Dark Moon Rising, Saga of Storm Book 1: Part 3

By Anthony LaRiva

Seven years after fleeing the collapse of their father's Lysian Empire, the surviving members of the Ehlrich family have each adjusted in their own unique ways to a new life in their mother's homeland of the Stormlands. The realm's war with foreign aggressors has drawn to a staunch close, and mother, brot

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eldarian Requiems Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957838052

Anthony LaRiva

Anthony LaRiva is the aspiring author of Dark Moon Rising, the first novel in the Saga of Storm trilogy that he began writing in college. Having switched careers to focus fully on pursuing his passion of writing epic, high-fantasy literature, Anthony calls the Colorado front-range his place of work and home. History has served as a major source of his inspirations, and he does his best writing among the beatific landmarks of our world. Vikingdom dominates his fresh and intricate Stormborne world. The histories, myths, and legends of that violent time alongside those of late antiquity and early medieval Europe gift unequivocable life to his stark tale of the Ehrlich family and the many challenges they face.

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Table of Contents

Preface: The Stormlands

Map - Erunheim & Aidelgard

Map - Nordland & Soudland

Chapter Twenty-Six: Grim Renascence

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Warlord Prince’s Gambit

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ride to Stormguarde

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Vel-Thaka’s Execution

Chapter Thirty: Seer’s Demise

Chapter Thirty-One: Depravity’s Souls

Chapter Thirty-Two: Butchery Break

Chapter Thirty-Three: Raven’s Roost

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Necromancer Seer

Chapter Thirty-Five: Drur’s Toll

Chapter Thirty-Six: Dark Moon Rising

Epilogue: Stormurgall’s Seizure

About the Author

Dark Moon Rising, Saga of Storm Book 1 (Part 3)

Copyright © 2022 by Anthony LaRiva, Eldarian Requiems Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

For permission requests, write to: [e-mail]

Editing by The Pro Book Editor

Interior Design by IAPS.rocks

Cover Design by Brad Fraunfelter

eBook ISBN: 978-1-957838-05-2

paperback ISBN: 978-1-957838-04-5

Main category—Fiction

Other category—Epic Fantasy

First Edition

This novel is dedicated to my confidante Jack, with whose enduring encouragement and honest advice I was able to transform a simple manuscript into an epic novel…

And also to my good cat Django, whose indifference toward all the passages I read to him over the years led to the many rewrites and self-edits this story needed.

Preface: The Stormlands

W

hen Torlv’s thunder shakes Eldaria

as though Valkyrie have descended from the Halls of Halvalkyra, the faint cower in fear. Yet, for those born by the timeless siege of storm, nothing is sweeter than the sight of white lightning igniting the kindling of fear. Stormborne do not waste what Torlv relents, for the Stormlands are forever brimming with his tinder and wrath.

Nestled like the Breidjal eagle’s perch in the north lies this antediluvian land. The Range of Tjorden lies to its west, encumbering sky’s remorseless wrath. Sprawled across its heart, the Range of Valdhaz endures the far north where rules Jüte, the runic god of frost. In the most difficult times, its beauty is shrouded beneath the bower of frozen pine, yet rain from winters ever receding renew the Stormlands time and again.

The Wrathgorne Wilderland coats its breadth like dust coats a hunter’s refuge, forever awaiting its primordial owner’s return. Forests of pine swathe fjord cliffs. They overlook the three seas that carve out the shape of Hælla Dwolv, runic god of the earth. At the impregnable temple of the runic god of war, Helti, sealed behind the Great Gates of Tjorden, endures the Stormborne, a runefolk` molded by the same moon-lit dust as the savage land which birthed them.

The Stormborne are a militant people who know war’s many faces, the faces of Helti, the runic god of war. Patience and wrath are a berserker’s only armor besides his furs. Treachery and trust, the jarl’s chief tomes. Siege and onslaught, the thatching on which the Stormborne slumber until peace trounces them both. Shining valor is the crown that rules above them all. Their iron grit leaves no room for the dread of Drur’s Abyss. In pursuit of glory, the Valkyrie claim all.

Where the Stormborne march, the ground is soon to be soaked in blood. Wise men are familiar with the abominable sting of runeforged steel that has been blessed by Helti’s seers. It is like a score that ices the veins the precise moment it splits flesh. Lesser men cringe at the mere thought of fighting Stormborne beneath the endless clash of Torlv’s resilient thunder and Jüte’s bitter chill. Eldrahg the Draconic Father drew forth a hardened folk, men who broke lesser men who could not withstand the wanderer’s stunning roar into subservient thralls.

Stout villages dust the fjords and the edges of the Wrathgorne Wilderland where most of the Stormborne dwell. Their domiciles are built with crested roofs that look to stab the sky in defiance while some shield themselves with sward. Firmly entrenched against the fjords, there is little which can break their steadfast hold over Hælla Dwolv.

Their mountain holds and fjord fortresses delve into the depths of Eldaria. They are all rooted like the pine, birch, and ash forests that envelop them. Stormborne fortresses exhibit the spirit of those who call them home, hard like the uncultivated monsters roaming the lands of Dwevland and the Broken Fjords, voracious like the Great Etin Kazbel himself, and as indomitable as Frosthammer dwarves.

Spread throughout these frost-stricken and storm sieged slopes lie groves untouched by the lands own scorn known as the Vales of the Eversong. They are timeless enclaves encroached upon by Frosthammer dwarves, mindless mountain trolls, and the ældrik of the Broken Fjords. They exhibit their brilliance like the runic goddess Freyja as she stands beside the passage of her Draconic Father’s hand. They are also the most perilous spread of land, for within the Vales of the Eversong dwell mischievous fae. Fae folk sleep peacefully to the envy of those who dwell in neighboring lands, so long as those peoples don’t disturb their domains. Yet, the fae are devious like Eldrahg’s second son who wears all names except for the name of Lok, the trickster god, blood brother to Eldrahg, and most beloved brother of Torlv.

The Vales of the Eversong lie scattered across the high country—extensive stretches of sub-alpine forests, montane glades, and Highland plains. The Nordland high country overlooks the Jüteheln, an arctic sea ever forbidding the advance of the runic god of frost’s icy fangs. The Soudland high country extends above the Thunder Falls—a series of massive waterfalls that spill over tall basalt cliffsides, split the Wrathgorne, and carve the realm’s greatest of fjords.

The Thunder Falls divide the high country from the Wrathgorne Wilderland. Stormborne claim the falls are like threads of leather that bind the Stormlands together, threads binding the true realms of men to those untamed portions of the world men could only dream to conquer. The falls feed massive rivers that weave through the land like snakes caressing the ground, and the land endures their percolating scorn. The rivers eventually widen to form sun-scorned firths and breathtaking coastal fjords from where the Stormborne row out to plunder the world.

In the southeastern Stormlands lies the aerie peak of Valheim, from which the Range of Valdhaz springs across the land. At the mountain’s peak high above the clouds there lies a portal to the Halls of Halvalkyra. Laid against Eilíft Vatn—the Eternal Falls—the Halls of Halvalkyra house the valorous dead in eternity beside Valvítr, her Valkyrie, and most of the runic gods. It is a city of ore-pine posts, wattle-walls, towering holds of timber, luminescent moonstone, granite pillars, gneiss foundations, sward-roofs, and longhouses both striking and eternal. It is a bastion ruled by the Draconic Father Eldrahg and a sprawling afterlife pulsing with valor at its heart.

The Stormborne, a people ever deserving of Halvalkyra, revere the audacious lord who first opened to them its doors. Erun Runeheim, whose line forever rules as the Storm King after he won the Stormborne’s eternal obedience and trust. His was the line that fought for the right to rule the most resilient folk. His fortress of Stormguarde was crafted in an age of antiquity by Dwarf Lord Harnik of the Frosthammer clan and the line of Folkenarr, who ruled Dwevland between the Nordland and the Broken Fjords, who became runic god of the forge.

Since Erun Runeheim abandoned blighted Stormurgall to claim his seat in Stormguarde, his line has ruled from the Tempest Throne. The throne is inscribed with rarefied runes in some ancient Frostheim Dwarvish tongue. A vestige to the grace of Monomua the Crescent Lady, the might of Eldrahg the Draconic Father, and the strength of his pantheon of lesser runic gods, the Tempest Throne sanctions the Storm King’s solidarity in rule. Every Storm King to find strength in war has reigned from its mantle true. The throne’s power is bound for all the world to rue, for a saga sings that within the Tempest Throne dwells Torlv, runic god of storm, who imparts the valor with which the progenies of Erun Runeheim rightfully rule.

Within these realms where tempests writhe

Lay a kingdom sieged by storm,

In which the blizzard’s frigid scythe

Leaves spring in darkened forlorn.

On bliss’s threshold where shadows lie

The mighty Stormborne make their home,

In one true service to their Storm King,

Upon his ageless Tempest Throne.

A fjords’ secrets, a seer doth unearth

Where thy mighty bastion Stormguarde stood.

The solemn crest of a king’s lost mirth

Which no Jarl, karlar, nor thrall withstood.

Darkness falls athwart those realms untold

As shadows claim enfeebled minds

Due forth into wars to still unfold

With the Dark Moon mourned and maligned.

Withdrawn the wolf to answer love’s call.

Unseemly the thrall to rise above the gall.

Honorable the heiress, her dominions since shattered.

Valorous the heir, his dominions to be battered.

In the heart of sundry kingdom, three chosen make yield,

But by hands of blaze and shadow, one chosen thus wields.

Map - Erunheim & Aidelgard

Map - Nordland & Soudland

Chapter Twenty-Six: Grim Renascence

R

yurik awoke to an aching

head and a terribly parched mouth. Too much mead from the night before. Too much lovemaking as well. He hoarsely inhaled as warm air overflowed his dry, sticky tongue. He paused midway when something soft met with his lips and something wet with his tongue. He scrunched his eyes to break their crust and then leisurely opened them.

It was his blond conquest from the night before, searching for more he assumed. Ryurik did not intend to spare her more coin. He had only paid her for the night. She was lucky he had paid her at all. Anything which came this morning he would take as simple tithe. He was heir to these Stormlands, so he considered it nothing short of his rightful due.

Were you dreaming? the whore questioned blithely. You tossed and turned while you slept as much as when we fucked the night before.

Ryurik lied, Of you, and with the hope I’d awake with pleasure by my side. Aidelgard does not disappoint its Storm Prince, he cooed while wiggling in closer until her petite breasts grazed his naked chest.

Smiling, the whore dove into his lips as her breath intertwined with his. No, she softly drawled, What struck you was much rougher than anything we have done yet.

Impressed by her acuity, Ryurik confessed, They were of battles in which I’ve fought.

At the Great Gates, or against Denurl Kenning before he was defeated by the Skjold and slain by the bastard Son of Sven? she persisted while sliding under the furs to straddle him.

Ryurik tore through the covers to sit upright, frightening her with the sudden shift in his temperament. He was defeated and Aidelgard conquered by warriors from Draveskeld and the Erunheim. The Skjold are nothing more than my guard, and any warrior adept could have slain the Swine Lord.

Distressed he intended to scathe her with more than just mere words, the whore cleared her throat. It should have been you, Storm Prince.

Yes, Ryurik agreed, It should have been my blade to sever his head, but let’s not talk of such things in bed.

The girl shied away from his constricting grip, so Ryurik assuaged his severity and gently pulled her back in. He laid a hand against her head and seized what he saw as his. Gradually, she began to return his affection in an affirmation she understood exactly what he desired.

You are the Storm Prince who conquered Aidelgard and everything it holds. I belong to you now. All those you have conquered now do, she nervously moaned.

The door to the room swung open, smacking against a dressing station and then rebounding with a slight creak. Byron Dravenson strode through. Upon recognizing the situation, he slowly came to a stop. Byron tilted his head in slight, cynical judgment. Ryurik rolled his eyes. What respectable conqueror did not enjoy the fruits of his victory? He would not be Stormborne if he did not.

Time to get up, Byron casually instructed. The whore slipped off in the effort to leave, and Ryurik forced her to kneel and wait. I have much to learn from you in the way of charming women, but it will have to wait until another day.

Ryurik quipped, I’m already up, lord. I will find you and return to supervising the seizure of the city’s wealth once I have finished here.

Another compulsion of our agreement, which we will doubtlessly fight with your sister over soon enough, but it is not why I am here.

Ryurik bantered, This room is occupied, but we can drag one of Denurl’s daughters up from the dungeons and throw her in the next room if you need…

Forgive me. I don’t enjoy the taste of pork. Byron circled to the other side of the room where his view of Ryurik was unobstructed. Seeress Dalla will arrive in central Aidelgard soon. We are expected to receive her…you most of all.

What has Freyja’s seeress ever done for the Erunheim? Ryurik growled.

She saved a considerable number of Skjold during Dagnar’s siege of their fort.

Ryurik pitched, What a tremendous benefit to us both! Now our warriors whisper that my sister and Knuth Svenson won the Battle of the Aidel’s Dam.

The whore snickered beside him, and Ryurik discontentedly shoved her out of bed. Having not expected it, the woman rolled across the ground half tangled in fur blankets. She swaddled herself, covering her nakedness, then trembled with little clue of what to do next. Ryurik rose, donned his braies, then pitilessly thrust her toward the exit.

Leave, he instructed.

This is where I live… she mumbled nervously.

And like the rest of Aidelgard. Ryurik pinched her chin. It now belongs to us, and I will use it as I wish. Ryurik shoved her forward, and the woman stumbled from the room to a solemn, tear-swept hymn.

You appear to enjoy golden curls more than midnight threads, Byron sourly castigated.

Irritated by the accusation, Ryurik settled, She was a holdover. It is how we Stormborne endure our wars. When my hands are bound to your sister’s before the Runic Faith, be assured it will not happen again.

After floating his eyebrows in affirmation Ryurik was, indeed, no different than any other Stormborne man in that regard, Byron asserted, I am certain the heir to the Tempest Throne will hold to his oaths, but we must ensure the clarity of the Runic Faith which binds them endures for when they are tested before all.

Recovering his scattered clothes to redress himself, Ryurik mockingly intoned, Seeress Dalla is no threat to my marriage to your sister, Lord Byron.

No…she is not, but your sister is a threat to your succession and our traditions both.

What my sister and Johan did before the lower western bridge to central Aidelgard was foolish, and I will see them both punished for their indiscretions when we return to Stormguarde. Thyra is no threat to my succession or my marriage to Agneta. She covets one thing alone, she’s too prideful to admit it will never be hers, but it is not the Tempest Throne.

It is Lysian’s, and she will bleed the Stormlands dry to achieve that worthless goal.

I will not allow her…

It does not matter, Byron vigorously argued, Beyond denying Draveskeld this city of Aidelgard, she has already begun.

How…? Ryurik skeptically demanded.

Byron Dravenson faced him with a gravity worn only by those who spoke with the dead or saw that which made them thus. When I lead my warriors across the dam to reinforce your sister’s Skjold, she neither fought against Lognon Icefall’s ram rider’s nor stood in the Skjold’s shield wall above the gulch. Instead, she simply overlooked the battlefield from atop a riverside crag, summoning the strength of her conquered sun in the heart of the Stormlands! he roared.

Beguiled by disbelief, Ryurik refused to look Byron in the face, and yet somehow the grueling suspicion still lingered that the lord spoke the truth. Ryurik had awoken at the close of Johan’s defense. A hundred ram riders and a few hundred Kennings had effected a dual, false advance, engrossing all of the Erunheim’s men. Byron had only just departed to the river’s dam to reinforce the Skjold where the real battle had already been drawn.

A thousand Skjold fought against more warriors from Aidelgard, Denurl’s Bjardja, and hundreds of ram riders in tow. Had Draveskeld not reinforced, in a reiteration of fate’s sardonic weave, his sister would have lost the battle and the Skjold been all but consumed. Ryurik knew Thyra well. He acutely understood she would never accept defeat if ever she could seize victory. Thyra would do damn near anything to win. Defy Lothair whom she utterly hated, well that was not so fantastic of an idea.

The lord recognized his sour cognition, and so perpetuated, She defies your commands, defies the Storm King’s decree, and she despoils the Runic Faith. She cannot be allowed to wield power in the Stormlands if your rule is to succeed.

I refuse to believe it, he lied, desperately searching for some alternative explanation for what Lord Byron saw, and regrettably concluding there were probably none.

I am not the only one who saw. Knuth rode beside me into battle. Put the bastard Son of Sven’s faith in the runic gods to the test and let the seeress be the judge of the truth.

Thyra stood inside the right wooden bastion overlooking the lower western bridge. She peered between the circular, wooden columns supporting its lapis-infused stone roof. Ramparts reinforced or perhaps just decorated with likstadt shields linked the bastion to the one in which Johan Lodinson stood. Warriors from the Erunheim and her Skjold stood along the ramparts set both between and beyond the twin bastions. At least within the Erunheim, unity survived.

Johan looked forward for a time. He abandoned his watch to descend into the courtyard below. Knuth grumbled beside her while watching the seeress and his little sister cross the lower western bridge. Knuth pulled away to descend. She gripped his arm hard, forcing him to remain.

Thyra had learned from her prone to grumble second he swore an oath to Captain Oddall he would see Denurl Kenning killed and Aidelgard returned to honor. She also learned from the warrior his youngest sister meant to join Freyja’s runic temple. She smiled for the man. He saw his promises were fulfilled and his family made safe. Thyra could not yet claim the same.

Knuth Svenson noticed her pensive gaze. He grunted in aversion to conversation. Thyra smiled in agreement his oath was yet fulfilled. He had accomplished only half of what he swore, but half did not satisfy an oath made before the eyes of Eldrahg. There was still work to be done.

Thyra quietly beckoned him to follow. She descended the stairs which led away from the central Aidelgard’s lower western gates. They walked adjacent to the walls of the ringed fortress. She brushed past a patrol, who livened in response. Thyra stepped onto the dirt swept ground of the main courtyard, sauntered by a tawny flower grove, and joined with Johan Lodinson in front of the entrance to Freyja’s runic temple. Knuth noisily stepped in beside her shortly afterward.

Unlike Torlv’s runic temple in Stormguarde, which was primarily comprised of stone foundations, ore-pine posts, and ash walls, Freyja’s runic temple was mostly constructed from yew etched with lunar designs and tangled with ivy. Yew grew throughout the Stormlands, but they were far less common than the pines, spruces, firs, ashes, and aspens which dominated the landscape. Even more impressive was how many must have been felled to construct it.

The central, post and lintel, rectangular ritual hall stood five stories tall. A three-storied addendum boasting a slight balcony at the second story was affixed to the front wall. Twin, two-storied addendums adhered to each side of the central ritual hall. A second hall nigh four stories tall was attached to the central hall’s rear wall. A narrow, fenced walkway upon its second floor overlooked central Aidelgard. A third circular ritual hall was affixed to the second, and it ended the sprawling floors of Freyja’s magnificent runic temple.

Cone roofs pierced the sky above the second and third ritual halls. Scaled shingles of lapis-infused stone lined the steep rooftops as if to slough off rain and snow. A yew carving of Freyja overlooked the entirety of central Aidelgard from the peak of the central ritual hall. Even beneath storm-wrought clouds, Freyja’s visage glistened a magnificent ocher-yellow, as did the ritual hall’s walls. Fitting, for it was erected in Aidelgard, whose colors matched the yew’s.

Disregarding the durative stares of her brother and his foul keeper, Thyra stopped beside Johan to comment, If only to preserve this wonderous building behind us, I am glad we did not need to flood the guard.

As if humored by her awe with Stormborne architecture, Johan replied, Had we not slain you first, Freyja would have sent Helti to reap vengeance for razing her runic temple.

Grinning, Thyra retorted, Helti is a runic god undying, and I am no longer the wielder of the Heaven’s Halberd. I would have fled long before facing him in single combat.

No, you wouldn’t have.

No… Thyra idly confessed. I suppose I would have stayed and fought.

Thyra looked to her brother as Knuth drew beside her. Ryurik studied her with profound concentration as if he were deeply appalled, and he did not shy away from her tacit rebuke either. She pondered what might have instilled her little brother with such unordinary poise. She had not apologized for striking him unconscious, but he had yet to address the matter himself. Still, she inexplicably anticipated it arose from something else. Ryurik’s newfound intensity did not stem from something personal, and yet, somehow it still did.

Tensions between them all had nearly leaped to lie beside the Crescent Lady. Johan, for one, retained command of the Erunheim’s warriors against Ryurik’s wishes because her brother was simply without a replacement. Thyra did not mind since Johan stood behind her on most issues regarding Aidelgard’s occupation, particularly with the seizure and division of her wealth. Byron Dravenson loathed them both for refusing to submit to Ryurik’s promises, so perhaps the lord’s counsel was what intensified Ryurik.

What right did Byron Dravenson have to Aidelgard anyway? They had each and all defeated her and her dwarven allies. Solidarity entitled them all to slices of the lingonberry pie, regardless of her brother’s brokerage to hand over the city and its northern mines. In the High East, Ryurik’s decision would have been seen as the absolute law. In the Stormlands, however, where prides, passions, and tempers were often wilder than Torlv’s, such promises could never be realized without the backings of one’s allies. Ryurik never attained hers or Johan’s, so here they were now stuck like crabbers in a boat drawing up empty crates from the ocean’s floor.

Thyra set aside her contemplations to welcome the seeress who was the sole reason for which they were all gathered. Seeress Dalla. Welcome home to Aidelgard, a city freed, and a city to be reborn like Helti in the saga of Freyja.

Freyja’s seeress rode to a stop, gazed upon her runic goddess’s ritual hall, and lingered within stifled emotions for a moment before she dismounted with calm poise. Thyra Ehlrich? Strange that it is Andurial and Eshkalah’s descendant daughter who liberated my runic temple and welcomes me home.

My mother is Runeheim. Through her, I will always be half beholden to the Goddess of the Moon. Besides seeress, Thyra continued, It was Knuth Svenson who freed Aidelgard from Denurl Kenning’s rule.

Piqued, her brother quickly contended, The Son of Sven might have severed the Swine Lord’s head, but he did not conquer Aidelgard alone.

Dalla ignored the injured trifles of a sibling’s court. Thyra genuinely smiled for it. The seeress aided Knuth’s little sister in dismounting a donkey, then she beckoned the girl to walk beside her. The two strode before Knuth and Thyra, and Bramma leaped forward to embrace her brother. Knuth spun her around, ruffled his sister’s hair, and they bickered like proper siblings.

You lied Bramma. You only wished to become a priestess to live in this magnificent temple of yew, jested Knuth.

This is no fortress Knuth! Bramma reprimanded dryly. You are just jealous your own hall pales against Freyja’s own.

My fortress, little sister, lies beyond the Arch of Death, and it boasts the Draconic Father and the Hearth of Life herself.

Bramma hopped aside when Dalla tread forward to lay a grateful hand against Knuth’s scarred cheek. So much like the great jarl, who you never met. Sven’s one mistake in life was not raising the third son Freyja gifted him with.

Thyra swiveled when her second’s contentious nature struck him like a hammer over the anvil. I never needed Sven, only his blood. Knuth clasped Bramma’s hand after she slid it into his. Her father was enough for us all. I never needed Sven.

The seeress inexplicably laughed. We’re never the best judges of our own character. We are too attached, blinded by our desires, to see ourselves for who we truly are.

But never to see those around us for who they truly are, Byron Dravenson interposed. The lord stepped against their growing circle, but Thyra was unsure for what. The Runic Faith guides the Stormlands, and you have long been Freyja’s seeress. We are left no better judge for the issue I must bring to your attention.

Powerful words, Dalla calmly observed. Better tempered than your father’s ever have been, but powerful, nevertheless.

Dire circumstances make need for powerful men.

Thyra grinned as the seeress feigned humor with Byron’s reply. Speak your peace, Lord Byron. I will judge as best I can, Dalla affirmed.

What is the cost of preserving our traditions? Byron asked.

The seeress hardened, and Thyra coarsened as well. Thousands of Stormborne warriors died at the Great Gates of Tjorden to ensure the Storm King’s sovereignty prevailed. You know the price as well as I, lord. We all do…

Evidently indulged by her answer, Byron declared, The Stormborne know the price paid by our fallen, but what would a Lysian know of sacrifice for a cause that is not her own.

Knuth growled when he stepped against the lord. Your qualms with Aidelgard’s plunder do not belong here, Byron Dravenson.

Byron postured against Knuth. So Thyra’s Lysian sorcery in the heart of the Stormlands means nothing to a bastard Son of Sven?

Knuth clenched his teeth until his neck rippled like high tide. Battle must have jarred your vision and your memory of what we saw.

Are you blind then, Knuth, or did you not see your commander glowing hotter than the conquered sun when we joined her front?

Thyra’s agitation calcified until her countenance was rougher than a longship’s barnacle encrusted hull. She dispersed that solar sorcery the precise moment she saw that Draveskeld had come. Apparently, she had not cleansed herself of the evidence swift enough. How many others legitimately witnessed it too? Had Knuth?

Thyra endeavored to study her second as he postured with Draveskeld’s lord son, but her brother’s leering gaze stifled hers. For what might have been the only genuine occasion since Aidelgard was won, Byron fed Ryurik the truth, and her brother believed his every word. Would the bastard Son of Sven’s imperceptive attestation or loyal lie win the seeress’s trust?

I haven’t unveiled sky magic or solar sorcery in the Stormlands since lighting the Goblet of the Delas Aquila… she lied.

Yet when Knuth and I rushed to reinforce your ranks during the Battle of the Aidel’s Dam, your call to charge was louder than Torlv’s thunder. You’re no goddess, Lysian, so how else would you manage such a feat without taking strength from he who is?

Ryurik pressed through the agitated bodies encircling her. Thyra, is this true? Did you defy our grandfather’s edict as defeat loomed over the Skjold?

Thyra fulminated, I struck you when defeat loomed, brother, and I never needed sky’s aid to defeat your Swine Lord.

Dalla raised a torrid hand to silence their heated assemblage, and after a long pause for rumination which no one challenged, the seeress asked, You are half Runeheim, Thyra Ehlrich, so upon your mother’s honor and the husband she long suffered to preserve our Stormlands, you will answer me true. Did you wield sky magic or sorcery from the conquered sun against Denurl Kenning and Lognon Icefall’s Frosthammer dwarves?

I just soaked a little bit of the sun before my reinforcements arrived and the battle was decisively won off Stormborne blood.

To soak the sun. That had been hers and Darius’s joke once. Now the only joke was the partial truth she conveyed to preserve herself in front of her own blood. She looked upon Ryurik bitterly, and from his eyes she understood they might never come to trust one another again. She could only assume that was the case for him. For her it was more certain than the moon’s eternal revolve. In taking on this land he which to ruled, her brother willfully forsook her.

Stricken aghast by her sly admission, Byron barked, What difference does it make? You were summoning the strength of the conquered sun to slay Stormborne. Whether they be enemies of Lothair’s or not, you still broke his law.

Thyra claims to have never wielded sky magic or solar sorcery. You alone claim to have seen what you saw, Dalla staunchly interposed.

A thousand men from Draveskeld will verify I speak the truth.

They are yours and your father’s sworn swords. Dalla’s eyes softened. I would expect to hear a similar story a thousand times over and for it to be little different than yours.

They are loyal to the Runic Faith and the Stormlands where it endures. Byron shoved his fist against Knuth’s chest before exclaiming solidly, You betray us all by denying the truth to hold your bitch’s favor Knuth.

Thyra kept her second from crushing Byron’s skull, her brother stepped beside the lord, and the seeress calmly probed, Were prisoners taken after the battle was won?

Aye, Knuth snarled while relaxing his fists. Should I fetch the jarl’s surviving sons to discredit this starving wolf pup?

Monomua’s augury bears witness to all, and her Delas rules these Stormlands. They’ll curse you for your lies bastard, and my father will still be rewarded for his faith with Aidelgard. Byron broke apart from the circle with a murderous grunt.

Knuth followed the lord and heaved him back around to face them. After the Erunheim and the Skjold are paid what they are owed for winning you Aidelgard.

Ryurik wiggled himself between them, then shoved away Knuth. Nothing will come of this, lord. Let us return to our work.

Byron wrenched Ryurik’s vest within his scalding hand. Aidelgard was promised, and it now belongs to Draveskeld. Break an oath bound by Eldrahg…you forsake your mother’s blood, and you forsake both mine and my father’s trust.

Byron Dravenson summoned his warriors and departed in a flurry. Her brother followed the lord like the dog he was fast becoming. Thyra breathed a little easier, yet she did know why the seeress judged her innocent for an obvious breach in Lothair’s sovereign law. Whatever the reasons, they did not burden Seeress Dalla, but they did burden Thyra. The seeress and Knuth’s littlest sister returned to their steeds to retrieve their belongings. Once finished, her Skjold freed the beasts from their care and guided them over to the stables.

Once silence grew stale, Johan Lodinson abruptly laughed. Welcome home to Aidelgard, Seeress Dalla. What a shite situation this has become.

You did not dwell within these walls during Denurl’s rule. It is an improvement, believe it or not, Dalla coolly conferred.

Johan grunted in disbelief. I’ll go to ensure little Ryurik doesn’t reap your entire city of its wealth. The commander strode apart from Freyja’s runic temple and its seeress, summoning warriors from the Erunheim as he went.

Speaking before she could, Knuth implored. Seeress, forgive us for delaying your return any longer, but we must speak of Torunn.

I have already told you all that I know Knuth. What more is there for us to speak of?

Of her intentions! Knuth nearly yelled. Of the riven candle you claimed she stole and held more dearly than her own beating heart.

Thyra placed the back of her hand against Knuth’s chest to dissuade him from pushing for more. Your jarl’s Bjardja assailed me with white lightning at the Battle of the Aidel’s Dam, and I could do nothing but writhe in pain and watch as many died to what nearly shocked me to death. You must know more than what Knuth has told me! How has Seeress Torunn manifested this bygone power, instilled it within others, and why carry a damn candle into the depths of the Broken Fjords?

Thunder echoed in the distance, and Dalla scowled. So much like your father, Knuth Svenson. Destiny would see you chase the legacy of he who half brought you into this world. The seeress shifter her gaze over Thyra with disquieting force. We will speak before the sun falls, but give me time to resettle my runic temple before.

Knuth’s powerful stride slowed to a humbled saunter when he entered the central ritual hall. Ore-pine posts conjoined by shallow arches supported railed walkways at the second level. Thin, tangled vines were etched into each ore-pine post. Thorns enwreathed the long, horizontal planks supporting the steep roof. Tiny circular holes set high within the ceiling filtered in scarce sunlight, and torches lit what the conquered sun could not.

Freyja’s saga was woven around the ritual hall in three distinct layers. The first was engraved into the tall yew walls at ground level. Who could forget Freyja’s birth when Eldrahg severed his memory of an old love and morphed it into the daughter this temple stood for. The second and third lay upon the crosshatching of the wooden railings above. They were as much Helti’s saga as they were Freyja’s. Freyja appeared to have been a shield-maiden of sorts herself.

After passing through the second layer of ore-pine posts supporting a narrower walkway high above the first, Knuth bid Thyra to halt to behold the ritual hall. He had never been inside a runic temple, and he did not know if ever he would have the opportunity, or rather the need to be again. What a worthy home for Freyja’s worshippers and for his little sister Bramma this temple truly was.

Knuth broke apart from admiration to move forward to where the seeress and his sister knelt in prayer. The two had constructed a tiny pyre inside a hedged sand pit. Within it stood a small wooden statue of the Hearth of Life herself. Stormborne carpentry never ceased to amaze Knuth. Whether within the hulls of ships, the construction of buildings, or effigies beholden to the Runic Faith, its complexity and efficacy astounded him. Flames licked the arches of Freyja’s cheeks, the bow of her chin, and her nose’s sharpness. Even as flames licked away at the wood carving, it appeared strikingly real.

In the Ardent Faith it’s considered heretical to set fire to statues of Andurial. Is it not the same for the runic gods? asked Thyra.

Knuth conferred, It is a blót ritual. They set fire to Freyja’s carving as an offering and in the hope the Hearth of Life might bestow them something in return.

Thyra cocked a brow in surprise. What an ironic twist from expectation.

Knuth glanced toward the commander amidst a confounded epiphany. Andurial is the god who conquered Eshkalah, Goddess of the Sun. Why would you Lysians or the mainlanders not burn offerings for her?

Her face furrowing through thought, the commander eventually returned, Because she has been conquered, and she forever burns. What use is there in submitting offerings for power freely obtainable by all those who serve Sky’s Throne?

Lysian pride exceeds even Torlv’s, Knuth joked.

And we have paid the price for allowing pride to sully our god…

Disengaging from conversation, Thyra joined the seeress and his sister across the ritual pyre. She knelt as she did, and she also bowed her head. Deference did not often strike her. In silence, Knuth presumed she could better understand their prayers while escaping the solemnity of her people’s grim fate. Knuth came to kneel beside his commander as he watched the flames lick away the carving’s body and face.

Daughter of Eldrahg arisen to see Helti reborn. Take this yew carven in your image which we now burn, and from the ashes may you see life and prosperity return to the land in which it was grown. As you saw Helti reborn, so too see Aidelgard rise anew.

A reticence filled with hushed breaths and Bramma’s elation with Knuth’s participation settled atop the ritual. It lingered until Freyja’s statue splintered. A few pieces began crumbling to ash. Embers sizzled, and black ash coated the white sand. In the end nothing remained except for a heap of ash as dark as a fast- forthcoming moon.

I must admit an entire day was much longer than I expected you would provide us, the seeress commented wryly.

Knuth replied, We would have given you more if we could.

Dalla steadily rose from her knees. Hostility does not just afflict Aidelgard’s survivors. It plagues your command as well.

Seeress Dalla, we are doing nearly everything we can.

I am a seeress of the Runic Faith overruled by Monomua’s moon-lit augury. I see that, Knuth Svenson, but it does not change what still is.

Knuth bit his tongue in frustration for having forgotten this seeress’s circular nature. While fitting for a seeress self-proclaimed to be bound by the Crescent Lady, it did not behoove the Stormborne warrior attuned with Eldrahg’s forthright wisdom. Knuth had no desire to humor her on this occasion. He and Thyra needed answers. The sooner they obtained those answers, the sooner they could address the clandestine threat buried deeper within Denurl Kenning’s betrayal.

The situation here is, strained, Thyra stated softly. The commander had since risen to engage in Dalla’s games. I never buckled to my father when I saw a need to stand my ground. Ryurik is without a spine compared to him, and he won’t break my stance.

I must also admit, the seeress confessed, That I do not understand your stance at all.

Thyra inwardly smiled. I am not much unlike Death’s Delas—just one of many refugees from the High East brutally ousted by her kin and an army of demons. Now I serve another court in the hopes that those who escaped beside me might yet live.

You clash with your grandfather too much for that to ever be believed, Dalla retorted, and Knuth swallowed an unease over what Thyra’s response might be.

I do not serve Lothair Runeheim, and I have slowly come to understand why many like Denurl Kenning believed they need not as well. Even as I dispute my brother because I know he is wrong, I serve him and the Tempest Throne from which he will one day rule. You stand beside one, so I stand beside you.

The seeress studied Thyra, and Knuth reevaluated his commander with pristine intrigue. Thyra serves the Storm King like all the Skjold, just not as he would often like her to. Neither the commander nor the seeress seemed to have heard him, for their silence only thickened.

It is clear you and Johan Lodinson both strive to thwart Aidelgard’s attenuation. Ryurik promised Draveskeld the city of Aidelgard and all its mountain mines I have heard. I do not wish to serve Eljak Draven like Seer Baug, but I cannot contest Ryurik’s wishes if he acts on behalf of our Storm King. If you stand against your brother, then you stand without the aegis of the Runic Faith, even when you act in our favor.

I have heard you seeress, Thyra replied after a sustained break. Regardless, I will not relent in my stance.

You’re half your mother, Thyra Ehlrich, and through her blood I think that Helti lives in your heart. The runic god of war never relented against his own insurmountable odds, and just as Helti was rewarded with Freyja as a wife after escaping Jüte’s frosty halls, I hope you too are one day rewarded for preserving a just heart.

Knuth snickered when Thyra’s temper detectably rose. I do not need the runic gods to gift me anything as recompense for what I’ve sacrificed for the Tempest Throne. Eldrahg could return my divine weapon which was stolen, and I would ask for nothing more.

Stolen… the seeress verbally stumbled.

That glistening halberd from your eastern home? Knuth interjected, searching for better clarification than what he presumed Dalla’s own questions would exhume.

Thyra sneered, but more at herself than them. It does not matter! What matters is Torlv was shattered by Jüte and his soul bound to the Tempest Throne thousands of years ago, yet now his wanderlust seeress wields his unwrought runic magic and is carrying it deep into the Broken Fjords! How is that even possible? Why there? Why now?

I don’t know, and if I did I would hold no qualms sharing the knowledge with you, the seeress soberly admitted.

The Runic Faith is ruled by the prescience of your moon. You must know more!

Monomua never graced me with the visions which flung Torunn on her quest to steal my runic temple’s relics and abscond.

No, that can’t be all! Thyra circled the dead pyre to hover above Dalla. Think of the timing. The High East Falls, the Ardent Avant is repulsed for the first time in centuries, and the surviving royal children flee to your Stormlands, then your seeress absconds. It’s all connected somehow, and I need to know.

Maybe. The seeress stood against the woman who towered above her like an evergreen from the far north. I pondered it, and I beseeched Monomua to gift me with her sight so I might understand why Torunn believed pitting Aidelgard against the Erunheim served a greater good.

Then what did you learn?! Thyra whispered sharply.

Nothing, and once I found nothing to string it all together, I moved to face the far more pressing issues triggered by what she had done.

Then what the seax in the Stormland’s back? What of the ældrik and Gleipnir and what they hold in the Broken Fjords? Is there something more to my mother’s inscrutable fears?! the commander nigh yelled.

Thyra! Knuth ordered, That’s enough.

No I need to understand why Seeress Torunn chose to instill our enemies with Torlv’s runic magic and set them against us when it his temple stands which stands in Stormguarde!

Seeress Dalla is sworn to Freyja and has sworn she does not know. Bite your tongue, Commander. You lash at a friend to my family without cause.

For as noble, merciful, and just as the commander strove to be, Knuth swore she had a few quirks which would never change. Ire burned bright in her blood, and Thyra basked in its touch. Once spurned, she spun far from reason. Without a steadfast hand of another’s guidance, it so easily spiraled out of her control. Seeress Torunn’s puzzling decisions injured them all, yet Thyra behaved as if those actions only slighted her. Knuth wished to trust in her as he trusted in himself, but she could scarcely bestow her trust to anyone else.

Dalla stepped between their durative skirmish to lay a hand against Thyra’s upper chest. The commander did not rebuff her, and the seeress alleged, I would share with you everything I knew, if only I knew anything of what Torunn intends to do. I am sorry, but I can leave you with nothing more. The commander sucked in her lips before nodding in curt acceptance. Come my Freyja. Dalla invited his sister to walk with her. I will show you to your quarters at the farthest end of our ritual hall. Bramma sprightly nodded, and they softly walked toward the archwell at the rear of the central ritual hall.

Knuth! Bramma paused, turned, and called.

Can I still call you Bramma, or only Freyja from now on? Knuth playfully probed.

Should I still call you my ruddy-headed brother, or just the third Son of Sven?

Son of the greatest jarl who ever lived, but brother to the future keeper of Freyja’s runic temple. Bramma blushed brightly, and Dalla smiled behind her. You can call me whatever you wish, priestess.

Whenever you visit our mother, come and visit me. Oh and bring Mersult along as well! She wouldn’t promise me when I asked. I can’t seem to argue with her like you can.

I will. Welcome us each time with a humbling lesson, and I will bring the outlaw ranger with me even if I have to drag her the entire way.

Thank you, she said.

Bramma glanced to Thyra then shifted her focus to him. ‘Take care of her’ was all her blue eyes whispered. Knuth nodded, knowing even the strong were not without the occasional need for aid. Both Bramma and the seeress disappeared through the archwell into the hall held within. Groaning, Thyra plopped on the ground and laid against the hedge containing the spent ritual pyre. Knuth joined her to avoid the awkwardness of leering down while they conversed.

We have defeated Denurl Kenning, and yet I feel we are already making an enemy of Draveskeld and some unknown foe in the Broken Fjords. One small step forward, and already we are close to conceding three.

Head and hair both buried within one hand, Thyra slumped, so Knuth affably reasoned, We have surrendered nothing yet. Seeress Torunn will flee the Broken Fjords, so we confront her then.

How can you be certain?

"Because it