by Robert Jones
"Siggi?" a voice called out from the other side of the battlements. "Jaaaarl Siiiguuurd?" The voice sang, stretching out the name.
Isolde stopped short of the gates and waited in silence with the rest of the crowd. Harald stood by her, his warrior outfit doing little to make her feel protected. It was a dead night, it seemed the birds themselves had fled in terror leaving only the sound of the wind which came as a light breeze from the east.
"Jarl!" the voice boomed in impatience. "Do not make me drag you out!"
Isolde's father threw open the gates and stood alone. In Isolde's eyes, he looked like a hero from the sagas, his body silhouetted against the multitude of lit torches held by a host she could not quite see.
Harald leant into her ear. "It's Hrothgar," he whispered. "I saw the ravens on their shields."
"How many?" she hissed back in anticipation.
"I... I'm not sure, maybe thirty?" he hesitated.
Isolde moved forward to gain a better look, but between the gates narrow space, her father's body, and the darkness of night she could see very little.
"Olaf," the Jarl called out, addressing a central man. "Go home, we have nothing left for you."
Olaf laughed, "that is not how it works Jarl Siggi. You don't mind if I call you Siggi do you?"
Isolde could hear the man's arrogance.
"There is no food for you," her father said. "There is nothing left, go home."
"No food?" he smiled. "In all the village you have nothing? No weapons, no men, no women, no animals, none of anything?"
"Nothing for you, Olaf. We have barely enough for the winter as it is."
Olaf motioned for the Jarl to come to him and speak in private. Isolde couldn't stand being unable to see, she used the short distraction to slip onto the walls and dragged Harald with her. Below them stood a troop of men, they looked huge in the darkness, and Isolde thought they must have been handpicked warriors. They wore thick furs with the glimmer of mail-shirts shimmering in the moonlight. Some had helmets of the northern style that were fashioned into hellish beasts. She saw one with the face of a hound, another with the horns of a dragon, yet others had no helms at all and their skulls were shaved leaving the sides tattooed with thick streams of intertwined hair running down the backs of their necks.
She spied each from the walls and noted that Harald was right, they were Hrothgar's men. The black ravens painted on their shields meant they were from Ravenscar. It sent a shiver down her spine.
Olaf and the Jarl broke off their whispering and the Jarl turned back toward his town. With a clear voice, he called out.
"Olaf has come all the way from Ravenscar to extract a tribute from us so that we will acknowledge and accept the protection of High-King Hrothgar. I have told him the truth, we have nothing to pay with," the Jarl paused for a moment. "However, the wise King, in all his mercy has said that any who will not pay, will burn."
A heavy silence filled the air and the Jarl turned back toward Olaf.
"And I say," he spat, locking eyes with Olaf, "that we cannot pay, and we will not burn."
Olaf walked toward the gates in slow heavy steps, addressing not the Jarl, but the town as a whole.
"Then send forward a champion," he said drawing a blade, "And defend yourselves in the old way."
The crowd began to murmur and squirm. Names were thrown around, but one quickly became dominant, Harald. As the crowd began to sing in unison, the boy shrunk in size as he stood beside Isolde on the battlements. She looked at him in pity.
"Send the boy!" a woman cried.
"Let him be blooded!" cried another.
Harald's eyes lit up with fear and Isolde raised her voice.
"I will fight," she called out.
Her father raised his hands and silenced the crowd.
"No one is fighting!" he bellowed.
Olaf spat at his feet.
"Coward," he sneered. "Maybe I'll take her home with us."
The Jarl tore his sword from its scabbard and stepped forward. Isolde thought he grew in stature, his chest bursting forward and his head held high like a royal king.
"Come take her," he bellowed.
The raider stepped back and laughed.
"We'll be back, Jarl Sigurd."
Olaf turned and slipped through the ranks of his men. Each followed their leader but there was no rush in their step. Isolde watched them go before noticing her father's menacing eyes glaring up at her. With the town watching on he raised his sword at her.
"You," he commanded with a voice seething with rage. "You will go home and you will not leave my hall until I come for you!"
CHAPTER VI
Jarl Sigurd's eyes burned. He hadn't slept. The Black Witch had indeed returned and the thought haunted him. The High-King was sending his hound Olaf to bark at his door. And on top of everything else, his little girl was no longer content to play adventures but wanted to see the world. He rubbed his temples. It didn't surprise him but it still spiked a pain deep inside his heart. He moved over to the wash-bowl. The sun had risen, and the dawn birds were shrieking outside. When did I get so old? He sighed as the water shimmered his reflection. His dark beard was salted with grey, and the skin around his eyes had begun to crease into crow's feet. He splashed the water over his face and washed it through his hair but it did little to revitalise his weary bones. He took a deep breath and made for his daughter's room.
Bang, bang, bang. He thumped his heavy fist against Isolde's door.
"Isolde, are you decent?"
Bang, bang, bang, he thumped the door again.
"Isolde?"
He swung the door inward before she could answer and found his daughter slumped on the chair in front of the cold, dead fireplace. Her golden hair still flowed down her back, braided in the typical style of the Northmen with intricate knots and weaves. Her skin was as white as new-born snow, she's cold, he thought, and stressed, noticing her dark eyes.
"Didn't sleep last night either?" he asked, shutting the door behind him.
She didn't answer. Her gaze remained on the blackened wood of the fire that had warmed her room the night before.
"Why do you act like a child?" he asked expecting no reply, "if you want to be seen as a member of this village, you have to start showing your worth."
Isolde's eyes darted up to her father's and narrowed, "My worth?... My worth!? And how am I suppose to show that if you don't even listen to me?"
Her tone took him back for a moment, but he kept his calm. "Isolde, you want to go and prove yourself. Do it some other way. The Black Witch, Orlog, is not what you think. She's dangerous. She hasn't just returned to do evil. She wants revenge."
"You think the whole world is dangerous," Isolde spat back. "Why is this so different? Why wouldn't I be able to kill her?"
"You do not understand the world, Isolde," he rubbed his eyes, his head pounding.
"I understand enough to know that you are so scared of losing me that you're blind to see that soon there will be nothing left to lose."
You don't know what you are saying... he thought.
The Jarl snapped, "Look, no one wants Orlog dead more than I do. But it is not so easy. Just trust me for once."
"Trust you!? How about trusting me for once," her lips tightened and she broke his gaze.
Jarl Sigurd sighed and stroked his speckled brown beard. Governing a town was easy he thought, but a daughter was impossible. He looked down at his girl, her brows furrowed, her eyes glaring at the dead wood. He shifted his weight and moved to sit down next to her, sharing her view of the ashen fireplace.
"You are just like your mother, you know," he said.
"So I hear."
"Not just in looks, Isolde."
"Well, I can't imagine anything else we share."
"Obviously you never got to experience her stubbornness."
Isolde looked at him, she was still scowling but the malice was gone from her eye and the Jarl could see the hint of a smile that she was barely sup
pressing.
"Did you really love her?" she asked.
"With all my heart."
"Do you think about her still?"
"Every day."
His eyes strayed to the floor, but they were focused on the past. Astrid... memories of his wife flooded his mind.
"What was she like, father? I mean, everyone knows the stories, but what was she really like?"
He looked back at his daughter and smiled, but inside he felt so alone.
"She was like you, Isolde... she was just like you. Do me a favour," he said, "don't make my life hard in front of everyone again. You put me on the spot you know."
Isolde nodded doing her best not to laugh.
"Do your chores, okay?" he continued, "there's plenty to do around here before winter comes and there are more important things in this world than trying to be a hero."
The smile left her face, but she met her father's eyes and nodded and he noticed the same rebellious spark her mother once had.
***
It was approaching noon by the time Isolde emerged from the gloom of the Jarl's hold. The morning sun had chased away the long shadows cast from the eastern mountains and a chill wind blew in from the north. But the sun was warm on her skin and it was a new day.
Eyndale sprawled out before her as it tumbled down the gentle hill. Small houses packed against each other forming narrow alleys that darted away from the main street like new growth from a sapling's trunk. Gentle plumes of smoke wafted into the sky from beneath their thatched roofs and the sweet smell of smoked meats lingered in the air. The people busied themselves in their daily labours, preparing for the oncoming of winter. The last of the thin harvest was being brought in, animal pens were being repaired and the weakest livestock rounded up for slaughter. She walked down toward a small crowd gathering at the base of the hill who were laughing and cheering.
"Well here she comes now," a voice cried out, "your wonderful shield-maiden, come to save us all again."
It was Ulfer. He stood before Harald with a small audience around him. His short sandy hair was cropped tight to his head and his brown eyes shone with glee as Isolde approached.
"Our hero!" he said to her. "Thank Throndir and all the gods that you were there to protect us, great warrioress."
The crowd snickered but Isolde stood tall, her golden hair waving in the breeze.
"Shut up, Ulfer. Where were you last night? Hiding again?" she said.
Ulfer forced a laugh loaded with sarcasm. He stood a head higher than Isolde but was still lifting his chin in an attempt to look taller in her presence.
"If it weren't for you, shield-maiden, then our cowardly Harald might have actually been forced to do something."
The crowd laughed and cheered and Isolde noticed that Harald's hands were shaking and his face was turning pale.
"Let him go, Isolde," a harsh and condescending voice cut in. "If he weren't off with the faeries half the time or looking for elves then he might have the guts to stand up for himself."
Harald's eyes darted up and went wide. Isolde followed them, it was Arne, his father.
"Look at him," Arne said, "he is a coward, wouldn't fight if you slapped his head."
The crowd laughed and Ulfer ran with the idea, he stepped up to Harald and slapped his cheek. Isolde grimaced, hit him she thought, strike him back. But Harald stood as rigid as a stone. She couldn't stand to watch it anymore.
"Come with me," she said taking Harald's hand and pulling him away.
The crowd jeered as the pair retreated and shouted at their backs.
"Why didn't you hit him?" she asked as she led him toward the gates.
"He's not worth it," he said under his breath.
"It's not about him, Harald, it's about you and what people think!" she spoke quickly, her voice rising in anger. "Everyone thinks you're smaller than a mouse, Ulfer walks right over you."
Harald didn't say anything but followed Isolde out of the town and toward the flowing stream of the River Jule.
"For once in his life," Isolde began, "your father might actually be right. You are off with the faeries too much."
Harald snorted. "They're real. No one believes me but I have seen them."
Isolde turned around and looked at him. He was only a year older but already beginning to look like a man with his swarthy tan darkened by the light stubble of youth. His shaggy dark brown locks were tied back off his face and flowed down to his shoulders letting her see his soft brown eyes.
"They are real," he said again.
Isolde shook her head.
"No one cares if you say they're real or not, Harald. It doesn't even matter, what matters is that you let everyone walk all over you."
Harald's eyes broke away from Isolde and his lips tightened. She could see her words had hurt him.
"You're wrong," he said.
"How am I wrong, everyone says you're a coward and you keep proving it for them."
"I don't care about that," he said, "you're wrong about the faeries or elves... whatever they were. Look, you're so quick to believe that the shadow was... the Black Witch... but you don't care that I've seen things in the woods? Do you really think it's a coincidence?"
"I don't really care if it's connected. I don't even care if they are out there. If Orlog is back, I will kill her. I will kill her, Harald, and people will respect me because they will know I was never afraid. And you will stay here and be walked on forever and your name will never be remembered."
"That's not true," he said, "I will be respected."
Isolde snorted and turned her back on him. She needed space.
***
Isolde hiked along the edge of the river in the dying light of the day. The world opened up before her and she breathed deeply and gazed in wonder at the fantastic colours of the barren fields sprawled out over the plains to her left across the water. The last light of the sun saturated them in deep oranges and auburns as if they were alight in brilliant flame. She followed the water downstream toward the pine trees that towered into the sky marking the beginning of the great Watcher's Wood. A brisk wind blew down from the north and whisked her face. She loved the feeling, it made her feel alive and awake and she could imagine the stress of the past two days gently easing out of her skin and loosening her tight shoulders. The gentle rush of the stream running shallowly along its stony bed relaxed her mind and the thoughts of the shadow, Wulfric, the witch, her father, and Harald slowly washed away.
She kept walking and it wasn't long until she reached the eaves of the great wood that spread for many miles to the north and west of her home. The trees loomed above her as she craned her neck to see their tips. The air was fresher here she thought, the world more natural and at ease. She loved the forest and always had.
The setting sun spread out the last of its rays through the sparse gaps in the woods appearing as flames dancing upon the air, and as the light caught the glimmer of small gnats and fireflies that hovered in silence, she wondered if magic really did live here.
She followed the River Jule for a while longer until the brambles thickened and the valley dropped too steeply in its western flow. Here she struck out north, climbing the steep slope of a hill along the same weathered path she always took. Up and up the hill she climbed with the pine needles covering the forest floor in a thick blanket, concealing ancient steps of weathered stone. They looked like bedrock beneath the needles, but she knew the path and where it led.
Her legs burned as she reached the summit and she smiled at the sight of the clearing in the thick woods. The pines stood like a perfect circle of silent guardians, swaying and speaking to each other in ominous creaks. In the centre of the clearing were the standing stones of Garath Nuir, twelve great monoliths erected in a circle. The bluestone slabs were a marvel to Isolde and this place always gave her the solitude needed to soothe her troubled soul. She moved between the stones and traced the remains of their intricate engravings. She knew the design of each, or what was left after
the weathering of countless years and the ever intrusive moss that flourished in their crevices.
Isolde sat back in the shade, closing her eyes and rested her back against one of the great stones. She closed her eyes and leant her head back as she inhaled the forest's aura. The wind blew gently through the pines, who seemed to speak quietly amongst themselves. But something was wrong. She opened her eyes and jumped up. Where are all the animals? She wondered. She had not noticed but the sun had set too, and an inky darkness spread out around her. Her heart pounded. She was alone and something was close by, she could sense it. Something must have startled the animals away. A branched snapped. She crouched low and drew a dagger from her belt. She strained her ears, but only the wind and trees could be heard. Her breathing was heavy and she struggled to slow it down. Crack. Another branch, but this time behind her. She snapped her head around to find the source.
"Where is it," she muttered, squeezing the life out of the handle of her blade.
Something moved in the corner of her eye, like glitter caught in the wind, too fast for her to be sure. A gentle breeze blew through her hair carrying hollow laughter like distant children in a spring fair. She was spinning frantically trying to see everywhere at once. She was being circled.
"Come out!" she called, her voice shaking. "Harald!?" she shouted. "Is this some kind of joke? Come out before I drag you out!"
Silence answered her as she strained to hear, to smell, to see anything.
"Well now," a voice called out. "That is no way to speak to an old friend is it?"
Isolde spun around, eyes wild, dagger raised, arms tense, ready to strike at any moment only to find herself face to face with an old man. Her heart dropped and she let her arm fall to her side as she sighed in relief.
"I could have killed you," she said.
CHAPTER VII
Skaldi towered over her. He was tall, so tall that Isolde had to look up to meet his eyes. But he was also thin, as though he hadn't eaten a proper meal in years. He wore the simple grey garb of a travelling pilgrim with the deep set hood cascading down into a robe that swept the forest floor as he walked. His face, from what was not hidden by the long flowing grey beard, was weathered with age, and the deep lines that gnarled at his skin only added to the mystique that everyone said surrounded him. His eyes were dark and deep set like wells of knowledge that were free to all, and his deep soothing voice flowed like honey.
