Prologue and 1st chapter, Draft 1

A Chapter by Haakonwulf

First draft of our story, in which we learn some of the history of Andrastafell and meet our.....hero?

I am old now, my hair is grey and my back is bent with the weight of my years, soon I will be called to join the army of our great mother as she battles the darkness. So, It is time for me to tell my tale, not the embellished sagas of the poets, this is the gritty, painful truth. Poets seem to forget the gut wrenching terror of battle, the smell of s**t, grown men calling for their mothers. Oh yes, bards always seem to forget that a wounded soldier will first cry for his friends, his Hersir perhaps, yet inevitably, they scream for their mother. The glory of battle, it is so easy for someone who has never experienced it to sing about, or even some general to boast about even as he pisses himself in the rear ranks while his men face the horror of the shieldwall. I have killed men. I have watched them die, from a boy of no-more than sixteen who tried to flee from me and my men only to be skewered like a pig, to an old greybeard forced into the ranks by a desperate lord. They too cried for their mothers in those last moments of agony. Does that sound glorious to you?

For more than a century I have ruled this land and as the Jarl I consider it my duty to know it as intimately as a lover. A great mountain range lies to the north, from which the river Lindus flows south, growing with every mile until the torrent reaches the lowlands where it curves eastwards around the city, Andrastafell, my home. The great citadel towers over the surrounding countryside, the great tiered structure rising like a mountain built by the hands of man. Surrounding it is the city itself. Where the citadel soars, the city sprawls. It extends out from the citadels base, stone giving way to wood and thatch and as such it is ever changing as the timber and thatch rots and is replaced. The most reliable way to find ones way around in the city streets is by smell, smoke and coal you are near the barracks as the nearby forges constantly at work to supply arms for the ever expanding militia, if you need the markets you need only follow pungent smell of spices and if one is near the docks well, I'll just leave that to your imagination. The docks obviously lie on the riverbank, at this point the river is wide enough for dozens of large ships to moor on the quayside. Traders from across the ocean to the east, iron from the mines of Kjarheim to the north and grain from the great plains to the west and south, all find their way to these docks and the great marketplace. From here it flows east through plains, woodland and moor to the vast eastern ocean which few of my people cross. Seldom does an Andrastan leave the realm, only a handful have crossed the ocean to the wide world beyond, I have, though that is a story for another time.

I love my land, every pebble in the river, every ice capped mountain and every blade of grass. I fought for it, I suffered for it, I burned for it, and I dragged it kicking and screaming back to its ancient glory. It has cost me so much. Friends, family who either fell beside me or succumbed to age and yet, when I walk through the city and ride across the land I see my people living free, contented lives. This is what my companions and I bled for and so few of them got to witness. You see, it was not always like this, and so begins my story.

Ch1.

We begin over a century and a half ago when I was a young man, in my twentieth year, all balls, no brains. The story does not begin with me however, it begins with my father, Jarl Aidan Fireblood. I never knew him, or my mother for that matter though many who did have remarked on my resemblance to the long-dead Jarl, tall, silver eyed, and terrible when the battle-joy takes us. Though when I smile, I am told I become my mother, for Jarl Aidan rarely smiled, save when in a fight, but I digress. For a thousand years my ancestors have ruled here, ever since my namesake, Haakon Andrastason, laid the first stones of the citadel. They were dark times, the demon Belial and his minions ruled the night and so the men and women who would become the Andrastans cowered once the sun had set, fearful of the horrors of the dark. Songs are still sung of how the Goddess gifted him the sword, Aife, the fire of Andrasta which even now hangs at my hip. Our children are still taught of how he rallied the broken people under his banner and lead them into battle against this unholy horde of eldritch horrors, of how they fell before him and Aife like wheat before the scythe and at long last, after days of hard fighting, he cast the demon into the Abyss. His blood and the blood of Andrasta runs strong in my people, To this day the Haakonim are longer lived than any other race of man as even the lowliest Andrastan can expect to see eighty, while those of the royal line have been known to live for two centuries, though at present, at a hundred and seventy three, I feel myself weakening. Now, down the generations of Haakonim the Jarl has always been the greatest of them, usually elected by the other members of the family. However occasionally one has risen by simply forcing the others into submission though without exception, these Jarls suffered most inglorious ends. This archaic system has led to numerous civil wars, but, as the Goddess says, chaos keeps us strong, it forces us to grow for constant peace makes us content and lazy, stagnant and ripe for conquest. We are a race of warriors, tied together with bonds of blood and honour and we are proud of it. At the time just before our story's opening, my family numbered some fifty individuals, the line of succession seemed secure, but if it was there would be no story would there? For you see there was a rat within the citadel, a powerful man, Sigmund. The usurper we called him. He had spent years weakening the family line through poison, knives in the dark, reducing their number until only a handful of Haakonim remained. My father realised too late as the usurper laid his final trap. Under the autumn leaves of the Cernunien forest, the last of the known Haakonim disappeared. The usurper Sigmund, was now the most powerful man in the kingdom the Jarl in all but name.

This is where I come in. I lived far from the citadel, on the eastern coast in a small town named Sheetoft. As I have said I was a young man, and as young men do, I thought with my prick, rather than my mind. This was evidenced by what I was doing on this night. I was in a tavern by the quayside, The Gryphon, a rough and ready place to be sure, a nest of drunks, w****s and other such unsavory characters. I loved it. I had lived there for as long as I could remember, with Markus the landlord and I remember that man well, for he is hard to forget. He was tall, even for an Andrastan, nearly seven feet I seem to recall, a mass of packed muscle and even nearing sixty years old, still a warrior in his prime, still a force to be reckoned with despite his growing gut and missing eye. Oh yes, rumour had it, he was once a soldier, one of the legendary Sons of Andrasta, the Jarls elite guard. Me, I never believed the stories, to me Markus was simply a giant man with a big belly and an even bigger axe but above all, the closest thing to a father I ever had. On this night Markus was closing up and I, well I was sat in the corner, with a pretty young girl with fiery red hair perched upon my lap. Her name was Reanna and I shall have her in my thoughts until Ragnarok, when the skies burn and the land is swallowed by the sea. Even as my sight fades, I still see her in my mind clear as day.

The tavern was almost empty apart from a trio of cloaked strangers in the opposite corner. Such groups where not uncommon as Sheetoft was a port town after all, on the eastern coast where the river Lindus flows into the sea so mercenaries were not an uncommon sight. What was truly strange about these people was that under their cloaks they had very fine leather armor and their weapons, bows and short swords, were of the very highest quality. What's more, their leader was by far the meekest looking of them, the man's head barely reaching my chest. Still, they had paid and caused no trouble, indeed if there was trouble I would've rather had them on our side for in spite of the meager stature of the three they seemed to radiate an unspoken menace. The way they moved with an almost inhuman grace, their boots never made a sound on the wooden boards of the tavern floor, these three men, with their fine weapons and armor hidden beneath midnight cloaks, looked deadly. Not that I cared much, no-one could take Markus in a fight and besides, I had a pretty girl on my lap who was giggling. I cannot remember the joke though I remember that laugh, I used to love making people laugh. In truth I still do, my hall is always filled with laughter as a hall should be, too many of my Thegns have such jumped up opinions of themselves, a hall is a lords home and as such should be filled with laughter and revelry. I had one of my rare days off this night, for the tavern had been quiet as it so often was in winter, so I had spent my day in pursuit of Reanna, a venture which appeared to be baring fruit. I was happy, I was home.

As so often happens in these stories, my content little life was about to he shattered. For at that precise moment, the tavern doors burst open. In strode a group of soldiers, seven of the s**t stinking b******s. I call them soldiers, they would have been flogged raw had they presented themselves to me thus. Their armor was a disgrace, unkempt and filthy. The tips of their spears were rusty and their cloaks tatty. The leader, a grimy man in his middle years, who seemed to think himself a Hersir strode towards Markus. His face split into a disgusting grin to show his cracked, yellow teeth. “Ello mate.” the friendly greeting contrasted with his stance, he stood as though he owned the place while his men behind him stood pigeon chested with their hands resting on their weapons. The display did not impress Markus, who towered over the would be Hersir.

“Can I help you?” Markus rested his hands on the bar, both of his eyes, one deep blue, the other milky white, bored into the scruffy excuse for a man.

“Me and my mates here are thirsty. Get us a drink. And then I want a word,” Markus raised an eyebrow, the one over his good eye, at this as he wasn't so used to being ordered around, I have personally seen him throw a man clear through the window for lack of manners.

“Lets have the word first, before I decide I want to serve you.” The Hersir kept his sickening smile, I could almost smell his foul breath from my place in the corner. I began to wonder if he was brave or stupid, I had never seen Markus lose a fight and though the soldiers had numbers on their side, they did not know about the battle axe that rested under the bar, hidden just out of sight.

“we are looking for someone, A fella with silver eyes,”

From the corner my eyes, which are the colour of polished steel, flicked up. My eyes had been a source of curiosity for no-one had ever seen anything like them, they were a curiosity at worst, a way to catch a ladies eye at best. I was rather fond of them for that. Markus lent forwards on the bar, I knew his hands gripped the handle of that mighty axe, just out of sight.

“No-one like that here. And would you look at that, I'm all out of ale. I guess you're gonna have to move on.”

“I think,” the the grubby soldier began to fondle their weapons “we'll 'ave a look round first, I hope for yer sake old man that yer tellin' the truth”

I was used to drunken fools having kicked more than a couple out myself but I knew even then, this was different. What could soldiers, however shabby, want with me? As I shifted Reanna off my knee she whispered in my ear. “You think they're looking for you?” just then one of the soldiers began to approach us, I looked at him, our eyes locked and he reached for his sword. Everything gets blurry here as memories of battle so often do. I remember leaping up and hitting him hard right between the eyes which were open wide in shock even as his nose shattered under my knuckles. I brought my left fist up, taking the surprised man on the jaw and he went down like a sack of shite, spitting teeth. My knuckles throbbed with pain yet still I reached for the discarded blade, an unpolished, ill balanced lump of steel and readied for combat.

In hindsight It was a damned fool thing to do. Id had no training beyond bar room brawling and a couple of hard lessons from Markus, I had no armor and an unfamiliar sword. Like I have said, more balls the brains. Fortunately for me I had bought Markus enough time to grab his axe and vault the bar, it is truly strange to watch someone so massive move so quickly though my train of thought was interrupted as the grimy Hersir's skull was split in two before the others had turned around, It is odd when you first see a man die for you become acutely aware of just what we are, lumps of meat that can be hacked and sliced like any other, it was a sobering realisation that my skull could be cleaved just as easily and it would be on the floor, my brains and blood staining the floorboards. There we stood, the five soldiers between us. Markus would last longer than me in all likelihood, he might take a couple with him, but the simple fact was we were two against five and we would have been butchered if not for a second stroke of luck. In a flurry of motion the three strangers moved, their cloaks flew open and knives short at the soldiers. Three knives, three dead men. The last two did the sensible thing and tried to flee but one of the strangers, the diminutive leader, was faster. With a dagger in each hand he ran at them, one turned and took the blade under his chin, I remember the foul squelching sound as the warrior twisted the blade and yanked it free. The second soldier had almost made it to the door, when his pursuer leapt and brought the second dagger down, sinking it deep into the fleeing man's neck. It was beautiful, the technique, flawless, graceful, even Markus was awed at the ease of the slaughter. Our shock only doubled when the hood came down, to show the fiercest woman I would ever know in my life.

A raven, I decided. She looked like a raven. Her hair was jet black much the same as mine, yet while mine was tied in a simple knot at the nape of my neck hers flowed in one tight braid, reaching the small of her back. Her predatory appearance came mostly from her nose, a beak of a nose, unbroken, I would later discover it was only thus because no-one had managed to break it, though many had tried. She turned on me, her eyes piercing me. I wont lie. I was shaking. As she came forward my eyes could not leave hers, not even to glance at the blades held so casually in her hands, I could not even muster the courage to lift my sword.

“So, this is the last of the Haakonim,” Her voice, I would grow to loathe that voice. I would spend years trying to emulate its commanding tone though I could never quite master her hint of condescension. “Shut your mouth. You look like a f*****g idiot,”

I was stood, mouth agape, Haakonim? I knew of the royal family as do all Andrastans, I also knew of their tragic “Accident” as the usurper called it.

“You're mistaken...” Markus began, only to be interrupted by the raptor woman.

“Quiet Markus, You know as well as I do, its the eyes,” She came closer and although she was a head shorter than me her sheer presence seemed to tower over mine.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to speak

“Who.....Who're you?” I did my best to sound brave for Reanna was stood behind me, and I would be damned to Niflheim before I showed weakness in-front of her. I stuttered. The raven laughed. Markus sat, bringing a hand to his head and massaging his temples.

“This is Maria” He spoke up, earning a look from the woman that could have cut him in half as sure as he had the soldier “apologies, this is Lady Shadowborn. She's your sister Haakon”

My world shattered in that moment.