[B]Three Seasons Ago...[/B]

Night had fallen in Altheim, or at least as close to night as one could get in this polar summer. Had the Jarl and the frigid north not been intimately acquainted, he might have continued his trek until the temperatures plunged even lower and he keeled over. This first foray into the long abandoned Suehan homeland to the distant north was merely exploratory; no reason to take a risk just to trudge around in the snow any longer.

He reached down the neck of his thick fur jacket and produced a beautiful oak box, and examined its contents. Far to the left sat a glass cube, totally sealed, filled with a stout drink. He knew if this ever froze, he was within minutes of death. The remaining vials were of turpentine, strong wine, linseed oil, and water. All were frozen but the final warning, whereas at noon the turpentine could still be sloshed. Satisfied with the day's progress, he turned around and marched back to the cave from whence he came, where his guardsmen were waiting with fish and fires.

---------------

The empty snow was of no consequence to the Jarl. He would make for his true objective now, the former castle of House Vasa in this ancient land. There, perhaps, in the hallowed halls of his ancestors, he could find the peace of mind the loss of his beloved could provide him.

After eating breakfast, the Jarl announced today would be the final day of the expedition, prompting hushed cheers from the 50 or so Huskarls he'd brought along with him. They eagerly packed up and headed back to the ship, still sitting on the patch of icy ground they'd left it on. On the Jarl's command they set off and sailed west, till the resemblence of a fortification could be seen on the horizon.
It was a curious work, very much unlike the rectangular walls that characterized Lundish defensive architecture. Likely, the maximum ratio of area to perimeter was preferred over the more easily contructed linear methods. Laborers they had many, defenders they had few.

The Jarl was first off the prow onto the frozen ground, landing with a colossal crunch on the thin ice of the shore. He walked towards the humble keep, seemingly oblivious to the struggles of his men behind him as they pulled the ship ashore. The frosted, snow capped keep seemed to beckon. 

There was little left of the keep's furnishings, but this he knew already and was of no concern. The enormous ice throne, 10 feet in height and as magnificently detailed as it was those centuries ago, struck awe into the Jarl. 

Legend had it, that the former stonemasons of Altheim, when quarrying had become too difficult, carved an enormous throne of ice to serve the Konungr whilst the evacuation was taking place. When it came time to leave, the aged Konungr refused. He would not be a vagrant king, but would die, with his kingdom. That legend appeared to be true, for as the Jarl carefully ascended the slippery, perfectly smooth ice staircase, he nearly jumped out of his skin to see a man holding a spear upright, staring off into space. Haraldr was staring at none other than his fortieth great-grandfather!

Out of the snow, the ice had frozen on to his skin clear, so that his features could be seen. He was a scarred man, to the point of ugliness. Two long scars ran down both cheeks, one nostril had a slit, and were this not gruesome enough, he appeared to be missing an eye. Yet the other eye was as cold, blue, and piercing as the Arctic sea. 

Haraldr noted where the eye was looking. Not into space, as surmised, but on a carving above the door, visible only from the throne.

Haraldr's runic wasn't perfect, but he could make out the inscription well enough. 

"The north wind did not take us. We take the north wind!"