“It is sworn,” Llud said without enthusiasm.
“Swear it correctly.”
“By Wönda, I swear.”
“The whole thing, Thane Llud,” Thulgin said. “Don’t test my patience.”
“I swear, by Wönda, I will honor the peace you offer.”
Thulgin nodded.
“That is well. Now go in peace,” he said. “Or risk Wönda’s curse. Your men will begin moving out of the hills tomorrow. You will not set the timber there ablaze or damage the land in any way or we will consider your oath broken. Do not venture into our lands again or there will be no peace council. We will not stop until you and all your kin are dead.”
Thulgin turned away from Llud and returned to the far bank. Jorn glared at Llud for a moment longer before following Thulgin. The two climbed the slope and disappeared among the tall pines.
“He’s not done,” Jorn said, reaching the top of the hill. “That rat will recover in a year or two and come at us again.”
“I know,” Thulgin said. “But it serves a purpose keeping him in power for now.”
Jorn shrugged.
“I know, I know,” he said. “But I’d just as soon see it through to the end. I’d like to be rid of him once and for all.”
“Grang knows we’re stretched thin as it is,” Thulgin said, pulling himself atop one of the horses waiting for them.
Jorn mounted his own horse.
“It was a good little war, wasn’t it?” he said. “All over in less than a month and we earned a good chunk of land.”
“More than a good chunk,” Thulgin said. “Those hills are rich in elk and in timber. Of course, we’ll have to offer the northernmost hills to Thane Halgaad for his help.”
Thulgin paused, deep in thought.
“There is much to be done,” he said. “We’ll need to build a fort, and father will want settlers moving into the hills.”
“And I can at last approach Halgaad about Yrsa,” Jorn said. “I have proven myself in battle, more than once, and we have won lands for Halgaad as well as our own father. He’ll have to grant me her hand.”
_____
Yrsa was a few months younger than Jorn, the eldest daughter of Thane Halgaad.
Jorn was only dimly aware of her existence most of his life, Yrsa having been sent south to the king’s court at Vistinar when she was barely ten summers old. There she would learn not just her letters but how to behave with some grace and decorum. Halgaad ruled over a rough territory bordering vast wilderness to the north. It was his hope that a few years in Vistinar would give his daughter some measure of civilization he could not provide for her in his own frozen hall clinging to the edge of the fens.
Elkhead was the northernmost of the line of hills along the western edge of Orbadrin’s domains. North of Elkhead was a flat forest of tall pine and beech. Midway through the forest ran a stream that marked the beginning of Halgaad’s lands. It was Jorn’s favorite place to hunt. There were huge elks in abundance, not to mention fat wild boars and even the occasional bear. In the autumn, the air was pleasantly cool and Jorn loved wandering the forest, bow in hand, stalking the animals there.
The morning he happened upon Yrsa, the sky was clear, no cloud or blemish to be seen marring its blue magnificence. The air was crisp, invigorating. He rose early, stepping out of the tent he was sharing with Thulgin for the two weeks of hunting. A single soldier from their party was awake, a grizzled old veteran with a long gray beard sitting by the fire stirring a stew pot filled with turnips, onions, carrots, and chunks of hare.
“I’d not expected to see you about so early,” the old man said. “You hit the ale hard last night.”
“I feel fine,” Jorn said. “I don’t know about Thulgin, though. If he ever wakes up, tell him I’ve gone out tracking that damned stag again.”
The old man started to get up.
“I’ll go with ya,” he said.
“No, stay here,” Jorn said. “I’m fine alone.”
Jorn left the hunting camp after a few bites of cold mutton for breakfast washed down with a few gulps of ale. Jorn and Thulgin had been hunting for ten days, their camp a tiny cluster of tents by the side of a swiftly flowing stream amid the vast forest. A dozen men, soldiers and servants in equal number, were with them. They’d enjoyed some success during the trip, but a particularly magnificent stag with antlers as large as any Jorn had ever seen had eluded them for the last three days in a row. It was the greatest stag Jorn had ever beheld, and the most elusive.
Jorn crossed the stream, stepping from stone to stone and then heading northwards into the vast forest around him. He happened upon a line of elk tracks a few miles away. Bending down, he studied them for a moment. They were from a large elk, definitely a stag. He followed them for a long time, eventually catching sight in the distance of the mighty beast that’d been eluding him for so long. The elk took off running, Jorn dashing forward after it as fast as he could manage. The stag was too quick, though, and Jorn soon lost sight of him again. He found its tracks, however, spotting them next to a muddy pool of water. He resumed the chase, tracking the elk for at least a mile deeper into the woods. It came into sight once more only to run off again as Jorn was notching an arrow and creeping closer.
It went on like that for hours, Jorn crossing well into Halgaad’s lands as he wound his way slowly northeast. He paused. Halgaad had said the sons of Orbadrin were welcome to hunt on his lands, but only rarely had Jorn or Thulgin gone so far astray from their customary hunting camp by the bend in the river.
Jorn carried a horn around his neck which he could sound should he slay the elk, though. The soldiers and servants would come to help him skin and butcher the beast and carry the carcass back to camp. It would make an excellent feast that night. The head would go on the wall of Orbadrin’s great hall of Hrókur. Decades hence, men would point up at the trophy and say, “It was Jorn who slew that elk, when he was only in his seventeenth summer.”
He smiled, resuming the chase. The elk seemed to have eluded him again, however. He soon lost the beast’s trail completely. Shaking his head, he took off the small pack on his shoulder and reached into it. He took out a chunk of smoked mutton wrapped in a cloth and a clay jar of whiskey, finding a comfortable spot to sit down underneath a tall pine. He ate the meat, taking a few gulps from the jug as he pondered the wasted morning. He almost never lost track of an elk once he’d begun to track it, and yet this damned stag had eluded him four days in a row. What manner of beast was this?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hooves moving by in the woods behind him. Standing, he stuffed his things into his pack and headed off in the direction of the noise. He soon came upon a winding trail running past a pile of moss-covered boulders before climbing the side of a steep hill.
Jorn knew the place at once. He hadn’t realized how far north he’d gone, lost in the thrill of the hunt.
Men called the place Heiturjan, the place of the hot baths, and it was well-known for many miles around.
Curious about who might be there, he climbed the winding trail up the hill. Near the top he happened upon a beautiful stallion. The horse was a golden shade of chestnut with a finely-groomed blond mane and tail. It was a beautiful animal, a finely-crafted saddle still on its back but its rider nowhere to be seen. It was tied to a tree at the edge of a small meadow, happily munching on the tall grass. Jorn approached the animal, stroking its nose gently. One of Orbadrin’s Iron Rules which the old thane taught his sons was “always be kind to horses”.
“Where’s your rider, boy?” he whispered, admiring the horse. “I wish I had an apple or a carrot for you.”
Jorn turned away from the horse after a final pat, climbing over a series of small boulders until he reached the edge of a little pool near the top of the rocky hill. There were a dozen such pools at Heiturjan, hot springs of varying temperatures. Some were the temperature of briskly-heated baths, others nearly boiling. A few emitted strange smells like those of rotten
eggs.
Such places were common throughout Linlund and Jorn knew of two others within a few days’ ride of Falneth. None were so close as those at Heiturjan, however, nor so large.
Steam rose from the surface of the water into the crisp morning air. It looked inviting and Jorn considered taking a swim.
Jorn looked to his right, glimpsing movement somewhere beyond the first pool. Skirting its edge, he crept closer to the next pool. It was surrounded by sheer cliffs on the far side of the water, forming a small bowl almost perfectly circular in shape and not more than a few feet deep. Jorn crouched down low, his eyes peering forward in rapt fascination.
The girl, whoever she was, had removed her cloak and her dress. Her garments lay by the shores of the pool. She was standing in the middle of the pool, slowly lowering herself into the hot water.
Her back was turned to Jorn and she was completely unaware of his presence. She had long, ash blonde hair which extended a good way down her back and covered up too much of her smooth white skin for Jorn’s liking. He studied her form carefully. Her skin was completely unblemished, her legs and rear end perfectly formed. Whoever she was, he could not begin to guess.
She slipped into the water all the way until her head was all that stuck out from the steaming surface. She began to swim around, enjoying the warmth of the water on her bare skin. She dipped her head back into the water and turned around towards Jorn, her eyes closed in enjoyment of the hot bath. Jorn saw she had a pretty face to go along with her form, finely-formed cheekbones and delicate features. He still didn’t recognize her, though. Creeping forward to get a still closer look at her, his foot stepped on a dry twig and snapped it in two. He winced, cursing under his breath.
The girl’s head darted towards Jorn, a wary look on her face.
“Who’s there?” she demanded angrily.
She sank down into the water to her chin, her arms reaching up to cover her breasts carefully though they were out of view underwater. Her eyes glanced towards her clothes piled along the water’s edge. A belt with a long knife lay atop the pile. She inched towards the pile.
“I can see you hiding there,” she said. “Run off, or my father will deal harshly with you for such insolence.”
“Your father?” Jorn answered, still hiding. There was a playful tone in his voice, the opportunity to tease the beautiful girl too much for him to resist.
“And who is he that I should fear his wrath?” he asked.
“You know very who he is, you villain,” she snapped. “He is Thane Halgaad, lord of these lands. Touch me and you die a brutal and bloody death.”
“Grang’s teeth! You cannot be the daughter of Halgaad!”
“But I am!”
“His only daughter is Yrsa, and she’s a scrawny little imp.”
“I am not! Show yourself.”
Jorn stood, stepping forward.
“You are one of the sons of Orbadrin,” she said after a moment.
“You are the younger one. Jorn.”
“Yes, and you are Yrsa after all,” he said, smiling widely. “Hard to believe.”
“Are you in the habit of spying on women bathing?” she asked.
“I was, um, hunting,” Jorn said. “I just happened by. Are you in the habit of bathing nude in the woods alone?”
“These waters are healthful.”
“So I‘ve heard.”
“You’re just going to stand there gawking at me?”
“I’ll leave you to your solitude, if you wish.”
“No need to hurry off,” she said, her tone softening. “Now that I know it is you, I would have you sit and speak with me. Only turn away. A girl needs to retain some shred of modesty, you know.”
_____
Falneth, seat of the mighty Thane Orbadrin, was the largest town in the north of Linlund, boasting a bustling population of one thousand. They lived along a single muddy street running parallel to the frozen River Windlemere intersected by a few side streets here and there. Close to a hundred buildings were clustered inside the wooden walls and guard towers, most of them humble shanties or shops. The largest building in town was the great indoor market hall where the goods of the northern forests were traded for the products of the southern cities and farms. It was a long building made entirely of spruce and nearly three hundred feet in length, always abuzz with activity whatever the season. Scores of merchants from Vistinar and Swordhaven converged there and bought the furs, tin, smoked meats, and amber of the northern forests. The merchants, in return, sold everything from Vandorian wine to Brithborean whiskey. On occasion, an elf merchant from far-away Shandorr would appear trading cinnamon, pepper, and nutmeg for large piles of coin or sometimes for furs. At such times, the children of Falneth would crowd about, staring at the exotic stranger in rapt wonder.
On any given day whole piles of gold usually changed hands there. Thane Orbadrin was careful to take no more than a twentieth’s share from every sale. He took only enough to ensure the rule of law within his domain plus a small bit for himself. He lived frugally, by the standards of a powerful thane, even setting some monies aside every month for the support of the widows and orphans of Falneth. He knew well what was known to happen to thanes who grew too-covetous of their people’s wealth and he had no desire to be cast out naked into a Linlundic winter’s night.
The second-largest building in Falneth overlooked the whole town from atop a small hill behind its own wooden stockade. It was smaller than the market hall, but far more impressive. It was Hrókur, “Hall of the Oak”, and known throughout Linlund as the famed hall of Orbadrin and his forefathers. Its polished tin roof gleamed brightly in the midday sun and was visible for a great distance all around, a patch of gleaming metal amid the endless white of the Linlundic winter.
The sons of Orbadrin were greeted with a great cheer as they rode through the gates of the town at the head of a hundred armed men on horseback. Hundreds of townspeople braved the winter chill in good spirit, more than a few drinking down hard spirits to stave off the bitter cold as they stepped out into the muddy street to wave and clap. Men driving herds of sheep or swine hailed the triumphant warriors alongside shopkeepers, craftsmen, and street vendors. A pair of hairy, wild-looking men guiding a hulking wooly mammoth laden high with furs towards the market paused and watched the soldiers riding into the town. Normally the streets of Falneth would be filled with such fur traders. With all the attacks of late from out of the fens by gruks and trolls, though, the flow of the fur trade had slowed to but a trickle. War, the merchants and traders of the town reminded Orbadrin daily, was bad for business.
Jorn and Thulgin waved and rode on along the long, twisting main road. Falneth was a dirty, ramshackle little backwater, but as far as they were concerned it was the most marvelous place in all the Northlands. They had traveled to Vistinar and to Swordhaven, far larger places with certainly more impressive sights to see, but they considered Falneth superior in both spirit and beauty. It was home, after all.
One of the small side streets led up the little hill to Hrókur. The gates opened at their approach and they rode into the small compound, little more than a cluster of tiny buildings around Hrókur; there was a stable, a smokehouse, a smithy, and a few chicken coops all facing the hall. It was a fine hall, two stories high, and made mostly from pine and spruce with broad steps leading up to a wide porch of cut stone and a stout double door of oak leading inside. Above the door was the fierce head of a wild boar carved out of polished wood and painted bright red, its massive tusks protruding from its snout. It was the emblem of their family, the House of Thaalgrud. On either corner of the porch, blazing fires burned in large iron kettles. Stout men with long spears stood guard next to the fires.
The most striking thing about the hall, however, was the exceedingly strange sight looming over the roof. A massive oak tree protruded from the center of the building and reached another thirty feet into the sky above it. Strangers newly arrived and unfamiliar with the great tree were often dum
bfounded by the sight of it. They wondered why one would grow an oak tree in the center of a hall or – as was the actual case – build a hall around an oak tree. Either way, it was impossible for any visitor not to notice it. Orbadrin called Hrókur “the wonder of the North” and relished whenever foreign dignitaries would arrive and stand staring dumbfounded at it.
Sitting on a broad wooden chair in the middle of the porch was Orbadrin himself, surrounded by a group of servants. He was wrapped in thick furs and leaned forward heavily. He was a tall man, powerfully-built but worn out from too many toils. His hair was touched with gray, as was his long beard. He had clear blue eyes and a happy round face, however, which smiled broadly as his sons arrived. The old man pushed himself up out of his seat. He was taller than anyone else on the porch and had a proud bearing that made most kings seem like mere footmen by comparison.
Thulgin and Jorn dismounted and dashed up the stairs. They reached the top and stood in front of the old man, bowing their heads humbly.
“My boys!” Orbadrin said, laughing heartily.
They hugged him roughly as he slapped them each on the back with his meaty hands and laughed again. It was a loud, vigorous laugh which carried all the way across the compound.
“Come, my sons, let us get inside,” he said, smiling widely. “It is too cold out here for an old man.”
The old thane turned back to the doors of his hall, which were immediately opened for him by attentive guards. The trio passed through a small vestibule and into the main hall, Orbadrin leaning heavily on Jorn for support as he walked. Once they were all past the threshold, the guards promptly shut the doors behind them.
It was warm in the main hall, the huge fireplace burning brightly to their left as they entered. The room itself was not huge, nor particularly grand by most standards. It was beautiful, though, in spite of its savageness or perhaps because of it. The walls were of plain wood but were decorated with a series of brightly-painted wooden shields hung between the wooden columns running the entire length of the hall on either side. The columns themselves were topped with elaborate capitals carved into the shape of the roaring heads of a plethora of animals; bears, boars, eagles, dragons, mammoths, and wolves peering down from above as though they were about to pounce down at any moment. Each carving was a perfect rendering of the creature in question, brightly painted and frighteningly real in the flickering firelight. One could not forget, even here in the hall of a mighty thane, that this was still the wild north in all its untamed ferocity.
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 7
