Two warriors clashed, the noise of colliding weapons ringing through the cold air. They circled each other, maneuvered, surged forward, kicking the snow from under their feet with remarkable fervor. When both were on the move, it looked as if they were surrounded by a miniature blizzard.

Ymdaton struggled. He was dragged down by many things: his weakened body, his equipment, but, mostly, by his opponent. Abimnupal was an outstanding warrior, equal to Crewslayer, if not better. He saw Ymdaton in battle before, he understood opponent’s style, habits, weaknesses. Crewslayer tried several approaches during their confrontation, yet none were successful this far. His comrade was always finding a countermeasure, always pushing him back, always forcing him into defence.

He tried another trick. After letting the adversary to make an advancing attack, he shoved Abimnupal back with a knee to the shield. Surprisingly, the opponent stumbled. Crewslayer expected a feint, so when the other man made an uprising attack with a buckler, he was just far enough to avoid it.

Too late he noticed that the force of a move was not focused on the shield, which hung freely on leather straps around Abimnupal’s forearm. The opponent was grasping a snowball in his fist. His comrade released it as soon as it became visible to Ymdaton. Crewslayer raised arms to block it, following reflexes. Yet his muscles were still sluggish, not quite fast enough to keep up with his perception.

The small projectile hit him square in the nose. It was not that painful, yet distractive enough to make him blink. When he opened his eyes next moment, Abimnupal was right at him, his axe’s edge pointed at Ymdaton’s neck.

“You are dead,” informed he in a most dispassionate tone.

Panting heavily, Ymdaton dropped his axe and shield.

“Three moons in the bed, almost without movement were not beneficial. You would have destroyed me during your better days. I told you from the beginning that expedition was a bad idea,” told him Abimnupal and then added, “We should spar more.”

“You are not really subtle with your motivational speeches,” shrugged Ymdaton, “I am weak though, you’re right. For once, I need a break now, I’m out of my breath. Don’t remember that happening to me before.”

“Honoured warriors,” a voice from behind cut them off. Crewslayer turned to see Dragomir stepping from the house into the courtyard. He eyed the light leather clothing of kinani men, “Don’t you feel cold?” asked he and wrapped himself even deeper into his fur coat.

“On the contrary, looks like it is too hot for him,” pointed Abimnupal at Ymdaton and mocked his heavy breathing. His friend made a sour grimace.

“Anyway,” smiled the merchant, “A messenger from the knez came to inform me of a council meeting today. I am invited to attend it, alongside members of High Crew that are lodging in my house.”

“Did not bother to mention me by name,” shook his head Ymdaton.

“I will go prepare myself for the event, so that I look somewhat civilized,” told Abimnupal.

“I’m not sure if it’s even possible for you,” said Ymdaton with a grin. When his comrade turned towards the house, Crewslayer made a gesture to the merchant, asking him to stay.

“I have a question,” uttered he, when Abimnupal left. His face instantly became dead serious.

“Speak,” answered Dragomir with an interest written in his eyes.

“You travelled a lot, saw a lot of cities, a lot of warriors,” the kinani man paused, “Have you ever seen an emblem of a single mountain upon the shield.”

The trader was silent, bearing a thoughtful expression for some time.

“I saw quite a lot of warriors, that is right,” finally said he, “yet no militiaman or mercenary that I can remember bore such an image.”

“Thought so,” nodded Ymdaton.

“Where did you see it?” asked the merchant.

“Doesn’t matter,” shook his head the warrior, “I just can’t tell anymore what really happened in the eastern groves from what I saw in my fever dreams,” he headed for the door, “I’ll go prepare myself as well.”

Dragomir did not ask him anything else.

The meeting was held in the same immense building as before. Weak winter sun barely squeezed its light through many windows of the house. It was noisy inside. Many walks of life gathered there: distinguished crewmen, militiamen of renown, Azytenisar’s court, the city council. Men were idly chatting, arguing, laughing even. The lord of Abeneewy himself was sitting on his throne, discussing something with Lulaton in low whispers.

Head of the council Tridum stepped into the middle of the hall and hit the floor with a butt of his stuff. The impact was loud and ringing. Everyone’s attention instantly switched to the old man.

“Let there be silence!” his voice was surprisingly powerful, “We came here to present the most urgent matters before our lord, Master of the Lands among the Sea and among the Forest, Lord of the House and the City, Knez of Khaldnetz Azytenisar. Let us hear the initiator of the gathering.”

Forward stepped the old grizzled drevlyani warrior.

“Look at him,” hissed Hasdruhy at Ymdaton’s side, “He calls himself ‘the elected commander’, when a crewman commands any squad stronger than ten people.”

“True,” nodded Abimnupal, “Our lord should dismantle this title altogether. Master over the house is master over warriors. There is no other way.”

Ymdaton simply shrugged his shoulders.

“You are quite simple,” came Azandahy’s voice somewhere from behind, “Lord Azytenisar honours local traditions. That is why forest dwellers love him. You sound like you want us to be shoved outside the walls by angry townsmen.”

“Greetings, men of Khladnetz, greetings, men of the islands, greetings, o mighty knez,” began Likhobor, the elected commander of militia, “It is true that I have requested this meeting. I will not be going circles around my case,” he paused, his face brightened with inspiration, “Our case. So, the point is: drevlyani cities, major and minor, have formed a league and are currently plotting to make war with us,” the crowd exhausted an avalanche of protesting and surprised utterings.

The commander did not seem to notice and concluded his speech anyway, “Supposedly, the attack will come this spring.”