Book 7: Chapter 25: Into the north
The journey went north. After moving some bags around, Rolf took their packhorse, and they left the village near the ruined tower to travel beyond the Frosten River. During the day, travelling was an easy task, except for one occasion when the weather grew into a storm, forcing them to seek shelter. But Martel’s magic quickly helped them become dry and warm again, and while waiting out the storm, Rolf told stories and shared the craft of his song. He did the same on occasion during sunnier hours, helping them traverse the miles in a happy manner.
The nights were different. Martel still found that rest came to him uneasily. It helped to have Eleanor sleep beside him, but the presence of a third made it harder for Martel to relax. Furthermore, they now kept watch, at Rolf’s insistence, and the general disruption to routine kept Martel from falling asleep properly. He did not wish for either of his companions to know this, which forced him to remain on the ground as if still at rest rather than be able to get up, walk around a bit, drink some water, and otherwise make his waking hours pass by with less tedium.
At least the weather improved. The first inklings of spring had begun. Around them, snow melted, making water abundant to find. Their course was as directly north as they could keep to it, following the features of the land rather than any road as they moved through vales and open land. Twice, veering near a forest, they interrupted their journey to let Eleanor hunt and gain them new supplies. And after several fivedays, a great and wide river came into view. On the other side lay the Tyrian lands.
“The ford where I crossed should be east of here, but whether a few or many miles, I can’t say. Nothing to do but follow the river until we come upon it,” Rolf told the others. They both nodded in agreement and led their horses toward the right, going upstream.
“Are these the lands of your tribe?” Eleanor asked, gesturing to the other side of the river.
“No. My tribe is Hrafn, that of the Raven.” Rolf touched the black feather entwined in his hair. “It lies much further north, beyond the flat lands. It is among the smaller tribes, but we are near the Pillars of the World, where the lanterns of the gods shine in winter. A shame the season has passed, though if you stay long enough, you shall see the light in all its splendour.”
Martel and Eleanor exchanged looks; at times, their companion spoke of matters as if they were common knowledge to anyone outside of Tyria. “Yeah, you’ll have to explain that one,” the battlemage told the bard.
“Right, of course. A great range of mountains lie to the far north, and my tribe dwells in the foothills. In winter, the gods raised their lanterns to shine a powerful light across the sky.”
Martel squinted, still not following, but he had slept poorly that night and did not feel like asking for further elaboration. He suspected the skáld embellished his tales, as to be expected from a professional storyteller; most likely, this was just some lightning in the distance that a small tribe felt very proud about. “Well, it sounds magnificent,” Eleanor remarked with a neutral tone of voice. “So which tribe dwells here by the river?”
“Bjórr, those of the Beaver.”
“Fitting. Are relations friendly between your tribe and theirs?”
“Friendly enough. They should let us pass without trouble,” Rolf declared.
“I assume each tribe is like a little realm of its own,” Eleanor speculated.
“You could say that,” the Tyrian replied. “Each is ruled by its own jarl, who answers to none, except for when the seiðr-wives give command.”
Martel returned his attention to their conversation hearing that; he knew the witches of the North were to be feared. He recalled the berserker Starkad, who had spoken of them, as had Master Fenrick. “What sort of command might they give?”
“Two tribes may fight – that is our way. But if one is near extinction, the seiðr-wives will interfere. Nine tribes there must always be, three times three, or the gods will forsake us and the land turn against us,” Rolf spoke, and his voice carried such certainty, Martel found himself convinced for a moment before his scepticism reasserted itself. After dealing with the Faith of the Sun in Morcaster, Martel had learned how convenient it could be for someone to claim they knew the will of the gods.
“I suppose with five legions guarding the border, the tribes have to fight each other rather than Asterians,” Eleanor remarked lightly, and Martel glanced at her with half a smile, knowing she meant it to provoke a reaction from their companion.
“Hah!” Rolf exclaimed, his reaction apparently benign. “True enough. The river tribes – those who dwell near the Frosten – certainly complain. We of Hrafn care little.” He was silent for a moment before he continued. “Our lands do not have strict borders like yours, except for the great river. A forest that one tribe might consider its hunting grounds, another will clear to gain land for fields. In days of calm, we might settle such a matter at the great thing. In days of fury, we settle it with steel.” He glanced at his companions with a grin.
“What great thing?” Eleanor asked.
“The assembly of the people,” Rolf replied patiently; true to his craft, he seemed happy to answer any question within his knowledge. “Every year at solstice, representatives from each tribe gather to handle disputes. In old days, we used them to choose a king, though we’ve had none for ages – we don’t need them.” He grinned again.
“Not too different from our Senate,” Martel pondered.
“It’s been a hundred years or so since one person led all the tribes – when your lot crossed the Frosten in force and had to be taught a lesson.” Rolf’s expression was serious, except for a glint in his eye; it seemed it was his turn to provoke a reaction from his companions.
“Well, let us hope that two Asterians will not be considered crossing in force, however much I value our strength in battle,” Eleanor remarked calmly. She nodded at the other side of the water. “We are being watched.”
Feeling caught unaware, Martel glanced frantically in the aforementioned direction, but he saw nothing in the small stretch of open land between the river and the forest that began further north. They had to be in between the trees.
“We are near the ford,” Rolf explained. “We will cross soon, and then we’ll see what the watchers of the river have to say.”