As usual, Kingsport lay under a thick blanket of mist, heavy with the smell of brine and dead fish. From the window of her solar she could only just make out the shadow of battlements that lay not forty paces from her. The city, if you could call it that, was invisible completely, hidden beneath its white and stinking shroud. Thank the gods for small mercies.

She hated this place, and had for nearly thirteen years, ever since her barbarian husband bargained with her father for her hand. That she had come to love her husband and had loathed her father since she'd been a nursling never quite made up for the indignity she suffered, having to live here, far from the sun and wine and stern but orderly gods of the south, whose names now she could not quite recall. She could remember their images, though, on the feast days when the Forge Priests would march through the narrow, sandstone streets of Kul Nabal, holding aloft the Holy Blades and the idols born on litters, resplendent figures wrought of silver, their eyes living flame.

The northmen had no feast days or marches, and their gods were dour things, carved of wood, demanding no true sacrifice for their meagre boons.

Still, she prayed to them now, prayed for their protection. For her son was a northman, and they were his gods. Her son, the only child of Aigoth Stone Foot, High King of the Broken Lands, Jarl of the Crooked Isles, Slayer of Giants and Trolls, He Who Humbled the Coward and Brought Peace to the Clans, Vanquisher of Southrons... Killed by his prey on a shark hunt.

He was laughing, the men said, as he readied another harpoon and was dragged into the gray, cold water.

Leaving her, who for all her years here was a stranger still. And her son: the new High King.

-Deleted-

Seawater crashed under the bow of the longboat, spraying the front of the vessel in a fine mist of salty spray that matted the long, black mane of Evar Varvudda standing upon the bowsprit. Clutching the mast rigging, the Jarl of Sentinel stared into the fogbank with a steely gaze, unfazed by the bobbing of the longboat or the cold seaspray washing over him. Even as droplets of seawater glistened upon the edges of his well-groomed beard and the cloak of reindeer fur draped over his leather tunic, the Jarl did not remove his attention from the towers and ramparts peering out above the rank-smelling fogbanks. The deckhands toiling behind Evar, like all those who served under the Jarl of Sentinel, were accustomed to such behavior. The young Jarl had proven to be a stern and fastidious master. When Evar wished something done, he was known to be nigh obsessive in seeing it through - going a as long as a day or two without sleeping or eating until some minor task was accomplished. What Evar wished, he got.

What Evar desired today was an audience with the High Queen, the master of all the Broken Lands now that Aigoth Stone Foot was dead. When the word of the High King's bizarre passing reached Sentinel, Evar immediately made preparations to make for Kingsport. Three days prior, Evar and seventeen of his thanes left Sentinel aboard all of his longboats for the capital of the Broken Lands. Now, at last, he had arrived.

Fishermen in tiny wicker coracles paddled hastily out of the way to avoid the four great longboats that had suddenly burst through the veil of fog surrounding the harbor of Kingsport. Though the deckhands of the ships had manned the oars for lack of wind in the still, foggy air of the harbor, the sails bearing the blue octopus crest of Clan Varvudda had been left completely unfurled. This was no error made by unseasoned longboat captains, but an entirely intentional act meant to announce the arrival of Jarl Evar Varvudda.

"See to it that Father is helped out of the boat," Evar ordered over his shoulder before resuming watch over the harbor of Kingsport. Just above the fog, Evar could make out the guardsmen scurrying about upon the walls and atop the guard towers; horn blasts trumpeting through the fetid mist. The arrival of the Varvudda flotilla had been noted.

The longboats bypassed the wharves and jetties built to accommodate deep-draughted vessels, rowing directly toward a gravelly beach on the periphery of the city. The longboat lurched as the stones of the shore crunched under their sturdy hulls. When he felt his ship come to a complete stop, Evar simply leapt from the bowsprit and landed amidst the roiling surf of the beach with a meaty splash. One by one, the other longboats beached themselves upon the shore with long, crunching groans.

The deckhands soon followed Evar onto the beach with bundles of thick mooring rope, before setting about heaving the longboats well onto the beach out of reach of waves that might carry the ships out to sea. His thanes placed a long gangplank down from the bow of one longboat and shortly thereafter descended onto the beach with their arms firmly grasping the arms of a frail, withered man who descended down the gangplank with jittery, unsure steps: Vignar Varvudda, Jarl Emeritus of Sentinel.

"Father, I trust the journey has treated you well." Evar greeted, gently wrapping his arms around his shoulder. Vignar slowly rose his trembling arms to embrace his son before nodding slowly in response. The former Jarl of Clan Varvudda had not aged gracefully. Weak and nearly-mute, Vignar left the leadership of Sentinel to Evar about a year ago and his condition had only worsened since then. This would almost certainly be Vignar's last visit to the capital. Evar would see to it that it was a fortuitous occasion for his father.

"I imagine it has been a very long while since you have seen Kingsport." Evar commented. For a concerning moment, Vignar did naught but slowly roll his head back and make a gurgling sound. Evar's thanes pressed in closer, fearing that the former Jarl was going to have another spell. Vignar then rolled his head back forward to hock a foamy wad of saliva onto the ground, relieving everyone and eliciting hearty laughter from the thanes and deckhands.

"My sentiments precisely, father."

As the laughter died down, a contingent of guards emerged from the mist and approached the Jarl and his retinue. The thanes gathered around Evar and Vignar, quickly sobered by the arrival of the Queen's men.

"My fellow subjects, I am Evar Varvudda, Jarl of Sentinel and Master of Askan. I appear before you today to seek an audience with our High Queen. There is much that needs to be discussed."

"I regret to inform you, good Jarl, that the High Queen is not seeing anyone for some time," the gravelly-voiced leader of the guard contingent declared. "I will, however, pass your condolences on to he-"

"I am not here to provide well-wishes," snapped Evar. "I have come to invoke a Moot."

Jarl Geirlaug Åsmundottir of the Broken Hammer Clan

Kingsport, a cesspool of scum and villainy as far as the Broken Hammer were concerned, loomed slowly out of the thick mist that always seems to hang over it. How this city had ever become the seat of the High King, Geirlaug Åsmundottir, Jarl of the Broken Hammer, would never know. It certainly had its perks in a fine harbour, strong walls, and plenty of fine mead, but if you wanted to look around or get outside, there was no point in wasting your time. She had yet to figure out if it was the mist that stank, or the city itself.

Gerilaug was squatting under the rear transom, the small cabin like space set aside for her sole use. An orange curtain, long drenched by the ocean, was pulled across the entrance so only a weak light made it in as pondered her options. Jarl Evar Varvudda had called the Kings Moot and, though the connection was tenuous at best, she had decided to answer.

The High King had long claimed Kingship over the Broken Hammer, a fact that he had backed up with threats of force. But now things were different, already the Kingdom was fractured and with the Pale-Ones pressing against the northern border, well, things at home had changed drastically. If she could not secure the support of a leading clan, then it was possible the Broken Hammer would find their own way.

Already she was preparing for the stares and whispers that would come soon enough. A female leader was rare enough, but one who was twice the height of your average man rarer still. Men tended to either fear her, or profess their desire to give her babies, rarely both at the same time though it had happened.

She pulled aside the curtain and glanced along the exposed deck of the Dragonship. Twenty warriors a side drew on the big oars that propelled the craft into the harbour against the current. Forty men, that was as many as the largest Broken Hammer ship could handle, the great bulk and size of the Clansfolk making it impossible to have a larger ship and still maintain the speed and shallow draft the Dragonships were famous for.

The fortress itself began to appear through the mist as the sun at last began to burn off some of the colder air that clung to the ocean. Already she could see numerous banners and shields hanging from the high walls, many of the clans had already arrived.

She stepped from the transom and straightened up. Her leather armour and war harness, no one with half a brain tried to wear metal armour in the far north, were adorned with a long sword, short sax, two axes and a large round shield that she now slung on her back. She wore no helmet today and her blonde hair had been done up in two long intricate braids that fell down her back.

"Who comes!?" A voice cried from the stone wharf ahead and Gerilaug smiled as she heard the shouted response.

"The Broken Hammer answer the call of the Kings Moot!"

Erlendr fidgeted with a silver band on his finger, struggling to hide his worry. The news of High King Aigoths death had troubled him, not least because they were friends, but there was now a cloud of uncertainty that now hung above the Broken Isles. It was the High King’s authority that kept the jarls in check - prevented the clans from breaking into open warfare and weakening themselves before foreign powers. The Red Knot Clan had been secure in that authority, knowing the army of the Shattered Moon dare not leave its bogs and swamps to march on Debendsfeld. With Aigoth gone, it could no longer be complacent in that knowledge. Gravemire had attacked in the past when there was no High King. Why shouldn’t they do so now?

“Are you alright, father?” asked a voice, stealing Erlendr’s attention from his ring. He turned to find the youthful face of his son, Gunni, partially obscured by the fog.

“It’s nothing,” he said with a dismissive grunt.

“Debensfeld is in good hands,” Gunni assured. “Osgar will see to that. When we get back, Kynnesburgh will still be standing, trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Erlendr answered quickly. “And Osgar, which is why I left Debensfeld in his control. If your older brother is to inherit the clan someday, he needs to learn to manage it on his own.”

“Have you brought me along to learn to become his emissary?” Gunni asked. He laughed, but Erlendr knew he meant it.

“You’re still young. I brought you out because you need to see more of the world. I wouldn’t see you grow complacent living in Debensfeld all your life. A man needs experience and fresh air.” It seemed a satisfactory answer. Gunni smiled, shrugged his shoulders and was silent.

The two of them rode through crowded streets, hooves clicking against broken cobblestones. Kingsport was still drab and it still stunk. Erlendr had never been thrilled when he was summoned, but spending time with Aigoth had made up for it. Now, there was just about nothing redeeming of the place. He pondered, wondering what the High King’s son would look like now - how old was the boy, again? It had been longer than he remembered.

Trailed by a small honor guard, the Debensfielders reached the inner city. The main keep of the Stonecutters lay before them, penetrating the miasma of fog that choked the rest of Kingsport. A handler appeared to take their horses. They dismounted, let the attendants usher them inside and gathered themselves in a waiting chamber to prepare for the kingsmoot.

The doorway to the Kings Hall, like everything else south of the Northlands, was made for folk a good deal shorter than Geirlaug Åsmundottir despite it's two wide halves that could easily accommodate a horse drawn cart. She was forced to bend sharply at the waist to enter the hall and the Queens Guards took a visible step back as she straightened to her full height, and then passed one of them her long sword which was nearly as long as he was tall. Then her shield, two axes, and short sax, a blade the length of a regular long sword. They went into the pile with all the rest, no weapons but those belonging to the Queens Guard would be allowed in the Hall. Drunk Broken Landers and weapons did not go well together.

The Hall was filling with other lords as she took a seat toward the rear, looking toward the main dais where the throne sat empty for now. She had come alone, save for the Brazen Sword representative, she drew enough attention without two hulking Jotunn at her side.

Evar Varvudda, Jarl of Sentinel and Master of Askan, was to the right of the throne on the lower floor drinking, but not excessively she noticed. No doubt his desire to become the next High King would be tempering his attitude at the moment, better to have sober allies than drunk enemies.

She stretched out her long legs as she sat against the rear wall. The Broken Hammer Clan would not bring coin, great wealth, or a thousand ships to either side. Their true value lay in their feats of strength and arms. The Broken Hammer had never known a day of peace, waging a constant war with the savage creatures of their homeland and the hordes of Pale-men.

"Mead, m'lady?" A voice spoke at her side and she turned slightly to see a blonde woman offering her a mug of the beverage. The mug was hardly of any size in her hand and she noticed the simple silver band about the girls neck, a household slave.

She grunted her thanks and took the mug, draining it in one quick slurp before passing it back and waving the girl away. It was unlikely they made any drink here strong enough to even put a dent in her sobriety. She continued to look about the hall, trying to remember faces, and preparing for what was to come.

Months Previous, in the Ashlands of the Drathan Union...

It was not yet evening, but the sun had slipped below the top of the canyon, leaving the rocky vale in premature dusk. It was not quite quiet here, amid the looming red rock cliffs and ash-sands. A raven was cawing hoarsely somewhere ahead, and cinereous newts croaked at one another as they dug for tiger crabs and beetles. In the distance, echoing faintly down the canyon, could be heard drums and the shouted call-and-response prayers of a Salished battalion on the march.

The scout was fiddling with the clasp on his cloak when he sauntered past the juniper tree, his thoughts circling a particularly dark-skinned camp-follower who'd caught his eye the night before last.

His gaze wandered lazily over the boulder fields rising to meet canyon walls to either side of him, but he barely saw them. He'd already decided there was nothing in this endless rock maze. He'd been down enough of its blind alleys and dead ends to know. No campfire remains, no man-scat, no sign the Union heathens and sellswords were holed up here hiding or waiting to strike. A necessary waste of time, scouting up here. He was more likely to be killed by a wolf-scorpion or nyr'kiin bandits than Drathan hirelings.

He thought this, oblivious to the man with the knife who had just emerged from behind the twisted trunk of the juniper.

In a single motion, the man had his hand over the Rainlander's mouth and sank his knife into him just below the chin. The boy half-turned towards his killer, bewildered, terrified as he realized this was it, this was the end, and grabbed the man's arm as he choked out the last few seconds of his brief life.

Daigon lowered the scout gently to the gray soil and closed his staring eyes. He drew an odd, swirling shape on the corpse's forehead in blood, and watched, his face expressionless, as rivulets of scarlet dripped from his design down the face and forehead of the dead body.

He stood, wiping blood from his blade and his hands on the scout's cloak. Men emerged silently from the boulders and trees around him, nearly a hundred of them. They were Broken Landers, mostly, with a few aelgmen, Ashlanders, Varyonese and even Rainlanders mixed in. All wore ash-stained linens beneath light lamellar of chitin and bone. Some had shields painted with the moon-and-star sigil of the Drathan Union, but most bore the cracked orb of the Shattered Moon Clan.

Daigon eyed his soldiers, the Coward's Men, for a moment, before nodding down the canyon, towards the direction of the Salished drums.





The Salished battalion dragged a long line of prisoners in its wake, shackled and miserable as they plodded up the Dust Way. Union soldiers, subjects and hirelings of every race from man to aelg to beastkin, even some unlucky Nyr'kiin. Many had likely been slaves of the Dratha or Varyonese merchant lords before the Salished took them; now they were being led East, to harsher masters. The warriors and the virgins would doubtless be fed to the Sacred Forges, offerings to the Rainlanders' insatiable gods.

The Shashul's soldiers marched before their living plunder in perfect order, spear tips and scale armor glittering in the red light of the Ashland gloaming. A Forge Priest, gaunt and bald, his robes as crimson as the setting sun, was borne before the main body of troops in a backwards-facing palanquin. He shouted praises to the many gods he served as they marched, and the men shouted their drilled replies in pious unison.

The road on which they marched was a straight line through flat country, the ashen plains thick with thorny bramble and obsidian boulders. To the south rose a line of red sandstone cliffs, the rockface cleft in places by slot canyons.

It was from one of these canyons that the first arrows started flying. The priest on his moveable throne was the first to die, the call-and-response ending abruptly amid shouted commands from the Salished officers.

Their discipline and speed was impressive. In less than a minute, the shield wall had formed, facing the cliffs. Unfortunately, the threat was not only from the canyons. The Coward's Men burst from the bramble and boulders on the opposite side of the road, screaming in barbarous tongues to the gods of the Broken Lands.

The Salished fought well for men unprepared and surrounded, but not well enough. Their phalanx could not leave the level ground of the road, could not back up into their now-rioting line of prisoners. The Coward's Men broke their formation and then broke them in a melee of Rainlander scimitars against northern axes.

When it was over, Daigon- his face streaked with gore and warpaint, his black hair plastered with sweat to his skull- stood over the Salished commander, a bearded man in gilded scale armor. He lay sprawled on his back, unwounded.

"The war is over, the war is over," he was repeating, in broken Drathan, "We are at peace, we are at peace."

Daigon cocked his head to one side, "Peace?" he asked in Salizi. His voice was a soft rasp, the sound of cloth on rusted iron.

"Your Congress- your paymasters and the Shashul, blessed be his name. They signed an armistice. We are permitted these prisoners."

"Are you?" asked Daigon, looking at the line of captives, whose chains his men were busy unlocking. His angular face was creased by the faintest suggestion of a smirk, "Well, I guess that makes me a bandit then."

"I do not understand," said the officer, "surely you are a soldier, with honor?"

Daigon turned from the commander to one of his men, "Tie him up, their officers go for a thousand teeth at Zar Dratha."

"COWARD!" shouted a voice, thick with the accent of the Broken Lands. One of the prisoners, a big northman rubbing wrists made raw by his shackles approached Daigon without the slightest trace of fear.

"You're the Coward, aren't you?"

Daigon didn't speak, just stood there, axe held loosely in his hand, pale eyes watching the newcomer. One of his men moved to stop the recently freed norseman but Daigon shook his head.

"I am Dirk- of Clan Varvudda!" said the prisoner, "Hireling for the Dratha, same as you, 'fore I was captured at Pike Pines."

Daigon still didn't speak, and Dirk of the Varvudda stopped and faltered slightly, suddenly unsure of himself.

"Er, look," he said, "I ain't your kin, nor your friend. I've crossed axes with Cowards Men enough times down here, before this war put us on the same side, and the Varvudda are no brothers with Shattered Moon... but you've done me a good turn here. I was food for the Forges, sure enough, and your lads've set me loose from that. So...you ought to know, if you don't: the Stonefoot's dead."

Daigon raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?" he asked.

"Aye, Coward, the High King is dead."

"Thank you, Dirk of Clan Varvudda," said Daigon in his quiet, dangerous voice, "Thank you very much indeed."

They were far from Tarukha, far enough away that the seas finally had ceased to gnaw on the keel of the ship like a starving animal, trying to pull the vessel into the depths greedily, as if it was hoarding some preciously rare food, that rare prey that still went out into the seas, praying to the gods to not be swallowed whole into an undulating grave of wine-dark abyss. Grand Duke Bozhda stood on the deck of the ship, calling back to the crew if they had spotted land yet. With each call, the Duke's voice became more strained, more loud, as the crew, in turn, increased the intensity of their replies. Traveling from Necroleste and crossing the ocean to Kingsport was hardly the ideal journey for a Duke to be making. This was more the domain of a salt merchant, but this was far from an ordinary excursion.

Tarukha was far unlike Kingsport, unlike any city in the Brokenlands. The Language of the city was unlike that in the rest of the lands, the language known as Zimij. A tongue that invoked the sounds of liquids, of fluidity in its sounds. A perfect language for the people of the Islands, where the sea and the river controlled all in their lives, where it held supreme. On the ship, one would not hear the normal tongue of the Brokenlanders, but hear the sailors cursing and chatting in Zimij. It always made Bozhda feel like an outsider in these lands. Necroleste was as much a part of the Brokenlands as any other, yet it was no secret it was a black sheep, both in its people and in its very land. How Bozhda wished he need not leave the Valley, that the lands between the Avokha and the Tsikesite would be the only world he needed. Alas, Bozhda Olegasyn did not have the luxury of that ignorance. The Sawtooths needed him, as their strongest member, their leader, they needed any leverage necessary.

The Duke was snapped out of his thoughts at the beckoning of a shiphand, whose high pitched cry signified that Kingsport had come into view. Bozhda sighed as the sailors began to prepare for the arrival to the city. Bozhda resolved to return to his quarters and await the docking.The duke retreated away, pouring some mead into a bone cup inscribed with exotic designs. A soldier had gifted it to him, claiming it to have belonged to a captured Maldpa warrior, taken after local guards speared the would-be raider when he showed up on a local farm.

Bozhda felt a degree of power being surrounded by his guard. Nearly all of the duke's personal guard were local men of Zimij extraction, though their distinctive armor and dress were indicative of their origin in Brokenlander culture. The Duke had changed into something more befitting of their meeting, donning a pure white tunic, decorated on its hems and edges with a distinctive red Zimij pattern embroidered into it. The duke had combed his long blond hair back, secured in place with a headband, assured that his appearance was sufficient for the meeting. The Duke and his guard entered into the King's Hall, making their way to the other assembled vassals.

Bozhda spoke for the first time in what seemed like years in his native language, to announce his presence to the moot. "The Duke of Necroleste has arrived, the Sawtooth Clan has answered the call for a moot."

Hammerstone - Broken Hammer Clan

The journey from the Hammerstone to The Twins along the Rauða River in the summer was a peaceful one and Asger had enjoyed it throughly. The days were long, lit by the sun for the full cycle, and warm, melting much of the towering peaks so that the river ran strong and fast. Here, only a kilometre from The Twins, the river was wide and ran with a noticeable ripple that concealed the jagged rocks below.

The landscape was impressive here, the great peaks had pushed away from the river bank leaving a wide strip of lush grassland on either side that spread to the treeline. The last of the "Hardboxes" was falling away behind them now. Built as resting places for travellers when night fell, these heavily reinforced stone structures built out over the river provided protection from the Pale-men for those seeking to make the long journey from Sea to Sky. Each was provisioned with frozen food and firewood, enough to last a few days at any rate. No one made the journey in the Dead Month when the sun vanished completely from the sky for thirty full day cycles. That was when anyone with an ounce of sense stayed home.

They were sweeping around the final bend now, the river was gentle enough during the majority of the year that you could sail or row the entire length between Hammerstone and The Twins. Here the valley grew even wider, so wide that it would take a full day to cross from one side to the other. In the middle, straddling a narrow point of the river, towered two huge stone pillars, joined high above the water by a bridge built in forgotten ages past.

The Twins. The Ancient Ones fortress, repurposed by the Jotunn, was the furthest north settlement of any note in the Broken Hammer territory. The two pillars of solid granite reared hundreds of feet into the air and the Ancient Ones had carved tunnels, galleries, high windows far above the ground, evidence that perhaps they too had fought with the Pale-ones. The lower hundred feet of towers had been carved completely smooth by some skill the Broken Hammer no longer possessed, so smooth that no Pale-one could find purchase on the surface to climb upwards. Entry to the fortress was accomplished by way of a pair of wooden elevators worked from within the twin spires of stone.

The Twin on the right, the Bloody Twin, so called for a red streak in the granite, had been partially hollowed out in the base with the only entrance facing the water. Visiting vessels could put into the harbour where they could spend the night in safety, their crews in the fire warmed halls above. All loading and unloading of vessels was done on a great stone pier that ran along the riverbank at the foot of the Bloody Twin. During the winter, when the rivers were frozen, the harbour and pier would be left to the Pale-ones.

Asger could see a pair of local guardsman watching him from the Pier and he gave them a wave, which they returned with toothy smiles. Visitors were always welcome here for news was almost as valuable as food. The Ships Master shouted orders and the oarsmen backed their oars slightly as the Dragonship slid gracefully into a spot indicated by a female Jotunn.

"Well met Asger!" She called out, red hair swirling about her blue skin as a cool wind whipped down the mountains in the distance.

"And merry meet to you Sabra!" He replied as he jumped ashore. His cargo on this trip was Blue Coke, a mineral found only at the bottom of the Fjords. It burned with a slightly bluish colour, generated an extraordinary amount of heat and was bright enough that the Pale-ones avoided it wherever possible. He would leave with his boat loaded down with the latest furs.

Asger remained, quietly watching as the cargo of Blue Coke was carefully unloaded and placed into the containers built specifically for hoisting into the fortress. He counted the loads, as he knew Sabra was, for he would receive twice their weight in furs when the time came to leave.

One by one the carts were wheeled to the pace of the Bloody Twin and a crane swung out it's long arm, dropping a carved metal hook that was used to draw the precious cargo upward. It took the better part of the day for all of it to be stored within and Asger passed the time making small talk with Sabra and the others who came and went on the pier.

When the last cart had been stowed away Asger and Sabra each took a stone chit with the number "14" carved in to it. She would give hers to the Stores Master above, and when Asger produced his matching one, he would get his payment.

"Hospitality is given." Sabra stated as she nodded at The Twins and Asger glanced upward. He had nine full days of sunlight left and he wanted to get on his way but knew that his men had earned a rest.

"It is accepted." He replied and his men grinned.

They were separated into two groups and waited as the first elevator lowered from above. It was a sturdy thing, built of heavy wooden planks that could support six of the boats crew at a time. It was not terribly fast however with all the weight on it, and the whole thing creaked as they rose slowly into the air. At length it reached the ledge and Asger stepped off onto the first floor of the Bloody Twin. He and his men surrendered their weapons to the guard and passed through a heavy wooden door reinforced with steel bands to begin climbing the stairs. Already the smell of food and the sound of song reached down to them. It was a fine at The Twins.

"So the king is dead. Long live the king." Florian said to the echoing emptiness of his long hall.

"More like long live the queen." Sathulda scoffed, taking a dainty sip from her wooden cup of wine. Where she got wine in this backwater neck of the crooked islands could only be guessed at.

"Well of course, Dear, but it won't do to say it out loud."

The young chieftain brushed his hair from his eyes, letting out a great breath and slumping in his chair. Pressing his hands into his forehead as his eyes took on that distant and tired look once again. Florian hadn't been chieftain at the time of the war between the Stonecutter's and the Shattered Moon. The pacification of the more independent clans had been something his predecessor had to deal with. The old man wasn't in a state back then to put up much of a fight and his waning hold on the Goldwood elders was failing by then. Florian had been... well that didn't matter now, suffice to say that he was far from the isles at the time.

This would make things harder for him now. For the short time he'd had with the Goldwood Clan Florian had been dragging them kicking and screaming into something resembling the same world the other clans lived in. The forest ferals still demanded that a druid or a priest to give a blessing or to read the stars every time they needed to clear a new patch of trees. It made Florian wonder what was the point of clearing out all the wolves and hags!

Luckily he knew a few things when it came to reading and speaking the ways of the gods. Still this was a hitch in his plans. Florian had only managed to make his little coastal town anything worth mentioning. This time of peace and stability was supposed to be his chance! High kings were supposed to encourage trade and unity, just what old time isolationists like the Goldwood men needed to build themselves up into a clan worth mentioning. With the Stonefoot dead there would be anarchy as the buzzards looked to take what they could from his kingdom.

"There will be a moot." Florian groaned.

"We haven't received word of one yet." Sathulda said.

"Even better. We can say I saw it in the fire, that'll rally a crew about in no time." With a plan forming in his mind the young chieftain found himself rising from his chair, some energy coming back to him. "There's always a moot when the king dies. Always someone who wants to be the next king, that they can do it better. Factions will be forming, if we back the right boat then the isles as we know them may change and our could yet rise."

"So wise as always my darling." Sathulda purred, rising in turn and draping herself over Florian as he stood before the fire. The light brought a new shine to her raven black hair and the matching feather cloak that so around her like wings. "If only they had taught us politics in the priory." Her lips were brushing his ear. She had a habit of making her actions playfully seductive around Florian. He never complained about her sense of showmanship.

"I'll need what they did teach you there, Love." His voice became serious again, just rising over the crackling flames. "The only thing keeping Daigon away is gone. He'll be back... and soon."

What that meant for them Florian couldn't yet say.



"Hello all!" Florian called, his merry voice ringing through the hall. "Sorry I'm late, the winds were so miserable these past days. You know how these things are."

He strode into the hall at the head of his little party of men, all of them in pelt hoods and hides that made them look half like animals themselves. Sathulda at his side like a raven on his shoulder.

Around Florian rumbled the barrels of mead they had brought along, one of the few things his little island was famous for that ever left their woods. If they were going to play politics it could at least be made more fun with drink. Florian swept his eyes along the tables, tapping his golden bow like a walking stick. They had left their weapons with the guards as everyone had to but Florian had talked them into letting him keep the sacred bow so long as he gave over the string and arrows.

"It's a good day for it at least." Florian grinned, taking a place near Geirlaug of the Broken Hammer and making himself comfortable.

Jarl Evar Varvudda was pleased indeed when the court herald announced the arrival of the Goldwood delegation. The arrival of the masters of the Golden Grove marked the end of nearly a fortnight of waiting for the Masters of the Broken Lands to answer his call for a Moot. In return for invoking a Moot, the High Queen and her court had offered only as much hospitality as the law of the realm required. As a show of respect for the the elderly Vignar, the former Jarl was housed and attended to by the queen's chamberlains and servants, but Evar and his thanes, huscarls, and shiphands spent the nights aboard their longboats in the harbor. It was abundantly clear that Evar was not welcome here. Even if he had been treated well, the Jarl of Sentinel would have no love for this putrid-smelling town. Evar was eager to leave this place.

"All parties have arrived, or at least all those we can reasonably expect to attend," Evar began as the Goldwood Jarl and his companions found their seats. "The Jarl of Sepulchrave is indisposed with matters in the South. We have waited more than a reasonable while for Clan Shattered Moon to send a representative in their Jarl's stead and none has arrived even after ample time was given. No one shall think our intention was to exclude them. Let us begin the Moot in earnest."

Evar took to the floor, standing before the Jarls of each corner of the realm as he continued.

((Suggested listening))

"As Jarl of Sentinel, I invoke my right to call the masters of these lands together in a Moot when the course of our realm is unclear," Evar began as he set about a slow, swaggering pace before the throne upon which the bored youth Aigoth II sat. He could almost feel the queen's icy gaze as she followed him across from her padded seat at the right hand of her son, but paid her irritation no mind.

"Such a time of uncertainty and peril has manifested itself with the passing of Aigoth Stone Foot. The royal son will doubtlessly come to be a capable ruler of these lands. But for now, however, Aigoth II is merely a child and our realm must have sound leadership until the boy has come of age. Leadership we will not find in our High Queen."

Only the crackling of the fires of the Kingshall's twin hearths could be heard as an uncomfortable silence settled over the throne chamber. Men had been beheaded for uttering kinder words regarding the master of the Broken Lands. Evar half expected an outburst of dissent from the guards or perhaps the queen herself, or perhaps one of the Jarls. But there was nothing but silence for a seemingly interminable moment. The lack of protest encouraged the Jarl of Sentinel.

"I have no ill will against our High Queen. She has served our king graciously and given him a strong and healthy son. But it is not within her purview to rule our realm. Indeed, she is not even a native of these lands. How can we expect a noble from the Rainlands who has scarcely left these halls to rule competently over our lands? What does she know of the Broken Isles, the Northlands, Necroleste, or Debensfeld? Until Aigoth II is old enough to serve as our king, the Broken Lands must be governed not by some foreigner, but by a peer. Only a native of these lands can ever hope to command any respect over our peoples."

"Let that peer be me. Evar Varvudda, Regent of the Broken Lands."

Geirlaug, as was usual when dealing with the southern clans, had largely been avoided. She had an effect on most men that usually went one of two directions, they either steered clear out of fear, or they got drunk, cozied up to her and told her they would like to "climb her". She preferred the former to the latter since small southern men tended to have small southern cocks and no one wanted that.

She was one her third "mug" of mead when the High Queen and her son had entered the Hall to sit on the dais. Everyone bowed, even Evar Varvudda, but only enough to be polite, as the Royal Party took their seats. The High Queen was a beauty, even Geirlaug could see that. High cheek bones, sharp chin, long raven black hair and the thin body type so common in the Salished lands, all very serving to make her stand out amongst the more heavily built Northerners. Geirlaug expected Varvudda to open with a suggestion that he marry her and so unite the two clans into one. If she was in his position, that was what she would do. The High Queen might be repulsed at the idea, but it would secure the throne, her sons wellbeing, and put her most dangerous neighbour firmly into her camp, and bed of course.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the Goldwood Clan and she was delighted to see that some of their famous mead had come with them. Anything that didn't look like liquid bread was hard to come by in the far north and she was genuinely pleased, quickly signalling a slave girl to fetch her several mugs worth. The Goldwood Jarl himself looked like a child, and she was fairly certain he was one. She refrained from chuckling to herself and even more so from asking him if he had even begun to shave as he sat down. He was friendly enough and that was welcome. She offered him a polite nod and a half smile when he sat nearby.

"All parties have arrived, or at least all those we can reasonably expect to attend," Evar began as the Goldwood Jarl and his companions found their seats.

And it begins... Geirlaug accepted her small collection of mugs from the slave girl and sipped at it. It was delicious. She raised the mug in a silent toast to the Goldwood Jarl and then leaned back against the wall to listen as Varvudda began his speech.

Varvudda, as expected, was a swaggering dick on legs. He strutted up and down as if the event were a forgone conclusion. If looks could have killed, Varvudda would have been slain on the spot as he began to speak, the High Queen was clearly not impressed. Geirlaug supposed that manners would have dictated that Varvudda at least allow her to welcome her guests. It could be seen as a sign of weakness that she did not interrupt him and do just that.

"Such a time of uncertainty and peril has manifested itself with the passing of Aigoth Stone Foot. The royal son will doubtlessly come to be a capable ruler of these lands. But for now, however, Aigoth II is merely a child and our realm must have sound leadership until the boy has come of age. Leadership we will not find in our High Queen."

This is it. She thought with a small smile on her face. The great Jarl Varvudda will offer to take up the mantel and marry the boys mother. She would oppose such a move of course. Varvudda was hardly the leader Aigoth Stone Foot had been, he had shown that in his usurpation of the High Queens own hall at this moment. She might even offer to marry the High Queen herself, to make a mockery of the man. Though, one had to be careful, it was possible the High Queen's tastes ran that way and she might accept.

What came next left Geirlaug slightly dumbfounded. The arrogant prick actually wanted the assembly to proclaim him "peer". Why not just use the word High King? Trying to disguise ambition with some fancy term seemed like a pathetic ploy. Ambition she could understand. She was going to have none of it.

She stood, the savage beauty of her face with its one destroyed eye glowing in the light of the twin fires. "Jarl Geirlaug Åsmundottir of the Broken Hammer Clan," She began, one should always introduce themselves. "Will not support Jarl Varvudda's claim for [i]peer[/]," Contempt dripped off her tongue as she said the word. "Until he has given us some idea of his qualifications for the position."

She looked around the room, dominating it with her height and size. She met the eye of every man who would meet hers, the High Queen, and even that of the Boy King who was staring at her in amazement.

"You have done nothing but tell us how the High Queen cannot rule. Did she not marry Aigoth Stone Foot and live as his High Queen and partner? Did she not witness him rule these lands? Did she not take part in making decisions that affected us all? Maybe the Jarl Varvudda has forgotten, but women are capable rulers in their own right."

A round of chuckles went around the room at that. Some of the Northmen tended to think they did all the fighting and women were for breeding. She did not know anything of Varvudda's own family but his comments had led her to believe he was one of those types, all dick and no brains.

"If the Jarl Varvudda can provide us some proof that he is fit to rule based on more than the simple reminder that we are all of the Broken Lands, then perhaps the Broken Hammer can support his desire to be High King. Though, we will also hear the High Queen and any other hopefuls speak before we make any such choice."

She finished speaking, offered a short nod to Varvudda and then the High Queen before sitting again, taking back up her cup of Goldwood mead and sipping it back.

Erlendr scowled at Evar’s words. The Jarl of Varvudda made no attempt to mask his distaste for the High Queen. Rather, he made his opinion of her very plain: a foreigner could never command leadership over the Isles. Erlendr knew there was an element of truth in that. A ruler ought to understand the people they lord over, including their culture and the land. However, Evar’s criticisms were not uttered behind closed doors on whispered breath, but laid bare in front of the very queen he decried. In some eyes, this could be grounds for treason.

Evar closed his statement with a bid for regency over the Isles. Erlendr sat back in his chair, arms crossed. A fine way to promote himself, after just undermining the queen’s ability to her face. It certainly wouldn’t gain the favor of the Red Knots, and Erlendr suspected it would have an abrasive effect on the other clans as well. Even Gunni’s expression soured as Evar looked to the assembly for support.

Erlendr looked to the queen, gauging her mood. Her eyes glared at Varvudda’s jarl, but otherwise she made no overt display of emotion. She remained calm, regal atop her throne. Erlendr suspected she was a stronger woman than Evar thought her to be. A puff of his hot air couldn’t move her mountain of composure. Just the way a good queen ought to be.

Geirlaug was next to speak, and Erlendr found himself agreeing with her. Evar attacked the queen’s credibility with nothing to show for his own. What made him a better candidate other than his Brokenlander blood? When Geirlaug finished making her point, Erlendr looked to Gunni and paused, then stood and spoke.

“You speak too freely, Evar,” he declared. “It’s one thing to address Her Highness’s heritage. But it is another to denounce her merit right in front of her. Do you forget your place?”

Then, addressing the assembly, “Is this what we need in a regent? A man who denounces others without offering suitable alternatives? What is it that makes the Jarl of Varvudda qualified for this position? For all this talk of purity, I fail to see what Evar knows of the Broken Isles beyond Askan. He speaks of foreigners and peers, but need I remind you that the very land Varvudda sits on was once Drathan? That it embraces its duty as suppliers of Brokenlander flesh to the Wizard Lords?”

Erlendr then looked to the would-be “regent,” meeting his gaze. “What do you say to this?”

Months previous, just north of the Chain of Fire, the open ocean...

Snow was falling, big wet flakes that formed an icy brine as they mixed with the thin layer of sea water sloshing across the deck of the Lady Alma. The ocean heaved like a thing alive, the prow of the ship plunging down the back of the rolling green water only to smack into the oncoming wave in an explosion of freezing white spray.

It was the height of summer.

Not for the first time on this voyage, Gazid thought of home. Zar Dratha would be a steaming oven now, the city sluggish and silent by day, the endless grub-paddies beyond the walls shimmering like broken glass in the glare of the angry sun.

Not that Gazid cared overmuch what the weather did- for what he was being paid the Coward could lead him into the fifteen hells the Dagomun preachers warned so much about. If he survived this stint in the Broken Lands, Gazid would go home a very rich man with some very powerful friends. The Coward had quite a few allies in the South, among the Masters. Allies who wanted him to succeed in his native country.

Still, he drew his cloak about him more tightly and took a swig of Dalean brandy from a dented flask, relishing the liquor's burning warmth. The helmsman, one hand on the wheel, held the other out for a taste and Gazid shrugged and handed over the booze. Always paid to have friends on a ship like this-though he didn't know how sauced he wanted the man guiding the boat through these kind of waves...

Gazid took back his flask, took another swig, and cast his gaze over the deck before him. Sailors, a mix of Varyonese and Broken Landers, bustled everywhere, shouting orders and 'ayes!' over the roar of the water.

The Coward himself was leaning against the mizzenmast, his gaunt face blank and unreadable, black hair flying in the wind. He seemed indifferent to the roiling ocean beneath him. Knife in hand, he peeled an orange as he spoke to his two favorite cronies. Gazid knew them well enough: Vilmar the Grim, Daigon's right hand, a hardened grey-beard and soldier, looking pretty green on the open sea; and Half Face, a hulking aelgman, the left side of his face burned down to the skull, giving him a permanent, lopsided rictus.

Gazid couldn't hear what they were saying, probably talk of Broken Lander politics. A topic about which he didn't need too many details- just the Coward to tell him who to frighten, who to kill, and when to do it.



Weeks previous, Sepulchrave...

She stood at the end of the stone pier, dressed in crimson and white, her robes billowing in the sea wind. She was beautiful, with fair hair and fairer skin, blue eyes and a knowing smile that had driven more than a few men to make dangerous mistakes.

She looked like a young woman, no more than twenty five. But she was not a young woman.

The Jarl's ship loomed high above her, too large a ship for Sepulchrave's docks. Sailors above shouted at one another in a mongrel mix of tongues as they cast down ropes and struggled to secure the massive vessel to the crumbling stone quay. They succeeded, eventually, and the gangplank dropped with a slam.

Daigon, her husband, was the first off the ship, axe at his side and broadsword across his back. He came to her, seized her arms with subdued violence and kissed her, and she remembered why she loved this man she had hardly seen for the better part of two decades.

He had come back, since the Stonefoot had ordered him away, three times to her, traveling anonymously on merchant vessels. Once he had stayed in Sepulchrave, no one knowing but her, for five months.

While he was in the south, they had kept in touch continuously through letters carried by traveling members of her Order. The Quiet Sisters had a large priory in Zar Dratha and several smaller ones throughout the southlands.

Even so, he had been a long time in exile, and Daigon had no heir. She suggested they work on that when he was finished kissing her.

He smiled, "There will be time for that," he said. Years in the ash deserts had turned his voice into a soft rasp, "Now is the time for other things."

She looked behind him, saw his men unloading from the ship. Three were already on the pier, approaching the Jarl and his wife. Vilmar she knew, and she recognized the scarred aelgmen Daigon had spoken of in his letters- a fierce warrior saved from the Salished priests and their hungry gods. The third she did not recognize, a dark-skinned Varyonese in black robes, his hands covered in swirling blue tattoos. She could read Drathan, had studied it in the Priory, and so she knew those markings were more than ornaments.

"Cythlla," said Daigon, "I must away, but briefly this time. While I am gone, I need you to do something."

"Anything."

"Call the banners."

She said nothing.

"Vilmar and the aelg will stay here, in command of the Coward's Men. But I will need all the Shattered Moon, and you must call them."

"The other, he is one of the Congress' assassins, is he not? One of the Subtle Instruments?"

As though he had heard, the man in the black robes approached and bowed to Cythlla.

"I am Gazid," he said in accented norse, "honored to be a guest in your lands, my lady."

"Honored to have you," she replied, in High Drathan. The assassin raised an eye brow and said nothing.

"I am going to Kingsport," said Daigon, "with him."

He had come with the Broken Hammer envoy. With the woman some Daoine called their 'slave master' with venom in their voice. He barely compared to half the height of the fair Jarl Geirlaug, for which he had traveled with over rough seas from far north. Caiside was short, that was sure, and his long dark ginger hair tied in braids and beaded about his head, keeping it tidy and neat. His beard was done primarily the same way, locks tied off in beads, with a single, flowing lock down the center of his chin. And Jarl Caiside had dressed for the occasion. He wore his golden-colored tunic and a green tartan-pattern kilt, no doubt he had come with many tens of knives and weapons hidden in the belt, as was the garment's significance. Last, a piece of leather and hide protected his torso, and tucked into its seams, a red tartan cloth cloak.

Needless to say, he stood out heavily in the hall, dressed in his rather colorful but homely attire, sat beside a woman twice his height, drinking mead which was very different compared to the Braggot brewed in the highlands. And Caiside knew well his clan's reputation. Backwards mountain people, perhaps deserving of the same respect of goblins, a clan that earned its earldom only through its sheer mediocrity. But he pushed it out of his mind, drank the mead which was more bitter than he was used to, siting perhaps where the Jarl of the Brazen Sword sat two Daoine generations ago.

Caiside looked around the hall, rather stunned at the chatter which bounced back and forth between the attendants, the outright denouncing of the regent before her very face. He simply could not believe it. He had never been to any moot, save for the one in his own hold, the moot which had elected him Jarl of the Daoine. But it had not been so upfront. The competition between he and his relatives had not stooped to denunciation of their potential merit, nor had it carried such venom. But it was surely true, if even harsh. No merit had yet been presented. What right was given to demand the title of 'peer'?

He looked to Jarl Geirlaug, seated beside him. He intently listened to her speak, and found his sentiment to be shared. He knocked back another gulp of mead before idly mumbling to Geirlaug, low so only she could hear, articulating his low, thickly-accented voice to his advantage. "Is this how these lowlanders and southerners present themselves?" He asked with a particular venomous suspicion, perhaps calling back to the tales he was told as a boy, of the uncivilized, crude lowland southern peoples which raided the seas and cowered before the pale-men.

Evar allowed Geirlaug and Elendr to speak their peace, listening to their rebukes between swigs of mead.

"For all this talk of purity, I fail to see what Evar knows of the Broken Isles beyond Askan," said the Jarl of Debensfeld, prompting Evar to roll his eyes. "He speaks of foreigners and peers, but need I remind you that the very land Varvudda sits on was once Drathan? That it embraces its duty as suppliers of Brokenlander flesh to the Wizard Lords?” As Elendr concluded, the Jarl of Sentinel gulped down the last of his mug before beckoning for one of the thralls to take his empty mug before rising from his seat.

"Twenty generations have passed since the last wizard resided in Sentinel. My city was once a Drathan colony, and Hammerstone was once a construct of the Ancient Ones. What of it? Our peoples have been repurposing and resettling foreign outposts for as long as outsiders have made forays into our lands. Sentinel is no exception to this rule."

"And what matter does it make if I provide the wizard lords with peasant girls? Shall we similarly weep for the pretty little things serving us our mead?" the Jarl of Sentinel asked, gesturing to the slave girls standing demurely by the Kingshall's twin hearths. "I should think the serf girls sent off to the Dratha by way of Sentinel must find their situation a mercy. Rescued from a short and bitter existence yanking ashroots out of the ground for sustenance to live a comfortable life of endless fornication. If anything I ought to be thanked for my role in such a trade."

"And perhaps I do not have a long and illustrious history of daring escapades or feats of bravery to my name. I have been Jarl of Sentinel for but a year, taking over my dear father's burden to allow him rest in his twilight years. Do not support me for what I have done, but for what I shall accomplish as Regent. For the duration of the Stone Foot's rule, you have all been shackled under the heavy yoke of Stonecutter taxation. Justified by our current masters as a necessity for the common defense and prosperity of our lands, Clan Stonecutter only hoards our hard-earned tribute for themselves. Need I remind you of-"

"Evar's got the right of it!" Vignar Varvudda blurted out, rising shakily from his seat beside his son to the consternation of the Varvudda thanes in attendance. Evar was stunned by the outburst - it was the first coherent sentence his father had uttered in at least a month - but he made no attempt to calm his father down.

"I was Jarl of Sentinel when her ilk landed at Askan and made war on the Broken Lands," Vignar declared, pointing a trembling finger at the High Queen. "Clan Varvudda always paid its dues to Kingsport with the hope that treasure'd be used to defend us. Instead the Stonecutters raised levies to protect their own lands and left us to our fate, allowed the Salished to burn Sentinel to the ground. I hope to die before I see my son surrender a single coin to this Rainlander bitch."

Angry shouts and a few gasps were heard when Vignar uttered that. The guards had tolerated Evar declaring the High Queen unfit to rule - barely. What Vignar had said was another matter entirely. The Stonecutter guards began to converge on Vignar, which in turned prompted the Varvudda thanes to bolt up from their seats and encircle their former Jarl. Though they were disarmed, they would not allow the guards to take Evar's father without a fight.

"What are you going to do? Behead a senile man for a lapse of judgement? Be reasonable!" Evar barked to the guards, as if to order them as if they were his own. "Leave him be! I entreat everyone, stand down!"

Evar's thanes reluctantly returned to their seats. The guards, satisfied with the Varvudda thanes backing down into their chairs, dropped the matter and returned to their posts.

"I apologize on behalf of my father for what was uttered. But I will affirm that the complaint at the core of his outburst was merited. The Stonecutters have long taken from us more than they have returned. I, for one, will not tolerate this situation to continue. If you, my peers, feel the same, then lend me your support. Otherwise, I can only hope that your yokes lay lightly upon your necks."

A veritable wall of rain blasted against his soaked wooden shield, held high to ward his face. Far above, shrouded in blackest clouds, angry gods thundered and raged and threw bolts of lightning onto the earth, shaking the very ground. A group of riders, ten horses in all, galloped in a mad dash across the open meadow where tall grasses swayed wildly in the tempestuous winds. His skin was freezing underneath his drenched garments and the only warmth provided to him came from the mead in his belly, the unsaddled back of his horse, and the delicate body pressed against his back whose colorless, strained arms wrapped around his chest.

“T’is an ill omen, Elgar!” the woman behind him shouted through the storm, her tone portentous and alarming as it often was, “The weather was clear for over a week! And now that we undertake this important journey, the spirits warn us of dark times ahead. Mark my words!”

With his free – and only – hand, he grasped the woman’s pale wrist and gave her an affectionate stroke. “The weather’s always shite, dove!” Elgar laughed into the gale-whipped rain. “If anything, last week’s clear sky ought to have been a good omen! Those are less interesting to foretell though, aren’t they?”

“You know better than to mock me!” she protested, earnestly upset that he would brush aside her wisdom so easily.

“Ease up lass, t’is just some rain! We’ll be in warm halls in no time at this pace!”

Rhawn scoffed and lay her head against his neck, wrapping her arms tighter around him. Of all the men in the grim north, there was only one who would have the gall to laugh at her gravity – and that’s the one she had to marry. But perhaps that was exactly why, she thought with a faint smile that none could see. Of all the men in the north, he was also the only one who could see in her not a paleborn witch, to be feared and worshipped, but a woman of flesh and blood, with fears and desires. He was the only one who could see the wound in her and for that, she loved him, even if he was unable to heal it.

---

The arrival of the Vile Heart in Kingsport, two days later, was met with little fanfare and only the usual curiosity. Two of the fifteen men who accompanied the Chief remained outside the city gates, to watch over the horses they had brought; their animals were more wild than tamed and would prove an ill fit for a traditional stable, but the young lads had experience with the beasts and knew how to command their loyalty. The rest followed the chief and his wife in a disorderly fashion, an unorganized throng of dourly-clad warriors armed with spears and swords and shields which seemed to come from an older time. The colorful horsetail, dyed red and blue, which dangled from their helmet and their similarly-colored, bright face paint contrasted almost comically with their otherwise dull grey and brown leather and fur clothing. Perhaps some might be inclined to laugh, but most mockery choked at the sight of their pale white cloaks: visibly sewn from the flayed hides of Pale-Men, their limbs and faces still imprinted on the uncut skins. Faces contorted by malice and spite, forever screaming voicelessly. Elgar had chosen each of them carefully, for they were no young aspirants but seasoned veterans, the dreaded Pale-Slayers who hunted in the north every year.

The time of the moot brought all sorts of strange folk to Kingsport, and gossiping women and curious children would become witness to many curious things. Vague glances and half-hidden whispers followed the warriors from the Red Marsh all the way to the king’s keep. Rhawn in particular captured the attention of many with her outlandish appearance: freakishly white of skin, like snow brought to life, with hair that dragged behind her across the ground. Small bones had been woven everywhere into her massive black mane, with more of them dangling from her skirt and mantle, underneath of which she wore little more than a narrow strip of cloth around her chest. In her right hand she carried a glaive of sorts, tipped with an eerie looking metal point that looked warped and gnarly, more like tree bark than forged metal – and which never reflected any light. She was the type of woman who inspired farfetched and fantastical myths about the people of the north, hogwash tales of cannibals and savages who worshipped older and darker gods than the Red pantheon. But every myth contains a grain of truth somewhere and today, Rhawn was that grain.

---

“So these are the customs of the civilized south eh,” Elgar chuckled as he prodded Rhawn with the stump of his left forearm. This was his second time in Kingsport; once he was here when the Pale-Men invaded in full force a few decades ago, but ever since he had no true interest in matters of politics. It all seemed so ridiculous to him, grown men barking at each other and tripping over the formalities of arbitrary rules, all in a bid to sit on a fancy chair. Meanwhile, real men fought daily with real monsters that threatened to end all of human kind if given half a chance, and their reward for this was to be regarded as uncultured barbarians. Elgar held no love for the southern Broken Landers and their power plays, even if he promised to respect the faith his ancestor had put into the Stonecutter clan.

“Men will always bicker like children when grown-up toys are at stake,” Rhawn commented matter-of-factly. “Wealth and power will always hold sway over the hearts and minds of rulers. You too should be interested, Elgar. We could use these things for the betterment of out tribe. We have lived in a worthless swamp for centuries.”

“We have powerful allies and powerful men,” he argued, waving dismissively with his stump and taking a deep gulp from his mug with his actual hand. “As if we needed anything these self-absorbed sycophants have to offer.”

Rhawn leaned in on him and placed her colorless finger over his mead-wetted lips. “You are in the high king’s hall, chieftain. You will mind your language, and you will listen to my advice. This is why you brought me. You are being short-sighted, and this is why our children are forced to grow up in a stinking marsh instead of a fine city.”

“Don’t you see that a war is brewing, Elgar?” she continued in a whisper, leaning into his ear, “This is what civil war looks and smells like. Soon we will taste it. The storm clouds were right, the spirits do not lie. Lines will be drawn, my dear, and even if you don’t care for the lines you will find yourself on one side… or the other. We need to make sure we find ourselves on the side that does not end up decorating the top of a pike or as slaves to a vengeful master.”

“And if the Pale Ones use this chance to attack us when the land is divided? If we send our men away to fight other men for some nebulous purpose, some line drawn in the sand by an angry man? Who will protect our women and children?”

“T’is not the first time, Elgar, that you find yourself surrounded from all sides with only a single speartip to brace against the charge. You escaped that too; best remember how you did it.”

She removed herself from him and cast her cold, amber eyes around the hall, taking in the sights and the welling emotions with a sip of mead sweetened with her own spices.

Elgar, meanwhile, grew silent and withdrawn. Yes, he had found himself surrounded once before, in a dark place where escape was but a flight of fancy. Cheating death was one thing, he thought and looked at his bandaged stump of a left arm, but how could he do the same for an entire clan? Rhawn had been right, as she so often was. He had to look past his own grudges and attitudes and fulfill his role as leader to the Vile Heart clan – the leader of a people in need of protection.

The Moot...

"I, for one, will not tolerate this situation to continue. If you, my peers, feel the same, then lend me your support. Otherwise, I can only hope that your yokes lay lightly upon your necks."

The Moot erupted into shouting- "here, heres!" and "Well saids!" vying with loud accusations of disloyalty and dishonor. The young king went pale upon his throne, and looked to his mother. The High Queen, dark and still and beautiful, said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on a corner of the room, on the shadows behind one of the smoldering braziers.

"It'll be all our necks soon enough, Varvudda," said a low, gravelly voice that seemed to echo amid the vaulted ceiling. It took a moment for the crowd of jarls and thanes to notice the man in black walking calmly down the center of the great gray hall, toward the royal dais, and another for the Moot to lapse into relative quiet.

The Stonecutter guards made to intercept the newcomer, but at an almost imperceptible shake of the Queen's head they nervously kept their places. The man in black stopped at the steps before the throne and, smirking, gave a slight bow before turning to face the Moot.

"And who the fuck is it that speaks thusly to the Jarl of Sentinel?" spat Evar, rising once more. Several of his own older thanes eyed their lord with alarmed surprise, and his father grabbed his arm but Evar shook him off, "Who addresses the jarls and thanes of the Broken Lands?"

"Daigon," slurred the elder Varvudda, "It's Daigon, boy!"

Evar looked at his father, understanding dawning of his face, and turned back to the newcomer.

"I am the Jarl of Sepulchrave," said Daigon, "Master of the Gravemire. Though I believe many of you have another name for me."

He turned from Varvudda, meeting the gaze of the other jarls, "We do not have time for Moots, brethren, meetings, or talk of taxes. You know I am no friend to Clan Stonecutter, but old arguments died with Aigoth."

"Ah," said Evar, "So the Coward makes his bid..."

"Not for myself, Evar Varvudda," said Daigon, his pale eyes meeting the younger man's angry glare, "but for unity. You know where I have been. The Salished have turned their gaze north, to our lands, once more. The Union no longer threatens them. The Clans must face the Empire together, or fall individually. The boy king cannot lead us with a boy regent."

"Will the clans follow a sellsword, absent from our lands for a lifetime?" asked Evar.

"No, they would not," said Daigon, "I nominate Erlendr of Clan Red Knot as regent."

"I nominate Erlendr of Clan Red Knot as regent."

Gunni saw the look of astonishment on his father’s face as Daigon butted into the proceedings. He’d been too young to understand politics at the time of the Isles’ unification, but he’d heard the stories of his father leading the charge that broke the Shattered Moon’s will to resist. He’d also heard of Jarl Daigon’s - the Coward’s notoriety. Was the man really backing his former enemy?

Erlendr could scarcely believe what he’d just heard. It was Daigon’s defeat to the combined Red Knot-Stonecutter army that exiled him in the first place. Had his employ by the Drathans changed him? All these years and Daigon’s instinct told him not to harass his former opponent, but to support him, in a bid for regent, no less. Not to mention, how had he known of the moot in the first place? Varvudda certainly didn’t invite him, if their exchange was any indication.

The Jarl of the Red Knot took a breath to regain his composure. What are you playing at, Daigon?

“Your arrival is most unexpected, Daigon,” Erlendr began, stepping forward. “Some might wonder how you knew of this moot in the first place.” He extended his hand to the Jarl of Sepulchrave.

“As you say, ‘old arguments died with Aigoth.’ I can only assume, by your nomination, this goes for our clans as well?”

Might as well play along for now, he thought to himself.

"Aye," said Daigon, clasping Erlendr's hand. "The past is dead. Let us be rid of its lingering shade. If we are to live as free men, we must fight together. The Southrons and their gods are coming. Send longboats south, see the gathering armada for yourselves."

"I accept this nomination," Erlendr declared to the assembly, "for the position of regent of the Broken Isles, until High King Aigoth II is of age - should it please Her Majesty." He looked to the queen, still silent. "If what Daigon says is true, we must reach a decision and act."

Nyssos, the Rainlands of the Salished Empire...

Lord Vissaban stood with hands clasped behind his back and a frown hovering above his jutting chin. His eyes traced the breathtaking and terrifying mosaics adorning the high dome over the throne room. In the scene directly above him, Dimaza, ancestor of the Salizi, was wielding the First Blade against the Gorelord Incarnate and his abhuman hordes. The legends said it was Dimaza who first allied with the Servants of the Forge.

Vissaban silently cursed his memory, if truly he was to blame for these ubiquitous priests, always worming themselves into affairs of state and war. They were currently in the process of delaying his invasion of the Broken Lands.

A Forge Priest- an immensely fat man with a twitching eye- was going on at some length about augurs and what the shapes in the forge-smoke had foretold this morning. The fleet must stay at anchor another week, the gods had -apparently- indicated. They had not yet had their fill of flesh from the last war. Only once glutted fully would they bless a new offensive.

Lord Vissaban noted sourly that His Dread Immanence the Shashul of All Azoth, Lord of the Rainlands, Shadow of the Gods on the Realms of Men, was nodding sagely along to the prognostications of the bloated and bloviating half-wit in clerical attire, who was seated just to the left of the Imperial Throne.

Vissaban was without question the second-most powerful man in the Empire, perhaps in all of Azoth, and was quite unused to waiting patiently for instructions. It took some effort of will not to erupt in a shower of profanities at this newest excuse for delay.

"Majesty," he said, as the priest paused to take a breath. His voice rang throughout the immense throne room, and the crowd of courtiers and sycophants arrayed around the throne looked at him with alarm. Few dared to interrupt here. The Shashul turned his head languidly to face his general, "with all due respect to the oracles of the Sacred Forges, may I remind His Immanence that he is running out of summer, and that an assault on the Broken Lands in fall or winter would be...enormously more difficult, if not a guaranteed disaster. And that's to say nothing of what happens if the northmen do not collapse into civil war. If they elect a new king."

"The gods do not care for trivial matters-" began the priest, but Lord Vissaban lunged forward, up the steps to the Imperial dais, his usually olive skin turned scarlet, the scales of his gilded armor gleaming in the candle and torch light. He grabbed the cleric by the folds of his crimson robes and lifted him bodily out of his chair. The Shashul's Guard drew swords and rushed to intervene, and His Majesty looked dazed, like he was witnessing something fundamentally beyond his ability for comprehension.

"LISTEN TO ME YOU FAT LICKSPITTLE," Vissaban shouted, face to face with the cleric, "The gods want blood, I'll give them blood! If I stay here because of your be-shitted omens I'll feed the Forges myself with their own priests, starting with you."

The first of the Shashul's Guard reached Vissaban, and grabbed his shoulder. Vissaban threw the priest to the ground and shoved the guard away, knocking him off balance, before spinning on his heel to face the Shashul, whose mouth was still hanging open.

"Majesty," he spat, "it's time to choose. Shall we invade the Broken Lands or not? If we invade, we can have no more delays, not if you still honor me with this command."

His Dread Immanence closed his mouth, and his face regained its regal hauteur. He looked from Vissaban to the priest, struggling to his feet, spluttering and shocked, and back again.

"We shall risks the gods' displeasure," he said, "And make it up to them with sacrifices innumerable. The Broken Lands will be ours. Begin the invasion, Vissaban."