Tangled Threads Publishing

Category: Einarr Stigandersen

  • 7.21 – Divination

    7.21 – Divination

    The divination ritual was to be held in the selfsame temple that had housed the Shroud for so long, down in the very vault that had imprisoned it until Sinmora had eaten the magic out of nowhere. I wonder what Vali would have to say about that?

    Einarr shook his head, casting off the idle thought. Something about returning to the vault had his stomach doing somersaults, and his mind was just as unsettled. Vali, of course, was half a world away (so far as Einarr knew), on a ship whose adventures should be far tamer and more profitable for Einarr’s absence.

    Meanwhile, he had an all-consuming burial cloth floating about the island, seemingly at random – provided it hadn’t yet found a way off the island. That it would was taken as a given by the alfs, although with its tattered end Einarr hoped that would be more difficult than otherwise.

    He blinked, refocusing on the trail ahead of him. Melja and Mira led Einarr and a handful of villagers to the temple. The weather, as it always seemed to be, was fair. Are we in Imperial waters, or just near them? Another idle thought flitted up, trying to distract him from the task at hand. Knowing he was nervous didn’t help, though, nor did the knowledge that there was nothing to be nervous about at this stage. All that would happen here is a runic divination to locate the Shroud. After that, it was up to him. Melja had made that perfectly clear.

    Finally, the air ahead lightened and he saw the broad clearing and the high wooden walls of the temple. His stomach flopped once more, and then Einarr felt his composure returning. This would be no harder than any other challenge he had faced this summer, and possibly easier than some. He wasn’t going up against creatures with corrupted blood this time, after all. Just a piece of cloth animated by some strange, malignant will.

    The vault appeared exactly as it had the last time Einarr had descended those steps, save only that the icy blue glow of the ward runes had been replaced by a new rune matrix. This one was not yet active, his eyes told him even if his rudimentary training had not. They all entered the vault and spread out to stand where Melja and his wife directed.

    Once they were all spread about the room, Melja stepped carefully into the center of the matrix and placed the scrap of cloth at his feet. He then moved to take his place between Mira and Einarr in their seven fixed points on the outer circle.

    Einarr had seen, once or twice when he was new to the Vidofnir, the casting of the runes by street corner fortune-tellers. The patron (or mark, as Father always called them) asked his question, and the fortune teller (charlatan) would cast sticks or dice down before him and read the answer from those.

    What Melja performed in that vault was similar only in that both involved the use of runes. He spoke a word in what Einarr thought was the high elven tongue, and as one the runes began to glow with a pale golden light.

    Everyone grew still, although he would not have said they moved before. Melja continued to speak in the strange incomprehensible tongue of the ljosalfs, and while Einarr could not understand the words he felt he did not need to. Indeed, he felt rather curiously detached, as though he were watching the ritual as an outside observer.

    A mist seemed to rise up in the center of the room, in a column about the scrap of cloth, and in that mist an image appeared.

    A chieftan’s seat in his hall appeared, empty. A thick bearskin rug was spread across the floor, and the cloth spread over the chair was crimson. Einarr’s throat clenched: it had already gotten the chieftan: was it going for the boy, now, too?

    No. Skirts drifted into view, and the smiling face of a middle-aged woman and Einarr’s throat cleared. But I thought the boy’s mother was on the hunting trip with them?

    The image faded, only to be replaced. No lord’s hall here: instead, it was a public hall like those Sivid favored. Einarr could almost smell the salt in the air, and feel the pounding of feet in the hallingdanse, though once again he saw no-one in the image itself. One of the rugs on the ground, though soiled, was the diaphanous crimson of the Shroud. The sound of a golden bell rang out, and then that image too faded from view.

    The mist grew darker and blue, and in that blueness appeared the black of a boat at night. Despite the lighting, though, Einarr could see two things about the boat: its crimson sail, and the bear’s head carved on its prow. The image faded, and the mist dispersed.

    Einarr and the elves in the circle looked about at each other, blinking in the sudden return to the present. Melja looked up and met Einarr’s eyes.

    “Three chances you will have. The Shroud’s next target is the young Armad’s aunt, the regent Hridi in their Hall outside Eskiborg. She is power-hungry and often vicious, but the boy will likely take her death hard at this time. Especially if she, too, falls to the Shroud.”

    Einarr nodded slowly. He, too, would much rather not let it take anyone else. Still, though, the port was a not insignificant distance. How long did he have?

    “If you fail there,” Melja continued. “It will then make its way into Eskiborg. I’m afraid I’m not familiar enough with the city to know which public hall that was, but I suspect the golden bell we heard to be a clue… If it makes it to the city…”

    That was Einarr’s concern, as well. “You all assume it is looking for a way off the island. But if it’s in the city, will it still kill until it takes a boat?”

    “Likely yes. I could not tell you if its target at the hall will be for death or for passage, but your final chance will be on that boat.”

    “The one with the bear’s head. I wish I could have seen it in better light, but I know what to look for.”

    “Good. Then go. And gods be with you.”

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.20 – Return

    7.20 – Return

    At first glance, the Shrouded Village appeared exactly as it had the day the alfr from Breidhaugr delivered him. Surely, though, that could not be the case. Melja had said they would continue their research while he hunted it. Einarr had no reason to doubt that, save for an offhand comment by a cynical old woman he met in the woods. He walked – determinedly, yes, perhaps even doggedly, but still well short of stalking – into the village, to the house where the scrolls were kept.

    On the way, Einarr could not help but note that the villagers were going about their daily lives more or less as normal, if perhaps more nervously than before. Was research truly the only preparation they had to make? Did everything fall to Melja and his wife, truly? Einarr shook his head and pressed on, pushing the door to the scroll house open without announcing himself.

    Melja, at least, was where Einarr had expected to find him: at the work table inside, half-buried in texts, all of which appeared to concern the Shroud.

    “Good day,” Einarr said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

    “Ah, Einarr. You’re back. Wonderful. Take a seat, I think I’m finally on the right track.” Melja sounded utterly unconcerned, at the very least.

    Einarr felt the anger that had been beginning to burn in his belly recede. Not all the way, not with Melja left to do everything himself, but Geiti’s seed of doubt had been diminished. He joined his teacher at the table.

    An hour later, to judge by the light, Melja leaned back and pressed his hands to his eyes. “Please, for the love of all the gods, tell me you found something.”

    Einarr, too, sat back, but not to rub his eyes. He studied his teacher as he spoke. “A dead Jarl’s son, a burned village, an old woman and a scrap of cloth.” The piece of the Shroud Einarr lay on the table in front of his teacher. “Also, more than a few questions.”

    Melja opened his eyes and stared at the cloth, fingering it in silence for a long moment. “The old woman – Geiti?”

    Einarr nodded, although he wasn’t sure the alfr saw him.

    “What did old Geiti have to say? She didn’t pour poison in your ear, did she?”

    “Not as such.” Einarr smirked. “She was too busy calling me an idiot. Although she may be paying you a visit soon. Said I should tell you to stop hiding dangerous information if you didn’t want to lose more students.”

    Melja snorted. “And why, praytell, did she say that?”

    Einarr shrugged, a little uncomfortably. “Because she found me unconscious, with more than a few runestones on me. I stumbled on the technique practicing on the road.”

    Now his master snorted again. “And, since I’d not mentioned them, you didn’t know your limit. All right, I can tolerate the old witch long enough to admit fault there. How many had you made before you blacked out?”

    “Seven, I think.” He hadn’t been paying too much attention, at the time, but he saw no reason to mention that.

    “Not bad, for a human novice. Keep yourself to no more than four, for now, and you should be fine. You may eventually be able to maintain more, but for the time being that should be a safe upper limit.”

    Einarr nodded, glad to have it confirmed.

    “You haven’t made any more since then?”

    “Just one. The Óss.”

    Melja tilted his head to the side. “An interesting choice. Most of our students pick something a little more… offensive for their first runestone.”

    Einarr shrugged. He was and always would be a warrior first and foremost, even if he couldn’t rely on brute strength to carry him through. He supposed it might be too much to ask someone like Melja to really understand that, in some ways, he had more in common with the thief than he did with the rest of the village.

    “Don’t take that the wrong way,” Melja added, perhaps reading something on Einarr’s face he had not intended to show. “I approve. The Wisdom Rune is one I often wish a student would choose. Only, think carefully on the answers you receive from it. They are not always, or even usually, straightforward.”

    “I understand.”

    “But. You had questions. Ask, and I will endeavor to answer. Remember that, for all that we have been guarding it for generations, there is still much we do not know about the Shroud.”

    Einarr nodded once. “I’ll start smaller, then. Why are you the only one in the village who is working on this?”

    Melja blinked at him blankly a few times, then smiled as realization dawned. “My dear boy, their work is done. The divination ritual is only waiting this scrap of cloth you’ve brought us.”

    “I- you- … How did you know I would find it?”

    “This in particular? We didn’t. This is both the best and the worst possible talisman you could have found for the ritual. But that you would come back, with something we could use as a focus? Almost inevitable.”

    Einarr leaned his elbows forward on the heavy wooden table. “So what if I hadn’t gone?”

    Melja shook his head. “Were you an alfr, or perhaps even a dvergr, that might have been a question, but you are human, and, as you yourself have said, a warrior. That you would go eventually was never a question. Honestly, you stuck around longer than anyone other than Mira expected.”

    Einarr stared at Melja for a long moment, his shock at the revelation slowly giving way to annoyance. Gods, but the alfs could be infuriating sometimes. Finally he took a long, slow breath and let it out. “All right. So since everything I’ve done so far has been according to plan, how do we end this?”

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.19 – Tracking

    7.19 – Tracking

    It was unmistakeably the same material as the Shroud. Oddly, it did not feel hot to the touch, nor did it burn anything else it came in contact with. For whatever reason, once separated from the whole there was no more magic in it.

    This was just as well, Einarr figured, but ultimately unimportant. What mattered to him was the rough, ragged edge that seemed stretched in places. That meant the torn edge of the Shroud should also be ragged and stretched, and thus (he hoped) easier to track.

    Or, a voice whispered in the back of his head, you could take the scrap back to your Master in the village and let them divine its location, like old Geiti said they could.

    He might find it faster that way, he supposed, but it was still an unworthy thought. He shook his head. “I’ve been spending too much time around magicians,” he muttered.

    No matter what Melja said, he was partly responsible for the Shroud’s release – however unintended it was. And the Shroud was in the process of killing its way across the island, to what purpose Einarr could not guess. He owed it to the Shrouds victims to at least try to discover their fates. Then they could be properly mourned, if not buried, and the restless dead would not trouble the island. Thus resolved, he shoved the scrap of cloth in the pouch at his belt and began peering at foliage and twigs, looking for burned ends.

    Now that he knew what he was looking for, the signs were there to be found: a singed sprig of leaves here, a blackened blaze against the white bark of a birch there (and when he found that, he blessed the chief whose son they had found). Had the Shroud not been wounded, as it were, it would not have left such a sloppy trail.

    Or, would it? He had no idea what drove the thing. Did it even care that it had been torn? He fingered the scrap of cloth in his pouch. Perhaps it would be best to go back to the village after all. After half a day of tracking it as it floated, seemingly aimless among the trees, he began to wonder.

    He stopped and closed his eyes. If he were here, what would Jorir tell me? Had it been less than a season since the svartdvergr swore to him under suspicious circumstances? The dwarf had proven his worth – even his loyalty and his friendship – many times over already. Einarr smiled, because he already knew the answer to that: it had been Jorir’s voice before, telling him to go back to the village. He took a deep breath —

    —And smelled smoke. Not faint and damp and faded, like he had been all day, but fresh and pungent woodsmoke. His eyes snapped open and he began to run, following his nose, toward the source of the smell.

    Einarr could hardly believe his eyes. He had thought the Shrouded Village to be the only hidden village on the island, but here before him stood the smoking ruin of another. Had it been on the coast, he would have assumed a particularly vicious group of raiders, but he was still in the middle of the hardwood forest that seemed to dominate this island.

    Here and there a timber jutted out, but little else remained beyond charred rubble. Einarr stopped at the edge of the village, frozen. Was this…

    A sound of sobbing came from further into the village, and Einarr was moving again. Someone survived this?

    The sound came from what must have once been the village green, but now was a scene of horror as herb-witches and whoever in the village had an ounce of song magic tended to the bodies still living among the rows of corpses. The sobbing he had heard came from a group of small children, huddled together near the edge of the green for comfort.

    He left the children to comfort each other: likely their parents were among the dead. What little he knew about the Shroud said it had not done this, and yet he could not think the smell of smoke would be this fresh had the thief somehow ransacked the village by himself. An old woman was placing thin copper coins over where a man’s eyes used to be: he approached her.

    “Honored grandmother… what happened here?”

    She looked up sharply and squinted at him for a long moment. “Ye be a stranger. What brings ye?”

    “I hunt the Shroud.”

    “Then on the right track ye be. Old Snor’s home was the worst burnt, and the first, and still no sign of Snor.”

    Einarr stared around them for a long moment. “All of this, from one man’s house?”

    “’Tis a long story, an’ a sad one, but if’n you hunt the thing that started it, best be on wit’ ye. This village is finished, but at least we’ll be avenged.”

    “I understand, grandmother. Good fortune to you all…” It felt ridiculous to wish it, and yet what else was he to do? Condolences from a stranger would only ring hollow. But he would see them avenged, that was certain. Them and all the other victims on the island.

    He took his time leaving the village, scouring the forest border all the way around until he was certain he knew which direction the Shroud went. The smell of burnt thatch and charred flesh stung his nose the entire time.

    When he left, though it was not West, towards the sea, after the Shroud. There was still too much he didn’t know, too many questions, for him to be out chasing it through the forest. He would take word, and the scrap, to Melja. And tonight he would carve the first of his three runestones: ᚨ. After all, he wouldn’t necessarily have a dwarf to rely on all the time, either.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.18 – Crone

    7.18 – Crone

    Einarr accepted the old crone’s porridge somewhat cautiously. Last night she had spoken of ‘questions,’ and made it sound like more than a few. He wasn’t sure he looked forward to answering them, although he would as honestly as he could.

    The porridge, at least, was good. It had a pleasant woodsiness to it that Mira’s did not, and even as he ate he felt his strength returning to him. To Geiti’s apparent amusement, he found himself shoveling the thick grain stew ravenously into his mouth. She, too, ate, though far more sedately.

    “I am glad to see your strength returned to you, young Cursebreaker.”

    He nodded, buying time to swallow a mouthful. “Thank you for taking care of me. I’ll be sure to pass along your message when I return to the village. For now, though, I must return to my hunt.”

    Geiti shook her head, chuckling. Stringy white hair fell forward into her face. “I’d a feeling you were going to say that. You know they have means of tracking it, right? Divining with the runes is more than just fortune-teller’s tricks.”

    Now it was Einarr’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t like neglecting my training this way, it’s true… but I am a warrior, not a scholar, and until the Shroud is dealt with it is scholarship they must focus on.”

    Geiti snorted. “After all this time, and still those elves don’t understand people. And this time, they’ve sent out a half-literate Cursebreaker to get themselves out of a bind, assuming he doesn’t get himself killed first.”

    Einarr raised an eyebrow to hear the woman’s muttering, but said nothing. He wasn’t certain he would put it so uncharitably, but she also wasn’t necessarily wrong. There was, in fact, nothing he could say that would satisfy both hospitality and honesty.

    “Don’t you worry yourself over trifles, boy. You go on about your hunt. Maybe, by some stroke of luck, you’ll manage to stop the Shroud before they can. Maybe you’ll even live through it – you look like a scrappy one. Meanwhile, this old woman has work to do.”

    Einarr paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth, and stared at her. There was something just a little off about old Geiti. “Who… are you?”

    She smirked. “What, do you expect me to throw off my cloak and reveal myself to be Wotan? Frigg? While I may be the Wise Old Woman in the Woods, I am mortal like yourself. I’ve just learned in my years as the highest-ranking Singer on this island something of what to expect of the ljosalfs here. I have something of an understanding with them, you see, although it appears to be past time I paid them another visit.”

    “I… see.” Part of him, he was surprised to discover, was a little disappointed that she was not a god in disguise. Most of him, however, was just as glad not to come face to face with either of the Aesir he had robbed earlier this summer.

    Now she cackled again. “Be about your hunt, child. You have some idea how to follow the thing?”

    “Some, vaguely. I think it might be torn.”

    She nodded. “In that case, look for the ends of branches and twigs that have been singed. And if you must make more runestones for yourself, no more than four, and never more than one at a time. At least not until you have a chance to speak with Melja about it. I don’t doubt a stone of two runes would kill you all by itself.”

    “Thank you, grandmother. I will remember.”

    It took Einarr less than two hours to find his way back to the Chief’s favored campsite where, some four days before, they had found the knife and the trail to the little boy. The new chief, in all likelihood. He pitied the child, but only for a moment. More important by far was finding the Shroud that had in all likelihood orphaned him, and his best chance of doing that was to find the mark his father’s knife had left in the dirt.

    He had not, yet, carved himself fresh runestones. The old woman had said four: well, he would keep three about himself, at least for now, but he needed to consider carefully which three.

    Einarr stood in the center of the campsite, on the stones of the fire ring, and stared about him. There was the path the children had taken in their mad flight. Unfortunately, that told him little. He allowed himself an exasperated sigh. Calm down. Remember what Afi taught you.

    Einarr took a step off to the side and squatted down near the fire ring, closing his eyes. The smell of wet ash still permeated the clearing, somehow, and strongest from the ring in front of him. But that wasn’t the only source.

    He pivoted, one knee dropping to the ground, and walked on his knees over to the edge of the clearing. Yes, this was it: this was where Onnir had found the knife stabbed into the ground. Strange that it should have been like that…

    …unless someone had been trying to fight off the Shroud. He could see how pinning a thing that was a blindingly fast, flying scarf might be an effective attack. Based on the little boy’s story, it seemed likely that was the case.

    The slit was still there, half-hidden by brush. That was probably the only reason it still existed at all. And his nose told him there was a source of char here. He bent down so that his nose was practically touching the ground and dirt got in his whiskers. Nothing on the surface, but that meant little after so long. He combed his fingers over the dirt.

    Something tickled his palm. When he moved his hand, in a space that had previously been covered by dust and pebbles, he saw a small patch of diaphanous crimson cloth.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.17 – Practical Magic

    7.17 – Practical Magic

    Einarr’s head swam, although he could feel the hard ground beneath it. The crackle of a nearby campfire was unmistakeable. The last thing he remembered was etching an ᚱ into some birch bark to keep for later use. What… happened? Where am I?

    He blinked, and at first all he saw was a brownish blur. When he opened his eyes again, though, his vision was clear. That brown blur was the glow of firelight on the branches of an ash, and beyond that the starry field of night. Einarr groaned.

    “Awake, are you?” The creaking voice of an old woman broke the stillness. “I’d begun to wonder if your foolishness had actually killed you.”

    With another groan, Einarr pushed himself up on his elbows and squinted at the source of the voice. “What do you mean?”

    The woman who sat across the fire from him in a colorless cloak appeared ancient – older, even, than the oldest of the Matrons on Breidhaugr. Old enough that Einarr was surprised to see her out in the forest at all.

    “What I mean,” the crone said. “Is that the village alfs never should have let you out of their sight. What were you thinking, carving all those runestones?”

    Einarr blinked at her, a little confused. “You mean those chips? I thought they’d be useful…”

    “Not much use if you’ve so much of your life tied up in them they kill you. You’re a novice, and a human to boot. There’s no way your soul could support more than a handful.”

    Einarr sat all the way up. For just a campfire, the light seemed awfully bright to his eyes right then. “What do you mean?”

    The old woman with her drawn features snorted. “Wise enough to listen to your elders, at any rate. Did your alfr master tell you, properly, what the limits of rune magic are?”

    “The Runemaster requires time, primarily. Time to inscribe the proper runes for his purpose.”

    The crone nodded. “That’s right, so far as it goes. He didn’t mention runestones?”

    Einarr shook his head. “I’ve only a few months with them. I only really wanted to learn how to read them. Probably he decided there wasn’t time to teach me.”

    She snorted again. “Not quite, I suspect. Runestones are an advanced technique. Not because they’re particularly difficult: any fool can inscribe a rune and make it last. But every one you make ties up a portion of your life energy. With the number you had on you, you’re lucky I found you.”

    “I… Yes. Thank you, for that. How long was I out?”

    “It’s been a day and a half since I destroyed them for you. As for how long you’d been out before that, I really couldn’t say.”

    Einarr blanched. “More than a day… since you destroyed them?”

    “That’s right – and a good thing you put them on wood, too. If you’d been fool enough to carve them in stone, this old woman wouldn’t have been able to break them. That’s the only way to reclaim the bits of your spirit, after all.”

    “I see.” He did, actually: his eyes finally felt like they were back to normal. “How do you know so much?”

    The crone cackled. “You’re not the first over-extended student of the runes this old Singer has seen. Not on this island.”

    “Wait, hold on. You’re a Singer?”

    “I was, in my youth. Voice is gone, now, but it didn’t take my mind with it.” She laughed again.

    Einarr nodded slowly, considering. “You have my thanks for the rescue. Tell me, did you move me from where I was found?”

    “You give these old bones a good deal of credit, young man. We are not far off the path where I found you, in a little clearing not many others know. In the morning, you are free to go about your business – although if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get back to that village and bow your neck to Elder Melja. Tell him Geiti sent you scampering back, and if he doesn’t want to lose more students he should stop hiding ‘dangerous’ information.”

    Einarr couldn’t keep a small smile off of his face. “I’ll be sure to tell him that when I return. But I can’t go back immediately.”

    The crone resettled herself on the ground, leaning forward a bit with interest. “And what, then, has a young novice wandering about like a toddler just finding his feet?”

    I think I deserved that one? “The Shroud has been freed.”

    “Good gods, man, what are you doing out here? Get back to the village, let the Runemasters handle it.”

    “The Runemasters can’t handle it if they can’t find it. I’m trying to make sure they know where to look.”

    “And why, praytell, did they let a novice take on that job?”

    He sighed. “Forgive me, grandmother Geiti. I’m afraid I haven’t properly introduced myself. I am Einarr, only son of Stigander, the son of Raen of Breidlestein. Wandering prince, veteran raider, no meagre hunter, and the named Cursebreaker besides.”

    “Well well well. Now I have even more questions. But, they will wait. It is late, and you are still recovering your strength. Sleep now, and we will speak more in the morning.”

    And so Einarr laid his head back down on the bare earth to stare at the stars and the light flickering on the branches above. Sleep eluded him, and he was uncertain if that was because his life energy was returning to him – he felt stronger almost by the minute – or if it was because even here he could not escape his Calling. Eventually, though, he must have dropped off, because when next he opened his eyes the sky was the pale blue of early morning. The smell of berried porridge clung to the morning air. When he sat up, the ancient Singer offered him a toothless smile and a wooden bowl.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.16 – Runestones

    7.16 – Runestones

    In the middle of the night, Einarr was awakened by an idea. The keepers of the lodge might not think too highly of him for learning the runes, but Einarr had known very few who would refuse magical aid outright. Besides, he hadn’t practiced since he left the village.

    Quietly, although he thought it unlikely he would wake the stupefied men at arms, Einarr made his way from the Lodge into the garden they kept. He had done this as practice some weeks ago in Mira’s garden, and while tedious he thought it would be some measure to repaying their aid and hospitality.

    Einarr let himself into the vegetable patch and made his way carefully to the far corner. There, in the dirt around a pumpkin mound, he traced the ᛃ and willed it active, strengthening the plant and encouraging the fruit to grow. He went on, repeating this process as he went. About halfway through the garden, an idea occurred to him: he knew he could use one rune to affect multiple plants, although at somewhat reduced effect. He also knew that one could power more than one rune at a time, else how would inscriptions of multiple runes work? Thus, could he inscribe the rune multiple times, once for each plot, and then activate them all together?

    He might have preferred to test this in Mira’s garden, but based on what they had taught him it should work – and let him finish before dawn. He went to work.

    The sky was just beginning to lighten as Einarr traced the rune in the dirt by the cabbages. With a deep breath, he looked out over the garden and nodded. He focused his will and activated each of the runes he had just laboriously traced.

    A moment’s lightheadedness came over him and he blinked, but then he saw the leaves of the garden vegetables grow lusher and straighter, just as if he had done each plant one at a time, and smiled. On that note, before any of the men of the Lodge were awake, Einarr took his leave.

    The morning wore on as Einarr retraced their steps from the previous day, and as he walked it began to grate on him that he was neglecting the training he was brought out here for. Inscribing a rune, though, took little enough concentration that he thought he could at least get practice with the forms as he walked. There would be no trail to pick up until he reached the old campsite anyway.

    Einarr picked up a long stick he found by the side of the trail, and would periodically pause to inscribe a rune in the ground – something that would either benefit what was nearby, or at least do no harm. He would inscribe a rune, with one of its characteristics firmly in mind, and activate it, and move on.

    Eventually, though, he ran out of runes he could practice in this way, so instead he found himself a strip of birch bark and charred the end of his stick – with his flint, not the rune – in order to write things out as he traveled. Now then. He hadn’t wanted to practice hagall – ᚻ – scrawling in the dirt with a stick. The rune was far too finicky for that, and even on his birch bark with a shorter implement he found he needed to stop and concentrate on what he was doing.

    As he finished the last stroke and examined his work for flaws, the rune glowed faintly sky blue and a chill breeze began to eddy around him. The breeze was oddly constant as he took a few steps, and then a few more. He looked again at the bark in his hands: the rune still glowed, faintly, although Einarr was not aware of powering it. Was this how the wards on the shroud had worked? He laughed, pleased at the discovery, and tried willing the wind rune on the page to stop.

    He was more than a little surprised when it did. How convenient. With a grin, Einarr paused at a large rock by the side of the path and used his knife to cut free the section of bark that could call the wind. This he put in the pouch at his belt before moving on.

    Next he drew the rune of wisdom – ᚨ – and cut it free, as well. If there was one thing he had often wished for over the course of the past year, it was wisdom beyond his years. This he followed with the rune of self – ᛗ – and the shield rune – ᛉ.

    Fatigue settled over Einarr’s limbs as he walked, although it was not yet noon. That’s what I get for rising in the middle of the night, I suppose. Einarr shrugged. He would stop and rest for a little once he found a promising spot on the trail. He wasn’t far from the campsite, though, even with how this had slowed his pace, and so he pressed on.

    There was still birch bark left. On a lark, he made a chip for the generous rune (ᚷ) and one for the ocean rune (ᛚ). After all, if he could make these in advance and then use them at need, there was no reason not to.

    His feet felt like lead now, inexplicably. Had he truly grown so soft during his time with the alfs? He shook his head. There was enough bark left for one more, and then he would stop to focus on his hunt. The rune of journeys, I think. With a nod, he began to inscribe the ᚱ on the birch bark. As he finished the last stroke, he felt his awareness begin to swim. A powerful feeling of vertigo swept over him, and the forest faded to black.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.15 – Fever

    7.15 – Fever

    “Over here,” Einarr called upstream at Onnir’s back. Moments later, his guide splashed out of the water and up to the great oak where a small boy huddled.

    “Frigg be praised,” he breathed, and scooped the child up. He cradled the boy’s head against his shoulder as he stood up, murmuring to the boy. Onnir met Einarr’s eye and then jerked his head, back the way they had come.

    “What of the brother?”

    Onnir shook his head. “No sign, and Armad here needs help quickly. We can make the lodge again tonight, but not the Hold.”

    Einarr nodded his understanding, but the man was already off. Einarr followed, now keeping a lookout for his guide as they retraced their steps. Given the timing, it was unlikely the Shroud was still in the area, but…

    …the half-conscious child whimpered as they went through the campsite where Onnir had found his father’s knife. They paused, only long enough for Einarr to retrieve the knife they had left stuck in the ground, and hurried back toward the lodge they had left only that morning.

    Armad lay stretched in his father’s bed, a thick wool blanket pulled up to his chin and a wet cloth on his forehead. Onnir had gone to the hearth in the main room and was boiling a thick porridge against the boy’s waking. Hidir was out chopping wood: Einarr wished he was. It would have given him something to do besides pace, waiting for the boy to be lucid enough to answer questions.

    His fingers itched. There were ways of healing with runes, just as Singers were able to heal with their music. But Einarr’s understanding of the runes was still crude, and Melja had warned that it was not often done. Breathe. The boy will wake when he does. No good will come of rushing here.

    So he told himself, but it was hard – and moreso because Father was training him to lead. Einarr shook his head and rewet the cloth over Armad’s head.

    The boy groaned. Einarr sat up straighter, but his eyes did not open this time.

    “How is he?” Onnir’s voice came from the door, a steaming bowl in his hands.

    “Still asleep. I keep catching myself trying to puzzle out the runes to help him and having to remind myself I don’t know them. Water might bring the fever down, but even Melja says healing with runes is tricky…”

    “As anxious as I am for the young lord to recover, I’d rather not risk something even a master thinks is difficult. Right now, he needs food. Help me sit him up.”

    The first spoonful dribbled down the boy’s chin, but his lips began to twitch. The second spoonful was accepted almost eagerly, in spite of the boy’s continued unconsciousness. As they continued, the boy’s eyelids began to flutter. Soon, he was merely half asleep and eating as though he were half-starved.

    “Gently, now,” Onnir murmured, and Einarr was not certain if he was talking to the boy or himself. As Onnir neared the bottom of the bowl, awareness came back into the boy’s eyes.

    He smiled at the older man. “Uncle. You found me.”

    “Yes, Armad. I found you, and brought you back to the Lodge.”

    “I’m glad. I had the worst dream. A red mist came, and if it touched you, you disappeared in a flash of red light.” The boy still sounded half-asleep.

    Einarr raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

    “It sent Father and Mother off somewhere, and it caught Gruki too after we ran, but I hid. Didn’t I do good?”

    “Yes, Armad. You did very good.” Einarr could see the strain on Onnir’s face. Armad was already drifting back off to sleep.

    “Wake him again,” Einarr said, feeling choked himself. “Please.”

    “I don’t think you’re going to get anything clearer from him. For the best he thinks it was a dream, for now. I’ll let him hold on to that, I think, until he’s stronger.”

    Einarr nodded his agreement. Probably for the best. “If the fever holds on for more than a couple days, take him to the Shrouded Village. They have a skilled healer, and… and I’m concerned the fever may not be entirely natural.” The Shroud was inextricably linked to fire magic, after all.

    Onnir grunted, looking as though he had not considered that. “I’ll do that.”

    “You don’t think he saw where it came from?” Einarr tried to put hope in his voice, but it was forlorn anyway. Where the Shroud went from there was a lost cause, with the sort of flight the boy would have had to have taken.

    “Even if he did, I don’t think we could trust his account. He’s still caught up in dream logic.”

    That was unfortunately probably true. Einarr allowed himself a sigh. “Well. It’s more of a lead than I had, at least. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay until morning.”

    “Of course. It’s the least we can do, after you found Armad for us.”

    Einarr grunted and let himself out of the sick room. Mentally, questions assailed him about the boy and his ability to inherit, but such matters were none of his business. Focus on the Shroud, fix the mess you made. Even if you could do something to help their Clan, they probably wouldn’t want you to.

    Dinner that evening was a somber affair. While the child would probably recover at this rate, Onnir and Hidir had just lost their Lord and most of his family. It was a hard thing, and ale flowed freely that night.

    Eventually, Einarr slipped off to a corner of the Hall to sleep while the other two drank themselves stupid. He was not in mourning, and he could not afford a hangover in his hunt. Not with as cold and as faint as the trail already was.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.14 – Search

    7.14 – Search

    It was good, Einarr thought, to have someone watching his back again. Not that the forest would ordinarily have been that dangerous. No, it was just that after spending most of his life on a longship, solitude could feel a little unnatural. Onnir was more a presence ahead of him on the trail than a companion, and a temporary one at that, but that hardly mattered. What did matter was the sense that, soon, he would have a trail to follow.

    Or at least he should. While the Shroud had rather thoroughly vanished after escaping the temple, Einarr had been looking for more tangible signs at the time – and somewhat distracted, besides.

    “So I’m still a stranger on the island. What can you tell me about the Shroud,” Einarr asked around midmorning, after the drizzle had ceased but before the sky had cleared.

    Onnir gave him a strange look over his shoulder. “I imagine you know more about it than I do. You were living out there, after all.”

    Einarr shook his head. “I know something of how they kept it, because they had me strengthen the wards not long ago, but Melja has been… reluctant to say much.”

    “Truly? How odd. My understanding is that he was among those in favor of informing the islanders.”

    “Perhaps because I’m only staying through into the fall?” It made as much sense as anything, and had the advantage of not implying his hosts thought him untrustworthy.

    “Perhaps.” Onnir shrugged. “The Muspel Shroud is one of those artifacts you never want to actually find. If a person could bend it to their will, it would still only be an assassin’s tool, but it seems to act according to its own will.”

    “How can a piece of cloth -”

    “Have a will of its own? We don’t know, but it seems to. Fire, too, can be hard to predict, after all.”

    Einarr grunted. He couldn’t exactly disagree, and they plainly know it was tied to fire magic. Otherwise they wouldn’t have known it incinerates its victims.

    Onnir stopped and looked around, sniffing the air. “I think we may be close.”

    Einarr stopped and drew in a deep breath of the still-damp air. The smell of wet ash caught his attention. “I think you may be right.”

    The path they had been following led along the edge of a marshy area of the wood. The low ground to their right, covered in a thin sheet of leaves not yet decomposed from the last winter, looked deceptively easy to travel. To their left, a narrow footpath led towards a thicket and, unless Einarr missed his guess, a hidden camp site.

    At the end of the trail, a small level clearing surrounded by thick bushes appeared. At its center was a ring of stones surrounding what had quite recently been a small fire. Based on the ground, this little clearing was used frequently, but because of that Einarr was not at all certain how recently it had been used.

    “Best guess, two nights ago,” Onnir answered the unspoken thought. “Which means, just after the Shroud was freed.”

    Einarr nodded. “I don’t know how it moves, or what directs it, but I think it could have been here. Let’s see if there are any ashes outside of the fire pit, I guess.”

    A quick perusal of the clearing revealed no ashes outside of the fire circle, but Onnir did spot a blade he recognized embedded in the ground and half-hidden by a bush. “He was definitely here,” he mused. “So what happened that night?”

    “Was he supposed to be traveling alone?”

    Onnir shook his head. “Not quite. Just a small party, though.”

    “Known to be loyal?”

    “I should say. His Lady and their sons.”

    Einarr nodded, his eyes scanning for tracks heading into the forest. A break in the brush caught his eye. “So let’s see who tried to run,” he said, pointing.

    ***

    Einarr was not used to tracking people, but whoever they were following had not even tried to hide their trail, and had crashed through places he would have expected a person to go around. That said panic to Einarr. If they were still alive, they should have good information. If they were not alive, he hoped there would be something left.

    The tracks led down to a small brook running towards the nearby marsh, and the farther they went the more certain Einarr was they would find something. The Shroud had been almost too fast to see as it slipped its bonds. Fast enough that Einarr wondered if the would-be thief had even made it up the ladder.

    A little ways up the brook, there was a bit of a rocky rise, covered in dense thicket and berry bushes. Einarr pursed his lips: if he were a panicky child, that would look like a wonderful hiding spot, especially if there were some sort of a cave hidden by all the brush. He exchanged a look with Onnir and they both nodded.

    Einarr let Onnir lead the way, and the man led them down into the brook, where the water barely came up to their ankles. They waded up into the thicket, peering to either side in search of cave or grotto or small overhang.

    “Hello? Are you there?” Onnir’s voice was gentle, but pitched so it would carry. “Gruki? Armad?”

    Einarr pushed aside a mat of green falling down to the water from a small overhang. Not there.

    “Are you all right?”

    On the other side, now, there was a hollowed out space between the roots of a particularly impressive oak. Einarr climbed up to investigate it.

    “Armad? Gruki?” Onnir was calling as though his Lord’s children might be capable of responding. After two days it was still possible, he supposed. Let the man call: Einarr would simply check.

    Huddled up in hollow in the roots of the oak, a tow-headed young boy was flushed with fever and shivering.

    “Over here!”

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    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

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  • 7.13 – Lodge

    7.13 – Lodge

    The same qualities that made the woods about the Shrouded Village pleasant to live in – their brightness, their openness – also made them accursedly easy to get lost in. Within half a day Einarr learned to set his blazes within sight of each other to avoid walking in circles.

    The hunting lodge he sought sat in a clearing much like the one that held the elven temple. Had he not wasted time getting turned around, Einarr thought he should have found it by midafternoon. As it happened, though, he stepped into the clearing to the smell of wood smoke and the sound of chopping wood just as the golden afternoon began to dim into grey twilight.

    “Hallo there!” He called from the tree line. Einarr approached openly, making a point to keep his hands visible and empty. He had no intention of being mistaken for a bandit.

    Einarr had crossed about half the distance when two men appeared. They wore simple tunics and trousers, and one of them had an axe slipped through his belt.

    “Evening, stranger,” said the one with the axe, wary.

    “Good evening.” Einarr stood with his open empty palms facing the two men. “Is the Lord of the Hall in?”

    It was, evidently, the wrong question. Both men tensed, and the woodcutter reached for his axe.

    Einarr raised his hands defensively, open palms out. “I have come from the alfr village near here. I just want to talk.”

    “But you’re a human,” said the apparently unarmed one.

    “I came to learn how to read the runes.”

    The woodcutter did a poor job of smothering a sneer. “So what brings a sorcerer’s apprentice here?”

    “There’s trouble afoot. Have either of you seen anything unusual in the last few days?”

    They didn’t relax, exactly, but they lowered their guard. “Trouble, you say,” said the woodcutter. “Perhaps you had better come inside.”

    The chief’s hunting lodge was well-kept: Einarr suspected it served as a secondary court or perhaps as a summer entertainment for his men-at-arms. The usual trophies were on display: reindeer antlers, animal skin rugs, the teeth and claws of various predators.

    The two guardians gestured at the long table as they led Einarr inside. “Sit,” said the unarmed one. “Speak. Supper will be on soon.”

    Einarr swung a leg over one of the benches at the long table, glad to be off his feet. “Two days ago, a stranger showed up in the alfr village, after the artifact that they guard.”

    “The Muspel Shroud. Everyone on the island knows of it.” The woodcutter sounded grim.

    Einarr inclined his head. “Then I think you know where this is headed.”

    “Aye, as soon as you said trouble, although I wish I’d been wrong. I suppose it got the young fool?”

    “Yes, we believe so – him and his horse. They’re working on a way to deal with the thing again. Meanwhile, I’m trying to find it.”

    The unarmed man, over at the soup pot, could not quite control the tremor in his hands as he dished up three bowls. “Eat up,” he said, bringing the bowls to the table. “It’s not much of a last meal, but at least it’s hot.”

    Einarr half-smiled, but when the implication hit he half stood, pushing back from the table. “Last meal?”

    “Relax,” the woodcutter said. “We’re not such cowards that we’d take our own lives without even an enemy in sight. Just if the Shroud is loose, that means any meal could be your last. Best to enjoy what life you have left.”

    “…Ah.” Einarr sat back down slowly, and smelled of the soup very carefully before taking a sip. “Why do you know about the Shroud?”

    “Because the alfs wanted to avoid witch hunts and panic should the thing ever get loose. They’re big on their secrets, the alfs are, but that’s not one of them. Unfortunately…”

    “Unfortunately, that probably means our Lord is lost, as well. He sent word that he would be coming out, but he should have arrived yesterday.”

    Einarr sat up. “While I hope that is not the case, would you tell me the route he usually travels to come here? And what sort of remains I might be looking for, should the Shroud have consumed him.”

    The woodcutter laughed. It was not a happy sound. “You think the Shroud leaves remains? If you’re lucky, you might find some ash.”

    Einarr took another sip of the soup, pondering that. Back at the temple, had he smelled burned flesh? Had there been too much dust in the air as he climbed out of the cellar? He nodded, slowly. “I see. That has been extraordinarily helpful.”

    The other man shrugged. “Not a one of us wants that thing loose. Stay here tonight. In the morning, I’ll trace the path with you.”

    “You have my thanks.”

    “Just find the thing so that the Runemasters can deal with it.”

    “That is my intention.” And if I’m lucky, Mira and Melja will get an answer to me before I find it.

    A fine misting rain fell when the three rose the next morning. It would be gone by midday – it always was, on this island – but it meant the morning’s travel would be damp and cold. Einarr shrugged and buckled his cloak about his neck: maybe the rain would help if they encountered the artifact. Not likely, but a man can dream, can’t he?

    Onnir – the man who had been unarmed yesterday – today carried a scramasax and a hunting bow, and was dressed for hunting. He was checking over his bowstring as Einarr left the hall. “Are we ready?”

    “To find a trail? Absolutely. Lead on, friend. How are you with that blade?”

    He shrugged. “Passable. Better with the bow.”

    “I’ll trust you with my back, then. Shall we go?”

    Onnir grunted and started off down the path in an odd, almost bouncing gait. Einarr followed close on his heels.

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    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.

  • 7.12 – Broken Cage

    7.12 – Broken Cage

    The thief’s fiery sword, flaming no longer, fell to the floor with a clatter as the man backed towards the cellar ladder. The man’s eyes were wide, and it was like he couldn’t tell what was most horrifying.

    Einarr, though, was too stunned to pursue. Sinmora still shone with the magic it had stolen… from… the wards!

    Einarr spun on his heel even as the thief screamed. A red blur whipped past Einarr to the sound of feet racing up the rungs of the ladder. The glow of runes from within the vault was gone. The cellar was now lit only by the icy cold light emanating from Sinmora. The vault was empty.

    Einarr now raced up the ladder, Sinmora’s hilt still clutched in his hand. At that moment, two thoughts warred for dominance in his head: where is the Shroud and what just happened?

    At the top of the ladder Einarr stopped, trying to spot the thief. He shouldn’t have been that far ahead, but Einarr could neither see nor hear any trace of him.

    Frowning, Einarr ran for the exit. He didn’t know where the thief had gone, but it didn’t much matter now. The Muspel Shroud was loose, and if even half what Melja had told him was accurate they were in trouble.

    The bay was gone. Einarr had no way of knowing if it was being run into the ground or if it had fallen victim to the Shroud. He sheathed his sword and ran for the village.

    Einarr arrived on the outskirts of the village, red-faced and winded, an hour later. Melja demanded, before he had caught his breath, “Did you stop him?”

    Einarr shook his head. “I mean, yes, but it didn’t matter. My sword -”

    He was interrupted by a long wail from his teacher. “What do you mean, it didn’t matter?”

    “My sword… it’s never done anything like this before! My sword ate the wards, and then used that to put out his sword!” He drew Sinmora to show them the blade, still unnaturally cold and glowing faintly even in daylight.

    “So the Shroud is free, for the first time in generations,” Melja moaned again, but then seemed to really see the blade held out before him. “What did you say?”

    “Sinmora. Always before, she wasn’t magical at all. Then today, fighting that thief, it was like she sucked in all the power from the wards. It put out his sword, but…”

    “But it cost us the ward.” The man sighed, then cursed. “You plainly didn’t expect your sword to start pulling power. There’s no point in casting stones. Let’s just… find the thing and lock it back down.”

    “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Einarr paused, trying to recall what all he’d been told. “Um, how was it caught the first time?”

    “My great-great grandfather set a trap for it.” Melja sighed again. “But, so far as we can tell, he never told anyone how he trapped it. My grandfather said he thought something about the trap was shameful.”

    Einarr grimaced. That gave him an unfortunate idea of what might have been involved. “Let’s see if we can’t come up with a cleaner method, then. Surely, as its guardians for so long, there are records of what it can do?”

    Melja nodded, suddenly looking very tired. “This way.”

    No-one ever saw the thief – or his horse – again. Within the village, it was assumed they fell to the Shroud.

    Einarr, closeted away with the dusty scrolls of the Runemasters, quickly grew frustrated. Always before he could consult a Singer, and even if they did not know they could extrapolate. Here, it seemed that the records were all either far too precise or hopelessly vague.

    By noon on the second day after the attack, he was fed up. “This is not where I belong here. I’m going to go out and look for the thing, so that hopefully once you have an answer we can just use it.”

    Melja looked up from his scroll from under his brows. “That impatience will be the death of you one day, if you’re not careful.”

    Einarr snorted. “But not, I think, today. I am not a scholar, Melja, and all my progress with the runes isn’t going to change that. But I am a decent hunter.”

    “Suit yourself.”

    With a nod of thanks, Einarr excused himself. The clean air outside refreshed his mood immediately, and the clear sky and bright sun made it hard to remember that there was an intelligent piece of cloth on the island, looking for its next prey. What in the name of all the gods am I doing with my life?

    He shook his head, shaking off the wry impression that had been haunting him all summer, it seemed. The Shroud had either kept to the forest thus far, or bypassed the village that had for so long been set to watch over its prison. The port, however, was an equally poor place to try to pick up its track: too far away, and likely too large.

    Luckily, the local chief maintained a hunting lodge not far from the Shrouded village that he was known to frequent, and when he was not there personally there were some few hired hands who lived there to maintain it. If anyone would have noticed something amiss, it would be a professional hunter. With a spring in his step and his good elven cloak over his shoulders, Einarr set out across the forest.

    Now all that was necessary was for Melja or Mira to find something – anything – that could help them defeat the damnable thing.

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    Hi everyone. Thanks for reading! 

    If you like what you read, it would really mean a lot to me if you clicked through to Top Web Fiction and voted for Einarr there. It’s a visibility boost in the ever-growing genre of web fiction, and that helps me out a lot. There’s no sign-up, and votes refresh every 7 days.

    If you’re all caught up and looking for something a little longer to read, I also have other works available on Amazon.Or, if you happen to not like Amazon you can also get the Einarr ebook through Draft2Digital, B&N, Apple, Kobo… you get the idea. Direct links are available here.

    Lastly, if you really like what I’m doing, I also have a Patreon account running with some fun bonuses available.