When the Speakers of the Law-Tongue march with weapons drawn and violence in their hearts—or do anything as a group, for that matter—there is a very particular way of doing things. Respect and standing are paramount and must be carefully considered when organizing any gathering of Norsemen.
Even the lowliest shepherd is a Karl, a free-man with the right to pick and choose with whom his loyalty lies. He is in command of his own fate, of his own strength, and so he is worthy of respect even if only for that alone. That means that he cannot just be thrown into the fighting-line without care or consideration, for he is a man in full and will not suffer such insult in silence.
The more Speakers you gather, the more time you must spend on considering who goes where rather than on more important matters. No competent commander would think spending his valuable time on that is a wise idea, and so he allows the men of standing to organize and lead the warriors they brought with them.
As Dad leads the way into the Hading with a column of fighting men on either side, a peculiar consequence of this strategy is readily seen. With Vidar Smash taking the reins of the shield-hand column and Kerr Skippingstone taking the sword-hand, the resulting formation is rather lopsided. Nine line-men on the left, twenty-two on the right.
Surely Dad sees the flaws in such an uneven number, right? An enemy force could easily overwhelm Vidar''s column and encircle the entire army!
Dad hums as I voice this question, the winter snow crunching underfoot as we make our way through the Hading''s firewood-plundered outskirts. Sticks grumbles wordlessly while sulking in the shadow of Bear as he carries the placid cow over a shoulder.
"A good question," Dad eventually says after a few moments of silent thought, "but you''re not counting for all the variables." I cock my head to the side, confusion sliding across my face as Dad begins to elaborate, "Consider the differences between Kerr and Vidar, as a starter."
I frown slightly but do as asked, casting my gaze across both men in question.
Kerr Skippingstone cuts a striking figure as he strides through the snow-choked underbrush. His boots never seem to stay in one place as he gracefully moves from spot to spot; his wavy cloak casting ripple-like patterns across the snow. Mail glistens in the sun as his aventailed helmet sits proud on his head. His blue-painted shield is rimmed in iron and made of linden, the best of all wood for crafting shields. His weapon-hand holds a spear while a sword and sax wait ready upon his belt, each well-made and well-maintained.
All in all, there can be no doubt that Kerr Skippingstone is a man of wealth and power.
Across the way, on the shield-hand, is a man of extreme size. With limbs thicker than some men''s torsos, Vidar Smash towers over all others present including Bear, who only barely comes up to his chest. Even the trees themselves seem almost undersized when contrasted against Vidar''s might. Heavy bricks of fat-covered muscle cling to each and every square inch of exposed flesh—of which there is a great deal thanks to Vidar going without shirt or cloak.
Vidar''s weapons seem almost like afterthoughts compared to the raw power contained within his body. An axe as long as Dad is tall rests in his hands, its haft too thick for me to wrap a hand around. Its iron head gleams in the sunlight, its hewing-edge as long as two hands. Across his back is a shield thicker than a finger''s length and two saxes longer than most swords dangle from a strained belt that struggles to contain the girth of this mountainous man.
But even with all the power in his body, the most striking feature of Vidar are his eyes. Cloaked in the shadow of a prominent bow, Vidar''s eyes are little more than slight glints as they flick and dance from man to man. There''s an idle sort of curiosity held in them as he carefully considers how he would fight and slay each and every man present on this day. It''s the kind of curiosity that''s reserved only for the most deadly of men: Berserks.
"Of the two, who would win were they to face off in single-combat?" Dad times his question perfectly, asking it just as I finish my examination.
"Vidar," the answer comes swiftly, without even a moment''s thought necessary to find it.
Dad nods, "During our time as Varangians, Vidar and Kerr fought three-hundred and seventy-two spars. Vidar won three-hundred and eighteen of them."
"Dad... How many did you win?"
Dad smiles, "I was a Captain for a reason, Halla, and it wasn''t my courtly manners."
"Your papa''s a dangerous man, kid," Vidar''s sudden intrusion nearly shakes me from my skin, his voice like gravel in my ear. I catch the slightest glimpse of his gaze as they lock square on mine, a considering look on his face, "even together, Kerry and I could never take him down."
"Not for lack of trying, mind you," Kerr adds, sliding into the conversation like he''d always been in it, "we even once put certain bowel-movement inducing herbs in his wine."
Vidar grunts, shuddering with the memory, "Only thing that won us was latrine duty."
Dad snorts, "I still don''t know what you two were thinking with that one. I was part of the Constantinople Gardeners'' Society, I am more than familiar with the taste of laxatives in my wine."
"Speaking of laxatives, Stenny," Vidar begins as Sticks groans from the rear.
"Oh, Gods, they''re talking about using the shitter again," Sticks casts a pleading gaze to the heavens, as if begging Mighty Thor to strike him down at that very moment.
Vidar laughs, "If you live as long as us old fucks, you''ll know exactly why we take it so seriously!"
"Toilet-time is important, Stigandr," Kerr''s voice gains a lecturing edge as he turns towards his youngest son, "and you''d do well to remember that."
"Yeah, yeah," Sticks waves his hand before him, "it''s a good opportunity to speak with someone in private. I''ve heard it all before!"
"And you''ll hear it all again if you keep that up," Kerr answers with an easy smile despite the warning in his words. A round of laughter rises from the listening Norsemen as Sticks grumbles and returns to sulking in Bear''s considerable shadow.
I pause as something catches in my thoughts, my eyes resting on Bear''s quiet face. You know... I''ve never really given it much thought before, but it''s a bit odd how quiet Bear is. Sticks is basically just a younger, less experienced Kerr, right, and I don''t need a mirror to know that I''m similar to Dad in a lot of ways—we''re both stubborn as the dead, for one—but the only thing that Bear seems to share with Vidar is his size.
Vidar is large both in body and in personality. He speaks his mind to the heavens, never caring for who might catch his words on the wind or for what might come of it. He, as some might say, ''doesn''t give a shit.''
Bear simply isn''t. He is large in body, yes, but that''s where the similarities end. Though he has his father''s anger, he works hard to keep it in check. His words are few and far between as he carefully considers the ways his tongue might sway.
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Why might Bear be so different? His mother didn''t survive birthing him, so it couldn''t have been her influence, right? So, what else might have had a han–
Tension flares as ordstirr rises. The echoes of a dozen fylgjur''s warning calls bounce in our ears as a wolf''s howl splits the air.
The Hading sends her first test.
"Wolves?" Vidar frowns as he shifts his axe from shoulder to hand, "You reckon they''ve any relation to the beastie that boy of yours killed, Stenny?"
"That was Halla''s kill, actually," Dad idly remarks as he scans the suddenly silent forest. Something catches his gaze, stalling out any further words as his eyes narrow under the shadow of furrowing brows.
"Really?" Vidar snorts as he reaches out, an arm travelling my way as I realize his aim far too late. A hand large enough to palm a shield claps me across the shoulder, nearly knocking me to the ground as Vidar lets loose a roar of laughter, "Good for you, girlie! We''ll make a proper blood-spiller of you yet!"
With Vidar''s words comes a few fresh clumps of raw ordstirr from the murmurs of all those listening in. The ghostlike masses drift into my body, where my soul-loom spins them into threads of strength.
Dad frowns at the display, especially with how Kerr now shoots him with a worried look, but there''s no more time for idle words. He lifts a hand, fingers flicking forwards, as the earth rattles with his booming commands, "Vidar, form a frontal wedge behind me! Kerr, split in two and hold the flanks! Kinsmen," Eric and I''s ears perk up as Dad addresses us directly, "guard the cow!"
I blink while the warriors surge into motion around me, their eyes wide and teeth bared with their rising fighting blood. Guard the rear? That can''t be what Dad said. I must not have heard him right.
"Painter, take the shield-hand!" Kerr gives an order to his farm manager, Sterkard Painter, who nods his iron-helmed head and heads off at the head of ten men.
"Stunly Laces, I swear to the Gods if those stupid shoes come off again, you won''t be having anymore feet to guard!" Vidar bellows with eyes alight with fury, the subject of his ire a man bending over to tie a rather elaborate set of shoe laces.
"Dad!" I shout as Dad steps forward with Crowfeeder at the ready. He pauses at my words, looking back over his shoulder with a tense brow-raise, "Where do you want me?"
The tension in his gaze disappears in an instant. In its place stands a stare of honest astonishment.
...I heard him right the first time, didn''t I? Dammit.
I scowl out a grumble, not bothering to wait for Dad to say anything, "The rear... Right..."
Kerr nods, pleased at my words, “The fighting line is no place for a woman.”
Vidar scoffs, “Bah, she’s a blooded warrior! If she wants to be in the thick of it, then let her!”
“She’s only half-blooded,” Kerr reminds with a disapproving shake of the head, “she has yet to send anyone to meet their Fate.”
“Half is more than none!” Vidar retorts while Dad sighs.
“Enough,” he silences the brewing argument before focusing on me, “Halla, I need you to guard the sacrifice. If we lose that, this whole venture is for not, do you understand?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grunt with a heavy scowl, waving off any further words while stomping off to the back, where Eric attempts a comforting smile. Bear''s shadow engulfs us both as he runs thumb across his sax, hints of jealousy in his gaze as Sticks runs off to join his family on the fighting line.
"This is so unfair!" I am a proper man and I do not sulk, so I am simply voicing my troubles aloud. That''s all this is.
"It''s an important job, Halla," Eric tries to soothe my ire, but there''s no point. I can see how his shoulders fall limp, how his jaw hangs loose, and how his breath comes at a smooth, relaxed pace. He''s thankful he doesn''t have to fight anything, the bastard.
"I''ll tell you what this is," I scoff while folding arms together. "It''s just Dad trying to keep me ''safe and sound'', just like always!"
"So then why am I here?" Eric asks a good ques– No, no he does not!
"Bear," I pivot to the quiet mountain, "how''s it fair that Sticks gets to go and fight when he''s the one who said he''d lead the cow?"
"It isn''t," Bear quickly grunts back, more than a little anger in his gaze.
"Exactly!" I nod, a widening smile on my face, "It isn''t fair to me and it isn''t fair to you! So," my smile twists into a wolfish grin, "why don''t you and me even the scales a bit?"
Eric''s eyes narrow in lock-step with Bear''s, save for entirely different reasons. Eric levels a stare of suspicion my way while Bear feels a certain sort of cautious excitement. While my ideas may not have the track record of Sticks'', I''ve brought my fair share of adventure into our lives.
"Let''s sacrifice the cow ourselves!"
"That''s a terrible idea," Eric hardly waits for my words to settle before taking an axe to them. "We''d never make it, for one."
The sounds of violence spring forth from the battle-line as the first wave of wild-beasts crash against our kin and kith. Ordstirr surges as a dozen different tricks and kunna erupt into action, deftly obscuring our view of the battle.
"See?" Eric says as he waves a hand at the growing cloud of dust, leaves, and swirling blades, "We need this army to even reach the Heart, what makes you think we could make it with only a fraction?"
"A smaller party would be more nimble," I retort, hands on hips, "we''d be able to avoid and sneak around the beasts."
"Even if that were true," Eric continues, his frown digging deep above crossing arms, "do you even know the way to the Heart?"
"Does Dad?"
Eric blinks, "W-what? Of course he does! What kind of a question even is that?"
"Are you sure?" My scowl deepens as Bear shifts, lips thinning as he shrinks in on himself ever-so-slightly, "He doesn''t seem to know his own children all that well, so how well can he know the way to the Heart?"
"What''s gotten into you lately?"
"What''s gotten into me? What''s gotten into Dad?! We go through all this trouble to heal him and he''s back to his old ways within months!"
"He''s not back to his old ways, if he were, I wouldn''t be back here. We''re being treated the same way." I pause as Eric''s words find fertile ground and Eric leans in, seizing the initiative, "Besides, you''d be betraying the trust of the group if you did that, Halla. That''s wrong, that''s nid."
"I..." ...shit, Eric''s right, Gods-dammit, he''s right. If I were to take the cow and sacrifice it myself, I''d be putting personal glory over the success of the group. A dreng does not do that. A dreng seeks out glory, yes, but he does not trample his allies to do so. That is nid, that was what I was proposing and that is what Eric saved me from, Gods-dammit. "I''m sorry, Eric. You''re right."
Eric opens his mouth, happiness in his gaze, only to pause as his ears perk up. Half-a-second later, my ears follow suit as I realize what I''m hearing—or rather, what I''m not hearing.
The forest is quiet.
The forest is empty.
The swirling vortex of violence is gone and the cloud of combat-dust with it. In its place is nothing but the vacant swaying of leaf-laden trees.
Wait, leaf laden? But, it''s... It''s winter...
The air is thick, weighed down by the heady aroma of burning herbs. The hairs on my neck and arm stand on end as gooseflesh washes across my body. A shiver passes up my spine as my mouth dries faster than a drought at the heights of summer.
The cow upon Bear''s shoulder writhes frantically, mooing with a certain desperation known only to prey-beasts. Bear refuses to budge, his grip only tightening as, though we wish it not, the cow''s panic confirms our grim suspicions.
Animals have a certain sensitivity towards magic and spirits, one that makes them especially vulnerable to their predations. As such, the wise man pays heed to the mood of his beasts, for they know better than he the circumstances of the spirit world.
A warning whisper winds through the air, carried by the swaying of the branches and the shuffle of the leaves, one not meant for our ears yet heard by them regardless, "You are unwelcome here, Witch."
Well, fuck.