The Jarl's Son, Chapter 12-2
The Vanishing, Part 2
Marten and the Jarl parted ways soon after. The city’s council had been left waiting for some time, and there was still a goodly amount which Jarl Ostock needed to discuss with them before he could make time to spend with young Erik. Dire though the circumstances were, Marten’s unexpected return home would prove a small blessing for his father at this moment. As he stepped out, the Jarl asked Marten to spend time with his younger brother, at least until his meeting with the council was finished.
Naturally, Marten agreed. It would make for an easy opportunity to speak with Erik about Gaiur’s vulpine companion. Before he could, though, he’d first need to bring Varro back into the training yard. The greatwolf had been surprisingly calm with Marten in the wake of his master’s disappearance. He might even say the beast behaved amenably toward him, given his willingness to follow Marten and actually listen to the commands he gave.
He hadn’t given much thought about that over the last couple days, but now he found himself wondering why that was. Varro wasn’t some simple dog, domestic and teachable. He was a predator and a wild beast, and a massive one at that. Even if he were trainable, which he supposed must be possible considering he was Gaiur’s traveling companion, Marten hadn’t spent enough time with Varro for any sort of training or trust to naturally set in. Instead, it seemed that Varro’s attitude toward him was positive from the outset. At the very least it was placid.
Varro was out front, lying on the wooden porch. He rested his head over crossed forepaws, perking and sitting upright once Marten emerged. “Come along, boy,” he said softly, waving his hand to beckon the greatwolf to follow.
To his continued amazement, Varro followed without so much as a whimper of protest. Leading him back to the training yard behind the Jarl’s home, Marten allowed the animal free reign to lay wherever he chose. The huge, gray-furred wolf took up the same spot he had when he and Gaiur first arrived. Tucked into a north facing corner where the slatted fence around the yard met with the back of the house, Varro settled in, laid his head upon his paws once more, and watched as Marten gathered up a length of rope which he could use as a lead. Relaxed though he seemed to be, a wild beast he remained. He couldn’t simply allow him to roam freely. Even Gaiur hadn’t permitted that. Tying the rope snugly about Varro’s neck, Marten tethered the lead to a support post nearby. It was long enough that it would allow some space for Varro to roam, though he wouldn’t be able to leave the months unused yard.
How quiet it had been out here during the summer. On most days, Marten would spend some time practicing with his men. He’d rotate between the yards at the city’s trio of guardhouses, running drills and supervising sparring matches, as well as engaging in spars of his own. As he understood it, this method of training was imported from somewhere in the southern lands decades before he was born. Before then they relied on the usual manner of Stenisian fighting. While still organized and effective, more traditional methods retained a sort of reckless wildness to them that Marten and his men had largely eschewed. After adopting elements from the southerners, Marten’s more recent ancestors began fighting in a method which appeared more reserved. Largely gone was that element of reckless abandon carried over from tales of berserkers, replaced by a more cautious and precise style that nevertheless retained its brute effectiveness.
This particular part of his routine remained unchanged through the summer months. If anything, he threw himself harder into his practice since Erik grew ill. Where the unwelcome change came in was here, in his family’s home. Usually, Marten would spend at least an hour of every day teaching his younger brother how to properly wield a sword. They’d come out into the yard and Marten would equip Erik with a wooden sword and shield. Then he would drill the boy on one of the three wooden dummies, which were covered from faceless head to stone-weighted foot in knicks, dents, and splits. Then once the drills were finished, they would practice against each other so that Marten could better see what his young brother had learned.
He’d progressed well in his young age. Marten was sure that if he kept at it, Erik might just surpass him in ability one day. The boy had a real passion for swordplay, so it didn’t surprise him when he asked their father to come play swords just a few minutes earlier. For just over three months this yard had remained silent. Save as a spot for Varro and Gaiur to rest over the last handful of days, it went entirely unused ever since Erik was afflicted by that vile serpent. The percussive clacks and thumps of wooden swords and shields, gone. Erik’s grunts and laughter and whining during their training, nowhere to be heard. For a time, Marten had feared that would always be the case. Now he found himself fearing the loss of another.
Ah, but he reminisced too much. Heading back inside, he fetched a beef joint for Varro to gnaw on while he was made to wait. The wolf accepted it happily. His tail thumped against the slatted fence as he chewed at the bone, lapping up whatever scraps of meat still remained upon it. Then Marten finally returned to Erik’s room.
In all, he’d only been away for about five minutes, but one wouldn’t know that from Erik’s protestations. His bright blue eyes lit up when Marten entered the room, only to darken again once he found out that they wouldn’t be playing swords just yet. Sitting on the edge of his bed, the young boy slumped forward, then flopped back with a groan.
“I’ve already been waiting forever!” he complained.
Chuckling, Marten shook his head and tousled his brother’s dark brown hair. Erik whined, batting fruitlessly at his hand.
“It’s only been five minutes,” Marten said.
“Well it feels like forever,” Erik said. “Can we go fight with swords now?”
“Not until Father’s ready,” Marten said.
His answer drew an immediate and thoroughly dramatic sigh from Erik, who then proceeded to complain about his ongoing boredom. In most any other circumstance, Marten would likely have chided his young brother for his complaining. Such things weren’t becoming of men, and he knew that Erik would come into his manhood sooner than the boy realized. Today, he was inclined to let this slide. He had enough on his mind as it was, and Erik had endured hardship aplenty over the prior months. The boy had more than earned the right to be the child he was for a time.
Even so, Marten could neither wait nor humor his brother forever. The Jarl was taking longer than expected to finish up with his council. This allowed the brothers a chance to while away their time with stories and discussion. Once they’d begun, it wasn’t long before they turned to the subject of Gaiur’s fox-like companion.
“Do you remember the name of Wolfmother’s fox friend?” Marten asked.
Erik nodded. “He said he doesn’t have a name, but I can call him Renald because everyone calls him Renald, and then he kept talking about a bunch of things I forgot about.”
Marten snickered. Gaiur hadn’t told him much of anything about the fox, but his brief meeting with the creature hinted at his talkative nature. “You said that you wished he was still here,” he continued. “Has he left?”
Erik shook his head. “I don’t see him during the day. He only comes to see me while I’m sleeping.”
Not quite the answer he was hoping for, but hardly the worst he could’ve heard. If the fox was still visiting Erik, then Marten might find a way to speak with him through his brother. Adjusting his position at the side of Erik’s bed, he leaned forward so he could look his brother in the face as he spoke.
“Do you think he’ll see you again tonight?” he asked.
To his dismay, Erik answered with a shrug and a disappointed pout. “I hope so,” the boy said. “Last time he said I was doing much better and made it sound like he might not come tonight. I hope he comes. He talks too much, but he makes me laugh.”
Well, there it was. As he’d feared, there was no guarantee whether Renald would come to visit Erik tonight or not. What’s more, since the creature only seemed to visit Erik while he was sleeping, Marten suspected he probably wouldn’t be able to contact him unless he was asleep as well. How was he to do that? He’d always been a sound sleeper, not prone to dreaming or nighttime fits or anything else of that sort. What few dreams he did have tended to be simple and oft forgotten come the morning, and he most certainly had no control over them. Perhaps if he offered supplication to Beshabba before he slept? She was the one that Stenisians believed looked over people in their sleep. Did that mean Renald was one of her servants? Might Marten reach him if he petitioned the Night Walker?
Doubtful. The Gods were rarely inclined to act on behalf of man, no matter how desperately he begged. Best he could see, ignorant as he was of the workings of magic or the doings of spirits and their ilk, the one truly viable option Marten had was to hope the talkative fox decided to pay Erik a visit tonight. If he did, then Erik might be able to ask him to find his brother to speak of urgent things. If not, then he didn’t know what he would do. Gaiur was lost to him now. Not even Varro’s sharp lupine senses could detect any sign of her, and Marten knew of no creature more closely bonded to Gaiur than that mighty animal. Without Renald’s aid, he could see no hope of finding her alive, if he found her at all.
Worry must have been showing on his features, because Erik was looking up at him with unmasked concern. Marten smiled and apologized. He hadn’t realized how long he’d let his thoughts wander for.
Jarl Ostock returned a moment later and Erik perked up again. Rising from his bed, he excitedly asked if it was time for them to head out to the training yard. He was so eager to pick up his wooden sword again.
“I don’t see why not!” the Jarl said, beaming beneath his short, curly beard of graying red-blonde hair. “We’ve a couple hours of daylight remaining. Plenty of time for you to get some good practice in!”
“Before you go, Father, permit me to ask something of Erik privately. I’ll also need to move Varro from the yard,” Marten said as he pushed up off the edge of the bed. He almost gave an involuntary groan as he stood, the tension in his legs high after so much riding and searching over the last two days.
Having seen the tiredness in his eldest son’s body and knowing his reason for it, Jarl Ostock’s beaming expression receded into a look of compassionate seriousness. He nodded, stating that he’d take the time to change into something more suitable for the dusty training yard than his finest tunic and cloak as he stepped back out again. Once the door latched behind him, Marten knelt down to face his younger brother and placed a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Erik, I need you to listen to me carefully. You can’t forget what I’m about to tell you, no matter what” he stated firmly.
Wide-eyed at first, Erik’s soft and youthful features soon took on a look of seriousness all their own. It was comical in its way, as stern and stolid expressions on children often are. Marten gave no laughter for it, though. He knew his younger brother well. Despite appearances brought on by his youth, his was the face of a boy who wished to succeed at something expected of a man.
“Good lad,” Marten said, his lips curling into the ghost of a smile. “Now, pay attention. The fox who’s been visiting you, Renald? If you see him tonight, I need you to tell him something very important.”
Erik’s eyes went wide again, and his small fists clenched at his sides. “Is it about Wolfmother?”
Marten nodded. “Yes, it is. I need you to tell him she’s gone missing. Tell him to come find me, because I need his help to find her. Can you do that, Erik?”
The boy nodded.
“Can you repeat to me what you must do?”
He nodded again. “If Renald comes, tell him to find you because Wolfmother is missing and you need his help to find her.”
This time, Marten broke into a full smile. “Good boy,” he said, pulling his brother into a tight hug. “Very good, Erik. Now don’t forget, understand?”
“I won’t,” he answered once Marten let him go.
They left the room together after that and met with their father in the main hall. Erik was then asked to wait one last time while Jarl Ostock accompanied Marten outside.
“What did you ask him?” the Jarl queried.
“To deliver a message for me, should the Wolfmother’s fox spirit visit him again tonight,” Marten replied.
“The creature has continued to see him?” the Jarl asked. A touch of concern was present in his tone. Apparently even knowing that Renald had been there to help wasn’t enough to fully curb his unease at the continued visitations of a spirit to his youngest son.
“To help ensure he was recovering well, yes,” Marten said, hoping to assuage his father’s doubts. “From what he told me, it’s possible Renald may not return tonight.”
“Let us hope he doesn’t,” the Jarl murmured.
Marten’s expression grew hard at the comment. “Forgive me if I hope against you, Father,” he said.
“Ah, no need for that, my son,” he said apologetically. “After all that’s happened, the thought of a spirit lingering so close to Erik leaves me ill at ease, even if he has been benevolent.”
“I can’t fault you for that,” Marten said.
“Will you be staying here tonight? I’m sure it would make Erik happy if you did.”
A wistful smile crept across Marten’s lips. “Would that I could,” he sighed, “but I must return to the search. Even if I cannot find Gaiur’s trail, we still need to find the Red Bear.”
“Then I wish to give you something.”
Jarl Ostock reached into the plain blue tunic he’d changed into and removed a small square object wrapped in layers of thin, frayed linen. Grabbing Marten’s hand, the Jarl placed the object in his palm and wrapped his fingers around it. It was heavy, and even through the many layers he could tell whatever was inside had been made of metal.
“What’s this?” he asked, about to start opening it.
His father stopped him. “Not here,” he said with a slight shake of his head.
Marten’s brow knitted into a slight and confused frown. “Why not, Father? What is it?”
The Jarl took a deep breath. A shaky breath, and the knotting of Marten’s brow loosened when he saw tears start to well in his father’s eyes. “Something which belonged to your Mother,” he sobbed. “In life, she believed it brought her protection. I don’t know if it ever truly did, but I hope she was right because if she was then it might protect you, too.”
On the shaded porch at the front of the house of Jarl Ostock, the afternoon sun crept down into the hours of early evening. There, as the shadows drew long and the day’s light turned to gold, Marten Ostock embraced his father for what may well have been the last time. Giving the aging man both his thanks and his love, the Jarl’s eldest son returned to the back of the house to fetch the colossal wolf who had since become his companion, then left Halvfjord to resume his search once more.
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.
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