Geirlaug sat in her own hall and stared into the fire that blazed in the centre of the hall. Three men sat before her, two Broken Hammer kin, both sent to the far south to seek the truth of the Coward's claims of a southern invasion. The third was a southerner. She had to be honest, being in the bitter north had left the Broken Hammer with very little interest about goings on in the south. The southern clans were viewed as petty and weak, the Moot had pretty much proved that point, but she doubted very much that they were stupid. One did not rule a people through ignorance after all. 

The Broken Hammer delegation had left the Moot shortly after Varvudda, their longships sliding through the mist and into the bright sun of the north where politics were settled with a fight to the death. It was simpler here and she loved that about the north. The journey home had been overshadowed by the nagging question of "What if the Coward told the truth?"

The Salished no doubt considered the Pale Ones and the Broken Hammer as much of a myth as they did dragons. In all her time she had never seen a single Salish amongst her people. It was true they were far away but if they conquered the Sentinel, where would they stop? She had no doubt they would eventually come to the north for there were valuable resources there. Could the Broken Hammer and Brazen Sword fight them alone? She very much doubted it.

She had been three days out from the Moot when she ordered the second Broken Hammer ship southward with the express intent to find the truth of the Coward's report. The ship had been gone nearly a month and returned only a few hours before with news that a great armada was being assembled by the southerners. Her men had taken a small warship by night, slaughtered the crew but for two men, and then sank the vessel. With any luck, the southerners would never know what had happened to their ship.

One of the southerners had died on the journey north and been consigned to the teeth of the ocean. The survivor however... He knelt now at the feet of the Broken Hammer Jarl, his eyes wide with fear as he glanced about at him. The Jotunn, a word that existed only as a myth in the south, had become very real for him. The only hitch in the whole plan was something Geirlaug had not even considered. They did not speak the same language and she could not find a soul who knew how to speak with her prisoner. 

"Very well, a fast ship to the High Queen with this man then." She said at last. "Leave immediately. Tell the her we do not stand against her and will send what aid we can if called for when the southerners come." 

The larger of the two men nodded and stood, seized the southerner by his shirt and dragged him screaming into the sunlight beyond. Geirlaug watched them go then looked to the second man. This was one of her sons, the eldest and most warlike of all her children. 

"My son, take two ships and what men wish to go with you. Make for the Sentinel. Inform Jarl Varvudda that you are there to support him against the southerners, nothing else."

The man nodded, stood, quickly pressed his forehead to hers, and then vanished out the door leaving Geirlaug alone with the fire deep in thought. The southerners were coming but, more pressing, so was winter and with it the darkness that brought the Pale Ones. She silently wondered who would be left when the summer suns returned to the north.