"Now do you understand how we have been the pawns of the monster we failed to destroy?"

The assembled clan leaders remained silent as the leader of the Warborn Clans finished relaying the stories from two unlikely sources. The man who spoke had grown older since he had first taken up the reins, but his garb was much the same as it was back then. The head of a polar bear cleaned out to decorate his spectacled nasal helm, decorated now with gold rather than the brass it used to be. And for good measure, draped over his left shoulder was what remained of that bear's pelt, hacked away over the years. And the man himself wore his braided dark brown beard with teal bands to hold it together, various leatherworks covering a hulking frame of mail-protected fat and muscle.

He was Stigandr, Jarl of the Warborn Clan and de facto ruler of Valkenheim much as Gudmundr once was. Though that legacy was not an easy shield to take up, both were Warlords, warriors who earned their place by traditions as ancient as stone. For a decade now he had led them, ever since his release from a dungeon cell in the mountains northwest of where they now met. Warlords were often the leaders of their people, for they were meant to be protectors, and the two duties went hand in hand.

But that also meant that in times like this, he had to protect them from themselves.

That was the burden that Stigandr now faced as he looked to the assembled jarls and chieftains of the various clans that made up the Warborn. They met in a great hall, one rebuilt as a new gathering place of the clans. The shields and tapestries that covered the walls portrayed the history of the place - from its founding, to becoming the hall of the Jarl of Wolves, to how it burned as the herald of the edge of extinction in Valkenheim. Ironic, that they assembled so he could tell them what he had learned of that herald from their enemies.

The assembled leaders were a mix of faces he was long familiar with from shared battles, others newcomers from distant shores such as their brethren across the seas or a chieftain from mist-shrouded highlands. Others were much closer to him, such as the Raider that spoke up to finally break the silence as they processed his question.

"So what would you have us do, Jarl?" the living legend asked, tilting his helmeted head.

The long horns of his helmet were an iconic sight these days, even if they had been cleaned of enemy blood for this meeting. He wore no armor, even the bits of leather he wore like shoulder pads or his pants were not really passable as such. After all, leather was easily pierced. He had gained many tattoos since Stigandr had first met him, Thor's hammer flanked by wings on his chest accompanied now by countless more scars and mementos of the numerous battles since.

He may have appeared leaner than Stigandr, but he was no less strong - perhaps the opposite, even. Snorri Sindrison was no mere Raider, already a legend, but he was known as The Great Raider for his role in, well, the Great Raid. A tragic lack of imagination for such a great warrior's epithet.

"What I would have us do," Stigandr explained as he turned in place to face his old comrade, having stepped into the middle of the hall so all could easily see him, "is to accept this offer to talk. To receive an offer in good faith in kind. Perhaps there will be no peace, perhaps the wars shall degrade to skirmishes between clan or house, but they have had to overcome great hatred to make this offer. I would respect that, even if nothing comes of it."

"Hah!" one jarl snorted as she threw down an empty mead horn. "Easy for that whore the knights call a 'Lord-Warden'," she made a point of babying her pronunciation of the title, "to talk to us about peace. Wolfsbane never saw her children starve to death!"

"Hear hear!"

"And Wolfsbane was the one who starved us!"

"Who is she to demand peace of us, Valkenheim's proud sons and daughters?!"

"She speaks the truth!"

"Why should we make peace with weaklings?!"

The outcry subsided and Stigandr felt himself inhaling. Yes, that had been one hiccup that he, Cross, and Ayu had discussed before returning home. The role of the new Lord-Warden in the destruction of Sverngard, and how it was not going to be accepted by the knights that she die as part of any treaty - no more than the Warborn would deliver Snorri's head to the Dawn Empire.

"And the samurai," Stigandr retorted as eyes fell on him, "Did we not sack their greatest city without provocation? Did we not burn, rape, and pillage our way through their lands over them having a good year?"

"At your order!" the Raider called out, resting a hand on his knee as he pointed with the other. "You were the one that set us on the path to the Great Raid!"

"I did," the Warlord admitted as he knew he weakened his case, but maybe he could limit how weakened it was. "And at the time, we knew what we needed. Food, resources. Throwing ourselves at the Blackstone Legion would only see us destroyed in our ascendance. I thought to outwit Apollyon, but we only became her minions."

"So are we to take responsibility for her atrocities, while ignoring the Legions' countless crimes against us?" demanded another woman and Stigandr felt his gut chill somewhat. Though she was not wearing her winged helm, they all recognized Runa. Though no clan leader, she was the current speaker for her sisters-in-oath in this assembly of clans.

"Only as far as they will forgive our deeds against them," he answered firmly. "Come, we are no cowards. We can take responsibility for being pawns without losing our pride in what we achieved!"

"And this Lord-Warden, does she take responsibility? Does her pawn of a Lawbringer take responsibility for their role in our starvation?"

Stigandr turned towards the Raider. "Yes, they do. It was the Sacking of Sverngard that led the Wolfsbane to abandon her oaths to Apollyon, Snorri."

The Raider leaned forward, frowning as his braided black beard with an iron ring at the end bounced against his stomach. "And do you remember the oath I swore, old friend?"

"How could I not? I was there when you swore it."

He nodded. "That oath stands, Stigandr. No matter the epithet she is known by - the Sword of Harrowgate, Wolfsbane, Lord-Warden, it matters not: I will defeat her. And when she lies broken before me, she will be spared and brought to Valkenheim. To live just long enough to be hanged in offering to the gods, forever proving our supremacy. That oath I swore, and that oath I will keep or die in the attempt."

The hall fell silent. That oath was well known, and despite multiple attempts to uphold it he never succeeded. In victory and defeat alike, both hunter and hunted survived their encounters just as one particularly persistent Orochi never managed to land a deathblow on the Raider for his role in Koto's sacking. And it was one oath that Stigandr had feared most when he considered the possibility of his people no longer having to lose their kin in these wars: Snorri would never break that oath.

But that did not mean the rest of the clans would support him in continuing to pursue it.

"No one doubts your commitment, brother," Stigandr finally said. "We all shared your grief in the loss of Gudmundr, and we have made the legions howl for it. All of them, from the new Iron Legion in Ashfeld, to the Faustians on the Ice Coast, all the way west to the Grail Legion. No one can say that you have been negligent in your oath. Those that do should be shamed for their ignorance!"

"Yet if we yield here, we as good as forget the slaughter she carried out. She and her entire damned inner circle - including the man you met!"

The hall murmured again in assent, though no shouts came as they respected the argument between the two brothers in arms. Even Runa, who had every right to intervene, held her tongue for now.

"And what of the samurai?" Stigandr asked as he looked back. "Should they take their justice on us for our role in the Great Raid?"

"If we must have peace, pay them a wergild," Snorri snorted as he waved a hand.

"So why can the legions not pay the same, since we rightly refuse to let Sverngard be forgotten?"

"This is different, and you damn well know it! Apollyon brought us to the brink of extinction! She left us murdering each other for scraps like starved dogs in a pit!"

"And were the samurai much different, with the loss of Koto and their civil war?" Stigandr asked as he looked across the hall. "If we were all killed, right now, how many of your kin would die in the ensuing fighting?"

They all shifted in their seats, the jarls looking uncomfortable as they looked to their kin who accompanied them, the sons and daughters gaining experience before they might take on the mantle of leading their clans. A fear that was all too real as no one in the room had been too young to not remember the year after Apollyon came, and all but a very select few of them had lost kin to another in the room during the fratricidal fighting over what food remained. Stigandr pressed that point forward.

"We are all tired of seeing our loved ones sent to Valhalla before their time," he continued. "We would all face it gladly, but for what do we fight anymore? Every grudge we settle sees them take their own vengeance, and so we must avenge it in turn. The very feuds that this assembly sits to resolve, on an even greater scale."

"Yet we should not carry them out against each other," Snorri countered as he seemed to sense the swaying in the assembly. "To see Warborn slaughter each other over scraps is a disgrace Apollyon forced upon us. We rose above it, we reclaimed the gods' favor and the strength to take from the weaklings what is rightfully ours!"

The Great Raider rose, stepping forward as he looked to them all. "We are feared, warriors! The knights shiver in the tin shit they call armor, fearing that for all their vaunted technology we desecrate their lone god's temples with impunity! The samurai, weak as ever, know that in a generation or two they will be extinct! And unlike Apollyon, we will bring them to their extinction as true warriors, rather than hiding behind famine!"

"So, you want war. Only war." Stigandr asked, pointedly repeating the monster's last words that the Emperor's Champion had relayed to her empress.

"You compare your battle brother to Apollyon?!" Runa cut in suddenly, causing both men to turn and look at her as she was scowling. "Stigandr, I thought you were better than this!"

"The comparison is apt, Runa, because we all have been Apollyon's pawns - knights, samurai, and vikings alike continuing the war she started," Stigandr answered as he held his arms out. "War is our birthright, let none deny that when we are wronged. But this war has lost the meaning that makes a death in battle honorable, beyond that of entering Valhalla."

The Warlord gave it a moment to sink in before continuing. "Even today, as her lone god certainly damns her, Apollyon laughs! She laughs at us for being her pawns still, because we cannot set aside our axes!"

"And what of the next war?" the Valkyrie demanded. "When this peace inevitably breaks into war, will that be Apollyon's war as well?"

"Perhaps," the Warlord answered as he met her gaze, "but if we refuse to even try to end this war, then Apollyon wins. We remain her perfect pawns. At least by trying, we break the first links of our chains."

The hall fell silent as all the jarls digested the arguments. They had all felt the pain that the years of war had caused - they were not constant field battles where hundreds of men and women lay dead every day, but they had all felt the pressure of the unending conflict. The Warborn, for their part, had always sustained their losses thanks to large families. Apollyon had cut that out from under them, but they still had their kin overseas. That did not change the fact that countless parents buried their children and vice versa, and the strain it caused on all of them.

But was peace the answer? As far as Stigandr was concerned, yes it was: Valkenheim had recovered with the loot gained in war, but its families suffered. Would the next generation be strong enough to continue their legacy, or would it be winnowed out? That did not mean the rest would agree, and he knew now that the Raider was not ready for peace. And as that thought crossed the Warlord's mind, Snorri exhaled and turned to the assembly.

"We have listened for a long time," the Raider said as he looked to the various leaders. "With this assembly's agreement, I move that we adjourn the debate for now. Let us digest this knowledge as we take in the food of this year's bounty!"

The assembly agreed quickly, and soon enough servants brought in tables and they all settled down to eat, drink, and laugh. To forget the troubles for a time, and let their minds understand what had been revealed. For Stigandr, however, it was time he had to spend deciding exactly what he was going to do.

XXXXXXX

"You really believe in this peace idea, don't you?"

Stigandr glanced to his right as a familiar Berserker with a big black beard stepped towards him. He was still wearing the face plate rather than a full helmet, and as always his shirt was open enough to show off his excessive chest hair. Two hatchets were on his belt, along with a few other odds and ends like a ferret's tail. No scalps this time, fortunately… he left those at home.

"I do, Helvar," the Warlord admitted as the Berserker took his place and they looked out across the main road into Sverngard.

The city had been rebuilt after Apollyon's devastating attack, started just before the Great Raid and completed afterwards. It was rebuilt as a symbol of defiance, that the Warborn would not be broken. Yet no longer did it appear more storehouse than fortress - the merchants who once called it home had moved on. Those who returned focused their wares to that of providing an army what it needed, with precious few examples of the works of art or wonders from far off lands that used to dominate its markets.

Even though Stigandr had overseen the city's reconstruction, and sent them the materials and labor needed after taking it by force, the Warlord now had to wonder. What would Gudmundr think of what his clan's home had been turned to? Would the once-mighty Whitewolf Clan be glad to know that Sverngard was now the fortress the people of the Warborn could shelter in, or would the Jarl of Wolves chide them for living up to their name too well yet again? What would that legend say to them, if he could appear before the assembly?

"You know, I still think that you were crazy for going."

"Says the Berserker," he answered with a brief grin before shaking his head. "No, it was foolish, but you saw the lack of Iron Legion. Cross showed up alone."

"I still think there were Peacekeepers lying in wait," Helvar insisted. "I felt like someone was watching me the whole time."

"Maybe, they would want the meeting to succeed." Stigandr sighed. "I knew that peace wasn't going to go over well with the others, but I can't keep leading us into battle knowing that we are still Apollyon's pawns. That we've been her thralls ever since Sverngard's sacking."

Helvar didn't say anything after that, leaving the two to their thoughts. The Berserker might have had a very casual approach to fighting, with a knack for making a fool of himself even as he was a deadly warrior, but in many ways he was the heart of their party. The life of the feast, the laughter that kept them from crying when it got too hard. Even in the famine, he kept up high spirits as best he could - 'for the future' he would say as he tried to distract the starving children from their suffering by intentionally screwing up his tricks with his axes.

How many of those children had lived long enough to become adults, only to be cut down in the war? How many thought they had broken past Apollyon's reign of terror, survived the monster that would be synonymous with evil for generations to come, only to die as her victim still? All they had done, in glory and in rebuilding Valkenheim, suddenly felt hollow. Was Sverngard standing as the symbol of resilience, or was it but a monument to their own hubris in thinking fighting Apollyon's war would free them from her legacy?

"Would you do anything different?" he asked suddenly. "Would you launch the Great Raid, knowing what we know now?"

"Yeah, I would."

Stigandr felt himself staring.

"What? You said it yourself - we needed the resources, and the samurai had a good year."

"And it took us what, two years to build a big enough fleet?" the Warlord answered as he shook his head. "We rebuilt just fine on our own: the seed grain from our island kin was what we needed."

"To fill our bellies?" the Berserker shrugged. "Sure, but our hearts? You remember what Snorri said after Kaiyo Kabe. That the raid on the samurai would remind us who we are."

"Yes, reminded us of how to be marauders, pillagers, Raiders…" he exhaled before shaking his head, his mind drifting to his youth. "Oh to be young again, to think the world was simpler. But no, I became a Warlord. I told myself that I would raid for the betterment of my people."

"And you did," Helvar insisted as he put a hand on his shoulder. "The Great Raid was what we needed. We could finally prepare the attack on Apollyon."

Yes, it supplied for the campaign and far more, but was it needed to go after her? That question lingered in his mind, and every thought added to his doubt. Even saying that it was needed to provoke the samurai into attacking Apollyon, that was hindsight. There was no reasonable way to predict what happened, not from where they stood.

Exhaling, Stigandr changed the topic as he gently moved Helvar's hand away. "Not that it matters, we'll sort that out later. The real question is whether we even accept the attempt."

"And you want us to."

"Yes. You heard what I said about Apollyon. If we keep fighting, then she wins."

"And you compared Snorri to her," the Berserker hesitated a moment as he glanced along the road. "Was that really necessary?"

"Yes," he decided as he shook his head again, leaning against the battlements. "We have to understand that we have all been her pawns."

"And if we want to continue fighting, knowing this, we should admit it?"

The Warlord nodded, leaving the Berserker to exhale.

"I don't like the idea of being Apollyon's pawn either, but that crone has been dead for seven years."

"And we're still attacking the knights, blaming her enemies for what she did to us. Are we that petty, Helvar? Are you willing to see your daughters die in an unending blood feud, rather than for defending their homes?"

Helvar shifted, looking away with a frown. Both of them were old enough now to start raiding, and both had taken after their father. Perhaps not Berserkers, yet, but they would be in the front ranks by choice. And then there was the rest of his surprisingly large brood following that, all chomping at the bit.

"They may be willing," Stigandr seized the opportunity, "we all are, but that doesn't mean it is right for them to die in a pointless war. I'd rather my people die in a war worthy of them, not the game of some dead knight."

"As would I. But this is the war we have. The gods wrote fate to be like this."

"Or maybe they intend for us to learn, and grow stronger by rejecting the easy path. It would be easy to keep fighting." The Warlord rose to his full height. "My duty is to my people, even if it is to protect them from themselves. But if I am, I have to know: do I have your support?"

The Berserker hesitated again, looking away as he frowned. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, both hands pressed against his hatchets. But, finally, he nodded. "You do, Stig. Hel's bony tit, you actually do. I don't think it'll work, but," he hesitated again. "If you think we have to try, then let's try."

"Thank you, old friend," Stigandr answered as he put a hand on Helvar's shoulder. "Besides, dying to do this would be a tale that would last centuries!"

"Hah! There's the Warlord I know."

XXXXX

"I thought I would find you here."

Snorri turned as, half-smiling as the very well muscled woman walked up to him. "There are no finer hunters, Runa."

"Amongst mortals, yes," she shrugged as she looked up at the tree the Raider had been staring at.

It had been burned during the attack, nothing grew on it anymore, yet it still stood even as the temple within the city had been burned to the foundations by the Blackstone Legion. When the Warborn rebuilt Sverngard, Snorri had fallen asleep under the tree and dreamed of it burning, yet standing. Just as the gods had when Ragnarok came a thousand years ago, just as humanity had survived it all. What better symbol of the resilience of the Warborn and to honor their gods with than this? It was now the center of a new temple, one the Warborn put to full use in showing the supremacy of their warriors and gods alike.

"So, what do you think?" he asked as he turned. "Do you think we remain Apollyon's pawns by fighting this war?"

"Does it matter?" the Valkyrie asked back as she stepped next to him. "Blood would shed regardless, as we have a birthright to retake. Apollyon simply struck first."

"And killed the Jarl of Wolves," the Raider exhaled as he glanced towards the runestone raised to honor that great warrior. "I do not begrudge the Blackstone Legion trying to kill him first, they rightly feared him, and Mount Rust's eruption roused him from his vigil."

"But you begrudge what happened after?"

"Of course I do!" Snorri whirled around to match her gaze. "Vikings slaughtering each other over scraps, like rabid dogs in a kennel! Ragnar was one of the worst, but only because of his slaughter. Others ate their own kin, and not even out of hate! And then my clan…"

The Raider paused, inhaling and looking northwest, past the mountains. To his home. "And my clan were the worst of the lot. Enjoying the newfound position of strength we had from being the first to loot Sverngard's remains, and battering our neighbors into submission."

"Siv was not called 'the Ruthless' for nothing."

"No, she wasn't," he admitted with a faint smile as more intimate memories arose. "But she mistook our weakness for strength. When the question came, she had no hesitation in damning our neighbors to save ourselves."

Runa shrugged. "Do we not do the same to the knights and samurai, killing their weak and taking their possessions as pillage?"

"But they are the weak, in fear of us as they should be. More importantly, they are not Norse. I care for my people, and that means providing for them."

"Like the Great Raid," Runa nodded as she smiled. "Crazy enough to work, and got us what we needed."

"And now…" Snorri inhaled as he ran a hand along his beard. "And now Stigandr, of all warriors, wants us to put our weapons down. He would have us share our tables with those that feasted while we starved!"

"And we feast to celebrate taking their food."

"Are you trying to tell me I am wrong, Runa?"

The Valkyrie shook her head. "No. There will be no peace, we both know that. But we do not need to hide what we are. We are Warborn - it is in our very name. Why should we reject our nature?"

Snorri smiled, looking up at the tree and taking a deep breath. "When we fight our constant foes, there is none. But Stigandr is right about one thing, if not in the way he believes."

"Oh?"

"We have been Apollyon's pawns," he admitted despite having fumed at the comparison when it was made. "Her other words that Stigandr told us, to admit what we are?"

"She wanted us to admit we were the scavenging dogs, did she not?"

"Perhaps that was how she viewed it, being a knight," Snorri turned and felt his smile crossing his lips. "But wolves fight as a pack to survive. What are the Warborn but the greatest of such packs? Yes, we tear and savage our enemies, just as wolves would to bring down lions."

"Then we must remain united," she warned as she looked back towards the great hall where the midday feast was winding down. "Stigandr means to do right by our people, but this argument will paralyze the clans when they must be strong."

Running a hand along his beard, he realized that Runa had struck an aspect he had neglected. "How vulnerable must our enemies be to be willing to attempt this? I wonder, has the Lord-Warden truly united her people, or is that yet another lie of theirs to appear stronger than they are?"

"You think this is an attempt to buy time. To slow the fighting down so she can consolidate?"

"Maybe. I don't pretend to know or care about the schemes their courts create." Shaking his head, he turned back towards the great hall. "Come, I think we should get back to this unfortunate business."

XXXXXX

As everyone expected, the arguments went on for hours, but quickly it became clear that there was a divide. About half of their number supported either peace outright or just making the attempt, the other either outright rejected it or felt the attempt would not work. And while the pro-war faction had a slight majority, it was too slim to let that alone dictate the course of the Warborn Clans.

But one only had to listen to the arguments to hear what was happening. To hear what the Jarls said to each other to see the resurfacing rivalries and those being created.

"We Seacrows have already lost a whole generation to the legions! It is time the fighting stop!"

"Those weaklings are just trying to buy time! Let's burn Koto again, wipe the Dawn Empire off the map once and for all!"

"Peace with those fools is a lie, and they still squat on Ashfeld!"

"They have defended that claim with steel time and again, how many more must we send to their deaths?!"

"If the Fairhair Clan still wimpers from the whipping Asmodai gave them, then stay home and farm!"

"Bonerest warriors continue to raid their western shores, why should we stop raiding so Valkenheim can know peace?"

"Would you damn your Dragonfang ancestors in the process? Or is your clan merely in a guts-and-glory phase?"

"The Stormwood Clan is ready for war, do not say otherwise because we will listen to parley!"

Though all those shouts and such between clans were bad, what could have escalated it into a full scale brawl was an exchange between the Jarl of the Bonerest Clan and one of their allied leaders.

"You Highlanders only want peace because you can't stomach real war!" that Jarl shouted, his blazing red beard forked and bouncing with his shout. "After all, you cowards came crawling to us against the Skraelings!"

"Touch not this cat," the Highlander chieftain warned as he rose to his feet, cracking his knuckles. "You cannot even afford gloves."

"Why you pathetic-" The rest of the insult was cut off as that Jarl stormed forward, ungloved fists raised.

"ENOUGH!"

Stigandr had thrown himself forward, grabbing the other Jarl with that shout. Also shouting with him was Snorri, who caught the Highlander and kept him from meeting the challenge.

"Enough, enough Agnarr!" Stigandr continued as he managed to throw the other warrior back towards his seat. "They have honored their alliances, and you insult them for missing their homes?!"

The red haired Jarl simply kept his gaze fixed on the kilted warrior he had insulted.

Meanwhile, Snorri turned the Highlander around and spoke to him face to face. "This is not the time, Chief MacGillivray. You can settle his accusation in the proper way, but not in Sverngard's hospitality!"

The Highlander growled, striding back to his seat with a continued glare. A moment later, the Jarl also returned to his seat.

This is going nowhere, Stigandr realized as he looked across the room. The hall had fallen silent, but he could see it. There were two camps forming, as the Jarls had sat roughly now in accordance to their stance. Half on one side supporting peace, where Snorri now stood after he had stopped half the brawl, while Stigandr stood by the larger half wanting the war as he had done the same.

He knew what was coming, the near-brawl was just a tease. If we cannot resolve this now, this is going to escalate into clan wars, too many of them.

Snorri was the biggest obstacle. Those supporting continued war flocked to him, while the others fell in behind Stigandr. Those two warriors had their supporters, Helvar speaking up for Stigandr as Runa did for Snorri, but the Raider and Warlord were the ones with the biggest argument.

Exhaling, Stigandr understood. This could only be resolved with blood. He hated the idea, but they lived up to their name too well. But he refused to go to that, not without one last attempt.

"Snorri, my brother," he said as he turned towards him. "We are at odds, aren't we?"

"We are," the Raider sighed, shaking his head. "What have we come to, to argue with each other like dogs fighting for a scrap of meat?"

"It is this constant war, friend. We are all hurting, even as we have all grown from it."

"And we will grow stronger still, while our enemies weaken." The two approached each other, the Raider holding out a hand that Stigandr took. "We will win this war, no matter their attempts to make a white peace."

"Perhaps," Stigandr conceded with a shrug. "But what will remain of us after? We do not argue for lasting terms today, we argue to simply attend."

"And will we even accept the terms that come out?"

"We will never know unless we try."

"But as we attend this parley, our enemies will recover."

"As will we, and we will grow faster than they would in that short break."

"Hah! That we would, but we do not need such tricks to triumph."

Stigandr felt his stomach tightening. "Snorri, I know I cannot stop you. We could sign a peace treaty that we liked, but it will never allow you to fulfill your oath. You do not need us, you could gather the warriors you needed to fulfill it yourself."

"I could," he agreed, "but I would avenge Gudmundr with my fellows warriors, rather than against them. I would have you at my side, Jarl Stigandr, my brother in battle, when Wolfsbane falls."

"And I could not ask for a finer champion as our people's vanguard," he answered as he turned, so that he and Snorri were aligned with the faction they were with. "But the Warborn stand on a crossroads, one I fear we cannot resolve in this assembly for all our efforts."

He let go, taking a step back as Snorri looked down himself, jaw slowly dropping as the assembled leaders muttered.

"Stigandr, what are you saying?"

"What I am saying is that Warborn blood will be spilt before we come to terms. I would have the blood of only two spill. If we have no other recourse, then let us settle this with a holmgang, to settle it by strength and the gods' will in this affair."

The hall fell entirely silent. Stigandr had not directly challenged Snorri, he wanted to give his friend a chance to argue without rejecting such a challenge, a chance to propose a third option that Stigandr could not find. If not, they both knew who would be called on for the duel. The two leaders that led their arguments.

And the Raider knew it, shaking his head. "I do not want to fight you, Stigandr."

"Nor do I, Snorri, but who else can we call on?"

"Damn it, no one. We both lead, and we are the ones at odds."

"So, shall I formally issue the challenge?"

"Not yet," the Raider insisted. "I will accept it, or issue it if need be, but we should give this course of action thought. I refuse to fight a warrior like you without ample time for us to be sure about this. This is no challenge to issue lightly."

Stigandr exhaled. His course was still a weight against his shoulders, but it was a save he had not thought through. A time limit might convince enough of those sitting close to the fence to reconsider, and those individuals were likely to talk to each other at that.

"Let us take three days, then," Stigandr agreed. "Three days to try and resolve this by words. To make our peace with the gods, or consult them for any wisdom they would offer to our dispute. If we cannot come to an agreement, I will issue the challenge in surety."

"And come the third night, I will accept the cruel fate that has been written by the gods," Snorri answered. "I have no wish to shed the blood of another warrior like this, but I will not see our people divided either."

"Nor would I. Let tomorrow, the day after, and the third day be our chance to resolve this. But after dinner on that third day, this assembly will meet one last time. If we cannot come to terms, then we resort to this trial. May Odin's wisdom guide us in this matter."