Skíði sighted down the shaft of his arrow. With a loosened breath, he released it. It flew straight and true, embedding itself into the eye of a young buck. At the same time, Brother Paweł let loose his own arrow. This one also flew home into the neck of another buck. A spray of blood stained the melting snow. Both bucks staggered a few feet, keened lowly, and then died.

Brother Paweł let out a hearty chuckle, clapped Skíði on the shoulder, and stood as the deer that still lived bounded away. “Well done, young Skíði! How many hunters can claim a hit like that?”

Skíði only shrugged. “I was aiming for his neck. It was a lucky shot.”

“Nonsense! Svanbjörn and Yrsa will be very pleased.” He helped Skíði to his feet. “Let’s go dress them and take them home.

They made their way over to the fallen deer. With swift hands and calm assurance, Brother Paweł dressed his buck. With somewhat less swift hands and a considerable amount of clumsiness, Skíði dressed his buck also. To his acute embarrassment, Brother Paweł finished with his buck with plenty of time left over to critique his work.

When they had finished with the grisly task, they each hoisted their own buck onto their shoulders and began the long walk home. They had walked two leagues from town to find the deer. For a while, they walked in companionable silence. This Skíði preferred. Other times Brother Paweł would talk to him, sometimes more at him, about the Christian God. Skíði hadn’t, on the whole, decided who or what he believed in yet.

Svanbjörn, Skíði’s other mentor, was a devotee of Bragi. Yrsa followed the goddess Frigg. Together with Brother Paweł, the two siblings had raised Skíði. He felt as though he should choose a side, a god, but he truly did not know who he believed in. All he knew was that they were his family, the only family he had ever known.

He was Skíði Magdassen. Magda’s son. He did not know his father. He doubted anyone did. Magda had died without telling anyone. In fact, she had died shortly after he had been born. He didn’t remember her. He knew he had family somewhere. His mother had been the daughter of a merchant from far to the south. But they had abandoned his mother. If they even knew Skíði existed, he did not know.

“What are you thinking about over there Skíði? You’re too quiet for this old monk,” Brother Paweł said, puffing slightly from the weight of his buck.

“Nothing,” Skíði lied easily.”Venison, mostly.”

Brother Paweł roared a laugh. “Always thinking with your stomach, eh? Well, you may still have some growing in you.” The old monk stroked his beard contemplatively. “You’re what, now, sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” Skíði corrected absently. Brother Paweł had been trying to make him younger than he really was since he was ten years old.

“No! Already?”

“During Yule, Svanbjörn and Yrsa said.”

Brother Paweł harrumphed. “Well, I suppose they’d know. You were already toddling when I came to save your soul from their heathen ways.”

Skíði smothered a groan. “Yes, Brother Paweł.”

“You must accept Jesu Christo as you Lord and Savior, boy. Hmm?” Brother Paweł squinted ahead of them. “Who’s this, then?”

Skíði peered forward, grateful for the reprieve. Ahead of them by a bend in the road sat an old man, a beggar by his worn clothing, seated by a small fire. The old beggar waved to them. Skíði waved back. Brother Paweł did not.

“Hail, great hunters,” the old man croaked at them. “You must be very skilled indeed, to have brought down two fine bucks with your bows.”

“Indeed,” Brother Paweł muttered. “Come, Skíði.” He motioned for Skíði to follow him.

“A moment, good hunters,” the old beggar said. “You have two fine bucks there. Surely you have need of only one...”

“We have four mouths to feed,” Brother Paweł snapped. “Venison is lean. It does not go far. We need what we have. Come along, Skíði!”

But Skíði had stopped. “No. No, Brother Paweł, he is right. Perhaps we may hunt another deer tomorrow, but him? Forgive me, old father, but you are too long in the tooth to hunt else but rabbits. We can spare a buck.”

“Skíði...”

Ignoring him, Skíði slung his buck down beside the old man. “Here, old father. Have you a knife? I will do the butchering if you have none.”

The old beggar eyed Skíði carefully with his one good eye and nodded once, decisively. “Very good, Skíði Madgassen. I want you to have this.” He passed Skíði a rolled piece of parchment. “This map will lead you to your heart’s desire, whatever that may be.”

Then the old man turned to Brother Paweł. “As for you, Brother Paweł Sowa… You would be wise to be more charitable, old Jesuit. Your God looks down on men of the cloth who care only for their own affairs. As good as it was for you to care for young Skíði, your lack of charity puts your soul in a dangerous place. Take care.”

Brother Paweł reddened. “How do you know our names, old man? And who are you to lecture a monk?”

The old man laughed. “You may call me Üçüncü. And I know enough of your religion to fear it and your ilk. You mean a world of harm to me and my kind.”

“What do you mean?” Skíði asked, both curious and bemused.

“I suspect you will find out soon enough,” said Üçüncü. “Take care of that map, Skíði Magdassen.”

The wind abruptly blew hard and fast, kicking up the dust and blowing it into Skíði and Brother Paweł’s faces. They each brought up an arm to shield their eyes. As suddenly as the wind rose, it fell away. Skíði lowered his arm, blinking away the grit, and stared.

Üçüncü, the buck, and the fire… they had all disappeared! Skíði and Brother Paweł peered around the faint, lifting, early morning fog, but there was no one in sight. When Skíði looked closer, there was no sign there had ever been a fire there at all.

Brother Paweł grunted. “What kind of devilish sorcery…? Well, no matter. We’ve lost half our hunt, traded for that so-called map. We’ll burn it when we get home. Who knows where it may lead?

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Skíði looked down at the rolled scrap of parchment in his hand. “No,” he said.

Brother Paweł stared at him as though he had grown a second head. “No? Skíði, that map might lead you to the very fires of Hell for all you know!”

“I do not desire the fires of Hell, Brother Paweł,” Skíði said evenly. “I do not know where this map may lead me to… but I wish to find out.”

Brother Paweł reddened again, and then took a deep breath. “I… I am not your only guardian, Skíði. And you are a man grown. Let us speak with Svanbjörn and Yrsa. Perhaps they will have some kind of insight into this… map.”

“Very well.”

They began to walk again. Brother Paweł was somehow even quieter the rest of the way back to town. The expression on his face told Skíði that he was deep in thought. His usually dour face looked positively grim. Skíði thought about trying to say something to reassure him, but what could he say? He wanted to follow the map, and Brother Paweł wanted him to burn it. There was nothing left to say.

After nearly a candle’s mark of grim, silent marching, the building appeared in the distance. They paused for a moment at a nearby stream. Skíði tried to take the buck from Brother Paweł, but the old monk only scowled and hoisted the dead animal higher onto his shoulder. Skíði only sighed.

Sometimes Brother Paweł was stubborn…

The buildings in the distance grew larger. On the outskirts were small huts, ramshackle buildings belonging to very poor freemen. Further in were neat cottages with small gardens. In the town center were large buildings of stone. These belonged to the Lord and the rich merchants. Past these were more cottages and, down at the shore, storehouses and more ramshackle buildings belonging to poor fishermen.

It was the town of Visby, in Gotland. It was a trading town, more than it was anything else. Even the Lord was more interested in trade than raiding, unlike the Lords on the mainland. Skíði had one thought every time they passed into town.

It is not much, but it is home.

Most men his age were either off trading or off raiding. But Skíði didn’t know what he wanted. He enjoyed hunting. He enjoyed fishing. He enjoyed bartering. He didn’t enjoy the prospect of doing any of them until… until what? Until he, too, was so infirm that he needed to beg at the roadside? Perhaps Üçüncü had been a warning for him and much as for Brother Paweł…

They walked to one of the small cottages nearer the forest, and Skíði opened the door for Brother Paweł. Yrsa turned from where she was kneading bread on the counter and smiled at them.

“Ah, the great huntsmen return? And with a fine buck! Well done,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Yrsa was a warm faced older woman. She and her twin brother Svanbjörn were nearing their sixties and were well respected in the town of Visby.

“There were two, but Skíði decided to make a deal with some demon at the turn in the road,” Brother Paweł bit out sourly as he flung the buck onto the table.

Yrsa raised an eyebrow at this. “A demon? What exactly happened, Skíði?”

“I’d rather wait until Svanbjörn is here if you don’t mind waiting, Yrsa?” Skíði asked plaintively. “I’d rather only tell it the once.”

She sighed and gave him a stern look — the same one she’d given him to make him eat his vegetables as a child — but said only, “As you like it. My brother has gone to visit an old traveling companion who is in Visby for the year. One of his crewmen broke his leg, and his brothers will not leave him here to be tended. Svanbjörn should be back soon enough…” She turned decisively back to her breadmaking. “And slaughter that animal off my table, thank you, Brother Paweł!”

Brother Paweł, who had just unsheathed a large knife and was walking back to the buck, stopped. He sheathed the knife with a grumble, picked up the buck again with a scowl, and hauled it out the back door. Skíði followed after him with a smaller knife. As Brother Paweł began to hack at the larger joints, Skíði started skinning the animal. In minutes, practiced as they both were, they had the hide stretched and curing. The meat they had salted and then put in the smoking shed.

They were washing their bloody hands and knives when Svanbjörn came out of the house. Svanbjörn looked much like his sister Yrsa, but a tad grayer and with a thick, robust beard. Like Yrsa, his eyes were kind, but stern.

“A buck?” Svanbjörn asked as he approached. “Yrsa says there were two, but one was traded to a demon of some kind? And something about Skíði having a tale to tell?”

“Inside,” Skíði said decisively. They went back into the cottage. Yrsa was just putting the bread into the oven as they entered, and the four of them sat at the table together.

“So?” Yrsa asked impatiently.

Skíði took a deep breath and told them of the encounter with Üçüncü. Brother Paweł interjected once or twice with overlooked details, like the dead eye in Üçüncü’s left socket or the pair of ravens Skíði hadn’t seen circling overhead. These had apparently also disappeared when Üçüncü had vanished. When they finished speaking, Svanbjörn exchanged a significant look with Yrsa.

“The Allfather?” Svanbjörn asked his sister.

“I fear so,” Yrsa confirmed.

“You don’t mean Óð-” Skíði started.

“DON’T!!” they stopped him together, hands outstretched.

“If you have caught his eye — and clearly you have — do not say his name needlessly,” Svanbjörn explained. “The Allfather’s attention is a capricious thing, better to be avoided when possible.” Skíði nodded and they both relaxed a little. “Now. Let us see this map.”

Skíði hesitated a moment, then nodded and drew the rolled parchment ou of his pouch, He rolled it open on the table. He, Svanbjörn, and Yrsa leaned forward to look, while Brother Paweł leaned away, crossing himself.

There was no rain of fire or death, only a map of Visby, a line pointing the way to the sea. On the map was a small arrow labeled “Skíði”. The map itself was labeled “Kalbin Arzusu”.

Yrsa raised an eyebrow at Brother Paweł, who was muttering in Latin and crossing himself fervently. “So? It is only a map.”

“And the map leads to where, hmmm?” asked Svanbjörn. “That line goes off the map.”

“—per auxilium gratiae tuae dici: ut confortemini, Per Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum. Amen.” Brother Paweł finished crossing himself and leaned over the map. “At least Svanbjörn is talking some sense. Well, Skíði? Do you still wish to follow this demon map?”

“Yes,” Skíði said simply.

“And what, exactly, are you seeking?” Svanbjörn asked quietly. “What is the young Skíði’s heart’s desire?”

“That’s a very personal question!” Yrsa objected. “Skíði, you don’t need to answer that.”

“He does if he thinks to follow this map!” Svanbjörn snapped. “I am not leaving my s—… my foster… to follow Óð— the Allfather’s unkind graces alone! Either I go with him, or he does not go at all!”

“If Svanbjörn is going, I am going,” Brother Paweł interjected. “And I think we would both like to know what we are seeking before we go haring off.”

“And what, I am expected to mind the cottage while you three blunder along?” Yrsa asked, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Skíði is my foster too, brother!” She turned back to Skíði. “Tell us or no. I will go with you."

“He is not going anywhere without me!” Brother Paweł objected. “And I go nowhere without first knowing on what errand we go!”

“He is my foster, not yours!” Svanbjörn reminded the monk forcefully. He turned to Skíði. “Boy, if you wish to return to this cottage with your heart’s desire, out with it. What do you seek?”

Skíði turned to Yrsa, who waved a disgusted hand. “Men. Tell them or lie. I care not.”

He nodded and thought for a moment, looking down at the map on the table. His heart’s desire? The simplest, hardest question. What did he seek? What had he always wanted, more than anything? He looked from Yrsa to Svanbjörn to Brother Paweł and back to Yrsa, before looking back down at the map.

Of course… But how could they ever understand?

“Well, boy?” Brother Paweł demanded. “What devil’s errand are you on?”

Skíði looked at each of his foster parents in turn before saying clearly, for each of them to hear, “I seek the Mead of Poetry.”