[h1]Voldagrad[/h1]
[h2]Bron[/h2]

Ilk was still shaken as the funerary pyre was lit in the fields outside the village. The dark cloak of night had fallen, and passed the orange glow of the bonfire's reach was an eternal blackness. The silhouettes of trees stood weak in their contrast against the sky which had opened free of clouds. The warping ribbons of an aura danced solemnly against the stars, and the villagers celebrated the cold lights above them as they burned the body of Rostok.

While it was a funeral, the villagers honored their passed king not with solemn heads bowed but banged out music on drums and sang. As well as they could they had given Ilk a seat of honor, giving him pelts of wolf fur and offering the best of their drink and meat.

The night had  begun overcast, and when they had set out to send Rostok's soul to the gods the evening had been more solemn. But when they lay his body on the pyre and began the incantations to his spirit and the gods the sky had clear and lifted the eyes of the villagers. It was after they had put Rostok's body to the torch that the first ribbons of aural light opened up in the skies above and framed a low silver moon.

“The Gods welcome him warmly!” the old priest who had introduced himself finally after the ritual duel that took Rostok's life. He had brought himself before Ilk as Bors, son of Amov. And over the night he had not stopped proclaiming the good sign before the village, whipping them into a hopeful celebration as they felt the divine presence in the above night glow.

The fire now had grown large, transforming fluidly from a funeral pyre to a celebratory bonfire fit for a spring equinox. The bitter and rotten smell of human flesh long burned away and turned to roasting meat as men slaughtered chickens and suckling pigs for the occasion's honor. Several had gone down to the river to splash in the banks searching by torch-light for fresh fish to supplement their celebration. And several casks were broken open to distribute the winter's fermented liquor and malted beer.

In the jubilation of a soul having been so warmly taken up by the gods according to Bors, and the courage from alcohol several young girls had stripped naked and now danced about the fire. But even with the jubilation, Ilk felt heavy.

His hands worked slow and felt held down by the weight of a large cow. He ate slowly and halfheartedly. Deep inside he was guilty. He felt guilty. He had committed an act that would have gotten him hanged and found himself somewhere he thought he'd never be, as a landed chieftain. He was no renowned fighter, and that put the terror into him as well as the guilt of murder. It would be no hard feat for Rostok's son to return full of anger and kill him out-right and taking the title of chief back.

The hard foreign fighter that had been Rostok's man kept himself beside Ilk, silent as he was when he first met him. And while Ilk sensed he had softened on him, it seemed nothing more than a courtesy as a recognition for his deed. He imagined he had been his guard, and now he was his. The mystery of him compounded on Ilk's terrors and introduced a linger subtle concern. He made furtive glances towards the quietly brooding man as he sat cross legged on the floor, a large sheep's-skin thrown over his head shoulders and wrapped about the rest of him; in it he looked like a meditating diviner.

Ilk was stirred as someone bumbled too near, the loud crashing of two bodies falling nearby snapped Ilk straight and he looked to his other side as Bors fell to the cushions of skins with one of the dancing girls being pulled by his arms, though it may have been a case of her trying to pull him up but unable to move the old man more as he came down to rest from their latest excursion. But the girl, young though haggard from living through many winters was too drunk on vodka and hard drink too notice or to care.

“You really can not be done?” the naked girl cried melodramatically. The light of the follow highlighted her small round features and the sagging of full breasts.

“I am, I am.” Bors said breathlessly, brushing off her demanding hands. Denied, she wandered off into the warmth of the light. She quickly forgot though, and resumed wildly spinning.

“The Gods were good to Rostok!” he declared, a little red in the face and disheveled. His usual robe hung half on his own shoulders, and he spoke out of breath, “It is fair we celebrate a long life.”

Ilk didn't comment. Biting his lip he turned away and looked down at a half plate of freshly cooked mutton. It was getting cold now, but he had only half worked at it. He was too shaken still to eat.

“I guess now we do not kneel to the Wooded City of Volda.” Rostok said suddenly, and out of the blue. This roused Ilk up again and he turned and looked at the old man. He smiled, laughing drunk in the  excitement of the moment, “Or will you kneel to them?” he asked. “Or perhaps you want to make Bron its own, free of either. In either case I don't imagine it will last long. The kings look for weak states such as villages like these.”

“How long do you think it'll take for Rostok's son to hear what happened?” Ilk asked, heading directly to his own concerns.

Bors had not expected this line of thought, and he gave it a second before he answered his new liege. “It may not be for a while. We here may go several months without having significant guests. You are our first... Well aside from the fat woman on the horse.” he added after a brief pause, “You may be the only messenger to reach Volda from these parts, and he may not know; if you choose to continue on.”

“I do.” Ilk said solemnly.

“So be it.” Bors said with a excusing wave of his hand. “I had Qawid can handle the day-to-day affairs of the village, there are not many.”

“Qawid?” Ilk asked.

Bors nodded and pointed to that foreign man that sat opposite. Ilk turned to look, finding he was looking directly into his sharp piercing eyes gleaming from underneath his  shroud of wool and flesh.

“He was a slave Rostok won in a duel.” Bors said, “He's a man that doesn't talk much, and some days I am to wonder if he vowed himself to silence for his distant gods; as if they can hear him here. But he was Rostok's, then Rostok freed him. He never left, and instead vowed himself to his service; Rostok instead forced him to instead offer his services to the village, and he has done that dutifully for nearly eight winters now.

“He is as capable a enforcer of peace as I am a judge and augur.” Bors added pridefully.

Ilk nodded numbly.

“So, will you be moving on come tomorrow morning?” Bors pressed.

“I will.” Ilk said, “I have a job to do, I plan to do it.”

“Then you will be back.” Bors said confidently.

“I will.” Ilk repeated. Though he didn't know how he would get back, or how he might tell Perciv. Was there precedent such as this? He shut it out of his mind, he would deal with it when it arose.

“Then before you leave I must give you some of Rostok's things for the road.” Bors said, “Small things, for your protection.”

“Won't I be found out?” Ilk asked.

Shrugging, Bors remarked: “No, hardly. I will not be handing you his personal sword. His son may not recognize you if he sees you with it. But it will help you against any reavers raiding the woods, or wolves. And you will still look the part. Chiefs in this parts often look indistinguishable from the men of under the higher tribes by the cities. I have no fear.

“After all, the gods smile!” Bors exclaimed, holding his hands up and out to the heavenly lights.

In his mood Ilk didn't find this completely uplifting. He still wallowed in the anxious distress of the affairs he found himself in. Perhaps back on the road, and onto something most familiar to him he'll come to the peace he wanted.


[h1]Misrŭvani[/h1]
[h2]Misruglaz[/h2]

Sleet pattered down on the roof of the great hall, filling the empty silence with the wet sloppy pops of falling half-frozen rain. Wrapped in a large wool coat Perciv looked out through open windows into the gray sleeted landscape beyond. Tracts of woodland marched out over hills interspaced with the odds acreages of farmland in the hard cold north. The fields were still barren and brown, with patches of snow. The green on the trees hadn't yet come to bloom.

There came a sound behind Perciv. Rising in his seat by the window, he turned to the sound. At the door stood a guard, dressed in a heavy coat of leathers and mail. “My lord,” he said, with a bow of his head, “Your family is here.”

Perciv nodded knowingly, and rose to his feet; a smile on his face. “Then it's time I go to see them.”

The room he had been in was not large, a mere alcove tucked in a corner, besides the more important rooms for his living. Turning through the door the two men walked to the stairs, the sounds of their feet echoing in the cold stillness of the tower. The two came to the stairs, as they went Perciv dragged his hands along the rough rails along its sides, feeling the rough cut bare wood underneath gloved hands. With a final clack, both men landed on the final stone floor. The king had little time to turn before he heard a cry of, “Papa!” from the other side of the room.

As soon as he turned a small girl who stood stomach high crashed into him, and hugged her arms around the king's waist. “It's good to see you too, Eugena.” Perciv laughed, smiling down at the blond-haired girl below him.

Eugena was in her tenth year, her face round and flushed. A brush with pox had left her face scarred with the vestigial remains of disease as a permanent marker of her having survived, dimpled rosy pits in her cheeks and neck. Her eyes shone bright with a blue joy and exhilaration despite all things, and she had not fallen sick again since her first near brush with death, though her breath often fell short quick.

Standing by the door with their oldest was his wife, Vlamira. She was a plump pale woman who in the middle of her thirties bore all the traits of a well worked mother. Ratty thin gold hair lay combed back across her face as she held their eldest son's shoulders with a weathered hand.

Their son was a youth that had the same proportions of his father, but not yet his height as a teen youth now. But his face was handsome and clean. The first traces of a beard had not yet grown in, and behind his light blue eyes he regarded his father with a guarded restraint. He tensely bit his thin lips as he smiled and rose a hand to him.

“Ivanov.” Perciv greeted, walking to his son to give him a fatherly embrace. He stood chest height to his dad, and he weakly returned the gesture.

“Hello.” he said simply, meekly. He shuffled about as his dad let go of him and he looked around the room.

Behind the main throne-room was where the hall held its dining hall a large table with chairs cut from pine logs stood at the middle, a large stone hearth nearly filled the far wall between two wooden beams, an iron grate guarded the dining hall from the smoldering fire inside. The room was further bisected by another wall that cut it off from the kitchen, it was there the wide lazily descending stair case marched down to the main floor.

“How was the trip?” he asked, turning to his wife.

“It was cold.” she said quietly, “And long. Winter hasn't quiet left us. The night before we arrived though the clouds broke and we watched the Gods' Lights dance across the sky, it was a great sight to behold this time of year.”