The Jarl's Son, Chapter 10-2
Smoke Billows to the East, Part 2
The Jarl leaned forward, staring into the low burning fire at the center of his main hall. His manner had become darkly pensive, and he sat with an elbow set upon his knee and a hand clutching at his mouth and bearded jaw. Icy blue eyes reflected the fire’s flicker, followed by a spew of embers as one of the logs noisily snapped in the otherwise quiet chamber.
“I’ve let far too much escape my sight while Erik was unwell,” he eventually said. Then he sank back into his antler-crested throne and produced something from inside his green and gold robes. The quiet between Gaiur and the Jarl was so complete that she could hear the thick pine legs and deer hide cushions creaking as he moved.
He stared longingly at something which he fiddled between his fingers. Gaiur wasn’t sure what it was at first, only that it was metal. However, it didn’t take her long to realize it was a bejeweled silver ring. Orange firelight glinted off its ornately flowing filigree where the gems, two small dark red garnets and a larger amethyst of deep purple, were set. Jarl Ostock gripped it tight in his hand, then sighed and slouched back.
“If only your mother was with us. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have been so negligent of my people, knowing that she was there to care for you,” he groaned.
Gaiur took a slight step forward. Her thick boots thunked dully against the wooden planks of the floor, drawing the Jarl’s eye. “Did Erik’s mother die as well?” she asked.
“As well?” the Jarl repeated, his ire stoked. “What do you mean by that?”
Gaiur met his eye with impassive calm. “Marten told me what happened to his mother a couple days ago,” she said. “Has Erik’s met the same fate?”
Jarl Ostock sighed and shook his head. “Betilde wasn’t taken in childbirth,” he said. “Disease took her, a sickness not unlike the one that foul serpent afflicted her son with.”
Ever so slightly, Gaiur’s eyes widened. Erik’s mother was killed by a sickness similar to what he suffered? That couldn’t have been coincidence, and she told the Jarl as much when he took note of the look in her eyes.
“There’s more to these evils you're facing than mere chance,” she told him. “Your youngest son is stricken ill by a creature of shadow at a time that his half-brother could be blamed. The villages and farmsteads in your reach are razed by bloodthirsty reavers. Now you tell me that Erik’s mother died in a manner similar to how he would’ve been taken?”
Crossing her arms tightly about her chest, now Gaiur turned to stare into the fire. These events were linked, she was sure of it. Erik’s mother dying of such a similar illness was too convenient to be coincidence. But how were they linked, and by whom? Was it all the Red Bear’s doing? Or was there another fiend working from a secret place beyond sight, as was the case with Jötungatt and its well-hidden witch? Alas, she still didn’t know enough to say for sure.
It felt like she’d been silent for a long while, but she realized how brief the moment had been when Jarl Ostock urgently pressed her for her thoughts. Facing him, she returned to a line of questioning she’d started down when they’d first met.
“When I came here,” she began, “I asked if you had any enemies that might be capable of cursing or bewitching your son. Has anyone come to mind since then? Think hard, Jarl.”
The older man scrunched up his face. His brow furrowed deeply and his nose crinkled in ways that highlighted his progress into his later years. It would be long before he crossed into his fifties. Unfortunately, his answer for her was the same as before. “There’s no one,” he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “None I can think of who could work such devilry.”
“What about your ancestors? Any family grudges or old foes who might wish to punish you and yours in your stead?” she asked.
The Jarl gave an exasperated sigh. “My line has lived in and developed this land for over five centuries,” he said. “Even if there were any such foes my kinsmen faced, they’d be long dead by now.”
Gaiur knew well that wasn’t necessarily true. The witch Bothild, the insidious scourge of Jötungatt, had been operating there for at least three-and-one-half centuries before Gaiur arrived. Only the Gods knew how much longer she’d lived before that, but Gaiur was certain it must’ve been another fifty years at the very least. Regardless of the Jarl’s inaccuracy in that regard, the fact remained that if there was such an enemy who might bear a grudge against him and his kin, he didn’t know it. As such, she resigned herself to working with what she did know. Then she made ready to leave for the markets to prepare for her excursion with Marten, but not before informing the Jarl of their plan to journey into his reach in search of the Red Bear.
Just as she expected, Jarl Ostock was quick to insist on mustering his own men in search of the vagrant reaver. Gaiur advised against it, though. She talked him down from that course in the same way she had Marten, by pointing out the panic that would cause the uprooted survivors taking residence in his city. Fortunately he agreed, and instead offered to have messages sent with the rangers Marten was gathering to their further flung compatriots. “Widen the net,” as he put it.
Gaiur nodded her assent and headed out through the back to gather Varro and her axe. At the same time, Jarl Ostock called his advisors back in and began informing them of the situation. Silently she prayed to any deity or spirit who would listen that those men would be wise enough to keep quiet council about it. Then she fetched Varro, slung her axe over her shoulder, and after giving two sharp whistles to try and summon the albino raven Hunin - he was off following whatever corvid fancies he’d taken to that day, and failed to come when called - headed for the markets.
Either because her meeting with the Jarl took longer than expected, or because he had good fortune in gathering those trackers quickly, Marten was already waiting for her. “How went things with my father?” he asked.
“As well as we could expect,” Gaiur replied, then she explained what happened during their meeting.
Marten gave a curt nod. “Father’s idea of ‘widening the net’ is a good one,” he said, a wry smile crossing his lips. “Honestly, I wish I’d thought of it.”
Gaiur gave him a reassuring squeeze on his forearm. Her hand only lingered there for a moment before she slid it down to hold his. “You and I will be doing plenty as it is,” she said. “You don’t need to think of everything.”
“No, I suppose not,” he said, his wry grin growing wider. “Though it would make things easier if I could. Ah, that reminds me.”
He paused for a moment, inclining his head toward Varro as he leaned in close. “Your furred companion is like to cause the panic you worried about if he lingers here much longer,” he whispered, making subtle motions to the surrounding market. A glance told Gaiur he was right. The people still went about their daily work, but they’d slowed and were stealing leery peeks at them. She cursed herself for not thinking of that. After the events of the last few days, she’d allowed herself to become more comfortable in Halvfjord than she probably should have.
“They’ve some trust in you now, but I doubt they extend much to him,” Marten continued. Then he nudged the pouch of hacksilver on her belt with the back of his free hand. “Take him outside the east gate. I’ll buy our supplies and meet you there.”
Gaiur did as instructed, moving quickly through the city with Varro in tow. Their wait outside the gate had been blessedly short. Marten rode through the gate some half an hour after Gaiur started waiting. His horse, a tall Stenisian mare with cream colored and black spotted fur, was a strong and stately beast who eyed Varro sharply. The greatwolf returned her gaze, and the two animals stared each other down for a moment; the horse with cautious curiosity, and the wolf with barely hidden hunger.
Marten grimaced at that look. “He won’t try to eat my horse, will he?” he asked Gaiur, who laughed and shook her head in reply.
“Not unless I tell him to,” she said. “He’s learned better than to attack someone’s steed without my say. Besides, you’ve made him trust you some. I don’t think he wants to break that.”
Marten didn’t appear fully convinced, but accepted her explanation all the same. With that, Gaiur was ready to begin their journey, but Marten held her for just a moment longer. His horse was laden with a number of packs and bundles, and he’d removed one of them from where it hung and handed it to her.
“To replace your old one,” he said, passing her cross-tied bundle of fabric.
Pulling open the twine tie that bound it, Gaiur marveled at the article as it unfurled. She held in her hands a new woolen cloak, one of the finest she’d ever seen! Lifting it up with outstretched arms, she turned it back to front and examined it. It was sturdy and thickly padded, perfect for protecting against poor weather and keeping her warm in the approaching autumn and winter months. Its colors were smartly picked for her, too; a pale sage green on one side to help her blend in with foliage, and a creamy off-white on the other to help blend in with snow or pale rock, all of which were plentiful in Stenise.
With a grin and a huff of a laugh, she draped it about her shoulders, clasped it shut, then gave Marten her uncharacteristically sheepish thanks. Then they were off at last, Marten at a trot from his horse-top perch, and Gaiur keeping pace on foot alongside Varro. Not much time at all passed before that changed, though, with Marten offering Gaiur a seat on the horse in front of him. He made the offer pragmatically, stating that so long as Varro could keep up, they could ride together and make better time. That was true, and since Varro could keep up she saw no reason to rebuff his suggestion. Yet even in the face of their urgent work, she hoped his reasons weren’t only pragmatic.
The strong arm which wrapped around her waist said they weren’t.
They rode in this manner for some time. Marten led his steed along the eastbound path which wound through Ostock Forest, keeping her at a steady but leisurely pace. Gaiur leaned into him, and they shared little whispers, little jokes, and little laughters. All playful banter of the sort one would expect of younger lovers. She found herself surprised by that, though not because of Marten. He’d made his attractions fairly clear in those handful of moments across the last few days where they were alone together. Witty comments. Waggish jabs. Even the occasional utterance of bashfulness. His attraction to her had been worn openly.
Instead, Gaiur found herself surprised by, well, herself. She’d spent a good many years now following this destiny which had been carved out for her. Moving from town to town, person to person, monster to monster, all in her ongoing effort to root out the shadowy evils that linger in dark corners or abandoned places. Every time she faced these ordeals with utmost seriousness, as was befitting for someone who had destiny forced upon her rather than seeking it for herself. Naturally, this was to say nothing of the extended time she’d spent living alone. True, Varro was with her throughout her travels and Hunin had also become a part-time companion, but as comforting as animal companionship could be, it was no real substitute for human connection.
Yet here she was, riding down a path to a razed farmstead or township, out in search of yet another vile fiend in need of slaying, and she was smiling. She was giggling! She was leaning against the body of a strong man and feeling like she wasn’t so alone anymore. Frankly, she almost felt like the young woman she was when she first met her late husband. Almost, but not quite. That naïve girl hadn’t yet learned the painful lesson of loss and abandonment the woman she’d since become had. Even so, she neither could nor would deny the enjoyment she took in this brief reprieve, even if the giggles and coos and whispered nothings were drawing confused looks from her large lupine companion.
Said lupine companion would also be the one to break them free of their little lovers' revelry. They’d been keeping their steady pace for a few hours, long enough that the shadows had drawn long. Deciding to take advantage of what daylight they had left, Marten suggested they stop and make camp. Gaiur readily agreed. Ostock forest was dense in its deeper reaches. Even with torches or lanterns, picking their path through those thick woods at night would prove difficult. What’s more, attempting to do so might draw unwanted attention not just from local predators, but other forces as well. Her flank still ached when she thought about that elk spirit from the grove.
However, as they dismounted and began gathering wood and brush to make a campfire, Varro’s gaze fixed on something. He lifted his head, angled his nose high, and sniffed at the air. Gaiur didn’t pay much mind at first. It wasn’t unusual for Varro to sniff about and take stock of the sort of place they were stopping in. Then his hackles raised, and he lowered his head with a snarl.
Marten moved to calm his horse. She’d begun to whinny and stomp in response to Varro’s growl. Gaiur went to her greatwolf’s side, softly placing a hand on the nape of his neck.
“What is it? What do you smell?” she asked, following his gaze.
There, some ways down the windy forest path, a man sat atop a muscular steed was watching them. A man clad in the matted furs of a bear.
Thank you for reading.
The Jarl’s Son sees Gaiur the Valdunite return to embark on a new adventure and acts as the follow-up to my dark fantasy mystery tale, In the Giant’s Shadow. The previous story isn’t required reading to understand and enjoy this tale, but doing so will enhance the experience.
The bear made better time than I thought he would, and yes his arrival would break the young lovers connection.