# Mythic Midgard (updated July 21)



## xnosipjpqmhd (May 16, 2006)

This is a story hour thread related to the Viking game I'm running. Here is part one.

It was autumn in Midgard. Although the hint of a hard winter was in the air, folk in the tiny coastal steading of Tonnsborg were excited for the coming return of the longship bearing their loved ones back home from a long summer sea voyage. But when a sail was sighted, it was not the familiar blue-and-white-striped sailcloth of the Tonnsborg ship. Instead the sail was red-and-white like that of the horse-prowed ship of Kross steading. Elders and youths gathered at the shoreline to watch. 

When the water was knee-deep, the men of the ship jumped into the cold water and hauled the ship closer to the pebble-covered beach. Ugo, a burly bald-headed man who served as the resident smith in Tonnsborg, stomped out into the shallows to greet the visitors. He was received by Trausti Haraldson, the young chieftain of Kross steading. Trausti helped Ugo aboard the ship. 

Minutes later, they disembarked from the ship with a cadre of young Kross men bearing a thick wooden post, weathered and tangled with lines and bits of tattered sailcloth. The men set down the worn post, and Trausti rolled it over with his boot, revealing the finely carved features of the ramshead prow that once guided the Tonnsborg longship. Many of the folk gathered around the spectacle gasped and turned away.

“What has happened?” asked a young runecaster named Thurven Ventas. He had gathered with the crowd expecting to see the joyous return of his father, Haarald, who was the headman of Tonnsborg and the leader of the voyage. Standing next to Thurven was the young drune Syr Sitric, whose father Estvan had also been on the ship.

“It is a dark day,” said Ugo gloomily as he pointed to the broken prow.

“It was a dark one, too, when we found this adrift,” said Trausti. “It was many miles from land in the ice-strewn seas of the east. There was no evidence of survivors.”

Ugo thanked Trausti and the other men of Kross steading before they departed.

“What will we do now without our fathers?” asked Thurven.

“You are responsible for Tonnsborg now, young grandson.” Nixa Foxtail, the wise woman of the steading, hobbled forward to rest her crooked hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“Perhaps Ugo should be our leader until I am older?”

“Do not worry, boy.” Ugo said grimly. “We will all stand or fall together.”

“What should I tell the others of the steading?”

“Tell them to roll the barrels from the alehouse,” said Ugo. “Tonight we drink to the memory of our kinsmen.” With that he turned and walk away from the gathered folk.

Thurven stared at the broken prow. “Grandmother, I thought Father was going south to trade.”

“Now is not the time to speak of it,” said Nixa. “Soon enough you will learn that Midgard is wide, but the worlds of gods and men are not so far apart as you might think.”

Later that evening, the people of Tonnsborg—young and old—were gathered around the firepits of the longhouse, toasting the loss of their loved ones. Thurven and Syr were there, drinking with Tharni, the son of Bjunhild Engmarsdottir. 

Behind them was hunched a young but massive trollborn named Clevis, who had been found in the wild by Syr’s mother, Sinya of the Silver Leaf. Clevis was raised as a bondsman of the steading, bending his back to the hard labour to earn his keep. When he was 12 he could lift more than most men twice his age. Now that he was 18, no one challenged his strength, despite his lower standing.

“We must make sure we have enough food for the winter,” advised Syr.

Thurven agreed. “We shall be in dire straits if the winter is as harsh as grandmother believes it shall be.”

A fisherman named Svein Norkvist silenced the room as he stood to pay homage to his father.

He was followed in turn by Vonda Ahonnen, who spoke fondly of a brave warrior who was her husband. “He wished only to die by the side of his chieftain on a noble quest, and it has come to pass.” 

Across the firepit, an angry youth named Olaf Ogaard, who had been drinking ale and scowling at Thurven, could stand it no longer. He jumped up and yelled, “My father died on a fool’s errand, and that fool was Haarald Ventas.” He raised his mug, sloshing ale on those nearby. “Good riddance to the Fool Chief!”

Thurven stood. “You will regret speaking so rashly.”

“I do not regret speaking the truth.”

Everyone watched the two youths stare each other down. Syr and Tharni stood up. Clevis watched with interest. 

“You will take back your words of dishonour against my father.”

“Make me,” said Olaf, pushing up the sleeves of his tunic. As a fisherman, he had built thick arms from hauling nets of fish every day. His brothers Folke and Gude stood behind him, eyeing Syr, Tharni, and Clevis to ensure there was no interference.

Thurven glowered at the fisherman.

“Just you and me, runecaster,” said Olaf, egging him on. “Not your friends or your half-troll lackey.” Then he punched Thurven in the nose.

Thurven fought back, but brawling was not one of his talents. Olaf landed a couple of hard blows before Thurven realized he would have to resort to other means to win. Just as he reached into his pouch for one of his runestones, Olaf hunched over and lifted one of Thurven’s legs, toppling him to the floor with a thud. Luckily Thurven managed to hang onto the stone. 

Syr clutched his ash cudgel, watching the other two Ogaard brothers to make sure they didn’t jump into the fight as well. Clevis, on the other hand, watched the fight with a tinge of anticipation. He obviously wanted to bash some heads, but knew that to do so would earn him the distrust of the rest of the steading. 

Olaf dropped on top of Thurven and began pounding on him with his fists. Thurven, still holding the runestone in his palm, managed to slip his arm under his opponent’s. He pressed the runestone to Olaf’s neck and spoke the secret name of the rune that had been inscribed on it. A white hoarfrost crept across the flesh of Olaf’s throat and jaw, radiating out from the point where Thurven had touched him.

Olaf winced and and batted Thurven’s hand away, clutching his neck in pain. His eyes grew wide when he felt the cold frost on his skin. He stood and stepped back from the runecaster. Thurven sat up.

“One day your witchery won’t be there to save you, mother’s boy.” Olaf stormed off. 

Olaf’s brother Folke gave Thurven an apologetic nod, as if he for one considered the matter settled. As far as he was concerned, his hotheaded brother had gotten his comeuppance.

Syr relaxed his guard and leaned over Thurven. The runecaster’s face was bloodied, but nothing looked broken. Syr wiped away the blood, and Clevis lifted Thurven back to the stool where he had sat before the fight began. “Thank you,” Thurven managed.

Tharni filled another drinking horn, passed it to the young runecaster, then raised his own. “To your first test of arms,” he said, and drank.

When the fight had been forgotten and all other toasts had been made, Ugo appeared, seemingly from nowhere, with an intricately decorated silver urn in his hand. He strode confidently to the open barrel of mead, plunged the urn beneath the froth, and pulled it out again full of drink. Everyone stopped as they watched him drink from it. This was the oath-urn. Once spoken, vows made upon it could not be undone.

Ugo did not bother to wipe the dripping mead from his beard as he bellowed, “I will climb to Mount Frost and return with the body of the great horned bear that terrorizes the valleys below.” In a more restrained voice, he added, “This I swear upon the oath-urn.”

No one spoke. Only the crackling of the fires could be heard in the room. 

“Hear, hear!” cried Svein. Others joined in to praise the oath that had been made.

Thurven glanced at Syr, then stood and took the urn from Ugo, drank, and spoke. “You shall not do this alone, for I too will hunt the great horny—”

“Horned.”

“—the great horned bear of Mount Frost.”

Another round of cheers arose to fill the longhouse.

Clevis drank from the silver urn next. “I will bash the head of the great horned bear, and we will all eat to live.” He reveled in the glory showered upon him for the solemn oath he had just taken, and then passed the urn to Syr without thinking.

Reluctantly, Syr rose and took the urn. He looked around. “I will aid you all in your quest.” That was good enough for everyone else in the room, and they cheered him too.

The next morning, Thurven wondered what he had gotten himself into. He collected enough food to last for two weeks and piled it onto Ugo’s small cart while the smith harnessed a pony to pull it.

Clevis hefted an enormous great axe built for a troll rather than a man.

Syr returned to the steading after having spent the night at his mother’s farm. “My father had no snares for large game, but--”

“I do.” Ugo jabbed his spear at an imaginary opponent by way of explanation.

“I have divined the fate of our hunt,” continued Syr.

“What is it?” asked Thurven.

“When I stirred the still pool, I saw shadows and blood. We will find the bear, and blood will be spilt in its lair. Beyond this knowledge, however, the waters of Yggdrasil keep their secrets.”

“A good omen, then,” said Tharni, leaning against a nearby wall. Everyone else looked at him. “What? I’ll toss arrows at a bear, but I’m not stupid enough to make an oath over it.” He grinned.

When nothing else was left to do, the group set out into the highlands toward Mount Frost towering above them several miles to their east. The wind was brisk and cold, but the journey was not unpleasant.

After an hour or two of walking, Thurven spotted something. “See there.” He pointed to a hilltop half a mile to the north. “A beast stands there watching us. It is furred in white and the size of a horse.” But the others could not make it out. “There were two, but now they’ve gone. Winter worgs, I’d say.”

Soon they entered a thick forest of evergreens and walked through it for an hour. The slope they climbed gradually increased until, when they reached the treeline, they saw ahead of them a rock-strewn incline punctuated here and there with scrub brush and stunted trees. A blanket of snow was waiting for them further up.

“The bear hides in a den on the south facing,” explained Ugo, “a bowshot or two from the treeline.”

Now the going was difficult for the pony, for the slope was steeper and the cart wheels continually struck stones. Ugo and Clevis pushed the cart to keep the pony going. Suddenly, Ugo called out and fell to the ground. Syr strode over to him. Thurven and Tharni looked around for signs of attackers.

“My foot,” said Ugo. “I turned it on a rock.”

Syr examined the smith’s ankle, then asked Thurven and Thani to take off the man’s boot. The back of Ugo’s foot was swollen.

“He won’t be able to walk on this for at least a day or two,” judged Syr.

“We will take you back to town,” said Thurven.

“No,” insisted Ugo stubbornly. “Clevis can carry me up the mountain. I will have that bear.”

“It is true Clevis could carry you, but the cart can go no further unless he pushes it, and he cannot do both.”

Ugo thought for a moment. “You go on. Lead the bear back here, and I will ambush it.”

Thurven and Clevis rolled their eyes at the ridiculous plan. “We will scout ahead, but I do not think we will lead the bear back here.”

Syr held up his hand to silence Thurven, and winked. “I think your plan is a good one, Ugo,” he told the smith. “You wait for us at the treeline. We will return soon.”

The four youths helped Ugo find a spot among the trees, and left the pony and cart with him. Then they resumed their march up the mountainside, heading around to the south facing. Soon after entering the snow, they spotted a number of clefts and caves on the south side of the mountain. The largest one was perhaps ten feet high and five feet wide. It seemed to have a natural ledge as its porch. The young explorers approached warily.

Clevis turned to the others. “You wait here. I will sneak in.” No one argued with him. He approached the cave entrance, peering in beneath the icicles that hung from the top of the tunnel. He didn’t see anything inside the cave, so the trollborn warrior slung his great axe over his shoulder and drew his saxe. Then crouching down to get under the icicles, he entered the blackness.

Moments later there was a cry of alarm and a thud, then silence. The others ducked as they rushed into the dark cave to see what was happening. There in the darkness was an enormous white bear with sharp horns jutting from its head and forearms. Beneath it was the crumbled form of Clevis the trollborn, a pool of blood gathering around him. As Thurven approached, the great bear leaned down and bit out the throat of the fallen warrior. 

Thurvis tried desperately to shoo the bear away from Clevis’ body while Tharni snuck past and Syr checked Clevis for any sign of life. It seemed Clevis was hopelessly gone. 

While Thurven occupied the bear’s attention by bravely accepting vicious wounds, Tharni snuck up behind it and slid his scramsaxe into the bear’s back. It bellowed and turn on him, slashing him with a jagged-horned forearm. Syr hurled himself into the fray as well.

After several seconds of bitter struggle with the bear, the three young men were exhausted and had suffered grave injuries. Syr fell to his knees and began to crawl out of the cave. Then Thurven began stumbling backwards, no longer able to lift his weapon due to the terrible wounds he had received. Tharni, also bleeding profusely from his gut and left shoulder, had fallen to the ground as well and was unable to escape the cave before the bear caught him. Syr and Thurven could only listen to his dying screams echoing from the cave as they crawled out into the snow and tumbled down the slope.

The two badly injured youths somehow managed to make their way back to the treeline where Ugo waited for them. They recounted the whole story, and Ugo led them on the grueling journey home.

Over the next few days, the winds from the northwest turned chill. The bite of winter was on its way. Ugo and Svein planted the broken ramshead prow in the stony soil beside the boathouse as a tribute to those who never returned.

Syr and Thurven still bore the painful wounds and scars they earned from the bear, but when they learned that Ugo had met up with a dvergar named Bjourn Anhaeymsson, who expressed an interest in helping to slay the bear and explore its cave, they agreed to return to the mountain as well. 

The four men sat in the longhouse discussing their plans. They decided to hang a large noose above the outside of the cave and lure the bear into it. The rope would be secured to the ground, and the bear slain at leisure.

“Sounds like a good plan,” said a young man learning against the door post as he dragged the point of an arrow across a whetstone. “Care to have a hunter along?” The man introduced himself as Marsem Trembor, who was journeying south for the winter.

Soon the group of five set out for Mt. Frost. A light flurry of snow was in the air.

Once he reached the cave site, Thurven gathered up the rope, iron stake, and hammer and carefully began to climb the steep slope above the cave. But before he could proceed any further, the massive white bear came lumbering out of the cave.

Ugo rushed forward with his spear, whipping himself into a battle frenzy as he attacked. Bjourn manoeuvred to Ugo’s left. Marsem held back and waited for a clean shot. Thurven and Syr looked on, as terrifying memories of the dark cave came rushing back to them.

Bjourn and Ugo stood toe-to-toe with the bear, who battered them both with its massive claws. But the final thrust of Ugo’s spear laid the bear to rest.

As the others entered the cave to drag out the rotting, half-eaten bodies of Clevis and Tharni, Ugo began stripping and gutting the bear’s carcass. 

“Look here,” called Bjourn from the back of the cave. It was too dark for anyone else to see, but once a fire had been made and Thurven’s small stone lamp was brought, the others saw that the back of the cavern had been worked by tools into a corridor. At the end of the corridor was a long-disused door. “I will go through it.”

“I will go with you,” said Marsem, “but not today. You need rest and strength. You have travelled far today and fought a fierce battle. In any case, we haven’t had a good meal, and fresh meat lies waiting just outside for us.” The others agreed. Once the bodies of Clevis and Tharni were properly disposed of and the bear’s fur and meat had been loaded on the cart, the five adventurers roasted bits of bear flesh for their evening meal. They shared stories and lore. 

“What is that mark on your hand?” asked Marsem.

Thurven held up his right hand. Into the flesh of the back of his hand had been carved—or burned, Thurven wasn’t sure--a rune. “The thorn rune has always been there. I know not why.”

Ugo said he had no interest in going deeper under the mountain, and he planned to haul the bear carcass back to the steading on the next day.

Watches were kept during the night. By morning, the group awoke to find that a fresh blanket of snow had descended on the mountain and the valley below it. Marsem was already up and standing near the door. The others gathered their gear and approached. 

Thurven was first into the room, bearing his lamp in front of him. In its flickering light, he saw that the corridor ahead turned both left and right. He noticed an old wooden box around the left-hand corner and moved to open it. 

That’s when the snow goblins attacked.

As the first one ran toward him, Thurven quickly threw his lamp onto the ground, spilling fish oil on the cold stone floor in a sudden blaze that leapt up between himself and the enemy. Meanwhile, from the right-hand corridor, three more goblins streamed forward to attack Thurven, Bjourn, and Marsem. 

Bjourn fell, as the battle axe of a snow goblin split his helmet in two. The goblin then chopped the head off the fallen body of the dvergar, perhaps to be sure he was dead and perhaps out of sheer spite.

Syr reluctantly stepped forward to try to stem the tide. He, too, fell to the cruel axe blades of the small but terrifying creatures.

Somehow in the confusion, Marsem ended up on the other side of the goblins, and he disappeared into the darkness beyond.

Thurven was left alone in the dark hall. Three slavering snow goblins surrounded him, while a fourth looked on. Desperately, he pushed against one of the goblins who had cut off his retreat from the cave. The little creature stumbled backwards over the body of the slain dvergar. Then the embattled runecaster leapt over friend and foe alike to flee madly from the carnage behind him.

TO BE CONTINUED...


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## xnosipjpqmhd (Jun 15, 2006)

*Unearthing the Past*

Thurven stumbled out of the cave to find a gentle snow coming down. He fled down the steep mountainside, eventually catching up with Ugo. The smith piled the wounded runecaster atop his cart, next to the carcass of the mighty bear, and hauled him back to Tonnsborg. That night, while Thurven recovered in the headman’s house, Ugo spoke with Hals and Cleaver in the long house. He offered them the floor of the long house for the night, if they earn their keep by chopping firewood the next day.

The next morning outside the long house, Hals and Cleaver prepared to chop firewood, but Thurven walked up and offered to share breakfast with them. 

Before any lengthy introductions could be made, the trio saw a middle-aged man with a heavy fur cloak and an axe approach Tonnsborg, accompanied by a woman in a white cloak. The pair conversed briefly, then the woman pointed the man toward Thurven. 

“I would have words with the headman of Tonnsborg,” said the stranger.

“I am the headman’s son,” answered Thurven. “My father was lost at sea.” 

Thurven went on to break the news of Haraald’s death to the stranger, who introduced himself as Hrothgarn Goranthsson. Hrothgarn explained that his brother Hegobard was on the ship with Haraald and has most likely perished as well.

“What news do you have of a dvergar wanderer named Bjourn Anhaeymsson?” asked Hrothgarn.

“A dwarf named Bjourn? He was with me beneath Mount Frost,” Thurven’s face was grim, “but he was slain by huldr folk.” The young runecaster then recounted the tale of the door in the bear cave and of the bloody ambush in the tunnels beyond. Thurven declared that that the evil must be rooted out, and that he sought help. 

Hrothgarn agreed to lend his aid to the cause. “My friend, Bjourn, sought the Crypt of the Trickster Prince, which is said to lie in ancient dvergar halls. Some scrap of knowledge may have led him to seek the prince’s grave within the halls beneath the mountain of which you speak. Can you lead me there?”

“I am glad to have your help in rooting out the evil and avenging the deaths of friends,” said Thurven. “and I will lead you to those dark halls if you are an enemy of the huldr.”

 “Dvergar halls, eh?” said Hals. “I have heard of the dwarves’ love of gold and jewels. Perhaps the huldr have uncovered some of these lost treasures?” Hals joined the expedition with the glint of gold in his eye.

“Cleaver cut huldr,” grunted the trollborn, indicating his willingness to join the quest.

Hrothgarn handed each of the others a tiny stone urn stoppered with wood. “These healing tonics were prepared by the local drune. We may have need of them.”

The four heroes collected the rest of their supplies and headed off into the wilderness. As they stomped through the forests and heaths toward Mount Frost, a light snow continued to fall on them, and a chill wind blew from the north. Once out of the woods and past the snowline, the heroes reached the cave and entered cautiously. As they approached the chamber where Thurven said the ambush occurred, two white-maned huldr sprung forward to attack. Behind them was a figure nocking an arrow to his bowstring. 

Cleaver did not hesitate. The trollborn warrior charged forward 30 feet right past the small huldr folk to the archer, who loosed his arrow and tried to flee through an adjacent door. Cleaver cut him in half with his broad axe before he could take two steps. The other three heroes cornered and killed the two huldr axe-bearers. Then two spear-wielding huldr appeared from a hallway beyond. Cleaver slew one of them, and the other turned and fled back up the hallway from where he had come.

The heroes regrouped. While Cleaver stood guard in the hall, Thurven examined the body of the archer. “It is the one who called himself Marsem,” he said. Among the archer’s things were a pouch of six runestones, a couple handfuls of gold coins. Thurven also took the man’s dagger, bow and arrows.

Meanwhile Hals searched through the various boxes and barrels stacked in the room, finding some water, ale, food, and other supplies. Hals tested the half-full cask of ale and found it not as good as he had hoped. The other heroes refilled their skins in the barrel of water.

“Is this not the chamber wherein Bjourn fell?” asked Hrothgarn.

“It is,” confirmed Thurven, “but the bodies of he and my friend, Syr, must have been moved.”

Next the heroes found a small stone box. Inscribed on the outside were the words, “Herein lie the six keys of Anhaeym Sternhelm.” 

“So it’s true then,” whispered Hrothgarn.

Thurven opened the box. The cloth-lined interior was empty but for the faint outlines of six large keys no longer there. He closed the box, and the heroes joined up with Cleaver on the other side of the door.

Thirty feet beyond the door, the hallway met another at an intersection lit by a sputtering torch in a sconce secured to the wall at waist height. Thurven grabbed the torch. The passage to the right appeared to be choked with rubble. Cleaver tested it gingerly to be sure. To the left, the heroes saw that the ten-foot-wide hallway turned left again in the distance. Ahead of the heroes, however, stood another very old door, this one barred on the outside. Cleaver lifted the bar, and Hals pushed the door open, his axe at the ready. A terrible stench wafted out into the hall. Thurven shone his light in, and Hals entered cautiously. 

Suddenly Hals was beset by a slavering, fang-toothed figure with grey, rotting flesh. The heroes battled the relentless creature and eventually hacked it to the ground, turning it into a twitching pile of body parts. Whatever the creature was, it seemed to have been imprisoned in the room; there were no other exits.

Stepping further into the room, Thurven and Hals found two stone coffers. Inside were bones strewn amid ornate battle axes of good quality. They tested the axes, and each took one axe before leaving. Though old, the axes were not as decrepit and brittle as Hals had expected.

As the heroes travelled down the hallway that had been to their left, they suddenly heard the clinking of metal on metal from up ahead. Cleaver moved forward swiftly as the others brought up the rear. Without hesitation, the trollborn turned the corner, threw open another door, and stepped bravely into the room beyond.

With battle cries and shrieks, a troupe of huldr folk surrounded Cleaver, jabbing at him with their spears. The trollborn tried muscling his way forward, but the warriors kept the business ends of their weapons trained on him, stopping his advance. Hacking back at them, Cleaver eventually carved a path forward, dropping first one huldr and then another, while his allies spilled into the room to help. Facing off against one enemy, Hals swung his great axe with such ferocity that he broke the shaft. Hrothgarn and Thurven moved quickly to mop up the remaining huldr.

In the flickering torchlight, the heroes noticed some unusual engineering work in the centre of the room. A wooden platform hung on chains from a pulley; it seemed to be suspended above a large square hole in the floor. 

Cleaver lifted the platform and peered down into the darkness below. “Someone down hole,” he grunted. 

“Then let them stay there.” Thurven slipped the blade of Marsem’s dagger through the chains to keep them from moving. “I say we rest a while in this chamber, where our foes cannot come up and surprise us.”

The weary heroes began to bind their wounds. Cleaver and Thurven swallowed the healing remedies given them by Hrothgarn, and everyone refreshed themselves with food, water, and ale.

Standing watch over the others, Hals lamented his broken great axe, vowing to have it repaired when he got the chance. He carefully wrapped the axe head in some spare cloth strips and stowed it among his things. Then he hefted the battle axe he found earlier and swung it a few times to get the feel of it.

Before drifting off to sleep, Thurven examined the runestones he found on Marsem’s body. He recognized three of them, but the other three were a mystery. He awoke a little later when the chains jangled. There was a pause, and then they jangled again. Someone or something was tugging on them from below, but the dagger held them steady. He tried to get back to sleep, but nightmares of hoary huldr folk kept him up.

After several hours of rest, the heroes stood and made ready to continue. They switched from their sputtering torch to a fresh one, then clambered aboard the rickety platform. Cleaver held the chains while Thurven removed the blade that held them. Then the trollborn began lowering the platform through the hole in the floor. 

The pit into which the heroes lowered themselves widened into a chamber. Torchlight shone on a bare room with a single hall leading out of it. 

Hrothgarn held up his hand for Cleaver to stop lowering the chains. “We had best not go deeper until we know what lies on this level.”

Thurven inserted Marsem’s dagger into the links of the chain again to hold the platform still, and everyone stepped off. Cleaver led the way down the hall. At a darkened intersection, only one of the halls—the left one—had been cleared of rubble. There stood an archway, it’s ancient wooden door pulled from its hinges. The heroes approached cautiously.

The doorway opened into a room similar in appearance to the previous ones encountered, though quite a bit less tidy. Large mounds of rubble were piled haphazardly in the room, mostly on the left side. As Hals walked into the gloomy room, a figure sprang from behind the rubble and shot a muscled tentacle out of the blackness toward Hals. Hals called out and stepped forward to bring his battle axe against the creature. More tentacles lashed back at him. The other heroes rushed forward to fight as well. Soon the shadowy being lay dead in a pool of its own blood.

The heroes caught their breath as they looked quickly around to make sure there were no more foes. Seeing nothing else of interest in the chamber, they retraced their steps to the suspended platform and climbed back onto it. 

Thurven released the dagger, and Cleaver lowered them deeper into the pit. Another chamber opened up around them, also empty and with a single hall leading out of it. This time, however, their foe awaited them.

Standing in the hall was a white-maned huldr wearing an ill-fitting suit of rusty chain mail. He swung his axe and bellowed in anger and desperation, but they were not impressed. Battle was joined, and the huldr was hewn down.

The hallway the creature had been guarding ended at another hall going left and right. At the end of the right-hand hallway was a door, and the heroes approached it.

Cleaver stepped up to the door and knocked it open with a single swift kick. Beyond the door was a slightly longer room than the others through which they had come. About 40 feet away stood a man clad in furs and tightly bound cloth leggings. His fur-trimmed cap was ringed with horns, giving the impression of a small barbaric crown. In his hand was an ironshod cudgel.

“Well,” began the stranger, but before any other words were out of the man’s mouth, Cleaver had charged across the room and buried his broad axe between the man’s neck and left shoulder. The axe bit deep, shearing bone and sinew alike. The man crumpled to the floor in a bloody heap, his cudgel clattering to the ground beside him.

Cleaver stood grim and silent over the dead body. Hrothgarn kept watch at the entrance, while Hals and Thurven approached. Hals crouched beside the body while the runecaster searched it. 

The first thing they found was a roll of vellum marked with runes.

“They make no sense,” said Hals.

“That is where you are wrong,” said Thurven. “These are no ordinary runes. They hold some power, though I cannot say exactly what.”

Hals turned his attention to the ironshod cudgel. “This stout pole the man held also is etched with runes near one end.” He examined the thick ash staff and read the runes on it: “Aldin Trembor / master of beasts / son of Lestvar the Black Shaman.” He passed it to Thurven. 

By this time, Cleaver had relieved Hrothgarn from his guard post near the door, and the older man wandered over to the middle of the room to see what Hals and Thurven had found. “Look,” he said, pointing to the floor of the chamber. The blood pouring from the dead man’s body had pooled in a slight circular depression in the centre of the room. From there it had been channeled into almost imperceptible grooves cut into the stones that made up the floor; a circular groove surrounded the central puddle of blood, and six straight grooves radiated outward from there. “Is it a rune of some sort?”

“None that I know,” replied Thurven, standing up to get a better look.

Hals pulled a wax tablet from the dead man’s satchel. He read the words on it: “My son seek out / the crypt of the / trickster prince / but beware of all / that lie within / instruct angmesh to / await you but send / maartan back with / the headmans prize.”

“What is the headman’s prize?” wondered Thurven aloud.

Hals shrugged. “I thought you were the headman.”

“It sounds as if Bjourn wasn’t the only one searching out the trickster prince,” said Hrothgarn.

“What do you know about the Trickster Prince?” asked Thurven.

“Bjourn’s father Anhaeym was a friend of Selgaard Frostrager.”

“My grandfather Selgaard?”

“Aye,” said Hrothgarn. “Both were mighty warriors in the service of a greater good, along with my father Goranth, among others. And both Selgaard and Anhaeym were slain in their quest against the white wyrm, Stormfrost, minion of the dreaded Ice Tyrant.” 

The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, and the tone of the warrior’s voice made a chill run down Thurven’s spine. Hals glanced about, half-expecting to see enemies springing from the darkness.

Hrothgarn continued. “I am two score years old, and in the days when I was born, a band of heroes defended our people against the ravages of the Ice Tyrant and his evil armies. My father told me that Anhaeym was a prince of the dvergar folk, and he was also called the Trickster Prince. When he was slain, Zhamyl the Runecaster laid him to rest in a secret crypt where his spirit might guard something called the Rimerune Keystone, in order that the servitors of the Ice Tyrant should not get hold of it.”

The blood on the floor had now coagulated and nearly frozen, so cold was the air in the room.

“Am I the only one who notices the fell chill in this room?” asked Hals, shivering. His breath was visible in the cold air.

TO BE CONTINUED…


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