Rites of Mutual Misery

Despite being built to survive sieges, Stonegate Keep felt noticeably unprepared for the tenuous siege of civility it now faced. There was a strain in the air inside the stone walls that had nothing to do with boiling oil or catapults. Along the battlements, human soldiers stood rigidly, their gazes continually darting to the huddles of goblin fighters huddled in the courtyard below. The dark shapes of Grakka's contingent, which had taken over a corner close to the stables, stood out sharply against the human garrison's well-organized lines. Instead of interacting, they watched, their quiet broken only by low, guttural conversations and the eerie sound of metal on stone as someone sharpened an edge. When a goblin objected to a stablehand attempting to move his goat-like horse, a near-brawl had previously been avoided; only Grakka's burly second, Borg, and one of Kaelan's irate sergeants were able to quickly diffuse the situation.

In the meantime, Kaelan had to put up with the attentions of his squire, Jory, who fretted about the ceremonial silver and white tunic that Kaelan had to wear. After months of campaign steel and leather, the fabric felt ridiculously light and unusable. It was not clothing for tying oneself to a creature from the darkest recesses of the Gray March, but rather for rejoicing in victory or swearing allegiance in the King's brightly lit hall. His nerves ached with every rustling of the silky fabric. In this instance, the slaughter was symbolic, but he felt like a lamb being prepared for sacrifice. For the most part. He wished.

Grakka suffered her own form of pre-ritual agony across the courtyard. In a rare deference to the terms of the pact, Grok'nar had ordered her to wear a ceremonial armband, which was a band of rough-hewn bronze with sharp tribal inscriptions. It was a needless ornament that was hefty and unwieldy on her arm. Imagining how easy it could knock her off balance in a real fight, she pulled at it to test its weight. Borg was standing next to her, his scarred face expressionless. He rumbled, "They watch us," referring to the human warriors who were positioned along the higher walls.

"Let them watch," Grakka said, examining her cleaver's edge with her thumb for the hundredth time to make sure it was ready. "Easier to track their movements." Instead of thinking about flower arrangements, she prepared by making sure her equipment was safe and memorizing her escape routes. The upcoming ritual was slow, unpleasant, and possibly dangerous—like trudging through waist-deep mud.

The 'festivities' had been hurriedly set up in the main courtyard. There were no flowers because Grakka had implicitly forbade them, but in a forced symmetry that resembled the preparation to a duel rather than a wedding, someone had hung Kaelan's hawk banner across from the goblin fang symbol. The human side was represented by a tiny group of grim-faced officers and anxious-looking local dignitaries who huddled together like sheep anticipating wolves. Across from them, a loose, vigilant semicircle of Grakka's warriors stood, their faces displaying everything from disinterest to downright animosity.

Instead of a herald's trumpet, the event began with a startling burst of sound from the goblin side. While some warriors uttered a succession of deep, resonating chants that appeared to reverberate in the stones themselves, others started hammering their shields rhythmically with the pommels of their knives. It wasn't musical; it was savage, eerie, and made the human contingent's fangs twitch. A small, weak-tongued lord paled somewhat and staggered to his feet.

Father Michael, the elderly priest of the keep, moved forward, holding a holy sign like a shield, in an attempt to reclaim control. His voice could hardly be heard above the goblin drumming that was still present as he began a tremulous invocation for understanding and peace. Grakka looked at him, puzzled. Why did people constantly ask the air for items they ought to be taking or using for self-defense? Evidently bored, one of her warriors took out a whetstone and casually sharpened a sinister-looking skinning knife. The priest's prayers were interrupted by the shink-shink sound, which sent further waves of fear through the human onlookers.

Feeling the weight of hundreds of hostile stares, Kaelan stepped into the appointed position in the middle of the courtyard. A moment later, Grakka joined him, walking purposefully, the bronze armband gleaming in the drab light. A study in contrasts, they stood side by side: her rough pragmatism next to his polished formality, scarred leather next to his silver tunic, and unmasked impatience next to his false composure. The distance between them brimmed with hostility and the stark, surreal truth of their predicament.

First to speak, Kaelan recited the oath that King Theodan had prescribed. "In the name of King Theodan the Third and the Kingdom of Aeridor, I, Kaelan of Whitespire, hereby certify my allegiance to the goblin tribes, as represented by Chief Grok'nar. I promise to defend this union, to keep the peace between our peoples, and to oppose anyone who tries to violate this agreement." The words seemed like borrowed garments, but his voice was firm and resonant.

Grakka was next in line. She asserted rather than recited. "I am Grakka, daughter of Grok'nar." She purposefully and non-threateningly pulled her cleaver, holding it flat. "My word is sworn on iron." She pounded her hand against the flat of the heavy blade. "The peace is maintained by our tribe. The iron will respond if you break it. She clicked decisively to sheath the weapon. No pretentious words, no assurances of safety. A straightforward assertion of reality and its implications. A number of people let out audible gasps.

Scurrying forward with ribbons for a customary handfasting, Father Michael appeared pale. Grakka examined the colorful textile strips like poisonous snakes. With a gesture of resigned assent, Kaelan held out his hand palm up. Reluctantly, Grakka offered hers. Her hand was shockingly powerful, rough, and calloused. With a critical frown, Grakka tested the ribbon's strength by experimentally tugging at it while the priest struggled with the knots. Kaelan held back a sigh.

As agreed upon in their brief conversations, the goblin's contribution to the binding came next. Borg walked forward, carrying a crude clay cup that held a smelly, murky liquid that smelled actively hostile and vaguely fermented. First he offered it to Grakka. Her face remained the same as she swallowed deeply and without hesitation. Borg then handed Kaelan the cup. Everyone was watching him. It seemed unimaginable to refuse. Kaelan accepted the cup and steeled himself. Just the fragrance was an attack. He swallowed quickly and shallowly. It tasted like battery acid, remorse, and swamp water. His eyes were watering, but he tried not to show it as he handed the cup back with a small nod. A glimmer of something—surprise, reluctant respect, perhaps—was visible in Grakka's dark eyes as she regarded him, but then her typical stony mask came back. He hadn't spat it out or choked it. In this theater of the bizarre, a slight triumph.

A disturbance broke out close to the courtyard's edge when Father Michael trembled and declared them formally bound by the provisions of the pact. One of the human lords possessed a big hunting dog that seemed to have taken offense at the scent of a goblin warrior and charged forward, barking loudly. In an instant, the goblin snarled back at the dog and pulled out a knife. Both sides let out shouts. Warriors' hands flew to their weapons as they tightened. For a tense moment, the tenuous calm was on the verge of total collapse.

Instinctively, Kaelan stepped forward. "Hold!" Years of combat experience had sharpened his command voice, which broke through the din. At the same time, Grakka gave a stern command in her own language. Reluctantly, the goblin warrior dropped his weapon, but he kept glaring daggers at the offending hound, which its agitated owner swiftly dragged away. Although the immediate danger resolved, there was still a lot of mistrust and adrenaline in the courtyard.

For a brief while, the necessity to avert catastrophe brought Kaelan and Grakka closer together than before. A quick glance between them acknowledged the powder keg they were sitting on. The chasm reopened after the moment had gone.

They were wed. Restricted by ribbon, dubious liquid, and the fervent aspirations of their individual leaders. The ceremony was over, a jumbled patchwork of goblin pragmatism and human tradition that didn't fit together. Kaelan glanced at the somber faces all around them, then at the goblin warrior who was now legally bound to them. Peace did not begin with this. Under one roof, it seemed more like the formal start of hostilities. Next came the treaty-mandated feast for celebration. It seemed to Kaelan that the lizard had only served as an appetizer.