The Halfdan Chronicles

[Brian K]

9 May, 1008

The Lazy Toad Pub - a warm, welcoming establishment in Eiren. A turf fire burned in the huge hearth, casting the only light in the tiny common room. The pub itself was barely a large home, with a bar against the far wall from the door. Several regulars chatted amiably as a pair of musicians played cheery music on a bodhran and whistle. The barmaid, Mary, bantered and flirted with the men as she poured their drinks. At a small table in a corner, a single figure sat and drank quietly with a stack of parchment in front of him.

"I don't like the looks o' him, Mary," said one of the men under his breath. "E's always got tha' weird pendant wit' 'im."

Mary glanced at the stranger. He'd been coming to the Toad for months now, but no one had gotten to know much about him. She shrugged and leaned in saying, "He pays his dues on time, which is more 'an I can say 'bout ye half the time. He's just private, is all."

The man snorted. "Private, eh? There's a difference 'tween privacy an' bein' a wanker. An' how can ye trust 'im, eh?" He glanced back to make sure the stranger wasn't listening. "'E's an Asgarn, how d'ye know he's not just waitin' to spring some raid on us? Ye'd be a fool to trust 'im."

"Shame on you, Donal Treacy! If he was gonna be trouble, he'd already've brought it down on us."

Donal growled a response and focused on his drink. Mary took the opportunity to come out from behind the bar and check on the stranger. Despite the stubble and sunburn, he still had the face of a youth. "How are ye gettin' on tonight, Mr. Harroldson?"

Halfdan looked up at Mary and smiled. "Fine enough, thanks," he said and went back to his papers. He glanced at her as she stood for a moment and flashed his best grin. The barmaid rolled her eyes and walked off, saying, "Mr. Harroldson, please. Ye've been tryin' that for weeks now." He laughed as she went back to the bar.

Hours later, as the regulars began filing out of the pub, Mary went back to the table. "We're closing up, Mr. Harroldson, time for ye to feck off so I can get rest before ye bother me again," she said. Halfdan heaved a sigh and stretched. "I'm almost done my work, give me fifteen minutes," he said and shuffled some more of the parchment around. "I heard what Donal was saying earlier, so I'll tell ya what. I'll answer any questions as long as I can stay late tonight." He smiled broadly and pushed a stool out from the table. "Pour a couple of pints and sit down, will ya?"

Mary sat on the stool and asked, "Whereabouts ye from?"

"Asgarn, a town called Lillehammer. Well, village. You get the point though," Halfdan replied. "Come on, I know you can come up with something better."

Eyebrows raised, Mary crossed her arms. "Oh, so that's how it's gonna be then? Fine." She thought for a moment. "What's the pendant about?"

Halfdan unclipped the small talisman from his belt. "It was a gift from a friend of mine. He disappeared years ago, not sure where to."

"What was his name?"

"We just called him Mask."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Halfdan collected the sheets and put them in his pack while Mary retrieved a pair of clay pints from the bar. When she sat down, Halfdan had leaned forward and took a drink – strong black stout. It was a pleasant change from the honey mead in Asgarn and the Valadon wine he had squirreled away in his room. The two sat drinking as they studied each other. Mary refilled their pints after a few minutes.

Abruptly, Mary said, “What were your parents like?” Halfdan laughed. “What do you mean, ‘were’? They’re alive and well.”

Mary’s face burned red. The Asgarn said, “My father, Harold, was a tradesman. He retired and took up fishing. My mother, Aoife – “

“Aoife? That’s a Kelt name,” said Mary. She leaned across the table and looked at Halfdan’s face. “You’re half Kelt?”

“Yeah. Anyway, she was a tradesman too. She met my father while they studied at Guildhall,” he said, punctuating his statement by finishing his pint. “Speaking of parents, where are yours?”

Mary waved her hand dismissively. “Da’s always out taking care of trade deals, and me mother’s back home.” She finished her pint and got up to refill the cups. “So does that mean you’re a tradesman too then?” she called over her shoulder.

“Sure am. I’m a warlock,” he replied as walked over to the hearth and threw another piece of turf on. “Would’ve been a warrior, but there’s something about throwing lightning that really appeals to me.” They both sat back at the table. “Cheers, thanks a million,” he said as he took the cup from Mary. She giggled. “Ye’re picking up the slang pretty fair like.”

Halfdan turned a bit red and grinned sheepishly. “You know how it is…anyway, back to the questions!” He took a long pull from the cup before he could say something embarrassing.

Mary sighed and looked to the rafters. “I don’t know…what’re ye doin’ so far from Guildhall then?”

Halfdan placed the half empty pint on the table. “I’ve been visiting home and traveling about, really,” he said. “I’m actually heading back to Evermoore this weekend.” He stopped for a moment before going on, “I’ve been away for…going on seven months, I think. Maybe eight. I forget exactly. Of course, I could always be convinced to stay…” He winked and flashed the smile Mistress Gwen had once described as, “charming, if it wasn’t on such a boyish face.”

Mary laughed. “That wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for,” Halfdan said before laughing. The barmaid sipped her drink and raised an eyebrow. “Halfdan, I barely know ye.” They both drank, giggling a bit at what had just happened before.

“Okay…so tell me about when ye were a boy.”

Halfdan shrugged. “I grew up in a fishing village. My parents knew I was arcane, so when I was old enough, they sent me off to Guildhall for apprenticeship. Nothing too special happened to me.”

Disappointed, Mary asked, “Have ye got any brothers and sisters?”

Halfdan shook his head as he swallowed some of his stout. “No, it was just me. I have a cousin, Teig, who’s actually from around here.” He put the empty glass down on the table. “I actually ran with him for a few years, but he’s been more or less underground lately.”

“Ye don’t mean Teig Larkin, do ye?” asked Mary.

Halfdan was surprised. “Yeah, why?”

Mary took a long pull before answering. “Ye look like ‘im is all.” They sat drinking in silence for a bit longer. Halfdan stood up and gathered his things. “I best be off, it’s late and I need to get organized for when I leave.”

Mary stood up and grabbed the empty cups. “Well, I won’t have ye wanderin’ the roads at this hour, ye’ll surely be jumped by knackers or gyppos.”

Halfdan looked up at the barmaid. “Well, can’t argue with that logic. Have you got a couch or something…” He trailed off as Mary beckoned him through the back door of the pub into the back room. He nearly ran.

The door slammed shut, and stayed shut till morning.

[Brian K]

9 July, 1007

Minarets sparkled in the twilight sun over the Karthydian Desert. Despite the time of day, the sun was still beating mercilessly down on the hilltop fort. Before the call to prayer sounded, the Karthydians within rushed to the small river running through a valley. As the horn blasted from the tallest chaos star-topped minaret, the Karthydians, all red-robed soldiers, prostrated themselves.

From another rise, a group of men also lay on their bellies, but they did not have prayer on their minds.

The two lead men, both sunburned and sweating under the oppressive heat, crawled to the top of the hill and looked at the fort. One man wore a beard, the other’s unshaven face made him look like a boy. Both were fair of skin and hair. Both wore black tabards with red boars. The unshaven one turned to the other. “So, Teig, how many you figure are down there?”

Teig frowned in thought. “Given the number of ‘em runnin’ outside for water and the size of the fort, I’d say thirty. Forty, tops. How many guards per tower d’ye see, Halfy?”

Halfdan checked the notes he had been taking. “Two per tower, one of them with a signal arrow. I figure they’re both trained to scream bloody murder if something comes up on them.” He flipped through his notes some more before continuing. “There’s at least two tradesmen there, possibly more. Probably a cleric or two, maybe a warrior commander.”

The Kelt groaned. “Gods damn it, this is gonna be messy from a legal standpoint, innit?” Halfdan grinned in response. “You thought this stuff was gonna be easy?” he said. Teig punched him in the arm.

They crawled backwards down the hill to where the rest of their group was waiting. They all wore black and red armbands. All of them were commoners with no control over mana, paid with the promise of loot from the Karthydian fortress. Their previous raids had been successful – most of the men wore the distinctive spiked helms of Karthydian soldiers and carried scimitars they had picked up. The group was nearly forty strong, reinforced with the half dozen ballistae they carried. The two aptly-titled Marauders addressed their mercenary band.

“Right lads,” said Teig, carving a rough map into the sand with a dagger, “here’s the plan…”

That night, one of the Karthydians keeping watch peered into the moonless night. He thought he had heard a winching sound. Satisfied that it was his imagination, he went back to dozing off.

A bolt of lightning and fire flashed from the distance and struck the guard and his companion. The two of them dropped to the tower floor, smoking. Before any other guard had noticed what happened, a single call of “Fire!” echoed across the desert.

A half dozen ballistae bolts slammed into the main gate of the fort. Immediately, voices began shouting orders and rousing the troops to battle. As volleys rained on the splintering gate, the Karthydians organized and came streaming out to meet their assailants. As they neared the ballista battery, the crews bolted around the far hill. The Karthydians followed them, shouting threats and war cries.

When they rounded the hill, they saw nothing. There were no attackers, just empty sand and rocks. The soldiers began searching the area, looking for how their prey could escape so quickly.

Their commander, a veteran soldier called Al-Jaffar, cursed loudly. “Where did they go! Where could they have gone? It’s empty!” he fumed for a moment until the realization struck him. “Go! Return to the fort!” His orders were answered by a horn from the fort. Just over the distance, he could hear a voice shouting.

“I can’t believe you fell for that!”

Al-Jaffar shouted in frustration. “Charge! Retake the fort! Kill the infidels! Use their ballistae against them, I don’t care, kill them!”

“We have all the ammo for the ballistae, ye daft bastard!”

The Karthydians advanced on the fort. Inside, Teig hoped that Halfdan had kept up his part of the plan.

Meanwhile, Halfdan and the other twelve troops who had been with him in the barrage hid in the secret hides they had spent the first half of the night constructing. As the sounds of the Karthydians died out, he turned to the crouched men. “Okay, it’s go time. Everyone ready? Yes? Even if you’re not, I don’t care, let’s go.” He and the team, nicknamed Sneaky Bastards, jogged towards the fort where the Karthydians were now fighting the mercenaries within.

The Sneaky Bastards charged into the rear of the Karthydian forces and, between them, the Cheeky Bastards, and the warlocks’ spells, the red-robed soldiers were handily defeated. The Marauders celebrated by sacking the fort’s treasury, armory, and pantry. As the commoners went about pillaging, Halfdan and Teig met in the muster yard. “That wasn’t that bad,” Halfdan said, wiping grime and gore from his tabard.

“’T wasn’t,” Teig replied. “Usually ye get one guy up in a stairwell and ye have to stab at ‘im for ten feckin’ minutes. No tradesmen here, either.” The two warlocks sat on a barrel and relaxed as their men took their pay from the fort.

As the sun rose over the desert, it caught the smoke of the ruins of the fort and the glinting armor and weapons of the Marauders escaping to the wilderness.

[Brian K]

15 May, 1008

A light shone from under the tent where Halfdan was camped. In the flickering candlelight, a quill could be heard scratching parchment.

It was June, a few years ago. I forget just when. It was when the fools thought to wrest the Tomb of Thanos from the Orcs for the Red Robes. I was so close to killing him...he was mere feet from me. No one could have stopped me in time. I'd have blasted him with lightning and turned on Agrivar, the only Tradesman who'd have given me a dirty look.

Old news, though. That's not what this is about.

As we marched out to a battle we knew we would probably lose, Rinan pulled me from the column. We watched them go, the clank and jangle of their trappings echoing into the hot night. A few moments passed before Rinan said, without looking to me, "You know the battle before us."

"One of the biggest mistakes I've ever heard of, but yeah, I know it," I said.

"They need someone charismatic and with a sound tactical mind," she said.

"Good luck with the Cavaliers this moon." Neither Murphy nor Alaric were there, and frankly they're the only ones I care about or trust not to lead us to our deaths.

"Yes, they aren't the best we've had in a while, are they?" She glanced up at me sideways. "A strong, young commander who leads from the front, though...an inspiring leader."

I had the endorsement of Mistress Rinan to usurp command of the army. I led the front line in that battle, even after having my heart shrunk, my leg broken, and leading several raids on the enemy healing ground. I even asked Deadalus to kill and raise me as a zombie so I could command more efficiently. I led us to victory.

It felt good.

That exchange has been with me recently, especially when I think of our Marauders. They're leaderless. Disorganized. A shadow of our former glory.

I could be that new leader.

I could lead a revival of the corps. New recruits, old members flocking to our flying banner...

I would have to give up my powers. At least briefly. The year reapprenticing, I would spend it on the Isle of Lore, brushing up. All for the price of...what? Five years of my life. Not as though I've been in Evermoore enough to justify it. I'm exactly halfway to master, and that's only because I took my time to learn. I never had my head in the game, always in the clouds. Looking at what I might be able to do one day, concerned for my personal power and glory.

But this way...I could be serving my brothers. I could be the catalyst to change. I could bring us back to the red-and-black steel whirlwind we were.

I need to think on this.

[Brian K]

21 December, 1007

The floor of the cell was dirty stone, sloping gently towards the center where grate drained into the sewer. There was no bed, and the squeaking and scrabbling of mice could be heard all around the prison. Other than that, it was deathly silent until a faint and muffled sound found its way drifting down the corridor through the cell block door.

"Get your damn hands off of me!" Scuffling, struggling, iron shod boots on the stone.

"Schalten Sie sich für die Liebe Gottes!" More scuffling.

"I told you, I don't speak your goddamn monkey tongue! Get me someone who speaks -- " A series of dull thuds, followed by something crumpling to the floor.

"Stoppen Sie ihn, bevor ich Sie verletzt erneut!" The heavy ironbound wood door opened and a pair of Holt soldiers carried a mostly limp form into the corridor. The man's hands were bound in front of him and the soldiers carried him under each arm. They tossed him into the cell and slammed it shut as he regained his feet. His eye was swelling and blackening, his lip was split, and a steady stream of blood leaked from his nose.

Halfdan spat blood into the grate and grinned at his captors. "Can I talk to the manager? I reserved a room with a bathroom en suite," he said to the guards. They rattled the bars and yelled more threats at him before leaving.

When the outer door slammed, Halfdan gripped one of the shackles on his wrists and muttered an incantation. With a flash, the shackles crumbled to dust away and Halfdan massaged his aching and bleeding wrists. His clothes were ripped, bloodied, and singed from the fight and the subsequent arrest and search. The Holt soldiers had taken everything from him - weapons, silver, papers, bags. One of his arms hung limply at his side, the bones shattered above the elbow and dislocated at the shoulder.

Halfdan sat in the cell for hours, trying to meditate through a splitting headache and broken arm. Just as he was settling into a breathing routine, the door to the cell block opened and a series of heavy boot steps came striding towards his cell. The warlock turned away from the door and readied himself. If there are three of them, two get surged, one gets hobbled and I run past. If there are two, I surge them both and take their weapons and uniforms. If there are more than three, I hold back...

A hissing whisper interrupted him. "Halfdan!" He turned and saw, in the uniforms of Holt soldiers, three friendly faces. "How are you doing, chief?" asked Alaric and set to trying to pry the lock open. Angus and Teig readied themselves for someone to come through the door at any moment.

"Oh, I'm just peachy, I broke my arm out of boredom," he replied, grinning. "Step back real quick. I'm breakin' the law, breakin' the lock!" The lock disintegrated and Alaric walked in and splinted Halfdan's arm before handing him a tabard. The black cross on a white field was a perfect match to the others'. He pulled it over his head.

Angus and Teig relaxed as the other two came out of the cell. "You're a retard, you know that right?" said Angus. "Why would you start a fight in a soldiers' bar here?" The four Marauders began to make their way out of the cell block when Teig piped in. "I always knew ye were a bit slow, but this is legend, even for ye."

Halfdan was about to counter, that the Holts had picked the fight with him and he was merely defending himself and his honor when it got a little out of hand, especially after he called them "sausage eating pedarasts," but Alaric cut them all short. "Shut up, chuckleheads, none of you speak Holt so you need to be quiet. Halfdan, put these bandages over your face. Teig, Angus, be ready for trouble." As if on cue, voices and boots came their way just as they got through the door. A half dozen Holtsmen, one of them wearing the regalia of an officer, turned down the hall and faced them.

"Was tust du da? Wer sind Sie?" inquired the officer. The Marauders turned to Alaric. Alaric turned to the officer.

"Die Gefangenen entkommen. Er verletzte den Mann auf seinem Weg aus," he said, and gestured to Halfdan. "Wir versuchen ihn zu finden, mein Herr." Halfdan swallowed and tried to not look like an escapee.

The officer and his entourage walked towards them. "Wer sagt Ihnen, hierher zu kommen?" he said to Alaric and eyed the three others. Halfdan began thinking innocent thoughts.

Alaric's mind raced before he answered, "Uhh...er...Commander von...er, Berlin?" Teig sighed.

"Es gibt niemanden mit diesem Namen hier. Wo sind deine Papiere?"

Alaric began fumbling through his pockets. "Erm, Sie sind...hier...uhh, moose!" He punched the Holt officer. Everyone stood in stunned silence as the officer keeled backwards. "Moose! Moose! For the love of God, moose!"

The Marauders sprang into action at the old "go word." Spells and swords flashed, fists flew through the air, and men began falling. "Ye said the go word was banana this time!" shouted Teig.

"He told me it was zulu!" chimed in Angus, headbutting one of the soldiers.

Halfdan punched one of the soldiers in the stomach with his good arm, saying, "When did it stop being goat?"

Alaric suplexed another soldier. "It was never goat! The go word is always moose! Always!" The six Holtsmen lay in various degrees of conciousness. "Now come on, we gotta run." The Marauders sprinted out of the prison and into the cold winter night. As the alarm bells died out in the distance, they caught their breath in an alley. Halfdan poked at his broken arm. "Thanks for springing me out, guys," he said through breaths.

"Never again...going to Holt..." gasped Angus.