Durakel swore as Korgen’s sword slid past his guard and bruised his abdomen. Korgen’s green eyes lit up as he struck his brother and he sidled to the right to circle around for another opportunity. Korgen stood half a foot taller and had a dangerous reach with his long wooden sword. Growing impatient as Durakel stood still in the middle of the training circle, Korgen snarled and swung for his brother’s face. He missed and swung again for the neck. Durakel dodged to the left and paced backwards.

Spitting on the red dirt floor, Korgen taunted his disengaged brother, “If we were using steel, you’d already be in the dirt, brother.”

“If we were using steel, I wouldn’t have let you touch me.”

Durakel chuckled at his now scowling brother. Sweat dripped into the taller man’s scraggly beard and he panted hard as he hefted his sword to continue pursuing Durakel. This time, the stockier Durakel parried his brother’s blows as Korgen continued his hammering. The two brothers grunted as their wooden swords met again and again. Durakel danced backwards, seeking to escape his brother’s long arms.

“Afraid, little brother?” Korgen snorted.

Durakel leaped forward, a pair of overhead blows setting Korgen on the defensive. The older man struggled to adjust to Durakel’s sudden charge. A brief flurry of blows lead to Korgen’s practice blade hitting the dirt and Durakel returning Korgen’s earlier blow to the ribs.

Korgen wheezed, his breath coming in short gasps, “Little bastard.”

“Get yer ass off the dirt, brother, I heard father needed some opinions on the new barrels of ale he brought for the feast tonight.”

A few more wheezes escaped Korgen before he recovered enough to clasp his brother’s extended arm. Durakel hauled Korgen to his feet and slapped him on the back, “Let’s get some ale in ya.”

The two men strode through Ironhill, gulping down the mountain air. Summer’s end brought with it a crisp heat that the afternoon breeze struggled to tame. Many of the prominent halls in the city stood higher on the hill, about a mile away from the sparring arena. Durakel scratched his beard and sauntered up Ironhill’s main street. Running from the gates to the peak of the hill, the busy avenue boasted most of the city’s shops and taverns. Korgen winced and pressed a hand to his ribs as he trudged through the market district. Only a handful of merchants bustled about the street as they conducted the day’s business. A pair of tailors standing outside their shop greeted Korgen as the brothers ambled past the store.

Ironhill’s prosperous mines built the city into one of the strongest holds in the region, but many of the outlying villages earned a living by selling wheat, ale, wool, and meat to the city. Stone shops and residences replaced wooden buildings as the brothers wandered uphill toward their father’s hall. Durakel spied fewer citizens milling about as they drew closer to the peak, most of the city’s laborers still working in the fields outside the hill or the mines underneath it.

A ten foot tall stone wall encircled Ramhorn Hold. Thick wooden double doors stood open, allowing Durakel and Korgen to enter the courtyard. Two axemen nodded at the brothers and Durakel paused to greet both men while his brother strode into the hall. Built from stone lighter in color than the walls, the squat hall bore no ornamentation save for a stuffed ram’s head and a pair of crossed axes underneath. Oak doors led inside, where a long fire pit ran towards the back of the hall. Two rows of tables flanked the fire and ended with a raised table at the back of the hall. A large man with a bushy grey beard and mane sat between two women and cheered as Korgen entered.

Korgen grinned at his father and walked to the lord’s table, “Greetings father, mother, sister. I am told that an expert opinion is needed.”

“Exactly, now where is Dura?” teased the younger woman. Berala’s long dark hair and sharp tongue matched her mother’s.

Scowling, Korgen ignored his sister and glanced around the hall before settling his eyes on his father. The grizzled man snorted and rose to his feet. Vatir stood an inch shorter than his son and much thicker. He wrapped an arm around his boy and gestured to the small door in the back of the hall.

“Come out back, son. This season’s brew may be our best yet.”

A few moments later Durakel burst into the hall, “Alright, father, let’s have at this new ale of yours.”

He frowned as his eyes found only his mother and sister at the high table. The two women pointed at the backdoor and watched Durakel’s frown deepen.

“They didn’t even wait?”

“It’s only been a few minutes, pup. You can go join them,” Hirata grabbed his hand and squeezed.

Grunting, he nodded and trudged over to the door and out into the rear courtyard. Vatir and Korgen sat on a bench to the left of the door. They continued talking and looking at a pair of barrels in front of them as Durakel approached. His father looked up and nodded at Durakel.

“Son. I was telling your brother about the excellent harvest we had this year. These may be some of our greatest barrels.”

Vatir’s signature ornate ram heads embossed the white oak barrels and the lord’s eyes lit up as he directed his sons to tap the ale. The boys grinned and grabbed a pair of mallets from a rack adjacent to the nearby water well. A few deft strikes led to the boys wielding hefty flagons brimming with ale. They clinked mugs and attempted to drink, but their father stopped them.

“That ale is too good for you whelps to just dump in your maws,” Vatir barked.

Korgen paled and lowered his mug, glancing over at his brother. Durakel paused and peered at the foam atop his drink. He sniffed, enjoying the fruity aroma wafting out of the cup. His brother took a sniff of the ale and then a small sip. Korgen let the fruity ale linger in his mouth before swallowing.

“How’d you make it so sweet, father?”

Vatir smiled at Korgen, “Secret of the trade, son. What do you think, Durakel?”

Taking a modest drink, Durakel grunted his appreciation, “Damn good ale. I bet the third cup’s even better.”

Korgen stifled a snort as his father sighed. Vatir fixed his grey eyes on Durakel, brows furrowed as he appraised his youngest child. The lord sighed.

“Two other clans are visiting tonight. Korgen you will help me entertain the Stonehammer and Ironhand lords. Durakel you will keep their sons busy,” Vatir said, rubbing his temples. “Go get ready for the feast.”

Warriors from each of the three clans roared with laughter in the lower portion of the hall. Servants kept the ale, roasted meat, and bread flowing as the men and women plowed through anything set before them. At the high table, Vatir and Korgen sat deep in conversation with Gurunder Ironhand and Belland Stonehammer. Korgen’s smile and scraggly beard added a dose of youthfulness to the grizzled collection of lords.

Nodding along with the other lords’ speeches, Korgen let the generous flow of his father’s ale loosen the other men’s tongues. His father watched in silence. After an hour of Korgen plying the guests with questions and fresh tankards, Vatir entered the conversation.

“Let’s talk West River,” he said, leaning in and keeping his voice low.

Belland’s smile evaporated as he finished his mug.

“I was wondering when the frivolities would end,” Gurunder moved his gaze from Korgen to Vatir. “I applaud the airs of hospitality, but West River may pose a real threat soon.”

“So we stomp ‘em. Wouldn’t be the first time,” scoffed Belland.

Vatir eyed Belland. The Stonehammer lord wore his mail even at the table and the veins on his forearms rippled as he fiddled with his empty tankard.

“The question is how we go about that, my friend.”

“We raid their farms before they raid ours,” he answered, flagging down a servant to solve his lack of ale.

Gurunder chuckled, “Which of your men will you send?”

“I’ll send myself. It’s been too long since I cracked some skulls,” Belland scoffed.

“And your pup will stay here to lead the Stonehammers in your stead?” Vatir raised an eyebrow and watched Belland’s enthusiasm die.

Korgen watched as the lords spent the next half hour struggling to find the proper men to march against Westhold. He let his eyes wander over to the other side of the table, where Durakel regaled the laughing sons of Gurunder and Belland with tales of his heroics.

“Mother told me that the boar fell onto your spear. You didn’t bring home three rampaging boars, you lying pig!” Berala punched Durakel in the side. The two guests howled with laughter, watching the siblings elbow each other.

“That’s enough, piglets,” their mother chimed in, winking at her mortified son.

Durakel turned to Farad, the younger of his two charges, “What about you Stonehammer, have you whetted your spear yet?”

Farad’s lack of a beard failed to hide the rose color that tinted his cheeks, “Well, I’ve killed a few deer with my bow. But not with my spear yet.”

He looked down at his plate as the others studied him. Durakel squeezed his shoulder and raised a tankard, “You will one of these days, my friend! Here’s to Farad’s eventual hunting trophies!”

Rogden Ironhand joined in the cheer, clinking his mug with Farad’s and whispering, “I’ve only killed one beast myself, you’ll get yours soon enough.”

Mood restored, Durakel continued into another wild tale of the time he patrolled to the south and beat ten men from the southern hills. Berala ventured into the stories from time to time, correcting her brother’s more extreme elaborations. Her commentary elicited raucous laughter from the guests. As the feasting wound down, the lords slid out the back door, Korgen following them into the courtyard.

Seeing her son’s smile fade, Hirata caught Durakel’s gaze and flicked her head toward the front door of the hall. A wry grin slid onto his face and he stood, beckoning his two charges to follow him. Berala noticed the spring in her brother’s step as he led the way out of the hall. She smiled at her mother and the two women took their leave of the feast as well.

Traipsing out of his family’s hall, Durakel led his two victims out of the upper district of Ironhill where the older clans built their holds. He sauntered down the hill and into the stone district. The wealthier merchants and citizens lived here, between the lords and working class. Venturing off the city’s empty main street, Durakel walked past the workshops and stores that lined the avenue. They passed a few citizens wandering back home and came into an open square in the middle of numerous houses. A large building bristling with torches and the sigils of Ironhill’s great holds squatted on the northern side of the square. Loud music spilled out of a tavern on the opposite side of the square.

“The Barracks,” Durakel flashed a toothy grin at Rogden and Farad and scampered across the square and into the ale house.

The two paused and looked at one another before following Durakel. People thronged about the bar in the back of the building, on a quest for fresh ale. A shelf and accompanying stools lined the other walls. Four tables in the center of the room drew as much attention as the barkeeps at the back. Most of the patrons wore mail or leather armor. Some of the older folk opted for simple street clothes. Shouts broke out every few minutes around the center tables.

Sensing Farad’s confusion, Rogden leaned over and explained, “They’re gambling. Knucklebones in these three tables and some sort of war game in that back table.”

A few moments later, Durakel emerged from the horde with a small barrel and three tin cans. He beamed as he watched the young lords’ jaws drop.

“My father is expecting me to occupy the two of you tonight. I just want to live up to the old bear’s expectations.”

“How’d you even get whatever that is with all of those people over there?” Farad gaped.

Durakel shrugged, eyes twinkling as he hammered a tap into the cask. A broad shouldered woman and a bald man burst out of the crowd to greet Durakel.

“Little ram!” The woman wrapped Durakel in a massive hug and the bald man flashed a toothless smile.

“Sula! Gintar! It’s been too long! Try this firewater, I had the barkeeper import it from the south.”

The odd pair helped the three men put a dent in the small barrel. After a few rounds of the potent liquor, Durakel noticed Farad’s inability to keep his eyes open. He handed the youth over to Rogden and then disappeared into the swarm by the bar. A few minutes passed before he returned with two stout bearded fellows.

“Get him back to Stonehammer hold, boys. You have my thanks and whatever is left of this barrel when you return!”

They grinned at Durakel and scooped up the snoring Farad before pushing their way out of the tavern. Rogden shook his head at Durakel, struggling to stamp out a chuckle.

“Ever played a game of knuckles before?” Durakel questioned.

“Can’t say that I have,” Rogden laughed.

Grunting, Durakel walked over to an open seat and sat across from a scowling older man with a scar decorating his cheek. A few rounds of rolling the bones passed before Rogden somewhat understood the rules. The pile of coins the scarred man had accumulated began dwindling as Durakel won round after round. Sensing his impending doom, he grabbed the remainder of his silver and fled.

Three other men rotated through the seat opposite Durakel and added to his winnings. A fourth challenger, victorious at another table, settled into the seat and matched Durakel’s stack of silver. The onlookers quieted down as the two warriors locked eyes and began play. Two high scoring rounds passed in terse silence. Durakel murmured a prayer to Meris, god of wisdom, and threw the bones again. The crowd cheered as Durakel’s streak of luck continued. His opponent groaned, glaring at the fall of the knuckle bones, and pushed his pile of silver across the table.

“Which of you wishes to battle the mighty Durakel next?” he roared.

Laughing, Rogden claimed the rickety seat across from Durakel and finished his flagon of firewater, “Your luck is over, my friend.”

His smile vanished as he cracked his fists. Snatching the knuckles from Durakel, Rogden grit his teeth and cast the bones. Durakel’s bemused grin widened. Elbowing each other for a better view, the crowd inched closer to the table, eyeing Rogden’s roll. He crossed his arms and nodded at Durakel, satisfied with his bones. The crowd quieted down, waiting for the defender to pick up the knuckles and finish the round.

Durakel stroked his beard and leaned back in his chair, sweeping his eyes around the captivated audience. He reached a lazy hand out to the table and fiddled with the knucklebones for a moment before smiling at Rogden.

“Sorry, whelp. You owe me two silver.”

Eyes narrowed, Rogden scoffed at Durakel, “Roll the bones and get on with it, piglicker”

The bones fell, danced about the oak table, and settled. Two more rounds lapsed, the pair of new friends trading barbs back and forth before Durakel leapt up, raising his arms to the ceiling and crowing, “I am unbeaten! Meris favors me tonight and shall not let me lose!”

Erupting into cheers, the crowd raised their drinks high and chanted praise. Rogden dropped silver into the pile and stood up to extend an arm to his foe. Clasping his forearm, Durakel pulled the shorter man into a hug.

He grabbed the pile of silver with both hands and paraded his way to the bartender. He dropped the coins on the counter and shouted, “The next round is on me!” Another roar broke out of the crowd as they cheered for Durakel and surged towards the bar. Grabbing Rogden, he flashed a smile and steered the younger warrior out of the tavern. They took a moment to enjoy the calm breeze flowing through Ironhill. A full moon lit up the stone district, highlighting the exquisite craftsmanship of the city’s masons.

Several leather boots stomping towards the tavern distracted Durakel from the glimmering night sky. Flanked by two glowering axemen, Lord Gurunder strolled up to his son. Rogden blanched, eyes struggling to open wide as he wilted under his father’s stare.

“Greetings, Durakel. I hear you have shown my son quite the evening.”

“Aye, Lord, I figured we would take a stroll through the town and give some inspiration to the local warriors,” he replied, casting an amused glance backward at the riotous shouts leaking out of the bar.

“Yes, my guardsmen have told me all about your exploits,” Gurunder said, pursing his lips as he took a long look at the inebriated youths. “You have quite the talent for rousing men. Including my son it seems. Come find me in my hall tomorrow evening, I would like to discuss something.”

“With me?”

“Are you deaf, boy? See me in my hall tomorrow.”