The Jarl's Son, Chapter 6-1
Through the Forest Once More, Part 1
Just as she had the day before, Gaiur rose with the dawn. The night prior, on their way back to the Jarl’s home, she shared the details of what happened to her family all those years back. He didn’t say much, and Gaiur didn’t press him. Upon their return he offered for her to take his quarters for the night. She politely declined, stating that if Varro would be made to sleep outside, then so would she. It was still summer, after all, and though the autumn chill was approaching it had yet to make itself fully known.
She awoke to a dim, gray morning. Overcast from the sea darkened the sky and blocked the sun from sight, but its light still made its way through. She’d fallen asleep leaning against the back wall, next to where Varro lay sprawled under the awning of the Jarl’s training yard. The morning air was damp, rain had fallen sometime during the night. Water dripped from the edge of the sloping roof above her to collect in small puddles underneath. Fortunately the space beneath the awning was dry, but the dampness in the air sent a chill running through her.
Her woolen cloak was loosely draped over her. She pulled at it, trying to bundle it around herself. She felt it rip on her right side. Loosing something between a grumble and a sigh, she stood and examined the tear. It stretched from her shoulder to her hip, and when she opened it to see how it tore the thin, fraying fabric ripped even further.
“Damn,” she muttered, letting the cloak fall back into place. Patching it wouldn’t help much anymore, not with the fabric being so worn. She’d need to trade for a new one before she left the city later, but that would have to wait until after she searched the fjord.
She rummaged through the sacks and satchels at her belt, searching for something to eat. Food was sparse on her person since finishing what remained of her rations yesterday. Luckily, Gaiur had foresight enough to rectify that issue last night. Upon returning to the Jarl’s home with Marten after their meeting with the læknir, Gaiur made sure to snatch a few strips of smoked venison and some ripe currants from the Jarl Ostock’s stores. It was specifically those currants which she was after. Plump and juicy, their skins of black and red glistened even under the slowly brightening overcast dawn. If the sun itself were out in full, those tiny fruits would look like gemstone beads, and they tempted her with their fragrance.
The currants weren’t for herself, though. After the læknir Hlín told her that she might be able to find patches of troll’s hair moss growing near the brackish waters deeper in the fjord, Gaiur had already decided how she would search for it. For most, that search would begin with climbing down the switchback trails that crossed back and forth down the cliffs to take one of the boats the fishermen moored down there. For Gaiur, that search began with stuffing a leather sack with a handful of currants.
Cupping those fruits in her hand, she pursed her lips together and let out a long, sharp whistle. No answer came, so she breathed deep and let out a second. This time, he replied.
Hawr! came Hunin’s cry, and a short moment later the bone white raven with his jewel red eyes swooped down and landed on her outstretched arm. On seeing the currants, his feathers ruffled and he clicked his beak in excitement.
“I need your wings,” she whispered to him as he gulped down the fruits in her palm. “Your wings and your eyes. Will you help me find what I seek?”
Hunin looked back at her, tilting his head this way and that. He clicked his beak and cawed, then continued to eat.
Even after so many months spent in the white raven’s company, Gaiur still wasn’t sure how she could understand him. He spoke no words to her, nor was she able to somehow read his thoughts. Openly, he simply showed basic animal behaviors which she’d come to interpret over time. Ruffling of the feathers, preening, or casual clicking of his beak usually meant he was relaxed or happy about something; while his cries could denote anything from simple curiosity to the fun of play to a warning of danger, depending on context and tone.
Yet whenever she used the power Hedda gifted her, whenever she needed to see through his eyes or take advantage of his speed and capacity for flight, he always seemed to know precisely what she sought. If she needed him to scout, he would scout, patrolling areas by flying in wide circles or swooping from tree to tree or stone to stone. If she needed him to fetch something, he would fetch it as quickly as he was able. If she needed to find something, even if she wasn’t fully sure what it looked like, he’d search it out to the best of his ability. Such was their arrangement.
They spoke no language when she made these connections. Yes, Gaiur would often say her needs aloud, but only to help her better focus her mind on what she wished Hunin to do. Words weren’t truly necessary to make him understand because he could intuit her desires. Later, after much trial and error, she realized she could do the same.
She sat down beside Varro. The greatwolf had started to stir, making sleepy grumbles deep in his throat. She tossed a few of the smoked venison strips she’d taken in front of him. He sniffed, then slowly opened his eyes and sniffed again. Once he realized what lay before him, he lazily turned his head to the side, stuck out his tongue, and lapped at the strips. Slowly, he dragged close enough to his mouth to gulp them down, then rested his head on his paws again and went back to sleep. As his small, squeaky snores resumed, Gaiur took flight.
Experiencing the world through Hunin’s senses was an unusual experience. The first time she’d tried it on her own, the link between them broke because her body couldn’t reconcile with the fact that it wasn’t actually moving the way the raven did. As her consciousness and senses flew through the air with him, dizziness and sickness overwhelmed her. She vomited violently and painfully, and continued to suffer through similar struggles on subsequent attempts. However, with time and practice the sensation began to feel more natural until, somewhere around her thirtieth attempt, she found herself able to retain their bond for two full hours before starting to feel slightly ill. Now she could maintain the link for a day, and it felt no more strange than being in her own body.
She glided over the fjord, coasting between upward winds on Hunin’s wings. The brackish waters that formed where the rivers ended and the seas began would be found deep in the fjord. Halvfjord was situated above the mouth of this serpentine trail of high cliffs and jagged rock formations, where they opened up to the sea. The river was much further inland, a half day’s walk at least. Getting to the brackish waters would take even longer than that had Gaiur chosen to go on foot, since she’d then need to climb down the cliffs to the waters below. The Jarl’s boats wouldn’t have saved her much time, either, not with how choppy the waters further in the fjords were. Alone, she’d likely have ended up with her boat dashed against one of the many rocks that jutted forth from the salty spray. A crew of rowers would fare better, but even if the Jarl had granted her one, they’d still have to search the shores on foot, too time consuming a process for how slim their chances of finding the moss apparently was.
Hunin made the journey far more quickly. He swooped high over the wavy walls of the fjords, and the grassy rolling hills and scattered forests that lay atop them. Through his eyes, Gaiur experienced the world in a way that was very nearly impossible for her. His vision was sharp, allowing her not only to see vast distances but to pick up on acute details that she’d never have seen from so far off.
Even in the heavy overcast, she was able to see a great deal. To the north, partly masked by the clouds but still visible, she saw the Isbryn Range, a central stretch of mountains which helped separate the arctic far northern reaches of Stenise from the slightly more temperate south. Snow already coated the sides of those stony mountains, reaching so far down that it dusted the tops of the trees that grew just past their bases. West of her, the sea stretched out to the horizon, while to the east and south were the fields and forests of the Ostock Jarldom and beyond. She could even see the Red Marshes far to the southeast, though they were little more than a smudge from this distance.
When looking nearby, she found she could pick out the individual trees in nearby Ostock Forest despite flying high above them. Likewise, she could discern the subtle differences in color on the rocks and cliffs below. Mottled grays, yellows, whites, and pinks marked the granite and gabbro of the cliffs in colorful splotches; while discolored patches of black, beige, or gray-green showed the things that grew upon their surface. Most of this was algae or lichen, but in some places she could also see the tawny dark yellow of kelp draped across the rocks along the water.
This was how she’d be able to find the troll’s hair, if any grew here. It was a creeper moss, given away not just by the long black tendrils from which it was named, but also by the soft green tufts that grew on the tendril joints. That would help it stand out amongst most of the growth along the cliffs, save for other mosses and perhaps some similar lichens. She just needed to reach the part of the fjord where the rivers spilled into the sea. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before she had. The cliffs were already banking to the east, and the waterways started to split off into additional fjords that stretched further north. Other rivers and springs met the sea that way, too. If she couldn’t find the moss here, then it might be worth searching near them before attempting the long flight to the Red Marshes. She resolved that she would, though she’d need to recall Hunin and feed him again if they couldn’t find anything. She doubted he’d agree to fly as far as the marshes otherwise.
The river was close now. She saw it running from a distant inland lake. Winding its way around hills and through fields, it flowed into a deep canyon that eventually opened up into the fjords. Hunin closed his wings and dove. The water was calmer here, with little in the way of the crashing waves and salt spray that constantly struck the cliffs along the sea. Gaiur felt the cool air whip against his feathers. She smelled the briny scent of salt water and the must of wet rocks. Then, when he was about halfway down the length of the cliffs, Hunin opened his wings wide and started gliding again.
Gaiur felt her stomach lurch. The change in speed was sudden and disorienting, and for a moment she feared she might become ill and break their connection. Luckily the sensation of nausea was short lived and she was able to resist it, though the sudden change did leave her dizzy.
No time to worry about that. She began her search through Hunin’s eyes, scanning the rocks for any signs of troll’s hair. Hlín was right about this being the best spot to look. On the occasions where she traveled near or through brackish waters like these, Gaiur had never really paid much mind to what grew on the cliffs. Fishing or reaching her destination were usually at the forefront of her mind at such times. Now that she was looking, she realized just how much moss, lichen, and algae grew in these areas. It didn’t compare to the volume found on the floor, trees, and stones of the forests, but it was considerably more than she’d have guessed.
Hunin’s pinions clapped as he beat his wings, moving closer to the canyon. They’d been searching for about ten minutes and so far, she found no signs of troll’s hair. After another fifteen, she reasoned that they wouldn’t find any along here. Urging her corvid companion on, they turned north, making for where the next river met the ocean. Again, no luck, and by now they’d been searching and flying for close to two hours. Hunin perched on a nearby boulder and squawked in complaint. He was getting tired, and Gaiur was getting hungry. Still, she urged him on again, promising him future morsels if he searched at least one more place before returning.
Reluctantly, the raven agreed. Stretching his wings before taking off, he took flight after a few hard beats and was swiftly on his way. However, something in the distance caught her eye. It was off to the southeast, past the eastern edge of Ostock Forest where much of the Jarldom’s farmlands stretched over the hills. A solitary plume of black smoke stretched high into the thinning overcast. Normally, Gaiur wouldn’t think much of it.
An accidental fire wasn’t too out of the ordinary. It was entirely possible that some traveler simply let their campfire get out of control, or that some field worker accidentally knocked or dropped a candle or torch into dry grass. Plenty of reasonable explanations existed to explain that dark plume, yet a creeping sensation in the back of her mind told Gaiur that it wasn’t so simple as any of those. She felt an urge to look, to turn Hunin that way in order to satisfy her curiosity and suspicion. As with the nausea, though, she resisted. Gathering the components for Erik’s ritual was more important. Descending into that third fjord, she found herself glad of that choice.
“Shelyn smiles on us,” she whispered, invoking the goddess in thanks for the fortuitous gift. Nestled within a skinny crag near the water’s edge, Gaiur recognized the distinctive black tendrils and soft green puffs of troll’s hair.
Hunin swept down and landed along a narrow granite lip next to the little crag. With beak and talon, he plucked and pulled at the moss, breaking the hold the tendrils had on the rocks. Once it was free, he gathered it up into a shaggy bundle and carried it back to Gaiur, arriving in Halvfjord within the hour. With the moss gathered and Jarl Ostock searching his treasures for a suitable gem to act as the drawing crystal, all that now remained was for Gaiur to retrieve the branch of a healthy birch sapling. A simple enough task, and once she’d filled her belly with some of the smoked venison she’d taken from the Jarl’s stores, she made her way out of the city, ignoring the suspicious gazes and shocked gasps she and Varro drew along the way.
She reached the forest an hour before midday. The overcast had broken up by then, leaving the earlier blanket of morning gray looking as though it were moth eaten and torn. Bright rays of sunlight shone through the gaps and even the heavier clouds still looked mostly white under its glow. This was going to be a bright, warm day, the sort that would become less and less frequent as autumn approached over the coming weeks.
Gaiur welcomed it, and not just for the general sense of comfort it brought. For one thing, a warm day meant she wouldn’t have to keep wearing that ratty cloak of hers. She’d already slipped the thing off her shoulders, rolling it into a bundle that she tied to Varro’s back with a couple lengths of leather twine. Happily, that meant she wouldn’t have to worry about it snagging on some bush or branch and further worsening its already bad tears. Still, while it was a pleasant convenience, it was ultimately just that, a convenience; small, and bearing little meaning. Much more important was the feeling that warm day instilled in her. For weeks on end she’d been dealing with the repetition of that horrible nightmare, to say nothing of the usual draw of dark things, like that strangling spirit that affixed itself to that Oasyrian trader Jerrin two weeks ago.
All of this culminated in her walking yet another of destiny’s predetermined paths, leading her straight to Jarl Ostock and his family, as well as the looming tragedy that threatened to mirror her own. It had left her in a dour place yesterday, turning her mood bitter and harsh. Marten had taken the brunt of that himself, simply by virtue of usually being the one present when something set her off. She resolved to apologize to him for that later, when all of this grim business was done.
Yet grim and urgent as it was, the weight of the task didn’t sit as heavy on Gaiur’s shoulders now. It was as if, despite being hidden in part by the clouds, the sun’s warmth and light had instilled within her a sense of hope for the first time in weeks. And why shouldn’t she? Through Renald’s guidance and her own tenacity, they’d managed to find a way that they might save young Erik’s life. What’s more, they’d already managed to secure the more difficult of the components needed for the ritual that would cure him. Long had the boy and his family waited for Shelyn to favor them with good fortune, and it seemed she was smiling on them at long last.
After traveling a short distance into the woods, Gaiur called Hunin to her once more. Perched on her arm again, she held out another handful of sweet treats to him, this time a mixture of whortleberries and lingons from bushes growing beneath a nearby pine. He feasted on them merrily, and when he soared into the trees she sat back and let his eyes do the searching for her whilst Varro kept watch. He perched on the low branch of a skinny birch tree a few minutes later. A tight packed little grove of them grew near the center of the forest, and amongst that little grove were a trio of healthy saplings.
Hawr! Hunin called, and Gaiur heard him as though he were perched right behind her. Then he took to the air again, and their connection closed off. Opening her eyes, Gaiur absently snacked on the whortleberries growing nearby and settled in against the pine tree at her back. It was an old spruce, taller than many of the other trees nearby, but not the tallest one around. That was a great sentinel tree nearer to the forest’s heart, Gaiur had seen it as she and Hunin made to search the fjords that morning.
The beat of Hunin’s wings echoed softly through the wood a short while later. Moments after she heard it, he appeared among the trees and swooped down to land between her and Varro with an expectant clack of his beak.
“Greedy little scavenger,” Gaiur grumbled, and she tossed him the rest of the berries in her hand. Then, after eating his fill, he took to the trees again, where he swooped from branch to branch and guided her to the grove.
Beautiful birch trees, tall and slender, grew in close packed clusters near the center of Ostock Forest. Gaiur had to turn sideways to squeeze through the outer ring of them. Curls of pale, papery bark scraped and flaked against her chainmail shirt, which she wore over a light and breathable linen tunic. Varro tried to follow her, but his shoulders were just a bit too broad for him to squeeze in where she had. Poking his head through, he looked up at her with those amber yellow eyes of his and whined.
“You’ll have to find another way through,” she said, scratching at his chin. He grumbled in that particular way hounds do when complaining, then tried squeezing through again to no avail.
With a hand on her hip, Gaiur shook her head and pointed down along the tree path. “No,” she said sternly. “You won’t fit. Find another way.”
Varro grumbled again, but this time heeded Gaiur’s command. Pulling his head out from between the trees, the greatwolf quickly padded along the grove’s edge, sniffing along the ground as he searched for a space wide enough to accommodate his impressive size. As he searched, Gaiur continued deeper into the grove.
For as beautiful and strong as the birches looked on the grove’s edge, the beauty within was almost ethereal in its quality. A golden shine bathed everything within the grove, as if the sun’s glow were permanently fixed to that perfect hour just after the passing of dawn or the onset of dusk. The air was warm and cozy, saturated with the fragrant smells of colorful blooms. Above her the sky was clear, a clean blue unmarred by the lingering dregs of overcast which coated it like peeling paint mere moments before.
Indeed, all of her body’s senses spoke to her of this place’s idyllic perfection. The honey flavor that hung on the air with the sweet scent of spring blooms. The rays of gold which bathed all they touched in their calming warmth. Melodious birdsong carried on gentle breeze, joined also by the gentle percussion of squirrels skittering along the trees or the occasional lows of grazing elk who seemed to take no heed of the predator that sought entrance just beyond the skinny trees. All of this was taken in and made subject to a sense that was beyond mere physical sensation.
This sense went by many names. Some called it intuition. Others, instinct. Most believed it the result of cautionary words spoken by the very gods themselves. Call it what they might, its warning sounded clear in Gaiur’s body and mind. The beating of her heart drummed harder in her chest, and her eyes opened just a bit wider, the better to see her surroundings. Threat energy coursed through her blood, quickening her muscles and sharpening her reaction time, yet that would mean little if she found herself assailed without ready means to defend herself. Reaching behind, she slowly withdrew her black bladed axe from its sling.
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.
Oooh! You left us hanging! Love the series!
Gauir is truly turning into wolf mother. You did a great job of describing her link to the crow. She's going to be formidable.