The Jarl's Son, Chapter 11-1
Rain in the Night, Part 1
Gaiur’s grip closed around the haft of her axe. Her eyes were fixed on the fur-clad rider, never to waver. Beneath the palm of the hand which rested at the nape of Varro’s neck, she felt his shoulders tense. He was already here. The Red Bear had made his way to Ostock Forest and revealed himself.
Instinct urged her to pursue, but Marten was as yet unawares. She could go without him, rely on him to follow after her as soon as he was able. A bad idea, quickly dismissed. Night would soon fall and the forest was already dark. Chances were that even if he could follow her trail he’d be unable to make good time.
Better to tell him, she decided. Reaching back, she tapped his ankle with the butt of her axe haft. He was still busy calming his mare, a difficult thing with Varro growling as he was. Moving her hand up from the nape of the greatwolf’s neck, she gently rested it atop his muzzle and began to shush him in low tones. In years past she’d struggled to quiet Varro when he sensed a threat. A great deal of training was needed for him to understand and accept the command, but he managed to learn in due time. Closing his curled lips so that his fangs were no longer bared, his growls gave way to low whimpers as he continued watching the mounted warrior.
The Red Bear hadn’t moved in all the moments that passed. His horse swished its tail from time to time and occasionally clopped a hoof with apparent impatience, but the man remained still. What was he looking at? It couldn’t have been them, she could see the shape of his bear’s skull cap silhouetted in profile. Was there something in the trees? Gaiur couldn’t hear anything out of sorts, except for Varro’s whining, that was.
Briefly she tensed as she felt a hand on her shoulder. In those last few moments she’d become so focused on the Red Bear that she’d almost forgotten Marten was with her. He crouched alongside her, scanning the trees with his sharp blue eyes.
“What do you see?” he asked, his tone low.
Gaiur pointed further up the trail with her axe. “The Red Bear reveals himself,” she answered.
Marten leaned over so that his sightline matched where she was pointing. He frowned as he looked, yet the expression accompanying that frown was neither the concern nor the certitude she would’ve expected from him. Instead, he looked confused, and his words soon revealed why.
“Are you sure?” he asked, glancing back at her.
A feeling of indignance welled up in her. Was she sure? What in Luthmor’s name did he mean by that? She pointed the horse and rider out again, and once more Marten looked, but the confusion never left his face.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“What do you mean you don’t see anything?!” Gaiur snapped in a harsh whisper. “He’s sitting atop his horse in the middle of the trail, how can you not see him?!”
“I’m not lying, Gaiur,” Marten insisted. “No one’s there.”
“Have you gone blind since we left Halvfjord? He’s no more than fifty paces…”
Her words failed her, dribbling from her open mouth like wine from the lips of a passed out drunk. She stood, russet eyes looking over every tree, bush, and stone visible on the trail. They were gone. Horse and rider both, they’d vanished without a trace. No sound of hooves beating against the well traveled ground. No cloud of dust in their wake. No snapping branches from nearby bushes or calls to spur the horse into motion. It was as if they were never there to begin with. Even Varro’s tense whining had stopped, and he now lay beside the spot they’d cleared out for their campfire.
Odd events of this sort were considerably more common for Gaiur than most. Unusual disappearances were among the most common of these events. Likewise, it was far from unheard of for her to experience a warping of her own perceptions when these things occurred. Sometimes these apparent vanishings were the result of illusions playing havoc with her senses. In other cases, such as with the shadow adder that hid itself within Erik’s corporeal form, it genuinely was a matter of an entity disappearing via supernatural means.
In the most extreme cases these incidents were signs of the warping of reality itself. This usually required the use of powerful magics established by long running spell rituals. To date, she’d only encountered a singular power of that sort, a fact she was thankful for. Though their types were often mocked in Stenisian stories, she knew that genuine sorcerers and mages weren’t to be taken lightly. This was true of witches, too. Fortunately, theirs was a danger which her people took more seriously. Tales of hexings and malevolent witchcraft were fairly common among her kind, and treated with all the more seriousness by those hailed from the far-flung reaches of this sprawling northern land, such as herself.
Yet familiar as she was with all of these things, both through the stories and her lived experiences across the last few years, this incident stood out as peculiar. Most of her past experiences involved dealing with lesser spirits or monsters. Such creatures largely relied on trickery and guile to do their misdeeds and, for the most part, remained mere nuisances for some time before they’d develop into proper threats. That didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous, but it did give Gaiur time to seek them out and follow their trails through the distinctive pull of the draw. Among a myriad other examples, the strangler which stalked that Oasyrian trader came to mind.
Only a scant few eschewed this, either by operating more brazenly or by concealing themselves with the use of greater powers. Even when taking these possibilities into consideration, though, Gaiur couldn’t think of a time when she’d seen an entity she was led to by the draw vanish only to leave no trail behind. Some lingering presence had always remained. It may have been as little as a tingle in the back of her mind, but until it was destroyed that sense never faded completely.
This time, it had.
Not only that, the Red Bear’s sudden disappearance also seemed to completely allay any and all of the unease her companions felt. Marten, for his part, never saw the fur-clad rider, and so never felt that same sense of urgency.. His mare was perfectly calm as well, as if Varro hadn’t just sent her into a panic by snarling and bearing his teeth at the savage mere moments earlier.
Varro himself had the strangest reaction of all. He was the first to spot the Red Bear, catching the butcher’s foul scent on the wind. He was the one to alert them, the first to get battle ready by lowering his head, raising his hackles, and baring his fangs in anticipation of a fight. Even so, the very moment she noticed horse and rider had vanished without a trace, Varro had padded to the now nascent campfire Marten was lighting and laid down as if nothing happened.
Or had he?
Come to think of it, Gaiur didn’t remember him leaving her side. Nor could she remember the feel of his muzzle leaving her left hand. True, she’d taken her hand from his neck when she made to shush him, but best as she could recall her palm still rested atop the greatwolf’s snout when she realized the Red Bear was gone. Unless her hand came away while she was briefly arguing with Marten. It was possible she’d moved it then and forgotten, but what if she hadn’t?
She didn’t want to think of that possibility. After the atrocities she’d already seen that man and his warband commit in her dreams, the mere consideration that he might also command of magics powerful enough to conceal him from all her senses, including the draw? Frankly, it put her on edge, and was the very last thing she wished to think about.
A hand upon her shoulder pulled her once more from her all encompassing thoughts. Like when she looked upon the Red Bear, Gaiur startled at Marten’s grip. Unlike that moment, she spun on the balls of her feet with her axe gripped in both hands, hoisted in readiness to strike.
The surprise on Marten’s firelit face registered a moment later. She blinked once at him, then let out the breath she realized she’d been holding and lowered her weapon.
“I’m sorry. Nights make me anxious,” she said, formulating her excuse quickly. It was partly true, as all the best excuses are, but only partly.
For a blessing Marten seemed to understand, nodding in response and saying, “Not too anxious to help me with the tent I hope. We’ll need it, a storm’s coming.”
Thunder pealed through the darkening sky a moment later, as if cued by Marten’s words. Looking up, she could see the first signs of clouds rolling in from the sea. They flowed beneath the pale, early moon like a vaporous veil. Soon they’d cover it completely, locking it away as they brought their wailing winds and dancing lightning to sing and drum across the land. Then the rains would come, soaking everything with its hiss of cold mockery. It would chill them to the bone if they didn’t act quickly.
Gaiur rarely made use of tents since leaving Valdun. Over the years she learned this was true of other far-northerners, too, at least those who’d settled into sedentary towns and villages. There were some nomadic peoples who made use of them, but they were an even greater rarity than village born far-northerners like her, and village folk rarely ventured far from their homes. When they did, usually in an effort to hunt or forage in preparation for leaner months, they made use of old dugouts and hunting holes which were left by their ancestors. Around Valdun, most of these were scattered in the sprawling and dangerous Wolfwood, so named because of the greatwolves that lived there. It was in that very wood where she met Varro.
However, things were different in southern Stenise. Being further removed from the great northern ice floes and glaciers, such as the mighty Glimmerfrost, meant that storms didn’t result in snow or sleet as frequently. Lands were greener, growing seasons lasted longer, and travel was more common among southerners. This meant that the storms which did come tended to arrive with heavy rains, and the closer one lived to the coast, the more common these storms became. Thus it made sense for travelers to journey with tents and rain coverings to help keep them dry whenever the weather happened to turn.
Marten was quick in getting the structure ready. His fingers were deft and practiced. After only a handful of minutes assembled, tied, and ready for the coverings. Gaiur helped him drape and secure the tent. Made from heavy canvas, it was treated with earthy smelling oils and waxes to keep the material water resistant. In addition to this, they also draped a leather tarp overtop which was made of tightly stitched sections of treated aurochs hide. This would not only give them an extra layer of water resistance, but also provide additional protection against the wind, helping to keep them warm.
Once finished, the pair of them huddled up inside and watched the fire through the opening. The rains came within the hour, and Varro forced his way into the tent with them as they did. It was too small for him, sized only to properly fit two people. Both Gaiur and Marten worried that he might end up knocking the frame loose or causing the ground ties to come undone on his side, but they managed to make room enough by huddling closer together. Besides, the big lupine’s furry form would add plenty of warmth. Between Varro and the fire, there was little concern about the rain chilling them.
“What of your mare?” Gaiur asked Marten as they settled in. She could hear the animal grumbling outside.
“She won’t be pleased, but the boughs of the trees are thick and full. They’ll provide enough shelter for her, and the fire will help keep her warm.”
The storm came in soon after. It began with the wind, strong, but not violent. Swerving through the trees, it pulled them along its path, making them sway and rustle. Cones fell from the conifers on occasion, along with twigs and needles, while leaves fell from the birches and the oaks shed the last of their acorns. Some thumped and bounced off the leather tarp as they fell, and a couple of the thumbprint-sized nuts rolled in through the loose hanging flap at the front of the tent. These had come from the oak that loomed behind them, the very same tree where Marten hitched his mare.
Lightning followed the wind. It bore rolling beats of thunder with it, and with every boom it gave flickers of illumination to the woods surrounding them. The wind had picked up, so when the lightning flashed Gaiur could see the way the thinner birch trees started to bow. Clad in papery white bark, their flexible trunks made smooth arches as their leafy tops nodded up and down.
Finally, the rain came. At the start it fell lightly, being little more than windborne mist. However, before long at all that windy mist had morphed into fine drops. Small and dartlike, they beat against the trees with a sound reminiscent of a gentle sizzle. Then the sizzle turned to patters, and the patters became rapid wet snaps as the drops fattened. Now they hit the tarp with the sound of fingers gently thrumming against the skin of a drum. The cold and the wet had arrived.
Luckily for all present, the animals included, both Marten and Gaiur were skilled at firemaking. In a land as frigid as Stenise, such knowledge was paramount to survival. Even in the midst of the hottest summer months heavy rains could bear chills strong enough to sicken the healthy, or to kill the young, elderly, and ill. As such, it was common practice in most Stenisian communities to pass down the firemaking techniques of their ancestors. These usually included methods for making fires quickly, how to make them resistant to rain and snow, and in some cases how to successfully start one during a storm. For a blessing, they hadn’t needed to worry about the latter.
Gaiur and Marten sat in silence as the cloud darkened dusk fully transitioned to the black of night. He had oriented the triangular tent so that its opening faced east, facing away from the oncoming storm. Alongside the tree at their backs and the tarp stretched overtop this kept them largely dry, save for a few scattered spots along the ground where water seeped in beneath the edge of the canvas. A minor inconvenience at worst, Gaiur found it easy to ignore. With the warmth of Varro at her side and Marten’s strong body at her back, she was soon awash in the senses of ease and comfort. That lasted until Marten crawled past her to step out and freshen the fire with a couple small logs.
“Luthmor’s angry,” he commented as he returned.
Gaiur scooted to her left as he stepped over Varro, giving him just space enough to slide back into the comfortable position he held her in a moment earlier. “You think so?” she asked as he slipped his arms around her waist.
Marten nodded. “I can hear it. Listen to how the wind cuts through the trees, and the way his drums of thunder boom,” he said. “Something displeases the Lord of Sea and Sky.”
Certainty in the Gods was never something Gaiur held close. She believed they existed, but when it came to the idea that they cared about the doings of mortals, she simply couldn’t see why they would. Man was hardly a speck in the face of divinity, and to her mind the Gods always seemed withdrawn and inscrutable. Little surprise, then, that she struggled to accept the word of those who claimed to know of their wants, whims, and wills.
Nevertheless, she closed her eyes and listened.
Blustery winds groaned through bowing trees.
Percussive thunder pealed in rumbling rolls.
Fat drops of rain pattered and thrummed against their tent.
Nowhere did she hear anger, nor displeasure. Only the song of the storm was played, conducted in a powerful but peaceful rhythm.
Opening her eyes, Gaiur shook her head. “He’s not angry,” she said.
“You don’t think so? Hm, then what do you hear?” Marten asked.
She shuffled her position as she listened and thought, settling herself more snugly against Marten’s chest. After a moment taking it all in - the wind, the rain, the crackle of the fire, the rustle of the trees, the reposeful sound of their breathing and the occasional grumble from his mare - she answered.
“Peace.”
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.
My first novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! Lured to the sleepy farming community of Jötungatt by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares.
Purchase it in hardback, paperback, or digital on Amazon now:
Sudden appearances and disappearances often signify illusions or supernatural beings moving through the strata of life. Only those attuned to nature can sense them, as Gauir and Varro do.
Great job, as always, Dave.