"Raiders from Norsca in the north?" Several serfs paled in alarm. They hurriedly grabbed the old fisherman. "Impossible! Isn't there a storm raging in the north? How could a Norscan raiding fleet have made it here?"
"No, those are definitely ships from Norsca in the north. I couldn't mistake them." Fear was all that remained on the old fisherman's face—deep, bone-chilling fear. He was pale, trembling all over and drenched in cold sweat. "I couldn't mistake them, because I've been through this before. When I was eight, my father went out fishing early one morning. But unlike a normal fishing trip, he came home just a few hours later. His face was full of fear. He shoved me into the cellar beneath our house and told me not to come out, no matter what I heard."
As the surrounding serfs listened to the old fisherman, looks of terror crept across their faces. They swallowed hard and exchanged glances.
Some of the fishermen—those with at least a little sense, or perhaps simply too terrified to stay—were already running toward the Lady of the Lake's Temple.
They could only hope to alert someone about the Norscan invasion as soon as possible.
Meanwhile, the old fisherman continued his story.
"For the rest of that day, I heard all sorts of sounds: terrible screams, cries for help, the roar of flames... When the reinforcements finally carried me out of the cellar, I saw nothing but ruins. Houses burned in the flames, and the whole village had become a hell. Everyone had been killed. Their heads were piled as high as mountains. My father had been torn in half, and my mother had been impaled on a stake... I was the only survivor in the village."
The old fisherman's eyes were vacant as he stared