Svaltha I: The Herald of War
The Eighteenth Day of the Second Moon, 874 AD.
The Great Warcamp, The Isanford, Scelopyrea.
Today marked the first day without snow since the end of the autumn moons.
Maybe some people hadn't noticed, but Svaltha had. There was still residual snows on the ground that hadn't been melted by the waning sun yesterday, but no fresh snows had fallen today.
Winter was finally coming to a close, and though the temperature was still fucking cold it was not quite freezing.
All around her people hustled and bustled down well-trodden wooden-laid paths, through winding ad-hoc streets and seemingly endless fur and leather tents with the odd wooden shack thrown in for good measure.
The Great Warcamp was truly huge. If she'd thought that Dyfed's Warcamp had been large, then this was doubly so; with all those who followed the Great Jaerl or the Valkyrie Queen here, in one place, there was almost an entire people crammed into the confines of one sprawling tent-city. For a moment she wondered how on earth this many people were sustaining themselves in terms of food, but she cast it out of mind immediately. Most people had brought their entire stockpiles of food to this city, in many cases enough to last years. Even with some waste, there was plenty of food to go around.
If there wasn't, then the raiders would soon find some for them in the south.
It was not only those who followed the Great Jaerl and Eyvindottir either, for the majority of the few remaining neutrals across Scelopyrea were here as well. They were farmers and fishermen for the most part, hardy folk who knew the land and sea well and were not keen to be drawn in with the promise of war and bloodshed. Well, they'd felt the way the winds were blowing, had smelt the coming storm as it roiled on the wind, and had decided that it was best to join with the massive conglomeration on the southern coast before they were left truly isolated up here.
There would doubtless be a few stubborn fools who remained, those who thought that the coming calamity might pass them by or else had decided that it would be worse to leave their lifelong homes than to die there, but most people were coming here. There were others as well, merchants and raiding vessels, all of whom seemed to have something to sell and more importantly information to give to the married rulers of the northern lands.
But the main centrepiece of the Great Warcamp were the vast clearing grounds by the waterfront, and the great mass of ships chained and anchored in the bay. It was there that the single greatest northern host in all of history was being assembled, with more than a thousand ships and scores of thousands of warriors of all different stripes waiting until the time was right to strike south.
There were Shieldmaidens, Huscarls, mounted warriors, hunters, berserkers, marauders, and dogs of war all assembled. Several more storied and famed groups as well; the Ravenwives, the Hildisvini, and the Ulfhednar, had all quartered themselves in this ramshackle approximation of a city, the latter two clashing a great many times given the rivalry that their orders had maintained over the years. Of course, however, there was only ever one group of soldiers that she was keeping her eyes upon; the Jomsravens were also here.
When she had been a child, it had been the Jomsravens that had captured her attention and captivated her wholly. She had wanted to see them more than anything, to watch them in battle, and when her wish had finally come true she was not disappointed. The only times she could think of that any armed groups had come close to displaying the brotherhood and cohesion of the Jomsravens were when she had seen the huscarls fighting in their own different but still effective form of cohesion under Kætil.
She was worried about Kætil, honestly. No, not worried, for she never worried. She was perhaps a little apprehensive about his recent changes in mood, however. Kætil had never particularly been one for the sort of quiet anger that now fuelled him, not since she'd met him anyway, preferring loud and aggressive acts of force to showcase his displeasure. That was not how his divinely-given rage seemed to be showing itself at the moment.
These last few months, she had watched him do little else than train and brood. Well, the two of them still made time for their nightly activities, and at the very least he didn't seem as prone to brooding then, but even when drinking with Krai and Syren he seemed quieter than usual. Not subdued, for Kætil had too much force of personality to ever truly be subdued, but he was definitely quieter.
None of them had any doubts as to what had caused it, of course; his father's marriage had been a great blow to his confidence and plans, and the subsequent news that the Eyvindottir was with child had only caused him further distress. It anyone asked him how he was doing he would give a non-answer, ask him how he felt that his father had got the Valkyrie-Queen with child and he would just shrug and say that it was always going to happen from the moment the two of them married. Such answers did little to allay the concerns of his closest companions, and especially not her.
She knew that she'd need to drag him out of his own head at some point. A great calamity amongst the Scelopyrene may have been narrowly avoided, but there was still going to be a war soon. People were flocking to the Great Warcamp east of Murkmire's ruins, longships were being assembled, and there was an ever-increasing amount of talk amongst the layfolk of descending down into the rich and fertile lands of the weak-spirited Klironomoi to the south. She knew it to be true as well, if talk from Syren's meetings with the Great Jaerl was anything to go by. Gossip about what the druids had been talking about as well, or so she'd heard. She didn't have any of that information first-hand, however.
She'd been mostly avoiding the members of her order at the moment. They had to have known that it was her who had tipped off the Great Jaerl, and even though he'd somehow already known about the plans of the druids that didn't mean she wasn't going to take the blame for the mess that the druids had since found themselves in; they weren't shunned, as no true-blooded northman would ever shun a druid, but they had certainly found themselves with less influence than they might have otherwise been used to these last few months. Some masters of intrigue they'd all turned out to be. Honestly, now that she'd met both the Great Jaerl and the Eyvindottir she wasn't sure what the druids of her order had expected at all; the two rulers of all the Scelopyrene were so far above her fellow druids that it must have been rank madness that compelled the order to think that not only were they going to be able to outsmart the two rulers, but outsmart them in so grandiose and terrible a fashion.
That plan was never going to work. Not against the two of them.
So, seeing that she wasn't meeting with her druidic compatriots, she was instead spending her time alongside her three companions.
First there was Kætil, of course. She knew him better than she knew herself at times, and knew that he'd need to be helped out of his half-angry and half-melancholic state soon enough, but thinking of him was what had started her down this trail of thought to begin with.
Then there was the unkillable man, Krai. Krai had been his usual self, and by that she meant that he had been a solidly good warrior, a dependable companion, and simultaneously accident-prone and impossible to kill. The man had somehow got himself kicked in the chest by a mule, which was an injury even she found herself wincing at, and had somehow already made a full recovery from the cracked ribs he had been sporting. Honestly, she wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the man had found himself with the blessings of the Bloody-Handed Raven himself, what with his apparent inability to die.
As for Syren, well, he was a strange one. Stranger than he always had been, anyway. There were times when she caught him looking at her for just a little bit too long, and not in the same way that she and Kætil looked at each other. Sometimes he seemed as though he were... watching her. She didn't believe he had any ill intentions, but the young man's paranoia and suspicions seemed to be running wild. Fair enough when she was still working with the druids, for he would have been right to worry then, but she didn't do that anymore. Not since her god had told her to abandon the foolishness of the druids, to stick with the rulers of Scelopyrea and force a new path under them.
Krakevasil, what had she been thinking back then? Had she been so deluded by her past that she'd assumed the druids were right? Had she actually believed in their methods, their goals? She wanted her god to return, that much she knew, but had she believed that such a course of events was what the druids wanted? Truly? Was it what they wanted? She didn't know. She hoped that it was, for she truly wanted her god to return, to lead all of them.
She did not want to have the years she spent under the druidic orders be for nothing. Not when she could have spent that time better serving the Lord of All Slaughter, He-Who-Makes-Heroes.
Thinking about Krakevasil turned her mind back to the moment in which she had seen and spoken to her god personally. She hadn't seen him again since, but had heard his voice once more. It wasn't much, wasn't the full conversation she had engaged in with the greatest warrior amongst the gods before, but it was just as clear and loud in her head.
It had simply told her to 'Prepare'. The voice had been as ice shifting over a lake of fire, of ancient forests toppling and falling all at once. It had been a great and terrible thing to behold, as befitting so ancient and powerful a creature. All it had said was prepare, but it had not said how or why or what for. It had told her nothing else.
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What was she to prepare for? Was it just a broad statement, a message telling her to be ready for when the true message came in time? Was it supposed to be something specific, and she had not been worthy of hearing it with clarity? Well, until she knew what it was she was supposed to be preparing for she couldn't really do anything, could she? She did her best, sparring to keep herself sharp and keeping her ear to the ground in case her fellow druids had a second plan of sorts that she might need to somehow thwart, but that was all she felt she could do at the moment.
She spent more time in prayer and communion with her god than she felt she ever had before, but it was almost silent.
Not silent though, the wind whispered to her, for I am always here. I am a part of you, my most devoted child. Never forget that.
She shuddered a little, and smiled. Barely perceptible though it may have been, and though it was certainly far from the booming thunder of glaciers crushing each other over magma, but she could at least make out his messages on the wind and in the leaves. That was always something she could cling to, no matter how dark things seemed.
Being so close to the coast now seemed to have given her a new sound to attune to, to listen for the voice of her god in; the crashing of waves along the shoreline of the river Aenir, though technically the Aenir was still a river, was for all intents and purposes nothing less than the fury of the sea personified. She'd heard the voice of the god of war in the rushing of water through the Isanar before, but this was different. Louder, more violent.
Perhaps it was just because she was less attuned to listening for Krakevasil through such a channel, but she struggled to hear his faint whispers here more than anywhere else. There were of course stories that the Raven God feared the sea, feared drowning, for one of his brother-gods had bested him in such a theatre, but that was surely nothing more than vile lies and deceit spread by the jealous remnants of the Raven God's kin who were still worshipped on the Brythonic Isles. Krakevasil did not fear, nor could he be bested by his traitorous brethren. This was simply a test for her to overcome, and by his will did she intend to overcome it. None would stop her, and if one of his brother-gods really was trying to dampen the link she had to her god then she would fight and slaughter him herself, by the Raven God's will of course.
Any who tried to stop her from enacting the wishes of her god were certainly welcome to try. She would make sure that none were able to try twice.
"Oi, Svaltha! I'm talking to you!"
She blinked a few times, her mind catching up with her as she realised she'd been zoning out. She turned to face the approaching voice, and just about kept down a wide smile from forming when she realised it was Krai.
"Aye, you were, and I was ignoring you. What's got you so insistent on talking to me at the moment? Don't you have another injury to go and collect?"
Krai threw his head back and barked out a laugh.
"Nah, I had my fill of that for now. Here, what's got your head so up in the clouds? I was just looking for you 'cause the other two were busy at the moment, so I figured you were probably as bored as I were."
She couldn't help but smile a little as she put a sarcastic inflection in her words.
"Well, I was bored I guess. How's it you're up and about anyway, Krai? I figured you'd be milking your place in the healer's quarter for all it's worth."
Her friend gave an exaggerated shudder at the mention of the healers, though given how haphazard and uncaring they could be it might not have actually been exaggerated.
"They patch me up, so all respect to 'em, but I ain't staying anywhere near that death trap if I don't have to. Figured I'd come and hang around you for a bit, since you were away from the boss man for a while. The three of you are bloody impossible to separate at times, and it doesn't help me none that I'm stuck in some buggering healer's hut whilst you all go out having fun."
"Do you think we're trying to leave you out? I promise we're not."
He made a noise of dismissal and smiled in amusement, which admittedly did allay her fears. Though she may have intended to use Krai as nothing more than a method by which to control Kætil, and the same with Syren, such thoughts and plans had long since left her mind. They were her true companions now, and though she wasn't prepared to be any more sappy and sentimental than she had to be, she did care for them in her own way.
"It isn't that, I just mean that you three are always getting involved in some wild shit whilst I'm bedridden cause I can't seem to stop getting myself injured."
She looked at him.
"You're our friend as well, Krai. Don't think you're not."
He smiled and waved her worries away.
"Nah, don't worry, I don't mean like that; you guys are the best companions I could ask for. All I meant was that you guys are both a lot closer with the boss than I am."
"How so?"
"Well", the young man explained, "Kætil and Syren go way back, even before the two of them started going out on their hunts and skirmishes together. Syren's always been the boss' eyes and ears, watching his back and shit. He's fucking strange, don't get me wrong, but I love the bastard like a brother and he's kept the chief safe this whole time. As for you and Kætil, well, no offense to the big man but I'm not prepared to start bedding him like you have, so I'm not as close as the two of you are either.
"I was just brought into this group 'cause I'm a fucking good fighter and damn near impossible to kill. I'm happy to basically be the bodyguard here, not that any of you need guarding of course. Apart from that I'm just glad to be such close friends with all three of you, even if I'm a little less attached personally to the boss than you and Syren are."
She nodded and took in what he was saying. He wasn't completely wrong, for it was definitely true that he was less close to Kætil than the rest of them were, but there was one thing he seemed to be forgetting.
"That's true, Krai. However, you're also closer to me than Syren is, and closer to Syren than I am. It's not like you're a complete outsider here, and you're certainly not just tagging along with a group of three. Besides, even when I'm not around you're always cracking jokes with the other two; Krakevasil only knows how fucking depressed they'd be if you weren't around to lighten the mood. I mean, fuck, do you remember how miserable everyone was on the route back to the Great Jaerl's Warcamp after getting me out of that ruined convoy? I'm pretty sure you're the only reason Kætil didn't start braining people who were getting on his nerves.
"Also, between you and me, our nights out are way funnier when it's all four of us out together. Even if you do end up getting yourself injured so frequently that every healer north of the Aenir knows you by name.
"You're just as much a part of this group as the rest of us Krai, and so help me if you try and leave us I'll break your legs myself."
The man snorted in amusement at her.
"I think people usually threaten to kill someone instead of breaking their legs. More effective."
She shrugged, raising an eyebrow.
"Threatening to kill you in particular is fucking useless, because no matter what happens you somehow seem to never fucking die."
Krai opened his mouth to respond, no doubt with some manner of light-hearted remark about how it wasn't impossible to try and kill him, it was just impossible to succeed, when they were cut off by the sound of lumbering footfalls. The two of them turned and watched the source of the noise, all but marvelling as four lesser Jotun walked down one of the main 'streets' of the Great Warcamp with what looked like newly-maintained or otherwise repaired colossal swords and bucklers slung across their backs.
Lesser Jotun were joining with the Great Warcamp with increasing regularity these last few weeks. She was pretty sure that, as soon as the first few members of each tribe realised it wasn't some sort of trick to wipe them out, they'd sent word back to their families and friends to join them. Life must surely have been better down here than eking out an existence in the mountains after all, and it wasn't like the giant folk were going to try their luck with the horse-lords of the Skonisnomas to the east; Jotun could not ride on horseback, and so to the Skonisnomas they were fit only to be put down like lame dogs.
Here, they were welcomed. Many traders native to Scelopyrea had already had dealings with the Jotun, as had most of those who'd come from the northernmost villages and holdfasts. There was good food for them here, and booze as well. More than that, there was iron and steel; the Smithsons, the only Jotun tribe to actually keep up the old practices of smithing amongst their people, had eked out an existence by repairing the swords of their giant comrades in exchange for food and security, but they had never been able to get their hands on enough iron or steel to make new ones. Making swords that large was tough work, and expensive as well; it was rare indeed for them to make new weapons.
Nowadays, within the confined of this camp, things were different. As more and more giants came down to join them, there was more and more of a market for the Smithsons to ply their trade to their cousins in the other tribes. This had meant that not only were the Smithsons the first tribe to come down here in their entirety, around one-hundred and seventy strong, but it had also brought in more traders with iron and coal to trade with them in bulk. Effectively, they were witnessing not only the largest gathering of Jotun since the Burning of Jotunheim, but also a rebirth in Jotun martial culture.
She wouldn't have been surprised to see Jotun wearing gigantic plates of armour soon, nor would she be surprised if they started swapping out their cabers and gigantic swords for great maces and hammers; the sword was a treasured and seasoned weapon to the Jotun, for swords of such great size were their main weapon of choice against the dragons. Such large blades had once enabled them to slice open scaled stomachs and tear wings to tatters, but they were far less useful against massed human opponents. Hammers and maces would be far better for sweeping arcs and crushing blows delivered to entire ranks of human soldiers, whereas giant swords would be lucky to hit more than a few people at a time.
Still, it had been a long time since their people had been free to forge and smith as they wished. It made sense for them to take their time and enjoy their newfound connectedness by ensuring more and more of their remaining people could get their hands on the weapons that for so long had been the bane of the dragons, even if other weapons might be better for fighting the armies of men that awaited them to the south and the west.
Of course, she was more hoping they'd see sense and start armouring themselves in more than just thick furs soon enough. Jotun were resilient, yes, but the armies of Brythonia and the coastal southerners alike were renowned for their use of the longbow. A cowards weapon, but one that could see even the giants laid low if there were enough bowmen loosing upon them from afar.
Despite the mass movement of the lesser Jotun to the Great Warcamp, the greater Jotun still ranged far from this place. From what she'd heard, though from second and third-hand sources mind you, they were very different from the lesser Jotun in more ways than their size. Apparently they did not 'think' like the lesser Jotun did, or not anymore at least. Apparently they were more like forces of nature than sentient beings, unable to be reasoned with or made to listen. Despite the lesser Jotun seeing their greater cousins as something akin to 'lesser' gods, if such a term could be applied, even they could not predict the movements of their cousins.
Word was that the last of the greater Jotun had moved north. Far, far north. Beyond even the furthest mountain ranges of Scelopyrea, where black clouds hovered over the skies and where there was nought but glacial ice and fields of fire-mountains for an eternity beyond the horizon. What madness could be drawing them there, she didn't want to know.
She felt a chill run down her spine, and for some reason was struck with the knowledge that her god did not want to know either.
But he did know, and had always known. Svaltha did not know what it was that Krakevasil wished was not there, but whatever it was she got the distinct sense that it was getting closer.
She hoped that they sailed south soon.