The mighty shall fall...

The sun set on the village of Adharca Cathair. Most of the hunters returned for the night, warriors had their meals, those with wives and husbands returned to their yurts and huts, patrolling warriors kept guard, and the shaman tended to their nightly rituals. A normal evening in Adharca Cathair. The smithies closed down for the night but for one. The trade post was dark, the mead hall empty. Clan Elkhorn slept. Yet the looking presence that was Frostfall Keep still had the glow of torches within.

While much of what once was the Great Hall was dark, the Elders asleep, two figures sat in the dim armory, where the leaders of the clan kept their weapons and armor. The Chieftain sat at a table, and another - the Skirmish Lead of the Clan - Fearghus Mac Finnegan - leaned against the wall. Both of their expressions were grim.

"A funeral then," Fearghus commented. "I cannot imagine the pain you are going through, Chieftain."

Ahearn grunted. "I have lived more then forty winters, and I have had several mates. But for my first, I do not believe I loved anyone more then the Lawgiver."

The Skirmish Lead inclined his head, "So why did you betray her?"

Ahearn slammed his fist against the table, his eyes closing. The Chieftain knew what he had done, the consequences of his actions. The question was painful, far sharper then any blade to the gut. Far sharper then the blade of the Gurnahki that had nearly taken his life on the night the Clan fought against the Hyperborean Army. Even now, his abdomen still ached. Yet it was nothing quite like the pain he felt at his loss.

"I..." Ahearn began. "...don't know. My whole life has been as a shaman. A warrior. Then Chieftain. To think I would be tempted... deceived by a wisp of a young shaman... to think I would betray one I have walked through so much with..."

Fearghus snorted. The Chieftain looked to the younger warrior with hard eyes. Just the simple sound caused the older man to ball up his fists. He found himself angered. Welling up with rage. Then the Skirmish Lead spoke again.

"Damn fine question Chief. What would you betray her? The very woman you practically doomed the Clan over.... the very woman you were willing to slaughter children over... the very woman who not long before that, dared to accuse you of not thinking clearly because of your other self destructive choices of mates! Crom's Hell Ahearn! You carried on with an Aquilonian slave whore, a huntress nobody even knew of... when it comes to leading the clan, and leading men into battle, there is no other I wish to see at the head of a warhost I am in, but by Crom when you're so focused on having a mate, on bloody continuing your legacy by having a son, I almost would rather the likes of a Vanir leading the damn clan!"

Ahearn moved, quicker then a man of his age and stature should be able to. Fearghus found himself pressed against the stone wall, a thick hand about his throat. The Chieftain growled angrily, staring at Fearghus in the eyes. The Skirmish Lead brought up a knee, almost knocking the breath out of Ahearn. The Warrior smashed his fist down, cracking against the side of Ahearn's face. The Chieftain stumbled back, only to return the attack with his own fist, driving Fearghus back against the wall with a thud. The two stared each other down. Ahearn reached for his warhammer Fearg Príomhúil, and swung angrily. Fearghus moved out of the way, and grabbed a single battleaxe. He threw it towards the Chieftain. He missed, and the weapon clanged against the wall.

The Chieftain moved towards the younger warrior. Fearghus grabbed his two blades, taken off of a traveling Hyrkanian's corpse, and waded in towards the Shaman. The hammer was raised, and it came down, causing the Warrior to backstep. The loud ringing of stone filled the air, causing Fearghus to grimace. Then the Warrior stepping it, and shoulder rushed the larger man. The Chieftain let out a breath as he felt the sudden impact, and he found himself on the ground. The Warrior outstretched one blade, the tip resting on Ahearn's neck.

"Do not attack me, if you do not intend to follow through," Fearghus snarled. "Is that not what you told Leonias those months ago when he betrayed you and attacked you?"

Ahearn let his head fall back, "...you were not wrong, Fearghus. I have failed the Clan so many times. I allowed Allomi to soften us up, allowed the likes of Valdimarr and Malanek to meet their end... I kept the secret of the tomb underneath this keep until people began to die. I let my emotion cloud my judgment. I have failed, and I will admit this. That you would call me out on this... it was a chal..."

"Save it," Fearghus grunted. "I am not here to listen to the self loathing of an old man. Crom's sake... you have had more troubles with women then any normal one of us. Hells, I have only had one mate, I still have her, and I will not be losing her anytime soon. So spare me your self pity, and keep your desire for a son out of this."

"It is the source of my failures," Ahearn said, his voice resigned.

Fearghus shook his head, "When I decided to betray my former Clan, the Hoath... I did so because I knew they were wrong. I knew that killing you would go against the very honor I was told to uphold by my father. He was... and is right. I followed you because I believed you were strong. Mighty. Able to do anything. I watched you take this name... the Elkhorn name from your past, and make a true Clan out of it. I have seen you turn a sloppy group of rogues outcast from other clans, and forge them into warriors far more savage and loyal then any other."

The Chieftain grunted, "Those days are over."

"No," Fearghus said. "They are not. Even when you allowed the likes of your foolish desire to have a mate interfere with your judgment... the Clan has still stood strong. You've made damn fine choices for Elders, you've not allowed anymore weak dogs into the Clan, you have seen us and led us to greater glories we never could imagine. You will do so again."

"And what if I can't?"

Fearghus narrowed his eyes. "Then I finish what you started moments ago."

Ahearn blinked, but said nothing. He couldn't. He grunted again as Fearghus made his way out of the armory, leaving the Chieftain alone. Had he been so weak? Ahearn pulled himself up, just then tasting the coppery taste of blood that had been dripping from his nose. Was he truly this weak? He slammed his fist against the table again. He would see to the funeral of the Lawgiver, and show his strength far more forcefully if he had to...

...he had to.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thunder roared overhead, as the misty rains came crashing down, as they always did. Such was the way of the Fields of the Dead, where many of Cimmeria’s Fallen were laid to rest. It was the way of things: a warrior dies, and if that warrior is truly known for their greatness, they are taken on a makeshift cot, and buried in the cairns of their burial mounds. If they were villagers, often they were simply buried in a cairn near the clan halls. On this occasion however, this was not the case. A fallen one, struck by an invisible dagger, slain by an unknown presence, had just been laid to rest. The Lawgiver, Alether Bloodsteel of Clan Elkhorn. Crom cared not for the grief of her clan, but had no doubt been angry that a proud warrior of unfaltering strength was taken by cowardice.

Thunder roared overhead. Several pairs of boots sloshed through the mud the rain waters created as the sounds heavy grunting and lifted filled the air. They were men of Clan Hoath, a large clan that dominated much of eastern Cimmeria. They were the ones tasked to look over Crom’s Rock. They overlooked the plateau that offered a view of the plains, of the Border Kingdom area, even of the sacred Fields. From their position, they could see much of Cimmeria, outstretched before them. Yet here, in these sacred Fields, the Hoathmen were just as dirty, grimy, and tired as the rest of any Cimmerians carrying the fallen.

One of the Hoathmen was a large brutish man, bulky, with a long black beard braided several times. His head was bald short of a small top knot at the back. He wore leather breaches and tunic with a sheepskin cloak about his shoulders. The other was younger, with a full mane and a mere goatee governing his chin. He was lithe, and from a distance, could possibly be mistaken for a female. Yet here they carried a corpse up the hill, towards their burial grounds. They lacked a funeral host, their Chieftain did not accompany, nor did the shaman to perform any rituals. No, the fallen of this night was a warrior once respected, but cast out in death. He was cast out, simply for fathering a son that had turned his back on his clan, cast out, by being gutted by the Chieftain.

“Well, boy,” the larger man said. “We’re here.”

They gently laid the body down on the ground as they stared at the Hoath burial mounds. Both cursed audibly – the cairns had been disrupted. It was knowledge in the Hoath that the tomb of an ancient Chieftain dwelled nearby, and for over a year now, travelers both of Cimmerian and foreign blood had made their way into the sacred lands to loot and plunder. The Hoath had cut off all contact from the Field of the Dead as a result, lest they start an internal war of Cimmeria when the Vanir were still out there, led by Grimnir.

“Gwthyr, I hafta ask. Do ye know why we were put on this duty?” the younger man asked.

The older man chuckled. “I know damn well why I was. I liked the poor bastard. Finnegan was a mentor to many of us and the High Hoath knew it. Damned shame he punished a man for his son’s sins. It’s the way of life though, Halwyn, kinsmen you like die.”

“So the rumors, they are true then,” Halwyn replied. “Crom… I knew they were true from the moment he asked me…”

“Asked you what?”

“The High Hoath,” the boy said. “He came to me upon returning, asked me what I felt about Fearghus mac Finnegan. I told him that well, I dinnae know him but I heard he was a good warrior an’ skirmisher. Told me then I’d be buryin’ his father.”

Gwthyr shook his head, “Stupid stupid boy. The High Hoath… he’s a testy one alright. Course, it’s likely this was his way of casting us out.”

“Why?”

The older man looked at the fallen man’s corpse. “There is a war brewing boy. The High Hoath knows where Finnegan’s son lives. He’s got his sell sword sitting as a damnedable Warchief… he’s trying to learn all he can. The Elkhorn… he’s bitter he lost a warrior to that lot. And his new Warchief… the High Hoath says he’s learned plenty of them, and wants them gone from these fields, gone from the valleys and plains. He wants to destroy them.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Several Days Later...

She scrambled backwards as they approached her. The scars on her back, they burned, even after all this time. Yet this pain, she tolerated. She had to tolerate it. Her boots dug into the earth as fists tightened around the blades at her hip, but she couldn't move. It was as if Galla was there again, with their blades, their whips, their foul faces. It was as if Galla had been there from the start, ready to take her, torture her. The memories were like fresh wounds, constantly bleeding if disturbed, hurting if touched. She recalled each desperate moment when they would take her...

...but as quickly as the memories came on, they faded, and she saw her current situation. Brannwyn sat huddled in a corner, a shell of the huntress she once was. And there they stood, Clan Hoath, her former people. The High Hoath, his Warchief, his Shaman. Warriors, yet one missing person. Where was her father? Where was Finnegan? Paranoia crept into her mind. Brannwyn had been a captive so long, a slave to another clan of people that she trusted nobody. Not a single person she could count on. Even her own people could not be trusted. There were two people she... no... three she could count on. Her father, her brother, and the Chieftain of the Elkhorn, whom had tried to counsel her on her problems. She couldn't trust her own clan.

"Brannwyn, it is alright," the grey haired High Hoath said. "We have slain the Hyperborean God-King. It is alright."

"No," she said, shaking her head violently, "It isn't. My father, where's my father? I do not see him."

"He could not make it," the Warchief replied, almost smugly. "I am sure you will see him soon."

"No!" she shouted. "Tell me where he is!"

The High Hoath sighed, as if carrying a burden on his shoulder. He crouched down to look the woman in the eye, as if trying to tame an untamed beast. This is how they treated her, like how she felt. She was a cornered animal, and these were the hunters. That is all she saw. She felt a fear tugging on one side of her heart, and anger on another. Brannwyn would not be fooled so readily.

The High Hoath shook his head, "He is dead. I am sorry. He had to pay for your brother's treasonous actions. It is the only way to sate the clan's desire for justice and vengeance. But rest assured, we will not harm you. Come Brannwyn..."

"No!" she screamed. "Try to take me, and I will rip your throats out."

The High Hoathfrowned and rose, looking at the Warchief, "Deal with her."

The High Hoath turned, and with his shaman and warriors, left the area. The Warchief knelt down with a swarmy smile on his lips, "Lass, ye may be safe in Conarch's walls, but ye ain't safe anywhere else. Not even that Shaman from the Elkhorn can protect ye."

She turned her head a moment and spat her words out. "And what do ye know about the Chieftain of the Elkhorn?"

The Warchief rose to his own feet, "What I know is the truth. His Elders, they a bunch of half breeds and Stygian lovers. Two of'em were mercenaries for the snake kissers. One of them... hell... one of them watched th'finger of some noble lady be removed and did nothin' about it. What I know, is that yer dealing with treacherous company."

Brannwyn snarled, "I will be the judge of that."

"Ye will, won't ye? I sent the Clan Champion an' one of my sell swords to go kill the Chieftain as we speak. Ye want t'save his life? Ye come home."

Almost instantly she moved. She wouldn't return home. But she would help Ahearn Chieftain. Her feet were swift, her pace hurried. She ran out of the large Aquilonian Tradepost in Conarch Village, and hurried down the slope, and across the planking. She approached the tavern and slid to a stop. She recognized the forms of the Elkhorn Elders and several kinsmen. She had to warn them... but the paranoia set in.

She couldn't trust them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thunder roared overhead. Adharca Cathair was eerily quiet that night. There were no usual antics made by the villagers, nor parties, nor celebrations. Any marriages that had taken place were solemn affairs, any children being born had gone unnoticed. Clan Elkhorn had fallen into a deafening silence, almost a vigil. The Elders had returned, stunned. Brannwyn was no longer in Clan Conarch's walls, but in the walls of Adharca Cathair. The reunion with her brother tearful, but such was overshadowed.

At first the alarm had been sounded. Cries of "the Chieftain is dead, the Chieftain is dead" had rung out loudly. An echoing sound, but almost instantly silenced as the truth became known. Not dead, not even dying, but grievously wounded. They had seen a man they had known to be impossibly strong, felled like a great oak. His leg had been bent, twisted, and broken every which way. The bone in his left arm had torn through flesh, broken and mangled. The wound he had suffered months ago at the hands of the Hyperboreans had been reopened, a fresh slice from poisoned blades. Ahearn Chieftain yet lived, but no more a Chieftain. He could not be.

The villagers had waited outside Frostfall Keep in a hushed silence. They wanted to know if their leader would be alright. They wanted reassurance, and if they could not get it, they wanted the challenge to take place. A Clan without a Chieftain was doomed to failure. They admired the old shaman, but they also knew the strength of the clan mattered most. That is what they knew, and that is what he had always said. The clan came before all. And when Fearghus mac Finnegan, the Skirmish Lead stepped outside first, the villagers knew.

"Ahearn mac Jarlath lives," he spoke, his voice solemn, yet loud. "A good man, an honest man, and a strong man. He will live, and one day, walk again."

At first the clan wanted to cheer. But they knew better. Fearghus had not finished addressing them.

"Unfortunately," the skirmish lead continued. "He believes he will lack the strength to lead. He would not be able to stand among us as he once did, as his leg wound will have permanent damage, the other shaman say. He will walk, but he will limp. He will swing his hammer, but he will not be able to swing it as mightily as he once did."

Clan Elkhorn lost morale swiftly, at first. But Fearghus did not stop speaking, his voice seemed to resonate louder.

"And so," he said. "He recognized that a man who cannot lead does not hold onto power he cannot keep through strength he does not have. And while I wish I could say otherwise, Ahearn is no longer Chieftain. He has laid that responsibility on my shoulders. He has named me Chieftain, and so I say this."

His words caused several gasps. Some seemed almost excited, while others were bitter, some even sad. Various whisperings went through the gathering, ranging from "Hoathman" to "Warrior Chieftain" could be heard.

"We will not lose strength," Fearghus said, his voice even louder. "We will not falter, because as Ahearn has said, we cannot lose our step. As he said at the burial of the Lawgiver, we must move forward. As of this moment, there will be several changes. The chief among them. Clan Hoath, those responsible for this... will be held accountable. We will find their Warchief, and have his head on a pike! We will find their home, and burn it to the ground! But this isn't all we will do. No. If there is one thing I did disagree with Ahearn on, it was how to deal with the outsiders entering our lands. Frequent patrols aye, but if we want to truly strike at the dogs who enter our lands without welcome, we must strike first, in the heart of their lands! Let this be a rallying cry, my kin, we will rise and strike at our enemies!"

And for a brief moment, the solemn crowd of villagers allowed their hopes to be raised. He knew this was what they needed to hear. It was too soon in his heart, but he knew the way of things. If the Clan's morale faltered, they would lose strength. Best to keep their morale high, and give them something to work for. To fight for. And while doubt rested in his minds about the Elders from what Brannwyn, his sister had told him, he would see to that privately. He had work to do. Wars to fight.

Fearghus Chieftain would do whatever it took.