The Saga of Friedrir Black-Hand

A Dream of Kings

The sun had dropped low in the sky, struggling to rear its golden head for more than half a dozen hours in defiance of the all-consuming winter chill. Friedrir was winding his way back up to the great hall where Golbadir was instructing his men. The paths up to the Brondehal had been well-trodden throughout the day and the hard mud was softened from the constant strain. Many of the townsfolk had given up their preparations for conflict for the day and had returned home to recuperate their strength and energy. Some of those from the outlying settlements were settling down for a bitter night in makeshift camps outside of the walls while others had been invited by the residents to rest in more appropriate accommodation for the weather. The village leaders and friends of the king had all retreated back within the walls of the great hall and discussed plans for the next few days as well as logistics for the war.

Friedrir was able to make his way up to the hall with relative ease, the streets were empty, abandoned by the crowds, and little got in his way; only a handful of weapons strewn across the town had to be carefully stepped over. Friedrir quickly climbed the narrow path from the town square and arrived at the entrance to the famed hall. The doors were left unguarded and one was slightly ajar, a beam of bright light spilled out from the braziers into the cold light of the winter evening. Friedrir ventured closer to the opening and gently pushed it open, revealing the great room filled with warriors. The hall had been reordered back to its usual state with the long tables and benches travelling from the entrance way until they reached the base of Golbadir's platform where his throne could be seen clearly from any part of the cavernous room. The king was positioned where Friedrir had seen him countless times before; sat upon his grand throne and speaking kindly to his visitors and retainers. On the long tables lay plates of food and cups of mead and the attendees enjoyed them leisurely while listening to their liege.

Friedrir took in the atmosphere of the room and continued with his mission towards the king, pressing on towards the great stone platform. He had barely made it half way down the hall when Golbadir noticed Friedrir's arrival and greeted him warmly.

"Ah Friedrir, come and join our feast. Let us drink and feast as merry warriors"

Friedrir was of no mind to be merry and politely responded to his king. "My lord, my thoughts are filled only of battle and I have come to seek your advice."

An intimidating tone began to run through Golbadir's voice as he addressed Friedrir, the rest of the hall had fallen silent and everyone present hung upon each word.

"Let us not have talk of such sombre matters, I will not have battle plans and strategy be drawn up in times of rest" Golbadir still smiled and reassured those in the hall, with his demeaner that their enjoyment would not be interrupted for the night, however, his eyes bore into Friedrir with anger and threat.

"We must, my king, for sombre times fall upon his even during feasts" Friedrir respectfully addressed his lord and began to walk towards him once again. Suddenly, a great booming voice halted Friedrir where he stood.

"Stop." Golbadir bellowed "We are here as warriors of the realm to prepare before our inevitable battle and offer sacrifice and dedicate feasts in the names of our great gods. Would bold Friedrir interrupt the feast of Westen? Perhaps he would barge through the gates of Epistor and face down Soni and Luni. Even great Aestorannar, in the shade of the sacred ash, could be attacked by wrathful Friedrir in his own home. I will not have you here to break the great feasts to honour our gods. Those same gods who your kin gave their lives to."

Surprised, Friedrir glanced around the room at the many faces now watching him with irritation. The words about his parents had stung Friedrir to the core, shame and guilt washed over his body as thoughts of his parents' judgement entered his mind. He bowed to Golbadir and gave a quick word of apology before briskly leaving the hall, rage and sorrow entwined within him. Friedrir was beginning his descent again and was too enraged to notice the recommencement of the feast following his departure. He turned left upon reaching the base of the hill and headed towards a small gathering of houses just to the South of the Brondehal mound. Friedrir had wrapped his arms around his stomach in a vain attempt to prevent the cold winter night from reaching him and continued to walk towards the farthest building; his home.