The Moot

The sun rises and sets. Tides go and by. Kings live and die. These were facts of the ever-changing nature of the reality, where nothing would be forever the same, and yet, it would always go back in the same cycle. The smells of bad sanitation, humanity, and fish guts had numbed his nose considerable and made the new Jarl of the Runestone disquiet. The man was average, if not for the fact did not look older than twenty despite being in his mid-thirties, and a relatively new face in these kind of situations, after the late Ulfric Runecarver had died of consumption three or so years ago. But in this case, the High King's succesion would be much more troublesome than his own, indeed.

The heir to Aigoth could have not started in more disfavourable position. Short of a miracle, there was no way these men would ever admit him as king. He could see it in their eyes. Hunger for power. Indifference. Amusement. Even lust for the widowed Queen when his husband had not departed the world for long. In an ideal world, he would have supported the High Queen. But in an ideal world, he would have had other kind of circumstances.

Jarl Erik stood high, a hand firmly tucked on his chin as arguments flew by, always in that ponderous attitude of his. A slight nod here and there, listening to arguments fly by and sometimes, rousing shouts. He eyed to his companions with a side glance of his blue eyes, as he stroke his small dirty blond beard, which was the same color as his head. On his shoulders the somber gray cloak of the Runecarver clan, emblazoned with mysterious runic scriptures all over. He had the smallest host of all the Jarls, to be fair. Merely four guards. However, this meager companionship was greatly augmented in effect by the two figures cladded in gray hoods and robes.

A trow sighting was considered strange. Two in the same place was nearly unheard of. And in a Kingsmoot no less. To his left, the "Longshanks", the master explorer of the mysterious allies of his clan, and to his right, an even more cumbersome enigma, the Rune Witch. He could never shake off her insistence in coming, so here she was. He prayed the gods that she did not even open her mouth.

But she did, in that ululating, yet raspy at time language of hers, her soft spoken words transmitted to her kinsman, which in turn turned to request Erik's attention.

"I know what she has asked, and the answer is no." Jarl Erik whispered back, as he prepared his intervention, his eyes trailing towards the so called Coward. He did not really share the attitude of other Jarls to him. A craven he might have been, but Daigoth had been highly spoken by "Longshanks". And it was equally true that if clever, cravens could turn the tide of war too.

"Jarls, Prince, Lords... Ladies. I Jarl Erik of Runestone will now perform the function of Jarl Ulfric, who is no longer among us." He presented himself, as his entrance had been rather tame, save for a scuffle between "Longshanks" and a Queensguard for his reticence of parting with his exquisitely crafted blades. "I too, support the Regency of Erlendr of the Red Knot." He added. "The reason being that an army needs food, able bodies, weapons and transport to have any hope of succeeding, and one who will be Regent in stead of High King should see to feed the entire armies of the North combined. I do believen the Jarl of Debensfeld will supply us with said resources as few others could do."

To be fair, given the situation, Erik would have never nominated himself as Regent. These problems would plague him.

"Although Jarl Varvudda does have a fair point in trying to seize power. He will most likely will be one of the first to meet the Empire in battle. Please do consider that aswell." The Jarl of Runestone finished his spiel with a token appreciation towards the Jarl of Sentinel. It would do a disservice if he were to denounce the man's ambition.

"We are all to expect that the Coward, after a full generation in exile from this realm, rather conveniently rediscovers a sense of duty to his motherland right as the Stone Foot dies and comes to warn us?" Evar Varvudda asked incredulously of the Moot. "When a patriot comes to mind, among the last men I envision is the Coward. Placing trust in his good intentions is folly."

"I entreat you lot to use your minds. You in particular, Erlendr," warned the Jarl of Sentinel, turning to face the master of Clan Red Knot. "Accept the Coward's nomination with due caution. There is a reason the Coward wishes you to serve as regent, and given his reputation I scarcely imagine it serves the best interests of your kinsmen or the realm."

"Let those of you who wish not to serve as the Coward's pawns in this queer game of his speak now," the Jarl of Sentinel said, addressing the gathered lords and jarls as whole. "Voice now your support, that I may be regent for the Stone Foot's heir."

There were two Jarls who immediately rose from their seats and voiced their support.

"Clan Horse Tooth shall support the Jarl of Sentinel!"

"Clan Þyrseig shall support the Jarl of Sentinel!"

Þyrseig and Horse Tooth, two petty reaver clans from tiny, depauperate islands in the south of the Chain of Fire. Evar appreciated their immediate votes, hoping that it would ignite a wave of support. Their support, however, was next to meaningless. Evar needed the approval of the Broken Land's greater clans to have any chance of earning the regency.

Daigon allowed a small smile to play across his thin lips as he turned from Erlendr to Evar.

"Lord Regent Erlendr," he said, and though his voice remained quiet he could be heard over the shouting of the Horse Tooth and Þyrseig and a half dozen other petty clans declaring support for Evar and denouncing the Coward and the Shattered Moon, "the Jarl of Sentinel warns you against my duplicity."

He approached Evar as he spoke, and the Varvudda guardsmen and thanes eyed him warily. But the Coward was unarmed, his empty palms open and facing out as he walked.

"I am duplicitous, I am a liar," Daigon said, as the hall fell quiet. The Jarl of the Broken Hammer loudly guffawed at the melodrama and audibly slurped down more mead. Evar's hands closed into fists as the Coward came within striking distance.

"I am a murderer," said Daigon, and though his voice was barely above a whisper no one failed to hear him.

"But I am not the only one. Do you know why I fled the field, now so many years ago, Lord Erlendr? Fled before the Stonecutter and Red Knot armies?" he asked more loudly this time, "Do you know who invited me to attack the late High King? Told me where he and his men would be, straggling north from Sentinel? Do you know which jarl begged me to join him, to rid us all of the Stonecutter yoke? Promised me reinforcements that never appeared, forcing me to withdraw?"

Daigon's eyes fell on Vignar, "You never told him, your own son?"

The Coward turned, with practiced theatricality, away from Evar to the rest of the room.

"Let such matters concern us no more," he said, "Let us kill the past, and fight together for our future freedom."

The bickering between the two men left Geirlaug less than impressed. As far as she could tell, they were completely concerned with the Salished Empire, a group of people she had never actually met, and who had fucked who in the past. Not literally, but the general idea was there. Once again, the Clans who warred with the Pale-Ones and gave these spoiled fools the peace they needed to bicker, were being forgotten and taken for granted.

For as long as Geirlaug could remember, her people had nominally nodded their head to the High King. No great taxes were paid from the north and no great numbers of warriors ever answered the call to war. Those along the snowline could spare little from their own struggles against the elements and the beasts that lurked in the darkness. It was enough to make her begin laughing out loud but she contained her homourless mirth as the Coward stabbed accusations at the Jarl of Sentinel. When at last he turned away and back toward the assembled Jarls she stood, glaring about the room.

"The Broken Hammer owe nothing to either of you, nor indeed to the High Queen. This Throne," She gestured at the dais. "Has ever been happy to take our gold, demand our warriors, and yet we have fought the Pale-Ones without a finger lifted by any of you to help."

There were growls of agreement from several other Jarls who lived along the tundra, among them Jarl Caiside Maedoc of the Brazen Sword Clan. The others, like those who had supported Evar, were small Clans whose support was mostly noise.

Geirlaug had not raised her voice, nor did she need to. Her sheer size was enough to demand respect from a gathering almost predominantly male.

"The Broken Hammer will not bend a knee to either Jarl Evar or Jarl Erlender. We will do what we always have, live, fight, survive." She sneered at the little men in front of her. "Perhaps you to will survive if you can keep from stabbing each other in the back. We will part ways when this Moot has finished but you will see no support from me or mine."

Jarl Caiside Maedoc rose to his feet as she finished speaking and swept his gaze across the crowd. "The Brazen Sword Clan supports its Broken Hammer allies. Neither of you will see any support from us."

A half dozen smaller Clans stood and declared the same, all of them from the Tundra region and well within the Broken Hammer sphere of influence.

"You never told him, your own son?" Asked the Coward.

Evar met the Coward's smug grin with a furious scowl, but turned to face his father once Daigon had reverted his attention to the Moot as a whole.

"He's full of horse shit," cocksure Evar snarled hoping his doubt would be immediately confirmed by Vignar. But the wizened old man was still wide-eyed and sobered from the Coward's words - the look of a murderer whose well-hidden victim had been uncovered by the village huscarl. Vignar and could do naught but meet his son's expectant stare with wide, guilty eyes.

"... isn't he, father?" Vignar finally managed a weak nod.

"May this greasy cur burn a full eternity in each of the fifteen hells," Evar growled to his thanes as he glowered furiously at the Coward. "How dare he say such a thing to an old man in such a state. Father can scarcely recall his own name, let alone recall events such a long time passed. I will not abide such slander. I will challenge this filthy coward to a duel, and cut that lying tongue from his mouth."

"My lord," one of Evar's thanes - a seasoned veteran old enough to be Evar's father - said with arresting solemness, "do no such thing. I implore you, drop this matter."

Evar gave an irritated grunt through gritted teeth and returned his gaze to the Moot. The Broken Hammer Jarless had taken the floor now.

"The Broken Hammer will not bend a knee to either Jarl Erlendr or Jarl Varvudda. We will do what we always have, live, fight, survive. Perhaps you too will survive if you can keep from stabbing each other in the back. We will part ways when this Moot has finished but you will see no support from me or mine."

With that, Evar's chances of earning the regency had died. With the northerners effectively abstaining from the vote, the Red Knot Jarl would surely win the majority of the votes now that Runecarver, Shattered Moon, and now Stonecutter had all thrown their support behind Erlendr's regency. Evar was never one to easily give up, but even the obstinate Jarl of Sentinel knew better than to persist in the face of mathematical impossibility. Seven clans - none very powerful - had voiced their support of Evar. He would not be named regent. Nothing remained for Clan Varvudda in Kingsport.

"Nor shall you see support from Sentinel!" Evar declared. "Clan Varvudda will find its own way forward. If the Coward is to be believed, and the Rainlanders mean to attack, then we shall look to our own defenses. The wealth of Sentinel will be spent fortifying our own ramparts, rather than those of the Stonecutter robber-barons. You will see not a single piece of silver from our lands."

The Varvudda thanes rose from their seats, helping frail Vignar to his feet as Evar made for the door. The petty jarls from the Chain of Fire, deciding that they had nothing more to gain from this Moot, filtered toward the exit as well. "Clan Varvudda takes its leave of this Moot, farewell and good riddence!"

"Now, give me my damned sword back," Evar demanded of the guards standing at the doors. "I'll be needing it."

*So this is it. The Jarls leave this hall just as - or even more - divided than they were when they stepped in.*

Erlender’s head was hung low, hands locked into fists at his sides. He wasn’t sure yet whether the sudden arrival of Daigon was a blessing or a curse. The man seemed all too willing to put the past behind for the good of the Isles. And if his warning of the Salished invasion was true, then it provided the clans ample time to prepare and fortify themselves.

Yet, Daigon’s presence had also sparked old tensions and tempers were running hot. Already, Evar decried the moot and vowed to strike out on his own, with the rest of Vadrunna in tow. The Broken Hammer, too, voiced its recalcitrance in matters of leadership. The clans of the north would go back to their snowy wastes - back to the pale men they so loved to hate. All that left were the central clans, comfortably in the sphere of influence of either the Red Knot, Shattered Moon, and Stonecutters. Or the island clans, not beholden to either the north nor to Varvudda’s reach. These, Erlendr needed to address.

Erlendr watched the Varvuddas, the Broken Hammers and both of their dependent clans leave the hall. Hiding a grimace, he turned to the clans that were still gathered, palms held up in an appeasing gesture.

“Those of you that remain,” he said, “do so because your conviction is true. Varvudda has shown it cares only for itself, and the clans of the north are too thick in the head to look beyond their blizzards and mountains. But you - you remain where others have gone. You have the wisdom to see beyond petty feuds and borders. You know the clans must hold fast, lest they drift apart.”

His next words boomed through the hall. “I will not let this insubordination blind us to the dangers we face. I ask for your support as regent, so that no more treachery turns clan against clan and no day breaks where this kingdom falls!”

Upon hearing his father’s words, Gunni found himself standing, chest puffed, knuckles white as they gripped the rail at his waist. He’d always obeyed his father because he was blood; it was simply the right thing to do. Very seldomly did he feel obligated by a motive greater than Erlendr’s “I told you so’s” to follow and to serve. But something in his father, standing there before the clans at that moment, stirred his heart and his pride. He commanded respect, and Gunni would give his gladly.

Erik Runecarver was moved very little by the trading of barbs and speeches, as he kept a stoic demeanor through the exchanges. Tension did build up eventually, and in the end the Jarl was tightening his hands into fists, as he restrained his temper upon the display. Such was the way of Northerners, half blind by blood and pride to see what was set upon them. Definitely, Daigon's standoffish attidude did not help at all. The Coward might have been good at strategies, but like many foolish men, he could not resist the temptation to trade barbs should people show vindictiviness towards him.

And, with his moniker, what else could be expected? His eyes wandered over the display of Varvudda clansmen and those in his sphere of influence, after lingering for a bit on the stance of the Broken Hammer and associates. Damned pride. He eyed Erlendr, which was growing a little too comfortable already with his new role. But his words were true to an extent. The Moot was divided, and clans were leaving, so he coughed a little. One last thing could be done, on his part to sway the opinion.

"Jarl Erlendr. You shall have my support, but you would do well to remember that no one came to this moot to be insulted. The north clans have reasons for their reticence, and Varvudda prefers to pay in blood than in gold." He paused briefly, trying let such a statement sink before continuing. "However, for those who do not see reason to come in aid, I shall add yet another one. The weapons of the Vault of Secrets will be given to all clans that participate in this joint effort." Erik said eyeing the Witch Queen, his supporter in the shadow, a subtle nod confirming his stance.

"Ichor-forged steel, of the finest quality and craftmanship." He added, his eyes scanning the room. Maybe the big clans would not be impressed, but perhaps he could yank a few of the small ones, when offered a weapon that was closer to relics of the Ancients than proper tools of war.

Geirlaug sat in her own hall and stared into the fire that blazed in the centre of the hall. Three men sat before her, two Broken Hammer kin, both sent to the far south to seek the truth of the Coward's claims of a southern invasion. The third was a southerner. She had to be honest, being in the bitter north had left the Broken Hammer with very little interest about goings on in the south. The southern clans were viewed as petty and weak, the Moot had pretty much proved that point, but she doubted very much that they were stupid. One did not rule a people through ignorance after all.

The Broken Hammer delegation had left the Moot shortly after Varvudda, their longships sliding through the mist and into the bright sun of the north where politics were settled with a fight to the death. It was simpler here and she loved that about the north. The journey home had been overshadowed by the nagging question of "What if the Coward told the truth?"

The Salished no doubt considered the Pale Ones and the Broken Hammer as much of a myth as they did dragons. In all her time she had never seen a single Salish amongst her people. It was true they were far away but if they conquered the Sentinel, where would they stop? She had no doubt they would eventually come to the north for there were valuable resources there. Could the Broken Hammer and Brazen Sword fight them alone? She very much doubted it.

She had been three days out from the Moot when she ordered the second Broken Hammer ship southward with the express intent to find the truth of the Coward's report. The ship had been gone nearly a month and returned only a few hours before with news that a great armada was being assembled by the southerners. Her men had taken a small warship by night, slaughtered the crew but for two men, and then sank the vessel. With any luck, the southerners would never know what had happened to their ship.

One of the southerners had died on the journey north and been consigned to the teeth of the ocean. The survivor however... He knelt now at the feet of the Broken Hammer Jarl, his eyes wide with fear as he glanced about at him. The Jotunn, a word that existed only as a myth in the south, had become very real for him. The only hitch in the whole plan was something Geirlaug had not even considered. They did not speak the same language and she could not find a soul who knew how to speak with her prisoner.

"Very well, a fast ship to the High Queen with this man then." She said at last. "Leave immediately. Tell the her we do not stand against her and will send what aid we can if called for when the southerners come."

The larger of the two men nodded and stood, seized the southerner by his shirt and dragged him screaming into the sunlight beyond. Geirlaug watched them go then looked to the second man. This was one of her sons, the eldest and most warlike of all her children.

"My son, take two ships and what men wish to go with you. Make for the Sentinel. Inform Jarl Varvudda that you are there to support him against the southerners, nothing else."

The man nodded, stood, quickly pressed his forehead to hers, and then vanished out the door leaving Geirlaug alone with the fire deep in thought. The southerners were coming but, more pressing, so was winter and with it the darkness that brought the Pale Ones. She silently wondered who would be left when the summer suns returned to the north.

The weather was up as Halvard Storstrand hauled on the tiller of his knarre, the boat turning around the head of the island at his command. The wind shifted the yard and the the sail remained full. His men adjusted the tack lines and the vessel surged forward, shuddering as it crashed over the budding whitecaps.

As their point of view shifted, the town of Oskandr came into view and the sailors cheered to see their home. Halvard smiled to see the great hall looming up in the growing rain. His people were an industrial folk, and smoke and heat could be seen coming from the ground vents that lead to the ancient underground barrows that the Knarrlings called home. In the wet weather the great stone and wood hall that topped the submerged settlement loomed like a great beast amongst the clouds. A dragon, watching the sea, thought Halvard.

The crew expertly got to work as the knarre neared Oskandr’s pier. They furled the sail and Halvard guided the vessel in without anyone ever having to unship the oars. As the boat was secured, Halvard Farsailer’s boots hit the wood and he was off to the hall. His men would handle the knarre and he had news to bring to his family.

——-

Fish stew was a simple staple on the islands and coastlines that the Knarrlings called home, but after a cold day on the sea there was nothing better. King Halvard’s eldest children were gathered, but they knew better then to press their father until he was finished his meal.

Ingvild Storstrand, first daughter of Halvard, was impatient nonetheless. Her knee bounced as she waited, watching how her brothers reacted to their fathers patience. Hjalmer, only a year younger then her sat immobile, his dark hair that was so similar to hers still wet from the rain. He would sit quietly for an hour if he must, and without complaint. Lost in his own head somewhere. Their younger half brother Knute was less serious then Hjalmer and fiddling with a button on his sea coat. After a moment of her scrutiny he looked back at her, eyes flicking to a scar on the side of her lip that gave her a permanent snarl. Ingvild leaned forward and was about to speak when the sound of their fathers spoon landing in the empty bowl interrupted her.

“Well,” began the Fisher King in his slow deliberate way. “It may yet be war. Erlendr is regent, but not recognised by all. The Pale Ones rise again, and some claim armies from the south rally to invade all of the Broken Lands.”

“And where do you stand on these events, father?” Asked Hjalmer dutifully. Sometimes his decorum infuriated Ingvild.

“I have declared the Knarrlings for nobody,” declared the elder Storstrand. “As to the rumours from the south, I fear there could be grains of truth to it.”

“What do we do?” asked his daughter impatiently.

“This will please you, Ingvild Ironclad,” their father stated with a wry, humourless smile. “We will make swords and axes. We will build armour and shields. The Knarrlings will prepare for war.”

Ingvild was pleased, but Hjalmer interrupted her feelings. “We will prepare for war,” he began thoughtfully. “But on whose side?”

Brisk, chilling gusts buffeted Evar Varvudda, standing upon the highest floor of the great citadel for which his city was named. He stood inside an arcaded rotunda, whose pillars of carved volcanic pumice held up a Drathan horned dome chiseled out of a small volcano that had once stood here the better part of a thousand years ago. Between the columns, Evar could see everything for five leagues around: the Smoldering Range to the northwest, the frigid sea of whitecapped waves to the south, and the rolling hill country of Askan stretching in between. The land beyond Sentinel was a vast, open heath, with green undulating hills and ridges covered in dense grasses. Shadows from patches of passing clouds painted mighty swathes of the grasslands a dark green, only to be set aglow with brilliant verdance by the sun's renewed light, giving the entire landscape the impression of a bolt of green silk fluttering in the wind. Streams and brooks coursed over Askan, gurgling with cold, white water as they drained down to the River Malfyrng, flowed past Sentinel, and ultimately emptied into the sea. The gentle rolling hills were studded every now and then with small cinder volcanoes. Some were young and steep, with slopes black with fresh ash and cinders; others were ancient and degraded by erosion, leaving grassy craters filled with hotsprings or geyser ponds. Truly, the view from atop the citadel of Sentinel was a magnificent sight, and despite having access to this vantage point since he was a boy, Evar never tired of the incredible vistas it afforded.

Though Evar cherished the views from atop his great tower, the citadel of Sentinel was not built by his command nor that of any of the Varvudda Jarls. The citadel of Sentinel was commissioned centuries ago by a wizard, when Askan was colonized by the Dratha. This tower was carved from the core of a dormant cinder volcano over the course of several generations of thralls to create the cornerstone of the lost city of Zar Maliff. The wizard lord that ruled this place paid for such a grand edifice with a terrible cost in life. Even after so many centuries, fishermen plying the River Malfyrng still occasionally found in their nets the skulls and legbones of the multitudes of slaves who spent their lives carving this citadel.

The wizard who ordered Sentinel built must have meant for the rotunda to be a place for relaxing and entertaining courtiers, but Clan Varvudda found the climb up the hundreds of stairs to the top of the citadel too taxing and time consuming, and instead chose a chamber in the low levels of the citadel to be the Jarl's court. Instead, the rotunda was used mainly as a lighthouse; citadel thralls kept a bonfire up here at night to serve as a beacon to ships in the evening. There was also a pair of ballistae up here well away from the fire ring - siege engines purchased at great expense from the southern lands by Jarl Vignar a decade ago. The citadel guards never seemed to know where the bolts they fired were, and Evar doubted that anyone knew how to operate these war machines anyway. Too advanced for Broken Landers, it seemed.

Evar heard footsteps coming up the spiral staircase to the rotunda. Thinking it to be a thrall bringing up a bundle of wood for the beacon fire, the Jarl ignored them, continuing to survey the lands of Askan and the city of Sentinel below him.

"Somehow, I knew I would find you up here," said a voice Evar immediately recognized. Approaching now was Sygmar, one of Evar's eldest thanes. Sygmar was a giant of man, with a torso as wide a barrel and hands as big as bear paws. A thick curtain of a beard and mustache transitioning from black to gray draped down to his chest from beneath a blocky nose pitted with two deep scars. A large leather patch covered his right eye and much of the right half of his face, hiding some grievous battle wound from sight. Sygmar would at first appearance seem the sort of man who would possess a deep, booming voice. But when Sygmar spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft and solemn. His voice was so striking that he had come to be known as Sygmar the Silent. "Welcome home, sire."

"We spent nearly a moon in that cesspool, Sygmar," said Evar. "Blanketed almost all of that time in Kingsport's stinking fog. Subjected poor father to it, even. For what? I have nothing to show for it. I came up here for the fresh air, that this wind might blow the stench of that place off of my back."

"Kingsport is an unlovely place, to be sure. If I never see it again, it will be too soon. I had no desire to join you, because I knew nothing would come of your journey there. I wonder, sire, what were you expecting? Calling a Moot with the aim of declaring yourself Regent to the Stonefoot child? Pray tell, how did you expect a positive reaction to such a thing?"

If anyone else had spoken to the Varvudda Jarl in such a way, they could expect a horse-whipping. But Sygmar was allowed a great deal of candour with tempermental Evar. To call Sygmar an adviser to the Jarl was not accurate, for that would imply that Evar actually heeded advice. Sygmar, however, was perhaps the only one who could talk Evar out of a truly unreasonable idea.

"At the least, I expected some of the other clans to sympathize with our plight," admitted Evar. "You know damned well that the Stonecutters have bled us dry for generations. The treasure my father dutifully paid was used to muster the defenses for the Stonecutter holdings, and fortify their keeps. In return for father's dutiful support, Sentinel was abandoned; left to its own devices while the foreign host laid waste to this very city. The only reason this citadel still stands is because this citadel is carved from solid rock, and would not burn in the fires lit by the southron savages."

"You need not remind me, sire. Before you were born, I fought alongside the Stonefoot to put paid to that Salished foray. Your father's frustration with the Stonecutters is merited. I will say that Aigoth Stonefoot, with the help of the Stonecutter Clan, was able to successfully protect much of the Broken Lands from Salished attack. Many clans are therefore going to support the Stonecutters, and are likely perplexed by Varvudda recalcitrance."

"Harkon take the other clans," Evar growled. "I will not abide Clan Varvudda existing as a mere tributary any longer. I see no reason to continue supporting the Stonecutters and their lackeys."

"So I have heard," said Sygmar. "Word of the Moot preceded you, sire. You made the Stonecutter clan fathers very angry."

"I did? What I said is nothing compared to what father did. He called the High Queen a 'Rainlander bitch'."

"Is that so?" Sygmar asked with a cocked brow.

"... in the presence of the High Queen."

Sygmar immediately let out of snort of laughter. "By the Gods, the old codger's lucky to have his head! I almost wish I joined you just to have witnessed that!"

"Suffice it to say, Jarl Erlendr of Clan Red Knot has been named the boy's regent, not I."

"A rather unusual candidate," mused Sygmar. "I can't imagine he stepped forward. Who nominated him?"

"Jarl Daigon of Clan Shattered Moon."

"Daigon?" Asked an incredulous Sygmar. "The Coward was in attendance?"

"Aye, he was."

"Daigon returned to the Broken Lands? I should have been there."

"What difference does he make? I must confess, I am rather tired of the deference that is granted to a man known as the Coward.

"You don't understand, Evar," said Sygmar. "You were only a boy when the Coward was exiled from these lands. I fought against him. Some twelve years ago, as a sellsword with the Felmurg reavers on the isles off the Ashlands in one of the countless wars the wizards of the south have amongst themselves. We fought for Zar Kabros, the Coward fought for Zar Mythrad. I encountered his men on the field at some hamlet in the Ashlands. Make no mistake, Evar: he might be called a Coward, but Daigon and his men are worthy opponents."

Sygmar pulled back on the collar of his tunic to reveal his left shoulder to Evar. A deep, red scar was plainly visible, missing his clavicle by about an inch.

"One of the Coward's Men did that. Tough bastard - his axe cleaved right through my pauldron. If he hadn't lost his footing, I'd be a skeleton buried in the ash somewhere." Sygmar pulled his tunic back over his shoulder before continuing. "There were many such wars and skirmishes between the various factions of the Dratha, and those who survive those battles become hard men indeed. The Coward and his men have seen dozens of them. They are seasoned warriors indeed, some of the best on either side of the the Chain of Fire. Daigon and his men are not to be trifled with."

"Nor are the Stonecutters," said Evar. "That is what concerns me. Daigon will heed Erlendr's calls for unity, but I have heard that there are some among the Stonecutters who seek to avenge my supposed insults against them. In spite of Erlendr's calls for peace, there is one among them who wishes to force my submission: Relgar the Blacktooth. Do you know of him, Sygmar?"

"I do. He is like you, Evar. Impetuous and stubborn. I fought with him against the Salished before you were born. Despite his age is a capable warrior and a compelling leader of men. But he is brash, easily taunted, and prone to careless mistakes on the field of battle. If he means to attack, he will bring many well-armed men. If Relgar does intend to to attack Sentinel - and I have believe he does - then we should look to our defenses now."

Evar continued to look out across the landscape spread out before him through the arcade. Something below caught the Jarl's attention. Just beyond the city of Sentinel, where the River Malfyrng emptied into the ocean, a vessel was listed on its side, perfectly still among the braided mouth of the river. It was a southerner ship - deeper draughted than the longboats and knarres of the Broken Lands. Rowboats from Sentinel had made their way over to the beleaguered vessel, seeming to be offloading crates and barrels from the larger ship.

"That vessel out there," Evar said, deviating wildly from the topic at hand, "It's stuck, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so, sire." Sygmar confirmed, remaining patient with the Jarl despite there being much more pressing matters to fixate upon. "There was a heavy rain two nights before, which deposited much sand and mud at the mouth of the river. These southron boats have deep draughts, and are easily beached. It seems the river channel must be dredged out again."

"No," Evar said, watching the rowboats gathering around the southron cog. "No, do no such thing."

"Excuse me, sire?"

"I want you to purchase five - no - six longboat mast beams from the shipwright. And send for... thirty ingots of pig iron from the smithies."

"My Jarl, what in the name of the Gods is this about?"

"Looking to our defenses... an idea has occurred to me."

Previously...

Present Day, Kingsport, the High Queen's Solar....

She was standing by the window, watching the moon rise through drifting fog. She knew she was not alone, though there did not appear to be anyone else in the room. She knew she would never again be truly alone again, for she would never know when he was present.

"You did well, Majesty," said a quiet voice, thick with the accents of the Ashlands, "Erlendr will serve you well as Regent."

The Queen did not respond, but her eyes closed.

"Most unfortunate that the Blacktooth wastes his men attacking Sentinel. I had asked you to restrain the Stonecutters."

"I tried," said the High Queen, "These men do not listen to me."

"It would seem not," said the voice, "But I will ask you to try harder, the next time I make such a request. You remember our arrangement?"

"Arrangement?" asked the Queen, "Arrangement?! What kind of arrangement is this? I do as you say, as the Coward says, or you threaten murder!? You threaten my son!?"

"Just so," said the quiet voice.

The sky was bright blue, lighter then any gemstone. King Halvard watched as his shadow shrank to almost nothing. On a clear day such as this, even with the sun high, it could be cold this far north and the wind threatened to steal the heat from beneath his sealskin coat. The creature in front of him didn’t seem concerned, beached on this uninhabitable stretch of rock. The merrow had the oily green skin of an eel and the spines fins of the kind of deep sea fish that got thrown back. It - for even Halvard Seascorn didn’t know if the merrow had genders like man and woman - propped itself up on a two-pronged spear of Knarrling make and peered at him with unblinking eyes. Sea slime dropped from around its toothy jaw as it regarded the man with its abyssal eyes.

Eventually it touched an earring that pierced a fin on the top of its head, and gestured forward. A subordinate with less golden jewellery crawled forward and opened a wet sack between Halvard and the merrow chief, revealing rings and coins of silver and gold. Halvard nodded, and gestured one of his own men forward, revealing a bundle of forked spears. The chief looked down at the bundle, bubbling deep in its throat, before snatching half the pile of treasure in its webbed hand.

“Aye, there’ll be less weapons for your ilk,” spoke the Fisher King, never sure if they understood. “We have our own wars to fight.”

The merrow nodded towards the spears and its subordinate snatched them up and quickly scuttled into the cold sea. The chief regarded Halvard for a moment then followed at a more confident pace until it was gone beneath the waves.

“Gold for the master, silver for the maid
Copper for the craftsman, skilled in his trade.
Good, said the King, sitting in his hall
For iron, cold iron will be master of them all...”

King Halvard Storstrand smiled, looking to the south.