Chapter 26
—Broan—
Broan found relief when they finally entered the caves of the mountains, the brutish and bitter cold biting his skin.
His nose was a cherry red match to his ears.
His beard had grown since he first left Trinity on the grueling journey through the mountain range.
The frost curled into thick hairs. If it had not been for the large furs and sheepskin that Kaelthar gave him, his limbs would have surely fallen prey to frostbite.
Growing bitter by the day, Broan’s confidence wavered up the rocky path.
If this was how a Viking was meant to live, he wasn’t sure he was born to the right clan.
The caves, however, brought the warmth back to his bones, the dripping of hot springs steaming and frying off any white specks they brought in with them.
“Welcome home,” Kaelthar said, slapping Broan heartily on the back.
The belly of the Whiteridge Mountains harbored the fiercest bunch of men and women Broan had ever laid eyes on.
They stood guard in pairs of four from the mouth of the cave through stations every few hundred feet.
They were an imposing and formidable race carved from stone, snow, and brutish battle.
“Are we all this large?” Broan asked.
“Aye,” Kaelthar grumbled happily. “The average Viking stands well over seven feet tall.”
Broan studied the men and women with broad shoulders, thick limbs, and a presence that could shake the ground itself. Most had long, braided hair, some with woven bone, metal, or charms. Voices stirred in the caves with the weight of glaciers, speaking of the return of an heir.
Broan pointed at a group of soldiers as they continued through the caves.
They wore thick furs, wool-lined leathers, and layered tunics dyed in earthen hues.
Each one carried a finely crafted set of weapons.
They were all connected through tattooed runes and symbolic sigils along their arms and necks.
Broan touched his own sigil, wondering if it would help him fit in or cast him out.
His glowed. How would they react to that?
“Can I get furs like them? Maybe an axe, too.” He turned to wink at Ithril.
She only scowled. “Oh, calm down, Tightstrings. You’ve got to admit they look fucking cool. ”
“This way,” Kaelthar said. “Best not to distract the guards.”
He led Broan and Ithril through the tunnels of the mountain, darkness only illuminated by torches.
Dripping springs plopped against the cave walls as their path narrowed, then widened.
The air smelled of metal and cold mornings.
Broan followed in silence, boots echoing against the stone.
He said little since arriving, but as his body thawed, his bones warmed to this place.
As Kaelthar continued out of the tunnel, the sky came pouring in.
The cavern gave way to a vast, open amphitheater carved into the belly of the mountain.
The walls rose high around them like jagged teeth, and overhead, the sky blazed clear and wide.
Sunlight streamed through narrow cuts in the peaks above, catching on snow, bronze, and ice in a dazzling cascade of gold and white.
“This is the city of the Mountainborn. We’ve kept to the Whiteridge Mountains for over a hundred winters,” Kaelthar explained as he guided them through. He puffed his chest and pointed his nose toward the heavens.
Stone houses lined the terrace slopes. Their roofs were patched with thick fur and hammered bronze.
Antlers crowned doorposts, and bones shaped into tools, totems, and talismans decorated the archway.
Smoke curled from chimneys into the open air, carrying hints of cooked meat.
Children ran between warriors. Laughter echoed off the rock.
Hammers rang out from deep within the forges, tucked into the mountainside.
The people moved like a single body. They carried large hammers and axes, extensions of themselves.
They turned toward Broan as he passed with his guide.
It took no time at all to realize this place was his blood. His bone. His home.
“The jarl has already asked for your presence,” Kaelthar explained, pulling Broan toward a dwelling that nestled against the innermost rock wall of the stronghold. Wood walls ran into the carved mountain.
“So, he is a king, then?” Broan questioned, brow rising.
Kaelthar laughed in surprise, then restrained himself. “A jarl is the leader of our clan. Not a king, in any sense, but a highly respected noble.”
Broan grunted. “So, King of River Storm. Queen of Trinity. Why do they get royalty?”
“Aye,” Kaelthar said lowly. “But look closely. Each only rules their own corner. Queen Elira’s the one with a council drawn from all the realm. She doesn’t rule alone.”
Kaelthar stopped at the jarl’s residence. Thick bronze-bound doors, weathered with age, stood as the only threshold, etched with the crest of the ruling line. Broan studied the roaring bear flanked by mountain spears.
Inside, the air was cool but clean, laced with pine oil, smoke, and leather.
“Yrsa!” Kaelthar greeted a large woman bustling through the gathering hall, scurrying through with rags and furs, mumbling about wretched soldiers keeping her up all night.
Yrsa turned quickly, her eyes as pale as morning frost lining the furs of the men now invading her home. There was no warmth in her expression, not at first glance, but the sudden ache of realization surfaced.
“My little ghost,” she spoke, words thick like molasses, trembling from her lips before she could stop them. She stepped closer, not believing. “I dreamed of you too many winters to believe this is real.”
Yrsa was not a tall woman by Mountainborn standards, but she carried herself as a storm would carry the rain. Her silver-streaked hair was braided tightly against her scalp with small bone charms woven near the nape.
Kaelthar’s voice deepened as Yrsa neared, his accent thickening like the mountain air—rougher around the edges now, vowels drawn like a slow blade. “Broan, this is Yrsa Darsen, Keeper of the Ancestral Flame.” He paused, then looked Broan in the eye. “And yer mother.”
Broan’s heart skipped a beat, unsure how the Vikings reacted to such news. Relief flooded him when Yrsa only nodded to him. He returned in kind, feeling stronger already after moving past any emotional greetings he was keen to avoid.
“So, it is true then,” Yrsa spoke, her voice like rolling thunder. “Our kinling has grown into a man and returned?”
“Aye,” Kaelthar confirmed. “He is here to see yer ‘usband.”
“Through the door, next to the hearthseat.” Yrsa pointed. “You make sure he stays afterward.”
Kaelthar nodded and pushed Broan forward as Yrsa continued to finish whatever task needed her attention before she was interrupted.
Broan thought Yrsa was a strong woman driven by her duty.
It comforted him, oddly enough. He glanced back at Ithril.
She scanned the room around her, careful not to draw her weapons, but clearly contemplating it. Broan smirked.
The threshold revealed an intimate room with carvings of ancestors lining the walls, along with maps etched into the stone.
At a grand table stood two men, one towering over the rest with strength.
He was a carved pillar of the mountain itself.
Broad-shouldered, thick-necked, arms like tree trunks, and hands calloused.
His skin bore the weathered bronze tone, rough with age but solid.
His coarse, long hair, once black, now streaked with steel gray and gathered in a warrior’s braid bound with bronze clasps.
A heavy beard fell down his chest, braided tightly in two cords framing a scar cutting from his temple to his jaw.
He set his pale, iron eyes on Kaelthar and Broan as they entered.
Silence fell like a blade between them. The jarl stepped forward, his boots hitting the stone.
His massive shadow swallowed the torchlight.
Each breath he took seemed to pull the air out of the room, and Broan bore the weight of the man who bent the mountain to his will.
“My son, I presume,” the Jarl said, his voice like grinding stone.
Broan didn’t flinch. “You must be the jarl.”
A flicker of something crossed Harlik’s face. Disapproval? Interest? It passed too quickly to be sure. Kaelthar shifted beside him, tension bristling in his frame. The jarl waved a hand without breaking his stare. “Thane,” he growled to the other man at the table. “Leave us.”
The other man nodded and slipped through the doorway. Harlik watched the door close before returning his focus to Broan. He stalked around the table like a circling bear, warning them. “Mark of the Elvish?” he asked, eyes narrowing at Broan’s sigil.
“They call it the kiss of magic.”
Harlik grunted, his upper lip twitching in disdain. He said nothing but picked up a carved drinking horn and slammed it down, hard. The sound cracked across the stone.
Broan held his ground. His hands were loose at his sides, but his eyes never left the jarl’s. “You trying to rattle me?”
“I’m weighing your worth. Looks to me like the Elvish have their claws in you.” Harlik pointed to Ithril, then back to the sigil on his face.
Kaelthar bowed. “They want an alliance.”
The jarl scoffed, as if the idea soured the air.
“Of course they do,” he said with a bitter drawl.
“The High Elves never dirty their hands when someone else will bleed for them. And they send my son like a hound tossed back after the hunt.” Kaelthar opened his mouth to speak, but Harlik silenced him with a wave of his hand, not even sparing him a glance.
“Enough from ya. Yer time as a mouthpiece for their cause is over.”
The jarl held his hand up to Kaelthar a moment longer before turning his gaze back to Broan with a weight that could split stone. “You, though. You walk in here wrapped in fur and frost, wearing the marks of the enemy, speaking like one of their own.”