Chapter Four: The Dissolution of Ingvar Goreson

His Royal Highness Ingvar the First, Warlord of the Northern Wastes, Crusher of the Dark Horde, and King of Semaar by his own hand stared irritably at the ruins of his evening feast. His high table stretched into the dim recesses of his banquet hall, easily seating forty of his warriors on each side. And now as far as he could see down that expanse he saw only wreckage and ruin. As if some vast battle between rival forces of creation and destruction had been waged here, now all that was left were overturned goblets, platters of half devoured meats, here and there the ragged remnants of a wheel of cheese or a loaf of coarse bread. Rarely, there might be a steaming platter of vegetables. The vegetables seemed to be the strongest warrior on the field, since they remained largely untouched, taunting the empty platters that had recently been piled with steaming slices of meat. Towering pitchers of mead and ale had been thoroughly vanquished by his army of lords.

On the opposing side of the battle, many were the fallen. Here and there along the lengths of the table a noble lord or warrior still struggled valiantly with roasted beef or salted ham, or the occasional wedge of cheese. More still were slogging their way through the defeat of some tower by drinking it empty of mead or ale, or both. Ingvar shuddered slightly at the thought of mixing both mead and ale in the same flagon, but one of his lords, Skadi the Unclean, was in the midst of that very thing. Beyond the warriors still engaged in battle with the feast, many were the open seats along the table's length. Here rested the fallen, some snoring loudly from beneath the table, a few collapsed in a heap upon pillows of mashed potatoes and beef. And there were some signs of battle of another sort where arms and legs and other body parts showed above the table's edge briefly as some warrior engaged in the personal conquest of a serving wench. Though, to be fair, sometimes it was the serving wench that was conquering the warrior. The women of Semaar were a fierce bunch in their own right.

Ingvar was bored. There, he'd said it, or thought it at least. He'd lost track of the days and nights spent like this. He and his lords, and the warriors of their houses, would rise with bloodshot eyes in the gods forsaken early light of late morning. They would clean up the mess of the previous night, whether flushing out the hall or escaping the vile captivity of an ugly serving wench, and then turn themselves to games or hunting. When the sun went down they would feast. The warriors would devour the feast and the feast would ultimately strike back with stomach upset and general drunkenness. This would continue until the warriors would either collapse or seek the beauteous charms of the same ugly serving wenches they'd evicted from their beds that very morning. And so it went, month after month and year after year.

Ingvar sighed and switched from leaning his chin against his right fist to leaning it against his left fist. The greatest decision he faced these days was whether to drown himself in drink or a woman. He couldn't help feeling there should be something more to his life. For most of his life, there had been battle and adventure. He had been born the son of a smith in a prosperous village high in the Northern Wastes. In his youth, a prosperous village was one in which there were at least one smith, one tanner, and a well that didn't freeze or run dry. And a tavern that served mead and ale, a prosperous village had both mead and ale. And the sense to never serve them together, he thought. Ingvar frowned again at Skadi.

Ingvar had expected to follow in his father's footsteps and become a smith. Indeed, he had the skill and the physique both, but before that day had come his home had been destroyed by raiders and his family put to the sword. Ingvar was sold by slavers into a world of servitude and silk clad marble halls. He might have been content with that life, as he could ply his trade and be fed regularly. He could have even have had a woman of his own and family eventually. But he could never live as a slave, even a well-cared for lapdog of a slave.

He had forged weapons and armor in secret and then fought to gain freedom for himself and those around him. It was then that he found his true calling; men and women were willing to follow him through the fires of battle and death into the light of freedom. They'd fought long and hard, seldom resting long before the next foe was revealed. And after long years, he'd made himself king of Semaar, that kingdom of silk clad marble halls and gentle birth. Now it was home to his barbarian horde and there was peace before the next plunge into war. Except that war never came. Nothing had changed since he had taken the throne. His song had stopped without an ending.

"Would my lord care for some mead?" Ingvar turned his head slightly without raising it from its resting place upon his fist and found a comely wench with blonde hair and an appealing curve to her form standing beside him with a pitcher of wine.

"No thank you, Cara," he answered quietly. "I think I've had all the mead I want this night." She smiled archly and set down the pitcher.

"Then perhaps my lord prefers another sort of intoxication this night?" Cara placed a hand on her hip and turned slightly to enhance her seductiveness. Ingvar sighed again.

"No, Cara," he said. "I mean no offense to you, dear heart, but that holds no appeal for me tonight either."

"Perhaps you want me to bring a couple of the other girls?" There was a hard edge to her voice that she tried to conceal.

Ingvar chuckled at this offer. Cara didn't like to share him and he didn't like to offend her. He thought of her as his woman sometimes but nothing ever came of it. Like everything else in his life this had stopped too. "No love, I've never needed more than you." Cara smiled warmly, and then looked concerned.

"Are you well, my lord? Or is aught else the matter?"

"No," Ingvar answered. "No, there is nothing wrong anywhere in Semaar; there is nothing to fight for or against. There is only what you see before you. I sit here and behold the sum total of my life in the ruins of the feast."

"Ah, I see." Cara carefully swept aside the crumbs and spilled wine from the corner of the table in front of Ingvar and then sat on the now clean edge. Ingvar looked into her eyes a long moment before speaking again.

"Does it ever seem to you that our world has stopped in its tracks?" Ingvar asked her. "As though time is stuck in a loop?"

"You won your battles," Cara answered. "Surely you can rest a time and enjoy the goodness of peace." Ingvar snorted laughter.

"Peace? What do I know of peace, Cara?" She cocked an eyebrow as he continued. "The only peace I've found since my village was burned is in your arms." He laid a hand atop hers. Cara leaned closer and spoke softly.

"Then perhaps, your Majesty," Cara said coyly, "we should repair to your suite to discuss the meaning of peace." Cara smiled at her king. Ingvar stood and drew Cara to his side.

"My lords," Ingvar called loudly, "my warriors. I leave you to continue the feast and trust you won't kill anyone in my absence. Unless it's Skadi you kill." The men and women in the hall roared with laughter, although Skadi the Unclean looked as if he were trying to decide whether he'd been insulted. Ingvar waved one hand at his men and kept the other on Cara's shoulder as they walked from the feast hall.

Ingvar dreamed. It was another dream of the Prisoner. Ingvar didn't know the man's name or what he had done to become a prisoner. All he knew of the man in his dreams was that he was treated worse than any prisoner within the dungeons of Semaar. And that the man had gone mad from the treatment he received.

The dreams always began the same way; he would see a small glass window set in a smooth wall the color of sickness. A pale green intended to remind one of spring leaves; the color instead somehow conveyed the impression of illness instead. The glass of the window contained some strange webbing as if the glass were made by spiders; fine black lines that formed regular diamond shapes.

In the dream, Ingvar would slowly become aware of the Prisoner. The man would be lying on the narrow bed most times, but occasionally he would be on the floor in the corner of the room beneath the window. Those would be the worst dreams. Ingvar had learned to predict the course of the dream by the Prisoner's posture and his awareness of the light from the window. If the man was looking at the window, the dream would be calm and Ingvar would mostly dream of the man staring out the window and muttering quietly or crying.

When the Prisoner stared into himself or huddled on the floor refusing to look at anything, the dream would be dark and sad. In those dreams, Ingvar would be filled with a sense of remorse and longing. It felt to him, in those dreams, as if he had somehow harmed the most important person in his life years before and now wept from guilt and a desire to see that person again.

The darkest dreams, though, began with the Prisoner huddled fearfully in the corner of the cell, away from the window. He would be staring at the door to the cell, whimpering and agitated. Ingvar dreamed such a dream this night. The window in the green wall was dark as though night reigned complete outside the wall. He could not see the prisoner at first, which caused him some tension in the dream. He was unable to control the scene, he could only go along for the ride and observe. At last, the Prisoner came into view, huddled into a tight ball in the corner of the room farthest from the door. He was muttering and making sharp movements as if to swat at some bothersome insects flying around his head. Ingvar felt his heart quicken in response to the man's fear. The Prisoner flinched at the sound of keys opening the locks on the door to his cell. The door opened and a guard entered and looked around the room until he saw the man huddled in the corner. He smiled, a cruel quirk of the lips, and stepped back outside the room. Another man entered.

This was the first time Ingvar had seen this man in the dreams. Outwardly, the man was dressed in white pants and a light blue shirt that had an odd strip of cloth descending from his collar. There was a white coat covering his shoulders and hanging down to his knees. The man had pieces of glass mounted in metal wires covering his eyes, but even these bits of glass could not hide the look of intense hunger in the man's eyes. He wanted something from the Prisoner and would not rest until he had it. The white-coated man spoke with a voice intended to be soothing but which nonetheless betrayed hunger.

"Hello Charlie," he said to the Prisoner. "How are you feeling this evening?" The Prisoner screamed and Ingvar screamed with him.

Consciousness intruded upon Ingvar slowly. He was lying face down, sprawled across the huge bed in his chambers and the sunlight was streaming in through the thick blood-red curtains at the balcony. He didn't bother reaching for Cara, he knew she would already be up and moving about her daily tasks. He did, however, reach his left hand under the pillow beneath his head to make sure the dagger was still there. Then he reached out his right hand to find the edge of the bed and the shaft of the Ravens, his great battle axe. Satisfied that things were as they should be, he rolled over and swung his legs out of bed.

He paused at the edge of the bed beside the great war axe, looking down at the head of the weapon and rubbing the back of his neck. The Ravens had been named for the design of the axe head, which was formed from the shape of two ravens overlapping, their outstretched wings formed the twin blades of the axe, and the heads of the birds rose above looking in opposite directions. He had made the axe for himself as soon as he'd won his freedom and found the time to do the work. He'd chosen the motif partly as a nod to his own family, food for crows so many years before, and partly for the lesson that kept him alive. To always watch your back.

The wing-shaped edges were difficult to work and to sharpen, looking as they did like feathers of an extended wing. They made horrible gashes on the flesh of his enemies, which added to the fear heaped upon his name. Now that most of his enemies had been defeated and nothing new was brewing, he found himself brooding on those edges and how much time it took to sharpen them. On the other hand, he thought, without necks to cleave the axe rarely needing the honing stone these days.

Ingvar got to his feet feeling a tad unsteady. He walked to one of the balconies, the one that overlooked the midden, pulled aside the curtains and began to urinate off the edge into the midden heap. As he was finishing, and beginning to feel human once more, he glanced down and saw the now moist form of one of his warlords lying atop the heap of kitchen refuse. He began to call down an apology and then noticed that it was Skadi. He closed his mouth and shrugged, fastened the laces of his breeches and went back inside to wash.

Civilized folk had peculiar notions about washing, Ingvar had learned when he was younger. Fortunately for him, he had learned that he felt better when relatively clean. If he hadn't learned that lesson, Cara would never tolerate his presence so willingly. And a willing Cara is something to treasure, he thought with an impish smile. Ingvar stripped down and sat on the bench within the bathing room to soap himself down. He wished Cara were still there to help with his back and to comb his tangled hair before retying his braid. He did the best he could alone, then rinsed the soap from his body. He then climbed into the hot bath.

When he had conquered this land he had discovered that the inhabitants of the royal palace had enjoyed hot water for bathing without the need for boiling water in large kettles. There were hot springs around the palace, and an enterprising young man had figured out a way to bring the water inside. Ingvar had taken his first bath after claiming the land, been amazed by the scalding hot water that no one ever had to fill, and set out to track down the man responsible. He'd found him with other prisoners that had been taken in the palace or on the grounds. Ingvar then astonished his commanders by removing the man's bindings and bowing his head in respect to the man's genius. He asked the man if he would stay on and work for the new ruler. The man had agreed, after several moments of disbelief, on the condition that Ingvar also free the other captives. The warlord told the man that if the others had similar skills he would extend to them the same offer. After demonstrations of skill and further negotiations, Ingvar found himself served by loyal smiths, weavers, vintners, and of course the engineer.

The former captives had been equally surprised to discover that their new lord truly understood and valued their crafts and abilities, something that some of them felt the previous ‘civilized' rulers had not understood. It ended as a happy bargain for all involved. Even Ingvar's lords were coming to appreciate the hot water for bathing, though they were slower to appreciate the genius of the engineer, or the fine work of the weavers. Ingvar sometimes escaped the burdens of the throne by sneaking off to the smithy to work a piece of hot steel, perhaps a sword or a piece of armor. Sometimes he would fashion something purely for pleasure, such as the steel rose he had made for Cara once.

Ingvar mostly came to love the bath in his suite because the hot water piped in from the hot springs eased the constant aches of his old wounds and injuries. And the large bath was wonderful to share with his beautiful woman. He had felt like a decadent city man when he first used the bath and had several serving girls attending his needs. Once Cara had come to hold the center position in his household, the other girls were kept at a distance and Ingvar found that he actually felt better sharing the bath with just Cara. The other serving girls now kept themselves to the more mundane tasks of changing linens, cleaning, and serving food and drink when Ingvar ate in his rooms.

"Ah, my Lord is among the living this fine day." Ingvar smiled at Cara's warm voice and turned his head to see her enter the room with a small pile of clean towels and some fresh clothing for him to wear.

"I worried when I woke to find you gone," he said. "I thought perhaps ignoble raiders had made off with you from my very bed."

"I asked them to be quiet so that my Lord might get the beauty sleep he so desperately needs," Cara replied with a quirked smile. Ingvar laughed and grabbed her hand to pull her into the bath.

"No! Ingvar, please don't," Cara cried out while laughing herself. He kissed her hand then released her. Cara pushed his head away in mock anger. "You great barbarian, some of us have been up and about our tasks for some hours now." She laid down her burden and knelt behind him. "Lean forward a moment and let me gather your hair." He did as she asked and smiled at the feeling of her hands in his hair. Of all the ways they touched each other this was one of his favorites, though he never said so. Cara expertly separated his hair into long strands and began braiding them into the highland braid that had become stylish at the court. She finished it off with a coarse leather thong as a nod to his barbarian upbringing.

"Now I can be properly dressed and prepared for a long day of… nothing," he said with a sigh.

"It's your own fault there are no people's left to conquer," Cara answered with a smile. "For myself, I'm glad that things are quiet. If you chafe so, why don't you haul some of your fat warriors out for a bit of hunting? The cook would welcome a nice bit of venison I think, and the gods know you and your men could use the exercise."

"Fat? Me? You don't know what you're saying woman," Ingvar protested. He paused before the precious copper mirror in the bath room to examine his wavering image carefully. Maybe he was getting a bit paunchy at that. He frowned. Fat warriors were not something he could really accept. "Aye, woman, you're right. A bit of hunting is in order."

"Yes, and your fat horses will welcome the fresh air, too."

"Now you go too far, Cara. Silvertip is NOT fat." He stared at her until she came to him and laid her head against his chest.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," she answered. She tipped her head up to be kissed and he obliged her. Then she pushed away and gathered his discarded clothes and headed for the door. "I'm sure there is a perfectly good reason for letting a warhorse get a big belly." He growled at her impish smile as she ran out the door.

Ingvar stalked the halls of the palace seeking his warlords. His mood soon switched from amusement to irritation as he looked more closely at his warriors and found that Cara was right; they had been getting fat during the time of peace. The first two or three warriors he rounded up received a friendly slap on the shoulder and a smile as the king told them they would be hunting today. As his irritation grew, however, the smiles disappeared and the friendly slap became a punch to the shoulder or worse. At last, Ingvar came into the kitchens to find several of his warriors eating and drinking while teasing the women that worked in the kitchen. He stood and watched a few moments where no one could see him.

As Ingvar watched, one of the warriors lounging in the kitchen reached out and patted one of the kitchen women on the backside. The warrior laughed as the woman dodged his hand, but Ingvar could see the look of frustration in her eyes. Ingvar felt his anger rising beyond his ability to contain. He stepped into the room and said in a low dangerous voice, "if this is the respect you show the kitchen staff, it's a wonder we ever eat." The warriors laughed loudly but the kitchen staff all stood straight and pulled away from the men. Ingvar's eyes narrowed as he looked around the room.

"All of you men should be preparing for your inspections," he said quietly. One of the men looked puzzled.

"But Ingvar, there ain't no inspections today," he finally said.

"Is that so," Ingvar responded. "There are now. MOVE IT!" The men looked at each other and back to Ingvar twice before they noticed that their lord wore the Ravens on his back. As a man, they swallowed deeply and answered "yes, Lord," as they hurried out the doors.

"Thank you, Lord," said the chief cook. Ingvar just looked at her and waited silently. "Ah, yes. As I was saying girls, let's get the kitchen spotless today. No more slacking." The women began moving quickly around the kitchen at their tasks. Ingvar just nodded and left.

Apparently, word of his mood spread quickly. There were no men to be seen lounging in the Great Hall as he strode through on his way out to the stables. He reached the double doors at the outer end of the Great Hall and thrust them open, banging the heavy doors off the guards that waited just outside. They clattered against the walls but managed not to fall. Both men snapped salutes and clutched their weapons firmly. Ingvar spared no glance for them, at least they were actually at their posts, more than he could say for the men who had been lounging and idle. He could hear sounds of men running in the hallways of the palace and outside in the yards. He knew that the men were all hurrying to clean armor and weapons, and that his lords would be trying to get the men into some sort of military appearance before their lord could find reason to punish them. Ingvar nearly smiled, but forced himself to keep a scowl firmly in place. The reputation of his temper did far more to exert discipline than his actions did. It was rare these days that he actually carried out the threat of punishment. His lords knew that, but they were also wise enough not to grow slack, since they were never immune from the same punishment their men would receive. Ingvar believed that rules applied equally.

Ingvar strode through the stone arch that marked the entrance to his Great Hall and into the main yard of the castle. He could see a few men forming up in their ranks, and their junior officers barking orders at them. He nodded in satisfaction. This is more like it, he thought. A few of his lords were now entering the yard, chagrined to find him here before them. His Master of Arms, Wulfric, was herding the other lords towards the ranks of their men. The man reminded Ingvar of a farm wife shooing a flock of geese out of her kitchen garden. He had to pretend to rub an itch from his nose to cover the grin at the thought. He began striding back and forth across the front of the yard where all of the men could see him, scowling in apparent black anger and occasionally muttering about some offense noticed among the men. He was actually pleased more than not with what he saw there, but again, image was a powerful teacher.

"Wulfric!" Ingvar shouted.

"At once, my lord," Wulfric answered. He gave a couple more instructions to the men he was directing and then jogged over to his lord. At least Old Wulf isn't getting fat, Ingvar thought. "Aye lord?"

"Wulfric, we've got fat warriors and horses," Ingvar told him quietly, facing away from the men. Every few seconds, either Ingvar or Wulfric would look over his shoulder at the men, causing a great deal of tension in the ranks. "I had thought that perhaps a bit of hunting would help, but now that I see the extent of the problem I think we need to start some training sessions. What think you?"

"I've been thinking the very same thing for some time, lord," he answered.

"You haven't spoken of this?" Ingvar looked at the man closely.

"Nay, lord," Wulfric said. "'Twas not my place to speak unless they couldn't respond in time of need. They can still fight, but they are losing their edge." Ingvar grunted agreement.

"Let's send the groups out for a long run, then?" Ingvar asked. "That might begin the process. I think we will want to have the men return to steady training, but perhaps a step below the intensity we use before a campaign."

"Good thought, though I have a suggestion," Wulfric said. Ingvar motioned for him to continue. "Let us add some exercises in crossing rivers quietly. We might need that skill in the future, and the immersion in water might help a few of those who have been unwilling to adopt bathing."

"I have just the man to lead that group," said Ingvar. They both looked at each other and said simultaneously "Skadi."

"The very thing, my lord," Wulfric chuckled. "I'll get things started. Will you still be hunting?"

"Yes, I'm afraid if I have to hear the groaning of the men, the Ravens will need sharpening tonight, if you catch my meaning," Ingvar patted the axe on my back. One of the youngest recruits in the yard fainted. His comrades laughed and then tried to hold him upright as though he were still in his place. Wulfric laughed.

"I think that would be wise, lord. Apparently the lads have been telling stories about you and your axe again." Wulfric nodded toward the unconscious young man and then saluted Ingvar with a fist on his burly chest and turned to go. Ingvar called after him.

"Wulfric, have them take a bar of soap with them." Wulfric tilted his head back and roared with laughter. I guess we are becoming civilized, Ingvar thought.

Daffyd, his Hunt Master, walked into the yard leading two horses. One, a fine roan, was Daffyd's. The other horse was an ugly old brute of dubious heritage, Ingvar's horse Silvertip. A grand name for an ugly horse; he'd joked often enough that it was fitting, that horse wearing a fine name was like Ingvar wearing a crown. He'd named the horse Silvertip because of the silver-gray tip on one ear, in truth, but he didn't like to admit it after Cara told him that was poetic. Poetic and barbarian king don't usually go together well.

After Daffyd came a pair of his men, leading their own horses. Each had a bow and quiver of arrows tied to their saddles. Daffyd had brought a bow and quiver for Ingvar as well. Without further consultation, the four men mounted and rode out of the front gate, soldiers and townsfolk scattering alike before the king. They turned northward once out the gate and through the town, heading for the forest. Ingvar had confidence that his Huntsman would stir up something interesting before long, and contented himself with following the man's lead.

The sun was setting over the valley when Ingvar and his companions returned from their hunt. They had been successful; a handful of game birds had been taken in the fields outside the forest, and the King had shot a large buck. They dismounted in the main yard, grooms waiting to take the horses to the stables. Ingvar patted Silvertip's neck, thanking him for a good ride.

They had dressed the game in the field, and now Ingvar slung the buck over his shoulders and carried it into the kitchens himself. Daffyd followed with the game birds. Ingvar asked the head cook to prepare the game however she chose, which brought a light to her eyes, and then he headed off to his suite in order to bathe the blood and sweat off his aching body. I'm getting too old for these pursuits, he thought sourly, too old and too many old wounds. The hot bath would be welcome refreshment to his aches, and maybe he could get Cara to rub his tired muscles and send for some wine. He smiled in spite of his aches. Dinner would be soon enough to get Wulfric's reports.

Cara wasn't in the rooms when he entered. He suspected that she would avoid him until he'd washed the worst of the stink from himself. He finished his bathing and dressed in clean clothing, all without Cara making an appearance. He shrugged it off and headed down to the Great Hall.

His high table stretched into the dim recesses of his banquet hall, easily seating forty of his warriors on each side. And now as far as he could see down that expanse he saw wreckage and ruin. As if some vast battle between rival forces of creation and destruction had been waged here, now all that was left were overturned goblets, platters of half devoured meats, here and there the ragged remnants of a wheel of cheese or a loaf of coarse bread. Rarely, there might be a steaming platter of vegetables. The vegetables seemed to be the strongest warrior on the field, since they remained largely untouched. Towering pitchers of mead and ale had been thoroughly vanquished by his army of lords.

On the opposing side of the battle, many were the fallen. Here and there along the lengths of the table a noble lord or warrior still struggled valiantly with the roast beef or ham or occasional cheese wheel. More still were slogging their way through the defeat of some tower by drinking it empty of mead or ale or both. Ingvar shuddered slightly at the thought of mixing both mead and ale in the same flagon, but one of his lords, Skadi the Unclean, was in the midst of that very thing. Beyond the warriors still engaged in battle with the feast, many were the open seats along the table's length. Here were the fallen, some snoring loudly from beneath the table, a few collapsed in a heap upon pillows of mashed potatoes and beef. And there were some signs of battle of another sort where arms and legs and other body parts showed above the table's edge briefly as some warrior engaged in personal conquest of a serving wench. Though, to be fair, sometimes it was the serving wench that was conquering the warrior. The women of Semaar were a fierce bunch in their own right.

Ingvar was bored. There, he'd said it, or thought it at least. He'd lost track of the days and nights spent like this. He and his lords, and the warriors of their houses, would rise with bloodshot eyes in the gods forsaken early light of late morning. They would clean up the mess of the previous night, whether hosing out the hall or escaping the vile captivity of an ugly serving wench, then turn themselves to games or hunting. When the sun went down they would feast. The warriors would devour the feast and the feast would ultimately strike back with stomach upset and general drunkenness. This would continue until the warriors would either collapse or seek the beauteous charms of the same ugly serving wenches they'd evicted from their beds that same day. And so it went, month after month and year after year.

"Would my lord care for some mead?" Ingvar turned his head slightly without raising it from its resting place upon his fist and found a comely wench with blonde hair and an appealing curve to her form standing beside him with a pitcher of wine.

"No thank you, Cara," he answered quietly. "I think I've had all the mead I want this night." She smiled archly and set down the pitcher.

"Then perhaps my lord prefers another sort of intoxication this night?" Cara placed a hand on her hip and turned slightly to enhance her seductiveness. Ingvar sighed again.

"No, Cara," he said. "I mean no offense to you, dear heart, but that holds no appeal for me tonight either."

"Are you well, my lord? Or is aught else the matter?"

"No," Ingvar answered. "No, there is nothing wrong anywhere in Semaar; there is nothing to fight for or against. There is only what you see before you. I sit here and behold the sum total of my life in the ruins of the feast."

"Ah, I see." Cara carefully swept aside the crumbs and spilled wine from the corner of the table in front of Ingvar and then sat on the now clean edge. Ingvar looked into her eyes a long moment before speaking again.

"Does it ever seem to you that our world has stopped in its tracks?" Ingvar asked her. "As though time is stuck in a loop?"

"You won your battles," Cara answered. "Surely you can rest a time and enjoy the goodness of peace." Ingvar snorted laughter.

The door at the far end of the hall opened. Ingvar noticed it because of the commotion that was revealed outside the doors. A hooded figure, apparently an old woman by the cackling sound of her voice, was arguing with the guards. The guards, for their part, were trying to prevent her from entering. Ingvar smiled to see an old one putting up such a fight, though even he was startled when the crone used her staff to sweep the feet out from under the two young guards, sending them clattering to the floor. She nodded at the two men and then stepped over them while they lay there in amazement.

Ingvar squeezed Cara's hand to indicate she should move out of the way of the approaching danger, if danger she was. The old woman clumped her way toward the high table, her staff echoing oddly in the now silent hall. Everyone that was still awake at the feast was silently watching this strange figure. Those that were passed out remained unaware of the stranger's presence. The old woman came to a halt directly in front of Ingvar. He could see a hooked nose and lined mouth below the shadow of her hood. He could also see piercing eyes within the shadowed hood, and he felt as if those eyes were examining his soul.

"Hail great king," the old woman spoke clearly, her voice carrying through the hall.

"Welcome, Mother," Ingvar responded. The old woman chuckled at his courtesy. "How can we help you?"

"By leaving your crown and hearth and taking up the greatest task you will ever face," she answered. There was laughter around the Hall at these words, but not from the high table. Cara laid a hand on Ingvar's back, where the contact wouldn't be seen but where he would feel her presence and know her concern.

"And why, exactly, would I choose to take on this task?"

"Because you have no choice," she told him. "If you don't accept my charge, I will take the Ravens and beat you over the head." She glared at him so fiercely that he checked his laughter. "You were just noticing that your life is stuck in a loop, the same things happening over and over. Your story has been halted in the midst of its telling, Ingvar; the same days playing out without end yet never moving forward." Ingvar glanced at Cara to find her looking as startled as he felt. "Besides," the crone went on, "you are bored with this easy living and crave an adventure. Leave your men here and go seek this adventure to serve the Creator."

Ingvar was truly stunned. He hadn't even told Cara of his boredom. He was fairly certain that he had concealed his feelings, so hearing it spoken bluntly by another rocked him. Before he could respond, the woman stepped closer and lowered her voice so that only Ingvar and Cara could hear.

"You know that He is at risk, you dream of his plight nearly every night," she told Ingvar. "The Prisoner you dream of is the Creator of your world. He is merely a shadow of his former self, and he will fail altogether if we do not free him. Without you, he will fall. If the Creator fails, I truly fear that all of the worlds he made will cease to be."

"The Prisoner is the Creator?" Ingvar felt that he was trapped in a dream where nothing made sense. "What do you ask me to do?"

"Ingvar, no!" Cara hissed in his ear.

"Cara, I fear I must," he told her quietly.

"Ingvar Goreson," the crone said loudly. "I summon thee to thy destiny. You must be at the Norn's Tower, beyond the White Mountains, within a fortnight. There you will be met by other companions, bound to the same destiny. You must go alone, taking no man with you. Thus it is written." She struck the floor with her staff, causing the marble to ring loudly. There was a flash of light. When they could see though the afterimages, the old woman was standing there gesturing wildly and muttering.

"Daphne will laugh herself silly if she could see me now…" the old woman grumbled off into silence. The Crone squeezed her eyes shut and there was another flash of light. This time, when they could see clearly once more, the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

The warriors around the table were silent a moment, and then the hall erupted in talk and speculation. Ingvar sat quietly for several minutes, listening and thinking.

"My lord," Cara said quietly, so that none of Ingvar's lords would hear her. "I fear for you if you take on this task."

"I'm not exactly encouraged by the sound of things, myself," Ingvar responded. He stood and called out to his men in the hall. "Well, that was a fine bit of entertainment, eh lads?" They responded with laughter and raucous toasts. "Eat and drink well my friends, and I will see you on the morrow."

Ingvar set his right hand on Cara's shoulder and drew her with him and from the hall. When she tried to speak, he laid a finger across her lips and shook his head. Cara kept silence until they were safely settled in his suite and had checked to be sure that all servants had left the rooms. They settled on the large bed, where Ingvar tried to get comfortable. Cara remained on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her face set in a determined expression. Ingvar looked at her and sighed.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Cara." She just looked at him for another minute, and then she sighed too.

"We know nothing of this old woman, Ingvar," she said. "I can think of no better way to harm you than to separate you from your strength here. Tell you to leave your men behind, take no man with you, and appeal to your masculine pride. You would be stupid to take her at her word without knowing more." Ingvar quirked an eyebrow at her.

"So, Cara," he said calmly, "Tell me how you really feel." She opened her mouth to continue, then apparently realized her disrespect and blushed. He chuckled at the sight and then pulled her close to his side. "The easiest way to harm me is to harm you." He delighted in the surprised look on her face. He very seldom expressed his true feelings for anyone, even Cara. She accepted what he chose to give, but this statement told her more than she had guessed. He started to say more, but she stopped him with a hand over his lips.

"Don't say any more," she said. "Just let me have this moment." She kissed him and after a moment he returned her passion willingly.

Ingvar lay awake in darkness. There was only the pale light from the moon entering through the balcony drapes. Waxing past its first quarter, the moon gave a fair amount of light, but he moved as carefully as he could so as not to disturb Cara. After she had shown her heart to him so plainly in their lovemaking, he couldn't bear the pain of saying goodbye and leaving her behind. Better to leave a note in the dark, he thought.

He gathered his clothes and some spare furs from the bedroom. Taking the Ravens slowly to avoid bumping anything and causing the axe to ring, he carried his things out of the room. In the outer room, between the hallway door and the bedroom, he had a desk for the little business he had to handle himself. He wasn't very good at reading and writing, but he worked at it to improve so he would always know what people were trying to slip past him when they thought him an illiterate barbarian. He quickly found a quill pen and some ink, a piece of parchment; he wrote a very brief note to Cara, telling her that he was leaving on this quest. He left the note propped up on the desk so she would notice it when she came out of the bedroom.

Ingvar gathered his things and headed to the stables to get Silvertip. He would find saddlebags to hold his clothes and what little gear he would take. The extra furs would serve as bedding and could be worn when he reached the mountains. He would need to visit the kitchens for some food and a skin of mead to hold him until he had the time to hunt along the way. A fortnight wasn't a lot of time to reach the Norn's Tower, but a single rider should have no trouble. He was already warming to the sense of adventure. It had been many years since he had snuck out on his own. The feeling of doing something wrong was a heady intoxicant for someone of his heritage. He found himself grinning as he went about his preparations.

Silvertip whickered in greeting when he entered the stables. Apparently the old warhorse sensed something was about to happen, otherwise he would have been asleep. Ingvar was glad he was awake already; Silvertip was a sound sleeper and smacking him in the head to wake him always raised a ruckus. Ingvar saddled his horse and tied his gear in place on the saddle. He also grabbed a sack of feed for Silvertip to eat when they climbed higher in the mountains. At last, all was ready and they slipped out of the stables and headed for the gates. There was no avoiding telling the sentries who he was and that he was leaving. He told them simply that he was going hunting alone for a few days.

After all, if the old woman was right, they wouldn't remember he had left on the next day.

Cara awoke before dawn as she normally did. She kept her eyes closed, reveling in the memory of Ingvar's revelation the night before. It was as close to 'I love you' as the man would likely ever come, she thought. She enjoyed the moment of feeling loved, warm and secure in her lord's bed. Until she reached for him and found only empty bed. That jolted her fully awake. Ingvar almost never got up before her. Suddenly she had a very bad feeling that she knew why he'd gotten up in the night.

She leapt out of bed and dressed quickly, not taking the time to bathe. If she was right, there was little time to spare and she was already behind. She found his attempt at a note standing on the desk when she walked out of the bedroom.

Cara,

I have to do as the old woman ordered.

I hope you will understand. You hold my heart.

Keep it safe until I return.

Ingvar

"A note?!" Cara screamed. She threw the parchment and then swept everything from the desk. Taking a hold of her emotions, she thought about what to do. "Oh Ingvar, a note is so… cliché." She began at once to gather the things she would need for the journey. There's no way that man can tell me he loves me and get away, she thought savagely. I won't let him leave me behind when he'll need me.