Svaltha I: To Set the Trap
The Forth Day of the Third Moon, 873 AD.
Isan's Passage, Hoarsoil Valleys, Scelopyrea.
Well, she couldn't exactly pretend to be happy with her latest assignment.
Svaltha shivered a little as they continued making their way north. There was something in her mind that told her not to continue on this journey, but the senior Druids had assigned her this task and she'd be damned if she didn't see it through to the utmost. Besides, it wasn't going to be hard exactly. The worst part would be the waiting when it all went 'wrong'. Deliberately wrong of course, but wrong nonetheless. One of the elder Seers had seen a vision of two lesser Jotun stalking this roadway, and so they wanted her to be the bait in a little trap. Not to catch the Jotun, but to ensnare some puffed-up young warrior, the son of the Great Jaerl no less. She didn't know exactly what he was like, but the elders had spent much of the last half a decade making overtures and showing deference to him in a feigned display of submission to make sure he followed their orders without realising it, and if they could get her by his side then they'd have a direct channel through to him at all times without the Great Jaerl suspecting a thing.
Thinking on the elder Seers amongst the ranks of the Druids made her think of the reports they'd heard from the south. Apparently the coastal southerners had a Seer of their own in their palace, but whoever this Seer was they were certainly not counted amongst the ranks of the northmen. 'Powerful' was the word on the lips of those traders who had made their way south and back, powerful but raw, powerful but secretive. Whoever they were, they were no ally of the Druids.
Shaking her head a little she considered how much longer they might have to travel down this road until the Jotun caught scent of them. The giant folk did not scare her as they did most, for she had little reason to fear with the whispers of Krakevasil in her head, but nonetheless there was a sense of nervous anticipation slowly building in her gut. She trusted the elders, of course she did, and she recognised the value of effectively having the son of the Great Jaerl willingly puppet himself for them, but it still seemed rather calloused to send half a dozen guards and attendants purely so that they might be killed to draw in the son of the Great Jaerl; from what she understood the sense of gratification he got from the Druids seeking him out meant that he likely would have gone off into these hills and valleys to find her even without the proverbial sacrificial lambs.
Still, the senior Druids knew what they were doing. If she played her part well she might even be made a Druid herself, rather than being forced to remain a Novice for another five years. She could probably spin things in her favour with her elders if they recognised that she was sound, that she could be trusted with such manipulations and schemes. She fully understood the need for caution where inviting outsiders into their plots was concerned, for it had taken almost three decades to get Scelopyrea in the state that it was and they were so close to the final battle, but she wished to stand amongst the ranks of her initiated brethren nonetheless.
Did she not hear the whispers of her god within her mind as they all did?
Of course you do, came a voice through the rustling of the leaves on the wind, I never leave my children.
She smiled a little at the affirmation. She'd never doubted her god, but it was nice to hear nonetheless. It made sense if the druids didn't want her involved any more than this, for to perfectly divide Scelopyrea in two the wheels had been in motion for almost a decade by the time she'd been born, but in a year or two there would be an apocalyptic battle on the ice between the two armies, a great and terrible shedding of blood that would make even the mighty Aenir run red. A goodly portion of all the soldiers, warriors, and fighters in Scelopyrea would die in a single tumultuous day, and by the end of it all the bloodshed would be so great that their god would find the strength to pull himself back together, to walk amongst them once more and lead them to the ultimate triumph over the treacherous Hedyn and Brythonian kingdoms to the west, as well as the soft, weak realms to the south. The age of kings and warlords would come to an end, and the age of the Druid would welcome all with a living god as its herald.
The carriage bumped a little as it passed over a hole in the road. She'd hoped for a little rain to calm her spirits, but the clouds above refused to give up their water. There were still black clouds over the mountains far to the north, but she knew better than to try and question that.
Her god wanted nothing to do with that darkness, whatever it was and for whatever hidden reasons he had.
She jostled a little in her seat as the carriage hit another hole. Honestly, she fucking hated travelling by carriage. It was more than useful for slipping into a trance while on the road, but if the circumstances didn't require it she'd much rather be riding on horseback than sat in a carriage like this. She hated the fact that she'd be required to play the defenceless damsel in distress as well; she recognised that the senior druids wanted the little warrior she was to ensnare to think that he was a dashing hero, and yes, that outcome was more likely if she didn't lead the guards and kill the two giants on her own before he arrived, but it still felt humiliating to stand by and do nothing whilst other people fought for their lives around her.
"Patience," she cautioned herself, willing her mind to slow, "these things are being done for a reason. Keep to their rules and you'll find yourself rewarded."
She huffed out a small sigh as she pushed aside her frustrations. Games such as this required one to bite their tongue and keep their pride in check, especially when the potential reward was so great. That was perhaps the one worthwhile thing they'd learned from the southerners; wars and battles were mighty tools indeed, but so to were plots and intrigue. Few outside the order knew that the druids had learned from outsiders, but there was one mantra that had been drilled into her ever since she'd been taken in by the order, a mantra that she knew for a fact came from those distant lands south of the Aenir: "The dagger in the dark beats the longsword in the light". A deadly mantra, and one with a great deal of truth behind it. Whatever most needed an army to do the druids needed only to send one person with a sacrificial blade and a mandate from the purest of their order. None would deny the druids their right.
No one.
It didn't matter what they needed to do, for theirs was the will of the Raven-God. Krakevasil was a hungry god, and it was they who kept him fed. Whatever the price, it didn't matter. Entire bloodlines had been ended, great unifiers of their people who came about less than once a century were spent with the same callousness as anyone else, and entire armies had marched into death traps with the assurances that all would be well, that victory was within their reach. The druids had orchestrated the deaths of scores of thousands, hell, probably hundreds of thousands, in the last few centuries. It was all for Krakevasil. It was all for the Raven-God. He was out there somewhere, wounded and cold, and it was they who would sustain him with the blood of others until he could take wing again.
Their god would live again. He would turn aside his traitorous kin who decried his violence, who saw him as barbaric. He would have his revenge. The Raven-God would live again.
The scratching at the back of her mind told her that her god was pleased with her fervour. Though that faintest of whispers never manifested itself, she could tell nonetheless. She very much wanted her god to be pleased with her. Perhaps, one day, she might even be able to ascend to the title of 'Purest' amongst their order. Now that would be a most gratifying thing.
There was a small amount of risk in this plan, she supposed. There was every chance that she wouldn't be able to hide herself from the big bastards when they came down on their little caravan, or that her survival supplies would prove insufficient to keep her alive until she was rescued. It had to be done, however. If it wasn't her then the seniors amongst the druids would simply try again with another promising young woman. When that had been pointed out to her by her mentor she'd immediately thrown herself at the task, steeling her thoughts and keeping what she knew to herself as much as she possibly could.
Giants were... well, unpredictable creatures. This wasn't because they were wild animals, nor because of some outlandish idea that their minds were unknowable to humans, but simply because they were just as intelligent as any man might be. Intelligent, free-thinking creatures were a hell of a lot more difficult to corral into a scheme than true animals were, and as such she'd have to mostly rely on chance to have the lesser Jotun in these hills act as she wished. All the possible steps had been taken to ensure they came near, of course. There was a cart filled to the brim with strong-smelling vegetables and herbs, and another two of strong alcohol just behind it. As many intoxicants as she could get her hands on had come along with this convoy, and as few people as possible to boot, so there should really be very little to keep the giants away if they caught scent of their convoy. She was admittedly quite glad that the greater Jotun were still unsighted; a lesser Jotun might grow large, yes, but their greater cousins could dwarf the castles of the southern folk and would likely swat aside her little convoy with contemptuous ease.
She though a little on the fate of Jotunheim and shuddered. Small wonder the giants had fled far away after what had been done to them. It was rumoured amongst the large folk that the last survivor of Jotunheim still stalked the far north, but if Dragrr really was still out there then even his own kin hadn't seen him in centuries. Now there was a figure that even her elders feared; the last surviving grandson of the first Jotun, the last survivor of the Burning of Jotunheim, and the last living memories of the civilised Umbra. If he really was still out there then he would certainly swat aside the realms of men on his lonesome, perhaps even surpassing Krakevasil himself in terms of raw power. She stilled herself. She'd just insinuated that something could be greater than her god. That was bad.
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It was the waiting that she hated. More than anything else, it was the waiting. What was she to do in this period of time, sleep? How could she, when she knew that two Jotun might come barrelling down into the valley at any moment. Pray? She saw little use in praying within a carved wooden box like the carriage she was in, and in her communions with her god she found that he felt much the same. No, it would not be prayer either. Her weapons were sharp, so she had no need to take a whetstone to them, the plans were burned into her memory and had never been written down, so there was nothing to practice reading with. There really was nothing for her to do.
Reading wasn't exactly her strong suit, but then there had been no-one to teach her. The druids saw no use in reading, preferring oral traditions and great poems to be recited instead. Similarly they hadn't cared much for writing either, save only the occasional runic inscriptions. Runes were a useful tool for communication, especially since the letters of the southerners had found their way north and been taken up by most literate people. This meant that there were few left who could actually read the runes, meaning they were rather useful for coded messages. Aside from that, there was power in the runes. Oh, some called it little more than superstition, but there was power in them nonetheless. The right runes calling upon the right boons carved into the right substance could be very powerful indeed. She had the feeling she might be needing some of them soon enough, especially if the Jotun were ranging south once more, but she daren't carve any herself without express permission from her elders first. Yes, the runes were an excellent tool for encoding messages, but actually trying to carve runes with the intention of gaining their protection, their strength? You needed to have a damn good reason unless you wanted the sacred elders to get more than a little annoyed at you for wasting the Raven-God's time and power with trifling matters. No, best to leave such things to the elders and those who'd earned their permission.
The knowledge that the Jotun were abroad again had left her a little shaken when she'd first heard it. The northmen knew the giants well, aye, and the northernmost tribes and settlements had occasionally made contact with the giant folk every so often through the long centuries since the Burning of Jotunheim, but the giants almost never left the mountains. Whether it was the northern Archic mountains or those peaks to the far north which shielded the Scelopyrene from what lay beyond, they never left the mountains. The fact that they had was cause for concern, as was the fact that they'd apparently been preparing their movements for quite some time without anyone realising. The druids were split on what to do with them, or at least they had been according to her mentor; half of the druids wanted to bring the giants to battle, to spill their blood alongside that of man's and finish off the last of them when all was said and done, whereas others wished to settle them in their ancestral home and help them rebuild Jotunheim. The dragons were gone after all, so what could possibly remain to threaten a unified Scelopyrene-Jotun alliance?
Nothing. There was nothing that could stand against them both.
Whichever path the druids had decided upon she knew not. Such dangerous secrets were not given out to Novices like her, but it didn't matter. Whichever path her masters decided upon, that was the way she would walk. There were risks on both sides, but either way the druids would end up on top. They always did. For centuries the druids had found ways to ensure that they were the rulers of Scelopyrea, no matter what the Jaerls and chieftains thought, and as such she knew that so long as she lived she would be on the winning side. That was all that mattered in the end; she didn't care what she sacrificed, who she needed to kill, how many promising futures she cut short, for it was all in the name of a greater calling; it was all in the name of reviving a dying god, in the name of winning.
She'd had enough of being on the losing side. She was going to make sure that she stayed winning from here on out, no matter how much of her pride she needed to swallow to ensure such events came to pass.
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A few hours later there was a deafening roar. It was a primal yet majestic thing, a symphony that promised violence upon those who heard it and inspired fear in all creatures for half a mile around. She felt a small pang of pity as the dozen people within her convoy began to panic at the unexpected assailants, guards grabbing their weapons and fearfully looking about at each other with terror-struck faces. She watched from out a small carriage window as the two giant figures bounded towards the convoy with great, loping strides, bellowing curses in their ancient language as around half of her attendants ran screaming for the hills, or otherwise cut their horses loose from the carriages and rode off. One cut his horse free and moved to gallop away, but his horse must have caught a whiff of the giants and reared up, crushing the rider down from the torso as it fell. She heard his sickening scream and the crunch of his legs as he went down, but then it was mercifully cut short as he passed out or otherwise died from shock. She wasn't sure which it had been, because her field of vision was only as wide as the little window, but it was clearly one of the two.
At that moment one of her retainers came to her side, opening the door and looking at her with frenzied eyes.
"Svaltha, we need to leave! I've got a horse ready as the last few guards make their stand, please, we need to go!"
She shook her head at Bera, the young woman staring up at her with panic and confusion.
"Sorry, but I can't. I need to stay here."
"Have you taken leave of your senses? Quickly, we need to go! Please, come on!"
The young woman grabbed her arm and tugged as she spoke, trying to get her to move. Svaltha was rather sorry for the no doubt inevitable death that would soon befall her attendant, after all, the woman was only trying to do her job and was braver than most seeing as she was still here, but sometimes people needed to understand that there was no choice to make. This was one such instance; the elder druids had already made all of the decisions for her when it came to being pressed to leave, and as such there she had precious little autonomy in this matter. Still, she thought, stopping her hand as it reached for the blade beneath the seat, there might be a better way I can use this without breaking the rules set down for me.
"Bera, I'm giving you an order. Ride hard to the Great Jaerl's camp, it isn't far from here. Ride hard, and tell the druids there what's happened. I'll see you soon."
Bera looked at her for half a second and was clearly about to argue, but a second, much closer bellow, shook her from such thoughts. She nodded once and then turned and ran, deftly clambering atop a large draft horse and setting off at a gallop as soon as the nearly-panicking animal was cut free from the cart.
"Well," she said to herself, watching as her attendant rode away, "I hope my elders know what they're doing."
She jolted in her seat a little and clutched the blade to her chest as feeling akin to that of rolling thunder passed through her. She sliced open the palm of her hand and said a few words of reverence for her god. Krakevasil was not fond of cramped spaces, but he was less worried so long as blood flowed. He was a very forgiving god, after all. Besides, it couldn't hurt to try and get in one last prayer in case this backfired and she really was killed. Even if he still wasn't pleased about being made to look upon the inside of this little wooden box, there was little doubt in her mind that he'd remain angry when he gazed upon the feast that was to come. He'd waited three decades for this offering, and she didn't want to keep him waiting much longer. No-one did. The Jaerls were all united, either under the Great Jaerl or his foe, the Eyvindottir, and all their forces would soon meet in one final, cataclysmic battle. The Raven-God would be pleased, so very pleased, and all they needed to do was push the two rival rulers just a little bit further. War was unavoidable, and if it was not, then the druids would make it so. Nothing would come between their god and his feast, but first she needed to entice this young warrior who would be sent to 'save' her and make him think he was some prophesied figure beloved amongst holy circles. She just needed to hope that the giants remained drunk enough to ignore her until the right moment came about.
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Krakevasil, this is boring.
It turned out hiding in a carriage from Jotun was a surprisingly dull affair. The sheer volume of intoxicants and herbs in the carriages surrounding her meant that neither of the big folk had smelt her, and the worst that had happened so far was that the carriage had broken its wheels and been half-ground into the dirt when one of the massive lugs had leaned on it and nearly lost his balance.
She wasn't afraid of admitting that, even with her prowess, she wouldn't have been able to win this fight without help anyway. Without a score or two of fighters there was little she'd be able to do with the sacrificial blade in her hand. It didn't matter though, since a score of men should be coming in a day or two. It all depended on how long it took her 'disappearance' to filter back through to the Great Jaerl and for a rescue mission to be sent. She muttered out a small prayer as her opened palm bled onto the floor of the carriage below, beseeching her god to make sure that the warrior who came upon her was the one the druids wanted and that he was good enough to survive fighting a Jotun to boot. She wasn't some damsel in distress or defenceless girl, she'd killed more than one man who'd made that mistake, but she felt no shame at all in admitting to herself that she was outmatched by the pair of giant men who towered over the carriages of their convoy. Already the two figures had taken all the convoy had carried before burning one of the carriages to start a fire for the night.
Even if she wasn't particularly afraid for her own safety, she was a little worried for the mission she was on. She didn't want to die of course, but far more important than that was the fact that if she were to falter here then the grand design of the druids would have to be pushed back by months, perhaps as long as half a year! She had no intention of being a weak link in their scheme, nor did she wish to be the reason why her god's eternal hunger remained unsatiated. She needed to make sure everything went exactly as planned here, or else the Krakewald would forever remain unavailable to her in death. Where was she to go when she died if not to that misty woodland trail, crawling with monsters to test her prowess?
No. She would brook no failure from herself here. She would live, she would ensnare the son of the Great Jaerl, and she would ascend to the rank of Purest amongst the Druids when the time was right. She just needed to be patient and careful in the coming hours, and in time she would be rewarded. She slit her palm again and grounded herself on the soil now exposed to her. If she was to be waiting here, she'd much prefer to be making good use of her time. With a few muttered words and the taste of iron on her tongue she felt her eyes roll back in her head, her senses shutting themselves off as she offered herself in communion with her god.
His voice may have been less than a whisper but, as always, he answered.