Damon Greyhart

Maple Oak, the seat of House Greyhart, Farrenhelm

DAMON CUT THROUGH the roast on his plate as easily as one would cut through warm butter. It was pink and tender, and just a little bit of blood left in the meat to remind him that what he ate was once a living animal. The notion invoked only the smallest feeling of guilt in him, and it was far outweighed by the flavor and tenderness of the beef. Along with the roast, he was served potatoes that were mashed and generously drenched in butter and garlic, and leafy greens tossed with bits of berries and almonds. He hardly ever had his stewards prepare meals as rich and delicious as the ones they made tonight. Most nights, Damon would settle for venison stew and a horn of mead, but with the remaining Thanes dining with him in his hall tonight, he would see them well fed. Down the table was young Jaylem Mayfield, the Thane of the Snout, thin as a twig but not as likely to snap, Damon hoped. Jaylem picked at his food, but not once brought the fork to his lips. Maybe that's how he stays so thin...he simply doesn't eat...

The same couldn't be said of the man that sat next to him. Nolan's nephew, Eden Whitelocke sat to the right of Jaylem, and hadn't stopped filling his mouth with food. He didn't have much of the same look as Nolan had, Damon noticed, and took after his father Edgar. Where the Lord of Silver had silvery white hair like platinum, Eden had a mess of black and grey curls, like puffs of smoke that rose from a warm fire. Nolan's eyes weren't as blue and as inviting as Eden's were, Damon recollected. The lord of silver's eyes were like smooth lumps of coal, black and shiny, and as deep as the caves where one might find coal.

Seated to the left of Damon was Annalise Cullen, Thane Fredric Cullen's widow. She was quiet and hadn't eaten much either. Damon thought she was a pretty woman for her age, though imagined she would have looked far prettier without the sadness that lingered in her hazelnut eyes. Sitting next to her was her son, young William Cullen, a boy with only twelve years to him, mild mannered and as quiet as his mother. He had hair brown as mud, and skin as pale as milk. He was a skinny young boy, and it was a pleasant sight to see him clean his dinner plate as he had, his mother said not too long ago. Eden made a show of tearing away the last bit of meat that clung to a leg of mutton, like he were a rabid dog, and that made young William Cullen laugh.

Seated further down the table on both sides were those he was more familiar with, all of them Thanes of the Twelve, save those who had sailed their banners south with Nolan Whitelocke. Thane Perrin Uthor was gulping down more mead than his liver was likely to handle. He told everyone that he was drinking for two now, as Thane Keiser, his drinking companion, had sailed south. Next to him was Thane Arther Braddock, a strong and stoic man with a clean shaven face and a short crop of black hair. He commanded the Boulder Islands that sprung up east of the shoreline. It was seldom he left his islands, and when he did, it was only for grim matters such as war. Lastly was the shieldmaiden Alda Greer. She was on her second plate of food, and her third horn of mead. The woman likes to eat...I hope my little Annette comes to have such an appetite...

They were the only thanes that stayed in the North, to defend the homeland should invaders come rapping at the door.

After they had finished their supper, Damon raised his goblet of wine for a toast. "To our brothers who have answered the call to arms. May they taste victory. We will soon follow, brothers."

"We will soon follow, brothers," the rest of the table said. They all took sips of their wine, except for Thane Uthor, who drained his entire goblet in a manner of seconds. He would have belched as well, had he been out hunting rather than dining in Damon's dinner hall.

"Now that we've eaten, I'd have us speak of more pressing matters," said Damon. "Thane Nolan Whitelocke, alongside his brother Edgar, have led our brothers to war, and with them went the majority of our host. How many men do you each have left in your charge?"

Perrin Uthor seemed to count his fingers by the thousand, which wasn't many fingers. "I have two thousand in my charge, my Lord," he boasted. "A single man of the valley is worth three men from anywhere else!"

Damon would count his troops for two thousand rather than six. "Very good, Lord Uthor. And you, Lord Braddock?"

Arther Braddock stiffened as he was called upon. "The islands are just over a thousand and a half strong, Lord Greyhart. We're still suffering raids from the men of the Greyspear. They've grown bolder I fear. We've long defended against their raids, but as of late, it almost seems they wish to conquer the Boulder Islands."

Damon didn't like the sound of that. The people of Greyspear were unkind and unforgiving, pillagers and raiders who've long plagued the northernmost lands of the north. They were once part of the Kingdom of Farrenhelm, near a hundred years ago, until their ruling Thane declared them an independent region, and the thirteen became the twelve. Why he did, no one knew, but that didn't stop the stories from being made. Some said the mists and fog that shrouded the land had turned him mad, some said he wanted himself to be a king, and some said he had fallen in love with a witch who wanted the island for herself. Most attempts to retake Greyspear and learn the truth had proven fruitless. If the Boulder Islands were to fall to them, the northeastern coastlands would go largely undefended. "I'll spare you a few hundred of my own men to help fortify the islands. See to it that you sink those longships of theirs."

Arther Braddock nodded his head. "Nothing would give me more pleasure, my Lord."

Damon would discuss Greyspear more with him later. He set his eyes upon Jaylem. "And you, Thane Mayfield?"

Jaylem was almost too embarrassed to admit his meager numbers. "The Snout commands seven hundred and twenty men, Lord Greyhart."

Damon didn't relish in Jaylem's embarrassment. "That's seven hundred and twenty more men we'd have than if we didn't have the Snout." He turned his attention to Fredric Cullen's widow. "How many men make up the banners of the Midlands, my Lady?" He could see in her face that the talks of bannermen and thanehood interested her little. Regardless, she kept a high chin and said with a shred of pride "Near five thousand, my Lord."

Damon was pleased to hear of the strength of the Midlands, though it surprised him little. It was known amongst the thanes that the Cullens and the Whitelockes made up the greater portion of Farrenhelms army. "And you're comfortable allowing Eden Whitelocke to take command of your bannermen until young William here comes of age?" Nolan had commanded as much, but did so without the consent of Annalise. Damon would offer her that at least.

Annalise nodded. "It would honor us greatly to welcome Lord Eden to the Midlands, especially with the rumors of the Northbound returning."

Damon felt fire blaze in his eyes at the mention of the mercenary group known as the Northbound. He had little love for men who'd sell their swords for gold. Damon preferred to buy his men with honor and loyalty. They were less likely to stab you in the back if someone had paid them more. "Last I've heard, they were scattered in Jorden after following the Oathbreaker into defeat at the hands of Joras Freemane."

"I fear they've regrouped, my Lord," said Annalise Cullen.

"So it seems...I'm sure Lord Eden will deal with them appropriately should they provoke him." He raised his head and looked towards Jaylem. "And so will Thane Mayfield."

That caught Jaylem's attention. He'd only been half listening at that point. "The Snout is quite a ways away from the Midlands, my Lord."

Damon nodded. "I'm sure someone in your house can see to the affairs of the Snout in your absence. I want you with Lord Eden in the Midlands, learning how to command and how to lead. You'll learn little enough of that holed up in the Snout. I'm sure your seven hundred men will get along fine without you."

"Seven hundred and twenty," said Jaylem. He felt Eden's gaze cast upon him, but when he turned to meet his eyes, the young Whitelocke glanced away quickly, and there was only the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. That struck Jaylem as odd, though he supposed there were worse men to accompany than handsome young Eden. "Very well, my Lord. Your wish is my command."

"Thank you, Thane Mayfield," said Damon. "See to it that the Northbound are wiped from the land. And you, Thane Greer?"

Alda finished lapping up the last bit of mead in her horn and said "Two and a half thousand, my Lord, all fightin' men."

"The best kind," said Perrin Uthor with a mighty laugh.

"Indeed," Damon agreed. "Ensure all of your men are well equipped and well trained. Should the Jordeins or the Arnish storm our borders, it'd be best to meet them with bold warriors rather than green boys."

"The Arnish?" asked Thane Braddock. "I thought the Arnish had raised a flag of crimson."

Damon nodded. "Aye they have, but they haven't sought an alliance with us nor have they declared war on the blue flags. With more than half of our fighting force down south, Farrenhelm is as vulnerable as it's ever been. It's best to err on the side of caution."

To that, they all agreed. Thane Uthor excused himself from the table to use the privy, Lady Cullen left with young William when he reminded her of the promise she made that he could practice his swordsmanship with their bannermen after supper. Jaylem and Eden left the dinner table and were talking about something Damon couldn't hear. Whatever they were talking about made Jaylem blush as if he were a maid, and that made Damon roll his eyes. He liked the young Mayfield boy enough, but he certainly hoped his time spent in the Midlands would harden him up. All who remained at the table were Arther Braddock and Alda Greer. Arther finished the last of his supper and Alda snored gently at the table after drinking her fifth horn of mead. "Lord Braddock?" Damon called out.

"Yes, Lord Greyhart?"

"Would you join me for a drink in my quarters? I wish to speak more of Greyspear."

Arther nodded. "Gladly, Lord Greyhart."

His stewards had made a warm fire for him in his chambers, and there were horns of warm honeyed mead waiting for them. Damon sat, and gestured for Arther to do the same. The mead was too sweet for his liking, but he would scold his stewards later. He wanted to learn more of Greyspear before Lord Braddock returned to his islands.

"Tell me more about the raids," Damon asked.

Arther obliged him. "They were common enough before, maybe two or three a moon if we were lucky, but now they're far more frequent. There now seems to be two a week. Something has made the greymen aggressive, something within the past moon or two. I don't like it."

Damon didn't like it either. He knew what the greymen were like, what they were capable of. He lived in fear of them when he was a boy, when he called the coasts his home rather than the Woodlands. The greymen would abduct young boys for their stews and wear their bones for armor, or so the old crones would say. Others would only name them raiders and savages, but Damon wouldn't put dining on young boys past them. "What has made them more aggressive? What stirs their blood so?"

Arther shook his head. "I don't know, but it troubles me. Greyspear is an unholy place, grim and godless. Some say the war has made them bold, knowing Farrenhelm is without much of its fighting force. Some say it may be their crops are dying." He paused, and there was something else he wanted to say, Damon could see. Something that troubled him more than the war or dying crops. "And some say...some say it's the witch."

The witch, Damon heard echo in his mind, as if it were a cave. Even the mere thought of the Witch of Greyspear sent shivers through his bones. When he was a child, he would sit for hours listening to stories of her, of her drinking the blood of goats and sacrificing babes to her pagan gods. They are just stories meant to frighten children from wading too far out from the shore, Damon told himself. "The witch? We're not children anymore, Arther. I'm sure one of your other explanations holds more truth."

Arther nodded, but his eyes were still unconvinced. "Perhaps, Damon. It is still troubling news...and the stories spread like wildfire. Not a day goes by on the islands that I don't hear talk of the witch. These are troubling times, Lord Greyhart. With the talk of the elves returning...I fear there may be truth to the matters of the witch."

Damon had almost forgotten about the elves. "Perhaps so...when do you return to the island, Lord Braddock?"

"As soon as you permit me, my lord."

Damon stroked his fiery beard. "You may leave on the morrow...and I shall come with you. If I'm to spare you a few hundred of my troops, I wish to see the state of the islands myself. I assure you, Lord Braddock, that we will deal with the greymen, and we will put to rest these rumors of the witch. On that you have my word."

That seemed to take Arther by surprise, but he bowed his head and said, "Thank you, my lord."

Damon grunted his welcome, and still had his fingers tangled in his beard. His thoughts raced through his mind, but nothing stayed but for one; thoughts of the witch. We shall see if these rumors are true...and if they are...then Gods save us...