Gurunder nodded. He pursed his lips, mulling over his next words. His son’s wide eyes flitted back and forth between his father and friend. Outside, the sun began its slow descent, bathing Ironhill in gold.

“We both gain glory from this. With me, you gain the chance to grow your reputation as a leader and step out of the cage your father is keeping you in. With you, I gain another arrow I can fire at West River. How many men can you field?”

“Ten or so in the city. If I head out tonight I can raise another half dozen in the nearby villages.”

Warmth spread across Gurunder’s face. He watched the wheels turning in Durakel’s mind. Glancing over at his son, he winked. Confusion replaced the surprise in Rogden’s eyes.

“You will also take Rogden with you. I want him to get a taste of battle and watch the way you lead. His personal guardsman will follow as well.”

Rogden gaped at his father and Gurunder chortled at the shock. The laughter infected Durakel as well and he clapped Rogden on the shoulder.

“I guess we do get to do something other than drink together.”

Allowing the laughter to settle, Gurunder looked down at an iron band on his right hand and twirled it. When Durakel looked back up at him, a hard glint had returned to the lord’s eyes.

“Now for the battle plan. I want you to cross the river separating our lands. They have a large and fertile village a couple dozen miles north of Oakfield. Burn their fields.”

Durakel blinked. The calculated gleam in Gurunder’s eyes bored into him. Durakel’s mouth opened and shut as he fumbled for a reply.

Rogden saved him from answering, “Won’t they retaliate?”

“I’m counting on it. You will send just a few men into the village. Dressed like farmers, the few guards, if any, won’t question it. They burn the farms and slink back to your camp. In the morning, they’ll figure Oakfield decided to stick up for themselves and they’ll cross the river to send a message.”

Grim appreciation for Gurunder’s cunning gripped Durakel. He nodded and cut in before the lord finished revealing his plan.

“They won’t send too strong of a force, just enough to handle a few angry farmers. And we’ll be waiting. When their men don’t return that night, they’ll send a few more the next day. And we’ll be waiting.”

Durakel shook his head, looking down at the thick bearskin rugs.

“I’ll leave tonight. Rogden can join me down in Westhill at dusk tomorrow. I can stir up a few more men there”

Standing, Durakel offered his forearm to Gurunder and the lord grabbed it, holding tight.

“It’s a good plan. It will bring glory to both of our names. Do this and the lords of Ironhill will respect your right to lead, Durakel.”

Durakel lurched out of Ironhand hold, scratching his jaw, and fumbled to piece together his meeting with Lord Gurunder. Walking in the loose direction of his father’s hold, he cycled between fiddling with the hilt of his sword and cracking his knuckles. He brushed away beads of sweat from his temple before fighting to calm his breathing. Some semblance of calm settled over his nervous breathing and he entered his family’s dining hall, waving to a few of the servants, and then exited into the courtyard. Rushing up the steps into the hold, a wide smile split his face and he laughed as he began packing to trek down out of the city and into the neighboring village, Westhill.

Cracking open his storage chest, Durakel rummaged around and withdrew his travel gear. He stowed it in a leather shoulder bag and then set about gathering his weapons and armor. Making a mental note to stock up on rations in the morning, he inspected his bag. Satisfied, he placed his armor inside and changed into some lighter clothes. The lowlands in the summer would roast an overdressed traveler. Tightening his sword belt, he sheathed his blade and turned to find Berala standing in his doorway.

“Skipping dinner, are we?”

His sister’s dark brown eyes narrowed as he remained quiet. She stepped into the room, frowning, and flicked open the flap of his travel bag.

“What are you up to, little brother?”

“I’m going to visit our cousins in Westhill.”

Berala crossed her arms, unamused. “Where are you really going?”

“To Westhill,” Durakel said, biting his lip. “And then to Oakfield”

“What in Ospra’s name are you going there for?”

The two sat down on the bed, Berala’s frown spreading as Durakel recapped his meeting with the Ironhand lord. He squeezed her hand. She looked away from him and sighed, “What am I supposed to tell mother and father?”

Durakel scowled, “If father even notices, tell him I’ve gone to Westhill to hunt with our cousin Murago.”

A breeze kissed Durakel as he strode out of his father’s hall. Quick paces brought him down the hill and into the stone district. Venturing away from the shops and craft houses on the main street, he pulled left into the city. Several streets over from the artisans, a large temple built of marble soared above the houses. Two large braziers illuminated the dozen steps leading to the doors. Iron hammers served as handles and Durakel tugged on one, swinging the temple door open.

Opulent tapestries decorated the circular chamber. Some of the vibrant artwork featured scenes of a woman raising the mountains out of the earth. Other tapestries showed the masons, smiths, and miners of Ironhill laboring. Durakel stepped into the atrium, walking towards a large altar in the center of the room. It stood five feet tall, a massive cube of marble etched with runes. A woman rose out of the top, wielding a tremendous warhammer. Durakel knelt before the altar, bowing his head and placing his hands on the network of runes.

“Ospra, grant me your strength and my men your protection as I defend Ironhill. Help me to lead my people well and bring them home safe.”

Durakel’s face creased in a broad smile as he left the altar. He trotted out of the stone district and down to the front gate of the city. The ten warriors that swore oaths to Durakel in his fourteenth year after he returned from his first hunt waited for their lord at the gate. Seeing Durakel and his warband, the gate wardens pushed open the hefty gates. Leading his warband out of the city, the young lord felt at home.

The group marched down the dirt path leading away from Ironhill and headed towards the setting sun in the west. At the front, an armored woman and tall clean shaven man flanked Durakel. She pulled her bright orange hair into a tight braid and had a long steel sword and wooden buckler strapped to her back. The bald man had a small hatchet on his hip and an unstrung longbow and quiver slung across his back. All of the warriors wore leather satchels filled with travel gear and rations.

Durakel turned to his right and addressed the older man, “I hope your bones haven’t grown too stiff cooped up in Ironhill for the last few months, Relad. I know you older folk have a hard time getting back up.”

Chortling, the woman chimed in, “I saw him asking the shamans for bone cream, so I think he’ll be okay.”

“Close your maw, Shegara. I could whip both yer asses from my wheelchair,” Relad scowled at the laughing pair.

A handful of snorts trickled up from those marching behind. Relad silenced them with an irate glance backwards. They remained quiet for a few moments before breaking out into a handful of stories. The warband filled the hour march to Westhill with escalating tales of past bravery and vows of glory on this excursion. Relad muttered his thanks to the gods as the group crested a hill and the village came into sight.

“Relad, Shegara, and Bagrad, you come with me to meet my cousin at the tavern. The rest of you lot, set up our camp on the north side of the village. We’ll find you tomorrow.”

The warband thumped their chests and trotted off to raise their tents for the evening. Durakel fished his chain bracers hauberk out of his satchel and donned the armor embossed with his father's crest. Winking at Shegara and giving Relad's snickering a rude gesture in response, Durakel turned and led his smaller group into the center of the settlement and aimed for the bustling tavern in the main square.

One of the few buildings in the village comprised of stone, the Westhill Tavern functioned as the communal meeting hall. The grayest beards of the village all claimed their great great grandfathers had built the tavern when the first settlers of Westhill founded the village. The bar occupied the rear of the expansive structure, with a dozen long wooden tables jammed into the rest of the room. Half full, the first laborers in from the fields and shops had already begun discussing their days in the field while the workers traveling home from Ironhill trickled in. The tavern keeper stood behind the bar, polishing a clean tankard and chatting with a few of the bar’s older regulars.

Durakel strode into the dining area and squinted as he adjusted his eyes to the dim torchlight. Shegara bumped Relad and slid into the building in front of the older man, eliciting a tired sigh. Setting down the tankard, the tavern keeper nodded at Durakel and hollered, “C’mon in folks. Pot of stew is boiling in the back. Set down and I’ll have someone bring some out.”

Durakel directed his lieutenants to a table to the right of the door and caught Bagrad’s arm, “Here’s some silver. Get a barrel of ale up at the bar and take it to our campground. Tell the men I’m raising a toast to their bravery.”

He clapped Bagrad on the back and sent him over to the tavern keeper. Durakel glanced around at the various oak shelves ringing the stone walls and displaying numerous hunting trophies and war axes. Soon after settling into their seats, a barman greeted them with a trio of bowls filled high with stew. Jokes turned into silence as the warriors tucked into their bowls, pausing on occasion to tear into a fresh loaf of bread brought by a barmaid.

Returning to whisk away their empty bowls, the barmaid replaced them with a trio of tankards filled to the brim with ale. Durakel eyed the growing collection of laborers from the city and tugged on his beard. His two swordsmen quieted down as they inspected the brooding figure.

“Somethin’ wrong, Durakel?”

“I’m jus’ worried you two might drink this place out of ale before my cousin gets here.”

Durakel offered a wry grin to his lieutenants as they guffawed and continued competing to see who could drain their flagons first. The once tame tavern continued to increase in volume, dozens of men and women arriving as the sun finished setting outside. A stout and messy haired man arrived with another round of drinks and slammed four tankards down onto the wooden table. Durakel stood up with a grin and wrapped his mail covered arms around a younger man with a scraggly beard and light blue eyes.

“Murago! You look well! It’s been too long since you’ve been into the city!”

Murago squeezed his cousin before releasing him, a huge grin splitting his face.

“It's a treasure to see you, Dura! I haven’t been able to get away from the farm. With Da gone, I’ve had to do a little more work around the stead. It brings me a lot of joy to stumble upon you here,” The shepherd’s grin diminished for a moment, but widened again as he remembered the ale he had just brought to the table.

“Now, it’s rude to ignore a gift. I see four tankards on that table and three slow drinkers. Let’s get to it, city boy.”

They roared with laughter and Durakel clapped Murago on the back before accepting the challenge.

“Hear that, this farm boy called you lot slow drinkers. Show him the might of Ironhill!”

A dozen more tankards led to raucous laughter spilling into the streets as the four stumbled outside. Light from a full moon guided the drunken band down a dirt road and past myriad wooden houses and shops and the occasional stone estate. Thirty minutes of bumbling around and off key singing brought them to a larger wooden building a short walk outside of the town proper.

In the center of the farmhouse, a stone fireplace and chimney used a crackling fire to ward off the chill mountain air. Various oak tables and chairs occupied the left side of the main floor. The kitchen sat adjacent to the fireplace, in between tables strewn with tankards and plates. A pair of bookshelves decorated the other side of the house, surrounded by a handful of comfier leather reading chairs and wooden trunks. Murago gestured for the warriors to follow him around the right side of the fireplace and beyond the library.

A row of bunk beds along the back wall and several sleeping workers greeted the intoxicated group. Spiral wooden stairs in the back right corner led to the upstairs, but Murago ignored the stairs in favor of a trap door just beside them. He heaved on an iron ring attached to the center of the wooden panel and the door swung open. Peering inside the hole, Durakel spied the first few rungs of a ladder before the darkness of the cellar prevented any further inspection. His cousin ignored Durakel’s hesitance and slid down the ladder with ease.

The three warriors looked at one another, eyebrows raised, before Durakel sighed and followed his cousin into the cellar. As he reached the bottom, Murago finished lighting a torch in a wall sconce. Stone walls wrapped all the way around the square basement, stretching twenty feet in each direction. The chimney from the main floor continued all the way down and Murago busied himself with feeding wood into the fireplace. As his lieutenants finished their descent, Durakel sent them off to light the rest of the torches on the walls.

Leather couches and armchairs ringed a circular oak table a few feet away from the fire. Two more bookshelves furnished the wall opposite the ladder and a stout desk littered with ink wells, parchment, and open ledgers squatted in between the full shelves. Torchlight from his warriors efforts revealed a row of display cases and several kegs on the back wall of the cellar. Durakel chuckled as he spotted Murago already at work filling flagons of liquor from a glass decanter on the table. After a few minutes of work, the four settled down on the couches and tucked into their mugs.

Durakel smacked his lips after taking a long swig, “I didn’t know you had such a well stocked den down here, cousin.”

Chuckling, Murago gestured over to the parchment covered desk, “Aye, Da would run the business from down here, disarm his clients with mountain liquor, and hide from Ma at times.”

“She’s a fearsome woman, that’s for sure. How’s she doing?”

The farmer’s smile faded as he ran his hands through his long brown hair. He fiddled with his flagon and stared at the golden ale, shoulders slumping into his seat.

“She’s been better. Da’s death was pretty hard on her. On all of us. Damn sickness took him in jus’ a couple weeks.”

Durakel frowned and rested his right hand on Murago’s shoulder, “He was a good man and a better father. My pa may be older, but yer dad has always been the heart of the clan. A toast to Uncle Vakar! May he spend eternity in the Great Mountain with his forefathers.”

The foursome clapped their cups together, liquid flying into the air, and finished off their drinks. A comfortable silence fell over the group as they fought to keep their eyes open. Warmth from the alcohol and hearty fire lulled the warriors to sleep. Murago inspected his cousin through half lidded eyes, staring at his gleaming chain mail and metal bracers embossed with the ram’s head family crest. Rising to his feet, the farmer swayed back and forth for a moment before ambling over to the ladder and creeping up the rungs one by one. He fell into the first empty bunk he saw and soon added to the rumbling snores.