Firebrand

The solstice thing continued, day after day, and the two Asterians stayed in the small camp with Starkad’s followers. The closer the gathering came to its end, the stronger sentiments grew. Starkad repeated some of the stories that circulated the enormous encampment, which became wilder with each retelling. Asterian legionaries crossing the Frosten in force, chopping down wild forests that never knew axe before, burning down settlements and taking prisoners to be slaves.

Eleanor argued each time that this was unlikely; no legate had a mandate to send soldiers across the Frosten in such numbers to achieve any of this on a scale that matched the rumours spreading. If they did, word would eventually reach Morcaster, and their actions would be recognised as instigating a war, leading to their removal. Given the war weariness among the population and the Senate, even Cheval and his faction could not protect any legate showing such reckless behaviour.

Martel hoped she was right; regardless, whether exaggerated or not, the rumours had done the damage. And on the last day of the moot, the Tyrians gathered to discuss the possibility of war.

The island lay as a ford in the river; the waters were shallow surrounding it, allowing people to wade over to the spit of land and participate in the discussion. By the time Martel and his companions arrived, the seiðr-wives were already present, once again seated underneath the crown of the oak, and they all watched the jarls cross the water to reach the island, Halfrid among them.

Martel regarded her, axe slung over one shoulder. The weather was warm, and she wore clothing that revealed much of the other shoulder, specifically the burn marks where the wyrm’s blood had disfigured her skin. She looked fearsome, no doubt her intention; besides that, she had the wyrm’s tooth fashioned into a crude necklace resting on her chest as a trophy.

The debate began; standing behind the Asterians, Starkad translated as best he could. The first time each jarl spoke, they introduced themselves along with epithets and deeds before relating stories or arguments. Tales of Asterian incursions were shared, whether true or exaggerated. Some jarls argued in favour of swift and terrible retribution, while others counselled in favour of caution.

Halfrid began to speak. As the others, she made sure that all knew not only her name and tribe, but any reason for renown. Starkad shortened her speech, but she made lengthy mention of the slain wyrm before reminding the gathering of the previous Asterian invasion, nearly a century ago. The Tyrian response had been to elect a leader and unite under her banner, waging war until the enemy had been annihilated. Halfrid’s suggested course of action was clear, including the role she intended for herself to play. The key exception would be, of course, that Jódis, chosen all those years ago to lead the tribes, had relinquished her power once the danger had passed; Halfrid omitted that from her speech.

It was time to add their own voices to the argument. Martel looked at his companions and gave a brief nod before he stepped forward. While doing so, he released his magic, and a bridge of ice appeared beneath his feet. As he strode across the water, wielding his black staff with a knight and a berserker behind him, he heard the crowd murmur. Creating the bridge took its toll on his spellpower and focus, but perception mattered; a demonstration of strength would aid the Asterians in their arguments, and judging by the Tyrians’ reactions, this was a good start.

Once across, Martel felt the hostile eyes of the jarls upon him, though some looked with curiosity. Halfrid, counted among the former, spoke derisively in Tyrian. Martel needed no translation to understand she disputed the reason for his presence or disparaged him for appearing. A voice came, though Martel could not tell the speaker. Ill at ease, he realised the seiðr-wives had spoken, but he could not tell which of them. Looking at them, they all sat unmoving beneath the tree, still wearing the strange ornaments he had seen before. Yet their voice reached him, like a whisper on the wind.

“They bid you declare who you are and why you should be heard,” Starkad told them.

Martel looked at Eleanor, who bowed her head to the witches and began. “I am Eleanor Fontaine, former legate of the Tenth Legion, knight of the Asterian Empire and sworn protector of the mage at my side, Captain Prefect Martel, he the Firebrand, he the Blackstaff, he who was imperator of all Asterian lands!” Her voice rang out, clear and cold; next to her, Starkad translated with furious speed.

Martel stared directly ahead, suppressing the urge to look around to gauge the effect of her words; Eleanor’s task was to impress with her speech, his was to look impressive yet unimpressed.

“You need not take our word for it!” Eleanor said. “Heed the words of Starkad, one of your own, who fought with us as we conquered an empire!”

As agreed, Starkad continued in Tyrian, explaining what he had seen with his own eyes. A mageknight convincing a legion to follow her in rebellion. Two mages destroying four in a duel, persuading other armies to join them. A battle won on a bridge through spellcraft of such fury, hundreds died from a single spell. Finally, how Morcaster, mightiest of cities, fell in a single night by the action of the captain prefect and his protector.

Once Starkad finished, he bowed his head to Eleanor, who spoke again. “This is not all! Across this continent and beyond, we have performed deeds, but none greater than in your lands.” She removed her necklace and raised the wyrm’s tooth high in one hand; the other drew her sword to likewise hold it aloft, and the blade ignited into fire. “Many teeth this dragon had, but only one blade dealt the killing blow, held now in my hand!”

Even without looking, Martel knew Eleanor’s words had struck true; the clamour of voices reached him with ease. Halfrid might have claimed the mantle of wyrm slayer, but neither her hand nor weapon had brought the beast to its final end.

“Should any doubt our words, let the skáld come forth who witnessed it all! By all that is holy, let him speak the truth!”

They had not agreed this with Rolf, and Eleanor had felt uncertain about calling upon the bard to speak on their behalf; it had been Martel’s idea, and Starkad had agreed that he would not lie before such a sacred gathering. Still, Martel finally turned his head to look with an anxious heart as Rolf crossed the waters to join them on the island. Standing before the seiðr-wives, though all in the vicinity could hear, he began to sing.

Closing his eyes, Martel saw the battle. It was strange, as he had his own memories of that fateful fight against the wyrm, and this felt like experiencing it a second time, but through the eyes of another. He saw the terrible beast, able to kill the strongest of warriors in so many ways. The sharpness of its fangs, the size and strength of its limbless body, and the dreadful venom of its blood.

As Eleanor had spoken, so it happened in Rolf’s song. Her flaming sword cut into the wyrm’s eye, where its scales and skull did not protect, and burned inside the head of the creature. As the bard completed his chant, Martel dared to look at the jarls. All of them looked in awe at the knight in their midst, except for Halfrid, furious and hefting her axe. She called out in Tyrian, possibly an insult, but the collected voice of the three witches suddenly resounded; not a breeze, but a gale that felt like splinters of ice in the ears. It was not Halfrid’s turn to speak.

Inclining her head toward Rolf and the seiðr-wives, Eleanor continued again. “If blood has been shed, let it be spilt again. Punish the reckless warriors who have defied the wishes of our Senate. Kill the Asterians you find in your lands who break your laws or show no respect for the land. Take the trophies you must. But do not think that war will bring glory to the tribes or that plunder will come with ease. The magic of Aster is strong. The blade that killed a dragon shall kill Tyrians as well. The staff that defeated an empire shall do the same to the tribes.”

Eleanor’s argument at an end, Halfrid spoke next with Starkad translating again. “Behold the foreigners in our lands! So fearful of our might, they weave tales meant to scare children! They should have remembered our strength before they dared to slay our brethren, fell our trees, and poison our waters! A hundred years and a hundred days have passed since they last came to our lands, and now the lesson must be learned again! A wyrm’s tooth she carries, but with a wyrm’s tongue she speaks, buying time while their warriors gather in numbers to prepare their invasion. Liars and deceivers I declare them to be!”

The voice of the witches came again, and it made Martel shudder even before he knew what they said. He looked at Starkad, who returned his gaze. “Two carry the wyrm’s teeth, but only one can be heeded. Let the strength of Aster face the might of Tyria.”

Martel turned toward Eleanor. The thought of her fighting against Halfrid made his spine feel like ice, but he knew she could win; she was the strongest mageknight in Aster. She had succeeded against the wyrm where the berserker had faltered.

Halfrid spoke again, and a vicious smile accompanied her words. Suddenly fearful, Martel stared impatiently at Starkad until the latter could translate. “She demands that all those who stood against the wyrm must fight. You must stand with your warrior, and the skáld must stand with his jarl.”

Martel whipped his head toward Rolf, who carried an expression impossible to read. He turned his attention to Eleanor again, who seemed undaunted.

A whisper came from the witches, and Martel knew the meaning before Starkad spoke. “Let it be so.” ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ noⅴelfire.net

“Tomorrow,” Martel declared. The shadows had grown long and the day nearly reached its end; while he had no trouble fighting in the dark, he wanted to rest and recover every drop of spellpower.

“Agreed,” Halfrid spoke. She added a string of harsh words in Tyrian aimed at Rolf.

“Don’t worry, my jarl. I’ll offer no help to these brigands of Normark,” the bard replied, speaking Asterian. “They’re not worthy of my song or words of wisdom, whether to take life or grant it. It falls on deaf ears.” He gave Martel a look that the latter could not interpret and turned around. The assembly was over for the day; the matter would be decided tomorrow.

The parties retreated to their individual camps, and the two Asterians sought counsel with the only man who might offer insight.

“I’m sorry.” The apologetic look on Starkad’s face seemed strange and ill-fitting for the berserker, normally so full of spirit. “I’ve never fought alongside a skáld. You know more than me.”

“We didn’t really experience much,” Martel mumbled. “Rolf was wounded in the first fight, and the second, he wasn’t close to us.”

“You must have an idea of their powers. You share his knowledge of runes, do you not?” Eleanor asked.

“Hardly. I know a handful for a few needs. A skáld is a master of lore. They know a hundred runes for a hundred purposes. That is why Halfrid wants him in the fight. No matter what magic you bring to bear, a skáld has powers to counter it,” Starkad explained. “And that’s not including his song, which I’ve only heard rumours of.”

Martel felt his heart sink. In matters of physical combat and elemental magic, he considered Eleanor and himself to be without peer. But a skáld had powers of a different nature that he did not know how to defend against. Their only hope might be to strike with such speed and ferocity, they could win the battle before it had a chance to begin. Perhaps a lightning bolt bursting with spellpower could strike Rolf dead at once – Martel tried to ignore how it made him feel sick thinking about ways to swiftly kill a man he considered a friend.

“Any chance Rolf will not fight at full strength?” Eleanor asked.

“A duel in a sacred place alongside his jarl?” Starkad shook his head. “Once he steps onto that island tomorrow, he is your enemy.”

“His parting words were strange. Almost an insult, but spoken in an odd way.” Martel frowned, trying to recall exactly what the skáld had said.

“His jarl admonished him for his song.” Starkad gave a shrug. “He had to make it clear that he’s no longer your friend.”

“But he’s a bard. In such a situation, I’d imagine he’d choose his words carefully, and he repeated our conversation with him from the other day – the very one about the importance of words. To what purpose?”

Eleanor looked at Martel. “Does it matter? Come tomorrow, he’s not our friend.”

He returned her gaze, and he finally understood. “But he is today. He tried to warn us without making it obvious. Starkad, among all these people, can we find someone who sells candles?”

The berserker did not seem to find this request odd. “Beeswax or tallow?”

“Either will do.” Martel took a deep breath and released it, looking at Eleanor again. “I meant to ask, Blackstaff? Where did that come from?”

“It seemed like a situation where the more names, the better.”