Omens

The next part of the Saga of 6 Families (bit delayed):

   Old Man’s Rock was said to be a sorcerer’s stone, placed thousands of years ago before the Vendens came to Runissia and began their conquest. It was tall, but now it lay down and was covered in ivy and tree roots. Insects and small animals made their homes in and around it, but no man built his house or ploughed his fields within several leagues of it; the ground was chalky, and tales of ghosts and living dead kept them away, so the ground was used by the nobles as a meeting point, a place where no one had the advantage and they all met as equals. Gritten ensured he was the first there, and made camp as he waited for the others to arrive. Yorc Elard arrived just after Gritten, having followed him most of the way but falling behind when a horse became lame a day ago. Next Reidr Ulfarn, still as sly and sinister as ever. Gritten remarked that all his four sworn men were with him, but the rider had told him that two men had accompanied Jatgeir when he marched on Falfanar. What game is he playing? What has he done behind our backs?

   Armal Hrodal arrived next the day after Reidr, a worried look on his face.

   “Raiders have burned a village on the Sunset Shore, north of The Spear.” He explained. His son was absent, apparently raising men to destroy the raiders. “I must leave tomorrow evening at latest.”

   “We will speak and solve this problem as quickly as possible, and I will ensure Yorc has a boat and men ready to help you.” Now they all waited for Falfanar.

   He arrived in the evening, surrounded by almost a dozen warriors and Jatgeir’s son in chains behind. He oozed in arrogance and pride and he grinned widely as he approached the other nobles.

   “Nobles!” He proclaimed, leaping from his horse. “Equals, and friends!” He looked at every one of them in turn with blue, intelligent eyes. “Pray tell why you summon me here.”

   “For peace.” Gritten responded. “We must end this now before anymore lives are lost.”

   “I demand payment for Jatgeir’s actions.” Falfanar said instantly confidently. “And also his fort at Evensill as compensation.”

   The other nobles looked at Gritten, their mouths sealed shut. “You shall be compensated, but Daras will keep Evensill.”

   “After Jatgeir attacked me? According to our laws, when we defeat an enemy we have the right to take what we wish, and I wish to take Evensill. Unless he can pay my required amount.”

   “This is not war, Falfanar.”

   “I can make one if Daras wants.”

   “There will be no war. No burning or looting, the violence ends now. Enemies are on our coast, we must not fight ourselves.” The men listening mumbled quietly but the nobles kept still as statues. “Daras will pay you the demaded amount, and Jatgeir will go into exile.”

   “And this son?” Falfanar jerked his head to Jatgeir’s second son.

   “Him too.” Falfaar snorted.

   “We must choose a new lord of Drikilvarr then.” Gritten nodded slowly, and pretended to pause in thought.

   “I have another suggestion.” He paused. “There will be no lord, no master over the others. Each noble rules his land and three times a year we meet here to discuss important matters of the island of a whole. We were born equal, let us live that way.”

   “I have another idea.” Falfanar suddenly drew his sword. “I will be lord!”

   Suddenly Falfanar’s men charged into the talking nobles, some running around the Old Man’s Rock to attack the Hrodals and others jumping from a clump of trees and attacked Reidr Ulfarn, while Falfanar led his own men into Gritten.

   Gritten drew his ancient sword, the runes engraved along the blade glittering in readiness for the coming slaughter.

   “Stop Falfanar!” He shouted but the noble rammed into him, confidence in his eyes and a mad grin on his face. Falfanar’s son fought at his side and one of Gritten’s bodyguards fell, a spear in his throat.

   In an instant almost every warrior in a noble’s retinue was fighting each other, and the impetus of Falfanar’s charge felled many men. Swords and axes bit chain and leather, slicing through cloths and spilling much blood. Gritten hammered his sword at Falfanar, battering his shield into splinters. His retinue was now around him, thrusting spears past him and cutting down Falfanar’s sworn swords.

   A cry came from Gritten’s left as Armal’s men beat off their enemies and pursued them, slashing them as they ran, while to his right Reidr’s four men fought skilfully, fighting off two men each with ease. Soon, only Gritten’s men and Falfanar’s centre still stood.

   “Give it up!” Gritten spat.

   “It’s you or me!” Falfanar retorted, bashing Gritten’s helmet and stunning him. He lunged his sword into Gritten’s left arm, drawing blood. “Surrender?”

   “Bastard!” Gritten shoved him back. “I’ll kill you and hang you head on my fort!”

   Within a few minutes the last of Falfanar’s men died or fled, and Falfanar began to slow but never gave in despite being surrounded by six men. Soon however, a warrior lodged his spear in his back thigh and he fell to his knees, panting and sweating.

   “I had you…” he hissed. Using his last energy reserve, he swung low at Gritten’s ankles, but the big man batted it aside easily. Without another word Gritten hacked off the pretender’s head and his body fell limp.

   The omens had spoken true.

   The gods had looked away and how two families are ruined, nobles killed and the blood of their best men stained the soil. Falfanar had been killed, Jatgeir was missing and his son killed while trying to escape. Gritten too now lay in a fevered state, his wound festering as he lay sweating and shivering. Raiders threatened the Sunset Shore and the nobles fought between themselves instead of outsiders.

   Daras sat in the hall at Evensill. It was much emptier now; there was the Aeborth’s steward, the new master at arms Herend, his sister Arga and a clutch of servants and scribes, while before him a villager pensioned for a tax decrease due to a poor harvest. Daras allowed the man a third decrease, but had to perform a day’s labour each week for one month in exchange. The farmer sworn an oath and left, followed by the servants and guards.

   Daras waited for the hall to be empty before moving. He stood, his heart heavy, and paced up and down the long hallway, past the racks of spears, swords and polished helmets. Light poured through the high windows like liquid gold and dust danced like huge flocks of twitter birds. Outside the door the guards changed shifts.

   What am I to do now? The Night Swords are all but gone, my family is broken and no more than a shadow, and the only man powerful enough to keep the peace is dying. Will his son be able to take his place? With his left hand tucked under his cloak, Daras pondered on the fate of his family and Drikilvarr. The feuding had left them weak and open to attack, and any man who could have been the lord was now dead or gone. He ran over the option; Reidr was too sly, he preferred to stay in Wolf Cave and rule his little corner of the island. Yorc was powerful, but a fool, everyone knew, and would not make a good lord. Armal too poor to enforce his power over anyone and Gritten’s son was young, even younger than Daras. He had heard that Gritten had suggested they rule as a counsel, maybe that was the best way?

   There was a light knock at the door that broke Daras’ chain of thought. The steward Yargras showed his bearded face around the door.

   “There is a man to see you.”

   “Who is it?”

   “He does not say, but he says it is important.”

   “Show him in.” The steward disappeared and a few moments later a hooded man entered. His cloak was roughly spun and dirt splattered, and under the hood his face looked old and creased.

   The door closed with a low thud.

   “I guess you have heard.” The man said, walking into the middle of the hall. “I also bring you news. The raiders are north of Evensill. Armal’s son Boerg is marching south, he request you sent men to reinforce him.”

   “I will do my best.” That would not be easy. “Who are you?”

   The man pushed back his hood and brushed the hair from his eyes. “Recognise me?”

   Reidr Ulfarn looked at Daras, son of Jatgeir, with his cold grey eyes.

   “You?” Daras could not help keeping the shock from his voice. “Why did you disguise yourself?”

   “I wanted to speak to you in private, without the others knowing.”

   “The others?”

   “The nobles.” He paused, pulling off his gloves. “Falfanar is dead, you father missing and Gritten will die within the week. Gaeten Grittenson is a young pup and must be controlled less he seek revenge and rip the land apart. We need a leader.”

   “We could form a counsel, as Gritten suggested.”

   Reidr sneered. “See where that got him, a mound in the earth and a weeping wife. No, we need a strong leader, not a bunch of bickering lords who each want their own way. Give each man his word and you give each man his right to protest, which leads to fractioning and feuding and death. Men are like wolves, Daras, they need a strong leader.”

   “Who do you propose?”

   “You.”

   “Why?”

   “You are the son of the lord, and currently the strongest on the island.”

   “Yorc is richer than me, and I barely have half a dozen swords, I am far from powerful.”

   “Strength is not measured only in gold or warriors. It is measured with intelligence, will power and determination, with bravery and logic. A dumb soldier cannot lead, and a weak merchant cannot fight, a leader must be a perfect mix of all.”

   “Why not you?”

   Reidr offered Daras a smile. “Me? I wouldn’t want the responsibility. Anyway, no one trusts the wolf.”

   “Why should I then?”

   “Because you want peace.” Reidr sat himself down on a bench. “I will not lead but I will serve. I will help you become lord and I will keep you there. Take up the place and I will give you my sword, you are the best we have.”

   “We should inform the others.”

   “They will surely be against it.”

   “But they must know.”

   “Later, when we are sure they will not rebel against us.” Daras judged the Ulfarn, his brow creasing in thought.

   “I shall take up the title, and bring peace to this island.” Reidr nodded seriously and pulled his hood over his head.

   “You have my word, Daras, and my sword.”

The coming of Gautrek and the shadows of the woods

   The boat cruised over the waves, slicing through the water like a knife through soft butter and sending up clouds of spray whenever they hit a high way. The crew sat huddled under cloaks and blankets, their weapons stashed in the ship’s belly, unused and eager. The ship’s captain, a huge man named Gautrek, stood at the ship’s prow, his mane of blond hair billowing out behind him as he watched the closing shoreline.

   They closed quickly, and when they got within distance to see huts, rocks and trees, they pushed out the oars and bent their backs to land even quicker. The men talked in hushed tones, their weapons now across their laps in readiness for the looting to come; the season had been a poor one, and all were hungry for loot and some decent food. Gautrek knew this, and needed silver to keep his men loyal, or he would find himself in a watery grave.

   The inhabitants of this village must not be used to seeing raiders, for they did not run away when they first saw the ship approaching, but instead stood and watched, but when they saw Gautrek with a draw sword, they ran, pulling their children and livestock to a wooden strong house further inland. The boat scraped ashore and the burning began; first the raiders battered down the cottage doors, and took anything of worth such as pots, axes, knives, joints of meat, bags of corn and vegetables, anything. The grain stood was a prime target and a knot of villagers met them with spear and shield, but they were too few and the raiders hungry, and they fell quickly under their iron. All the grain was loaded onto the boat and all the houses burned, their thatch crackling loudly and snapping, throwing up columns of thick, black smoke.

   “What shall we do about the strong house?” Gautrek looked at the tall tower, armed villagers standing at the top and archers waiting at high windows. He would have burned it, but he would loose men, so he ordered his band to return to the ship and sail south.

   The raiders obeyed eagerly, happy now they had loot in the hold and food in their cooking pots. They had lost no men, and as they turned south they dreamed of even more loot, silver and slaves, The Spear sticking out of the island to their right.

   A rider told Gritten the news.

   “Tell me again, slowly. Tell me everything.” The rider took a breathe, paused, and recounted his story again.

   “It was dark, there was no moon. Jatgeir had wanted to sneak up on Falfanar’s hall and take him alive, but he came to us.” They’re not called the Night Swords for nothing. “They came howling from the woods, firing arrows and making lots of noise. I think they must have had some people with pots on the other side for I thought we were surrounded, but they came at us from the right. Falfanar led them, and they cut down several men quickly. I saw one of Jatgeir’s riders fall, his horse butchered and they dragged him from the saddle. Jatgeir’s oldest son fought Falfanar, but his horse got a spear in the chest and it fell, and Falfanar pulled him off, bleeding and faint. Jatgeir tried to rally some men, but a group led by Falfanar and his son attacked him and beat him down.”

   “Is he dead?”

   “I don’t know.”

   “What of Reidr’s men? And Armal’s?”

   “Armal’s men ran first, they were at the back of the column. And Reidr’s, they were to the right, so perhaps they are dead.”

   “How did you escape?”

   “I was with Jatgeir’s pack horse, and when I saw the fighting, and his men being cut down, I climbed up and rode away as quickly as I could.”

   “You did well to come to me.” Gritten handed the servant a horn of beer and left him on the bench as a servant gave him some food.

   “What happened?” Maren, Gritten’s wife, asked when he entered his private chamber.

   “Falfanar ambushed Jatgeir as he approached Valfar. He killed a good number of his men, and he and his son are either dead or captured.” He sat on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. “Two things will happen now; Daras will have to fight Falfanar, it has gone too far to be sorted out in court now. And with Jatgeir captured others will seek to become lord of Drikilvarr.”

   “Summon the nobles.” Maren advised. “Call them in a neutral place and there you can sort all this out. You are now the most powerful man on the island, you must stop the fighting.” Gritten nodded but he knew it would be harder than that. “You have the upper hand; Armal was defeated, and Reidr is not very powerful on his own. Only Falfanar is a problem, but you have the Elards behind you, and combined you can intimidate him into listening.”

   “Armal will listen, but I feel that Falfanar might make a claim to the lordship. He defeated him and shown his power. He might try to get Armal behind him, which won’t be too difficult.” I must act first, less more feuding destroys our peace. “Iolin! Sent a rider to the Hrodals, tell them I summon them to a council at the Old Man’s Rock in the name of the peace.

The nobles meet

Next part of the Saga of 6 Families:

   Gritten sat on one of the long benches in the solid wooden tower, a tankard of ale in his huge fist and his shaggy beard sitting on his belly like some small dog. Others filtered into the hall, leaving their swords at the door and took their place on benches around the Salt Blood and his retainers. Gritten recognised a couple of faces, and knew of several others; Yorc Elard, the southern sea lord, followed by his son who in turn led in his new wife, Gritten’s daughter. He gave his daughter a slight smile and looked at the next arrivals, Reidr Ulfarn, a wolf pelt around his slight shoulders, his four sworn swords at his back, all in grey and swathed in wolf fur. Another, who he presumed to be Armal Hrodal, came in last. He looked like a peasant, with a thin cloak and undecorated clothing, his chin badly shaved and his broad brow making him look like a thug, and his son looked worse. Once all were seated a herald blew a horn and opened the back door for Jatgeir Aeborth, lord of Drikilvarr and master of the Sunset Shore. He took his place atop a dais on a huge chair covered with carvings of trees and beasts, showing his devotion to Dorva and the Order. He sat straight, iron straight, much like his face and hair; long, thin, knife like with a small noble mouth surrounded by a trimmed moustache and beard, his dark hair oiled, perfumed and scraped back across his skull. Around his waist he wore a sword belt, minus the sword, covered with engraved copper plates, and several gold and silver rings sat twinkling on his fingers. Gritten pushed his tankard away from him and sat forward, noting how he seemed to look down over his fellow nobles.

   “Nobles of Drikilvarr, we meet today to decide upon the fate of one amongst us.” That was very direct. “As you may know, Falfanar of the Night Swords has broken our peace by attacking my son and blood, rendering his left hand useless. This is a grievous crime, and must be punished.” Jatgeir looked over the nobles severely. “He has refused my summons here today, and with that means he refuses to negotiate and stand by the law. Action is in order.”

   Gritten stood. He was the second most powerful man on Drikilvarr, with the biggest retinue, the only other fort, and he himself was a mighty fighter, but he knew the values of peace. Feuding mean death of innocents, crops burnt, animals slaughtered, maidens ravaged and villages razed to nothing. Gritten had seen it before, after the death of his father, and he did not want his land to suffer again.

   “Lord Jatgeir,” he started, his loud voice ringing clear. “We must bring Falfanar to court, before the judges and the high Dorva before action may be called, and only then if he refuses the crimes he has been accused of.”

   “The court is here, now, Gritten, and he has refused to come.”

   “Demand blood money.” Gritten pressed. “If he pays, you have no need to cross swords. We all prefer peace to the feud.” He looked over his fellow nobles, meeting their eyes.

   “What would you do, Gritten, if Falfanar wounded your son?”

   “I would do as I have just said. Swords are for foreign enemies, we must not fight between ourselves.”

   Reidr of the Ulfarns stood, his features cold, always cold.

   “Blood demands blood, nature knows that. If a man refuses the way of men and turns to nature, we must treat him equally. I stand behind Jatgeir.” Reidr sat down and Gritten turned to him.

   “Just because he might act like a beast, it does not mean we must do the same. We must prove ourselves better than him, before the gods.” Reidr shrugged and offered Gritten a sly smile.

   “I am a wolf, and the wolf hunts in the night, I have nothing to fear.”

   Yorc looked nervously over to Gritten for help. He was kind, but foolish, and would do nothing without Gritten’s support. But nor would he do anything if everyone turned of Gritten. He stood timidly and spoke.

   “Feuding costs money, money for swords and ships, and to rebuild all that is destroyed. We must demand Falfanar to pay the blood money and ask for forgiveness, and only if he refuses then shall we be forced further, but not before.”

   “You are against the feud because you are too poor to help, Armal.” Reidr said. “You could not help if you wanted to.”

   “I can speak with him, Jatgeir.” Gritten offered. “I shall ride to his hall and talk with him, an I shall sent a rider to Evensill with word of the outcome.”

   Jatgeir turned to the High Dorva Rodrik who sat below him to his right.

   “What do the gods say?” The Dorva stood slowly and spoke with a controlled voice.

   “Falfanar has broken the peace, and as he refused to come forward, the gods cannot forgive him.” As he sat Gritten cursed softly. Jatgeir told him to say that.

   Armal stood. “I will not go against the gods’ wishes.” Jatgeir turned to Gritten, his eyes poisonous.

   “Feud with the Night Swords if you wish, but my men will have no part in it.”

   “Very well.” Jatgeir stood. “Under the eyes of the gods and men, I declare that the Ulfarns must give over their lands and go into exile.” The High Dorva noted down the accusation on a sheet of parchment and Jatgeir, Reidr, Armal and Yorc pressed their seals into a blob of melted wax. Gritten collected his cloak and left quickly, not looking back.

Drikilvarr and the Saga of 6 families

What's this?

Well, to be honest, it's an idea i had one night; i woke up randomly in the middle of the night and the first thing i thought was "dark age style campaign on an island". Bizarre, or a moment of inspiration? Who knows...

Anyway, i decided to draw something in my notebook and added towns and other names.At first i had the idea of doing a small channel island under attack from Viking raiders, but then i decided to do it in my Runissia setting. And so, i present you with the island of Drikilvarr!

Other than the fact that i like drawing maps, i plan to use this as the setting for a small story driven campaign over summer. Not sure how long i'll go, or even if i'll finish it, so we'll see how long i stay hooked!

The island, although situated near the Runissian mainland, is not ruled by the Runissian kings and instead life here goes on like it is a world of it's own (a bit like Iceland in a very loose way). There are 6 noble families on the island: Aeborths of Evensill, masters of the island, Hrodals of Dorval, Ulfarns of Wolf Cave, Night Swords of Valfar, Salt Bloods of Salt Bite and Elards of Sea Hall. More information in another post.

And so, i present you will a small prologue to the Saga of 6 Families...

   Breeve on a rock by the cold river that gushed down towards Deep Fjord and the sea beyond, a handful of rune stones scattered before him. With milky eyes and a shaky hand he traced the star constellations made by the stones, finding the bow of Nia, goddess of the hunt and the flower, commonly associated with prosperity. At Nia’s arrow point three runes lay in a perfect line, the outer two facing inwards and the last hiding it’s face from view. Breeve sat back and pushed a wisp of snow-white hair from his eyes.

   “Why can’t we see it?” A young had indicated towards the hidden rune.

   “The gods do not mean us to see it.” Breeve replied slowly.

   “We could turn it over.” When the youth made a move to flip over the stone Breeve shot out a hand, not touching the youth but startling him enough to make him stop.

   “Never interfere with the works of the gods, Daras. They have their plans, we are not to meddle with them.”

   “But…”

   “Never.” Daras sat back and watched Breeve as he sat and thought. “You are not at all wise, Daras Aeborth, for saying your father is master and warlord. Perhaps it is your wound that clouds your mind?”

   “My wound effects my hand, not my mind.” Daras retorted.

   “Pain affects all, and so does the knowledge that you will never use it again.”

   “I will use it, it just needs to heal.”

   “That’s not what the runes say.” Daras’ breathe shot from him and he gazed at the seer dumbly.

   “No…”

   “The gods have decided.”

   “That bastard Falfanar did, it has nothing to do with the gods.”

   “You know what a bastard is?” Daras looked at him irritably. “Falfanar the Younger is legitimate, therefore no bastard.”

   “It was an insult.”

   “Well try and control yourself then. If the gods wanted you with a left hand they would have it healed, but since they have decided to leave it crippled it will stay that way.” Daras was red, blood flooding his cheeks, but he held himself in check.

   “What else do they say?”

   “There will be a hunt, in the northern forest.” He gestured to one of the two runes that lay on their side. “The rune of Stagaar, lord of beasts.” He moved his bony finger to the other. “The rune of power, Malaan’s arm.” He moved slowly to the hidden rune and Daras found himself holding his breath. “In the darkness, the gods turn away. There will be death and blood, and the gods will have no part in this hunt. We will be our own judges.”

   Daras quickly analysed the signs; power, could that mean his father? And Stagaar is the master of nature, perhaps there is some beast in the forest. Or… his crippled hand twitched, a loose nerve making his palm itch terribly. The Ulfarns…