If they could blame her illness, then she was allowed to use it to her advantage. A quiet settled over the hall. Nikroth and his son were now matching shades of purple, but even they did not challenge her further. What the butcher failed to understand was that power came in many forms. Sometimes in strength and following, sometimes in wealth. In her case, it was respect.
She was loved by this village, healed every person in this room at least once in their lifetime. From children who nearly drowned in the bay, the hunters attacked by the forest wraiths, to the babies she birthed nearly every full moon now, she had touched each person in this room in some way. And few semblances of power were more influential than personal friendships.
“Come, Ailsa. Let us take our place with the rest of the chieftains.” Erik sheathed his sword with a forceful thrust, glaring at Nikros as he strode down the narrow aisle to the back of the hall, Ailsa leading the way.
* * *
The chieftains sataround a massive oak table; five seats filled for the five clans founding the Riverland nations. There were other, smaller clans who attempted to break from the original territories. Then there were the clanless who roamed the wilderness and followed their own moral law, trading the protection and support of Drakame and her sister territories for freedom from the gods’ law. But their populations had not gained a significant following to compete in world matters, and so the responsibility fell on the five individuals sitting around the blood-stained table.
Much had been discussed in this room, from the overthrow of the previous Wicked King Maxon to the fate of the wraith-whisperer Jomeer, who was rumored to have called the forest spirits and cursed the land with withering darkness, making it almost impossible to traverse the woodlands at night without feeling the claws of the tree spirits.
Her blood was not the only one bruising the varnish of this meeting place, but Ailsa was not privy to the other sacred decisions which happened beyond the doors that now closed behind her. She sat beside Erik, Jarl of Eurkame, a territory named after the one it was born from and the one who had founded it. She assumed Eurik had fallen in battle as well, leaving his son to inherit the virgin lands far west of her fjord.
The rest were Lattimer of Rutbrok, Gunner of Lisandria, and Rollo of Bristrak. The trio waited for them to claim their seats, shooting pointed looks at her. But if they objected to her presence, they kept their mouths shut.
“Several new faces,” Lattimer led the meeting due to his seniority. “Unfortunately, we do not have the time to settle you into your new titles. A survivor from the battle has reached the king, and I have traveled from the high city of Rutbrok to share his words. Riverland is waiting for our next move, but I fear we are out of options.”
“Speak first of our enemy,” Gunnar spoke. “Let us understand who is strong enough to wipe out an entire army of Ostman. For centuries the gods have ensured we were the most feared, most infernal creatures in this land, and now some of our strongest men and women have been slaughtered by a faceless foe.” He spat on the dirt padded floor. “If King Orin does not gain control of this problem, he will lose the regency he fought as his rightful claim.”
“And if he does not stop these invaders, there will not be a regency to lose,” Rollo said at his side.
Ailsa stole a glance at Erik who met her stare, wondering if he was thinking the same. Invaders who did not come to conquer or control, only to destroy. How long would it take until they reached her shores? Until they brought this war to the mainland and extinguished the North Kingdom—erased their empire from history. How could they stop an enemy who had no motivation beyond their bloodlust?
Lattimer nodded a slow, deliberate movement. “This faceless foe has been identified, though none believe the words of the boy who survived.”
“They think he embellishes the truth?” Erik asked.
Lattimer snorted. “Saying his truth is embellished is like saying nightmares are adorned with demons.”
“And what demons adorned his nightmares?” Ailsa asked, finding her voice. Lattimer’s attention flickered to hers. He wore his age in his eyes, half a century of life behind the mossy color in his gaze.
“Demons from another realm,” he mumbled on a tired breath. “The boy was found tied to the hull of a longship; his entire fighting arm dismembered. When he finally found the strength to speak days later, it was of creatures with stone faces, whose magic could cut through a man without lifting a finger and skin that could not be broken with a mortal blade.”
A chill swept through the room despite the hearth blazing light against Lattimer’s backside, creating a shadow around his frame that swallowed his features.
“Did he say anything else about them?” Erik asked. “Surely there is a way to kill these demons. They are made of flesh and blood, same as us. If they can bleed, they can die.”
Lattimer shook his head, turning to pace the perimeter of the circular table. “No. Only two survivors have come out of the battles with these demons, and both have spoken only of the slaughter our people faced. The gods are either testing us or purging the world of their creation.”
“Then we are either failing miserably or following their will,” Rollo murmured into his mead.
Ailsa slapped her palms on the weathered wood, exasperated and tired. “Do we have any other information besides the fact our enemy is terrifying and invulnerable?” she asked. “I find it hard to believe the survivor tied himself to a boat and rode the sea to Rutbrok just to warn us of our impending doom.”
“Aye, Ailsa. The young warrior mentioned one more thing.” Lattimer placed both hands on the table and leaned his weight against it as he looked her dead in the eyes. “They spoke with a chieftain before the battle. Your father. They offered a chance for peace should we return something our kind stole from them.”
“Stole? Ostmen do not steal! We claim what is rightfully ours through fair fights or trade. What would we need from demons?” Erik countered.
Lattimer shrugged and pushed off the table. “That is all the boy said before he died. That the demons had a particular interest in Ledger Locharsson. Do you have any idea why, Ailsa?”
Ailsa chewed her lip in thought but shook her head. If these creatures were indeed from another world, how would they have taken anything that belonged to them? Surely there was no way to cross realms, and she was certain no one from her clan had the means to try. But then, why was her family name singled out?
Her father did not lie to her, but that did not mean he didn’t keep secrets.
“We should try to contact our enemy again,” she said. Rollo and Gunnar made sounds of disapproval, but she continued. “We cannot survive another attack. We have one shieldmage left to pass on the power, and Nikros can barely wield his magic. Rollo, your clan alone cannot support our relationship with the English kings. We need warriors to defend the lands they surrendered to us—”
“King Rupert is our puppet,” Rollo dismissed her. “He won’t have the bollocks to push against us now, not when the only reason his kingdom isn’t refuging in a marsh is because of the gold and silver he vowed to trade in return for our withdrawal.”
“But if you no longer have the men to enforce your notorious reputation, there will be nothing to stop Rupert from pushing back.” She motioned to the map in the center of the table. Rollo’s lands sat to the south, near the bordering Saxon territories and the wealth of land beyond it. They had fought and conquered the majority of the map for the past five centuries, but all could be lost from them if they placated their current enemy with the remainder of their forces. “The Saxons are scared, not foolish. If we are to keep our boundaries where they are, we need to keep your men within defending distance.”