Firebrand

This matter dealt with, for better or worse, Martel set out to leave Tyrian lands. As his destination was Morcaster on the southern coast of the continent, he did not retrace his steps, but instead set a course westward to reach a harbour. As much as the thought unnerved him, the fastest route would be to sail.

Knowledge of Asterian was scant in these parts, but using exaggerated gestures and showing his silver, Martel was able to barter for food, though he suspected that he was made to pay extra compared to what he got. And while he could not speak Tyrian, he knew a few words that he could say and get confirmation that he was on the right trail; he had entered the lands of the Raven, and the city of Svartheim lay ahead.

It was as idyllic as Martel remembered, nestled between cliffs with the fjord cutting into the mountainside. As he entered, the guards gave him a long glance, but they lacked either reason or courage to interfere. Moving through the city, Martel set a course towards the harbour, though he did not walk the direct path. Instead, he lingered or moved according to instinct, as the long journey on foot had taken its toll on his belongings. His boots, first and foremost, required repair. New socks to keep out the winter cold, and a woollen cap to replace the old.

As he was making his purchases, two warriors approached him. They seemed apprehensive despite their big axes and helmets. One of them cleared his throat. “You, you’re the mage of the black staff? The only one?”

“I am.” Martel considered it unlikely another Asterian mage would travel to the Western Isles and acquire an ebony staff; he had yet to see any examples of the wood on the continent, except for a chess set.

“The jarl bids you come.”

“I suppose I better come, then,” Martel assented, not that it put the warriors at ease. They regarded him sceptically even as he pushed past them to walk towards the longhouse.

The building was as could be expected. Dark, with the smell of smoke in the air along with all the warm bodies that filled the mead hall. Warriors seated along the table with servants in the background; Martel noticed with satisfaction that none of them wore the collar of a thrall.

At the end sat the jarl. Once deposed by his sister, the title belonged to him again, though Martel imagined his dignity and authority had suffered a blow. Not that the battlemage felt guilty.

“You are him. The Blackstaff, the Firebrand, and what other names they call you.” “Martel will suffice.”

Jarl Halmund looked aged. He sat slightly bent forward, and he regarded Martel with unfriendly eyes. “You are not welcome in my hall.”

“And yet you bid me here. Say what you desire to say,” Martel told him, not in the mood to indulge the Tyrian longer than necessary. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on noⅴelfire.net

“My sister usurped my place because of you.”

“Well, I also removed her again, and you sit in the same place as when I first met you.”

“Yes. While we had no strong bond, she was my sister, dead by your hand. You slew my kin, and while the fight may have been justified, I will not have you in my lands.”

“Trust me, I have no desire to stay,” Martel replied coldly. “I intend to go to the harbour this instant and find passage south.”

“No,” the jarl declared. “None of the Raven shall aid you. Leave as you came, on your feet.”

Martel narrowed his eyes. He could accept this; while it would add many days to his journey, he could walk south along the coast until he found another port and ships sailing south. But it irked him to accept the judgement of this petty man, holding a grudge for something he ultimately benefitted from. His eyes swept over the gathering; none of these warriors posed a threat to him. He could simply set the mead hall on fire and walk out.

The thought left Martel; he would not burn a house full of innocent people. There was no need to force the issue; he could find another way south.

Before he could speak, a familiar voice interfered. “Halmund Jarl, none appreciate your wisdom as I do. But this is a matter of mages, and as your advisor in that regard, I humbly suggest you let me handle this renowned guest in your lands.”

Martel looked over his shoulder with a smile; in his frustration, he had not noticed anybody enter the longhouse. Seeing the skáld and his former companion, Martel bowed his head to him. “Rolf.”

As for the jarl, he seemed less enthused at the bard’s appearance. He waved them both away. “Begone, then.”

Rolf bowed to him, and he also smiled as he straightened up. “Yes, my jarl. Come along, you,” he added to Martel.

Outside, Martel regarded his friend. Burn scars wound their way up his throat and face, leaving Martel feeling guilty. But Rolf’s eyes twinkled, as did his smile, and the battlemage placed both hands on his shoulders. “Rolf! I’m relieved to see you are well.”

The skáld laughed. “Your spellcraft is impressible, my friend, but it takes more than that to handle me.”

“I’m glad.” Martel relinquished his grip. “I wanted to see you after the fight, but they carried you away. And we likewise left in haste. I thought about returning to Tyria, but our presence seemed ill-advised.”

“Silence with such excuses,” Rolf said with a good-mannered tone. “We all did what we had to, and it fell the way I had hoped. Now come along! There’s a barrel of southern wine by the harbour, and I am eager to hear what has brought you here, especially if ill-advised.”

Laughing, Martel followed the skáld down the road towards the docks.

“A strange tale, but I expected nothing less,” Rolf declared as they sat, drinking wine, after Martel had related the tale of Archen and his sojourn to the Pillars of the World. The smell of salt filled the air; it was a cold day still, barely out of winter. “If any can rebuild this city, it would be you and your lady companion.”

“Let’s hope so. What of the Tyrians? How will your people react to our settlement?”

The skáld shrugged. “Who can tell? Nine tribes, nine reactions. But if you don’t cross into our borders, the seiðr-wives will do nothing overt. But they’ll allow raids and scouts to enter and feel you out, measure your strength.”

“That sounds unpleasant. I wonder if I should seek them out. Perhaps I can negotiate an understanding with them,” Martel considered.

Rolf repeated his gesture. “No. If you do so now, before you’ve even placed stone on stone, they’ll think you weak. It’ll only reinforce their desire to test your strength.”

“How pleasant.” A problem to deal with another day, it seemed. “What of you? Somehow, your home is the last place I expected to find you.”

Laughter came in response. “I know. Sometimes, I look at the horizon and wonder what stories await to be told. But I have already made famous songs. The tale of the Blackstaff at summer solstice is well-liked in Tyria – well, except here.”

“I hope your song mentions you as well. There would have been war between Aster and the tribes without you,” Martel said earnestly. He was still impressed and grateful that the skáld had warned them before the duel, giving them the chance to win, knowing that he was likely to die as a result.

“If you learn Tyrian, you’ll find out.” Rolf grinned. He looked at the horizon where the sun had reached noon. “Come, let us find you passage on a ship out of here. And who knows? Perhaps one day, I’ll sing of Archen.”