Valor and Violence

The trio had departed on Windshear as soon as they recovered.

Aaand they had retrieved the healer Ingrid had beaten. She had been rather ambivalent, but Ferez insisted. Leo had been grumbling about being the errand boy when he set off, and was still grumbling when he came back with the terrified mage in tow. Apparently being thrashed by a patient, then waking up to find everyone else in the outpost dead was a traumatic experience. Still, aside from having to calm the man while listening to Leo bitch in his ear about not being a servant, it had been good to get some time alone with Ingrid.

He had said yes, of course, he would have been mad not to, and for a while things had seemed like they were back to usual.

Especially after a bout of passionate lovemaking that made him consider calling for a healer again afterwards.

But as Windshear had taken to the wing, and they had made steady progress north, she had become withdrawn and snappy once again. He had tried to talk to her about it when they landed each night to make camp, but she had brushed his questions and concerns aside, saying she wasn’t looking forward to seeing her family again. If that was true, Ferez dreaded what was coming.

His apprehension only grew as Windshear skimmed across the tops of a permafrost forest, the smoke from Jarl Steinhaut’s longhall rising before them. If nothing else, at least he’d enjoy huddling around the fire. They had procured appropriate clothing for the environment whilst travelling through Calandor; thick fur cloaks, scarves and gloves to ward off the chill, but though the air was mercifully clear of snow at the moment, the sky still hung low in a smooth unbroken sheet of white cloud to mirror the snow covered ground.

And then they were above the village. The hall sat in the middle of what would be considered a tiny hamlet anywhere else, but by Skjar standards, it was practically a city. Maybe a kilometre in diameter, dotted with small log cabins with adjacent animal pens housing caribou. They looked up and grunted in panic as Windshear soared overhead. The predator pulled at the reins; the sound tugging at the beast’s instincts, but Leo kept him controlled enough to wing over to the longhall proper.

As the griffon landed, tossing its head in irritation, Ferez leapt off its back, the snow crunching under his boots. He straightened up and inspected the hall. Though devoid of ornamentation, it was an admittedly impressive building, easily four meters tall, made from rough-hewn blocks of black stone, topped by thick logs that would have taken a team of mules to drag along the ground. Ferez had no clue how they had gotten them on top of the structure. The smoke he had seen on the way in was rising from a wide brick chimney in the very centre of the structure.

“Ho! Who goes there?” a voice shouted. Ferez turned his head to find a group of warriors cautiously approaching the griffon.

Ferez ignored them and extended a hand to help Ingrid down as she addressed her countrymen.

“Fruja Luftfaust and… attendants. My father sent for me.”

Interestingly, the tension in the group didn’t disappear, just changed slightly.

“Greetings, Fruja. The Jarl mentioned you’d be coming. Didn’t mention you’d be riding in on a beast like that, though.”

“Yes, well, I’m here now, beast and all. I’ll need someplace to stable it, out of the snow if you please. It’s used to the cold, but not snow.”

The speaker for the group, a tall warrior with his long hair tied in twin braids down his back and a crude bar of woad across his eyes, whispered something to the man next to him. The man ran off into the village.

“Sven will find a spot for it. Come on in, I’ll announce you to the Jarl.”

Ingrid nodded and strode towards them. Ferez told Leo to stay with Windshear and followed her.

“How are we going to play this?” he whispered in her ear.

“You are going to keep your mouth shut. I’ll do the talking. If I’m lucky, it’ll be an exchange of pleasantries, an invitation to stay. Nothing more.”

“And if we’re unlucky?”

Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. “Then it will devolve into a screaming match. Again.”

Ferez chuckled. “So definitely a screaming match, then?”

She shot him a sharp glare, but the way her lips were pursed told him he was right. He sighed. “Alright, let’s get this done.”

The speaker pushed the great double doors open, and they followed him into the warm, smoky interior.

“Jarl Steinhaut, Fruja Luftfaust and… her attendant, have arrived.”

The longhall was exactly what Ferez had imagined on the flight up. A series of long benches ran the length of the rectangular room, with doors dotted along the sides leading into what he assumed were bedrooms or storage areas. Every bench had kegs sitting atop it at intervals of no more than a meter, with a ragged horde of drunk Skjar fighting over each one. Mostly they seemed content to drink and bicker, with only a couple of brawls he could see. There was also a smaller, slightly more sober group attending to a deer roasting on a spit over the central fire. The smell made his mouth water, and he secretly hoped the introductions could be wrapped up quickly so he could sample some.

Through the plume of smoke rising from the fire, he could just make out a raised platform at the back of the hall, supporting a large wooden chair that in turn supported an absolute giant of a man. As soon as Ingrid spotted him, she marched forward, hands balled into fists at her sides, leaning forward into her gait to better shove aside the drunk reavers stumbling into her path. Ferez followed with an amused smile.

This would be interesting.

Ingrid stopped just short of the platform, locking eyes with the man. They glared at each other for long seconds, and Ferez took the time to inspect him closer. He was old, positively ancient, by the standards of non-mages. At a guess, Ingrid’s age alone would put him somewhere in the vicinity of ninety years old. But the Skjar were notoriously hardy and long lived, pending the fact they tended to die violent deaths. But if they could survive past their raiding years, they were known to stay hale and hearty well past one hundred before spontaneously dropping dead.

And this specimen was Skjar through and through. Even seated, Ferez could tell he towered over the warriors bustling about the hall, and his broad shoulders retained much of the muscle of his youth. His sedentary senior years had resulted in a sizeable pot belly, poking out between his finely crafted fur cloak, but beyond that he looked ready to march onto the battlefield. He wore an ornate chest plate that covered his ribs, and bulky pauldrons styled like roaring bears. On his head was a jewelled crown that was partway between a functional open faced helm and ceremonial headdress. The spiked flanges on either side of his face and over his nose formed an ‘m’ shape that framed a heavily wrinkled face and hard, blue eyes. His lips were twisted in a scowl.

“My beloved daughter, returned at last. Tell me, how many years has it been?” he said dryly, before taking a slurp from a horn of mead.

“Not enough, father.”

He growled. “You will address me as Jarl in this hall, daughter. Or else I’ll have you thrown out and take your slaves as payment.”

Ingrid bristled at the insult, but Ferez was too busy bristling himself to notice. He was nobodies’ slave, and he would be more than happy to clear up the misconception through extreme violence if necessary.

“As you wish… Jarl. I am here because you extended an invitation to the wedding. I have no interest in overstaying my welcome. Especially since you made it clear last time I was here that this is no longer my home.”

The Jarl slammed his horn on the table, dregs of mead flying out the top as he stood. “Aye, it isn’t. If tradition didn’t demand it, I’d have never seen you in here again, the shame you caused me and this hall.” He calmed, settling himself back into his throne. “But I had to do what was proper, so here you are.”

Windshear screeching outside interrupted the conversation and the Jarl absently looked in the direction of the sound. “By the Ice Father,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Where the bloody Pit did you get a griffon? It doesn’t matter, just keep it away from Blase.”

On hearing its name, something stirred behind the throne. It rose to its feet, obscured in the shadow and smoke from the roasting fire, and lumbered into view beside the throne. Ferez’s eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step back.

A Skjar Ice Pig!

The thing made a full-grown grizzly bear look petite by comparison. It stood six feet tall at the shoulders despite being on all fours, and was easily eight feet long. It’s hide was covered in black, matted fur but its face was bare and covered in thick brown skin that looked like hard-boiled leather. Two tusks, close to a foot long and curved wickedly upwards, protruded from the jaw, which itself was filled with long, canine teeth. A thick black tongue lolled out of its mouth and it turned its head to the side, panting happily as the Jarl scratched under its chin. The Jarl was whispering, ‘who’s a good boy?’ to it as he scratched. Windshear screeched again and the pig’s head snapped towards the sound, a deep grunt escaping its throat.

“Easy, boy,” the Jarl said, soothing the beast by stroking its hide. “Ingrid, can you do something about that fucking bird before Blase gets upset?”

Ingrid scowled, then waved Ferez off to go see what the problem was. He looked between them, uncertain, then acquiesced, turning on his heel to leave the warm hall. It would only take him a minute and even Ingrid couldn’t get into too much trouble in that time.

He found Leo trying to calm the griffon where he had left them. The bird was rearing on its hind legs and tossing its head. A gaggle of jittery Skjar warriors had surrounded it, weapons in hand.

“Leo!” Ferez called to get the man’s attention. “What is going on?”

“I don’t know! Windy was fine, then he sniffed the air and started acting crazy!”

Ferez thought he knew what was going on. “He can probably smell the ice pig.”

“There’s an actual ice pig here?” Leo asked, turning to Ferez with his mouth ajar. “What’s it like?”

“Huge and terrifying,” Ferez said, matter-of-factly. “But that’s probably what set the griffon off. Two apex predators this close? They’re bound to want to fight.”

“So, what do we do?”

“First, you try to get him under control,” Ferez said, then turned to one of the Skjar. “Are there any structures near the edge of the village? Far away enough that the pig and the bird can’t sense each other?”

The man rubbed his chin as he thought. “Aye, there’s Blase’s old pen a little ways into the forest. The Jarl kept him there while he was being domesticated. He still maintains it, he’s a bit sentimental in his old age, but it’s definitely big enough to house your bird, and there’s a sizeable building attached to keep it out of the snow.”

Ferez nodded. While he had been talking, Leo had soothed Windshear and was even now rubbing a comforting hand up and down the side of the predator’s vicious beak. He nodded to acknowledge the conversation and started leading the griffon, following the Skjar to the pen. Satisfied the issue was resolved, Ferez returned to the hall.

He broke into a run when he heard shouts and screaming from inside. He threw open the doors to find a scene of utter chaos. The Skjar were rioting, smashing tankards and horns over heads and throwing each other over benches. If there were sides, Ferez couldn’t make heads nor tails of them, as he spotted Ingrid through the mess, standing on the raised platform. She was shouting at the Jarl, waving a finger in his face while he pointedly ignored her with a resigned look on his face. Interestingly, there was another woman by the throne as well. As Ferez approached through the throng, trying to avoid being floored by a stray elbow or foot, he noticed she looked remarkably like Ingrid, if much older. The woman, who he assumed to be Ingrid’s mother, was also busy shouting, at the Jarl and Ingrid in turns.

Blase was, thankfully, back asleep behind the throne.

As Ferez neared the trio, Ingrid turned around, red faced and breathing heavily from the exertion. Her eyes lit up when she saw Ferez, and he gulped. It wasn’t the pure, innocent light of joy and excitement one felt when looking at a lover. It was the frenzied, manic light of a very pissed off woman who’s just had an idea.

“And one more thing!” she shouted, turning back to her father. “That Emrinthian isn’t my slave! He’s my betrothed!”

The riot stopped in an instant, hands still wrapped around throats, stools poised in the air mid-swing, but all eyes were turned to him.

“… Val’s tits.”