A bit of lore of the world of Signum #3 (Patreon)

The Clan Council gathered rarely. Partially because each clan had its own chief, who decided all small internal matters and issues with neighbours. Partially, because of the difficulty of the process. The territories of the Clans were vast and sometimes difficult to traverse, with just the way to the further lands taking several days. Besides, several days went on each clan choosing a worthy representative. But this time everyone assembled quickly. It seemed that the appearance of the Sisters at the feast (and especially the ominous Morag) made it clear to the not particularly responsible highlanders that the matter is grave indeed.

The Sisters, on their end, also prepared for the Council. As the truth was exceptionally important, they summoned a minor spirit, who reacted to lies. The spirit was akin to a dancing flame, and so it was easy to hide it between the candles of the large chandelier of the Meeting Hall. Brigit’s intention (and the idea with the flaming spirit was hers) was that the more the speaker lied, the brighter the magical flame.

On the day of the Council, the clan representatives began assembling since early morning. The first to arrive was Gawain Mac Morn from the Mac Morn clan. The rider was fully equipped for battle and proudly rode on the street on a purebred steed, looking about with a particularly disdainful expression. When, on the way to the Council hall, a wolfen dared to outrun him, splashing mud on the boots of the rider, his disdain switched to rage for a second. But Gawain controlled himself too well, to allow it to remain on his face longer than a second. He merely twirled his left mustache, mumbled something under his beard and continued on his way.

Meanwhile, more and more Clan representatives were pouring through the gates. A red-bearded thug with a huge warhammer, a frivolous character in flaunting garments, and an equally flaunting rapier by the belt, a small goblin with enormous lower tusks, dressed in furs and with a lamb skull on his helmet, a pair of wolfen snarling at each other… There were so many clans, that it took half a day just for the last representative to come in and take his place behind the huge table. The guards barred the doors, and the herald by the door brought out a drawn out sound from his bagpipe, after which king Uthor stepped in through the door. His forehead was cut by deep wrinkles, and a combination of weariness and steadfast determination could be read in his expression. Three sister-witches froze as shadows in the darkest corner, and only Morag’s eyes under her mask seemed to slightly glow.

- I greet you, my people! – The king uttered in a deep voice. He waited until the last of the return greetings died down and continued. – I will do without excess details and introductions. I’m sure you all know the main agenda of today’s Council. War! – A hum of voices slowly began to grow, with some highlanders exchanging perplexed looks with each other, others whispering, and some, conversely, remaining completely composed. After waiting for a minute, Uthor continued his speech. – The representatives of all clans have assembled here and you still haven’t killed each other, meaning – war with a foreign enemy. With Styx. – Upon hearing that, one of the wolfen bore his teeth and snarled. – But the spirits told me that the war is not in the future, but already here, on our land. Spies of the necromancers have infiltrated our borders and...-  Uthor made an audible pause to look each and everyone at the table in the eye. - … it’s possible that some of us have already been bought.

After these words, an immense roar rose up in the Council. Representatives of the human clans poked fingers at the goblins and ogres, wolfen bore their teeth at the humans, a second longer and a brawl would have erupted. But the High King knew not only how to feast and make war.  The slam of his blistered hand upon the oaken table roared as thunder across the hall. In a moment, a no less thundery voice continued:

- SILENCE!!! We shall do the following: each of those sitting here will, in turn, tell us about the last time his clan encountered undead or necromancers. If anyone shall lie – I will know of it. Sir mac Morn, I give the floor to you.

The moustached knight stood from his table with dignity, made a half-bow towards the king and in a clear and concise manner reported:

- Within the past two months there has been no intrusion of Styx forces into the lands of my clan, my king. We, mac Morns, guard our borders well. – The flames on the chandelier barely flickered because of the air draft.

- He! Guard well, eh? We took a herd of cows from you, and you didn’t even notice. Pfffff! – yapped a goblin from the other side of the table. – The lights on the candle burnt a bit brighter.

- SILENCE! – With a gesture, Uthor demanded that mac Morn took a seat and angrily stared at the goblin. – Ord from the clan of Shkrkhf...damn it… Ord from the hills! Speak!

Under the gaze of the High King, the shorty drooped down a bit and mumbled:

- W-weeeeell, your grace, not a herd, two cows mayhaps, half-dead. They uh, came to us themselves.

This time the candles burnt evenly, not reacting to Ord’s words. The bearded man with an axe, however, did:

- There! There they are, they traitors! They’ll sell their own mother for two cows! They are the ones who sold us out to Styx! There’s an entire horde of them, they all want to eat, so they made a deal with the necromancers!

The redbeard clearly lost his cool. Other representatives of the human clans also started to look at the goblin suspiciously. Uthor had to, yet again, raise his voice at the Council:

- MacGuffin! Sit down and shut up! Everyone knows that goblins make poor zombies. Too small. Your boys on the other hand will make excellent undead, big and strong. And your neighbours have been saying that you redheads have acquired quite a bit of hubris lately. Trying to even take tribute from the other clans. Isn’t that right, Ulrich Frosttail?

A wolfen with a half-greyed tail threw a short «Yes!», and the High King continued to press the redhead:

- So what do you say, MacGuffin? Thinking of orchestrating a coup? And your necromancer-friends promised to help?!

- My king! Never in my life would I think of doing something like that! We’re a simple clan, we like to swing our hammers – it’s always been that way, well, getting into a bit of an argument with neighbours, nothing strange in that. But to make a deal with the necromancers…

It became brighter and brighter with every word of the sturdy fellow. Those gathered exchanged surprised looks switching between the speaker to the central chandelier and back, but soon they began to lower their gazes and even cover their faces with hands. MacGuffin himself also noticed the light above his head and fell silent. It seemed as if the abrupt silence could be torn to pieces and served to those amongst the table.

- LIAR! – The highlanders turned to Morag’s voice, who stepped from her corner. – HE LIIIEES!!! – THE Sister almost wailed, as she approached the bearded man, and a hand appeared from the folds of her garments, having visibly more joints than expected. The index finger, with a sharp bird-like talon at the end, reached out towards MacGuffin’s chest. – TRAITOR!

- You bloody old hag! – MacGuffin reached for his hammer. – Shut your filthy mou...

The redhead’s throat made a distinct crunch, as the blade of the King’s sword sliced into it, slightly below the Adam's apple, not allowing him to finish the sentence. MacGuffin fell on the floor, and Uthor wrested the blade from his body, sighing with a measure of relief.

- And there is the rotten sheep. Never liked those upstarts.

The High King chose not to sit back down, but instead threw his sword back on his shoulder and started pacing around the Council table, slowing down slightly, when passing behind each representative. Blood dripped from the tip of the blade. It seemed as if Uthor was drawing a ritual circle for the protection of those assembled from enemy sorcery.

- So, Styx is already in our lands, the spirits were right. - It was difficult to understand whether he was addressing the assembled or was simply thinking out loud.  – The lands of the MacGuffins are far, at the very edge of Clan Lands, it’s doubtful that the enemy managed to penetrate deep inside. Otherwise, someone would have noticed zombies and vampires. But how many people did the necromancers manage to recruit? And with what purpose? – Thinking on all this, Uthor made a full circle and returned to the body of the traitor. – You, you and you! – A man, a wolfen and an ogre, to whom the king pointed, stood up. – Your clans border the MacGuffins, and you are the ones to keep track of them. It’s not right to spy on your own, but we have no other choice. Clear up the undead or any assembly of forces – you know the purpose of signal fires. Everyone else – prepare for war. Repair your shields, sharpen your blades, knit up your kilts, train the youngsters. The enemy mustn't meet the Mountain Clans unprepared. Together – we are strong!

- TOGETHER – WE ARE STRONG!!!

- I announce the Clan Council to be concluded at this. And remove this. – Uthor nodded towards the corpse on the floor, and then turned to the Sisters. – Ladies, I thank you for the warning, I am in your debt.

The day of the Council was coming to an end. The Sun was hiding behind the mountains, the shadows grew longer in the ravines, and the representatives of the Clans spread ill tidings across their lands. The highlanders were preparing for war.