The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 954: “This year the Northumbrians expelled Eric; and King Edred took to the government of the Northumbrians.”
The place was perfect for the ritual: a pool formed in a slight dip, given further shelter by a small stand of wind-blown yew trees. The only sound was the gurgle of the water as it flowed south to join the river; the only light on this still autumn evening came from the moon as it was reflected in the dark water. A man knelt beside the pool, a coat of chain mail and a broad-bladed axe lay on the ground a short distance behind him; iron could severely affect magic.
Putting his hand down the front of his clothing, he withdrew a small glass phial filled with white powder that had hung from his neck on a leather strip. Breaking the seal, and opening the vial, he held it, arm outstretched, over the water. He paused. Before calling up a spirit from the next world to ask what the future would bring, you had to have what you wanted to know firmly in your mind. He cast his mind back.
The tent had been lit by flickering torches, in the glow of which the king and queen, bedecked with gold, had seemed almost unearthly. They had been subdued, serious, as befitted two people who had lived for power and now could see that power finally disintegrating. Eric, previously the Norwegian king, had been evicted by the one brother he had not killed, and, sent into exile, been offered Northumbria to act as a bulwark against the marauding Scots. His harsh rule, however, had provoked a rebellion, and he had led his army out of his capital, York, to crush the rebels. Gunnhildr, the queen, was just as infamous as her husband, accused of witchcraft and other dark acts committed against her enemies. Although Gunnhildr had indeed acted ruthlessly, she was no witch. She had, however, brought in those who did have magical powers, knowing that they could help her keep her grip on the crown. Ormr, the man who stood before them, was one of these.
The queen had done all of the talking, such as it had been, shortly instructing Ormr to find out whether the army camped around them would defeat the miserable rebels. Walking out of the encampment, the Norseman had thought that the rebels could not possibly be as miserable as the fyrd, the peasant militia that formed most of the force.
These memories running through his mind, Ormr slowly turned the vial upside down, and began the ritual. As the last words of the incantations faded away, a mist seemed to rise from the still, dark water, a murky grey tinged with green. It swirled up and around his body, surrounding him in a cocoon, across the inside of which images began to play. A raven flew high over a green land, before suddenly falling to the ground, struggling desperately, but still being pulled inexorably downwards. Then, a dragon appeared, red and snorting flame. The vision shifted, showing another, different dragon hatching from an egg and rapidly growing in size. It forced its way out of a burial mound, crowned and carrying a great horde of treasure before beginning to fight with the red dragon. It was a vicious, snarling brawl, and in the end the two great lizards merged together into one.
As this last image died away, so also did the mist, fading back into the pool as rapidly as it had emerged. Ormr slumped to the ground; he hadn’t realised that the visions could be so intense, so draining. So exhilarating. Eric’s days were clearly numbered; the fate of the raven had shown that. But the second part of the vision…The first dragon, the red one, was the emblem of the king, the man to whom Eric had sworn allegiance, Æthelred. The other, though-could that have been he himself? If so…
When the army moved off the next morning, Ormr was not among them. Gathering up his belongings, he had ridden away in the middle of the night, heading north. Having ridden often enough with Eric and his men against the Scots, he knew that hiding places could easily be found in the border country. While he felt a slight twinge at abandoning his sworn lord before the battle in which he would be overthrown, greater things beckoned.
It had been a good day’s hunting. They had left the hall in the early hours of the morning and ridden out into the open countryside whilst mist still swirled in amongst the bottoms in the moor. The dogs hadn’t taken long to catch the scent of a stag, and they were soon hard on its trail, the whole pack baying wildly as the riders followed closely behind. The animal was clearly young and strong, and led them a merry chase across the moor before they were finally able to catch up with it.
Godric, the young son of the Ealdorman, the local lord, had led the party on its wild ride and had dismounted to finish the stag off while the dogs were called off and brought to heel, but he now stood back to watch as the carcass was prepared.
“The day’s getting on,” he said. “I think we’ll have a quick meal, and then we can make our way back to the hall.”
Packs were opened, and the party sat down to bread, cheese, apples, and the ale brewed as an alternative to dangerous drinking water. A simple meal, compared to what was usually served in the hall, but they would have their recompense when they got back.
“We should be getting back, lord. It’s a long ride back to your father’s hall.”
“Why, Osferth?” Godric grinned, teasingly. “Are you worried you’ll not return in time to see Aethelflaed?” There was a bellow of laughter from the other half dozen men. Osferth blushed. Godric patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry; we’ll not miss the feast.”
They remounted the horses, and began to ride back to the hall, moving in a long line through the rough terrain, taking their time to avoid the treacherous mires that littered the moor. They were close up to the hall when Godric, at the head of the line, looked back, and noticed that the group was one short. They pulled up.
“Where’s Osferth?”
“He must have fallen behind and got lost, lord. I thought I saw him fall back earlier.”
“Damned fool.” Godric thought for a second. “Wulfric, you and the rest head back to the hall. My father won’t be happy if there’s no venison at the feast tonight. I’m going to go back and find Osferth.”
Godric rode quickly back across the moor. He pulled a wand out of his belt. “Hominem revelio.”
Nothing happened.
He spurred his horse up one of the tors. Standing on the summit, he looked out across the countryside. The autumn sun was descending towards the horizon, and the mists were beginning to gather again.
“Damn Osferth.” The words were quiet, but vehement. He drew his wand again, but it was unnecessary. On one of the hilltops, a small figure, almost too faint to make out, was moving. Godric spurred his horse towards the figure.
Eventually, the two men met.
“Thank you for coming back for me, lord.” Osferth was deeply grateful.
“Osferth, you’re an idiot. But we can talk about that later. Come on, let’s try and get back before it gets dark.” Godric put his wand on the palm of his hand and whispered. “Point me.” The wand swung around and pointed north. Godric winked at Osferth, and started to ride back down the hill.
The countryside was unsettling in the half-light of dusk, the tops of the few trees, increasingly skeletal silhouettes, sticking out of the mist. Crows and ravens called to each other harshly, and in the distance, wolves howled. Osferth shuddered visibly. It was dangerous to be out at night with no shelter.
“Don’t worry “ you and I aren’t going to end up feeding the wolves.”
“It’s not the wolves I’m worried about, lord.” Godric laughed quietly.
“The Goblins, Osferth, won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”
They had to move slowly through the gathering darkness, letting the horses pick their way across the rough terrain rather than risk injuring one of the precious beasts. By the time they reached the vicinity of the hall where Godric’s father would be feasting, it was almost completely dark.
Almost completely dark but for an orange “ red glow that shone ominously from the direction of the hall. The two riders checked their horses momentarily. Then “
“It’s a hall-burning!” There was horror in Godric’s voice. The two men dismounted, and, tying the reins of the horses to a tree trunk, moved slowly towards the light.
The hall had been built in a dip in the ground, so as to be protected from the worst of the winter weather. Looking down on it now from where they lay under the cover of the undergrowth, Godric and Osferth could see the hall, engulfed in flames, surrounded by a ring of dark, silent figures, with one other man, mounted on horseback just outside the ring. It was possible to see armour beneath the dark cloaks, where the light from the fire glinted off the polished metal. All had wands drawn, and several limp figures lying on the ground where the entrance to the hall had once been showed where they had been used. Godric’s expression was grim, and he too had drawn his wand and was holding onto it with white knuckles. He looked as though he was about to charge down the hill. Osferth gripped his shoulder, and pushed him back onto the dew-soaked ground.
“Lord, all we can do here is die. We have to go.” Osferth’s quiet voice pulled Godric back. He looked at him, and, after a long pause, nodded. They moved slowly back down towards where they had left the horses. Just as they reached the tree where their mounts had been tethered, they saw shadowy figures waiting. As the two men halted, they realised there were more behind them, and that all were carrying swords. They were surrounded.
Founders Four by sudreyjar
Chapter Notes: Many thanks to Molly (Cakeordeath) for her beta-reading, and thanks also to Wemyss for his comments on Dartmoor.