The Witch's Curse—Chapter 2

Rays of morning sunlight angled through the small window in Owyn’s bedchamber and roused him from his slumber. He stretched his burly arms over his head with a yawn, then threw the thin blanket off of himself. After swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands for a moment.

“No use putting it off,” Owyn mumbled, and stood. He took a step away from his bed, then squatted down one hundred times. Once that was done he placed his hands on the floor and completed the same amount of push ups. It was a ritual he completed every morning, no matter how he was feeling. It was a good way to start the morning.

The water in his washbasin was cool and felt good on his face. He grabbed a washrag and wiped himself down, then scrubbed his teeth with salt and soda. Whistling to himself, he pulled on a pair of breeches and a tunic, then stamped his feet into his boots and hurried down the narrow staircase.

Owyn’s house was small, but he still prided himself on it. He had worked for years as a merchant’s guard and earned enough to build the small place recently. While it barely had enough room for him, much less a family, it was his and that was all that mattered. The tiny backyard was just large enough to train for the King’s Games, which was another plus. There were days he missed the near-endless land of the farm he had grown up on, but that simply wasn’t possible inside a city.

Routines and structure were important to Owyn, so he tried to keep himself on a schedule every day, whether he worked or not. He was a creature of habit; that kept him sharp.

There wasn’t much food in his kitchen at the moment—he needed to go see the butcher later today—so he grabbed a heel of bread and some hard cheese and strode out the door.

Owyn’s house was only a few blocks from Laugavegur Street, which was another benefit. He strolled towards the main road, tearing off pieces of crusty bread and stuffing them in his mouth as he walked.

As soon as he turned onto Laugavegur Street, he entered a tiny corner bakery. An elderly woman peered at him from beneath her head scarf. Hilda had been running this bakery since before he was born.

“Need something, Owyn?” she asked. “First batch of meat pies just came out the oven.”

“I’ll take one, please,” Owyn said, digging some coppers from his coin purse. Hilda made some of the best meat pies, although he never knew what would be in them. Some days they were chicken or pheasant, some days they were beef or lamb.

“Just one today?” she asked, handing him a piping hot pie just large enough to fit in his hand.

“Oh, I’ll probably be back later,” Owyn said with a grin.

“I hope so,” Hilda said. “Say, have I ever told you about my granddaughter? She’s about your age, and tall. Eyes like a summer sky.” Hilda held her hands in front of her chest. “She’s very—”

“Sorry, no time to talk today!” Owyn said.

He gave her a grateful smile and hurried from the small bakery before Hilda could describe any more of her granddaughter to him. She had a habit of doing that, and in a way that would make most men blush.

As Owyn grew stronger and people realized he stood a good chance of winning the King’s Games, he ran into more and more situations like that. Mothers would mention how beautiful their daughters were, and fathers would inquire how his work was going, then make comments about how a strong work ethic boded well for his family. A good woman would turn his house into a home, they would say in serious tones, right before mentioning that their daughter had just come of age.

Owyn knew he was going to win the King’s Games. And while plenty of beautiful women had offered themselves and he had let a few share his bed, he wanted to set his sights higher. He wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed, but if he was to be the King’s Champion, he wanted to marry more than a butcher’s daughter. Not to say that there was anything wrong with that. But he felt it was important to have lofty goals. It gave a man something to fight for.

“Owyn!” a man called out.

Owyn swallowed the last of the meat pie—beef and turnips, today—and turned to see who had called his name.

A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a long beard, both blonde, was hurrying towards him, deftly weaving his way through people walking on the street. He carried a mead horn in one hand and his round stomach bounced with each step.

“Ludvik, it’s good to see you,” Owyn said when the man arrived.

“Owyn, you have to try this,” Ludvik said, pushing his mead horn towards the tall man.

“What is it?” Owyn said, accepting the horn. “Mead, I assume?”

“Melomel, close,” Ludvik said. “Although some call it pyment. I fermented the honey with grapes, white grapes. Please, please, you must try it!”

Owyn wasn’t big on mead, but he could always enjoy something well made. He pulled the stopper from the end of the horn and tried a sip.

“Wow,” Owyn said. “I see why you’re so excited. That might be the best mead I’ve ever had.” He took another sip.

“Don’t drink it all,” Ludvik said, taking his horn back. He crammed the stopper back in the end of the horn. “I want to convince Bran to buy this. Do you think he’ll bite?”

Owyn thought for a moment. “I think he will,” he said. “Especially during the warmer months like this.”

Ludvik nodded. “I’ll tell him you thought it was spectacular.” With that, the quirky man hurried off towards the inn.

Owyn continued walking down the broad street for ten minutes, until he was halfway across the inner city. Akranians were friendly folk, and many greeted him with a smile as he passed by, making for a pleasant walk.

Eventually, he came to a modest house on the outskirts of the inner city. It was made of stone, like most others, with a steeply pitched roof to help shed snow in the winter. Tall, arched windows let in plenty of sunlight and kept the gloom away, no matter the season.

Owyn stepped up to the front door and rapped his knuckles against the sturdy wood three times, then took a step back and waited.

The sound of something metal crashing into the floor came through the door, followed by muffled cursing. Heavy footsteps stomped closer and the door finally opened, revealing a portly man with a thick, black beard.

“Owyn?” Viggo asked. “Have I become so decrepit in my old age that I have forgotten what day it is?”

Owyn blinked. “I think I’m so used to doing the same thing every day that I just came here by habit. My apologies for disturbing you, Viggo.”

The portly man waved it off. “Oh, you’re fine. For a moment I was afraid I had lost a few days. I won’t need you until after the games. That is, if you’re still available for employment then.” His grin had a gleam in it; he knew he was going to lose his best guard.

Viggo had been a merchant for nearly twenty years, and had built up quite a few trading partners over that time. He sold wool and hides to Midsandur and brought back luxurious bolts of cloth and thick carpets that the aristocracy of Akranes were always eager for. He had built up a considerable fortune being a smart trader, which was reflected in the quality of his home.

Owyn grinned. “A creature of habit, I am. I bid you good day, Viggo.”

Viggo took a step inside and gestured for Owyn to enter. “Would you like to come in and have some hot tea? Katarina just brewed a pot.”

Owyn shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I’m going to head to the inn.”

Viggo nodded. “I know it takes a lot of food to power those muscles. Know that we’ll all be there at the games, son. We’ll all be cheering you on.”

“Thank you,” Owyn said, offering his arm. Viggo reached out and grasped his forearm.

After that, Owyn walked back through the inner city and made his way to The Red Lion. Before he even pushed in the door he could smell breakfast in the air. He entered and immediately noticed Einar seated at a table, huddled over a bowl.

“Owyn, a good day to you,” Bran called out.

Owyn acknowledged him with a wave and approached the bar. “Always a good day when I’m on the right side of the dirt,” he said, bringing a laugh from the fat man. “I’ll take two helpings of bacon and porridge, plus whatever fruit you’re able to scrounge up.”

“And a pint of mud,” Bran added, grabbing a pewter mug.

Owyn grinned and slid some coins across the bar. He walked over to where Einar was seated and plopped down in a chair that creaked under his weight. “Good to see you here, old man.”

“Old man?” Einar asked around a mouthful of porridge. He gestured with his spoon as if it were a dagger. “I’ll have you know I was putting men in the ground before you were even born. Don’t ‘old man’ me, or I’ll have to teach you some respect.” He finished with a grin that made it clear his words were in jest.

“Yes, and I’m sure even the gods were young when you were born,” Owyn said, and Einar barked a laugh. “It’s good to see you here, Einar. Didn’t feel like breaking your fast at home?”

Einar shook his head. “No, I’ve eaten about everything in my house that isn’t nailed down. I figured I would take a break and have a bite here.” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you heard anything about the competition?”

One of the serving girls brought Owyn’s food, and he thanked her with a smile. Her returned smile was very warm, and her eyes lingered on his for a while. Owyn cleared his throat and grabbed his spoon.

“I’ve heard rumor that Erik lifted a horse recently,” Einar said, keeping his voice low. “They say he got beneath it, set his shoulders on the horse’s ribs, and stood up, lifting the horse clear off the ground.”

Owyn waved it away. “No horse would let him do that. It would probably kick him to death if he tried.”

Einar nodded. “That’s true. He’s probably the original source of those rumors. Perhaps he thinks he can scare the competition away if they think they stand no chance.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Owyn said, shoveling a spoonful of hot porridge into his mouth. “As I said yesterday though, I hope he’s the strongest he’s ever been. I want to prove my strength against Akranes’ best, not against the dregs.”

“That’s a respectable notion,” Einar said. “So, what’s next then?”

Owyn looked down at the food on the table in front of him and tapped his bowl with his spoon. “More of this.”