Northern Winds

While the lure of being able to leave the hold and to see more of the city was great, you ultimately decided against pursuing that path. There was still much about the Northmen you didn't know, chief among them the proper use of their language, so it would have served you little in the end to gawk. The clanhold though? If the mysterious hatch had shown you one thing, then that this place had it's secrets and odds were that you might be able to uncover some of them, if you kept exploring. So, you opted to serve the guards, leaving you to room most of the hold freely, even if you had to be careful not to spend too much time away from your duties.

Nechtan had tacitly given his permission for this and you did not want to betray his trust by causing any trouble. The work itself was pretty light, amounting to nothing more then carrying a few tablets worth of stew and bread around the hold thrice a day, helping with the cleaning and cooking whenever you had nothing else to do, and occasionally serving the feasting hall when larger groups were dining there. The guard rooms those tasks brought you to were all over the place though and soon enough, none of the guards paid you the slightest bit of attention anymore. You were just the serving girl, so why bother?

The freedom that gave you was staggering, allowing you to waltz through most of the hold with impunity around the mealtimes. Everyone you passed just assumed you came back from delivering something, and you quickly learned what was in those places you had previously not been able to get close to. There were armouries all over the hold, the whole place apparently not only looking like a fortress, but also capable of acting as one. Then there were two vaults, likely containing the riches of the clan, though you only managed to glimpse the doors of these.

They were huge and lavishly decorated oak clasped in iron, coated in runes and pictures. And much like the faint glow of the runes on the hatch you had seen, the writing glowed. It was just a dull red when nobody was close to the doors, but once, when you felt adventurous enough to have a closer, they became brighter. With every step you took towards them, the glow became stronger, becoming blinding as the heart of a forge when you were only a step away from them. You did not try to see what would happen if you were to touch the door. It was most certainly nothing pleasant.

It made you wonder all the harder what had been beneath the hatch in that cellar, but there was little chance you were to find out now. With the death of Svaba, the guards had descended on the cellar and likely taken anything of note that they could find. There was even a rumour that a Gothir had been sighted entering the hold at night and going to the cellar, which apparently was highly unusual, both because of the secrecy and because he was called over a servant's accident. And all that while the main family was feuding, sending those servants inclined to gossip trading tales without end. Even some of the guards seemed to have joined in, though despite Nechtan's efforts, you still could barely follow what they said to each other.

Some claimed that the slave died because the ancestors of the clan were wroth with the main family. If that was because the Lord had tried to disinherit his daughter, or because his daughter had defied him, that was something hotly contested. Nechtan was clamping down on it in the kitchens, but it was easy to notice that everyone else was picking sides with every day the quarrel went on. The Lady and Rannveig had more or less commandeered the eastern guest quarters for themselves and their followers, which were mainly warriors and a few older women that nobody was willing to talk about with you.

Meanwhile, Stéfir had begun to take command of the hold, aided by those of the clan more interested in trade and politics, or at least that was what you gathered. You certainly could not tell apart the finer details of the people clamouring to sit with the heir apparent during meals. They looked vaguely like fat merchants to your eyes and seemed not all that good company for the ever more miserable looking Stéfir.

You did your best to keep out of it, making no noise one way or another what you though about these events. There was just nothing for you at stake and so you just tried to stay neutral. None the less, you paid attention all the same. As you slowly became capable of having a halting conversation with the other slaves who spoke only Norse, you learned the value of knowing things. Others wanted to know things too, each for their own reasons that you could not even guess at, but there was talk about trading favours and perhaps even other things.

In a sense, the tension soon became routine. The lines had been drawn in the sand after a while, even among the servants, and the animosity was merely a low simmer. Most of the housekeepers had fallen in with Stéfnirs people, sparking a minor feud with the smiths and stable hands, who were favouring Rannveig. The kitchens had, thanks to Nechtans efforts, kept out of the mess and were mostly free to work in peace, what with Gunthar being occupied to keep the peace elsewhere with petty punishments meted out whenever an issue became too much to ignore.

Before things calmed again, another incident happened. The kitchen was the first to hear in the hold proper, when Ingomer returned from the outer stables with empty buckets. That morning, the goats had given no milk, instead dripping a noxious black slime from their udders that reeked of rotten fish. The goats themselves had fallen ill after the milking and the slave who had been doing it had been rushed to a guest room. Why, she could not say, only that Gunthar had ordered it and even posed guards at the door.

The news quickly spread, and by noon, you heard whispers of curses and witchcraft, of the slaves hands rotting off his arms because he touched the liquid, and how the entire clan was doomed for one reason or another. It all seemed overly dramatic to you, until Nechtan quietly confirmed that guards had went to the goat stables after some had complained about a horrible smell coming from them.

Your first impulse was to keep your head down and stay out of all of this, but there was also a spark of curiosity. Something was afoot and this time, there was nothing that would have prevented you from looking around to learn more. Especially since most of the hold was in uproar over the events, making it even easier for you to move around. It even meant a chance to investigate that hidden cellar, for right now, nobody would have paid much attention to you sneaking around down there.

What do you do?

---

AN: You found not much of interest, but some other events have been set in motion around you.

There was not much to think about for you. Meddling with whatever had happened with the goats was likely to draw unwanted attention to yourself, and there was the chance to get afflicted by whatever curse or sickness was spreading there. No. There was something else that you had wanted to see and now was the perfect moment. Nobody would pay attention to the cellar where Svaba died right now, giving you a chance to explore it after all.

Candle holder in hand, you descended the stairs to the storage cellars, passing two guards on the way who gave you no more then a quick glance. They knew you. They knew it made sense for you to be here. So, you were no more notable then the furniture to them. It was demeaning to think of yourself like that, the thoughts briefly drawing your attention to the bracelet on your wrist that marked you as less then a person. But it was also freeing in a way. It was the first time you had truly tested the boundaries of what you could get away with and all seemed to be well.

The storage room was mostly as you had left it, save for the crates that had now been orderly stacked on the far wall while a few boards had been laid over the hole left behind the broken hatch. For a long moment, you waited, nose drawing in the musky air of the cellar while your ears were listening for the slightest sound. There was nothing though. No creaking floorboards. No doors opening or closing. You were all alone. So, you quietly put the boards aside and begun climbing down into the dark hole beneath.

Climbing down the ladder with only one hand proved harder then anticipated, each rung slick with wet mould. And with each rung you climbed down, the silence seemed to become deeper, the light of the candle dimmer. The air was heavy with the smell of rot and decay, making you faintly nauseous. A small voice in the back of your head urged you to stop, to climb back up and leave this place, but you clamped down on it. The choice had been made and when your foot found ground beneath it instead of another wooden rung, you knew it was to late to turn back.

With great care you stepped from the latter, feeling the slick stone through your thin shoes and holding out the flickering candle to get your bearings. The walls were solid rock, roughly carved and damp, with streaks of red colour running down their length that looked eerily like freshly spilled blood. There was no floor, just more bare rock, covered by a thing layer of wet grime and dirt. In it, you could see the footprints of those that came before you. The heavy boots of the guards, stomping all over the small chamber and towards the mildew covered wooden door in one of the walls.

But there was something else. From the corner of your eye, you saw a single footprint near a wall that did not fit in with the others. It was smaller than the others. Thinner and uneven. That print had been made a woman. A slave. Involuntarily, you drew your arms closer to your body, peering into the darkness without truly knowing why. They had lied about Svaba's death. She had not fallen but climbed down into this room just as you did. Just as you had pondered to do that night. But if not the fall, then what had killed her?

Your steps were unsure as you approached the door and laid your hand on the wooden handle. Something compelled you forward though and with a careful push, you opened the door and stepped into the other room. Here, the musk of decay was strangely muted, instead replaced by the smell of old parchment. The candlelight fell over shelves and cabinets, all filled to the brim with half rotten books and scrolls, though they looked dry and shrivelled, not wet and mouldy as you would have expected. But among them, there were other things.

Little glass flasks filled with long decayed plants, others with half molten remnants of what you hoped were animal parts. Pots that gave off the smell of rancid fat as you walked past. Bones of bird and other things, glued together in a mockery of life, seeming to move of their own accord in the flickering lights. Pelts of squirrels, cats and other small things piled on a barrel standing in a small puddle of oil. Your steps are unsure and your breath shallow as you walk among these things, expecting something to happen, yet nothing does. There is something in the air. Something in the silence that is only pierced by your beating heart. It feels as if you had been expected in this room.

As you step around another shelf, you finally see what must have been the source of this feeling. Of that vague dread that has your very bones itching. On floor stand candles, half burned down, though they look not as if they had been made from bee's wax or tallow. Between them, runes were written on the floor, the sharp angles frayed and raw as if drawn in a hurry. And only now, now that you saw it, did your nose truly notice the stench of iron that hung in the air, forcing your mind to acknowledge why the runes were so shoddily drawn in brown colour. This was where Svaba had died and it was not an accident.

You heard your heart pound away in your chest, making you feel light in the head. Svaba had been murdered. Another slave from the kitchens had been killed and there was no sign that the guards had found whoever had done it. On the contrary. What if the goat's sickness was the killers work? Carefully you stepped away from the writing on the floor, leaning against a shelf and tried to calm your heart. It was not easy to do so. Not with the stench of blood and rot in your nose. Not with the treacherous voice in your mind telling you that this could have been your fate.

Then, you heard something, sending your heart racing yet again. It was only the faintest of sounds, but in the oppressive silence of this place, it was like thunder. Someone was climbing down the ladder.

What now?

---

AN: It was only a question of when, not if, your luck would run out.