Firebrand

The Asterians spent the night and the following day with Starkad’s group, keeping their distance to other Tyrians as a precaution. While drawing weapons was forbidden during the solstice thing, some might argue this protection did not extend to Asterians, even those with the status of emissaries. Compared to their quarantine in Khiva, staying a single day in the small camp within the greater encampment was no hardship. As it turned to evening, they all left to witness the ritual that commenced the assembly proper.

They pushed their way through the throng; Starkad being a berserker afforded a certain privilege, and while some grumbled, nobody argued, allowing them to reach a position by the riverbank. In the waters, a small island lay, on which a ring of torches stood burning in the night, and a solitary oak grew on the eastern part of the island; beyond those markers, it was bare.

Before he saw them, Martel felt the exhalation of magic. He looked east, down the river. In the dark, it appeared like streaks of silver, nearly transparent and quickly dissolving in the air. Finally, he saw them. Three women walking on the water.

They wore simple dresses of undyed wool and strange ornaments. One of them, younger than Martel by the look of her, had antlers sewn onto what appeared a leather helmet, covering her hair and ears. The second had fabric wrapped around the upper half of her face, blindfolding her. The third, old and wrinkled with white hair, wore nothing of the sort, but with a closer look, Martel saw her mouth had been sewn shut. Lastly, they took their steps on the river barefooted.

Attuning his magical sense, Martel tried to understand what manner of sorcery was at play. He would have guessed water magic, but it did not feel like it; his Asterian knowledge did not fit the kind of power being used. It looked and seemed as if they could simply command the water to bear their weight. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ novelꞁire.net

Suddenly, it felt like he was back in the Western Isles, trying to restrain the fury of a volcano. Magic felt to be everywhere. The water, the earth, the air, all of it responded to the coming of these women. Martel began to grasp what it meant. These people did not simply live on the land; they belonged to it, and it obeyed them. The folly of the foreign council became apparent. Any invading force marching into these realms would have to contend with the land itself.

The seiðr-wives reached the small island in the river and entered the circle of torches. A burst of power extinguished the lights. As one, the three women threw their heads back. A drawn-out sound was released, like a wolf’s howl. Slowly, the song of the seiðr-wives faded away; the solstice thing had begun.

Once morning came, the airing of grievances followed. Strife between tribes or powerful families were brought before the seiðr-wives, seated under the shade of the oak, to reach a settlement and weregild paid in silver rather than blood. Martel and Eleanor watched some on the first day, Starkad translating for them, to gain some understanding into the proceedings; jarls squabbling over who owned the rights to fish in a cove or who could claim taxes from trading done at a crossroads between dominions. Once the Asterians felt like no further insight could be gleaned, they returned to the small camp.

A surprise awaited them. Entertaining the rest of Starkad’s band was a skáld, weaving magic into his song to leave them all enthralled. Seeing the Asterians approach the fireplace, Rolf sang his last verse and rose to greet them with an embrace. “What is this? You’ve made other friends among the northern people?” Starkad asked with feigned indignation.

“I could ask the same,” Rolf declared. “You didn’t mention that you counted a berserker and his warband among your companions.”

Martel shrugged. “We know a lot of people.”

“By your greeting, this must be the skáld who witnessed your wyrm slaying,” Starkad guessed.

“He participated as well. He deserves no less honour,” Eleanor proclaimed, to which the skáld bowed his head.

The berserker sighed. “If only I’d been there.”

“I’m glad you came to see us. It didn’t occur to me that you’d be here – not that we’d stand much luck finding you,” Martel said. While they had not spent long in the skáld’s company, the battlemage meant his words earnestly; they would not have escaped the monstrous undead creature in the labyrinth of the Archean tower without Rolf, and he respected the songster for having dared such an undertaking into those ruins alone in the first place.

“I knew when I heard of Asterians, it could only be you.” Rolf smiled.

“It speaks of you that all your Tyrian friends have the same thought,” Starkad jested before continuing in his own language, and as they made themselves comfortable around the fireplace, food and drink was brought.

“You know why we’ve come,” Martel surmised, looking at the skáld.

“There’s only one matter to be discussed at the thing that would concern you. And since your absence would encourage war, your presence must have the aim of discouraging it.”

“Certainly some went to great effort trying to prevent our presence,” Eleanor told him. “A Tyrian went all the way to Sindhu with the aim to kill us.”

The others looked astonished; the Asterians had not shared the story of the attempted poisoning to any of them. “What happened? You fought?” asked Starkad.

“He tried to murder us through subterfuge. Feigned friendship, but we saw through his ruse,” Martel explained with a smirk. “He claimed that he came from Nordmark but spoke the name wrong, revealing himself a liar.”

“Words have power.” Rolf nodded to himself. “Sometimes, the power to take life or grant it.”

“What of you? Have you come to lend your eloquence to Halfrid’s cause?” Eleanor asked with a sharp look.

“She is jarl of my tribe, and I owe her allegiance. But I came simply because destiny might be decided at this thing, should her desires hold sway,” Rolf explained. “I must be here to witness it.”

“Do you agree with her? Do others?” Martel asked. Starkad, while remaining silent, looked tense for once.

“I do not,” the skáld replied. “But many do. We have had peace for many years. Your northern legions make raids difficult, and so the tribes turn on each other. Many would welcome an enemy beyond our own borders, especially those who have heard the songs of glory won during the last war,” he admitted. “And those who think differently can be swayed by conjured fears of an Asterian invasion.”

“What can be done to counter this? How can we keep the peace?” It was Eleanor who spoke, but all eyes – among those who understood Asterian, at least – rested on Rolf.

“You must approach this as a dispute between two tribes. Halfrid will act as the aggrieved part, making herself appear as speaking on behalf of all Tyria. You must persuade the seiðr-wives that war is too drastic, and instead, compensation must be made another way,” the skáld explained.

“We have little to offer in that regard,” Martel mumbled. He would gladly pay the gems in his belt if it prevented war, but he doubted it would suffice.

“It need not be silver. The seiðr-wives may give permission for the afflicted tribes to raid and take their compensation as plunder,” Rolf considered. “Undoubtedly, they will give a task of punishment to worthy warriors, such as our host.” He nodded in Starkad’s direction. “Legionaries found north of the Frosten will be dealt with swiftly, I imagine. But that might satisfy. If,” he added, looking from Martel to Eleanor, “you can convince them that Aster holds no desire for our lands. Friends, I tell you, if all nine tribes gather for war, there will be a floodtide of blood to wash over your realm.”

As the warning was spoken, Martel saw it before his inner eye. Towns and homesteads burning, the smoke rising to the horizon until a sea of blood washed over the land, making him choke. He coughed, and the imagery disappeared; looking at Rolf, he understood the skáld had added magic to his words for emphasis. “We’ll do everything we can.” Next to him, Eleanor squeezed his arm in silent assent.

“I wish you luck. I should go. I doubt my jarl will approve of this visit, and I best make it no longer than needed.” Rolf got on his feet. “But I did not forget my promise last we met. I sing the song of the Firebrand and his knight, and I shall continue to do so. I trust the power of the story will lend itself to your cause.”

Martel and Eleanor got up and bid the skáld farewell with another embrace; soon, the strength of their reputation would have to prove its worth.