‘Veil’ Preview

Explore a sample of WG Arndt's upcoming historical science fiction-fantasy novel, codenamed ‘Veil’.

Chapter 1

A Tale of Heroes

Lo! Long have we, in legends and lore, learned of heroic tribes, hale and hardy, and the searing Scourge so great. Of ancients, arrayed in arms, august kings and keen-edged lawspeakers, lords of the Kungsgården, keepers of the folklands. Now nigh is the narrative, the noble deeds of Bear Cleaver and Bjørnsson, born of battle. Men of The Lake. Who marched into the mists of the Greenwood upon—

No, no, no. That’s not right. Not right at all.

Okay, okay…

How about…

Hark! Hear the heroic tale of Bjørn Bear Cleaver and Ari One Nut. Grim warriors who gilt yokes to gleaming swords, rising from the horse-hollowed vale. Beyond the brooding crags and sheer cliffs, through mists and murk, amidst the foreboding forest's shroud, unto the goodly—

Fell breath, that’s awful wrong. Awful, awful wrong. No, no, no. Perhaps more like…

Summoned from the sacred grottoes and grand moot halls of the Free Men Disting, dispatched on a dire deed of deep import—

Yes! Much better!

—to claim the weregild for a welter of woe, a thousandfold toll to tame, and in his sulphurous sanctum, to snare and smite the scorching cinder beast—

“Papa! What are you doing?” Ari’s near-shriek cut through the stable’s rustic tranquility, where the scent of hay and horse mingled with the smoky whiff of burning fat.

Bjørn, engrossed in his carvings, looked up, startled. Around him, the stable breathed a life of its own – the gentle rustling of straw under hoof, the soft snorts of the mares, the flickering shadows cast by the clay lantern on his worktable. “Carving our epic, Ari,” he said, his voice echoing the pride of ancient bards.

Ari stopped in his tracks, the icy blue of his eyes crystallizing into wide disbelief. He exhaled sharply, his breath vanishing in a cloud under the thatch, a clear sign of concern that Bjørn knew all too well. “You just ruined three tablets!”

The two mares that Ari had been leading by rope neighed softly behind him, and Bjørn was certain that the faithful horses were speaking up in his defence. Bjørn, with the serenity of a sage, lifted his iron stylus from the tablet. “A true story, like a wild stallion, must be tamed,” he mused, inhaling the earthy aroma of animal and wax. “Slowly, with care, to find its true course.”

Ari pointed to the first tablet. “But all you wrote is ‘aba aba aba aba’ over and over.”

“No, no. See here, this one is much better here,” Bjørn gestured to the third tablet with the stylus.

“That one just says ‘bjø bjø bjø’.” Ari looked up at his father with exasperation in his eyes. “It’s not even your full name!”

“Patience, boy.” Bjørn’s voice was the steady rumble of ancient stone, unshaken against Ari’s spirited current. “The essence of a tale lies in its unfolding, not just in the letters carved.”

“You can’t even spell,” the boy said. “Why are you wasting our tablets like that?”

“Come now,” Bjørn huffed, attempting to anchor his composure against the dramatic tides of his fifth child. “It’s not the end of the world,” he said, brushing a hand through his beard. Then, he looked aside and murmured, “Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet?” Ari’s words hung in the stable like frost, his dark wavy hair casting shadows across his pale, questioning face.

Bjørn met his son’s intense gaze, maintaining a posture as steadfast as an ancient oak. He had faced greater terrors than the glowering gaze of a mere boy. The memory of the boar musk incident last week still lingered in his nostrils, a reminder of past trials far more pungent than this.

“Okay,” the boy said. “Out with it. What are you up to now?”

“Making a record of our deeds before we do them,” Bjørn said, straightening his back, “so that our story may endure. You know, in case we don’t make it back.”

“Of course, you are,” Ari said, shaking his head as he led the magnificent horses, Sindri and Magni, to the feeding trough. He pushed aside the bushy clumps of drying hemp and tied the horses to the timber post. “Wait,” Ari paused abruptly, his head shooting up. “Make it back?” He swung around to face his father. “Make it back from where?”

“The Mountain in the North.”

“What—?“ Ari let loose a low grumble. “Hold on. You’ve been talking to that crazy old man again, haven’t you?”

Bjørn felt his famed patience starting to slip, just a little. That “crazy old man” was anything but. Viggo was the wisest, most learned man this world would ever see. But he was far more than that to Bjørn. A fellow warrior, yes, but more. A friend, of course, but also more. More than a father. Over their travels together, Bjørn and Viggo had formed bond that few could ever fully understand.

Bjørn lowered his bearded chin into his chest, putting on his stern face. Everyone knew that Bjørn meant business when he wore his stern face. “Ari, Viggo is a seer, a man graced by the gods with—“

“What did he tell you this time?” Ari said, stepping up to the edge of the worktable and resting his hands on the uneven surface. “Another fabled treasure in the Lake? Garnets in the Moss Grove?”

“Ari, honestly, how did I ever sire such a doubting little goatling?” Bjørn lamented. “Thirteen seasons you’ve seen, and yet you stand blind to the wisdom of our forefathers, their truths lost on you.”

Ari’s boot stamped against the hay-strewn floor, a hollow echo that seemed too light for the growing boy, the buckle of his belt jingling in discord with his lanky frame. “What did he say, Papa?”

Bjørn shrugged and looked aside. “He merely spoke of this year as being the worst year ever to be alive.”

Ari narrowed his eyes. “Papa, honestly. He says that every year. What’s so different about this year?”

“Different?” Bjørn gestured towards the stable's entrance, pointing to the cold grey-blue that haunted their world beyond. The mist hung like tattered shrouds over the snow-laden groves and dark thickets of their farmstead, blurring the line where earth met sky. “It’s near summer, yet the snows dwarf even your sister Frida!”

“Sometimes it snows in summer,” Ari said, starting to sound less sure of himself. “So what?”

Bjørn raised his arms towards the thatched roof. “And the sun, as dark as a moon shrouded in twilight, even at noon! Does that not scream of impending doom?”

Ari rubbed his smooth chin, his gaze lost in thoughts or doubts. “Well, it has been awfully dark lately…”

Now Bjørn had him. “Yes! You have to admit it. This year it’s true, don’t you see? The ceaseless fogs, the unyielding darknesses, the frigid spring... Something is very wrong.”

Ari looked at his father. Bjørn could see a tendril of doubt still lingering in the young boy’s eyes. “So, what does that old soothsayer say about it?”

Leaning in, Bjørn’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Fire serpents,” he breathed, “sent by the gods…”

For several long moments, Ari looked at his father with a blank stare. So enigmatic, as he sometimes would get. What was going through that boy’s mind now? Then, “Fire serpents.”

“Yes.”

“Bringing cold upon us.”

“Precisely.”

A long puff of steam escaped from Ari’s mouth and into the crisp air. “Papa, this is madness, you do realize?”

Bjørn felt a growl rumble up from deep within, his frustration boiling over. "Why must you always defy me?"

“Because you're about to go off on some half-cocked ‘quest’ again!” the boy shouted back.

“If by ‘half-cocked’ you mean fearless and epic, then maybe I am.“

“Should we tell Mama?” Ari’s words were a threat veiled as a question, his gaze darting towards the longhouse in the meadow.

The mere mention of his wife made Bjørn clamp his mouth shut. “She is too busy to concern herself with the details of such a quest,” he muttered. “Besides, if we are swift, she need not even know.”

“So… what?” Ari continued. “We grab some swords, march into the woods, find this ‘fire serpent’, kill it, and return before dinner? And that’s supposed to fix the weather?”

“Well, it would be an epic tale...”

“Papa, there are no fire serpents! Or evil gods, or—“

“How do you know?” Bjørn cut in. “Have you seen one?”

“What?” Ari blinked rapidly. “Well, no, and that's the whole point—“

“Ah ha!” Bjørn couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph as he pointed a finger at his son. “Then how can you claim they don’t exist?”

Ari stood there, his mouth open, wordless. Clearly age and experience had won again.

Bjørn rounded the worktable and draped his arm across Ari's slender shoulders. The boy nearly buckled under the paternal weight, a testament to Bjørn's sagacity. “I understand,” he said, his voice softening. “You’re just a bit scared—“

“I’m not scared!” Ari protested, his voice an octave higher than he probably intended.

“Just think, after our quest, you could boast of your bravery to that Sturla girl,” Bjørn nudged.

“Katla?” Ari’s cheeks turned the colour of autumn leaves. “What does she—?”

“I've seen the way you look when she brings eggs. Quite a sight, those eggs.”

Ari squirmed free from his father's embrace. “This isn’t about girls, or fear, or any of that! It’s about not dying in the wild on some fool’s quest before we even—”

“It’s because you only have one nut, isn’t it?”

“What!” Ari’s eyes nearly bulged out of his face. “What are you talking about?”

“Ari, my son,” Bjørn began, feeling a rare touch of empathy. “I should have come up with a better byname for you in the story. I see that now. ‘Bear Cleaver’ is already taken, but how about—“

“I don’t have only one nut!”

“Sure you do, and it’s okay—“

“I have two nuts, Father! Two nuts!”

“You do?” Bjørn ran his fingers through the thick mat of his beard as he looked off to the side. “Then which son has only one nut?”

“I don’t know!” Ari’s exasperated shout filled the stable. Bjørn couldn’t help but wonder at the boy's intensity. Why did he always get so worked up?

“Bjørn! Ari!” a voice called from outside.

Bjørn felt a lump in his throat. “Say nothing of this to your mother,” he whispered urgently to his son, who looked ready to launch into another fruitless and misguided tirade.

Bjørn turned quickly to face the beautiful, fearsome goddess striding towards them from the farmstead, the younger children Kori and Inga trailing behind her, barely visible over the snowy path carved through the meadow. Today, just as in all days past, Bjørn’s heart fluttered within his chest as he watched his Eira, long hair as golden as the straw, bosom like twin wineskins from the southern lands filled to near-bursting, lips like lush pedals peeled from red campion. His queen, clad in the reindeer skin cloak fastened by the gold bracteate he’d given her as a wedding gift all those seasons ago, still stoked a feral fire within him that stirred with every movement of her body. The sturdy legs of a fine woman, strong enough to nearly slice him asunder at the waist as they gripped him long and hard during—

“Papa!” Ari said, his face growing pale. “Stop it!”

Bjørn blinked. “I was speaking aloud again, wasn’t I?”

Before Ari could answer, Eira stepped into the stable, her cheeks red from the frosty air. Right away Bjørn knew something was wrong. Eira was not one to easily show worry. “What’s happened?” Bjørn asked, sense of foreboding tightening his chest.

“It’s the old man,” she said, her eyes meeting Bjørn’s with a sorrowful gravity. “He— He is dead.”

“Viggo?” The name fell from Bjørn’s lips like a stone. He looked into Eira’s eyes, leaning into them for strength. In her gaze, she reflected her sense of the profound connection he had shared with Viggo, a bond beyond simple friendship or mentorship, shaped by countless journeys and dire dangers endured.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Eira’s voice was a soothing balm, even as the two youngest tugged impatiently on her skirt. “You must go. His wife and daughter have requested your presence.“

“Papa,” Ari interjected, his earlier bravado dissolving into genuine concern. “I didn’t mean what I said about—“

Bjørn exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. “It was the fire serpent, wasn’t it?”

“Papa!” Ari’s outburst was a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

But the quiet authority of Eira’s voice soaked up all the fury from her son’s bluster. “Yes,” she said. “It was.”

“Mama?” Ari’s voice was a faint whisper as he stared at her.

“His servant Unnr will guide you,” Eira continued, addressing Bjørn. To Ari, she added, “She claims that upon seeing Viggo's fallen form and the valley's desolation, doubt will find no harbour in your mind.”

Silence enveloped them, punctuated only by the soft thud of snow falling from the stable roof and the steady chewing of the horses. Bjørn grappled with the news, his thoughts swirling like the snowflakes outside. How could this be? What should he do? What would Viggo have wanted him to do?

A sudden fire rose in Bjørn’s chest. A resolve formed in his belly, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in twenty seasons. “Boy,” he said to Ari, his voice firm with newfound purpose, “fetch my sword. Our saga begins now.”

“Dunga,” was all Ari could muster in response, his shoulders slumping.

“And bring a fresh tablet,” Bjørn added. “I will dictate as we go.”

❧