Firebrand

Over the next fiveday, people began arriving. Although travelling the furthest distance, the Asterians came as the first group, since they had journeyed aboard the last ship arriving from Morcaster, still anchored by the dock, awaiting their return. Most of them were traders from the guilds, ready to buy the goods promised to be on offer.

Fewer in number, more furtive in their arrival, some Khivans also appeared in the last days before the festival. A handful were merchants, lured by the same promise as the Asterians; the remainder of the Khivans, a couple of scores, were the young and the curious, attracted by the prospect of festivities held in lands forbidden to them.

As the last, arriving the day before the market was to officially open, the Tyrian delegation appeared. Thirty in number, they came to the gates of Archen and waited to be properly greeted. Once runners had carried the message around, the lords of the city assembled to meet them.

Every mage was gathered in the procession, showing the prominent citizens and magical might of restored Archen. The Triumvirate in front, naturally, walking side by side. Eleanor had her armour and weapons, while Martel was dressed in the robes of a battlemage and carried his black staff; Atreus had, for once, changed into a new set of clothes rather than the ragged, travelworn garb he always wore.

Behind came Valerius and Maximilian, clad the same as Eleanor for battle. The rear was brought up by Henry and Cornelia, each dressed according to their element, with Sparrow by the former’s side, also wearing dark green.

Seeing them march out of the city, the band of Tyrians murmured in their own language; they had been milling about, but now they straightened their backs and assembled behind their jarl, a woman with a weathered face and a stern expression. While the Tyrians all wore the same style of clothing, her tunic was dyed blue, her belt had a silver clasp, and her cloak was lined with ermine fur.

Martel reached out to sense their thoughts, but nothing came to him at all; just as on their initial visit, they had some manner of shielding from mental magic.

“I am Herdis Jarl,” she declared. “Your names are known to us.” She gestured at Martel’s weapon. “You are the Blackstaff. And you are the fylgja,” she added, looking at Eleanor.

A Tyrian word Martel did not recognise, but he guessed its meaning. As for Eleanor, she bowed her head. “We welcome you to our lands, Jarl Herdis. You and your people. A day of celebration awaits us, and you are our honoured guest.”

“Thanks,” came the gruff reply. Martel wondered if it was due to lacking command of the Asterian language or simply the jarl’s nature to be laconic; either seemed plausible. Regardless, he was happy to let Eleanor handle the diplomatic niceties.

“A gift to welcome you.” Eleanor extended her hand, holding a spyglass. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ Nove1Fire.net

Frowning, the jarl took the metal tube, squinting at it. As she looked down one end, a start went through her. “What strange magic is this?”

“There is nothing magical about it, only craftsmanship. It will let your eyes see what lies far away. Try pointing it at the forest and look through it.”

Still looking sceptical, the jarl did so, and suddenly, her weatherworn face cracked into a smile. She exclaimed something in Tyrian and handed over the spyglass to a companion. “We have this for you,” the jarl said, turning back towards her hosts. She spoke a name in Tyrian, and another of her followers unwrapped an ivory tusk carved with figurines. “A memory of your reputation in Tyria.”

Taking a closer look, Martel realised it showed a scene from a battle, and unless he was mistaken, one figure was a battlemage spewing fire at an axe-wielding warrior.

“It shall have a place of honour in our home, by the wyrm tooth that hangs by our hearth. A fitting place, fang next to fang.”

Martel appreciated the deft way Eleanor reminded the Tyrians of their other great deed done in northern lands, the slaying of a lindworm. Judging by their expressions, the reminder was not lost on their guests.

“We have prepared a hearty meal for you,” Eleanor continued. “After days on the road, we imagine you would welcome hot food and cold drink.”

Several of the Tyrians gave mutterings in their own language, suggesting their approval. Together, the Archeans led their guests south towards the meadow where festivities had already begun.

Many long tables stood arranged at the edge of the field; the locals had already begun. For this number of people, the most sensible food to prepare was stew, and countless cauldrons boiled on Martel’s heating stones, turning a variety of meat and freshly harvested vegetables into a sumptuous meal. In addition, each bowl came with freshly baked bread, and though the fare was simple, it did not seem to offend the northerners; they dug in with a healthy appetite, crowding several tables while attracting stares.

The jarl sat with Martel and Eleanor; Atreus had disappeared somewhere, as was his wont in crowds. In addition, the Tyrian was flanked by two that Martel could sense possessed magic. Judging by their appearance, he guessed one to be a skáld, and the other to be a berserker.

Unlike her people, Herdis ate with less eagerness, watching her hosts instead. “I didn’t go that summer,” she suddenly spoke. “To the moot.”

“Forgive me, which summer?” Eleanor asked politely.

“When you went holmganga. At solstice. What my man carved on the ivory.”

“It is a wondrous gift.”

“Few of my people saw. The sacred holm is far from our tribe, and seldom is the journey worth making,” Herdis continued. “But we heard. The tale spread like flames.”

Martel refrained from any jests concerning his affinity for fire.

“I should like to see. Your strength.” The jarl looked across the table at Eleanor. “Ketill is my greatest warrior. Could you defeat him?” Next to Herdis, the broad-shouldered man grinned.

“Is there need? Are we not all friends in this place?” Eleanor asked.

On Herdis’s other side, the skáld laughed. “My jarl does not ask for a fight to the death!” she exclaimed. “But it is fitting for a day of celebrations to include contests of strength, isn’t it?”

Eleanor glanced at Martel, and even without magic, he could sense her questioning thoughts. He made a barely perceptible shrug, indicating that he would follow her lead.

“Very well. If you have come to witness our power, you shall have the opportunity.” The mageknight looked from jarl to berserker. “And a fight you shall have as well.”