“Alright, I’ve had enough of this bullshit, so sit down and shut up,” Ingrid yelled once the crowd was back in the longhouse. Everyone, Ferez included, obediently took their seats.
“I called the Jarlsmeet so this dickhead,” she said, jerking a thumb in Ferez’s direction, “could try to build an army of raiders for a siege. Hear him out, then sign up, or don’t, I cannot adequately express in words how little I don’t care. But by the end of the day, I want every one of you arseholes out of my town.” She paused, catching her breath after the tirade and turned towards Ferez. “Say your piece, and don’t waffle.”
Before the fire mage could say thank you, Ingrid dropped into her chair and snatched the serving vessel of mead from her attendant as they tried to refill her horn. She looked down at her empty hands in a panic, then back to Ingrid.
“Don’t just stand there, girl. Get me another!” she snarled, sending the poor woman scrambling into the back room. Ferez looked at her for some sort of signal that he could get up to talk, probably a tad over wary of invoking her wrath. She noticed, and the signal came in the form of a middle finger as she guzzled the mead with her free hand.
“Alright, I guess I’ll start then,” Ferez said. His eyes roamed over the crowd, gauging the mood. It wasn’t too bad, all things considered. There was still some outright hostility, quite a lot actually, but his performance outside must have swayed some opinions. A few raiders seemed eager to hear what he had to say.
“I understand that, gathered here, are nearly all of Skjar’s Jarls and those who speak on their behalf. On the word of this room, your country could march to war, truly unified for the first time in its history.” He stopped, allowing a small ripple to run through the room. “You have a reputation as the most feared brawlers in the world. From the duelists of Tok Risim, to the horsemen of southern Emrinth, there is no one who can boast greater skill and strength of arm.”
He raised his mead horn in a toast as a roar of approval filled the hall. Grinning, he sculled the drink to more outrageous cheering, revelling as he settled into the role of demagogue.
“That is why I came here,” he bellowed, tossing his empty horn aside and snatching up Leo’s. “Someone else might say they stand before you, beseeching you for aid. But I’m not that kind of man, am I?”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
A chorus of ‘no!’s answered his rhetorical question, and he nodded, taking a draught of the horn. “Of course not! Because I know you. Better than most southlings, I’d wager. I know what drives you, and I know what you respect. Strength, and a good fight. I know this because I’m the same. I bet Reichblut wishes he knew that now.”
The crowd erupted in frankly over the top laughter, and Ferez smiled. He had them. He just needed one last push.
“Now, back to the point. What could unify this group of warriors like never before? A fight like never before! That’s what I bring to Jarlessa Luftfaust’s haus today. I want to sack Widow’s Wail.”
The hall went ballistic. Some cheered, some swore, a few went white, while many more got into arguments with their neighbours and started punching on.
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s ‘unassailable’, they say. It’s ‘impregnable’,” he said, waving his horn around while doing air quotes. He fixed a cheeky smile on his face as he continued. “But I bet you could impregnate her. Am I right?”
The crowd started to devolve. Most of the people still paying attention lost it laughing and yelling, but a few of the brawls had started to spread and it wouldn’t be long before the hall was in a full-blown riot. Time to finish up.
“I bet you’re wondering why now, of all times? Well, for one, I’ve secured the services of the fleet sailing under Leo the Stump, a navy almost as powerful as the Crimson Blade on the open seas. And, more importantly, there is a girl there. A slave.” He stopped, casting his eyes down at the table and letting his voice trail off. It had the desired effect, even the scrapping raiders stopped and looked at him, curious about the sudden change in energy.
“She’s no more than twelve seasons old,” he said, giving the room a weak smile. “Taken by slavers from the desert she called home. She’s there now, in the bowels of that cesspit, suffering who knows what at the hands of the most deplorable scum the Seven have ever seen fit to allow the breath of life.”
He clenched his fists and slammed them against the table, the horn in his hand spraying mead everywhere as it shattered. “I will storm Widow’s Wail, tear down its walls, and flay the flesh from the bones of those slavers with magefire and blade,” he roared at the stunned Skjar. “And I want you to help me do it.”
Silence. Somewhere near the back of the hall, a Skjar who had drunk a bit much chundered over the table, prompting an outcry from those nearby. As the commotion died down to a steady thunk thunk as they beat the drunkard to a pulp, Leo leaned over and whispered in Ferez’s ear.
“Have you forgotten? The Skjar are slavers, too. You aren’t going to appeal to their sense of honour in rescuing a little girl.”
“Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot,” Ferez said, executing a fast conversational pivot. “I’ve also got five thousand gold sovereigns for every clan that fights, and the promise of pirate treasure when the Wail falls.”
The walls shook with the sound of cheering and stamping feet.