Chapter Three
Harold sat in the sunlight coming through the tall windows in the anteroom. He been here before to receive awards and a boon from his Jarl in previous years and always associated being at the Jarl’s mansion with victories and celebrations. This was different of course, and also confusing. The last court martial had been just prior to WWII. It had been held at the Hearg in the forest next to the training grounds and Harold had expected to be ordered there. Perhaps the Jarl and his council didn’t want to sully the sacred grove with his bad judgment and instead, conduct the proceedings in the Jarl’s office. “Either way, what a gorgeous day to be ruined.” He thought, and an almost wistful smile appeared on his face for a second.
The secretary at the desk next to the Jarl’s office hadn’t made eye contact with Harold when he came in and didn’t speak to him either, just indicated the chairs facing the windows. He could smell her disdain for him and Harold guessed she’d read Alfred’s report. Harold had too and it was damning. Some of it was not completely objective. Alfred had given vent to his anger in the report but Harold couldn’t blame him. He had disobeyed a direct order from his superior, and worse, he had put the pack in jeopardy.
Harold looked out the window and whispered a prayer to Baldr and Forseti, “Hail the ancestors, hail the Ǣsir, hail the Vanir. Father waiting for Ragnarok, son in his stead, I’ve no words to defend myself and ask for no help today. Instead, I ask that you direct my Jarl and his council to place upon me a judgment that fits my crime and dishonor. Hail the ancestors, hail the Ǣsir, and hail the Vanir.” Harold felt a little better and walked over to the window. He heard the secretary look up at him and could feel her ire at his temerity at getting up from the chair she had appointed him.
Looking out the window of the old mansion, Harold admired the gardens and beyond them the forest and meadows. His people had been raising sheep and cows in those meadows since his ancestors had come across the sea with Horsa and Hengest. At the top of the hill next to the mansion was the ruins of a castle the Jarls had used up to the 1500’s when Ulfhednar still hunted earðkinar. Building the mansion and moving the Jarl and his council to the mansion was more than just an architectural modernization. It was a transition to a new way of being for Ulfhednar. Harold wished the draugar had moved forward with the earðkinar during the Renaissance and Age of Enlightenment like the Ulfhednar had. Instead they had stayed in the mindset of 1400’s. If draugar had moved with the times they wouldn’t hunt earðkinar, Ulfhednar wouldn’t have to hunt draugar and then he wouldn’t have been in Coventry and thus, not standing in his Jarl’s mansion awaiting judgment. Harold shook his head, outlandish what ifs weren’t going to do him any good.
“Mr. Sigbert, Jarl Cenric will see you now.” The secretary spoke in a flat monotone voice, as if his talking to him wasn’t worthy of inflection. She’d also addressed him as “Mr.” not “Warrior”, as would normally be the case. Harold smiled politely and realized the court martial was a formality, the paperwork had already gone through and he was no longer one of the Jarl’s warriors.
Walking into the office Harold was surprised to see just the Jarl there, no council, no other warriors, no one. Looking around he was impressed as he was the first time he’d been to the Jarl’s office. It was huge as would be expected, but that wasn’t what made it impressive. It was the paintings dating back to the 1400’s of the Jarls and warriors from all over Europe. There were many Jarls across the world, but only the Jarl in England with its responsibility for all of Europe had a lineage so long and storied. The Jarl of Europe was just one Jarl among many when the Althing was called, but his opinion and actions carried a little more weight than the others.
“Surprised it’s just the two of us?” asked the Jarl. He seemed slightly amused as he stood up and walked around his desk. His long white hair draped over his suit and his braided beard rested on his stomach, making him look like an odd interpretation of Santa Claus.
“Yes my Jarl. I am surprised.” Harold tried to stay relaxed but he knew his scent was betraying his confusion and worry.
The Jarl on the other hand had the scent of someone sure of themselves. “We’ve already finished up and made official your court martial, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. So now what do we do with you?” Harold was even more confused. What else would they do with him but send him home to his family in dishonor, left to see out his years as a failed warrior tending livestock? The Jarl could smell Harold’s increasing confusion and tension and pushed on to get it over with and onto the real reason he was there.
“The draug caught in Coventry talked a great deal before he died. Seems he and the older one were planning to kill the draug you chased.” Harold heard a slight accusation when Jarl Cenric said ‘you’. “She was part of their guild and had been seen drinking animal blood and ran away from the guild.” Harold stared at Jarl Cenric. Draug didn’t drink animal blood. It was sacrilegious to them and would be tantamount to renouncing the drinking of earðkin blood. There were whole sections of the Beriyt, the draugar version of the Sagas, dedicated to drinking the blood of earðkinar. Further, drinking animal blood broke the covenant they had with their prophets Lilith and Cain and their god. No wonder they wanted to kill her, to other draugar she was an apostate.
Jarl Cenric could see the disbelief in Harold’s face. “I know, impossible to believe. For many reasons. And there is more, even more unbelievable. It seems the guild had heard a rumour of a guild of draugar in Washington, the state, not the capital, who have forsworn the killing of earðkinar and instead sustain themselves on animal blood.” Harold began to suspect the Jarl was having him on. Perhaps this was all some ridiculous prank on the court martialed warrior for the other warriors to have a good laugh about. Jarl Cenric’s refined sense of smell detected a change in Harold’s pheromones. He was experienced enough to guess what the change signified. “Mr. Sigbert, I’m not making this up. Nor this next part which I find especially preposterous. It seems this guild of ‘enlightened’ draugar are either allied with or in partnership with a tribe of natives who themselves are Ulfhednar.”
Harold had heard enough and sat down in a leather chair. Realizing what he was doing, he quickly jumped back up. “Apologies my Jarl.” Harold tried to formulate a question but came up blank and could only stammer out, “But… Jarl Cenric, I don’t understand.”
The Jarl held up his hand indicating Harold to be silent. “All of this may be false, the ramblings of blood starved and mad draug. But even so, I am intrigued.” Jarl Cenric walked back to his desk and picked up a thumb drive. “Harold, I’m offering you a mission that may be nothing but a wild goose chase. You’re not one of my warriors anymore so you can turn and walk out the door right now. But if you want this mission, and please, only take it if it’s what you want to do, I have all you need here.”
Harold stared at the thumb drive and felt himself relax a little. Questions and thoughts started to work their way up through the confusion in his head. There was the smell of sheep blood at the train station. Had it really come from her? What could motivate a draug to give up earðkin blood? No other Ulfhednar had ever been encountered in the 500 years they had followed earðkinar from Europe around the globe, could there really be more like them?
Harold looked from the thumb drive to Jarl Cenric. Return home to his family or follow his curiosity? Harold smiled and took the thumb drive.
