A Lofty Perch

Ardo sat perched in a tall tree, looking for signs of game on the plain beyond the edge of the forest. The brief Torvaldsland summer had arrived and life was blossoming all around him. His nostrils were filled with the astringent scent of pine resin, some of which he picked from the bark of his perch and stowed in his pouch; pine resin had many uses, but Ardo used it mixed with powdered charcoal to make a strong glue with which he mounted arrowheads to the shaft of his hunting arrows. He often gave a few pieces to Aellah the Jarlswoman and Healer, which she used in several of her medical preparations. 

Distant movement registered on his peripheral vision and his head swung quickly to allow him to focus on the source of the movement. Nothing showed, but with the patience of the hunter he kept his eyes on a distant bush. After a while he relaxed and allowed himself to scan a wider area. Movement again and his green eyes pulled focus on a deer which seemed to be limping, injured somehow. He thought about sliding down the tree to track the hapless beast, but in a flash the deer was set upon by a kur! The large bipedal canine moved with alarming speed, burying its huge claws and teeth into the stricken deer. Ardo watched horrified as the kur tore the poor deer apart in a savage feeding frenzy. The deer was being eaten alive!

Ardo took the time now to study the kur; it was a sorry-looking specimen, probably an outcast or a stray, but nonetheless a dangerous and fearsome creature. Ardo was glad he was down wind of it, for even a mangy kur was a dangerous opponent for a man, no matter what his skill-at-arms. Kurii were as smart as humans and had much better hearing and sense of smell, so Ardo stayed perched in his tree until the dreadful kur moved on, dragging the remains of the deer behind it.

It was then the memories of the kur raid on his former village of Søtvann came flooding back to him. The raid had cost the lives of his companion of many years, Holga, and that of a damn fine bond maid Ama. Ardo had been knocked unconscious and he had fallen into a fissure in the rocks, where he lay until he regained consciousness; by which time the raid was over and Søtvann had burned to the ground.

For a moment a surge of intense hatred overcame him; hatred for the vile kurii and all of their kind. This was tempered by the memory of brave Mamut, his friend. Mamut had saved his sister and daughter, at the cost of his own life. Ardo looked to the sky and imagined fearless Mamut, his place above the salt on Odin's table in Valhalla. Ardo's hatred was replaced with a smile of pride as he remembered his brave friend, and that his daughter was now apprentice to his sister Maeve, safe now as a potter in Kassau.

Ardo slid down the trunk of the tree carefully, and then his interest was piqued by a fine tabuk buck, perfectly posed in range of his longbow. 

Ardo knocked an arrow and did what he did best.

The Lady and the Warrior by Keera Cazalet

Alone beside the wind tossed surf,
The lady‘s past just died.,
She carved her sanity in frozen turf,
As her tears of renewal were cried.

Warriors had come, and Warriors had gone,
Kingdoms built, to only shatter,
Just fools by the time it was done,
Yet, somehow, it did not matter.

Her dreams were never swallowed,
And hopes were harbored with care.
It was a hidden secret kept hallowed,
Too precious and fragile to ever share.

Alone within a kingdom of beauty,
From sunrise to rise of glorious moons ,
She honored her longing with duty,
While singing those aching tunes.

The lady nurtured little dreams,
And celebrated the smallest joy.
A smile hid her fraying seams,
Her laugh offered grand decoy.

Then one day a single word,
Created the most amazing song.
To many it might seem absurd,
But this Warrior could do no wrong.

He reached simply for her hand,
Held tight and didn’t let go,
A grip that spanned across the land,
That caused her heart to glow.

Now together they dance,
Beneath Freyja’s  benevolent gaze,
Giddy that they took the chance,
That ended their lonely days.

Together now they walk the shores,
Voices singing true,
“You are mine, I am Yours“…
“I love You”. …..“I love You”

Ardo's Deer Stalk

He silently slid down the trunk of the tree he had been perched in, he felt stiff and uncomfortable from sitting for so long with hardly any movement. His patience had rewarded him with a sighting of a fine stag as it carefully approached an ox bow in the mountain stream to take water. The animal was wary, no doubt the survivor of many life-threatening encounters; so Ardo knew he had to approach with extreme caution.

Ardo had on more than one occasion become the hunted himself, when a canny stag had somehow managed to flip the situation; it was at this time that Ardo discovered the benefits of his simian ancestry. Fortunately, deer are poor climbers!

The approach to the ox bow was along a well-trodden animal track, so the bend in the stream was a favoured watering hole for several species. Ardo made a mental note of this because a favoured watering hole was always a good place to pick up spoor, which often led him to find quarry.

As he approached the watering hole, he made his steps as silent as possible. He could smell the stag now, which was always a good sign that he was down wind of it. Ardo knocked an arrow to his longbow, the gianni gut string taut and hard, the arrow fletched with the rounded flight feathers of a gim, to make his arrows fly straight and silently.

His chance came as the wary beast had its head down taking water. It was not a perfectly lined-up shot, but he knew he would not get a better shot this day. He drew back, held his breath for a count and let the arrow loose. The arrow seemed to hang in the air for an eternity before the report of the arrow striking home reached his ears. The arrow penetrated the stag's rib cage with a loud snap as one or more ribs broke to let the arrow punch itself into the deer's heart. A loud roar and a stiffening of limbs and the magnificent animal fell dead, its muzzle stuck in the mud where it had been watering, its magnificent palmate antlers pitched forward as if it were in a fighting pose.

Ardo closed on the animal and dropped to one knee. He felt for its pulse, but the animal was stone dead. He was glad that the beast did not suffer long, for he was a fine stag in prime rutting condition. It was late enough in the rut for the stag to have sown his genes among a few of the does, so his magnificent line would continue.

Ardo thanked Ullr for guiding his arrow and he petitioned Odin to allow the soul of the stag to be free to roam the forests of the afterlife wild and free, mounting all the does at will. His elation over his successful hunt was as always tinged with sadness at the death of such a fine creature. Needs must though, and the good villagers of Ashom need flesh, hides and fat to survive.

This beast was too big to carry safely, so Ardo set about building a papoose. He worked fast because he needed the remaining light of the day to get to his hunting encampment. Ardo would hoist the stag into a tree, safe from large predators, and make his bed in a lean-to shelter by a fire beneath it. The smoke would mask the scent of the stag, and the fire would keep predators at bay.

Ardo would finish his journey at dawn, dragging the papoose behind him, following the stream to the river and his waiting boat. The river would carry him and his prize downstream with little effort to the fjord and the village he was so proud to call home.