A violent deadline was an amazing motivator, especially in politics. The three days were spent in a frenzy, a desperate effort to find a compromise between the two parties. Some advocated it was simple - let it go through, then reject the peace terms if (or when) they were unacceptable. Others countered that going in knowing they would likely be rejected was dishonorable, and they should continue the wars without such a stop. And some simply felt the whole thing was a waste of time and they should instead be arguing over how to defeat the Legions and Chosen. The stalemate remained fixed, and the third day was given to individual discussions before the night came.
Exhaling, Stigandr rested his head against a pillar supporting his hall in rebuilt Sverngard. His own home was a two floor building, though the second floor was more of a platform over half of the hall. He had decorated it richly with mementos of past battles and works of art he found in the market that he liked, living quite comfortably when his duties called him here.
"You are troubled, Warlord."
Where are my manners? He realized as he shook his head, pushing himself from the pillar and turning to the man sitting at his table, ancient in years with similarly old grey robes and hat. The old man's beard was white as the snow that would come soon, and his gnarled staff rested by the door as per hospitality.
"I apologize, Gestr. Matters have been difficult as of late."
"You need not apologize," he answered, "but you must be certain. That is why I came here to speak to you."
Stigandr nodded, glancing towards the firepit. "Where is my guest's mead? Yuina, get him a horn already!"
"Yes, master!" the slavegirl hastily answered, breaking away from the pot she was overlooking and grabbing one of the smaller drinking horns that hung on a rack nearby.
Stigandr settled down across from his guest, who had taken his hat off. Though both his eyes appeared intact, he had known that one had grown bad over the years, more bloodshot than the other. But whatever the man lost in vision, he had gained in wisdom.
Wisdom that the Warlord sorely needed as the thrall gave the guest his mead, and another brought bread freshly baked that morning.
"I see you still have your trophy," Gestr remarked before he drank.
Stigandr shrugged as he glanced at the Chosen woman bearing a brand on the back of her neck. She had been part of his share of the loot from Koto, along with a few other slaves and many possessions. She was the only one still around, though. Disease, attempted escapes, one that tried to kill him during a siege, but there were no shortage of thralls in the markets to replace them.
"Regardless," the old man continued, "I come concerned of the dangerous division brewing between the clan leaders, a division that you have brought."
"I do not regret bringing this offer," he answered as mead for himself was also brought over, taking a drink out of the hollowed out horn. "It was a challenge we would face regardless. Fate has simply given the opportunity now, rather than later."
"So it is, but a holmgang with the Great Raider himself?"
"It is our last resort, one that I would avoid if I could."
"You believe that there must be peace?"
"I believe that we must try. Apollyon played us all, one against the other. She used us especially as her puppets. If we do not even try to seek peace, we will remain tangled in string."
Gestr took another sip of his mean before frowning. "Why do you care so much for a dead woman's thoughts, Stigandr? She can no longer harm you or your people. You have survived the horrors she forced upon Valkenheim."
That made him pause. Did it really matter what Apollyon would think of them?
No, he realized as he inhaled. It was not Apollyon that concerned him - she was just the symbol of something that had gnawed at him.
"She does not matter," he admitted as he met Gestr's gaze, "but what we do matters. Why we do it. Why are we fighting this war - are we fighting for our families, for riches, or just because we can?"
"Gudmundr once asked similar questions, and answered them in his own way. Yet he was willing to take up his sword when the time was right."
"Keeping the peace between the clans."
His guest nodded.
"I don't want to fight Snorri," he continued as he looked down. "But he's too stubborn…" he paused a moment to smile, shaking his head. "No, he's too honorable to consider breaking his oath, and he knows that if we have peace he will never get the chance."
Gestr shrugged. "Or perhaps it merely delays it, but you are right. Yet you stubbornly hold to this as the path forward, knowing the dangerous waters you sail."
"Better that two warriors bleed and die rather than thousands, especially since if we must also fight the knights and samurai later."
"Indeed. Even if you succeed, the clans must face those great threats." Gestr finished his drink and set the horn down with a soft thud. "Snorri's death will dishearten many, and there is no guarantee his followers will simply accept the peace you propose."
The Warlord frowned, but held his tongue for the moment. That was all true, but was it simply the price they would have to pay to stop dying in a war that had lost all meaning?
You're thinking about a friend! A part of him chided. This is far more than keeping morale up!
"Now, besides this," the old man said in a sudden change, "I do bring some good news, if you would hear it."
"I would," Stigandr agreed as he reached for the bread.
"The scars Apollyon's passing placed on the land have faded - the herds return to the woods, filling them with game once more."
"You mean, we no longer have to be so cautious with hunting?" Stigandr perked up as he realized the implications that would have. "That is good news, the Jarls can let others hunt as they used to!"
"Yes," Gestr chuckled, "I thought that news might brighten your day a bit, before I spoke to Snorri."
That damped it right back down, especially as the thought about having to fight a friend kept gnawing at him.
"You saw much in him," the Warlord continued, "Do you think he has more to do for the Warborn?"
"A legend does as a legend will. Legends of glory are also legends of loss, it is all a question of who views it. A warm sun may herald the melting of the snows, or an avalanche."
"Well, at least I know one thing will remain."
"Oh? And what is that?"
"You still speak in vague riddles."
The old man chuckled, followed by Stigandr, as the slaves kept glancing over from their work to make sure they were not being summoned.
XXXXX
"You're not drinking, Snorri."
"I'm not?" The Raider blinked as the Berserker spoke, glancing down to his full horn resting in its stand. "So I'm not," he mused as he finally reached for the auburn brew and drank.
"Is it the upcoming challenge?" Runa asked, sitting across from the two. "This is no burden to bear lightly."
"Yes," Snorri admitted, glancing at Helvar briefly as the Berserker turned his head. "I don't want to fight Stigandr, even if I must."
"He doesn't want to fight you either," Helvar pointed out. "And really… I don't. Not like this, anyways."
Snorri chuckled as memories came back. "I still think I won that brawl."
"Perhaps you two can get drunk beforehand," the Valkyrie cut in as she folded her arms. "A holmgang fought so drunk that it took a blow from Mjolnir to knock the loser out."
"It would answer the question of the gods' intent once and for all," Helvar remarked, suddenly running a hand through his beard. "But I can't laugh at it."
"I was not joking."
That left the table in the mead hall silent, leading the Raider to look down at his brew even as some of it soaked his beard. As the challenge loomed over them, the Raider needed answers, different from those he might gather from a priest or the omens. That he could only find in those who had been with him through thick and thin.
"So…" Helvar started, hesitating as he glanced towards the Raider and back to his mead a few times. "About the stuff we heard. That Apollyon used us, used the Great Raid."
"She was a cunning hag, I'll give her that," Snorri growled, "but I don't see why we should deny what we are because of that."
"Of course not, but it makes you wonder. Did she really lose, when that Orochi killed her?"
"Given that all that remains of her followers is the odd cult? Yes, I would say she lost the battle," Runa remarked, raising an eyebrow as she looked towards the Berserker.
"But she wasn't trying to build that kind of legacy, was she? She wanted this war as her legacy."
"Then we will give her what she desired," Snorri declared as he smiled, "and her people will forever curse her name for speeding their downfall."
Helvar exhaled, glancing at him before turning away and shaking his head. "Right. Well, all I can say is I really hope you and Stigandr can find another way. We need both of you."
Snorri glanced at the door. "We haven't met outside of the assembly since…"
"Go," Runa interrupted. "This shouldn't wait."
Nodding, The Raider rose and left the mead hall without hesitation. Had he been on the road, he would have grabbed his axe on the way out, but in Sverngard he was happy to leave it where he slept. He could always take a weapon from anyone dumb enough to attack him… if the fight lasted that long.
Still, as he walked he felt troubled. What could he say - 'I'm sorry that I'm going to kill you, but you're in my way'? This wasn't some old warrior in a hut holding what he needed, this was Stigandr. They had been side by side for a decade. They were the architects of the Great Raid and countless other victories - battles that Apollyon wanted.
"I see you are troubled, Great Raider."
Turning sharply, he was about to growl when he saw the old man who addressed him, clad in his worn grey robes and his hat covering one eye, gnarled staff in hand. Snorri knew this man, few of import in Valkenheim didn't. Even Siv had listened to his counsel, though he rarely appeared before the Bearclaw Clan. Rumors were abounds as to the exact nature of the man, but Snorri preferred to focus on what mattered.
"Gestr," the Raider remarked as he faced the old man. "I wondered when you would arrive."
"Ill news is an ill guest, especially in these mountains," he answered as they stepped closer to each other, the old man using his staff as he walked. "I fear my counsel cannot give you an alternative today, warrior."
Exhaling, the Raider shook his head. "There isn't one. It is a question of who we are, and we are the Warborn."
"But does that mean war is endless?" Gestr gestured along the path, towards Sverngard's main temple, and the two walked along the forested path as birds nesting in the trees above warned of their passing to each other. Including, as Snorri always seemed to find when Gestr was around, a raven.
"Of course not, it will end when our enemies lie broken."
"And then what?" the old man asked, turning his gaze to see him. "What then?"
"We look for the next challenge, or are you here to sway me to a new path again?"
"Alas, such a thing can only be done once."
Snorri held his tongue. The first time that the old wiseman had taken such an interest in him was the year after Apollyon came. Gestr had a way with visions - not quite a priest, yet in many ways more knowledgeable than them and versed in prophecy. He claimed to only be a messenger, yet he always gave something for the Raider to see for himself to learn truth. Like exactly which clan was weak enough to harbor and listen to missionaries from the Ice Coast in exchange for the promise of grain.
He had been the one to awaken him to just how off his path had been, staying with Siv and his clan as they became the worst of Apollyon's wolves, mingling with the likes of Ragnar without shame. Snorri was not sure how the wiseman knew exactly how to get to him, but he always had a way.
"But you have a choice here, mighty Raider," Gestr continued. "Your fate is written, yet here the writing branches. Two rings of silver, both of the same quality and markings, in two different hares. One given to Freya, one to Frigg, yet the omen was the same."
"You are saying we can choose our path here. What Stigandr has been saying, that we can choose to find peace."
"You can choose to try. When he heard of this dispute, the priests in Iarla consulted the gods for answers. Yet no omens could be taken, no portent to if peace could be done."
Snorri frowned as he considered the implications. Why were the gods silent at this crucial moment? The omens had been grand when they made their offerings for the safety of their fleet, and remained so when they went after Apollyon's fortress. Yet now they were silent?
"So, there is nothing to do but fight for the path forward," he exhaled. "The old ways of blood that stir our people."
"Indeed… yet, have you ever wondered why that is?"
"Do you mean, have I wondered why we need warriors like Runa for those too valorous to die in battle, or the good men that never needed to fight?"
A single nod was his answer as they approached the gates of the temple, petitioners and priests alike making their offerings in search of guidance or to show piety.
"This is a harsh land, one where even the very air can kill you with its chill," he continued as he glanced down. He was wearing his usual lack of clothes above the waist, for the autumn air was still warm. Had it been winter, he would have been clad in thick furs - furs that he shed when the time came to fight. He was a living legend, but living legends could still get frostbite.
"And that is if sickness or hunger does not do the same. Utter wastes."
"And old age is no better, even with a long and fulfilling life," Snorri exhaled again. "To watch yourself become infirm, bedridden, hapless… pathetic."
The old man chuckled as they came to a stop before the tree that Snorri had stared at three days ago, when Runa came to talk to him. "You do not see me as pathetic, do you?"
"You have aged gracefully, but I have seen other warriors waste away, longing for the chance to die spear in hand."
"A fate that Gudmundr faced, even as he kept himself fit. Wolfsbane spared him that ignominy."
"By letting him see all he worked for burn around him!" the Raider snapped immediately. "He watched his family burn in their own hall!"
"Yet he died sword in hand, against a worthy foe," Gestr remarked as he looked to the skull hanging in one noose from the previous blot. "By our nature, he has died well. A nature that he himself questioned."
"I remember his questions, of what we forgot in our great voyages from Valkenheim when the world shattered." Snorri tilted his head. "You believe that he was right, that we have forgotten things in war?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps he simply wished for something better for his people than to see their sons and daughters die in puddles of their own blood. To find something else."
"To make peace."
"Indeed. Sverngard was known for trade, not war, even if it had warriors. Yet now you have come full circle since our fateful meeting, since you forswore your former clan to be pure Warborn."
"Are you saying Stigandr is right to compare me to that dead crone?!" Snorri could feel his fists clenching, forcing himself to resist the urge to strike the man - especially on such holy ground.
"That is for you to decide," Gester explained as he kept his gaze fixed. "What one sees as just and right, another sees as savage plunder. A smith can forge two axes with the same steel, yet as one faces scorn in its use the other is praised."
"Another riddle?"
"Think on it," he answered with a shrug. "You already know the answer, the question is will you accept it, or will you deny it?"
"We are war, it is our very name. Our people live freely, and will not sit quietly as others wrong us. Those wrongs will come, no matter the peace. And warriors will make them right."
"So it is." Gestr glanced out of the temple for a moment, then back to him. "I spoke to Stigandr, and I think you both should speak again. Your holmgang is inevitable, but you two have still been each other's shield brother. Talk to him. Make peace with what is to come. And tomorrow, I will ferry the two of you to the isle."
Snorri nodded once. This was why he had come - to be the third party to such a duel. To help lend it the legal weight it already had. Their duel would be on a small island in the bay near Sverngard, so none might interfere. Gestr, not having been involved in these arguments, would be the most neutral candidate to bear them to that ground.
"Alright then," he exhaled. "I'll speak to him."
XXXXX
"Come in!" Stigandr called as he heard the knock at the door, not even looking up as he was sharpening his sword to make sure it was ready for tomorrow, and just to get his mind off of things.
Perhaps that fact made what he was doing timely, particularly, as he saw the Raider that waited at the doorway.
"Snorri," the Warlord remarked as he looked up. "I didn't expect to see you."
"I ran into our mutual friend," the Raider elaborated as he disarmed himself, taking off the seax on the back of his belt and leaving it by the door. "And we haven't spoken outside the assembly these past few days."
"We haven't," Stigandr reflected as he thought back. They had talked during the assembly, but whereas before they might kick back and share drinks together outside, they stayed apart. They met each other through Runa and Helvar rather than talk directly. "What could we say besides what was already said?"
"How did we come that far?" Snorri took a few more steps in, slowly and with uncharacteristic caution before Stigandr simply pointed towards the table, leaving his own sword behind as he made his way over.
"We are at an impasse," he suggested before glancing out the back window. "Yuina, get in here! Another guest!"
"Coming, master!" her answer came, muffled by going around the wall where she was working, and moments later he heard her footfalls.
"And," the Warlord continued as he sat down across from Snorri, "neither of us want to confront this. We will, but we don't want to."
"To think all it took to divide us like this was a disagreement," the Raider exhaled, shaking his head. "We should be uniting to break out enemies once and for all, not arguing over this."
"How many more must die for Apollyon's demented dream?" he answered before stopping himself, shaking his head. "Bah. We both know we are too stubborn for our own good. Neither of us is going to budge, even if we wished we could."
"If we could, we would have died on the beach of Kaiyo Kabe."
"Hah! True enough!"
The slavegirl came by, with two new horns and the pitcher full of mead, pouring out for both of them and serving the Raider first. Taking his own horn as it was filled, Stigandr held it up.
"To our friendship, no matter what comes?"
The Raider matched his gesture. "To a brother in arms, no matter our disputes!" Yet the twitch in his smile that he tried to put on spoke volumes as both of them drank.
Is he right? Stigandr wondered as he finished the drink. All it had taken to drive such a wedge between them was this offer of peace. Was he so weak that he could be bent like that, only to try and show strength after?
"For what it is worth," Snorri started as they set the empty horns down. "I hold no ill will towards you for this. You want what is best for the clans, to bring us past Apollyon's so-called lesson."
"And so do you, even with your oath. You want the clans strong, strong enough to never be hurt by the likes of Apollyon again."
"And if they are divided in this dispute, it won't matter whether your peace succeeds or fails. That will be the end of us."
Stigandr nodded. He knew what some clans continuing war without regard while others went for peace meant: it meant the Warborn were as fractured as the Iron Legion had been by ceding Ashfeld to the Blackstones. A great champion had already risen once to reunite the clans, Stigandr was not so arrogant to just assume the gods would bless them with another if he and Snorri broke this unity.
"Maybe we should make plans," the Raider continued. "To make sure that this holmgang is all it has to be. If one of us has to die, it damn well better save our people."
"There will always be a few that will disagree no matter what," Stigandr warned as he put a hand to his chin. "Jarl Tyra won't just accept a peace, not after seeing her children starve to death."
"And Chief MacGillivray says rebellion still grows in his ranks," the Raider remarked before a half smile crept across his face. "I told you giving him a seat in the assembly wouldn't calm them."
"Yes, yes, you were right," the Warlord waved his hand as he managed to smile as well. "I still say it motivated them, though."
"Maybe, but that is only as long as we are united. If the Warborn divide, especially like this?"
Stigandr nodded once. "We need to take steps. Snorri, I have no right to ask this of you, but please, ask your followers to trust me. Ask them to accept the holmgang, no matter the outcome. I will do the same for those supporting the peace attempt."
The Raider raised an eyebrow. "You believe so strongly in this peace, yet you'll risk it if I win?"
"If you win, the war goes on anyways. I want peace, but not a peace that destroys us. If we divide, we will be destroyed."
The Raider leaned back in his chair, exhaling before speaking. "I'll talk to them. Whether they will agree…"
"We both know the answer to that," Stigandr finished as the Raider trailed off, shaking his head as he closed his eyes. He knew that all too well. They were a bunch of headstrong and freedom loving individuals at the best of times. When tensions ran high like this?
They fell silent again, leaving them to their thoughts. For Stigandr, it was wondering: his own shock that peace could start by an unlikely meeting organized by Wolfsbane, and the Lawbringer's warning of what the attempt would bring. The Warlord said it would be a worthy tale, but now that he faced the possibility of dying at a friend's hands, or worse having to kill his friend for peace, it left him with new questions.
Could the Warborn accept a peace? What would their demands be? What would be demanded of them? There was only so much that three individuals could consider without the counsel of their fellows, and Stigandr only had to look at the arguments the last three days to understand that peace was a long road. And if the gods were particularly cruel to go with their silence, he would kill a close friend only to find peace impossible still. To kill their people's greatest champion for nothing.
That thought had haunted him the last few days and would continue to do so, but he knew his path. They had to break Apollyon's Age of Wolves in its youth, before generations grew up knowing only war. If peace was going to happen, it was going to happen now.
"It's funny, in a cruel way," Snorri finally said to break the silence. "About ten years ago, I killed the Jarl of my clan by birth to free you. To make you the leader of the Warborn."
"And you left them to save our people," Stigandr answered back, "to save them from the rabid dogs like Ragnar."
"Which Ragnar? It's a very popular name."
"Hah! You've spent a bit too much time with Helvar these past few days, haven't you?"
The Raider shrugged, chuckling himself. "Maybe, I haven't had a lot of other conversation."
And the implication that came with it killed the levity then and there. Still, just because it hung over them like a corpse shroud did not mean it had to be so.
"Then let's rectify that, tonight," Stigandr decided. "As we eat with our fellows, let us forget the challenge that comes tomorrow. Whatever comes, Snorri, let it be a night to remember."
"I would proudly drink to that, Stigandr."
