by JD Moyer
Not long after, Trond heard the sound of running water. The Silver Trail joined the Nyr Begna, following along the rocky south bank. Trond was ready to make water himself. He stopped in his tracks and undid his trousers while his brother walked ahead. It was good to piss in the woods, where the air smelled clean, away from the pungent odors of the village. Why did he not spend more time walking these trails? For seven years he had thought of nothing but gaining the title of smith, of shedding the apprentice that preceded it. Now everyone acknowledged him as Jense’s equal. Some even preferred his workmanship. But what of it? He spent all his days in the smithy, seeing the same sights, smelling the same smells, making the same tools. Lately, urged on by Elke, he had forged many knives and spearheads, and even a few godsteel swords. While Jense’s swords were still superior, Trond knew the Four Secrets of godsteel and could forge a fine blade. All in all, Trond felt proud to be a smith; he enjoyed both work and title. But it was good to be outdoors, pissing on a young sapling.
His brother called out from ahead. Trond shook himself dry, retied his trousers, and jogged to catch up. Esper knelt amidst a copse of beech trees. Next to his brother lay a body, lifeless and supine. The dead man had long, white hair. His skin was pale and withered, his mouth and chin encrusted with blood. Esper waved his hand, shooing away the flies.
“Do you recognize him?” Trond asked.
“No,” said Esper, “but he dresses as we do. Look at his boots. Were they not made by Gustav?” Trond looked closely, and nodded. His own boots were made by the Happdal cobbler.
“Do not touch him. He looks diseased, or poisoned,” advised Trond. “It looks as if a spider has woven a web inside his face, beneath his skin.”
Esper gingerly lifted the body without touching the skin directly, heeding Trond’s advice. There were no wounds on the man’s back. The only blood came from his mouth, and a little from his nose. Esper stood and paced slowly, eyes on the ground. Trond sat on a rock and waited, knowing he could not match his brother’s vision, nor outthink him.
“Help me, you lazy oaf,” Esper complained.
“I was not born with the eyes of an eagle.”
“Help anyway.”
Trond obeyed his younger sibling and searched the area. The winter frost had melted; the ground beneath the beech trees was moist and mossy. Trond noticed a torn patch of moss. Looking more closely, he found a clear set of tracks heading north-west. Just as he turned to alert Esper, his brother called out.
“Trond, look here! Does this not belong to Katja?” Esper was holding his hand up, his fingers pinched together. It seemed as if his brother was holding…absolutely nothing. “Come closer!” commanded Esper. Trond did so, and saw that his brother held a single long flaxen hair. It was the same as many hairs Trond had seen in the family home: on the floor, on chairs, even in his morning porridge. He knew his sister’s hair better than he knew his own.
Esper seemed elated, but Trond felt an icy chill in his chest and arms, and shivered. Two minutes ago, he had truly believed his sister was in no danger. She was safe at home, her stomach full of hot porridge and bacon, sleeping off the previous night’s adventure. But now his happy vision was smashed. Katja had been here. Perhaps she had seen the death of the man who lay on the ground. Perhaps she had killed him. Where was she now?
Trond showed Esper his own discovery, the tracks heading north-west. He then returned to the white-haired man and stood over the corpse, staring down. Bjorn had spoken of the gast (or what he thought was the gast, in any case). He had said the apparition’s hair was as white as snow. Could this dead man possibly be Trond’s great-grandfather Henning? Trond had never met the man, and possessed few memories even of his grandparents. Arik’s parents had died young, both Afflicted, Buried and Burned. Elke’s father had died in a raid when Trond was a little boy (killing three men even after being impaled on a spear, so the story went). That left Elke’s mother, Mette, who he remembered well. The old crone was sometimes kind, baking sweet rolls for Trond and Esper. Other times, for no reason at all, she would fly into a rage and hurl rocks at the boys. The old woman had a terrifyingly good aim, right up to the day she went to fetch water one cool autumn evening, and was found frozen stiff in the woods the next morn.
Mormor Mette was Henning’s youngest daughter, and the tales of his great-grandfather had come from her. A fearsome warrior, Henning had fought with two godsteel longswords: Biter and Taker. Henning could kill a man so fast that his opponent would continue fighting and boasting for some time, until a severed body part fell to the ground, reminding the man that he had already been killed. One day Henning simply wandered off, never to return, leaving his wife, children, animals, and a fine house behind. Over the years there were sightings. A boy had seen Henning striding through the woods, as if to an important destination. A man had spotted him from across the Long Lake, to the south, sitting on a rock and fishing. After many years, all those who knew Henning by face grew old and died. So did, eventually, all reports of seeing or hearing the man in the wild.
And what of the gast? Trond had grown up with the same tales as every Happdal child. If you were wicked, the gast would take you away to his cave. He would use you as a slave, or possibly cook and eat you, especially if you were a bit fat. The gast also stole from the villagers: clothing and tools, and sometimes animals. Some left sacrifices of food and drink, and swore they were taken. Trond did not doubt this. As a boy, he had enjoyed a few of the offerings himself, once getting sick after swilling an entire pot of mead.
“Brother, look here!” Esper interrupted his dark reverie. “Another set of tracks. These are Katja’s…. See the heel of her boot? She took the trail south-west, along the river. She could still be on the Silver Trail. It continues all the way to the stone fort on the ridge, and beyond that to the Builder ruins.”
Trond gripped his brother’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. They would find Katja, together, no matter how long it took. He tried to speak but could find no words. Esper seemed to understand, and smiled. “Do not worry, our sister lives. She might be hurt, confused and walking in the wrong direction, but she is made of tough stuff. We will find her and bring her home.”
Trond nodded, returning the smile and releasing his brother from his vise-like grip. He did not feel as confident as Esper. In the pit of his stomach, there was a sickening knot of fear and worry. But stronger than that was the resolve in his heart. His parents would have to wait, to defend their village without the help of their sons if need be. Their task was to find Katja and bring her home, and that’s what they would do.
“What of the other tracks? Who might they belong to?” Trond had no idea, but there was no shame in asking. His brother’s intellect was superior; Esper might already have an idea. “Perhaps just an animal?” Trond had thought he had seen the outline of a small foot, but he was no expert tracker.
“No. A woman, I think,” said Esper. “The tracks are just as fresh. But that riddle will have to wait. Perhaps Katja will give us the answer when we find her.”
Trond nodded. He took one last look at the corpse of the white-haired man. He imagined his sister kicking the man in the face, downing him with a single mighty blow. In Trond’s mind, blood sprayed from the man’s mouth; he cried out and fell to the ground. The thought made Trond grin, and the knot in his stomach loosened a bit. Trond strode down the trail along the south bank of the Nyr Begna at a fast pace. Esper followed close behind.
Chapter Six
The smithy was silent as Elke approached, no clang of hammer on steel. Still, Elke knew that Jense was there even before she opened the heavy oaken door. She could smell him. Jense was not particularly pungent – the smith scrubbed the sweat and soot from his massive body every evening – but Elke had the nose of a wolf. She could identify each and every villager by scent alone. Every person and every beast had their own distinct odor, and once Elke had smelled it – even once – she would reme
mber that unique scent forever. While everyone knew of her eaglesight, she kept the knowledge of her keen nose to herself. It was more useful that way. The time Arik had strayed, she had known immediately, and with whom. She had paid a visit to Harald the cheesemaker’s buxom daughter, and that had been the end of it. She had not even needed to threaten the poor girl. The wench had paled at the sight of Elke, then fled to the barn to hide among the cows. Arik came home earlier than usual that night, befuddled. She had welcomed him back to their bed without a word.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light. Jense sat on a stool, polishing a long, slender blade. “For Katja?” she asked. He nodded, but kept his eyes fixed on his work. Elke’s pulse quickened at the sight of his bare arms and shoulders, powerful muscles rippling beneath his skin. Briefly, she imagined his hands on her body, gripping her roughly. She suppressed the thought. There was work to be done, and Jense would help her.
“Has she returned?” he asked, still not meeting her gaze.
“No. The boys have gone to find her. And that is a problem. We need them here when Haakon comes.”
“If Haakon comes,” he corrected, finally glancing up. He dropped the cloth and held up the blade. It was a narrow, wicked-looking weapon, longer than a traditional sword. He had not yet fashioned a hilt or guard, but the tang looked long enough to grip with two hands. Jense was wrong about Haakon, but she would not waste her breath arguing.
“You will find the boys and bring them back,” she said, using a tone reserved for the end of conversations. She knew Jense would protest, but eventually he would do as she asked. She might as well let him know what she wanted up front.
He laughed. “You think I can still grab Trond by the scruff of his neck and bend him to my will? Have you seen your son lately? My days of being the strongest man in the Five Valleys are over.”
“He will obey you still. Old habits die hard.”
Jense shook his head. “No. Trond is my equal now. I might ask him to return, but he will do as he sees fit.”
For an instant Elke’s will faltered. She thought of Trond moving her aside like a paper doll. But she steeled herself. “Go and ask them. You only need to convince one. Where one goes, the other will follow. And then, continue on to find Katja, and bring her home as well.” This was the killing blow, and they both knew it. Jense loved both mother and daughter.
Jense sighed. Elke stepped close, taking one of his giant hands in her own. Finally, he met her gaze and held it. He did not completely trust her, but nor could he resist her. She saw frustration in his eyes, then, briefly, anger.
“Fine, woman, I will fetch your sons. And your daughter. Now leave my smithy so I can finish my work – the work you assigned me. Five spearheads by day’s end, or had you forgotten? You know what they will say of Jense? That he did Elke’s bidding. When I am dead and burned, that will be my legacy. He worked for Elke, until his back curved and his fingers bent like claws. Not one day did she let him rest.”
He griped, but there was no malice in his tone. She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his bearded cheek. For the moment, her passion had subsided. Jense was loyal, and she valued that as much as anything. She left the smithy without another word.
* * *
Elke had gotten an early start. Even after two hours of hiking, the sun had not yet reached its zenith. She climbed the High Pass, a narrow switchback trail ascending the ragged slope that protected Happdal’s western side. From there she descended into the steep valley that housed the south-flowing Upper Begna, then climbed the trail until she reached the top of the high ridge that formed the western part of the narrow, cramped valley sheltering the village of Kaldbrek.
Haakon was jarl of Kaldbrek. For years, Kaldbrek and Happdal had lived as sister hamlets, trading goods, joining sons and daughters in marriage. At Summer Trade, the people of Kaldbrek had brought fine pottery, wool clothing and blankets, fresh mutton, iron ore, sturdy axes and tools, fish from their lake (dried and smoked), and ancient artifacts collected from the Builder ruins to the north. Happdal folk had traded their surplus food (milk and cheese, oats and rye), some of Jense’s fine blades, pure godsteel ingots, silver jewelry, and their own found artifacts from the sprawling ruins to the east of the mountains.
It had been seven years since the last Summer Trade, and Elke regretted every scrap of steel that had made its way from Jense’s forge to the Kaldbrek armory. What cruel irony, if Jense were to be slain by a blade of his own making. With this thought she redoubled her pace up the narrow trail. Soon she would crest the tree line.
Haakon had been a small, mean boy, who had grown into a strong, cruel man. He had slain his own cousin to become jarl. Fear kept him in power. Ending Summer Trade had been only the beginning; Haakon had twice raided Happdal. The first time, Haakon and his men robbed both the armory and the granary, killing a man and wounding two others. Arik had chosen not to retaliate, pointing out that the people of Kaldbrek were friends of Happdal; it would do no good to steal from them. “Then kill Haakon,” she had pleaded. “The people of Kaldbrek will thank you for ridding them of a tyrant.” Arik had refused. There had been a year’s respite, then another raid. This time they came in the dead of night, silently. Haakon and his brutes murdered old Hinrik and raped his three daughters, tearing the youngest so brutally that she later died. The savages desecrated the longhouse, pissing and shitting on the floor, then lit the sacred building on fire. The men of Happdal, led by Arik and Bjorn, finally chased them away.
Hinrik’s surviving daughters took herbs to end the cruelseed growing inside of them, and demanded vengeance. Arik begged Elke’s forgiveness – he had been wrong to turn the other cheek – he was ready to march the next day. This time, she held him back. It was possible that Haakon had grown too strong. What if the raid was a trap, a provocation meant to trigger a hasty, poorly planned response? Kaldbrek would be well-prepared for retaliation after such a brazen attack. Let us be ready next time they come, she said. We will prepare for them, and serve them a feast they will never forget. A feast of steel and blood.
Walking south along the ridge, she could see the rock outcropping that was her destination. A slab of stone had fallen on a boulder, creating a natural shelter. She saw a thin wisp of smoke curling around the stone roof, and cursed. She had told the boy that he was never to light a fire. But Karl was willful.
He was awake, and looked exhausted. That was good; at least he had not slept through his task. Karl gave her a guilty look as he threw dirt on the glowing embers.
“I was cold. Even with the furs you gave me.” His voice always surprised her. It had already dropped, though this would only be his thirteenth summer. He was tall for his age but still lanky. He might never fill out. Hinrik had been lean until the day of his slaughter.
“Your excuses will do you no good if Haakon sees your smoke and comes to slit your throat. He would do so merrily. Or have you forgotten what he did to your father and your sisters?” Karl looked away, and Elke regretted her words. There was no need to be so harsh. The boy had enough rage without her stoking it. Better to let his anger simmer until it was time to act.
She gently touched his shoulder. His father slaughtered, his mother Buried long ago, Karl had only his sisters, and they had little time for him. He was a bit lost, like all the children she took in. She gave them work, and purpose, and love. They drank it up like berry juice.
“What did you see?” she asked.
“Forge fires, and men sparring.”
“The same, then.” She crossed the open cave, pausing at the Builder artifact. The long spyglass was mounted on an elegant wooden frame. Esper’s work. Her sons had found the spyglass in the ruins, lovingly stored in a wooden case, stashed away on the upper floor of an ancient stone house. The stone structure, one of the few that still stood among the sprawling ruins to the east, had protected the case from the worst of the elements. The metal hinges and lock had
long since rusted away, but the wood had survived. They had opened it, blown off the dissolved remains of the cloth lining, and found the spyglass in near-pristine condition. It was a hand-built artifact, made of polished wood, bronze, and glass, using none of the cheap, short-lived materials that the Builders had so often preferred. The glass had warped slightly over the years, but still the thing worked. Hidden behind the rocks, Elke and Karl (and her other boys) could observe the goings-on at Kaldbrek. When Haakon marched, they would know. And hopefully they would be ready.
“If they march, what do you do?” she quizzed the boy.
“Light the signal fire, then run and tell you.”
“Good. Here, eat something.” She opened her pouch and handed him a block of cheese and a large piece of oily dried fish. He grabbed the food, tore off a piece of fish with his teeth, and mumbled a word of thanks. The salty meal would make him thirsty; she handed over her waterskin as well.
“You may go, after you eat. Tell Jesper to meet me here at sundown, then get some rest.” Karl nodded, still chewing. After several more bites he took a drink of water and paused, staring at the spyglass.
“What will we do, when they come?” he asked.
It was good that he said when, not if. Unlike Jense, the boy understood Haakon. The brute of Kaldbrek had taken their lack of retaliation as a sign of weakness. He would come again, to rape, plunder, and kill, as sure as the sun would rise.
“We will give him a taste of the Red Brother’s wrath, and the Black Brother’s justice. He will beg for the Brown Brother’s mercy, but he will not have it.” Karl grinned. She had told him nothing, of course, but the answer seemed to satisfy him.
“Did you bring any bread?” he asked, his mouth already full of cheese.
