Epilogue
“It is done, Konungyr.”
Vysing’r golden hair and long beard danced freely in the wind, released from the braids he always tied before battle. Half his head was shaved, the other half filled with a tattoo of a wolf, now stained by dried blood splatter, as if it had just found a kill. And a kill Vysing’r had found; large enough to feast the High Table, perhaps.
“Your throat, Eingen,” he replied, his own voice hoarser than usual.
“It will pass, lord,” the warrior said, not without having to contain a cough. “Command me.”
“Did they survive?” the king asked simply.
“The Fimblood was wounded. There’s some sort of poison in his veins, but the Women say he’ll make it.”
“Good,” the king spoke sternly. “Keep him alive, if you can. He led us here, he boarded the ship, he made amends. What of the other?”
“Svhen…” the warrior paused, stroking his dark brown beard uneasily. “He was blooded by the Warg in the mountains, Konungyr, and his blood awoke.” Without realizing it even, Eingen kissed his fist to ward off evil. “Ooki said it happened when he was stabbed but his words are still weak, his mind confused. In any case, Svhen came out… changed.” Vysing’r raised an eyebrow, half his face surprised, the other half frowned.
“Feral?” he asked after a moment but Eingen shook his head. “A Lord,” the warrior replied simply and paused, thinking a little before he went on. “Still, he brought the witch’s head, instead of her breathing. He had… chewed through her neck.”
“Helvete,” the Konungyr cursed between his teeth. “Where is the Vangyr now?” he asked, his mind racing.
“It… He, I guess, threw the head to the camp then left for the forest. Some tried to pierce it, an arrow did, I saw, but I called for our warriors to let him go. I thought you-”
“You did well,” Vysing’r nodded reassuringly. “Have we heard from Skölja?”
“Nothing new, lord,” the trusted warrior said. “Last we heard from her, she had already disrupted three convoys, using southerner ships and leaving no survivors. Gudmund’s as good as stranded in the south.” Vysing’r nodded, satisfied.
“I am sorry about the creature’s death, Konungyr,” Eingen said. “I know that bringing it alive to Aarheim would have served you well in your plans. I should have gone with them, make sure.”
“It is a shame about the alf-witch, ‘tis true,” the Konungyr replied. “With Svhen’s testimony that the shamans were about to supplant me and the alf-witch telling them about their cooperation with the Volvas, I would have enough to sway all and keep mystics away from the seats of Kings, I think. Yes, it is a shame. But it is his shame for failing me. Instead of her, I have the service of a Vangyr Lord. A fair trade, I think.”
He paused, the fumes from below finally reaching him as the winds shifted. Bringing his scarf over his mouth and nose, he coughed and cursed, then shouted annoyed.
“Witches, shamans and idiots,” he said. “That is what the High Table is filled with. Gone are the proud warriors of old, the High Kings of legend. Yes, one of them still sits at the table’s head. But it is not the same man. Like the rest of his blessed kind, the touch of gods has claimed him; only where others were eaten by savagery and wildness, he was consumed by sloth and the comfort of a safe nest. And now, sniffing his weakness, the Old Lion woke up and eyes the seat for his bony ass, while the seductresses put their puppets in neat order around the table. But as they clash over expensive wines around the High Table, this is what they’d bring to Mannheim for a seat stolen from their enemies.”
He waved around, as he coughed again and Eingen with him, the winds now truly shifted and bringing the fumes to them. Like a beached whale long dead, the giant ship’s carcass was broken, pieces of chitin keel spread around the field of Hlorcarg. It had taken all he had to bring the fake-beast down – and still would not have been enough without the work of the two who had boarded the ship alone. But, in the end, down it had been brought, its bile spread around the land, as fires of yellow and green and blue and colors yet unnamed danced around the wreckage, burning through snow and ice and wood alike.
“To Hel with all of them!” Vysing’r shouted between coughs. “To Hel with their spells and visions, to Hel with their plots. Steel and might. That is what Mannheim is. See here! Two men, with bonds forged in battle and the wilderness, it took. Two warriors, two warriors of Mannheim. They two brought me victory today and those two to the High Table I’ll bring; Steel and might to win the soul of Mannheim.”
View on the Living World!
Prelude
They would remember Diminutive Returns. Not, perhaps, with fondness, but with appreciation. His sacrifice had made it possible to be where they were.
There would, perhaps, be a price to pay in the future. Such was the way of Merchant Princes: there was always a price. Negative Dearth had come to realize it after they had left the accord of their peers. Contracts had been rendered void, clients had been stolen, old contacts suddenly became reluctant to deal with them. Their old partners had left Negative Dearth alone, grounded and, more importantly, desperately void of resources. Diminutive Returns had changed all that.
For a moment, just for a moment, Negative Dearth pondered on his fate or, to be precise, his final moments, most likely. What did the lifeless do to the poor bastard? Torture seemed… useless to existences such as them. In fact, Negative Dearth pondered, would they even realize the limits a torturer must adhere to to be effective? Torture, in their opinion, required, perhaps ironically, empathy. An understanding of another’s limits, the ability to sense that absolute perfect point where the pain was enough but not too much to cause damage.
They shook their heads. It did not matter. What mattered was that they were here, and the resources Diminutive Returns’ sacrifice had secured for them had made it possible. It was far from ideal, for it was a gamble and gambling was not good business unless one could tip the scales of chance. Ironic, Negative Dearth thought, that it was exactly their dislike of gambles that had brought them here in the first place. But here they were. Rolling dice, admittedly out of desperation, but finding it exhilarating, nonetheless. They were about to do business and that was all that mattered. An entire continent of new and untouched clients, all for them, and with a grand prize to win in the end.
They had done their research of course. While to their knowledge no one had traded with these humans, not for centuries, there was no corner of the world where the Exiles did not have eyes or ears. In any case, what was of importance was that – surprise, surprise – these humans were divided, perhaps even on the precipice of war with each other. Two groups vying for power and influence over the future of their people – no better time for a Merchant Prince to do business. There were, Negative Dearth understood, spiritual implications to this conflict and those should be understood before any truly important deals were struck. However, for now, any contact would do. All that remained was to make a choice about who to approach, before fading into the background of this conflict.
Inhaling with gusto the fresh air, Negative Dearth almost laughed at the thought of new business – and where it not for the cold, they might have had. As it stood, they just tightened their fur and satin garment around them and smiled wistfully, their mind rushing to Diminutive Returns once more. Without the resources he had secured, Negative Dearth would have been grounded. As it stood, they were gliding through the air on their – once again operational – airship. And their navigator assured them that Mannheim, along with Yggdrasil, was only hours away.
Choices
- Negative Dearth will approach a Shaman sympathizer.
- Negative Dearth will approach a Volva sympathizer.
Chapter 1
There is a requiem that is heard after a battle is over and the cries of victors die out. A symphony of moans and dying breaths, the sound of bodies being dragged on snow and final blows being delivered. Cymbals ring mournfully, as valuables are taken from the unclaimed dead, which often includes eyes and cheeks, pecked by black and white crows alike – descendants of the fabled birds of Odin One-Eyed. Unless watches are assigned to fend them off, wolves soon follow, but their time is short to feast upon the fallen flesh. For every such song, far from the shores, ends in the same, chilling note: the howl of the wargs, the clarion call to all that the feast is over for the kings of the wilds claim the dead. A hollow claim, for the Jormi would follow, burrowing through the snow unseen, before their slithering bodies emerged to swallow entire bodies as they passed.
This is the timeframe within which the Nords may gather their dead to be honored: the descent of the monsters – for they will come and they will not discern between the living and the dead. And so, more often than not, unless one’s loved ones ensure one’s dead body is retrieved, the battlefield is offered to the flame, a grand pyre for friends and foes alike.
No pyre was lit after the battle of Askhlad’s Crag and the wolves had already begun their feast, while the caws of crows mocked the dead. Time was running out for the dead to be honored but Konungyr Vysing’r seemed to care little.
“I see you, Svhen of Simming and in seeing you I remember the tale of Pine and Wolf – when Sneghyr of the Pine swore loyalty to Ing’r of the Wolf, after Ing’r saved him from the clutches of the Witch Sedhrag, losing his hand to her wargs in the process. Featly Sneghyr swore that day, a debt not to be repaid until nine times nine his sons and their sons have offered a hand to Ing’r’s sons and their sons. And I see you, Ooki of the Crag and I remember. I remember the day your grandfather, Pokki of the Fim, bent the knee before my father. Far had he traveled in search of a new home, his people far from their dark lakes across the sea. Yet there he was, in my home, before the hearth that warmed my youth and warms me still. He swore allegiance and, in turn, my father offered the Crag for your people. Have you forgotten, I wonder?”
Knelt and bound, the two men kept their gazes to the snow and dared not speak.
“You must have,” Vysing’r snapped after a while, his horse snorting hot breath. “For there is no other explanation for this.”
“I remember, Konungyr,” Svhen said.
“I remember,” Ooki nodded as well.
“Then you deliberately, knowingly, willingly, ignored my order?”
“It was… a private matter, Konungyr,” Svhen said.
“A private matter,” Vysing’r nodded, repeating the words calmly. “I see. So, I imagine this had nothing to do with the Volva Pholga that shares your bed, Svhen? And the blind shaman Kuurken that has whispered in your house’s ear as long as I remember, Ooki.”
There was a pause before either answered.
“It was a private matter, Konungyr,” Svhen said again.
“A feud between families and our families alone saw their sons and daughters die,” added Ooki.
“Your sons and daughters alone?”
“Aye, Konungyr,” Ooki nodded.
A howl was heard in the distance and the Konungyr’s chosen turned their heads north, towards the mountain slope, as the horses neighed and stepped uneasy. All but the Konungyr and his captives, kneeling before his mount, as it stomped the ground nervously, making them flinch. Vysing’r waited for everyone to settle, letting the tension of urgency build before he spoke again.
“Your sons and daughters,” he said calmly, “belong to me. They are my swordarms. Not yours. You robbed your king this day, Jarls. All for the games of mystics and witches.”
A howl echoed again, closer.
“Konungyr…” Svhen said, “It is no game any longer. The whole of Mannheim is boiling and…”
“As if Mannheim nurtured not enough dangers for us all.”
“They say the High King decreed, Vysing’r!” Ooki said. “They say he said that the soul of Mannheim rests in the hands of either Volva’s or Shamans. He allowed both in his court and challenged each of them to present their banners, before he decides the future of the Nords.”
“They also say that he said the blood, bones and flesh of Mannheim belong to him, Ooki,” he replied coldly. “Or did your mystics not mention this?”
He was, of course, lying. He had no idea what the High King had decreed and neither did anyone else. In all likelihood, he had decreed nothing – he was not known for his active involvement. The best he had done, Vysing’r thought, was to tell them both to shove it and settle this quickly. But if the shamans and volva were going to spread lies to leash their followers, he was not above it. The witches had been content to work in whispers and secrets but with the return of the Old Lion the shamans had begun to push back. Battlefields such as this were become more and more common all over Mannheim. But he would not allow for this in his lands.
“I could just kill you here and now,” he shared his thoughts out loud. “I won’t allow such stupidity to soil my blood any more than I will allow the blood of my subjects to do so. The blood of traitors and dissidents, on the other hand, I hear, makes for good soil.”
None seemed surprised by the suggestion. Neither stirred or looked up to plead either. At least they were brave.
“I could also pick sides, could I not? If war is to come in Mannheim, only the cravens and the meek will stay out of it. Who should I kill to declare my allegiance to the cause of the other, I wonder?”
This rattled them – both looked up but paused seeing his grey eyes staring at them coldly. Another howl, this time closer than ever, was heard and one of the Chosen whispered something to his king. He nodded.
“One warg, they tell me. Alone. I could…” He paused, a cold, unfeeling smile spreading across his face. “Yes, perhaps this is what I will do. Give them a short blade each,” he said over his shoulders and a chosen complied, throwing a short blade before each of the two jarls.
“I will just… leave you here. With the one warg coming. So many ways this could go, don’t you think? You can help each other, cut each other’s bonds then fight the beast. If there is any honor left within either of you, you won’t stab each other in the back if you survive. Or you can try your individual lucks and skill. If either survives, surely, they are favored. Farewell.”
And that the last thing he said to them before he turned his horse around, his chosen surrounding him as he rode away.
Choice
- The two cooperate. Both return.
- Svhen returns.
- Ooki returns.
- Neither returns.
Chapter 2
The pained cry echoed around the forest, as Svhen slid from Ooki’s hold and fell clumsily against the cave wall. Birds fluttered away and the pattering feet of critters followed, before a howl was raised in reply, making both men look towards the way it came from.
“Keep your mouth shut you fool,” Ooki muttered angrily, knowing the impossibility of the task he had suggested all too well, as he ripped off his shirt and reached for the fallen comrade. His shirtless body revealed scars enough to serve as proof of that, the numerous tattoos of his youth marred by over half a dozen of them. Biting his shirt his started turning it to strips of cloth, before he noticed his comrade had trouble moving at all.
“The warg won’t follow,” Svhen grunted through gritted teeth as he tried to move up and take off his armo. “That’s mere wolves. A fire will keep them at bay.”
“Anything else you’d like to teach a man of near twice your years, Jarl Svhen?” The wounded man chuckled, as Ooki helped him sit up.
“Five years my elder, more like,” he groaned, then tried to muffle a yell, for Ooki was taking off his armor for him, trying to reach the wound. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you cut my ropes?” Ooki did not answer at first. Shirtless, he was undressing the wounded man, cursing Svhen’s long, unbridled hair that had sank in the wound, wetted by fresh blood.
“You cut mine first,” he said in the end, then paused, the wound finally revealed. His face darkened.
“That bad, eh?” Svhen said bitterly, trying to look down to his ribs but unable to move. “Can we burn it?”
“It’s deep,” Ooki said as he resumed shredding his own shirt, wrapping Svhen’s abdomen as best he could. “The blood is dark.”
Svhen nodded knowingly but said nothing.
“You’ll have to carry me to Vysing’r,” he said in the end. “Show him we fought together in the end.” Tightening the wrappings, Ooki said nothing. His bald head, covered with more tattoos than the rest of his body combined, was sweating profusely now even as his skin was shivering by the cold. He just sat there, his eyes looking at his former opponent thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he produced a small flask from his belt, pulled the cork and pressed it against Svhen’s lips.
“Take a sip,” he said. “No more.”
Svhen, pale and with eyes half closed, grinded his teeth. “Save it for yourself, you fool,” he said. “I am done for.”
“Drink!” Ooki urged. “A sip only!”
It was fresh at first, then cold but with a caustic feel rather than fresh; so much so that he almost spat it out but Ooki kept pressing it against his lips.
“No, take the sip down!”
He complied, grimacing with disgust, as he felt the liquid drip down his throat, burning cold as it went. When it reached his belly, it felt like it burst in flames inside him and his blood began to race, forcing his muscles to tense so much that he almost spasmed. Then, just as suddenly, his whole body relaxed uncontrollably, before darkness came and Svhen slipped into a forced sleep.
The fire was burning when he came back, a small pot resting on woods over it. Ooki, still half-naked and now half asleep, was nodding off sitting next to it. Quietly, he tried to sit up a little more and his muscles complied, but felt sluggish and slow. He reached for his wound and saw that the blood had mostly dried. The pain, he realized, was still there, but strong but somehow distant. Startled in his rest by the move, Ooki stirred and looked around alarmed, before he turned to look at him. Without saying a word, he nodded and turned to stir the woods in the fire. Confused, tired, Svhen nodded back and joined him in silence.
“Was he right?” he said in the end. “The Konungyr? Were we played by our mystics?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ooki answered. “We are here now.”
“We lost people. Blood. It does matter.”
Ooki did not answer and silence fell between them once more for a while.
“What was that thing you gave me?” Svhen asked eventually. “I’d like some more,” he added, his tongue wetting his lips, even as the memory of its taste seemed horrible.
“Trust me, you do not want more,” Ooki answered.
“Was it magic from your seer?” Svhen insisted and went on, once Ooki shook his head. “I should be dead. Or dying, at least. Neither is true, I think.” Again, Ooki remained quiet as he picked up the pot and brought it to him.
“I melted snow,” he said. “Drink.”
“I’d rather have some more of that medicine of yours,” Svhen replied. “What kind of magic is it?”
“Your craving for it will pass in a few hours,” Ooki replied. “Or so I was told. The water will help. Drink,” he urged the wounded man again.
“My stomach was pierced,” Svhen said. “I should be dead.” He meekly reached for the flask on Ooki’s belt but the tattooed man was faster.
“Fool!” he snapped and went back to the fire but left the water near Svhen.
“What is it?”
Choice
- Ooki told Svhen about the Merchant Prince.
- Ooki told Svhen that his volva, Pholga, made the potion.
- Change the subject and answer Svhen’s previous question, about the reason their families fought.
Chapter 3
“What about you?” Ooki said, ignoring the question. “Do you think we were goaded into this?”
“Aye,” Svhen nodded, with eyes half-closed and head leaned back weakly. It took effort for Ooki to hear, as the wind was picking up outside and the mouth of the cave was howling, its mournful call growing ever louder. But Svhen went on, voice meek and breath unstable still. “That old goat sure has his… has his tricks. It all sounded so… so certain, when he spoke. So urgent, you understand? Yet… Ask me now… and I don’t think I could even tell you what ‘it’ was, with any certainty.”
Ooki did not answer at first. He was throwing another stick to the fire, his eyes so grim that even the flames seem to darken as they danced in them. Suddenly, they darted towards the entrance, as a crow cawed from outside before landing in the cave. Tilting its head cautiously at the sight of the two men, it ventured no further than it had to.
“They say it’s a war,” Ooki said in the end as he resumed his work, his own voice not without uncertainty. “A war for the soul of the Nords, a war for Mannheim’s destiny.”
“And why would you care, you Fim bastard? Your lot aren’t even from Man-…” Ooki’s eyes flared up as he turned but he was given pause by Svhen’s weak smile and his soft chuckle. His own lips smirked after a moment’s pause and his eyes mellowed once more, as his mind raced to past battles side by side with the man he had waged war against the day before.
“What do you know?” he shrugged in the end. “Almost dying improved your sense of humor.”
“Seriously, though, Ooki,” Svhen muttered now. “What does it mean? The fate of Mannheim, the soul of the Nords… Why would us killing each other decide this?” Ooki nodded but did not offer an answer and Svhen went on. “I think it’s because that has always been our way. The strong lead, the weak follow or die. Mannheim knows no other way. At least… At least that’s what the old goat said – and he made so much sense when he was saying it.” Another silence fell between them before he spoke again.
“Do you think it is true, what they said?” the wounded man asked. “That the Old Lion and a witch met with the High King? That that was what started it all?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. What difference does it make?”
“Then we’d be caught in things greater than us, pawns in the games of our betters, and our folly would be theirs, not ours,” Svhen answered calmly. “When the Norns spin, mortals are but the wool, the sages say.”
“Sages say a lot of different things, Svhen. Look where that got us. We’ll die of hunger or exposure before we reach Svat’nholm. Faster if we do not rest; but dare we rest?”
“I…” muttered Svhen, “I am not sure how much of a choice I have… I’ll tell you what I am sure of, though. That snow storm will only build stronger for the next hours and you need proper rest yourself. Sleep. The crow will keep guard. When the… When the Norns spin, we are but wool,” Svhen’s voice faded as sleep caught him once more.
Grim, hungry and in a foul mood, the Fim starred at the entrance of the cave.
Choice
- Get some rest, trusting in the storm keeping predators in their lairs.
- Try to hunt for something better than root-stew.
- Wait for the storm to calm but stay awake.
Chapter 4
The crow did keep guard. It stayed perched near the entrance, until both men snored their tiredness away from their bodies. Feeling braver as the two men did not move, it hopped slowly loser, curious but also eager for some warmth. The fire screamed danger in its mind but it longed for heat. So, it came closer, close enough to be out of the raging snow’s path, but not too close to feel anything but a soft breath of warmth from the fire, and once more perched on a rock, one eye watching the entrance, the other the two men and the burning fire.
The shot that would kill it, therefore, would be anything but easy – through a storm, the arrow had to fly, even if only for some paces, before it found its way on the bird’s torso, crushing lungs before the crow had a chance to move, much less caw. Some would call the shot impossible – a true assessment for anyone save, perhaps, for a Chosen.
Lahgelin, Chosen of Vysing’r, winced annoyed. She wouldn’t fire, of course. She wanted to see if she could make the shot but even for her it wouldn’t be easy in this weather. And even if she made it, the arrow would wake up the men. She had hoped the crow would follow in sleep, but the stupid bird refused to make things easy.
She sighed and buried herself deeper in her cloak, as the snow and wind raged around her. That fire sure looked inviting, she thought. Oh, how easy it would have been to just shoot them where they slept! But the Konungyr had been clear: use their weapons. Make it look like they killed each other. She did not understand why. He was the one that had left them to kill each other or cooperate, after all. But hers was not to know the whys. Hers was to be the execution of her Konungyr’s will. If that meant she had to stay buried inside a bush through snow and wind to wait for the right moment to strike, she would do exactly that. So, she had to wait for the bird to leave before they woke or for the men to leave their shelter when the storm would fade.
She never heard or saw what killed her. In fact, the last thing she saw was the crow. She thought it was looking back at her, as she yet again calculated a shot in her mind to stay awake, and she felt a shiver crawling down her spine which had not come from the cold. And then, Lahgelin, Chosen of Vysing’r, was no more. Her body would be dragged into the forest through the storm, a grim offering for the snow to swallow or the beasts to claim.
By the time grey dawn came and the storm subsided, there was no sign left of Lahgelin and the two men would never know of her purpose or her fate.
Choice
- Svhen wakes up first.
- Ooki wakes up first.
Chapter 5
Svhen woke up rejuvenated. And hungry. The pain from his wound was gone and, in its stead, a healthy appetite had awoken. He stretched, his cauterized wound little more than an inconvenience – which felt bizarre – and yawned loudly. On the other side of the fading embers of their fire, Ooki barely stirred, exhaustion having claimed him utterly. With a smile, Svhen looked outside. Much like the fire, the storm was dying out but it was still going – a shadow of its former, destructive self, the wind howl mournfully in light gusts, while the rolling thunder came sporadically and from afar. Only the snow kept coming, dancing almost cheerfully in the lighter wind, the angry scourge that had whipped their faces on their way to the cave long gone. Half remembering something from before he collapsed, he looked around and chuckled, as the crow had gone as well.
“So much for your trusted guard, Fimman,” he whispered as he was getting up. Once more he stretched, his leg muscles complaining from the strain of the previous day, then, grabbing his blade, he walked to the cave’s mouth and took a deep breath. For a moment, something stirred and he thought he smelled blood; a lingering memory of a dream, most likely, he thought, and before long he was off to bring wood for the fire and, if lucky, something to eat. He was famished!
He returned no less than an hour later, arms filled with as dry a bunch of sticks as he could find. Ooki was still asleep, curled in a ball as even the embers had now died and the cave was fast going cold. He thought about waking him but decided against it, instead rushing to rekindle a fire for him and his companion both. Enemy turned companion, he thought. Friend turned enemy turned companion, he added to his thoughts. What a strange, strange day it had been…
And then, he saw it. It must have slipped from Ooki’s clothes when he curled up, for the vial had rolled a pace or two away from him; strange it looked, now that he could see it with clear eyes, made of bone, perhaps, or ivory or bore tusks. Yet, he realized, what had looked like carvings or ornaments now looked almost… natural, as if the bone had somehow melted into liquid and then cooled with weird, fluid shapes on its surface. And even sealed and from a few paces away, it stunk to high Asgard, his nostrils burning.
He had never seen its like; and yet he knew it for what it was, for his shaman’s visions had warned him:
“Beware the bones of those who’d claim kinship to the gods. No omens do they bring but bad ones, no tales can they say but tales of woe. Trust not those who break bread with the Álfar; for deceit is their greeting and treachery their goodbye and their puppets are no different.”
His blade in his hand, Svhen hesitated – for he owed the man his life.
Choice
- Pretend nothing happened.
- Confront him.
- Take the vial and throw it away.
- Kill him in his sleep.
Chapter 6
Ooki sat up with a gasp, his caution finally managing to overcome his tiredness and telling him in dreams that his life could be in danger. Looking around with intensity, he finally calmed when he saw Svhen awake, sitting near a rekindled fire. He managed a smile but the tension returned when he saw what Svhen was holding. Looking at him blankly, the man played with the chitin flask, spinning it and passing it from one hand to the other.
“Care to explain?” the man said calmly but his body was ready to react – just as Ooki’s was.
“It would seem you know enough, no?” he retorted.
“Where did you get this, Fimm?” the Nord asked. “Is this what your people’s old ways worship? What the fifth Ting has embraced?”
“I was born and bred in Mannheim, Svhen,” he said. “I am Nord.”
“No Nord would carry this,” Svhen answered and Ooki let his silence be his answer. “Your Volva then?” he asked. “Is this her doing?”
Bringing his legs crossed before him, Ooki did not answer. He reached for his waterskin, pulled the cork and drank the little he had left the night before. Then, calm as a lake’s waters, he put the cork back on and placed the waterskin next to him.
“There is no Volva here, Svhen,” he said in the end. “And there is no shaman. Let it go.”
Svhen shook his head. “No,” he said. “I cannot. The Konungyr warned me, you know. He told me the Volvas cavort with their lot. He told me that to promote our cause, I had to expose them; through you.”
With each word he spoke, Ooki’s eyes widened then narrowed, thoughtful, calculative.
“He told me your shaman urged you to leave him and join Janhyr Jannennson,” he said. “He told me to attack you before you took lands and swordarms from him.”
Silence fell between the two men, starring each other, weighing each other.
“I know you not for a liar, Fimm,” Svhen said in the end.
“Nor I you, old friend,” Ooki replied.
“Why would he want us to kill each other?” Svhen wondered aloud and Ooki mirrored his uncertainty.
“Why indeed?” he asked, and silence fell between them once more, as each’s mind raced. First to speak was Svhen.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You hold this so his words were true.”
“And did you not plan to offer Janhyr your banner?” Ooki asked. “Deny it if you wish but I’d know you for a liar.”
Again silence fell between them and this time it lasted until their stomachs growled with ferocity, hunger demanding their attention. As the awkward sounds echoed in the cave, the two looked at each other and fell to laughter, at first shy but soon bellowing, their tension releasing.
“We need to move,” Ooki said in the end, getting up. “Storm or not, the land will claim us sooner rather than later.”
“I would have joined Janhyr,” Svhen blurted out, making Ooki turn to face him. “They say he followed the Old Lion – and he will lead the High Table before long.” Ooki sat, weighing his friend’s words.
“An Exile approached my Volva,” he said in the end. “She offered gifts as proof of their abilities. Tools that would help the sisterhood gain control of the High Table. They would offer me the Konungyr’s place,” he admitted in a low voice, in the end.
“With my help, Janhyr would have made a move against Vysing’r,” Svhen shared. “This was never about us. This is about seats at the High Table.”
“Did Vysing’r wish for us to kill each other? Why else would he urge both of us to fight?”
“He did not play us,” Svhen replied. “He played the shamans and the volvas. Think about it: he makes us fight. He allows the battle to start but not to finish, limiting his losses. Remember what he said? Not a private matter, we deprive him of his soldiers. So, he stops the fight and leaves us to kill each other, while the warg finishes the other. If either survives, then…”
Both men looked at each other with widened eyes, then reaching for their short blades, they turned towards the entrance as if their killer would just then walk in – a silly, panicked thought, formed by the realization of their Konungyr’s plan. But none came – not then, nor for the next minutes which they spent en guard, waiting. Laughter, once more, released them, as they looked at each other, noticing their own absurd reaction in the other.
“Clever,” Ooki commented, as he walked to the entrance, just to make sure. “He keeps his seat; the Volva and the Shamans lose their tools in his land yet he angers neither. Can’t say I blame him either, considering what our plans were.”
“Guess that’s why he is Konungyr,” Svhen said, raising his eyebrows appreciatively.
“Leaves us in an awkward place, though,” Ooki said. “If a killer was waiting to ensure neither of us survived, the storm probably kept them off us. But they are out there still. Where do we go? If we split up, we are more vulnerable. But if we both return… Even if we survive his killers, I am not sure how welcoming our Konungyr would be.”
“I cannot just leave,” Svhen replied. “My family, my men and women… They-“
“Vysing’r has many faults,” Ooki said. “Cruelty, I’d say, is not one of them. He won’t harm your family if you are no threat any more. He gains nothing.”
“Even so… I… I cannot see which path to take to be sure.”
Choice
- To the Konungyr – The two will seek to admit their plans and appease the Konungyr, bending the knee anew. They will offer information about the plans of both the volvas and the shamans.
- Split up – Each will seek the protection of their mystics. Ooki will return to his Volva while Svhen will return to his shaman. They will both inform their respective benefactors about what they learned in the cave.
- Leave these lands together. – The two men will attempt to leave these land and hide their survival, abandoning their families and seeking to make their fortune elsewhere.