This short story is an entry into the Free Kingdom Lore Contest. The contest is sponsored by Jon Warren. The judges will be three monarch candidates from the Free Kingdom competition: NiHZ, Seele, and Jon Warren. An official list of the lore contest entries will be frequently updated on the Lore Contest thread
Hawks Waiting
“We should have killed the Captain before we left.”
The seconds drift by. Hafnar curls his lip ever so slightly.
“Yeah, I know he couldn’t find his own campfire on a clear night.”
A brief glint flows across Dagrid’s eye.
“It’s not funny, you know there will be trouble. Even without the Horsemen.”
Einar shrugs. Time flows under strange stars.
“I hate the taste of the air here. ”
A waning crescent watches over the scrub.
“I don’t think anyone is coming.”
A cold breeze tugs gently at the goshawk pennant.
“I don’t think The Waerd can see in the dark.”
A mournful howl echoes across the rocky landscape.
“Blackfoot doesn’t like it here. Nothing grows. When are we going north?”
Wilhelm stares downwards. Brigitta turns her head away.
“Why the hell not? I don’t want to die here.”
The silence expands.
Finally the gruff voice of Einar, "That’s not something you get to choose"
More moments.
“Well, shit.”
...
The night grows silent. The cold, deeper.
Greymist’s ears perk to attention and Blackfoot’s head jerks sharply to the north.
A figure steps into the moonlight with their arms outstretched, hands empty, and a lilting voice speaks out. “He talks lot.”
Einar shrugs again. "Even after all the miles, he is still young."
Fingers clenching, “Hawks, nested, alone, ’tis odd.”
Einar glances at the pennant and waits.
Hands still, “Where is your legion?”
Einar glances again at the pennant and waits.
Palms together, “So, no Legion. That is news.”
The Waerd steps slowly forward reaching for a waterskin.
Einar towers above. The rest of the Company remain statues.
The Waerd takes a careful swallow from the skin and holds it forth, “So you wish to talk?”
Einar drinks, "Two days ago, what remains was camped at Red Rock."
Eyes darting, “Why tell us?”
"Even Young Snorri could find them wearing a blindfold. Why pretend it is otherwise?"
Odd gestures, “This is the news you trade?”
"The Mad King is dead."
Stillness, “You know this truth?”
"Doesn’t matter. The Legion believes. The Neran rode for home."
Hands gathered over chest, “Why tell us?”
"The Ninth is fractured. It is a ravaging horde now. Soon they will turn on each other."
Hand on dagger. Hand on lips, “They always were. Death comes for all of us. You seek mercy?”
"We are very far from home. We will never return."
The strange sounds of an unfamiliar night resume.
"Our kin are now free. Our Service Bond severed."
The call of a desert owl.
"We will not die in the Empire’s name. That is what we can choose."
Silent and rooted, the Waerd stares intently for a measure of heartbeats. Could be seven, it is hard to remember later.
Arms extending, “I listen and learn.”
Empty palms forwards, “West, a mountain with frozen trees. The Queen says you may die there.”
Einar nods his head, the Waerd slides into the shadow, and the statues exhale.
