The meetings mostly revolved around strategies instead of the usual idle chatter and mundane problems. To the men, fighting was a better way to spend their time than worrying about each person’s different needs. It was good to be in charge of a war council, instead of hearing nothing but unimportant talking the entire time.
The next attack—about two months after the first—was brought with more ships. Skálpr hadn’t witnessed it, being in Byen Gekun at the time, but when he visited the village Makt was delighted. That time, Kuro ships had tried to set fire to Sólstaður’s, but the nation knew better than to make their own ships so easily flammable; their attempts only cost Sólstaður two warships and one merchant vessel, none of which would be missed.
The third attack was less than a month afterwards, sooner than they all expected. Skálpr had been lucky enough to be in the affected village at the time—albeit it wasn’t as nice of a victory. Kuro soldiers managed to get onto land, leading to a few more Sólstaðuric casualties than before. They weren’t used to defending their own homes, and they couldn’t fight as recklessly with people and things they needed to protect.
Kuro ships kept coming for the next few months, pausing for winter when the cold was likely unbearable to them—even to the Sólstaðuric people, it was ill-advised to stay outside for long. Those few months were spent trying to determine how to gain the upper hand; with each battle, Kuro had gotten closer to overpowering Sólstaður.
Many of the men took it as a challenge. Skálpr, at this point in his life, could identify when a battle would be lost. He didn’t think the Kuro army could overwhelm them, but it seemed like Sólstaður’s strategies were easily learned—of course, they didn’t have a true ‘strategist,’ only men who knew more tactics than the rest. Perhaps that made up the difference.
Skálpr decided to wait until Kuro attacks resumed again before he voiced his concerns; he knew that none of them would listen, but as the closest thing to a leader they had, he should have the final say. Although a part of him didn’t like the idea, he would only fight for as long as they could win—if they avoid utter defeat, Kuro might turn a blind eye to them in time.
Kuro’s attacks continued mid-spring. Just as before, each attack seemed to be more informed and better coordinated than the previous one. Some fighters—like Makt—never lost their desire to fight, while others found it to be dull and difficult when they had to consider their surroundings.
Near the day that would mark a year of fighting, Skálpr received a letter simply addressed to ‘whoever leads them.’ It was carefully written, albeit with some poor grammar and spelling, essentially announcing what he already knew: Kuro was very close to victory. After receiving the letter, Skálpr tried—unsuccessfully—to introduce a concept like ‘loss’ to the other chiefs.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
In the end, he gave the letter to one of the ships they let flee. All of the men questioned him, and the weight of the choice didn’t sink in for another month; Kuro ships came in, killing most Sólstaðuric citizens that opposed them, and simply made themselves at home.
That next meeting, there was an uproar.
“What did you do, Skálpr?” One man asked.
“We wouldn’t have won,” Skálpr replied.
It was one of the only meetings Makt attended—and he wasn’t there to praise him. “They won’t leave! Defeat would have been better than whatever act of cowardice brought on this conclusion.”
The accusations continued, and Skálpr listened to them all in silence. It was easier to fall out of grace with those beside you when you could be easily replaced; he understood this, and acknowledged it when he spoke. “I know I am not an official leader,” he said. “Still, as grand chief, I do have the duty of leading an example for the rest of you. Say and do what you wish—there’s no turning back! The black kingdom is here now; I encourage you all to do whatever you wish with that information.”
Hermaðin stood. “I, for one, believe you should be replaced. I’m willing to take your place—I can turn this situation into a win for us regardless of what it looks like.”
There were shouts of approval. Skálpr wasn’t incredibly surprised when he noticed Makt had joined in; the boy was never particularly interested in what he was raised to do. That was all the confirmation Skálpr needed before falling back to the edges of the place, and Hermaðin carried on with a few more promises. He must have expected this, on some level; it was unfortunate that a tactical mind like his would be wasted on the duller tasks of leading the other chiefs.
Byen Roken became the new place for meetings and the like, leaving Byen Gekun to be nothing more than a relic in comparison; Makt, no longer needed for an heir, left Skálpr to be alone. He didn’t quite mind—he wasn’t always fond of the boy anyway.
In the following decades, ways came to confirm that Kuro had no intentions of leaving; it was the beginning of a long occupation, with Kuro soldiers regularly leaving or coming in. It was a common place for injured soldiers to go, it seemed, and they were only there to ensure that Sólstaður wouldn’t fight back. Fortunately, Kuro’s attitude towards Sólstaður and its people was more indifferent than anything else—they had their own small communities, and didn’t often venture outside of them.
Neither people group could be bothered to learn the others’ language—Kuro out of the aforementioned indifference, and Sólstaður as a sign of protest and to avoid assimilating to Kuro’s culture—so a third was formed. It was some odd hybrid mix of the two, with most words having an etymology in one or the other language. This was carried on to Kuro by visiting occupation soldiers, which in turn was brought to Gin through Kuro wars; it actually made trade with the silver kingdom—Kuro didn’t interfere with Sólstaður’s international affairs—easier, in that they could all speak the same language and understand each other. Kuro’s currency also gained a place in Sólstaður, although its people tried to fight any further assimilation.
Skálpr could never decide if he did made the right choice. Time would tell, perhaps, but until then he was only left to wonder. Regardless, he passed on by natural means only a decade and some years later.