Book 7: Chapter 27: Fimbulvintr
After a few days, the travellers left the forest to enter open farmlands. The many settlements meant they could travel from village to village, with no need to sleep in the open. While at times Martel would have preferred the latter, it meant a good meal every night, often given as a courtesy in exchange for Rolf’s performance. The Tyrians also provided them with plenty of provisions, sometimes even for free if they had been particularly pleased with the skáld, which meant the trio did not have to spend time hunting but could continue their journey northward without interruptions.
While the area had plenty of people, they never saw anything that could be considered a town. Nor did proper roads connect the villages; at best, a path had been trod by humans or animals, but most of the time, they simply crossed grassland.
“Do your people have anything against roads?” Martel asked one day. Leaving Aster had given him a newfound sense of appreciation for the Imperial network of cobblestone that connected all of its major cities.
“On the contrary, but unlike you, we are satisfied with those provided by the gods,” Rolf grinned, and he pointed at a brook in the distance. “If you want a road, you’ll have to sail!”
“What about cities? We haven’t seen any of those. The Frosten River is quite a big road, but there aren’t any big settlements along that, is there?” Martel pointed out.
“No, that is the border to the profane lands, and we would not settle in great numbers so close to that,” Rolf replied without explaining what exactly that meant. “But we will cross rivers as we go north, and if we instead followed them east, you would find your towns and markets.”
“What about your home? The capital of your tribe, how big is it?” Eleanor asked.
“Svartheim? More than a thousand people, less than two.”
“A lot smaller than Morcaster,” Martel muttered, feeling a strange desire to defend the honour of his adopted home, even if in some ways, he had more in common with the people of Tyria than southern Aster.
“What about your whole tribe? How many people are you in total?” the mageknight continued. Rolf gave her a sly look. “Why would you seek to know? Wondering how many Tyrians you would have to fight if it came to war? It did not end well for your people last time.” He broke out in laughter.
Eleanor did not seem bothered by his outburst, on the contrary, as she pressed the issue. “What did happen back then? I have never found reliable accounts in any of the books in Morcaster.”
Rolf’s eyes twinkled. “I shall be happy to remedy that.”
“A hundred years and a hundred days have passed since the men of steel crossed the river into the sacred lands. Twenty times a thousand they appeared, with women and children, for they came not to plunder but to steal.”
Martel wondered at the exact difference, but he did not wish to interrupt. Rolf’s voice had taken on the tone he used as the storyteller, and Martel guessed that he translated from Tyrian into Asterian, hence why some of the word choices seemed strange. All the same, it did not trouble Martel’s enjoyment.
“There they raised their camp, and they felled more trees than a man could need in a lifetime. So, at the great oak, the tribes met. They consulted the crones, they read the runes, and they sacrificed the slaves, three times three. A king was chosen to lead the tribes and drive back the men of steel. Jódís, a skáld with a fiery tongue and a cold heart, she who could enflame the North!”
Martel could not tell whether magic lay in the words or Rolf simply knew how to conjure up an image, but he saw the picture of a redhaired woman before his inner eye, clad for war.
“From all the tribes, three times three, the warriors came. Skálds to sing confusion, berserkers to swing the axe, and hunters to strike the arrow. At every turn when the men of steel left their home, they found only death.”
Martel had no trouble imagining this; he recalled Khivan woods, hiding sharpshooters behind every tree. He looked at Eleanor, hoping she did not feel discomfort like he did.
“As harvest came, the crones called forth fimbulvintr to cover lands and hearts with ice! Thirty days times three, the wind howled and the storm raged, striking down the men of steel with frost and hunger. And when the wind became a breeze, the Northmen moved in with axe and arrow. Only one was allowed to escape, to bear the tale south.” Rolf exhaled, as if he had not drawn breath once while recounting the tale. He glanced at his companions.
“That sounds cruel,” Eleanor remarked with that light tone of voice Martel recognised to mean she was suppressing her true emotions.
“Aye, it was cruel work,” Rolf acknowledged, but he seemed proud rather than contrite.
“What happened to the king? That woman?” Martel had already forgotten her name, but he still saw the image of her in his mind.
“With the invaders gone, she placed her crown on the earth and returned to her tribe. A king is chosen only to wield power as they must, not as they want,” Rolf declared.
Eleanor glanced at Martel. “A good custom. I know someone in the South who did the same.”
“Truly? You must tell of them. Perhaps that’s a tale worthy to become a song,” the skáld considered.
Martel took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, and Eleanor nodded slightly. “Another time. I think we have had enough of such tales for one day.”
“Aye,” Rolf agreed, “let the day breathe before we fill it with another story.”
They continued in silence until nightfall; as morning came, they saw a great mountain chain rise in the distance, and Rolf declared they had reached the lands of his tribe. Soon, they would be in Svartheim.