Thrymr nods grimly, before beckoning Gifr forwards to join him on point.
Halla
Seemingly changing the subject, Halla asks, "If I am to go with the warriors after the children, I will need thicker clothing and equipment for the trek. Would Old Palli allow me to use some of the family's? Or should I ask Thorgal?"
Old Hilde's eyes open from their half-shut dreaming; she blinks at Halla, coming back to the present, then nods slowly.
"Stand up..." She looks Halla over, head to toe. "--you and Signy are of a size."
And Signy... will not need them, for days and days, is left unspoken. Hilde directs Halla to the under-bench storage drawer where Signy's thick rabbit-fur-lined boots are, and her mitts, and points out the cloak that hangs by the peg with its little trim of sable, for Signy was always given the best and finest, by her doting family and by those who wished to win a place in her affections.
Out in the woods
With both the Ulfen men agreeing to make for the pond, they set out...
The fresh snow from the day before coats everything in deep, pristine white. The sky overhead is a washed-out white-grey, no snow-threat, but no bright golden sun either, just a pale white disc that can be gazed out without pain. The remaining pigeon in its small wicker cage coos hungrily, and Knute slips in a handful of grain from the little satchet for the bird.
Nobody sees any sign of the little winged creature, though several in the group glance back at the tree. The tiny figure seems to have vanished...
It takes about half an hour for the little band of travelers to pick their way through the snow back to the frozen pond, and to circle around to the other side in hopes of picking up the trail again.
Gifr only whines, unable to find any scent as they circle the bank. Thrymr squints against morning's light-- is that a snapped twig ahead? It seems so, but the orks, or something else....?
But it's Knute's eyes that drift across definitive proof. He signals to the others, gesturing a good fifty feet beyond where they were looking on the trail, and points at a few frazzled white threads stuck to a low bramble bush. On closer inspection, they appear to be linen... such as that of which an older child's night-dress might be made.
The trail is regained. Though the fresh-fallen snow makes tracks hard to see, the hunters now look for the subtler signs: the broken branches, scuffs against bark, a print near to a tree's bole and protected from snow's fall...
Eysteinn gathers his confidence. This is the moment he's dreaded ... that he's prepared for. "Grinmer's fingers did not touch the ork's flesh" He pauses, as if reluctant to give voice to his helper. "Halla Ingendóttir. She helped me, and those children's lives may balance on the fact that she did."
"Please, Yngvi. I didn't undertake this dark task lightly. You think I would risk such ire twice? Knowing the risk?" He moves on, hoping the falsehood is enough, "I couldn't rest knowing there was something to be done for those children. I'd see their shades behind my eyes when I lay down to sleep tonight."
For a few seconds, Yngvi looks somewhere between deeply worried and angry. "You mean-- you mean the touched girl did the seidr, then?" he demands. When Eysteinn nods, he relaxes a bit, rubbing one-handed at the back of his neck.
"Don't worry me like that," he growls. "Damn, lad, can't you just say 'yes' next time I ask you something like that?"
The skald sighs, and kicks at a little pile of snow. "Look. The galdr-craft, the workings such as Hrolf himself does, as Tor's chosen, and that I do, as a skald... I know more than most, the sweet tasting of it. But you did not follow galdr. If you had, your life would have been the better for it.
"We all seek the children's return. If... if the seidr shows something, well enough. Just be sure you keep leaving it to the women," Yngvi says with a brusque clasp to Eysteinn's shoulder.
"But either way, I've kept nothing from you. Those names mean nothing to me." Yngvi shrugs apologetically. "Perhaps tomorrow, on the hunt, they will come up."
Blood rushes in Eysteinn's ears as he measures Yngvi's response. When the older man accepts the lie, Eysteinn can't help but let out a sigh of relief ... which he covers by blowing into his hands for warmth. He hopes the man takes the response for shame at his former actions.
"Thank you, Yngvi," he mutters, keeping his eyes averted, but just as much because he's already thinking ahead, "Maybe they will."
He nods to the man before moving off into the night, feet heavy with fatigue.
One more stop, he thinks tiredly, just need to let Halla know to support the lie.
He goes looking for the raven-haired woman one last time for the night ... hopefully.
Halla runs her hands inside the boots, stroking the rabbit-skin lining. She has never worn anything so luxurious and feels a little guilty, glancing toward where the scarred and wounded Signy is resting. I'll do my best to bring them back in the same shape I found them, she promises silently.
As the humans practice their skills at tracking, Tassidar keeps a sharp eye on their surroundings with his hawk perched upon his wrist.
Tassidar's bright-eyed bird, and he himself, no less bright-eyed, scan the woods and snow around them.
The wildness of the land is breathtaking-- Kyonin also has vast forests, and the trees there are more impressive-- but Kyonin does not boast true mountains. In the lands of the Linnorm Kings, the mountains are great, implacable giants of stone that rise from the landscape like old dragons. And the cold... cold enough to steal the breath from a man or an elf, and cold enough as well to sharpen the edges of everything one sees, to make the mountains seem near enough to touch, and the branches of the trees to see as if but freshly created.
Still, he sees no sigh of pursuit, or trouble. If not for the fact that he knows otherwise, Tassidar could well believe that he and the two Ulfen men and their animals were the only living creatures within a thousand leagues, so empty does the landscape seem of other beings.
For Thrymr and Ulfen, the beauty of the landscape may still strike them, but they have lived here their entire lives: it is not new. And they have other worries, closer to their hearts, at hand.
The three men, plus one dog and two birds, set out on the trail that Knute has found again. The comparative warmth of the night before, whether it was passed in a cave or in a snow-shelter, is quickly a faded memory.
Knute, yesterday you didn't feel this! Brrrrr. Good thing you brought good clothes.
The trail quickly meets a stream that fed into the frozen pond-- but it turns to follow it, rising gently uphill. The breath of the three seekers steams white in the air around their heads as they hike through the thick blanket of snow that lies over the landscape.
Eysteinn finds himself shivering outside Old Palli's. Maybe she'll be fine with what I told Yngvi ... she doesn't seem to care what people think of her, anyway. It seems a weak lie even to himself.
Finally, he pounds on the door and—once answered—asks to talk to Halla alone when possible. Then he sits quietly and waits ... fighting to stay awake.
When Halla comes over, Eysteinn once again make sure they're not observed and pitches his voice low.
"I spoke with Yngvi." He shakes his head, "he didn't know much, though he thinks Neregh sounds like ork ... which I guess we had already worked out." There's a pause as he gathers courage, "And one more thing. He was suspicious of my information, and I had to tell him ... " he searches her face in anticipation of her response, "... I told him you worked the seiðr. That I was just present." He rushes on, pleading with her in a desire to cool her anger before it can really get sparked, "He was going to tell my father and the Half-hand. Will you keep my secret? Please, Halla."
Before leaving the cave, Knute scratches a hasty set of runes on the cave wall: "Back to Pond". When he spots the linen, he points it out to the others, and curses under his breath. "The children were probably forced to march all day, and maybe through the night, poor things." At the point where the trail picks up again, Knute hacks a large "X" in a nearby tree, and marks the direction they're travelling in. Noticing the elf and Ulfen watching his cave and tree vandalism, Knute explains, "I don't think we should use the other pigeon until we find a long-term camp of the orcs, if we can avoid it."
Knute shivers at the cold, suddenly feeling its bite again after the time spent in the cave We'll need to be careful about marching too fast in this weather. Though the orcs must be too, if they're trying to keep our children alive... Most of them were taken without even furs, I would imagine. Gods preserve them, Knute thinks grimly, knowing this is not cold to be trifled with.
Recognizing Tassidar and Vethr staring at the woods and sky, Knute speaks some of these thoughts out loud. "The raiders can't be travelling too swiftly, I don't think, with the children. They'd need some way to keep them warm and walking. Keep an eye out for smoke in the sky, or ashes on the ground." Knute swings his handaxe at a nearby branch as they continue walking, making sure to leave an obvious trail for any following.
Tassidar casts the endure elements scroll and immediately feels the relief. Despite his heavy and luxurious furs the cold was cutting through him like a knife. He had removed the spell from his daily list to have a better spell set for the inevitable combat. Anyone or thing willing to attack a village for its children was unlikely to just willingly let them go.
Were the orcs intent on eating them? They had a yeti with them, how did they manage that? Many questions ran through Tassidar's mind.
He considered using his remaining scroll on the two men, but decided to hold onto them in case they might be needed to save a child's life.
Tassidar had come so far on a difficult journey spanning a dozen lands. He had missed the Solstice, but despite that he felt as though he was doing something noble.
"Your land is so beautiful, but harsh. It is expansive, yet so sparsely populated and lonely. In a place like this the ring of children's voices must seem like the only joy and pleasure in life at times."
Tassidar reflects for a moment before speaking again. Though he speaks about emotion his voice and face betray, but a hint of it.
"My bloodline has warred orcs since the first men lived in caves. My own blood and ire have already been elevated thinking on what you have just put words to. . . I pray they have taken the children for ransom or other such purpose and seek to preserve their well being. If I had a shrike of my brethren with me . . ."
Tassidar stops leaving his wish unfinished. The look upon his face speaks to an expectation of being misunderstood.
"I know that my people must seem alien to yours, but love for our children is something that unites us as name-giving races."
Tassidar raises his eyes to examine the sky above the trees.
"I shall keep watch around us."
a few minutes pass . . .
"How large is the raiding party and how many children do you know them to have?"
Knute listens quietly as the elf muses. "I don't know why they took the children," he admits, "but they did seem intent on taking them alive. So I hope as well that they will keep them alive..." He looks at Tassidar and nods gratefully at the sentiment and the promise to watch, while saying nothing. Knute focuses on tracking to keep his mind from wandering too much to the question of why the orcs want the children. He instead thinks ahead along their path, hoping to remember obstacles or landmarks before they reach them, and keeps an eye out for anything odd on the trail.
Knute cocks his head at the question of how many orcs there were and how many children were taken, trying to remember what was said in the aftermath of the raid. "I wasn't in the thick of the fight, and heard there were from as few as a dozen to as many as four times that." Knute looks to Thrymr to answer the question of how large the party was before continuing, "as for the children, there were six taken. The brutes tried to grab more, but we stopped some." Knute says the last grimly: "Though that's little consolation for those whose children were taken..." He trails off as he remembers the haunted look in Red Alf's eyes, and those of the other parents.
Thrymr continues to revel in the cold as easily as breathing, showing no signs of any discomfort - though he does cast a sly glance towards Gifr on occasion. The talk of the raiding party gives him a reason to reminisce and he ponders before adding his own words "The orcs were many, led by one astride a vit varg. He called the dark... and spoke words that the orcs heard." though he does not contribute to the small talk of the children or the honesty of the land they walk through.
"I am guessing that varg, warg, and worg mean the same thing. A large and keenly intelligent wolf-like creature, correct?"
"I spoke with Yngvi." He shakes his head, "he didn't know much, though he thinks Neregh sounds like ork ... which I guess we had already worked out." There's a pause as he gathers courage, "And one more thing. He was suspicious of my information, and I had to tell him ... " he searches her face in anticipation of her response, "... I told him you worked the seiðr. That I was just present." He rushes on, pleading with her in a desire to cool her anger before it can really get sparked, "He was going to tell my father and the Half-hand. Will you keep my secret? Please, Halla."
Anger flashes in Halla's eyes, but she says nothing ... aloud.
Better they think you are a seiðr-worker than that you are servicing the village's thralls in curing sheds, Maeve points out practically. It makes you more valuable.
Aye, more valuable, Halla replies. How much more will I have to save to buy my freedom? And what will I do if Hrolf or Thorgal or Leif command me to make the dead speak again? I possess no such seiðr!
Then Thorgal's son will have to get you out of it, or you'll confess his secret, Maeve points out languidly. He has more to lose than you have, or he wouldn't have placed himself so firmly in your debt.
She glares at him a long moment before sharing her own information, "Dalrin is an elf. Old Hilde remembers him from her youth, but then he was gold and red. She said there were rumors he was born to one of the elf-women after Jól: man-blooded, as Hilde is elf-blooded. Despite her blood, she is gray with age; an elf with man-blood could have aged as well."
Thrymr deadpans a flat response "Didn't stop to chat... too busy spilling blood." intimating that perhaps the intelligence of a steed was not something incidentally gained during the swirling melee of a fight while the rider and varg in question was shrouded in darkness.
In Hofn
Eysteinn watches Halla’s face—her piercing eyes—waiting for the thunderhead he can see war on her features to break in a verbal storm.
It doesn’t come. And for yet another time in this never-ending day, Eysteinn thanks the All-Father and any other of the gods willing to listen that he seems to have sidestepped the axe one more time. He was going to have to stop taking these chances … or maybe take up gambling.
The thoughts drift idle as he listens to Halla’s revelations. ”Huh,” he grunts, his eyes focusing inward as he turns the new information over in his mind, fumbling to put the pieces together. ”I don’t know how to use that … yet. It’s good to know, though.” He looks back up into her eyes, and there is no cleverness in his response. ”Thank you, Halla Ingendóttir.” His eyes search hers for a few moments, and he looks about to say something more … then he breaks the gaze, shaking is head and scratching at his brown beard in a self-conscious way.
”I need rest.” He turns, but halts, looking back. ”And you do, too. Rest well, Halla. I think our troubles are only beginning.”
He stumbles away through the snow, his mind numb to the cold and dark, and only thoughts of a warm blanket on his weary mind.
"Oh I see now, vit as in wh-it, white. Varg, warg . . . Wolf. A white wolf, I've got it now---Oh. He rode upon a white wolf?! Hummm, I surely hope it wasn't one of the Frost breathing variety, or you would be able to have a conversation with it."
"About how he intended to freeze you and eat you as a frozen meat snack."
Knute doesn't join the conversation, as he's too intent on tracking. He enjoys the challenge of following tracks a day old, wending through the forest. Though he didn't comment on it when the elf spoke, he does notice and appreciate the beauty around him. His father taught him to appreciate the silent movements of snow and wind in the forest. "A quiet appreciation of your surroundings keeps you alert to them," Iver had always said, cheerfully. Knute smiles at the memory.
A small footprint in the snow, a lighter impression than any but a child could've made, reminds him what they're after, though. Knute sighs. At least one's still alive, he thinks to himself, his happiness fading at the reminder of their desperate task.
Halla gathers what she will need for the trek so that it will be quick to pull together in the morning and readies for bed herself. Unlike Eysteinn, she finds sleep slow to come as she slept through most of the day after last night's action.
"You see something there?"
Knute moves aside so the other two can see, and points to the tiny footprint. "At least they're still alive," Knute says quietly, voicing his thoughts.
"Orcs just wanted them dead - easier to kill them at Hofn. Their being taken for something else." letting imagination run to fill in the gaps.
"With children that small walking we should be able to overtake them . . . What is our plan once we make contact? Do we have a larger force coming to assist us? Do we wait for help?"
Spitting to the side as a prelude to show what Thrymr thinks of Tassidar's woodscraft Thrymr refutes "They aren't walking, carried for the most part. They know where they're going and could have pushed through the night... we don't. They took Hofn, they know what they're doing and we aren't catching them on the road. We find where they are and we use our eyes... then we see what needs doing."
"Okay, we worry about finding them first then we worry about what to do."
"Yes. And in answer to your other question," Knute joins in with a sidelong glance at Thrymr, "we are expecting some more warriors from Hofn. I don't know how far they'll be behind us, but hopefully it should even the odds, once they arrive. That's why we're marking the trail we're taking." As if for emphasis, Knute chops some branches with his handaxe, making their trail obvious.
Tassidar nods thanks to Knute.
"More bows, blades and arms will be most welcome."
"Do you expect any of the elves to be among them?"
Knute cocks his head at the question, trying to remember the elves' attitudes through the chaos of yesterday. "No," he answers, finally. "They usually depart the morning after Jól, sometimes before I even wake the next day. We would have been much worse off if they had left before dawn this year..."
"They fought with us well in the raid, and they seemed to be preparing to hasten home afterwards. Even with injured and dead among their numbers." Knute frowns at this, recalling Lydd's weak state, and the elves' apparent apathy towards their injured and dead. "I hope they're all right," he adds, more quietly.
In the forest
It's nearing an hour since the trio saw the threads on the bush when the trees thin out ahead. The group slow their steps a little, aware they'll be passing onto open ground with high visibility. Shading their eyes with their hands against the gray morning light, the group peers ahead. Beyond the treeline, the ground opens into a stretch of gently-rising clearing that is likely a sloping meadow in summertime; past two hundred feet it rises more steeply, becoming a rocky, snow-covered hillside.
Tassidar, you are picking up some sensations of wariness from your hawk.
The elf whispers, "something In the rocky open stretch is putting Vethrfolnir on edge. Do you know this place?"
Tassidar tries to see what his hawk is looking towards.
Thrymr shakes his head, but doesn't stop the trudge.
Tassidar pauses to string his bow while casting his almond shaped eyes about. His ears stretch to catch any sound which would reveal what is hidden here.
As Thrymr trudges forward, just ready to break the tree line as he follows Gifr and the scent trail, Tassidar stands a moment, taking a long, second look around, as he trusts the instincts of his feathered friend. He squints forward, over the empty meadow and the rocks ahead.
...Odd, lumpy rock, that one. It looks--
Tassidar, there is a figure sitting on a jut of rock on the hillside. He, or she, for you cannot tell at this distance-- is leaned back against the hillside, swathed in a thick fur cloak, positioned so that it has a commanding view of the meadow and the woods, and motionless with the long patience of a hunter. A dusting of snow has accumulated over the figure's shoulders. The figure does not appear to have taken notice of you and your group yet, but you are certain that if you keep moving forward, there will be precious little cover in the meadow, and that if the figure is at all alert, it will spot you.
The elf whispers.
"Hold and be still. There is a watcher among the rocks."
Keeping his movements smooth and reserved he directs the men to what he has spotted.
"Do you see the largest rock up on the hillside there? Now, look below that you will find a rock that juts outward like the middle knuckle of your fist. Part of the rock face is in shadow. . . . That lump there leaned back against the hillside. He or she is wearing a fur cloak, if you watch you can pick it up. The dusting of snow on the shoulders gives the appearance of being one of the rocks."
"The watcher has a commanding view from there, but I don't think we have been spotted."
Thrymr squints his eyes before grimly speaking "Keep eyes on it, and I'll keep walking. Best way to see if it's friend or foul is by giving it an opportunity."
Knute nods, accepting Thrymr's plan. He readies his bow, like Tassidar, and waits for some sign of movement from the field.
Knute squints, trying to make out the figure Tassidar while he waits for Thrymr to enter the clearing.
Despite not picking out a figure from the rocky landscape, Knute stands alert.
Unless given pause by Tassidar, Thrymr shoulders his mattock and tucks up his collar. Gifr is called to heel and walks beside Thrymr as the Ulfen walks with assertive ease into the clearing...
Morning in Hofn
A cock crows, mournful and sharp, inside someone's hen-house. The people of Hofn fan the fires of their hearths, fumble for clothes, and gaze wearily at each other in the pre-dawn darkness. Those whose business, today, takes them out of the village start garbing for the cold.
Halla wakes in the closeness of Palli's longhouse, as she has done ever since she came into the healer's employ. The building is full of the breathing of the family, the other servants, and of those so wounded that they have spent the night in arm's reach of the healers. One of the household is crouched by the cook-fire, stirring a pot of boiled oats and tending flatbread on the skillet by the fire.
Halla dresses warmly, in her own clothes and Signy's finer garb over it. Hilde is sitting by the fire, watching her ready with her eyes glinting like live coals. "Go well," she says. "Take some of the bread, for your dagverðr."
A little traveling satchel is prepared for her, containing a few warm rounds of flatbread with nuts and honey cooked in (best eaten when warm, as Ulfen bread tends to get hard after it cools), strips of smoked lamb and fish, and handfuls of dried dulse, and a skin filled with ale.
"Need you anything else for the road?" Hilde asks, as Halla tucks away the parcel of food. Halla can see Bjorg is also preparing to travel.
*
In another longhouse, Eysteinn is similarly waking, finding his furs, tying his boots. He checks that his secret bottles are ready for travel , and grabs some food for the traveling as well: a similar meal to what Halla is currently packing away, in another building.
Outside, the sky is the dull iron gray of before-the-dawn, and the air is bitterly cold. Figures in heavy furs make their way to the great hall, where Thorgal is readying the group that will go.
Those ready seem disheartened as it becomes clear Hrolf will not be leading the group. Perhaps only Halla and Eysteinn know the true reason why Hrolf cannot, but Thorgal says only that the goði is still recovering from his injuries. One of Red Alf's pigeons returned the day prior, and gave a lead for the war-band (if such it can be called) to proceed upon.
Those going are Thorgal himself, Yngvi Wyrmtongue, Torgi the Blue, Sven Aurigr, Leif Hrolfsson, Bjorg (one of Palli's family), Aslaug (a kinswoman of the slain Mara)... and the two slaves, Eysteinn and Halla. The seiðrkonur, Rikka, is here as well.
Thorgal squints out over those ready to travel. "We go to face numbers we know not, with strength we know not," he says, looking weary already in the guttering light of an oil lamp. "It is no battle of the sort we would choose. But they have our children. Are all ready to go?"
At the meadow/hill
Thrymr, having declared that the only way to know whether the figure in the rocks is friend or foe is to approach and see which, sets out to find which, instructing the other two to cover him...
Tassidar, having already spotted the figure against the rocks, can keep an eye on it-- it seems motionless, and makes no twitch of movement as Thrymr and Gifr pace ten feet forward into the clearing, then twenty, then thirty.
Thrymr, at thirty feet from the treeline you can now make out the figure the foreign elf spoke of: a tall bulk against the rock face, snow settled on shoulders, swathed in thick furs. As of yet, it has made no sign of noticing your approach, but you are still about a hundred and seventy feet away from the slope and the figure.
Thrymr picks forward another ten cautious feet, squinting, still trying to determine any details about the body off in the rocks, which has yet to react to Thrymr. Knute is able to pick the shape out as well, now, as his hard-staring eyes notice the irregularity against the hillside.
Neither breaking stride nor focusing his eyes towards the figure, Thrymr keeps trudging.
Rikka stands in the snow, unkempt blonde hair writhing in the fitful gusts that sweep through the village like ill news. Her face is a stoic mask punctuated by bright, watchful eyes. A longtime nomad, her pack is well-kept, painstakingly organized, and she wears it with the unconscious grace of long familiarity. Her layered clothes, a cut above the Hofn average, are an expression of practicality and weather preparedness. Thick furs are gone, traded for knitted wools balanced against the weatherproofing provided by dense seal pelts.
The tattooist leans on her spear, unmoving, conserving strength and dwelling on her own thoughts while waiting for the order to set off. Her companion is nowhere to be seen.
Halla feels as if someone is going to denounce her as a thief, going around in a karl's clothing. Self-conscious, she nods her thanks to Hilde for the provisions. Her heart in her throat and her stomach full of Maeve's (Desna's!) butterflies, she has no immediate appetite knows the warm bread will be welcome once the trek has begun. She has already cautiously checked the dwarven ring near the fire, when no one was watching, and found that it no longer shone; if it will light up again when called on, it may be more useful than she expected when she chose it over the salt. She also takes the rock of Five Solomon's fire goddess, though she hopes not to be forced to use it before they find the children.
At the great hall, Halla looks around for Five Solomon and is surprised to see the stranger who shared Palli's longhouse Jól-night and fought the orks who tried to force their way in. She had almost forgotten her in the long hours of healing-work and then Eysteinn's strange seiðr with the ork's head. If she had thought of her, she would have assumed she would have gone her way, glad that Hofn's problems were not her own.
The pig, however, is nowhere in sight. Halla remembers how near butchered it looked the last she saw it and hopes that no one had fresh pork for their dagverðr. Sidling over, she nods a greeting and asks, "Your pig -- did it not survive?"
The tattooist gives the dark-haired woman a warm smile and quickly shakes off her musings, "He's fine, just..." She makes an odd gesture with her free hand that seems to indicate something behind her, "He's 'resting'. And it is to you I owe thanks for that. Your magic kept the little squealer breathing. You have my thanks." Her smile seems to reflect a marked friendliness towards the thrall. She offers her hand, as if to an equal. "I'm Rikka... and in your debt."