In the year of our Great King's birth, the lands seethed with turmoil and black sorcery. Great noble families rose and fell before any could know their names. Some chose to stay and fight for their birthclaims, but others dispersed, either lone survivors or those driven by other purposes. Arturio the Poitainian sellsword of the Vanir and friend of the Western Savages and the Southern Devil-men, was the latter. The steel of his boots was dusted with Vanaheim's ice, the sands of Shem, and the moss of darker places. Ever by his side was Ongwi, a Pict by birth, but destined to tramp the world and cover the eastern lands with his shadow. And with them walked the Kushite l'aarani, Mananga, a warrior so fierce and hated that his own people drove him from their jungles.
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The bitterly cold wind shrieking off the endless miles of glacier carried a swirling flurry of ice dust. It cut through Arturio's heavily padded mail, though the short, shaggy Vanir pony between his legs plodded on, heedless. Beside him, Ongwi, the Pict, loped carelessly, his shiny black bow clasped in a thickly bound hand.
"Our employers outdistance us," the Pict grunted through his furs, the urge to run off the cold strong in his bones.
"Bah," Arturio scoffed, his voice ringing in his ice-caked helm. "This mount is no better than a Tauran mule. Remind me why we took up with the Vanir."
"Their gold spends," the Pict returned. "And Aesir women are warm."
A shout went up carried to them on the brutal wind. Ongwi could barely make out the words. Through the curtain of ice, he made out their Umiank guide heading their way. The squat dark man stopped within a few paces of them, his eyes behind the thin bone goggles the only part of him visible under thick sealskin. He spat a stream words in his language, half of which Ongwi understood while the other half sounded like a respitory problem.
"They found something," he growled. "I think."
The Poitanian raked the sides of his mount, but only managed to get the beast into an uncomfortable trot, while the Pict ran on ahead with the guide. As the curtain of ice parted, they could see their Vanir 'clan' clustered around something. The score of northmen resembled bears, their red hair whipping and flapping like bloody banners. In their midst stood Mananga, the massive Kushite warrior, his steady dark-eyed gaze meeting those of his companions as they approached. A thick tiger-skin robe covered the southern savage from head to knees, while heavy fur boots were bound to his lower legs and feet.
The largest of the Vanir, Arnvahr, approached Arturio.
"We found an urn," he said in flawless Aquilonian. "Buried many years, it seems. And the seal-eater found a dagger and a recent camp off over there. The Blood Ravens are near; he's seen them holed up in a rift not a league north. By Ymir's frozen balls, we'll have them this day. I'll have you and those cannibals with my brother's men."
He gestured and Arturio could see a line of similarly sullen ponies trotting out of the ice storm; ten more northmen to bolster their ranks. Behind them to the northeast, a solid stone mountain rose above the haze, it seemingly untouched by snow and ice.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The bitterly cold wind shrieking off the endless miles of glacier carried a swirling flurry of ice dust. It cut through Arturio's heavily padded mail, though the short, shaggy Vanir pony between his legs plodded on, heedless. Beside him, Ongwi, the Pict, loped carelessly, his shiny black bow clasped in a thickly bound hand.
"Our employers outdistance us," the Pict grunted through his furs, the urge to run off the cold strong in his bones.
"Bah," Arturio scoffed, his voice ringing in his ice-caked helm. "This mount is no better than a Tauran mule. Remind me why we took up with the Vanir."
"Their gold spends," the Pict returned. "And Aesir women are warm."
A shout went up carried to them on the brutal wind. Ongwi could barely make out the words. Through the curtain of ice, he made out their Umiank guide heading their way. The squat dark man stopped within a few paces of them, his eyes behind the thin bone goggles the only part of him visible under thick sealskin. He spat a stream words in his language, half of which Ongwi understood while the other half sounded like a respitory problem.
"They found something," he growled. "I think."
The Poitanian raked the sides of his mount, but only managed to get the beast into an uncomfortable trot, while the Pict ran on ahead with the guide. As the curtain of ice parted, they could see their Vanir 'clan' clustered around something. The score of northmen resembled bears, their red hair whipping and flapping like bloody banners. In their midst stood Mananga, the massive Kushite warrior, his steady dark-eyed gaze meeting those of his companions as they approached. A thick tiger-skin robe covered the southern savage from head to knees, while heavy fur boots were bound to his lower legs and feet.
The largest of the Vanir, Arnvahr, approached Arturio.
"We found an urn," he said in flawless Aquilonian. "Buried many years, it seems. And the seal-eater found a dagger and a recent camp off over there. The Blood Ravens are near; he's seen them holed up in a rift not a league north. By Ymir's frozen balls, we'll have them this day. I'll have you and those cannibals with my brother's men."
He gestured and Arturio could see a line of similarly sullen ponies trotting out of the ice storm; ten more northmen to bolster their ranks. Behind them to the northeast, a solid stone mountain rose above the haze, it seemingly untouched by snow and ice.
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