Crawulf scratched his beard and sighed. “No harm will come to you while you are here among my warriors.”
Rosinnio reached across and placed her hand on top of his much bigger hand. “Your men are brave beyond compare… you are brave beyond compare. I can think of nowhere I would feel safer than among them against any mortal foe, but they cannot fight a shadow.
“I can see him, albeit in my dreams, even then he is just a shadow, but I can see him and he can see me. He fears me because I can find him where no other can. For this reason he will try to kill me.”
“The attack on the castle… the poison, you think it was him?”
“Without a doubt.”
Crawulf frowned, his mouth forming a tight line as his eyes narrowed. “What would you have me do?”
“Maolach has told me of the Tree of Souls and the Horn of Galen. Galen is the guardian of souls, he who stands sentry between this world and Eiru home of the gods. The horn will gather those souls who have crossed back and should not reside here.”
“You seek to lecture me about my own gods?” Crawulf’s eyes sparkled with amusement while Rosinnio dropped hers in embarrassment.
“I - I mean no offence,” she stammered.
The jarl rubbed at tired eyes. He had been drinking and feasting for most of the night before being forced into a wild ride across the country in a raging storm to find his missing wife. Talk of magic and dark mysteries he did not understand made his head hurt even more. “Tell me what you want of me?”
“The Tree of Souls is…”
“Yes, I know the myths. The Tree of Souls is among the Frost People. They are a savage race and no friend to any Nortman.”
“I understand, but I must go there. Lend me one ship and a crew of men willing to take me.”
Crawulf stood up and paced the floor, every so often turning to glance at his wife. He cast his mind back to the day the emissary had arrived from the emperor. He had listened with growing incredulity and not a little scepticism as the messenger, dressed in bright clothes of silk and uncomfortable-looking shoes, read out a letter from the most powerful man in the known world, offering him the hand of his daughter in marriage and a shipload of gold as a dowry, not to mention the eternal gratitude and friendship of such a powerful man. What would the emperor think of him now if he knew he contemplated sending his daughter off in a ship towards the frozen north.
“There is more at stake here than just me and an old family grudge. The souls of dead men do not belong among the living. It is a corruption that can only grow and spread vileness throughout the land.”
“Have you seen this?” He swung around to face her. “You can see things, things most men cannot. Have you seen a dark future for all of us?”
“I cannot say.” She shook her head. “My dreams and visions are so difficult to interpret. Often they say one thing but mean another. Usually they only concern those close to me.”
“And afterwards, what then?”
“Afterwards?”
“When it’s over? When you have the horn and this… Shadow Mage is no more, what then?”
“I am your wife,” she answered as she stood up. “When this is over I will still be your wife. I will bear you the sons you desire and do all I can to be the best wife any jarl could desire.”
“Or a king,” he answered.
“Or a king,” she agreed.
***
Rosinnio’s stomach lurched each time the boat shifted from the swell of the sea. And they had yet to leave the harbour! Despite assurances from Crawulf that the ship was perfectly seaworthy, she looked with scepticism at the small craft, tiny compared to the large galleons in her father’s fleet. Even her time spent on one such had not been a pleasant one. She had bid her handmaiden stay behind, finding amusement in the relief evident on her face. Both women had already been to sea once on one of Crawulf’s longboats. It had not been a pleasant experience for her, even less so for her servant. Marta was loyal though, and Rosinnio could see how it pained her to abandon her mistress. Somehow she doubted the crew would tolerate two women on the voyage they were about to undertake.
The crew was Crawulf’s own. The jarl insisted on accompanying his wife if she wished to persist with ‘this foolish quest’. The big warrior Rothgar was there too, his great axe never far from him. All of the men were armed well, with swords, axes and spears. Each man also had a brightly painted round, wooden shield, which he hung from the side of the boat beside his own rowing bench. All wore armour of interlocked chainmail or hard leather.
“Do they not worry they will sink to the bottom of the sea if they end up overboard?” she had asked, concerned at the weight of the armour they wore.
“If you end up in that sea, it is better to go straight down,” Rothgar had answered. She did not pursue the conversation.
Despite being assured that the seas were calm and the voyage uneventful, Rosinnio suffered two days and nights of misery. She was cold, soaked to the skin, the contents of her stomach well emptied after the first few hours into the voyage. Men looked at her with amusement, some even with concern and pity in their eyes, but none mocked or chided her. She didn’t care if they did. Then there was the terror of seeing nothing but sea, occasionally not even that when a thick mist would descend. This was the worst time when she imagined all manner of sea monsters lurking in the impenetrable fog, waiting to ambush them and drag the ship to a very deep and cold grave. She had heard the stories of Baltagor’s mischievous daughters who never tired of trying to tempt men into the sea and to a watery end. She wondered if the sea god’s daughters targeted women also. The sight of land midway into the third morning brought great relief to her, even if the frowns of the men spoke loudly of their own concerns.
In the distance she could see how the land rose up, with snow-capped hills rolling back from the shore. The closer they got the more she could see that most of the land was covered in a thick white carpet of snow. “What are the Frost People like?” she asked Crawulf as the men around her pulled down the heavy square sail from the single mast, and began heaving on oars as they approached the shore.
“They are just men,” the jarl answered.
“Not fire-breathing giants as some of the stories are told?”
“Only to those who have never met them.” Crawulf laughed.
“But they are to be feared?” Rosinnio asked.
“Oh yes, fear them. Byorne, come here,” he called to one of his men then.
“Aye?” an older crewman made his way to the front, with a long grizzled mane and weather-beaten skin of old leather.
“Show her,” Crawulf simply said.
The man pushed back his hair. Rosinnio flinched at the sight of two pink slits where his ears should be. “The Frost People did this?” she asked, aghast but unable to look away.
“Aye,” Crawulf answered and gave a nod to the man to return to his rowing bench. “Had he not been rescued in time, next would have been his nose, then his tongue, his eyes, and after that his fingers and toes. I’ve seen men with stumps up to their knees and elbows left to die in the snow. If they were lucky the cold would claim them and give them a quick death.”
Rosinnio turned away then, suddenly fearing and hating the feelings welling inside her. Unwilling to display any emotion in front of Crawulf and the crew, she let her tears fall silently into the sea.
The flat-bottomed ship ran up the black pebble beach as men jumped overboard and hauled her out of the water.
Immediately she stepped ashore, feeling eyes upon her, a prickly sensation in the back of her neck. “We’re being watched,” she said, alarm making her words tremble.
“Aye,” Crawulf simply answered as he hauled his weapons and gear over the side and began marching onto the beach. All around them men were doing the same.
“I will go alone,” Rosinnio said.
Crawulf swung around to face her. “Did you crack your head off the side of the boat?”
“No. Alone I am no threat t
o them, but all of you bring the trappings of war to their land. Will they not act accordingly?”
“I’ll tell you what they will do. They will bury your body somewhere in those mountains after they have taken all they want from you if you walk out there alone,” Crawulf snarled.
“I can sense their fear.”
“You are a strange one,” he answered while scratching his head.
“I will go alone.”
“No. A small guard of four of us, lightly armed, will pose no threat to them.”
Rosinnio thought about this and then nodded her agreement. “Very well.”
“Rothgar, leave the axe,” he said to the big warrior before turning to two others and motioning for them to fall in behind. “Let’s get this done and be away as soon as possible.” He led the small group up the dark beach and over black rocks until they were climbing a dirt track stretching upwards.
It was not long before their path was blocked by a group of very pale-skinned warriors carrying spears, and bows with arrows and spearheads made from flint. They stood still while pointing their weapons at the small group, their meaning clear enough. Rosinnio noticed how impossibly blue their eyes were, like sapphires sunk into a fresh fall of snow. They were all dressed in furs and the hides of animals. Crawulf pulled a dagger from his belt, making the group of Frost People jump back and gesture wildly with their weapons. Crawulf calmly approached them and held out the dagger to the nearest one, hilt first. It was snatched, wordlessly from his hand. All of them turned then and quickly disappeared over the hills.
“They have not the knowledge of smelting iron. They crave all weapons of steel.” Crawulf grinned.
“Where have they gone?” Rosinnio asked, but Crawulf just shrugged and pressed on.
It was not long before they reached a village of hide tents and wooden cabins. “I’ve heard it said that deep in the Frozen Waste, the Frost People build houses made from bricks of ice.” Rothgar leaned into her and told her.
“Perhaps that is where the fire-breathing ones live,” she answered with a smile.
“Do not be quick to dismiss such mysteries,” Crawulf said. “I know of a shepherd who once found the entire skeleton of a whale deep in a cave, high up on a mountain. How did a whale get up there? Perhaps there was once such a thing as flying whales.” He laughed then, with the other men joining in. Rosinnio could not help feeling she was the butt of some joke, but simply dismissed them with a wave of her hand.
“Look!” One of Crawulf’s men pointed towards the settlement. A much larger group of men than the one they’d already encountered waited for them.
“I did not think my death would come at the hands of the Frost People, but if that is the will of the gods then so be it,” Crawulf said, drawing his sword.
“No, wait,” Rosinnio answered. “See there? The old woman, I will go to her.” Without waiting for an answer, she started down the hill towards the village.
“Wait…” Crawulf called, but she ignored him and started towards the group waiting at the edge of the small village.
As she approached them the old woman made her way to the front, the line of spears before her lowered as the warriors parted to let her through. She could sense their tension as Crawulf and his men slowly followed behind her.
“Perhaps your men should wait here. They are making the folk nervous.” Although she heard the words spoken by the old woman, in the common trading tongue, Rosinnio did not see her lips move. Her eyes opened a little wider in surprise as she realised the words had been heard in her head. She nodded to the woman before turning to Crawulf.
“Wait here. I do not think they will harm you if you do.”
“You don’t think?” Crawulf sounded sceptical, but reluctantly agreed.
The old woman beckoned her with the same deep blue eyes of the other Frost People. Rosinnio followed her through the crowd, very aware of the tension in the air and the eyes on her. The woman led her to a low structure made from a frame of huge tusks covered in hides. She could not fathom what animal could produce such massive lengths of ivory. Even the great bull elephants that roamed the jungles far to the south of the empire could not have borne such enormous tusks. The dwelling was warm with an overbearing muskiness in the air. The woman handed her a small cup of water and a plate of dried fish.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Old Mother.” She was not sure where she got the title from, but it somehow seemed to fit. The old woman didn’t seem to mind and smiled warmly, before taking a seat on a cot covered in furs. She bade Rosinnio sit on the hide-covered ground before her, which she quickly did, sitting cross-legged at her feet.
“I know why you have come.” The words echoed inside her head. It was a strange sensation to hear her and yet see how her lips did not move.
“Can you help me?” Rosinnio asked. The woman nodded.
“I can see the darkness that surrounds you, the corruption that has seeped into the world.”
“I mean you no harm, Old Mother.” Rosinnio felt a knot of anxiety balling in her chest.
“I know that, child. I too have dreamt dark and strange dreams. I have also dreamt of one who would travel here from very, very far away. One with a good heart who would come to me for help. Your journey has been most long thus far, my child.” She reached out and took the younger woman’s hand in her own. “And it has not ended yet.”
“Do you know what I must do? What road I must travel?” Rosinnio asked.
“Take what you have come for and let it guide you, for who am I to know the ways of the gods? Sometimes they speak to me, but do I understand what they say? No.” Rosinnio heard a chuckle in her head then, it made her smile.
“How do I find the Horn of Galen?”
“If you are worthy, you just have to reach out and the Guardian of Souls will…” The old woman’s words trailed off as Rosinnio suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired, her eyes growing unbearably heavy.
“The Guardian?” She struggled against the desire to sleep and forced her eyes open.
The woman was gone, the hide tent, village and everybody in it were gone. She stood on a rocky mountain top. In the background she could see the sea stretching out to the horizon where it joined and became one with the grey sky. On top of the mountain, growing out of the rock, was a single black tree, its branches stark in their bareness and harsh, sharpened ends. The smell of rot emanated from it in waves of dank foulness. Lying at the foot of the tree, nestled between gnarled roots protruding from the rock, was a curved horn made of bone. She reached towards it and stopped as her fingers hovered over it. Am I worthy?
Her fingers closed around the horn. Its touch was like ice. Like everything around her, the mountain, the tree. It felt like death. How else would his realm feel? she thought. The Guardian of Souls – Sentinel to the Underworld. The Reaper of Souls to the Nortlanders.
Her eyes snapped open and the woman was in front of her once again.
“You should leave now. The wolves you have brought to our door are filling the folk with fear.”
“They fear you too,” Rosinnio said a little more defensively than she intended.
“You have a kind heart and they will gain immeasurably from your radiance shining on them.”
“Perhaps someday the Frost People and the Nortlanders can live together in peace, without fear or hate,” she said.
“When the great cats who hunt the woolly bison of the north learn to live off grass, perhaps that day will come.”
Rosinnio made her way back through the crowd. Crawulf and his three men sat facing each other around a small campfire, seemingly relaxed and simply warming themselves, but she knew each man watched the back of the other and any perceived threat would be met with a sudden explosion of violence. The thought saddened her.
“Did you get what you came for?” Crawulf asked when she joined them. She displayed the simple bone horn to them.
“Then let us be gone from here.”
Rosinnio nodded her agreement. “We h
ave a long voyage ahead of us and none of you are going to like it.”
Duke Normand: Eorotia
Duke Normand paced the tiled floor of the audience chamber in the Temple of Eor, his mind focusing on the image of the dragon made up from hundreds of small tiles at his feet.
“My lord, you summoned me.” Djangra Roe walked into the room. Normand watched him enter, saw him note the presence of warriors in the room.
“Have you heard, Mage?”
“Heard, my lord?” A confused look spread across Roe’s face.
“Those cursed mountain people have risen up in rebellion against me. They dare to challenge me!”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it, my lord. But then I’ve been locked away in the library, studying the old texts. I’m becoming quite the scholar on Eor.”
“Curse you and that damnable goddess. May she and that witch of a priestess be swallowed into The Hag’s Pit.”
“What has happened?”
Normand turned to one of his warriors, a man with dirt and dried blood smeared across his face. When he moved he did so stiffly and with obvious pain. “A caravan travelling from the Duchies going south with tin and wool was attacked in the mountains two days ago.”
“Bandits?”
“Bandits would have stolen the cargo to sell themselves, but the only thing taken was the lives of the traders and their drivers… every last one of them. I sent a score of men into the mountains to track down whoever had done this. This man is the only survivor of that patrol. They were attacked by a large force who knew the terrain, who knew exactly where to set an ambush.”
“What will you do?” Djangra asked, his face set in grave lines.
“What I always do. I will take the fight to them.”