had risen the banks to a lower flood-plane dotted by fishermen in small dug-out canoes heading out into the gentle gray waters of the river. Marshy reeds covered the river bank and the thin dotting of trees where the river had flooded over was the only mark that indicated that land was ever there.

From the hill Ilk climbed down the soft gentle slopes into the afternoon daylight, leaving the shade of the forest road behind him. From below the contented song of chickens and bleats of sheep came to him.

The village below was a small collection of hovels and wood and grass huts. No building stood truly tall, and many were little more than enclosed lean-tos with a fenced pasture for their animals. The tallest building was a longhouse that stood in the middle of the town on a low berm, the carved totem of the village god standing just in front of its doors and clear from Ilk's vantage point over the settlement.

As he rode down the hill a man approached him from the village proper. From down the road Ilk spied an elderly man strolling up towards him wearing a white fur lined tunic that hung low and long to his knees. Matted mud-caked trousers hung about spindly legs as he walked up the gravel path.

Raising a hand the man walking towards him hailed Ilk done. “Good afternoon, traveller!” he shouted. Despite his evident weathered age and the failing white in his air the voice that escaped the elder's lips with strong and echoing and they cut the calm, cool afternoon air freely.

“Good afternoon.” Ilk shouted from his horse.

The two closed the distance in silence. The old man stepping aside as Ilk drew near, and instead of continuing down the wooded road joined with Ilk in his journey down the hill. “It is a good day to be out and about.” said the old man, smiling.

Ilk looked down at him and regarded the figure. His skin sagged at his bones and dark splotches mired his pale skin. One eye shone with a crystal clarity, with a blue deeper than the skies; the other was a milky white.

“It is.” Ilk said in a low voice.

“I think it will be a gentle summer this year.” the old man predicted in a fair conversational tone, “But this spring, it will snow plenty before it gets warm.”

“I have watched birds.” Ilk responded, “I can agree.”

Smiling the old man looked up at him and laughed. “Are you too an augur?” he asked.

“No, but I was taught to be one. Then I chose not too.”

“I am sure the strength of the man's individual spirit gives them right to do. But the gods and nature has their own designs for mankind. It is good though that you know how to receive their messages, not many men do and many shirk the wisdom the gods send to them. The bites of wisdom and forewarning that'd lead man to explore their inner strength and power.”

“But if all men could receive that: there would no heroes. We would all be heroes, and with that no distinction between the strong man and the common. My teacher taught me that. Are you a priest?”

The old man nodded and laughed softly, “That I am. I am the chief diviner of our village, seer of things here and there. Humor me boy, do you want to know another sign I have witnessed?” the old priest said, stepping out ahead of the horse and stopping Ilk's journey short of passing the first pasture fences.

Ilk shrugged, “I would.”

“Then I have seen some days before you, another rider pass through our hamlet. Now there is only one road that runs through here and that is the one that passes betwixt the realms. A day after we witnessed armed riders come near our village and turn back. And now you are the third and latest.”

The seer bowed his graying head and kicked the stones in the road with his leather elk-hide moccasins. “If I were not an ignorant man I would not say there was some great intrigue steering in the kingdom of Misuglaz. There has been stirrings since.”

“I am but a messenger, I am here to pass through.” Ilk assured the old priest.

“I am sure you are, I don't doubt you.” he acknowledged, stepping aside so Ilk may continue into the village proper, “But the road is still long and beyond here it winds into the spring flood-planes. The normal road is winding as it travels through the seasonal marsh. It will take you a full day of travel to traverse the distance until you reach your destination. If you come with me, perhaps I will see you get shelter her for the rest of the day and you can continue your journey at first light.”

“That is kind of you.” Ilk thanked him, “But I feel I would make my own good time if I were to continue on.”

“No, no.” the priest insisted, “There are wolves and other beasts that skulk the wet marshes by night, I can not have it on good consciousness if I were to send a fellow seer of the gods' messages into a dangerous landscape. It is better to go by day, when the beasts shy away. As it stands: you are not armed to deal with the beasts.”

Ilk regarded the old man. He looked to be in no way to stop him. If he were to continue he would be incapable of prevent Ilk's progress. But the weight of the man's reproachful attitude for seeing him off in that way weighed down on his conciousness.

“I have a horse, I can out ride them.” Ilk offered as a counterpoint.

“You might, but the earthy is sticky and soft. She will not charge as fast down the road, and you will be caught. Do, please stay here for the night. I will take you to meet our chieftain, he may be old but he is generous.”

“Alright.” a reserved Ilk consented.

The old priest smiled wide and motioned him to follow. Following him passed the ramshackle huts they worked their way to the middle of the village and the great lodge at its middle.

Standing atop a grassy berm flecked with stoned and surrounded by stones the lodge was a wide, long building. Stout in height, the roof loomed over it like the overturned hull of a large ship which overhung its outer walls. There were no windows, just the crisscrossing beams of wooden planks and upward tree-trunk struts that made the walls of the great hut.

With a gentle touch the old man reached out to the great oak doors of the hall and pushed them open as Ilk hitched his horse to a nearby sapling of a tree. Following him in Ilk stepped into a warmly lit cavern of wood and stone. A musty stillness hung in the air inside the hall, and as the door closed behind the pensive courier he was shut in.

The great hall he stepped into went as far as half the length of the main building. Wooden pillars cut from mature trees supported the wide bowed ceiling above. The pillars too were simply decorated with spiraling bands of red and green. Besides the tables and low crackling fire-pits these pillars were the only things that decorated the chamber.

The old went to the far-side of the room, leaving Ilk behind to wait anxiously in the emptiness.

Ilk was alone, save for a strong youthful man that sat in the corner of the great hall. With a deeply tanned complexion like light clay he was clearly not a man born in these norther reaches. Inky black hair was tied behind his head in a glossy, dirty pony tail. The man scowled at him from beneath a gentle brow as he apathetically cleaned the underside of his finger nails. Ilk offered him a greeting which he did not return. The young courier's stomach turned uncomfortably as he started to think what he afraid may happen.

The tension in the air was cut when a door on the far-wall opened and the old seer lead out from the back room an even older man, dressed in the humble regalia of a village chief. He was an ancient ruler, thin as a skeleton and hobbling across the floor with a cane. Long braids of thin snow-white hair fell about his head and neck, near totally hiding his weathered crooked face.

At his entrance the dark-skinned man who had sat idly cleaning his nails rose to his feet and wrapped his hands about in front of him out of respect for the elder chieftain. With a heavy dry breath he was lead to a small throne on a raised wooden dias over the hall and was seated. Leaning forward over his knees the chieftain looked down at Ilk half a room away.

“Come closer.” the old man beckoned in a loud cracking voice. He raised a hand and motioned for him to come, craning forward to peer between the long strands of his wild hair.

Ilk obliged and came near so the old man could see him. As he came close he noticed the dull milkiness in the elder's eyes. He scratched his wrinkled hawkish nose with a warty hand and regarded the courier.

“Ye, you are not from around here.” the old man spoke in a low voice as he regarded him, “Where ar e you from?”

“Misruglaz.” answered Ilk.

“And what is your business in Bran?” the chieftain inquired sharply.

“I seek to deliver a message to the city of Voldagrad. I am on business of his highness King Perciv of the Misruids and the Illmeshk. His business is between those who lead in Voldagrad and his own.”

The old chieftain considered the answer for a bit. “My son ran off to that city!” he spat angrily, “He rode off with that wench Astonov married. I never liked that woman, she was crooked in the head.

“But he had dealings with the bitch, and he went off with her. Left is old father alone abandoning him in time of succession and to curse his soul.” he rung his hands about his knees, his voice cracking as he spoke, “I swore and condemned him. Misruid man, would you consider yourself a loyal man to your father?”

“I have no father, I never knew him.” Ilk said mournfully.

“Then to your liege?” the old chieftain said.

“Aye, I promised to serve his father, and I consider myself bound to my new king Perciv.”

“And so then he is like your father. Good! Be a loyal man to your father.” the chieftain declared. He shook a little as he leaned back, “The noble lands granted to me by rights of nature do not belong in the hands of a man who would ride out and abandon his father to wither and decay in the unforgiving hours of his last days. Misruid man, are you a good man?”

“I am.” Ilk answered. He found himself taken back suddenly at the course of this conversation. He glanced over at the seer who seemed to be only half surprised. The foreign man in the corner seemed unmoved.

“Then you are a better man than my son.” the old chieftain declared in a low voice, rising from his seat. He hobbled towards the foreign servant in the corner, holding out his hands to him. “On my will and authority I name you an heir.”

Ilk recoiled back, his spine straightening. “Sir, I do not think I have that privled-”

“Horse shit you do.” the chieftain barked. The foreign servant placed in his hands his knife and unsheathed the sword at his belt, handing it over. “Every man has the power to take what he or she wants. It is just that those who do not try to take it are cowards or small minded. I am offering you this, I am a dying man. I do not deserve to whither in my bed.

“Close my life!” the chief demanded, turning to Ilk and walking heavily across the floor, offering him the sword.

Ilk hesitated, looking at the long curled blade offered to him. “I can not...” he said pensively, “I am but a courier.”

“And one you will remain. But you will be one with land!” the chieftain snapped, “I do not care. Retain your loyalties, and your position; or change it. But I am offering you might and strength and the chance to do mercy.

“So show me mercy.” ordered the chieftain.

Ilk looked about the room. The foreign tan-skin moved not an inch, but watched. The seer, still by the throne nodded slowly; the look in his eyes offering his condolences and encouragement.

With hesitation Ilk reached out and took the sword.

“Whether in duel or in war...” the old chieftain said, “this is how man proves themselves. I am Rostok of Bron, son of Antinov.”

“I am Ilk.”

Rostok bowed, raising the dagger up as if to defend himself. Ilk stood uncomfortably holding the sword weakly up. For a while the two watched each other, with no change. Ilk unsure what to do, Rostok impatiently waiting for the first blows to begin the ritual of death.

Growing weary of the wait, Rostok charged first. Staggering forward on ancient legs he jabbed the dagger forward and Ilk back stepped. His sword moved to slap aside the dagger and metal clashed as the blades met. Rostok didn't take time to recover from the parry and instead charged uncontrollably like a sack of onions into Ilk. Disorganized, Ilk tried to pick the old man up with sword in hand. But Rostok moved about and caught not his hands but the curved saber his opponent was wielding.

The blade cut into the shoulder and into the neck of Rostok as he let himself be run on the blade. His blood flowed freely from the open wound cut across his shoulder and neck. He let out a satisfied grown and his milky eyes rolled back into his head. He fell to the ground, his breaths escaping not from his mouth but from the gash in his neck in wet gurgles.

Ilk stood frozen over the body of Rostok, who lay in his last breaths on the slate ground at his feet. The courier trembled as he looked down, the grip on the sword loosened and it fell from his hands. He had killed his first m an. His entire body fell limp and he fell back.

“Hail to the new chief.” the seer said in a mourning tone, “Long and strong may he reign.”

"What news from the east?" Nigul inquired of his advisors, "What's going on over there?"

He was a big man, Nigul, but not in the tall sense. He was often referred to as "the boulder" because of his build. It was a fitting description to his mind. He liked to think of himself as a rock not only in appearance, but in temper; hard to move, but harder still to stop once he got rolling. His advisors neither looked nor behaved anything like him. Some of them were big, but not from muscle. Where he was hard they were soft. Where he stood firm, they were always shifting. He despised them like the night hates the sun, but he recognized that they had their uses. For one, many of them were rich, and riches were always handy in a tight spot.

It was Tõnis that first braved an answer. "Honestly, Jarl, we don't know for sure." he said while spreading his fat hands apologetically, "It seems some hamlet or other was attacked or raided, but details are scarce."

"Probably the seal-folk." Mihkel mused in his raspy whisper of a voice, "They do love themselves a little raid or two in springtime." Some heads bobbed in agreement. Tõnis, however, didn't seem convinced.

"What do you think, old boar?" Nigul ventured.

"I don't know." he said, scratching the stubble on his chin, "But I do know that this is early for Seals to go hunting. A bit too early, actually."

"Who, then?" Mihkel rasped accusingly, apparently not keen on being second-guessed. "Can't be the Pale fuckers, Kinnisvara just bested them. Can't be Osai this far south. Can sure as sure not be northeners, they have their rivers to fight over." More heads bobbing now. "So who?"

Tõnis shot Nigul a glance. "Might be islanders." He suggested, shrugging.

“Preposterous!” Mihkel exclaimed, waving a hand at his fellow advisor as though his words were an unpleasant odor, “It’s been over twelve winters since we last heard of a Red Tide. They have left their old ways behind, that’s what their traders have been telling me all this time. Their last defeat taught them a lesson.”

“Still.” Nigul intervened, “It is possible.”

Mihkel eyed him angrily but nodded grudgingly in the end. “Aye, I suppose.”

The discussion was interrupted by a knock on the door. A guard entered, and Nigul saw a rather ragged man outside.

“Jarl Nigul,” the guard began, “Forgive my intrusion, but I believe I have news of importance to current affairs. We have a visitor from the bay. He claims to have been sent by the Seal King.”

A few eyebrows went up at that, and looks were traded throughout the room.

“He also brings a letter” the guard continued, “Supposedly from his liege.”

Nigul beckoned at the guard to hand him the letter, and read it quietly before relaying its contents to the rest of the room.

Mihkel was the first to speak. “Might be a trick.”

“Aye,” Tõnis replied, “But it might also be the truth.”

To quell further argument, Nigul held up his hand to call for silence. “In either case” he said, “We would do well to prepare. I will agree to the terms laid out in this letter and send the man on his way with his horses. Guard, you will find some in the stable. Kinnisvara will have to fend for themselves for the time being. In the meantime, we will post more sentries and evacuate the villages closest to the sea. If the letter is true and the islanders approach us, we will fall back and dig in further inland. Then we will see.”

Mihkel and Tõnis looked at each other for some time, and finally nodded in unison. “Aye, my Jarl.” Mihkel said, “So be it.”

Ilk was still shaken as the funerary pyre was lit in the fields outside the village. The dark cloak of night had fallen, and passed the orange glow of the bonfire's reach was an eternal blackness. The silhouettes of trees stood weak in their contrast against the sky which had opened free of clouds. The warping ribbons of an aura danced solemnly against the stars, and the villagers celebrated the cold lights above them as they burned the body of Rostok.

While it was a funeral, the villagers honored their passed king not with solemn heads bowed but banged out music on drums and sang. As well as they could they had given Ilk a seat of honor, giving him pelts of wolf fur and offering the best of their drink and meat.

The night had begun overcast, and when they had set out to send Rostok's soul to the gods the evening had been more solemn. But when they lay his body on the pyre and began the incantations to his spirit and the gods the sky had clear and lifted the eyes of the villagers. It was after they had put Rostok's body to the torch that the first ribbons of aural light opened up in the skies above and framed a low silver moon.

“The Gods welcome him warmly!” the old priest who had introduced himself finally after the ritual duel that took Rostok's life. He had brought himself before Ilk as Bors, son of Amov. And over the night he had not stopped proclaiming the good sign before the village, whipping them into a hopeful celebration as they felt the divine presence in the above night glow.

The fire now had grown large, transforming fluidly from a funeral pyre to a celebratory bonfire fit for a spring equinox. The bitter and rotten smell of human flesh long burned away and turned to roasting meat as men slaughtered chickens and suckling pigs for the occasion's honor. Several had gone down to the river to splash in the banks searching by torch-light for fresh fish to supplement their celebration. And several casks were broken open to distribute the winter's fermented liquor and malted beer.

In the jubilation of a soul having been so warmly taken up by the gods according to Bors, and the courage from alcohol several young girls had stripped naked and now danced about the fire. But even with the jubilation, Ilk felt heavy.

His hands worked slow and felt held down by the weight of a large cow. He ate slowly and halfheartedly. Deep inside he was guilty. He felt guilty. He had committed an act that would have gotten him hanged and found himself somewhere he thought he'd never be, as a landed chieftain. He was no renowned fighter, and that put the terror into him as well as the guilt of murder. It would be no hard feat for Rostok's son to return full of anger and kill him out-right and taking the title of chief back.

The hard foreign fighter that had been Rostok's man kept himself beside Ilk, silent as he was when he first met him. And while Ilk sensed he had softened on him, it seemed nothing more than a courtesy as a recognition for his deed. He imagined he had been his guard, and now he was his. The mystery of him compounded on Ilk's terrors and introduced a linger subtle concern. He made furtive glances towards the quietly brooding man as he sat cross legged on the floor, a large sheep's-skin thrown over his head shoulders and wrapped about the rest of him; in it he looked like a meditating diviner.

Ilk was stirred as someone bumbled too near, the loud crashing of two bodies falling nearby snapped Ilk straight and he looked to his other side as Bors fell to the cushions of skins with one of the dancing girls being pulled by his arms, though it may have been a case of her trying to pull him up but unable to move the old man more as he came down to rest from their latest excursion. But the girl, young though haggard from living through many winters was too drunk on vodka and hard drink too notice or to care.

“You really can not be done?” the naked girl cried melodramatically. The light of the follow highlighted her small round features and the sagging of full breasts.

“I am, I am.” Bors said breathlessly, brushing off her demanding hands. Denied, she wandered off into the warmth of the light. She quickly forgot though, and resumed wildly spinning.

“The Gods were good to Rostok!” he declared, a little red in the face and disheveled. His usual robe hung half on his own shoulders, and he spoke out of breath, “It is fair we celebrate a long life.”

Ilk didn't comment. Biting his lip he turned away and looked down at a half plate of freshly cooked mutton. It was getting cold now, but he had only half worked at it. He was too shaken still to eat.

“I guess now we do not kneel to the Wooded City of Volda.” Rostok said suddenly, and out of the blue. This roused Ilk up again and he turned and looked at the old man. He smiled, laughing drunk in the excitement of the moment, “Or will you kneel to them?” he asked. “Or perhaps you want to make Bron its own, free of either. In either case I don't imagine it will last long. The kings look for weak states such as villages like these.”

“How long do you think it'll take for Rostok's son to hear what happened?” Ilk asked, heading directly to his own concerns.

Bors had not expected this line of thought, and he gave it a second before he answered his new liege. “It may not be for a while. We here may go several months without having significant guests. You are our first... Well aside from the fat woman on the horse.” he added after a brief pause, “You may be the only messenger to reach Volda from these parts, and he may not know; if you choose to continue on.”

“I do.” Ilk said solemnly.

“So be it.” Bors said with a excusing wave of his hand. “I had Qawid can handle the day-to-day affairs of the village, there are not many.”

“Qawid?” Ilk asked.

Bors nodded and pointed to that foreign man that sat opposite. Ilk turned to look, finding he was looking directly into his sharp piercing eyes gleaming from underneath his shroud of wool and flesh.

“He was a slave Rostok won in a duel.” Bors said, “He's a man that doesn't talk much, and some days I am to wonder if he vowed himself to silence for his distant gods; as if they can hear him here. But he was Rostok's, then Rostok freed him. He never left, and instead vowed himself to his service; Rostok instead forced him to instead offer his services to the village, and he has done that dutifully for nearly eight winters now.

“He is as capable a enforcer of peace as I am a judge and augur.” Bors added pridefully.

Ilk nodded numbly.

“So, will you be moving on come tomorrow morning?” Bors pressed.

“I will.” Ilk said, “I have a job to do, I plan to do it.”

“Then you will be back.” Bors said confidently.

“I will.” Ilk repeated. Though he didn't know how he would get back, or how he might tell Perciv. Was there precedent such as this? He shut it out of his mind, he would deal with it when it arose.

“Then before you leave I must give you some of Rostok's things for the road.” Bors said, “Small things, for your protection.”

“Won't I be found out?” Ilk asked.

Shrugging, Bors remarked: “No, hardly. I will not be handing you his personal sword. His son may not recognize you if he sees you with it. But it will help you against any reavers raiding the woods, or wolves. And you will still look the part. Chiefs in this parts often look indistinguishable from the men of under the higher tribes by the cities. I have no fear.

“After all, the gods smile!” Bors exclaimed, holding his hands up and out to the heavenly lights.

In his mood Ilk didn't find this completely uplifting. He still wallowed in the anxious distress of the affairs he found himself in. Perhaps back on the road, and onto something most familiar to him he'll come to the peace he wanted.




Sleet pattered down on the roof of the great hall, filling the empty silence with the wet sloppy pops of falling half-frozen rain. Wrapped in a large wool coat Perciv looked out through open windows into the gray sleeted landscape beyond. Tracts of woodland marched out over hills interspaced with the odds acreages of farmland in the hard cold north. The fields were still barren and brown, with patches of snow. The green on the trees hadn't yet come to bloom.

There came a sound behind Perciv. Rising in his seat by the window, he turned to the sound. At the door stood a guard, dressed in a heavy coat of leathers and mail. “My lord,” he said, with a bow of his head, “Your family is here.”

Perciv nodded knowingly, and rose to his feet; a smile on his face. “Then it's time I go to see them.”

The room he had been in was not large, a mere alcove tucked in a corner, besides the more important rooms for his living. Turning through the door the two men walked to the stairs, the sounds of their feet echoing in the cold stillness of the tower. The two came to the stairs, as they went Perciv dragged his hands along the rough rails along its sides, feeling the rough cut bare wood underneath gloved hands. With a final clack, both men landed on the final stone floor. The king had little time to turn before he heard a cry of, “Papa!” from the other side of the room.

As soon as he turned a small girl who stood stomach high crashed into him, and hugged her arms around the king's waist. “It's good to see you too, Eugena.” Perciv laughed, smiling down at the blond-haired girl below him.

Eugena was in her tenth year, her face round and flushed. A brush with pox had left her face scarred with the vestigial remains of disease as a permanent marker of her having survived, dimpled rosy pits in her cheeks and neck. Her eyes shone bright with a blue joy and exhilaration despite all things, and she had not fallen sick again since her first near brush with death, though her breath often fell short quick.

Standing by the door with their oldest was his wife, Vlamira. She was a plump pale woman who in the middle of her thirties bore all the traits of a well worked mother. Ratty thin gold hair lay combed back across her face as she held their eldest son's shoulders with a weathered hand.

Their son was a youth that had the same proportions of his father, but not yet his height as a teen youth now. But his face was handsome and clean. The first traces of a beard had not yet grown in, and behind his light blue eyes he regarded his father with a guarded restraint. He tensely bit his thin lips as he smiled and rose a hand to him.

“Ivanov.” Perciv greeted, walking to his son to give him a fatherly embrace. He stood chest height to his dad, and he weakly returned the gesture.

“Hello.” he said simply, meekly. He shuffled about as his dad let go of him and he looked around the room.

Behind the main throne-room was where the hall held its dining hall a large table with chairs cut from pine logs stood at the middle, a large stone hearth nearly filled the far wall between two wooden beams, an iron grate guarded the dining hall from the smoldering fire inside. The room was further bisected by another wall that cut it off from the kitchen, it was there the wide lazily descending stair case marched down to the main floor.

“How was the trip?” he asked, turning to his wife.

“It was cold.” she said quietly, “And long. Winter hasn't quiet left us. The night before we arrived though the clouds broke and we watched the Gods' Lights dance across the sky, it was a great sight to behold this time of year.”