Note: The following short story is set in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings on the fantasy world of Golarion. Golarion is a world created by Paizo Publishing.
Disclaimer: I am not Lisa Stevens, Vic Wertz, Erik Mona, James Jacobs, or any of the other top brass at Paizo Publishing. I do not own Golarion. The following is fanfiction set in someone else's world.
"…Berenwulf heard Rayf's dying scream cut through the air like a fine waraxe from the gas-forges of Riddleport, and knew that doom was overtaking them; that the hunt was still on, in despite of this blizzard, and at last he saw the awful truth that it was no mortal creature that was hunting them. He turned and wearily stumbled and waded on through the snow, not caring where he was going now, but just trying to get away from whatever it was. Presently, above the howl of the winter gale, his ears caught the jingle of harness, and the creak of springs and turning and half crouching he flattened himself a hole in the snow, and drew his silver bladed hunting knife. Maybe he could ambush whatever it was which was coming on after him. He did not bother to avail himself of the shortsword also at his belt. It might be a fine weapon, in its own way, but it was steel, and unenchanted, and Berenwulf knew enough of stories to recognise that silver had a better hope of marking anything unnatural. The creaking and jingling drew nearer…"
The storyteller paused in his narration to take a long draught from the pewter tankard on the table by his stool. He sat there, in the village meeting hall, surrounded by a small crowd of fascinated children and youths, all seated upon the floor, their eyes fixated upon him. A couple of mothers stood in doorways or leant against walls, looking on approvingly, or nodding occasionally. It was a story in all the best of the old traditions, telling of a group of ulfen warriors who made the mistake of preying on their own kin, and after whom some ghastly revenant spirit or vengeful undead now doubtless stalked, picking them off one by one. The teller was an old man, in furs which had seen better days, grey of beard and with a bald patch exposed when he had set aside his cap earlier in the afternoon. He was still vigorous enough, despite the lines and folds that marked his skin.
The storyteller banged the tankard down, and resumed his narrative:
"…Out of the swirling blizzard emerged something which had been one of the last things he had expected to see. Once, on a trip to the desert lands of the far south, he had glimpsed something in the harbour of a port much akin to this. That had been a woman with the tail of a fish – a mermaid. This was such a creature, but in addition to the silvery tail, she had a great pair of feathered white wings with which she pounded the air in a frenzy, straining almost horizontal in the harness which was her only garb, and her breath steaming. She was paired parallel to another, and as they came forward, more came into sight behind them. Finally, in the awful twilight of that winter storm, the coach came into view, and it was a terrifying sight for Berenwulf to behold. Baba Yaga of the lands to the east is said to have a great chicken-legged hut, after which many smaller hovels which guard her borders are modelled. This was something almost as improbable, a great golden pumpkin of a coach, which rode on a chassis and wheels of iron and gleaming crystal. Only a sorceress or fey of unbelievable power would dare to travel abroad in such a conveyance, pulled as it was by winged mermaids, and Berenwulf's heart sank within him as he realised the awful truth. He heard the driver crack her whip, and haul on the reins, and the mermaids came to a halt, hanging vertical in the air, their wings pounding and their tails flopping down upon the snow. The driver leapt down from her perch on the front of the coach, white furs billowing around her, jewels and metal gleaming in her hair, and she strode forward as easily across the surface of the snow, as if she walked on firm ground. Berenwulf gave a despairing yell, as she neared, and tried to spring from his hole, knife arm raised, but found himself arrested as she whipped out a grand wand fully four feet in length from beneath her cloak, and levelled it at his breastbone. It was the Lady of Winter."
The audience gave a collective gasp.
"Berenwulf looked up into her eyes, as he half-knelt in the snow," the storyteller lowered his voice now, and the children drew a little closer to hear what he was saying the better. "There was no mercy there. The bizarre fates which had been visited upon his comrades now at last made sense… Ranulph crucified upside down on the wall of his inn room, with every sign that he had torn his own eyes out before he died; the disappearance of Gromvuld and the mysterious golden statue of him which his comrades had found and which they had melted down – not realising that it must have likely been the man himself… the ogre that had run amok when Swynfen had disappeared whilst on watch, the battle-priest of Gorum torn apart apparently by his own hounds... every last death meted out by this most terrible of all the spirits of the northlands. 'So', she addressed him, in a lilting voice, describing the smallest of circles to focus his attention with the tip of her wand. 'I have you at last. Make a wish – you know the stories of my power – or wish for nothing and die upon the instant.' And Berenwulf looked up at her, and made the only wish which he could. He knew there was nothing that he could do to assuage the cold anger burning in her heart, and that to do anything other than that which she required would be instantly fatal. He spoke and gave voice to a desire which he believed to be his only chance. And she slashed her wishing wand once through the air, to grant his wish, then turned and went upon her way. It is said that she has a palace in a jungle somewhere in remote lands where the sun stands directly overhead at midday. Perhaps she went there for a while. This story does not say…"
The storyteller trailed off, and after a few moments, it became obvious to his audience that that was apparently all that he had to say – that the telling had ended. They started to grow restive.
"What did he wish for?", one boy spoke up. "What did Berenwulf ask Lady Winter to grant him? And did he survive it?"
"There are many different endings which speak of what he wished for.", the old storyteller shrugged. "Every bard likes to invent his own. Some claim that the saga was pieced together by a monk who served Nethys, who followed a real trail of bodies of a band of brigands one winter, and guessed at what had come to pass – yet even those who like to say that is where the saga came from cannot agree on how their monk said it finished. I like to invite my listeners to decide upon their own endings for the tale."
And the old man hobbled to his feet, reclaimed his tankard, and headed for the door, smiling and shaking his head at all the further demands for an ending to the tale.
Author Notes:
And there it is, a short story I've had sitting on my computer for a while now. Paizo seem to have based their Lands of the Linnorm Kings loosely on Northern European/Russian folklore, with vikings and linnorms, and the daughters of Baba Yaga lurking just across one of the borders in lands their mother stole centuries ago...
I did my best to take a stab at making up something to fit in with that, with a mysterious grim 'fairy godmother', Lady Winter, who features in the land's tales.