Old Man’s Rock was
said to be a sorcerer’s stone, placed thousands of years ago before the Vendens
came to Runissia and began their conquest. It was tall, but now it lay down and
was covered in ivy and tree roots. Insects and small animals made their homes
in and around it, but no man built his house or ploughed his fields within
several leagues of it; the ground was chalky, and tales of ghosts and living
dead kept them away, so the ground was used by the nobles as a meeting point, a
place where no one had the advantage and they all met as equals. Gritten
ensured he was the first there, and made camp as he waited for the others to
arrive. Yorc Elard arrived just after Gritten, having followed him most of the
way but falling behind when a horse became lame a day ago. Next Reidr Ulfarn,
still as sly and sinister as ever. Gritten remarked that all his four sworn men
were with him, but the rider had told him that two men had accompanied Jatgeir
when he marched on Falfanar. What game is
he playing? What has he done behind our backs?
Armal Hrodal arrived
next the day after Reidr, a worried look on his face.
“Raiders have
burned a village on the Sunset Shore, north of The Spear.” He explained. His
son was absent, apparently raising men to destroy the raiders. “I must leave
tomorrow evening at latest.”
“We will speak and
solve this problem as quickly as possible, and I will ensure Yorc has a boat
and men ready to help you.” Now they all waited for Falfanar.
He arrived in the
evening, surrounded by almost a dozen warriors and Jatgeir’s son in chains
behind. He oozed in arrogance and pride and he grinned widely as he approached
the other nobles.
“Nobles!” He
proclaimed, leaping from his horse. “Equals, and friends!” He looked at every
one of them in turn with blue, intelligent eyes. “Pray tell why you summon me
here.”
“For peace.”
Gritten responded. “We must end this now before anymore lives are lost.”
“I demand payment for
Jatgeir’s actions.” Falfanar said instantly confidently. “And also his fort at
Evensill as compensation.”
The other nobles
looked at Gritten, their mouths sealed shut. “You shall be compensated, but
Daras will keep Evensill.”
“After Jatgeir
attacked me? According to our laws, when we defeat an enemy we have the right
to take what we wish, and I wish to take Evensill. Unless he can pay my
required amount.”
“This is not war,
Falfanar.”
“I can make one if
Daras wants.”
“There will be no
war. No burning or looting, the violence ends now. Enemies are on our coast, we must not fight ourselves.” The
men listening mumbled quietly but the nobles kept still as statues. “Daras will
pay you the demaded amount, and Jatgeir will go into exile.”
“And this son?”
Falfanar jerked his head to Jatgeir’s second son.
“Him too.” Falfaar
snorted.
“We must choose a new
lord of Drikilvarr then.” Gritten nodded slowly, and pretended to pause in
thought.
“I have another
suggestion.” He paused. “There will be no lord, no master over the others. Each
noble rules his land and three times a year we meet here to discuss important
matters of the island of a whole. We were born equal, let us live that way.”
“I have another
idea.” Falfanar suddenly drew his sword. “I
will be lord!”
Suddenly Falfanar’s
men charged into the talking nobles, some running around the Old Man’s Rock to
attack the Hrodals and others jumping from a clump of trees and attacked Reidr
Ulfarn, while Falfanar led his own men into Gritten.
Gritten drew his
ancient sword, the runes engraved along the blade glittering in readiness for
the coming slaughter.
“Stop Falfanar!” He
shouted but the noble rammed into him, confidence in his eyes and a mad grin on
his face. Falfanar’s son fought at his side and one of Gritten’s bodyguards
fell, a spear in his throat.
In an instant almost
every warrior in a noble’s retinue was fighting each other, and the impetus of
Falfanar’s charge felled many men. Swords and axes bit chain and leather,
slicing through cloths and spilling much blood. Gritten hammered his sword at
Falfanar, battering his shield into splinters. His retinue was now around him,
thrusting spears past him and cutting down Falfanar’s sworn swords.
A cry came from
Gritten’s left as Armal’s men beat off their enemies and pursued them, slashing
them as they ran, while to his right Reidr’s four men fought skilfully,
fighting off two men each with ease. Soon, only Gritten’s men and Falfanar’s
centre still stood.
“Give it up!” Gritten
spat.
“It’s you or me!”
Falfanar retorted, bashing Gritten’s helmet and stunning him. He lunged his
sword into Gritten’s left arm, drawing blood. “Surrender?”
“Bastard!” Gritten
shoved him back. “I’ll kill you and hang you head on my fort!”
Within a few minutes
the last of Falfanar’s men died or fled, and Falfanar began to slow but never
gave in despite being surrounded by six men. Soon however, a warrior lodged his
spear in his back thigh and he fell to his knees, panting and sweating.
“I had you…” he hissed. Using his last
energy reserve, he swung low at Gritten’s ankles, but the big man batted it
aside easily. Without another word Gritten hacked off the pretender’s head and
his body fell limp.
The omens had spoken
true.
The gods had looked
away and how two families are ruined, nobles killed and the blood of their best
men stained the soil. Falfanar had been killed, Jatgeir was missing and his son
killed while trying to escape. Gritten too now lay in a fevered state, his
wound festering as he lay sweating and shivering. Raiders threatened the Sunset
Shore and the nobles fought between themselves instead of outsiders.
Daras sat in the hall
at Evensill. It was much emptier now; there was the Aeborth’s steward, the new
master at arms Herend, his sister Arga and a clutch of servants and scribes,
while before him a villager pensioned for a tax decrease due to a poor harvest.
Daras allowed the man a third decrease, but had to perform a day’s labour each
week for one month in exchange. The farmer sworn an oath and left, followed by
the servants and guards.
Daras waited for
the hall to be empty before moving. He stood, his heart heavy, and paced up and
down the long hallway, past the racks of spears, swords and polished helmets.
Light poured through the high windows like liquid gold and dust danced like
huge flocks of twitter birds. Outside the door the guards changed shifts.
What am I to do now? The Night Swords are all but gone, my family is
broken and no more than a shadow, and the only man powerful enough to keep the
peace is dying. Will his son be able to take his place? With his left hand
tucked under his cloak, Daras pondered on the fate of his family and
Drikilvarr. The feuding had left them weak and open to attack, and any man who
could have been the lord was now dead or gone. He ran over the option; Reidr
was too sly, he preferred to stay in Wolf Cave and rule his little corner of
the island. Yorc was powerful, but a fool, everyone knew, and would not make a
good lord. Armal too poor to enforce his power over anyone and Gritten’s son
was young, even younger than Daras. He had heard that Gritten had suggested
they rule as a counsel, maybe that was the best way?
There was a light
knock at the door that broke Daras’ chain of thought. The steward Yargras
showed his bearded face around the door.
“There is a man to
see you.”
“Who is it?”
“He does not say, but
he says it is important.”
“Show him in.” The
steward disappeared and a few moments later a hooded man entered. His cloak was
roughly spun and dirt splattered, and under the hood his face looked old and
creased.
The door closed with
a low thud.
“I guess you have
heard.” The man said, walking into the middle of the hall. “I also bring you
news. The raiders are north of Evensill. Armal’s son Boerg is marching south,
he request you sent men to reinforce him.”
“I will do my best.”
That would not be easy. “Who are you?”
The man pushed back
his hood and brushed the hair from his eyes. “Recognise me?”
Reidr Ulfarn looked
at Daras, son of Jatgeir, with his cold grey eyes.
“You?” Daras could
not help keeping the shock from his voice. “Why did you disguise yourself?”
“I wanted to speak to
you in private, without the others knowing.”
“The others?”
“The nobles.” He
paused, pulling off his gloves. “Falfanar is dead, you father missing and
Gritten will die within the week. Gaeten Grittenson is a young pup and must be
controlled less he seek revenge and rip the land apart. We need a leader.”
“We could form a
counsel, as Gritten suggested.”
Reidr sneered. “See
where that got him, a mound in the earth and a weeping wife. No, we need a
strong leader, not a bunch of bickering lords who each want their own way. Give
each man his word and you give each man his right to protest, which leads to
fractioning and feuding and death. Men are like wolves, Daras, they need a
strong leader.”
“Who do you
propose?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“You are the son of
the lord, and currently the strongest on the island.”
“Yorc is richer
than me, and I barely have half a dozen swords, I am far from powerful.”
“Strength is not
measured only in gold or warriors. It is measured with intelligence, will power
and determination, with bravery and logic. A dumb soldier cannot lead, and a
weak merchant cannot fight, a leader must be a perfect mix of all.”
“Why not you?”
Reidr offered Daras a
smile. “Me? I wouldn’t want the responsibility. Anyway, no one trusts the
wolf.”
“Why should I
then?”
“Because you want
peace.” Reidr sat himself down on a bench. “I will not lead but I will serve. I
will help you become lord and I will keep you there. Take up the place and I
will give you my sword, you are the best we have.”
“We should inform
the others.”
“They will surely be
against it.”
“But they must
know.”
“Later, when we are
sure they will not rebel against us.” Daras judged the Ulfarn, his brow
creasing in thought.
“I shall take up
the title, and bring peace to this island.” Reidr nodded seriously and pulled
his hood over his head.
“You have my word, Daras, and my sword.”
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
