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Standing there, standing then, one could almost forgive himself for forgetting he was at war. How would he know? The song of swords and spears did not penetrate this place; could not, if it dinned somewhere nigh. The water strolled cool and careless this far upriver, though a quarter mile down, by the rocks, the froth was a lucid, unstained white. The rock and the roots had mellowed its sweet taste; in kind it had smoothed their edges over centuries. It was both the sculptor and the chisel, this river, and more patient than all the races that took root along its banks, and its designs, when carved, would long outlast their children and their children's children.

Swidda saw another in the corner of his vision, low and subtle against the grass. The birds had not gotten to it yet, he could see, for it was dark and plump with ripened fruits. He had to stoop, and that was war aplenty for a man as old as he, but when he stood again he had plucked another handful for his pouch. He left enough for the birds, and moved on, scanning for the next shrub.

He had asked for the name of the river when he reached the village. In reply he received a single word: Grauglang. It hailed from another dialect, or it was another styling of name altogether, for the sage did not know its meaning. And in the moment it had felt profane to even ask. Maybe that mystery was the meaning in itself; men did not deserve to know, or they could not understand; these creatures to whom a river was something to be bridged, poisoned, dammed, diverted.

Another shrub. Swidda stripped the choicest branches clean, heavied the pouch with their fruits, and continued.

These waters—would they flow across eternity? Streams dried up; trees and grasses sprung from the muds of sinking swamps. The Grauglang carried a power unlike either of these, but was this power truly more than the fathoms which swelled in Spring, and swept away with those caught in the crossings? Swidda could not help but be sure of it; he looked up, through the canopies, at the sky and the Thraxians, whose peaks burgeoned high and sharp. He could see them anywhere the trees cleared, and they assured him, comforted him like an emperor his castle walls. But the locals were not so assured. They must have felt more like the lions and parrots of the menagerie, surviving only by the tired amusements they offered some languid master. The walls did not liberate them; these people were trapped here, between armies, between indignities. They leered from their hovels even at the strangers bearing food and stories.

Just then even the earth resounded with the music of their scorn. Someone had just ordered his carnyces blown; their cry shuddered over the hills and shook them into silence, like silencing a newborn babe, their intonations murdering the songs of birds and foraging insects. Another procession had arrived. Swidda brushed the dirt and the grass from his knees. He was not far from the village.

His own Chief Gederik sat in the cool of the afternoon shade, where the soil was damp and the moss grew thick. The foliage was thin where they met, and kissed on the cheek, and sat together; as they commanded a strong view over the narrowing path, so too were their uphill happenings evident to the newcomers—should they have thought to look up. Gederik and Swidda were not the sort who they had to impress; not yet. Many mothers scrambled about the hills, herding their children away from the scrutinies of this strange invasion. But all work seemed to have ceased at Skeldefjarn, for where there were men, there were woodaxes hanging from shoulders and leaning on trees; a cleaver and a headless chicken were abandoned upon a tree stump, and a puddle of oil evaporated on a whetstone.

Gederik had other company with him, too. "Aunstō," said Swidda, "it's good to see you."

"Likewise, old man. Glad to finally see some familiar faces on this godsforsaken hill."

"The arrivals bode ill, then?"

Aunstō sighed. "I don't know. Haven't seen another Eioning yet but you two."

In his lap sat a child whose knee he stroked with one hand, her hair the other. She had rare eyes, a glacial white-blue. "Daddy, who's that one?" she asked, pointing.

"I don't know, baby."

Gederik and his advisor looked that way. Neither did they.

"Where's the rest of your party, then?"

Gederik shrugged. "Around. We didn't bring many men with us."

"No?"

"Too much pomp. It looks—what's the right word—'needy'?"

"'Garish,'" Swidda suggested.

"Either way," said Gederik, "I wouldn't want to look like I have so damn much to prove." He was addressing the procession, who had made a parade of their march through the modest hamlets, toward the law-hill. They were just below now. This chief had assembled a uniform for his thirty-some spearmen: red cloaks and red trousers and polished helmets with blonde plumes. They brought their legs up high, almost looking like they kicked each other in the arse with each fresh step. The man himself rode at the fore; they knew him from the scales of iron that he wore like a dragon's coat. But from each man of his camarilla hung fine and motley trappings, and each was astride a powerful beast.

"This one must be bidding," Aunstō remarked.

"Is he important?" his little girl asked.

"He sure wants us to think so."

The front row of soldiers raised its instruments again, those long horns of brass and bronze. Shaped like serpents and elephants, their snouts snapped and wailed and issued wide their buzzing cacophony. All along the slope, children smothered their ears; their parents, Swidda, Gederik, they simply waited for the rattle to leave their marrow.

Gederik was smoothing out his mustache, like the blare was a wind which had rustled through it. "Are we your friends or your foes, then?" he asked of the men in the march. "You put on a Triumph for us, but you assail us with the music of war."

His advisor, too, sought to soothe some raveled piece of his nerves. Swidda may once have had suppertime schemes in mind for his satchel of sweetmeats, but he reached for them now by the pinch. He grasped them delicately between knotted fingers, that he may press them to the roof of his mouth—burst them with his tongue—an innocent pleasure of which the most innocent onlooker plainly took notice.

Aunstō swatted at his daughter's head. "We are polite to our elders, Al."

"No, no, I'm happy to share," Swidda said, turning. "Allorn, are you hungry? They're freshly picked."

Although she may well have been more intrigued with the mottled scarring in Swidda's hands than their contents, Allorn did accept his offer. Ere long her hands looked not too unlike his own, though the popped washberries left behind brighter, more vibrant stains than the wine-reds of the sage's flesh. Whereas Swidda ate with a quiet dignity, the child slurped and smacked, and finished greedily, and had returned already to the scene splayed out before her. The demonstrators were growing only more "colorful," more bizarre, as they arrived to represent farther corners of the homeland. Passing them then was a horseborne woman. Many such women marched beside their husbands and paramours, their sons and pupils, but none yet like this one, of whom young Allorn had become entirely enraptured. Her mop of hair, untamed like a fire's tongues; her right breast black-blue with the tattoos of the mystics, the left clothed with a strap of green plaid, binded with a golden penannular. By day it was a voluminous sash and skirt; by night, a wide expanse of warm bedding. A warrior's tartan.

"Da, look."

"I'm sorry, Al. I don't recognize her."

Allorn, in her ignorance, looked defeated. Her father's friends looked likewise in their knowledge.

"That's Hridvir," said Gederik. "Hridvir the Defiled." Unlike her face and bearing, her name struck Aunstō like a slingstone. He and Gederik and Swidda exchanged glances.

"She looks scary! Is she a chief, too?" said the girl, her spirits renewed and refreshed at once.

"She is."

"Da, will I look like her when I'm the chief?"

Aunstō's eyes sought some sort of aid from amongst his friends, but they had none to offer him. No answer could they conjure which would satisfy the child's curiosity and the gods' justice alike. These aging men could not help but think back to figures they, too, had once idolized; men who were not quite men, embodied more by the symbols they carried. The warrior's axe and bracelets, one of the latter for every victory taken. The huntsman's wolfhounds and yew staff. Swords, crowns, mail shirts; all their glamors and affectations.

No, she would not yet understand.

"We will talk about Hridvir in a few days," Aunstō replied. Maybe even he needed to see which of the legends were falsehoods, and which worth heeding, before he would know how to handle this stranger of whom he had heard whispers. "Now find your mother. Go to her."

"But it's not over yet!"

"Go."

"Please, daddy, I want to stay."

Aunstō grimaced. "We'll see each other at the first council, then, won't we?" he said, rolling his tongue around his mouth. He looked ready to drag his daughter away if she would not comply, but she stood with him, and trudged a pace behind.

"Aye," said Gederik, "the Acani will stand with you."

Allorn was too old to tantrum, but they heard her huffing and pouting well down the hillside. Swidda and Gederik had no other words to share, or no need for sharing a sentiment they already understood between them. Who next, then; who marched for the menhir, to set camp at the foot of its hill and wage war from its crest? Who was the next friend, the next foe, the next decider in the days to come?

---

---

The air in the palanquin was still. Thick woolen fabrics kept the light and eyes from outside at bay. Silence was not the right word - there were marching noises and muffled voices - but no words were being spoken by the one entrenched in this air.

Even effortless travel like this tired Aedthel. His bones and joints ached from the jostling, and the weeks stretched like nothing else when all you had for scenery was a bolt of wool. Of course, he could have it removed if he wished, and he did when they were passing uninhabited lands, but now they were arriving. First impressions were important, and there was an expectation of mystery from him. Despite his frailty, he was aware of this. Besides, he liked to imagine how this might seem to the common folk.

With the holy men, guards, and servants outside, he would seem truly mighty.

The palanquin settled, and its curtains were parted so dexterously slightly by his Nurse, Kinn. This man was a gift from the gods, truly. A nurse by name only, he tended to Aedthel's needs with a zealous dedication and faith that was a cause for pause in the past. Since then, he had proven himself both trustworthy, and valuable in ways certain servants had not.

Aedthel slowly raised an arm to shield his eyes from the radiance that worked its dirty little fingers into the palanquin. Kinn narrowed the part even further, and said "Holy Aedthel, we have arrived. Camp is being pitched as we speak, and once I see all is in order, we shall greet the custodians. Here," he wafts some writing tools in, "write a greeting so I may read your true words to them."

Aedthel smiles and waves him away, proceeding to pen a short introduction while he waits for the others.

---

It didn't take long for his humble escort to congregate. He had two heralds who wore yellow, four bearers who wore brown, ten soldiers who wore red, and four of his Ordained, who wore dark green. He wore black, adorned with gold, and in one hand he cradled his introductory letter.

He was lifted and carried off, surrounded by guards, and declared by heralds. It was time to be introduced to the custodians of this land.

---

Arlanna approached the village at a slow pace on horseback. Though she had left ahead of the rest of the party, aside from a small escort, she had intentionally been travelling without haste so that they would catch up with her only shortly after her own arrival. Besides, she enjoyed the peace of relative solitude here on the road far more than the clamour and bickering that would inevitably take place at the council. She saw no reason to end that peace prematurely.

A single crow watched her from the branch of a nearby tree. Arlanna met its gaze and smiled faintly. She had always felt a strange kinship to the birds, and having one present so soon before such an important event was a comforting omen.

Arlanna's party was small. Only two guards walked with her - though both were wealthy enough to own swords and skilled enough to wield them, this would still no doubt pale in comparison to of any of the chiefs' forces, including Kerenatam's. They were only really suitable for defending against animal attacks on the journey, or perhaps a lone assassin. Were any real fighting to break out during the council, they would be practically useless. Other than that, maybe half a dozen servants of various roles followed behind, along with another pair of guards watching for anything that might target the tail end of the troupe. All except Arlanna were on foot.

The party arrived shortly afterwards. No herald announced their arrival, as Arlanna's mouth worked perfectly well and she preferred to speak for herself. In this case, she could be seen as a kind of herald herself - Kerenatam's herald.

She began to seek out the other attendees of the council, leaving the servants to set up the camp but bringing all four guards with her. She soon encountered a very large, hard to miss procession which clearly belonged to a far more important personality than herself. If she hadn't recognised the colours that this chief preferred to adorn his attendants with, she would still have had no trouble recognising him due to the heralds which loudly announced his presence. It was practically imperceptible upon her face, but she was glad Aedthel was here. At a time like this, all familiar faces were welcome. So, without hesitation, she found one of Aedthel's followers and asked them to tell him that Arlanna ap Tadgh had arrived.

---

A task beyond merely lending a hand to the senior soldiers seemed very important to a young man. Especially if it involved communicating with someone even more superior than his superiors, and to double that, especially if it was a task given to him by a woman. And not a bad-looking one, he thought. She even owned a horse. He was not yet convinced that they would be bonded under the gods. Yet. Such is the workings of a young man's mind.

This young man is Suèlad. He has seen nineteen springs, the season of his birth. He is a newly recruited soldier, and as such, is ridiculed more than praised, but takes it in good humour. He has never lain with a woman, but he once saw one in the river by his hometown. Wasn't that exciting?

Before he was given the task, he was pitching tents and fetching water. He was on his way back from the stream when the woman approached him, and gave him this task.



"O' course, miss! I'll be righ' on it!" he said, rushing off in the direction of camp. He still had the pails of water in his hands, and they still needed delivering. A task started was not one to be forgotten, even for a woman on horseback.

He was lucky that the ground was not rocky or unstable, as not much water spilled in his hurriedness. He considered this proudly while making his way to where the water was to be placed. It was what you might call a common-hall, if you could call an open pavilion with some fire pits a hall. The soldiers would eat, drink, and gather here, and as such, it was not at all surprising to see Ran here.

Ran was Suèlad's training officer. Suèlad thought he was nice enough, and held a good deal of respect for the man.

"Ran! Ran! I been given," he shouted, "given a task an' there was a Lady on an 'orse who tol' me wha' ta do an' I gotta find The Blessed!"

"Eh?" Ran grunted. He'd never seen Suèlad like this before, and he was slightly taken aback. "Well, even if it was a woman on a horse what told yeh to do this, yeh can't jus' go up to The Blessed like tha'."

"Well I was told ta deliv'r a message an' tha's wha' I'm goin' ta do." Suèlad said in response. He put his hands on his hips to emphasise his point and show strength, but his face was red as a spanked arse.

"Fine," Ran shrugged, "You got nothin' else to do. Good luck."
Ran did not need to say any more, because Suèlad was halfway out the camp when he finished his sentence. That one has a good set o' runners on 'im, he thought.



Suèlad crested the hill, and before him lay the procession. Thinking it a good idea, he did not stop running, and went straight for it. For his foolishness, he copped the butt end of a spear to his gut.

The escort stopped, and all the soldiers that were close by rushed over, standing over him, spears pointed. There would not usually have been hesitation in removing a perceived threat, but one called out to the others, telling them to stand down. This same one reached down to give a helping hand to Suèlad, who accepted with the wrong hand, making the whole thing clumsier than it needed to be. The other hand was clutched at his side. He probably broke a rib, but that's fine.

After a short exchange, he had relayed the message to the one who helped him up, who promised that it would get to Aedthel. That was good enough for Suèlad.

---

---

A short scream, a thud, and the palanquin stopped. Aedthel didn't worry, there would have been more sounds of battle if his escort was at threat, but he was concerned. If there was someone after his life this soon after arriving...

What would that mean? He'd have to increase his Ordained guard, for one. He would have to ask the gods a few questions, which he never liked doing.
He knew well that there'd be more to this gathering than was told to them. He didn't expect it to be so early.

His thoughts ran on and on for what was far too long. They were stopped by one of his Ordained parting the cloth.

"O Blessed, there is no cause to worry. Simply a foolish messenger, all he wanted to say was that Arlanna ap Tadgh has arrived."

Aedthel smiled fondly, and reached out to his Ordained, grasping his hand in thanks. He held one hand up to signal for the Ordained to wait as he reached for his writing supplies. This was important enough to write his words.



After finishing, he passed it onto the Ordained, who would see that it was passed to the messenger to deliver.

Clip.
Clop.
Clip.
Clop.

Two horses moved forward slowly. Pale legs had somehow avoided the worst of the dust and now they made their way confidently across the earth. Attached to their sides was the leather needed to attach them to a chariot, and upon the chariot, blood-red plume blowing about gently in the breeze, stood the warlord of the Rhaead people. Had he been in a true battle chariot, the wheels of his vehicle would be glinting with the evil edge of a blade, ready to slice through the limbs of those stood before him... But that was not how Kerenetam stood today. Today, he stood not as a warrior, but as a diplomat.

His wife had ridden ahead of him and the party, so although he did not have her figure beside him, there were many others. Some of the finest warriors in his host, all, much like himself, with bare chests. Some considered the lack of armour to be foolish in combat, but with the shields that they bore into battle, the lack of armour was preferable. It allowed the sweat to evaporate off, and when a warrior was injured it kept the spirits of sickness out, not trapped in the fabric.

Looking up at a tree, he found himself staring back at a pair of beady black eyes. A raven sat on the branch, observing him carefully. Then, as he watched, a number more of them fluttered down to alight upon the boughs of the tree, and it was with the realisation of the wyrd that he realised that it was a Grand Oak tree. The sort of trees that one would find within the druidic forests, with faces carved into them and their roots filled with blood. The conspiracy would stare at him for a little longer, and then once he had passed by it, they at once let out a caw and took to wing, swirling their way into the sky.

A powerful omen. To whom it favoured he did not know. The group would come to a stop where Arlanna's servants had established themselves, servants and aides fanning out whilst soldiers accompanied him. Before everyone departed however, the warlord would indicate over. "Kussaz, walk with me friend." Once his platonic partner had come close, the warlord would begin his walk. "Stay close. Keep your eyes and ears open. We have many allies and more enemies, but remember what matters most."

"The Rhead. Nothing else."

---

Arlanna was impressed by the eagerness with which Aedthel's messengers took up their tasks. She had scarcely had to wait when a messenger returned to her with Aedthel's reply, which she took and read.

The message did not seem to suggest that Aedthel wanted to see her now, which Arlanna accepted as quite reasonable, as he had probably only just arrived himself and would need some time to get himself and his followers established. With that in mind, she decided to seek out any others who had arrived before her. She had complete trust in her ability to dislike them, but nonetheless they could prove useful.

Arlanna continued at a slow pace through the village, headed towards the hill. She passed many new arrivals along the way, all of varying degrees of brashness, though in Arlanna's eye they were not divided into loud and quiet. They were divided into predators and prey. The predators were neither wolves nor bears nor lions; they were the leaders with the largest of armies, the wisest of counsel, the greatest of reputation. They were either important allies to gain or threats to eliminate. Likewise, not a single rabbit nor deer lay among the prey, but instead were the leaders of those nations that could only flounder until they were devoured by one greater than them. Those nations were nothing more than a resource to be harvested.

One stood out from the group with more clarity than the others. Hridvir, whose fearsome reputation outgrew her natural social circles, was a source of intrigue for Arlanna. Anyone could tell she was was a predator.

A small group sat on the hillside, watching the arrivals similarly to Arlanna, though they had arrived early, which she considered wise. She could make out little detail from this distance, but gut instinct told her that these people would be significant in days to come. Predators.

After a few minutes longer, Arlanna wordlessly turned her horse around and headed back to where her servants had established camp, hoping to reconvene with her own people once more.

---

Kussaz looked around the field. It seemed already that merchants and families from the baggage train were settling in and making camp. In a relatively flat spot, a boy was setting up a makeshift home using scavenged firewood and bits of animal hides. Earlier in the day, as he rode on the wagon, he had been carving wooden pegs while his father's horses carried salted beef and ale for the army. Now he proudly showed them to his father as he began to tie down what he could. No doubt the wagon will be instrumental to the construction of their shelter later, provided that their chief did not order some use for them in the coming few days.

This would be a fine event for them, especially the young ones. This was the first time so many tribes had been called to a council since the last invasion. However where at the first council the air was filled with apprehension and anxiety, here it seemed that there was a familiarity to the whole affair. Although the boy's father will be busy trying to trade his wares for excess goods from far off Thraxians, the boy himself will no doubt meet himself with boys from across the mountains. “Already the empire has started to whip us into a governable province,” thought Kussaz, as he gazed at a group of affluent merchants wearing Imperial dress improperly.

A young and rough voice broke Kussaz’s concentration.

"Kussaz, walk with me friend."

"Stay close. Keep your eyes and ears open. We have many allies and more enemies, but remember what matters most."

"The Rhead. Nothing else."

“That’s right, we are here on business,” thought Kussaz. He had warned his chief that there were more politically savvy men at his court that he could bring, should bring, instead of the old mercenary he had put out to pasture. Kussaz lacked the eyes of a king, but the boy had them. He could see the boy glancing at the lesser chiefs as a cat watches a bug. His eyes darted around the field trying to decide which to let creep away and which deserved to be swatted. The witch-queen had that same look in her eyes the day she entered Kerenatam’s war camp.

Kussaz shook his head “Leave the politics for the great men” he thought, he had more important work to do.

“Eogan, come here.”

“Aye, sir?”

“I have a task for you. I need you to go around the tribes and find out anything you can that could help us.”

“Like what?” asked the young man impertinently. He was a personal sword in the service of the high warlord of the Rhead. While he was a good warrior, Kussaz assured Kerenatam that the boy was more use training to organize men from behind as opposed to lead them from the front.

“Harvests, freak storms, calves born with three heads, anything important to the common folks is important to us. Plus, anything a professional soldier like you deems important probably is. Here is some cash to pay for any expenses, stay sober enough to report tomorrow.”

The boy stopped long enough to process the request, but took the silver and went off without much of a fight. The chief’s steward gave him many errands to run and rarely explained until weeks later. However, this task loosely translated to “go get drunk and gossip” and he wouldn’t miss a chance to carry out such an order with diligence and promptness.

As the boy ran off Kussaz returned his gaze to the field where a boy assembled his families shelter. Among this chess match of retainers, chiefs, and holy men, these were their pawns.

For such a politically urgent and opportune affair, it was odd to see the absence of a certain southern king amongst those gathering for the council. Though the site was scouted out by a few of his outriders, the formidable host of the Bladetaker hobbled, like a sluggardly mass of spears, axes and arrowheads crawling north, a long baggage train trailing behind like an ox tail.

The sun was up and so were the men of Lubbo's retinue. Fires were hastily put out, the rhythm of the march stepped up a notch as the order was voiced - a spectacle of sorts that the king was always keen on putting into motion. Whilst almost entirely self-taught through practice and a lot of less-than-successful probes and ventures, the greying man only recently began to see some of his work bear fruit. He picked some of the best men living under his employ for this campaign, and there was a hope that they could show their prowess to all of Thraxia.

Turning away from the sight of the soldiers, he lazily held up the reins to his white stallion and rode ahead of a wagon, finding his son and student, Hrorek, pale and weathered from the trip, slouching in his saddle as the horse below him calmly cantered forth. The chief's light touch roused him slightly from his daydream.

"Father," the young heir gave a smile, "do you hear the Grauglang?"

Lubbo tried to concentrate, finding himself, for a fleeting moment, in a meditative state. Abstracting himself from all the noise and stomping of the troops, he pictured a wide, slow-moving river just waiting to quench the thirst of their steeds, to wash the soles of their feet and boil their pots of buckwheat. The sound of it was audible to the king's ears.

It seemed as if whispered, but, alas, it was unintelligible.

"Yes, I hear it."

---

For all the great designs his mind conjured up, the circumstances of the Carogact tribe's arrival soured the commander's mood. Holding counsel with the captains of his retinue in his tent, Lubbo understood that he may have made an error by appearing late. By now the chiefs already on site would've made contact with each other, and it would be a worse error if Lubbo lagged behind in making his presence known. He sized up the men gathered in his quarters.

"Where is Oswin?" the king asked.

"Should be arriving soon." Someone among the retainers gruffly replied.

"It's a bad time to dawdle, he ought know that. Get a couple hundred men in these woods, some should forage, others should fell trees. I want a longhall to receive guests and house my servants. I want a stone soaked in blood for good omens." He uttered the words, and little by little, some of his men filtered out, leaving the tent to carry out the commands.

"Hrorek, keep a look out for the Gwidling and take him with you. I want you both to keep me informed on anything of note. All minor chiefs you meet are invited to dine with us tonight in our camp. Go."

The Mikanna were late.

They had made a quiet arrival - so quiet, in fact, that few would have even noted their presence as another tribe's procession, had it not been for the helmets they wore and the three men on horseback leading the eight on foot. From afar, two of the three riders looked an awful lot like giants riding men's horses, with their voluminous clothes and tall-domed helmets. To some onlookers, the sight was perhaps terrifying, but to others, perhaps it was simply absurd. Yet, even from the distance, one could say that the one in their midst did indeed come from giants' stock, and it was no other than their Chief, Anabinpāl, who, ironically, looked the humblest of them all. With how his hands held tight onto the reins of his mount, how his shoulders hunched, and how his face seemed lost in thought, he looked more like a runaway beast, captured and brought to parade by the two riders beside him.

Although the expression on his face was a thoughtful one, inside, he was more annoyed than contemplative. The wooden domes attached to their helmets had taken far longer to craft than he'd hoped, and on top of it all, the design had turned out more like the top fin of a sheatfish than the envisioned look of a blade edge. He'd done away with his entirely, seeing no reason to wear a disappointment that delayed their arrival and made him look even stranger. At the very least, he hoped that the folding cuirass he'd worn underneath his cape, partly to tuck his belly in, and partly to show off the craftsmanship skills of the Sidda, would make an interesting proposition to the more martial minded chiefs. He hadn't come here expecting to be made leader of all clans.

In truth, he was not here with any high hopes whatsoever. Even after so many years, Anabinpāl felt unwelcome in his place of power, and even though it would be an affront to his reputation to say it out loud, would much rather stay out of the spotlight. Better an outsider unseen than one in the flesh, he thought to himself, but here he was, and there was nothing he could do to change that now. His foot hurt and his belly ached from the tight fitting armor - he would rather be at home with Elenig, eating boar, while that fool of an eldest son by his side, Iannan, could have made himself useful for once and represented the tribe and family properly.

"We are close, father. The village is in sight."

Anabinpāl responded with a slight nod. He remembered how happy they had been after this one's birth. His wife had been overjoyed - he himself had simply been relieved. And now, almost twenty-five winters after his birth, Iannan felt more like a burden to his father than he had ever been. He was a fair and kind-hearted lad, who'd taken after his mother in terms of demeanor, but Anabinpāl knew well that being a good lad was not enough to spare him, or his siblings, from the horrors of the deluge to come after his passing. And with every passing day, that knowledge weighed more and more on the Chief's shoulders.

Anabinpāl turned to his left, and addressed the other rider. Meseric was his name; he was a childhood friend of Iannan's, one who'd accompanied him as a youth, and now still accompanied him, while Iannan himself now accompanied his father. Their bond was good enough, and for all his grim demeanor, Meseric was a lad wise enough to realize, and put to practice, the ways of authority. He would be a good adviser to Iannan in times to come, even if not the most liked.

"I shall go up alone. Set up camp close to the other tribes, but not too close," Anabinpāl informed him, before nudging the horse's belly with his heels to make it canter forth.

Unlike their friend, the men on the hill had nowhere to be; nowhere else but there, at least. Any wives and sons and soldiers were off seeing staunchly to their duties, which left the elders free to worry about none than their own, too. Indeed, their punctuality afforded them a rare opportunity, and they would not squander it by waiting til the morrow's war-talks to start sizing up any friends and allies they may need to start swaying early, and, inversely, any snakes in the grass. Swidda swiped little peeks at his master while the scene had the whole of the latter's attention. Whether he also aspired Swidda could not say, but that in itself was testament to the Acani chief's shrewdness. Many would behold him and see only the bearded chin, the sun-streaked mane, the body built for cleaving an axe through bough and bone. To search into that louring countenance they would hear nothing but like a whistle through the trees. Only the generous among them could fancy him a "thinking" creature, for his thoughts no doubt resounded of meat and beer and cunt and no further. But Gederik was watching. He watched the flags and the trumpets, and the grey of his eyes cut through this display, like the shriek of a winter wind, to watch the beating of the hearts, too.

His comment was coming true: this procession was not the whole tale, but already it proved a valuable prelude. How a man behaved under scrutiny and in secrecy; when his schemes bloomed and when they moldered; façades would fade and fall in the days to come. This moment, though some of these chiefs may not have known it, was the moment they made their first promises to these people, and to all the clayfolk waiting for news in farther places. Gederik and Swidda did not speak much as they watched the retinues lumber through. The retinues said more than enough.

Four gowned men came next, carrying a litter chair shrouded in lapis wool. Either of the Acani representatives could have conceded that they were intrigued for a moment, wondering what—who—the compartment contained. Yet this leader, whoever he was, had gathered a large party to guard him, and to chant his incantations. He hid his appearance, but not his arrival; the priests crooned and bleated, but from their lyrics alone no one could say who their God was or what He wanted. Either he had a lot of soldiers to show off or he had genuinely seen great perils in his future along the road and unto its destination. In equal turns ergo this man seemed strong and all too eager to appear as such. The mystery was the desired effect, an affectation. Swidda would have to reserve judgment for the leader who stepped out of the box; the teak planks themselves were worthless. He looked over at Gederik again, but could not discern whether he had gleaned something more from this show.

Kerentanam and his Black Lady needed no introduction and they knew it. They blared no trumpets, and wore no sigils or insignia but for the simplest of tribal colors. The guards walked in tight formation, but with spears and shields slung lazily over weary soldiers. An advisor; a manservant or two; a cupbearer; a quartermaster to keep them all fed. For most men this would have made for a dangerously sparse accompaniment. But any brigand captain who would attack Kerentanam in the passes would then have to dance with the gods who watched over him as keenly as the clayfolk watched him now. Yes, the serfs, the freedmen; this petty-king had nothing at all to prove to them, except that they were not his enemy—that they were not his uncle and the rest of his treasonous kin—at least, that they had given him no reason yet to think so.

The wife was as lovely as the stories foretold, if not lovelier, well deserving her handsome warlord in kind. But the old man on the hill could not relish her beauty for long, for the crows had gathered. The stories told of them, too. True enough, Arlanna could have bought their attention with a prickle of blood from her finger; maybe a fish or two, fat with eggs, thrown over the sacrificial hearth; a subtler effect than the man in the litter chair could muster. Then, the birds really could have been the children of Rūnla, one more goddess of two dozen said to be dabbling at Kerentanam's fate-strings. Swidda found it likelier, however, that they could smell the death on her. He did not know whether birds could salivate, but he swore they looked to be drooling, for a feast of flesh that the Black Lady was still preparing for them at her rune-bones and her bowl of fire.

The others on the hill had noticed too. The children clapped with glee as they will, easily amused by wild animals. However, their parents paid the sight a startled reverence. They wore shades of scowl and sneer, unsure as to who this portent favored, and what future it proclaimed for them. Swidda himself felt a cold shuddering up his spine; returning his attention to the Lady herself, he found that she was watching him back, and although he held her curiosity for a mere moment, in that moment he was as naked as a hare crossing a grassless field. His very muscles laxed when this huntress, this owl, passed out of sight.

"You felt it too."

Gederik was watching him. Swidda realized that the breath had gone hot and stale in his chest; he had not exhaled in some time.

"Yes," the old man coughed.

"Hmmm." The chieftain offered none of his insights this time, merely turning to watch the gulch again.

Yet while Kerentanam's aim was evident, he had not yet nocked and drawn; he was not king. And before that day—before Lubbo—neither of the Acanis' ambassadors could have claimed to have seen a king in person. They had seen him on ingots, of course, a caricature with fat wormy lips and with marbles for eyes. These little silver pocket-portraits regularly reached Ostoparda, and spread out from that city to its suburbs and the further countryside, where they were traded for coal and furs and lumber. Lubbo himself, though he now looked far more intricate than the arts of the moneyers' chisels, was still but a man under early surveyorship; a man with a nice hide-cloak and a strong sword, true, but a man still. He could have fit in well enough among the other chiefs, then arriving with the evening sun to their backs. But he had instead slipped into camp in the late-watches, or in the next early morn, when Swidda had long since retired to his bedding. When the sage next awoke, he was not met with the king himself, but with banners; a field of banners; a sea of them; hundreds, thousands of standards and streamers, the embroidery of battle. He was quick to dress; he heard shouting from his camp, a nearby tent. He could not see the whole of the army through the trees and the crags but the din of their own camps was both everywhere and unmistakable: the sizzle of bacon, the blacksmith's tin-tin, the pitching of stakes into soft earth. Overnight the ranks of Skeldefjarn had doubled if not more.

"What the fuck is he doing?" asked Aunstō. He and Gederik had already convened at the latter's tent. Allorn was not with them, probably helping her mother with the morning bread-baking.

"I don't know."

"Sage, get over here. What have the gods said to this?"

"I—I haven't, we haven't convened, I mean, communicated, in—"

"'I, I, I, I haven't, we haven't,'" Aunstō jeered.

"Leave him be," hissed Gederik, who watched warily at the mouth of the tent. A team of four men, a druid among them, worked hard just outside, sculpting wet clay into the idols which would watch over the entrance in the days to come. Until their completion and their sanctification, however, two warriors stood guard with shields and short axes. They pretended not to hear the quarrel at all.

"Not until he answers me this one thing." Aunstō was jabbing his finger at any sternum which stood still enough to take it. "Did you two old, trusting fucks lead me, and my wife and daughter—did you guide us right into the throat of another southern wolf?"

The colors had retreated from Swidda's face, although for now he did not fear their neighbor chieftain's blade, nor the hand it would so arm. His thoughts went back to the teak box for a time, that earliest of envoys; the question it had invoked. Was this simply Lubbo's perverse idea of a grand demonstration? But he was said to be shrewd, and a shrewd man would have known better than to invite such envy, and such enmity. No doubt it could be prudent to appear stronger than he was, to intimidate one's littler foes and so quash their mutinous thoughts; but Lubbo had to have seen how this would look to the villagers, and worse still, the rest of the petty-kings; who had come relatively unguarded, unarmed, and readier to tussle with tongues than with weapons.

The rumors could have been false. Lubbo could have been a half-fool, a mud-in-his-skull, fattened on the sweet flatteries of a sycophant court. But words did not oft travel so far on such brittle wings as that. Swidda could be as sure in that answer as he was in all the others, which is to say it still tumbled and jostled with the rest of them behind that sloped, noble forehead.

"I do not doubt that he comes as a conqueror. But if he is as cunning as they say," said Swidda shakily, "then he would not use an invasion, a—a civil war, at a time like this. I promise you, the tribes would never allow a betrayal of that scale, and he would know that."

Aunstō seemed moved for a time. "Big 'if,'" he murmured. "Try the taste of this one next: if you're wrong, and if my family is in danger here ..."

"You don't need to say it. I know."

"Good. Get out of my way." He was gone as soon as he had pushed past Gederik at the entrance, and the guards and toilers behind it. Gederik moved at once to place a steadying hand at the tremble of his friend's shoulder.

"Please forgive him, old friend. He is only passionate," said Gederik. "Even if the worst has happened ... we'd rather Lubbo as king than the Nhirian."

"He would not be the worst choice," Swidda conceded weakly.

"You should break your fast. Maybe calm yourself by the river again. I will call the horns for you when we're starting up the hill."

The old sage nodded, and took his own hand tenderly to the one which had been placed upon his shoulder. They squeezed, and departed in better company. Yet as Swidda looked over the hill, to the menhir, he felt weak under its shadow. The shadow itself looked feebler, too, flickering and trembling at its edges, where the war-standards fluttered by the light of sunrise. An army had come for Skeldefjarn, albeit far sooner than they had expected, and under unfamiliar colors.

It did not matter whether this Lubbo was a wolf or a dog, Swidda could not help but remark. The only difference between these beasts was how deeply they hunger before they bite. Maybe a hound had to starve first, but it would eat its master all the same.

But Gederik was right, too, that the babbling of the Grauglang would do well by Swidda's health, and so he embarked over the first of several hills, hoping that not too many soldiers had gathered there already to fill their canteens and wash their socks. He may not have been able to bear to know that other troubles were already stirring within the village borders; that they already strained to accommodate this new host.

At the community center, where the oven was built, old women crossed their arms and huffed in rows. For soldiers had pushed them aside to bake their morning ashcakes from their barley rations. Likewise, the whole of this village had subsided quite adequately, for many generations, on but a single well, dug not far from the same epicenter. The soldiers were here too, lashing ropes to their jugs and suspending them down the hole, that they may drink their posca and their weak-ale cold. So stuffed with jugs and bladders was this well ere long that no one could raise the bucket to draw water. The waits were long, the facilities few, the spaces tight (and tightening still), and the ground the hosts so carefully treaded grew more strained by the minute.

But the guests exchanged their first true blows at the outskirts. Whereas the earliest comers had circled their camps around the menhir hill, Lubbo's baggage train had no choice but to scatter through the woods, settling its tents and fire-rings wherever the foliage broke. Anyone coming behind him likewise had to make do with whatever free space could be scrounged: along the road, up the slick, mossy slope of a shadowed hill, under the roots of a fallen pine ...

A small host, quite ramshackle in appearance and decorum, had been moving through a few of the Bladetaker's camps when three soldiers of Lubbo's ran out and seized a goat, seemingly from among the new ranks. They claimed that it had belonged to them all along, but that it had escaped its restraints and ran into the ranks of the smaller party. The latter, of course, insisted instead that the animal was theirs, and that the Bladetaker's men were staging a pathetic burglary.

"What's more, by your own account," said one, "the goat has chosen us its shepherds, has it not?" This insult drew the first sword, and by the time an officer or two had caught wind of the squabble blood may already have wet the forest floor. Dozens of men were circling round to watch. A hand's-ful more ran for their commanders.

"Trouble, Your Majesty. There's been a disciplinary matter in the left van's camp."

"Lord Anabinpāl, an infantryman is reporting violence at the rear of the train. Someone was stolen from, apparently."

---

---

A long firebed burned in Aedthel's pavilion. The more prominent members sat along it on small wooden stools as servants brought them an assortment of thinly sliced foodstuffs, which were roasted over the coals and eaten with thin pasta called bué, and spiced oils.

Aedthel sat at the end of the pit, which was slightly bulb-shaped to accommodate the most prominent members, and the expected guests. He was enjoying himself, as the foods were light enough for him to cook and eat himself. Independence was a nice feeling for him. So too was the feeling of being surrounded by idle conversation. Tonight it was focused on the boy who halted the Holy caravan to deliver Arlanna's message, a situation that was worrying for Aedthel earlier, but now was quite amusing.

Aedthel smiled.
And just then, when he was content, his guests arrived. He gestured with welcome to their appointed seats, off to his left. Not so far as to dismiss their status, but not so close as to offend any of his own. Perhaps controversially, Arlanna's seat was closer to Aedthel than Kerenatam's was, a show of higher status.

Kinn stood, unraveled a small letter, and began to speak.
"Warm welcomes, my friends. I hope the time from the meeting earlier to now has seen you treated well, and I hope we can show you a better time here." Kinn pauses and grins, looking up at the guests. "The meal we have for you tonight will be served in our tradition: you will be presented with raw ingredients to cook at your leisure on the hearth in front of you, and bué and oils to season them with. After this, you will be presented with a savoury soup to end. It's light, but quite satisfying. I hope you enjoy."

---

---

The air under the canopy was cool and thick. It was a nice environment for Suélad, he appreciated the colder temperatures. It meant he got to wear his cozy wool cloak, which was currently slung over his shoulder to cushion his back from the bundle of firewood he carried. He was always given the menial tasks, but wasn't bitter about it. Everyone started somewhere.

He wandered a little further, and heard shouting. Some Carogact had taken something of theirs back, from what he could hear. He approached slowly, watching the squabble. He was riveted, watching the argument break out, but he couldn't tell you why. They were all so focused on the goat that nobody even so much as looked in his direction. Perhaps it was something to do with the feeling that comes with seeing while being unseen.

Weapons were drawn. Suélad placed his bundle down, and climbed halfway up the nearest tree, shimmying as far along a bough as he dared. Nobody would think to look up in the commotion, and even if they did, there were a lot of branches between him and the ground. He figured he was safe enough. He lay on the bough and prepared for some afternoon entertainment.

_{A collab between me and @Sadko}

---

"Fear the man you have woken up from an afternoon nap, fools."

A strange head is carried by the shoulders of Lubbo - ever so stalwart and at the same time stagnant in his designs. The man stretches on his bed, akin to a cat. A messenger comes with troublesome news, and at such an inopportune time. There's a glint of irritation... somewhere in the air. An error of the monarch to expect those second to his command to take the matter into their own hands. Must be important. He guessed, his movements surprisingly brusque and swift as he rose from his sleepy position and began to dress.

He was out from his tent in no time, his demeanor instantly capturing the attention of several of his retinue members on watch duty. The focused, yet groggy man turned to bark a command, but was pleasantly surprised to see them already mounting their horses. Hrorek, the golden son, led Lubbo's favorite stallion toward him, the beast adorned and yet armored by the work of a great southern smith: outlandish, you could say freakish horns, protruding from the iron helm. An obvious reference to the standard of the Carogacts, a white ox on a blue field. The old king was not keen on his offspring's ideas, though he didn't deny that the common folk would eat it up like a pig does its' shitmeal. It was a crude instrument, but a tool nevertheless.

He gripped the reins, shifting in his saddle as the horse cantered toward the commotion. In these brief moments, his mind pestered him with thoughts and doubts. New plans for the day, depending on which way the wind blew. Omens be damned.

He bore this thoughtful face the moment the would-be instigators of this whole affair appeared in his line of sight. His physiognomy swiftly turned into a grimace. His gaze withered the meek glances of his roguish subordinates, but the king once again took on the thoughtful, even puzzled look when he saw a clothed white ape in the scene.

The ape was not as puzzled in appearance as it were pugnacious, however; standing between the two parties like a cornered predator, his monstrous, catlike gaze wandered from one group to another, almost as if it had not made its mind on which to strike first. Blood dripped lightly from one of his hands, and on a closer look, it became obvious that the blood wasn’t his. His nostrils were heaving visibly. He did not look like he would be calming down anytime soon.

With Lubbo's appearance, Anabinpāl raised his arms up in half frustration and half elation, and began thanking about how the Carogacts finally had someone in charge on the premises. Having smashed one of the Carogacts' face in with a punch, and having burst one of his own men's lips open with a ferocious slap, Anabinpāl now walked back and forth like a beastly interloper, madly dancing on the grassy clearing, empty save for two discarded swords and an exasperated goat. The Carogacts did not dare approach, while the Mikanna themselves were too busy wiping the blood off their fellow warrior's mouth and suffering their chief's chastising gaze silently, like children aware of their guilt.

"Is this how you Carogacts hail a fellow tribe?” Anabinpāl asked. “Unsheathing your swords and ganging up at every sign of commotion? Your chief must be proud of you.”

Of course, Anabinpāl had no idea that the man he was addressing was no other than the aforementioned chief.

By now, Lubbo already realized that he was facing the chief of the Mikanna. A man he had certainly heard of before the day they met, and so he took on an oddly fond appearance as he watched Anabinpāl pace about anxiously. The scene that the Carogact king observed, however, was not merry. A dreadful looking goat and several men of the two tribes wounded, one of them terribly so. The poor fellow Anabinpāl punched was feverishly collecting his strewn teeth off the ground. Considering the Mikanna chief’s last remarks, Lubbo cast a sidelong gaze at the man. He pondered on his reply.

“You are right; I am not proud of the spoiled apples in my bunch.” The king spoke softly. “The few.” He added, giving his soldiers a stern glance.

He did not descend from his saddle yet, instead gently reining it forward and in such a fashion that his men were squarely behind him. They were fools, but they were his fools, nevertheless. “Who spoke the first insult, and who drew their weapon first?” His intonation almost as if it was an open-ended question. The soldiers looked onward at the footman with the burst lip and the one left with two teeth.

He slowly climbed down from his saddle, taking a few steps toward Lord Anabinpāl. His frame, though not weak by any measure, was dwarfed by this freak of nature. Lubbo looked cool. “Our men almost died because of one goat.”

“Happens more often than one’d admit. Cattle are scheming beasts. They confuse us on which of us get to butcher them, and make us butcher each other instead,” Anabinpāl replied, half sarcastically.

Lubbo gave a sardonic smile. “You and your tribesmen are welcome in our long hall tonight. We’ll have wine and mutton.”

Anabinpāl’s expression turned cloudy upon the offer. He looked away, seemingly lost in thought. Before speaking, however, he faced the man once more. “Do not let it be thought that we Mikanna are ungrateful for the Carogacts’ hospitality, Chief Lubbo,” he said, before another pause, seemingly trying to pick the best words from his repertoire, “but we know that the other tribes have made… assumptions about us. I would like it if we did not feed these assumptions further, so… It’s my opinion that it’s best if we honor your offer, perhaps after the conferring.”

He paused again and turned to the wounded men before continuing.

“It would have been better if we hadn’t met over such an incident, but… such is fate. We did not come with a baggage train; the goat must have been yours. But one bad turn only leads to another. I had to stop these fools before their cockiness caused further incident. Still, we have the culprit; best make an example of that goat before others can follow in its wake.”

Lubbo’s shrewd eye twinkled as he listened. Clasping his hands together with a hum, the Carogact glanced over at the goat. “Aye, it would be a bad omen unless we give this creature up to the gods. Only they can have it.” He understood the chief of the Mikanna to be an able man, and someone to have an eye out for in the times to come.

“I wish you well, then. See you at the conferring.” He said dryly, turning about and saddling his horse before trotting back to camp. The king was brooding over what transpired. He hoped his words had smoothed the rough initial contact, though he didn’t pride himself on being an apt diplomat. The interaction between the two tribes has left a bittersweet taste on his tongue. He reached for his waterskin, gulping as if to wash down this state of mind. Somehow, this mental trick worked. Lubbo’s mind was preoccupied with the breach of discipline by some of his men. The thoughts of more similar incidents occurring later on also visited him. He kicked the stirrups, speeding up to a full gallop as he made way back to camp, dead set on fixing the errors of his host’s arrival.

Kerentanam relinquished the higher seat, the more esteemed seat, to his darling wife, with a smile and without objection. He saw no slight there, or he saw no value in contesting it. That would have been the general in him, refusing to fight a battle in which the victory would bear fruits too small, too few, too sour. Just as well of course that he respect his host's wishes, and the lady's status in his heart and home.

But on that other gesture—the feast thus prepared, or unprepared, as it were—he chewed, he chewed with a tightening clench in his teeth like they struggled to saw through a tendon or a strip of gristle. Soon enough he tasted salt and iron gushing from the inside of his cheek. In a phrase, Kerentanam could not discern whether he was being insulted. This priest. This pale, boneless creature, another grub eating this rotten stump of a peace summit from the inside out. He had to have planned this: having Kerentanam, the inevitable, ascendant Kerentanam, choose between his favorite of two humiliations. Fumble about the fire and the spit with clumsy hands, by a warlord's natural dearth of domestic graces; or take his meat the way the dogs take it, thrown to the dirt a glistening bloody slab. The chiefs of the Rhaeads almost stood again, sooner a rude guest than the punchline to a joke as ill-conceived as this.

And he had to sit there and smile like an imbecile in unawares. "How quaint!" said Kerentanam, even, as he drew his dagger and gave considerable thought to how he might begin skewering the slivers of flesh. It looked like this, true enough, at the end of his spear, squirming and pulsating with every twist of the point. But of the spear no more finesse was expected than aiming, generally, at the heart, and striking fast and true as a punishing storm. How did the servants get the meat so tantalizing before it was brought to the hall? It glistened not with blood but with juice, oil, butter; its vapors were thin white snakes crawling up from the plate, still alive and dancing although the beast had been slaughtered hours before. The ends were perfectly charred under these servants' custody, the fat rendered to the hue of gold which melts betwixt the teeth, while the core of the cut remained succulent. Was their lord to achieve all this with but a wood flame and a frying pan, when his men knew him to burn ashcakes on their coals?

It was just as well that he was distracted with his abasement; in his peripherals Kerentanam slid glances at the cripple in charcoal rags, resisting the temptation to gawk at the tattoos and scars and pox marks, but waiting to see who he would address first, too; into what topic he would first dip his forked tongue. It seemed certain enough, from the invitation and the seating arrangements, that Aedþel would address the lovely Arlanna first, and though it bubbled his blood, Kerentanam had to accept that. He would play the role assigned to him—for now.

The journey had been a relatively pleasant one, compared to others that Mazyar had been on. The terrain had been mountainous, true, and perhaps difficult for some of their party who were not used to such hardship. But, as Mazyar noted to himself wryly, it was no Screaming Sands, and the most difficult part of this trip for him was dealing with the constant questioning of his sparabara, a young boy of thirteen named Mazis with an intensely inquisitive nature. That, and doing his best to deal with his Lord's brooding.

Mazyar sighed. He was, in truth, conflicted about his lord. Siddayumi Anabinpāl was not a poor master as far as they went—he tried hard to win the love and loyalty of his subjects—but Mazyar could not shake the discomfort he felt from Anabinpāl's bestial appearance and mannerisms. He felt more like he was serving an ape dressed in fine clothes than a great Lord and head of the vaunted Sidda family. But this was an unworthy thought, especially for one of Mazyar's reputation.

His reputation.

Mazyar had garnered many titles over the years: Windchaser, Magebane, Swiftspear. Once they had filled him with pride; now they simply brought him an empty weariness. They were accolades he had once earned but perhaps no longer deserved, and their upkeep required him to pretend he was still the spry young man he had been when they were given. A man whose joints did not ache, whose breath did not desert him from rudimentary excercise, a man who did not have grey in his beard and wrinkles across his face.

His time amongst the Jalwarudi had robbed him of his lust for glory and fame. For a precious few years, they had shown him what a peaceful life unmarred by constant adventuring and fighting may have been like. He had once disdained such a lifestyle; now he craved it. But Mazyar knew he would never be able to return to those days, not after she had died, and that—

A commotion at the front of their party interrupted his ruminations.

Mazyar peered ahead and saw the Carogacts brazenly snatching a goat in their train. He heard the angry words exchanged, but his first instinct was not to ride forth as it once may have been but instead was to grab his sparabara's wrist.

"You must be cautious." Mazyar chastised.

"But they attac-" The boy began heatedly.

"Mazis." Mazyar's voice was stern, brooking no argument. "It is already well in-hand. And they are men grown, and you merely a boy."

Mazis flushed an angry red but said nothing, and settled into a sullen silence. But there was truth to Mazyar's words, as even as they watched Lord Anabinpāl laid out a pair of Carogacts unfortunate enough to be close to him. Mazyar had to admit that Anabinpāl's strength was simply monstrous, and unlike most he knew how to use it properly. Nantunipāl had clearly not skimped on his training.

Mazyar spotted the Carogact Chieftain's approach, and glanced at Mazis. He considered for a moment, before reaching out and ruffling the boy's hair—dark brown and curled, like his own—and whispered to him. "Patience, Mazis. Now watch carefully."

"Is this how you Carogacts hail a fellow tribe?” Anabinpāl asked. “Unsheathing your swords and ganging up at every sign of commotion? Your chief must be proud of you.”

Mazyar frowned. Did his lord not realize he was already speaking to the Chieftain?

“You are right; I am not proud of the spoiled apples in my bunch.” The Carogact Chieftain spoke softly. “The few.” And then with great dignity, Chieftain Lubbo reined in front of his men so that they were squarely behind him. “Who spoke the first insult, and who drew their weapon first?” Lubbo dismounted slowly, and spoke to Anabinpāl in a cool tone. “Our men almost died because of one goat.”

“Happens more often than one’d admit. Cattle are scheming beasts. They confuse us on which of us get to butcher them, and make us butcher each other instead,” Anabinpāl replied, and Mazyar made an almost silent noise at his sarcasm. His lord was badly angered, it seemed.

Lubbo gave a sardonic smile. “You and your tribesmen are welcome in our long hall tonight. We’ll have wine and mutton.”

Anabinpāl seemed to pause, before replying. “Do not let it be thought that we Mikanna are ungrateful for the Carogacts’ hospitality, Chief Lubbo,” he said, before another pause. “But we know that the other tribes have made… assumptions about us. I would like it if we did not feed these assumptions further, so… It’s my opinion that it’s best if we honor your offer, perhaps after the conferring.”

Mazyar's lord glanced at the wounded man before continuing. “It would have been better if we hadn’t met over such an incident, but… such is fate. We did not come with a baggage train; the goat must have been yours. But one bad turn only leads to another. I had to stop these fools before their cockiness caused further incident. Still, we have the culprit; best make an example of that goat before others can follow in its wake.”

Mazyar raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised at the shrewd suggestion.

Lubbo clasped his hands together with a thoughtful noise. “Aye, it would be a bad omen unless we give this creature up to the gods. Only they can have it." The Chieftain said, before collecting his people and speaking his goodbyes. As the Carogacts returned to their camp, Mazyar motioned for Mazis to accompany him as he approached Anabinpāl.

"My Lord, are you well? I am at your service."

The royal banners of the Svinoc tribe were needlessly confusing. Their tartan, red and dark olive, represented their clan and blood. Many banners were flying this tartan, but only two had the golden trim of the royal banner. The first depicted a black albatross mid-flight. This was the personal tartan of the Sea-King Awyen, first son of Chief Conall Ring-Giver. The other tartan bore the image of a lion, this was the tartan of Conalls younger son, Prince Faoelin Fair-Haired. Notably absent, was their father, the southern king himself.

The young Prince Faoelin was the first to notice that the sleepy village had been turned into a fortified encampment almost overnight. If someone had lived their whole lives in this sleepy town by the Grauglang, the hastily built walls would look no different than a Nhirian fortress. “I thought we would be sent to some backwater swamp.” Said Faoelin, evidently pleased by the recent construction “If we hurry perhaps we can be there in time for the evening feast!” Awyen remained silent for now. It was not good to make judgments too soon, but already he was concerned. There were many men here, and this was not a reassuring fact. Moreover, the evidence of an incomplete long hall suggested that this would be a much different meeting than the last. It was the holy grove, in addition to the proximity of the conflict, that made this small backwoods village the meeting place for chiefs. Any vows sworn in that sacred grove were vows watched by the ancestors. Awyens quartermaster, Iomhar, shared his lord's silence. Their minds wandered two distinct places, but both lead to the same conclusion.

“I don’t think attending any feasts would be a good idea,” spoke Iomhar. The young prince was taken aback. “I don’t understand,” Faeolin said frustrated “I’m here to negotiate, how am I supposed to do that from outside the town?”

Iomhar ignored the young prince and continued speaking “I don’t like this Awyen, there are only a few chiefs represented and there are thousands of men. The math just doesn’t add up. Seeing as we’re already late, we should find a hill and camp until we know what’s going on.”

“What?!? But we’ve been marching for weeks! I for one am going to sleep under a roof tonight and eat a hot meal.” Before Awyen could say anything Faeolin was cheered on by quite a few members of his party. Iomhar took swift action and struck the young prince so hard across the face that he nearly fell off his horse. The men took the hint and silenced themselves. “Insolent serf!” cried Faeolin, the insult landed but had no iron to it. Faeolin stared at his brother's retainer waiting for an apology that wouldn’t come.

“If you can’t make peace within your own company, what hope do you have to make peace with seven nations?” Awyen spoke with an almost monotone voice, a trait he had inherited from his father. Those daring enough among his company laughed. Others tread cautiously and kept quiet. In truth, Iomhar was in the wrong by striking royalty. Especially while serving as their escort. However it was a habit gained honestly at sea with Awyen, a quartermasters role was to keep the crew alive and healthy. Even if it meant slapping sense into the captain from time to time. Not only was Iomhar one of the best at what he did, but he had also proven his loyalty countless times over.

Awyen gazed at the fortified walls with a touch of anxiety “I can’t risk being seen as weak Iomhar.” “What about being seen as gullible?” the quartermaster quipped back. If one of the petty chiefs was making a power move, then entering the village would be walking right into their hands. “Well kiddo, seeing as you are the designated diplomat for this mission, what is your call? One of us must make an appearance, and one of us must stay where it is safe in case this is a trap.”

Faeolin decided that he should stay behind and watch the camp. This was fine in Awyen’s mind, better to face up to trouble than be drug into it. After all, Awyen knew that he had the fortitude to protect his people if he was captured, whereas his brother might not. If he was going to be betrayed, he would rather get it over with quickly. Awyen grabbed a warrior by his shoulder and asked him gruffly.

“Why are there so many men here, who are they loyal too?”
“We have come as the entourage of Lubbo Bladetaker, King of Carogacts, and we are here to save Thraxia.”
“Tell your king that Awyen of the Vedatanni seeks his audience.”

Aedthel watched his guests take their seats around the fire with interest. To him, the seating arrangements did not appear to bother them. A relief. However, he thought he detected a cool reaction from Kerenatam when he was presented with the food. His words, "How quaint!", were cordial and well meaning, though the word "Quaint" had connotations of infancy and mere amusement. A hesitation, a peripheral glance. Not so much of a relief.

Arlanna, for her part, was full of grace. Her and Aedthel had become familiar with each other over theological debate before he had gone on that expedition, but that was long ago. It'd be foolish to make assumptions about whether that grace meant anything at all.

All that being said, he held Arlanna in high esteem for her knowledge, and this showed in the welcoming smile he gave her. To Kerenatam he showed no such respect in his gaze, rather a void of anticipation. A space which was like blank paper, waiting to be written on. A challenge to show his mettle, if you will.

Aedthel turned to Kinn and began communicating to him what he wanted the guests to hear when the man to Kerenatam's right decided to comment on the hesitation.

"Look here, a man who can't cook his own food. Here, let me-"
He stopped when he caught Aedthel's glare. A savage thing. Wrathful and contemptuous and Divine all in one: a smite in a glance. The man went white. He was only a minor officer, recently promoted and yet to prove himself. The Divine did not need to be furious for him to fear for his position, and now, it was.

Ran, a training officer seated to the right of the offensive man, also caught this gaze. Ran punched the offending man in the back. Wherever it was the blow landed, the man doubled over. Ran looked up to Aedthel. Aedthel nodded, and Ran pulled the weaker man off his seat, taking it.

Enacting the will of The Divine had its benefits.

Kinn spoke next. "Lord Aedthel is deeply sorry that this... boy was so rude. They showed that the role which they have is not deserved. Aedthel hopes amends have been made. So does the boy, probably."

How Aedthel loved that Kinn could say what was appropriate.

---

It came to Arlanna as a moderate surprise that she had been granted the superior seat over that of her husband. Not that surprising, of course, since of course she was far more familiar with Aedthel than him, but surprising nonetheless. She had expected Aedthel to observe more traditional practices than this. If he meant to communicate some kind of message through this decision, it was certainly an interesting one. Did he mean to suggest that he valued actions of loyalty over the authority of titles and traditions? Perhaps, or perhaps he merely preferred to sit closer to a friend rather than a stranger.

Of course, the vagueness of this message left room for fouler interpretations than her own; for the illusion of a veiled insult when no such thing was intended. Arlanna worried that Kerenatam might have come to such a conclusion, and so attempted to defuse the possibility before bad blood had a chance to fester. No doubt they had plenty of enemies at this summit already - it would be folly to encourage more, especially from those biased in their (or at least, her) favour.

"He means nothing by it," she murmured to Kerenatam "We have been friends for some years, whereas to my knowledge, he never met you - that is all. He means no insult either to you or your position, my love."

Matters only seemed to worsen when they learned how they were expected to prepare their own food. Kerenatam was a great warrior and a great leader, but his skills in the domestic arts were less impressive. Arlanna was internally debating whether giving him assistance would be less humiliating than allowing him to try by himself, in which case he would most likely fail. Was failure alone more honourable than victory with assistance in the culture of Aedthel's people? Arlanna did not know, but at a task as simple and menial as this one either was doubtless a cause for embarrassment.

Thankfully, Aedthel, or rather the one who spoke for Aedthel, managed to indicate that he was on Kerenatam's side in this unfortunate incident. With the offending member now dealt with, Arlanna took this opportunity to begin cooking her food. It was a necessary skill for a woman, at least of her culture, and she'd witnessed this particular practice several times when visiting Aedthel, even attempting it herself a few times, with an acceptable though unimpressive degree of success. Regardless, she hoped her husband would notice her doing this and subtly follow her lead, that he might seem capable without her or anyone else's assistance.

"Aye, another redcurrant bitter for me."

"Sorry. We're all out."

"A wild sour, then?"

"Coming right up."

"Another oatmeal ale for me, darling!"

"Me as well!"

Egeleht squirmed and side-hopped her way back to the cellars, remembering what orders she could. But they were many, and like when she grabbed too many tankards at once, at every step they tottered further from the grasp of her memory. She could not reckon it mattering much, of course. To men who had marched a month or more, liquor was liquor, and they all knew it far superior to the dilute they received with their flour and bacon.

"I can't believe this," muttered the servingwench, who hadn't even a moment to push away the bangs prickling her eyes, never mind to wipe down her apron or chat with the regulars, wherever they had sat themselves in this throbbing horde. Egeleht's fingertips were going pruny; blisters screamed from the insides of her knuckles. Nevertheless, a wry grin kept her cheeks afloat.

"And what are you so chipper about?" It was Ihdrun asking. She had limped in from the back stores-room.

"Nothing, ma'am, nothing at all." The server stared furiously at the spigot now, her smile sent away. Why couldn't it pour faster?

"Don't want to let an old hag in on your secret? Gah!"

"Are you all right?"

"Fine." Ihdrun had let out a yelp as she sat herself down on a quarter-cask.

"Your gout is flaring up again?" asked Egeleht.

"Something's always flaring up. Do yourself a favor: don't grow old."

The swelling and the spasms had not spared the rest of her body, either, the way pregnancy only swells the belly, and mourning only the eyelids. Ihdrun fanned herself with a soaked rag (the one which had never left her apron-string in all the years Egeleht watched her work the brewery). She was hunched over and heaving like a dog about to vomit, and the sweat was a drizzle from her moon-shaped face. The entirety of her had come up to the shape and color of a salmon egg, and that cask looked about the only thing stopping her from popping, one joint at a time, from the toes up. The vents in the roof should have been letting the evening breeze through, when it was angled just so against the rafters; they should have smelled warm yeast and barley germ wafting from the fermenting room. Instead the stale air carried only sweat and breath to the brewer-women's skin.

"Well, I need to get this out to the tables."

"Pardon me. We're still talking," said Ihdrun. "What were you smiling for?"

"Hah, uhm, it's just ..."

"I'm only curious."

"I've just never worked this hard before," Egeleht panted out. "What an incredible crowd!"

But Ihdrun had stopped fanning. Worse, she braced herself to stand, to torture her swollen feet once more. This sign never bade well, for Ihdrun could not shout, scold, or waggle her finger while sitting. But most egregiously of all, this done, she waddled to a cask to fill her own cup, having snatched it first from the wash basin.

"Ah, to be young again," she said between gulps, feeling the fresh foam as it sprayed her upper lip, clicking the pleasant bitterness against the roof of her mouth. "So what does he look like?"

"Hold on. That's not what I—"

"I know what you said. I've still got one good eye, sweet girl, and it can spot a lie from any hilltop in town." With two fingertips Ihdrun stretched out an eyelid til the pink showed.

Egeleht's reply was drunk. It stammered and stumbled from a slurry tongue, and it grasped for meaning with groping hands. Her proprietor didn't care to hear the half of it; insistence and excuses. These girls would have bedded any mustache that twitched at them if Ihdrun looked wayward for too long, an inevitability of living where there were more goats than decent lads. So she didn't take her good eye, the cloudless eye, off of them, and that had been an elegant-enough solution in the past. Now the soldiers had come, far too many soldiers, and the one eye was no longer enough. Scarred men, lean, wolfish men, men with beards and top-knots, braids and sideburns, a horde of leery glances and drooling grins. Ihdrun had to protect her flock; from themselves, and their own bad tastes. They couldn't wait for a Kerentanam or a Swutgerþ to sweep them off their feet when the attention this pack lavished on them was already so thrilling. Ah, Swutgerþ—Ihdrun had heard the name out by the hamlets some hours ago, so his master must have brought him along. Tell be true, she would have ridden that stallion til week's end. Not that the girls needed to know that she, too, had once been young.

"Whoever he is," Ihdrun sighed. "hope he's not much of a temper. We're closing early."

"What!" The news left Egeleht agape. "But there's so much we're yet to sell."

The old woman was still standing, still clutching her cup in a raisiny hand which stunk of wort. "No, dear, there really isn't."

"We're the only alehouse in town. I know they'll buy, no matter the price. You're the one always saying you wish you could charge 'tunic and trouser' for first fill."

"That's one thing when it's just old Argiz and Sifgir in here. Men like these, Egeleht, that'll go one of two ways." They embraced, the old woman and the young. "Trust your elders. You haven't seen it like we have—these 'soldiers.' When they run out of silver they draw iron. When we've got no more ale to hand over at swordpoint, they'll take other things from us, things far more terrible to lose."

Egeleht had no response for that.

"I'll tell them. You and the others start corking the bungs. Do not, do not, pour another drop for anyone, even if he follows you back here. We have to ration it, for as long as it will last."

"How long is that, Ihdrun?"

"That depends on our brave chieftain. Somebody has to tell these mongrels—somebody has to send them home."

---

---

Ah, Arlanna—the northstar of his heart, the cooling brook of his soul; douser of its flames, polisher of its sharpest stones. Doubtless the table could see her whispering, the breath warm against his ear, but Kerentanam could not but sit there and marvel at the gratitude he knew then.

What did you mean to gain from this gathering? He would ask her later, but her temperance, her virtue, already they had unlocked for him an answer of his own: something he now knew about Aedþel; something he would not have noticed blazing down the path he chose for himself, the scorn and the indignation both a blinding fog.

Any fool could see the priest could not swing his own sword, wear his own shield and mail, march his own miles. But these disciples—no, these slaves, drug along by the chains of dogma—when they weren't wiping his arse they even apologized for him, like humility itself would have profaned those withering lips. What Aedþel would not admit, or could not, from his own mouth, was that a true leader is responsible for the dispositions of his men. He alone burns away the laziness and the stupidity and fashions the goodly servant from the remnants. The dispositions of the men relay the dispositions of the commander ergo, and to behold what the high priest had wrought in his men, as they spoke out of turn, and derided each other, and trampled each other for the cheap approval of their lord ...

Thank you, Arlanna, said Kerentanam to himself, thank you again and always. Tomorrow I will show you what I have learned.

His mouth however said something else. It was curling up, pushing gleeful wrinkles up into the corners of his eyes. "No, no, I fear he may be quite right," said the chief of the Rhaeads, who pushed a skewer through his first morsel of beef. "But enough delaying. I must try this for myself."

Without the distinctive sway of the Grauglang for a guide, Swidda could have thought them the features of another valley, another river altogether. For the scene he accosted now was nothing like the one unto which he had wandered just a night and a day ago. No birds sang here; or if they did, the scrubbing of pots drowned them out. No fish swam where the buckets and gourds were dunked, and where naked hairy men waded out to wash their bodies, to the vexation of the ones throwing hooks and nets out from shore. Lines had formed downriver where they waited to take a dump while the ones with bursting bladders marked any trees wide enough to keep them modest. They even tromped the far banks, scanning for prey long since driven deep, deep over the ridges. It was loud. So loud.

Swidda knelt and found a washberry shrub. They had trampled it; the pale green of its snapped branches looked to him like the color of weeping, and they too were naked, stripped of every fruit, even the hard green ones too sour to chew on. He had seen enough. The horns began to blow just as he descended the last bluff, entering the bounds of the village again, the sacred trees marked with runes, the others thinning far and fast across the hillside. One of the lords had ordered a mansion built. What was a patch of grass when they bedded that night was now a foundation, stripped bare and scooped up, and already cords and cords of wood were cut for the walls. Upon the foundation sat little more than a groaning ribcage so far, still shabby with bark in places, but this tangle of pillars and rafters would demand many more venerable trees yet before it was built.

That Swidda would soon be politicking on an empty stomach was a far and fleeting concern. If he already did not recognize the Skeldefjarn of yesterday, how much longer did the Acani have left? Would Swidda return there only to find himself an intruder in a changed land, as he had once before, east of the mountains so many years ago?

But Gederik waited for him. For now, the tribe needed his cunning, not his pity. The old man shrugged past the construction site, past the fields of stumps (some dozens of rings thick), past tent of canvas and hovel of clay.

He must have made a struggle of it, however. A nearby soldier was making the same hike look effortless even under mounds of wool and iron. "Need a hand?" he asked.

"Thank you," said Swidda, noting the colors of the man's tartans. "To which people would I owe the kindness?"

"Ah, just wanted to help," replied the soldier.

"I would that you tell me, nonetheless."

"There'll be time aplenty for flags and borders later, I reckon. Just wanted to help."

The calluses grated on Swidda's skin as the swordsman drew his hand away at the top of the hill. Swidda wavered and nearly collapsed, learning all at once how badly he had worn himself on all the other hills he'd marched that morning. His phantom toes burned, the stubs of his fingers too. The soldier watched for a time longer but then he turned and parted.

At the foot of the hill sat a sheet of stone, slate, maybe, which was meant as the top of a table. It sat in a tangle of damp, muddy grooves where the earth had been ripped away; vainly some team or other of Þraxian engineers had gathered to excavate that stone, then to get it up the hill, but they had no pulleys, no cranes, and the earth gave out beneath them. The people ascended without it. They climbed up to the law-stone, which jutted from the very peak of this hill, and they settled there a ring of blankets and hewn stumps. At a glance it was not always so evident who was the chieftain of a tribe and who its lieutenants; many sat on the stumps, taking the higher seat as the more esteemed, while others preferred to sit nearer the earth and the damp. Some sat in front of their advisors, meaning to lead the charge of their people; some stood in the back, the cooler, more measured place. But they sat in their grape-bunches. Friend to friend, and kin to kin.

The stone itself drew a strange reverence from the guests of this land, like salt drawing the moisture from slabs of fish. A dozen times or more a man may have walked by this shape in the distance, this silhouette in stone, and paid it no more mind than that. The power in such a shape was in its size, a monolith best beheld from afar. But now they had come to it. They nodded in its shadow, and its letters glinted where the sunlight struck, or where its features dribbled with rainwater. This particular menhir was far from the most magnificent or the most august even among more remote places'. But the stone could have stood proud among any of those estimable storytellers. The laws there written—and the blank, unmarred sections—both of them sang. Of Skeldefjarn's past—and its future.

Near the top of the southern facet, the first decree had already been scrawled. Þraxia's first greatcouncil had begun.

Except—no one seemed to know who had chiseled it: for whose turn they waited, or what signal to be silent. Somebody had to have organized this conspiracy, somebody here had to have a strategy, but he was letting the agitation bubble up around him, biding. Until he wasn't. It took the hum of the crowd a moment to die away, but the cheek of an axe was driven against a copper shield like they were drum and mallet. An elder, wearing his silvered hair long and in a tidy braid, rose to meet this summons.

"I am Hwulgô," he bellowed. "We thank you for coming."

Behind him, and to whom he gestured, sat several chieftains more. A few of them nodded sternly, affirming the we by which they were addressed. They, at least, raised no objections with their chosen spokesperson.

Hwulgô continued.

"Some among us will look at this gathering and see friends: to be kept, or earned anew. Rivals. A bloodstained past, and an uncertain future. I would invite those people to look around them, even across from them, and see this gathering as I see it. It is a miracle. For behold. We have Rhaeads sitting beside the Dralgi. We have Alduluz and Brulgirs breaking bread with Carogacts. Sons of Slōgri and sons of Firrudal, ready to forget old blood, and bury an ancient feud. I do not recognize you all, nor all your colors. But we will learn them, for we are strangers no longer. Despite one or two—incidents—"

The assembly flared up again with its murmurs and sidelong glances. Swidda and his company were among them. What, the old sage thought to himself, already? Certainly the scene at the riverbank could have preceded any number of troubles. Aunstō looked sure, however, that Hwulgô spoke of something else entirely.

"—each of us has gathered here his tartan. We have bared our bosoms and sliced out the hems. We are ready to sew them together, and create of the colors a single rainbow, unfurled on the winds of fate. Great and glorious would be this flag, representing each and all of us at once, the body and its hundred organs.

"It was not easy, you must have realized. You had to look old enemies in the eye. Accept their remorse and acknowledge their grief. You've forgotten old vows of vengeance, broken decades-old cycles of hatred. By even being here you have proven your mettle. Already your courage distinguishes you from your peers, the tribes too complacent for this work which we must do. Or too cowardly. You should be proud.

"But this battle is not won. We will be waging it for months to come, years, even. Soften our resolve for even one day and we may fracture again under new blows. For I need not remind you that our enemy is already united. He is one king, ruling over one nation, and all his armies carry the same banner. It is for them that we must persevere. Even when our loyalties are tested, even when we strain and suffer; if we lose our faith in each other, we'd may as well yoke ourselves now. Geld ourselves, whip ourselves like we whip our cattle, in preparation for how our enemy will treat with us. His unruly, rebellious slaves.

"Faith. Yes. We do not always see our gods' grand designs or knowingly partake in their plans. Yet still we build their idols, we burn their wheat, we sacrifice their enemies. Because we know they are there, judging us. Have faith in your allies, though they may not always be friends. Trust in them. Only then can we triumph.

"This is the brunt of what we wanted to say. Thank you again. For coming, for listening, and for believing."

Hwulgô finished to the silence which only the rustling of leaves and squabbling of birds can invoke. His breath floated in his throat. Waiting to see whether they approved; whether he had slain some of the doubts hanging over the village. At least for a little while, before the negotiations started.