What Must Be Paid

Later that evening, at Atalla’s home

It was agreed they would wait until morning before journeying back to Leoham. Atalla invited Lothar and his party to stay the night—on the condition that Lothar fix the hole he had made in her roof. Later, they assembled in the dining area for supper. What was on the menu, however, raised a few eyebrows.

“Rat?” Amaric observed, staring at his bowl with a pensive expression.

“Aye,” Atalla affirmed, scooping a serving for the others. “Rascha makes a fine rat stew. You’ve never had?”

Amaric said nothing more, but his expression spoke for the others who felt much the same. Lothar breathed deep through his nose and, in one fluid motion, took a spoonful of the stew and shoveled it into his mouth.

To his surprise, the initial taste wasn’t foul. Rather, it was savory and deep—the flavor earthy, nutty, with an iron edge. Not unlike liver or dark chicken. The strands of meat held to the broth, which was spicy but not unpleasant. Carrots, potatoes, celery, and dumplings all added to the medley of flavors, making for a well-rounded stew.

Seeing Lothar not immediately spew spurred the others to give it a try, each widening their eyes in revelation.

“My compliments,” Lothar declared to Rascha. “You make a fine cook.”

She blushed and twirled a finger in her short black hair. “Thank you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lothar noted Mira wrinkling her nose at the exchange. Luckily, Atalla interceded with conversation.

“As I was saying before, in the bath,” she began, pointing her spoon at Lothar, “there was hearsay that the chieftain of the Rohwen had a human son. I took that to mean you were a half-breed, but clearly I was mistaken. You definitely have the look of Kardia about you.”

She slurped her soup, then asked, “Do you know what ails your father?”

Lothar shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Though it did not happen suddenly, the worst of it appeared only two years ago. I have never seen someone degrade so fast.”

Atalla inquired about the symptoms, tapping her tongue with her spoon as she listened. When Lothar finished, she fell silent for a time, then spoke.

“It is a curious disease that afflicts him, and I think I know what it is,” she announced. “The clinical name is the length of my sodding arm, but the layman’s term is Brain-Blight. It degrades the mind’s ability to communicate with the body—eventually leading to death. Fortunately for your father, it can be cured.”

Relief crashed over Lothar like a wave. “I am in your debt.”

“Yes, yes, you are,” she smirked. “Partial as I am to trust your word, I did not get this old by being naïve. What will you trade for my services?”

“I don’t know.” Lothar glanced into his coin purse, which contained nothing but air. “I have no coin to pay you.”

“What about that medallion around your neck?”

Lothar reached down to regard the boar emblem, recalling the day his mother had given it to him—commemorating his first victory in battle, when a rival clan, the Hadrath, had bestowed upon him the name Boarheart.

No price was too high for his father’s cure. With a sharp tug, he removed it from his neck and handed it over.

“Much obliged,” Atalla remarked, regarding the piece for a moment before pocketing it. “Anyone for a drink?”

Cragath was quick to answer. “What have you got?”

Atalla grinned. “My own special brew—guaranteed to blow the hair right off your arse!”

Lothar had heard stories of goblin spirits, renowned for their potency. Stricken curious, he figured a cup or two wouldn’t hurt.

***

Meanwhile, in the keep of Leoham

Karga peered out the window as she stood in the corridor outside her bedchamber. Baldomar still lay asleep within, under Brithun’s watchful eye. Since the attack, her handmaids refused to leave her alone, remaining close and fully armed.

Her brother, Odotho, arrived, and the two embraced.

“How are you feeling, sister?”

“Better,” Karga answered honestly. “High Shaman Farno has been a great help. I will not let that ordeal rule over me.”

“That is good.”

“But…” She paused, wondering if what she was about to say truly made sense. “Something troubles me.”

“Tell me, Karga. Do not bear the burden yourself.”

She turned to him with a warm smile. Odotho had always been her greatest champion—her husband aside.

“I had a recollection the other day,” she explained. “Something Caerth said.”

Odotho cursed the man’s name under his breath. “I imagine he said terrible things.”

“He did, but—” She hesitated, then rallied, trusting her intuition. “I remember when I called him out for trying to kill my husband in his sleep. He laughed and said he wasn’t there for Baldomar. He was there for me.”

Odotho’s green eyes narrowed. Karga could almost hear the gears turning in his mind. If Caerth had truly meant to kill Baldomar that night, he would have. Instead, he only threatened him to subdue her—and wasted precious time to assault her.

“That is curious,” Odotho said at last.

“Which makes me wonder about Allowin,” Karga added. “He warned Lothar.”

“Allowin does have ears everywhere,” Odotho reminded her.

“And blades.”

Odotho frowned. “You’re not suggesting—”

“I am suggesting nothing, for the moment,” Karga interrupted. “Not without further scrutiny.”

The implications—if true—would lead to bloodshed.

“I will keep this to myself, then,” Odotho said. “But it may be prudent to alert Osric and Brithun. They can be trusted.”

“I will, Odotho. Rest assured.”

They spoke of other things for the remainder of his visit, but an air of uncertainty lingered.

***

Elsewhere in Leoham, at Eumer’s estate

Eumer stood in the hallway, staring into Rodolf’s empty chamber. Beside him, orange eyes appeared as Allowin whispered into his ear.

“Tell me what I have heard is the wild imagination of a drunken huscarl in your service.”

Eumer replied without turning. “And what did my man imagine?”

“That you have arranged Lothar’s assassination upon his return.”

“If you knew,” Eumer breathed, “what I know, you would have done the same.”

Allowin leaned back, caught off guard. What intelligence did Eumer possess? He pressed further.

“And what would that be?”

“Lothar is searching for healers—healers that could cure Baldomar.”

“Rumored healers,” Allowin corrected, relieved. “That permits compromising us?”

“Me,” Eumer corrected, glaring at Allowin and causing him to cower—slightly. "Compromising me."

“Of course,” Allowin bowed his head.

There was something in Eumer’s eyes that unsettled him. For the first time, Allowin felt unsure in the man’s presence.

“Something was brought to my attention recently,” Eumer said softly. “Would you like to know what that was?”

Allowin swallowed. “Of course.”

Without warning, firm hands gripped his shoulders, making him flinch.

“When Caerth was cast into the pits, one of my men saw that he was wearing something.”

Eumer held up the false ring that Allowin had planted on Rodolf’s body.

“Something he should not have been wearing. Still on his finger.”

Cold sweat broke out across Allowin’s skin. “That’s—”

“Don’t!” Eumer roared, squeezing the ring and bending it, revealing its low quality. “Don’t you dare.”

Mortal terror flooded Allowin as everything began to unravel. Eumer leaned in close, breath hot against his face.

“You’ll die very, very slowly. I promise you. And after you’re gone…”

His eyes burned.

“…Lothar is next.”