Einar's decision to go to the Jarl's hall was met with staunch opposition from everyone in Coldwater Village.
"My Lord, you are insane! That is God's Punishment! You are seeking your own death!"
The old warrior, his father's trusted subordinate, knelt before him, his face a mask of desperation. The villagers gathered behind him, their eyes filled with fear and worry. They could not understand why their lord would willingly walk towards a danger that everyone else was desperately trying to avoid.
"I have my reasons," Einar stated, his voice calm but firm, offering no further explanation.
His authority in the village was still fragile. It was built upon his status as the former lord's son and his identity as a "God-Chosen." If he were to reveal that he intended to challenge the Storm Acolytes, it would likely cause a riot.
He could only act first and let the results speak for themselves.
Under the terrified gaze of his people, Einar, along with a pale-faced Willan, left the village. They did not ride horses; instead, they walked, a journey that took them half a day. Upon arriving at Jarl Bernard's town, they were immediately struck by the tense and heavy atmosphere.
The once-bustling streets were now nearly empty. The doors and windows of every house were shut tight, with bundles of dried herbs hanging from the lintels, an effort to ward off evil spirits. The air, which usually smelled of ale and commerce, was now thick with the scent of burnt incense and an undercurrent of fear.
The two of them walked directly to the Jarl's hall. The guards at the entrance, recognizing Einar, looked at him with astonishment. One of them ran inside to report his arrival.
A moment later, Einar was led into the longhouse.
The scene inside was completely different from his last visit. The raucous feasting was gone. The hall was silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Jarl Bernard sat on his high seat, his face, once ruddy and full of vigor, now haggard. He looked ten years older.
On a bed placed near the fire lay a young man, his body covered in horrifying sores. His breathing was shallow, and he was clearly on the verge of death. This was the Jarl's son.
Several Storm Acolytes stood around the bed, chanting in low voices and waving ceremonial staffs, but their rituals seemed utterly useless.
"Einar of Coldwater," Jarl Bernard's voice was hoarse. "What are you doing here? This is not a place you should be. Leave."
"My Lord Jarl," Einar said, taking a step forward. He spoke in a loud, clear voice that echoed through the silent hall. "I have heard of your son's illness. I have come to help."
His words were like a stone dropped into a calm lake. Everyone, including the Jarl and the acolytes, stared at him in disbelief.
"Help?" one of the Storm Acolytes, a man with a long white beard, sneered. "This is a punishment from the gods. Who are you to claim you can help? Are you questioning the power of the gods?"
This was a serious accusation. In this era, questioning the gods was a capital offense.
Einar met the acolyte's gaze without flinching. "I do not question the gods. I am merely here to convey their will."
He then turned to the Jarl. "My Lord, the gods are merciful. They do not wish to see your lineage extinguished. They have sent me to offer you a chance at redemption."
Jarl Bernard, who had been sunk in despair, suddenly saw a flicker of hope. He was a devout believer, but he was also a father on the verge of losing his son. He was willing to clutch at any straw. "What must I do?"
"This illness is a divine punishment, but it is also a trial," Einar explained, his tone profound and mysterious. He was spouting nonsense, but it was nonsense tailored to the beliefs of this era. "The disease is contagious. It spreads through contact. To stop it from angering the gods further, you must isolate the sick and purify the things he has touched."
He then laid out his plan—a set of basic quarantine measures repackaged as a divine revelation. He called for the Jarl's son to be moved to an isolated hut outside the town, attended by only one or two servants who would not be allowed to contact anyone else. All the young man's clothes and utensils were to be burned. The Jarl's hall itself needed to be "purified" with fire and smoke.
The Storm Acolytes listened, their faces turning from scorn to anger.
"Heresy!" the white-bearded acolyte shouted. "He speaks heresy! This is a blasphemy against the gods' sacred rituals!"
Einar ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on the Jarl. "My Lord, you can choose to continue believing in their ineffective prayers, or you can give my method a try. It is a wager. You are betting on your son's life."
Jarl Bernard stared at his dying son, then at the furious acolytes, and finally at the unnervingly calm Einar. He was a decisive man, a warlord who had built his power through countless gambles on the battlefield.
"I will do as you say," the Jarl declared, his voice firm. He had made his decision.
The acolytes were stunned into silence. They could not believe the Jarl would trust an obscure minor lord over them, the chosen servants of the gods.
Einar felt a surge of triumph, but his face remained impassive. He knew this was only the first step.
"There is one more thing," Einar added. "To demonstrate the gods' power, I will stay here to oversee the purification ritual. And this slave of mine," he pointed to Willan, "will stay with your son, to pray for him day and night."
Willan, who had been trying to make himself invisible in a corner, felt his legs turn to jelly. He was being sent into the jaws of death.
But before he could protest, he saw the look in Einar's eyes—a cold, hard command. He swallowed his fear and bowed his head in submission. He was a slave. His life was not his own.
The wager had been made. The players were in position. Now, all Einar could do was wait for the inevitable outcome that his knowledge predicted.