“So, Harolf, how long will this thing take to get us to our destination?” Bethuselom asked with a frightening enthusiasm. His demented smile spread across his pallid face.

He and Harolf were near the prow of the longship as it headed southeast in the Gulf of Smerelyipo. They stayed close to the prow to keep a watchful eye on the large metal mirror beneath the canvas. Daemons could travel between Bethuselom’s mirrors. However, it was necessary for him to physically travel to a location so a mirror could be installed.

The fragrant body of Scipio had become noticeable. A clear indicator of the daemon’s limited timeframe to enact his plans. The grimace on Harolf’s face showed that he could tell.

“It will take as long as it takes,” Harolf answered, his irritation clear in his voice. Though still deathly afraid of this being, Harolf did not like being held in anyone’s sway. “On that note, don’t ever enthral another Bruderman. You half killed the crew of this ship when you forced them to bring you here.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stickler to convention. They aren’t your people anymore, my dear Harry. Besides, people are tools. Pawns for your ambition, and food for my kind. Let us not allow ridiculous things like scruples to get in the way of our fun.”

“I may no longer be the ruler of Bruderman, but they are still my people. From now on, Haldermen are off limits to you and your kind. Don’t force my hand on this. I may not be able to defeat you, but I can severely inconvenience you. I have in place machinations to see to it, should you take issue with it.”

Bethuselom pouted and gave a contrived sigh of resignation, and placed a hand over Scipio’s ruined heart, as he said, “Very well, I will not enthral, nor consume any Haldermen. There, happy? I guess I can feed on Nevans. I can still get to Disipica. Censor Marius was quite thorough in rooting out my followers along with my mirrors in his capital. I might admire the man, if not for the inconvenience he has caused me.”

Harolf merely grunted in response. He then turned to the daemon and said, “But in answer to your question, it will take us roughly three more days to arrive at Smerelyipo dock, and a further ten days overland to get to Tsogt.”

“Brilliant. We shall spread the new faith throughout the steppes of Balania, and from there, we can methodically make this world ours.”

Harolf hadn’t been this far east since he had begun establishing colonies on this continent. The dispatches and reports he’d received from his newly appointed jarls had indicated the nations on this continent had unimaginable populations. If this being were to bring those nations under its sway, he dreaded to think of the outcome.

As Harolf thought about it, he shuddered. He pondered desperately how he would get out from under this filthy daemon. He had struggled with this dilemma since that stormy night in Bvolyed. Turning to his family for help was out of the question. His family would execute him, were they to catch him; there were no doubts about that.

Worse still, his one chance at salvation was becoming entrenched as a legitimate part of that same family. If only Harolf could get word to Orn. From Bethuselom’s own words, that boy could kill these things as, apparently, he slew Bethuselom’s daughter. If he could convince Orn to aid him, he could start fresh, building this fledgling group of colonies into a new nation. If he declared himself a king, then maybe he could work something out with his father as an equal, as a fellow king.

Bethuselom’s unseeing voids regarded the former duke for a moment. “Harolf, what are you thinking?” the daemon asked through a toothy grin.

“That body of yours isn’t going to last much longer. I think things will start to fall off soon.” Harolf returned the daemon’s gaze with wide eyes. His lips pinched thin, and he was trembling.

“Compliments to your mental walls. I cannot penetrate them. Though I must warn you, that should you betray me, I will destroy you. Make no mistake, you are not the only iron I have in the fire.”

“I am not thinking of betraying you, but I will warn you- threaten me again, and you will not make it to Tsogt. Believe it.”

“Mutually assured destruction. Oh surely, this is how the best friendships are made,” Bethuselom said, and then he chuckled deep in his chest, a truly mirthless and sinister sound.

ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ

The Ohlsbachi tavern was the type of dingy watering hole frequented by the kind of men whose profession fall outside the law. Nestled in a small waystation, between the town of Kodeck and the Holvela/Schilden border, was a nameless place that was a collection of rude cabins on either side of the main trade road. The few small businesses catered to the transient denizens travelling from one place to another.

Mid-morning was the least busy time for the tavern. At a dimly lit corner table, sat a thin man wearing nondescript, dark-coloured clothes made of expensive looking fabric. He wore his dark green, wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes, furtively looking around. His cider cup sat near his elbow, as yet untouched.

“What the hell are you wearing, Franz? You look ridiculous,” said the Margrave, Karl Vorspiel, a large man in a rich, maroon doublet with silver brocade. His light brown hair was short in the fashion favoured by Ohlsbachi men. He boldly strode over to the table, taking a swig of his cider in contrast to Franz’s efforts at being clandestine.

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“Shush! Keep your voice down, I don’t want anyone to recognise me! And don’t say my bloody name out loud. I am incognito!” hissed Baron Franz Lun Duegr, his blue eyes flashing from under the brim of his hat.

“Mind your tone, baron. Remember to whom you are speaking. Why are we meeting in this rat hole, anyway? We could have just as easily have met at your manor, or my castle,” said Karl, as he glanced around, with a slight grimace.

“There are ears everywhere. But here…” the thin baron gestured to the interior of the taproom, “… we can say what we need to, because this is a place for outlaws. But even still, we must be cautious.”

The larger man laughed as he snatched the dark green hat from Franz’s head, revealing lank, dark, shoulder-length hair. “We are talking rebellion against the crown, so we too are outlaws, so why bother?”

“Any one of these reprobates could be a spy, that’s why, you dolt!” the baron spat.

The margrave’s eyes flashed and narrowed as he started rising, while tugging his right glove from his belt.

Franz’s face drained of colour, his eyes widening, as he realised Karl was about to issue him with a formal challenge. He quickly cast his eyes downward, as he said, “Forgive my impertinence, Your Lordship. I forgot myself.”

Karl tucked his glove back into his belt, and slowly sat down. “Yes, well. I understand. This is a dicey venture we are considering, but remember your place.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Well? What did you want to tell me that couldn’t be said in more suitable surrounds? Come on. Out with it, man!” the margrave demanded as he snapped his fingers.

“That cargo we were expecting. It arrived yesterday afternoon. It crossed the border from Schilden, and I must say, these new weapons are everything we had hoped!” The trepidation from scant moments before evaporated, as the baron relayed his news.

“So, what are these weapons? What makes them so fantastic?”

“These devices are called ‘crossbows’. They don’t have the range of a standard bow, but at close range they have extraordinary power! The bolts can punch through armour as though it were cloth!”

“Through armour, you say?” Karl’s eyes became more intent.

“We have a real chance to liberate our homeland after so long! And those steel-wrapped Holvelan lapdogs won’t be able to stand against us. Good riddance! Those so called Ohlsbachi knights are no sons of Ohlsbach, fawning at the feet of those Halder pretenders. Not to mention, more and more of them are mutts, just like the royal family. Mixing pure Ohlsbachi blood with those Halder animals. Disgusting! No more, shall we be under their thumb!”

“I may have misjudged you, Baron Lun Duegr. How long will it take to train some men how to use them?” asked Margrave Vorspiel.

“That’s the beauty of them, My Lord. A man doesn’t need to spend half a lifetime practicing yeomanry to operate these crossbow devices. Come to this address on the morrow, and you can try one out for yourself,” Franz said, as he slid the margrave a small slip of paper.

“I may just do that,” the margrave said, as he quickly eyed the slip, and then tucked it away inside his doublet.

“These Halder barbarians, playing at ‘nobility’, pah!” Franz scoffed with a contemptuous sneer. He continued his rant. “They’re so uncivilised, they try to murder each other to get to the crown! Utter disgrace!”

Karl eyed the baron warily. While his sympathies firmly lay with Ohlsbachi separatists, he was always cautious around zealots. He said, “Yes, I had heard about that. The youngest brother tried to murder the next in line to the Halder throne.”

“Scandalous! And to think we must bow and scrape, paying our taxes to that filth, that scum! Well, no more!” Franz’s lips flecked with spittle as his eyes gleamed.

Karl took a deep breath, and as hope began replacing his trepidation, said, “We may finally throw off the Halder yoke, and have a nation of our own, once again. I never thought I would see it in my lifetime.”

“And we have our Thaden brothers to thank for sourcing the tools for our salvation.”

“Thadens?”

“Yes! They are holy priests who worship a new god. I have seen him, and I have felt his power!” Franz beamed, as his eyes shone with fervour. Tears stood in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

Karl frowned, feeling the tendrils of doubt caressing his heart once again.

Franz went on, “Herthiom has no eyes, but he sees to the very centre of your being, and he knows you. He knows all!”

ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ

Out in the Sofjorland Strait, the waters were uncharacteristically choppy this Serday. The longship rising and falling with a soft crashing sound as each swell passed beneath the keel while it skimmed along. The ship’s sails bellied out from the fair wind as it whistled past the taut lines that held the sail in place. It was heading to Bosberg from its patrol of the southern Holvelan coast.

Standing in the prow was Mswali. The swarthy man stared out over the horizon. The sea spray caused his tight, black curls to glisten in the sunshine, even as it caused a shiver from the wind blowing across his moistened face.

“LAND HO!” shouted Mswali.

“WHERE AWAY?” the captain’s shouted question came in response.

“AHEAD SLIGHTLY TO PORT SIDE!”

A large blonde Holvelan approached Mswali and gave him a solid clap on the shoulder as he laughed. “You don’t have to give such specifics, Wally. Just ‘ahead’ would have been fine.”

The crew had taken to calling him Wally for ease, as the combination of the m, s, and w was difficult for Haldermen to pronounce.

After dipping into the bucket he carried, the big man passed Mswali a cup of fresh water, and said, “I’ll relieve you now. Take this back to the water barrel, and have something to eat while you rest.”

“I am all right, Grelt. I can stay longer.”

“Come back up and we can talk if you want. But we have shifts for a reason. Go, man. Fill your belly.”

Grelt smiled broadly at the dark-skinned man’s retreating back. He had taken it upon himself to teach Mswali the ways of the sea. Initially, he saw it as a chance for some prestige, considering that the man was a declared brother of one of the most famous warriors in all the Halder lands. However, as the weeks passed, Grelt found he genuinely liked the man. Mswali learnt quick, and worked hard.

There were no doubts about Mswali’s fighting skills either; the entire ship’s crew were aware he’d survived a fight against Black Bear Berserk, and then fought alongside him. Foreign though he was, he was already something of a celebrity.

Mswali returned to the bow of the ship and sat down to eat his bread and cheese.

“We should be in Bosberg by sunset. Nice bit of shore leave tomorrow. Be good to get some solid ground under our feet again. Any plans?” asked Grelt.

Mswali replied, “I hope to visit my brother and his family. But I not know exactly where they live.”

“That’s right, they live on this island, don’t they? Well, for now, at least. I think they are moving to the ducal palace in Fludavera soon,” Grelt opined. Halder sailors were notorious gossips, which was understandable. Long periods at sea, when all other topics of conversation were exhausted, gossip about their ruling family was inevitable.

“I think it be all right. Their son’s wedding not happen yet, so they still living their home. I ask Jarl Sigtrin for directions,” Mswali said with a smile.