Bear and Cub: Chapter I: The War-god’s Due

A tragic beginning

The birds' wings were as dark, as the blackest of eclipses beat against the autumn air. The cawing bellow torn from the beaks of the ravens cut through the evening frost. The wind howled mournfully across the fields, two score onyx eyes gazed down upon swaying aspen trees. What might their cause in the shrieks of the wind have revealed? None may quite know, for neither man nor beast present thereupon the reddened fields had the remotest comprehension of their speech.

From asp to asp the cries rang, clear as bells, and hungry as the panting of a hunting wolf. Their gluttonous gossip did little to betray what was hidden in the foliage, a short distance yonder from them. Hardly daring to risk a glance at the murder that roosted upon the aspen trees of the forest of Munthin, so distracted were the sons of Eadwald by the murder most foul. Or to be more apt, dear reader, murders most foul.

"Eadwig, what have you done?"

"Cease thy whimpering, Osbeorn, he came at me with a blade!" Eadwig spat savagely, his sword dripping scarlet blood upon the green field, as another would have dripped tears. "Would you have had him hew Ansgar and I?"

"No, b-but-" Spluttered Osbeorn weakly.

Ansgar cut through his words as swiftly as his knife had, at the throat of the girl at his feet. "Cease your womanish whimpering, Osbeorn. And help me find that boy!" Ansgar looked out to yon forest. "Come out, boy! We know you are there! Cease your hiding! Come join your brother and sister! The least you may do is die like a man!"

Not a single breath or sway of the foliage betrayed, he who was hidden in their midst. Nor did the brothers witness the slightest indication that he who they sought at present, lay hidden past the aspen trees.

Prompted thither by his elder brothers, Osbeorn crept ever so slowly towards the swaying trees, the whistling of the wind in his ears, frightening him all the more, as he glanced nervously at every sound, from the cawing ravens, to the whispering leaves, much to the exasperation to those behind him. Puffing with impatience, Eadwig soon crossed the distance between them, throwing the younger brother off his feet, as he took up the search himself.

"Away with you, Osbeorn, if you must insist upon fearing a child: Leave the search to the real men." He grumbled, searching and cutting through branches and foliage as a butcher might through the meat of a hog.

A sudden movement to the left captured their attention, with all three racing forward behind Eadwig, sword first, rend the air with his mighty blade with such fury as to frighten even a maddened wolf. The murderers held their breaths.

The eldest of the sons of Eadwald bellowed with rage, the roots of his fulmination a mystery to his younger siblings and the ravens if for but a moment.

All was soon made clear so to speak, when their eyes fell upon the rent bear-fur cloak that lay cut in twain, at the feet of the eldest of the killers. The cloth swayed in the breeze, noiseless and unmoving as the giver of this gift, who lay dead but a full score meters away.

The trick that had been played upon them, the shedding of the cloak and the tossing of a stone towards it only to feign a sudden movement away should well impress you, dear reader. Anger was to stir at once within the large warrior. His pride, wounded by the clever ploy, drove him to such madness that he vented his wroth upon the nearest of brambles, twigs, and aspen branches.

"Boy, come and face me! Enough with these cowardly ploys!" The man gave vent to a number of oaths and threats at his wayward prey and his own younger brother. "If you had not whimpered like a girl, Osbeorn, we would have him! Come! He shan't be far!"

Ansgar followed without hesitation, sword in hand. He gave a baleful glare at the simpering Osbeorn, who followed hardly three inches behind him. Perhaps it is time, my dear readers, to glance whither to the prey, of which Eadwig spoke so heatedly of.

After he had let fly the stone, he had traveled low, rather close to the ground, and with the swiftness of a fearful hare, fearful that the disturbance of a single leaf or twig might give him away. He had played in this forest time and again, so that he recognized the trees and stones far more than his pursuers. His heart hammered away in his chest so that it was all the lad could hear.

Well, might you or any other have imagined the scene: Your imagination, it must be said cannot quite grasp all that he felt then. It could never measure in any way, up to as they say fright that overwhelmed him in that hour. Ordinarily, a mischievous youth, his present mien was such that it might well have inspired a sense of guilt in even the most callous of murderers. But those that currently hunted him, were far worse, for they had more in common with jackals, than men.

The aspen trees left behind, he fell away from them in favour of the protective arms of thickly-waisted oak trees. It was to their cold, grey trunks that he clung as one might to a parent's warm embrace. Since his earliest days, he had been sung tales of distant fey, of the magic that lay within even the most obstinate of trees.

At this time, the youth sought the safety that could only be found in the earliest of his childhood memories - memories that brought to mind a large fire in the deadest of nights, near a thatch hut and the grey face of his father.

Destined to stay there for as long as he could, so long did he cling to the arms and fingers of the great oak that dominated the woodlands. The largest of its breed at least where these woods were concerned, it was this very oak around whom countless children had over the years, chanted and danced. Countless more still, had lain their backs against its bark, over the past centuries that had flitted by slow, as the frozen breeze that cut through the autumn air. To thus clutch at this oak, was a wise act for this was no traitor tree as you might read in another tale, never would it betray its charge, nor might it leave him exposed to those who hunted him.

Careful as a mother hen, it shielded the boy with such lealty that could well have inspired a thousand heroes, from the most ancient to the most recent. And the reason for the need for silence, and stealth ought to be made all the more evident to you. Imagine it if you can; the youngest of the men present there amongst the barken observers hardly moving, twitching, or squirming even, as the cries of the murderers drew near.

Their clumsy movements and angry gestures along with their chops, slashes, and oaths all sent critters, beasts, and birds darting away. A lesser oak might well have sold out its charge, and might well have left him exposed. But not this one. No sirree, never this oak. For it was the most true and devoted of trees.

It not only remained silent, not only remained unmoved but did not so much as sway the wrong way so that the child remained hidden.

The men drew near. So that he stood near enough to see him, to hear him, his breath, and of course to touch him. Frightened he clasped his hands over his mouth and nose, as Eadwig stomped on by. Coming to a stop, he hardly noticed the tree… or the hollow within the oak that hid his prey.

All held their breaths. All save the oaks, sycamores, aspens, and ash trees, for they were but trees. And thus could no more breathe, than they could speak or think.

"He is gone, we must return to father, Eadwig," Osbeorn could be heard calling out to his eldest brother, his proposal drawing a snort from the older man. "If he should learn of this, from the boy or worse… his father, who knows what father, will do?"

"Or perhaps we should simply gut you, Osbeorn! He is but a child! Would you have us live with the shame of having been outwitted by a mere child?" Eadwig shouted enraged.

"He is right, brother and you well know it," Ansgar chimed in, after a moment's thought.

Both men were silent, with the hunted able to see from a hole in the hollow the stunned reddened face of the infuriated heir of Eadwald.

It was only for a heartbeat; however, it crossed his mind that the warrior might well lash out at his steely younger brother. It was too much to hope for though, for Eadwig soon turned away with a huff of anger that brought to mind a coyote that had been denied his prey.

As he turned away, the boy tried not to squirm. He knew that to do so would result in his doom, for the hunting murderer was but hair's breadth from where he lay hidden.

A prayer flitted through his mind, one that he had heard years ago, murmured by his father shortly before he was to leave, for one of Eadwald's never-ending feuds. It was one of the only times that he had seen his invincible sire pray in that manner, and the memory had stayed with him no matter that the child had been no more than three at the time.

Just as he reached the end of the prayer in his mind, it happened that he was at last shown a little pity by the gods, or maybe it was that fortune had become taken with him. Regardless of which it was, it was just as Eadwig was turning towards the tree, his eyes high; searching amongst the branches if briefly so. It was as though he had seen something other than the rays of the suns and a bird or three amidst the arms of the barken sentinel that loomed high above him.

"Come along, Eadwig," Ansgar called out.

Reluctantly the man in question did as bidden, if with one last curse beneath his breath.

Turning about, he stomped away hot on the heels of his brothers who led him away, each one of them no less discontented with their decision than he.

When the last of their footsteps had properly receded, the thunder of their oaths and curses, and the complaints that shaped every single one of their exchanges, were all soon gone. They disappeared with the wind, as though they were naught more than shadows, or whispers carried along by the breeze. The echo was one that the boy was not unhappy to hear leave him in some semblance of peace.

Tumbling down from his hiding place, he heaved a great sigh. Shaking and trembling, as he sat there froze with the remaining icy terror that had dominated him for the longest time. Still hardly daring to do aught else than pant and stare all about him, it was all that he could do to keep from crying as might a lesser boy.

It was nonetheless quite some time ere he moved, from where he had fallen such was the uncertainty of where best to turn to in this most desperate of hours. The oak hardly of any comfort swayed in this hour with the wind. Hesitation is the enemy of right action, and resolve was near the end of an hour set aside in favour of the mentioned sort of action.

Taking flight, towards the north where his home was to be found, he moved impulsively annoyed by his unmanly comportment. It was just as he overtook a small pond, and saw several hares take fright and dive down into their rabbit hole that he briefly hesitated once more.

Listening out for any sound behind him, it was with a start that he heard what seemed to be the cracking of a twig somewhere in the distance.

Suspicious of this sudden noise, he once more hesitated wherefore recalling what his elder brother had once taught him when out on a hunt about how hares might otherwise evade predators he chose not to proceed directly for home. But rather, he went first west, only to return the way he had hurried in all haste from.

Arming himself with a large branch fallen from one of the many asp trees, he was to do battle with his tracks in the style shown to him by the aforementioned sibling. Covering what he could of his trail, only to continue thenceforth to the east, then back a little ways through a circular path. In this way, he traveled endlessly for hours, getting lost deliberately without ever losing his way, so that he might infuriate and further confuse his trackers, before ultimately continuing on his way.

Doing so only after night had begun to fall, the stars beginning their long ascent, and the suns in undeniable decline in the heavens. The brilliance of the latter was no longer quite so remarkable, as it was when he first set out for home, the breeze considerably cooler and the crowing of the unfed ravens worse than ever.

It was in this frigid climate that the cub returned to the den, from whence he had sprung uphill a ways, almost half a league away from the daunting woods he had hidden in, for the better part of a day.

It was undeniable that Hroðgar had had a devil of a day. Out in the fields for hours, he had worked himself as always to the bone. Such was life for him, as it was for a great many in that age. He had arisen before the suns had begun their inexorable ascent in the skies. Still dark, he had thrown himself into the harvest.

The harvest was a desperate battle. A battle he had fought every year, saving those whom he had toiled in a rather different kind of war. On those occasions, he had battled for Eadwald against those neighbouring Jarls and rivals of the lordly warrior. Answering the call, each time as much out of personal loyalty as he did out of a sense of obligation towards the man many dubbed the mightiest of all those, who lived west of the river Beran.

Though the suns' had risen high early in the day, and thus hinted that it was to be a good one, their radiance had come to hide timidly, behind several large clouds. This was but the first of many omens that had left Hroðgar ill at ease. Feeling as though he were a ghoul haunting the very farm, he had tended and lived upon all his life. Most of the time, he could easily find his eldest son toiling in the fields before the suns' had fully arisen, and at other times, the oaf was insistent on resting until noon. His beloved daughter began each and everyday, with an early meal, one that her younger brother was always eager to steal what he could from. And yet they were absent from the farm. Not simply for a few early hours, or even for lunch but the whole of the day. Thus, their duties were uncharacteristically; incomplete. Lost in his thoughts, he continued with the hoeing of his vegetables, his eyes darting all about, as he examined every inch and mile of his beloved farm.

Alas, he reached the limits of even his patience and went forth to leave his farm to search for the errant youths. It was at present that he heard the cries of his youngest, fast approach. The panicked voice was heard, rushing hither towards Hroðgar.

"Murderers! Murderers!" This call chilled Hroðgar's blood beneath his veins. The boy rushed to his father, gasping for air, hardly able to speak.

"What is this talk of murder? Speak sense and speak it now, boy!" The father said, speaking harshly, his large hands on his son's two shoulders.

The lad whimpered and whined, the man for his part paled. The revelation that was torn from the lungs of the youngest of his children was one that he could never have imagined. It was too terrible for words.

Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed.

"Enough crying; who was it that murdered them? Which beasts must I hunt? Answer me!"

Sigewulf took a few breaths, calming down his harsh breathing, his eyes still matted with tears ere he at last wiped at them, blew his nose on his sleeve, and uttered the words that set the course for the remainder of their lives. "The sons of Eadwald, father. All of them. Eadwig, Ansgar and Osbeorn…"

It was not long thereafter that Hroðgar was taking his leave of the farm, a blade girded to his waist, his eyes full of that most human of passions; fury. His was the stride of the wronged lion, the one who returns from the hunt to find his cubs devoured and his lionesses nowhere to be found. But rather, in this situation he was, as not only a man possessed, but as one prepared to leave for the hunt.

Away, away from the farm, they went to the home of their ancestors, the home in which Sigewulf's mother passed within, at the day of his birth, the fields that gave him sustenance, the herds that filled their bellies, vanished behind them. Away, away pass the willows and the ashes and the oaks of the forest. Whither to the fields upon which that most heinous of crimes had seen the light of day, under grey cloudy skies. To Sigewulf, who trailed after his father, clutching at the spear that has been thrust unto his arms, as a man in a desert clings to his wineskin. The fields, the forest, and all their trees passed along as in a dream. But it was not a pleasant dream; no it was a terrible, endless dream, from which he could not awaken. The worst of this nightmare was the moment he once more stood over the corpses of his brother and sister. His face red with the exertion of keeping up with his father's long stride, soon paled as he fought to suppress the tears that came unbidden to his eyes.

Hroðgar, for his own heart, stared long and hard at the remains, his back to Sigewulf. There was not a word uttered between them, nor was there a sound, safe for the blowing wind that wailed across the land.

After some time, Sigewulf shivered involuntarily, as the wind grew cold, knifing him as surely as the sons of Eadwald had, his siblings.

A long shuddering breath escaped Hroðgar, and for a moment, his shoulders soon to shiver and shake. And it was then that Sigewulf was not certain if his father had begun to weep or not. "Come, Sigewulf."

"Father? But what of the ravens?"

"Never you mind them."

"Where are we to go?" Even as he spoke, Sigewulf felt foolish, and knew the answer, even before his father snapped at him.

"We go to offer the ravens a larger feast. Thereby the house of Ealdwald."

The house of Ealdwald was a stately place. Such was the magnificence of his domain that he could afford, for his three sons, two daughters, and two wives a long house the size of four houses put together. More fortress than long-house, it was a heavily guarded place with a parapet wall of oak wood and pine, with a north gate and southern one. The main keep was a stately one with two minor buildings attached for the housing of servants and slaves, and the secondary building served as a barrack for huscarls. Those household warriors, sworn to the house of the Jarl, and who numbered nigh on two dozen in total.

Sigewulf knew that his father had once served, in such a capacity in the barracks but that when he had returned to the farmstead of his ancestors he had done so, with the blessings of Ealdwald. Still sworn in times of duress and warfare, with a previously keen sense of loyalty and honour towards the Jarl, a divide betwixt the two men was thought even by him, impossible.

This was why, the sudden appearance of an armed and bristling Hroðgar followed by his nervous youngest son, startled all before them.

Unwilling to answer any questions, and so familiar with him were the guards before the open north gates that they did not question or seek to challenge the warrior.

"Where are Ealdwald and his sons?" Hroðgar demanded of them, his eyes burning with such fire that those who knew him feared him all the more.

"His sons departed for a hunt some time ago, only to have recently returned," One of the huscarls replied, trembling where he stood with wide eyes.

The other huscarl was quiet, older than Hroðgar by some twenty years there was an air of consternation about him though. He had never seen the fearsome warrior in such a state before, nor had any man for that matter.

"And their father?"

"He is there, though he is not to be disturbed," The caution in the grizzled man's voice was ignored.

Once upon a time, Hroðgar might well have heeded the warning that lay beneath the words of his former comrade-in-arms. Times however had changed, with the younger man not at all of a mind, to pay heed or homage to another's wisdom.

Pulling the doors open ere the other man, could halt him the father of Sigewulf entered the large palatial home of his liege, head held high as the mountain peak. Trailing not far behind him, even as he shrunk from all eyes of those within the house, the boy met the gazes of Ealdwald's sons but briefly.

The eldest and youngest of the sons for their parts were present, along with their sisters. The eldest of those 'children' he knew all too well, for she was the lady Wihtburg. Famous or rather infamous as much for her ill-temper as for her willful nature; she was the second eldest of Ealdwald's brood. Born from his first marriage, she bore little resemblance to her father beyond her prominent brow and long dark locks. Her nose was rather longer than his, and her eyes darker and far more imperious.

If his eldest daughter bore an uncanny similarity to a crow, the younger who was the daughter of his concubine Godgifu, was blonde and sunny if timid. Eyes blue as the sea, and but two years the junior of Sigewulf, Wulfrun had long been dubbed Sunnhlæt or 'Laugher-loving sun' for her tinkling, sunny laugh. This 'gift' that she had innately born in her, had in recent months, become rather more difficult to find for her joyous nature had become as the sun in recent days; clouded.

Seated to one side with needles and cloth in hand, the daughters of the Jarl were almost hidden by the shadows of the right-hand side of the long house.

The principal hall was bedecked in wolf and bear furs, gained from a lifetime of hunts. The greatest of these furs was that of a large dark brown bear, which was stretched along the ground of the house. To either side of the pyre at the centre of the hall, just below the one opening in the roof were a duo of poorly fashioned red-wood chairs.

Standing across from the doors, was Ealdwald who had been speaking with the eldest of his sons turned, with a surprised if dour expression on his face. The younger men turned ashen expressions towards the doors, wherefore they looked from the newly arrived Hroðgar to their thunderstruck father.

A great bear of a man, at six feet tall Ealdwald was called 'Raven-feathers' in some parts for the thick mane of pitch-black hair that decorated his jowls and head. A prominent brow was almost all that was discernible in regards, to his face beyond the dark storm-coloured eyes. Dressed in rich wool just as his daughters were, save where they favoured emerald and scarlet respectively, he was dressed in grey and dark brown. A great lover of bear-hunting, he was noteworthy for always having something of his preferred prey decorating his muscled, if scarred body.

It was difficult to say, who was the most surprised to see Hroðgar enter the home of Ealdwald; him, his sons, or his daughters.

The first, to recover from their shock, was the man himself so that he uttered irritably, "You were neither called nor desired here, Hroðgar."

The coldness in his voice might well have frightened Sigewulf. But not, Hroðgar, for he feared nothing. "I came hither, not as your field-man, nor yet as thy warrior but as that which no man may equal in dignity, or in the esteem he enjoys from others; a father."

"Hroðgar, I have neither time nor interest in a discussion of fatherhood," Ealdwald interrupted with a hint of growing exasperation, "If you seek counsel on how to deal with your whelps, come back later. I am preoccupied with my brood, at present."

"It is just that that interests me," Hroðgar snapped in a voice no one had ever heard him use before, at least in regards to his liege. Always his was the respectful, the dignified voice but never the maddened one, with eyes blazing with a crazed fire he demanded. "Your sons have wronged me. They have taken that which I prized above all else, for this reason, I have come to you to rectify this injustice."

At these words, the sons present and Wihtburg took on stricken and frightened dispositions in the face of the words of the new arrival. For his part, Ealdwald remained silent.

Seeing no reason to stop, for his hosts had frozen where they stood and sat so that the father of Sigewulf carried on his voice hard as steel. "Hear the echo of my despair, Ealdwald! Thy sons have deprived me of my daughter after they had done the same to virtue ere they slit her and her brother's throats. It is for this reason, I demand of you according to the eldest of our customs, to hang them for their crimes."

At these words, Ealdwald's jaw dropped while his eldest son scurried to stand behind him, terrified while Osbeorn moaned in fright.

Only Wulfrun made a sound; squeaking in a manner reminiscent of a mouse.

Seeing that the Jarl had no intent to answer quite yet, Hroðgar grew impatient taking a step towards the youngest of the sons in question. "Well?"

The youth for his part scrambled from his chair with a shriek, hurrying to join Eadwig behind the Jarl, "F-father!"

It was only now that the father reacted taking a step to shield his son, with a furious look on his face. "What has come over you to demand such a thing Hroðgar? Have you lost your wits? If thy children have not returned home, why seek to deprive me of mine?"

"My son, Sigewulf saw all!" Hroðgar bellowed interrupting the older of the two, the wroth in his voice almost bringing the other man short.

Brought into the conversation, his sire pointed at him much to his dismay as everyone's eyes fell upon him. The worst part was the undeniable hatred that lay within the gazes of Eadwig, Wihtburg, and Osbeorn, along with those of Ealdwald.

"What madness is this?"

"Father, do not listen to him!" Eadwig burst out, visibly anxious at his father hearing of what had happened.

"Tell them, tell them what it was that you saw boy," Hroðgar commanded sharply of his sole surviving son who gulped and did as bidden if in a shaking and quaking voice.

"It happened Jarl, umm that it happened that I was playing in the woods with my s-sister. My only intent was to frighten her when Eadwig, Ansgar, and Osbeorn happened upon us, they came upon her, tearing and rending asunder what th-they could of her cloth and flesh. Sh-she shrieked until our brother-"

"Lies!" Wihtburg shouted at the same time as Eadwig, "My brothers were with us! You must not listen to this pitiful mouse father, see how he whimpers? He has invented, in his mind all that he 'saw'."

Her words awoke once more Hroðgar's rage, as he bellowed with such anger that the daughter now shrunk back from him, even as her sister seemed prepared to flee. "What did you say?"

The young woman spluttered, evidently ill at ease in his presence.

It was at this time that Ealdwald shifted stratagems. Turning upon his sons, he was to demand of them, "Is this true? Did you defile the maid and slay her and her brother?"

Eadwig attempted to deny it, but Osbeorn burst out, "He came upon us with a sword Father!"

If looks could well have murdered a man where he stood, the youngest of the sons might well have been the one they were in the midst of cremating.

Looking from one son to the other, it was evident this answer had displeased the Jarl. Filled with disgust and disdain, he was to turn away from them after a long moment, he was to fix his gaze upon the grieving father before him.

It was a long moment, and yet there was a great series of emotions that passed through his eyes. There was a measure of regret, exasperation, and at last, a certain uncertainty that struck Sigewulf. This all came to pass when they chose to depart from the Jarl, who contrary to his expectations his face hardened. "Hroðgar, you have hitherto now been a leal man, I should ask thee to remember thy prior service and to return to your farm."

"Not without blood." At these words, to the stunned horror of even Ealdwald the wroth-filled Hroðgar bared steel as might a wolf its fangs to one who threatens its cubs.

It happened that Eadwig's hand went to his own blade's pommel, while Osbeorn and the women-folk took even greater fright.

No less nervous, Sigewulf who held a spear prepared himself to put into practice those lessons, taught to him by his father. Much as he would have liked to make him proud, his hands would not however stop shaking, especially when anger again entered Ealdwald's eyes.

Word had as the confrontation had taken place, spread throughout the estate of the Jarl, of the arrival of Hroðgar. Though, most could not quite grasp why or how this was of any great significance, the guards who had observed his arrival, along with those servants who had likewise seen him spread what they had seen. To their minds, they had never seen a more chilling figure, for he had appeared as might death itself spear in hand and icy gaze tearing through all he set his eyes upon.

It was to be Ansgar who had carefully hidden himself for a time, who rallied the locality and gathered what warriors he could. Though there were not many who heeded his commands, there were still more than a dozen who set themselves forth as would sheep behind a wolf disguised as one of them.

Just as it appeared that Hroðgar might take the lives of all within the principal hall of Ealdwald, Ansgar who had previously absented himself arrived. Light flooded the hall from outside, alongside the heat of the wild summer just outside the long house causing all to turn now to stare in the middle son's direction.

"I should be cautious with thy demands, Hroðgar," Ansgar menaced with such slyness that it somehow penetrated even Hroðgar's fury.

The man for his part stared first from one man to the next, as he considered Sigewulf worried that he might throw himself forward, against the enemy. Such was the madness that had overcome him that, this was not outside the realm of possibility in his view.

At this time, relieved to see several of his huscarls and fiercest son present therewith him, to guard him and his other children Ealdwald took to heart. Enough to make one last offer, one that he considered wholly reasonable, "Hroðgar, it seems that there is possible evidence that what you in your folly accused mine of having done, that and your previous many services to me in mind moves me to make you an offer. One even you shall find quite generous."

At these words, even Hroðgar paused to consider what it was he intended to say, with Ealdwald reaching down with a large paw to remove from a nearby bench a large pouch. One which he drew up, opened to glance inside wherefore he satisfied threw it to the other side of the burning pyre at the warrior's feet.

The metallic sound of silver coins clanking and pouring out of the leather pouch onto the ground near the boots of the huscarl.

"Twenty." Ealdwald said quietly, "Twenty pieces of silver, for thy daughter. And for your son, I am prepared to pay one hundred and fifty. A generous offer, even you must admit."

"Father!" Ansgar hissed outraged.

"But father-" Eadwig was of like mind.

"You shan't be serious- he has entered thy house to threaten us all, and you would act the knave and reward him?" Wihtburg exploded with the most anger, ever the fiercest in speech if the least courageous in action.

"Quiet the lot of you!" their father interrupted furiously, whereupon they did so. Satisfied he turned once more his gaze upon the warrior who had against all customs and honour bared steel before him. "Well? What say you, Hroðgar?"

First, Hroðgar stared at the coins. His face was expressionless so that not even his son could read or inject any suspicion of what his father might do next. It was the view of many present therein the hall that, he was liable to pick up the silver.

Quite why they might have thought this was later to be beyond Sigewulf's understanding. His father had, after all, always been one for obduracy and the harder choice of all those presented before him.

"I say…" Hroðgar said so quietly that all had to lean forward to hear him, even the child next to him. He repeated himself when at last he raised his gaze to meet that of the Jarl's, "You insult me, with this pitiful offer. You might offer me a thousand coins, or all those in Brittia, or distant Roma, it would still be too little." He raised a hand, with a finger raised high in the air. "A pox! A pox upon thy house, I say, and shall add with the gods as my witness; you shall one and all pay for this insult and for what you have taken from me. For I promise thee Ealdwald, until the death-gods are sated there shall be no peace, nor harmony for thy house, not now and not ever again…"

He turned to leave thence, stalking past the crowd of warriors who had arrived to the rescue, of Ealdwald. Quiet as the night he ignored the taunts of Ansgar, the queries of those he had once fought alongside, and the whispers of the servants.

Silent even in the face of the shouts that Ealdwald bellowed after him, "You will regret this choice Hroðgar! Do not think to return, for more coin!"

It was once the man was well and truly gone that sound once more returned, to the hall. A sound other than the howling, grief-stricken wind that is as Wihtburg went to reprimand her father and Eadwig sought to propose one of his foolish plans.

The slap that echoed, made all (save for Ansgar) wince. It came near to sending Eadwig to his knees as he staggered, whimpering and weeping from the pain in his cheek.

"You fool! You stupid, stupid fool!" Ealdwald growled, beside himself with rage.

"Father, it was not my fault but that vixen, it was she who tempted me and-" The excuses began to pour out as might bile from a sick man. And make no mistake dear reader; Eadwig was indeed a very sick man, though not in body.

"Quiet, I will hear no more of your whimpers," his sire hissed, turning away. "Now we have Hroðgar for an enemy when I had no great desire to make one of him. To the contrary, he was to be a good-father to your youngest sister. You could have taken any stupid milk-maid or servant-girl, and you chose to seize his daughter and make a corpse of his beloved son, I have half a mind to give over to him the lot of you."

"Father, there is no need to fear him, give me leave and I shall hunt him down and hew him where he stands." Ansgar offered impatiently, his offer startled the older man who studied him for a time.

Ealdwald after a time reluctantly shook his head, "Hroðgar will foresee it, and given how you have already made a mess of all set before you, I have no intention to place this matter in your hands. Valthair come hither." The head of the household warriors, who had been amongst those called forth by Ansgar stepped forth. "Gather what men you can, from here and the local farms, take the coin you see before you and hire those you can. Then, to-night when Hroðgar has crawled into his bed slit his treacherous throat. I want this done swiftly, yet cleanly. There are to be no survivors and no further mistakes…"

 Valthair aware of the weight of this order, did as he had always done with no real thought beyond those given to him by his master, nodded his shaggy head dutifully.

Night had fallen, and not even devils stirred. Such was the totality of the darkness that had crept over the land, such the weight of the night sky and the moon that not even the wind stirred. It was a time when the whole of the world held its breath. Never before, the warriors imagined, at least not since before the rise of the moon and the suns' had there been such a night. Nor, could they imagine there had ever been such a silence for even the crows and ravens were fearful it seemed of cawing.

Fifty they were. All of them were guilty of having served the wealthy Ealdwald in the past and all of them were nervous about what it was that they were to undertake. Some might have been prepared others apprehensive yet none spoke. To do so, they suspected would have incurred Valthair's wrath. Never something anyone cared for. Anyone with sense that is, so that they crept on in silence.

Though he gave them no orders for the entering of the homestead, they did so with Valthair at last breaking the silence that hung over them all, bearing down on them for hours. "You lot enter the barn," He directed to a fifth of his men, ten muscular individuals, "Seize the herd and cattle. Ealdwald will like that, also make certain the sniveling son has not taken refuge there."

This they did, just as the other forty entered the house, steel bared and eyes wide with impatience and glee. Devils they had become, for devils they had to be to undertake such work.

Once inside, they found the bedrolls of father and son. The house was small and barely fit the forty, who at once fell upon the corpses, hacking and hewing and slashing and stabbing at them. They did so as men who had gone mad. And well they might have, such was the wroth they felt at the high-handed way Hroðgar had previously acted, towards their liege and such the sense of betrayal they felt.

Few of them at once wondered as to why it was that though, outside there had not been a star in the heavens to guide them or any other source of light, yet now they could see clearly. It was only when Valthair threw away the cover, to stare at the face of the man he had murdered that he realized it was not Hroðgar he had hewed. But the corpse of a young man, one he recognized for he had once upon a time fought alongside him, but weeks prior.

"This is not Hroðgar," He said loudly, at the same time one of his men shouted.

"This is no boy, but a girl!"

"What is that smell?" Asked another man, "It stinks of ashes and smoke."

They all froze. This was quite the feat given the growing heat, in the packed house (which had only grown warmer and more stifling as they did their butchery). And as one they went to throw themselves as one against the door, to no avail. The reason for this was that not only was the door barred, but it had been blocked by several barrels, boxes, and other items full to the brim.

As the flames grew, eating up the screams, pleas, and threats of the men sent to cut them asunder from the world of men, Hroðgar turned at last to his son. The two of them had spent hours in preparation for what was to come. When Valthair and his men had arrived, they had slunk behind them, quieter than shadows, and seen to the fastening of the doors and the barring of them.

Though the boy still sniveled ever so slightly, he had unquestionably set the buildings reluctantly if shakily to the torch. He was all Hroðgar had left in the world.

Sigewulf hoped and prayed that the screams he heard that night, might one day dissipate as the mist so often did in the wind. He suspected this would never be the case. So that he whimpered and sought to turn away, tears of pity and grief for his lost home in his eyes.

Ignoring him, his father who had stared at the flames with an unreadable expression at last, set the family gods of Tiwaz, Frey, and Woden before his son. "Sigewulf, look." When the boy did not listen, he grabbed him roughly and forced him to turn his head, "LOOK! Here stands our family gods… those who have guarded and nourished our kin and all others of these lands, since their creation."

"Y-yes father."

"You are no longer a child, for you have aided me as my huscarl, to take the lives of Ealdwald's men." Hroðgar declared to him, in the same rough, impatient tone as before, "Thus, now you shall be as hunted as I. Yet this was right, this was justice for our kin never forget this."

Thinking back on the screams of his sister and the roar of his brother ere they expired, Sigewulf nodded his head and repeated his previous words, if without a single stutter.

Withdrawing a single knife from his belt, Hroðgar swore then a mighty vow. One not sworn in those lands by one of his line in centuries, as he called upon the Aesir, he loved and revered. "Hear me Woden and Tiwaz, we hope that this sacrifice… this gift of fifty lives please thee, for we have many other such offerings to give you… and grant us vengeance!"

It was at this time that he cut his head, and let fall his blood upon the wooden statues of his gods, to seal the pact.

This might have been the end of the matter. Yet it was not enough, for angry Hroðgar, for next he turned to his son who shrunk back ever so slightly only to halt when he saw his father's gaze. It was so arresting, so fierce that he found himself mesmerized.

He hardly felt the knife, yet when he did his wound was opened and his blood mixed with that of his father, as he yelped in pain.

"Now swear the oath, my son! Swear it! Swear to avenge thy kin, or you shall no longer be my son, but a castaway beast, left to perish in these lands!" Hroðgar hissed at him, overtaken by his passion.

"I-I swear to spill the blood of the house of Ealdwald, to hunt them whithersoever they go and to deliver unto them a thousand times the sorrow, grief, and pain they have heaped upon us," Sigewulf said, repeating after his father who quoted him the words. "This I swear upon the blade of Tiwaz, and the spear of Woden!"

At once there was regret on his part. Oaths as he had been taught, especially those of this nature were not to be sworn lightly. Yet he had sworn it. Now there could be no retreat, or backing from it – not if he wished to retain honour and most of all his soul intact. Oath-breakers were scorned by the gods and all men after all.

Yet as his father wrapped a cloth about his wounded hand, and he looked to the blood-soaked statues, thence to the burning house beyond them, he felt his fears die away. All he was left with was loneliness and sorrow, as he longed for yesterday, when his brother and sister were alive, and his father not such a stranger. He wondered where this oath might take them.

Little did he know how far away it would take him: Neither did he know, through what hardships this promise was to one day drive him to, in the years that followed. Nor could his father Hroðgar have known in that moment, what it was that they were to endure. Yet never let it be said that either of them, recoiled from their duties or their vow. They were to travel through a sea of grief, pain, and rage and across many a year to achieve that which they swore to do on what became known to them as the 'Night of the Death-Oaths'.