Svartmetall
Great Unclean One
- Joined
- Jan 5, 2004
- Messages
- 2,467
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
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
