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jonwassingwriting · 7 years

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A Matter of Honour: The Oaken Throne Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Caigarn, the wild North, Aerithia

120 winters after Ait Siochanta

The forge was warm, a blazing warmth the likes the cold slopes of Caigarn never reached even during the summer. Agnes had grown very accustomed to it, even enjoying the pulsating heat of the hearth as she pumped the bellows, turning the dull glowing crimson coals to a bright piercing white.

Agnes felt the sweat drop down her back, adding to the moist coating she had gained through this entire session and pooling in the nooks and crannies of her body.

The sweating was almost comforting in it’s own way, Agnes felt the stress and pain in her body drain out of her as the coals blasted out their steady rhythm of heat. It was as if she were purging the weakness from herself in the fires of the forge.

“That’s enough Aggie, bring her out.”

Eoin the master blacksmith shouted and Agnes quickly released the bellows, fetching her tongs from the floor at her feet. She plunged them into the coals and clasped the half-beaten ingot there, exposing the bright yellow glow of the searing metal in a cascade of ochre sparks that rained down on the stone floor.

Without even pausing, Agnes shifted her weight and pulled the short bar of iron over, resting the silently glowering metal onto the thick black bulwark of the centre of the anvil.

Eoin wasted no time, raising his hammer high and beginning a firm, if strangely careful beating upon the glowing metal below him. The noise filled the small stone room: vibrations carrying up the tongs in her hands to make her fingers numb.

Agnes had been disturbed by the noises of forging when she first started with Master Eoin six months ago but now they were as familiar as the calls of her friends: she knew each sound by heart.

As the hammering increased in pitch, Agnes shifted the metal, turning it slightly so Eoin could work the opposite side. They had become so accustomed to the work that the Master blacksmith did not even pause in his strokes, working the metal until it cooled to a dull red colour.

“Back in the fire, then give yourself a break, she’s nearly done.”

Eoin paused in his work and Agnes quickly dropped the quasi-formed spearhead back into the coals, pulling her tongs free and dropping them to the ground. As she reached for the bellows however, the thick older man across the forge from her shook his head and grasped the worm wood handle firmly, taking over for her in the final heat.

Agnes fetched her tongs from the ground, unwrapping the thick linen fabric that protected her hands from the vengefully hot metal as the master blacksmith brought the unformed iron back to forging heat.

She wiped the warm fabric uselessly over her brow and tossed a carefree hand towards their work as it sat hissing in the glowing coals.

“You make it look so easy, last spearhead I made with Balcund and Caelan took three times as long.”

Eoin shrugged, pumping the leather bellows with a thick meaty arm.

“They’re young, don’t know how to properly train metal yet. They rush, which means they end up fixing mistakes of their own making.”

He glanced over at Agnes, a small smile playing about his lips.

“We’ve also been doing this since the wee hours of the morning, you’ve gone forge-blind.”

Agnes turned in surprise and looked at the door, which had been dark when they started, to see daylight pouring in through the slitted window.

“Aye, I have.”

She wiped her forehead again of a thick coat of sweat, it looked to be almost midday but she had felt as if time stood still while they crafted.

Agnes had quickly replaced Eions’ two apprentices, Blacund and Caelan, as the blacksmiths’ personal aide. Eoin had seen potential in her right away, and if Agnes was anything, she was a quick study. Over the past six months she had thrown herself into her work with the master blacksmith, learning all she could about training iron from him as they crafted the finest tools in the city.

Eoin motioned back to the forge with his free hand and Agnes deftly scooped up the linen wrap and tongs, fetching the bright yellow spearhead from the coals. Another round of firm yet gentle work produced a dull crimson spearpoint, which was quickly placed in a large clay shelf beside a great deal of identical spearheads.

“Good.”

Eoin hung his hammer on a hook on the wall and undid the bindings of his thick leather apron, peeling the sweat-soaked protective clothing off of his thick frame and hanging it beside his favorite tool.

“Fifty Spearheads for Lord Deamhan: a great accomplishment for any smith If I say so meself. We’re a couple of days ahead of schedule.”

He pulled his thick leather bracers off, rubbing his wrists tiredly. Agnes had already pulled off her own apron: wiping her back and neck with a piece of sodden linen she had left by the door.

Her thin linen undershirt was plastered to herself and soaked through. It was a flimsy thin thing, but it seemed the only way to deal with the heat without burning herself on the scale and sparks that flew from the forge.

Propping the door open, Agnes retrieved a fresh tunic from outside the door, pulling off her undertunic and slipping into the fresh one in a hurried motion. True to his nature as a gentleman, Eoin didn’t even look up.

“Take the rest of the day off Aggie,” Eoin wandered over, pulling his own tunic over his bald head as he did so, “I’ll have the boys treat, quench and polish these right away. You and I can sharpen them tomorrow, then mount them the day after. We’ll deliver them to Lord Deamhan a day early, that should please him.”

Agnes looked to argue, she wasn’t even the least bit tired, but Eoin held up his hands.

“You’ve more than earned it; you work faster and harder than either of those two lumps and we’re well ahead of where we need to be. Hund got those ash poles to us much quicker than I expected, otherwise we would be waiting on them to finish our work anyways. Aside from all that I haven’t seen my girls in a full four hours; I should spend some time with them before they get into trouble, you ken?”

Agnes smiled and nodded, Eoin’s three daughters were a handful already and none of them were even of the age of accountability yet.

“Aye, I ken. Not a bad time for a rest anyhow.”

Agnes gave the stoic man a heavy punch in the arm, which felt like she had decided to have a go at the city wall, but he smiled in return and thumped her on the back with his heavy calloused hand.

They ducked out into the crisp early springtime air, Eoin closing the forge behind them and trying a complicated knot into the line that held it closed. The embers of the forge almost never went out, often smoldering long after any work was done, but Agnes knew that the boys would put more coal on it before night. She hadn’t been around long enough to witness Eoin change the coal or clean the ash yet, but the boys often told her it was a long and miserable process.

The two turned from the forge, appearing from the outside as a mound of earth and clay with a door in the side and a chimney sprouting from the top, and made their way down the little slope to the shop. The shop was constructed much like the other homes of Caigan, a low dome of wood and clay half-buried in the ground to conserve heat during the long winter.

Eoin sucked in a sharp breath of air through his teeth and Agnes looked up to see what he was looking at; peering out at the street before the shop. Several wildermen stood there, looking bored and generally ill-content. Agnes still wasn’t very good at telling the barbarians apart yet, but their fine weapons and red-dyed gambesons told her it was a few of the Oaken Thrones’ personal wilderguard.

“That’s not good.” She said, but Eoin shook his head, leading her to the back door of the shop quickly.

“I’m expecting someone, I just didn’t expect her this early.”

The big man opened the door and quickly strode in, stopping to fit under the solid oak timbers. Agnes followed, curiosity piqued, and stepping lightly into the bright shop.

Eoin had once told her the purpose of a shop was to make the man or woman who came to buy as comfortable as possible. As such he had put several large windows in the front, which let in a generous amount of sunlight when their wooden covers were swung open like they were now. The two coal braziers in the corners were just for heat and tended to be a gathering place for any customers, especially during the winter or early spring.

Eoin’s wife Kalsidhe was standing beside a table hastily placed near one such brazier and it’s single occupant, standing respectfully even though there were three more chairs in the room. Only one of the Wilderguards from outside was here within, lounged in one of the other chairs over by the other brazier. He rudely dragged his wilderblade against a whetstone loudly as the other occupants of the room conversed in gentle tones. His thick, shaggy, and matted blonde hair hung in tendrils about his shoulders except on the side of his head where a long scar ran from his chin to just above his right ear.

Eoin’s three girls, two of whom had been sweeping the floor while the other younger lass played with a small doll leapt up when their father entered the room and rushed over. He waved them off urgently, careful to give them a smile and each a gentle pat on the head, quickly making his way over to the woman seated near his wife. Agnes stayed back near the opposite side of the shop, earning an approving glance from Kalsidhe, respectfully refraining from seating herself. As she stood Agnes observed the three on the other side of the room with interest.

Kalsidhe was a beautiful woman, most of Cagairn knew that. She had long sleek black hair that hung in a beautiful intricate braid and a svelte body that belied none of the rigors of the childbirth she had suffered three times already. Her face was soft, a thin frame rounded gently about the cheekbones and chin. Her copper-tan skin stood in modest contrast to the white dress and tunic she often wore when watching their shop, a weave of wildflowers about her neck that looked very well done.

Despite her soft appearance, the woman was as sharp as the daggers she sold: a cunning matched only by her husbands skill with metal. Often people in the city treated her with a great deal of respect and reverence: her behaviour and eloquence outshining even a few of the landowners who made up the Oaken Lord’s moot court. That being said, if Kalsidhe was not seated beside the woman, then the stranger seated before them was important indeed.

The woman herself was less radiant than Eoin’s wife, but cut no less of an impressive figure. She was swathed in one of the finest fur cloaks Agnes had ever seen with a large silver chain holding it across her shoulders. Her heavy woolen tunic was finely woven and dyed purple, a rare colour for Cagairn due to the dyestuffs not being grown locally. Her underdress was long and elegant, only slightly marred by mud at the bottom hem, which was weighted down by a thin silver thread woven through the rich fabric. On her head of auburn hair sat a silver diadem, the simple band gleaming in the early afternoon sun.

Unlike Kalsidhe, the woman was a geldah like Agnes and Eoin. Her pale skin stood out against her rich clothing like a white sail on a dark boat. She was beautiful, with a thin angular face and high cheekbones. Something in her dark grey eyes looked haggard however, as if a heavy weight were actually upon her shoulders, invisible to those around her. Her demeanor came off as cold though, Agnes couldn’t tell what it was but the woman seemed to only smile with her lips, her eyes hard points of cobalt blue.

“My Lady Sloane, we did not expect you for at least a few more days, my apologies for not being here to greet you.”

Eoin made a respectful bow, which was returned with a graceful nod by his guest. Anges felt a small surge of panic as she realized the chilly woman before them was the wife of Lord Deamhan, hurriedly bowing her head and touching her knuckle to her brow respectfully.

Though Agnes may not like the current Lord of Caigairn, a certain respect needed to be granted to woman bearing his child. Such was the High-waller way: a pregnant woman was considered an honored warrior while she carried a life within her.

Sloane certainly carried herself like a lady, her posture was perfect and even the gentle curve of her full belly seemed carefully poised upon her chair. She nodded back dismissively to Agnes and Eoin, barely paying the former any heed at all. Her voice was heavy and smooth, like oil dripping over velvet, and when she spoke it was with dark and weary tones.

“I simply wanted to see how my order fared,” She motioned to Eoin and he straightened stiffly, “I understand if it is not yet ready, I can return another time.”

Eoin shook his head, making his way to the back of the shop without turning his back on his important customer.

“That will not be necessary milady, the blade is finished as of two nights ago.”

He quickly reached down, again without turning his back to her, and opened his heavy chest of completed works. He drew forth a long ornamental wooden box, striding back over and placing it on the table gently.

Agnes raised up on her toes a bit to see as the fine lady opened the carefully carved wooden box, recognising Kalsidhe’s hand in the craftsmanship, and drew the slender dagger forth.

Agnes immediately remembered the blade: Eoin had not let her do more than assist with the forging, insisting on doing all of the rough work himself. It had been two pieces of the finest iron wrapped tightly about each other and then hammered into a thin long skeendu blade. Afterwards Eoin had shut himself into his shop for hours filling each edge true until it was perfectly balanced with an expertly formed fuller on both sides. Then he had dipped it in spirit of salts until the pattern of the blade was exposed, a beautiful swirl and star design only he ever managed to bring out of the metal he forged. Later the slow man-child Caelan, a master of the finer work, had made it’s edge razor-sharp and set it into a beautiful silver pommel and crossguard, wrapping the wood handle in cured Khumom skin. The pommel was later engraved again by Eoin again with the symbol of the Oaken Lord: A mighty Roc with wings outstretched.

As Agnes looked at the blade in the light of early afternoon however, she noted that Eoin had carved two springs of holly heavy with winterberries into its talons. Holly was a symbol of mourning, and the bodies of the dead were buried with bushes of holly planted upon them. It made the pommel appear strange to her, but it seemed to please their customer, who smiled at it.

Sloane admired the blade, turning it this way and that in the sunlight. She even ran a finger along the edge, starting a bit as a drop of blood rolled away from her skin in response. She quickly wiped the offending crimson on her cloak, waving away Kalsidhe’s concerned hands as the creedah reached for her.

“I’m alright, serves me right for not treating the blade with respect.”

The wilderman seated beside Agnes scoffed, picking at his fingernail with his wilderblade. Agnes glared at the man, who ignored her, continuing to pick at his hand with the crude blade. Sloane likewise ignored her guard, tracing her finger along the fuller on the side of the weapon.

“It surpasses your reputation, master blacksmith, truly a fine weapon.” She placed the dagger back into the box, Agnes noticing a small leather sheath within before the lady closed the carved wooden lid with a gentle tap.

She motioned to the lazy Wilderman, who stood with a sigh and walked over to Eoin, thrusting a bag which rattled like coins in his direction. Eoin graciously accepted the bag from the boorish guard and placed it upon his belt: counting the coins in the lady’s presence would be considered rude. Sloane stood, aided by Kalsidhe, nodding at Eoin as she did so.

“I thank-you for your service smith, you’ve alway been very kind to me over the past few winters: No other smith will accept my requests.”

Eoin shook his head and bowed slightly to her.

“I’m sure they mean no offense my lady, there is much to do these days.”

Sloane shook her head at him, but her smile remained and this time Agnes felt like it may have touched her eyes for a brief moment.

“Please do not think me naive good sir; not every smith in the city is as busy as you and I thank you for not turning me away under false pretenses as they did.”

Eoin nodded, bowing low as the woman turned from the shop. Agnes and the others followed suit, waiting until the elegant lady had left the shop to straighten. The wilderman did not move as lady Sloane left, turning to the blacksmith with a cold look.

“You didn’t forget our spearheads did you smith? What with you making that twiddly little thing and all.”

Agnes bristled, but kept her anger in check, knowing full well that picking a fight with a wilderman was not wise.

“I did not Khalic.” Eoin’s poise and respect melted away within the syllables: his head inclining slightly to look down his nose at the boorish wilderman.

“We will affix the heads the day after tomorrow, before what was promised. I hope that meets your expectations master wilderguard.”

Eoin’s tone dripped contempt, but the wilderman paid it no mind, apparently revelling in the fact that Eoin was at his call.

“See that they are there on time smith, we’ll be waiting.”

He grinned, the foul collection of yellow teeth nearly making Agnes retch, and then stepped from the store in a swish of his fur cloak. Agnes spat on the ground and the children about them giggled, earning Agnes a disapproving look from their mother.

“Aggie, that’s no way to behave.”

“More than he deserves for right sure,” Agnes lifted her chin defiantly, but lowered it slightly as she met the gaze of Khalsidhe, “but you’re right mum, I apologize.”

Khalsidhe nodded back to the younger woman, cuffing one of her daughters upside the head as the little scamp tried to copy Agnes.

“I’ll admit, he’s a right boor and that’s for sure. Her ladyship has the most appalling company to keep these past winters and no mistake.”

The creedah woman turned and busied herself with the broom she took from her oldest child’s hands. Agnes grimaced and nodded; it was no secret that Lady Sloane had married her brother-in-law for her own survival, but that had not stopped those in the city treating her like some sort of traitor.

Sloane had even managed to save the lives of her daughters, though her eldest son had been executed in the square with the Lord Thall and it was rumoured her husband murdered the rest of the Thallsons in their beds while they slept. No wonder the lady looked weary all of the time: carrying the child of your husbands traitorous brother must be trying to say the least.

However, Agnes could understand the people’s resentment as well. Aside from her terrible company, the Oaken Lady seemed to be suffering very little, her face had been fresh and well cared for; a rare sight in the city. Obviously her handmaidens still cared for her ministrations daily.

Agnes shook her head, again wondering where the pride of this city had gone: their leaders seemed content to simply shut their eyes to the evils about them and the rest of the people seemed to take pleasure in dragging their names through the muck without so much as lifting a finger to stop the wildermen. Even the landowners moot had fallen smartly in line, though they gossiped and backstabbed like addled children once the Oaken lord and his allies were out of earshot.

“Go on now Agnes,” Eoin waved an impatient hand at Agnes, “I’ll not see you waste this time off with helping about the shop, that’s what these layabouts are for.”

The three girls giggled and hurried off, the youngest smiling and continuing her play on the ground. Agnes nodded, tapping her knuckle to her forehead in respect to Kalsidhe before stepping out into the street.

The cobbled stones felt rough under her feet: her fur boots were thin but more comfortable than the heavy things in her kit at the warrior hall. She held up a hand to her eyes to ward off the early afternoon sun, looking about the street carefully.

She was standing about a third of the way up the hill, surrounded by the low clay and mud homes that marked the midlands of the city. Down below sat the stone huts and shanties of the lower city and above her lorded the beautifully carved and fashioned upper city.

The river Jorgen was down off to the east of her, gurgling past the peaked hill that made up the city of Cagairn, the great marketplace not far from it’s cold shores. Side by side the river and the city looked like a mote hiding alongside a giant snake, the deep blue waters stretched an impossibly long distance from the city to the other bank, marred only by the occasional shock of white as a wave curled in response to the wind or unseen obstacle.

Jorgen was a grand river: nearly twice as wide as a big lake and thrice as deep. Numbingly cold waters slipped and gurgled past Cagairn lazily, whipped up into sudden bouts of fury by the unpredictable currents.

Despite it’s frigid waters and strange moods, the river actually teemed with life: warrior-fowl alighted on it from time to time, using the current to shorten their voyages to the safe ponds and offshoot creeks that sprouted from the mighty river. Fish occasionally leapt from the water, rainbow-scales glistening in the early afternoon sunlight. Longboats, canoes and barges all followed the stream down it, either to trade in the marketplace or resupply for the long trip downstream. There other Siothall cities and towns nestled among the gentler rolling hills to the south, their goods also returning their way north either by way of the river or wandering traders.

Cagairn was the unofficial center of the north, even the other halls in the cities about them pledged loyalty to the Oaken Lord in exchange for safety and a chance to utilize the grand marketplace for their goods and services. Even the masters of the gilded north paid respect to the Oaken throne, bringing their bounteous harvests south to the city every summer songseason. This was also why the Oaken lord had sent his men to Bearsgore those years ago: Cagairn repaid the loyalty shown it by making the lands safe, or at least it once had.

Even now Agnes could see a longship, her oars raised and sail furled as the dark wooden prow was pulled up against the Jorgen shore. Goods were being offloaded onto the long piers built far into the mud and shallows of the great river by hurried men.

Agnes also saw a score of wildermen, their strange antlered and patchwork cloaks visible even from this distance, waiting for the goods to leave the hold of the impressive riverboat. Obviously they were “taking their fair due” as most merchants and shopkeepers had learned to live with over the winters and the rushed sailors seemed eager to give them what they wanted.

Shaking her head at the sight, Agnes turned and began to meander down the cobblestone road, towards the old warrior hall. The street was mostly grey colour with patches of green running alongside it like snakes winding their way up the hill.

Cagairn homes were often made of a rich clay and wood pulled from the hills about them and topped with sod overhead. It kept the buildings cold during the summer and, more importantly, locked the heat within them in the winters.

It was said that long ago their people had just lived in wood shacks, but long and unforgiving winters had taught them to put a bit more substance between them and the elements. For that, most of the shops and houses about her were very close to the ground, some so low their sod had begun to grow between them, leaving only their doors and windows visible. The street, however, cut through the grass like a welcoming pathway, the thick rocks choking out any noxious weeds or other problems from overgrowth.

Agnes’ attention turned back downhill, eyeing up the market and larger buildings on the flatter land below. The lower city, as most people called it, was much less green than the space above it. The houses there were packed closer together, and often made from stone mixed with clay. The great warrior hall itself was made of thick wooden timbers and a special yellowish clay, making it stand out like a beacon among all of the stone about it.

The old warrior hall was her home now, though she felt more like a squatter than an actual occupant, and Agnes would drop by quickly to pick up her things and change out of her iron-smelling tunic. Perhaps she would even bathe at the hall: there was a spring there and it was safer than trying to find a secluded spot on the Jorgen.

Still unsure of how she should use her unanticipated free time, Agnes wondered if she should go and check on Fayna; that always seemed to cheer the orphan girl up and was a good way to spend an afternoon.

Agnes winced, wondering how the poor girl was feeling today. Fayna had almost become mute since her father’s death, communicating only in a low whisper if she ever did at all. She spoke more when Agnes was there according to Master Gaelie, who encouraged the blacksmith’s aide to drop by whenever she could. Agnes’ presence had become more important now that Seamus had headed off into the wilds, as Fayna seemed to depend upon the boy before he had started his educational trip into the forest.

Seamus had been gone for a couple of months now, alongside some friends of theirs who were preparing him for his ring. Each young child in highwall, once they reached thirteen winters, was given a chance to earn an iron ring. They wore it about their arm until they grew enough to place it at their wrist, where it stood as a signal that they could survive on their own in the wilds. Before the wildermen had taken over the process had been purely optional, not every child had to gain their ring if they did not want to. It was more something for the hunters and warriors, a sign that they could support themselves out in the wild without aid. If you didn’t have one it was not considered a shame, but one with a ring was obliged to help one without one when the need arose.

Before Seamus earned it though, he had to go and learn to hunt and fight like most Highwaller children learned at the warrior hall. Agnes had found it strange Seamus had not been at the hall before, but dismissed it thinking he was probably very young when the Wildermen took over, his time to join had not yet come.

Obviously the wildermen had abolished all hall traditions, they didn’t want the men to learn how to fight and Wilderwomen were little more than housekeepers and servants to them. So Beocallum and Agnes had set up a little “hunting” trip where a pair of their friends would teach the boy how to get his ring.

Agnes smiled a bit thinking about the young man, he was an old man in a youth’s body for sure, but the boy had shown no forest sense at all or hunting skills when he had mentioned getting his ring. Agnes picked idly at her own ring at her wrist, hoping the young man would return soon, as she was eager to see what he had learned.

Master Priest Gaelie had taken the two youth in almost immediately when Agnes arrived on his door with them six months ago. He had even waved away Beocallum’s money offer, insisting that it would be no problem at all to care for the two youth.

Agnes had immediately taken a liking to the man: he was a carefree sort with a stubborn mischievous streak. He really did practice his craft in secret; even marrying the occasional couple in the dark recesses of his cellar with a few witnesses.

She had even been to one of the illegal ceremonies once, just for the fun and rebellion of it. The wildermen couldn’t ever catch him, and he seemed to take a certain pleasure in maintaining his faith despite the threat of death.

Agnes paused, looking up the hill at the keep above her where the rest of the city sat. The Oaken throne sat just above the highest houses; a high stone wall surrounding a low keep that had once served as a fortress for the whole city.

Thall had been a prudent man, using the natural rock outcroppings of the hill as foundations for a keep that was nearly large enough to house the entire inhabitants of the city plus food and a spring of clear water.

The dark stone walls seemed to hug the hill, reminding Agnes of a direcat laying upon the ground ready to pounce. Of course the hall and keep had never been used, the wall of the city usually was usually enough to stop anyone from sacking the city with the Oaken hall being a redundant protection in case of the worst.

Unfortunately neither had been of any use the week before the hall-men returned from Bearsgore. Deamhan had let in a raiding force of wildermen through one of the gates, slaughtering the guards there before leading them up into the oaken hall by way of a hidden entrance.

Before the few remaining guards had a chance to retaliate, the Oaken lord was held prisoner and the gates were demanded open to the largest wilderman raiding force ever seen. A week later the hall-men had were disbanded, and Agnes had fled to her father’s flocks.

Grimacing in shame, Agnes turned her gaze from the hall, following a snaking trail upwards to a peak almost at the summit of the great hill where the Allfather Hall sat, the home of her friends.

Thall had also been a very religious man; building an impressive Athairhome even further up the hill, as if to place it closer to the Father of All than his own home.

It was a grand affair, much unlike most of the Athairhomes, carved out of wood in the shape of a half-log lying on the ground. Its timbers were thick and ornately carved, depicting scenes from both the lives of the first titans and the Elder Family. Upon its crest sat a wood statue of a Roc with wings outstretched, often used as a symbol of the Allfather due to it being the master of land, air and sea wherever it nested.

When it was first built it had been unofficially named the Athairhall by the highwallers due to it’s beauty and size. Before the downfall of the hall-men it had been the final point of a yearly pilgrimage in honor of the Allking’s birth every spring.

Nowadays the beautiful hall was generally abandoned by the middle and lower city, due to the wildermen hating anything to do with Athair, his followers and murdering anyone who dared speak his name.

Master Gaelie, true to his nature as a stubborn old trickster, had moved there about a month after Agnes met him. His time was now occupied by the care of a slew of people who could not take care of themselves, an activity most priests busied themselves with even before the advent of the wilderguard.

Somehow the old priest always had enough food and goods to share, though for the life of her Agnes could not tell how he came by these things. His garden, while full of fresh foods, seemed hardly large enough to feed all the poor souls who came to him.

Fayna and Seamus had fit right in with the other needy, but quickly the boy had stood out as being able to care for himself. Master Gaelie had grown to admire him, quickly giving Seamus plenty of responsibility about the hall.

Making up her mind to task the ponderous climb up to her friends after fetching her things, Agnes turned back from looking up the hill to resume her slow pace down the street towards the old Hall. She turned left down the old cobblestones, pausing as the path levelled out and opened up into the main square.

The air was thick with the sweet, sickly smell of death. For that reason the people around Agnes seemed all in a hurry, no one lingered there except for the odd straggler and the ever-present wilderguards.

The town square was home to a giant tree, the Athairwood, that stretched out over the square. It shaded the ground in all directions with its broad branches and thick foliage during the summer. Now during the early spring there were no leaves on the branches, but a few small buds signalled the soon advent of green to the depressing grey square.

The source of the smell hung like disgusting fruit born of pestilence on the Athairwoods’ branches; bodies of dissenters, hall-men and victims of the Wilermen’s wrath. Most hung by their throats or feet, the bodies weighed down heavily on the tree’s branches, making the holy tree appear to sag in defeat.

Near the heart of the tree hung an iron cage on a chain; the pitch-preserved head of Thall, the former Oaken Lord, nestled within.

Agnes turned from the gruesome sight as she walked by the Athiarwood, studying the buildings around the square instead of the morbid sight behind her. Down here the buildings were mostly made of stone and clay, though sod roofs could still be seen like green patches on a frayed cloak.

To the north was the city hall, where the moot landowners descended to from their homes up the hill in order to meet with the steward of the oaken throne and discuss matters of Cagairn. Then it had been a place of discussion and deliberation, the Landowners representing all those who lived upon their lands to the Oaken lord. The moot often sat in judgement of criminals and brought their people’s plights to the attention of the Steward, who would bring all of it to his master when the time came.

It was a fairly grand place, made up much like the All-father home and most other Cagairn homes, a long half-log shape buried a ways into the ground. Great Oaken Pillars held up the awning over the grand entrance, intricately carved with the symbol of the old Oaken lords: three rings bound together in a complicated knot. Agnes wondered if they would strike the symbol from the very walls, as the wildermen forbid any version of that image to be carried by the high-wallers themselves.

Now the beautiful hall was nothing more than the home of the wilderguard. Wildermen stretched lazily on chairs or crates outside, sleeping or laconically watching the square. An awful rancor of drunken laughter and bawdy activities echoed from the dark open doorway, making Agnes shudder.

“Strange decorations you northern dwahvren have.”

Agnes turned at the voice, the accent piquing her curiosity more than anything else. Before her stood a strange man, dressed in worn green linen tunic and pants cinched at the hip with a leather cord. His hair was dark brown, much like most Cagairn, but it seemed to have an odd sheen to it, like it was too shiny for normal hair. He looked geldah like Agnes, but her eyes locked onto his pointed ears the moment they strayed to his face.

“Not a jovial matter, elf.” Agnes spat the word at him, eyes glowering from under her brow.

“I meant no offense,” The elf held out his hands defensively, a small pruning knife in his fingers. Another woman joined them, dragging some of the deadfall from the Athairwood behind her. She was an elf too, her ears were pointed, but her beauty made Agnes pause for a second.

Her skin was coloured dark like Khalsidhe’s copper hue, but a much darker and richer tone, almost black. In stark contrast the woman’s thick coarse hair was shock white, standing out against her skin like the stripes of the foulsnakes one could find near the river Jorgen. The new woman scowled a bit at the other elf and punched him, not lightly, in the gut.

“I *oof* haven’t seen you around the square.” the elf continued, inclining a bit at the waist towards Agnes. “You were staring so at the tree and the square, I thought you a new arrival here.”

Agnes looked back to the other elf, who was regarding her carefully, an apology silently written across her face. She was dressed in a tunic and underdress, like most high-wallers, but the linen had been dyed blue, usually only worn by warriors in Cagairn. Upon her shoulders sat a ragged woolen cloak, the deep hood pulled back. She seemed cold, despite the warmth of spring.

“I’m not a stranger here.” Agnes spoke in curt tones, but relented after a moment's thought. “Well, perhaps I am. Cagairn has changed a lot of late.”

The elf nodded somberly and stooped to pick up deadfall branches from the Athiarwood at his feet.

“Please forgive me, the humour was in poor taste. My name is Xerix, my friend Aelianna and I tend the tree for your people.” Agnes regarded the strange man, eyeing the elf up and down.

He was slighter than most men for sure, but there seemed a strength about him like a bowcord stretched on it’s arc. He was fair-skinned like the Geldah, but his eyes were shockingly blue. No, that wasn’t right: upon a moment's inspection Agnes noticed his eyes were in fact purple, which lent an eerie demeanor to his visage.

“Payment for being spared at Bearsgore I presume?”

The elf nodded at her, his eyes again fixed to the task at hand.

“Aelianna and I were among the families of the warriors your people defeated there. Now we are deadkeepers and arborists, working for free.”

Agnes bristled at the elf’s comment, owning another man's freedom was considered a filthy sin by the Allfather, who demanded all men be free or dead in his eyes. In fact it was demanded by the hallmasters and leaders that all men or women captured in battle be paid a wage in exchange for work they were put to after the battle was won.

Her anger quickly subsided though as he had to admit to herself that she did not see much difference between stealing a man or woman from their home and forcing beaten men on the battlefield to serve you. Her mind wandered as she nodded absent-mindedly and she found herself staring at the Athiarwood tree again wondering about how the Allfather felt about their actions of late.

Even though the hall-men had offered exile south out of Siothall lands as an alternative to servitude for the elves at Bearsgore, the fear Agnes had seen in the eyes of the defeated over such a thought led her to believe there was little choice in the matter for them. As they rode home Agnes had even felt a little guilty about leading a column of the defeated warriors north to Cagairn, as everyone knew that most of them would be put to work by the landowners moot at a fraction of the cost Highwallers worked for.

Of course it hadn’t meant much in the end: most of the elves had been freed without consequence by Dagon before the wildermen had forced him to fall on his own blade. Much to Agnes' intuition; none of the elves had elected to return to their homes upon receiving their freedom. They had either hung around the city to see what work waited for them under the new Wilderman rule or took off into the forest to carve a living from the unforgiving wilds. Truly whatever had chased them over the southern border was not to be taken lightly.

Agnes had seen less and less elves around the city as time plodded on, the ones left never spoke to her or anyone at all really. Agnes wondered for a moment what life was like for them; surviving under the wilderman was a chore in and of itself, but to do so among your would-be conquerors would be such a lonely existence. Perhaps if she was treated by equal measure Aggie’s humour would have a poor taste to it as well. Agnes mused over the possibility that the Wildermen truly were a curse from the Allfather, as some claimed, and Athair was punishing his people for their actions at Bearsgore.

“My friend is asking if you have someone here.”

Agnes snapped from her reverie to see the woman, Aelianna she thought she remembered the elf say, moving her hands furiously in some sort of quizzical little dance while staring at her. Xerix seemed to understand it somehow and continued;

“She says we can mask them in birch-bark if you wish.”

“I do not elf, though I thank-you both kindly for the offer. You respect our customs well.” Agnes nodded respectfully to the little elf-woman, watching as she stooped to pick up another pair of deadfallen branches.

Xerix nodded, returning to his pull-cart not five paces from where they stood to drop off his load of wood.

“Some customs are worth keeping. Despite our differences your people have been generous with mine and I find your ways most enjoyable.” He turned back, leaning against the cart with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Take, for instance, the name you gave us. They are characters from your olden tales are they not? Mythical creatures that either tricked or aided your forefathers in the times of legend yes?”

Agnes nodded as the strange man chatted with her. Aelianna dropped off her load of branches in the cart and Xerix paused in his story to watch as his companion made her little hand motions again. After a short period of time he nodded to her, causing the she-elf to off to the tree, passing from body to hanging body as if inspecting them. Xerix turned back to Agnes, continuing as if he hadn’t stopped at all.

“Our kin call ourselves ‘Argentum Gentem Sanguinem’; your kind are named the ‘Ferrum Dwahvren Sanguinem’. The translation is boring, but simply put; we elves divide ourselves and others like cattle in a pen. The names we give dependant on where we are from and how pure our blood is.”

He looked up to Agnes, a small smile played about his lips.

“But you, even though you vanquished us in a single battle, name us for creatures of myth and fantasy. Your people may profess to be simple and rugged but there is a poetry to you, a beauty to your ways and customs that goes deeper than simple ceremony. I have come to respect your culture, especially after taking over as deadkeeper here.”

Agnes didn’t know what to say, the conversation seemed so strange to her. Yes the Hall-men taught the youth of the city that one must respect their enemies, but to grow fond of the men who conquered you seemed an impossibility to her. Especially now, as the wildermen drove down on them so terribly, it made Agnes to wonder how different the highwallers would look to this elf if they had remained in control.

“Even though we enslaved your people, even when our own teachings forbid it?” Agnes felt the words rise unbidden to her lips, bitter things as they were. Xerix looked surprised, his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline.

“You are the first I’ve heard admit it as such, maybe your honour up here is not so reliant on pride as I had thought.” He looked back to the Athairwood with a smile upon his lips, but a dark look in his eye. “We are not slaves here, not now and even before we arrived at Cagairn.”

His smile faded as his mute companion dropped a body to the ground, watching the tree bough it had been tethered to rise in relief.

“We have seen true slavery, and men truly without honour in victory.” He motioned to Aelianna, who was crossing the arms of the man she had lowered from the tree, bowing her head in respect.

“When my friend was captured by our enemies in the south they immediately knew her as a seerswoman, one of the shamanesses of my people. We are beholden to the same gods as they, but inferior in their eyes for a matter of blood. Immediately they removed her tounge and scarred her throat, so as to prevent her from using her Gods given gifts against them. I met her much later as I fled to your lands here, she was nearly dead from starvation in one of our largest and most prosperous cities. No one would care for a mute where we are from.”

Agnes felt her insides clench, looking with new eyes at the quiet young woman as she prepared the body for burial. Xeris clapped a hand upon her shoulder, surprising Agnes, but she did not shrink from his touch.

“We have seen true violence and slavery, as your people are experiencing right now. Do not be so hard on your kin and yourself, you are a lesser fate for us in a time of deep darkness.”

Agnes was taken aback by the strange man for a moment, but felt a small smile creep to her lips. Maybe it was his easy grin, or the calm manner he spoke, but Agnes instantly felt a kinship to the elf.

“Do not trust that man Agnes, he is a priest of many Gods. His words are but offal dipped in honey.” The words were harsh, but the tone jovial as Agnes turned to the familiar voice. Her face broke out in a warm smile as the man there hobbled forwards, a leather wood bag slung over his shoulder.

“You wound me Hrokison!” Xerix burst out laughing, turning with arms outstretched towards Beocallum as the woodsman made his way to embrace his friend.

Agnes found herself again a little taken aback, before today she had not even known this man’s name, yet Beocallum seemed to call him friend. A small pang of jealousy bit at her gut; Beocallum was not as standoffish as he was when they first ran into each other in the market four months ago but she often felt like he was keeping her at arm's length on purpose.

Seeing the handsome man share a brief hug with the elf reminded Agnes that perhaps there was a lot she didn’t know about Beocallum still. The man in question turned and clasped Agnes’ arm tightly in a warrior’s greeting, which Agnes returned. His smile banished her little bout of pride in and instant.

“It’s good to see you Agnes, you’ve been locked away in your forge with Eoin for too long, you are beginning to look like an ingot of iron!”

His loose-cut curls bounced in front of his eyes and he brushed them away, causing Agnes to blush and thump the former hall-man on the back to cover.

“All the better to beat you back into shape hallman, you’ve gotten soft out in the fields!”

Agnes gripped his arm tightly, surprised to find strength there in return. There was less need for firewood now during the great thaw, but somehow Beocallum seemed to be getting stronger by the day. Even his limp was smoother and less pronounced. He coughed as her blow rained down on his back though, causing Agnes to grin at the former hall-man in challenge.

He wisely raised his hands in surrender, grinning again and brushing back another lock of his dark brown hair from his amber eyes.

Agnes felt her cheeks thrush and she coughed nervously, releasing his hand and turning back to Xerix. The elf was grinning as if he were a cat watching a pair of mice play and Agnes felt her discomfort deepen.

“How do you know my friend Beocallum elf?” Agnes averted her eyes, peering quizzically at Aelianna as the elf tended to the body she had dropped from the tree.

“Khatz and I met not two months ago. One of the wildermen leaders finds particular pleasure in burning Athairwood branches on his fire so Khatz here was looking for some.” Xerix grinned, patting his coin purse. “He buys them from me and sells them for double.”

Agnes raised an eye quizzically at the former hall-man and Beocallum shrugged.

“Thale thinks it offends us, like the limbs are holy or something. He doesn’t know we used to do the same all the time.”

“Khatz?” Agnes suppressed a giggle; this man seemed to have more names than he had working limbs. Beocallum had the good grace to look a bit sheepish as he answered.

“Once I told him my name meant hound he decided on naming me after some dog god his people believe in.”

“Khatz is the lead wolf of her Lady Roshanna, the head of the holy seven Gods.” Xerix raised his chin in mock indignance; “he is the patron of hunting, Forests and woodsmen. You should be honoured young dwahvren!”

Beocallum laughed and argued playfully with the jolly elf, but Agnes felt her smile fade from her face as she regarded Beocallum a moment. Once the conversation between the two died down a bit and Xerix handed her fellow hall-man the fallen boughs of Athairwood, Agnes turned to Beocallum while the elf went to help his companion.

“Your name is not Hund.”

Beocallums face changed to surprise for a second, then softened as he adjusted the branches in his hands.

“It’s alright Aggie, I still don’t mind. Honestly it bothers you more than I.” He extended his hand though, placing it gently on her shoulder; “I appreciate the thought though, I’ve come a long way from six months ago and you are not a small part of that.”

Agnes smiled, partially satisfied, but inside she still felt like he was hiding something. Something in his eyes was distant, and she could tell he at least felt a little guilty about it.

Slightly satisfied by that, Anges turned from him as Aelianna and Xerix approached. Hopefully when they got to know each other a little better he would open up to her, until then the honourable thing to do was be patient and not push.

Aelianna handed something to Beocallum as Xerix pulled the body she had lowered from the tree over to them, a beautiful mask of birch bark covering his face.

Agnes was surprised, Aelianna had managed to make an absolutely beautiful mask with the tricky materials in the short period of time they had been chatting beside her, and even without a knife from what Agnes could tell. The work appeared a mastercraft; as if the poor man’s face was revived again in peaceful rest.

The beautiful elf was now moving her hands again, looking at Xerix as they danced through the air. Agnes realized that the motions were how she communicated with the strange man and watched intently as they “spoke” for a minute, his hands moving similarly to hers in response.

“Aelianna says she found that symbol around the man’s neck,” Agnes glanced over at the pendant in Beocallums hands, who was rolling the iron thing about in his fingers. “She thought it might be a good way to find out who he was, but is unsure because she’s found similar on several others.”

Beocallum nodded, showing the pendant to Agnes. It was a round piece of iron with three interconnected rings engraved onto the one side. On the other was a triangle with two lines in it running from the flat side upwards to meet at the point.

“He was a priest.” She said, quietly looking around to check for wildermen; most were distracted by something at the south side of the clearing. “The Wildermen killed a lot of them just for refusing to give up their pendants.”

Beocallum nodded in agreement with Agnes, handing the sigil back to Aelianna, who bent to loop it back around the man’s neck.

“Proud fools,” He grimaced, also making a quick sweep to see if there were wildermen nearby. “This is only a symbol of status, the Allfather would not have punished them for giving them up. Master Gaelie threw his in a fire, yet he probably did more this morning for the Allfather than these men ever did.”

Agnes looked at Beocallum sharply, but she was forced to agree. Priests often came in two forms: ones who truly cared for the people and served Athair proudly or those who used their status for status.

“Not a good way to speak of the dead though my friend.” Xerix reached below the man’s arms, hefting the body up onto his pullcart.

“You are right Xerix, I should watch my tounge more closely.” Beocallum took the priest’s legs behind the knees and helped place him respectfully in the cart. He peered at the birch mask for a minute, causing Agnes to wonder at which point all of them had become accustomed to the stink of decaying flesh.

“Now I am truly sorry. This was Jhornen; he wasn’t a bad man at all. In fact he probably wore it on purpose after his wife was placed on this tree for striking a wilderguard, I think he wanted to join her.” He looked up into the bows of the tree and pointed to a body not far from them.

“There, that was her. I remember her torn shirt from the day she opened up that Guard’s face. I think he works at the Lord’s house now. His name was Kahn or Cedric or something like that.”

“Khalic? Yes he is one of the Lady’s guards.” Agnes nodded as Aelianna quickly signed something to Xerix and hustled over to the body Beocallum had pointed out. Agnes made to move forwards to help the little elf, but the beautiful woman just smiled and waved Agnes away.

“He dropped by the shop today with her ladyship.” She finished awkwardly to Beocallum, a little off-put that the beautiful elf would not let her help.

“The Lady visited Eoin?”

Beocallum looked surprised but Agnes just nodded, again touched as Aelianna somehow managed to gently drop the woman’s body to the ground from the tree.

How she managed to do so was still a mystery to Agnes: the woman hadn’t even produced a knife. Xerix and the two Highwallers walked over as Aelianna worked, watching the deadkeeper as she covered the corpse’s modesty with the remains of it’s tunic.

“The wilderguards don’t like it when we take too many bodies down and no one gets to touch the Lord’s head, but they shouldn't mind if we reunite these two for their final voyage into the Tyx.”

Xerix made a complicated gesture that touched seven parts of his chest and helped Aelianna cross the woman’s arms: she had been dead longer than her husband and Agnes grimaced as they worked. Death was something every hall-man was familiar with but this style of indignity still touched a fearful part of herself, making her insides squirm.

To her amazement Aelianna turned to her and gave her a impish smile, putting a single finger to her lips. Agnes knelt down conspiratorially as the elf pulled several strips of birch bark from her pocket and laid them side by side on the womans twisted face. Then, she started to make some sort of breathless whisper, gently moving her hands just above the bark.

The bark sprung to life: stretching and moving until it perfectly matched the contours of the woman’s face. Nearly calling out in shock, Agnes glanced up at Beocallum, who was grinning as if letting her onto some sort of childish secret.

Agnes’ kin, dwahvren as Xerix had called them, could not perform magic in any way. Agnes’ parents had told her it was because the iron of the land was deep in their bones, and everyone knew iron was the bane of magic. It drained those that used it of power and drove creatures of a magical nature from it. Hence this was the reason the priests always had iron around their necks, they were often called to rid the wilds of fae or nymphs whenever they were found.

Finding an actual elf who could perform the miraculous feat was rare in and of itself, before bearsgore Agnes had never seen it before. That particular elf had claimed he was the only one in that army who could perform it after they took him captive. Obviously he had been protecting Aelianna, who now was bending treebark to her will like a seamstress weaving fibers into cloth.

Agnes looked back down at the face of the woman, now covered in a beautiful birch bark mask. She noted how it didn’t appear as the twisted decaying flesh below, but matched her face as it had been before her death. It was almost as if the bark had formed to the woman’s soul, not her face. Aelianna smiled at Agnes and she couldn’t help but grin back.

“Aggie! Beocallum!” The youthful voice cut across the square like a knife through whey, snapping Agnes’ eyes up from Aelianna’s little secret. There was a large group of wildermen making their way across the square, pushing people aside when as they strode to the City hall.

Ahead of them ran a young boy, no older than thirteen winters with a mess of dirty blonde hair pulled back into a hunter's knot behind his head. Over his shoulder swung two warrior-fowl tied together by their feet. The gigantic birds nearly stretched to his knees, their black heads with white chinstraps bouncing while the excited youth bounded towards them. His clothes were absolutely filthy; patches of mud hung from his tunic, trousers and ragged fur overcoat alike.

On his hip sat a small quiver of arrows, the top closed and buttoned to stop the arrows from falling out. Clasped in his hand was a short bow, and while it’s presence sent a little shiver of worry up Agnes’ spine, the wilderguard seemed less interested in the boy and more preoccupied in the throng of people who just arrived in the square.

“Seamus!” Agnes cried, waving and standing up while Aelianna finished her work at their feet. Xerix and Beocallum exchanged a little glance and nodded to each other, Beocallum helping Aelianna lift the corpse onto the pullcart while Xerix grabbed Agnes’ wrist in a warrior’s clasp.

“I hope Athair smiles on you the rest of the day, along with my Gods Agnes. Now it would seem that discretion is a wiser course. Till we meet again.”

Agnes smiled and thanked the strange elf, sending a little nod to Aelianna after he released her wrist. Aelianna made some sort of gesture at her and Agnes tried to copy it as best she could before turning to face Seamus’ rapidly approaching form.

Then, as the elves busied themselves with the bodies they had removed by covering them and their illicit masks in heavy canvas on the pullcart, Agnes and Beocallum turned and pretended to stroll casually away from the tree as the square slowly filled up with Wildermen. A few brave highwaller souls were nervously poking their heads out from their homes in the square or emerging from the shadows to see what the large progression was doing.

Seamus, apparently oblivious to the throng behind him, grabbed Agnes around the waist in a big hug. The boy grunted a bit, yet again hopelessly trying to pick the hall-man up by her middle. Agnes rolled her eyes; the little lad had constantly been trying to prove himself to her since he heard she used to be a hall-man just like Beocallum. The boy hung around Beocallum enough in the day, but it seemed the one he wanted to impress was Agnes instead.

“Did you see my catch?” The young man pulled the pair of giant fowl from his shoulder, holding the black, white and tan birds up for Agnes’ approval. She took the giant waterfowl in her hands, holding the long-necked creatures up for inspection.

“I did, this is impressive Seamus!” She handed the birds back to the boy, who grinned and stuck the birds out for Beocallum to see as well. “Did you down these yourself?”

“Aye!” The excited young lad almost shouted, gesturing to two highwallers who approached them at a more subdued pace than their young charge. On their shoulders sat three more of the giant water birds apiece, their hunting clothes similarly muddy to Seamus’ own.

“Fargut and Caehran took me out to where the flocks return from the south, and showed me how to find the gaggles. I sat in a lake for an hour before I shot these two!” He held up his small bow proudly.

“Good work boy!” Beocallum cast an approving eye over the kills, pushing the bow down with his free hand. Their conversation trailed off a bit as the throng in the square intensified. People were walking up curiously from all corners of the square now, enveloping the three highwallers in a subdued hubbub of noise.

“What’s all this then?” Beocallum turned to Fargut and Caehran as the two hunters neared. They were man and wife, as common as Highwallers could be with auburn hair and blue eyes apiece. Admittedly when Agnes had first seen them together she thought Fargut was her brother instead of her husband. Thankfully Beocallum had corrected her before she managed to make a fool of herself.

Agnes idly wondered if falling in love with someone so similar to yourself counted as vanity, but brushed the thought aside as the two hunters drew in to allow the crowd to flow around their little group. It looked like they had surrendered their weapons before joining them, as Agnes noted the empty quivers at their muddy hips.

“It’s a group of Feilkhu,” Caehran motioned to the group where Agnes could just barely make out patches of fur and tall figures as the crowd thickened around them. “They joined us on the last day of our trip, looks like the wildermen were expecting them.”

“They’re just like the stories! Men and wolves mixed!” Seamus excitedly exclaimed, motioning to the crowd they were now all peering at. He turned to Agnes and his face suddenly fell, his tone becoming more sombre. “I didn’t expect them to look so pleased when they met the wildermen; dad always told me they hated each other.”

Agnes rubbed Seamus’ shoulder comfortingly, the boy rarely spoke about his father, but when he did it was very reverently.

Obviously the boy, like all boys, had looked up to his father very much and now the man hung somewhere on the tree. That was something no boy should have to live through and Agnes thanked the Allfather she had been given the opportunity to bury her own family instead of seeing them humiliated so in death.

Seamus told Agnes once that the boy never visited his father's corpse; preferring to remember the image he carried in his heart. Agnes felt her insides twist, the strange little boy seemed so young most of the time, but glaring moments of maturity poked frequently through his mask of youthful excitement. Agnes could tell the boy was growing up too quickly, and felt sad that he had to grow up in these troubled times.

“I’m sure he was right, but the change in leadership here will affect all of the people around Cagairn for sure, even the gilded north. I’m sure the wolf-men are just here to declare their borders with the new Oaken lord, heavens know they won’t let the wildermen invade their fertile lands.”

Seamus still looked crestfallen, so Agnes pressed on.

“Dont forget! The sons of the land appeared right as you earned your ring, that’s a very good omen from Athair if I say so myself!”

Seamus looked up at Agnes and smiled, a bit of his excitement returning. He turned to Beocallum, gesturing to the pack strapped to his back

“Beocallum, I’ve been practicing with-”

The ex-hallman cut the boy off with a wave of his free hand, looking about suspiciously.

“Not here Seamus, there’s too many guards about. Don’t tell us anything more until we meet at master Gaelie’s home later.”

“You’ll take the boy there then?” Fargut spoke up, his deep tones carrying easily through the mild murmuring of the crowd about them. “We’ve got to take these birds to Thale before he finds us. Always lets us keep more if we do.”

Beocallum nodded and Seamus dropped his birds from his shoulder to give them to the hunters. Caehran shook her head, pushing the two birds back onto the boy's shoulder.

“No lad, you take that brace of warriors up to Master Gaelie, Thale and his like seem scared of the old man, as if he could put a curse on them or something. Your kill will stay yours up there and you’ve earned it.”

Seamus grinned and hugged the woman around the middle, who looked surprised for a moment then smiled and stroked his head.

Agnes felt a warm bubble of understanding well within her, Caehran was about the same age as her and they had attended the Hall together. It was known she was barren, despite her rite of blood coming before anyone else in the hall, and Agnes knew it gave her great grief to be childless. Caehran had left Cagairn around the same time Agnes did, but her family had already been murdered by brigand wildermen before the hall-man had returned to her home in the wilds.

Apparently Fargut had met her in the woods, and they had been wed in secret by master Gaelie some short time later. Agnes didn’t know much about the man, but Beocallum assured her he was a good person.

Seamus released Caehran and gave Fargut a similar bone-crushing hug who returned the gesture with interest. Agnes saw the happiness in their eyes and suddenly Beocallum’s idea to have them teach Seamus how to hunt seemed like much more than just practical.

The two hunters said their goodbyes and left the three, headed off into the throng towards the old warrior hall.

“I think the man I’m supposed to sell this to is here in the crowd,” Beocallum nodded at the hall and motioned to the hill behind them. “Can you take Seamus up to the Athairhall or should I do that after I sell these?”

Aggie quickly took the bow from Seamus’ hand, who didn’t even resist.

“You take him after, I have to stop by the hall before I can go see master Gaelie. I’ll hang onto this in case your wilderguard has issues with weapons in the square. I’ll give it back when I return Seamus.”

Seamus nodded knowingly, casting a subtle glance over to the Athairwood and it’s macabre trappings. Again Agnes was reminded that the boy was a smart lad.

Beocallum smiled at the boy and waved to Agnes, who quickly turned on her heel and made her way out of the milling people.

On her way past the city hall, Agnes got a glimpse of one of the Feilkhu as the wolf chatted with some wildermen beside the giant wooden pillars and she paused a moment to stare. Agnes was not well acquainted with the masters of the gilded north; in fact she had mostly only heard of them through tales or the occasional traveller’s tale even though her father’s sheep had often strayed into the southern borders of their lands.

This was her first time actually seeing one, the sight giving her the shivers along with a little thrill of excitement at the unknown.

Agnes assumed it was a man for his body and stature. He held himself upright like any normal highwaller would, if a full yale taller than even the tallest wildermen about him.

His fur was a dark grey and mottled with spots of black and white. It appeared to cover his entire body, as the tales had said, but seemed rougher and shorter than what she had expected. Most dogs Agnes knew had very fluffy and thick fur, and that was what she had based her thought of them from. However, the real thing appeared more coarse and matted, closer to the skin instead of puffed out like the hunting dogs found down in the Lord’s kennels by the beast-hall.

Oddly enough, the wolf was wearing clothing much like her own; a wool tunic over an undershirt and a pair of trousers. She had thought the fur would have been enough for the wolves to wear but here he was, dressed like any other man in Cagairn. He even wore a pair of heavy boots; much like the ones Agnes received from the Warrior hall as part of her kit. Though unlike her own boots these seemed uncomfortably long, like the creatures feet were almost comically proportioned.

He wore a necklace of small, smooth stone rocks about his neck. They were all a dark black colour, as if pulled from the bottom of a stream and fastened them together with a piece of thin leather. The stones were almost hidden in the tufts of fur about his neck, but Agnes could make them out all the same.

Agnes wondered if the fur made it appear so, but he seemed quite strong in stature and there did not appear to be any sloth in his frame at all. Aside from that his body looked normal, with legs like her own (despite what the tales had said) and five-fingered hands. Although, Agnes could clearly make out short black claws on the end of each finger, so they weren’t exactly alike.

Of course, then you reached the neck and all similarity to man ended. The head was definitely that of a wolf, with a long muzzle and upright ears. His fur did not part like hair: remaining short and matted on the top of his head.

There appeared to be a thick blue paste worked into his fur, like some sort of tribal war mud, that traced his eyes and cheeks. He appeared to be conversing easily with the wildermen about him and Agnes wondered how someone with a mouth so vastly different from theirs could speak their tounge. The wolf caught her staring and returned the gaze, his pale eyes eerie and foreboding.

Agnes quickly looked down in shame for staring, making her way out of the town square quickly. The “sons of the land,” as they were often called, were a strange sight for sure. They almost never left the gilded north, only leaving to trade in Cagairn once a year.

Agnes had heard from her teachers at the hall that once upon a time the Feilkhu had been captured and enslaved by her forefathers, who did not know the wolf-men were intelligent beings. Simply thinking them beasts, they had thrown a heavy yoke on them and brought them into the city to serve them.

Of course, it hadn’t taken long for the Feilkhu to learn the language and speak with their captors, prompting a massive conflict to break out between the church of the Allfather and those who dealt in the slavery.

Eventually the Lord of Cagairn of that age, known as Solamh the wise, declared the Feilkhu men like the Geldah and Creedah and their slavery outlawed within the reaches of his halls. Those who resisted or refused to give up their slaves were dealt with severely, the only instance of civil war within their recorded history.

In apology, the wolf-men were named “sons of the land” and given the most bountiful lands in Siothall, called the “gilded north”, to live in. Now armed with the knowledge given them by the Church and the best lands in Siothall, the Feilkhu struck out and created a prosperous community there, paying a tribute every year to the Lord of Cagairn as thanks.

Agnes wondered if the tales of them eating raw meat only were true or not. People often spoke about the bountiful fruits that came from those lands and if the wolf-men only ate meat, Agnes wondered why they would grow fruit at all? Casting one last glance back at the exotic sight, Agnes took a street leading down towards the market and stepped from the square; finally realizing how blinded to the smell of death she had become as the cool breeze from the river Jorgen filled her nose and lifted her spirits.

Idly wondering how the offal of the town square smelt to their new guests and their long noses, Agnes plodded her way down the street toward the Warrior-hall. She kept the small bow tucked as subtly as she could against her side while she walked. On the way back she would unstring the thing and stuff it into her pack for sure, but in the meantime she would have to be careful.

The recent escalating attacks on the wilderguard had put all of the wildermen on edge, with equally escalating punishments for the people as the guards became more and more harrowed.

Last week two wildermen had been found with roc totems placed in their mouths by the bank of the Jorgen; it looked like they had been drowned while fishing.

Agnes shuddered; while resisting the Wildermen was a good thing, she couldn’t get over the fact that it was all being done from the shadows. It was like some sort of assassin cult had taken over the city, weakening the wilderguard and their grip on the people.

It was having an effect on the Widlermen for sure; two tired-looking guards eyed up Agnes carefully as she passed opposite them in the street. The wildermen no longer swaggered about, but it was also making them lash out harder and fiercer against the people whenever they saw the chance.

Agnes longed for the days of Bearsgore where upstanding men and women could stand and fight against their oppressors with no consequences for their loved ones. But the world had become a complicated place since that day to say the least.

She may not like the methods used, but Agnes at least appreciated that someone somewhere was fighting back against the wilderguard.

Rounding a final corner in the street, Agnes finally came within range of the old warrior hall, pausing a moment to take in the sight as she was wont to do.

Unlike most of the halls found in Cagairn, the warrior hall was two stories high with a third floor dug deep into the ground. It was almost like a dome but for a balcony that wrapped around the second floor. Stories told that the warrior hall was the original home of the Oaken throne, back when Cagairn was no bigger than any of the other great halls about Siothall.

Back then it had also just been a single high wall that defended the city, hence the name the people of Cagairn had taken upon themselves: highwaller. The Hall itself had also served as a watchtower, much like the little outpost that Lord Thall had built upon the summit of the hill did now.

Agnes smiled and remembered the first time she had seen the hall: seated in the back of a hay cart with eleven other boys and girls from the wilds coming to spend their time at the old hall among all the highwallers.

It had seemed like the dome of some ancient giant’s helm back then, with the billow of smoke from the chimney in the middle acting like some sort of warrior plume. It was as if the people of Cagairn had used some fallen myths’ armour to protect their home.

There was a large stone wall that rose behind the hall, forming a horseshoe to the north side of the building. That was where the spring that marked the beginning of the city of Cagairn was housed and protected. It was also there that Agnes had learned patience, strength and honour in equal measure.

Agnes had been equal parts scared and exhilarated, standing bolt upright at the front of the cart, much to the chagrin of the other children. The air had been thick with the training of youth, shouts and giggles accompanied by the occasional clacking of wooden weapons as the warriors taught the warrior youth in the rope circles about the grounds. Some kind old priest had also been there to welcome them but despite any attempts to do so, Agnes couldn’t remember the man’s name or face.

The teaching of reading, writing and arithmetic had been taken care of by the Allfather Priests who used to live there at the time and was offered freely to anyone who cared to join them. The training of warriors however, was handled by the Hall-men assigned by the Oaken Lord and was only given to the strongest children.

Agnes had grown up wrangling sheep, so it had not been a surprise to anyone but herself when the hall-men picked her to be trained as a warrior. Agnes’ own father had sold half his flock to fit her with a proper kit instead of relying on some older warriors charity as others before her had done.

Once they had all received their rings and three more winters of training, they were given a choice: return to their families to pick up their parent’s trades, learn a new trade from the many masters at Cagairn or continue on in the hall as a Hallman themselves.

Agnes hadn’t even hesitated to swear fealty to the Hallmaster and join the ranks of the defenders of the north, excited to make the ways safe for her family.

Agnes sighed, making her way down the cobbled street towards the brown and yellow dome of the hall: watching as women hung their clothes to dry on the lookout railing of the second floor.

The air was not thick with joyful youth, at least not to the extent it had been winters ago when Agnes had first approached the hall. Now there was a muted calm to the place, as if everyone were holding their breath against a predator that stalked just out of sight.

Several widows and infirm were gathered around the hall, sewing or carving or doing whatever was needed to make a coin or two. Women were not seen as equals by the wildermen, so any woman found working the market or shop without a husband was often chased off by the wilderguards. Here they could peddle a little to the Highwallers, who really didn’t care what gender they were.

Agnes strode up to the low stone wall about the hall, hopping deftly over while avoiding the early spring gardens the other women in the hall had taken to planting in the dirt rope-surrounded training circles. She smiled again; Agnes missed those old circles, remembering fondly the time she spent in them either bludgeoning some other poor child with a practice weapon or getting bludgeoned by her instructors in return.

“Hey Aggie!” One of the older women called from the railing, waving cheerfully in the afternoon air. Agnes returned the wave, pausing in her journey to the front door.

“Morning Gertrude. How's the pipsqueaks today!?”

A pair of little heads bobbed up over the stone railing as their mother leaned out over the rough-hewn parapet beside them, her loose brown hair spilling out over the stone.

“Being right terrors mistress. I have half a mind to let you thrash the evil out of them and no mistake.” A fit of giggles erupted from the balcony and the little heads disappeared.

“Once I’m finished for the day I’ll come back and do that for ya.” Agnes grinned and waved at them to another chorus of impish giggles from above. Suddenly the woman from above stuck her head over the railing, reaching for Agnes.

“Aggie, can you fetch some water from the spring? I’m afraid I didn’t gather enough for bathing my hellions here.”

Agnes glanced up, confused for a moment; Gertrude was not a lazy woman, if she needed more water she would get it herself. She locked eyes with the older woman, searching them for a sign of trouble.

“I’m late for a meeting with Gaelie, Gertrude,” Agnes tried to keep her tone polite, “Seamus just made it back and I want to hear all about his trip outside of the city before the day is through.”

“Please Aggie? It’s very important.” Gertrude looked panicked for a second, sending a quell of uneasiness down Agnes’ spine. The former hall-man could see some kind of pleading in the older woman’s eyes, almost a fear.

“I’ll do it right away Gertrude, Don’t you fret.” Agnes nodded slowly and stepped forwards into the hall, shaking her head in confusion.

The smoky darkness of the hall fell on her eyes like a thick woolen blanket, making her blink and cough a bit as the fumes from the small fire stung at her face. The inside was darker than it should have been: none of the braziers or torches were lit thanks to the lack of kindling, but by the light of a few candles Agnes could make out a the five long tables that covered the flat wooden-planked floors and the people either huddled about them or seated at them.

Right in the middle of the room sat a large stone brazier, piled high with cold ash and soot, a small fire crackling at the centre of it. Someone was trying to cook some food by leaving a pot directly in the modest flames, a stew by the looks of it.

The mood inside was much more subdued than even the streets; this was a place the truly destitute went to escape. Mostly it was women among the refugees; the wildermen either treated women as useless baggage or, much worse in the opinion of the highwallers, as a passing diversion.

They and the infirm brought there either lounged at the tables or sat upon the hard floors, busying themselves with whatever task they could or simply staring into empty nothingness.

Standing watch over them were the warriors past, giant wooden statues carved with the effigies of the hall-masters. Their shields and spears hung over the people within like dark sentinels, the long shadows of the hall casting a ominous pallor over their figures. The effigy of Hroki himself stood over a widow and her infant child seated at his feet, the shadows casting what appeared to be flickering dark tears about his eyes and face. Agnes walked over to him, nodding to the widow and placing a hand respectfully on his shield, as she did every time she returned to the hall.

Casting her eyes back about the room, Agnes noticed that they had turned a table to its side and placed bedding upon the floor in the lee of it, creating a nice wall to bounce the heat of the meager fire back into the infirm that they had laid upon the bedding. Wise choice, probably one of the priests who thought of it, as the hall was quite cold despite the early springtime air that blew in from the open doors to the front and back of the hall.

Several women wandered about, giving what succor they could to those laid upon the bedding. Often people viewed as allies to the wildermen or from outside the city were shunned by those in the hall at first, but before long either a priest urged someone to care for them or someone would view their plight as understandable. Pride was in short supply these days, and Anges felt that perhaps that was a good thing in here.

Despite the anger the Highwallers had for those they viewed and sympathetic with the wildermen, they were a kind people. Even Agnes had experienced trouble when she first arrived, as no one knew who she was or where she was from, but after the first fight she broke up people had come to rely on her strength more often than not.

Something was wrong though, even for the usual misery of the hall it was strangely quiet. There were almost no children about, which was even more unusual. The ones that were there huddled in fear against their parents, who patted their heads comfortingly. It felt like they were avoiding her gaze, unlike the usual warmer welcome she found upon entering the hall.

An old woman washing the head of one of the sick men nestled beside the overturned table met her gaze, almost by accident, and gave her a weak smile. The old woman touched her forehead in respect, as most of the people who lived there did when any of the former hall-men arrived, and Agnes copied the tired motion.

The people about her really just looked tired more than anything else, as if they didn’t really know what to do anymore and were just biding their time until something else happened. Shaking her head as if to clear it of the smoke and her paranoia, Agnes made her way over to the small fire nestled in the giant brazier and cast an investigative eye over it.

The wildermen took all the good burning wood before it reached the highwallers and even less made it to the destitute of the hall. Still the stew in the pot seemed to have cooked properly and the bowls of the thin sooty liquid began to be handed out equally among all those there by an old priest, his head covered in scars inflicted by their new masters.

Agnes picked her way carefully through the people as they gathered for the food, politely waving away a bowl of the stew as the priest presented it to her. She could afford to eat better than most here, and never took food that could be used to feed those without work.

Really the only reason she did not have a home of her own by now was that the wildermen did not allow a woman to own property of any sort. Most of the people here were widows who found themselves ejected from their homes by pushy wildermen when their husbands passed away. Often she would pick up extra food from the market and shared it with the people there. It seemed a small way to help take back the city, but Agnes enjoyed it anyways.

Agnes reached the stairs leading to the basement, resting her hand on the dark wooden railing. She would go fetch Gertrude’s water later, once she had changed into her new clothes.

As her foot touched the first step a soft noise pricked at her ears, sending an electric shock of understanding through her. She froze in her tracks at the head of the stairs, feeling more than hearing the people tense about her.

Again the soft little noise alighted on her ears, making her insides clench in anger. That was why Gertrude wanted her to go out to the spring, and why everyone looked so terrified.

Carefully placing the bow in her hand on the railing beside her she spun on her heel, purposefully not looking at anyone around her as she determinedly stomped towards the door leading to the back courtyard and the water spring.

Two women were seated in front of the door, they stood as she approached and the young one held out a hand in warning.

“Don’t go out there Aggie, wait a moment.” Agnes felt her scowl cut deep across her own face, trying her best not to glare at the scared little woman

“You know I can’t do that Feynia.”

The little woman nearly quailed as Agnes’ even tone washed over her, causing the other, an old crone named Moranna, to step in front of her protectively. Another spike of anger ran through Agnes, she had never hurt a single soul in the hall and the idea of Moranna needing to protect anyone from her was an insult.

“They threatened us again Aggie, we had to give them someone.”

Agnes nearly snarled, her blood boiling in her veins and bringing the world into a horrible clarity. She could taste the metal in the air on her tounge and she realized her battlelust was taking over.

“Feynia, Moranna,” She began, choosing her words carefully. “I know you’re both just looking after us all, but there’s nothing the the three hells that will stop me from going out there and ending this issue right now. You know they’re just going to keep coming back if we let them do what they want.”

The older woman looked to stop her a moment, but nodded and stepped from the way, giving Agnes a full view of the poor woman struggling to fight off three men by the side of the spring. A fat man had pinned her arms behind her back, his other hand clamped down heavily over her mouth. A second man, thinner with a shaved head and ragged clothes struggled with her legs, his hands groping around under her underdress. A third was watching intently from a bit further away; obviously the lookout who was not doing his job.

“Give em hell Aggie.” Feynia whispered as the hall-man stepped through the door, the pounding of her heart returning as she neared her prey.

Something fell from the balcony above them and Agnes looked up to see Gertrude’s retreating back. She knelt down to the object and picked it up, smiling as her hands ran over one of the wooden practice swords left behind by the warriors-in training. Something dark stirred within her staring at the wooden weapon, the heft of the heavy wood comforting in her grip.

Agnes knew it was wrong, but she loved it when her blood sang like this. It was almost as if the world got a little sharper and clearer when there was something to fight against. She pushed the rage down as far as she could as she strode out into the clearing, stopping just short of the first brute before her.

“Oi!” She shouted, more than a little louder than she intended, “Someone please care to explain all this then?”

The men froze in what they were doing, the closest one actually jumping in surprise. Agnes gritted her teeth: she didn’t recognise the woman but the three japes in front of her were well known rapists. The closest one, Geralt, took a step back, nervously reaching towards a dagger at his hip.

“Now, calm down Aggie, we thought you was up at the smith’s.”

Agnes almost snarled at the man, making him take another step back, nearly into the spring in his haste.

“I told you what would happen if I caught you here again didn’t I? It’s about time you men took a little walk.” She pointed the sword at the little cowards nose; causing him to go cross eyed with fear.

“And who the hells are you telling us what to do?” The fat man holding the woman down growled and stood, pulling a short stick from the back of his pants as he did so. Agnes took stock of it; looked like either a nut-crusher or some sort of grain grinding tool. It would be heavier built than her little training sword, but her reach was longer.

The other man who had been groping the woman earlier switched to pinning the woman to the ground, his eyes still warily locked on Agnes as the young woman struggled feebly.

“Shut your trap Mageth,” Agnes roared at the fat highwaller, “You’ve got no right acting like some lofty lord here. Tell Seamic there to let her go, or I’ll thrash the lot of you.”

The skinny highwaller holding the woman down leered at Agnes, reaching down into the woman's’ shirt, causing her to shriek in pain. Mageth grinned, his beady eyes glaring out from behind a stubbly beard and chubby red rosy cheeks

“You think we’d be stupid enough to go after one of your girls again Aggie? No, this bitch is different, you got no say in this matter. Even ol’ Sean and Hamish didn’t say nothing when we grabbed her.”

He reached over to the woman, grabbing her by the throat and squeezing cruelly. The woman’s black hair hung in long strings before her face but Agnes could make out the woman’s pleading green eyes as she struggled to breathe.

“She a wilderman whore,” Mageth snarled jerking the woman’s head around cruelly. “Looks like those savages didn’t like her much so they cast her out here with us. No one’s going to support you if you defend her now, are they?”

He slapped the woman hard about the face, drawing blood from her lip. Agnes felt her grip on the sword tighten, the wood cutting painfully into her palm.

“One last time Mageth, you need to take a walk.”

“Oh stuff it Aggie!” Shouted Geralt, pulling the dagger loose from his belt.

That was a mistake.

Agnes whipped the sword downwards, knocking the dagger loose from his hand before he even managed to draw it fully. Next the sword came back around, swung expertly sideways in a savage strike to the side of the head. With a resounding crack the blade broke in half, one end spinning off into the distance. Geralt screamed in pain, dropping to the ground with blood pouring out from between his clenched fingers.

Mageth roared in anger, sprinting towards Agnes with his cudgel raised high over his head. Agnes almost grinned as her blood sang in battle, quickly bringing her sword up to catch the wooden weapon between the crossguard of the sword and what remained of the practice blade. Her other hand found it’s mark as a balled fist to the ribs of the meaty highwaller, who gasped as the breath left him and clutched his side in pain. Agnes tried to bring the hilt of the sword down on Mageth’s head, just missing her chance to put the ugly boar down for good as his hands rose in a scrambled defence. A swift kick fixed her mistake, pushing the disgusting man away from her and stumbling over the rocks at the edge of the spring.

Seamic rose, tossing the woman aside and charging Agnes headlong. Agnes quickly lowered herself in anticipation, catching the tackle with her arms instead of her waist. They fell, the wooden sword spinning away as her back connected to the hard ground. The courtyard was laid with sod, which was a softer landing than most, but still Agnes winced as a rock dug into her back. Quickly pulling her legs to her chest as the useless brute struggled to wrap his hands about her neck, Agnes delivered a savage kick with both feet to his gut. The skinny letch flew backwards, retching and dry heaving as he rolled onto his side, doubled over in pain.

Agnes quickly got onto her feet, crouched down on all fours as Mageth managed to right himself. The wooden sword was nowhere to be found, and the fat rapist had managed to find his cudgel again. Scrambling about to find something to defend herself with, Agnes grinned as her fingers found the dagger Geralt had dropped earlier. She rose with the blade in hand as Mageth charged, his weapon raised over his head .

Almost too easily Agnes sidestepped the strike, using her off-hand to clasp the weapon, pulling with her might to bring the man off balance. As he stumbled Agnes swung expertly, cutting a clean gash across his face just under his eyes and through the bridge of his nose. The cut was intentional, she could have blinded him at this range if she so chose but Agnes felt that she couldn’t in good standing blind a man. Scarring his face badly would have to do.

Mageth screamed, releasing his weapon into Agnes’ grip and clutching his face with both hands. Geralt stared up at Agnes in terror through curtains of red stemming from the cut on his own forehead as Seamic heaved and retched on the ground beside him.

“I told you it was time for a walk.” Agnes strode over to the terrified bully, wiping the dagger on her tunic. “If I catch any of you men near this hall again my face will be the last thing you see.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but Agnes cut him off by throwing his dagger point first between his legs, the blade thumping into the ground savagely just below his manhood. The coward let out a strangled squeak, scrambling to his feet and running away over the wall to the south.

Mageth managed to stagger to his feet, blinking against the waves of crimson just below his eyes. Seamic rose as well, clutching at his stomach as if it were made of fire, helping his co-letcher stagger over to the hall and pushing his way past the gawking people with a vicious snarl. Agnes dropped the cudgel and made her way quickly over to the young woman on the ground, helping the poor thing sit up as the woman rubbed her neck painfully.

“Agnes!” Agnes looked up to see Gertrude in the doorway of the hall. She grinned evilly at the former hall-man as the two crippled men staggered towards her, pushing past them with barely a sidelong glance. Agnes shook her head a bit at the older highwaller, motioning the woman to come help her.

Gertrude was very beautiful for her age, dark brown hair making her fair geldah skin stand out even more. Her features were soft, a peach-shaped face with dustings of red on both her cheekbones. Much like Kalsidhe her beauty had been known to the city before the fall and Agnes had often wondered what the two ladies thought of each other.

She had endeared herself to Agnes almost immediately, possibly sensing the former hall-man’s potential as a protector for herself and her two sons. Agnes didn’t really mind, company was always welcome, but often she wondered if the beautiful woman would have been so friendly had her husband still been alive.

“I’ve got a rag here, we can dip it in the spring.” The older woman knelt down, pulling a long strip of linen from her tattered apron and dipping it in the spring.

“Th-thank-you.” The woman stammered out, hoarsely attempting to swallow. Agnes shook her head at the girl, reaching for one of the shallow clay bowls everyone left at the water’s edge.

“Don’t try to speak, it’ll only make it worse. I’ll get you some water.” She dipped the pottery into the spring, fishing out a modest amount for the woman to drink, who graciously took the proffered drink without a word. After finishing the clean water the woman sat a moment, watching the water gurgle between the hewn stones laid down around the spring.

“Thank-you.” The woman attempted again, choking a bit on the words. She was very young, probably only survived fifteen or sixteen winters, and her frame was almost unhealthily slender. When she spoke it was halting and rough, as if it pained her to speak.

“You saved me. I thought no one would care.”

Her black hair was matted and oily, wildermen did not bathe at all, and Agnes noticed a piece of bone tied to one strand beside her face. Gertrude brought the piece of linen up from the water and dabbed at the woman’s lip, cleaning the blood from her cheek and chin.

“Is everything ok?” Agnes hesitated, “Do we need to get someone to come and see if your-” the young woman shook her head, making Agnes grateful she didn’t have to finish that sentence.

“No, they didn’t get that far. Only some bruises, I swear on the wilder.” She looked up fearfully at the two women.

“Or I guess on the Allfather,” she finished sheepishly.

Agnes waved a hand dismissively, but Gertrude seemed more offended than she, sniffing lightly at the mention of the wilder.

“I’m sorry,” the girl intoned, looking down at her feet; “i’m still not used to living here yet.” She paused, peering at the older woman as Agnes pried the dagger from the dirt near them.

“You were the one they threatened when they took me. Thank-you for standing up for me.” She turned to Agnes, something between awe and admiration in her eyes; “and you I’ll never forget.”

The praise made Agnes uncomfortable, who coughed and motioned towards Gertrude with a free hand.

“Gertrude brought you to my attention, deserves the credit as much as me. What’s your name girl? I’ve not seen you about before today.”

The young woman nodded, tucking her feet underneath herself and trying to straighten her torn linen underdress.

“I’m Alane. My brother joined the wilderguard here not more than a week ago and I came along. I’m,” she paused a moment, “not welcome among my people and I had no place to go. I heard the hall was good for women to seek shelter, but didn’t have the courage to try and join you until today.”

Her face fell as she looked at her ruined clothes, torn up and piled in a heap where her assailants had left them.

“I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any more trouble to you. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Gertrude clicked her teeth disapprovingly, shaking her head and dabbing at the blood on the young girls lip again.

“None of that miss, those boys have been harassing the hall for weeks now, nothing you did brought them any faster to our doorstep. We’d be happy to have you here, at least me and my boys would.”

Alane looked up gratefully at the older woman but Agnes instead cast a wary eye over to the hall. Sure enough two of the old hall-men; Sean and Hamish, were looking at them disapprovingly from the upper balcony.

“Why are you not welcome among your people?” Agnes knew the question was blunt and unkind, but she wasn’t sure how safe the young woman would be in the hall at the moment. Alane looked startled, then picked at her thumb as her eyes lowered to the ground.

“My first child was born dead. He came too early, still wrapped in his casket of flesh. My husband put me away for that evil and the wilder forsook me when I went to it. I was branded hollow.”

She held up her hands, showing a mass of scars on each. As if someone had created a bird’s nest of steel and heated it to scour her skin. Gertrude winced and Agnes nearly nodded in sympathy, she didn’t know much about the wilder but the wildermen seemed to treat their women as little more than breeding stock at times.

“I had to debase myself to survive in my husband’s tribe, only when my brother found me did I know dignity again.” The young woman shuddered, wiping the outsides of her arms as if to wash away some unseen filth.

“He brought me here, said the Oaken Lord had work for all of us. He’s saving up for a home of our own, but as I am hollow none of our people will let us stay with them.” She looked up at Agnes, tears welling in her eyes.

“I this must sound so pitiful to you, but I’ve nowhere to go and I thought my people would leave me be if I hid among you. At least until my brother could get us a home.” The tears fell, causing the girl to hide her head in shame again.

Agnes, her battlelust long subsided, felt her heart drop from her chest as the little woman wept quietly. Gertrude looked conflicted a moment, but something warm stirred in those dark eyes and the older woman pulled her into her arms, whispering something Agnes could not make out while Alane cried.

“Now, there’s no need to fret girl.” Gertrude spoke up, her voice thick. “You’re among those who have suffered as well, we’ve all lost something over the past few winters.”

She looked up at Agnes, winking at the hallman as Alane lifted her head.

“Plus, Aggie here thrashes anyone who steps out of line anyways, she’s a rod of iron she is.”

Gertrude poked Agnes' taught arm, making the young wilderman girl laugh nervously. Agnes grinned, standing and helping the other two women to their feet.

“I’m a bit more flesh than that, but we all look out for each other here.” Agnes winced as she said it, remembering who it was that had given her up in the first place. “Despite what you've gone through, these people are good people; just frightened.”

Alane shook her head, looking down again.

“I understand why they did it.” She motioned to the clothes at her feet. “I tried to hide it, but somehow they knew all the same. I’m the enemy.”

Gertrude scoffed, waving away Alanes’ comment as if swatting a fly from the air.

“That’s bunkum lassie, far as I see you’re in the same place we are. Women like us have to stick together, especially now.”

Alane smiled for the briefest of moments, but looked downcast again. Agnes wondered if the girl even could cheer up, having been through so much.

“But I was a-”

“Nonsense.” Gertrude cut her off, looking a bit exasperated with Alane and rolling her eyes at Agnes. “Lots of our own sisters have had to do some pretty debase things to survive these past few winters. Any who would judge for it have a thing or two to talk to Athair about; I’m sure he’d give them an earful.”

Alane looked scandalized for a moment, but giggled as Gertrude continued.

“Now, unless you’re going to turn me in for saying the Allfather’s name, I think it’s time we got you some food and clothes aye?”

Alane nodded, but clasped Agnes’ hand tightly as all three started towards the hall, staring into the warrior’s eyes intently.

“I’m truly grateful, if I ever have more children I will name the next girl Agnes I swear.” She paused, shyly grinning at Gertrude after a moment. “And the rest I will name Gertrude.”

“Well I hope not every last one!” Gertrude chuckled as they passed into the dark of the hall, a one of the former priests already there with a blanket for the girl.

“You’d have a right hard time sorting them out wouldn’t you? Can you imagine two or three more Gertrudes in a family Aggie?”

Agnes shuddered comically.

“We’d never live to tell the tale.”

The three women laughed as Alane was escorted to a seat, one of the women from the fireside bringing them a bowl of stew to feed the young woman. The hushed tone of the hall had vanished, the chatter of uplifted spirits breaking the awkward silence that had reigned before.

Several of the women, including the two that tried to stop Agnes, came to apologize to Alane. Most of which sounded sincere to Agnes, though Gertrude sniffed at Moranna when she departed from shaking the young girl's hand.

“Wouldn’t know courage if it hit her upside the head. She’s got nothing left to live for, no husband, family or purpose left. She should have made a right pain of herself to them at least when they took you. I tried to at least.”

Alane shook her head, speaking through a mouthful of stew.

“They threatened your children when you did, what could an old women do to men like that?”

“You’ve a point there.” Gertrude nodded begrudgingly, then stood as Sean and Hamish drew close. She quickly strode over and cut the two hallmen off as others gathered to offer help to the beleaguered woman.

“Is this where those two chase me off?”

Agnes startled a moment, turning to Alane, who was looking at the old hallmen with fearful eyes. She scoffed, grinning at the young woman as Gertrude started to shake her finger at them.

“Not if they value their ears, Gertrude used to be wed to one of the Landowners in the moot.” Alanes’ head shot up and Agnes nodded knowingly. “A high up man with lots of land too. That particular lord was the patron of both those men; she’s the last thing they have to a lord. They may not like what her views are, but they’re loyal to her.”

Agnes’ face softened, watching as the two old wardogs nodded begrudgingly at Gertrude, who stood with her hands on her hips before them. Honestly it could have gone either way, but it looked like Gertrude had things well in hand.

“I’m truly sorry Alane,” she shook her head, “wasn’t too long ago any one of the people here would have drawn blood to prevent the soiling of a woman’s honour. I’m afraid we’ve lost too much over the past few winters.” She looked Alane in the eye, putting her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “We will make amends for it, don’t you worry.”

Alane shook her head, putting the spoon she had been stirring her stew with down and patting Agnes’ hand with her own.

“It the fault of my kin really, I understand.”

“I don’t think you do.” Agnes countered, touching the scars on back of the poor girl's hand with her index finger. “Kin does not do this to kin. As far as I’m concerned Gertrude’s right; you’re one of us.”

Alane smiled, her eyes brimming again, but nodded and wiped her tears away while picking up her bowl of stew.

“I’ve got to go, Gertrude should look after you for now. If she’s not around just send someone for me and I’ll be by as soon as I can.”

Alane looked panicked for a moment, but her comfort returned as Gertrude walked back to plunk herself down beside them. Agnes bid her farewell of both, leaving the table as Alane got to know her new sisters better.

The moment Agnes descended the stairs, fetching the bow from the railing as she passed, her fist flew out and connected angrily with one of the thick supports of the cellar. The last of her battle rage ebbed as she panted at the wall, furious with everything and nothing at the same time.

Yes, it had felt good to thrash those men, cathartic even, but Agnes felt the anger and disappointment wash over her all the same. This was not what she had defended at Bearsgore. Or at least she thought it hadn’t been. Cagairn wasn’t a city full of people who lied to their children, took slaves in combat and raped their own women when their luck was at end, was it? She couldn’t tell anymore.

Agnes let her head rest against the wooden beam, closing her eyes as she membered that stupid girl from all those winters ago. The one who left the city gates on the back of her Khurelom, her Hall-man oaths still fresh in her mind. Agnes remembered that version of herself and laughed, a short, cold sound without merit.

Where was that honour she had felt when she joined the hall-men? Where was that self-righteous confidence they had exuded as they marched towards Bearsgore and the end of her childhood? Surely it had perished there, along with any future they hoped for.

Agnes felt tears sting at the corners of her eyes and wiped them away angrily, cursing herself for her lack of control. Remembering Bearsgore was always a hardship, more often than not she would see her brother in her memories, his happy grin still etched into her mind’s eye.

Agnes shook her head sadly, banishing the image of Sean from her mind. Some day she would have to return to his grave, if only to help set her heart at ease.

With a heavy heart Agnes turned to her bunk, rubbing her knuckles ruefully. She was grateful that the lower quarters seemed abandoned, drawing the curtain in the doorway of her little home.

The lower floor of the Hall was for the housing of the youth; as such bunks of three beds each were dug into the dirt walls and lined with stone, as was the rest of the cellar. The east wall had been for the girls and the west for the boys.

Now the bunks mostly stayed empty, most of the people lived in the warrior’s quarters upstairs. Before Gaelie had taken a great deal of people up the mountain with him it had been more occupied but Agnes had preferred the solitude, especially on days like today.

Each bunk had a small stone brazer along the outside wall that would house a small fire during the night, the curtain serving as privacy and to let the smoke waft from the room without choking the people within.

Agnes quickly changed into her normal clothes, she was not one to really wear a dress or skirt and as such simply found her most feminine tunic and a pair of clean trousers to wear. She balled up her blacksmithing clothes and tossed them under her bed: she would be wearing those to the smithy again tomorrow, so there wasn’t much point of washing them until she had a moment on the weekend to do so.

Wandering over to a clear bowl of water she kept on the bunk beside hers, Agnes splashed the tepid water over her face, trying in vain to straighten a few of her rosy curls out from where they strayed.

The iron soot of the forge washed away from her face easily but still Agnes took a moment to study her face in the reflection, noting the lines under her eyes and brow.

It felt like she had aged ten winters since Bearsgore and Agnes could feel it tugging at her. She didn’t really care much for how she looked, that was something more vapid women concerned themselves with, but still it was hard to see the weariness in her own eyes, and aged sort of complexion on a young face.

Perhaps Seamus wasn’t the only one growing old too quickly, Agnes gave herself a weak little smile in the rippling water and turned to her clothes. Reaching under her bed, Agnes produced a small Khumom-hair comb she shared with two other women and a fresh set of smallclothes.

Once she had finished trying to detangle her hair and changed into her new smallclothes, Agnes pulled the tunic over her head, smiling as the comfortable linen settled over her. It was made for a woman to wear and, unlike her other tunics, the dark red fabric sat comfortably on her shoulders and cinched easily at the hip with a wide leather belt. The extra fabric at the bottom almost made it look like a short dress but Agnes liked how free and loose it was compared to an actual dress.

Pulling the pair of trousers on, Agnes tightened the cord in their waist, mindful of how important a sturdy trouser knot could be for a woman in these dark times.

Disgusted that such tactics were even necessary, Agnes finished up by tucking a leather sheath into the waist at the back of her trousers, tying it firmly to the cord at her waist so that her dirk from the hall could be sheathed against her smallclothes and yet not poke out of her waistband.

It was risky for sure, there was no bluffing that the long dagger was anything but a deadly weapon, but Agnes felt like it was a necessary risk these days. No one would know the blade was there as long as the hem of her tunic stayed covering her buttocks.

Agnes dropped the dagger she had used against Mageth on the table beside her bed, wondering if it would be better to give it to someone like Alane or to keep it for herself in case of the worst. She decided on a little of both and tucked the knife under her pillow for now, deciding she would sneak it up to the smithy first and improve the little blade a bit before giving it to her newest hall-mate.

Then she grabbed a satchel from underneath her bed, slipping the unstrung bow easily into it and threw in some dried meat from her trunk as well. Master Gaelie always seemed to have enough for everyone but Agnes liked to share what she had with whoever she could anyways.

Lastly she put on her heavy kit boots, again nervous at being in the street without proper protection, lacing them up on the stairs leading up to the hall.

Upon walking up the stars Agnes felt a little thrush of pride: Alane and Gertrude were at the centre of the hall, Alane turning this way and that in a well-made dress and belt.

Moranna the crone sat nearby smiling at the two and Agnes realized she had seen the dress before on her shoulders, it seemed she had given it to Alane.

A sharp pang of anger bit at Agnes' stomach, who wondered if the cowardly woman thought gifting a dress would make up for her awful behaviour. The old crone seemed sad though, almost embarrassed to be there. Maybe this was a small first step towards towards something greater, even Agnes could tell.

“See Sean?” Agnes whispered to herself, “maybe there’s a bit of you left in this city after all.” She went over to the two women and bid her farewells, assuring the nervous wilderwoman she would be fine and promising to check on them when she returned.

It was now late afternoon and the sun had started it’s journey down from its’ zenith, muting the colours of the city and market below. If Agnes made good time up the hill she would be at the old Athairhome just as it was time to sup.

Returning to the main square, Agnes was surprised to find it empty except for two more of the Feilkhu and some wilderguards. Obviously whatever had drawn the crowds had subsided, but Agnes felt nervous under the gaze of the wolf-men all the same.

They were standing to either side of the door, like a guard of some sort, the wildermen with them longing lazily upon the ground or on chairs outside the hall. Agnes wondered why the two Feilkhu were allowed to wear weapons inside the city, eyeing up the axes at their hips and the shields in their hands.

Something felt off about this whole event, but Agnes simply dismissed it as her mounting paranoia and continued on past the tree.

There was no sign of her new elven friends either and Agnes was slightly disappointed. It had been an emotional afternoon and she felt like Xerix would be a good comfort to his friends as such.

Still it was for the better he wasn’t there anyways, Agnes knew that if you burdened your friends too much they ceased to be your friends.

The rest of the trip back to the smithy wasn’t very eventful, most of the wilderguards she ran into seemed at ease surprisingly and did not even pay her any mind. More concerningly though was the presence of at least one Feilkhu with each wilderguard patrol, armed and watching as if learning the cities streets and pathways.

Seeing the massive beasts walk so easily with the wildermen made worry gnaw at her stomach and Agnes countered her anxiety by chewing absently on her thumbnail. It was rare to see them outside of the gilded north at all, but now they were walking the streets of Cagairn as if they had always been there.

Upon reaching her place of work Agnes took a moment to duck into the store, perhaps she could pick up her pay a touch early and give some coin to Seamus, as was tradition of the mother when a someone earned their ring.

Khalsidhe was there, seated upon her chair looking over some books as the former hall-man entered her store. The bronze-skinned beauty looked up and smiled, waving hello absently as Agnes touched her head in respect.

“I believe my husband told you to enjoy your day off Aggie, I’ll not have you mess up that nice tunic I gave you with work.” She idly turned a page, dipping a warrior-fowl feather in an inkwell beside her and scratching some figures into the margin of her book.

Agnes was always amazed by the Mistresses’ wordsmithing and smiled as the neat calligraphy took shape on the oiled pages of her tome.

“I was hoping to pick up my pay a touch early mum.” Agnes walked over to stand respectfully beside the woman, looking about for the absent daughters she had expected. “Seamus is back from his trip and it looks like he earned his ring. His mother isn’t about anymore so I thought I’d give him some of my coin.”

Khalsidhe paused for a moment, eyeing up Agnes with a small smile.

“That’s a nice thought Aggie, been too long since anyone has earned a ring here in the city I think. Here, I’ll give you some coin for the boy and you can keep yours for other things. Consider it in thanks for all your hard work around here.”

Agnes smiled as the shopkeeper reached into the bag of coins the Lady Sloane had left there earlier and tossed a pair of gold coins her way, the former hall-man deftly catching them in the air. She regarded the precious coins for a moment, raising an eyebrow at Khalsidhe.

“Two Rhet is a lot of money mum, he won’t know what to do with it.”

The Creedah waved away Agnes' concerns, turning back to her book without a second glance.

“Tell the boy half is from me and half is from you, the dagger we sold today more than makes up for it. There’s almost a Hallsrhet worth of money here.”

Agnes nodded and turned to leave, the faintest sound of metal on metal made her pause though.

“What's Eoin got the boys doing? Sound like they’re working hard.”

“The boys are down at the Jorgen with my daughters, That’s Eoin in there working on a last minute request from the Oaken throne.” Khalsidhe laconically answered again, but Agnes was not fooled. That particular tone is the one she saved when she was trying not to give something away. Usually the woman was good at hiding her intentions, but familiarity had long slain that possibility with Agnes.

“Oh mum, he should have called for me right then; now i’ll have to go back and get changed.”

“Aggie.” The woman’s voice was sharp,freezing Agnes in turning towards the door. The woman did not look up, but Agne could tell she wasn’t really looking at the book in front of her anymore.

“Eoin was quite clear in his instructions, you are NOT to join him in the forge tonight at all, do you understand?” She looked up at Agnes, her black eyes boring into Agnes like a pair of red-hot iron arrows. Agnes felt like she was back at the hall in her youth, withering under the gaze of a disapproving warrior teaching her to properly block.

“Yes mum.” She nearly mumbled, looking down at her feet. Khalsidhe sighed, rubbing her temples wearily as she brought her voice back to an even tone.

“It’s not your fault Aggie, on most days we welcome your work and we couldn’t ask for a better smith. But this order just came from the Oakenguard not two hours ago and there’s only two days left for him to do it. Eoin is trying to keep everyone safe by doing the work himself, then if there’s any flaw in it, the blame rests solely upon his shoulders.”

The smallest amount of emotion crept into the woman’s voice and Agnes realized the mistress was far more anxious than she let on. Of course there would be issues: the order was placed as last minute as you could get but Eoin didn’t want to boys or herself to be on the bad side of the wildermen for it. That didn’t make it any easier for the rest of them though, especially those who cared for the master blacksmith.

Agnes met Khalsidhes’ eyes for a moment and nodded slowly, the moment of connection and understanding passing as quickly as it had arrived.

“I swear I’ll stay out of it. But expect me here all the earlier on the morn to pick up some of the other work, it’ll give him a chance to sleep at least.” Khalsidhe smiled and nodded, a touch of relief colouring her sigh.

“That’ll do. Alright off with you then, go see that young lad get his ring.”

Agnes smiled, the older woman was a lot like Gertrude in a lot of ways: kind without appearing too interested and caring while maintaining a certain level of aloofness. When it came to sincerity however, she knew she could always count on Khlasidhe. The beautiful creedah always seemed to dispense her charm without any motive. \

Agnes turned to leave but paused a moment in the entry, looking back at Khalsidhe with an eyebrow raised.

“What’s the new order for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The creedah woman looked up, pursing her lips slightly.

“Thirty new spearheads, on top of the fifty you completed today. Get your rest tonight Agnes, Eoin will need the help tomorrow morn.”

Agnes nodded, wondering why the Oaken Lord needed thirty more spearheads and walked out into the street, turning her way up the hill to continue her trek.

Still anxious at all of the changes around her, Agnes took care to make good time while not appearing to be in a rush. The wilderguard may have been oddly at ease today, but she still didn’t want to draw any attention to herself.

Agnes stepped about people who were bustling up and down the street either carrying goods or minding their own business about their homes.

Up here on the upper section of the hill the homes were more elegant, grander and made of finer materials than the ones below, as such there were more people buying themselves to their upkeep, crowding the streets a bit as they walked to and fro from their masters houses.

Often the Landowners would have a home here aside from their estates outside of the city. It paid to live close to the Oaken Lord, one could do it to curry favour or simply save time.

Some members of the moot even owned halls of their very own outside of the city in addition to their grand houses.

Gertrude herself had been married to a hall-master who ruled in the northern water-ways but his wife and family had lived in the city. That was by Gertrude's choice really, as the older woman had once admitted as much to Agnes.

The streets this far up the hill had more breathing space to them, the houses larger and wider apart from each other.

The homes were still fashioned like normal Cagairn homes, but they were larger or had several smaller buildings attached to them as a method of expanding their size. Sod roofs that stretched all the way to the ground were on purpose here, a few homes even having gardens or orchards upon them.

Agnes knew most of the men here owned the land outside of the city that was used for farm and timberland, thus their influence over the Oaken throne was meted out by their contributions to the city. A few of the moot lords owned the houses within the lower city instead, charging rent of their tenants for a modest fee. Those funds were paid in fealty to the Oaken throne, though nowadays it seemed to mostly go to the upkeep of the Wilderguard instead.

She ducked her head and pulled her sack close as a wilgerguard patrol marched by with a graceful Feilkhu loping along beside them. The sandy-furred creature nodded respectfully to Agnes as she passed, who nodded back a bit unsteadily. This one carried a bow nearly as tall as Agnes, a quiver of arrows the size of javelins at her hip.

She had originally thought the Feilkhu would be slow and cumbersome as they were all so big, but the strange creature appeared to walk on the balls of her feet; a very agile and graceful manner to move about.

Now Agnes also understood why their feet appeared so big; their boots actually covered all the way up past their ankles and they simply rested on their heels while standing but didn’t actually walk on them.

Agnes wondered to herself just how fast one could be running at a full sprint, but shook the idea from her head and continued on up the hill, again wondering why they seemed to be following the wilderguard everywhere.

Perhaps one of their leaders were in the city? That would explain the patrolling and the weapons in the city walls, but the thought of that actually made Agnes' anxiety worse. To see them now seemed a bad omen and Agnes couldn’t help but feel a pit open in her stomach as she trudged up the ever-steepening hill.

She was quickly approaching the Oaken Hall and Agnes decided to veer off the main street as the groups of wildermen began to thicken. The path quickly turned from cobblestone to dirt as she passed between several luxurious houses, noting how one of them was filled almost to capacity with wildermen tents and sigils, macabre bundles of bones and Khumom skulls on stakes driven into the ground.

The path wound its way up the hill, becoming less and less traveled as she went along. Master Gaelie and a few of his charges seemed the only ones who used these paths and it showed as the path shrank to a single file worth of packed earth.

Just as the path passed level with the back wall of the keep a pair of stakes had been raised and adorned with more wilderman sigils. These bones and skulls were heavy with symbols and runes carved into the calcified remains. They were spells to keep evil at bay, as the wildermen believed.

The sight made Agnes smile, as it had the first day they appeared. The sigils were facing up the hill to the old Athairhall, obviously put there by the wildermen to keep Master Gaelie at bay on his perch up the hill. The strange old man was feared by the wildermen, not only for his attitude and forceful personality, but for their own superstitions as well.

She passed the strange wards easily, trudging up the sharp incline to the Athairhall with her smile still plastered to her face.

Gaelie had moved close to three months ago back up to the old Athairhall, taking more than a few of the needy with him. Most people had called risky at best and foolhardy at worst but the old man had seemed to take that as a challenge. Mostly he had done it to relieve some of the weight of the destitute at the warrior hall, back then it had begun to strain under all of the people living in it

Gaelie took the Abandoned Athairhall and requested it be repurposed as a hospice of sorts to the Oaken Lord.

Lord Deamhan had thought nothing of it but a few of the wildermen had voiced concerns and threatened to depose the old man. Eventually a score of them organized into a brute squad, making the long climb up the hill to kill all within in their sleep and set fire to the Athairhall.

They had found their corpses on the morn, without a mark of any kind on their bodies, their eyes wide tableaus of terror.

The Oaken Lord, with the permission of his wilderguard captain, declared the site unholy and since then the Athairhall had enjoyed a peace unfelt in the rest of the city.

Often Gaelie would invite Agnes to live there with his charges but Agnes had grown fond of the people in the old warrior-hall and felt like that would be abandoning them.

She grimaced slightly, a small stone of guilt rolling about in her stomach. Agnes knew that it was a good thing to care about those around her, but every once and awhile she felt trapped by the very people she cared about.

The wise or expedient thing to do often led to conflict with her feelings and despite her happiness to know and love these people she found herself occasionally wishing she had the strength to leave them behind.

Agnes reached the low stone wall at the edge of the Athairhall and stopped a moment to take in the beauty of the hall. The whole building was surrounded by an orchard, the trees just beginning to bud in the cool springtime air. The grounds were well kept and tidy; most of the sick that recovered here stayed in order to help Master Gaelie with the grounds.

Master Gaelie was well known for being a healer; his knowledge of infusions and remedies had helped countless highwallers as well as any other man, woman or child who came to the hall for aid.

Those he could not cure with his medicines were given a blessing of the Allfather by the High Priest himself, which more often than not led to a miraculous recovery. More than once Agnes had been amazed to see a fever break in the night or an illness turn to peaceful sleep while in Master Gaelie’s care despite all declaring the cause a hopeless one.

Occasionally one or two would pass, but Master Gaelie always saw them to rest upon the summit, out of the sight and reach of the wilderguard.

The hall itself was quite tall, not quite as much as the old warrior-hall down the hill but still impressive in its own right. The top was peaked, unlike most structures in Cagairn, a pair of thick beams stretching upwards and inwards to form the awning of the impressive building.

They were heavily carved with intricate designs and symbols, depicting tenants of scripture and tales of the Allfather with the Allking. Above it all, at the peak of the forward wall sat the great wooden roc, his dull reddish brown wood showing up sharply against the green hilled backdrop. His features were slightly worn and dulled by the weather, but he was just as recognisable now as the day he was hefted above the hall.

Agnes touched a knuckle to her head respectfully as she passed the front gate, a custom of all highwallers. There were a few others out and about, tending the trees and such but most of the activity Agnes could see was at the door. There a few highwallers had gathered and were chatting amiably, if a bit quietly; the Oaken hall wasn’t just a few Yaern away and too much noise might attract attention.

The summit of the great hill sat close above them, only about a Yaern skywards and Agnes could see some of the wilderguard up there in the modest stone watchtower keeping vigil. The wildermen there were a strange bunch to say the least.

Left up there almost all of the time they seemed less interested in enforcing the laws of the Oaken Lord and more interested in just surviving life on the summit and watching for raiders. Master Gaelie even gave them food occasionally through the winter and Agnes was sure they offered a blind eye to his activities in return more often than not.

Agnes turned her gaze back down to the hall, opening the little wooden gate before her with a creaking noise. The courtyard in front of the hall was modest, a single well taking up most of the space not occupied by trees and a full garden taking up the rest. Only a small path wound it’s way past the well and to the door, marking the border of the garden and the orchard.

A pair of women were there tilling the ground as Agnes stepped from the gate onto the beaten path. The thaw had left a lot of moisture in the soil and it was nearly time to plant their food for the year.

Across the way a shirtless man was washing his hair in a bucket by the well, causing titters for the two widows as they worked. Agnes was fairly certain it was Beocallum but she couldn’t tell for certain yet, readying a jibe for him if it was.

“Aggie!” The shout came from above her and Agnes turned to see Seamus and a group of boys and girls his age running completely out of control down the hill and through the orchard towards her.

“Careful I’ve got oof!” Agnes coughed as the youth connected with her, stumbling backwards into the freshly tilled garden. Seamus locked his hands around her middle in a vain attempt to pin Agnes, laughing as the former Hall-man quickly spun and locked the boy’s arm behind his back underneath her. The women tilling the garden chuckled, pausing in their work to watch as the former hall-man wrassled with the youth in their freshly loosed ground.

“Seamus! You’ve gone and knocked me in the dirt you wild little khid!”

Seamus gave a little whoop as he struggled to push Agnes off of him, the other children howled and laughed, encouraging Seamus to get up and beat her.

“I’ve got you this time Aggie!” Seamus confidently shouted through a mouthful of dirt, struggling against her arms.

Agnes was surprised for a moment, she had to plant her feet wider to keep the strong boy from tossing her off, smiling at how much he had grown since she last saw him.

Fayna came wandering quietly through the orchard, waving a timid hello to Agnes as the hall-man grappled the boy onto the ground

“You’re getting better,” Agnes grinned, pinning his free arm with her knee and digging her fingers unmercifully into his ribs. “But you’ll need to grow at least a yale more to get the drop on me so easily!”

Seamus shrieked in laughter as Agnes viciously tickled him, calling out to his friends in distress.

“Friends help! She’s set to tear my sides clean off!” The children laughed again, watching as the boy struggled under Agnes' onslaught. Agnes looked to the well to see the man there was in fact Beocallum. He was now leaning against it, laughing as he watched Seamus struggle against her.

“What’s this, did master Seamus decide to hunt giants again?”

Agnes turned to see Master Gaelie standing in the doorway, his bald-head gleaming in the afternoon sun. The Old priest had a kindly face, his eyes wrinkled with the smiles of decades past and cheeks that also bore the scars of merriment.

His deep blue eyes radiated that joy as he approached the ball of youth and hall-man, his dark green robes rustling as he strode and his hand stroking the short beard at his lips.

The priests’ overtunic was heavy and dyed green, stretching almost to the man’s knees with a slit at the bottom to allow his legs movement. Below Agnes could see a woolen undertunic, despite the old man’s virility she knew the cold touched him faster now than in his youth.

His trousers were sturdy linen and the knees were muddy, Gaelie often tilled alongside those he cared for and it was not uncommon to see him bear the marks of a gardener. His hood was pulled back, as it normally was, resting on his back and shoulders like a mantle.

“I think the hall-man has tired of Seamus.” Fayna piped up, her quiet voice carried like a gentle breeze across the courtyard. “It seems she is prepared to end him through mirth.”

“What, is this Seamus?” Agnes looked about indignantly. “I thought this was a khurelom escaped from the wilds!”

Seamus let out a strangled cry, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he wordlessly begged for leniency. Gaelie chuckled, the skin about his eyes wrinkling, patting the former hall-man on the shoulder.

“I fear you’ll truly kill the boy if you keep at it Agnes, off you get now.”

Seamus sucked in a massive breath of air as Agnes rose, taking the hand she offered easily. She pulled him to his feet and brushed off his tunic, trying in vain to get the dirt and mud off of it. He had changed into respectable clothes while Agnes was gone, a rich burgundy tunic and and brown trousers, though now they just looked dirty.

“I must say, our Seamus is a right terror now that he’s been touched by the wilds.” She paused, drawing an invisible line in the air between his head and her shoulder. “When’d you get so tall boy?”

Seamus smiled and motioned to the youth about them, Fayna brushing off and handing Agnes the pack she had dropped when the boy tackled her.

“Out in the wilds, we all did.” the youth all about smiled and chuckled, about nine of them nodding in agreement.

“We all went out of the city to train.” A short girl of Seamus’ age piped up, her red hair in a tangled mess above her head. Agnes' eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Truly, you all earned your rings?”

The gathered boys and girls all nodded, one holding up a bandaged cut on his forearm while Gaelie cleared his throat.

“I may have let it slip to a few highwallers what you and Beocallum had organized for young Seamus shortly after he left.” the old priest set about the youth, dusting off tunics and smoothing hair as he passed through them. “You would be amazed how many of the parents here in the city still want their children to do the same.”

He stopped at Seamus, clucking his tounge disapprovingly and roughly dusting off the boys’ dirty tunic.

“A few of the old timers down at the warrior-hall helped me organize a few more trips into the wilds for the rest of these scoundrels and the rest was up to them. A task you all have completed quite handily, if I say so myself.”

The youth around them gave a little cheer as Gaelie finished dusting off the boy, smiling as Seamus apologized for the dirty clothing.

“It’s alright boy, you’re only this age for a short time. You can be clean when you’re old and boring like the rest of us.”

“Not all the time I see.” Seamus pointed to Master Gaelies’ knees, making the old priest cackle loudly.

“Well met boy, I suppose it’s all in what you do rather than how you look. Now, enough bandying words, you children need to get ready for the ceremony.”

Gaelie motioned the youth inside as a mother hen would her chicks, pointing to the open door of the hall. Seamus stood as if to stay with them, but Gaelie gave the boy a firm push towards the door.

“It’s time you got ready, the food is nearly done.”

Agnes nodded to the hall, handing Seamus the unstrung bow from her pack and waving him towards the other retreating youth. He thanked her and took off, laughing as one of the other youth told a joke. Fayna was waiting for him at the door, grinning as the boy took his place beside her.

“Their parents are preparing their children to abandon the city.”

Agnes turned as Beocallum spoke up; he had pulled his tunic back on and was tightening his belt as he spoke.

“They’ve lost hope in seeing freedom ever again. Then again, they may be right to do so; Allfather knows it’ll be worse in the city from here on.”

“What do you mean?” Agnes raised an eyebrow at the former hall-man who apologized and drew nearer, pulling his curly hair behind his head and tying it with a short leather strap.

Obviously the former hall-man had grabbed some nicer clothes for the event, his tunic was a beautiful dark blue shade and a fine brown pair of trousers decorated his lower half. His belt was wide and very sturdy, a pair of iron rings serving as the cinch in the middle. Surprisingly for the man who cautioned against carrying something that could be used as a weapon to nearly anyone who would listen, Beocallum picked up his axe from beside the well and slipped it into his belt loop as he neared.

“I forgot, you were not at the square when they announced it. Once you left the Captain of the wilderguard came from the hall and had everyone who could hear gather about him.”

Agnes nodded; remembering how the old town hall had been given to the wilderguard and their captain, a man named Anesh.

“The Feilkhu have joined forces with the Wildermen, allowing them safe passage through their lands and sending fourscore of their warriors to help the widlerguard hold the city.”

Agnes felt the breath catch in her throat as the pit in her stomach that had been building during her trek up the hill widened into a bottomless chasm.

“You can’t be serious.” She looked from Beocallum to Gaelie, futily searching for some evidence of a cruel prank in their faces.

“I’m afraid he is Agnes,” the kind old man looked sad, an expression nearly foreign to him. “It was announced again upon my doorstep by young master Thale and his thugs.” He shook his head, scratching at an old scar on his cheek.

“Already the wildermen are emboldened by this support; the aid of the Feilkhu is a great boon indeed.” He looked suddenly tired, as if he had just run up from the square himself.

“Fourscore spearheads.” Agnes breathed, almost a whisper.

“I beg your pardon?” Gaelie raised an eyebrow at Agnes, who shook her head.

“The Oaken throne requested fifty spearheads from Eoin, then after the announcement today requested thirty more. We have supplied the very spears that the Feilkhu will use to keep us under wildermen rule.”

Beocallum cursed, slapping his knee in frustration.

“I thought the wood shafts I gave Eoin were too long for a normal spear. I thought they had just planned to make pikes with them, not give them to those lumbering monstrosities.”

Gaelie looked defeated a moment, a look that Agnes had never seen upon the old man before. That twisted the fear in her gut more thoroughly than any of the news that came before had, watching the futility of their situation settling heavily on the old high priest.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself as the three paused a moment at the threshold of the hall, the sounds of joy and hospitality inviting them inwards as children and youth gathered around the tables.

The sound has oddly cheerful and happy, a feeling long forgotten by the people of Cagairn. It rang out across Agnes’ mind like a pealing knell, stirring up the remembrance of a boy walking to Bearsgore alongside his sister. The memory touched some unknown well of strength and hope within her and Agnes was almost surprised by the next words that parted her lips.

“This day is their day, not ours to ruin with worry.” She felt her anger and frustration melt from her face, smiling as Seamus waved to her from within the hall.

“You’re right Lassie, best we keep a brave face for them now.” Gaelie smiled approvingly at her, his gaze shifting to Beocallum. “Their parents will do the same, and if they plan on abandoning the city it will not do for us to bring down their children’s joys on their last days at home.”

The old man winked at her and stepped, sliding effortlessly into a conversation two of the parents were having by the door.

Agnes swallowed, the news from earlier still had some small hold on her, but another look at Seamus enjoying himself banished all thoughts of gloom from her mind.

Beocallum leaned against the doorway, nodding proudly to the boy as Seamus clapped another boy on the back heartily.

“He’s a good man, went straight to Fayna when he got back to let her know he was here. Wanted to make sure she was alright.”

Beocallum smiled, rubbing the rough stubble on his chin thoughtfully as he watched the young man joke and cajole with the other boys and girls.

“You’d never know that he had suffered more than most here, he’s as good at putting people at ease as he is completing his duties. Gaelie’s quite fond of him.”

Agnes smiled, watching Seamus sit himself with one of the younger boys from the hall and pulled out a Fhikless board while the younger boy produced the stone pieces.

“No one would blame him at all for acting like Fayna, he lost both of his parents same as her, but all he ever does is help others when he’s not leaping into adulthood like a noble Khumom.” Agnes shook her head, wondering how she would have fared at that age with the ordeals he had.

Beocallum chuckled knowingly, subtly shaking his head.

“She may be quieter now, but Fayna provides the boy with more support than you’d think.”

Agnes looked to her fellow hall-man quizzically.

“Caehran said he’s been having terrible nightmares, he says Fayna is always there to calm him down when he wakes.”

He paused, thinking a moment before continuing.

“That's probably why he bonded so well with the huntress, she’s been helping him through his night terrors for the past couple of months.”

Agnes nodded in agreement, she had known the woman longer than Beocallum and she had to agree, Caehran was a good friend to those who would have her. She grimaced, wondering just how much the boy was holding back.

“Hopefully that’s enough for him. The boy holds all of his grief in and I’m worried he’ll be swept away by it when that dam breaks.”

“He will fare well, the boy has some well of strength I’ve never seen before. His winters are uncounted, as the eldermen would say.” Beocallum chuckled, waving as Fayna made “come in” motions at them from the table.

For a moment they just watched the youth as they chatted and played, Seamus placing his pieces on the board dutifully while Fayna sat close beside him. Agnes could just make out the young girl holding hands with the lad under the table, an unsurprising even for them.

“You should have left that first day,” Beocallums sombre tone surprised Agnes, who turned and watched the former hall-man kick at the dirt at his feet. “I should not have told you to stay in the city, then you would not have to see these people suffer as they do. You could have been free.”

Agnes smiled, the anxiety dulling a bit as she patted Beocallum on the shoulder.

“Aye, I could have left that same day. But then I wouldn’t have met all of you or come to be part of this.” She waved indiscriminately at the hall, her smile not as forced as it was before.

“It’s an anchor for sure, but it doesn’t keep me trapped, it keeps me grounded.” She smiled, realizing as she said the words that she really believed them. She paused, whacking the hall-man heavily on the arm in jest.

“Plus, Cagairn is my home. I could never truly leave it all behind.” She grinned, at him impishly. “You’re not as persuasive as you think you are Beocallum, you simply had the odds in your favour that day.”

Agnes remembered how she had felt back when she first returned to Cagairn, the emotion of witnessing the wilderman stranglehold on the city for the first time.

Seeing the man her little brother had admired so much as an abused cripple had nearly broken her heart as if she were watching Sean die all over again in front of her. More than anything she had wanted to find something of the spark from before in him or in the city itself.

At first the fight they had in the market had made the pain of losing her brother all the more unbearable, but it had also first brought the idea of staying in Cagairn to her mind. Perhaps her brothers’ death would not sting so if she could find and help flame a spark of decency back into the city.

Now that she had followed through and stayed it was gratifying to see Beocallum standing tall again, his axe back on his hip and a smile on her face. She hoped that her words had lifted her friends’ guilt, even if just a little.

“Well, shall we?” Beocallum straightened and motioned into the hall, holding his hand as if welcoming her in.

“Indeed.” She countered, picking up the hem of her tunic exaggeratedly and strolling past the threshold with mock grace.

The hall was busy, at least by recent standards in Cagairn. Probably close to a full score of people were within, milling about and laughing quietly. As it was when she was outside Agnes could feel that the joy was genuine, but also the apprehension that stalked just outside of sight.

Seamus’ kills were plucked and skewered upon a spit, slowly being turned by a blind woman at the foot of the table. As their skin browned and cooked over a roaring fire, Agnes again was left to wonder how Gaelie received all of the supplies he had. Another log was added to the flames at the behalf of the woman turning the meat and the hearty aroma made Agnes’ mouth water involuntarily.

Food of all sorts was laid upon the table, though none had begun to sample them yet. Sweet as well as savoury cheeses took up nearly a third of the food gathered there and Agnes could make out strips of smoked Khumom meat piled between plates of hearty breads and balnoc loaves.

It was spring so such a fare was not exactly strange to see upon the table: no vegetables had grown yet and all of the cured meats would go bad soon. Agnes still was shocked to see it however, knowing how hard it was to get good meat of any sort past the wildermen and their “fair due.”

Sneaking a piece of Khumom meat on the sly, Agnes put the tender morsel into her mouth, enjoying the salty and smoky taste of it. The meat was tough for it’s time spent in the larder of the Athairhall, but the delicious gamey flavour was there all the same.

Beocallum was less successful with his attempt to take a piece of meat, receiving a sharp rap on the knuckles with a wooden spoon by Master Gaelie as the old priest passed by.

“Need to be more quick about it.” Agnes teased through chewing the succulent meat.

“Need to be more favoured to the High priest, you mean.” He responded, rubbing his hand ruefully.

Agnes pulled all of her dried meat from her pack, placing it as neatly as she could on an empty plate by the food. Her dried squirrel and groundhog was not as nice as the Khumom around it but Agnes smiled all the same. There; she had helped.

The company quickly opened to accept the two former hall-men, conversations ranging from hunting luck over the winter to the new ring-bearing youth at the hall.

Turns out nine of the youth had managed to earn their rings, another respectfully returning to city after twisting his ankle fiercely in the foothills on the western bank of the Jorgen. Despite that the boy would still be given a seat of honour at the table along with a promise of another attempt in the future.

Caehran and Fargut sat with the wounded boy, chatting with him animatedly. If Agnes had to guess, they had probably offered to take him on their next trip when he fared better. Such was the Cagairn way; the earning of a ring was not all-important but even an attempt at it was treated with respect all the same.

Agnes remembered her own ring ceremony at the hall; after all of the warrior-youth had been sent for four months into the wilds they had been gathered at the hall in a celebration that had lasted days.

Beocallum’s father had been there too, but not Beocallum himself. When Agnes had asked the hall-man about that later he had said that his ring had been earned alongside dagon and the Oakenguard as was tradition of hall-master sons and daughters. Beocallum Hrokison had celebrated his ring at the lord’s hall alongside the Oakenguard’s sons and daughters instead of with his father.

Hroki had been a very kind hallmaster, giving every warrior-youth his attention at some time during the celebrations and Agnes had been no different. The tall imposing man had inquired after her father and mother, both of whom had not been able to join them for the celebration. He had also insisted on giving some coin to her brother Sean to present her at the celebration, just as Agnes now planned to do for Seamus. Agnes had marvelled at the hall-master, almost swearing to serve him right there and then instead of three winters later. When the time had come she had enjoyed following the man into battle, his confidence and gentle nature putting all the young warriors at ease even during the charge.

A sharp pang of sadness followed the memory as Agnes remembered that Hroki had ended his own life about a winter before Agnes had returned to Cagairn. From what she had heard the loyal hall-master had thrown away his life in drink and women after the death of his lord. Even selling his sword to the wildermen to enjoy the more carnal pleasures they offered to anyone with coin. No wonder beocallum was so ashamed; it was a disgraceful end to a life filled with honour.

Eventually they found Hroki’s kit by the edge of the river, witnesses saying the old hall-master had strode into the Jorgen in naught but his smallclothes in the dead of winter.

Agnes shook her head, putting the thought of so painful an end out of her mind quickly in favour of sitting down beside Caehran.

The two friends greeted each other warmly, Caehran asking after some of the people she knew in the warrior hall while Fargut chatted quietly with the injured boy about what types of arrows to use for which prey.

The two hunters had changed into finer clothes for the event but Agnes could still see mud clinging to the bottom of their trousers. Caehran also looked like she had stuffed her own dirk into the hem of her sleeve, much like Agnes had in the back of her belt.

One of the little girls scampering about crawled up onto Agnes' lap suddenly, pulling a Fhikless board onto the table. She couldn’t have been more than five winters old, but still produced a pouch of stone pieces, holding them up directly below Agnes’ nose.

“Wanna Pay?” The precocious thing asked and Agnes nodded in agreement, placing the pieces about the board as more of the celebrators sat around them.

The parents of the youth had been placed upon table closer to the front, despite there being no hall-master to actually sit at the head of the table. Because Seamus had no parents to call his own, Agnes had chosen her seat near the front as well to make it easier for her to join them when the rings were presented.

Now they chatted and waited as the warrior-fowl cooked, it’s heavenly aroma making several stomachs growl in impatience about them.

Agnes busied herself by engaging the widowed mother of the injured boy in conversation while facing his adorable little sister in a battle of Fhikless. Beocallum chatted quietly with Seamus nearby, the whispered conversation accompanied by the occasional swipe in the air by the former hall-man with a wooden spoon.

It became easy to forget the troubles of outside as Agnes moved her pieces dutifully about the wooden board, stealing the occasional glance over to Seamus and Fayna. Their hands were clasped on top of the table now, the girls face an adorable shade of pink.

Agnes caught the young girl's eye and winked, returning to her game as the poor young woman’s face turned and even brighter shade of red.

Caehran waved to Seamus, who grinned from ear to ear and waved back. Agnes felt a little twang of guilt and quietly offered the coins to Caehran for the huntress to give them to the boy, but Caehran shook her head and pushed the coins away; stating that he would probably want her to present them to him.

“That’s almost an ungodly sum Aggie.” Caehran looked about conspicuously. “Where’d you get it?”

“Just a gift from Mater Eoin and Khalsidhe,” Agnes rolled her eyes at her friend, “They wish the boy well.”

Caehran nodded understandingly; Khalsidhe was known in the city for being prudent, not miserly.

Soon the unbearable waiting was over as Master Gaelie rose and raised his hands for quiet, the hubbub of the gathered highwallers vanishing swiftly.

“Friends and Countrymen, I am pleased to have you here with me on this happy day.” He gestured to the youth before him, his eyes warm and inviting. “These young men and women have taken their first steps into adulthood and will today be taking their oaths to making their homeland a brighter place.” He paused a moment, his face growing sombre and his tone lowering to a respectful timbre.

“I am a poor substitute for a Hall-master I know. To that end I would like everyone to take a moment and remember our own dearly departed hall-master, wish him well on his way to the Kinghall and the fields of the Father.”

Everyone rumbled a quiet agreement, several Highwallers touching a knuckle to their heads in respect, including Agnes. Beocallum did not and avoided her gaze as Agnes searched his eyes for any sign of forgiveness or pain.

Gaelie held up his hands after a moment, winking at Seamus as the lad met his gaze.

“Now, I know we are all horribly famished and eager to begin, so I will not bore you with any more ramblings on my part.” The gathered laughed, the joke provoking a moment of sincere levity among them. “To begin I have invited young lady Fayna to give the Allfather call.”

Fayna rose, detangling her fingers with a giggle from Seamus’, and stood at the front of the room nervously. For a moment Agnes was reminded of the terrified young woman she had met in the market six months ago but was shocked as that visage fell away and Fayna straightened to sing the ancient Hymn.

It was a tradition of almost all Siothall to begin all ceremonies and feasts with the Allfather call, the words passed down from generation to generation. As Fayna sang the ancient lyrics her thin little voice gave way to something stronger, brighter and more powerful than before.

Agnes felt calm and peace settle over her as she had not felt in some time, listening intently as Fayna beautifully formed the guttural yet soft and flowing words into magical melodies that arched over the gathered highwallers like a warm ray of sun.

Agnes heard a sniffle and turned to see the big burly Fargut dabbing at his eyes with the hem of his tunic, his wife patting his hand a touch patronizingly.

Beocallum was staring down at the table, rubbing his wounded thigh slowly. Agnes gave him a little pat on the shoulder and he smiled briefly, nodding reverently as Fayna’s voice carried out over the hall.

The hymn ended and Agnes found herself wishing there were more verses as the gathered highwallers all knocked quietly on the table to signify their approval. It was considered bad manners to clap in the Athairhall, especially during ceremonies.

Gaelie and Fayna swapped places, the old man taking her hand and thanking her quietly as they passed. He gestured to the youth seated before him and they all rose, standing off to the side of the hall.

He then motioned to their parents and the mothers also stood, lining up beside beside Master Gaelie. Agnes stood for Seamus and made her way to the back of the line so that the two would approach Master Gaelie at the same time.

Beocallum had also risen to stand beside Master Gaelie at his request, drawing his axe and holding it at waist height in both hands. As the youth approached they placed their left hand on the steel axe-head, the other hand clasping Master Gaelies’ in a firm warriors grip. He intoned to them and they repeated after him, swearing their oaths and promises without hesitation.

Even for the children she did not know, Agnes felt a swell of pride as they pledged to help those without rings or means, swearing fealty to the Allfather and their home. Agnes noted that Master Gaelie had changed the oath somewhat; instead of swearing fealty to the Oaken throne each child swore to protect the city itself, in any way they could.

Soon it would be time for Seamus to swear his oath and Agnes stepped up to stand beside Master Gaelie. The incorrigible boy winked at Agnes, stepping up as the other youth sat back down to chat with their proud parents. Seamus was the last and as such most of the hall was no longer aware of what was going on at the head of the hall. Only Fayna, Agnes, Beocallum, Caehran, Fargut and Master Gaelie seemed to be paying any attention at this point, watching as their friends approached the master priest confidently.

“Alright Seamus, this is it. Just repeat all that I say.” The old priest grinned at his pupil, who smiled and nodded, intoning along behind him as he spoke.

“I promise to follow the light of the Allfather, walk in his ways among His creation and His people. I promise to do no harm to those that cannot defend themselves and in turn raise my arm in their defence. I swear upon my ring that I will never turn away those who have none, or cannot look after themselves among Athair’s creation. I swear fealty to the City of Cagairn, to uphold and defend it in any way I can. I so swear upon my iron and upon my name. I am Seamus Dhugson.”

The boy paused as he reached the final line of the oath, nervously rubbing the edge of his tunic. Beocallum looked to say something, but Master Gaelie clasped his elbow subtly. Agnes was confused, something was the matter but she seemed the only one surprised by this.

Seamus looked back behind himself, to Caehran and Fargut, both of whom nodded to him encouragingly. Fayna met his eye as well, something akin to both terror and pride in her eyes.

Finally, the boy far older than his winters turned back to the priest, looked Agnes dead in the eye with his hand still lightly placed upon the axe and completed his oath.

“I am Jorgen Thallson.”

Agnes felt the floor drop out from under her and she nearly cried out in shock, a hand rising unbidden to her lips. A quick glance to Caehren told her it was no joke; the woman mouthed an apology and nodded subtly.

Seamus, or Jorgen, had been very quiet so most of the hall had not heard him. Of those that had, Agnes seemed the only one surprised although Beocallum was glowering at the boy as if to set him aflame with his eyes.

Master Gaelie continued as if nothing had happened, placing the ring gently upon the boy's arm, nodding respectfully and declaring him a ring-bearer in the eyes of the Allfather.

Agnes, despite her shock, took up her place as the boy turned to her and handed him the coins she had prepared. The words she had been practicing in her mind nearly did not come through her emotions but they eventually marched to her lips nonetheless.

“I, Agnes Fionasdotter, stand in place of the one who bore you. I give you of my wealth and of my iron to strengthen and prepare you for your road ahead.” And then, feeling like she couldn’t just let what happened pass by, Agnes added quietly; “My lord.”

Seamus, smiling with relief as a single tear spilled from his eye mouthed an apology to her and clasped her hands in his.

Agnes understood; as the last son of Thall Shaeson, Seamus would be a target. Not only would his uncle Lord Deamhan seek his end but the Wildermen as well. He was the last heir to the Oaken throne, and as such the true Lord of Cagairn.

She took the boy into her arms and pulled him close, whispering softly in his ear.

“You’re still in trouble for lying to me boy, but I’m happy you shared it with me now. I’m still proud of you.”

He hugged her back, his voice thick with emotion.

“I couldn’t do this with the wrong name. My father wouldn’t have wanted it.”

Agnes felt warmth on her chest and she realized the boy was crying. They stood there a moment more, Maser Gaelie and Beocallum departing while Fayna stood to gently place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

As they stood there, Agnes unsure of what to do other than hold the boy, Master Gaelie declared the feast ripe for the taking and all that remained should turn their attention to the food. In the corner a trio of women had pulled out some instruments and now began to play; the canter, harp and bolrand dispersing a merry feeling into the air.

Anyone who looked to Seamus and Aggie simply nodded understandingly; grief had been a constant companion to everyone as of late. Fayna had drawn closer now and placed her other hand on Seamus’ back, mouthing a silent thanks to Agnes as she did so.

Comfortingly patting the weeping boy’s back, Anges wondered how Lady Sloane would feel to have this sheep herder’s daughter comforting her child in his moment of grief, also wondering how this boy felt being separated from her too.

Eventually Seamus’ sobs drew to a close and he straightened with puffy red eyes, wiping them hurriedly with his sleeve.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you Aggie, it wasn’t safe.” He looked sheepish, if somewhat relieved, Taking Fayna’s hand in his as the last of his grief washed away from his face.

Anges smiled, pinching the boys cheek lightly.

“It’s alright, but we have a lot to talk about. Go and enjoy your feast for now, we’ll talk later.” Seamus nodded understandingly, putting an arm around Fayna’s shoulders and turning to rejoin his fellow ring-bearers.

One of the other boys threw his arm about Seamus, laughing loudly in an effort to cheer him up. Agnes giggled a bit, wondering how that same boy would feel if he knew the truth of all of it now.

Quickly gathering her thoughts, Agnes made a straight line for the seat beside Beocallum. As she sat she punched him in the arm so hard he nearly dropped the piece of cooked warrior-fowl he was retriving from the serving plate.

“You should have bloody told me.”

Beocallum winced under the attack, dropping the piece into her plate instead of his.

“By the three hells Aggie, I’m not an ingot, ease up now.” He lowered his voice as he carved a second piece from the bird with the sharp serving knife; “No one was supposed to know, just Master Gaelie and myself. Seamus told me back when we first met and Master Gaelie had actually become acquainted with the boy before the fall.”

Agnes nearly cursed, angrily taking a bite out of the moist bird instead.

“That’s why he didn’t take your coin. He bloody well knew.”

Beocallum sat back down, taking a loaf of Balnoc from a plate that was passed by them and tore it into large pieces. Those he passed about himself before placing one on his plate and another on Agnes’.

“Aye, but don’t be too cross with him. He’s a cunning old snake at heart and he knew it would be too dangerous to let a lot of people know. Even convinced the boy not to tell you, which nearly broke the poor lad.”

Anges took a bite of the dense herbed bread and tried her best not to scowl at Gaelie at the head of the table, who was chatting happily as if nothing had happened with Seamus and Fayna.

“Fayna was at the hall with him, her father was their priest.” Agnes guessed and Beocallum nodded in agreement.

“He’s the fourth in line, were the others all not murdered. Obviously his father had wanted the boy to be an aide to master Gaelie, that’s why he was with Fayna’s father when the wildermen attacked; probably saved his life too.”

Beocallum paused, rubbing his chin again in thought.

“I’ve long wondered why his uncle isn’t searching for him. It may be that the boy is thought dead or his mother has some sort of accord with Lord Deamhan to keep him safe. Either way it would be wise for us to keep him to ourselves and avoid the attention of the Oaken throne, don’t you think?”

Agnes bitterly agreed, it was much safer to keep such news to oneself; the more lips that knew could wag in all of the wrong places. Of course she understood why they had decided to leave her out of it, but still she felt hurt that no one had trusted her enough to let her know.

“For what it’s worth I felt that you should have been the first one he told aside from us, it nearly boiled my skin when he told me Caehran knew, though I suppose it wasn’t really his fault.” Beocallum motioned to the huntress as the woman laughed loudly at a joke someone had said, and apology written on his face.

Agnes felt a little better hearing this, though she did not outwardly say anything. Instead she pulled a late winter potato and placed it on her plate, retrieving one for Beocallum as well.

“Caehran is an old hall-man like us, we can trust her. Intuitive too, probably didn’t even have to ask him anything at all to find out.” She sliced open the baked vegetable with a serving knife and dropped a pinch of Khumom-fat from a bowl on the table into it, wiping her fingers on her trousers.

“I wasn’t worried about her knowing, it’s Fargut that concerns me.” Beocallum responded, copying Agnes in slicing open his potato.

Anges scowled in response, unsure of his mistrust.

“Why do you say that?” She asked as she scooped out a portion of the soft vegetable and melting lard on a spoon, enjoying the bland yet heady taste of the late blooming starch as she placed it in her mouth.

“He’s a wilderman.”

Agnes nearly choked, quietly composing herself and swallowing her food. A few of the people around them had raised an eyebrow at her reaction, but went back to loudly talking as the bolrand drum thumped out the beginning of a new jig.

“By the three hells: I thought he was a Highwaller!” She hissed to Beocallum, trying to nonchalantly fetch another spoonful of food.

“So did I when I met him, wasn’t until much later Caehran admitted it.” Beocallum bit into his own bird, still muttering quietly past the food to her.

“They met in the wilds just like most know, but most don’t know he was part of a raiding party sent to clean up the forests. He’s clanless so no one misses him, but you can tell sometimes when he talks that he’s one of them.”

He swallowed, taking an ale casket that was passed along the table and pouring some into his drinking horn, doing the same for Agnes as he continued.

“Other than that no one would ever know he’s from the wilderwood. It probably also helps that Caehran has him bathing regularly, the wilder usually have a more musky aroma.”

Agnes stole a glance to the two hunters, watching as they easily joked and cajoled with the higwallers about them. He was right; you would never had known he was any different than any of them at all.

“You can say that again; even his own brothers treat him like one of us.”

Shaking her head to clear it of a little bout of irrational anger and mistrust, Agnes smiled as Caehran caught her eye. The perceptive highwaller could probably tell they were talking about them and shot Agnes a quizzical look. Agnes simply waved at her and went back to piling food onto her plate, whispering sidelong to Beocallum.

“Keep any more surprises you may be holding onto to yourself, I would like to finish my food in peace now.”

Beocallum chuckled but nodded in agreement, pulling up a plate of smoked Khumom and fetching himself an ample portion.

The evening passed into early night, the shadows lengthening in the doorway as the food began to disappear and the ale reappeared for all to enjoy more fully. Agnes wasn’t much of a drinker, but she sipped at her drinking horn while in the middle of an earnest conversation with one of the women who lived at the Athairhall. The celebration was beginning to wind down and everyone was beginning to really relax, enjoying each others company and the music that still danced about the rafters of the Athairhall. Even the apprehension Agnes had sensed earlier was gone, replaced by something akin to peace.

Unfortunately, that did not mean the danger was gone.

So at ease and entrenched in her conversation was Agnes that she didn’t notice people filing through the door until someone from the group had cried out in surprise and the music ground to a halt.

“By the three hells!” Beocallum cursed, quickly sliding his axe under his seat and rising.

Agnes looked up to see wilderguards surrounding them, leering awfully as the shocked celebrators rose from their seats. A quick count revealed fifteen wilderguards, their blades drawn and glinting in the flickering light of the hall torches.

“Now isn't this a pretty sight?” The voice came from the doorway; it’s master quickly stooping to enter from the courtyard.

Agnes immediately recognised him as Thale, the wilderguard who had been tormenting Beocallum on the day she entered the city and one of the higher up wilderguard in Cagairn. Like most of his brothers he was dressed in thick furs, a blue gambeson underneath with a set of khumom horns set upon his shoulders. Just in the lee of the door he propped a tall war axe, his hand resting on a smaller axe nestled in his belt-loop as he swaggered up to Master Gaelie.

The highwaller who had been outside as a lookout were dragged in behind Thale, a wilderblade pressed against his throat menacingly.

“Heard there was a ring ceremony happening today, how marvelous!” Thale sat down in a seat in front of Master gaelie heavily, putting his muddy boots up on the table.

His hair had been half-shaved since agnes had last seen him, a long strip left on the top and it’s ends braided down his back. Perhaps braided was too kind a word; the filthy matted strands draped backwards like a turd against the grey furs of his cloak.

“Let us see let us see! Where is the lucky boy?” He gestured around while the wilderguard sniggered menacingly, gazing at all the youth.

“The youth has left us for the night young master wilderman. But please, won’t you sit and sup with us instead?” Master Gaelie’s expression was one of calm innocence, but Agnes could see the cold fury behind his eyes well enough.

“Yes, I think I will thank-you.” Thale chuckled and pulled one of the serving plates of warrior-fowl over to himself, ripping off an entire drumstick for him to eat. He waved to the wilderguard behind him and three men pushed their way into the highwallers, checking each youth on the arm for rings.

By the time the disgusting man had finished the leg of meat all of the youth with iron rings had been gathered to the head of the table, much to the dismay of their parents.

One of the mothers sobbed quietly as her daughter was dragged unceremoniously to the front of the hall by her curly red hair.

Agnes looked to the door to see if there was an escape there, but all hope faded as the doorway darkened and two feilkhu entered the Athairhall.

Thale tutted disapprovingly, standing to gaze out over the gathered people.

“You highwallers disappoint me greatly. I always thought lying and showing disrespect was beneath you.”

Master Gaelie moved to speak but Thale struck him about the face viciously, making the old man drop to his hands and feet instead. Caehran darted forwards, helping Gaelie to his knees as he dazedly stared at the floor. Thale continued, ignoring the cries of shock and outrage around him.

“Our Lord Deamhan has informed me that none of your old warrior ways are to be tolerated in the city.” He paced about, staring evenly into the eyes of the huddled highwallers.

“Now tell me, why would you take the time to perform such an act of treachery within the walls he so kindly maintains for you? Do you mean to rebel?”

As if to accent his final word, Thale sent a heavy kick into Master Gaelie’s stomach. The old man doubled over in pain as Caehran placed herself between the wilderman and the retching priest.

“It’s not for warriors milord!” She shouted, keeping her hands wide and visible for the wilderguard to see. “It’s just a rite of passage: it means they can survive on their own in the wilds, like yourselves.”

Thale snorted in derision, eliciting scattered chuckles from the wilderguards about them.

“So you wish to be like us now do you?” He laughed, grabbing a handful of khumom fat from the bowl on the table, smearing it upon the faces of the gathered youth as he walked past them.

“They’re far too clean to be wildermen! And you’ve got a woman here too!” Thale cruelly twisted the remainder of the fat into the poor child’s red hair, laughing as silents tears of fear poured down her cheeks.

“That’s better,” he cooed to the terrified child, “now you look more a wilderwoman.”

“Please stop for pity's sake.” Master Gaelie gasped from the floor, blood dribbling down his lip onto his chin. “They’ve done nothing wrong. If there is to be blame, lay it upon me. It’s my hall, I had the ceremony.”

“I don’t think that’s the case.” Thale stood and smiled, looking about the worried faces of the parents surrounding him. His eyes rested upon Beocallum and a light of recognition dawned within them.

“Hund? By the wilds, Hund my old friend! I did not recognise you without your ratty old cloak!” Thale pushed his way through the crowd until he was face-to-face with Beocallum, arrogantly brushing the younger man’s tunic with his hands, as if to clean it of food crumbs.

“Such nice new garments, very lovely indeed. And a warrior’s shade too!”

He abruptly punched Beocallum savagely in the calf, watching as the former hall-man clutched at his bad leg and nearly fell. Agnes clasped Beocallum under the arms to keep him upright but ended up just helping him limp out of the way as the wilderguard pushed them aside. Thale reached under the table and pulled the axe from below it, holding the weapon above his head as if in triumph.

“Is this not a warriors axe?” He cruelly bellowed, his tone a jovial mockery. Several wilderguards snickered, a few even shouted ”aye!” loudly.

“It is simply my woodcutting axe Milord.” Beocallum hissed between clenched teeth, his hand white-knuckled on his leg. Thale snorted in derision, bringing the axe heavily down into the table. Pieces of broken drinking horn and casket flew in all directions as the wilderguard buried the axe deeply into the wood.

“Of course it is, but not all that different from a warriors axe, is it Hund? This could still cleave a man in two.” Thale gripped the handle of his own axe and turned back to the former hall-man, his knuckles white against the wood holstered at his hip.

“Like my friend Mahdad was.” A dark fury radiated from his face and Beocallum had the presence of mind to just stare at the floor.

“Thale! Get a load of this!” One of the wilderguards who had been rustling about the back end of the hall raised something long and thin over his head, running over to Thale when the big wilderguard motioned to him.

Agnes' heart sank in her chest as she saw Seamus’ pack in the wilderguard’s hand, a sheathed sword in the other. Thale took the weapon from the wilderguard, his eyes alight with anger and envy as he pulled the fine blade from it’s scabbard.

The bright steel caught the light of the torches and fireplace, flickering as if alive with fire. The rippled pattern of the steel glinted dangerously even in the smoky darkness of the hall and Agnes gasped at it’s quality.

The single-edged blade swept forwards from the handle, widening slightly around the middle before tapering into a graceful point with a razor’s edge.

The handle was Brass and wood: a roc’s head forming the pommel while his wings stretched upwards to protect the lower knuckle. The hilt swept downwards to protect the upper knuckle, a thin chain of iron connecting the two to cover the rest of the hand in an embrace of metal.

Thale gave the weapon an experimental swing, cleaving a drinking horn on the table in twain without upsetting the bottom half of it.

“A fine weapon!” Thale intoned in mock awe, “Truly only a very privileged warrior would carry such a fearsome blade!”

He turned the blade on Beocallum, using the point of it to lift the former-hall man's face from the floor.

“It is mine Milord.” Beocallum calmly looked into Thales eyes, not a flicker of fear to be seen. Agnes felt her breath catch in her throat as he continued.

“It was given to me by Dagon himself the day we marched for Bearsgore.”

Thale’s eyes narrowed, his mouth slightly parted in a cocky grin. Running his tounge lightly over his teeth, the brute cast his eyes over Agnes and Beocallum, eventually resting them upon the pack in the Wilderguard’s hands.

“This does not strike me as your pack Beocallum. It’s too small, the strap is tightened as far as it will go and it’s covered in mud, unlike your fine selves.” He leered at Agnes a moment, making her cheeks flare red with anger.

“It’s mine, I swear it Thale.” Beocallum raised his hand as if to make an oath, but Thale had already removed the sword-point and was striding to the front of the hall.

“No I don’t believe you Hund, funny that. I thought we could trust one another, what with all the wood you’ve sold me over the years. I thought we were comrades; friends even.”

Thale plunked himself back down on his chair, gesturing to the youth before him with the fine blade.

“I think you’ve been teaching your youth here to be warriors, hoping that one day they will take up your weapons against us when we are old and fat on your food. The only question now,” He paused, pointing the sword from youth to youth, “is to find out who’s sword this is.”

He stood quickly, drawing uncomfortably close to the little girl with the sword lifted under her nose. “Please, no more milord, the fault is mine!” Master Gaelie made to get up again, but a wilderguard pushed him down with a grin on his lips. Beocallum tried to step forward but Agnes held him back. There was nothing he could do now; even a full confession had not stayed Thale’s hand.

“Is it her? No, what am I saying, everyone knows a woman cannot be a warrior.” Thale grinned, rubbing the dull side of the blade against the terrified girl's cheek.

Give me a blade and a fair match Agnes fumed to herself and I’ll show you how wrong you are.

“Is it him?” Thale moved onto the boy with the bandaged hand, tapping the razor edge on the boys stomach, making him twitch. The boy’s father jerked forwards, but the man aside him held him back. Most of the mothers were weeping now, their fearful hands clutched to their faces.

“No, I don’t think so.” Thale smiled at the boy, patting him on the cheek with his free hand before moving on.

The parents were getting anxious, some pleading with the wilderguard while others began to try and claim ownership of the sword. Agnes knew it was all useless, Thale had come here with some awful plan in mind and was going to enjoy his time in taking it.

“How about you?” Thale stopped short of Seamus and Agnes did her best to keep her composure and her face blank.

“Muddy clothes, tall figure and a ring to boot! I say, is this your sword boy?” Thale put the blade edge directly under Seamus’ chin, forcing the boy to look him in the eye.

The pretense ended as Beocallum nearly succeeded in pulling himself from Agnes' grip, Fayna adding a shrill cry to the air as Thale threatened the person she cared most about.

“No! Please!”

Thale’s grin shone malevolently in the torchlight as he grabbed Seamus by the hair, wrenching the boy forwards to show the gathered people.

“And now we have our man!”

The wildermen around them cackled loudly, nearly drowning out the pleas of the people in the room. The noise was deafening and Agnes nearly shut her eyes as it washed over her. Beocallum was tense under her arm, but she gamely hung onto him. Anything he did now would just get them all killed, already his actions had made things worse.

Agnes’ mind was reeling, she needed to do something but was unsure what would work. Rushing the wilderguards would be useless, especially now with those damn wolves blocking the only escape. Taking the blame for the weapon hadn’t worked already, Thale had made that perfectly clear, but Agnes knew there had to be some way to escape. Now all she had to do was find it.

“Quiet! QUIET!” Thale’s barking command cut through the din like a knife through a pelt, silencing all but the plaintive whimpers of concerned parents.

“Seeing as you have committed treason by training your children to fight us, you are now hereby stripped of your freedom and possessions. Each of you will be given to the moot to work as slaves until the ends of your lives.” He turned back to the children, yanking Seamus about as he did so.

“As for your would-be saviours, we invite the families of these youth to join us and them at the City square. There we will find out what happens to those who design to betray their Lord!”

More cheers erupted from the wilderguard as rough hands descended on the gathered Highwallers, pushing those with children forwards past the Feilkhu at the doors and menacing the rest of them to the back of the hall with spear points and axes.

Even the boy who didn’t get a ring was hauled roughly to his feet and pulled out the door to the screams of his mother, Fayna suffering the same fate as the wildermen began to troop out of the hall.

Caehran was pushed back while Thale wrenched up Master Gaelie by the front of his robes, dragging the priest close to his face.

“You can come too old man, I’ll fetter you to the tree so you can starve to death while your soldiers rot above you!”

Practically throwing Gaelie into the waiting arms of the feilkhu, who clasped him tightly and led him outside, Thale turned back to one of the Wilderguard and motioned to the huddled highwallers with the stolen sword in his hand.

“Make sure they stay here, Anesh will want to see them after the hanging. Then they will be ours to serve us as we see fit.” He grinned, looking at Agnes in a way that made her skin crawl.

“Post some guards outside and out back as well, make sure no one leaves.” He paused, bringing the swordpoint up level with Beocallums’ face. “And watch that cripple, He’s more dangerous than he looks.”

With that the burly wilderguard dragged Jorgen, the last son of Lord Thall Shaeson, out the door and into the inhospitable night.

#celt #medival #fantasy #sword #axe #spear #wolf #writing #original work

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