His father was in a better state than usual today, which meant that he was holding court in person in Kaer Trolde. The winter months were always the hardest on his father, he had learned as the years wore away at the king. So it was a good thing that his father was in a fine state tonight, a good reason to celebrate as anything else that happened in the winter months. That also meant that the harpies were swarming thicker than usual. Svanrige Tuirseach observed his father's hall with a disdainful gaze, nursing a goblet of wine all the while.
Svanrige was familiar with Kaer Trolde of course. How could he not be? Clan an Craite and Clan Tuirseach had been close allies for generations, he'd been half raised here. But childhood familiarity had flipped into an adult's disdain with the passing of the years and now Svanrige wanted nothing more than to leave Kaer Trolde far behind.
But no, his father, the king, wanted to winter at Kaer Trolde as a demonstration of the continuing bond between the two clans and to show the Jarls that King Bran Tuirseach was still as fit and as hearty as ever.
Svanrige snorted into his mead, taking a hearty chug of the warm honey drink. His father was anything but hearty and hale. He was too old to be traipsing about the isles, especially in the depths of winter, but when Svanrige's father said that he was going to tour the isles to remind the Jarls of just who their king was, nobody gainsaid him.
Svanrige looked up to the dais, focusing on the well dressed, dark-haired woman who was primly eating next to his father, clad in his ceremonial armor. Not even Birna Bran could bend her husband's ear when his mind was made up.
In the middle of the feasting hall of Kaer Trolde, the musicians struck up another merry drinking song, like they had been doing for hours on end. Svanrige took another swig of mead. Would it kill them to play something less…discordant? A heroic saga would be more than appropriate considering the time of year.
A loud cheer reminded Svanrige why his ears continued to suffer.
Hjalmar an Craite, his cousin, slammed down the mead horn he had just emptied and loudly belched in the face of his defeated opponent, a young huscarl of Clan an Craite by the looks of him. There was a moment's pause before the huscarl belched right back at Hjalmar and another roof shaking cheer went up from that table.
Someone was having fun.
"I never took you for a great watcher of people, young Tuirseach." A familiar voice murmured to Svanrige. He glanced over to see the familiar form of Druid Ermion meander up to him. The hierophant had pulled out all the stops for this feast, Svanrige noted. Rich red robes with a snow lynx stole over his shoulders and a pointed hat with branches affixed to the front. And Ermion's prize beard was combed to perfection, its gray hairs glistening in the torch light.
"A bit overboard." Svanrige commented, going back to gazing at the ongoing feast.
"Tis as fine a time as any young Svanrige. Your father ordered the celebrations to thank the gods for Clan Tordarroch's victory over the scourge that befell them and the salvation of Undvik." Ermion chided in his kindly way, though Svanrige noted with pleasure that Ermion did stroke his beard before speaking. His pride and joy indeed.
Svanrige much preferred his short goatee.
"We're spending too much time celebrating over something that which we don't know." He replied. "We only have Clan Tordarroch's word that all is now at rest on Undvik."
He wanted to go on about the continuing mystery of Hemdall's Lance, that lance of light and the horrendous noise that came after it that had originated from Undvik and had been seen, but not heard, on every single isle. Clan Drummond traders had been spreading grim rumors about the end times in port taverns. Clan Heymaey traders were gossiping about this being a sign from Freya for the clans to unite to restore the goddess' garden, as they had been saying when anything happened for the past two years.
Other clans had been saying other things about Hemdall's Lance and Svanrige knew them well and he could have shared them with Ermion but Svanrige kept his thoughts to himself, as he always preferred.
Ermion murmured to himself. The druid was smart enough to know what Svanrige was alluding to but not even the druids could identify what exactly Hemdall's Lance had been. It was a source of some contention between the old druid and his father in recent days.
Minor clan leaders and other jarls wanted to hail the Lance as a sign of favor from the gods, how else could one explain the flights of predatory sirens and shore-wandering drowners that had dropped dead, on the spot, following the Lance's appearance?
The druids cautioned caution, as always. They made sure to remind any who had questions about the Lance that it had only struck down monsters that had been out of their dens, wandering about. Those with even the slightest concealment from the open air still lived and the sudden loss of competition in their feeding grounds had driven the beasts into a very aggressive state.
"Bah. Jarl Harald will be here in the morning and he'll have answers to all your father's questions. I hope."
The lighthouses had reported that the Jarl's longship, among others, had been sighted on the approach to Kaer Trolde Svanrige remembered. At least now his uncle didn't need to worry about the amassed might of Clan Tordarroch sailing into his port anymore as refugees anymore. But given that the jarl of that clan was sailing into Crach's lands in person, his uncle might have preferred to deal with the refugees.
"Have you seen Sparrowhawk by chance?" Ermion asked.
"No, but I'm sure Cerys is at the feast." Svanrige replied. He didn't really care where his other cousin had gotten to, at least she hadn't started a brawl with Hjalmar yet.
"Hrmm. Girl had a question earlier and now I'm trying to find her to give her the answer. Let me know when she resurfaces." With that the druid was off, making his way over to father and his uncle on the dais, no doubt to bend their ears to the portents the druids had been divining at the king's request.
Not even Svanrige knew what the druids had discovered in the signs bestowed to them by the gods but he didn't think it was remotely good considering the secrecy involved in delivering the results to the king.
Svanrige finished off his mead, and began to make his way over to the barrels for a refill when he saw the An Craite seneschal, Arnvald rushing to the side of his master. Svanrige paused in his movement and settled into an alcove along the wall. This was unusual.
Arnvald whispered furiously in Crach's ear. The ruddiness of the jarl's cheeks faded away instantly. Crach turned to Svanrige's father and whispered in his ear.
The king immediately discarded the drinking horn. The queen followed his example while looking at the king with a type of concern in her eyes. Svanrige, concealed in the shadow that hugged the walls of the feasting hall, followed their example by placing his own goblet to the side.
Next the king signaled to his chief huscarl, Vurg Darsson, to his side, and muttered an order to the armed and armored warrior. Besides the An Craite warriors that guarded the rest of Kaer Trolde, the huscarls of the king were the only men allowed to carry steel during this feast.
When Vurg Darsson returned to the line of huscarls, all wearing riveted steel helms with curling ram horns mounted on them, there was a brief pause before as a whole the huscarls started to slam the iron wrapped butt of their spears on the stone tiles beneath them.
Rap, rap, rap, went the peculiar sound. It pierced the rafters of the feast hall, and dug itself into the ears of all, even the most soused of drunks. The merrymaking of the feast was swept away in an instant, all eyes drawn to the king on the high dais.
His father rose. "I have just received very important news, my dear comrades and friends, and feel that I must share it with you immediately. Jarl Harald of Undvik has made landfall in the harbor half an hour ago, currently he is ascending up this castle to join in the festivities. He has also brought with him the great tale of the death of the Giant of Undvik and considered the tale of such importance to all Skellige that he has hastened to Ard Skellig to be present for tonight."
The greater part of the total feast goers, filled as they were with the finest honey meads from Crach an Craite's cellars, cheered the proclamation of the king. The troubles of Undvik and Clan Tordarroch had been the talk of all the hearths of the isles for months now.
So the be the first to hear the tale in its entirety, and to be the first to spread the tale to their own hearths, which would gain them a great deal of attention from all members of their home, was quite a gift
To the rest of those in the hall, the ones of real rank or those who had not partaken of as much mead, the proclamation raised many concerns.
Svanrige could guess what the thanes of An Craite, the ship captains from Kaer Trolde, the powerful merchants and yes, even the son and daughter, for Cerys had resurfaced next to Hjalmar, of Crach an Craite were thinking. They had been thinking about it all evening probably.
For a Jarl to leave his island in the dead of winter and journey to the side of the king? Not unheard of, though Svanrige could only remember such an event happening when winter's grip was soft and the larders back home were filled.
For a Jarl to sail to the side of the king immediately after his people and island were ravaged by the greatest calamity in living memory?
For a Jarl to rush to the side of the king immediately after making port, deliberately ignoring all protocol?
Something was very wrong on the isle of Undvik.
The warmth of the hearth that was situated behind the dais prickled into Svanrige's back, and he could begin to feel beads of sweat form on the nape of his neck.
He had joined the dias shortly after the steward had departed. Svanrige stood at the left side of his mother and with a pit growing in his gut, watched servants bring regular updates to the king on the progress Jarl Harald's party was making.
"They had cleared the city proper."
"They had reached the lift and were taking it up now."
"They were within Kaer Trolde now."
"They have finished crossing the bridge."
"They are making their way to the feast hall now."
"They are close."
"They are here."
Doom, doom, doom. Three great strikes to the doors bounced around Svanrige's head.
Jarl Harald was waiting.
His father, the twice-crowned dragonslaying king, gestured for the An Craite guards to allow Jarl Harald's party to enter and Svanrige could not help but make the observation that his father had never looked so old as he did now.
Svanrige straightened up, taking the low amount of slack he had allowed out of his posture. He was the first son of the king, and he would let no one cause doubts on him being allowed onto the high dais due to poor manners.
The feast hall was as silent as a tomb. The parallel fire pits, where forgotten wild boar and halibut now sortched and burned on their spits, that ran the length of the feast hall cast all in a queer light. It looked like the very souls of the hall's occupants had sensed the unnatural pallor that had emerged and were preparing to escape their mortal coils.
The guards swung the doors open and Harald Tordarroch, Jarl of Clan Tordarroch and master of Undvik, marched in.
Jarl Harald looked like a wraith, coming for vengeance against the living for long ago wrongs and to settle forgotten debts. Muffled gaps rose from the hall as they took in the sight of the man.
The last bits of youth had fallen away from Harald's face and the flesh had tightened up, giving him a gaunt appearance. The color of his hair had bled away, leaving the clean shaven man a shock of wispy white hair in place of the healthy gray and black he had borne when last Svanrige had seen him.
Harald walked with a slouch, his cloak drawn close around him and Svanrige noted how tightly he gripped his sword's pommel. He could see the veins on the man's hands from across the hall.
The leader of Tordarroch was flanked by four huscarls, two on either side, and they were a sorry sight. Worn tunics and furs, chipped mail and boots caked with mud. Shields still had the nicks and scratches of battles on their paint.
What had this clan been reduced to.
Then Svanrige saw the other ten warriors who followed the jarl in, and the pit in the gut widened into a vortex of worry.
Ten warriors dressed in black followed the jarl and his bodyguard, carrying themselves paces behind Harald to show the separation between the two groups.
And they weren't just dressed in black cloaks or tunics, Svanrige saw, they were beings of black. It looked like the men had done their best to emulate the night sky during the new moon. Nothing but walking shadows.
Their boots, tunics, leggings, furs, cloaks, gloves, by Hemdall's beard they had even painted their mail and helms and shields black. And what an unnatural black too, Svanrige had only seen such a glossy finish from the tar used with ships before now.
Exiles? No, Svanrige knew the armor worn by Clan Tordarroch and there was too much uniformity between the jarl's men and these men for the ten to be exiles.
Had they taken oaths of the moment in the wake of the ice giant's rampage? Svanrige knew of the tales: warriors who after a great personal failing would shun all familial and clan ties, and for a period of time service only the gods and their glory instead of his own.
But if these men were truly oath-sworn, then they should be festooned with the icons and charms of the god they had dedicated themselves to for the period of their oaths. Yet the ten warriors had stripped themselves of all identifying marks.
This was unnatural and every man and woman in the feast hall knew it. No warrior of Skellige should look as such. What had happened on Undvik.
Finally the tension in the feast hall was broken by Jarl Harald approaching the high dais and kneeling once he was before Svanrige's father.
King Bran looked down at Harald Jarl and said nothing for a long moment.
"You are a long way from Undvik, jarl. And you come before me in the midst of a feast of thanks-giving in full battle attire. Clearly you have something of great importance to say to me Harald, so in the name of the battles we have fought together over the years, start speaking."
Jarl Harald nodded and remained kneeling.
"My king, myself and my huscarls have hastened to your side in order to fulfill the greatest debt Clan Tordarroch has ever incurred. Six days and a night ago, the ice giant that had laid waste to all the dwellings of my clan was struck down in battle. For five days we have struggled to your side, against the winter storms and winds, for our savior requested passage to the king of the lands he found himself in." Harald intoned with the cadence of a priest at a funeral.
"Yet I see only you Harald." His father replied. "And not a sight of this man you say you are so indebted to."
Harald raised his head and Svanrige felt ice melt plunge down his back at the sight of weary eyes that stared up at his father.
"My king, he is standing right next to me."
Svanrige blinked and then there was a rolling mass of shadows with two burning embers of eyes that grabbed his attention and demanded that he back away, that he cower before a force more terrible than any man had known, that Svanrige beg for..
Svanrige snagged the lip of the table to arrest his fall and thanked the gods for whatever carpenter had carved such a study thing. His vision darkened and he realized that he was holding his breath.
Ermion was yelling in alarm somewhere far off and Svanrige could hear steel rasping all around him. And he needed to breathe now and focus!
The great, gasping breaths Svanrige took helped focus him and he yanked his ax out, joining the mass of warriors who were doing the same. Svanrige dared not look to his side, fearing to see what his mother looked like or how the king was reacting.
Instead Svanrige Tuirseach narrowed his attention on the demon Harald had brought into the halls of Kaer Trolde. And he saw as shadow was tamed back into the material, a billowing cloak and darkened armor emerging out of the rolling mass. But the deep shadow remained in the hood that the figure wore, with only a deeply pale jaw emerging from it.
That and the burning eyes of fire that surveyed the dais and its occupants with interest.
Jarl Harald spoke again, his voice managing to be heard despite all the clamor that now surrounded the kneeling man.
"My king, allow me to introduce the slayer of the giant of Undvik and savior of Clan Tordarroch, Talion of Mordor."
A/N - Thoughts?
This is the first chapter in a short Skellige bit. I'm currently thinking another two chapters after this one, just to get Talion oriented in the Continent and also because I like Skellige and it needs some more love.
King Bran is the guy whose funeral Geralt stumbles into when you are starting the Skellige arc and Svanrige is the guy who makes a really badass king if you be a witcher and don't get involved in politics during the Skellige arc.
Also I know there has been some discussion about the differences between Middle Earth elves and Witcher elves in the reviews. I know about the differences, rest assured. However Talion does not and will not for a while yet, so keep that in mind when elves come up until we actually meet an elf in the story.