OoOoO

"Tarun...Tarun, wake up."

Having only gone to sleep a few hours beforehand (he was nearly halfway through Second), Tarun was definitely groggier than he should have been. Sunlight was already streaming through the curtains of their room in the boarding house. From the plaza below he could vaguely make out the rumbling murmur of many voices talking amongst themselves.

"Come on, get your bag."

Blinking the grit from his eyes brought Garrit into focus, standing over Tarun's bunk. His cousin was not only up and dressed, but apparently ready for travel. Although Garrit wore his standard-issue uniform beneath a light cloak, he was conspicuously without the armour which – although valuable – marked him clearly as a royal soldier. Despite that, Garrit did still carry his sword belted at his waist.

"Where are we going?" asked Tarun dumbly, still more asleep than awake.

Garrit came him a strange look. "Home, where else? Now hurry up, Thyge said we leave before the sun clears the rooftops."

Even though Garrit prodded and urged him along at every step, Tarun took longer than usual to dress. He still wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do as he followed Garrit downstairs and out of the boarding house.

The men of Trosk were all there, gathered in the plaza below The Weeping Keep. Guardians of the Keep stood watching them from the steps, faces inscrutable beneath full head wraps. The Guardians made no move to interrupt the mountainfolk, even though they were obviously intending to leave Derbesh. Looking back over his shoulder, Tarun could see the lowlander soldiers of the Fourth watching them from the windows of the boarding house, stony-eyed and silent. Tarun caught sight of Derrian Bel at one window. Amidst a tapestry of sour, scornful lowlanders, only Derrian looked at all sad to see the men of Trosk leaving.

"There you are, Tarun. We were beginning to wonder if we'd be leaving without you!"

Borse's words were friendly, obviously meant only in teasing. The tanner clapped Tarun on the arm – deliberately avoiding Tarun's scabbed and tender back – a smile pulling at his clipped black beard.

"Right then, that's all of us," said Thyge. The baker shrugged on his pack and stretched. "Time to go home."

"You can't."

The only people who heard Tarun were those standing closest to him, namely Garrit, Borse, and Andris. Borse and Garrit seemed willing to pretend that they hadn't heard anything; they tossed their heads toward the main street, silently asking Tarun to follow. Andris, however, called Tarun out.

"What do you mean we can't?"

Andris's voice, higher and filled with indignant disbelief, turned heads. Within seconds, every man of Trosk standing in the plaza was staring at Tarun.

"What was that?" asked Joar, gingery eyebrows puckered together sharply.

"What do you mean we can't, Thrymmson?" echoed Thyge. The baker's weathered hands creaked as they tightened on his new walking staff.

Tarun took a deep breath. "We can't leave Derbesh," he repeated, louder and firmer this time. "We have to stay and swear for Princess Ellorae."

Before Tarun was even finished speaking, men were shouting.

"Like hoarfrost we do!"

"We're going home, the princess be damned!"

"I've been away from Devina and the children long enough already!"

"What do you think you're playing at!?"

"Have you gone mad!?"

Where only moments before Tarun had been surrounded by the familiar, smiling faces of his lifelong friends and neighbors, suddenly he found himself the center of attention of nearly two hundred appalled mountainfolk.

"Listen, if we-"

Tarun's words were drowned out almost the second they left his mouth. After weeks upon weeks away from home, all but enslaved after witnessing the Fourth's brutal assault at Trosk, the mountainfolk were a powder keg of barely contained emotion. Truly they had pinned all their remaining good cheer on the hope that their ordeal as soldiers was now over. Even as Tarun tried to make himself heard, he could not interrupt the growing din.

"SHUT IT AND LET THE BOY SPEAK."

Borse, big and broad as he was, shouted surprisingly infrequently. Whenever he did though, it was always loud enough to make the very roots of The Teeth rattle. This time was no exception. Even the R'Tors to the west outside of Derbesh must have heard Borse. Silence followed immediately.

The stare Borse leveled at Tarun was so stern and piercing, Tarun almost abandoned his objections right then and there. Too late now though; even if he were to shut his mouth and fall in line, it would be a very, very long walk back to Trosk. Tarun steeled himself.

"We can't leave Derbesh. You heard Jerriod when he made the announcement yesterday; the Fourth has sworn for Princess Ellorae. That means that the east is likely about to turn Factionist wholesale. Even if some of the clans disagree, do you really think we'd made it all the way back to Trosk...along The Running Road...through the territory of four different clans...dressed in the uniforms of royal soldiers?"

"We aren't royal soldiers, not anymore!" protested Erland. "Besides, we're mountainfolk! The clans are practically kin to us."

Tarun was quick to counter "Are they? I was ambushed by clansfolk Factionists in Joska. They seemed just as happy to kill me as they were to kill Derrian Bel."

"Oh yes, your lowlander shadow, that's right." Thyge's lip curled. "It seems you've made quite the habit of befriending Jerriod's people lately, Tarun."

Andris grabbed Tarun's arm. "You let my brother escape, that night when we passed Trosk. You even took a whipping for it! How can you try to stop us from leaving now!?" The younger man's chin quivered dangerously. "I want to go home...and I want to go now!"

A chorus of agreement went up from the mountainfolk. Several of them, including Thyge, turned away toward the main street again.

"That was different, Trosk was only hours away when Hengar escaped. You have to stay!" Tarun shouted, trying to channel even an ounce of Borse's powerful voice. "We have to stay!"

'As the princess made abundantly clear to me this evening, soldiers loyal to Mahir will not make it out of Derbesh alive.' Jerriod's words from two nights ago came back to Tarun. This was a dangerous line he was walking. If he repeated what Jerriod had said to the men of Trosk, he might just be able to convince them to stay. If they knew of Ellorae's apparent threat though, they would hate her...possibly even more than they already hated Mahir. For some reason, Tarun did not want the men of Trosk to hate Ellorae, even though his life was also being indirectly threatened. He chose his next words with care.

"Even if we make it back to Trosk – which I really doubt we will – how long do you think we'll be left there in peace? You've probably all figured out by now that we're heading hard and fast toward a war...the first war Goran has seen in nearly a thousand years. Do you really think Mahir will just leave us be? That the south or the east will? Trosk is less than a day from the mouth of The Old Mountain Road. As the only path through The Teeth on land, The Old Mountain Road will likely become one of the most valuable places in the entire world. The clansfolk from the east...Mahir from the west...they'll converge there, and we'll be trapped at the pinch point between two sides."

"All the more reason for us to get there now, Tarun." Garrit, ever cheerful and upbeat, was frowning. "If what you say is true, the women will need us home. If the world is about to fall apart, I want to be in Trosk when it happens."

'Yes, no doubt with Quella and her baby,' thought Tarun somewhat sourly at his cousin. What he said instead was "Or...we can make sure that it never comes to that. If we stay here, we would be protecting Trosk. Throw our numbers behind the princess, and help her end this war before it really begins." Not a single person around Tarun showed him any sign of encouragement, but he pressed on. "The way I see it, we have two choices. We could go home...hide out in Trosk like rabbits in a den, and hope that the hawks just kindly decide to pass on over us. Not to mention that we might just arrive back at Trosk with a bunch of angry clansfolk on our tails. Or-!" Tarun had to shout to cut off the protesting before it began. "Or, we fight for Princess Ellorae. Fight beside the clansfolk, whom you said we ought to think of as kin anyways. Help make sure that the war ends as quickly as possible, so that when we do go home, we don't have to be looking over our shoulders, worrying that fire and war are following us back to our families."

Thyge pushed his way through the crowd until he and Tarun stood nearly nose-to-nose. The baker was not a physically imposing man, but as the oldest man present - nearly an elder in his own right - he automatically commanded respect. He and Tarun had already locked horns once before now over the question of loyalties. Thyge had backed down then, a thing nearly unheard of when an elder and a young man disagreed. This time it was clear that Thyge had no intention of surrender. Every vein stood out in his neck as he leaned into Tarun's space.

"We are leaving, Thrymmson, with or without you. In fact, I think you should stay. Clearly your heart doesn't lie in Trosk anymore...if it ever did."

Tarun had only one card left to play. "Is that how you really feel, Thyge?"

"You had better believe it, whelp. Stay here with your princess and your soldiers where you belong."

Tarun took a deep breath. "Sundering one of the mountainfolk from their people is a decision that only a High Elder or a Wise Woman can make...that, or a chieftain."

The reaction was immediate. Like the ring of a hammer-stroke, gasps went up around the plaza.

"The mountainfolk do not have chieftains anymore, Tarun." Borse's voice was low, warning. "Not since-"

"Not since the last chieftain opposed First King Amenthis nearly a thousand years ago and was killed, I know," Tarun interrupted. "But by the old code, there are only three people who can banish me from Trosk; a High Elder, a Wise Woman, and a chieftain. It seems to me that Thyge is setting himself up as one."

Thyge's grizzled face was nearly purple with outrage. He did not, however, refute Tarun's seemingly outlandish accusation. Instead, he cocked his head, unblinking as he stared Tarun down.

"You want to send the mountainfolk to war? Seems to me like that is also a privilege reserved for a chieftain."

"Enough of this, both of you!" Borse seized both Tarun and Thyge by the collars and pulled them apart. "There are no chieftains, not anymore. This kind of talk is nothing but wind!" Rounding on Tarun, Borse caught Tarun's arms in a bruising grip. "Tarun," he hissed. "What are you doing!? Lhara will need you. I need to get Berin home. It's time for us to-"

"Da."

That was all Berin – who since the death of his twin had grown almost completely mute – said, but Borse froze. Closing his eyes as if he could wish away what was happening, the tanner shook his head slightly. Then he turned to his surviving son.

"Berin, don't-"

"I agree with Tarun," said Berin simply. "We can't run, and we can't hide."

Everyone stood dumbfounded, Tarun along with them. Then the shouting started again. Thyge was in a rage, waving his walking staff at both Tarun and Berin now. Erland, Isbjorn, and Joar all kept trying to talk simultaneously, and ended up only drowning one another out to the point where it was impossible to tell just what they were yelling. Borse's attention was now firmly on his son, but just what Berin was saying in answer to his father's incredulous questions, probably not even Borse could hear.

"Tarun..."

Garrit's voice directly in his ear caught Tarun's attention. His cousin was standing beside him, close enough that they could speak in what passed for privacy amidst the chaos.

"Why are you doing this?"

'Because I don't want to go back.' 'Because Princess Ellorae might be my key to The Academy.' 'Because running away from this war won't save us.' All these answers and more flashed through Tarun's mind. The thought that bubbled to the surface above all the rest though was one for which Tarun had no explanation; the fluttering hem of a sunflower yellow dress and leonine brown eyes looking up at him, full of wit and intensity. What he said to Garrit instead was;

"Because I'm right and you know it. If we leave, either we'll never make it back to Trosk, or the war will find us there eventually. And this time, maybe we'll lose more than..." Tarun trailed off. Memories of his brother could not help him any more than Marden himself could right now.

Garrit stared at Tarun with an intensity to rival Borse. Then he sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

"Alright. What are you going to do then?"

"I think I know, but you're not going to like it."

"You can't mean...?"

"I do. Do I have your vote?"

Garrit bit his lip and looked away. Then, reluctantly, he met Tarun's eye. "Aye...but Tarun!" Garrit seized Tarun's shoulder before he could turn away. His green eyes burned with trepidation. "Are you sure?"

Slowly, Tarun nodded. Without any further delay, he surged forward through the throng of arguing men to plant himself firmly in front of Thyge.

"By the right of blood and strength of will, Thyge Torgilson, I challenge you to a *Hilmarhlǫkk."

Hilmarhlǫkk. Quite possibly one of the oldest and least-used words in the entire vocabulary of the mountainfolk. In the old tongue, it meant "Clash of Chieftains". No one alive in Trosk had ever witnessed one; at this point, they existed only as climactic plot devices in fireside legends. According to those legends, in the days before First King Amenthis, it was by the Hilmarhlǫkk that the mountainfolk chose their leaders. No ordinary contest, the Clash of Chieftains pitted two candidates against one another in an agonizing test of will. To pass the Hilmarhlǫkk and become a chieftain, one had to really want it...want it so badly that they would die for it.

"Tarun no!" cried Borse.

Andris snorted in disbelief. "You can't be serious. There's no such-"

"I accept," said Thyge. There was the slightest hitch in the baker's voice though, a hint of hesitation. Everyone in Trosk knew the old stories. Everyone knew the price of victory in a Hilmarhlǫkk.

OoOoO

The men of Trosk formed a ring in the plaza of The Weeping Keep. Now that the initial plan to slip away before full dawn was null, they were beginning to draw something of an odd crowd. Citizens of Clan A'Khet leaned curiously from their windows, as did the lowlander soldiers of the Fourth Company, still watching from the boarding house. People were also coming out onto the landing atop the stairs of The Weeping Keep. A splash of colour – gauzy topaz skirts – heralded the arrival of even Princess Ellorae. She and Rhadu stood watching, high above the plaza. They were soon joined by other members of Rhadu's court; clansfolk courtiers who stood tittering at the spectacle. They did not fully understand the significance of what they were about to witness, but they whispered behind elaborately painted hands all the same. Captain Jerriod was also there, watching unobtrusively from one side of the stairs. He did not herald his presence, intent as he was upon the events unfolding below. Instead, all eyes remained firmly on the mountainfolk.

As for the mountainfolk, now that the Hilmarhlǫkk had been called, the old ways demanded that it be seen through. The men of Trosk thoroughly ignored the growing audience. They had eyes only for Tarun and Thyge. The two men stood facing one another in the center of the ring. They stared intently at each other, sizing up their opponent. They knew what was coming...what they did not know what how far the other would push the contest. It was the ultimate test of nerve. For the loser, the safety of failure. For the winner, the mantle of chieftain, and a bitter, bitter price.

Seeing as no one in living memory had ever actually witnessed a Hilmarhlǫkk, it fell to Isbjorn as the best storyteller present to officiate. He had the most thorough knowledge of the old tales (outside of Tarun, perhaps) and so best remembered the way the proceedings ought to go. As he cleared his throat, all the other men pricked their fingers on their swords and marked their foreheads and cheeks. It was by the blood of the mountainfolk that one earned the right to participate in a Hilmarhlǫkk, after all.

"Who stands for chieftain of the mountainfolk of The Teeth?" Isbjorn asked, his full, rich voice instantly falling into the familiar cadence of a skald.

"I do," said Thyge.

"I do," echoed Tarun.

Isbjorn nodded grimly at the two men. "To stand for chieftain, you must have the support of your peers. Do any folk of age here present support the claim of Thyge Torgilson?"

Olsvard - one of the other older men and a friend of Thyge's – stepped forward. "I support Thyge Torgilson."

When Andris also stepped forward, Tarun narrowed his eyes at the younger man. Andris just shrugged.

"Sorry Tarun, I've had enough. I want to go home. If you cared at all about Lhara, you would too." To Isbjorn he said "I support Thyge Torgilson."

"Very well. And do any folk of age here present support the claim of Tarun Thrymmson?"

Just as he had promised, Garrit presented himself to the gathering. "I support Tarun Thrymmson."

Isbjorn nodded. "One more still is needed. Anyone?"

"I support Tarun Thrymmson!"

Every head turned all at once toward the third-floor window of the boarding house. Derrian Bel was leaning eagerly out the window, so far in fact that one of the other soldiers had to grab the back of his shirt to steady him.

"Lowlanders do not speak here!" Joar bellowed.

Tarun could see Borse's knuckles go white as he clung to Berin's shoulder. Berin gently shrugged his father's hand away though. Stepping forward, he announced quietly yet firmly "I support Tarun Thrymmson."

Again, Isbjorn nodded. Approaching Tarun and Thyge, he stood between them, one hand extended to each. "By the support of your peers, Thyge Torgilson and Tarun Thrymmson, you have been chosen to face one another in the Hilmarhlǫkk. Before we begin, know that the oaths you speak here will be more formidable than any pledge of fealty, more binding than any vow of marriage. By the blood of their ancestors, all mountainfolk here present are obligated to enforce the terms of this Clash of Chieftains, whether they be your neighbor or your dearest kin." Isbjorn faced the ring of mountainfolk. "If there are any here present who would refuse to uphold the terms of the Hilmarhlǫkk, speak now, that the candidate may be safely disqualified."

Borse cleared his throat, clearly about to interrupt. Tarun mouthed 'No' at him, begging the tanner not to interfere. He knew exactly what he was getting himself into. If Borse were to refuse to uphold the terms, Thyge would become chieftain by default, and that would be the end of Tarun's hopes. Whether he was doing this for his own sake, the sake of his kinsfolk, or some murky combination of the two, even Tarun could not say for certain. All he knew was that Thyge, whether intentionally or no, could only lead the mountainfolk into disaster. Had the baker not personally described himself as a stone in a river, unable to keep pace with a rapidly changing world? Tarun flicked his eyes toward Thyge, then back again. Borse's jaw worked silently as he realized the choice before him. The Hilmarhlǫkk had already begun. He said nothing.

Satisfied after several long moments of silence, Isbjorn continued. "So be it."

Tarun locked eyes with Thyge. The older man ground his teeth, determination almost palpable in the air around him. Tarun could feel hundreds of watchful gazes upon him. He knew that Ellorae was one of them. Somehow, Tarun knew that she would hold on right to the bitter end, no matter how high the price of victory grew. Resolved to do the same, Tarun listened to Isbjorn's instructions.

"To be a chieftain is to seek always to further the wellbeing of your people. This is an occupation that will demand every waking moment from you. In order to properly fulfill your duties as chieftain, you cannot be distracted by any other labours. Thyge Torgilson, you are a baker, yes?"

"I am a baker," replied Thyge, following the script of the old legends. "From my father have I inherited a shop, as well as the tools and skills to run it."

"To become chieftain, you must no longer be a baker. Will you surrender your shop, to be taken up by a secondborn son or daughter of Trosk who is not of your blood?"

"I will."

"Very well. You have met the first term." Now it was Tarun's turn. "Tarun Thrymmson, you are a shepherd, yes?"

This part would be easy, and Tarun answered calmly. "I am a shepherd. From my father have I inherited a flock, as well as the paddocks and hillsides to keep it."

"To become chieftain, you must no longer be a shepherd. Will you surrender your flock, to be taken up by a secondborn son or daughter of Trosk who is not of your blood?"

"I will."

Isbjorn grimaced. He knew they were only just beginning.

"Very well. You have met the first term."

This was the way of the Hilmarhlǫkk. The two candidates would be presented with a series of terms to meet, each exacting a progressively heavier toll than the term before it. Loss of livelihood was fairly expected, practically a given according to the examples in the legends. As long as both candidates met the terms of each round, they would continue to move on to more and more valuable commitments. The Hilmarhlǫkk would continue until one candidate could no longer bear the price of becoming chieftain. The loser, once they officially yielded, would no longer be obligated to pay all that they had promised throughout the rounds. The winner would become chieftain.

They would also, however, have to yield everything that had been asked of them to reach that point. It was the duty of the officiant to be both impartial and unyielding as they set the terms. Likewise, it was the blood-bound duty of all witnesses present to ensure that the winner honoured the terms of their victory. The goal of the Hilmarhlǫkk was not only to win, but to intimidate your opponent into surrendering before the price rose too high. There was a reason Hilmarhlǫkks were both revered and feared; why no one had ever moved to revive them after the rise of the Amenthis lineage. Tarun very clearly remembered hearing the stories as a child. One particularly notorious Hilmarhlǫkk that had gone so far as to demand the life of the victor's spouse. Lyfla the Lonely had claimed the title of chieftain, but been forced to kill her own husband. Although Lyfla had presided over the mountainfolk until the ripe old age of eighty-six, she was famous in the stories for never so much as touching another man.

The second round was beginning. Isbjorn began to pace around Tarun and Thyge, studying the two men.

"To be a chieftain is to be above greed for personal wealth. Your people will be your treasure, the well-being of the mountainfolk your repayment. In order to properly fulfill your duties as chieftain, you cannot cling to material possessions. Thyge Torgilson, you own a cloak of khyaru hair, yes?"

Thyge winced. Khyaru deer, native only to the northernmost reaches of The Night Forest, possessed some of the softest, most beautiful pelts of any creature in all of Goran. The cloak had been passed down through Thyge's family for generations. Thyge always wore it to the Winter Solstice bonfire each year. Even Yelaina had openly envied the shimmering cape of silver, pearly white and coal black.

"I own a cloak of kharyu hair. It was a gift from a clansfolk trader to my great-great-grandmother, purchased in Derbesh after having been brought all the way south from Paledir's Bay."

"To become chieftain, you must not covet your wealth. Will you surrender your cloak, to be gifted as a wedding present to the next young woman of Trosk to marry?"

With a harrumph, Thyge answered "I will."

"Very well. You have met the second term. Tarun Thrymmson."

Tarun braced himself, already suspecting what was coming.

"You own a collection of leatherbound books, yes?"

Having expected this did not make the prospect any easier. "I own a collection of leatherbound books. They were brought to Trosk by my da after he relocated from Anset. He took with him only the clothes on his back and as many books as he could carry."

Isbjorn was remorseless as he carried on. As officiant, he was obligated to show the potential chieftains no mercy. "To become chieftain, you must not covet your wealth. Will you surrender your books, to be shared amongst those households of Trosk who would welcome them?"

Memories surfaced, unwanted, in Tarun's mind. He remembered his da reading to him, Marden, and Lhara from those books by firelight. In the years since Thrymm and Mira's deaths, they had been Tarun's greatest friends and source of solace. He also reminded himself though that he could copy them down from memory. It would not be perfectly word-for-word, but had Tarun not already impressed Jerriod with the accuracy of his transcription of From Sand to Sky? Knowing that he would have to be more resolved than this to stand a chance of beating Thyge, Tarun nodded.

"I will."

"Very well. You have met the second term," replied Isbjorn.

Two rounds into the Hilmarhlǫkk, and the terms had thus far been only for material possessions. If Isbjorn was following the models provided by the legends, that could only mean that things were about to become much, much more difficult. Tarun caught Thyge's eye. Clearly the older man was thinking much the same thing. If Tarun didn't know better, he'd even say that Thyge looked afraid. Hilmarhlǫkks weren't just antiquated...they were remnants of an era when the mountainfolk of The Teeth were not so tame. There was a reason that First King Amenthis had deliberately singled out the mountainfolk during his campaign to rid the land of the ancient beasts. Back then, over a thousand years ago, the mountainfolk had numbered in the thousands. Back then, they had been warriors...fiercesome and proud and unwilling to respect the authority of any lowlander. Such legends were considered treasonous to repeat, but the memories of the mountainfolk were long.

Perhaps it was in recognition of this that the crowd gathered around the plaza had grown very, very quiet. Even the soldiers of the Fourth no longer remarked on the oddity of the scene. High above on the steps of The Weeping Keep, perhaps Princess Ellorae and Lord Rhadu knew enough of the legends of the mountainfolk to suspect what was coming. If they did, made no move to interfere.

Isbjorn, after pausing to think for a minute, was ready to continue. "To be a chieftain, there is a time and place for wise counsel. There is also value in honouring your own wisdom, and ignoring the whispered words of those who would seek to influence you. In order to properly fulfill your duties as chieftain, you must only listen to those whom you trust to place at your right hand. Thyge Torgilson, you have two ears, do you not?"

Thyge blanched pale. "I have two ears...one on my left and one on my right. With them, I listen to all that is around me."

"To become chieftain, you must not hear voices of ill intent and outside influence. Will you allow yourself to be parted from your left ear, the better to mind only the counsel of those who stand at your right hand?"

Thyge stood without answering for a very long time. Tarun leaned forward eagerly, as did many of the other mountainfolk encircling them. Would this be the term that forced Thyge to surrender? If he did, then all Tarun would have to do to become chieftain would be to accept. If Tarun did not accept, then they would both be disqualified, and the Hilmarhlǫkk would yield no chieftain. Others might then be free to step forward and be nominated, but somehow Tarun doubted anyone else would. This was as much a personal matter between him and Thyge as it was a question of the mountainfolk's loyalty.

When Thyge eventually answered, he spoke so quietly as to be almost inaudible.

"I will."

A thrill of awe tinged with horror went through the crowd. By accepting, Thyge had guaranteed that, whether it be himself or Tarun, someone was going to lose an ear today. Tarun also privately understood that this meant the Hilmarhlǫkk would go to a fourth term. He was not about to surrender now. When Isbjorn put the third term to him as well, he was much quicker than Thyge to give his "I will."

"Tarun..."

Borse's warning came as a low rumble; most likely would not have even heard it. Tarun glanced over his shoulder at him.

"Strákurinn mínn...no further."

Tarun looked away.

"Do not make us do this!" Borse growled louder, desperation tinging his voice. Fourth terms in a Hilmarhlǫkk almost always demanded death. If the men of Trosk refused to uphold the terms though, then not only would the chieftain's reign be invalid, but they would all be foresworn, their spirits damned never to return to the stars.

Isbjorn paced silently...once...twice...three times around Thyge and Tarun. Although he was no doubt trying very hard to remain expressionless, Tarun could see the strain on his face. Only so much could be asked of a future chieftain in blood before rendering them unfit to take up the mantle. The next term would have to be death...but not of the candidates. The entire plaza of The Weeping Keep collectively held its breath.

Finally, Isbjorn spoke. "To be a chieftain, your first and greatest love must be your people. You must value all mountainfolk as dearly as if they were your own flesh and blood. In order to properly fulfill your duties as chieftain, you must demonstrate that you favour no one person above another, even though they be your own kin. Thyge Torgilson, you have a firstborn child, yes?"

People cried out. Mouths fell open. Every head turned to where Tryll, Thyge's oldest son stood. A peaceable, well-liked man in his mid-thirties, Tryll was set to take over Thyge's bake shop one day (or would have been, if Thyge did not end up paying the shop as his first term in the Hilmarhlǫkk). Tryll's eyes went wide and his face grew grey. Olsvard, visibly shaken, put a steadying hand on the younger man's shoulder. Tryll swallowed hard and stood his ground though.

"Take the mountainfolk home, Da," he said.

All eyes were on Thyge. The baker stood there in the center of the ring, trembling in every limb. His jaw worked, mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out.

Not having received the ritual response from Thyge, Isbjorn soldiered on.

"To become chieftain, you must not weigh the value of one of your people's lives over another. Will you slay your firstborn, to demonstrate your commitment to the responsibilities of a chieftain?"

Tryll and Thyge stared at each other with such intensity, they seemed almost to be speaking without words. The apprehension was palpable all the way up to the top of The Weeping Keep. Tarun was locked in his own internal struggle. He had no children; how could this term apply to him? What if Isbjorn meant to ask him for a different kind of relative...? Would he be asked to kill Garrit? ...Or Lhara? For the first time in his life, Tarun's mind was confronted by a problem he could not even contemplate. His heart hammered in his chest. Even if Thyge said no, Isbjorn would still put the fourth term to him next.

With a cry, Thyge flung his staff to the smooth white stones. "No! No, I won't! Damn it all, no!" Thyge ran to the edge of the crowd and threw himself into his son's arms, blubbering. "Never!"

Everyone's relief was very short-lived. Isbjorn turned on Tarun. The two of them remained alone in the center of the circle.

"Tarun Thrymmson...you are a man capable of fathering children, yes?"

Tarun frowned and cocked his head, both terrified out of his wits and unsure now where this was going. "Yes...to the best of my knowledge..."

"To become chieftain, you must not weigh the value of one of your people's lives over another. Will you slay your firstborn, to demonstrate your commitment to the responsibilities of a chieftain?"

Tarun's confusion drove him to break with the traditional script of the Hilmarhlǫkk. "But I have no firstborn?"

"Not yet."

The reactions of all present were even more horrified than when Isbjorn had singled out Tryll. It took less than a second for the implications of what Isbjorn was saying to hit home. Even Thyge, freshly defeated as he was, put a hand to his tear-stained face in shock.

It was clever, really, now that Tarun could collect himself enough to think about it. With Thyge having dropped out and removed his son from danger, this was really the only way that Isbjorn could have honoured the rules of the Hilmarhlǫkk...while also avoiding any death here today. It also presented a rather grim dilemma for Tarun. If he accepted, he would become chieftain. He would also all but guarantee himself a life as an unwed, childless man. What woman of Trosk would ever so much as look at him, with such a prospect hanging over the head of their marriage bed? Could he ever even marry a lowlander or clansfolk woman in good faith? Any woman would run as far and fast away from him as she could as soon as she discovered the price of his chieftaincy; the murder of their firstborn child. Tarun snuck a glance up at The Weeping Keep. Princess Ellorae was too far away to see her face.

"I will."

A long, pained breath hissed out from all present. It was done. Many were looking at Tarun in a way that they had never looked at him before. There was awe there, yes, and admiration for the first chieftain the mountainfolk had had in over a thousand years. There was also fear.

"Tarun Thrymmson, by the right of blood and strength of will, I as Officiant of the Hilmarhlǫkk declare you Chieftain of the Mountainfolk of The Teeth." Isbjorn stepped in front of Tarun and placed his hands firmly on each of his shoulders. "Now, you must honour the terms of your victory. You may choose your second to aide you."

'Oh.' Tarun realized rather belatedly that there was still the third term to consider. When Isbjorn drew the knife from his belt and handed it to Tarun, he regarded the blade with a kind of numb detachment. In an odd sort of way, he found himself almost grateful to Jerriod for having whipped him. Now at least he was not completely unprepared for what real pain felt like. He took a second to rub his left ear, savouring what it felt like to have it there. Then he looked to the men of Trosk.

"Andris."

Andris jumped in surprise. So did Garrit, who seemed to have resigned himself to being the one Tarun would choose. With a nervous glance from side-to-side, Andris shuffled forward.

Flipping the knife over, Tarun offered him the handle. "You seem to have some sort of quarrel with me. Whatever it is, take your pound of flesh and have done with it. I don't want to be arguing with you anymore in the days ahead."

One might have thought the knife was a poisonous snake by how gingerly Andris took it. He seemed unable to look Tarun fully in the eye.

"Lhara will hate me..." he mumbled.

Tarun knew exactly how to prod Andris into action. "She already thinks little enough of you as it is. Now get on with it!"

OoOoO

Five minutes later, standing before Isbjorn in the center of the circle, blood dripping hotly down his collar and the side of his head a burning knot of pain, Tarun reckoned it hadn't actually been that bad. He certainly was handling himself better than Andris, who was currently off to one side, vomiting into one of the ornamental sandstone vases decorating the plaza. Still, he wished Isbjorn would hurry up and conclude things so he could go find somewhere to sit down until he stopped feeling so light-headed.

The Hilmarhlǫkk wasn't quite finished though. Isbjorn beckoned Thyge forward.

"Thyge Torgilson, having been defeated in the Hilmarhlǫkk, it is your right and duty to give the new chieftain his public name. What name do you choose to bestow upon he who was Tarun Thrymmson?"

Thyge's face was oddly contorted as he looked at Tarun, pained, as if he were actually the one who had just had his ear cut off. The bestowing of the name was not just a matter of dignity for the victor; it was a matter of pride for the mountainfolk. Tarun was their chieftain now, the public face by which they would all be known to the world. No matter how bitter the Hilmarhlǫkk, every loser throughout the history of the mountainfolk had always taken their responsibility very seriously.

"You're a cruel man, Thrymmson, you know that?"

"Only when I must be," Tarun replied.

"Let's hope you're cruel enough to see us through a war then." Raising his voice, Thyge announced "I name the new chieftain Tarun the Heartless."

"Tarun the Heartless," repeated the men of Trosk as one. It was not so much a rallying cry as an oath...a litany...a prayer.

With that, the Hilmarhlǫkk was over. Having been officially recognized by all the mountainfolk present, no one could claim that his victory was illegitimate. Upon their return to Trosk, Tarun would have to pay the remainder of his terms owing, but for now, the proper rites had all been observed. Turning in a circle, Tarun took in the faces of his friends, neighbors, kin...his people. Then he realized what he had just done, and choked back a curse.

He had just bound himself irrevocably to Trosk.

Oh yes, he would be able to command the mountainfolk to stay in Derbesh and fight for Princess Ellorae now, and they would be honour-bound to obey him. Tarun need not leave the widening world which he was day-by-day discovering, nor would the men of Trosk be putting themselves at risk with a long journey back along The Running Road. When the day came that they finally were free to return to Trosk though, Tarun would be similarly bound to return with them.

That was a problem for another time. For now, the Guardians of the Keep were moving. At first, the mountainfolk reacted defensively, many reaching for their swords. To everyone's surprise however, the Guardians did not attack. Instead, they turned to face one another from across the stairs, forming a clear invitation to ascend. Atop the stairs, Princess Ellorae and Lord Rhadu stood with their court. The noble pair waited, looking expectantly down at Tarun.

As Tarun approached The Weeping Keep, the men of Trosk parted like a flock before the largest ram. Tarun was neither the oldest, nor the tallest, nor the strongest, but he was now the chieftain. Men who had known him his entire life stared at him as if he were a stranger. All gave him a wide, respectful berth as he passed.

It was a long journey up to where Ellorae and Rhadu waited on the landing. As he climbed, he could hear a faint pit-pat in his wake; drops of blood falling onto the marble steps of The Weeping Keep. The eastern sun was high overhead, its powerful heat bearing down on Tarun's throbbing head. For a moment, about halfway, he swooned and nearly fainted. Fixing Ellorae's cool green skirts in his sights, Tarun forced himself to keep climbing. He must have looked a mess by the time he reached the landing, but he made it there with a straight back and firm jaw.

Lord Rhadu left Ellorae's side to approach Tarun. He was an impressive man, draped in all the finery that Clan A'Khet could furnish. Tarun, by contrast, was pale-faced and wore only his simple soldier's uniform and a cloak, both now liberally bloodstained. Despite this, Rhadu held out his hand, offering his wrist to Tarun to clasp.

"Our two peoples have a long and closely entwined history. Tales of your ancestors are still told by the fireside on cold desert nights, and in Anset our bloodlines often mingle into one. A lord of the clansfolk has not had the privilege of greeting a chieftain of the mountainfolk for many long centuries." Rhadu held out his hand further. "It is my honour, as Lord of the Weeping Keep, to officially recognize you and your hard-won title, Tarun the Heartless."

"Thank you," said Tarun simply. He reached out and clasped Rhadu's offered wrist. Then he thought he ought to at least try for some grandeur. "As Chieftain of the Mountainfolk of The Teeth, it is my honour to greet you and your folk as our brothers and sisters of old."

"Ahem."

It was the smallest sound, just a tiny clearing of her throat, but Princess Ellorae instantly demanded and received the attention of all present. As she approached, Tarun caught the scent of a perfume sweeter than mountain blueberries and sharper than ice in the spring. Those keen brown eyes fastened on Tarun, just as they had outside the barracks all the way back in Geristan, and Tarun felt his legs go numb. It was a struggle to stay upright, but he refused to allow himself to falter.

"Congratulations, Tarun the Heartless," said Ellorae. "Do you really intend to honour the conditions of the fourth term?"

Such a blunt question drew offended titters from several of the women of Clan A'Khet nearby. Tarun paid them no mind.

"I am bound to honour the terms of the Hilmarhlǫkk, Your Highness...as are all of the mountainfolk."

"That is not really an answer though, is it?" Ellorae smiled.

"...Then my answer is yes."

Ellorae considered this for a moment. Then, without warning, she stepped forward and caught Tarun by the arm. Sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow, she turned him to face the plaza. From this high up, Tarun could see just how big the city of Derbesh really was. He could also see banners beyond the city walls, approaching from every direction along the horizon.

"The seven clans are gathering," observed Rhadu casually. "They come at our invitation, to witness the first marriage of an Amentherian royal to a lord of the clansfolk in nearly a century."

Princess Ellorae spoke aloud, projecting her voice for all below to hear. "From this day henceforth, I, Queen Ellorae, do officially recognize the Mountainfolk of Trosk as a distinct people, unique within the bounds of Goran for their traditions, history, and culture. I also recognize their chieftain, Tarun the Heartless, as wielding authority similar if not equal in stature to that of a lord of one of the seven clans." Extending a hand down toward the men of Trosk, Ellorae spoke directly to them. "As such, I grant you the right to carry your own banners, wear your own garments, and present yourselves as is suitable by the customs of your people."

None of the mountainfolk had been expecting this, but the reaction was decidedly pleased. Many a hand went to scratch ruefully at stubbly chins, their long, handsome beards having been shorn off when they first arrived in Geristan. Garrit even went a step further. The second Ellorae made her pronouncement, he peeled off his red tunic, emblazoned with the golden crown of Mahir's royal army, and threw it to the ground. Several of the other men of Trosk followed suit, and soon dozens stood stripped to the waist beneath the blistering sun.

Ellorae looked up at Tarun. Her hand was still tucked in the bend of his arm, a fact which Tarun was even more keenly aware of than his bleeding head.

"Swear for me, and it will be the beginning of a life you never would have thought possible even in your wildest dreams." Ellorae leaned up to whisper in Tarun's ear. "I will make you a legend, Tarun the Heartless."

Tarun didn't need to be asked twice. Drawing his sword – poor and shabby though it was compared to the gleaming blades of the Guardians – he knelt before Ellorae and clasped the hilt. 

"I..." he began, then faltered, not actually knowing how to properly swear to a princess...or a queen.

"I, Tarun the Heartless, Chieftain of the Mountainfolk of The Teeth."

Tarun hadn't even seen Jerriod, standing quietly to one side on the landing. The Captain of the Queen's First Company came to stand behind Rhadu. With his help and subtle prompting, Tarun publicly swore the mountainfolk to the service of Queen Ellorae.

And then, the second he made it inside The Weeping Keep, Tarun fainted.

OoOoO

*Pronunciation note: Hilmarhlǫkk = Hill-MAR-hlock