Murdu'Zar watched with piercing eyes as his daughter moved through the forms of Kylost.

She was weak, but she grew stronger every day, hardening herself against the harsh climate of Wellind. Salas'Zar had been small at birth, a mewling and pathetic thing. Many thought that Murdu'Zar's child would be a being beyond reproach, a future vanguard for the clan to rally behind. That wasn't the case.

But it would be.

The man stood in the pelting rain, the bitter tears of the Gods raining down on his marked and tattooed body. The blazing red of the art inscribed there represented his history. Each new image a testament to a feat of supreme prowess. Many in the Clan carried the marks, but none among them could be called Murdu'Zar's equal. He had killed hundreds at the battle of the Broken Bay, had laid siege to the Empire, Ragora and Corrocoe. He'd lived through two Imperial assaults of Wellind and led the clans in brutal retaliation, sacking the city of Samdin in the Empire, leaving nothing behind but a soaking ruin charred with flame.

No, there was none among his Clan who could be called his match. In another life, the title of Jarl would have been his by right. It still could be, if he so desired. But he did not. He was a creature of violence and blood, born into the battlefield and nursed with the rage of his peoples. He could not lead, for his fervour would not allow him to. He saw himself as a weapon and little more than that. He'd been this way since before he could even be called a man, having felled his first foe at only five summers old. The Speakers said his path was fated, touched by destiny. The Gods spoke through the Speakers and their word could not be denied. He remembered the pride he'd felt at that moment, as well as the fear in his father's eyes as he looked upon his son.

That night, in a desperate attempt to defy the Gods and preserve his own meagre legacy, Murdu'Zar's father tried to strangle his son in his sleep. The pathetic excuse for a warrior had chosen to give into his fear of being lost in the shadow of his offspring's greatness. Murdu'Zar beat his father to death at only thirteen summers, carrying him to the Speakers for their ruling.

They favoured his justice, taking his word. His legend began that day, one which was stained with blood streaked steel and the harrowing cries of a thousand voices. Clo'dorsha, they called him. The Perfect Warrior.

By the time he was of an age to be considered a man in full, he had amassed quite the reputation in his own Clan and beyond. When the time for the choosing of his mate arrived, women gathered in droves to prove themselves worthy, all of them wishing to be made his. They waited with bated breath for his decision as he deliberated. The chance to earn his seed and birth the child of the greatest warrior the Clans had seen in five hundred years was a prize beyond measure, one which many would be happy to kill for. In the end, all were disappointed. He'd chosen the runt, the outcast, the hated half-breed.

Many had called him mad when he'd picked out Ferda'Zar. She was not a strong woman, nor was she a great warrior. She did not speak with the Gods, nor did she record the histories of Wellind upon the tomes of the Eternal. She was nothing but a castaway, a useless and empty thing that was without merit. Her blood was tainted, born of a Wellinder mother and an Imperial father who had taken her unjustly. She was a disease.

Murdu'Zar watched his daughter closely as she cursed into the air, snarling at nothing at all before reverting to the beginning of the sequence of movements known as Kylost. It was the third set of a dozen. Mastery of one was needed to become known as a warrior in Clan Zar but Salas could not afford to be so simplistic, not as the daughter of Clo'dorsha. She would imprint all the knowledge of the ancients into her mind, as her father had done before her.

Murdu'Zar would expect nothing less than perfection.

They stood on the cliffs of Gloryhome, the capital of Wellind and home to Clan Zar. Many Clans had held Gloryhome over the many centuries since its founding. Wellinders thrived in battle and when they could not war on others, they would often war on themselves. The Clans were linked by a shared land but little else. Respect was earned through strength and, thanks to the efforts of Murdu, Clan Zar had held the capital for nearly thirty years. Many had tried to take it from them and all had failed, dashed upon the razor sharp rocks that encircled the city. Even during the last Imperial invasion, which had killed thousands of his brothers and sisters, Gloryhome had refused to fall. It remained the stubborn bulwark that all Clans rallied behind during times of great strife.

As Clo'dorsha and the most respected warrior of his Clan, Murdu had secured residence near to the Jarl's dwelling, his own holdings nearly enough to rival the leader of Zar. They stood on that land now, overlooking the turbulence of the White Sea as it spat venomous foam into the air. A storm was approaching. Murdu could feel it in the air as his old wounds began to ache, signalling its coming.

Behind him stood his own hall, a mighty structure that was filled with treasures. He owned nearly fifty slaves, all taken justly from conquests in the past. Some stood around him, shivering in the rain as they clung to the cover that the overhanging roof of the hall provided. Murdu had long since accepted their weakness, their fear of the natural order. He had tried to change that in the beginning, tried to treat them like his own people. He'd found success with some, though he was often met with failure. Even then, he was never cruel. Only the weak lorded their power over those beneath them. He showed respect to his slaves and he demanded their respect in turn. The price for betrayed loyalty, for stepping beyond your station, was a clear cut one: A belly full of biting steel.

“Enough, Salas,” Murdu barked out in command. His daughter came to an immediate stop, steam rising from her body even as the rain continued to soak her to the bone, “Rest a moment.”

“Yes, papa,” Salas replied with a tired and disappointed sigh, “I will improve.”

“You will.” Murdu'Zar stated before he turned away from his daughter, dismissing her from his mind as he faced his second, Brinda'Zar, who bowed her head with crossed arms under his attentions, “Brinda. Break her down.”

“At once, Great One,” Brinda'Zar's voice was filled with reverence as she spoke. She was a burly warrior, a pure blood of the highest pedigree. The complete opposite in many ways to his light-skinned daughter with her shining brown eyes. It was what reminded all that she wasn't truly of Wellind. She favoured her mother too well. Salas was short by the standards of their people, not even breaking six feet in height. Her body looked fragile, as though her bones were ready to crack at any moment.

She had been perceived as prey by many as a child and was challenged often. More than once, Murdu would see her return to their hall while limping, her eyes swollen and nose bursting with blood. Yet not once had she complained, not once had she even spoken of it. She may have favoured her mother's looks, but she held her father's spirit within her breast. No one could take that from her, though that didn't stop them from trying.

“Master,” One of the slaves, Henry, bowed low to Murdu to draw his attention, “I'm told the Clan heads have gathered. The Jarl has sent one of his men to retrieve you.”

“I'm sure he has,” Murdu growled as he turned to the old man. Henry had been with him longer than near anyone else. In fact, the elder was one of the first slaves given to Murdu, a reward for the heads he reaped on a raid decades before. He was a former Imperial soldier, one who had killed several Wellinders before being taken. In the beginning, it had been difficult for him to adjust to his new life on the Island. More than once he had tried to escape, had been subjected to the lash for his sins against the Eternal people, but time healed all wounds. Henry was now the most loyal of Murdu's servants and stood in high regard as his steward. There were very few that Murdu could say he trusted implicitly, but Henry was one of them, “Tell him to return to the Jarl. I am on my way.”

“At once, Master.”

“Should I continue, Great One?” Brinda had hesitated in the act of removing her cloak and weapons, gaze fixed to the great figure of the Clo'dorsha, ready to move on his word.

“Yes,” Murdu grumbled as he returned his intense stare to the figure of his downcast daughter. He knew what she was going through, knew the doubt that plagued her mind. But she was of his line and wouldn't falter when faced with adversity, “Continue.”

Brinda nodded as she finished her preparations, Salas doing the same as she rolled her shoulders, preparing for the assault to come.

Murdu ignored his second and his daughter, his thoughts firmly fixed on the high hall of Gloryhome that he could see even from his own dwelling. The Jarl had called to the heads of Zar at the last full moon. He'd told all of them about a mysterious ally in the Empire, one who was sympathetic to Clan Zar. Pereton'Zar hadn't elaborated on who this strange benefactor might be, but many suspected it may have been the very same who had given a shipment of Yelesi iron to the forges at Gloryhome as a gift for the Eternal People.

Murdu grumbled as he turned away from Brinda and Salas, his expression growing darker by the second. He'd asked his slaves and warriors to keep their ears to the ground, to bring him any information he could about the Jarl's new friend, but it had all been for naught. Pereton was playing his cards close to the chest. Murdu himself had requested a private meeting with his Jarl but he had been refused. Not a wise move on Pereton's part. The boy was young and had gained his title through his father. The former Jarl was a great man before his return to the bosom of the Gods. He had helped shaped Murdu, pushed him to become strong and realise his destiny. His son was a pandering fool who didn't hold power through strength, but by making promises. He showed favouritism to those that supported him and all but damned those who didn't. It was certainly effective in keeping the lesser heads in line, but it was not the way of Zar. Murdu did not fawn to the Jarl as so many others did. He had no need to do so. All knew of his contributions to the cause, all knew of the blood he had spilled and the victories he had amassed during his decades of service.

He was Clo'dorsha, the Perfect Warrior. Murdu knew that Pereton resented him for it. He was a jealous lad and hadn't enjoyed the attention his father had given to Murdu. Of course, he hadn't been foolish enough to make his feelings public knowledge, but Murdu saw it all the same. Pereton had always believed that he should receive the acclaim that Murdu'Zar did.

“Master,” Henry's return pulled Murdu from his dark thoughts, “The messenger is insisting that you follow now. He demands to see you.”

“Demands?” Murdu chuckled to himself as he raised a brow in surprise, “How brave.”

Clo'dorsha turned back to Brinda and his daughter. They had shed their weapons and now waited, the tension between them thick enough to be cut with a knife. The reason that Murdu had chosen Brinda to train his daughter was a very simple one: Salas hated the woman. She believed that the warrior was trying to take her mother's place in her father's bed.

It wasn't an untrue statement. Brinda had made her intentions known many times over the years, but Murdu had no intention of acting upon her feelings. He had loved only one woman and loved her still, even in death. He would not dishonour Ferda in such a fashion, even when so many pushed him to do so. They said he should produce more heirs, more warriors for Clan Zar, but he would not. Salas would be his only child and so the pressure upon her shoulders was immense. More so when so many talked of her tainted blood. They would never speak such filth in front of Murdu, but he knew that his daughter had to withstand the insults and derision of the rest of the Clan, as her mother had before her. They didn't understand that with every taunt they only made her stronger. Like a hammer striking hot iron, they slowly shaped Salas anew and removed her perceived weakness. She would be stronger than all of them, this Murdu knew with absolute certainty. He wasn't like his own father. He craved the day would soon come when Salas would overcome him, would defeat him. She would be the guiding light behind which the Zar huddled.

He nodded to Brinda to begin and turned once more, walking around the outside of his hall to reach the great doors that marked the entrance to his home. Behind him he heard the soft cries of his daughter as she was beaten by the better warrior. This was an important part of training, one which was often overlooked in the softer nations of Ouros. There was no greater teacher than pain, a fact that Murdu had been aware of all his life. Salas would wear her mistakes upon her flesh, a bitter reminder of her failures and what she needed to improve. There was no fondness for Salas in Brinda's eyes either, which meant she wouldn't hold back because it was his daughter.

As Clo'dorsha rounded the corner of his dwelling, followed by Henry, he caught sight of the man who had been sent to retrieve him. He almost smiled but managed to keep it hidden from the furious form of the Wellinder before him.

The Jarl had sent Grog'Zar to retrieve him, much to the man's obvious displeasure. He was one of the Jarl's many 'advisors', though how Grog helped in the running of Gloryhome was beyond Murdu. It was just another example of the favouritism shown to a few over the needs of the many. Grog had grown up with Pereton and was one of his most fervent supporters. Not because he believed in the Jarl, but more because he didn't want to lose his station and the luxuries it afforded him. If the old Jarl had still been in command Grog would most likely have never seen adulthood.

He was like many of Pereton's friends: Parasites who fed off of his wealth and status. Murdu always loved to interact with them, it was one of the few pleasures in his life. They tried to look down upon him, believing themselves to be his betters when, in fact, the opposite was true. At least Pereton managed to hide his disdain. Say what you would about the Jarl of Clan Zar, but he was an intelligent man and was very aware of the reason his Clan was so feared. It had little to do with who sat in the high hall.

“You make me wait, Murdu,” Grog snapped as he growled, trying to puff out his chest to appear intimidating. The smile was becoming harder to hide for the greatest warrior in Wellind, “The Jarl will hear of your insolence.”

“Henry, ensure that Brinda doesn't go too far today. I will return soon.” Murdu said to his slave, who bowed his head in deference before walking into the great hall.

With that said, the old warrior strode past the fuming little man and began to make his way towards to the distant sight of the high hall, home of his Jarl and the seat of power for Clan Zar. It was always amusing when Pereton's friends thought themselves important enough to speak in his presence. Honestly, it was something of a strange thrill for Murdu. So many in the clan treated him with the utmost respect, afraid of speaking out of turn when he entered a room. It was refreshing to be met with something other than awe.

His Ferda had never treated him as others did. If he angered her, she would be quick to remind him of his folly. She was the one opponent he had never been able to beat. The thought of her now lightened his mood immensely. The sting of her death was still sharp, but the end came to all living things and Murdu wasn't foolish enough to believe that she would be an exception to that rule. He would see her again one day, when he supped beside her in the Gods great hall. Murdu'Zar longed for that day above all else, but he did not seek it out. Salas still needed him and he would never abandon his daughter. Ferda would wait for him, this he knew. She would never forgive him if he left Salas before she was ready.

As he walked through Gloryhome, Murdu couldn't help but be reminded of how far his people had come in so short a time. There was a calm in the air, a joyous sense of belonging that hadn't existed when they'd still called Zar'Norda their home. Even for the bleak, broken isles that made up Wellind, Zar'Norda was unique. It was the birthplace of the Clan and the source of their strength, but it was also a harsh and unforgiving place filled with danger. Taking Gloryhome had been the best decision that Kalin'Zar, the previous Jarl, could ever have conceived.

He had been a true Jarl. A leader who placed the needs of his own self second to the needs of his people. He had a palpable presence that demanded respect and a vision for his Clan. Murdu had based much on himself around the old man. A great warrior and a better friend. All should aspire to such greatness.

The people bowed their heads as he passed, touching their foreheads as they showed near reverence to the greatest warrior in Wellind. Murdu returned the gesture with a slight tilt of his head. These were his people and they had suffered greatly to come so far. The newer generation like Grog and Pereton didn't remember Zar'Norda, but they understood the sacrifice that those who paved the way had paid for their happiness. No matter their character, that lesson was engrained in every breath and battle.

“You would be wise not to ignore me, Murdu,” Grog was still speaking though Murdu was barely listening, his eyes moving from person to person, taking in the uneven haven of Gloryhome as they passed houses and halls of all sizes, “I have the ear of the Jarl.”

“You do,” Murdu replied in the affirmative, nodding his head at an elder as she passed him by, carrying fresh bread cradled in her weathered arms, “Yet I do not quake.”

“You should,” Grog said in his high-pitched screech as he quickened his steps to match Murdu's greater stride, “Jarl Pereton is hardly your biggest advocate, Murdu. It doesn't matter that you are Clo'dorsha, you are not above his will.”

“Perhaps,” Murdu replied as he began up the hill to the high hall, “But neither will I fondle his balls as you are so quick to do.”

Grog's face turned red with fury as his hands clenched into fists. He would do nothing. His death

would be as sure as the tide. Grog was no warrior, he was a sycophantic idiot who abused slaves and lacked a true Wellinder woman. His time of choosing had come and none had appeared to seek his favour. Wellinder women were proud, many of them warriors in their own right, why would they seek to lie beside such a base creature as Grog?

“You step beyond yourself,” Grog all but shouted, though his voice was hushed. He looked like a child, a sad and pathetic little thing unworthy of being called a Wellinder, “You are nothing, old man. Yesterday's warrior. Peloton, with me by his side, will usher in a new era for the Zar!”

“Yes, I'm sure you'll make for a fine chair to rest the Jarl's ass on.” Murdu chuckled, which might as well have been a full-bellied laugh as far Grog was concerned.

Grog'Zar said nothing to that, for how could he? The words were as true as the Gods themselves and he knew it. He may have been a fool, but at least he was honest about his place in life. Murdu could respect him for that if nothing else.

They continued on in silence after that, Grog effectively quelled by Murdu's insinuation. The smaller Wellinder silently fumed next to the Clo'dorsha. If it had been anyone else in the Clan, then Grog would have pushed to preserve his honour, but he knew that he didn't stand a chance against the sheer predatory brutality of a being like Murdu.

Even among the Zar, Murdu was a testament to their race. Standing at over seven feet tall and rippling with well-honed muscle, the man was a living monument to the fighting prowess of their entire Clan. His grizzled black beard fell to his chest and his long hair was touched with bone and brightly coloured fabric. Some had mocked Murdu when they'd first seen him wear the ostentatious decorations, though that hadn't lasted long. Ferda had believed they made him look beautiful and, to stop her pouting, he'd given into her demands. It was something he'd continued to do long after she had gone to the Gods.

No, Grog would do nothing. He would simmer in his quiet rage and then tonight, while feasting, he would regale his fellows with the tale of how he put the great Murdu'Zar in his place. The Jarl would no doubt be suitably impressed, though Murdu doubted Pereton would believe a word of it. He placated Grog not for his wise counsel, but for his ability to debase himself, performing the tasks that were beneath the honour of a true warrior.

When Grog was no longer helpful, he would be fed to the White Sea. Pereton had done it before and Murdu was positive he would do so again should the need arise. As it stood, Grog was already dangerously close to losing the Jarl as an ally. The fact that he had been sent to fetch Murdu like a simple messenger boy was an example of that. Grog knew it too, hence his impotent rage. Perhaps his proclivity for abusing the slaves under his purview had been discovered by the Jarl. Pereton was not a good leader in many ways and utilised underhanded tactics that his father would never have dreamed of employing, but at least he was a true Wellinder, tested in battle. Respect for the enemy was a teaching of Clan Zar and Pereton would be quick to remove Grog's head should his perversities be discovered. Right now they were only rumour spread amongst the slaves themselves. Murdu only knew of it because of Henry and had no evidence to back his claim, but he felt in his very core that it was true. If the choice was his, Murdu would have long since cut Grog down, but it wasn't. Even Clo'dorsha was not above the law of the Zar. Should he kill another member of the Clan unprovoked, it could give Pereton the excuse he needed to remove Murdu from Gloryhome.

After everything he'd sacrificed, he could not allow that to happen.

A small smile touched the large warrior's lips as he continued to greet those he passed, taking quiet pleasure in the fact that they ignored the Jarl's advisor. Mutterings of 'Clo'dorsha' followed him as they made their way through the rough hewn houses. Gloryhome was not exactly an aesthetically pleasing sight. When they'd captured the city almost thirty years before, the damage had been severe. Gloryhome had lived up to the legends in that regard. It had taken the Zar nearly three full months of battle, day and night, to finally gain access to the city and oust Clan Morn.

Murdu remembered that glorious day well. He had been at the head of the charge with Kalin by his side as they stormed into the exhausted lines of their enemy, battering their spears aside and clashing with sword and axe. It had been a battle with the stars dancing overhead, the eyes of the dead watching their great deed. Murdu himself had killed their Jarl, taking his head in proper combat and presenting it to Kalin. He remembered Kalin lifting the grizzly trophy overhead and howling to the heavens, to the Gods watching above. The rumble of Clan Zar on that day shook the very foundations of the city.

Much had been burned down, but the Zar were builders as well as destroyers. For a time after that, Murdu was truly happy. He recalled greeting Ferda as she came off the docks to their new home, heavily pregnant and with Henry helping her step down the plank and onto the shore. Her smile had lit his world as he told her of his deeds, becoming more excited by the moment as she took his hand and listened patiently.

Murdu chuckled once more, pulling another foul glare from Grog. It was strange, he thought. Never before had he felt the need to talk of what he had done, of what he was proud of. But he did to his Ferda.

A quiet year had followed that incredible battle. One in which the Wellinders put down their weapons of war, trading them for those of carpentry to build a new future for their children. With Henry's help, Murdu had constructed his mighty hall, providing a home for his mate and their new pup.

If only he had known then that it wasn't to last.

Murdu was drawn back into the present once more by the sight of the high hall of Clan Zar. It was many times larger than his own, which was to be expected. Many a night had seen the whole of Gloryhome gather here to celebrate great victories, to mourn the fallen, or to commiserate one another in a crushing defeat. The high hall was very much the beating heart of the Zar and home to their leader, Jarl Pereton.

“Murdu'Zar,” A voice pulled his attention away from his destination and to one of the smaller huts to his right. A woman of about eighty years stood tall and proud in her small garden, a plant in hand as a little chimney in the hut behind her blew puffs of smoke into the air. The old were greatly respected amongst the Zar and Wellinders as a whole. To one day hang up your axe and live a life of contentment, surrounded by those you loved, was seen as the greatest of favours that could be given by the Gods. Murdu himself one day hoped to be able to put down his sword, never to pick it up again, but he was not so foolish as to believe he would. Battle was his blood and bone, “A word.”

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“Of course, Nanali,” Murdu knew this wild woman well. She may seem unassuming, but the Clo'dorsha knew her as a seer of incredible power. Nanali'Zar had guided Kalin during his reign as Jarl, serving as his advisor for decades. Murdu never put much stock in talismans and other such magic when he was a younger man, but Nanali had quickly set him straight with her uncanny ability to read the world. Her power to perceive the unseen was on par with the Speakers for the Gods themselves. In fact, many of the priests who served them often came to the seer for clarification. That alone was an example of how much respect she was afforded. In the Clan, there were few who demanded more. Often the importance of a Clan member could be measured by how close their dwelling was to the high hall. Nanali's was only feet away.

After the death of Kalin'Zar, Nanali had requested an audience with Pereton. They had spoken in his private chambers, completely alone for nearly an hour before the old woman emerged, followed by a howling and half-mad looking Pereton.

“You're wrong! I will not fall!”

Those cries still haunted Murdu's thoughts. The denial that Pereton had expressed was a false front, one he pushed out to hide from his own fears. Murdu didn't know what Nanali had said to the newly crowned Jarl, but it had been enough for the man to lock himself away for months after that. Many had come to her, hoping that she could be persuaded to speak with the Jarl, to force him to lead, but she made it clear that she would never serve as Pereton's advisor.

The grudge between the two had been noticeable to all at the time as word of their conversation and Pereton's reaction spread. The rift remained even after the passing of nearly three years. Nanali was no longer invited to meetings of the Clan heads. It was a slight of the highest order and yet the seer did not act in the least bit offended. If anything, she'd seemed relieved when she received the news.

He could stop her from attending, true, but he couldn't throw her from Gloryhome. After everything she had done for his father, Pereton would never be able to get away with such an act of disrespect. He knew that Murdu wouldn't stand for it and he still needed the help of the Clo'dorsha. In many ways, Murdu's very presence was the only thing standing between Nanali and the White Sea.

“Go tell the Jarl I will be late,” Murdu murmured to Grog, not waiting for his response as he approached Nanali'Zar.

There were few in the Clan who could hold Murdu's eye, but Nanali was one of them. She looked to him before narrowing her beady orbs at Grog, who shook under such a stare. It was a hard glare to meet, for those eyes had seen more than any human had a right to. Nanali continued to watch Grog until he did as commanded, heading to the already thrown open doors of the high hall with his tail tucked between his legs.

“That one is poison to the Zar,” Nanali grumbled as she finally looked back to Murdu, “You should kill him, Murdu. End his line before the infection spreads.”

Murdu caught sight of the disappearing back of Grog, “Is that what you see in the bones, Elder? Or is it just a feeling in yours?”

Nanali scoffed, “A feeling in mine. That one is insignificant, Murdu. He doesn't touch the Weave. He, like so many others, is merely carried along its many branches.”

“When the time comes, I will happily take his life,” Murdu replied respectfully, “But he is careful. He does not speak out of turn. At least, not enough for me to demand his head.”

“Slippery,” Nanali rolled her eyes, “Pereton's fear controls him. I can think of no other reason that he would allow such a creature into his hall. Such is the wisdom of fools.”

“Careful, Seer,” Murdu replied grimly, “I have no love for Pereton, but he is my Jarl.”

Nanali smiled fondly at the Clo'dorsha, tapping his hand, “Such loyalty, Murdu. You are an example what they all should aspire to be.”

“I don't believe that, Elder,” Murdu shook his head, “I only serve.”

“Yes, you do,” Nanali frowned then, a hint of sorrow in her eyes, “No matter where the Weave may take you.”

“So you have seen something?” Murdu asked, folding his arms. The rains had begun to quiet after he'd left his hall, now falling to an almost pathetic sputter.

“I have,” Nanali said as she closed her eyes, “The two who come to this place, Murdu. They are broken, corrupt. I fear that I was the one to drive Pereton to them. In my desperation to spare him his path, to defy the Weave, I may have created the very situation I was trying to avoid.”

“Nanali? Of what do you speak?” Murdu asked, concerned, his eyebrows pulling down as he placed a hand on his old friend's shoulder. Never before had he seen her look so conflicted.

“I can say little, Murdu,” Nanali sighed, looking far older even than her tremendous years, “Only that this new chapter in the story of the Zar will be both blessing and curse. I just want you to be careful. The Clan needs you now more than ever.”

With that, the old woman turned and hobbled back towards the threaded door of her hut, her back hunched and lacking the power she had exuded only a moment before. She halted at the threshold, turning her head slightly as she smiled sadly at the man, “There is one thing I can tell you, though it will give you few answers, only more questions.”

“That is always so, Elder,” Murdu said in his deep voice, “But I would like to hear it regardless.”

Nanali's eyes closed, her lips trembling even as her hands clenched into bony fists, “I see the world on fire, Murdu. I see a Storm in the sky, the likes of which has not been seen on this continent for a thousand years. I see you, Clo'dorsha, battle streaked and searching. You are looking for someone, calling a name that I cannot hear.”

Murdu felt his hair rise on end as Nanali opened her eyes to look upon him. The whites had swallowed all and he stared into an empty void, “A great bear comes, Murdu. He is soaked in the blood of a hundred battles, with wounds from a hundred more. He will come to protect his son. He is your equal, your true foe. The one you have waited a lifetime to face.”

Nanali sagged forward, hurriedly grabbing the cane that leaned against the side of her modest home and placing all of her weight upon it. The old woman chuckled as she raised a gnarled hand to wipe away a bloody tear that ran down her cheek, “This was so much easier when I was still young, though I saw far less. Heed my words, Murdu.”

Murdu did not reply, ruminating on the wise woman's words long after she'd returned to the relative warmth of her hearth. The warrior didn't quite know what the seer had seen that frightened her so, but the fact that it had something to do with Pereton's mysterious benefactor didn't surprise the great warrior. Rumour was rife in Gloryhome of the man whom Pereton was dealing with. None had gotten the chance to see him, not even Murdu himself. Only the Jarl and his trusted 'advisors' were allowed to know the identity of their new ally.

And what was this about a great bear? Murdu felt himself shiver with the thought of it, though it wasn't fear he felt but anticipation. A foe who was his equal. How long had it been since he'd been truly threatened in combat? Years? Decades? Nanali hadn't seen the outcome of the battle with the great bear, so his death was not certain. That was all he needed to know. Most of the seer's visions were unclear. Hints to a greater future that not even she could see. The fact that so clear a dream had blessed her was a sign from the Gods.

Murdu'Zar turned and made his way to the entrance of the high hall, the cries of those gathered within drawing him in. He needed to know the truth behind the seer's warning. Nanali's words were beyond troubling for the Zar. She was not a woman who scared easily. Murdu had seen her face down warriors more than twice her size more than once with a smile on her face. If events were leading to disaster, it might be time for the Clo'dorsha to become more involved in Clan affairs, something that he had recently neglected due to his intense focus on Salas' training.

The high hall of the Zar was filled with around a hundred familiar faces. Each was the head of their own household and, together, they would often gather to lodge complaints with the Jarl or to discuss the future of the Clan. Murdu hadn't attended one of these gatherings in quite some time. Fire pits burned merrily in the centre of the hall as servants roasted suckling pig and boar aplenty for the hungry mouths of the mightiest of the Zar. Already several hands were filled with mead as they spoke amongst themselves, wondering as to the purpose of this sudden gathering.

A thought that Murdu shared and now dominated his troubled mind.

The high hall was an example of the ingenuity of the Zar. Constructed from the ships that had been taken during the siege of Gloryhome, the mighty dwelling was a bristling shrine to the victories of the Clan. Weapons of the fallen, both ally and enemy, lined the curved walls. Broken Imperial standards, torn Ragoran flags and statues liberated from the cities of Corrocoe, all of it lay about almost haphazardly. It had once filled Murdu with such pride and peace to be welcomed into this place by Kalin. With Pereton in charge, the warmness of this hallowed place felt colder, as though his ascension had invited a chill into the soul of the Zar. It was not what he remembered, not what he fought for, and so he stayed away. Until now.

“Peace, brothers and sisters! Peace!” The cry of Pereton drew Murdu's eyes to him as he made his way deeper into the hall. The Jarl of the clan sat upon his throne, which was densely covered in the furs of animals that had been conquered by his father. Behind the seat of power for the Zar was the head of a large stag that Kalin had struck down as a younger man. The story of how he'd killed such a beast grew more wild with every telling, usually by the man himself when he'd imbibed too much mead. The last had involved him being well into his cups as he fearlessly struck down the fine animal with a hunting knife.

Bitterness filled Murdu as he remembered times long past. He looked upon Pereton, seeing his father in him all too clearly. Standing at six and half feet tall, the young man sported a huge belly and small beard which was carefully trimmed, while his long, blonde hair was secured with rings of gold and silver. A great axe, Inscribed with runes that were foreign to all, sat next to him as he raised his hands to placate the masses. The calm on his face only made Murdu's hackles rise all the higher.

“Why have you called us here, Pereton?” Snapped one woman, the shipbuilder known as Casin'Zar. “We have a dozen ships to build before raiding season begins.”

“Peace, Casin,” Pereton replied with a measured tone, “I have called you here to discuss just that..”

“You've come to your senses then, Jarl?” grumbled Hili'Zar, one of the foremost warriors of the Clan, “We should raid the Empire instead of Corrocoe. They won't be expecting us-”

“The Empire has Knights in every city, you fool!” Growled another speaker, though Murdu couldn't quite make out who it was in the crowd, “Corrocoe will be undefended. We should aim to strike Grancore.”

“The capital?” Hili laughed uproariously, his supporters following suit, “Are you insane, Derik'Zar?Do you aim to have the Clan reduced to ruin?”

“All of their Knights will be unaware during their Autumn celebrations!” Derik'Zar, a warrior of little repute, responded, “We could hit the city and leave before they even knew we were there! None in the Eastern Islands can catch us at sea. Besides, we have the Clo'dorsha! He has beaten one of their Knights before. He can do it again!”

The grumble of approval brought attention his way as a few awed looks were thrown in Murdu's direction. He didn't acknowledge the stares, continuing to look to Pereton, who met his eyes as though just now realising that he was in attendance.

Murdu caught sight of Grog standing behind his Jarl, lips pulled back in joyful sneer. He truly was a disgusting creature.

“Even Murdu'Zar cannot fend off an entire army of Knights,” Hili spoke respectfully, bowing his head to Murdu who returned the gesture, “Putting our greatest warrior at such risk would do nothing but harm the Zar. We must be smart. We struck Corrocoe last year.”

“And gained much for our troubles!” Yelled one of Derik's supporters.

“I will not deny that,” Hili responded, “But to strike again so soon? They will be expecting us! Better to hit the smaller towns on the Imperial coast. We may gain less, true, but we will live to see another year!”

“I never knew you to be a coward, Hili'Zar!”

“Who said that!?” The large man was on his feet in an instant, sword already in hand as he waved it threateningly, “I'll cut you down where you stand!”

The whole hall erupted into shouted threats moments later. The deafening din disrupting all around them. Murdu didn't take part in the anarchy, his eyes still fixed to Pereton's as they continued to stare one another down.

“Silence!” The Jarl suddenly roared, grabbing the axe at his side and slamming the base into the steel bottom that had been placed next to his throne. The sound rang out into the hall, louder even than the combined voices of all the heads of the Zar. They slowly came to a stop, all eyes fixed to the throne and the man who sat upon it. Many among them didn't hold much respect for Pereton personally, like Murdu, but all respected his authority as Jarl. Their societies had few absolute laws, but loyalty was held highest among them, “Both Derik'Zar and Hili'Zar have raised valid concerns, but another option is available to us. The Empire and Corrocoe are not the only prey in these waters. We must consider Ragora.”

“Ragora,” Murdu chose this moment to speak, walking forwards as the crowd parted between him and Pereton like a wave. All eyes were fixed to him, to the ink upon his flesh. All knew who he was, an introduction was not necessary, “Smaller than the Empire and more dangerous, besides. That would be foolish, my Jarl. The moment we raid a town or village, word will reach Nian. The takings would be slimmer than even striking the Empire and far more likely to end in tragedy than attacking Grancore.”

Pereton smiled confidently at the greatest warrior in Wellind, “This hall is honoured to welcome you here again, Murdu'Zar. It has been some time. You are right in all you say. There is a reason that Ragora is only attacked by the most desperate among the Clans.”

“We have all heard of the fate that befell Clan Hoflin,” Hili said then, drawing the attention of all, “They say the King of Lightning himself struck their fleet. Their clan is dead or scattered to the four winds. Respectfully, my Jarl, I agree with Murdu. We stand to lose far more than we gain.”

“On this, I must say that Hili and I are of the same mind,” Derik spoke up, though he sounded reluctant, “We cannot beat such a foe, my Jarl.”

Pereton laughed as he clapped his hands, “I agree. But what if I told you I could give us back something that was once taken? What if I told you that we could not only take what we wanted from Ragora, but from every nation of Ouros on a whim? What then, Murdu'Zar?”

The question was a challenge, one which left Murdu on the back foot. He narrowed his eyes at the man, unsure of what scheme Pereton was concocting, “I know not of what you speak, my Jarl.”

“Of course, you don't,” Pereton replied with a condescending shake of his head, “I speak of power, Murdu. Power enough to become what we once were.”

“Have you gone mad, Pereton?” Casin'Zar furrowed her brows at the Jarl, her ire clear to all. Few would be able to speak to the Jarl so disrespectfully, but Casin was one of them. Her family's work was what allowed the whole Clan to sail, to raid. Without her they would be nothing at all, “Speak plainly. The needs of the Zar stop for no one, not even the Jarl.”

“You are right, Casin,” Pereton stated, “And the needs of the Clan have never been far from my mind. I have met someone, a friend of the Zar, a sympathiser from the Empire. You may have noticed his contributions to the Clan. A shipment of Yelesi iron from the Republic itself. Blackened trunks from the Lostwood in Venos and even seed with which to grow Gloryhome into the oasis it was always meant to be. The future, our future, is not tomorrow, my friends, but today. The dream of my father will be realised.”

Grumbles of discontent spread throughout the hall as the many heads of the Zar exchanged difficult looks. Murdu's expression was no different. They'd all heard of this 'dream' before in some form or another. Kalin had a vision for Gloryhome, this was true, but it was one which required generations to build upon. Relying on sources outside of the Clan was asking for disaster. Similar tactics had been employed in the past and all had failed. Those who didn't understand the Zar could not be trusted. Murdu had known about the shipment of iron, but the rest was news to him. He hadn't realised this new friend of the Jarl was so firmly placed at his side. Nanali's warnings suddenly became far clearer.

“My Jarl, we do not work with outsiders,” Murdu began carefully as he stepped up to the cleared centre of the hall, the flames of the fire pits alighting on his skin, “And for good reason. We've all heard the histories. All have listened as the Speakers told us of our alliance with the Empire. We were left broken and scattered. It took generations for us to recover from their betrayal.”

“Yes, Murdu! Exactly right!” Pereton said excitedly as he jumped to his feet, “The Empire judged us as animals. They thought us beasts. Now we have the chance to amend the mistakes of the past. You all know of what I speak.”

“We do and it is madness,” Another voice spoke up. An Elder by the name of Jolus'Zar. Once one of Kalin's advisors, Jolus had long since hung up his axe, growing far too long in the tooth to make war. His son fought for his family now, but his word still held tremendous weight in the halls of the Zar. His tattoos were nearly as advanced as Murdu's himself. He had been known as the greatest warrior of the Clan before the arrival of the Clo'dorsha. Murdu himself held the man in the highest of regards for it was he who had first taught him the forms that would forge him into a warrior without equal in Wellind, “I know of your plan, Jarl. Do you believe the Empire will allow it? What of Ragora or the Republic? As soon as word reaches them that a Smith is Bonded to a Wellinder, we would be asking to be crushed by their Knights. It has happened before. Clans have been wiped out for the act of even acquiring a Smith. You would be wise to heed the lessons of those who came before.”

Murdu's eye twitched as he took in what Jolus was saying. The Elder was right to call such a plan madness and even that was putting it lightly The Clo'dorsha took in the expression of his Jarl, the sheer calm and certainty that he exuded. The idea had crossed his mind, but he'd immediately dismissed it as folly. Pereton couldn't be so far gone as to believe that such a plan could work.

Smiths were not born in Wellind. Many over the years had tried to discover the reason as to why that was so, but the answer had never presented itself. The Speakers said it was another way in which the Gods strived to make Wellinders strong. Those countries in the mainland and the Eastern Islands were handed power on a platter. It was why they were weak, why they were inferior to the might of Wellind.

Centuries ago, many Clans stole Smiths from the mainland, Bonding with them and turning the power of the enemy to terrible purpose. These mighty warriors, storied heroes all, rejected the title of Knight. They wore the name Berserker, for they were the rage of Wellind. Her wrath for being ignored, for being treated as lessers. For years, the Berserkers of the Clans wreaked havoc on the mainland. Their love of battle and ferocious devotion to their Gods saw them triumph again and again as they pitted themselves against the best that Ouros had to offer. They found them wanting at every turn.

Every Wellinder child heard the story of what followed. A cautionary tale of treacherous promises. They heard of how the Emperor of the time offered an alliance. Two great nations to pit their warriors against all others. The Jarls met to discuss the generous terms, knowing they were negotiating from a position of strength. All their demands were met and they accepted, welcoming the Empire as brothers and allies.

But it was all for naught, a lie told so that they would open their doors. Another covenant already existed between Ragora, the Yelesi Republic, Corrocoe and Ingemar. Together these nations amassed an armada that had never been seen before. They caught the Wellinders unaware. Within the span of two weeks, all Clans were struck by overwhelming enemy numbers. The friends they had welcomed into their towns, their cities, their homes, all turned on them. The Berserkers were slaughtered before they could even awaken the power in their blood.

For months the Empire persisted as those who had gained the power of a Knight were hunted to extinction. The Hall of Tyra sent their own mysterious Masters, beings of power beyond anything Wellind had ever seen before. With the help of treasonous Ingemar, the power of the Berserkers was lost to memory.

The Clans were fragmented after the Great Purge. So much so that they lost their very identities, the oral histories that had passed from Speaker to Speaker for a thousand years. Some of which could never be replaced. Clan Zar was no exception. Before that terrible time they had been a force that was recognised across the continent. The Clan had come far since those dark days, but they were barely a glimmer of what they once were.

Then there was the silent promise that their enemies had given upon leaving. Should another Berserker be created they would return to finish the job they started. It was the great shadow and shame that hung over every child born, every warrior who soaked his blade in blood. The idea that they were allowed to exist because of the will of another was difficult for the proud people to swallow, but they endured regardless because it was their way. At their core, Wellinders were survivors. Two more attempts to attack Wellind had taken place during only Murdu's lifetime, but nothing on the scale of the Great Purge. Those had only been retaliation for raids, for the wrong person being killed. If they pushed once more, if they gave the Empire and her allies a reason to truly invade, then there would be no defence. To create new Berserkers would only end in death. Not just for Clan Zar, but for their whole nation.

Murdu gritted his teeth at the foolishly grinning Jarl, fighting against his better instinct just to cut the pup's head from his shoulders.

“Do you so love living your life as a slave, Jolus?”

“I am no slave, boy,” Jolus growled threateningly. His days of fighting may have passed him by, but he still carried a presence that few warriors in their prime would be able to mimic, “I am a free man of the Zar.”

“You say you are free,” Pereton got to his feet, walking down the small steps that led to his throne. He looked each man and woman in the eye as he strode past them, the picture of confidence, “Yet you live because another wills it. You raid and pillage because another allows it. I would ask all of you now: How does it feel to be nothing but a thorn in a lion's paw? We are Wellind. We are mighty. But the world beyond the White Sea treat us as an inconvenience. They have forgotten what we once were and so have we!”

Pereton stopped between Derik and Hili, his gaze moving from one to the other as he spoke to all assembled, “You both presented plans for our raids and each have merit. Each are also based on the fear that has haunted our people for centuries. Are you content with living under the thumb of another? Are you satisfied with running from a fight? Is that the way of the Zar!?”

The grumbling started up again in earnest, moving through the gathered heads of the Clan as they looked to each other. Murdu was old enough, wise enough, to read the room. Pereton was a gifted speaker and it was showing. The Zar were listening, the discontented mutterings of the Clan spreading as they spoke in hushed whispers.

“You bring up old wounds, Jarl,” Derik stood then, arms folded and unconvinced, “And yet you offer no plan for how to right this wrong.”

“Oh, but I do,” Pereton spread his arms wide, his smile so bright it appeared as the sun. Murdu watched as his brothers and sisters were captured by it, caught in the conviction of the Jarl's words, “The return of the Berserkers is nigh, my friends. Even now, our friend in the Empire comes across the White Sea, to Gloryhome. With him he brings Smiths, a hundred in all.”

The mutterings quickly turned to panicked shouting as Murdu's despair became all the more present. The Clo'dorsha watched as his old teacher, Jolus, turned pale with rage, jumping to his feet and pointing an accusing finger at the Jarl, “You doom us all, Pereton! To bring Smiths? Here!? You place the whole Clan in danger!”

“I know this, Jolus'Zar, but let your fears be allayed. Our new ally has need of the Zar's prowess. He can be trusted not to spread the news before our ascension is assured! We will stand once more above all others! Under my leadership we will reach heights that we thought we would never see again!”

Murdu'Zar looked to his brothers and sisters, feeling his heart tighten at the expressions of hope on their faces. The longer Pereton spoke, the more they began to believe. Their need to be free of the invisible shackles placed upon them so long ago was great. The Jarl was offering them more than they had ever dared to dream. It was shame that it would all be for naught.

More than a few of the heads were nodding in the Jarl's direction, hissing at their neighbours. Pereton's supporters making themselves known. Murdu was just thankful that Derik, Hili, Jolus and even Casin still seemed troubled by the sudden declaration.

“And what does this new friend wish for his generous gift?” Murdu stepped forward until he was standing directly in front of his Jarl, staring down at the smaller man, who met his eyes with smug satisfaction, “Quite a benefactor, indeed. He gives us iron to build weapons, wood to build ships and seed to grow food. He even brings Smiths to create Berserkers. What need has he of the Zar? A man who can procure so much and give it away for nothing has no need of us.”

Pereton smirked at the great warrior, “That is where you are wrong, Murdu. This is a meeting of equals. We are Zar. We do not take something for nothing. In return for his generous donations to our cause, he wishes for us to set our sights to Ragora, strike against Nian itself!”

“Madness!” Hili jumped to his feet, “The King of Lightning-”

“The King of Lightning is nothing next to the power of one hundred Berserkers. Even still, we will not be fighting alone. Our ally is a Knight of great power and he brings another who is his equal. We will triumph and burn our old enemy from the Eastern Islands, as is the way of Zar!”

More than a few cheers rose up behind Murdu as he stared silently at his Jarl, aiming to control the raw fury that ran through his limbs.

“For the Zar!”

“Kill the Ragorans!”

“We have waited far too long. Let Ragora taste Wellinder steel!”

On and on the cries went. Those in favour seemed to far outweigh the protests those who weren't. Murdu felt his stomach drop but he kept his gaze fixed upon the face of the man before him as he leaned in, whispering, “Jarl, think! The Empire will destroy all your father and I have built if it is discovered you have tried to create Berserkers.”

“What you have built?” Pereton sneered, “You are not more than a capable warrior, Murdu. My father paved the way for this future. I aim to make it a reality. If you do not wish to serve your people, then leave Gloryhome and never return.”

“Oh, but leave that pretty half-breed of yours when you do,” Grog piped up behind the Jarl like the cockroach he was, his grin sickening, “I wonder if she screams like an Imperial?”

The cries of the audience died down. Those closest to the three had heard the words that were spoken and their sudden, solemn fear filled the entirety of the room in seconds. All stared at the figure of Grog, who hadn't yet realised what he'd done.

Casin narrowed her eyes at the pathetic man, her jaw locking in fury. She had been friends with Ferda in life, serving as maid during her union to Murdu, and had helped during Salas' birth. She began to rise but Murdu raised a stern hand. The shipbuilder immediately followed the order of the Clo'dorsha, returning to her seat, though her eyes never left Grog.

Pereton's jaw clenched, his eye twitching as he turned to look at Grog, who was still grinning inanely and completely unaware. There would be no saving his pet now. The Jarl knew that and so did Murdu. His excitement for the great warrior's humiliation had made him speak out of turn, sealing his fate.

Realisation came slowly to Grog'Zar. He looked to the heads that were staring at him, many with disgust on their faces. His eyes slowly widened as he paled, sweat beginning to bead on his brow as he turned a desperate eye to Pereton, who stepped aside without a word.

“My Jarl...” Grog took a step forward, his shivering hands clenching as they reached towards his friend. Then, when he saw no support there, he turned to Murdu, “Clo'dorsha, I did not mean-”

He did not get a chance to finish his sentence before an axe was suddenly sprouting from his forehead. Grog stopped, choking on his words as a trembling hand rose to grab the haft of the small hatchet. He fumbled at it in shock, his mouth open and drooling as he desperately pawed at the weapon lodged in his skull.

A gasp ran through the heads of the Zar, with the exception of Jolus, who nodded approvingly. None had even seen Murdu move. It had been some time since he'd fought with those outside of his own warriors, it was good to remind the heads what he was capable of. Of the fate that awaited those who spoke out of turn about his family.

Grog fell backwards and hit the hard wood of the floor, dead before the impact. His foul blood spilled from the wound, staining the high hall and the memories of the great warriors who had supped there. Murdu shook his head at the stain before he turned to look at his family, his Clan. He pointed to the corpse of Grog, “He insulted my blood and so I took his in turn. Make no mistake, brothers and sisters, this fate awaits all of us if we go ahead with this foolish plan. You asked us here for a vote, Jarl?”

Pereton looked to Grog and then to Murdu with the slightest hint of fear in his eyes. He hid it well, but Murdu had known the young man since he was a pup clinging to his mother's teat. There was little he could hide from the Clo'dorsha, “Just for all to meet this man, Murdu. This idea of mine can change our course. I am not so arrogant as to believe I can do it alone. Nothing is set in stone. You should all meet the man who has given us so much, listen to his demands, then we will decide as a Clan on how to proceed.”

He truly was a talented orator, pandering to the people as though he valued their opinion. There was only one voice that Pereton truly cared to hear and it was his own.

“I say nay,” Murdu began to walk to the doors of the great hall, already feeling sick with even discussing such extreme measures, “The wise among you will say the same. No amount of power is worth all we have sacrificed.”

Without another word, Murdu passed into the fresh air of Gloryhome once more, taking a breath and releasing his anger as he did so. The shouting started up again as soon as he was outside, but he placed it far from his mind. He had many allies to call upon within the Zar, many of whom thought the same way that he did, but there were far too few to counter Pereton. For so great a decision, one which could potentially destroy the clan, he needed the majority among the heads to agree. He would get it. His influence was great enough to see the job done. He would never have held this meeting in the first place if that hadn't been the case.

Murdu's vision began to spin, so he reached out and grabbed the wall of the high hall as he passed. If felt like every wound he'd accumulated suddenly began to ache all at once, like he had just experienced every battle he'd ever taken part in simultaneously. For the first time, Murdu felt his years upon his shoulders. He leaned against the high hall and looked to the sky above, to Ferda and to Kalin, to his mate and his greatest friend.

“What would you do, Kalin?” Murdu whispered into the air. He was never one to be introspective, yet recent events demanded it of him, “Your son leads us to ruin. What must I do, Ferda? What wise words would you speak to rest my uneasy heart.”

Murdu'Zar felt eyes upon him and looked to the small hut near the hall, to Nanali'Zar, the great seer, as she met his eyes with her own. Her sadness was near palpable and Murdu finally understood the warnings she gave, the sorrow she felt.

Today had been a turning point for the Zar. Today marked the beginning of their doom and yet he could do nothing to stop it.

“They have voted to hear what the foreigner has to say,” Casin's quiet words pulled Murdu back to himself and he pushed himself off of the wall. He hadn't heard her approach, which was unforgivable. For a moment, he had given into his weakness, forgotten who he was.

“That was quick.” Murdu replied as he turned to the shipbuilder. Casin's stare was filled with fury.

“It was. Suspiciously so, almost as though the outcome was already determined. The only good thing to happen today is the death of Grog it seems. Ferda would be proud of you defending Salas,” Casin sighed, scratching at a scar on her neck, “Many are still unsure of this plan, Murdu.”

“As I am,” Murdu stated, removing emotion from his voice, “But he is our Jarl. He leads, we follow.”

“But it doesn't have to be that way,” Casin's insinuation was clear and he narrowed his eyes at the woman, who met his glare easily, “If you said the word, all would fall into line.”

“I am not what the Zar needs,” Murdu growled, “And you speak of treason.”

“Pereton betrays the entire Clan with this foolish plan!” Casin snapped, “He seeks to pull himself free of his father's shadow. Make no mistake, Murdu, he does not do this for the Zar, he does it for himself. Think on it.”

With that, the grim shipbuilder left, joining the congregation of that was fleeing the high hall, many of them in silent discussion, all offering respect to him as they passed. The tiredness once more swept across Murdu as he stared out over the sea. The ran had cleared, as had the clouds, but a new threat was gathering on the horizon. The Clo'dorsha strode away, his heavy boots pounding the mud beneath his feet as he made his way back to his own dwelling. He needed to see Salas, to gain peace from her presence. Only his daughter could soothe his troubled thoughts. Yet the black clouds that were gathering over the White Sea remained firmly fixed in his mind's eye.

A Storm was coming.