The old Jarl was lifted into a wooden ship with his sword across his breast. His head had been sewn back onto his neck so that he could travel into the next life and not curse the town he had left behind any further. Wulfred Beorson stood with an axe in his hand waiting for the right time to cut the dead Jarl loose. Finally, as the last herbs had been laid at the dead man's feet, Wulfred gave a cry and cut the rope, sending the Jarl's ship into the next world. Archers stood at the ready in the shallows with flaming arrows, and when they were sure the ship was at full sail, they let loose. It burned easily; flames enveloped Tiberius Reanik, and then caught onto the rest of his ship. The sails flew into ash and scattered away on the winds, the bow sank beneath the waves as flames weakened the wood, and water rushed in below deck.

As the ship fell into flames, the townsfolk of Trystem took up the old three lined standards of their town and set them alight, replacing them with the Beorson bear and thistle. Olaf stood next to Durie and Marius, listening to the townsfolk celebrating the life of their previous Jarl. Drinks poured freely into horns, all bought and paid for by the now new Jarl Wulfred Beorson-Trystem.

Tradition in the Vakringuardian Kingdoms dictated that the triumphant must celebrate the dead and the lost. Music spilled into the streets, and dancing could be seen on every corner. Dwarves danced with men and women, who in turn danced with each other. Jarl Wulfred sat on his new throne, wearing his new golden band and watching the celebrations with a smile. His people were happy. He was content.

As another tradition in the northern kingdoms, when a new Jarl is crowned, warriors may seek his token as an honour guard. A line of these token seeking warriors came up before the Jarl, eager for his honour. Some were turned away in disgrace; those who had formed the guard to the old Jarl were among these, and the ones who were accepted wore their tokens with pride, and celebrated with their comrades.

The Jarl left his throne, and came to stand next to Olaf, Marius, and Durie. He offered three golden bracelets in his hand and looked at the three of them.

"Without you, my town, and indeed my kingdom, would still be poisoned. I shall not speak ill of the dead, but because of you, Olaf, we are free. It would honour me to have you as part of my honour guard."

Olaf, regarded the golden tokens and turned to the Jarl before looking him in the eye. "I am sorry, Wulfred, but I must refuse. I am bound to no man, nor will I ever be. Durie here is bound to another king, and therefore shall not accept either, however I believe he may be a wonder as your blacksmith."

The Jarl nodded, and his eyes fell on Marius. "And what of you, Marius? I have seen your blades at work, and I know few can withstand them for long. Will you lend your black blade to my cause?"

Marius looked back up at Olaf who was eyeing him, amused, wondering what his decision would be. He looked at the golden bracelet shimmering in the dying light of the day, and Marius shook his head. "I am sorry, Jarl, but this black blade is not to be held under one name. Nurlin, smith of Mjolnir, crafted this blade for himself, and now it is my honour to hold it. That is all the honour I need."

Wulfred stared for a moment, startled by the rejection. He did, however, immediately recover, and bowed his head. "Fair is fair. I understand your positions, and if I am unable to have you as my honour guard, please accept my friendship. I will also take your suggestion into account, Olaf. New warriors need new arms, and that means I need a smith. I hear Durie is the best in Trystem, and if I must have him, then so be it!"

With that, the Jarl walked back to his throne and received more warriors to his cause.

Olaf smiled and looked down at Durie. "Seems you have a paid job now, my friend. You can finally stop drinking that pigswill, and afford something a bit more high- class."

Durie chuckled at this, and slapped Olaf on the back of his leg. "Aye, you bastard, it would not surprise me if you had planned this whole thing just so you would have something good to drink when you came down here."

Olaf laughed at that, and with Marius at their side, Olaf and Durie headed to the nearest bar. Marius looked at this Inn's sign, and smiled to see a new painting of the Beorson coat of arms swaying in the breeze over the old name: The Jarl's Inn. Olaf, Durie, and Marius pushed into the tightly squeezed pub to applause and cheers. Hands constantly patted the three of them on the back, and Marius heard Durie mutter to Olaf, "I've got no idea why I’m getting cheered and slapped, I didn't do anything."

Olaf hauled the Dwarf onto his high shoulder, and cheered with everyone else, saying in his booming voice, "Behold Durie, saviour of Trystem!"

Cheers erupted louder than ever, and blushing, Durie tried to hide beneath his beard. Olaf waited for the cheers to die down, before lowering Durie. The three of them found a vacant table, and sat down, watching the celebrations with pride. Ale and Dwarven mead flowed from every tap, and Marius was taken by surprise when a band kicked up next to them.

The bard whom had played in the Mother-locke inn was now at the head of his own band. Flutes played with a fiddle, and a stomping man played a strange assortment of bags and pipes. A drum was giving a steady beat, which drove the crowd into a spinning dance as the bard let out a surly tone. His fellow musicians joined him in his singing, and Marius was surprised to find that they spoke in a strange language that was neither Dwarvish nor the common tongue of man.

Olaf's foot was thumping against the floor in his drunken enjoyment, making the table shake with every stomp. Durie too seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Marius, who was curious about the language, leant closer to his two companions, and in a drunken slur asked, "Olaf, Durie, what languash ish that?"

Olaf's head swung around, and a massive smile split across his scarred face, "'tis Nordic, Marius, the ancient language of the north."

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Marius raised his eyebrows, and looked about him at the dancing crowd, throwing their heads backwards and forward, and jumping up and down with their arms raised. As the song came to an end, the crowd clapped and cheered. A woman walked onto the stage, and the crowd cheered louder as she pulled out a strange instrument with keys like an organ, but with a bellows in the middle.

She sang with the bard, and together they played a rolling lay in Nordic. This drove the crowd wild, and even Olaf got to his feet and started performing a strange kind of shuffle. Durie sat at his seat, giving the excuse that he could not dance. The crowd swirled around, and with each drink, Marius found himself more committed to join in the fray. Finally, he got to his feet, and was caught up in the jumping, stomping, head banging crowd. Marius didn't quite understand the movements his body was making, but he decided to follow where it led. He leaped and floundered in the air like a fish, he hopped from one foot to the other, and yelled out, trying to guess the next words to a song in a language he had never heard. He would have felt ridiculous, even if he was as drunk as he was, but everyone else seemed to be doing exactly the same. Olaf at this point was hoisted above the crowd, and lay on his back as they carried him around the room. They poured whiskey and Dwarven liquor into his mouth, which he washed down with mead.

…

Celebrations carried on through the night, and into the early hours of the morning. Marius woke up on a sticky table, and as he looked around, he groaned. The blurred scenery started coming back into focus as sun’s beams trickled in through the cracks in the closed curtains. A fire crackled in the fire place, and bodies lay strewn about the floor.

Marius slid sideways off the table, and fell onto a sleeping Durie who seemed comatose as he lay curled beneath the table. Olaf sat in an armchair in the corner of the bar smoking his pipe. He gave his student a wink as Marius carefully sidestepped the sleeping patrons. Marius suddenly felt light, and as he reached around to discover why, he found Nurlin's blade missing out of its sheath. Panic immediately gripped him and he desperately looked around. Olaf cleared his throat, and when Marius looked up at him, he nodded to a dart board on the wall. Both Olaf's and Nurlin's blade sat embedded into it. The board itself hung cleaved in two, held up by the two swords. Marius sighed with relief, and made his way over to them. He pulled his black blade out, and to the chorus of groans and cursing, half of the dart board crashed to the floor.

He sheathed his sword, and attempted to pull out Olaf's. A surge of energy shot through Marius as he gripped the hilt, and he felt as if he could accomplish anything. He pulled at the sword, and felt it begin to come free. Just as the blade came sliding out from the wall, Olaf clapped his hand on Marius's shoulder, and pushed him away from the sword. With a single hand, he tugged and the blade flew out of the wall, easily releasing the second half of the dart board which woke up half of the room.

Olaf sheathed his glittering sword, then gave Marius a fixed look. "No man should take up my sword, Marius. It’s dangerous."

Marius nodded, afraid that he had crossed a line with Olaf, but to his relief, his teacher gave him another wink. "That-a-boy. Now, we need to get some provisions then we can set off to Doflhiem."

Together they made their way out onto the street. The sun was high in sky, but the town still held a frigid chill. Marius wrapped his overcoat around him, and followed Olaf through the messy streets. People had already awoken and started to tidy the town from the night before. Hungover peasants picked up bottles, horns, and tankards, and took them back into the inns and taverns. Merchants swept the streets about their shops, and tradesmen fixed broken windows and other accidents that had occurred in the drunken celebrations.

Olaf finally stopped at a publisher and printer's building close to the rich halls in the centre of the town. An aged man in a strange poufy hat sat outside, with his head in his hands. Green tattoos not unlike Olaf’s were spread over his skin, and they seemed to glimmer slightly in the morning sun.

Olaf approached the man. "Hello, Bartholomew, long time no see."

The old man's face fell when he saw Olaf, and he hurried inside his shop. Olaf followed him with Marius close behind. A small bell tinged as Marius shut the door behind him, and as he looked around, his breath caught. Shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls littered the walls. Some of them appeared to be as old as the ones Olaf kept in his study, while others seemed newly scribed, with the ink still wet.

Bartholomew continued deeper into his shop, with the subtle glow of his tattoos shining against the leather bound tomes on the shelves; Olaf continued to follow him.

The old man cried out in a squeaky voice, "Leave me alone, you trouble-maker! Everywhere you go, you disturb people's peace. I was quite happy to sit at home and drink and smoke – I didn't want anything to do with that dragon."

Marius immediately took his eyes away from an alcove of particularly crinkled scrolls at the word dragon.

Olaf sighed. "That was not my fault. I only recruited you because you had a particularly interesting scroll that I wanted, and you would not give it up. It’s quite your own fault really; I didn't ask you to jump in and slay it. I had a few people who were itching to do that themselves, and they were all quite put out by your heroism."

Bartholomew finally ran out of space when he took a wrong turn and hit a towering wall of maps.

He turned around and pointed his finger right into Olaf's massive chest. "You knew I would jump in! You planned the whole rotten business, bloody dragon worshipers. I still have nightmares about that high priest!"

Olaf shrugged. "Either way, I did not ask you to join us. You volunteered."

Bartholomew snorted. "Volunteered? I distinctly remember being peer pressured by you, Durie, and that Rutchnarian fellow into joining your little hunting party. I wouldn't have minded if that bloody lizard couldn't talk, that's the thing that got me: those big golden eyes and that silky bloody tongue of his."

Bartholomew gave a shaking spasm. "Ugh, still gives me the shivers today."

Olaf patted him on the shoulder. "It is all alright. It’s gone, and it’s not coming back." He straightened up, and clapped his hands. "Now, I do need your help with something: a map, or in fact three maps that I know you have."

Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. "I’m not going with you, you bastard. I’ll give you the maps you want; you can have them. Curses and trouble are all you bring."

Olaf rolled his eyes. "You are so bloody dramatic. What did you expect when I said dragon worship? All you had to do was hand over the scroll and you could have sat back and drank yourself into an early grave if you so wished."

Bartholomew grumbled something about immortality, and turned around. "Which maps are you after?"

Olaf paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, and looked up at the wall of maps. "I need a map to show every way in and out of the Alturine Empire from Lornea. I need a map of the kingdoms of the north, and a current chart for the Mother-locke in case plans change."

Bartholomew grabbed each map in order, and once they were all handed over he gave Olaf a hard look. "Now, get out. I’ve helped you enough."

Olaf put up his hands after he tucked the maps and chart into a satchel he had produced from his overcoat. "Ok, we're leaving. I’ll send Durie by with some booze for you, if you'd like?"

The old man just grumbled some more, and returned to the depths of his shop.