"Seek not the false prophets who speak in a vile and foreign tongue! For they shall only lead you astray from the path of glory!"
The voice of High Priest Osric Ead carried on the air as he shouted his mad rhetoric. Perched like a bird of prey upon the highest deck of the highest tower, his mighty voice carried over the entire breadth of the Walled City and the plain beyond. A mere speck of white and purple lingering above in the heavens, not even the roar of the Viking horde spread out before the city was enough to drown out the fervent preaching that had ensnared half a nation.
"They shall deliver you into a world of wickedness! A world of lies and deceit! It is only through absolute devotion to the flame of purity and righteousness that you will find true salvation! For I say unto thee that is the divine power that resides within this holy mountain! The power of truth! The power of righteous fury! The power of our Lord God's wrath brought about in cleansing fire!"
His words carried on until they faded away into a distant echo, only to be replaced by the next verse, and the next, and the next after that. A message of madness and grandiose self-importance was delivered to a city of unquestioning followers and the camp of bestial heathens who had come to challenge them.
"That is going to get annoying real fast," Coal muttered as he peered out of the tent to the rising towers in the distance.
Priscilla scoffed as she unfurled the bed roll and blanket that had been given to her, noting the abundance of holes and rips in the thin material.
"It was annoying when he began hours ago," she muttered. In the end, the bedroll was hardly even worth the illusion of a suitable mattress, and so she ended up just rolling it back up to use the whole thing as a pillow instead, little comfort that it was. Pulling off her gloves, she rubbed at her tender wrists, skin still showing the angry pink marks where the shackles she had worn had chaffed and rubbed.
She rose from where she had been kneeling, unclasping her sheathed sword and unbuckling her belt that still held both her dagger and knife, and set them down carefully in the corner of the tent—standing free of their weight felt like a small chance to step away from this war, from all the blood and deceit, if only for a moment. After barely walking out of Erik Golden-Shield's tent with her life, she would take what she could get.
Sliding a hand through her hair, she turned and looked at Coal still staring out from between the tent's open flaps, ever on guard now for the next Viking to take issue with them, then glanced at the second figure taking up the majority of the room in the cramped space.
Gunnar sat sullenly on the ground, shoulders hunched and frowning deep in thought. Just as they had traveled so far from that dark cave within the Hallowed Bastion, he seemed so removed now from the brash and cocky Raider she had first met, burdened now by the guilt that so often came with the overwhelming weight of secrecy.
Priscilla had felt that same weight many times over the years, for her life was consumed by secrecy and schemes, just as the lives of the cultists were consumed by the lies of their leaders. Perhaps, in the end, it was only a very thin line that separated the two, but she had always trusted that the secrets she kept were for the benefit of others. Seeing Gunnar now, though, she couldn't be too sure.
"Not going to convert, are you?" Priscilla asked as Osric's preaching echoed outside without any sign of stopping.
Gunnar snapped to attention at her words, his distant gaze becoming sharp and alert as he looked up at her. The frown that held his lips slipped away briefly, only to return as a hard scowl settled over his bearded face. "Don't tease me, woman," he growled, looking back toward the ground. "If only you had kept your mouth shut earlier, then perhaps things would not be in such of a fucking mess as they are now."
Priscilla felt the corner of her eye twitch. If anyone else had spoken to her like that, she would have quickly shut them down with a harsh word or shrugged it off without thought. In Coal's case, she might have followed up with a quip of her own, but this was different. With Gunnar, it was different, and that was a problem. His words cut at her with far more ease than they should.
"Excuse me if I do not keep silent in my own tent while you brood," she snapped. "Perhaps the women of Valkenheim speak only when spoken to, but do not think you will find such weak-willed maidens here."
"No, I would not hope to find a moment's peace again in this cursed land! This is a place of lies and snakes, and now I must suffer here like Loki imprisoned beneath a viper's fangs." Gunnar gave a disgruntled huff and a shrug of his shoulders before glancing up at her from beneath his heavy brow. "And you know nothing of Valkenheim women."
"I know that you acted like a fool to try and save me!"
The words came out before she could stop them, a flood of emotion whirling within her, followed by immediate regret. This kind of reaction was not becoming of a Peacekeeper. Growing up in the Sisterhood, such an outburst would have been met with punishment. She had been taught to act rationally, without feeling or remorse if need be.
This sort of compassion, this openness, was a step too far. She needed to detach, to remember her mission, and focus on what lay ahead. Nothing else mattered beyond saving her legion, least of all him.
"A fool am I?" came Gunnar's retort. Rising up from the ground, he had to bow his head within the tent as he loomed over her, casting her in shadow from the light outside. "If that is true, then let it be for following you in your mad schemes!" He took a step closer, and Priscilla found herself stepping back away from him. She had to tilt her head back to look at him but refused to show any sign of shame as he went on. "What were you thinking? Challenging Erik for his place as jarl? What gives you the right!?"
"My life being on the line gives me the right!" she yelled back.
"I was there too," Coal added.
Gunnar spit out a laugh, clearly not impressed. "And why is it you keep finding yourself in these situations? Everywhere we go, every battle, you are there causing more trouble! Now my brother has lost his jarldom to that... that golden swine!"
"That is not my fault! I did not force him to swear such an oath!" Priscilla said quickly. She had enough problems of her own without having to care for the rule of some Viking chieftain. None of this was her concern, regardless of whatever connection Gunnar thought existed between them. What he wanted wasn't possible, not beyond making sure he stayed in line. There was nothing more to it than that.
Sometimes, though, when she found herself looking into the blue storm of his gaze, she could see just how genuine his growing affection was. Genuine enough to almost think that such a dream could come true.
Now, his eyes were full of hurt, not anger, shimmering like pools of melting ice, cracked and broken as all was laid bare. The rage left him, and what remained was a withered husk of someone who had once thought of themselves as mighty and strong.
"It is our fault," Gunnar said at last, gesturing around to the three of them at once. "Don't you see? We did this. Me. I lied to my brother, and now he has lost everything he cared for. Our family's legacy is now in the hands of a selfish fiend who would sell his own kin for mere hack silver." He closed his eyes and turned away, putting his face in his hands before running his fingers through loose hair. "What have I done?"
Pity welled in Priscilla's heart where there should have been none. This was not the bloodthirsty barbarian she once thought dwelled in the north like a lingering nightmare. Gunnar cared. He cared about his family and his people. He cared about what happened to her and Coal. Such a thing had never been part of her plan.
"That is not true," she said halfheartedly. "Your brother made his decision. None of us could have stopped him." She couldn't let herself fall to sentimental impulse, not when they were on the cusp of finally laying siege to the enemy. There was too much at stake to relent now. She had to stay the course, and she would drag Gunnar along with her whatever it took, unsure of what that might mean.
"I should have never lied to him," Gunnar muttered, ignoring her and looking out of the tent. "He needs to know about the vault, about the armor. If Erik gets in and realizes that it's missing, he will accuse Herleif of scheming to protect you all."
There was truth to that. It was hard not to see the logic in what could only be Erik's irrational reaction to learning the truth. But that was not what was at the forefront of Priscilla's mind as she watched Gunnar take a step toward Coal and the tent's entrance.
"Wait!" she exclaimed, stepping after Gunnar to grab hold of his wrist. He stopped short and turned to look at her, face full of surprise and uncertainty. Her mind raced to think of an excuse. She needed to keep him here, on her side, to keep the secret they shared just between the three of them, and only one thing came to mind on how to make sure she succeeded. "Just wait… Coal, could you please give us a moment?"
Coal was silent as stone beneath his helmet. Then, he picked up his shield, having it with him as always, and thumped Gunnar on the arm once before stepping out of the tent.
Nothing was said between them as they stood alone. Priscilla's hand dwelled on Gunnar's wrist, and he made no effort to pull away. Finally, she stepped closer, sliding her fingers up his forearm to his bicep, feeling the tense muscle beneath scarred and tattooed skin.
"Forgive me," she said softly, acting on the only thing she knew that would keep him on her side. Her other hand came up to rest against his chest, and now it was her turn to close her eyes and let out a sigh that held just the right amount of remorse to make him relax. "None of this is what I wanted," she said, looking up at him, "but please, do not give up on me now."
Gunnar's face fell, but his hand came up to rest over hers over his heart, and she could feel the other moving gently against her waist to hold her. "But what can we do? So much has gone wrong already. We can't keep-"
"Shh."
Her hand slipped from his to cup his cheek as his words fell away. It was clear from how he sighed that he wanted to continue, but he held his tongue at her behest. It was all so easy. More lies, more guilt, but it had to be done. She kept telling herself that it had to be done, but now more than ever, she wondered if she would actually be able to live with herself afterward.
"I need you, Gunnar. Just a little while longer until the Pyre are defeated. Please, trust me."
He did not say anything in return, but for the look in his eyes, she knew what he wished to say without the use of words.
She tilted her face upward, welcoming him to do so.
He slowly drew closer.
Her eyes gently closed, and when she felt the warmth of his lips and the tickle of his beard against her chin, she wondered if the kiss would have felt even better if it had been genuine.
She wanted to know, for what it was worth. To linger in that blissful fantasy where there was no deception to their embrace. For now, though, she would simply have to suffer the guilt that came with the overwhelming weight of secrecy.
The kiss deepened, and in truth, it was not entirely unwanted, but as his hand squeezed ever more tenderly at her side, she knew that this moment could go no further. Their lips parted for a moment's breath before he kissed her again, and their feet lightly stumbled together as he pushed her a step back toward the bedroll she had bound up into a pillow.
"Gunnar," she whispered, nudging him softly to a halt. "You know nothing of Ashfeld women."
His eyes remained half-lidded as he looked down, his grip on her as strong as ever. They each stood frozen, locked together in a compromising embrace. She wondered for a moment just how far the desires of a barbarian would go until, at last, he sighed through his nose and leaned down until their foreheads touched. She stepped up onto her toes to make it easier to meet him.
The tension released between them with a soft breath, and he let go of her waist to take each of her hands in his own. His hands were large and rough, the feeling of his skin against hers sending shivers down her spine as their fingers laced together. No words were said between them, but as he looked at her with a small, happy smile, she knew that she had his trust. She had him.
He took a step away, then another, their hands sliding together as they parted until the last touch of their fingertips was a warmth as comforting as the sun. The smile on her face mirrored his own, and it remained there until he slipped out of the tent and was away. Then, she could not bear the guilt of wearing it anymore.
Priscilla remained alone in her tent, so desperate to help everyone else around her but too foolish to think that anyone could help her in return. The fate of her legion rested in her hands, a burden that no one else could help her bear.
At least she could blame the damn volcano cultists. Without them, none of this would have happened, and she could have lived out her days at the northern garrison in quiet obscurity. There was no blaming anyone else for her own inability to learn when she was better off alone. That seemed to be a flaw that would plague her until the day she died.
That day might come sooner than expected, given the increasingly hostile environment the Viking camp was becoming, to say nothing of the enemy stronghold across the plain. Osric's preaching could still be heard outside, forever droning on and on about the divine retribution that would soon befall these heathens and apostates. It was all so tiring now, and the fatigue of the past days suddenly hit her like a stone fallen from a cliff.
Turning her back on the daylight outside, she quietly removed her pauldrons and unlaced her leather vest, setting it all down next to her belt and weapons before laying down on her makeshift pillow for some rest. The preaching continued, and her eyes were heavy, but sleep eluded her as the minutes passed. No matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn't get the image of Gunnar's kind smile out of her head.
Rolling onto her side, her eyes fell to her belt nearby. The thought of what was kept inside the belt's pouch was no less concerning, and soon it consumed her waking mind. Reaching out, she unclasped the pouch and carefully reached inside, feeling the charred and brittle paper notes within before pulling them out into the open. Of all Li Qiang's secrets, the notes were the most legible of what remained after the fire. Even then, it was nearly impossible to make out everything. It would take more than a bit of guesswork to complete the formula correctly with what was there.
She silently wondered if this pile of burned notes was still worth the price owed for her legion's safety. Would the Lord-Warden accept this meager offering in return for amnesty after joining with their most ancient enemy? It had seemed the only option at the time, and she had thought herself to be the only one who could see what a mistake it was. They would never truly be allowed back after this betrayal. What she held in her hands was as good as ash blowing in the wind.
So why had she even bothered to try? Was it to make herself feel better about how far she had fallen from the days when she resided in court, or was she simply so desperate to remain faithful to her old masters? The fear of doubt crept into her heart like chilling frost, and all at once, she questioned every decision she had made up to that point until her mind was consumed by one terrible thought.
Was everything she had done all been a mistake?
Burying her grief deep down inside, she stuffed the notes back into the pouch, not caring if they crumbled or cracked as she did. Pulling the pouch closed, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the inside of the tent and refusing to dwell on things that were no longer under her control. She controlled her breathing, easing her heart rate and calming herself just as she had been taught. Finally, the sound of Osric's voice became quiet and distant, fading away into nothing as the promise of sleep began to claim her.
Suddenly, the flaps of the tent flew apart as a figure stormed in, large and broad-shouldered. Priscilla shot up from where she lay, her heart jumping with surprise.
"Gunnar?"
For one fleeting moment, she thought that perhaps he had returned to- well, she wasn't really sure what she thought of that idea -but that moment of hesitation was enough to delay her reaching for one of her blades when she realized the person standing before her was in fact not Gunnar. Her uncertainty cost her as Herleif stepped in close and pointed the tip of his sword against her neck.
"Get up," he ordered, teeth bared beneath his dark beard.
She froze against the feeling of sharp metal against her skin and then, very slowly, got up to her feet, never taking her eyes off him as she did. "Here in Ashfeld, a man usually asks permission before entering a lady's bedchamber." The blade twitched up beneath her jaw, making her breath hitch as she lifted her chin against its edge.
Herleif's eyes narrowed at her as if searching for a reason not to slit her throat open from ear to ear. "I take it my brother was here?" he asked in a tone that did not invite any argument.
Priscilla decided it was best to give none. "Yes."
Her answer was met with silence, and in Herleif, she saw a ruler who was not above killing a foe that stood between him and those he cared for. Perhaps she had misjudged just how much his compassion could be taken for weakness. That still did not change the fact that he had already offered such compassion for her and Coal at the cost of his own power.
"Your deception cost me a great deal today. A far greater deal than I was prepared to part with," Herleif snarled. "I should kill you now and save us all from suffering whatever misfortune you would bring down on us next."
His hand tightened around the grip of his sword, knuckles going white. Priscilla swallowed, trying to remain still and passive rather than show any satisfaction at her next words. "If you wish me dead now, then surely you wasted both hall and hold back in Erik's tent."
The deathly silence between them could not have been cut by all the blades in Heathmoor as Herleif stared at her with burning, barely-contained rage. The sword's edge brought forth a lone trickle of hot blood down her neck, and Priscilla knew that she would be dead if not for the undeniable truth to her words.
"Whatever hold you have on my brother... Whatever dark seiðr you have woven over him to protect your worthless hide... End it."
"Your brother is his own man," she said.
The sword dropped away, and Herleif moved in to glare at her so close that their noses nearly touched.
"End it."
The threat of a violent and painful death was not needed. The sharp sting cut into her skin, along with the merciless gaze of a man she had once thought kind, was enough to get the message across. He had given her another message as well, one unintended but no less important.
Family was his weakness, a tool she could exploit. For once, though, she couldn't help but feel that she was a worse person for it.
Keeping her chin raised, she didn't bother to try and cover up the cut as it dripped crimson down into her shirt. She wanted him to see the blood. "As you wish, jarl, if that is what you still are. I will simply snap my fingers and wiggle my nose, and he will be free of my sinister ways."
Herleif sneered before he stepped away, unconvinced but either unwilling or unable to do anything about it. His love for Gunnar truly had a hold on him, and as long as that was the case, then he would not move against her. So long as he never learned the truth, that is.
His gaze lingered on her, lip curled like she was a maggot-ridden corpse to be burned as soon as possible. "When this is all done, your comrades will look to me for a chance to find a new life in the north. If you wish to join them, then stay away from Gunnar."
With that, he turned and left the tent as swiftly as he had entered, leaving only the cut on her neck as proof of his presence.
Priscilla hissed at the stinging pain once he was gone, reaching up to wipe away the blood. "Bastard," she whispered to herself, looking down at the red smeared across her hand.
Outside the tent, Osric Ead continued his mad sermon, promising death, fire, and damnation to all in abundance.