Shardfall, The Shardheld Saga, #1

CHAPTER 3 - MESSENGER

Tuuri led his horse down the ship's gangway in a state of happy anticipation. Sleep on, good people; here comes the herald of change. His hand touched the pieces of parchment inside his tunic. Here were the orders that would set Jarl Rannar's great plan into motion.

He paused on the small wooden strip that served as a quay and looked around. So this is Helmshaven. It doesn't look much. Compared to Westhal, his lord's town, this northernmost harbor was a collection of hovels. Little houses, looking as if they had been cobbled together from driftwood, with thatched roofs covered in gull shit. At least the chickens were inside in this weather. Not the pigs, though, and Tuuri waited impatiently while a fat sow moved aside to let him pass.

It started to snow, the flakes drowning in the slush that covered the streets. He walked his horse out of town, careful to avoid the largest mud puddles. The guard at the gate gave him a cursory glance, his attention on the pieces of wood he was feeding to his little brazier. Tuuri raised his hand in greeting, mounted and went into the forest, whistling.

Tuuri was well satisfied with life. He was a Jarl's messenger at eighteen, with a whole future of great deeds before him. A future befitting one who was a Fynni on his father's side. His gloved fingers touched the engraved sky symbol on his left cheek. It was a tribal mark his father had given him on his eighth name day and he wore it with pride. Fynni were the original people of the Ostmark, living there long before the Nords came. They were a nation of tribes, ruled by powerful Tarkynni, leading in work and war, and the sa'amans talking to the Gods. Tuuri was proud to be part of that ancient people.

He smiled. The orders he carried were meant for a man of his kin. The Tarkynn of a Fynni warband. "Don't look for him, he'll find you," the Jarl said. Tuuri sighed. He knew all the stories told of Fynni deeds, and he longed for the chance to meet them, to be acknowledged as kin.

The snowfall thickened, soft flakes covering his wolf skin coat with a white layer. Tuuri shook them out of his dark curls, before pulling his hood over his head. The weather brought memories of his life in the Ostmark, where the snow never stopped falling, a land where the rivers were near permanently frozen and only the hardiest survived childhood. There he was born, to go boldly where others would falter.

His horse's tenseness warned him at the same moment his ears caught the faint crackling in the frozen underbrush. Wolves. Tuuri grinned. Poor beasts, they are in for a surprise. He raised his hands and sang the ancient bonding words his father taught him. For a moment, all was still. The wolves had stopped and stared at him. Tuuri saw their ribs through their shaggy pelts. Something shimmered on the path and a bear appeared, large as the rider and his horse. It gave Tuuri a dirty glance, irritated by his summons.

My pardon for summoning you, Sha'akaii my friend. I am in need of your great strength. His totem bear growled and moved towards the wolves. Their pack leader howled in frustration. Silent as they'd come, the beasts disappeared into the dark. Tuuri let out a deep sigh.

Sha'akaii gave the young man a chilling look. Be more careful next time. With a speed unbelievable for something so large, he chased after the wolves.

Have a nice hunt, my friend, thought Tuuri as he set his horse to walking.

Hours later, even his sturdy horse started to tire. Her pace slowed to a crawl and her head hung low in exaggerated weariness. 'Yes, I know,' said Tuuri with a grin. 'I'll find us a nice place to sleep.' At a spot were the snow had piled high, he halted. He fed his horse some grain and took a bite of bread and cheese from his saddlebags. Whistling softly, he dug himself a shallow hole in the snow, pulled his cloak around him and went to sleep.