Next part of the Saga of 6 Families:
Gritten sat on one of the long benches in the solid wooden tower, a
tankard of ale in his huge fist and his shaggy beard sitting on his belly like
some small dog. Others filtered into the hall, leaving their swords at the door
and took their place on benches around the Salt Blood and his retainers.
Gritten recognised a couple of faces, and knew of several others; Yorc Elard,
the southern sea lord, followed by his son who in turn led in his new wife,
Gritten’s daughter. He gave his daughter a slight smile and looked at the next
arrivals, Reidr Ulfarn, a wolf pelt around his slight shoulders, his four sworn
swords at his back, all in grey and swathed in wolf fur. Another, who he
presumed to be Armal Hrodal, came in last. He looked like a peasant, with a
thin cloak and undecorated clothing, his chin badly shaved and his broad brow
making him look like a thug, and his son looked worse. Once all were seated a
herald blew a horn and opened the back door for Jatgeir Aeborth, lord of
Drikilvarr and master of the Sunset Shore. He took his place atop a dais on a
huge chair covered with carvings of trees and beasts, showing his devotion to
Dorva and the Order. He sat straight, iron straight, much like his face and
hair; long, thin, knife like with a small noble mouth surrounded by a trimmed
moustache and beard, his dark hair oiled, perfumed and scraped back across his
skull. Around his waist he wore a sword belt, minus the sword, covered with
engraved copper plates, and several gold and silver rings sat twinkling on his
fingers. Gritten pushed his tankard away from him and sat forward, noting how he
seemed to look down over his fellow nobles.
“Nobles of Drikilvarr, we meet today to decide upon the fate of one
amongst us.” That was very direct. “As you may know, Falfanar of the Night
Swords has broken our peace by attacking my son and blood, rendering his left
hand useless. This is a grievous crime, and must be punished.” Jatgeir looked
over the nobles severely. “He has refused my summons here today, and with that
means he refuses to negotiate and stand by the law. Action is in order.”
Gritten stood. He was the second most powerful man on Drikilvarr, with
the biggest retinue, the only other fort, and he himself was a mighty fighter,
but he knew the values of peace. Feuding mean death of innocents, crops burnt,
animals slaughtered, maidens ravaged and villages razed to nothing. Gritten had
seen it before, after the death of his father, and he did not want his land to
suffer again.
“Lord Jatgeir,” he started, his loud voice ringing clear. “We must bring
Falfanar to court, before the judges and the high Dorva before action may be
called, and only then if he refuses the crimes he has been accused of.”
“The
court is here, now, Gritten, and he has refused to come.”
“Demand blood money.” Gritten pressed. “If he pays, you have no need to
cross swords. We all prefer peace to the feud.” He looked over his fellow
nobles, meeting their eyes.
“What would you do, Gritten, if Falfanar wounded your son?”
“I
would do as I have just said. Swords are for foreign enemies, we must not fight
between ourselves.”
Reidr of the Ulfarns stood, his features cold, always cold.
“Blood demands blood, nature knows that. If a man refuses the way of men
and turns to nature, we must treat him equally. I stand behind Jatgeir.” Reidr
sat down and Gritten turned to him.
“Just because he might act like a beast, it does not mean we must do the
same. We must prove ourselves better than him, before the gods.” Reidr shrugged
and offered Gritten a sly smile.
“I
am a wolf, and the wolf hunts in the night, I have nothing to fear.”
Yorc
looked nervously over to Gritten for help. He was kind, but foolish, and would
do nothing without Gritten’s support. But nor would he do anything if everyone
turned of Gritten. He stood timidly and spoke.
“Feuding
costs money, money for swords and ships, and to rebuild all that is destroyed.
We must demand Falfanar to pay the blood money and ask for forgiveness, and
only if he refuses then shall we be forced further, but not before.”
“You
are against the feud because you are too poor to help, Armal.” Reidr said. “You
could not help if you wanted to.”
“I
can speak with him, Jatgeir.” Gritten offered. “I shall ride to his hall and
talk with him, an I shall sent a rider to Evensill with word of the outcome.”
Jatgeir turned to the High Dorva Rodrik who sat below him to his right.
“What do the gods say?” The Dorva stood slowly and spoke with a
controlled voice.
“Falfanar has broken the peace, and as he refused to come forward, the
gods cannot forgive him.” As he sat Gritten cursed softly. Jatgeir told him to say that.
Armal stood. “I will not go against the gods’ wishes.” Jatgeir turned to
Gritten, his eyes poisonous.
“Feud with the Night Swords if you wish, but my men will have no part in
it.”
“Very well.” Jatgeir stood. “Under the eyes of the gods and men, I
declare that the Ulfarns must give over their lands and go into exile.” The
High Dorva noted down the accusation on a sheet of parchment and Jatgeir,
Reidr, Armal and Yorc pressed their seals into a blob of melted wax. Gritten
collected his cloak and left quickly, not looking back.
