The dull orange glow under the tent-flaps told Franco it was early morning. He was far better rested than he expected, considering his arms bound awkwardly behind his back and his broken hand. Though now his shoulders ached like all the hells. Sleeping fully dressed in itself might have presented an obstacle for some dwarves, but Franco had gotten the hang of that long ago. He took a look around his modest, canvas cage. The tent flaps were heavy and, mercifully, pulled closed. The interior of the tent was bare aside from himself. The canvas was dyed a faint cobalt hue, but otherwise undecorated. Franco’s shoulders still ached.

Gods I’m bored. Gods I need a piss. Is this torture? Is this what torture feels like?

The next hour ticked by with excruciating sluggishness. Eventually a young Väahn raider with mousy-brown hair and a wispy, undeveloped fluff around his face pushed the flaps open unannounced and dropped a bucket at Franco’s feet.

“Breakfast.”

“Franco.”

A boot in his ribs did nothing to convince Franco it wasn’t funny, though he forced himself to stop laughing when the Väahn wound up for a second.

Just once I’d like to be taken captive by someone with a sense of humour.

The young Väahn untied Franco’s bonds in sharp, jerky motions that caused more pain in his hand. He stood by the door, picked up his axe and then… nothing.

He’s here to guard me while I eat, Franco surmised.

A peer into the bucket revealed chunks of different meats – white and red – and some greens, but mostly bones. All cold. Scraps. Franco studied his guard while trying to appear intent on his food.

A scrawny lad. Young.

Franco deliberated on rushing the guard, more because of his foul breakfast than his innate desire to escape. He realised he was wringing the knuckles of his good hand and forced his hands to his sides. The smell of cold, day-old meat was an oddly effective reminder of how hungry he was. Less reluctantly than he was proud of, he dove in and started picking off what little meat was still on the bones.

After he was finished the young Väahn moved to stand over him.

“Hands.”

He would have sounded tougher if his voice hadn’t come close to breaking. As Franco saw it he had two options; he could throw the bucket in the young man’s face and try to overpower him, or he could reply “I thought your name was breakfast.” Both had an equally unlikely chance of ending in his escape, given his current condition. He put his hands behind the tent pole and sat patiently while the young Väahn remade his bonds, again with jerky, painful movements.

Not long after the young one had left, Val ducked into the tent.

“Good morning to ye” Franco smiled, sounding more sarcastic then he meant to.

“Good morning little one.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your hand. I need to rebandage it.”

“Well, be my guest. I’m sure you’ll make for better company than your friend. He’s a great arse, but a terrible waiter.”

“Fritjolf? He’s young. This is his first time south.”

“And he has something to prove? Aye, I know the type.”

Thinking back, Franco supposed he’d met a dozen Fritjolfs in his time. Maybe I was one myself, not that long ago. Franco gave a little yelp as Val worked at undoing Fritjolf’s handiwork with the ropes.

“Quiet.”

She almost looked furtive as she glanced at the tent-flap. Franco raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I don’t want anybody knowing I’m here again. I got enough grief from the others after last night.”

“They don’t approve of seeing to a captive’s wounds?”

“Not if they’re dwarves.”

Franco wasn’t surprised. His people had a long history with the Väahn.

Come to think of it, this might be my first conversation with one.

He suspected the same could be said of Val.

“They think I’ve taken a personal interest in you. They jest I’m going to pay Tavar for you; keep you as my pet when we get back north.”

Tavar. It’s good to know the names of one’s owners.

“How much would I be worth?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you were to buy me from Tavar. How much?”

Val looked at him like he was mad.

“This is a strange question.”

“I’m curious, indulge me. How much for a dwarf with a broken hand?”

When he persisted, Val actually started to blush.

“I don’t know, a dozen chickens? But it is unimportant. If I wanted a man I wouldn’t have to buy one.”

She reddened further as she muttered something about dwarves and brains and tunnels. It took Franco a moment to catch up to why Val was so flustered, then blushed a little himself.

“Is that what they think ye were doing in here?” He started to chuckle until Val placed a hand around his throat.

“I said quiet.”

“Yes ma’am.”

His hands freed, Val started carefully unwrapping yesterday’s bandages. Franco didn’t want his nervousness to show, but there was no way to disguise his looking at everything except his hand.

“Do not move. It is not as bad as yesterday; the bones have stayed in their places. I must wrap it again, quickly.”

“Please do” Franco breathed.

More from curiosity than bravery he shot a glance at his hand, then regretted having eyes to see it. Mercifully Val changed the subject.; the timing of which made Franco suspect she did it for his benefit.

“We’re leaving tomorrow. Early. Olander and his crew came back in the night.”

Another name to remember.

“Where are we going?”

“North.”

“Not west?”

Franco regretted poking fun almost immediately.

She could squeeze now and I’d never hold a mug in that hand again.

“Bör. It’s the southern-most coastal town.”

I suppose Väahn have a funny notion of “southern-most.

“Most of us will carry on further to Tolr.”

“Is that where these fighting pits are?”

Val dithered a little at the mention of the fighting pits. “Yes” she said, after a moment.

“Tolr.” Franco savoured the word. “Sounds like as good a place to die as any.”

If Val dithered before, she froze when he said that. Then continued bandaging in a silence Franco could not think of the words to break.

After not long, the job was done and Franco was tied back to his post. Val moved to leave, then abruptly stopped at the tent-flaps; “My father is a farmer.”

“Oh?” Minutes of silence and then that?

“He keeps sheep and chickens.”

“Would he lend you a dozen?” Franco jested, and chuckled a little, but instantly Val’s face turned beet red.

“Oh.”

“It was a foolish thought.”

“Wait, Val…” but before he could protest she was gone from the tent.

Franco took a deep breath before bringing every word the two had spoken back into his head and shaking them until some deeper meaning fell loose. He had a whole day to do it.

Dear Siegfried,

I heard some word around the University that you were planning on writing a volume on the histories of the Väahn. I agree that they are indeed a fascinating subject, and one worthy of study, but I have some advice regarding your proposal.

Don’t.

Don’t do it. It’s been tried before, and it’s been put to rest. Never mind the fact that this venture would have you travelling to Väahn lands and actually meeting the savages in person. Väahn society is much too volatile for any one ruler (they call them Jarls?) to stay in charge of more than a loose collection of villages for any meaningful length of time.

I’m also almost certain the Väahn keep no historic records of their own. The names and stories of said leaders are only ever communicated in an oratory fashion. If you wish to die writing a volume of the stories Väahn mothers and fathers tell their children, then be my guest. Just remember you’ve been warned.

Hest

A letter between academics – Hest Rolcaster

Journeys by sea had never appealed to Franco. He hated the feeling in his head as the boat rose and fell over waves, and a deck moving under him always made him want to heave. Today that was not an option.

With this rope between my teeth I’d likely choke to death on my own vomit. A fine way to go, that.

He was bound at the wrists and ankles, laying on his side amongst the Väahn’s other spoils. Having his wrist bound so would have caused enough pain to make him faint, were it not for Val’s tending to it. Though she had not come to see him after he embarrassed her the day before.

Maybe she’s mad at me. Maybe she doesn’t want to waste her time tending to a dead dwarf. Either way, can’t say I don’t understand.

The longboat rocked again, and salt spray came over the side. Franco had tried a couple of times to sit up and look over the gunwale, but each time the sight of the ocean rising and falling only made him ever the more seasick. With little more than the inside of a longboat to occupy his mind, Franco thought at length about the fighting pits. He wondered if they’d wait for his hand to heal before sending him in.

I expect not.

He wondered if an escape would be possible.

Again, I expect not.

Once more the boat rocked, rolling him slightly, and a tickle of pain distracted him from his dysphoria. Voices were raised and a commotion was rife amongst the Väahn. The rowers had stopped, bows were being strung and arrows fetched. Franco tried to sit up again, but a passing Väahn pressed him back down with a boot.

Was that Fritjolf?

He looked to the sky and saw arrows sailing both away from and towards his longboat and the others, as Väahn continued yelling. Suddenly, a shard of ice the size of a dagger blasted up through the hull of the boat a couple of inches from Franco’s face. He flinched, but quickly saw an opportunity. With the Väahn distracted he swivelled around and tried to bring the bonds on his wrists to the icy dagger. As he did so he noticed another blade of ice jut up through the wood of the boat where his legs had been, and then another and then another. Some simply made holes, others caught Väahn raiders, cutting and tripping them. Then one by one the ice daggers fell away and cold salt water rose through in their place. Searching for the ice was excruciating; lying on his side with his broken hand behind his back, feeling frantically for the shard. All he found was the breach.

The amount of water suddenly in the boat was alarming. Already soaked, the dwarf was forced to sit up to keep his head out of the water. If not for his old friend adrenaline, he’d have been shivering violently. The water was icy cold, but a realisation was even more chilling; they were sinking. Fast. That must have been the intention of those shards of ice, Franco realized. From sitting he could see just how many holes had been punched into the hull of the small boat, and that the gunwales were now not much higher than the surrounding waters. Every wave was bringing more and more water over the sides and pulling the boat ever downwards. Franco tried to stand, but one of the rushing, panicking Väahn shouldered him and – bound as he was – he fell down again. His whole head went under the water this time. With the rope between his teeth, saltwater was trickling down into his lungs. He managed to bring his head up, spluttering behind the rope, but only moments before a blood-curdling crack rang out and the splintering boat fell out from beneath him.

With his wrists and ankles bound he quickly sank too. The salt water once again filled his mouth and stung his eyes. He could see all of the remaining Väahn swimming now, above him. Beneath them shapes moved quickly, harrying and stabbing the raiders from below with unfamiliar spear-like weapons. Red blood stained the icy water as corpses sank past him. Val’s was among them; eyes foggy and unfocused and blonde braid hanging suspended in the water like something out of a nightmare. Franco wanted to feel something, but he was simply too light-headed and thoughts never came.

How long have I been under now? Long enough, nearly.

His vision was fading, but he saw clearly enough to spot his hammer sinking like a stone, with Skald not far behind it. He thought he saw Fritjolf too, just as lifeless, trailing red in his descent. The last thing he saw was one of those spear-wielding silhouettes coming towards him. Then all went dark.