Late Spring, year 565 of the Varakarian Cycle

  The next day was taken up by trading, though of a most peculiar sort. There was no haggling, nor even discussion of appraisals and values of the goods. The packs Kharg’s caravan had brought were mainly filled with spices, salts, and bolts of coloured cloth as well as held spear tips and daggers of quality steel. In turn, the Tribe of the Wolf presented packs of furs ranging from snow foxes and bears to caribou as well as carved bones and semi-precious stones picked from the ice-cold waters of the rivers coming down from the mountains.

  Before the exchange began, one of the elder warriors, his long beard streaked with gray and his shoulders broad with the weight of many winters, stepped forward and raised his hands to the sky. His voice was low and steady, carrying the authority of generations.

  “Odin, wise wanderer, see that our hands are open and our dealings are fair. Tyr, let no man take more than he is owed, and no man leave with less than he has earned. May the gods watch over this trade, as they did when our forefathers sailed the frozen seas.”

  A murmur of assent passed through the gathered warriors. The blessing was not a plea, nor a command. It was a statement of fact, an acknowledgment that even the simplest of exchanges belonged to a tradition older than memory. Only then did the first bundles change hands.

  Standing opposite the warriors was Halfur of the Silverwolf Merchant House, the man who had long served as the company’s link to the northern tribes. His weathered face and the fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders marked him as someone who had spent years braving the tundra. Halfur offered each warrior a nod of recognition as they stepped forward, his movements unhurried, his manner respectful.

  The exchange followed a tradition so old that no one could say when it had begun. There was an unspoken rhythm to it, a ritual passed from one generation to the next, as if the very act of trade carried more weight than the goods themselves. The Northmen did not barter like the merchants of the south. No voices were raised in debate, no silver-tongued arguments sought to tip the balance of value. Instead, they relied on an inherited sense of fairness. What was given and received had to be of equal worth—not just in metal or hide, but in necessity and honor.

  Kharg observed the process in quiet fascination. The warriors of the Tribe of the Wolf would step forward one by one, presenting their goods without flourish or ceremony. It was an agreement between men, not a contest. Even the youngest among them understood that to demand too much, or to give too little, was to insult the spirits of the land who watched over them.

  It reminded Kharg of something he had overheard the previous night, when one of the elder warriors had spoken around the fire.

  “It is the way of our fathers, as it was in the days before the exodus. The first men bartered with the same trust when they still sailed the great waters, when their ships were heavy with salt and iron, when their enemies feared the coming of their oars.”

  No one in the tribe remembered those times, not truly. The old tales whispered of a fleet that once crossed the icy seas, of traders and raiders who brought wealth to their people in the days before the landbound winters claimed them. But now, their ships were replaced by sleds and their harbors by these frozen valleys, and yet the customs remained. The act of trade was no longer about survival at sea. It was now about survival in the tundra, yet the ritual endured, untouched by time.

  When Kharg and Halfur made their selections, it was with the same silent reverence. As the Tribe of the Wolf had far more goods available than the caravan could buy or transport, it was simply a matter of choosing what was most valuable for the long road south. Most of the day was spent trading.

  By evening, Kharg took Halfur aside and informed him that he would not be returning with the caravan, as he would be taken on as an apprentice under Hrafun, the shaman. Judging by Halfur’s dumbstruck expression, it was the last thing in the world he had expected.

  “Tell my father that this is a unique opportunity and also a way to deeply strengthen the bonds between the family and the Tribe of the Wolf. Who knows, it may even be possible to open up relations with other tribes that are on friendly terms with this one. I have a feeling that the shamans have a community that transcends the limits of the various tribes. There simply has to be some sort of information sharing between them, otherwise the knowledge of the shamanic magic would slowly die out.”

  “I have rarely seen Lord Akgun angry, but I am afraid this will be an occasion to overshadow all other times.” Halfur gave a resigned sigh before continuing. “But I cannot command you and have no authority over you.”

  “Just put all the blame on me,” Kharg replied with what he hoped was a confident voice. Yet, even as the words left his lips, doubt gnawed at him.

  He could already picture his father’s expression, the way Akgun’s jaw would tighten and his measured tone would harden into something cold and unforgiving. His father had never tolerated recklessness, never abided foolish whims, and this? This would seem like both.

  For a fleeting moment, he imagined turning back, following the caravan home, resuming his studies, slipping back into the familiar rhythm of his life. Comfort. Security. The future that had been carved for him long before he was born. But the thought felt hollow.

  He glanced around, taking in the wind brushing through the furs hanging outside the tents, the sharp scent of smoked meat in the air, and the distant sound of children laughing in the cold morning light. The tribe already felt like something more than just a stop on his journey. It was a place of mystery, of possibility, of something beyond the rigid structures of his past.

  And then there was the magic. The pull of it. The way it resonated in his bones, in his blood, in a way that nothing at the Academy ever had. He had always thought of magic as something calculated, structured, controlled. But here it was alive, a force that called to him rather than obeyed him.

  Could he really walk away from that?

  His hands clenched at his sides. Akgun would be furious. The weight of his family’s name, his responsibilities, the expectations laid upon him had always felt like chains. Yet they had also been his foundation. Was he ready to sever them, even temporarily?

  But then he thought of Hrafun, the way the shaman had looked at him—not as a merchant’s son, not as a student of the Academy, but as something more. Someone worth teaching.

  He took a slow breath, letting the mountain air fill his lungs.

  No caravan would return before winter. That meant no matter what, he was here for at least a year. That would be time enough to see if this was folly or fate.

  He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders, forcing the tension from his muscles. If he was going to do this, he needed to own the decision. No wavering. No doubt.

  “But there is very little Akgun can do about it,” he finished, quieter this time, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

  Kharg left Halfur and soon found himself at the outskirts of the village, watching the sun dip toward the horizon. The scent of the feast fire drifted on the cold wind, but he barely noticed. His thoughts had been circling all day, looping through the same question, the same doubts.

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  He was leaving everything behind.

  He had told Halfur his decision, but saying it aloud hadn’t lessened the weight of it. Would his father ever forgive him? What does it matter? The thought came unbidden. He had felt the magic here. Not merely studied, not merely cast. He had heard it, moving like an unseen voice just beyond his reach.

  He inhaled sharply and turned away from the camp. He needed to find Hrafun.

  The old shaman was outside his tent, grinding something in a stone mortar. Without looking up, he spoke.

  “You have made your choice.”

  Kharg hesitated. “I have.” The words came slower than he had expected. He meant them, but the reality of it still weighed heavily on his chest.

  Hrafun studied him, those pale blue eyes searching. “You fear your father’s wrath.”

  Kharg let out a sharp breath. “I’d be a fool if I didn’t.”

  “I have informed Haarek about this, the spirits already knew what your decision would be.”

  * * *

  That night’s meal was more intimate, with only Kharg, Halfur, Haarek, and his closest men joining Hrafun in private. Meanwhile, the guards dined heartily in the mead-hall, the only permanent structure in the village. Though enjoyable, the gathering with Haarek paled in comparison to the grand feast of the previous night. Tales were exchanged and Haarek inquired quite a bit about the south and the well-being of Kharg’s family.

  The next morning saw the caravan off at first light with all the horses fully loaded with heavy packs of furs and other goods. Many of the villagers were there to see them off. Kharg felt a bit anxious, he was moving into completely unknown waters here. Before he could dwell on it, Hrafun let out a shrill whistle, silencing the crowd.

  “The spirits have spoken to me. I will take this man, Kharg, as my apprentice. You should all treat him as a part of the tribe, and more importantly, as a shaman’s apprentice.”

  It seemed that there was more to this apprenticeship than he had first thought, judging by the stunned silence from the villagers. A silence that was soon broken by Haarek.

  “The blood bond grows thicker! Who had thought that there could be a spirit listener among those from the south.”

  Many of the men poured forth to welcome Kharg, who felt slightly overwhelmed. But the celebration came to an end when Hrafun walked away with him shortly thereafter, heading toward his tent at the outskirts of the camp-like village. The shaman’s dwelling rose like a dark silhouette against the pale tundra, its broad, square base and steep hide-clad walls giving it the presence of a small wandering shrine rather than a simple tent. Heavy caribou hides stretched tightly over a timber frame, the roof slanting upward toward a raised wooden smoke-cap at the center. From this vented cap drifted a thin thread of smoke, carrying the scent of burning herbs and pine. Two tall entrance poles framed the front, their crossbeam carved into paired serpent heads whose open jaws faced outward in silent warning. Wind pushed against the structure, but the heavy frame stood unmoving, anchored to the earth with a confidence that felt as old as the land itself.

  As they approached, Kharg noticed carved figures and bone fetishes arranged around the perimeter, weathered by the elements but still standing watch, symbols of protection and guidance. The entrance was marked by hanging charms made of bone and sinew, clattering sharply in the gusts, their sound almost like whispered warnings or greetings. The tent itself felt like a gateway, an inviting yet mysterious threshold to another world, where Hrafun would teach him not just survival, but the secrets of the earth and the spirits that dwelled beneath its frozen surface. Inside, the ground was covered with thick furs and at the center stood a bronze brazier on a tripod, filled with glowing embers and herbs that suffused the interior with an acrid scent. A pair of ravens sat on a horizontal perch tied to the central roof-beam, their feathers rising and falling with slow, steady breaths.

  “Sit. Relax,” Hrafun said as he lowered himself onto a thick bearskin, settling cross-legged without effort.

  “Most who walk this path come to a shaman as novices,” he began once Kharg had joined him, still adjusting his legs with a quiet grimace. “At first, it is about more than knowledge. It’s to see if the calling is real—if what draws them is more than curiosity, or some restless urge. That part takes time. Often years.”

  He studied Kharg for a moment, then continued. “You are different. The resonance I felt in you... it’s strong. As strong as any I’ve seen, even among the other tribes.” His brow creased slightly. “And that’s with no proper training. That is rare. Peculiar, even. Perhaps your years as a mage stirred something, or opened a path most never find.”

  Hrafun paused briefly, as if considering something. Then he smiled at Kharg and continued, “The few mages who have come this far north have never taken well to what we do,” he said quietly. “Their way of shaping power does not sit easily with ours.”

  He leaned back slightly, his tone measured. “What comes next is the time of apprenticeship. It is when a shaman openly claims a pupil as his own. From that moment, the apprentice begins to walk the deeper paths of our art. You will learn to commune with the spirits and, in time, to control them. Many think first of the spirits of the dead, or of the ancestors, but those are only some among many. There are the elemental spirits that answer to wind, fog, and fire. There are also the great spirits of the beasts, whose strength and nature we may call upon.”

  He let the fire crackle for a few breaths before adding, “This part of the journey is long. Two or three years, most often, if one has the patience for it. Whether you will have that much time... we cannot know. What lies at the end is the trial for the rank of low shaman, but that still waits in a future we cannot yet see. For now, we set our minds on the first steps, and on opening you to the ways of shamanic magic.”

  Slightly overwhelmed, Kharg gave a small gesture of understanding. “I can follow what you said, but please speak a little slower. I am not yet fully comfortable with your language.”

  Hrafun chuckled, inclining his head slightly. “I will. Anyway, like I hinted, there are three primary branches in shamanic practice. They're called Spiritism, Elementalism, and Animalism. As you should be familiar with elemental powers, I will begin your training with this area.” Reaching into a pouch, Hrafun pulled out a plum-sized white-polished stone with a rune carved into it. “This is a totem for summoning a spirit of elemental fire.” Grasping the stone, Hrafun began to incant in a deep voice, calling on the great spirit of the flames. Kharg felt something that was slightly similar to the weaves of fire that he used for fire spells, but there seemed to be more to it. Mixed in were all the base elements he knew—air, water, fire, and earth. He wasn’t sure, but there might even be traces of light in it, but the vast majority was pure fire. The magic took far longer to form than the normal spells he knew but eventually a red fiery aura erupted around Hrafun, starting at the hand that grasped the stone and quickly engulfing his full body before it sank into him and disappeared. Then he thrust his hand into the flames above the embers in the brazier to show that the flames didn’t touch him.

  “A fire ward. One of the basic magics from the elemental field.” Hrafun grinned.

  “It felt a little similar to what I already know, yet it was still vastly different.”

  “Your magic is more specialized, while the shamanic encompasses all of your elemental magic at the same time.”

  “Another difference is the concept of the spirit you invoked. I would simply take the threads of the magic and weave them together while you seemed to do no such thing.”

  “There are minor spirits all around us, you just have to learn to sense them. What you sensed was how I called on the nearby spirits of fire to form the magic I asked of them. I have to become attuned to them so they can understand what I desire of them before the magic can bloom.”

  “That is very alien to all I have ever been taught.”

  “Perhaps it is best if you simply disregard all you know and just copy me for now.”

  Thus began a month of frustration. Kharg would rise early in the morning to sit and meditate alone some distance away from the village, with a fire burning next to him. Staring into the flames, he would struggle to sense the fire spirits dancing within.

  But they would not answer.

  No matter how much he focused, he could not feel the spirits the way Hrafun described. At the academy, magic had been an orderly discipline defined by precise control, where the elements responded to structured will and careful focus. But this was something else entirely. There was no formula, no structured patterns to follow. It was like trying to hear a sound buried beneath a storm, a whisper beyond reach.

  If we were using elemental magic, I could have simply drawn on fire’s natural properties, he thought bitterly. I could make it grow, make it move, even snuff it out. And yet, he could not do this through shamanism. He could not sense what Hrafun could, could not even tell if there was a spirit at all. What if he was simply not meant for this?

  The thought clung to him as the days passed. Shamanism was not about commanding the elements, nor was it about manipulating raw energy like the southern mages did. It required understanding, a connection he did not yet have. That realization left a hollow feeling in his chest.

  Hrafun watched his struggles in silence. The old shaman neither encouraged nor chastised him, offering no reassurances and no explanations. He simply let Kharg fail. It was maddening.

  Every day, when the sun reached its zenith, he trained with the warriors in quarterstaff combat, a practice Hrafun claimed would “put some meat on his bones.” The drills were relentless, leaving his body sore and his pride bruised, but there was little else to do but endure.

  * * *