Strangers Part 2
Outside the high, wooden walls, the young boy dismounted the horse, the snow cushioning the long fall from the huge beast. It trotted away to the top of a nearby hill and waited, watching, yet not in a nervous manner, it was a stoic and powerful stance.
The now nameless boy approached the gates and waited. The guards on either side had witnessed the whole ordeal but stood silent, the sight of the horse making them rigid and fearful. After a few minutes, the gate opened, revealing the town and denizens within. Compared to the village he was born, this place was prosperous and much more profound. There, within the threshold to this new place, stood a group of nobles, artisans, and a myriad of other people. The boys arrival was being hailed as an omen and they were not certain of it was ill of fortuitous. They and he stood, silent, waiting for what either parties intentions.
"What are you waiting for, boy?" A raspy voice asked from behind. It startled the lone child, his eyes sharpening and looking back, annoyed that he had not heard this man approach. Wearing heavy furs, wielding a spear and a bow, the light footed, hunter strode passed, entering the town, moving around the group, his face annoyed with the lot. When the boy had looked back, and the man had moved on, his gaze once again fell to the snowy hilltop the large, black horse had stood atop. It was gone, the snow covering any sign of the hoof tracks it left behind. It was then that the small boy noticed a strangeness with the imprints. The hooves were doubled up, twice as many prints as there should have been for any horse marks he had seen before. "Come inside, child," A soothing woman's voice said, her hands softly resting in his shoulders, her movements gentle and nonthreatening. He was hesitant but knew he had a reason for being here, too seek out someone within these walls that would help him, so he allowed her to usher him within the stout walls.
This was no village, it was a stronghold. Filled with large buildings, all decorated with ornate carvings and fine wares. There were all manner of craftsman, trades folk, warriors, and nobles. His old village had no walls, each person responsible for being a warrior as well as an artisan. It was hard to imagine those-that-walk-again being a threat here. Lead by the golden haired woman who had greeted him, the nameless child was taken to a place where he was bathed and dressed. He was offered fine and savory meats and meads, the aromas soothing his sorrowed soul. They treated him like a noble, beyond just a boy or one of their kin.
After all of this, he was ushered into the great long hall where many were gathered, all eyes and interest fixed upon the young child. This is where he met the Jarl, the lord of this area, probably the one that extended to his village before the creeping death took it. There came a great many questions. Where was he from? Who were his parents? Where were they? Did the horse belong to him? What brought him here? On and on the questions poured, the group beginning to become flustered and festering from the silence and shallow answers the boy produced. He could not tell them. No knowledge of his past must be uttered. He may be damned but these people were innocent in the matter, what had transpired to summon such a wicked wind to befall such a young thing. They were safe from us secrets so long as he carried the burden.
Finally, after they became exhausted from interrogating the child, the Jarl spoke. He would allow the boy to stay, for now. But he warned that if either ill omens or misdeeds spawned from the boys presence then they would be forced to exile him, or worse. And so, late in the evening, the meeting adjourned. All were tired and still confused but did not argue with their leader, yet their glances showed much distrust and suspicion. This would be difficult but the boy would weather it, he had to. Within the maidens home that welcomed him, he lay down to sleep. A deep slumber taking hold, the bedding and warmth, safety of walls and shelter, relaxed him, allowed rest to seep within his bones and body. He dreamed a child's dream, not of the nightmares meant for adults, where concern and responsibility were but a whim.
How cruel of gods that they should give him dreams of peace while they fill the boys youth full of terror and dread. Roused from his sleep, the boy felt as if he was repeating the same horrors all over again. The maiden burst into his room, sword in hand, barring the door behind her. Words could not be said fast enough nor comprehended in the chaos, the door splintering moments behind her, a cold, death breath filling the room as the ones called Draugr breached and bled all in their path.
This time was different though. They slew the maiden, yes, but the boy did not run. He picked up her sword and raged as all cornered animals do. He was smaller, nimbler, albeit not as strong. Regardless, he threw himself at them, cleaving the first owns head clean off, the body swinging with death throes before slumping to the ground. He bounced to the next one, driving the blade hilt deep into its ragged chest, the momentum carrying them both to the ground. They were too many, too strong, and they quickly overwhelmed him. Together, they carried him above their heads, like a river of dead souls. He could see now the carnage they had wrought, how unstoppable they were. This place was a fortress and had sacked with ease and speed unlike any mortal army. Their bodies were unrelenting, never tiring, ignorant to the elements.
Fire consumed the structures as snow fell from the sky. Screams and bodies were everywhere. It was now that the boy wept, the reality of why this was happening sinking in. He was the reason for such devastation. His silence sentencing them to death as equally as his words would have, his very presence being a beacon for the damned to follow. He was being taken outside the walls, which were engulfed in a savage flame, the strength of it waning fast. As they exited the gates, they collapsed, sealing off the exit, crushing many of the icy dead in the process. Outside the chaos of flames, entering the grips of the chilling storm, they brought the boy before a solitary figure, standing in a spot where no snow fell, only half a ray of moon light.
It was she, from the dream in the cave. Her black hair covered her features but the boy knew it was the very same woman. The draug lowered the boy and the woman responded by reaching out, her grasp aimed at the child. "To Hel with you!" A voice roared, the sound of hooves charging between the damned and the fiendish woman. It was the hunter, the one who had snuck up on the boy at the gate, riding upon a large brown horse. He snatched the boy from their clutches and hurled a torch and pitch in his wake, causing flash and fire which allowed them to escape into the wild.
They rode for hours, without rest, the pace never faltering. This horses endurance was mighty but not unlimited and it was finally becoming time to cease travel or the beast may not recover from the strain. They stopped, high in the rocky, tree covered mountains, far away and far above the dangers they fled. Dismounting, the hunter grabbed the boy and slammed him to the ground, knife pressed against his small throat. "Why?" The hunter asked, a mixture of anger and anguish welling in his eyes, his teeth gritted from pain and loss. "Why did everyone I know and love just die? What evil hunts you, boy? What did you bring with you?"
Though death would be a release, the child could not fulfill his deeds if he was dead. This was the only reason he feared death, not for the relief, but the loss of glory and vengeance. So, he told the man a story, and this was to become his story, that he would have to tell time and time again until it became his life.
"The woman is my mother," The boy said, sadness filling his eyes. "She is a witch. She enslaves men who fall in love with her, turning them into mindless servants, never letting them die, her wicked love keeping them together forever. I was born from one of those loves. My father stole me from her when he figured out what she was, what she planned to do with me. He took me to a village and left me there. It was not long before they found me, they always do. They kill all those around me, leaving none alive that know of me. As such, I do not have a home. I do not have a name. I am damned and now you are as well..."
The hunter withdrew his knife and sheathed it, walking over to a nearby tree and sitting against it, his eyes fixated on the boy. "The horse you rode in on," The hunter spoke, leaning his head back and breathing deep. "The black one that brought you to the gates. Do you know that horse?" Curious and confused, the boy shook his head no, wanting to knowledge the hunter may possess. "You are a poor liar, boy," He said, chuckling, his breath puffing out into the cold air. "I know not of your origins but I do know of the old gods. When a boy rides in upon an eight legged horse, followed by an army of the dead led by Hel herself, then I would say you have been noticed by those gods. However, I saved your life, which means you are indebted to me. The way I figure it, given the gods are keen on you, they will have their sights on me as well. So, we are bound by the same fate, for now. Survival is our top priority. But first, you need a name. I can't be calling you "boy" all the time. How about Ulf?" All of this was so sudden and chaotic however that seemed to be the trend and any name would do so long as he could cast the old one aside. "Ulf is fine," The boy responded, his new name sinking in. "Good!" The hunter aid heartily, standing up. "What do I call you?" Ulf asked, his eyebrow raised. "My name is Ulf," He replied, the boy named now called Ulf confused by the response. "So, I will be big Ulf and you will be little Ulf." Little Ulf laughed at the man, too tired and worn out to argue, grateful for this mans company and compassion. They were strangers just a day ago and now they were all each other had, the unlikely duo on the run from grips of the dead and deranged, both thrust into wild survival by reasons unknown to them beyond the anger and allure of the gods themselves.
"So, little Ulf," Big Ulf spoke, standing up and peering around at the landscape, surverying the terrain. "Do you know where we are?" Little Ulf looked around at the trees and rocks, the sun setting in the horizon far away. "The mountains?" He said, not really understanding the question. "No, little Ulf," Big Ulf said, looking at the boy with a serious face. "Troll country."
To be continued....
Outside the high, wooden walls, the young boy dismounted the horse, the snow cushioning the long fall from the huge beast. It trotted away to the top of a nearby hill and waited, watching, yet not in a nervous manner, it was a stoic and powerful stance.
The now nameless boy approached the gates and waited. The guards on either side had witnessed the whole ordeal but stood silent, the sight of the horse making them rigid and fearful. After a few minutes, the gate opened, revealing the town and denizens within. Compared to the village he was born, this place was prosperous and much more profound. There, within the threshold to this new place, stood a group of nobles, artisans, and a myriad of other people. The boys arrival was being hailed as an omen and they were not certain of it was ill of fortuitous. They and he stood, silent, waiting for what either parties intentions.
"What are you waiting for, boy?" A raspy voice asked from behind. It startled the lone child, his eyes sharpening and looking back, annoyed that he had not heard this man approach. Wearing heavy furs, wielding a spear and a bow, the light footed, hunter strode passed, entering the town, moving around the group, his face annoyed with the lot. When the boy had looked back, and the man had moved on, his gaze once again fell to the snowy hilltop the large, black horse had stood atop. It was gone, the snow covering any sign of the hoof tracks it left behind. It was then that the small boy noticed a strangeness with the imprints. The hooves were doubled up, twice as many prints as there should have been for any horse marks he had seen before. "Come inside, child," A soothing woman's voice said, her hands softly resting in his shoulders, her movements gentle and nonthreatening. He was hesitant but knew he had a reason for being here, too seek out someone within these walls that would help him, so he allowed her to usher him within the stout walls.
This was no village, it was a stronghold. Filled with large buildings, all decorated with ornate carvings and fine wares. There were all manner of craftsman, trades folk, warriors, and nobles. His old village had no walls, each person responsible for being a warrior as well as an artisan. It was hard to imagine those-that-walk-again being a threat here. Lead by the golden haired woman who had greeted him, the nameless child was taken to a place where he was bathed and dressed. He was offered fine and savory meats and meads, the aromas soothing his sorrowed soul. They treated him like a noble, beyond just a boy or one of their kin.
After all of this, he was ushered into the great long hall where many were gathered, all eyes and interest fixed upon the young child. This is where he met the Jarl, the lord of this area, probably the one that extended to his village before the creeping death took it. There came a great many questions. Where was he from? Who were his parents? Where were they? Did the horse belong to him? What brought him here? On and on the questions poured, the group beginning to become flustered and festering from the silence and shallow answers the boy produced. He could not tell them. No knowledge of his past must be uttered. He may be damned but these people were innocent in the matter, what had transpired to summon such a wicked wind to befall such a young thing. They were safe from us secrets so long as he carried the burden.
Finally, after they became exhausted from interrogating the child, the Jarl spoke. He would allow the boy to stay, for now. But he warned that if either ill omens or misdeeds spawned from the boys presence then they would be forced to exile him, or worse. And so, late in the evening, the meeting adjourned. All were tired and still confused but did not argue with their leader, yet their glances showed much distrust and suspicion. This would be difficult but the boy would weather it, he had to. Within the maidens home that welcomed him, he lay down to sleep. A deep slumber taking hold, the bedding and warmth, safety of walls and shelter, relaxed him, allowed rest to seep within his bones and body. He dreamed a child's dream, not of the nightmares meant for adults, where concern and responsibility were but a whim.
How cruel of gods that they should give him dreams of peace while they fill the boys youth full of terror and dread. Roused from his sleep, the boy felt as if he was repeating the same horrors all over again. The maiden burst into his room, sword in hand, barring the door behind her. Words could not be said fast enough nor comprehended in the chaos, the door splintering moments behind her, a cold, death breath filling the room as the ones called Draugr breached and bled all in their path.
This time was different though. They slew the maiden, yes, but the boy did not run. He picked up her sword and raged as all cornered animals do. He was smaller, nimbler, albeit not as strong. Regardless, he threw himself at them, cleaving the first owns head clean off, the body swinging with death throes before slumping to the ground. He bounced to the next one, driving the blade hilt deep into its ragged chest, the momentum carrying them both to the ground. They were too many, too strong, and they quickly overwhelmed him. Together, they carried him above their heads, like a river of dead souls. He could see now the carnage they had wrought, how unstoppable they were. This place was a fortress and had sacked with ease and speed unlike any mortal army. Their bodies were unrelenting, never tiring, ignorant to the elements.
Fire consumed the structures as snow fell from the sky. Screams and bodies were everywhere. It was now that the boy wept, the reality of why this was happening sinking in. He was the reason for such devastation. His silence sentencing them to death as equally as his words would have, his very presence being a beacon for the damned to follow. He was being taken outside the walls, which were engulfed in a savage flame, the strength of it waning fast. As they exited the gates, they collapsed, sealing off the exit, crushing many of the icy dead in the process. Outside the chaos of flames, entering the grips of the chilling storm, they brought the boy before a solitary figure, standing in a spot where no snow fell, only half a ray of moon light.
It was she, from the dream in the cave. Her black hair covered her features but the boy knew it was the very same woman. The draug lowered the boy and the woman responded by reaching out, her grasp aimed at the child. "To Hel with you!" A voice roared, the sound of hooves charging between the damned and the fiendish woman. It was the hunter, the one who had snuck up on the boy at the gate, riding upon a large brown horse. He snatched the boy from their clutches and hurled a torch and pitch in his wake, causing flash and fire which allowed them to escape into the wild.
They rode for hours, without rest, the pace never faltering. This horses endurance was mighty but not unlimited and it was finally becoming time to cease travel or the beast may not recover from the strain. They stopped, high in the rocky, tree covered mountains, far away and far above the dangers they fled. Dismounting, the hunter grabbed the boy and slammed him to the ground, knife pressed against his small throat. "Why?" The hunter asked, a mixture of anger and anguish welling in his eyes, his teeth gritted from pain and loss. "Why did everyone I know and love just die? What evil hunts you, boy? What did you bring with you?"
Though death would be a release, the child could not fulfill his deeds if he was dead. This was the only reason he feared death, not for the relief, but the loss of glory and vengeance. So, he told the man a story, and this was to become his story, that he would have to tell time and time again until it became his life.
"The woman is my mother," The boy said, sadness filling his eyes. "She is a witch. She enslaves men who fall in love with her, turning them into mindless servants, never letting them die, her wicked love keeping them together forever. I was born from one of those loves. My father stole me from her when he figured out what she was, what she planned to do with me. He took me to a village and left me there. It was not long before they found me, they always do. They kill all those around me, leaving none alive that know of me. As such, I do not have a home. I do not have a name. I am damned and now you are as well..."
The hunter withdrew his knife and sheathed it, walking over to a nearby tree and sitting against it, his eyes fixated on the boy. "The horse you rode in on," The hunter spoke, leaning his head back and breathing deep. "The black one that brought you to the gates. Do you know that horse?" Curious and confused, the boy shook his head no, wanting to knowledge the hunter may possess. "You are a poor liar, boy," He said, chuckling, his breath puffing out into the cold air. "I know not of your origins but I do know of the old gods. When a boy rides in upon an eight legged horse, followed by an army of the dead led by Hel herself, then I would say you have been noticed by those gods. However, I saved your life, which means you are indebted to me. The way I figure it, given the gods are keen on you, they will have their sights on me as well. So, we are bound by the same fate, for now. Survival is our top priority. But first, you need a name. I can't be calling you "boy" all the time. How about Ulf?" All of this was so sudden and chaotic however that seemed to be the trend and any name would do so long as he could cast the old one aside. "Ulf is fine," The boy responded, his new name sinking in. "Good!" The hunter aid heartily, standing up. "What do I call you?" Ulf asked, his eyebrow raised. "My name is Ulf," He replied, the boy named now called Ulf confused by the response. "So, I will be big Ulf and you will be little Ulf." Little Ulf laughed at the man, too tired and worn out to argue, grateful for this mans company and compassion. They were strangers just a day ago and now they were all each other had, the unlikely duo on the run from grips of the dead and deranged, both thrust into wild survival by reasons unknown to them beyond the anger and allure of the gods themselves.
"So, little Ulf," Big Ulf spoke, standing up and peering around at the landscape, surverying the terrain. "Do you know where we are?" Little Ulf looked around at the trees and rocks, the sun setting in the horizon far away. "The mountains?" He said, not really understanding the question. "No, little Ulf," Big Ulf said, looking at the boy with a serious face. "Troll country."
To be continued....