KING HOUND

Part 1: The Iron Crown

"The Blood God cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows."

HJOLMAR

Hjolmar stared into the empty fighting pit below, waiting impatiently for the crowning to begin. He had never seen a crowning before, the last happening when he was only a babe. Of course, he didn't know what a crowning was, but that only made him all the more curious. Now, at six, Hjolmar had noisily insisted he be in attendance, stating repeatedly that he was no longer too young to be denied anything. Too his partial surprise, his father had consented, though he wondered at the oddly sad tone Balnar had adopted at the time.

Hjolmar waved his legs back and forth, rocking on the pine bleachers he sat on. He didn't like these pine boards, they were hard on his rear and didn't have anything to lean back on. He did like the squeaking noise they made as he rocked, however. Normally he was allowed to sit at his father's side, in a seat that befit the son of a jarl. It had a back and some soft deer fur to sit on.

The bleachers were alive with activity, most all of Kartak's population crammed into the wooden arena's uncomfortable seats. People everywhere were shouting over each other, and occasionally a fist fight would break out. Such things were common occurrence to the Bone-Splitters, however, so Hjolmar didn't find any of it very interesting.

He tried a few times to talk to Joric, who sat quietly beside him, but he was drowned out by those arguing around them. Joric was his age, exactly, born on the same day six winters past. Vitki Kel had said it would mean a tighter bond between them, which Hjolmar guessed meant they would be best friends. Kel's prophecy had certainly come true, and Hjolmar couldn't remember a day when the two wouldn't play together, charging at each other with wooden swords in a game of 'Lowland Raid'. Joric had smooth skin and thick reddish-brown hair, which hung messily over his face, and was frequently speckled with fresh snowfall. He was quiet compared to the other kids, but Hjolmar didn't mind, he had lots to say.

The two sat with Erva, Joric's mother, a hard woman of thirty-eight, though she was already gray. Joric's father had died before he was born, lost in battle against the Slaaneshi tribes of the further north. Erva said she had to be the father because of that, and spent most of her time scowling and yelling. Joric and Hjolmar would sometimes joke that their parents should marry, because they both liked to shout, and both had lost their spouses several winters ago.

The crowd's roar turned into a dull murmur as six of the Jarl's honour-kin marched into the fighting pit below, their prisoner bound and walking between them. Sverig Bladkar was Hjolmar's uncle, and one of the few people who could make his father laugh. Balnar and Sverig would often meet before and after anything from a raid to a feast, challenging each other over who could collect the most Nordling heads, or who could drink the most ale before throwing up. Hjolmar had liked him too, he would often bring treats after coming back from a long raid, Nordling food made with something called "sugar," and he would tell Hjolmar funny stories whenever Balnar got angry with him. He looked strange now, out of his armour and with his long graying hair cut short. He stared solemnly at his own feet.

"Why is Uncle Sverig tied up?" He asked for what felt like the hundredth time in the past week. Perhaps someone would even answer him this time.

"Quiet, little jarl." Erva whispered to him, wearing her usual scowl. Hjolmar hated it when she called him "little jarl." He had seen six winters, he wasn't little anymore. She cracked a rare smile whenever he tried to explain this to her, which made him even angrier. "Quiet, and listen."

Balnar Mordvikskjal stood from his throne, a menacing thing carved from the skull of a mammoth, the creature's tusks jutting out from either side. He was a beast of a man, standing taller than any of his peers, and in most cases, wider too. He wore a cloak of bearskin, fluttering in the northern winds in tandem with his ruddy blonde hair. Bone ornaments kept his lengthy beard split into three points which rested almost below his navel.

"Sverig, son of Grolf, once called Bladkar, now disgraced before your kin." Hjolmar thought his father sounded strange, like he was reciting something he hadn't practised for very long, and his voice had the same odd sadness it had possessed earlier. "You are guilty of colluding with lowlanders, speaking to them as equals, trading with them their useless metals, and laying with women unearned by raid. For this you are sentenced to receive…" Balnar made a strange face, like there was meat caught in his throat. "… The Iron Crown."

Balnar turned away from his brother, his enormous fists bunched at his sides. Silence hung in the air for a moment, and Vitki Kel rose from his seat at Balnar's right hand. If the grays were old, Kel was the gray of grays. He moved with a slight tremor, and his skin hung from his still impressive muscle in wrinkled folds. He was missing many of his teeth, and stared at the world through infected, pink eyes. He was a vitki, a seer, and he guided the Bone-Splitters on spiritual matters, offering council on the will of the Gods. He kept a staff clutched firmly in his right hand, and wore a dusty cloak of raven feathers on his back, and the skull of a ram on his head. "Have you requests before your death, Sverig?" He said in a low rasp.

Sverig looked up from the ground for the first time since his arrival. He looked like he hadn't slept in a long time. "Only to know if it was really my brother who decided I should die without a sword in my hand."

Balnar did not turn to face his brother, and said nothing. His fists were still bunched tight.

"I see." Sverig said flatly.

Balnar's Honour-kin suddenly took Sverig by the shoulders, forcing him to his knees and locking his limbs in place. Hjolmar could no longer contain his confusion, and leapt to his feet. Before he could take more than a few steps, Erva's arms closed around him. "Let go of me!" He shouted, flailing fruitlessly. "I'm the son of the jarl! They can't hurt uncle Sverig!"

He screamed as she hoisted him off the ground. "No, little jarl, your father told me you had to see this. It's something you need to learn if you're going to lead us one day." Her voice was more tender than usual, like she pitied him. He continued to swing his balled fists and kick at her torso, but with no avail.

Balnar's personal blacksmith came through the fighting pit's other entrance, and laid out a ring of iron and several bolts before him, and took his hammer in hand. Kel began to speak again. "Behold the fate of those who would rather die with a crown on their brow over a sword in their hand. Sverig has chosen the shallow wealth of the lowlanders over his honour. And so he shall be crowned like a lowlander."

When the first bolt was hammered into Sverig's skull, Hjolmar stopped screaming. He had never heard a man die like his uncle did that day. Later, when they hung his corpse on the great pine at the centre of town, he could only think of that horrible scream whenever he looked up to see his body dangling in the wind, being slowly picked apart by hungry ravens.

…

The thought of his uncle's death came back to Hjolmar many times over the years. Today, preparing to step into the arena Sverig had died in, though for a very different reason, he found himself unable to put it from his mind.

The Bloodletting was a right all the Bone-Splitter's warriors must perform. Young or old, man or woman, any who sought the glory of battle would do so before the tribe. They would be pitted against a hardened warrior, often one of advance years. This was to ensure the tribe remained strong, despite the low success rate of initiates. Each generation was meant to surpass the old, in a grand display for all to see. If you were found lacking, then your death was necessary, and your name unworthy. To deny The Bloodletting was to deny the right to be a warrior.

Hjolmar assured himself he would not be left wanting. He was the sole son of the jarl, he had spent his seventeen winters in preparation for this day.

"Nervous?" Joric jabbed as he applied Hjolmar's armour. Joric had changed much over his most recent eleven winters. His smooth skin had given way to uneven scarring, the promise of attractiveness in youth long vanished. He had also lost his shy personality, now prepared to make some jape at every opportunity, and regardless of the situation.

"Only nervous that I'll put on as shameful a display as you." Hjolmar said with an irritated smile. Hjolmar had grown tall and lithe, the vibrant blonde hair he had shared with his mother flowing down his back in wavy strands.

"Hey, I won didn't I?" Joric retorted.

"Against Ponbar the Old. I'm surprised he didn't keel over on the way to the match."

The attire for The Bloodletting was standardized: leather bracers, greaves and boots with a scaled cuirass. Joric and Hjolmar were of similar size, and new armour could not be tanned for each new combatant; and so Hjolmar now found himself fastened with the same straps he had tightened for Joric the week prior. He ran his hand along the lengthy gash through the front of the scale, unpatched from the previous battle.

"This in particular is a sign of your great skill." Hjolmar continued, gesturing at the deep cut.

"Hey, the old man was quicker than he looked, alright? Besides, it's not like I assign the armour." He gave a leather strap a violent tug. "I can do my best to 'sabotage' you if you like, though, your highness." He said with a wicked grin.

"I swear by The Four, Joric, when I'm Jarl I'll have one of your digits pulled every time you call me that." Hjolmar regretted the day he taught Joric a fleeting amount of Reikspiel, as their fanciful word for "jarl" had been the only thing he had managed to remember. And it certainly didn't help banish the memories of his uncle's grisly death.

"Best get it out of my system now then, eh?" Joric said, seemingly oblivious to Hjolmar's discomfort. He gave a final pull before patting Hjolmar on the shoulder. "Good luck out there, Hjol. Don't go dying on me yet."

Hjolmar applied as much sincerity to his voice as he could muster. "Thanks, Joric."

…

Hjolmar stepped into the pit centering the deep-brown monstrosity of poor design and dangerous instability that was the arena. Wooden beams criss-crossed beneath its pinewood bleachers, and the steps creaked unnervingly with every use. Banners flying the symbol of the roaring bear, the crest of Hjolmar's father and thus the clan, tugged at the fastenings as the north's perpetual winds whistled by. Yet somehow, the arena endured, and was the centre of Norscan life. Every sundown some event would take place, be it a practice bout, a fight to the death, or some public reprimand. More popular than any of these was a Bloodletting, and the bleachers now held Kartak's near total population.

Hjolmar was deaf to the usual crunch of snow beneath his boots as he approached his starting position. The roar of men, women and babes drowned out even the northern winds, a raucous celebration of the two entering combatants. In the stand's centre sat Balnar, his back stiff against his throne. Balnar was deep into his graying, but still dwarfed those around him, apparently free from the hunch age brought many seasoned warriors. He was staring directly at Hjolmar, apparently the only attendee abstaining from a cheer.

How very like him, thought Hjolmar.

At his father's side sat Kel, seemingly unchanged by the last decade. His clawed hands were no less rigid, his pink eyes no less intense. Even his cloak of raven feathers seemed to retain the same level of dustiness.

Hjolmar turned his attention to his opponent, who stood his opposite. The man was called only Tolb. Despite a lifetime of glory-seeking, he had attained precisely none, leaving his name conspicuously without title. He was exactly the sort of man who would volunteer to face the son of a jarl, hungry for the accompanying prestige victory would bring. If Tolb hadn't been a total arse to everyone he'd ever met, Hjolmar might have even felt bad for sending him to The Gods without such accomplishment.

Balnar raised his hands in a call for silence, one the crowd quickly heeded. He stood, trappings of bones and steel jingling in the frigid air. "In accordance with the old ways, it is time for the new blood to prove its worth. Hjolmar, son of Balnar shall face Tolb, son of Kragenn." The traditional words sounded strange coming from him, his gravelly voice did not suit them well, even after years of recitation. "May The Four give strength to the combatant most worthy of The Bone-Splitters."

A war horn blared, signaling the beginning of the bout. Hjolmar drew his blade, a worn thing made of the same tempered steel that comprised Tolb's axe. He gave his blade a playful spin. It was well balanced, and felt good in his hands.

Hjolmar spread his arms wide in mocking challenge. "How bold you are, Tolb, to volunteer against the son of a jarl!"

The two began to circle each other, slowly closing distance. "Aye, I did. And I'll say what everyone else won't, Hjolmar Sword-Dancer." Hjolmar grimaced at the name. His title, Vorkjal, was as much an honor as it was an insult. It meant master of weapons, if one were to be blunt. But there was meaning there, a connotation of frailty and grace. Not the associations a warrior would hope for. "You talk like a lowlander, and you fight like a lowlander. Hell, I see you reading Kel's books more than I see you practicing your swing. I doubt you'll be much harder to kill than-"

Hjolmar punched forward with the tip of his sword, a blow Tolb barely managed to deflect in time, turning the lethal strike into a shallow cut across his left cheek. Tolb staggered backwards.

"And you fight like a coward, too," he finished.

"Says the man who criticized me for running my mouth, when his leaves him quite-" Tolb ran forward with a lunging slash, a terribly sluggish maneuver. Their blades gave a loud clang as their cutting edges met. "-open," Hjolmar finished, his smile returned.

Hjolmar delivered a kick to Tolb's sides, a loud crack signaling one or more broken ribs. To his credit, Tolb didn't drop his guard as expected, and instead pushed himself backwards before coming in with another strike.

The arena was filled with the clatter of steel on steel as Tolb pressed his attack. His movements were telegraphed and easily parried, though he left few openings, even with his broken bones. Perhaps this was why he had lived for so long without distinction. Even so, Hjolmar wouldn't win any favor by remaining defensive.

He feigned dropping his guard, leaving his head exposed. Tolb quickly seized the opportunity for a lunging strike, driving his axe towards Hjolmar's face. He threw himself to the side, Tolb's blade severing a lock of his fluttering hair, and rammed his blade into the unarmored gap beneath his arm.

The watching crowd gave a collective jeer as they saw the bloody tip of his sword come up through Tolb's collar. Most Bloodlettings were a much more extended affair, with both combatants heavily wounded by the end, but this had finished the same as any of Hjolmar's victories. He had always been told that natural talent was nothing to be proud of, that it hadn't been earned. He knew as well as they that their words had done nothing to stop his inflated ego.

Hjolmar was so satisfied with his decisive victory that he utterly failed to block a sudden backhand to the face, sending him tumbling across the snowy earth. He quickly caught his balance and rolled back into a stand. He reached for his sword, but his hand grasped nothing but fresh snow. He looked up to see his sword still wedged through Tolb's torso.

His opponent swayed, struggling to keep his footing through the blood loss. Hjolmar was surprised, the strike should have killed him nearly instantly. The impaled warrior toppled forward, and landed on all fours, shivering from the pain. It looked as though he was about to expire. His neck suddenly tensed and his head jerked upwards. He growled through bared teeth, bloody spittle glazing his mouth. His eyes were wide, and filled with unstifled fury.

The crowd roared. "Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt!" They chanted, each syllable accompanied by a fist thrusted into the air.

Rauðrdikt. The bloody verse. As was tradition to the Bone-splitters, any combatant could opt to embrace their inner beast and abandon their weapons. This challenge could not be denied, and both combatants would embrace their berserker rage and engage in a test purely of strength and savagery.

It was unfortunate for Hjolmar that he was one of the only few born in the last century who seemed unable to tap into that trait.

"What good is a bear who cannot use his claws?" his father would often say, as though Hjolmar was actively spiting him with his inability. Vitki Kel had asserted that he simply needed to be put in a life-or-death situation to bring out the beast within. Hjolmar hoped he was right.

Tolb rocketed forward, closing the gap in barely two leaps, and displaying speed far greater than when he was without a sword jammed through his ribcage.

Hjolmar panicked. Certainly, he'd trained for the situations where an opponent would attack with an aggressive flurry, with little regard for their own well-being. It was simply that he'd always had a sword in his hand during that practice.

He had only begun to raise his arms in defense before Tolb collided with him, sending the two tumbling through the snowy dirt. Hjolmar landed on his back with a grunt, and barely had enough time to react to before Tolb leapt onto his torso, his weight punching the wind from Hjolmar's lungs. He crossed his forearms over his face, which Tolb angrily mashed at with balled fists. Every strike was accompanied by an animalistic growl and a trail of spittle flying from his bared teeth.

Hjolmar hammered his fist onto Tolb's wounded side, but apart from a grunt of pain, he failed to react. Tolb gave an animal snarl and delivered a flurry of blows into his half-exposed face. The first punch broke his nose, causing Hjolmar to yelp in pain. The next was to his now open mouth, cutting his lips on parted teeth.

The next several strikes mangled Hjolmar's untarnished face into a bloody mess of bruised flesh. He delivered more failed strikes to Tolb's sides, and he felt his consciousness beginning to slip. Each blow felt duller, the crack of his fist on bone blurring as blood pounded in his ears.

He thought again of his uncle, a strangely clear image amidst the hail of blows against his numbing face. He had visited the tree alone once, to watch the birds peck at his dead flesh. Some of the other boys were laughing at his dangling corpse, saying that his death was pitiful for such a great warrior.

Hjolmar vowed he would not meet the same fate.

He reached for the knife in his boot, hidden there before the match. Not even Joric had known he had smuggled it into the ring; possessing more than a single weapon was expressly forbidden. Now, faced with disgrace in death and a disgrace in life, Hjolmar found the second option infinitely preferable.

He shot his arms forward, intertwining them with his opponent's. Tolb was immobilized for the split second Hjolmar needed to bash his blood-slick forehead into his attacker's nose. The berserker howled and clutched his bleeding face.

Hjolmar smiled through shattered teeth. He certainly felt that one.

His head was swimming from the impact, but he managed to twist his body sideway and bend his leg back to his waiting hand. Tolb, already recovering, ducked forward and gnashed his teeth at Hjolmar's exposed jugular. His limbs were slick with blood, and he struggled to keep his forearm across Tolb's throat. His grasping fingers finally found his dagger, and he rammed the blade into Tolb's temple an instant before his teeth found Hjolmar's exposed neck, sending a fresh blood splatter across the already reddened snow.

The berserker shuddered before falling forwards, his corpse landing limply on the arena floor. Hjolmar breathed out, finally letting fatigue fill his bruised limbs. The cold air had never felt better on his raw skin.

The crowd looked on in stunned silence.

JORIC

"Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt! Rauðrdikt!"

Joric watched in horror as Tolb writhed and snarled like a frenzied wolf, gnashing his teeth and pounding the dirt. The sword that should have ended the bout protruded from his side, miraculously failing to end his life. Rauðrdikt had always been a possibility, Hjolmar knew the tribes' traditions better than most, much as he liked to ignore them, and the bloody verse was no great secret.

He had planned to kill his enemy before one could be initiated, however.

Kerrig Bloodhammer leaned in behind him. "Looks like your friend's about to get what he deserves for being such a lowland sheep."

Despite being a similar age, Kerrig had distinguished himself even before his own Bloodletting. He had killed one of Jarl Kreg's many sons, each one famous for their swordplay, when they had raided the Bone-Splitter camp two years prior. He drove a warhammer straight through the man's parry and into his skull, and afterwards never failed to espouse the effectiveness of blunt weapons over swords. Irritatingly, his peers latched on to his every word, praising his vast cunning and stunning good looks. Joric preferred the arrogant when they weren't the envy of the clan.

"He's a better fighter than you'll ever be, Kerrig." The one who spoke out was Valka, a girl of nineteen winters with a bloodlust to rival any Khornate champion, and a temper to match. After breaking the arms, ribs, and legs of a group of boys harassing Hjolmar over his dead uncle, she had become one of their few genuine friends. Reddy-blonde hair fell haphazard across her brow, and her soft features contrasted with her large frame and imposing stature. Deep scars ran criss-cross over most of her exposed skin. "He'd gut you like a fangless pup."

"Ah yes, he is mighty. See how he pummels his foe." Kerrig responded, gesturing to the arena floor.

The two looked back to see Tolb hammering his fists into Hjolmar's face, the man's own punches deflecting ineffectually off his opponent's flank.

Joric stood, attracting a few brief stares. "We have to do something. He's going to be killed."

"Good riddance I say." Kerrig chimed in, feigning disinterest. "He's fights like a lowlander and everyone knows it. Better he die here than disgrace us on the battlefield."

"Death! Death! Death!" The stands erupted in their death chant, glee written plainly across their faces.

"Seems they agree," he finished.

Valka reached for her axe, but Joric was faster, spinning on his heel and driving his fist into Kerrig's face. Were he not mortified about Hjolmar's impending death, he might have been satisfied with the crunching sound his nose made upon breaking. Despite the man's popularity, no one seemed to notice him tumble backwards through the stands, save the people he landed on.

The crowd suddenly ceased its cheering, the speed at which they halted was unnervingly rapid. For a moment, Joric thought they had reacted to his violent outburst. He turned to see that was not the case.

…

Hjolmar was taken to Kel's hut after the fighting, a journey he miraculously survived. While severe, Hjolmar's wounds weren't what Joric worried about. The spectators had mixed reactions to Hjolmar's manner of victory; there was much disagreement as to how exactly he should be killed for defiling their most sacred of traditions.

Their suggestions had ranged from horrifying to ridiculous, one aging woman even demanding he be fed to "savage wild goats." Joric laughed at that, despite himself.

Kel's hut was a small walk from even the outermost longhouses, sitting atop a cliffside overlooking the freezing seas below, and was adorned with all manner of spiritual trappings and fetishes. Severed skin, bleached bones, and animal carcasses all hung limply in the perpetual winds, frost clinging to their dead flesh.

Joric had never liked Kel, nor his homestead. The Bone-Splitters were a southern tribe, bordering the Sea of Chaos, and thus were less prone to the morbidity of the northernmost villages. Kel, it seemed, was always finding new ways to match their grotesqueries.

Joric and Valka ascended the hill to the hut, surprised to find a lack of angry mobs on their way. The path was as barren as it always was, and two guardsmen outside Kel's hut were the only signal anything was out of place at all.

Joric had often heard that lowlanders would use a word to greet each other, something he always found oddly superfluous. Surely a vocal announcement of one's arrival wasn't necessary when it could be plainly observed. Joric and Valka came face to face with the guards, hands resting on the pommels of their weapons. The guards did the same, to not do so was a sign of great trust, or extreme disrespect.

The guard on the left, a warrior with bright blond hair pulled into braids and leathery sun-tanned skin, spoke first. "No entry, Jarl's orders. We've already driven off a group of punks looking for this one's head." He nodded to several flecks of blood dotting the snow at their feet.

"We're not here to kill him." Joric responded, making his best attempt at diplomacy. "The stupid bastard's our friend, we want to see him."

The blond warrior gave an undisguised sneer, while his partner, barely older than Joric, kept a neutral expression in his silence. Still, there was something unsettling about him, and his eyes bulged unnervingly from beneath an unkempt mop of brown hair.

"Well, were it up to me," the blonde one continued, "I'd let `em gut the coward. I'll never know how a warrior like Jarl Balnar produced that as a son. Maybe his craven uncle fucked his mother while the Jarl was on the shitter. Either way, no entry."

Joric was about to retort, but it was Valka's turn to chime in. "Oh, by The Four! He won didn't he! What's Kel always on about? 'The Blood God cares not from whence it flows, only that it flows?' Well, a lot of blood's running from Tolb's opened head now, isn't it?" Her voice growled with undisguised vitriol.

"Aye, through cowardly fighting. Rauðrdikt is our most sacred tribute to the Blood God, to defy it is to deserve his ire. And with it comes our own. You dishonor your namesake by decrying it, Valka."

Valka bristled at the comment, and looked as though she was about to bury her axe into the man's face. Such an outburst was mercifully interrupted by Kel's response from within the tent.

"Let them in, Gunnr." His voice was a dry rasp, but rang clearer than the howling winds or any of the individuals outside.

Gunnr gave a brief look of panic before responding with an irritated grunt, stepping away from the entrance flap. His silent partner mirrored his movements. Gunnr shot them a venomous glare as they entered, a gesture Joric returned with a mocking grin.

The interior of Kel's homestead were no more inviting than outside, featuring similar decorations and trophies. Hjolmar was lying in a bed by the far wall, with Kel applying a salve to what little of his face was not concealed by bloodied bandages. Kel was ancient, even by the standards of lowlanders who preferred to spend their twilight years as feeble corpses. Joric was never able to figure exactly how old the Vitki was, and he doubted even Hjolmar knew, despite the frequent visits to the seer's library.

Kel regarded them briefly as they entered, his unsettling pink eyes boring into them, pink pools dotted with pinpricks of black. Joric had always found them his most unsettling feature, seemingly devoid of irises, and rarely, if ever, blinking. Joric's dislike of the man was compounded by his behavior; for all the tribes' talk of honour and glorious battle, Kel seemed content to spend his days doing little more than sitting around and providing obtuse wisdom. That and occasionally demanding the grisly execution of anyone unfortunate enough to be deemed in opposition to the Gods.

He returned to his work, and withdrew from Hjolmar after adding a final smear of crushed herbs across his brow, gesturing for Joric and Valka to be seated.

"By Kho- erhm, by The Four, Hjol, I think you look worse than when they dragged you from the arena."

Hjolmar gave them a toothy smile. It was a miracle he retained all of his teeth, though a few were markedly less even than before. "Least I still don't have your mug, Joric. Any beating you take could only make you more handsome."

"Don't be so proud of yourself yet, Hjol," Valka retorted. "`Whole village wants your head on a pike."

"She is correct, Hjolmar," Kel added. "Were it not for my intervention, you would be dead. And without my present protection, the five who came for you earlier would have made much sport killing you."

"And why not you, Vitki? I defiled sacred tradition, and I failed to embrace the berserker rage. Do the laws of the Bone-Splitters not call for my death?" He asked the question almost jokingly, a thin veil for the spite clear in his voice. Hjolmar had never appreciated the limits tradition had placed on him. Kel's face darkened at his flippancy.

"If you had payed attention to what you have read about the Tribe's traditions, Hjolmar, you would know that the Bloodletting is not merely a test of strength. It is where The Gods make their will known, where they weigh the worth of each combatant, and judge who is more worthy to carry on. And yet, despite your disregard for tradition, despite your failure to embrace the beast within, you are alive. The Four have chosen you, in spite of your failings; in some way your spiting our traditions has appealed to their mercurial natures, and for that, you must live."

"Most don't seem to agree." Joric responded.

"I care little for their agreement, Joric. My service is first to The Gods. I will not allow Hjolmar to be lynched." He tapped his staff on the floor at "lynched," and stood from his seat.

Hjolmar's usual pride seemed to drain from his face. "So… my father did not insist on my survival?"

Joric had never felt a silence so awkward. "Err, well. I'm sure he's happy that you-"

"He wishes to give you an Iron Crown, Hjolmar. Perhaps that will help you appreciate the gravity of the situation." Kel interrupted.

Hjolmar's face bleached, and he became very still.

Joric's heart sank. Balnar had sentenced his own brother to the same fate years ago, and he seemed to have more love for Sverig than he ever did for his son. Still, he couldn't comprehend a parent demanding such a fate of their own child.

As if summoned by his mention, Jarl Balnar stormed into the tent, fists balled and face contorted into a severe grimace. He barely gave Joric and Valka a glance.

"Leave us," he said through gritted teeth.

"You can't just-" Valka began, but was cut off by Balnar backhanding her across the face. His enormous bulk gave him more than enough force to send her not diminutive frame careening into the nearest wall. She smashed into a wall shelf, sending a shower various trinkets cascading onto the floor. She bared her teeth and clutched what was left of the shelf to the point of splintering the wood further, but remained where she had fallen.

"Leave us." He repeated.

Kel gave them a nod of permission, and they did as instructed.

…

Joric later found Hjolmar by the docks, staring across the turbulent sea. Valka had wandered to the fighting pits, craving blood. Jarl or not, that blow to the face would have her livid for hours.

The same guards regarded him briefly as he went to his friend, still bandaged and bloody. The usual energy Hjolmar carried himself with was entirely absent, and he gazed at the white-capped waves with slack shoulders and a deep slouch.

"Here I was preparing a flaming boat for you, Hjol. Once again you ruin my elaborate funerary plans."

"He really hates me." Hjolmar said with a sad smile, ignoring Joric's attempt at levity. His eyes looked raw. "I thought maybe… maybe he was like everyone else's father. Gruff, demanding, but with love underneath." He was clearly straining to maintain any sort of composure. It was one failure Joric would not jab him for.

"I'm being sent away, Jor. I get to helm my own ship, isn't that exciting? A chance for me to redeem myself, Kel says. I'll even get a crew, and Kel too. He insisted. 'Too old to live up here', better to die with a sword in his gut, he says. It seems being a disgrace comes with all sorts of perks these days. Of course, the livery and sigils must be stripped away, can't have me bringing more shame to the tribe, can we?"

"Hjol…"

"And do you know how he responded? My father?" He was standing now, pontificating. "He looked scared. Horrified! What a sight it was, seeing his face pale with fear for the first time. Oh, what a horrible fate it must be! To be denied the one legitimate chance to murder your disappointing offspring! To have to live with the idea that he may be out there somewhere, making a name for himself! How dare he! How dare he be born unable to gibber and snarl like a filthy animal!"

They stood in silence for a moment, Hjolmar frozen in his final, sweeping gesture. He quickly returned to his slouch with a grunt. "I'm sorry, Jor. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

Joric searched for how to respond, a strange feeling, as he usually just spoke without thinking. Not that he had any problem with how that usually went. He looked at Hjolmar with the utmost sincerity.

"Well, Hjol, that was an unforgivable outburst. I doubt our friendship could ever recover. Unless, of course, I am allowed to be your first mate on this oh-so shameful voyage. Then I just may begin to forgive you."

"Jor, you don't have to-"

"Don't give me that shit, Hjol! Where you go, I go, and vice versa. Valka too, were she here. She'd also be kicking the piss out of you for your little mopey display! So what if your dad's a cunt! Fuck him! And fuck these people! You want to impress the Blood God? Then kill. Kill and murder and slaughter your way through the Nordlings until he has to pay attention."

Once again, a pregnant silence descended. With uncanny synchrony, they both sat back on the decks and stared off into the ocean.

"Besides, who's gonna miss me?" he continued. "Alas poor Joric, I knew him well and so forth. I mean, if it please you, your highness."

"I swear to The Four, I will throw you overboard."