Bandits. More of them than Tyr had thought existed in the central region. Just men, though, not much of a threat. Behaving as the stereotypical highwaymen would. Stopping them on their way even in the dead of winter. Their deaths came quick. There had been many on the roads between the village and the barons old estate, their logical destination. Taking advantage of the slower patrols in the cold season to prey on the defenseless villagers. Tyr and Fennic burnt the old woman who had given them some of her green tomatoes. Judging by the long frozen spatter of blood, she'd given just as good as she'd got. Her husband too, but they were dead all the same.

The same men he'd allow go free at the village, it seemed. Or at least some of them, turning back into the predators they were as soon as his back was turned.

Fennic found them. Tracked them all the way to Ella's house where they remained squatting. Tyr killed them too, and their friends who had come later. Eighteen of them, eighteen plucks at the string. Not a man was allowed to whet their blade except Tyr himself with the excuse that as prince, he should be the one to mete out justice. They hadn't questioned it, the blackguard, kicking the men to their knees in the dirt while Tyr tended to the reapers work. Not for justice, but for the plucking and twang that he thirsted for, an instinct to take what lives he could when the going was good. He hoped that Ella had survived. Somewhere out there. As for many of the other peasants they had previously interacted with, they hadn't. Cut down and robbed for all they were worth, these men were dogs.

This blade that he'd been given by Jurak was impressive, forged of an unknown white-silver material hard enough to scratch at mithril. The only problem was, it was a glaive and not a sword, unwieldy in his hands. A bit too long for a human of his stature. No matter. It did the job.

'Arrow, dagger, spear, shield, hell – even your fists. The song is the song, if it can be wielded – it applies.' Thomas' words matched the information he was given by the Orik woman. A glaive such as this would've been viewed an uncommon and exotic weapon in the northern nations so used to their swords and spears and axes or hammers. Tyr would use the information he was provided with, as paltry as it was – implanted in his mind.

“What's its name?” Mikhail asked, huddled with the others around a raging bonfire. Big, so as to attract the attention of bandits like flies to a honey trap. Unfortunately, none had come today. Not yet. But they always did.

“Its name?” Tyr asked, raising a brow in askance.

“Every great blade should have a name.” Samson's deep voice stated this in his trademark stoicism. “This halberd you've given me, for instance, Awowo. It means 'lonely mountain' in the tongue of my people. You should name yours.”

Mikhail, Tor, all of them nodded at this – confirming that all blades should be given a name.

“I've never named a weapon before. That seems vain.” Tyr posited, grimacing at the romantic concept of naming a tool.

“Your weapon is your partner. Not a tool. Whatever form it takes, it deserves a name.” Samson was adamant on this fact, refusing to accept otherwise. Resolute in his insistence that he would not allow the prince to fall to sleep without bequeathing a name on the glaive. A proper name and one of great significance. He tried many, though none seemed to please the aesthetics of the men.

Honor, justice, valor, fang. With each iteration their cringing faces would grow worse.

“Aska.” Tor grinned. “It means thunder in the old tongue of the north. Of Oresund. Aska for the thundering of sky and the hooves of the war song.” And so it was. Aska, the crescent glaive with its smooth lines and overlong blade. What Tiber called a 'guandao'. The translation didn't sound right, but Tyr only knew bits and pieces of the northern tongue. He thought thunder was thunor or bruma, but Tor was of Oresund so... It was well enough.

With no horses to give, Riverwood had opted to send them off with a fanfare instead. Whatever fear had sunk into the minds of the villagers there had relaxed over time, with the children of the village providing him with a crown of sprigs and pine cones for 'good luck' on his journey. They'd insisted that the men stay until winter had cleared, but Tyr had no interest in staying. He had seen and gained more than he had bargained for in the place, hoping he'd be able to return to Riverwood soon. One day, he swore that he would.

“You're brooding again.” Tor slapped a hand to Tyr's back. They were walking again, plodding through the thick snow with furs bound tightly over their shoulders to ward off the cold. It wasn't so bad, though, the snow was coming down but it wasn't windy. Every one of them, save Samson, was well accustomed to the snow, and the big man didn't complain. He almost seemed to like it, these vast stretches of white powder in all directions. “What's on your mind?”

“Why do you follow me? Same goes for all of you. Why did you choose to remain when so others left. No talk of a 'good turn', you can't fool me with that. I want to know the real reason.”

Mikhail would answer first. “You are my prince. It is my duty. You can look at me how you'd like, but it's the truth. Fair wages for work I'm already accustomed to.”

“Fair. Fennic?”

The mute man shrugged, throwing his hands up into a rapid fire series of signs as they trudged their way through the thin snowfall with cloaks pulled tightly around their frames.

“He says...” Mikhail laughed, returning several signs back to the tongueless man as fast as they'd come. “Fennic says he stays because I'm the only one who understands his signs, and that he's expecting a new tongue as pension. Says you owe him one.”

Tyr laughed, they all did. Even Samson cracked a smile at that. Tongue in cheek, or... That was sort of funny for a man without a tongue.

“Don't mind a walking.” Doug smiled idiotically with a 'sage' nod. “To be with friends and have a full belly is more than most can ask for.”

“Well said, Douglas.” Mikhail slapped the significantly larger man on the arm.

“All I've ever wanted out of life was a good scrap, fair eating, a whore or two here and there. Not a complicated man. Not I. Get all three and sometimes a bed to sleep in. Better than the shackles and rope trying to find the first all by my lonesome.” Tor shrugged. By and large, the motivator was the pay or amenities of serving the prince. Otherwise, most would find themselves in a worse position long after departing. As some of their 'brothers' of the past had found an arrow courtesy of Fennic's hawk eyed aim buried to the fletching in their thighs. Men who'd had the foolishness or gal to go raiding or raping alongside bandits without first thinking to leave the region. Tyr offered those few a slower death, his face hovering over theirs to allow them to think about what they'd done.

“Another one.” Mikhail pointed toward a group of scrawny figures busy with kicking down the door to a root cellar. Men with the black cloaks the prince had given them. “You sure you don't want us to do this for you?”

“No.” Tyr responded. “I'll do it myself.”

–

It didn't take long to reach the old estate of the baron. A cold place, with few men watching its walls – though it fortunately still belonged to the empire. A warden from the east had been sent to take position with a squad of his men and await the appointing of a new lord in the region. Something that would not occur until well after the spring thaw. Bureaucracy was slow like that, discussing the succession of a fallen house while the common folk paid the price of the chaos in the region. Tyr knew it was his fault, ultimately, but the alternative was an unknown. Warn them he was about to kill a bunch of nobles complicit in capital crimes?

Several bows and 'your grace's and such and such later, the prince stalked through the subterranean prison cells. There were a lot of them, for such a small estate. This baron for all his faults had a mind towards justice, though based on some of the implements within, it was a twisted mind indeed. Not just bandits though, but beastkin too. Huddled and shivering in the corners of their dingy cells with dead eyes. Only the vapor of their breath against the frigid air a sign they were alive at all.

“Release them, all of them, and bring them to the... Do barons have a throne room?” Tyr asked the neatly manicured face of the easterling warden, already having forgotten the man's name. Incredibly average in all respects, more clean that one would have expected a ranger to be given the scope of their duties.

“A feast hall, sire. Close enough.” The man bowed, crisp and military. Tyr didn't think he qualified to carry the honorific of 'sire' as a prince, supposing he should've paid more attention to the lessons he'd been given as a youth.

“Close enough.” Tyr repeated.

It was done. The warden seemed nervous at the idea. Forty one men, and twenty six beastkin were dragged up the stairs by their shackles and thrown in a loose mob around the rectangular hearth at the middle of the hall. Had they the energy or steel to do so, they might have made a good accounting for themselves if they'd attempted to escape. Might have done so. None of them seemed keen on the idea, though, shivering and hovering overly close to the flames in a bid to get warm. Their number had been greater, once, but the winter chill had seen more than a few dead. A cruel way to die, Tyr thought, but the wardens said it was one of the most peaceful in comparison to most others allowed under imperial law.

Regis certainly had an eye for interior decorating. The floor was a velveteen, red carpet, and rich mahogany panels decorated the bare stone of the walls. Two long tables that could easily sit fifty people had been place on their sides to save space. Not that the room needed it, it was fairly large, more than one would expect of a barons estate. All of the banners and decorations otherwise had been removed, though, paler stone demarcating where the banner of House Regis must've sat in the past.

“Separate them by brand.” Tyr commanded, pointing at the wardens who had been protecting the halls of the estate and the accompanying village. Wordlessly, they obeyed. “Rapists and men who've harmed women or children, put them together and separate them from the rest.”

Rapists, murderers, poachers, thieves, extortionists, the list went on. Different stripes, so to speak, branded onto their forearms or faces to communicate their sins even in unlikely event that a court acquitted them. No removing these brands, they'd mar a man for life. Tor, Fennic, and Mikhail had their own. Samson bore the slavers ink, but so dark was his flesh that it was difficult to see – not that any god fearing man in Haran would give face to his. Slaving was a capital crime in Haran.

“On your knees.” Tyr ordered. Those who didn't listen were kicked brutally to the ground by warden and blackguard alike. He could forgive a murderer. They all had their motivations, half the time it seemed an accident. An act of passion, caught up in the heat of the moment. Solitary murderers who killed for the joy of it were rare, without a gang to roam with it wasn't a common predilection among men. Perhaps it was. Perhaps Tyr was too ready to see people as he wanted to and not as they were. It didn't matter, murderers had their use, but rapers and men who would harm children... Their uses were few. Food for the crows and as example to others of their ilk who would do the same.

The glaive wasn't heavy. It's size would communicate weight, but the metal it was forged of was light and carried a pleasant vibration as it whistled through the air. Light or not, it'd take the head of a man with minimal effort, for it was far sharp enough to make up the difference in heft. They died, fourteen of the men and one beastkin who looked more beast than man. Like a dwarven assembly line, Tyr meted justice on the unfortunate scum who'd crossed his path, though it was a far more merciful a death than they deserved. Here in this warm place, they belonged in a gibbet to rot away, but he had no time to see it done and no inclination to miss out on the plucking. That warmth that infused him when the killing was done, he could feel it now – stronger than ever. He was close to something, close to that feeling he'd had beneath the earth. That popping burst of warmth.

“And you.” He pointed to the largest beastkin among its kin. A titanic bastard, near as tall as Samson but just as wide. Tyr had heard that those largest among their kind would become their leaders, a wild race that respected only strength. It came, the beast, a melding of feline and man with only a patterning of fur about the legs and the catlike ears. More human in the face though, only slight features to indicate it a beastkin. Otherwise, he or it would have appeared no different from your average human, albeit a bit on the large side. “Your name?”

“I am called Ajax. And you? You are the chieftain of these rats?” Ajax earned a kick for that, striking at his flank without effect. His voice was a growl, a snarl that was difficult to understand courtesy of the four fangs that split his otherwise human teeth. Perhaps their accent, or that which amounted to one among his kind. A predatory noise, deep and grinding and full of a promise of violence.

“I'm the prince of Haran, I am not the direct superior of these men.” Tyr responded, glaring at the warden who'd attempted to kick the beastkin, causing him to back away with a lowered head. “Tyr Faeron, but you can just call me Tyr. Are you the chieftain of your kind here?”

He'd never seen so many of their kind in one place. They were rare around the capital, and most times they would only come during a circus or hauling various goods from the ships of foreign traders. Thus, Tyr had little experience of them, though Ajax seemed to contradict his suppositions. He'd heard beastkin were dull muscle bound brutes with little intelligence. Ajax on the other hand, spoke fairly articulately and had a fair grasp of the common tongue to ease communication.

“No. I do not know the others. My tribe is long gone from these lands. Or dead, I do not know.”

“How did you come to be here?” Ajax bore the dual mark of a murderer about his ribcage. Two marks not for two murders, but for every ten.

“My tribe fought in the war some decades ago, moving from place to place in an attempt to travel to Saorsa after the annexation. We lived in the mountains for a time, settling long from our destination before the man of this house raided our village and took us. This was six months ago.”

“Ah...” Tyr nodded. Beastkin were free to travel the length and breadth of the empire, but they weren't like to find much peace here. The outer regions weren't exactly forgiving of nonhumans. Ajax had killed the troops of the baron, and been branded for it, left to rot in a cage. Six months hadn't taken much from his impressive frame however, and there were fresh scars patterning his flank to indicate fairly recent struggles. A pit fighter, a supposedly illegal underground game that some nobles participated in. “If I free you, what would you do?”

“Kill the man who did the same to my tribe.” Ajax answered honestly.

“Too late for that. I got to him first.”

“Did he die screaming?”

“He did.” Tyr answered with equal honesty. Regis had done a lot of that. Screaming and weeping and shitting himself all over before he'd collapsed from a panoply of lesser wounds. The fat bastard was made of sterner stuff than Tyr had originally thought, living long past his initial estimate. There was pain in it though, a lot of it. “Baron Regis was flayed and gelded post-mordem for his crimes. It was not an easy death, either.”

“Then I thank you.” Ajax bowed, relaxing in his tone and staring at the prince with a bit of thankfulness to his catlike eyes. “I am ready for judgment.”

“I had something else in mind.” Tyr patted his rounded shoulders, staring up at the titan with a grin on his lips.

–

“I've gotta be honest, Tyr...” Mikhail eyed the beastkin nearest them with anxiety. If the blackguard were a rough and savage lot, they had grown several times over in this regard after the latest 'recruiting'. Ten beastkin had chosen to join, alongside eighteen men. Beastkin thrown in a prison for no other reason than their born race, trapped in the east under unjust conditions and seeking to flee along the mountains before getting caught and decimated. Some had been settled in the mountain villages for years undisturbed until one day the baron had invented some contrivance to arrest them. Those who had survived were made pit fighters and gladiators to earn their meals. Strong or fast, their traits self evident by the animal they 'shared blood' with. They had merit, and Tyr liked their spirit at first glance. “Was this wise?”

“Do not worry, tiny man.” Ajax asserted. “You see our kind as savage, but it is you who are the savages. Dishonest and corrupt. A Sinean bloodpelt does not lie, steal, or rape. We will defend your pup with our lives if necessary – until such a day comes as we choose to depart. Any who would trample on our sworn oaths will die by my hand.”

“Ah...” Mikhail wasn't tiny, he was rather tall by the imperial average, but he was dwarfed by Ajax, accepting the lumps with some grace. As for the other men, none complained. Samson seemed unconcerned, conversing with Ajax often and bearing amicability toward him perhaps due to their similar pasts. Tor wrestled with them, though he lost most of the time. As for Fennic, he didn't seem to care one way or another, silent as ever, looking grim after all they'd just seem. They'd helped themselves to the barons armory, appearing very much like a ragtag band of mercenaries in plate and chain that were a poor fit for the larger beastkin.

The men in the prisons had followed for a chance at freedom. It was either following Tyr and earning their freedom after a period of one year, or die as the others had. Or, continue to rot in their cells should they be lesser offenders. Few had accepted, but those that had remained silent and fearful of the beastkin, Samson, and perhaps even the prince himself – having see him behead over a dozen men without the slightest hesitation. The beastkin had been upfront and honest with their requests, citing that this practice of taking auxiliary bondsmen from prison as common among their people.

They wanted to fight and earn gold doing so. Some of them just wanted to fight period, though the whole 'being free' thing certainly appealed to them. Ajax claimed he'd enjoyed his time in 'the pits' and if not for the killing of his kin or men who did not want to fight, he would've done it for nothing more than the food and joy of it. He was an odd one. Calm and stoic like Samson one moment, before the red took him and he was tearing a bandit in half – ignoring Tyr's orders to stay his hand. It was certainly useful to know the mans capabilities, so Tyr hadn't been overly miffed at Ajax taking exception at being shot with an arrow. 'Man', he didn't know what else to call them and they hadn't questioned it.

He asked, regardless, receiving his answer – such as it was.

“We are men.” Ajax shrugged, receiving several nods of agreement from the others of his kind. “Just better, given the gifts of the wild gods who called us nearer to the earth. That is all, whether your kind choose to see us as kin is irrelevant.”

“Do you worship the same gods as we do?” Tor asked. He was a godly man, or as far as one came to such among the northmen. They could call themselves godly, but had a strange way of showing it. Reaving and reaping in the name of their own unique deities and those shared by all human kingdoms.

“Some.” Ajax nodded. “We revere Astarte and Agni and all the gods of the earth and fire. Tormund and Vortigern too, though we hold no love for the deepfather and his kin. We have our own gods as well, those seemingly unique to our kind. Lornac and Ursan, Raylor and Ulric.”

“I see.” This was a topic Tor felt comfortable with, feeling some sense of camaraderie with the Ajax for the first time after nearly three weeks on the road. Too many to go by horse, the speed at which they traveled in the winter weather was not quick. “We revere Ulric in the north as well. Though I have not heard of the others. Your patron?”

“Astarte and the son.” Ajax replied, turning to Samson. “As all warriors should. What gods do warriors in your lands worship?”

“For the fighter, it depends. We share some, but not all of your gods, though they go by different names and northern churches claim they are not related. Of all Ooni, Ogun is the patron of those who war and battle. Ogbunabali for those who fight and kill in the name of revenge or justice, the night hunter they call him. My patron is Ogun, both smith and warrior, he has always been the patron of my tribe and clan. But he is not Astarte, they are too different in--””

“Cloaks up.” Tyr interrupted. “We're near to the white gate.”

White gate, red gate, and sun gate. Northern Haran was mountainous and these banally named forts defended the three widest roads approaching the capital. A very convenient ring of low mountains with wide avenues cut through them to ease travel, and as always it was quite busy at the gates. The white gate in the south, the sun gate for the east, and red gate for the west. Tyr had always found it curious how the east and west gates were names appropriately for the sun rise and sunset, but there seemed no reason for the 'white' to split that convention. In any case, each of these three 'gates' were actually large fortress barriers that rode the spine of the mountains and dominated the valleys below. All sorts of agriculture happened there beneath the watchful gaze of the rangers and knights manning it. And as one might expect, it was definitely the safest part of the empire, and far more orderly than the capital.

Each fortification made clever use of the environment to create a narrow artificial choke point, mountains were carved and gentle inclines had been made rocky and hazardous through magic or other means. At the east gate, the sun gate, there was a massive reservoir built into the hollowed crater on the tallest mountaintop, with skillfully designed aqueducts. In the event that a force attempted to invade by the seaway the original capital was built on, this water would be released to destroy the river and any ships foolish enough to try. In any case, this neat ring of fortified mountainside ran for about three hundred miles around the lowlands surrounding the city.

Terminating in the west on a vast bridge one could easily see from the palace called the 'high way'. A structure that extended out into the sea connected the mainland to the island where the imperial navy moored. It had once been the chapter citadel of the first legion, but that had been abandoned in lieu of various western keeps when Jartor had chosen them for his own. As far as Tyr knew the island was occupied only be boat builders and sailors now.

They passed through the southernmost gate and into the interior of the capital region without much incident. Tyr was surprised that they hadn't been ridden down by the knights. But when they passed the gate checkpoint he was informed that a party of fifty greenwatch had been tracking them after observing the princes 'hair' from afar. He had to admit, the color of it rarely helped him – but when it did...

They rode now, horses and provisions provided to each and every man, though Ajax and the beastkin were either too heavy or too averse to traveling by steed. Some had tried, only to be unceremoniously dumped to the nervous laughter of stable hands and knights that found themselves assisting their very inhuman and very armed visitors. As it would turn out, it wasn't much of a handicap. The beastkin kept an even pace with the horses with little difficulty. All sorts, that lot. Mostly cats and dogs, something Tyr was allowed to say as they took no shame in the comparison to animals, rather the opposite. Even a 'minotaur' named Habbo. Shorter than Tyr but twice as wide, surprising them all with its high pitched voice and claim that he was only four years old. Four years old and well capable of tossing Tor through the snow like a toy.

“I thought minotaur were monsters?” Tyr asked, and apparently this was true by classification. Bull-man just didn't have the same ring to it, Habbo said.

A stretch of twenty miles or so separated the white gate from the outer city limits. They were about half way there when they were stopped. Regar, with his sword planted in the snow, stood at the fore of the first legion. The entire first legion. All of them. Roughly eight thousand fighting men assembled in neat ranks bearing the standard of the black lion on a field of white to match the snow. The Iron Lions, the emperors finest.

“...Er...” Tyr wheeled his horse around, raising his hand to bring a stop to their party as it all came into view. Line after line of knights clad in plate and chain, cavalry hammers rested on their shoulders, seated on the backs of their massive destriers. Behind them were the spears, and archers flanking the infantry elements with their bows at the ready and nocked. There were engines of siege, mangonels and bipod mounted scorpions fixed on high. “...This is quite the welcome, cousin.”

Suspicious. He hadn't expected this. 'Quite the welcome' was an exaggeration. Only the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd legions remained mobilized for war at all times, so it was no surprise to see outfitted legionaries, but the third legion protected the capital. Last he'd heard, the 1st had been on the western coastline in garrison to defend against possible conflict with the republic, or... Or what? Nobody attacked or warred with the empire, there weren't even any real border skirmishes.

Why are they here...? Not only that, but why was an entire legion mustered to bar him from entering the capital. They certainly couldn't be here to greet him. It could only be bad. His father had never once seen to more than a cursory honor guard to receive them on the rare occasion that he'd left the city in the past. Never a regiment, let alone a full legion outfitted for war. Mikhail and the others balked, even Samson appeared nervous, calming his stamping horse with an uneven patting and drawing his halberd from the loop around his back.

“Prince Tyr of House Faeron and heir apparent to the great Empire of Haran. By decree of Primus Jartor Faeron, you are stripped of all titles and sentenced to death. Submit yourself to the law and order your men to drop their weapons.” Regar spoke clearly, his voice plainly audible even at the fifty meter distance between them.

“Get out of here!” Tyr growled, wheeling his horse around as Ajax and the other beastkin called out in alarm. Only then had he noticed that the legion was not only before them, but all around and closing off all means of escape. Men with their sturdy roundshields and visored barbutes staring at them from the hills with yet more archers flanking them. And that but not least the 'lions', men built different, hoisting two handed weapons. The premier shock troops of the most most aggressive legion. And they looked ready for it, too. Tyr was confident against rabble, maybe guardsmen, but legion men were better equipped and far better trained.

Fuck... No way out.