When Weyland came to the tree at the bottom of the hill, it seemed impossibly tall, and impossibly broad. There was a jagged slash in the bark, oozing thick red sap. When Weyland reached out to touch the bark, the pup growled.
"Ey, don't touch that, boy, if you want to live," Hervor came around from behind the tree. She seemed different, in ways Weyland could not quite identify. Perhaps her dark hair was even darker, or her tanned skin duskier in the strange light.
"Where have you been?" relief washed over him, and he fought the urge to hug her hard. "I was worried," he finished, suddenly embarrassed.
"Worried?" she arched a brow and then turned towards the road. "You have better things to worry about, lad. Let's go, while the light is still good."
Taking the left hand fork, they walked a bit, the pup tumbling and trotting around them, always staying near Weyland. When the fog cleared, he picked the pup up again, and they ran the path, Hervor leading the way when the edges of the path were unclear. The woods they ran through changed a bit, the trees gnarlier, darker, than the ones around their home hall. When it came time to camp for the night, Hervor would not allow him to make the fire in the clear margin between the path and the tree line.
"This forest is not yet friendly to us," She remarked, sitting next to the fire and pulling dried fruit and meat from her pack. Weyland found the same in his own, and tore the bread into two equal pieces, handing one to Hervor. The other he tore into halves again. He ate one part and fed the other to the pup, feeding her bits of his jerkey as well.
"The bread really isn't good for her, you know." The pup looked at Hervor with large, sad eyes.
"Yeah, I tried telling her dam "no" once. If she's anything like Geri, I'll stay on her good side, thanks." The pup licked his hands and face enthusiastically.
"Will you name her?" Hervor curled into her cloak, pillowing her head on her arm.
Weyland lay down as well, and the pup pressed herself into his belly, stretching up to grab part of his tunic in her mouth. She settled, softly suckling the cloth as she fell asleep.
They started again the next morning, and arrived in the late afternoon at another coast, another pier. It was disconcerting, the swan-ship moored to the stone pilings, and the pup struggled to get down for a few minutes while they rested.
As with the other silver ship, it was crewed by three persons, one very tall, the second very broad, and the third small and quick. The very tall person came to them, pulling aside the knitted face covering. Weyland was surprised to see it was a woman, dark skinned with stippled white scars following the curve of her left eye socket across her forehead. It was elegant and exotic, and Weyland wondered more about the crew of these strange ships.
Hervor spoke with her for a moment, coin exchanged hands, and Weyland followed his cousin onto the ship.
“What’s the dog’s name, boy?” Weyland was surprised when the small and quick person addressed him as they passed on the narrow passage. The voice was light, and Weyland could not discern if the person was a male or adult female.
“She hasn’t told me, yet,” Weyland tucked the pup into his tunic to secure her against the heaving of the longship on the ocean. It was a tight fit, and he considered other ways he might have to secure her in the future, should they sail again.
“Well, what’s your name?”
Hervor interrupted them. “That’s none of your affair, Undine. Go about your business, as you’ve been paid to do.”
Undine cocked its head at Weyland’s cousin. “I wonder, does he know whose company he keeps?” The light voice was mocking, and the tall woman said something to Undine in a melodic language.
Hervor sat on a forward bench, and Weyland joined her. “What did Undine mean?”
“Hmm? Oh, the Undine are terrible gossips. You should never give them your name or share any secrets, unless they are giving you something in return. Our passage is paid for, so you own it nothing.” She wrapped her cloak tighter around her body, the damp wind cold and coming from the north.
Weyland considered her words as the ship skimmed across the waves, the sail full and booming in the wind. They had no rowers, but it seemed they did not need them, so swiftly did they fly.
There was no rest that night, and no land was in sight as a brilliant full moon rose up over the dark waters. In the moonlight, Weyland saw an enormous creature surface, sending up a tremendous spout of water and air. The waves of its passage rocked the boat, and it whistled at them as they passed each other. The tallest of the Undine whistled back at it with a bird’s bone pipe, and it burbled and clicked in response. “Say nothing,” Hervor whispered, and Weyland merely watched. In the darkness, it was difficult to see it, but he felt the boat rock when it suddenly swam beneath them, and he bit back a cry of alarm when the great body breeched the surface on the other side. The Undine laughed in delight. The monster whistled once again and then submerged in the depths and disappeared.
“We are well blessed, sister,” the tall woman called out to Hervor, who nodded. “The sea gods do not rise for just anyone.”
Weyland took a breath to ask a question, and Hervor shot him a warning look. He reached up instead and pet the head of the sleeping pup.
It was at midday, with the sun high and harsh in the blue sky, when Weyland saw land once more. The seas were dark and mysterious, but the distant shore was green and grey and enticing. Weyland had not yet been sick on this journey, but he was uneasy, thinking of the unknown things below the sea’s surface so close by.
They docked without incident, and Hervor led the way down the trail without a word of farewell to the crew of the silver ship. Weyland let the pup down, and very carefully did not look back, following Hervor’s example.
“Myrddin Wyllt is a strange creature. Mind your manners, and it won’t be so bad for you.” She stopped twice on the path, once to collect mistletoe from a low limb, and the second time to fill their water skins from a spring that rose from the rocks just off the path.
“What is Bruni the Farmer punishing you for, cousin?” he finally asked. “Is it a terrible punishment?”
She was silent for a long moment, and he wondered bitterly if this would be another secret she could not speak of - or would not. “He is punishing me for being like him, for sharing the Sight and wisdom with a mortal, without consulting him first.”
Weyland remembered the visions he’d had when he tasted the blue woad, and wondered for the first time what spells might have been cast upon it. His thoughts must have been plain on his face, for Hervor laughed. She so rarely laughed that he stopped and stared at her. It was a low, musical sound, much like her voice.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Yes, the woad used by the Sisterhood is not intended for the sleeping minds of mortal men. Awakening them is forbidden, thus I shall be punished.” There was a twinkle in her black eyes.
Greatly daring, he asked “What is your punishment?”
“Only to spend much of the remainder of my mortal life in the form I like best. He thinks it may keep me out of trouble, but he forgets that I am his daughter as well as the daughter of Frig.”
“Why do you talk to me so much more, now?” he scooped up the pup again. She was getting heavier each day, and soon he would not be able to carry her thus.
“Perhaps, I shall not speak much at all, after I meet with Myrddin. You’ve also started asking the right questions, so that’s a blessing to us both - assuming you don’t ask any more for the remainder of our journey. Wisdom is a dangerous thing, boy. When you are older, much older, you will have Wisdom in plenty, at a terrible cost.”
They walked and ran in relative silence after that, and whatever questions he had, or whatever answers she may have been inclined to provide, went unspoken. They made camp in a very mundane clearing to the side of the road, and by turns they hunted. Hervor brought back a large fowl that she’d killed with a sling, and Weyland lay carefully in wait and killed a young buck with his cudgel. It swung hard and true, breaking the neck of the deer with one blow.
Hervor raised an eyebrow when he carried it back to their camp, and together they gutted it and skinned it. The organ meats he fed to the pup, and he and Hervor shared a haunch for their supper, setting the rest to roast overnight. “This good,” Hervor muttered the next morning, as she packed the meat away. “Here,” she said abruptly. “You need to be the one to give this to him.”
She handed him the meat, and it took him a moment to juggle meat, the puppy who wanted to eat it, and his pack and cudgel. She picked up the pack when he dropped it, and draped the strap across his chest.
“Follow the path. Take the left fork, and you’ll find Myrddin Wyllt’s tower. Don’t talk to him about the past, or about the future, and for the love of the All Father, don’t question anything he asks you to do. It may sound ridiculous, but do the tasks anyway. Remember - he never does anything without a reason. That includes murder and mayhem. Don’t give him a reason.” With a troubled brow, Hervor abruptly embraced him, thumping his back hard with her fist and making the puppy squirm and whine. She turned and walked back the way they came, and as he watched her go, she did not look back at him where he stood, heavy laden.
Thus, he walked down the road. When it forked at midday, he took the left hand path, and by midafternoon he came out of the woods into a sunlit meadow. An ancient tower stood where the ground was higher. The walls were broken in some places, and half the roof was caved in, giving the building the look of an enormous broken tooth jutting from the jaw of the Earth. A garden rambled to one side, and a stream cut down the other side of the meadow, and smoke rose from the chimney.
Weyland put the pup down and readjusted his pack, the meat and the cudgel, wondering how to approach the building and its inhabitant. An eagle screamed from far above, and he looked up to see it circling above them, a broad rectangle of massive wings and a white wedge of a tail. It began a rapid descent, arrowing towards Weyland and the pup, faster and faster, until finally Weyland realized that it might be targeting the pup as its next meal. The youth reached out with a foot and swept her behind him, raising up an arm to protect his face as it came down upon him in a thunder of wings. He felt the talons bite hard into his forearm, and the eagle settled there, mantling its wings and shrieking at him.
It looked at him with a baleful green-gold eye glare. Greatly daring, Weyland took a bit of the meat out of the hamper and offered it to the bird, hoping to keep his fingers as well as both eyes. Ducking its head and flipping its wings to its back, it accepted the meat daintily.
"My, you're a big bird," Weyland babbled. "You must weigh a stone, and your wings are longer than me." It made a chirping noise, its powerful claws clenching and releasing on his arm as it considered him. He bit his lip to stifle a cry of pain. He endured the raptor's gaze for a long moment before it gave a clakking cry and launched off his arm, buffeting his head with the massive down-stroke of its wings. It flew up into the trees, circling the broken tower once and disappearing from sight.
Weyland staggered to a large rock nearby, a half-buried boulder at just the right height to sit for a weary traveler - or a traveler who had been assaulted by an overly curious eagle. He put down his pack, the package of cooked venison, the case with the harp, and the cudgel, opening the hamper of travel food. He pulled out a piece of dried meat, offering some to the pup, who looked longingly at the package of venison. He smiled, and his face felt stiff, as if he'd not used those muscles for far too long.
"Who goes?" came a shout from the tower. "Who?" A man appeared at the entry of the tower. Weyland noted that there was no door in the doorway.
"Hello," he called in reply. "I'm Weyland, and I have a package for the skald Myrddin. Can you tell me where to find him?"
"Weyland? Weyland the Smith?" The man was average in every way but for piercing green-gold eyes.
“What? No, I’m just a messenger. Can you direct me to Myrddin the Skald? Does he live here?” Weyland felt the pup cowering behind him, pressed against his calves and shivering.
“Not Weyland the Smith?” The man squinted at the sky, as if gaging the time. “Ah, yes, right. Not yet, then. Well, what do you have for this Myrddin, then?”
"It's not mine to tell, except to Myrddin himself." Weyland tried his best to stand his ground as the man advanced on him, but stepped back involuntarily, stepping on the tail of the pup, who screeched like she'd been set on fire.
"What's this?" The man bent over, peering behind Weyland sideways, looking at the pup. "Well, well, well. So Bruni One-eye sent you to Myrddin the Skald. Well, indeed."
Weyland squinted into the sunlight that was suddenly pouring in around them. "How did - are you Myrddin?"
"Today, yes, I am Myrddin. And you are Weyland, owned by this beauty. Have you named her yet?" The Skald knelt in the dirt, his ragged trousers and tunic dragging the ground. He reached out a hand, courting the pup's favor. She growled and huddled closer to Weyland, who felt ridiculously gratified by her loyalty.
"No, she hasn't told me what her name is." Myrddin looked up at him, his head cocked at a peculiar angle.
"Hah! So you're a little wise already. Do you have more of that meat? That was tasty, a rich young stag killed with a single blow." The strange man stood, rubbing his dirty hands on his backside.
"Yes," Weyland offered Myrddin the package of meat, and the man snatched it up, opening it to pull out another piece. "I also have -"
"Never mind all that. Come, you have work to do." Bemused, Weyland followed the Myrddin to the ruined tower, the pup following close behind him.
The days that followed were confusing and rewarding. Weyland came to love the tower, and indeed, Myrddin's tasks were largely focussed on repairing the mostly ruined structure.
When Weyland needed wood to repair the door of the building - which was not missing, but leaning against the wall just inside the doorframe - Myrddin told him to take an axe and cut down trees to gather the wood. After an hour of searching, Weyland still had not found anything resembling axe or hatchet, and he sought the skald to ask.
Myrddin was sitting on the same stone Weyland had sat upon when they came to the tower clearing. "Can't find the hatchet? Well, go make one." He pointed at the tower, and Weyland noticed for the first time a rough lean-to propped up against the side of the mostly-intact wall. Not daring to grumble aloud, Weyland went to investigate.
The lean-to sheltered a rough smithy, the fires cold, the leather bellows half rotted, a rough ball of twine sitting in isolated splendor on the leaf strewn workbench. Weyland looked around, dismayed. "How can I make a hatchet, when the smithy is unusable? Even if I did know how to make a hatchet?"
"Clearly, you should repair the smithy, then make the hatchet, then go about your business," a voice said behind him. He turned, smacking his head on a low beam supporting the peak of the lean-to.
A young woman stood on the grass outside the smithy. She was dressed in a blue-grey dress very similar to Frig's, except for the greaves she wore that reiminded him of Hervor. He suppressed the moment of shock and grief.
"Where do I even start?" He heard the whine in his voice and hated it. Straightening his shoulders and ducking his head so he didn't hit the beam again, he stepped out of the rough structure, looking at the visitor. "Never mind that. Are you here to see the Skald?"
She tipped her head back, looking towards the sky, and then back at Weyland. "No. There are sheep with big horns and terrible temperaments on the high field that way," she pointed to the north. "Find the largest ram and bring it back - all of it. I will trade you knowledge of making the hatchet - indeed, anything made of the metal of the earth earth or sky - in trade for its left horn, it's heart, and its left hooves."
Weyland thought the request oddly specific, but nodded. "Certainly, th -"
She stepped forward so fast he could barely follow her movement, and pressed her fingers to his mouth. "Never, ever, thank a stranger in these woods, boy, and never give your true name or your given name."
"What should I call you?" he asked, the taste of her fingers on his lips still, a tang of woodsmoke and ashes and cool dark waters.
"You may call me Loch," she answered, nodding her approval. "And what shall I call you?"
He looked around him, and his gaze caught on the ball of waxed cord on the bench. "Twine. For now, at least."
"Well done. Now, boy, take yon cudgel and spear and go kill the ram. Remember - bring back all of it." She stepped back, and Weyland almost wondered about her timely arrival.