Tales from Stolki's Hall: A Thrones & Bones Anthology

FUNDED!!!
almost 3 years ago – Fri, Jun 09, 2023 at 06:49:38 AM

We did it! You did it! Thanks so much.

TALES FROM STOLKI'S HALL IS FUNDED!

Preview: The North in Bondage
almost 3 years ago – Wed, Jun 07, 2023 at 07:28:49 AM

The wife and husband team of Susan and Clay Griffith created the fantastic VAMPIRE EMPIRE SERIES, the CROWN & KEY series, and have written tie-in fiction for The Flash and Arrow, and many other things. Wonderful people and wonderful writers, I’m thrilled to tease their entrance into Norrøngard. For today’s preview of Tales from Stolki’s Hall, we look at the sixth story, “The North in Bondage.”

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Revna watched the boat slide from the mist shrouding the fjord.

Horns blared over the water to announce the arrival. Banners flapped from the mast. The drummer pounded the oar beat as the oars reversed and churned back the dark water. The boat shuddered in the foam. Heavy iron weights on thick cables went over the sides fore and aft. The oars lifted dripping and drew into the ports in the hull.

The boat dwarfed the sleek dragon-prow longboats in the harbor. She was wider and higher and had a blockish stern castle. This vessel was presumptuously built to mimic a galley of the once-great Gordion Empire. She reflected the haughtiness of the merchant who owned her.

Crewmen manhandled a small boat over the side and lowered it to the water. A stout man appeared at the rail dressed in a fine fur cloak and a cap that was likely silk. Clean-shaven and soft in a crowd of hard bearded men.

Erland Ulfsson, the master of this boat and the master of a good portion of the wealth that traveled this fjord from his up-country trading base. Usually just his wealth traveled; it was odd to see the man himself so far from the comforts of his home.

He carried a small wooden cask under one arm. At his side trudged a huge bodyguard fitted ostentatiously in full mail with a gleaming helmet and massive sword at his girdle. The cask was handed down to the small boat and then Erland Ulfsson was handed down too. The swordsman followed. When all were settled, the liveried crew rowed toward the dock. Even this little longboat had the merchant’s outlandishly long banner hanging limp from the prow.

Revna watched as the little boat banged against the quay where a retinue of fur-clad men waited. There was much hugging and arm clasping, laughing and good-natured shouts of camaraderie. The men made their boisterous way up the quay.

Revna lost sight of them as they moved onto the planked lanes between the rude wooden buildings. She could easily presume their destination. Singandr Sinrisson, the Jarl of Jarls, had his hall here in Korjengard. No doubt the ermine-draped Erland Ulfsson was bound for the longhouse of the High King carrying the cask filled with shiny gifts as the prelude to a night of mead-quaffing such as only the richest and most powerful could enjoy.

Revna had to move now that the merchant was ashore. The water was calm. The treacherous currents caused by the spring melts hadn’t started in earnest. She pushed herself to her feet and shook out her legs, trying to ignore the ache in her knees.

A small hand clutched at her tunic. A wharf rat, a child of the streets. Desperate hunger lanced his gaze. It had been a long cold winter. Pockets were empty and so were bellies. Revna reached into her pocket and pulled out her last coin. She tucked it into his pocket. His eyes widened and he fumbled for it. She jerked her head to the mead hall where the others had gone. He gave her one last long look of disbelief and scurried into the dark.

Revna held the simple pendant hanging around her neck. Silver with a glass center several inches across. The glass bulb contained a small tuft of blonde hair. Revna pressed the glass to her lips and secured the pendant back inside her tunic against her heart.

She sat on the edge of the quay and dropped her feet into the water. The cold shot up her legs. She slid into the frigid water. Her leather tunic and pants grew heavy against her flesh. She took several deep breaths, sending mist into the air, and started away from the dock with a measured stroke.

The strong current buffeted her legs and torso. Her chest constricted in the cold. She spat water through trembling lips. She forced her legs to kick despite the tingling in her muscles. Her shoulders burned. The water splashed over her entire face and she might have gone under. She struggled to maintain form even though she couldn’t feel her limbs. If she started thrashing, she’d be done and just surrender to the cold.

Over the rasping of her own breath, Revna heard a new sound. Water lapping against something hard. There just ahead of her was a line of foaming white and straight planks of glistening wood.

The boat.

The high flat stern with two torches on the rail rose some twenty feet above. Revna also saw a patch of discolored wood where a name had been painted – a practice unusual for Norrønian vessels – now sanded away. Still readable though. The name was Pernilla.

A swell slapped her against the planks. Numb fingers scrabbled for grip before the rebounding wave could drag her back out. She found herself clinging to the wood like the rough barnacles under her hands. The rudder was to Revna’s left, to her great relief. Three feet above was what she sought.

A rung. The bottom of four, a ladder fitted into the hull.

Revna worked numb fingertips up along the sodden wood. The water pulled at her without mercy. She knew if the waves plucked her from her tenuous hold on the boat, the cold water would not fail again to drown her.

Revna’s breath rose like a cloud. Her left arm quivered from the pressure of holding her body up. She gave a desperate surge and hooked her fingers around the rung. With the burst of excitement that brought renewed strength, she immediately stretched and grabbed the second rung. She forgot the exhaustion and climbed to the top.

Hanging off the precarious rungs on the swaying boat, Revna felt along the hull, seeking something she knew was there.

Click.

A small section of the timber popped out a few inches. Revna worked her fingers into the gap and swung open a hatch three feet square. She climbed in and pulled the hatch shut behind her, listening for the snap of the latch.

She slumped in the dark, breathing, letting her heartbeat slow. The back of her bowed head pressed against the roof of the narrow little box. Her knees crowded against her chest. Water dribbled off her face and hair. Her sodden clothes dripped. Arms and legs felt thick. She blew lukewarm breath on her raw fingers thinking about how dangerous this would’ve been even when she was young.

Revna shuddered in the blackness. Her eyes flew open. She didn’t remember where she was. Then she recalled the swim and climb. Had she fallen asleep inside the compartment? Had she just gone unconscious from the strain? How long had she been in here?

Revna put an ear to the interior wall. It was quiet. She flicked the second simple switch and an inside hatch opened. She quickly swung out, but her legs wouldn’t hold her and she crumpled to the deck.

She pressed her hands on the floor and sat up. Revna heard voices and noise from the deck outside. The cabin was empty as she suspected, although she didn’t know how long she had been asleep so she didn’t know when the merchant might return. She had to work fast. Revna rubbed her tingling legs, forcing the feeling back. She dragged herself onto her feet.

Several bottles sat in a corner. They no doubt held a private mead that Erland Ulfsson had made for him by special brewmasters. Revna would’ve welcomed a warming draught of mead, but she had eaten nothing since this morning. She needed her head for the business at hand.

Thick tapestries hung from the bulkhead for both warmth and ostentation. The drapes boasted intricate needlework depictions of hunting and war. A newer tapestry hanging behind the bed showed a couple making love.

Revna shook her head. How pathetically typical for a man his age.

Near the luxurious carved bed stood a rack draped by a mail shirt. It was a beautiful, intricate shirt with hints of gold thread woven through. A wide steel belt hung around the waist. Thick leather and fur bracers hung by hide strips. Balanced atop the mail shirt was a helmet, as bright as silver and worked with scenes of bloody battle. A fine sword leaned against the wall with a magnificent corded steel hand guard and a huge emerald in the pommel. All of this war gear was foreign in make, but not the less impressive for that. It wouldn’t look out of place on whatever god of war its creators worshipped. It was clear none of the armor had ever been worn and the sword likely had been drawn only for show.

At the foot of the bed lay a pile of furs. Revna tossed the pelts aside one by one revealing a large wooden chest. It wasn’t locked. Theft was an unusual event in Norrøngard, perpetuated by only the most depraved or the most desperate. Revna hefted the lid.

Gold. Silver. Necklaces. Broaches. Clasps. Chains. Rings. Goblets. Plates. Daggers. Raw gemstones. Faceted jewels. Delicate gold filigree and intricately carved whalebone.

Revna could carry a few items. A ring or two, perhaps a thin chain or a few gemstones. Despite her fatigued arms and legs, and the daunting swim back, she needed to take something valuable to make the trip worthwhile.

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For the rest of the story, you'll have to wait to read it in Tales from Stolki's Hall.

Preview: Sword of Vengeance
almost 3 years ago – Tue, Jun 06, 2023 at 07:32:38 AM

I met Jon Sprunk when I was editing an SF&F imprint when he intrigued me with his description of Shadow’s Son, the first book in what became his SHADOW SAGA. He is also the author of the excellent BOOK OF THE BLACK EARTH series. A writer of hard hitting fantasy, I’m very pleased to have him in the anthology. For today’s preview of Tales from Stolki’s Hall, we look at the fifth story, “Sword of Vengeance.” And check the end of this post for the sword in question, as illustrated by the fabulous Ksenia Kozhevnikova.

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Geth yawned as he opened his eyes. Errant rays of sunlight pierced the roof above the loft where he slept. Judging by the angle of the light, it was well past dawn.

He stretched as he rolled over, luxuriating in the soft furs that made up his bed. He should get up. His mother would be calling any minute to demand that he rise, but Geth wanted just a few more minutes of blissful sleep.

The ladder leading up to the loft creaked. Geth lifted his head, and groaned aloud as Calder appeared. The oldest thrall working on the farm, Calder claimed to be eighty years old, and Geth believed him. Despite the old thrall’s age, he was a tireless worker, up before the sun and always the last in the household to retire for the night.

“It’s past time to be up and about, young master,” Calder said as he climbed up the ladder.

After a moment to catch his breath, Calder reached into a satchel slung over his shoulder and pulled out folded clothes, and not just any clothes. They were Geth’s linen shirt and pants, the ones he only wore on holidays. Suddenly, he remembered what day it was. Gustav Hidasson was coming! He threw back the covers and rolled out of bed.

Calder had also brought a pitcher of water. It was warm – thank the Gods! – as Geth splashed it on his face. He ran a comb through his hair as Calder laid out his clothes on the bed. Along with the pants and shirt, there were woolen socks and his good boots, cleaned and polished.

Calder went to a chest in the corner and sighed as he knelt down to root through the contents. He pulled out a pair of tooled leather bracers and the silver torc that Geth’s father had given him last year.

Getting up with another small sigh, Calder took up the comb while Geth dressed and fussed with his hair, which hung down to his shoulders. “Hold still, young master. You need to look presentable today.”

Geth glanced back over his shoulder. “So why is this man coming all the way out here?”

It was several days’ travel to the farm from the town of Morheim. With winter’s bite still hanging in the air, it was considered an ill time for a journey.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Calder answered as he lifted a fur-lined buckskin vest for Geth to put on.

“They say Gustav Hidasson is the richest man in Norrøngard. Even richer than the jarl.”

Calder brushed Geth’s shoulders for imaginary lint. “Idle talk is worth less than the air that carries it. Hidasson may be rich, but he’s not half the man your father is.” With a grunt, he added, “He’s coming here to pay his respects. It’s an honor.”

Calder held up a bronze mirror, which Geth ignored. “Speaking of my father, where is he?”

“Out in the barn, I believe. Overseeing the preparation of the gift.”

Geth left the old thrall to tidy up the loft. Their home had three sections. The family slept in the north wing, while the servants and housecarls bedded in the south. Between those two wings was the great hall. The interior was paneled in dark wood, with a high, sod-covered roof. The house had originally been built by Geth’s great grandfather and expanded over the generations.

Servants and thralls passed him in the hallway, all of them moving with purpose. A moment later, he heard his mother’s voice coming from the great hall.

There, Geth was greet by a host of delicious smells. A pair of servant girls rolled dough and minded the ovens at the rear of the hall. Over the large fire put in the center of the room hung half a steer, with several iron pots nestled in the coals.

Geth’s mother stood in the center of the maelstrom, overseeing the work. She was a beautiful woman, almost as tall as Geth, with wheat-blonde hair that hung down her back in a long braid. She was wearing a kirtle of sea-blue wool, and silver earrings shaped like tiny crescent moons, which he only saw her wear once or twice a year.

Geth gave her a kiss on the cheek. “It smells good in here, and I’m starving.”

His mother held him at arm’s length so she could inspect his outfit. “You missed breakfast, so you’ll have to wait until the feast.”

“That will be hours! Do you want me to waste away until I’m as skinny as Helga.” He winked at the heavyset cook, who was cutting up turnips.

His mother pursed her lips. “You are too thin. Take a biscuit.”

“How about some meat to go with it?”

Helga swatted him with a hand towel as she went back to her work.

Geth stood beside his mother and admired the cool efficiency of the work. She ran the house like a warlord on the battlefield. And, he knew, she could wield a sword as well as shoot a bow. Fierce and proud on the outside, warm and kind on the inside, she was the best mother in the world. Yet, today, she looked anxious. She kept rubbing her hands together.

“Mother, is something wrong?”

She spared him a small smile. “Today is a big honor. I just want everything to be perfect. Now go on, Geth. Go bother your father. We’re busy here, and the guests will be arriving soon.”

Swiping a hot bun on his way out, with a wink to the girls, Geth left the hall and headed out back.

* * *

Gustav Hidasson shaded his eyes as he gazed up at the mountains rising in the distance. Sunlight glinted on their snowy peaks. Dark forest blanketed their sides and spread across the flatlands. A lone road cut through this land, south of Dragon’s Bay.

He rode on a painted gelding of high breeding, the best horseflesh available in the markets at Morheim. Behind him followed six bodyguards, loyal only to him and his gold, and two servants leading a pair of pack mules. He usually traveled with far more retainers, but this was a special journey.

Gustav shivered under his thick fur cloak. “This damned winter is lasting forever.”

The man riding beside him replied with a voice that rumbled like boulders rolling down a mountainside. “You Skagilund folk are soft.”

Several inches taller than Gustav, who was not a small man by any standard, Azulf stood out as the oddity of the group. Almost every inch of his flesh was inked with woad-blue tattoos. He came from Araland, far to the southeast, where his people lived in caves amid primeval forests, or so Gustav had heard. He had never been there and had no intention of visiting. He had purchased this man from a foreign flesh-peddler, which was not strictly legal by the laws of Norrøngard. But he with the most money made the rules, or so Gustav’s father had told him, and this tattooed savage was as investment in his future.

“Soft, eh?” Gustav reached up to touch the antique bronze amulet hanging around his neck, and had the satisfaction of watching the pale thrall shiver. The talisman had cost more than Azulf, but its value was priceless, for it allowed Gustav to keep him on a tight leash. For Azulf was no ordinary man.

“You may hold my soul in that bauble. But one day I will be free and I will make you—“

Gustav grabbed the amulet in a tight hold and squeezed. Large beads of sweat ran down Azulf’s face, until he finally bowed his head in acquiescence.

Gustav allowed himself a smug chortle. “Good. You may have been a powerful shaman back in your barbaric land, but here you are my property. You will speak to me with a respectful tongue, or I will have it torn out. Now attend to my words.”

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For the rest of the story, you'll have to wait to read it in Tales from Stolki's Hall.

Preview: The Path of the Bear
almost 3 years ago – Mon, Jun 05, 2023 at 08:21:09 AM

The fourth story in Tales from Stolki’s Hallcomes from Sarah L. Miles. Sarah is a newcomer to publishing but a competitive strongwoman who can lift some seriously impressive weight. Her tale takes inspiration from one of the barbarian subclasses in the Thrones & Bones: Norrøngard campaign setting book, the “path of the bear.” The old Norse word “berserkr” literally meant “bearskin.” In Norrøngard, there are three barbarian paths, dedicated respectively to the wolf, boar, and bear. Sarah gives us an origin story of sorts for one young strongwoman finding her own path in this world.

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The mist settled back on the grass, the merest ripple indicating that it had been disturbed. Urszula let her shoulders drop with it and slowed her breath. She could see the deer several feet ahead of her, its head raised as it watched for danger, ears twitching. Barely perceptible under the mist, Urszula raised her left arm, hefting her spear. It was hand whittled and amateurishly made, shorter than average, but the point was sharp and her aim true. The whistle of the spear caused the doe to raise her head, seconds too late to successfully bolt. She moved enough for Urszula to curse under her breath, springing up from her hiding place and throwing herself in the direction of the fleeing deer, pulling her knife from her belt as she did. The doe dropped with the spear protruding from one flank as Urszula hit it in the side and swiftly slit its throat, ending the deer’s life and bringing a smile to Urszula’s face.

* * *

The family gathered around the firepit, the remains of the deer roasting on a spit. The skin was hanging from a beam to one side of the longhouse, scraped clean, and Urszula’s mother Perla was washing the innards in water brought from the stream by one of her many younger siblings. A feeling of satisfaction washed over Urszula as she had provided enough food to last the next few days. Her father clearly disagreed though, seated on a bench, his back against the wall, scowling. His ruined arm was held in a sling, fashioned by Perla to try to ease the burden on him. His injury had affected his mind as well as his body, not being able to provide for his family had taken a toll and he had retreated from village life more and more.

Urszula picked up the slack where she could, trying to set an example for the younger children, while ensuring her mother was taken care of as best she could. The villagers could talk all they wanted, but as the oldest her priority was to the family that raised her, not the expectations of others. Einar would simply have to weather the perceived embarrassment of going from the head of the village’s hunting party, to an injured veteran who could no longer fight. Both Perla and Urszula knew that he was sinking into a deep depression, his extended family–gathered from waifs and strays on his adventures to make up for his own childlessness–now a burden that he could not countenance to let down. Urszula was well known for her cheery outlook and positive nature, always having a kind word when meeting others from the village, despite how she was often treated by them in return, and she now made a stark contrast to her father.

All of the children were well known in Smárvik. Their father was a veritable hero and no one would treat them as anything less than he deserved, even if they came from all over Norrøngard and Araland, or even in Urszula’s case from deep within the Dvergian Mountains. The villagers were a tight knit group, their distance from the nearest town making neighborly behavior a necessity. Einar’s drop in stature had not reduced him in the eyes of anyone but himself, the villagers seeing his injury as proof of his bravery and the reason for a well-deserved early retirement. With a loving wife and a whole household of adopted children, outwardly there was no reason for him to be bitter. But he could see no future for himself, shoulder shattered on his final trip to the northern forests and not even a carcass to show for it.

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For the rest of the story, you'll have to wait to read it in Tales from Stolki's Hall.

Preview: Gull Stormbarn: The Thornblade
almost 3 years ago – Sat, Jun 03, 2023 at 01:12:03 PM

I was fortunate to be the editor on K.V. Johansen’s Blackdog, the first book in the Gods of the Caravan Road five-book fantasy series. Johansen’s world is every bit as lush as Tolkien’s (not a claim I make often, or really ever) but travels further east for its inspirations. I probably worked on close to one hundred and fifty novels in my fifteen years in SF&F publishing, and Blackdog is one of my favorites, possibly my favorite fantasy novel from that time. I cannot recommend it, or her, enough. For today’s preview of Tales from Stolki’s Hall, we look at the opening of her story, “Gull Stormbarn: The Stormblade.” Incidentally, the story hints at things going on in the neighboring country of Araland that will play out in adventures I’m working on for 2024 and beyond. But without further ado…

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When I saw the stranger, I was halfway down the cliff, toes dug into a crack in the rock, angry gulls mewling and sliding through the air about me. I was leaning just a little too far to take an egg from a last nest, and she was climbing up the path from the bit of gravel we called the beach. Climbing was the right word, because that path was narrow and crumbling and nearly steep as a ladder. Even the goats thought twice.

Not only a stranger, but a ship, slid silently in to rest in the shallows. A crew of five; the sail furled now, only two pairs of oars. I didn’t recognize it; not a Norrønian vessel at all. It hadn’t been there when I’d started my climb down, barefoot, the better to cling to every crack in the cliff-face, and with a grass-lined basket on my back for the precious eggs. It hadn’t even been nosing in from the open water; I would have seen. I had taken a good look down below at the stony beach and the waves churning white over the hidden rocks of a fallen sea stack called Jötunnsoppr, the Giant’s Toadstool. There had been a seal hanging about the day before. Ari and Tora had seen it when they took our boat out, hoping for capelin, but the great spawning schools of silver fish that usually filled the cove had not yet come this stormy spring, and the seal had taken too great an interest in them, which I didn’t like to hear. They’d had the sense to get themselves back ashore and up the cliff, rather than venturing out to open water.

We had become wary of taking the boat out beyond the cove; for years now there had been rumors of a ghost ship haunting the coast, but sightings had become more common this spring, especially in these waters west of Nilmgard. Watching from the cliff-top at dusk, the day’s work done, dreaming of—it doesn’t matter what, I couldn’t run and leave Ari to cope with his father alone—I had seen it myself, more than once, ragged dark sail limned in eerie corpse-light, ragged figures leaning to the oars.

Bright sunlight, nearly noon, and the ship below was fine and trim; the men who crewed her no draugar returned from the dead. That did not mean they were friendly.

I had a loop of walrus-hide rope about my shoulder, made fast to the lonely boulder sitting on the clifftop above, and the stranger was well below, so I abandoned my reach for just one more egg and went scrambling up. I was waiting by the top of the cliff-path when the stranger reached it, where one good blow could have sent her right back down again by the shortest route, if it seemed necessary. I had seen she wore a sword and glimpsed the vest of good scale armor beneath her dark cloak.

“Gods be with you,” she said. She spoke Norrønian like a native, but the scarf about her neck was worked with what looked like Aralish embroidery to me, all thorny sprays of roses, and a sheen to it like nothing I’d ever seen. I thought it must be silk. “This is Yngi’s Cove?”

“It is, mistress,” I said. “The farm of Eirik Olavson. I’m called Gull Stormbarn.”

I waited for the questions. The answers are: Gull, because I was found at the bottom of that very cliff one morning after a storm nineteen springs before, a child of maybe two years lashed to a raft of broken oars and planks with the gulls shrieking and diving about me, probably working up to pecking out my eyes; Storm, for the obvious reason; and -barn, well, I made it clear I was having none of this -son or -dóttir nonsense when I was still quite small, and Vanna, the bride of young Eirik Olavsson, said I might be a foundling and a thrall, but I had a right to the shape of my own life in that much at least.

I waited for the questions, but there weren’t any.

“The farm of Eirik Olavson,” she said. “Olav the Shield is gone to plough the fields of Neth, then?”

“Four winters back,” I said. I was surprised she knew of Olav. He had been a hero, yes, but his was a small tale in the end, and I doubted the songs had ever been carried far from Nilmgard. But then, she’d come seeking Yngi’s Cove by name.

“So,” she said, as if that settled something, or confirmed it. The stranger looked me over again. “Call me Finola,” she said. “Finola the Traveler.” She was tall, almost as tall as me, and dark-eyed, with a weathered complexion and hair of a muddy red-brown color, all loose and wind-tangled, hiding half her face, but she pushed it back when she smiled. Good teeth, she had, and good cheekbones, too. Very fine and foreign she looked, with her silk scarf and her armor and a bit of gilding on her sword’s hilt, a noblewoman herself, or someone high in the service of one.

“I would have words with the master of the farm, Gull Stormbarn,” she said. “Will you take me to him?”

We walked together along the grassy track up the valley. Finola the Traveler stopped where the path bent around the mound of boulders we called the Huldra’s Tumble, though I’d never heard why, and she got a good look. I was a bit embarrassed, though it was no fault of mine the place was so run-down. It had been prosperous once, before Olav Yngason was blinded, fighting at his jarl’s side against a Svartálfar raid. Some vial of burning poison flung down from a bat on high; he saw it coming, the last thing he ever did see, and raised his shield over his jarl’s head to spare him. Took the full splash of it across his own face, they said. That wasn’t our Jarl Ranundr the Red, but another jarl, who went adventuring in foreign lands in his youth and was, they say, the lover of a Queen of Araland, but things like that are always told of those who go traveling, aren’t they? Anyway, it wasn’t Olav the Shield’s blinding that brought the farm to ruin, but the grief and shame that came later, which broke his heart and his health and made him an old man before his time.

“What ill-luck’s come to the place?” Finola asked, not of me but speaking to herself, forgetting even that I was there. I wondered if perhaps she might be older, and have been wandering longer, than her looks said. Maybe she’d known Olav the Shield. She’d never come our way before in my lifetime. I’d have remembered.

I looked at the farm, and saw it as if for the first time, all ramshackle and ill-kept. Rotting thatch sprouted weeds, even sapling birches; the palisade enclosing the yard was leaning, pushed over from the windward side by winter’s drifts; the fields that should have been green with the first growth of peas and rye were patchy and thin, struck by late frosts and washed out by heavy downpours where ditches hadn’t been kept clear for years. The húsvættr who had lived in the goatshed even when I was a child had fled and taken the blessing of the farm with it. Most strangers expected the stony, wind-ravaged lands about Nilmgard, clinging between the mountains and the sea, to be poor, but this woman was shocked, as if she knew that our green hanging valley over the sea, half a day’s walk westerly from the town, had once been one of the most prosperous farms on all this coast. True, it had been a bad winter and a worse spring, with storm after storm falling upon us out of the west like hammer-blows, but I felt I had to make excuses.

“The family’s not had bountiful Gaesa’s favour these past years,” I said.

“How so?” Finola asked.

“It’s a long story.”

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For the rest of the story, you'll have to wait to read it in Tales from Stolki's Hall.