92. Creating Ties

The line of people wanting to speak with Mark following the battle seemed endless. Everyone wanted to secure themselves something. His people even spotted several making their way to both camps, trying to secure deals with the both of the opposing kings.

Undoubtedly, people felt they had risked enough already having fought in the battle and surviving. Now, they just wanted to be confident that they would be rewarded for all their hard won efforts.

Weedy Eye and several other yarn weavers began weaving their legends of the battle immediately. However, many of the warriors sought other forms of entertainment. They had already battled and hardly wanted to hear of tales of battles told to them. Instead, they sought out entertainment in the flesh and booze, finding this far more compelling for their weary souls. But for those who did listen, the stories did well to create an image around Mark and his slaying of the warg.

The two camps were closely located, and people from both camps were allowed to cross between them without issue, in accordance with their truce.

A few minor fights broke out between drunks, but for the most part, peace was maintained with little effort. 

Once Mark tired of his makeshift throne, he retired to a grand tent that was set up for him and his leadership to enjoy the night.

Yelinda and several clan lords sat around on furs, playing games and drinking. Pulling out cards, Mark introduced them to poker, which was eagerly joined by several of his own people who had taken a liking to the game.

“Quite the game you have,” Yelinda said, checking a hand. “Do all people in Winterclaw play this?”

“All? No, but it is becoming more and more popular,” Mark replied, raising the pot.

Gambling was rampant across the camp. The slaughter of their enemy had left huge sums of wealth in the hands of Mark’s people, and many of them were more than happy to try to double their earnings.

“Bah,” an older clan leader huffed, throwing down his cards. “Silly eastern game. Axe throwing better,” he growled and stormed out of the tent.

“Seems not everyone is so fond of your Winterclaw Hold ’em,” Yelinda chuckled.

“Can’t make everyone happy,” Mark shrugged.

“All in,” another clan elder with a long, braided beard said, pushing all his coins into the center of the little table they had placed in the middle of the furs.

“Looks like some people can take the heat,” Mark grinned. “Call.”

“I’ll make ye regret that,” the old man smiled.

“We’ll see.”

“A bit rich for me, boys,” Yelinda said, folding her cards.

The two men flipped their cards, and the old man began laughing hysterically as he wrapped his hands around the coins.

“Good game,” Mark said.

“Told you I’d make ye regret it,” the old chief said, his smile plumping his already full, red cheeks.

The iron coins were a tiny price to pay for good relations. Attempting to bribe the man with a similar sum would likely be seen as an insult, but losing it during a game? Mark was creating inroads and building relationships with the clan leaders he would need to rely upon if he were to build a successful kingdom. There were a few pots of iron coins here, and there was a small price to pay. 

Of course, there was a skill to what he was doing. If he made it too easy, he would make himself look weak, maybe even foolish and stupid. He needed his people to believe their wins were hard-earned. Give themselves a sense of pride and make him look like a good sport who would honor a deal, even if it didn’t favor him or made him poorer. 

Mark needed his people to have confidence in him. They needed to believe that he wasn’t just the strongest and most likely to succeed as king but an honorable king they could trust to uphold his promises, and what better way to show that than through good sportsmanship?

Clan elders and chiefs came and went from Mark’s tent all night, including those from the opposing king’s camp. He had made sure word spread of the games they played—another delicate balance between generosity and looking weak.

Many in the other camp wouldn’t trust Mark and wouldn’t visit his tent without good reason, especially clan lords who had been promised great things from Dothran.

Mark needed ways to lure them to him, but if people saw him as an easy target who everyone was preying on for easy coins, he would destroy his own image.

To deal with this, he made sure his people emphasized the fun that was taking place in his tent as well as the money to be won. He also made sure people knew about the women who he made sure were on display, lounging about in silky robes that left little to the imagination. The women would be freezing if not for the little fireplaces placed at the corners of the large yurt. 

After Weedy Eye had spent a couple of hours telling stories to the warriors outside, he called him into the tent alongside several musicians. 

The number of elders and chiefs in his massive yurt had increased, and he wanted the tales of his exploits to play in the background as they gambled and drank.

This continued late into the night until people began to pass out where they lay. Mark didn’t particularly like the idea of sharing his tent with a bunch of poorly washed barbarians, but these people were the leaders and the elites of several of the strongest clans and represented people from both camps, so he let it slide.

There was something about sharing a tent that brought them closer to one another, and when they rose in the morning, every guest made sure to speak to Mark and thank him for the night.

But it was hardly over. A victory as grand as the defeat of wargs would be celebrated for several nights if supplies allowed it, and luckily, Mark had made sure that his war caravan had brought plenty of alcohol with it.

Rumors began to spread from the opposing King’s camp the following night. It wasn’t a good look that Mark’s people had supplies, and his didn’t. But the king was too prideful to request alcohol gifted to him. So his tent had turned into a sober affair whilst partying took place all around it.

On the second day, Dothran attempted to rally his people and march them back to their old encampment, but several influential chiefs and clan elders refused, and he ultimately backed down.

Weary men marching in the snow with fresh wounds was a hard sell when liquor, food, and coin flowed within the camp.

The second night of celebrations saw even more people flowing into Mark’s tent, and he had to order an impromptu expansion of the yurt. His men essentially took another tent, moved it to the entrance, and stitched them together.

With the two large tents connected, it was beginning to look more like a circus tent than a place where people rested.

Even if they only came for the gambling or women, Mark made sure to introduce himself to every important person who entered the camp. If they fought in the battle, he made sure to celebrate their achievements, which was a great honor considering Mark’s own achievements.

In the culture within the Frontier, it was expected that more accomplished warriors would be expected someone to celebrate their achievements before mentioning deeds from less accomplished warriors. This wasn’t lost on the clan leaders when Mark came to them. He showed humility in a way few did, and with the growing whispers of Mark being the Vanquisher, this only worked to increase the grandeur of his image among the people.

Warriors had begun chanting Mark’s name during drinking games and declaring feats in his honor, such as beating their peers in wrestling matches.

It was becoming clear that his influence was growing and quickly eclipsing Dothran.

Mark knew that he would need to be more vigilant than ever now. The barbarian king hadn’t fought the battles he fought, played politics, and built the largest force in the entire Frontier just to watch it fall to Mark’s fame.

He doubted Dothran would watch his power fade and fall without a fight, and if he wasn’t careful, he could still be outplayed. The man’s achievements were evidence of his cunning, and it would be foolish to underestimate him.

Luckily, several of Dothran’s inner circle had become regulars in his tent, and they made a habit of speaking loudly. The game they played was obvious. They wanted to share what they knew in a way that maintained deniability. Not because they believed in Dothran’s ability to wrestle control of the situation; if that were the case, then they wouldn’t say anything at all. If he became king, he would likely have them hung for their treachery regardless. No, they played coy because they wanted to hang onto their honor. As made men in Dothran’s court, their loyalty was expected, and to share his secrets with his enemy was a great dishonor.

The time is coming. I must act before he has a chance to.

Everything was going to plan, and leaving it another day would likely only cement Mark as the new king, but if Dothran acted, it could all fall apart.

He knew he had to take action and not leave it to his rival. He would call everyone and to make sure nobody wasn’t in attendance, the last of their alcohol supply would be on offer.

Mark intended to make a speech to all the people, declaring himself King of the Frontier. For this, he would use Yelinda, and every chief, elder, and high-ranking clan member would speak for him.

This would push Dothran to act, but he doubted he would attempt to upstage his popularity. Mark had become a literal legend, turning the tide of battle and defeating their enemy at the last moment. Challenging his image would be political suicide.

That meant Dothran would be limited to underhanded plays. But at least he would force the barbarian king to do it on his terms instead of allowing him to plan the place and time.

Exhaling and smiling at the clan leaders as they raised their mugs and cheered, Mark planned his next step. 

To onlookers, it may have looked like simple merrymaking, but not for a moment had passed that Mark hadn’t spent time planning or politicking his new subjects. 

This was an opportunity, and it couldn’t be wasted. There would be plenty of time to enjoy himself after he had won his kingdom.

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