Damon Greyhart

Frostwind, the capital city of Farrenhelm

THE CASKET THAT held the body of Thane Fredric Cullen was lowered slowly into the frozen ground by tethered ropes. It was a dark and snowy night, but warm from the fires of the braziers and torches within the mead hall. There were many there at the funeral. Thanes and barons and even the King himself were in attendance, though he was hardly alert to the happenings of the ritual. His long white hair and beard flowed to his stomach, and his old eyes were droopy with sleep. He fought to keep them open, but it was a fight he was losing.

Once Thane Cullen was firm in the ground, the men who lowered the casket buried the thane with snow and dirt. While they did so, the druid spoke words of ceremony. He wore thick white robes and an iron chain around his neck, with ribbons of thin blue rope woven between the links. "From ice and earth we are born, and to ice and earth we return. May the Gods of men bless his hall with warm mead and fine music. We will soon follow, brother."

"We will soon follow, brother," said the crowd in one voice. Those were the words of the north, and they were words spoken true. War ran through their veins just as blood did, whether it was war with man or beast. And when one man fell, the others would soon follow. Damon only hoped he wasn't to follow anytime soon.

He stood among the Twelve, between Jaylem and Alda. They were all done up in their best clothes, which for Damon, was nothing more than a white tunic with black trousers and a black fur cloak made of a thorn wolf. He wore something close to a frown for the entire ceremony, and had hardly looked anywhere else but at the young boys that stood silently next to their mother. They were each so young, the oldest no more than eleven, the youngest still cuddled in his mother's arm. He knew those young Cullen boys. They were him, and he was them once, years ago when he lost his father, Gandyn.

Gandyn the Great, they called him, a fierce northern warrior and thane. He commanded the woodlands with a cunning that rivaled Nolan Whitelocke, and Damon always thought he would one day command the Thanes themselves. Damon remembered the day his father was named thane. It was something no one expected, for his father was only a steward then for the past thane, Boren Halfhill. For a man so low to rise so high, it was something unseen in the North. As short as his thanehood was, he proved to be an excellent commander, but the sickness that took him made sure he would command nothing more. The sickness came so quickly, so violently, and took him before a druid could even ease his suffering. Damon only hoped his father had found peace, and that Thane Cullen would find the same.

With the hole packed full of snow and dirt, four men of great strength hauled a large stone monument to rest atop the burial site. It was a statue of Thane Cullen, a sword pointed downwards between his hands, his stone gaze cast up to the skies. Whoever chiseled the statue knew the man's likeness well, Damon thought. It simply looked as if they painted Cullen grey and stood him up there.

Once the statue was in place, the druid scattered blue winter rose petals and silver coins at Thane Cullen's stone feet. He turned to the crowd and held up both his hands. "It is done," he said with a mighty voice.

Thane Keiser raised his fist. "Let the mead flow!" he shouted. The crowd roared with approval, and took to the mead caskets like famished men would take to a roasted pig. A cheery music broke out amongst the strings and flutes of the band, and the crowd took to dancing. The smell of flowing mead and roasted meat was in the air, and laughter and music filled the hall.

Damon had only been to one funeral that wasn't a Farren funeral. His wife's brother, a Jordein man, passed away from a fever two or so years ago. The event was a dull affair. There was no music, no mead, no dancing, only the sound and smell of a cackling fire consuming the dead man's corpse. Damon had been bored near to tears, and left with his wife as soon as the corpse turned to ash. The Jordeins took death far too seriously, with their fire and black garments. Death was the end of one life, but also the beginning of another, and that's what the north celebrated. Thane Cullen died fighting a great bear, and the northern Gods would surely bless him with a large mead hall and beautiful spirit maidens.

Damon left the company of his thanes and went to his wife, Lara. She was with his daughter, Anette, his little girl with the same fiery red hair he sported. She jumped up and gave him a big hug.

"How's my little girl?" he asked with a warm smile. He hadn't seen her in nearly half a moon, the Thanes hunting trips and meetings taking him away from his family. She giggled, and pulled at his red beard. Damon laughed, and ruffled her hair. He set her down and gave his wife a kiss. "How are you, my lady?"

Lara smiled weakly. "I'm well, Damon." Her body betrayed her words. Her eyes hung low to the ground and her hands were clasped at her waist. There was something bothering her, Damon could see it. He knew his wife, and he knew her well. "What's wrong, Lara?"

Lara sighed, and gave him a look. "I've heard talk, amongst the wives of the Thanes. They say you're-"

"Thane Greyhart!" Shouted Thane Uthor from behind him. He gave him a mighty pat on the shoulder, and brought him in close for half of a hug. "You ginger bastard! How are you?"

If Perrin Uthor hadn't interrupted his lady, Damon might have returned his friendliness, but since he had interrupted his lady in the middle of her speech, he would have to teach Perrin Uthor manners. Damon gripped Uthor's shoulder tightly, and the drunk thane's sloppy smile faded away. "You interrupted my wife, Perrin. I hope it was for an important reason."

Uthor shrugged off Damon's grip, and what was once a smile was now a scowl. "Oh, piss off, I was only saying hello." He looked to Lady Lara, whom didn't have near as mean a face as her husband, Damon. "Apologies, Lady Greyhart. I meant no disrespect." He looked back to Damon. "I did have more to say than just hello. Whitelocke and the Prince want you."

Uthor pointed with his thumb behind him to the two men, silently conversing in the corner of the hall. They both looked serious, and Damon could tell whatever they were discussing was more suited for a Meeting of the Twelve rather than a funeral.

Damon sighed. He looked to his wife. "I will speak with you later, Lara. Best not to keep the Prince waiting."

Lara nodded her head, and led her daughter away. Damon smiled at her when she turned her head to wave goodbye to him, and he gave her a small wave back.

The Prince looked up from his conversations when Damon came close. "Lord Greyhart," he said with a warmth to his words. "It is good to see you again friend."

Damon nodded and shook the Princes hand. "You as well, Prince Agner."

Agner looked over to the mighty stone statue of Thane Cullen, his eyes filled with remorse. "I heard you fought the bear that took Fredric from us. It is fortunate you did not meet the same fate."

Damon nodded. "Both Thane Greer and I were there with him. She was the one that ended the bear. She saved my life."

Agner nodded his head. "So I've heard. There were doubts about Alda Greer when she took up her thanehood. Her father was a valiant man, I've never known a fighter as fierce as Jasper. To hear his heir was a young woman, well...as I said, there were doubts."

Nolan entered the conversation like the quiet and gentle wind of a winter's evening. "Misplaced doubts. What a person has between their legs does not mean they are less capable than others."

Agners lips twitched, like he holding in an argument. "I suppose so, Lord Whitelocke."

Damon cleared his throat. "I was told you wanted to see me?"

Agner lips stopped twitching. "Yes, yes we did. We've news for you. For all the thanes."

Damon felt eagerness fill his stomach. Or was it nerves? He wasn't sure, but he did feel something strange brew within him. "What is it, your grace?"

Agner looked to Nolan, who nodded his head. He looked back to Damom with the eyes of a commander. "You're to assume leading the Thanes in defending the homeland. The rest will sail south with Lord Whitelocke."

"South?" There was a hint of loathing to the word as it left his lips.

Nolan nodded his head slowly. "You, Thane Greer, Thane Uthor, Thane Mayfield and Thane Braddock will remain in Farrenhelm. The rest will call their banners and sail south. We mean to storm Valdor and tear down that blue flag ourselves."

"Thane Cullen did say you were to lead the campaign."

Damon could see a spark of excitement in Nolan's eyes as he nodded. "I will, with my brother Edgar Whitelocke serving as my second."

Damon knew Edgar Whitelocke. He was much unlike his brother in nearly every way, warm rather than cold, filled with blood rather than ice. "Edgar Whitelocke is a fine warrior."

Nolan nodded. "It's good you think so. You'll see to training his son Eden in the ways of Thanehood in his absence."

After Damon comprehended the words, and what they meant, he nodded. "I'd be honored."

Nolan returned his nod. "Good."

"And what of Thane Cullens banners? His boys are too young to take up Thanehood."

Nolan nodded. "Yes, they are. Eden will command his banners until William Cullen comes of age. He is ready to learn the ways of thanehood, and you'll be the one to teach until we return from the south."

"Eden is much like his father. A fine young man."

"A fine young man with much to learn," said Nolan. "Good luck to you, Thane Greyhart. We leave within the fortnight."