The Witch's Curse—chapter 1

A cool breeze blew across the city of Akranes, capital of the nation that bore the same name. It would past the towers and spires of the royal palace, whipping banners back and forth, before continuing down the wide, stone-paved streets. Further the wind blew, tugging at cloaks and blowing hair into faces, before finding its way to a small patch of worn grass behind a tiny stone house.

Owyn of Styrkur stood with his eyes closed, enjoying the cool air blowing across his sweaty body. He raised thick arms to either side, letting the breeze bring his body temperature down a few degrees. Not that he minded being sweaty—far from it, but he believed in taking a moment to enjoy the simple things when one could.

“Alright, get to it,” growled a gray-haired bear of a man seated nearby. Einar was nearly as tall as Owyn and heavy enough to seem stout. He rubbed a hand across his chin and nodded. “It’s not gonna get any lighter, Owyn.”

Owyn took three deep breaths, his massive chest pumping air in and out like a blacksmith’s bellows, then bent down, hands ready. His thick fingers gripped the edge of a large wooden barrel resting on its side. After firming his grip, he took one final deep breath, held it, and pulled with all his might. The muscles in his legs and back strained as he heaved the barrel waist high.

Carefully maintaining his grip, he leaned back and heaved it to his chest, grunting as the water sloshing inside the barrel made balance difficult. Using his legs for a bit of momentum, he pressed the heavy barrel above his head five times before letting it thud to the earth.

Owyn wiped sweat from his brow with a thickly muscled forearm and propped his hands on his hips, breathing hard. That damn thing was heavy.

“Yeah, I think you’re ready,” came Einar’s gravelly voice. He combed his gnarled fingers through his long gray beard as he nodded at Owyn in approval. “No one else will stand a chance at the King’s Games, you can bet on that.”

Einar had attended every one of the King’s Games since King Ivar started them twenty-five years ago; moreover, he had won the first three. He liked to call himself the strongest man that had ever lived, and few would ever challenge his claim. Except perhaps Owyn.

“I damn sure hope so,” Owyn chuckled as he wiped sweat from his eyes and raked his fingers through his wavy blonde hair. “I know that everything worth doing is worth doing right, and I know that this is only making me stronger, but to be honest…. Well, to be honest, I was hoping that damn barrel would have the decency to break when I threw it down. Looks like no such luck today.” He laughed, and Einar grinned.

Having only seen twenty-five summers, Owyn was in the prime of his life and getting stronger every month with Einar’s rigorous training. He had met Einar while watching the previous King’s Games. The older man had taken one look at Owyn’s towering height and broad shoulders and exclaimed that he was going to train Owyn to win the next one. They had grown to be good friends since then.

Owyn accepted a worn towel from Einar with a word of thanks and wiped the sweat from his broad chest and massive arms. He stood there for a moment, holding the ragged cloth.

“So, are we done today, then?” Owyn asked as he eyed the barrel warily. His arms felt like lead and his legs shook with exhaustion—that had been his tenth set of the day—but if Einar told him to do it again, he would find the strength and get it done. Where there was a will, there was a way, and his will was indomitable.

“Aye, we are. You’ve worked hard, lad, and I don’t think there’s a chance you’ll lose. At least, I damn sure hope not,” Einar added with a toothy grin. “I’ve bet a lot of coin on you.”

“Don’t worry about losing any money on me,” Owyn said as he grabbed his tunic from a nearby rack. He pulled it over his head, then began lacing the front. “I feel like I’ve been training for an eternity for this competition, like I was born for it. Especially since you’ve had me squatting and pressing everything in sight for the last few years. Winning the King’s Games will completely change the course of my life; I can just feel it. There is no way I’ll lose.”

“Good,” Einar said with a chuckle. “I don’t have so much coin that I can afford to lose any.”

Owyn rolled his eyes. For all his fearsome appearance, Einar always had a quip ready, and often directed them at Owyn. Still, there wasn’t a better teacher around. Einar’s strength was a thing of legend, and his skill with a sword was equally impressive. Owyn just hoped he would make his teacher proud.

“Maybe after I win, I can stop working as a merchant’s guard,” Owyn said, looking over his shoulder at his tiny house.

His work paid decently well, but it felt like racing a horse down a dead-end street; it was a job with no real future other than blood. Besides, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to catch a stray arrow one day.

“Let’s go see Bran and get something to eat. I’m starving, and I don’t feel like cooking tonight.” Owyn stretched his arms briefly while waiting on the older man.

Einar nodded in agreement and grunted as he pushed himself to his feet. Together, the hulking men stepped inside Owyn’s house for a quick wash of face and hands.

“Think anyone will try to convince you to marry their daughter again?” Einar asked, splashing another handful of water onto his face. He accepted a towel from Owyn and rubbed himself dry, spending extra time on his beard.

“If they do, I’ll just tell them that you’re my father and you don’t approve,” Owyn said with a grin. “I’ve learned that life is a lot easier if I find a way to just blame you for everything.”

“Aye, I’ll tell ‘em that I don’t approve, on account that my son smells like spoiled meat on a hot day.” Einar laughed. “Or maybe bear shit.”

“It would take one hell of a bear to shit out something like me,” Owyn said, firing back.

“Okay, then dragon shit,” Einar said. “Now come on, let’s get some food. You’re buying.”

“Oh, is that so?” Owyn said. They passed through the house and exited the front door.

“Yeah,” Einar grumbled. “All jokes aside, I’m a little short on coin at the moment. Just being strong isn’t always enough to keep a man going in old age. Make sure you save plenty when you win this thing.”

“Einar, if you need some—” Owyn began.

“No, no, I’ll accept a meal but I don’t need any charity beyond that,” Einar quickly said. “I’m perfectly capable of earning my keep. I’ve just gotten a bit lazy in my old age, I suppose. I need to throw my name around a bit more and get more clients, more people to train. More boys that want to learn the sword from the fearsome Einar.” He grinned, something that looked more goofy than fearsome.

Together, the two men strode down Laugavegur Street, the main street in this city. People sometimes gaped at the two enormous men gently pushing against the flow of bodies. The occasional merchant drove his wagon down the street, their horses making a distinct clip-clop on the smooth stones. People milled about, going to and from houses or seeking the Market District or who knew what other errand.

Having grown up in a small village far to the north—Styrkur, a place with more sheep than people—the capital city of Akranes never ceased to amaze Owyn. That so many people could live in one place, in buildings with three or four stories or sometimes even more, was something he would never quite get used to.

While it was the capital, Akranes was one of the smaller cities in the world, nothing like Peralta or Selfoss. As such, it had few grandiose palaces or buildings with legendary beauty. Still, most houses had roofs of slate or tile, instead of the thatch or sod he was used to.

Countless city blocks full of homes and businesses stretched as far as he could see in every direction. When he heard that some cities to the south were more than twice the size, he found it hard to even visualize how large they must be.

Owyn towered head and shoulders above much of the crowd, which gave him a clear view of the street. Shops and inns lined the path, with the occasional house interspersed along the way. At the end of the street stood the castle keep, where King Ivar reigned.

Owyn considered him to be about as fair a ruler as one could ask for; he didn’t tax the people heavily, he was strict and swift on justice, and he didn’t drag his nation into expansionist wars. Furthermore, every five years he held the King’s Games. That alone earned Owyn’s approval.

The King’s Games were a test of strength and skill, of might and power. Men came from all over the kingdom both to watch and to compete and test their mettle against each other.

The competition was different every time but always stayed simple and to the point. The winner was given the title of King’s Champion and a purse filled with gold. The last King’s Champion had also been honored with a place in the King’s Guard.

“Owyn, how are you?” called a slender man, waving from beneath salted legs of lamb and venison hanging in front of a butcher’s shop.

“Good, Jon, good. How is business lately?” Owyn replied. He and Einar slowed to speak with the old butcher.

“Oh, it’s going fine, just fine,” Jon said, gesturing to several chickens arranged on his table. “Especially with the amount you fellas have been eating in preparation for the King’s Games! In the mood for a chicken or three tonight?”

Einar grunted. “I’ll probably stop by later. I could go for some mutton, too.”

“Not today, Jon,” Owyn said with a polite smile. He waved and stepped away from the butcher’s shop. “I’m in no mood to cook today. I’m simply too tired!”

Owyn cut across the road, creating a path for him and Einar. He murmured apologies when someone ran into him, which was fairly often due to his massive size. There was simply no excuse for a lack of manners, and he tried to be extra careful.

They came to a stone building with three stories of comfortable rooms for rent. Its steep roof hid a fourth floor beneath the eaves where the innkeeper lived. The name The Red Lion was carved into the wooden sign that gently swung in the breeze above the door. A detailed carving of the animal itself on its hind legs was beneath the name.

Owyn pushed the door open and walked in with Einar following. He smiled as the noise of the common room washed over him.

Patrons filled the common room, as usual. Owyn saw men talking over mugs of ale, playing dice in the corner, and travelers relaxing with a plate of hot food. A thin haze of pipe smoke hung over a table where a group of older men—merchants, by the looks of them, Owyn knew those types all too well—debated and gestured sharply over their drinks. A serving woman swung her skirts wide, disturbing the thin, absorbent layer of sawdust on the floor as she hurried through the tables with her hands full of drinks.

A portly man kept a watchful eye on his customers as he polished a pewter mug behind the bar. Wisps of gray hair sprouted from the sides of his scalp and had been combed over the top of his head in a failed attempt to hide his bald pate. A pristine white apron strained around his belly and his shirtsleeves were pushed up above his elbows. His face lit up in a broad smile when he saw Owyn approaching the bar.

“Owyn!” he exclaimed. “My favorite giant, how are you? And Einar, my second favorite! Or third, I forget.” He punctuated that with a good-natured laugh.

“I’m great, Bran, thanks.” Owyn thrust his hand across the bar and Bran clasped it firmly. “You know what I want. Give me a mug of the good stuff.”

“I think you’re the only one that still drinks that stuff during the warmer months,” Bran said with a chuckle. He turned and put a mug beneath a small cask set against the wall behind him. Brown ale flowed into the mug as he twisted the spigot. “Everyone complains that it’s too dark and strong for the summer. They stick with the lighter ales, or better yet mead or melomel. I think you’ve nearly drained this cask yourself.” He passed the mug across the bar to Owyn, who graciously accepted.

“Hey, Bran,” Einar said in an overly serious tone. “Give me something light. Maybe some mead, or melomel.” He laughed, and Bran joined in.

“I despise weak beer,” Owyn said, taking a long pull from his mug. “And I’ve always felt mead was something for the evenings, like wine. I want something strong, something substantial. If I’m the only one still drinking this, perhaps you should name it after me. You could call it ‘King’s Champion Stout.’”

“If we’re naming it after you, something like ‘Smelly Lady Stout’ might be more fitting,” Bran said with a laugh that set his jowls waggling.

“Owyn! How is your training going?” asked a woman that was approaching them. She was as tall as most men in the room, with long, wavy blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck. Her blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. Her strap dress was the color of the sky, over white petticoats beneath, which emphasized the brightness of her eyes.

“Exhausting, but, like I always say, anything worth doing is worth doing right,” Owyn said. He embraced her tightly. “How are you, Katrin? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

She returned the hug and gave Owyn a broad smile. “Doing well, brother. You probably haven’t seen me because you’re too busy training to visit your family.”

Owyn’s smile faltered a hair, but Katrin clapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m only teasing you, Owyn. We all know how important this is to you. Are you ready for the games?” She took his mug from his thick hand and took a sip of the dark liquid. “Faugh!” she coughed. “I don’t know how you drink this. It’s like mud.”

“Ah, you know how I am,” Owyn said as he took his mug back from his sister. He took a long pull from the mug and grinned at her. “Only the strongest of ales for me. As for the King’s Games—”

“He’s ready!” Einar jested. “We were all just talking about how he’s fully prepared to lose. No one can stop him!” That drew a laugh from everyone.

Einar ordered some food from Bran while a tall man with a long, gray-streaked beard approached. He clapped Owyn on the shoulder and greeted him with a wide smile.

“Owyn, it’s good to see you,” he said in a rich baritone.

“And you as well, Sigmund,” Owyn responded.

One of the reasons Owyn loved The Red Lion was that he was always surrounded by friends here. When Owyn’s family had moved from the tiny northern village of Styrkur to the capital city of Akranes a decade ago, they had found themselves with Sigmund as a neighbor and had been close friends ever since.

Sigmund had hinted several times over the years that Owyn should consider marrying his daughter, but Owyn didn’t want to take that leap until he had better employment. And while Sigmund’s daughter was quite beautiful, Owyn felt no connection with her.

“How is your family doing?” Sigmund asked. Every time he saw Owyn he asked about his family. Sigmund had moved into the heart of the city a year ago to be closer to his business, and worked hard to stay in touch.

“Good, thanks for asking,” Owyn replied. “I’ve been too busy to see my parents lately, but last I visited them they were both healthy and happy. Katrin’s doing great as well,” Owyn added, gesturing towards his sister.

Upon hearing her name, Katrin turned from a conversation she was in and smiled politely at Sigmund.

Sigmund accepted a mug of ale from Bran with a murmured word of thanks and raised it towards Owyn. “To family.” He clinked his mug against Owyn’s and took a sip before continuing. “Hey, are you still drinking that mud?”

Owyn raised his mug and grinned. “Yep. I only wish it were stronger and darker. This one feels a little light at times.”

“I’d be pretty disappointed if you were to suddenly develop taste. So, are you ready to compete? I sure hope you’ve been training!” They both chuckled; for the past five years Owyn had talked about little else than his training.

“No, I’m not going to compete in the games,” Owyn said when the laughter died down. He leaned closer to Sigmund. “I’m winning the games!”

Behind Sigmund, Einar shook his head at Owyn’s poorly executed joke, but his smile was full of pride.

“I hear there’s some strong competition this year,” Sigmund said with a knowing smile. “People are figuring out how to better train for these sorts of things. I’ve heard rumors that Erik has been eating himself into the poorhouse and lifting everything he can get his hands on to prepare for this.”

Owyn thumped his fist against his broad chest. “Good,” he said. “I hope he’s in the best shape of his life. I want some real competition.”

“He’ll win,” Katrin said as she placed her hand on Owyn’s heavy shoulder. “The men in our family are all very strong. They have to be; the women kill and eat the weak ones.” They all laughed.

“Aye, I guess we will see, we will see,” Sigmund said, stroking his beard. “My money is still on you. To Owyn!” he said, raising his mug.

They all cheered and tapped their mugs together.

“To Owyn!”

They talked and laughed and drank for the next few hours while Owyn devoured four bowls of Bran’s hearty lamb stew. His plan was to eat, sleep, and stretch for the next two days so that he would be fully rested for the competition. He ordered another bowl of the stew and Bran handed it to him with a broad smile.

“You’re my best five customers, you know that?” the portly man said.

“It’s not my fault that your wife is such a great cook!” Owyn exclaimed as he dug his spoon into the thick stew. “Please, give my best regards to Ylfa.”

“Aye, I’ll let her know. You keep buying all my food and I’ll be able to afford to send our youngest son to that academy in Gardabaer, to the west. You’ve heard of it, right?”

Owyn’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “I have.”

“What’s your opinion on that sort of thing, Owyn? My boy says they’re teaching students to use magic for the good of the people.” Bran leaned an elbow on the bar.

The others watched him closely, waiting for his answer. The academy was often a sensitive subject, as many people believed magic to be innately evil.

Owyn took another bite of the lamb stew and thought for a moment before responding. “Hard to say, as I don’t know much about the magical arts, other than kings and queens often have a wizard as an advisor since they’re often some of the most well-read people around. If you wish for your son to earn his pay with something other than his business or his hands, then I think it’s a respectable path. I know some people fear magic and spells, but I believe that magic itself is neither good nor evil. It is a neutral thing. The person that wields it has the power to use it how they may, for good or evil.”

“So, you’re not against magic, then?” Katrin asked him with a raised eyebrow. “Even after all the stories we grew up hearing?”

“You northerners grow up in houses with grass walls and teach your children that snow dragons will hunt them down if they don’t finish their chores,” Bran said with a laugh. “I imagine there were some wild stories. Come on, Owyn, tell us some!”

Owyn’s golden hair swayed as he shook his head. “Dark things, mostly. That magic is always destructive. That the simple act of casting a spell can kill a weak caster. To bolster their strength and build more power, some sorcerers and witches draw power from dark entities, such as demons or long-forgotten gods. That turns them evil.”

Owyn shoveled another bite of stew into his mouth and chewed.

“And what’s your opinion on those stories?” Einar asked.

“I stopped believing in children’s tales long ago,” Owyn replied. “We’ve all heard stories of how Uthar, the king’s advisor, healed the sick. A man should use his best tools in life. The gods have graced me with strength. Others receive the gift of magic. If I were able to learn it…well, I imagine I would treat it the same as everything else. I’d try to be the best at it.”

“That’s my brother,” Katrin said with a proud smile.