LADY GALDR I

  The time had come for Lady Galdr to collect souls. A harvest moon peered through the lush green canopy as her toes curled, relishing the earthy loam. The scents of rebirth, growth, and decay filled her nostrils. The natural world sustained all life and she would risk her immortal essence to protect it.

  For a moment she threw her head back and stretched her arms upward, embracing the heavens. Outwardly she appeared as a wizened crone, but these limber motions exposed her truth. She took a nervous look around her surroundings and returned to the hunched and stooped posture of the elderly.

  Her distinguished nose, punctuated by hairy warts, gave one last wary sniff. Strangers were in the woods, along with the acrid stench of smoke. The invaders had arrived from islands to the east several springs past and had spread like a blight. Unlike the locals, they needed to learn to respect boundaries and face the consequences of their violations.

  At the witch’s gnarled feet sat a wooden contraption, woven out of thin branches and moss. Long twigs carefully met at precise angles, forming a geometric frame. She muttered in satisfaction at her craftsmanship and a glint of pleasure lit across her narrow eyes. She lifted the devil trap and suspended it from a nearby tree with a piece of vine. These wooden fetishes could trap wayward spirits, much like how a snare catches a rabbit.

  The local population of the Gaídel knew better than to trespass in the woods; these outsiders were bold and empowered by blind faith in a god they called the Broken Man. “As if there is but one god,” she cackled to herself, in a voice like dry sticks snapping underfoot. She gave the devil trap a light flick with a bony finger, moving silently through the underbrush as the triangular wooden fetish spun in lazy circles.

  She went by many names, the majority of which no one dared utter in her presence. She used her true name to greet the dawn. At dusk she lied to the night spirits in order to ward off those who would plague her dreams. Those of the old ways called her Lady Galdr, the Augur of the crooked limb; however, these interlopers would soon know her by a new name, Oblivion.

  She raked her hands forward in claw-like sweeps, drawing mist tightly around her form. The spirits whispered hungrily in a cacophonous chant, gurgling excitedly and speaking in unison. As Lady Galdr promised them a feast of souls, shapes began to form out of the mist. Lanky, asymmetrical creatures drifted and danced around her, gradually whipping into a frenzy.

  When she stealthily made her way towards the edge of the tree line, she could hear distant voices barking orders in a foreign tongue and the rhythmic percussion of axes biting into the flesh of the forest. With a ripping tear, an ancient tree toppled and snapped through the canopy, landing with a thunderous crash. In anger Lady Galdr’s eyes turned milky, then clouded mist-like, as she pointed a finger. The misshapen creatures around her burst forward eagerly. First the strangers cried in alarm, then they cried in pain. Finally, they were silent as their souls were torn from their bodies.

  LORD OSMOND I

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  Piles of unread reports and missives waiting to be sealed with wax cluttered his desk. Lord Osmond groaned and with a sweep of a gauntleted hand, sent the nearest pile of scrolls tumbling to the floor. The brisk morning made the scarred wound in the veteran knight’s leg throb with pain and frayed his already delicate temper. Bureaucracy disgusted him, he belonged on the front lines smiting heathens and bringing order to this uncivilized land called Galálann.

  Lord Osmond’s hair was greying, yet he was still a capable warrior. When the Duke sent him to build a castle on this backwater island on the western edge of the world, it was intended as a reward; to Osmond it felt like a punishment. “I wish whoever said the quill is mightier than the sword would face me in a duel…” the old knight grumbled.

  “What was that my lord?” called out a trembling voice from the hallway leading to his quarters.

  “BRING ME WINE!” Osmond bellowed in answer. He smiled briefly at the sound of feet scurrying away. His squire, Guillaume, would always be worthless as a warrior, but the boy was eager to please. Like Osmond, Guillaume was a late-born son, far back in the line for succession. Unlike Osmond, the boy showed little interest in martial prowess and even seemed to fear swordplay. Shaking his head at this inconceivable thought, he lifted his right leg and gingerly let it down on the top of the desk. He scowled as a few more documents tumbled off and onto the floor.

  The station granted by Duke d’Amboise was an immense honor, but Lord Osmond felt out of his element. He enjoyed the strategic exercise of designing the fortifications of the castle, yet the day to day logistics bored him nearly to tears. Not that he would ever show such weakness, a man’s duty was to be as impassive as a statue. Terrifying his squire and drilling discipline into the local populace was cathartic, yet the endless demands from those seeking audience were making his greying hair turn white.

  His chair groaned as he leaned heavily back into it. Leather and metal creaked as he reflexively opened and closed his gauntleted hand, while looking longingly at the sword mounted overhead. Torchlight flickered off of the fuller of the blade, which ran from the V-shaped hilt of the double-edged greatsword. Drawing his lips back over his canines in a mockery of a smile, Osmond looked fondly at his pommel and the ruby embedded within that was the sword's namesake: “The Giant’s Eye”. The red gem caught light and distorted it, forming a pupil in its heart that appeared to follow those who looked upon it. A downward facing steel V extended out of the pommel in honor of the Broken Man, “May the Lord be whole once more,” the knight muttered in reverence.

  Lost in memories of past battles, Osmond did not hear his squire return until the boy sniffed, wiping at the snot trailing down his face with a crusty sleeve. “Leave the flagon there,” Osmond ordered as he drew his booted foot from the desk and shooed the boy away. “Send in Godefroy at once, I will hear his report.” The boy glanced briefly at a sealed scroll on Osmond’s desk bearing Godefroy’s seal, froze for a moment, then bowed his head and backed out of the room.

  Osmond did not haze the boy solely out of pleasure, he did so out of duty. “As we bring civilization to these backwoods, so too must we temper iron into steel,” he addressed this to his blade. Upon hearing approaching steps, Osmond rose ponderously to his feet, favoring his weight on his left foot. Through the open doorway, the old knight watched his advisor Godefroy instructing his underlings as he made his way down the hallway. Godefroy’s eyebrows seemingly had a life of their own, crooked and grasping from the man’s considerable forehead.

  After dropping a load of scrolls and diagrams into Guillaume’s arms, the advisor entered Osmond’s quarters and shut the wooden door firmly.

  “We have urgent matters to discuss, my lord,” Godefroy said solemnly, one brow drooping while the other seemingly punctuated his declaration. “Our masons have located a suitable quarry and despite initial resistance from the local workforce, dimension stone for the castle’s walls is being made to our specifications. However, our lumber supply has been disrupted. The loggers and their accompanying guard have all been slain. The bloody locals are refusing to set foot in the woods and are babbling about some blasted woods witch.”

  Osmond’s sword hand reflexively opened and closed.