The Tragedy of the Black-Mane

Svarthofnir cleared his throat.

"Well, Blackgrasp is a fort near the Drenwyn border that's been unused since the Kaosbron War ended. I imagine that's where the insurgents are holed up?"

"Yeah, pretty much. The scouts I had down there say that there's around fifty of 'em. But supposedly, troops are moving in and out of the place, so they could have more forts around."

"Speaking of troops, how many do you have with you? I saw a dozen when you rode in—I hope you've got some more with ya."

"You trying to conserve your Black-Manes?"

"It's your operation. I think more of you should bleed for it."

"And here I thought you were going to help."

"I am. But I'm not sparing a large portion of Svarthlheim's military to help with your operation. You should've brought more of your Blades."

"I have enough, Brother. Besides," Rolnir leaned back in his chair, fiddling with a flask on his belt. "Fringar lent me an entire Royal Legion—around ten Linebreakers, twenty archers, and fifty infantrymen."

"Along with your dozen Blades and thirty Black-Manes, we've got quite the force."

"Exactly. Those insurgents will be fighting in Heimsgrove before they even realise we know they're there."

Rolnir brought the flask to his lips, but Svarthofnir grabbed his wrist, restraining him.

"A bit early for a drink, no?"

"It ain't hurting anybody."

"Bad influence on the boys. Please."

"Fine."

Svarthofnir released Rolnir's wrist, nodding his head in thanks. Rolling his eyes, Rolnir screwed the flask closed and strapped it to his belt.

"You got any ideas about how to approach Blackgrasp, oh wise one?"

"If your assumption is right about multiple outposts, we'd have to make Blackgrasp quick. If we drag on too much, they could have time to warn the other strongholds."

"So what—you thinking infill?"

"You said fifty soldiers are in Blackgrasp, right?"

"About that, yeah. Why?"

Svarthofnir scratched at his beard.

"Well, we could send a small force in—maybe your Blades—to get the gate open. Then my Black-Manes and some of the Linebreakers could move in, while the infantry camped at any exits."

"Sure, that works. I'll tell my men the plan later. When are you planning on leaving?"

"I just got back, mate. It'll be a few days."

"Yeah, no worries. There's space for me to sleep, though, right?"

"I told you earlier. There's straw in the stable for you."

"You're a piece of shit, you know that."

"Language." Seraphine called across the table.

"Sorry, Sera." Rolnir called back, rubbing the back of his neck.

There was a slight grumble from the Lady of Svarthlheim, then she continued keeping an eye on the children as they ate.

Svarthofnir cleared his throat.

"You want anything to eat?"

"Sure. What you got?"

"What do you want?"

"Eggs. Sausages, maybe. Anything that isn't bread."

With a raised hand, Svarthofnir gestured to Baeldrin.

"Can we get some eggs and sausages, Captain?" he called out.

"Sure, I'll throw some on for ya," Baeldrin called back, turning to the kitchen with a muttered grumble.

"We'll talk more about Blackgrasp tomorrow. Rest up for today. Spend time with the boys. And try not to drink in front of 'em."

"I'm not a drunk, Svarthofnir."

"You're not exactly sober either."

"Where's my room? And if you say something about the stables, I will tear you a new—"

Seraphine cleared her throat.

"A new... hole in your coat?"

"Better." She called out.

Turning to Rolnir, Svarthofnir returned to the previous line of conversation.

"Your room is in the Northern Wing. I'll show you after breakfast, let you get accustomed to it if you like. Do your Blades have places to sleep?"

"Yeah, there are some inns in the city where they'll stay."

"Get 'em to tell the innkeepers to charge the Manse."

"I already have. Their money is my money, so I'd rather they spend yours."

"Well, thanks for letting me know beforehand."

"No worries, Brother." Rolnir laughed.

Throughout the conversation, the smell of sausages had steadily been strengthening. It finally reached its peak as Baeldrin entered the room carrying a platter of five sausages, three eggs, and a jug of water. He set it down in front of Rolnir and wiped his hands on his rugged leather apron.

"Well, there you are, Sir. Can I getcha anything else?"

"No, this will be fine. Thank you, Baeldrin."

"No problem, Sir. And welcome back to Svarthlhus." Baeldrin turned to Svarthofnir. "Can I get you anything, Captain?"

"No, thanks. Venison last night was enough to keep a small militia full for a week."

Baeldrin let out a small laugh and walked back to the kitchen.

The room was silent for a long moment, the only sounds were the faint chewing and squeaking of chairs.

The silence broke when Deimos and Phobos began begging their mother to let them play with Rolnir's gifts.

"We've finished breakfast, can we play now?" Phobos asked, one hand already resting on the staff.

"Please, Mama?" Deimos chimed in, already halfway off his seat.

Seraphine sighed, setting down her cup.

"Fine. But only in the gardens. And no hitting each other with those staves—I mean it."

"We won't!" they chorused, bolting from the room before she finished speaking.

Seraphine stood and slid her chair back with a soft scrape.

"I'll go keep an eye on the boys."

As she passed, Svarthofnir caught her hand.

"There are staff outside. They'll be fine. Why don't you ask Baeldrin if he wants to play a round of Fyrhilt? He's probably itching to beat you after last time."

"Likely because he still doesn't understand how cavalry works," she muttered. "Fine, I'll ask. But if either of them loses an eye, I'll be taking one of yours."

As Seraphine disappeared into the kitchen, Rolnir leaned back in his chair and brought the jug of water to his lips.

"Tomorrow, then. You'll start gathering some of your Black-Manes?"

"Sure. We'll leave for Fort Blackgrasp the following morning."

"By the way, the boys aren't the only ones I got a gift for. You wanna see what I brought you down from Kriegsholm?"

Svarthofnir's eyebrows raised with intrigue.

"Kriegsholm? That's quite a way away. You were there before Court—why didn't you give it to me then?"

"Was stowing it away for a special occasion." He reached into the inside pocket of his cloak and pulled out some folded paper, sliding it across the table to Svarthofnir. The Lord of Svarthlheim unfolded it, and a grin spread across his face.

"Well, this would've been good a month ago. It'll take the Smiths a while to put this together. I appreciate the gesture, though."

Hand pressed to his chest in mock offence, Rolnir responded.

"Do you take me for a miser? It's a gift—I wouldn't make a half-arsed effort."

"You had it made?"

"Nobody goes to Kriegsholm for the scenery. Get out of that silk and put on some fur. I'll take you to it."

As he stood, Svarthofnir chuckled.

"I'll get my coat."