1
Grave news
Snowflakes fell into Mirian’s long, black hair.
She took a deep breath, savored this moment.
The meadow, red and white from the last rays of the sun, stretched outwards in all directions, with hills and farmsteads with windmills here and there. She stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders.
“The one who can throw the farthest wins,” Maeghin said with one eye closed. Her cousin used to bring a good mood out of her. “Isn’t that so, Arron?”
“Aye ye,” the innkeeper said.
Mirian smiled while Maeghin threw his spear. It landed in a pile of snow some yards away. Not bad, but Mirian shook her head. “It’s about skill, not strength,” she said, leaving the milestone. She walked to the other spear and picked it up. Mirian balanced the spear while taking aim; stretched out one arm while the other threw. Her spear flung past Maeghin’s, landing in the snow.
”What say ye now? Let the bards sing about the brave Mirian Simonsdatur.”
“Just don’t beat me over the head with it … ” Maeghin sighed.
“My dear cousin, why the long face? I will of course give you half my reward.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” Maeghin’s bad mood vanished. Gone with the wind it was.
“Come.” Mirian trudged the snow, took her spear and with Maeghin and Arron by her side she peered across the white landscape. Her breath turned to white smoke. “You think we can get some good songs this evening?”
Her cousin smiled for no words were needed. They treaded back through the snow, reaching Norrtmark as the sun set behind the hills and the first stars shone above them. The only thing she was missing now was a pint of good, frothy ale.
*
Mirian sat up, stroked her daughter’s forehead. The child slept deeply.
Mirian took off her shift. She put on her thick woolen hose, her frieze pants and two cloths. One was thick, woven from good wool, while the frieze cloth was somewhat thinner. Only fools underestimated wintertime.
Mirian moved across the bedchamber’s creaking floor. She went through the hallway and downstairs, the captain of the guard bowed before her.
“Open it,” Mirian said.
Maki opened the door and snowflakes fell onto the floor as the north wind howled. The stranger stepped in, Maki followed him with his gaze, as did Mirian. Maki was a good captain who had served her father when he was the Earl of Norrtmark. Now he served her.
The stranger stood dressed in a long, brown coat with a hood. His left hand gripped his staff tightly, like his life depended on it. Hair and beard were rugged, unwashed, and his steely eyes flickered. By his hip a scabbard, but it was the sword inside it that took her gaze. The purple pommel shone; lightning trapped inside it. Can it really be … ?
“I ordered Maki to let you in, but who are you?” Mirian asked.
“You can call me the Wanderer. I’ve been looking for you.” He gave her a simple bow. “I’ve ridden hastily the whole day and night, only stopping to eat and never to sleep.”
“Why?”
“To reach you with the news.”
“What news?”
He sighed. “My words aren’t cheerful, my lady, so I warn you: You’ll take em’ hard.”
Mirian showed him the Great hall and he sat down by the table. She took the bench on the opposite side. She didn’t want to break the law of hospitality, especially not now when he had ridden hard and defied the cold. Mirian gave Maki a nod and the captain of the guard went to bring his wife and children. The servants that served her well.
Mirian didn’t know if she could trust this stranger, but she wanted his tidings. Sand ran in the hourglass. The whole castle was chilly, but she was used to it. Still, she hoped the Wanderer could handle the cold until the servants had lit the fires and the fireplaces crackled.
“I’ve enjoyed the king’s peace like any other, but it won’t last. War is approaching.”
“War?”
The Wanderer sat there, completely still, but she wasn’t fooled. She could sense his worry.
“The gnolls, my lady.”
Gnolls. Half men, half hyenas.
Her mouth shut tight, and she raised her head.
“For Göte’s hospitality I counseled him. He was a good man … ”
“Was?” Mirian didn’t want the answer, despite asking the question. Guardians of the North.
The Wanderer peered down the table. When raising his head, he looked straight into her eyes. Nailing her with his steely gaze. Those eyes revealed a deep sorrow.
“Aye. They’re dead now, all but Kristina. Hooftown fell yesterday, during Dawn’s hour. Like I said … ”
The Wanderer fell from his bench. Exhaustion had finally gotten him.
“Help him!”
The servants rushed down the stairs, into the Great hall. Maki had woken them, and it didn’t take long before their mother hurried down the stairs as well. Svanhild was a healthy chambermaid for her age.
“Marja, seat him and hold him upright. Tallir, porridge, now. Svanhild, the fireplace.”
A bowl with porridge they had given the Wanderer, another to Mirian. The fireplace fizzed and when they had finished breakfast Mirian gave Svanhild a gaze. “Make sure that he gets a good place to sleep even if he protests.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“Mirian, I awoke the guards,” Maki said.
“Good. Take him to the bathhouse. He needs a warm bath before bed.”
Svanhild helped her husband with the Wanderer. They took him out of the hall, to the bathhouse while Mirian sat on her bench, deep in thought. Memories. Her father’s head, cut from his body with a single stroke …
The fire kindled. Wood burning, crackling, giving warmth and light. Not that light was needed – it was morning – but still.
I need to speak with him.
*
“Answer all my questions and then you can play with Ael.”
Her daughter blushed, adjusting her pose. Sitting more upright she kept Mirian’s gaze and put her arms to the side. That lured out a smile from Mirian.
“Well, my little wolf, who are Fjirder and Borgir and how’s their relation?”
Johanna’s eyes sparkled with life. “Fjirder is our water goddess. She lives with Borgir.”
“And who is he?”
“The god of stones and mountains.”
“And what does he do?”
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“He makes sure that the mountains rise. He makes sure that the ground shakes and crumbles, and that lava is spit up by the volcanoes!”
“Correct. No smoke clouds cover the sky – for that we should be happy.”
“Great grandpa says he has seen a volcanic eruption. He saw one when he was as old as me.”
“That’s true. I heard it for the first time when I was your age.” Brose had voyaged the seas to Verantioz, and back again. Across Elantioz he had wandered, braved the sea to Meylon and the Wa-shi realm, along with his cartomage, a blind, half mad gnome. The cartomages were wizards of map making. With their magic, maps could be drawn with great accuracy.
“Mother, are you here?”
“What?” Mirian coughed. “Sorry, I was thinking … Where were we?”
“You were teaching me about Fjirder and Borgir?”
“Oh yes. Tell me, how do the two gods live together?”
“They love each other. Borgir likes mountains and hates the sea.”
“Exactly, and Fjirder?”
Johanna’s smile would have looked so silly if she wasn’t so cute.
“She loves the sea. In wintertime she lives with Borgir. Then she longs for spring.”
“As do we all. Tell me about Raddrimir.” Mirian knew that Johanna would be very pleased by this subject. Of all the gods Raddrimir was her favorite.
“He’s the winged squirrel! The god of gossip, wayfarers and tidings.”
“He’s also a close friend to Gevlaren, the Reincarnating goat.”
Johanna nodded, trying to look like a grown up despite being nine years old. Mirian was much amused. She ruffled the hair of her daughter, kissed her forehead. “Next time I’ll tell you how those two became friends, for the umpteenth time I guess.”
“It’s my favorite tale.”
“Svanhild!” Mirian called. “Shrovetide buns for the both of us!”
“Coming right up!”
Mirian heard Svanhild’s steps outside the door. In the study hall, fire crackled in the fireplace, and the wind howled outside the windows.
*
The Wanderer laid awake, staring at the roof before facing her. “They came with the Dawn. Self-assured, arrogant after ravaging Göte’s villages. I was with Göte when he received the news.”
“What did he decide?” Mirian asked.
“To ride out, face the gnolls with his army in the field, so all the villagers could find safety behind the walls.”
Much must be sacrificed in warfare. Mirian knew what she would’ve done.
“What happened?”
The Wanderer peered at the window. Snow fell outside, as the sun shone. Inside candles kept the light while the fireplace kept the warm. The old, oak floor creaked as Mirian stepped in worry, waiting for his words. He was laying in his bed, covered by blankets. A bear fur laid on top of him.
The Wanderer held her gaze. “I looked on from the wall. Göte’s army was impressive: Two hundred knights, five hundred riders, and four thousand footmen. A mighty host, worthy of an Earl.”
“Indeed.”
“But the gnolls had the numbers, Mirian. Nine thousand, if not more, and gnolls are gnolls.”
“Gnolls are gnolls.” Her thoughts ravaged her.
“I froze, standing up there on the wall with the Earl’s daughter. It wasn’t only cause of the cold.”
“I assume Kristina was as frightened as you were.”
“She was.”
“And Göte’s son?”
“He fought with his father.”
Mirian caught her breath.
“When the gnolls were in the reach of the crossbowmen Göte gave his order. Bolts fell on the beasts, felling hundreds. Despite that they only continued, trampling their fallen comrades. They started running. Göte sent forth his infantry in orderly formations. The pikemen formed a wall of pikes and halberds and behind them the men-at-arms marched. The gnolls rushed straight into the wall of pikes. The pikemen did everything they could to keep them at bay while the crossbowmen reloaded, shot.”
“Effective tactics.”
“Aye, if only Göte knew that the gnolls had trebuchets.”
“Oh … ”
“The fire, Mirian. The bloody fire. Footmen run like mad men, all to avoid the trebuchets’ flaming hay balls. It was then Earl Göte charged in with his cavalry. The cyclic charges of the knights and riders were deadly, inspiring pikemen and men-at-arms to rally. They regained their formations and Göte gathered his footmen to charge the center of the gnoll horde while the knights flanked them. For a time, the battle was even. Göte’s footmen managed to keep the beasts at bay while bolts fell, and the cavalry moved down gnolls left and right. But then Göte and his son were caught in the fire storm of the trebuchets.”
Mirian shivered.
“The gnolls charged. The men-at-arms were brave, but they were cut down in droves. The pikemen held for a while, before their formations broke. The knights, surrounded by the gnoll horde, became sitting ducks. All was lost. The entire northern army annihilated. I decided to do what I could: Save Kristina … ”
“Where is she?”
“Hopefully in Angletown where she’s safe, warning King Tyrimer.”
“If the gods are good.”
“I give praise to God. We rode from the city. She left me with some men for Angletown. The capital lies far away unfortunately.”
“And you?”
“I was standing under a birch, witnessing the fall of Hooftown. Heard the screams. Saw fire and smoke rising to blot out the sun. I knew then that I will never forget the sight. It was a miracle that I managed to escape. All thanks to my horse, my Sicolin.”
Mirian held his gaze for a long time.
She rose. Fists clenched, heart racing.
“Mirian,” he said when she reached the door. “Legionnaires from the Republic of Bazyn-Evenhem have arrived at Boot’s bay. The raven found me this morning, a letter from an old friend: The Witch in green.”
Mirian nodded and left the guest’s chamber with swift steps.
*
She sat by her desk in her bedchamber. Outside the window snowflakes blew so hard that they obscured her vision.
Mirian sighed. Why can’t it be summer?
Her candle barely lit up her desk, and even though her fireplace gave more light – and heat – she felt cold, lost in a dark and terrible world.
The choice between death or death.
The gnolls scored in the thousands and her castle guard consisted of twenty men. Sure, the men and women in Norrtmark knew how to fight, but they were only a few hundred. Göte had faced the monsters with his whole army, and he still lost. Guardians of the North you were called. Now you will all feast in Saagard. Tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked at her bottle of spiced wine. Mirian had tried not to drink, kept away from alcohol for weeks … Now she took the bottle and drank.
Gundir, her only wizard, only knew healing magic. Mirian did not dare challenge King Winter without fire or air magic. It would mean death for her whole town if she ordered an evacuation without it. She imagined Johanna, freezing to death in the snow, begging for a blanket. Her only child.
She drank more.
Except for Gundir there were no mages in her province Norrtmark, nor in the Vale, Magnus Birgersson’s province. Wizards required large piles of gold for their service and Mirian could never afford it.
Magnus. The Earl was a religious fanatic that had burned almost all the mages in the Vale on large pyres. Those he hadn’t burned had escaped to Angletown, or somewhere else, or promised him faithful service. Dogs, loyal to their master. But I must write him, beg him to send me wizards, or troops.
The persecution of the mages led to one of the strongest church fractions in the Vale going against the head of their own church: The Arch Father in the Republic of Bazyn-Evenhem. And here in Engsmark there was of course the Church Father of Angletown. The most powerful church sheep in Engsmark, not to mention the fattest.
And yet the church faction in the Vale traveled to Lion’s Keep. What happened there Mirian didn’t want to think about even now, ten years later.
Since then, Magnus had only grown mightier. His house had five hundred sworn knights, and four thousand men-at-arms. Gold enough to hire the three mercenary companies in Timbertown and the population to raise thousands of fyrdmen.
Mirian felt sorry for the fyrdmen. They were serfs, forced to go to war if their lord or knight called them. Farmers, not trained for battle like she was, save for the longbowmen that trained every weekend.
She calculated that she didn’t have the time to send a messenger to the capital. Angletown laid eighty leagues away and that wasn’t a distance quickly travelled in winter. It was the end of vird. Year 1278 was around the corner.
Her head throbbed, probably the wine. She ignored the pain, forced herself to think.
Mirian would however send words to the legionaries. But if they can’t reach me, or aren’t enough? Mirian grabbed her wine bottle and drank, sweeping the wine away with her hand. Magnus. I must write him. She felt so disgusted by that thought. It was only a year ago.
He had arrived at her town with flattery. When that didn’t work, he switched to hard words. You will never survive on your own. You need a man. You need me. She clenched her fists. Sighed and opened them.
I must.
Mirian took her feathered pen. Her empty paper laid there in front of her, on her desk. She took her raven feathered pen and filled the paper with blue-black letters.
Mercenaries.
She would write them as well and Thoran would be sent as her messenger to the legionaries. He was a good negotiator, the right man at the right place if he accepted. And Maeghin? Her cousin was a good speaker, but he was needed at home, by her side. So, who would she send to the mercenary companies?
Mirian reached for her bottle of wine. No one was there to look.
Johanna. Her daughter didn’t approve.
Mirian sighed, wiped away the wine and continued her writing. Tomorrow I gather the town for a Moot. For once she felt herself filled with determination, until her memories haunted her again. Her father hadn’t agreed, but she had forced through her will …
She drank more, guzzling the wine, feeling her balance rumble. She fell with her chair, hurting her back.
With many swear words she got to her feet, taking the wine bottle, throwing it at the wall. Glass and wine splattered everywhere, and she immediately regretted her drunken decision.
Finally, she fell asleep.
The dream took her that night, as they often did, and among all the nonsense another dream arrived. A little girl stood with her two brothers, trying in vain to comfort them as smoke arched up from the pyre. The step widened and the two brothers were mad with grief. The little girl felt familiar – no – more than familiar. Much more …