-Iradarian Saying

-Early Winter, 3133, Highbridge

Marten awoke just after dawn. He did not rise at once, but instead relished the warmth of his new wife’s body next to him. He at first thought he could stay this way forever, but he soon became aware of a strong draft of cool air under the covers from where she had pulled the warm blankets to herself in the night. He gently grabbed hold of his edge and pulled firmly but gently. The covers were slowly drawing back to his side of the bed when she stirred, mumbling something unintelligible in her sleep, and pulled the blankets roughly back onto herself, leaving his entire right side exposed to the chilly morning air of the bedchamber. She never awoke. He tried again to win some covers for himself, but only to the same result. He tried once more, but she clung to the blankets in her sleep like they were fine jewelry she was hiding form a thief. He finally gave up. There were certain things to marriage that would definitely take some getting used to.

Marten rose quietly from the bed, careful not to disturb her sleep. He shuffled quickly across the heavy carpet on the hard floor to where his robe hung next to the door. He reached it and wrapped it hurriedly around his naked form to shield his shivering body from the cold. He stepped gingerly back onto the heavy fur rug that lay under and around the bed in the center of the chamber, digging his toes deep into the warm brown fur to drive out the cold of the stone floor.

He stood there for a moment. He had at first considered waking Elise, his wife. But seeing her asleep in bed gave him pause. She was a beautiful creature, her pale, bare shoulder exposed to the cool air with her delicate chin framed by her long, dark hair that lay messed about her face. She was more than just beautiful, she was his wife.

Marten reflected briefly on the past two weeks. His wedding retreat began in the traditional way; a great feast at the home of his father’s highest ranking Earl, his uncle Clemond Orgreave of Highbridge. Clemond Orgreave was the closest surviving relative of his mother, and since custom demanded that the newly wedded couple retire to the groom’s mother’s residence for the retreat, Highbridge was the nearest place they could find. His mother had died when marten was a boy of only 5 years old, giving birth to his youngest brother, Baeren. But the Orgreave family had remained close to him and his brothers. They were the Gendry family’s staunchest supporters and most loyal Earls. He was good to them, and though he was only the cousin of Marten’s mother, he gladly offered his home as the host of their wedding retreat.

The feast was fantastic. Marten had eaten finer food, and seen better entertainment. He had, after all, spent time at the royal court in Rovane. But this feast was in his honor, and his new wife’s. He had barely known her when they were promised to each other. Her father was the Earl of Hastad, a large earldom in the neighboring Halberet duchy. But he knew as soon as they spoke privately that he would grow to love her. Two weeks of his wedding retreat had only served to reinforce that.

They had spent most of those two weeks abed. They talked, they laughed, and they did other such things as newly wedded couples are want to do. And he was not tired of it yet. Two more weeks! If it could last a month more!

She stirred in her sleep, and her eyes opened slowly. She looked up at him as she lay there, her deep green eyes sparkling in the light of the small fire in the hearth. By Oes! She is beautiful!

Elise smiled at him, that same youthful smile that drove his mind wild, and brushed the hair from her face.

"You are staring at me," she said quietly.

"Does this bother you?" he asked her.

"That depends," she said smiling still, "what do you see?"

"I see all that is right with the world." He returned, sitting softly on the bed and bending down to kiss her forehead.

"You are a silly man." She replied.

"Perhaps," said Marten, "but that changes nothing that I see."

Elise wrapped her arms about his shoulders and pulled him down next to her in the bed. He lay down, putting his arm under her head and pulling her close to him.

"Why are you awake so early?" she asked him, "Do you rush from my rustled appearance?"

"Of course not! I was only-" He replied defensively before he realized she was teasing. He caught himself. She liked to tease him. "You have me again, wife."

"Of course, dear husband." She replied. "You are quite the gullible sort."

He kissed her full on the lips then, she returned the kiss passionately, hugging him tightly to herself. Marten reached under the covers, his hand tracing the curves of her back.

A quiet knock at the door interrupted their morning passion.

"Lord Marten? Are you awake?" the voice asked hesitantly.

"Do not answer!" Elise whispered in his ear, "They will never go away if they know you are awake!"

Marten paused for a moment, contemplating.

The knock was repeated louder this time.

"Pardon me, Lord Marten," the voice said a bit more forcefully, "but the Lord Orgreave has sent for you."

"I am awake!" Marten called at last. "Tell the Lord Orgreave I will meet him as soon as I can be dressed!"

Elise’s face turned to a pouting frown. "You are leaving me so early?" she asked.

"I will return as soon as I may." He said. He started to rise, but paused a moment, then leaned back down to kiss his wife again. She pulled him down under the covers with a playful giggle and locked him in a deep embrace.

It was nearly an hour later when Marten at last came running down the main stairs into the great room of the Orgreave Manor. He was still straightening his clothes and hair. The Lord Orgreave sat at the end of a long, wooden table. There were several men seated around him, all dressed for riding. Two of the men were quite soaked, their damp, blond hair matted against their skin. Clemond Orgreave looked up from a paper he was studying on the table before him.

"It seems my young nephew has been pulled from a very inviting bed this chilly morning." He said.

Marten blushed slightly, then cleared his throat.

"You sent for me?" he said loudly, in as deep a voice as he could manage.

"I did." Orgreave returned. "Perhaps if I had told the servant to kick in your door, you might have come at once."

Marten blushed again somewhat. Clemond Orgreave had a very direct manner. His gray beard and thinning hair belied a youthful sense of humor. The sparkle in his eyes showed he was very much enjoying making Marten blush.

"Hah!" he laughed loudly. "Perhaps I should consider it luck that you came down at all! It would have taken armed guards to pull me away from my wife on my wedding retreat on a frosty morning such as this! I’ll wager your bed was far warmer than this hall!" The men laughed heartily, as did Marten.

"Much." He laughed with them. "Now what is so pressing that keeps me from my duties this morning?"

"I wish that it was more enlightening news I have for you, but unfortunately, it is not." Replied Clemond, who gestured to a chair nest to his own. Marten took it at once. "I wish for your council. These men bring strange news that might concern your father, and all of us. These men are guardsmen of the city. They serve me and the town of Highbridge, guarding the bridge and the roads about the town. This is Captain Horsten Maar," one of the men rose and bowed his head to Marten, "and two of his wardens, Tomas and Richten." The other two rose and did likewise.

"We are honored, My Lord." Said Maar in a harsh, scratchy voice. He was a tall, thin man, who was dressed for riding it seemed. His clothing was fairly well made, though not rich. His boots were high, of good leather; the kind made for life in Horwald during the rain season. He wore a sword sheathed at his side. His face was as lined and leathered as the scabbard his sword rested in. Marten figured he was no older than forty high summers, yet he could have been much older. Life in the north did that to a man.

"My Lord," he began, "May I first apologize for rousing you from your sleep this morning. I arrived to speak only with the Lord Clemond, but since you are here, he thought it best you hear my news."

"Of course." Replied Marten. "Continue."

"Well, sir," said Maar, "It’s like this: We were in the town of Harfield, just a half day west of here in the forest, and met a man who was a guest of Thane Orald. The man was a priest…a Northern Priest."

"There are many Northern Priests." Said Marten, who was beginning to wonder where the conversation was going, "Particularly here in the north." The men apparently found little humor in his small jest. None of them cracked a smile.

"Yes, My Lord, there are quite a few." Said Maar in a deadly serious tone. "But this one was singing the Vÿkstraak."

Marten inhaled at the mention and felt himself pale at the utterance of it. His thoughts raced. The Vÿkstraak! It has not been sung for three centuries or more! These wardens must be mistaken!

"How can you be sure?" he asked them hopefully. "It could have been any tale in the Old Tongue. How can you be sure it was…that?"

"My Lord, I will not lie to you." Said Richten. "It was I who knew the Vÿkstraak. My grandmother spoke the Old Tongue, albeit not well. She taught me many words and phrases when I was but a young child, and I remember most of it. I have heard the Aridisian translation, loosely told, of the story. The priest sang the Vÿkstraak. I am sure of it."

Marten did not respond. How could he? How could he be expected to react to such news? The Vÿkstraak! After so many years! He still was not convinced, though even the possibility that it had resurfaced in his lifetime was enough to give him stunned pause. If it was true- though it seemed unlikely- it could mean only trouble in Horwald, and that meant trouble for all of Iradar. Yet everyone knew the translated story of the Vÿkstraak, it was not the story that made it so dangerous, but its telling in the Old Tongue. If this man truly knew the Old Tongue, he would be able to recognize it if he heard enough.

Lord Orgreave sat in silence regarding his young kinsman. He is too young to deal with such news. I should have sent word to his father. Marten will panic.

"And the people of Harfield?" asked Marten, regaining his composure, "What was their reaction?" This will expose the rumor as false. The people’s reaction would reveal the truth!

"Sir, they sang in unison with the priest." Said Tomas. "It was as if they knew the words."

"And they shouted!" added Richten. "They raised their weapons and clashed sword on shield!"

"Sir," began Maar, "I am not a nobleman. I know little of royalty or lordships and such, but I am a Northman. It was the Vÿkstraak. I believe that had I stayed but a few moments longer, I would have joined in the song. I do not know the Old Tongue, but I think I could have sung this song."

Marten stood quickly. This was the end of the debate. There was no doubting now. Unless these men lied, and Lord Orgreave seemed to trust them implicitly, and he trusted Clemond with his life.

"And Thane Orald?" He managed to ask in as calm a voice as he could manage. "He did nothing to stop this man?"

"Nothing, My Lord. He is the man who began the song." Said Maar.

"This priest, he is still in Harfield?" Marten asked them.

"I do not know, My Lord." Maar Replied. "He arrived the night before we did. That would be three nights ago.

How will he react? Clemond Orgreave waited for the next act of his young kinsman in silence, studying Marten closely. Will he be strong enough to do what needs to be done? There was a long, silent pause in which the men waited for some decision from Marten.

"We must act." He decided at last. "Uncle, send word to my father at once. Tell him I am riding for Harfield immediately. I will send word as soon as I learn of this priest."

"I will send messengers at once." Said his uncle. "I will have several men of my house to go with you to Harfield. If this is true, and the Vÿkstraak is alive again, you may need help."

"You may be right, Uncle. Let us hope that all goes peacefully and I will have no need of your men. I will take three. Any more might only incite the villagers there." Marten said.

His uncle’s brown creased in an expression of worry. "Marten, if this is true, you will need more than three men, you will have an entire village of men to deal with." He said.

Marten considered for a moment. Perhaps he is right. It is better to be safe than to regret after. But if I take more men, we will look like a war party, they will see us as the enemy, and only inflame the problem.

"No," he said to his uncle. "If I arrive at the town with a band of soldiers, they will simply become angry. With the madness of the Vÿkstraak on them, a peaceful solution is best. Remember, if we reach the town quickly, we might capture this priest and put an end to this before it gets out of hand."

"Before it gets out of hand?" His uncle asked him. "The stories are clear, there are no chances! If these men have sung the Vÿkstraak, they will be sharpening their swords already! The oaths of the song are binding!"

"If that is so, then we must make them see us as one of them, not the enemy of the song!" answered Marten. "If we arrive armed, there will be no doubt in their minds that we have come to kill them all. That, uncle, is what I hope to avoid."

"Then I will ride with you." Said his uncle.

"I would rather you stayed here in Highbridge and waited for news of the priest." Said Marten. "If he left Harfield, he will likely come here first. I greatly appreciate the sentiment, uncle. Please make sure you send word to my father at once."

Marten stood, as did the other men at the table.

"My Lord," said Horsten Maar as Marten was leaving the room, "I would be honored to accompany you to Harfield. Since I have seen this priest. I might be of assistance.""