Putting together a good group for the journey, even a small one had taken work, nothing Edvard was not capable of, of course. The problem was not the details, details were precisely the sort of thing he knew how to handle, the problem was the budget, his lord had little of it. Lady Alva's request was not part of the agreement itself, either, it was a commission outside the main frame, the sort to be paid only upon completion.
Even so Hrafn was a voroir, and there was a fixed flow of coin coming in. Small when compared to that of serious nobles, but real, and together with Edvard's name and the prestige of the new association, it was enough to gather a decent group. The greatest issue had been the voroir expensive armor, but Hrafn would leave Sahirid with one, even if Edvard had to sell a little of his own dignity to make it happen. He would not make the mistake of letting him go into the field with less than he ought to have.
"What do you think, my lord?" he asked, standing beside Hrafn.
The young man shifted his weight from foot to foot, testing the fit of the armor. "You're full of surprises, Ed," he replied, his voice muffled by the helmet.
Edvard nodded satisfied. He himself wore white cloth beneath a black tunic, with the proper overvestments for his position, everything aligned as it ought to be. His short hair, now almost entirely white, was neatly trimmed, the silver monocle rested over his left eye, and nothing less than an appearance finer than his own would be given to the lord he served.
"Are the adjustments good?" he asked.
"Very good," said Hrafn, removing the helmet.
The armor was something Edvard had possessed for years, and old belongs, a remnant of another time. He had needed to have it altered, which had consumed more than an entire week and delayed their departure beyond what Hrafn would have liked, but the final result justified the wait.
"I imagine it belonged to someone from the Hird," said Hrafn.
"Yes. It did," he replied, elaborating little. The piece reminded Edvard of a poor past and fortunately his lord had no wish to dig into the matter.
It was, as Hrafn suspected, the property of a former voroir. The helmet, like almost all those that came from the Hirds had been shaped with proper care, symbolism and nobility. The creature chosen for that piece had been the River Ram, a rare and almost mythical beast, said to be capable of walking the world even during the Star's absence. It suggested elegance, fluidity and balance, an animal suited to the former owner, though not so much to the current one. Hrafn was many things, elegant was not among them.
The old blue details had been replaced with green, to better match the blessing of the new lord. On the right shoulder a larger pauldron had been set, heavier than the right, to compensate for the absence of the lost arm. The result looked unbalanced to the eye, but balanced the body.
"The balance is good too," said Hrafn. Then he began to move the mace.
Edvard watched as the sound of the weapon cutting through the air grew with each instant, faster and faster, until the space itself seemed to give way before the momentum. When the speed reached the point at which any ordinary man would already have lost control of his wrist, Hrafn began to spin it between his fingers, preserving the angular force of an object no sound judgment would have permitted to be handled that way.
"Good," he said. The motion stopped the instant the word left him. There came a dry sound of metal against metal in the gauntlets, the abrupt deceleration echoing.
"Impressive, my lord," said Edvard, and it truly was. So little time had passed and still Hrafn was already so skilled in handling the weapon. That did not come from the strength of megin alone. Edvard had seen men capable of crushing helms with their hands who still could not spin a staff between their fingers without looking like idiots. But now, a mace? With a heavy head, poor momentum, and an unkind distribution? Until then, he had not even known that could be done with such precision.
"It's easier out here," Hrafn replied. At times he left these small clues. Hints about the nature of his own blessing, about how it worked or failed to work, without ever truly explaining. Edvard suspected he did it only to whet his curiosity. The irritating part was that it worked.
"And it's heavy too," Hrafn went on. "A common man couldn't run with this."
"I imagine not, my lord. It weighs as much as an adult man." It had been forged for voroirs and that meant more than thick iron, was better material, greater density and plates made for a kind of body saturated with megin. Only men like them could move inside it with anything resembling grace.
"I'm very satisfied, Ed," said Hrafn, His black eyes, dark as coal, lingered on the helmet for one instant more before he handed it to the butler. "Time to leave, then."
"Yes, my lord." Edvard received the piece with care, avoiding the helm's sharp horns.
The warriors were already waiting outside, a small group, but it would be enough. The Star would be absent only once on the road to the mine outpost and when it returned, they ought already to have arrived. It was a short route and there was a limit to the dangers that dared approach so near to Sahirid.
As they crossed the courtyard, Edvard saw some of the men cast glances toward the new lord. What they saw was youth and one arm less, armor too good for someone so newly arrived, and too high a title for an unknown man. Some saw miracle as well, in the shock of the heavy iron striking the ground, in the presence. Others saw risk, some saw both.
"Hello, elevated one. I'm Dagny," said the leader of the warriors.
She was a tall woman, broad of shoulder, with a face weathered by time spent beyond the walls. She lacked the Hird's refinement, but she possessed something better suited to that work: experience. The mail and leather she wore were worn in the proper places, the hilt of her sword showed real use, and the scars did too.
"I can see you are young," she continued. "And do not take me wrong, I do not doubt your strength. But I and the lads here..." She made a short gesture indicating the group. "We are experienced''.
''Some of us stopped counting how many times we've gone far afield and i ask that you listen to that experience, if the need arises." She finished with a brief bow, without grace or etiquette, more soldier than courtier.
Hrafn took a moment to assess the group with his eyes. Most bore old scars, the kind one earns only by staying alive in places where others die, some already had white threads in their hair, others kept their hands too near their blades. A habit of those who had already learned to trust death in order to live. They were good signs, none of them looked unprepared for the work.
"You chose well, Ed," said Hrafn.
"As the trade requires, my lord."
Dagny cast the butler a brief look, perhaps measuring how much of that was staged polish and how much was real. Then she looked back to Hrafn. "The men will listen," she said. "But they'll look first."
"Makes sense, I would do the same.," Hrafn answered. "and i'll listen''
That seemed to surprise her. The woman had probably expected pride or wounded sensitivity, the defensive roughness so many young men use when they want to hide insecurity. What she received instead was something else, not humility, but strange absence of vanity in the places where it was expected, and that often confused people.
Dagny crossed her arms. "Good," she said. "Then we understand each other."
Hrafn inclined his head only slightly. "Not completely. If the need arises," he went on, "I'll listen to experience. But if I tell you to run, you run. If I say no one plays the hero, no one plays the hero."
Dagny looked at him as though seeing him again, now with a different calculation in her head.
"Fair," she said at last.
"Excellent."
Hrafn started forward, without speech, without performative blessing, he simply moved. The armor answered the motion well, the weight seemed to belong to his body and mace hung there, a silent promise of violence. The servants began to move into place and the horses were brought. Edvard handed the helmet to Hrafn only at the proper moment, already near the mount. His lord took it in his left hand, pulled the helm over his head, and set it in place as though closing a door.
The River Ram looked upon the world once more.
"We leave," he said.
Dagny repeated the order. The men began to follow, the first horseshoes struck stone, the gate ahead waited open, and beyond it the road fell away from Sahirid toward the mine, the strike and the fear. Edvard remained still for one moment longer before following the group. The morning wind touched his face with a light, clean cold. Sahirid remained behind them, beautiful and severe as ever.
Ahead, the world.