LORD OSMOND II
Lord Osmond clenched his jaw, his teeth creaked as he ground them together. Nothing was going as planned. The blasted Gaídel rebels had disappeared into the catacombs of the High King’s seat like rats in a sewer. Murtaugh had sworn to root them out, yet Lord Osmond doubted that the pathetic man was good for anything besides betraying his own kin.
What concerned him the most was that nearly all of the causes of his recurring headaches had unexpectedly been present at the feast, only to slip out of his grasp. Why on earth were the escaped devil, his failed squire, the young Gaídel maiden known for miracles, and the rumored child of the Pechtish warlord all present? Lord Osmond’s mind was not made for such machinations, he preferred immediate challenges like the rigors of combat and the how best to wrap his gauntleted fist around his opponent’s throat.
The wind tore at his cloak as he shoved one of the High King’s guards out of his way, sending the man to the ground. Sir Marin snickered at his side, wearing that ridiculous mask to hide the damage to his face. The nobleman had his uses and was more of a warrior than he appeared, yet Lord Osmond could never respect anyone so concerned about their appearance. Scars were meant to be displayed, as warnings of what was to come to anyone who dared challenge you. The nobleman’s vanity was womanlike.
Lord Osmond strode past the circle of menhirs ringing the summit of the High King’s seat like a crown, known locally as the Coronation stone. He moved decisively towards his greatest success, the bloody witch had been captured. However, even this felt like a pyrrhic victory: the witch had willingly presented herself into his custody. What possible contingencies could this crone be calculating? She had the audacity to appeared bored by the proceedings, as she was bound upon a wooden frame in the shape of an X and fuel for a pyre was carefully stacked below her shriveled frame.
The Abbess Segnat was on hand for the ritual, ancient magic that she claimed would end the futile resistance of the local population. She was not certain what they would awaken, yet had complete faith that it make the Jotman forces unstoppable. What had begun with blood magic in a hidden site beneath his castle would finish between these standing stones.
Lord Osmond had left his advisor Godefroy behind to oversee the Jotman forces routing the Pechtish war bands and to maintain rule over his keep. He missed the frail old man, his chamberlain’s tolerance for the tedium and obligations of command were greater than his own. Lord Osmond preferred to settle matters with the edge of a blade and had never asked to lead the Duke’s expansion into Galálann. Only duty kept him at his post.
The witch was humming a jaunty tune to herself and appeared oblivious to the fate that awaited her, despite the Gaídel laborers bustling to stack more fuel at the base of the pyre. The weasel-like High King was fussing about nervously, Lord Osmond could barely tolerate the sight of Murtaugh. “Had you held your end of the hall, none of this would be necessary!” he roared at the Gaídel leader. “The corpses of our enemies would be piled in a ditch.”
The High King flinched, his eyes darting back and forth. Lord Osmond was genuinely surprised that Murtaugh dared to whinge in response. “It was not my fault!” he shrieked. “Had Liadan of miracles, the Pechtish heir, your squire, and the devil not escaped from Jotman custody in the first place, our plan would have gone flawlessly!”
Lord Osmond glared at the tiny man for a long moment, at his ostentatious robes and his pinched face. He took a step closer and the High King began to sputter apologies. Lord Osmond quieted him by wrapping a gauntleted fist around the man’s throat and lifting him off of the ground. “Shut your cunt mouth,” he snarled, flinging the High King out of his sight.
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The witch started to laugh. Lord Osmond stomped over in front of the witch and toed the base of the pyre. “Is this what they meant by a wood witch?” he called up to her with a sneer. The witch’s eyes snapped open, momentarily clouded like mist. She smiled at him.
“Light the pyre!” Lord Osmond commanded.
LADY GALDR III
“This will be your undoing interloper,” Lady Galdr spoke into the invader’s mind. He blustered about, throwing a tantrum like a child. To Lady Galdr all present were children: so upset that they were not able to play with their desired toys, that they would rather see them destroyed than in the hands of another.
The one with the metal hands at least bore his wounded soul openly; the dandy chose to hide his appearance since the exterior was as hideous as the interior. Lady Galdr could not help but laugh at the irony of the priest who lead this farce of a ritual, it was like staring into the reflection of water and seeing someone different from you in every way. This unholy woman presented herself as pious and pure, an adorable grandmother, yet Lady Galdr could see the venom dripping from her fangs.
“Oh my dearies,” she said to herself with a tear running down her cheek. The four woven in fate had misstepped in their travels: the carefully formed seal imprisoning the evil below this mountain had been weakened. Lady Galdr had doubted that the infants surrounding her would succeed in releasing the desiccated remains of the dragon, but now that the wards were unraveling, all it would need is a nudge. Such was fate.
Lady Galdr did not want to die, however, she had lived long and had seen much. The flames nipped at her ankles, like small dogs, as the wood burned hot. She could escape within to the Land of Dreams at any moment, but these sensations, pleasant or not, were what defined life and she would miss them. Lady Galdr had seen generations bloom and wither, like the changing of seasons, yet at no point did she stop treasuring the kindness of a gesture, or a moment of compassion.
The weave of the tapestry was unmistakable: Eógan, Esker, Guillaume, and Liadan would go through much: together they could set right that which had been forgotten. The man with the metal hands passed her in a pavonine strut, relishing her predicament. He seemed to savor her pain, so Lady Galdr offered him an impassive mask, still as the water of a pond. He taunted her in his barbaric tongue, yet she saw through his empty bravado.
The sorceress adorned in the symbols of her God stood at his side, first pointing a wrinkled finger at Lady Galdr accusingly and then turning to address the others present. The heat and smoke of the pyre were becoming difficult to ignore. Lady Galdr was forced to still her mind once more. She took satisfaction in the pact she had made with the mist demons and cackled at the thought of where they waited in ambush. She had not surrendered to these invaders, she had come as a harbinger, a herald of the doom that was to come.
The fire rose to Lady Galdr’s waist, her skin blistered and the sweat that poured down her brow sizzled into vapor. The man with metal hands drew his cruel sword and extended it towards her with both hands. He smirked as he lowered it into the fire, before pressing it to her heart. The sorceress was in ecstasy now, cavorting about in a shrieking cacophony. Meanwhile, the slender man in the mask watched all of this hungrily, Lady Galdr could sense how desperately he clung to power and respect.
Her eyes began to twitch from the pain, but she was able to take solace from the fact that she would see her dearies one last time. If only it could have been in the land of the living.
The man with the metal hands put one gauntlet on the pommel of his great sword and with a grunt slid it through Lady Galdr’s ribcage. She started cackling and that laugh became full throated as those who bore witness shrunk back at her defiance. Her bout of hilarity was interrupted only as she began to choke on her own blood.
The last thing she felt was a rumbling earthquake. The last thing she saw was the massive skeletal remains of a dragon taking flight on tattered, rotten wings, bathed in the purple magic of necromancy.
