Land of Salvania

  "I bet they write a song about us," Egil told his brother as they crunched across the snow-clad field outside the White River Castle. Einar snorted. "Songs are for the high born, not for us. I'll wager old Duke Roundbelly will take all the credit anyway." "His bard was writing something when we brought in the prisoner. Maybe it was about us," Egil insisted. "More likely, he'll sing about the murdering bitch and her felonious ways," Einer grumbled. "Fancy words. Felonious. Do you even know what it means?" "It means you should mind your own business for once." *** Just a few days earlier, they had been encamped off the road a day's hard ride from the siege at King Rience's castle. They were bringing news to the Duke that reinforcements were needed.  Twice the King's guard had tried to break out of the encircled castle, and twice they had been repulsed by the brothers and the Duke's surrounding arm...

  Flint pulled a rune from the linen bag and placed it on the table across from the painted woman. Her elaborately decorated wagon was cloudy with incense. Outside, someone was playing a melancholy tune on on a violin. A dog barked, and children squealed. She leaned forward, tiny bells sewn into her red silk head cloth jingled. One of her hands hovered over the tile carved from a troll's lower tusk, her many rings glinting in the candelight. The rune Ansuz was carved into the tile. She ran a painted fingernail over the design, a vertical line with two parallel lines angling off the right side. It reminded Flint of a squashed version of the Elvenari letter 'F'. "This is important." Her nail tapped the ivory. Her entire hand was covered in elaborate henna designs. "Ansuz is the 4th rune by the Northmen's reckoning, an auspicious number relating to the four directions of the wind." A raven watching from a nearby stand said, "Northman. Nor...

  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

  King Largen of the frozen north Took his sword and went he forth To seek the dragon Dalenboke That sorely plagued his peaceful folk. Five days had passed upon his way And then he met a princess fey Who asked him why he bore his sword Across her stream and tranquil fjord. He told his tale of dragon hate And bid her help him seek his fate. So boon he asked, and boon he got She led him to a sacred spot. "Rest you now, here by this stream When you awake perhaps you'll seem To find a new way to your goal Just listen to your dreaming soul." The fey, they think in slipp'ry ways. Unlike men: too straight their gaze. Largen slept just like a child And in the dreamland he was exiled. When last he woke at break of day The world had turned, gone was the fey. His sword had rusted red as blood The stream had risen like a flood. The season changed, whole years had passed; New trees had grown in tall green grass. Fear and wonder filled his mind He rose and left this place behind. N...

  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...

  The Norns made it so. Perhaps they were bored. Twirling the fates, Assuring the end of all things In the Great Winter. Churning and growing Coming closer, colder, darker. Wind will cut As much as any ax. The light and goodness will fail. Some will struggle on, Giving the gods great entertainment, Hating them and begging them for mercy. The only warmth will be the forge. The endless ring of hammers. The only beauty: gleaming metal, Sharp as the north wind. Blood will spill and steam, Drifting in the steel sky. Hope must die. Or so it seems. There is hope, but it will be long in coming. Endure if you can. Become strong if you can. But abandon yourself as you are today. /// Copyright

  I was traveling through an unfamiliar part of Salvania, north and east of the White River Castle, seeking new herbs for my apothecary. Storm clouds were gathering, and distant thunder echoed over the swaying wheat stalks. I stabled my horse at a tavern and settled in for a night with the regulars. I sipped a leather jack of frothy ale, and listened to the chatter nearby. A group of obvious adventurers was drinking heavily near the fireplace. "I tell ya, I seen it myself," a scarred Dwarven man-at-arms said as he ran his dagger over a whetstone, his voice raised as if launching into a well-worn debate. "I was part of the Duke's timber crew before I got started in this line of...business." "Yes, yes. And the trees attacked the timber crew," a woman in a blue robe with matching eye coloring said with acid sarcasm, her many bracelets jingling as she waved away the idea. A small Yunni laughed as he continued to stitch a leather patch over a gash in ...

  Somehow, the one-armed Northman was more terrifying than the others. He was not particularly large or fast, but he had this look... It was like he was unkillable. It was like he knew he was unkillable, too. How could someone lose an arm, go home, heal up, and come back to fight again? He must have found favor with his god or goddess. "I tell you," one of the survivors said as he stared deeply into the fire, "I stayed away from that one-armed bloke. It seemed smarter to fight a whole man than one who had endured so much suffering and still wanted to come at us. That ain't natural." /// Copyright

  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

  The two red-headed Northmen burst from the dense foliage and were on us like hornets. They did not seem daunted in the least by our greater numbers - ten versus two. In a blink we were six, then three. I was the last, and I am ashamed to say I surrendered. I was not going to even put a scratch on these savages, so why try? "You are being ze smart vun," the heathen with a fur collar said in a heavy accent. He examined my short sword, and tossed it at my feet like it was as harmless as a wooden practice blade. "Look, Ubben, we finally found a smart vun." "Maybe he is be ze only smart one," the other Northman said as he lifted the coin purses from the dead and dying. "Let us hope he is rich too." /// 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...

  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 ...

  "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