by Mel. White
Morning dawned bright and sunny and suspiciously silent. Trees seemed to be caught with their boughs swaying but they didn't creak or bend. Brabanoc sat on the edge of his little bed and stared harder through the window. A bird hung in mid-air, frozen in flight. He used a small splash of water from one of the pitchers to wipe his face and then went downstairs carrying the toy flute and tried laying the iron fireplace tongs everyone in the tap room. One thing had changed -- the soup in the pot had mold floating on top of it and the bread was now hard and dried. He didn't bother checking the larder since he could smell the stench of rotting fish. Behind the bar was a small cask of mead. He poured a flagon and stared at the fireplace where time-frozen flames hung like sheets of silk in the still are.
"Hello there, human. We see you're awake." The voice of the Black Hound was silky; teasing. "Where's that amazing harp of yours? Master wants to hear you sing. He's got a lovely feast and some very nice cider for you." A shadow moved across the doorframe and he could hear the clink of a bottle. "Come see. Just peek out of the door."
Smells wafted through the inn; something warm and yeasty like good bread, something rich and tasty -- a meat dish. He started to drool. He could hear voices outside; women laughing softly and the clink of plate and knife. He sidled to a window and saw a table set outside the inn where three women and a man sat at breakfast, talking in soft voices. He leaned forward, tantalized by the scent of sausage, and then drew back.
"No," he said. "I won't go outside and I won't invite any inside, either."
"Brabanoc," one of the women called.
He yanked the little fife from his pocket and began playing the old jig, "Grunnild's March." Someone said something and he huffed a bit louder and walked toward the back where the smell of rotting fish outweighed the scent of the breakfast and there were was a stone wall that he could stare at. The music sounded lifeless to his own ears but he played on until his cheeks began to hurt.
There was a sudden growl from outside. He wheeled and glanced toward the door and heard a sharp whistle. Catbeast yowled and then gave an unearthly shriek. Something crackled and then sound returned to the world in a flood of cacophony. The wind blew, a rooster crowed, and his sister yawned and stretched as everyone in the room began to move and talk.
A tall man dressed like a woodcutter stepped through the door carrying a small load of firewood. The huge double axe across his back that looked more like a war axe than a woodcutter's chopper and his clothing seemed rather old fashioned. He smiled at Brabanoc's sister as he set the firewood down by the hearth and then turned.
Brabanoc opened his mouth to ask a question, but a glance from the man shut him up. "Some of the new ones, they take liberties," he said enigmatically. Then he walked to the door and left.
We all looked at Brabanoc.
“…and then?” I prompted.
"I got a horse and rode straight here.”
“You didn’t run after him and try to talk to him?”
“There was something about him that said I shouldn’t bother him.”
We looked at each other. “Something about him? What do you mean?” Shensi prodded.
“Just the way he held himself. Like one of those legates from the cities. Stiff, powerful. He dressed like a servant but walked like a god.”
“Right. Gods in disguise. Happens everywhere.” Aldan tore a piece of bread from the loaf in the basket.
"Needs work," Shensi added. "The end's all wrong. Too abrupt."
"Yeah. The god guy should have horns like a woodland god or have some sort of talisman," Aldenn added. "Having him walk in and set down firewood and vanish is just bad drama. He should flap off on wings of the Sidhe or something."
"All he had was his axe. It had some marks roughly carved on it and painted. Looked really ugly. It wasn’t god symbols – I’m a bard. I know all those," Baranov snapped as he started carving rough letters on the crust of the bread with the point of his knife. “See? Just this. TH-J-A-L-F-I. Not even a real word.”
A sudden chill went over me and I glanced at the other two.
Aldan broke the quick silence with a laugh and told him to make a song out of it. Baranov sneered and downed the last of his ale and kicked the bench as he got up.
“You and your noise can go to the Eldritch Lands,” he growled as he staggered off.
"The most important point of the whole tale – if any of it is true – and he acted like he didn’t recognize the name," Aldan said quietly.
"He doesn't," Shendi said quietly. "That’s why he’ll always be nothing more than a bardlet. He doesn’t know the old language or the deeper lore.”
Aldan sighed and ran a finger over the runes. “Aye. Most of the masters got tired of his puffery and bragging after a few months. Only Lankwile could put up with him, and that probably because they’re both cut of the same cloth.”
“But if he’s telling the truth, then we have one of Thor’s servants walking about the Barrow Lands for some purpose.”
Aldan quickly broke the bread, shattering the letters and handing each of us a fragment. "Yes. The one that broke the leg of Thor’s chariot goat."
I grinned, "Maybe he had a taste for marrow bones again and he's come around here, looking for legs."
“The legends say Thjalfi survives the death of the gods.” Aldan frowned as he chewed on his loaf. “I think we’d know if the gods were dead.”
“Perhaps,” Shendi said quietly, “he’s looking for a place to wait when the Final Battle starts.
