Firebrand

Excitement boiled as word spread of the contest. Tyrian strength against Archean might; northern ferocity against southern discipline. Moving away from the market, the combatants, their retinue, and the many curious onlookers made their way to where the land sloped gently upwards, allowing the crowd a better vantage point.

The Tyrians stood to one side, laughing and speaking coarse words to each other and their champion. Ketill wielded the preferred weapon of most berserkers, a two-handed axe strengthened by runes. The edge had a wooden covering, protecting its sharpness – and the fingers of anyone who happened to come too close. With a grin, Ketill removed the cover and swung his weapon around, stretching his neck as he entered the circle of empty space.

Opposite stood Eleanor and her attendants. Valerius gave her quick advice based on his impression of her opponent, and Henry fidgeted nervously with his hands while examining the prospective battleground, making sure it was even and smooth; nobody wanted to see a fight determined by someone tripping.

Martel saw no need to offer his own advice; he knew Eleanor was more than a match for any berserker, especially someone from a minor tribe with no renown to his name. He assumed the jarl had suggested this bout to ensure that he and Eleanor lived up to their reputation; it would also make for a memorable harvest festival, so Martel did not mind.

A runner appeared with a shield and a sword for Eleanor; the poor child, Badger, could barely hold it while running at the same time. Seeing Eleanor accept the weapons, the berserker frowned. “You bring another blade? What’s the matter with the one you got?” He nodded at Pyr, hanging by Eleanor’s waist.

She pulled out the sword a few inches and activated its magic, causing an eruption of fire. “This is not a weapon for sport. A blunt blade will suffice.”

“One man should not hold a sharp weapon if the other does not.” Ketill grinned as he put the covering back on his axe. “Or woman, in this case.”

Ready at arms, Eleanor walked into the centre of the circle. “What are the rules?”

“Make the other yield.” Ketill smiled and swung his axe.

If uncovered, the axe wielded by his magical strength could have cut clean through a limb; even blunted, it would leave a bruise underneath the mail and padding. But matching it with her own speed and force, Eleanor raised her shield and denied the attack. At the same time, her sword came sweeping to retaliate, though the long reach afforded by the axe kept Ketill safe, and he retreated with a grin, hefting his weapon as the two adversaries eyed each other. Martel slowly moved along the edge of the circle, approaching the Tyrian band. Watching the fight had reminded him of the first time he had seen a berserker, in the fighting pits of The Broken Crown. The Tyrian warrior had once worked together with Regnar, the hedge mage, providing magical support from within the crowd to ensure victory. And after his own duel at solstice, Martel knew how well the powers of berserkers and skálds worked together. And so, the battlemage made his way inconspicuously towards the only skáld present.

Reaching her, Martel used his sixth sense. He felt what could best be described as a glow from the skáld, proving she possessed magic. But nothing else came to him. No runes cast on the ground or tendrils of power from the bard that might strengthen the berserker.

“Strange,” Martel remarked. He sensed no runes had been cast at all, not by Ketill either. “Your man isn’t using his powers, other than swinging his axe.”

Watching the berserker do just that, missing Eleanor who deftly side-stepped the blow and struck back, the skáld shrugged. “Ketill is a simple man.”

“I thought all berserkers learned runes.”

“They do, but Ketill wouldn’t know one if you carved it on his forehead.” Suddenly, the skáld grinned. “There’s a reason he’s never done anything worth for me to put into song.”

Despite the mockery, the berserker looked imposing all the same, swinging his axe with enough force to sever heads from necks. Each time Eleanor blocked with her shield, the sheer force of impact pushed her back. The crowd appeared duly impressed, though Eleanor received the same adoration, perhaps even more, being considered the champion of the majority. Many shouted her name each time she evaded another blow, though her own attacks suffered the same fate; each time she stepped forward to strike, the berserker pulled back. And so, the fight continued, evenly matched.

At least so it seemed to most onlookers as the duel dragged on. Ketill had reach, Eleanor had her shield, and neither could wound the other beyond a glancing blow. This did not dampen the spirits of the spectators; to them, watching the fearsome axe swipe through the air caused a rush of excitement, as did seeing the lithe Eleanor raise her shield to withstand a blow that could split a tree in twain.

Eventually, the mageknight decided to end the fight. As the axe came flying, she did not block, but instead leaned back to let it pass her by harmlessly. As Ketill began to pull back, arresting the momentum of his swing, Eleanor simply threw her shield into his face. On instinct, he pulled up his hands, holding his axe haft, to protect himself, and while he did not suffer any injury, it did block his field of vision.

Taking advantage of that, Eleanor made a circular kick on the side of Ketill’s knee, making him buckle forward, and she followed up by hooking her foot behind his ankle before pulling her leg back; as a result, he landed flat on the ground, axe and shield on top of him.

All of this had been done at such speed, it looked a blur to the crowd. But the aftermath was easy to understand; one lay in the dirt, the other stood towering above him.

With laughter, Ketill cast axe and shield aside and got back on his feet. “Well fought!”

His words were echoed by all, and his jarl bowed her head to the mageknight in recognition.

The market continued as evening waned, though celebrating replaced trading, as both locals and visitors drank to a good harvest. A few removed themselves from the festivities, however, entering the city and a house set aside for their purpose. Six in total. Three Archeans, the Triumvirate of the city, and three Tyrians, the jarl together with her skáld and berserker.

Wineskins carried from the feast were opened and shared before they all sat down on benches standing opposite each other. The Archeans eyed their guests, Herdis flanked by her attendants, until Eleanor, directly opposite her, finally broke the silence.

“You have seen our city, received our hospitality, and tested our mettle. Have we satisfied?”

“Your walls are high, your magic powerful, and your ale is good. You have.” The jarl inclined her head before speaking again. “But we come not as beggars. Our furs are thick, our amber and whale bone precious, and our magic is potent as well.”

Herdis glanced at her skáld. “Embla.”

The woman in question gave a nod. “I can carve runes to strengthen the soil of your fields, keep your animals healthy, and your rivers clean,” she declared.

“Powerful gifts when given by a friend.” The words made everyone look at Atreus almost bewildered; the spellbreaker had an ability to seemingly vanish from attention even in plain sight, and people often forgot he was present.

Martel got his meaning; as the Archeans did not know those runes, they could not confirm that the skáld’s magic was benign. If she possessed the opposite powers of those claimed, symbols to spread disease and wither crops, it would be an easy way to bring Archen to its knees.

“It is good to trust your friends, but first, one must know them,” the jarl said, laughing in a raspy manner. “So be it.” She nodded at her companions, and all of them removed a necklace that contained a small stone for a pendant, carved with a rune.

Martel realised this was what protected their minds from his magic. He reached out and sensed the emotions of their thoughts. Apprehensive, impressed, eager, hopeful, curious. Nothing suggesting deceit. He leaned forward to share a look with Atreus, whose mental magic far exceeded his own; the spellbreaker gave a slight nod.

“And what do you wish in return?” Eleanor asked.

“Steel. My men wear leather and cloth when they should be clad in mail. And if we are to be friends, the stronger we are, the better friends we make.”

Martel sensed the jarl’s thoughts again. Concern mixed with eagerness again; it seemed the Elk tribe might be pressured by its neighbours. No doubt superior equipment would help, as would the threat of powerful Archean mages pledging aid to their cause. Martel hoped the intimidation would suffice; he had no desire to enter a war between Tyrian tribes. At the same time, if they expected the northerners to help them in a fight, they had to be prepared to offer it as well.

“We have steel. We will gladly offer it to our friends, knowing their mail-clad warriors might stand with us in battle.” Eleanor looked at Herdis with clear expectation in her eyes.

The jarl rose to her feet and raised her open hand. “So be it. What we each lack, the other shall provide. And should the cry rise up, the warriors of the Elk will join you. Are we agreed?”

The Triumvirate looked at each other and bowed their heads, all of them rising. “We are agreed.”

Herdis took her small knife and cut her palm open. “Then let the gods witness this oath. The people of the Elk take the people of Archen to be their kinsfolk. Aid shall be given without question, in peace and war. This I swear, Herdis Jarl, as witnessed by the gods and my sworn warriors.”

Eleanor cut her own hand, and grasping the jarl’s, their blood mingled. “We swear the same oath. We shall look upon you as kindred, and we offer all help you might need in the same spirit as it is given. There shall be peace between our peoples, and may we all prosper.” Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on novel•fire.net

“Agreed!” Ketill exclaimed before laughing. “That calls for a drink!”

The skáld added, “And a song!”