"Not on purpose," Ivar replied, reaching for a mug and taking a seat the other end of the table.
"So, Ivar," Svengaar said, curious. "Let's hear the tale. What befell the three men you found?"
"They were killed somewhere south of the Droma mountains, near the realm of the Riverfolk. Their names were Donal, Gael and Duril."
"Who were they?"
Ivar shrugged, sipping his ale. "Farmers, I suppose. They were trading farther south when they were killed. Hamish, their chieftain, believes it was T'kar's troops."
"How does he know?" Svengaar asked. "Did he see it happen?"
Ivar leaned in. "No. But bandits do not cut the throats of young boys. Only the Beast and his troops do that."
Svengaar sat back, feeling a bit of skepticism. There was no proof that T'kar was responsible; neither him nor his troops. For all anyone knew, even this Hamish, they had simply crossed the wrong criminals; or worse, the Riverfolk themselves.
Ivar took another drink from his mug, still staring at him, though Svengaar had no idea why. Ivar was thinking something, but what that was he could not guess.
"Do you have something else to tell me, Ivar?" he asked.
Ivar set down his mug, looking down and shaking his head indifferently. Svengaar looked over to Fleek, whose smile was now gone and replaced by the same expression that Ivar wore. Something was definitely on their minds, he knew, and only Dearg's arrival would clarify what that something was.
To his surprise, however, Dearg did not arrive alone. When he entered the mead hall, Igrid was there with him, her sword firmly strapped to her side, and her usual expression gone. Her face was grave, and she stared at him the same way she always did when they disagreed.
He sighed, picking up and raising his mug. "Sit down, Dearg," he said. "Have a drink and tell us of your travels."
Dearg crossed his arms, watching Igrid as she took the Jarl's side.
"Well?" Svengaar said.
"There is trouble ahead, Jarl," Dearg said. "I'm sure Ivar has told you of Donal and his sons."
"He has," Svengaar said. "Was there something else?"
Dearg leaned over the table, his face as grim as Igrid's—maybe even more so. "There is much more," he said. "The Highlanders have scouts, and those scouts have been keeping watch along the river. They say a village was attacked recently. The farmers and their families were rounded up and their children slaughtered before their very eyes."
Svengaar was shocked by the revelation, but felt very little need for alarm. That was south, not in their territory. There was no worry.
"That is tragic," he said. "But why the grim face? It is none of our concern. It does not affect us in any way."
Dearg stood straight, looking over at his father, whose face was a mask of worry. For what, Svengaar could not guess, but he knew Olav would stand behind his son no matter what, and would likely feel the same way as Dearg about anything. Even Hafdan, who met his own son's gaze, wore the same expression.
"Well?" Svengaar said. "What is the concern? Tragic, yes. But what are we to do? T'kar's army is likely greater than all of us Northmen, Highlanders, and Riverfolk put together. What chance do we have of standing against them? None. We are safer here on our side of the mountains."
"Should we not be concerned at how far north T'kar is reaching?" Dearg said, glaring. "If he would attack that far north, then what's stopping him from crossing the mountains and laying waste to our villages?"
Svengaar stood. "If he attacks us, we will defend ourselves," he said. "But we will not get involved in any direct insurrections, Dearg. His army would ride over us like rats."
"Then we must rally all of the tribes together," Dearg said.
"The last time that happened, the Northmen were slaughtered. I will not have our people wiped out for the sake of another failed war."
Ivar stood then, slowly walking around the right side of the table. "Jarl," he said. "It is either stand together, or return to our homeland. We cannot live here forever with the Beast on the throne. One day he will come for us, and with no one else to stand with us, we will be destroyed as well."
Svengaar dropped back down on to his chair, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. He knew this argument would surface someday, and he was just as frustrated with it as he imagined he would be. This was expected, as Mada has predicted. Dearg would hear the Dragon's call and lead the Northmen to their deaths. The latter part of the argument was his own, though, but was a logical outcome; to him, at least.
"Dearg," he said. "I understand your concern for these people. But we are no longer the warriors we once were. We are simple farmers and fishermen. We live in peace, not war. Those days are over."
"We are still Northmen," Dearg said. "Not sheep."
Sigurd snorted. "Some of us are Northmen," he said. "All but you. You are one of them."
Hafdan shot up, slamming his fist on the table, knocking over several mugs. "Do not insult the lad!" he shouted. "He has risked his life defending our tribe since he was old enough to hold a blade. What have you done?"
The others erupted into a shouting match, with many of them hurling insults at Sigurd. Svengaar sighed, slamming down his mug in frustration. The shouting continued, and Sigurd stood to return the insults with venomous words of his own.
But then, Fleek stood, raising his hammer above his head and slamming it down onto the table. The crashing of its head shook the hall, and the tribesmen fell silent, all of them staring at the big man.
"Enough!" Fleek shouted. "Listen. No more shouting."
Svengaar stood again, wishing only to put an end to the conflict. "People," he said. "This is no time to be at each other's throats. Sigurd, you will never speak such words again. Dearg is our tribesman, no matter what his origin. Hafdan, please sit down. Everyone sit down."
"I am willing to do whatever it takes to defend my people," Hafdan said. "Granted I may get to swing my axe once before I fall, but I am not afraid to do so."
"That is all well and good," Svengaar said. "But we are not strong enough to band together with these Highlanders. We could likely not even stand against them. How can we be of any help?"
"It doesn't matter," Ivar said. "If we ignore their plight, we will live for a while. But we will be wiped out eventually. If we join the Highlanders, we may die, but we will do so in battle. Kronos would welcome us all in Valhalla."
"Igrid," Svengaar said, shaking his head. "These men respect you. Will you please talk some sense into them?"
Hafdan laughed loudly. "Igrid is more man than anyone sitting at this table. So are her girls. At least she is willing to take up arms."
"Silence!" Svengaar said.
"Jarl," Igrid finally spoke. "Dearg and Ivar are right. We cannot ignore this. What kind of people are we if we stand by and allow these people to go into battle alone? What would Kronos think of us, then?"
"They are not our people," Svengaar said again. "And this is not our fight."
"King Daegoth allowed us to settle here," Igrid reminded him. "And he did so likely expecting us to fight for his people. And that is what we should do."
"Svengaar," Dearg interjected. "I will do what is necessary. You may give us your blessing or not, but I will not allow them to stand alone. Sigurd is right. I am not a Northman, but I would hope that my tribe would join me in this."
Svengaar shook his head, done with it all. "No," he said. "I have spoken. We will not get involved. That is my final word."
Dearg's face darkened, and he glared at Svengaar for a moment. The Jarl's heart raced as he waited for a reply. He could almost feel the rage in the young man's spirit, and it truly frightened him. It was difficult to hold Dearg's gaze, but he did.
"Then to Hell with you," Dearg said, storming out.
Ivar began to follow, pausing only to glance back at the Jarl once more.
"Ivar," Svengaar said.
But he stormed out, too, followed by Fleek and Hafdan. Svengaar collapsed back into his chair, looking at Igrid from the corner of hi
s eye.
"Well?" he said. "I suppose you'll be storming out as well."
"I will obey your word, Jarl," she said. "It is my duty. I will not betray you no matter how I feel."
"Well then," he said. "At least someone listens to me."
Inside, he doubted his own words. Igrid was a warrior, and she had a warrior's heart. She would no doubt succumb to the call of battle. It was inevitable.
Chapter Thirteen
Foul weather was a bane to Randar. The chill of the air and the light drizzle of cold rain was unpleasant to him, and he pulled up his hood lest his short, white hair became plastered to his head. Not that he was particularly worried about such things normally, but his quest to find another seer—or witch as T'kar called them—required him to look his best.
Despite the fact that he preferred the company of other men, his chiseled features and elegant charm were useful in attracting women, and he needed all the help he could get. Here in this village to the east of T'kar's fortress, he knew that the townsfolk were privy to the "wisdom" of local fortune tellers, who were themselves susceptible to such charm.
He would begin his quest with these folk; women who took advantage of the ignorance of the locals in order to take their money. That was the way most of them operated. Among them, however, were those who truly had the gift of sight, and it was these women who T'kar needed; especially ones who could tolerate his presence.
As he passed through the light crowds of people, Randar could hear their whispers. He stood out, he realized, and it was likely they all knew he was one of T'kar's men, if not an actual soldier. He paid no heed to their suspicions, though, as he had no time to explain himself, nor did he care. His mission was clear, and he now set his sights on his goal.
There, on the north side of the town square, was a fortune teller's shop. A sign depicting an eye hung from the awning, and the scent of exotic oils wafted out of its open door. Inside he would find information at least, if not a true seer, though he doubted "Prophet Adhaen" was anything but a scam artist herself.
His suspicions were confirmed when he stepped into the shop and saw the worthless trinkets displayed upon the many shelves. They were touted as "Alvar healing crystals" and the like, most of them nothing more than colored glass. Then there were the "Khemite Ioun Stones"; little more than polished rocks of various types. Randar chuckled to himself as he perused them, shaking his head at the shopkeeper's obvious lack of magical knowledge.
"Well met, handsome stranger," came a woman's voice from an arched doorway hung with a multi-colored curtain.
Randar half-turned, seeing a lavishly—and somewhat ridiculously—dressed older woman leaning against the jamb. She was in her early sixties, likely, wearing an abundance of strikingly mismatched face paint; he hesitated to think of it as makeup. He was forced to grin crookedly, resisting the urge to laugh out loud and stab her in the gut.
"What can I do for you young man?" she asked, obviously oblivious to the fact that he was likely three times her age.
Randar snatched up an interesting-looking stone from the shelf in front of him and rolled it around in his hand as he approached her.
"I'm looking for some… like-minded individuals to form a coven of sorts," he lied.
She cocked her head strangely; not in fear, but curiosity. "Oh?" she asked. "And what do you mean by like-minded?"
"Well," he said, pocketing the stone. "I am a seer of sorts. Not truly, I am simply skilled in the art of manipulation of, as you might say, reading people."
"Reading people," she repeated, likely realizing that Randar was on to her type. "I see."
She tightened the colorful robe she wore, and walked past him to close the shop's door. She paused for a moment before turning back, and wore a sly smile on her face.
"So," she said. "I see you are not one who is so easily fooled."
"Indeed," Randar said. "But I will not chastise you for your trade. We all need a source of income correct?"
"Of course," she replied, raising an eyebrow. "So what can I do for you, really?"
She has drawn out the last word in a patronizing and sarcastic way that Randar found amusing.
"I am looking for witches," he said. "Real witches, not fortune tellers or false prophets."
"For what purpose?"
"Why, to kill them, of course."
"But you said you were looking to form a coven."
"I lied," Randar said. "I had to be sure you weren't one yourself. I know that people like you resent those with actual gifts. I assume you wouldn't mind seeing them punished for that. They would, after all, put you out of business if they were to be so outgoing with their gifts, would they not?"
She grinned, turning her head slightly to accentuate the effect. "Of course. But before we continue, let us go to my table. I do have some powers, you see, and my scrying bowl is located in the back."
Randar cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.
"Trust me," she said. "It is not a magical ability at all—not on my part, at least. I obtained this scrying bowl from a warlock in the far southern reaches of the island."
"A warlock?"
"A dead warlock, mind you. I killed him to obtain it."
"Ah," Randar said with a smile. She was very likable.
"My name, as you may have seen on my sign is Adhaen, but I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
"Randar," he said, taking her hand in greeting as she stuck it out. "I am pleased to meet you, Adhaen."
"Likewise," she said. "Now, let us begin."
He followed her through the curtain, impressed that she trusted him enough to allow him to walk behind her. Normally, he would expect a woman of her type to insist that he go first, so she was either trusting enough, or incredibly stupid. Either way, he decided he might not kill her after all, as enjoyable as it would be.
"Here we are, darling," she said, seating herself at a small round table.
The room was mostly dark, with oddly purplish lights that seemed to have no origins. The room smelled of sandalwood and another, mildly unpleasant scent that reeked of mixed spices. Something, perhaps, one would rub under their arms in lieu of bathing.
"Sit down, my friend," she said, drawing a black cloth from the top of a large, golden bowl.
Randar sat, staring at the bowl in awe. Upon its gleaming surface were pictograms that he could not decipher. They appeared to be of a language unknown to him; perhaps older Khemite or something imaginary. He couldn't tell.
"Now," she began, sliding him a scroll. "Unroll this map and we will divine the location of the Berujen."
"The what?"
"The Berujen," she repeated, almost comical in the drawn-out pronunciation.
"Who is this Berujen?" he asked.
"She is a witch of the swamp," Adhean explained. "Doomed to spend her existence there as a curse."
"Interesting," Randar said. "She sounds lovely."
"The old magi of this land trapped her and drowned her in the swamp many centuries ago. They wrapped her in chains made of iron from the heavens, and cast her into the muddy depths."
"And why did they do this?"
Adhaen looked at him as if he had asked a stupid question. "Because she was a witch," she said, shrugging. "That's what the magi did to witches."
"I see," Randar said. "And what is it about her that makes you think she deserves my wrath?"
"She devoured children for one," Adhaen said, closing her eyes and placing her hands over the bowl. "And she did not belong here."
Randar cocked his head as he looked at her. He was unsure of what she meant by not belonging here, but he imagined that at some point, the magical elite were envious or distrustful of those from other lands who possessed their power.
"Was she from another land?" he asked.
"Morridan," Adhaen whispered. "Now open the map."
Randar looked down at the scroll as he unrolled it. It was a rough-drawn map of a small swamp; more of a bog really, not the large swamp far to the east.
He actually knew the location of this bog, as he had been there many times as a child. Those times, he remembered, he had always sensed something dark and disturbing there, but his youthful mind could not process what it was. His mother had always told him if he spent too much time there, it would alter him in strange ways.
"I will ask the spirits to point out her location," Adhaen said. "And they will mark the map for you."
"Thank you," Randar said. "I appreciate your assistance."
She opened one eye, grinning. "Perhaps you could show me your appreciation when we are—ah, never mind. I see that you probably prefer boys."
"No, I do not," Randar said. "I prefer the company of other men, but I have never been opposed to frolicking with women."
"Ah," she said with a smile, closing her eye again.
She began whispering to herself in an unknown tongue. Though Randar could not understand her words, he found the language as fascinating as the runes that were inscribed upon the bowl. Soon, the fluid that filled the vessel began to churn and glow, almost reaching out with tiny fingers of liquid and energy.
"The spirits are restless," she said. "They want her dead. They will show you where she lies."
As Randar watched, a tiny wisp of greenish energy began to spin and writhe its way out of the bowl, snaking its way toward to the outer rim, as if searching. It felt around, drawing back as it touched the golden surface of the bowl and changing its direction. Gradually, it raised up straight, and curled over the edge, touching the surface of the map. It split into several smaller fingers at the tip, all of them feeling around on the map.
"She is difficult to find," Adhaen said. "But, they will show you where she was submerged."
There was a sudden flare of bright light, and Randar leaned back until it died away. The wisps of energy dissolved, leaving a dark spot on the map. Upon closer inspection, the spot was actually a tiny arcane circle, similar to ones he had seen in Igraina's chambers. That begged a question.
"What is a Berujen?" he asked. "What sort of witch is it?"
Adhaen replaced the black cloth, opening her eyes. "Legends say that they are immortal beings created at the beginning of time to be offered up as sacrifices to the Ancient Ones."
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