Frosgard.
"Ridiculous! Absurd! Shameless beyond all measure!"
Like an enraged brown bear, Harald roared and sprang up from his massive stone seat, which was draped in an entire white bear pelt, then viciously hurled the copy of Karl's proclamation against the rebels onto the cold, smooth flagstones of the hall!
The weightless parchment gave a feeble rustle as it spun twice uselessly through the air before slowly drifting down.
The words upon it—condemning him as "jackal to the core," "a traitor to all human bonds," and "a scourge upon living souls"—now seemed to burn with searing mockery.
Below the hall, the few remaining Corps Commanders of Sauron, the chiefs of the major tribes, and the high officials of the Royal Court stood with their heads lowered like stone carvings. No one dared look at the proclamation, nor did anyone dare provoke the Great Chieftain, who stood at the brink of fury.
Since June, terrible news had come one wave after another, like winter blizzards in the northern lands, never once ceasing.
The news that Carnford was frantically gathering a great army had long ceased to be a secret. Ships crowded the Northern Sea, dust blotted out the roads leading south, and even the dullest herdsmen knew that the Goldspur were about to launch an unprecedented—and quite possibly final—full-scale offensive.
Harald had tried to suppress the news, but panic, like a plague, had already quietly spread through both the army and the populace.
This proclamation delivered to the Royal Court was merely another ladle of ice water poured into a cauldron of oil on the verge of boiling over—it openly and formally declared that destruction was coming, and in the most humiliating manner possible.
In the silence, Asgeir could not help muttering under his breath, trying to use contempt to drive