Tundra

The tundra is a blank slate for many of us. It is a world without politics, where human interactions are of a higher or lower order and power and command is raw– this the Karl knew, as his cloak whispered over the snow behind him, trailing along the way to the Thanehaus. It was pale rabbit fur, and in the surrounding white it might have been powder on powder or down on down. Only the Karl could wear such a bloodless colour, and partake of the fruits of the land without criticism. Presently, the Karl passed up the low, wooden steps, slippery with ice and salted with the dry salt of the ocean, and into the long, low wooden building that served him for a palace. It was not grand, at least it was not anywhere near as grand as the sea it overlooked, and that was intentional. The endless stretch of water was a Karl’s true throne.

Behind their leader came those few of Eiron’s deserters whom the Karl had not chosen to kill by tying them down by the docks, where the oysters scraped their backs and made them bleed into the salty ocean, as the tide came up to drown them. The Karl did not feel a twinge of regret for this punishment. There was no room for regret in a place like his, both socially and geographically. The shamed men followed him single file into the Thanehaus, where a fire crackled blue and sacred, licking at fresh driftwood and the spinning carcass of a gutted boar that was roasting just above their reach.

Eiron’s uncle assumed his seat in an ivory chair carved into intricate knots like serpents and tentacles. ‘So,’ he said, gesturing for the others to seat themselves cross-legged on the bear skins before him. ‘You bring news of our missing Prince?’

‘Yes,’ said one deserter, boldly and bracingly. ‘We followed him as far as the Funshun Fjord, but it soon became clear that he was not acting rationally. He had us fighting druids and monsters, and half his crew died, but he refused to accept that he had made a mistake.’

The Karl scoffed, staring at the deserter with distaste. As well they should all have died, he thought, only then he would have no information. As it was, he would allow these informants to live on only as slaves. ‘That was always Eiron’s problem,’ he said bitterly. ‘That disgraced hound. When he killed Emerus, all he had to do was pay the blood price to his family and the whole thing would have been forgotten.’ He shook his head, remorsefully. ‘An accident that was supposed to be, too. Ah, but tell me what happened to his alleged inheritance.’

The now slave bowed his head. ‘I have no idea where it is.’

Another man in the hall, a rower chewing fat by the fire, turned and interjected. ‘So you abandoned us, then you abandoned him?’ he said. ’And now you expect to come back to the Cleaved Tide, expecting nothing more than slavery and pardon. Who’ll row with you? Who’ll fight with you? I wouldn’t want you ahead of me in a raid, slave or no.’ Other men nodded, and a rancour swelled up in agreement. Betrayal was the gravest sin a Seafarer could commit. Where death was as close as the cold wind and the perpetual howling of wolves at their heels, loyalty was everything.

The slave shook his head, dislodging braids that would soon be shorn off. ‘It’s not like that,’ he pleaded, invoking revulsion rather than pity from the braver men. ‘I came to my senses.’

‘There is no room for lost senses in this cabin.’

‘No.’ The Karl held up a foreboding hand. ‘Say what you like about Prince Eiron, but at least he has courage in his convictions.’ He chuckled to himself. Furon secretly wished he had not had to banish his favourite nephew, and lose his other nephew in the process. These men might not have gone down with his sinking ship, but they were led astray by someone more powerful than they were. Their only sin is cowardice, and for that they will be punished. No more loss of lives will occur today. Should we decimate ourselves before the other clans can knife us?’ He turned back to the slave, and asked, ‘What of the rest of Eiron’s band? Who still lives?’

‘Jesson stayed,’ said the slave to a clenched fist. This surprised no-one. The brothers, Tieron and Taychon stayed, and a few others. No more than a dozen in total.’

‘I see.’ the Karl nodded. ‘And they were going to Sentinel Rock. Why?’

‘To kill a druid.’

‘Ah,’ the Karl breathed, letting his breath curdle in the air. ‘Then they are likely already dead. A pity. I had hoped that, once Eiron calmed down, he could be welcomed back into this longhouse as one of my son’s servants, but it seems that that is not to be…’

The Karl trailed off, and the air froze in that vacuum of a moment while the huge, heavy double doors of the Thanehaus braced themselves for opening. Then, they creaked wide, and the wind stole in after them, screaming and whistling, and bringing snowflakes to torment the fire. The man who strode in after them was as dark as the Karl was pale, his skin the colour of charcoal, and his eyes like burning embers. His braided hair was as black as the fathomless depths, and he was Seafarer. ‘Greetings, men of the Cleaved Tide,’ he said by way of entry.

‘Greetings?’ repeated a rower. ‘By what right does the Sharktooth band come into our longhouse? We still owe you a beating for what happened at Yjordha last winter!’

‘Yes,’ said the Karl, no drawn dagger escaping his eye. ‘Speak quickly. You’ve put yourself in great danger coming here, Shark man.’

‘I’m not here as a Shark man,’ said the one with flawless, white teeth, their ends filed to points. ‘Well, only peripherally. I’ve come to bring you a message from the High Thane.’

was a goading silence, and then, ‘Really?’ The Karl raised one eyebrow, a slit running down its centre and into his ruined eye. ‘You’re here on behalf of the High Thane?’

Bowing his head but not his eyes, the other nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘How old are you, boy?’ the Karl scoffed.

‘Twenty turns, but–’

‘You should learn your people’s history better. There is no High Thane. That title is a joke. Every couple of generations, some fool gets it into his head to unite the longhouses under their banner and declares themselves High Thane. The last one was Huron, I think?’

‘Yes,’ said a rower, eyes misty with memory. ‘My father rowed against him.’

‘Yes,’ the Karl agreed, ‘and do you know what happens to the High Thane? The other longhouse men kill him. High Thane… ridiculous!’ The Karl erupted into earth shaking laughter. ‘But,’ he conceded, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye, ‘I suppose I should hear you out. Tell us, boy, who it is? I would assume it’s some Shark man, but I know your chief and he would not be so stupid.’

The young messenger drew himself up to his full height, so that his midnight robe flapped around him. ‘His name is Erasmus,’ he said, ‘and it’s you who is stupid. The Sharktooth clan are behind him, and the Iron Prows, and the Sons of the Storm.’

‘For as long as it takes them to murder him, no doubt.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said the Shark man, bravely. ‘He cannot be killed. I’ve seen it myself. The most grievous wound are as nothing to him. He has a message for the Cleaved Tide specifically.’

‘Well, come on then,’ said the Karl, who did not like to be kept waiting for theatrics.’

‘It is one word,’ said the Sharktooth. ‘Submit.’

‘That’s all?’ said an incredulous rower. ‘No threats? No promises or offers? He’s not going to burn down our longhouse or make it so that we have smooth sailing for the rest of our lives?’

‘Not much of a High Thane!’ concluded another.

To the Karl’s surprise, however, the Shark man’s white teeth were glittering, exposed in a knowing grin. ‘He said you might say that,’ he told everyone gathered in the hall. ‘He says, in that case, to say one other thing, and that is this. Eiron was the best of you, and Erasmus flattened him without raising a sweat. One way or another, you will submit, even if he has to pull the chains around your necks himself.’

The messenger paused, seemingly ignorant of the mortal peril he had placed himself in. Instead of drawing a weapon, he unstrung the front of his shirt, and let it slip out from under his cloak. There, the symbols that should have been sharks and points had transformed, becoming something sinister and strange. While the Karl protested the impossibility of his banished nephew’s death, the evidence was before them. There, etched in ink that covered the young man’s whole chest and arms, were the coils of a snake.