The tarn wires hum above the Viktel Aria as the three of you make the long flight north to Helisto.
Ubar of Ar, Marlenus himself, sits in the command curule, his scarlet cloak snapping in the wind. He does not speak much. He watches the Torvaldsland coast give way to the jagged, ice-capped teeth of the Hrimgar Mountains.
Beside him, Lady Zoe, veiled in white and gold, adjusts her furs against the cold. Her eyes are bright, amused. "You frown, my Ubar," she teases. "Does Ar grow too small for you, that you must seek out ice and lumbermen?"
And you, Head Guard, hand on the hilt of your blade, eyes scanning the sky for raiders. The crew knows better than to relax with you aboard.
Below, the forests thicken. Smoke rises in thin columns.
Helisto appears — a rough-hewn city of timber palisades and stone halls, perched above a black-water fjord. Warriors with braided beards gather on the docks, staring up at the golden tarn ship of Ar.
Marlenus rises. "Helisto receives few Ubars," he says. "Let them see why they should remember this one."
Lady Zoe places a gloved hand lightly on your vambrace. "Head Guard. To my side. If these northern lords are as blunt as their axes, I will need your courtesy to translate."
The descent begins. The cold bites harder.
The Viktel Aria settles onto the frost-hardened field outside Helisto's palisade with a groan of wood and wire.
A wall of Torvaldslanders is waiting. Big men in furs and chain, axes on their backs. At their head stands Jarl Hrolf of Helisto — red-bearded, one eye milky white, a torque of hammered gold on his thick neck.
He laughs, breath steaming. "Ar sends us a golden ship! And what — an Ubar, a veiled flower, and her guard dog?"
Marlenus steps down first, cloak settling around him. He does not bow. Ubars do not bow.
"I am Marlenus of Ar," his voice carries. "I come not for tribute. I come for timber, iron, and men who know how to fight in snow."
Hrolf's grin widens. He likes directness.
Lady Zoe descends next, and you are instantly at her elbow, as ordered. Your boots crunch on ice. Your eyes never leave the crowd — you count bows, you count blades, you note the archers on the palisade walk.
A murmur runs through the northerners at the sight of her. A free woman of the south, proud even in this cold.
Hrolf steps forward, offering his forearm to Marlenus in the warrior's clasp. "Then come drink, Ubar of Ar. We shall see if southern throats can handle northern mead."
He turns his one good eye to Zoe. "And the lady —"
"Is under the protection of Ar," you cut in, your voice flat and final. Your hand has not left your sword.
Hrolf barks a laugh. "A guard dog with teeth! Good."
Lady Zoe's veil flutters. Beneath it, you catch the hint of a smile. "Lead on, Jarl," she says smoothly. "But I warn you, I drink to win."
The gates of Helisto swing open. Torches flare. The smell of roast meat, pine smoke, and sea salt hits you.
Marlenus glances back at you as you enter the shadow of the gate. A silent order: watch everything.
You follow them in.
The great hall of Helisto is loud, low, and hot.
A fire pit runs the length of it. Long tables groan under roasted boar, black bread, and horns of mead. Dogs fight underfoot for scraps. The skalds have stopped singing to stare at the strangers from Ar.
You do not sit. You stand behind Lady Zoe's high-backed chair, as a Head Guard should, while she and Marlenus sit at the Jarl's table.
Hrolf slams his drinking horn down. "So! The Ubar wants ships! Our shipwrights are the best in the north. But why should Helisto build for Ar?"
Marlenus sips his mead without flinching. "Because Cos grows bold on the Vosk. Because the Salarian Confederation arms. Ar will need a northern fleet. And Helisto will be rich for building it."
"Rich?" A younger warrior with a wolf pelt stands, drunk and swaying. It is Torvald, son of Hrolf. His eyes are fixed on Lady Zoe. "We have gold enough. What else does Ar offer? Perhaps the veiled lady as bond-maid to seal the pact?"
Silence falls like an axe.
Lady Zoe goes very still. Marlenus's hand tightens on his cup.
Your blade is half-drawn before anyone breathes. The scrape of steel on leather echoes in the hall.
"You will retract that," you say quietly. Every guardsman in the room hears the promise of death in it.
Torvald grins, reaching for his own axe. "Or what, southerner?"
Hrolf rises, furious. "Torvald! Sit down, you fool—"
But it's too late. The challenge is given. All eyes turn to the Ubar of Ar, to see how he will answer an insult to his house.
Marlenus looks at you, then at Lady Zoe.
"Head Guard," he says calmly. "Teach the boy manners. But leave him alive. I still need his father's ships."
Lady Zoe lifts her veil just enough for you to see her eyes — calm, trusting, a little fierce. "Carefully, my guard," she whispers.
Torvald is already clearing a space by the fire, rolling his shoulders, axe in hand.
The hall forms a circle.
You step into the circle.
The heat of the fire pit is on your left cheek, the cold draft from the door on your right. Torvald circles you, axe twirling — showy, drunk, but fast. He's killed before. You can tell by his feet.
"You fight with a sword, southerner?" he sneers. "In Helisto, men fight like men."
"I fight to win," you answer.
He charges with a roar.
It's clumsy with drink. You sidestep, your boot sliding on a spilled patch of mead, and his axe whistles past your shoulder and bites into a table. Splinters fly. The crowd howls.
You don't draw fully to kill — the Ubar commanded alive. So you fight like a Head Guard: efficient, cruel, precise.
Second rush. You block his forearm with your vambrace, turn inside his guard, and slam the pommel of your sword into his temple. Thud.
Torvald staggers. You sweep his legs. He hits the packed earth floor hard, breath exploding out of him.
In an instant your knee is on his chest, your blade at his throat.
The hall is dead silent except for the crackle of fire.
"Yield," you say.
Torvald, blood on his lip, glares up at you. Then he looks at his father. Hrolf gives the smallest nod.
"...I yield," Torvald growls.
You rise smoothly and offer him your hand. He hesitates, then takes it. You pull the big northerner to his feet.
Hrolf throws back his head and laughs, breaking the tension. "HA! Well done! The guard dog has fangs!"
Marlenus stands. "My Head Guard shows mercy where your son showed insult, Jarl. Let that be the foundation of our pact."
Lady Zoe rises as well, graceful even here. She looks at Torvald, who cannot meet her eyes. "Perhaps next time, young warrior, you will ask a lady to drink with you, rather than to serve you."
Torvald bows his head, shamed. "Forgive me, my Lady."
Hrolf claps his hands. "Bring more mead! The pact is sealed! Helisto will build for Ar!"
Cheers erupt. The skalds strike up again.
As the feast resumes, Lady Zoe beckons you close. "You were magnificent," she murmurs, just for you. "Stay near me tonight. I fear these northern nights are... restless."
Marlenus catches your eye over his cup and gives you a warrior's nod of respect.
Outside, snow begins to fall over Helisto.
The night is just beginning.
The feast stretches deep into the night.
You remain standing, as always, though a thrall has brought you a horn of mead and a plate of meat at Lady Zoe's insistence. You eat standing. A Head Guard does not get drunk on duty.
Across the fire, Jarl Hrolf leans in close to Marlenus, their voices low now — talk of timber quotas, iron from the Hrimgar mines, and how many longships Helisto can lay down before spring thaw.
But you are watching the shadows.
You notice it first: two men by the side door, not drinking. Whispering. One keeps glancing at Marlenus. The other — at Lady Zoe.
Thieves? Assassins? Or agents of Cos?
Lady Zoe notices your tension. She leans back slightly, her shoulder almost touching your leg.
"What is it?" she whispers without moving her lips.
"Side door. Two men," you murmur. "Don't look."
Too late. One of the men sees you watching. He drops his horn and slips out into the snow. The second follows.
Marlenus sees it too. His eyes flick to yours. A tiny jerk of his head: go.
You bend to Lady Zoe. "My Lady, stay with the Ubar. Do not leave his side."
She grips your wrist for half a second. Her fingers are warm. "Come back to me."
You move through the roaring hall, silent, and push out into the night.
Cold slams into you. Snow is falling thick now, muffling sound. Boot prints lead away from the hall toward the palisade — toward where the Viktel Aria is moored.
You draw your blade. The steel hisses.
Ahead, in the swirling white, you hear a wire twang — the sound of a tarn's harness being cut.
Sabotage.
You break into a run, snow spraying, and see them: the two men at the ship's mooring lines, knives flashing, a small clay flask of oil in one's hand — fire oil.
They haven't seen you yet.
You don't hesitate.
The first man raises the oil flask to splash it on the mooring lines — you take him from behind. A choked gasp as your pommel crashes into the base of his skull. He drops into the snow, out cold.
The second spins, knife flashing. He's no drunk brawler like Torvald. He's quick, professional.
"You should have stayed at the feast, southerner," he snarls.
He lunges. You parry, steel ringing sharp in the cold air. Snow kicks up around your boots. He feints low, tries to get inside — but you are Head Guard of the Ubar's household. You have fought in the alleys of Ar.
You let him overextend, catch his knife wrist, twist — crack — and drive your elbow into his jaw. He staggers back against the ship's strut, spitting blood.
You press your blade to his throat. "Who sent you?"
He laughs, bloody teeth. "The north is not yours to buy, Ubar's dog. Helisto will never—"
A crossbow thwip from the darkness. A bolt takes him in the neck. He gurgles and slides down into the red-stained snow.
You spin, blade up —
A figure steps from the blizzard. Tall. Hooded. A woman's silhouette, but moving like a warrior.
She lowers the crossbow.
"Questioning him would have wasted time," she says. Her accent is northern, but educated. "There are three more inside the hall. Cos agents. They mean to take Lady Zoe tonight as leverage against Marlenus."
Behind you, the hall's distant roar continues. Unaware.
The woman pulls back her hood. Silver hair, a scar across her cheek, eyes the color of steel.
"I am Astrid of Helisto, Hrolf's daughter. And my fool brother is not the only danger here."
She nods toward the palisade gate. Torchlight flickers through the snow.
"Decide quickly, Head Guard. Warn the Ubar — or run to your Lady?"
The sabotaged wire creaks above you in the wind.
Snow stings your face. The dead agent cools at your feet. Astrid's crossbow is already reloaded.
You make the only choice a Head Guard can make.
"Both," you say. "You warn the Ubar. I'll get to Lady Zoe."
Astrid shakes her head. "They will watch for me. My father thinks me dutiful. If I run in shouting of Cos, they'll slit my throat before Marlenus draws."
She's right. You think fast.
"Then we go together. Fast and quiet. You know the back way in?"
A grim smile. "I was raised in that hall."
You haul the unconscious saboteur upright and bind his hands with a cut tarn-wire. "He lives. Proof for Hrolf."
You both run, low, through the blizzard, circling to the thralls' entrance behind the kitchens. The heat hits you as you slip inside — steam, smoke, clattering pots.
Astrid leads you through a narrow passage behind the tapestries. You can hear the feast on the other side of the wool — laughter, a skald singing of Torvald's shame.
Then you hear it. A chair scraping. A soft, startled gasp — Lady Zoe.
You tear the tapestry aside.
Three men in servant's furs have closed around the high table. One has a knife half-drawn, aimed not at Marlenus — but to grab Zoe's arm.
Marlenus is already moving, but he's half a heartbeat slow, blocked by Hrolf's bulk.
You don't shout. You throw.
Your dagger takes the lead agent in the shoulder. He screams, knife clattering.
Chaos erupts.
"Lady Zoe — down!" you roar.
She drops instantly beneath the table — a smart girl, trained in the houses of Ar.
You vault the table, sword clearing its sheath, and meet the second man blade-to-blade. Astrid's bolt takes the third in the leg.
In seconds it's over. Your boot is on the second agent's chest, your point at his eye.
The hall is silent again. Hrolf stares at the blood on his clean rushes, his face purple with rage.
Marlenus rises slowly, pulling Lady Zoe up gently and placing her behind him. He looks at you, at Astrid with her smoking crossbow, at the bound saboteur you drag in from the snow.
"Jarl Hrolf," Marlenus says, voice like iron. "It seems Cos does not want our pact."
Hrolf draws his great axe, eyes burning. "Cos dares send rats into my hall?"
Lady Zoe's hand finds your cloak. She's trembling, but her voice is steady. "My Head Guard... you came back."
Astrid steps forward and spits at the captured agent's feet. "Father, Torvald was a fool tonight, but these are traitors. Hang them from the palisade."
Hrolf nods slowly. Then he looks at you with new respect.
"Head Guard of Ar," he says. "Perhaps you should sit and drink now. The night watch is ours."
But your eyes are already scanning the rafters again.
The night in Helisto is far from over.
You do not sit.
Blood is still drying on the rushes when Hrolf's men drag the Cos agents out into the snow. Their screams are short. The north is efficient.
But you are not watching the executions. You are watching the doors.
Lady Zoe is pale but composed, a woolen cloak now pulled tight around her shoulders. She has not left your side since you pulled her from under the table. Her fingers occasionally brush your arm — not fear, but anchoring.
Marlenus and Hrolf are bent over the map table now, speaking in low, urgent tones. Astrid stands with them, her crossbow across her back, pointing out marks on the vellum.
"You see?" she says. " Cos has bought men in three villages along the fjord. If they move against Helisto for treating with Ar..."
"They will move tonight," Marlenus finishes. "While the hall feasts."
As if summoned, a horn blares from the palisade — not the deep feast-horn, but the high, frantic war-horn.
A warrior bursts in, snow in his beard, blood on his arm. "Jarl! Boats! Black-sailed boats in the fjord! Cos raiders making for the ship-yard!"
Hrolf roars and seizes his axe. The hall explodes into motion — benches overturned, men grabbing shields and spears.
Marlenus turns to you. His eyes are calm. This is what Ubars live for.
"Head Guard. Your duty changes."
He places a heavy hand on your shoulder.
"Take Lady Zoe and Astrid. Get to the Viktel Aria. Get her airborne. If Helisto falls tonight, Ar must not lose her."
Lady Zoe gasps. "My Ubar, no — I will not flee while you fight!"
"You will obey," Marlenus says, not unkindly. Then, softer, to you alone: "Guard her with your life. You are the only man here I trust with that."
Astrid is already moving, grabbing a shield and a short sword. "Come! I know the path to the field — we can avoid the docks!"
Outside, the night is chaos. Fire arrows arc over the palisade. You can hear the clash of steel from the ship-yard, the crackle of burning timber.
You take Lady Zoe's hand — a breach of protocol, but there is no time — and pull her into the blizzard.
"Stay behind me," you tell both women. "Run when I run. Stop when I stop."
Astrid nods, crossbow up. Lady Zoe squeezes your hand once.
"Lead on, my guard," she says. "I trust you."
You step out into the burning snow, sword drawn, toward the golden ship waiting in the dark.
Behind you, the battle for Helisto begins.
The run to the field is a nightmare of snow and fire.
The fjord glows orange — three longships with black sails have beached, Cos raiders in dark leather pouring out, torches in hand. They aren't here to sack Helisto. They're here to burn the ship-yard so Helisto can never build for Ar.
Hrolf's warriors meet them at the waterline. Axes clash. You hear Hrolf's roar even over the wind.
You keep to the shadow of the grain stores, Lady Zoe's hand tight in yours, Astrid covering your rear with her crossbow. Your breath is white, your blade slick with melted snow.
You reach the field. The Viktel Aria sits there, beautiful, vulnerable — its golden wires rimed with frost. The two mooring lines you saved earlier hold.
Then you see them. Four Cos agents, already at the ship. One is climbing the boarding ladder.
Astrid sees him too. Thwip. Her bolt takes him through the back. He falls.
"Go!" you shout.
You shove Lady Zoe toward the ladder. "Up! Now! Astrid, get her airborne — I hold the ground!"
Lady Zoe grabs the rope ladder, furs tangling, but climbs with surprising speed. Astrid is right behind her.
The remaining three raiders charge you.
The first comes in wild — you cut him down with a single, clean stroke. The second is better, shield up. You kick the shield, drive your pommel into his nose, finish him as he stumbles.
The third — their leader, a scarred mercenary with twin knives — is on you before you recover. His knife slices your thigh. Hot blood, cold snow.
You grunt, lock his knife arm, and head-butt him. He reels. You drive your sword through his chest and let him fall steaming into the snow.
Silence. Just your ragged breathing and the distant battle roar.
Above, the tarn wires groan. The ship shudders.
Lady Zoe leans over the rail, eyes wide, hair loose from her veil now. "Brian! Come up!"
Astrid is at the controls, hands flying over levers she was never taught but understands by northern instinct. "She's lifting! Jump!"
The Viktel Aria rises six feet. Ten feet. The mooring lines snap taut — then snap free.
You run, leap, catch the bottom rung of the ladder as the ship lurches into the blizzard sky.
Strong hands haul you up. Lady Zoe's hands. Astrid's.
You collapse onto the deck, bleeding, as Helisto burns below you — but not fallen. You can see Hrolf's banner still flying over the palisade, and Marlenus, scarlet cloak like a flame, fighting in the thick of it.
Lady Zoe tears a strip from her own silken veil and presses it hard against your thigh wound, her hands shaking.
"You are impossible," she whispers, angry and terrified. "You promised to come back to me."
Astrid, at the helm, shouts over the wind: "Head Guard! What are my orders? Do we flee to Ar — or do we turn this bird around and rain death on Cos from above?"
Below you, the fjord is full of enemies.
Above you, the storm is clearing to stars.
Head for home," you order, pressing Lady Zoe's silk tighter against your leg. "Set course for Ar."
Astrid nods, grim and silent. She knows what it costs you to leave them.
She hauls on the control levers. The great black tarn banks hard, its wings thundering, and the Viktel Aria turns south, away from the fire and the screams of Helisto.
Below you, the battle shrinks. Last you see: the palisade torches still burning gold, not black. Hrolf's banner still flying. A scarlet dot — Marlenus — still standing on the docks.
He will hold. Ubars of Ar do not fall easily.
The blizzard fades behind you. Stars open up, cold and clean. The wind steadies.
Lady Zoe does not leave your side. She sits with you in the command curule, her ruined veil in her lap, her head resting at last against your shoulder — exhausted.
"You disobeyed him, you know," she murmurs. "He told you to flee if Helisto fell. It did not fall."
"You told me to come back to you," you answer.
She laughs softly, a tired sound. "So I did."
Astrid calls back from the helm, her silver hair whipping. "Three days to Ar with this wind, Head Guard. Rest. I'll keep her steady."
You lean back, wound throbbing, watching the southern stars wheel.
You left a Jarl who respects you. An Ubar who trusts you. A city burning but unbroken.
And beside you, safe, the Lady you swore to guard.
Home to Ar.
The tarn flies on.
Day two. The Hrimgar Mountains are behind you.
The Viktel Aria rides a clean southern wind now, high above the Torvaldsland forests. The air is warmer. Your thigh wound has stiffened, but Lady Zoe re-wrapped it that morning with brisk, no-nonsense hands and told you not to be a baby about it.
Astrid has barely slept. She stands at the helm, eyes fixed on the horizon, her father's city still burning in her mind.
"You did well," you tell her, limping up beside her. "Helisto stands because you warned us."
She shakes her head. "Helisto stands because you held the field. My father will remember the Head Guard of Ar."
Lady Zoe joins you, a blanket around her shoulders, her veil now just a torn ribbon in her hair. She looks younger without it. Fiercer.
"When we reach Ar," she says quietly, "Marlenus will want to send a fleet north. To repay Hrolf."
"He will," you agree.
Astrid turns. "Then I will go with it. My place is there now."
Below, the great Vosk delta glints. Far ahead, a smudge of gold on the horizon — the high towers of Ar, catching the morning sun.
Home.
Lady Zoe slips her hand into yours, unashamed now before Astrid. "You brought me home, my guard."
The tarn screeches, sensing its roost.
The descent begins.
The landing field outside Ar is chaos.
Word travels faster than tarn. As the Viktel Aria descends through the morning haze, you see the crowd already gathered — guardsmen in scarlet, courtiers in silks, and at the front, a small, anxious knot of the Ubar's household.
Astrid brings her down smooth and perfect, despite never having flown a southern ship before. The skids kiss the dust.
The hatch opens. Heat rolls in, smelling of spice and stone and home.
Lady Zoe descends first, head high, torn veil and all — and the crowd gasps. She looks like a warrior queen returned from the wars.
You follow, limping, blood seeping through the fresh bandage. Astrid after you, crossbow on her back, silver hair bright in the southern sun.
A captain of the guard pushes forward. "My Lady! Head Guard! We feared — where is the Ubar?"
"Helisto holds," you say, voice carrying. "The Ubar remains with Jarl Hrolf to finish the Cos raiders and seal the pact. He sent us home with word."
Relief ripples through the crowd.
Lady Zoe turns to Astrid and takes her hand, raising it high. "This is Astrid of Helisto, daughter of Jarl Hrolf. She saved my life, and the ship. She is guest-friend of my house. Treat her as my sister."
The crowd cheers.
That night, in the quiet of Lady Zoe's apartments in the Central Cylinder — the first quiet in days — she dismisses her slave girls with a word.
It's just you and her, and the lamps.
"You never stop watching, do you?" she says softly.
You stand by the door, as always. "No, my Lady."
She crosses to you, takes your scarred hand in both of hers. "Then watch over me always, Brian. Not as Ubar's guard. As mine."
Outside, the drums of Ar beat for the returning heroes.
Inside, for the first time in your service, you allow yourself to smile.
"Always, my Lady," you say.
Three weeks later, the horns sound again — but this time in triumph.
You are on the high balcony of the Central Cylinder, Lady Zoe at your side in a new veil of gold, Astrid beside her in the leathers of a Helisto shield-maiden, when the watch cries out:
"Sails! Northern sails!"
Not black sails. Striped red-and-white sails of Helisto.
The fleet rounds the Olni Gap — twenty longships towed by tarns, their hulls bright with new varnish.
And at the lead, flying the scarlet banner of the Ubar of Ar alongside the wolf-head of Helisto, comes the Viktel Aria, rebuilt, stronger.
Marlenus stands in the prow. Beside him, massive as a bear, Jarl Hrolf.
The city erupts.
That night there is a feast in Ar to match the one in Helisto — but brighter, hotter, louder. Hrolf drinks and laughs and claps Marlenus on the back until the Ubar chokes.
Torvald is there too, humbled, his head still bandaged from your pommel. He kneels before Lady Zoe in front of the whole hall and offers her his axe, hilt-first, in apology.
She accepts it gracefully, then hands it back. "Rise, Torvald of Helisto. Let there be no debt between us."
He rises, and seeks you out afterward, gripping your forearm warrior to warrior. "Teach me that sweep, southerner?"
"You'll have to stop drinking first," you reply, and the hall roars.
Late, when the torches burn low, Marlenus finds you on the balcony alone, looking over the sleeping city.
"Head Guard," he says.
"My Ubar."
"You disobeyed me at Helisto. I told you to flee if it fell."
"It did not fall."
Marlenus smiles. "No. It did not." He is silent a moment. "Hrolf offers his daughter as bond-sister to Ar. Astrid wishes to stay. To learn our ships. To... be near you, I think."
You say nothing.
Marlenus claps your shoulder. "You have served my house well, Brian. Rest now. Ar is safe. She is safe."
He leaves you with the stars.
Behind you, a soft step. Lady Zoe, veilless now in the private dark.
"Are you resting, my guard?" she teases.
"Attempting to, my Lady."
She joins you at the rail. Below, Ar glitters.
"Stay," she whispers. "Just a little longer."
And you do.
Conversation
Be the first to join the conversation.