Thoren felt true fear for the first time in his life. Meeting the troll at the bridge did not bring on this kind of fear. In fact, seeing Lysette deftly handle the troll with her singing, aided by Eme-Redser, dispelled any notion of fear he had on that occasion. Even the battle on the ridge near Shimmering Lake had not caused him to fear. Frankly, he would have admitted afterwards, he was so busy fending off the lake snakes he didn't have time to generate a very good personal fright.
Thoren felt many eyes turn and look at him. He raised his head to meet their look. These were not looks of curiousity or comparative self-interest. On all faces the look was one of pain, sorrow, fear and the deepest concern. He read true friendship in each face. He found little relief. They will want to help, but they cannot.
At last Thoren responded. "It is too late, my friends. The die is cast. I sent Ragnar back to Torgold to issue The Challenge on my behalf. Even now he should be before the gates making himself heard to Morded."
Lysette struggled to control herself. "Withdraw The Challenge, Thoren. Let us do this another way."
"I'm sorry, Lysette. I cannot. Once The Challenge is issued it cannot be withdrawn. If The Challenge is not met in the prescribed manner of my people the family of the violater is put to death in the place of the one who failed to honor The Challenge. My mother would be killed for sure and those of my Lodge would be slaughtered with her. I have sisters, Lysette, whom you have never met."
Lysette searched for words to argue her side, but could not find any that would help. She lapsed into sad silence. He will do this thing, she thought, and he will be lost to me forever. Finally she rose to her feet and left the fireside to find a private side of the encampment, there to cry her eyes out until she could make no more tears fall on his behalf. Sleep was all she could do, and it was as troubled a sleep as she had ever experienced.
The others eventually sought sleep, even Thoren. All except the minstrel. He found a place of comfort and there he sat, resting, eyes closed, but not with sleep.
Thoren cowered trembling in a corner of the world gazing at the haze of the unknown. From out of the haze horrible sounds escaped and vague, ugly misty figures glided out then back into the haze. One towering figure, trollish in look and unbearably vile in behavior, emerged and began to solidify. It called Thoren's name in a bass rumble that sounded as if it came from the bowels of a fire mountain. "Thooorrren," it called and then continued to repeat the call. The Norseman squeezed himself back into his corner and began to shake uncontrollably.
Even as the calls continued from the garrish figure from the mist a change occurred before Thoren's eyes. Two new figures appeared between himself and the Mist Troll. One was a tallish man with ebony wings dressed in a white gown and the other was a man dressed in the custom of antiquity. The second man was of medium heighth, had light brown hair and blue eyes. He was muscularly built, but not overly so. He wore gleaming polished armor over blue cloth. Sandals protected his feet and a short sword hanging at his side, no doubt, protected the man.
Thoren shivered anew. "Who, who... Who are you?"
The winged man said nothing. The man from antiquity responded. "Don't you recognize me, Thoren?"
"No, apparition, I do not. Who are you?"
"Why, Thoren, do you not recognize me? We are of the same blood, the same purpose and the same mind."
Thoren shook his head. "You are not Norse. How can we be of the same blood?"
"True, you have Norse blood; but you also have the blood of a long line of warriors that stretches into times long past, into the days of a great empire that once held the land you now hold."
"Are you from that empire?" asked Thoren.
"I am," the apparition replied. "So are you, by virtue of the bloodline you represent. Your ancestor, Romana, is the source. I am but one of its many bearers. You, Thoren, are the last and maybe the final bearer of the bloodline. Is it your will that it be so?"
"NO! Apparition, it is not my will," protested Thoren. "I.. I am frightened, that is all."
"It's to be expected. When I fought to save my Apolita on the Isle of Celtia, I was frightened too."
"Celtia?"
"Yes, Thoren. On Celtia... Is Lysette well?"
"Uh, yes... I believe so."
"Thoren, are you so sure. If you flee who will protect her. Who will become her consort. Not you I expect. I like her, Thoren."
"I love her," said Thoren, never expecting to utter these words and admit to such a thing.
"Then fight for her Thoren; fight for your mother and your sisters; fight to carry on the bloodline you were born into. You are the only one left who can."
Thoren understood. The shivering stopped. The fear abated. But still the warrior wondered. "Who are you? I must know."
"The husband of the woman of Celtia named Apolita. I am Civis Romanus and you are my descendant. Now go, Thoren... Be brave, be strong." It was then the winged man uttered the only words he would speak. "And have Faith, Thoren of Torvald." Then both apparitions faded away.
Thoren rose, unsheathed his sword with his right hand and seized his bow and quiver with his left. He walked forward and prepared to meet the Mist Troll. Then his mind cleared and he awoke to the chill dawn of another day. This would be the day of The Challenge. The Norseman was prepared and committed. "As you command, Civis of Rome," he said in a whisper to himself.
The minstrel saw him rise and make preparations. You are free of their Spell of Debillitating Fear, the minstrel thought. Go now, and have Faith. We will be there with you.