C.P.D. Harris's Blog, page 22

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whores’s War 3.54

This is my weekly serial, written raw and uncut!

You can find the first post in the series here.

Last week’s post is here.

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Athelbjorn stared at me in disbelief, as did his sister and his Kingsguard. The Nordan are an honour culture, and vengeance looms large in our minds. My words would seem strange to them.

“You would let this pass?” asked Svana. She seemed almost offended.

“You did.”

Svana’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared, I could see much of Siggurd in her then, though she had better control, if less humour,

“I was only his bodyguard, not his daughter. If you have given up your claim to vengeance, what right do I have to pursue my lesser claim and the strife that would follow?”

Some of the Kingsguard nodded. The shadows in the hall seemed to lessen, as if the eyes of the Gods were satisfied and passed on to other matters, We stood for a moment in silence, until High King Athelbjorn collected himself.

“Forgive me Ragnar Grimfang,” he said, looking at me. “I loved my father, but i could never forgive him for what he did, I challenged him to a duel to the death, you know.”

“You were barely more than a pup. Siggurd was the greatest warrior-king the North has seen for many years. It was a brave challenge, but it would be akin to a man fighting Furis the day after he finishes shield training.”

“Aye. Father said there would be no honour in it, after he knocked me down. I’ve never been much of a fighter.”

“The North has plenty of warriors. You are a good king Athelbjorn, I can see that in all of your deeds since The Spearmarch. If you believe that I was sent by the Gods to judge you, then take that to heart. As long as you are a good king, no one will seek to uncover your secrets. Even Wolki was more interested in protecting his own than finding some way of attacking you.”

“What do you mean, Ragnar?”

“The mystery of of how the Skaelings and Wights ambushed us on the Spearmarch involves a secret route used for smuggling. Wolki sought to kill me to protect that information. Instead, Ulfgorr met his fate.”

“That is good to know. I must say that you are not at all what I expected, Twiceborn.”

“Twenty years in Myrrhn have given me a different perspective, King Athelbjorn. Honour is not everything, especially to a man whose responsibilities extend further than his own sword arm. I have also seen the violence that some do to those closest to them, and learned to admire those who take what path they can to seek redress, even if it is a knife in the back. I will always admire your father for his deeds, and love him for the honour he showed me, but now that I know what he did to his family I will despise him for that. People are complicated and many of those you meet have a touch of the unexpected.”

“Well said. I will lift your exile, Ragnar Skyggesson. There will be a formal event later, but for now let me have the honour of welcoming you home.”

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The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whores’s War 3.53

This week’s Shadow Wolf is a bit late because I was at Fan Expo in Toronto. Since I was unable to make Gencon 50, this was our big con getaway this year. I have some pictures from the con at the end of this post.

You can find the first post in the series here.

Last week’s post is here.

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Athelbjorn came to his decision. His was the blade that betrayed his father, the face so long hidden from me, until I held old Siggurd’s blade before facing Ulfgorr. Perhaps his actions were the reason that I escaped death’s clutches and rose as a Twiceborn.

Svana reached the same conclusion as I did and she beat her brother to action.

“Guards, kill the exile!” she said.

The shadows in the hall deepened, and a low growl escaped the dark. The men heeded her orders and began to move. I did not draw my weapons.

“STOP!” roared Athelbjorn, his face twisting. Only when angry did he resemble his father.

The Kingsguard froze. Svana drew her blade, glaring at me and taking a step before her brother placed his hand on her shoulder to restrain her.

“I will not have good men sully these halls in my name,” said Athelbjorn. “Heed this Kingsguard: The gods have sent Ragnar Skyggesson here to judge me for my patricide. No matter what happens here you are not to defend me, that is an order. If my sister tries to kill him, restrain her.”

“This isn’t right, brother,” said Svana.

“You and I are not to be the judges of that, Svana,” said Athelbjorn. “Let Ragnar hear my explanation.”

Svana remained quiet, though she glared at me as if trying to murder me through sheer force of will.

“Do you remember my mother, Ragnar?”

Queen Freylorn had been a sturdy woman, much loved by Kingsguard. She had died a year before the battle on the Spearmarch, a terrible accident.

“Yes.”

“My mother and my father had an argument. He pushed her and she fell. That was the cause of her death,” said Athelbjorn. “The greatest hero in the North felled his own wife over a stupid argument. Then, when his back was turned in the battle his own son stabbed him in the back like a coward. I hoped to die that day, but the last of my father’s men saved me. It is only fitting that you have come to collect upon that blood debt, Ragnar Skyggesson, you were one of his Kingsguard and have suffered greatly for my actions. Let my last act be to revoke your exile.”

“No.”

Athelbjorn paused. Svana and the Kingsguard remained poised on the edge of action.

“If the gods wanted you dead Athelbjorn, Skygge would have given this secret to Thyra Hurnsdottir. She would have torn this hall down to get to you and stained the place with your blood. I have been exiled for twenty years, but my mind has not been idle. The ways of the North sometimes seem to demand unthinking vengeance. As Siggurd killed your mother, you killed him, and I should kill you as the final act of vengeance. But my time in Myrrhn has tempered my views. Blind vengeance at all costs is a kind of madness. I have seen how Kingshall has grown under your direction and how loyal your sister and your own Kingsguard are. That speaks well of you. That they did not rebuke of show surprise at your story makes me inclined to believe it to be true. Siggurd was a wrathful man, and sometimes such men have a harder time at peace than they do at war. So no, it will not be your last act as King, I think, at least not on my account.”

“You would forgive me?”

“Forgiveness is not the issue, really. If I struck you down, the North would be plunged into Chaos. Svana is next in line for the throne, but there are those who would question her fitness since she knew of your deed. It would also tarnish the image of your father as a hero of the wars against The Devout. Some would condemn him, others would defend him blindly. It would divide the realm, and our enemies would take advantage.”

“What will you do then?”

“I will return to Myrrhn, hopefully no longer an Exile…”

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Here are the Fan Expo 2017 pics:

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The lineup for photos and autographs in the smaller hall on Saturday.

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Ronan playing Mecard. The demo people for this game/toy were kind enough to entertain people’s kids… which I am grateful for.

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A clay dragon sculpted by one of the talented people at the con.

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There was a lot of cosplay at the con, better variety this year. My photos do not do the details justice at all.

 

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whore’s War 3.52

This is my weekly serial, written raw as a writing exercise.

You can find the first post in the series here.

Last week’s post is here.

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Athelbjorn awaited me in the Great Hall, looking pensive on this throne.  We were alone, save for a dozen heavily armed guards, at least two of which were ascended of some kind, and our bootfalls echoed in the vastness of the place.

Unlike the outside of King’s Hall, the Great Hall held to the traditions of old, being mostly made of wood. Intricate carvings lined the walls and pillars, depicting scenes of history and legend. The pillars nearest the throne, in plain view of the High King and anyone who addressed him, depicted the deeds of his father, Siggurd, the king whom I had served and died for, whom I might die for again.

The wood was fresh and fragrant; the carvings were replaced yearly. The scents of pine, oak, and ironwood mixing with smoke and the hints of a recent revel. It was a joyous smell, much at odds with the heavy occasion.

Svana stepped up to stand beside Athelbjorn. She was good at concealing her feelings, but her hand trembled as she turned to face me.

Athelbjorn stood as I knelt before him. It is not required for a Nordan to take the knee before the High King, but I was of the Kingsguard once… It took him a moment to speak.

“Ragnar Skyggesson, I thank you for returning my father’s sword. You have done us a great service, but this is a delicate matter. What else have you learned?”

“Or remembered,” added Svana.

As she spoke, the shadows seemed to deepen in the hall. Some of the Kingsguard gripped their weapons, muttering oaths to the gods under their breath, ready for battle. Athelbjorn and Svana watched me closely.

“I know who killed your father…”

Athelbjorn’s brow furrowed. A torch spluttered in the shadows of the hall. Svana’s eyes were wide. The Gods were watching us.

“… but it is the why of it that interests me now.”

Athelbjorn’s mouth tightened for a moment, but then he closed his eyes and nodded.

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A Teaser for Tuesday… er Wednesday.

This week’s teaser is from my newest book, Bloodlust: The Sum of Hate (Domains of the Chosen #7). I had trouble with the title for #7 for various, but I already know that I want to name #8: Bloodlust: Iron Faction. Here is the scene where they are introduced.

Vintia backed away, looking toward Teven. “Is that true?”

“They see it that way. The people leading the inquiry are asking pointed questions of members of the Legion. While some of us are capable of avoiding rhetorical traps, most Legionnaires are fighters, not talkers, and some of them get led into saying things that can be turned against Hephus. It is one of the reasons I am forbidden from talking to my own men while they wait to testify.”

The idea of Hephus being subjected to such treatment spurred Vintia forward once again. Just as she was considering shouldering into the line of artificers, a big, bearded man stepped forth.

“Greetings. I am Publius, leader of the Iron Faction.”

Vintia stood, her mouth working.

“Iron Faction?” asked Teven.

“We believe that it is time for artificers to have proper representation,” said Publius. “So, we formed our own faction.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” said Teven. “Now–”

“Iron Faction, gather and listen!” rumbled Publius, interrupting Teven. Immediately the raucous gathering of artificers shuffled into a semblance of silence and watchfulness as Publius’s fiery voice washed over them. “For too long have the Chosen and the High Assembly conspired to limit our power. You all know it; you have felt that oppressive hand, and you have seen that we are denied our own Chosen. Now these people persecute one of ours who has become a hero to the people, Centurion Hephus Krassius, just to make sure that we remain under heel. His Ungifted brethren have abandoned him to the tender mercies of Assemblyman Skavetz and the Arena Post. Well, I say enough is enough.”

Publius paused and was met with shouts of support.

“This inquiry is a grave injustice, but it is only the tip of the Kraken. For centuries, our talents have served the Chosen and the free citizens of Krass, and yet we are denied entry into either group. Our magic has built the steam waggons that carry goods across The Domains. Our hands have fashioned the pipes and conduits that provide newer, better power and water to The Empire. Our minds have created countless inventions from link crystals, to clockwork soldiers, to the great steam-powered Ironclads that keep this city safe!”

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whore’s War 3.51

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The Nordan are not revered as great builders, like The Archaeans or The Dwarves of Old Mithras. Our architecture is mostly wooden and quite functional. The one structure that people take interest in outside of The North is the Great Hall, our equivalent of palace, barracks, and forum all rolled into one.

This is my weekly serial, written raw as a writing exercise.

You can find the first post in the series here.

Last week’s post is here.

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King’s Hall was the Great Hall of the first High King of The Nordan, built when our gods still walked our lands, under the direction of Garm and Helma. At first it was merely a grandiose version of other Great Halls, built to house the representatives of all the clans and decorated with carvings and runes telling the history of our people.

Over time wood was replaced by stone and metal. Walls and towers were added in layers over time, after wars with enemies who could not be turned back by simple fortifications. Scars of particularly impressive sieges became trophies of their own, like the skull of the Dragon Racknir or the fortified camp of King Orlos of Dragmaar.

And as the Great Hall had grown, so had the little town in the bay that it overlooked. unity under the High King brought power and prosperity, which in turn brought trade and the needs of diplomacy, learning, and specialized craftsmen.

King’s Hall was not nearly as large as Myrrhn, and certainly not as cosmopolitan, but it was clean and it seemed to hum with purpose and vigour, and it’s markets were filled with goods from around the world.

It was a fine sight for eyes that had not seen Nordan lands in two decades. It was glorious, all of it, though I found myself looking to the statue of King Siggurd, my king, again. I frowned, once again thinking of that day on The Spearmarch, how he fell, and how I would soon have to confront his killer.

Sadly, I did not think that it was fated to be a glorious confrontation.

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A score of Brighthelms, the guardians of King’s Hall, met us at the docks. The mists were now dissapating and their polished armour glittered in the sun. A golden haired woman stood in front of them, dressed in familiar heraldry, the arms and armour of the King’s Guard but with the iconography of the royal lineage in place of clan markings.

“A hero’s welcome, Ragnar!” said Thyra. “The King’s Sister herself has come to meet you.”

In spite of myself, I smiled. I remembered Svana as a young woman, awkward and shy, always trying to stay out of the way. She had grown tall and strong and regarded me with no hint of shyness.

The people of the north do not bow to their kings and queens, but I inclined my head to Svana as an old gesture of respect. I hoped that she did not harbour me any bitterness. Her expression did not shift.

“Ragnar Skyggesson,” said Svana. “\I have been commanded to escort you to King;s Hall for an immediate audience. High King Athelbjorn wishes to speak to you about matters of import and will not tolerate any delays.”

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A few thoughts on Charlottesville

[This is not related to my writing, but I have to say something about it, if only to set it in my mind for later… Shadow Wolf Sagas will resume on Sunday, hopefully.]

A couple of days ago, I watched with horror and disgust as the most powerful man in the world lied to defend racists and traitors.

That President Donald J Trump lies is nothing new or surprising. At this point in his career only a fool would stand up for his honesty. But in a presidency defined by its lows, lying in the defence of the KKK and American Nazis marks a new low and a dangerous one at that.

During his remarks yesterday President Trump doubled down on his original comments that both the left and the right were equally responsible for the grim actions in Charlottesville that left Heather Heyer dead, and dozens wounded as a white supremacist rammed a car into a line of merchers.

His most brazen lie, that the Left-wing protesters did not have a permit to protest, went unchallenged, mostly unnoticed in a stream of ugly half truths. The Anti-Nazis actually had two permits to protest, making their presence just as legal. And yet the President’s lie was picked up and spread by his surrogates and supporters and used to give the KKK and the Nazis greater legitimacy by creating the narrative that they were there legally, while the Anti-Nazi protesters were not. He lied to defend ideologies that Americans have gone to war to defeat. He lied to defend groups who spread hate and murdered a woman this weekend. He lied to defend his allies and in doing so condoned their actions and fanned the flames of further violence.

Perhaps even uglier than the lies he told in defence of the KKK and the Nazis, was his equivocation on their behalf. The stated term for their gathering was to protest the removal of a statue of Robert E. Lee, the most celebrated general of the Confederacy. President Trump said that taking down Lee’s statue would open the way for the left to take down statues of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson since all three men were guilty of owning slaves. This argument enrages me. Comparing the first two Presidents of the United States to the leader of the Confederate army that sought to tear it apart during the Civil War is simply beyond the pale. Yes, all three men owned slaves and should be condemned for that, but two of them are proud figures in early American history, flaws and all, while Lee is a General of a hostile secessionist force, a traitor to the republic who sought to bring it down to preserve slavery.

One need only to glance at the founding documents of the Confederacy to know that slavery was the reason they broke away from the Republic, in spite of the popular fiction of state’s rights. President Trump does not care though; he needs allies and the Nazis and KKK are his most willing and ardent supporters at this point.

The further we get away from the weekend, the uglier the forces behind Charlottesville look. One need only read the words and look at the posters that were created to advertise the event to see that these were white supremacists. Richard Spencer, a Nazi by his own words and admission, was a headline guest. The protesters chanted “Jews will not replace us” and “Blood and soil”, lines which resonate with racist and fascist movements of the past. And yet, President Trump has dug in his heels and refuses to back off his equivocations and lies. While this has earned him a heap of criticism from most people, the Nazis and the KKK have praised him for his support; thus far he has not tweeted that he does not want their kudos. He has been far swifter and less equivocal in his criticism of everything under the sun (Except Russia), one need only look at his twitter feed to see the truth of that. He does not condemn them fully because he does not want to. It is sad and ugly, and it leaves me angry and deeply troubled.

Heather Hayer was killed at Charlottesville when a white supremacist rammed a car into a crowd of protestors. Nineteen more were injured. I have watched that terrible video and it will remain with me, as will the words and images of the vicious white supremacists who descended upon Charlottesville. As far as I am concerned the BLM/Antifa/Church Groups and others who showed up to confront them are heroes. I do not condone violence, but history has shown us what happens when you don’t stand up to Nazis.

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whores’s War 3.50

This is my weekly serial, written raw as a writing exercise.

You can find the first post in the series here.

Last week’s post is here.

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As the first Sea Fiends heaved onto the deck, I silently thanked Hurn that the sea was now calm enough for me to keep my footing.

Drawing my axe and hammer, I strode toward the nearest of the beasts, It was better armed and bigger than any of its kind that I had seen before, sporting a kind of chitenous armour over its scaled skin and wielding a polearm like a hooked spear, Huge black eyes narrowed and it hissed at me through a oversized round maw full of jagged teeth.

It was still hissing as I slid across the deck, ducked the hooked spear and smashed its knee with my warhammer. The leg buckled, bone crunching under the impact of good Nordan steel, and then it fell. I came up behind it, kikcing it in the head with my hobnailed boots as it floundered.

The Sea Fiends swarmed the ship, but they were met with sword and shield-wall. I saw Thyra on the bow opposite, silhouetted by flash of distant lightning, heaving one of them overboard on the end of her spear,

Two more came at me, branding their strange spears. I sidestepped a series of thrusts and then knocked one of the spears upward and rammed my shoulder into the Sea Fiend wielding it. The smell of salt and fish washed over me as the sturdy body gave way before my strength. As he fell I turned parried the attack of the second Sea Fiend with my hammer, bringing my axe down, chopping into the flesh of its neck with a splash of blood. The fallen Sea Fiend scrambled to get up , but my hammer met his skull ere he got his feet under him.

Bellowing victory I strode toward the next Sea Fiend. All around me, the crew were driving the Sea Fiends back. I met the cold black eyes of my foe, but before I could close he turned and leapt back into the water.

“Coward,” I cursed, looking around.

The Sea Fiends were abandoning their attack. I saw precious few Nordan among the bodies on the deck.

Thyra strode over to me, grinning.

“They must have mistaken us for a merchant ship,” she said.

“How did they even know where to find us out here?”

“The gods favoured us with a chance encounter,” said Thyra. “Most of us, at least. The scaled fuckers roam the waters, following the cod, They attack lone ships and other vulnerable targets.”

“We never hear of them in Myrrhn.”

Thyra laughed. “I’ve heard that the merchants of Myrrhn actually pay them for safe passage. Can you imagine?”

“I can. I can also imagine them paying them to attack their rivals. Such is Myrrhn.”

We laughed.

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The ship’s rudder was damaged in the attack, and it took half-a-day to fix it. But after the Sea Fiends we encountered no storms and unusually easy sailing all the way to Nordan lands.

We began to pass other longships, flying the colours of many clans and kin groups. Some of them passed close, sharing news. More than a few them asked after me by name, hailing me for slaying Ulfgorr. The ships of my own clan, The Shadow Wolves, ignored us.

After seven days of good sailing I spotted the high peaks of the Giant’s Teeth mountains, and perched upon a cliff overlooking a mist-clad bay, the great fortress known as King’s Hall.

I was home.

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A Teaser For Tuesday

This week’s teaser is from my new book, Bloodlust: The Sum of Hate, which is out now on Amazon. This work sees the action return to the Arena as Sadira now faces a duel of honour against a fellow Chosen, prefaced by a full blown tournament where each Chosen fields a team, fighting to earn advantages in the final match.

Not all of the Stitched wore furs and leather, and when Green Glory cut down one of the Zombies that was wearing and iron breastplate, she saw her score jump by several points, briefly overtaking Kingblade’s. As soon as this registered she started looking for the metal-clad Stitched and pushed her way toward the closest one. A mace handed Zombie smashed her side as she pushed, but she sent it sprawling with a flick of her horn and then brought her axe down onto the armoured figure, cleaving through the helm and spilling its pickled brain.

Kingblade saw Green Glory’s score jump ahead of his, and he began to surge into the horde as well, cutting down Zombies with powerful strokes. As they closed around him, one of them gouged his leg with a jagged hook, slowing him down for a moment. He growled and crushed its head with a powerful backhand.

Both Gladiators were fighting hard now, drenched with sweat and breathing hard. Many of the spectators were on their feet, shouting praises for their favourite. In the Platinum Circle Lounge, a round of late betting was taking place, with princely sums wagered on the exact spread of points.

The undead, relentless and vicious, pulled at the Gladiators. Each of their steps became a burden. An especially energetic Zombie leapt onto Green Glory’s back, clawing at her head with the hooked blades that were attached to its wrists instead of hands. Reaching back, she tossed it into the fray and then pushed forward again, crushing more foes underfoot while she looked for more of the armoured Stitched.

Kingblade’s sword became a blur of steel and blood, chopping through every Stitched around him. Though he now realized that the metal armoured zombies were worth more points, he did not push toward them, opting instead to kill those within easy reach as quickly as possible. Every stroke brought two or more down, soaking the sands around him red with blood and littering it with severed limbs and broken bodies.

Green Glory saw Kingblade’s score surge upward; she was losing ground. She shouldered toward the closest metal clad Stitched, but the ranks of her foes did not buckle. Bellowing she pushed into them again, toppling and crushing some, but she was not able to get to her target. Then she pushed a third time, half pushing, half leaping over the wall of the undead.

The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whore’s War 3.49

This is my weekly serial, written raw as a writing exercise.

You can find the first post in the series here.

Last week’s post is here.

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After saying my farewells to Git, Murith, and Renoit I met Thyra at the Nordan port in the Shadow of Cassander’s shield. I was still favoured in the eyes of my Nordan brethren, who were alight with the afterglow of my triumph over Ulfgorr.

The Twins and Carmen escorted me to the dock. We talked of the Union and the need for healing along the way, The shadow of recent trials was passing, and there was a great opportunity for the Doxies to set a brave new direction for the future, one which balanced personal freedom with compassion.

“We will miss you, old wolf,” said Vethri after a farewell kiss.

Eiskra just clung to me, vacillating between indignation that I might leave and farewell sadness.

“Enough,” I said. “If all goes well I will be coming back before the winter storms. If I am lucky my exile will be revoked, but I will not abandon you if it is. Only death can keep me from you, ladies.”

“And perhaps not even that,” said Carmen.

“Alright, go,” said Eiskra, stepping back.

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The Longship I boarded belonged to the sons of Harald Magnisson, friends from a battle beneath the city, the same that claimed Madame Glorianna’s life. They greeted me as I boarded and gave me the best quarters that could be found on such a ship.

As we cast off, powerful oar strokes causing the boat to leap forward, I stood watching the docks. My sharp senses let me keep my friends in sight until we were far enough out on the water for them to give the sail full reign.

I was glorious to be aboard such a ship once again, agile and strong, riding the waves like a beast of the sea. Soon I found myself laughing with Thyra and the crew, enjoying the wind and the salt spray of the ocean as we cut through the water like a blade.

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“Shouldn’t we be closer to land for a storm like this?” I asked, nervously scanning the black clouds overtaking us. Lightning played in the distance.

Thyra laughed. “Look at those waves Ragnar. This is no day to be close to land; we would be dashed to kindling against the rocks.”

“Lovely.”

“Think of it as an honour, brother. Hurn has sent a mighty storm to speed you homeward!”

“Remind me to thank him if I live through this.”

Thyra laughed. Soon after the storm washed over us. The wind came first, howling and gusting, followed shortly by the stinging rain. Then the waves came, getting bigger and bigger until it seemed that we were riding up and down mountains.

Thyra and Harald’s sons were of clan Sea Wolf, and there are no finer sailors to my knowledge, but that storm was unnatural. I heard more than a few of those bold men and women muttering prayers to mighty Hurn. Thyra, of course, was perfectly amused and her laughter carried over the boom of thunder and the sounds of the angry ocean.

My stomach lurched at the peak of each wave. I’d seen my share of storms, but none like this. And then, just as the worst of it seemed past, lightning flashed above us, and in the brightness after I could see ominous black shapes in waters around us.

“Sea Fiends!”

“Thank Hurn!” shouted Thyra. “I was getting bored. To arms men!”

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The Shadow Wolf Sagas: The Whore’s War 3.48

This is my weekly serial, written raw as a writing exercise.

You can find the first post in the series here.

Last week’s post is here.

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Much to everyone’s surprise Diamond Silvermane did not pout or snarl when the vote came and The Twins defeated her handily.

While the Doxies’s did not like paying dues to the Union, they enjoyed what they got for their money. With my name cleared in the murder of Rake, the thoughts of the membership turned to less sensational interests, such as what kind of leadership they wanted going forward. The Twins offered compassion and unity. Diamond Silvermane offered lower fees and an organization that would help the very best achieve their goals.

In the end, trust carried the day more than any ideological message.

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After the vote Union Hall exploded into celebration.  The Whores’s War was over. The Doxies’s had been under a lot of pressure since the death of Madame Glorianna; I could feel it lifting as music, laughter, and happy voices filled the building.

The Doxies were all dressed in their finest, be it formal or flamboyant, and it was quite the sight as they got up and moved, conversing and dancing. The riot of colours, the mix of styles, scents, and sensibilities was almost overwhelming. I watched as high-class whores from Old-Town brothels danced with burly doormen from Cliffshadow, and Joyboys from Burning Hill laughed with dockside streewalkers.

I smiled as I saw Vethri and Eiskra engaging in animated conversation with Diamond Silvermane across the room. No doubt they were arguing about the direction of the Union, but at least no one was drawing weapons or taking out contracts.

The merriment lasted late into the evening, with ale and wine flowing freely. It was not the worst way to end a war, I suppose.

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Thyra arrived a week later, having born my gift to the High King, Skaeld, and his sister, Vidra.

“They were mighty pleased to receive the sword, Ragnar,” related Thyra. “They have invited you to attend them, as quickly as you can. You may not be an exile for much longer, my friend.”

I nodded, thinking about the identity of old Siggurd’s killer.

“You don’t seem happy, old wolf,” said Thyra. “What did you uncover?”

“I learned that the ambush might have occurred because my clan has a secret pathway through the Spearmarch that the Skraelings stumbled on.”

“Garm’s eye!” exclaimed Thyra. “I knew it! No wonder Wolki has been skulking about; the Shadow Wolves killed our king.”

“Wait, wait Thyra. Before you start a clan war, Wolki had nothing to do with High King Siggurd’s death. The treacherous blow came from someone else.”

“Who?” she asked.

“That is a message that I must bring to the High King and his sister. It is a sensitive matter, you see.”

Thyra’s brow furrowed and she fixed me with a baleful glare. I did not blame her for this; she still wanted vengeance for our dead king. Had she known what I knew she would have started a war.

“It is not as dramatic as you think Thyra. The drama ended long ago. I am not even certain that anything will come from what I know.”

Thyra’s jaw worked.

“Thyra, you will have to trust that Siggurd’s children will know what to do with what I have learned. They are good rulers, are they not?”

“Aye, I trust them. Truth be told they have better judgement than their father in most things.”

I laughed. Siggurd had been a great man, but his temperamental. “And so we owe it to them to decide how they will seek redress. It may not be directly.”

Thyra nodded. “I don’t like the sound of that, but I can see the right of it.”

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