The great hall of Thunderhill was boisterous and brimming at full capacity, with hundreds of burg residents and nomads alike gathered for the first night of Midsummer's celebrations. Otto Johanson, eldest prince of the burg, sat at the high table with his brothers and fathers, and the other noble warriors: their uncles, male cousins, and the handful of warrior dames. The high table itself was nearest the great hearth, and they sweated in the summer heat even though the fire was kept low.
The closest tables were occupied by the wealthiest burghers. They sat on individual stools or chairs like those at the high table, marked not only by their seats but by the intricate embroidery on their clothes and their plentiful gold and silver jewelry. Most were craftsmen as well as warriors, but they also included the burg's trio of magical healers, green sorcerers in their soft robes, and its solitary, grudgingly trusted and battle-worn red sorcerer.
Filling nearly half the hall were the rovers, packed together on benches, here to celebrate with their non-nomadic brethren. Dogs and children ran around the perimeter of tables, occasionally joined by men and women stretching their legs or finding friends at other tables. Most of the rover bands had arrived only a few days before, and now was a time to renew bonds with others not seen since the end of winter. Beginning tomorrow, burghers and nomads alike would crowd the green to watch and fight in the tournaments, but tonight was for feasting.
The kings' wives sat at the table to the left, along with the other noble wives and their tots. While husbands forged their bonds with each other in toil and battle, most kept to custom and also took one or more wives to bear them children and look after the household.
This midsummer, Otto's younger brothers Werner and Hald were joined by Werner's new husband, Sverre. As muscular and broad as any of the Johansons, Sverre had a majestic beard, braids of blond intertwined with rich berry-dyed maroon. Otto was pleased for Werner, but it stung his pride a bit that the middle brother had wed before him, the oldest. Werner and Sverre had not yet taken a wife, but would surely do so before next summer.
Three years ago, Otto had been ready to ask Rasmus, his lover of the few years prior, for betrothal. Rasmus—wiry, witty Rasmus—had been a fine warrior who was eager to leave his family's ironworking trade to his older brothers. But a vicious attack from Yewcastle on a band of Thunderhill warriors out hunting left them with many casualties. Rasmus and Otto had survived the initial onslaught together, only to be interrupted by the fresh terror of Rasmus clutching his throat soon after the lull.
The primal fear on Rasmus's face was etched into Otto's mind even now. Otto had wasted no time tearing through the nearby trees in search of the red sorcerer, finding her quickly and pulling her down from her cowardly perch hidden in the trees. He hacked off the hand clutching the freshly carved rune, spilling even fresher blood down its surface. But it had been too late; though he had slayed her moments later, Rasmus was still dead.
An uneasy truce had been settled between Thunderhill and Yewcastle more recently, after a nasty spate of dire fox attacks, but Otto had found neither comfort nor love since. Now, surrounded by all of Thunderhill in the festivities of the solstice, Otto was expected to be looking for a new partner. Relationships that ended with the death of one of the men in battle were painful but common. One of Otto's fathers, Alvar, had died from a wound of war many years back; his other father, Johan, had remarried not two years later. But despite the unspoken expectation that Otto would be ready to move on by now, he had no burning desire to light a new flame.
Occasionally, he still feared the embers of his heart were truly extinguished, to be forever cold, when he saw warriors around him finding love—a particular worry he'd faced when Werner and Sverre had wed. Not prone to dramatics, however, Otto assured himself the embers were simply burning slowly, waiting for the right kindling to be stoked to new passion. Or so he hoped.
Otto reached down to scratch the head of Bitty, his sleek-furred kell hound, who was snoozing beside his chair. She yawned and stretched, accepting the attention for a moment before trotting over to tussle with other dogs for meat scraps near the hearth.
"Don't look so glum," Hald said, elbowing Otto out of his musings. "The biggest feast of the season's no time for your severity." He grabbed the lacquered pitcher nearest him with ring-studded hands as big as paws and refilled Otto's half-empty goblet nearly to its brim with dark wine.
"You're right," Otto agreed, picking up the goblet. He took a deep swig of the sweet wine, the tartness of last summer's blackberries tickling the back of his tongue, and then lifted the vessel to clink against Hald's. "To family, to the gods, and to the endless day."
"And to the joy all three may bring us!" Hald added, grinning before gulping down more of his own wine. Like all Teglanders, he was celebrating his next year of age this solstice. Newly seventeen, he was already the tallest and broadest of the three brothers, sure to be a giant of a man when he finished growing. Otto sometimes joked that Hald must have troll blood. Hald had had nothing but good fortune through his years, and while sometimes Otto resented him for it, more often he was grateful for the light of optimism Hald provided in an often dark world.
"The gods don't exist to bring us joy," Werner said, breaking his conversation with Johan to eye Hald disapprovingly. His flaxen hair was tightly braided, his brooches and rings immaculately polished. Though he resembled Otto and Hald in build, unlike his brothers, Werner had been blessed with a profound frown rather than a wide smile, and seemed to find any possible reason to use it.
"It's thanks to the gods that we enjoy the bounty of the harvest, the thrill of the hunt, and, Lady Volha be good, the deaths of our enemies!" Hald replied jovially.
"The gods don't exist for our ends," Otto mediated, "but in their wisdom and benevolence they may bestow their blessings upon us. Nothing to take for granted, but nothing to deny, either."
"To reduce them to our joy is foolishness," argued Werner. He pointed his knife accusingly at Hald. "See how long your blessings last, should you talk about them like that."
Otto wanted to roll his eyes. For all that he appreciated his brothers, sometimes Werner drove him mad. Otto calmed himself with the reminder that in the next few days, he'd have the chance to knock some humility into Werner by defeating him on the tournament field.
"Your brother Otto is right," said Johan. He didn't need to raise his rumbling bass voice for the three brothers to listen, all turning obediently to him. Johan was getting on in years, nearly sixty now, his hair gray and eyes creased with crow's feet, though his grip and his senses were strong as ever. Noll be allowing, Johan might reign another decade before it was time for Otto to take his place as king of Thunderhill, should battle not take him sooner. "It is good to thank the gods for their blessings, and to revel in the joy they give us, but such happiness is but a sliver of what the gods give unto the world, and a mere splinter of their full beings. Hald, you are right that this is a joyful day, but Werner speaks true that it's foolish to talk as though that is all we should think of when we think of the gods."
"That's not all of it, of course; I'm no heathen," Hald protested, voice cracking on the last word. His cheeks, already pink-tinged with wine, reddened further as he was appropriately chastened, and he said no more. He instead turned his attention to the dogs by the hearth, and threw a bone to Bitty.
"You're a lord, not a heathen, and it'd be best if you spoke as such, instead of letting your enthusiasm get the better of you," grumbled Werner, but he picked up his goblet and drank, arguing no further.
Johan nodded to his sons and turned to his husband, King Isak, who had been conversing with Johan's sister Dame Mona to his left. Servants brought fresh trays of meat to the table, and while Werner rejoined his father's conversation, Hald eagerly claimed the first helping of lingonberry-sauced reindeer. Otto cut off a haunch of rabbit stuffed with wild onions and chestnuts, and dropped it into his bowl amongst the dregs of the last course's cabbage soup before nudging the tray of rabbit along to Werner and Johan. Otto had heard of kings in far-off lands with stuffy, exacting protocols about who was served first and when, but no warrior needed to wait for permission to feed himself, and if the food at the high table ran out, that was a shame upon the kings, not a reason they should be eating first.
Otto surveyed the hall as he washed down the gamey meat with more wine. The wooden panels at the tops of the walls, and the crossbeams supporting the ceiling, were carved with animals and monsters. Tapestries on the walls showed scenes of the gods, creation and destruction. Orvar forming humans out of dirt, and Ulric placing the sun in the sky. Their wives giving birth to the creatures of the world: Gyda of prey birthing rabbits, Anya of predators birthing hounds, and Thea birthing the legendary, ravenous Ursa Magnus. Noll with ravens on his shoulders, sending a landslide down from the mountains onto a too-proud burg. Judit tending injured warriors with her herbs and green magic in the afterlife of Isendann, readying them to fight valiantly again and again until the end of time. Heroes of legend and living memory populated the images as well, slaying trolls, king-trolls, lake monsters, firfiends, carrion-eaters, and great white owls.
More movement of people nearby brought his eyes back down to the crowds. Next to the table of noble wives and children were both the wealthier and the more honored burgher warriors. Weathered veterans and strapping young folks alike crowded the tables in mismatched seats, some having proven themselves from decades of battles and others more recently having proven themselves with acts of bravery. Several were Werner's hunting companions, who along with Werner and Sverre and a great number of kell hounds had slain a pack of dire foxes this past winter before the hungry beasts could reach Thunderhill's walls. Petra, Otto's dearest fellow warrior, who had loyally served with him since a young age, sat at the far end of their table. She had singlehandedly brought down a firfiend with her arrows, a feat no one else in Thunderhill’s living memory had achieved without the aid of sorcery.
Standing by the table was a woman with a striking resemblance to Petra, bearing the same dark skin and unusually short but tough build, and a pale man who looked to be around Otto's age. Judging from their high boots and thick vests, they were both rovers. At first, Otto assumed the man must've been just a herder, for he wore no armor, and the nomads usually wore what little armor they had at feasts such as this. But as Otto approached, curious to be introduced to Petra's acquaintances, one of whom was presumably her relative, he saw that the rover had not just an ax upon his belt, but a sword. Only one in ten rover warriors, and half of all burgher ones, were proficient with swords. Swords were too pricey and specialized for many, unlike axes, which served well as multitools, and bows, which were invaluable in hunting. Otto's interest was slightly piqued; would this man be competing in the sword tournament, perhaps even well enough to give Otto a new challenge?
"How goes your feasting, Petra?" Otto asked loudly, to be heard over the din of the room. Her companions turned to look at him; the woman standing noted his royal brooch and gave a solemn nod. The pale man, however, looked impassive.
"Very well," replied Petra. "Johan's cooks never disappoint me when it comes to feasts."
"King Johan?" the woman asked, lifting an eyebrow at Petra.
"My apologies, your majesty," Petra said to Otto, quirking her mouth. Otto chuckled as the other woman cuffed Petra in the shoulder, rolling her eyes.
"Do other kings so strictly insist upon titles?" Otto asked, amused.
"More like nomads are expected to show more deference than you burghers get away with," the man said. His arms were crossed, and Otto felt an immediate annoyance with him. He didn't appreciate the intimation that the nobles of Thunderhill were haughty, though he also had to admire the guts it took to say that in front of a prince.
"And it's a blessing to meet you as well," Otto said mildly. He switched his goblet to his weaker hand, held out his right to shake. "I'm Lord Otto Johanson, Prince of Thunderhill, but please just call me Otto. Whatever custom you're used to elsewhere, no noble in Thunderhill is puffed up enough to expect titles from anyone outside of formal business."
"Britta Torson," the woman replied, accepting his hand with a solid grip. "Petra's cousin, and pain in her ass, as she always reminds me."
"And you?" Otto prompted, turning to the other.
The man regarded him for a splinter of a second, as if considering refusal, before taking Otto's hand and giving him a firm, warm, and decidedly brief shake. The man wore no rings, and his copper brooches were simple, though well polished. Apart from his weapons, his attire held little value. His green tunic and dun trousers looked relatively new—unsurprising, as feasts were the time to wear one's best clothing—and unremarkable. He had soft-looking, raven-black hair that was sharply pulled back, and his beard and mustache were closely trimmed. His brow gave him a perpetual look of seriousness, only emphasized by his night-dark eyes.
"Lukas, Lukas Matson," he said.
"I've not seen you before," said Otto. He wasn't quite sure what to think of Lukas, but kept his tone cordial. Only a man very foolish or very sure of himself would be so blunt and surly with a noble he had just met, particularly in said noble's own home. "Changes in the band, or band's preferred burg, this spring?"
"We were of the Greendeer band, formerly part of the larger Thunderhill band and then attached to Hoartower for many years, but a recent spate of deaths and disputes splintered the band," Britta explained. Lukas appeared indifferent to her answering on his behalf, possibly even bored. "Lukas and I led the group that rejoined the Alderhard band based in Thunderhill."
Hoartower was no ally, but the disputes with them were less recent than those with Yewcastle. Besides, it was typical for rover bands to move between burgs over the years and decades. In the summer, they traditionally returned to their homes for the solstice week of feasting and tournaments. In winter, all bands headed for their preferred burg, but as the reindeer wandered in search of the best lichen pickings and storms sometimes came earlier than the sages expected, the nomads settled in wherever they could. The price for wintering was steep—two in twelve reindeer to the burg, to pay for their three months, give or take a few weeks, of shelter during the seemingly endless nights and freezing winds. Better to give a pair of reindeer per dozen to the town than to lose half or more to hungry bears, foxes, or trolls—or worse. Even the hungriest bears would rarely attack humans, but monsters had no such qualms, especially emboldened by the winter darkness.
"Well, it's good to have you with us for this joyous feast." Otto raised his goblet. "To Gyda's bounty and Ulric's honor."
"To the gods!" said Britta and Petra, raising their cups as well. Lukas echoed the gesture, but stayed quiet; Otto caught him looking at him as they both drank.
No, Otto didn't like him at all. But something told Otto there were caves and catacombs beneath Lukas’s modest, stony exterior. Besides, if Lukas was indeed foolish, or confident, or both, he would make an entertaining opponent in the tournament at worst, a worthy one at best. For now, though, there was more wine to be had back at the table, not to mention more things to eat.