The Somd

1. The Somd

Somd Irdrinjall could not shake the goat from his mind.

There had been more ill omens afoot as the year came to its close than he'd known in the last twenty, but there had not been a battle so bloody in the plains of Eidenfyar for two decades either.

And yet, the war had concluded for now. The Mosfellsk and the Esr had extinguished all their forces; sent them out into messy, needless slaughter that would stain the soil black for a lifetime. Jarl Svadifari had done himself no favours either by ordering his men to pick off anyone he thought was mocking him behind his back.

The Somd sighed into his chest. The forest and its people were in disarray. His head hung low as he perched in the crook of tangled tree roots, far away from anyone who might disturb his time of reflection. He may as well have not sought solitude so desperately – the bleating of the mother goat frayed his thoughts, and the horror she'd birthed altogether unsettled him.

It was not by chance that he'd chosen to take a walk that evening, following the line of the Fisher in the stars as it slipped out of view at the horizon. It was no accident he'd happened upon a small settlement of Mosfellsk seeking sanctuary in the forest, far from the war. That night, the clash of nations did not seem to trouble them though, and instead it was one of their goats, a heavily pregnant dam that would not live to nurse her offspring.

The Somd did not hesitate when he read the grief set on the settlers' faces. It must've been why the Fisher led him here, for the man sat in the stars with his line poised was a sign of discovering something of good fortune. Though they spoke no common tongue, the Somd asked one of the settlers to show him where they were keeping the goat.

The dam bulged sickeningly at the belly; so swollen it was a wonder how she had not yet split. The Somd did not speak her language either, but under his touch she was calm. Her short fur was rough like the bristles of a fir tree. Her stunted horns were cold and solid as he grabbed them, like its bark. No matter the shape or tongue of any being he met, they were all the temporary, walking embodiment of the forest. He ordered the gathering group of settlers away from the animal, and once out of sight, he slit her throat for her own good.

Her eyes glazed and the last of her bleating hung in the air. For the Somd there was no pleasure in taking her life, only satisfaction, as the trees would not forgive him for watching her suffer through the inevitable. When he was sure she was dead, he took his knife to her bloated belly and plucked out the kid with his hands...

Only there were two. Conjoined. Mangled. Like no creature he'd ever seen before.

Disgusted at what he'd brought into the world he put the blade through its throat too. It was the only thing to do, though with no way to communicate to the Mosfellsk settlers, to their understanding they had willingly let a stranger slaughter part of their tribe of goats and leave. The betrayal in their eyes would be something the Somd would deeply regret until the end of his days, but it was the sight of the writhing, repulsive creature that he'd lose sleep over. The Fisher had not led him to good fortune, only to another omen.

He did not know what it meant.

He closed his eyes and sank back into the knotted tree roots. He had no other to consult with and share his worry. Had he done the right by the forest in slaughtering the thing? Who could say? He had his Somdsklar, the men who had pledged their lives with blood to keep his, but they were arrogant creatures of the flesh, and not like he. To add to his concern, the voices in the forest were quieter than they should be.

He'd almost forgotten.

He reached for his belt and unhooked a small drinking horn. His men longed for ale, but it was not what the Somd carried about at his hip. He unfastened it and brought it to his lips, tasting the familiar tang of his Somdsklar's collective blood. It was an unpleasant taste, but one he'd grown used to since his youth, and once the liquid hit his empty stomach the voices began their crescendo: creaking, groaning, rasping tones that lingered on the periphery of hearing.

Any other man might describe this sensation as the tingle up his spine when something was unexplainably amiss. Others of the flesh might boast they have instinct, but it was yet another vain interpretation of a phenomenon they did not understand.

For the Somd it was his purpose to hear this language clearly, as they were the connection to the world outside of his forest: to the sky and soil he could not reach, to the water and wind he could not feel. That night nature lamented still of man's Ninth Battle, of its wounds and the dead. It resented man's fire and no longer felt at harmony with them, but these feelings were not new either. The tones were sad and full of disappointment, though nestled somewhere between the growls and deep, earthly tremors was a heartbeat.

Though barely there at first, the more the Somd listened, the harder he sensed it. It was the slightest disturbance, like the steady pulse of a moth's wings through rumbling thunder. It came from somewhere behind him; somewhere beyond the treeline where the land had staged battle.

He eased himself up from the roots' embrace and turned in the direction of the lone heartbeat. His nostrils met the scent of blood; of horse, of smoke, of burning flesh ...

He let loose a scream as his right hand burst aflame.