“I am a business partner of Aldor Gjorn, and he told me to meet him here for drinks and entertainment,” Ethan said. “Keep the gold if you like, but if you don’t get out of my way I’m sure the Gjorn family will—”
“Go on inside,” the first guard said, smacking his compatriot in the arm. “Just don’t cause any trouble.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ethan murmured as he stepped up to the door. He lacked the skill to wipe their memories of the encounter without seriously harming them, and there was always the possibility that this Gjorn fellow would hear about the encounter later. But by then a minor deception was unlikely to matter, and so Ethan grabbed the handle and stepped inside.
The interior was every bit as loud and bawdy as he had envisioned. There were already at least a hundred people gathered within despite the early hour, and it was immediately obvious why just from the grunts and cries echoing up the staircase: one of the fights had already begun. This particular bout involved one tall, blond Asgardian man wailing upon another tall, blond Asgardian man, and Ethan used the distraction to survey his surroundings. Most of the people sitting around the various tables were transfixed by the melee, but the man he was looking for was not. Sitting at a large table in the corner, a frothing stein in one hand and a buxom tavern wench in the other, was Torvald Halfren, the eighteen year-old leader of the Mon’Gardoth.
He could have easily been a younger copy of his late father, from his block-shaped head to his mangy red stubble to his absurdly bushy eyebrows. His bare arms were covered from shoulder to wrist in tribal tattoos, and he was draped in the tanned hide of a chagari complete with a bone tooth necklace. It would have been entirely too easy to underestimate such an obviously foolish and savage teenager, but Ethan reminded himself that appearances could be deceiving. He then decided there was no point in wasting any more time, and so rather than attempting to blend in or schmooze with the rest of the Frostgarde elite, he strode right over to Halfren’s table.
And was almost immediately confronted by two even bigger, meaner-looking guards than the ones who had been watching the front door.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said with a half-bow. He had half a mind to thump his chest and howl like a beast just in case these brutes didn’t understand their own guttural language. “I would like to speak with your employer for a moment, if possible.”
“Who in the bloody void let you in?” one of the men growled. His words were surprisingly coherent, especially considering the dearth of healthy teeth in his mouth.
Smiling, Ethan finally pulled back his hood. “I told your comrades outside that I had a business proposal for their employer, and they were kind enough to open the door for me.”
“Then they are fools,” the other warrior said. He had considerably more teeth than his companion, though his hygiene was every bit as deficient. “Leave now, or you’ll be crawling out of here.”
“If you’ll just allow me a moment, I’m sure we can—”
“Leave,” the bodyguard repeated. His hand reached over his shoulder and clutched the handle of the mighty claymore strapped to his back. “Now.”
“Wait a moment,” another voice piped in from behind them. One of the other men at the young clan lord’s table stood and took a step forward. He was older than the others, but his towering frame was no less impressive. Based on the intelligence Ethan had gathered around town, the man’s name was Warmaster Jorgir, and he was Halfren’s closest advisor. “I remember your face,” he went on. “You were a Galvian general from the last war…”
Behind him, the clan lord’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Moore,” Halfren said. “Ethan Moore.”
“You have an excellent memory, my lord,” Ethan replied with a forced smile. “Your father and I were friends several decades ago back before the war.”
“I remember him speaking of you,” Halfren said, his brow furrowed in thought. “But never as a ‘friend.’ He said you were the most dangerous kind of snake—the one who wears the skin of an ally right before he plants his fangs in your neck.”
Ethan’s cheek twitched. “We had our disagreements, yes, but we always managed to work together in spite of them.”
“I’m sure you did,” Halfren murmured. “But my father is dead…and according to the Crell, so are you.”
“I am a difficult man to kill,” Ethan said. “As the Crell have learned on many occasions.”
Jorgir grunted and crossed his arms. “Perhaps we should put that to the test.” He gestured towards the near-toothless warrior. “The Clan Lord has no use for backstabbing Galvian ghosts. Kill him.”
The warrior unsheathed his claymore, and for a single panicked moment, Ethan was tempted to strike. He wasn’t carrying a weapon, but with the Aether he didn’t really need one. He could easily reduce one or possibly two of the guards to dust before they could respond, and there was a small chance he’d even be able to escape during the confusion. But thankfully his poise kicked in, and he reminded himself that any hostile action on his part would doom these negotiations before they could even begin. And so instead of reaching out to the Aether, he stood in place and waited calmly for the warrior to strike him down. The man grinned widely as he hacked downward—
And stopped himself barely an inch away from Ethan’s neck.
Jorgir laughed, and the other men at the table quickly joined in his mirth. “So you’re not a coward, at least,” he said, clapping Ethan on the back. “You face death like a warrior!”
“I face death like a man with nothing more to lose,” Ethan corrected with a tight smile of his own. “But I face the Clan Lord of the Mon’Gardoth with an offer of power he will not receive anywhere else.”
Halfren waved off his guards, and his wench hopped off his lap and scampered back to the bar. “Have a seat, General. You’ve earned the right to speak…for now.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Ethan replied. He eyed the bodyguards one last time before pulling out a chair at the opposite side of the table. Jorgir joined them, but the rest of the warriors stepped away and formed a makeshift wall between their leader and the rest of the jeering patrons. Not surprisingly, only a few of the drunken fools seemed to have noticed what was going on here; the rest were completely transfixed by the ongoing slugfest.
“There are many Crell officers who would pay good coin to know the ‘Butcher of Geriskhad’ is still alive,” Halfren said, flicking a bone from his plate. “And I’ve no doubt they’d pay even more to sit this close to you.”
“Yes, I’m sure they would,” Ethan murmured. “But the Imperium has never been a friend to Asgardia, and if Solaria collapses it will not be long before the High Sovereign’s armies march across the Crescent Mountains.”
Jorgir grunted. “Solarian diplomats have been barking that line at the High King for months now, and he has wisely chosen to ignore their ceaseless prattle. I sincerely hope you’re not here as their newest lapdog.”
Ethan shook his head and scoffed. “Hardly. I’m no great ally of the Solarians, but I do recognize they are the only reason the Crell have yet to flood across all of Torsia. Solaria’s loss will be everyone’s loss eventually.”
“Perhaps,” Halfren said, swigging down half his stein in a single gulp. “But the High King has ordered the clans to keep their swords sheathed. We have little choice in the matter.”
Ethan smiled and resisted the urge to place his hands on the table and lean forward. The Asgardians were surprisingly sensitive to body language, and they reacted poorly to anything that could possibly be conceived as “conspiratorial.” So instead he reached out and stole an abandoned mug of ale, then struggled mightily to keep the revulsion off his face as the vile liquor burned its way down his throat.
“I’m not here to mince words, my lord, and I know your people appreciate honesty,” Ethan said. “So allow me to be perfectly blunt: the Mon’Gardoth are in trouble. You lack the resources and influence of your fellow clans, and if your situation does not improve soon, you’re likel
y to be subsumed by the Sork’Morgai or even the Gral’Kaloth. Your advisors will be put to the sword, and your wives and property will be divided amongst the other clans.”
Halfren’s fist clenched upon the table. “I gave you the chance to speak your bargain, not to insult my clan!”
“It is not my intention to insult, but rather to convey my understanding of your current situation,” Ethan soothed. “But you don’t need my charity, and you certainly don’t need my pity. What you do need is the opportunity to demonstrate your prowess and expand your resources.”
For a long, awkward moment, the two Asgardians just stared at him like they were trying to decide whether or not they should draw their blades and hack him into kibble. But eventually Jorgir leaned back and chuckled.
“Just like your father warned. The most dangerous of snakes…” He glanced over to Halfren. “He’s quite clever, you see. The Alliance offers us a warning: help them or become the next ant crushed by imperial boots. But the general here understands us well. He knows we won’t flinch in the face of a Crell invasion like a council of mewling Solarian sops, and so instead he promises us victory and spoils. He believes we won’t be able to resist the temptation of an easy conquest.”
Ethan shrugged. “Am I wrong?”
“Probably not,” Jorgir conceded. “But the Galvians have always underestimated us, even before the Crell turned you into their puppets. The clans do not march to war simply because there is blood on the wind.”
“Not in a while, at least,” Ethan replied, ignoring the veiled insult. “Over the past two decades, your people seem to have forgotten how to swing their axes. Your honored warriors have become fat merchants, and your clan lords have become simpering diplomats.”
Halfren slammed his fist upon the table. “I will not sit here and allow a Galvian ghost to—”
“Patience, my lord,” Jorgir said, placing a hand on the younger man’s arm. “Moore has merely decided to alter his strategy once more. Since he couldn’t persuade us with promises of glory, he hopes to goad us by insulting our traditions.”
“All I want is to provide a contrast between what Asgardia once was and what it could become again,” Ethan said, putting just a hint of frustration into his tone. “With my help, of course.”
“Then speak plainly, dog,” Halfren hissed, “or I shall rip out you waggling tongue.”
Ethan’s eyes flicked between the two men. “I’m sure your scouts have informed you that the Imperium has all but abandoned Galvia. After they failed to take Garos, the Crell withdrew most of their soldiers from the northern cities, and they’ve left only a token force to defend Ashenfel. Most of the country has descended into chaos as a result.”
“So you want us to ally with you to drive them from your home,” Jorgir reasoned, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “As if there was ever any doubt of your true desire.”
“What I want is for Galvia to be free and strong again,” Ethan corrected. “But I am not a fool. I know that our armies are broken, and I know it will take generations to repair the damage the Crell have wrought. The glory days of Galvia are gone, and they will never come back.” He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “The only hope for my people is to forge a lasting coalition, and I have no more desire to become another Alliance province than to remain an Imperial colony. That leaves our friends to the north—friends who are in dire need of resources and territory.”
Halfren frowned. “You are offering your homeland to Asgardia?”
“No,” Ethan said. “I am offering my homeland to you.”
A heavy silence settled between the clan lord and his advisor, and they eyed each other with equal parts excitement and disbelief. It would take considerably more for them to be convinced, of course, but Ethan could almost visualize the door opening…and him wedging his foot inside.
“My people yearn for freedom, but also for strong leadership,” Ethan continued. “The kings and queens of Asgardia have a long-standing reputation for fairness and temperance. And frankly, it isn’t as if we have any other choice. Like I said, I have no interest in aiding either the Alliance or the Imperium, and Asgardia is the only other option.”
Jorgir leaned forward. “You are just one man, General, and you’re hardly in a position to give away anything, let alone an entire country that believes you are dead.”
“Anyone who wishes to rule Galvia will eventually need the people’s support, and I am the only surviving member of the Hands of Whitestone,” Ethan explained. “My word will carry weight, especially within the larger cities. With time, I can convince the remaining nobles to support an Asgardian governor rather than fight him.”
“That is all you offer?” Halfren asked. “Vague promises of your limited usefulness?”
Ethan smiled. “What I offer is a chance at godhood. The imperial governor, Sovereign Verrator, still sits upon the throne in Ashenfel. He carries inside him the divine spark of King Whitestone and every Galvian monarch for nearly two thousand years. Whoever slays him will inherit his power…and be able to create hundreds of his own shamans rather than relying upon the whims of a foolish and disinterested High King.”
Jorgir folded his arms across his chest. “Slaying an Ascendant is no trivial task even if his armies are broken.”
“No, and I would not presume to claim otherwise,” Ethan said. “But the Sovereign is as vulnerable now as he will ever be, and recent history has shown us that even the most powerful Ascendants can be destroyed by a dedicated enemy. I’m sure King Areekan felt perfectly safe inside his fortress in Celenest.”
Halfren’s fingers rapped across the table, and even without using his telepathy Ethan could sense the boy’s brimming excitement. His mind had undoubtedly begun to conjure fantasies of glory and power…and his initial skepticism was slowly but inevitably withering away.
“You could have easily brought this offer before the High King, but you have not,” Jorgir asked after a moment. “Why? He could command the whole of Asgardia to support your cause.”
“He could, but he won’t,” Ethan said plainly. “What use does he have for another divine spark? A second Asgardian Ascendant would only be a threat to his power. There is a reason that very few nations are ruled by more than one God-King.”
“Zharrs is a fool who cannot smell prey even when it is bleeding out in front of him,” Halfren growled under his breath. “When he took the throne, all he could speak of was a ‘return to glory,’ but he is every bit as weak as his predecessor. He cares nothing for Asgardia—all he wishes is to consolidate his own power over the clans.”
Ethan nodded but resisted the urge to grin. “None of the other clan lords are strong enough to stand against him on their own, and they don’t trust each other enough to form a lasting alliance. If one of them were to Ascend, however, he would have as rightful a claim to the throne as anyone…and I’ve no doubt at least some of the other clans would come flocking to his banner.”
“Don’t allow his honeyed words to lead you to folly, my lord,” Jorgir warned. “The High King has been very clear in his decrees. If you lead your men into Galvia, the Mon’Gardoth will be branded as traitors. He will seize your lands, and he will turn his shamans against you.”
“Which is exactly why you won’t be bringing his shamans along,” Ethan said. “I need your warriors, not your channelers.”
Jorgir snorted. “I don’t care how many soldiers the Crell have pulled out of Galvia—no one is taking Ashenfel or any other city without magic.”
“I didn’t say we wouldn’t need magic—I said we wouldn’t need the shaman of Frostgarde,” Ethan clarified. “The new Solarian queen may be a foolish child, but she understands the importance of opening another front against the Crell. A dozen of her priests will aid in the assault against Ashenfel…and she has also promised us dragons.”
“Dragons,” Halfren rasped, his eyebrows perking up. “How many?”
“Enough to breach the city walls with relative ease. After
that, it will be up to your warriors to clear out the Crell and surround the castle.”
Jorgir grumbled under his breath. “The Solarians will never allow us to claim Sovereign Verrator’s power as our own.”
“They won’t be in a position to deny you anything,” Ethan said. “Dragons or not, your troops will outnumber theirs ten to one, and just as importantly the Alliance has minimal influence over my people. I will convince the nobles to follow you, and Queen Krystia won’t have any choice but to go along with their wishes. She’ll be happy enough that we’ve stopped the bleeding on her northern border.”
Halfren shared a long, meaningful glance with his advisor. “You promise much, snake,” the boy said as he turned back to Ethan, “but the slightest misstep will cost the Mon’Gardoth everything.”
Ethan shrugged. “Would you rather sit here alone in your city while your clan withers to dust? Glory may be fleeting, my lord, but so are the opportunities to claim it. Fifty years ago, the mere sight of as Asgardian warrior would terrify any Torsian from Solipei to Talisham. Now…”
“We have long since lost our way,” Halfren whispered. “My father cautioned the clan lords about complacency. He said that peace would destroy us as surely as another war, and his reward for honesty was a meeting with the headman’s axe.”
“Consider his words carefully, my lord,” Jorgir warned. “And consider more carefully the serpent’s tongue that speaks them.”
“I will need to hear much more before deciding anything,” Halfren said. “We shall discuss this in private at my lodge.”
Ethan nodded. “Of course, my lord. I will provide you with as much information as I am able.”
He spent nearly the entire night in the young clan lord’s company, and he returned in the morning and spent most of the next day there as well. But the strategy and details were almost ephemeral at that point. As expected, Halfren willingly swallowed the bait. Ascendancy was far too tempting a prize for any would-be conqueror to pass up, especially an ambitious young man whose most trusted advisor—Warmaster Jorgir—had been secretly possessed by a demon several days ago. The outcome was as glorious as it was inevitable: the Mon’Gardoth would march to war, and Ethan would have his army.
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