The cold mountain water was a blessing after weeks of dust and grime. I stood beneath the waterfall, letting the spray wash away the remnants of the campaign. The Howlers' stronghold lay quiet behind me, the tension of the past weeks finally giving way to an uneasy peace.
My instincts screamed a warning a heartbeat before the attack. I sidestepped smoothly, the blade hissing through the space where my neck had been. Water splashed as I turned to face my assailant.
Morna stood there, chest heaving, my own longsword gripped in her hands. Her wild hair was plastered to her face, and her eyes burned with a fury that the surrender had done nothing to quell.
"That is not yours to wield," I said, my voice calm despite the sudden adrenaline. I kept my hands at my sides, making no move to attack. "And attacking an unarmed man at his bath is not the act of a warrior. It is the act of a murderer."
"Your words mean nothing!" she spat, the sword trembling in her grip. "You come here, you kill our men, you force us to kneel! You think a ceremony changes that?"
"It changes everything," I replied, taking a slow step forward. The rock beneath my feet was slick. "Your people are alive. Your children will grow. Under Lord Waynwood's protection, you will have food during winter and justice when wronged. The killing is over. Unless you choose to start it again."
She lunged, a clumsy, anger-driven thrust. I didn't retreat. I stepped inside the blow, my left hand snapping up to grip her wrist, my right closing on the blade's hilt just above her own hand. I applied pressure, a controlled twist, and the sword clattered to the stone.
She was strong, fueled by rage and grief, but I was stronger. I held her fast, not hurting her, but making escape impossible.
"Let me go!" she snarled, struggling against my iron grip.
"Will you attack me again?" I asked, my voice low and firm.
She answered with a furious headbutt. I saw it coming and tilted my head, letting her forehead glance harmlessly off my temple. She cried out in pain and frustration.
"This achieves nothing, Morna. Your chief has surrendered. Your wise woman has agreed to the terms. Your people have chosen life. Why do you choose death?"
"Honor!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "You speak of honor while you disarm me like a child! My father's honor! The honor of the men you killed!"
"Honor?" I released her, pushing her back a step. I gestured to the sword on the ground between us. "There is your honor. Pick it up. Let us settle this as warriors, then. Not with a coward's stab in the back, but here, now, in the open. If you win, you avenge your father. If I win, this ends. Your defiance ends."
For a long moment, she stared at the sword, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in her eyes warred with a dawning, desperate calculation. She knew she could not win. The fight at the cave mouth had proven that. To pick up the blade was to choose a noble, but utterly pointless, death.
Her shoulders slumped. The fight drained from her, leaving only a hollowed-out shell of grief. She did not pick up the sword.
"I will never accept this," she whispered, the words barely audible over the waterfall.
"You do not have to like it," I said, my tone softening from command to something resembling understanding. "You only have to accept that it is reality. Your duty is no longer to a dead father's war. It is to the living. To the children in that cave. Your strength is needed to build, not to destroy."
I bent down, picked up my sword, and sheathed it. I then retrieved the thick wool blanket I had brought and tossed it to her. She caught it on instinct, staring at it blankly.
"You are cold," I said simply. "And you smell of a long campaign, as do I. The water is clean. Wash. Grieve for your dead. Then decide what kind of future you will help your people build."
I turned my back on her, the wet rock cold beneath my feet. Letting her keep her dignity was more important than watching her cry. Some hurts run too deep for words to touch.
As I pulled on my tunic, I heard the splash as she finally moved, followed by the rough sound of scrubbing. Good. Let the water wash away the grime, if not the grief. She'd learn, or she'd break. That was her choice to make, not mine.
Peace. We'd won the fight with steel, but the real battle started now - the slow grind of making former enemies into subjects, of turning hatred into grudging tolerance. I'd promised Morton a secured border. I hadn't promised it would be pretty.