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<blockquote data-quote="Sepulchrave II" data-source="post: 3354584" data-attributes="member: 4303"><p><strong>1: VISNA</strong></p><p></p><p></p><p><em>Less than seven men shall be called thieves,</em></p><p><em>from seven to thirty-five are a band,</em></p><p><em>more are an army.</em></p><p></p><p>– Laws of Ine</p><p></p><p></p><p>The hall was smoky, and stank of sweat and ale; a dull red glow from the firepit illuminated its beams. Casting around, Luta observed that most of the revellers – and more than a hundred were crammed into the place – were drunk. Athelnoth, her chief liegeman, whom she had instructed to remain vigilant, was snoring, his back against a mead-bench. She sighed.</p><p></p><p>Oter's head lolled. Drool ran over his beard and onto his shirt as he struggled to bring his chin up and focus his eyes.</p><p></p><p>"Christ," Luta groaned. She turned to Lek. "He's not going to puke, is he?"</p><p></p><p>"It is likely," Lek nodded. He seemed distracted.</p><p></p><p>"Tell me more of Ornolf," Luta said eagerly. She swigged mead from her horn, and dragged her sleeve across her mouth. "How far is his steading?"</p><p></p><p>"Four days to the northwest," Lek grinned wickedly, suddenly recovering his focus. "If we make good time through the Peaks. <em>Now</em> is the time, Luta. He will least expect it. I will announce it later, when the men are drunk enough to back me without hesitation – if you agree to it. Say <em>yes</em>, Luta…please. We will never have an opportunity like this again. There are others – kinsmen from Hafrsfjord – who have settled nearby. They will rally to us if we can overcome Ornolf. He has been lording it over them for years. I have a legitimate vendetta – he owes me silver, and slew the warriors I sent to collect it."</p><p></p><p>"I'm surprised that you waited this long."</p><p></p><p>"Half of his company, led by his brother, have gone <em>í víking</em>. They are wintering in Brittany."</p><p></p><p>"How convenient. He has other relatives, I presume?"</p><p></p><p>"Many," Lek admitted. "But they are in Ireland. Or on Man. Luta – <em>Visna</em> – this is an opportunity for glory. Wyrd has singled you out for this purpose…"</p><p></p><p>"Don't bother trying to flatter me, Lek. My destiny is in my own hands, and I'm quite aware of it. However, your answer is <em>yes</em>, without question. What of Ornolf's overlord?"</p><p></p><p>"Torf-Einar, Earl of Orkney."</p><p></p><p>"Will he cause trouble?"</p><p></p><p>"He's a long way distant," Lek shrugged, "and has his own concerns. If he does, then we'll deal with the problem when it arises. But I am confident. I know your ability, Luta – I have, at times, watched you with my inner eye…"</p><p></p><p>Luta turned her head away.</p><p></p><p>"Christ does not approve?" Lek asked.</p><p></p><p>"Christ and Odin be damned, Lek. <em>I</em> do not approve. It makes my skin crawl."</p><p></p><p>"You should not be so quick to dismiss such an ally."</p><p></p><p> "How many can we muster?" Luta quickly changed the subject.</p><p></p><p>"Maybe forty – if we move within a week. More, if we wait to gather our strength."</p><p></p><p>"We should set out in two days at the latest," Luta asserted, "and strike before Yule has passed."</p><p></p><p>"As you wish," Lek bowed, suitably impressed. "But don't you want to know how many we'll be facing? It's a reckless warrior who agrees to an attack without first gaining knowledge of the odds."</p><p></p><p>"I am that," Luta laughed, and drained her horn. "Tell me the odds later, when I'm drunk."</p><p></p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p></p><p>To slay, and to earn for herself a name among the great – not by the slow acquisition of wealth and power, but by brilliance in arms upon the field of battle – such was Luta's goal. If she shone briefly – but brightly – that was enough for her. She knew that she was an atavism; a throwback to an ancient ideal, a pagan dream. Rather than dissuade her from her fantasy, however, such understanding seemed to buoy her enthusiasm for war.</p><p></p><p>For two years, she had ridden with her mate against the Welsh marches. As a wife, she had demonstrated little affection towards Dunn, although, in time, she had come to respect his energy and strategic aplomb. But her husband had been in awe of her, for in all regards which mattered to him – her education, lineage and skill with a blade – she had outshone him. As an object of veneration, Luta felt disinclined to regard Dunn in any fashion other than as a worshipper: their marriage – never consummated – had been an expedient match, orchestrated by Sefleth to assuage a mother's fears. Luta had taken lovers where she would – an arrangement tolerated by Dunn, who had chosen to see only that which did not offend him. Luta, to her credit, had been discreet; her intention had never been to rile her husband, but simply to meet her own needs. </p><p></p><p>After his death, Luta had descended with her retainers upon the towns of the Welsh border in a series of raids which wrought bloody havoc upon the enemies of Mercia. She had been instrumental in forcing a peace with Brochwel of Gwent, causing him to submit to Ethelred in humiliation beneath the foreboding mass of Black Mountain. With her mother's kinsmen, she had roamed for a season, relishing the freedom which the warrior's lifestyle afforded, slaying wherever she might and taking whatever she would. She grew up quickly, and assumed an air of easy command.</p><p></p><p>When she returned to her hall at Honeybourne, boredom quickly set in. Aside from rearing horses – twelve had been presented to Sefleth by Sinir as morning-gift, and they had flourished and multiplied on the rich floodplain – managing an estate held no interest for Luta. Suitors would arrive at regular intervals – young nobles eager to add fifty hides of prime land to their own – only to be rudely rebuffed and sent away. Ethelred, her liege, had suggested Luta's remarriage, perhaps to a Welshman, in order to consolidate Mercian influence. His wife, ever sympathetic to Luta's needs, ensured that such pressure never became a direct command.</p><p></p><p>Luta had pondered upon her heritage: three centuries earlier, her forebears had been kings and queens of a realm which had been later subsumed by Mercia. She recalled Sefleth's repeated admonitions to her: <em>Never forget your heritage. Remember these names: Eanfrith, Eanhere, Osric, Oshere, Oswald, Ethelheard, Ethelward, Ethelric, Osred, Eanberht, Uhtred, Ealdred. Uhtred was your great-great-great grandfather.</em> Luta's recollection of her uncle – who shared the name of her current Mercian overlord – was fragmentary at best: he had died when she was two or three. But he had been an Earl; the last to bear the title. The memory of his generosity – and ferocity – lingered as a phantom in her mind.</p><p></p><p>News of Alfred's passing and Edward's accession had been received by Luta with mixed feelings. The health of the old king had been in decline for some time, and many amongst the clergy and nobility had been jostling in anticipation of his inevitable demise. Edward was already a seasoned warrior, with a history of daring exploits to his name, and in the arena of politics outside of the battlefield he had demonstrated considerable finesse. The majority of the <em>witan</em> had been in favour of his elevation, but within a week of his father's death a rebellion – orchestrated by his cousin Ethelwald – had focused all eyes upon Edward. Luta was sworn to Edward's brother-in-law, and eagerly awaited some sign of <em>his</em> loyalties, but Ethelred was cautiously watching events unfold. Mercia – shattered in the wake of the Danish incursions of the past generation – was exhausted from continual conflict, and Ethelred was less than anxious to begin another war. At least, not before he knew which side would win.</p><p></p><p>She had greeted Lek's invitation with eager curiosity – it had been five years since she and her brothers had last met. Lek, she knew, was conniving and ambitious, though he hid his designs beneath a practiced façade. She had no doubt that he had some scheme in mind to increase his fortunes and, like other landholding thanes and earls – Dane and Saxon alike – would seize on the uncertainty offered by the transition of monarchy in Wessex to settle old scores. When, in the event, his target had transpired to be a Norseman living near Thelwall, Luta had breathed a quiet sigh of relief: if he had chosen to pit himself against a Mercian lord, she would have found herself in an uncomfortable position.</p><p></p><p></p><p>**</p><p></p><p></p><p>The company left Harhall three days after Christmas: grim men mounted on sturdy horses, which moved in single file beneath the bare birch trees. They followed the course of the Dovebrook towards the Peaks which shone, pristine, in the morning sun; frosts had hardened the snow and earth to the point where every footfall crunched loudly. Steam rose from the mouths and nostrils of horse and warrior. </p><p></p><p>Luta rode in the fore with Oter, whose knowledge of the terrain was unmatched and, with whom, she was rediscovering her friendship – unlike Lek, the two younger siblings were close in age. Also, unlike Lek, Luta had yet to experience the full range of Oter's odd behaviour. Behind them came Athelnoth and Ragnald – a hulking, scarred Dane who bore a huge axe, and acted as Lek's enforcer; then Lek himself; then Radwulf and Radwine – brothers, and seasoned veterans, sworn to Harhall since Sinir's early days. Others included Badothin, a Kentishman who followed Luta; Garulf, who had once been a priest, but who found pillage and murder more to his tastes; Wilareus, a Thuringian cutthroat who spoke only haltingly in broken English; and Meurig, a Welsh mercenary who had thrown his lot in with Oter. In all there were thirty-eight of them: fourteen for Lek, twelve for Luta, and nine for Oter. It was as large a band as any that Luta had ridden with before, and one liable to raise alarm from the Five Burghs to the Wirral, once its purpose was known.</p><p></p><p>The lands all about were Harhall's: those dwelling there had taken oaths of fealty to first Sinir, and then Lek. There were pureblooded Scandinavians and English, but many of the younger folk were of mixed ancestry: the misbegotten bastards of war, or of unlikely love-matches, or of marriages which had been made to cement the peace – Luta herself was one of these. Lek, like his father, had owed service to Guthrum the Dane – King of East Anglia – and then afterwards to Guthrum's son, Eric, when the old Viking's failing health had incapacitated him. The influence of Harhall – built at a strategic crossroads where danger always threatened, but opportunity for trade and growth abounded – straddled the rich valleys of the Dove and the Churnet, and extended into the windy Peaks, where sheep farmers eked a mean existence. </p><p></p><p>With sunken eyes peering from a gaunt face, Lek watched his sister keenly, alert to every nuance in her speech and posture. She seemed confident to the point of arrogance, and lacked the cynicism and guardedness which both he and Oter possessed – qualities which Lek, an expert in self-preservation, had come to value. That Luta and her chief retainer, Athelnoth, were lovers, Lek had no doubt – their exchanges seemed by turns either too awkward or too comfortable for their relationship to be anything else. </p><p></p><p><em>Poor fool</em>, Lek thought to himself. <em>He doesn't know that he's just as expendable as everyone else.</em></p><p></p><p>Luta was not beautiful – at least, in any conventional sense – but her presence was so compelling that it was hard to regard her otherwise. Her chin and nose were strong and well-defined, physical traits which both Lek and Oter had also inherited from Sinir. Her eyes, greenish or blue depending on the light, were wide-set, and even in winter her cheeks were freckled. Her hair, fine and fair, was cut to shoulder-length, but drawn back and tied in a tight braid, a style popular amongst young noblemen. She was flat-chested and rangy, with scarcely an ounce of fat on her frame: her shoulders suggested an archer or swimmer; her thighs, a rider. </p><p></p><p>When Lek – using his arts – had observed her from afar, he had been astounded by her strength and determination in combat, and had known immediately that his half-sister would prove invaluable in any efforts he might make to expand and consolidate his own power: if she could be persuaded to join him. Lek shifted in his saddle. Her allegiance was questionable at best, and blood alone might prove inadequate to the task of ensuring her loyalty. </p><p></p><p>By early afternoon, the pale sun was obscured by clouds and the wind had shifted, blowing down from the Peaks in freezing gusts. Fine snow began to fall, swirling in eddies which soon reduced vision to a hundred yards, and settled in beards and manes. The landscape was bleak and largely treeless now, with only the occasional rocky outcrop or copse of rowans offering shelter. Their progress slowed and, reluctantly, they chose to take shelter in a ramshackle byre, abandoned decades before. Guards were set, horses were fed and watered, and the company prepared for a cold and uncomfortable night.</p><p></p><p>"Tomorrow will be clearer," Oter grunted, settling against an old trough, and pulling his cloak about him. "I have a sense about such things."</p><p></p><p>"You said that yesterday," Luta scowled.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Sepulchrave II, post: 3354584, member: 4303"] [B]1: VISNA[/B] [I]Less than seven men shall be called thieves, from seven to thirty-five are a band, more are an army.[/I] – Laws of Ine The hall was smoky, and stank of sweat and ale; a dull red glow from the firepit illuminated its beams. Casting around, Luta observed that most of the revellers – and more than a hundred were crammed into the place – were drunk. Athelnoth, her chief liegeman, whom she had instructed to remain vigilant, was snoring, his back against a mead-bench. She sighed. Oter's head lolled. Drool ran over his beard and onto his shirt as he struggled to bring his chin up and focus his eyes. "Christ," Luta groaned. She turned to Lek. "He's not going to puke, is he?" "It is likely," Lek nodded. He seemed distracted. "Tell me more of Ornolf," Luta said eagerly. She swigged mead from her horn, and dragged her sleeve across her mouth. "How far is his steading?" "Four days to the northwest," Lek grinned wickedly, suddenly recovering his focus. "If we make good time through the Peaks. [I]Now[/I] is the time, Luta. He will least expect it. I will announce it later, when the men are drunk enough to back me without hesitation – if you agree to it. Say [I]yes[/I], Luta…please. We will never have an opportunity like this again. There are others – kinsmen from Hafrsfjord – who have settled nearby. They will rally to us if we can overcome Ornolf. He has been lording it over them for years. I have a legitimate vendetta – he owes me silver, and slew the warriors I sent to collect it." "I'm surprised that you waited this long." "Half of his company, led by his brother, have gone [I]í víking[/I]. They are wintering in Brittany." "How convenient. He has other relatives, I presume?" "Many," Lek admitted. "But they are in Ireland. Or on Man. Luta – [I]Visna[/I] – this is an opportunity for glory. Wyrd has singled you out for this purpose…" "Don't bother trying to flatter me, Lek. My destiny is in my own hands, and I'm quite aware of it. However, your answer is [I]yes[/I], without question. What of Ornolf's overlord?" "Torf-Einar, Earl of Orkney." "Will he cause trouble?" "He's a long way distant," Lek shrugged, "and has his own concerns. If he does, then we'll deal with the problem when it arises. But I am confident. I know your ability, Luta – I have, at times, watched you with my inner eye…" Luta turned her head away. "Christ does not approve?" Lek asked. "Christ and Odin be damned, Lek. [I]I[/I] do not approve. It makes my skin crawl." "You should not be so quick to dismiss such an ally." "How many can we muster?" Luta quickly changed the subject. "Maybe forty – if we move within a week. More, if we wait to gather our strength." "We should set out in two days at the latest," Luta asserted, "and strike before Yule has passed." "As you wish," Lek bowed, suitably impressed. "But don't you want to know how many we'll be facing? It's a reckless warrior who agrees to an attack without first gaining knowledge of the odds." "I am that," Luta laughed, and drained her horn. "Tell me the odds later, when I'm drunk." *** To slay, and to earn for herself a name among the great – not by the slow acquisition of wealth and power, but by brilliance in arms upon the field of battle – such was Luta's goal. If she shone briefly – but brightly – that was enough for her. She knew that she was an atavism; a throwback to an ancient ideal, a pagan dream. Rather than dissuade her from her fantasy, however, such understanding seemed to buoy her enthusiasm for war. For two years, she had ridden with her mate against the Welsh marches. As a wife, she had demonstrated little affection towards Dunn, although, in time, she had come to respect his energy and strategic aplomb. But her husband had been in awe of her, for in all regards which mattered to him – her education, lineage and skill with a blade – she had outshone him. As an object of veneration, Luta felt disinclined to regard Dunn in any fashion other than as a worshipper: their marriage – never consummated – had been an expedient match, orchestrated by Sefleth to assuage a mother's fears. Luta had taken lovers where she would – an arrangement tolerated by Dunn, who had chosen to see only that which did not offend him. Luta, to her credit, had been discreet; her intention had never been to rile her husband, but simply to meet her own needs. After his death, Luta had descended with her retainers upon the towns of the Welsh border in a series of raids which wrought bloody havoc upon the enemies of Mercia. She had been instrumental in forcing a peace with Brochwel of Gwent, causing him to submit to Ethelred in humiliation beneath the foreboding mass of Black Mountain. With her mother's kinsmen, she had roamed for a season, relishing the freedom which the warrior's lifestyle afforded, slaying wherever she might and taking whatever she would. She grew up quickly, and assumed an air of easy command. When she returned to her hall at Honeybourne, boredom quickly set in. Aside from rearing horses – twelve had been presented to Sefleth by Sinir as morning-gift, and they had flourished and multiplied on the rich floodplain – managing an estate held no interest for Luta. Suitors would arrive at regular intervals – young nobles eager to add fifty hides of prime land to their own – only to be rudely rebuffed and sent away. Ethelred, her liege, had suggested Luta's remarriage, perhaps to a Welshman, in order to consolidate Mercian influence. His wife, ever sympathetic to Luta's needs, ensured that such pressure never became a direct command. Luta had pondered upon her heritage: three centuries earlier, her forebears had been kings and queens of a realm which had been later subsumed by Mercia. She recalled Sefleth's repeated admonitions to her: [I]Never forget your heritage. Remember these names: Eanfrith, Eanhere, Osric, Oshere, Oswald, Ethelheard, Ethelward, Ethelric, Osred, Eanberht, Uhtred, Ealdred. Uhtred was your great-great-great grandfather.[/I] Luta's recollection of her uncle – who shared the name of her current Mercian overlord – was fragmentary at best: he had died when she was two or three. But he had been an Earl; the last to bear the title. The memory of his generosity – and ferocity – lingered as a phantom in her mind. News of Alfred's passing and Edward's accession had been received by Luta with mixed feelings. The health of the old king had been in decline for some time, and many amongst the clergy and nobility had been jostling in anticipation of his inevitable demise. Edward was already a seasoned warrior, with a history of daring exploits to his name, and in the arena of politics outside of the battlefield he had demonstrated considerable finesse. The majority of the [I]witan[/I] had been in favour of his elevation, but within a week of his father's death a rebellion – orchestrated by his cousin Ethelwald – had focused all eyes upon Edward. Luta was sworn to Edward's brother-in-law, and eagerly awaited some sign of [I]his[/I] loyalties, but Ethelred was cautiously watching events unfold. Mercia – shattered in the wake of the Danish incursions of the past generation – was exhausted from continual conflict, and Ethelred was less than anxious to begin another war. At least, not before he knew which side would win. She had greeted Lek's invitation with eager curiosity – it had been five years since she and her brothers had last met. Lek, she knew, was conniving and ambitious, though he hid his designs beneath a practiced façade. She had no doubt that he had some scheme in mind to increase his fortunes and, like other landholding thanes and earls – Dane and Saxon alike – would seize on the uncertainty offered by the transition of monarchy in Wessex to settle old scores. When, in the event, his target had transpired to be a Norseman living near Thelwall, Luta had breathed a quiet sigh of relief: if he had chosen to pit himself against a Mercian lord, she would have found herself in an uncomfortable position. ** The company left Harhall three days after Christmas: grim men mounted on sturdy horses, which moved in single file beneath the bare birch trees. They followed the course of the Dovebrook towards the Peaks which shone, pristine, in the morning sun; frosts had hardened the snow and earth to the point where every footfall crunched loudly. Steam rose from the mouths and nostrils of horse and warrior. Luta rode in the fore with Oter, whose knowledge of the terrain was unmatched and, with whom, she was rediscovering her friendship – unlike Lek, the two younger siblings were close in age. Also, unlike Lek, Luta had yet to experience the full range of Oter's odd behaviour. Behind them came Athelnoth and Ragnald – a hulking, scarred Dane who bore a huge axe, and acted as Lek's enforcer; then Lek himself; then Radwulf and Radwine – brothers, and seasoned veterans, sworn to Harhall since Sinir's early days. Others included Badothin, a Kentishman who followed Luta; Garulf, who had once been a priest, but who found pillage and murder more to his tastes; Wilareus, a Thuringian cutthroat who spoke only haltingly in broken English; and Meurig, a Welsh mercenary who had thrown his lot in with Oter. In all there were thirty-eight of them: fourteen for Lek, twelve for Luta, and nine for Oter. It was as large a band as any that Luta had ridden with before, and one liable to raise alarm from the Five Burghs to the Wirral, once its purpose was known. The lands all about were Harhall's: those dwelling there had taken oaths of fealty to first Sinir, and then Lek. There were pureblooded Scandinavians and English, but many of the younger folk were of mixed ancestry: the misbegotten bastards of war, or of unlikely love-matches, or of marriages which had been made to cement the peace – Luta herself was one of these. Lek, like his father, had owed service to Guthrum the Dane – King of East Anglia – and then afterwards to Guthrum's son, Eric, when the old Viking's failing health had incapacitated him. The influence of Harhall – built at a strategic crossroads where danger always threatened, but opportunity for trade and growth abounded – straddled the rich valleys of the Dove and the Churnet, and extended into the windy Peaks, where sheep farmers eked a mean existence. With sunken eyes peering from a gaunt face, Lek watched his sister keenly, alert to every nuance in her speech and posture. She seemed confident to the point of arrogance, and lacked the cynicism and guardedness which both he and Oter possessed – qualities which Lek, an expert in self-preservation, had come to value. That Luta and her chief retainer, Athelnoth, were lovers, Lek had no doubt – their exchanges seemed by turns either too awkward or too comfortable for their relationship to be anything else. [I]Poor fool[/I], Lek thought to himself. [I]He doesn't know that he's just as expendable as everyone else.[/I] Luta was not beautiful – at least, in any conventional sense – but her presence was so compelling that it was hard to regard her otherwise. Her chin and nose were strong and well-defined, physical traits which both Lek and Oter had also inherited from Sinir. Her eyes, greenish or blue depending on the light, were wide-set, and even in winter her cheeks were freckled. Her hair, fine and fair, was cut to shoulder-length, but drawn back and tied in a tight braid, a style popular amongst young noblemen. She was flat-chested and rangy, with scarcely an ounce of fat on her frame: her shoulders suggested an archer or swimmer; her thighs, a rider. When Lek – using his arts – had observed her from afar, he had been astounded by her strength and determination in combat, and had known immediately that his half-sister would prove invaluable in any efforts he might make to expand and consolidate his own power: if she could be persuaded to join him. Lek shifted in his saddle. Her allegiance was questionable at best, and blood alone might prove inadequate to the task of ensuring her loyalty. By early afternoon, the pale sun was obscured by clouds and the wind had shifted, blowing down from the Peaks in freezing gusts. Fine snow began to fall, swirling in eddies which soon reduced vision to a hundred yards, and settled in beards and manes. The landscape was bleak and largely treeless now, with only the occasional rocky outcrop or copse of rowans offering shelter. Their progress slowed and, reluctantly, they chose to take shelter in a ramshackle byre, abandoned decades before. Guards were set, horses were fed and watered, and the company prepared for a cold and uncomfortable night. "Tomorrow will be clearer," Oter grunted, settling against an old trough, and pulling his cloak about him. "I have a sense about such things." "You said that yesterday," Luta scowled. [/QUOTE]
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