Beguiled

[Svartmetall]

Mist drifting languidly around him, Brandr watched the Celt through a screen of undergrowth, pulling up his trousers after having relieved himself in some bushes. The Hibernian man pulled on his weapon-belt, fastening it and adjusting it till the small mace he carried hung to his satisfaction, then fastened on his cloak and, looking warily to his left and right, stepped out of the foliage and began to run Northwards towards Glenlock Faste’s southernmost tower, staying close to the tree-line as he did so since to run out in the open would have made him too easily visible in the snow. Brandr loosened his greatsword in its scabbard on his back and followed the enemy, humming a song of power quietly to himself to speed his progress, noticing the Celt’s turn of speed as he did so and recognizing the enemy to be a Bard. He kept pace a few dozen yards behind the blonde-haired man, occasionally dodging into the tree cover when his enemy stopped to check if he was being followed. Brandr had grown up in a small hamlet near Vindsaul Faste, and had spent much of his childhood learning the ways through the dense woods and icy hills of Jamtland Mountains, following his father as he hunted both prey animals for food and enemies in the defence of his homeland; there was no path unknown to Brandr here, no way through which he could not track a target.

About half a mile from Glenlock Spire, the Celt suddenly stopped and crouched down, drawing his wolf-fur cloak around him the better to blend in with the frosty ground as he did so. Brandr instantly did likewise, Ahead of him was a pair of Kobolds, their attention occupied with the thoroughly annoyed Wyvern that had leapt upon them from the treeline to their left. One used a shield to ward off the huge predator’s talons, slashing back at it with a curved blade, while his companion cast healing magics upon him all the while; between the combat and the piercing screech of the Wyvern itself, the two were completely oblivious to the other danger they faced. Brandr watched the Celt as he carefully drew a finely-carved wooden flute from a pouch on his belt, readying himself, loosening up his chilled fingers upon the instrument, waiting for the perfect time to use one of his accursed magical songs to entrance the unwitting Kobolds ahead of him…he held his position, trying to feel when the man would judge the time to be right to make his move. Too early and the Bard might escape, too late and he might well kill one of the Kobolds at least before Brandr could stop him. Here, at moments like this, the art of the hunter was tested to its limit. He crept forward as far as he dared, cursing even the faint crunching of the snow underfoot, holding his hand over his mouth so no tell-tale cloud of warm breath-steam would give away his position.

Then the larger of the two Kobolds, a Warrior by the look of it, managed to punch the Wyvern on the side of its head with his shield, stunning it. As his companion yelled encouragement, the Celt tensed and began to stand…Brandr sprang to his feet, drew in his breath and shouted one of Bragi’s ancient words of power at the enemy, leaving the tall Celt swaying and virtually unconscious on his feet. Drawing his massive greatsword, he ran forward and sliced down the length of the Celt’s back, blood starting to run from underneath the man’s studded leather jerkin as he collapsed to the ground. Brandr dropped to his knees astride the Celt, and hit him in the back of his head with the pommel of his sword as the man tried to draw in breath to cast a spell of his own. The man went limp, and Brandr let his sword fall into the snow as he pulled the enemy over onto his back, drawing his dagger with every intention of cutting the tall man’s throat there and then. Then, to Brandr’s amazement, the Celt started talking in words he could understand.
“Please…” the man gasped for breath, wincing in pain, “Don’t kill me!”
Brandr’s eyes widened. He had killed plenty of Hibernians, and had heard many of them speak, but had never heard any of them say a word he could make out. He held his blade close to the Bard’s throat, almost but not quite breaking the skin, and looked into his eyes intently.
“Can you understand me, you bastard? Nod your head if the answer’s ‘yes’. Gently, now…I’d hate to kill you by mistake.”
The man nodded, his eyes on the gleaming blade pressing into his neck.
“You want me to let you live?” Another nod.
“And I suppose you’ve got something to offer me in return for your life?” Although his life had been spent safe in the knowledge that the only good Hibernian was a dead one, Brandr was intrigued. Never had he come across an enemy that could understand him, much less talk back. The Celt nodded again.
“All right. Let’s hear it. And remember that I can open your throat to the sky a lot faster than you can reach that little toy mace you carry, or sing one of your filthy songs of power.”
The Bard swallowed, face pale and lined with pain. His voice high, lilting, and strangely accented, he began to speak quietly.
“You’ve seen that I am a Bard. I sing the songs of the land, tell the tales of our fathers, speak the words of power of the Groves…”
Brandr nodded impatiently. “And?”
“I can see you are a Bard yourself.”
“The word is ‘Skald’, fool!”
“Skald, then. You sing songs of power as we do, yes?”
Brandr nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the Kobolds had succeeded in killing the Wyvern, and had run off towards Glenlock Spire, blissfully ignorant of the other life-and-death struggle that had passed unremarked so close to them. He and the Celt were alone.
“What of it? I’m getting bored. Perhaps I should kill you now, since you don’t seem to have anything of interest to offer me after all.” The Hibernian blanched, and spoke faster in his panic.
“It is said that there is a song…a song that even the best of us have never managed to learn. A song of true power, one which no mortal heart can resist. It is said that the one who learns it can bend all who hear it to his will…can charm the hearts of even his deadliest enemy to his own purpose…even kill with just the sound of his voice alone!”
“Really? And you’re just going to obligingly give me the secret of this song, I suppose, to save your own worthless life? Why should I believe you?” The Bard nodded carefully.
“It’s the only thing I can offer you! I don’t want to die! Listen to me…there is a hermit in Mount Collory, once the highest Bard of the High Court of Tir Na Nog. He's been there a long, long time. It’s said he found a way, long ago, to use part of the weird magic of the Ban Sidhe – what you call the Bainshees – to make a song so powerful it could control the minds of all those around him.” The Bard coughed, pain showing on his face as he did so. “But they didn’t trust anyone with a power like that - they thought he was going to use it try to take over the Court for himself, and they banished him…so ever since then he has lived alone, bitter and refusing to speak to any of his countrymen…you could find him and learn the song for yourself! You’d be the most powerful…Skald…in all Midgard!”
Brandr was fascinated, despite himself. In the midnight hours of every tavern you could hear stories like this, of some long-lost instrument which could charm the birds from the trees, or a song that was guaranteed to win the favours of the woman you fancied, or some such. Now here was the most unlikely of people telling him the same thing. Maybe there was something behind it, after all? He shifted his weight off the Celt’s body, never letting the dagger away from his throat, and knelt beside him.
“And where, exactly, can this hermit of yours be found? Collory’s a big place.”
The Bard looked up at the silvery sky, closed his eyes briefly, then turned his eyes back to Brandr.
“They say he lives in a cave up in the hills, west of the pass that leads to Scathaig’s northernmost outpost.” Brandr nodded; he had hunted in that area some years ago.
“I’m going to let you live. For now. But remember this – I bested you as easily as I would have done a child…and this is my home. If I ever see you here again, I’ll gut you like a fish and take your damn tongue for a trophy. Are we clear?”
The Bard nodded again.
“Yes…yes. I swear you’ll never see me again.”
Brandr undid the man’s weapon-belt, slid it out from underneath him where he lay and threw it as far as he could into the trees, before taking the Bard's ornately carved flute from its pouch and holding it up before the man’s eyes.
“A trophy for me to be going on with. Remember well what I told you the next one will be.”
He tore two strips of cloth from the man’s leggings, and used one to gag him firmly before using the other to tie his hands securely behind his back.
“Your back will heal in time, Bard. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind about letting you live!” He shoved the Celt in the back, and he started a stumbling run south into the trees, the sounds of his awkward passage through the dense foliage loud in the morning mist. Brandr furrowed his brow. Most likely a Wyvern would catch the man before he got more than a mile or two, anyway.


----------


“You’re not actually going?” Harald looked at Brandr as though he was mad. “You’d trust some stinking Bard to tell you how to control people with…with just the power of your voice?”
“You couldn’t see his eyes,” Brandr took another long draught from his beermug, “I think he was actually telling the truth.”
“Oh, please. I think he was saying anything he could think of to save his skin, and you fell for it hook, line and sinker. You’ll get there and discover a mystical cave, all right, and it’ll be full of mystical rocks and mystical sheep turds and nothing else.”
Brandr grinned. “Five gold pieces says you’re wrong.”
“Done!” Harald slammed his empty mug down on the beer-stained table. “Your round? Guess we’d better make sure you buy some beers now, y’know, before the arcane mystical powers of your voice convince me to magically buy all the beers from now on…”






to be continued

[Dorimor1]

Nice one, can't wait till part 2

[Aremeriel]

Givf rest, then I'll read and let you know what I think:

[Draypor]

sounds good m8. look forward to the rest

[Gungo]

Nice one svart, keep it up bud

[Lamp]

Like it
Could quite happily read that instead of doing work

[Chronictank]

Originally Posted by Lamp

Like it
Could quite happily read that instead of doing work

you could quiote happily do almost anything instead of doing work

[Svartmetall]

Holding his breath, he watched from his vantage point as the Firbolg and his Lurikeen companion sniffed the air suspiciously. He’d been certain he was downwind of the enemy, but now he readied his sword and waited for the shout of discovery, the Champion and the Eldritch alerted somehow to the presence of an enemy. Drops of water dripped off the leaves above him and managed to find their way down the back of his neck as he waited, the dense foliage around him his only cover; at least the rain had stopped. In a high, liquid voice, the Lurikeen said something to the massive Firbolg, who grunted in reply and stepped back a few paces to get a wider view of the hillside further up from where Brandr knelt, concealed. While her companion scanned the trees higher up the hill, the Lurikeen walked forward and began to search the undergrowth again. Brandr swore silently to himself; at this range there was no way the tiny Hibernian could fail to see his shape between the gorse bushes in which he hid. She gripped her staff with hands no bigger to Brandr’s eyes than those of a Norse child’s, the points of her ears visible through her blue-black hair, the power coursing through her weapon visible as an iridescent red glow shimmering up and down the length of the staff. A dozen or so feet further away, the Firbolg said something in his odd, rough voice; Brandr could actually hear the Lurikeen’s cloak rustling as she turned to face him, replying again in her sing-song lilt, see the droplets of water slowly running down the richly-embroidered green cloth. She turned back to continue her search, her vivid green eyes almost upon him now. He had seen what Eldritches could do in combat, and his skin crawled, waiting for the blast of power that would surely char his flesh black. As her eyes traversed across to the very spot where he crouched in the damp moss, there was noise and movement in the bushes to the south and both Hibernians’ heads snapped in that direction, the Champion pulling his jagged two-handed sword out of its sheath and stepping in front of his ally as he did so all in one smooth motion, the Eldritch beginning to chant words of power.
As Brandr watched, a stag sprang out from the treeline maybe twenty feet south of the enemy and bounded away from the pair, snorting loudly as it did so. The Firbolg laughed, lowering his sword and barking a few words to the Lurikeen, who similarly abandoned her combat stance and sang something to him in reply. Not daring to believe his luck, Brandr saw the Champion sheathe his weapon and begin to lead his companion southwards; breathing as shallowly as he could, he edged in the opposite direction, feeling wet leaves brush his face as he moved. He had made it just a few yards when a fallen branch half-hidden in the deep moss that covered the ground beneath him snapped under his weight, with a crack that rang loud in the clearing. As one, the Hibernian pair spun round to face him and the Firbolg began to charge towards him, the Eldritch crying something piercing as she raised her staff.
Realising his only choice was to fight or die where he crouched, Brandr stood and yelled a word of power at the Firbolg, stopping him dead in his tracks, and turning his eyes to the Lurikeen just in time to watch a bolt of arcane power shimmer into being between her hands and fire itself at him. At the last possible moment he dove to the ground to his left, the bolt passing so close he could hear it sizzling the air, and from his position on the ground he shouted the ancient word that could slow an enemy in their tracks as the Eldritch began another cast. Giving a yelp of surprise as the power of the word hit her, the tiny Hibernian stumbled in the chant she had started, and began again to summon her power. Getting to his feet and drawing his sword, Brandr screamed Bragi’s two most potent curses of hatred at the Lurikeen, a second or two apart, making her reel on her feet, causing blood to stream from her eyes and giving Brandr time to close the distance between them. As the Lurikeen raised her staff he swung his greatsword down at her, slicing deeply into her shoulder; the Hibernian squealed in pain and shock, dropping the staff and stumbling backwards; stepping forward he swung his weapon around and cut into her neck, almost decapitating her, blood from her severed arteries spraying him as she toppled to the ground.
He turned on his heel, dripping red, just in time to see the Firbolg emerging from his trance; the giant Champion roared in fury and hatred as he saw his companion lying crimson-stained in the moss, raising his sword and charging at Brandr, yelling a word of power that smashed into his body and knocked him from his feet. He barely had time to roll sideways before the Firbolg’s weapon carved a deep groove into the ground where his head had been a second before; Brandr swung the pommel of his weapon into the side of the enemy’s knee, making him reel, and giving him time to regain his footing before the Champion swung at him again. Their weapons met in a shower of sparks, Brandr shaken by the strength of the Hibernian’s blow. He knew immediately he could not overpower the massive fighter, and would have to win this fight quickly before the Firbolg’s strength ground him down. Face to face, Brandr yelled Bragi’s curse at the giant at point-blank range then stepped in and smashed him in the nose with his mailed elbow, making the Hibernian grunt in pain and almost drop his sword. Blood streaming down his face, and with his weapon momentarily only held by one hand, the Champion swung a huge fist at Brandr; Brandr ducked and sliced upwards into the Firbolg’s gut with his own sword, feeling the blade penetrate his opponent’s armour and cut deeply into the flesh beneath, making him cry in pain and stagger backwards. This gave Brandr enough time to swing his weapon around his head and bring it down sideways into the Hibernian’s leg, severing it just above the knee. The Firbolg fell sideways and backwards, uttering a piercing shriek of pain as he did so. Brandr seized his advantage and stabbed downwards into the torso with all his strength, feeling the blade go right through the Champion’s body with a sickening ripping sensation and pin him to the ground; the giant thrashed in agony once, twice, then fell still, his breath visibly leaving his huge body. Brandr sank to the ground and quietly murmured a prayer of thanks to Bragi, wiping blood from his face where the Champion’s word of power had battered him and made his nose bleed copiously. This far south-east of Dun da Behn, he was probably safe from wandering patrols; but if one pair of Hibernians could find him, so could more. He could only hope the noise of the fight had not attracted any more enemies. Delaying only long enough to drag the bodies into the bushes and do what he could to hide them, Brandr wiped the blood from his greatsword, slid it back into its sheath and began to jog east towards the line of hills north of Dun Scathaig.

[Svartmetall]

Leif raised a bushy eyebrow and stared up at him. “I don’t believe a word of it. It’s a bloody stupid fairy-story, and ye’ll be wastin’ time that’d be better spent killin’ Hibbies right here in our own lands!”
Brandr grinned at the diminutive master Skald. He knew Leif would let him go in the end, but enjoyed the verbal sparring anyway. “I reckon I’ll give it a go. Still be able to kill a few while I’m over there, right?”
“I don’t want ye to get yerself killed for some Celt’s tall tale, is all, laddie,” Leif frowned – admittedly, frowning was a large part of the Dwarf’s facial repertoire - and grunted, “Ye’re one of the best we’ve got, even if it does go to yer head at times, and at a time like this ye know damn well Eirik wants our best men out in our own frontiers instead of buggering around in the enemy’s… ye remember what happened last time we let our guard down, yes?”
Grimacing, Brandr nodded. “Aye…well, song of power or no, I’ll be back in two or three days at most. Have Alfridr and Ingirun keep an eye on my area, would you?”
“Aye, lad. Be careful out there, now?”
“Nobody’s more fond of this skin than me, Leif. I have every intention of bringing it back in one piece.”


....

[Svartmetall]

Grimacing in pain, Brandr clutched his leg where the Fuath had clawed him. Stupid! He’d been so pleased with himself at evading the latest of the Hibernian patrols that he’d not been paying attention to what was right ahead of him in the trees, and in the twilight had blundered straight into the lumbering undead creature among a copse of trees half a mile east of the shore of Abhainne Lugh. He’d managed to kill it, but only after a tough fight – Bragi’s words of power seeming to just bounce off the thing – and now his leg armour was torn, and his leg wounded. Best to hole up for the night, repairing his armour as best he could while singing one of Bragi’s healing songs to himself as quietly as he could; he was deep, deep into enemy territory now, and only vigilance would keep him alive here. If nothing else, at least the fight with the Fuath would serve him as a reminder not to get cocky.
He selected a particularly dense area of gorse and heather bushes surrounded by large rocks, judging it to be the best cover he would be able to find around here, and secreted himself among them, drawing his large cloak around himself. Pulling a bandage from the travelling pack on his belt, he bound the wound as best he could after washing it clean with the contents of his waterskin – at least there was no shortage of water here – before setting to the tedious but necessary task of repairing his chainmail greave. Hands slipping constantly in the damp and dark, swearing silently to himself, Brandr slowly closed the dense mail back together, interweaving the steel links with a pair of small pliers specially made for just this job.
After what seemed an eternity, but was in reality no more than two hours, he had managed to get the greave back to a recognizable shape; any half-decent smith would have done a better job, Brandr admitted, but they weren’t stuck in the middle of a Hibernian wood in the dark and trying to do the whole job by feel alone. He knew he needed sleep; although he was drawing close to the spot in the foothills of the Mountains Of Medb where the Celt had said the hermit lived, his leg needed time to heal some more and he was exhausted. He’d started the day by fighting the Firbolg and the Lurikeen south-east of Dun Da Behn, and had not stopped since, evading patrols and hostile creatures until his close shave with the Fuath. He could not afford to snore, which might give away his position, so he propped himself upright against one of the rocks and drew his cloak closer around him and over his head to hide his pale skin and any tell-tale cloud of breath-steam. Closing his eyes, he thought of the hearth at his favourite tavern in Vasudheim as he slid into the deep sleep of exhaustion, visions of cold beer and a warm fire alternating in his mind.


...

[Drucken]

keep it coming

[Draypor]

awsome mate. giv more!

off to roll a skald

[Gungo]

Keep it coming svart awesome story

[Cemeterygates]

gotta admit svart...your stories are good...an you really seem to capture the roleplaying/mythical side of the game....i like it...bit of an old battle style an myth lover myself...even tho i never knew shit about it when i started daoc....but for a real geek fior the battle side of it like me...sends shivers down my spine cos you really can see yaself there...in the action....great stuff man

[Ljuvasara]

mon then kin, keep em coming! cant leave us hanging NOW!