Durakel blinked and nodded at the demanding man, stammering a farewell as Rogden followed his father back up the hill to their hall. He returned his gaze to the full moon and scratched his jaw. The walk back to Ramhorn Hold took only a few minutes, and Durakel found the tables deserted as he meandered to the back door. Three of his father’s household guards milled about the rear courtyard, finishing their mugs before retiring to their quarters in the lower level of the hold.

Carved into the stony hillside, Ramhorn Hall housed Durakel’s family and immediate guardsmen. Vatir kept his office and personal library on the highest floor, with a window bored through the hill offering a gorgeous view of the lands surrounding Ironhill. The second level held the rest of the family’s rooms and personal artifacts. Durakel and Korgen grew up sharing a room, thick as thieves, until his older brother became a man. At that point, Vatir began to separate the boys, bringing Korgen into running the hold and leaving his youngest son to busy himself in the arenas and taverns.

Sighing, Durakel passed by his brother’s room and trudged into his own sparse dwelling, decorated only by assorted weaponry and a stuffed bear’s head. He did own a large and comfortable bed, blanketed by the fur of the bear above his fire. A massive white oak chest stored his clothing and personal trinkets. Falling into bed, Durakel dove headfirst into sleep. An hour after dawn one of the household guards roused Durakel. He crawled out of bed and slammed his face into a chilled wash basin, gasping as he felt his grogginess fade. Fumbling into a fresh set of leather, Durakel walked out of the stone hold and into the courtyard. His brother stood waiting for him and the two men walked into the hall where breakfast awaited. They cracked open the door and paused to bask in the smell of fresh bread. Sitting with their family, the men tucked into loaves of bread, sliced apples and cheese, and salted mutton left from the feast.

Hirata looked over to her youngest child, “I didn’t see you return last night, Dura. Were you out with Rogden?”

“Aye, he’s alright. Can’t beat me in a game of knuckles, though,” he replied in between mouthfuls of bread.

Standing, Vatir wiped his mouth and grabbed Korgen’s shoulder, “I want you to come with me to Gurunder’s hold today. We will resume our discussion from last night.”

Korgen blinked and rose from his seat, leaving his half-finished meal behind, “I’d be honored, father.”

The grey bearded lord grunted and walked out of the dining hall. Korgen followed his father out the back door and through the rear courtyard into the stone hold. Gritting his teeth, Durakel watched them go. A few whispered words from Hirata and a reassuring hand on his shoulder comforted him. He sighed and rose from the table.

Within minutes, Durakel left the hall, fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword. His feet took him down the hill and to the training arena. Using steel this time, he hacked away at a wooden pole, scowl plastered on his face. Several of the other warriors and minor lords of the hold eyed Durakel as he focused on practicing his strikes. Dirt covered the arena floor, fifty feet in diameter, and wooden practice dummies lined the walls. The arena opened to the sky and allowed the warriors to practice in all weather conditions.

Two tunnels on opposite ends of the fighting ground led into a hallway that ringed the arena. Many of the city’s warriors stored training gear in the hallway’s chests. A handful of rooms in the hallway allowed for warriors and trainers to gather and discuss technique, practice, and weaponry. Durakel whaled on the training pole for an hour before relenting. He brushed the wood splinters of his blade and sheathed it. Ten paces took him into the exit tunnel, and he looked around until he found a water barrel.

Durakel filled his water skin from the barrel and poured it down his throat. Concentrated on his water, he failed to notice the other warrior at the barrel.

“We need to do something other than drink together,” Rogden laughed, filling his skin from the barrel.

Blinking, Durakel looked up at the shorter warrior, recognizing Rogden’s auburn beard. “Ospra’s Hammer! I didn’t even see you there.”

Rogden smirked, a broad smile escaping his overgrown beard, “You need to pay more attention to your surroundings if you have any dreams of being a warrior.”

Durakel scowled and punched Rogden’s shoulder, pointing a hand back to the tunnel in response. Rogden grinned and walked over to one of the weapon racks in the hallway. The two men exchanged their steel for wooden practice swords and jostled one another as they walked down to the arena floor.

Circling to the right, Durakel inspected his partner’s stance. His enemy stood his ground, pivoting in place as Durakel prowled around him. A roaring sideways blow from Durakel began the fight. Rogden parried, backing up as his pursuer continued the attack. The stockier Durakel used his strength to force his opponent backwards and after a couple minutes, Rogden’s blade dropped to the dirt. Sparring for three rounds, Rogden managed to hold on to his practice sword for longer each time. After the third disarming, Durakel reached out and clasped his opponent’s forearm.

“You fought well. We need to work on how you swing when you parry.”

Rogden nodded his head, exhausted after fielding Durakel’s volley of blows. “Come eat with me, and I can avenge myself at a game of knuckles while you wait for my father.”

“You’ll defeat me as soon as Ironhill sinks into the ground, my friend,” Durakel laughed as he retrieved his sword.

Trading barbs, they walked together up the hill to Ironhand Hold. Gurunder’s keep sat higher on the hill than Ramhorn. The Ironhand family discovered the productive mine along with a handful of other clans. Built of white stone, the entry hall rose thirty feet into the sky and purple banners with black clenched fists encircled the keep. Smoke drifted out of twin chimneys on the roof. Crenellations ringed the building and three bowmen stood guard atop the keep.

The companions cracked the keep’s doors open and stepped into the scent of roasted mutton. Servants bustled about the hall, clearing away the midday meal. A few of Gurunder’s household warriors still lounged about the dining tables. Four long tables squatted in a square around a massive fire pit in the center of the room. Muted clashes escaped a pair of doors on the right wall. The servants bustled in and out of the doors, carrying the plates and tankards with them.

Rogden stopped one of the workers and asked a few brief questions. Durakel gazed around the large room, inspecting the sigils and hunting trophies featured on the walls. Several crossed battle axes dominated the far wall, with metal plaques riveted under the axes.

Rogden caught his friend’s gaze and chimed in, “The first several Ironhand lords used those. Father says the runes on them carry Ospra’s blessing.”

Grunting, Durakel continued looking around the ornate hall. Two servants walked up with plates filled with spiced mutton and grilled vegetables. He groaned in appreciation and found a table. The men fell silent as they devoured the meal, stopping only to wash the meat down with fresh ale. Servants came when the warriors cleared their plates and hurried off with the dishes.

“I can’t imagine what the rest of the hall looks like.”

“Aye, the first lord boasted a handful of stonemasons in his household,” Rogden looked around the hall with a content smile. “Come, I’ll take you to the library and crack your head in a game of knuckles. You may want to grab a fresh mug of ale first.”

Durakel smirked. He found a servant and requested a second mug and then followed Rogden through the courtyard. Similar to Ramhorn Hold, the courtyard held a forge and water well, but also had a firepit and covered pavilion. The men skirted the pavilion and entered the hold. A large seating area greeted them featuring several tables and leather chairs offering a seat for guests to lounge. Two bookshelves sat on opposite ends of the room and a barrel of ale served as the centerpiece.

Ignoring the lounge, Rogden walked to a doorway at the rear that opened into a pair of hallways. He strode left and took a staircase up at the end of the hall. They came to another sitting room with dozens of bookshelves. Two desks and numerous leather chairs finished the room’s decoration. A wide hole in the stone fitted with glass allowed light to enter the room.

“This is where my siblings and I escape to.”

Durakel ambled over to a chair and made himself comfortable. He took a few sips of his ale while Rogden dug around in a desk drawer. He inspected the redheaded man. Rogden wore fine leathers that fit his small frame well. His beard grew wild on his face, but he pulled his hair back into a tight braid like many of the warriors did. The knucklebones rattled as Rogden dropped them on the table. Durakel sat forward in his chair and took a long, final swig of his drink.

“I see you’ve gone out and got yourself a fancy new set of bones, but you still have no hope, whelp,” Durakel said, staring into Rogden’s brown eyes.

“We shall see,” Rogden grinned and scooped up the knuckle bones before letting them fall one by one.

Durakel growled and cracked his knuckles before rolling the bones himself. He groaned and slid back into his chair. Rogden’s eyes lit up and he roared as the knuckles gave him the first set of points.

“So much for the goddess of wisdom favoring you,” Rogden cackled.

“It’s not over yet, you redbearded dung eater.”

Grinning at his opponents startled expression, Durakel snatched up the bones and tossed them into the air. Rogden watched with bated breath as they fell. Both men frowned and Rogden waited a few moments before grabbing the bones. He dropped them one at a time again, relishing Durakel’s growing frown. The final bone spun around on the table before settling. Durakel knocked his tankard on the table and chuckled at his foe.

“I guess I owe you two silver this time.”

Rogden smiled and shrugged, “I guess so.”

“Well, given the sword lesson today, I think we can call it even. You’re lucky a trained master like me even let you spar.”

Rolling his eyes, Rogden ignored Durakel’s broad grin.

“Anyways, is there a basin I can use to rinse off the arena dirt? I’d imagine your father wouldn’t want me getting his office dirty.”

Gurunder’s sons had their own stone baths filled with water heated by servants. Rogden led Durakel to his bath and then headed to the next room to use one of his brothers. Closing his eyes, Durakel slid into the hot water and sighed. He rested for a few moments before using a bathstone to scrape the sweat and dirt off his body. Ducking under the water, he rinsed his beard and hair out before binding his hair into a long ponytail. He spent several moments relaxing in the hot water and stretching his sore arms.

Loud knocking on the bath door forced Durakel’s eyes open and he barked out, “Yes?”

“You comin’ out of there any time soon, princess?”

Durakel snorted and pulled himself out of the warm water with reluctance. He dried off and pulled on his leathers. Pushing the door open, he scowled at Rogden.

“Can’t a lord bathe in peace?”

“A lord can, yes.”

“Come in,” Gurunder answered. Durakel entered the lord’s spacious study, awed by the score of filled bookshelves. A pair of thick bearskins covered the floor. Gurunder sat in one of four ornate leather chairs surrounding a wide circular table. The grizzled elder sported a mane of white hair and a manicured beard.

“Father. I will see you at dinner,” Rogden turned to leave but his father stopped him.

“Stay, boy. This is for you as well.”

Rogden jerked around, mouth open, and eyed his father. He followed his father’s gesture and settled in one of the other chairs. Durakel smiled at Rogden and claimed a chair of his own, “Your hall is beyond impressive, lord.”

Gurunder remained impassive. His stare travelled between the two men before settling on Durakel.

“You have a knack for making friends,” the stolid man spoke after several minutes of rubbing his chin. He flicked a hand covered in rings towards his son before continuing, “I had a man watching you at the tavern last night. You had the entire place eating out of your hand. You took money from seasoned warriors and they never complained. You could have left that place with a fat purse of silver and they would all run home happy to tell of your luck.”

Durakel fidgeted under the lord’s gaze.

“Instead, you made them revere you. You bought more than just a round of ale last night. You bought loyalty. You owed those men nothing and you honored them anyways. For that they will honor you.”

Gurunder leaned forward, a smile creeping into his eyes. He paused and enjoyed the confusion of the two younger men.

“What do you know of West River?”

The question made Durakel turn his head and frown. He hesitated for a few moments and sat forward in his chair.

“They own a lot of land north of here. On the river. Their farms are plentiful and their merchants shrewd. Good forest land. I know some of their farmers grow violet water lilies and the frontier villages crave the stuff.”

Gurunder nodded and gestured for Durakel to continue.

“Some of the men that patrol the farms north of here have said that they’ve seen West River warriors in the villages.”

A smile creased the lord’s face and he leaned back. He pointed towards a nearby cabinet with an intricate mountain scape carved into the wood. Rogden walked over to the cabinet and withdrew a glass decanter, pouring out three cups.

“Did your father tell you anything about our meeting today?” Gurunder watched Durakel shake his head and then continued, “I see. Well, West River wants to take some of our farms and villages north of here. They want our farmers to stop growing grains for us and start growing the water daisies for them. Not only do we need the food, we need all of our villages to know that we can and will fight for them.

“Most of our discussion centered on how to deal with this rival hold. Belland, true warrior that he is, offered to take his warband and handle it. However, he is still adjusting to the mantle of Lord and his clan needs him to fill his father’s shoes, not run off into battle. Your father is not the warrior he once was, and your brother has yet to see battle. So I offered to serve Ironhill and remind West River of their place.”

Durakel sipped on the sweet liquor Rogden handed him, attempting to digest Gurunder’s message. He rubbed his beard, returning the Ironhand lord’s stare, “I’m not sure why I am here then.”

“My older son is busy on the frontier, guarding some prospectors. Like your father, I am not the best choice to march up north with an axe. Like your brother, Rogden here hasn’t seen battle either.”

Leaning forward, Gurunder finished his drink and set his cup on the table. He leveled his green eyes at the young warrior. Durakel’s eyes widened as the implication sunk in. Heart racing, he cleared his throat and took a long drink of the syrupy liquor. The mug hit the table harder than planned as he struggled to summon an answer.

“Whatever you have in mind, you have my sword.”