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The warm glow of the warband’s flickering campfires cast soft orange flashes onto the unyielding whiteness of the fallen snow, as the marauders of Mourslev sat restlessly between the rocky slopes of the valley, sharpening their swords and biding their time. 


Guttural screams and sweet moans drifted in from behind the animal hide flaps of the horde’s tents of excess, locking a world of pleasure and pain away from the biting cold of the Lumerian wastes. The howling winds ripped and tore at the very flesh of the raiders, as it blasted the stone walls of the valley, and sent their wolfskin cloaks billowing about them in a frigid crack of elemental fury. 


“The Gods are angry.” Grumbled Drulfar Icecrow, as he pulled his black cloak tightly over his withered form. 


“And which gods would those be?” Shruboar Sharptooth chuckled over at the older man, his ox-like form resting against the fallen carcass of a long dead tree, the hilt of his long sword clutched in one gnarled hand. 


“The only true Gods,” Drulfar snarled “The spirits of old; the ancient lords of Lumeria!” 


“Carefull, old man,” Shruboar’s eyes narrowed into slits, as his mask of arrogance melted away “Your gods are dead. There is only Mortaroth, now.” 


Drulfar spat into the fire, sending a sharp hiss through the crackling red flames “Forsake the Gods of our ancestors if you will, Sharptooth,” he grimaced “but I am not so easily broken.” 


“Risk your neck, then, Icecrow,” Shruboar let out a raspy sigh “but I intend to live long enough to see the spoils of Borea, and quench my thirsts on the flesh of southern girls.”


The raiders from Mourslev had set off some weeks ago, and were marching down through the inhospitable plains of Lumeria, with their eyes set firmly on the southern kingdoms. The sheer mass of the horde, and the number of clans fighting under their queen’s banner, was staggering to the primitive northerners, whose lust for conquest knew no bounds. 


Khalaevna sat away from the rest of the bloodthirsty marauders, beneath the wooden beams and colourful swathes of her own, grand tent. 


“Thank you for coming to see me, Harlwarn.” She greeted the chieftain plainly, with a slight inclination of her head, whilst her pages sat huddled in one corner, cleaning the glistening steel blade of Zalewylch with wet cloth. 


“Didn’t ‘ave much choice, did I?” the large man snarled, as he slipped beneath the tents flaps. 


“You could’ve tried to fight,” she reasoned “then my men would’ve killed you, and I would’ve been spared the tedium of your presence.” 


“Is that how the Trade Queen treats her loyal subjects?” Harlwarn scowled. 


“Only the ones who lay with goats.” She smirked to herself, a slim smile spreading across her features. 


Khalaevna leaned back on her vast bed, all bound up in her sleeping furs, a trail of chocolate brown hair cast over one shoulder. Her enormous form was kept decent by the sewn together pelts of many kills, whilst her gigantic stomach spilled out into her lap. 


“What do you want, wench?” Harlwarn’s right  hand slipped down to his leather belt, brushing lightly against the hilt of his sheathed blade. 


Harlwarn was far too stupid and arrogant to swallow his pride, and would brazenly challenge the Over-Tyrant in front of her people. His plain incompetence made him easy to out-wit, which served to solidify her soldier’s faith in her, but she couldn’t allow him to keep questioning her publicly; which was why he needed to die. 


“I have less than little love for you, Harlwarn.” She began. Though she needed to win him over for the ploy ahead, suddenly showing him warmth was sure to arouse suspicion. “But I have need of you and your Frost treaders.” Harlwarn believed himself the greatest warrior to ever walk Lumeria, and his tribesmen to be the greatest scouts. She would pander to those beliefs, thus pathing the way for his own destruction.  


“And what would you have us do?” he asked with narrowed eyes. 


“The mountain passes ahead are treacherous at best, and there’s no telling what terrors might be lurking in them.” She lied. She’d had her scouts clear them out days ago. 


Harlwarn laughed. “Is the fat woman scared of a few mountain wolves?” 


“I need you and your tribesmen to make sure that the way ahead is safe for the rest of us,” She said calmly, ignoring him “If you do this for me, you have my word that I’ll reconsider your pledge to marry Yaelwanda Deathkissed.” 


“Very well, wench,” Harlwarn grinned, showing off rows of rotten teeth “I’ll do your soldier’s work for you. Then the Deathkissed bitch is mine.” 


He turned on his boot-clad heel, and stormed out of the tent. He would find nothing in the valley ahead, save for the sharpened daggers of his tribesmen, as they pierced his heart and sent him tumbling down into mists below.