Tundra

The arctic wind blasted Furon as he headed up the slope, as though it wanted him to turn around, as though it wanted to say that coming here, against his better judgment, had been a mistake. He narrowed his eyes and pressed on, dragging his cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was an added layer of heat shrugged around him, but it would still never be enough. Nothing ever was. And yet, he could not show fear of the cold, just as he was forbidden to show a fear of knives or axes, or poison or assassins in the night. He was a Karl, and he would act like one. Up the mountain he climbed, humbling himself by being on mere land, until the longhouse drifted into view through the snowstorm. There were the log heads, carved into various walrus shapes, narwhal shapes and shark shapes, spilling and chomping and diving all over the place, where sombre patterns and noble sea serpents should have been. How undignified! Some clans really ought to relinquish their claims on the sea, the Karl thought as he climbed. They were no good for it.

‘What a joke!’ he barked to his son, Turon, and his half dozen guards. Turon should have been the jewel in his crown, a sapphire to rival all but the waves themselves, but Furon could not help wishing that Eiron was by his side instead. There had been a man who knew an axe from an oar, and was a master of both. Turon was an able man, but it just wasn’t the same. Such a shame, he thought as he hiked uphill towards the rising steps. Such a shame!

They came into the long house, bursting through the double doors. None of the men inside had eyes for each other. They glared warily over the top of their goblets at all the Seafarers with whom they had blood feuds. This being the case, it was surprising to see representatives of so many clans gathered under one roof.

‘Muroar,’ Furon nodded to another clan’s Karl.

‘Furon!’ came the hearty reply, as a bear of a man clapped him on the back with a hand that also clutched a chicken leg. There were not many others to hale. Most went ungreeted, only watched. Furon’s guards spread out in a defensive flank, while he and his son took seats and drinks in walrus tusks from the nearby servers who had swooped down to accost them. Although there were layers of furs between his crossed legs and the ground, Furon felt dirty sitting on sand that was crushed from rocks and not shells. A Seafarer Karl should not have been made to degrade himself so. He hoped, optimistically, that whatever spectacle he had come to see would be worth the ill treatment he had received in terms of hospitality. At least, he was comforted to think, this proved his clan’s superiority over the Spearhorn clan, though it was sad to see the standards falling– most Karls did not seem to have a problem with their allocated seats. They just seemed generally uneasy.

‘The men are uneasy,’ Turon whispered to his father, with a sidelong glance at the guards.

Furon could not suppress a scoff. ‘So we’re taking this seriously, then?’ he said. ‘This High Thane nonsense.’ He tried to ignore the fact that he was sitting inland, in a rival’s hall, amongst enemies, and dismissed the motive that had led him there. It was too much to concede to, too much to even contemplate.

‘It looks as though we should,’ his son advised him. ‘He has several bands under his command. Not small bands, either– the Sharktooth have thirty ships, and the Red Wave almost fifty… This is real. This is happening, as it happened to our grandfathers.’

The Karl shook his maned head. ‘The Red Wave have always been susceptible to this kind of thing. As to the Sharktooth band, the less said about them the better.’

He laughed, but his son did not return his joviality. There was only ice in his eyes, and seriousness. ‘What do we know about this Erasums?’ he asked, determined to prove his worth to his father. ‘Who is he? Have the Sharktooth band elevated one of their own?’

‘A southerner wizard,’ Turon barked, drawing a crowd of onlookers now, each of whom lowered their goblets or horns to listen. ‘I knew that would be trouble. We should never have permitted them to settle here. I say we go to their tower and burn it to the ground! This met with a cheer.

‘Not one of those wizards,’ somebody mumbled, and Furon saw that it was Muroar speaking up. ‘He’s a southerner, true, but he’s something else.’

‘And why are they all listening to him?’ asked Turon, backing up his father. ‘Since when do any of us take orders from southerners?’

‘Something must be going on there,’ said a Karl.

Muroar contributed again. ‘They say he can’t be killed. They say that his wounds heal as fast as they’re made.’

‘Well then,’ Furon roared, ‘we’ll take his head. See if he can heal that!’ Another cheer erupted, but the Karl of the Cleaved Tide was embittered to hear silence from behind him, where his son was seated by his right, in the position of advisor.

‘This isn’t our grandfathers’ war,’ Turon said, ‘is what that says to me. This isn’t going to be a fleet engagement on the open sea, or a raid on his fortress.’ He hesitated, and then delivered another question that he hoped would do his father proud. Do we know where that is?’

‘Not as yet,’ said Muroar, through his thick, bronze beard. ‘My Sabrewhale spies claim that it’s somewhere in Sharktooth country, but he moves around, and that was a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Well, regardless,’ Turon responded, ‘we don’t know what he’s capable of. We can’t treat this like it’s normal.’

Muroar looked concerned. ‘So, we sit here and do nothing?’

‘Of course not!’ Furon spoke up again. ‘All talk of immortal southerner monster wizards aside, there are some things we know. We know which bands have signed on with this Erasmus. We know where they harbour, and we know where their lands are. I say we strike. Myself and the Cleaved Tide clan will hit the Sharktooth fortress at Ngerru. You and your people are right next to the Sons of the Storm – if you come at them up the fjord with everything you’ve got, they can’t effectively defend themselves. Sabrewhales, the Red Wave are still at sea, but they should be returning home soon– you and the Shoalwatchers can hit them on the open ocean when they’re tired from raiding but you’re fresh and well-supplied.’

‘Why are we going after the Red Wave?’ asked the Karl of the Shoalwatchers, a ragged, elderly man with a spill of silver braids about his tattooed face. ‘They’re twice our size, and their home shares a border with the Sons of the Storm as well. They can come at them through the sea lanes.’ He paused, and then delivered his boldest suggestion. ‘Why should you have the easiest pickings, raiding the rich Shark men? In fact, we still have an open feud with the Cleaved Tide. How do we know this isn’t some plan to dash us against the rocks of your enemies?’

Another Karl leapt in behind him as the fervour stirred up. ‘And since when does the Cleaved Tide say who and when we will attack?’

‘The High Thane isn’t some southerner wizard, men, he’s here in this hall with us,’ somebody whispered.

‘If you have a better plan,’ Furor continued to bellow, ‘let’s hear it! But remember, Heror, I smashed you in the Bay of Howls. You’re not a man who should be questioning my tactics.’

‘Yes, you and twice as many rowers as I had. There’s no battle-craft to that. In a fair fight, I would have had you…’

Furon leapt to his feet, slinging his axe off his back and throwing it into his hand before hefting it suggestively. ‘I’ll have you right now!’ he shouted by way of challenge. His guards stood behind him as general chaos ensued. Goblets toppled over and mead was spilled, fat slid from glittering plates and knives and forks clanged, while swords slid from scabbards with hisses. Then–

‘I have a suggestion,’ said the whisperer, more loudly. ‘Why not give this Erasmus what he wants?’

Furon spun around. ‘What? Who said that?’ Nobody stood up, but the voice went on.

‘Why not agree to obey him? Instead of a shambling collection of tribes fighting like dogs over the meagre scraps the tundra has to offer, why not be one race, one people, united under one leader?’

’Because he’s a southerner,’ Muroar cried.

’So what? All that means is he’s from somewhere else. It doesn’t tell you anything about the man.’ As heads turned and murmurs rose, the speaker finally revealed himself. ’I am Karl of the Sea Savages,’ he said. ‘My father was before me, and my son will be after me. I’m not giving my band up to some outsider.’

‘That’s right,’ Furon growled. ‘Who are you, anyway?’ He could not place the man’s face, or his title. This stranger was tall and thin, with pale skin and without any tattoos. His clan must have lived in isolation for a long time to evade Furon’s living memory and his taught folklore. Who could this be, with finery that looked brand new, and a glitter in his eyes that was not the glitter of savage waves.

‘But why not?’ he posed. ‘The feuds, and the mutual raids, and the violence, he could stop all that. You people slaughter your best and brightest, feeding them into this whirlpool of violence so that whoever survives is jaded enough to inflict the same horrors on the next generation. What’s wrong with your culture? Whatever it is, Erasmus can fix it.’

‘We are Seafarers!’ Furon said, with vocal backing. ‘We bow to no man.’

‘What a pity,’ said the stranger, in a slithering voice. ‘Kill them.’