Firebrand

Martel had to bend low in order to cross the threshold into the longhouse; a defensive measure, he knew, forcing an attacker to expose themselves. Inside, the building was dark; Martel almost summoned light on instinct, as he usually did in dimly lit places, until he realised that might be considered intrusive.

This was not the home of some villager or peasant, awed by the sight of magic or mages; while the building was humble compared to the smallest mansion in Morcaster, the master of the house was a jarl and ruler of his tribe. He might not take kindly to unbidden displays of magic or the insinuation that his home was lacking in some respects, so Martel simply squinted and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

They had entered from one end, meaning the entirety of the building stretched out in front of them. A great table filled most of the hall, with lamps providing sparse illumination. Wooden benches provide seating along the table, though the walls also had seats built into the stonework; Martel imagined that those of prominence ate at the table, while those of lesser stature would be relegated to the edges. At the far end, a wooden pedestal rose with a few steps to support a great chair. Seated upon it, with the hide of a bear providing comfort for his back, was the jarl of the Raven tribe.

“Halmund Jarl,” Rolf spoke in greeting as they walked through the hall to approach what could be considered his throne. Most of the seats by the table were empty, probably since it was in the middle of the day; those few present, all of them armed to the teeth, watched the travellers with curious eyes.

So did the jarl, whose wife, Martel presumed, stood behind him. Halmund greeted his guests in Tyrian, and a rapid exchange followed with Rolf. The Asterians waited patiently in silence until they recognised their names being spoken along with a gesture from the skáld, and the jarl turned his attention on them. New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on novelꞁire.net

“Be welcome in my home, warriors of the South.” A man in his thirties, he spoke with a deep voice that fitted his powerful build. He wore a wreath of black feathers as a fragile symbol of his rank; Martel imagined magic was involved keeping the construction in place. “The Raven has no quarrel with your tribe, and my skáld tells me you are heroes who use your might to defend your lands. Tonight, we shall eat and drink our fill, and Rolf may tell us all of your deeds.”

Martel and Eleanor bowed their heads. “We are grateful, my lord jarl,” she replied.

“Take a seat at my table, and food will be brought to you. You have journeyed a great distance, and the evening meal is still long hours away.” While his guests did as invited, the jarl bellowed a command in Tyrian to his thralls before he left the hall altogether, followed by his wife. The remaining residents stared unabashedly at the Asterians, but they did not speak; either they respected that the travellers were hungry and tired, or they simply did not know the language. In either case, Martel and Eleanor were allowed to satiate their need for food in peace, while Rolf chattered away with his fellow tribesmen.

After a quick meal, the two Asterians left the longhouse to explore Svartheim. There seemed to be no particular order or reason to how the buildings lay within the ring of its defences. As they walked around, they found different workshops with men and women working their craft, scattered throughout the city rather than organised close by each other according to their trade. A forge lay next to a potter with a herbalist further down the street, while in another part, another smith worked his anvil by a ropemaker and a weaver; at least the sailmaker had his place near the docks, as did the shipwright. They watched the latter work his axe against the wood before they made it down the pier, looking at the great longship moored. Martel had no doubt about the speed it could reach; if fully crewed, they would be in Aquila within a couple of fivedays rather than months. The smaller vessels, broader to allow more room for goods, could also make the journey in good time, and most likely, they would take such a craft home; they were built for trade, after all, rather than war.

Turning around and walking back through the city again, Martel noticed that most of the barters taking place and trades being plied were simple in kind. He saw no glassblowers, and the only spice found in what could generously be called the marketplace were peppercorns. Likewise, the smiths seem to only work iron, making tools or weapons; still, plenty of townspeople adorned themselves with jewellery, which Martel guessed came from further away. These people lived without much luxury, except what they could procure from distant places; but the crafts they did pursue were done so with skill and care. If the travellers needed to replace any of their belongings for their future journey, they had no qualms about doing it here.

To his relief, Martel did not see any more slaves in the city other than those at the longhouse. “It’s funny,” he said to Eleanor as they strolled down what could be considered the main street. “I knew the Tyrians raided for people as much as gold, but I never really thought about them having slaves. At the same time, it doesn’t feel like there’s a lot with iron for a necklace.”

“It seems only the jarl has such bonded servants,” she speculated. “Maybe prisoners taken in war. Given that this tribe seen among the smaller and less powerful, it makes sense that they have less opportunity to take such captives.”

“One is still too many,” her companion mumbled at her side. “At least we don’t do this in Aster.”

“But we do. Well, we do not raid our neighbours and take their people as slaves, but we send our prisoners to the mines or chain them to the galleys, whether their crime is murder or simply being taken captive in war without being worth a ransom.”

Martel had forgotten about that. He had a memory of his own family being threatened with enslavement if he failed his examination to become a battlemage; assuming such threats were carried out, innocents were also made prisoners in the Asterian Empire, which should not surprise him. “I should have banned all such laws when I had the power to do so,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling ashamed that in all the months he had held Morcaster, it had never occurred to him.

Or maybe the thought had crossed his mind, but at the time, he had cared about other matters and felt that such criminals deserved their fate; the only other punishment for murder would be execution, after all, which seemed worse. Yet it bothered Martel that he had not thought of a solution and that he could not even remember whether he had devoted any time at all to consider this issue. Probably for the best he had given up on being imperator.

“I doubt it would have mattered if you had done anything. Your successor would undoubtedly have reinstated all such laws,” Eleanor claimed, perhaps because she knew already the thoughts going through his mind and wanted to make him feel better.

If so, she had succeeded. “Thanks,” Martel told her. Above them, the sky was growing dark. “Let’s get back before nightfall, unless you know how to ask for directions in Tyrian.”

Eleanor did not, and they set a course back toward the centre of the city and the mead hall.

By now, despite not knowing the language, the Asterians could follow along as Rolf recounted the tale of their battle against the vampire, simply by virtue of having heard it so often. They also enjoyed watching the expressions of the audience; while it was obvious that all three of them had survived the encounter, the skáld nonetheless could enrapture his listeners, and Martel suspected that he wove magic into his words, given the visceral reaction they had upon hearing how Martel’s final spell roasted the monster before Eleanor’s sword decapitated him; at least, he assumed that was the message conveyed by Rolf’s animated gestures.

When the tale was at an end, every man and woman in the hall raised their drinking horn and saluted the heroes in their midst. Once they had all emptied their mead – Rolf had impressed upon the Asterians of the importance that they left not a drop behind when participating in this small ritual – the thralls entered with large plates of salted meat and fish, along with bread baked from the earliest of harvest.

The meal thus only began with the storytelling concluded, and Martel understood why; the noise from eating, shouting, and laughing deafened any attempt to be heard by anyone more than two seats away. He found it uncomfortable, but he had learned to tolerate it, mostly by focusing on what he was tasting. At least he no longer felt nauseated by the smell of charred meat, thanks to the healing magic Atreus had used on him back in Morcaster.

Despite Martel’s belief that the cacophony in the longhouse would overpower any attempt of communal conversation, one of the Tyrians leapt to her feet and attempted exactly that, addressing half the hall with a thunderous voice. Unfortunately, she did so in Tyrian, and Martel had no clue what she spoke so fervently about.

Instead, he studied the woman. Most of those seated at the great table were men, besides the jarl’s wife and Eleanor, and the speaker was dressed as the other warriors. She had a dagger in her belt with a blade too long that it was simply a practical tool to have at hand. Her hair was cut short, and Martel thought he saw dye patterned on her skin; runes, he would guess, having seen that on other Tyrians. It took him a moment to realise those had been berserkers, and he realised why a woman sat among the fighters in the hall.

Martel looked at Rolf with a questioning expression, and the skáld leaned toward him to speak into his ear. “That’s Halfrid. She’s a berserker and thus the greatest warrior of our tribe.”

“Funny, her name is similar to the jarl’s.”

“They are siblings.”

“So, what is she talking about? By the looks of it, not everyone is pleased, including her own brother.”

“She wants to kill a wyrm,” Rolf explained helpfully.

“A worm? What, like a snake?”

“A snake bigger than this longhouse, yes. A creature that dwells in the mountains. Three years ago, Halfrid went to the seiðr-wife, and she claims the seer gave her the omen to kill it. But she’s no fool – for all her might, she doesn’t stand a chance on her own.”

“I’m confused,” Martel admitted. “Why is she talking about that now? Is this something she brings up every night?”

The skáld laughed. “The entire hall has just listened to the tale of your heroism. How could others not be stirred to do the same?” Rolf gave him a grin and reached out for a leg of mutton.