The sun fell and night arrived in the capital of Wellind, yet Gloryhome did not sleep.

The forges were lit, burning brightly with a eager fervour. The tongues of flame danced merrily in the fading light of day, shaking in time to the sound of hammer upon anvil. The Makers were shaping still, sending sparks into the air that became their only source of light. The dark came quickly to Wellind, for the White Sea devoured the beacon in the sky as soon as it fell over the horizon. Lanterns were quickly lit to compensate as the apprentices aided their masters, creating sparks of their own and striving not to slow down their teachers progress. They succeeded for the most part, though more than one annoyed grunt rose up to join the tremendous din, usually followed by a faint cry as the Maker's displeasure was made manifest with a simple slap around the ears before they returned their solemn and sacred duty.

They put the Yelesi iron gifted by the foreigners to good use, imbuing the cold and empty metal with the bright fullness of their Song. Weapons and armour would be the result of their shaping, axes to brutalise and swords to slice. Each Maker poured their hearts and souls into each piece they created, for every new undertaking could be the one they would be judged on when the time came for them to take their place in the High Hall of the Gods. A good work could see them sup at tables laden with food and drink until time itself came to an end. One which was brittle and broke when it was needed most would mean punishment beyond imagining.

The Cold Water.

Murdu felt a shiver run the length of his spine. Even the very thought of that hell filled him with unease, as though the act summoned some small piece of that damned place to the world of the living. The breeze that blew in from the White Sea grew momentarily still, but the biting edge remained and cut into Murdu's skin. He could pull his cloak around him to quell the chill, but he would not. Long had Clo'dorsha honed himself upon the vicious weather of his homeland. He treated his body in much the same way as a Maker did his steel, transforming the metal and making it fit for purpose. The only difference was that Murdu used frost in place of flame.

The warrior stared out into the black depths of the White Sea as the darkness down below rose up to envelop the waves entirely. He imagined this must be what the Cold Water looked like, an endless ocean that slowly sapped at your soul until nothing remained. It was a dark and brutal place, one which was reserved for those who went against the tenets they all held as Wellinders. Makers had special reason to fear such a place, for the Speakers spoke often of the consequence for birthing a weak weapon. One such tale detailed a clansman who lived hundreds of years ago. It was said that he was the greatest of his kind, a Maker who had come closer than any other to forging the Kethasi'kai, the Perfect Blade.

All Makers, no matter their Clan or creed, wished to be the one to forge Kethasi'kai. It was to be a weapon without equal and the stories surrounding it were legion. The Speakers told these tales often for the entertainment of the young, as well as to push those curious children onto the path of the Maker. They spoke of the Muzak, an ancient Clan from the Frail Cliffs far to the south. Little was known of their customs, but it was said they were extremely spiritual and shared a connection with nature and the Gods that dwarfed all others. It was one of their number who had originally caught a glimpse of Kethasi'kai in the Weave, a weapon that could cut even the Gods.

None knew what form it would take, be it sword, axe or javelin, but all Makers dreamed of being the one to make such a blade a reality. Many was the Wellinder child who had been taken up with the romance of it all. To forge a weapon so great that it could cut the skin of a God was a goal that all who took up the mantle treasured.

The Maker from the tale was no different. He had attained such mastery as a craftsman that not only those from his own Clan, but others from across Wellind sought to have a weapon made by his hands. His skill was great, but his pride was greater still. He was consumed by the need to forge Kethasi'kai. So much so in fact that he dismissed the needs of his family and Clan. The story goes that one fateful day, his brother came to claim a weapon. He was finally grown and ready to raid with his brothers and sisters, to spill blood for the glory of his Clan. The Maker cared not, for he believed he was close to finally fulfilling his ambition. He threw his brother an axe from a pile of cast-offs and sent him off without a word. Had he known the mistake he made with the simple act of dismissal, The Maker would have throw himself at the mercy of the Gods and begged their forgiveness, but his ego would not allow it for he was enthralled by fanciful delusion.

His brother went to war, riding the waves as a true warrior, a true raider, but upon landing on a foreign beach to claim glory for himself and his people, his journey was cut short by the Maker's carelessness. The sword of an enemy cut cleanly through the blade of his axe and into the soft flesh beneath. The brother fell, his weapon having betrayed him, and the Gods wept at his passing. His fellow raiders returned him home across a tumultuous sea and told their Elders of what the Maker's hubris had reaped. There was only one thing that could be done.

A warrior's relationship with his sword or axe was as keen as the one he shared with a lover. Part of the Maker's spirit lived on within the steel they shaped. It gave the weapon life, meaning, purpose. It was no longer a mere lump of metal, it was as essential to a warrior as his arm or leg. Because of this, the trust that existed between a raider and a Maker was sacred, a connection which transcended the physical. The Maker from the story betrayed that trust and, in so doing, had forsaken the very foundation of what it meant to hold the title.

His punishment was a brutal one, but just in the eye of all who witnessed. The Maker was brought before the Elders and stripped of his name, his title, his identity. None of his blood were allowed to remain amongst his Clan, banished for all times to wander the White Sea as exiles. Marks were placed upon the skin of his kin, so all would know the grievous sin committed.

Then the false Maker was taken out to the White Sea, bound in chains. For three days the ship sailed until nought but water could be seen in every direction. The prisoner was then thrown from the ship, dragged to the bottom. He passed from this world and into another, but it was not the shining lights and welcoming hearth of the High Hall that awaited him. When the Maker broke the surface he found himself in an altogether different sea. The Gods had judged him and banished him from the realm of life and death to wander eternal amidst the souls of the damned within the hellish confines of the Cold Water. That would be his punishment for his crimes: Forced to drown forever in the guilt and pain caused by his betrayal, treading water with every ounce of his strength only for it to fail him time and time again until his soul became nothing but a hollow shell.

It was a fate worse than any other, and one which was saved for only the damned few who had betrayed their own Clans. This tale was not of the Zar, for no Maker in Gloryhome had ever been forced to face the cruel tides of the Cold Water, but it was a poignant lesson nonetheless and one which all craftsmen and women knew by heart. It served as a constant reminder of the prize paid for giving into ones pride.

Murdu absently touched the haft of the axe at his hilt, fingers touching against the keen blade edge as he meditated on this lesson. It was one which many thought applied only to Makers, and they would be wrong in that. All could be sent to the Cold Water, and all would be judged by the Gods when their time to ascend came. Perhaps that was why it came to mind now, here, on the eve of war with Wellind's most hated enemy. Clo'dorsha was thinking about his legacy, what he would leave behind when he was returned to the White Sea. Would he rise to the High Hall? Would his life's accomplishments in battle be enough for him to stand next to the Gods and sup at their table, or would the Cold Water be his fate? Would Pereton's sin, his betrayal, become a part of Murdu's Song?

How could it not? Murdu'Zar had done nothing as Pereton enacted his foul plan. The pieces were in place now, the Weave spun. There was nothing Clo'dorsha could do to avoid the coming disaster from striking down upon the heads of the Zar. The very act of trying would mean his death at the hand of the corrupt Masters, or to the Berserkers to whom they had gifted their power. All he could do now was weather the coming storm and try to find a path through it that would leave his Clan whole.

Yet he was failing to find such a path. Every day that passed, more and more seemed to be slipping away. The Zar were divided in a way they had never been before. Fighting amongst the people was rife now as discussions about the upcoming invasion became heated. There were many who opposed Pereton's plans, mostly those who had already lived lives of blood and glory. The young, on the other hand, seemed more and more eager to sail for Nian every day. For many, it would be their first time in battle and the allure of testing themselves against the ancient enemy of all Wellinders was too potent to resist. Pereton played to their needs and, during the few times he appeared in public, would whip them into a frenzy with his empty promises and vapid words.

It was poison, yet the sweetest kind. Murdu could remember when he was that young and hungry, eager to prove his worth to his Clan and begin his Song. He could admit that had Pereton spoken then, he would have been just as taken in as the newly minted raiders. All wished to make their mark and this momentous event would provide them apple opportunity to do so, but Murdu was not so shallow as he once was. He thought not only of himself, but for the whole of his people. Pereton was leading them down a path of destruction, his belief in the Masters, given to him by this mysterious Mentor, corrupted his judgement. Clo'dorsha would have tried to meet with the young Jarl, perhaps to talk some sense into him, but he realised soon after the thought first appeared that it would be pointless. Pereton had made his stance known and he had his eyes firmly fixed upon the horizon, where his dream of becoming King of Wellind dwelt. To achieve this, he would turn his back upon the Gods and his people. All of it for a crown to be placed upon his brow.

A crown he may have, but it would be one forged of tin. Murdu hadn't spent long around the new Masters, but he had an inkling of just how powerful they were. Even with the Berserkers, Quetzal and the fool who followed her could easily wipe out the Zar in their entirety. They were not allies of these foreigners, but tools being turned to purpose. When the time came and the Zar had served their use, then they would be thrown to the wolves of the Hall, whose warriors would destroy Gloryhome and all that Murdu and Kalin had built, all for the sake of Pereton's delusions.

Murdu could not say for certain if his fate was bound to the Cold Water, but for the Jarl there could be no other destination. The Gods had turned away from the Zar, and that was the result of Kalin's spawn. Clo'dorsha could no longer feel them in the White Sea, nor the breeze that blew from it. The earth, which once seemed so alive beneath his feet, now lacked life and lustre. Pereton was killing not just the Zar, but the very idea of what it meant to be a Wellinder.

That thought sent Murdu's mind to a darker place. Pereton breathed because he willed it, because he allowed it to be so. If he had only ended the miserable man's life before the Masters had arrived then perhaps he could have stopped the threat before it had even fully manifested. Instead he had clung to the old ways. To turn against your own Jarl was a grievous offence. Murdu, if he committed such a crime, would never be made welcome in the High Hall. It was treason of the highest order, one which he would have to answer for with his life.

It was a price he would have paid willingly, if it did not mean leaving Salas behind. The girl was not yet ready to face life without her father to protect her, to guide her. She remained a child, though one which was growing more and more by the day. Her mother stood at her shoulder, and Murdu knew that Ferda would never allow him to leave Salas before she had the strength to fend for herself, the Zar be damned.

But that would not always be the case. Already there were many among the Zar who were not her equal, the girl's mastery of Kylost becoming more and more complete. In a few years, there would be none among their Clan who could match her. If her training had continued as intended then there would be no limits to what she could accomplish, what she could become.

Yet the future had arrived earlier than expected, and it would pit his daughter against the hardened warriors of Ragora. Nian was no simple Imperial village ripe for the taking. The city was a fortress, one which was defended by natural barricades on all sides. Marching through the jungle was not even worth consideration. The man-made roads were heavily defended and patrols were regular. Their coming would be discovered with no way to prevent the alert from reaching their target, giving the defenders ample time to prepare for an attack. There was always the option of marching directly through the dense foliage, but the Zar were unused to moving for long periods in such intense conditions, the sun being as deadly as any blade. It was easy to lose ones way and the raiders would surely fall to the severe heat of a Ragoran sun. If they took that path, half or more of their number would die in the attempt. Murdu was not theorising for he was certain this could be the only outcome. With jungle to the south and west, that left only one true option. The White Sea was the only way to reach Nian and maintain the element of surprise, but even that was no easy feat.

The Ragoran Navy was nothing to dismiss out of hand. Their ships were larger and far more durable than the Zar's, with more than one equipped with Inscribed Cannons. The port would be heavily defended, with several ships in the shallows ready to intercept any who tried to reach the city, but their problems did not end when they finally made land. The defenders of the capital were no simple guardsmen. They were highly trained for combat and would be prepared to face Wellinders given their mutual distaste of one another. That wasn't even taking into account the Navy Raiders, who were a vestige of the past ideals that Ragora once held dear. These Raiders were different from the others among their kind, for they were taught as the Clans were. Their instruction was ferocious and their number was comprised of only the most effective warriors. Murdu had fought them more than once over the years, and each encounter resulted in the deaths of his warriors. They were not to be underestimated, but even they were not the greatest threat the Zar would face once they arrived upon the shores of Nian.

Mastan D'viritazi, the Lord of the Mountain. Should he join the field or intercept the Zar in any way, the battle would be over before it could begin. More than that, his intervention would mean the destruction of their Clan in its entirety. Not even their bones would remain. If he sensed their coming then there would be none of the glory and honour that the young amongst them so wished for, only pain and death. There was no fighting such a man, and that was a bitter realisation to swallow for a warrior like Murdu. The greatest fighter in Wellind he may be, but he was not foolish enough to believe he could defeat the King of Lightning. Some people in this world were simply too great to overcome.

Over the course of the past weeks, Murdu had learned all he could of Nian and what to expect upon arrival. Many had tried to claim such a prize over the centuries, with all failing in the attempt, but the information they returned with was worth its weight in gold. The Speakers knew all and spoke with Clo'dorsha often, teaching him of the Ragorans ways and the secrets that the city held. They were the living memory of not just the Zar, but all Clans. Try as he might, Murdu could find no strategy that would allow his people to see the day through. Even with the aid of the new-born Berserkers, this battle could only have one ending.

Which left the Zar totally at the mercy of the Mentor's Masters.

Pereton had faith that they could deliver, that they would end the two Masters in Nian before they were allowed to attack the Zar, but Murdu had reservations of his own. He would do all he could to ensure his Clan survived the coming tempest, yet for the first time in years he felt a dire fear clamp around his heart. This coming trial would test him in a way he'd never been before. He could see it, feel it. The Weave was alive and constantly in flux. Their destination was fixed, but the events that transpired there were not. Clo'dorsha needed to find some way to turn this tragic mistake to his advantage. If he could not, then all he knew and loved would fall.

'You will have to make a choice.'

“A choice,” Murdu'Zar grumbled under his breath, a fog escaping as the heat within his body met the chilled air. He glared down upon the busy docks with a furious intensity, watching his people scramble from ship to ship in preparation of their departure. “A choice that could save them, or damn them. What have you seen in the Weave, Nanali? Why must you always speak in riddles and prophetic half-truths?”

The frustration that Murdu held towards Nanali'Zar was endless, matched only by his respect for her as the Seer for the Zar. As much as he trusted her judgement and intentions, he sometimes found himself hating how unhelpful she could be. He'd tried several times since the last meeting of the Elders to speak with her, but each time he had been rebuffed. Why he could not say, for Salas was still allowed to visit when she wished, but there was purpose to everything that Nanali did and this was no different.

The simple truth of the matter was that she had said all that needed to be said. Anything more could only serve to confuse Murdu and cast him adrift from his purpose. He understood the need for her distance, but accepting it was another thing entirely. Clo'dorsha had spent more than one night lying awake amidst his furs, trying with all his might to tease the meaning in Nanali's cryptic words but it was all for naught. He would know when he needed to know and that was that. Even if he managed to meet with the Seer, she was as unmovable as any mountain in Ragora, and unintimidated by the reputation of Murdu'Zar.

Annoyingly, she was one of the few among the Zar who could claim as such. Murdu knew that trying to gain clarification from Nanali was like drawing blood from a stone, and that he should simply accept her visions of the Weave for what they were, as he had done so many times in the past, but nothing was simple anymore. The Zar were on the verge of disaster, and Pereton was leading them into the abyss with a smile on his face. More than that, Salas would soon find herself shedding blood for the very first time and it would be during a battle which would decide the future of their people. She would be at risk, and Murdu would not be there to protect her when the time came for Salas'Zar to fight. If he coddled her, impeded her growth as a raider, then she would never become what she was meant to be. He would remain close, of course, but she had to lay the foundations of her own Song and not build upon the melody sang of her father. She wouldn't want that.

Clo'dorsha sighed, the sound carrying softly into the darkening night. He could feel the decades upon his shoulders, now more than ever. It was a weight that was steadily becoming more of a burden to carry as this farce continued to unfold. Murdu was not a young man, not anymore. If thoughts of the Cold Water were coming to him now in order for him to ensure his legacy, then he need look no further than his daughter. For the longest time, Salas had been just that. She was more than him, more than Ferda. His offspring was the best of the both of them, her mother's kind heart bolstered by her father's deadly ability.

Murdu had long since reached a plateau in his ability as a warrior. He had grown as much as he could in this life, he knew that. He was unmatched among any in Wellind and would measure himself against any mortal warrior on the mainland, but he was painfully aware that he had reached his peak. All that remained was the inevitable decline, for no matter his skill with an axe or sword, he could not slow the march of time. There was many among the Clans of Wellind who saw reaching old age as a reward for a lifetime of blood and death. It was a chance to enjoy the fruits of their labour and to spend time with their family.

For Murdu, he could not imagine a worse fate. He wished to die in battle, with a roar upon his lips and the sound of war drums on the air. He had known from a young age that he would not die in his bed. One day, perhaps soon, he would meet his match and that day would surely be his last. It was a fate he eagerly awaited, for none were more honoured than the warriors who fell after giving all they could for their Clan.

He'd always envisioned that it would be Salas who held the blade that ended his life. That his last, true fight would be against his own daughter. He'd dreamed of it often, of the pride he would feel upon being bested by a combination of his blood and that of the woman he loved. His death at her hands would secure her place among the Zar as their new champion, a new voice to rally behind, one greater than he could be. It was all he wished for her, and more. None would be able to speak against Salas if she defeated the great Murdu'Zar before the entire Clan. Yet now, on the eve of her first battle, Murdu knew that such a destiny was not in store for either of them. The love she held for him was too great, despite his best attempts to remain distant.

Salas'Zar would never raise a hand against her father. Ferda shone through her and overwhelmed his own influence even from beyond the grave. He could imagine her smiling in triumph while sitting in the High Hall, having scored yet another victory over Murdu. Then again, she rarely lost their exchanges. He'd been so sure that his end would come with his daughter's true beginning, but the events that had unfolded over the last few weeks had lifted a veil from his eyes, one he hadn't even known was there. He still held onto the slim hope that one day she would become all he thought she could be, but Salas'Zar was not him, nor was she Ferda. A warrior she was and would be, but the path she followed was her own. It was only now, on the cusp of her first taste of real combat, that he was truly beginning to understand that. It was something that Nanali had been subtly hinting at for years, yet he had never taken heed. Murdu was also beginning to accept that he was not the monolith he often believed himself to be. He was Clo'dorsha, the mightiest warrior in all Wellind. All men and women, within his Clan and without, admired him, feared him, were awed by his prowess. At his core, however, Murdu was a man like any other. A father who was feeling a true and deep fear for the safety of his child for the first time, and for the unknown of her future which he could not control no matter how hard he tried.

“Her fate is bound to another.”

What Murdu whispered was another of Nanali's promised to pass prophecies, this one far more than a mere glimpse. When she'd said it, the Seer had been filled with such conviction, the belief in her eyes undeniable as she stood tall against the tall, elegant form of the foul Quetzal. Yes, whatever the Weave had in store for his daughter, Murdu was becoming more and more certain that he was not at its centre.

He thought that he would feel distressed by this news, perhaps even angry at the idea of losing what he held most dear, but those feelings did not appear within the mighty warrior. No, all he felt was a fleeting sense of weary acceptance, and no small amount of pride. Salas' path lay with the Gods now, for good or ill. All he could do was make sure she was ready when the time came. Thoughts of his daughter inevitably pulled his eyes towards her, despite his attempts to avoid just that.

Murdu stood upon the ridge, away from the small, winding road that led down the side of the large hill towards the dock and away from Gloryhome proper. This was where the Makers made their mark, creating masterpieces to be placed in the hands of the Zar with the stolen Yelesi Iron. It was also where Casin and her people set about their preparations for the upcoming raid. All those who served the shipbuilder moved like ants down below, crawling over the mighty forms of the constantly shifting Zar warships. Seeing them hard at work settled at least some of the worry within Murdu's heart, for Casin was nothing if not impeccably thorough when it came to her calling. She may despise Pereton for the havoc his machinations had unleashed, but her commitment to the Zar could never be questioned. When each ship left dock it would be as though they were newly built, gliding through the water as easily as steel sliced through skin.

The lamps were lit and the people showed no sign of slowing in their duty. Much like the Makers, they would continue long into the night and possibly the early morn, for they did not know when Pereton's order to depart would come. New ships were also under construction to accommodate all the young warriors who would be raiding for the first time. To take all was not done, simply because it would leave Gloryhome undefended in the admittedly unlikely event of an attack. If every capable fighter was taken it would leave only the very old and the very young. The ancients left behind would hardly be without means to defend themselves, but if a full-scale attack by another Clan was enacted as the main bulk of the Zar's forces left the island, what little skill they retained would prove meaningless.

If they lost Gloryhome, they lost everything that Kalin and Murdu had strived so long to build. Pereton cared not, for he was focused on one thing and one thing only: Unification through strength of arms. He saw Nian as a single step, not the fall that it was. His arrogance was without end. Kalin'Zar was the strongest man Murdu had ever known, and the only one he would have followed without a hint of hesitation, but he was not a present father, for the needs of the Zar often consumed much of his focus. Had he been a larger part of Pereton's life perhaps the boy wouldn't feel he needed to prove he was his father's son with this asinine plan. The Jarl wanted to eclipse the achievements of Kalin, and do that he was willing to go to any lengths.

Casin's voice carried up to Murdu over the din of the Makers and shipbuilders. She roared with terrific purpose, giving instructions even as she herself worked her fingers to the bone. She was far from Murdu's perch, and the flickering light of the lamps hardly helped him locate her in the sea of bodies, but he knew she would be side by side with her apprentices and those lucky few among the raiders that she had roped into her service, for she was never the type to stand at the back and issue orders like some Imperial General. Saying that, Murdu had learned over the past weeks just how commanding she could truly be when she set her mind to it, for many of the conversations they'd held within his hall devolved into arguing. She continued to speak with him at every opportunity, reminding him incessantly of the Elders who supported his claim. Murdu often answered her words with silence, even when she began to bring Hili and Jolus to his hall to try and convince them.

Hili was just as vocal in his displeasure of this new direction for their Clan. While he was the Elder of the largest family in Gloryhome, his voice meant little against the cacophony that rang out in support of Pereton. He feared for his kin should the mission to Nian be a success and it was well founded. Murdu was well aware that his own position within the Zar was more precarious now than ever. Should the Jarl succeed then no one was safe. The only reason they yet lived was because they were needed to keep the experienced warriors in line. Once the Berserkers had been tested and proven their worth, however, Pereton may be inclined to rid himself of some troublesome dissenters. Hili saw Murdu as his only way of ensuring his survival and that of his sons and daughters. He wasn't wrong, for none other was respected enough to gain the support needed to usurp the Jarl from his position.

But even if that was something that Murdu wanted, for he was not sure he even wished to lead the Zar, his allies could not understand that the time for such talk had passed. They railed against fate pointlessly, for it could not be changed. The arrival of the Masters had all but ensured it. If any spoke out publicly against Pereton, the only result would be their deaths. Quetzal needed their raiders, needed the distraction and destruction they could cause. If something threatened her goal then Murdu was sure she would have no qualms in killing those who stood against them. He had already discovered first-hand how ineffective he was against a Knight such as her, and that was not even mentioning the ships with the Inscribed cannons located at their camp on the edge of the island, nor the other mad Master who Murdu often saw wandering around Gloryhome. Murdu knew little about the masked Knight beyond the fact that he seemed to hate his superior, but he believed him to be no less dangerous than Quetzal. One Master was beyond the means of their entire Clan, to challenge two was just suicide.

Jolus understood. Murdu's old teacher may have become frail of body but his mind remained as sharp as ever. He had merely told Clo'dorsha that he was with him in whatever decision he made. The old man was even going to come with them to Nian, despite protests from his family. Murdu did not question the decision. If anything, it only made him respect the weary warrior all the more. For the Zar, Jolus had given near everything a man could give. But he still had more to offer, despite being long in tooth. He would sail with the new-bloods and try to keep them alive as long as his body willed it so. They were the future, and his time was nearing its end. Many things were in doubt as to what would happen when they reached the port of Nian, but one remained fixed: This would be the last raid for Jolus'Zar.

Hili, Casin and the other Elders remained opposed, and there was even talk of some misguided act of rebellion, but Murdu quickly put an end to such talk. He would kill them himself before he allowed a single one to endanger the Zar, for that is what they would do. To attack from a place of fear, of desperation, would mark them all as traitors in the eyes of the Gods. It would make them no better than Pereton, placing themselves above the needs of the Clan. Murdu did not have the answers on how to proceed but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that such plans were not it.

At the very least, Casin would be safe should the worse come to pass. Her knowledge was paramount to the Clan and even the Berserkers could not walk on water. Her family's expertise was essential to the Zar's continued dominance in Wellind. That fact relieved Murdu to no end, for Casin'Zar maintained a close connection with Salas. Should Pereton get his wish and end Murdu's life before his time, at least his daughter would have someone in her corner to keep her safe.

She was down there now, amid the many who saw to the care of the ships. Salas had asked permission to spend some time at the docks with Casin, claiming that she wanted to learn as much about the Zar's ships as possible before her first sea voyage. Her argument was sound and calmly made, yet her father knew well that it was false. Casin had been unable to spend much time with the girl over the past few weeks and Salas was taking advantage of the opportunity to spend time with the woman that her mother had considered to be a sister.

Murdu did not let on that he knew her secret, instead allowing Salas to make for Casin after her training for the day was complete. He was not so committed to her betterment that he would rob her of the few friendships she had found among the Zar. She had still to make any friends her own age, spending more time with the slaves than any of her fellow raiders. It was not difficult to understand the reason for it, but Murdu believed that would all change soon, and for the better. Nothing put grievances and prejudices to bed like the chaos of battle. Skin or blood, none of that mattered when you stood shoulder to shoulder with your brothers and sisters. There was many who hated Murdu as a young man, despised him for the favour Kalin showed him. These feelings only grew worse when he was named Clo'dorsha, the resentments festering. Yet when they fought, they fought as one, spilling blood together and sharing in the glory of victory. For when it was all stripped away, they were all of the Zar, one heart, one soul. Murdu and his bitter rivals had left the docks of Gloryhome as enemies, yet they had returned as family.

Soon Salas would understand just what she was a part of, and what she needed to protect once her father had gone on to join Ferda in the High Hall.

“Great One,” The voice was quiet, afraid of disturbing his meditation. Murdu had heard her coming, though she had endeavoured to be silent. His deep thinking hadn't robbed him of his senses. He may be getting old, but that did not mean he was any less the Clo'dorsha of Clan Zar. The intruder did not speak, for she awaited his word. As always, she remained a loyal servant and one which was utterly devoted to Murdu'Zar.

“Speak, Brinda'Zar,” Murdu whispered under his breath, though his eyes never left the docks when Salas and Casin toiled. “Why do you disturb my rest?”

“Apologies, Great One, but this could not wait,” Brinda's response was filled with hesitation and reluctance, an unusual tone for one of Murdu's Furies. His interest was peaked by her behaviour as he tilted his head to better hear her over the quiet howl of the wind that rolled in from the White Sea. “It has come to pass as you have foreseen within the Weave. The Jarl has sent a messenger. He requests that you meet him in his Hall, though the reason for it was not given.”

“It was not offered, or you were refused in the asking?”

“Both, Great One. The man who delivered it, if he could be called that, left as soon as it was given. A nephew of Derik'Zar, though his name escapes me.”

Murdu nodded softly. “Given or not, the reason is known to me. Derik'Zar's family now serves Pereton as their Elder does... unsurprising. He was the only one among them with a spine, and even his is weak. A Berserker?”

“Yes, Great One.”

Murdu scoffed gently at the impudence. “He does like to play games. Not well, but he plays all the same.”

Of course he sent one of his pets. Many demonstrations had taken place since the first of the Berserkers had been forged and a select few had been allowed to walk amongst the rest of their people. They showcased their great strength and speed, smiling brightly for the crowd as they spoke of Pereton's generosity, spewing the same bile as their master before retreating to the safety of the Imperial camp.

What happened within those walls, Murdu did not know. He had contemplated trying to enter, perhaps through stealth, but he did not know what to expect within. He had not seen Quetzal since their encounter outside of the Jarl's Hall, so that meant the vile woman was most likely located there. Trying to steal inside would be a foolish risk, one best avoided if at all possible. The Berserkers were also tight-lipped about their training. Clo'dorsha had tried to speak with several after they had finished entertaining the children with their performances but he received nothing but silence and downcast eyes in answer to his many questions. He had expected as much. Pereton was well aware of Murdu's position and would have told those few who embraced this unknown power to not reveal anything about their instruction. Of course, the final decision would come from Quetzal. She had the Jarl's ear, and given Pereton's blatant need to try and impress her, he would follow any direction she gave.

Murdu's stomach turned at the thought as he sneered into the night, once more baffled by the spineless cowardice of the man who led Wellind's mightiest Clan. How could he wake up each day and pretend to be Jarl when he knew full well that he was merely the slave of another. How could he believe they would live up to their end of the bargain?

The fact that a Berserker had been sent to deliver a message was a thinly-veiled threat of Pereton's, a warning which was delivered with all the subtlety of a bear. Should Murdu refuse the summons then the Berserker was likely to return and attempt to force him to accept. He would die, of course. Berserker or no, these servants of Pereton were not like the Knights of the mainland. Their power was limited and they would be no match for even the weakest of Hall trained Knights. Murdu'Zar had been watching them closely these past weeks, learning more and more from every brief encounter. The Jarl had hardly selected the most capable among the Zar to wield this new strength, instead choosing only from families whose Elders were loyal to him. One hundred Smiths wasted as far as Murdu was concerned. There were fewer than twenty among them who had the skill to make full use of their abilities, and even they were not the best that the Clan had to offer. Killing such beings would be more difficult, but there was none that Murdu viewed as a true threat. Like Pereton, they had allowed arrogance and pride to consume them. They preened and postured like the painted whores of Imperial towns and cities, unworthy of the great gift that had been given. Some had tried to match Murdu's eye, their self-importance giving them the conceited belief that they may be able to best him with their stolen power.

Some tried, all failed. None had been foolish enough to try and challenge him yet, but Murdu believed that time was fast approaching. Once he killed the first, most would learn their place. Perhaps one or two more given the heights of their hubris. After they had seen just how small they were in spite of their titles, they would fall into line.

Pereton sending a Berserker was a spit in the face, an insult meant to inflame Murdu's passions, but he would fail in this as he did everything else. It would take more than that to ignite the fury of Clo'dorsha, so much so that it would overtake his common sense. He dismissed the insult for what it was: the games played by a child. He was far more interested in who exactly was summoning him.

The Jarl may have sent the messenger, but Murdu was sure that Quetzal had not been far from his side since she arrived upon these shores. It was clear to him that she was in control of the Zar now, not Pereton. As far as he knew, this was the first time the man had returned to the village since the arrival of the foreigners, preferring instead the Imperial camp and all but abandoning his people as order began to fracture.

“...Do you accept, Great One?” Brinda began, shattering through Murdu's already fractured thoughts. “Or should I send a messenger with your refusal?”

The idea that Brinda was even considering such an option proved to Murdu just how far the Zar as a whole had strayed from their ideals. Two camps had formed in Gloryhome now, one led by the opposing Elders and the other controlled by the divisive Jarl. Murdu stood alone between both groups, unwilling to participate in the deterioration of what he had known as truth his whole life.

“Refusal? I am not one to run, Brinda'Zar, as you well know. Pereton is the Jarl of the Zar,” Murdu's reply was certain and undeniable, carrying not a hint of the doubts he held deep within his heart. His raiders needed to know that he remained the same man he had always been, that he was still Clo'dorsha. “He calls and I answer. To not attend would dishonour his title, the same one his father held.”

Brinda opened her mouth to speak. Murdu could hear the parting of her lips, the shaking of her fists. She was afraid for him, an emotion she would show in the presence of no one else. He waited patiently to see if she would respond, but he knew that she would not. Brinda'Zar was many things, but she knew her place at Murdu's side. She was his right hand, the greatest of his five Furies, but that did not give her the right to direct his path, nor to guide this new verse of his Song. She was his follower, loyal and stalwart, nothing more.

That was something Brinda'Zar often found difficult to accept.

After a minute of silence, Murdu turned to face the warrior, her dark eyes meeting his with a straight back and not a hint of the emotion on her face he had previously heard within her voice. He nodded approvingly, grumbling in appreciation. Murdu knew that she feared for him, for his continued safety in these dark times, but offering aid would diminish them both.

It did not escape his notice that the woman had arrived fully armed, with sword, axe and bow already strung. A pointless waste of time.

“You will not be joining me, Brinda'Zar,” Murdu intoned as he finally turned his back fully upon the docks and began to make his way through the darkness, his footsteps making not a single sound. Part of him wished to stay, to shirk his duty, but he knew that putting off his meeting with Pereton would do nothing more than infuriate the man and Clo'dorsha was above such petty actions. “You will go and retrieve Salas, return her to the hall and await my coming. Find the Furies along the way.”

“Great One,” Brinda began hurriedly as she tried to match Murdu step for step, though found it difficult. For a female Wellinder, Brinda was large, dwarfing many of the males who crossed her path, but Murdu was a specimen all his own, for he towered over all others. “Do you suspect we will be attacked?”

“I do not. Pereton is a fool, but he has at least an ounce of his father's cunning,” Murdu said as he picked up his pace, forcing Brinda into a slow run. “He will not attempt to harm me before the attack on Nian. I am still of some use, even if he does have the Elders at his back. No, you will remain in defence of Salas. The Jarl has unpredictable allies and the woman, Quetzal, has already shown an interest in my daughter. If Casin questions you, or the girl resists, take her by force. You know what to do if the Knights come for her. Is this order understood?”

“Of course, Great One. Your will, my hands,” Brinda replied reverently. “The others are already by the Sertavazadeen, preparing her for the voyage across the White.”

Sertavazadeen. She lay below, docked next to those of inferior stock, a glistening pearl, her form incomparable to those around her. Murdu's ship was one of a kind, built by Casin's father when the title of Clo'dorsha was bestowed upon him and constructed of lumber taken from the Rotted Isle, the northern most island on Wellind's border. The trees that grew there were dangerous, for their bark carried a deadly toxin that transferred through touch, and the woodland itself was infested with any number of horrible creatures. That did not stop Siegfried'Zar, father of Casin, for the man was as mad as he was a genius. To make the wood even remotely usable it needed to be treated in a unique mix of herbs and prepared potions indigenous to Wellind. Even with all the precautions the man took, three of his men died in the attempt. With that done, Siegfried had created his masterpiece. For months he worked, shaping the wood with a devotion one usually reserved only for the Gods. If not for his daughter to remind him to eat and drink, the man would have probably perished before ever seeing her completed. In the end, though, he finished the crowing achievement of his Song. Sertavazadeen was faster than any ship constructed in Wellind, and Murdu had yet to meet the mainland vessel that was her match. According to Casin's father, it was the properties within the wood of the poisonous trees that gave the vessel such speed, though his explanation as to why always confused Clo'dorsha. Siegfried had spoken intently of water and wood, how they moved against one another, yet Murdu was not a man of imagination as his friend was. He didn't need to understand it to appreciate the results, for Siegfried's words were as true today as they had been the day he'd brought Sertavazadeen into the world.

Even as he strode away from the port, he could still make the distinct image of his ship appear within his mind's eye. A Wellinder's connection with the ship he sailed on was just as profound as the one he shared with his weapon, if not more so. They carried raiders to glory and honour across the untamed oceans. If your bond was strong then you would return safely to port, and Murdu's was powerful indeed. He had fought countless battles using her as his steed. Many of his legends were based on her prowess. She often seemed alive to Clo'dorsha, speaking to him through the wind and guiding his commands. She was no mere object to him, no pitiful amalgamation of wood and metal. No, she was as essential to him as his own beating heart. Often, when he found sleep to be elusive, the warrior would stir and move to the deck of his ship, finding peace in the gentle rocking. Ferda had hated him fleeing their bed, but she understood the need for it.

It was almost humorous, in a way. Murdu often thought of those few occasions he would seek the comfort of Sertavazadeen's embrace, fleeing that of the woman he loved. What he would give to have those nights back, to hold her just one last time. It was a self-pitying thought, and the kind that Ferda would have given him a slap for allowing to fester. Murdu smiled as he imagined her reaction in his head. His woman, fiery and unbroken in spite of all she went through. She remained with him still, staring down upon him from the High Hall and reaching down a hand where she could.

Sertavazadeen was no larger than any other warship that sat in the Gloryhome port, but her size was not what made her stand out from the others of her kind. Her body was as white as bone, from the hull up to the tip of the mast, and marked by the wounds of war that she had accumulated over her years of service to the Zar's greatest warrior She appeared as a ghost in the bay, gliding effortlessly across the great swells of the White Sea with a silent grace that betrayed at least some of the secrets to her supernatural construction. Siegfried had always claimed that he felt the touch of Runja, the God of the Sea, at his shoulder as he toiled away. Perhaps he had been visited, for Murdu could think of no other explanation for the spirit that seemed to live within her white wood.

Murdu nodded in silent acknowledgement to Brinda's answer. If her sisters were gathered at the ship it would save the Fury some time. Casin'Zar would no doubt have a few words for Brinda about the severity of Murdu's actions but he was not about to leave his blood without a chaperone. Murdu hadn't been wandering the the shadows of Gloryhome tonight for his own amusement. Salas'Zar may be relatively safe in the company of her chosen aunt, but that did not mean he would trust her well-being to the ship builder. Since the incident with Quetzal, Murdu had been sure to keep his daughter close enough to reach should the Knight try and approach her once again.

His resistance could mean the difference between life and death. Whatever dark intentions hid behind those deranged eyes, they would hardly be in Salas' interest. Murdu would die in the fight, but Quetzal struck him as one who liked to play with her prey. He could buy Salas and his Furies at least a few minutes. The warrior already had a plan in place, one he had devised the day after the foreigners arrival. His loyal raiders were standing by the Sertavazadeen day and night, ready to depart at a moments notice. Should the worst come to pass and Murdu fall, then his raiders were instructed to follow the instructions of Salas as though they came from his own tongue.

Of course, that presented another problem, which was represented by the Fury would silently followed him through Gloryhome.

Brinda's hatred for Salas'Zar remained just as furious as always, the feeling returned by his daughter. Should they be locked aboard a ship together for any length of time without him to intercede, blows would no doubt be thrown. Brinda would win that fight and spill his daughter's blood upon the deck, of that Murdu was certain. There was no debating that, for her age, Salas remained the most skilled of the new raiders, yet she was not at a level where she could defeat the mighty Brinda'Zar.

The Fury was Murdu's right hand, and that was a position she defended viciously. Many had challenged her prowess and all had fallen short. Of those living among the Zar, Brinda was second only to Murdu in terms of strength and skill. She had never managed to master Kylost in its entirety, never managed to match the Clo'dorsha, but she had come further than nearly any other. Salas had not yet fully reached Brinda's level, and her lack of experience would be all the more detrimental. No, if they met in combat now, then Salas would fall. It was a battle that Murdu'Zar had always foreseen, ever since the girl and the warrior first met one another. Their anger was useful, for it gave both cause to grow. Salas hated Brinda's greater skill and so doubled her own training to match it. Brinda, threatened by the daughter of Clo'dorsha's monstrous rate of improvement, honed her own abilities in hope of keeping ahead.

It wouldn't last. Brinda was talented, immensely so. If not for the birth of Murdu she would be the one hailed as the Clan's greatest fighter. Yet he had been born and he had made a pup. She was still weak in many ways, but her father's daughter she remained. Soon Salas would have a taste of real combat and her growth would become all the more fierce. When the time came, there was little chance that Salas would not challenge the Fury to single combat. She would be victorious if allowed to reach her potential. She was greater than Brinda.

If Murdu had his way, she would be greater even than him.

He continued onwards unabated, not troubled in the least that his daughter would one day cross blades with his fierce second. He had known they would face each other one day, for it was the way of the Zar, and of all Wellind. The strong survived and the weak perished. Murdu would mourn Brinda, in his own way, but her death would serve as fuel for Salas'Zar's rise. A fitting end for so great a warrior as she, to fall at the hands of so great a blade as the one in the hand of Murdu'Zar's daughter.

“Go now, Brinda'Zar,” Murdu commanded as he returned to the rough paths of Gloryhome proper. “Find Salas and see her to safety.”

Without another word or hint of hesitation, Brinda made off towards the docks with all haste, disappearing into the dark as she moved to fulfil her Master's order. Her hatred of Salas'Zar would in no way effect how she carried out her duty. There was not an inkling of doubt in Murdu's mind that his raider would follow his command to the letter during his meeting with Pereton.

He made his way through the village, passing halls and huts, many of which were dark and empty. All those of able body would be hard at work preparing for the journey. The Zar worked as one, in spite of the division that the Clan was now experiencing. Pereton could corrupt many aspects of life in Gloryhome, but never that. The few that Clo'dorsha passed were those who could no longer hold a sword, or were not yet able to. All of them, without pause, showed their respect at his passing, though he noticed that a few gestures seemed shallower than others. Such blatant disrespect would once have been punished severely, but much had changed. If Murdu stopped to challenge each individual for their lack of deference then half the Clan would be put to the sword. They were simply misguided, and blinded by the words of Pereton and Derik'Zar, who had become the Jarl's spokesperson among the Berserkers, telling all who would listen of how great a boon they had been given.

Given. Not earned, not taken. They were like beggars in mainland cities pleading for scraps and smiling when they received whatever they were thrown. It was pathetic, unworthy of the Zar. Derik had betrayed himself and his family when he sided with Pereton. His father and grandfather had been great men, true warriors of Wellind. Derik spat in their faces by accepting the Jarl's plan. His betrayal was made all the more sickening by then working to gain greater support for Pereton with his demonstrations of strength and speed, showing off his stolen power.

Thoughts of Derik brought another question to mind as Murdu closed in on the great hall. The Clan had Berserkers, had the abilities of Knights at their fingertips and even now counted two Masters within their number. Yet there was one aspect of all this that pulled at Murdu's mind.

Where were all the Smiths?

The Knights had been here for weeks and not a single Berserker partner had been seen. Clo'dorsha was not well-versed in the bonds that a Knight and Smith shared, but even he knew that they could separate and operate autonomously, so why had none been sighted? Dozens of the chosen hundred had returned to Gloryhome from the camp, yet not a one of them had introduced their Smiths, all being already Bonded.

On more than one occasion, Murdu had been near the crowd when that very question was asked, yet the reply was always the same. Apparently Zelato and Quetzal were instructing the young warriors to remain Bonded with their partner when outside of their training grounds, to make their connection stronger still. This answer, on its surface, seemed valid to many, but Murdu had known many of these Berserkers since they were children. To his ears it sounded like a well-rehearsed lie, one which they all told in exactly the same tone and inflection.

Something was wrong with it all. Clo'dorsha could feel it like a roiling leviathan in his gut. The men and women who were chosen by Pereton seemed normal, acting as they always had. More arrogant and sure of themselves perhaps, but normal all the same. Yet Murdu caught a glimpse of them when they believed none was looking. There was an expression on their face, a look which he could not interpret. It seemed... broken? Wrong? It was a fleeting thing, and one gone before Murdu could glean any insight into its meaning, but it was not some trick of his imagination. He may be getting on in years, but his senses remained as sharp as they had ever been.

He had shared his concerns with no one. It was for this reason, among the others stated, that he sought out Nanali. If any among the Zar could discern what was ailing the Berserkers, it would be she, yet every attempt had been continually rebuffed. Clo'dorsha grew concerned for them, for their treatment at the hands of the foreigners in their camp, but there was little he could do to provide aid. All seemed fine in their outward appearance. In fact they seemed healthier than they had ever been, but it was all a facade, a farce.

A thought struck Murdu then. What if their increased aggression had something to do with this strange behaviour? It was hard to tell, especially among a Clan as taken with fighting and battle as the Zar, but they did seem far angrier when confronted or questioned, more inclined to use a firm tone in seemingly innocuous situations.

Was there something to the theory, or was he seeing ghosts in the sea when there was none? His instinct told Clo'dorsha that he shouldn't dismiss the uneasiness he felt in their presence, but the lack of knowledge as to how Knights, Smiths and Berserkers functioned was crippling. He had fought only one Knight over the years and he hadn't been of a mood to play teacher with the warrior.

Murdu sighed quietly, purposely rooting himself in the feel of the earth under his feet and the gentle touch of the chilled air against his skin. Thinking on it did nothing. These thoughts had been whirling around inside his mind for days without an end in sight. He would go mad wondering what was happening to the Zar within the confines of the Imperial compound, and so he should banish the subject from his mind. He was not the greatest of thinkers when it came to such things. Strategy in battle he could handle, but skill at war did not often translate into anything else.

He had decided to simply bide his time, at least for the moment. He was seeing a fragment of the whole, for the plans of Quetzal and Zelato dwarfed the simple ambitions of Pereton. Clo'dorsha had to hope that this meeting would allow him better insight. He'd been expecting the call of his Jarl for days now and Pereton had not disappointed. No doubt he would gloat, blustering about the great boons he had bestowed, and Murdu would say nothing to the contrary. Arguing with him served little purpose, for there was no way to reason with insanity.

He spent the rest of his journey to the hall trying to find his centre, losing himself in the cold embrace of his homeland. It helped, at least in part, and by the time he reached the great doors he was once more at peace. He stood still, hand falling unconsciously to the axe at his hip as he narrowed his eyes defensively. Clo'dorsha's hair stood on end, as though he had passed through the cool calm and landed in the middle of a furious blizzard. He knew what lay beyond the doors. He could sense them, their presences leaving a curious absence that his instincts, honed through years, brought to his attention.

Murdu glanced to his left, spying the edge of Nanali's hut. There was light within, but the Seer would not allow him entry. He pondered for a moment whether he should try at least once more to see if she could aid him, but decided against it. The old woman would not shift once a stance had been taken, and he wouldn't rely upon her a second time. This battle was his to fight, and his alone.

As he made to open the large doors, they swung open seemingly of their own accord. Murdu would have laughed at the theatrics had he been in a more jovial mood, but instead his frown became all the more pronounced. They try to intimidate, but they would fail. Perhaps these antics would have an effect on some mainland whelp but they did not touch the heart of Murdu'Zar. He marched in without a single misstep.

The flames in the hearth blazed, sending a deep warmth out into the hall of Kalin'Zar and constantly flickering darkness across every surface. It was strange to see this place so empty, for Pereton's father had always wished it to be full. Many was the night that Murdu could remember celebrating great victories alongside his brothers and sisters. Ferda would often be under his arm, joining in the festivities without fear of reprisal for being different. Kalin didn't treat Murdu's diminutive woman any differently than those of full blood, and she was welcome within his hall as one of the Zar. Looks were thrown and comments silently made, but none dared voice them aloud for fear of the retribution that would be unleashed by the giant at her side. Those times were some of the happiest Murdu could remember, and became even better when Salas was born. The feast they held to celebrate her coming was great indeed, and all attended. Two men commented on her size and skin. Two bodies were cast into the White Sea. A new child was precious, for babes only added to the Zar's strength. To diminish that on the day a life came into the world was rewarded swiftly and mercilessly.

Better times. Those were the moments to be cherished, to be treasured. It was then, with Ferda at his side and surrounded by the people of his Clan, that Murdu felt most at peace.

But that was then, and this was now.

The warmth of the hall gave off nothing that could even be close to the comfort it had before. Instead it now held a blistering edge, as though the flames within the firepit could explode outwards at any moment to consume all trapped inside. The weapons on the walls, trophies to old glories, now seemed malevolent and dangerous, as though the souls of all they'd slain reached out from beyond the veil to touch the living and chill them to the bone. Even the feel of the wood had changed. It didn't feel... connected. It was as though the world outside had shunned this place, treating it as something corrupt and evil. Murdu once felt the Gods inside this greatest of halls, but now he felt only their absence. There was a taste to the air, a bitterness that made Murdu roll his tongue inside his mouth to try and expunge it, but found he was unable.

The shadows danced. They stretched out ominously, hiding corners in impenetrable darkness. They moved as though they possessed some semblance of thought, reaching for Murdu even as he came to a stop at the entrance. Clo'dorsha's eyes moved around this once sacred place, grieving silently for what had been. Once he had gathered his thoughts and focus, he finally turned his eyes upon the grinning fool on his throne of lies.

Pereton seemed joyous, his face the picture of one at the height of happiness. He leaned back in the seat of his father lazily, treating it not with the respect that such a place deserved. The Jarl looked well, a healthy tinge to his cheeks that had been absent before. This was the first time Murdu had seen him up close since the last meeting of the Elders, and while his people suffered through a dreadful uncertainty, Pereton seemed to have thrived as a guest of the Masters. He looked greater, taller somehow, almost as though he'd suddenly grown several inches. He seemed a touch more imposing in the half darkness of the hall, one hand curled around the haft of his axe. The anxiety that had been eating him during that first meeting with the Knights seemed to have been stripped away and replaced by a blissful ignorance.

His eyes stared at Murdu pointedly, the irises trembling slightly as though in excitement for what was to come. Clo'dorsha returned his stare easily, for the boy was no man to fear, though the warrior was sure that he believed otherwise.

“Thank you for coming, Clo'dorsha.” It was not Pereton who spoke. Murdu's eyes moved slowly, deliberately, in the direction of the new voice, and tried to stop bile from rising as her identity was discerned. “I do hope we didn't call you away from anything important.”

Lady Quetzal, dressed in another luxurious dress and dripping with precious stones, grinned at him brightly. Warm, brown eyes peered at him from beneath the rim of the large hat she wore, her short hair styled into swirls that framed her face elegantly. Dark skin gleamed as it was touched by flame, setting her bare arms to shine as the fire of the hearth could be seen swaying within her gaze. She was no great beauty, but there was a certain attractive quality to her figure, a confidence that drew the eyes of many young raiders among the Zar. Murdu had heard many of them discuss the exotic stranger from Andapa, a country not visited by the Zar given that it was on the other side of the continent.

They could not see past the face she erected, the act that she maintained to a fault. Her smile was kind, her posture unthreatening and her eyes were filled with enthusiastic welcome, but it was all a lie. Her stare whispered of death, for behind the brittle window of feeling there lay a cold nothingness. Hope and happiness, love and pain, none of it could be seen within her. Whatever husk of a soul lay beneath her looks was broken and lacking the essential components needed to be whole, to be human. She put on a good show, but a show was all it was. The symmetry of her form, the words she spoke, it was all a means to ensnare. There were many pretty flowers in Wellind that had the same traits, but even they did what they did for survival. Quetzal's reasons for her bizarre farce were all her own, and Murdu believed far more ominous.

Clo'dorsha did not reply to the Andapan, instead taking a stance of silence. He would learn more if he kept his tongue, for Quetzal seemed to enjoy the sound of her own voice far too much to remain quiet for long. His theory was proven correct almost immediately after it had formed.

“You seem tense, Murdu'Zar,” Quetzal said brightly, picking up a jug of wine from the Jarl's table and holding it up to him in offering, “Would you perhaps care for something to drink? You should relax. We are celebrating.”

Murdu glanced at the wine with barely disguised disdain. Why was he suddenly struck by the notion that it was filled with poison?

“He will not drink, Sweet Lady,” Another voice joined the conversation, this one too was familiar to the ears of the great warrior. He glanced in the direction of the speaker, unsurprised to find Quetzal's underling leaning against one of the great wooden pillars. “He strikes me as a serious man, not given to enjoy himself. Am I right, 'Great One'? That is what your followers call you, isn't it? Murdu the mighty, greatest of the Zar.

The mocking mirth in the voice of Zelato was an insult, but one which Murdu cast aside. The man was dressed as a fool, brightly garbed in shining fabric that hurt Clo'dorsha's eyes to look at. His porcelain mask with its grotesque smile seemed to laugh at him, almost as though he was trying to provoke a reaction. Murdu had no doubt that was the case, yet he would not. He knew he would die in a confrontation with the masked man. The depths of his abilities were still unknown, but Murdu was aware at the very least that the man could hide himself from sight on top of his great strength and speed. No, a fight with him was no fight at all.

“Perhaps you are right, Zelato,” Quetzal replied musingly as she placed the jug back down, tapping the rim absently before placing a gentle hand on Pereton's shoulder. The Jarl didn't even react to her touch, his eyes still fixed to Clo'dorsha and his smile still prominent. “He does seem the type doesn't he? I very much believe he dislikes us.”

“Well, what's to like?” Zelato laughed, his horrible snicker echoing out into the hall built in honour to those that came before. The fact that the duo were once more allowed into this place made Murdu's blood boil. “We are hardly Wellinders. Still, we are glad you came, Murdu of the Zar.”

“My Jarl,” Murdu growled under his breath, unable to listen to the two insects speak for a moment longer than necessary. He'd thought he would be able, but each syllable spoken made his skin itch almost unbearably. “You called for me.”

It was not a question, simply a fact.

“I did, Murdu'Zar, I did.” Pereton finally spoke. Even his voice seemed greater, ringing out into the air with a tone of command that had been absent in the boy before the arrival of the foreigners. “I apologise for my absence these past weeks, but the Berserkers and their training have commanded the fullness of my attention. I'm sure you understand.”

Clo'dorsha did not, but he gave no indication as to his opinion on the matter of the Jarl's absence. He could argue the point, but it would be akin to speaking to a wall. The statement was empty, for what could Pereton offer in the training of warriors? The pup was blooded, true, but he was hardly the fighter his father had been, nor was he the equal of any other among the Zar. No, Pereton liked to clutch his axe and play at raiding.

“As for the reason I've summoned you, well, they are twofold. First is that the Berserkers are ready. Lady Quetzal and Lord Zelato have been working tirelessly since their arrival, and their labour has finally born fruit. One hundred Berserkers will sail with us to Nian, under the command of Derik'Zar. He has become something of a symbol to the newly Bonded, and I am sure he will serve well in the position.”

Derik'Zar was almost as untested as Pereton himself was. He was an Elder in title only, for he had not even seen his thirtieth year of life, let alone commanded a hundred warriors. The appointment was an idiotic and ill-thought out one, though beneficial for the man and his family. The only reason he had been named Elder was because he was the only one among his kin who was of an age to receive the title, with all others being too young or too old. Was this another of Pereton's games? Why would he entrust such a responsibility to Derik'Zar? Was there not some other way to reward the coward for betraying the Zar?

“I can see your concern, Murdu'Zar, but fear not,” Pereton raised a placating hand, “While he is untested as a leader, Derik'Zar's only order will be to unleash our Berserkers at the appropriate moment, not to issue commands in combat. He is the strongest of our new warriors and I'm sure he can keep them in line until the time comes.”

Murdu's eyes narrowed, “Until the time comes? I think it best you tell me of this plan of attack, Pereton. I would also like to know why Casin, Hili and the other Elders are not present for this meeting. They have just as much right to hear this information as I.”

“And they will, Murdu'Zar, and soon. But I wished to speak with you first concerning your own place in our invasion.”

“I will be with my Furies and Salas, fighting the enemy, as is the Clo'dorsha's place.”

“A waste of your talents, my friend!” Pereton jumped to his feet, walking closer to the firepit as he gesticulated fiercely. Quetzal followed him, the sweet spectre of death at his shoulder. “You are far more than an ordinary warrior, Murdu, and this attack will be different to anything you have faced before. I would use you to the fullness of your potential. You are, after all, the greatest of all of us.”

Empty flattery, but why the need for it? He had his Berserkers and Masters. What possible reason could Pereton conceive for trying to bring Murdu on side. He had made his stance abundantly clear during their last meeting, and the warrior was not naive enough to believe that Pereton didn't know about his meetings with Casin, as well as the other disgruntled Elders who desperately wished for his demise.

“It is time, Murdu,” Pereton continued, eyes shining with boundless glee, “The Berserkers are ready, trained, and eager for bloodshed. The Zar will sail out into the White Sea and bring havoc down upon the heads of our Old Enemy. Such glory awaits us, Murdu. Such reward.”

“And what would you have me do to help achieve this goal, Pereton?” Murdu asked carefully, eyes flickering cautiously to Quetzal and Zelato, but they remained unnaturally still. “You know where I stand. You know that I believe this will lead only to our end.”

“I do, Murdu, I do. But even you have to admit that what has transpired over these last two months has been nothing short of miraculous!” Pereton began to pace, his eyes bright and shining with more excitement than ever. “The return of our power! You have seen it, Murdu, just as I have. You doubted this plan because you believed we would be destroyed, yet here we remain, weeks after returning the Berserkers to Wellind!”

“There is a difference between training a few warriors in the ways of the Knights in secret and a full-scale invasion, Pereton!” Murdu, despite swearing to avoid engaging the man in anger, couldn't help but speak up. The Jarl had a way of drawing out his negative emotion, especially when he began speaking to Clo'dorsha as he did one of the children of the Zar. He promised them the world while offering nothing but dust. “How can you not see that?”

“I see all now, Murdu'Zar,” Pereton replied with a grin, “All the Elders claimed I was mad, or had lost my way, but they were as wrong as you are. Now they all see. Only you and handful of dissidents continue to question, but I am certain, in time, you will see things as I do.”

Murdu made to answer... but brought himself up short. He had allowed himself to be pulled into exactly what he'd wished to avoid. He needed to remain in control, for no one else seemed to be doing the same. Trying to question Pereton's madness was a madness all its own, for there was no way to change his mind, to give him a glimpse of the reason he refused to acknowledge.

“You see!” Pereton exclaimed as Murdu remained silent, “Even you know it, Murdu'Zar!”

“What is this task you would ask of me, Pereton?” Murdu spat out between clenched teeth. “Speak plainly, and quickly. If you mean for this attack to happen soon then I must meet with my raiders.”

“You will not be sailing with your raiders, Murdu'Zar,” Quetzal's quiet voice was accompanied by the snicker of Zelato as Clo'dorsha's blood went cold. “The Jarl has found another use for a man of your... extraordinary talents.”

“I won't sail with my people?” Murdu's reply was quiet, dangerous. His voice became deeper, darker, holding an immutable edge that cut to the heart of all present. Pereton took a step back, his newfound confidence flagging under the weight of it, of the pure brutality promised within those few words. It even effected the two Masters. Quetzal's left eye twitched, her hand moving unconsciously as though reaching for an absent weapon. Zelato's mask tilted as he stared, a subtle tension running the length of his body.

Murdu looked to Pereton, fixed the Jarl with the fullness of his furious glare. “What is this?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Murdu'Zar,” Pereton's shaking smirk betrayed his fractured sureness, but still caused Murdu's ire to rise like a vicious viper. “But you are needed in the thick of battle. You will sail with Lady Quetzal, Lord Zelato and I when we leave Gloryhome for Nian. We need a capable warrior at the head of our forces. I plan to send the Sertavazadeen to the Fort located at the city's eastern end. Your warriors were all trained by you and will serve as the perfect strike force to disable any defences they have at their disposal. After all, they say your Furies are each worth a hundred raiders. I'm sure Salas will be just as impressive when the time comes for her to join the fight.”

Hearing his daughter's name fall from the mouth of Pereton'Zar very nearly made Murdu lose control of himself. He tensed, his fury rising in time with his thundering heartbeat. How he wished to cross the distance between them at that moment. How he longed to wipe that self-indulgent smile from the face of the would-be Jarl.

“There are many capable warriors among the Zar, Pereton, and you have already stated that Derik will be the one to lead the Berserkers,” Murdu began, keeping his tone even despite the idiocy he was hearing. “I know of this Fort. I also know that it is home of the Ragoran Navy in Nian. These will be trained soldiers, not city guard, and I have no doubt that there will be Knights among them. Surely I would better serve the Zar by attacking the Fort alongside my raiders.”

“Aptly put, Murdu'Zar, and a point well made, but alas you will be needed at the front,” Quetzal said softly, gently rubbing Pereton's shoulder as though in support, yet to Murdu it seemed like she was petting her animal. “We expect the Fort to quickly empty after we unleash the first salvo from our Inscribed cannons. The... what was it? The Sertavazadeen? Your ship and its distinguished crew will only be dealing with stragglers, and of course any high ranking officials who decide to seek safety behind the Fort's high walls. It is an essential mission, but hardly the most dangerous aspect of this invasion. I'm sure your warriors will find it no challenge. If you were to join them... well, As Pereton'Zar says, it would be a waste of your talents.”

“And the ships?” Murdu stressed sternly. “The Navy will not sit and wait while you reign fire down upon their heads. There will be many already in the bay, with more to follow quickly after our presence is known.”

“I will deal with the ships, Great Warrior!” Zelato gave a cheery little wave from his place by the pillar, giggling at the incredulous look on Murdu's face. “They will be reduced to splinters before your own vessel even arrives.”

“You?” Murdu asked doubtfully, taking the measure of the man. “By yourself? You alone will challenge the might of the Ragoran Navy?”

“Mastan D'viritazi is not the only Knight strong enough to destroy a fleet, Murdu'Zar,” Quetzal stated airily, examining her hands closely as though already bored with the conversation. “Zelato here is more than capable of destroying a few boats, and he is uniquely equipped to move quickly enough to ensure the job is done in good time. Have no fear, your daughter will be quite safe.”

Murdu clenched his jaw at her blatant disrespect. “My question has yet to be answered. Why have me at the front when I will have no one to command? You would reduce me to a mere footsoldier, Pereton'Zar? Despite our differences, you know well that I am worth more than that.”

“No, never that, Murdu'Zar,” Pereton leaned forward in his seat with a sickening eagerness. “I seek to make you a symbol! Derik is a good warrior, Clo'dorsha, and the strongest Berserker we have, but to see you fighting alongside them will give our forces the boost they need to see the day through. Your are the flag behind which our Clan can rally, and if they see you charge the fray then they will follow, no matter the odds.”

“Morale?” Murdu grumbled in annoyance, “You would use me for morale?”

Pereton hesitated, leaning back in his throne and tapping a finger idly against the blade of his great axe. His face was touched by the faintest hint of worry, if only for a second, before it was gone. “I am ashamed to admit this, Murdu'Zar, but you and I both know that the Berserkers will not be enough to win the day. Lady Quetzal has eyes within Nian,but even she does not know exactly how many Knights will be present in the city. The Berserkers will have their hands full, so I need our raiders to pick up the slack. I have the majority of support among the Zar, but some of the more stubborn Elders wish for my head on a spike. They will follow, this I know, but they will be reluctant to give all they can for the sake of the Zar.”

“Is that why we do this, Pereton?” Murdu asked mockingly, shaking his head at the seriousness of the Jarl's voice. “Is that why you have brought these creatures here? Why you have given land to foreigners? Is it truly for the Zar, or is it for the sake of your own ambitions?”

Pereton's answering smile was thin and devoid of warmth, “We are not friends, Murdu'Zar. You hate me. Despise me. In truth, I feel the same way about you, but you also know that we are one people. We are set to follow this path now, come what may. You have the ears of the reluctant Elders. They will heed your word, and the sight of you charging into battle will banish whatever hesitation they harbour. They will follow you. Division cannot be allowed to reign, not in Gloryhome. I am the Jarl, Clo'dorsha, and you will respect my authority.”

“You truly think so little of those you've known since you were a babe?” Murdu sneered. “You think they would leave you to die, or turn tail and run, because of what? Idiotic ignorance? That is not our way, nor is it what they argue for the return of. Are you so far gone that you cannot remember what it means to be a Wellinder?”

“All peoples are capable of betrayal, Murdu'Zar, not just those from the mainland,” Quetzal stated gently. Her attempts to be the voice of reason fell woefully short of the mark. “You know that the Jarl's great plans for unification are not universally accepted. In my experience that promotes a breeding ground for treachery.”

“You are not of the Zar, nor of Wellind,” Murdu cut the woman down before she could continue to try and rationalise Pereton's foolish behaviour. “You know nothing.”

The woman smiled sweetly, completely unaffected.

“Whatever your opinion on me as a leader, as your leader, it matters not,” Pereton grumbled in reply as he glared, his hand tightening around his axe. He would do nothing, Murdu knew this, but part of him wished that the Jarl's pride simply got the best of him and he issued challenge. As a sitting Jarl, Murdu could not raise a hand against him, even with an offering of single combat. To kill a Jarl was to betray your Clan, to turn from the Gods. That would not be the case, however, if Pereton was the one to make the first move. The only problem was that Quetzal and Zelato would not allow the Jarl to perish by Murdu's hands. Clo'dorsha doubted that the duo would stand by while he gutted Pereton for the treacherous toad that he was. “For better or for worse, our world is changing, Murdu. We can no longer keep ourselves hidden away in the safety of Gloryhome. We have to expand and become a force to be reckoned with. Only then will we be truly free.”

Murdu had heard this all before during Pereton's many speeches to the masses as his Berserkers played the part of entertainers, lifting heavy objects to much applause. He was not taken in the least by Pereton's constant reinforcement of the same message, all while glossing over the many dangers that faced them should they listen.

“And where will your two Masters be during the assault?” Murdu inquired, his eyebrows lowering as he stared at Quetzal and then Zelato, meeting their stares with ease. “Are they to wait until we are all dead before they act.”

“We have own enemies to fight, Clo'dorsha,” Quetzal began, clearing her throat delicately, “The Knights and soldiers you will face in Nian are not the true threat, after all. Mastan D'viritazi and one other, Lady Vera of Myrin, are formidable Masters in their own right. Zelato and I will deal with them so as to avoid their combined fury from falling upon the Zar.”

“Who is Vera of Myrin?” Murdu refused to use the foolish titles of the mainland, “I have not heard of her.”

“You wouldn't have, Great One,” Zelato said, running a finger across his false lips as though in thought, “She is of Venos, a world away from where we are now. In that part of the continent, she is well known as one of the strongest Knights living. To defeat her will not be easy, and will require our complete focus. Unfortunately this also means we will be unable to participate after battle is met. We must conserve our strength. Spirit, how I hate to fight a battle out in the open like this. I much prefer to do things quietly.”

“We do as the Mentor commands, Zelato,” Quetzal said sweetly, laughing affectionately, though something black lay within the sound, “After all, you wouldn't want to fail him again, now would you? You tried your way once before.”

“And I'm sure you do this out of the goodness of your black hearts,” Murdu chuckled darkly, sarcastically. “How to we know that when you find what you seek you will not just abandon us?”

“Murdu'Zar, you go too far,” Pereton rose from his seat, trying and failing to look authoritative, “Lord Zelato and Lady Quetzal have already done much for our Clan. You will-”

“Please, Lord Jarl, it is quite alright,” Quetzal placed a gentle hand onto the arm of Pereton. It had the outward appearance of a simple, placating gesture, yet to Murdu it appeared as though the woman was bringing her dog to heel. It at the least answered his question as to who was in control. “Clo'dorsha is right to question us. After all, we appeared as though from nowhere. As I said before, Murdu'Zar, we are interested in this arrangement lasting for a very long time. I am sure that soon, Pereton'Zar will be named King of all Wellind-”

The Jarl smiled. The expression was gratifying, his eyes filled with awe as he stared at Quetzal, completely taken with her. A pet given a bone by his master.

“-When that day comes, it is beneficial for us both to have strong ties. We can do much for one another, Murdu'Zar. Zelato and I are only two, but there are many more like us and we have many allies on the mainland.”

“But that only happens if you find the two you are looking for,” Murdu saw through her pathetic attempts to ingratiate herself instantly. “What if they are not in Nian?”

“Oh, but they are, Murdu'Zar. They stay with Mastan D'viritazi in a place called the 'Nest'. It was the birthplace of the Clan, and of Ragora as we know it today if the old legends are to be believed. That is where I will go when I arrive, along with a small group of Berserkers to keep the rabble in check while I deal with Mastan. Zelato will join me once he has finished clearing the bay.”

“Our quarry, Murdu'Zar, are a Knight and Smith of exceptional skill,” Zelato butted in, finally leaving the safety of the pillar and prancing forward, his steps not making a single sound. “If they have improved at the pace we believe they have, even a Berserker will be hard-pressed to defeat them.”

“And why tell me that?”

Quetzal smiled, “Because they are also rather cunning, and their protectors even more so. I wouldn't be surprised if, in the confusion of the assault, they try to make their escape at sea, or perhaps even flee into the jungles where we will not find them. All involved with this invasion must be aware of what they look like and will be given sketches of their appearances. They shouldn't be hard to spot. The boy is particularly conspicuous due to the scar he carries on his face. To flee the Nest they will have to pass through the city. There is no other way down the mountain. If they are harmed in any way, then our deal comes to an end and we will withdraw our support of the Zar.”

Presented as a caveat, but it might as well be a threat. If the Masters left Ragora before the Zar did and even one of those Masters was still standing... it would all be over. The Clan would be ruined, destroyed and cast to the winds. With their forces dead, Gloryhome and all who remained behind would be slaughtered. “You are certain you can kill the Masters?”

“Oh yes!” Zelato chuckled, clapping his hands together in demented delight. “We will be catching them off guard and at a severe disadvantage. I will handle the icy Vera. She is a Master, but a very young one, not my equal. But then, who is? Our Sweet, Sweet Lady here will make short work of the King of Lightning, make no mistake. He will so enthralled by her beauty that I'm sure killing him will be oh so easy.”

“Zelato, you flatterer,” Quetzal covered her smile with a hand demurely, still maintaining her act of being a Lady when in truth she was a monster. “But yes, Murdu'Zar. They will be no match for us.”

The plan was no plan at all. The trio had concocted a half-baked idea of what to do upon arrival, but much of the information relied upon guessing what the enemy would do next. What if Mastan D'viritazi was not in the Nest? What if Quetzal and Zelato were wrong and there were more Masters within the city? What if the Navy rallied to hold the Fort, dooming Murdu's Furies and his daughter to a painful death?

Questions. That was all this strategy presented. Murdu'Zar looked to Quetzal and then to Zelato. Neither of them were commanders. They weren't leaders of men who'd fought side by side with those that served under them. They were parasites playing socialites. They smiled and said all the right words, but they were all without meaning. It seemed to have a profound effect on Pereton, which Murdu found worthy of note, but for what reason?. Culturally, the differences between the mainland and Wellind was same between night and day. Their jewels, bright clothing and clean skin impressed no one here. The Zar were not taken by the material, for that was not what mattered to the Gods. Possessions were fleeting, whereas reputation,the Song of your life, was eternal and will be a part of the land long after you were gone.

Yet Pereton looked at both of the Masters with... adoration in his eyes.

That's when a wave of cold realisation struck Clo'dorsha. Of course he would envy them, for they possessed what he wished to have. Pereton wished to rule Wellind, he wished to be named 'King'. He would take a mainland title and put it over his own. Clearly that wasn't all he wished to change. Would he bring the false god from the continent to these hallowed shores, as Ragora and Corrocoe had done before him? Would cities rule the landscape, would their connection to the earth, sky and sea be lost forever? He claimed to guide the Zar into the future. Was that the future he wished for? One filled with a love of gold and pearls, an empty existence without meaning, without honour?

Would Pereton not stop at sending their people to die? Would he kill their very spirit? To his eyes, the foreigners seemed to have all that he wanted. Power, respect, nobility.

Nobility. Murdu spat on the word for it was empty. To be noble was a calling, a way of living, not a birthright handed down to the weak of body and mind. It must be earned through trials of arms, through pain and suffering, all in pursuit of something far greater than yourself. The mainlanders who called themselves noble were all layabouts who did little more than hand out vapid orders and grow fat off the backs of others. Murdu should know, he'd killed enough of them over his many years as a raider. They all offered gold, or whores, or their mothers, or their wives, sons, daughters. It mattered not. The so called Nobles of the continent were as far from the word as one could become.

“Do you have any questions, Murdu'Zar?” The Jarl finally put his gaze off of Quetzal, who had taken a seat on the arm of his throne, throwing an arm about his shoulder. She whispered into his ear, glancing in Clo'dorsha's direction with each pause. Murdu cared not for the content of her speech. He had seen enough, heard enough.

Finally, for the first time in weeks, his mind was clear, his purpose even more so. So much time spent agonising, so much doubt and hesitation, it all fell away and evaporated. Even in the once great hall, now laid so low by the presence of pestilent invaders, he now felt the murmur of the earth, the sea. It was faint, but it was there. He had been closing himself off, he realised. The Gods had not left this place and they had not abandoned the Zar.

No, they were waiting for him.

'You will have to make a choice.'

“None, my Jarl, save one,” Murdu answered respectfully, swallowing his pride. Delighted satisfaction lit up on the face of the fool as he wrapped an arm around Quetzal's waist. Clo'dorsha saw her face twitch, disgust twisting her features for a fraction of a second before it returned to one filled with enamoured lust. Murdu could not stop his smirk, his derision, showing as he met eyes with the woman.

Pereton was not his opponent. He had never been. It was Quetzal who Murdu battled now, for the Jarl was nothing but her puppet. Some small part of the warrior had believed that Pereton still clung to control, that he was still a Jarl in spite of those at his ear. He was shown now, with great and undeniable clarity, that he was wrong. Perhaps a part of him had clung to the idea that at least some small part of Pereton belonged to his father, but Murdu now saw the truth of his folly.

“When do we leave?”

“As soon as we are able,” Pereton said instantly in reply, “I am glad you have seen sense, Murdu'Zar. Ensure your raiders know that you sail with me, and make sure they know to make for the Fort once battle is met. I will see to the rest. Two days or less, Murdu. Soon I will receive everything I have coming to me, everything that I have strived for.”

A slip of the tongue perhaps, to speak of himself so, but Murdu did not let on that he noticed. “Of course, my Jarl. I will be ready when the time comes.”

“Please give my regards to your daughter, Clo'dorsha,” Quetzal said softly by way of farewell. “She is quite the lovely little thing. I hope our last meeting has not left a bad impression on her. I really am quite sweet once you get to know me, I promise.”

“I will, Quetzal, I will,” Murdu replied, keeping his voice even, for rage did not reach him. He felt too much focus to allow its hold. “I am sure she is with Nanali'Zar, though I suppose you have no greetings for her?”

Quetzal's mask dropped, if only for a moment, and the monster beneath appeared. Murdu did not wait for her response, for he did not need to. He was done here.

The warrior spun in place and made for the door with his confident stride, which grew greater and greater the closer he came to the entrance. He could not stop himself from glancing back, at least once, to see his enemy once again. To make sure he was right.

Pereton seemed to have forgotten Murdu existed, instead staring into the warm eyes of Quetzal who held his face in both hands. His eyes seemed lost, consumed in total by the woman by his side. Murdu swallowed his disappointment, his despair, and shook his head of errand thoughts.

“I am sorry, Kalin. I could not help him.” The apology was audible to none save him, yet he felt he still must make it, to beg forgiveness from his oldest and dearest friend, a man who'd been like a father to Murdu in all ways save blood. His eyes moved to Zelato, who stood profoundly still, leaning at an odd angle. He waved at Murdu, that smile sending a shiver down the warrior's spine, the strangeness of the man striking even when he did not speak. Dismissing the fool, Murdu turned away from Pereton'Zar. But more than that, he turned away from his Jarl, and the position which he represented.

He stepped out into the cold, night having fallen totally now, yet he could still hear the distant din of the Zar hard at work. Murdu'Zar smiled as the darkness of the hall was banished by the boundless energy that suffused his home. The smell of the sea was refreshing as he breathed deep, expelling the corruption of a place he had once considered all but holy, before thinking on what he had just been made privy to.

Quetzal and Zelato had no intention of helping the Zar beyond achieving their own goals. That was the immutable fact that Murdu had managed to discern. Quetzal may have denied it, but the only confirmation Murdu needed was the sight of the false Jarl. Whatever that woman had done to Pereton, she had broken what little of the leader he once was into dirt. He was nothing but a pet to her now, entirely hers and hers alone. His last statement proved as much. The Zar was no longer his people and he was no longer their Jarl.

The Clan was now without a leader for the first time since their founding. They were rudderless, aimless, lost on the Cold Water as those dark seas chipped at their souls, the very identity on which they based everything upon.

But that wasn't entirely true. They did have one to show the way, yet it wasn't until this very moment that Murdu realised who that person was. He had hidden from it all his life, ran from the future that he knew would eventually come to pass. Murdu had instead focused on Salas, believing he could thrust his duty, his responsibility, upon her to save himself. But she was not him, nor would she ever be. He'd already concluded that her path would be her own, come what may.

He had seen glimpses of it in the Weave, within his dreams, yet he had lived in blatant denial. Even Pereton himself was aware of this truth. Clo'dorsha had always thought of himself as a blunt instrument, a warrior and nothing more, but the Gods saw more than he and they had been denied long enough. The Zar would follow him if given a reason. They would stand with him if he showed them he was able.

The strong ruled. That was their law before Pereton's ascension. He had gained the throne because of his father, to honour his last wish, but they all should have denied it for that was not the way of the Zar. It pained Murdu to say, but his old friend was wrong, and Clo'dorsha had been a fool to indulge him.

Murdu'Zar felt eyes upon him and turned to face his silent watcher. Nanali'Zar stood by the small fence outside her hut. She looked weary, older, but there was a twinkle to her eye that betrayed how young at heart she was. The ancient seer nodded to him gravely, for she already knew his thoughts, his feelings. Was this the moment she had been waiting for? Was this why she had hidden herself away from him?

Murdu chuckled to himself. She never did anything without purpose. Nanali acted as Ferda would, waiting for him to see what she had all along.

He would have to go along with their plans, at least for a time. The Furies could keep Salas safe while in Nian, and at the Fort she would be far from the worst of the fighting. It was a risk, but only the Clo'dorsha was truly aware of how skilled his raiders were. Salas would be in the best possible hands, save his own. Murdu would sail with Pereton, he would play the loyal soldier and fight for his Jarl.

He would wait, but no longer procrastinate as he had done since the arrival of foreign ships on the shores of his home. Murdu'Zar was not talented in the art of subtlety, but he was a master of patience. He would go to Nian, he would kill and slaughter as a raider of the Zar should. He would search for this duo that they so craved to capture.

Clo'dorsha would wait for the opportune moment. He had been the prey long enough, floundering in self-induced ignorance. He chose now to be predator, to hunt those that claimed to be above all others. He would show Quetzal and Zelato what a mortal could truly do when pushed. They would rue the day they arrived upon this island.

Murdu didn't know when it would arrive, but arrive it would. They assured him of their victory, but given the way they spoke of the Masters in Nian, Clo'dorsha doubted it would be as simple as they claimed.

The moment would come, and Murdu would make his choice.

Their journey to Nian would be difficult, and the attack would test every man and woman who Murdu called family. No one could say for certain what would happen when they reached the shore, even the Masters in their arrogance, for no strategy survived contact with the enemy.

But Murdu'Zar was the Master of War. He was Clo'dorsha, the Perfect Warrior, the Chosen of Krasihin. He would adapt, he would overcome. He made an oath then, one which he would never have been able to make only hours earlier. By pledging this, he damned himself, for the Gods law was clear on what would happen to those who betrayed their Clan. Yet to save the Zar, Murdu would have to go against all that he believed to be true.

Murdu'Zar looked to Nanali. He whispered his promise softly, so as to reveal nothing to the swine who remained behind him, for it would not do for them to know of what he intended. He knew the Seer would hear him regardless. Perhaps she already knew what he was about to say, for the Weave was as clear to her as the majesty of the White Sea.

“Before the day is done, before this battle we go to fight is over and the fires have been extinguished, I will kill Pereton'Zar. I will remove this tumour from our Clan, I will destroy the howling demons at our gates,” Murdu'Zar looked to the sky then, to the stars. They shone so brightly, the night growing so still. He felt the Gods watching, smiling with blood-thirsty glee at Clo'dorsha, waiting with bated breath for him to fulfil his oath. “Then... Then I will take what is rightfully mine. What always should have been mine.”

Murdu could hear it. The drums of war beat, their music causing his own blood to rise as he felt an almost manic smile form on his lips. For the first time, Murdu'Zar embraced his fate. He could hear the roar of the ancestors in the High Hall, shouting in triumph, urging him onwards. The world stood with him, the power of rock and stone, wind and tide. All of it flooded his veins and filled him with a strength he had never before felt.

Wellind was with him.

Murdu'Zar strode towards the port with purpose, the many symbols of the Song etched into his skin singing a victorious melody into the screaming wind. He had work to do, arrangements to make and a war to win.

Clo'dorsha marched onwards towards his destiny.