“Tha-dum! Tha-dum! Tha-dum!”

The thunderous drumbeats echoed through the valley, echoing off the stony grey peaks of the Norden Mountains. In their shadow, a great army stood, clad in sturdy mail an armed with spear and sword and axe. Bright blue banners emblazoned with the white raven of Eirsmet fluttered proudly in the air.

“THA-DUM! THA-DUM! THA-DUM!”

The drums quickened as a party clad in fine blue silk made its way through the ranks. At the forefront stood Uther, the King of Eirsmet, the last great lord of the Northern Realms. He who would slay the Upstart and bring freedom to all Karland. In one hand he held a long spear, which he thrust into the air. The drums fell silent.

“My people!” Uther roared “My people! Long have we awaited this day, when the shadow hanging over our country shall be cast out! As we speak, the Southern whelp leads an army down the Grey Road, his heart burning with wicked lust and greed. Should we allow it, he will defile our lands and make slaves of our people!”

Cries of fevered rage went up among the army.  Murderers! Slavers! Demons!

Uther raised his spear once more, and spoke again.

“However, when they pass through the mountains, they will not find feeble lords and frightened peasants, as they did in their own lands! They will find the greatest army the North has ever seen! Free men and women, with hearts full of courage! A people who would rather die than kneel! Today we shall strike the head off the vile green serpent, born of Sulheim. Tomorrow, we shall march south and free their people! We shall not stop until-“

Whatever the valiant king meant to say next was to be forgotten by history, for in that moment, horns came roaring through the mountain.

“Haaroooom! Haaroooom!”

The earth shook as Eadric’s cavalry poured through the mountain pass, a wave of green capes, emblazoned with golden bears, spilling out into the valley. It was as though spring had come again to the grasslands painted white with winter’s first snowfall. The drums rose up once more to meet the horns. A cacophony of noise could be heard across the land.

“With me, my warriors!” Uther howled “Form up! Form up! They will be broken here, against our shields! No more Kingdoms shall fall to this scoundrel!”

Marching in lockstep, with shields pressed firmly together, Uther’s army took to the field. The oncoming cavalry split into three. One party rode left, another right, and the final force, led by Eadric himself, charged down the center. Uther barked out orders, urging his men forward. He fell to a horseman’s spear early on in the fighting. He was followed into death soon after by many of his kinsmen and retainers. The Northern army was surrounded and whittled away, until what little remained surrendered.

~

With the fall of Uther, last of The Raven Kings of Eirsmet, Eadric ruled unchallenged. Sovereign King of all Karland. He placed one of his retainers, a man called Wulfred, in Eirsmet. A governor to collect his taxes and uphold his laws. Wulfred had with him a force of Eadric’s own Greencloaks to guard against rebellion. A wise choice, he was assured. Many of Uther’s distant kin still lived in the north. Bold figures around whom the rowdy northerners could be convinced to rally. While Eadric’s great victory had won him the north, he had no desire to spend the rest of his years fighting to control it. So the Greencloaks were to stay indefinitely.

Now one such kinswoman of Uther was called Sigrid.  A young woman of sixteen. The daughter of his cousin, a man who had died hunting wolves many years ago. She was too young to have fought in the great battle and be cut down alongside the patriarch of her house. Yet she was also too old, and too infatuated with stories of the old heroes of the north, to live under Eadric’s new laws. They were said to be intended as a tool of civilization. The northerners would be brought into the cultural and economic mainstream of Karlund. In time, they were to be sophisticated urbanites, such as their peers in Vatnborg, or the now royal city of Sulheim.

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Treachery, Sigrid called it. The southern whelps had become infatuated with foreign ways and were now endeavoring to impose that corruption upon their northern brethren.  Coastal raids had been forbidden, for fear of offending wealthy kingdoms with whom Eadric meant to trade. Wandering heroes were declared vagabonds, to be treated as such by his armed men. The only choice for a brave Karlunder was to join the Greencloaks and act as the boot which would stamp out the old ways.

This was no life for Sigrid. She assured her friends there was another choice. They would purchase a ship and sail far across the sea. Beyond the reach of Eadric’s tendrils. There they would live as their ancestors had. Raiding and warring, serving no master but their captain. They would return laden with treasure and live as kings. With chests of gold and silver locked away in their vaults, they would be ready to endure Eadric’s new world.

They set out in the summer, when the harsh Northern sea was at its calmest, promising their families they would return within a year or so, with many tales of adventure. They were dressed in thick furs, linen, and chainmail. They were heavily armed, carrying large round shields, spears and axes. There were two dozen warriors who set out with Sigrid.  She was the only one to return. She slipped back into Eirsmet a full twelve years after she had departed.

~

Sigrid sailed into Vatnborg in mid-autumn, a passenger on a foreign merchant's ship. A slender, delicate rosewood vessel with beautifully painted sails. She did not dally in the south, however. Rather, she all but immediately joined a caravan travelling north to Eirsmet, her home.

When Sigrid passed through the northern city's great gates, few among her kin recognized her. Her once pale skin was tanned, her wild hair had been tied into a neat braid, and her bright green eyes had lost their fire. She wore a strange foreign garb of red silk, embroidered with gold sunbursts. She wore sturdy brass plate armor and a scimitar at her hip. Her manner of speaking had changed just as much as her appearance had. Gone was the burning passion which inspired men to go abroad with her. Now she spoke slowly and coldly. She put great thought into anything she said. It seemed to some that her mind was always working on some scheme or another. Perhaps that she saw enemies all around her.

Stranger than the change to their kinswoman was the treasures she had returned with. As anticipated, she had brought back great wealth. Not only in silks and spices, which she promptly sold in Eirsmet, but in two heavy chests of foreign silver. Odd white coins stamped with a crescent moon on one face and a thrusting spear upon the other. However, the treasure she guarded most fiercely was not a material thing to be sold or bargained with.

It was a young girl of six years. Her daughter.

The child was a swarthy girl, quite gangly in figure. Her eyes were light brown, flecked with green and gold. Her thick, curly brown hair was long and worn in a neat braid, much like her mothers. She wore similar foreign silks to Sigrid, though both quickly cast those aside in exchange for attire more fit to a northern winter. She spoke the blunt, crude northern language well enough. She also knew strange, beautiful words from a southern tongue no Karlunder had heard before. They flowed and wilted gracefully from the girl’s tongue, and even the Skalds said it was a poet’s language.  Only Sigrid knew what she said when she spoke that language.

Of the events of her adventure, Sigrid spoke little. Once they were beyond the lands in which Eadric had an interest, they had raided their way down unfamiliar coasts. Eventually, they found themselves in a great southern republic called Asa. A land far too powerful to be raided by so few warriors. Instead, they entered its service, acting as mercenary soldiers. They were very well paid and the others had elected to remain in that beautiful place, where they would live far better lives than those which awaited them in Karlund.

When questions turned to her daughter, the man who had sired her, and the circumstances surrounding it, Sigrid fell silent. Those closest to her claimed that there seemed to be a great sadness upon her, but she hid it well. Of these matters, she would not speak, beyond insisting that the girl was her trueborn daughter, and that she would be her heiress. In time, none would bother to press the matter, for Sigrid had broken the nose of a man who had implied the girl was illegitimate and Sigrid had fled this "Asa" in shame.

The girl's name was Nal.