#51: Acceptance

As we stand on the ridge with the village of Tovt in the distance, I mumble, “Things are going to change.”  Without even sharing a language, there’s a sense of mutual understanding and recognition of that fact.  After a long moment of silence, Aros points down a distant hill and issues a command, “Lavek,” and it becomes clear that Aros wants me to leave the group.  I’m a little surprised—I can’t understand any conversation they might have anyway.  Vargmenni is also ordered away, and once we are a few steps from the group she turns to explain.

“Aros wants you to wash the blood from you,” she says quietly.  Up ahead, we hear the trickle of a stream.  “Aros is going to tell the tribe that the heucuva killed Frode, and that I slew the heucuva.”  This is a surprise to me—Aros has always been straightforward, and I expected a more honest approach.  I’m also more than a little annoyed that he would ask me to wash the blood from my face, beard and chest, having felt that it was earned in the slaying of Frode.

“Aros seeks to protect you,” she explains, and I am for a moment humbled.  Without having an acceptable defense for my desire to remain covered in Frode’s blood, I abide her wishes and those of Aros.  I do the best that I can to wash myself, feeling cleansed in both body and soul.

Finally alone with Vargmenni after days of scrutiny from Frode and the associated tension, I watch her in my peripheral vision.  She’s obviously not native to Tovt, based on her hair color and skin tone, but I know very little else about her.  As I start to ask her questions, she shrugs them off with a smirk and responds only, “Trust.”  The meaning remains unclear.  We head back to meet the others, who are waiting for us.  Seemingly satisfied with my best attempts to remove evidence of Frode’s slaying from my skin and clothes, Aros nods and gestures for all to head into Tovt.

Aros’ story spreads like wildfire.  I search faces for signs of anger or suspicion, any hostility that might be potentially dangerous, but for the most part everyone seems more shocked and concerned.  There is, however, an identifiable sense of command surrounding Aros.  Harka and Baln are loyal to him, and I have little fear that they will betray his secret.  I seek out Gola—there is an immediate instinct to slit her throat that I have to suppress, as she is a definite threat to Aros, and by extension to me.  I recognize it as a remnant of my time with Malar and push the instinct aside, trusting in Aros’ judgment of the woman.

Not wanting to draw attention to myself as the town copes with the news and transition, I withdraw to my small fire and ring of rocks that has been my home within Tovt.  Vargmenni disappears into the populace, leaving me alone, and I can’t help but feel disappointed that she would desert me now that we finally had a chance to communicate openly.  That disappointment is unwarranted, however, as she approaches my fire just before nightfall.  It’s hard to conceal my pleasure at her arrival.

She sits on the rock next to me, close enough to speak privately.  “Gola will not speak of what happened.” 

I am more than a little shocked that she picked up on my earlier instincts and feel ashamed.  “Was I that obvious?” I ask.

“It was important that you know.”  She explains no further, and we sit next to one another in silence.  Finally free to speak, I’m overwhelmed by the possibility of conversations and questions I want to ask.  Frode’s history with the tribe and the strange teeth, Vargmenni’s history and use of magic, the heucuva and Aros and Tovt—so much so that I can’t decide how to proceed. 

“What next?” I ask sheepishly, unable to form a more coherent thought.

“Tribe will convene at nightfall,” she responds.

“Are you part of the tribe?” I ask, hoping to learn at least a little more of her role in what is to come. 

“Yes, and no,” is her answer, one that does little to inform but is not surprising in the least.  She turns to look me in the eyes, something she has never done for more than a fleeting moment before.  “On the night of Frode’s ritual,” she explains, struggling to find the words, “Frode slew Gola’s husband and took her for his own.  He was... not good... to many people.”  Her voice breaks as she speaks, revealing that she was perhaps a victim as well, and my blood begins to boil at the thought of Frode touching Vargmenni.

I turn to stir the fire with a stick, masking the awkwardness as we both look away from one another.  “I know nothing of this town or its rituals,” I tell her, “but Frode deserved to die.”

Under her breath, in a whisper, she replies, “Yes.”

Several long moments of silence pass before she continues.  “The stones harbor bad magic, but they were not the only reason for Frode’s malevolence.”  That Frode may have already been wicked in some sense before the stones had not occurred to me. 

I pat the pouch where the stones are hidden and say to her solemnly, “No one will use them ever again.”

“They should be destroyed,” she says, and I nod.

“Magic.  You can use magic.  How?” I ask her.  “Who taught you?”

“Somebody far, far away,” is her mysterious response.  “I... lost... all magic when the tribe found me.  With study, I was able to relearn one spell.  Vargmenni... fire hands,” she says proudly while gesturing as if casting the spell.  “Afterward, Frode feared me.”

Desperate to share what has been burning in my mind since we met, I gesture for Vargmenni to wait a moment.  Grabbing a stick from the fire and pushing one of the flatter rocks between us, I use the stick to sketch a crude lion with a flowing mane.  “I am a priest, and this is my god, Nobabion.  I was also once a strong magician, and I have also lost my magic.”

She hold her hands apart, gesturing to one and says, “Gods.”  To her other hand, she says, “Magic.”  She holds them apart, illustrating her understanding of the difference between the two philosophies, divine and arcane.

I shake my head slowly and grasp both of her hands lightly, bringing them together with my own.  “I am both.”

She pushes my hands into my chest gently, her touch lingering.  “Frode was a bad leader.  Zeb is a good person.”  Her meaning becomes clear—the quality of a person is not defined by priesthood or magic use, but rather by who they are inside.

Commotion from the town as the folk begin to congregate interrupts our moment, and she abruptly leaves the ring of stones to join the villagers.  I sit alone, observing and not wanting to impose myself, but I also can’t hide the fact that I want nothing more than to be included.  Harka wanders into my view as if looking for me, and motions to me to join the throng. 

The press of people as well as the presence of several cookfires provides warmth against the chill night air.   Food is passed back and forth between townsfolk, and my neighbors gesture for me to indulge as items are passed about.  It is a welcome moment of comfort in an otherwise miserable couple of days.  Before long, however, the town turns to business and the apparent leaders of the tribe start speaking rapidly about Aros’ story and the plan forward.

My worries about the town believing the story or supporting Aros are quickly dispelled, however, as a chant of the name “Aros!” burgeons, gaining strength as more of the townspeople join.  Aros bows his head humbly, addressing the crowd authoritatively.  After a short time, he calls for me and Vargmenni to come forward.  I obey, and when I glance at Vargmenni she avoids my gaze.

He continues speaking to the tribe, and then, similar to my first encounter with Frode, he asks me for my knife.  I withdraw it slowly and hand it to him freely, pommel first.  He holds the blade to Vargmenni’s forehead, her a mask of composure.  He draws the knife across, creating a thin line from which dark blood trickles, uttering a few quiet words.  He turns to me and does the same, spilling hot blood from my forehead onto my face.  He points to me, calls me by name again.  I can only discern a few words, among them Tovt, the name of the town, and a new word, “jama.”

He points to Vargmenni and says something similar, including another new word “galdraka.”  Whatever Aros is saying, looking at the crowd I can see that they are pleased.  I have a moment of panic, fearful that we may have just been married against our will.

Vargmenni turns to me to explain.  “Vargmenni, galdraka.  Village sorceress.  Zeb, jama.  Tribe shaman.”  An immediate sense of pride, accomplishment, and acceptance washes over me.  This is an honor that I could not have anticipated.

A few villagers approach to clasp arms and welcome me to the tribe.  Tensions had been building under Frode, and the village seems to have a newfound sense of stability and relief now that they have a new leader, sorceress, and shaman.  The tribespeople begin pulling out gourds and clay jugs filled with liquid that are then passed around.  One is given to me, and despite my hesitations about my new position and path forward, I decide to relax a little and join the celebration.  I take a long pull, the liquid revealed to be a potent firewine that burns my throat—nearby, drums begin to play and townsfolk begin to dance.

His speech finished, Aros approaches with a smile on his face, laying a heavy arm across my shoulders.  He points to Vargmenni, then points across the crowd to Gola.  He gives me an odd look, seemingly offering my choice of the two women.  I can’t tell how serious he is.  Fortunately, a jug of firewine is pressed between us and I take a long pull, passing it to Aros to avoid answering his question.  My celebration is momentarily fractured by a fleeting thought of Bonie, what was lost, what was left behind.  Aros does not notice and staggers away.

The townsfolk are quick to return me to the celebration, and I’m distracted by the prospect of more drink and dancing.  Pushing memories of Bonie deep within, I relent to the wishes of the townsfolk and dance until I can barely stand.  I retreat to the periphery and find a stool, content to watch as the town celebrates.  In a private moment later, Vargmenni finds me sitting alone.  Her demeanor is serious.

“The dwarves are a threat to the tribe, and Aros means to deal with them.”  The statement is matter of fact, not taking sides, simply conveying the information.  All other thoughts are pushed aside.

“I have been to a great underground dwarven city.  I have had dwarven friends, they have fought by my side, and I have watched them die.  Why are the dwarves a threat to Aros, to Tovt?”

“Many peoples vie for this land.  For the land that brings food and nourishment to the tribe.  Both Frode and Aros agree, the tribe’s lands must be protected.”

“Is there not enough to share?”  I ask.

She shakes her head.  “Winter here is harsh.  Food is scarce.  Not all can survive.  Frode chose to attack recklessly.  Aros will not.”

“It is our job to guide Aros and to protect the tribe,” I say solemnly.

“Yes,” she responds.

Long moments pass and we sit together in silence.  I break it with a question.  “Does the tribe have have a name?”

“Reghedmen,” she says, and I shake my head, not comprehending.  “The Winter Wolf,” she explains, and a chill runs down my spine.

It’s clear that I’m uncomfortable, and I can see that she is confused.  Using a bit of broken stone, I carve the symbol of Malar in the ground.  “Do you recognize this symbol?” I ask.

She shrugs, asking, “Beast?” but shows no real recognition, and for that I am thankful.

“Bad magic,” I say coldly.  “If you see men with this symbol, run.”  In an instant, all thoughts of continuing the celebration are extinguished.

“Zeb and Vargmenni part of tribe... yes, and no.”  I understand the context of the statement—these are not our people, and we are not theirs.  We are outsiders.  There is another awkward silence, perhaps an invitation, but the chaos of my mind can make little sense of it.

“I need sleep,” I say quietly, leaving Vargmenni to return to my small fire and ring of stones alone.  As I walk away, my heart pounds with unspoken words.  I don’t want to be alone tonight.  Stay with me.

* * *

When morning comes, I busy myself about the task of gathering supplies to build a tent.  The townsfolk are willing to help, and I use the few words that I have gathered and begin to put names to faces, building relationships.  The physical toil of construction helps clear my mind from the depth of emotions the previous night.

Early in the afternoon, after the tent has been completed, Vargmenni comes to visit my new abode.  Ignoring our conversation from the previous night, I ask her about magic, curious where she came about the materials for the roll of vellum on which is written her prized spell.  She comprehends my description of a spellbook, explaining that she also lost her “writings.”  When she came to the tribe, she knew only one spell, but she never deployed it, instead keeping the magic etched in her mind.  “Even through suffering great pain,” she says, struggling to find the words. 

She had observed Frode’s methods over time—bones and other non-conventional means of recording magic, for it seems that he too was an arcane wielder.  She secured the roll of vellum, crafted from the skin of a rothé.  One of the townspeople helped her treat the hide, making it suitable for writing.  Over the course of many weeks, she was able to leverage the magic she still possessed in her mind to transcribe the spell again, that she might use it freely.

One night, Frode came to her tent with malicious intent and she brought her “fire hands” to bear, burning him.  “He never touched me again.”  This time the words come more easily, and my anger at Frode is superseded by pride for Vargmenni.

“To recreate what’s in my mind,” I say pointing to my head, “I will need many, many scrolls.  Is it possible to make them?”

“It would take time.  In winter, resources are scarce.”

Reminded by Aros’ plans to confront the dwarves, my mind begins to race, searching for options.  With the coming of winter, time is my new enemy.

#50: Confrontation

The camp is astir with restless energy.  Actual sleep is fitful and does not come easily—Nobanion’s reproach, whether a hallucination or dreamlike vision quest, still stings and I have to shake my head to regain focus.  “You brought it on yourself, fool,” I mumble to myself quietly.  Though it felt like hours, only a few minutes have passed since settling in for the night.

When I look up, I can see Vargmenni staring at me intently, likely disturbed by my disquiet.  Frode is away from camp on a patrol of the area, and she seizes the opportunity to draw close.  Using a rapid combination of gestures and shared words, she tries to communicate something that eludes my understanding.  Frustrated, she holds up a hand with three fingers and points to the cave.  “Vargmenni, Zeb, Aros... escape?” I ask tentatively, not sure I comprehend.

She shakes her head vigorously and gestures again, indicating that it wasn’t an invitation to escape—she was instead trying to explain that there were three “small men” that I assume from the context to be dwarves.  Her next statements are too broken and come too quickly for me to fully understand, but my best guess is that she’s trying to indicate that there are many dwarves in the hills.  “Frode fight... all,” she says gravely.

I repeat her gestures and offer the word “dwarf,” hoping she’ll understand.  She pieces together my meaning and I follow by stating “dwarf... Zeb’s friend.”  She is clearly as frustrated with her limited ability to communicate as I am.  She gestures again to the hills and the many dwarves that inhabit them, then points to Aros and the other warriors.  “They will die,” she says gravely.  Frode’s warriors are no match for the dwarves of these nameless hills.

“Zeb, Vargmenni escape?” I ask, gesturing to the cave.

She shakes her head, pointing instead out into the hills. She grabs my shoulder, pulling me close to speak something quietly.  “Zeb, Vargmenni escape... no return.”  She rises suddenly, turning away from me and begins walking slowly back to the other side of camp.  In the distance, I can see Frode returning, which explains her sudden departure.  The other warriors seem disinterested in our conversation, though I can see Gola watching us from a nearby fire—my doubts about her remain.  I do not understand her relationship to Frode, but know that it would not end well if Gola were to become involved in any way.

Frode stalks into the middle of camp and orders Baln to tend to Harka, issuing a single, harsh command.  “Okt!”  Despite Baln’s help, however, Harka seems in no condition to walk, let alone fight.  I contemplate attempting to evaluate Harka’s wounds and perhaps heal them, but the desire to gauge Frode’s reaction to the warrior’s current disability stays my hand. 

Before the situation can escalate, Aros distracts Frode, pointing at tracks on the ground.  Though I am not able to understand their words, it seems likely that they are trying to ascertain how many dwarves there may have been and where they may have escaped.  Aros’ composure in this situation stands out, the warrior addressing Frode more like an equal than a superior.  Signs from the camp are clear that it was a large group of dwarves—a dozen, perhaps a score in total, mingled with tracks from a small horse or pony. 

Frode’s disinterest in the actual cave opening seems off to me, especially considering that the defenders may have fled into it.  I grab a burning brand from one of the fires and approach the cave entrance, more curious to see if Frode will stop me than actually finding anything within.  As I turn my back on the camp, I get the feeling that his eyes are on me the entire time, though he doesn’t call for me to stop.

The cave opening is tight for someone man-sized—Aros would certainly have to bend over, I would have to stoop at least a little.  Nothing can be heard from within, nor are there any scents or anything else that seems out of place.  I spare a glance back at Frode and I can see that I have his full attention, and somehow that satisfies me.  I need it to be clear to this man that I am not a prisoner or subject to his whims.

I feel a prickle in the back of my skull which causes the hairs to raise on my neck, not dissimilar to some of my interactions with magic before.  The sensation is fleeting.  If it is indeed spellcraft, it seems that I have shrugged off any effect.  I turn suddenly to glare at Frode, trying to see if it was he that was attempting to ensorcell me.  There is no indication that he had actively cast a spell, but I do see Frode take a single, small step back as if surprised.  I smile at the shaman menacingly.

The moment is interrupted by Vargmenni, who calls out to Frode from across the camp—I cannot discern the meaning of her words, but there is a surprising amount of force behind whatever it is she is trying to communicate.    Frode replies curtly, ending the exchange, whatever the subject matter may have been.  Satisfied with what I have learned thus far both about the cave and Frode, I return to the fire.  There is a palpable sense of tension, a feeling that everyone is waiting for something to happen.  Frode is the only one who seems above it all, oblivious.

“Are we in danger?” I ask Aros suddenly, knowing he will not understand.   He reacts predictably, arching a brow in curiosity.  I call out to Vargmenni, putting more force behind my words than usual, more a command than a request.  “Vargmenni.  Danger?  How do you say?”

She blurts out the word klevta in response before very quickly turning away.  I ignore her, and any reaction Frode may have to my questions.  “Aros, Zeb, klevta?”  I try to use inflection to indicate that it’s a question.

Aros shrugs and does not answer, instead turning to Frode, to whom he repeats my question.  Frode issues an exaggerated laugh in response, gesturing around to the hills, repeating the word.  “Klevta, klevta!”  He waves his arms in a wild, almost uncaring manner, as if indicating that we are surrounded by false danger.  His response reinforces an absolute sense of confidence and only serves to create more tension in the camp.

Refusing to yield the conversation to Frode, I step to confront the shaman and demand “What is the plan?” gesturing in turn to the hills and to the cave.  “Return to Tovt?” I ask.

“Zeb, seft,” he replies, pointing to the cave.  There is a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

I turn to Vargmenni and ask her to explain his meaning, not sure if seft means he intends for me to investigate the cave further or whether Frode intends for us all to go together.

She points toward the cave, her face betraying some fear or uncertainty.  “Seft is cave,” she explains hesitantly.

While I briefly have my attention turned toward Vargmenni, Frode steps towards me, issuing his command again.  This time his meaning and tone are both clearly a command for me alone.  “Zeb seft!” he says more forcefully, this time shoving me towards the cave.

I stumble for a moment and regain posture, making no other move or reaction except to glare at Frode.  Reaching over his shoulder, Frode unslings his massive sword and thrusts it into the ground, repeating his command once more.  “Zeb, seft.”

I pause for a long moment, contemplating the many, many ways I can possibly react and the potential repercussions of each course of action.  Frode’s eyes nearly glimmer with barely contained violence, as if begging for me to try and fight him.  Instead, I turn my back on Frode wordlessly and walk back toward the fire.

Frode tears his sword from the ground, advances toward me and takes a huge cross-swing at my back.  I instinctively fall forward a few steps, feeling the air of the blade inches from my exposed skin.  “Coward!” I scream in defiance, drawing my only weapon—a small, rusty blade.  Aros and the others look on in shock.

Having seen the shaman in combat, I know him to be wild and reckless—my knife is no match for his blade.  My only hope is to neutralize him entirely.  I scramble to my knees, calling upon my faith.  Frode recovers quickly, raising his sword and charging towards me.  His second slash does not miss, tearing through the meager protection provided by the hide slung across my shoulders, cutting between two ribs.  Blood burgeons from the wound, though thankfully it was not deep enough to puncture organs. 

I raise my head in time to see a torrent of flame issue from an enraged Vargmenni, who holds her hands out before her.  Frode is engulfed by the flames, caught off guard by Vargmenni’s betrayal.  The tension is shattered, however, as there are cries from amid the camp which cause us all to turn. 

From beyond the hills a winged shape comes into view approaching our camp at an extraordinary velocity—even at this distance, it is clear that it is a massive reptile with long neck, spined wings, and a whipping tail.  I ignore the creature entirely, instead completing my prayer, clasping my hands before me to form a small, collapsing cage with my fingers.  I growl as complete the gesture and Frode is caught utterly off guard, paralyzed by my enchantment.

As the others in camp flee to the nearest cover, I ignore the dragon’s approach and climb to my feet.  Stepping forward, I stoop to grab Frode’s sword in both hands, lifting the enormous blade.  Frode, unable to move, stares at me with glassy eyes filled with rage.  “For you, Nobanion,” I utter as I bring the heavy blade down on Frode’s neck.  Cut cleanly, his severed head rolls away from the shaman’s carcass.

The white wyrm, nearly forgotten, swoops over our camp, scattering the warriors as it sails past.  As my gaze follows it, I see shadowy forms emerge from cave fleeing into the hills—two larger forms, presumably dwarves, as well as a smaller figure, perhaps a child.

I recognize the need to capitalize as much as possible on the chaos of the situation.  I call out to the warriors, “Aros, Baln, seft okt!”  I find Vargmenni, calling for her to translate.  “We must go to the cave.  Grab Gola, Harka!  Go!”

Vargmenni, having witnessed my ruthless assault on Frode, steps forward and spits the words “Bad magic!” before turning to join the others.

As the dragon disappears over the hills, the warriors finally seem to understand my commands and begin to execute them.  I take a moment to appreciate the fleeing creature.  “Illusion,” I mutter to myself, admitting that I was totally convinced for a moment that we were all going to die.  From the corner of my eye, I can see Aros’ eyes following the fleeing dwarves—when he turns away, it’s as if the warrior made a conscious decision to remain with our group and not pursue them.

While the others scramble to safety, I reach down to grab Frode’s head, thinking to wrap it in the small hide and take it with me.  Despite my best efforts, it resists my efforts to lift it, and for a moment my stomach sinks. Whatever fell magic is contained within Frode’s implanted “teeth,” it functions even now. 

I drop to a knee, and with my rusty knife begin the bloody work of carving the stones from Frode’s jaw, removing handfuls of teeth as they are sliced from his gums.  The process is not quick, and before long my chest and arms are covered in the shaman’s blood.  I examine the handful of teeth, satisfied to see the two dark stones among the rest, and stoop to cut a small pouch from his belt into which I stuff everything.

The site of Frode’s massacre is strangely serene.  As the others huddle within the dark cave, I watch the in the direction of the dragon’s flight.  When it is evident that there is no threat, I return to the others.  I ignore the gaze of everyone save Aros, pausing only to ask Vargmenni to translate.

“I am not evil,” I say, laying my knife on the ground before Aros.  “Frode was evil.”

Vargmenni translates, adding “Frode... bad magic,” pointing to her teeth as she explains to Aros.  If there is judgment, I am not able to see it in the warrior’s eyes.  Finally, Vargmenni turns to me and says, “No return.”  The context seems to indicate that she feels Frode was past the point of no return, and it seems as if Aros is in agreement.

Aros finally begins speaking and issuing orders, though I do not comprehend.  Vargmenni explains, “Return to Tovt, avoid hills, outnumbered.”

I nod in assent, but don’t want to leave the situation as it stands. “I need Aros to believe me,” I beg her to translate.  “I am not evil.”  Another brief conversation ensues.  Vargmenni finally says, “Frode attacked, Zeb defended.”  Vargmenni’s next words are surprising.  “Aros lead tribe now.”

“Good,” I say with a smile.  “Aros leads.  Zeb will follow.  Tovt okt, let’s go!”  We take to the hills, leaving Frode’s bloody corpse behind.  Aros and Baln lead us skillfully, avoiding any threat, whether dwarves of the hills or other predators.  In the early morning light, we can see the thatched roofs and plumes of smoke from Tovt’s hearth fires in the distance.

Interlude: Audience

I awaken in a rush, drawing in a single, sharp breath before leaping to my feet.  My surroundings are foreign—a warm, dry breeze drifts gently over the savannah when moments ago I had been lying on the cold ground outside the cave entrance.  My companions—Aros and Vargmenni, at least, surely fit that word—are nowhere to be found.  Nor is Frode or his warriors.  Instead, I am alone.  Cautious, I drop to a knee, letting the tall grasses conceal my presence.

The cry startles me, a kite or raptor plummeting from above to take a smaller bird as prey.  Nearby, the ribbed horns of an antelope or similar bovid are seen bouncing above the grasses as a small herd takes flight, likely having caught my scent on the wind.  In the distance lies a small grove of trees, the only landmark visible on any horizon. 

Despite the presence of recognizable fauna, however, there is a sense of “other” that I cannot shake.  This is no mortal realm—it bears the scents, the tastes, all the sensations of a godly realm.  A realm of hunters, though completely unlike the barren, dangerous wastes of Malar’s hunting ground.  Suddenly at ease, I stand and take in the primal glory of Nobanion’s domain.

Though distant, I can see a figure standing within grove and I begin to stalk carefully through the plain to meet my patron.  The Lion King does not disappoint.  Limned by the bright savannah sun behind him, he is a powerful, majestic figure.  A sense of danger radiates from his being; having been hunted before, I recognize it for what it is and try my best to avoid wavering, instead meeting his fiery gaze proudly as I stand before him.

“I have watched you,” he says, his voice a deep, rolling growl.  “And I see now branching paths laid before you.  Which will you choose, I wonder.”

“I will not desert my friends.”  Even I am somewhat surprised at how easily that word flowed from my mouth, having clearly meant Aros and Vargmenni.  Aros, with whom I am completely unable to communicate meaningfully—I owe him my life.  He could have taken me easily, though instead he saw me to sanctuary and spoke on my behalf, even if I could not understand his words.  And Vargmenni, about whom I know frustratingly little—an enigma, no less foreign to this place and time than I, a keeper of secrets.  But she has stood by me, trusted me, and has earned my loyalty.

Though I speak not these thoughts, it is clear that Nobanion knows them, as if he sees through me to the very core of my soul.  I cannot tell if his rumbling growl is one of approval or one of disappointment.  Nonetheless, I hold my ground and don’t bother to explain—I have become accustomed to defying deities.

There is a disapproving glimmer in his eye at that thought, though it only lasts for a moment.  “We shall see,” he grumbles in response.  “And what of the shaman?”

I cannot hold back the bloodlust that rises at mention of Frode.  I taste bitter iron on my palate and I can’t help but visualize ripping out Frode’s throat.  The deity’s disapproving look returns.  I return his glare defiantly.  “Malar’s path…and his methods…are behind me.  Until I learn more, I will wait and I will observe.”  A rare glimmer of approval in Lord Firemane’s eyes is my reward, though it is fleeting.

“But when the time comes for violence,” I threaten while pulling out my rusty blade, “I will carve out Frode’s soul and send it to you shrieking.”

Blinding, searing flame is Nobanion’s censure for my foolish, insolent words and I feel my essence hurled back into the mortal realm.

#49: The Cloaked Child

By the gods, the warrior-shaman knows all.

The implications of that continue to occupy my thoughts, even as Aros and the others go about the business of breaking down camp in preparation for departure.  Whatever Frode may know, he doesn’t press the matter, instead dragging Gola behind him to gather his own belongings.

I approach Aros to see if there is any way I can assist.  There is tension in the air, a general sense of unease, and very little in the way of communication occurs.  There is also an undertone of what might be distrust, though I’m unable to determine whether it’s directed at me or rather perhaps caused by my presence.  Vargmenni has kept silent, careful not to share even a glance where Frode might witness it.  My gaze lingers as she gathers her things, her darker skin a keen reminder that she also is not of this village; however she may have arrived here, it is obvious that she endured much with this tribe.  She keeps to herself silently, and she is careful about her every action.

In a moment when Aros is close, I link together the few words of his language I know, pressing the silence.  “Tovt, okt?” I ask, assuming I have pieced together enough words to ask if we return to his village.  He nods but says nothing more as Frode commands the group to travel.  There are alternating patches of snow-covered and bare ground where the wind has blown it into drifts, but otherwise travel through the valley is unimpeded, limited only somewhat by the speed of Gola as she is pulled behind Frode.  I do my best to keep up, careful not to draw any more attention to myself than I already have.

The morning passes quickly, sun rising high into the sky.  All is well until a noise pierces the serenity of the environment, a low groaning sound as of that in an animal in pain or distress.  The group stops, all looking to Frode for direction.  My memories are stirred by the sound, and though it’s not completely clear, it has all the hallmarks of coming from a large animal.  Frode motions for the party to continue, heading towards the sound.  I follow cautiously, keeping my thoughts to myself for now.

The warriors don’t seem overly concerned, continuing for a few minutes until we ascend a small hill—below we can see a very large beast with long, shaggy hair and a pair of curled horns—a rothé.  It is lying on its side, as if struggling or in pain.  No blood is evident.  I keep watch around us—there’s always a chance that it was the victim of some predator that still wishes to claim its prey.

“Rothé?” I ask, pointing to the creature.  The warriors reply with a different word, clearly with the same meaning.  I keep hoping for some commonality between our languages, but if it exists, I have not yet discovered it.  The warriors take out their weapons and begin prodding at the creature, and it squeals in response.  It seems more an act of discovery than cruelty, and for the first time since the previous night, Vargmenni approaches and stand at my side.

“Sick,” she says.

“In their language, how do you say that?  ‘Sick’?”  She replies and I approach Frode and the warriors, watching their actions carefully.

Frode suddenly begins to speak, his tone escalating, nearly yelling, and he turns to Vargmenni who startles visibly.  He shouts and points at her, waving his arms aggressively, and stomps towards her.  There is a moment where I think he might intend violence, and I do not stir—this is not the time nor place to be a hero, so I watch silently as the situation plays out.

She regains her composure, quickly yelling back at Frode, and a clear argument ensues in their foreign tongue.  “Vargmenni—fire hands!” she calls out in the common tongue, holding out her arms as she did the night before—though nothing happens.  The tension grows, though I spare a moment to recognize the oddity of her using our shared language in her exchange with Frode.

Frode pushes his arms to his side and he begins to levitate, and he starts growling at her, towering above her.  If violence is indeed Frode’s intent, it will commence imminently.  With his attention focused on Vargmenni, desperate to end the infighting, I rush to the rothé’s side and plunge my knife into the flesh behind its ear where the skull is soft.  Warm crimson floods over my hands as the beast lets out a death rattle before becoming still.  Vargmenni turns to me instinctively, and this breaks whatever fury had overtaken Frode.

“Sick,” I reply in his language as Frode stares at me.  Almost instantaneously, the situation seems defused.  Frode walks to the side of the rothé and kicks it before turning to the other warriors and begins to issue more orders.  They back away, seemingly content to leave the creature, and after a few moments of awkward silence the tension dissipates, and our party continues on its way.  It seems odd, wasteful to leave such a resource as the rothé behind, but I don’t see a need to press the matter. 

Not long after midday, we catch sight of a plume of smoke ahead to the northeast.  The smoke is distant enough that there is no immediate concern, but the group stops briefly to motion towards it, accompanied by a brief discussion.  Frode seems intent on heading in the direction of the plume.

Vargmenni keeps her distance as we walk, and despite my attempts to get close to him, a meaningful conversation about the smoke with Aros seems out of reach.  The plume proves to be several miles away, our approach broken by the occasional copse of trees or jagged ground.  None of the warriors displays much in the way of emotion, though there is a general sense of caution as we move.

Finally, we descend into a low valley, the plume lying just ahead over a rise, its source not yet visible.  There is still daylight though it is failing, and Frode begins issuing orders in a low voice, as if careful not to be heard.  To my surprise, it seems as if order has been given to drop our gear, and the warriors begin arranging belongings on the ground.  As the sun sets, dim light from a distant fire can be seen.  I approach Frode, using gestures and crude language to ask about his intentions towards the fire.

When he replies, there is a hint of a sneer on his face, a look I have seen before.  This man intends violence—that seems answer enough for now.  There is nothing for me to do but wait with the others in silence as rations are passed around, mostly dried pieces of meat and tree bark that are chewed without providing much in the way of flavor or nourishment.  Fortunately, I do not have an appetite.

The sun sets completely, and the sky grows black.  The moon occasionally pierces the dense cloud cover, providing just enough in the way of light to be able to discern shadows.  Another hour or two passes, and the temperature drops.  We are all waiting for what’s coming, waiting on Frode and his erratic behavior.

The silence is broken by Frode, who stands and gathers the entire party.  I am oddly pleased to be included, and he gives several instructions quietly.  Though I do not understand his words, his intentions are clear.  Warriors disperse to gather their weapons.  Together, we begin to traverse the ground up the hill, climbing towards the source of the flame. We draw within perhaps a half mile—the scent of burning wood rides the shifting and swirling winds.  We descend again into another valley, this one smaller, nestled between two hills.  Ahead, a soft glow from a fire is visible.  Frode whispers instructions to the three warriors, gesturing for them to accompany him up the hill, excluding me, Vargmenni and Gola.  They begin a slow, quiet climb with their weapons.

I watch as they depart, and for the first time I am left alone with Vargmenni—and I try my best to efficiently ask her questions burning on my mind.  I speak too quickly and she shakes her head, confused, so I distill my speech to the most basic words I can think of.  “Friend?  Enemy?  Danger?”

She makes a motion to the top of my head, then lowers it to my shoulder, whispering a single word.  “Miners”—a very surprising response.  As Frode and the other warriors escape our vision, she withdraws something from within the folds of her tunic—a rolled sheet of vellum or bleached hide and sits on the ground, focusing on it intently.  I have spent enough time in front of my own tomes to recognize this for what it is—arcane writing, a scroll or perhaps a spell formula. 

Meanwhile, Gola sits quietly—seemingly on edge, her face wrinkled in unrecognizable emotion.  I am paralyzed with indecision, a feeling that has become all too familiar since my rebirth.  Unwilling to interrupt Vargmenni in her frantic study, I stand awkwardly next to Gola, trying to read her emotions.  The silence stretches, the woman staring blankly at me, never quite meeting my eyes.  I am unsure how to even approach conversation with this woman.

Vargmenni continues to focus on the sheet of vellum, minutes passing quickly as my heart races, pounding loudly in my chest.  Suddenly, a battle cry erupts from the hills, Vargmenni’s eyes lifting momentarily in distraction, though it’s clear she is intent on finishing whatever it is she is doing.  “Focus,” is the only thing I say to her, using the same tone I had used with Selben countless times as my young apprentice wavered in his studies.  Thoughts of Selben leave me unsettled—I cannot even remember my last conversation with him, it seems so long ago.  Memories stir.  Selben, Bonie…and at the very thought of her, my knees nearly collapse. 

I catch myself and find Gola staring at me silently, and suddenly am reminded of my surroundings.  Knowing that these few moments might be my only opportunity to learn more about Frode and this complicated situation, I use the only priestly power left at my disposal—originally intended for Frode, but one that would prove extremely dangerous given the circumstance—so I use it instead on Gola.  Learning more about her might be key in understanding Frode. 

Appealing to Nobanion for guidance, I call upon his powers and focus on Gola, attempting to divine her nature.  She either does not notice or does not care, instead she stands quietly, unflinching, staring at me silently.  From her, I receive a sense of neutrality—if she is possessed of malevolence, it is hidden to me, and I am satisfied with that finding.

More shouts are heard in the night—not cries of pain or sounds of battle, but shouting.  One of the voices is higher pitched than the others—perhaps feminine—though it is obscured by the rest.  I spare another glance for Vargmenni, who continues to focus on her study of the scroll.  Unable to discern the scroll’s meaning and unwilling to interrupt her, I make the decision to head towards the commotion.  I follow the path that seems the shortest to give me some vantage point, following the footprints of one of the warriors as best I can in the dim moonlight.

I crest the small hill just in time to see Frode and three of his warriors closing in on a small clearing, amid which is a campfire.  Fleeting shadows flee the warrior’s approach, heading into the mouth of a nearby cave.  As the warriors converge on the campsite, something appears suddenly in front of the warriors, an apparition that blinks into existence before them.  It is that of a gigantic bear, standing on its hind legs, more than twice the height of Aros.

Frode and his warriors halt immediately as it issues a low roar, swiping great claws at the air in front of them.  The warriors stop instantly, surprised by the creature’s appearance, and I pause to consider the encounter.  The bear’s emanation did not suit the creature’s size, neither in intensity nor in volume.  Its bellowing roar should echo throughout the valley, but instead it is muted, softer than it should be.  I crouch quietly and watch as the situation unfolds, keeping my suspicions to myself and my presence unknown.

The great bear wastes no time, charging towards Frode and his party.  The warriors raise their weapons in defense, seeking guidance—their leader belts out a war cry, and the warriors meet its charge.  A huge ghostly claw swipes at Harka, spinning him around violently until he collapses in a heap nearby.  It is difficult to tell if there is blood on the snow—a similar blow would eviscerate any lesser man.

Behind the spectral bear, I catch sight of a fleeting shape moving from into the cave—a smaller form, almost that of a child, wearing a dark cloak.  I am quite certain that the other warriors have not seen this.  I continue to crouch and watch—as much as I don’t want the same fate to befall Aros, this is not my fight.  I do not understand the powers at play here.

Frode motions violently shouting instructions as Aros & Baln begin to back away.  The bear makes a sweeping attack at Aros, but he manages to dodge, narrowly avoiding its reach.  Frode rushes forward, sword raised high and strikes at the bear—suddenly, as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes.  I grunt softly, my suspicions seemingly confirmed—for I believed this to be an illusion.  Though illusion is a discipline of the arcane arts I cannot access, I am familiar with it in theory.

There is a brief pause as the warriors scan their surroundings, looking for other threats.  Harka remains motionless in the shadows, and in the confusion I slip away, heading back to Vargmenni and Gola lest my presence be noticed by Frode.  Vargmenni seemed secretive about her study of the scroll, and I would not want Frode to return and catch her unawares.  When I make it back, I find Vargmenni tucking away the vellum.

“Frode returns,” I utter breathlessly.  “Harka was killed, I think.”  I wait to see what reaction her reaction may be to those words.  If Vargmenni is concerned, she does not show it.

Knowing that only a few moments remain, I draw my knife, showing it to Vargmenni.  “Should I give this to Gola?”  It is a question that had been on my mind, and I’m not sure of my own intent.  She could do herself harm or attempt escape, and either way it could be dangerous for me if she were found with my blade.  I do not hide my words from Gola, curious to gauge both of their reactions.

Gola stares silently, her face tight with restrained emotion.  Vargmenni shakes her head no, and I sheathe the blade.  “One last question,” I ask quickly.  “Is she friend or enemy?”

Vargmenni eyes me intently before responding.  “Neither.”  There is no more time for discussion as Aros returns, alone, and begins issuing instructions that seem to indicate he wants the four of us to return to our camp.

“Where is Frode?” I ask Aros, assuming my meaning gets across.

“Harka” is his response.

I give him a questioning look before replying, again using one of the few words I know in their language.  “Harka sick?”  I’m curious to measure his response.  He grunts, neither confirming nor denying the statement, almost as if it is inconsequential.  Wordlessly, Aros pushes us along the path back towards camp.

When we arrive, the orders are clear that Aros wants the gear collected—I scoop up Harka’s pack while Aros, Vargmenni and Gola collect the rest of the packs.  Once complete, we retrace our steps towards the hill and the mouth of the cave to find Frode and Baln sitting silently near the fire.  Harka is on the ground nearby, breathing slowly though unconscious—there is no blood or visible wounds on the warrior.  The cave opening is nearby, pitch black.  No one seems inclined to pay it much attention, let alone enter the cave, at least for the moment.

I look at Harka, then to Frode and ask “What happened?” My meaning unclear, I gesture to Vargmenni to translate.  She exchanges a few words quietly with Frode, and I am surprised by the cordial tone in her voice.

He mutters a few incomprehensible words and she replies.  “False death.”

“Enemies?” I ask Frode using his language, pointing towards the cave mouth.  Frode replies crudely, nodding.  “Enemies.”  With that he stands, commanding the group to claim the camp and fire and prepare to rest for the night.  There are several packs that the other party left behind, and we begin to sort through them, cataloguing our findings. 

I find a way to draw near Vargmenni, and gesture to her tunic where I know the roll of vellum to be hidden.  Frode is distracted, stalking around the camp picking through gear so I risk a few quiet words.  “Fire hands?” I ask her, and she gives a very quick, subtle nod before returning to her tasks.

I take a few steps away and stop to stare at the cave entrance, attempting to see if I notice any architecture, anything recognizable.  Vargmenni appears silently at my side, making a careful gesture, raising her hand to my head and lowering it to her shoulder.  In the trade tongue she utters a single word. “Dwarves.”

#48: Bad Magic

Images of Frode’s brutal ritual continue to haunt me through the silence and darkness, of blood pouring from his mouth as he digs out a pair of teeth with my blade, replacing them with stones from the pouch seized from the heucuva.  The nature of the stones eludes me, and it takes effort to push the grisly thoughts from my mind. I focus instead on my facsimile of Frode’s pattern of sticks and bones, used to power the elder’s spell.  The arcane style, primitive yet effective, fascinates me, and I do my best to reconstruct it from memory.  Once satisfied with the results, sleep threatens, so I settle into my hide near the small bonfire, seeking rest.

I am disturbed by the crunch of boots in the snow, however, and stare as I see Vargmenni standing a few yards away.  I watch as she scans the camp, Aros and I sleeping near the fire, and her attention rests for a while on my reconstruction of Frode’s spell.  She says nothing, and after a few long moments, turns away.  Curious but unconcerned, I give in to fatigue and settle into a deep sleep.

A woman’s scream pierces the night, and I pull myself quickly to my feet.  Aros is already standing, his cudgel in hand, and he marches through Tovt.  “Zeb?” I call out questioningly, pointing to my chest, then to the village to see if he wants me to follow.  He looks back and holds up a hand in a staying gesture—I obey, drawing my knife as I try to stay alert.

Several members of the village are stirred into motion by the scream, and I can see a torch or two flickering in the distance.  The shadows make it hard, but I catch glimpse of Frode’s figure in the shadows, dragging behind him the form of a woman in one hand and a large sword in the other.  It is not Vargmenni, that much is clear.  His torso is still covered in blood, though it’s not clear if it is fresh or dried blood from the brutal extractions earlier this evening.  The woman he drags does not seem to be resisting, though she seems fearful or distressed. 

I follow his passage until he disappears into the village, and while I am concerned for what might be going on, I recognize the impracticality of doing anything about it.  The sword, however, is a curiosity—it speaks of craftsmanship I had not yet seen displayed in the village.

In a few minutes, the camp settles and Aros returns.  He appears stoic, and barely acknowledges me before settling back into his bedroll, ignoring my questioning looks.  Though wracked by curiosity I do not broach the matter—Aros has earned my trust, and if he is not concerned, I do my best to suppress my own disquiet.  More noises are heard throughout the night, muffled screams and cries, but no one stirs or makes to stop them.  I find falling back to sleep difficult, so I sit near the fire cross-legged and focus on my breathing until sleep finally comes. 

When I awaken, I can see Aros sitting near the fire staring into the flames.  His clay jug of water is nearby, and he shares it with me.  I point to a haunch of the deer and then to the fire, making it clear that I intend to cook breakfast.  He nods in approval, and once cooked we share the meat silently.  When finished, Aros stands and gestures for me to remain again before heading to the village.  I can see villagers going about their business but can make out few other details, so I content myself to eat and drink my fill, eager to regain my strength.

When Aros eventually returns, he issues what appears to be a command.  “Okt!” he says, gesturing for me to stand and follow.  I assent, walking quietly behind him as he leads me to Frode.  The elder looks agitated this morning, the cause unknown.  He has changed his hides, but dried flakes of blood are still visible on his neck, arms and legs.  I peer at his face, expecting to see bruising or swelling from the ritual, and while I see signs of damage to his face, it’s not as horrid as I would have thought.  Aros’ folk are hardened, indeed.

“Good morning,” I offer as a greeting, not expecting a response.  Frode regards me with a piercing stare, and when he replies it is to Aros in his own language, not to me.  His speech is altered by the removal of his teeth, his voice coarse and speech somewhat slurred.  Frode gestures to both of us, continuing to speak unintelligibly, and I recognize only Vargmenni’s name.  After the conversation we are clearly dismissed, and Aros guides me away from Tovt.

When we return to camp, Aros gestures for me to gather my belongings.  I leave the sticks and bones behind, throwing the deer hide over a shoulder and pat the knife tucked into my belt, gesturing that I’m ready.  We walk to the edge of the village where we meet a pair of large men, clearly warriors, each carrying a weapon similar to that of Aros.  Vargmenni and Frode appear shortly after, though from separate directions, the elder carrying his immense sword in one hand.  The other holds a rope, and from it Frode drags a bedraggled woman.  She is clothed, though appears as if she has been beaten recently—or worse.

Frode stands before the group, pulling the woman roughly to his side.  He gestures to each gathered, starting with Aros, speaking the warrior’s name.  The other warriors he identifies as Harka and Baln, and a slight scowl crosses his face when he names Vargmenni.  The scowl deepens when he points to the other woman, naming her Gola.  Frode clearly intends for us to leave Tovt, though the destination is unknown.  Unsure how it will be received, I turn to Vargmenni and speak in the common tongue.  “Are we going to danger?” I ask her slowly, using the most basic language I can.  She takes a few moments to process before responding slowly.

“Danger,” she says awkwardly, and I am glad to see that the exchange does not seem to anger Frode.  I point to Aros’ hide armor and weapon and turn to regard Frode, pointing a finger at my own chest.  “Warrior,” I say, attempting to communicate that I am capable of bearing arms.  Vargmenni looks as if she’s going to speak on my behalf but Frode interrupts, and whatever he says puts an end to the conversation.  I nod, deciding not to press the matter.  Frode gestures and Aros leads our small group from the village, heading into the wilderness.

Aros looks at me almost empathetically, thumping on his chest.  I take it as a sign of reassurance, thumping my own chest and smiling, doing my best to keep up.  Seven of us form a procession that leads into the hills.  Though still uncertain of the terrain, I assume that we are heading back to the stone circle and the heucuva.  The rapid pace of the warriors requires nearly all of my focus and energy to keep up, and I spare no time to attempt any further communication. 

Two days of sleep and nourishment have done much to restore my constitution, and I feel more like myself.  The terrain we pass through is rough, with many light snowbanks.  Vargmenni and Gola do not travel particularly fast compared to the men, which provides some relief to the otherwise strenuous pace, especially as we reach small ridges and hills.  My thoughts stray towards Nobanion, knowing that we are headed towards some unknown danger, and I find myself eager to prove myself to my new patron in some way.  We travel all day, sun rising and then beginning to fall again, and it is not until sunset that our group pauses to rest.  A bright moon rises into the clouded sky.

Before long, my assumptions are confirmed, and I can see the circle of stones in the dim light atop a nearby ridge.  I point ahead and say “heucuva”, looking to the warriors and to Frode to see what reaction is elicited.  The warriors seem hesitant and cautious, but Frode surprises me by laughing out loud.  It is an altogether unexpected reaction, and I find that Frode’s confidence is actually rather unsettling.  He pushes forward, raising his enormous blade.  I shrug to Aros, draw my knife and follow.

Frode stops before entering, gesturing for Aros and the warriors to flank the circle of stones.  Frode drops Gola’s tether, and she sits on a nearby rock obediently.  The nature of their relationship is still a mystery.  I recognize this is the first time that Aros has left my side, and I am left alone with Frode, Gola and Vargmenni.  The absence of the large warrior, my protector and only friend in this strange world, leaves me feeling vulnerable. 

Frode motions for me and Vargmenni to follow behind him as he steps towards the menhirs, and his pace quickens as he cries out “Heucuva!” and unlimbers his large sword.  I follow as commanded, though Frode’s sudden transformation leaves me feeling very uncertain.  Rather than the composed elder and potential mentor I had expected, Frode has turned out to be impetuous and violent, reminiscent more of a Malaran beast cultist than a village elder.

A cloaked figure steps from amid the circle, the heucuva in its disguise.  Frode’s march hastens as he raises his sword and he launches himself into the air, feet leaving the ground, taking flight as if aided by magic. Vargmenni and the others are as shocked as I am, and she clutches my arm, looking terrified.  “Bad magic,” she says with a quivering voice.  It seems clear she’s referring to Frode, not the heucuva, and my instincts take over as I motion for her to stand behind me, putting myself between her and the creature.

Frode hovers over the stone circle and the heucuva for a moment, then suddenly dives towards the creature, his sword whirling.  He slashes mightily in a cross swing that strikes the creature, though the blow seems deflected, leaving the heucuva seemingly unharmed.  Frode lands nearby, growling angrily, and the creature’s disguise is cast off.  It lashes out at Frode with skeletal hands, though Frode backs out of reach, avoiding the attack.

I turn to Vargmenni and command her to remain behind as I approach the circle, careful not to cross the threshold.  While trying to keep an eye on Frode I examine the ground, hoping to find a weapon or something that can be of use.  I see the hilt of a broadsword in a pile of snow nearby, but nothing else of apparent value.

Frode swings wildly again, his blade passing in front of or directly through the creature.  The length of Frode’s weapon keeps the heucuva at bay, preventing a counterattack.  In a second, overhead stroke that would cut a normal man in half, Frode strikes the creature in the shoulder but the blade is shunted by the creature’s unworldly magic.  I have encountered foes like this before.

Over my shoulder, I shout for Vargmenni to come to my side.  In my panic, I’m unable to put together a coherent command, though I want desperately for her to tell Frode to retreat, that he is not able to combat this kind of magic.  She fails to comprehend my meaning as we hear the crash of Frode’s blade again behind us.  He brings it down upon the creature’s skull and again, the sword is deflected.  Frode is enraged, too angry to acknowledge the ineffectiveness of his attacks.

“Magic!” I yell at Vargmenni, and she looks at me questioningly.  “Magic!” I repeat vehemently, “tell him it can only be harmed by magic!”  I hope that she understands, and I hope that Frode will listen to reason.

The heucuva rakes its claws across Frode’s face, blood spraying onto the ground.  Suddenly, Vargmenni steps breaches the stone circle, holding out her hands—and a torrent of flame launches from them, setting the creature ablaze.  It shrieks as it begins to collapse in a heap of burning robe and bone.  Frode pulls himself to his feet, hacking as its form crumbles to a pile of ash.

I look at Vargmenni, surprised, and she seems nearly overwhelmed.  I gesture for her to follow me into the circle and we approach Frode, who is still hacking at the smoldering undead remains.  I can see Aros and the other warriors drawing near, looking around cautiously, careful not to enter the stone circle.

“This place is evil, and we should not be here.  Tell him,” I command Vargmenni.  She begins speaking rapidly to Frode, and I can only assume she has gathered my meaning.  Frode ignores her words, instead leaving the remains of the heucuva behind to pace and poke about the ground within the circle.

Very quietly, Vargmenni speaks to me again.  “Frode.  Bad magic.  Beware.”  I gesture for her to follow again and we leave the circle, as behind us we see Aros enter, his weapon out.  He begins speaking loudly to Frode, and the elder turns on the warrior, swinging his sword wildly, aggressively clattering it against Aros’ cudgel as they shout at one another incoherently.  Aros finally withdraws, leaving Frode alone among the menhirs.

“And what about your magic?  Bad magic, or good?” I ask, curious to see her response.

“Vargmenni magic, protect,” is her surprising response.  “Vargmenni, fire hands.”  The conversation is interrupted when Frode leaves the circle, striding back to where he left Gola.  Aros follows behind and the two speak, their conflict from before seemingly forgotten.  Once again Frode seems coherent, and while I recognize Vargmenni’s name as well as my own, I understand nothing more of their conversation.  Frode finally turns to me and Vargmenni and then starts issuing orders to the others, seemingly to make camp.

A camp is established uncomfortably close to the menhirs.  A large fire is built for warmth and hides are tossed on the ground around it.  While the warriors discuss setting watches over the camp, I desperately want to communicate with Aros, but I feel as if anything were overheard it could have disastrous—perhaps even deadly—consequences.  I have so many questions, about the heucuva, about Frode and his descent into madness, as well as about Vargmenni and the sudden revelation of her magical prowess.

I decide to sit near the fire in silence and keep an eye on Frode as much as possible.  Frode remains awake during the first watch, focusing his gaze upon the members of the camp intently, appearing deep in thought.  I try not to meet his gaze.  I can’t shake the feeling that Frode is a potential threat, and for a moment I entertain thoughts of slitting his throat in his sleep.  These are Malaran instincts however, and I banish them, castigating myself.  I know too little of these people to make such judgments.

Hours pass and fatigue threatens, but one of the warriors eventually comes to change watch and Frode grabs Gola and pushes her to the ground, drawing her arm over his side as if using her for warmth, lying down near the flame.  Only when I see the man’s eye’s close do I let sleep take me.

I awaken the next morning and take a few steps away from the camp, seeking privacy to pray to my patron.  I ask forgiveness for the rash thoughts of the previous night, though the lingering sense that Frode is dangerous remains.  I seek Nobanion’s guidance on this complicated situation, and appeal to the King of Beasts for the means to discover the information I need to choose a path forward.

I feel clarity for the first time that Nobanion has heard my prayers, and that he has granted me the powers I seek.  As the camp makes ready to depart, I return to the stone circle.  The warriors take note, and Aros makes to stand and join me, but I gesture to him to stay.  Frode notices but makes no move to stop me. 

Amid the stones, nothing seems changed or disturbed from the previous night.  Using the spells granted me, I open up my senses, investigating the circle and debris littered within for signs of magic, hoping to make some sense of the runes carved into the stones.  The runes are indeed magical in nature, though I am unable to discern the source or the type.  I believe them to be an entrapment spell, similar to abjurations I have used in the past, though I have no way to prove the theory.

I shift my divine perception, this time concentrating on a divination to seek out fell energies.  I am relieved that the remains of the heucuva, defeated, do not radiate emanations of evil.  Likewise, the stones themselves, while magical, are neutral in alignment.  Satisfied at the results, I pause to consider my next actions.  Holding on to the energy of the spell I return to camp, hoping for an opportunity to use the magic to discover more of Frode’s nature.