95. Homecoming

The people of Winterclaw were out in force to welcome home their heroes. Over a week had passed since Mark had returned, and the land had been almost eerily quiet.

He had no illusion that his enemies had fled to their lands entirely. Scouts had confirmed much of the warg armies had scattered and broken into fragments. He wasn’t entirely sure why none had ventured into the lands around Winterclaw, but it might have been as simple as they were hunting down the easiest prey first.

Mark had made some quick trips to his tiny fiefdoms to check in on them. Most of them, with the exception of the mine, had been left essentially defenseless until their lords, along with their retinues, returned. However, at least so far, none had been attacked.

With the army returned to Winterclaw, caravans would head out within a day or two to reinforce the settlements, and land patrols would resume. Mark just had to hope that they would make it to their destinations before they suffered a setback.

In the battlefield ruins, Mark’s army, once both loyal western and eastern tribes were combined, likely reached north of six thousand; however, less than a thousand returned to Winterclaw. Not that he was complaining. Those men were needed elsewhere, and the town would have struggled to feed them all.

His people still had a winter to survive, and if not taken seriously, elements could easily prove as deadly as armies. 

His first course of action was to increase the buy price he offered for unprocessed rigar to stimulate the collection of the bark. He needed as many people as possible to harvest it to rebuild their reserves.

Recovering from war would no doubt prolong the burden on state coffers, but he hadn’t fought so hard just to watch his people suffer and starve in the wake of victory.

What the army did bring with them, though, was wealth. Much of it was just iron weapons and armor, but even that sold for a decent enough price, and soon Winterclaw’s stores were overflowing with battlefield loot.

With the streets crowded and overflowing, many soldiers set up camps around the fort walls, but Yelinda and the other chiefs and elders were invited into the Imperial District.

Mark realized that it also required rebranding. He hadn’t yet declared the kingdom’s new name and intended to do so during a proclamation to the people. At that time, he would rename the Imperial District to the Royal District. The last thing he wanted was to keep his kingdom’s center of power to be named after their main rival.

Allowing a day of rest, he announced his intention to address the entire kingdom, allowing an entire week for anyone who wanted to attend to make their way to Winterclaw.

The keep’s construction had made amazing progress in the weeks leading up to the battle, and Mark couldn’t help but dismay his missing trolls and their mutant slaves. He wanted word of their whereabouts and called both his scouts and his knights to the main hall on the ground floor of the keep.

His four young knights stood at attention alongside a dozen veteran scouts, most of whom had followed the wargs' retreat for several days following their defeat.

“Firstly, thank you all for your efforts in the battle,” Mark said. “We must learn of what has happened to our troll allies. This is vital for several reasons, but perhaps the most important is that a united troll army that isn’t loyal to our new kingdom could pose a serious threat.”

Those in attendance remained steadfast and at attention, but Mark noticed the subtle shifts in their demeanor and the attempt at hiding the worry in their eyes. There was no doubt everyone hoped for a moment of peace following the defeat of the wargs.

“Do not worry. I have no reason to doubt our allies. But a king must be vigilant, and considering the possibility they have turned against us is something I must entertain until we confirm what they are doing.”

That seemed to ease their expressions a little.

“Your mission is to head north following the tracks they left behind and bring me answers. Knight Callum will be the captain of your squad and will fly you north on his throne ship. I expect that you scouts will be able to direct my knights and help them find evidence of what has happened to the trolls.”

“Yes, my lord,” the scouts echoed in unison.

“Good. If you find them, take care. As mentioned, we cannot entirely say they are still on our side. If they appear to be friendly, you may approach them. If unsure, return here. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” everyone said that time.

“And Knight Callum.”

“King Atlas?”

“Are you ready for this station?”

“Of course, my lord,” Callum bowed his head. “I will not let you down.”

“Good. Remember, I won’t be able to save you this time. This is a chance to step up and prove you are the knights I promoted you to be.”

All four knights nodded with conviction.

“Good, you’re dismissed,” Mark waved them away. “This might just be the most important mission within the kingdom right now. Don’t let me down.”

***

Mark’s tiny cabin had long since been outgrown. It was simply not fit for a king. However, the room he had planned for himself within the keep at its top floor, overlooking Winterclaw, had yet to have its construction even started, let alone finished. However, the giant yurts of the battlefield gave him an idea.

Mark had the giant yurts they had brought back from the battle set up like a circus tent at one end of the newly minted Royal District. He even had them cut apart and stitched together to be the actual size of a circus tent.

Once fireplaces were set up and furs lined the floors with cushions piled up at seating spots along the ground, it was very much the barbarian-esque lord’s chamber. And while Mark would have preferred a setting befitting of a feudal king of a real kingdom, it was better than his little cabin and a suitable temporary solution.

An uncomfortable air hung over the lounge area as Mark sat across several cushions. Ales had been taken out of storage and offered to his guests, and he sipped a rather dry but pleasant brew.

He had prepared new titles for the clan leaders and their elders, many of which ruled little settlements in an almost feudal-like fashion already within their clans.

The feudal contracts he had planned were more to formalize things than overhaul the political landscape of the land. All of that was fairly straightforward, though. Some would be made dukes, others counts and barons. That wasn’t what made Mark uncomfortable.

It was the long-lashed gaze that fluttered in his direction from Yelinda on occasion.

Everything had moved so fast over the last month or so. He had been married out of a diplomatic need to unite the people of the land and defeat an existential threat to their existence. Because of that, he hadn’t given the whole affair that much thought, but now?

For force an awkward smile back. 

He had practically forgotten that he had an actual wife, which would have been unimaginable in his previous life.

Mark was a go-getter; he had always been. But he didn’t run into decisions like that. Marriage was the kind of thing old Mark would have spent years mulling over. It even cost him a relationship in the past as he could not make up his mind. But now? 

He had a stunning wife sitting several yards away from him in a primitive hut with whom he had barely shared an informal word. The thought of it was surreal, almost as much as the reminder he had been fighting actual monsters was.

What am I doing here?

The question was more frustration with himself than genuine curiosity. 

He wondered if he was meant to do something. Or was the contract just that, a contract? Something born out of necessity to save their land, and now it could be forgotten about?

That’s not how these things worked in feudal times, he reminded himself. They might have been political, but they were also intimate. After all, producing heirs was hard without that second, very important part.

Was Yelinda waiting for that? Had that been an unwritten part of the agreement Mark had been too distracted to consider?

He wished he could see into her thoughts. Were the glances she shot him out of frustration? Trying to get his attention. Or was she just being friendly?

“More ale,” Mark barked as one of the servers passed him. 

The moment his flagon was full, he gulped it down and banged it against the table as if to say, ‘Fill me up again!’

Mark’s vision grew blurred and dizzy as the night dragged on. Guests pressed closer, gathering around the table that extended out from in front of Mark, playing a variety of games and drinking.

He had only attended for political reasons—an attempt to form tighter bonds with the people who would become his sworn vassals. But as his thoughts had wandered, his intoxication had cascaded to the point that he was the drunkest person in the tent.

“To the King!” A clan chief roared, raising his mug to the air.

“To the King!” Chants followed around the tent, and Mark obliged by raising his mug and gulping down the contents.

An hour passed, and Mark found himself leaning forward over a popular barbarian board game that was similar to checkers, swaying.

“Are you okay?” Yelinda asked to his side.

In Mark’s drunken stupor, he just realized she was sitting beside him now.

“Me? I’m fine?” He grinned with rosy red cheeks.

“You don’t have to keep drinking, you know? You’ve truly won the Chiefs over already. They had some reservations about you before, but seeing you let go and enjoy the night with them seems to have worked.”

“Great,” Mark burped, and Yelinda shied away with a grimace.

“Maybe you should call it a night,” Yelinda tenderly proposed. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day.”

“Call it a night? Ha, where’s the fun in that?”

“Let him stay. The King ought to have his fun after all he's done,” a bearded clan chieftain said from across the table. “Lighten up, Yelinda.”

“Don’t you think he’s had his fun?” Yelinda glared back.

“Ahh, don’t be a spoil. Tis the time for merrymaking.”

“I’ll cheers to that,” another said, raising his flagon.

“Aye, aye!”

“Aye,” Mark joined in, wobbly raising his mug and almost tipping over.

Mark had never been one for big drinking binges, and even less so since waking up in this world. He had far too much to do to indulge in such things, and his tolerance was nowhere near the chiefs that he drank beside.

“Whoa there,” one man said, breaking into laughter.

“Call the wrenches to prop the good king up.”

“Come on, you’re falling over yourself,” Yelinda said. “No need to push yourself any further.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Mark croaked.

“Of course I’m right,” Yelinda said. “Hey, you two, come help me assist the King to his bed chamber.

“Yes, me, lady,” two servers nodded and rushed over.

“You really can’t handle your booze, can you?” Yelinda said as they ushered Mark out of the tent.

“Appears not,” Mark dizzily murmured.

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