The fight over, Luthene had time to be fully furious. She had trusted Galin not to say anything objectionable, but he had. Then he had kissed her, and when the fight was over, claimed her as thought she were chattel. True, that had been done to save her from having to fight off the other men of the company, but it wouldn't have been necessary had he not told such a scandalous lie in the first place. Now they had to share a hut, and he had a smile on his face about the prospect.

As soon as Galin stepped inside the hut and the leather flap closed behind him, Luthene closed the distance between them and slapped him— and she would have punched him instead, but didn't want to leave a mark. "How dare you," she said, her voice furious but quiet. "Of all the things you could have said, why did it have to be that? And now we're to share a hut, there's only one bed, and you seem pleased about it?" She looked at it, and judged it to be too small for two people, unless they wanted to be on top of one another— and Luthene certainly did not want that. "One of us is going to have to sleep on the floor."

She took to pacing the small hut, needing to expend some of her energy and unable to properly yell or hit something (or someone). She was desperate, she needed this job, but thus far, it was a disaster. The only thing she had in common with Alyson of Egjora, it seemed, was skill with a blade. She wasn't sure she could be Alyson, not the way Galin was describing her.

"Galin, you know me. You know I'm not like that. I appreciate your help, but I don't know if I can keep up appearances, especially if we're to march. They'll know I'm not who I claim to be, and then what? It will reflect badly on you for speaking for me, and I expect I'll have to leave. I don't see how this could go well for either of us."

He should have seen it coming.  If he was honest, he knew it was, but he made no move to stop it.  Wincing a little, he rubbed the red mark on his cheek as she began to upbraid him for his charade.  And while her hissing anger washed over him, Galin refrained from shouting at her and destroying the whole story she was chastising him for.  Instead, he gave her a crooked smile, sure to infuriate her, and listened, leaning against a timber near the door.

"Have you about finished?"

Galin looked at her and the smile dropped a fraction.  He was frustrated and tired of being treated like a good-natured buffoon nearly every waking moment.  It was a great sham to avoid taking on greater work for the captain, but it did not mean that he was actually as dense as he could seem.  "Good.  Now it's time I lecture the General about tactics," he said, pushing himself off the wall and standing very close to her so he would not have to raise his voice.

"So, General.  You needed a story.  The only one that would even get you a moment's time in that hall was the Academy, and if you were booted for incompetence, you would have no place.  So it would have to be something that would be a matter of reputation and not skill.  Secondly, it would have to be something that they would not really be able to confirm.  I don't expect the Vesporans would bandy about that their swordmaster was sheathing his blade in the students, so they would have to take it as it is, and it would explain why you were drummed out but still able to fight."  His jaw tightened as he growled out his reply, a fist clenched at his side, nails digging into his palm.

"So that explains the original plan.  Now for the maneuvers, General," he said, almost spitting the title out like bile.  "I expected to volunteer for more duty in the hall to give you time to yourself here.  And it you looked under the cot, you would have noticed a spare blanket for me to use on the ground.  As for marching, it clearly will not be too far-fetched to have a bloody shouting match and be estranged on campaign, so you would remain unmolested but still nominally taken so when we returned, you and I could reconcile and you would have a place still.

"And finally, Alyson, you will need to accept the reality of your situation.  You are an oath-breaker, a deserter, and the general of an army that ravaged a continent in a needless war of idealism.  There is blood up to your eyeballs and your name is not among those covered in glory after the War.  So either you live that life, as a deserter, unable to be trusted, and reviled for the actions of that army, or you bear up and make a go of this until the furor dies down and you can reclaim yourself.  Me, I'd rather not find out if the locals are still in a lynching mood, were I you."  he sighed heavily through his nose, his jaw screwed shut.  He fought hard to keep his composure, but his temper won out for one last volley.

"And one more thing," he said, barely speaking above a whisper, "what you may not understand is that to my people, an oath is more than just words and good intentions.  I gave mine and fought, and for that, I am accorded respect.  Not honor, but the respect given a man who has shown his worth.  Here, if you used your name, no matter the War, you would have been turned out before your shadow hit the floor of the hall.  I know why you did what you did, and I clearly do not hold it in contempt, but we Northmen are not known for our nuanced views of right and wrong.  And so when I vouched for you, I tied my word and reputation to yours, and I did it freely.  And if it is not yet clear, that is about all I have in the damned world anymore.  So if you cannot handle that responsibility, steal off in the night and I will pray the Maker speeds your journey.  Otherwise, accept the hardship your decisions have caused and show some damned grit."

He slumped back against the wall, shaking his head.  "And that's more words than I have said since the new year," he muttered.

To be fair, Luthene probably deserved at least some of the berating Galin gave her, though she didn't regret anything she'd said, either. True, she had broken her oath during the war, and that was part of the reason why she was in this mess to begin with. But she still had some honour left, and Galin's story had stripped her of that. Now she had to play the part of some loose woman who went to bed with her superior, and somehow convince the men of the company she was going to bed with Galin. "If I had known this way your plan," she murmured. "I'd have worked harder on a Northern accent, and perhaps might have passed for a relation of some sort. I might be more convincing that way. I haven't the slightest idea how to be this woman you say I am."

Luthene took to pacing the hut again, like a trapped animal… and in a sense, she was. The hut suddenly seemed so much smaller than before. Somehow, she would have to make this work. He was right, she didn't have much choice. Besides, it might reflect badly on Galin if she did suddenly leave, and she certainly wouldn't be able to count on his support again.

A year and a day. And perhaps at the end, they could drop the charade and she could be herself again.

"Alright, alright. I wish, if you had always intended to do… that," she stammered, her cheeks colouring, "I would have preferred if you had asked, first. I understand why, but…" She paused for a moment, not wanting to cause him any insult. "You caught me off guard!"

Luthene was a fighter, and not much of a peacemaker. Galin understood, she hoped, because it would be damned difficult to make this lie work if they couldn't stand each other's company. She leaned against the wall beside him.

"Aleksander," she said finally. "That's the name of a swordmaster at the Academy. I've seen him at the tavern in Egjora a few times, and he's found of the drink, bawdy jokes, and barmaids. If someone asks— I'm sure it will come up eventually— use that name. I doubt anyone will question it." She tried to meet Galin's eyes. "I'm not going to be the reason you lose the respect of these men. And I imagine part of that will be making sure we tell the same story. I still haven't the slightest idea how to act, but I'll try. So, let's figure it out. Is there anything else I need to know about now, since I'd prefer not to mess it up in front of the men."

“Well, here’s the thing Luthene, there’s no damned script to it,” he said, calmer now than before. “It’s not as though you’ve got to bed me in the main hall during a meal so everyone knows and sees. It’s just… unbend a bit and show a little affection when we’re about, touch my arm, laugh at my terrible jokes, and the like. The rest is covered by sharing a hut with a single bed. The conclusion draws itself, more or less, as your indignant look said when you arrived.” He shook his head at her suggestion of trying to pass herself off at a woman from the North. “You don’t have the look, the accent would never be right, and you would have to have studied every valley and hill of that land to pass, know every chief and clan, and everyone’s dirty business. These men would see through it in a second and you would be branded a liar along with me. The story, it’s not ideal, but it is just the two of us that have to keep it and I trust that we can.”

He caught her in her pacing and held a hand on her arm a moment when she stammered and flushed. “I had not originally intended to do that,” he said, and touched his amulet with his other hand. “I swear it on the Maker I didn’t. It just came to me and I knew that I would regret it if I didn’t. So I seized the moment. For what that’s worth.” He let go of her arm and leaned back against the wall, and winked. “Anyway, shouldn’t a warrior always be ready for a surprise attack? Some recruit you are turning out to be.” When she leaned against the wall alongside him, he leaned a little into her and nudged her should. “And I accept your half-assed apology, you pain in the ass,” he said with no little amusement or affection. It was the best he would be able to get out of Luthene short of a week with the rack and hot irons, and even then he was not sure it would be any better.

And it seemed she had finally awoken to the reality of her situation and had begun to help with the story. Alyson, he reminded himself as he thought of her, apparently knew the look and habits of the swordmaster enough to be able to sell the story and his name was a blessing. Galin leaned his head back to touch the wall and smiled so she could not see. “Aleksander. Right! I couldn’t remember the damned name in there. Well done. All I knew was his reputation and it seemed to be the sort that would lend itself to our purposes and you’ve completed the illusion. Well done.” He paused a moment to meet her gaze with a steady, unblinking one of his own. “Very good question, about the men, I mean. What you need to remember is that, unlike in the War, we are proper Northmen again. Aye, we can fight in the shield wall as well as any and better than most but we are a people who live on war. When we have no one else to fight, we bloody each other, raiding and plundering with the regularity of the tide. Land or sea, no matter. Because a man’s reputation isn’t won in a farmer’s field. It is in war, and the rumor is, the captain is looking to take us out like we ought to be, not guarding fat southern merchant wagons from the plains raiders. We should be the ones raiding!” Galin’s eyes were brighter when he spoke about war like this, the sort that filled the mountains of the North. “In a proper raid, I could kill a great warrior and make my name, Galin Ochiern, the man who killed the Champion of Adeluna or what have you. I could be rich in silver and gold, and with reputation and wealth, I could become a leader of warriors in my own right. That is the sort of men you have joined.”

He paused, letting the excitement bleed off. “And speaking of joining, you will have to swear your oath in our fashion, to the Maker. What do you know of the faith of the North? I wouldn’t want you making a hash of things.”

Instinctively, Luthene stiffened at Galin's suggestion that she unbend. There wasn't a script, she knew that much, but little else. In truth— a truth she wasn't about to reveal to Galin— she didn't have much experience doing any of it for real, and now she had to pretend. A script would make the whole thing significantly easier. She might have learned the lay of the land, learned about the clans, and it would have been work, but it would still be easier, she felt.

"As I said, I understand," Luthene said in response to Galin's comment about not having intended to do what he did. "To sell the story." In truth, she didn't fully understand what he meant. She believed him— he would not swear it if it wasn't true— but she wasn't sure why he would have regretted it. But she wanted to move on, not to dwell on it, not to think too much about it. "A surprise attack I am ready for, but friendly fire, when I am denied the option to fight back, can anyone prepare for that?"

He accepted Luthene's apology, thank goodness, and then Galin seemed genuinely pleased with the information she was able to provide. "Granted I haven't spent a considerable amount of time in the duchy," she warned, "but how well do Northmen know the place? And if something isn't quite right, the discrepancy can be blamed on Timedeath." And me, Luthene thought, before Galin explained more about the men of the company. She knew something about them as a people— she'd spent time around Galin before the war, after all, and there had been a few raids when she was in the North, after the Valley and just before the death of the Hours. The Northmen live on war, but as a mercenary, so did she. Galin spoke of what the captain planned, of raids and plunder, and something of great value to Luthene: reputation. "Perhaps I might begin to redeem mine," she said. "Take my name back and wear it with honour instead of shame Once I can be sure they're not in a lynching mood, anyway." She sighed. "I'll have to bring down at least two champions for it, I think. One for who I am, and the second to make up for lying about it." She paused, thinking. "What would it cost your reputation, to have helped in the deception?"

Luthene was not a religious woman. She didn't believe in the gods, and while the god of the Highlands wasn't one of the Conclave gods she had fought to bring down, she had no faith in him, either. Her own lack of faith wasn't a secret to Galin, but she felt the need to remind him just in case.

"The name suggests a creator god, but the way you have spoken of him, he seems like more of a warrior. He's the only god of your people, which is different from much of the rest of the world. So, I know a few things, probably less than they'd like, but also about what they'd expect a southerner to know." She hesitated a moment, and lowered her voice even more. "You know I don't share your faith, right? I won't tell the men that, of course, that would make a hash of things, but I must be honest with you about it. It won't stop me from taking the oath, and I'll mean it, but… perhaps not the stuff about the Maker. That's not a problem, I hope?" She wasn't sure just how devout Galin was, if her lack of belief in his god would put an end to things before they fully began.

"If it's not a problem, perhaps you should teach me the words. I expect it'll go over better with the men that way."

“That’s the idea of reputation, you see,” he said, smiling as she finally saw the full potential of the situation ahead of her. A warrior was only as good as his last battle, they said, and her last had been defeat, defection, and destruction. That sort of reputation was a stain that did not wash away easily, and only in blood and victory. “It will take a great battle or two to earn something back from what you lost,” he said with seriousness, not making light of her situation but speaking matter-of-factly because it was something that was dear to him as well. “In the Valley, I killed a champion, an Academy graduate that lead the spearmen ahead of my lads. After the first captain was killed, I took us straight at them. Formed up in the boar tusk, we were, with me at the point, and I aimed my shield right for him.” He illustrated the attack with his, making them into a wedge and driving forward, caught up in the story. “He was a quick bastard, quicker than me, and he’d given me a good few hits on the shield and put a dent in my helm before I was able to close in properly. Once I was close, his fancy sword was bloody well useless, not enough room to thrust and it was too damned light to batter at me. So I slammed the bastard with my shield boss and bloodied his face, then up with this wicked wee fella,” he said, drawing his long fighting knife, and thrusting it as though he held a shield and struck from under the rim. “Slammed it through his mail coat, through the leather backing, and right into his leg. Screamed like a gelded pig when I twisted it and ripped up.” Galin pushed the knife back into its sheath on his belt, and smiled. “It was about then that your lines got a little less firm, seeing a champion die like that. Not to gloat of course,” he said, nudging her with a smile. “Now get you in a proper fight like that, you might quit being Alyson before long. And don’t worry, I’ll just say you fooled me too,” he added, laughing.

Luthene was a strange one, even by southern standards. Anyone with a head on his shoulders knew that the gods of the land were no gods but mages with greater power than most that enjoyed their own brand of existence and claimed godhood. But Luthene believed in nothing, and that sort of thing never made sense to the warrior. “A man should have gods,” he said, almost to himself, then sighed through his nose as he tried to wade through her comments to correct her misconceptions. “Well, he is and he is, the Maker’s both. He had a name, Deantoir, but it’s just become Maker over time. He created all the world, but chose to live among our people because we were those he saw himself reflected in most. He lived as a warrior king, with a warband that serve him now in his hall beyond the clouds. He was never benevolent as folks think, just a good warrior, ruthless at times, generous at others. And he does not case so much for worship or grandeur, only to be amused as he watches our lives, and if we amuse him, and we live well, we feast with him after death. It’s a good faith for a warrior,” he said, with a touch of reproof, which was the closest he would come to saying he found her lack of attention to the divine unsettling. “But I can trust you, and your word, so it will have to be good enough.

“And the oath… you go to the captain in your war gear, the best you can muster, and kneel with your sword drawn, point in the earth. He clasps his hands around yours on the handle and you swear to be his man in peace and war for however long you have a mind to. And then he will have you kiss the Maker’s shield to seal the words in the eyes of the Maker. Do you think you can handle that?”

"Not my lines!" Luthene insisted when Galin finished his tale. "The battle was too large for any one person to command it, and had I been within shouting distance to the Egjoran line, those lines would have held. That company made up the reserve forces after that, which they were none too pleased about, but served them right. If the loss of one man causes them to lose formation, they don't deserve to be in the fight." She sighed, and leaned back against the wall. "I'll have to think of new stories. Can't use any from the war, because these men were there and might know the truth of it. Before that, my best stories are from fights with you, and I imagine you've told them already. Besides, if I deceived you, it wouldn't work for us to say we've fought beside each other for years. We'll need a new story to explain how we met. Nothing on par with yours, it's best if Alyson has no reputation for them to investigate, but perhaps some simple demonstration of skill. What have you been doing since you came south? Perhaps we can fit something in there."

Galin helpfully filled in more information about his god. He didn't understand her lack of belief; she didn't understand why he held to his faith. They both agreed that the gods of the Conclave were false, and for Luthene, this disbelief in all gods was a natural extension. Galin had not made that leap, however, and seemed resistant to doing so. But it didn't matter. They'd always gotten along in spite of this difference, and would likely continue to do so. Knowing a bit more about Galin's faith, she supposed that if she had to feign belief in something, better this than Conclave.

"I can see why one from the Academy might be attracted to the faith," Luthene offered. "As for my best war gear, what I'm wearing now will have to do; for the time being, it's all I've got. As long as your captain doesn't have a problem with that, however, I'll be able to swear the oath." An idea struck her. "Would it be odd if I didn't use my name when swearing? Perhaps the men might think it some southern oddity? Because I think it would be better if I didn't pledge to be the captain's man— well, woman, in my case— as Alyson of Egjora. To swear by the Maker under a false name, and kiss the shield, wouldn't that be some kind of sacrilege? To leave it out would be… more true, I think."

“Oh, the sound of your melodious voice would have held the lines against a flood of the men of the North? Keep dreaming, Alyson, for that is all I can believe that to be, a strange dream.” He chuckled a little more and jostled her playfully, trying not to think too hard about the Valley. It had been a nightmare of blood and steel, and Galin had not even meant to be in the shield wall. By trade he was a skirmisher, hurling spears and scouting the enemy, not standing in the shield wall. But in the Valley, he took up a shield and pushed his way to the front rank because to stand where they were would have meant death to every man there. After the battle, he kept the shield and stripped armor and a sword from the slain and the next day, he was counted among the shield-brothers. Luthene would have to learn the same. It was not the sort of warfare that she would have learned in the south, where mounted knights and skilled swordmasters were the valued sorts of warriors. What kingdoms like Adeluna forgot was that, when the times called for war, messengers would head North to gather men for the royal army with offers of silver and fame. These men were skilled in the deadly combat of the infantry and provided an anvil against which the cavalry of the south could hammer their enemies.

“Since I came south…” Galin chuckled a moment, thinking about his trip down the continent. It had been a nightmare of sorts, with a few bright moments to be sure. “Well, to be honest, the trip itself was a nightmare, and since I’ve been down here, it’s about what you’d expect. A few raids when a lord needs a neighbor given a stern warning, a bit of pillaging, that sort of thing. Helped get some coin back into the purse, that’s for sure. Otherwise, I’ve been trying to practice more with my swords, going around to a few fairs and exhibitions. Never was a proper swordsman until the Valley, you see. Sure, I learned it, but I was always a skirmisher and the like. Move quick, move light, kill well, and get away before they’ve properly made sense of which way is up. So if you can find a way in through that, by all means,” he said and chewed his lip, thinking of some of the close scrapes he had on his trip, and not all of them bad.

He smiled at her concession. “Aye, it is one that does have an appeal to the warrior sorts. A lot more than what the Conclave’d promise.” He let her thoughts about gear fall by the wayside a moment to weigh the more pressing issue of her oath. It was a strange request, he thought, but it had merit. “I think you can do that, aye. I never spoke my name, because the Maker’s watching and knows what is in a man’s heart. So you’d be swearing it as you, regardless. At least that’s the way I’ve learned things.” He pushed open the flap in the doorway and smiled at her. “Now, we can’t have you wandering around here in that, though. There’s an armorer in town name of Ranulf, a man from a village in the same valley as mine, who handles making most of our blades and armor. Let’s go see what we can get from him so you look less like a wharf rat with a sword, eh?”

"Then I won't use my name," Luthene said, smiling. "It might not matter to your Maker, but it might mean something to the men, that I didn't lie when I swore my oath. Mostly, though, it's for me. I want something honest." With all the lies she'd need to tell, it helped to have something real to hold on to.

Galin's offer was a welcome surprise. She left the hut in a bit of stunned silence, letting him lead the way. Luthene found her tongue again once they'd left the hall. "I owe you for this," she said. "I'll pay you back of course, once I've got some coin to my name— or Alyson's name, I suppose— but I'll pay you back and owe you a favour on top."

Along the way, she put some thought into a story, based on what Galin had told her. "Whereabouts were you doing your raiding and pillaging, and were there any you did alone? Most of the work I've been doing lately is guarding those fat-cat merchants you and your captain are you found of— and don't look at me like that, Galin, it's all the work I could find. They weren't even all that fat, else they'd have hired someone other than me, and paid better. That's not important. I was thinking, perhaps the story could be that we met while I was guarding some goods you were looking to take, and since these are your men I'll agree to say you bested me, but at least tell them I made it hard for you. Since it was just a job, there were no hard feelings, and when you saw me again at the Mermaid or another alehouse, you bought me a drink, and…" She coloured. "Well, that part is up to you." She knew how men talked, and was embarrassed that she was going to be the focus of it, but it was unavoidable. "The story has some holes still, but perhaps it will do once we fill in the details."

They arrived at the armourer's, and Luthene let Galin make introductions before she outlined what she was looking for: a simple leather cuirass, probably about the size of a young man's, a round shield, and a good knife. She wanted her kit to resemble that of the men in the company, and it would be inexpensive compared to what knights of the south typically used. But Luthene was not a southern knight anymore, if she had ever been one at all. She was fighting among raiders and skirmishers now, and she wanted to fit in among them. She'd start with the kit.

“Now don’t go promising me repayment and favors, Alyson,” he said, chuckling. “We both know you’ll do more than enough to make up for it tonight, show your gratitude and all.” He could not help himself. It was just too easy to tease the uptight southern woman and he could tell she was blushing without even looking at her. He put up a hand to ward off the blow he half expected from her and laughed again, finding what he thought might become his new hobby in annoying her. “And as for your planned story, I will give it some thought. When I was leaving the Highlands, it was a rough go for a while and I was more bandit than soldier. We could have met anywhere along the way from there to here, where I could have bested you as would be expected of such a weak, fair young lass, and then we ran into each other here and, after a tumble, decided to throw in together. But I will think of a specific at least, if you give me some time.”

The blacksmith’s shop had once been owned by a native of Adeluna but during the unrest, the man saw fit to take his family out of the city for their protection. Ranulf, who had been the company’s smith, decided that it was too good a shop to waste and when the owner returned, he found the place crawling with Northmen and decided not to press the issue. Ranulf, being a fair man, paid good silver to the owner, but far below the price he would have expected. Still, Galin thought, it was better than a sword in the gullet and no silver, so the owner had done well. Ranulf was a skilled smith, able to forge everything from ship’s nails to swords and axes that would impress even a southern lord. Rapping on one of the beams by the bellows, Galin waited for the answering grunt before stepping into the forge. “Ranulf, this is Alyson, late of Ejgora, recently signed to our beloved crew. Alyson, this is Ranulf, the ugliest, meanest, toughest son of a bitch the North has spat out in a generation.” The man turned to take her hand with a smile, not bothering to conceal his gaze and he looked her top to bottom. His face was the sort a mother would use to frighten wayward children, with a flattened nose, a wicked scar down his left cheek, and a mouth that seemed most comfortable in a menacing sneer. “Not much meat on her bones, this one,” he said to Galin. “Always preferred a woman with more meat on her bones. Keeps a man warm at night and nothing sharp and pointed when you’re rutting. But tastes are tastes I suppose. What’ll you be needing?”

Alyson, he had to remember to think of that when he thought of her, listed off what she needed and Galin nodded with approval. Leather was suitable to stop the slashes of spears and swords well enough and was easier to care for than mail. Galin wore it himself, though he had one of the crew’s women stitch some iron plates to the inside to give a little more protection. He hoped to get a coat of mail, preferably one of southern make. The Northmen were known for their blades but the tight-linked mail of Adeluna and Ejgora were among the best in the world. He would just have to kill some lord and take it, he thought, and smiled at the prospect. “For her knife, make it like our sort,” Galin chimed in and pulled his out for her to see. It was a thick-spined blade with a single edge that came to a sharp point when the spine angled toward the tip in the final third. Galin’s was somewhere between a short sword and a long dagger and it was one of the most common weapons in the North. “Best sort of a tight fight,” he said, and sheathed it again. “Might want to think about getting some sort of helm as well, so as not to get that pretty little head split open by an axe.”

Ranulf chuckled and shook his head as he went through his inventory for pieces that would serve. “I’ve got a knife and a shield, but the armor will take some time. An hour, maybe too, to shape it for your wee frame. So run along, get a pint, and be back in two hours. We will settle up then.” Then he turned on his heel, dismissing them as would a lord, and returned to his work.

“You heard the man,” Galin said and took Luthene’s arm. “Back to the Mermaid.” The tavern was only a few streets away and as they settled at the same table they had shared the night before, Galin called for ale and some bread and cheese to tide them over. “I think the story,” he said as they waited, “would work best on the road to that pirate city. I was looking to get coin off some unsavory merchant to pay my passage, you were his guard, and I ambushed you on the road. Good fight, play that how you like, and in the end, I got what I wanted and buggered off to a ship to Adeulna. That work,” he asked as he looked up to see someone bustling over with two tankards. “Thank the Maker, I was about to die of thirst.”