young princess, he wondered why she would agree to a marriage that would take her so many miles from her home, especially marriage to an elderly king.
He tapped the edge of the message pouch on the table, musing, “At least I can meet these proud people before deciding.” He imagined he would most likely refuse, for he had no interest in helping them win a centuries-old war.
Rising, he walked to the bar and dropped all but the ornate pouch in front of Gibbons, along with another gold piece.
“Wudo,” he asked, “Do you think you can find the king of Kallthom for me?”
The lad trotted to him, nodding his head vigorously. “Yes,” he said enthusiastically, “yes, I find him, Mr. Björn.”
Björn wrote quickly on the back of the king’s letter, stuffed it back into the pouch and handed it to Wudo, placing two gold coins in his outstretched hand. “Find him as fast as you can, and do not get lost!”
Wudo raced up the stairs to his sleeping quarters to begin packing.
Watching Wudo charge up the stairs, Gibbons said, “I know the lad is simple, Björn, but he is a good reliable boy. He will deliver your message.” He broke into a wide grin. “So! You are going to work for a king! I promise we will treat you with the respect you deserve when you return. We will clean up this tavern and even whitewash the outside! We will have the ground in front swept clean. Wudo and I will even wear fancy uniforms!”
Björn smiled ever so slightly and slipped silently through the door without responding.
In Kallthom, King Brewster paced the floor with heavy, jerky steps. His typically florid face was redder than usual, and anger radiated from every movement of his large body. While given to fits of quick anger and sudden violence, he rarely maintained that anger. Usually, his mood was boisterous and full of humor. To him, life was to be embraced, lived, loved and enjoyed. Otherwise, what was it worth? But he did not enjoy this kind of anger, which promised to be slow in passing.
Rathe, King Brewster’s son, was alone in the opulent study with his father. Lounging in an overstuffed chair, Rathe regarded his father with love and trust, but primarily with silent laughter, somewhat as a loving, indulgent parent might look upon a beautiful spoiled child throwing a tantrum.
King Brewster crashed his huge fist down on the massive desk. “This man should have been here at least three weeks ago—where is he? His man said he would be here soon. Before he arrives, that old king in Carigo could be dead! How can Aleanna marry a corpse?” He continued his frustrated pacing.
Despite King Brewster’s behavior, his mood was more than anger it was fear. He had never been fearful in battle; on the contrary, he reveled in fighting. With his big body, incredible strength and considerable fighting skills, he had often led his men into victorious battle. But this was different; he had decisions to make, and decisions that involved the safety of his daughter frightened him. Even though he was still a powerful man, his once heavily muscled body had deteriorated somewhat with age. He feared he might not live many more years, and death seemed nearer. He had never contemplated his own death—in reality, he rarely contemplated anything. He was a man of action, not a man of thought. Now, at this time in his life, when he needed to depend on his wits, he felt unprepared.
King Brewster dearly loved his two children. He loved them more than hunting—which was his passion—and even more than battle. Their mother died when they were very young, and even though governesses, nurses, and later servants were the primary caregivers of Prince Rathe and Princess Aleanna, the three were very close. Their relationship was more as siblings than father and children. Certainly, he had spoiled them, but he devoted a great deal of time to them. Either because of—or in spite of—his parenting, both grew into fine young adults of whom he was enormously proud. His fear now was that, when his children needed him most, he would be least prepared to help them. At his age, it was even possible he might not be alive to protect them. It never occurred to him that their roles had reversed in recent years. Now it was they who looked after and protected him, usually from himself.
Smashing the table again, sending reverberations around the room, the king shouted, “Why not simply fight and be done with it as we have always done?” His coarse voice betrayed his anguish and frustration.
Rathe was taller than his father but without the bulk. He was quick-witted; both children took after their mother in that respect. Rathe assumed his father’s rare bad mood was out of concern for his sister. He soothed, “Surely he will be here soon, Father. It is a long journey. We have heard the Northlander always keeps his word.”
Only slightly soothed, but at least a decibel quieter, his father whined, “But he should be here. We should be on the road.”
Shouts from the courtyard below propelled Rathe to the window. After observing the activity for a moment, he announced with his usual calm, “I believe the Northlander has arrived.”
Despite his age, physical condition and faltering agility, King Brewster took the steps down to the courtyard two and three at a time, Rathe following at his normal quick pace. With a flushed face, the king burst breathlessly into the courtyard. The crowd gathered around the stranger and his horse immediately parted to make way for their ruler.
The Northlander watered Jago at the well, seemingly unaware of the excited crowd. With little fanfare, he turned to Brewster and said, “I am Björn, the Northlander. This is my friend Jago. You sent for me?”
The king’s red face, made redder by his race down the stairs, turned a deep shade of rose. He tried to talk, but only sputtered. The stranger before him was average height and slender, barely more than half the size of the king.
Rathe, far more perceptive than most people, saw immediately that this was no ordinary man. There was nothing overtly unique about him except his dark eyes and his charcoal gray hair. But Rathe sensed something extraordinary about him. The man seemed to radiate danger, similar to a coiled snake that is motionless but prepared to strike.
When Brewster finally recovered his voice, he shouted, “I sent for a warrior, not a boy-sized man!”
The townspeople laughed. The king moved closer until he was towering over the stranger. “Is this a trick? A joke? Well, I tell you right now that this is not funny!” He moved menacingly toward the stranger.
Rathe caught his father by the arm and halted him. “Let us hear what he has to say, Father. There is no harm in talking to him.” Rathe’s instincts told him that while his father was an extremely formidable fighter, he would be less than a match against this hawk-faced stranger with his penetrating eyes.
Björn spoke in common language, but with an unusual accent. “Southlanders frequently fail to accept me as a warrior on first sight. Do you wish me to demonstrate that I am the Northlander for whom you sent? Do you require me to prove that I am capable of doing the job you brought me here to do?”
Brewster bellowed, “And how do you think you might prove that?”
Softly, Björn asked, “Do you have a sword?”
“Of course,” snarled the king, even more loudly.
“Will you please have your sword brought forward?”
Brewster turned to his son, saying gruffly, “Rathe, get my sword.”
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