The Beginning, book one of the Attulf Saga

By Ed Glazmo

The first book of the saga. Attulf the scribe comes into his inheritance as the leader of the Wolves, an elite group of warriors. He realizes that his childhood nightmares and myths are real, and he is the one to lead the Wolves.
He finds out that he comes from a family of great warriors and generals. His inheritance is war. When his step mother dies it starts a cycle that nobody can stop. The fight over inheritance soon turns to all out war. It will lead Attulf and his companions to other lands to fight injustice and evil.
When magic and mythical weapons enter their lives, the only thing they can do is to ride off to war. This book portrays the first part of their journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ed Glazmo
• Release date: Sep 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311973559

Book preview

The Beginning

Book One of the Attulf Saga

Ed Glazmo

This book is work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product

of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©2013 by Ed Glazmo

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

My Wife, for believing in me, and all the editing and support. I still have not figured out why she married me.

My mother in law for her input and discussions, she killed the myth that mother in laws are bad.

My kids for never saying Dad is crazy. At least not out loud.

Willy the biker, for his input and the sound of his Harley.

Scottie for all his red ink.

Content

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

Canyon Pass, on the beach, was a big fortress. The warlord there was Paul the Gracious. He was a rich and powerful man, but he was also known for being fair and honest in all his dealings.

It was the fifth month of winter. The snow in the mountains was starting to retreat. Attulf rode his horse out of the Devils Canyon and saw the smoke from the fort. It was a long time since he had been there last, but seeing the smoke, he knew it would be warm. It was his childhood home so he had many fond memories of the place. But this trip was not for pleasure. He was coming home. Paul had sent for him, and when your liege sends for you, you show.

Paul’s wife, Aethelmaer, was dying. She had raised Attulf after his mother had died in a suspicious avalanche. Many thought that the avalanche was caused by Modrek the thief, to wipe out General Globragur’s family, after Modrek had killed the General with an arrow to the back in an ambush. It had been a cowardly act that went unpunished for twenty years. At the time, Attulf had only been three years old. Aethelmaer had taken him in as her own son. She now had the plague that had been going through the lands this winter, the worst one in years.

Aethelmaer had made it possible for Attulf to learn to read and write and be licensed by the king to write contracts, wills, and other legal documents. Aethelmaer was daughter of Braggard the Rich, and, married to Paul, that made her the most powerful woman in the land.

Her properties were mainly on the Northwest part of the island, but she had some property all over, even some on the mainland. She was known, just like her husband, to be fair and helpful. Nobody left her house hungry or cold.

Attulf rode slowly across the flat land between the mountains and the shoreline. Almost down by the shoreline was a small hill where the fort was built, overlooking the area. He knew that he and his three horses would stick out against the white background of snow. He could also see that the guards at the fort had already seen him. There was some commotion at the gate. Attulf could see what looked like three riders come out of the gate and head his way. When the riders got closer, Attulf could make one of them out. It was his old friend and brother in arms, Barder. When they got into shouting distance, Barder stood up in the saddle and shouted, Attulf, you ugly boy. Welcome home.

Always the same host, you rude pig, Attulf shouted back.

The two riders with Barder laughed and lowered their spears in greeting to the arriving guest. Attulf was really surprised by that. Normally that was reserved for warriors of great reputation. The Wolves, like the guard was called, did not bow to any man, unless he was one of them or a great warrior that had fought a battle they thought was worthy of the Wolves’ respect.

The Wolves, Slekkir’s army. Attulf’s great-grandfather Slekkir, the old warlord of the Lair (as the old castle had been called, now just ruins in the mountains of Wyvern) had established them. They had been named by the people due to the way they fought, sending out small raiding parties to hunt down the thieves and outlaws of the land, just like wolves, small packs of fierce warriors. To be hunted by them meant certain death. People said the only difference between the animal and the soldiers was that the soldiers did not eat their pray. But to be protected by them was a guarantee that you and yours were safe. They protected their own with the same ferocity as they hunted their enemies.

Attulf had not raised a sword in battle in ten years, not since the battle against Modrek and his men. He and Barder had fought side by side against Modrek and six of his men, and killed them all. On that day, Attulf had sworn never to take a life again, but Barder had sworn not to rest until all outlaws had been run from the land or killed (which he preferred). They had both sworn allegiance to Paul the Gracious on that day.

Attulf looked at the older rider and asked, To what do I owe this honor.

We all know about the death of Modrek and his men when you and Barder fought side by side and drew the blood of bad men and sent their souls to Helja, my Lord. And any man who has proven himself like that has earned the respect of the Wolves as one of their own, Attulf felt the pride swell in his chest. After all these years he was still regarded as a warrior among the elite of warriors, who were feared by all outlaws and bad men in the lands around them.

How is the Lady doing? Attulf asked his friend.

Not too good brother Barder answered with a look of sadness. The healer thinks she will not live ‘til morning.

Then let us hurry. I need to write her last wishes while she can still tell me what they are, Attulf said hurriedly. They all turned their horses towards Canyon Pass and rode at a gallop.

Attulf was the only one of them who could fathom the severity of the situation. All the land owned by Lady Aethelmaer would have to be divided up. Even though Paul would control most of it, there were others who would claim some of them. Even the cult leaders at the Temples would try to get some of her vast wealth. But not even Attulf could foresee that the island would be torn apart in feuds for decades to come.

They rode through the main gate of the fort, and right in front of them was the big house. The main building was made out of rock, and bigger than Attulf remembered. It was two stories and shaped as a U, about twice as big as it had been when Attulf was growing up. Men in armor greeted them and took care of their horses.

A tall older man appeared on the steps of the house. It was Paul himself. He was a tall man, taller than most, and he was powerfully built. He was not fat, just big. A long scar stretched from his left eyebrow all the way to the tip of his chin. It was a battle scar he had received as a young warrior fighting the outlaws.

Attulf, my son, he said with the booming voice of a man who was used to giving commands, and, more importantly, used to having them followed instantly. It is good to see you again after all these years, even though you are coming home at a bad time. He raised his right fist to his chest in a warrior’s salute meant to show that they were brothers in arms and therefore he kept Attulf in his heart.

My Lord, it is good to be back among friends and brothers, even though the occasion could be better.

Paul gave a slight smile and waved with his hand for Attulf to enter the house.

They entered through a thick oak door lined with metal. It looked new. Attulf thought it showed that Paul was expecting trouble. After being outside travelling for days, the heat from the fire felt good to Attulf. He felt his bones warming up and his sore muscles starting to relax. As soon as they entered the great hall, a maiden brought out some warm wine and roasted lamb for Attulf.

Have a seat by the fire and try to get some warmth in your body, Paul said.

Attulf looked around the great hall. A long fire went down the middle of the room, with tables and chairs lined up around it. Hanging on the walls were some old weapons, memories of ancient battles won and lost. Memories of warriors, just as the battle scars they carried on their bodies and soul.

I have a scroll and pens ready for you, after you have rested, Paul said. I think we have to take her dictation tonight. She might not live until morning

I will just take a quick meal and wash my hands and face. Then I will go and attend to her, Attulf said with a serious tone. Attulf sat down, had a piece of lamb and emptied his wine goblet. The wine was good and warm. As soon as he set the goblet down, the maiden attending them refilled it. Another maiden brought out a jar of hot water and a cloth for Attulf to wash up. After Attulf had washed his face and hands, he looked at Paul.

I am ready to see her now.

Paul nodded and a soldier stepped forward and said, I will escort you to her chambers, General.

Another new thing for Attulf, suddenly he was a General. This soldier was not wearing chain mail, but he was wearing the golden star of a rider leader. Like the rest of them, however, he was carrying his sword and knives. No soldier in Paul’s household had to hand over his weapons.

They walked towards the back of the great hall, through a big fortified oak door, and, behind it, up a narrow staircase to the second floor. With narrow twisting steps, easy to defend, the house had been built with war in mind. When they got up to the second floor, they walked down a dimly lit hallway. Some light was coming through narrow openings in the wall. At the end of the hall, Attulf could see two soldiers in full armor guarding the door to Lady Aethelmaer’s chambers. One of the soldiers was wearing a golden moon on his chest, the insignia of an officer of the guard, a watch controller. He touched his chest with his fist.

Welcome General. Lady Aethelmaer just asked if you were here.

Attulf automatically touched his chest with his fist, a salute he had not used for years since, in his mind, he was not a soldier anymore, even though they addressed him as General. But it still came naturally to him. He had done it so many times in years past. The soldier smiled and opened the door to the Lady's chambers.

When Attulf entered the room, he could feel the heat. It was hot and dimly lit. Lady Aethelmaer was lying in bed by the opposite wall. It was a shock. The once beautiful and vibrant woman had wilted down to a thin, grey, old woman way before her time, but you could still see the fire of life and strength burning in her eyes.

Thank you for coming so soon, my son. Her voice was barely a whisper.

Attulf had to listen carefully to understand her. He remembered when he had seen her last. Her voice had the power to turn every man’s head. Her whisper had been more powerful than the roar of the white bear. But that was then. It was apparent to Attulf that she had to use a lot of energy just to speak. Energy she barely had anymore.

My Lady, I am sorry I could not be here earlier and under better circumstances, Attulf answered.

Oh, it is time for me to go, my son, but first I would like to put my affairs in order,

On a table, beside the bed, everything was set up so Attulf could write down her last will and testimony.

Why don’t we start right away, Attulf, she whispered. I do not have the energy anymore to speak for lengthy periods of time, and I can feel my time running out.

Attulf sat down and got ready to write down her last will. Lady Aethelmaer started telling him what to write. Her voice was so weak it was hard to hear her.

I, Aethelmaer, daughter of Braggard and wife of Paul, Marshal of the West, hereby make my last will and testimony public, and in front of the gods I state that I am still independent in my thought. All my property in the west peninsula, being Bayshore, Sands, Dark Valley, Red Hills, Sun Valley, North Peaks and Dracbarrow, these lands with all livestock, free money and smaller farms that belong to these estates I give to my husband Paul the Gracious, to do with as he wishes. To each of my subjects, every man, woman and child, I give one silver coin, and to my personal servants and guards I give in addition one gold coin, for their confidence and trust in me.

It started dawning on Attulf how vast and rich the empire she and Paul controlled was. The lands she had counted were half of the farms on the west coast. Almost all of the other half belonged to Paul. Between the two of them, they had owned almost all the west coast.

To each of my children: First I give to Jarvik, the only child I had with Paul, Beach Front with all loose and fixed property and all the lands that belong to it. To my children that I had with my first husband Matlendic; I give Long Beach to my daughter, Salrik. To my son, Adelrik, I give Sandvik, and to my son, Makkran, I give Valley Fort. I make this last will being of sound mind but knowing that my body is failing and my meeting with the gods is not far away.

Attulf thought to himself that this would not be a death that would go unnoticed. He finished writing the document and took it over to Aethelmaer to sign. Her hand was shaking from the strain of signing the document. He noticed that she was so pale that she almost looked transparent. She gave Attulf a faint smile as he left the room and said,

Attulf, Paul will have to take care of you now, and something tells me that you will be more involved in his plans from now on than you have been in the past few years. You need to know that he is grooming Barder to take his place as the marshal of the West, and we both know that when that time comes you will be involved in everything that happens, good or bad.

Attulf nodded and told Aethelmaer that he would support Paul in every way possible.

You always have, my dear boy. Now go and get some rest. It was a long and cold journey to get here, and I think it is time for Paul to come here and spend my last moments with me before I head to the halls of our ancestors.

Attulf touched his chest with his fist. Old habits came back, and he saw a glint in the Lady’s eyes. Then she smiled, Farewell warrior. Even though you pretend to be only a scribe, the warrior has always been right under your skin, ready for the call when it comes.

Attulf left the room, and met Paul right outside. They nodded to each other as they passed in the doorway.

When Attulf came back down to the great hall, Barder was waiting for him. He had one of his well known smiles on. That smile was something Attulf remembered from his childhood. It meant, I have done something. Get ready. Here it comes.

Attulf my brother, even though you pretend to be just a scribe, I still have taken the liberty to have a uniform of the Wolves and chainmail made for you. I would like you to wear it while you are here so people will know who and what you are.

Attulf thought this was an honor. The Wolves were handpicked from regular soldiers. Only one of fifty made the pick, and only half made it through their training. There were only two ways to become a Wolf without finishing their training, die during training and get buried as a Wolf or be a mighty warrior already. The Wolves were considered the elite fighting force in more lands than Niflung. In Wyvern they were feared and their ancient enemy the Quorloks respected them. They were the best of the best.

About one hundred of the Wolves had gathered in the great hall, and the look on their faces was one of anticipation. Attulf brought his fist up in a salute and spoke with a firm voice,

It would be a great honor to be considered one of you.

A great cheer broke out and two soldiers brought out a mannequin draped in the uniform of the Wolves. It was another surprise. This was not the normal uniform of the Wolves. This one had the golden wolf’s head embroidered on the chest, the marking of a General of the riders, but behind the wolf’s head were the staff and pen of a scribe. Attulf knew that he would have to follow custom and put the uniform on for the first time in front of all the soldiers gathered in the great hall. He jumped up on an empty table and took off his robes. A low murmur went through the crowd. He had, after all these years, forgotten that he did not look like most men anymore. Battle scars deformed his skin, some from wounds received when he had fought one of the great white bears with only a knife. One by one, the soldiers brought their fists up in salute.

Barder was quick to speak before the moment became awkward, Brethren of the Wolves salute you, Attulf bane of Bears, and rider of the mountains. We are honored to have a warrior of your reputation joining our brethren.

At those spoken words, the two soldiers who had brought out the uniform lowered the robes over Attulf's body, followed by the chainmail of the riders. It was made out of black metal, light but strong. How it was made was a secret well kept by the Wolves. Only their blacksmiths knew how to make it. Each taught it to their apprentices, generation after generation. The secret had been kept that way. An officer of the guard handed a roll of cloth to Barder. He unfolded it, and Attulf could not believe what he saw. In it was Stinger, the sword he had lost in the battle against Modrek and his band of killers. Barder saw the look in his eyes and smiled.

With the honor and power of the Wolves, I return what once was lost back to its rightful owner. And may it always serve you as well as it did on that battlefield.

I reclaim, Attulf answered in the traditional way, Stinger, that once was lost but found in the bloody battlefield of past. Again, a murmur went through the crowd. They had heard the name Stinger, a famous sword of the past, made by the Southlanders out of their metal. Almost a mythical weapon that cut through shields and armor, but few had seen it. When Attulf gripped the handle, it was as if he felt a jolt. The diamonds in the hilt glistened and the carvings of old, the pictures of warriors that were engraved in the blade, shimmered black. It all came back. It was all there, the feeling of battles fought and innkeepers insulted when he and Barder had been young. One particular story came clearly to him, the inn outside Horseman’s Hall. He and Barder were young. They had been drunk, and drew their swords at the innkeeper and called him bad names. The innkeeper, an old man, had been a rider, but they did not know that. When he saw Attulf’s sword he had said,

Of all things I have expected in my life, this is not one of them, to have General Globragur’s sword Stinger drawn against me. I was there when your father got Stinger from the strange southlander. I heard the blessing he gave your father for saving his family from the thieves. And the oath your father gave that Stinger would only be wielded in honor.

The old innkeeper’s words had hit home. Both young men had sheathed their swords, bowed their heads and left. They later found out that the innkeeper had spent ten years looking for Modrek, to serve him the wrath of the Riders for his cowardly murder of their General. Though Modrek had been able to avoid him, he never gave up. (It was five years later when he gave Barder the information that gave them the chance to fight Modrek and his men.) Attulf never got drunk again, and never wielded Stinger without just cause. He even went so far as to never draw Stinger before the other man drew his weapon. It became a saying in the Riders used to build patience and teach riders to wait for the right moment to fight, Not until Stinger is drawn.

Attulf knew he was back home, no more was he a travelling as a Scribe. He was back where he belonged. He drew the sword from its scabbard. It was a new scabbard, delicately decorated with red earthen stones and an intricate inlay of black wires, the same metal as his chain mail. The blade shone in the light of the fire when he lifted it high, pointed at the sky, and recited the oath of the Wolves. By this sword and my life, I swear that I will fight oppression, right the things that are not right and slay thieves and murderers until the gods stop my beating heart. A great cheer broke out, and the men brought him the customary mjod to drink, a beer made from the wheat grown in the fields in the summer. But when Attulf lifted his cup to his lip, he thought of the lady upstairs. She would not last until morning, and that put some dullness on the celebration. Suddenly the soldier next to Attulf gave him a nudge and tilted his head towards the stairs. The door opened and Paul came through it. He was not smiling. Very quickly, the hall went silent. Everybody looked at Paul. He said with a dim voice,

She has passed over the river to the halls of the gods.

In an automatic reflex and display of respect, Attulf drew his knife. In a tradition that had lasted thousands of years among the riders of the mountains, he cut his left hand and spilled three drops of blood on the floor. One to show that his heart bled, one to show that he would willingly escort her over the river to protect her, and one to show that he would shed blood to protect her honor forever. When he realized what he had done, he looked around. A few young soldiers stared at him, but all the riders and many of the guards and foot soldiers followed his example. Paul brought his fist up in a salute. Attulf thought he saw some dampness in his eyes. Paul did not say anything, just turned and went back upstairs.

Attulf thought that now Paul had to make up his mind. Would she be buried under the floor of the great hall, as so many of her ancestors, or should her body be burned in the fashion of the riders? Attulf knew it would be a hard choice to make. Maybe they should do both, since she died from the plague. It would still show her the honor and respect she deserved if she was burned first and the ashes put under the stone floor of the great hall at Canyon Pass. Many great warriors rested there, and they had all been burned in the fashion of riders.

Barder looked over to his second man and said, Send the riders, they have been waiting.

Partor looked back at Barder, They are ready my liege, three to a team. It will take two days to get the news to her children, but bad news can wait.

As he finished the sentence, he left the great hall, and headed towards the stables. Barder had twelve riders ready to go at any time. Three to a team, it was not safe to send a lone rider into the mark. Some of them would even have to use boats to get to Aethelmaer's children, to deliver the news. Attulf looked at Barder,

I think we need to get ready for war my friend, he said. Many will try to claim her lands. Barder looked up to the ceiling and answered in a dim voice,

Only Ryder will protect us now. For in the future, I see war and death of many.

Ryder, the god of riders and war, Barder was probably right. There would be war. Maybe not this year, but before next winter there would be. They needed to start preparing for it, get weapons ready and train more men. Attulf was sure that Garder the Cold and his son Wormer would try to claim some of the property. After all, Garder was Aetlemaer's half brother. They had the same father, but that was all they had in common. Garder was power hungry and a coward in Attulf's opinion. His son was just another rich, worthless boy, not a man, but a lying, cheating excuse for a man. They would not send riders with news to them. Custom only demanded that the riders told the parents, children, and siblings, but not half siblings, of the death of a warlord or his family members. Nobody here at Canyon Pass liked Garder or his son, Wormer. They thought of them as money hungry vultures. Attulf knew that they would know in time and come to Canyon Pass to see what they could get.

The high priest at Cliff Fort, Horteg, would also try to get some of the smaller farms in his area for the temple. He would claim that it was for the temple, but everything in the temple was his to do with as he pleased. The priest did not like it that most of the people on Niflung did not follow the religion on the mainland and still prayed to the old gods, but he did not have the power to force them to the temple. The Riders stood in the way. Barder was the leader of the Riders. He and Paul had joined hands to clear Niflung of criminals, and they were doing so. The battle of thieves had only been the beginning. Since then they had been hunting them down. It was a war of secrecy. Garder had given them a safe haven on the south coast, and neither Paul nor Barder wanted an all out war. However, thieves where hiding in the woods and mountains, and attacking traders and farmers on the way to market. When the Riders tried to go after them, they fled to Kumla Hall and the area around there. Paul had suspected for years that they were paying a fee to Garder, but he could never prove it.

Attulf had fallen into thought he did not like, but this was what was coming, an all out war, maybe even with people from the mainland.

General, you want me to show you to your rooms? a young rider asked. I am to be your aide, until you can select your own. My name is Cedrolik, and my father served with Globragur, your father.

Who is your father? The young man reminded Attulf of someone. He could not remember whom, but it struck a soft note in his dim mood.

He died last year. He was Semir the horse tamer, the rider answered.

I knew him well, an honorable Rider and a great warrior, Attulf said, and saw a mental picture of Semir. He had taught Attulf the way of the Riders. He taught me to ride, I am sorry he has passed. How is your mother, I hope she is well?

She is old, but sends her blessings. She asked me to tell you that she is glad that the son of Globragur is back to lead us in the old ways

Attulf smiled at these words and thought about the rumors going around that Salima the healer spoke to the old gods, and they answered her. She was often been seen out on moonlit nights looking for herbs to cure the ill.

You are right Cedrolik. I think it is time to turn in. There are many things that await us tomorrow, he said to his new aide. Cedrolik led him to chambers right off the Great Hall. That was the place of honor. Even though he could hear the noise in the Great Hall, sleep came quickly. It is amazing what staying up for twenty hours of riding can to do you.

Attulf woke up to noises outside his room. He overheard Barder talking to Cedrolik outside his door.

Wake him up now, he heard Barder say.

Cedrolik answered in a firm voice, General, you tasked me with protecting him. He needs another hour of sleep before he needs to get up.

Attulf wondered, ‘protect him from what?’ but he decided to let them know that he was awake. Barder, he yelled, Leave the kid alone, and come in. His door flew open and Barder stormed in wearing full armor.

Get up lazy boy. It is time to ride to Horseman’s Hall. We need to get the Riders ready.

Attulf was stunned. It was strange to leave only a few hours after her ladyship had died.

Why are we leaving so early my friend? he asked.

Paul wants us to go home and get the Riders you used to lead. There are men you need to meet, and they need to meet you if you are to take over from me, Barder said as he threw Attulf's shirt to him. Get ready we leave in two hours.

Attulf jumped out of the bed, and started getting dressed. He knew they would have a fresh horse waiting for him. The Riders all took good care of their horses, but in their culture, they made sure they did not grow too fond of them, because sometimes they would end up eating them. Attulf remembered that long ago, in a deep winter, he had to kill his horse and crawl into the carcass to survive the night. Horses were tools and nothing more. Some were better than others though. Even though they respected each other’s ownership of horses, they all had the same understanding, ‘You need my horse, take it.’ He put on his uniform of the Wolves and stepped out of his room. In the hallway, Cedrolik was waiting already in full armor. He handed Attulf a bow and said, From my mother. She said you knew how to use it. The quiver is already on your horse.

Attulf took the bow. It was a great weapon, old but well kept, and it had been handled by someone who knew weapons. It was made of bone and wood. He tested the string. It was taut. While he had been training on the mainland, he had met one of the king’s archers and learned from him. But this was not one of their longbows. This one was made for a rider, short, but powerful, and perfect to use on a horse. Riders did not particularly like to use bows and very few of them were any good at it. Attulf wondered how she had known, but that just showed that she knew more than most of them wanted her to.

Tell her thank you, from me. It is a great gift, Attulf said.

Cedrolik looked at him in a strange way, like he was embarrassed. Attulf smiled and asked him what was embarrassing him.

I was also supposed to say a blessing from her.

Attulf did not think that was strange. He kneeled in front of Cedrolik. It was the custom to get blessed. This embarrassed Cedrolik even more, but he started chanting,

Son of Valgerd and Globragur, descendant from the ancient kings, blessings from Ryder the god of horsemen. May this bow serve you as well as it did its first owner, Slekkir, the greatest warrior of Niflung and your great grandfather. Attulf was surprised to hear that. He had heard stories of his great grandfather, Slekkir the Ruthless, who had made Niflung an important part of the kingdom. The old kings had come to him for advice and had depended on him during wars with the Quorloks from the north. This was his bow, Sparrow. It had been lost for many years. Globragur, his father, had told him stories of it, but even he had not seen it. Attulf’s grandfather had told Globragur about it. He had seen it once when he was a boy, the day his father rode off to battle the Quorloks but never returned. How had Salima come in possession of this weapon? Cedrolik continued speaking,

She said her great grandmother found it in the battlefield, and when she picked it up, Ryder himself came to her in a vision and told her that the women of her family should keep that weapon for four generations, until Stinger was reclaimed after being lost by the man who carried the markings of the bear. She said it was time for a great war, and songs would be sung by the people of the mainland for thousands of years to come about Attulf the scribe, who wielded great weapons in battle.

Attulf stood up, saluted Cedrolik, and said,

I have found my aide. May we fight side by side from now on.

Cedrolik's face lit up and with a bright smile. He saluted and said, So will it be, my liege. May Ryder protect us.

Without another word, they both turned and headed for the Great Hall to get some food before they departed.

Out in the courtyard many things were happening. When Attulf and Cedrolik walked out of the Great Hall, everything went quiet. Then a murmur went through the crowd of soldiers. Attulf made out words like Sparrow, the bow, and Stinger. He looked at Cedrolik, who smiled and said,

Mother was never good at keeping secrets.

Attulf raised the bow in the air, By the names of my forefathers, I pledge you this. Come battle or Helja, I will be there with you ‘til the gods stop my heart.

A loud cheer broke out. Then the soldiers went back to work getting ready for the long, four-day ride to the Horseman’s Hall.

Barder came over. Morning Attulf, so the legend is true?

What legend? asked Attulf.

The legend of two great names wielded by the third, Barder said. It is the legend of the Riders. A man will come forward from the past. He will wield two names, and answer by the third, and he will bear the mark of the great beast. You have two great weapons, and your face and body wear the scars made by the bear you fought. Maybe we will see war, and we will win.

Attulf had no