Escape from Valn

 

Part 7

Warrior from the North

          The din of conversation was a dull roar as the giant Northman ordered a stein of porter- a thick brown ale rumored to hail from somewhere far north of Gottland and the Great Northern Forest- along with a hearty meal of venison stew and a bit of sweetbread. A thin cloud of pipe smoke hung lazily in the air, forming a light haze whose scent mingled with the aroma of fresh food cooking in the kitchen, as well as the smell of both fresh and stale ale, adding the sights and sounds that were the life of The Oaken Tankard. Ortuck, the tavern’s owner and general barkeep, mopped the fresh water from the sides of a wooden tankard, filling it with the rich, dark, and foamy brew before handing it to the big warrior, who merely nodded and handed him a fistful of coins to pay for his expenses, then turned and started toward an empty seat in the distance. Without warning, Falgor was forced to side-step to avoid colliding with a drunken patron who had staggered up to the bar for a refill. In the sudden, yet graceful evasion, the Engalean warrior inadvertently brushed against one of the nearby patrons- a traveling mage who had found the brief intrusion of his personal space to be outright offensive to his very being.

          “Confounded oafs,” he spat as he whipped about to see what had drawn him out of his concentration at such a dire time; “can’t a body get a moment’s peace without some brainless idiot knocking him about?” The mage turned to see the mighty Northman eyeing him dangerously and quickly bit his tongue to keep matters from getting any worse, though it did little to quell his ire. Fortunately, the barbarian only glared at him for a moment before he turned to continue on his way through the crowd.

          The skald’s enchanted melody swept over Falgor as he weaved through the mounting throng of patrons, soothing his travel worn body as he ducked, swayed, and dodged those who came too close for comfort while making his way across The Oaken Tankard’s common room to a place at a table, along the wall. He stepped aside, narrowly evading a pair of giggling maidens- too enraptured in their conversation to watch where they were going- only to find himself eye-to-eye with a fiery-haired, surly looking dwarf who was just settling into his place at the bar. The two gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, locked in a contest of wills to which neither was willing to yield, earning both dwarf and barbarian a grudging respect for one another. Each accepting the indomitable spirit that burned within the other; they broke away with a mutual nod of approval that defined no amount of weakness in either warrior.

          As Falgor ventured past the dwarf, his gaze fell upon an elven woodsman whose calm demeanor seemed completely out of place among his rowdy companions. The elf looked up from his mug to see him approaching and offered a nod of respect, to which he responded in kind; then continued on toward the vacant seat merely paces away. He could feel the eyes of various onlookers watching him as he passed, some marveling at his size, others wondering where he had come from, or what he was about, but most of those who watched him pass, found themselves drawn to the massive waraxe that was strapped to the Engalean warrior’s back, but if the constant stares of the persistent crowd of gawkers bothered him at all, it didn’t show. Falgor the Fierce- as he was more commonly known among his folk- just continued on his way, leaving them to wonder.

          Falgor reached up and drew the wolf-faced hood back, allowing it to fall upon his massive shoulders as he settled into a vacant seat along the wall, at a table, near the far end of the bar. He released a heavy sigh, thankful to be off of his feet and the long road, if only for the evening. It had been more than two months since he’d left his desolate homeland on a journey south, to the lands of Ursal, where he sought to track down the raiders who had invaded his village, butchered his people, and had taken the healthiest, strongest youths who would fetch a fine price in the underground slave markets, leaving the rest for dead. The mighty barbarian shook his long brown mane free of the hood, allowing it to fall carelessly about his face and shoulders, revealing the chiseled features of the warrior’s grim visage. He raised the oaken stein to his lips and drank deeply, draining the contents in a few short gulps, with only a small amount escaping the sides to dribble down his chin, dampening his forked and braided goatee. As he savored the last drop of ale, Falgor lowered the mug and relaxed, letting the soft haunting melody sink into his weary soul. The music eased his mind, relieved his sore muscles, and revitalized his spirit. He glanced up from his mug to see a young barmaid ambling his way through the crowd, bearing a tray of food in one hand and a pitcher of frothy brown ale in the other. Golden tresses tumbled over her shoulders in a glimmering cascade of purest amber as she leaned over to set both the tray and the pitcher upon the table. Without the slightest hesitation, she set to work deftly placing a bowl of steaming hot venison stew, a chunk of dark brown sweetbread, and a spoon of finely worked and turned iron before the mighty Engale, who said not a word, but offered a solemn nod and a grim smile of appreciation as she ministered to his needs- an act that garnered the big man a flirtatious smile from the young lass as she filled his stein to a thick, foamy head, of rich brown beer. With a toss of her long, deep golden hair, and a swirl of her skirt, the young barmaid was off, scampering back toward the kitchen- ushered away by the beck and call of the growing crowd of patrons.

          Falgor’s eyes followed the maiden until she vanished from sight amid The Oaken Tankard’s many customers, leaving him with the fleeting memory of her lush amber locks dancing seductively along her back. He allowed his gaze to linger in her general direction a moment longer, taking note that the skald had started a new tune that danced and bounced its way along the crowded tavern, bolstering the morale of all who heard its enrapturing melody, then he turned his attention to the piping hot meal whose very aroma tantalized his senses, reminding him of how hungry he really was. The mighty Northman offered a solemn word of thanks to the gods of his people and dug in, wincing slightly as the first few spoonfuls of hot stew stung his mouth. After a moment or so, he grew accustomed to the heat of the robust meal as he washed it all down with a few deep swigs of thick rich porter. As the warmth and satisfaction of the meal spread throughout his body, refreshing him, Falgor gave in to his thoughts and the dawdling melody that danced and swirled in the air, sending him on a recollective journey of the last few weeks.

          Falgor’s search for the invaders that ravaged his land had led him south, through the land of Norwin, and into the highlands of the Holmgrad Mountains where he found the charred remains of what had once been villages, much like his own, among the lands of the barbarians and Engalean settlers of the region. The people had been scattered and what few survivors remained behind were desperate, hungry, and highly distrusting of outsiders- an obstacle that brought Falgor into conflict with many of the warriors of the more defensive survivors. He had no quarrel with these desperate men, yet he could not avoid the confrontation if he was to get any information from the elders. Although the blood of a fierce warrior coursed through the mighty barbarian’s veins, Falgor was also driven by honor, so to keep from leaving the victimized people utterly defenseless, he only beat the various challengers into submission, before pursuing the elders for the insight on the invaders who raided their villages. Once the elders realized that Falgor was of no threat to them, they confided in him the horrors of the invading army and how they butchered everyone who could not seek refuge, taking only the healthy and strong children while putting the others to the sword. When the mighty warrior inquired about which way the invaders had gone, the survivors would always point southward, sending him further into the lands of Ursal.

          Within a week, the signs of the invaders’ passing had diminished, and the trail grew cold, yet determined to find the murderers of his folk, Falgor trudged onward. He soon left the Holmgrad Mountains, exiting just below a peak known to locals as Unklar’s Horn, and traversed the Feador Plains until he came to the shores of the Inner Sea. From there he followed the coastline until he had to deviate to get around a particularly nasty swampland known to travelers as The Drab Sinks. The unexpected detour led the mighty Northman to a seldom used road which took him further south and east until it met with a well used, if poorly tended, merchants’ road that led him south once more, away from the Inner Sea and into the lands of Burneviste before snaking eastward to skirt the edges of a vast stretch of untamed wild lands referred to by some of the other travelers as The Wilds. By his third day within the borders of the untamed lands of The Wilds, the icy cold bite of the bitter winter weather had begun to catch up with the Northman, letting him know that he needed to find a place to rest and wait out the coming storm. Later that day, Falgor had come to a fork in the road, bearing a crude signpost which detailed several locations that lay down each particular path. It was that very signpost that led Falgor to the town of Valn and The Oaken Tankard, where he now sat, pondering where the road might take him next in his search.

          Falgor took a draw from his stoup of ale and rolled it around in his mouth, considering his place and the gathering storm outside. No stranger to the harsh winter weather, the mighty Northman knew that he had a few days to think about his next move- for now, though, he just wanted to eat, drink, and rest.

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