Path of the Northman [Solo]

[Ulric]

34th Day of Spring, 510 AV Ulric’s canoe sliced through the icy water, propelled by the strong, rhythmic strokes of his paddle, until the pitch-coated bark of its hull scraped against the shingle of the riverbank. It was an unpleasant noise. For Ulric, it evoked memories of painstaking repairs he’d made during his weeks-long flight from Ravok. Battling the current the entire way (and portaging the rest), he’d begun to see the river as a metaphor for life, full of perilous rapids and unexpected twists. In order to progress, one had to rely on both skill and the forces of fate – to no certain outcome. As much as Ulric fought, the current keep trying to drag him back – back to the scene of his crime, the storehouse where he’d murdered his betrothed and her lover. Scowling, he stepped from the canoe and studied the rapids through hooded eyes. It was rocky and treacherous, the current so swift that he’d be unable to tow the canoe from the bank without having the line snatched from his fingers. He would have to portage. How far was uncertain, but he was reasonably sure it would be a pain in the arse. It was only a matter of time until he encountered the dense, coniferous forests of the foothills, where he’d bid farewell to his battered craft and continue on foot. Somewhere across the snow-capped mountains was the city of Syliras, and beyond the exotic lands of Kalea and Cyphrus. According to alehouse scuttlebutt, the distant cities were inhabited by all manner of strange beasts and their markets filled with the pungent aroma of spices. Ulric imagined they smelled rather more like shit – not to mention unwashed bodies, rotting flesh, and urine from the tanners’ pits. After all, didn’t seas of humanity reek of humanity? You’re getting cynical, he thought, slipping on his pack, and hefted the canoe over his head. It was a narrow craft, only twelve feet from prow to stern, yet cumbersome. Every time Ulric portaged he bore close to a hundred pounds – a deadweight that made his knees ache. Worse, he wasn’t able to see very well from beneath the canoe’s bulk, and the stock of his unloaded crossbow kept bruising his thigh. It was the least of his troubles, but it was still damned annoying. Cursing under his breath, Ulric fought his way through a thicket of brambles, feeling the tiny thorns rake against his trousers. At this rate, the fabric would be in tatters by the time he reached Syliras – or rather, if he ever clapped eyes upon its gates. Ulric was confident, but he wasn’t stupid. He had hundreds of leagues of beast-infested mountains to contend with, not to mention the bands of outlaws on the other side. At the very least, he thought, I won’t have to fight them with a canoe over my head. Then again, fighting wasn’t the finest of ideas – it was rather messy, and tended to have a higher mortality rate than fleeing. Ulric, for one, didn’t care to have his skull bashed in by a crowd of starving footpads. He could manage one, perhaps two if Ovek smiled upon him, but there was always a thin line between courage and stupidity. “Run, and live to fight another day,” he panted as he shambled through the forest. It was fortunate he’d left what remained of his dignity on the blood-soaked floor of the storehouse, because the lie slipped easily from his tongue. He wasn’t so much running to fight another day as running to save his skin. 57th Day of Spring “Come on,” Ulric scowled at his line. He was crouched on the riverbank, waiting for a fat trout or pike to latch onto his lure, as dusk fell upon the forest. Nearby, a fire crackled merrily in the hollow of a sentinel pine. Ulric had bade farewell to his canoe that morning, nudging it into the current with the sole of his boot and peering solemnly at the craft while it vanished downstream. Now all that remained was the stiffness in his shoulders and lower back. Where’s a tankard of ale when you need it? Ulric thought gloomily. He flicked his wrist, using the bend in his makeshift pole to cast his lure – for what seemed the hundredth time – into an empty stretch of river. It was to no avail. He didn’t seem to be getting any bites, much less a good-sized fish. Not quite the result for which he’d hoped. Perhaps I should try shooting the damned things with my crossbow, he scowled. Strangely enough, his jape seemed to have the desired effect. In a matter of minutes, Ulric felt a tug upon his line, and then another, harder jerk – the signal to set his stiffening limbs into motion. Murmuring a prayer to Ovek, he hauled in the line, eyes widening as he beheld his wriggling catch. It was close to five pounds, scales and all. Once he put the fish out of its misery, Ulric drew his knife and began to scrape its grayish scales with practiced strokes of the blade, tracing from the tail to the gills. After rinsing the descaled fish, he sliced off the tail and cut upwards to the head, deftly removing the contents of its abdominal cavity with his fingers and removing the head and gills. Moving on, Ulric de-boned the fish and set a portion of the flesh to bake in the coals – wrapped in a mold of leaves and mud – while he sliced the rest into strips for smoking. Once, he had performed the same work on the beach, casting his youthful gaze to the seas where his father and the other fishermen cast their nets. It was almost twenty winters now, yet Ulric could still feel the spray upon his face and hear the breakers rolling onto the beach. As he waited for his dinner to cook, he speared the fish’s head with his knife and stared absently into its dead, beady eyes. “So, ever been to sea?” 62nd Day of Spring Dawn broke with Ulric tending to a crop of painful blisters. He was no stranger to walking, but it was apparent that he couldn’t sustain his torturous pace over the rock-strewn terrain. He needed to rest – for a few hours, at least, although he worried even that was too long a respite. Down to survival rations and a few wild tubers, he could already glimpse the gaunt face of starvation from the corner of his eye. At least it distracted him from his other worries, chiefly the bears that seemed to roam the foothills in ever-increasing numbers. Since leaving the river, Ulric yet to see a day pass without glimpsing a mauled tree trunk or a pile of droppings – some fresh and others old. He had taken to carrying his crossbow while he walked, hoping he’d be able to manage a shot before the razor-sharp claws swept off his head. Flee or fight, Ulric knew he had to be prepared. He slipped on his boots, wincing slightly, and hefted his crossbow. It was a composite, pull-lever model that could fell a buck at a hundred paces – dependent, of course, on its wielder’s skill. Ulric had precious little, but that was not of great consequence at close range. Slowly, he cleaned the weapon with an oiled rag and began to put himself through the paces, placing his foot into the stirrup and pulling the whipcord back until it locked over the trigger mechanism. It required a tremendous amount of strength, but then again, it wasn’t much harder than hauling nets from the sea. Ulric took pleasure in forcing the layers of wood, horn, and sinew to bend to his will, repeating the practice a dozen times until he could ready the weapon in fewer than twenty heartbeats. It wasn’t quite as powerful as the windlass models used in the south, which took nearly a minute to crank, but it got the job done. Except, of course, when the cord was sodden. How exactly, Ulric wondered, does one fight a bear in the rain? Stab it with a spear, perhaps, or better yet, a pike. It was suicide to engage the beast at close range, even for an armored knight. Oh, chain and plate could surely ward against its claws, but what of the thousand pounds of enraged bear? It was not a pleasant thought.

[Ulric]

43rd Day of Spring Night found Ulric camped at the base of a granite outcrop, a small windbreak of brush sheltering him from the chill winds that whipped through the ravine. His progress had slowed measurably as the terrain became more rugged. How many leagues had he covered that day, three? Four? If not for the occasional glimpse of mountains through the trees, Ulric might have sworn he was hiking in circles. Bringing his flute to his lips, Ulric struggled to recall the notes to a folk song he’d often heard as a child. It told of two princes and their wars, betrayals, and bawdy escapades – which, come to think of it, was the only reason he remembered the ballad in the first place. Ulric blew into the flute, eliciting a sound reminiscent of a dying animal. He doubted there was a minstrel born that would deign to raise the instrument to their lips. It was hewn of blackthorn, its five tiny holes unadorned by carvings and scrollwork, with the irritating tendency of changing pitch in the midst of a song. Nevertheless, since Ulric’s skills were admittedly terrible, he was never certain whether he or the flute was to blame. Sucking in one last, deep breath, he began to play. In the merry, merry days of old, in summer’s warmth and winter’s cold, a deadly frost o’erswept the land, with all the fury of – of – “Bollocks!” Ulric took the flute from his lips. “How the shyke does it go? All the fury of…” “Morwen’s hand?” A low, sibilant voice intruded from the shadows. Ulric leaped in alarm, his heart pounding. “Show yourself,” he cried, fumbling for his axe. He suddenly felt an urgent need to piss. “A thousand pardons,” replied the stranger, stepping from the shadows to reveal the pale, faintly translucent frame of an Inartan. “I didn’t mean to startle you. “Well, you did,” Ulric scowled as he took a closer look. “I sometimes get that way when the undead creep up on me. Makes me jumpy.” “Undead?” the Inartan’s brow furrowed. He seems… confused. “I don’t mean to startle you,” replied Ulric, “But it’s quite apparent that you’re a ghost.” He gestured at the trails of soulmist that swirled around the specter’s body. “Ah, that’s right,” the ghost peered at its ethereal hands. It still seemed rather befuddled. “I don’t suppose you’ve encountered a three-fingered Konti of late, have you?” “Exactly what do you mean by late?” Ulric asked. For all he knew, the Konti might have been dead a thousand years – or two. Spirits were seldom very lucid. “You know,” sighed the ghost, “I don’t remember. My memory has been like this for quite a while, I’m afraid, and the worst part is – it keeps getting worse. Shyke, I can’t even recall what this Konti looks like.” “Well, let’s start with what you do remember. Like your name.” “Ah, that’s an easy one. I’m called Trin by my friends, and – well,” Trin thought hard for a moment, “I suppose my enemies know me as Trin, too.” “Ulric.” “Well then, Ulric, I’m delighted to meet you,” Trin extended his hand. Ulric hurriedly took a step back. Is he petching serious? “Erm – I don’t suppose you remember why this Konti woman is so important, do you?” “Not the slightest idea,” Trin admitted. “She’s important, though. Really important,” he cocked his head. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?” “You already asked me that,” Ulric scowled. He had encountered other ghost in his lifetime, but few whose memories were so badly eroded. “Have you tried the White Isle, by any chance? It’s where most Konti make their homes.” “White Isle?” Trin’s face lit up. “I had forgotten the place. It sounds perfect for a midnight swim, or even a midnight – have you traveled there before, perchance?” “No,” Ulric replied. “I doubt the Konti would welcome me with the reek of scales and brine still upon my hands. But if you’re looking for the Isle, you should head in that direction.” He gestured to what he supposed was the east. “I see,” Trin mused. “In that case, friend Ulric, I bid you farewell – may we meet again in the afterlife.” “Ovek’s arse,” Ulric exhaled after the ghost vanished into the darkness. He allowed the axe to slip from his fingers, hoping the pantheon didn’t have any more surprises in store for him. Now how did he remember the next line of that song? Ulric frowned. Raising the flute to his lips, he tried unsuccessfully to strike the proper notes. “Bloody music,” Ulric spat, thrusting the flute into his pack. I’d better reach Syliras soon, else I’m liable to lose my mind.

[Ulric]

45th Day of Spring “Petch,” said Ulric as he peered at the sheer cliffside. It rose nearly thirty feet above the ground, winding sinuously across the wind-swept ridge. He had not expected to encounter such an obstacle. And to think I discarded my rope, Ulric scowled. While he was no climber, he might at least have scaled the lichen-encrusted rocks unencumbered and then hauled his pack and weapons to the crest. Otherwise, he was certain the deadweight would cause him to lose his grip and plummet to certain death. Surely there was another solution. Ulric peered across the highlands, munching a handful of wild blueberries as he considered his options. He was high in the mountains now, the forests receding to dense tussocks of grasses, a scattering of boulders, and stands of stunted, coniferous trees. This ridge was but one of many Ulric had to cross to reach his destination, yet it presented a singular challenge. If you can’t climb, he thought, why not fashion a ladder? It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. After all, there was an abundance of trees – although few were sufficiently high or within close proximity of the rocks. It took Ulric perhaps half an hour to find a likely candidate, a half-dead fir that extended perhaps teen to fifteen feet above the crest. Shedding his cloak and pack, he slipped into its protective coat of needles and climbed into the lattice of branches, testing whether they would support his bulk. While his hands were protected by his leather gloves, the needles prickled against the bare flesh of his neck and forearms, and his raiment was soon streaked with their sticky, redolent resin. Satisfied the supple branches would support his weight, Ulric climbed down – swiftly but cautiously – and took up his axe. He would make a v-shaped cut in the trunk so it fell against the cliff, allowing him to clamber onto the crest. But first, he needed to remove the hindrance of the low-bearing limbs. Gripping his axe in two hands, Ulric severed them with short, powerful strokes and then hacked at the trunk, slicing past its smooth, resinous bark and into the heartwood. In the north, most children were made to chop wood in preparation for axe fighting – an activity that incorporated many of its principal strokes and compound movements. Ulric’s single-edged bearded axe could be swung with one hand or two, allowing its wielder to catch an opponent’s blows on his shield while he hooked, thrust, and hacked. While not as fluid or precise as swords, axes were more effective at piercing armor, yet also required a greater mastery of distance control. Ulric could feel the sweat prickling on his back as he worked, littering the ground with pale woodchips. He was just developing a rhythm when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spied a spectral face peering through the branches. Ulric stumbled back, cursing, as Trin graced him with a wave and a smile. “Ah, friend Ulric – what a delightful surprise." “Trin?” Ulric lowered the axe, “What in Krysus’s teats are you doing here? I thought you were headed to the White Isle.” “White Isle?” the ghost pondered for a moment. “Oh yes, now I remember. I was seeking my Konti.” “Well, it’s that way,” Ulric pointed. Trin shuffled his feet, looking sheepish. “I kind of, um, keep getting lost.” “That’s something of a problem.” “Yes, well, I appear to have found a solution,” Trin said with a smile. “From now on, I’ve resolved to follow in your footsteps, in hopes of stumbling upon my quarry.” “Follow me?” Ulric scowled. “And what if I don’t want you to?” “Do you?” “I could use someone to talk to, once in a while-” “Splendid!” “-but not all the time.” “Even ghosts feel that way, to be honest. I’ll tell you what,” said Trin, “I’ll remain at a distance most of the time, so you won’t even suspect I’m there. I may not remember my right from my left, but there are many instances where a spirit might come in handy – such as scouting, for instance, or chasing off brigands.” “Tempting,” Ulric mused. He was genuinely intrigued by Trin’s words. Having a ghost for a companion was peculiar, but he could always twist the partnership to his advantage. “ I have one question, though: what’s to keep you from trying to possess me? “Possess you?” Trin gaped. “Why, I wouldn’t dream of it. Nor, for that matter, am I certain how to perform such a feat.” “For all I know, you could be lying to me.” “I could.” “But you’re not?” Ulric’s brow furrowed. “No.” “I’m not sure I believe you,” said Ulric, “but what the hell? We’ve all got to die sooner or later.” “Oh, splendid.” Trin’s face lit up. “For what it’s worth, I hope that’s not for some time. Death and rebirth can be rather monotonous.” “You don’t say,” Ulric motioned for Trin to step aside, then resumed his labor. It was not long before the fir toppled with a crack, falling – as Ulric anticipated – against the rocks. Gathering his pack and weapons, the fisherman scrambled up the makeshift ladder. It bent alarmingly the further Ulric climbed up the trunk, but he was finally able to leap, pulse racing, onto the solid rock of the crest. Ulric stood there for several minutes, peering out upon the hundreds of miles he’d traversed over the past weeks, and then turned to leave. In his mind, there was no going back.

[Ulric]

49th Day of Spring Ulric wended his way through the ranks of aspen, fir, and pine trees that populated the ravine, his mind clouded with remembrances of the past. He kept replaying the night in the storehouse in his head, yet he was no longer able summon the cold fury that guided his knife. Without the hate, Ulric felt empty, his heart burdened with a guilt that refused to subside. He had known from the start that Sigrid, his betrothed, did not love him. She had shamed him, betrayed him, forced him to become a murderer – and yet, could he not have foreseen the inevitable? Scowling, Ulric kept his eyes on the path ahead of him. It was little more a game trail, used by elk and mountain goats as they walked to and from the stream that snaked its way through the ravine. No more than a hundred yards separated the sheer, granite-studded slopes, making it a perfect chokepoint. Ulric, never the hunter, walked with a bolt in the slot of his crossbow, hoping for a clear shot. He had not seen Trin in over a day, an absence that – strangely – he was beginning to regret. Trin was hardly reliable, but he was able to move swiftly and quietly through the underbrush, acting as an extension of Ulric’s eyes and ears. After a while the fisherman halted, his nose detecting the familiar stench of shit. Fresh spoor? he wondered, a thrill of excitement pulsing down his spine. He could use a bit of fresh meat, what with his rations dwindling. It took a relatively short time to find the source, a large, noisome heap of droppings that also – upon closer inspection – reeked of rotting flesh. More bears… Ulric whirled, his mind suddenly gripped by paranoia. Although he had yet to encounter one of the beasts, he was totally, undeniably afraid. Crossbow raised, he scanned the surrounding forest for the mottled pelts, his ears straining to hear the snap of a twig – anything to alert himself of the fearsome presence. Nothing. Still uneasy, Ulric continued upon his way. He walked for perhaps an hour before the threat materialized on a slope not twenty yards distant. It was enormous, a hulking mass of fur, muscles, claws, and teeth. For a moment their eyes met, and then the beast rose onto its hind legs, emitting a fearsome growl, and charged. “Shyke!” Ulric’s hands were trembling, but he still managed to keep his wits. Shyke, shyke, shyke! Fear coursed through his body, icy and terrible, yet he managed to raise the crossbow and fire, the bolt thrumming out to struck the bear square in the chest. It halted for a moment, seeming to stare at the wound, and then resumed its charge. I’m dead, was all Ulric could think as he stumbled back. There was no time for a second shot. He fumbled for his axe, eyes widening as the bear loomed in front of him, feeling the heat of its rancid breath against his face. Ulric danced back – but not quick enough. Its massive paw swiped his chest with all the force of a smith’s hammer, the blow sending him flying half a dozen paces into the trunk of a nearby aspen. He slid to the ground, dazed, and coughed up blood, his entire body curling around the intense pain in his side. More blood trickled from a cut above one eye. It’s not supposed to end this way, he shook his head groggily. Wait – why wasn’t it ending? “Ulric!” he heard Trin’s desperate voice. Looking up, Ulric was astonished to see the ghost dancing with the bear – or at least that’s how it appeared with the forest swimming before his eyes. Is that soulmist? On closer look, Trin seemed to be whipping the beast with strands of pale smoke, herding it down the slope. Ulric struggled to his knees, his head clearing. It hurt to breathe, suggesting that he’d sustained broken ribs. If not for his hidemail armor, the bear’s claws would have torn him apart. Ulric managed to rise to his feet, snatching up his shield, and lurched in the direction of his discarded crossbow. He could see that Trin’s powers were waning, but if the ghost could hold his ground long enough for… Shyke! With an irritated swipe of its paw, the bear dispelled Trin’s defense and charged at Ulric, who instinctively threw his shield. Its metal-bound edge careened off the bear’s snout, to little effect. The beast reared up before Ulric, who ducked away from its snapping teeth. He rolled past a swipe of its claws, and staggered in the direction of his axe – teeth gritted against the pain – as Trin swept past him. Ulric could feel the adrenaline pulsing through his veins as he grasped the axe’s handle and whirled to engage the beast. His first swing connected with the bear’s paw, managing to deflect its swiping attack, although the force nearly ripped the weapon from his grasp. Staggering back, Ulric nearly tripped over an exposed root as the bear’s head thrust forward, teeth snapping. He hacked with all his might, the double-handled blow smashing into the bear’s jaw, splintering bone and tooth. Ulric could feel the bloodlust rising within him. Seemingly dazed, the bear retreated as Ulric swung wildly at its head, cutting a notch in one ear, and then futilely at its back. The beast was in full retreat now, dark blood streaming from its torn, lopsided snout as it lumbered out of reach – and then, unexpectedly, reared up as a hazy figure materialized in its path. “Strike now!” cried Trin as he directed another thread of soulmist as the bear’s face. Without thinking, Ulric hurled his axe, watching the blade spiral twice and sink deep into the base of the beast’s neck. It staggered forward a few paces, then toppled onto the earth. Holy shyke, Ulric sank to his knees, dumbstruck. He clutched his ribs, closing his eyes against the waves of agony that wracked his battered frame, and spat blood again. “It’s still alive,” said Trin. He was right; the bear’s side still rose and fell with shallow, labored breaths. “You do it,” Ulric groaned, starting to unfasten his hidemail armor. He needed to assess the damage to his ribs. Shrugging, Trin knelt before the beast and placed his spectral hand upon its snout. Averting his eyes, Ulric removed his tunic to expose his bare torso, wincing as he probed the tender flesh. I’m going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow, he thought. He had broken one, if not two ribs – wounds that would prevent him from continuing for some days. But at least he’d acquired a source of food. “Why the hell didn’t you let it leave?” Ulric peered irritably at Trin. “Well, it’s all over now, isn’t it?” the ghost’s lips curled into a smile. “Only because Ovek was in a particularly generous mood.” “Oh, I wouldn’t give him too much credit – particularly towards the end. Quite a decisive blow, wasn’t it?” Trin’s smile broadened. “You mean…” Ulric’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen the ghost interfere with his throw, but then again, he was hardly a master of the axe. “For a spirit who can barely remember his name, you seemed to be strangely concerned with recognition.” Ulric fashioning a binding for his aching ribs, and then turned his attention to the bear. It was five hundred pounds at least – enough to feed a village for days. Drawing his knife, Ulric skinned the bear and draped the hide over a nearby boulder, and then began to remove cuts of the stringy flesh. His hands were soon slick with blood. As he worked, a smile crept onto Ulric’s face. He had survived.

[Ulric]

56th Day of Spring Ulric departed the ravine in high spirits, his pack laden with dried, salted bear meat, and a necklace of claws dangling from his neck. He had spent the past week recuperating from his injuries, fashioning the bear’s pelt into a makeshift tent against the rains. While Ulric’s ribs were still not fully healed, he was loath to remain idle any longer. Trin was gone, departed two days earlier on an “errand” from which he had yet to return. Probably got himself lost, Ulric speculated. He wasn’t certain if he would see the ghost once more, but then again, Trin had a habit of showing up when you least expected him. Ahead, the terrain was steep and rocky. It was several hours before Ulric crested the ridge and peered into a wooded vale. In the distance, he glimpsed the peaks of what he supposed were the Cobalt Mountains, a sign he was nearing Syliras. “So far, so good,” grunted Ulric. He descended the slope cautiously, picking his way across the scree and eroded soil. If the uphills were hard, then descents were nigh on torturous, forcing his knees to stabilize the added weight of his pack and weapons. Ulric’s teeth were gritted in pain by the time he reached the valley, but at least the worst was over. Or so he thought. Ulric had walked for less than an hour when – abruptly – an arrow skittered across the shoulder plate of his armor, throwing him off balance. “Shyke!” he ducked behind a tree, cursing, as another embedded itself in the trunk. Ulric shed his pack and readied his crossbow, his eyes darting from side to side. For all he knew, his attacker was creeping through the trees, preparing to draw and release in one, fluid motion. Clang! A bodkin struck the boss of Ulric’s shield and shattered. He spun, hurriedly slipping a bolt into the slot of his crossbow, and fired. His bolt sped harmlessly into the forest, and Ulric nearly took an arrow in the face for his trouble. Petching archers he scowled as he scrambled for cover. A skilled bowman could fire half a dozen shafts in the time it took Ulric to ready his own weapon, placing him at a distinct disadvantage. Casting aside his crossbow, Ulric reached for his axe and shield just as a lithe, dark-skinned man darted from the undergrowth and leveled him with a flying tackle. Stunned, Ulric sprawled on the earth, pain exploding in his damaged ribs as his assailant mounted his chest and punched him twice in the face. This won't do, Ulric thought as he ate an elbow. He surged to one side, his nose bloodied, and managed to roll onto the dark-skinned man. Snarling, he butted the man in the head, only to feel nails claw at his neck and thrust into his eyes. White lights burst in Ulric’s head as he reeled back, drawing his knife. His opponent circled, bleeding heavily from a cut on his cheek, and snatched up a chunk of wood. Before Ulric could react, the man struck the knife from his hands, and clouted him full in the face. “Umph!” the blow drove Ulric to his knees, where his scrabbling fingers encountered the metal-bound edge of his shield. A second blow sent him sprawling upon his back, where he barely managed to deflect the backswing with his shield. Lashing out, Ulric was able to tangle his assailant’s legs – tripping him – and scrambled to his feet. His head still rang from the beating as the man rushed in low. However, this time Ulric was ready, bashing the man with his shield boss, while a blade ripped across his thigh. “Yaaargh!” Ulric stepped back and slashed with his shield, the edge slamming into his opponent’s cheekbone. The man staggered back, dazed, as blood spurted from his cheekbone, allowing Ulric to follow up with a knee to the bollocks. “Guurgh!” the man stabbed wildly with his blade, but Ulric sidestepped and bashed him in the face, dropping him. “Hold it right there,” a voice intruded. Ulric looked up to see a thin, hatchet-faced man sighting down the shaft of a throwing spear. “No petching fair,” Ulric said through a mouthful of blood. “He attacked me first, dammit! I was just defending myself.” Hatchet-face grinned in response, and flung his spear. Ulric stumbled back, cursing, as it skewered the fallen man’s neck, soaking the earth with blood. “I don’t give a shyke,” said the newcomer, “for excuses.” Ulric’s eyes widened, and then the world suddenly exploded in darkness. When he awoke he was bound to a tree, staring out upon three filthy, hollow-cheeked figures. “Four hundred petching mizas?” said a short, pale-eyed woman whose skin bore the tattoos of a Drykas. “How the hell did the fetcher get four hundred mizas?” “Maybe he’s a merchant,” speculated one of her companions, a boy of fourteen or fifteen. Hatchet-face spat in contempt. “Don’t be daft, lad. Out here there’s only wild dogs that need to be put from their misery.” He looked at the woman. “If you’re so curious, perhaps you should go find out.” Ulric bared his teeth as he saw his cloak draped around the man’s shoulders, fastened the with whalebone clasp that was the only remnant of his father. “Very well,” the woman stood, “I’ll take your advice, Slade, although I doubt he has any wits remaining after Rith showed him a touch of her affections.” The other woman looked up, scowling. “Don’t you petching start, Kyra. You know as well me that we’re just going to kill him anyways.” “It’s a shame, really,” piped up the boy, “Seeing as he did save us the trouble of finding and killing D’rek. I wouldn’t care to tussle with that Benshira bastard.” “Shame?” Slade reached over and boxed his ears. “Don’t you start getting soft. Besides, in case you didn’t see the javelin sticking out of his petching neck, I’m the one responsible for killing the bastard.” As he spoke, Kyra strode to Ulric and grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing him to stare her in the eye. “Who are you?” she hissed. “I’m just a fisherman,” Ulric said weakly. His skull felt like it was going to explode. “Wrong answer,” Kyra smiled, and struck him across the jaw. “Now are you going to tell me what I want to know? I could do this all day.” “Just petching kill me,” Ulric glared up at her, “Or I’ll hunt you down and make you wish you’d never been born.” “How about that?” Slade laughed. “He doesn’t know enough to be scared, the stupid petch.” Kyra scowled at him, and then her fist lashed out, rocking Ulric’s head to one side. “Well, he will in a minute,” she smiled, drawing a thin, bone-handled poignard from her belt. Ulric stared at the blade, and then into Kyra’s bright, feverish eyes, feeling a cold terror twist his insides. And then, suddenly, the weapon was ripped from the Drykas’ hand with a metallic clang, as a flight of crossbow bolts tore through the undergrowth. “Fourth wing, advance!” a voice bellowed. The reaction was instantaneous. “Sylirans!” shouted Slade, his eyes widening. He snatched up his weapons and melted into the forest with Kyra, Rith, and the boy, leaving Ulric bound to the tree. “Over here!” Ulric cried. His entire body ached from the beatings he’d taken, courtesy of this D’rek – whose lifeless body was still sprawled upon the earth – and Kyra, the bitch with the crazy eyes. He had expected to see a wing of heavily-armored knights crash through the forest, but instead there emerged a stocky, red-haired Isurian woman holding a repeating crossbow. She peered at Ulric, shaking her head. “It seems you’ve encountered a spot of trouble,” she said, a wry smile coming to her lips. “I believe that’s stating the obvious,” Ulric winced, “But thank you. A moment longer and I’d have been feeding the crows.” “A most unpleasant fate,” the Isur untied him and pushed a flask into his hands. Ulric took a draught, coughing as the fiery liquor scalded his throat. “What the petch is this?” “I wouldn’t ask if I were you,” the Isur replied. She also took a swig, and then slipped the flask back into her coat. “My name’s Ulric, by the way. I’m from the northern coast, near Ravok.” “Eydil Logaros.” “You’re a long way from Kalea,” Ulric observed. Eydil scowled at him. “What business is that of yours?” “Um, it isn’t…” Ulric said, distracted. He was still thinking of Slade wearing his cloak, of the terror he’d felt as Kyra’s fingers closed upon her dagger. “We need to go after those bastards!” he cried suddenly, rising to his feet. “We?” Eydil spat, her eyes cold and unfriendly. “I think you have me confused with someone else. I may have saved your petching skin back there, but I’m not going risk my neck just so you can settle a score.” “What if I paid you? I had three hundred mizas with me,” Ulric lied. “Help me kill them and I’ll let you keep it all.” “Three hundred?” Eydil raised an eyebrow. “How the hell did you get that much coin?” Now it was Ulric’s turn to scowl. “What’s it going to be?” “For three hundred?” Eydil thought hard for a moment, and then stared into his eyes. “All right,” she growled, “We have a deal. Just don’t expect me to weep after you get killed.” “Deal,” Ulric agreed, licking at his split lip. Soon, there would be a reckoning, and he planned to make Slade’s people suffer for what they’d done to him.

[Ulric]

57th Day of Spring Ulric and Eydil made fair time through the forest, with the Isurian frequently stopping to peer at tracks and broken twigs to ensure they were headed in the right direction. Had Ulric been alone, he would undoubtedly have lost the trail in the maze of trees. He only wished that Eydil was more of a talker. Like most Isur, she was cold and distant, speaking only from necessity. And yet, Ulric was reassured by her stolid presence. Perhaps it was the formidable crossbow at Eydil’s hip or the steel in her eyes, but walking alongside her, Ulric didn’t feel like the coward who’d slain an unarmed man and woman. He felt like a warrior. Night fell with Eydil insisting they move onwards, enlisting the aid of her night vision. Ulric, on the other hand, was blind as a bat, even in the dim moonlight. He stumbled over branches and through brambles, trying his best to shadow Eydil’s footsteps, while she pressed forward with a singular intent. She senses Slade’s band, thought Ulric, his pulse quickening. Privately, he was scared shitless of Kyra and Slade, but he had a score to settle. Over the past week Ulric had been kicked to hell and back, his body mottled with cuts and bruises, but he was still alive. You’ll pay for this, Slade… Ulric bared his teeth, envisioning his cloak draping the man’s shoulders. He would not rest until his father’s clasp was back in his possession. It was more than a trinket to him; it was the lodestone for his memories of Froyan, the hamlet where he’d spent his early childhood. Without it, Ulric felt like an anchorless ship, swept into the bleak emptiness of the sea. After several hours he spied the light of a campfire emanating through the trees, perhaps a hundred yards distant. Eydil halted, raising her crossbow, and spoke. “How would you like to do this?” “Um, well…” Ulric stammered. He didn’t have much of a head for battle tactics. Instead, Eydil seized the initiative. “You go right and I’ll go left,” she growled. “When you hear a Kriital’s call, that’s the signal to attack.” Ulric nodded. He’d never even heard of a Kriital, but he supposed the call was as distinctive as the name. Is it a bird or summat? he thought as he crept – as silently as possible – through the dense forest. His crossbow was loaded, and he could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Abruptly, Ulric heard the sound of footsteps. He took cover behind a tree, his pulse racing like a cyphrus strider over grassy plains. Had he betrayed his presence? Ulric stood motionless as the steps grew louder, until he saw Slade emerge from the trees. Slade halted not a dozen paces distant and, dropping his breeches, directed a stream of piss onto the leaves. Ulric stepped from behind the tree, smiling, and fired. His bolt took Slade full in the stomach, causing the man to stagger back several paces. “Petch me,” Slade said in shock. He stared at the bolt, and then up at Ulric, his face a picture of confusion. “How does it feel?” Ulric asked as he dropped his crossbow. He never received an answer. Stepping forward, Ulric embedded his axe in Slade’s skull, feeling the gore spatter upon his face. It was gratifying sensation. However, as shouts emanated from the camp, Ulric had little time to revel in his victory. Eydil had begun her attack. What does a petching kriital sound like? Ulric frowned as he ran through the trees. He was not the only one. Kyra stumbled into view, perhaps a score of paces to his left, and Ulric angled to meet her. He caught her full in the face with his shield, sending the woman sprawling. She tried to rise, but his boot thundered into her face, splintering teeth. “It’s my turn now, bitch!” Ulric screamed as he kicked Kyra over and over, until her face was a shattered pulp. Finally, he stepped back. “I’ll kill you,” she struggled to rise, snarling, as blood bubbled from her lips. “No, you won’t,” Ulric said, and raised his axe. After she was dead, he strode to the campfire. Rith was down, a bolt protruding from her forehead, and the boy lay next to her, shot through the thigh. Eydil leaned against a tree, seemingly unaffected by his piteous moans while she reloaded her crossbow. “Don’t kill me,” the boy pleaded. He’s so young, thought Ulric. He stared into the boy’s pale eyes, recalling another lad who’d made a similar plea to a party of raiders. “Save it for the afterlife,” Eydil said, and raised the crossbow. Ulric considered stopping her, but he couldn’t form the right words upon his tongue. Instead he turned, retching, as the Isur scattered the boy’s brains over the campsite. “Your first?” she asked. Ulric stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he shook his head. “I killed a rival, once.” “What for?” The question caught Ulric off guard, leaving him grasping for straws. Why had he killed them? He could think of many reasons, yet none seemed equal to the deed. “I just did,” he said finally. “Men,” Eydil tossed her head. “You think you’re right about everything, yet when push comes to shove, there’s not a grain of sense in your petching heads.” “Finished?” Ulric scowled. Eydil nodded, and then bent to search through Rith’s pockets. “You kill, you keep,” said the Isur. “Except, of course, for the three hundred mizas you owe me. And believe me, there’d better be three hundred petching mizas among the corpses, else I’m likely to become upset.” “It’s all there,” Ulric protested as he strode back through the trees. He felt a smile returning to his face. With his purse divided among the four outlaws, there was no way for Eydil to know that it actually contained four hundred to begin with. Ulric rifled through Slade and Kyra’s corpses, coming up with three hundred and seventy-two golden mizas and Kyra’s exquisite dagger. He returned, donning his cloak and clasp, and tossed Eydil the purse. She counted out three hundred mizas and returned the rest. “Seems they didn’t think to give the boy a share,” the Isur said by means of explanation. Then her eyes narrowed. “Give that to me,” she said, pointing to the dagger. “What happened to you kill, you keep?” Ulric stepped back, confused. “It’s Isurian steel,” Eydil glared at him. “It is not for you. Either give it here, or follow the others to the grave.” “What if I sold it to you?” Ulric said. “Wouldn’t that serve both our purposes?” He didn’t understand why Eydil was reacting this way, but he doubted she would kill him over so little as a dagger. Why are the Isur so covetous of their steel? “Fine,” Eydil said after a while. “Twenty mizas, and not a copper more.” “Thirty.” “Let me make myself perfectly clear,” Eydil’s voice was low. “I will see you dead before I hand over thirty mizas. Do we have an understanding?” “I suppose,” Ulric handed over the dagger, “I just don’t understand why you’re so worked up about it.” “No, you wouldn’t. Now shut the petch up.”

[Ulric]

65th Day of Spring Ulric approached the cluster of rude huts with caution. It was clearly abandoned; a failed outpost ringed with stone walls and trees, yet wisps of smoke still rose from a single chimney. Was there a pestilence here? Ulric wondered. If so, it had not affected the few chickens that pecked at the dirt. Neither could he discern any indication of a raid. Had the residents merely seized their possessions and fled? There was only one way to find out. Ulric strode through the square, his eyes fixed upon the smoke. He had felt strangely resolute since the slaughter in the forest, even though he hadn’t bested Kyra or Slade face to face. No, Ulric had picked his moments and struck with deadly accuracy. It was dishonorable in a knight’s eyes, perhaps, but he was beginning to realize that how good you were didn’t matter quite so much as cunning, patience, and luck. The door creaked as Ulric opened it, revealing a dim chamber that reeked faintly of wood smoke. He slipped inside, loaded crossbow in hand, only to find a familiar figure seated at the cluttered table. “Trin?” Ulric gaped. “What the petch are you doing here?” “Eating? It is midday, after all.” “But… you can’t eat!” Ulric sputtered, his eyes adjusting to the light. As taken aback as he was to encounter Trin, he was even more astonished to find him in the company of two children. Across the table, a small boy and a girl of about seven were scooping oatmeal into their mouths. Putting down her spoon, the girl stared expectantly at Ulric. “Are you here to take us away?” “I – what?” Ulric looked to Trin, his confusion growing. “There’s a monster,” added the boy. His pale, oval face was streaked with dirt, and it smelled like he hadn’t bathed in at least a month. “A monster?” Ulric’s eyes widened. He didn’t like the sound of that. “Where are your parents?” “Dead,” chirped the girl. She crammed another spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth, then added, “They’re all dead.” “The monster killed them,” the boy explained, in the same tone he’d use to ask for the salt. Dead? Ulric was confused. Why aren’t these children reacting? It’s like the souls have been sucked out of them. “Perhaps we should speak outside,” said Trin. His voice was uncharacteristically stern. Brow furrowed, Ulric followed him outside. “What the petch is going on here, Trin? What’s this monster they’re talking about?” “Ulric, they are the monster,” Trin sighed. “Don’t you see?” “See what?” Ulric asked – and then it hit him. “They’re not… Kelvic? Shyke, for the love of Ovek, don’t tell me they’re Kelvic.” “Not just any Kelvic, my friend,” Trin explained. “These young changelings can shift into direwolves – which, coincidentally, explains the village's emptiness.” “You mean they ate everyone?” “Most, from what I can tell. But it’s hardly their fault. At this age they’re unpredictable, especially since there’s nobody around to teach them. I suppose they’ve become somewhat ruthless, no matter what illusions they cultivate in their human forms.” Trin smiled. “Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about that, although I would strongly encourage you to leave.” “Or else…?” “They prefer to feast at night,” Trin explained. “I will remain here for a time, of course, to ensure they do not travel beyond this place. But I daresay our paths will cross again. “I suppose I’ll know where to find you,” Ulric said. Is it me, or does he seem more lucid than normal? “Yes, I suppose so,” Trin replied. “Farewell, friend Ulric.” “Farewell,” Ulric turned to leave, but then an impulse struck him. “Trin, who the hell are you?” “I wish I knew,” smiled the ghost. He returned inside, leaving Ulric and the sheep to contemplate the hamlet’s peculiar fate. Perhaps I shouldn’t have left home, Ulric thought as he continued down the dusty path that led to Syliras. Or could it be that my adventures are just beginning?

[Ulric]

67th Day of Spring Ulric lazed upon the sun-baked boulder, a length of fishing line wrapped around his fist, while he peered across the shimmering surface of the pond. His clothes were spread across the hot rocks to dry, exposing his pale skin to the sun, and he’d trimmed his patchy beard into something he could only describe as a disaster. Fortunately, he didn’t have to stare at it, although he felt damned silly whenever he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the waters. But at least there were no bears here, or outlaws, or vicious, fledgling Kelvic – as far as he knew. With my luck, I’ll probably get eaten by a pond monster, Ulric smiled ruefully. While his relationship with Ovek had been rather strained of late, he appreciated the god’s intercession on his behalf. Shyke, what was getting beaten to hell and back when you could’ve been tortured or had your head bitten off? Ulric brushed a hand across his ribs. They were still sore, but the bruising had faded – as had the damage to his face. It was fortunate that D’rek had run out of arrows, but petch, the little man had given him quite a beating. Perhaps that was Ovek’s way of showing his affection, although Ulric wished he’d opt for the gift of a magic sword, or even a purse of gold. What a bastard. After a few minutes, Ulric felt a tug at the end of his line. Sorry, but that’s not going to make up for it, Ovek. He teased the spool of twine, allowing the trout to struggle to the point of exhaustion, and then hauled it from the water. It was a small, bony thing, no more than a pound, but that was of little consequence. Dashing its head against the rock, Ulric tossed the fish into a depression in the rock and re-baited his line. His next catch was only slightly bigger, a white-speckled perch that nearly slithered back into the pond. It soon followed the trout into the depression – only, the trout wasn’t there. “What the petch?” Ulric scowled. Had it somehow clung to life and escaped? Well, the trout was of little consequence. As the sun dipped past its zenith, he re-baited his line a third time and eventually hauled another trout from the depths. How about that? Ulric grinned at his good fortune. However, his spirits faded when he saw the perch was missing as well. Or rather, that something – or someone – was stealing his fish. This would not do. Ulric returned his line to the water, honing his senses to their utmost, and waited. It was a good ten minutes before he heard a titter emanate from the background. He whirled, only to see a trio of miniscule, clay-like dolls making off with his fish. Are those Pycon? he gaped. Seeing they had succeeded in gaining Ulric’s attention, the dolls dropped the trout and proceeded to make rude noises at him. “Now that’s it!” Ulric rushed at them, bollocks slapping against his thighs, only to have the Pycon scatter and disappear into crevices in the rock. Ulric stood there helplessly for a moment, his nostrils flaring. He briefly considered smoking them out, but instead returned to the boulder, snarling. Unfortunately, the fun was just beginning. The Pycon emerged from their hiding places, beaming from one side of their stylized, cherubic faces to the other, and began to taunt him. “Knobby no-legs!” “Big-nosed bastard!” “Feces-face! Feces-face! Feces-face!” Now this is a new low, Ulric scowled as he turned his back on them. I’m getting bullied by a bunch of petching dolls. Are you laughing up there, Ovek? “Hairy-arsed hooligan!” “Cod-livered coward!” “Feces-face!” Well, that one’s not getting old. “Go away!” Ulric bellowed, and then, sulkily, “I’m not even listening to you!” If anything, his words only incited them to greater heights. “Pasty-faced prick! Swine! Cock breath! “Go back to shyketown you rat-hearted, piss-drinking turd!” “Mussels… custard… concubine-haired prat!” Apparently the third doll was in the midst of a struggle with her creative demons, but nevertheless, Ulric was not amused. He wished he could take a shot at them with his crossbow, but the tiny bastards would probably scamper into their warrens, or worse, he’d miss and they’d make fun of him some more. How the petch do you kill a Pycon? Ulric wondered. It seemed he couldn’t win even if he tried. Unless… Ulric’s brow furrowed. He dipped his cupped hands into the water and then turned to the dolls, which began to slink back, nervously. “Now that’s got your attention,” Ulric sneered. It was time to hand out a lesson in civility. * * * * * Ulric returned to the road in the late afternoon. Even though the water hadn’t had the desired effect upon the dolls, he had succeeded in driving them away – albeit with much cursing and gnashing of teeth. It wasn’t the most satisfying conclusion to the encounter, but at least he had escaped the epithets of “big-nose” and “feces-face.” Ahead, the Bronze Wood loomed dark and forbidding, a shadow of peril upon the horizon. Its dense ranks of trees were all that remained between him and Syliras, and then passage across the Suvan Sea to distant Kalea. Bring it on, Ovek, Ulric scowled and slipped a bolt into the slot of his crossbow. It was time to roll the dice once more.

[Harlequill]

Weighing in... XP Awarded Character: Ulric Experience: 3xp Bearded Axe, 3xp Fishing, 3xp Wilderness Survival, 2xp Heavy Crossbow, 2xp Shield, 2xp Unarmed Combat, 1xp Dagger, 1xp Flute Lore: The Hazards of Ghost Ownership, Not all Pycons are Cute, First Impression: Kelvics are Bloodthirsty Monsters, Signs of Bears, How to Portage a Canoe, Creative Ladder Creation Notes: This was a long read, but it was fun. I'm looking forward to reading more of your work. Good job in not portraying this as a walk in the park.