Raucous cheer spread out amongst the tables as feasting was underway—mutton and fresh bread, roasted vegetables, hardy stews alongside cabbage and bean pottage—lined them all in plenty. Goat horns and wooden mugs were filled, raised, and slammed against each other, spilling ale and mead onto the roughly hewn tabletops and straw lined dirt floor.

The stone walls that surrounded everyone bent inward and rose slowly, forming a dome that ended with a wooden grate overhead. The wooden grate was a thick box like finish that had straw atop it to prevent rain getting in, but had open sides to allow for smoke and heat to rise up and flow out. The smoke of the central hearth rose directly upwards and through it, sending a wispy grey line towards the dusk sky.

"A cheer for the wedded couple!" a voice rang out, eliciting a new round of cheering, whistles, and hollering.

A young lady with tanned pink skin sat at the center of a table raised above all the others. Her hair was red like most Jelti and she looked to be in her middling teenage summers. She was only five feet tall and despite her age, she still had a lithe and petite body. Next to her was an older man, but not by too many years, exchanging toasts and words with the guests. The groom's hair was a light brunette that was almost dirty blond—which was more common than true blonde hair, but still less common than red. Each of the wedded were dressed modestly in simple tunics and trousers, but wore silver rings—a luxury—on their wedding fingers. The bride and groom each had a vibrant red string interwoven around their left hands.

Shadows danced, cast by the hearth and the occasional torch which hung from the walls, giving an energy of movement from everywhere. Servants kept the food and drink moving and the wedding attendees weren't staying still either. It was a joining of families, a time of fun, of love, and companionship... or at least it was supposed to be.

The large heavy door that was closed, separating the jovial interior with what should've been the normalcy of the village outside, swung open with a loud crash.

"We're under attack! Chieftain's Haclin and Aodh are approaching!" The news was delivered quickly by a warrior who was already dressed for battle. He was one of the village guard.

A beat of absolute silence held the room before older men began cursing, shoving benches backward. Lormach, the bride's father—and the man who had called for the toast only moments ago—stood, knocking his mug to the floor.

"How dare they? On the day of my daughter's wedding no less?! To arms! Let's show these upstarts what-for!"

Women herded the younger children toward the back rooms while the men pushed toward the armory to retrieve items given up at the door. Cornall joined the surge. This was not his hall. These were not his kin. He was a petty chieftain, a guest who had already delivered his tribute a few hours past. Now, an opportunity presented itself to offer a far more valuable gift: the blood of Lormach's More would join them shortly as the cry to arms went out.

Cornall was no great warrior in name or physical might. He was the average height for a man in his early twenties, standing at roughly five feet and eight inches in height—slightly taller on a good day if he stood upright—or so he claimed at least. He was tone and lean, muscular in the way that one was when they practiced war and participated in it often, when not working the fields, felling timber, or tending to cattle like the common people he lorded over.

His sword was by the door alongside his square shield, given up and set aside as a sign of respect and trust. It was alongside his sling with the pouch of rounded lead balls which he'd soon be using to fling at the brave men who were coming to die. He already wore his thick boiled leathers over his plain clothing, as it would've been too much of a bother to take it off, and his boots were firmly fastened as well. It took only seconds before he was ready to join the battle soon to begin.

Cornall rushed down the hill, taking the stairs when they were available, or sliding down the rocky slopes when not. There were dozens of buildings—cottages mostly, or at least that's what he'd call them. They varied in shape and size but were made mostly the same way: woven branches around timber, and packed full of straw covered in mud, clay, or even manure for the less fortunate. The roofs were tightly bound thatch, and some had rocks roped together and laid across to keep it in place during the heavy winds and rains of autumn.

The fences were an inconvenience that Cornall wouldn't suffer. He lept over or vaulted the obstacles made of thick branches or stacked stones whenever they blocked him. The chickens, goats, and cows didn't seem to care. The roosters however, did attempt to chase, though he didn't remain around for long.

The stone walls of the village came closer and closer until Cornall was standing atop them on the wooden walkways. There were towers made of wood, though they were few, and built along the walkways. The defenses formed around the front of the village, creating a half-circle that had steep rocky plateaus as shoulders. A single tall circular tower was built atop the one on his left.

Cornall looked around at the dozens of men who he'd be fighting alongside and then outwards to the ditches just beyond the low walls. They were wide and shallow, but still would do enough to inconvenience the attackers. They'd still have to climb over if they didn't take the gates.

The gates were a pair of thick heavy wooden doors held closed by an even heavier, thicker, piece of timber that served as a crossbar to keep it closed. There were more than a dozen warriors behind it with swords and spears, shields, and javelins—darts, some called them. Behind everyone was Chieftain Lormach, who Cornall served under. He was old, grey, and not the warrior he once was, but he wore mail, held an iron sword, and wore a helmet made of metal, not boiled leather or wool stuffed cloth. He looked closer to that of the Northvik Sealords to the north-east or the Dace nobles in the east of Eriu.

"Get ready for 'em lads! These bastards have the gall to interrupt my daughter's wedding day! Kill every one of them that comes close to my walls!"

A series of clipped and obedient replies came from most. Some didn't reply at all. Cornall didn't—he was more focused on the enemy. There were at least two hundred of them. They outnumbered the village by at least three to one. It wasn't good odds, but it wasn't hopeless odds either. It would've been another story if Cornall had his own men here. Or if the other petty chief had attended too.

"They've three to our one, Chieftain!" Cornall called over to Lormach.

"We've the defenses. Best them in the first wave and they'll scatter by the time the third rank falls," Lormach replied, raising his voice so that all could hear.

"Shall we challenge their warriors?"

"They'll do that themselves, Cornall. Why? You looking to win my favor?"

Cornall turned and faced him. "I won't say no to earning a boon, chieftain."

"It's yours... but if you die, I'll spit on your corpse."

"I better win then." Cornall returned to looking beyond the walls.

The army had moved closer, but stopped just under a half-kilometer away. They were well beyond bowshot, but only just beyond the range of a skilled slinger. There were two banners flying—not multiple of each, but just a single one for each of the chieftains. One was a sparrowhawk—a bird notorious for attacking other birds—which already told Cornall that whoever flew it was a right bastard in need of lead between his eyes. The second banner was a red adder—a venomous snake—which was spiraling around a vibrant healthy tree. It elicited the same line of thinking from Cornall.

"Look there, lads! I'ts two whoresons worth killing!" Cornall yelled out loudly, his voice traveling. It caused a fit of laughter from his fellow defenders, who only began shouting their own insults and mockery.

Spurred by indignation, impatience, or confidence, a white banner soon flew up and a small contingent of men progressed closer to the village walls. There was two well dressed men—younger than Lormach, but older then Cornall, and each of them dressed in a mix of thick padded wools, boiled leather, and pieces of mail. These were the chieftains. They rode on ponies and were joined by four other men on similar steeds. On foot were eight other men who were clearly warriors. Lastly in accompaniment were two wholly different men. They were both dressed differently than everyone else—like the men of Dace—Dacians.

"You've brought mercenaries from Dacica?" Cornall asked, neither impressed nor outraged. He eyed their thick long-sleeved gambeson, padded leggings, and solid metal nasal helms. One of them held a large sword that would easily require both hands to use properly, while the other man held the standard equipment for most men—a shield and a wieldy blade that needed only one hand—an axe in his case.

"I'll talk to no man other than Lormach! Gnash your teeth and be quiet, cur!"

"How's about I come down there and gnash your top and bottom jaw together instead? Or shall I just take the lower half instead?"

"You upstart little shit! You should know when your betters are talking!"

"Funny you'd say that, I haven't heard my better say a word yet, but I have heard a whole lot 'o howling!"

The defenders began to laugh as the rival chieftain turned red in anger. His counterpart looked at his ally and then to Cornall. "Is he here? Or do you speak for him?"

"I'm here," Lormach said as he appeared before them on the wall. "Now what do you want, Aodh?"

"You looking for a row or are you willing to bend the knee?"

"You've want for a title, do you? Well you'll need to earn it. This hound's too old to be bending knees, and I sure as shit ain't pickin' up new tricks."

Aodh didn't seem bothered. He looked to the man next to him. "It's a fight. You going to sic these Dacian's on any of 'em or are you done, Haclin?"

Chieftain Haclin looked to the men from Dacica. "I want that bastards head! Either of you man enough to fight him man to man?!"

The two men looked to each other and shrugged. The man with the large sword stepped forward. "I'll fight him, though you'd best consider me worth an extra bit of silver afterwards."

Haclin scoffed. "Bring me his head and you can have some extra silver, you brute."

The man looked up to Cornall. "Do you accept?"

"I do." Cornall began for the gates as an uproar began. By the time he had exited the village and reached just beyond the walls, his name was being called in cheers.

A wide berth was given between the two men and they each kept a respectful distance from one another. It was at least a dozen paces. This was a duel—an honorable engagement by two warriors who agreed to face off in single combat. To intervene was sacrilege, cowardly, and would damage the honor of even the most renowned chieftain.

"Ready?" The Dacian asked.

"Aye. I am ready," Cornall replied.

"Then face me!"

The Dacian charged at Cornall who readied his shield and sword. Cornall stayed light on the balls of his feet, keeping his shield angled. To take a direct hit from that iron slab meant shattered bones. The greatsword whistled in a brutal overhead arc. Cornall slipped wide, the blade tearing into the turf. Before he could raise his own sword, the Dacian wrenched the weapon free and let the momentum carry into a savage horizontal sweep toward Cornall's ribs.

Cornall braced his boots in the mud and threw his shield out to meet the steel. The impact shuddered up his arm, jarring his teeth, pushing him backward a full step. The mercenary drove forward, turning his heavy hilt to smash the iron pommel toward Cornall’s face. Cornall ducked, letting the metal bite empty air, and slashed his blade low. The edge bit deep into the back of the Dacian's thigh.

A sharp grunt tore from the mercenary's throat. He ignored the blood slicking his padded leggings and hoisted the greatsword again.

Cornall didn't wait for the swing. Dropping his shoulder, he launched his entire weight forward. He crashed his shield flush against the man’s chest. The Dacian's injured leg buckled. He fell hard, back slamming against the wet earth, but his thick fingers refused to abandon his grip. He swung the massive blade upward from the ground, the strike wide and lacking in power.

Cornall caught the desperate strike on his shield rim, rode the momentum downward, dropping his full weight onto one knee, and forced his own blade precisely between the overlapping folds of the Dacian's gambeson. Iron punched through padding, flesh, and lung.

The mercenary screamed, the noise was brief and wet. Dropping his weapon, he seized Cornall by the shoulders and wrenched him violently downward.

Iron met leather. The Dacian’s nasal helm cracked against Cornall’s skull cap. White flashed behind Cornall’s eyes. The world pitched violently sideways. He tore himself free, spilling onto the damp grass, scrambling backward on his hands and boots until the ringing in his ears settled into a dull roar.

"Gods damn it," Cornall touched his temple, his fingers coming away slick with mud.

A few feet away, the Dacian struggled to rise. Bright, frothy blood soaked his quilted armor where the sword still stood wedged in his ribs. He stayed down, propped up on his elbow, staring at Cornall. His breathing was reduced to a wet, ragged wheezing.

Cornall stood, unsteady but grounded. He reached to his belt, untying the leather sling. He plucked a lead sphere from his pouch and set it in the cradle. "Any last words?"

The man shuddered, spitting a mouthful of crimson onto the grass. "Go fuck yourself."

Cornall didn't blink. He began to swing the sling. The leather screamed in a tight, rapid circle, cutting a vicious pitch through the quiet valley. "Should've stayed in Dacica."

He released the strap.

A sound like a breaking oak branch snapped across the field. The lead bullet struck the Dacian between the eyes, folding his head backward with catastrophic force. The massive body went utterly limp, collapsing flat against the earth.

A roar of approval erupted from the village walls behind him, thick with banging shields and stomping feet. Cornall walked to the corpse, bracing his boot against the man’s ribs, and gripped the hilt of his stuck sword. He dragged it free with a sickening sound of suction. He raised his sword up, bringing the shouts to an even louder state of revelry.

He didn't spare a single glance for Aodh or Haclin. Cornall turned his back to the rival host and walked toward the village. The heavy gates cracked open to receive him, allowing him inside before the timber crossbeam slammed back into place.

The duel was over. Honor and glory was his... assuming he could survive the coming battle.

The High King — Chapter 8: Brigitte

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