Blood, Glory and Honor?
Bjorke and Norgoth sat side by side in the Guild hall, silent, brooding and drinking heavily. Truitt came in to see if he was needed, took one look at them, turned around and left. He wasn’t paid enough for that type of combat.
“We should have told them. They are our Blood Guard; we should have at least told them.” Her voice was tired and weary. Instead of curling into her own chair by the fire, she had chosen the straight, hard chair at the table. Norgoth sat in the matching chair, leaning his elbows on the table. The candle light etched the lines into his face and as Bjorke looked at him, she could tell the evening had taken a toll on him, as well.
“We have dishonored Sterling,” he said softly, his Northerner’s accent thick.
“What must they think of us? We hide this from them, and then expect them to kill their guildmate? Burn him alive?” She drained her tankard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She shuddered, like she did the night she had discovered the truth about Ose, as if someone had walked on her grave.
“Blood, Glory and Honor” they had yelled at the end, as a tribute to the man who was dead. But, at what cost?
Norgoth pushed himself up, making no effort to hide the stiffness and age in his body. “I head for bed, beloved.” He bent to kiss her softly.
“I’ll join you soon, husband.” He knew she preferred time alone with her thoughts at night, and nodded. She watched him go. She had never seen him so dejected before. Not since the Usurper had him in its grip, anyway. How long ago was that, she mused? She shook her head, trying to clear out the cobwebs of thought. She hadn’t taken over Sterling for this: to kill a guild mate. What must the others be thinking?
