Egil

Embersea.

That's how the people who lived in the Wildlands used to call the realm beyond the river. The worshippers of the Lord of the Morning believed that the land itself was cursed. They claimed it was the scourge God unleashed upon the elves as punishment for their sins, a way to strip them of their pride. Egil had never thought too much about it. As long as they stayed away from the Wildlands, the White Gowns could say whatever they wanted.

Why should he, a proud warrior of house Strom, care about it? The Lord of the Morning wasn't his God. He worshiped the ancestors, men of flesh and blood who had gained everlasting fame fighting and killing their enemies in the field of battle. Yet, even without considering his personal beliefs, why would a God continue to punish such a wretched race?

Of course, the Temple had other ideas.

The cataclysm that had wrecked their lands, pushed an entire race to the brink of extinction and left the rest of the elves to wander in a dead land, was merely the beginning. Half of the worshippers believed that the elves should be left alone to their torment, while the other half wanted to finish what God had begun, exterminating them once and for all.

However, both sides agreed on one thing: the elves had to stay in their cage. They were an impure race. They couldn't be allowed to leave the Embersea and spread their corruption outside, not even as slaves.

Egil used to dismiss such notions as superstitions, to scorn the men that believed in such nonsense deeming them gullible fools or fanatics. However, looking at the grim faces of his men marching on the rocky bank of the Brimstone's river, he wasn't sure of that anymore. He had left his demesne of Strom End three months ago leading the best Warband the Wildlands have ever seen. Five hundred men he had chosen among the best shield brothers of his host, warriors whose only purpose was to plunder, fight and die as any real son of Oril should.

They were warriors forged by countless battles, not levies drafted to fill the ranks of an army. They wore chainmail, carried steel weapons and displayed their rings with pride. They had departed with the sound of warhorns when the first snow already lapped upon the highest peaks. At that moment Egil should have recognized the signs for what they really were: an omen, forecasting the end of Summer.

It wasn't the only warning he'd received.

"Summer is the time for war, not winter!" His old friend Thorvald had said, but even if his words rekindled Egil's fears, he'd chosen to ignore them, sure of the strength of his men and his capability as a leader, the undefeated Warlord.

Yet, despite everything, the campaign had begun under the best auspices.

They had traveled fifty leagues from their stronghold on the slopes of the Dawn mountains to the Pine Hills, the ancestral lands of the Lindbergs. The moral of his men had been high, and laughs and songs, talk of glory and plunder had circled around the campfires at night.

They'd crossed the murky waters of the Brimstone to travel across the Black waste, a plagued plain scorched by fire and sudden dust storms. However, it was when they'd reached the Asp Ridge, that huge snake slithering in the middle of the Emberrsea, that the things really took a turn for the worse. They were scrambling on the mountain's crest when the snowstorm struck without warning. They'd lost half a dozen horses falling down a ravine, but it was the icy bite of the wind blowing like a sharp blade that had reaped the first human victim.

That and the same people they were hunting, the elves. In less than a week, Egil had lost more than twenty men because of the elves relentless ambushes. He and his men had pursued their prey inside that stone maze, losing men at every turn. The elves were like shadows, elusive and sly, hiding in the most recondite clefts to lure them into impossible battles. When an avalanche had claimed the lives of a half-dozen men, Thorvald had advised him to turn back, that even rocks could be used as a weapon by the cunning hunter. His old friend had suggested, or at least implied, that the elves were the architects behind all disasters they'd had met since the beginning.

Arrows and ambushes were only the most obvious threat, not the real one. The mountain itself was against them. Egil, of course, had dismissed everything his friend had said as superstitions. Thorvald was a Pathseeker, one of the few men who dared to face the dangers of the Embersea without an army accompanying him. Egil respected the old man but never shared his beliefs.

Yet, it was a fact he had been constantly outsmarted by someone he considered weak, merely a step above an animal. He had been unable to accept it. Gradually, his eagerness to catch the elves had turned into something different: a growing obsession no different from madness. He was like a foaming beast. He could see his prey, almost touch it, but he wasn't able to catch it.

However, despite his efforts, it was only a week later when the elves finally stopped running. Egil had thought that he cornered them and they were forced into a last stand by his relentless pursuit. However, he'd soon realized that they'd stopped escaping only because there was no need to run anymore. They had stalled his Warband long enough and gave their tribe the chance to escape. The battle that followed was merely a small skirmish. The elves were ill-equipped with bows and knives, and they simply didn't have the means to oppose an army in open battle. Egil and his shield-brothers had won, but it was an empty and bitter victory. Too many warriors had fallen. To make things worse, most of the elves they'd captured were old people, weakened by the cold and deprivations.

They were just burdens and that why the elves had abandoned them. Egil should have done the same, but he couldn't leave them behind and render the death of his warriors even more useless than it already was. Half of them died during the return journey while the value of the remaining elves as slaves was barely enough to cover the expenses of the campaign.

The price of pride they say, but whose? Egil thought as he watched the miserable figures of the elves marching in shackles at the end of the column. They were strange creatures, short and slim with sharp faces and ridiculous pointed ears. Did they feel the same way after the cataclysm? Guilt was something new to him, something he seldom felt.

It was way worse than the shame of defeat, because no matter who won, that was a defeat for him. He couldn't help but think about what Thorvald had said before departing from Strom End.

"Mark my words Egil Strom: pride and arrogance will be your downfall. You are too used to winning, but there are things even a Warlord can't beat. You Alhstroms are all proudful and not without reason, but bringing your host to the Embersea so close to Winter is madness!"

"I am not an Alhstrom" His curt reply had been.

"Strom or Alhstrom, same blood, and same breed. Even a mule has more common sense than you!"

You were right, old friend.

As he rode his horse, his back a bit more hunched than before, Egil surveyed what was left of his Warband. Ashes and snow were falling from the skies, the rotten stench of the Brimstone permeating the air. Even during winter those murky waters never froze. On the contrary, the river always boiled and the vapors produced by it, condensed in a thick mist enveloping most of the two hundred leagues that divided the Embersea from the Wildlands.

"Warlord" Thorvald said, his horse trotting until it stopped at Egil's side.

The Pathmaker had seen more than sixty winters, but his knotted beard was still thick like a bush, his skin tough like the bark of old but stubborn wood. He was well aware he couldn't escape time, yet refused to surrender to it. He was a fighter, the old friend of his, and he was on the warpath.

He scowled at him before pointing at the parapets of the five meters stone wall looming on the other side of the bridge, "We reached the gate." He informed him, doing his duty as his second in command before galloping away, returning to the end of the column.

He will need time to forgive me. If he ever will. After the battle with the elves, Egil and the Pathmaker hadn't talked unless absolutely necessary. Thorvald blamed him, and unfortunately, he was right. It was all his fault.

The column marched in silence, and no song was played when the remaining shield brothers crossed over the bridge and approached the Brimgate, the old fort separating the realm of men from the most dangerous land of the known world.

"Open the gates!" Shouted one of the men standing on the parapets.

The guards sprung into action, the portcullis slowly raising when two of them turned the winch, lifting the counterweights. The tattered banner of the Thunderbolt didn't flutter in the wind when Egil and the Warband crossed the gate. There was a stifling immobility in the air like the wind itself knew about their defeat.

Egil gritted his teeth. The shame he was feeling was branded on his skin, but he couldn't leave the wound to fester, the loss of trust to become permanent. Therefore, he stood tall and pretended nothing had happened. Maybe if he was able to convince himself he was still the same man, the undefeated Warlord everyone feared and respected, his men would believe it too.

His expression changed, stiffening like his entire face was frozen, stern and harsh like winters in these lands. He looked at the fort with distaste, noticing another piece of the wall had fallen during their absence.

Up close the fortifications were less formidable than they'd seemed at first. The fort's walls were crumbling, and the stone blocks fallen from a nearby tower filled the yard. It seemed abandoned, and the guards, maybe two dozen men or so, standing on the parapets were completely insufficient to defend the realm.

However, Egil knew that defending the fort wasn't the point. The Brimgate had been built nine hundred years ago, and in all that time the elves had never attacked. Its function wasn't to keep the elves outside but to prevent the lords of the realm to hunt them without discrimination.

After all, a good shepherd knows you can shear a sheep many times, but you can skin it only once. Elves were valuable slaves, and house Alhstrom had no intention to lose their gold mine at the hands of greedy lords or Temple zealots.

A youth approached Egil when he dismounted. The Warlord looked at him with revulsion. The man was young, beardless like a southerner and scared like a little girl. He had no rings on his fingers or trophy to remember his feats. According to their customs, he wasn't a warrior but a boy and yet, he was the commander of the fort.

"This is a disgrace." One of his warriors grumbled, and Egil slightly nodded, completely agreeing with him.

Henrich Lind clutched his fur closer like he was freezing, but it was just the beginning of winter, a warm day in the Wildlands.

He is soft and flaccid like a Fyollum's whore.

Egil spat, immediately taking a sip from his flask, the mead washing the bitter taste in his mouth.

"Lord Strom" Henrich Lind said with some hesitation, glancing at the men at arms behind Egil.

"The horses need fodder and my men a hot meal..." Egil trailed off.

How should I call him? He had no intention to call him commander. That's for sure.

"Of course my lord. The Brimgate is yours."

Egil twisted his mouth as the commander curtsied like a Summermer lordling. While the guards were busy taking care of the horses, Henrich Lind glanced at him as if he wanted to ask something.

"My lord, where is the rest of your..." The commander gulped when Egil glowered at him, cowering like he was about to strike him. Egil just stared at him, but that simple glance almost turned his bowels into water.

"Uh?" Egil grunted, "Did you say something?"

Lind shook his head repeatedly, wiping the sweat off his brow when Egil took a step back. The nervous youth wasn't short, but the Warlord towered over him.

"My lord" He panted. It seemed he was still short of breath, trying to regain control of his emotions, "A missive arrived for you when you were beyond the river."

A missive? Here?

Egil frowned. A raid beyond the wall could last several months, and his departure wasn't a secret.

What's so urgent to send it here?

The frown on his square face deepened when he removed the red wax.

Lord Egil Strom, Warlord of Strom End

Tumultuous storms approach the Lands of Warriors, and a grim shadow looms over us all, threatening our very way of life.

It employs deception and ploy, whispers and tricks instead of honest steel. Now more than ever the sons of Oril must stand together against the common foe.

We invite you to join us in the Halls of Pines at winter peak.

Don't linger Undefeated Warlord! It will be a gathering of heroes this land had never seen since the days of the Cataclysm!

An ominous feeling seeped inside Egil's heart when he looked at the heraldic crests. Daalgard, Kaalund, Dahl, Lindberg, Gilwood, Hartway. Except the BellBornes and Alhstroms most of the great houses of the Wildlands were there. That wasn't the only problem.

It's too vague! Warriors don't talk that way! Most of the lords can't even write!

This wasn't their way. Learned people were scorned in these lands. What troubled him most was that drawing at the end.

It was the Oaktree and thunderbolt of Alhstrom house, a crest he knew all too well. However, something was different. The tree: it was burning.

Is it the work of a Glorysing? Snowflakes fell from his braided blonde beard when he decisively shook his head.

A Glorysing could write a thing like this if needed, but Egil knew it was extremely unlikely. Proud like peacocks, and almost as mysterious as Pathmakers, Glorysings were warriors as much as they were storytellers and wardens of their traditions. They would never lower themselves to do something like this. Unless, of course, the Brotherhood was involved and both Glorysings and Pathmakers had decided to take a stance on the silent battle raging in the Wildlands, the internal struggle that was devouring the realm from the inside. That was a disturbing thought. However, there was just one way to know for sure. He raised his head and looked for Thorvald, only to realize the old man was already walking toward him.

Probably he'd realized something was wrong and he wasn't the only one. Many of his men had stopped unloading their horses and were nervously looking at him.

"What are you looking at?" He barked at them, "Get back to work!"

Egil didn't wait to see if they obeyed his orders. He grabbed Henrich's arm and squeezed it, his fingers like a pincer as they twisted the metal of his vambrace.

"Find us someplace safe from prying eyes." He hissed.

The commander winced in pain but showed incredible readiness. He nodded twice before leading him and Thorvald into the barracks.

"What is it?" Thorvald asked Egil when they walked through the door, the warmth of the hearth welcoming them after a long journey in the cold. Egil looked around. There were some guards resting on their straw beds, but they were far from them.

"Read it." He said and handed the letter to Thorvald. He searched his old friend's face for clues, but there was only dread in the older man's green eyes. The contents of the letter had spooked him.

He didn't know.

Egil sighed with relief. Only the members really knew about the inner workings of the Brotherhood, but Egil was sure that Thorvald's position in the organization was quite high.

Which mean the Brotherhood isn't involved.

Still, that didn't make the threat any less dangerous. He needed to know more.

"When?"He asked the commander, and Lind, who was looking at them with curiosity, jumped like he was struck by lightning, "When did the missive arrive?" Egil repeated, approaching him.

"T-three w-weeks ago my l-lord" He stammered, lowering his head.

"Look at me" Egil ordered, and the man raised his head, his dark green eyes shifting to avoid Egil's gaze.

The blood of the warriors is thin in this one. Probably that was why he was sent here in the first place. House Lind was small and weak, but they were related by blood to the powerful Lindbergs of the Pinewood.

And their current lord is the warden of the Brimgate. Egil remembered.

There had to be some reason if a cadet son like him hadn't joined Strom Host as tradition dictated and instead chose an empty command like this one.

Probably the Lindbergs didn't want him to bring shame to the house. The boy is a coward.

"What did happen in the realm during my absence?"He asked.

Henrich Lind trembled like a leaf, "A-Ann Copperton ascended the throne."

Egil waved his hand, signaling him to keep talking. The roses of the south had lost their thorns long ago. The coronation of a puppet queen was irrelevant to him.

"Marulf Kaalund led an offensive against the pirates of Redtails for the control of the strait. He killed the..."

"What else?" Egil interrupted him.

"F-forgive me my lord, but I d-don't know anything else.." Henrich stuttered, but Egil noticed that he was avoiding his gaze. It wasn't just out of fear. He was still withholding something.

"What is it?"

Lind hesitated, "L-lord Egil, they are only voices. I don't know if.."

"Spit it out!"Egil thundered, and many guards turned to look at them, yet no one tried to interfere.

Egil snorted.

The Commander is a rabbit. What do I expect from his men?

"I-It's Lord Alfric!" Egil frowned when he heard his shrill voice, "It seems he granted the Temple's army safe passage."

Egil and Thorvald exchanged a glance, concern and anger showing on their faces.

"That's not all, is it?" He clenched his fists, "Talk!"

"T-They say their knights are gathering for..." Henrich swallowed hard, "...a Holy raid. They say...they are coming here to exterminate the elves." His voice trailed off.

A holy raid? And my uncle agreed to that? Impossible. Egil couldn't believe it. No, he didn't want to believe it.

Egil noticed Henrich was still around and grunted, "Give us some space, boy."

The "commander" of the Brimgate immediately ran away without a shred of dignity. Egil had no time to think about him at the moment.

"Do you think it's true?" He asked Thorvald.

"This is not the first concession the Highlord makes." The Pathmaker admitted, confirming his fears, "...but it could be the last."

Egil's jaw twinged, "They won't do it."

"There is a reason if they summoned you." Thorval pointed at the drawing of the burning tree and then went to the window. The Pathmaker looked out and Egil followed his gaze, his heart thudding. Thorvald was looking at his banner, the Thunderbolt of Strom House.

His old friend pinned him with his eyes, "And you know why. You have known for a long time."

Egil didn't like what his friend was trying to imply, "You forget my uncle has a daughter...and a son."

Thorvald's face darkened, "You know what kind of man Thandruil is. He can't rule. He must not be allowed to rule."

That sounded a lot like treason, but Egil didn't object.

"And Alva" Thorvald shook his head, " is a woman. She can inherit but only if his brother dies and..."

"We can do that." He said with a bloodthirsty grin.

"...and she has to shed blood on the battlefield." Thorvald continued like he hadn't heard him, "Alva is a good girl, but..."

"Be careful what you say, old friend." Egil gently warned him, his tone deceptively soft, "You're talking about my little sister."

"Cousin." Thorvald corrected him, without missing a beat, "And you know she will never be a shieldmaiden."

The two friends stared at each other for a long minute, but it was Egil who averted his gaze. He hated it, but Thorvald was right. Alva had a lot of good qualities, but she was no warrior. Her body had always been weak, and though she was exceptionally smart, she wasn't cruel enough to rule the Wildlands.

Egil gnashed his teeth, "We have to stop them."

"If they sent this..." Thorvald showed the letter to him, "they'are not just planning it. They are prepared to do it, Egil. They won't change their minds."

"I have to try."

"What if you fail? Will you accept their offer?" His friend asked him for the umpteenth time, but Egil's answer was always the same.

"No, I won't. And if they refuse... He took a deep breath, "I'll have to convince my uncle to deny them passage."

Thorvald snorted, "That's even harder. Your uncle is even more stubborn than you. Besides, Alfric Alhstrom is a lot of things, but he is not the kind of man who breaks his word."

Egil grimaced, well aware his friend was right.

"I don't know why the Highlord is trying to get close to the Summermers, but he must have a pretty good reason." Thorval continued, "He knows most of his own lords are against him."

"Right! They are against him!" Egil slapped his knee, "And that's why..."

"He can't deny them passage, Egil." Thorvald interrupted him, his gloomy voice sending shivers down his spine, "It would be a slap in the face and would ruin all the work Alfric had done in the past years. He'll never do it."

"Maybe that's what the other lords need. A clean break." He argued, but his protests were getting weaker.

"He'll never accept it." Thorvald repeated, his tone categorical.

Egil sighed, "Fine, I'll try to convince the lords first. It's not like it's the first time I've done it."

Thorval frowned, "True, you've used your prestige to calm them before. However, they were just a few disgruntled lords. This" He waved the letter before him, "is a rebellion. Moreover, soon everyone will know what happened beyond the river."

"Maybe" He admitted, his lips curling into a sly smile, "but they don't know that yet, right?"

"Blood of the ancestors!"Thorvald mumbled under his breath." You, damn idiot..."

He kept cursing for a good minute. Egil just stood there and waited, a corner of his mouth quirking up, "So, will you help me?" He asked in the end.

Thorvald froze for a second or two and then sighed, "I will, but I'm not doing this for you." He specified, "I don't want a civil war."

Egil smiled, "Whatever your reasons are, I'm happy to have you by my side, old friend."

Thorvald scoffed, but he seemed pleased. Egil was glad that he could count on him. The Pathmaker was a formidable warrior, and Egil knew that he could trust him.

However, soon he remembered what his uncle had done. His expression sobered immediately, "I still can't believe my uncle would do something like this." He mumbled.

Thorvald nodded understandingly, "Since his second wife, Eliana, died, thirteen years ago, Alfric changed. Many say he didn't worship the ancestors anymore, but the..."

Egil let out a harsh breath, "Don't say it." He couldn't bear to hear those words. "My uncle is not an apostate...or a traitor."

"He allowed the White Gowns to preach in our lands." Thorvald reminded him, his tone a bit softer this time.

"I admit I don't understand my uncle's motives, but this...this is different. He's always been very cautious, and the changes he introduced extremely gradual. But granting safe passage to a foreign army to butcher the elves?" He decisively shook his head, "No, that's not like him."

Thorvald stroked his beard, "Do you think they are just rumors?"

Egil grimaced, "No, if it were just hearsay, the lords wouldn't do something so drastic. It must be true."

"But you still can't believe it."

Egil didn't answer him. There was no need. He and Thorvald looked outside the window, watching the malnourished elves pouring through the gates, the living testimony of his failure.

Egil's eyes fell on an elf, who was lying motionless in a cage. His eyes were closed and his face very pale like he was sick, but he was younger and much more muscular than the other slaves. Actually, other than his ears, he looked human, albeit a bit short.

"That one" He pointed at him. "Who is he?" He asked Thorvald.

The old Pathmaker glanced at him and frowned, "I don't know. It's not one of our slaves."

Egil was curious and waved his hand to the commander who was leaning against the wall, close to the door.

"Warlord" Lind bowed, smiling like they were best friends, "How can I help you?"

"Do you know him?" He pointed at the elf, without wasting time.

The commander nodded eagerly, "His story is quite interesting. My sister married in the Hartway family and..."

Egil's expression hardened, "I didn't ask you about your family business...or your connections."

Lind's smile slipped, "My lord, I was just trying to explain why he is here. Some fishermen found him floating close to the Brimstone and..."

"They found him in the Frozen sea?" Thorvald took another look at the elf, showing interest for the first time, "Winter is just beginning, but it's a wonder he is still alive."

"Right?" Lind said with enthusiasm.

"Wait a second" Egil interjected, "Hartway? The Frozen sea? That's hundreds of leagues away. How did he end up here?"

"My sister bought him." He answered like it was the most normal thing in the world. Yet, it was still illegal to buy slaves in the kingdom. They could capture the elves, but according to the law, they had to sell them outside the realm, "She wrote about him in one of her letters. So I..."

Egil immediately understood what happened, his face darkening as he scowled at him, "You asked your sister to bring him here to have some fun."

The commander realized he'd slipped up, and tried to justify himself, "My lord, we guard the gate, but none of us had ever seen an elf....."

Idiot.

"Enough." He raised his hand, "I'll buy him from you." He threw him a heavy purse of coins, "This is enough, isn't it?"

Lind's face contorted. He looked uncomfortable, even a bit irritated, "Warlord...he belongs to my sister, I don't think..."

"Right?!" Egil repeated, raising his voice a bit.

Lind immediately retreated, "A-As...as you wish my lord."

"Good lad." He smiled for the first time, but Henrich just shuddered when he patted him on the back, "Now, tell me. Can he speak the common tongue? Do you know his name?"

Lind recovered quickly, maybe realizing that a slave, even a valuable one, was a small price to pay if in return he could forge some kind of relationship with Egil, "Yes, he can speak it, though not well. And about his name..."He scratched his head. "It should be something like...Moril or maybe Lomir."

"Lomir?" Egil frowned. It didn't sound right. "He seems half dead, but let's get him on a horse." He said to Thorvald.

The old Pathmaker raised an eyebrow, "Do you want to bring him with us?

Egil shrugged, "He is younger and healthier than those bag of bones we've found on the other side of the river."

"You want to show him around like a trophy." Thorvald accused.

Egil didn't even try to deny it, "Don't worry I have no intention to keep him."

"You didn't capture him yourself." Thorvald reminded him. "He is not your trophy."

Egil sighed, "I know, old friend, I know. But I need all the help I can get to convince the lords."

"I'm not blaming you, lad. This elf is unusual, a good trophy, but if they discover you lied..."

"I know the consequences, Thorvald." He raised his voice, maybe a bit more than necessary, and Thorvald stiffened.

"I'm sorry, old friend" He immediately apologized, "but I have no choice. I have to take the risk."

Thorval shrugged like he didn't care, but his mouth was set in a hard line, "As long as you know what you're doing."

That's when Henrich Lind clapped his hands, "My lord! I remembered it!"

"What is it now?" Egil sounded bothered.

However, Lind was too excited to realize Egil had enough of him, "The elf's name! I remembered it!"

Egil widened his eyes a bit, "So?" Egil urged, "What's his name?"

"Rolim!" He exclaimed, "His name is Rolim."