Red Axe, Black Sun

Skybridge

CHAPTER THREE

SKYBRIDGE

“Sifnar Red-Shoal and Gorm War-Anvil,” Dryston repeated, after they had left Jarnsaxa’s company with all the clues she could give them: family relations, troop affiliation, behavior, cast of mind, fighting preferences, accomplishments in the warband. The two looked like average line infantry soldiers, not veterans who had gotten tired of the same old, but also not inexperienced recruits who were about to flee before they would first see action. But sometimes, those ordinary troopers hid the darkest secrets. Some escapades during gambling and betting on pit-fights to keep them entertained, sure, this was to be expected, but Dryston doubted that their absence had anything to do with it. He sensed something bigger behind it.  

“Cormack?” Dryston asked, when they reached the exit barricade of the warband camp. 

“Yes?”

“About your name.”

“What about it?” Cormack said without stopping.

Barbarians were standing to attention at the east gate, recognizing Cormack as one of their own kin. They didn’t stand like Treverian soldiers or those of any of the northern kingdoms, Dryston noticed. They stood broad-legged and uneasy as if looking for trouble.

“I was wondering how you barbarians get your name,” Dryston said, noting the hefty halberds the guards were lifting in greeting as they passed. 

“What do you mean, how we get our name?” Cormack said, returning with a grim nod.

Cormack shrugged. “You know, sometimes those nicknames go by contraries.”

“Yes, sometimes,” Dryston said, getting serious. “But like with Sifnar Red-Shoal and Gorm War-Anvil, who knows when it’s real and when it’s contrary?” 

Cormack soaked up the fresh morning air, as if the realization hit him only now. “That is always the big question with barbarians. You have to cross blades and find out on your own if it was a façade or the real thing.”

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Thaena Ashcroft said. “Why search for a man and defect from the king? What difference could he make, even if Jarnsaxa finds him?”

The group had left the warband’s camp and journeyed on the road to Skybridge. King Tancred’s ancestors had compelled its construction with stones when the land had still been wild and untamed. It was an artery that broke into the non-human wilderness and had replaced the old paths used by orcs, elves and dwarves, like so many others. The clouds had broken up and revealed gnarly trees slumped over grass soaked with rain.

“The northern tribes want a leader,” Cormack said. “It would make things easier. At the moment, the Vacomani are ravaged by anarchy and chaos. Don’t get me wrong, it’s basically what has been occurring the last thousand years, every time before a new king can be found, but this time no one seems to be up for the job. You have to imagine what it’s like out there. You southerners are living in paradise compared to the northern world. Nature alone can kill you. Just the wind can freeze and tear flesh from the bones. The iceland we inhabited is breaking up and more and more swallowed by the sea, or desolated by geysers. For generations, we’ve always been on the move, unable to build an empire or unite ourselves. On the contrary, as land gets scarce and we are crowded together, we cull out the weak by wars. As pastures fade, grazers starve and the predators turn on us, driven mad by hunger. No one wants to do this. The most promising contender, the only one I had trust in to be strong enough from the stories I heard, left us. But maybe Jarnsaxa can bring the barbarian king back. Behind every strong man needs to stand a strong woman.”