Distortions In Time: Book I

Silver Lining on the Grey

"That vaetki – have you seen the vaetki around?" asked the miller, his voice heavy with anger and the tread of his feet was equally heavy. "I swear I saw it a moment ago."

"No, Master Hvati," was the quiet reply of clerk who sat by the door of the mill and inscribed the daily quotas of each individual who brought in the various imported grains to be ground down further for meal. "I have been sitting here the entire time and saw nothing."

"I swear I saw it in the corner of my room just a moment ago – dipping into the corn stores which Skira gave us to grind –"

"Well, since Skira did not weigh it beforehand, it matters not –"

"Oh, he didn't?"

"No," smiled Vani, the clerk, "but I will keep my eyes opened for that cursed troublemaker nevertheless."

"You do that. So will I. I know he was the one who took the hvaeta [1] meal from Elder Orn the other day." Master Hvati glared down at his young clerk and sniffed. "Go ahead and laugh. I know you think my age is catching up with me."

"I am thinking no such thing," Vani lied smoothly.

A week before, Master Hvati had burst in saying that Elder Orn's hvaeta [1] sack weighed one measure short – and that it had been the vaetki's doing despite the fact that it had been stored overnight in a triple-locked room. Really, Vani sighed, at this rate I will be the one shouldering the burden of this place...

But Vani had a wonderful sense of self-preservation and held his tongue. If Master Hvati wished to blame the vaetki (however nonsensical it sounded), none could gainsay it. After all, on this side of Utgard, anything unfortunate was usually laid in blame at the vaetki's door.

[...the wind did not carry their whispers to the East...]

"Aha – there you are!" Oklo chuckled darkly as the group of short youngling Jotunn circled around a small corner on the far end of the Gothahus, where they had trapped the small stripling who now stood, back to the wall, chin down and eyes trained on its feet.

It was the vaetki. The abomination, their parents called it something. The kinder ones called it dvegr [2]. It had no name. Living curses were not gifted names; they were usually gifted death. And if not death, which was the natural order of things, then dishonour and shame – and punishment for continuing on a burdensome existence.

"Where have you been hiding all day?" Oklo asked theatrically.

He was the leader of the small band of younglings who roamed the disintegrating citadel and scavenged stones and excavated items for their parents. On lucky days, they left the city for the Myrkr Skogr to hunt for fell wolves in the forest or sea serpents below the thick ice of Vollrvatn Lake. Today was a free day and it was time to hunt down the vaetki and inflict justice upon its dark head for the insult it had paid to Shavi's father, Ekil the master weaver.

Apparently, Mage Opna had sent money with the vaetki to pay Shavi's father for a wall hanging – but upon arrival, there was found to be a shortage in the amount. Mage Opna blamed Shavi's father and the vaetki. Ekil had unfortunately voiced his first thought – that it was perhaps the fault of Mage Opna – but a few days later, apparently, the mage had searched the little beast's hideout and found the missing coinage, resulting in a shaming on Ekil's name for having spoken out against the mage.

All because of the vaetki's trickery.

Oklo's hand darted forward and he grabbed ahold of the creature's hair shaking it roughly as he lifted it up by the long black stuff. The creature came to his waist – but there was not much meat on it to weigh down Oklo's arm. A small whimper emerged as he bent the head back forcing small red eyes to meet his own. Dead-looking, empty red eyes. He snorted with disgust tossing it at the wall. It fell to the ground in an ungainly sprawl and lay there stunned for a moment.