First draft

The smell of alcohol and sweat pervaded the boisterous and crowded inn, a waypoint for the travelers on their way to Fyollum. A bard was playing his harp in a corner, though the sound of the music was almost completely put in the background by the laugh and excited shouts of some patrons betting on two men throwing knives at a target. A couple of harlots in skimpy outfits went around the tables looking for new customers to lure.

Egil was sitting at one of those tables, a mug of mead in front of him as he lazily listened to Jokul's words. The rest of his men, half dozen of shield-brothers he'd brought with him, were on the other side of the room. They attracted the attention, especially because they were wearing chainmail, something only warriors could afford in the Wildlands.

Egil, in particular, stood out even among his peers. He was unnaturally tall, and though his features were rough, the aura of power and prestige surrounding him was impossible to dismiss. Ancient runes were inscribed on the finely crafted two-edged ax hanging at his waist, pinpointing the weapon as something made by the dwarves. On his fingers many copper, silver and even a couple of golden rings. And that was the real fulcrum of the attention: his rings.

They were usually awarded only after participating in successful raids, war expeditions or for bravery in the field of battle. In the warrior society, the rings of valor were indication of the true worth of a man, and Egil had nearly twenty of them. Probably, that's why most of the patrons stayed away from him. There were exceptions, of course. The three men sitting at the table next to theirs, for example, looked completely relaxed. It wasn't a surprise. Judging from the empty jugs piled up on the table and their flushed faces, they were pretty drunk. One of them, in particular, was snoring.

Egil studied them. They looked like peddlers, their clothes old and patched but well made.

"A Holy Raid you say?" The soberest of them said.

"Aye, led by some great noble of the Green Valley." Another patron, a jovial fellow with a thick red beard, answered. "I heard this is his first campaign. Isn't that odd, Folke? A young pup as commander?"

"Southerners are like that, Calder." Folke shrugged. "I heard that their women can inherit, but they can't rule. What kind of twisted law is that?"

"Shieldmaidens can inherit." Calder argued.

"Because they have has proven themselves in battle!" Folke said. "These southerners..."

"Curse them and curse their Holy Raid!" The third patron, the one who was sleeping, suddenly jerked his head upward. "Others bloody southerners in our lands! What is the Highlord thinking?" He half-slurred half shouted.

"Lower your voice, Brandt." Folke warned. He sneaked a glance at Egil's table and added. "The Alhstroms are..."

Brandt didn't heed his friend warning and kept shouting, "Curse them! First the white gowns, then the flowered knights, and now this. What's next?" Brandt sputtered. "What's so good about a sword anyway? Better a good, old ax I say. Isn't that right, Calder?"

Calder nodded. "Aye. These southerners have no shame. I heard that they are buying more cowardly weapons from the dwarves. Crossbow they call it. It is like a bow, but you only need to twist some kind of..." He gesticulated, trying to explain it. "...key to use it."

"Cravens!" Brandt shouted again, punching the air.

"Lower your voice." Folke repeated. "Fyollum is swarming with southerners. What if someone hears you?"

"What are you afraid of, Folke?" Brandt blinked, wiping the mead from his beard with the back of his hand. "This our land."

"Our land." Folke gave them a bitter laugh. "For how long? I heard that Stoneface allowed the Temple to build a chapel, inside the castle!"

"For the blood of ancestors!" Brandt said, banging his fist on the table. "I can't believe it!"

Calder shook his head. "I don't believe it either."

"It's the truth." Folke insisted. "It was my uncle, Thorril, who said it to me. You all know that he is in the castle's guard."

Calder looked dismayed.

"What is the Highlord thinking?" Brandt asked again.

Calder shrugged. "Who knows, maybe Stoneface has finally gone mad."

"Mh, it wouldn't surprise me." Folke agreed. "With children like that..."

"Aye." Calder agreed, stroking his beard. "The younger one is a woman and Thandruil..."

"What do you have to say about him?" Brandt said. "He is a good lad. Tall, blonde and..."

"Good lad?" Folke snorted. "That whoreson is a fucking murderer."

Brandt waved his hand dismissively. "That's just hearsay. You can't know if..."

"It's not hearsay." Folke said. "Don't you remember about Vodil Arlsson?"

"If you're talking about the duel..."

"Aye, the duel." Folke scowled. "Thandruil lost it, made a fool out of himself, and two days later, Vodil was dead, killed in his sleep."

"Lord Thandruil had nothing to do with it." Brandt kept defending him. "Everyone knows that bandits attacked the inn where Vodil was staying."

"And who sent them?" Folke insisted. "It was that whoreson, Thandruil."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Egil could see the stubborn frown fall over Brand's face.

"You can't know that." He said. "There is no proof."

Folke huffed. "I don't need proof. That wasn't the only time something like that happened. Everybody knows that Thandruil's enemies tend to end up dead."

Egil was so engrossed in the conversation that only when someone grabbed his shoulder and started shaking them, he realized Jokul was talking to him.

Egil's eyes snapped toward the Glorysing. "What?"

Jokul sighed. "I was wondering if it was the right move to send the elf to Thunderfield with Ketil."

Egil lifted a brow. "Why do you care, Jokul?"

"I'm just curious." Jokul sounded a bit defensive "The elf...Rolim is tough." Jokul said, a flash of respect glinting in his eyes. "We took him away from everything he knows but he still able to stay calm. He hasn't said a word, plead for mercy - nothing."

Egil watched him with marked curiosity. "Rolim, eh?"

Jokul's lips compressed. "Even slaves have names."

"I suppose they do." Egil admitted. "Don't worry. Ketil has learned his lesson. He won't make the same mistake twice."

"Let's hope so."

Jokul said something else, but Egil didn't pay attention. The conversation at the other table was just getting interesting.

"I agree with Folke on this, Brandt. Thandruil is not trustworthy." Calder said. "Maybe the Undefeated Warlord is the only warrior left in the family."

"Undefeated?" Folke released a snort. "Not anymore. I just heard that he lost half of his men during the last raid."

"People die in battle." Brandt rebutted. "His men knew what they signed up for."

Folke nodded. "Aye, warriors fight and die, but only if it's worth it. I heard that the spoils were meager this time around."

Egil balled his fists, a fine rage trembling through his body.

"I'm sorry so many lads lost their lives, but this may not be a bad thing." Calder, who looked the more rational of the three, said. "Lord Egil is a prideful man. Who knows, maybe this loss will teach him a bit of humility."

"Seems like an expensive lesson, Calder." Folke said.

Calder shrugged. "All good lessons are."

"Alright, he lost a battle, so what?" Brandt slurred, putting his chin on his fist as he tried to hold still. It didn't work. His head kept dangling like a pendulum. "If I were ten years younger I would still join his warband. The harvest was bad this year..."

"And last year, and the year before that." Folke said. "These are the Wildlands. The harvest is always bad around here."

After that, the conversation languished. Egil lifted the mug and guzzled down the mead. Then he grabbed the jug for more.

"You're drinking more than usual, Warlord." Jokul pointed out.

Egil grimaced, the mead in his mouth souring. "Thorvald is late." He grunted, reaching for his mug. "Besides, there is nothing else to do."

Jokul studied him, evaluating his expression.

"It seems that the news about our...campaign has spread." Jokul chose his words with care.

Egil's hand stopped midair, the mug in his hand trembling slightly. "...It was bound to happen sooner or later." He said with a calmness he didn't feel.

"Aye, I understand what you mean. Most of our shield-brothers couldn't wait to get drunk, and they have enough trouble holding their tongues when they are sober." He said casually. "Soon, everyone will know about our defeat."

Egil shot him a cold glance. "Stop mucking around, Glorysing. What are you getting at?"

He didn't have to ask twice.

"Why are we here?" Jokul asked. "We should be back to Strom End by now."

"To do what?" Egil asked.

Jokul gave him a condescending look. "Warlord, you know that you've enemies, even among your own men. After what happened in the Embersea..."

"Enough." Egil said. "I know what you are getting at. But aren't you forgetting something? I'm Egil Strom, my family ruled over Strom end for hundreds of years."

"That may be so, but the warlord's title is not hereditary. Any brother has the right to challenge you." Jokul insisted.

"Challenge me?" Egil's lips curled into a bloodthirsty grin. "Let them do it."

Jokul threw up his arms in disgust. "Blood of Oril! There are other ways to solve the situation, Warlord. Smashing skulls is not the only answer."

Egil sighed. "I know you don't understand me. You're a man of words, Jokul." He said seriously. "But I can't talk my way out of this."

A frown sank into place. "Why?"

"Because I'm not a Glorysing. I'm a warlord." He shook his head. "Sometimes, smashing a few skulls is the only answer."

"I'll keep that in mind." Jokul said without an ounce of sarcasm. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I suppose it's useless to hide it anymore."  Egil said, letting out a tired sigh. "Here. Read it." He said, handing him a wrinkled letter. 

Jokul glanced down at the letter in his hands and then up at Egil's face. "What is this?"

"The answer to your questions. A few brothers coming back from Strom end brought it to me when we were about to leave the Brimgate."

When Jokul unfolded the letter, his expression changed. "Warlord, this...!"

"Quiet." Egil hissed, jerking his head toward the woman approaching their table.

It was one of the harlots. She put an elbow on the table and bent down, giving a clear view of her ample bosom.

Then she smiled, her cheeks a little flushed as she glanced at Egil. "What can I get you?"

His eyes crinkled, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Why don't we move somewhere else?"

The smile on her face broadened. "Of course, lord...?"

"No need for names." Egil said. "Just show us the way."

The smile on her face stiffened. "Us?" She glanced at the two of them, confusion crossing her face.

"We need someplace safe from prying eyes." Egil explained, the coins clinking as he pulled out a purse. 

"I understand." The harlot said with a tinge of disappointment. "The inn is full but If you want to follow me..."

"Lead the way." Egil said.

She led them to the second floor and onto a small room, rustic like the rest of the inn, but warm and cozy.

"This is my room." The harlot said. "It's a bit stark but..."

"It will do." Egil grunted, handing her the purse. "No one is to enter, understood?" He warned her.

"Of course." She assured him. "Do you need anything else?"

"A man will be looking for me." He described Thorvald to her. "Bring him here."

The harlot gave him a curt nod before scurrying out of the room.

When she left, Jokul - who had been pacing back and forth like a caged animal - couldn't take it anymore.

"Warlord, is this real?" He asked, waving the letter around furiously.

Egil nodded grimly. "Marton Doubleax is no man to joke."

Jokul sighed, "Now I understand the need for secrecy. However, why did he send this to you? It makes no sense."

Egil's face darkened. "Aye. He should have sent it to his liege, my uncle. The only reason I can think is that he doesn't trust the Highlord's guards."

Jokul stilled. "Are you saying that Thandruil..."

"I don't know, but there are a lot of southerners in Thunderfield. Even inside the castle."

The room fell silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound they could hear.

"This doesn't add up." Jokul said eventually. "In the letter, Marton says that the tax collector, a certain Martin, skimmed money from the thralls and that's why they took up arms. According to him, Thandruil and his men tried to establish order but because of Ser Custer..."

"Curster." Egil supplied. "It's lord Bellborne's cadet son, as well as Thandruil's retainer."

Jokul pressed his lips together. "Be as it may, because of ser Curster's rashness, the thralls attacked them."

"Aye. Marton says that Thandruil had no choice but to kill them."

"I don't understand." Jokul shook his head. "Lord Hartway said that bandits attacked the village. Marton says that the thralls rebelled. Which one is true?"

"Impossible to say. Only when Thorvald comes back, we'll know for sure. The real question is what was Thandruil doing there in the first place? That village is tiny and far from the Stoneway. It didn't even have a name."

"Maybe it's just a coincidence." Jokul said thoughtfully. "Maybe Thandruil was in the area and decided to intervene."

Egil didn't look convinced. "Unlikely. Thandruil is not that kind of man. He wouldn't risk his life just to quell a revolt. No, I think there is something more here."

Jokul lifted an eyebrow. "Something more?"

Egil slowly nodded. "Maybe lord Hartway and Marton are both correct."

Jokul jerked, and complete astonishment flickered over his face. "Both? How is that possible?"

"Marton is not a liar. He is loyal to my uncle, but he cares about Thandruil." Egil explained. "My uncle trusts him, and I think that's why he sent this letter."

Jokul nodded slowly, realization dawning on his face, "He was interceding with the Highlord in Thandruil's behalf."

"Aye. In the letter, he blames Martin and Curster, but says that Thandruil had no choice."

"But If Thandruil was just trying to restore order, why the village was burned?" Jokul objected. "Why does lord Hartway think that bandits were responsible?"

Egil shook his head. He had no answer for that question.

He was about to say so when the door opened, and someone said, "Because Thandruil was trying to cover his tracks."

Egil face lit up when he saw the face of his old friend. "Thorvald."

"Lad." The Pathmaker greeted, coming up to him with a broad grin. "How did go with the lords?"

Egil groaned. "Worse than expected. They are out for blood."

"I did warn you." Thorvald chided. "This time is different."

Egil made a sour face. "At least I managed to buy some time. Now I just need to convince my uncle."

Thorvald scoffed. "Good luck with that. Alfric is worse than a mule."

Egil didn't try to deny it. Instead, he changed the subject. "We'll talk about this later. What were you saying?"

Thorvald's face turned serious. "I only heard part of the conversation, but you were right. The thralls took up arms and rebelled, Marton wasn't wrong about that, but it was Martin, the tax collector, who said that bandits burned the village. He met a few guardsmen on the way to Fyollum."

"So it was him who spread the rumor?" Jokul asked.

Thorvald nodded.

Egil cocked his head at one side at looked at his friend quizzically. "That's not all there is to it, is it?"

"No, it's not." Thorvald answered, his mouth pressed into a grim line. "Thandruil staged this. He hired a band of brigands to burn the village."

The room fell silent. Egil's stomach quailed a bit, his face ashen.

"He wanted to hide the truth." Jokul said quietly. "But why? If what you say is true, Thandruil did nothing wrong."

Egil grunted in agreement. "He could have handled the matter differently, but it was mainly Martin and Curster's fault if things ended up that way. However," He narrowed his eyes. "what about Curster? I know him. He is arrogant, but he is also a coward. He wouldn't provoke a rebellion without reason."

"No, he wouldn't...unless someone told him to do it." Thorvald said.

"Thandruil." Egil spat his name like it was a curse.

Thorvald nodded. "Aye. As I said before, Thandruil was covering his tracks. They were looking for someone."

"Who?" Egil asked.

"A shield brother."

Egil and Jokul looked from one another, confused.

"A shield brother?" Jokul asked in disbelief. "In that village?"

"Aye." Thorvald answer, staring at the Glorysing expressionlessly. "Adilis was his name. He was a blacksmith, but he served under lord Sven in his youth. When he retired, he went back to his village and picked up his father's trade."

"Do you know why Thandruil was looking for him?" Egil asked.

"Because he saw something he wasn't supposed to. I don't know all the particulars, but..."Thorvald took a deep breath, his expression turning serious. "Lad, this has something to do with the Temple. The blacksmith saw Curster handing something to cardinal Leroy."

Egil and Jokul exchanged worried glances.

"The highest ranking priest in the Wildland and Thandruil's right hand." Jokul said quietly. "What were they doing together?"

"Do you know what Curster gave to him?" Egil added.

Thorvald grimaced. "No."

"Whatever it was," Jokul said. "Thandruil butchered an entire village to keep it a secret."

Egil's expression hardened. Jokul was right.

"Do you have proof of this?" He asked Thorvald.

His old friend gave him a lopsided grin. "Even better. I have witnesses." He turned toward the door and shouted, "Bring them in!"

A few seconds later, the shield brothers accompanying Thorvald, pushed two men inside. One of them was short and fat, the other tall and muscular.

Egil looked puzzled. "Who...?"

"This is Martin, the tax collector." Thorvald said, pointing at the man on his left.

Martin looked worse for wear, his brocade jacket torn and stained, and his cheeks a bit gaunt.

"What about the other one?" Jokul asked.

"This is Sickle," The old Pathmaker said, a half smile under his beard. "Thandruil's left hand."