The trio dismounted and led their horses by the reins, walking into the river. The water reached to their knees but nothing worse; while the current was strong, it gave no trouble for three mages. Once on the other side, Martel summoned a powerful fla with intense heat, helping them dry as they waited for the sentinels to appear.
Soon after, a huntsman stepped out from the edge of the forest to approach them, carrying a bow loosely in one hand. Martel assud several others watched them from the trees, probably with arrows ready. The guard looked with suspicious eyes at the travellers, and Rolf quickly greeted him in the Tyrian tongue. Martel could not follow the conversation, other than he understood that the skáld gave his na and that of his tribe. The exchange continued a while longer before the hunter turned back.
“Everything’s fine,” Rolf told the others. “They’ve no argunt with us passing through, and they gave directions to a nearby village, where we may seek shelter for the night and barter for provisions.”
“Excellent,” Eleanor replied.
The bard gave a wry look at Martel. “They did ask you restrain your fire magic. No burning down the forest.”
“Well, I’ve never burned any forests down before, and I don’t intend to start now.”
“Good. Let’s be on our way,” Rolf suggested. “I wouldn’t mind sothing warm to eat tonight.”
The village was a cluster of houses in a clearing, with a small rye field next to it and a few vegetable gardens in between the structures. The locals looked apprehensive, seeing three ard travellers approach, and Rolf quickly spoke to put them at ease. After so explanation done in Tyrian, with the two Asterians waiting in silence, they were shown where to leave their horses and make their bed for the night.
As the sun set, both villagers and travellers gathered in a single house with barely room for them all. In the flickering light of the cooking fire burning in the middle, Rolf recounted the tale of their battle below the ruined tower. Neither Martel nor Eleanor understood the words, but being familiar with the story, they could follow it well enough, including the dramatic, final confrontation with the vampire. The awed looks sent their way told them that Rolf did not trivialise the fight or their contribution, on the contrary. And while Martel could not understand the individual words, he believed he sensed magic in the skáld’s speech, invoking imagery in the minds of the listeners; he had experienced similar himself once, hearing a northern bard sing years ago.
As the story ca to an end, so of the children eagerly crowded around the two Asterians, staring especially at Eleanor. “They want to see the blade of flas,” Rolf explained from across the room.
“A sword is a weapon, not a plaything,” she replied sternly. “Tell them they should get to bed.”
Feeling more generous, Martel took his staff balancing across his knees and made a fla erupt around its ruby. The children shrieked in delight and ran away.
Next to him, sitting so closely their shoulders touched, Eleanor glanced at him. “I would have thought the sa of your staff as my sword.”
Martel tried to shrug, though the lack of space did not allow him. “A weapon in tis of war, a plaything in tis of peace.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes but said nothing more, and a smile gainsaid any voiced disagreent. Martel’s action had not been entirely selfless; he felt uncomfortable with the cluster of people filling the house, and he welcod anything that distracted his thoughts, such as giving the adorable children a little entertainnt.
He was spared further discomfort; with the tale at an end, the villagers dispersed to seek sleep in their own hos, and the travellers could rest for the night.
As they journeyed on the next day, Rolf continued his explanations of the Tyrian lands. “The tribe of the Beaver is among the stronger, and their lands are from here all the way to the sea. Beyond, those of the Eagle dwell on many islands, also a powerful people. They have more ships than any other tribe, and they often visit your lands, to trade or plunder.” Riding in between them, the skáld gave each of his companions a ruthless smile.
Martel wondered at so of the Tyrians he had known, such as the berserker Starkad, and which tribe they belonged to.
“How long until we reached the lands of your people?” Eleanor asked.
“We travel for three fivedays. When the Pillars of the World are within sight, we have reached the ho of the Raven.”
Martel considered this distance; they travelled slower than on the Imperial road, but still, that was much further than he had imagined the settled lands of Tyria would stretch on. Assuming Rolf gave them an accurate answer and the lands of his tribe extended all the way to these mountains, it ant that Tyria was as great as the Empire in size. Martel had always imagined the Frosten River to be near the end of the world, being considered the final frontier of civilisation; now, he realised that when considering their continent, as much if not more land lay north of the river than south.
“That promises to be a long journey back and forth,” Eleanor remarked, having apparently made the sa calculations as Martel. While their surroundings were pleasant enough to travel through, it felt and looked the sa as Nordmark; they could have been on a ship bound for the Western Isles by now, promising a much different experience.
Rolf smiled. “Do not worry. My city, where the jarl resides, lies by the sea, within a fjord. When you are ready to leave us, we will find you passage on a ship for Aquila, and you shall swiftly be ho in southern lands.”
“Hopefully a ship that sails for the purpose of trade rather than raiding,” Martel comnted lightly.
“If the latter, I’m sure they’ll be happy to put you ashore first.” The skáld roared with laughter. “No, don’t worry,” he continued, his face turned serious. “It would not be for raiding.” His countenance turned sly. “To raid a big city like Aquila, we would not send a single ship, but a hundred.” He laughed again while his companions shook their heads.
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