Late Spring, year 565 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The icy wastes were properly named, and Kharg thought it a miracle that the Northern Tribes managed to carve out a living in this barren land. Even now in the springtime, the grass and other plants were scarce and they rarely saw any game. From what he had been told, there were several tribes here, each named after their totem animal. Their ally was the Tribe of the Wolf, which was in a perpetual feud with the Tribe of the Lynx and the Tribe of the Elk. Supposedly other tribes were named after animals like the polar bear, mountain lion, wolverine, snow fox, and eagle. There might be some others beyond that, but they lived farther to the west. The lands of the Tribe of the Wolf lay some distance northeast of where they left the mountains.

  A couple of weeks later, they were approached by a handful of warriors showing tribal tattoos of a wolf’s head on their chests. Each and every one of them looked like they could lift and toss a regular man several yards and they were half a head taller than Kharg, tall as he was himself. They were dressed in furs and armed with spears and bows. Their beards were braided, and their leathery skin was weatherworn. That they were not freezing was a mystery to Kharg at first, but he soon felt a strange magic from each of them that likely accounted for their resistance to the icy wind that swept the wasteland here.

  The barbarian warrior at the front greeted them in the Nordic tribal tongue. “By the ancient shores, the blood of Dargaard still flows strong. You are welcome.” Kharg had been taught the language since he was a child, though that was not the same as hearing it from a native speaker. It took him a few moments to understand the words, thanking his father for his foresight in ensuring that he was completely fluent in a number of key phrases so he could reply with confidence and certainty.

  “Well met. I am the grandson of Dargaard,” Kharg replied as he dismounted and approached the man. “You have met Halfur many times already. Our hearts sing with joy to meet again with our northern friends.”

  “I am Thaurd, son of Raulk, son of Wyvernsbane Bork.”

  Pulling off his gloves, Kharg reached out to grasp the man’s lower arm in a firm grip, met by one of iron. When the pressure of the man’s fingers increased, Kharg was suddenly happy for the combat training that had made him familiar with pain. After a few moments, the man nodded and broke into a wide smile.

  “Your blood is strong, your line is true. You are welcome into our lands. Follow.” Then he turned around and began to run with a loping gait ahead of them.

  Some hours later, they caught sight of the village. What Kharg had first taken for a scatter of low shapes on the tundra resolved into a hundred great tents of fur and timber, far larger than he had imagined. The structures rose in long, sloping forms, their heavy caribou hides stretched over broad wooden frames that gave each tent the presence of a small hall rather than a wanderer’s shelter. Many stood taller than a man at the eaves and ran several paces in length, their roofs supported by sturdy ridge-poles and angled side-beams that broke the northern wind while some were even larger.

  A few families moved between them, and Kharg quickly realized these were no makeshift travel lodges. Their scale and craftsmanship spoke of a people who wandered, yes, but wandered with purpose and tradition.

  Across the camp, he saw entrance-frames of crossed tentpoles, each crowned with a carved serpent-head gable beast. Some were simple, others richly detailed with scales and curling fangs. The paired snake-heads faced outward as if guarding each threshold, their silhouettes stark against the pale sky. Combined with the broad hides draped over the timber skeletons, the effect was striking—half tent, half traveling longhouse.

  Nearby, a herd of sheep bleated, their calls carried by the wind from a fenced hollow on the far side of the village. A narrow stream wound past the settlement, its waters dark and clear where men and children filled buckets or scrubbed tools in the shallows. Racks and wooden frames stood in tidy rows between the tents, hung with stretching hides that fluttered like banners in the cold breeze.

  At the camp’s center rose a massive wooden pole, a single pillar of weathered timber carved with the snarling head of a wolf and a tapestry of runes and symbols spiraling down its length. As they drew closer, the scale of the place impressed itself upon him. This was a village built to move with the seasons, yet nothing about it felt temporary. The tents were heavy, fortified, and skillfully maintained. They felt like the work of a people who had tamed the wind and learned how to carry their home across a land that refused to stand still.

  A gathering of children ran out to ogle them as they approached. Apparently, one of the warriors had run ahead of them and spread the word of their arrival. The chieftain, Haarek, and a small delegation of his warriors were waiting for them at the outskirts of the village. As they came closer, they dismounted, and Kharg and Halfur approached.

  “My heart sings to meet you, great Haarek of the Tribe of the Wolf,” Kharg said, making a grasping motion over his heart. “My father sends his regards. I am Kharg, Akgun’s son. It is my father’s wish that I now visit the north and become a man.”

  “Well met, son of Akgun. Your father is wise and strong. We have prepared a tent for you and your men.”

  Grasping each other’s arms, they held the gesture for a dozen heartbeats, looking into each other’s eyes.

  “The blood of Dargaard breeds true,” Haarek said, gripping Kharg’s arm in greeting. He looked the young southerner up and down, then snorted in amusement. “But you southerners need to eat more meat if you ever hope to reach Valhalla. We Northmen are born with iron in our bones, but you? Hah! You’ve got the build of a child.”

  The warriors behind him chuckled at the jest, though there was no malice in it, only the good-natured ribbing of a people who valued strength above all else.

  Haarek clapped Kharg’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. “Stay a year, eat like a warrior, and perhaps the gods will mistake you for one of us.” He laughed again, his voice booming like a drum.

  Kharg smirked and straightened his coat. “I will consider it,” he said dryly, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment.

  “Consider hard, boy. The gates of Valhalla do not open for men who hesitate!” Haarek declared, still grinning, before turning and leading them toward the village.

  “Make yourselves at home, and tonight we will have a feast.” Haarek gestured to a large tent nearby.

  Kharg followed his gesture. The structure dominated the heart of the settlement, an immense hide-covered hall supported by a forest of heavy timber posts. Broad frames rose from the ground and met in a tall ridge that ran the length of the tent, its sloping sides pulled taut with thick furs stitched in overlapping layers. Wooden beams jutted at the gables where carved serpent heads watched over the entrance, their shapes catching the pale afternoon light. Smoke curled from a vent along the high roofline, hinting at fires already burning within. The place radiated warmth even from a distance and had the quiet authority of something built to hold entire gatherings, a shelter for stories, judgments, and celebrations.

  “The Tribe of the Wolf is ever hospitable,” Kharg replied, following as Haarek turned and headed back to the village. As they approached, Kharg suddenly felt a strange magic around him and froze in place. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, similar to the elemental forces of fire, cold, and water, yet so much more. It was vast, complex, and ancient, a harmony of energies that defied his understanding. It stirred something deep within him, almost like a forgotten memory, tantalizingly familiar yet elusive.

  Behind him, Hrafun stood still, observing the young southerner with sharp, discerning eyes. The old shaman felt it, a resonance unlike any he had encountered before. It was raw and unshaped, but its strength was undeniable. Stronger even than the most promising of apprentices he had trained. His thoughts turned inward, recalling the divinations he had cast several winters ago. They had foretold that he would take on a fated apprentice, one who would come from beyond the tribe’s borders.

  The visions had been frustratingly ambiguous, as divinations often were, hinting that this outsider would be unlike any he had taught before. Strange, exceptional, or perhaps even not human were the impressions the spirits had given him. The council of shamans would resist the choice, as they resisted any deviation from tradition, but Hrafun knew that their approval mattered little. The spirits had spoken.

  He had also glimpsed a darker thread in his visions, one of ruin. Whether it would come with or without the apprentice was unclear, but the signs had been stark. The only certainty was that without this outsider, the tribe’s survival would hang by a thin thread.

  Hrafun studied the young man who stood motionless before him. Kharg’s features were touched by both awe and confusion. To Hrafun’s eyes, he seemed happy and carefree, yet carried an air of quiet confidence. Though Kharg looked young and untested, there was knowledge in his gaze, an inner strength that belied his lean and less muscular frame. This was not a man shaped by the frozen tundra, but Hrafun sensed within him something rare, a spirit unbroken by hardship, with the potential to rise above it.

  Kharg became suddenly aware of Hrafun’s gaze. With a mumbled apology, he resumed walking. The moment passed, though the memory of the strange magic lingered in Kharg’s mind. His eyes shifted to the figure standing beside Haarek, a man adorned with tattoos and charms, whose piercing pale blue eyes remained fixed on him. There was power in that man, a palpable force Kharg could not name.

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  Hrafun allowed a faint smile to touch his lips before looking away. The spirits had guided him to this moment, and though the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, he resolved to trust their wisdom.

  Some of the guards saw to the horses and unloaded the packs with goods while Kharg, Halfur, and two others went to inspect the tent. It was quite dark inside and had a musty smell of old fur, animals, and sweat but it was not unpleasant. Inside was a long row of sleeping places laid out with thick furs, which looked surprisingly comfortable. In the center of the tent, a circle of stones enclosed a few smoldering logs, their warmth and soft orange light filling the space. When the unloading was done and the packs stored inside the tent, most of the men stretched out on the furs for some rest but Kharg felt an itch he could not understand and stepped outside. As he strolled around and explored the village he came upon a longhouse, a feast hall of heavy wooden timbers. Above the entrance was a pair of spears crossed behind a heavy shield that had seen a lot of use. The tribe was mainly nomadic, as evidenced by all the tents. But perhaps they were simply migrating between a number of designated spots where they had some amenities already set up. Shrugging, he continued his tour and a little later he found himself standing in front of the totem pole.

  The pole was wide enough that Kharg’s hands would barely touch if he tried to grab around it and perhaps twice the height of a man. It exuded a distinct magical radiance but it differed greatly from what he had seen before. Almost spellbound, he reached out and touched it. The wood was old and weathered and seemed to have been carved in sections of perhaps a foot in height where each section differed a lot from the one below or above.

  Near the top of the totem, just beneath the snarling wolf’s head, a single watchful eye had been carved into the wood. It was larger than any of the other symbols, its detail painstakingly intricate, with deep lines radiating outward like cracks in aged stone. The eye’s center had been inlaid with a dark, polished stone, obsidian or something like it, giving it a glossy, unsettling depth, as if it truly watched those who passed beneath it. Another section showed carvings of fire and the sun, while yet another had strange runes and skulls, and a third had carvings of rats and vermin. As he touched it, he felt a strange resonance that enthralled him.

  “You seem to have the gift,” a deep voice behind him made him spin around. There stood the shaman, a gray-bearded man draped in an intricate cloak fashioned from wolf-fur that cascaded around him like the dusk settling over the forest. The rich, soft fibers, varying from deep charcoal to warm tawny hues, exuded an aura of ancient wisdom and primal power. The cloak seemed a living testament to his bond with the spirit of the wolf, symbolizing both protection and guidance.

  Atop his head sat the wolf-head itself, crafted with meticulous care. Its glassy, fierce eyes stared outward, embodying the essence of the wolf’s spirit. The slightly open mouth suggested a silent howl, resonating with the energies of the surrounding wilderness. Strips of fur draped from the headdress, framing his face and blending seamlessly into the cloak, creating an unbroken flow between animal spirit and human existence.

  His features were accentuated by tribal markings etched onto his skin, spirals and lines crafted with earth pigments that signified his journey and connection to the spirit realm. A dark raven perched silently on his shoulder, its dark eyes mirroring the shaman’s calm focus. The bird seemed an extension of him, as watchful and deliberate as its master. The shaman’s expression was one of profound focus and serenity, as though he was in tune with the whispers of nature and the unseen forces that governed the world.

  In one hand, he held a staff adorned with feathers and small bone tokens, each representing a spirit he had encountered. It appeared not just as a walking aid but as a conduit for his power, tapping into the depths of the earth and the heights of the sky. As he moved, the cloak swayed, mimicking the fluid grace of the beasts of the forest, while the wolf-head headdress served as a reminder of his role as a bridge between the physical and spiritual realms.

  Astounded by his insight, Kharg stumbled over his words, which came out as unintelligible noise.

  “I am Hrafun. It is rare to see such a strong reaction to our shamanic powers.”

  “Shamanic powers. I have not heard of such powers before, though I was trained in battle magic as I grew up.”

  “Shamanism was the first magic, the magic of the ancient ancestors of all men. I know little of your Elemental Magic, but it originated from the ancient magic. It is rare, but sometimes a mage from Varakar finds his way to the Endless Plains. They have sought the origins of magic and their paths have led them here.”

  Hrafun paused, as if listening to something only he could hear. Then, in a softer tone, he added, “The spirits tell many stories, some too old for even the shamans to remember. They whisper of lands across the sea, of storms and shadows that chased our forefathers away. But the past matters less than the path ahead.”

  Kharg frowned, considering his words. The Northmen had always been a landbound people, or so he had assumed. Could they truly have once sailed the seas?

  “I have little knowledge of this. But the magic here pulled at my heart and made my blood sing in a way I have never felt before.” Kharg said slowly in what he hoped was a polite yet true reply. He still stumbled slightly over the words, as he was unfamiliar with the melody and sounds of the language.

  “Your blood is much revered in our tribe, and your grandfather saved my father. Because of that, I will offer you something we have never offered an outsider before. If you so desire, you may become my apprentice until such a time that you desire to leave.”

  Kharg froze. This was not what he had expected.

  He had come north to observe, to learn, but not in this way. His entire life, magic had been something studied in carefully controlled environments, dissected, analyzed, structured into neat forms and theories. But shamanism was alive, breathing through the land, moving in unseen currents he barely understood. Could he really walk this path?

  And what of his father? Akgun would not take this lightly.

  He imagined the shock and anger, his father pacing behind the great oak desk, rubbing his temples as he struggled to comprehend why his son had abandoned both the family and the carefully laid plans for his future. In Kharg’s mind, he could almost hear the sharp words that would be spoken to his uncles or the caravan leaders when next they visited, each word heavy with disappointment.

  And yet… something in him stirred.

  That first moment, when he had felt the pull of the shamanic magic in the village, had been unlike anything before. It had not been woven like his spells. It had spoken to him, called to something deeper. And now, standing before the man who could teach him, who saw something in him that even Kharg had not yet understood, he realized that despite his doubts, he wanted this.

  But not without acknowledging the weight of his choice.

  Slowly, he lifted his attention to Hrafun. “I will need time to think,” he said, his voice measured.

  The shaman gave him a knowing look. “Then think fast, southerner. The spirits do not wait forever.”

  Nodding, the shaman turned around and walked away, leaving a very bewildered Kharg behind.

  Sometime later he found himself back at the tent with the rest of the men from the caravan. Noticing a glance from Halfur, he waved at the man and lay down to rest a little among the soft furs that made up his sleeping cot. It would likely be a long night with the planned welcome feast ahead. He was pleasantly surprised by the complete absence of fleas, but sleep soon caught up with him.

  * * *

  As Kharg stepped into the great hall, the heat and noise rolled over him like a living thing. Warmth radiated from the fires set along the log walls, mingling with the heavy aromas of roast meat, woodsmoke, and spice. Voices overlapped in bursts of laughter and song, rising into the high-beamed rafters and echoing off the timber supports in a rich, chaotic din. It was nothing like the ordered courtyards and quiet markets of the south. Here, joy wore no restraint. And though part of him thrilled at the wildness, another part remained guarded, unsure of his place in it.

  Beside him, Halfur leaned in and murmured, “Your grandfather once saved their chieftain’s life. That makes you kin, more or less.” His tone was light, but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of pride or sentiment Kharg couldn’t quite place. The name Dargaard still carried weight, it seemed. Kharg gave a quiet nod. Memories came flooding back—his grandfather’s gravel-voiced stories of battle and blood-sworn oaths, of brutal winters endured side by side with warriors like these.

  At the head of the long feast table, chieftain Haarek sat wrapped in furs and authority. Broad-shouldered and blunt-featured, he stood as they entered, lifting a horn carved with knotwork symbols. “To our southern kin! The blood of Dargaard flows true yet!” he called out in a booming voice. Laughter and cheers rippled through the room, and Kharg, after a brief pause, raised his own tankard in reply. The cup was heavy in his hand, its pewter sides cool and unfamiliar, but the gesture came easily. For better or worse, he had been noticed and he felt the weight of both honor and expectation.

  The feast began in earnest. Platters of meat made their way down the line. Some dishes held game, others smoked cuts, and a few were still sizzling. Plates of coarse bread and root vegetables passed from hand to hand, and tankards were topped off as quickly as they emptied. Kharg ate without hesitation. The food was heavy and sometimes harsh, but full of flavor. Around him, the tribesmen bellowed their tales. They spoke of battles waged in fog and frost, of spirits sighted through driving snow, and of comrades buried or avenged. Their voices gave the tundra shape and soul, not mere terrain, but as a harsh teacher. Each account seemed to intertwine the realities of their harsh environment with the echoes of their ancestors, teaching him the value of strength and unity in ways his sheltered upbringing had not.

  Even Kharg found himself drawn in, listening intently. The rhythm of the stories, their strange blend of boast and elegy, made him forget how foreign the setting still felt. Here, memory lived in the flesh. It appeared in scars, in toasts, and in laughter shared with the dead.

  As dusk deepened and the torches flared higher, a subtle shift swept the hall. A handful of men and women rose from the benches and moved to a cleared space near the hearth. Drums were lifted, flutes passed from hand to hand. The first drum beats were slow, a deep, resonant beat that seemed to resonate in Kharg’s chest. Then faster as flutes joined in. The melody of the flutes swirled around them like the wind, lifting spirits and beckoning everyone to join in.

  The first dancers approached. Some were young, some were old, and each was decorated with beads, feathers, or the simple markings of their clan. Those around Kharg began to sway, caught in the spell of the moment and the music. The dancers’ movements were wild, yet rooted, a blend of practiced grace and abandon. They moved with the wind, the fire, the thrum of blood. Kharg watched, struck silent. There was nothing performative in it. This was not for display. This was ritual made joy, memory made motion.

  A woman turned mid-spin, catching his eye. “Come!” she called, beckoning with a grin. Others joined her, urging him with gestures or a clapped rhythm. Halfur nudged him forward. Kharg hesitated, then stepped into the circle.

  At first he fumbled. His boots slipped on the worn floor, his timing lagged behind the beat. But they laughed with him, not at him, and drew him further in. He followed the steps as best he could. After a time, the awkwardness faded. The beat caught him. His limbs remembered things they had never learned. He spun and stumbled and caught himself laughing.

  Something loosened in him.

  By the time he stepped back, sweat slicked his brow and his chest rose and fell in time with the drums. Around him, faces gleamed with firelight, voices called and shouted, a wild current of belonging carrying him forward.

  He was no longer a stranger at the edge of their world. In that hall of stone and flame, beneath the weight of legacy and the warmth of shared celebration, Kharg felt something settle. During the joy and celebration, the barbarians’ laughter and song filled the air. In that moment, he knew he belonged—a living echo of his grandfather’s connection within this ancient tribe.