A veritable wall of rain blasted against his soaked wooden shield, held high to ward his face. Far above, shrouded in blackest clouds, angry gods thundered and raged and threw bolts of lightning onto the earth, shaking the very ground. A group of riders, ten horses in all, galloped in a mad dash across the open meadow where tall grasses swayed wildly in the tempestuous winds. His skin was freezing underneath his drenched garments and the only warmth provided to him came from the mead in his belly, the unsaddled back of his horse, and the delicate body pressed against his back whose colorless, strained arms wrapped around his chest.

“T’is an ill omen, Elgar!” the woman behind him shouted through the storm, her tone portentous and alarming as it often was, “The weather was clear for over a week! And now that we undertake this important journey, the spirits warn us of dark times ahead. Mark my words!”

With his free – and only – hand, he grasped the woman’s pale wrist and gave her an affectionate stroke. “The weather’s always shite, dove!” Elgar laughed into the gale-whipped rain. “If anything, last week’s clear sky ought to have been a good omen! Those are less interesting to foretell though, aren’t they?”

“You know better than to mock me!” she protested, earnestly upset that he would brush aside her wisdom so easily.

“Ease up lass, t’is just some rain! We’ll be in warm halls in no time at this pace!”

Rhawn scoffed and lay her head against his neck, wrapping her arms tighter around him. Of all the men in the grim north, there was only one who would have the gall to laugh at her gravity – and that’s the one she had to marry. But perhaps that was exactly why, she thought with a faint smile that none could see. Of all the men in the north, he was also the only one who could see in her not a paleborn witch, to be feared and worshipped, but a woman of flesh and blood, with fears and desires. He was the only one who could see the wound in her and for that, she loved him, even if he was unable to heal it.

[hr]
The arrival of the Vile Heart in Kingsport, two days later, was met with little fanfare and only the usual curiosity. Two of the fifteen men who accompanied the Chief remained outside the city gates, to watch over the horses they had brought; their animals were more wild than tamed and would prove an ill fit for a traditional stable, but the young lads had experience with the beasts and knew how to command their loyalty. The rest followed the chief and his wife in a disorderly fashion, an unorganized throng of dourly-clad warriors armed with spears and swords and shields which seemed to come from an older time. The colorful horsetail, dyed red and blue, which dangled from their helmet and their similarly-colored, bright face paint contrasted almost comically with their otherwise dull grey and brown leather and fur clothing. Perhaps some might be inclined to laugh, but most mockery choked at the sight of their pale white cloaks: visibly sewn from the flayed hides of Pale-Men, their limbs and faces still imprinted on the uncut skins. Faces contorted by malice and spite, forever screaming voicelessly. Elgar had chosen each of them carefully, for they were no young aspirants but seasoned veterans, the dreaded Pale-Slayers who hunted in the north every year.

The time of the moot brought all sorts of strange folk to Kingsport, and gossiping women and curious children would become witness to many curious things. Vague glances and half-hidden whispers followed the warriors from the Red Marsh all the way to the king’s keep. Rhawn in particular captured the attention of many with her outlandish appearance: freakishly white of skin, like snow brought to life, with hair that dragged behind her across the ground. Small bones had been woven everywhere into her massive black mane, with more of them dangling from her skirt and mantle, underneath of which she wore little more than a narrow strip of cloth around her chest. In her right hand she carried a glaive of sorts, tipped with an eerie looking metal point that looked warped and gnarly, more like tree bark than forged metal – and which never reflected any light. She was the type of woman who inspired farfetched and fantastical myths about the people of the north, hogwash tales of cannibals and savages who worshipped older and darker gods than the Red pantheon. But every myth contains a grain of truth somewhere and today, Rhawn was that grain.

[hr]
“So these are the customs of the civilized south eh,” Elgar chuckled as he prodded Rhawn with the stump of his left forearm.  This was his second time in Kingsport; once he was here when the Pale-Men invaded in full force a few decades ago, but ever since he had no true interest in matters of politics. It all seemed so ridiculous to him, grown men barking at each other and tripping over the formalities of arbitrary rules, all in a bid to sit on a fancy chair. Meanwhile, real men fought daily with real monsters that threatened to end all of human kind if given half a chance, and their reward for this was to be regarded as uncultured barbarians. Elgar held no love for the southern Broken Landers and their power plays, even if he promised to respect the faith his ancestor had put into the Stonecutter clan.

“Men will always bicker like children when grown-up toys are at stake,” Rhawn commented matter-of-factly. “Wealth and power will always hold sway over the hearts and minds of rulers. You too should be interested, Elgar. We could use these things for the betterment of out tribe. We have lived in a worthless swamp for centuries.”

“We have powerful allies and powerful men,” he argued, waving dismissively with his stump and taking a deep gulp from his mug with his actual hand. “As if we needed anything these self-absorbed sycophants have to offer.”

Rhawn leaned in on him and placed her colorless finger over his mead-wetted lips. “You are in the high king’s hall, chieftain. You will mind your language, and you will listen to my advice. This is why you brought me. You are being short-sighted, and this is why our children are forced to grow up in a stinking marsh instead of a fine city.”

“Don’t you see that a war is brewing, Elgar?” she continued in a whisper, leaning into his ear, “This is what civil war looks and smells like. Soon we will taste it. The storm clouds were right, the spirits do not lie. Lines will be drawn, my dear, and even if you don’t care for the lines you will find yourself on one side… or the other. We need to make sure we find ourselves on the side that does not end up decorating the top of a pike or as slaves to a vengeful master.”

“And if the Pale Ones use this chance to attack us when the land is divided? If we send our men away to fight other men for some nebulous purpose, some line drawn in the sand by an angry man? Who will protect our women and children?”

“T’is not the first time, Elgar, that you find yourself surrounded from all sides with only a single speartip to brace against the charge. You escaped that too; best remember how you did it.”

She removed herself from him and cast her cold, amber eyes around the hall, taking in the sights and the welling emotions with a sip of mead sweetened with her own spices.

Elgar, meanwhile, grew silent and withdrawn. Yes, he had found himself surrounded once before, in a dark place where escape was but a flight of fancy. Cheating death was one thing, he thought and looked at his bandaged stump of a left arm, but how could he do the same for an entire clan? Rhawn had been right, as she so often was. He had to look past his own grudges and attitudes and fulfill his role as leader to the Vile Heart clan – the leader of a people in need of protection.