“Fight!”

  I spring towards my brother, summoning the Owl’s eye vision to see him up close.

  Birkir is as still as a tree. With my speed augmented by magic, I come at him with giant steps. One! Two! Three! With a battlecry I’m going for the knee smash.

  “Ha!”

  Why does he stand still though, what’s his game?

  Mere seconds before I deliver the blow, Birkir’s body finally comes into motion. An

  impulse goes through his whole body, like a wave, a lightning strike.

  An invisible force grabs me from above and flings backwards. I fly across the arena and bang against the wooden fence. With blinding pain, and stars before my eyes, I struggle to cough. My chest is being crushed by enormous weight.

  Gasping for breath, I envision the image of Yggdrasil, then of the Rod Tree and call for the ancestor spirits. Whispers engulf my hearing, and faces of my forebears appear before my eyes, a layer above the stars and floating red dots.

  My lungs are finally released from the burden, and I jump to my feet. Birkir could have already finished me off, but he patiently waits for my move.

  I turn to the spectators.

  The whole family and visiting relatives are gathered in the clan arena to watch. Father is the trainer and the judge.

  The arena is thirty steps long, this is where our family does martial arts exercise. My mother created a magical barrier around it. The barrier was making a slight crackling sound.

  Out of the two father’s wives, she is not only the most promising sorceress, but also of noble descent - a russian boyar. Strong magic barriers are her specialty, and that particular barrier around the arena was created for the safety of the spectators.

  I stand, hesitant. My lip draws blood, I don’t even notice how hard I bit it. How do I make my next move? My attempt at a sweeping attack failed miserably - Birkir blasted me with an ethereal wave. The Jotun bastard! The amount of his strength infuriates me.

  “You two going to stand around all day, or what? Attack!” father shouted.

  “Burn in Muspelheim, you!” - I say under my breath, but nevertheless, father overhears me.

  “What was that, Yngve?!”

  Without answering, I pounce forward, summoning the Lynx spirit to boost my agility.

  “Yarrr!”

  Landing by Birkir’s side, I swiftly dodge to the left. An invisible plough turns the ground up where I was a second ago. With another kick I pop the bubble of magical shield surrounding Birkir. I’m only able to reach his head with my toes, but it works out well. He loses his focus, and thus is forced to enter melee.

  Now I have a much better chance of overpowering him, I’m almost his equal in hand-to-hand. I attack him with hit combos, my feet and hands equally engaged in the powerful symphony, my body dodging his blows with nimbleness. I can’t but admire Birkir’s skill. He is quick enough to cast a couple of hammer spells during our fight. It’s an ethereal power wave, strong enough to knock an opponent off his feet. I am too quick for that, though. My ligaments hurt from tension as I narrowly escape his attack. In return I feign a stroke at his torso, make a couple more trick attacks, and a foot sweep. He evades and I dodge his elbow strike.

  “Argh!”

  After getting a kick, I muster all my strength to get back at Birkir. But instead all my efforts go into avoiding a very strong hit in the chin. I feel like I’m losing my grip.

  Time to summon the Boar spirit!

  The ring in my ears stops. I come at Birkir with a boar’s ruthlessness, ready to crush him. In a split second I realize I need to summon the Lynx for agility and evasion again, I’m not strong enough to face Birkir head on. But it’s too late. A combo, which ended with a hit on the head, sends me flying and crashing into the arena wall again. The world goes swimming before my eyes.

  The fight is considered over at this point, but I’m not ready to admit defeat. Every fight I ever had with Birkir ended with me on the losing side. He is older and more skilled. He has been accepted lowest rank into father’s battlemage retinue. It bothers me to be the one lagging behind, I want to be reckoned with. Everyone just expresses hope, that someday I will master the Way of the North and become a real warrior. Everyone insists that I need to make up my mind about choosing the russian or the nordic school of magic. But I don’t want to choose one over the other, I want to master both.

  Air elementals answer my call, a strong gust of wind sweeps over the arena. The wooden fences rattle and far off the dogs bay. A man-shaped vortex forms between me and Birkir, and it surges forward, like an arrow let loose.

  I stagger to my feet. Though in quite a miserable state, I am still gleeful about the chaos I reaped. Dust flies high above our heads, the air elemental is scourging at Birkir, electric sparks crackling amidst. Father’s shouts are overwhelmed by this madness.

  He jumps from the dais and runs towards us. Torben the Fierce, jarl of the Kalmar county, of the kingdom of Sweden, the mightiest mage among swedes. With a puff my elemental creation gets dispelled, and there goes my last effort to win. Birkir becomes visible when the dust settles, he is on his knees.

  Father looms over me, his eyes full of cold fury.

  “You were told to use the Way of the North. What part of that did you not understand?”

  “But I won! Does it matter which school of magic I used?” - I say, trying to defend my achievement.

  “It does!” he snaps. “Rus’ magic is wasteful and foul. Don’t forget - there’s Swedish blood running through your veins. Choose your side. Such amounts of ether would be so much more efficient when used in the Way of the North.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “But it’s too hard for me, father.”

  “And it should be. Valuable knowledge only comes with hard work. You’re almost a man grown, child play is over.”

  Birkir approaches, his face grim.

  “Father, Yngve is a strong fighter, almost a Warrior. Give him a chance.”

  “Curses!” father spits, fuming. “If it wasn’t for that tainted blood!”

  Mother runs up to us.

  “Torben, stop this, I beg you!”

  When my mother approaches, the inner struggle shows on father’s face. Finally, wrath is overcome by reason and the tension dispels. He touches mother on the shoulder with affection.

  “It’s alright, Elizaveta.”

  And then he addresses the whole family:

  “Enough fighting for today. I see Gretta is coming to summon us, so let us go inside and feast.”

  Our family lives in a longhouse. It’s a spacious building, compared to the houses in the village nearby. A stone, two-storey longhouse, with a saddle-roof, two balconies and household buildings at each end. The stone is adorned with murals, depicting various monsters and beasts. Dragons, trolls, giants, dryads, mermaids. Bears, lynx, wolves, hawks, sea creatures. And many a gorgeous ornament. I grew up in this house, and I know every inch of it. Rinkabyholm is the name of the village nearby.

  Native soil is where we northerners can be our strongest. Ether can be manipulated from any point on the face of Earth, but outside the land of Thule the likelihood of successfully summoning northern totem spirits is close to nothing.

  Those capable of manipulating magical energy, known as mana, are called galdramadr, the gifted. Such abilities are in high demand in every country. Magician dynasties have been building their might through centuries, gaining power in the realms of both magic and politics. Constant training and research, as well as beneficial marriages is what led these families to their ascent. Gardarike, or Rus’ - is the country of savants and craftsmen. To marry a Russian noble is considered a boon.

  The Way of the North demands ample practice, forming relationships with the totem spirits, and learning defence tactics.

  Most countries have been built and ruled by mage dynasties. If a commoner happens to possess magical talents, he is taken in as a retainer to serve the mage aristocracy. His talents are put to maintain peace and order. However, no prominent mage has ever come from lesser blood.

  Trouble stirred, when the Anglo-Saxon school of magic gave birth to a new and dark art called necromancy. Its founders were scoundrels and outcasts, persecuted for their despicable deeds and inhuman practices. Their rise had upset the balance of power, that existed for many a century between the Northern, the Russian and the Anglo-Saxon spheres of influence. At first the conflicts erupting one after another seemed inexplicable and chaotic, but in time the magical dynasties saw a pattern. This was an orchestrated chaos, which meant there were troubling times ahead.

  This proved true when tidings came from the Kingdom of Great Britain, of bloody internal strife in the highest hierarchy. Led by none others than the Necromantic Order. There was unrest at the borders, animosity towards the outsiders brewed. It was certain that sooner or later war was inevitable.

  Father leads us to the main hall and we all sit at the long table. Steaming dishes and wine are served and ready, and we begin to feast. I am the only one without any appetite, so I nibble on my serving, lost in thought.

  I like the russian martial arts style more than the northern one, I’m just good at it. Summoning an air elemental is the only thing I learned so far, but I learned it well. Something to be proud of, for once. Infinitely easier than summoning a totem spirit and merging with it.

  I heard tales of russian mages from travelers, who have been as far as Moscow and Saint-Petersburg. They said that in Gardarike even a sergeant mage has an impressive scope of abilities. Ofcourse, someone ranked higher than a sergeant, would be a true marvel. I am truly fascinated at the thought of ever seeing russian mages in action.

  Uncle Hrothgeir booms, patting me on the back:

  “Oho! You sure showed Birkir this time, lad.”

  Birkir replies calmly:

  “Yngve is a strong warrior.”

  We made eye contact, and I frowned.

  “Birkir is as strong as a Jotun!”, I say fervently.

  Solgerd, father’s other wife, who hails from Iceland, smiles heartily, showing her pearl white teeth. She is pleased with praise given to her son.

  Father rises to make a toast.

  “I have the most wonderful children in all of Svea!”

  We all tap goblets. The youngsters try too, but they don’t reach because of their height.

  Father continues, laughing merrily:

  “And wives too. Still can’t decide which one is better.”

  His words bring many smiles. Uncle Hrothgeir laughs, banging his fist on the table:

  “I never have to make that choice, brother. Just lay with both of ‘em, as I do!”

  Mother Elizaveta giggles.

  “In your land, Hrothgeir, Ymir himself clatters his teeth from cold. When I was your guest, I heard these horrible sounds.”- she flinches ostentatiously. “You need to take a third snow-haired daughter of Frigg to wife, to help you against the deadly cold.”

  “Allfather mighty! Which of the gods put a skald’s soul into this golden-haired daughter of battle? Brother, I challenge you to a duel for this beauty’s favor.”

  Father’s face darkens and he rises. Uncle does the same, proudly demonstrating his girth. The land of Thule is generous to Hrothgeir - he has a troll’s might and also looks like one.

  Mother stands up as well.

  “Calm yourselves, o venerable lords of Svea. I shall speak.”

  Men pull themselves together and look upon Elizaveta with reverence, listening.

  “If you die, Hrothgeir, then the Naglfar shall sail through a sea of crimson, for the wound of the shrine of love would be so great. If you, my husband, shall take the road to Valhalla, two snow-white stones will fall from the heavens, and red would be the foam of the mother of storms that washes over cliffs.”

  Hrothgeir exclaims:

  “Odin! I want my hearing taken from me, otherwise, I am sure to lose my sanity. Let the mead cool our heads now.”

  Another toast follows and the feast goes on.

  On the outskirts of Rinkabyholm

  A traders guild cog, overhauled to be used as a battleship, comes ashore not far from the city of Kalmar, in the Kingdom of Sweden. A hooded man in a cloak, who’s standing on the prow, moves towards the board. The sight of water brings disdain to his face, and he jumps down, his five companions follow. The strange group is all clad in dark cloaks with deep hoods.

  As soon as the last one touches the water, the oars come into motion and the cog begins a hurried retreat into the sea. Before long, the shore is desolate again, save for the six companions.

  Without a sound, they walk into the nearest forest, pull out their daggers and start tracing a magic sign on the ground. Artifacts are placed in each corner, each mage takes his designated place in the circle and the ritual begins. The air within the circle bursts into flames and forms a portal. Out of that portal, other cultists emerge in a long row, two dozens of them.

  The first of the cultists to jump ashore is their leader. When everyone is gathered, his strident voice breaks the silence:

  “Gentlemen, our time is short, we’ve only two days to prepare for the attack. I will recount each of your personal assignments in a minute, but above all else, you must heed my warning. The Krusensterns are not to be trifled with, they are among the most powerful mage clans in the world, we must not give them any chances. Thanks to the king’s covert cooperation, we will meet the whole family in one place - the two clan leaders, their wives, and children. Torben is ranked general, Hrothgeir - a corporal. Don’t get cocky.”

  He thrusts his finger at one of his accomplices menacingly.

  “You in particular. These are dangerous and unpredictable foes, keep your distance and don’t let them close. Got it? Now, let’s proceed with our preparations”.