The flags fluttered in the wind, snapping so loud the noise echoed above the din of the busy Fjall city. Yet as the Duke’s column passed, men, women, and children paused in their duties and errands to gawk at the newcomers. Even clad in Fehlan-style furs and leather armor, no one would mistake Duke Dyrund, Lord Virinus, or the Black Xiphos mercenaries for anything but Princelanders. Aravon and his six masked, mottle-armored companions earned a multitude of stares both curious and suspicious.
Aravon’s shoulders tightened as they rode deeper into Storbjarg. He scanned the upper-floor windows for enemy archers, peered into every shadowed alley in search of warriors lying in wait, studied the sea of Fjall faces for any indication that the wool-and-fur-clad people around them intended the Duke harm. His jaw ached from clenching, his knuckles whitened around the haft of his spear. He forced himself to relax his body, but his mind never stopped working, never stopped analyzing the city around him for threats.
Yet, as long minutes passed and the muddy streets of Storbjarg passed, no attack came. No arrows sped toward the Duke. No Fehlan or Eirdkilr reavers leapt onto their horses. No wild war cries shattered the din of a bustling city. Everything was simply…normal.
Then they reached the open square at the heart of the city, and Aravon drew in a quiet breath at the dazzling black stone that stretched for two hundred yards in every direction. He’d seen the stone before, at Bjornstadt, where it had been used for the raised platform from which Chief Ailmaer had greeted them. Yet here in Storbjarg, the entire plaza was tiled in the stone. Darker than onyx, with an appearance like liquid shadow and a depth that threatened to draw his eyes and mind into its murky vastness.
And there, standing in the heart of the sea of black, was the man that could only be Eirik Throrsson. Tall, nearly as tall as Belthar, with shoulders broadened by years of wielding a sword and shield, the Hilmir wore enough furs to cover three Fehlan black bears, with a coarse black beard that hung in two thick braids down to his waist. His hair, dark as the ravens on his standard, had been pulled back into three loose tails, revealing a high brow, strong cheekbones, and a square jaw.
A warrior, every inch of him.
Aravon stared into the man’s eyes, and was surprised to see the glimmer of cunning there. Letters, numbers, and other knowledge valued in the Princelands meant nothing to the Hilmir; his intellect was devoted to the only expertise that mattered to the Fjall: battle and bloodshed.
The Hilmir said nothing, but stared at the men riding into his city’s square. He remained silent as the Duke reined in, dismounted, and crossed the three steps to stand before the Fjall leader. Aravon, Colborn, and Rangvaldr hurried from their saddles and kept pace with the Duke, an honor guard to match the fifty Fjall warriors at Throrsson’s back. The Fjall chief seemed not to notice them. His ice-blue eyes locked on Duke Dyrund’s face, his gaze piercing and intense. Even though he stood only a few inches taller than Duke Dyrund, the breadth of his shoulders and his heavy furs made him appear to loom.
Yet the Duke seemed not at all intimidated by the hulking warrior before him. He simply gave the Hilmir a bow, extended a hand, and said in perfect Fehlan, “Do you think fifty is a large enough greeting party to keep you safe? I could wait if you want to summon more.”
Aravon froze; he couldn’t imagine the Duke addressing Prince Toran in such a tone. His grip tightened on his spear and he prepared to leap to the Duke’s defense if necessary.
Long moments passed in tense silence. All in the square seemed to hold their breaths in nervous anticipation of the Hilmir’s reaction.
Then a smile broke out on the Fjall chief’s face, and booming laughter echoed across the open-air plaza.
“Duke Dyrund of Eastfall.” The Hilmir returned the grip, his massive hand encircling the Duke’s forearm and squeezing hard. “For a second, I worried your Prince had sent one of his weak-spined noblemen to speak with me.” His gaze darted past Aravon to where Lord Virinus sat in his saddle, swathed in furs that now appeared far less grand when compared to Throrsson’s own. “But a man who greets a former enemy with such confidence, it fills me with hope for some of you, at least.”
The Duke inclined his head and, after taking back his arm from the Hilmir’s crushing grip, reached into his cloak. “A gift from my Prince.”
Aravon’s eyes widened as the Duke drew out the glass bottle filled with dark red liquid. He couldn’t believe the Duke had opened the negotiations by giving the Hilmir the cure to Wraithfever—even with his limited understanding of statecraft and diplomacy, he knew that sort of leverage was intended to seal the bargain. A coup de grâce should Throrsson prove stubborn.
Throrsson shook his head, sending his braided beard and hair whipping around his face. “Fjall do not drink your puny Princeland wines! Only the finest mead for the true sons of Striith.”
“The contents of this bottle are worth far more than even the strongest braggot from the mead halls of Ornntadr.” The Duke’s voice rang with confidence. “Let us share the Drekka, then I will share with you the secret that will save your people.”
The Hilmir’s eyebrows rose as the Duke spoke. “A Princelander who speaks of Ornntadr braggot knows to ware his words.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yet, perhaps, he, too, knows the value of such words. Words that a wise chief would at least hear before making up his mind.”
He stepped down from the raised platform and gestured to the enormous longhouse that fronted the square’s western side. “Come, Duke. We will share the Drekka, if you are man enough.”
The Duke chuckled. “My Prince would not have sent a prottdrykkr to negotiate with the Hilmir.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed at the unfamiliar words. He’d learned Fehlan from Colborn, but Rangvaldr’s Eyrr language had slight variations that Colborn hadn’t taught him. The word “prott” sounded similar to the word Aravon knew for “feeble”, but drykkr was new to him. Considering they were speaking of mead, Aravon guessed it had something to do with drinking.
Duke Dyrund fell in step beside Throrsson and, together, the two men strode toward the timber, thatch, and wattle-and-daub longhouse. Aravon’s silent signal brought Skathi, Belthar, Zaharis, and Noll out of their saddles, followed a moment later by the mercenaries and, at the last, Lord Virinus. Before the Duke had gone five steps, the seven of them had formed an honor guard beside and behind Duke Dyrund—a match for the ten Fjall warriors flanking their Hilmir.
As the Duke and Throrsson reached the entrance to the longhouse, the Hilmir turned to the Duke. “As is the Fjall custom, we enter alone.”
Aravon tensed. The Duke, going into the dark longhouse alone? Throrsson could have men hiding in wait inside, ready to pounce on the Duke. For that matter, the Hilmir himself could simply turn and kill the Duke himself. While Duke Dyrund was a formidable warrior in his own right, Aravon had little doubt Throrsson was the superior fighter.
“All that mead has gone to your head, it seems.” Again, Duke Dyrund’s answer surprised Aravon. “Fjall custom dictates that honored guests share the Drekka not alone, but with two seconds-in-command standing guard.”
A wry smile spread across the Hilmir’s face. “Of course.” He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound, and patted his stomach. “Hunger can make a man forgetful.”
Aravon relaxed. It was another test. The Hilmir might appear the warrior, but he was proving far more cunning than Aravon gave him credit for. Everything since the moment they’d arrived had been a test to determine the Duke’s intelligence, understanding of Fjall culture, and mettle. Apparently, Duke Dyrund had done his homework.
Eirik Throrsson turned to the warriors at his side. “Gyrd,” he barked. “Grimar.”
The first man who stepped forward had threads of gray dotting his beard and braided hair, his face lined and tanned by the sun. Yet he stood tall, confident, and strode into the longhouse ahead of the Hilmir. The Fjall who followed was no less a warrior, though twenty years his junior, with only two bead-and-bone-laden braids in his platinum-blond beard.
“Captain Snarl,” the Duke said in Fehlan, using Aravon’s code name.
Eirik Throrsson’s bushy eyebrows rose as Aravon moved toward the longhouse door. “Captain Snarl, eh?” Curiosity rumbled in his voice. “A curious name for a man who hides his face behind a wolf’s bared teeth.”
Aravon met the man’s ice-blue eyes. He stood only an inch shorter than Throrsson, and the breadth of his shoulders would never rival the Hilmir’s. Yet he, too, met the man’s gaze with calm. He sensed no hint of threat from the man, only that same assessment.
“Even the mighty bear may fall to those fangs,” he said. “Wolves hunt where they will, and a wise bear knows to make peace with the pack.” He had no idea where the words had come from—doubtless some trite piece of poetry read to him during his youth—but they brought a smile to Throrsson’s lips.
The Hilmir’s chuckle rumbled from deep within his belly. “So it is.” A hint of approval flashed across the man’s strong, black-bearded face.
Turning, Aravon strode into the longhouse, spear held at his side yet ready to strike if needed.
The longhouse had a narrow antechamber barely ten feet wide and long, with an opening on the far end covered by thick hides. Beyond the fur curtain was a massive room filled with benches and tables, the walls adorned by shields, swords, axes, spears, helmets, and the mounted heads of animals both predatory and prey. A firepit occupied the heart of the longhouse, and within a fire blazed bright, filling the longhouse with radiant warmth and illumination. Fur rugs and bear pelts lay strewn across the earthen floor, and beneath the thick smell of wood smoke that filled the room, Aravon caught the scent of meat cooking somewhere in the shadows to the rear of the longhouse.
Beyond the far end of the firepit, two chairs stood opposite each other across a short wooden table. Gyrd had taken up position behind one fur-covered chair—the larger of the two, clearly intended to make Throrsson loom over whoever sat opposite him—so Aravon moved to stand behind the other. He locked eyes with the Hilmir’s second-in-command, a moment of silent scrutiny passed between them as they measured each other.
A moment later the Hilmir entered, followed by Duke Dyrund and Lord Virinus, with the Fjall warrior Grimar bringing up the rear. The two leaders strode to their chairs and sat, facing each other. Lord Virinus took up position behind the left side of the Duke’s chair, while Grimar took a similar position opposite Aravon.
“Let us share the Drekka.” Throrsson turned to Grimar with a nod, and the warrior turned toward one of the wooden tables against the wall. A small barrel—the size of a Princeland beer rundlet—sat atop it, with two drinking horns. Unstoppering the barrel, Grimar filled the horns, which he brought to the table and handed to Duke Dyrund and his Hilmir.
The two men brought the horns to their lips. But, instead of drinking, they both spat into the horns. Once, twice, three times.
Throrsson held up his horn to Gyrd, who stepped forward and took it from his Hilmir. Aravon hurried to do the same with the Duke’s horn and, imitating the Hilmir’s second-in-command, offered the horn to Throrsson. With a nod, the Hilmir took the horn and raised it, spittle and all, to his lips. Aravon’s stomach churned as the Duke swallowed the honey-colored liquid, still frothed with the Hilmir’s spittle. To his surprise, neither Throrsson nor the Duke simply stopped after a long draught. Instead, the two men continued to drink deep.
Aravon’s eyes widened. A drinking contest? The Drekka was, it seemed, yet another test.
His gaze snapped to Duke Dyrund. The Duke’s horn was held a little lower than Throrsson’s, and the Hilmir’s jaw worked as he downed the mead. Thin streams of yellow liquid trickled down Throrsson’s bearded chin, sliding off the furs around his neck and chest. With a loud gasp of delight, he slammed the horn down on the table.
“Skaal!” His shout echoed off the timber rafters.
A heartbeat later, Duke Dyrund’s horn slammed onto the table and his “Skaal!” reverberated through the room.
Throrsson’s broad face creased into a grin. “No prottdrykkr, indeed.”
Aravon had seen the Duke share drinks with his men in Camp Marshal, or savor a goblet of fine Nyslian wine at Icespire soirees. He’d never believed it possible that a former Legionnaire would be a lightweight, yet to finish that entire horn of mead—and Fjall mead, at that—was a feat that even Belthar would find difficult.
He stifled a chuckle. The Prince has, indeed, sent the right man for the job.
“You know a great deal of our customs, Princelander.” Throrsson’s expression grew wry. “Then again, I would expect no less from the Duke of Eastfall.”
“Then you know, Hilmir of the Fjall, that I would not come with hollow promises or empty hands.” Once again, the Duke drew out the glass vial and set it on the table. The dark red liquid within seemed to glow in the firelight. “But before I make my Prince’s offer, I must know that you are serious.”
The Hilmir’s eyebrows lowered and a scowl creased his forehead. “After we have shared the Drekka, you still doubt?” He tugged at his braided beard. “Perhaps you do not know our customs after all.”
“I know that men are men, no matter what clan they call their own.” The Duke sat straighter in his chair. “I know that the Hilmir bears a burden of duty to his warband and his people. I know that, in the end, men will do whatever they must for the sake of those they hold dear.”
“If you know that,” Throrsson said, “then you will know that I would never violate the sanctity of the Drekka.”
“Oh, of that, I have full confidence.” The Duke gave a dismissive wave. “I have no fear for my life within these halls. But it is what happens after I leave, after I return to my people, that I question.”
Eirik Throrsson stood and threw back his bearskin cloak, revealing glittering chain mail atop a thick coat of padded leather armor. The sword that hung at his side had to weigh as much as a Voramian greatsword, and three white bone-handled daggers protruded from his belt. Aravon tensed as the Hilmir drew a long seax, but Throrsson made no move to attack; instead, he raised his left hand and dragged the blade across his palm. Blood welled from the cut and splashed to the table.
“By the iron fist of Striith, I pledge that I enter into this negotiation in good faith as Hilmir of the Fjall.” The solemn words echoed off the longhouse’s mud walls, seeming to ring for long seconds before falling silent.
“That will suffice.” The Duke inclined his head. “Then, under the eyes of the Watcher, god of justice, I vow that I enter into this negotiation in good faith, as representative of Prince Cedenas Toran of Icespire, ruler of the Princelands.” He gave a little chuckle. “I hope you don’t mind that I keep my dagger sheathed. At my age, a man’s better off keeping as much blood in his body as possible.”
Chuckling, the Hilmir gave a dismissive wave and took his seat once more. “So tell me, Duke Dyrund, what is in this bottle of yours that could be so valuable? The sacred mead of Upphiminn? Striith’s tears, perhaps, or the immortality-giving waters of Seggrholl?” A sarcastic smile broadened his face.
The Duke didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he picked up the bottle and held it out in one hand. “I offer you the cure to Wraithfever, and hope for your people.”
A startling transformation came over the Hilmir. In that moment, the blustering warrior disappeared, replaced by a cold-eyed, cunning man staring with naked suspicion at the Duke.
“Impossible!” Throrsson spoke in a rumbling whisper. “My own gyoja can find no cure.”
“Our healers have access to knowledge that yours do not.” The Duke spoke it not as a boast, but a statement of fact. “But this—” He tapped a fingernail against the glass bottle. “—this is what you seek, I swear by the Swordsman.”
The Hilmir’s eyes narrowed. “I put no trust in your god, Princelander. I trust only the proof of my eyes.”
“Then I will prove it.” The Duke’s voice was calm. “This vial contains enough cure for one person. Man, woman, child, it will suffice.
” He leaned forward. “Choose who you will, and let me administer it to them. When you see I speak the truth, we will talk of peace between the Princelands and Fjall.”
Throrsson’s face went hard as stone, yet something dark flashed in his eyes, some inner, unspoken turmoil that pierced his attempt at concealing his true feelings. Long moments of silence passed as the Fjall chief stared at Duke Dyrund—no, Aravon realized, the Hilmir’s eyes were fixed on the Duke, yet he saw nothing but the thoughts whirling inside his own mind.
“A cure for one.” A bitter edge tinged the Hilmir’s words. “You offer me hope for my people, then snatch it away in the next breath?” He threw himself to his feet, a flurry of motion that had Aravon instantly on the defensive. “What use is a cure that will only save one?” he roared.
The Duke didn’t flinch. “The best I could do on short notice,” he answered, his voice calm and quiet. “I received your message and hurried here at all haste, and my healers could only craft this much of the cure in the short time I gave them.”
The Hilmir was a hurricane of movement, whirling to stomp around his throne. Gyrd’s face revealed nothing, but Grimar’s hand hovered close to the long Fehlan sword hanging on his belt, his eyes fixed on his pacing chief.
“But more is coming, Hilmir,” the Duke pressed. “Even now, my healers are loading wagons with the cure and bringing it to Silverhill, where they await my word.” He stood, a wall of calm in the face of Throrsson’s storm. “The moment the Fjall align with the Princelands, I will send word and your people will have the cure within a week.”
“A week?” Throrsson roared. “Do you know how many more of my warband will fall ill and wither away in that time?”
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 33