Tundra

In the aftermath of the battle, the land was red. Was it blood that stained the soil? The men scuffed around, trying to determine the nature of the substance that had leaked out of their foes and was a mixture of too bright red and too purple to be ordinary, human fluid.

‘We’ve killed druids,’ one man said, lamenting his misfortune.

Eiron only kicked at a corpse, turning its head over with his toe, so that the misshapen former madman faced him. It was true that the dead men’s faces were not normal. They were lopsided, bug-eyed and contorted with something more than pain. They would be that way forever now. ‘I guess we’ll find out then,’ he said, ‘whether this curse is true.’

‘What was that?’ asked one of the men, incredulously. The fever of battle was still beaded on his forehead, and he breathed heavily, long braids swinging around his face. His sword poked at the fallen enemy, as if to test whether they actually existed.

Eiron replied to the question through gritted teeth. ‘So, we met with resistance,’ he said. ‘It’s not the first time that’s happened, and it won’t be the last.’

The man who had interrupted, despite his lowly wolf tattoos, now objected. ‘That wasn’t just resistance. Those were monsters, my Prince. Did you know this was going to happen?’

‘That we would walk into an ambush?’ Eiron whipped his axe, still slick with the mystery substance, from his hip. ‘Of course not. What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting that you’ve gotten us into something that’s going to get us all killed,’ the first man said, his own weapon pointed where it was drawn.

’Several of our number are dead already,’ said another rower. ‘What were those things?’

‘Minions of our enemy,’ Eiron growled. The look he cast around the crowd with implied that no further complaints would be tolerated. ‘You’ve all raided before,’ he said, ‘and those we’ve lost are even now drinking with their ancestors. Let’s move on.’

‘Stop trying to pretend this is normal!’ cried yet another rower, in support of the first two, who now clamoured with their weapons in the air. ‘This is not just another raid. Whatever those things were, they weren’t human. Do you need a map like a southerner to stop your promises from going astray?’

Now, Jesson was incited. ‘Do not speak to your Prince that way!’ he said scathingly. ‘Eiron knows what he’s doing and he has a plan.’

‘Let’s hear it, then,’ several men shouted. ‘Let’s hear how he intends to bring down those creatures’ master, with half his crew dead and no idea what he’s up against.’

‘Talk like that disrespects our ancestors,’ Jesson continued. ‘What would your father and grandfather say, looking down on you from the hall of heroes and seeing your disloyalty?’

‘They’d say, good for him, he’s not going to get himself killed doing something stupid. They’d say, this Prince is a bad Prince and someone needs to stand up to him.’

‘Then do it,’ Eiron called out. ‘Stand up to me. You know how.’

He drew himself up to his full, intimidating height. His long ponytail fluttered like a banner in the breeze, and swished like a horse’s tail when he was agitated. There was something majestic about Eiron in this stance, with both hands gripping the handle of the bloody axe and his lips bared in a canine snarl. He was a king in the way that all tundra kings are crowned, by might and through survival. Survival was the challenge he issued to all who contested him. It was not yet a challenge that had ever been met.

Jesson stood back, smiling, and the two men charged. Axe and sword clashed, the latter being caught and driven skywards in a glittering arc, leaving the wolf-blood’s body unprotected. Eiron lunged, but the man jumped back, and was only grazed by the axe tip that came swinging after him. A kick aimed at his shins sent him down, and the next thing he knew, the axe was hovering over his head. There was no hesitation.

Eiron was Prince.

‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I know many of you are against me. You are my men, and I would not have your blood spilt thus. If you want to leave, then leave! I’d rather have you abandon this crew than wait around for the knife in my back. Go,’ he instructed him. ‘But know this – once all this is over, I will return and take my place at the head of the Cleaved Tide, and I will remember who stayed with me on this beach and who left.’

The dozen odd rowers left standing turned to each other, muttering and whispering. One by one, they made their choice.