The Slaying of the Frostwitch Ch. 01

"All know the law of this turn of the year.

The land has been made clean and cold and pure,

Freyrs bounty has been harvested.

The Golden Fall is over; soon the Wild Hunt will ride.

The season of Rind has begun once again.

Ullr and Skadi watch over the bowmen, hunting for their families once again.

Walk the frozen skin of Jord,

Track the bearers of Freyrs weapon.

By the strength of your bow and the point of your spear life is assured.

The falling snow grows deep at our doors,

The Frostwitch sings her spells to the frost giants.

She keeps the people in their homes, denying them the gifts of the Gods.

Who will stand against her? Where is the bravery of the hero?

Why do know Warriors stand? Why do you look to the ground in shame?"

Hrold stood, the great giver of rings, strider of the whale road, no weakling he.

He had seen many winters, crashed many shields, broke many mighty helms.

The Weavers of the Web had woven him great deeds, but many thought his thread over long.

Hrold looked to his ring-bearers, torque-bearers, men whose calling was the battle.

Cowards in his eyes all now.

He raised his mighty voice, and a harsh sound, faded from his bulls' voice spilled these words as sieve spills water.

"Who will stand? Who will fight with weapon and shield, bright helm and war coat of rings?

Which of my warriors will win Glory for his people?

Who will free the land from the Frostwitch, a task worthy of a story by the finest skalds?

Do I look upon slaves who have stolen the feasting gear and war raiment of their masters, and now caught have naught to say?

Will none stand?"

Hrold the Great, The Bloody, Terror of the South, struck the arm of his mighty throne with a great fist.

"Though I am old, and my great heart has slowed down its mighty beats, it is still strong and brave.

No man in my hall has tjis, you have proven yourself false. Your boasts of bravery and courage, feeble and twisted like a ball of string that has fallen from the table."

A man stood, barely of the age to be called a man.

His hair was the color of fire, his beard scarce but there.

Stained and patched was his feasting best,

No brightly clad warrior of great renown was he.

He looked to his chieftain, great protector of his people and his words were spoken.

"Great Ring Giver, You shall not have to fight this evil because your people's bravery is lacking.

You must stay; lead our people through another winter, Great Protector as always.

I have no family born to or great home built,

No weapon but a knife made from deer antler and the bones of Jord.

No bright mail or shining helm from my father, no father to gift them.

I will make this journey, and plant my dagger into the heart of the Frostwitch, if I must die to do so. "

At the words of the brave hearted one, a laugh went up from a warrior in attendance.

Darkmaned he was, Darkmaned and Darkeyed, Darkthought as well.

No joy or laughter had ever been found for him, this dark lived man, Hogun named he,

"None of the brave have offered, the Frostwitch having frozen our hot blood and slowed our pounding hearts.

Warriors tried, Warriors true, and we know this cannot be done.

But you, the Fatherless, found in the wolves lair, son on none.

You would stand against her, with a dagger not fit to scale a fish with?

I count your chances as none, your end assured.

Foolhardy and no thought I call you, empty boaster and dead man you are."

Hrold raised his voice once more, his wroth great.

"So the great warrior Hogun Stormcrow would raise voice, and talk of another's failings?

He himself many times in my mead hall has boasted that he feared none, and would gladly die, if only to see what joy could be found in death.

Yet, he was as silent as the breath of a fish when warriors were called upon.

Erik the Fatherless, known as Erik Ulfsson, you will face the Frostwitch, I grant you this quest to prove yourself.

Come! Bringer of Tidings and Champion of Hrold, we must outfit one in war girt and send the other back to his halls with good tidings.

You will have more than just a stone knife for this fight young brave one."

Erik spoke not, inclining his head to his lord as one will and looking upon him.

His eyes shone in the light, bright like the ice mountains of the whale road, glowing in Mani's radiance.

His hair shown bright and his smile was quick and sharp.

Following the great chieftain, the messenger and the fatherless went to the armory.

Many gifts of mail had been made here, many shields that had spared more than one's life.

The apprentice labored here, almost a master he, while his master sat in shame at the mead bench of Hrold.

Setting the blade he was casting with such skill, the apprentice asked his chief what he willed.

Hrold spoke,

"Ragnar! Outfit the Ulfsson, the bravest man in my village now.

Give him war coat of mail, strong as the backs of the Jotun.

A bright helm, that flashes in the light of Sol.

Give him weapon of choice, so that the Frost Witch will feel her demise."

Ragnar stroked his young beard, blacker than the ash of the forge he worked, barely longer than Erik's own.

"So little brother, they finally realized that there was a warrior your heart.

I have made such things as you are to be outfitted with,

For this day I knew would come."

Ducking his great head so not to hit the mighty oaken beams of the roof,

Ragnar walked to a store chest, heavily banded and deep.

The Bringer of News stared at the smith, if there was a man taller and broader than Ragnar, a Jotuns son was he.

Reaching into the treasure trove of the trunk, Ragnar pulled armor made in the past for his friend,

Brother in bond and oath if not blood.

Outfitting him with great axe and bright helm, shield of oak and leather,

Chain mail shirt, war coat of great rings woven with care by a friend,

As Erik outfitted himself in war gear fit for a great warrior,

Ragnar grabbed his own gear, mail made for the giant man, shield and helm.

As Hrold looked on in amusement, he spoke.

"Young metal shaper, one suit of mail is enough for the boy.

Even my old eyes, once sharp now dull can tell it is not his size at that.

Who will wear that fine war count, and why would they wear it?"

Ragnar spoke, his voice like the noise of The Thunderer's chariot wheels in the mountains.

"With your leave great Chieftain, I would go.

The Ulfsson is a brother, not in blood but in spirit and heart.

I cannot let him go alone,

A destroyer of enemies and the thralls of the Frostwitch I would be,

Until his adventure is done."

Hrold nodded, and gave his leave.

"Had I known the bravest hearts of my village where the two youngest, I would have dressed you as Warriors long hence,

When you have dressed in your war coats, join me in the hall.

I have much news to give the clan and you both as well.

I would talk to you messenger, for there is much you must tell your lord."

As Hrolds new champions armed themselves, a new voice spoke to them.

"So, son of none but the wolves and wild and the Auroch, big and strong but small brained.

I laugh at these, milord's champions.

The Frostwitch should not worry; you two will never make it to her lair.

More likely to be killed by animals on the road methinks."

The two men stood and looked at Hogun Stormcrow, bearer of ill for all.

Outfitted in their war gear, hard eyed and closed mouth.

Anger would do naught for them, They had a quest to pursue,

No need to settle for the harsh words, the world would remember them as going to the fight,

And remember as Hogun staying behind, a coward in an hour of need.

And with that, Hogun passes from the Saga.

Walking into the Lords Mead Hall, they were greeted by the stares of all the men there.

Women and children had come to the hall, to see the Warriors of brave heart.

None had ever thought these two would go to war, go to bravery and glory.

Striding up the hall, they felt no shame, their heads high and proud.

They were young, untested, but sure of themselves and brave, willing to shed and spill blood for glory.

Hrold stood and spread his arms, pointing to the young warriors, girded as fine as heroes from the tales.

"Brothers, Sisters and Children.

Here you see them, Brave hearts beating strong.

They leave for the death of the Frostwitch, to free our lands to the Gods gifts.

None will oppose me in this, I give them my blessing.

The first to volunteer, Erik the Fatherless.

I have no child, my own sons preceding me into the afterlife.

If Erik Ulfsson returns victorious, Frostwitch defeated,

I will name him Erik Hroldsson, and he will precede me in my death.

His companion Ragnar will be gifted land, and as many gifts as I can give will be received by both.

This is my decision, and none shall dispute it.

Go now you two, to the stables. The Messenger awaits you there.

Erik, a stable has been told to find you a true son of Sliepnir,

Swift as the wind.

Ragnar, only one horse I own will hold you, and he is not as fast,

But hardy and strong is he.

Go now, and may the Gods grant you strength and a great Victory!"

Clenching their fists and pounding them once on their chests over their hearts,

The Warriors strode out the mead hall,

Hearing not the protests of the people they left behind.

At the stables they were gifted kingly horses,

Erik was gifted Straumr, swift as the streams of snow melt in the spring.

Ragnar was gifted the mighty horse Rammligr, mighty horse, tallest horse owned by man.

Fitting their steeds with saddle and provisions, the two led their mounts outside and mounted them.

The Messenger slowly walked his horse up, and spoke.

"I would ride with you, and speak to you of many things.

Many lessons should be taught, between now and the end,

I know not much, but enough.

Will you allow me to travel with you, and we learn what we can from each other?"

The friends conversed amongst themselves before Erik turned and smiled upon the messenger.

"Of course you may, Bringer of Many Tidings.

We would but ask your name, and gladly have you travel with us and teach.

Knowledge shared willingly is a kingly gift to us, and we will impart what we know of this world, small amount as it is.

For everyman should accept knowledge given in good faith, and decide for his self what impact it will have."

Smiling upon the two eager young men, the Messenger spoke.

"Many men have many names, and I have been known by a few.

I prefer to call myself Dagfinnr for now, for that is what I am."

So saying, the three companions rode off, leaving the Halls of Hrold on their journey.

As they traveled through the endless night of the northern places of the world,

Dagfinnr spoke along the ride, for the wind did not blow loudly in their ears,

All was still and silent in the world.

"I will tell you many things, things taught to us for many years.

They can help or harm you, but remember.

They are the ideals and morals we as free men have to live by,

And can be considered the measure of a good man.

When you are rich, help those less fortunate.

A brave and hardworking man can always gain his riches back,

And things go by turns even if they do not go by turns immediately.

A brief spell of honor will always sit better in your heart than a life of shame.

Do not turn your back on your brothers in blood or oath,

For in your hour of greatest need they will not come to your aid,

And when you die, they may well turn your back on you, and you will decay and be eaten by the crows and scavengers of the world.

Every creature on this world dies. Men, Animal, Plant.

Even the Gods someday will die, at Ragnarok.

Your name is what is remembered. It is glorious to be remembered fondly, even if it is only in the hearts of your family and close friends.

When you kill an animal for his meat, use as much of his body as you can,

For if you waste, remember there may be a time when you wished you had not.

Remember to thank the Gods, for they watch you and your deeds,

the All-Father gives you breath,

The Thunderer Protects,

Freyr helps with the harvest,

Ullr grants your bow strength.

In matters of the heart, trust the Goddesses.

They know what is best,

For they are the High Ones.

Always remember, the past is the past.

It is done, what is done cannot be undone. Never regret a decision,

And always remember when you make a choice that when you make it,

it cannot be changed.

Remember these things well young ones, and remember that Blood is the Price of Glory."

So speaking, they rode on for many more hours before making camp,

Lighting no fires, wrapping up in deep furs to keep themselves warm.

Erik and Ragnar, slept deeply, many new things to think about in their heads.

Dagfinnr stayed awake, knowing he could go long without the embrace of sleep.

He kept the watch, realizing that these men were still boys in many ways, and had much to be taught, and as the only one there,

He would be the teacher.