The halls of the Mundi Island Inn, however, would know no respite, as an argument raged loudly within one of its chambers.
“Just give me the damned shirt,” demanded an irritated Viktor.
“No!” refused Fjalla, embracing herself tightly as if to protect her soiled garments.
The blouse had been dreadfully worn from the road, unchanged throughout Fjalla’s long and tumultuous journey. Patches of sweat and dirt stained its faded surface, as its edges frayed from continuous use. Fjalla couldn’t carry much luggage on her person; she’d been resorting to washing and recycling the same outfit.
“I’ll get you a new one,” Viktor offers, getting impatient with the girl.
“But I don’t want a new one,” responded Fjalla, tightening her arms even further as she rolled up beside the bed, “I like this shirt. My papa gave it to me.”
Viktor raised his hand in disbelief, shaking his head before arguing further, “Look at it, girl! It’s filthy!”
He gestured towards the girl, who flushed red as she slowly inspected her garments, hoping to prove the man wrong. Alas, no amount of gaslighting was going to allow her to deny the state of her clothing.
“Surely, Papa!” he says mockingly,” wouldn’t want you walking around looking like that.”
Taking a second look at her garments, she pauses, then stares right at Viktor, examining him for any faults of his own to critique. He’d recently changed out of his blood-soaked attire and was looking quite stately in his dark trousers and wine-coloured button-up.
“Damn it, he’s right,” she thought to herself,” and he looks good!”
She remembered her father’s incessant yammering about dressing more like “A Queen”. Formerly, she found it quite annoying, but nowadays she yearned to hear his voice at any cost.
“Ok, but you can’t look,” she concedes, gesturing towards the door.
Outside the bed chamber, Viktor fiddled with his pistol, running his fingers along its thick barrel and flicking the grooves in its cylinder, spinning it hypnotically. It would be much longer before the door to the chambers would pry itself slightly, creaking as a dainty arm holding the blouse slid through the crack.
“Here,” squeaked a voice from within the chambers.
Without saying a word in response, Viktor rudely yanks the blouse. Immediately, he tears the rag, audibly shredding it into tatters before slipping a piece into his satchel.
“EEK!” squeals Fjalla, deducing the hunter’s actions from the ripping noise.
She knocks on the currently closed door before yelling, “EXCUSE ME!”
Ignoring her displeasure, Viktor responds with a final command before speeding down the hall, “ Do NOT! And I mean, do NOT! Go anywhere!”
Pouting, Fjalla crosses her arms and sits curled up with her back to the door. It’s not like the hunter left her much of a choice; it wasn’t as if she was going to wander the streets half-naked.
Meanwhile, Viktor had made his way onto the drenched alleyways of Bludansk, his boots splashing against puddles of rainwater as he paced. He was headed to meet his uncanny contact, running through every possible outcome in his mind. He didn’t know how the contact would react to the information, or rather, the misinformation, he was plotting to deliver. Frankly, he didn’t even know what kind of creature his contact would be this time.
The contract said to meet by the southern end of town, near the abandoned apothecary; a fittingly ominous meeting place for the ominous client.
Distinct and sturdy, the apothecary building stood two stories high, a good bit taller than the surrounding houses. Its plot of land was encapsulated by its thick walls, bearing no yard or outdoor area. Only recently abandoned, the thin layer of plaster across its walls peeled scarcely, exposing layers of local limestone bricks, another staple of more Asgardian architecture. The glass covering the windows of the structure, with the lower windows boarded up with wooden planks, while the top two were left agape.
Gazing at the building, Viktor located a vagrant he’d speculated was his contact. A small crow, akin to the ones he’d been contacted by before, had been perched atop the wooden frame of one of the top windows.
Viktor crept up to the building, squinting as he looked up at the avian.
“Mr Crow, I-” he began, pondering over the way he planned to phrase his approach,” I’ve got news.”
“And what might those news be, Mr Viktor?” responded a husky voice, sending a chill down the spine of the unwitting Viktor.
Tensing his shoulders, Viktor shifts his weight, defensively placing his hand on the pommel of his sword as he turns around. Standing behind him, he sees a not-so-unfamiliar figure.
Masking his face under the visage of a crow, the contact dressed from head to toe in black attire. They appeared almost identical to the shady man from Stuggart, had it not been for their significantly smaller stature and softer voice.
Staring up and down the genderless figure, Viktor questions, “You. You’re not..”
“No,” the figure responds immediately, “We are many.”
“Well,” went Viktor, turning around to properly face his new client, “it’s about the target.”
“Yes. Have you got them?” bluntly responded the figure.
“It seems the swamp,” continued Viktor, producing a tattered cloth from his satchel, “got them first.”
The figure took the cloth from his hand, bringing it up towards the sun to peer through its fabric. Astounded by the odd gesture, Viktor clenched his jaw in anticipation of their response.
“So you mean to say,” the figure asks, their sights still set on the fabric,” the target is dead.”
Breathing in, Viktor replies, “Afraid so.”
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The figure discontinues the mysterious practice, placing the piece of cloth into their own black leather bag. They peer at Viktor, silently assessing him for a moment.
Viktor’s heart was beating, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, and his back had begun to perspire. He could sense distrust in the client’s mannerisms and had an innate feeling that they knew he was lying. However, he kept steady, maintaining a stoic expression throughout.
“The Crow will not be pleased,” stated the figure, their tone unindicative of any emotion,” but what is done is done.”
Viktor nodded in agreement. He seemed to have done well so far and wanted to give his luck one final spin.
“Regardi-, ” Viktor hesitantly began to ask.
“Regarding your payment. There will be none, ” the figure interrupted, still emotionless.
“Bu-”
“The contract is the contract, Mr Viktor,” went the corvid-person, “ you have failed.”
The defeated Viktor gulped, his disappointment only momentary as he saw this coming.
“Good day, Mr Viktor,” the figure concluded, “ we shall meet again.”
Before Viktor could even muster a response, the flutter of a black blur above his shoulder sent him into a fit of instinctual fright, making him draw his pistol from his holster. Its muzzle had been aimed at what he could now clearly discern was a large black crow gliding across the horizon before ascending beyond the townhouses in the distance.
By the time he’d recovered from this haze and set his sights forward once more, the figure was gone. Viktor scanned his surroundings, hoping to trace where they’d gone, only to realise they completely vanished. Even his predator sense failed to pick up their scent; it was as if they’d faded into their own shade.
Viktor shrugged before whispering smuggly to himself, “Guess that means I keep the down payment.”
Back at the inn, Fjalla had been huddled up beneath her bedcovers, reading through her favourite book. She was smiling and kicking her feet, skimming through the lines of the “Legends of SKadi” as if it were her first time doing so. Grasping the novel between her hands, she read through her favourite excerpt:
“The huntress stood atop the mightiest Vaanite, drawing her bow to pursue the heavens. Its sturdy iron string crackled, echoing a perilous warning:
The Gods have sinned,
Through righteous menace
The Gods have sinned,
Abandon penance
The Gods have sinned,
Forsake your tenets
The Gods have sinned,
The Gods have sinned
When rights are wrong,
The wrongs are wronger
When faith is weak,
Let man be stronger
Holy be the truth,
And nought but the truth
The Gods have sinned,
The Gods have sinned,
The Gods have sinned!
The planets kowtowed beneath the mountains, the denizens fled to their pits, the people cast their hands in prayer, and the skies shuddered in sorrow.
Bright and resplendent, showered in rays of seamless white, the glorious Bifrost descended before Skadi’s feet. In its embrace, the abject effigy of Odin, pleading forgiveness in blasphemy of his own rites.
“Forgiveness, I shall grant,” claimed the giantess, “for wrath is a sin beneath the grace of man.”
From that day, the moon, the sun, the planets, and all things between heaven and earth would tell a story. A story of man humbling god, and claiming the mantle all-holy.”
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
Irked by the obnoxious knocking, Fjalla looked up from her book to the door. Before she could even make her way towards it, it’d been flung halfway open. A pile of garments flew through the opening before the door was slammed shut.
“Get dressed and let’s get moving!” shouted Viktor, his voice slightly muffled by the door.
Shocked that he kept his promise and bought her a new set of clothes, she leapt from her bed, eager to inspect her new garments.
Moments later, she opened the door herself, greeting Viktor in her new attire. Viktor mildly reared to get a better look, his eyes gleaming with pride as he crossed his arms and inspected the little girl.
She was wearing an off-white hemp shirt that boasted round wooden buttons and no collar. Its sleeves were full and excessively long, extending ever so slightly beyond her wrist. A black canvas belt cinched around her waist, holding a pair of brown straight-cut trousers that concealed the top of her beige boots.
On her head was, for once, an unsullied and fashionable mushroom hat. Cream of colour, its dome was adorned by silk camellias pinned to a white band. Most importantly, it sported a wide drooping “mushroom” brim that did an excellent job of concealing her ears.
“Don’t you look like a fine young lady!” gloated Viktor, seeming almost out of character.
“Hmph,” complained Fjalla, displaying her loose cuffs,” this feels silly.”
“You’ll grow into it,” replies Viktor dismissively, “Let’s go find that Mr Mitchell of yours.”
As soon as he’d finished the sentence, he began making his way out, gesturing for Fjalla to follow.
“It’s Mr Eskle!” she corrects the careless hunter, stumbling behind him with her belongings in hand.
Trotting towards the great bridge, Kashmir’s hooved trail fell muted as the brick-paved road turned to a patchy mud path. This uncanny stretch of road went for about half a mile south into town from the portal of the bridge. Erected on either side were plain plastered structures bearing insignias of the Asgardian Territories. Each building seemed to serve a bureaucratic function, with posted signs denoting its respective department: administration, customs, border control, etc.
Most prominent of all the departmental structures was that of customs, spanning the greater part of the western quarter of the district. It had high vaulted ceilings, standing two stories tall despite having only one functional floor. Its windows were few and insignificant, boasting no frames and a narrow glassless opening; they function more as ventilation shafts. On either side of its doors stood unwavering guards, dressed in blue military regalia and holding long bayonetted war rifles.
Lining the perimeter of the establishment were the rain-sodden encampments of Mokish refugees, battered and beaten by the latter torrents. As if their situations had not been dire to begin with, the downpour flooded the tents, forcing the residents to sit in lament around their former abodes. They rummaged through the wrecks, sorted their rescued belongings, and salvaged what rations they could.
Children, half-naked at times and fully-naked the other, wreaked havoc upon the scene; weeping, laughing and screaming as they pestered their parents and fled from strays.
Guards walked up and down the tents, yelling at refugees to get their affairs in order. Every so often, they would summon a family into the building to update them on their appeals. Nine out of ten times, they were rejected entry, exiting the premises with their faces buried in their palms.
Cold, harsh and inhumane, the encampments were tough to gaze upon, let alone take as a home. And yet, there were scenes of kindness. Neighbours greeted each other, mothers tended their young, and infants carried bowls of drinking water to panning dogs.
Fjalla felt her heart wrench, frowning as she reflected on the scenery. At this moment, the turmoils of her life, struggles of the road, all felt like a blessing.
Viktor, who sat at the helm, stared blankly ahead, tugging the reins of his steed. He urged the mare to tread faster, pleading to be spared the dreadful atmosphere.
As they came to the gates, Fjalla could peer below into the vast underpass, where a raging river roared wide and ruthless. Its turbulent currents foamed and writhed around jagged rock faces that projected from its surface. On either side of its banks stood rows of thick wooden palisades, guarding the waters as if anyone with half their wits would attempt to cross the unrelenting Slid.
“Halt!” yelled a guardsman, stepping before the oncoming travellers, “produce your papers.”
Viktor gentled the horse before reaching into his satchel, wordlessly staring through the unsettled man before him as he produced his pass. The guard tugged the paper from his hand and skimmed through it for a moment.
He looked up at Viktor and gestured to his companion before asking, “The girl?”
Annoyed, Viktor grimaces and responds, “She’s a kid.”
The guard shakes his head and requests that Viktor step aside. Complying, he hitches his mare and dismounts, approaching the guardsman to settle their dispute and prevent any trouble.
“Listen, she’s literally a child, ” argues Viktor,” she doesn’t need a pass.”
“She’s old enough to marry where I am from, ” responds the guard, shifting his reinforced black cap, “ she’ll need a pass.”
Veering in disbelief and disgust, Viktor could muster no respectful response. Thankfully, the guard wouldn’t allow him to anyway.
“Listen, you seem like a fine gentleman, “ smirks the guard, deviously crossing his fingers, “ certainly too fine to be standing in that line.”
The guard pointed out the abhorrent line of refugees piling out of the control building. Glancing at himself, Viktor immediately dreaded possibly having to wait a day or so in that pit of despair.
“I believe we can strike a deal,” the guardian rubs his hands as he stares at Viktor, ” What say you, mister?”
Viktor strokes his thick, rough beard, furrowing his brows as he inquires, “And what would that be?”
The guard coughs into his fist and sputters, “three-hundred bezels”
He coughs twice more to conceal his offer.
Shocked by the preposterous amount, Viktor yells almost loud enough to catch the attention of the guards all the way across the bridge, “THREE-”
“Hush,” whispers the guard, distressed as he looks around to make sure no one has heard the altercation.
Viktor pauses and collects himself, gritting his teeth in anger as he holds back from strangling the man before him. Three hundred was no small amount, especially since he’d bought the girl a new outfit. It would drain his pockets so significantly that he may have to resort to petty theft on his way to Dansfurt. A practice he’d long since forgotten.
Then again, he could not afford prying around this town for much longer, not with the crows lurking in its shadows. It wouldn’t be too long before they’d figure out his lies and apprehend him for breaching the contract.
Hesitantly, Viktor searches his wares, producing the coin and handing it to the devious man. Through his teeth, he snarls at the guard, “There you go, you greedy bastard.”
“Tsk tsk tsk,” responds the guard in mockery, as he yanks the purses and begins examining their contents, “manners good sir!”
“Very well,” says the guard, who’d just finished counting.
He gestures to his fellow soldier, signing a code with his hand, before yelling, “Let the man and his little lady through!”
Shaking his head, Viktor returns to his mare, assisting Fjalla onto the saddle before hoisting himself up. He spurs the steed ahead, taking one final chilling glance at the grinning guardsman who waved them off as they cantered past the gates.
“Nasty son of a bitch,” mutters Viktor under his breath, barely audible enough for Fjalla to hear.
“What?” asked the puzzled girl.
“Nothing,” sputters Viktor, attempting to mind his language.
With a vigorous “HYAAH”, the hunter commands his powerful beast to bolt forth, galloping like the wind towards their new destination, Dansfurt, home of the Ales.