They made their way east. The gentler forests gave way to tall conifers, so dense and tall they blotted out the sky. Something stalked them from a distance, and when the sun set and the darkness was complete, Weyland continued on foot, his hand wrapped in the mare’s mane as she guided them. After two days of sleepless travel, they crossed a mountain pass and descended into easier lands and a waggon road. The trees and curves of hills became familiar, and Avril darted from side to side across the road, tail flagged and ears up with excitement.
Weyland paused at a place where a small footpath met the ragged road he traveled, and he dismounted, turning to follow it. An hour or so later, he came upon a meadow, barely more than a clearing in the woods. At the edge of the wood a stream burbled out of a rock. As he approached he recognized the flat rock where he’d once laid a grey eye’d girl with tangled black hair. Moss grew on the rock and down the side, red like spilled blood, and the place where the water emerged appeared lightning struck. He searched the ground, and found neither bones nor his knife. Pausing to drink from the stream, he turned to examine the meadow more closely. Herbs and grasses grew thick and fragrant, and the bowl of the meadow flattened at the other side, perhaps waiting for a family to settle. He made camp for the night there, and they rested - truly rested - for three days. The nightmares subsided, and Avril brought him rabbits and birds for his supper, the mare grazing peacefully on the sweet grasses and a patch of clover she found among the herbs.
On the third day, a shadow passed over the meadow, and looking up Weyland saw a great eagle, a broad rectangle of massive wings and a white wedge of a tail, circling above them. It stooped and dove into the trees.
A short time later, an aging man, average in every way but his piercing green-gold eyes, emerged from the forest. Weyland stood, stunned to silence. There was an old burn on the man’s left cheek, and a feather and some curling straw were threaded through the weave of his collar. He carried a fat rabbit, a fresh kill, tears of a raptor’s claws in its back and neck. The black mare raised her head, alert, and Weyland knew that if he looked away, the delicate palfrey would be a war-horse when he looked back.
The man looked around the clearing, making a clucking noise in his throat. “This is a good place,” he said. “Been witches here.”
Weyland looked away, his throat tightening. “It’s the last place I saw her,”
“Well, they make their own way. Gilda was magnificent, but the one who comes after is either transcendent or terrifying.” Myrddin carried the rabbit to Weyland’s cookfire and dropped it, folding his legs and sitting in the shade of the oak. “Might want to clean that if we’re gonna have it cooked for dinner.”
Weyland pulled his water-borne knife and efficiently gutted the rabbit, setting skin and offal aside. Myrddin looked longingly at the sweetmeats. “Take them if you want them,” Weyland turned his mind away from memories of other spilled flesh. He spitted the rabbit and put it over the fire, walking back into the sunlight, turning his face up, eyes closed.
“So, did you think you were done?” Myrddin asked idly, stretching his arms out to catch the light in his arms and hands.
“I think I’ve done quite enough,” the words were bitter in Weyland’s mouth.
“I don’t think you’ve atoned, boy.” Suddenly Weyland felt the uncertainty and swellinig power of his days in Myrddin’s tower, and Myrddin continued like an unstoppable wind. “You’re stuck between before and after, and you’re not doing anything at all with now.”
“How, in the name of gods and thunder, do I atone for the terror? For the death I spread?” Weyland held out his hands, cupping the sunlight, blood pooling in his hands and dripping down.
“You go spread your gifts as far and wide as all the terror you caused. You carry the sword of a king in your bag as casually as that blackwood spear or that monster cudgel. You want to leave behind the death? Stop fighting, Warrior. Deliver those things to the hands that will use them best. Take them where they belong, and then you will have earned this.” Myrddin spun in a circle, a feather falling from his sleeve, his fingertips blue with ink. “What do you want? A tower? A library? Kings and lords coming to you for wisdom?”
“A cottage, and a garden” Weyland whispered, turning to face the flat place in the meadow. “A place where a sore heart might come to rest with peace.” He tasted water, bitter and so very sweet, tha tang of blood on his lips, felt the weight of the girl’s body in his arms, the pain of the wolf’s teeth in his arm and flank.
“Ridiculous. If that’s what you want, so be it. You’re lost, boy. Go wander and find this place again. It will keep, but you have to answer to Fate first. Don’t waste Hervor’s time, or Sigrun’s ferocity, or Gilda’s wisdom.”
Weyland opened his eyes, and the blood on his hands was gone, a memory. “Shield maid, queen and crone,” he whispered. The black mare neighed like thunder, pawing the turf, her eyes rolling as clouds boiled overhead from nothing. Ravens called, unseen. Avril shimmered in the changing light, and he remembered that she was more than just a hound.
“Exactly,” Myrddin pounced, satisfied. “Go, boy. Make a king, arm a knight, and help a man win the heart of his beloved. Then, after all that and more, you can come be a woodcutter and tend your garden.” The strange man stomped off, stirring up the fire and scorching the rabbit, muttering “Ridiculous” more than once, ranting to himself.
Weyland shouldered his pack, fingering the ring on the chain around his neck, and mounted the mare, turning her head to the north and east. He left the meadow and his tent, and the unremarkable man who cursed when he burned his fingers on the half-cooked rabbit-meat.
They traveled a week and more, past the lands of the old king of Nireke, now claimed by a new tribe of long haired warrior-lords. Weyland sat astride and looked at the ruins of the castle from afar, brooding, until the mare moved on impatiently, Avril following them, a brindle shadow.
Late one afternoon, cresting a low hill, Weyland looked down across rolling fields and patches of forest, a blue manor house and small village clustered in the center, the sea a shadow in the distance. Smoke rose from one of the outlying fields, and folk were rushing towards the field, tiny in the distance. The road to the manor cut through the woods nearby, and Weyland gamely nudged the mare in that direction, and she broke into a ground eating canter, her hooves a roll of thunder.
As they grew closer to the field, the defenders, mostly peasants in plain tunics and trousers bearing scythes and pitchforks, milled closer and then scattered back. Another horse approached from the direction of the manor, an immense bay war-horse, his coat like fire in the late afternoon light. A warrior in full armor rode him, his shield blue and yellow and indistinct in the chaos. Charging in, the warrior drew his sword, and the light flashing from the blade sang in Weyland’s soul.
The villagers parted, revealing a grotesque troll, a Ravager akin to Weyland’s earliest nightmares, tearing a man limb from limb and throwing him to the side. The warrior bellowed a challenge and his horse plunged into the fray.
Weyland pulled his mother’s blackwood spear from his bag, kicking the mare into action. She grew as she galloped, until she nearly matched the warrior’s stallion in stature, and Avril became an enormous Hound, all teeth and muscle.
The Beast was confused, suddenly faced by two foes on horseback, and it swung its club, a small tree-trunk, sweeping the defenders away from it as it turned from one horse to the other. Avril darted in to rip at the tendons of its ankles, and Weyland raised spear as the other warrior swung sword. Both men struck at once, Weyland’s spear through the monster’s gut, angled up into its chest, and the warrior’s sword cutting deep into its neck. As the creature died, its club flailed, coming down hard, catching the mare across her head. Weyland, unseated, fell under her hooves as she collapsed. The last thing Weyland saw was the warrior’s shield, the blue and yellow crest, a hammer and tongs, as the warrior turned to him.
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Waking, Weyland took stock of his body before opening his eyes. His head hurt with the thunder of his pulse, and his right arm was a dull agony. Soft cloth covered his body, and he realized he was naked. A woman’s soft voice spoke nearby, answered by a girl’s piping reply.
Opening his eyes, he saw a woman with white-blonde hair, turned away from him to speak to a girl with dark hair and black eyes, wearing a fiercely stubborn expression as she argued quietly with the woman. The child saw him watching, and her eyes widened with awe.
The woman turned back to him, a thick-lashed hazel gaze, concerned. Her cheek and neck were drawn with old burns, at odds with the quiet beauty of her features. She said something to him in a foreign tongue, and switched to another when he shook his head carefully, and then a third, closer to a language he knew. He struggled to sit, and she helped him, her hands strong against his back. She steadied him, beckoning to the child with a curt word, and the girl brought him clothing, clean and neatly folded, the chain and ring neatly coiled on top of the rest.
Left handed, he lifted the necklace as the woman spoke again. As the chain touched his neck, her words came clear. “ - you for saving my husband. I am Sabra, his duchess, and this imp is my daughter Beadohild.”
Weyland looked from mother to child, careful of his aching head. “Your husband is the warrior with the blue and gold shield?” She startled when he spoke in her own tongue, and she looked at the chain and ring speculatively.
“Yes, the Duke Villundsson. Wudka.” Weyland looked down, taking better stock of his body, barely registering her words. His right arm was swathed in bandages, stiff, and his head felt bruised.
Remembering suddenly, a chill stole over him. “The mare - she fell -”
Sabra smiled gently. “Injured, but she will be well. The Beast caught her across the face with its club. My husband saw to her wound himself, and is supervising repairs to the fences and field now.”
“I want to see her, she is … special.”
The woman laughed, her smile creasing her burned cheek. “That she is. My husband’s stallion is quite interested.” She stood, gesturing to his clothing. “You should be able to clothe yourself, but call if you have any problems.” She stepped through the door, drawing her curious daughter along and closing the door behind them.
Weyland pulled on the clothes, finding his boots next to the bed with his pack. Awkwardly, he slung the pack across his body to leave his left hand free. Stiff and sore, when he opened the door, he found Sabra waiting with her daughter and two small boys. The taller boy had black eyes and golden hair, and the youngest of the three had his mother’s eyes. Looking at them all, together, his heart beat hard twice. “Tell me again your husband’s name,” he said, haunted.
Sabra frowned, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Duke Wudka Villundsson. Did you not recognize his shield?”
“No, I…” he paused, considering, “... have been away for a long time.”
“Come, let’s go see your horse and dog, and my husband.” She sent the children ahead of them, and he noticed that she kept them away from him, her slim body held like a blade between him and her brood. They left through a great Hall, and followed the road through the gates to the village below. The villagers greeted the lady and her children with cheer and affection, openly staring at Weyland in his borrowed clothes.
She steered their small procession to the center of the village, to the smithy, opposite the mill The coat of arms, blue and gold with hammer and tongs, hung above the wide and open door of the smithy. “Wudka,” she called. “I’ve brought him.”
The warrior emerged, wearing a heavy leather apron, a man as tall and broad as Weyland’s own father, golden hair and beard, and black eyes a stark contrast to his wife’s soft blonde hair and hazel eyes. He wore a longsword, sheathed, the familiar hilt made of a bear’s leg-bone and blackwood. The tang itself would be softer iron, to dance and flex in the warrior’s hands.
“You are Wigia, the son of the king of Nireke,” Weyland began, stumbling over the shock of his recognition.
The warrior interrupted him with a gesture. “That’s what some say, but I am a true son of Weyland the Smith. I left the castle Nireke, served an honest master, earned my lands, fought for my bride. I am Wudka Villundssun, I am a warrior, a dragon-slayer, and a smith.” He looked at Sabra with deep affection, and Weyland was struck by memory.
Turning to the woman, Weyland studied her more carefully, the burns on her cheek and neck. She blushed, covering her face and neck with fluttering fingers. Wudka stepped forward, between them, shielding her from the Smith’s gaze.
Weyland looked from the woman to her husband. “I knew a knight once, Girgus, who rode to save a woman named Sabra from the Great Wyrm in a far off land.”
Sabra nodded behind Wudka’s sheltering embrace. “My aunt, I was named for her. My grandfather did not move his castle from the spawn of the wyrmbrood, and when I came of age, we were once again without cattle and with a surplus of royal children.”
Wudka continued the tale. “Her uncle gave me a pair of spears, and I pulled my beloved from the flames. Together, we dispatched the son of the Great Wyrm, I wielded Death to pin it down, and she took up the other spear and thrust Love through its evil eye.”
“That is magnificent,” Weyland turned to look at the children behind the couple. “Your children are a wonder to behold,” he found his face wet with tears. “No monster is safe in the world that they live in.”
“My sons, Etil and Poitr,” Wudka gestured them forward, their sister a taller shadow behind them.
The older boy scowled. “I’m not a dragon slayer, I’m a blacksmith, and I shall make my people prosper in peace,” he declared.
The younger shoved his brother aside. “I shall be a dragon slayer, and a monster slayer, like my father and uncle and grandfather.” He bellowed like a great beast, swiping with imaginary claws.
Weyland laughed for the first time since he’d left the Giants, and for a moment the darkness and the blood did not haunt him.
“And what of you, Beadohild Villundsdottir, what shall you do?” He met her eyes.
She straightened, dignity as tall as her mother’s shoulder and strong as a blackwood spear. “I am Beadohild Sigrunsdottir, and I shall tell my own story,” she declared.
Sobering, Weyland looked again to Wudka. “What of the mare?”
The lord grinned suddenly. “Come see, she is enchanting” he hung his apron from a hook at the door. His sons leading the way, they walked past bakery and tavern, to a stable and tall fenced paddock. The bay stallion grazed a bit on the grass in the center of the paddock, looking up when Wudka approached. The youngest child, Poitr, ducked through the fence and ran to the horse, petting the soft nose gently lowered to him, laughing with delight when it knelt for him to mount. They pranced together, and the boy kneed the steed, saddleless, into a gentle trot around the paddock, swinging an imaginary sword.
Wudka led Weyland into the barn. The largest stall seemed empty for a moment in the dim light of the building, except a person and a hound curled in the straw in the corner. With a shock, Weyland thought he saw the strong lithe limbs and dark hair of his cousin Hervor a moment, but Avril sat up and shook herself, distracting him from the woman in the straw. As he approached, letting himself into the stall, Avril pranced between them. The shield maid turned her face away. She rose, arms and legs lengthening, neck arching, midnight hair shimmering into mane and tail. The mare shuddered her hide and shook her neck and head, forelock hanging over her face between flattened ears.
Weyland reached out to her, and she came to him, a delicate palfrey, letting him touch her neck and shoulder. When he moved to her head, she pressed her face into his chest. He murmured to her, and at length she allowed him to touch her ears, rolling her eyes at him. A healing wound split her midnight face, some of the hair of her forelock caught up in the scar. The hair beginning to grow back already was silvery white.
“Of course it’s not ugly,” he replied, gently stroking her cheeks. She shook her head and stumbled a bit, leaning into him. Hoofbeats approached slowly, and they looked up to see the interested faces of the bay stallion and its young rider peering into the stall. The mare bared her teeth and flattened her ears, and Weyland stepped away from her head, examining her legs. The stallion nickered, ears pricked forward. Her ears remained back, but she arched her neck.
Wudka, silent witness to the scene, shifted in the doorway. “You’re welcome, all of you, for as long as you like.”
“There’s something I must do, if I could leave her in your care for a bit.” The mare turned away from him and folded herself back into the straw in the corner of the stall.
“Of course.” Wudka began to say something, and then stopped, seeing Weyland’s far-off look.