Dragon from the Dawning Sea

“Tell me Guðbrandr, son of Æthelwulf, brother of my dear Brihtric - who are you? Who do you bend the knee to? Is it gold that you crave, or a land of your own? Is it that you wish your name to be carved into legend? Why is it that you bane us so even after all your brother has sought to do for you?”

The smoke flowing in from the fires in the Great Hall fill the small hall leading off towards the private rooms of Jarl Brithric and his wife Sigeburh. There is a roar of noise from the direction of the hall, a resounding call of support towards the Jarl who is opening the evening's celebrations and ordering beer to be brought to the tables.

The two people standing in this hall both recoil from one another as the sound startles them, the broad-shouldered man pacing back before turning and launching against the woman who stands firm and unshaken by such a sudden motion.

“My brother?” the man hisses and points a finger at the woman's face. “He doomed our father to death, abandoned him, then took all that was once the realm of our father and continues to rule it as he alone sees fit! We all know the laws of our ancestors. Half of this land belongs to me. Both you and Brithric have denied me for now five summers, yet I have remained silent of this in the Great Hall - even in the face of ridicule from those that once were my closest friends. No, Sigeburh, it is time for you to speak with my brother, convince him to give me twenty men that I can call my own, and outfit me with a ship.”

“And what will you with a ship?” the woman scornfully asks, peering into the man's icy blue eyes. “A life of trading up and down the coasts? Please, regale me with yet another tall tale of your plans.”

“No. No tales. I will sail away from here, to the land they say lies far beyond the western horizon. Do this one thing for me – give me a ship – and I shall leave you both in peace. Then the debt of sharing my father's legacy will be paid. Whether I succeed and land on those shores of legend, or sink into the ocean, I shall no longer burden you with further demands.”

“This will finally rid us of you? Truly?”

“Yes, by my word it shall. Or you could plunge a knife into my chest and hope that you are able to bury it deep enough to kill me before my hands wrangle the life out of you,” Guðbrandr says and for a moment bites his tongue, but is unable to let those be his final words. “Then again, I would trust you to rather poison me. Like you did my father.”

The woman, lady of the Great Hall by marriage, looks up at the fierce looking red-maned man looming before her. While she stands there in thought the man continues to fidget and huff, eager to say more or perhaps strangle her anyway, but constantly coming up against an invisible wall. The wall of a promise made on a father's deathbed not to ruin the family with infighting.

For decades Guðbrandr had watched his father conquer surrounding tribes, navigate dangerous webs of intrigue and diplomacy, and relish in the spilling of blood on the battlefield. There would never again be such a mighty figure, not least of which because the witch called Sigeburh had managed to place her spell on Brithric. The woman had never shied away from showing her ambitions, but none had ever had the gall to challenge her openly. Instead her own web of intrigue spread in the Great Hall. Then the mighty Jarl fell ill and died a mere two days later.

And now as the two look at one another, staring each other down, Sigeburh does not even try to pretend that it was not her hand that brought Jarl Æthelwulf to death's door and then helped him across the threshold.

“Then I will talk with him.”

Not even a week later does Guðbrandr toss his heavy cloth bag into a sleek long ship, all his possessions held in the rough embrace of that single sack. There are already ten others on the ship preparing it for a long voyage out past the horizon of an open sea, while ten more are gathering the final barrels of salted meats and the mead that will sustain their spirits even in the toughest of weathers. Those who pause to look at the ship being prepared do not stay for long, choosing instead to hurry along as soon as they see the ætheling standing at the pier. Were this a raid, they would be cheering and offering their best wishes and blessings. A raid this is not. This is an exile.

As soon as the ship is ready to leave the ropes are untied from the pier and an oar is used to push off. The other long oars descend into the clear mist-covered water of the early morning, then push against the water so they may start a voyage none of the men are truly prepared for. Even so, the shore echoes with the loud boastful singing moments later as the ship slowly moves out towards open sea. Guðbrandr watches over them as he stands at the helm, seeing them hide their anger and disappointment over having been sent away in such a fashion – yet they cannot argue or complain. They were loyal to old Æthelwulf and they are loyal to the son they fought alongside during the final years of the old Jarl's rule. Somewhere deep beneath the anguish of exile lies pride in following the ætheling.

For a full day and night the ship sails westward along the coast, heading the same way until a peninsula juts out from the mainland, pointing them on a heading directly towards the fabled shores of an untamed and lush land there for the taking. It is this land that has been ridden with raiding for a full generation. Many have gone there to plunder the strange temples and remote villages of their people and goods, and some have even stayed to make their homes there. Guðbrandr does not know whether he wishes to do one or the other, or perhaps both, but he does know that of all the lands that will be the most promising for him to make his own name. The Wallic tribes have never been truly united and in that disharmony lies plenty of gaps that a brave man might fill.

The ætheling is not stupid despite his ambition and bravery, however. As he peers into the distance, waiting for that peninsula to rise and guide them northward, he is also looking along the coast. There are villages along the coast still where his name means something – where he has not been reduced into a laughing stock that is told to cower before his brother like a slave. No, here they still remember his deeds as a warrior, where they remember that he was fighting beside his father in great shieldwalls while his brother was busy courting his way through longhouse after longhouse. These people would yet follow Guðbrandr.

When a patch of forest makes way for a palisaded little town the young ætheling calls for his crew to raise the sail so they might land between the rocks of this short beach. The ship shudders as the keel grinds against a rock, coming to a halt just off the beach.

The youth of the town are the first to arrive on the scene, sticks at the ready to ward off any invader. Unfortunately for these fierce and bloodthirsty defenders, the ætheling does not come for fighting. Not here. He pats each child on the head as he passes by, leaving his crew back on the ship while he rushes to the centre of this small village. There, right before the longhouse belonging to the chieftain of this village, he bellows in a mighty voice.

“Vingulmörk! Hear me! I am Guðbrandr, son of Æthelwulf, brother of Jarl Brihtric, and I travel for the land they call Selonia! All those who wish to join me with weapons in hand shall have space on my ship, and those who wish to follow me with their families are free to bring them once we find a place to call our own,” he shouts and spreads his arms wide to catch the eyes of all who are within eyesight of him. “Fight for me, till the ground for me, and you shall be the first amongst many who will benefit from the riches this strange land across the horizon hides within its misty shores!”

For a moment there is silence. Those who had been walking or talking have gone silent from such a proclamation. Then there is shouting. Not from one of the many smaller houses spread across the village, but from behind Guðbrandr's back. He turns to see the longhouse doors swing open with the young daughter of the chieftain standing there with nary a thing on her beside a trusty old axe and her father's old shield.

She cannot be older than fourteen summers, yet her body is that of an experienced warrior with a few scars already crossing her arms and face – a brave young shieldmaiden if he'd ever seen one. Only a few paces behind rushes her mother, screaming bloody murder while her young daughter walks out to join a band such as the ætheling's. Guðbrandr can see the young girl's older brother leaning against the corner of the longhouse, smiling as he sees his younger sister forsake an early betrothal for a life of adventure. He says nothing. In fact, when their mother turns to see if there is anyone who might stop her child from walking down to Guðbrandr, the brother leans back and rolls against the corner until he is out of sight. It is not his place to intervene.

A few more doors open. Men walk out to join the growing band, emboldened by the action of their chieftain's daughter and prospective shieldmaiden. Were it not for her the band would have perhaps become one of only the destitute, people without a place in this community to whom a voyage across the sea is better than remaining. Now the boat will be packed with experienced and eager hands as well. Some cheer in favour of their new captain, some murmur as they reach out for a final lifeline that this voyage to Selonia is. All hush as the sound of horses suddenly emerge from the outskirts of the town and rush to the centre.

Three riders, each of them clad in rich dress and armed. They each carry two shields that have been strapped to their sturdy ponies, with several spears set between them. The lead figure has a fine short blade sheathed in a thick scabbard, and upon his shoulder is a brooch that holds his thick cloak together to shield him from the elements. The other riders are less well dressed and stay back, a dead boar strapped onto each of their horses in addition to their weapons.

From the silence around him Guðbrandr can tell that this must be a leading figure and his thanes. There is no doubt about it. With the realization, he offers the mounted man a bow of his head in respect.

“Jarl Tyrving,” the young ætheling calls out loud enough for all to hear him. “It is an honour to meet you at last. I do wish it were under better circumstances. I am Guðbrandr, son of Æthelwulf, brother of Jarl Brihtric.”

“Better, you say?” the Jarl questions the man that has collected a fair share of his able-bodied men for a strange huddle. “And what are the circumstances now? Is the Jarl of Vingulmörk now not confided in when his own people are to be taken from him? Is this the way of the sons of Æthelwulf?”

“No, Jarl, it is not. Simply mine,” Guðbrandr says and stands up straight. “I cannot afford to wait for your return from a hunt when I have an expedition leaving for Selonia. The tales across the land say of hard times having befallen all our homes – Vingulmörk foremost among them. I had hoped that begging forgiveness once I have landed in Selonia, along with a portion of the riches I may find there, would suffice as worthy offering for Jarl Tyrving for the loss of his people.”

“That would first have you reach the misty isles and land safely amongst the mists that plague all ships who wander too far from home. Besides which, I can see from the tears streaking the face of my wife that you did not wait to find out I have been out hunting. Had you entered my longhouse to find out, my daughter would not be standing beside you – she would be safely locked away in our home. I know you, Guðbrandr, son of Æthelwulf, and I know that you would still be hidden away by your brother, 'lest you have forsaken claim to your father's inheritance,” the Jarl states calmly and then throws his leg over the horse so he may dismount. “You do not lead an expedition with great promises of plunder and wealth. You lead an exile, seeking anything that might sustain you until the valkyries swoop down to collect you.”

“Exile, expedition, they are words for the journey. Selonia is a wealthy land, as we all have heard from the traders who brave the waters to it. Would you rather have your people here, see them starve and become worthless as their bodies thin? This, Jarl Tyrving, is a possibility – a chance for you to solve the problem of having too many people to feed with what food you have in your stores, while at the same time having a chance at the wealth beyond the sea.”

As the two men exchange words the Jarl's daughter Elswyth stands proudly beside the exile he is choosing to follow. Others in the group pull back as the Jarl's displeasure is made known to them, while others cling tighter together to form a small mob that might stand strong together even against their chosen leader. Tyrving stands beside his horse for a moment, glances over each of the people who are willing to risk the treacherous passage to Selonia, then grimaces.

“I am the chosen Jarl of Vingulmörk. It is my duty to see that all of you prosper, and that Vingulmörk is strong for the generations to follow. What you say is true, Guðbrandr, the land has become hard and the crops spoil easily, sometimes not growing at all. If this is the will of my people to seek greener pastures, I will not stand in your way, but if it does so happen that you land and are able to carve out a rich place for all to flourish on, do not forget where you are from,” Jarl Tyrving calls out and extends an arm to sweep across the town around them all. “Vingulmörk will remain for as long as there are people here. Find good plunder and wealthy lands, and I shall be the first to welcome you home to share your wealth.”

The chieftain, with both pride and dejection in his eyes from seeing such a crowd gathering, motions for his thanes to ride out so the boars can be prepared, then moves to embrace each and every one who plans to leave. Although he is clearly any more happy about this than his wife, he will allow his people and his daughter to depart.

Once all have been embraced, Elswyth fondest of all, the Jarl steps back and pulls his wife into the longhouse. With a final cry of despair from the Jarl's wife, the door closes.

Before the sun can begin the slow crawl down towards the horizon the ship has been packed with further able-bodied men and their few belongings. With them come small reserves of food, barely enough to feed those who joined from the village but more than the ætheling could have hoped for. Then the keel screeches against the hard stone again as the ship is pushed out, a feisty and powerful chanting beginning once more as the men begin to row towards open sea.

The ship journeys down the coastline with the bow safely pointed towards the peninsula that the crew have yet to catch any sight of, but everyone is anticipating it – that first sight of the land curving out to the north. After all it is then and only than that their true journey begins. The wind picks up once more, pushing the ship towards their destination, carrying them swiftly past smaller boats lazily drifting just off the coast.

The fishermen in these boats holler at the young ætheling and his band from atop their comparably tiny boats. Many give their blessings, others simply wish them well, others yet call out curses while hurriedly sailing back to the safety of the shore. Yet one thing is common sight amongst them. All of them haul empty nets.

Finally the land begins tu push out in the path of the longship, guiding their journey out towards the north. The peninsula reaches out for the lush lands beyond the rough sea like the hand of a youth desperate for the touch of their lover. Guðbrandr's hair is whipped onto his face as the wind suddenly changes, as if it crashes against the land ahead and returns to beseech the sailors into the sharp rocks ahead. But no. That is not the destination.

Slowly Guðbrandr pulls on the tiller, his rough calloused hands rubbing against the smooth pole of wood connected to the rudder in order to turn the ship on its new heading. As they pass by the point of the little peninsula the wind picks up, as do the waves. The increased rocking of the ship prompts the men aboard it to begin a rhythmic chant once more, this time roaring out in defiance to the gods and beasts of the sea as the keel smashes through higher and higher waves.

As night falls the long ship continues to smash through the waves, spraying the men aboard it with the freezing cold water. The chanting has died down for now, replaced by the loud snoring of one particularly large crewman, and the ætheling sat still at the helm keeps his eyes high to watch the stars hide and emerge between the clouds. The clouds continue to pass quickly by, leaving only the slowly moving stars to accompany the tired yet determined exile, giving him a mere brief moment of calm when the snoring crewmember turns and falls silent.

Then, as the horizon in the direction of what was once his homeland and promised realm breaks with the orange hues of dawn, the squeal of gulls can be heard. The waves let up and the wind calms, the morning mists rolling over the first sight of green lush land awaiting all of these men. As the men are roused and begin a cheer that rolls back and forth aboard the ship, they can see a remote building in the distance, overlooking the beach from a tall hill while dark smoke spews out from its tall tower. Guðbrandr had heard of these building before. They are temples, often richly furnished and built of strong stone – the perfect place to plunder so he can hire on more men.

The crewmen take to the oars once more, sending their ship crashing straight towards the soft sandy beach at the foot of that tall hill. As the mist gathers and thickens with the rising sun, the exiles crash on the beach and instantly jump out of their ship. Guðbrandr is the final man to depart, throwing a rope to his men so the ship can be pulled a little ways further onto the beach despite having already reached such a speed that the bow was just barely touching the sea.

As he climbs over the edge of the ship, his round shield in hand and a sword at his side, a small bird flutters down onto the head of a dragon attached to the bow of his ship. This small brown bird chirps happily, turning it's head from side to side as it watches the ætheling with curiosity. It has been a long while since he has seen a stærlinc that was quite as brave as this one – yet somehow he becomes filled with a sense of destiny at the sight of it. Perhaps this new land will provide him with far more than he could have ever hoped for and the gods have sent him this bird as an omen of good fortunes. Or perhaps the bravery and curiosity has been sent to him to tell him of the bravery and strength of his opponents atop that hill.

Either way, there can be only one way to find out. With a smile at the little chirping stærlinc Guðbrandr jumps over the side of his ship and rushed after his men who are already scouting ahead to find out more about this strange temple ahead.

Guðbrandr kicks down the doors to this temple personally. The pain radiated through the sole of his heel but he grins and bears it proudly when he sees the monks cowering before him. A great bronze brazier is in the middle of this chamber, surrounded by gilded statues of ancient warriors who look on as a great fire burns in the brazier, the smoke funnelled up through the tall tower and out these angled vents that were visible from the sea.

The monks shout something, some words of their language remotely familiar while the rest is garbled. Their tone of voice does not appear pleading, but accusatory, especially that of the balding brother monk who strides from the fire to meet the ætheling.

The yelling turns into screaming quickly enough. The fire fizzles with the spray of blood and the metallic smell in the room grows as the smell of blood joins that of the fire-licked hot bronze. Beneath the feet of these exiles become raiders the narrow gaps between tiled stones flows with rivers of red. As Guðbrandr turns and allows his men to run inside in chase of the final monks to survive, but moreso to allow them to collect the wealth of this place, he sees that small bird again. It flutters it's wings and lands directly at the stone step leading to the temple doors, leaning down to peck at the dirt while a river of red runs directly between it's tiny little feet, pooling onto the ground beside it's beak.

With a grin the ætheling turns to look at the forest looming just a little further inland, then to look up to the tall tower. The temple is made of heavy and thick stone, and just beyond lies a land wealthy with resources for him to grab with a strong grip. As his lips turn into a wicked grin he turns back to his men and roars.

“Keep some alive! Let them tear down their precious temple so we may build the walls of our new home from the stone. Our home of Stærlinc!”

While the ætheling – a proud Varian and most certainly an incurable heathen to the monks of this fire god whose place of worship both he and his men are desecrating – turns back to see the bird, he sees it fly towards a small forest in the distance. At the very edge of it sits a rider, clad in a dull red tunic with a helm tapering up to an almost egg-shaped point. The chestnut pony beneath him turns slowly at the same time as the heavy brazier is knocked over, spilling out the contents across the barren stone floor with a cacophonous noise much like that of a large bell. A flock of birds scatters with the sudden noise, gathering as a cloud above the rider while he disappears behind the trees.

The rider must be one of the locals. A warrior most likely if he wears a helm such as that. If they are followers of the fire god as well, they will be unhappy that their sacred place has been invaded and torn down. Most likely whoever claims to be chief of these lands will send their warriors to test their mettle as well. Sooner or later the Varians will need to defend their new claim to this land. Guðbrandr for one is ready to take on all who might rise to stand against him.