Farling cried aloud: “The Norn said we must destroy the Heart Tree!”
Pressan looked unperturbed by Farling’s outburst. He sipped at his coffee, then said: “Perhaps that is how the elves are to destroy the Unbreakable Barrier.”
“What is a Heart Tree?” asked Arastead. “When the Norn mentioned it, I wanted to ask her to explain, but it is challenging at times to ask a Norn a question.”
“All trees live to a certain degree,” said Pressan. “The roots of a tree reach deep into the ground and the tree pulls water and food through their extensive root system. A Heart Tree does not live on water or soil. It only lives on blood. It has a type of heart, like an animal’s heart, which the tree uses to pull blood through its roots and to its leaves and wood.”
“That makes no sense,” said Farling. “You would need to continuously feed it. It could not live in the wild.”
“It cannot move, can it?” asked Grum. “I mean, it cannot attack me and drain my blood?”
“No, it is a very sedentary tree that way,” said Pressan. “The people that would grow a Heart Tree would have to continuously feed it blood from slaughtered cows or other animals. A Heart Tree is prized for its wood. It is harder than rock. Arrows made from a Heart Tree shatter castle walls. Shields give their bearer’s near invulnerability. A ship made from a Heart Tree never breaks on the shoals. It is said that Odin’s fabled spear, Gunghir, was made from a Heart Tree.”
“Hold on,” said Grum, “how can you make a shield from something that is harder than rock. Your tools would break.”
“The wood must be young and freshly harvested,” said Pressan. “Once it dries, that is when it gains strength.”
Grum shuddered despite himself. “Sounds evil to me.”
“A Heart Tree is like anything,” said Pressan. “It can be used for good or evil.”
“How do we destroy it?” asked Farling.
“That, I do not know,” replied Pressan.
“The Norn said it must be destroyed,” said Farling. “She fears the elves returning to Midgard.”
They sat quietly, drinking their coffee for a few minutes.
Grum broke the silence, asked: “Any ideas on how the thieves guild can help me retrieve my war hammer?”
“I did have some thoughts on that,” said Pressan, grateful for the change in subject. “I was thinking I would accompany you three when you meet Jakobus.”
***
Alchemist woke slowly. He quietly groaned as he raised himself to a sitting position. His bed was in a large tent. A portable wood stove was in the middle, and the stove’s pipe rose up through the middle of the highest point of the tent.
Old Monk was by Alchemist’s side, steadying him with a firm grip.
Alchemist at first did not notice the person beside him, then raised his eyes to look at who was helping.
“My friend,” he said. “It must have been quite the night as I feel as if I was trampled by a rampaging herd of war horses in full armor.”
“Let me feed you some chicken broth,” said Old Monk. “We need to build your strength.”
Within a few short moments, Old Monk was gently feeding Alchemist warm broth. As some of the broth dribbled down Alchemist’s chin, Old Monk would carefully clean it with a soft rag.
“I do not remember much,” said Alchemist.
“Late last night, we were talking in front of a roaring hearth, when you suddenly stopped and looked off into the distance. You told me you sensed great magic, powerful spells beyond comprehension. You went to your potion cabinet and selected the one that gives you the ability to travel great distances with your mind and see things people think are secret.”
“Yes, I remember some. I was able to enter the corpse of the goat and animate it with my mind, something I had never thought possible. With that potion, I usually am only able to enter live animals, crows, rats, dogs, anything nearby the people I want to listen to. But this time, there was no live animal, only a dead one. Still, under the influence of the potion, I was able to become the goat, as it had just recently been slaughtered, I was able to work its mind and body.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw… what did I see? It is still very cloudy. I remember seeing that troublemaker druid, Nas, he of the clans from Aarlund. He has very distinguishable tattoos, so it is easy to pick him out from a crowd. The Aarlund princess, Margret, she was there as I recognized the circlet upon her head. The others I did not know and I cannot recall much of their features.”
“You were almost lost to us,” said Old Monk as he fed Alchemist like a parent feeds a child.
“I did not realize the danger of wearing the skin of a recently killed animal. I was foolish and spoke to the people sitting around the fire, hoping to strike fear into their hearts. There was a woman, whose back was to me. She made a quick gesture with one hand, and I knew no more. I felt my mind travel back to my body, but something was wrong. I had weakened and barely made it back here.”
“As soon as I could tell you were back within your body, I forced you to drink the second potion.”
“That is what saved me. You did the right thing, my old friend.”
“And I will continue to do the right thing. Now, eat. We have much to do, so you must get your strength up.”
CHAPTER 31
The Unexplainable Corpse
Sihr was exhausted.
He had woken early after going to bed late. On top of his duties as a priest of the Paupers Temple, he was also working with Nas on learning how to best use his item of magic, the Staff of Freya.
Often, after using the magical staff, it felt like hot daggers being stabbed into his skull. But it would pass once he mastered what Nas had asked of him. Still, it was very tiring. He noticed he thought he looked older.
“Master Sihr!” cried Rickters, “come quick!”
“Can this not wait?”
“My apologies, but I really must show you this.”
“What is it that is so important?”
Rickters led Sihr to the burial preparation room where corpses from the night before would be placed on cold stone slabs. Every morning, in this room, dead people silently greeted Sihr. Most mornings, just one, sometimes two. And then usually one person, almost always an elderly person would be dropped off during the light of the day. This morning was no different; just one dead body greeted Sihr.
“Yes, Rickters, that is a corpse. What is all the fuss about? You are going on like an old mother hen, which is very unlike you.”
“I cannot figure out how he died. I have never seen this before.” Rickters pointed at the man’s chest where a black handprint could vaguely be seen through the man’s shirt.
Sihr walked around the corpse and inspected it but merely confirmed what Rickters had said. No broken bones, stab marks, or contusions, anything that would cause death; just one awful looking black handprint, like a tattoo on his chest that could be seen through the fabric of his shirt. And when Sihr touched the corpse’s hand, Sihr shivered, which he had never done before. The corpse was unnaturally cold and a pale he had never seen before.
Sihr asked: “What are the king’s guards saying? Do they know how he died?”
“They said they found him alone in a dark alley. Usually they bring in the body after a fight at a pub or a duel down at the docks. But not him. And they know him. He was a guard, Ostend was his name, they said. What is that mark? It looks like a handprint. But how did he get that? Could it be the plague? I heard people turn grotesque colors and strange shapes appear on their bodies.”
“No, not the plague. There would be more signs: Bloating, discoloration all over, and a wretched expression on their face. And not poison either. We always find people who die of poison at home, usually with a sad note, signed by the deceased, explaining why he or she took their life. “
Sihr shook his head, trying to remember if he had seen this before. Then: “I will consult with my superiors when I have a chance. It is not very import
ant, but it is curious. I think I know someone in the High Council who might be interested in this. In the meantime, we can still prepare him for burial.”
As they covered the corpse in a sheet and sewed it shut encasing the corpse entirely, Sihr secretly worried as to the cause. He hoped his superiors would know what may have caused this or there may be a real panic in Trondheim.
***
Sihr made his way to visit Master Reinhardt, one of the members of his High Council. Sihr had left strict instructions with Rickters not to let anyone near the corpse. Sihr wanted the corpse intact in case Reinhardt wanted to inspect it. Sihr knew Reinhardt was the best one to approach on the High Council as he had displayed and expressed an interest in things outside the temple. Reinhardt had studied at other places of learning, had traveled a great deal, and was considered somewhat of an eccentric on the High Council. The more Sihr thought about it, the more he felt confident Reinhardt would be the best one to talk with, to see if he knew anything more.
Sihr knew where Reinhardt lived and he felt it best to drop in on him unannounced given the immediacy of the situation. Sihr had been there once before, so it took him just a little bit longer to remember the way. Sihr was not the best with directions but somehow this time he managed to get to where he wanted. The houses in this part of Trondheim tended to be on the larger size—and fancier. Sihr was not too sure how Reinhardt could afford such a large house, but also knew that as a member of the High Council, he was expected to entertain guests.
Sihr could feel the people on the street stare at him. He was very plainly dressed and had walked over in his work clothes, forgetting to change into something more appropriate.
He knocked on the door, hoping he was not interrupting morning tea or an early lunch. Sihr waited for what felt like an eternity, when the door opened.
“Yes,” said the housekeeper, a tall dour-looking man Sihr did not recognize.
“Good morning,” said Sihr. “I realize I did not make an appointment with Master Reinhardt, but I was hoping he could make time to see me, if he has a minute between his usual busy routine.”
To Sihr, it seemed as if the housekeeper had not heard one word. Sihr wasn’t even sure if the housekeeper blinked.
“Whom may I ask is calling?”
“Oh course, my apologies. My name is Sihr, and I am the Paupers Church priest. I have met Master Reinhardt before so he does know me. Does he have time to see me?”
After a painfully long pause, the housekeeper moved slightly aside. Then: “Come in.”
Sihr followed the housekeeper to a small waiting room just off the main entrance.
“I will see if Master Reinhardt has time for you,” said the housekeeper.
Sihr sat on a fine chair. He looked around at the furniture, the high ceilings, and the tapestries on the wall. The tapestries depicted scenes from old battles, similar to images at the Paupers Temple, and he marveled at the realism. Sihr stood to get a closer look.
Sihr was wondering how they had woven the images when Master Reinhardt entered, and said: “Sihr, what a pleasure to see you. Now, I do not have much time, but I do have enough time for you. How can I help?”
“Master Reinhardt,” began Sihr, “the honor is mine. I will get right to point. Looking after the Paupers Temple, I am responsible for preparing unwanted bodies and the poor for burial. This morning, there was a dead body. Nothing unusual about that. But the cause of death is indeterminable. You may recall I record all the causes of deaths that come through this city. The Paupers Temple is on the front line watching vigilantly for any plagues. But, the corpse this morning, was cold to the touch and paler than pale. I have buried hundreds, I have seen all types of deaths, but this one, the only mark on him was one distinct black handprint, here on his chest. But how could a hand cause injury enough to kill someone? That cannot be the mark of the plague, can it?”
“Sihr, I appreciate you coming to me for advice. As you know, I do specialize in the putrefactions of the flesh, punishment for the wicked, as some say, but not I. And you do know, I do not always agree with the word of the High Council, but I do always agree with their decisions. Now, this death does present a challenge. I have never seen a body die of such an injury and as you know, I have traveled a great deal. Here is what I am prepared to do. I will raise this strange discovery at next High Council, which is in two days hence. You must be careful with the council, there is an art to getting their attention. Trust me, I will see what I can find out. Good, my housekeeper will see you out.”
Reinhardt added almost as an afterthought: “And Sihr, do not mention this to anyone else, please. Just wait until I have spoken with the High Council.”
“Of course, Master Reinhardt, not a word to anyone.”
Sihr profusely thanked Master Reinhardt as he was led out the door. As the door closed behind, he thought he noticed the Salgarian ambassador walking down the main staircase, but saw nothing strange in the arrangement. Ambassadors needed a place to stay when they visited.
As the door closed firmly behind Sihr and the locks were once again secure, Reinhardt turned and stared at the ambassador who continued walking down the stairs, seemingly oblivious to the daggered looks sent his way.
CHAPTER 32
The Book of Princore
Soon after dinner, Pressan, Farling, Grum, and Arastead heard a knock and a voice calling out their names.
“Sounds like Pressan,” said Arastead.
“I thought he never left the thieves guild,” said Grum.
Farling shrugged, said: “I guess he does. Let’s go downstairs and find out.”
As they walked down the stairs, they were greeted warmly by Pressan. He looked taller here, as if when he was sitting, surrounded by his books, he appeared smaller.
With much admiration in his voice Pressan said: “A fine forge, young blacksmiths. I hear your business is doing just well.”
“It keeps us out of trouble,” said Arastead.
“I thought it kept us in trouble,” added Grum.
Pressan asked: “Do you have the book?”
“Let me get it,” said Arastead. He returned in a moment with the book under one arm.
“Come then, let us go meet Jakobus,” said Pressan.
“Is it okay if we just drop in on him?” asked Grum.
“He is expecting us,” said Pressan. “I made sure he had no pressing engagements tonight.”
***
Soon, they were knocking on Jakobus’s front door.
“Welcome, Pressan,” said Jakobus, letting in the old librarian first. Jakobus left the door open for Farling, Grum, and Arastead.
Farling noticed that Jakobus’s living quarters were spare but clean. Evidently, he tried his best to not let any of the Knights Stable’s muck in to where he lived. He was also not in the usual garb he wore around the Knights Stable. Instead, he wore a well-tailored jacket with fine buttons and a jeweled waistcoat. Even his beard looked as if it had been combed and cleaned.
Jakobus’s servants fussed over Pressan and ignored the young blacksmiths. After Pressan had settled into a cozy chair by the roaring fire, a small blanket across his legs, which rested on an expensive looking foot stool, did Jakobus finally appear to relax and noticed young blacksmiths.
Grum said in a relaxed, almost quiet voice: “Get some chairs for the young lads,” he said to his servants, “and find out what they would like to drink.”
Grum said: “I see you have a voice for the stables and a voice for indoors.”
Jakobus smiled ever so slightly. Then: “Would not do to be yelling inside my own home, now would it? Besides, I have an image to uphold when at work. Here, I can be myself.”
Soon, everyone had something to drink and were seated in a half-circle around the fire. Jakobus sat on a rather rough looking stool, but by choice, as if he did not want to get too comfortable. Then: “I thought you never left the guild anymore, Pressan.”
Pressan nodded, said: “Only for special events such as these
. We have been told to seek you out, that we should speak to you about something.”
Jakobus grunted, said: “I am known far and wide for many things, Pressan my old friend. I have overseen the Knights Stable for many years, having taken it over from my father, who took it over from his father, and so on. My knowledge of horses is legendary. What would you like to know about horses?”
Pressan motioned to Arastead, who took out the Book of Princore. Then: “Only if your horses can read, will they be interested in this, the Book of Princore.”
Jakobus’s face did not look at all surprised, said: “An old name, an old story, a myth really, nothing more.”
Arastead placed the book in Pressan’s lap and sat back down. Pressan caressed the book’s spine and front cover. Then: “So, you will not mind if I throw this book in your fireplace. It does look as if your fire is starting to run low.”
Jakobus said: “I would not like any book to be burned; even it is not the fabled and lost Book of Princore. If I may, might I have a look?”
“By all means,” said Pressan.
One of Jakobus’s servants brought the book over to Jakobus, whose hands shook slightly as he received it. He turned the book over in his hands inspecting it. Then: “As I thought, a fake. A well-made fake, but not the real Book of Princore. You may as well throw it in the fire.”
Pressan had a wry smile on his face as he stared at Jakobus over his glasses in mock disbelief. Then: “So, you will not mind if I open it.” Pressan spoke a command in a language Farling did not recognize. Suddenly, Jakobus had an open book in his lap.
Jakobus’s eyes filled with tears as he said: “I thought the art of opening this book had been lost forever.”
Pressan smiled, said: “The books in my guild run back many centuries, some even older. I was able to find one that spoke of the book and I figured out the word that opens it.”
“How is it that you came into possession of this book?” asked Jakobus regaining his brusque manner.
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