King Of The North (Book 3) (11 page)

"What is this?" he asked, swirling the liquid around in the large cup.

"Chicory," one of them replied. "It is a root, dried and boiled. It takes some getting used to, but it works wonders on your tired, cold bones."

"It is very good," Farouk said. "But I find it hard to believe that anything would grow here in this cold."

The Northmen chuckled. "It grows in the lowlands during the summer," another said. "We harvest it, and keep it all winter."

Farouk reached for his belt, where he kept a pouch of various herbs. He withdrew a smaller pouch filled with cinnamon and another filled with sugar cane. He poured a small amount of each into his cup and offered the Northmen a sample as well. Only one of them was willing to try it. The large man took a sip of the mixture, smacked his lips, and smiled.

"That's good," he said. "Something to sweeten it up for the children. Or the women, perhaps."

Farouk chuckled at the implication, but took it in stride. He had, after all, grown up in a somewhat refined household, unlike these men, who were never exposed to the luxuries of spices. But, Farouk had no regrets. "To each his own," he said.

The Druid sipped his beverage as the others continued their morning conversation. Despite the barbaric reputation the Northman had in the eyes of more civilized people, Farouk noticed that their concerns were practically the same. Their priorities were maintaining a good food supply, keeping their shelter in good repair, and tracking the movements of the local fauna. Not a word was spoken of plunder, war, or enmity with other tribes. They were focused on survival, and the defense of their community.

After finishing his drink, Farouk stood and made his way to the exit for a look at the morning sky. As he stepped outside, he felt a slight chill, but the wind was gentle. The air was crisp, refreshing, and smelled of packed snow and pine. It was a wonderful smell that he could definitely get used to. Eirenoch was pleasant, but the air there had a more pungent, earthy smell. Here, the air was more sterile due to the cold, and the only scents were those of the nearby trees, and the campfire that roared in the center of the small village.

As he made his way across the encampment, children brushed by him, laughing and playing their games. He smiled, happy to see their smiling faces in such troubling times. The womenfolk were also about, tending to their chores and scolding their children when they disobeyed. Men tended the smokers that circled the fire, and their sons watched, eager to learn their secrets.

The east side of the quarry was open, and dropped off in a gentle slope to the valley below. Farouk stood at the edge, looking down at the beautiful, peaceful landscape. He noticed that some older boys were sliding down the hill on makeshift sleds, and others were hurling snowballs at each other from behind packed walls of snow. It was a beautiful sight that filled the Druid with a sense of peace.

As he looked around at the camp from the edge of the embankment, he noticed an old woman staring at him from inside her tent. The flap was open, and she sat cross legged behind a small fire. Around the tent were several rocks carved with runic symbols, and odd, stick figurines hung from loops on the tent's exterior. Farouk guessed she was the tribe's shaman, Silka's mother. He nodded at her in greeting, and after several seconds, she smiled back at him. Then, she lifted her hand, beckoning him to approach.

He hesitated for a moment, then, looking around, he humbly went to her tent, ducking inside. Without saying a word, she motioned for him to sit by the fire. He obliged, curious as to her reasons for wanting to see him. Finally, she spoke.

"Welcome, Farouk al-Fayid," she said. "The Dragon told me you would come."

Surprised, Farouk swallowed, stammering, "The Dragon?" he repeated. "You speak to The Dragon?"

The shaman laughed. "Yes, child," she said. "I speak to all of the Firstborn, and the Great Mother."

"Then you know why I am here," He surmised.

"Indeed, I do," she replied.

Farouk studied her for a moment. She did not seem as old as he would have guessed. She was in her late sixties, perhaps. Her hair was dirty blonde, only slightly gray, and was tied neatly in several braids that hung loose about her shoulders. Her clothing, like Silka's, was mostly furs, and dark leather, but she also wore a linen gown underneath, black and tattered. Upon her head was a crown of wolf's fangs, interlaced with a brown leather strip, and tied on the side near her temple.

"What is your name?" Farouk asked her.

"I am Yrsa," she replied. "I am the shaman of this tribe. Silka is my daughter, and, one day, she will take my place."

"Since you already know my name," Farouk said, "I can only tell you that I am a Druid."

Yrsa smiled widely. "I know this," she said. "And I know your story. I know how you went to Eirenoch as an enemy, and came to serve The Dragon, instead. I know how the Druid Jodocus took you under his wing, and I know how the Great Mother took notice of your power."

Farouk said nothing, merely nodding as she spoke. She continued.

"I know how greatly your power has grown, and I know why the Great Mother chose you."

"Why?"

"She saw in you something that even Jodocus did not see. She saw your power to believe, and, even greater, your power to
not
believe."

"I do not understand," Farouk protested.

"Reality," she explained. "Reality is all in the mind. The Great Mother knows this; all of the great spirits know this. She saw your power; the power you possess to change reality as you see fit."

Farouk shook his head. This conversation was much like the one he had with Silka the night before. Secretly, he hoped this time the conversation wouldn't go the same route as it did with her. Though he did not dislike Yrsa, he had no desire to "share her reality."

The shaman laughed. "I know what is going on in your head, young man," she chuckled. "But I am an old woman. You need not worry."

Farouk hung his head low, slightly embarrassed at his own thoughts. "Forgive me," he said, snickering.

Yrsa laughed loudly, reaching over to touch Farouk's shoulder. He looked up, seeing her eyes staring straight into his, into his very soul, it seemed. "Silka needed you," she said. "Our tribe needed you. And you came."

"Needed me?" Farouk repeated. "For what?"

"The blood of the Earth grows thin," she said. "Very few of us are left who can conjure the energies of the Firstborn and the Great Mother. You carry that blood, and now, it will be strengthened in our tribe. Silka will bring forth a new generation. Your Druidic powers will flow freely through her descendants, as her shamanic powers do."

"She seduced me...to..."

"Bear your child," the shaman finished.

Farouk nodded, pursing his lips. "So," he said, sadly, "she did not..."

"Oh yes," the shaman explained. "She wanted to be with you. Do not think that. It was just a pleasant surprise for her that the blood came to her carried in such a handsome and charming basket."

Farouk laughed. "Thank you," he said, looking up at her. She was smiling again. It was the smile of a mother-in-law.

"When you reach your destination, do not believe what you see. That is the key to your success. Make things the way you want them to be. The way that brings the solution."

"I understand, I think."

Yrsa leaned back, smiling. "You do not," she said. "But you will."

Farouk began to respond when the two of them heard children screaming from outside. They both jumped to their feet, Farouk running outside to investigate. Other men poured out of the mead hall, weapons in hand.

The boys who had been playing on the hill were running back up to the camp, dragging the younger children with them. Bjorn appeared, running for the children to help them up.

"What is it, children?" he asked.

One of the older boys stepped forward, his face frozen in terror. He turned, pointing to the bottom of the hill. "There was a man down there," he said. "A strange man who looked like a monster."

Bjorn stood up, staring down the slope to find the mystery man. He saw nothing.

"Where was he?" he demanded.

"Near the rocks," the boy replied, sulking. "On the other side."

Farouk joined the gathering, kneeling down to listen in to the conversation. "What did this man look like?" he asked.

The boy turned to him. "He was pale, like a ghost," he said. "Bald, with black eyes, and black, tattered robes."

"Did he wear any symbols?" Farouk asked.

The boy shook his head. "Only a silver belt, with a skull for a buckle."

Farouk stood, leaning in closer to Bjorn to speak privately. "The woman and children must be hidden," he warned. "If this stranger is what I think he is, the tribe is in great danger. You must get them out."

Yrsa approached, leaning on her staff for support. She glared at Bjorn, her pointed finger raised at him. "Do as Farouk says," she hissed. "Evil has come."

"What is this madness?" Bjorn demanded. "What danger can one man be against an entire village?"

"The village must be abandoned," Farouk said. "Get the women and children out. We will investigate. If he is harmless, then all is well. If not, the women and children will be safe."

Bjorn pursed his lips in thought. He was torn between standing his ground and ensuring the survival of his people. If he could get them out, then they could make their way to Falgraf, Cannuck's castle. If the stranger turned out to be harmless, then they would have fled for nothing.

"He is not one man," Yrsa warned. "Not a man at all. Lead the people to safety."

Bjorn nodded, turning to the boys. "Gather your things, wake your mothers. Head to Falgraf. The Great Jarl will protect you."

The boys nodded, scrambling off to warn the villagers. Bjorn held his weapon up, urging the warriors to gather around him. Some women gathered as well, armed and just as determined as their male counterparts.

"There are still women here," Farouk said.

"They are not women," Bjorn explained. "They are warriors. We do not distinguish."

Farouk nodded in understanding. Yrsa smiled at him one more time before turning to join the evacuation. He briefly saw Silka as she emerged from the mead hall. She looked at him with worry, placing her hand over her heart to convey her feelings. Farouk returned the gesture, wishing her a safe journey.

"Where are the rest of the men?" Bjorn asked. Another man whistled loudly, beckoning the remaining warriors to make ready and join the gathering.

When they had arrived, Farouk counted twenty five warriors in all, both men and women. It was a small number compared to what they would possibly encounter. But he knew in his heart that they would fight to the death to ensure that their women and children escaped to safety.

"Farouk," Bjorn addressed him. "You carry a sword."

"Yes," he replied.

"Then I ask you to join us. Not only as a Druid, but as a warrior."

"I am with you, my friend." Farouk assured him.

"Good," Bjorn said. Then, signaling the warriors, he stepped down over the slope. "Let's go."

The warriors crept down the slope, being careful not to slide or loosen any snow. They made their way down silently, stopping only to locate the clump of rocks in the distance. It was there the boys said the stranger had been seen, and that was their destination.

At the bottom of the hill, Bjorn signaled the men to stop, and beckoned Farouk to follow him. They moved slowly, staying a good distance from the rocks, gradually seeing more and more of the area behind them. Then, Bjorn stopped. Farouk moved behind him to see what had startled him.

Nearly fifty yards away, a single, dark figure stood menacingly, his head bent, and his arms out in a hostile stance. He was dressed in a tight fitting tunic that tapered out into a warrior's kilt. It was tattered and rotten, and its torn strips flapped in the wind. He was as white as the snow around him, and his horrifying black eyes glared at the two men as they studied him. Farouk gasped.

"Necromancer," he whispered.

"What is a necromancer?" Bjorn asked, gripping his sword tightly.

"A sorcerer that has power over the dead."

"What is he doing?"

Farouk shook his head. "I do not know," he replied. "But he will not be alone. Necromancers travel with companies of soldiers."

Bjorn turned to his men, motioning for his archer to join them. The older man came, crouching down beside them and eyeing the mysterious figure who stood motionless.

"What is that?" the archer asked.

"A necromancer," Bjorn replied. "Take him down."

"Aim for his heart," Farouk advised. "He has one, despite his nature."

The archer bent back his bow, taking careful aim, compensating for the wind that suddenly rose up around them. Before he could loose his arrow, however, the snow began to drift out of control, obscuring the shadowy target in its cloudy depths.

"Damn it," Bjorn cursed.

"He did it," Farouk said. "Prepare yourselves. Call the rest of your men."