by Sigrid Kraft
I considered his words for a long time. This act was not right in the eyes of the Gods. Being involved with dark sorcery, lies and deception was against tradition. But the Voice has never misled me. No one will be harmed, indeed it will bring Lyesell and Bron only happiness. And the only price was one more dark secret.
In a small flagon, a dark violet fragrance sparkled like red wine. The Finngul had poured the liquid from her cauldron into the flagon as she had been told. As soon as the small bottle was filled, the rest of the bewitched liquid in the pot evaporated.
In the land of the Fenn no magic can be peformed. All my life I have heard these words. But what else could this miracle be? she thought. Just how powerful must this person be who hides behind the voice, that he lives by other rules? Everybody knows the stories of the Great Magical Wars, which destroyed whole countries. And about the last war between the wizards and the dragons.
The dragons were no better than the wizards – always bringing misery to innocent people in their quest to gain more power.
After the Dragonwar, the Midland sank into a mysterious fog – the Nimrod as it is now called. An effect of the transformation of the Midland into the Nimrod was that all the dragons disappeared and the number of remaining wizards was greatly diminished.
A blessing to the world, the Finngul sighed in relief. Although the Finngul was troubled, she sent for Lyesell the next day. The young woman was ready to do anything to conceive and thus to secure the love of her husband. And so everything happened as the Voice had promised. Eryn was born and grew into a strong and clever boy who was the apple of his father’s eye.
Several happy and fulfilled years passed when suddenly Eryn became ill. He was fevered and flushed and no herbs could help him. Lyesell was desperate, so she and Bron took the boy to the Finngul. Lyesell’s eyes were red and swollen from weeping, Bron’s face a mask of sorrow. Both feared for their son’s life.
I already saw the angel of death floating above him and couldn’t give them any hope.
The only comfort I could offer was with words, telling them to remember their happy years together. “The Gods give and the Gods take away, but I will do everything in my power to save the boy’s life.”
I sent them away with the depressing truth: “His fate will be decided by morning.”
They went home and I was alone with the boy. As a last resort, I gave him the most powerful herbs I knew. But his sickness was unlike any I had seen before. Finally, I began to cool his forehead, just to ease his passing. Eryn raved unintelligibly in his delirium. I knelt down and begged the Gods for mercy. But it wasn’t the Gods that answered her – it was the Voice.
“The Gods will not save the boy, but I can.”
“Who are you?” she asked again, “and what is your interest in this?”
The Voice replied: “That is of no consequence and neither is it any of your concern. If you want to help the boy, look into your cauldron and there you will find a silver scale. Take it and lay it on the boy’s hand. It will melt and leave a scar. Tattoo the runes of your Gods over it and he will be healed.”
Once again, I did what I had been told to do. And everything took place as promised. I took the scale and placed it carefully on Eryn’s hand. It sizzled and burned itself into the skin. At first the spot was black, then it turned red and at last nothing but a faint mark remained. Quickly I took a knife and dipped it into black beet syrup. Then I scratched the runes of the Gods above the deceptively faint mark until it was completely hidden. Eryn recovered, restoring everyone to a state of great happiness.
Afterward, the Finngul spoke of a miracle performed by the Gods.
She herself did not believe it and so found herself with one more dark secret to keep. Magic blasphemes the Gods, this was the thinking among the Fenn. But the Finngul knew better. It had not been the runes of the Gods that saved Eryn, but this odd, fingernail-sized scale, found on the bottom of her cauldron.
The Finngul’s thoughts returned to the present. She was uneasy about the Nameday. The young folk came to me so hopefully, but the cauldron divulged one terrible picture after another. Many would die young. Some bravely in combat, others shrieking in fear and terror. And Eryn was central to these events.
Interpreting the future was not easy. Her visions revealed only a few pictures of what might come to pass and the Finngul always saw the events through the eyes of those who sought her advice. Only seldom did she hear words. Sometimes everything was so brief and blurred that she was unable to make out anything at all.
While Arun was in the hut, she had seen the flight of a hawk in the sky. Out of nowhere, an eagle appeared and caught the hawk. The scene changed and she saw blood welling out of a deep abdominal wound. She knew that this injury meant death to Arun. In the same scene, she saw Eryn beside Arun, a sword clenched in his fist. Is he friend or foe? This the pictures could never reveal. The Finngul was merely an observer and to decipher the meaning was often difficult. But in her mind, the true names stood out clearly from the prophecies. True names had power.
When she looked for Eryn’s name, Oathbreaker emerged into her mind. She repeated the ritual and there it was again: Oathbreaker.
Not wanting to give the bright young man such a fateful name, I hesitated. Then I recalled the old words, whose true meaning has almost been lost. In the old times, an oathbreaker was also called ‘Bloodhand’. So this was the name I passed on to Eryn, hoping to change his destiny. Whatever oath he may swear and break, he should not start his life in the Clan with this doomed knowledge weighing upon him.
All the folk, young and old, now gathered down in the village to celebrate the Nameday. As he did every year, Narna told the tale of the Fenn, with everybody listening in rapt attention.
“Once the tribe of the Fenn lived on the plains of the Lowlands. It was the time of powerful sorcerers, ferocious dragons and other magical creatures. The Fenn were free and subject to no one. But then the evil and mighty sorcerer Harok appeared and he begrudged them their freedom and carefree life. Harok demanded that they should submit to him and serve him. But Bealan, the best warrior of the Fenn, spoke with the voice of the Clan and replied:
“The Fenn will never submit.”
So Harok sent out his terrifying creatures to break the Fenn’s spirit. But the fearless hero Bealan slaughtered them all, one after another. Next, Harok sent a dragon to carry out his will. The beast came by night and burned the peaceful villages down to the ground, causing many Fenn to perish in the flames. The brave Bealan pursued the evil dragon, but the beast flew to the next village and eluded combat with our hero. At last Bealan managed to track the dragon down and defeated the monster in a ferocious fight which left Bealan seriously wounded.
On the verge of death, Bealan received a vision from the Gods. In his dreams, he saw that it was his destiny to lead the Fenn to a land free of dark sorcery. A land where they could live in peace – the very land in which we now dwell. Bealan’s eagerness convinced the Fenn, who had lost their homes and livestock. They took their few belongings and moved on, taking the hero with them on a stretcher. But Harok in his twisted hatred could not let them go in peace. Again he sent his creatures and many brave men died in battle to ensure that the Clan escaped. As they neared the mountains, Harok himself appeared, intending to kill them all. Barely recovered from his wounds, Bealan was still very weak, and in no state to survive a battle. He asked the Finngul to help him. She looked at him sadly and gave him a potion.
“Once more you will have the power of the Gods, strong and invincible, but when the sun sinks below the horizon, the Gods will call you forever. Consider well whether you are willing to make this sacrifice.”
Selfless Bealan did not hesitate for a moment. He was doing it for the Clan, and he knew that a single life was but a minor sacrifice compared to the survival of the Clan.
So Bealan drank the potion and confronted Harok one last time. They fought for many hours and the sun was already setting when Bealan gained the advantag
e and defeated Harok. The villainous sorcerer died at last, but Bealan’s time had also come. With peace in his heart he waited for the Gods to call him. Meanwhile the Clan reached the safety of the mountains.
A man of the Fenn lives for the Clan and dies for the Clan. No one has proved this better than the hero Baelan. May you who have received your names today be like him. Serve the Clan, respect the Gods and beware of sorcery, because it is the devil’s work.”
The crowd cheered and the young warriors felt a little bit like Baelan himself, ready to fight against all evil for fame and glory.
After the initiation into the Clan, the arming ceremony began. The villagers formed a circle and as each young warrior stepped into the middle he was handed his weapons. The bow and war arrows, the long knife whose blade was as long as that of a short sword, the small wooden shield covered with iron, and the spear. These weapons were perfect for hunting and fighting in the mountains. Heavy armor and the longsword would not help the Fenn in a dense forest. The warriors of the Clan were trappers, who had to move quickly and silently.
Narna led the ceremony, and when the weapons had been handed over, he asked whether any of the women would take the spear. Eryn still hoped Aileen might have changed her mind, but she stepped boldly into the circle and announced her decision.
Eryn felt as if he had been stabbed right through the heart, but the tradition of the Fenn had to be respected.
They celebrated till long after midnight, dancing and retelling legends. Eryn banished Aileen from his thoughts. He avoided her at the feast and sought only the company of the other young warriors. At last people became tired and one after another they left for bed.
Over the following days, Eryn continued to avoid Aileen.
On the one hand she told me that she has feelings for me. But on the other, this was not as important to her as taking the spear. That hurt.
It had also wounded his pride. Truth be told, Eryn would have liked to talk to Aileen, but he had no idea what words he should choose. This troubled the young man beyond measure and so he was glad when his father asked him to accompany him into the town. The journey was a welcome change from normal life.
A demanding four-day trek stood between them and Falgars Vale, where Bron wanted to trade furs for metal goods and other useful items.
It had been so long since Eryn had last been to town that he could barely remember it. At that time, the whole family had come along and Eryn had marveled at all the wares that were traded in the marketplace. Even the houses had impressed him. Most of them were built out of stone and were much bigger than any longhouse of the Clan. This had been several years ago, for the Fenn seldom went to town. They were well served by pedlars, who traveled between the town and the villages, offering their goods at a fair price. Even the few trappers who were not of the Clan gave their goods to the pedlars to sell.
Bron and Eryn set off from the village early in the morning. They were leading three horses, each one a small, scruffy animal carrying an enormous sack of pelts on its back.
Mostly, they walked in silence because the small mountain path did not allow for walking side by side.
That evening as they sat around a fire, Bron winked at his son and said:
“Now that you have become a warrior of the Clan, I don’t have to worry about taking you into town. As a warrior you will be able to resist all temptation. Yes, I am sure of it.”
“What kind of temptation do you mean?” Eryn wanted to know.
But Bron merely said: “Wait and see. Tomorrow is another long day, and now we need to sleep.”
“Dad, for our safety I could take the first watch.” Eryn offered eagerly.
Bron unrolled his blanket and stifled a yawn: “Tonight there is no need. The fire will keep the wild beasts away and our horses are safe beneath this ledge. Besides, I am a light sleeper and will hear if a ferocious animal approaches. There will be other nights when we will have to keep watch. So enjoy the luxury of the moment.” Then Bron wrapped himself in his cloak, an old, ragged monster of a thing made from the fur of a giant bear. Bron had earned this hunting prize before Eryn was born, and he had almost been killed in the duel with the beast, as a number of deep scars still testified. It was a story that was still told among the clanspeople: The duel between Bron Bearslayer and the monstrous bear.
Day by day they walked deeper into the Lowlands, the precipitous mountainsides changing gradually into gentle hills.
“We are almost there,” said Bron as they reached a rough road that wound through the hills before running along a river. At the next bend, the town came into view. An earthen wall reinforced by palisades enclosed the whole town of Falgars Vale. Two towers flanked the town gate and in front of it, two guards with big iron shields and shining armor stood watch. They wore helmets topped with red horsehair plumes.
Eryn expressed his admiration but Bron laughed: “With those plumes they will only tangle themselves in the thorns.”
As they reached the gate, the guards asked them their names, where they lived, and what their purpose was in visiting the town.
They speak aggressively. Far more than necessary, Eryn thought.
But Bron remained calm and matter of fact: “We are Fenn people from the mountains and are here to trade furs. I am Bron Bearslayer and this is my son Eryn Bloodhand.”
One of the guards smirked: “Ooh... Bloodhand. A ferocious name for a boy.”
“We give all our children great names so that they will accomplish great deeds,” Bron replied with a smile. Meanwhile Eryn’s face flushed with embarrassment. He would have liked to talk back, but the guards let them pass and Bron was already through the gate. Eryn followed his father hastily.
“Father, it’s not funny when someone makes jokes about my name.”
Bron lapsed into his teaching voice: “Eryn, laugh about words and they crumble to nothing. If you can’t laugh about these things, then blood will be shed, and many words will be required to end the flow of blood. Think before you act foolishly.”
Although Eryn held his tongue, he did not agree with his father. Words can be a challenge, and whoever doesn’t stand up to them is a coward.
They walked down the street and he felt how the sights and sounds of the new surroundings quickly washed away his anger. The stone buildings were impressive. Even the road was paved with flagstones. This was a big advantage in the rain, which would turn a dirt road into a deep morass. Signs decorated with a variety of symbols were hanging on poles attached to the façades of the houses.
“Are those magic runes?” marveled Eryn.
“No, this is the writing of the Lowlanders. I know only a few of their meanings.” Bron pointed to one of the signs. “This here means ‘blacksmith’. We will come back to this shop later on.”
Unlike the Fenn, who dressed in fur and leather, the townspeople’s garments were mostly made of cloth, some with beautiful patterns.
“We could take one of these dresses home for Mother,” suggested Eryn. “It would look much better on her than on that old woman over there.”
Bron grinned: “Yes, you’re right. It’s a good idea. Let’s see how much money we have left in the end. But I reckon it will be enough for a nice piece of cloth. Over there is the marketplace. It’s best if you say nothing while I’m bargaining. Trading skills must be learned. You just watch and don´t give anything away.”
Bron strode over to the first market stand which traded in leather and fur. After some friendly greetings and a few words about old times, they began to commiserate with each other on the extreme difficulties of hunting and the even more difficult business of selling goods. Then they began to haggle. After a while Bron threatened to sell his wares elsewhere, and the merchant began to weaken.
He made another offer for Bron’s furs that, like his five previous offers, was absolutely final. Another seesaw followed and then they fixed the price with a handshake.
The merchant counted out the coins, and his two helpers unloaded the goods
from the scruffy horses.
To begin with, Eryn was interested in the bargaining, but he was soon distracted by all the interesting things going on around him.
“Dad, where are we going now? Look over there! They sell the liquid of the Gods.” In the Fenn community alcohol was only permitted on a few special occasions.
“Eryn, the Gods of the Fenn are wise, for the liquid of the Gods makes fools out of men. That is why the Fenn only drink at their holy feasts. In the eyes of the Gods we are all fools, but when we interact with other humans, we should be clear-headed and not make fools of ourselves.”
“Look, over there they are selling pastries and over here fine fabrics.” Suddenly, Eryn saw a magnificent steed, far larger than their own ponies, and with a fiery temper. Snorting, he tossed his head and pawed the ground with his hooves.
“Dad, do you see the stallion over there? I would like a horse like that.”
Bron laughed. “That I can believe. A thoroughbred. But the ponies are more suitable for the mountains. That animal is made for running on the plains, not for small mountain tracks. He would only break his legs.”
Eryn looked back yearningly as they passed the noble stallion. They strolled around the market place and bought some roasted meat and bread, which tasted all the better for being the first food they had eaten in a long while.
Later, they visited the blacksmith and Bron purchased some arrowheads and a new ax. Then, they bought a few more everyday items at other stalls, and all the while Eryn observed everything around him. There were richly dressed people who clearly thought well of themselves. At the opposite extreme you could see ragged and famished figures, who were treated like dirt. The idea of social classes was foreign to the Fenn. The Clan took care of everyone and everyone did their best for the community. If a family was doing badly, all the others helped to relieve their distress. The Clan’s chief was elected by all men of the Clan. Serious decisions were always taken together in counsel with the honored warriors. Now Bron tried to describe to Eryn the Lowlanders’ hierarchy, although he wasn’t sure about all the details himself.