I do not own Harry Potter.
Prologue
Beyond the Lands of Ice and Fire
Greenland, 1095
Thorvald Ragnarsson knew he was about to die. He had long ago accepted his grim fate, from the moment he'd been forced to flee his homeland. Yet, it wasn't until he'd spotted a white-haired sprite perched serenely on a snow-crowned rock that he had realised his death was upon him.
The sprite glowed with an otherworldly aura, for the plain robes she wore exposed her pale arms to a freezing cold that no enchantment could keep at bay. Thorvald had immediately recognised that this was a Fyjda, his very own spectral guardian who watched over their wards from birth to the last breath. Legends claimed that these reclusive spirits remained hidden until the dark day men were fated to die, where they would finally reveal themselves to warn their wards that the end was near. The pale sprite had lingered to greet him with a mischievous smile, before effortlessly shifting into a white-crowned falcon and silently launching itself skywards. Since that moment, Thorvald had known he was a dead man.
Fate, luck and honour. These three things which governed the hearts of all Seidr wizards since the age of heroes. In those great days, Thorvald's daring ancestors braved the perilous voyage across the violent seas. The men who lived their lives by this ancient code achieved infamy and claimed the greatest honour of an afterlife in Odin's feasting hall. Those who forsook them suffered eternal ignominy in Hel's cold embrace. Now, stranded at the icy fringes of the known world, a cold and bleak end lay ahead for the last of the Ragnarssons. Fear of this shameful end plagued his heart.
It was bitterly cold at the northern edge of the world. Thorvald had known this long before he'd fled there. Like all Icelanders, he'd spent his childhood sitting at his father's hearth and listening to the wild and terrifying tales of Greenland. These sagas warned of ferocious monsters and unimaginable hardships which had plagued the young child with nightly terrors for many moons. That child had once dreamed of winning honour and renown. Never had he imagined that he'd die an outlaw.
The Icelander spat into the snow. Outlaw. He hated being an outlaw, for it defiled all of Thorvald's past deeds and robbed him of any honour. He was the son of a great landowner, a descendant of mighty wizards and a friend of kings. Now, Thorvald was nothing more than a filth-ridden and crippled fugitive cowering from the inherent dangers which roamed this icy realm.
Thorvald cursed his misting breath and wrapped the stinking furs more securely about his shivering body. Fucking cold. It plagued them all, causing their beards to frost and making their bones ache from endless shaking. Not even the strongest magical charms Thorvald could muster seemed to offer the warmth needed to keep the cold away, for it always found a way to sap these defences and breach his weakening spells.
The cold was a ruthless killer. Ravn, the last and most loyal of Thorvald's followers who had accompanied him across the northern seas into exile, had fallen victim to its merciless touch. Once a hardy and brave man, Ravn had frozen to death during a particularly harsh night. Not that this was the only danger an outlaw faced in Greenland. It was a foreboding and inhospitable place. One unsuspecting companion had disappeared when the treacherous ice groaned and devoured him, whilst another had been taken by the great white bears which prowled through the snow. They had found nothing but bloodied bones and mauled offal.
Yet, nothing provoked more fear than the frost-giants.
Once, the Icelander's ancestors had slain all the frost-giants of his homeland, but it had taken many spells, spears and heroic souls to vanquish them from the mountains of Iceland. But Greenland giants were rumoured to be even larger and more volatile than their Icelandic cousins. They were great, hulking creatures with scaly hides and thick fur as white as snow. Fortunately, Thorvald had yet to see one, but he had felt the tremors of its stomping feet as one roamed nearby. He had no wish to venture closer.
A sneeze disturbed Thorvald's solitary reverie as the dazed culprit mumbled an apology. The Icelander grunted in irritation, but another snarling companion cursed the snivelling man vehemently. It made Thorvald despair at how far he'd fallen. He once feasted with kings, but now his life depended on an unruly band of vagabonds and thugs.
There was Floki the Thief, a keen marksman who'd robbed horses; the foul-tempered dwarf Gunther and Asgrim the Screamer, a lesser outlaw who suffered from night terrors. Yet, these men were saints compared to the worst of the unsavoury bunch. That title belonged to several vile men. Sly Olaf who humped other men's wives and Bjorn Braggox, a huge and violent berserk. Worst still, was Gap-Toothed Thorsi, a man whose soul was as ugly as his face. His boasts about brutally murdering the native Skraelings and the collection of scalps hanging from his belt revolted Thorvald.
Their last companion furiously rubbed at his reddened nose and grumbled quietly about his misfortune. Thorvald could not blame him. Six-Fingered Hakon was cursed with ill luck from the moment a wizard had raped his mother, a peaceful land-wight from the wilds of Iceland. He was the only other wizard in their band, and Thorvald had never met a more miserable mage than poor, beleaguered Hakon. As the chilling wind weathered their patience and exposed rising tensions, Thorvald sighed gloomily. How his enemies would laugh if they saw him now.
Thorvald's skill with magic easily overshadowed Hakon's meagre talents and it was his spells which cured their hurts and kept the cold from killing them. Many of the outlaws hated him, but their fear of the grim Icelander and their need of his skills overruled their hate and envy. If Thorvald died, then they were all doomed. This truth alone was why they had armed themselves for the coming battle.
Floki whistled loudly into the wind, alerting his companions of an encroaching danger. Those closest to Thorvald shifted nervously, whilst the Icelander absentmindedly rubbed at his scarred leg and reflected on the fate he was certain would soon befall him.
It was Thorsi, the only native Greenlander amongst them, who had returned their lair with grave tidings after venturing to the nearby settlement of Lysufjord. Rumours abounded about a pair of strangers who'd recently arrived in Greenland with an Icelandic merchant's ship harboured in the port. They were said to radiate trouble, from their weathered appearance to a suspicion that they were cursed with the same magic as the old prophetess Thorbjorg. Thorsi soon discovered that they'd come to end a feud with the last of the Ragnarssons and that they were offering silver to the local huntsmen, who they hoped would guide them through the wilds, so they could hunt down the elusive Icelander.
With Thorsi's news, the outlaws had grimly discussed their fate. Some wished to flee, but there was nowhere left to hide. Most had already been ousted from Iceland, ships to Vinland were scarce and their chances of surviving further north were even bleaker. The only desperate option left was to fight for Thorvald's life.
Bjorn, Thorsi and Floki were confident that an ambush would succeed, but Thorvald remained unconvinced and counselled caution. The two strangers were sorcerers who had hounded him from Britain to the edges of the world. They had confronted him on several occasions across the islands of fire and ice which rose out the dark and thunderous seas. Despite narrowly escaping each time, it came at the cost of many kinsmen until only Thorvald remained to bear the Ragnarsson name. Floki may have some skill with a bow and Bjorn the strength of a formidable warrior, but their opponents were not mere youths playing at being errant knights searching for adventure. They were warriors forged in sacred Avalon and had been challenging foes when their feud with Thorvald began. The bloody pursuit of their prey and the deaths of many men proved that they had only grown stronger in the years since Avalon's fall.
Snow crumbled from his fur cloak as the Icelander shifted in discomfort at the memories of that desperate struggle flooded his mind. He remembered a torn banner flying above struggling retainers, fierce spells and broken bodies, whilst a jolt of terror briefly filled his heart with dread when he recalled how Troll-Bane's sword had carved into his leg. Thorvald had retaliated with a killing blow, although Troll-Bane was already mortally wounded, and the Icelander had still required the swords and wands of many others to end the famous knight's life.
Then there was the Lord of Avalon. Regardless of the wounds afflicted upon him during the battle, the Flame-Bearer had bravely met his end by being struck down in a duel against the last descendant of Merlin.
Melusine. How Thorvald cursed that name. The fair and beautiful witch had ensnared him with enchantments, twisting his soul until he was a mere shadow of the honourable warrior he had once been. As soon as the Lord of Avalon was dead, Melusine had abandoned Thorvald to his fate, forsaking his life in a bid to aid her flight from Britain. Now, on the day he was fated to die, Thorvald cursed his former lover's dark soul. The Icelander did not regret the Lord of Avalon's death, but Melusine's mutilation of her rival's corpse had tarnished the honour of all those who aided in Avalon's downfall. The evil enchantress had cost the Ragnarsson family everything and Thorvald hated her for it.
Thorvald would willingly admit that he envied the Lord of Avalon's heroic death and what the Flame-Bearer had promised would now come to pass. The knights who had survived the sack of Avalon would avenge their master's fall, for nothing could stop silver-tongued Slytherin and relentless Gryffindor's vengeful chase.
The outlaws had stumbled upon a snow-bound knoll for the ambush, for it rose up beside one of the paths frequently traversed by huntsmen heading north. Floki was waiting behind the highest boulder on the knoll's summit, his first arrow already in his hands. Bjorn Braggox, the strongest fighter amongst them, now lay hidden beneath a pile of snow. When their opponents approached, he would burst out from his icy den to wreak havoc on the young knights with his menacing axe. The rest were scattered haphazardly across the knoll, although Thorsi and Sly Olaf skulked further up the path so that they could hinder their victims escape.
Thorvald welcomed the coming confrontation. He was tired of running and a warrior's heart still beat within him. Ending his life with a Siedr staff in his hand was a more honourable way to die than succumbing to the dangers of this unforgiving land. He no longer wished to escape a grim end to an even grimmer life. Foolish and futile as it was to fight the two spectres who wanted him dead, he only hoped that his final deeds would grant him a heroic seat beside his ancestors in Odin's hall.
Thorvald's arm was jerked urgently, once again dispelling the morbid thoughts from his mind.
'They're here,' Asgrim muttered hurriedly. The sound of frost-bitten rocks being crushed underfoot reached his ears and Thorvald noticed that the rusted halberd in Asgrim's hand was trembling with nerves. It was a stark reminder that Thorvald's comrades were farmers, thugs and thieves, not warriors.
'I do not recognise this place,' a man growled gruffly in the accent of a native Greenlander. Thorvald noted that this must be the huntsman who had traded their lives for silver.
'What do you mean?' said another man and Thorvald recognised Slytherin's honied voice.
'What do you think it means?' came a sarcastic reply Thorvald did not recognise, 'it means we're lost, you foolish braggart.'
'Not lost,' the huntsman grunted, although he didn't sound convinced. However, his distracted musings were lost on his squabbling companions.
'Don't call me a fool,' Slytherin snarled irritably,
'I'll call you what I like,' his companion retaliated sardonically, 'I'm a noble…'
'You're nothing more than a glorified rag,' Slytherin sneered disdainfully, 'I've wiped my arse with more lordly robes.'
'How dare you,' the unknown voice gasped shrilly, sounding deeply affronted.
'Peace,' another man commanded firmly and Thorvald finally recognised Gryffindor's brooding growl. Thorvald scowled darkly, for the young man was the bane of many Ragnarssons lives and he wanted revenge for his fallen kinsmen.
'Forget peace,' the strange voice protested, 'the wretch insulted me!'
However, it's complaints fell on deaf ears, for Gryffindor was already addressing their guide.
'What's wrong?' Gryffindor inquired, sensing trouble. Thorvald shared a glance with those companions who lay hidden close by.
It was almost time to strike.
'I've walked these trails for half my life,' the huntsman grunted in confusion, 'I know them better than the faces of my own children. This mound was never here before.'
'It's certainly a hard thing to miss,' Slytherin agreed cautiously.
'Exactly,' Gryffindor replied, and the hiss of a sword being unsheathed reached Thorvald's ears. He whistled once, giving the outlaws the signal to unleash chaos.
The rasping scrape of Gryffindor's sword breaking free from its scabbard drowned out the whistle of an arrow whipping through the air. The huntsman's sudden gasp of alarm was abruptly cut short as the arrow thudded into his throat and threw him to the ground. Choking on blood, he clawed feebly at the feathered shaft protruding from his neck. He crumbled, his body already convulsing violently as he helplessly tried to stave off death and staining the snow beneath him with his blood. With the huntsman dying at their feet, the two wizards looked up to find Thorvald and his companions stumbling through the snow towards them, all armed and ready for a fight. The Icelander saw the two companions exchange a glance, before swiftly shifting into fighting stances and preparing to confront the frantic offensive.
Encouraged by the shouts of his attacking comrades, Bjorn Braggox sprang his ambush. The huge man erupted from his snowy lair, lurching to his feet and swinging his great axe towards Gryffindor. Bellowing wildly as the madness he'd been outlawed for overtook him, Bjorn's frothing lips spewed spittle and curses as he hacked at the tall man with blow would have split Gryffindor from crown to crotch.
He missed. Anticipating the plot, Gryffindor waited until he saw the axe descending before he retaliated, stepping nimbly aside as weapon swung harmlessly past. The sword lashed out, and the gleaming blade sliced through the outlaw's leather cap to reach the flesh beneath. Bjorn roared in agony as Gryffindor's sword severed his spine and splattered the snow with gore. The berserk briefly stumbled forwards before collapsing, his heavy bulk twitching strangely. His killer ignored the thrashing corpse to focus on his oncoming opponents, blood now dripping from the famous sword which had once crippled Thorvald's own leg.
Several of Thorvald's companions skidded to an immediate halt, stunned by the suddenness of Bjorn's death and the ease in which he'd been dispatched. The others followed Thorvald's lead, realising that rushing on was their only hope of keeping their fragile initiative. Another of Floki's arrows flew overhead, but Slytherin's wand was ready for it and with a lazy flick, he transfigured the deadly barb into a snake. Still moving fluidly, the wizard catapulted the viper back at their attackers. Thorvald heard the blundering Gunther cry out in panic when he was struck by the flying snake, but the Icelander was already retaliating with his own curse. The timid spell shot forth and Thorvald swore as a sword intercepted it in a flicker of dying embers. Gryffindor hadn't even broken his stride to block the spell and he advanced unwaveringly towards the Icelander, his scarlet cloak billowing in the icy breeze. where it revealed a faded rampant lion snarling on his breast.
The snarling lion on the marauding knight's breast, faded and rampant on a bloody field, was an intimidating sight to confront the hapless outlaws.
With his comrades closing in for the kill, Floki rose above a boulder and loosed another arrow into the fight. Yet, he forsook his advantage to do it, foolishly revealing himself to the waiting Slytherin. The arrow was swiftly incinerated in a puff of ash before a magical missile responded with well-trained accuracy and the wizard was rewarded with the sound of a painful curse. Floki stumbled backwards, his severed bow falling about him in pieces as the spell left a ragged and bleeding wound across his cheek. However, the horse thief's misfortune blessed his murderous comrades with the chance to rush the taller knight whilst his wand-wielding companion was distracted.
Hakon covered their advance by flinging his own hex at Gryffindor, who disdainfully ducked beneath it. The unlucky wizard went ignored, for Gryffindor's his eyes fixed upon Thorvald and was determined to finally end their feud. But Thorsi and Olaf were moving fast, having laboured to confront Gryffindor simultaneously in a bid to overpower him with greater numbers.
'Watch your back,' a voice shouted from beneath Gryffindor's cloak as Olaf forced his opponent to batter aside a lunging spear. The knight had no time to counter it before he was forced to dodge Thorsi's rusted sword as it curved viciously through the air. However, one misshaped sword edge caught the knight's swirling cloak and Thorsi's momentum sent the stranger tumbling backwards with a surprised shout. It was an unforeseen opportunity to strike a deadly blow and Thorvald refused to waste it. The Icelander felt the power surging through his staff before it burst out in a vicious blaze of crackling light and roared unseen towards Gryffindor's unprotected back.
But again, it was blocked by Slytherin's shimmering shield, deflecting the spell back towards the knoll where it exploded in a scorching shower of discoloured flames. Hakon and Asgrim squealed in panic and flung themselves away from the burning debris as the earth trembled at the spell's powerful impact. Thorvald frowned when the tremor reached his feet, momentarily surprised that his spell had the power to force the rocks to quake.
Another cry of shock breached the rising clamour around them as Olaf was blasted away by a torrent of surging water which erupted from a furious Gryffindor's wand. The drenched outlaw groaned as he rolled across the knoll. Soaked and shivering, the icy claws of death would soon exploit his dire predicament. However, his indifferent companions ignored Olaf's plight and pressed their attack again, their cause becoming increasingly desperate.
'You bloody dolt,' the strange voice howled at Gryffindor over the clamour of fighting men, 'it's not just your hide at risk here!'
The strange cries went unanswered, for Gryffindor was already moving to confront Thorsi, who suddenly blanched at the sight of the towering and furious knight bearing down upon him. He tried to turn and flee, but he did not make it far before he was flung backwards by the sharp tug of a summoning spell. The cowardly murderer shrieked in terror as he was catapulted towards the waiting blade and blood drenched Gryffindor's arm as the sword pierced Thorsi's flailing skull and tore flesh and broken teeth into gory ruin. The outlaw's corpse hung impaled upon the knight's sword, before sliding down the blade with a sickening slurp.
Yet, just as Thorsi's lifeless corpse slipped to the tarnished snow, a sudden tremor beneath their feet brought the fighting to an unforeseen halt.
The outlaws were breathing heavily, churning out clouds of mist with each laboured breath. But to their dismay, their merciless opponents remained refreshed and capable of continuing the fight after only the briefest of respites. Thorvald felt sick with envy, for he had once been as strident as these men. It was a distant memory now, for this desperate battle had exposed how decrepit the once vibrant warrior had become.
'Ragnarsson,' Slytherin shouted as he reached his glowering companion's side, 'this ends here. Accept your fate and no blood other than your own needs to be spilt.'
'My fate,' Thorvald snorted contemptuously, 'is to fight to the death with this staff in my hand.'
'You will die,' Gryffindor replied grimly, his wand emitting a series of sparks which illuminated the fierce face hidden within the gloom of his hooded mantle.
'I bloody won't,' Gunther the Dwarf suddenly snarled, taking his chance to escape the bloodshed by pointing an incriminating finger at Thorvald, 'I always said this was a hopeless cause. Kill him then, we won't stop you.'
Thorvald spat disdainfully at the dwarf's feet as the remnants of their band forsook their courage and sided with the cowardly Gunther. How the heroes of the old north must weep, Thorvald mused angrily, for there was no honour left in this world.
'Then leave this land and never trouble its people again,' Slytherin declared and Thorvald heard his own disgust at their cowardice reflected in the young man's voice before addressing the Icelander alone, 'Ragnarsson, tell us one last thing before this feud ends.'
'You demand a favour?' Thorvald laughed bitterly, 'but you still intend to kill me. Your arrogance knows no bounds, worm.'
'At least the man hasn't lost all his wits,' that strange voice spoke again, 'I've said the same on several occasions now…'
'That's enough,' Gryffindor growled, his sword hand twitching as the battle madness he was becoming famous for threatened to tear Thorvald apart. That his death mattered so much to at least one person strangely pleased the Icelander. He knew he could defeat Gyffindor alone, and the scars from their previous encounters were a blunt testament to the young knight's superior prowess. Thorvald was faintly aware of his fellow outlaws retreating shamefully, being careful not to restart the fight before they had reached a safe distance. Even Sly Olaf was attempting to crawl away, despite the cold already discolouring his skin as his body froze.
The only outlaw who looked reluctant to abandon Thorvald was Floki, but the horse-thief stumbled before he could intervene as another sudden tremor dislodged the rocks he was standing upon and sent them rattling down the knoll's quaking slopes.
'So, what do you demand, little pups?' Thorvald jeered defiantly, feeling the first wave of the Ragnarsson madness filtering through his veins, 'do you want me on my knees and whimpering like a crippled bitch? What an honour it will be for the bastard you have come to avenge. Rather fitting, for he died like a dog as well.'
Slytherin's eyes narrowed at Thorvald's slanderous slur, but he made no move to attack. He left that to Gryffindor, who hefted his sword and charged. In the same moment, the mysterious voice sniggered scornfully,
'I was mistaken,' he snickered, 'the man's a bloody fool.'
A roar shook the earth, but it was not bellowed by the rampant Gryffindor.
The young knight had been intent on tearing the Icelander into a bloody heap but instead found himself skidding to an unexpected stop as the rocky knoll released a long, rumbling groan. Thorvald followed his gaze before the dreaded fear froze his heart at the sight of the snow-crested knoll rearing up out of the land to cast its looming shadow over the combatants. The huntsman's counsel had come true and they all discovered that it was no knoll at all. Rocks tumbled down amidst a cascade of falling snow as its fur hide shook in the wind, whilst blades of ice suddenly shattered when the monstrous creature flexed its mighty limbs and focused feral eyes upon those who had disturbed its slumber.
'GIANT!'
Floki screamed in horror from beside the great beast's skull. It was a fatal mistake, causing the giant to lurch suddenly at the unexpected shriek which assaulted its ears. The outlaw slipped on the loose snow still crusting the giant's hide and fell with a terrified yelp. He didn't reach the ground alive, the giants crushing hands catching the helpless man before flinging him carelessly aside. Floki's broken body disappeared into the snowy haze which surrounded them.
After discarding Floki's shattered corpse, the giant turned to stare at the unfortunate souls who had woken it from its seasonal slumber. It roared again, splattering them with foul-smelling spit, decaying blubber and lumps of chewed rocks. Then it unleashed its wrath on the struggling group.
Thorvald was the next to suffer.
The Icelander was dimly aware of Gryffindor sprinting nearer, but his fear of the ancient Ragnarsson foe froze him in place. He had barely recovered his wits enough to lift his magical staff before the rush of an oncoming claw filled his ears and a frosted arm swatted him away. His world exploded in agony as he was sent tumbling across the rocky earth, his pale body breaking easily. The Icelander rolled to a stop, lying motionless in the snow.
Thorvald's downfall filled the two knights with fury. They had travelled to the icy fringes of the known world for the chance to kill Thorvald Ragnarsson, only to be barred from taking vengeance by the intervention of an angered frost-giant. Yet, if there was a chance that the Icelander still lived, then one burning question remained unanswered and they would do all in their power to obtain it before he died.
'Don't even think about it,' the strange voice squeaked nervously,
The voice was stubbornly ignored as Gryffindor and Slytherin shared a knowing glance, before squaring their shoulders and turning to face the rampaging giant.
'Are you mad!' the voice bellowed incredulously, 'this goes beyond stupidity…'
'We need our answer,' Slytherin said simply, a score of useful spells racing through his sharp mind.
'I heartily protest.'
'That brute is in our way,' Gryffindor smirked, adopting the dual-wielding stance he had forged over the long years he had been committed to the bitter feud. Without another word, the two knights marched determinedly towards where the stampeding giant fought the panicking outlaws, the strange voice ranting at them all the way.
'Well, I hope you two die and the giant takes me,' he snarled bitterly, 'then at least I won't have my life threatened every bloody day!'
Olaf and Gunther were already dead by the time the two knights reached the giant's lumbering shadow. Frozen stiff and with skin paling with frost, Olaf had been unable to escape the beasts stomping feet. Gunther's body was nowhere to be seen and it was unlikely that his short limbs could have carried him away from the battle so swiftly. However, the blood trickling from the giants snarling mouth, where torn scraps of flesh and skin now hung from rotten teeth hinted at the dwarf's gruesome end. Meanwhile, Asgrim the Screamer was stricken with terror, doing his best to prove that his byname was a worthy title, whilst Hakon was casting spells wildly across the battleground without any thought given to where his spells landed. One stray charm grazed the hem of Slytherin's cloak, bursting into flames and hindering the young wizard's approach.
'Bastard,' Slytherin said furiously, hastily dispelling the flames before retaliating with a spell which accidentally knocked the hapless Hakon away from the brute's claws.
A forceful blow to the giant's hip suddenly sent the beast stumbling and drew its attention to the new challenge. It clawed at the trembling ground, churning up frost-bitten mud and fought for balance. Recovering quickly, the giant thundered in rage as it beheld the materialising rocky golem which Gryffindor was transfiguring to wrestle the foul creature into submission.
The two titans stormed forward and began to batter each other in an earth shuddering contest. The frost-giant was taller and possessed inhuman strength, but the smaller golem had an agility the magical creature couldn't master. A barrage of spells also aided the golems blows, enabling the rocky paladin to land several bruising punches to the giant's hide.
But the hulking brutes was reinforced by its own magic and no spells the knights cast could defeat it. They merely angered it further. With a furious snarl, the giant launched its menacing bulk at the golem and engaged it in a struggle of thrashing claws. The giant quickly gained the upper hand in the contest until it vigorously wrenched the golem apart and flung the crumbling rocks aside. Asgrim's screams were cut abruptly short as he was crushed beneath one flying boulder, leaving nothing but a bloody scar in the snow.
Concern was etched on the faces of the two knights, having watched their defeated champion and a score spells fail to deter the giant's monstrous rampage.
'What now?' Slytherin shouted in frustration. They were forced to part hurriedly as another rock hurtled their way. Gryffindor parried it away so that they narrowly escaped being crushed, shielding his eyes from the hail of dislodged rocks and ice which peppered his cloak. He desperately thought back to his childhood lessons, striving for a way to defeat the monster.
'Fire,' came the reply from beneath Gryffindor's cloak.
'Fire?' the two knights blankly echoed simultaneously, prising an exasperated groan from their concealed companion.
'Am I cursed to suffer fools like you for the rest of my days?' the voice berated them scathingly, 'Fire, you fools. Frost-giants fear fire!'
The two knights needed no further encouragement. Fire instantly erupted from the tip of Gryffindor's wand in a blazing tempest so fierce that the snow beneath him hissed and transformed into a cloud of swirling steam. A flaming wave rode upon the rising wind before breaking upon the stampeding giant. Great chunks of melting ice fell from the creature's body and the acrid stench of burnt flesh assailed their nostrils. The giant yowled, battling the smouldering embers which threatened to engulf its fur.
Yet, the giant's torment was only just beginning. Another shout rose above the crackling flames and another stream of roaring flame broke through the blinding smoke. Serpentine and searing, it whipped through the air until it struck the giant's cheek, blistering its gnarled skin and torching its ghoulish skull. The giant screamed, its scarred hide and iron-hard fur alight with burning fires. Creatures who dwelled in the frost-bitten lands to the north were notoriously susceptible to the blistering kiss of fire and many frost-giants often sought shelter in the frozen glaciers or dank caves when the sun rose to its high throne. Fire was the scourge of nature and the wounded giant had no stomach to contest it.
Six-Fingered Hakon stumbled drowsily to his feet, shaking the snow from his hair and tentatively tending to the aching shoulder Slytherin's spell had impacted against. Discovering that he was still alive and miraculously unhurt, Hakon howled with delight at the unexpected feat. But he was still disorientated and was unaware of the imminent danger overshadowing him. With a horrifying squelch, the unfortunate wizard's miserable life ended in misfortune, crushed beneath the creature's foot as it fled the fight and disappeared into the veil of snow with a tortured howl. Besides a steaming puddle of offal and bones, a shattered wand clenched in a six-fingered hand was all that remained of the unlucky soul.
Gryffindor and Slytherin remained vigilant until the tremors stilled, and the distant echoes of the giant's tormented cries grew silent. Only then did they drop their guard and released a fatigued sigh of relief.
'Well cast,' Gryffindor praised his companion, wiping the sticky blood from his sword with a clump of his weather-stained cloak
'I was aiming for the eyes,' Salazar chuntered critically,
'Woeful,' the strange voice chimed unhelpfully, prising a threatening scowl from its young adversary. Slytherin chose not to retaliate, for they had more pressing concerns.
They knew that Thorvald Ragnarsson was a dead man before they had even reached his body. Limbs lay contorted at unnatural angles and snapped bones had breached his battered flesh. Yet, his drumming heart refused to fall silent and soft, tortured breaths still rasped through split lips.
'Will you bastards never die,' the Icelander croaked as they reached him. To their surprise, being so near the threshold of death had seemingly dispelled his famous grim countenance, for Thorvald sounded oddly amused. Slytherin was the first to recover his wits.
'Where is Melusine?'
'Why should I tell you?' came the defiantly arduous response.
'You're dying,' Slytherin noted bluntly, 'so our feud is over. Die with what little honour is left to you and tell us where your lover is. What loyalty you once owed her has ended.'
'I OWE HER NOTHING!' Thorvald snarled so suddenly that it triggered a coughing fit which splattered blood and mucus over his greying beard. The two knights were taken aback by his vehemence as the Icelander continued wheezily, 'I curse her name, so that she may suffer the same torment she shackled me with a thousand times before she dies.'
'Then tell us where we can find her?' Slytherin continued, his face effortlessly maintaining the dispassionate mask he had mastered.
'My staff,' the Icelander whimpered unexpectedly, his voice beginning to tremble with fear as broken fingers clawed helplessly at the snowy rocks around him, 'I need…my staff.'
Slytherin drew his wand and hastily summoned the treasured item to them. However, he refused to hand it over. Ignoring his companion's disapproving frown, the young wizard held the staff over the stricken man, just out of reach of a desperately flailing hand.
'Tell us where Melusine is?' Slytherin continued coldly, as Thorvald's eyes pleaded with him pitifully.
'Don't…please,' he whined, 'I…beg,'
'Tell us,'
'My ancestors,' the Icelander grunted in pain, failing miserably to prise his violated body off the cold snow, 'the feast…Odin's hall.'
'Now!' Slytherin demanded impatiently, his temper flaring beneath the callous façade.
Suddenly, the staff was ripped from the young wizard's grasp. Rendered speechless, Slytherin stared in shock at his companion, who was now holding Thorvald's staff and placing it delicately in the man's hand. Gryffindor carefully closed icy fingers about the gnarled wood and seeing tears begin to fall freely as the frost-bitten Thorvald felt a warm flutter of enchanting comfort seep into his hand for the very last time.
'You will die a Ragnarsson,' Gryffindor assured his defeated enemy, 'with a weapon in your hand. Now, reclaim your familial honour so that you can feast with your kinsmen.'
Silence fell over the three men and for a gut-wrenching moment, the two knights thought the Icelander had died, hindering the feud one final time. with his erstwhile lover. Then a smile stretched Thorvald's torn lips as his clouding eyes stared past them to behold a soaring, white-plumed falcon crowned with falling snow. The Icelander idly wondered if this was his Fyjda, wishing him an eternal farewell.
'East,' the Icelander hissed with a haggard breath, tightening his hold on the beloved staff as his death throes began, 'for the…Cauldron. Beyond Miklagard…she will be reborn…in blood…and fire. Go…East.'
Thorvald said no more, for the last of the Ragnarssons died with a wistful smile. He was finally freed from his mortal suffering and would join his feasting ancestors in the hall of heroes.
'SHIT!' Slytherin snarled, venting his frustration at years of torrid ordeals by furiously kicking out at a nearby rock. He was soon hopping about in agony, his bruised toes protesting painfully.
'Calm down,' his companion advised patiently, having grown accustomed to Slytherin's impassioned outbursts. Gryffindor still knelt beside Thorvald's corpse, frowning as he scratched at the wild tangle of red hair which adorned his jaw.
'Shit,' Slytherin repeated broodingly, although the painful mishap had dulled his temper. He scowled at Gryffindor in displeasure, 'why did you give him that staff?'
Gryffindor shrugged nonchalantly, knowing that his companion already suspected what had motivated him. The Icelander had honoured his word and the sight of the broken, dying man had dampened the burning desire to inflict any more torture upon his enemy. A haunting call caused Gryffindor to glance upwards at the white-crowned falcon soaring through the sky, lured to this place by the blood and chaos.
'Do you think he would have afforded us the same courtesy?' Slytherin demanded mulishly.
'I will not wash his corpse,' Gryffindor replied softly, throwing back his mantle to wipe sweat from his brow, revealing an old battered hat hanging about his neck and a shining silver raven brooch, 'nor will I dig his grave. He deserves to be left to the beasts. But I see now that he was also a victim of Melusine's ambitions. I simply gave him a chance to feast with his ancestors. Besides, he gave us what we need in return.'
'East,' Slytherin spat, his irritation with Gryffindor fading as his wrath at Melusine's evasion took hold, 'Merlin's bloody bones, the bitch has played us. Constantinople is half a world away from this frozen nightmare. Do you know how long it would take to get there, even with our magic to aid us?'
'Do you?' a snide voice commented drolly. The hat creased as it smirked at the infuriated wizard.
'No,' Gryffindor answered honestly, thinking back to the childhood tales of distant foreign lands and scarcely believing that fate was leading him there.
'It could take years,' Slytherin lamented tiredly, gesturing at the corpse lying beside their feet, 'years of wandering the wilds through wind, rain and snow, with only the final ramblings of this bastard to guide us.'
'We swore an oath,' Gryffindor said simply.
'You also swore to return to Britain,' Slytherin replied pointedly, eying his friend pityingly, 'I know you yearn to be with her.'
The image of a spirited, raven-haired young woman fleetingly assailed his mind. Glowing with beauty and defiance, she breached his pathetic defences to wrench his heart with guilt and longing. However, it was soon ousted by a flood of nightmarish memories of a castle engulfed in flames and the faces of long-lost loved ones he had sworn to avenge.
'We swore an oath,' Gryffindor repeated resolutely, 'neither Avalon nor the magical world will rest peacefully until Melusine is dead.'
'Good,' Slytherin replied, a relieved smile finally breaking across his handsome face as he cuffed his companion's shoulder warmly. Slytherin had already decided that he would continue with their feud, accepting the peril of the task from the moment Ragnarsson had told them to go East, 'I still need that sword of yours to protect me.'
'You wouldn't if that tongue of yours didn't keep bringing trouble down upon us,' Gryffindor chuckled knowingly, appreciating Slytherin's affable attempt at dispelling their uncertainty, before cheekily adding, 'or if you could keep your cock behind your breeches.'
'Who am I to say no to a beautiful face,' Slytherin dismissed the claim with a roguish grin as he holstered his wand beneath his sleeve, 'especially if they're persistent. East it is then, and we shouldn't dawdle. Not if we need to forgo returning to Iceland. There are a few landowners who wouldn't shirk the chance to castrate me for the way I treated their daughters and I have no intention of surrendering such a treasure.'
'We cannot avoid Iceland, so try to control yourself,' Gryffindor reminded his companion, 'but we must return the huntsman's body to Lysufjord first. He was the only man brave enough to lead us here and his family deserve the silver he risked his life for. The rest we'll spend on the voyage east.'
'We cannot return to Britain,' Slytherin said grimly, 'the journey will be long and arduous already. The swiftest route is along the whale-roads to Norway before following the northern trade routes to Constantinople.'
'So be it,' Gryffindor agreed, 'besides, but once we land, then I fear we'll need to earn silver by hiring out our wands.'
'Like common mercenaries,' Slytherin grunted with distaste. The proud wizard may hate it, but when pressed by hunger and necessity, he had expressed no qualms over being wands for hire during their time roaming Iceland. The young wizard gestured at the chaos which surrounded them, 'what about the dead?'
'They can rot,' Gryffindor instructed harshly, wasting no time in preparing the huntsman's corpse for travel. The knight tore the arrow from the bloody remnants of the man's throat, discarding it quickly to avoid the haunting memories which threatened to plague his mind. Behind him, the pale falcon had swooped down from the sky to feast upon the Icelander's corpse, 'I wouldn't want to deprive the beasts of an easy meal.'
Slytherin starred unflinchingly at the feasting falcon, whose white-crown was quickly turning red as it greedily gorged on the corpses.
'A fitting end for a Ragnarsson,' he snorted darkly, before conjuring a piece of cloth and draping it over the huntsman to hide his terrible wound. Using their wands to levitate the corpse from the blood-stained rocks, the two weathered companions began to retrace their steps through the veil of softly falling snow to Lysufjord, where they begin the long voyage to the golden East.
'How did you know fire would weaken the giant, Hat?' Gryffindor asked curiously, remembering the hat's inspired intervention during their struggle.
'It's about time my intellect was recognised,' Hat grumbled against Gryffindor's back, 'is my heroism to be finally rewarded with the worship I deserve?'
'I'm not stitching anything again,' Slytherin said, shuddering at a memory he'd rather forget.
'I wouldn't ask even if you begged,' the Hat snapped waspishly, 'I've seen the trolls you've lain with. I can imagine what sordid deeds those hands have done.'
'Hat!' Gryffindor muttered warningly, resisting the urge to chuckle as his friend reddened and looked ready to curse the sentient piece of clothing, 'you were saying?'
'Oh, I don't know,' Hat shot back bitingly, 'maybe it's because I've seen the abyss lurking inside your damn skulls. It was one of the few useful specks of knowledge I found in there.'
'Nonetheless,' Gryffindor smiled fondly at the hat's ill-tempered jeering, 'you have our gratitude.'
An awkward silence fell over them as Hat shifted with discomfort at the praise, unused to receiving praise.
'What is gratitude worth to a hat?' he complained forlornly before he boldly suggested an alternative reward, 'You could call me something heroic. Like Hat the Giant-Killer?'
'Never,' Slytherin assured him with a leer, unable to resist bating the hat vengefully, 'How about Hat the Shit-Slayer?'
'If I had hands I'd strangle you in your sleep…'
It's been a while. Sorry its taken so long to get this out, but it has been a bit of a hectic year since I finished the Heart of a Lion. This prologue is just a teaser and to be honest, I'm still undecided about actually writing the rest of the story, so updates may be few and far between. However, I will complete it eventually. I promise.
Hear the Lion Roar will follow two stories. One will concentrate on Godric and Salazar's feud with Melusine, whilst the other will follow Rowena and Helga's journey to becoming great witches, at a time when Britain is falling into chaos and disorder. So they will have their own chapters this time, which I'm really excited to write.
Also just wanted to say a massive thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed the Heart of a Lion. It means a lot and has been a huge help during some pretty hard times over the last year, so cheers and I hope you enjoy Hear the Lion Roar.