Every head turned as the old man made his way through the packed hall towards the head table, but they weren't looking at the man himself. They were looking at the object he was carrying. The two guards that accompanied him had to keep the men and women he passed from reaching out to touch it, and instead they could only stare, their eyes wide with an almost religious awe. It was the Storyteller, the most ancient and sacred object possessed by the Six Tribes, and it was normally kept safe in the Story Lodge where warriors of all six tribes kept watch over it. It was only brought out at times of special celebration such as this.

  Reaching the head table the Storymaster placed the object gently on the polished stone surface and stepped back, bowing before it as if to a King. It was quite small, no larger than the hand of a large man. Tarvos remembered how surprised he'd been the first time he'd seen it during his first visit to Festival city, two years before. The way the men had talked about it during his childhood, he'd expected it to be the size of a wagon.

  "The First Fathers are ready to speak, My Lord," the old man said to the Mayor. "Which of their tales do you wish for them to tell?"

  "Unless the Chiefs have a preference, let the First Fathers themselves decide," Bergelmir replied. "Is that acceptable to you, Great Chiefs?"

  The Chiefs nodded. "Perhaps their choice will reveal a message from the Spirit World," said Aegaeon. "They may take the opportunity to offer wisdom for the days that lie ahead."

  Heads nodded in the Great Hall, but Tarvos noticed that his father's was not one of them. He had often told him that in his opinion the spirits never gave any advice worth listening to, no matter what strange herbs and potions the shamans dosed themselves with. As a result Gunnlod village no longer had any shamans. They had all left years ago in search of people willing to give them the honour and respect they thought they deserved. That wasn't to say that Gunnlod wasn't just as much in awe of the Storyteller as anyone else. He just didn't think that it was in any way connected to the spirit world.

  The object was square, with an upper surface that was smooth and clear like ice, but the stories that were told about it said that it was as warm as plethin. The other surfaces were black and shiny as if they were wet, but there was no sigh of moisture on them. On one side were glyphs in the language of the First Fathers, a language that Tarvos knew since it was the sacred language in which accounts of great events in the history of the tribes were written on sheets of vellum. The last such great event recorded by the Robin Hood tribe had been the duel between Gunnlod and the bandit chief Bebhionn, which had taken place when Tarvos had still been only an infant. His father liked to read it to his family on dark evenings by the light of an oil lamp, and once Tarvos had learned to read the histories for himself it had become his task to read extracts for the whole village when they gathered for the harvest celebration.

  The Storymaster touched a spot on the side of the object, and gasps of awe arose from the people close enough to see as its face lit up a bright white. A large glyph appeared for a few moments, and then it vanished to be replaced by rows of smaller glyphs. The old man touched one with his finger and all the glyphs vanished to be replaced by lines of text.

  The old man raised a hand into the air and closed his fingers into a fist. Then he extended his index finger. It was the only finger whose nail was trimmed short. He closed his eyes and waved his hand around in circles. "May the First Fathers guide my hand," he said in a slow, ritual voice. Then, with his eyes still closed, he brought his hand down and gently touched the glowing face of the Storyteller.

  All the lines of text vanished, to be replaced by a solid block of text. At the same time a voice began to issue from the Storyteller. The voice of a woman, old and wise, speaking as if to a group of children she loved and adored. Dead silence fell in the Great Hall as every person strained their ears to listen.

  "Once upon a time," said the voice, "there lived in a certain village a little country girl, the prettiest creature that ever was seen. Her mother was very fond of her, and her grandmother loved her still more. This good woman made for her a little red riding hood which suited the girl so well that everyone called her little red riding hood..."

  ☆☆☆

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The block of text on the face of the Storyteller flowed upwards as the voice spoke, with more lines appearing at the bottom and disappearing from the top. It took about half an hour for the voice to tell the story, whereupon it fell silent, although the bottom-most part of the text remained, black glyphs on a glowing white background. The Storymaster touched it again and the text vanished to he replaced by the rows and columns of the larger glyphs they'd seen before. He touched it again and it went dark. In the Great Hall the only sound was the soft breathing of three hundred awestruck men and women.

  "Thank you Storymaster," said Bergelmir at last. "The First Fathers have given us their wisdom. Please now return the Storyteller to its place of safety until the next time we need to hear its voice."

  The old man bowed low to him and gently picked up the ancient device. Then he turned and, accompanied by his escort, made his way back down the hall to the door.

  "The First Fathers warn us to be on our guard against evil that masquerades as a familiar face," said Aegaeon. "This is disturbing. What evil can they be referring to?"

  Gunnlod was looking confused, though. "The Storyteller told that story on my first visit to Festival City, twenty years ago," he said. "No great evil manifested itself then, that I recall."

  "Because we were on our guard as a result of the warning," Aegaeon replied. "We were able to defeat the evil."

  "And what great evil was it that we defeated?" asked Gunnlod, eyeing him closely.

  "The First Fathers clearly give general warnings of things that we should always be on our guard against," said Bergelmir. "There is no particular evil threatening us now. They merely warn us to watch out for any that may appear, now or in the future." Everyone within reach of his words nodded their agreement.

  "You say you've heard that story before," said Geirrod, the son of Aegaeon, to Gunnlod. "Does it often repeat a story it's told before?"

  It was Bergelmir who answered him, though. "It has seventy three stories," he said. "I have heard them all. Each of the six tribes has them written on sheets of vellum so that they can read them any time they wish. How do you not know this? Do you not read the stories in the evenings before you retire to your sleeping furs?"

  "We of the William Tell tribe have our own tales to tell," said Aegaeon with a smile. "Tales of heroic deeds done by our own people. We have no need for the tales of the First Fathers."

  Around the hall the people had remained silent as they waited to hear the Chiefs' interpretation of the story, but as it became clear that they were clueless conversations began to break out again. One man took exception to something his neighbour had said and punched him in the face. The other man stumbled back into a man about to take a drink from an ale horn, knocking it out of his hand to spill on the floor. Outraged, he also punched the unfortunate man in the face, but the victim had friends who came to his defence. Soon there was an enthusiastic brawl taking place in the corner of the hall which all the other occupants ignored.

  "And what great tales do the warriors of the Robin Hood clan have to boast of?" asked Skoll, leaning forward and staring across the table to address his words to Tarvos. "How many finger bones does the fearless son of Gunnlod wear on his trophy necklace?"

  "No bandit tribe has attacked our village since my son came of age," Gunnlod replied calmly. "They know better. They know it would be suicide to come our way."

  "We of the Herculeas clan do not wait for bandits to attack us," said Skoll, laughing as he took a great quaff from his horn. Ale dripped down his bearded chin to stain his fleethide tunic. He gave a great belch before continuing. "We go out and hunt them for sport."

  "We do not kill men for sport," Gunnlod replied. "We hold human life, even the lives of bandits, to be sacred. We kill to defend ourselves when they attack, but we do not seek violence."

  "Is your son not able to speak for himself?" asked Skoll, staring a challenge at Tarvos. "Perhaps he is terrified into silence by my mighty presence."

  "I fear no-one," said Tarvos, rising to his feet angrily. "Least of all the hairy whelp of a fennbeast."

  "Have a care, lad," growled Greip, his eyes glaring out from his hairy face, "or you will be fighting me instead of my son."

  "Do not deprive me of my sport, father," said Skoll anxiously, as if his father might do exactly that. "I want another finger bone for my necklace."

  "There will be no fights to the death," said Bergelmir, giving him a stern warning glance. "Within this hall, all fights stop when one participant submits or becomes senseless. That is the law the chiefs agreed on many years ago."

  "Acceptable," said Skoll, his eyes still on Tarvos. "I will beat this hairless worm senseless, unless he us too much of a coward to accept my challenge."

  "I accept the challenge," Tarvos replied, and a great cheer went up from the hall as he stood. "And before the day is over you will have submitted to me."

  "Careful lad," said Gunnlod, though, in a whisper too low to reach Skoll and his father. "Four months ago a Hercules clansman told me that Skoll beat a man so badly that he never entirely regained his wits. The clansman wasn't bragging about the exploits of his next clan leader. He was simply stating a fact."

  "He challenged me," Tarvos replied. "I can't refuse without being branded a coward. The tribe would never accept me as their chief. You yourself might be deposed."

  "Aye," Gunnlod replied grimly. "Then make sure you fight well, my son."

  "I always fight well," Tarvos replied.

  He stepped out from behind the table, Skoll did the same and the crowd drew back, clearing a space for them to fight.