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And here are the first two chapters of my book (the very one I mentioned in the "philosophy" thread)
Prologue. The Wrath of Thor.
The storm wind whirls with dread,
Drives the clouds, breaks the boughs,
Sprays the sail with foam,
Stirring the wave of waves.
Thor casts his hammer Mjölnir;
We pray for the lightning's slaughter to end.
Usually quiet, Brainnfjord Bay was raging. Wave rose after wave, and each subsequent one was higher than the last. All of them—high and low—crashed noisily against the coastal boulders, crushing the few remaining fishing skiffs; where there were no boulders, the waves rolled onto the shore, washing away and carrying into the sea everything they could reach. They had long since smashed the docks to splinters, and only one pile still stood.
A powerful wind, unseen for ten years, tore off straw roofs, felled trees, knocked down the brave souls who dared look at the boats, carried same chickens and other birds away from owners who were too stingy to build a proper shed; and it drove black, ragged clouds toward the settlement. The wind itself would not have been so bad, and this storm would not have caused such damage to the village if not for the torrential rain and hail. It not only ruined all the crops but also—started by Thor seemingly on purpose as a punishment to the people at the exact moment they were defenseless against the forces of water, when their homes were left without roofs—severely damaged household goods. An almost solid wall of water engulfed the settlement.
If before some daredevils still went toward the sea, now no one doubted that only splinters remained of the boats. And if anyone did doubt, they didn't go outside: even if the house was roofless, it was better to be there—at least the wind and the slanted drops and hailstones wouldn't reach them.
But several carefully sheltered drakkars and the home of their owner, tall and long, seemed invulnerable to the storm: neither the wind nor the rain and hail caused them harm. The house was built of sturdy oak logs, well-caulked. Behind a layer of logs stood a layer of planks; the windows were small and few, so the house remained warm even in winter, which was very important given the local climate. They used an open hearth here, but with a trick: above the hole in the ceiling, on eight pillars, rose a square of tightly nailed boards that prevented rainwater from flooding the single floor; however, it didn't help now—the wind had torn it off. The roof of this house, unlike most local buildings, was not straw piled on beams, but wooden. And like the walls, the roof was also double-layered: first a layer of oak, then pine. This house belonged to the richest and most renowned local havding and jarl—Bjorn the Fierce.
Bjorn the Fierce was a berserker. He was tall and very strong, and no one had yet emerged victorious from a battle with him. He had long black hair, constantly tangled, and a beard of the same length reaching his belt, which is why he was sometimes called not the Fierce, but the Shaggy. Almost all his wealth he acquired on raids, none of which had ever ended in failure for him. He even had his own shrine not far from the forest. He had already plundered many settlements on the western shore, traveled south, and even against the red dwarves; now he finally intended to destroy the monastery of Saint Erheir, which he hated. For a long time, Bjorn did not dare attack it because an attack on this monastery was the final raid of his father: after plundering the monastery, while already at the ships, he was overtaken by the warriors of Count von Kreinz, the suzerain of the monastery, and killed. Long did Bjorn accumulate wealth and strength, long did he cherish the thirst for revenge, and now he was stronger than ever: he had five beautifully equipped drakkars and many loyal warriors—local bonds, young relatives, and others, almost strangers. His entire retinue was armed with the best weapons that could be found on Greers. Now he was ready for the campaign and did not fear von Kreinz's warriors. He only waited for good sailing weather and a fair wind.
The drakkars and the retinue had been ready two weeks ago, but all this time a contrary wind had blown. Of course, they could have gone by oars, but Bjorn did not want his warriors to arrive at the mainland tired and exhausted from several days of rowing: after all, they were to fight von Kreinz's warriors, and the old knight himself had not yet weakened much. But today the wind changed... and brought a storm. Bjorn was very angry and almost broke the idols of Thor and Njord, but regained his senses in time and brought them sacrifices. During the storm, he sat by his hearth in the company of two eldest sons and his closest retainers. All were drinking braga, occasionally glancing out the window to see if the priest had appeared.
— Yes, the weather has really let loose today, — said Grim Hollow-Shield, Bjorn's oldest companion on all his raids.
— And just as that Helgi went out in such foul weather, — he continued, — one of ours went out before him. Not an old man like him, but a young one—and yet even he was swept away by the wind... I can't imagine how he's walking there...
— One must think Thor protects his servant, — said Bjorn's eldest nephew, a rune master, son of their clan's rune master.
At that very moment, the door swung open and a tall old man with a staff in his hand literally stumbled into the room. Rare red hairs were still visible in his gray hair, and former power could be discerned in his behavior and habits. This was Helgi, once a strong warrior and fearsome viking, now a priest of Thor with the strange nickname Pebble-in-the-Boot. Where this nickname came from was not exactly known, as Helgi himself did not elaborate on the subject. But, as always in such cases, the people had their own explanation, and this time it was quite plausible.
As they said, the nickname originated from one very shameful incident in Helgi's life. The story went like this: "There lived someone named Helgi. His father was Atsur the Red, son of Hjargan brother of Ragi, grandson of Sven Leather-Hose etc. and so on, and his mother was Hallgred, daughter of (list of Hallgred's ancestors in the male line).
This Helgi entered the service of a certain Jarl Olaf Fair-Hair, son of... It happened once that Olaf went on a viking raid. On this raid, he attacked his old enemy, Sven the Bald, a famous viking. Olaf had a large host, and among his warriors were..., but Sven also brought a mighty army, and fighting for him among others were....
And there was a great battle, and those fell in it... At one moment Olaf found himself without retainers, surrounded by enemies, and called out to Helgi, who stood alone on a neighboring ship, so that he might jump over and help him. To this, Helgi replied:
--- There is a sharp stone in my boot, and I cannot jump."
In the end Olaf won, but Helgi was disgraced and exiled from the retinue. Thus did folk rumor explain the origin of the nickname.
But if that happened, it was long ago, and now Helgi stumbled through the door and announced with his booming voice, which had often drowned out the noise of battle in the past but had now weakened along with its owner:
— Thor has accepted the sacrifice.
Bjorn tore his clouded gaze away from his beautiful gilded horn of braga and looked at Helgi.
— Thoorrr, — Bjorn asked, stretching the "r" with a heroic belch, — I mean... Pfft, Helgi, what will the weather be like tomorrow, eh?
— Today Thor was angry, but we have appeased him, and tomorrow it will be clear. He shall send, with the help of Njord, the wind that is needed for the campaign—an easterly.
— What wind, you say?
— Jarl, I already answered: an easterly.
— Ah-ah-ah, well then everything is fine, — said the havding, burying his face in the horn of braga again. After about a minute he looked up and added:
— But bear in mind that if there is no wind tomorrow, I'll chop your Thor into tiny pieces (he meant he would destroy Thor's idol).
— Helgi trusts not the gray-beard's word,
Thor's axe is hard-helmeted.
The war-lord's viper
Has not yet come to its time, — Helgi answered in verse.
It was a worthy answer, and Bjorn graced Helgi with his horn.
By morning the storm had ended. Strictly speaking, it had ended during the night, but the villagers only began to notice this long after dawn—right around the time they woke up, as they had spent almost the entire night without sleep. As soon as they woke, they roused their household and all together set out to collect hay, utensils, remnants of boats, torn nets, dead and unconscious relatives, and everything else that had been carried away by the storm.
Meanwhile, in the jarl's house, everyone was already up. He himself rose, and barely rubbing his eyes, went outside—to check the weather. There, the sun warmed him and a strong, though of course not like yesterday's, easterly wind refreshed his drunken head. Realizing that Helgi's prediction had come true, he brought sacrifices to Njord and Thor in gratitude for sending the necessary weather, as well as another sacrifice to Thor and one to Tyr, calling upon them as gods of war and begging them to make the upcoming campaign successful. Returning from the shrine, his first act was to find and generously reward Helgi, and only after fulfilling these duties of a jarl did he order the ships and weapons to be readied and the bonds to be summoned: the campaign was beginning.
Part I. Northern Lands.
Chapter I. The Monastery of Saint Erheir.
The monastery of Saint Erheir is one of two monasteries in the Northern Lands. It holds neither great strategic nor great political importance.
Brother Treerhem sat in his cell and prayed. His knees measured time unerringly, and he always felt how long he had stood kneeling; now, when numbness had replaced the dull pain, he knew he had been standing for over an hour. But despite these unpleasant sensations, Brother Treerhem could pray for a whole day: for him it was not a burden, but a joy. Moreover, during prayer he sometimes stopped, raised his eyes to the crucifix—he had a simple wooden crucifix in his cell—and began what he called conversations with God. During these conversations, he simply asked questions or sought advice, and an answer or solution would immediately form in his mind.
His cell was small and quite dark—it had only one window. There was also a bed, neither soft nor hard (there was no luxury in the monastery, but self-flagellation was not encouraged), a simple table with an open book, a chair, a box for books and parchments, and an altar with the crucifix. The book lying on the table had been open to that page for a week; this book was a chronicle, the keeping of which was Brother Treerhem's duty. As is easy to guess, he treated this duty quite carelessly. In the box lay works of the holy fathers taken by Treerhem from the library. These books were difficult for him, but he considered reading them and understanding their meaning a very important matter and read with great attention. Understanding was further complicated by how worn some of the books were: some phrases could not be deciphered even by the old monks who had been copying sacred books for decades and knew some literally by heart.
Besides all the above, in the corner hung a sheet nailed to the wall (the monastery walls were stone, so nails had to be driven into the lime connecting the blocks). Such a sheet hung in every cell—it was a collection of rules adopted in the monastery. In essence, these were commandments, but with specified punishments: from two hours of work in the garden or library for idle chatter to exile for shedding blood on monastery grounds. The only person whose blood a local monk or novice could shed was himself: after all, anyone can accidentally cut themselves or scrape their skin. Because of this prohibition, all meat for the brotherhood was prepared outside the monastery. Nothing was said about murder in this sheet: it was taken for granted that a murderer would be exiled from the sacred abode and handed over to the secular authorities, namely the suzerain of the monastery and adjacent lands, Count von Kreinz. However, there was one restriction on punishment for murder: if a monk killed while defending his own life, he was exiled or not based on whether he shed blood or not. That is, if the defender killed the opponent with bloodshed—with a sword or axe—he was exiled; however, if he defended himself with a club or crossbow, he remained unpunished. In reality, a blow from a club sometimes sheds no less blood than a blow from a sword, and a crossbow bolt occasionally passes through its target. But to give the monks some means of self-defense while simultaneously not allowing pride and rage to develop—the sword was the weapon of haughty knights, and fierce vikings fought with axes—such cases were not taken into account. The bow was forbidden, as learning to shoot it well required a great deal of time, and in the monastery one needed to engage not in studying weapons or martial arts, but in spiritual self-improvement.
Due to these prohibitions, the arsenal in the monastery, located near the homeland of the vikings—the Greer Islands—consisted of numerous and quite diverse clubs and crossbows, and one type of obedience was keeping all this weaponry in combat readiness.
In general, there were seven duties in the monastery (by the number of days of the week, the number of archangels, the number of angelic ranks, and many other no less substantial reasons, particularly economic necessity): divine service, work in the garden, tending livestock, writing the chronicle, work in the library, cleaning premises and monastery grounds—which also included service in the monastery herbarium—and keeping weapons in combat readiness. The first duty was general—all monks were required to serve, but it did not burden them at all, as the monastery had only two churches: one internal and one external, and there were quite a few monks.
Many monks worked in the garden—after all, animal food was not consumed during fasts, and there were more fasting days in the year than ordinary days. Accordingly, there were far fewer monk-herders, and they mainly tended animals necessary for field work. Few kept the chronicle: why are twenty descriptions of the same thing needed? But many performed their obedience in the library. There were many reasons for this: for example, that the monastery could be supported by local peasants, but literate monks could not be replaced by anyone, or that the condition of books worsened very quickly in the local climate. Furthermore, there was an overwhelming amount of work in the library—one transcription of books in calligraphic hand took considerable time, but these books also had to be sorted, their issuance to other monks monitored, some—especially old ones—translated into a more modern language, as well as correcting errors of other translators and simple slips of the pen, which occurred in unbelievable numbers. Cleaning, although it included many diverse tasks—from washing floors to caring for horses and growing medicinal herbs in the monastery herbarium—occupied quite few monks. There are several reasons for this: cleaning itself was far from thorough, there were very few horses, the monastery herbarium was almost useless as rare herbs could not be grown in the cold local climate, and the superiors in ancient times reduced the size of the herbarium to such ridiculous proportions that usually no more than one old monk-herbalist, one young monk—his apprentice—and one novice worked there. Keeping weapons in combat readiness was the easiest and most useless activity, and therefore no more people were employed in the arsenal than chroniclers, but they had much more free time. This free time "club-bearers," as the monks called them, or "clubs," as the peasants called them, spent on prayers, preparing food—and since the food was simple and prepared very easily—on training themselves and other strong inmates in the "noble art of handling a club," as they said in mockery of similar words knights used about swords. Of course, the superiors were not very pleased with such pastimes, especially considering that the prohibition on spending time on training was the same reason why the bow was forbidden. Speaking of duties, it should be noted that each monk, besides the general one, had only one duty, determined when he was a novice and unchanging until the end of his life; he could engage in other matters, but only after receiving the corresponding punishment.
When Treerhem was a novice, his mentors argued for a long time about where to assign him—to the arsenal or the chronicle. He would not have been able to perform any other work well: he was too lazy. Those who said his place was in the arsenal emphasized mainly his height (he was above average) as well as his earlier upbringing. Their opponents, however, said that Treerhem: first, was not very strong; second, was incapable of any physical labor; and third, reflected and prayed much, and it is better to indulge in thoughts and prayers in solitude, which the secluded cells of chroniclers provided.
In general, Brother Treerhem's character was quite strange: he was, first, unsurprisingly, religious, and second, strangely, simultaneously industrious and lazy. His laziness is already known; but nothing has been said about his industriousness yet. He worked much mentally—he loved to reflect on a wide variety of topics, read a lot, and therefore had something to say in almost every conversation; furthermore, sometimes using the monastery chronologies, he would undertake some calculations, for example, how much the cathedral cost or what part of the income their suzerain received from the monastery. He occasionally had bouts of industriousness when he wrote the chronicle at an accelerated pace, or helped other monks, or engaged in something else—for instance, in such a mood he often carved something from wood. But such bouts were extremely rare for Brother Treerhem.
He possessed quite extensive knowledge of mathematics and knew, besides his native tongue and Latin, three other languages: Viking (essentially just a slightly modified language of his homeland—the Duchy of Schwarzbach), the language of the County of Ormagnac, and again as a slight modification, but this time of the Ormagnac language, the Saxland language; of course, not the Saxland spoken by simple peasants, but that which was adopted in higher circles under strong influence of the D'Ormagnac dynasty. Furthermore, he had a good understanding of agricultural theory, like all chroniclers endowed with at least the beginnings of analytical thinking: they wrote mainly about harvests, diseases, and weather, so simply analyzing the records could easily establish what increases the harvest and what harms it. At the start of the narrative, Brother Treerhem was twenty-three years old.
...So, just as Brother Treerhem clicked his beads and prepared to begin a new prayer, he heard a knock at the door and a loud, cheerful voice saying:
— Frater! Old Albeyn is calling you. Finish your work on the manuscript which you—I'd bet my life, but I can't—didn't even start writing today, and follow me.
— Who is that? — Brother Treerhem asked tiredly, struggling to rise from his knees, although he already knew the answer to his question perfectly. Only one person in the monastery called the superior "the old man," "old Albeyn," "pops," and other no less familiar nicknames; only one person in the monastery called other monks "frater"; only one person in the monastery allowed himself to speak so cheerfully and loudly within the walls of the sacred abode.
— Though you needn't answer, I already know who you are, — continued Brother Treerhem, now standing and hanging his beads from his belt, — you are Brother Hellbor.
Then the door swung open abruptly and Brother Treerhem saw Brother Hellbor himself. He was tall, strongly built, fair-haired and quite tanned—as is easy to guess, he was one of the armorers. Hel, as close and not-so-close friends called him, was of a kind and cheerful disposition. He was neither stupid nor brilliant, but invariably witty; moreover, he was very inventive with all sorts of jokes and pranks, for which he constantly received punishments. Some said (and Brother Treerhem even calculated it, but did not say) that Brother Hellbor worked more in the garden than Brother Treerhem over his chronicle. Brother Hellbor had no place in a quiet monastery. He was sent there when he was only three years old because his parents could not feed six children. Many times conversations were held about his exile for endless idle chatter and sometimes quite harmful little jokes, but so far he was limited to additional hours of work.
Smiling, he addressed Brother Treerhem:
— Why are you dawdling, eh? Don't be afraid, pops won't eat you!
— I'm just tying my beads...
— Why is it taking so long? Let me help you!
And in the most brusque manner he snatched the beads from Treerhem and quickly attached them himself. Without such actions, completely contrary to monastic customs, this eccentric could not live a day, and everyone grew used to it. Therefore, what Brother Treerhem would not have forgiven another, he forgave Hel.
Finally, the beads were tied and they went out. The path to the superior was not short. The fact is that the monastery of Saint Erheir was arranged extremely complexly: it had survived many rebuilds, each of which added new cells, turrets, corridors, galleries onto an already complicated original structure. If one digs through the archives of this monastery, with proper attention one can find information on more than fifty rebuilds, not counting minor repairs, but four of them stand out strongly against the rest.
Some old and experienced librarians consider the very founding of the monastery—the construction, or rather, the digging of new cells next to the cell of Saint Erheir himself—as the first rebuild. Grounds for such a view certainly exist: take, for instance, that in the original first corridor side passages were made, which naturally was accompanied by a change, i.e., a rebuild, of the corridor walls. But according to the traditional and more widely held view, including many scholar-monks highly authoritative in the history of the monastery of Saint Erheir, the first major rebuild should be considered the construction of a wooden house over the hill, in which the first cells were located. The next major rebuild everyone unanimously recognizes is the replacement of the wooden structure with stone and a significant increase in the number of underground cells. The third was the doubling of the building's size, and finally, the fourth is considered to be a very thorough repair of time-damaged underground cells and an overall change of the hill to such an extent that it came to be perceived by all simply as part of the above-ground building. Brother Treerhem's cell was located at the end of the monastery, opposite the superior's cell.
Brother Treerhem and Brother Hellbor spent about half an hour on the way to the superior, ascending and descending stairs many times—of which there were so many in the monastery that with reasonable economy they would have sufficed for a small town. During this half hour, restless Bor—another nickname for Brother Hellbor—told Brother Treerhem the latest news from monastic life and something about his adventures outside the walls of the sacred abode. At the superior's door, Hellbor left his brother in Christ and headed back to his arsenal—he still had much work.
Left alone, Treerhem was in no hurry to knock on the door and enter to Father Superior. Hellbor hadn't just said that pops wouldn't eat him; Brother Treerhem suspected that the superior would again reproach him for laziness and threaten to transfer him to the garden "where you won't be lazy," and, as always, he wouldn't: the superior treated Brother Treerhem well and almost respected him for his extensive knowledge and exemplary piety. After hesitating for a minute, the monk crossed himself, quickly said a prayer, and knocked on the door. Hearing the familiar "Enter, my son," he opened the door and entered.
The superior sat at the table. He was of medium height, somewhat plump, already balding and white-haired. Not gray, but specifically white-haired: his hair had been white since birth. Because of this white hair, Hellbor and many other monks called the superior Albeyn; but this was nothing more than a nickname—only Father Superior himself knew his real name, as did the one who baptized him—if he were still alive, of course. That no one knew the superior's name was not surprising—many people wished to keep their names secret for various reasons: from vows or belief in witchcraft to simply disliking their own name.
— Did you call me, my father? — Brother Treerhem asked.
— Yes, my son. About an hour ago. I would like to talk to you about two things; as is customary, one bad and one good: first, about your manuscript (I knew it, thought Treerhem), and second, about your piety (this I did not suspect!).
— Let's start with the bad—your manuscript, — Father Superior continued, — according to reports from other brothers, it is almost not being kept. My son, is this true?
— Yes, holy father, it is true. But I...
— I know your excuses in advance—admit it, I have heard them more than once. You believe that since others also keep a chronicle, yours will be unnecessary—you are wrong. What if other manuscripts burn? What if another chronicler makes a mistake? Then your manuscript will be needed, will it not? So, my son, work more on your chronicle!
Just as the superior knew all of Brother Treerhem's excuses, so Brother Treerhem knew all the arguments the superior used to urge him to work, and therefore had prepared a new excuse in advance—between them, this dispute had long since turned into a kind of game, where in the interval between meetings one had to come up with a new thought on a given topic. The lazy monk was already about to voice it, but the superior had not finished:
— And now about piety. You, Brother Treerhem, are undoubtedly one of the most pious and believing monks in our monastery; honestly, no violations of our prohibitions, nor susceptibility to any of the Seven Deadly Sins except laziness, do you have—or have been noticed. For your exemplary piety and faith, I would like to reward you.
Brother Treerhem, eyes wide, stared at the superior. His whole face expressed the highest degree of astonishment.
— Yes, my son, you didn't mishear. Precisely reward.
Noticing that Brother Treerhem's face had turned from astonished to angry, the superior hurried to continue:
— I fully understand your indignation—it is completely justified. For faith indeed no reward is needed. But you are not letting me finish, are you? This reward is actually not a reward, but an incentive, — noticing again the fierce rebuttal ready to burst from Brother Treerhem's lips, he waved his hand at him twice, ordering him not to interrupt, — and an incentive not for you, but for others. Among our brotherhood... eh, my son, I will be frank with you; although this is not new to you and you already know it, right? ... Ah, well I'll say it: among our brotherhood there are many people who came to the monastery only so they would have something to eat and somewhere to sleep—is that not true? — and for them this incentive is needed. Of course, they will not believe more—oh no!—but they will at least behave more piously. And then, if the Lord wills, faith will come.
— Well then, — Treerhem answered, — since this gift is not for me, I'll take it.
— Excellent.
— Now look, — the superior continued, placing a pouch on the table, — here are two gifts; choose any one.
And he untied the pouch. Inside were wonderful gilded dwarven wind-up own clocks and a massive gold crucifix, one side of which was decorated with a beautifully executed image of Christ, while the other was generously strewn with rubies that, in their round shape, somewhat resembled drops of blood. The value of these gifts was roughly equal and exceeded ten Abells.
Without a second's hesitation, Treerhem answered:
— I choose the clock, my father.
— Why, if it's not a secret? — asked the surprised superior.
— Well... Both things cost about ten Abells, but I have no need for money in the monastery, so value does not matter. And since value doesn't matter, utility is important. I'll start with the clock. Hourglasses, which I could use instead of these, are bad for a known reason—the sand runs out quickly; sundials can only be used when the sky is clear, and in general their system is not very convenient. Therefore, mechanical clocks are a useful thing.
— And the cross? — he continued, — Undoubtedly, the cross is a symbol of our holy faith, and if it is richly decorated, it is a good sign—Christianity is widespread and widely known. Such a cross could be worn by a bishop at an Easter service. But for me, my father, a wooden one is enough. I have no need for luxury—in the monastery, I repeat, it is useless.
— My son, you made the right choice. Had one of those hypocrites I recently mentioned been in your place, they would have taken the crucifix, deciding that they had amazed me with their piety, wouldn't they?
After these words, the superior rose with difficulty—as previously mentioned, he was plump and moreover suffered from rheumatism—and said:
— Now that you have finally chosen your reward, it is time for you to go back—to work on the manuscript. Come, I will accompany you—not all the way to the cell, of course, but about halfway.
Yes, the monastery was very large and well-prepared for defense. And this time, the prior chose a path that led along the monastery walls. The high walls were comparable to those of a fortress—indeed, they were fortress walls. Saint Erheir's Monastery, like many other monasteries located on the very edge of the Christian world, was a true fortress. But even this did not save it—about twenty years ago, Vikings attacked the monastery, plundering and devastating it, though their drakkars were intercepted and defeated by the warriors of Count von Kreinz. The suzerain returned most of the recovered property to the monastery, but naturally kept some for himself. As is known in the Northern lands, everything is first warmed up and then done, so the monastery was restored quite recently, and the outer Church of the Ascension of the Lord, which had been destroyed to its very foundations, was completed only a year ago. But what a sight it was now! While the monastery might have come to look worse despite the reconstruction, the church's destruction followed by restoration had clearly been beneficial. Now it was almost a cathedral—both in size and in its aesthetic merits. It was even surprising how such an architectural marvel had been built in this God-forgotten province. From the height of the monastery walls, it resembled a person lying on their back: the nave were closed legs, the transepts spread arms, the choir the torso, and the chapel itself the head; from the very heart of the temple, a spire soared toward the heavens, built largely thanks to the immense efforts of the prior.
Just as Father Prior and Brother Treerhem were passing by an embrasure from which the church was best seen, Papa Albeyn asked:
– A fine church, is it not, my son?
Treerhem happened to be looking at his new watch at that moment. He had not expected a question, and upon hearing it, he abruptly looked away from the gift and replied:
– Yes, Father, the church is simply beautiful.
– And do you remember, – the prior continued his questioning, – when it was restored and after what?
– I was very small when they began to restore it. The restoration, – Brother Treerhem explained, – began after the Viking raid. And construction was finished about a year ago—largely because you, Father Prior, managed the matter so skillfully.
– Yes, you are right, my son. Of course, it is not proper in any way to boast, but it can be said without exaggeration that if not for my involvement, the church would not have been finished even in ten years, and she would never have seen a spire at all.
Then he seemed to return from some unpleasant duty within the world of his pleasant memories and said:
– Can you imagine how difficult it will be to rebuild her again?
Brother Treerhem focused on the watch again—after all, he had never in his life owned a watch or any gifts—and thus replied without thinking at all:
– Yes, Father Prior, that would be very bad.
– Agree, my son, it will be very bad if the Vikings attack again and destroy the church once more... and not only the church.
– Yes, Father Prior, that would be very bad.
Silence reigned for a couple of seconds; but suddenly the poorly hidden secret meaning of the prior's words reached Brother Treerhem, and the monk addressed his spiritual father (the abbot loved, as he called it, "speaking in edges," which certainly made understanding his speeches somewhat difficult, although it sharpened the attention of those who often spoke with him to the subtext of any statement):
– Father, are you trying to say that the Vikings are attacking again?!
– That is exactly what I want to say, my son, – Albeyn replied, looking somehow haggard, – I have learned that they are advancing again—and this time in greater numbers. After all, a full eight drakkars! If one believes the always-exaggerating fishermen from Strandwind. Do you remember, my son, the terrible storm that occurred a couple of days ago?
– Yes, Father Prior.
– Well, after it, the wind shifted—previously it was a west wind, and now it blows from the east, yes? It seems the Vikings set sail just after the storm; meaning they will be here in about a day and a half—and if they do not loot any villages on their way here, even sooner, right?
– But that is very soon! – Brother Treerhem exclaimed, forgetting even to add the usual "Father Prior" or "my Father."
– Yes, my son. I was reported of their approach shortly after I sent for you. And I wish to ask one thing of you.
– I am at your service, Father Prior.
– Count von Kreinz is our suzerain, yes? Agree that this means he must protect us. Now then, I ask you to ride to his Castle and report the approach of these brigands. You know the way to his castle, do you not? (Treerhem nodded) And you can ride a horse, yes?
– You are absolutely right, Father Prior. But...
– Agree, my son, now is not the time for objections.
– Of course, but...
– My son, I am not listening.
– But I only wanted to ask if the watch was an advance payment?
– How could such a thing come to mind! No, it was precisely a gift. Now go. Although no, wait.
The prior reached into his bosom and, completely unexpectedly for Brother Treerhem, pulled out a red feather.
– This feather, my son, – he said, handing the feather to Brother Treerhem, – you must deliver to the Count as a sign that you are my messenger. From him, you must obtain some weapon and bring it back to me as a sign that, ahem, "The Suzerain is on his way." This is one of those silly feudal ceremonies—agree, they are quite silly, aren't they? And when you report to him, you must get the weapon from him and say... although forgive my forgetfulness, I have already told you this, haven't I? Well then, that is all.
Father Prior blessed Brother Treerhem, and the latter had already turned to leave, but suddenly stopped:
– Father Prior, – he smiled a strained smile, trying to hide his fear of the Vikings, – forgive my boldness, but you just lied!
– What? – was all the startled abbot could ask.
– When you said you were seeing me off, you said I would go work on a manuscript.
– Ah, – the prior replied, and his face lit up with a smile—not forced like Brother Treerhem's, but quite sincere, as if this seemingly inappropriate question had deeply touched him, – no, my son, I did not lie. You truly will go work on a manuscript—on the manuscript of the history of our monastery! Now, – and here the prelate became serious again, – go, and go as fast as you can!
Brother Treerhem only bowed, quickly and almost silently, simply asking forgiveness for his boldness out of habit, and turning, walked quickly toward the stables. For some time more, he heard the receding voice of the prior walking in the opposite direction:
– Run, my son! And I shall go now and notify the others; there is time to gather them without unnecessary fuss. May God help you!
"May God help you!" – the corridor walls echoed once more; then everything froze and silence reigned again.
