Contents

The March

Innocence

Seven days they had ridden within the mists, which crept and folded upon them like some living thing intent upon causing bewilderment. The sun showed itself but faintly by day, and by night the drums returned, though low and distant.

When darkness fell, Elden lay wakeful near Gedain, his sightless gaze fixed upon the featureless dark, fearing what lurked just beyond in the shadow. Gedain slept deeply, whether from exhaustion or resignation, none could say. His rest was that of a man who hath ceased to wrestle with fate and merely waits upon it.

Upon the seventh morning, before they rode, Elden said, “I fear we are lost, my lord. I believe we have passed these boulders before.”

Gedain gave no reply.

“Will we ever find the way back?” the boy pressed.

“What will be will be,” Gedain answered flatly.

A moment later. “I hunger,” Elden confessed. “It hath been days.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Gedain’s face, then it was gone. “Here…” He drew forth a small bundle from his pack and unwrapped it. A trencher, hard as kiln-fired clay, fell into his palm. He cast it to the lad.

“Wet it so it softens. It should hold you over for a while.”

“Is it thy last, sir?”

Gedain shrugged. “I have no hunger for bread.”

Elden nibbled away. “What didst thou see, my lord?” the boy asked, crumbs tumbling out as he spoke.

“What dost thou mean?” Gedain replied, his eye narrowing.

“In the Neandilim camp, sir. What didst thou see when thou wentest off with them?”

Gedain considered. “They wished to know if the Norland host had mustered… among other things.” Gedain pulled himself up onto his feet and saddled his horse. “The sky clears. Let’s ride.”

By midday they gained a ridge from which the snowy spires of the Norzcarpe loomed beyond the thinning haze that dulled the cloudless sky. Yet the path ahead again descended into dark pine and bramble until it came upon a rolling stream. There, the water pooled wide enough to ford. Upstream, the path climbed toward the heights. Downstream, it wound away into a murky descent.

“Which way, sire?” Elden asked.

“You choose, lad,” he answered. “I surrender fate unto a spirit that is true.”

“I, sir?”

“Aye. Yet I favor thou chooseth not the path that seems the most obvious or clear, but rather the one that seems the most perilous to thee.”

“Why, sir?”

“The One tests us, my lad. The easy way hath left us wandering in circles.”

Elden studied the ways. Upstream beckoned plainly, rising toward the High Gate that lay high above at the saddle of the peaks. To ford the river was uncertain, perhaps leading to another ridge, another stream, another choice. Downstream led once more to the unseen, and unto the enemy.

He swallowed. “It must be downstream, then,” Elden said. “Though I do not favor it.”

“Downstream it is, then.”

They descended again until afternoon, whereupon they found a narrow track turning west and climbing anew.

“I do not recall this way,” Elden remarked.

“Nor do I,” said Gedain. “It seems we have stumbled across a new path. We ride.”

Upwards it led them, and the haze had lifted so that they rode with good vision well into twilight when the road took them to heights beyond the trees.

“Shall we halt, my lord?”

“No. We are almost there.”

“How do you know?”

“I can feel it.”

The road continued its ascent, into stone and ice, beyond the last of the gnarled stumps of pine. The firmament shone brightly with starlight, and Luna was full, lighting their way. The abyss to their right fell away for hundreds of cubits. One slip, a fatal error.

“There!” Elden shouted. “I see it.”

Ahead, a tilted wedge of massive stone rising like a shadowed blade against the glowing snows of the peaks beyond. The moonlight and the stars glistened in the deep blue firmament. The air was cold and still. They rode forward, and sight of the High Gate unfolded entire before them, revealed by the stone eave enclosing the iron gate within.

They dismounted and approached, Elden following Gedain to the crusted iron bars. Gedain took hold of them and pushed with all his might, yet the gate did not yield. Elden rushed beside him and pushed with all his might as well, yet the gate stood fast.

“Is it locked, sire?”

Gedain stepped back. “Aye.”

“Now what, my lord?”

“We wait.”

They stood on the high road ledge, the air bitter, each gazing at the heavens, counting the brief flash of shooting stars. Vê’s bright arc had long set beyond the peaks in the west. The firmament wheeled as Luna slowly crept across the heavens.

“Shall I start a fire, my lord?” Elden asked as he stood to shake off the cold.

“With what fuel?” Gedain answered absently, scanning the barren rocks.

Elden stepped backward toward the ledge, gazing upward with wonder, his breath misting. “What tales we shall tell, eh my lord?” he offered. “Whoever hath seen a faun with their own eyes? And then one who led us into ambush. And the battle— your wound as proof.” He shook his head. “Though I did not know those men well, I weep for my fallen brothers in arms.”

Gedain stood, watching him closely, studying his mind, or perhaps lost within his own.

“And how we came upon the Neandilim,” Elden continued. “They will scarce believe it, my lord, that our lives were spared. By The One… our fortune.”

“No, they will not believe it,” Gedain agreed, drawing near.

“Four men lost,” Elden continued. “I cannot help but to wonder why I was spared. I feel… I feel as though I am unworthy of such mercy.”

Each stood face to face, Gedain studying the boy. The lad lowered his eyes, as if feeling shame.

“That was my first battle,” he admitted, staring at his boots. “I was terrified. I dropped my sword in fear, my lord. Then I hid in the bramble.” He raised his eyes to Gedain’s. “Why was I spared, my lord? Does The One yet hold some purpose for me?”

Gedain’s eyes softened almost into sadness as they stood face to face upon the precipice. “This is thy purpose.”

“Four lives lost,” Elden murmured again.

Gedain’s voice came low. “Five lives,” he said.

Elden blinked. “Five lives, sire?”

Gedain moved with sudden violence, shoving the lad backwards with both hands at his chest. Elden staggered, surprise widening his eyes. Then he vanished beyond the edge with only a short cry in the high pitch of a child.

Then silence.

Gedain could not bring himself to look over the edge, turning instead to the iron bars of the Gate. He laid both hands upon them once more and pressed. This time, with a groan of metal upon stone, the High Gate yielded and swung inward.

Dawn

Korbin Fy was a short, stout elder man, broad of shoulder yet soft of belly, near bald on his crown, with a long beard in the hue of red river mud streaked grey. His face, sweaty and beige, and mottled with moles and knotted flesh, called to mind a potato torn from the wet earth. For seven winters he had been Reik of Fywold, the title bequeathed from his long-embittered father who muttered curses against “that cunt bastard Cleon Feldric” ere his eyes rolled white and his spirit passed into Tartarus.

Korbin had inherited not only title, but his father’s bitter lust for revenge, a hunger to see Cleon’s line broken and Gruen brought low. Oft he dreamed of an alliance with the Blodwins of Dregrove, that together they might sever Cleon’s blood from power. But those dreams were shattered when the dust-covered courier arrived bearing word that Una and Madrot Blodwin had conspired to seize his idiot son and deliver him unto Cleon’s milk-fed whelp for justice.

Korbin read the letter aloud in Fywold’s hall, his voice thick with mockery.

“My Lord Korbin…”

He started.

Word may already have reached thee that thy son, Kaldwin, now stands in my custody within the keep of Gruen…”

Korbin snorted, skipping lines with exaggerated mumbling.

“He was delivered unto my wardens… words… words more words… The charge laid upon him is attempted regicide…”

Korbin looked up to observe the reaction of the courtiers. Then continued.

“…Which is treason… more words… unity rests upon the stability of the sovereign…”

He rolled his eyes and scoffed. Laughter rippled through the hall.

“I do not write to thee in wrath. I write because the hour before us is greater than private grievance… the fate of Methundor outweighs the quarrels of men…”

Korbin huffed.

“Kaldwin Fy shall be afforded lawful trial before assembled lords and… words… more words…

Then his voice rose.

“…Yet if the House of Fy shall answer the muster, in full strength, under thy banner, and stand beside the other reiks in defense of the realm, then I shall show mercy…”

Korbin lowered the parchment and spat upon the stones at his feet.

“By The One,” he bellowed, “no Fy shall ever ride beside any son of Cleon, nor grandson either. Not so long as I walk upon this earth and my lungs hold breath.”

The court of potato-faces and river mud hair roared in drunken approval. Korbin then disregarded the value of the parchment and tore the letter to shreds, letting the scraps fall like dead leaves. The crowd roared even louder, some pounding tables and shaking fists, others even drawing blades. Korbin nodded proudly at the tempest of tribal loyalty he had aroused. And before it had died away completely, he threw his stout head back and marched right out of the hall heading for his chamber.

Therein his mistress awaited, and he took his pleasure as men often do when they believe themselves triumphant, seeking in flesh to seal the certainty of their will. He then fell immediately asleep, deep and dreamless.

But the reik and his mate were jolted awake by a pounding upon his door. He sat upn seeing the predawn glow filling the window. “What devilry is this?” he growled.

“My Lord,” came a breathless voice on the other side, “come and see. It hath happened!”

“What hath happened?”

“Come quickly, my lord!” Footfalls hurried away.

“Stay,” he ordered his companion as he rose. “I will return in a moment.”

He rocked himself upright and out of bed, pulling on his tunic and boots by the hazy blue light coming through his window. Stomping from his chamber as he fastened his belt, he found the corridor strangely empty. No morning servants. No guards at ease. Down the stairwell he went, finding the main hall quiet as well, the floor awash in squares of blue predawn light, cast down in shafts from the high windows.

He pushed through the half open doors, stepping into the plaza intending to curse them all for abandoning their posts and chores. But he halted, finding dozens had gathered— townsfolk, wardens, priests, children clinging to robes, all gazing up into the sky. Some stared open-mouthed. Others pointed. A few muttered prayers. A few wiped their tears.

His captain stood near and Korbin seized him by the shoulder. “What mischief is this?”  

“Look!”

He pointed north.

Korbin turned his gaze, following the deep, jittering shadows, black as ink, cast by man and wall and tree. His eyes moved up the stone wall to the shingled rooftop, and to the sky cast in a glowing arc of bright white above, brighter than the full moon’s radiance, yet emanating from no place Luna was ever set.

He stepped right to get a better view, then several more, and then he saw it entire with his own eyes, the great archon light, a white flame shimmering fierce and pure, illuminating the firmament.

“I…” he stammered, “I cannot believe it.”

An old maiden wailed, “the prophecy is true!”

Footfalls beat across the courtyard. Korbin turned his gaze. A man darted through the plaza. Then another. He beheld the purpose in their haste. First it was wardens, then guardians, then other men joined.

“Where are they going?” Korbin demanded.

His captain answered without looking away from the light. “They muster.”

“I gave no such command,” Korbin snapped.

“They heed the command of The One, my lord.”

Enmities

Cerenid walked beside Azarius in the heat of the Longsol noon, the air shimmering above the paving stones. Two mailed guards kept measured pace behind, ringlets hissing with each stride. The talk was of Madrot.

“He slew my brother,” Cerenid said.

“Aye,” Azarius answered calmly. “Yet thy brother chose the field.”

Cerenid’s jaw tightened. “Be that as it may.”

“A rex hath not the luxury of enmity,” Azarius explained patiently. “Not when the realm trembleth.”

“I have need of Dregrove men, nothing more.”

“Yet they will not follow thee without their reik.”

“Then I’ll bid Una order them,” Cerenid posed— yet as he spoke it, he felt its weakness and wished he had said it not.

Azarius shook his head faintly. “Of the five reiks, thou shalt find Madrot to surpass them all in honor.” He laid a steady hand upon the young rex’s shoulder. “If thou forgiveth him, he shall cleave to thee as a brother.”

“He shall never be brother to me,” he said with scorn.

“He may not be the brother thou desireth,” Azarius said softly, “but he will be the brother thou needest.”

They walked, Azarius scanning the bustling way, eyes following as it led to the city gate. Beyond the walls, the fields lay crowded with tents and coils of white smoke. Men had come from every quarter of Methundor and the Norlands beyond, filling Gruen’s inns and the meadows and riverbanks.

“All these men have come,” Azarius observed, “yet do not presume they come for their love of thee, or for fear of their reiks and thegns.” Azarius lifted his gaze northward. Even beneath the glare of midday Sol, the shard of the archon-light shimmered as a bright diamond upon the pale blue firmament. “They come, my rex, because a star in the firmament compelled them.”

Cerenid’s eyes fell as if the words cut.

“Do not allow thy pride to be wounded by truth, for their obedience to God is not an insult, but a gift unto thee.”

“How so?”

“The loyalty of men is fickle. But their loyalty to God endures. Make God’s will thine own and thy will be done.”

Cerenid’s brow furrowed.

“Surround thyself always with loyal men. Fill their souls with purpose and they will deliver unto thee until death.” Azarius went on. “Madrot brought Kaldwin to justice. He gave thee leverage when thou hadst none. Help him restore his name and he will risk death for thee.”

“But mother sayeth to grant Madrot honor would show weakness.” Again, he regretted saying it the moment it passed his lips.

“Your mother suffers,” Azarius answered. “Her words come from that place alone. Yet knoweth this: The same act may declare weakness or strength. It is the manner that crowneth it which decides.”

“Thou speakest as Kethu.”

“Aye,” Azarius nodded, smiling. “I was his tutor in his Vallis days.” A shadow swept across the stones and Azarius lifted his eyes, shading them from the glare of Sol with his hand. “There… dost thou see it?”

“See what?” asked Cerenid.

“A griffinhawk,[i] circling high. Many will take it as an omen.”

Cerenid followed his gaze.

“Listen! Fy’s riders have come,” Azarius said. “Go swiftly! Greet them ere pride kindleth blood with the Blodwins.”

At that instant, a rider burst through the gate at full gallop. “My Lord!” he cried, reining hard before them. “The host of Fy hath arrived. Blades are near drawn. I fear blood shall spill.”

Cerenid hastened through the gates and onto the field beyond, his guards in stride, Azarius following behind. The field beneath Gruen’s ancient walls seethed with men— nearing three thousand, their banners swaying in the roiling air. Two factions had gathered in the road, shouting curses and hurling gestures at each other. To the right formed the men of Dregrove; to the left stood Fy’s. Shields thumped. Steel flashed.

“Cease!” Cerenid shouted, but his voice failed to carry and none heeded him.

“I will not ride beside that reaver,” shouted one.

“And rapist!” cried another.

Madrot stood calmly, smiling faintly. “Step forth and name me such to my face,” he called evenly. “Any man who thinketh himself judge, come and judge me by duel. I shall oblige thee unto Thol and be done.”

The taunts grew.

“Silence!” Cerenid thundered, stepping between the lines. “We must set aside our hatreds.”

“I’ll not ride beside the Blodwin rat who stole our heir,” shouted another.

“And thou holdest Kaldwin in thy keep,” cried another, turning on Cerenid. “We know well where thy loyalty lieth, rex.”

Cerenid felt their eyes upon him like knives. He scanned their faces, then glanced over his shoulder seeking assurance from Azarius who had drawn near. The Prophet offered only still presence. “Aye,” Cerenid said at last. “We hold Kaldwin. And he shall remain in our keep— his charge being treason.”

A growl rose among the Fymen.

“Yet hear me!” Cerenid shouted. “No harm shall come to him so long as Fy’s banners stand with this host.”

Korbin Fy himself strode forward, thick and grim of face. “And when we return?” Korbin demanded, “Will my son not meet thy saw?”

“Nay!” Cerenid shouted back. He steadied himself as he wrangled with his thoughts. Korbin watched him, eyes narrowing. “If thou marchest… if thou fight beside me, beside all the reiks, for the glory of The One, then upon our return, Kaldwin Fy will be released unharmed, his sentence commuted.”

Murmurs rippled through the Fy ranks. Korbin’s ruddy expression did not change— but the men behind him had shifted.

“And if we refuse?” Korbin asked.

“Then Kaldwin shall stand lawful trial,” Cerenid answered. “And if found guilty, he shall indeed meet the saw.”

Silence. Korbin stood, face blank, but he felt the resolve of his men falter behind him. Yet his pride would not subside. “We will not ride by the High Gate road, for it is narrow and an ambush surely awaits. We must ride for the Agzad Gap.”

“Agzad takes us too far east!” came a voice.

“Longview is the only way!” cried another.

…And the cauldron of dissent boiled anew, louder than at the council, so loud it soon grew that no man be heard above it, though each shouted ever louder to surpass it. Cerenid pressed his palms to his brow, as though to hold his skull from splitting by the clamor.

But then the roar fell silent…

The men turned and parted, the sound of their clanging steel and wood surrendering to hoofbeats. A rider came, soiled with dust and mud, cloak torn, face swollen and disfigured with a wound filled with blackened crust.

Gedain.

He wheeled his mount slowly among them, letting all see him and he them. A hush fell. He found his words, and though they began coarse and wary, they built in strength.

“There is but one road,” he said, turning to all. “And that is by the High Gate.” Gedain gazed down upon Cerenid from his mount. “The far side shall be held for us… my lord. We have…” he let the word hang, “Allies.”

And what had been a splayed hand of bickering tribes had at last clenched into a tightened Norland fist.

Reckoning

Footsteps halted beyond the heavy cell. A face darkened the high slot. Keys jingled. The lock turned and the heavy door creaked open, and the gold glow of lantern light flooded across the moldy straw of the cell floor.

“Thy hour has come, Joles,” said the foremost guard.

“Farewell, my friend,” said the envoy as the guards entered and pulled Joles up on to his feet. “Mayhap we shall meet again on the banks of Thol.”

They shackled Joles’ wrists and ankles in heavy chains. He tried to walk under his own power, but the guards lifted his weight off his feet so that only his toes dragged along on the stones. They knew how the strength of men condemned would fail their legs.

They reached the daylight of the square, and there, Joles found a throng had gathered to witness his end. Before him, a scaffold, ominous beneath Sol’s glare. Upon it, a chopping block, and behind that, a frame for suspension.

Curses fell upon Joles like hurled stones. “Mercy,” he muttered as the guards delivered him up the steps. The crowd roared with hatred. A priest in purple robes read the rites of Thol.

Hear now, O One, who holdest all things made and unmade within Thy vastness.

Receive the spirit of this man, which Thou gavest unto flesh, and which now returneth unto Thee.

Cerenid Rex stood silent, eyes lowered. “Mercy, My Lord,” Joles pleaded. “I beg you. I confess all my crimes. Let Thol cleanse what remaineth of me. But spare me the saw.”

“Look! The traitor begs,” one said.

“The boy will grant mercy by the axe,” suggested others.

Behind Cerenid stood his mother Fia, in a gown of black, her silver jewels shining cold like the archon light in the northern sky. Her gaze moved through the crowd as they lowered Joles onto his back, finding and settling at last upon Olian. She watched as a guard wove through the pressed flesh toward him, confirming as he placed a note into Olian’s hand. Olian raised it and unfolded it. It read:

Gedain seeketh speech with me. Dost thou know the cause?

He lifted his gaze toward Fia but her eyes passed beyond him before they met. She found Gedain next, his cheek badly darkened and uneven, his once-comely visage now roughened by wound and scar and a patch over his ruined eye. She once thought him so noble of visage. Now he looked crude, like a failed brigand. The guard approached him and handed him a note. He too took it and read it.

Olian desireth speech with me, after the execution. I seek thy presence as a witness.

Gedain’s jaw tightened as he tucked the note into his tunic. His first glance was to Fia, then to Olian. Fia turned, finding Olian looking at Gedain. The faintest grin of satisfaction stirred behind her composure.

“Mercy, My Rex,” Joles begged. Cerenid raised his hand. The rancor died to murmurs and coughs.

“People of Gruen,” he began, “many of ye have wondered if I would give mercy for this traitor. A quick death is a death nonetheless, some would say. I assure ye I have weighed mercy against oath and I have wrestled with it in sleepless hours.”

Some whispered, “Here is where the boy relents.”

Cerenid continued. “In moments, this traitor’s spirit will visit the River Thol, to drink of the water of forgetfulness and enter into his next life.”

Others whispered, “The boy falters…”

“As rex, I have many obligations. Among them: to be just, to know when to be stern, and to know when to show mercy.”

“Here it comes…” some thought.

“But also, a rex must always be steadfast,” he continued, “for if my word bend for fear or pity, it shall bear no weight when next I speak it.” Complete silence fell over the gathered. Joles’s eyes filled with desperation. Cerenid’s gaze did not seek the condemned, remaining upon the throng. “By the old law, and by my word, I sentence this traitor to the saw.” A collective breath held. “Proceed!”

The crowd, their lust for gore aroused, burst into a roar. Joles wept as they carried him to the post and stripped off his clothes so that they would not snag the teeth of the blade. They laid him upon his back at the foot of the span and hoisted him upwards by his ankles. Then the wardens pounded the planks into place to secure him from swaying by each draw. The cutters took position at his back and front and set the saw into the notch between Joles’ inverted legs. The crowd screamed, lusting for gore, yet many turned their eyes and made their way out, unable to witness the looming spectacle of horror.

The priest gave a final absolution.

The cutters gripped tightly upon the handles of the saw.

Joles clenched his eyes, bracing, muttering prayers.

Fia glanced at Gedain.

Gedain glared at Olian.

The cutters looked to Cerenid.

Cerenid nodded.

The blade began to cut.

At first, the sound was tooth upon wood, a dry rasp. It built pace. Then it reached flesh and tore in. Joles screamed in agony as the cutters pulled and pushed. Blood smeared the steel. Joles ran out of breath, his contorted face turning purple. No sound came from the scaffold but the saw’s churning. Then it dulled as it tore deep into flesh, blood spraying out from the notch, and running down between the planks, painting Joles silent screams in a fountain of red. Forward. Backward. Forward. Backward. Pieces of flesh and bone tore loose, splattering the cutter’s black hoods as they pushed and pulled.

Fia watched Olian’s face blanch, his hand rising to his mouth. He turned, ducking and pushing his way out of the square through the screaming, cheering mob. She turned back to Gedain, finding his cold goblin face.

She looked then to her son. Cerenid stood rigid, pallor creeping beneath his composure, eyes avoiding the carnage he had ordered. She studied him. She always regarded him as lacking mettle. He should have died at Briganta, not Ceryd. She tried ever since not to hate him for living, yet she knew she did at times, and she hated herself more for that. Was her son a man, now? Was this order a sign of found power of will or just a boy’s performance? She could not fully discern. She feared. Would such found iron temper him at last, or merely harden him toward cruelty? What does it matter? She thought. He is my only living child, and so I will love him, unconditionally, from this moment forward. She whispered a prayer: “O One, breathe not the fire of devils into my son. I beg thee fill him with courage without corruption for the remainder of his days.”

Joles finally breathed his last, yet the sawing continued until they had rent him in two, leaving the scaffold below a pile of glistening entrails and organs and pooling blood. As the crowd died, their lust sated, Gedain slipped from the square.

He hastened down the stoney way, chasing his future— chasing Olian. The avenue narrowed as it branched out. The storefronts and vendors crowding on either side, compressing the serfs and craftsmen into a corral of humanity. His mind raced with his life hanging in the balance. In two days, the host would ride for the High Gate, he leading the men of Welf as his father was too weak— or too cowardly— to make the journey. On the other side of the mountain lay destiny— to be made the rex. He pushed the folk aside, eyes hunting for Olian.

“Make way!” he shouted. An old man fell over in his path. A woman dropped her bundle. The air sweltered. The odor of urine and rotting cabbage and sweat filled his nostrils. His cheek burned hot by Sol’s rays and the boiling infection. He pressed on. The avenue tightened like a noose around his neck. Olian! Olian! He called in his mind. He pushed through the mob, and he would have hacked his way through if he would not have been held account for mass murder. At last, he emerged at the confluence of five narrow streets that formed into a small square. Which way? He searched frantically. Then, he saw him turning into an alley. What now— a bargain? A threat? Avarlon held for silence? …A wound that would fester. And he will use it against me. I cannot endure that…

Gedain lunged towards Olian. Olian turned in the shade of the corridor at the last moment. Terror and hatred filled the old man’s face. He stumbled back, fumbling for his hilt. Gedain drew his knife from his belt and pulled Olian close, whispering, “I choose silence!” He thrust the blade under his ribs and Olian’s breath left him in a soundless gasp. Gedain withdrew the knife and disappeared like a ghost, dissolving back into the crowd. Olian leaned against the wall of the alley for a moment, clutching his abdomen with both hands, then he slid down in the shade onto stones.

Dilemma

Two wardens stood before the shuttered house of Olian, where Avarlon kept herself hidden. They knocked, yet no answer came. Fia stepped forward. “Avarlon,” she called gently, “open the door. Come with me unto the keep. Thou shalt not sit alone in this grief.”

Long silence followed, then at last a broken voice answered from within. “They say Gedain slew him. I cannot believe it… I am all alone.”

“Thou art not alone, child,” Fia replied. “I am with thee and the life thou bearest within thee. Think on that.”

The latch stirred. The door opened a hand’s breadth, and Avarlon’s face revealed, eyes swollen with weeping, her hair unbound. She trusted the kindness she saw in Fia’s eyes, and besides, she had no one else to turn to. She opened the door. Fia opened her arms and the girl collapsed into them. “I have brought a carriage,” Fia said, brushing tears from Avarlon’s cheek. “The curtains shall be drawn and the world walled off from your suffering. No prying eye will trouble thee.”

Within the dim carriage, as the hooves beat stone and wheels creaked and groaned, Avarlon’s weeping ebbed into empty silence. Beyond the shutters peered the eyes of pitying townsfolk. “Poor Avarlon,” their faces spoke. “Orphaned and widowed in a day.”

Fia sat opposite in the carriage, hands folded, silent.

When Avarlon was settled within a quiet chamber of the keep, Fia went straightaway to her son. She found him in council with his captains who ceased their talking and cast their glares at her when she appeared in the doorway. Yet Cerenid bade her to enter and take a seat. “My mother will govern as regent in my absence,” he advised. “She must hear all that passeth.”

“What hath passed?” Fia asked.

The captains lowered their eyes. “The host is once again in danger,” Cerenid explained as he glanced toward the Welf captain. “The men of Welf threaten to depart if their marshal remains confined in our dungeon.”

“Their marshal being Gedain,” Fia clarified.

Cerenid nodded.

“Has he confessed?” Fia asked.

“He denied it,” said Cerenid. “And now he keepeth silence.”

“I shall convene a trial after the host’s departure,” Fia offered.

“Ye shall depart without us, then,” the Welf captain answered coolly. “We demand our lord’s heir be returned to our keeping.”

“Demand?” Fia asked.

Cerenid started to speak but Fia interrupted him. “Why should I unbind a man stained with blood?”

“Because, my Lady,” answered the captain, “thou shalt lack the strength to keep him bound.”

Fia’s eyes narrowed. “Thou speakest of rebellion.”

The captain replied, calm and untroubled. “I speak only of power exercised where it lieth.”

Cerenid rose. “Please, everyone leave us.”

The captains shuffled out, with the last closing the door. Cerenid waited to ensure they had passed down the hall before he started to speak, but he was interrupted again by his mother. “There is but one course,” she said.

“And what would that be, mother?” Cerenid asked, wearily.

“Try him. Today. And execute him.”

Cerenid exhaled long. “There would be revolt. The host would fracture.”

“Madrot…” Fia plead. “Madrot will hold them together. He is by far the strongest reik. They all fear him.” Yet Fia could not believe her own ears when she said it— praising the monster, as she had called him, as her son’s ally.

“You’d have me appeal to my brother’s killer?” Cerenid scoffed.

Fia stared into his eyes for a moment, uncertain how to frame her reply. “Aye,” she said at last. “He is thy tool. Use him.”

“Even if Madrot were to succeed in forging unity among the others, Welf would return and take Gruen the moment we embarked.” Cerenid turned and went to the narrow window, resting his forearm on the ledge, gazing out.

“So be it,” Fia replied. “Then return victorious and reclaim what they’ve stolen. Better that than to march beside a serpent. When thou returneth victorious, thou returneth not as rex but as a king.”

Cerenid’s gaze fixed on the scene beyond the walls of Gruen, to the mountains looming white with spring snow, hazy and distant. “And if I return not?” he asked.

Fia lowered her eyes, brow furrowed. “Then Bafomet comes,” she answered, “and none shall remain to judge.” Silence lingered, Fia watching her son as he pondered. “I know what thou art thinking,” she said. “But the law must prevail. Do not let him march with the host. He is a killer. Try him and execute him… and be rid of two traitors in a day.”

“Mother—”

Fia approached, her voice turned to pleading. “He plotted thy death, Cerenid. He and Olian together. You know it.”

Cerenid did not turn. “You do not know that for certain… And if he did, Olian repented and foiled his own plot.”

“You must be decisive,” she countered. “You must execute him.” She stepped closer. “If he lives, he will betray thee. He is—”

“Silence!” Cerenid thundered, the tone striking her like a blow. “There will be no trial,” he said, voice lowering but firm. “None will testify against him, anyway, and he will surely not confess. Any trial held would be regarded a sham… and if it came to trial, I’m certain he would demand combat.”

Fia’s eyes flashed. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Trial by combat. It is perfect. Grant it. Then have Madrot stand for thee and slay him.”

Cerenid’s expression tightened, for he knew she spoke true. “I cannot ask that of Madrot.”

“You must. He owes thee for taking thy brother’s life. And he would surely do it if it grants him the absolution he desires.”

Cerenid pressed his hands into his brow in anguish. “Mother…”

“By this, you will save the host and then you will march.”

He turned at last, eyes weary beyond his years.

“Leave, mother,” he said. “I must be alone to think.”

“Cerenid, I—”

“Leave!” he commanded with a sternness unknown to her.

Fia lowered her gaze. Then, without a further word, she straightened the pleats of her gown and glanced at him once more but he remained fixed at the window, back turned. She left the chamber, closing the door softly behind her, knowing well that her son was now suffering fully the aloneness of being rex.

Muster

The lock turned and the door to the cell opened. A ray of lantern glow flooded in and Gedain shielded his good eye from it, the right side of his face still black and swollen.

“Rise,” ordered the guard.

Gedain rose without protest and the guards shackled his wrists and ankles. He had expected this as prelude. Perhaps a pitiful scolding from the boy rex first, then release into his father’s custody. He hoped he would be able keep a solemn face. He was led up the winding stairwell and into the light of the courtyard where the scaffold waited in grim stillness. He seeketh to frighten me, he thought. Two executioners stood in black lingering near the frame, one holding a long-toothed saw. Another guarded the block, clutching his axe. Between them, several wardens and the reeve who was their master, stood with folded arms. Cerenid was not among them. Look, he thought, the boy could not even muster the courage scold me himself. His hopefulness flourished.

“I demand trial,” Gedain announced.

The reeve regarded him with a stolid expression. “Who sayeth there will be a trial?”

“It is my lawful right,” Gedain answered confidently.

“The king is the grantor of thy rights.”

“And we have a rex only, not a king,” Gedain replied. “Where is the rex?”

The guards dragged Gedain up the steps of the scaffold and pushed him down onto his knees.

“Confess,” urged the reeve, voice level, “and thy justice shall be swift and painless.”

“I have naught to confess,” Gedain replied.

The reeve nodded and the guards pressed Gedain flat upon his back and began disrobing him. He cursed and struggled until one warden pressed his hand into his wound and pushed his head down onto the planks.

Gedain shouted in agony. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The wardens dragged him to the frame. Straps were run through the ringlets, and he was hoisted inverted upon the span.

“Confess,” urged the reeve.

Gedain’s mind began to swim with doubt.

The other wardens fitted a plank across the posts to secure him. Gedain breathed fast and shallow, his face burning, teeth clenching. Hammer blows rang. The guard held another plank to the posts. More hammer blows.

“I demand trial!” Gedain shouted in futility.

More planks. More hammers pounding nails. Then silence. A raven gurgled. Shallow breaths. Clouds raced above, sheathing Sol, dimming the courtyard.

“Where is my father?” Gedain asked, voice weakening.

“Confess your crimes.”

Gedain’s defiance surged again. He held his tongue. The reeve motioned to the executioners. They laid the saw in place, into the notch of plank, so that it rested just above Gedain’s loins. Then each took hold on either end. Unanswered, Gedain’s blitheness waned entirely. His breathing faltered in anticipation of pending agony and death.

“I want to speak to the rex,” he begged.

Unheeding him, the reeve motioned to the wardens. The executioners pulled the saw. The blade rasped dryly through the wood. Back and forth. But before steel touched his flesh, Gedain cried out.

“I confess! I confess!”

The reeve motioned and the blade tilted.

“Speak plainly,” said the reeve.

“I confess. I did it. I slayed him.”

“Who didst thou slay?”

“Olian,” Gedain cried out, voice breaking. “I murdered him. I drove my knife beneath his ribs.”

The reeve’s silence held. He nodded and the wardens began to saw again.

“No! Why?” Gedain screamed.

“Your confession is…” the reeve sighed, “…incomplete.”

“Guilty! I am guilty. I sayeth I confess.”

“To what crime?”

Gedain wept, stalling. The reeve nodded and the saw rasped again.

“Murder! Yet Olian had plotted to slay the rex. I swear it. He told me of this plan himself. He sought vengeance against Madrot and the rex would not give it to him.”

“Yet you did not speak out… to warn thy lord.”

“I feared.” Sobbs. “I feared Olian would turn and blame me for the plot. I feared his tongue. I feared dishonour. I held silence when I should have spoken. That is my crime. I failed my rex. I confess. I am guilty.”

Gedain then broke into full weeping. The reeve studied him long, allowing him to suffer. “Take him down,” he said at last.

The executioners withdrew the saw. The planks were pried loose. Gedain was lowered and unbound. Yet his gaze held upon the block and the axe man. He struggled to regain his breath as the held him upright, naked before the gallery.

The reeve turned to those gathered. “All ye here have heard this confession,” he announced. “By honour, thou art bound to silence unless summoned by the rex or regent.” The reeve then turned to Gedain. “Cerenid Feldric, Rex of Methundor, hath commuted thy sentence. But only if thou wilt serve as steadfast and true as marshal of Welf’s host.”

Gedain nodded, eye lowered. “I will. I will.”

“Thou shalt serve with distinction or justice shall find thee upon the field.”

“I shall serve.”

The wardens released Gedain and filed off the scaffold and out of the courtyard, replaced in turn by the captains of Welf marching in. They covered their reik and bore him away to be cleansed and arrayed.

#

The next dawn, beneath the rising Goldswane[ii] Sol, Cerenid Rex rode forth from the keep of Gruen. His guards at his sides and Azarius with staff in hand behind, his crimson cape rippling, his gold crown gleaming in the morning glow. The retinue passed through the outer gate and onto the open field beyond, where the great Norland host had assembled, filling up the plain beyond Gruen’s walls.

Nine banners were their number. Five for the reiks of Methundor: Tollus of Longview, Korbin of House Fy, Madrot of Dregrove, Cerenid Rex of Gruen, and Gedain of Welf. And also there was the marshal of Lochlund, beneath the banner of the white Narwhal, and the captains of the Hyland centenaries, with their blue eye banners and shields, and the men of the Blackmoors and Canac with their badger skull and eagle— greater than nine thousand warriors in number, some having seen sixty winters and others but fourteen.

And along with them, their squires and grooms and ostlers, smiths and armorers, sappers and cooks, foragers, teamsters, wagoners, surgeons, and clerks and handlers— close to thirteen thousand souls in all. And also their carts and wagons and mules and oxen.

Those nine banners waved in the morning breeze, one for each of the nine reiks and kingdoms. Yet nine was regarded a count of ill omen, the number of dragons borne through Tartarus when Bafomet first defiled Edä.

For it is written in the Book of the Hedam:

Heaven forbade them more than nine, for ten devils unmake the realm.[iii]

Thus, by their defiant spirit, a tenth banner was sewn and raised, dyed azure as clear sky, bearing the archon star now fading from the firmament. And when the Norland men saw it raised a murmur became a cry. “The Tenth Sigil!” “The number Bafomet feared to forge!” “Glory unto The One alone who commandeth the power of ten!”

Cerenid, high upon his mount, straightened the crown upon his brow and all eyes fell upon him. “Men of Norland,” he began, “I offer thee only a prayer before we march:

O Light that knoweth justice pure,
Throughout the Norland skies,
Steady hands and hearts endure,
Where mortal courage dies.

Not for plunder, nor for pride,
We embark this day;
But that the innocent abide,
And truth have leave to stay.

Let our children count us true,
And lift them if we fall.
For mercy’s sake, our cause renew,
Let Ahm remember all.

The host replied with a roar and a pounding of sword on shield. Then Cerenid Rex reared his horse and road forward on the road, unto the High Gate with the Norland Host falling in behind.

High above in the keep, Fia kept silent watch from her chamber window, having not spoken to him since. But as the thousands fell in behind her son, she sensed her son had hardened at last, and she felt a great pride swell within.

Threshold

The host advanced toward the High Gate, a span of thirteen leagues from Gruen’s walls. For two days they rode eastward, until the road branched south, ascending into the forested hills and climbing toward the high mountain saddle. The days were clear and bright, with Sol shining warm and the archon light nearly faded by day. When the van pitched its tents beneath the dark boughs of evergreen, the last wagons of the column had scarcely quit the morning’s meadow three leagues behind.

That evening, Azarius sat with Cerenid by a small pyre, alone save for the crackle of fire and the murmurs of the camp. The young rex had many questions for the Immortal. “What awaits us, prophet?” he asked, watching the embers floating upwards unto the firmament to vanish among the stars.

The flames danced within the dark mirrors of the prophet’s eyes. “Oh…” He answered at length, “a fierce enemy awaits. Thousands of mounted warriors. And thousands more infantry. Archers beyond counting— so many their volleys will darken the very day.”

Cerenid pondered. “And the raptors… tell me of them.”

“Aye, the Nephilim…” The prophet stared into the flames, a memory of the ancient battle at Gudoc seizing his thoughts. He stirred the coals as he visited those vulcan slopes where forty-thousand souls perished. “They art a fierce creature— part dragon and part man.” He raised his eyes, again reflecting the fire. “Long-lived giants. Horned, with a thrashing tail and eyes of glowing amber. They were wrought for labor on Vallis. Much is written of them in the ancient song:

Scaled in gray and standing thrice their stature,
Their words, a woodwind melody of thoughts,
A race of giants They call Nephilim.[iv]”

“Are they invincible?” Cerenid asked.

“No,” Azarius answered flatly. “Their strength is gnawed by Edä’s cold. And they art ill-tempered beasts, difficult to command or compel, for they serve but one master in truth.”

“Bafomet?”

Azarius shook his head. “No. They serve only that for whom they were made— the dragon.”

There was a long silence as the fire fell low.

“What of the Gargan, prophet? Are they real?”

Azarius gazed again into coals. “Oh yes,” He answered. “They are real. They watch us even now.”

“Where are they, then?”

“Oh, they move within the shadows of the forest. They watch from the distant cliffs above.” Azarius raised his eyes to the shattered ridges where great shapes stirred against the moonlit snow— yet when Cerenid looked, he saw only stone and ice.

“There have been many Gargan who have shadowed our path since we entered these heights,” Azarius added. “Yet thou dost not perceive them because thou dost not believe in them.”

“I say seeing is believing.”

“Aye, many men invoke that rule. Yet others would say that believing leadeth unto seeing.”

“If they are real, will they aid us?”

“Aye,” Azarius answered, casting another stick upon the embers. “They will not permit True Men to perish. But they will come only when the moment hath fully ripened.”

Cerenid lifted his eyes to the starry firmament. In the north, the archon light still burned white, the brightest star in the sky, yet much diminished over the months. “Dost thou see the future?” he asked.

“Not precisely,” Azarius answered softly. “Yet I have seen pasts unfold the same.” He grinned. “You and I have sat here before, though you do not recall it.”

“In another life?”

“Aye, in many others.”

“So, the course has been determined?”

“No, young rex,” He answered. “Though each life weaveth its current, the same blossom borne upon the same stream may yet find a different course.”

Cerenid considered this. “Didst thou know Gedain would slay Olian?”

He answered flatly. “I have seen that path unfold many times.”

“Then thou mightest have warned me… or him. Yet you let him die.”

Azarius lowered his eyes. “Aye… I might have done so. But when I have meddled in the life or death of a mortal man, the road beyond seldom runs where I expect.”

“But a man died and thou didst nothing.”

Azarius watched the dying fire. “To thee, a life seemeth long and that maketh it dear,” he said quietly, “for thou rememberest only this life. But I have remembered them all. And so to me, the life of a man passeth as swiftly as a spark flung from a pyre.”

“So a life hath no meaning?”

“No. I say only this: that it is death that hath no meaning. Life is the journey given to the living, and in the journey alone lies all meaning. Men regard death as their path ending at an abyss, yet death is merely a gate upon the path.” He paused. “Yet whether death be an abyss or a gate, why should any man fear it? When it arrives, it will concern thee not. Therefore, live thy life, and trouble not thy soul over its ending. For the end awaits one and all.”

Weariness finding him, Cerenid withdrew at last to his tent, and the fire sank into ash.

At dawn he rose, and the host took up the road again. For two days more the column wound upward into the high places of the Norzcarpe, until at last they climbed above the last twisted pines and the road lay bare beneath the open sky. There was only a gentle breeze to cool them beneath the day’s warmth.

At length, the van of the host— its tail yet three leagues behind— came nigh unto the High Gate. To their left, the road fell away into a vast chasm whose depths lay shrouded in mist. To their right, rose a wall of jagged stone. And before them stood the ancient gate, its iron bars red with rust, its hinges older than any man’s memory.

Cerenid climbed off his horse and approached, with the eyes of Madrot and Azarius and many others fixed upon him. The rex took hold of the bars and heaved, but the gate did not stir. He turned back to the head of the long host. “There is only one key that unlocketh this gate.” From beneath his tunic he drew forth a bronze key hanging upon a leather thong. He lifted it high so that all eyes might see. Then he turned and set it in the lock. The iron bolt groaned as he turned it. The gate shuddered. Then, with a great heave, Cerenid cast it wide and a wind stirred as if it had been held back until that very moment.

Cerenid again faced the host. “There are but two destinations from here: Victory… or death.” Then, before any man could speak against it, he cast the key into the abyss. It struck the cliff once… twice… and was lost in the depths below, and those who saw the act felt then that the world behind them had been severed. Cerenid Rex then mounted his horse and rode through unto the other side and the Norland Host followed behind.

Narrows

The weather turned with the host’s descent, yet they marched ever downward, into the mists of cloud, unto their enemy lurking somewhere below, unseen in the purgatory of haze.

The vanguard made scarcely two leagues upon their first full day’s march from the gate. They pressed onward though the road lay treacherous, the slope steep, the wagons laboring sorely. At last, they halted where the pitch flattened enough to make camp. The van raised their tents amongst the cover of trees, fearing to array in the open where the enemy could assess their force and strike down upon them from the high blind of twisted evergreens.

Far behind them, in the dark of night, the last of the Norland column passed through the High Gate, and the guard closed it behind them. The rusted bolt set, fixing the iron bars, locking them all into their fate.

The march resumed with the first light. By midday, the mists had thickened again. They felt the path narrowing, the slopes pressing upon them on either side. Their pace slowed and dread crept into their thoughts.

Madrot rode forward to Cerenid’s side. “Sire,” he said quietly, “I am sure thou feareth, as I, that an ambush lieth ahead. There could be no better ground for it.”

“Aye,” Cerenid replied. “Yet there is no other way. If it comes, we must fight through it.”

“I bid thee hold the host, my Lord,” Madrot urged. “I will ride ahead and see lies in wait.”

Cerenid shook his head. “Not thee.” Then he raised his hand, halting the column, and turning to his captains he said: “Who will ride ahead?”

But their eyes lowered.

Then Gedain rode between Madrot and the rex. “I will go,” he answered.

“Good. Take five riders.”

“Nay, my Lord. If an ambush awaits, then it would be better to lose one instead of six.” He spurred forward, before any could object, and the captains watched with hidden relief.

Gedain rode forward without fear, for he knew that he was to be made by Bafomet, and that no harm would befall him. Would this be the moment when he would be called upon for betrayal? Into the mist he rode until the murmurs of the host fell away and there was just the road falling into the haze.

Gedain pondered many things as he advanced. Who awaits ahead? Will they suffer the host to pass? And if they do, what then? Slaughter? His thoughts turned darker. How many Norland men must be made dead upon this slope? And when the matter is finished… how shall I lead the survivors back to Gruen?

His horse blew uneasily, tossing its head as if it scented death. He steadied the reins. Have I lost my soul? He answered himself at once— No. I have done what was needful— to save my people, my kin, my child… and myself. For a man who would live, he must sometimes barter honor for survival. Cerenid, what will become of him? I cannot be troubled. He leads us to ruin. It is certain no true rex is made by clean hands.

When he had descended some distance, he glimpsed a lone figure standing upon the path, as if awaiting him. As he neared, he saw that it was the faun Veorn.

“Hast thou come to deliver me unto Bafomet?” Gedain asked as he reined.

Nay,” Veorn answered. “I do not serve the Bringer of Nine.”

“Who commands thee, then?”

Veorn’s lips curled into a grin. “What doth it matter to thee?”

“I do not trust thee. Last time, thou leadest me into a trap.”

“Yet thou liveth to be led again.” The mist thickened around the faun. “If thou must know, I serve the one who came first, the one cast out of the Garden Vallis, the first who makes ten, the number that shall unmake Edä.”

Gedain felt a chill stir beneath his mail. “I know not what of what ye speaketh.”

“Ride on, Gedain,” Veorn urged. “Go and see with thy one good eye the terror of my master unleashed.”

Veorn stepped aside on the path and bade Gedain through. He spurred forward into the white breath, down the narrow road, hooves thumping upon ballast, horse snorting uneasily. Gedain’s eye searched ahead. The fog began to lift and the ambush was revealed— Many hundreds of men arrayed in the dull gold armor of the Neandilim…

Yet it was an ambush of the dead, for none moved nor breathed. Their bodies were pierced by arrow and spear. Others crushed beneath stones and logs. Dozens of heads, removed from their necks, their tawny faces stretched, their dull stares cast in final agony, each impaled on a long crude pike set about the mounds of the broken. They conquerors spared not even their horse, which lay entangled within the trunks and boulders and twisted remains of the fallen. All that lived to stir were the corvids and vultures that had come to strip the bared flesh.

The Neandilim had marched forth to this defile to set upon the Norland host an ambush. A millenary of riders and archers and footmen, climbing the same narrow path, their column stretching a third of a league behind between cliff and chasm.

Yet another ambush had awaited them. High upon the slope above the road, hidden hunters watched in silence until the golden column wound deep into the narrows. And when a third of the Neandilim had passed, the command was given, and the struts were pulled loose, and the mountainside and forest tumbled down upon the golden host. Trunks and boulders smashed through the thin column as if it was a ribbon, sending shattered horse and rider plunging down into the stoney gulch below.

At their rear, riders struck, severing off retreat and driving the enemy uphill into the chaos. Then the arrows by the thousand rained down, crippling and wounding beast and man. Their battle cries sounded the final death blow. Down the slopes they charged, as if they were the very raptors of ancient Vê, smiting and slaying the defenseless host of Mosul on the slopes of Gudoc. Yet these were not raptors charging down, but Norland men. And this was not Vallis but Edä. And though the blood of their proud Vallis forebears yet pulsed within their Nundi veins, each cried out in their mortal fear as he was slain by the blade of True Men, until the last cry fell silent and not one remained breathing.

Gedain wove through the remains, where a narrow path had been cleared. He knew who had done it— the Wolvenking. And he knew that his moment to be made by Bafomet had not yet arrived. He wheeled his horse and rode back.

At the van of the host, Azarius stood beside Cerenid, leaning upon his staff, watching as Gedain emerged from the mist. “There,” the prophet said quietly. “He cometh from the dragon’s breath.”

“Thou speakest of dragons?” Cerenid asked.

“Aye,” Azarius replied. “Ogrennon[v] hath woven these mists. For it is written:

They spake unto Ogrennon, saying, “Descend thou into the chasm, for therein lieth the path unto Edä, the realm of men. Go thee forth and sow within them the seed of corruption, that they may serve our will. For if the heart of man be made darkened, then shall his dominion become ours.”

Gedain rode up and reined his horse as Azarius finished reciting the woeful passage. “The way is safe, my Lord” he called. “It appears it was cleared by the ally of whom I spoke.”

Bellows

The host rode on, descending at last from the slopes of the Norzcarpe. The mists thinned, revealing the seven black pinnacles of Meru on the western horizon, sharp against the fair sky. The road before them wove like a vein through the flesh of a wide rolling vale, drawing them toward the ominous spires.

“The weather favors us,” Cerenid said, gazing across the valley.

“Tomorrow oweth nothing to today,” Madrot answered in his grim fashion.

Cerenid turned to Gedain. “Where is this ally you spoke of? Surely, they would wish to join our host so that our strength be made one.”

Gedain lowered his gaze in thought. Then he lifted his eye westward. “I believe they await us at Meru.” Yet in truth, he believed Meru was the place where Bafomet was encamped— as he had found them when riding there with Elden. “I think we may reach it ere nightfall.”

“We have pressed the march hard all day, my Lord,” Madrot said. “The column is stretched overlong and thin. I say we make camp here, then I’ll ride for Meru with an expedition at dawn.”

“I will go,” offered Gedain quickly.

Madrot glanced at him but spoke no word.

Cerenid agreed with Madrot and they made camp by sunset with the last of the great host spilling into the perimeter as twilight died. Fires were kindled and horses were staked and the mood of the men was upbeat. Cerenid took his leave after he had supped, went into his tent, and fell asleep at once. Yet it seemed to him that scarcely had his eyes closed when he woke again. He sat up into the dark stillness ere the witching hour. Footfalls approached.

“Sire,” came a voice beyond the tent.

“What is it?”

“The first watch, my lord. A patrol hath not returned.”

He rose at once, seized his sword, and stepped into the night, the chill air biting his face. “Double the patrol,” he ordered, his words misting in the lantern glow.

“Aye, my Lord.”

He walked toward the quartermaster’s wagons, which were circled near the heart of the camp. On the way he halted a Dregrove footman. “Hast thou seen Madrot?”

“Aye, my lord. Earlier. He hath ridden out in pursuit.”

Before he could ask “which way” the alarm horn blew and the camp stirred into a hive of frenzy. Men burst from their tents, grasping spear and helm, rushing toward the perimeter. Cerenid’s instincts took hold of him. He turned from the wagons and followed the soldiers rushing to the western edge.

“Thou shouldst remain in the center, my Lord,” shouted his captain. “They may attack from any side.”

Cerenid did not heed him. He went instead unto the battle line of pikeman, finding their shields locked and spears levelled. Behind them stood the cavalry, mounted and waiting command. The commotion died away and the lines of warriors fell still and silent in anticipation.

“The stars are sheathed,” Cerenid observed.

“What is thy command, sire,” asked a captain.

“Hold.” He listened. Nothing. He stepped forward past the line, ahead of the torches and lantern light so that his eyes might behold what lurked in the darkness beyond. Yet he still saw nothing. He listened again, blindly. Then a sound, deep and terrible, a bellow that rolled across the valley like thunder, powerful and ungodly. Cerenid felt a chill crawl along his arms. He listened. The unearthly growl filled the night again. “What is that?” Cerenid demanded, his voice rising as if loud defiance might master fear.

There came no answer. Instead, a pall of dread fell upon the line. Grips tightened. Widened eyes cast in faint glow searched the night, awaiting onslaught. Then from another quarter, a new sound— high, piercing. Not unlike the call of some nightbird, but slower and resonating vast beyond nature. It echoed from slope to slope until the valley itself seemed to ring.

Cerenid turned, scanning the fearful faces revealed in the lanterns’ glow. He found Azarius among the ranks, clutching his planted staff. He approached him. “What devil calleth thus?” Cerenid asked as the haunting sounds pierced the darkness once more.

Azarius lowered his voice so that it would not carry. “Those are the calls of the Nephilim.”

Cerenid stared. “Raptors…”

“Aye,” said Azarius. “The beasts bred in Vallis.
Their voices carry dread for they were bred to break the courage of men.”

“When will they come?”

Azarius listened long before answering.

“I do not believe they will strike this night. They are weakened by the cold. They call only to sow dread.”

“Madrot is out there, among them.”

“Aye.”

“Will he live?”

“It is not clear to me.”

Cerenid returned to the line feeling the wide eyes of men upon him. His instinct told him to stir their courage, yet when he began, he felt his voice would not inspire. Thus he stood in frozen silence among the Norland Host, waiting for an attack that did not come that night.

Dawn struggled to break, the heavens darkened by a blanket of soot dulling the light. At last, the valley was dimly revealed as Sol climbed. At first there was nothing to be seen save dunes of tawny autumn grass— a vast sea pale and empty.

Then: “Look! A rider!” A dark figure crested the grassy ridge beyond, galloping straight for the line. “It is Madrot,” shouted one as it neared.

Cerenid met him as he dismounted. “Didst thou see them?” Cerenid asked. “Bafomet’s host?”

“Nay,” Madrot answered. “Yet I heard them moving westward. They are many in number. Thousands.”

“I trust you heard the bellows?”

“Aye. ‘Twas closer than I cared for them to be.”

“It was a raptor.”

Madrot nodded. “Two. I knew what they were the moment their devilry touched mine ears.”

“Didst thou find the patrol?”

“I did,” Madrot answered with lowered voice. “Thou should bringeth a guard and see what hath been done with thine own eyes.”

When Madrot had changed horse, twelve men with Cerenid followed him back out into the fields. They rode south, over two crests, well beyond the sight of the camp. Madrot finally pointed. “There.”

Ahead stood three heavy pikes. Upon them hung the missing men, stripped and bound, their bodies impaled in cruel fashion, their limbs twisted, their faces frozen in lifeless terror. As they neared, the desecration of their bodies was revealed. Eyes taken. Organs removed.

“What devil would do this?” Cerenid asked.

Madrot answered quietly. “One in spirit to the ally who defiled their dead upon the mountainside.”

Cerenid understood. “They seeketh to wound our courage.” He turned to the others. “Speak of this to no man. Let no rumor run through the host lest fear spread like rot. Take their bodies down. Bury them here.”

“Which way do we march, my Lord?” asked a guard.

Cerenid scanned the valley from left to right. The haze dulled the sun. The slopes all seemed alike. “I must consider the matter,” he answered. “Perhaps west in pursuit.”

Yet each man’s eyes wandered uncertainly from hill to hill, for beneath the veil of ash and soot, none could say for certain where west lay.

Southward

Cerenid held council with the marshals that morning. Their talk was of the dark clouds, fueled by vulcan pyres to the west, that had confounded their bearing. And they spoke also long of roads and valleys, of water and forage, and of the unseen host that hunted them through the haze. Cerenid looked to Azarius for guidance, but Gedain spoke first.

“When I pursued Menek, the traitor, I rode all the way to Meru,” he said. “I came upon a Thalan ruin in the valley, there, where the Neandilim made camp. Perhaps they must yet be gathered there. If we march west, we can surround them on high ground, then charge down to destroy them.”

Cerenid turned. “Azarius?”

The prophet leaned upon his staff. “That place is a snare,” He said calmly. “They will lure thee down into the basin, then close behind with archers and horse, cutting off escape. Thy host would be broken, and none shall survive.”

Gedain’s jaw tightened. He thwarts me at every step, he thought. Yet he held his peace while Azarius continued.

“I have travelled these roads in lives long past,” he said. “Not far ahead there lieth a fork. If we take the leftward road, it shall lead south into a spur of highlands, all forested and broken ground. Such terrain will hamper Bafomet’s cavalry, hinder his archers, and foil his stratagem of open assault. Near the spur’s end we shall come upon the headwaters of the Kaledra, which in turn shall guide us unto Madad. There stand the ruins of the Gargan, raised upon high ground, far older even than the fall of Vallis. Bafomet will not dare assail us there, if we may but reach it. Yet much of his host must follow us, and in following shall be drawn far from Meru and Varenthor.”

Korbin Fy snorted. “Our charge was to destroy the Nundis, not to flee from them.”

“It is folly to fight thy enemy upon the ground it hath chosen,” Azarius replied. “If it can be avoided.”

“How many days march?” Cerenid asked.

“Eight,” Azarius answered. “I must forewarn that it will be perilous. They will gnaw at our rear and attack our encampments. Our water will near run out. Yet I have seen no other road that leadeth away from ruin.”

“We must bring the wagons to the center of the column,” Madrot urged. “So that they can be defended.”

Gedain protested. “That will slow our march.”

“If the wagons are lost,” Madrot answered, “our march ends… and we perish.”

Cerenid stood long in thought. “And if we should reach Madad,” said he at last, “what then?”

Azarius answered. “When the hour is ripe, the host shall strike back.”

Cerenid nodded. “Order the wagons to the center. The captains will guard the flanks. We march within the hour.”

The council was broken, and the marshals gave forth their commands. Soon the great column lurched onward beneath the blackened sky, and when they came unto the fork, they turned southward as Azarius had advised. That day, and the next, and the next again, they pressed hard through the hills and forests, covering near ten leagues. Water was rationed, and beasts that stumbled were butchered where they fell, their flesh salted before the march resumed.

On the third night, the drums filled the darkness. Low. Distant. And with them, the dread of being pursued took hold of Norland minds. Their whispers turned to the slaughter of the scouts near Meru— the guards could hold their tongues no longer. And fear spread like an illness.

The fourth day brought no surrender from the skies of ash and soot. It drifted down like black snow, settling on helm and cloak and beard until all men looked alike, as grey as wraiths wandering the banks of Thol. Still Cerenid drove them on. And when the fourth day ended, they made camp, utterly blind in the darkness, waiting for the rear of the column which lagged near two hours behind.

Reik Tollus and the men of Longview held the rearguard that day. He reckoned they had less than ten furlongs yet to march when the drums began to sound, their rhythm pounding through the dark as though it were the very heartbeat of a living forest. Lanterns were kindled, for the road beneath their feet could be scarcely seen. Thus they pressed onward through the gloom as swiftly as weary legs and spent beasts would bear them, a long serpent of amber lights winding through the void, the column coiling and tightening as it marched.

Without warning, a horse screamed and a captain at the flank vanished, swallowed up in an instant. Something had burst through the column as if it were a boulder tumbling off a mountainside. Men cried that they saw scales in the lantern glow. Then another pass and four men gone, their screams rising above the forest drums then falling silent. Tollus wheeled his horse to the commotion, sword drawn, yet saw nothing to strike. Another charge burst through the line, taking two more souls. Brief wails of agony filled the night. Then only the drums. Tollus listened. The column faltered, stopping amidst the chaos and fear.

Sensing doom, Tollus shouted, “Move! Move! March for your lives!” He rode back along the column, striking at shields with the flat of his blade. “Forward! Make haste or die standing here!”

Men gripped their pikes and swords. Archers spanned their bows. The drums pounded. Then another rush, heard but a heartbeat before it was upon them. They flailed their blades and pikes as it burst through the line. Arrows flew into the dark. Another man vanished. Another hole in the line swallowed up by the press of desperate men.

The column pushed forward, shoulder to shoulder, the rear driving into those ahead, marching by feel in the dark, each man’s hand upon the one before him. The mounted captains urged them onward, riding at their sides.

“Move! March!”

A rider was unhorsed, dragged screaming into the shadows and consumed by the drums.

Terror rolled up toward the camp like the crack of a whip. Men burst from the darkness, stumbling past the shield-wall— ten, then a hundred, then a thousand— clambering and clawing over one another in their desperation to get beyond the shields. Some were wounded. Some were trampled beneath the panic of their fellows.

Then no more. The ranks closed. The shields locked. Eyes searched the black…

Hoofbeats. Then a horse bearing a rider burst through the line knocking the shields aside. The rider fell off into the dirt. Men rushed and gathered to tend to him. It was Tollus. An arrow had split the rings in his mail and burrowed into his chest.

“For Longview…” he muttered. Then he died.

“It is one of our arrows that struck him,” said one.

No others spoke. And no more terrors came that night save for the ones that cursed their sleep.

At dawn the captains gathered as Cerenid saddled his horse. “My Lord,” said one, “we will not march farther into this gauntlet of raptors.” Another spoke. “We have heard how they defiled our men near Meru. We are no match for these devils.”

Madrot moved before Cerenid could answer. With sudden fury he seized one captain, hurled him to the ground, and set his dagger to the man’s throat. The others reached for their hilts, but Madrot’s voice cut through them.

“Listen, you fools!” he said. “If ye stay, ye are the dead. And if ye turn back, ye are also the dead. They are coming… they come for us all. And they will cut out your eyes and mount you on a pike whether it be here or back there.”

“We cannot hold this ground,” Cerenid added. “Our stores dwindle. Our water thins. There is no path but forward.”

Madrot pressed the blade harder against the captain’s throat. “I swear I shall cut this man’s throat, and thine beside it, if any here choose cowardice. And I shall go on slaying traitors until only the brave remain.”

The captains turned to Cerenid, searching his face for mercy. Yet he offered them none. “What say you, then?” asked the rex.

Slowly, their hands left their hilts, and the captains stepped back. Seeing this, Madrot released the one he held and sheathed his dagger.

“Go and prepare thy men for the march,” Cerenid ordered.

The captains turned to leave but Azarius stood in their path.

“Despair not,” He said. He sniffed the air. “Behold, the wind hath changed. Tomorrow bringeth us a victory.”

They sulked past him.

“My Lord,” Madrot said, “my men shall hold the rear today.”

Cerenid nodded.

As the column marched on, many whispers passed from mouth to ear saying: “Cerenid hath led us to ruin.” And “The boy lacketh the iron.” And some said, “The rex followeth the whims of a sorcerer and a kinslayer.” And others, “Only Gedain can bring us victory.”

Ranger

The fifth dawn broke, and the ashen veil that had hung for days over the host had thinned, just as Azarius had foretold. The light of Sol fell pale upon the weary column, and though the men were road-worn and thirst-bitten, many took the clearing sky for an omen of favor.

Madrot delegated the rearguard to the charge of his captain, and without ceremony, rode off the road into the woods. Word of his departure wove through the ranks with many wantonly naming him “deserter” in addition to “kinslayer”.

North by west he went, beneath the trees, where the air was damp and still and the ash lay thick upon the leaves like black frost, searching for the trail of the enemy. It was not long before he found it— smoldering firepits and discarded wrappings and broken shafts. He dismounted and knelt, touching the earth, finding it still warm. He listened. No sound came but the thin calls of birds. They march southwest, he thought, diverging from us. A centenary, perhaps. Horse archers, and something else…

At the edge of the still camp Madrot found other tracks— four-toed. He stepped his foot within the print to measure. From heel to claw it spanned thrice the length of his boot.

Raptor.

He mounted and rode on, following the trail by eye with his ear to the wind. The path led him down into a long ravine of thick forest, where the Sol’s light fell only in broken shafts between the branches. There he found a narrow stream running cold between the stones, and he dismounted to let his horse drink. But his ears no longer heard the calls of the birds, and it became very still.

He crept into the murky brambles, cloak black with ash, disappearing into the shadow. Step by step. Silent. Creeping. He gripped his iron cudgel first, then changed to his knife. A low branch brushed his cheek. Gnats swarmed his eyes. Resin clung to his beard. He crept farther, deep into the cover of the ferns, something drawing him forward. A squirrel chattered above. He cursed it with his eyes. He breathed low. The scent of smoke. Forward. The crackle of fire. Then voices. He peered through the verdure, his face a demon save for the whites of his eyes. Another silent, careful step. Then another. He parted the leaves with two fingers.

There, just ahead…

Three men out of their dull gold armor. Seated around a spit, gnawing on rabbit. Black hair. Black eyes. Speaking in southern tongues. Not the allies. These were Neandilim. He watched them for a long moment, choosing his approach. Which one first?

Their hound lifted his head, barking sharply once, pointing his nose. The soldiers stood, staring that way into the forest. One gestured to another who went off with the hound. The other took his seat and gnawed the flesh from the meager bones.

Madrot drew his knife while sliding to his right through the ferns, flowing like water in a slow-rolling river, right behind the one still standing. Three strides away. He readied his blade. Left, right, left… strike. Now!

He burst from the brush like a lion. Three strides and his blade swept across the Nundi’s throat. His victim’s hands reached up to hold in the geyser of blood, then his knees buckled. The other sat at the fire, bone in hand, frozen silent for a moment, then he went for his hilt. Madrot fell upon him in a heartbeat. The warrior struggled fiercely, hands locked onto Madrot’s wrist, the knife pressing slowly toward his throat, Madrot baring his teeth, driving forward with all his weight. The blade pushed through the resistance and into the soldier’s throat, pressing first the skin below the jaw, then breaking through it. Blood burst hot across his hand. The desperate face of a lad stared back, yet he might have seen a hundred summers if he was full-blooded Nundi. The lad kicked his legs in silent fury, but no sound could pass the blade having pushed through. Then he stopped flailing. His hands released, falling limp. His eyes rolled back.

Madrot went to the other, deepening the first cut lest he still live. He turned to listen for the hound and footfalls, then melted into the brambles. He quietly crept back toward his horse. There, he found the third, hound sniffing around nearby. He held one hand on the bridle, his sword drawn, preparing to hobble his steed. Madrot burst from the ferns.

“Today you die,” he said evenly. “Harm my horse and thy agony will be long.”

The Neandilim released the rein to square himself. Madrot sheathed his knife and drew his cudgel. They circled. The hound charged and leapt. Madrot offered his left forearm to the jaws and impaled it through the ribs with the blade end of his mace. The dog wheezed once and fell loose. The Neandilim failed to seize the advantage, having expected the hound to prevail. He moved light upon his feet, low and balanced, stepping to Madrot’s left in a rhythm he knew well. Madrot feinted in. The Nundi shifted.

I know this dance, Madrot thought.

The warrior spun, feinting high, then cutting low. Madrot slipped back. Again, a spin. Again, the shifting steps, balanced, crouching, rhythmic… just like Ceryd had tried at Briganta.

The Nundi lunged yet again and Madrot leapt aside. The warrior spun through, landing balanced. Then he pranced to his own right. Madrot held his base, nearly flat footed, shuffling to keep balance and his opponent centered. The Nundi stepped left and spun, wheeling around with his sword at Madrot’s right. Madrot jumped back again. The Nundi raised to slash down but instead of jumping back, Madrot ducked and charged under, raising his cudgel and blocking the sword strike with the iron shaft of his truncheon. Sparks leapt from the clashing metal. With his left hand he seized the gauntlet. Wrenched the arm down, he drove his right elbow into the joint. Then, swinging his right arm under, he dislocated his opponent’s elbow. The Nundi cried out as he dropped his scimitar and buckled onto the ground with Madrot pressing down on top of him. Madrot flipped his cudgel to the hammer end and smashed it down into his face. Once, twice, again, seven times in all, until the teeth broke loose and the nose was caved in. He flipped the cudgel again and drove the pike end through the warrior’s eye socket, ending him.

He sat back breathing hard. Looking around, he found no one else. He gazed down once more at the pulp of the Nundi’s face finding little left resembling a man. He rolled his sleeve and examined his forearm, six puncture holes oozed red. He rolled the sleeve back. After wiping the gore from his cudgel on the dead man’s cape, then mounted his horse and rode on.

#

Far to the south, the Norland host had marched for many hours, weary, broken. Then the road dipped.

“Water!” cried one. “The stream!”

Word travelled back through the column like fire through dried grass. Men quickened their pace. Horses whinnied. Oxen lowed. Whence upon the water, they threw themselves into the rush and cleansed the soot from their hair and skin. The horses and beasts drank while warm Sol shone down upon them.

Cerenid called the halt early, then and there, making camp just downstream. And for a little while, the host remembered that it was made of living men and not of ghosts. The rex sat that evening with Azarius by the fire, Gedain near at hand, while the Prophet spoke of the Gargan of renown, and of the flying ships of men that had crossed the sky in the age before the Purgation. And some who had overheard Him anointed themselves with gestures in the archaic fashion, for the tale was older than the Fall of Vallis, and none knew whether it were truth or a warning.

Then a voice called out. “Sire, Madrot returns!”

The Dregrove warrior rode past the men, still covered in ash and soot and blood. Yet few raised their eyes nor asked him if he was injured or of what he had seen. He came at last before the rex and dismounted, passing Gedain who rose and walked away.

Cerenid was first to speak. “Where hast thou been? What hast thou seen?”

“I ranged north and west,” he said. “I found sign of the enemy. Their tracks turned southwest after that. It seems they have been drawn away.”

“What of thy arm?”

“I came upon a patrol of three. Their hound attacked. I slew them all.”

Cerenid nodded. “Well done,” he said. Yet the words were quiet, and soon the talk turned to the march.

Madrot stood a moment longer, then turned away without another word and went back into the shadows of the camp to sit alone by a fire. He listened to the stream that ran on in the darkness beyond, whispering over the stones as it had long done before the coming of Norland men, and as it would long after they had departed.

Dreams

Gedain found himself standing upon a high precipice of vulcan glass, with spires sharp as broken blades rising heavenward in every direction as far as his eye could see. The skies beyond and above were painted in molten gold. A low red Sol hung near the horizon, unmoving, rippling in the heated air. Sweat gathered upon his brow and ran in slow drops down his neck. The air smelled of burning sulfur and baking stones.

Far below yawned a deep ravine, and hemmed within, a vast army arrayed in gold and crimson numbering forty thousand souls. They chant: “Mosul… Mosul… Mosul…” Their sound thundering upward.  

Then a woman’s voice answered behind him. “For thee…”

He turned, and her fair beauty halted his breath. Then he found it was Avarlon’s visage, though vastly more regal, dressed in a crimson silk gown. Her skin shone pale and pure. Her amber locks drawn into ornate braids. Yet her eyes were not hers being long and cold like the eyes of a serpent basking upon warm stone.

“Who art thou?” Gedain asked.

“I speak for The Nine,” she answered in Avarlon’s voice.

“Then show thyself in thine own form. Hide not behind the face of my beloved.”

Her serpent eyes softened. “A man cannot perceive the full form of the dragon and hold his mind unbroken.”

The black stones beneath his feet seemed to shift, as though they were not stone at all, but the scales of some vast creature stirring as the world itself. “For whom doth this host chant?” Gedain asked.

“I said they chant for thee,” said Avarlon’s visage.

“Then they mistake me for another.”

“Nay,” she answered. “Thou hast mistaken thyself for another.”

Gedain felt the infernal heat upon his face and his foothold near the ledge unsteady.

“Who am I, then?” he asked.

Avarlon’s visage stared blankly. “Thou art the heir of Vyn, the king of men… reborn.”

Below, the army lifted its voices louder. “Mosul! Mosul! Mosul!”

Gedain glanced down upon them. “Was Mosul not the king who was broken by the Nephilim at Gudoc?” he asked. “Did the raptor Khan not tear out his beating heart?” He turned back to Avarlon’s visage, finding an infant nursing at her breast. He knew that he beheld his child.

“Aye,” she answered. “In one life thou didst fall. And in another thou didst conquer. Yet there are many pasts.”

“What doth the future hold for me?” Gedain asked.

“There is no future, only innumerable pasts. One of them awaits thee,” she answered. “Look there! Tell me what thou seest.”

Gedain turned. Before him, on another ledge, stood a man and a young boy.

“Is that Azarius?” Gedain said.

“Aye. And dost thou know the boy?”

“I do not.”

“He is the one Azarius would make king, in place of thee.”

The chant rose louder.

“Mosul… Mosul…”

“Thine hour hath come, Gedain,” she said. “Lead the host toward Madad at dawn, and thou shalt be crowned upon that very hill.”

#

Gedain’s eyes flew open. He found he lay in darkness, drenched in sweat, his breath coming fast. A dream, he thought. The drums of the night had ceased, yet the sound of the chanting— “Mosul… Mosul…” replaced them, still echoing in his mind.

He rose and stepped into the morning air, finding a dense mist had veiled the land again. The camp was nearly still. He mounted his horse and rode alone, without speaking to anyone.

The fog swallowed him at once, and the stirrings of the host faded behind him as he drifted forward upon the trail, as if he were carried upon the current of a river. He let the reins hang loose, riding without hurry, his thoughts fixed upon the dream that had come to him in the night. Time seemed to lose its measure, with the fog never lifting, the slow clop of hooves on dirt the only sound, the rider carried along the current of a world half-made.

Then at last, the horse stopped. Gedain pressed his spurs, yet the beast would not move. Ahead, a figure emerged from the mist upon the road ahead. Gedain’s hand went to his sword. “Show thyself!”

Veorn the faun formed from the mist on the path before him.

“You again,” Gedain said.

“Aye,” Veorn answered. “Again.”

“I hoped thee gone for good.”

“I am never gone,” Veorn answered. “Thou findest me always where the road turneth.”

“Why dost thou follow me?”

“I follow no man,” Veorn answered, voice lowered. “Blame thy dreams that leadeth thee here.”

The mist drifted between them, then cleared. “I was named Mosul in a dream,” Gedain said. “I was to be made the king of men.”

“Aye,” Veorn affirmed. “It was thy past and thy destiny… perchance.”

“Azarius was in my dream,” Gedain confessed. “He was conspiring against me, nurturing another.”

“Aye. The Immortal haunts us all, yet foremost the minds of men.”

“Why?”

“Because He remembers what men forget.”

“Cerenid follows Him,” Gedain observed. “Wherever He leadeth. He thwarts my designs.”

“Aye.”

Gedain’s jaw hardened. “If He lives, the crown is not mine, then.”

Gedain watched as Veorn’s lips curved.

“Thou wouldst have me slay Him?” Gedain asked.

“I would have thee choose thy own fate. That is all.” Then Veorn laughed softly and silence lay between them.

Gedain finally spoke. “Who art thou, truly,” Gedain asked.

The faun’s eyes glimmered. “I served before The Nine were counted,” he said. “Long before Bafomet gathered his brood of dragons on Vallis. Before the Garden burned.”

Gedain listened.

“There are ten Nezulim upon this realm, not nine. One was cast down unto Edä ere Bafomet delivered the others.”

Gedain’s voice fell to a whisper. “Ogrennon…”

“The realms hath never been ruled by one will alone, Gedain of Welf— not in Vallis. Not in Edä. Nor in Meä”

Gedain’s voice came hoarse. “Why tell me this?”

Veorn’s smile faded. “Because thine hour hath come.” The mist rose. “Thou must choose which master thou servest… The Nine… or the first who would see them broken.”

The fog closed and Veorn was gone.

Gedain sat still in his saddle, within the grey mist, his eye seeing nothing but the turning of his own thoughts. What am I? he asked himself.

When he looked again, he found that the fog had lifted. His horse stood upon a narrow path along a thin stream, deep within a dark, wooded ravine. Black ash clung to the leaves. Flies swarmed in the stillness. At his feet lay a Neandilim… unmoving. Nearby, a hound, also slain. The work of the Wolvenking’s men, he thought. Gedain dismounted and unsheathed his knife. He turned the body to find its face battered beyond recognition. He looked about and listened. He was alone with the calls of the birds.

With the efficiency of a hunter quartering a deer, he removed the Nundi’s battered head with his knife and bound it to his saddle without reflection, as though taking a trophy from a hunt. While he tied the knots, he noticed the bird calls had ceased. Then a squirrel chattered. He turned. There, on the path, Gedain found the Prophet… standing alone, and he was shaken. He asked, “What bringeth thee here, Azarius? We are far from the host.”

The immortal clutched his staff and spoke only one word. “Thy destiny.”

Gedain’s hand settled upon his knife. Azarius looked to it, then back unto him, and there was no fear in His gaze.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Prophet.”

“Aye, but I had to.”

Gedain unsheathed his blade.

“The path always forks here,” Azarius said quietly, as if recognizing an old road. “And always, thou choosest the same turn.”

“Aye,” Gedain nodded. “Then thou must always standest in my way.”

“No,” Azarius answered. “Thou standest in thine own.”

Gedain scoffed adding, “Will you not defend yourself?”

“No,” He answered. “I must not influence what comes next.” His gaze lifted toward the birds. “The king must walk without my shadow.”

The two gazed into each other’s souls, finding only what they knew lay within. Gedain stepped forward. Azarius moved not. Gedain raised his blade. Azarius closed His eyes. Gedain plunged it in and turned it. Azarius gasped, then bent forward. Gedain caught Him and lowered Him to the dirt. Then he stepped back and watched as Azarius gasped his last.

“What have I done?” he asked himself.

Then he answered, “Worry not for what cannot be undone.”

He beheld the body of the Prophet. “Yet if he truly came back to life, as is sworn, then He will surely rise and testify against me.”

“Aye,” he answered himself. “Thou must render the body where Ahm cannot easily remake it.”

“But where?”

“Thou must burn it, so that His essence is cast into ash and scattered unto the four winds.”

Gedain bound the Prophet’s wrists and ankles and tethered the end to his saddle. He mounted and drug the body behind his horse along the trail, gazing back as he rode, fearing to find Him waking from death. The corpse caught upon roots and stones, lurching over the earth as though reluctant to depart it.

After a short span, he came upon a Nundi camp where he found two more bodies lying still by the cold fire. He listened with his sword drawn but heard nothing but the birds.

He dismounted and tightened the ropes on the dead Prophet yet again, watching closely for the stirring of life. He turned and gathered twigs and dried pine needles and branches in haste and rekindled the camp fire. He used his sword to hack loose bigger branches to build the flames, all the while with one eye upon Azarius— yet the Prophet did not move. And when the fire was very hot, with flames nearly as tall as himself, he lifted the body onto the pyre and covered it with more fuel. Then he waited and waited, watching, fearing what blackened revenant might emerge from the smoking inferno.

Faith

The men lined the way with hopeful, silent faces as Gedain emerged from the forest. They followed behind him, closing in as he rode into the heart where Cerenid held council with Madrot and the captains.

“Thou hast returned,” Cerenid said.

“I have ranged the path that lieth before us,” Gedain answered. Then he reached behind and raised high the severed head of the Neandilim warrior he had found. A murmur spread through the camp. “I slew this one,” Gedain said, “and others besides.” The men cheered. “Listen to me! The Nundi are but men after all— men who bleed and die as we.”

Madrot knew the ruined face at once, the victim of his own cudgel. He nearly spoke— nearly said that man was mine. Yet the men were cheering, hope stirring where despair had ruled for days. To tear that hope away now would serve no one. Still, he could not wholly refrain. “And how,” Madrot asked, “didst thou come to batter a Nundi’s face so? Hast thou taken up the cudgel over the sword?”

Gedain’s one eye narrowed at him. “Whence I subdued him,” he answered, “I ended him with the pommel of my hilt.”

“Aye,” said Madrot, nodding as though content by the answer.

Gedain raised his voice again to all. “The Nundi take up their positions. We must hasten the host before the door closeth and they bar our path to Madad.” Gedain tossed the severed head into the throng of men who roared as they tussled and fought like ghouls over the bloody trophy.

In lowered voice, Cerenid said, “Azarius bade us to wait here three days, so that we might cross the plain under cover of soot and mist.”

Gedain stood a moment in feigned thought. “Where is He, then?” he asked. “I would share with Him what I have seen, that He might reconsider.”

“The prophet knows what lieth ahead.” Cerenid said.

Gedain answered carefully. “He knoweth only the past, and how many futures may turn upon it. Summon Him, so that I might explain.”

Madrot spoke. “He hath not been seen since morning, when He strode out in pursuit of thee,” ,” he said. “I marvel that He found thee not, for He left by the same road on which thou camest in.”

“There were many turnings in the forest,” Gedain explained, wincing.

Behind, the men were still tossing the grisly trophy about as if it were a ball of sport. Gedain turned back to Cerenid. “We must depart at dawn, my lord. For delay will bring our ruin.” Then he added, “Yet if Azarius returneth ere dawn, then I shall submit to His guidance.”

#

By dawn, finding Azarius had not returned, Cerenid ordered the host to prepare for the march. Madrot started to speak to object but thought better of it. He went instead to prepare his men. Later, as the van formed and the wagons creaked into motion, Gedain rode near Cerenid and spoke to him in a low voice: “I confess I know not the way other than to follow the river.”

And for that day, and the next after, the host marched on, with Gedain at its point, following the waters of the Kaledra, its flow strengthened by each league. At length, they emerged from the last of the trees into the open plain. Before them, the course of the river, now broad and grey, bent southward toward Madad, through an endless, rolling sea of tawny grass. All that day they marched, exposed beneath a veiled sky. The scouts rode far and returned with nothing to report save endless steppe and the dark rumor of distant ridges. At night, many lay awake listening in fear for the drums of war and the bellows of the raptor, yet none came. Cerenid took notice of the soundness of Gedain’s sleep and the torment of his own uneasiness festered.

The third morning brought haze above, but the concealing fog had not yet come. Sol rose in the east, an orb of glowing blood-red, dulled by the spoiled air so that one could gaze upon it in full without being blinded. To the west, long billows gathered, black waves of cloud upon the horizon. The air smelled again of sulfur and burnt wood, and one could taste the bitterness of it. The host advanced further into the open plain, with the wide river flowing unto their left. The morning scouts were dispatched ahead again. Cerenid dared to believe they would make Madad that very day. And once there, within the safety of the Gargan ruins, he expected he would find Azarius waiting for him. And for a brief space, as he rode on beneath the red eye of Sol, carrying the blue banner, his mind turned away from the day and toward those whom he had lost.

He thought of Kethu, and of their many talks and counsels, and he saw not the withered old steward of his last days, but the elder yet full of life, whose words had steadied him when all else shook. He had known no father but Kethu, and aside from his brother, he was the only man whom he had loved— now gone, unreachable. He wished he could have just another moment with him, and another moment with his brother as well, to embrace them and thank them and show them his love for them. It was an urge not fomented by regret, but by longing, an ache for something that could never be— to have but one more word, one more clasp of the arms, one shared smile, one more hour to say what was left unsaid in life…

He gazed ahead finding Gedain, now riding at the front of the host as if he led it himself. He had taken up the banner of Welf. Cerenid envied him as a chill of loneliness rolled through his own bones. He felt his soul adrift, as if he were clinging to a log being carried on a cold river’s current. It was as if he were watching himself from beyond his own flesh. Yes, he thought. I am all alone. Kethu warned me many times of the loneliness of being rex.

His thoughts turned toward his mother, hardened by loss into something cold and sharp. Stolen from her home as a child. Given against her will into a marriage of power to the man who humiliated her father. Compelled to bear his children. Widowed young and then bereft of the son who had been her pride— killed in that foolish duel at Briganta. Alone she stood, above her city; he saw her as she kept her watch from her high window.

And then at last, he thought upon Madrot. How much pain he had brought to his own sister and to him. Yet no further hate could be mustered toward him. Not now. Not after the march. Not after sharing the nights of terror. Not after coming at last to understand the lonely honour that resideth in him. Gedain rode tall in his saddle, at the van, with his rippling banner, all eyes fixed upon him. But somewhere in the middle, unseen and unpraised, hated even, Madrot rode in true defense of them all.

Ceryd was my shield, my champion, my future, Cerenid thought. Kethu, my conscience, my faith that honour shall be rewarded. The sound of hoofbeats thumped upon dirt. But Madrot… he offers presence, not betrayal. He offers action, not denial. He offers only truth, not performance. Madrot… Cerenid pondered his name, he is the noblest of us all.

“Look!” came a voice ahead. “The towers of Madad. We have made it.” Far away, the ground rose, forming into sharp monoliths of black against the distant steel-blue horizon.

“Where are the morning scouts?” Cerenid called. “Why have they not reported?”

The column slowed, then stopped. Cerenid rode forward to Gedain whose horse stood still on the road.

“Why do we halt? Salvation lieth just ahead.”

“There,” Gedain said, pointing to his right.

Far off on the ridge, obscured by the haze, Cerenid saw them.

“Bafomet.”

“Aye,” Gedain agreed. “And Madad is yet a league away. The column stretches back two more at least. We shall not reach the ruins before they fall upon us.”

Cerenid searched south, then east to the river that flanked them, wishing Azarius was there to show the way. “Then we must form a line where we stand,” said the rex.

“I see no better way, my lord.”

The order was given and passed back along the column. Gedain returned into the midst of the host to marshal the men of Welf. The footmen rushed forward and lined the road, tightening their ranks and locking their shields. The archers took their lines behind them, and the wagons were dragged to the banks of the river.

The air grew suddenly bitter beneath the dull red orb of Sol. Fear consumed the faces of the Norland men. They looked to their rex for words of inspiration, yet no words came to him. Instead, Madrot rode forth, sword raised, shouting in a voice that cut through fear like an axe through flesh.

“Fight and die!” he commanded. “Or merely die. The choice is yours.”

Then a rumble rose in the haze, as if boiling up from the depths of Tartarus below. The men gripped their shields and pikes, bracing themselves against the swell of noise and dust. Cerenid stared into a cloud of hooves and bows. The rumble grew as if it were a turning wave about to crash down upon them. Some men prayed. Some closed their eyes. The roaring wave neared, then broke each way against the line. Then the arrows came. One. A dozen more. A hundred. A thousand. Like a hail storm. Shields rattled. Pikes wavered. The earth was struck alive with wooden shafts. Man and horse and oxen fell under the waves of death flying out of the billowing dust.

“Hold!” urged the captains.

Yet there was no place to flee if they were to break, for only certain drowning lurked not far behind them.

Wave upon wave of arrows hissed through the brown dust cloud, the hooves of a thousand horse pounding unseen with its veil. Korbin Fy, watching from his saddle, was struck through the neck and fell dead from his horse. Then his horse fell wounded on top of him, kicking wildly as it was consumed by the cloud. Soon hundreds of Norland men soon joined him at Thol. And hundreds more groaned in a chorus of mortal misery within the veil of dirt and the roll of hooves and war cries.

Then… then the arrows ceased, and the thunder withdrew like a storm that had quickly passeth over, leaving naught but the fog of war and the bitter taste of dust upon their tongues.

“Shall we pursue?” asked a Dregrove captain.

“No!” answered Madrot at once. “They tempt us. Send word to the others— do not give chase.”

The order ran. Yet nearby, the men of Fy, maddened by the death of their reik, would not heed it. Their cavalry burst from the line in a blind cry of vengeance. “Take them!” shouted their captain as he led the charge. “Ride them down as they flee!”

They galloped into the cloud with drawn swords and the wild courage of insanity. Yet they could not catch the smaller, faster Neandilim horse, who drew them far from their line, then circled and enveloped them. Their Nundi arrows then rained down, and all the mounted warriors of Fy were slain in the time it would take a minstrel to sing a funeral dirge.

Silence… save for the eerie chorus of the dying. The Norland men listened and waited. The air swirled cold and sour, and the dust settled. Then the bellow of a devil broke the low din. It began deep and jagged and raised into a shriek. The hearts of Norland men pounded cold blood. “Raptor!”

There came the tramp of advancing feet. The Neandilim were marching forward, the drumbeat of their boots and the song of their ungodly beast sowing equal terror. “Hold the line!” urged the captains. “Hold or die a coward!”

The march formed into a rhythm as it neared, as if it were the beating of five thousand drums. Closer. Louder. Deafening. Their Nundi horns blew terrible and low, and then they charged.

The Norland men braced their shields and lowered their pikes. The host crashed upon a section of their thin line like a battering ram, hammering with shield and spear and sword. The Norland men clung to one another in desperation, flinging arrows at the assault, with reinforcements circling behind to fill the fallen ranks. It held… for a moment, then it bowed and broke in a calamity of flung shields and trampled men. The Neandilim wave burst through in that moment, a flood of dull gold warriors pouring into the gap, then to circle behind, followed at last by their scaled beast.

The raptor towered above the men, black-scaled, amber-eyes aglow, its hooked scimitar wet with blood before it had fully entered the fray. It swept and slew without heed, friend and foe alike, its shrieks and bellows shattering what courage of True Men remained.

“Now!” screamed Madrot. “Now or never!”

The Dregrove host burst forth from their place and charged into the flank of the assault, possessed with no care for survival, knowing their fate already sealed. Swords slashed. Arrows shot. Horses thundered and screamed. They hit the Neandilim assault with everything they had to muster, smashing through, cutting the column in half, only to be swallowed up within it. The battle broke into full chaos, men fighting in every direction. The Neandilim advance was halted for a moment.

On the other side of the assault, Gedain charged with his banner in hand, fearlessly cutting through the Neandilim. Shafts fell short or missed high and wide. Nundi blades swept naught but air as he charged through them, his bravery a performance for he knew they would not harm him.

“Look!” the True Men shouted. “The One preserves him! Welf! For Welf!”

Seeing Gedain’s valor, his host charged into the fray and slayed many dozens of Bafomet’s force. But as they thinned the Neandilim ranks and thwarted their assault, the raptor unleashed its full fury. Men were cast aside broken. Horses disemboweled or halved. Whole knots of warriors scattered before it. It shrieked and hacked and trampled, its blade spinning misty red circles in the dust-soaked air.

Cerenid, sensing the final moment had come, spurred from the remnants of the line. His last riders followed, and they brought their swords down upon the Nundis with all the violence they could conjure, until breathless and they could fight no more.

Cerenid’s horse stumbled and fell, throwing him onto his left side. The landing stole his breath, yet he gathered himself to block a final blow and then rose to his feet to return another. Guarding his ribs, he was driven back and stumbled once again. Another Nundi leapt down from above, preparing to end him, but before the fatal blow fell, another drove his pike through the Nundi’s neck.

Menek.

The traitor pulled the rex from the mud, shielding him, but another knocked Menek off his feet. Cerenid staggered forward to strike, but the Nundi drove his pike downward through Menek’s mail. The rex swung his sword hilt first into the Nundi’s face, crushing his jaw. Then Cerenid fell upon him and drove the point of his sword under the Neandilim’s shoulder piercing his lung.

The rex turned back to Menek in the chaos and knelt to lift him, but found he would not stand. Their eyes met. “Forgive…” Menek muttered.

Cerenid rose, clutching his side, and seeing the battle lost, he cried out in despair: “Azarius! Why hast Thou forsaken us?”

Madrot, sensing the counter assault had failed, wheeled and charged the raptor alone, seeking at least a glorious death… if nothing else. He rode straight in beneath its cry, just dodging the raptor’s blade. He swung his cudgel with all his gathered might, bringing it down upon the beast’s knee. It shrieked as he rode under its grasp to circle behind it. The raptor turned beneath a hail of Dregrove arrows, most glancing off its iron scales. Its amber eyes burned into Madrot’s very soul. His horse spooked and reared, throwing him. The raptor swung, shearing the steed’s head clean off. Madrot staggered back onto his feet, clutching his cudgel two-handed, accepting that his doom had found him.

“To hell!” he shouted, his words aflame with spit and blood.

The beast raised its blade to swing again and Madrot yelled his last, his eyes blinded with tears of rage. He raised his cudgel to block it. “Do your worst!” he called as his final curse unto all the world and to the life he both hated and loved and that had now come unto its end.

…But as the beast swung, it faltered and gave out a shriek of agony that drew away the breath of men. Madrot wiped clear his eyes and saw it…

Behind appeared Norland chargers— the Wolvenking had come at last. Eleom’s riders, upon their heavy horse, rode down upon the battle. And he— Eleom— scorning all armor save for gauntlets and a silver helm, his hair long and wild and streaming like that of some demigod of Dravim[vi] lore, swung his mighty steel axe down upon the raptor’s tail, nearly severing it. The beast screamed as its black blood sprayed forth from the wound like a geyser, drenching the men in its wake with ooze.

The wild men closed fast upon the creature, casting their ropes and garrots, unleashing their axes and hammers, fracturing its bones and blinding it. The creature cried and flailed in its desperate horror, the remnant of its tail finally breaking loose, the appendage writhing severed in the mud like a dying serpent.

“Kill the fucking devil!” Eleom shouted, his eyes burning with a fury near unto madness. “Then kill them all!”

And the Norland host, seeing the beast brought low, and the Nundi cut apart by the wolf-men, found their breath and courage again.

Honour

When at last they had pulled the raptor down into the mire, the wild men sprung upon it with their axe and hammer, battering its limbs and flesh into the soil as if they were hacking away at a stubborn stump. The beast writhed and shrieked in agony by their blows until it finally succumbed and resisted no more.

At the sight of its fall, the Neandilim assault wilted. The false men who had pressed into the breach faltered and turned, and the stream of dull gold reversed, fleeing back across the field. The heavy horse of the Norlanders and the wild men fell upon their retreat, riding them down from behind without mercy, slaughtering the fleeing footmen by the hundreds. The Nundi horse archers sought to rally them, but their arrows were too light to impose their will and turn the tide back in their favor. Their mounted line was itself enveloped and shattered, scattered like dandelion spores into the wind. The Nundi broke into a full rout of retreat.

Madrot pursued them to within arrow shot of their reserves, arrayed upon the west ridge. There, he reined his horse, knowing to charge up the slope would be folly, and so he let the remainder escape. When he returned to the line, covered in mud and sweat and blood, he found Gedain amidst the field, holding the Welf banner high, immaculate and unsullied, his horse prancing about the field strewn with the dead and dying. His men cheered him in his triumph. Madrot, returning unheralded, dismounted and gave comfort to the wounded.

The wild men gathered round the dying raptor, tearing from it trophies of horn, scale, claw and tooth. One had taken the severed tail and placed the stump upon his loins and thrust away in crude jest. Yet the great scaled beast still lived, barely, broken and senseless, unable to resist.

The Wolvenking sat in his saddle watching, his wild locks stained with black blood, silent and unmoved. Then at last he dismounted and came unto the serpent. The laughter of his men stilled and they watched their king. Eleom knelt beside the creature and laid his hand upon its scaled brow. He whispered a prayer that no man’s ears heard. Yet those near saw tears in Eleom’s eyes as he spoke it. The raptor shuddered once, then died. The Wolvenking rose and returned to his saddle and rode away to be alone.

Madrot watched as Cerenid entered the heart of the field of celebration— grim and pale, favoring his left side as he rode. The rex called out, and the men, sensing the force in his voice grew still. “Gather all the living,” he commanded. “We must march for Madad within the hour… before they assail us again.”

Madrot kept beside Cerenid as they rode, and he saw that his rex had grown paler than before. “Art thou wounded, my lord?”

“Aye,” Cerenid answered. “I fear I hath broken a rib when I was thrown.”

“Shall I call a surgeon?”

“No,” Cerenid said. “Not until we reach Madad.”

Madrot lowered his eyes.

“Hear me,” Cerenid said. “I fear my injury is deep within. My arm aches. My breath shortens.”

“Then let the surgeon attend to thee.”

“No. There is naught that he can mend.” Their horses carried on, Sol shining above, the scent of entrails and smoke fading behind them. “Hear me,” the rex continued. “If Gedain learns my injury is mortal, he will await my death, then claim the crown.”

Madrot’s brow darkened.

“He must not be rex, Madrot. He will lead the host unto ruin. He hath ambition but no honour.”

“Shall I challenge him to a duel, then?”

“No. He will not accept, for he knoweth thou art sure to triumph. Then later, he will have thee murdered.”

“What then? Will Azarius meet us at Madad? Will he guide our path?”

Cerenid pondered, face turning grim. “I now fear he is lost,” he confessed. “Yet there is but one path before us.” They road for a moment in silence. “Madrot…”

“Yes, My lord.”

Cerenid held Madrot’s gaze. “I regard thee as my brother…”

“Yet I slew your true brother.”

“Aye. But I have forgiven thee. For I know thine heart is true.”

“I wish only to serve my rex with honour.”

“And you have.”

“What then, my lord? What is the path?”

“The way is clear to me, brother. Thou must betray me.”

“My lord?”

“Aye,” Cerenid winced as the pain overcame him. “Thou must challenge me to a duel. Thou… thou must declare thy right by the old law.”

Madrot stared, disbelieving. “I cannot betray my rex.”

“You must.”

“No. I will not raise steel against my lord.”

“You must, Madrot, or all is lost!”

They came to Madad at last, in the late afternoon, climbing the broken road to the plateau. The summit was ringed with broken walls of great stone, some measuring ten cubits high and thirty cubits long, fitted with such skill that a knife blade could not be pressed between them. There, Madrot followed Cerenid as he withdrew into his tent. The surgeon came.

“It is the spleen,” he said in a somber voice. “I believe thy wound is mortal.”

“Speak of this to no one,” Cerenid commanded. “Give me theriac, so that I might stand.”

Cerenid called a council of the reiks and thegns, and Eleom as well. They gathered in the heart of the Gargan ruin, surrounded by her towering arches, the glow of sunset casting the court in gold hue. The mood was hopeful, yet somberness clung for those who were lost.

“Over nine hundred men fell,” sayeth Uro, son of Tollus, the named reik of Longview. “Of these, two-hundred-twenty riders of Fy… all of their mounted lost.”

“May their honour carry them into the next life,” answered Cerenid with the face of a ghost. “We rest here and tend our wounded for two days. Then we march.”

“To where?” one asked. “We have not Azarius to guide us.”

“To Bafomet!” cried Gedain, rising with drawn sword.

Cerenid answered softly. “I shall heed my war council and decide.”

Gedain lowered his sword and faced the rex. “You look unwell, my lord. Art thou wounded?”

Cerenid stared into Gedain’s soul, then turned to Madrot. Gedain started to speak but Madrot rose as commanded. “I… I invoke the old law! A duel for the crown.”

Murmurs rose.

“As do I,” followed Gedain.

Eleom watched them, eyes narrowed, fingers stroking his chin.

The reiks and thegns shouted and called. “Would Madrot be twice a kinslayer?” cried one.

“None shall ask a wounded man to duel,” Uro protested.

“This is no time for duels. We are at war,” said another.

“My rex,” shouted yet another, “do not accept these fools’ demands.”

“Azarius hath abandoned the rex,” came another still. “Gedain hath shown the favor of The One, untouched by blade or arrow.”

A chant then arose among them. “Gedain! Gedain! Gedain!”

Eleom scoffed, yet no one noticed above the clamor.

Gedain nodded to the throng in acknowledgement, then turned to the rex. “Wilt thou deny thy honour by denying me?”

But before Cerenid could answer him, another voice rose above, deep an unfamiliar. “Accept the duel, young rex, and I shall stand for thee.” Eleom stepped forth, placing himself between Gedain and Cerenid, his wild eyes invoking that of a wolf measuring its prey— intent without bluster.

Gedain’s brief triumph withered. His good eye fell. He sheathed his sword and withdrew to his seat.

Eleom then turned to Madrot. “And thou?”

“Aye,” Madrot sighed. “I am honour bound to duel.”

“Then shall we begin?”

But then Cerenid’s voice rose. “I shall stand for myself,” he said wavering, clutching his side as he gathered himself to his feet. All eyes turned to him. “I shall stand for Madrot.”

“No, my lord,” Madrot said. “I have already made the challenge. Thou cannot stand against the man who stands for thee.”

“Yield to thy rex,” Cerenid commanded.

“But, my lord, I…”

“Yield!”

Madrot lowered his eyes and stepped back. Cerenid set aside his crown upon the stone where he had sat, then he drew his sword.

“Thou art wounded, rex,” Eleom said. “I seek no tainted victory. I sought only to quell these fools.”

“Then step back and yield thy men unto my command, for I am their true rex.”

“They art not mine to yield,” said Eleom as he drew his blade. “Yet if thou slayeth me, I’m certain they would name thee.”

Cerenid swung down and Eleom parried in haste.

“Thou nearly caught me, there,” Eleom said. “Thou shan’t surprise me again.” He made two quick attacks, high then low, both hitting Cerenid’s blade.

Then they circled as the reiks and thegns watched, breathless. Cerenid pressed again but was deflected. Eleom moved. Cerenid again lunged, just missing. Eleom glanced Cerenid’s sword, then twisted under it with his own, but withdrew before wounding the rex.

“Thou fightest bravely,” Eleom said.

“You mock me,” Cerenid replied, face sweating, favoring his side.

“No. I admire thy grit. Thou art truly noble.” And all who heard it knew the Wolvenking spoke the truth, for his eyes revealed his honour.

But Cerenid lunged again, Eleom just dodging the point, but he drew inward and pulled the rex close to him. “I have no will to harm thee,” he whispered into his ear. “We can declare a draw.”

Cerenid replied in his ear, “I wish only to die with honour, upon my feet. Wilt thou not grant me this final wish?”

Eleom held Cerenid close, so that he could not strike or escape. Sensing his weakness he said, “Thou art not mine enemy,” he said.

“No,” Cerenid answered.

“Thou art my brother,” Eleom followed. “I cannot slay thee.”

“Thou must do it. It is my dying wish.”

“Aye, then,” Eleom answered, voice a breaking whisper. “If that is the final wish of my brother, then I shall grant it.”

And while they embraced, Eleom raised the hilt of his sword and plunged the point down, deep into Cerenid’s collar. The blood gushed forth, and then Cerenid Rex went limp within Eleom’s arms. The council watched in silence as the Wolvenking gently lowered Cerenid onto the stones, so that his face lay at peace upon a halo of blood. The Wolvenking knelt beside him and voiced a silent prayer, and no one spoke a word, yet no one heard it.

Then he rose. “By the old law, I name myself. Is there any among you who disputes this? If so, step forth and challenge me.”

But none rose.

Eleom turned and took Cerenid’s crown from the stone where it rested. He knelt and held it above Cerenid’s brow for a moment, then rose again and approached Gedain, whose unpatched eye was lowered. “Look up, Gedain of Welf.”

Gedain did as he was told.

“I have made thee steward of Methundor.” Then Eleom extended the crown to him. “Take it… rex.”

Gedain took hold of it.

“Crown thyself.”

And Gedain did.

“Now go. Take nine riders and ride for Gruen. Her widows and greybeards await thy decrees.”

Gedain paused, staring bewildered.

“Go!”

Gedain rose without another word, bearing away the crown. Yet no eyes followed him as he left.

Eleom turned to Madrot. “I have lost my marshal. Wilt thou stand in Menek’s place?”

“Aye, my Lord,” he answered.

Then the Wolvenking turned to the host. “In two days, we go east to Aroc, where a great army gathers. And from there, True Men march south unto Golgon, to cut out Bafomet’s heart and drive the serpents back into the underworld.”

At first, silence… then the Norland men unsheathed their swords and began to chant.

“Tonight,” Eleom commanded, “raise a great pyre here, one befitting a king, one that Bafomet’s eyes cannot unsee. Then lay your rex’s body upon it. Honour this man, for he and he alone had the mettle to hold this brittle host together. And know that only this tender rex, this man of mercy and faith, could have brought ye so far. Do not forget his name.”

---

[i] Griffinhawk: a term for a monstrous Norland vulture

[ii] Goldswane: the ninth full lunar cycle, wherein the autumn equinox falls, roughly coinciding with September.

[iii] From ‘Dawn of Edä,’ the Holy Book of the Hedam.

[iv] From ‘The Song of Vallis’ v 43-20

[v] Ogrennon: The first dragon cast out of Vallis to awaken in Edä. Corrupter of the souls of True Men. From ‘Dawn of Edä’.

[vi] The Dravim are the sixth named tribe from ‘Dawn of Edä’. “The Hunters of Flesh and the Warriors of the Plain.”

Contents

Contents

Blodwin

Regent

Avarlon, now quickened with child, made her way through the garden toward the temple to attend the observance of the solstice moon. The morning was bright, and Sol warmed the stones beneath her sandals. The air lay thick with the scent of summer’s full bloom. She stopped at the fountain to breathe it in and to admire the flourishing of color.

Yet as she stood, another scent crept beneath the fragrant air, sharp and acrid, perhaps carried from the tannery or the gutters. The garden swam before her, blending the colors within her vision. She bent to retch, but a faintness took hold and she fell down onto her knees, hands clutching the low stone wall of the fountain. Her sickness deepened and her breathing thinned.

Fia, too, was making her way toward the ceremony and marked Avarlon’s wavering. And when Avarlon’s handmaiden cried out, the regent stepped forth to intervene, scolding the maiden. “Peace,” Fia snapped as she came upon them. “Thou wilt summon gossip.” She knelt down beside Avarlon and placed a steadying hand upon her back to comfort her while she caught her breath. “There, child. Tis only the bearing-sickness. Thou must carry a son, I warrant.” She glanced to her guard who stepped forth. “Raise her gently. We will not have this made a spectacle. She’ll come with me.”

Fia’s chamber lay far from the council halls, high in the wide tower where a narrow balcony overlooked the gardens and a tall southern window gazed out over the gates of the city. It was a room decorated not by regent power but by years of watchfulness and quiet grief. Widowed seventeen summers, Fia had spent long hours at the window and balcony, observing the rhythms of the city— those who came, and those who departed, and how the shadows lengthened across the serenity of the garden at dusk.

The plaster walls bore faded tapestries, their colors softened by time. Thick, old blankets lay folded upon a bench, their tartan weaves coarse and strong. Upon the table stood a modest bouquet: crimson dragon’s tail, bound with the pearl petals of gillyflower still yielding their lush scent. Rosemary lingered in the air as well, carried between the open window and the balcony beyond.

The guard set Avarlon into an upholstered chair near the cold hearth, body limp and weary. Face pale. Fia dismissed him and her maid and drew a chair from the table. She seated herself across from Avarlon as the door closed. The two were alone.

“Breathe,” Fia urged softly. “Thou art safe from wagging tongues in here.”

Avarlon’s breath steadied. Only when color returned to her face did Fia speak again.

“Hast thou been sleeping?”

“Little, my lady,” Avarlon confessed. “I dream and then I wake with sickness.”

“Tell me what dreams visit thee?”

“Dreams of water, of floating,” Avarlon answered. “A calm pool. Then the child comes easy. Then the pool becomes a river… and the river a torrent.”

Fia took Avarlon’s hand and held it, firm and warm. “When a woman bears life,” she said, “she bears dread alongside it. Men know not the sleepless watching— the waiting— the long vigil of fear for the child they bear.”

Avarlon’s throat tightened. She had feared and avoided Fia since her wedding day, uncertain of what the regent suspected, and more uncertain how one careless word might betray her and her father and Gedain. Fia mostly spoke, sensing Avarlon’s unease. She asked of sickness, of appetite and of the child’s stirring. Then unprompted, she spoke of her firstborn.

“Ceryd kicked as if he would tear free months too soon. I was so ill with the bearing-sickness— beyond measure. I could scarce take more than an apple and a wafer each day for what seemed like months. When he finally came, he was relentless. Always hungry. I could not keep him sated, nor could even the nurses.” She paused to ward off the sadness for her parted son.

“What was Cerenid like?” Avarlon asked.

“He was the opposite— sleepy, frail. He had a meek little cry, whereas Ceryd’s could stir a bear from winter slumber. We were fain to coax him to nurse. At times, we did not think he would survive the winter. Yet he did.”

The servant knocked and Fia bid her to enter. She set rosewater on the table and poured for each, then left. Avarlon sipped from the copper cup as Fia’s gaze drifted into her own memories.

“I never dreamt Cerenid would be rex,” she confided. “He hath inherited little of his father’s fire. His brother was his champion, his shield.” Her eyes lowered. “And now his brother is gone. And with treachery twice upon him, I fear for my gentler son. He will be a fine rex— but he needeth time to cure.”

“I fear,” Avarlon said, then she lowered her eyes as if she had not intended to speak.

Fia did not press her, though she sensed she was hiding something. “There is no use in fear, child,” she said, smoothing Avarlon’s hand. “What will be will be. Thy son— and I am certain it will be a son— will be born strong.” Fia watched her then— not as a mother, but as one who weigheth truth from trembling lips.

Feeling compelled to speak by Fia’s openness, Avarlon continued, “I… I fear more than that.”

“What else, dear?”

She hesitated again, as if the words themselves might betray her. Then, because the room felt safe, and because the hand at hers was steady, she answered.

“I… I fear that my husband will not return.”

Yet Fia sensed that was not what Avarlon thought to say, at first. “Do not think of that,” she replied, still softly stroking her fair hand. “Gedain is a warrior. He will return, with Menek in chains cursing his march to justice. I venture they art coming down off the mountains as we speak.”

Avarlon continued. “I… I also believe that Una doubts his honour.”

“Una doubts everyone, dear. She has no children of her own to worry her, so she fills her mind with all the possibilities.” Fia paused to drink from her cup. “Do not fear. Gedain is like a nephew to me. Do not trouble thyself with Una. Her nature is suspicion of everyone.”

When Avarlon’s strength had fully returned, Fia helped her to her feet and walked her to the door. She spoke once more before committing her to the guard, lightly, as though it were nothing more than idle concern. “Do tell me,” she asked, “when last thou sawest Gedain… did he seem burdened of his charge?”

Avarlon smiled faintly. “No, my Lady. He seemed eager.”

Fia inclined her head. Fia’s servant lingered after Avarlon had left.

“Shall I summon Una, my Lady?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

She went to the southern window and gazed out toward the gate, where once she had stood and watched the bodies of both husband and son borne home beneath shrouds. Her eyes followed the road beyond as it unwound through the fields and vanished into the forested hills. Tracing farther up their wooded folds, they yielded at last unto the dragon’s teeth of the distant granite peaks, their crowns yet covered in gleaming snow. She drew a slow breath, and the softness left her face, and in its place remained only the widowed regent mother.

Conclave

The summons went forth into the realm of Methundor and beyond, and many thegns came unto Gruen, passing through her gates over the fortnight of Rainmere[i] destined to attend the conclave commencing the three days beyond the summer solstice.

Of the five reiks, Fy’s did not come, for though safe conduct had been sworn, they trusted not that their plot on Cerenid’s life would pass unanswered. Madrot, named Reik of Dregrove, would not come himself despite Una’s letters. He offered Una in his stead, clothed with his voice and authority. Gedain’s father, Reik of Welf, did not come either, passing his voice to his son. The only reik to make the journey was Tollus from Longview.

However, Gruen hosted twenty-one thegns, all that were recognized. Among them was Olian, Thegn of Stonrafn, who made Gruen his residence and had not stood upon his own hearthstone in seven years.

The King of Lochlund sent ambassadors, and there came also men claiming such titles from the Hylands, the Blackmoors, and as far as Canac; yet they arrived not until a week after the conclave had already broken and thus bore witness only to what was left undone.

They gathered in the great hall of the keep of Gruen, in a sweltering of summer unknown to Norland memory. So fierce was the heat that they chose to meet only in the morning hours and again at dusk. And many regarded it an ill omen.

Cerenid shunned his heavier robes and cape and wore instead a plain tunic, yet even so, his brow shone with sweat and his countenance grew more drawn with each passing day. By noon, the elder nobles sat purple-faced and gasping, dabbing their brows and swatting the flies settling upon their collars and noses, and the hall rang more with irritation than reason. Adjournment was called when things became insufferable.

Each time they convened, Cerenid pleaded for the muster of their men, and each day the reiks and thegns answered with arguments against it, each bearing his own shield of excuse.

“To strike Bafomet would be suicide.”

“Who shall reap our fields and tend our flocks? Our men would return from war only to starve in winter.”

“If our levies march, brigands will plunder our farms and toll the merchants upon our roads.”

“It were wiser to defend our towns and harry their supply.”

“Only Longview and the High Gate can truly be held. Let us gather our strength there.”

At every turn the muster was gainsaid. Not even Olian would rise to speak in its favor.

At last Una seized the scepter amid a storm of curses, whistles, and jeers.

“Find thyself a husband!” came a rude shout.

Una smiled sweetly toward the voice. “That, in part, was my purpose in coming,” she said. “I had hoped to find here a loyal man who might ask for my hand. Yet seeing what standeth before me, I fear I shall die an old spinster after all.”

Laughter and grins broke out among the hall, broken by: “Our loyalty is to our houses first!”

“Aye,” said Una, “and each man hopeth the horde will pass by his own gate and burn only his neighbor’s hall.”

Many murmured in agreement. Others scoffed.

“Tell me, then,” she continued, raising her voice, “do we not all dwell beneath one great roof? Beyond one great wall? Are we not all brothers and sisters of one realm?”

“I say the Fys certainly are, for sure!” shouted a heckler. “Or at least they art all first cousins!” Laughter crashed like a thunderous wave. Una then caught the glimpse of a grin forming in Cerenid’s face and that kindled her hope. Knowing she could not surpass the quip with pleading, she yielded the scepter and took her seat. Twice more she tried to speak that day, yet each time the hall drowned her out.

By day’s end, the rex’s smile had faded completely. And with each rising of Sol thereafter, Cerenid’s shoulders bowed further, his gaze falling to the stones at his feet. He knew he must convince them, but he knew not how.

Una attempted to speak once more, yet looking to Cerenid and finding no fire, she remained in her seat. Deeming the conclave spent and hope exhausted, it stood upon the brink of final adjournment.

At last, Reik Tollus of Longview, tall, broad, umber-haired and barrel-chested like any old mason, rose again to speak one final time. Taking the scepter into his hand, he said: “My Lords, I believe we have debated this matter fully… wrung it dry, even. There is naught left to be said. I regret I must return to Longview at once, to prepare her defense. I beg of you to send men, for though her walls are stout, I fear they will not long withstand Bafomet’s siege towers.”

“Nor will they withstand them if all the men of Methudor were to line her battlements!” came a voice unknown.

The conclave turned their glance, one and all, and there, in the doorway, haloed by the hard white light of day, stood the Immortal Prophet.

“Azarius!” Cerenid called. “Hast thou come to speak?”

The Prophet walked forward into the hall with humble purpose, to where the Reik of Longview stood, and bade he relinquish the scepter.

A voice shouted, “This is no noble! He hath no voice in this hall.”

Another cried, “Let no revenant cast his dark spells among us. Give Him not the scepter.”

And another, “By His rags, He is but a peasant come to beg.”

Then a voice boomed from the dais, and all heads turned to behold that it came from Cerenid, bearing a commanding presence theretofore unseen. “Hand him the scepter!” he commanded. “For I have seen him slain and risen with mine own eyes.”

But the Thegn of Peelgrain leapt from his seat with his blade drawn to prevent it from being handed over.

“Must I rise once more merely to be heard, Lord Cullen?” Azarius said.

The Thegn of Peelgrain froze, stricken that the Prophet knew his name. Azarius then pressed his breast upon the point of steel. “Thou dost not recall me, though I remember thee. Thrust your blade if thou must, then lay my body in the grass so thou mayest see me rise with thine own eyes.”

Cullen’s eyes dropped. And with trembling hand, he sheathed his sword and returned to his seat. Silence settled upon the hall as Azarius searched their eyes. And nearly every noble lowered his gaze when the Prophet’s eyes met his own. He took hold of the scepter, and the Reik of Longview sat.

“Hast thou come to lead us, Prophet?” cried a voice.

“Nay,” He answered to all. “I have come to show you your end. For it comes while you quarrel over tolls and tactics and fallow fields. If thou hast ears that hear, hear this: all these things matter naught if you will not come together as one.

“Your grain, your herds, your towns… Bafomet’s host will take them all. They will come even for your gods and your songs and your legends. And beyond a generation, there shall remain no memory of this realm. Your progeny will be mere servants unto the False Men.”

He raised his right hand, fingers splayed.

“Listen to me when I say: ye cannot thwart this foe with an open hand.” Then He clenched his hand into a tight fist as if he prepared to strike. “They will be smitten only thus.”

A murmur rose.

Holding His fist aloft, He continued. “Aye, you will depart Gruen, be it today or tomorrow, unconvinced by my words. You will ride home and fortify your hedges and ramparts and arm your graybeards and women. And by this time next year, you will all be mouldering in your graves, your wives and children made slaves.”

Then his fist and voice lowered, and the hall seemed to lean toward him, as though drawn by his voice. “Therefore, I say: as ye travel homeward, persuaded that I, Azarius, am nothing more than a liar and a revenant spell caster, cast thine eyes upon the firmament. For upon the full moon of Longsol[ii], in the northern sky, ere the witching hour, no more than a hand’s breadth from Axelian[iii], a great archon light shall ignite the heavens and make night as dawn. And then ye shall know I spoke the truth.”

The murmurs rose but the Prophet’s voice yet rose above it. “This light shall shine until the Reaping Moon wanes. And if thou hast not mustered thy men and passed through the High Gate ere its fading, thy mortal doom is sealed. The time for talk is ended.”

Then Azarius released the bronze scepter from his hand, and it fell unto the stone floor and rang loud, echoing long after He had departed the great hall of Gruen’s keep.

Snare

Una sent word by courier informing her brother she would be returning to Dregrove by way of Wargsdale instead of Fywold, so as to avoid trouble with the Fys. A fortnight later, she received Madrot’s reply and set off with her retinue of six sworn guards, reaching Wargsdale on the third eve of their journey. Road-worn and wary, they took lodging in a way house kept by loyal friends, forewarned of their coming by Una’s letters.

A modest board of pottage, thick with barley, a brace of rabbits, and a dark, bitter port was prepared. As they feasted, talk turned to Azarius, as all talk everywhere now did. The prophecy of the archon-light had spread through the countryside like a cloud of pollen carried on the wind, settling thick and sticky upon every mind. Each brief summer night, men and women alike lifted their gaze unto the northern heavens, though Luna had not yet waxed full.

When the feast was consumed, the plates cleared away, and with the cauldron hung cold, the talk turned toward doom. “What shall we do when they come?” asked the wayhouse dame as she filled their cups.

Una raised her voice to answer, but then caught herself, softening her tone so as not to stoke commoner fears. “Trust thy rex. The Norland host shall thwart their plans.”

“Yet Fy’s men will not march, so it is said,” the dame replied. “And without them, the host will lack the needed might.”

“Fy’s men will march,” Una assured her. “They will soon be made to see there is no other way.”

“But I fear their lords will spy the towns left bare by the muster, and seize them while the fighting men are gone.”

“If that be their design,” Una answered, “then we must trust those who remain will rise against them.”

“I worry they will not rise up out of their own fears.”

“Then at least refuse their commands,” Una loosed a vexed sigh. “There is no profit in fears and worry. If ruin comes, worry only hastens its bite. Live in thy hopes, not in thy dread.”

A brief silence followed, and Una’s guard standing nearest murmured an old road-verse, half-remembered:

When darkness brings the howls to ear,

Yield not thy mind to dogs of fear.

But as he finished, there came loud pounding on the door, and the dame set her pitcher aside to answer it. “Who comes at this hour?” she called. “We have no more rooms.”

“We come not for rooms,” came the answer, “but for your guest. We know Una Blodwin is there. Send her forth or we shall batter this door in.”

“It is Kaldwin Fy,” Una said calmly. Rising not from her seat, she lifted her voice. “Thou art still a fool, Kaldwin— louder now, but none wiser.”

“Who is the greater fool,” he called back. “The fox who setteth the snare, or the rabbit that thinketh a way house its hole?”

“Aye,” Una replied, “Tis the best snare that tightens without one knowing it.”

“There is no escape for you, Blodwin. The house is ringed. Thy guard hath fled in fear.”

“I shall have a moment, then,” Una replied. “Let me finish my port that I may meet the fox with ample steadiness.”

“Drink, then,” came the voice.

Una remained seated, gesturing for the dame to refill her cup. Her two remaining guards stood fast— one by the door, one at her side, blades bared. “Sheath thy swords,” Una said with lowered voice. “There will be no needless bloodshed.”

They gazed at her in disbelief as she calmly drank. When it was at last drained, a sudden tumult rose without— footfalls, shouts, the thunder of hooves. The way house dame clutched her apron. The guards leaned toward the sounds.

Then silence.

And then another knock upon the door.

“Who knocks?” Una asks.

“It is I.”

“Open it,” Una ordered.

The dame lifted the bar and a man was flung through the door, landing in the middle of the floor. He raised his gaze, terror filling his eyes. It was Kaldwin Fy.

Following him strode another.

“Well done, brother,” Una said.

“Madrot!” cried the guard nearest to her. “By The One, our fortune turns.”

“Look up,” Una said to the fox.

Kaldwin obeyed, shaking, near to tears.

“Thou art a thrall to thy own oxwit dullness,” she went on. “Thou mistookest words for cunning, and haste for strength. It is ever the way of thy house.”

“Mercy,” Kaldwin begged.

“Go ahead, weep. Weep knowing this: that mercy lieth on the narrow ledge of my whim.”

Kaldwin broke, sobbing openly.

“Beg me for mercy,” she urged.

“Please… I beg.”

Una let him grovel on the floor until she had achieved the fullness of utter disgust. “Were thy worth no greater than thy wit,” she continued, “I would have my brother brain thee, thinking no more of it than if he was scraping the dung from his soles.”

Kaldwin nodded agreeably, hands covering his eyes.

“Stand up, you breast-fed half-man.” Kaldwin labored onto his feet. Una turned to her guards. “Bind him and set him to horse. Madrot will deliver him to Gruen at once.” Then to the dame she turned. “Fill my cup.”

“My Lady,” the dame said, trembling as she poured. “I swear I betrayed thee not.”

Una searched her face and found no guile. “I know it. Kaldwin was intercepting couriers and reading the letters they carried. I laid the bait within our words to you.”

Outside, the horses stamped and snorted as Kaldwin was bound and set to saddle, still sobbing. His conspirators were disarmed and disrobed, then set to kneeling. Soon they would be sent marching home, naked and humiliated. Una and Madrot lingered.

“Will Korbin muster to save his son?” Madrot asked.

“They must,” Una answered.

“Will bringing Kaldwin buy me Fia’s favor?”

“No,” Una answered. “Not much, anyway.”

Madrot’s jaw tightened, though he had expected it. “I will never find her forgiveness.”

“No,” Una replied, “but delivering Kaldwin will buy thee Cerenid’s.” A shout rose; the horses were ready. Una went on. “Fia knows only what was taken from her, not the brother who took it. Thou wert a stranger to her before Briganta. Thou art a monster to her now.”

Madrot’s stare hardened.

“There is no place for me then, in Gruen’s hall of reiks.”

“No,” Una answered flatly. But then her voice lifted. “Yet thy place is not within gilded halls. Thy place is at the head of Dregrove’s men, marching to war at the side of thy rex.” She gazed long into her brother’s eyes, finding there the honor that she had always known. She climbed into her saddle, her guards gathering near, and glanced once more before setting off for Dregrove.

“Fare thee well, brother.”

“Goodbye, sister.”

Bounty

Avarlon spent many mornings walking with Fia, meeting her beside the garden fountain upon the third hour of daylight. From thence, they would pass beyond the keep’s outer wall and stroll the broad stone avenue that led toward Gruen’s gates. The air there was fresher than within the inner wards, and beneath the warming summer Sol, it steadied Avarlon’s stomach and lightened her spirit, for whenever she remained too long enclosed in her father’s stone house, the mingled scents of gutter and stable would seize her with sickness. Avarlon’s mother had been gone many winters, taken by the wasting, and so she found in Fia a maternal comfort, a warmth and steadiness she had not known since she was a child.

“Thou art near through the worst of it, dear,” Fia assured her.

“Yet I wake in the night and cannot sleep,” Avarlon confessed. “And when sleep comes, it is at the wrong hours.”

“It was so with me,” Fia answered, and she spoke then of cravings for grapes and salt, and of the fierce tenderness to touch that had seized her in those months long past. She would clasp Avarlon’s hand lightly as they walked, her manner gentle, yet her eyes ever observant.

As they came upon the gate, the air of the countryside— carrying the scent of wild lavender and iris— flowed through. They would pause each there to watch a wagon creak inward or a drover lead his sheep through the arch. Often their talk turned to petty court whispers. But on one morning, they espied riders appearing at the gate, though they would not enter the city.

A warden approached swiftly. “My ladies, it were best for you to return within the keep.”

“Why,” Fia asked calmly. “Art those not Dregrove’s colors?”

“They are, my lady. But the kinslayer Madrot rides among them.”

Fia’s hand tightened slightly upon Avarlon’s, though Avarlon’s did not answer it. “We shall return if danger presenteth itself,” she said coolly to the warden. Then, turning to Avarlon: “Thou art safe beside me.”

The Dregrove riders had aligned in a file beyond the arch, then they parted to make way. Madrot Blodwin rode through, halting just beyond the threshold of Gruen. His gauntleted hand held a tether trailing behind. Fia’s face darkened with hatred. The morning traffic stilled. The riders waited, near frozen. A crowd formed within moments. Murmurs rose.

Fia looked upon Madrot, trying to picture him less a brother and merely some brigand who had slain her proud son. He did not gaze back at her but instead, his hardened glare fixed beyond her shoulder. Fia turned. Avarlon stood staring back at Madrot— not with horror, nor fear, nor hatred in her countenance— but with something unsettled, something turned inward. Avarlon’s eyes flickered, then fell. She did not draw closer toward Fia’s protection, but instead, she loosened her grip and stepped away.

“Avarlon,” came a hoarse call from the crowd. “Come hither!” Avarlon hastened toward the voice, finding her father within the tide of the crowd. She pushed through as if fleeing, without offering a word or even a glance back to Fia.

Fia studied Olian’s face as Avarlon wove through the crowd. She found no wrath therein, no righteous fury. His eyes never so much as glanced toward Madrot. It was as though he wished not to be seen by him. He took his daughter’s arm and the two disappeared into the mass of subjects.

And in that breath, as sharp and as sudden as an arrow’s pierce, Fia’s understanding coalesced.

The riders waited in grim silence, the mounted warriors in dark mail barring the gate for many minutes, until the crowd thickened and a vast quorum of Gruen’s eyes were fixed upon them. Then Madrot removed his helm. Fia noticed his once rust-coloured hair had darkened brown and his beard had grown full and long. When he spoke, his voice was deep and booming.

“I am Madrot Blodwin, Reik of Dregrove. I have come to collect a bounty.”

“A bounty for thyself?” cried one from the crowd.

“Kinslayer,” shouted another.

“Begone, rapist!” called another.

A warden stepped forth. “What criminal hast thou delivered?”

Madrot tugged his leash, and a second horse stepped forth bearing a bound and hooded rider slumped in the saddle. Madrot tore the hood away. Gasps rippled through the crowd. “I bring Kaldwin Fy,” he declared. “The knave who sought to slay the rex at Wargsdale.”

“The bounty for this man stands at one hundred silver erlings,” answered the reeve, stepping forward cautiously. “Dismount and come within the walls to claim it.”

“Nay, Madrot said. “I swore never again to pass beneath these arches, for I was wronged in this evil place.” He raised his voice to the crowd. “Nor would I accept your silver.”

“What bounty then?” asked the reeve.

Madrot’s jaw set. “The bounty I claim is the restoration of my honour which was stolen from me.”

“You slew the rex,” the reeve countered. “And you slew two wardens and maimed another.”

“The rex chose the field,” Madrot replied. “As for thy wardens, I gave them fair warning… and spared one’s life.”

“And what of the charge of rape?” asked another.

Madrot did not flinch. “It is a lie.”

The wardens stepped nearer as if to seize Kaldwin. Madrot’s horse shifted uneasily. Dregrove hands settled upon hilts. The wardens reached for theirs. The crowd stirred in anticipation.

An impulse stirred in Fia. She stepped forward into the avenue to speak. Her voice cut through the din. “Stand down!” she ordered the wardens. “He is reik. The law cannot touch him. He has done the rex a good service, today.”

The crowd quieted, uncertain.

She turned her gaze upon her brother at last. “For his honour,” she said, her tone hard as frost, “he shall have to answer at the River Thol.”

Madrot’s glare did not soften.

The wardens dragged Kaldwin down from his saddle and bore him to the dungeon. Madrot made no further gesture, wheeled his horse, and rode away with his retinue. The crowd crumbled apart, yet whispers lingered in the air long after their dust had settled. Fia remained, lost in thought. Then she turned and departed for the keep, the coldness of understanding settling upon her countenance.

---

[i] Rainmere is the sixth full lunar cycle from, and inclusive of, the Winter solstice, roughly coinciding with June.

[ii] The Longsol Luna is the first lunar cycle beginning after the Summer solstice, roughly coinciding with July by our calendar.

[iii] Axelian is the northern pole star, used for navigation.

Contents

IV. Gedain

Gatekeeper

Gedain and five riders pressed on in haste for the High Gate, climbing the old mountain wagon trail as it coiled upwards into the foothills of the Norzcarpe. On the third morn, the sky dimmed beneath a veil of gray haze, and ere midday a wet spring snow began to fall, heavy and clinging. Still, they urged their mounts onward, upward, the path softening to mire beneath their steed’s iron shoes. The horses labored, sides heaving, nostrils flaring with mist.

When at last they rose above the shelter of the forest, the winds descended upon them in howls and gusts, as though the mountain itself bid to scour them from its shoulder. One mare slipped, hooves scraping stone, nearly tumbling down the cliff with her rider. “We must turn back,” shouted one above the wail, clutching reins.

“Onward, you cowards!” Gedain cursed, shielding his eyes from the pelting sleet. “Would a little snow undo you?”

Clods of ice crusted their brows and beards. Their cloaks snapped like torn banners in the gale. Blinded, they placed their trust wholly upon the instincts of their groaning steeds. All that day they climbed onward, upward upon the treacherous road, oblivion falling away to their left unseen, marching until the skies dimmed and daytime ended.

Then, without warning, as if by divine command, the wind ceased with the sound of a ghastly shriek. The storm fog lifted, and the frozen mist dissolved, revealing the narrow trail before them. There, in the gray of twilight, rose the High Gate, its ancient bars anchored within the jagged granite cleft, barring a cave black as night. Above it, set in the clearing heavens, burned the Light-Bearer— Vê, brilliant as a diamond set into the firmament just beyond the grasp of the world.

“What is that?” a rider asked, his voice unsteady.

“The Gate, you fool,” Gedain answered.

“No, my lord,” the rider cried, pointing. “There! On the cliff!” They turned as one to the shadows along the rock face. “There it is! Do you see it?”

“Aye. What manner of beast is that?”

“A goat?”

“Aye, a goat,” Gedain answered curtly. “Nevermind it. To The Gate.” Yet even as he spoke, the creature moved, leaping nimbly from stone to stone, skirting ledges where no horse might tread, drawing ever nearer.

“Look! It stands on two legs like a man!”

The creature had indeed stood, and this struck terror into the hearts of the riders, for none had ever seen such a creature in all their lives, save for the ones placed into their minds by their cruel grandmothers that they be made to fear the forest.

“It is a faun, a devil,” cried one. “Kill it!”

Two riders spurred forward, drawing their crossbows. Bolts flew and shattered harmlessly upon the icy rocks. They spanned again and shot, missing once more. On the third attempt, one rider fumbled in haste; his horse stumbling, and only by fortune did he not tumble screaming into the abyss. The creature laughed with a low, mirthful sound, and drifted nearer, almost floating among the stones. The riders wheeled their mounts into a tight ring upon the narrow road, swords drawn, knuckles white upon their hilts.

Another bolt flew wide. The creature laughed again, amused. Then it spoke. “Fear me not,” it said, spreading its empty hands. Its eyes were human, bright with amber mischief and knowing, set in the face of a man but with ram’s horns. “As thou seest, I bear no weapon.”

“It is Azarius,” cried a rider. “The Prophet foretold.”

The faun laughed mockingly. “I am not He. He weareth only the likeness of a man.”

“Begone then, devil!”

“Devil, thou callest me,” the creature replied. “Yet I am called Veorn. And I know of whom you hunt. He is called Menek. Follow me and I will take you to him…”

The faun pranced between the rocks along the cliff toward the gate, as light as a maiden dancer. Gedain followed, and the others after him, fear-bound yet unwilling to be left behind. Gedain dismounted thereupon, yet with his sword in hand, he approached the gate’s iron bars, thick with rust and years. He shook and pried as the faun watched and laughed from the rocks.

“It is locked,” Gedain remarked. “Tell me who unlocked it for Menek?”

“There is but one key, Gedain of Welf.”

Gedain stiffened. “How knowest thou my name?”

Veorn tilted his horned head. “Oh, thou art known to him. And thou art long expected, my prince.”

“It is a snare,” urged a rider. “We should not linger.”

“Hast thou the key?” Gedain demanded.

“I do not, my prince,” Veorn answered. “Yet the gate was opened for him who passed before thee. And it will be opened for thee as well.”

Gedain pondered, then his eyes hardened upon the faun. “For what price, then?”

The wind stirred above, shrieking through the jagged spires.

“Price?” Veorn asked.

“Aye. Name it.”

“The price be thine honor,” Veorn answered, grinning.

“How wilt though open it without the key? Gedain pressed.”

“Try again,” Veorn urged. “It is old. Rust binds.”

Gedain hesitated a moment. Then he sheathed his blade, set both hands upon the bars, and heaved with all his might. With a groan of rusted metal, the ancient gate lurched free and swung outward upon its hinges.

“Beware, my prince,” Veorn offered. “Once passed, there is no turning back.”

Undaunted, Gedain mounted his steed and spurred him through. Behind him, the others passed as well, one whispering a prayer while Veorn tittered.

Revelation

In the nether depths of Gruen’s keep, where the stone sweats cold and the air lies thick with stench, the failed assassin Joles passed his days awaiting his end. Knowing neither dawn nor dusk, time was measured only by the arrival of hunger and thirst.

At length, Joles was removed from his cell and cast into another, where already lay the Neandilim envoy. They did not speak for the first full day, silence pressing upon them like a third prisoner, until at last Joles, maddened by the hum of flies and the ceaseless drip-drip-drip of water upon stone, broke it.

“Art thou the spy they caught?” he asked, “the Nundi?”

The envoy gave no answer.

Joles pressed. “Tell me,” his voice rasped raw by thirst. “Dost thou think to see thy homeland again?”

At last, the envoy stirred in the shadows. When he spoke, his voice was clear and unhurried, as though the dungeon were but a chamber in some common hall. “If I endure until our host comes, then yes,” he said.“

“Comes to here? To Gruen?” Joles scoffed. “Bafomet will never drive an army o’er the Norzcarpe.”

The Neandilim rustled in the darkness, scraping the stone floor beneath the straw. “Thy name is Joles, correct?” he asked mildly. “Thou art the failed assassin?”

“Yet I failed only because I was betrayed.”

“By whom?”

“I know not. Perhaps Menek, my captain. Perhaps another. I was not trusted with the other names.”

“Oh, but we know their names, my friend.”

Joles rolled his eyes. “Oh? Who are they, then?”

“If I named them,” replied the Neandilim, “thou wouldst yield them and they would lose their greater use. Better for us they remain unknown.” He paused, then added, “Yet thou art correct in one thing…”

“In what?”

“That no army may cross the Norzcarpe in force. Its narrowness is death to invaders.”

“Then how,” Joles demanded, “does thy master mean to come to Gruen?”

The envoy shifted in the shadow. “Any man with sense could answer, were he not blinded by fear. One need only look upon a proper map.”

“I seem to have misplaced my map,” Joles sneered. “Please enlighten me.”

The Nundi grunted. “To conquer the Norlands,” he said, “one must first come north from Gatun, far enough west of the mountains that bar the way.”

“Yet Bafomet does not hold that port.”

“Not yet. First Varenthor must submit.”

Joles barked in laughter. “Varenthor hath never been taken. It is said the mighty Gargan raised its walls themselves.”

“True,” said the envoy. “And her fleet is stout as well. Yet Varenthor is ruled not by kings, but by a council of merchants. And merchants value peace so long as trade flows freely.”

“Then how wilt thou break them? Bribery?”

“Nay. By persuasion.”

“And how would that be wrought?”

A quiet breath. “Have you ever beheld a raptor, Joles?”

Joles did not reply.

The envoy’s voice darkened. “They stand four men tall, black iron scales, their eyes burn as amber set aflame.

“Imagine yourself a trader seeing twenty of them set upon your mercantile roads. Imagine yourself standing on Varenthor’s walls, beholding Bafomet’s host marching with rams and siege towers. Imagine the war drums thundering, banners lifting in the wind… thirty thousand warriors, four thousand cavalry.” The envoy’s voice grew almost reverent. “When our marshals come offering gold and peace, I am certain Varenthor’s gates will open gladly. And they will then call us ally.”

Joles’ mirth withered.

“From thence,” the envoy continued, “our host will sail beneath Varenthor’s colors, cross the bay, and land at Gatun. Its walls are far weaker. It will fall within days, or we’ll merely set it ablaze. Then northward our host will march to Longview.”

“Yes, Longview Castle,” Joles interrupted. “You’ll never take it.”

“Not without the might of raptors swinging our great ram. By them it will fall. Then onward to Dregrove… Fywold… Gruen.”

Joles could hear the envoy grin in the shadows as his voice grew cold.

“Methundor shall thus be sundered, and devoured as one eats a fowl— leg, then wing, then breast… piece by piece.”

A rat darted through the straw. Water beat its slow, hollow rhythm upon stone. The flies hummed in assent.

“The Norlands will muster,” Joles said hoarsely. “They will meet thee at Longview or…”

“No,” said the envoy, his voice softening. “Your reiks will not answer. Not enough of them. You Norland men spend your days devouring one another when you should be forging unity. But thou knowest this well already.”

Joles fell silent.

“There are many others like me, here,” the envoy went on. “Spies, as you call us. We are scattered all throughout your lands. We are watching. Listening. Encouraging suspicion. Turning brother against brother, thegn upon thegn. Yet whether Longview sees a great battle matters little. Your host will be shattered within days, outnumbered thrice or fourfold. Your lines and battlements will fold like sandcastles beneath the tide.” He leaned forward just revealing his brow in the faint glow. “…And when thy army lies broken, Gruen will stand bare. Then we shall come here, to this very dungeon, and I shall walk free. I need only survive until then,” he said softly. “A year, perhaps less. By then, thou wilt be long dead. Though I pray for thee not slain by the saw.”

“Not so,” Joles snarled. “We shall fight as partisans. From the woods and hills and passes.”

“For a time,” the envoy allowed, “weeks, months at most. Then thy fields will lie untilled. And hunger will gnaw deeper than courage. The fear of a winter without stores will finish what war begins.”

“We will starve before we kneel!”

“No, you will not,” said the envoy gently. “You will kneel when you hear the sobs of your orphaned and hungry children. We have seen this play enacted many times, in many lands. A swift defeat is the kinder fate for thy children.”

“Our children shall never be Nundi slaves.”

“Yes, they will. But they shall live at least and eventually prosper. And in a generation, thy world shall be all dust, replaced with ours… forever. But thou shalt be remembered, Joles. I will see to it. For even though thy plot was foiled, thy deed served us well. Thy boy rex is now frightened, mistrustful, and searching every shadow. He is no leader of men.”

The envoy leaned further into the dim shaft of light, and Joles saw his face which bore the look of certainty. And the spy’s voice then fell to a dark whisper. “…And we have already chosen your rex’s successor.” A pause. “And he is one of thine own.”

Descent

The mist lay thick upon the narrow mountain path as they descended from the High Gate. It clung and soaked through cloak and tunic alike, beading upon beard and lash, until each man rode sodden and shivering. The horses huffed low in their chests, and their hooves beat the stony way with hollow, funereal rhythm. For three days Veorn urged them onward, ever downward, as though drawing them from the world of breath and sun into some unseen Tartarus of haze.

By night came the distant drums of war, low and slow, echoing as from the pulse of the earth itself; and each man dreamed of standing before the dragon. “I fear, sire,” whispered one at last, daring the words only in the thick blackness where no faces could be seen.

“What is it thou fearest?” Gedain answered.

“I fear dying here, my lord.”

Gedain did not pause to ponder. “Then fear thee not,” he said, “for we are already dead.”

By days, which were scarcely more than an illumination of haze, they marched until the dimming made it treacherous on the weathered trail. The further they descended, the thicker the mist and haze grew, dampening even their words and the beats of hooves. There were no sights or calls of bird nor stirring of beast, just five riders and Gedain and their horses, and the fleeting figure of Veorn,  resembling more an apparition than a guide of flesh, leading the way half-seen, half-imagined, in the grey mist ahead.

In the rare moments the veil was lifted, they found themselves threaded within a murky forest of black pines and coiling fern, their tangled trunks and branches wove themselves in and through like a snaring web of dread. And nary a path lay beneath their horse’s hooves, save for the faint, stoney way that found them and pulled them along, as if they were sliding along the scales of some mythic serpent exceeding their comprehension. Above, the sheer, jagged walls of black stone rose, towering upwards ominously on every side, as if Edä herself were slowly closing her jaws upon them.

“Is this our damnation, sire?” asked one.

Gedain gave no answer.

Again, the night’s ink filled with the beat of drums, nearer and louder than the last. And each man, exhausted beyond his ability to reason, resisted sleep both for fear of what lurked in the darkness, and for what terrors awaited them in their nightmares.

They rose again not knowing the hour, for the fog was so thick one had to near swim through it.

“Where is the river?” Gedain asked Veorn who was rustling unseen in the grey. “Doth not the road followeth its descent?”

“There is no river by this way,” Veorn answered. “Yet this is the road that leadeth unto whom thou seekest.”

“He leadeth us into a trap,” whispered a rider.

Gedain heard yet gave him no heed.

On and on they descended, and on the fifth or sixth day— they had lost count— the setting Sol kindled the haze that enveloped them, like the glowing coals of some vast pyre.

“There!” Veorn shouted, his figure just ahead but unseen. “Dost thou behold it?”

“I see naught but golden glow,” Gedain answered.

“Follow me!”

Veorn’s footfalls faded as the party pressed forward into the gilded haze. The path had nearly vanished beneath them, finally ending, and the mist fell away. Before them, a stone arch framing a corridor of shadows, choked with root and vine. Veorn was gone, neither heard nor seen.

“We go no further, my lord.”

Gedain cast a hardened glare but then softened.

“Abide with the horses, then. If I have not returned by tomorrow’s sunset, leave mine and return to Gruen by way of the High Gate.”

“Listen!” said one. “The drums return.”

“We are lost,” said another, “and may not find the way back.”

“Let your fears be your guide,” Gedain replied.

He dismounted, took the lantern fastened at his saddle and struck flame. And with it in one hand and his sword in the other, he approached the entrance. He hacked and swept away the verdure, then crossed the threshold and was swallowed by the darkness.

Guided by his lantern, Gedain crawled over fallen stones and roots, hearing the echoes of dripping water. Forward he crept, the grey light of the entrance receding behind, down an ancient hewn stair, roots strangling the steps, air guttering his light while humming like a long exhale through the narrow chamber.

A faint blue glow bloomed upon the cavern walls ahead. Then daylight appeared, and Gedain passed through to the other side, into a wild oasis.

Many silent, suspicious faces greeted him there, emerging from the brambles and shadows, men and women alike, clad in hides and furs, each with readied steel or bow. Gedain gazed upward. The skies had parted above with the clouds deepening in the hues of sunset flame. Above, all around, the dense black forest rose, and beyond that, spires of jagged stone thrust heavenward. Gedain felt then that he stood within the very lair of the dragon of his dreams.

He lowered his gaze. Ahead stood a man in a coarse Norland tunic. Gedain approached slowly, knowing his name, yet not his eyes that seemed to be those of another— a more ruthless, silent version… reborn.

Menek.

“What is this place?” Gedain asked.

“The source of truth,” Menek answered.

Gedain sheathed his sword and set down his lantern as the wild folk closed in around him.

“Art thou their leader?”

“No. They brought me hither a fortnight past,” Menek said. “Even as thou wast led.”

“Who then ruleth here?”

“He who is the king.”

Gedain searched the eyes of the wild folk gathered around him. They stared without emotion, as if looking straight through his flesh and bone and directly into his soul.

“Will this king receive me?” Gedain asked.

“Rest,” Menek answered. “He will come for thee soon.”

Vale

Gedain took his rest beside the warmth of a pyre ringed in stones, with its bright tongues of flame dancing up into the wheeling stars. Surrounded by wild folk, their suspicious glares never leaving, weariness nevertheless overtook him and he drifted off into sleep.

He found himself upon a vast and open field, beneath a heavy sky, where many thousands lay slain or mortally wounded, their twisted forms strewn and piled unto the horizons on either hand. It was a place unvisited by him, yet he somehow knew it lay within the steppes of Vellund. He stood alone, sword unsheathed and clotted with blood, horse fallen, lying near. The scent of smoke and filth arose with the sound of wind carrying the groans of the dying strewn upon the plain of pooling blood and mud.

Gedain panned his gaze in horror at the numbers beyond any reckoning. Yet despair did not take hold, but rather there was relief that the Archons[i] of The One had spared him, choosing that he still breathed life. As he turned to view the wasteland, a presence emerged from the smoke becoming a visage appearing before him, clad in a golden armor the likes of which he had never seen by forge of man. Tall and slender, its helm bore the likeness of a ram concealing its face. Above, the grim clouds parted, and a halo of Sol’s rays beamed through causing the golden plate to gleam so that Gedain shielded his eyes. Fearful, he fell to his knees. The glorious figure approached and reached forth with shimmering crown of diamond and set it upon Gedain’s brow.

He woke to darkness.

He found the pyre had burned down into glowing coals and the air was but cold shadow. He closed his eyes to fall back asleep but a voice interrupted the hush of deep night.

“You were dreaming,” it said.

Gedain saw the form of a man seated quietly in the shadows beside him. He drew himself up. “Aye, I was,” Gedain answered.

“Was thy dream of the dragon or of the archon?”

“It was of a golden sovereign. Yet it was more like a ghost or a spirit than flesh. It beamed like the fires of Sol at midday, blinding me.”

“Aye,” the voice affirmed from the shadows. “Bafomet hath come to thee in thy dreams. Thou hast been summoned.”

“Bafomet?” Gedain sneered. “Bafomet is but a legend. A myth to spur False Men by fear.”

The voice lowered. “Oh, I assure thee Bafomet is no myth. I can attest by mine own eyes; the golden archon is yet living flesh, indeed.”

Gedain scoffed. “Bafomet is long dead, many centuries.”

“Aye, yet thou knowest well that the Neandilim are long-lived. Bafomet was with your sage Kethu when they crossed from Vallis, and Kethu yet draws breath. Does he not?”

“He is frail,” Gedain said, uncertain if wake or dream still held him. “He may have passed already for all I know.”

“Kethu is not nurtured by the dragon’s spirit.”

“Who art thou?” Gedain asked.

The voice in the darkness laughed. “What profit is there in who I say I am?”

“Art thou chieftain of these folk?”

“These are thy folk, Gedain. Norlanders all. Tribesmen and bandits and nomads, most from beyond the River Lunde. Some come even from Moorwater Plain and the frozen skirts of Ankenlund. While Methundor’s lords gnaw over boundary stones, these gather here to bleed and fight, to slay the invader ere they come north.”

“If thou beest not their thegn, then who commandeth them?”

He nodded. “Aye, they follow my command, yet I am not their thegn.” He rose. “Come, follow me.”

He took up his torch and led Gedain away from the glow of the dying fire. They followed a rocky footpath into the woods, then upwards, the trail turning back on itself as it climbed a sheer wall of stone. For near an hour they laboured on, until the skies paled in the east with the coming dawn. At last, they reached a high precipice, and the view unfurled before them beneath the newborn light.

The guide was revealed to Gedain in the growing light. He wore no beard. His long locks were the deepest of mahogany red. His eyes were as dark as wet earth, yet about the pupil they were amber and blue, like Sol within a clear sky. His brow was heavy, yet youth clung to his face, though hardened by trials unspoken. When he spoke, his voice was stern, yet calm and measured, without any affectation.

“Seest thou those mountain spires,” he said, pointing, Sol glinting off the gold ring on his index finger, its red garnet glowing like a fanned ember. “There, those points of black stone?”

Gedain answered, “That must be Edam of Meru?”

“Aye, yet thou hast never seen it?”

“I have not.”

“All men know it by its grandeur at first sight,” he replied, quenching his torch in the dirt. “Look down toward the base, left, where the stream coils. Tell me, what seest thou?”

“I see stone ruins— high columns, arches, curls of smoke… an encampment,” Gedain answered. “And banners! The colors look Neandilim.”

“Aye. They are far off. Your sight is keen.”

“It is but a small host. Why have they come so few in number? It seems insufficient for an invasion.”

“That is no invasion host. That is an expedition. They guard the road from the High Gate, awaiting Norland’s host. The way is narrow. It takes but a few— a thousand men, perhaps— to stop ten thousand. Thus, we have come to foil their design, so that your host might pass through unhindered.” He paused. “Yet they are here for more than just an ambush. Bafomet is among them.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Go and see for yourself.” He grinned.

“Why would Bafomet come?”

“They wait for one man.”

“For whom?”

He answered, “One who would be made the Norland King.”

Gedain studied the distant camp. “They search for you, then?”

His voice darkened. “They search for the one who wills to be made. I have no will to be made by anyone.”

Gedain pondered. “They believe this man will ride down there, into their camp, and present himself? Do they expect a fool?”

“It is already known that he will come.”

“Perhaps this fool, riding down there, believing he would be crowned, would then find himself flayed on a rack.”

He smiled thinly. “I am hungry. Let us return to the vale.”

Below, the Norland men shared game and water with Gedain. His guide soon took his leave. Then Menek appeared at his side.

“I must inform you that I shall not return with thee to Gruen,” Menek said.

“Oh?” Gedain responded, hardly feigning surprise. “I see no means by which I might compel thee.”

“My duty is here, now. I have been made the marshal of these men.” Menek continued. “I swear I will not speak against thee for thy part in Cerenid’s undoing.” He went on. “Thou wouldst deny it, anyway, and none would heed my word, regardless.”

“Aye, I would deny it. And they would not heed thee,” Gedain affirmed.

When they had finished, Menek led Gedain back to the cavern mouth where he had entered the vale. “Return to thy riders before they abandon thee,” Menek said. “Tell the boy rex that Bafomet hath claimed me. Or tell him aught else, it matters not. Yet do assure him that the High Gate road shall be cleared for his host.”

“I will.”

“Farewell, Gedain.”

Gedain started off but turned. “Tell me, who is the man thou followest?”

Menek grinned, then his voice lowered. “That, my fool, is the Wolvenking. Eleom is his name, son of Cleon Rex and Amarah the Aeonite. And if thou wouldst speak truth, then carry this to Gruen, and to thy boy rex, and unto Kethu if he yet breathes, and to every trembling, fickle lord: If they would live— if they would shatter Bafomet’s host ere it bringeth ruin to their race— that they should come and bend the knee here to Eleom, the one true Norland King.”

Prophet

The spring morning broke bright and clear. The deep blue vault of heaven lay brushed with billowings of the purest white. The streams and rivers swelled with the melting mountain snows. Dandelions burned gold across the pastures, feeding the bees and hummingbirds. Everywhere the air was fresh and sweet, and the land shone green, as though the world itself had drawn a fresh breath.

Upon one such morn, a ragged man appeared, strolling through Gruen’s gate. The folk drew aside, uneased, for he was not clad in any peasant tunic nor craftsman’s coat, but a pelt of thick fur from some uncommon beast, rough and weathered by long years. In his hand he bore a polished staff, fashioned from a long white bone. His hide sandals were crudely fashioned, knotted and tied with sinew. His face was neither old nor young, his long beard and hair the color of damp bark. His eyes were dark, fiery yet not menacing. His hair and skin and face were clean and clear, and his flesh bore no ink of crime or oath.

He passed without haste into the heart of the city and seated himself beside the fountain to rest. And rumour leapt from tongue to tongue like fire in dry grass. Men and women gathered round, then children, then the old, till the plaza filled with bodies and whispers, all come to behold the strange sojourner with their own eyes.

“Who art thou?” voices cried.

He sat in calm, asking only, “Might one of ye share your water?”

A woman stepped forth and offered her costrel and he drank long and deeply. “I pray thou art not some wizard come to bind us with spells?” she said as he drank.

He inclined his head in thanks and returned the vessel. Then rose, and the murmur died away. “Who art thou?” they asked again.

The ragged man scanned their eyes, and each one he looked upon felt as though he peered directly into their souls, and they were discomforted. “Name thyself!”

Sol shone full. The birds gathered still upon the high eaves. A cool breath of air passed through the plaza. Utter silence took hold again as the stranger drew a breath before speaking. “I am called Azarius,” He said at last, “…and many other names besides.”

A thunder of voices rolled through the crowd. Some gestured. Some sneered. Some prayed. One cried out, “He is a southern spy!” Then another shouted, “Seize Him!”

Yet no hand dared to rise against Him.

“I have come a long road to speak with Kethu the Aeonite. Wouldst thou lead me to him?”

A young girl approached and again the crowd fell silent. “If thou beest Azarius,” she asked, “where art thine antlers? My father sayeth Azarius is a faun of the forest.”

Azarius bowed his head before her. “Thou canst see I have none. I am but a man, not unlike your father.”

She reached out and felt His head, then the fur of His garment. “What hide is this? It is strange.”

“It is cut from the hide of a mastodon.”

“Didst thou slay it?”

“No, little one. I found it long after it had passed. Though its remains were yet a banquet for many birds and wolves, and I had to wait my turn.”

She touched the staff. “And this?”

“I fashioned this from that same beast’s bone.”

“It is also strange.”

“Aye,” He answered softly. “Yet strange things often serve one well.”

Her father pulled her back. “Prove thou art the Immortal Prophet! Cast thyself from the wall and rise again!”

“I may not murder myself,” Azarius replied. “That is forbidden. Yet any among you who must see me rise with thine own eyes may step forth to slay me and then bear witness.”

But no man dared.

Then a warden pressed through the crowd. “Who dost thou claim to be?”

“I said I am Azarius. I have come to speak with Kethu.”

“Come with me,” he ordered. “Make way for us!”

He was led through the plaza and down the cobbled way to the sept, followed by craftsmen, wives, children, and others curious. Word ran ahead of them, and more gathered at their doors and street corners to glimpse the man in hides who named himself immortal.

At last, they arrived at the sept and entered through its tall oaken doors. Azarius was left to stand before the altar, until the high priestess came. “They tell me thou sayest thou art Azarius,” the priestess said. “How can we know this true?”

“Though my word should suffice,” He answered, “there is but one way to know for certain.”

“Resurrection.”

“Aye.”

“And what manner of death dost thou prefer?”

“One that is swift, for though I am immortal, I yet feel pain. And I would keep my body whole, that my remaking be not long delayed.”

“Poison, then?”

“So be it,” He answered. “Then place my body upon the earth so that The One’s life may renew.

No hemlock could be found and thus they chose drowning. They led Azarius to the courtyard where a large trough for watering horses had been filled.

“There,” said the priestess, “shall that basin serve?”

“Aye. It will suffice,” He answered, as if measuring a horse. “Yet two men must hold me under, for though my spirit is willing, my flesh will resist.”

Two wardens led Azarius to the basin where He removed His hide and stepped into the water to lay Himself beneath its surface. And with a nod of the priestess, the constables held Him under.

A minute passed. His body tensed. Then thrashed. The constables held His limbs while His body strained. His chest heaved and legs kicked, splashing and spilling. Finally, the struggling ceased and the water stilled. They held Him longer, yet He stirred not. Though His eyes were open, His face appeared at peace, and no hint of terror gleamed in His lifeless eyes.

They pulled Him out and carried the body to the sept where it was dried and laid in a corner of the stone floor with His staff and hide cloak. A sentry was posted, and the body was guarded for three days. But no breath of life returned. “It is a fraud,” deemed the priestess at last. “A vagrant seeking a famed death.”

The clouds gathered that morning, and the body was taken from the sept and carted in a small wagon beneath the gloom and drizzle. None gathered for the procession, save for the little girl, for the spectacle was deemed a hoax. Yet her face filled with sadness as the laborers pulled the small wagon through the gate, headed for the burial-field.

The body was laid in a shallow pit. His hands were crossed upon His chest. His bone staff laid at His side. A copper coin was placed over each eye. The drizzle thickened. Distant thunder rumbled. Prayers were muttered by the gravediggers.

Yet just as the laborers were set to pile the dirt and stones, they noticed a stirring in the mud. Then all manner of crawling and slithering of small creatures and roots emerged in the hole. They stared in wonder as the worms and tendrils enveloped and encased the body.

One dropped his shovel and fled to the gate. “Come! Follow me!” he shouted as he neared the wall. “Something is happening. Come!”

Upon hearing this, the reeve and several peasants hastened for the grave. The drizzle had ceased, and the clouds had parted with Sol’s rays shining down on the barrows. There, two laborers stood with mouths agape and eyes filled with astonishment. At their feet, a living hand emerged from the pit. And then the other. Terror and wonder seized them all as the Immortal, masked in mud and worms and roots, pulled himself out of the pit and stood before them. He gave one copper coin to each laborer who had placed His body in the hole. Then he spoke, “Does anyone have any water? I thirst.”

Deliverance

“Dost mine eyes behold the revenant?” Cerenid asked, gazing down at Azarius from the dais.

The Immortal had been bathed and vested in simple crimson robes. The light through the high glass beamed down upon Him, alighting His visage. Cerenid’s crown slipped askew on his brow as he leaned forward to examine the prophet. He set it straight on his head.

“Aye, my lord,” Azarius answered. “I have been called revenant before.”

“Hast thou come to save us?”

“Nay,” Azarius answered, shaking his head. “I cannot save men from themselves. I come only as a beacon of hope, to be seen… not to compel; to offer my counsel if it be sought or if it be needed.”

“And what would be thy counsel?”

Azarius turned then to those gathered in the hall— reik and wardens, priests and captains— and his gaze seemed to linger upon each in turn, as though weighing the hidden burden each carried. Some met his eyes, hungry for reassurance. Others looked away, fearing the weight of what they thought he knew.

Turning back to Cerenid He answered, “My counsel would be this: that the rex muster the Norland host. For the Beast is vulnerable this day, yet by winter’s coming it shall be unassailable, for the High Gate will be barred by snow.”

The high priestess stepped forward, her voice measured but trembling. “The revenant hath been foretold. The hour appointed is now upon us.”

Cerenid continued. “Thou say thou comest as a beacon of hope, yet thy counsel is war. Tell me, what hope is there in marching south and leaving our walls and roads undefended?”

The Immortal’s gaze hardened. “To march means defeat is not certain; that hope would endure. A rex who seeketh only peace shall inherit only ashes. Hark! Thou shalt not be judged by whether thou lovest war or lovest peace, but by whether thou fleest the duty laid before thee.” Then His eyes softened. “…But that is not the only hope of which I wish to speak, my lord.”

“Of what other hope speakest thou?”

“I speak not to the flesh of men, but to their spirit,” said Azarius, his voice carrying to the highest arches and returning in solemn echo. “All who have ears, let them hear: This life is but a breath drawn and released. A heartbeat, and then it is done.” He paused again to draw the ear of those assembled. “Therefore, despair not at life’s trials or even its ending; for whether thy end be given by sword, or illness, or by long withering, thy spirit abideth still eternal. Some would say, ‘she lived long, many years’, and of others, ‘he died so young, a life cut short’. Yet a long life or a short life is but the measure of the flesh. To thy spirit, which is forever, no life is measured longer or shorter… for they are all brief. So, fear thee not that which must come for all, for it cometh to all alike— king and serf, priest and bandit. And when thy brief span is spent, thou shalt pass onward, where thy honor shall be weighed and thy reward made known in the life that followeth. Of the eternity of the spirit, I am all the proof thy mortal eyes demand.

“My rex, thy reiks behold this looming strife as a foul curse, a peril to be evaded, a fate to be bargained with. Aye, all good reiks will measure the cost in lives and in the grief o’er loved ones lost. Yet I sayeth unto all who will hear, that that which is eternal cannot be slain by blade or stone. That wounds are indeed the peril of the flesh, yet the flesh is here today and gone tomorrow, nevertheless. Yet as there be wounds that imperil the flesh, so too be there wounds that imperil the soul. To flee from the honour of duty becometh wounds of the soul that fester.

“Thou seest the pure petals of the lovely gillyflower, growing wild on the hill in uncounted numbers. And yet, when one picketh one ere morning, it wilteth by dusk. Such is the nature of mortal life. And though thou might find gillyflowers loveliest of all florae, wouldst thou trade even the dullest pearl for the fairest gillyflower once plucked?

“To all the reiks who fear the call to arms I say: take heed that thou callest not fear by the name of mercy. Though a blade might spill thy blood, a flight from honour wounds thy soul. Fear not defeat in battle, for victory is not thy charge. Thy charge is honour. Regard not this coming peril as a curse, but as a gift— the gift of duty, by which a soul is proven.”

A long silence settled upon the hall, thick as fog. Cerenid shifted upon his seat, the crown weighing upon his brow as he pondered. Then his countenance seemed to brighten, as if his soul had released a great burden. At length, the rex gave voice to his new resolve. “Bring Kethu. And send forth the wardens to summon the council of reiks.”

Azarius inclined his head. “When the reiks and thegns are assembled, my lord, I would address them— if thou wilt permit it.”

Cerenid nodded and Azarius was led to the gardens and bid to wait. There, he listened to the fountain murmurs and breathed the sweetness of the spring flowers newly come into bloom. He waited, almost reposed, bathed in the warm Sol light filtered through the budding leaves. After an hour, two men at last appeared bearing Kethu in a chair. They set him down beside Azarius next to the fountain. Kethu sat slumped, his body nearly wasted. His hair was gone save for wisps of white; his beard patchy and thin. His hands were bent and twisted like the roots of ancient trees, and his skin clung spotted and thin.

“Kethu, canst thou hear me?” Azarius asked.

“Yes,” came the answer, a groan more than a word.

“Knowest thou who I am?”

Kethu stirred faintly.

“It is I, Azarius.”

Kethu strained and pulled his head up. When at last his cloudy eyes opened, they gleamed with recognition, welling as he spoke. “Thou hast returned.”

“As I promised.”

Kethu let out a slow breath. “I am ready, then.”

“I know thou art, my friend.”

Kethu’s brow trembled. “I yet grieve,” he said. “All these centuries… I grieve still.”

“Tomorrow thou shalt grieve no more.”

“I have never ceased despair for Vesther since her passing. And for Arcian, whom I failed as father.”

“Despair not,” said Azarius. “Thou servedst them better than any man could. And thou shalt meet thy beloved again in the next life. By thy honour and theirs, thy new life shall be lived in an age unstained by the suffering endured in this one.”

“My son,” Kethu said, his voice breaking. “He bore the weight of my sin.”

“Thou didst not fail him,” Azarius answered. “And thou shalt yet be his father, and he shall be thy son once again. Thou shalt see him grow to manhood beneath gentler skies.”

Kethu wept in the broken, straining way of old men. “But I betrayed my king,” Kethu lamented, “my brother. For that dishonour, I cannot be redeemed.”

“Thine alms have been given, my friend. Thy debt hath been repaid. Thy spirit stands redeemed before The One.”

“Forgive me,” Kethu cried. “Forgive me, Aeon.”

“Your king and brother forgave thee long ago,” Azarius replied. “And thou shalt meet him again in a city of crystal and silver, where the red Sol riseth over quiet seas. Together, ye shall watch the alloy ships glide in graceful peace. And thou shalt know that Aeon hath forgiven thee.”

Kethu breathed shakily. “Will there be pain… when I pass?”

“No,” said Azarius. “Thou shalt sleep, and dream of a great thirst. And with many others, both friend and foe in life, though no more strife come between ye, thou shalt come upon the River Thol and thy thirst shall be quenched.” Azarius then turned his gaze upon the garden. “Doth this splendid place not call Vallis to mind?”

“Aye,” Kethu smiled. “Yet only as a candle calls a great pyre to memory.” He closed his eyes. “I can see Mount Meru, now, in the distance, and the wyvern circling above in the golden sky.”

“What else, my friend?”

“I see Mosul leading a great legion of men, and my father, too. He beckons me. I am just a boy, again.” Kethu’s eyes glazed in memory. “The slow turning Sol moving west to east.”

“Aye,” Azarius affirmed. “A day there like unto a year here.”

“Oh, and the trees. The mighty trees. As tall as mountains on Edä.”

“Their majesty far beyond the grasp of Norland sons.”

At this, Kethu’s countenance dimmed, and his frail voice sank low. “And the dragon. And the Nephilim. No Norland man would credit such things, though I swore them true.”

Azarius darkened. “Soon shall they behold them with their own eyes, my friend.”

“Tell me,” Kethu asked at last, “is Vallis lost forever?”

“No,” Azarius replied. “For it is writ: all that is ruined shall be remade.”

Thus, they sat together in the garden until Sol had fully set, and the saffron twilight yielded to night. Thereafter, two men bore Kethu unto his chamber and laid him alone upon his bed, leaving beside him a single candle, which burned low, guttered, and at last was quenched in the deep hush of night.

Further

Gedain emerged from the cavern into a thickened morning mist. He called out to his riders, and they soon stumbled forth from the fog one by one. “You live!” said one, relieved. “What didst thou find, my lord?”

“Nothing,” Gedain answered, yet his gaze shifted from their eyes as he spoke. Perceiving their doubt he added, “I lost my way in the darkness, and found it again by morning’s light.”

The riders exchanged glances, looking unconvinced, yet none pressed him further. “What shall we do?” asked another. “The mist confounds our bearing.”

“Where is the faun?” Gedain demanded.

“We have not seen him since last night. He hath abandoned us.”

“Nay,” Gedain snapped. “He is near. He watches just beyond, veil.” He lifted his voice into the drizzle and haze. “Come forth, faun. Guide us!”

For a breath there was naught but mist. Then a darker shape stirred within it: first the pale curve of horns like unto a ram’s, then the full outline of the creature, seeming to congeal from vapor as a specter drawn into flesh.

“Ahh, there he is,” Gedain remarked. “Lead us.”

“Unto where, my lord?” Veorn answered. “Unto what?”

The men looked to Gedain with hopefulness that he would seek to turn back. “Thou knowest that which I seek.”

The eyes of the riders fell as Veorn’s mouth curled into a sinister grin. “Aye, then. Follow me.”

They mounted and rode single file, descending with the narrow trail. Veorn ever before them, went far enough ahead that his form wavered upon the brink of vanishing into the haze. They rode thus through the day, and the mist did not lift. Then, as the light began to wane, they again heard the distant drums. “Where dost thou lead us, my lord,” a rider ventured, but Gedain gave no answer.

Ever downward they pressed, the drumbeats growing louder as the skies darkened. “Shall we turn back now, my lord,” another asked, fear cracking his voice.

Gedain reined his horse, and again, hopefulness stirred in the rider’s hearts. Yet he did not answer but instead he took hold the hilt and drew his sword a hands breadth from the scabbard, fixing his glare upon the last rider to voice his cowardice.

Veorn returned to them, as Gedain made his threat, and took the lantern from his saddle and struck it alight. Without a word, he turned and advanced ahead into the darkening fog.

None of the riders dared to speak again. They rode into a night without Luna or starlight to guide them, led only by dull lantern glow on the dark trail ahead. The drums pounded, no longer distant but thumping within the chest, as though their own hearts beat in answer. They rode on to the grim rhythm, with only the hoofbeats and panting of their horses to accompany the rudiment of oblivion.

Veorn’s faint light then disappeared entirely. Rustling filled the darkness. Then strange whispers in unknown tongues. Gedain halted the troop to listen. Unseen footfalls crossed the path behind. Their steel rasped free of leather as they drew their swords…

One rider cried out and fell from his mount. The other horses reared and screamed. Gedain’s eyes, blinded by dark, caught a glimpse of a figure sweeping past the lantern glow— there but for a moment, then gone. He lunged, his blade biting naught but shadow.

Footfalls rustled to their sides. Another rider fell, groaning once, then silent. “Where are ye?” Gedain shouted in futility.

The drums thundered, vast and merciless. A rider wheeled to flee uphill, yet he was unhorsed a moment later, falling silent, lifeless. “Stand! Fight with honor!” Gedain roared.

A shape rushed past him, He struck and missed, his face left burning, hot with blood. His eye blinded. “Veorn!” he called. “Where have ye led us?” No reply came. He spurred his horse forward through the chaos, down the path, hurling blind through the night. For perhaps a furlong he rode, galloping, heedless of stone or root. He slowed. The sound of drums had stilled and the night was as silent as a tomb. He felt his face. The right cheek badly gashed and oozing. His right eye seeing naught, unbearable to open it.

He dismounted and slipped into the ferns and bramble, crouching low, holding his face, willing his breath to stillness lest it reveal him. Shivers seized him with the damp cold gnawing to his bone. He pressed a corner of his cape into his wound. He waited long, daring not to stir or flinch, counting neither moments nor hours until at last the darkness thinned and the sky paled in the east.

With dawn came the lifting of the fog. As the daylight took hold, Gedain found himself in a tangle of saplings and moss and pine needles. He waited still, listening, holding the cape to his face. Nothing. When he deemed the light strengthened enough, he rose partway to claim his horse which was yet standing on the trail. But he heard hoofbeats and so sank back into the blind, sword bare in his right hand, left hand still pressing his maimed face and blinded eye. His view obscured, he saw only hooves halting upon the trail, then boots on the path.

“My lord,” whispered a voice. “Art thou in there?”

Gedain crawled out of the bramble.

“Where be the others?” he asked, sheathing his sword while holding his wound.

“All slain,” the young rider answered, voice hollow. “They lie back upon the path. I fled when I could.” He looked at Gedain with horror in his eyes as Gedain pulled his hand from his cheek. “Thine eye, sir…” Paying no heed, Gedain swung himself into his saddle. “Do we ride back then, sire?” the young rider asked.

Gedain paused to study the rider’s youthful face: the wide eyes— too wide for battle— the narrow shoulders, the beard no more than tawny fleece upon his chin. “I have forgotten thy name,” Gedain said.

“It is Elden, sire. Elden of—”

“Ride home to your mother, Elden,” Gedain cut in. “This is no road for boys.”

Elden swallowed. “I would rather ride with thee, sire.”

Gedain turned his horse toward the descent. “So be it.” Gedain looked ahead, down the trail where Veorn had appeared, then beckoning. Gedain inhaled a deep breath. “Canst thou smell the rot, boy? The end of the road is nigh at hand.”

Terminus

Further, deeper the faun led them. The forest road levelled. The great pines bent their branches over the path like twisted arches of a fallen nave, until the daylight was but shafts of light breaking through a lattice of bough and needle. For hours, none spoke a word, and even the horses tread softly. Finally, Veorn bid them to halt. “I may lead thee no further.”

Before them, they found the full light of day, as if their path lead unto the opening of a dark cavern tunnel. Gedain turned to look once more for the faun, but Veorn had vanished as if mist before Sol. With no word exchanged, Gedain set his heels and rode forward, and Elden followed.

The road emerged onto  a broad field of wildflowers and poppies, climbing a swell ahead. Upon the hill’s crown, stood the silhouette of a warrior. “Raise thy hands,” Gedain called to Elden. Elden complied.

They approached with trepidation, their pace measured and slow. As they neared, the silhouette resolved before their eyes: a sentry, armed with a curved blade such as Gedain recalled only from the old Aeonite frescoes and descriptions of Vallis wars whispered on rainy nights by his grandfather when he was a boy.

Sol shown bright above, yet the air was cool, the breeze faint. Beyond the sentry, a mystery lurked still. The air carried the scent of the poppies and also a deeply foul rot. The sentry drew his blade as they neared. Beyond him, the hill rose further, and there, flanking the road hung the figures of men dead for days, stripped and suspended, grey, bloated forms, bound to wooden frames on either side of the road.

Gedain and Elden reined before the guard. His mail and breastplate bore a dull golden sheen. His cape as black as moonless night. His helm was wrought in the likeness of a dragon, melded to the form of its wearer’s human skull. He spoke no word but bid them onward. They rode into the gauntlet of the dead, brushing close, eyes and oozing wounds pecked away at by the black corvids that croaked and flapped as they rode by.

They climbed the road through the gauntlet towards the crest. Closing upon it, what lay beyond yet obscured, they reined their nervous steeds to a slow, careful tread. Past the hanging dead, their odorous reek clinging to their every breath. Farther. Further. The wildflowers everywhere bursting with colors: pearl and rose. Gold and crimson. Azure and flame. Sol shining bright above, scalding their eyes.

Then the beyond at last revealed itself: the tops of broken columns of towering stone, the remains of flying buttress and grand arch, too elegant, too lofty, too noble to be crafted by the minds and chisels and hammers of any Norland men. They halted at the crest. Below them spread a deep vale, and within it the ruin was laid bare in full: once a mighty temple, now overgrown with softwoods and brambles, encircled by ordered ranks of tents— near on a thousand by best guess.

“The Neandilim host, my lord!” Elden whispered.

“A millenary, perhaps,” Gedain answered. He spurred down the slope, right hand raised, Elden following. At the base they were encircled by a score of warriors in brass and black capes, speaking in strange southern tongue. They closed in upon them and unhorsed them and removed their weapons. Elden was set apart and held.

Gedain was taken onward, the pathway leading through the ruin’s foundations, past grand faces carved in stone, overgrown with crawler vines and roots, past inscriptions etched in archaic and exotic sigils. He gazed up. The columns soared into the heavens, joined by delicate arches near a hundred cubits above.

Through a living trellis of thorn and leaf, he was led at last into a small court enclosed by walls of flowering bramble. A stone fountain murmured at its heart, Sol’s rays shimmering off the pool. Beside it sat a slight figure clad in plain black robes, facing away. It held a type of lute with a long, fretted neck. The fingers struck the strings and dizzying tones filled Gedain’s ear. He could not discern if the figure was a man or a woman. The playing ceased and the figure turned, the face concealed by a plain, golden mask. Their glance met. The sentries forced Gedain down onto his knees. The figure remained still, examining Gedain as he lowered his gaze.

“Thine eye,” it said. “It appeareth lost.”

Gedain felt it with his fingertips. It had become badly swollen and crusted with scabs of dried blood.

“I do not know for certain… perhaps.”

“Hast thou come to be made?” asked the figure, its smooth, almost gentle voice disarming him.

“Made, my lord?” Gedain asked, raising his swollen, blackened face.

The figure turned a peg on the long neck of the lute. “Thy wound,” it said, “It was not my intent that thou be injured. The one who erred hath been punished.”

Gedain nodded.

“There were two paths set before thee,” it continued softly, “and thou hast chosen.”

“Would any man have chosen the other?” Gedain asked.

“The choice was not given to any man.” The figure plucked the drone strings and the tone seemed to give voice to the sunlight rippling on the pool. “What didst thou expect to find here?”

Gedain pondered, finding no answer.

“Let me ask thee: dost thou believe in good and evil, Gedain?”

Beyond the fountain, he noticed something dark, scaled, slithering in the shadow… or perhaps it was just a trick of the light and air.

“I…” he paused for a moment. “I suppose one man’s good is another man’s evil,” he answered. “How dost thou know my name?”

“Thou must knowest this: that all men are savages by their nature.”

Gedain’s gaze lowered as though he was examining himself.

“You agree, then, that a man’s tribe is righteous unto him alone, and that his survival demandeth he must be ready to name all other tribes unrighteous?”

Gedain gave no reply. The fountain rippled. His face throbbed with pain. The figure tilted his gaze upwards.

“Dost thou know who built this temple?”

Gedain thought, eyes still lowered. “The Gargan, I presume.”

“Why dost thou presume that?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because men lack such craft.”

“Men name them Gargan as children name the ghosts that haunt them. Did Gargan build these or was that a myth told by modern men who gazed upon these magnificent things and sought to soothe the shame of their own crudeness.” It turned as it viewed the high arches above. “No, it was not mythic hands, it was the Thalan[ii]. Wast thou taught of the Thalan… Gedain?”

“Little, my lord.”

“They were a noble caste of Edä’s men. Yet their flock was culled and scattered by the Great Purgation.”

Gedain’s eye was drawn to the undulating shadows as he listened.

“Thou hast no Thalan in thy blood by the fair look of you.”

He recalled the legends.

“Thou art Hedam through and through. Brutes, yet they were the survivors. Nomads. Scavengers. All the Thalan knowledge was lost to men, turned to dust by wind and ice.” It strummed the lute and the fountain shimmered in response. “Dost thou know why I come for the Norlands?”

Gedain’s gaze rose, returning to the golden mask. “Art thou Bafomet?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“We are unwelcomed in this realm.”

“Ye shall never be welcomed by the Edäm,” Gedain said.

“We agree. Therefore, we must always contend for survival, lest we permit ourselves to be exterminated… like the Thalan.”

“What dost thou want with the Norlands,” Gedain demanded. “There is nothing there but forest and flocks. The men are dumb-witted.”

Bafomet’s voice lowered. “We cannot leave you be. There is no stillness among tribes of men. All art either flourishing or decaying. Edä’s men come for us, today, or tomorrow, yet come they will… if we grant thee peace. My tribe is an ancient one. We learned on Vallis that conquest was a matter of survival. To yield… to halt meant to surrender unto death.”

“This is not Vallis.”

“But it is, my prince.” Bafomet replied. “It is Vallis for us.” Bafomet gestured upwards again, unto the towering columns and arches. “Behold these works. These are the expression of exalted man. Such as these shall rise again… through me.”

Bafomet plucked several bars on the lute. Gedain sat listening. At length he drew breath to speak, but Bafomet forestalled him.

“The Norlands hold much of worth— gold, iron, pasture, fertile women. Yet thy lives and wealth are squandered. What is thy art beyond coarse tapestries and whirling dancers? What is thy craft beyond crude walls and hovels? What be the pinnacle of thy music beyond the crank-fiddle dirge? And yet, mark how far thy kin have come since the Aeonites bestowed their knowledge. Now imagine how much farther we might carry thy kind.”

“Why am I here?” Gedain asked. “To serve as thy messenger? To return and bid the Norland reiks and thegns to surrender to your benevolent design?”

“Nay,” said Bafomet calmly. “Thy kind would never bow to any Neandilim governor… not without a ruinous toll of gold and blood.”

“What am I to thee, then?”

“Thou wast chosen. We watched and weighed you many moons, years even. Thou art ruthless, yet vain; pragmatic, yet driven. In thee, charisma is wedded unto ambition. Thou art fit to be made.”

“To be made into what?”

The lute sounded once more. The pool burned with reflected Sol. The shadows stirred and slithered. “To be made the Norland King.”

“We have a rex,” Gedain replied, though reluctance edged his voice. “What dost thou gain by crowning me?”

“Thy rex is weak. He lacketh ambition. He cannot deliver. He cannot unite. Only thou canst deliver your tribe from ruin and set them onto a higher path.”

Gedain tried to remain void of expression, but his unruined eye betrayed him by widening. “How, then?”

“Deliver Cerenid and the other reiks unto me and thy sovereign path shall be cleared.”

Bafomet turned away toward the fountain to pluck fresh notes on the lute while the sentries raised Gedain to his feet. As he was lifted, he saw it within his mind— the crown upon his brow, the host kneeling, the wild men chanting his name— and the thought took hold of him like fever. And the voice in his mind said, If I must kneel today to raise us later, then so be it. And when I drive them out, I will be forever renowned as the one who saved the Norlands. Then he asked aloud,“What of the boy who rode with me? Shall he return with me?”

Bafomet answered without turning. “It is not needful that I decide.”

Gedain said nothing more, weighing the boy’s fate as he was led away.

---

[i] Archons of The One are the intermediary gods, inhabiting the physical realm, and the forces of nature, and as voices within the minds of men.

[ii] The Thalan are the fourth named tribe from ‘Dawn of Edä’.   “The Builders of Stone, who cleaved the mountains and laid the foundations of cities.”

Contents

Contents

III. Cerenid

Procession

The host of Gruen plodded southward in a long, mournful procession that stretched near a mile on the old Fywater road. To their left brooded the murky forest, her shadows alive with bird calls and the faint rustling of creatures meek and monstrous. To their right flowed the Fywater, no longer wide and shallow, coursing gently in the open sward of Briganta, but a stony, swirling torrent, an ever-narrowing fermentation tumbling from the highlands. Veiled by the towering wall of evergreens, the foothills unfolded, climbing southwards into the great white peaks beyond. Near the head of the column creaked the wagon bearing the remains of Ceryd Rex, tightly bound in canvas and wrapped in the banner of Gruen. Cerenid rode behind, silent and grim, while those who rode beside him spoke in hushed laments of “Such a brief reign” and “What a fine rex he would have made.”

Upon the third eve of their slow march, they came upon the village of Wargsdale, which was an arrangement of humble huts and a wood longhouse that served alike as great hall and temple. Within the longhouse they placed the remains of Ceryd and pitched their tents upon the green to take their rest for the evening. Ceryd’s remains were ever guarded, and his face was uncovered so that villagers were permitted to gather to look upon it and mourn as custom bade. Ceryd, once radiant with youthful command, had become pale and blue about the lips and hollow at the eyes. The villagers filed past to view him with bowed heads, murmuring prayers and fragments of old chants.

O One whose spirit fills each soul,
Guide the dead to River Thol.
Before they drink to cleanse their past…
…Their die of fate be fairly cast.

Cerenid took no meal, nor did he remain long in vigil of his beloved brother. With naught but a nod to his guard, he retired early to the solitude of his tent. But deep in the night he was awoken by the clamor of shouting and the pounding of frantic footfalls. Bursting into the chill air, he beheld flames flickering through the windows of the long house and smoke wisping through its thatch roof against the backdrop of the fire glow. His first thought was of his brother, who lay in state within, and townsfolk attempting to brave the flames to retrieve his remains. Villagers swarmed about, rushing to and from the well with sloshing buckets, crying out in despair and dread lest their hall be consumed. Cerenid remained at the threshold of his tent, transfixed by the roar and whirl of flame, the glow upon the sweating faces, the heat that rolled across the village green like a boiling wave.

As his gaze followed the figures darting to the well, their path caused him to notice his guard was not at his post and had joined in the desperate commotion. A heartbeat later, he spotted Una emerging from the flames’ glow, approaching, treading with haste, two Blodwins of arms on either side, their flowing cloaks scorched by flame, both drawing their blades. Fearing their purpose, he stepped back by instinct. But just as he did, a hand clamped hard upon his neck. A dark figure loomed at his flank with a blade already poised to plunge between his ribs.

“Put down your dagger, fool!” Una shouted, her crisp pitch cutting through the din of chaos.

Startled by her command, the assassin twisted to flee, but instead, his face met the weight of a hammer blow, crushing his nose and knocking him to the dirt, blinded and gasping. The Blodwin guards pounced, beating him soundly with mailed fists and booted heels until he lay bloodied and groaning. “Stand him up,” Una commanded. The assassin was hauled upright between them, swaying like a broken reed. Cerenid watched, frozen by confusion as Una peered into the assassin’s broken face, searching through her memory. Frowning, she took his hand and examined his ring. “I know thee,” she observed. “Thou art Kaldwin Fy, seventh son of Reik Korbin.” Her voice twisted into scorn. “Are there so few men of talent left in Fywold that your father must hazard his own brood upon murder?”

Kaldwin answered not, feigning the stupor of a man half-senseless, though his eyes flickered with panicked wit. From behind came pounding hoofbeats. Three riders approached, each clad in the deep blue capes in the custom of House Fy.  “Unhand him,” barked the foremost. “Deliver unto us the rex, and ye shall live.”

Una laughed with mocking disdain. “Ye shall let me live? Know ye not who I am?”

“We heed no wenches nor weavers,” the rider spat. “Stand aside, woman.”

“Una’s voice dropped to a cool, deadly calm. “Take heed of thy tongue, inbreeder. I am Una, daughter of Mendo, Reik of Dregrove.”

The riders stiffened, though their weapons did not lower. “It matters not,” another snarled. “We came for Cleon’s son, not for thee.” Then another rider spoke, “You should rejoice in our finishing the job your brother started. Hand him over or be cut down.”

Una stepped forward, eyes as ruthless as a dragon’s, reflecting the dancing flames. “Perhaps thou wilt cut me down ere thy blade find the rex. But hear this: should aught befall either of us, House Fy shall have enemies on two borders.”

She gestured to the groaning Kaldwin. “If this witless whelp is the best thy house can muster, I would not wager a single copper that ye last beyond the coming winter. My brother Madrot, hardened like steel by lies, is soon to be the reik to your west. If I fail to return, he shall know the hand that felled me. And my sister, left without a son or heir, would become reikia to your east. Together, they will come down upon Fywold, cut down your house root and branch, fire your town, and salt your fields so nothing living returns.”

A silence followed, broken only by the roar of flames and the cries of villagers dousing the longhouse roof which had caught fire. The riders remained in their saddles, staring, silent. “Choose thy fate!” Una demanded, drawing her knife.

The Fy riders conferred in harsh whispers, their faces like muddy wights in the glow. At last, the leader jerked his chin. “Kaldwin, come!”

The wounded assassin, nose flattened and bent askew and bleeding, stumbled forward. A rider hauled him up behind his saddle. And with a final glare of thwarted malice, they wheeled their mounts and vanished into the night.

Una sheathed her blade with a weary exhale. “Nephew,” she said softly, “thou must take greater care. The shadow of thy father’s deeds follows thee still. And it is yet many leagues to Gruen.”

Return

From her window overlooking the gate, Regent Fia beheld their coming upon the road. She searched for Ceryd among the host, his flaxen hair, his flowing cape, his stern expression, riding high and noble on his mount. Finding him not, she turned and hastened down, clinging to the vain hope that her firstborn was merely delayed.

The old hardwood gates of Gruen creaked open, and the procession from Briganta, by way of Wargsdale, passed through in solemn tread, led by a great black draft horse pulling a wagon. Behind it rode Una and Cerenid, side by side, wan and weary from the long road, their countenances carved in ash and grief. They stopped within Gruen’s walls.

When Fia came upon them, one glance upon their faces dashed hope to ruin. Stepping to the wagon, unsteadied by shock, she climbed onto it with the aid of a footman. With a trembling hand she pulled back the banner covering a pine box.

“Open it!” she commanded.

The footman bowed. “My lady, I must warn—”

“I said open it!”

Neither Cerenid nor Una intervened, their faces relinquished to the storm of a mother’s grief.

With a groan of nails and crack of splinters, the footman pried the lid loose and slid it aside. Fia stood firm, looking down upon the remains of her beloved son, seeing only a pile of blackened bones and a skull, finding her champion humbled in fleshless expression. She gasped, then wept in a full flood. Her beautiful child, the wellspring of her pride, the product of her youth, the only goodness to spring from her union with Cleon— the heart of Gruen’s future no longer beat. All hope was extinguished. Though his nature was closer to that of his father’s, in his living face she saw her own. She loved him most between her sons, for only his strength and decisiveness could calm her worry. Now, before her eyes, his noble visage was reduced to a silent shriek of eternal desperation.

Fia descended from the wagon, her limbs unsure and weak. Una dismounted to help her, and there upon the cobbles they embraced with long faces, grief entwined as kin and fate.

The remains of Ceryd Rex were carefully set into a proper coffin and placed on the altar of the temple, remaining there for seven days. Candles burned at every hour and chants echoed through the vaulted hall. On the seventh day he was carried by six sworn men into the catacombs beneath the keep, and there, interred beside the reiks of old.

The golden crown of Methundor Rex was placed by the High Priestess upon Cerenid’s head, although it did rest upon his brow askew. And those who attended the crowning whispered: “May The One breathe fire into the pale brother.”

In the moments before his first counsel, Kethu, feeble and withered, was helped to Cerenid’s side at the long table by a servant, and the two sat alone in the antechamber, silent for some time. Then Sol moved through the sky, its rays, at last shone through the window, falling upon and brightening the old Aeonite’s countenance.

Seizing this, Cerenid asked, his voice low and uncertain, “what wouldst thou advise me, steward?”

Kethu pondered long, hands trembling with great age. At last, in a voice as thin and brittle as parchment he whispered, “Always beware the first who cometh making demands rather than offerings. For he hath loyalty neither to thee nor unto Gruen, but only unto himself.”

Soon after, the doors of the chamber swung wide and entered the Master of Coin. Then Captain Menek and Gedain, and after them, Olian with some lesser thegns and reeves. Fia came last, saying no word, acknowledging no man, taking her seat along the wall in cold silence. Absent was Una, her presence forbidden for her allegiance and standing in Dregrove, though Cerenid was not consulted on whether she should be allowed.

Olian took the seat opposing Cerenid, his back to Fia. Menek and Gedain sat on opposite sides of the rex. Throughout the council, Gedain spoke little, sitting with hands folded, eyes never straying far from Cerenid’s face. He watched him as a hawk might watch a rabbit. Once, when Cerenid faltered in speech, Gedain’s eyes glinted, though whether in contempt or calculation none who saw could say.

The matters of state were debated for hours, yet to Cerenid, each word sounded distant, as hollow as some foreign language uttered by haggling merchants. The treachery of the Fys was finally addressed.

“The Fys have never been loyal,” offered the reeve. “I say we finish what your father started, my lord.”

Cerenid nodded without raising his weary eyes, as if it was a mere reflex.

“We have numbers, my lord,” Gedain suggested. “I would gladly lead the host.”

Olian turned to Cerenid, watching for his agreement. The room fell silent waiting for the rex to speak, but no words came to him.

Kethu coughed as he sputtered back to presence. “The rex is tired. Let him rest. We’ll take up this matter tomorrow.”

The council was adjourned. Fia departed first, yet silent, still stricken. The others followed, all save Olian, who lingered until only he and Kethu, fading in his chair, remained with the young rex. Olian stepped close, lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “My lord, we must act ere Mendo passes and Madrot becomes reik. Grant me a dozen riders and we shall fall upon him in Dregrove and finish what justice hath not.”

Cerenid frowned, eyes yet lowered.

“My lord?” Olian pressed.

Finally, Cerenid spoke. “Was justice not already rendered?” Would you have my brother’s death be for nought?”

“Nay, my lord.” Olian’s face flushed deep with vehemence. “That was no justice, but rather a Blodwin contrivance that slew your brother.” His voice raised. “I seek vengeance upon them… for your brother… and to restore the honour of Gruen.” His fist struck the table, making the cups rattle, stirring Kethu awake.

“I will ponder it,” Cerenid answered, almost meekly.

“Yes, my lord. Ponder it. Yet heed carefully the counsel thou keepest.”

Cerenid raised his eyes to meet Olian’s. “You refer to my aunt?”

Olian’s eyes flashed. “Aye, Una. Though she appears prudent and measured, her loyalty bends to Dregrove, not to Gruen.”

Cerenid straightened and drew a breath. “I assure you I shall ponder it faithfully,” he replied firmly.

Olian probed Cerenid’s eyes for a hint of his leaning. Not finding what he was searching for, he bowed stiffly and withdrew. When the chamber door closed and the footsteps faded, Kethu stirred in his chair and muttered: “No knave can resist a door left open.” Then he drifted back into a wheezy sleep.

Hunt

Late in the month of Goldwane[i], when the last of the leaves clung brown and brittle, and the breath of man and horse smoked pale upon the air, Cerenid rode forth from Gruen with Olian, Gedain and Menek and their squires. A storm was gathering in the north, its grey belly rolling slow like a tide whose shore was formed by the high Norzcarpe. This would be the final hunt ere winter laid its bitter snows upon Methundor.

They pursued a great stag that had been seen for many days, foraging in the cedar woods beyond the river. It was an old beast, deep brown and broad of chest, crowned with vast antlers like the branches of a long dead oak. Men said he had survived six winters of chase by hunters and wolves alike, and that no common lord should claim him lest ill fortune come upon him. Thus Menek, Cerenid’s captain of the guard, declared it fitting quarry for the young rex.

The company rode beneath the distant light of Sol, through woods of black pine and ghostly birch, the frost silvering the roots and dry grass. The hounds worked ahead, their noses low, while Menek searched for sign. Cerenid rode with his longbow strung across his saddle. His hands fumbled often with the quiver at his back, and more than once an arrow slipped loose and fell among the leaves.

Gedain smirked, though he tried to hide it. Olian saw it too, and saw also that none offered aid to the noble. Thus, he rode aside Cerenid.

“Here,” Olian said, “let me show you how the quiver ought to be turned for ease of draw.”

Cerenid responded humbly. “I know how to span a bow. It is my hands. They are cold.”

Rebuffed, Olian turned away, seeing Menek who shrugged faintly in response. Even the squires lowered their eyes. It was a small thing, yet Olian marked it— a rex ought not fumble like a child.

They found the first spoor near a freezing stream, ice clinging to the muddy ridges. Menek dismounted, knelt, and placed his gloved hand beside the hoof print. “Here he passed ere dawn,” he said. “See the depth— he is heavy, old, and proud. He runs alone.”

Gedain smiled. “As every rex should run.”

Cerenid gave no answer.

They pressed deeper into the wood, and as they rode Gedain fell back aside with Olian and Cerenid. He turned to the rex in his saddle. “What meanest thou to do with thy Nundi prisoner… my lord?”

Olian spat into the brush as they rode. “What should be done, methinks. Hang him high and let the crows learn his name… my lord.”

“Aye,” answered Gedain. “Though I beg thee hold him until Frostwane, so that the spectacle of a dangling southerner might crown the week of my wedding feast.”

Olian grunted approval. They rode several strides awaiting the rex’s reply. But at last, Cerenid shook his head. “No,” he said, as if he feared to say it. “He shall remain in the dungeon to serve his sentence.”

The woods seemed to grow quieter. Then Gedain laughed once, short and sharp.

“No hanging for a spy?”

“No,” Cerenid answered. “No death sentence for merely crossing a border.” His words came as if he might yet convince them of the justice of it. “If he be an envoy, we would be murdering a messenger. And if he be a spy, prison will loosen his tongue with time. Justice should not be confused with appetite.”

Gedain’s face hardened. “Thou soundest like Kethu, now. Are those thy words or his?

“Thou knowest Kethu is also a southerner,” Olian added. “His thoughts on this are clouded by his loyalty to kin.”

“I would never dare to question Kethu’s loyalty,” Cerenid said. “Others… perhaps.”

“Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward sheep,” Olian huffed.

Cerenid’s voice remained calm. “And cruelty mistaken for strength is still cruelty.”

No man answered. Even the dogs seemed hushed.

They rode on in silence, but within Olian, something old and bitter stirred. First Madrot was not pursued. Now this. Always softness in the boy rex where iron was needed.

Ahead, Menek suddenly raised a hand. Silence fell. All halted. He pointed. There, through the black trunks and pale mist, stood the great stag, rooting for the last shoots of autumn. He was magnificent— vast of body, winter-thick in hide, his antlers spread like a regal crown. He stood upon a rise above them, proud and still, as though he himself judged the hunters.

Menek turned and whispered. “My lord, come forth. Take the first shot.”

Cerenid dismounted with his longbow, all eyes upon him.

He stepped slowly through the brush, bow in hand, each breath clouding before him. He drew an arrow, nocked it, and raised the bow. The stag lifted its head. For a long moment neither moved. Cerenid held the draw, his arms trembling under the strain. The stag remained. Then something changed in his face. He lowered the bow. The beauty of the creature had stayed his hand.

Olian’s jaw tightened. Then a hiss. An arrow flashed past Cerenid’s shoulder and struck the stag behind the foreleg. The great beast gave a leap and bounded into the trees. Cerenid turned. It was Gedain who had loosed. Before he could protest Menek shouted.

“Ride!”

The hunt exploded into motion. Hooves thundered over root and stone. Hounds howled and bounded. Branches lashed at cloaks and faces. Ahead, the wounded stag crashed through the forest, leaving blood bright upon the pale trunks of birch and flaxen grass.

Cerenid mounted late and followed, but the others were already far ahead. By the time he caught them, the beast lay fallen in a clearing of dead grass, its legs thrashing weakly. Its dark eyes glistening with terror. Gedain stood above it, one knee in the mud, driving his hunting blade down through the ribs and into the heart. The stag shuddered once, then was still. Steam rose from the wound. Cerenid stood silent. Gedain looked up, hands red to the wrist. “A clean death.”

With practiced skill he opened the belly and drew forth the steaming entrails, laying them upon the frost. Menek stepped forward with a silver cup from his saddlebag. He knelt, filled it with the beast’s dark blood. He rose and offered it to Cerenid.

“Your first kill, my lord. Drink.”

Cerenid stared at the cup. The blood steamed in the cold air. All eyes fell upon him. He reached forth, then withdrew his hand and shook his head.

“It was not my kill.”

Menek looked to Gedain. Gedain took the cup instead and drank deep, the red staining his lips. He handed it back with a sinister, crimson smile.

“The beast careth little whose arrow found him first,” Gedain said. “Laughter followed from Olian and Menek. Cerenid forced a hollow chuckle.

They dressed the stag and bound it for the ride home. By then the sky had darkened fully and the bitter air carried the smell of snow.

Olian rode just behind them, watching. Ahead rode Cerenid— quiet, uncertain, slight in his saddle, looking more a priest than a ruler. Beside him rode Gedain— broad-shouldered, blood-marked. Undaunted. He was admired without effort, with all men speaking to him as though he were already something greater. And in that long ride beneath the coming storm, Olian felt a certainty consume him like a bitter gale. A rex who could not kill would one day fail to defend. Cerenid was too weak to rule. Worse even, he mistook weakness for virtue. Such a rex would surely lead Methundor into ruin. The vultures would soon come to circle.

Olian’s thoughts turned to Avarlon— no justice for her suffering. Then to Madrot, free, his ugly face filled with mocking laughter. Then to the Nundi spy, in chains and yet breathing. And to Kethu, whispering patience while rot spread beneath the floorboards of the realm.

No, he thought. This softness would destroy them all.

His eyes found Gedain riding ahead, and for the first time he did not see merely youthful vanity courting his daughter. He saw a stronger hand for the crown. And there, beneath the blackening sky, with the vultures overhead and winter marching down, Olian decided what he must do.

Vows

The bells would soon begin their summons, and the sept would stir like a hive before swarming. Garlands of ivy and hawthorn were strewn along the beams with white bunting and threads of gold. Files of unlit candles guarded the walls and dais of the otherwise empty hall. Outside, the Rainmere Sol shone cold yet bright, and the bitter winds did gust and whip as winter clung to its final days.

Olian stood in the antechamber adjoining the temple, hands clasped behind his back, jaw grinding as though upon unseen bone. Gedain leaned upon the narrow windowsill, peering through the cloudy glass, his wedding cloak draped upon a chair.

“Tonight,” Olian said low, “or never.”

Gedain nodded faintly. “The guards who matter are with us— Menek, Joles. The rex will dine and drink, then, when he withdraws… I pray he goes swiftly.”

“He will.” Olian paced. “He’s weak. A boy. Such men die easy. Think of it as an act of mercy… mercy for Gruen, for Methundor.”

“There will be chaos…”

“For a fortnight, perhaps. Until the council selects a steward.”

“Dost thou think Fia will leave?” Gedain asked.

“For Dregrove? The council will insist— For her safety, of course, until the conspirators are found, which, of course, they never shall be.”

Gedain stiffened, raising a hand to still Olian’s tongue. He reached for his hilt, then stepped silently to the door. Wrenching it open with sudden force, he burst through, snatching the spy listening just beyond.

“Avarlon!” Olian exclaimed. “Why art thou here?”

Avarlon stood frozen in the doorway, Gedain’s hand clutching her arm, her other hand clutching the ribbon meant for her hair. Her face had gone pale as milk. She stepped forward, her voice thin but steady. “What speak ye of?”

Olian’s expression smoothed. “Daughter, thou shouldst not wander here.”

“We were discussing matters of guard and station,” Gedain explained. “The realm is restless. Thy father frets.”

“Do not lie to me,” Avarlon said. Silence fell. “I heard talk of dying easy and— ”

Olian laughed once, sharply. “Idle speech. Soldiers’ tongues run loose ere ceremony.”

“We spoke of possible dangers,” Gedain added quickly. “Of villains… of Madrot.”

Then something broke at the sound of that name.

“No,” Avarlon whispered. Then she spoke louder. “No more.” They stared as she tried to pull away from Gedain’s grip, her body trembling. “I will not be party to this. I have borne enough blood upon my soul.”

Olian’s brow furrowed. Her eyes filled, yet she did not weep. “I must confess. I can no longer bear the weight upon my conscience.”

“What art thou speaking?” Olian asked.

“I… I must tell the truth. No more lies. I lied to thee, father.”

“What didst thou lie, my child?”

“No!” Gedain implored, tightening his grip on Avarlon’s arm, pushing his fingers deep.

“I lied about that night last summer.” She took a long breath. “I was ashamed. I did not know one lie would come to this. Father, Madrot did not force me. He never touched me. He is innocent.”

The words rang like the great iron bell of the sept. Olian staggered as though struck. “No… No, I don’t believe you. Why speak of this now?”

“Avarlon… silence!” Gedain ordered.

“I did lie, father,” she said again. “I lied out of fear. Out of shame. I was with Gedain that night in the stable, not Madrot.”

Gedain’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth to speak but held his tongue.

“It is the truth,” she answered, “Gedain cannot deny it. I lay in the stable with him. And when thou questioned me, I chose the easier sin… to shield him.”

Gedain’s jaw tightened. “Enough!”

“No,” she said fiercely, wrenching her arm free from his grip. “Ceryd died for my sin, my cowardice. I will not let another brother die in silence.”

Olian clenched his fists. “Knowest thou what thou hast done?”

“Yes, I know father. I shall bear it all my days,” she said softly. “But I will not allow further harm.”

For a long moment, silence. Gedain stared at Avarlon. Avarlon stared at her father. Olian stared at the stones of the floor. Beyond the walls, the bells began their peal.

At last Gedain spoke. “She is overwrought. I’ll take her to the south wing. Guarded, she shall say nothing more before the ceremony.”

Olian did not look up from the floor. Avarlon gazed between them, horror dawning in her eyes as she settled on her groom. “You would silence your wife?”

“I would spare thee,” Gedain said firmly. Then he led her away.

#

The chapel filled. The candles flared. Voices rose in chorus. Yet Olian stood rigid beside the altar, sweat cooling upon his spine, eyes seeing nothing, staring into oblivion. The words of the priest washed over him unheard. The ravens gathered in the high bell tower, their voices croaked doom while their talons scratched at stone. Olian’s empty gaze strayed to the high seat, where the boy Cerenid Rex sat. Pale beneath the tilted crown that still seemed too heavy for him despite the passing of a full season. For the first time since mid-winter, when the plot was sworn, Olian felt his grip unbalanced, for he had risked everything, and the two people nearest to him, his daughter and his would-be son in law had lied to him. The heat of rage and desperation flamed within.

Reception

After the feast, the libations flowed like a fountain, and the music filled all ears with drums and the drone of a crank-fiddle, and humming melodies. The reception began to boil into revelry, laughter drowning the conversations. Maidens locked arms and spun, twirling in rhythm, and the lads tested sinew and pride at arm wrestling. Warriors drank deep and boasted loud, and old men sat and watched, reliving their youth through the antics of the young.

At the high table sat the bride and groom, Avarlon and Gedain. But her countenance was troubled and grim. Gedain feigned a continuous grin, false happiness betrayed by his cold, measuring cast of eye. He nudged Avarlon to appear happy, yet she obliged him only for a heartbeat, her face swiftly dissolving back into dread.

Also seated was Cerenid Rex, and his mother Fia, and at the table’s end, his aunt Una Blodwin. The father of the bride, widower Olian, watched as Cerenid clapped along to the rhythm of the song, stopping only to take sips from his silver chalice. Behind the rex stood Menek, his guard’s captain. Olian’s eyes met Menek’s. Menek nodded faintly without turning. Olian scanned back over the room, far to the opposite end, to the doors of the hall. There stood two more guards, emotionless, frozen.

The song changed and amidst the turn, a dancing maiden collided with a servant, causing her to drop her cask. Red wine burst onto a table, splashing a seated thegn, spoiling his tunic and cape. The thegn leapt up with a volley of curses, but the din swallowed his rage.

Olian felt a hand clasp his shoulder. He turned. It was Gedain. He acknowledged him with a nod, then glanced at Avarlon, then back to Gedain again.

Gedain leaned close and murmured, “I’ve spoken to her at length. There is no need to worry. She will be fine.”

“Then bid her to brighten her countenance,” Olian replied, funneling the words to Gedain’s ear. “She looks as though she’s attending a funeral rather than her wedding.”

“I shall soften her with more wine.” Gedain nodded and returned to his seat.

Olian looked again over his shoulder, but Menek was now gone. He then turned to the doors across the hall. The faces of the two guards had changed. He felt droplets of sweat beading upon his brow. He rubbed his neck. He looked at Gedain who was laughing at the thegn who was still tongue-lashing the clumsy servant.

He glanced at Cerenid, his vulnerable, naive face unaware of what fate crept towards him. In his mind, Olian saw the blade driven between the boy’s ribs, his body crumpling. Then he envisaged the future beyond: Fia imprisoned, Una hauled away under guard, Kethu suffocated by a pillow, Menek seated as steward until Gedain could be named rex.

But then his thoughts began to cascade.

Shall I do this?

…Yes, of course. It is already in motion.

What if I am caught? They will saw me for treason!

…Menek will not fail.

But what if he does fail?

…He won’t.

But is this the only way? Perhaps the boy will stiffen with age.

…The realm cannot afford to take that chance.

But am I a murderer? Can I live with myself after?

…Only you can answer that.

Within his thoughts, he saw a future where Gedain was rex and his daughter rexia, gleaming crowns set upon their heads, holding hands beneath rose petal rain, between them, his grandson prince with fair hair. Yet the luster soon became clouded, for he then saw Cerenid, the boy, holding his wound, blood leaking out, gasping for air, begging him to know “why?” as he lay dying. He saw the funeral and the eyes of suspicion upon him. Fia— the mother’s hatred. He saw himself made ugly by torment, immersed in drink to dull it, hiding himself from the eyes of accusation…

No! I cannot do this. I am not a killer nor a traitor. Find Menek, call it off.

…But where is he? Will he reach his assassin in time?

I must Think.

…Look! The rex prepares to leave. There’s no time!

He drained his goblet, then wiped the sweat from his brow. The music blared. The crank-fiddle droned. He rubbed his temples. The drums pounded. The maidens twirled. Gedain laughed. Olian looked upon his daughter— yet unmoving, so fair, yet blank of face, unblinking, as if she were carved in stone…

“Enough,” he muttered to himself. He pushed back from the high table, proceeding past Cerenid toward the edge where Una and Fia sat. She noticed him coming, her eyes following him as he approached.

“I must speak with thee,” he said.

“So speak.”

“In private.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“Concerning what?”

“Concerning a matter most grave.”

Una rose from the table, and together they descended from the dais into the churn of the hall. Gedain’s laughing ended when he saw them together, yet he dared not move from his perch and draw eyes upon himself conspiring with them. They passed into an antechamber where Olian shut the door, the muffled music droning on beyond.

“What is it?” Una asked.

“I… I have come by knowledge that imperils the rex.”

“Then speak to the rex.”

“I fear he would not grasp its weight.”

“Why are you telling me?”

Olian paused to listen at the door, then continued. “Because thou hast proved thy fealty by risking thy life for him. He trusts thee without question.”

Una’s voice cooled. “What is happening, Olian?”

“My lady, I have reason to believe there be a plot against the rex.”

“By whom?”

“There is no time,” Olian pressed. “Only this: I believe the danger comes from within the vanguard. I must intervene, but until I know for certain, we cannot risk him unguarded. Canst thou place thy men with him when he leaves the hall?”

She studied him, eyes narrowing. “How would you come to know all this, Olian?”

“Just… will you have your guards attend to him… please? There’s no time to explain.”

“Of course,” she answered with lowered voice.

Olian opened the door and left the antechamber and then the hall in haste, slipping out into the streets in search of Menek. He dared not to call his name aloud nor ask after him, lest suspicion fall upon himself. He searched one alley, then another, then peered into a tavern thick with smoke and voices. Yet Menek was nowhere to be found.

Returning to the street he saw four of Una’s men leave the hall and take separate positions, blending into the shadows so they would not be conspicuous. Olian searched the next alley, and then the next. It was vain. Menek could be anywhere, biding his time, awaiting the signal from his co-conspirators. At last, Olian returned to the hall, lest his absence be marked.

He saw Gedain’s eyes locked on to him as he re-entered through the doors, following him as he retook his seat.

“What art thou doing… sir?” he demanded.

“Ask nothing more,” Olian answered. “Do not speak to anyone of the plan, no matter what comes this evening.”

Moments later, Cerenid Rex stood, yet the hall took no immediate notice. Seeing their disregard, Olian seized the moment to buy Una time, striking his cup and calling aloud in his booming voice, “Be still! The rex would make a toast!” At last, the hall fell silent.

Cerenid stood, in his uncertain manner, his cup held too tight in his grasp. Curling within himself with narrowing shoulders. He cleared his throat and began.

“I… I will not keep ye long,” he said. “I am yet no orator, nor have I yet learned the weight of speaking as rex.” He cleared his throat.

“I drink first to Gedain and to Avarlon. May thy union be stronger than the tempests that trouble this realm, and may thy hearth know warmth longer than sorrow.”

He paused, searching for words, then went on.

“We walk a road whose length is… is hidden from us. Some are granted many leagues upon it. And then others are called aside without warning… I have learned this… sooner than some.”

His voice steadied. His posture stiffened.

“But when thy journey ends, and thy spirit passeth through the Gate of Tartarus[ii] and cometh unto the River Thol, may we all enter our next life with our honour unbroken.”

He raised his cup, and his voice filled the room.

“I drink to love, to duty, and to the road, however short or long it be.”

…And every lord and lady then clinked their goblets and cups, and drank, and shouted, “By The One!” And Cerenid Rex smiled with a nod and then departed the hall, greeted by Una and two of her sergeants at the door.

Plot

Joles was a brawny man of cruel visage. His sparse grey hair was closely cropped. His right cheek bore the scar of an arrow that near ended him, the red flesh there deeply furrowed. His arms were scored with tattoos of thorny vines and bones, and skulls. Once he had been a petty bandit, working alone upon Fywater Road, preying on pilgrims too frail to resist. It was there when Menek first espied him, crouched in bracken, measuring his ambush. Joles had ever preferred weaker quarry than guardsmen, and so he let Menek pass. But Menek did not pass, instead calling him forth and offering Joles honest work. In time, Joles became Captain Menek’s chief enforcer, carrying out the nefarious orders passed down from Cleon Rex.

But that first meeting was twenty years past, and Joles, now balding and losing his teeth, knew that his days in the court would soon be ending. The boy rex seemed to have no appetite for midnight justice, and Joles was too ugly for the court or to parade with the high guard, and too old to return to banditry. Yet should Menek rise to steward, his trade and proper life might endure for a few more years. And so Joles was quite willing to trade honor for prosperity.

Joles now sat alone, hiding out within a stable, pondering this change of life with the musk of old straw upon the air. At last he fell asleep, dozing until a hand finally shook him awake.

“He is unguarded,” whispered the voice in the shadows before darting off into the night.

Joles leapt up at once, brushing the straw off his vest, fingers finding the blade at his waist. He hurried out the door and into the street, the way marked by glow beaming from windows and cobblestones lit by moonlight.

As he followed the cobbles toward the keep, his thoughts turned unbidden to old reckonings. How many have I slain? Twenty? No, twenty-four. He tried to name them all as he walked but their faces blurred and names eluded beyond fifteen. But how many had been young men, mere boys like Cerenid? He recalled none.

Cerenid would be easy prey, he thought. The rex was thin and unhardened by trial. If death wasn’t quick, there would be pleas for mercy. But no quarter would be given. Twas Menek who buttered Joles’s bread, not the rex. It was Menek alone to whom he was loyal.

He entered the keep without haste, and the posted guards scarce lifted their gaze. Such was the privilege of long service, that a known man moved freely where strangers would be halted. He noted their names in his memory. They would be dealt with later. The courtyard glimmered in torchlight, her pathways abandoned at the late hour. Joles kept to the shadows along the wall, his pace measured, his breath slow and sure. He had done this many times.

He moved in silence through the garden, swallowed by budding hedges and clipped yews. The fountains murmured softly in the shadows. Somewhere, a drunkard’s singing carried upon the air from beyond the garden wall. But his only witness, save for the doomed guards, was the silhouette of an owl perched on a near branch, slowly turning its head to follow him along the dark path.

Joles crossed the garden unopposed. He reached the inner stair where a guard should have stood but he found only the brazier, its coals burning low. He set his foot upon the first step, paused, felt for his blade, then began the ascent.

The stair wound upward, to his right, in a narrow turn, the stone worn smooth by centuries of passage. He steadied his breathing, climbing slowly in his soft soles so no echo might betray him. The air of the stairwell lay close and stale. Sconces flickered and his shadow danced on the tapestries hung slack upon the wall, their woven kings and battles gazing down in mute judgment as he passed. His fingers strayed again to his blade.

At the landing before the rex’s quarters, the corridor lay utterly still.

No voices.

No sentry.

No light save what bled thinly from the stairwell behind.

He halted there a moment, tightening his hand upon the haft of his knife. He listened long for human voices, for breath, for footfall, for the faintest stir. It was as though the keep itself had drawn a breath and chosen not to cry out. Hearing nothing, he advanced.

Lunge and be done? he pondered. Or slither in and end him quiet? One promised speed but possible alarm, the other patience but the peril of awakening. He chose the latter. He preferred to savor his work.

He carefully pressed his blade though the jamb of the door and lifted the brace behind that barred it. Knowing its weight and balance by feel, he raised the bar off the hook. Holding it with his knife, he eased the door in without the faintest creak. When opened far enough, he reached his free hand in and let the brace down without a sound. He was within.

The hearth lay cold and the chamber was lit only by starlight filtering through the window, but Joles knew his way through the room blind. Across stood the canopy of the rex’s bed, the muslin drawn down to thwart the coming season of flies and night worms. Within its cocoon lay the figure of the rex, turned to the window and back to the door. Hand on blade, the assassin listened, hearing the: slow deliberate breaths of sleep. He crept forward, knife drawn. A faint creak on the floor. He halted. Another silent, careful step. Then another. He reached out to part the curtain. He raised the blade—

And then a force of iron swung into his knee, knocking him to the floor. Hands grabbed his arm and tore loose his blade. Fists rained upon his mouth and ears and face. Boots belted him in his ribs.

They dragged him out of the chamber and into the corridor— three men bearing him, one pressing steel to his throat. New lantern glow filled the stairwell. Two men cloaked in Dregrove colors appeared. Una followed behind them. She halted before Joles, peering upwards into his bloodied face. Defiance, therein, guttered and died, replaced by naked fear.

“Thy plot hath failed, Joles,” she said.

He spat blood. “But not thine, it seems. Have the Blodwins taken Gruen, now?”

“Take him below.”

#

That same night, Cerenid sat beside Kethu in his dim chamber, which the old Aeonite had not left for many weeks. Kethu’s face was pale like linen, and his hair had thinned to mere wisps. His blue-veined, arthritic hands trembled without cease.

“Teacher,” the young rex said softly. “A plot against me was thwarted by Una. Tell me, what is thy counsel?” The rex leaned close to hear Kethu’s faint reply.

Kethu’s eyes stirred, fixing upon Cerenid with a clear gaze, hands yet trembling. “Thou must uncover all who had hand in this,” he whispered. “Joles would not have dared this alone; there would be no profit in it. His hand was guided.” Kethu paused to draw breath. “Thou must flush the conspirators forth, all of them, or they shall come for thee again and again.”

Sentence

Joles sat with back to cold stone, facing a heavy wooden door. A thin bed of mold-rank straw lay beneath him. Set within the door, a high slot at eye-level for a man of guard height, and another a low square one, just large enough to pass in a pot of foul pottage— or draw out one fouler still. From these two portals leaked the cell’s only dull light, and with it the reek of sour air. Joles kept his face within the meagre beam, lest his sight fade wholly into blindness.

There was sparse measure of time in that pit. The guards spoke no words; their presence known only by the jangle of their keys, the clatter of iron, and the thunder of their fists pounding on doors. The dung-wretches, prisoners spared the depths for base labor, beaten for speaking, came and went in silence, exchanging vessels of sustenance for vessels of filth. At intervals came sudden cries, rupturing the inhuman silence. And always there was the buzz of flies and the scurrying of hidden rats and the scent of rot.

At last, the fists pounded upon Joles’s door. The eye slot darkened. Keys jangled. The lock clinked. The door swung open, and three guards gestured him forth. Joles hauled himself upright, struggled to his feet and stepped forward from the cell, submitting his wrists and ankles to iron.

They led him through the corridor, its torches burning with acrid pitch. Then through an iron gate and up a narrow stair, its stones worn into hollows by a century of shackled footfalls.

At the stairs’ crown, daylight reflected off the walls beyond and through the bars of the last gate. The sentry there unlocked it, and the guards escorted Joles through and down the wider corridor that brightened as it opened into a courtyard.

There stood the reeve with four more guards, two sworn to Gruen and two to Dregrove, standing beside a scaffold fashioned of two upright trunk posts and a cross member. Near it stood Una, flanked by Cerenid, Gedain, and Olian, who himself stood back. To the other side were three hooded figures. One held a hammer and the other two held a long broad saw with deep teeth.

The reeve spoke. “Joles of Peelgrain, thou wert taken in the act of high treason, of seeking the life of thy rex. By the old law, the penalty thereof is death by sawing torment.”

Joles’s shackles were struck away. His garments were stripped, and he was borne to the scaffold and laid upon his back, his limbs bound fast with leather thongs drawn through iron rings. With measured heaves, two guards hoisted him, suspending him inverted between the posts. Pine planks were then nailed into place at hip and flank, then again at chest and shoulder, until his body was held rigid and unmoving. The hooded men set their saw upon a notch upon the uppermost planks, resting the cold steel teeth on Joles’s privy flesh. They did not yet draw.

Una stepped forward. “By the law, sawing is the doom for any who raise hand against the crown. Upon the rex’s mark, the blade shall move.”

The reeve continued, his voice without mercy. “The blade is wrought for timber, not flesh. It doth not cut clean but rendeth. Thou shalt remain alive long, blood pooling in your head, leaving thy senses unbroken while cutting through your bones and tearing out your entrails. Hast thou aught to say before sentence is carried forth?”

Joles feigned bravery but his eyes betrayed the terror gnawing within. They darted from the warden to Una, finally fixing upon Cerenid.

“My lord,” he cried. “I beg thee for thy mercy.”

Cerenid answered, his voice firmer than in the days before. “I will grant thee mercy, the mercy of swift death.”

Joles shuddered.

“But thou must purchase it,” the rex added.

“My lord, I’ve told all I know, already.”

“We…,” the rex stopped to correct himself, “I want Menek. Where hath he fled?”

Joles steadied his breath, forcing calm. “He informed me he would wait for me by the spring beyond the south gate, where the road could be watched and he could escape if needed. I presume he rode away since no word reached him.”

“Rode away to where?”

Joles faltered.

Una raised her hand. “Proceed!”

The executioners tightened their grip on the saw handles, tensing as they prepared the first pull of the blade.

“Wait… wait, My lord!” Joles pleaded. “I… I know where he hath gone. Please. He spoke of it often, long before…”

“Speak!”

“To… to Varenthor, by way of the High Gate. He believed the pass lay open. He always swore he would sell his sword there if Gruen turned upon him. He spoke of it many times.”

“Proceed!” Una urged again.

“Wait,” Cerenid ordered with mercy— or some would say with weakness. “Take him down.”

The hooded guards pried the planks loose. The straps slackened. Joles sagged to the wooden floor of the scaffold. The guards shackled him and bore him away.

Cerenid turned to Gedain. “Take five riders,” he commanded. “Go by way of the High Gate to Varenthor. Find Menek. Bring him back, alive. I must know whose hands stain this plot.”

“Wilt thou givest me the key, my lord?” Gedain asked.

Cerenid pondered. “No. You have no need of it. If the High Gate is locked, Menek did not pass through. And if it is open, thou needeth no key.”

And what of Joles, my lord?” Gedain asked.

Una’s eyes searched the rex’s countenance for strength. The rex glanced into hers and found it. “If Menek is returned by the Rainmere new moon, I will have Joles beheaded. If Menek is not brought, Joles will be sawn.”

Mentor

Upon hearing word that the old Aeonite had wakened in clarity, Cerenid went at once to his chamber. He found Kethu propped upright amid his linens, his frame thin as a winter branch, his skin the color of sheep’s wool.

“Teacher,” said Cerenid softly, “thou art awake.”

“Indeed,” Kethu whispered with some effort, his voice no more than heavy breath. “The last bright flare before the wick is spent.”

“I am again in need of thy counsel… if thou art yet able to give it.”

“It is my charge,” Kethu said.

“Gedain has rode out this morn for the High Gate and Varenthor. I want to know if you believe he will find Menek.”

Kethu pondered. “I do think he shall.”

Cerenid clasped his teacher’s hand. “How am I to make Menek name his fellows?”

Kethu coughed, a dry and rattling sound. Then he was still a long while. At last he spoke. “Pain will surely loosen his tongue, yet I doubt truth will follow it. Torture breeds answers shaped to please the ear.” He groaned as he moved in his bed. “What Gedain brings back, or doesn’t, will speak truer than any rack or words.”

“Explain, teacher.”

Kethu caught his breath. “If he returns with his riders and no Menek, thou shalt learn little. But if he returns bearing Menek in chains, then Gedain clears himself of this design.”

“Do you suspect Gedain?”

“You must suspect all men, young rex. Such is the weight that leadens every crown. Yet I do not deem Gedain the mind that spun the web. There is a more subtle spider yet lurking.”

“Who do you believe it is?”

“Oh, the Fys, perchance. Or one nearer still.”

“Olian?” Cerenid offered. “He knew of it firsthand.”

“I will not seed thy thoughts with names. Once sown, they may blind thine eye that tends them.”

“And what if Gedain returns alone?”

Kethu’s gaze sharpened. “Then thou mayest believe his hand was in it. Yet if so, hide thy knowing. Keep him ever near. Men who believe themselves unseen grow careless, and in carelessness Gedain will reveal his master.”

Cerenid walked to the lone window, and gazed out upon the city walls, pale and bright beneath the midday Sol. “There is more,” Cerenid’s voice lowered. “Word has come from Dregrove. Mendo is dead.”

Kethu inclined his head, as though greeting an expected guest.

“I cannot let Una or mother depart to bury their father.”

“Aye, Una’s road is sown with danger. The Fys— Kaldwin at least— will surely lie in ambush.”

“Word comes that they art already intercepting couriers,” Cerenid added. “They know who comes and goes…”

…But then woe filled the lad’s face.

“What else troubles you?” Kethu asked. “Dost thou fearest for Una… or for thyself, also?”

Cerenid’s mouth tightened, and for a breath he bristled. Then the fire passed from his face and he bowed his head. “I will not lie to thee, teacher. It is for my life that I fear. Most of all, if Una is not beside me. Twice already she has stood between me and death.”

“To fear is to be human,” said Kethu. “Yet fear hath a scent, and the wolves will follow it. Fear drives men to haste, and haste to folly, and folly to ruin.”

“Yet I fear, teacher. How shall I find courage?”

“Try to think of thy danger as though it threatened another. Be not the rex in thine own mind but be another instead— be the keeper of the rex, rather than the rex. Thus, shalt thou seest more clearly.”

“So then Una must go home?”

“Yes, by her time. Yet whether on the morrow, or with the turning of leaves, only she can say.”

“What meanest thou?”

“The Prophet Azarius draweth nigh,” said Kethu. At the utterance of that name, the very air seemed to hush and listen. “He told me this in Golgon, in the far centuries gone, that He would come unto me once more, upon the eve of my departing.”

“And thou dost believe it still?” Cerenid asked.

“I do,” replied Kethu, “though three hundred years have worn away since it was promised. His coming is writ both in thy chronicles and in ours… and in theirs. Why else would the southern spies be hunting for Him here? He is our uniter by prophecy made manifest. His truth shall aid thee in uniting the men of Norland to march.”

“Will Una then lead the men of Dregrove?”

“No,” Kethu answered. “Madrot must bear the host of Dregrove beneath thy banner; and for this cause must Una return thither, to rule in his stead, while the storm of Norland men is loosed.”

“Then Azarius will lead the Norland host.”

“No!” Kethu’s voice strengthened. “When prophets return, it is not as kings or warlords. He is not the leader of men. He is only the shepherd of their souls. Thou art the rex, Cerenid.”

“But they will not follow me, teacher. For I am not yet a man.”

“Then you must become one, quickly. If thou leadest them not, they will slay one another in the field. And if thou remainest here, thou shalt be slain by them. Then shall Bafomet come with his golden host, and Norland shall fall into ash and bondage with nary a blade raised in its defense.”

Cerenid folded his arms, his gaze cast down, the weight of command pressing upon him like stone.

“I know your trouble, Cerenid,” Kethu said, voice softening back into a murmur. “Thy charge is greater than breath or bone. Yet remember, all lives flicker but a handful of heartbeats. Most men pass their span never knowing why they were even born. Thou hast been endowed with a purpose. Cherish that as a precious gift.”

Cerenid breathed deeply, slowly, then nodded, though his hands trembled.

“There is yet one more truth I must give thee,” Kethu said. “It concerns thy brother. He spoke to me of the cave, when ye were boys. He told me what he beheld there.”

Cerenid looked up.

“He saw thee,” Kethu continued. “He saw thee standing alone in single combat. And he saw thee fall.”

“Aye, teacher. That is what he said to me as well.”

“Thou must know this,” Kethu said. “That is why he offered himself in combat at Briganta. He thought to spare thee. And in that choice, a choice made of love, he found his purpose in life.”

“But he died,” Cerenid whispered, “and left his burden unto me.”

“He did not go forth to die, Cerenid,” said Kethu gently. “He went forth to prevail. Yet Madrot unmade his measure with the brutish cunning of his blows.”

A sorrow passed through Cerenid’s eyes, deep and unguarded.

“You must forgive Madrot for this. He did not choose to duel your brother. Your brother chose. In the coming days, thou wilt need Madrot to lead his warriors under your command.”

Cerenid’s face hardened. “I cannot forgive him. Nor can I forgive my brother.” “Hear me, young rex. One cannot bargain with that which hath already come to pass.” Kethu smiled in kindness. “Thy brother took up his mantle and the world turned as it must. Do not make light of his sacrifice by shrinking from thine own. To refuse thy burden is to lay it upon the dead. Our burdens give our lives their meaning.”

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[i] Goldswane is the ninth lunar cycle after spring solstice, roughly coinciding with November by our calendar.

[ii] Tartarus is the name for the underworld, where souls travel after death to be assigned their next life and drink the water of forgetfulness from the River Thol.

Contents

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Contents

II. Ceryd

Heirs

Two years passed since Cleon left Gruen, and in those seasons did Fia bear and nurse her second son whom she named Cerenid. The babe was slight of form and gentle in spirit, and nursemaids oft did urge him to suckle, worried that his vitality had failed him as his ribs shone like pale ridges. Yet the long nights of his weakness did at last depart and he endured the winter’s stern trial.

In that third autumn, when the leaves seared to gold and Sol’s bright shafts were softened by the cool breath of northern winds, riders were espied upon the road to Gruen, bearing the banners of Welf. At first, their purpose lay veiled; yet a murmur spread like dusk across the courtyard, that Cleon’s name rode in their errand.

Fia long feared for her sons in Cleon’s absence, sensing the lurking prowl of the ambitious men of court. Only Kethu stood between her and them. And with him were joined all the Aeonites, whose eyes and ears revealed every nascent plot that dared to root in Gruen’s shadows.

Fia’s breast swelled with hope as she stood at her high window overlooking the gate, watching the road to Gruen, eyes eager. The autumn air was crisp and the daylight soft and golden, the banners above flapping in promise. In her mind she rehearsed the moment: presenting the young sons to their father, their laughter echoing through the courtyard; a feast in the hall, the cheers of the courtiers, the weight of fear released from her shoulders. Even the wind seemed to carry anticipation of reunion.

But her heart shrank the moment she beheld the riders, for their mounts trod slowly, their banners drooped limp at their sides, the dust on their cloaks telling of a long journey without cheer. Hope faltered with a chill in her limbs as sorrow touched her eyes. With trembling haste, she descended into the square to meet them, and there, before her, stood a covered wagon, its heavy wheels silent, its form wrapped in cords and shadow.

The air hung thick with dread. Her lips parted, yet no word issued forth. She beheld the faces darkened with gloom, brows bowed beneath the weight of duty. In that instant, the golden thread stitching the hope for her sons snapped as though rent by unseen hands. For though she bore no love for the cruel man whose body they delivered, she knew he would protect them and her. Now, in her soul, she knew that her children’s inheritance, and their very lives, were now cast into peril.

“My lady,” spake the marshal, bowing his head, “we bring unto thee the body of the Rex of Methundor, slain by brigands upon the field near Bogwater.”

Fia advanced to the wagon and reached for the knots of the shroud.

“I beg you, disturb it not, my lady,” pleaded the marshal. “When we found him, he had lain dead for many months. Thou wouldst not know him, and the sight of his remains ought not be the last memory thou keepest.”

Fia faltered; the cords yet tethered at her fingertips.

“How dost thou know it be him?” she asked.

“By his brooch and boots, and by his ink markings, my lady. His flesh, though withered, was spared the foul ravages of decay and the beasts that roam those fens. Their hunger, it seems, was stayed by the honour that yet clung to his remains.”

“We were led to his remains by a villager of Modi. It seemeth some kind soul had taken him and laid him in the hollow of a tree, that his dignity might be preserved.”

#

Thus were the sons of Cleon left fatherless and placed under the charge of Kethu the Aeonite, who nurtured them as his own until a steward and husband fitting might be found for their mother. Under Kethu’s counsel, both sons were schooled for many seasons in the arts of numbers, and the histories of the First True Men. And also in the legends of the Garden Vallis[i], a realm scarcely whispered of in the Norland-tongue. They learnt of the great dragons: Margathon, the wyvern that flew nigh unto Sol until it was cast down onto the Vallis floor to be remade, and of Bazunan, the most fierce, the finder of the Immortal Man, and also of Ogrennon, the outcast, forever tempting the brittle souls of Edä[ii].

Kethu also had them trained by Aeonite warriors in the disciplines of combat: the wielding of arms in their fluid style— more a dance than smite and parry. And they were taught the craft of tactics and stratagems. The trusted men of the court taught the boys the hunt, and the keeping of beasts and birds of prey as well.

Often Kethu and the brothers would find themselves in the garden, near the fountain, and Ceryd would ask the Immigrant to impart his wisdom. “What are the finest traits of a rex?” young Ceryd once asked.

Kethu’s brow furrowed in thought. “Well,” he said, “there art many ways to cook a goose— braised or boiled, seared or stewed, many other ways besides, each pleasing in their fashion. So too art there many ways to rule. Some rulers art cruel, while others merciful. Some art overt whilst others more subtle. Some art cautious, and others impulsive.”

“Which way dost thou commend, master?”

“If I were forced to choose, I would say to be this: decisive. Once thy mind is made, choose impulse over caution. Fortune is like unto a fair maiden. To keep her, a man must seize her boldly, else she shall slip away and find another.”

Many more summers passed with Ceryd nearing manhood, striding time and again into the ring to face an Aeonite warrior posing with shield. With Sol barely cresting the ramparts, Ceryd would heft his broadsword, its leather-bound hilt once too heavy in his hand, and with a thunderous cry he’d lunge, boots churning the dust of the courtyard.

Finally, after many tries, his blade found its mark, clanging upon the warrior’s helm, sending sparks dancing like those cast from a sharpening stone. He grappled, his arms like coiled rope, to drive the shield aside, and his opponent, at last, dropped one knee and nodded in approval. Ceryd rose, sweat beaded upon his brow, chest heaving, the single victory a culmination of many years of defeat. “At last,” the prince declared, “a victory.”

“Aye,” said Kethu. “A victory that never could be won without the lessons of so many defeats.”

A fortnight morn later, Ceryd would vault onto a great steed, hoist the javelin, and race down the hill, breaths of beast and lad steaming like fog in the cold air. He struck true, piercing a target at full gallop, and his companions cheered. In that hour he felt the bloodline of his sire— Cleon— rise within him, the drive for dominion tensing in his sinews.

And in those months and years, beneath the vaulted hall of ancient runes, Cerenid sat by lamp-glow, his slender fingers turning a carved stone etched with spiral sigils. The silence of the study held the musty scent of parchment where Kethu tutored him of his forebears’ temptations, of their blasphemies, and of their purgation. Cerenid’s mind was beguiled by the ghastly Nephilim and the glorious Gargan giants. He drank each word his master spoke, troubled naught by swords or shields.

Once, upon the hunt for a mighty stag, the brothers would oft run the hounds a-foot. On one occasion, Cerenid drew near to a dog which nosed the trailing scent. Startled, the beast turned and nipped the younger prince’s thumb, rendering flesh pierced and bleeding. Ceryd, seeing the wound, rushed forth and struck the hound upon the muzzle, his blow so strong the beast whined and fled.

Turning to his younger brother Ceryd he said, “Come, let me see it… ‘Tis but a scratch, brother. Show not thy tears, lest they deem thee weak.”

A huntsman rode unto them and asked, “Is the young prince hurt?”

“He is well,” Ceryd snapped. “Give thy mind to the chase.”

Cavern

The forests of Gruen did offer many adventures unto the young princes, whose clandestine wanderings drew them far into her shadow-choked depths in search of fauns and kobolds and other sprites of childhood fancy. Yet none of these foul creatures were ever encountered, save for those their own minds conjured in the hush of dusk. Often, however, did they return to a cavern veiled by the moss-clad trunk of a fallen pine, where the earth yawned unto guarded secrets older than Methundor itself. “Shall we descend into yon cavern?” asked Ceryd.

“For what cause?” the younger replied. “Surely naught awaits within but spiders and filth, and perchance an ill-tempered badger.”

“Nevertheless…” said Ceryd, his eyes alight with reckless purpose.

Ceryd drew forth his lantern from his pack, kindling its flame with flint and steel, and slid through the moss-laden portal and down into the shadowy chasm. The golden glow flickered upon stone, but then vanished wholly from Cerenid’s sight, swallowed by the ancient dark.

Cerenid lingered at the cavern’s mouth for what seemed to him an hour’s passage. With their mischief stilled, and their boisterous noise absent, the creatures of the forest crept back to their doings. Squirrels darted amidst the boughs, a jay let forth its shrill call, and a doe emerged from the undergrowth of ferns and brambles, browsing as it drew near. The silence weighed heavily upon the young prince, for in all their adventures, they had made such noise as to drive away all animal danger. But now, with no sound save the forest’s own, Cerenid was alone, no longer a vanguard intruder but one consumed within the untamed wild.

He called into the cavern to his brother, half in hope of urging him to return, half to startle away anything lurking nearby. But no answer came. He waited in silence yet longer, until the birds returned, then he called again, but the cavern devoured his voice without echo.

As Sol dipped beyond the towering branches and the shadows deepened, a lone raven alit on a gnarled limb above and let out a ragged caw. It paused, as though awaiting a reply from the forest itself, then cried again, deep and sharp. Now Cerenid dared not raise his own voice, lest he draw unwelcome company. Instead, he slipped into a cluster of ferns and brambles, peering out toward the cavern’s maw. The moss hung there swayed like a tattered curtain, inviting him to enter, yet he felt a tremor seize him. Twilight pressed in. The forest’s shapes twisted— branches bending into claw-like silhouettes, roots coiling like serpents. Summoning the last of his courage, Cerenid crawled to the cavern’s edge and whispered, “Ceryd… Ceryd… pray come out!” Yet silence again met his plea. He huddled near the shrouded entrance. Again, a raven alighted upon a nearby branch, fixing him with its glinting, black eye. The young prince froze, unmoving. The corvid clicked its beak, croaked, then burst into flight with a rush of beating wings of doom.

Cerenid felt as though the forest itself watched him with one eye from many vantages, each shadow a sentinel, each whisper a warning. The world had grown vast and ancient around him, and he but a trembling child within it.

Unwilling to tarry until night’s monstrous depth, Cerenid mustered the resolve to leave his brother and return home alone. Darkness enfolded the path, and he quickened his pace. Brambles grasped at his tunic. His thoughts filled with visions of kobolds, their amber eyes gleaming from the hollows, their scaley fangs bared as they scampered in pursuit.

A chill washed through him and he quickened his pace. But soon he discerned that some presence did indeed follow him— soft panting, the crunch of leaves, the whisper of padded feet. Wolves! Much as in the tales of the old nursemaids, their shapes flanked him in the dark: pale eyes flashing, near silent save for their breath. Cerenid dared not avert his eyes from the path to look back. Had he stumbled but once, he knew the first bite would fall upon his legs.

At last, wearied beyond endurance, he faltered and collapsed upon the trail, curling tightly upon himself. Darkness surrounded him, and the wolves panted as they circled close, their movements hidden in the forest’s black veil. As fear and despair consumed him, his thoughts turned grim. What pain would their fangs bring first? What fragments of him would remain for his mother to claim and bury?

Yet as his heartbeat pounded from his breast unto his ears, his breath grew steady. His tears ceased. He gazed upward, beholding only the tall silhouettes of pines reaching toward the gray ether. Clutching tightly upon the thorny branches, that he might thwart being dragged off, he prepared to meet his fate.

Then came a voice. “Cerenid!” Still distant but growing louder, his brother’s cry calling through the twilight. Soon, the sound of his footsteps joined his calls. “I’m here, brother! Come forth!”

Cerenid remained huddled upon the ground, too stricken with fear to utter a cry. Yet his brother, guided by his footprints, came upon him and raised him to his feet.

“We must quit the forest ere the night devours us,” quoth he.

“Didst thou seest the wolves, brother?”

“Wolves?” Ceryd scoffed. “You’ve been reading too many books.” He dusted his brother off. “Reserve thy tears, for they shall serve thee better when we face the scourging that awaits us. I’m doubtless they have sought their rex and prince for hours, now.”

Cerenid wiped his streaked cheeks with his sleeve.

“There… good,” said Ceryd with a nod. “I shall tell them thou wast brave.”

“What didst thou behold in the cavern?” Cerenid asked as they made their way home.

At first, Ceryd gave no answer. His eyes remained fixed upon the narrow path ahead. “Nothing, brother,” he said at last, though the unease in his tone betrayed him.

“I do not believe you,” Cerenid said. “Why linger so long in darkness if there was nothing?”

Ceryd froze, a pale silhouette in the fading light. Reluctantly, he yielded. “If thou must know, I found a vein of crystal. It glowed like sapphire fire by my lantern’s light. I sought to loose a shard, but as my fingers touched it, I was… overtaken.” He lifted a hand to his brow, as though the memory itself weighed upon him. His eyes lowered. “A vision pressed upon my mind— vivid as waking, deeper than any dream. It swallowed all my thought.”

“What didst thou see?”

Ceryd’s gaze rose to meet his brother’s, sharp and searching, as though he feared the telling more than he feared the vision itself. “I saw thee, brother…”

“Me?”

“Aye… standing alone in single combat. Yet I could not reach you, nor call to you. For the world would not hear me…”

“And then?”

“And then…” Ceryd’s eyes searched his memory. “And then it was over.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the pines.

“Tell no one of the cave,” Ceryd murmured, voice low. “If word spreads, many will descend upon it and spoil what lies within.”

And though he spoke no further of it that night, something in Ceryd’s countenance had shifted. A remoteness gathered behind his eyes, as though part of him still wandered the sapphire depths of the cavern. For the crystal had shown him more than any brother should behold— a shadow of doom, laid bare upon the path of fate.

Envoy

Whilst Kethu yet bore the mantle of steward, it had grown plain unto all, aye, even unto those who dared not whisper it, that the twilight of his years had settled upon him— though an Aeonite’s dusk might yet linger for many a season. Thus did the council decree that Ceryd, having surpassed nineteen summers, should ascend the high-seat upon the coming solstice of summer, less than a full season yet to pass. In the warming breath of mid-spring, the wardens, who had ridden eastward in chase of the knaves and brigands who had slain their rex, returned unto Gruen with a prisoner most foul and foreign of aspect, shut fast within their wagon. Through the main gate they passed, where many townsfolk had gathered to cast eyes upon the strange prisoner. The wagon stopped in the square before the keep and the wardens dragged their suspect out and escorted him into the main hall. There, the assembled court, which had been steeped that morn in petty bickerings of thegns over grazing fields and bridge tolls, parted as the wardens marched to the dais with their criminal.

Ceryd, the young rex, perked up from his seat where he had been near slumber, lending but half an ear to the tiresome quarrels. “What charge lieth upon this man?” he asked.

“My lord,” answered the reeve, bowing low, “we seized this wretch whilst he filched salted meats from a bondi’s hutch near Clearwater.”

Ceryd looked perplexed. “Why bear a common pilferer all the long road to Gruen?” asked Ceryd. “Hath the local reeve no rod with which to chastise him?”

“Aye, my lord, he hath. And we should ne’er have troubled thee with such refuse, my lord. But whilst the reeve’s justice was laid upon him with stout and honest fists, he fell to muttering in a tongue most strange, my lord.”

Ceryd frowned. “And is the gabbling of fools now counted a crime as well?”

“Nay, my lord. But a wandering Aeonite crone heard him, my lord, and straightway told us the speech was Neandilim[iii]-born… my lord.” At this name, a gasp passed through the hall, and the murmuring swelled.

“A Nundi![iv]” cried one.

“Mercy on us— hell’s brood walketh here!” wailed another.

“Trust not the word of any Aeonite witch!” snarled a third.

Ceryd lifted his hand, and the tumult ebbed.

“My lord,” the Reeve continued, “we questioned him further, fearing lest some southern magic lurked beneath his rags.”

“And what found ye?” asked the rex.

“After much beatings, my lord, he saith naught but pleas for mercy and mutterings that he was an envoy from the south… my lord.”

Ceryd rose and stepped off the dais to approach the two wardens and their prisoner. The wardens gripped their charge firmly, yet the young rex leaned close, studying him. Though clad in goatskins, and mired in filth, he found in him a strange, almost affected bearing that clung… like a nobleman sunk into disguise.

“What envoy dresseth in such foul raiment?” Ceryd asked. “And stinketh like a piss-soaked midden?”

“My lord, I caution that these southerners are known to cast spells of—”

“Peace! Let the man speak his own treacheries.”

The prisoner stared at the dust around his own sandals.

“Sire…” he began, “I have come from the city of Goff. Neandilim is the common tongue spoken there.” Eyes still lowered, he continued. “Bandits set upon my company, and I alone escaped, living by guile and by theft. For this I crave thy mercy and shall submit to any justice thou ordainest.”

Ceryd narrowed his eyes. “And what business hath an envoy of Goff so near to Clearwater? ’Tis many leagues from Gruen.”

“My lord, he did sayeth he came by the eastern way,” spake the reeve.

Ceryd looked perplexed. “You say you came perchance by the eastern road, with the Spire of Agzad for thy beacon?” The Rex pondered. “Yet do not the Neandilim tremble at the name of Gargan? Did not their monstrous hands raise that pinnacle in the elder days?”

“I… I lied to them, sire, fearing the wardens would murder me if I spake the truth. We in fact passed by the High Gate, by way of Meru. I beg your mercy, your highness.”

“Was the gate not locked?”

“We found it opened for us, sire.”

“The Aeonites must have unlocked it,” came a voice in the throng.

“We knew they were traitors all along!” shouted another.

“Loyal to their southern brethren only!”

“Traitors?” Ceryd derided, turning to face the crowd. “Traitors who waited three centuries to betray their oaths? Waited ‘till their bones lay mouldered, all even, save for one? Hold thy serpent tongues!” He turned toward the old steward. “Kethu, come forth. I would hear the wisdom of an Aeonite.”

They found the venerable Immigrant slumped in slumber upon his chair. Young Cerenid, seated next to him, touched his arm gently and the ancient’s dark eyes fluttered open. “Kethu,” came Ceryd again, “lend me thy counsel.”

Kethu coughed and cleared his throat, then, with a grimace born of age and lingering pain, he rose unsteadily to his feet. Fumbling for his cane, he tottered down three slow steps from the dais and came before the prisoner, who stiffened and set his jaw. Kethu studied him in silence, his cloudy eyes yet sharp with an elder’s cunning. With a gnarled hand he lifted the man’s chin and bade him open his mouth, peering close at teeth and tongue. Then, with neither haste nor shame, he loosened the man’s belt and drew back the filthy cloth at his loins. A rustle swept the hall. Some gasped, others turned away, but Kethu regarded neither their modesty nor their shock. His gaze was keen, searching for the tell-tale sign. At last, he let the cloth fall and straightened with difficulty, leaning upon his cane. “Yea, he is Neandilim. Of that there can be no doubt.”

The court gasped once more in chorus.

“My lord, we knew it so,” replied the reeve.

Ceryd was undeterred. “But envoy or spy? Which stands before us? And by what path hath he crossed our borders?”

Before Kethu could answer, Gedain thrust himself forward. “Sire, give him into my hands. Let him feel the bite of fire, and he shall blurt the truth soon enough.”

Earl Olian, a graying thegn with the underbite and snout of an old boar, nodded vehemently at his side. His daughter Avarlon, with a visage as pure and pale as pearl, and whose favor Gedain sought more desperately than honor itself, brightened at her father’s assent.

But Kethu raised his withered hand. “Behold,” he shouted, his voice ringing clearer than it had in years. “If thou torment a man to yield his words, he will indeed prate… he shall prate naught but the very words thou longest most to hear.”

Having heard Kethu’s counsel, Ceryd turned then to Cerenid. “What say you, brother? Shall we yield him to Gedain?”

But Cerenid faltered, glancing between the two men— Gedain’s hungry sneer and Kethu’s troubled, cloudy gaze. “I… know not, brother. Mayhap we should not.”

“Hold a moment please, young rex,” Kethu urged. He then peered deep into the prisoner’s countenance. “Tell me, Neandilim… knowest thou who I am?”

“Aye. Thou art the Steward of Gruen.”

“For a little while longer at least,” Kethu groaned. “But answer me this: some men may scale mountains for bargains and treaties… yet others might venture for the capture of an old legend that yet draweth breath.”

“Thou art indeed a legend, Kethu,” the prisoner whispered with disdain in his voice. “None may deny it. Perhaps others will come for thee.”

Kethu laughed until his laugh turned into a wheeze and then a fit of coughing. When he had caught his breath, he once again looked into the prisoner’s eye. “Thy brethren need not bother with me. My end draweth nigh. Nor do I refer to myself as legend. Yet I think we both know the legend of whom I speak. He is:

“…the coin that buyeth rebellion! If cast into the deep, who then shall spend it? For thy worth is unrest, thy face remembrance, and thy breath awakeneth defiance in the hearts of men.[v]”

And in that heartbeat, as Kethu watched closely, the prisoner’s pupils widened ever so slightly— too slight for the notice of True Men, yet plain enough to the eyes of even an aged Aeonite. It was a reflex betraying the soul.

Voices clamored for justice. “To the dungeons!” they shouted.

“I defer to the young rex,” said Kethu over the din. “My season waneth. His now beginneth.”

All eyes fixed upon Ceryd, he knowing he could not free the man without seeming weak before the ravenous court. At length he sighed and gestured with reluctance. “Let Gedain have him.” And so the wardens dragged the envoy toward the dungeons, his cries to be swallowed by stone and shadow.

Kethu wobbled up the dais and sank upon his seat, and Ceryd then sat again beside him. “What doth all this portend?” asked Ceryd in a low voice.

Kethu whispered, “It portends that the immortal prophet walketh again in our lands.”

“Will Gedain get him to say it?”

“We both know the cruelty that lurketh behind Gedain’s golden locks and comely face,” said Kethu. “He will torment the Nundi nigh unto death, yet the man will give him only assurances.”

“Assurances?”

“Aye. Promises, bargains, temptations. Whatever he believeth Gedain desireth to hear.”

Ceryd’s brow darkened. “And how came he through the High Gate? Do not I alone hold the key?”

Kethu’s gaze grew distant and grim. “Young rex… clearly something did unlock it.”

Joust

When Ceryd had reached the nineteenth year of his age, and the day of his crowning drew nigh, there arose, as though fated, a strife betwixt the house of his sire and the Blodwins of Dregrove. The seed of this enmity sprouted from the deeds of a young nobleman of that lineage, whose pride was the herald of coming discord.

Madrot Blodwin, the youngest child and only son of the House of Dregrove, journeyed unto Gruen for the festivities of Ceryd’s accession, which were ordained upon the day of the summer solstice. He came in the stead of his father, Mendo, Reik of Dregrove, who by age and lingering maladies was sorely enfeebled. Madrot was received with all courtesy due his blood and so took his ease within the halls of the rex, purposing to sojourn in Gruen for a fortnight. Though scarce past twenty-one winters, Madrot was harsh of visage. He lacked the grace to charm the hearts of maidens or inspire the deference of men. His red hair hung lank and thin, falling lifeless and straight upon his shoulders. His ruddy complexion bore the stain of roughness and wear beyond his years, and his wild, unruly brows and bulging eyes lent him an aspect most sinister.

Throughout the days of jubilation, contests of arms and feats of manly prowess were proclaimed. Many hundreds gathered within the plaza to behold the spectacle. Madrot, eager to display his mettle, entered three: a bout of grappling, a duel with swords hewn of seasoned ash, and the noble joust. By skill and sinew, he triumphed in the wrestling-pit, yet in sword-play he tasted defeat beneath the steady hand of Ceryd— though some Dregrove kin whispered that it appeared he permitted the rex to win. The third contest, the joust, set him against the handsome and vainglorious Gedain, the heir of the House of Welf.

Sol shone radiant, and the multitude that thronged about the list murmured like a rising stream. Madrot entered first, breast plated in grey steel. Removing his helm, he scanned the assembly to acknowledge their cheers— but found instead that their voices rose only for his rival who entered behind him arrayed in gleaming harness bright as silver. Gedain doffed his helm, unveiling his fair visage to the swooning maidens, and grinned with the boldness of one accustomed to such worship. The acclaim swelled and with a flourish, he gestured toward Avarlon who shone surpassingly fair in her silken gown of crimson. The combatants re-helmed and were led to opposing ends of the arena and their squires brought forth their lances. At the lowering of the pennon, both warriors spurred their coursers. Gedain charged with a flourish of silver, his confidence brimming near to arrogance; Madrot rode straight and measured, like an arrow loosed. Their lances struck. Gedain’s blow rattled upon Madrot’s shield, yet glanced away, while Madrot’s veered off Gedain’s shield to smite his helm in a telling blow, knocking it askew upon his head. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Gedain wrestled vainly with the visor, his curses betraying the sting to his pride. Madrot, circling back, lifted his visor to receive the due honor— but the throng had eyes only for Gedain’s vexation. “Another round!” Gedain cried, his voice sharp with choler. “This time I shall not be confounded by this wretched helm.”

“Certainly,” replied Madrot with calm courtesy. The heralds signaled assent, and the crowd stirred with eager whisperings.

On the second charge, Gedain thundered forward too eagerly; his lance shattered upon Madrot’s shield in a wasteful spray of splinters. Madrot answered with a firm, centered strike to Gedain’s breastplate, denting the metal and near unhorsing him. Gedain reeled, clinging desperately to the saddle as the horse galloped. Gasps broke from the assemblage. In fury he tore the helm from his head and flung it aside, demanding another. His squire darted off at once to retrieve one.

Fia, regent-mother and Madrot’s far elder sister, stood reserved upon the dais, yet a faint and knowing smile betrayed her inward Blodwin pride.

“Once more!” Gedain snarled.

“Art thou certain?” said Madrot. “I have already claimed the victory.”

“To hell with thy victory! Once more!”

Madrot took up his lance anew. Gedain’s squire returned with another helm, but this one was adorned with an extravagant transverse crest of purple-dyed horsehair. Gedain cursed his squire’s choice yet donned it all the same. Subdued laughter rippled through the crowd at the absurd visage of purple plumage.

Avarlon clasped her hands together, her brow knit in dread. The squires stepped back. The murmurs faded to silence. The trumpets blared. The horses leapt. The dust rose like smoke from a smoldering fire. At the moment of meeting, Gedain’s aim wavered again, his lance veering wide. But Madrot’s stroke landed true, a mighty blow beneath the rim of Gedain’s shield. The silver knight was hurled from his saddle like a child’s toy, crashing upon the earth with a thunderous thud. The crowd gasped as one, then all fell still as Gedain rolled about like a wounded peacock as he attempting to regain his breath.

Madrot reined his steed with modest grace and saluted the onlookers, though little of their admiration turned toward him. Only Fia, his sister, whom he barely knew, bestowed him a nod and a proud smile.

Avarlon climbed over the barrier and ran to Gedain’s side. With the aid of his squire, she lifted him, half-conscious and groaning from the dust. He threw his helmet, then found the strength enough to curse and spit upon the steed that had also “betrayed” him.

Ceryd, who watched with Kethu from beneath the awning, turned to him for his thoughts. “What dost thou think of this Blodwin heir, teacher?”

Kethu answered softly, eyes set upon Madrot. “Beware the victor, robbed of triumph by a loser’s vanity.”

Pursuit

Madrot, being a young man of great confidence in arms, fancied that his feats in the contests had won him the admiration of the maidens in attendance— Avarlon most of all, whose silky auburn braids and luminous complexion had bewitched his untutored heart. Yet none in Gruen received the ugly prince kindly, nor granted him even the courtesy of feigned interest. Some maidens, themselves enamored of the comely Gedain, averted their eyes or even cast hostile sneers as Madrot strode past, as though he be some base villain deserving of scorn. Come the eve after the joust, finding himself ignored and nursing a wounded pride, Madrot took to strong drink to dull his thoughts. In his cups he grew foul of temper as he espied Avarlon enthralled in flirtatious discourse with his defeated rival. Gedain, noticing Madrot’s glare, mocked him with a wink of his right eye and held Madrot’s gaze as he whispered to those near, eliciting their laughter and disdainful glances. Stung to the quick, Madrot at last tipped his cup and shouted threats of violence. Such uproar followed that men were forced to lay hands upon him. They subdued the spirited Madrot and led him to his chamber, that he might sleep off the bitterness of his ale-and-wine-fueled wrath.

At dawn, with the weight of shame heavy upon him, Madrot gathered his belongings and slipped away whilst the city still slumbered under the spell of revelry. Upon passage from Gruen’s ramparts, he vowed to the watchman that he would never again set foot in “this shit-stinking midden of scoundrels and whores.”

Yet not two hours after Madrot passed through the gate, Avarlon’s father, Olian, caught his daughter attempting to slip into her chamber unbeknownst while still fully dressed in her finery from the evening before. Olian confronted her, demanding to know why she had not returned home the eve prior. Avarlon, pressed by the boar-faced scowl of her father’s stern inquiry, broke immediately into weeping.

“What aileth thee?” her father asked.

Holding herself, she stammered, “that vile knave Madrot…”

Olian’s brow darkened. “What hath happened?”

“He… he barred me on the path home,” she wept, “and dragged me into a stable and forced himself upon me.” Olian’s visage filled with horror. “Afterward, in shame and terror, I hid within the straw and shadows, crying all night, attempting to muster the courage to come forth and speak of the evil deed.”

Noticing the very fragments of stable straw woven into her disheveled hair, Olian became enraged. Without delay he sought out the steward Kethu, finding him in somber contemplation beside the garden fountain. There, Olian demanded immediate justice, crying that his family’s honor now hung upon the steward’s swift hand. As Ceryd was yet abed, and with time being of the essence, Kethu dispatched three warden-riders to pursue Madrot, bidding them seize him, if need be, by force, and bring him back to Gruen to stand trial. Within the hour, three wardens thundered through the city gates. Yet Madrot had kept a furious pace, and they did not overtake him until eventide, when at last they espied him on the road, nearing the old stone bridge spanning the Meb.

“Halt!” cried the riders. Madrot drew rein. They approached. “Madrot of Dregrove, son of Mendo,” one shouted as they neared. “Thou art commanded to return with us to Gruen.”

“For what cause?” said Madrot, surprised.

“The steward Kethu so decrees. Turn thy horse else we shall bind thee.”

“My nephew is rex, now. Why is the Immigrant still giving commands?”

“It matters not. Turn thy horse.”

“Is this an arrest, then? What crime is laid against me?”

“The charge is rape,” replied one sternly.

Madrot’s face stiffened. “Who speaks such falsehood?”

“It is none other than the daughter of Thegn Olian, the fair Avarlon.”

“The maiden lies,” Madrot protested.

“Declare thy innocence before the steward when thou dost stand for judgment.”

“Do you take a Blodwin for a fool?” Madrot asked, for he knew, even before the wardens named the charge, that no man in Gruen would ever believe his denial. “I will not return to that shit pile Gruen and submit to the false justice of petty nobles. We all know the treachery of Cleon’s House. Have the rex resolve it with my father.”

“Then shall we take thee by force,” quoth the warden.

“Take me by force?” Madrot mocked, eyes aflame. “Thou mayest try. Yet I warn thee— I shall never yield. Press me, and there will be blood. But this vow I make: I shall slay but two of thee, leaving the third to bear witness to my mercy.”

The riders laughed as they reached for their swords, but their mirth withered in a heartbeat as Madrot’s steed lunged forward, sowing chaos among their mounts. In the ferment, Madrot lifted the nearest rider’s sword arm with the vambrace upon his own, and with a savage upward arc of his cudgel, he struck temple and ear. The rider toppled from his saddle, lifeless ere he struck the ground. Without pause, Madrot wheeled and galloped to the river, the two remaining riders in swift pursuit. Upon a clearing beyond the bridge, Madrot turned his steed sharply and awaited them. Within moments they arrived, drawing near with blades unsheathed, approaching from either flank. Madrot unfastened his shield and raised it high. “Sheathe thy swords and ride away if thou dost value thy lives,” he warned, voice as blunt and cold as winter stone. “I will never submit.”

“Surrender!” cried one. “Now must thou answer for murder as well!”

“Ride away,” Madrot answered, “or I shall answer for two.”

The riders crossed the bridge and spread wide upon the road, swords gleaming. Without further parley, Madrot charged the rider upon his left. Their blades met with a clash. Madrot deflected the stroke with his shield and, with swift precision, drove the dagger-end of his cudgel deep into the rider’s throat. Upon yanking it loose, the rider dropped his sword and, for but an instant, clasped at the fountain of blood spewing from his neck with both fists curled. Then he crumpled. His steed carried him a few faltering steps before he fell off to the side into the grass.

Turning sharply, Madrot faced the last of his pursuers. “’Twere better for thee to ride home than to be carried there. Turn back, fool.”

“I cannot,” the rider answered with grim resolve.

They met in fierce combat, cudgel against sword, shields battered with mighty strokes. The air rang with the sound of clang and thud. On the third exchange, the rider’s blade missed its mark, leaving his wielder’s arm exposed. With a savage swing, Madrot brought down his club upon the rider’s wrist and forearm. A crack sounded through the clearing as the bones shattered. The sword fell from limp fingers with the rider crying out, cradling his mangled limb.

“Learn now to fight left-handed,” Madrot sneered. “Thou’lt be fortunate to keep that arm once the surgeon hath seen it. Go. Ride home and tell my nephew, and that lying whore Avarlon, that I spared thy life.”

“They shall come for thee,” the rider gasped through gritted teeth.

“Speak no more,” Madrot hissed, stepping close, the blade end of his cudgel raised, “lest I take thy tongue as well.”

Council

When word of Madrot’s escape reached Ceryd’s ears, his countenance darkened with a grave and troubled shade. Though his counselors urged him to assert his lordship by dispatching a battalion in pursuit.

“What say you, teacher?” Ceryd asked in private.

Kethu replied, “Haste in wrath oft bringeth folly.”

And so the young rex heeded Kethu’s counsel and stayed his wardens, saying Madrot would be too far ahead to overtake and the mission futile. Instead, the young rex called his council into its chamber to deliberate the matter.

Reeve and wardens and masters assembled, along with Gedain, and prince Cerenid, and the Immigrant. Ceryd bade his mother Fia attend likewise, for who would know the Reik of Dregrove’s mind better than his eldest daughter? They sat about a long oaken table whose tall-backed chairs groaned beneath the weight of age. It was late afternoon, and the crisp shadows cast by the fading Sol in the windows grew long upon the floor, imparting a somber pall to the chamber.

Olian was first to speak, his outrage unbridled. He smote the table with his fists, crying, “Madrot must be seized and gelded, then hung! If they will not yield him, then I say war! Burn Dregrove to its foundations!” Forgetting Fia was Dregrove’s noble daughter.

The reeve who had sent the warden-riders in pursuit voiced his grief at the loss of two brave men— servants of duty slain without glory. The third rider, though his arm was spared, would unlikely wield a sword with honour again. “Justice!” he demanded.

“Set a bounty upon Madrot’s head. Greed will cause someone to bring him,” urged the Master of Coin.

“Lay siege to their palisade,” added Menek, the captain of the guard. “They will turn him over in less than a fortnight.”

“Let us march on Dregrove at dawn!” thundered Gedain.

Cerenid listened with rapt intensity, while his mother, Fia, hearing all this talk of sieging her home and hanging her brother, sat silent and unmoving, observing all with the cold, glass-eyed stillness of a raven perched upon a barren bough.

When each councilor had shouted his demands, Ceryd turned to Kethu, who had been rubbing his chest and clearing his throat. “Are you unwell, steward?” the rex asked.

“It is but indigestion, my lord,” Kethu answered faintly.

“Then lend us your wisdom, if you are able.”

Kethu stood, though unsteadily, and tried again to clear his throat. His coughing grew into a harsh fit before he regained his breath. He struggled through his first words. “My lord… this is indeed a grave predicament. A true test of a rex. The eyes of all the houses are upon you. And as the legends teach us:

Justice lieth upon the edge betwixt cruelty and weakness. Hold fast the balance lest both consume thee.[vi]“

“Spare us your sermons, Immigrant,” Olian shouted. But Ceryd’s glare silenced him at once.

Kethu continued, though his voice shook. “We have Neandilim spies in our lands now. Whether war cometh to us or we to it, come it shall. If strife arise between the houses, we cannot stand, and Bafomet’s host will devour us one by one. “And there is also this to consider,” Kethu went on. “The Reik of Dregrove is old and failing. It is said he cannot speak save through his younger daughter, Una. I fear he will not linger long in this life, and he hath but one male heir. I do not believe he will surrender Madrot to prison or hanging… or gelding, as Olian demands. But hear this: if Mendo dies before his son’s judgment, Madrot will become reik— and untouchable by law. After that, to make war on the Blodwins, we would surely prevail, but the cost in blood and treasure would be steep indeed.”

“Is there no manner in which to solve this puzzle, Kethu?” Ceryd asked.

Kethu pondered, clutching his robe as though steadying his spirit. “Perhaps… perhaps a tribunal.”

“No!” Olian barked.

Kethu pressed on. “A magistrate from each of the five high houses. Let them convene at a neutral site— maybe in Fywold— and there, weigh Madrot’s guilt.”

“Never, my rex!” Olian snapped. “We must strike while we—”

But mid-sentence, Kethu gasped sharply and toppled forward, his brow striking the table’s edge before he collapsed to the floor. Cerenid leapt to his side while the others crowded round. The prince pressed a cloth to the gash on the steward’s forehead. “Does he live, brother?” asked Ceryd standing over, his voice thin with dread.

“He breathes,” Cerenid replied, eyes shimmering with tears.

“Carry him to the physician at once,” Ceryd ordered. “Go, all of you. Leave me.” Cerenid and the council bore Kethu from the chamber. When they were gone, only Ceryd and his mother remained; she had not risen from her seat, nor had her expression changed. “I am unsure of the path, Mother,” Ceryd confessed.

At last she spoke. “It is true— your grandfather is frail. Una has written to me that he will soon be dead, and Madrot will be reik.”

“Then I must act swiftly.”

“Yes,” she answered. “But not recklessly. My father may be old, but his mind is yet sharp. He will have laid a trap— and not where you would expect to find it. You must not forget his enmity. Your father humiliated him. He stole his daughter, and now Cleon’s house seeks to humble him again from beyond the grave. My father’s life has narrowed unto this single point. He lives now only to taste a final revenge.”

“But I am his grandson,” Ceryd murmured.

“Aye, but Madrot is his son.”

“…And also your brother.”

Fia’s eyes narrowed. “Brother in name only. I never knew him.”

“I cannot permit a rapist and murderer to go free. I would lose all honor in the eyes of the people.”

“Aye, you must act,” Fia replied coldly. “But he who buildeth his honour upon the reverence of the people buildeth upon mud.”

“Now you sound like Kethu,” Ceryd muttered.

Fia remained unreadable, unblinking. “I say this: make a demand for a tribunal. But have them find Madrot innocent. I will see to it my father agrees. Then my father will die in peace knowing Madrot will be reik.”

“And Olian? Will he not poison my well after?”

“Marry his daughter,” Fia replied coldly. “Let her be rexia. She is beautiful and dull— a perfect queen. Olian will be reluctantly appeased.”

“And Gedain? He woos her.”

“Thou knowest Gedain is vain. He is no friend to thee. If he remains, then Avarlon will fall to him, and you will be disgraced. Send him off on some mission. Or charge him with some offense and have him dishonored. Or better yet— let him be found drowned or kicked in the head by a mule. That is how your father would have handled him.”

“Come now, mother.” Ceryd said, rolling his eyes.

He paced the length of the chamber, the hem of his cloak brushing against the cold stone, halting at last at a narrow window facing east, where the pallor of twilight smoldered with thickening clouds. For a long moment he watched the darkening horizon, as though it might offer counsel where men could not. At length he turned and spoke, his voice scarcely above a breath. “Mother… did you love my father?”

For the first time that eve, the glassy steadiness in her eyes softened, and she seemed to look not at Ceryd, but through him— into some far and haunted memory. “Cleon was a cruel man,” she said in a low voice, immutable, like a slow-rolling millstone. “He was a ruthless man… violent, unyielding. He never questioned himself, nor did he ever express a regret.” She paused, her fingers tightening upon the arm of her chair. “And yet—” Her breath caught as though the words resisted being spoken. “At times… aye, I did long for his presence… his protection. But only when he was away.”

Parlay

Suffice it to say, Dregrove would not simply relinquish its fugitive noble son. Thus, a host was assembled beneath the banners of Gruen and marched forth in grim array; and both sons of Cleon rode with it— Ceryd as rex newly risen, and Cerenid as prince beside him.

Upon the morning of the ninth day of their vigorous march, the host crossed Briganta Bridge, very near the wide confluence where the Caleah meets the shimmering Fywater. The sky lay overcast, but the air stood clear as polished glass, granting sight across the swelling plain. There, beyond the banks, set upon the edge of a long green sweep of undulating grassland, they espied the mustered strength of Reik Mendo— arrayed in distant silence like a wall of stones. Yet this came as no surprise, for scouts had traced the Blodwin movements for many leagues and days.

“Their ground is the higher, my lord,” observed Captain Menek. “But our numbers are the greater.”

No sooner had Menek spoken than a second shimmer of steel crested the horizon to the left of House Dregrove.

“Look south— House Fy joins,” Gedain said, squinting at their banners.

“Now our numbers are even… if they choose to oppose us,” Menek replied.

“First, we parlay,” Ceryd declared. “No blood need be spilt this day.”

Thus, Menek and Olian, Gedain of Welf, their bannermen and their squires, rode forth with the noble brothers Ceryd and Cerenid, to meet these seasoned warriors accustomed to border strife. The Blodwins sent riders and footmen in equal number to meet them upon the midway of the open field, and with them rode Korbin, the Reik of Fy, and his two eldest sons.

“Thinkest grandfather shall accept our terms?” Cerenid wondered aloud as they rode.

“It is a foregone conclusion,” Ceryd whispered. “Mother hath arranged it.”

The opposing parties converged. Reik Mendo, their grandfather, appeared more withered and greyer than the brothers had imagined. His frail form wavered in the saddle, with his marshal on one side and his younger daughter on the other, ready to steady him if needed. Una, mail-clad though slight of frame, bore her helm beneath one arm; her umber braids spilled forth like tethers of autumn. A deep furrow carved her brow, marking her near thirty winters of iron resolve. Madrot’s gaze found Olian’s first. A long, venomous stare passed between them. Olian ground his teeth, jowls trembling. Then Madrot met Gedain’s glare. Gedain sneered, and Madrot answered with a slow, insolent smirk.

“Lords,” began Ceryd, “we have all ridden far these days. Let this parlay be fruitful, that resolution may follow.”

“Where’s the old Aeonite?” asked the Reik of Fy.

“He was too frail to make the journey,” Ceryd answered.

“You two have grown,” Una remarked softly. “It hath been many years.”

“Indeed, Aunt Una. A long time,” Ceryd said. “I trust you have received our terms.”

“We have received them,” Una replied.

“And House Fy?”

“We have,” said their reik.

“Then the tribunal stands agreed? Will the Fys take Madrot into their custody?” But as Ceryd spoke, a wind rose, whipping the banners just as Reik Mendo began to mumble. His speech was mere dry, broken utterances, like a creaking hinge. Una leaned close, listening as though his nonsense bore meaning. “My father hath spoken,” she said.

“I beg pardon,” said Ceryd. “What did he speak? I could not decipher it.”

“He sayeth he does not accept these terms,” Una answered.

Gedain scoffed. “Does a woman now speak for the Reik of Dregrove?”

Ceryd frowned. “I thought this matter was already decided.”

“My father hath had a change of heart,” Una replied.

“And what would he have, instead?” asked Ceryd. “Let not this day turn to blood.”

Mendo croaked again. Una listened as though interpreting prophecy. “My father demands that the trial be held here, now, upon this field.” Cerenid gazed at his brother, awaiting his reply.

“And how,” Ceryd asked, “shall we contrive that? We lack Reik Tollus, who is yet en route to Fywold. He fulfills the quorum.” Madrot stirred in his saddle. Una straightened.

“My father demands trial by combat, by the old law, here, this day. And so shall the matter be resolved once and for all.”

“This is not what was agreed,” Ceryd protested.

“Nevertheless, my lord…” Una said calmly. “It is my father’s will.”

“Your father risks battle, hundreds dead ere nightfall.”

Mendo mumbled anew. “My father sayeth trial by combat will avert the slaughter… He proposes a contest of noble sons. Madrot, heir to Dregrove will battle Cerenid, prince of Gruen, with justice being deemed the winner.”

Cerenid paled. Then retorted.

“The prince is no warrior,” Olian bawled. “He’s still a boy. There will be no justice from—”

Ceryd cut him off. “I have already seen this contest in a dire vision. Though my brother be valiant, I will not submit him to the peril I foresaw. Madrot is years older and far stronger at arms.”

“Then the trial is concluded, nephew. The charges withdrawn and bloodshed averted.”

“No!” Olian shouted.

“Aunt Una,” Ceryd said, “I cannot just dismiss such a serious charge.”

Mendo croaked again while Una listened. “If the charges are not withdrawn,” she said, “then a trial must occur. Still, my father risks his own son, his only heir. His peril is great. He demands Gruen match his stake. If there be no trial, then war shall fall upon this field ere sunset.”

Olian’s steed danced anxiously beneath him as he burned in rage. Cerenid’s face drained as though a winter current gripped him. The Fys sat cold and unreadable. Madrot’s sinister smile widened like a blade being drawn. Ceryd stared into Mendo’s clouded eyes, and there, behind the rheum and age, he discerned the glimmer of bright cunning— and beheld the trap. And Mendo knew he knew it. The rex turned to Gedain as if to implore him to stand for his prince, but Gedain’s eyes lowered. Ceryd pondered the tightening of the snare. There was no escape. He could not withdraw the charge without ruining his honour as rex. Yet he could not bid his young brother to stand, for he would surely be slain. And if battle came, hundreds would die that day.

Then a confident grin cut across the young rex’s face. “Then I shall stand to fight thy son, grandfather.”

“No, my lord!” protested Menek. We cannot risk the crown.

Ceryd turned upon him, speaking with confidence. “I have bested Madrot before. He is a brute, no match for my training. I shall end this strife today and win both justice and the honor of my men. Else Madrot can submit to my custody and be taken to Gruen for trial.”

Silence fell as everyone turned to Madrot. His heavy brow furrowed as he winced his bulging eyes. The wind fluttered. A horse blew. He suppressed the grin that threatened to betray his delight. “I do not submit, my lord,” he said, voice low and stern.

Trial

The wind swept upon the green expanse of Briganta Field beneath a boiling mass of clouds. The hosts stood silent and still in their files, facing each other, their banners gently rippling in the uneasy air. Madrot rode forth first, astride a tall grey charger, his iron cudgel hanging at his side, its dagger-end unsheathed, glinting like a serpent’s fang. He halted midway between the hosts.

Ceryd rode forth to meet him, stopping at a spear’s length. The two regarded one another across the narrow gulf— bound as uncle and nephew by blood, yet made enemies by fate.

At last, Madrot raised his voice. “Greetings, nephew. Shall we embrace?” He opened his arms as though welcoming kin to a hearth.

Ceryd huffed at the mockery. He dismounted, handing his reins to his squire, and strode forward with measured tread. His sword gleamed with the brightness of youth, and his shield bore Cleon’s crest. Though he smiled, it was thin and cold. “An embrace, uncle?” Ceryd answered. “Let our metal be the arms that clasp.”

They saluted, stepped back, and the marshal of Fy called the rite: “By the old law, with blood the price, let justice fall to strength. Let none interfere.”

Then the duel began.

Ceryd moved with the fluid crawl of a prowling cat, revealing his Aeonite training. He struck first, shield forward, blade arcing toward Madrot’s helm. Madrot reeled beneath the blow, stumbling a pace. A hopeful murmur rippled through Gruen’s ranks.

Cerenid dared a breath.

Gedain’s lip curled.

Across from them, Una and Mendo watched unblinking.

Ceryd pressed the attack, raining steel upon his foe. Madrot’s shield boomed with each strike, ringing like a muffled bell. Step by step the Blodwin heir yielded ground. They squared again. Madrot circled, gaining space. He moved more like a hound, in bursts, seeking advantage, testing for the precise moment to lunge. Ceryd leapt, outflanking him, but his strike glanced only his mail. Madrot repositioned. Ceryd feigned a backhand strike, then spun, cutting at Madrot’s shins. Madrot lurched away, evading the crippling blow, but lost his balance. He frantically rolled as Ceryd speared, just evading ruin.

Then, with a sigh, Madrot relaxed. His tense guard lowered. His breathing steadied. Ceryd’s dance swirled around him like stormwater round a drain.

Ceryd struck downward.

Madrot twisted away.

Ceryd’s blade bit air.

Then again Ceryd glanced, and missed.

Ceryd missed a fourth time and Madrot’s cudgel flashed, striking Ceryd’s shield with such force that the young rex staggered. Again, the cudgel came, hammer first, then dagger-end, each blow precise, frugal. Ceryd leapt back, gasping beneath the weight of it, eyes widening in surprise at the speed and blunt force of the man he had easily bested in the yard. The hosts watched in stunned quiet. Ceryd tried to disengage, to regroup, to rebalance and catch his breath, but Madrot pressed him. Ceryd counter-attacked, yet each fluid movement he made was evaded by a quick shift, a short step, and a counter thrust.

The rex feinted left… A hook of the shield…

Then a sudden upward strike by Madrot and Ceryd’s sword flew from his grasp, spinning end over end, landing in the grass beyond his reach. Ceryd, disarmed, turned briefly to locate it. A desperate cry went up from Gruen’s line. “Yield, my lord!”

Madrot charged, slamming his shield into Ceryd’s breast, driving him backward. Ceryd stumbled, reaching for footing. Madrot bore down again, crashing atop him. The dagger-pike flashed like lightning.

“Yield!” Cerenid screamed.

But there was no time for parry or plea. Madrot drove his iron blade into Ceryd’s throat. The rex coughed once, then blood poured from his neck and mouth. His eyes rolled back as Madrot withdrew the blade. Cerenid shouted, voice cracking, “Brother!”

Thus, the trial was ended.

Reik Mendo urged his steed forward, with Una steadying the reins. His withered face held no glow of triumph. He gazed down at Ceryd, face splattered by his own blood. Mendo’s indecipherable voice croaked across a mournful hush. Una translated. “My father says, ‘I am sorry, grandson, that thou wert made to bear the sins of thy father.’”

A gasp rose among the gathered warriors, Gruen and Dregrove alike. Cerenid stared in disbelief, the words cutting deeper than any blade. Madrot lowered his weapon, chest heaving, eyes fixed upon Ceryd’s fallen form. His expression was no longer sinister but filled with remorse. Cerenid rushed to kneel beside his dead brother, lifting his head into his lap. Blood spilled from Ceryd’s mouth and throat, warm upon his hands as he wept. “Please live, brother,” he whispered. But Ceryd’s lifeless eyes no longer saw him.

The marshal of Fy stepped forward. “By the old law,” he said, “he who slayeth the rex shall be made rex!”

“That has not been the law for three centuries,” bellowed Olian.

Madrot turned upon them, his voice low but carrying. “I sought justice, not a crown. Let the brother bear it.” He mounted his steed with deliberate calm, then rode slowly back into the ranks of Dregrove.

Behind them, the hosts shifted hands to hilts, old feuds and new wounds trembling on the edge of eruption. Only Una’s voice broke the gathering storm: “Stand down! Stand down all of you!” she cried. “The trial is ended. There is no need for more blood. House Dregrove pledges its allegiance to Cerenid Rex.”

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[i] Vallis/The Garden Vallis: The fertile jungle paradise, woven through the lowlands and canyons of sweltering Vê. The pinnacle of The One’s creation. The birthplace of the dragons and the home of the Neandilim. Destroyed by fire and turned to glass.

[ii] Edä: The cold, wet realm of True Men.

[iii] Neandilim are the direct descendants of the tribe that came to Edä to escape the destruction of Vallis.

[iv] Nundi is a pejorative for Neandilim.

[v] From ‘Dawn of Edä,’ the Holy Book of the Hedam, v 287:
Then rose Bafomet from the throne of crystal and flame. The voice that issued forth was not of man nor woman, but a mingling of both, a harmony of discord that chilled the soul. “Behold, the coin that buyeth rebellion! If cast into the deep, who then shall spend it? For thy worth is unrest, thy face is remembrance, and thy breath awakeneth defiance in the hearts of men.”

[vi] From ‘Dawn of Edä,’ the Holy Book of the Hedam, v 193.

Contents

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Contents

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 and 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 as 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 honor, 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 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 gray. 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 honour. 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 honour 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.