Loading
endbook rogue 3 2 1
A procession marches on, to the sight of the gray dawn rising from the horizon of frozen soil.
It is a tribe in the process of migrating to the south, escorted by warriors. Their steps are heavy, perhaps because of injury, illness, or weakness. The sound of footsteps fades into the snow. Even the wind is silent. A baby's crying echoes in the great wilderness.
The leading Snowpriest slows his steps and turns around, as though spurred by the crying. The mountains are almost pitch black in the twilight. Through his helmet, he gazes backwards, towards their erstwhile home. Those in the procession follow suit, looking in the same direction as if they had been resisting the urge to for a long time.
'Eikthyrnir.' Someone whispers a reminder.
The leading Snowpriest-warrior gathers his emotions and continues to lead the procession forward in silence. He clutches the Foldartal in his hands, and the tiny wooden board makes a little sound in his knuckles.
Eikthyrnir is not prone to sentimentality.
He has seen too many demon attacks and tribes forced to migrate. The conversations between the Snowpriests and Sami help the warriors of the north predict demon appearances, so that tribes may be moved away and troops mobilized. The All-Father has favored him, answering virtually any questions he had, but simply knowing the ill fate ahead of time is not always enough to avoid it. The exhausted pack following his warriors are just another group of survivors.
Eikthyrnir rarely thinks of her, but she intrudes into his thoughts for no particular reason, along with the winding walls of the Fjal Vetrtonn and the charcoal marks on the wooden map. He can almost imagine her among this band of survivors, even though he has never seen a sight like that, nor was he part of her final rescue mission.
The tribe walks without a word. No complaints, laments, or questions. It seems that they all knew this would happen to them, since long ago. The present is bearable, for death eventually comes to all, and they will return, unbound, to the demon-corrupted earth—the home that they were forced out of—and be reunited with their families and ancestors.
But Eikthyrnir does not know—the one question Sami never answered: Is she still alive? Where is she? Even the most experienced channelers amongst the shamans could not divine the answer.
As the calming herbs she had stuffed in his helmet wilt and fade away, Eikthyrnir begins to accept the inscrutable fate. He will never see her again, not even in the afterlife. Just like those warriors who never turned back in the face of demonic corruption. No one saw them again. He should reminiscence, but his burden is too heavy. He has no time.
He will fight, be injured, recover, fight, avoid defeat, and survive.
As long as one spark of life remains within him, her figure will continue to exist in his memory, and his shame and regret will keep it alive.
The Sami walk on the frozen earth in silence, accepting their fate. Only the infant in her mother's embrace cries. The mother, who is a shaman, sings in a low voice to comfort her child. She has already removed her warrior's helmet, tying it to her bag. In it are some herbs and fruits.
Eikthyrnir warms a little stone with Arts and puts it in the infant's tiny hands. The mother smiles, then looks at her daughter with grieving eyes.
'I am sorry,' she whispers.
'For what?'
'For bringing her into a Sami that does not know peace.'
Eikthyrnir remains silent for a while.
'I am too,' he answers.
