‘Jarl Vǫrn?’ a soft voice asked, and Jarl turned to see a woman of about his height standing beside him. A strong scent of jasmine surrounded her and her face was hidden beneath a black veil, only her eyes exposed. The veil hung down from her nose and wound around her neck like a scarf. He suspected it was even a part of the sash that was wrapped around her waist, too.
Her eyes! Jarl couldn’t help but let a look of surprise cross his face as he saw them. One eye, her right, a piercing bright green. The other, a silver grey. Her lashes were thick and black, which made them stand out all the more. Her right hand was covered in tattoos of white thorn tendrils and small black roses, spreading upwards from her fingertips. The skin beneath was burnt and wrinkled, the tattoos almost, but not quite, hiding it.
Jarl stood up, eyeing her up and down, surprised that she had managed to sneak up to their table without him noticing, but still doubtful that a human woman was strong enough to be able to guide them. Especially such a short human woman! Why, if he hadn’t known better, he would have said she was a dwarf! She certainly had the height of one. Unlike the humans, her skin was not a deep ebony black, but an almost ghostly pale. It seemed to shimmer against the veil that concealed her face.
Jarl didn’t know what to think. He had heard of pale humans in the far north of Ammasteinn in the ice lands, but it seemed strange that one of them would travel this far.
Her clothing was a strange mixture of dwarf and human, with what he suspected was elven influences. Her boots, a black leather, were embossed with wave patterns. Her trousers were wide and baggy, except for the parts that reached her boots, where they were tightly bandaged down under them. Her tunic was the same - baggy everywhere except for where the sleeves reached her hands, and where the bottom hem reached the black sash around her waist. Black bandages served a little like gloves, covering her hands to her knuckles.
But the strangest thing was the large wolf-skin cloak she wore over her shoulders, the wolf’s head still attached and frighteningly lifelike, its head resting over hers like a hood and staring down at him. The skin was an unusual pattern of black stripes over a reddish- brown fur.
‘Where are you from?’ Jarl asked finally, sitting down and expecting her to do the same.
‘Does that matter?’ she replied, still standing and watching him as intently as he was watching her.
‘No. But I would like to know more about the person I am trusting my nephew’s life with.’
‘If you know of me, then you know someone who has travelled with me. Their recommendation should be enough,’ the Outlander replied calmly.
‘You’d think it would be,’ Skad replied, glaring at Jarl, annoyed that the dwarf who was a good forty-five years’ younger than he was doubting the Outlander and essentially doubting him.
‘I do not mean any disrespect,’ Jarl said quickly, realising he had offended Skad. ‘But this is my nephew!’
‘Since Skad will be coming too, I doubt you will have to worry,’ the Outlander replied, her voice emotionless. Jarl had the distinct impression she was repressing a strong urge to let anger seep into her voice, and for the briefest of moments her eyes flashed.
‘Yes I am going with you,’ Skad said as Jarl threw him a confused look. Barely able to hide the dismay on his face, he racked his brains to think of a way to dissuade the dwarf from joining them.
‘Are you the Outlander?’ Knud said behind him, interrupting his thoughts. Jarl turned swiftly around and glared at him, but Knud ignored him and darted over to the Outlander and looked up at her with fascination.
‘Are you the Outlander?’ he repeated.
Jarl watched her curiously as she stepped back a little, a strong flash of emotion crossing her eyes for a second before she cleared her throat and turned to Jarl.
‘This is the boy?’ she asked, and Jarl and Halvard nodded.
‘I’m Knud!’
‘Outlander.’
‘That can’t be your real name. Is it?’
‘It’s what you can call me,’ she replied firmly, turning back to Jarl. ‘I’m assuming you want to leave as soon as possible?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then meet me at dawn by the east gate.’
Before Jarl could reply, she turned and left, easily weaving through the crowded room and slipping out of the door. Knud faced his uncle, ready for the severe telling off he was sure was coming. But to his surprise, Jarl wasn’t even looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the door of the inn, a confused look on his face.
‘Don’t pay her any Heit,’ Skad said as he drank the last dregs of ale in his flask. ‘She won’t want them.’
‘What? Why wouldn’t she?’ Jarl asked, now wary. Nobody in their right mind would refuse to be paid in Heit. It was valuable, not just as money but as a pass to trade with any dwarf. To own Heit meant you were trustworthy. It was a currency that was rarely used but priceless to human merchants.
‘Astrid won’t use them. She prefers gold coins or human money,’ Skad said firmly, calling for the barmaid to refill his flask.
‘Her name is Astrid?’ Knud interrupted, looking like he was in half a mind to rush after her and ask her every question under the sun.
‘Yes it is. Astrid Dagmar.’
‘Dagmar? Like the warlock?’ Knud said excitedly.
‘Yes...like the warlock. She’s his daughter,’ Skad replied. ‘But do not call her Astrid under any circumstances! Call her Outlander, or woman, if that is too hard for you to remember,’ Skad said, getting up to go.
‘Why?’ Jarl and Knud asked simultaneously.
‘Because I said so!’ Skad snapped, glaring at them.
As soon as Skad was out of earshot, Jarl swore under his breath. Halvard shook his head.
‘I knew this journey wasn’t going to be easy, but now I know it will be terrible,’ Halvard grumbled. Knud looked at him.
‘Why will it be terrible?’ he asked.
‘Knud, go away!’ Jarl snapped, and he quickly realised his uncle was not in the mood to be argued with. He scuttled off to the far side of the room.
Halvard ordered three new flasks of ale, paying the barmaid extra to bring them as quickly as possible.
‘Knud is not drinking that!’ Jarl said, as Halvard pushed two of the flasks towards him.
‘They are both for you,’ Halvard clarified, and Jarl nodded in thanks. He lifted one of them to his mouth and took a large gulp before venting his frustration.
‘There has to be a way for him to not come.’
‘It would be safer if he did, though.’
‘I think I’d rather face goblins that have to deal with that miserable git.’
‘You never did say why you hated him so much.’
‘He’s just miserable. An old, miserable man.’
Halvard took several large sips of his ale and Jarl growled to himself before doing the same.
‘I hope I won’t regret this,’ he said , slamming his ale firmly down on the table and looking up at Halvard as if expecting him to say something.
‘Jarl, you’ve thought this through a hundred times. It’s too late to turn back now!’
‘I should just leave Bjargtre and go to live in the human lands with Knud. Leave all the politics and scheming behind.’
Halvard couldn’t help bursting into laugher at such a ridiculous suggestion. ‘You would go mad! You’d miss Bjargtre!’
‘I’d miss Vǫrn hall and Holmvé, but Bjargtre? No, I think I’d be happy without it.’
‘You’re mad!’ Halvard snapped back, unsettled by Jarl’s confession. ‘Knud wouldn’t like it.’
‘He’d love it!’ Jarl laughed. ‘So many new people and places to see!’
‘Can you stop talking about it?’ Halvard said, practically shouting. ‘It’s not normal to want to leave! Dwarves should live with dwarves!’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, I’m not Knute. I don’t know what to say to you, but you’re not wrong about Ulf.’
‘You’re just saying that so I’ll shut up.�
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‘Maybe!’ Halvard grinned, the motion looking slightly alien on his face. ‘But you know you’re not wrong. So finish your drink and get some sleep. We’re going to have to get up early tomorrow.’
‘I know...more nights on the road,’ Jarl groaned, moving onto his second flask of ale. The taste was quite disgusting but the motion of drinking calmed him. ‘I’m going to have no back left by the end of this.’
‘You’ll be lucky to be alive at the end of this,’ Halvard muttered.
‘Always the optimist,’ Jarl retaliated, resting his head against his hand and trying not to dwell on the fears circling his head like crows.
* * *
The air was cold, nipping at any exposed skin. Winter had just passed but the weather was unpredictable as was often the case in early Spring. Only yesterday, the sun had been shining brightly, not so much as a single cloud in the sky. But by the looks of the sky today, snow looked imminent, the temperature having dropped at an alarming rate. There was frost on the windows of the inn, a stark contrast to the warm yellow glow emanating from within.
Knud rubbed his hands together and already wished he had slept when Jarl had told him to, feeling so much colder than he should have from tiredness.
‘Worn-out?’ Jarl asked, and Knud bowed his head and nodded. ‘Well...you should have gone to bed when I told you to,’ he went on, his voice softening when he saw the apologetic look on Knud’s face. ‘Don’t worry. You can sleep on the pony.’
‘We’re taking ponies?’ Knud said, surprised.
‘Yes. Just to the Salt Monasteries, but after that we travel on foot,’ Halvard replied from behind him.
‘Why are we walking after the Salt Monasteries? Won’t that be slower?’
‘We need to be able to hide easily; the ponies are too large. And any Dip would catch their scent instantly.’
‘Wouldn’t they smell you first?’ Knud asked Halvard, not realising at first how his question had sounded. He quickly apologised when Halvard glared at him, and Jarl laughed.
‘Who’s the fifth pony for?’ Skad asked, strolling out from the inn. He rubbed his hands together as the cold hit him and pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders.
‘It’s for Astrid,’ Knud replied cheerfully. Skad flashed him a terrifying glare, and Knud recoiled.
‘DO NOT CALL HER THAT!’ Skad hissed. ‘In fact, it’s better if you don’t talk to her at all. Take the pony back. She won’t ride it,’ he growled, pulling out rock salt from one of his pockets and popping a clump of it in his mouth.
‘What’s she going to do? Run alongside us?’ Halvard jested.
‘Yes,’ Skad snapped back. ‘Knud, find out if you can sell the pony back to the innkeeper. We won’t need it.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Jarl said quickly, grabbing the reins from Knud and leading the pony gently back around the inn until he reached the stables.
The stable boy was fast asleep by the gate, a thick woolen cloak pulled around him, his breath turning to mist from the cold. Gently waking him, Jarl asked if he could sell him back the pony. The stable boy agreed and paid him back the money before opening the gate and leading it back to its stall, too tired to haggle as he would normally have done. He was sure that the innkeeper would make him pay for his being so quick to agree, but he didn’t care. Right now all he wanted was to sleep, and for the infernal headache the previous night’s ales had given him to disappear.
Turning to leave, Jarl spotted Astrid on the opposite side of the street, emerging from an inksmith’s shop. A tattoo-covered human walked out with her and smiled at her as she covered her arm with a bandage.
Jarl, for a brief moment, caught a glimpse of the extensive black and white rose tattoos - starting at her fingertips and extending all the way up around her arm and, he suspected, all the way to her shoulder. But that wasn’t what shocked him. Tattoos were commonplace for warriors in the dwarf culture, in fact it was expected for a dwarf to get a commemorative tattoo after important life events or great victories. No; what shocked him were the scars.
Beneath and above every tattoo were hundreds of scars, slices and tears in her skin. Some of them recent, some of them, he guessed, at least thirty years old. He could see the distinctive burn-like marks of Dip wolf claw on her skin, ugly scars brought about by their poisonous talons.
Standing on her toes, Astrid hugged the human inksmith and then readjusted the veil over her face.
‘When you come back, I’ll finish off the thorns for you,’ he said, smiling at her.
‘Hopefully!’ Astrid replied, rolling down her sleeve. She tightened the cuff and pulled on her gloves, the tips having been cut off so her fingertips were exposed. ‘See you in a few months, Aaren.’
‘Be safe,’ Aaren said, a worried look on his face, and Astrid laughed, waving him away.
Seeing her turn to walk towards the inn, Jarl quickly turned away, his hood covering his face, and waited for her to pass before making his way to where the others were waiting.
Skad Löfgren
37 years ago...
Astrid stood in the doorway and swept the dirt out onto the porch. The birds, realising how much of the pile was composed of crumbs and tidbits of food, swooped down and started to peck at the pile as it settled on the ground. Astrid turned back to the house, determined to attempt one last sweep before heading back to bed.
It had been almost two months since Dag had left, and each night she had slept with Arnbjörg’s hammer axe and Sylbil’s bow held tightly to her chest.
Ragi had arrived each morning and had left after dark, happy for Astrid to do whatever it was she wanted. She’d enjoyed the novelty of it, choosing each day’s activities. Ragi had even taken her out to hunt. Her quick elven reflexes were much faster than his, and after a while, Ragi had not even bothered to bring his own bow and arrows, but instead had let Astrid take the lead. He had simply tagged along for company. She barely ever missed, nearly every shot hitting the target right between the eyes, killing it instantly and painlessly.
Her Echaim, or rather her Beziickt, had improved greatly. She had even started to dream in the new language, something that curiously made her nightmares stay away. The haunting of her parents’ deaths were strongly associated with Mál and Axeti, but Beziickt was a language that had no painful memories attached to it, and her dreams were no more frightening than arguing with Ragi over pronunciations. At first she had found the language coarse and ugly, but she was starting to appreciate its unique beauty; its strong, decisive sound.
Astrid propped the broom against the wall and sat cross-legged on the porch. The early morning birds chirped cheerfully in the branches, the weak wind blowing through the trees not yet strong enough to shift the light morning fog. The sun was little more than a hazy, yellow orb in the sky, but it was enough for Astrid to feel its presence.
She felt content. Happy was too strong a word, she doubted she would ever be blissfully happy again like she had been in the Aldwood, but she didn’t feel so afraid. Life here in the Red Mountains had given her a small measure of peace, and she was hugely grateful for it.
Glancing down at the birds, she noticed one of them had a clubbed foot, two of its toes broken and curled in on each other, the skin an off-grey colour. It hobbled along, trying to get to the crumbs on the floor, but the other birds pushed it away and created a wall between it and the food.
Holding out her hand, Astrid fixed her eyes on the bird, making sure to keep her focus only on its leg. The bird turned and looked up at her as if hypnotised, then slowly hopped towards her and leapt up into her outstretched hand.
Astrid’s eyes flickered as she focused her energy into the palm of her hand. Within moments, the bird’s toes slowly curled out and the skin returned to a healthy pink. It sat for a while and then leapt off her hand and barged its way through the flock, screeching at the other birds loudly. Its newly healed foot stood firmly over the crumbs and the other birds stepped back, allowing it to eat. Astrid smiled at her work.
She thought of her parents, and wondered how proud of her they would have been at having learned so much since they had gone. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure up their faces in her mind.
In the Aldwood, every day had seemed to blur into the next; there were no months or days. Only seasons. But each Autumn her parents would pick an ideal day for her to have a birthday and wake her up early in the morning with an abundance of hand- made gifts.
Like a cold shower of water being thrown over her, Astrid realised again, to her horror, that their faces were blurred in her memory; the faces she knew better than her own smudged in her mind’s eye. The more she tried to trace over their features, the more distorted they became. Only the outline of their faces remained defined.
Astrid stumbled to her feet and ran indoors. She grabbed one of the cold, burnt embers in the fireplace and raced up the stairs to her room, fell to her knees and began scrawling on the floor in a panic. Black charcoal covered her hands and flew across the floor, but she didn’t care; her only focus was on remembering. She started first with her mother’s face before moving on to her father’s, the crude drawings only making her memory of them more unclear. Astrid tried again and again to re-draw them, and the floor was soon covered in dozens of failed attempts, not even a single one being close to how she knew their faces to look. She wore the stick of charcoal down to a stub before finally tossing it away.
She pulled her hands and knees to her chest, closed her eyes and tried with all her might to remember them, every single memory that she cherished replaying in her mind in an attempt to grasp a clear image.
She recalled helping Sylbil repair the thatched roof in the upper rooms. The feel of the straw, and how Sylbil’s hands had moved when she was tying together thatching was clear to her, but again, when she tried to look up at her mother’s face, it was a blank; a painting with the face smudged. Even their voices were a strange muddle of sounds.
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