After a few days, the travellers left the forest to enter open farmlands. The many settlents ant they could travel from village to village, with no need to sleep in the open. While at tis Martel would have preferred the latter, it ant a good al every night, often given as a courtesy in exchange for Rolf’s performance. The Tyrians also provided them with plenty of provisions, sotis even for free if they had been particularly pleased with the skáld, which ant the trio did not have to spend ti hunting but could continue their journey northward without interruptions.
While the area had plenty of people, they never saw anything that could be considered a town. Nor did proper roads connect the villages; at best, a path had been trod by humans or animals, but most of the ti, they simply crossed grassland.
“Do your people have anything against roads?” Martel asked one day. Leaving Aster had given him a newfound sense of appreciation for the Imperial network of cobblestone that connected all of its major cities.
“On the contrary, but unlike you, we are satisfied with those provided by the gods,” Rolf grinned, and he pointed at a brook in the distance. “If you want a road, you’ll have to sail!”
“What about cities? We haven’t seen any of those. The Frosten River is quite a big road, but there aren’t any big settlents along that, is there?” Martel pointed out.
“No, that is the border to the profane lands, and we would not settle in great numbers so close to that,” Rolf replied without explaining what exactly that ant. “But we will cross rivers as we go north, and if we instead followed them east, you would find your towns and markets.”
“What about your ho? The capital of your tribe, how big is it?” Eleanor asked.
“Svartheim? More than a thousand people, less than two.”
“A lot smaller than Morcaster,” Martel muttered, feeling a strange desire to defend the honour of his adopted ho, even if in so ways, he had more in common with the people of Tyria than southern Aster.
“What about your whole tribe? How many people are you in total?” the mageknight continued.
Rolf gave her a sly look. “Why would you seek to know? Wondering how many Tyrians you would have to fight if it ca to war? It did not end well for your people last ti.” He broke out in laughter.
Eleanor did not seem bothered by his outburst, on the contrary, as she pressed the issue. “What did happen back then? I have never found reliable accounts in any of the books in Morcaster.”
Rolf’s eyes twinkled. “I shall be happy to redy that.”
“A hundred years and a hundred days have passed since the n of steel crossed the river into the sacred lands. Twenty tis a thousand they appeared, with won and children, for they ca not to plunder but to steal.”
Martel wondered at the exact difference, but he did not wish to interrupt. Rolf’s voice had taken on the tone he used as the storyteller, and Martel guessed that he translated from Tyrian into Asterian, hence why so of the word choices seed strange. All the sa, it did not trouble Martel’s enjoynt.
“There they raised their camp, and they felled more trees than a man could need in a lifeti. So, at the great oak, the tribes t. They consulted the crones, they read the runes, and they sacrificed the slaves, three tis three. A king was chosen to lead the tribes and drive back the n of steel. Jódís, a skáld with a fiery tongue and a cold heart, she who could enfla the North!”
Martel could not tell whether magic lay in the words or Rolf simply knew how to conjure up an image, but he saw the picture of a redhaired woman before his inner eye, clad for war.
“From all the tribes, three tis three, the warriors ca. Skálds to sing confusion, berserkers to swing the axe, and hunters to strike the arrow. At every turn when the n of steel left their ho, they found only death.”
Martel had no trouble imagining this; he recalled Khivan woods, hiding sharpshooters behind every tree. He looked at Eleanor, hoping she did not feel discomfort like he did.
“As harvest ca, the crones called forth fimbulvintr to cover lands and hearts with ice! Thirty days tis three, the wind howled and the storm raged, striking down the n of steel with frost and hunger. And when the wind beca a breeze, the Northn moved in with axe and arrow. Only one was allowed to escape, to bear the tale south.” Rolf exhaled, as if he had not drawn breath once while recounting the tale. He glanced at his companions.
“That sounds cruel,” Eleanor remarked with that light tone of voice Martel recognised to an she was suppressing her true emotions.
“Aye, it was cruel work,” Rolf acknowledged, but he seed proud rather than contrite.
“What happened to the king? That woman?” Martel had already forgotten her na, but he still saw the image of her in his mind.
“With the invaders gone, she placed her crown on the earth and returned to her tribe. A king is chosen only to wield power as they must, not as they want,” Rolf declared.
Eleanor glanced at Martel. “A good custom. I know soone in the South who did the sa.”
“Truly? You must tell of them. Perhaps that’s a tale worthy to beco a song,” the skáld considered.
Martel took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, and Eleanor nodded slightly. “Another ti. I think we have had enough of such tales for one day.”
“Aye,” Rolf agreed, “let the day breathe before we fill it with another story.”
They continued in silence until nightfall; as morning ca, they saw a great mountain chain rise in the distance, and Rolf declared they had reached the lands of his tribe. Soon, they would be in Svartheim.
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