Darkwell - Douglas Niles [107]
The Red King, as was his right and custom, sat at one end of the rectangular lodge, at a table on a platform somewhat higher than the main floor of the room. As he stood, his red beard bristling and his equally scarlet mane flowing smoothly about his shoulders, he became plainly visible to all the men in the lodge. Slowly their conversations died as they waited to hear why their liege had summoned them for the unusual winter council.
"Lords of Norland and the north, warriors of my country, I greet you at a time of grave importance, a crossroads in the history of our people on these isles.
"Norland is the greatest nation of the north, the leading light among those of us who have come to the Moonshaes in the past centuries. Yet in the recent past, we have suffered gravely for the errors of our neighboring kings, for the wrongful war we were compelled to fight by a force beyond our understanding!"
The hush was complete now, as Grunnarch's surprising words sank into the ears of his listeners. Rarely would a man of the north admit a mistake, even in the confidential council of his closest friends, and here was their king stating that they had made an error before the assembled lords and fighters of Norland!
"I have just returned from a kings' council with an ally of great standing, a wise ruler who was once our enemy. He has guided his people with good judgment and rare compassion. I shall declare before you all that he is now a friend of the North.
"He is a man who came to my rescue, and the rescue of my crew, only minutes after we would have claimed his ship as a prize. Then he offered the hospitality of his keep, the comfort of his food and wine, and the repairs to see our ship safely home."
A quiet rumble began to spread through the hall, for those of Grunnarch's men who had returned with him from Corwell understood of whom he spoke. Disbelief spread through the room as they shared this knowledge, in whispers, with their neighbors.
"Our ally, a king who will be my friend unto death, is King Tristan Kendrick of Corwell, High King of the lands of the Ffolk!"
The whispering died in sudden shock, and then the growing murmurs of outrage became audible, growing quickly in force and articulation.
"What madness do you say?" demanded Eric Graybeard from his seat at the king's own table.
"My brother fell in battle at Corwell!" proclaimed Urk Bearstooth, also at the Red King's table. "You cannot ask me to forget a bloodquest!"
Grunnarch stood impassively before them, allowing their rage to run its course. He remembered Taggar's prophecy and hoped the old cleric was right, as he had been many times in the past. A messenger to the council such as the one Taggar had foretold – perhaps even one of the men seated before him – could offer valuable words at this time of emotional torment. But no one voice rose above the tumult, and it began to appear to Grunnarch that the rage of his followers was growing in fury, not dying away.
"Silence!" His command rang through the lodge and, within a few seconds, was obeyed by all.
"You speak of bloodquests, and madness, and a tradition of war! I ask – nay, demand – that you look where these traditions, where our warfare and raids and plunder have gotten us! You know that the fish are dying in our waters! You know that our own brother, Thelgaar Ironhand, was slain by a Beast which then used us – you and me – as tools to achieve its own foul ends! Can it be that…"
Grunnarch stopped, seeing the door at the opposite end of the lodge burst open. He immediately thought of the prophecy and the messenger Taggar had predicted. Could this be the messenger?
He saw a trusted warrior, a man who had served the Red King for twenty years, standing there with his face flushed and his jaw hanging slackly. The man,