The Field of Fimlet

Addressing the king who commands no honour

If you truely had any will to defend your honour, you would not have sat in your tent on the other side of the field and eaten cheese. I have held off attacking to allow you the chance to prove your resolve by initiating battle, yet you refuse to settle this in the way you came here prepared to do. Every day you spend stroking your antlers is another day we grow in our anger towards you, oh king of cowards. Thus, I am writing this message to you just in case you have forgotten the codes of conduct you as king were sworn to uphold. Answer me soon, because if I discover you are undertaking some further treachery, you will be eating your velvet by nightrise.

- Hoef, son of Derik

Addressing the warrior Hoef, the son of Derik

I have not mistaken your challenge for weakness, nor do I hold for fear of defeat. Instead, I hold because the fire that burns in your right eye has always been one of passion and not of reason, I saw it when I visited Cervus and met your unfortunate father, whose loyalty is now divided between his eldest son and his king. Your anger is wild, passionate, fit for a warrior such as you, yet such anger is not rightly applied to the matters of society, nay, it will cause you to do many things that you will regret one day. this anger you hold within you has been allowed to grow and fester on your march here, but if you will let it cool, a better solution to our problem can be found, one that avoids the death of our households and our followers. Simply by your retinue I can see that you have attracted many to you, many that share your anger. That is why I offer you this, I will come to your camp tomorrow after firstmeal with only a small party of my family, and we shall discuss this matter with cool heads.

- Harlod, son of Bern. King of the Jarls of the Deer

With a mighty swing, Hoef son of Derik struck his axe into the ground with a soft thud as it dug into the soft dirt. Around him was a council of jarls and hirðeer gathered to hear him read aloud the king’s reply, one of whom flinched when the axe hit the ground.

“A coward!” Hoef exclaimed, stomping and grinding the letter underhoof. Hoef was a large deer, and his height was accentuated by the muscles you could see even under his beige fur. Around his neck were three iron bands cast with the images of Ukko, Vellamo, and Tuoni, that clung tight. Spreading out from under the bands were striking blue tattoos, swirls up to his head and face, waves and runes along his back and along his sides, and misty stripes down his legs. His antlers were shorter than most stag’s, but were sharpened at the points, and gold rings hung around the beam, three on the left, four on the right.

“This is the true face of this king!” He declared with a thunderous voice used to commanding raiders in battle. “He wouldn’t fight except as a last resort! Our lives are built upon a pillar of our society, our raiding. And yet, a stag who knows no strife would have us give away our lives! Signing a treaty of ‘friendship’ with the ponies who are so far beneath us that they quake in fear on sight! Ukko would be enraged by such cowardice!”

The fourteen-or-so other deer expressed their approval with varying levels of enthusiasm, some raised weapons and roared, others nodded excitedly. The face of one deer however, Jarl Trygve, remained neutral, and even contorted into one of doubt.

“Hoef, the king has made his position clear, he intends to not strike first for the sake of avoiding what might be a pointless fight. We all agree the king is cowardly, but maybe in this case he is right on one thing: maybe cowardice may prevent needless Olenian death.”

Hoef whipped his head around and stared Jarl Trygve straight in the eyes. The jarl wasn’t that small, and by the standards of an outsider he would have been intimidating himself, with self-inflicted scars adorning his neck and head, and red tattoos that rivalled even Hoef’s, but compared to the imposing warrior, he seemed insignificant. However, Trygve was a deer of his integrity, and did his best to stay composed. Then, one of the huskarls by the name Ove Holgarson voiced agreement with the jarl’s thoughts. Hoef broke off with a snort.

“What would you suppose we do, then, Jarl? Speak your mind: we are listening.”

Trygve, boldened. “The king has offered to come to the camp tomorrow to discuss the matter, let him. Show him our point of view, show him the error of his decisions. If he refuses to reverse the treaty, challenge him to a duel, or whatsoever you choose. If he backs down dishonourably from a challenge, there shall be nothing I would or could say to hold back an honourable battle.”

Hoef thought on this for a few moments. “You have even more wisdom than previously thought, Jarl Tygrve, and you did well to speak up. Very well, if all present give their approval…” he looked around at the assembled. They were divided on this plan, several still wanted to just attack and be done with it. “We will entertain the king in our midst until a solution or lack of one is reached.” He picked up his axe from the ground and cleaned the head by rubbing it along his left antler, feeling the cold steel rub against it and little particles of dirt dropping back to the ground.

“You may retire to your camps, good countrydeer. After firstmeal tomorrow we will see what our king has to say.”

Addressing the king

After much deliberation, I have decided to accept your request. Very well, should you come to my camp tomorrow, I swear by the gods and their rivers and mountains and forests that you shall not be harmed unjustly.

- Hoef, son of Derik

With a careful hoof, Harlod son of Bern lay down the small letter. It was scribed bold, indicating either an unconfident scribe, or that the scribe was trying to catch the rage of the dictating deer. He chuckled, few deer would try and dissect context from the boldening of written words, but such was he, King of Olenia. His royal blood stood him above most in his court in height, but his while he was well proportioned his light grey fur sat mostly smooth, betraying that there was hardly any of the muscle that most expected of the King of the Jarls of the Deer. The branches of his antlers were decorated with strips of thin cloth in various rare colours, which drew the eyes away from his simple crown, a circlet of pure gold with a sea-blue gem imbedded at the front. Instead of robes like most monarchs, he wore a tunic of field-green underneath a coat of wolf fur laced with gold. He had only two tattoos, Ukko’s hammer in blue on his forehead, and the royal crest on his neck, two large light-purple antlers sweeping around almost the entire circumference of his neck.

Unlike his father or many of his family members, Harlod took he pleasure in the activities of thought: poetry and politics, he called them. When the hirðeer Hoef son of Derik had declared a rebellion against him, he had begun to despair that he might be out of his element. Hoef was opposite him in almost every single way. He had grown up in a household that uplifted warrior ways, and he had made a great name for himself as the Masked Mist, a terror to the ponies of Equestria. His house and farm along the coast of the southern pony lands was built with wealth stolen from the villages and towns he pillaged and sacked, and he had the support of many of the hardened karls that joined in his profession, and the jarls of those karls. His anger at the king was pointed and aimed, and in the hirðeer‘s eyes, just; and those made for a dangerous combination.

However, with the arrival of Hoef’s reply to his offer for a peaceful discussion, that there was hope that the conflict might be resolved without blood on the field. Harlod was treading very carefully, as one minds their step when stepping around a roaring fire, as he didn’t wish to start a civil war. Many called his policies weak and soft-hooved, but he wasn’t willing to throw away the best deer in the country over what he saw to simply be a disagreement in ethics.

Harlod stowed the letter and rose from his table in the centre of his tent, a gift to his father Bern Jelzeson that was made from cotton taken in one of his raids to Equestria. It was woven for both the leisure and work of the King when he was on the march, a highly irregularly large tent that was eight metres at its height and eight wide and twenty long, so big that it used cut logs for stability instead of saplings. It contained a table for work and affairs, a small raised bed in the back, and plenty of space for holding council with important subjects or captains.

At the moment, the only other creature in the tent was one of his servants, an aging yellow unicorn by the name of Setting Stars, who watched him with eyes that had weathered the years far better than the rest of her face. She had been kidnapped as a thrall from inland Equestria during another one of his father’s raids. In the many years she had served the royal family she had attained great respect and status due to her unmatched scribing skills, and under Harlod her promotion to the royal scribe had meant that she was the only non-deer to be privy to the matters of court.

“No reply to send, my lord?” she asked with a brittle voice. Harlod’s father had said that when they had taken her she had spoken daintily in her native equestrian tongue, but he theorised that decades of speaking Olenian had broken it down.

“There is nothing to be said.” Harlod explained. “Hoef has accepted my offer for a peaceful talk, I leave for his camp in the morn.”

She nodded thoughtfully for a moment. “If I may speak, my lord. It would still be your behoof to take precautionary measures in case of the worst.”

“You speak as if an advisor, and not my scribe.”

“I have known you longer than you have known me, my lord. My profession does not restrict discretion of matters such as this, for which my right eye is quite clear. I have served both you and your father, and felt for both of your governing...” she drifted

“Is that all?” Harlod asked.

“Yes.. my lord.” she said, resigning. “I merely ask that you take care. You have done much good, and I would hate to see your blood decorating the field; and your antlers, Hoef’s head.”

“You may leave, Star.” Harlod decreed. The unicorn bowed, and for a moment her horn glowed sea-blue, and then she vanished with a puff. Leaving him alone in the tent. He sighed. Her heart was good, but despite all her years she still hadn’t learned control of her tongue. Her attempts at council often earned either mockery at Harlod or despisement from the court and even the king’s own house.

He shook he attention to his preparations for the following day. He would need to pick his retinue, and make sure that the Thing was aware of his intentions, and that they would be ready on the off chance that he wouldn’t return.

He asked for his meal to be brought to him in his tent that night.

Harlod stared out across the Field of Fimlet to the rebel camp. It was morning, and it was after firstmeal. A small party of three deer had joined him - his younger brother Viggo: a well-off raider who had spent most of his time recently sailing up the Equestrian rivers to sell precious metals; and Ulf and Amund, two twin cousins of his who had grown up in a town outside of Hjortland, and were some of his best hirðeer. All together, they were waiting on two more.

Harlod tapped his hoof on the ground impatiently. He was ready to go, and yet they were being held up not by one, but by two thralls. The first was a pack bearer who was delaying because he was praying. The other… Harlod’s hoof drifted to a pocket in his weapon pouch, and withdrew a stone, about a hoof’s size, and carved with runes. As he held it in his hoof, he felt its charged magic, contained as if by a seal that prevented it from activating He concentrated, and broke the seal, activating the runes. The runes glowed with a piercing and ethereal light blue, and Harlod knew that he only had to wait.

In a few moments, out of the camp came stumbling his scribe Setting Stars, puffing heavily. When she reached them, she bowed, revealing the previously invisible runes along her back, which glowed with the same light as the runestone. “My lord,” she said.

“Would you like to explain why you dawdled so long, scribe?” Harlod asked. As he did he resealed the runestone’s magic, and the runes on both the stone and the unicorn’s back disappeared.

She raised herself back onto all four hooves. “I failed to find my scribing implements, and after searching all the places I was last night, I am beginning to suspect someone might have accidentally or intentionally taken it. I was searching for it, my lord.”

Amund rolled his eyes and his head. Harlod shot him a glance.

“My lord,” Amund said, “this thrall has been keeping us waiting because she lost her bag. Am I not allowed to express my frustration?”

“A scribe is of no use to us if she has nothing to scribe with or upon.” Harlod replied.

“Yes, but this situation was caused by her carelessness to begin with.”

“You are right, but she was not delaying intentionally. She did everything right, minus letting us know earlier.”

“She still allowed her tools be misplaced, my lord.” interjected Viggo. “And she failed to find them again. Thus, she has no more use to bring along.”

“Quiet,” Harlod said, silencing his brother with a soft word. “She will come nevertheless. She can retrieve my own quill, ink, and paper for use, although she will need to borrow a bag from someone to carry the supplies in.” He turned to face the unicorn. “Be quick: we will not wait much longer.”

“Yes, my lord.” Stars said, nodding her head. She took glances around her getting a clear mental picture of the location. When she was done, her horn glowed and she disappeared.

Viggo spoke, “My lord and my brother. Surely it is not right that a thrall have such ease of movement in your midst. She could break into anywhere, and even your own wellbe-”

“She has served us well and faithfully, she has a unique ability to move quickly, so I do not see why she should not be allowed to use it. If one of your thralls figured out how to perfectly plant wheat to ensure the best harvest, would you then move them to a clay pit?”

Viggo chuckled. “That’s not exactly the same, brother, but I see your point. Still, I would never allow a thrall the ability to instantaneously transport themselves into my tent at will.”

Harlod would have replied to this, but the other thrall, a short black-furred middle-aged deer without antlers, emerged from the camp, carrying a pack of food on his side. When he approached the four he too bowed with a great sweep.

“My lords,” he said with a voice that was beginning to show its wear, “I am ready.”

“Good, we are just waiting for one more, then.” Said Ulf, who had remained silent most of this time. They all in sync turned to view the rebel camp across the field. The Field of Fimlet was famous for Fimlet Herikson, whose exact deeds to get the field named after him Harlod didn’t remember at present. The rebel camp was situated on a plateau at the northern edge of the field, near where the field ended and became foothills for the mountains that were the spine of Olenia. The king’s camp was situated behind a wide, slow, and shallow river that flowed almost across the middle of the field, and it wound back and forth as it flowed from the northwest to the east. A few clouds gathered around the mountains and a few more hung in the distant east, over the bay.

A magical puff came from behind, and Harlod turned to face Setting Stars, who now had a pouch tied over her back. She didn’t say anything. Harlod looked around at his small accompaniment one more time, then the camp behind them. With a decided step, he started towards Hoef’s camp.

Hoef watched from the edge of his camp as the six small figures walked their way across the field. He felt a number of emotions, but mostly tempered anger. In his mind, Harlod Bernson was no longer his king, hardly even worthy of being spared. However, he had made a vow, and he wasn’t anything if not honourable, even if the king wasn’t.

In the middle of his camp his fighters had arranged a number of logs in a large circle with enough seats for everyone he expected. He pulled out his axe and examined it again. He had left it out overnight by a forge fire in a bowl of water, and a thin layer of rust had already started to form.

Good.

As the king’s party ascended one of the natural slopes up the plateau, they were met by the monolith, Hoef Derikson himself, standing at the edge of his camp with two hirðeer of his own who both carried a spear in hoof and an axe in a weapon pouch. Hoef himself had only an axe, stowed in a weapon sling.

“Welcome to our camp, King Harlod!” Hoef said, with an enthusiasm that made the king suspicious.

“And I thank you for your level-headedness, son of Derik.” the king said as they stopped in front of them.

“Sometimes.. we need to accept that some things are necessary as a people.”

“Indeed…” Harlod said, guessing that Hoef had already begun the battle of worldview, and was trying to get an upper hoof on him off the bat. “But some things are not as necessary as civility. Allow me to announce my brother, Viggo, and introduce my cousins, the warriors Ulf and Amund. They will be witnessing our discussions today.”

Hoef did not address them, but nodded.

“I wish we could say it was a better time to reacquaint.” Viggo said. “Especially since you last said that you would show me your collection of timberwolf heads next we met.”

“Timberwolves? asked Amund. “I would like to see that collection.” His brother Ulf nodded in agreement.

This twist in the conversation seemed to amuse Hoef. “Did I? My apologies, Viggo, for the heads are back on my estate; I did not bring them with me. Perhaps if things turn out for the better, you will still be able to see them one day.” He smiled what seemed a genuine smile in his direction. “Now, let us not delay here outside the camp. Your subjects await, oh king Harlod.”

He led them through the camp in silence, and a few of Harlod’s retinue held their breath while he did. However, they relaxed as they safely moved past tent after tent of deer simply living their battle camp lives. Many stopped to stare at the king as he passed, but they were preoccupied with their games, their chores, their drinking, or their storytelling. The few that were in the dark about that day’s events were confused at seeing the king they were rebelling against touring the camp with Hoef leading him, but explanations from their more attentive fellows followed in the party’s wake.

Hoef’s camp was more orderly than the king’s. In the king’s camp the warriors of the jarls placed their tents as they saw fit, though almost always nearby the rest of their relatives and acquaintances. In Hoef’s, the tents were more organised, with tents arranged not only by jarl, but in small groups forming rings around a fire pit each; sometimes there were only four tents, other times over ten, to each fire. These clusters of tents were arranged in orderly fashion in a semi-circle around the inner camp. This organisation surprised Harlod, as the karls of the realm were free deer: even when summoned to battle they were almost always permitted to pitch their tents wherever they saw fit.

They finally reached a clear area in the middle of the camp. Along the edges of the clearing, larger tents obviously belonging to the jarls and their huskarls. Ten logs had been pushed to form a ring, and already a few of Hoef’s loyal jarls were seated on them, awaiting the discussions to begin. One of them raised his hoof in greeting to acknowledge the king’s arrival, but not for very long before he returned to picking at a loose piece of bark.

“SUMMON THE JARLS, THE KING HAS ARRIVED!” Hoef bellowed, and when he did the wind itself seemed to reverse direction. A few of the jarls moved to do so, others moved to join the ones already seated. He turned to Harlod, and said, “Take your seats, guests.” while gesturing to the logs. “I must leave you for a moment to finish the preparations. I suggest that you seek repentance from the god whose hammer you have on your forehead, my king.”

This addition took Harlod by surprise, but before he could demand an explanation, Hoef took off.

“He’s bubbling beneath the surface..” Ulf said.

“I think you might be right, Ulf.” Harlod answered. “But there’s not much we can do about that.”

“What makes you say that, Ulf?”

“He’s taking shots at the king before we’ve even begun.” He explained.

Harlod backed him up. “He had no reason to say what he just did, he was waiting for an opportunity to say it: he’s bitter.”

“Well,” said Viggo, “we shouldn’t push him too far, then.”

“That might be unavoidable at this point.” Harlod proposed.

“Maybe so, but we shouldn’t seek to intentionally antagonise him.”

“His anger will grow regardless.” Setting Stars perked up behind them. She was stood only a few paces back, and could hear their conversation well enough. “I’ve seen warri-”

“Silence, thrall.” Viggo interrupted. “You overstep your bounds yet again.”

“Calm, Viggo.” Harlod said. He addressed the unicorn, “He is right, though. You must hold your tongue, we are discussing amongst ourselves. We won’t be able to use your council anyway once we begin our discussion.”

Setting Stars’ eyes drooped in resignation “Yes.. my lord.”

“Now,” he said, returning to face Viggo, “we were discussing strategy?”

It took a fair few minutes to assemble the jarls, but slowly they arrived. Harlod had absolutely no idea if they were really needed for the discussions, but them being here meant that all the deer he needed to win back over were here to witness. There was about a 60/40 split among the jarls between those wearing clothing and those not. Those who were wore mostly thin, flexible tunics. All the jarls, however, had decorated their antlers in some fashion, and almost all of them had some number of tattoos, although few came close to Hoef in terms of volume of tattoo. In total, the assembled cast of characters was about as diverse as they come, and these were only a slight majority of the Olenian jarls.

Hoef stood in the middle of the log ring. When the last deer arrived, he spun around, looking each attendee in the eyes. When he completed this ritual, he announced to the entire assembly. “Jarls of the lands of mountains and forests, today we have an esteemed guest. All the way from Hjortland, we have been blessed by the gods with the presence of King Harlod the son of Bern!”

Harlod and Viggo cast confused glances at each other, as if the other understood this opening speed. It seemed they were alone, because the jarls, instead of applauding or praising the king as normally was done when such an introduction was done, they glanced about one another with utter bewilderment.

“Oh, wait, my king,” Hoef said, with mock concern, “why do the jarls not welcome you? Could it have been something you did to anger them?” His voice became more venomous as he turned back to address the entire assembly. “Perhaps it was your decision to subvert the Thing to sign a treaty with the Equestrian Princess, one to officially cease the raids on their villages, an act that defies our entire culture and religion? My livelihood is built upon taking advantage of the weak ponies who can not even defend themselves, who claim that their god lifts the sun each day. And this is not just true for me, but for many of us, your subjects. You stamped your seal on that treaty without consulting the Thing, without allowing us to have a say, because you knew we wouldn’t agree. State your case, coward-king.”

At this the jarls all exclaimed their approval. Harlod’s mind worked fast to formulate the responses. When Hoef sat back down, and beckoned for Harlod to stand, he did.

“You lend your ears to me, this shows that you have civility, as is expected of the jarls. I could stand here and hide behind the facade that it was completely within my realm of power to sign negotiate such a treaty without the approval of the Thing, which is only half true. Instead, I will admit mistake. It was a mistake to ignore and not consult you.” Harlod made a sweeping gesture across the jarls.

“However,” he continued, “I do earnestly believe that this treaty will be more beneficial for us than continuing with our raiding ways.”

“How so?” came the smooth voice of one of the jarls - Jarl Frotjof, the son of Eric. Although he probably intended it in a mocking way, Harlod detected a few notes of sincerity in the question.

“If any of you bothered to read the treaty, it outlines how it will streamline trade between us and them. If you need food, buy it with your crafted wares, or sail to an exotic land and bring back valuables to build your wealth. With no need to raid, we can focus on becoming a great kingdom, building our towns and villages. Raise children, not [raze] towns. We are a proud people, and rightly so, but is our pride really only in the fear we inflict upon an enemy we would never even consider to fight directly in the field?”

He would have gone on, but Hoef stood up quickly, and the rings around his antlers jingled. A fire was growing in his eyes.

“The ponies have nothing to offer us. I will say it, they are pathetic, the only thing they can do is be servants to those stronger than them. Only a hundred years ago they could do nothing as black hordes of the changelings swept over them, the internal disputes of the invaders driving them away before any army they could have mustered. Changelings are strong, the deer are strong, the ponies are weak.

“Yes our pride is in the fear we put into our enemy’s hearts, and I am not ashamed, because it is the pride of our warrior hearts. If you just expect huskarls and raiders to retire to a life of farming, you are more foolish than previously thought.”

As Hoef finished, another jarl, Jarl Trygve, made a jeering proposal. “Perhaps the king is trying to shift our culture to better fit him. He is no warrior, he is a scholar, a deer who enjoys sitting around all day instead of leading raids. Perhaps he is insecure, and trying to make us more like him.”

“I can assure you, Jarl Trygve, that I have no such disposition. Ultimately, I am here because while I will fight to defend this treaty, I do not wish to kill you, or to burn your lands. I wish for us to find a peaceful solution. I also believe that you deer do not want to shed blood needlessly, much as I do. It has never been our desire to do so. Why? Honour, the same thing that you accused me of not having. It is not honourable to fight each other unless necessary. In that way, your leader Hoef wished not only a quick end with a bloody battle, but he also wanted me to start it, so that he could claim honour he didn’t deserve.”

“YOU CLAIM THAT I HAVE NO HONOUR?” Hoef roared. “IF IT IS HONOUR THAT YOU CARE ABOUT, THEN HOW ABOUT THIS: YOU PUT DOWN YOUR WORDS AND PICK UP YOUR AXE, THEN WE CAN SETTLE THIS FAIRLY AND HONOURABLY: LIKE STAGGS.”

“If I am a coward, then you draw you weapon first.” Harlod demanded.

Hoef obliged, drawing forth his heavy one-hoof axe, a slight hint of reddish-brown spotted along its tip. Harlod recognised this and Hoef’s full plan. He called over his deer thrall, who carried his axe in a weapon pouch. Ulf, Amund, and Viggo were all on edge, Setting Stars was watching from the back with a dumb expression that screamed “I told you so.” Harlod drew his axe from the pouch. It resembled a kindling axe, long handled with a relatively small and blunt edge, and a compact steel weight on its back. It might have been mistaken for a wood axe if not for the nonmagical runes etched into its blade and the elaborate carvings on its shaft. When Hoef saw it, he laughed.

“You’d use a wood-chopping axe to fight me? What, are you planning to lay me down and split me down the middle?”

“This axe took six years to perfect,” Harlod warned, “six years of getting the balance on this axe just perfect.”

“Six years wasted.” Hoef smirked. Harlod ignored him and adopted a fighting stance.

The two adversaries held themselves back for a bit, eachmaking feints and manoeuvres to test their opponent. Hoef juggled his axe a little bit to test the king’s concentration. He waited, building up his anger inside him with thoughts to intentionally rile himself up, as he did many times when he was preparing for battle. As they continued their dance, he eventually could contain it no more. Hoef leapt forward, swinging his axe over his head and striking quickly. He put so much power into the swing that the king didn’t stand his ground. Hoef smiled as the king stepped back to avoid his blow, exposing his reaction to followup attacks. Hoef redirected the energy in his swing to spin, keeping the axe in the air as he took a pace towards the king. The king tried to exploit an opening and hit Hoef while he was spinning, but Hoef brought his axe around, forcing the king to take another step back. Hoef twisted the missing shot around, bringing it quickly back to strike again. This time the king tried to hold his ground, swinging his axe to catch Hoef’s. The king’s axe hit the axe-head, and with a great clang they collided. Hoef’s axe went high, but now the king’s axe flew toward the king. He ducked, and the axe hit the top of his right antler, and although the low power of the swing meant that the antler held, the blow caused it to pull his head, and he stumbled forward. Hoef capitalised on this and made another swing, this one aimed at the king’s right shoulder. The king leaped to the side to avoid it, blood flowing down his antlers.

Hoef grinned madly, and took a moment to gloat. “Be careful with that axe of yours, it’s sharp.”

The king suppressed a pain tear, took a few paces back, and simply said. “I’m still getting into the fight, don’t worry about me.”

Hoef lifted his axe up to his head, “Oh, I would worry about you. Spilling your blood will spare the blood of your army, sounds like a fair bargain.” Without waiting for a response, he leaped forward and channeling his anger, he charged the king with almost unnatural speed. The king raised his axe in the direction of Hoef’s as if he intended to block the coming blow. Hoef began drawing his strength to shatter the king’s weapon once and for all. Before he could bring down the swing, the king leapt forward too, head down and antlers pointed at Hoef’s exposed chest. Hoef in a microsecond resolved not to stop. He still tried to dodge, but the king’s right antler caught him, and with a snap, it dug into his chest. Hoef finally swung down at the king, but an unexpected tug from the king into Hoef’s path caused Hoef to miss the swing. He barrelled into the king who now stood in his path.

Neither Hoef nor the king actually understood what happened when they collided, but when Hoef pulled himself to his hooves again, the first thing he felt was terrible pain in his chest, one that even he reflexed to cover. There was a gaping hole in it, punctured by the king’s antler and his own reckless speed. The king himself had not pulled himself up yet, and struggled a few paces away, biting his own lip. The top eighth of his right antler was snapped off. Both wounds were flowing freely.

For the first time, the king made the first move: Hoef let him. Hoef was sobering up to nature of the fight he was facing. And so let the king take the first move to gauge his strength. The king walked over and swung sideways at Hoef, Hoef swung down and took both axes into the dirt. Then, instead of picking his weapon back up, Hoef punched the king. He let go of his axe and his hoof collided with the king’s muzzle. The king pulled his axe back around, but Hoef didn’t give him the chance to swing it throwing punches at the king and staying close to him. When he got an opening, the king leapt away, and Hoef leapt back to retrieve his weapon. The two of them then stood off. Slowly circling around each other.

“Getting tired yet?” Hoef asked, seeing that the king was breathing heavily. Hoef worked his best to regulate his breathing so it didn’t look like he was stressed.

“I’m certainly getting tired of you holding back.” Harlod replied, doing his best to smile through the pain of his amputated antler tip and the little blood exiting his left nostril. “They said you’re a mighty warrior; what, did you get that title from killing fish in single combat?”

It seemed to Hoef that his adversary was growing cocky, which was a small victory he could widen. Hoef closed the circle a little, then a little more. They continued to draw closer, to the anticipation of the crowd. Harlod moved so that the sun was position behind him and a little to his right, and shining in the face of the king. The king made the first move, pulled back his axe in preparation to swing, and Hoef tensed. Then, before Harlod’s axe flew, the king’s head snapped to focus on a place just next to Hoef on his right and behind him. In a brief lapse of judgement, Hoef quickly turned to see, and found himself blinded by the sun he had forgotten was there. An epiphany struck him, and he took a step back and turned to face the king again, but too late. He saw the king, and then all thoughts were wiped his mind.

Hoef may not have realised it, but Harlod had deduced that the warrior was about to crush him utterly. That was when he put into action his final trick.

Harlod had allowed Hoef to angle himself just so that Harlod was more used to the sun and Hoef was not, and then he had feigned a surprised change of attention, one sure to briefly move Hoef’s attention into the burning light of the sun. Many would call his tactics dishonourable, but as the weight on the inverse side of Harlod’s axe collided with Hoef’s muzzle, he couldn’t care less. He had moved with such speed as he had never before to exploit his opponent’s mistake, even Hoef’s honed reflexes were not fast enough to stop him.

Harlod followed up with a second swing on his improvised hammer, this one collided with Hoef’s right antler, shattering the still growing bone. Four gold rings fell to earth in a clatter. Hoef responded to these two hits by doing nothing. He simply stumbled back and dropped his axe, a look in his eyes that betrayed the mind struck dumb within. The jarls were in uproar, but not as much as they were about to be.

Harlod was not done. With a great cry of “KNEEL!” he brought the axe-weight around again, slamming it into Hoef’s chest, winding him, and causing him to double over. With adrenaline pumping in his veins, Harlod brought the hammer onto Hoef’s exposed back, causing the wounded deer to collapse completely.

Satisfied, Harlod picked up Hoef’s rust-edged axe and held it up to its owner’s eyes for him to see. Hoef’s eyes were closed in pain.

“Open your eyes, son of Derik.” commanded Harlod. Hoef simply squirmed and moaned.

“Hoef, son of Derik. They say that pain is a greatest method for searing memories into a deer. Flog your thralls to make them remember an execution of a runaway, that’s the standard practise. Well, now, is this enough pain to help you remember? I leave you your life, your estate, everything you have, I leave you to keep. In fact, I give you something, I give you the knowledge that you tried to kill your king after welcoming him into your camp, and that your king, who you called a weakling, defeated you, and spared you. Do I need to give you more pain to help you remember that?”

“King Harlod!” exclaimed Jarl Trygve, backed by a number of the jarl. “Your victory was dishonourable. Misdirection is dishonourable.”

“Your ears need tuning, Trygve son of Celhoff. Nothing about this fight was honourable! If you do not like it, we can forget this duel ever happened. Let the records show that today a consensus was reached.” The adrenaline was beginning to wear out for Harlod, and now he wanted to end. His leg bent a bit, and he stumbled. He kept himself standing, but the excruciating pain where the tip of his right antler was and the dull aches along his muzzle and the blood in his mouth and his nose caught up with him. He felt a hoof along his back, his brother Viggo helped him to stand.

Hoef stirred, and pulled himself as much as he could, stabilising himself with a single hoof. His expression was contorted to furious anger, but his eyes were weary and resigned. Harlod broke from his brother’s grip to kneel down to Hoef’s level.

“What do you have to say, son of Derik?”

“You have destroyed my life, Harlod.” Hoef breathed quietly, as it was the only volume he could manage. “It is my blood, my life’s work, my devotion to the gods themselves, you’ve taken that away. I will not serve you, end me now.”

Harlod use the edge of his axe to poke the iron bands on Hoef’s neck. “Hoef, if you do not wish to serve me, and if you wish to continue your life as before, then leave. Take your family and find a new land to raid for your life, away from here. Do not return to your estate and raid from there, you will only meet death as both the ponies and me will seek your end if you violate the treaty. In this way, if the gods do recognise you as one of their warriors, they will speed you along.”

Hoef coughed up blood. “My body is broken, done by your hoof. I will not survive the week.”

Harlod worked to pull himself back up. “You will live: it is not nearly as bad as you think. I told you the axe was perfectly balanced. Had I used a proper hammer or an axe, you would be dead already. Count it as a blessing, and use the rest of your life well.”

Viggo helped Harlod up to his hooves with a proud smile. “I think this concludes negotiations.”

“Not quite.” Harlod turned to the jarls for one last speech. “Jarls of the mountains and the forests of Olenia, we are one people, united. There is no place for divide in this kingdom, especially among the jarls. The treaty with Equestria has been signed, there is no taking it back without destroying the honour we hold, that define us. If we are honourable, the raids on Equestria will stop. If I have convinced you to my view, or at least begrudgingly accepting the new way of things, there is complete forgiveness and amnesty without dishonour, by repledging your loyalty. For those of you who aren’t convinced, do not soil the fields with the blood of your kin fruitlessly. If you truely do not want to give up your raiding ways, an understandable position, then sail away. Do not sail to Equestria, for they will kill you. Sail to the far east or the far west.”

He picked up Hoef’s axe, and with the last of his strength he swung it into the ground, implanting it. Then, he turned and walked away, not to his retinue, who he signalled to follow him, but in the direction of his camp.

When the king left, Hoef let himself fall limp. His hirðeer entered the ring and lifted him up together, and they walked him back to his tent.

While they worried over him for the following few days, just as Harlod said, he recovered from his physical wounds, although he wouldn’t recover from those to his ego. He spoke little to his companions and the jarls, and over the week following the duel, slowly his following dissipated. When he recovered fully, he sailed from Olenia to his estate in the pony lands, where he gathered his household, returned to Olenia, met with his remaining fellows, the twelve unconvinced jarls, and together they all set off towards the west.

The year 143 ALB was pivotal in Olenian history. The uprooting of the main economic income of the kingdom and the Exodus of the Unconvinced Thirteen left Olenia weak for many centuries to come in spite of the efforts of King Harlod I and his heirs. The northern mountain lands fell into chaos as spiteful jarls who hadn’t left moved there to distance themselves from the growing central power of the Olenian king, while karls loyal to the crown moved from those lands to the fertile coast regions. These events, coinciding with the death of the Changeling Queen Issoria Vrak and the changeling enforcement of the west meant that Olenia entered a period of instability both internal and external in nature, one that would take generations to recover from.

Meanwhile, Hoef Derikson, Jarl Trygve, and the rest of the Unconvinced Thirteen sailed out of the histories and into the sagas.