Man of Many Waters

By Richard T. Schrader

In a Norse viking age of axes, sorcery, giants, and dragons - world history and cultural mythology are both equally real and taking place. The globe trekking saga of Fastillion Lemonde begins at his childhood home on the Isle of Vinland during the Norse colonization of the Americas in the 11th Century. Fastillion, of mixed race and the adopted orphan son of his village's Christian priest, he is a young man that can move among the diverse cultures both Norse and native, pagan and Christian. Trained in woodcraft by his native mentor and with refined education from his book-learned father, Fastillion has both the mind and skill that can allow him to survive. When an ancient tribal enemy of all returns from nearly disbelieved legend, they come armed with black magics and the cannibalism-fueled immortality of the Windigo shamans. The viking Norsemen and their native Micmac allies must shake off generations of lazy peaceful living to once again take up their warrior ways. From the author of the ten books of the Gravewalkers survival horror series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard T. Schrader
• Release date: Dec 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311544964

Richard T. Schrader

Suicide Squad 2 and Peacemaker are adaptions of characters from Gravewalkers.The helmets from before are stolen from here. If you liked the show you will love this.Audiobook versions with subtitles are available on Youtube. I will eventually have all 12.For those of you who felt something for my characters, especially my beloved and misunderstood autistic sidekick, that means a lot to me. I wish I could have gotten out of this permanent shadowban through some way other than plagiarism.It's ok that you were only curious. This is a video world now.@RichardTSchrad1 Twitter

Book preview

The Saga

of

Fastillion Lemonde

Book Two

Man of Many Waters

Richard T. Schrader

Copyright © 2013 Richard T. Schrader

Copyright © 2022 Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Contents

The Council of Elders

Journeys of the Spirit

Bloodlines

The Strength that Endures

When the Mountain Bows

The Fountain of Souls

The Prophecy of the Sleeping King

Legacy of the Ancients

The Festival of Torches

Blood for Honor

A General’s Burden

Obsidian Women and an Iron Man

Attrition of Traditions

The Sleepless King

Dreams remembered

Chapter 1: The Council of Elders

After Fastillion had finalized his formal business transaction with Twisted-feathers to acquire his daughter in marriage, the three of them merrily returned to the Micmac’s roundhouse with the remainder of the boat’s baggage. They entered to find Silver-tree busily cooking over the central fire. The room was stifling hot because she had left the draperies closed over the four windows and also the door. Barely enough air seeped around the hide barriers to let the smoke properly ventilate out the hole in the roof.

Twisted-feathers restrained his dislike for the woman while he opened the drapes to cool off the room and freshen the air. Once he had them open, he said, My home is far enough out of the way that she won’t see anything outside of any importance. He didn’t speak to her directly even though he meant his words for her ears, There is no reason for her to keep the windows covered.

Fastillion unpacked while Raining-sunshine helped her friend prepare the evening meal. The meeting of the council elders would begin at moonrise. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to dress in his usual fashion or start adopting habits more in line with Micmac customs. Since he didn’t own one of the toga-like robes they preferred to wear during ceremonies, he settled on old habits.

The iron manacles on Silver-tree’s ankles jingled noticeably with her every step. She didn’t complain about them and they didn’t prevent her from getting about or being a superb cook. Fastillion had brought two skins of wine with him and he drank some with his dinner. He was resolute about maintaining his habit and so thought it best to get it out in the open immediately. Silver-tree also enjoyed strong drink and gratefully accepted some when he offered it to her.

Twisted-feathers dressed for the meeting in his finest garb with his full headdress. When the time came, he led Fastillion to the council fire of the village elders. Neither of them carried any weapons aside from their utilitarian knives.

The Micmac elders held their meetings at the center of the north village. A large bonfire burned in the middle of an enormous circular assembly area. The builders had recessed the open aired chamber into the ground like a roundhouse’s foundation. They had lined it in white flagstone and placed two rings of seats made from log sections.

The village’s twenty councilmen occupied the inner ring while the outer ring was for about five-dozen of their most respected warriors. Each of the men in the outer ring had at least a dozen large feathers in their headdresses as proof of their accomplishments. The elders didn’t allow women to attend their meetings and only men of distinction had seats around the council fire. A special summons from a councilman was required for any lesser-ranked man to sit in.

Fastillion sat on the outermost foundation wall with the grass at his back while Twisted-feathers took his seat of honor in the warriors’ ring. The councilmen with their facial tattoos began their meeting with discussions about the preparations they were making for war with the Beothuk.

We should spare no effort in acquiring more weapons, a stripe-faced councilman said without standing. With the White Father’s wrought-iron arrowheads our shafts can pierce through shields as easily as bone. With his hearth-steel spear points and tomahawk blades our warriors will have a great advantage over our stone-wielding enemies.

The other councilmen nodded serenely to cast their votes of approval for the man’s motion. Once they had made their agreement unanimous, the councilman fell silent so that another councilman could bring an issue to everyone’s attention.

The surest way to purchase these new weapons is by having the men mine more iron ore and then delivering it to Vinland, the other councilman advised. It is a resource that waits abundant in the earth. I suggest we double the number of workers, even triple it if we can commit that many laborers.

Let’s not do that at the expense of stockpiling our food supplies, a raccoon-eyed councilman warned. Hard times may be ahead. We cannot protect our fields as securely as we do our women. This winter may prove to be a hungry one indeed, especially if the Beothuk manage to burn this season’s maize while it is still ripening in the fields.

The councilman that advised more mining nodded emphatically to agree with his counterpart, You speak wisdom, Damming-beaver. There are Vinlander mouths to feed as well. We should send emissaries to advise them to ration their supplies and stock extra hay for their livestock. Some of them are skilled hunters; they need to jerk as many caribou as they can harvest.

The councilman that Fastillion had first met when he landed his sailboat brought up an issue relevant to him, The son of the White Father has made a servant of a Beothuk slave girl he captured at the battle of Table Rock. He shackled her legs in manacles of iron and keeps her blindfolded when out of doors during the daylight hours. I have agreed to this so that he be given a chance to plead her case before the council.

We should cloud her eyes permanently, one of the councilmen suggested, so that she will be unable to run away to tell anyone about us. The loyalty of a woman is too fickle to be trustworthy, especially a woman who was once a slave to the Beothuk. We are at war and at such times leniency is suicidal.

It would be prudent to cripple her at the very least, another of them recommended. The very nature of shackles is that she could remove them.

I watched him hammer the pins in place, the first said in defense of his original agreement with Fastillion. Considering that Twisted-feathers is keeping her in his home and the service the boy has done for us, I ask that my fellow elders allow for this special concession.

The council was hesitant to agree, but they eventually relented then dropped the matter entirely.

Fastillion realized that he had wagered his credibility on Silver-tree remaining loyal to him. She had fooled him once before. He made a silent commitment to himself to keep a close eye on her.

Having concluded their other business, the council called on Twisted-feathers to give an accounting of his encounter with the Beothuk.

The veteran warrior stood to address the council, After the White Father’s son and I finished skinning Red-grin and then we stretched the hide on a frame for tanning, we sailed in his boat back to Leifsbudir along with my daughter. Upon our arrival, we learned that three of their fisherman had not returned home from a trip to the north coast of the island.

Men who had gone to investigate returned a short while later. They had found the men’s boat and the bloody signs that they had met with violence. They also discovered a blood-caked spear of Micmac design. It was for that reason that their council of chieftains assumed that we had somehow been behind the killings.

The council took his information with grim expressions. Since cunning assaults meant to shatter alliances was nothing new to them, they took it as proof that the Beothuk were not only skilled warriors, but also devious strategists.

A wrinkled old councilman with a complex arrangement of spiral tattoos on his face asked, What did you do to dissuade them?

Twisted-feathers replied, After I explained that we were obviously not part of their problem, I insinuated myself as the solution. I volunteered the White Father’s son and myself to go investigate the matter. We then returned here to leave my daughter in a place of safety and also enlist the services of Spotted-crow and Ten-badgers.

He went on to describe how they had searched the ruins of Hoap village and then discovered the site where the Beothuk had strung up Oleg to blood eagle him by pulling his lungs out through holes they had cut into his back.

The council learned about how his team had found the piece of Beothuk arrow that Harald had shrewdly concealed in the broken bough of a tree. So armed with that clue, Twisted-feathers had then deduced that Beothuk had been the actual culprits.

It was only a guess that they were headed for Table Rock Shrine, Twisted-feathers explained. It was the closest site I could think of they would find holy enough for making a blood sacrifice.

The council invited Spotted-crow and Ten-badgers to participate in the recounting. Together with Twisted-feathers, they told the council elders how Fastillion took position on the cliff over the shrine while they secured posts at the other three compass points down in the woods.

We delayed our attack because a second war party joined the first, Spotted-crow informed the gathering. It was Fastillion who opened the hostilities by cutting one of them down with an arrow. After that, we called down the thunder and blood sprayed everywhere as our arrows took them out one after another.

Both the shamans went after Fastillion, Ten-badgers said. We were so busy fighting in the woods that we lost track of them for a while.

Twisted-feathers continued the tale, We had set trip lines in the gaps between trees. As we retreated deeper into the forest, we lured them into the traps then dispatched them as they stumbled.

I wish to hear of these shamans, these war captains, one of the councilmen specified. He straightened up then craned his neck to find Fastillion, Come here, boy. Tell us what you saw and did. Only you know what happened atop the cliff.

Fastillion hopped down from the dais to the flagstone floor of the sunken council chamber. He stood behind Twisted-feathers to speak, They were not natural men. Both the shaman with the deer antler headdress and the buffalo horned shaman had eyes that glowed red. Their voices had the timbre of forest predators.

Antler-man climbed the cliff as if he were a squirrel. It was only by luck that I broke the pendant from around his neck. After I did, his power fled and then he was mortal. I threw him to the edge of the cliff and then kicked him over as he tried to hang on. The fall took the rest of the fight out of him.

The elder asked, And what of the bison shaman?

Fastillion continued, I wounded him with arrows, but they did not slow him. He circled about to the narrow escarpment that gave access to the cliff. He would have trapped me there if Twisted-feathers had not come along then challenged him.

The councilman asked for clarification, Was it not you that killed him?

I did, Fastillion confessed, but only because my three companions provided me with the opportunity by battling him. With my sword Bull-tamer, I cut the sinew that held the pendant around his neck. After that, the shaman succumbed to his many lethal wounds and collapsed.

So, the oldest of the councilmen observed, the son of the White Father has the spirit gift and they guide him. How else could one unshorn boy manage to slay two of the Windigo’s black shamans?

Many on the council agreed but they said nothing of their actual thoughts.

The three Micmac warriors told the rest of their details about the fighting at the shrine. Unlike Norsemen, the Micmac warriors were true to the actual events and avoided any embellishment. They did not seek to aggrandize anyone or slander foes. Their goal was to make sure the council got the purest unmodified information on which they could wisely base future decisions.

Fastillion finished the story by telling the council how he found Silver-tree in the cave after the battle. He honestly explained how she had worn red Beothuk body-paint and had tied herself to pretend that she had been their prisoner.

He told them all that Harald had informed him of as well, so that the council learned about how the Beothuk war party attacked the three Norsemen in the first place. Silver-tree did threaten to cut my throat that first night, Fastillion admitted in his most difficult disclosure.

I now realize that her actual intention was to kill herself. It was the wise counseling of my father that turned her to the Christian God. She is no longer a danger to any one, herself included.

Just when Fastillion thought his interrogation was over, the oldest councilman asked him a final question, Did you destroy the pendants the war shamans wore? Did you ever try one of them on? Did anyone else?

Fastillion choked down his shock and did his best to answer confidently. He was not sure what force had motivated him to keep them such a secret. Now that the council was bringing them out into the light, it seemed obvious to him how imprudent it had been for him to keep them.

No, I still have them, he confessed. They seemed like worthy souvenirs, so I kept them.

The man asked with untypical emotion, Where are they now? We must see them.

I left them at Twisted-feathers’ roundhouse, he answered. They’re in a pouch on my arrow quiver. Do you want me to go and get them?

The old man shook his head no, Not yet. You said that you believed that the pendants imparted powerful magic to their wearers. Do you still think that’s true?

I know it to be true, Fastillion readily admitted. I can’t say that they would do the same for anyone else. I must admit that I’m ignorant of such things. That is why I have never touched them since the moment I first put them away.

You were both wise and foolish, said another of the councilmen. Some totems can allow the shaman who made them to see and hear those things that are happening in the vicinity of their creations. It could be that you have provided them a window through which to examine not only your home village, but now ours as well.

A different councilman concurred, We know of other totems that can contain the spirit of a deceased shaman and allow him to possess the body of any who are foolish enough to put on their device. Had you been stupid enough to test the magic of the pendants, you might have become the unwitting vessel for a Beothuk shaman of great power.

We shall send someone home with you to collect the pendants, said a different councilman. Whatever harm has been done will not be worsened by a modest delay. While my colleagues are quick to point out the potential evils that the pendants might be capable of, it is also feasible that they are of some beneficial use to us, but that has yet to be determined.

Yet another councilman spoke to Fastillion, This council wishes to recognize you for your accomplishments as a man. For your killing of three Beothuk warriors, you have earned the right to wear a headdress adorned with three wing feathers from an eagle. More so, for killing the two Beothuk war shamans, you earned the right to add two tail feathers from a golden eagle.

Those are our highest awards for the slaying of a foe. Though you are not officially a member of our tribe or our nation, your unprecedented accomplishment for a warrior so young has earned you a place among us if you petition for it.

I do ask to become a member of the tribe, Fastillion declared unreservedly.

The outer circle of warriors stamped their feet in recognition and applause.

The familiar councilman silenced them, Unfortunately, we cannot give you the rewards you have earned as a man and a warrior because you are still a long-haired boy in the eyes of this council.

The old man called out to everyone present, Does anyone here say that this boy is worthy to accept the trials to become a man?

Twisted-feathers stood up and shouted clearly, I, Twisted-feathers, say that he is ready and deserving. I fought beside him in the battle and he saved my life.

As do I, Ten-badgers called out in support while standing up from his seat.

And I, added Spotted-crow, doing the same.

Then prepare him, the councilman declared. He shall be given his opportunity.

The familiar councilman spoke to Twisted-feathers, Take him to collect the pendants from your home. Be sure to keep them covered while you carry them. Since you have been raising him and know all that is required, it falls upon you to prepare him.

Before sending Fastillion away with his mentor, the councilman addressed him a final time, Is there anything you wish to say to this council while you have our attentions?

Fastillion felt intimidated by the penetrating gazes of so many great men. He gathered up his confidence so his voice wouldn’t show his unease, Earlier this evening I paid the bride price for Raining-sunshine to take her as my wife. I ask for the blessing of the council of elders for us to build a home and raise a family in your community.

No long hair has the right to marry a woman, the oldest councilman decreed. If you should pass the challenges of becoming a man, we shall authorize your marriage ceremony and bless the union by our participation. The wedding of a descendant of Black-winter-ferret is a great occasion worthy of special celebration.

Twisted-feathers got up then led Fastillion back to his home. They went in to find the two women busily cutting and stitching doeskin for Raining-sunshine’s wedding tunic.

The council approves of your marriage, Twisted-feathers told his daughter. Do not waste your effort. Our village’s finest seamstresses shall craft your wedding tunic. They have promised a celebration that will be a spectacle worth remembering for years to come.

Fastillion found a buckskin bag then deftly transferred the two pendants into it from his quiver pouch. Here, he gave the bag to Twisted-feathers. They’re inside.

I’ll be back soon, his father-in-law replied. When I return, we’ll begin the first ritual for your manhood ceremony. From this moment, until it is over, you must refrain from partaking of any food, women, or your wine. Take a bath then dress in a clean loincloth. He headed out with the bag.

The women abandoned their tunic-making project then instead busied themselves with preparing Fastillion for his ritual.

Before he headed down to the river to bathe, Fastillion got a long leather thong then tied one end of it to a link at the center of Silver-tree’s manacle chain. With it, she could use the strength in her arms to lift the chain, which would make it easier for her to walk.

Raining-sunshine blindfolded Silver-tree and then the three of them walked through the village down to the riverbank. The moonlight was strong enough to allow them to see.

Cultivated groves of berry bushes surrounded one of the village’s washing areas and obscured all sight of the community.

Fastillion took off Silver-tree’s blindfold then stayed close to her while they bathed so that there was no chance the weight of her manacles would drown her. The women worked together to wash him before they cared for themselves.

Silver-tree found it difficult to restrain her amorous hands while Raining-sunshine’s shy inexperience still inhibited her so that she could make only a tentative inspection of her future husband.

Fastillion regretted the stipulation that he was to restrain himself from enjoying his newly purchased fiancée. Her stupefying beauty and bashful assessment were more than enough to raise an unmistakable display of his desire.

At first, she felt appalled and shrank away from his flagrant manifestation of affability. Gentle coercion from Silver-tree helped her to get in touch with the root of her apprehension and embrace the potential of their upcoming post nuptials.

A smattering of whispered instructions from Silver-tree led the tittering Raining-sunshine into toying with the notion of soothing his vigor, but they abandoned the game before defying the edicts about Fastillion’s preparations for his ritual.

Once they were back at the roundhouse, Raining-sunshine dressed Fastillion in a loincloth and then artfully painted him with black stripes of greasepaint. Fastillion stood passively, but felt excitement while his wife worked on him. The marriage ceremony didn’t hold great appeal for him since it was primarily for the display and aggrandizement of his beautiful wife.

As she completed his final preparations for beginning his manhood ceremony, he had an inkling of the excitement she would be feeling. It was as though his old life was ending and a new one was beginning, which in many ways was the truth.

The lessons of childhood coursed through his mind as his life’s experiences boiled up within him. Twisted-feathers had taught him the ways of the hunter and woodsman. His stepfather had given him many unique gifts such as a literate education, taught him to sail, to work iron, and to restrain his actions with morality. Silver-tree had taught him that bliss could come from unfettering one’s true desires and bringing them to fruition.

With Raining-sunshine, he felt the joy of being part of a unity that was much greater than their individual selves were alone. It was a union that would produce children and make them part of the eternal chain of life.

Fastillion became distracted from his thoughts by Silver-tree’s happy expression as she watched her mistress decorate him. He had confined her indoors and dressed her in heavy chains. A hostile people surrounded her on all sides and Fastillion even denied her physical companionship, but still she offered him nothing but affection.

Raining-sunshine noticed him watching her servant. She’s willing to return to the Beothuk just to protect you, she told him in Norse. Part of me wants to believe that it’s just a trick to make us let her go home, but somehow I know better.

The elders would never allow it anyway, but I know what you mean. He gave his fiancée an amused smile, I’ll be gone for a while; can I trust you two sleeping together without me? When she pursed up in a fluster of embarrassment, he couldn’t help but laugh, You know I’m just kidding.

You’re talking about me, Silver-tree interrupted. Aren’t you?

It’s nothing bad, Fastillion reassured her. I was just telling her to be careful not to scuff her ankles on your manacles when you sleep tonight.

You’re not kidding, Silver-tree complained, reaching down to adjust the rabbit pelt in her right cuff. These things are killers. As to them sleeping together, Silver-tree just naturally assumed it since she wouldn’t willingly be anywhere else.

Twisted-feathers returned then summoned Fastillion to come outside with him.

Fastillion felt nervous not knowing what would happen next. He embraced his fiancée and then Silver-tree before he headed out with his father-in-law.

They walked through the village without conversation on the way down to the river. In a secluded grove near the water’s edge stood a miniature birch-bark wigwam. A thin tail of smoke streamed from the hole at the top of the support poles. A talented artist had painted the structure with intricate images of forest animals, birds, and river creatures.

You must go inside, Twisted-feathers told him.

Fastillion didn’t understand the purpose, What’s in there?

Only what you take with you, he answered cryptically.

Fastillion asked, How long am I supposed to stay in there?

His mentor instructed, You must purify yourself for three days. You must not come out until I tell you that it is time. If you do, you will have failed to complete the first ritual and a boy you shall remain.

At certain times, someone will place more wood for your fire beneath the door flap. When they do, you must burn the wood. If you fail to burn the wood, if you speak to your attendant, or if you call out for help, the ritual will be over and you will have failed.

At other times, your attendant will put in bowls of ceremonial drink that you must consume entirely. When you must relieve yourself, you may use the empty vessels for doing so, placing them out under the flap as necessary.

The instructions were simple enough that Fastillion had no more questions. He thought it sounded rather simple and unchallenging.

Twisted-feathers held open the entrance for him to go in and as the flap shifted aside, heat and smoke wafted out from the cramped interior. Fastillion realized that he was going to have to smoke himself like meat they prepared for long-term storage. He was wise enough to realize that the ceremony had already begun. If he complained or hesitated, it would only cause him to appear cowardly.

After he had gone in and Twisted-feathers closed the flap, Fastillion had nothing to do but sit down since he didn’t even have room to stand. The heat and the smoke were stifling, but not so severe that he was going to suffocate.

It wasn’t long before he started to perspire. In time, the sweat began to pour from his body. The first interruption to his sweltering boredom came in the form of a bowl of drink that someone placed inside under the flap. He didn’t hesitate to guzzle it all down. The beverage was mostly water, but also seemed to contain the juice of berries, grapes, or other fruit.

More waiting preceded another bowl of drink and then another before he received more wood for his dwindling fire. It must have been late in the night by the time he started feeling tired enough to want to sleep. Fastillion found that the heat, the smoke, and the hard ground were not conducive to him resting.

Fastillion received bowls of drink with frequent regularity. He imbibed a tremendous volume of fluids, but sweated so profusely that he rarely even needed to relieve himself.

Morning came and he still hadn’t been able to sleep. A strange waking drowsiness clouded his thoughts and made it difficult for him to monitor the passage of time. The sun increased the temperature inside the wigwam, but it was already so hot that it made little difference. Each delivery of drink or wood made him hope that his ordeal was finally over only it never was.

By the night after Fastillion’s first day, he managed to sleep briefly only to have his attendant disturb him by delivering another bowl of his beverage.

A kind of delirium eroded his mind so that his waking and sleeping states crept closer together until they merged into something in-between. Just drinking his bowls of ceremonial juice and putting wood on the fire became a test of his concentration.

Chapter 2: Journeys of the Spirit

During some indefinable time at night while Fastillion laid on his side on the floor of the wigwam, a confounding realization disturbed him. He opened his eyes to discover that his fire no longer provided heat or illumination as it did before. During his lapse of attention, the wigwam had grown so much in size that the only way he had of knowing that it still existed was the distant smoke hole overhead that was like a single gleaming star. The tallest of the forest’s trees would not have reached even halfway to the distant light.

The illumination of his fire allowed him to see himself, the floor around him, and his latest drinking bowl, but nothing else. Fastillion stood up and saw his breath as the cold air around him turned it into mist. He didn’t feel any need to grapple with the reality of his experience. Whether he was awake or dreaming didn’t even occur to him.

As Fastillion turned about to examine the awesome new dimensions of the wigwam, he noticed that the light of his fire illuminated a thin fog that rose from the ground to gather around him. The mist was nearly stable in the windless calm. Its placid undulations were ominous and gave the room an underworldly aspect.

The small fire suddenly changed its hue from the radiant shades of sunset to luminous greens, blues, and turquoise. A distant sound of drums started to drift up from the fire as though it was a doorway to some great chamber beneath the floor where a ceremony took place.

The sound of the drums intensified and then the light that streamed in from the overhead smoke hole flickered before it shattered as though it passed through a prism. Broad flat sheets of colored light arced down from the hole to strike the ground in the form of a wide road of rainbow colored light.

Fastillion knew from his Norse upbringing that he could only be seeing the emergence of Bifrost the Rainbow Bridge. It was a magical roadway under the control of Odin the supreme Allfather of the Norse gods in Asgard. With it, the god traveled to anywhere in the Nine Worlds and if need be he could take with him all the other gods and all his legions from Valhalla, his Einherjar warriors.

No sooner had the bridge touched down then came a new drumming sound, but it was loud like the hammering blows of thunder. Many times Fastillion had heard the clopping sound of hooves from various breeds of great deer, but they were as nothing compared to the approach of the golden stallion that descended down the Bifrost Bridge’s three-strand roadway.

There were no horses west of Greenland and Fastillion had never even seen a drawing of one, but he knew that he saw one then. The deiform charger stood with shoulders high as three-times Fastillion’s height and upon its back rode a figure of equally impressive scale.

The rider was a towering warrior that was so tall that if Fastillion stood beside him he would only have come as high as the being’s knee. The rider was beardless and had long silver braids streaming down from beneath his steel helmet. His face was inhumanly handsome, but still stern and unyielding.

He wore garb that was entirely in the Norse style and of the finest manufacture. His chainmail was of minute interlinked rings that were the color of tarnished silver. In one hand, he held his reigns along with a spiraling ivory war horn that sported gold banding and numerous gemstones. His other hand held a naked gleaming broadsword that was longer than half-again Fastillion’s height.

Fastillion felt certain that he gazed upon the Norse god Heimdall of whom he had heard many tales. He was the tireless guardian of the Bifrost Bridge who was destined to sound a call from his horn Gjaller to signal the gods on the day of Ragnarok when the frost giants would assault them in a final war that would end the world.

Though Fastillion recognized the god, he had never even heard it suggested that Heimdall was one of the Vanir, the godly race of elves from Vanaheim, like the god Freyr and the goddess Freyja, which he clearly was at a glance.

Heimdall surveyed his destination, but made no more recognition of Fastillion than he did of the dirt beneath the hooves of his horse. His gaze lastly settled on the small fire at Fastillion’s feet then a contemptuous sneer curled up on his thin elfin lips.

The fire seemed to retort his scorn by increasing the sound of its drums and then flaring briefly before dying down with a vast outpouring of smoke. The smoke didn’t continue to rise but instead began to gather and coalesce into an ever-widening disk directly above the emerald flames.

As Fastillion gazed into the swirling shield of smoke, it continued to thicken and grow until it became ten paces in diameter. Once its rapid growth abated, the smoke transformed into quicksilver upon which Fastillion saw his cast reflection.

The smoke mirror rippled like a pool of water before a giant black panther sprang from within its depths. The predatory cat was of equal size to Heimdall’s steed and the horse neighed from the fear and discomfort that it felt at being so close to the fearsome beast.

In Norse with his antiquated accent, Heimdall asked the panther, Were you skulking in that fire waiting for me, Jaguar Lord? His elven voice was both imposing and yet beautiful for a mortal to hear. Though the predatory beast disturbed his mount, Heimdall did not feel in the least intimidated. Too bad I’m here on business, he mused with a flourish of his broadsword, or I could teach you a new way to skin a cat.

Like you, I but humbly prepare the way for my master, the colossal predator explained his presence in Algonkin. He spoke with a fearsome masculine voice that contained a deep base with a panther’s growls and gurgles.

It’s not your fate to die by my fangs. That shall be Loki’s pleasure. I could find it within myself to send you walking home. To prove his boast, the panther roared at the horse he wanted to kill and it made the mount rear up in a neighing of fear and a flashing of iron-shod hooves.

Heimdall reigned in his horse and then sheathed his sword, I’m a true god of men, lowly Beast Lord. I’ll not dirty my sword Hofud with the blood of a sovereign of mere animals.

He brought his horn Gjaller to his lips then blew a single beautiful note that spread afar from the giant wigwam. I have others at my disposal that will gladly clear this shrine of your loathsome presence.

The clamor of many booted feet came down from on high as a host of fighting men charged down the Bifrost Bridge. Within moments, a hundred howling warriors descended to gather about its base as a furious pack of savages.

All of the men were Caucasians with heroic builds and fierce natures. Most of them wore chainmail armor with iron-bound round shields. They carried various wrought iron and hearth-steel weapons typical of veteran Norse warriors.

Others dressed in ragged furs and carried more primitive arms that incorporated killing edges that they had crafted from stone or copper. All of them were fearsome men of legendary proportions and surly dispositions. Fastillion had no doubt that they were a small sampling of Odin’s Einherjar horde.

The Jaguar Lord bristled in anger and his hackle fur rose up in warning, You foolishly attribute too little to me, paltry herald. In the east my influence has dwindled to a few worshipers and those things feline, but you’re about to learn that in this land, I am the revered patron of many great warrior shamans.

The giant panther roared so loud and long that Fastillion fell to his knees and covered his ears. The sound caused the smoke mirror to ripple again and from its depths emerged a host of Marklanders.

First to step forth was a magnificently dressed man of muscle and maturity. His splendid loincloth and cloak bore geometric patterns in colors of vibrant green and turquoise. A huge headdress of feathers adorned his head with additional feathers that formed cuffs around his wrists and ankles.

Around his neck hung a thick chain of gold that supported a huge flat skull that was also of purest gold. More gold hung as rings from his ears and the septum of his nose.

He wore a small shield strapped to his left forearm. Its surface sported a red painted background with the ogling face of a tusked demon. In his hands he held a bizarre copper-bladed axe that was better suited for a thrusting attack than chopping.

His face smiled and he seemed eager to wage war. The confident grin revealed that stones of sparkling jade bejeweled each of his teeth.

The man cried out in his strange native tongue then the words echoed so that they came back to Fastillion’s ears in the Algonkin language he understood, The Cat Lord calls! Behold! Smoking-jaguar answers!

The second man to leap out from the smoke mirror festooned himself equally well in a cloak and loincloth of light blue that bore many red seashells and a crimson fringe.

His weapon was an intricate battle club that had two ridged lines of black volcanic glass that ran down its length so that it had the form of a double-edged sword. The obsidian shards that made up the cutting edges of his artistic weapon were razor sharp and undoubtedly deadly.

Unlike the man before him, the second warrior’s battle ready grin had teeth stained all in black.

Lightning-frog also harkens to the call, the man shouted proudly, and with me comes a host of jaguar-knights, each of note and legend!

As proof of his words, a hundred hulking Markland warriors sprang from the smoke mirror in a flood of shouting and waving weapons. They carried spears and axes with blades of copper, flint, or obsidian. Some