Chapter 26 #2
Broan didn’t move. “I speak as a bridge between both people.”
“Did you know they never sent word? Not a whisper ‘til now,” Harlik growled. “We held a funeral for ya, boy. Buried you in stone and song. Then they come crawling, letters in hand, asking for alliance. Claiming yer alive like it means something now.”
Broan could relate. He only fucking learned he had a family recently as well. He grew up without one, so it didn’t bother him to continue living in that lie. This city sparked a fire in him that made him feel differently.
“Well, I’m here now.” Broan’s voice was even but edged. “And I don’t fucking speak for the Elvish. I speak for myself. The realm is in danger.”
The jarl sneered, his lip curling with disgust. “All for witchcraft.”
Broan scoffed. “Perhaps you don’t understand the magic, then.”
“And you do?” Harlik leaned forward, looming like a coming storm. “You presume to lecture a jarl in his own mountain?”
“I don’t presume anything.” Broan shrugged. “I offer truth. Ignore it, and your people will burn next.”
The jarl stepped away from his table, towering over Broan and Kaelthar.
His burly hands pushed the large table out of his way, a practice Broan could tell he did often when he was angry.
“We will speak no more of this alliance. I would spit you back out into the cold if it weren’t for yer ma. Make yerself scarce.”
Kaelthar reached for Broan, opening the door. Broan grunted. Were they giving up that easily? The jarl said no once, and Kaelthar folded. He pushed the Viking councilman back. Kaelthar only grabbed him again as the jarl turned his back on them.
“Come now, Broan.” He leaned in and whispered, “Yer father will take some convincing.”
Broan pulled his arm back and walked out. “Come on, Tightstrings,” he said to Ithril. “Let’s find a proper drink in this place.”
“Be back for dinner,” Kaelthar trailed after them. “Yer mother wants you to meet the rest of ‘em.”
Broan knew he meant his siblings. Kaelthar mentioned them briefly on their journey.
He wanted to meet them, too, but part of him feared he’d regret it in the end.
Maybe he’d like them, or maybe he wouldn’t.
That didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had a brother.
His brother didn’t come on this journey with him, and Broan realized the minute he walked into the mountains that he didn’t want to go back to the forest. For that, he needed a drink.
Ithril received scowling stares from every Viking they crossed. Even when they found a dark Meadhouse and sat in the corner, the barkeep’s lips remained curled.
The walls in the Meadhouse of the Mountainborn were built from a woven lattice of bone, antler, and dark timber.
Antlers twisted above like roots, laced together to form a vaulted ceiling that groaned when the wind howled through unseen cracks in the stone.
Cauldrons of rich stew simmered near the far end, the scent of root vegetables, herbs, and salted meat cutting through the cold.
Broan handed Ithril a drink. She stared at the foaming liquid, eyes almost begging for a distraction. It didn’t last. Her shoulders remained tight as she searched the Meadhouse for threats. Aside from the barkeep, they were the only two there.
“You should relax a little there, Tightstrings.” Broan sat back and sipped his ale.
He wasn’t looking for another drunken escapade as he had in the village. The smell of the ale made his head spin a little. He drank the foam from the top and set it back on the table.
Ithril sighed. “The Vikings and Elvish are not exactly friends.”
“No shit.” Broan laughed. “That would have been good to know coming in here, though.”
“Kaelthar didn’t mention it?” Ithril asked, an expression as close to shock as she could muster upon her dull face.
“How could he find the time? He wouldn’t shut up about Viking history across the sea.”
Ithril laughed. The tune was a sweet melody that hit Broan’s ears just right, and he stared at the Elvish woman far too long.
She was tiny in comparison to everyone else there.
A frail-looking woman next to the full bodice of the other women trailing the mountains.
Her hair was too slick, not a strand out of place.
She could have been a doll to the children here.
Broan forced himself to look away.
They spent too much time together walking to the mountains. That had to be it. When other women weren’t available to look at, he favored Ithril. There was no other explanation. He couldn’t ever see himself warming her the way he would someone like…like a Viking, of course.
Ithril blushed and cleared the laugh out of her throat. “I must apologize. I knew we’d have issues convincing the jarl for aid, but I almost hoped it would be quick. I was not prepared to stay long, and I do consider this place to be highly…” She cleared her throat again. “Hostile.”
Broan ran his hand over his beard. “What would have given you that impression?”
Ithril laughed again, then shook it away as she straightened her face. “I don’t usually do that. Sorry.”
“Laugh?”
“Yes,” she admitted, brushing the blush from her cheeks. “I take being a soldier seriously.”
Hence why he called her Tightstrings. Yet Broan couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like if she’d loosened the strands of her hair and fixed the deep, black mane into a loose braid with antlers. “You’ll have my protection here,” he said, shifting his attention away from her features.
Broan took another sip of his ale as the bone door swung open, and an old man limped in.
His back was bent. His frosted beard was plaited with antler slivers and carved tokens.
One eye was clouded white, the other sharp as a raven’s.
He scanned the room until his eye fell on Broan.
Broan checked over his shoulder to see if maybe he’d been looking over him.
Maybe he was looking at Ithril. The man moved across the floor slowly, one of his legs dragging behind him.
“You are the road that leads to the Ashborn,” he said, coming to a halt before Broan’s table.
His voice rasped like gravel caught in the wind.
“Out, Skald,” the barkeep growled. “Not the time for songs nor riddles. Keep yer lores to yerself.”
Broan shared a glance with Ithril and folded his arms as he stood, motioning for her to follow. He’d had enough of brooding in the dark. He started to feel like Danek.
Before he could pass, the old man clutched his wrist. “She will need you,” he said, eyes burning.
“The fuck are you talking about?” Broan asked.
“When she calls, if you do not answer, there will be no throne left to take. It will only be bones.”
Broan yanked his arm free and kept walking. The shadows swallowed Skald behind him, but the words stuck like thorns.