A Gathering Storm

Twenty years later

Lothar moved carefully, his crouched steps nearly silent as he timed his advance to the wind swaying the tall grass around him. To each flank were the huscarls of his warband—a full century—among them his sworn brother, Amaric, who steadied the others in preparation for their attack. A little afore, limpid, gelatinous masses rested in a field, the largest pulsing obscenely as it digested the melting corpse trapped within its acidic bowels.

Lothar looked to Amaric, exchanging a nod before striking flint against the spear in his hand. Sparks danced along the blade—soaked in pitch—coming alight in an instant, his action mirrored by the others. Standing, he cast the spear into the massive slurry, igniting the creature and causing it to erupt into a great column of flame. Several volleys soon followed, many finding their mark. Thereafter, the warriors drew torches and the melee began.

Those slimes that remained oozed toward the advancing line, viscid tendrils reaching out only to be burned in response. Using their shields to brace themselves against the slimes’ paralyzing touch, the warriors thrust torches into the masses of their adversaries, inducing incineration.

The battle was over within a quarter of an hour. Three warriors were wounded—one would make a full recovery, the other two would lose a leg.

Lothar stood over the remains of the largest slime and retrieved his spear, gazing down at the partially digested body. It had once been an orc—a thrall farmhand, unaware of the danger until it was too late. Slimes were silent killers, rarely seen outside their spawning grounds, yet this one—large and well fed—had wandered onto the farm beneath the shadow of Leoham with a legion of its lesser kin in tow.

The warriors gathered around him—tired but high-spirited—awaiting the command of their thegn. No one spoke. No one questioned. The title had been earned.

He stood tall, strong, statuesque—his handsome face framed by an umber mane that reached his shoulders. Tunic, hauberk, and cuirass barely contained the muscles beneath, promising undeniable force.

Amaric approached and thumped his chest in salute. “That’s all of them, brother.”

“Well fought!” Lothar shouted so the others could hear. “Form column—we head for home!”

After receiving the farmer’s thanks—tempered by grief for the thrall he had lost—Lothar gave the order to march. The warriors fell in behind him as they made their way back toward Leoham.

Amaric walked at his side, nodding back toward the distant farm.

“I don’t like this, Lothar. Two days ago we were fighting shucks harrying trade wagons. Barely a week past, draugr laid waste to a village. Now there are fucking slimes eating thralls and crops?”

“Something is wrong,” Lothar agreed. “I can’t recall a time when such creatures were this bold.”

“Makes me wonder about what the shamans said,” Amaric muttered. “Ancestors warning us of evil. Maybe we’ve been hexed.”

“I don’t know,” Lothar admitted. “But something is driving them into our lands, and we must stop it before more of our folk die.”

Amaric cursed under his breath. The threats they faced were no longer merely rival clans, but horrors both natural and arcane. As his thoughts wandered, another concern pressed forward.

“How fares our headman?” he asked.

“Not well,” Lothar said quietly. “His heart weakens. I fear the question will be put to the Witan sooner than he would have wished.”

“You’re the obvious choice.”

Lothar raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? There are many who would disagree.”

“Because you’re human?” Amaric scoffed, tapping his chest. “That doesn’t matter. You’ve the heart and the gast.”

“So you say,” Lothar replied. “But one of those backbiters is my uncle.”

Eumer—younger brother to Baldomar and among the fiercest opponents of Lothar’s succession. His hostility was not born of blood alone. He believed Lothar to be of Kardian origin and feared he would drag the clan into the Empire’s grasp, shackled to his trueborn kin—a belief that rallied others to his cause.

“Eumer is a drit-eater,” Amaric spat. “Your father should’ve killed him years ago.”

Lothar said nothing. Though he trusted his father’s judgment, he could not deny the truth—this would end in violence. Yet he could not stand openly against Baldomar, not without inviting ruin. Orcish law favored the chief’s son, but it did not demand it. To appear power-hungry before the Witan would doom him.

So he bit his tongue and whispered a prayer to gods and ancestors alike—wondering, as he often did, whether they listened at all.

***

Meanwhile, within the keep of Leoham

“Gah!” Baldomar gasped, clutching his chest as he staggered against a stone wall. His breath came ragged, sweat streaming down his weathered green face. His heart thundered like a war drum, each beat a painful blow that threatened to tear him apart.

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until the agony ebbed.

The keep that served as both his home and the seat of Rohwen governance stood at the center of Leoham, atop a great motte overlooking the bailey. Built of stone and timber, roofed with thatch and wood, it concealed hidden passageways known only to a trusted few—paths Baldomar now used more often to avoid prying eyes.

He emerged into the council chamber, where the Witan awaited. A long oak table dominated the room, tapestries of clan history lining the walls. A hearth burned at the far end, its crackle the only sound as Eumer rose to face his brother.

They studied one another in silence—alike in build and piercing blue eyes, yet sharply different in bearing. Baldomar’s hair hung long, his beard full. Eumer wore his cropped short, his face bare.

At last, Eumer inclined his head. Baldomar returned the gesture.

“We were worried,” Eumer said. “It’s not like you to be late.”

“I was delayed,” Baldomar replied. “A matter with the servants.”

Eumer’s eyes searched his, unconvinced.

Baldomar took his seat. “Shall we begin?”

The scribe rose, and the council commenced. Old matters were addressed, then new—recruitment to counter the growing threats across Rohwen land. This passed without dispute. Tension returned when Eumer rose once more.

“The matter of succession.”

A hush fell over the murmurs.

“Your health fails, headman,” Eumer continued. “Stability demands you step aside.”

Osric snarled. “And I suppose you’d name yourself?”

“As he should,” Allowin interjected. “Who else is worthy?”

“My son,” Baldomar growled.

“Your son?” Eumer laughed. “That mongrel is no kin!”

“You forget yourself!” Baldomar roared.

“No—it is you who forgets!” Eumer slammed his fist on the table. “You would hand this clan to an outsider!”

“Lothar is my son!”

“He is not!” Eumer shouted. “Curse the day you did not set aside that failure of a woman and sire a true—”

Baldomar’s fist struck like lightning.

Eumer crumpled as the chamber erupted. Thegns and their attending huscarls surged forward, shouting—then Baldomar staggered, wheezing, collapsing into his chair.

Brithun was on him in moments. “Send for a healer!”

Farno, High Shaman of the clan, drove his staff into the floor.

“Enough!”

Silence fell.

“Our headman is unwell,” Farno declared. “The Witan will reconvene in time. Until then, any further foul play—word or deed—will be punished by the gods themselves. Begone!”

The council dispersed. Osric, Brithun, and Odotho remained.

“Nithing! Fucking arseling!” Odotho spat. “To speak of my sister so!”

“This cannot stand,” Osric growled. “Give the word and I’ll challenge him.”

Baldomar could only wheeze, dread filling him.

The dam had broken.

Even if Lothar could secure the confidence of the Witan—

War within the clan was inevitable.