Land of Salvania

  Ulrich sipped frothy ale from his horn and stared into the snapping campfire. His mind began to wander, his gaze unfocused, and he somehow dredged up a memory from his youth. As a boy of ten years, Ulrich almost died twice in the same day. He had been out roaming the ancient forests and checking his fur traps near his family village when he heard men's voices. He hid, thinking he would jump out with his wooden sword and startle the men. "Ven vee get zhere, you get a bucket of coals from ze cook fire and blaze up a roof," an unfamiliar voice said. He had a strange accent. Ulrich peeked from the dense undergrowth and saw two tall men. Both looked similar: thick beards, long brown hair, wicked axes in hand. The one with the strange accent had a pale scar that split his eyebrow. The other wore a green tunic. "And I guess you'll be poking around for pretty girls to take back," another strange voice said. "Fah," the accented man spat. "I j

  Ulrich the Northman, unencumbered by the heavy armor worn by the cowards around him, waded into the fray, swinging his "borrowed" mace with devastating efficiency. By the gods, it was a new year, and he felt great! He smashed his way through the battling men until he reached within arrowshot of the enemy king. As poorly aimed arrows rained down - none within a sword length - he realized that it might be wise to put something between the king's archers and his tender skin. He turned and brained an enemy knight who had just raised his sword for a killing blow. As the soldier twitched, Ulrich removed his dented breastplate and strapped it on. But, by the time he had sorted out the unfamiliar straps, the battle had moved, and the king had departed with his retinue. Ulrich resolved to stop playing it so safe this year. He tossed off the breastplate with a savage grin. /// Copyright

  How the times have changed, the monk thought as the Northman came roaring into the monastery's storage room. Indeed. See ya, 2022. Let's hope 2023 is better. ~Mick /// Copyright

  In his fever dream, Ulrich stood just outside the vast, game-filled forest of Jaagerlandt. He knew this was a dream, because the only way to see this place was after death, and he didn't remember dying recently. A hunter stood by him and sniffed the breeze. "Rain coming today," he said. "The trees will be dripping on us all night." "What is that place?" Ulrich asked, pointing across scrubby grass to a distant gateway of stone. It seemed to glow and swirl like a heat-shimmer. The hunter squatted and ran expert fingers over a recent deer track. "That's the road to Midlandt where the humans live. They say it's a terrible place. Almost no game, and the women are hidden away. Never been myself." "But we're humans," Ulrich said, confused. "Speak for yourself," the hunter said, and as he rose, he seemed to stand twice as tall as before. His eyes were an uncanny yellow. The hunter began to jog along the fore

  Ulrich sat in the Seeing Lady's wagon as she lit an oil lamp. The wagon was more like a small house, in truth. It was just big enough for two curtained rooms. The main room was her public space, it seemed, with silken hangings, a folding table, lamps, and too many pillows. When he glimpsed through a gap in the linen curtain, he could see her sleeping cot and two fluffy cats: one asleep and one staring at him without blinking. "Please to be comfortable," the Seeing Lady said, pointing to a three-legged stool topped by a white pillow with a swan embroidered in red. It was also covered in cat hair. The Seeing Lady wore an elaborate, silk and linen dress and head scarf favored by ladies in eastern Salvania. Her fingernails were painted bright red to match her lips. Her eyelids were painted green. She fell into that indeterminate age somewhere between too young and too old. It seemed like eastern ladies went to a lot of trouble painting themselves each day. They sho

  Ulrich is a Northman from the snowy mountains in the north of Salvania.  He has come south in search of glory and gold (not necessarily in that order). And, the runes insist, a wife. /// Copyright

  Ulrich could barely hear the druid's calm voice. It was as if she was receding into the distance. "...in through the nose...and out through the mouth." He breathed deeply, following the druid's direction. "You are in the forest. It is dappled in spring colors..." He remembered a lovely spring day when he was young. He pictured himself as a young man, roaming the deep, ancient forests of his homeland. No cares or worries. Young, hale, vigorous. "A thing you seek, your secret desire, is on the trail ahead of you..." Ulrich saw a deer on the trail. It turned to look at him, and as it did, it transformed into a woman in a white dress. She smiled and walked over a small ridge, beckoning him to follow. He trotted after, but when he reached the top, he saw a sword jammed into the ground with an old skull nearby. The wind shifted, bringing a chill and the dank smell of a cave. "You reach your secret desire and look at it closely. Take your

  "Mind your step, my friends. From here onward, the deeper halls are treacherous." The guide pointed to a crack running along our path. It was wide enough to swallow a horse, and its bottom was invisible in our flickering lights. The Northman called Ulrich pulled out a coil of hemp rope. "Vee should tie up for to be safe." He tied an elaborate knot around his waist and looped it around the guide's leather belt. "Maybe now ze ground will not swallow up our friend." The rest of us tied similar loops around nearby companions. Except the wizard. She stayed back, aloof, as usual. Watchful, suspicious. As usual. /// Copyright

  Farsinger was unusually insistent. "I saw it glowing. It's magicked, I tell ya." She hopped on Ulrich's shoulder and pecked him gently on the neck. "Pick it up. It may be lucky." "Or it may turn me into a worm," Ulrich growled, his pagan sensibilities and his Oma's old stories had him on alert. "Then I'll have a nice breakfast," Farsinger cawed, laughing. "Or it may bring some luck. Pick it up." "It's just a stick," Ulrich said with a dismissive wave. "I think you're scared," Farsinger said with a raven growl of derision. And that sealed it. Ulrich picked up the stick. Except it wasn't a stick. /// Copyright

  "Ahhhh!" Farsinger squawked and leapt off Ulrich's shoulder. "Fek, fek, fek," she cursed in Raven Speech as she winged through the trees in terror. It was equivalent to Ulrich's most violent swear word, "Fook." "Gods be damned, stupid bird," Ulrich cried, trying to drop the glowing magic "stick" that Farsinger had said "might bring good luck." But his hand was locked on the vibrating wand, and no amount of shaking would release it. Then a hideous, distorted face appeared in the sickly cloud swirling around the tip and said, "Hullo, there. Got any raw meat you don't need?" /// Copyright

  The old caretaker gasped as a giant Northman came into the museum, a scarred crate on his shoulder. "I greet you," the stranger said with a strong accent. "Do you be the owner here?" The caretaker nodded, unable to make his tongue work. He glanced around at the Battle Museum's walls and cases filled with priceless relics. All the stories about the wild, fearless marauders from the frozen mountains poured through his mind. "That is a good. I am called Ulrich." The caretaker nodded again, then stammered, "Please don't break the cabinets." It sounded ridiculous even as it came from his mouth. Ulrich looked around and nodded. "They are being lovely work. My papa is like wood working." Ulrich strode toward the museum counter, and the caretaker stepped back until a wall bearing crossed halberds stopped him. One rattled off it's hook and clattered to the stone floor. The Northman placed the crate on the counter and opened it. A j

Ulrich blinked in the gods be damned desert heat as he trudged over the baked scrubland toward a shadow, a castle. They built it around an oasis for parched travelers if the rumors were true. Maybe they built it around an eligible princess as well. He was amazed that there was only one guard outside the castle. He wore no obvious armor or shield, and his desert scimitar was no match for the Northman’s axe. Moreover, he looked well past his prime. When Ulrich reached a spear-throw from the guard, the man stepped forward and held out his hand. A string of unknown language followed. “I am sorry, my friend,” Ulrich said, showing his empty hands. “I do not speak your language.” The leather-skinned guard regarded him for a moment and scratched his scruffy beard. If he was like every other castle guard in every other part of Salvania, he was probably figuring how to extract a “toll” for entry. He stepped forward to meet Ulrich.  “Why is you be here?” the guard asked. “What is you busy

  "Why must I wear this?" Ulrich asked as the Yunni shaman handed him the bear skin headdress. "It has been part of the seeking ceremony for centuries. The first seeker saw it in a dream from the Star Bear," the shaman said, then he smiled. "And the faeries like it." The massive Northman, his hand big enough to almost encircle the tiny Yunni's head, put it on. "Ridiculous." "It is no different from the many images inked all over your body." Ulrich shrugged. "Maybe so. Now what?" The shaman leaned toward his fireplace and ladled out a steamy liquid into a wooden cup. "Drink this and lie down. The doorway will open when it wants. You must be patient." Ulrich swallowed the liquid. It tasted like simple beef broth, salty and mushroomy. He reclined on his back and stared at the cottage rafters hung with garlic and other drying herbs. "What if I go to sleep?" "Feel free," the shaman said.

      "You may call me King Borrhas," the big man said. Ulrich was surprised at the depth of his booming voice; it reminded him of an avalanche. "My lord," Ulrich said without bowing. He wore a crown, but if this giant man was a king, it was a kingdom of one. Ulrich had not seen another town, village, or hut in the past ten days. Borrhas whistled sharply, never taking his eyes off the smaller northman. In seconds, two white wolves came to his side. Like the king, the wolves were larger than usual, big enough for a child, or a Yunni, to ride. Borrhas indicated the wolf on his right. "Moonrunner will lead you to my visitor cabin. You will find dry wood and pemmican for your comfort. We will speak after you have been refreshed." "Most gracious, my lord." Might as well play along with the charade. He needed supplies and information about these gods-be-damned endless mountains. He followed the massive wolf to a cabin nearby. It was not lo

Ulrich the Northman mumbled a song, frivolous as a drinking ditty or a child’s nursery rhyme, as he walked through the winter forest, his eyes scanning endlessly for red-berried troll bane to sell in the village. “In the land of fey, No morn is gray. Though rain will come When it may.” Thus said a crow I had come to know. Her silly name Was Icy Snow. Icy Snow never lied. Although once she tried. It made her sick And a bit cockeyed. Now, her sight awry, She grew quite sly. She trained to sharpen Her mind’s third eye. The brooding winter passed. She thrilled to feel, at last, Her vision wake With inner sight so vast. In forest fey our paths did cross. I stumbled through the fog and moss, Mind a-whirl with fairy spells. “I see your feet are at a loss.” So now we never stray. Her mind’s eye guides the way, And in my ear she croaks, “Let’s live our best this day.” /// Copyright