Book 7: Chapter 65: Back in the band
The directions given by the Tyrian patrol were simple. Walk north until they reached another river and follow it east. Martel and Eleanor did just that, setting a good pace. Eight days later, they arrived as promised to the next river, finding it busy. Already from afar, they could spy vessel after vessel sailing past. Most were smaller crafts, allowing personal journeys faster than on land. A few were meant for trade, judging by their broad hulls. And at one point, they saw a slender longship with many oars swiftly passing by, carrying a jarl to the thing.
Once close enough for gestures to act as communication, they negotiated passage aboard a boat, paying ten silvers for the privilege; with the sun warm and the weather pleasant, they could rest and let the waters bring them to their destination.
Their journey ended when they simply could not sail any further. The river ahead lay full of ships to the point where no water could be seen, and the vessels lay side by side that one could cross from one bank to the other with dry feet.
Travelling light, most of their possessions still aboard the galley, the Asterians bid the crew farewell, slung their belongings over their shoulders, and jumped from one boat to another until they reached the shore.
Martel noticed immediately that they drew eyes. He was accustomed to this after several sojourns into lands where they would be considered strange, including their last visit to Tyria, yet the attention felt more hostile. The Tyrians aboard the ship taking them to the moot had been dour and quiet, but Martel had simply assumed they did not speak Asterian.
Now back on land, with crowds of Tyrians as far as the eye could see, Martel felt uncomfortable. For once, he put on his enchanted mail from his days as a prefect. Next to him, Eleanor watched the people passing by while he armoured himself. “This is chaos,” she muttered. They had agreed on a simple plan of action. Find someone in charge and explain their wish to address the assembly regarding the issue of border skirmishes and provocations. “It is an enormous camp with nothing but tents. How are we to find those in authority?”
“Good question,” Martel admitted, adjusting his clothing underneath the mail. “It ought to be possible to discern the jarls from the commoners. We can start there.”
“Very well. Keep close. We are not welcome here.”
The solstice gathering seemed to be a mixture of everything. Walking around, the Asterians were offered all sorts of items from amber carvings to beaver pelts and combs made of whale ivory, though this did not make the expansive camp into a marketplace as such; rather, people simply took advantage of making the occasional barter in between sharing drink and food. Lots of bards plied their trade as well, some of it mundane, others weaving song with magic.
Yet everywhere they went, people stared and muttered to each other. Eleanor looked the picture of an Asterian knight, and while Martel might have disguised himself as a Tyrian, his armour painted him as a prefect as well. Every time he saw heads stick together, exchanging words while looking at them, he considered if a display of magic was needed to keep people calm. He did not know the rules of this moot, whether fighting was forbidden or tolerated, or perhaps encouraged when it came to outsiders. And still he and Eleanor walked onward, hoping to see a tent that suggested someone of power dwelt within.
“Mage of fire! Lady valkyrja!” Words spoken in boisterous fashion cut through the noise of the throng.
Relieved at hearing a familiar voice, Martel turned toward it. “Starkad! What strange coincidence!” Eleanor gave no greeting other than a smile that could be considered slightly strained.
With his customary grin, the berserker approached them. “Nothing of the sort. My band comes here when we are between paymasters, seeking new employment and recruits to join our ranks. Far stranger that you should be here.”
“I meant, how weird that we’d run into you. There must be thousands in this place,” Martel explained.
“Tens of thousands. But this is no chance meeting. I heard of the Asterians who had come, a pair that sounded most familiar. So I dispatched my birds to find you.” He smiled, but his voice became low as he continued, “You should not wander. Come. You will camp with us.”
Grateful to fate and the berserker alike for this grace, Martel was only happy to assent. “Right behind you.”
This part of the great gathering looked like any other, with simple tents providing a home, but Martel recognised the members of Starkad’s band, and they greeted their visitors with warmth and offers of mead and meat. “Come, sit. Tell me how it can be you’ve come to our thing,” Starkad bade them.
Martel glanced at Eleanor; they could not hope to find better assistance. “We’re here as envoys of Aster. We’ve heard there’s some unrest between your people and ours – we hope to quell it before it turns into something worse.”
The berserker regarded each of them. “Indeed, those are the tidings that have spread faster than flames through the gathering. I wondered if your appearance was connected with this news.”
“We need to speak at your assembly,” Eleanor impressed on him. “Explain that war is not in the interest of either party.”
Starkad stroked his beard. “I will make sure you’re heard. You’ll have to arm yourselves with patience, though. There are many matters to be discussed, and something of this importance will be dealt with last.”
“Alright. We appreciate your help,” Martel said.
The berserker made a dismissive motion. “We are comrades of the steel. We fought together and made the steel sing. You will stay in our camp, and all shall know you are envoys of your great thing – what did you call it?”
“The Senate,” Eleanor replied.
“Indeed. You will be heard.” Starkad smiled. “Including tonight. Tell me of your tales since we parted ways in Morcaster, and I shall do the same.” As the sun slowly sank in the horizon, the Asterians shared their stories with the Tyrian warband; Martel did his best to forget that come next month, they might be enemies.