Pulling at the oars with another long stroke, Bjorn looked over his shoulder, making sure he was following the coastline, did not beach the boat. He much preferred the canoe this close to shore, but Bjorn had to admit the feel it gave his muscles to row like this was pleasurable.

Looking to his right, he could see the great sea. The temptation to turn his boat towards where the Brother was gazing at himself, brave the crossing to the Softlands, was almost overwhelming. The tales had never told of those that succeeded, only those that failed. It was a foolish endeavor, but still, the temptation was there.

It had been two days and nights since he had put the Softlanders to rest for their transgressions. His disgust over them had only increased when he found the well hidden pouches wrapped inside fur and hide. Eight pouches of yellow gold. Thin flakes and small lumps. His disgust was not so much at the yellow gold but what it meant.

Those of the People that enjoyed the look of the yellow gold or wanted to do a trade for something with the Softlanders merchants would make their way up in the mountains. High up where the snow was still on the ground but the river still flowed over the grounds, you could find lumps the size of fists or a baby's head. They took what was needed and left the rest for others to take when they had need.

The mountains were the home of the big cats, however, those that made their way to the grasslands to hunt from time to time. Great in size and mane, a roar that could make the snow along the mountain slopes run like a great river and paws the size of a grown man's chest. If you were not careful, you could also fall prey to the silent cats. Their teeth long as a forearm to tear your flesh. While they mostly hunted goats or the furred ox, a hungry one would pounce on one of the People as fast as a goat from their perch above trails on the mountainside.

There were even caves you could brave that had yellow streaks of gold on the walls going down and down into the mountain, it was said. None Bjorn had heard of that came back went further than the light from the sun's reach, so how this was known was a mystery to him. Those that had braved that deep darkness of the caves found their final rest in it.

The way of the People did not work on greed but on need, and when there was plenty, a need was easy to meet. The forest was vast and plentiful in both game and lumber. The mountains yielded the precious iron. The streams and the sea were full of fish, vegetables and fruit grew in plenty along the foot of the old fire mountains for the clans that made their home there. Trade between clans ensured that they always had what was needed, but sometimes someone would want something. Then they went and got what they needed for the wanting.

That's not to say the exceptions did not happen, like with the yellow gold his father, the man who used to be his father, had found while hunting furred ox in the mountains. It had just been laying among other rocks of the same size of gray stone and quarts. Almost twice the size of a man's chest. They had gone up and brought it to the village the next day, where the man who once was his father placed it on an old wood chopping block outside by the entrance of the door and proclaimed that he would give five skins of his famous mead to the one who could lift it above the head. Even the clan champion could not get it much further than a few hands above the chopping block. It stood there to this day, and every once in a while, the villagers would gather around drunk and merry to try their strength or when other clan's Jarls came to visit. It became a tradition for those in the party to try and lift it on the way to the Jarl's house, and the man who he was once his father would hand them a cup of mead and greet them welcome to the village when they failed. But he never claimed the yellow gold as his. It just stood by his house, and Bjorn knew that if the need was great enough, he would not mind if the clan used it for trade.

No, what had Bjorn disgusted was that to get this many flakes, you had to be deep in the grasslands and rinse the river dirt clean of all the yellow gold one could find. It was taking everything without thinking of the next one that had need. It was stealing from the land of the People. Why three people would need eight pouches the size of Bjorn's head with yellow gold was something he also could not understand. Did they plan on buying their own Chiefdoms in their own lands? Were they sons that had failed their clans and were thrown out and made a revenant like him?

Bjorn stopped rowing. For a moment, he considered turning his boat around. Gathering that much yellow gold in flakes would take a long time. Even in a rich stream, it would take many days and nights. The Softlanders had to have a permanent camp inside the land somewhere in the direction the three had come from. Either permanently manned by thieves or some place they regularly came back to. He did not know how often they had made the trip back and forth, but there was no clear path to the beach through the woods, so few.

The eight pouches, well, the one pouche now since he had taken seven of them up in the mountains and emptied them into the stream that would become the river he had slept by further down. It had been much lighter than he had expected, and he wondered if there was something wrong with the yellow gold. Maybe the gods had put a curse on it for the theft? He had only needed to take one trip, and he was fine with that.

That much gold took a very long time to gather, but it was still just a fraction of what the riverbeds contained. Yes, they had to have some hidden camp in the land. He would find and destroy it once he had scouted the merchant camp. Maybe see if any of the People were there.

Many strokes of the oars later, Bjorn could see one of the Softlander ships, laying still some distance from shore. A short time later, the strange square tents of the Softlanders dotted the grass above the beach. He counted a few more than three dozen.

Beaching the boat he was on, he set about hiding it in some bushes above where the tideline was. He doubted they would spot his small boat this far away unless they were looking for it, but he would take no chances.

Grabbing his war axe and the little food he had brought with him in one of the former gold pouches, he made his way to the treeline and walked slowly towards the merchant camp, making sure to keep about twenty steps of trees between himself and the grass.

He kept a slow and steady pace, the sun was still up, and the brother was smiling his favor on the land. It was a good day, he realized. The treacherous torturous voices had not been back for some time. He had already resigned himself to spending the night here, so there was no need to rush.

Sitting a few hundred steps from the merchant camp in a particularly well branched tree, he spied down on them. It was surprisingly boring, and his mind was prone to wander. Despite his expectations of watching how the exotic lives of Softlanders were when they were not being slain or ravaged, he was disappointed to see that they mostly waited. Those he had picked out as merchants mostly sat around and drank from skins while playing knuckles or stones, as far he could tell. Occasionally they would burst out laughing and point at one of them who looked to be losing. It was surprisingly similar to what he would see some of the elders would do in the village.

The guards, or those he thought were guards, were walking in and around the camp, following no pattern Bjorn could see. Quite a few were also drinking from skins outside of the merchant's view. All in all, he counted eight that looked like merchants and twenty one that looked like guards. To his disappointment, no females and none of the People were there. He could see the path leading inland to what was no doubt a clan village. He did not know what clan was nearby however.

Bjorn waited and listened to the birds telling their stories. He imagined them telling each other of great hunts for grasshoppers and long times stalking the ever elusive worms. In places they had been to, where seeds and nuts were plentiful. Telling the younger once how the large predators walking on two legs would set out bushels of grain for them outside their strange nests during the coldest months in winter, how those months were now a time of peace and plenty rather than struggle and need.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Then the dark was there, and the Sister pushed the Brother playfully out of the sky. If he watched her closely, he could almost see her smile.

The merchants left the guards when the dark came and took to boats for their ship. Probably wise, considering it takes no more than a drunken clansman, from a clan that had not offered them safety. Being annoyed over some item that had broken far too early. To rally a few of the People and come to enact their punishment on the merchants. If they were sober enough to find the camp or even close enough to make it in the dark. Bjorn decided he had seen enough. He walked into the forest and found a place between two roots to lay down his weary head. Still, the voices did not come.

The next morning Bjorn strode down the path he guessed came from the village towards the merchants came. A guard shouted some of their annoying sounds towards the merchants that just had sat down when he spotted Bjorn.

A few Bjorn was a few steps from the guard, the Softlander said, “Gitiiins, viiilkanm haanir geist.” Did the guard think he was a guest on his own land? He could smell the clear spirits on the man's breath, steps away from the Softlander. It even overpowered his unwashed stench. Bjorn considered killing him, but decided to talk with the merchants first. He imagined talking with them after he cut the Softlander's throat would be more difficult. Ignoring the guard, he walked up to the merchants.

When he was a few steps away, they bowed deep. Bjorn told them, “I have need of many things. Tools, bolts of cloth, thread, thralls, grains for eating and grains for planting and more. Who of you speak?

One of the merchants, that looked like one of the eastern Softlanders by his bronze skin, answered. “Honored warrior, I will speak for my fellow merchants. Please, please let us sit. I would like to thank you for allowing us to stay on your land while we trade our humble wares.” The merchant gestured at one of the low tables placed on a thick rug and the strange fluffy seat they normally used. Bjorn did not like them, so he walked over and removed the fluffy thing and sat on the ground. Even so, he was taller than the merchant at the table, that had seated himself opposite him. The other merchants stayed a respectful distance away. One even signaled a guard to leave as the Softlander was getting too close to the table on his rounds.

“You speak well, merchantman. That is good. Your guard does not speak well. If I decided to let him live, it is better that he does not speak at all to the People if he wishes them welcome as guests on their own land.” Bjorn said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the guard that was still standing by the path to the village.

The Softlander merchant blenched at his words, bringing an unhealthy hue to what normally would have been a sun kissed bronze skin. “My apologies, warrior. I will correct him out of your hearing later should you let him live. Now, please. Let me see what I can arrange for your needs.”

A long time later, much too long to Bjorn's nose, they were almost done with the list of things Bjorn wanted. It was a long list, but if he wanted to build himself a more permanent base, he would either have to steal what he needed from the People or trade with these merchants. All in all, the merchant seemed happy, it would obviously be costly.

“As you may suspect, I can sadly not provide you this at once, but we are soon to set sail back to our ports, and I will acquire everything for you on the next trip.” Bjorn nodded. The merchant had been upfront with the problem of not having the things he would need now, and he had not expected him to either. The price came to the equivalent weight in yellow gold as thirty of the Softlander yellow gold disks. If Bjorn wanted to trade in skins, hides and furs, that was fine, too, as the value would be deducted from the total.

Bjorn decided he did not despise the merchant, just found him unsavory as he did with all Softlanders and beasts that rooted around in refuse, so he told him. “If you are not sailing because of the men you sent trespassing, they have been punished, and there is no reason to wait.” The Soflander's face turned slightly red, then green. Then he took on the sickly pale hue of someone understanding how bad things could become very, very quickly. It did not look good with his bronze skin.

The merchant grew frantic and started apologizing. Obviously, he knew what had happened to the last Softlanders that had been caught trespassing. The Longships had dotted the sea like stars in the sky. Their land had been torched and salted, and their people enslaved or killed. The People did not look favorably on those that set foot on their land without leave. It was a declaration of blood feud on the gods.

One of the guards must have picked up that something was wrong because he shouted something at them in their twittering noises. The merchant started shouting things back at the guard between apologizing to Bjorn. Bjorn's head was beginning to hurt. He could hear the guard a few steps behind him now, making sounds at the merchant while the merchant was making sounds in a frantic cadence back at the guard. Bjorn started rubbing his temples.

When the guard was a couple of steps behind him, Bjorn turned his head and looked at the guard. It was the same greasy Softlander that smelled of the clear spirits he had walked past earlier. The difference this time was that the guard was holding a spear pointed at Bjorn, and he could see more of them make their way toward the commotion. When the spear wielding Softlander shouted his annoying sounds at Bjorn, he boiled over.

The feeling of being cast out by his people, and if he was honest with himself, he felt betrayed by both them and the gods. He had not chosen to be marked as he was. He had been made an outcast because of things he had no control over. He had lost his family, his friends, and his place in the land because of something he had no choice over. He may not be part of the clans anymore. He may be dead to the people, but the land he was as much his as theirs. Now this Softlander dared to threaten him on his own land? It was enough!

Spinning to the right as he rose, he had the spear shaft of the guard in hand before the Softlander could more than try to step back. Bjorn yanked the spear and the guard towards him, taking hold of the guard's buckle and the top of his mail shirt. With a roar, Bjorn lifted the struggling guard over his head before throwing him at the nearest cooking fire. He stood there for a moment breathing hard in his anger and sorrow. Watching as the Softlander struggled to get out of the fire. He could see more guards coming towards him now. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the merchant frantically screaming.

It was not enough. His blood boiled, the fire responded. The struggling guard ignited atop the cookfire like he was made of strands of cotton thrown on the evening fire by a child. The blaze was intense, as was the white hot glow of the Softlanders mail shirt as he screamed his last breath, flames making their way out of his mouth.

Then there was silence. Bjorn looked around, and everyone had stopped. Not able to take the stench of the burnt Softlander anymore, he walked towards the merchant and said, “When you have my things, you will come to the cove your men used for their trespassing. There you will light a bonfire, and I will come to you. We will trade, and you will be paid well. Do not come, and you will not be able to trade in the land again. I will find you where you put down your tents, and I will take your lives. Do you understand?”

The merchant looked ready to lose his breakfast, but despite it all, he had a clever head and nodded while saying. “Bring the trade to the cove. Light a bonfire… Of course. Of course, great warrior.” Bjorn nodded and walked past him, close enough for the Softlander to flinch away. Before he could leave the camp, however, the merchant called after him, “What do I tell the clan if they see us on the cove? They will think we are trespassing.”

Bjorn answered without turning around. “Tell them it is the land of the Revenant.” The voices were back.