The one who takes for naught the words of Béma
His words for foolish speeches
He would not be known valiant in battle
But drowns if sailing by storm
In custody he would be yonder where he would go
a prisoner
Ever, they say, quivers the one who is bound
- Northmannish Wisdom
Eriador, Old Kingdom of Cardolan, five miles west of Chetwood, Spring TA 3018
Amidst the glade that bore some of the late snow lay the cadaver of an elk bull.
The torn apart flesh was still reeking. Frøydis and her two companions knew, what that meant: They must have startled the hunter. The cadaver was covered with bloody streaks, the heavy skull of the elk broken. Frøydis knew of no animal that hunted to only feast on such meager parts of its prey. A hollow sound let her turn around. In whirling cascades fell the remaining and smelting snow from the branches of a high pine at the edge of the clearing. The air was filled by a thin mist. Suspicious did Frøydis peer into the brushwork. Now was the forest quiet again. Far over the crowns of the trees drew the sun its last line of light for this day, dyeing the sky in tones of red and violet.
»Only a branch that broke under the weight of the remaining snow«, did the blonde Viglund say and brushed some of the pine needles off his heavy cloak. »Now do not look like a rabid dog. You will come to see, in the end we just follow a group of wolves.«
Worry had snuck into the hearts of the three companions. Everyone remembered the words of the old eremite who had warned them of a death-bringing beast that had come down from the Trollshaws. Were they more than just pipe dreams, spoken in feverish delirium?
Ever since Frøydis' uncle had left, she was responsible for the hall Jarnsalr and its surrounding lands. Originally it was the mead-hall of Tyrgrim, but the Hofding had gone out to distant lands and spoken to no one of his whereabouts, leaving it to his next of blood-kin to make certain that everything remained as he would wish it. And that task had fallen upon the young shoulders of Frøydis. The young woman of fifteen winters was tall for her age and lanky and thin in stature, with white-golden hair, braided in the fashion of Dale. It was her duty to avert any form of danger that could threaten the hall. The words of the old man had been so beseechingly, she have had to investigate. And yet ...
In early springs like this one, where the winter had not quite left the land and held it still in its grasp, when at night the green Fairy-Light was dancing on the sky, came the strangest of creatures into the world of men. Frøydis knew that and her companions knew that, as well.
Asmund had laid an arrow upon his bow and blinked nervously. The gangly, red-haired man never made many words. A few months ago he had come to Jarnsalr. There was the rumor that he had been a renowned cattle thief in the south and that the mayor of Bree had placed a bounty on his head. Frøydis did not care for that. Asmund was an able hunter who brought a lot of good meat into the hall. That counted more than any rumor.
Viglund she had known from back when she was a child. In Firnstayn, where she originally hailed from, he had been a fisher. Viglund was a burly man with the strength of a bear; ever good in mood, he counted many friends even though that the men of Bree thought him to be a bit simple-minded.
A little wistful did Frøydis remember her carefree childhood in Firnstayn. That was over now. She was expected to act accordingly to the position of a Højfrú, a female chieftain, who watched over a small gathering of folk. And it was not always as easy as it might seemed. The title had first excited her and lured her with the privileges that only her uncle had so far experienced. Very soon, Frøydis had to taste the sour side of the apple. Responsibilities and obligation had their priorities higher set than the planning of feasting. Just to be on the safe side, she had taken a signal-horn with her. One sound of the horn meant danger; but if she would blow it twice, then everyone in Jarnsalr knew that there was no danger lurking out here and that the hunters were making their way back to the hall.
Asmund had lowered his bow and laid warningly a finger upon his lips. He raised the head like a hunting hound who had taken up the scent of prey. Now Frøydis could smell it, too. A strange odor spread over the glade. It reminded her of the stench of foul eggs.
»Maybe it is a troll«, Viglund whispered. »They say, they sometimes come down from the nigh mountains. A troll could strike down an elk with but a single strike of his fist.«
Asmund glared darkly at Viglund and appointed him with a gesture to be quiet. The wood of the trees creaked quietly in the misty evening. Frøydis got the feeling of being watched. Something was close. Very close.
Suddenly the branches of a hazelnut brush were scattered and two white figures stormed with loud wing clapping away and over the glade. Frøydis raised instinctively her spear, then she exhaled relieved. It had only been two snow grouses.
But what had flushed them out? Asmund aimed with the bow at the hazel brush. The Højfrú lowered her weapon. She felt how her stomach constricted itself. Did the monster lurk there in the brushwork? Silently, they stood still.
An indescribable long time seemed to pass, but nothing moved. The three had formed a wide half-circle around the bushes. The tension was hardly bearable. Frøydis felt how cold sweat ran down her back and gathered at her belt. The way back to Jarnsalr was far. If her clothes were drenched by sweat and could no longer protect her against the still very cold nights, then they would be forced to camp somewhere and to make a fire.
The tall Asmund handed Viglund his bow. Then he dug the hands in some of the wet snow and formed under quiet crunching a ball. Asmund looked at Frøydis and the Højfrú nodded. In an wide arc did the ball fly into the brushwork. Nothing moved.
Frøydis exhaled relieved. Their fear had summoned the shadows of the approaching night to life. It had been themselves who had startled the snow grouses!
Asmund grinned at ease. »There is nothing. The fleabag that killed the elk is since long over the hills and far away.«
»A fine hunting group, we are«, also Viglund jeered now, too. »Soon, we will be running from the fart of a rabbit.«
The red-haired Asmund took Viglund's spear. »Now I will pierce the shadow!« Laughing he was poking around in the bushes.
Suddenly he was pulled forward. Frøydis saw a black, clawed hand that grasped around the shaft of the spear. Asmund let out a warning call, »Orcs!«, that went over abruptly into a throaty gargling. The man stumbled back, both hands pressed unto his throat. Blood sprayed out between his fingers and ran over his wolf-fur jacket.
Out of the thicket jumped three ugly creatures. Their heads seemed bigger that they should have and so they stood bend forward and yet they were as tall as a grown man. Thick, dark muscles were set around the bare arms and shoulders. They were clad in crude iron and armed with sharp edged swords from their own forges.
The tallest of the Orcs let sound a deep and throaty grunt. His eyes seemed to seek to devour Frøydis.
Viglund raised the bow immediately. An arrow was released from the weapon and left one of the hideous creatures breaking into its knees, the shaft still swinging and the tip sticking in its, by iron protected chest. Frøydis grasped her spear tighter.
Asmund however swung from side to the other in the hopes of holding himself on his feet and then fell unto his side. His cramped hands relaxed. There was still blood seeping from the wound in his neck and his legs were twitching helplessly.
Then the battle began. Frøydis ran against one of her foes and rammed her spear against its chest. It seemed to her as if she had been running against a rock. The blade of the spear slid off the armor of the Orc without causing any harm. A hand wrapped in a gauntlet shot forth and let the shaft splinter.
Viglund shot an arrow at the Orc to distract it from Frøydis, but also his attack was deflected by the hardened iron plate.
Frøydis let herself fall into the snow and drew the sword of her father Alfknutr from her belt. It was a good weapon, with a slim and sharp blade. The Højfrú hewed with all her power against the ankle of her enemy. The sword parted flesh and bone of the defenseless spot and the Orc squeaked in pain as it lost its foot. Another quick strike ended the life of the monster.
Frøydis looked up to see if Viglund needed her help, but the able man had managed to strike down his foe as well. His arm was bleeding from a vicious cut and hung uselessly at his side. There was no trace of the third Orc whom they had wounded with an arrow.
»Are you alright?«, she heard Viglund saying and she nodded silently, while her eyes had fallen on the dead Asmund. A pool of red had gathered around him and had it not been for the deep cut on his throat, one could have thought that he was asleep. It became once again apparent to Frøydis how quickly Man could pass and how hard her task actually was. She felt the hand of Viglund on her shoulder, heard his raging breath.
»It was not your fault. Asmund was a good man and he knew the risks.«
»Still, he had not need to die, today. His sword and bow, his presence will be missed at Jarnsalr«, Frøydis responded. Only a year ago, the death of a companion would have hit her hard, but she had quickly learned that death was an ever by-standing follower on any quest that they undertook. Viglund was right. Asmund had known the risks when he volunteered to come with her. Who knew, if it had not been for him, she and Viglund might have been overwhelmed by the Orcs and lay now lifeless in his stead. In a quiet prayer to Béma, Frøydis said her farewell to the hunter and thanked him. »Help me take him up, Viglund«, she said and the man complied as best as he could with his hurt arm that he had bandaged with a piece of ripped cloth from his jacket.
In a short time, they had constructed a stretcher of Asmund's coat and two long branches. The Orcs they left to rot in the forest and to serve as meal for the wild animals. Should that be their gain for their evil deeds.
The two began wordless their march back to Jarnsalr.
That one of the enemies could have escaped troubled Frøydis visibly and also Viglund appeared to share those thoughts. They knew exactly for what reason the creatures had come so nigh the hall. Not three weeks ago, Wunjo, Frøydis' Thane and his brother Uruz, together with Kenaz and Aegaldred had attacked a small outposts of these creatures.
She would need to speak with Wunjo, in order to retain control over the surrounding lands and the situation.
But first, they would grant Asmund a high pyre. It should be made known that had not died a worthless death, but in the defense of Jarnsalr and all who lived there.
