When you lived in the cold north, fire was a common sight. You had it in your homes to keep you warm—you set the bodies of the deceased ablaze so they could be more easily discarded. Makt always associated the smell of a fire with home—the smell of burning flesh with death.
But watching the ship burn was so exciting, so new, that it gave a whole new meaning to the smell of a fire.
Maybe it was the possibility of the wind blowing the flames across to the Sólstaðuric vessel; maybe it was the chance that there could be more ships. Maybe it was because he finally found something he liked, and for once he was thankful for Skálpr’s war-oriented parenting. Maybe it was the chance that he and everyone else could die, but he didn’t care because that’s what they lived for.
Makt didn’t want to leave that village, lest he miss any other battles. Unlike most others, the thrill of it never faded—Hermaðin actually seemed to be getting bored of how fascinated Makt was with the feeling, a month hence. Eventually Skálpr returned to Byen Gekun—he had to, as chief. Makt was glad Skálpr didn’t make him return as well; he hated those meetings.
Hermaðin stayed out of some curiosity or another, so after Skálpr left they sat around the village’s community fire and entertained some conversation. Makt was, naturally, sharpening one of his daggers.
“I wish they’d come back,” Makt said. “Or Skálpr would send people out to them and I can go, too.”
“Keep dreaming,” Hermaðin replied, repositioning himself so he was mostly laying down in the snow—or however much snow was there with a fire so close to it. “Skálpr isn’t going to let you leave, ever. For all his talk of war and fighting so the younger people don’t forget how it feels, he doesn’t want to send you out there.”
“I don’t think we’ll get the advantage unless we fight back,” Makt noted. “Although you’re the strategist, so I could be wrong.”
Hermaðin moved again so he was sitting up and facing the fire. “My father said it takes about a month for black kingdom ships to cross the water, so it will take another few weeks before we can fight again. How do you think Skálpr’s going to handle it?”
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“He’ll do whatever the other men want him to,” Makt said. He sat down his dagger for now to give his hand a rest from the repetitive motions. “He usually just does what he knows the chiefs will agree with. But ignoring that for a moment—regardless of what Skálpr does, what would you do?”
Hermaðin laughed. “I would actually burn all of the attacking ships, for one—I know it’s tradition, but it’s a bit counterproductive. Then I would send my own ships, just to tell them that we’re willing to fight back. Set fire to a few forests and I imagine this little war would be over quickly.”
“It’s a shame to make it so short, though,” Makt mused.
“I hate it when you sound like Skálpr. ‘When we fight, it needs to be long. It doesn’t matter if we might lose—actually, I won’t mention the possibility out loud—so we just have to fight like warriors and it’ll be fine. Nothing could go wrong; we have nothing to lose but the place we live.’”
Makt hadn’t expected the short rant, and both of them fell silent for a minute. “You have problems with this?” Makt asked after a while.
“Plenty,” Hermaðin replied firmly. He sighed and turned back towards Makt, frowning. “It doesn’t bother you at all that we’ve never fought a war on Sólstaður waters? That we’re not invading someone else—the black kingdom is invading us? In all the places that Sólstaður has gone and conquered, we’ve left it in shambles. You aren’t concerned that Sólstaður might end up the same way, if the black kingdom wins?”
He fell silent for a moment to think about it. “Tactically speaking, the black kingdom doesn’t have a single victory to its name,” Makt pointed out. “They’ve always come to a draw with their sister kingdom—neither of them has actually won, and neither of them have fought anyone else but each other. I don’t expect them to get the upper hand.”
“Just because they don’t have a victory to their name doesn’t mean they aren’t capable of it,” Hermaðin maintained. He sighed again, standing up. “Could you promise me something, Makt?”
“I can’t say I’ll stay alive,” Makt said. “I want to fight through this, whatever it costs.”
“No, not that,” Hermaðin replied, shaking his head. “If Skálpr fails—if he doesn’t listen and does something ridiculous, or if he just acts idiotically about this—would you be willing to pass on grand chief to someone else?”
“I don’t want to do it myself,” Makt admitted, “So if someone else was willing to take the job, I would happily give it over.”
Hermaðin nodded and almost smiled. “At least your family has some sense left.” He paused for a moment, then looked away for a second. “…Thank you for being smarter than your father.”
Makt chuckled. “It doesn’t take that much, to be honest.” He stood up as well. “It’s going to get colder soon, so let’s get something to eat and call it a day. Tomorrow morning we can go hunting.”
“That sounds good,” Hermaðin agreed.