I. Cleon
Bastard
The Norzcarpe is a mighty range of jagged, treacherous spires, mantled in flows of impervious ice, nearly impenetrable since the Great Purgation[i] of mankind— when Sol was dimmed and years went by without the kindling of summer warmth. Millennia passed before the ice at last withdrew, receding furlong[ii] by furlong into the higher mountain valleys, surrendering the broad Norland plain to leaf and beast.
From a glacier’s edge, where heat and wind had polished the ice near unto glass, an ancient man entombed within was revealed. At last, his frozen bonds melted away, releasing his body. And by the will of The One, his heart was made to pump and his lungs to draw breath. Thus the Immortal Man Azarius, who had been bound for eons beneath the mountain’s cold dominion, opened his eyes once more.
While The Immortal walked the windswept eastern moors, trod by few save wolves and monstrous beasts, the tribes of men returned like the tide, guided by the silent monuments laid by forgotten giants. In time, the kingdoms of men were reborn, and once again, her reiks and thegns[iii] set themselves upon slaying one another over boundary stones. Among these reborn realms stood Methundor, richest of the Norland kingdoms, whose strength rested almost wholly in one city: Gruen, where all roads met. With her bustling markets and bursting granaries, and high stone walls, the lord who held Gruen stood supreme amongst all the reiks.
Clendyne Feldric had long ruled as Reik of Gruen. He had survived an arrow through his flesh and the loss of a gangrenous foot, yet in the end he succumbed to a wasting sickness of running sores, seizures, and madness. No lawful heir remained to take up his scepter for each of his three noble sons had perished of illness— some whispered not by nature’s hand, but by poison. While many called it a curse and others a mercy, the dead reik’s ginger-haired, yellow-toothed bastard, long scorned as an outlaw of ill-repute, emerged from exile.
His name was Cleon.
After bedding a village whore and throwing back eleven pints of ale, the bull-chested, wild-eyed brigand climbed atop a table in a bustling village inn. Swaying on wobbly legs, he bellowed to all those gathered his rightful claim upon the throne of Gruen. And the first man who dared to scoff received the full weight of Cleon’s copper mug crashing down onto his brow, knocking him senseless and bloody. With his mind thus made, Cleon set upon seizing the throne against any and all who dared contest him… by bloody force, and foul deed as needed.
To first prove his worth before fickle serfs and doubtful thegns, Cleon rode out against the brigands and highwaymen that had long plagued the merchant roads. Having once led their very pack, he knew well their haunts and cunning ways. Thus, by guile and ruthless hand, he sprung from the brambles and cut their throats, and returned to Gruen bearing their severed heads knotted together by their braids. The serfs hailed him as deliverer and champion of justice, forgetting in haste that he had once been the wolf preying upon them.
Such is the nature of men: to forget the sins of their champions.
Those vain nobles who, by their ambition, ventured to stand against the bastard realized no victory. One was broken upon the cobbles, having fallen from a parapet on a windless night. Another vanished from his chamber to be later drawn from the river, bloated and blue. A third was found strangled, eyes bulging and tongue torn out. Fear spread through Gruen’s nobles like a pestilence, and though Cleon’s name was heralded in public squares, it was cursed in whispers. For though none dared accuse the vanquisher of bandits, all knew whose cold shadow fell longest across Gruen’s walls.
Rumors even spread saying that Cleon’s ascent was wrought by dark sorcery. Some nobles even swore he had dealings with the immortal Azarius himself— who, some legends held, roamed the moonlit groves beneath the guise of a faun. Although he was a brute, Cleon was no fool. He took counsel, not with sorcerers or mythic beings, but with a company called The Aeonites[iv] who were wanderers out of the far southern lands. Hunted refugees, strange of visage and close of heart, they moved through Methundor like shadows, shunning the lamp of notice and speaking in tongues few True Men could parse. And though their arts and long lives stirred unease among the common folk, the wise and high-born prized their counsel; for by their craft were their harvests enriched, their illnesses healed, and their fortunes multiplied.
The late Clendyne, sire of Cleon, had long shielded these folk from the superstitious scorn of Norland serfs, granting them his protection. Clendyne held one dearest, a counselor and confidant passed from father to son, and from the father’s father before him. In fact, none in Gruen could recall a day bereft of his presence. Indeed, the oldest records speak of his service stretching back two centuries. This grey-haired, venerable Aeonite was named Kethu the Immigrant, and he came to Gruen in the elder days, when savage warlords still ruled over forest and fen. It was Kethu who first perceived the shadow of Clendyne’s doom and whispered his portents into courtier ears: “Only the bastard son hath the will to fan the sovereign flame. Only he can drive out all the vultures that circle. Defend him not and they shall strip Gruen’s carcass clean.”
Yet Kethu’s counsel sprang not from love nor loyalty to the bastard, but from cunning calculation. For if the Aeonites should be found ill-aligned with whosoever triumphed, their race might be cast into chains or worse. He weighed the hearts of all contenders, deeming Cleon the strongest of will, and therefore the most perilous to oppose. The survival of his kin hung upon that thread, and so he wove it fast about the bastard’s rise.
One by one, Kethu lured the bastard’s rivals into carefully laid snares, fanning their greed and ambition. He watched from shadows and from behind tall hedges as many a bold noble, summoned by secret messages promising loot or clandestine meetings, arrived only to be sprung upon by the reeve and his wardens. Treason was the charge, and justice was swift: axe or saw. Through Kethu’s whispered network, all the Aeonites conspired in the bastard’s favor, revealing every plot his enemies devised. Yet they did so not from devotion, but to secure their own fragile refuge. They knew they were merely guests in a perilous land, one betrayal away from exile.
When the hour was at last ripe, Kethu journeyed alone into the forest, the winding path carrying him deep into the woods, far from timid hearts, where the very trees seemed alive as silent sentries. He came upon the stalls of an abandoned shambles and quickly found himself surrounded by henchmen with their knives drawn. “Who comes?” growled a rough voice. Then Cleon appeared, his red beard matted and long, half-emptied bottle clutched in a pawlike fist. “Ah, what brings you here, Aeonite?”
Kethu brushed away the blades with calm disdain. “The time hath come, my lord. Come forth and claim thy seat at the table that hath been prepared for thee.”
Rebellion
“All hail! All hail! Our reik has come!”
Serf and bondi crowded the stony way leading to Gruen’s heavy gate. Lords and wardens watched from the walls with narrowed eyes. With his last potent rivals slain, Cleon Feldric entered the city in triumph. Flanked by guards and clansmen, he rode through the gate bearing the last brigand’s head. The townsfolk parted before him, some in awe, others in dread.
The High Priest stood at the foot of the steps, barring the way into the keep. “No bastard shall receive my blessing.”
Cleon gazed down from his snorting high horse, his fevered glare settling upon the narrow-shouldered priest. Arrayed in his emerald vestments, clutching his silver staff in ringed hand, his brow capped by a tall purple mitre heavy with jewels, he attempted a look of indignance. Cleon scoffed. Then, lifting the severed bandit’s head— still weeping dark blood— he hurled it at the priest. The grisly trophy struck him, splattering his holy raiment with black ooze.
Without pause, Cleon drove his horse forward, up the stair, and burst through the doors. The iron-shod hooves rang upon the stones as he rode into the hall. Many scattered like startled rats. Others remained, staring in disbelief as Cleon rode well in, face filled with a smug grin. He wheeled around, then swung down from the saddle and strode to the throne of his father. Thereupon he seated himself, grinned, and stroked his rusty beard.
And none protested.
Cleon’s ascent to Gruen threw all Methundor into tumult. The four other reiks wrangled over oaths and laws, with each proclaiming himself the rightful rex. The thegns— lords of lesser villages— haggled over field and ford, and set their wardens upon the roads to extort silver tolls from merchants and peasants alike. Amid this clamor, Kethu, humbly robed and grey of beard, bent near at the side of Cleon’s throne and whispered unto his ear: “Delay is a sharper foe than sword or spell, my lord. Strike swiftly to claim the mantle of rex ere these petty rivals gather strength against thee.”
Thus, Cleon called his wardens before him. “Go forth,” he commanded, “and summon all such men who would be sworn unto Gruen— sellswords hardened by forest wars, brigands seeking commutation for their crimes, and all the young men shoveling shit in stable and sty who would be lured by the promise of plunder, gold, or vengeance.”
Within a fortnight, the retinue of grim battalions, clad in leather and ringlet mail, had been arrayed. They assembled at night, their banner bearing the red fox of House Gruen, lit by lantern glow. The bastard led their evening march from the city walls to the sound of their horses’ steps pounding like hail upon the stone.
First Cleon set his course against the House of Fy, keepers of the grainways, whose towers gleamed in polished bronze above their city. But the bastard’s hope of siege and of compelling surrender of the entire inbred lot was denied him, for when they approached Fywold, they found it emptied of defenders— her gates unbarred and braziers cold. From the trembling elders who remained, Cleon learned that Fy’s host had fled by design, mustering a day’s ride to the west, encamped along the Caleah River’s bend where swift currents shielded them on three sides.
Cleon paced to and fro, stroking his beard as he weighed the courses before him. Should he remain and hold the city? Give chase? Divide his strength? At length he sought the counsel of Kethu, and the grey Aeonite came to give it. “Strike not at walls, my lord, but at the hearts of men,” said Kethu. “There is naught left in Fy worth the burden of lordship. Ride forth. Draw their eye while thou flankest them and break their host at the river bend. Do this and all House Fy shall be brought to its knees.”
Thus Gruen’s brigand host marched forth at dawn and came unto the river bend ere dusk. There Cleon set a clamorous company at the riverbank, hurling taunts and curses across the swift waters, that their dull-witted and choleric foes might fix their gaze upon them crossing. The men of Fy, being ever unable to suffer insult in dignity, answered each taunt with an ignoble gesture, or a loosed arrow falling pitifully short, or else by the baring of privy parts or puckerholes. Whilst they busied themselves with such noble arts of war, Cleon rode northward in secret and forded the Caleah beneath a shroud of darkness and mist.
His trackers slipped ahead of the host, silent as stalking wolves, to dispatch the scouts of Fy before alarm could be raised. Through the black evergreens the host crept, with the whispering river ever at their side, until at last they came again unto the bend at cock-crow. There, they lay hidden, waiting for the command. Cleon watched, still as a statue, licking his lips. “Now?” his captain Odax asked.
Cleon uncorked his bottle and drank deep, then tossed the empty vessel into the bushes. Grinning wide and yellow-toothed, he gave the command: “Now!”
Odax signaled and the battle horns gave voice, and the helms of Gruen burst from the trees like a swarm of steel and leather hornets. The men of Fy, eyes fixed upon the decoy host, found ruin suddenly at their backs ere they could gather shield to shield. Cleon crashed into them like a bull loosed from slaughter, hacking and slashing, laughing like a madman as he cut men down. Fy’s captains shouted desperate commands to rally, yet their words vanished into panic. Within moments, the host of Fy broke into confusion, scattering like an anthill overturned by a boot. Pikemen followed in the wake of Cleon’s riders, spreading wide to drive the broken enemy toward the river bend that hemmed them on three sides. Those who were not killed fled into the icy coils where many dozens drowned as water turned their boots into anchors.
Thus was House Fy brought low and near unto ruin at the Battle of Caleah’s Bend.
In the aftermath, Cleon strutted like a cock in heat, basking in the cheers and rough praise of his men. Yet his parade ended abruptly when Kethu appeared in his path. “Are you not impressed?” Cleon huffed. “Are your people ever so grim? What vexes you now, Aeonite?”
Kethu drew near and spoke so that only Cleon could hear. “Thou hast bedded one fair maiden today. Yet if thou makest haste, thou mayest bed another. Would two not bring twice the pleasure of one?”
#
The Blodwins, who had marched to join their kinsmen of Fy to halt the bastard reik, were met upon the road by tidings of Cleon’s slaughter, their rangers finding only corpses and a jeering host across the waters. For three days and nights they hastened home to Dregrove, but as they drew near, shepherds met them on the road and delivered grim news: Cleon had already fallen upon their undefended town. Their kin were taken captive, and their stores seized in the name of the new reik.
Upon the gates of Dregrove they beheld Cleon’s Captain Odax, who was grim and menacing with his cropped hair and tattooed face. He stood upon their parapet with one mailed hand clamped fast about the wrist of Una, the youngest daughter of House Blodwin. Her apron was torn, and her face was pale with dread. Drawing her near unto the edge of the wall, so that all below might behold her peril, Odax cried aloud: “Look at this child, Reik Mendo! Look and know this— no harm shall come unto her so long as you bargain in good faith. Such is the mercy of Cleon Rex, first among the reiks of Methundor!”
From below, a stout man of graying beard and cold blue eyes thundered back, hoarse with wrath. “Rex? Speak not that blasphemy! Cleon is a bastard whelp— stray seed from a tavern wench. He paints himself in stolen blood and dresses in stolen clothes! Who is he to call himself Rex?”
Odax’s tone was calm as a frosty dawn. “He is rex who has vanquished all his rivals; he whose host rests within his enemies’ very halls; he who drinks their wine from their own cups. Kneel, Reik Mendo, and behold Methundor’s lord.”
Gruen’s steel scraped upon shields along the Dregrove wall. The archers drew, their hands trembling with anticipation. “And if we lay siege and starve thee out?” cried Mendo. “Surely you can see our force remains the greater!”
Odax pressed his blade to Una’s throat so that it creased her skin. “Then thy kin shall perish with us,” he hissed, “and this child shall taste the first pangs. Hear this! No soul shall leave nor enter Dregrove while ye cling to your defiance.”
Mendo’s beard sank with bitter realization. He turned his gaze from the wall, his heart hammering like a blacksmith’s. Beyond the timber ramparts, his household watched in stricken silence— his pregnant wife weeping into her shawl, his elder daughter Fia clutching her mother’s hand. Before him, his host, and his loyal guards, too ashamed to meet his eyes. His own eyes welled while he groaned under his breath. “Have I kept faith all my days only to purchase my daughters’ lives from a bandit?” he muttered. Then, turning and facing his walls again, he called out in a voice less defiant. “If I swear fealty, will ye depart these ramparts?”
“Aye,” Odax replied with a cruel smile. “But thou shalt provide one thousand swords to uphold the rex’s peace. Five hundred forthwith, and another by the new moon. And let none disguise captains or sergeants as common foot, for any found so will be taken and flogged without pity.”
“I will have a day to consider this matter,” spake Mendo.
“The reik hath but one hour,” Odax answered. “Then come forth and bend thy knee at this gate. Shouldst thou tarry, thy heirs shall suffer, beginning with this one.” He thrust Una forward, nearly over the edge, her short chirp rising like a gull above the wind. “Her cries will ring through Dregrove ere dusk.”
Reik Mendo stepped forth unto the gate, arrows yet drawn upon him as he came nigh. And with torment upon his graying countenance, the noble knelt and bowed before his own walls. As he did, Cleon appeared atop the gate, black-crested helm gleaming in the twilight. He gestured and the archers lowered their bows.
“Stand, Reik Mendo,” said Cleon, his voice calm. “You are forgiven. Be loyal and none of thy kin shall suffer harm. And in the days to come you will find fidelity to your new rex most profitable.”
As Sol sank, five hundred Dregrove footmen cast down their spears before the gate. At dawn, they departed with Cleon’s host, and with them rode sisters Una and Fia Blodwin, both pale and wide-eyed and silent, as living oaths of their father’s obedience. The Dregrove people wept, for they knew their beloved lord had bought peace at the cost of his very soul. Reik Mendo’s name was broken. He watched helplessly as his daughters rode off beneath the banners of the bandit rex.
The tale of Cleon’s “mercy” spread like bitter wind, chilling the hearts of lesser lords. For Cleon bought loyalty not with honour, but with fear. So it was, that Cleon’s peace, though swift and splendid, bore the bitter taste of willow bark upon their tongues.
When the gates of Dregrove were shut behind him, Cleon looked upon the silent road and called his triumph “peace.” But for every hearth fire that burned that night, many smoldered with shame and sadness. Seeing resistance futile, the hosts of Longview and Welf turned back for their homes while the Fys buried their many dead and plotted their final stand.
Consolidation
The remnants of Fy’s shattered host, those neither drowned nor slain, gathered at the village of Fywold, purposing a final stand in defiance. Yet there they found only weariness and fear, for the townsfolk who had remained had already heard tidings of Cleon’s ruthless triumphs. Many, gathering their hens, their coats, and their ponies, had already fled north and east; and those who abode were either too frail to travel, or too burdened by their wealth to risk being plundered by brigands scenting doom upon the wind. Within Fywold’s high wooden walls, the days dragged heavily, and even the grey heavens that withheld their rain seemed to conspire against them. The soldiers devoured all the bread and eggs, drained the barrels of ale, and turned to butchering the swine and goats. Whosoever dared to protest was met with a cruel beating, and so silence fell heavier than the sinking smoke of hearths just before a storm.
At last Cleon’s host appeared upon the road and the bell of alarm was rung, piercing the tightened dread of waiting. The besieged Fymen took to the ramparts and loosed their final arrows, yet not a one found its mark. Cleon prepared an assault on the high timber walls, but summoned Kethu to give his counsel before sounding the battle horn. “If thy foe is trapped, hungry, and fearful,” Kethu began, “then time itself becometh thy sharpest blade. Why should a wise man spend the lives of his own when famine and dread will fight in his stead?”
Cleon uncorked his bottle and drank. Then grinned wide and called off the attack. His host waited just beyond the range of arrows, sending no herald, nor parley, nor demand for four full days. From the walls, Fy’s men bellowed hollow threats and curses. “Ye all are cowards!” they shouted. “Come and fight us like men!” Yet Cleon’s host only feasted upon the bounty of their countryside within sight of the walls, laughing loudly as meat turned over the fire and ale spilled freely.
When Cleon perceived their spirits fully broken, and their hope extinguished, he sent Odax to address the people of Fywold. “Listen!” he began. “Summer is no season to face a siege. Thy fields ripen for harvest, and thy woods teem with game. Lay down thy arms and come forth. Return to the labor of living.”
“Never!” cried the Fy defenders. “Never shall we yield unto a bastard born!”
“I am saddened to hear this,” Odax retorted, “for ye shalt now burn to death. And with thee, all who dwell within these wooden walls. Behold these pyres we build. They are made for thee.”
“You would not dare burn these common folk,” came the reply. “The Houses of Methundor would rise against you for such a monstrous deed!”
“Nay, for the deed will not be ours; it shall be by your own hand,” said Odax. Then his gaze shifted to the timber walls, as if he spoke to those beyond it. “Mark me well, for if these good folk murder you in your sleep, they will deliver themselves from flame and win the rex’s favor. They outnumber thee tenfold. I bid you open the gates on your own behalf, ere they turn upon you.” Then Odax bellowed, “Behold! Let it be known that any subject who bringeth the rex’s justice upon a rebel of Fy shall be rewarded with ten silver erlings or two kine.”
At eventide, the pyres were kindled beyond Fywold, burning with such fury that even within the town men felt their heat upon their faces. Soldier, subject, maiden, and child stood watching as glowing embers drifted upward into the starless ether. When darkness fully came, voices rose in anger through the streets. Men shouted behind shuttered doors. Soldiers lashed peasants in suspicion, fearing betrayal in every shadow and every whisper.
Ere dawn, with the only sound being the rush of flames, the gates were opened, and with terror writ upon their weary faces, the soldiers of Fy, scarce two hundred in all, cast down their arms and shields with clangs and thuds. Limping forth, many begged for mercy, while others fell to their knees and muttered prayers unto deafened gods.
Their hands and ankles bound in pairs, they were marched for three days until they reached the walls of Gruen. There, those few who would not swear allegiance unto Cleon were strangled by cords, their lives forfeit; the surviving remnant was pressed into the rex’s host as the lowest rank of footman.
By further swiftness and deceit, and Kethu at his side, Cleon conquered all the river lands and made of them his tribute. The reiks of Longview and Welf bent the knee without contest. And from that hour forth, the name of Gruen was spoken not only in fear but in reverence, for men saw in Cleon’s victories the hand of destiny— or of some darker, invincible power that watched and willed his rise.
Sisters
The daughters of the House of Dregrove— Fia, the elder, and Una, the younger— were kept by Cleon within the walls of Gruen through that winter. Being but children, Fia, thirteen summers old, Una but five, they wept each night in longing, holding one another close in their fire-lit chamber while the winter winds howled and snow streaked across the leaden glass. When their governess entered to tend the flame, she could offer them no comfort; and so, withdrawing in sorrow, she left them to console each other.
When spring came, the sisters were summoned to court so that tidings of the Blodwin daughters’ well-keeping might be sent to Dregrove. Their governess brushed and braided their auburn hair and arrayed them in gowns of embroidered linen. They appeared at Cleon’s table many times through that season, shy amid the splendour of the hall of Gruen.
Fia, being of fair countenance and approaching womanhood, drew the gaze and captured the lust of Cleon; and before the summer was full, word spread that she would be his bride. When the news was brought to her, her look grew still and proud, as one who steels herself to bear a burden she cannot set down. She knew then that many years would pass, if ever, before she might look again upon her home.
At the solstice, her father, Reik Mendo, came to Gruen with his lady, their infant son Madrot, and a retinue of servants and guards to witness the royal wedding of his daughter. Little Una wept for joy when she beheld them in the plaza, running to embrace her father and new mother; but Fia lingered apart, distant and silent, her gaze fixed upon the banners that fluttered above the gate. She knew that their embrace, once shared, would waken a grief too deep to quiet, and that its ache would endure long after their departure.
The wedding was held in the castle garden, which was adorned with ribbons and garlands of spring bloom. Beneath a canopy of silk, the guests assembled, lords and thegns, matrons and maidens, merchants and wardens alike, each bearing tribute to the new rexia. Fia stood beside Cleon, fair and still as marble, her eyes downcast as the vows were spoken, her words coming forth flat and as if spoken by another. When the priest proclaimed them joined, trumpets sounded, and a cheer rose from the courtyard.
That evening, at the feast in the great hall, the Rex of Methundor and his young bride sat upon the high dais, drinking from one cup as was the ancient custom. Yet as Cleon drank, the wine spilt, and crimson stained his vest.
Minstrels poured in and sang of peace restored and banners newly united and the air grew thick with perfume and promise. Fia smiled as courtesy required, yet her gaze wandered often to the dark beyond the windows, in search of the memory of a home far beyond.
That night, amidst the clamor of wine and song, the governess came for Una. The child gazed back toward her sister and Fia forced a smile to comfort her as she was led away. In her chamber, the governess dressed Una in her nightclothes and tucked her beneath the woolen coverlet. She set a single candle upon the stand and departed, drawing the heavy door closed. In the hush that followed, Una heard the strains of music from below, and the laughter of strangers, and the clink of goblets. Yet to her ears it was no music of celebration, but a dirge. Alone now, comforted only by a single wavering flame, she pressed her face into the pillow and wept until her tears were spent and sleep finally came like mercy at last.
Before the feast had ended, Cleon rose, bowed mockingly to the assembly, and swept his bride into his arms. A sinister grin split his red beard as he carried her from the hall. Fia’s eyes went dull, as though her spirit had already fled elsewhere. Cleon cast a smirking glance at Reik Mendo as he passed, and Mendo could do nothing but avert his eyes while hatred boiled within his veins.
At dawn, the sisters met once more, though only for a fleeting moment. They embraced in the pale morning glow, clinging as if to halt the parting of the world, until their father gently prised Una from Fia’s arms and bore her toward the waiting caravan. From the gate, Una looked back and saw her sister standing alone among the courtiers, her face wan against the rising light. Long years would pass before she beheld her beloved sister again.
The moons turned, and the warmth of spring and summer yielded unto frost. That winter, young Fia endured a long and bitter labor. After many hours and strain, the robust child emerged. Though worn and pale, Fia held her son close with joy welling inside— the first she had felt since being ripped from her home. Cleon was summoned and the maids drew back as he entered. Fear flashed across the new mother’s face as he wrested the babe from her arms. He held him up in his gloved hands. “I name thee Ceryd,” he growled. Then he returned the infant to her relief.
The house of Gruen rejoiced, and though Fia’s heart was warmed by her son, deep sadness remained, bound to the home she had lost.
Cleon knew nothing of a father’s love and so he left all nurturing to the infant’s mother. Nor did he find any peace within the bannered halls. Endless feasts wearied him, the councils dulled him, and the songs of flattery rang hollow in his ears. Oft in the night he would stand beside his sleeping bride, her form growing heavy with his second child, and feel himself a stranger in his own chamber. Thereafter, he wandered alone upon the ramparts, beneath the moonlight, gazing east beyond the forests where the hills darkened, one hand on his hilt, aching to see the distant beacons of alarm set ablaze. Yet no tidings of peril came. And so, ere the leaves turned, he gathered Odax and his wardens once more and rode forth from the keep in search of conquest, leaving Gruen behind to dream of a peace he could neither give nor keep.
Expedition
While Fia was yet nursing Ceryd and heavy with her second child, Cleon set forth upon an expedition into the eastern reaches to secure the marches of Methundor against the stirrings of petty rebellions and the plague of banditry. With a vanguard of forty riders, he departed the gates of Gruen, leaving the young rexia under the ward of the Immigrant Kethu, counselor of many reiks before.
They rode far into the east, beyond the great spire of Agzad, whose granite pinnacle thrust upward toward the heavens like the point of a spear bursting through the bosom of the earth. Upon the grassy piedmont they encountered many tribes and lawless clans. At first these outlaws took the field against them and were swiftly hewn down. But in the weeks that followed, word spread through the villages and hamlets of Cleon’s black-helmed riders of Gruen, and soon the knaves and miscreants fled at the mere rumor of their approach.
Near autumn’s end, they crossed the River Lunde, and soon after espied a plume of black smoke rising beyond the treeless ridge before them. Forming into array, they rode forth to inquire, coming upon an unattended pyre of dried branches and pitch, burning beneath a stony eave upon the far side of a ravine. Marking it for a snare, Cleon turned to withdraw— yet behind them upon the western crest appeared a company of near a hundred foot and twenty horse. Their faces were painted in grim array, and each bore pike or hatchet in hand. Cleon’s riders turned and approached the brigands, halting near enough for Odax to call out. “Stand aside and let us pass, for we are the host of Methundor’s rex!”
But the strangers yielded not. And from among them stepped forward a man white of hair, his eyes wild and bulging. He shouted back, “This land is not the rex’s. Methundor endeth at the River. Dismount and lay down thy arms, that we may judge thee for thy crimes.”
Odax replied, “Methundor endeth where we deem it to end. Submit and spare yourselves a journey to Thol[v].”
The brigands laughed. “We will not submit. Lay down thy arms and submit to our judgement,” said the old warrior.
“To judge us for what?” asked Odax.
“For trespass,” came the answer, “and for the murder of our kin who served no lord of thine.”
Odax turned to his liege. “What course, my lord? Surely we shall not yield to such rabble.”
Cleon huffed. “No sooner would they have our heads upon their pikes.” He turned his horse to scan the field. “Look there, the ravine closes our path east and north; and to the south the ground rises into forest, ill-fit for heavy horse. We must break through them here, in the open, and make haste for the river beyond. They have not the riders to o’ertake us once we are through.”
Thus Odax formed the riders into a line. Cleon uncorked and tipped his bottle but found it empty. He tossed it into the grass with a curse. He nodded and Odax blew the horn. Cleon yelled wildly as they charged off their hill, kicking up clods of mud as they gathered speed. Then upward they climbed to where the rabble held the crest. But mid-charge the ridge itself betrayed them— the slope steeper than expected, the horses’ hooves slipping on the mud and wet stones. Two steeds faltered and tumbled, dragging their riders beneath their hooves. The charge struck weak, and the line failed to break cleanly. Some burst through, others became trapped amidst pikes and shouting men. Those that cleared the line rode westward, ascending to the next ridge, but there, upon turning, they observed their rex still entangled in the fray. Once more they charged down and back uphill, horses panting, into the mass of foot soldiers, to rescue their sovereign.
Rebel spearmen pressed and encircled the riders. A steel point broke through Cleon’s mail, snagging it and gashing him, and he felt the heat of blood run down. He tightened his grip on his reins though his horse staggered and reared beneath him.
Odax fought his way alongside— sword flashing, shield knocking aside a spear aimed for Cleon’s throat. With a grunt, Odax caught the shaft in his gauntlet and knocked the brigand off his horse giving Cleon space to turn. Cleon roared as he circled, his cape snapping in a hail of mud. With wild eyes and teeth bared, he beat a second spear aside with a ringing clash. The cries of men and the stink of sweat and shit thickened the air.
Two Gruen riders fell under the crush of spears— one left with a gash across his brow, the other’s leg pierced by pike. Odax reached for him but Cleon pulled him back. “Up the ridge!” Cleon yelled. “Ride for your life!”
They spurred southward through the melee, off the hill and then ascended again. Few of his men broke loose to follow. Cleon’s ring mail was torn, blood slicked his gauntlet, his horse huffed and groaned. He glanced back and saw six rebel riders hard on their heels. “Into the woods!” Cleon cried.
And so they drove— up the stony slope until the forest swallowed them. Their pace was hindered amidst the trees, and stumps, and stones. The rebel riders drew near. Cleon and Odax were separated by tangled paths chosen in haste. Cleon pressed onward alone, climbing where the forest thickened, until at last only his steed’s blowing and puffing could be heard. He halted there. No shouts, nor clamor, nor the drumroll thuds of trampling hooves could be heard. Alone, he held his wound while he rested, then continued westward, the night enfolding around him beneath dim stars and ancient evergreens.
At last, when the grey of dawn stole over the eastern sky, Cleon Rex made halt, listening again to the hush. Hearing nothing, side burning, he descended, treading a forest ridge downward until he emerged from the shadowy veil.
His eyes swept over a wide, rolling plain below, where mists drifted in the vales. The birds chirped and gentle deer gathered to graze in the dim morning light. No trace of pursuer met his sight. He felt his wound again, deep-gouged, flesh torn, it still bled.
Feeling assured of safety, he rode slowly forth from the wooded gloom. Westward he pressed all day until eventide, following a winding brook of black-stone that guided him towards a hamlet of sod-built huts encircled by a rough palisade of pine trunks. The sound of axes cleaving wood blended with dogs barking over the hush of dusk. Upon the barricade stood a lone sentry, his spear planted, cloak stained with mud and sweat. “Water,” Cleon rasped. Then, lifting his head toward the sentry: “Tell me… have riders passed this way?” And with that, he slipped from the saddle into the cold brook.
Canut
Cleon woke to find himself lying on a sturdy table. Soft beams of low morning light spilled in by a single small window cut through the sod wall. A maiden tended to him, her braided hair as dark as midnight-silk, her eyes gleaming with the hue of polished amber. She cleansed his wound which he felt was tightly stitched.
“It is not mortal,” came a rough voice from the shadows.
“Where am I?” Cleon asked.
“This hamlet is called Canut,” replied the voice. “You slept all night, even while Amarah, here, sewed thy flesh.”
Cleon strained to sit, and from the dimness emerged an elder man with a weathered face and a beard streaked in grey. His eyes were like clear winter sky.
“Who are you?” Cleon asked.
“Who be you?” the man answered.
“A warden of Gruen,” Cleon said, offering nothing more.
The elder snorted. “You have the face of a brigand and I’d have taken you for one but for your mail and your gold brooch and your rings.”
Cleon then knew the elder had deduced his station, and so he held his tongue. “Fear not, Gruen-rider,” the elder added. “We are loyal to Methundor in these parts. The brigands plague us.”
Cleon groaned as he shifted. “We were set upon by a host of rogues,” he said. “More than a hundred of them.”
“Aye, and we have suffered pillage by those same dogs,” answered the elder. “Thus have we raised those ramparts you saw outside.”
“Might I seek shelter within those walls… till my riders return?” Cleon asked.
“That depends,” answered the watchman, stepping fully into the light. “I wonder what you be worth to them.”
Cleon’s gaze locked with the elder’s, each measuring the other. Amarah winced at the words before the elder’s sternness softened into mercy. “Heal thyself… Gruen-rider. You are safe here with us,” he said before turning and leaving the hutch.
Cleon laid back on the table and turned his eyes to the maiden who was tending him. Her visage passed through the golden beam of light channeled by the portal, and he found himself entranced. “You are neither of this clan nor of this country,” he murmured.
“I am not,” she answered.
“You have the look of Aeonite blood,” he added, but she did not reply.
#
In the days that followed, Cleon felt the pain in his side soften, though each step still throbbed like a hammer striking iron. At every dawn he rose and walked alone among the sod huts and pine ramparts of Canut, his cloak trailing in the mud, the brook’s cold foam whispering around his boots, building his strength day by day. The villagers averted their eyes as he passed, offering only curt nods or muttered breaths or forced smiles. Each afternoon, when Sol’s warmth had waned, he would watch as the grazing beasts were driven within the timber walls and shut fast in their pens. The women gathered their children and prepared their evening meals at twilight, while the men hoisted their mugs, their laughter clattering through the chill air.
Cleon lingered each evening by the hearth where Amarah sat spinning wool— her fingers deftly weaving threads of ash and silver, the unfamiliar loom beside her humming like a placid, otherworldly song. Transfixed by her art that he did not know, he watched the soft rhythm of her hands and the quiet rise and fall of her breath. For an instant, as the fire’s glow flickered between them, it seemed their very spirits touched.
Still, the calm of village life weighed upon him like a mourning shroud: his riders feared slain, his expedition shattered by knaves, a rex rendered useless, hiding like a mouse in a forgotten bywater. Though fed, and sheltered, and tended, his heart still rode the wind-lashed ridges where ambition beckoned. He knew he must return to Gruen to restore his might, yet somehow he lacked the will to depart.
Days turned to weeks as Cleon tarried in Canut, healing while waiting for any rider who might bring his ransom. None came. He spent his days with Amarah and lent hand to her toils. One dusk she found him failing at splitting wood left-handed, cursing beneath his breath as his wound reopened. Without asking, she took the axe from him with both hands and struck once, splitting the log clean. She smiled furtively as she handed him back the axe. And to his surprise, he laughed in reply and also at himself.
Through the days he learned she had no husband nor child, though she was of years fit to bear sons of age who would hunt and daughters who would weave. She suggested that the superstitions held by Norland men kept them distant from her, as though sensing something unearthly in her foreign essence.
At length, in the stillness of one moonless night, Amarah came unto Cleon bearing a flickering lamp. She set it softly upon the sill, and in its amber glow her skin shone pale and warm. She loosed her braids, letting them fall like dark rivers down her breasts. Then she slipped from her gown and came into his bed. Their forms entwined in silent union, sharing warmth beneath the thatched roof while the wolves howled beyond the village walls. Yet beneath that humble roof, the wounded rex— feared by many and loved by few— found warmth where he had not sought it.
Departing
The winter waxed bitter and the chill winds howled. Each day, Sol burned lower and fainter than the last— until its disk rose no higher than a hand’s breadth above the high spires of the Norzcarpe. Cleon dared not journey unto Gruen in such a season, for the threat of storms loomed, and to be caught in the snows would mean certain death. Amid those lengthening nights, Amarah confessed to him that she bore his child, yet his heart was not vexed.
He laboured as a commoner would: gathering wood for the winter fires, tending the horse and cattle, and mending Amarah’s humble dwelling. Yet often he spied the villagers’ wary eyes and distant demeanor, and though he found their apprehension liberating, he came to suspect they now knew him for the rex and thus regarded him a baleful presence. Though none dared speak it, he feared one might betray him for coin, bartering with the brigands to take him in the dark of night. Therefore, he fortified the door of Amarah’s hutch, and kept his sword ever at hand, sleeping lightly with one ear set for danger.
Winter fell hard upon the land and the snow lay deep, burying all beneath its frigid mantle. Cleon learned the ceaseless labour of clearing it away. In their sod hovel, they shared their nights with dogs, chickens, and two goats, while cats hunted the vermin which were then cooked over the hearth and fed to the hounds.
Midwinter passed and the days began to lengthen, but the air remained cold and the snow lingered. Yet the brighter Sol lightened Cleon’s spirit and he oft pondered the day he might depart. He planned to bring Amarah with him so that she might bear their child in safety. Yet none could know the babe was his, lest scandal rend apart the fragile alliances. Amarah’s visage bespoke the Aeonites, and so would he entreat them to shelter her and raise the child among their kin. He would be a bastard, but become a craftsman rather than a brigand like himself. Still the prospect of the babe inheriting his saffron hair troubled his hopes.
Spring finally arrived, and the world turned to mire. Though the air grew warm and Sol climbed ever higher in the firmament, the dampness kept the chill lingering. Morning fog draped the land, and drizzle soaked through cloaks and garments. Amarah, now showing with child, would soon not endure the journey to Gruen. Thus Cleon set his mind to depart. Yet he tarried many more days, wary of springtime storms that might yet imperil their journey.
One morn, four muddy riders, clad as brigands in their looted leather and stolen capes, approached the gate of Canut, unsheathing no arms save their tongues. “If thou holdest one naming himself Rex,” one shouted, “deliver him unto us!”
“We know of no man so named!” quoth the gatekeeper. “Be gone, you knaves!”
“Should he dwell among thee, thou art wise to surrender him. For him, we shall pay a dozen goats or four cow.”
“If we did harbor such a man, we would not yield him for thy stolen bounty.”
“Be warned! For if we learn he is here, we shall return with greater force to tear through thy walls and claim him.”
“…And we shall seize thy flocks and thy women besides,” added another.
“Come as thou wilt! Thou hast ne’er breached these walls.”
When the brigands had ridden off, Cleon allowed himself a brief nod of relief to the gatekeeper’s . Then, under the witching hour’s moonlight, he gathered provisions with care, preparing to depart. With Amarah beside him and his steed bridled and saddled, they crept silently down the muddy lane of Canut. The gatekeeper stepped forward; the heavy wooden gate creaked open, and then shut behind them, the crossbeam thudding softly in the hush of the night.
Under a crescent glow, they rode straight west, the village’s torchlight receding until it lay far behind them. Then they turned south, sliding along rivulets and hidden depressions to conceal their tracks. They climbed into the hills and forest, where pine‐needles muffled hoof-beats and mist hugged the ground, for sunrise must not find them exposed on the open plain. Though the journey was swift, Amarah’s face grew pale as weariness claimed her; yet she pressed on, her breathing shallow, their lives bound to the dark shelter of the trees.
On the fourth evening, Cleon espied riders on the moor below. At first, their colors led him to believe they were his own men, but he watched them closely and discerned otherwise.
“Are they brigands?” Amarah asked.
“Aye… wearing my rider’s capes.”
“Do they hunt us?”
Cleon’s eyes narrowed. “I know not why else three men would ride this waste.”
The three were heading west, the same as he and Amarah, which meant they must be reckoned with each day. His first instinct was to shadow them through the dusk and cut their throats as they slept, but he could not bring Amarah into such peril nor leave her unguarded. Thus he waited with her in the shadows and watched, and at last they wheeled and turned back to the east.
“By The One,” he muttered.
For seven straight nights they rode, and when the dawns came, Cleon tethered his weary horse and crept with Amarah into a hollow of a fallen pine or beneath a stone eave banded by lichens and moss, burrowing them deep beneath brittle boughs on a bed of withered needles. With each exhale hanging pale in the chill, they warmed each other in a slumberous reprieve from the soaking cold.
At last, they neared the Bogwater. It was there that Cleon’s keen eye spied a prone figure on the riverbank, encircled by feral hounds. Recognizing the mail and helm of one of his own, he hid Amarah within the woods and spurred his steed toward it, the hounds scattering at his approach. He dismounted to find the lifeless body— then much consumed by decay and ravenous jaws. Turning it, he saw the ruin of the face, stripped to sockets and teeth; yet by the helm he knew the man— the ever-faithful Odax.
Cleon strove mightily to drag the corpse from the water’s edge, purposing to grant his most loyal captain some dignity and protection. Yet he was weak with hunger and unable to dig a grave in haste, and scant were the smaller stones with which to build a cairn. He laid the body straight, hands folded upon its breast and set the helm upon the ruined visage.
While his horse drank deeply, he turned once more toward the ridge where movement caught his eye. Three riders stood upon the eastern rise, their horses still as stones against the grey of morning. One pointed toward him. Then they began their descent.
Cleon dared not call for Amarah nor turn his gaze toward where she hid, lest he betray her. Mounting his steed, he braced himself for battle. The brigands divided, seeking to hem him in; but Cleon charged into their midst. Hooves thundered, and their steeds groaned and blew as they drove toward each other. And with a mighty stroke, Cleon’s sword nearly sundered his foe’s head from his shoulders. The lifeless form fell from the horse into the mire.
The two remaining riders wheeled about, crossing paths, and came at him anew. Cleon spurred his steed downhill toward the leftmost foe. Their horses clashed, casting both men to the ground. Cleon mustered the strength to spring up and fling himself toward his foe. Meeting his enemy’s thrust, he struck off part of his hand. But the other rider yet bore down upon him. Thus, while on one knee and with a swift stroke, Cleon smote the horse’s charging foreleg, and it fell over him, hurling the rider headlong— neck broken upon his landing. Yet Cleon knew that his own leg had been shattered.
The last brigand fled, wailing and clutching his maimed hand pulsing blood as Cleon lay helpless upon the field. He found he could not even crawl with his ruined leg. Nearby, the crippled horse thrashed and screamed. The sky hung low and grey and sleet struck his face.
The sound of fleeing hooves faded into the mist. The breeze ceased, and it became utterly calm. He caught his breath and released his bloody sword which fell into the stubble of new grass. Amarah finally came to him and strove to give him aid, but it was of no avail.
“You must ride away,” he said to her.
“I shall not leave thee.”
“You must,” he said, clasping her arm, “or all is lost for you and our child. Call my horse and ride. Take the higher paths until you see the Clearwater. Then follow the river north to Welf. Tell none of my fate. Say only that they must send riders and that you must be delivered to Gruen to speak with Kethu. Show them this and they will take your word…” He pressed his gold-and-garnet ring into her trembling hand.
“I shall not leave thee,” she repeated.
“You must!” He said, shaking her. “Ride away now, before more brigands return.” She embraced him tightly, their lips joining in farewell. “Go! Seek out Kethu. He is an Aeonite and will protect you.”
She stumbled down the slope unto his steed, turning back thrice, as though she expected him to rise or call her back. Then she paused, seeing the vision of a black wolf still beneath the pines at the tree line, its fur like shadow, eyes glinting silver. “Ride!” Cleon shouted.
[i] The Great Purgation is the cataclysm of global cooling that destroyed nearly all of mankind on Edä. From ‘Dawn of Edä,’ the Holy Book of the Hedam, v 161-162: Then The One dimmed the light of Sol, and the azure skies of midday turned gray. The warmth withdrew, and the frost of death descended. The seas shrank from the shores, and the rivers were bound in ice. The mountains groaned beneath their burden, and silence reigned across the wilderness. Famine devoured the tribes of men, and violence sprang up among the starving multitudes. Some cried aloud, saying, “What God is this who afflicteth His children with such torment? Hath He not loved us?”
[ii] A furlong is a distance of two hundred paces.
[iii] Reiks and thegns: Methundor’s feudal structure is reik-based. Among the five reiks, the rex is the first among equals. As Gruen is the most populous, wealthiest, and most influential city, the Reik of Gruen is usually considered the rex (or archduke). A king would transcend the rex as the embodiment of the law, with the reiks submitting to his sovereign will.
The socio-economic hierarchy of Methundor during the march of the Norland Host was:
- King— (unnamed) sovereign ruler above all reiks, embodiment of law and unity.
- Rex— foremost reik, usually the Reik of Gruen
- Reik— ruler of a great city, territory, or petty kingdom
- Thegn— local chieftain or village lord sworn to a reik
- Reeve— men who administer the law, estates and collect levies
- Bondi— free landholder owing taxes, labor, and military service
Freemen— a broader category including merchants, craftsmen, and Aeonites under charter - Serfs / Peasants— unfree or semi-free laborers
[iv] Aeonites are descendants of the tribe of Neandilim that crossed into Edä as Vallis was destroyed. Loyal to King Aeon, they fled north with Kethu to evade Bafomet’s murderous wrath.
[v] The River Thol is the theological waterway in the afterlife where, once souls have been assigned their next life, they must drink of its waters to forget their past before re-entering the mortal realm.
