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1. Chance Encounters
🕑 Added 2023-03-04 07:01:13 +0000 UTCThere was no privacy granted to Birger as he peered down at Einar’s corpse. His nude frame was draped with gold-lamé and undyed linen, palms painted crimson, open and facing up to the heavens. He was still given the proper wake as an Acolyte, despite his multiple transgressions.
The council and the remaining Grímsson clan surrounded Birger, but they provided no comfort.
He knew the how. Einar had taken his own life, believing he had failed in protecting Birger on the battlefield.
The stooped witch across from him pulled the linen away from Einar’s bloodless face. Birger choked back a sob. He fought to maintain his composure, but it faltered, and he braced himself on the table where his Acolyte lay. With trembling fingers, Birger touched Einar’s cheek. Waxy, cold…
Birger’s mask was slipping; his sorrow was visceral, squeezing, caught as if in a massive fist, tears brimming his eyes. He couldn’t stop them. The people behind him shifted, uncomfortable. To cry over an Acolyte. Pathetic. Birger felt the persona he had painstakingly constructed over the years dismantle as he retrieved his necklace from Einar’s slim, bruised neck. They said he had ingested poison… Birger glanced up at Hulda, but his sister’s eyes were hard, watching him with a detached sort of interest, disgust twisting her mouth. His grief was grotesque.
The black walls of the chamber bled their dark ink. Einar sank into a thick nothingness, and Birger unsheathed his sword, gaze trained on Hulda. Her eyes went wide, amused by his audacity. The torches sputtered, casting agitated shadows as he stepped over Einar’s sinking body.
“You did this,” Birger said, blue irises ablaze.
She scoffed. One long nail pointed to her nose. “Me?”
“You,” he said, teeth bared, fisting the front of her robes. He set the tip of his blade to her neck.
Her lashes fluttered, her head leaning back to expose more of her elegant neck. Goading. Do it. Do it. Do it. A cacophony—her voiceless words bouncing off the darkness surrounding them. He pushed the blade into her throat, feeling her flesh split, watching as rapture bloomed across her pale face.
Gods, this is what she wanted…
Birger opened his eyes. He was slumped against a tree trunk, chin tucked down. He shrugged off the vestiges of sleep with a big stretch.
It was midday. Warm and sunny. Idyllic. His nose went hot and he blinked back tears as he looked up at the vast beautiful sky.
If only that had been a dream.
If only he didn’t have to relive it every time he closed his damn eyes.
Birger grunted as he rose. His armor was beginning to rust; the fur of his cloak was matted, and the soles of his feet were sore from his traveling. He had managed a seamless journey through Thuringia and now found himself along the coast of the Erdek Sea, Temu territory, nearing the outskirts of some sleepy fisherman’s town. He gathered his belongings, buried his low burning fire, and pressed onwards towards town. He’d sell a piece of his armor and use the money for a night at an inn. What good was a rusting cuirass when he craved the warm comfort of a bed.
He cut his way through tall brown grass, nose scrunched up, fighting a sneeze. It came anyway, startling some birds into flight. He groaned and continued inland, towards the town, waving at a lone farmer as he trekked, and frowning when the man fearfully turned away.
The town itself wasn’t bustling, nor was it abandoned. It was just quiet. A stopping point for a longer journey. Birger had visited many of these towns. All charming, though mostly uninviting to his manner of dress and gloomy countenance. But Birger carried on, past drying fish and neatly folded piles of woven fabrics, spotting an eatery and slipping in. The doorbell chimed and an old woman wandered out. Unlike the farmer, she didn’t balk at his presence.
“For one?”
He nodded, and she gestured to a small table beside the window. He dropped his rucksack onto the dusty floorboards and squeezed himself into the cramped space, offering a smile with his eyes as the old woman handed him a well-worn menu.
“We don’t have ale here, but would you care for some tea?”
“I’d prefer tea,” he said, gruffer than he intended. He cleared his throat and tacked on a softer, “Please.”
She nodded and left him to read. Potato and leek soup, various rehydrated jerkies over humble vegetables, local fish prepared with fresh herbs, and a side of fried bread… He checked his bullion pouch. A few spits, disappointing. The woman returned with a handsome teapot—azure and cream patterned. Her hands trembled as she poured for him. Birger reached out and gently touched her wrist, and she smiled and handed over the set so he could pour instead.
“Have you decided?”
“I haven’t much to offer…” He clenched his jaw, embarrassed. The constant scraping by had taken its toll on his pride and his already shattered morale. How easy he had it back then.
“How about you do a couple of tasks for me, then? I’ve got dishes with some stubborn muck, and a roof that needs patching.”
“It will be done,” he said with a gracious nod. “And what will that buy me?”
“Sablefish.”
His mouth watered.
“With stock-braised tomatoes.”
“Please and thank you,” he said with a smile, which must have been contagious because the old woman smiled back. She took the menu and disappeared into the backroom, leaving Birger with his thoughts. He peered out of the window at the deserted street. The loneliness crept in. Funny, how he craved solitude once, but now he yearned for his friends—their leisurely soaks in the hot springs, roughhousing in the snow; the long nights of drinking and singing.
He missed Einar too. Missed his touch. The way his body felt underneath him…
No. None of that. Birger silently chastised himself as he pulled out his tattered map of Urnia. Magyar was south of Hov and somewhere near Valais, or so he was told. He ran his fingertip over a few possible paths, all of them winding and expanding far. Not that he was in any hurry. He sat back, chair creaking under his weight, still flirting with the possibility of never returning home. It’s not like they knew where he was or how far along he was… In hindsight, it was strange that they had given him this task at all. Allowed him to wander free while on probation.
Seemingly free. Something sank within him. Or maybe they just wanted him away? Or perhaps his plunder would—
The old woman set his meal down on top of his map. The tomatoes were still steaming, and the sablefish appeared succulent. A generous portion, beautifully seared. He looked up at her as if she were one of the Gods—come to personally bestow him with sustenance. With his face now full of color, Birger’s lips parted and his blue eyes sparkled, and the old woman laughed, a hoarse sound; but it was well-received by Birger’s ears.
“Don’t leave an old woman hanging,” she said, “go on, eat up.”
He did, and it was the best meal he’d had since he left Ourense. He felt himself tear up and looked away outside the window, spotting five large men as they lumbered down the main street. “It’s perfect,” he said, and sniffed. The clear pursuit of the men seized his attention, though. What was the reason behind their search?
The old woman nodded, pleased, and returned to the warm kitchen.
Birger continued his meal, savoring as he patted himself for his jotter and pencil. He pulled it out and noted: stock-braised tomatoes with a hint of cooking wine, shallot and fresh thyme. He could imagine sablefish pairing well with charred fennel and scribbled that down as well. He paused his writing, leaning back as he chewed. The men bothered him. Their aura bothered him. Their energy stood out in such a tranquil town. There was trouble in every stride, he could tell. Birger tapped the end of his pencil against the wooden table. Once. Twice. It wasn’t like he was the epitome of righteousness, but suspicion niggled at the back of his mind.
The old woman watched as the Ourensean enjoyed his meal. A strange sight, indeed. A warrior of the north, seated at her table, with a tiny notebook at his disposal while he ate. Consideration in his faraway gaze, like he was simultaneously assessing and distracted. He had the strangest eyes she’d ever seen. Blue, with a pale halo near the pupil. And his face was marred with a single vicious scar carved from his temple down to his broad jaw. But his demeanor was gentle, and the smile he offered her by way of his eyes curbed any uneasiness his gaze might elicit…
He waved the old woman over, disrupting her musing. He thanked her for the meal, and asked her for an apron and a ladder.
***
Birger quickly washed the pile of dishes and patched up the roof. He thanked the old woman for her hospitality and continued down the empty dirt road. The sun hung low in the sky and crows cawed in the distance. The smell of saltwater had wafted in from the nearby coast, cooling the air to a comfortable temperature. Birger stripped off his cuirass, gave it a half-hearted shine, and sold it to a blacksmith. He was about to close up shop, but was kind enough to buy the piece from Birger. Generous too, the bullions weighed down the hidden pouch by his side. He could now stay two nights in town and buy a substantial dinner. It was tempting.
Or he could take a bath… But Birger doubted there was a bathhouse here; no natural hot spring sources like in Ourense or Thuringia. He sighed, again, missing the everyday comforts that he had taken for granted. Maybe this inn could offer—
Birger paused by the entrance. A few posters flapped in the breeze, drawing his attention to a bulletin board. Advertisements and WANTED posters were pinned to the wood, but it was the bold art of a young woman that caught his eye.
He walked over, boots heavy on the wooden planks as he pinched the bottom of the poster and tugged it off. A very young woman, perhaps barely in her twenties. The sketch captured her expression well—one of defiance and a little amusement. Infectious. Birger‘s lips pulled to mimic hers. He’d never seen a woman on a wanted poster; actually, he hadn’t seen many wanted posters in Ourense, but they were prevalent in Urnia so far. Bounties must’ve been a lucrative practice. This girl lacked a name, but she was wanted for capture and for a sizable sum. Birger glanced around at the deserted town and folded the poster and stuffed it into his leather vambrace. He didn’t know why he did that, but he hefted his rucksack and was about to carry on inside, when two of the five men from earlier emerged from a tavern down the way. They were loud, rowdy, reveling in something. Birger’s gaze hardened as he watched them travel along further down towards some derelict buildings. The other three came out soon after, hauling a woman by her armpits, who was trying to kick at them, but the men were twice her size and appeared to have taken her by surprise.
A Temu, by the looks of her soft hide outfit and colorful boots. Her hair was black and pulled into a high horse-tail, and her earlobes were stretched with large circular ornaments. Silenced by a gag, she continued to thrash about until one of the three men grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head back, whispering all too close near her ear, prompting her to grimace around the gag.
The abuse made Birger wince—made him white-knuckle the strap of his rucksack. Heat flared inside him, burning all the way up to his face. He drew back, out of their line of sight, following their obvious trajectory, and quietly trailing behind.
***
“This is her, right?”
“Yeah, no doubt, hair’s a little different, but look at her ears.”
The five men hummed and hawed, surrounding her as she sat on the floor of an exhausted barter store. Her hands and feet were now bound, leaving her scrunched up against a large sack of grain. She rolled her eyes and then looked above them at a large hole in the ceiling, revealing a pink, sundown sky.
“Haha, she’s scared, look at her. Praying.”
She made a face like he was stupid, then flicked her gaze over to her bag and hand ax by another man’s foot.
Birger was watching through the slits of a boarded window all the while. He hadn’t any clue what was going on, but the numbers were enough to disturb him, and he wasted no time walking around to the back of the building and kicking the door clean off its old hinges. The sound startled the men, and the woman blinked and quickly made for her hand ax, throwing herself between the legs of one man. She tried to inchworm the rest of the way, bound hands reaching, but another guy stomped down onto the middle of her back, making her grunt.
The sight of which enraged Birger. He dropped his rucksack; it landed with a heavy thud, and roused up a great plume of dust, again, drawing their attention—their gazes trailing up his impressive height.
“Ugh—fuck off, brute, this one’s ours.”
Birger didn’t know what he meant by that until he got a better look at the girl. She was blinking up at him, irritation strewn across her stubby eyebrows. Her eyes said, Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? And Birger felt the corner of his upper lip twitch. The edge of the folded wanted poster in his vambrace dug into his forearm. It all made sense now.
“She belongs to no one, release her.”
The men and the woman all squinted at him, like he was hard to understand.
“Ourensian,” one of the men scoffed, “carry on, yeah?”
But another member of the band grew tired of the standoff and sprung forward, sword drawn and ready to dispatch Birger. He frowned at the sloppiness of the man and caught the wrist of his sword arm, easily, stunning him and the other men for a moment. They weren’t worth any real effort, so Birger drove a knee into his stomach, making him drop his weapon and dry heave. He let the man go to crumple pathetically.
The young woman took the opportunity. She wiggled, turned, and chomped down on her captor’s ankle, inducing a bounce and a startled yelp. Freed, she dove the rest of the way for her ax, swiftly cut her binds, and flipped onto her feet, cheeks flushed. The men’s attention was solely on her and an all-out brawl broke out. Birger took a step back, watching as she clumsily wrestled and slashed at her assailants. With a mixture of know-how and dumb luck, she managed to maim three of the men, sending them bolting out of the broken windows of the barter store.
The last man standing turned his ire towards Birger and swiped at him with a dagger. Birger stepped aside and attempted to grab his wrist. His efforts were cut short, surprised to have been hit with another quick dagger straight into his hip. He grunted at the sharp pain and his blunder. That’s what he deserved for holding back. Birger snatched the man’s neck, choking, and hefting him up with little effort. The hunter dropped his dagger to claw at Birger’s large hand.
Birger squinted, content with the look of fear in the man’s eyes. He flung him aside, as if discarding a life-size doll. The man crashed into some crates, rousing up dust and prompting his crumpled friend to scramble up and drag him out the back of the barter store.
Though shaking and out of breath, the young woman remained primed and crouched, eyes on Birger. He could practically taste her adrenaline.
But he said nothing as he gripped the hilt of the dagger lodged in his hip and yanked it out with a hiss. Birger tossed it aside, gave her a nod, and turned to limp away.
“Wait!”
He stopped, head turning, gaze casted downward.
“You—that was…” Her accent was thick and a little abrasive to Birger’s ears. Definitely Temu. She stood straight, and awkwardly squared her shoulders. “Thanks heaps, mate.”
Birger almost smiled. Instead, he pulled the wanted poster from his vambrace. He unfolded it and presented it to her. “Did you know there’s a bounty on you?”
Her mouth hung open. “No shit?” She used her thigh to wipe the blood off of her hand ax, and slipped the handle through a loop on her belt. She walked over, slowly, then confidently when Birger didn’t move. “May I?”
He handed the poster over and she assessed, clucking.
“Annoying.” She glanced up at Birger with an eyebrow raised. “You don’t wanna have a go?”
Birger shook his head no. Up close, the young woman had clearly been traveling for some time. She had a ruggedness to her… A short, stocky frame, and a deep complexion that leaned warm. Pretty—like a wildflower.
As if sensing his evaluation, she cut her eyes at him. He could feel the attention on his own face and build now, and shied away.
She broke the silence with, “What’s your name?”
“Birger Grímsson.” He pressed his palm to his hip.
“Sachie.”
He waited for her family name.
“Just Sachie.” She looked at his hand and moved closer. “Here…” She pulled his hand away and pressed her palms to his hip. “I’m no healer, but…” She closed her eyes, and Birger felt warmth pool into the wound. The shivering stone in his pocket began to vibrate.
“You’re a mage.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she huffed out a laugh. “I wish… Well… Sort of, I guess. I reckon with some more time I could call myself that.”
“And you’re a warrior.”
Sachie pursed her lips and looked up at him. “Now you're just taking the piss.”
He smiled and her cheeks flushed, which made his cheeks flush. The two looked away.
After a moment, Sachie pulled her hands away and peeked at his wound. He examined it too. It had closed up, but the ache still remained. She was certainly no healer, but she had the capacity for it. He watched as she wiped the blood off her hands with a discarded rag.
“Thank you,” he said.
She shrugged and he couldn’t help but smile again, charmed by her boyishness.
“It’s none of my business, but…” Sachie said, now rummaging throughout the barter store, “where’re you headed? Ourense is a long way from here, and judging off that armor of yours, you’re someone important.”
Astute. “Was.” He ignored the question, following her around as she lifted up dusty tarps and dug through drawers, quickly pilfering whatever took her fancy. She must’ve been wanted for thieving. Probably stole from the wrong person, someone in power. She worked efficiently, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she scoured.
“Was,” she repeated, lilting her tenor to sound like his—vas. He pinched her cheek and she whipped her head, fixing her confounded gaze on him. “Oi.”
He tilted his head. “I think you could help me,” he said, suddenly, before he could even reconsider it. “And I think I can help you.”
Her jaw went tight. “I don’t need any help.” She went defensive before he could express his doubt. “Yeah, alright, those dipsticks managed to get the upper hand on me! It was five against one—they caught me off guard. Fuckin’ barkeep didn’t even bother to help.” She took a step back, hands on her hips, clearly insulted by his agreeable nod. “You saw, I can handle myself!”
Birger continued nodding, trying to fight another smile, but he felt it in his eyes. Sachie smacked her lips.
“Like you’re some amazing warrior. That idiot managed to stick you, and thanks to me you’re healed.”
He wasn’t—not fully—he could tell, but he offered her another solemn nod.
“I think you need me more than I need you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Alright, I’ll help you, so long as you get me to the Disc.”
Birger’s eyebrows knitted at the word. “What?”
“The Disc of Nebra.”
“Haven’t heard of it.” He walked over to his rucksack and shouldered it. “Where is it?”
“South. Lothal.”
Birger hummed. Far. A deserted island as far as he knew. He threw her a curious look, but didn’t press. “I can teach you how to properly wield that.” He gestured to her ax. “If you’re willing to help me with my…quest.”
Sachie was tickled. “Your quest.” She snorted and scooped up her bag. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.” She held out her hand and he shook it, warmed by how small it felt nestled in his own.
A smidge of guilt racked Birger, then. His journey so far had been a lonely one; he craved company. Sachie, though young and wily, seemed the perfect companion. Humorous, able to handle her own, magically-inclined. All he really needed was her magic. And though she was a budding mage, he felt the potential was there. He couldn’t imagine any harm coming to her if she opened the crypt, and he’d do good on his promise and escort her to Lothal.
Perhaps they had crossed paths for a reason.
A rather large bug skittered out from under a crate, and Sachie shrieked and jumped right into Birger’s arms. He laughed for the first time in a long time.
Even if she couldn’t open the crypt, he’d do right by her.
