Fuck, he is correct.
Sigvid shouts to the Drengr lingering in the background. “I want everyone on the ship within the hour!”
Swiftly, they pack their bags, and the Drengr stow supplies aboard their ship.
He leans against a dock piling, balancing a scrap of paper on his thigh as he scrawls a quick note to Calder.
It is unsafe for his warriors or family to deliver his message in the current state.
A young boy skipping rocks across the water gives him an idea.
Sigvid hands him the folded letter and a small bag of gold. “Do you know where to find Jarl Calder?” The boy nods, eyes widening at Sigvid’s appearance. “Deliver this to his hands only.”
He excitedly darts along the pier toward the longhouse.
Sigvid helps his little Queen board the ship. They watch the town’s outline shrink as Lavinia’s army gathers on the docks, searching for them.
He tugs her close to his side as she wraps an arm around Bjorn. “We left in the nick of time. I will be glad to put distance between Skalor.”
She twists her favorite loose curl. “Why do I fear this is not the end?”
He chuckles, kissing the top of her head. “You have a habit of fearing the worst. I shall task Grim for damage control, and all will be well.”
Even as he speaks those words, he questions them. Perhaps it is an extra sense or even his halvgud blood. But Sigvid has a nasty,unnervingfeeling that this is not the end with Skalor.
1
CALDER
Present
February 3rd, Year 21, 10th Era
Nightwall Keep, Skalor
Jarl Calder Avardsson grits his teeth as the blizzard strengthens. The storm restrained itself long enough for his team to slip into the imposing, albeit warm, castle at the heart of the godsforsaken country.
As the massive wooden front doors slam shut behind them, he and his two companions shake out the snow onto the stone floor of Nightwall Keep.
Over the last thirty-five of his forty winters, the warrior chief has taken every imaginable step to avoid setting foot in this castle, the seat of the country of Skalor.
“You’d think the gods didn’t want us to make this Assembly.” Gunni Olafsson, his Second-in-Command, throws off his hood and slides his hands over his long blonde braid. Despite following Calder to Skalor twenty winters ago, he has maintained the standard Salt Province Warrior look of a single, rugged braid down the center of his head.
Something the Jarl was never allowed to embrace, despite having lived in Treland for fifteen of his formidable winters.
“If the gods did not desire our presence, we would not be here,” Calder grunts as he shakes off the ice forming on his fur cloak.
“I’m fairly certain the gods stopped attending to you before I was born, Calder.” Edmund shakes his shaggy onyx locks, which cling to his face. He whips out a pipe from a pocket of his long, dark Gothi robes and lights the bowl before deeply inhaling the sweet smoke while he glances at the vast entryway filled with crimson drapes and large potted roses.
“As a Gothi, should you not lift our spirits in the ways of the gods, Far Edmund?” Calder watches the young man, whose actions never cease to amaze him. To think the supposedly spiritual, chaste man smoked like a chimney and had a wandering eye for soft flesh.
The young Gothi blows a smoke ring against a large painting of the last Skalor king, Edric Zyma. The only memory of the man’s life is a thin silver plate bearing his name and the number of winters between his birth and death. His eyes seem to glisten with the knowledge that his wife, Queen Lavinia, murdered him to take the throne for herself.
“Oh, right,” Edmund closes his eyes and begins chanting nonsensically before tilting his head as if listening to someone.
Calder knows better. The would-be religious guide is not quite what he seems. However, he will allow the young man the opportunity to explain himself when the time arises.
“They think you’re a shit stain on the world, Jarl Calder.”
