The Trial of Ullerne
Two days had passed since the trial began. Asra was tangled up with the hell wolves.
Grrr— One of the hell wolves crouched low, scraping at the ground with its claws before suddenly leaping into the air. Asra grabbed it by the throat and rolled backward, leaving deep gouges in the frozen earth where her heels had dug in. The wolf bared its fangs with a snarl, and Asra matched it, flashing her toothless gums and growling right back.
Two more hell wolves charged at her, and Asra raked their scruffs and bellies. She cackled as she watched them roll onto their backs, rubbing themselves against the icy ground. These wolves stood taller than most grown men, but tumbling around with Asra, they looked like nothing more than oversized hounds.
The soldiers watched her antics and thought the legends might be true—that her tribe carried the blood of giants.
"How the hell do you do it, exactly!?"
Bessimer stormed up to her, bellowing. His scalp was flushed red with frustration and exasperation. The soldiers' eyes turned to them, but he ignored it all. Pride and dignity be damned.
"I told you. Focus on breathing in and out."
"That's what I'm askin'! How do ya do that, ya old hag?!"
"Have some patience, last wolf of Baitur. It's not even been a full day yet."
"Fuck! Just sittin' there breathin' makes me keep flashin' back to ya beatin' the shit outta me!"
"Have faith in yourself, wolf with venom in your veins. You're stronger than you think. I've lived twice as long as a warrior than you have—and it's only natural I'd beat you, right?"
"It ain't natural! It ain't! I've faced down monsters that made me wanna fight, but with you, all I wanted was to run!"
Bessimer stomped his foot, raising his voice. Baitur's great warrior, the tribe's de facto last chieftain, and captain of the Binvelt soldiers—he turned into a whining child before Asra.
"Just teach me already! How do ya keep that strength and spirit at your age? That's all I need!"
"How do you teach a wolf to run when it doesn't even know how to breathe properly?"
"Argh, fuck! This old hag for real!"
Bessimer exploded in rage but couldn't hold back and stormed off. This time, Carlson approached Asra.
"Nothing to teach a king's slave."
Asra's tone turned a bit chilly at the sight of him.
"I'm not here for lessons. I have a question."
"About Isaac?"
"Yes."
"Nothing to say about him either."
"I'm not after details. What happens if the young master can't lift that sword?"
"Fate. Goethe won't get Granak's aid. But no need to worry. Goethe has the strength to stand against any northern noble alone. Helmut asked for my help not for today's safety, but for tomorrow's Goethe."
Asra scratched a hell wolf's head as she spoke.
"Is there a grace period for lifting the sword?"
"No. But he won't last long without food or water."
"How long did it take those who succeeded?"
"Some seven days, some a fortnight. Others over a month."
"Without eating or drinking?"
"That's the trial for the challenger."
"What if war with Boatmer breaks out right now and he can't lift it?"
"Do I really need to answer?"
"You won't move until the young master passes."
"Correct."
Asra nodded. She tilted her head back, mimicking the hell wolves as they caught snowflakes on their tongues.
"Understood."
Carlson turned toward Isaac's tent without another word.
"Carlson."
"The young master?"
Hans was just stepping out.
"It's been two days like this."
Carlson lifted the tent flap. Isaac knelt with eyes closed, utterly still. Before him lay a single rusted sword. Far too worn for use as a weapon. Its short blade bore a relief of tangled chains like serpents along the fuller. Beneath the plain crossguard, the leather-wrapped hilt was frayed and ragged, the pommel a crude lump of rusted iron. Forged in the early days of ironworking—welded wrought iron with steel overlay, according to Great Chieftain Asra. Hundreds of years old.
Two days ago, after speaking with Asra, Isaac had placed the sword before him and begun meditating.
"Is lifting that little sword really so hard?"
"They say you go mad the moment you grab it."
The old sword had a name: Ullerne. Said to house the souls of forty-seven past chieftains. Only with all their permission could one wield it.
"Have you heard it speak?"
"Not a peep."
Asra Baldroon, Granak's great chieftain, had given her grandson this trial: lift Ullerne, the sword passed down to chieftains through generations. Pass it, and Granak's fierce warriors would stand with Goethe against Boatmer.
When the story first spread through camp, the soldiers thought it absurdly simple. But Isaac saw the deeper truth and warned it would take time. Many soldiers and locals, blind to that truth, tried their hand. Reactions varied wildly.
To the eye, it was just scrap metal—tiny as a stiletto next to Asra's bulk. Strong soldiers strained with all their might, but it stuck fast to the ground. Some shrieked of ghosts or demons at the hilt. Others screamed of burning hands, beasts tearing them apart, or blades piercing their flesh.
Bessimer, Carlson, even Sigbrand's squad from Winterband—none fared better. Bill, who scoffed at first, took ill after touching it and hadn't recovered.
The commotion lasted half a day after Asra issued the challenge. After that, no one in Binvelt dared approach the rusted blade.
"Curious? Give it a try."
"Not curious at all."
Hans shook his head at Carlson's words.
"More worried he's in his growth spurt and not eating."
"...You serious?"
Isaac had outgrown twelve long ago; he matched or exceeded boys in their teens. He was barely short for an adult—hardly concerning. And it wasn't just height; his muscles seemed to grow with every breath, rivaling well-trained soldiers. (Though due to mana from the wolf king's runestone, to the ignorant, it screamed Granak bloodline.)
"You saw the great chieftain grandma's height. The young master needs to grow more."
"His growth isn't your worry. Focus on your own. War with the viscount won't be like facing Rutger."
"Understood."
Carlson eyed Hans. During the Rutger clash, Hans had killed for the first time. Growth or loss? Unclear. But one thing: he now knew what wielding a sword meant.
Snuffing life with cold steel. Rending flesh, muscle, organs. Forcing out the final breath.
His eyes have changed. Build's tougher too.
Hans no longer had a mere servant's gaze. When Rutger cried advance mid-duel and four hundred fifty clashed, Hans took two more lives. Willing or not. To survive.
Blood on his hands, he now knew the weight of his blade.
To Carlson, Hans would never be a knight or aura user. But a fine soldier? Yes.
Probably not what the young master wanted.
Carlson recalled his first blood. Younger than Isaac now. What was lost, changed—irretrievable.
Hans had lived ten years more by calendar, but Carlson saw his path clear. He'd walked it first.
"I'm off. Afternoon training soon."
"Yes."
Carlson walked on, Hans following.
"Hans."
He stopped after a few steps.
"Yes?"
"...Keep in touch with your family."
He'd meant a warning. The cost of this path. Isaac wouldn't want Hans throwing away his own for him. Pointless words. Realized or not, all fleeting.
Carlson let slip a faint, wry smile.
I've changed too.
Once forward-only, now glancing aside. Isaac's influence, probably.
"Oh, yes."
Hans, puzzling the unexpected advice, replied belatedly.
"Uh, Carlson. My wife's sending dried lavender. Want some when it arrives? Good for repelling, or brew as tea. Got extra for the young master."
"No need."
Carlson quickened his pace.
Isaac walked the snowfield, rusty sword in hand. Endless knee-deep drifts.
Feels so real.
Granak great chieftain's sword. Ullerne's world of imagery.
Yet sensations matched reality: biting chill, hindering snow, fractured sunlight's warmth, blinding glare.
Snowy plain ahead, behind. Azure sky, horizon slicing through.
Snow fell again.
Where? What symbol? Time, space—lost.
Isaac walked.
Only marker: snow piling from ankles to knees, thighs.
Steps grew laborious.
Snow kept coming. Waist, chest.
Buried alive, lost forever?
Imagined world.
Snow.
Time.
Snow.
Time...
Fragmented thoughts.
Snow to his neck, a sentence formed.
Time piles like snow.
Their battles, wounds, deaths—all buried below.
To find them...
Connect with them...
Snow engulfed him.
Isaac slashed his palm with the rusty sword. Red blood stained white snow.
The blanket began to melt.