Proper Nordlings

A standalone fragment from the Southsong Cycle (second epoch)

The two white-cloaked priestesses accompanying Gwae planted their black spears in the white sand to either side of the canoe. Gwae stepped out of the craft and onto the strand. Brilliant blue-green waves lapped at the heels of her sealskin boots. The pair of priestesses, silent as ever, likewise disembarked. Only these two are more loyal to me than to . . . Mother. She scowled and removed her helm to let her scalp breathe in the sea breeze. If only they were not such bores.

A quick scan of the coastline, through the glare of the southern sun and the familiar sting of salt and sweat, revealed naught but more sand and the deep green line of dense foliage beyond. The warriors had best sharpen their long-knives.

Helm cradled under one arm, Gwae took a few sauntering paces up the strand. Her cape flapped wildly before winding itself about her armor corset. The warriors will complain at donning our customary garb in this clime. Where the air is so heavy, I suppose black leather and tusker hide may be impractical—for lesser folk. The way of the Waveborne must make a few concessions.

More canoes pulled ashore, and the crews disembarked noisily. Gwae focused instead on the bright, alluring green of the jungle ahead, which stopped abruptly a few hundred paces shy of the tide. Cries of unseen birds and beasts echoed from the interior.

A thaen shuffled up to her, dipped his head, and fell to his knees in the sand. Face like a shrub aurochs. Ruddy white beard. Trrigva. “My lord,” he said gruffly.

“Speak,” she demanded.

“Naught here but sand and trees,” Trrigva observed. “Will we make camp on the beach, milord, or push out again?”

Gwae extended an arm backward, easily catching the spear that one of the priestesses tossed her way. She leveled the weapon, a mere javelin in her hand, at the hidden heart of the isle.

“Have our men bring in the ships, captain,” she growled quietly. Our folk have lost their way. Thanks to my feckless brother. And to the Prophetess, who humors his folly. “Now you will become proper Nordlings once more.”

They must return to sea and strand. And to Livyat, who thirsts for the blood of our foes and hungers for the souls of the weak.

Trrigva nodded slightly, as if he understood. “Aye, milord. Though we sailed a long ways south to be called Nordlings, I suppose.” He chuckled, forgetting himself, until the priestess who had kept her polearm struck his fool head with the haft. The thaen fell prone at Gwae’s feet.

She replaced her helm one-handed and swung the other priestess’s spear across her shoulders. “Welcome to the Southron empire,” she declared as she stepped smoothly over the inert thaen. To the priestesses she said, over her shoulder, “Make certain he wakes to signal the ships.”

She headed for the trees. “Leave skeleton crews to guard the ships,” she shouted, without looking back to the gathering throng of warriors. “The rest of you, come for a stroll.”

All the Fledgling World shall fear the Mother of Serpents. But most of all, they shall fear me.

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Note from the Author

I hope y’all have been enjoying these one-off snippets! (They’ll interconnect with the longer storylines eventually, but for now, they’re as close to “standalone” as anything I write for the Vaporous Realms.)

As a quick heads up, all my spare time the next few weeks will be consumed with event prep. I’ve got forty-eight crafted Dustsong and Southsong miniatures in need of some paint—and clothing. So I’ll be going on hiatus here (and on the Editor vs. the Machines page) until the week of April 15.

In the meantime, have a blessed Easter—and happy reading.