A voice, as sure as death and taxes, sounded out.
<<36 of course!>>
A vein started to pop on the forehead of the first guy who spoke.
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An unknown tavern in a boot-like peninsula, moments from a savage beating between two “acquaintances”.
Hundreds of miles from the archipelago, a village laid in the cold and inhospitable north, a few scattered houses covered in snow were the only defenses for its inhabitants, while the empty streets channeled the harsh winter winds.
In one of the local tavern rooms, a man was busy leafing through a stack of papers, enjoying the warmth of the utilitarian building, a squat wooden box large enough to host the hardy people claiming their homes in this perennial frost.
His salt and pepper hair fell in well-trimmed locks, crowning an austere face, from which two sharp green eyes peered into the documents, searching for answers in the densely written notes, as he rested his tired legs by the brazier.
Even seated, you could tell that his narrow frame held considerable strength, wiry muscles tensing beneath his winter coat as he adjusted his seating and started to tap absent-mindedly on the table.
A knock tore him away from his musings, and with a small sigh, he adjusted his reading position before his clear voice rang out.
"Come in," he said without looking up.
The dark-skinned young man who walked in was in his mid-twenties, with a shaved head and a slim physique, carrying multiple weapons on the various buckles at his belt.
"Good evening, Magister," announced the figure making his way into the room, quickly nodding his head, as he curtly went on, "I have bad news and good news, which one do you want to hear first?"
“We've been wandering around this wasteland for three months without getting anything concrete from our resources. For once, let me hear the good news first," replied the other with a half smile.
The stoic look on his subordinate's face did not fade, but his answer carried a hint of pride.
"Ah, then I’ll have the pleasure of brightening your day. It looks like we are in the right place, at least. The tribe we are looking for should be somewhere northeast, around half a day's journey from here, meaning that our target might be nearer than we originally thought".
“The bad one is that no one has been able to give me more accurate Information. The most common opinion is that they will be the ones to show up once we get past the river Tyr, which is frozen this season. Unfortunately, we have been unable to find other possible avenues of contact”.
The older man, now fully serious, nodded thoughtfully and, stroking his chin, folded the still scattered papers tightly, before stashing them in a hidden pocket of his overcoat.
“That's a big step forward. From what we know, letting them decide how to approach us would be our best bet anyway. Let's just hope they're not that shy, we are still on a timeline”.
Looking at his subordinate, a self-assured smirk split his features. “Our schedule will resume once we are done here, so be sure to go over all the gathered material for our review”.
His piece said he stood up, clasped a hand over his chest left side, and went on to rummage through a wardrobe that rested in one of the room corners.
“Good work, Bruce. Maintain with the locals, and warn the others, we leave tomorrow at dawn. The entourage will stay here in the village for safety, review our intel, and act accordingly. We don't want to risk a direct confrontation. If things somehow go south, extract and redeploy back at the border”.
“Yes, my lord,” the student said with a small bow, before turning and swiftly leaving his master’s room.
The older man found what he needed, a shining longsword that he deftly strapped to his waist, and an adorned swordbreaker half the length of an arm, sheathed behind his back, hiding below the heavy winter mantle.
He walked to the window, looking at the blue moon shining high above.
The time was right.
The next morning, a group of four men and one woman set off from the village, plowing through the freezing northern winter hazards on their lonely quest.
The figures, concealed by warm layers of padded clothing, moved unusually fast through the snow, gliding on the white ground as they covered mile after mile of terrain.
After a few hours of marching through the Fir forest, they reached their destination.
The still waters of the Tyr waterway welcomed the party, hollowing creaks echoing from the deceptively thick ice covering its surface, as the waters below churned, uncaring of what happened just a few feet above.
“Eyes open from here on out, guys,” said the man at the group’s forefront, signaling with his right hand, his back still turned to the others. “Mel, you are on advanced scout duty, no rash actions, if you see anything, come back and report to us”.
A lithe form bounded forward at a jog, lightly balancing on the stream’s slippery coat, quickly crossing toward the evergreens on the other side of the riverbank.
More commands rang out, the magister’s voice low but steady in the freezing silence.
“Davon, backguard, boys with me front and center, remember, we are not here to fight, so no open displays of hostility if the situation does not call for it. Threats to my person are to be ignored, I can defend myself”.
The others moved into position, and the entire unit started to jog, following behind their vanguard with practiced ease.
Trudging on the frozen terrain was starting to take a toll on the party, and each hour spent searching for the elusive tribe was made twice as tiring by their lack of success.
As the sun shone above, unfettered in its lazy travels, success decided to find them.
They were currently resting in one of the sparse forest clearings, having regrouped with Mel, who was notifying the group of an unusual lack of traces, when a whistling sound split the air, and a single arrow landed between their ranks.
Suddenly, massive figures clad in furs appeared from between the trees, each seven feet tall, and one man, easily a head higher than all the others, bellowed out.
“Halt, strangers! Who goes prowling in the Rending Wolves' woods! State your business and be on your way, or these cold grounds will well serve as your tombs.”
For a second or two, all that answered was a steely emerald gaze, glinting with delight.
They had found them.
The magister quickly gestured with his right hand, and the small group relaxed their stances, letting their leader take charge.
“Hail, Warchief! We come from a distant land to seek out the Wolves and take part in the rites! You will not find cowards in my troupe, and you will find succor in our trades!”
Murmurs spread between the fur-clad warriors before a single shout brought them all to attention.
“If you claim to know the rites, then you know what the price of failure is. If you are willing to stand by your words, we will take you to the High Thain. But we do not tolerate liars, is that understood… twigling?“
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
A winning grin spread below two jade stars, colder than the azure frost surrounding the region.
“Then, take me to your leader, warrior. My disdain for liars is unmatched”.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in comfortable silence, the magister’s retinue elites easily trailing behind a row of huge barbarians, cutting across the forest depths like ghosts haunting a cemetery.
Complex forest paths weaved through the evergreens, beaten from countless years of use by animals and hunters alike.
An hour later Mel signaled with her hand, and the group's attention went towards the sky, following her finger to spot a few smoke trails poking between the verdant tree crowns.
Once they started to approach the tribe, they were surprised with a warm welcome, as a few elders came bearing steaming pots, holding what seemed to be some kind of meat stew.
A suspicious glance was thrown around while the group stood around, not really knowing what to do with the offering, but looking at their leader earthily gulping down the soup, they shrugged and also started to partake in the warming meal.
The ritual apparently had some important meaning for their hosts, and when they were done with their meal, the warchief leading them nodded his head, satisfied, before motioning for them to follow him.
Making their way through the village, they were met with a mixture of gazes, some curious, some suspicious, and some downright hostile.
Nonetheless, they reached the tribe’s leader's home without being disturbed, the warchief's stare enough to discourage anyone from trying him.
Inside, they found a well-lit main hub, a large room seemingly more appropriate for hosting parties and meetings than a house, with a wooden set of oaken stairs leading to a second floor guarded by two axe-wielding figures.
The biggest boar the group had ever seen was roasting on a firepit at the chamber’s center, a similarly sized tribesman prodding and poking at the animal skin as it charred, fat sizzling down its sides while a delicious smell permeated the air.
“High Thain Vir, we brought you our guests”, said the warchief.
His leader got up, and the thunderous rumble of an avalanche answered him, the Chief Thain looking at his subordinate from above.
“Then leave us be, Eero”.
Turning towards the magister’s party, he grumbled once again.
“Mainlanders, you have come to ask for my ear, and now you have it. But since you invoked tradition, you must be aware of what comes next, before anything else can be said”.
Unbending steel rose to match his tone.
“Of course, High Thain”.
Clad in his thick white winter clothes, incandescent focus exuding from his slender frame, the smaller man's presence seemed to fill the entire room as he firmly stated.
“We drink, we feast, and we fight”.
The rest of the day was a blur, the tribe exploding in activity as they prepared a party worthy of a noble house while the magister entourage awkwardly watched from the sidelines, sometimes earning a gruff laugh from the town leader, still tending to his pit.
Night came early, and with the first cask of mead opened, the dam broke, songs, bellows, and shouts echoing in the night, and not an hour later, a fight flared up, leading to the rowdy crowd making a circle around the combatants.
Bruce was staring at his leader with worry and confusion rather than his usual stoic expression, but the high officer simply smiled, enjoying his drinks as the tribe members battled out.
Davon, the only member of their party able to hold a candle to the barbarian sizes, was looking at the event almost jealously, sometimes glancing at the magister with a pleading look.
Both were surprised when the emerald-eyed man looked at his vanguard and mouthed a silent answer.
“Go, and have fun”.
Davon grinned, shook off his mantle, and joined the tribe in their joyful beatings.
In the end, they were all baptized in a fight, some more willingly, like the lightly laughing Mel, and some with the detached expression of someone just doing his job, like Bruce, who carefully dispatched his opponents with practiced ease.
Only their leader never got up from his seat, glancing at both the High Thain and the war chief, a satisfied expression plastered on his visage.
The feast went on for a long time, and when the first rays of the sun kissed the few people still standing from the half-opened windows, Vir stood up and clapped his hands, the boom of a drum filling the air and stopping the few still duking it out.
Davon dropped a large, tattooed warrior, the latter mumbling something like “I’ve had ye right where I wanted, I have ye I tell ya” as he went down, knocked out cold right before hitting the ground.
From the loud snoring coming from his body, he was probably fine.
As one, both the Chief Thain and the Magister smiled wildly with a glint of madness.
The bigger one spoke first.
“As we all can see, we drank, and we feasted so, now…”
The latter answered.
“We fight”.
They made their way outside, reaching the central square of the encampment, a small detachment following the High Thain, mainly composed of a few warriors that did not partake in previous night's festivities, and by some who tanked the whole thing like it was nothing.
The magister’s group looked no worse for wear, even the petite scout lively as if she had not just drunk half her bodyweight in alcohol.
Once they reached the plaza, for the first time, a question came from the jade-eyed captain as he left his party to approach the massive Thain.
“So, what are we doing here? You and me, or me and him?“
Vir answered lightly, his expression relaxed.
“This is a fight for a petition, so Eero will be your opponent. Me? I only fight for the tribe”.
The High Thain waved him down.
“Besides, I think it will be plenty interesting anyway. You remind me of myself, stranger. But in a little while we'll see If I was right. If you are still standing, of course. I’m really looking forward to your name, so try your hardest not to disappoint me”.
Taking a step back, he nodded to Eero, the large warrior having already hoisted a hefty claymore on his shoulder.
“Now, let’s stop wasting time. I’ll be having a word with my nephew while you prepare. Step out once you’re ready to begin your trial”.
The magister nodded, getting back to his ranks, before shaking off his cloak and donning two unadorned steel gauntlets. He then grabbed his swordbreaker and unsheathed his razor-sharp estoc.
The two leaders shared a last tense look.
Both combatants approached the middle of the field and bowed once, taking their stance.
A sharp, sudden whistle shook the air, and the smaller man's piercing blade streaked silver in the air in a forward lunge, only to be met with the flat of his opponent's sword, who skillfully deflected the strike, resetting his position as he moved to swing back in a counter.
The answer was a simple sidestep by the lithe magister, who dodged the blade by a hair's breadth and struck with the swordbreaker at his opponent's hand.
A deft retreat by the massive warrior left him uninjured, but on the back foot, as the other combatant used the opportunity to keep his pressure up, and landed first blood with a small cut on the giant’s biceps, who did not care in the slightest for the wound.
Both were still holding back, testing each other, leading with half-hearted strikes and feints, looking for a mistake to exploit, the huge body hiding a sharp intellect, well-seasoned battle instincts, and a treacherous speed for someone of his size.
Nonetheless, the smaller combatant was just too nimble, too precise with his movements, and as the battle went on, more and more wounds started to accrue on the barbarian's body, all light but still slowing him down, bit by bit.
The shallow swings of the smaller man started to turn into more committed pierces and lunges, one almost clipping Eero in the shoulder to end the battle on the spot.
The giant, his gaze still unwavering, started to meet each swing with the halfway of his blade, forcing the other to abort his strikes or risking his weapon breaking, the thin sword not suited for directly parrying his opponent's heavy claymore.
As they slowly upped the ante, grazing strikes could be seen gouging thin streaks in the earth below them, the steel in their hands not stopping once as a rhythmic ballad of deathly efficiency was woven between the two.
Visible tension marred Eero’s eyes, while the languid look coming from the magister's pools of jade remained inscrutable.
The thin duelist had been on the offensive since the start, and while the chieftain knew so very well that all kinds of monsters could hide beneath one’s skin, he could not afford to be so thoroughly beaten under the eyes of his leader.
His guest had invoked the Warfeast Rites, meaning he had to be paid the respects a tribesmember was due, but going easy on the trials was not one of those.
So, the warchief decided to take a gamble, to disable his opponent and leave him with his life, but without his right to petition.
He started a downward cut to the opponent's midsection, and, with a twitch of his sword-wielding arm, betraying a feigned weakness, baited the magister estoc into his range, falling on the blade.
Having cold steel pierce into your muscle is never a good experience, but Eero ignored the sharp pain, grabbed onto the estoc with his left hand, and slid his blade over the magister's arm, ready for the fight to be over.
The sharp sword met nothing, as the elusive combatant discarded it in the flesh of his enemy, countering with a right hook to the large man's left kidney, who, surprised both by the lack of resistance and the attack itself, simply tensed his muscles to take the hit.
Like a nail hitting soft wood, the gauntleted hand sank into the barbarian-furred side for an inch or so, the sharp crack of a rib breaking sounding loud in the clearing.
Searing pain shook the large warrior’s body as he was driven to a kneel, his ragged breaths now raspy, and before he even knew it, glinting steel was brought to his throat, the swordbreaker now threatening to spill his lifeblood.
The other fighter's emerald eyes were already resting on Vir, the huge figure looking at the scene with an unreadable expression, stroking his chin while muttering something under his breath.
He let out a soft sigh, his relaxed stance not changing in the slightest as he held the blade.
“Your verdict, High Thain?”
“I’ll be damned to the nine hells. But call me Vir, stranger who is no longer a stranger. You have earned it”.
Silence filled the field for a few seconds then the massive man spoke again.
“I knew you were a predator, but I didn’t think you to be one of the apexes. Color me surprised, you have your petition, and the right to share your name as a friend of the Rending Wolves. Let me hear your request”.
A small laugh came unbidden from the other, his voice, now light and clear, cutting through the suddenly sober mood.
“Very well, Vir, my friend. I come from the mainland, and I bear many titles. I am Grand Chancellor of the first king, head of Rosenthal, and Arch Magister of his knightly order”.
He paused, beckoning to his comrades.
“These are my charges, my subordinates and my students”.
His gaze locked firmly on the massive man.
“I am Merlin, and I’ve come in search of talent”.