“You have?” Vegard’s brow was furrowed to the point of collapse. He felt more like a dumb ape than a freed slave and civilized man.
“You entered our forest. You were permitted to enter the Trials. Not all who wander into the Dark Forest see the hearth behind the falls, the doorway to the Black Forge. The power you unlocked therein, the weapons you obtained, the testing of those abilities in combat…all these were your training. All these were the Trials.”
Vegard was transfixed by the warlock’s words. He starred down at his blackened arms, and the ebony blade laying over his lap.
“I’ll admit it was a speedier process than most of our people go through. But the Trials are different for every soul. They present to the contender what he or she needs to know. Your destiny is more geared towards bloody conflict, I would say. Mine was to become a seer. Others to become witches. It seems you were meant to be the war in the warlock.” He grinned stupidly at his own pun. The air of sage being drained.
“I find you terribly vexing, ol’…Mohin Valuk.” He corrected himself. The old man shrugged and took another large drink from his wine. “Well, if what you say is so, then I guess I should be off, then. Seems I have much blood and conflict to look forward to.”
“Vegard, I may have a request of you.”
“A request?” Vegard’s face screwed up. “It isn’t some mission or quest or such nonsense, is it? I want to hurry and make this merchant cold so I can be redeemed.”
“Ah, yes. Your soul.” Mohin grinned brightly. Vegard almost thought the man could see the blue thing floating above his shoulders but didn’t want to push any more with this bizarre creature. “But, yes, a request. If you do this for me I can equip you with more for your journey than those burnt rags on your back. Perhaps a home for that blade or were you planning on dragging it all the way to Temuria?”
“What is it then?” Vegard tapped his foot.
“I need you to take Wera with you on your journey.”
Vegard cackled aloud. An odd and defiant gesture in such a serene, forgotten forest temple. “The bear girl!? Did you want me to rustle along anything else whilst I’m at it?” He laughed derisively. “Another bija from your forge? Maybe I should wear shoes of pinecones?”
“There aren’t really any pinecones amongst the Dark Forest. Although, luckily, we are still in the right hemisphere for their growth…”
“Shut up, you old fool. You know what I’m saying. The girl dislikes me greatly. Why in the hells of Mrkyamish would I bring that whiny brat with me? What could it possibly serve?”
“It would serve her greatly, I feel. Having your freedom stripped from you and utterly subjugated by others is a hardship that is not easily shrugged off. The Mrkyr Brodir have done what they can for her. But she needs to set out on her own. She needs to find her strength amongst the world, as a peer, an equal. Not as a hermit, tucked away, stewing in hatred, and forever jaded.”
It was these contrasting moments of mystic, seriousness, and humor that made Mohin so frustrating to Vegard. “Not to mention, she can turn into an enormous bear! So, I imagine that could be helpful when out to spill the blood of strangers, yes!?” He patted Vegard on the back.
Vegard could care less about the girl’s mental state but definitely couldn’t argue with the latter part of Mohin’s logic. A bear was a bear. If anything, archers would be more inclined to fire at a bear than a man.
“Fine. Where are these goods you speak of and the thing? I want to be off.”
Mohin Valuk led Vegard to another of the many overgrown temples that the Dark Forest had swallowed and assimilated. Inside were stockpiles of furs and leathers, swords, spears.
“Wars tend to leave a lot of useful things behind, if one can just pry them from their corpses.”
Vegard hurriedly suited himself with rugged, dark leather armor that wrapped around his chest and legs. He found a solitary steel pauldron for his left shoulder. One side was better than none, he mused. Lastly a new pair of boots and a bushy animal cloak to finish it off.
“That feels better.” Vegard felt half a warrior again. He hadn’t been permitted to his own things for so long. The animal cloak was light brown with patches of white. It contrasted with his armor like storm clouds over a snow covered field. And, although, he felt it kept his limbs toasty, his insides still shivered as if his spine were cased in ice. A biting reminder of the sort of unlife he still existed in and served as inspiration for continuous, murderous steps onward.
Mohin handed Vegard a leather sword scabbard. It was dark in color and had a metallic sheen of crimson overlaying it. The inside was a smooth purple velvet and around the rim were carved simple runes that glowed lightly with magical energy.
“It’s more than a sheath?” Vegard noted.
“Or, it is more the perfect sheath. It was crafted by Sez’Sez Gwerim, a witch of Mrkyr Brodir, long ago.”
“What does it do?”
“It will conform to the size or style of any blade placed inside.” Mohin demonstrated this by sliding in various swords and knives. No matter if it was broad, long, thin, the scabbard moved and shifted to fit. “Wonderful little artifact. Sez’Sez called it Gwerim, after herself. Also,” He held one of the blades that was tucked in the scabbard towards Vegard. Vegard was confused but grasped the handle and tugged. Nothing. He tugged harder, then harder. Mohin laughed loudly as the young warlock tried to pull the old man from his spot.
“Blades will only free if the master wills it. Your opponents cannot steal your sword and you will not lose it in a tumble.”
Vegard felt himself blush…as if Mohin was referencing his bridge incident with the giant. He felt compelled to leave this land of the Mrkyr Brodir. His thoughts usually disturbed himself enough without someone else rummaging around in them.
“It may keep blades eternally sharp, as well…although, I can’t recall. It has been so long and I’ve had little use for the thing.” The old man shrugged.
“Thank you, Mohin. It is good to have my own things, once again.” The two gathered the last of the necessities before setting off to find Wera.
They found the hver standing over the crest of a cliff at the edge of the town. Her gaze looked out through the forest as if contemplating the arduous journey ahead of her.
“Does she know?” Vegard whispered to Mohin.
“Yes.”
Besides her simple leather tunic she had a vicious long spear on her back, and wore a sagging, shoulder satchel ornamented with tiny jewels and bird’s feathers.
“What is the magic of the bag?” Vegard asked, trying to make conversation.
“Huh?” The hver perked. “The bag holds shit, northman. Have you not seen a bag before?”
Vegard threw his hands up in frustration. “I merely assumed. Fine, never mind. Let us be on our way.”
Wera regarded Mohin. She stood proud at the edge of the town that had helped her heal. Showing her a kindness that she had never truly known. She was taking her first steps back into a world with validations and sensibilities that she did not share. An almost paternal bond was shared by the two of Mrkyr Brodir, so they said naught. Best save their words for the reunion and not the departure.
Vegard and his soul waited for the moment to come to an end. Wera eventually turned away and the pair, warlock and hver, began making their way through the Dark Forest, south. Temuria was to the east and south of Yessriel-Villr, across the Mior Ocean that separated the west and the east.
It would be a long journey to the eastern continent. He wasn’t sure if the two of them would even survive the trek together. Or what good having this Wera girl along for the ride would do.
How was he to fix her? Vegard had his own issues to deal with without the added tension of this resentful, former slave beast.
Oh well…Vegard sighed. If a few bloody nobles is all the girl needed to set her mind straight then Vegard would provide. After that the hver was on her own.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
To the South
Vegard and his new unlikely companion traveled through the lengthy valley of the Dark Forest. The borders of the Mrkyr Brodir were wide and the extent of the rolling hills and shifting terrain took the duo two days to travel.
The hver led the party. She deftly handled the terrain like one born amongst the adverse surroundings. Vegard stumbled forth like a wayward child. Each bush and branch like a new foe that needed thwarting.
Any attempt for the warlock to try and slow the girl just had her huff and perch in a tree waiting for the ‘northman’ to catch up.
Vegard noticed the girl could shift from bear to girl with a swiftness. She regularly implemented the change to push through roaring rivers or thick foliage. Her hunting skills as a creature were superb, as well. Her snout sniffed out prey that were all but invisible to the warlock. The hver’s ears were as keen as a dog’s. Meat was not going to be a problem for the companions as they made their journey.
Vegard was already hefting more rabbits then he was like to consume in a week. And, apparently, from the little conversation the two shared, if Wera ate in human form her appetite was much smaller than in her animal form. How that worked, Vegard had no clue. Nor did he honestly care. The less she ate the better.
The valley came to an end. The entirety of the Dark Forest confined within this valley. The cliff walls rose before the adventurers and a natural staircase led the two out of the home of the Mrkyr Brodir.
Vegard crested the trees and felt the sun on his cold skin for the first time in days. It was setting now but he at least enjoyed its last rays as it parted for the day.
Atop the cliffside Vegard could make out the distant islands of Havansgard out to sea a mile or so off shore. Havansgard was home to many of the Vlero’s most volatile and dangerous viking clans. Men and women of barbaric strength and primal ferocity.
Islands of perpetual war, people would say. The savages of Havansgard fought each other, bloodied each other for the honor to please the gods of Storrhale.
Vegard had never been to the islands. He had never taken a ship by their shores. They were known, not only for their fighting prowess, but their amazing sea vessels, as well. Few merchants set sail upon the Vanguard Sea without the sudden appearance of these beasts upon them.
Wera and him had had this conversation already.
“Why do we not cross the Vanguard?” The hver asked. “It’s a straight shot. We could be at this fat merchant of yours in half the time.”
“We would not make it in half the time. We would not make it half the way.” Vegard answered. “If you want to put your ass on the line, be my guest. You’ll make a handsome throw-rug for one of these vikings’ bedrooms.”
Vegard could see the girl white-knuckling her spear, but she didn’t press the issue further. Not that it mattered. Neither of them had the coin enough for the adventurous sailors that would brave the Vanguard.
They could find cheaper fare to the southern end of Yessriel. Cheaper and safer. And that is exactly what the warlock planned to do.
The two traveled down the Jagged Coast on the east side of the continent.
Camping was a silent affair. The most noise the two made was the chewing of their food. Each stood guard for half the night before the other took watch.
One night, Vegard tried to make conversation. Wera sucked unceremoniously at the bone marrow of a hen she had caught earlier in the day.
“What do you know of eastern Yessriel?” Vegard asked. “I’m more of a western child, myself.”
“What makes you think I know anything of this land, northman?” Wera spat, pieces of meat flinging from her mouth. “Have I come as your guide?”
“That’s not what I mean, girl! I don’t know these parts. Figured if you knew something…”
“If I knew something I may have brought it up already!”
“What is your problem with me?” Vegard yelled. “I have done nothing to you.”
Wera stopped. “Done nothing to me? It is your culture that has done things to me.” She fumed. “It might not have been your hand that put shackles about my wrists and paraded me around like some show-beast…but you have stewed within their ranks your whole life. I find it hard to believe some of their evil ways wouldn’t have seeped in.”
“You know what!?” He started with a breath—but then let it go. “Fine. Go on believing what you want.” Vegard said before turning back to his meal in silence.
So much for friendly conversation. He picked at his teeth but couldn’t help but roll the words she had said to him around in his head.
His culture. His culture. What culture? Is all the warlock could think of. If the northmen had accepted him then they had a funny way of showing it. Being assaulted, mocked, ostracized, and then eventually sold.
Vegard’s entire existence had been on the sidelines of society. As if there was a taint to him that everyone but himself could see or feel. He stewed in nothing. Nothing but a perpetual bitterness that emanated from his bones outward.
If the girl wanted to think that he was like the others, so be it. If the others wanted to believe that he was too much of a freak to accept, so be it.
Being an outsider was a familiar place for him. No bother changing it now that he was ‘kissed by the gods’, whatever in the hells that mattered. As long as he was not confined to some cage, released only to hurt and be hurt, then he had come to terms with being alone.
My mistake for thinking something had changed. Vegard finished his meal and took the first watch. His thoughts weren’t in a place yet where rest would come easily.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dawns Fero
Time passed and the towers of a coastal town could be spotted on the horizon. A simple sign in the road read ‘Dawns Fero 2 miles’. No ship larger than a meager shallow water fishing boat or cuddy was bound to be found there. But a hot meal and a mattress would be a nice change from the mirthless camping the pair had been doing.
When Vegard brought the town up, Wera became visibly anxious. “There are ruins all over the place! Why not just stay in one of those. I’ve caught us plenty of rabbits. These people can keep their piss stained mattresses.”
“Are you serious?” Vegard peered over to the destroyed monolithic towers. Some lost kingdom from years ago. “The ruins are bound to be filled to the brim with bandits at best! Who knows what kind of creatures are lurking there now?”
“What? Is the precious Agaeti of some fallen god too scared to spend the night amongst some fallen rocks?”
“Attacking my ego won’t provoke me like other men.” Vegard chuckled.
“Oh, right! Because you are so unlike your kin, yes?”
Vegard sighed. “Whatever. Fine, you can go sleep in the ruins. I’m off to find a proper bed.”
“I can go!? Why, thank you, me lord.” She mocked a curtsey. Vegard ignored her and continued on towards Dawns Fero. Wera huffed by herself before kicking her feet up and following the warlock. “Gods, you are sucha baby. Needing a sensitive bed for your sensitive back.”
Dawns Fero turned out to be much more impressive than Vegard had given it credit. A multi-tiered city, Dawns Fero sprawled from the cliffside at the top and spread downward to the busy docks below.
The upper part of the city was all stonework and carved beauty. Lush gardens and cobblestone boardwalks. The district of the rich and privileged; politicians and nobles. The view from the top was that of a painting. The top tier peered out over the glowing ocean. Every grand estate with fantastic balconies blessed with a panoramic view of Yessriel’s splendor. As the city wound downward so did its denizens and its excess. The bottom tier for the sailors and poor, the criminals and the blackmarkets.
Thick columns and archways were constructed to hold the tier above it at bay. Architecture that dwarfed the mountain cities the warlock had grown up in. Seemed a precarious thing to Vegard. One or two crumbling columns and an entire district of peop
le could be wiped off the face of Vlero, crushed under tons of solid stone.
The two approached the northern gate at tier one. A checkin station was set up for travelers. Vegard worried about his status as an escaped slave.
How far Jogen Herald’s reach was, Vegard did not know. Letters of Return could have been sent by ravens across all of Yessriel before the warlock had ever made it to this city.
Pleasantries were exchanged between the guards and the traveling companions. Vegard felt his hand relax off the pommel of Blacktooth—his sword that rested in its scabbard across his lower back. It seemed they were fine, for the moment. One guard, decked in chainmail with a yellow sash tucked in his waist that fluttered to the floor, was more than happy to explain the city to the duo.
Vegard explained their monetary situation and the guard went so far as to recommend an inn and tavern to the two, the Sweaty Seafarer on the bottom tier. Cheap drink and plenty of beds.
Vegard couldn’t think of two things he wanted more. Well, his soul back in his body would have been a great turn of events, but he’d take booze and sleep as a consolation prize. There’s only so much a lowly guard could really do for the warlock.
The guard even had one of his men guide the pair down the steps leading to the bottom tier. It had all the appearance of a friendly service, but Vegard got the impression they were trying to usher the poor with the poor and keep the upper tiers free of their type of riffraff.
As they descended the many steps downward the tiers became darker and more cramped. The stone architecture of Dawns Fero didn’t leave much in the way of natural light for those that comprised the bottom feeders.
It almost felt to the warlock like he had been brought back to the Dark Forest. Must all his adventures send him down to the depths of these human hells?
He shook the thought from his head as the guard parted ways with them and left them at the entrance of the shabby, Sweaty Seafarer. Slightly off the beaten path from the docks. A sturdy but musky wooden structure that housed the kind of sailors looking for betting games and debts paid in bloodshed. An establishment surrounded by looming wood housings, tight alleys away from patrolling guards, and the enormous pillars that stood to keep the upper tiers aloft.
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 9
