Dros trudged through the woods, his breaths clutching in his chest, through the slush, the mudbaths birthed from the storm, with Gondyr’s body sprawled across his upper back. Sweat dripped from his nose, his eyes, or were they from the rain? There was no time to think about that. With every stride, torn twigs and brambles pricked away at his feet. His bare, splintered, blistered feet, now throbbing with pus and blood, with the rags of what once were leather shoes clasped around his ankle. No matter, he would get Gondyr to safety.
They were leaving, after all.
“Mother’ll cure you, Gon,” Dros shouted through his huffing and puffing. “I’m sure of it. It’s nothing, you’re all right.” There was no response. “You’re all right!” Dros cried out.
His knees buckled before he could say another word, and sent him tumbling face-first to the mud, the weight of Gondyr’s body crushing him.
The sludge tightened around his body, thick and slimy. Its cold embrace grappled onto him, cloying and clammy. Dros tried to wrestle but was overwhelmed with ease. His furs clung to his chest, and his shoulders, taut over his skin. He jerked his head up, coughing, gasping for air, but Gondyr’s weight permitted a very brief window for air. The mudbaths pulled him back in, quick and unforgiving…but their grasp loosened in a blink.
His mouth gaped to suck the air…and it was easy. Air flowed smoothly into his lungs like a river stream. The ground was soft but dry and warm to the touch. His furs were dry, too. He floated to his feet as to lift a feather. The forest was silent and dark. Endless lanes of trees lead everywhere and nowhere with no end in sight. The branches, the twigs, the leaves, all so still. Not a drop fell from the skies, either. But where was Gondyr?
…Vervs remember, Vervs remember well… a choir of voices whispered in the darkness.
Dros snapped his head around him, only to find an empty forest.
Vervs remember, remember the light of Fel… Branches cracked behind him, crashing.
“Who’s there?” he cried out, jumping.
Red light flickered on the trunk of a tree. Slowly, two scarlet eyes pried their way through crevasses in the wood, with black pupils darting at Dros. Below them, a pair of oaken lips gaped, creaking, and erupted in song:
Fel remember, Fel remember how…
Dros spun in circles, looking in all directions. More eyes appeared. Blue, yellow, orange, green. Wherever he looked, the trees had eyes. Wherever he looked, the eyes had trees. “Leave me alone!” Their arms creaked, and tweaked, in the wind. The trees scowled as the wind howled. “Go away! Go away!”
Fel, remember, remember the wolves are out to get you, now… Wolves howled from within the woods, their canticles clawing at Dros’ ears. A choir deafening.
“Shut up!” Yet they kept clawing. “Shut up!” Dros screamed.
Then the voices went quiet. He looked up—down—at the moon. It shone a bright white, thick and full. The stars flashed in the sky, as if a million pots of milk melted at once. Slowly, one dripped onto the canopy, and another, and another until streams on streams decanted into the forest, and all leaves set alight in an instant. Engulfed, reduced, consumed. The trees and their faces; mere ash remained.
From the ash rose bodies, images of armoured figures with swords, with spears, repeatedly stabbing mounds of giant bodies. Then their eyes met his. They uttered wordless shrieks and moans, their jaws twitching as they gurgled. A taller, more muscled, figure rose from the ash, bearing a lion’s head, roaring, biting the air. His mouth was smeared in blood, with saliva drooling from his jaws. The blood disappeared with a single lick of his tongue. Another roar and the ashen army burst into a charge. The earth trembled in their stomps.
“Take them, take the damned trees!” Dros cried, fumbling into a sprint. “Leave me alone!” Yet the voices persisted. Vervs remember, Vervs remember well…
Giants emerged from the ashes, too many to count, and ran beside Dros. A gash split the moon in two, and blood spewed all over the sky, dripping down to the ground. The night turned an ominous red, and the sky rushed down—up—to meet him. He crashed through the sky with a splash, and the cold hand of the mudbaths slapped him clean across his face. As the viscous mud enwrapped him once more, he recoiled, a visceral sound escaping his throat. With each desperate attempt to breathe, the mud forced itself further down his throat, resulting in a cacophony of retches. He tried pushing himself up, gagging, but his hands slipped, and the tremendous weight of his brother crushed him once again. There would be no getting up, no struggling. What was there to struggle for, anyway? An image of a burning Yorm swirled in his mind as he swung in and out of consciousness.
From the flames reached a giant’s hand that enveloped him in its fingers. The light fizzled away as the fingers closed. With a thud, the hand launched to the skies, strong winds roaring outside. It was like falling but sideways, his guts chasing after him. The hand snapped open and Dros shot out into a sea of white light.
“He breathes! He breathes!” cried a woman looking down at him, spit raining on his face. Dros rolled over with a jolt, his throat trapped in a frenzy of gagging. “Easy.” The stranger put out her hand.
“Don’t touch me!” Dros swatted away the hand of a stranger, his breaths still heavy. He jounced backwards, startled, coughing.
“Boy! We’re Rocr,” said another. “Can’t you see?”
The world swayed from side to side. He was in a tent, somewhere, surrounded by a group of strangers, whose bodies were twisting and bubbling.
“Who are…where am I?”
“Wilma, give him some stew. The boy needs it. He looks like he ain’t eaten in a lifetime.” His dizziness began to dissipate. There were four—no, five. Four men and a woman, all dressed in furs head to toe, with axes hanging from belts, and bows slung on shoulders. From what he saw, three were young men, very much alike. A ginger woman stood beside a metal pot, ladling stew into a wooden bowl. And the one who spoke to him was a big man, with the arms and stomach of a stone-thrower, and furs grey as a mountainside, and his hair greyer, still. Dros inspected his limbs, and the man had the right of it. His arms, his hands, his legs; they weren’t much more than skin spread over bone.
“Have a spoon or two, boy.” The woman handed him a hot bowl of stew. It was dark brown, diced carrots and rabbit’s feet swirled about as ships would in a whirlpool. In mere moments the bowl reduced to half. A feral hunger overpowered Dros after the first spoonful entered his mouth.
“Slow down! You’re going to choke,” spoke the man. Dros heeded him no attention. The bowl was soon finished.
“You’re in our steading,” added one of the boys. Dros sat looking at him, still chewing on his last mouthful.
“Bjern!” The man smacked the eldest in the back of the head. “We still do not know who he is. That is not information we share lightly.” The boy nodded, his face stern and stoic. “Now, boy,” he said, turning to Dros. The man released a heavy sigh. “Do you have a name?”
“I am Dros Son of Kjorn,” he said, still tonguing at small bits of food stuck between his teeth.
“Hm, a powerful name.” The man approached him. He walked with a slight limp, but his strides were still long and dominant. He loomed over Dros as a mountain would over a valley. “Now, Dros Son of Kjorn, we fed you and we tended to you, but we do not know you, and we are not a trusting people.” His voice grew deeper by the instant, the spaces between words melding with gutting groans. “Tell us, boy what were you doing carrying a dead man through the forest?”
Gondyr. “Dead man? Where is he, where is my brother?” Dros wheezed.
“Boy…The crows were flocking to him when we found you unconscious. You’re lucky to be breathing, still.”
“Liar! Where is my brother?” Dros shot up, his chest tight, his hands shaking.
“Hey!” he boomed. The eldest of the boys launched at him in a flash. The impact was as a wolf would launch for a deer.
“What did you do to my brother?” Dros cried, struggling. “You say you are Rocr, but where is Gondyr? We were leaving, we were going home, he said so!” He tried to push the boy away, but he felt his forearm bend sideways, eager to snap. There was no escaping his restrain.
“Bjern, release him!” Although the boy delayed it for a moment, he eventually listened. “He wasn’t saying much of anything, boy.” The man kept a calm tone. “You must accept it. There is no life without death. Not even the Vervs can help your brother now.” Broken whimpers came from Dros’ mouth. Hints of tears swelled in the ducts of his eyes. “He is resting peacefully in the White Fields. That, I can assure you. We sent him off duly, boy, as any giant worth his rock would do. I know you bear great pain with you, now. But believe me, the weight will lighten.”
Dros met the man’s eyes as he finished the sentence. His eyes gave him hope, at first. They brought clarity, certainty, and most important of all, acceptance. He couldn’t deny it any longer. Gondyr is dead, but Dros couldn’t shake the image of the Lion impaling his brother as he lay helpless on the ground. Dros’ blood boiled hotter than any flames the Lion and his men had hurled over their heads that wicked night.
“I pray, answer my question,” continued the man.
“There was an attack.” The words escaped his mouth. “Men, with spears, all dressed in black.” The flames, the soldiers, the screams, they flooded his mind like a bursting dam. “Fire rained from the skies! We fought them in a house, but they got him, they got my brother! And there was a lion, he had an arm for a spear. He killed Gondyr!”
“Calm, boy. There is no fight here. You are safe.” The man squatted to meet Dros’ line of sight and placed his huge hand on his shoulder. “So, the rumours are true,” he said, standing up, his palm stretched across his mouth. “You must count yourself amongst the favoured, Dros. Your spool must have much to give, still, however tangled it may seem. Rest until you are healthy again, Dros. Bjern, keep him company.”
“But father—”
“I will not hear it, Bjern. You will stay with him.” The man glanced at Dros once again. “Vervs guide you,” he said over his shoulder, limping away. The pelt covering the entrance whooshed as he disappeared, a sip of daylight feeding through the temporary crack.
As Dros looked away, he caught Bjern staring at him. The two boys locked eyes briefly, but Bjern soon broke eye contact. Bjern paced around the room momentarily, before he stopped near Dros. He dropped his weight on the hay Dros lay on and crossed his legs. “I’m Bjern Barlrsson,” he said, extending his hand. Dros met it with his own. His grip was shockingly firm.
Barlrsson…a Chiefsblood? Only sons and daughters of chiefs took their father’s title as a family name.
“How old are you?” Bjern continued.
“Twelve,” Dros replied, “twelve winters, I’ve seen,” boasting as if he’d survived a Winteryear.
“Fifteen.” He appeared a similar age to Gondyr, though, and he’d seen about eighteen winters, but Dros would bet a hundred hamrs on his brother taking Bjern in a wrestle any time.
“You’re strong,” Dros mentioned, still thinking about their grapple.
“And you’re weak.” Bjern chuckled. Dros joined in with the laughter, but it didn’t sit quite right with him. “Eat some more, and we’ll have a proper wrestle once you’re fitter.”
“I’ll win that one,” Dros asserted. Bjern’s smile faded.
He shoved another spoonful into his mouth. The broth was creamy and rich. His tongue swam through it with ease. “Your father,” Dros began. “He’s a good man. He didn’t have to save me.”
“He does what he can. In times like this, it’s every man for himself. That’s what he’s always said. We’ve hiked in the woods before and stumbled across others like yourself, but you’re the only one we’ve brought back with us.”
“Others like me?”
“Aye, stragglers from the southern chiefdoms. You were the youngest by tens of winters, though. If what you say is true, Vervs have mercy it does not reach here. My father said you should count yourself amongst the Vervs’ favoured.” Bjern stared at him. “Do.”
“The Vervs have not been kind lately.” Dros avoided eye contact.
“They aren’t known for their kindness.”
“They weren’t fair to my brother. He was a good man. And my parents…I don’t know where they are.”
“Your brother seemed quite the warrior,” he said, placing his hand on Dros’ shoulder. As he felt Bjern’s cold hand, a flush of anger roused within him.
“Don’t talk about my brother.” He brushed Bjern’s hand away. “You don’t know him. You never will.”
“You mentioned him. I didn’t mean to…”
“I said, don’t talk about my brother!” Dros fumbled in rage and spilled the bowl of stew all over the mat of hay.
“Hey! What’s with you? I understand you’ve been dealt a poor set of strings, but show some respect to the people who’ve put food in your mouth! You’d be a drowned worm in the mudbaths if it weren’t for us.”
Dros stared at him with intense anger, but a guttural yelp escaped his mouth. He collapsed to his knees, and what began as sobs soon shattered into wails of grief.
“I…I didn’t mean that, Dros. I’m happy you are breathing, really. I was convinced you were a dead man when we stumbled across you, but my father insisted on bringing you back. He made me stay by you the entire night, and Vervs know I grew more and more annoyed every moment I sat next to you. You hadn’t drawn a single breath in days. Know that your brother is at peace in the White Fields, even if his arrival was earlier than expected, but you still have a chance at this life. Be thankful for the path the Vervs have weaved you.”
Dros’ tears ceased, and his gasps waned. He glanced in Bjern’s direction, and he stood there, smiling at him, with a broom in hand. “You’ll still be cleaning that,” he said, laughing, tossing the broom on the floor in front of him. “Vervs guide you, Dros Son of Kjorn.” He watched, his sobs now relaxed, as the pelt shook after Bjern took his leave.
Dros struggled to his feet. He clutched at the broom, barely keeping his balance. Even that was heavy, like picking up a hammer. The spilled stew only spread over more of the hay with every sweep. The stew now a damp stain on the mat, he took a step to put the broom back, but the roof of the tent rushed behind him, and his face was in the hay. Dros groaned in pain, but as he rolled over his surroundings started to haze, and were shortly replaced by a white glare.
The Lion and his cubs chased him through the night, across the woods, amidst the flames. The road never gave out. No matter the twists and turns, he was met with burning tree after burning tree. With every stride their stomps grew louder, the flames brighter, their roars more petrifying. We are going home, Gondyr said so. A lash of claws toppled him to the smouldering dirt, and the cubs jumped at his burning flesh.
Stabbing pains in his spine ripped him from his nightmares and back into consciousness. He wanted to scream as his whole back flared, stretching him taut as a drawn hare at the tip of the butcher’s knife, but only a silent groan came out. He shrivelled in the hay as the pain subsided. His head was rattled, no doubt. He hadn’t noticed with the pangs in his spine. As he sat up, he brushed a broom with his fingertips, lying tossed beside him. Dros rubbed his eyes to rid the sleep. He caught a sudden whiff of the stew, but it was pungent and invasive. There was a damp stain at the bottom of the hay mat. He shot back, repulsed, the moment he smelled it closer. Flashes of him sweeping the mess whizzed through his mind, but it played more like a delirious dream.
A sharp glare disoriented him briefly, but the tent soon returned to its original gloom. Daylight still filtered through gaps in the tent lining, but inside it was dark as a cooling chamber, and the chill just as biting. The winter winds may have blown elsewhere, but the Bloom was no summer. Dros spotted his fur coat, or what remained, sprawled over a drying rack. He hurried to his furs and tussled into the wolfskin and wrapped his arms. There was a spare pair of boots by the side of it. The fit was loose but better than walking barefoot. As he adjusted his boots, chatter reached him from outside.
“They got veal in today, I heard!” one voice said.
“Nothing better to welcome the Bloom,” replied another.
Veal? That was the stuff of chiefs. Barlrsson, he remembered from his conversation with Bjern. Only a child of a chief may bear his father’s title. Dros knew that much too well. The Feimr’s boy, Harlog, born in the same winter as himself, he’d make sure every girl in Yorm knew about it. He opened every conversation with ‘I’m Harlog Feimrsson,’ like nobody knew who the chief’s son was. What a self-loving idiot…but now that he thought of it, Harlog had probably died in the attack. The Feimr, too. They weren’t nice chiefs, Dros stood by that, but they were Rocr, and rocks, however far apart or long ago, are all split from the same boulder.His father had taught him as much. He rid his mind of those thoughts immediately, as the Vervs disfavoured those who thought ill of the dead.
Dros was through the tent flap before he could count his winters. Huts and longhouses spanned his view, etched with unfamiliar runes and draped in banners with an eagle in the centre. Their roofs were thatched, clearly damp and darkened from the recent rains. The buildings seemed to centre around a wide house elevated on a large wooden platform. Crowds of people flocked toward it. It was smaller than the one in Yorm, but it was large enough to house a man of importance. Bjern had said it was their steading, but a hall of this size could not belong to just any hunter or farmer.
People shot scornful looks as they passed by Dros, some even pushed their children aside as if he was covered in boils. He kept his distance but tailed the gathering crowds up the steps and into the long hall.
A fuzzing warmth overcame him as he passed through the door, and rich smells rushed to his nostrils. There were tables sprawled all over the hall. Men with their women and children filled the benches. Platters of roasted vegetables and trays of blood sausages covered the tables, with tankards of moord protruding from their surface as mounds would from a plain. There were also pots with colourful flowers in the middle of the tables. This was a solstice feast. The Blooming Festival, no less. The Feimr had hosted similar feasts in days past.
Up on the dais sat the man that had saved him, Bjern’s father, where he spoke in mirth with another man who was muscled to the brim. His wife and children sat beside him. With all eyes stalking him as he walked up to the end of the hall, Dros spoke the words: “Who are you?”
Conversations ceased immediately, bites of food hurried to their end, and cutlery hit the table with a clang. “Dros,” he boomed from his chair. “Looking less like an undead wight, I see.”
“Who are you?” he repeated, ignoring his comment. “Your son called himself Barlrsson. Only chiefsblood may take their father’s title.”
“Who’s this runt?” One of the warriors jumped to his feet. “Disrespect does not carry lightly here. I’ll cut his tongue for you, Bjorr.” He pulled out a stone dirk, rushed toward Dros, and grabbed him by the collar.
“Release the boy! You’ll do nothing of the sort.” He obeyed his leader’s command.
The man gave his son a scolding look before turning back to Dros, his eyes wide and expressive. “You heard my man. I am Bjorr Son of Groimar. And don’t believe everything Bjern says. My son has a very loose tongue. He’s still as unripe as winter crops.” He sawed another slice off the steak, the serrated knife scratching at the wooden platter. His chewing echoed through the hall as if they were water droplets leaking from a roof in a silent room, as the hearth clicked and flickered at the back of the hall. With a snappy gulp, he swallowed the slice whole. “Sit at any table, Dros. Have as many chops as you like. No one will mind. And if they do, tell them to take it up with me.” He raised his voice, looking out to the hall.
“I asked you a question, chief.” Dros’ words cleaved through the happy chatter in the hall.
He took a long sip from his tankard. “I’ve just answered it, boy. Now, let’s enjoy the veal steaks. The wives have been hard at work since dawn, and I’m sure your skinny arms will thank you for it.”
“I know that you are a chief. The Barlr, no less. Who would ever lie about having ties to a chief?”
“Men lie as often as they piss, son, and children piss themselves more often than not.”
“Then explain this,” Dros said, raising his arms. “This hall, the huts and tents outside. All of this. It’s your steading, isn’t it? The trees, the mountains, these are your lands, the Barlrlands.”
“I see your elders taught you the lay of the land well, but did they forget to teach you manners? The respect needed when addressing a chief? Ey, Dros Son of Kjorn?”
“I was taught to defend what is mine, and to protect my brothers.”
“I see that you were also not taught that a man can fight his own battles, boy. I will not have my resolve questioned by a thinning runt.”
“While you sit here, good people are being murdered by those killers! Rocr men. Rocr women. Rocr children!” Dros turned to face the others in the hall. “Have you men shit for rock?”
The hall devolved into chaos. Men jumping out of their chairs, tables shaking, tankards flying.
“Silence!” yelled Bjorr, his face bursting red, his beard caked with moord. When Bjorr rose from his chair, it scraped on the wood with a deafening screech. Sitting, he’d looked a big man, but standing, he’d grown three times to everyone around him. He snatched his tankard from in front of him and emptied it in a single drought. Once finished, he erupted in obnoxious laughter. “The balls on this boy! Storming into a chief’s hall, chest out and proud, demanding I answer your queries. Bjern, Einar, take after him!” He fought to contain his guffaws, but it proved futile, and he roared throughout the hall. He soon composed himself, setting the tankard down on the table, and rearranging his bearskin furs. “Fine, you have earned your answer. Your suspicions are correct. I am indeed The Barlr, Chief to the Barlrlands, from the Warps to the streams, from Monthaven to the Rigg.” His grandeur wafted across the hall. Dros stood frozen, in half-awe and half-fear, before Bjorr’s imposing figure towering from the dais. He had guessed it, but learning the truth did little to settle his nerves. “These eastern invaders have yet to show their face in my lands. I have no need of poking a beast unaware of my location. The Mydir and the Feimr earned their keep for one reason or another. If they are worthy, they will retain it.” Dros hesitated, still stunned by the revelation. “Don’t tell me your gob’s gone soft now?”
“Y-Yorm is nothing but ash and sticks, now…and the Feimr is probably dead.”
“Ah, there it is. Then he was not worthy of his title.”
“You…you talk about others’ titles, and their worth, but what of it now? The Lion does not see the difference between you or the Feimr. Like they are eastern invaders to us, we are just Rocr to them. We must all be Rocr, and nothing more, if we want to keep our land.”
For once, Bjorr seemed taken aback by Dros’ words. There was no immediate response or reaction, no laughter, no sip of his moord. He glanced at the men sitting at the nearest table to him, and they all nodded in agreement. “You have a keen mind, Dros Son of Kjorn, much sharper than many a blade. If you offer it, I shall have your sword, and, in exchange, you will always have a place by my hearth until such a time the Vervs decide to disfavour you or me.”
“So, you will fight?”
“Aye, but that depends on if they come sniffing around my lands. But I’m asking you to fight, for me, if the time comes. You have such fire about these invaders within you. Who better than you to be amongst the ones swinging the sword.”
“But… I can barely pick one up, let alone swing it.”
“You’ll learn, boy. Do you think Bjern was a swordsman at ten?” Bjorr laughed and smacked his son gently on the back. “What do you say?”
The Lion’s face floated in his mind’s eye. Dros dropped to one knee and put his hand out. “I will fight for you.”
“Good. Now, get back on your feet,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “As all your questions have been answered, join the thanes’ table, eat til’ you’re bursting, and then have some more.” The two met gazes, and Dros couldn’t help getting infected by Bjorr’s gleeful laugh.
As he turned to the thanes’ table, everyone around him was laughing, eating, some even kissing their wife. People enjoying themselves, as he and his friends, his family, had done in days past. His cheeks ached, somehow. He rubbed them with his fingers, but no matter how much he tried, he could not shake the ache. His lips stung, too. And it was then he brushed his lips, stretching far to the edge of his face. It was just too wide a smile.
He took a seat next to the largest man he’d ever seen, second only to Bjorr. His scalp was as bare as a field steeped in snow, but his ginger beard was fiery and unkempt, only tied at the bottom with a golden loop.
“Brave man, you are, talking to the chief like that. The last man that spoke to him like it was his own hall lost an eye and three fingers.” He looked at him, smiling, one green eye, the other an empty socket, passing his left hand down his scars, his ring finger and thumb wriggling, but the other three stumps only ticking slightly.
Dros smiled back at the man as he reached for a steak from the sharing platter and sawed a slice. The meat was juicy and tender, near melting in his mouth. He inhaled the steak whole in mere moments and found himself fishing for another one before he could even count his winters.
© Jaime Abad 2025