Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (55 page)

“It’s just as well we’re civil, then. Even if we run out of stonebiscuit, you’re probably about as edible as quartz. If we end up in their pots, at least we know you’ll break their teeth.”

“Now you’re learning, lad!” Lodi nodded approvingly at the young dwarf. “The gods are hard, but the dwarves are harder. When it all turns to shit and sorrow, you just remind yourself of that.”

FJOTRA

True to his word, the Red Prince reached the safety of Raknarborg’s walls with both his and the Skullbreaker’s forces intact well before nightfall. Her father was much impressed that the Savoner prince had troubled to bring back the bodies of the Dalarn fallen as well as his own, and he admitted to Fjotra that if it was necessary for their people to accept a king, they might do considerably worse than Prince Karl.

It had been an anxious few hours for Fjotra, as she and the mages had reached the fortress long before either the exhausted Dalarn or the exuberant Savonders did.

Rather than take her father’s advice and order a tub warmed for herself, Fjotra had climbed to the summit of the North Tower in order to keep watch for the returning warriors.

She could see the cause for his concern: There was a large mass of what looked to be four or five thousand aalvarg that were potentially in position to interfere with the prince’s line of retreat. But they didn’t appear to be moving toward the fortress, and she relaxed considerably when she saw several hundred Savonder footmen, accompanied by a few dozen riders and led by a blue-cloaked man at the fore, being slowly disgorged from the great black gate below her to her left.

Her stomach was beginning to remind her that she had eaten little today when she first caught sight of the bright scarlet pennon born by the prince’s stoic flag-bearer, followed by a squadron of knights escorting the uneven column of Dalarn warriors. She gave a short prayer of thanks to the All-Father and to the Giantslayer for their safe return, but she waited until she was able to lay eyes upon a red-armored man on a big black horse bringing up the rear of the march before descending from the tower.

After taking a lukewarm bath and spending a frantic few minutes searching through the dresses that she’d already packed for her return, she brushed her hair and presented herself to her father in the hopes that Prince Karl might soon be doing the same.

As darkness fell and the oiled rushlights were lit, the mood in the Skullbreaker’s hall was cheerful, if not entirely celebratory. Their victory had been complete, but there wasn’t a man or woman in the hall who didn’t realize that they would have to fend off their besiegers at least once before the last man, most likely the Skullbreaker, would board ship and abandon the isles to the bestial mercies of the aalvarg.

Fjotra worried too about the discovery that the aalvarg possessed magic of their own. The last known troldmand had been killed before she was born, and the few wizened
troldkvinde
who survived had been sent on the first ships along with the other women in order to watch over the pregnant ones as well as the sick children.

But surely wolf urine could not bring down the mighty walls of Raknarborg, no matter how magical it was! She decided she would ask Blais about it when she saw him. If anyone on this side of the sea might know, it would be him. She wished Lord Theuderic and his Lady Everbright were there, both of them seemed to possess significantly more knowledge of the runic arts than either of the two young battlemages.

The Skullbreaker had ordered a victory feast in the great hall. She was disappointed to find herself seated on the other side of her father from the prince, who had taken his place at the Skullbreaker’s right hand with the royal admiral on the other side. She was further disappointed to find herself between Steinthor Strongbow on her right and Patrice on her left. Steinthor made for poor company, as he was heavily involved in the conversation about the day’s battle with her father and the prince, but the young sorcerer was more than happy to take advantage of the Dalarn warrior’s disinterest in talking to her.

As if by way of compensation, the meal itself was surprisingly lavish. Prince Karl had brought over a considerable quantity of wine, which was almost unknown to a generation of Dalarn warriors who had grown up spending considerably more time defending their people against the aalvarg than raiding the northern coasts of Selenoth. It was well received by Savoners and Dalarn alike, as was the spit-roasted beef, which was served in such quantities that even the lowliest kitchen drudges would be able to eat their fill tonight.

The Skullbreaker had laid in supplies intended to last his men for two years, but now that the decision to abandon the fortress was settled, there was no longer any need to ration them out. And because not all of the pigs, cows, and chickens could be transported on the ships, they would dine as if they were kings across the sea throughout the final days of Raknarborg.

“Will you stop that?” she snapped, rather too harshly, as Patrice offered for the third time to refill her cup.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, flustered.

“There be twenty other women here in the hall, why must you always talk to me? Why you not bother them, not me?”

“I had no idea I was bothering you,” he said, pulling back from her and holding himself in a stiff and unnatural position. “I do apologize, of course. In my defense, I hope you will allow me to point out that I can’t speak to any of those other women, as I don’t speak your tongue, and they don’t speak mine.”

Fjotra stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. Of course the poor man hadn’t tried to speak to anyone else. He couldn’t! She shook her head then lifted her cup and held it out toward him by way of apology.

He grasped the gesture, and grinned ruefully as he poured the wine.

“I fear you must have thought that I was being rather forward in my pursuit of you.”

“Like a dog after a bitch.”

He winced. “Never fear, my lady. Prince Karl would have my head if I even thought to attempt seducing you, much less managed to succeed. I don’t know what his plans are for you, but he made it clear to all of us that if we were to offend you in any way, he’d give us to your father, which fate I am given to understand can be arguably worse than death.”

“The blood eagle,” Fjotra said, nodding. She’d seen him offer sacrifices of his enemies to the All-Father before, usually rival chieftains who had refused to submit to him peacefully. “You don’t want that.”

“No, I most certainly don’t, whatever it is.”

“You say the prince have plans for me? Why he do that? Why he always call me princess when everyone else call me lady?”

The mage glanced over at the prince, who was out of earshot in the noisy hall and engaged in an animated conversation with his admiral. “You have to understand that I don’t know what his intentions are. His Serene Highness is not in the habit of taking lowly battlemages into his confidence. But if his father seeks to add the Wolf Isles to the realm, which I can only assume is why we’re here, then it would make a good deal of sense to establish a more lasting claim to them than merely receiving homage from your father. Especially since he’s going to have to grant your father a fiefdom from the existing crown lands where your people can settle.”

“Homage? Fiefdom? I do not understand these words.”

“No, of course you don’t.” The young mage pursed his lips then reached into the bread basket and withdrew a piece of bread, which he began breaking into pieces. “Here, these four pieces are the isles, and all these other pieces belong to Savondir. Each piece is a fiefdom that belongs to one noble or another. The big pieces belong to the great lords, whereas the little ones belong to the minor nobility. So, even though everything belongs to the king, since your people can’t live on any of the four pieces anymore, they have to live on one of these other pieces.
Homage
is what your father must do in order to receive the land from the king. It’s a simple ritual.”

“Like he promise the king will be his chief.”

“Exactly. Now, your people don’t really have a structured system of nobility, so your father will need to be incorporated into the Savondese aristocracy. I mean, he has a certain status by virtue of his several thousand warriors, which will make him one of the most powerful men in the realm right away. Since the king won’t want your father using his warriors to take the lands he needs to settle your people on, he’ll simply give them to him. And since he’ll want to formalize your father’s status, he’ll make him a comte, or more likely a marquis, considering his following. He could even make him a duc, but I can’t imagine that happening since it would offend far too many of his lords, and perhaps more importanly, their ladies.”

“So I not to be a princess? What about Brynjolf, will he not be a prince?”

“Brynjolf won’t be, no. He’ll receive a title one level below your father. If the Skullbreaker is made a marquis, then your brother will be made a comte. Can you imagine that? What would he be called, the Marquis de Tete de Mort? Still, I doubt anyone would dare titter at him at court, for fear of getting brained by an axe. On the other hand, if your father is made a comte, your brother would likely be named a viscomte.”

Fjotra considered it. She didn’t think either her father or her brother would mind what they were called, so long as they were provided sufficient land on which to settle safely. Until nine months before the fall of Garn, when her father had begun preparing Raknarborg for the last stand of the Dalarn, he’d never held the allegiance of more than two hundred men and their families. To her kind, men, money, and power were much more important than titles. All the same, she couldn’t help asking about herself.

“I will be a comtesse?”

Patrice shrugged. “At the least. I suspect you’ll be more valuable to the king as ‘the Princess des Iles du Loup.’ Whereas your father and brother are worthless as claimants to the islands, he can declare them to be your dowry and either give you to the man who can take them back for him, or, if he prefers to keep them for the crown, marry you to Prince Karl.”

“Marry me?” It wasn’t a horrific thought, but Fjotra was alarmed at how the comtesse might react. “What if he loves someone else?”

“Kings and princes are much more interested in what a woman brings with her to the wedding than anything else, my lady. You’re a pretty girl, to be sure, but it’s not your face that will have every adventuresome noble seeking your hand in marriage. I daresay even a few peers of the realm would be interested, were it not for their wives getting in the way. And besides, from what I’ve seen, you and the prince appear to like each other well enough.”

He did? “You think he likes me?”

“I think you know perfectly well that he does.” The mage’s voice was measured, but his eyes betrayed his amusement. to laugh at her. “I merely hope that my lady will look upon me with favor should she one day find herself Queen of all Savondir.”

She snorted. “Queen of Savondir? No, I don’t believe you. But I need friends in Savonne, I think, no matter who marries me. Should we be friends?”

“Done, my lady,” Patrice declared, and they raised their cups together by way of sealing the pledge.

Fjotra was certain the young battlemage was not quite as disinterested in her as he feigned, but she was pleased to know that she would have at least one genuine friend in Savonne if a marriage to the Red Prince caused even the comtesse to turn on her. So it was with a light heart that she subsequently retired from the hall and made her way toward the bedchamber she shared with four of her friends.

Fjotra had already repacked her dress and slipped on her thick woolen nightshift when there was a knock on the door.

It was Grenjar, the young thrall who had been freed upon reaching Raknarborg and who was now serving her father as what the Savoners would call his squire. He had unusually dark hair for a Dalarn and was sometimes called Stormcrow, as the Skullbreaker seldom summoned someone because he was pleased with them. But his presence held no terrors for Fjotra. Quite the opposite, actually, as she had seen both her father and Prince Karl looking over at her after engaging in a long and apparently intense discussion. Dared she hope that they had been speaking of her betrothal? She would find it soon, it seemed.