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Alvir of Clan Black Dragon stood breathlessly in the cold dark bed chamber of High Warlord Ivarsson. He strained his ears, listening for signs of his lord stirring in the bed. Only the heavy breathing of one in deep sleep could be heard.
Slowly Alvir’s eyes adjusted to the dark. The furnishings were ornate, the best a high warlord could demand of his subjects in the frigid Nordslands. High Warlord Ivarsson had united the five Nordsman clans in his younger years, a long and bloody affair, and now spent his latter days in the material comforts won by his previous conquests. High Warlord Ivarsson’s vision of uniting the clans had been grand, but not as grand as Alvir’s ambitions were now.
Gripping the ax in his hand tightly, Alvir inched closer to the High Warlord. Ivarsson was under the blankets on top of the bed directly in front of Alvir.
Fill me with the ferocity of a dragon, Alvir silently pleaded. Yoan, goddess of cunning and war, make my ax strike true. We know what is at stake. The survival of the clans depends on this. Grant me the power to see your will through.
Stopping just in front of Ivarsson’s bed, Alvir looked down at his lord’s face. He almost jumped as Ivarsson’s eyes flashed open. For one tense moment, the two just stared at each other. Alvir was young and ambitious like so many lords in the five clans. Ivarsson was old and immediately knew full well that Alvir could not have come this far without making sure there would be no help for the High Warlord should he cry out.
“Alvir,” Ivarsson noted grimly as he sat up in his bed. “Make it quick then.”
Alvir hesitated for a moment, at once surprised and disappointed that Ivarsson had somehow expected this. A hundred reprimands raced through Alvir’s mind, but only his clenched teeth betrayed any such feelings. Then, without a word, he struck the High Warlord’s face with the head of his ax. Accepting his fate with regal stoicism, Ivarsson died with barely a sound.
Alvir stood there in the dark, taking in his fell deed with relish. His work had just started. Now it was on to the second act. The third act would undoubtedly prove to be just as easy as the first for Alvir to pull off if the second act went smoothly. Yet if he did not play his part well in the second act, he would die as the traitor he was, well before he could set the third in motion.
Opening the door to the bed chamber, he entered a dimly lit castle hallway, where he saw two guards with relieved expressions on their faces. The poor fools had no idea what their treachery would cost.
“The High Warlord is dead?” one of the guards whispered.
“It is as the Great Witch of the North instructed.” Alvir grimaced. “She saw Ivarsson’s fate in her runes. His end leads us to a better fate.”
“Then we shall attack Azgald?” the second guard asked. “Will it be soon?”
“Yes,” Alvir answered with a dark nod. “No one has come by since I went in?”
“No one.” The first guard shook his head.
“Good.” Alvir gave a cruel smile. “Remember how I said we could leave no witnesses?”
Before either of the guards could reply to this, Alvir sank his ax into the first guard’s chest, and the man dropped with a thud. The other guard was momentarily stunned with disbelief by this abrupt attack. He tried to draw his sword, but was too late. Alvir hacked into the side of the second guard’s neck. Gurgling blood, the second guard fell to the ground with the ax still embedded in his neck.
Alvir stepped over the guard’s body as the wretch took his last choking gasps. Taking a casual glance over his shoulder, he frowned at the now dead guard, and walked down the hall to his own chambers. Sacrifices had to be made for this plan to work. There was no room for regret.
The next morning, Alvir was awoken by a loud pounding on his door. He stretched, smiling. He briefly glanced out the window, watching snowflakes float down from the clouds. What a perfect start to winter, he thought as the person on the other side of the door pounded again.
“Yes?” Alvir called out.
One of Alvir’s warriors opened the door. The warrior gave a brief bow as Alvir sat up in bed. Alvir gave him a puzzled look as the warrior rose upright. The warrior’s expression carried a combination of suppressed rage and grief.
“Well?” Alvir asked. “What is it?”
“High Warlord Ivarsson was murdered last night,” the warrior stated, trying to filter the emotion from his voice.
“By the gods,” Alvir cursed. “Did they catch the murderer?”
“No, lord.” The warrior shook his head. “They believe the ax used to commit the murder was left behind in his haste to escape. A council has been called for all the remaining lords in the castle.”
“Let’s hurry then,” Alvir said as he got out of bed.
“Lord Alvir,” the warrior started. “There’s one more thing.”
“Go on,” Alvir encouraged the warrior, setting his jaw.
“Your brother, Vitigis, was in charge of the night guard,” the warrior explained. “It was his neck the ax was found in.”
Alvir turned his back to the warrior. He brought his hand to his face as if to wipe away tears. The warrior bowed his head in a sympathetic gesture. Alvir’s brother had proven instrumental in arranging Ivarsson’s assassination, but Vitigis did not foresee that Alvir had no intention of bringing his brother any further along in the conspiracy than that, at least not as a living participant. This warrior knew nothing of the conspiracy, and with Vitigis dead, Alvir was the only one in the castle who knew what had really happened. The loss of Vitigis was a heavy price, but one worth paying by Alvir’s calculations.
“All right then.” Alvir gravely turned back to the warrior after a moment. “Let’s get to the bottom of this.”
Four long tables were arranged in the council chamber in a roughly square shape so that those seated could easily talk with one another. However, instead of friendly discourse, the lords present in the council chamber buzzed angrily as they shot each other suspicious glances while muttering to their confidants. All were dressed in full armor and cloaks, and their personal guards lined the walls of the chamber. There was little pretense at civility. Hands still gripped the hilts of swords or the handles of maces and axes, even if no weapons were drawn at the moment.
Alvir noted that he and his guards were among the last to enter, and he seated himself near the end of one of the tables. Sullenly sitting with his arms crossed, Alvir gave each of the other dozen or so lords a glance while trying not to catch too much attention.
Finally, a golden-haired druidess in black robes entered, and slipped through an opening in the tables, silencing the murmurs as she stood in the center of the room. She drew back the hood that had hidden her face, and held aloft the ax Alvir had used the night before. The blood from the ax’s victims had dried over the blade, giving it a grisly appearance.
“I have examined the victims and the instrument of death,” the druidess solemnly began. “Much is obscured in this matter. The victims’ bodies tell me nothing while the blood splatters on the ax only tell me that the power of the dark gods was invoked just prior to the murder. Whoever did this had the blessing of one of the dark ones.”
A tumultuous outburst erupted from the gathered lords as each shot out accusations, counter-accusations, or otherwise reacted to the druidess’ pronouncement. Alvir continued to sit where he was, pretending not to be moved by any of this. The next few moments would be critical to his plot. The most important part of the second act would unfold here and now.
The druidess gestured for silence, and the lords complied.
“You can see here,” she explained as she traced a triangle along three flecks of dried blood on the ax. “It is the mark of Yoan. Either this deed was done by cunning, or perhaps by cunning this mystery may yet be solved.”
Alvir’s heart began to race. Had his patron goddess betrayed him? No one looked at him. Besides, there were so many flecks of dried blood on the ax that Alvir could have traced any of the dark gods’ marks upon them. He calmed himself in that knowledge even as the druidess’ eyes fell upon him for one long moment. Did the druidess know? She was from Clan Black Dragon like Alvir was, but Ivarsson too was of that clan. Where did her loyalties lie?
The druidess dropped the ax to the ground with a clatter and left the room as quietly as she had entered. Alvir concluded either the gods did not reveal as much to the druidess as he initially supposed, or the druidess was not going to intervene and would instead let fate decide.
One of the older warlords, Widemer of Clan Hydra, looked to his peers on either side of him, and rose from his chair. He cleared his throat while giving the ax on the ground a sideways look. Alvir held his breath as his heart pounded in his chest. His plan would either succeed here or he would shortly be executed.
“So much for the High Warlord’s feast,” Widemer scoffed while pointing at the murder weapon. “Our only clue to Ivarsson’s murder is this ax here. Plenty of lords and warlords have had the opportunity and the means to pull this off, so no one is above suspicion. There are only two questions to ask: Who would gain the most from Ivarsson’s death, and how do we connect him to this ax?”
“Or her,” Alvir added thoughtfully.
A few of the lords chuckled, thinking Alvir was trying to make light of the situation. However, the gravity of his expression quickly suppressed that laughter. Widemer’s gaze turned to Alvir as if he now was seeing him for the first time.
“Do you have any information you would like to share with us?” he asked suspiciously.
“No,” Alvir fretted. “You just said that no one was above suspicion. And there are womenfolk in this castle as well.”
“We’re trying to narrow down suspects.” Widemer stamped his foot dismissively. “What would a woman be able to gain by killing the High Warlord, even if she could get past the guards first?”
“But the ax was found in the neck of one of the guards,” another lord from Clan Frost Lion shot out. “Would that not mean that he—or she—killed Ivarsson and then the guards?”
“It’s possible,” Widemer conceded, furrowing his brow. “Does anyone know if Ivarsson was with a maiden last night?”
“The only people who could tell us that are also dead,” Alvir noted.
“Which brings us back to the ax,” another Clan Black Dragon lord at Alvir’s table confirmed.
All the lords stood and leaned over their tables to examine the ax more closely. Widemer shoved past his table and picked it up. He held it close to his eyes, taking in every detail.
“Dwarvish make,” Widemer concluded. “And it has orcish glyphs.”
“Who has connections with the orcs or dwarves?” someone from Clan Behemoth asked.
“Alvir does!” another Clan Hydra lord cried.
“Don’t be stupid,” someone from Clan Owlbear cut in. “Alvir’s brother was one of the men killed last night.”
“Funny how he does not show sorrow,” Widemer said slowly, observing Alvir with the same skewed glance he had given the ax.
“But Warlord Hedin also has connections to both the dwarves and orcs,” one of the other lords shouted. “And he’s Ivarsson’s heir!”
With that, all eyes focused on the previously unnoticed Warlord Hedin. Hedin, though neither short nor frail by the standards of most men, was clearly a runt in comparison to his fellow Nordsmen. And runts were despised in every Nordsman clan.
Clearly taken by surprise, Hedin’s defense quickly broke down as the other lords twisted his words in their unrelenting cross-examination of his alibi. Watching the frenzied spectacle, Alvir breathed a sigh of relief. The Nordsmen hardly needed a pretense to dispose of such a mewling weakling. Men like Hedin never lasted long in the clans, especially if they were likely to inherit positions of importance. A Nordsman had to either grow large and strong very quickly, or cunning and duplicitous in an even shorter time. Hedin had done neither. Alvir had done both.
Widemer considered the ax in his hand. With every word Hedin spoke, Alvir knew he looked weaker and weaker in the eyes of the other Nordsman lords. All Alvir really had to do was watch the events unfold before him.
“Warlord Hedin of Clan Black Dragon,” Widemer solemnly proclaimed as the room came to a hush. “You have been found guilty of murdering High Warlord Ivarsson in a conspiracy to usurp both his title and leadership of the five clans. This council hereby strips you of your title and privileges. You are disowned from your clan, and you shall receive execution by the very blade you used to kill the High Warlord.”
Two of the Clan Frost Lion warriors standing guard forcefully grabbed Hedin, and thrust him into the center of the room. Though Hedin was still trembling as Widemer hefted the ax in his hands, he managed to put on a brave, defiant face. Alvir shook his head in disgust. This fool did not have the vision to lead.
“Wait,” Alvir called out as the cries for Hedin’s execution reached a crescendo.
Another pause filled the room as Alvir pushed his way to Widemer. Alvir gestured for Widemer to hand him the ax. As if sensing a thirst for vengeance in Alvir, Widemer handed the weapon to him. Hedin’s eyes peered into Alvir’s, and suddenly the accused appeared to realize this had been intended all along.
“For Vitigis,” Alvir breathed before Hedin could say anything, taking off Hedin’s head with one stroke of the ax.
More shouting erupted from the lords as Hedin’s corpse hit the floor. Alvir stared down at the body and severed head of poor innocent Hedin. Alvir frowned as he pondered the deaths of the two lords he had killed in the last few hours. He was disappointed in both Ivarsson and Hedin for not showing the least amount of resistance to him. They were small-minded. They lacked his vision. Neither of them was worthy of the title of High Warlord, Alvir reminded himself. Alvir had the vision to unite all the clans, not just the five largest as Ivarsson had done.
As the excitement died down, all eyes in the room began to seriously consider Alvir. He had difficulty containing a cruel smile as he watched it dawn on the other lords. With Ivarsson and Hedin now dead, Alvir was next in the line of succession for leadership of Clan Black Dragon, and therefore the five clans as a whole. The second act was complete. Now, on to the third act.
***
Nera’s eyes flashed open as she heard the crowing of a raven somewhere in the distance. Drawing her robes close around herself, she got up from her bed, and moved to the window on the far side of her room. She briefly looked over herself in the mirror to her right side. She did not care that her dark hair was unkempt. Neither did she notice the twigs remaining in it from her dark rituals the previous night. She only looked in the mirror to see if any omens would present themselves to her. Nothing in the mirror alarmed her at first glance.
Quickly, Nera turned her focus to the sky outside her tower window. She easily spotted the black raven silhouetted against the light grey morning clouds. It crowed again, but fluttered low out of Nera’s view. A moment later, a hawk swooped in from the clouds in the direction of the raven. The raven gave out an anguished cry, and Nera turned to see the hawk feasting upon the still-struggling raven down in the castle courtyard below.
Nera smiled in satisfaction at the sign. The dark gods had acknowledged her prayers. She knew without a doubt that Ivarsson was now dead and that her husband, Alvir, would very soon be made High Warlord over the five clans.
“If all goes well...” Nera wistfully glanced back at her star charts, half-brewed potions, and divination tomes scattered about her room. “We will soon rule not just the Five Clans but all the clans, and then we can push Azgald into the sea.”
Nera changed from her night robes into one of her dresses and climbed down the stairs of her tower. She purposefully strode into the great hall of Bergred Citadel, where many of her husband’s retainers were just coming in to eat their breakfast. As the retainers took notice of Nera’s entry, the usual morning chatter of the warriors died down to complete silence.
Nera thought she heard a hushed whisper: the Great Witch of the North. She smirked at the fear her title inspired in everyone she encountered. Few would dare act against the wishes of such a nightmarish being.
“Warden Tarik,” she called out to Alvir’s most senior retainer.
“Yes, Lady Nera?” Tarik warily responded.
“Assemble three hundred cavalry and six thousand infantry from the villages,” she ordered. “We march to Drammon. My husband is in danger.”
Nera knew this retainer well. Tarik knew better than to question his lady’s orders. The witch could invent tortures worse than death for any disobedient subjects. Men who did question Nera eventually found themselves dismembered and pickled in her potions, cursed, or otherwise meeting some ghastly fate. If she said that her husband was in danger, then the majority of Alvir’s warriors were to be called on a two-week march to High Warlord Ivarsson’s castle in Drammon without hesitation. No one dared question the will of the witch. But fear was not Tarik’s only motivation. He was a veteran soldier and no stranger to court intrigue. Any gain for Alvir’s house frequently proved to be for his own benefit too. He was loyal to Alvir and would follow the witch’s commands. Nera knew Tarik would die in her service. She read it in the runes.
With a bow, the warden immediately left the great hall with his bowl of porridge sitting on one of the tables untouched. Nera smiled to herself as the tone of the warriors suddenly shifted from dread silence to preparations for war. She did not know which she was more excited about: her imminent ascension to royalty or the possibility of even greater power which teased at her thoughts. She was glad her husband was equally ambitious and required little persuasion in accepting her plan. With luck, an elder evil she had long sought would soon be bound to Nera’s service, making all these schemes successful.
Spotting one of her slaves, a maiden in her late teens, Nera gestured for her to follow, and made her way back to the tower. The slave followed closely without saying a word. Upon reaching her room, Nera motioned for the slave to enter. The slave complied as she nervously brushed her hair out of her face with her hand.
“Yoan has been kind to our house,” Nera said as she reached for her gilded wooden staff, which was propped against the wall.
The slave weakly nodded. Nera had trained her slaves not to say anything at all unless asked a direct question. Control meant exact obedience from all her subjects. She would not allow for anything she could not predict.
Nera eyed the pyramidal crystal at the top of her staff and drew it close to her face for inspection. The crystal sparkled a deep purple in the morning light. It hungered for blood.
“Get my things ready for the journey,” Nera commanded her slave. “It will be a two-week march to Drammon.”
The slave busied herself collecting Nera’s belongings. She began packing clothes into a chest, along with some of Nera’s spell books and thick corked glass vials filled with strangely colored potions. The slave kept her eyes low, obviously afraid of what else the witch might require of her. Nera smirked at the thought. The slave knew her place.
“How do the people of your lands honor your gods?” Nera asked the slave as she leaned over her cauldron.
“In the Ostlands my people built great temples and shrines,” the slave explained, still trying to pack quickly without breaking anything or appearing careless. “Pilgrims would travel for many weeks or even months to worship at the largest and most beautiful temples. Sacred Vindholm attracts many pilgrims to Azgald, even with the city being so far north.”
“Vindholm is a blight to the Nordslands which will soon be destroyed,” Nera snorted as she gestured for the slave to come and view the contents of her cauldron. “The gods of the Nordslands are not so vain.”
The slave stepped closer to the cauldron and almost retched at the stench of the soupy contents of the potion. Large bubbles broke through a thick green film covering the surface of the putrid potion. The slave had no desire to stand so close to this vile concoction, but she had little choice. Nera knew her slave’s thoughts. She could see the disgust written across her face. Yet she stood where she was told. This was control.
“Our gods only demand sacrifice to honor them,” Nera continued. “A sacrifice can be made anywhere by anyone, shrine or no. And as we honor the gods, they bless their worthy patrons in turn, which binds us to serve them all the more faithfully.”
“But the dark gods are fickle,” the slave noted with a hint of fear in her voice. “They can turn on you when you no longer serve their needs.”
“They have helped me this far,” Nera countered, annoyed that the slave had spoken out of turn. “And they will take me further than they will take you.”
Nera drew a knife from the folds of her dress with the speed and dexterity of a trained assassin. The slave screamed and tried to deflect the blade with her arms, but Nera’s knife still found the girl’s neck. With a hard jerk, Nera removed the knife from the slave’s throat and pulled her head over the cauldron. Blood gushed from the wound of the dying girl into the foul potion.
“Blood is the most worthy offering we can give the gods.” Nera stroked the cold limp corpse. “The blood of young virgins is especially so.”
Nera called in another slave to dispose of the body as she stirred her victim’s blood into the potion with her staff. The concoction began bubbling more violently. Nera wafted the fumes into her nostrils. Exhaling in satisfaction, she ceased stirring the potion as the bubbling slowed to a simmer. She observed how the crystal on the end of her staff had changed from a deep purple to almost black while stirring the potion.
I am coming, Nera directed her thoughts toward her husband while pointing her staff in the general direction of distant Drammon. Our army will set out before the day is through. No one will contest your claim to the throne once we arrive and I am at your side. Remember, vengeance against our foes and control over all the Nordslands will soon be ours.
The crystal at the end of the staff had changed from almost black to light purple while Nera delivered her telepathic message to Alvir’s mind. This signified to Nera that the magic had been drained from it, and there was little to do except continue as planned. Not that Alvir could have responded to her anyway. He was not magically gifted like she was. All the same, Alvir could hold his own until she arrived.