Anarchy666
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Appreciate the constructive criticism on my initial attempt, here's what I've got after starting over and taking those criticisms into account.
* * *
* * *
Chapter 1: An Enemy Returns
His hand gripped the handle of the arming sword as tightly as if letting go meant falling off of the face of the earth. The scouts hadn't heard a sound, not a bird, nothing. “Means a predator is nearby,” Captain Ragnall had said – one of the last things he'd said.
Mere minutes later he was running for his life. The silence had been replaced by only the screaming of his comrades, and the shuffling of his feet as he made a last-minute decision to run. The way it had torn through them, like a hot knife through butter. Their weapons seemed to glance off of its hide, their arrows seemed only to annoy it.
And now, here he was.
Hunted, like so many creatures he'd hunted before.
Ulf knew if he stopped, he would only be encouraging the creature. Yet, he had to stop, his hands slick with blood not his own as he fumbled with his waterskin for hydration. He had attempted to carry young Egil away after he'd been tossed like a ragdoll into the forest – before realizing he was dead. That's when Ulf started running.
Before he could fully relax and catch his breath, there was a loud thud beside him, and Ulf looked over to see the lacerated and mangled corpse of Captain Ragnall. He screamed and immediately scrambled to his feet and broke into a run once more. He ran until his breathing grew ragged, he ran until his legs were slick with sweat. He ran... and ultimately had to stop himself from going over a massive drop-off.
“God, no,” he shrieked as he winced and grabbed the nearest tree branch to keep from going over the edge. Before he could think on what to do next, his heart sank as he identified a new noise. He held his breath, but the sound of breathing did not stop.
He turned around, and when he saw it, he screamed.
His hand gripped the handle of the arming sword as tightly as if letting go meant falling off of the face of the earth. The scouts hadn't heard a sound, not a bird, nothing. “Means a predator is nearby,” Captain Ragnall had said – one of the last things he'd said.
Mere minutes later he was running for his life. The silence had been replaced by only the screaming of his comrades, and the shuffling of his feet as he made a last-minute decision to run. The way it had torn through them, like a hot knife through butter. Their weapons seemed to glance off of its hide, their arrows seemed only to annoy it.
And now, here he was.
Hunted, like so many creatures he'd hunted before.
Ulf knew if he stopped, he would only be encouraging the creature. Yet, he had to stop, his hands slick with blood not his own as he fumbled with his waterskin for hydration. He had attempted to carry young Egil away after he'd been tossed like a ragdoll into the forest – before realizing he was dead. That's when Ulf started running.
Before he could fully relax and catch his breath, there was a loud thud beside him, and Ulf looked over to see the lacerated and mangled corpse of Captain Ragnall. He screamed and immediately scrambled to his feet and broke into a run once more. He ran until his breathing grew ragged, he ran until his legs were slick with sweat. He ran... and ultimately had to stop himself from going over a massive drop-off.
“God, no,” he shrieked as he winced and grabbed the nearest tree branch to keep from going over the edge. Before he could think on what to do next, his heart sank as he identified a new noise. He held his breath, but the sound of breathing did not stop.
He turned around, and when he saw it, he screamed.
* * *
Sir Ivarr Nordberg was accompanied by his falconer Agnarr when he discovered the remains of one of the scouts. “Looks like he fell from a great height,” said Ivarr.
“What do you think he was running from,” Agnarr inquired.
Ivarr shook his head and pulled out a pre-written note, perusing it briefly before rolling it back up, “I had my cleric write out a few letters in case something like this happened.” The falconer nodded solemnly. “I guess this means they didn't find the missing farmers.” Ivarr cocked his head as he handed the scroll to Agnarr. “Or maybe they did.”
Agnarr saddled the raptor with the message to be delivered back home, and sent him on his way.
“Weather's supposed to be clear for the next week or so, he should be able to make it to Fyrisvellir, from where we are now at the march's reach,” Ivarr said, after taking a pull from his waterskin and looking up at the skies.
“Wish we could say the same about the land,” added Agnarr.
“What do you think he was running from,” Agnarr inquired.
Ivarr shook his head and pulled out a pre-written note, perusing it briefly before rolling it back up, “I had my cleric write out a few letters in case something like this happened.” The falconer nodded solemnly. “I guess this means they didn't find the missing farmers.” Ivarr cocked his head as he handed the scroll to Agnarr. “Or maybe they did.”
Agnarr saddled the raptor with the message to be delivered back home, and sent him on his way.
“Weather's supposed to be clear for the next week or so, he should be able to make it to Fyrisvellir, from where we are now at the march's reach,” Ivarr said, after taking a pull from his waterskin and looking up at the skies.
“Wish we could say the same about the land,” added Agnarr.
* * *
Hans II – King of Skogland, patriarch of House Skogerrak – observed the elk on their kingdom's coat of arms as he brooded. In time, the king of neighboring Ausland would arrive with his family, and greet their own. They would have a feast wherein the two kings would discuss politics. And it was here, just as then, he let it slip.
“I detect a hint of... what's the word for it... trepidation, on your part,” said King Michael XIII. “What is it that bothers you so much in asking me for a favor, you know my son was recently elected the youngest High Seer of Elysium, yes?”
“Yes, Michael, I know,” said the Skog King with a sigh, “we are all aware of how proud of your son you are. Your gregarious nature precedes you, your highness,” he said, winking at the Auslander, who smiled warmly back at him. “Ausland and Skogland are equals, don't get me wrong, but considering the fact your lands swore allegiance to the Fifteen Realms – and you have more manpower – the emperor will never accept a counsel with me without your input. It is all so tiresome and humiliating.”
The Auslander King gathered Hans's hands in his own, and looked him in the eye.
“I will grant you a counsel with the emperor, on one condition,” he said, erecting an outstretched index finger. “You come to my kingdom to have an event such as this, but I will be hosting – not you. Are we in agreement?”
Hans nodded gingerly.
And so it was agreed. After the discussion in their office about technicalities the Eichenholz were on about their way. Although, during their meeting, the city falconer had alerted their queen to a disturbing realization.
“There is a troll in our midst,” she'd whispered to him.
Everything had changed; the whole mechanism of the application of their war powers had been upended. If they were fighting humans – in addition to trolls – they may well be outnumbered. And King Hans II was not about to let himself be outmaneuvered.
“I detect a hint of... what's the word for it... trepidation, on your part,” said King Michael XIII. “What is it that bothers you so much in asking me for a favor, you know my son was recently elected the youngest High Seer of Elysium, yes?”
“Yes, Michael, I know,” said the Skog King with a sigh, “we are all aware of how proud of your son you are. Your gregarious nature precedes you, your highness,” he said, winking at the Auslander, who smiled warmly back at him. “Ausland and Skogland are equals, don't get me wrong, but considering the fact your lands swore allegiance to the Fifteen Realms – and you have more manpower – the emperor will never accept a counsel with me without your input. It is all so tiresome and humiliating.”
The Auslander King gathered Hans's hands in his own, and looked him in the eye.
“I will grant you a counsel with the emperor, on one condition,” he said, erecting an outstretched index finger. “You come to my kingdom to have an event such as this, but I will be hosting – not you. Are we in agreement?”
Hans nodded gingerly.
And so it was agreed. After the discussion in their office about technicalities the Eichenholz were on about their way. Although, during their meeting, the city falconer had alerted their queen to a disturbing realization.
“There is a troll in our midst,” she'd whispered to him.
Everything had changed; the whole mechanism of the application of their war powers had been upended. If they were fighting humans – in addition to trolls – they may well be outnumbered. And King Hans II was not about to let himself be outmaneuvered.
* * *
Emperor Jinzi Lang-yao – descendant of both the ancient Cheonma and Nipponese royal houses stretching back for thousands of years of history – had cemented his name into the annals of history firmly enough that he feared no irrelevance.
However, there was one man – known only as Tsu – who could threaten to upend this steady and peaceful rule his dynasty had brought down upon three continents. For the past seven hundred years, the Jinzi Dynasty had ruled over a majority of Midland, by proxy over a majority of Nuna, and all of Gondwana aside from some Warae sub-caliphs in the north of the continent.
With a population of over two-hundred million, and an expanse covering a majority of the world's landmass, Zen was the most successful and most-powerful empire in known history. Originating in the snow-capped mountains of Nuna, the Zeno Empire encompassed roughly half of the world population, with only several peninsulas and islands left unconquered around the Midland and Nippon.
Now, Lord Tsu – deadliest of the Ronin caste – had arrived in his throne room.
“Have a seat, Lord Tsu,” he stated.
Tsu did as he was told, the Zeno being an honor-bound people.
“We control a majority of the world, is this not true, Lord Tsu,” Lang-yao inquired to his subordinate as he remained in a knelt position. “My liege, it is true. We currently encircle the western peninsulas of Jotunheim and Westernesse, they are the last major civilization to resist us in several battles...” he trailed off. “But they will soon be conquered in due time.”
“Are our bombardiers ready,” he asked, to no response. “This is your task, Lord Tsu – assemble the bombardiers, all battalions and legions, we attack Westernesse and Jotunheim in one years' time. That is your time limit: one year. If you can prepare an invasion before then, you will be greatly rewarded. Am I understood, Lord Tsu?”
“Yes, my liege.”
“You are dismissed.”
However, there was one man – known only as Tsu – who could threaten to upend this steady and peaceful rule his dynasty had brought down upon three continents. For the past seven hundred years, the Jinzi Dynasty had ruled over a majority of Midland, by proxy over a majority of Nuna, and all of Gondwana aside from some Warae sub-caliphs in the north of the continent.
With a population of over two-hundred million, and an expanse covering a majority of the world's landmass, Zen was the most successful and most-powerful empire in known history. Originating in the snow-capped mountains of Nuna, the Zeno Empire encompassed roughly half of the world population, with only several peninsulas and islands left unconquered around the Midland and Nippon.
Now, Lord Tsu – deadliest of the Ronin caste – had arrived in his throne room.
“Have a seat, Lord Tsu,” he stated.
Tsu did as he was told, the Zeno being an honor-bound people.
“We control a majority of the world, is this not true, Lord Tsu,” Lang-yao inquired to his subordinate as he remained in a knelt position. “My liege, it is true. We currently encircle the western peninsulas of Jotunheim and Westernesse, they are the last major civilization to resist us in several battles...” he trailed off. “But they will soon be conquered in due time.”
“Are our bombardiers ready,” he asked, to no response. “This is your task, Lord Tsu – assemble the bombardiers, all battalions and legions, we attack Westernesse and Jotunheim in one years' time. That is your time limit: one year. If you can prepare an invasion before then, you will be greatly rewarded. Am I understood, Lord Tsu?”
“Yes, my liege.”
“You are dismissed.”
* * *
The patriarch and ruler of their homeland – Jarl Uther III Valravn – had passed away in the night. An ad-hoc council was composed, led by the Jarlskona – Frederikke IV, wife of Uther III – that gathered all of the marcher lords, counts and viscounts of Derwyddon together in Lyngvi, the largest Derwydd city of its kind.
“You should wear your wolf pelt,” said Fru Ursula Valravn to her son, Soren.
Freyr Soren relented, and dressed for the occasion, no doubt he would be called upon for the burial ceremony, wherein they burned the body of the deceased warrior. Uther III had seen quite a few battles in his days, their wars with the Druids of the North in Skogland, the battles along the border with the Zeno Empire.
Soren had fought in several battles, although he was heavily guarded due to his position as a marcher lord. He always intended to lose his escorts so he could go solo, much to the chagrin of his mother.
As a Bow Captain of the Royal Derwydd Army and a marcher lord, Soren not only commanded the respect of his men, but also the women. Although they were the last berserker kingdom – berserkers not known for their gregarious nature – Soren had many female admirers, unlike most berserkers. He still remembered his coming-of-age ceremony almost a decade ago.
Soren overheard a piece of conversation between his mother and the queen – something about skirmishes with neighboring Skoglanders and making him the supreme commander of the army. He thought about this as he attended the cremation. The flames of the pyre seemed to escape into the heavens they stretched so tall. If one were to see him from the fire's point of view, they would see an image of Soren with his eyes appearing to ignite the literal flames of fury.
The spirit of their house coat of arms, the falcon, flowed through his veins. Even his prominent nose bridge and piercing gaze that seemed to dominate his facial features betrayed a birdlike instinct borne of his very blood and bones. And like all of the royalty of the Druids of the East, his hair was black as the heraldry of House Raven itself, and kept just above shoulder-length.
They were to meet near the northern border with Skogland, an area almost always covered in a thin layer of snow, by the end of the week. They double-timed it so they would have enough food and water for the trek back home, but their journey was nevertheless impeded as much as realistically possible – a downed tree here, a wild boar there – they eventually reached their destination near the Norse River's source, near the peak of the mountain on the opposite side of the Nidavellirs.
The legends shared by the Northlanders, Skoglanders, themselves and even to an extent the Auslanders were that these mountains were home to the dwarves – an ancient subterranean race of people that were half-human and half-something else. There were even beliefs among the Northerners that some of their blood passed down through bloodlines over the course of centuries into some of the native populations of the Northern Nations.
That night, while they were taking watch shifts, they were raided by creatures. The lieutenant woke them rather rudely – shaking them and pouring water on their faces to rouse them. Once they were all assembled in stealth fighting position, what they noticed in the nearby periphery that were gathered together to raid their food stunned them.
“Vargr,” the young Bjorn asked. “What are they–”
“Shh,” hissed Lieutenant Ragnar.
The berserkers stood by and let it happen, awaiting their next opportunity to strike. Freyr Soren noted their misshapen and warped features – all vargr being direwolves that had degenerated due to some form of magic or extreme inbreeding. Attacking them by stealth, the berserkers eliminated the vargr in short order. The last one appeared to have some form of dwarven technology in the form of some sort of blade or arrow wedged in its hide. Soren approached and gashed the vargr's throat.
“What is this,” asked the lieutenant, picking up the blade.
“It appears to be a piece of dwarven technology,” said Soren as he approached and offered to hold it. The soldier handed the weapon over to him, and the marcher lord began to inspect it. “Any idea where this might have come from,” he inquired to the party's cleric.
“Well, it appears to originate from the dwarven mines beneath the Nidavellirs. Possibly buried underneath miles upon miles of earth. There were rumored to be grand stairwells that led down into the mines, although no one alive has ever seen the entrance to one of these mines,” he explained.
Soren stroked his bearded chin and thought deeply.
“We'll find these mines on the way back. For now? We go to confront the Skoglanders. We have a job to do,” declared Soren defiantly.
“What are vargr, exactly,” the young Bjorn asked of Soren.
“A fae-wolf hybrid,” he replied, not slowing his pace an inch, “abominations.”
“You should wear your wolf pelt,” said Fru Ursula Valravn to her son, Soren.
Freyr Soren relented, and dressed for the occasion, no doubt he would be called upon for the burial ceremony, wherein they burned the body of the deceased warrior. Uther III had seen quite a few battles in his days, their wars with the Druids of the North in Skogland, the battles along the border with the Zeno Empire.
Soren had fought in several battles, although he was heavily guarded due to his position as a marcher lord. He always intended to lose his escorts so he could go solo, much to the chagrin of his mother.
As a Bow Captain of the Royal Derwydd Army and a marcher lord, Soren not only commanded the respect of his men, but also the women. Although they were the last berserker kingdom – berserkers not known for their gregarious nature – Soren had many female admirers, unlike most berserkers. He still remembered his coming-of-age ceremony almost a decade ago.
Soren overheard a piece of conversation between his mother and the queen – something about skirmishes with neighboring Skoglanders and making him the supreme commander of the army. He thought about this as he attended the cremation. The flames of the pyre seemed to escape into the heavens they stretched so tall. If one were to see him from the fire's point of view, they would see an image of Soren with his eyes appearing to ignite the literal flames of fury.
The spirit of their house coat of arms, the falcon, flowed through his veins. Even his prominent nose bridge and piercing gaze that seemed to dominate his facial features betrayed a birdlike instinct borne of his very blood and bones. And like all of the royalty of the Druids of the East, his hair was black as the heraldry of House Raven itself, and kept just above shoulder-length.
They were to meet near the northern border with Skogland, an area almost always covered in a thin layer of snow, by the end of the week. They double-timed it so they would have enough food and water for the trek back home, but their journey was nevertheless impeded as much as realistically possible – a downed tree here, a wild boar there – they eventually reached their destination near the Norse River's source, near the peak of the mountain on the opposite side of the Nidavellirs.
The legends shared by the Northlanders, Skoglanders, themselves and even to an extent the Auslanders were that these mountains were home to the dwarves – an ancient subterranean race of people that were half-human and half-something else. There were even beliefs among the Northerners that some of their blood passed down through bloodlines over the course of centuries into some of the native populations of the Northern Nations.
That night, while they were taking watch shifts, they were raided by creatures. The lieutenant woke them rather rudely – shaking them and pouring water on their faces to rouse them. Once they were all assembled in stealth fighting position, what they noticed in the nearby periphery that were gathered together to raid their food stunned them.
“Vargr,” the young Bjorn asked. “What are they–”
“Shh,” hissed Lieutenant Ragnar.
The berserkers stood by and let it happen, awaiting their next opportunity to strike. Freyr Soren noted their misshapen and warped features – all vargr being direwolves that had degenerated due to some form of magic or extreme inbreeding. Attacking them by stealth, the berserkers eliminated the vargr in short order. The last one appeared to have some form of dwarven technology in the form of some sort of blade or arrow wedged in its hide. Soren approached and gashed the vargr's throat.
“What is this,” asked the lieutenant, picking up the blade.
“It appears to be a piece of dwarven technology,” said Soren as he approached and offered to hold it. The soldier handed the weapon over to him, and the marcher lord began to inspect it. “Any idea where this might have come from,” he inquired to the party's cleric.
“Well, it appears to originate from the dwarven mines beneath the Nidavellirs. Possibly buried underneath miles upon miles of earth. There were rumored to be grand stairwells that led down into the mines, although no one alive has ever seen the entrance to one of these mines,” he explained.
Soren stroked his bearded chin and thought deeply.
“We'll find these mines on the way back. For now? We go to confront the Skoglanders. We have a job to do,” declared Soren defiantly.
“What are vargr, exactly,” the young Bjorn asked of Soren.
“A fae-wolf hybrid,” he replied, not slowing his pace an inch, “abominations.”
* * *
After the fight Princess Grima had with her father – the king – she genuinely felt angry. He'd been so loud, demanding this was what was best for the family and his sixteen year old daughter. “He's sixty-seven years old, he's an old man, pa,” she'd plead.
“You're a woman now,” he'd calmly explain, lowering his voice, after taking some deep breaths. “At sixteen your twin brother is expected to join the military and train in all the ways of a soldier. He will be putting his life on the line. Thank the Gods you are not in his shoes today.”
King Hans recalled the dueling match with his son – Prince Ingvar – and how he'd determined he was not ready. When Ingvar protested, Hans whirled around and scolded him, “By your age I was already one of the top swordsmen of my unit,” he'd explain. “We were expected to do twenty push-ups every morning, twenty more at night before bed – without faltering. We were expected to know all the ins and outs of swordfighting. There is no excuse. Go to your room,” he said.
“B-but,” protested Ingvar.
“Now!”
All the while, the two were completely unaware Runa and Hans Junior were watching.
After this, the fourteen-year old and the twelve-year old went into the garden to practice their own swordfighting abilities. When Runa lost, she protested. “I'm better with a bow,” she said. She then looked around and located the armory. She held a finger to her lips and went and raided it. “What, what are you doing? You're going to get us in trouble.”
But it was too late, Runa had returned with a bow, “no, don't.” She had a wicked grin on her face, and for a second, he thought he was going to get an arrow shot at him. “No, you don't.” Said Princess Grima, scooping up her much smaller younger sister and retrieving the bow from her. “Ow, you twisted my arm,” she protested.
“This, is not a toy,” she insisted, leaning in so she'd hear better, and then promptly returning the weapon to its designated area. When Grima tried to apologize, Runa broodingly ignored her. “Fine, have it your way. I'm going back upstairs to get ready for my wedding.”
“Wedding to an old fat geezer,” shouted Hans III.
Grima grimaced at the young boy. “I am going to be Empress of the Fifteen Realms South of the Ripheans, the most powerful woman in the land. What's that to say about you, you little shite?”
He stuck his tongue out at her and she responded by slamming the door.
“You're a woman now,” he'd calmly explain, lowering his voice, after taking some deep breaths. “At sixteen your twin brother is expected to join the military and train in all the ways of a soldier. He will be putting his life on the line. Thank the Gods you are not in his shoes today.”
King Hans recalled the dueling match with his son – Prince Ingvar – and how he'd determined he was not ready. When Ingvar protested, Hans whirled around and scolded him, “By your age I was already one of the top swordsmen of my unit,” he'd explain. “We were expected to do twenty push-ups every morning, twenty more at night before bed – without faltering. We were expected to know all the ins and outs of swordfighting. There is no excuse. Go to your room,” he said.
“B-but,” protested Ingvar.
“Now!”
All the while, the two were completely unaware Runa and Hans Junior were watching.
After this, the fourteen-year old and the twelve-year old went into the garden to practice their own swordfighting abilities. When Runa lost, she protested. “I'm better with a bow,” she said. She then looked around and located the armory. She held a finger to her lips and went and raided it. “What, what are you doing? You're going to get us in trouble.”
But it was too late, Runa had returned with a bow, “no, don't.” She had a wicked grin on her face, and for a second, he thought he was going to get an arrow shot at him. “No, you don't.” Said Princess Grima, scooping up her much smaller younger sister and retrieving the bow from her. “Ow, you twisted my arm,” she protested.
“This, is not a toy,” she insisted, leaning in so she'd hear better, and then promptly returning the weapon to its designated area. When Grima tried to apologize, Runa broodingly ignored her. “Fine, have it your way. I'm going back upstairs to get ready for my wedding.”
“Wedding to an old fat geezer,” shouted Hans III.
Grima grimaced at the young boy. “I am going to be Empress of the Fifteen Realms South of the Ripheans, the most powerful woman in the land. What's that to say about you, you little shite?”
He stuck his tongue out at her and she responded by slamming the door.
* * *
As King Hans prepared for battle against the invaders, the city falconer arrived with a message from King Michael of Ausland. The first since their last parley nearly a year ago. “He requests a council with you and your queen, if you are able to, your highness.”
The king deliberated, knowing he had to lead his soldiers but also knowing he needed to confer with King Michael due to his connections to the emperor. He not only needed to get his house conferred as a major player, but also needed to secure his daughter.
“Have the cleric pen a letter to Michael that I am on my way,” he said. Over the next several weeks, the King of Skogland traveled with his wife accompanied by an armed caravan to the Kingdom of Ausland to the south. Princess Grima and Prince Ingvar were established as Queen-Governess and Lord Commander of the Royal Skoglander Army in their parents' stead.
“He's not ready,” Hans had protested to his queen.
“He will be tested one way or the other,” she declared. “Perhaps the gods want that to begin now, my king,” she added. Hans put a hand over his mouth as he contemplated all of the ways this could go wrong. Nevertheless, they would arrive unharmed at King Michael's castle, dismounting and meeting his family.
The only one who refused to come out and socialize was Queen Gretchen of the Wessi House of Kraaienvolk – her mother being the Widow Queen Gertrude of the Royal Triumvirate of Westen – the most densely populated region of the Jagged Peninsula of Westernesse. “She'll be fine,” the Auslander had said to Hans in response to his inquiry about the condition of his wife. “Gretchen is never particularly social to begin with. You've barely touched your fish, Jesse” he added, changing the subject.
The young boy merely shrugged.
The two kings had nearly cleared their plates and had turned to 'Aqua Vitae Composite,' “the finest of spirits from south of the Riphean Mountains,” the Auslander monarch proclaimed.
“I'm pretty sure it's the only spirit that originates from there,” said Hans. “Meanwhile us Northerners have Syra and Akevitt, and our meads and ales of course,” the Skoglander added after a moment.
“I'm not so sure about that, Hans. I'm pretty sure Aqua Vitae has several different sub-categories,” said King Michael. “Go to your rooms, now,” he said, taking a sip. “It's past your bedtime. We have more grown-up things to discuss.” His grandchildren practically shot up from their chairs, eager to get back to their pre-dinner activities.
“It's been over one thousand, and one hundred years since the Elysian Empire shattered into a thousand pieces,” said King Hans between swallows of his salmon. “To think we've never gone to war in that time despite how far back our ancestors and relatives go fighting each other.”
“Well, y'know, it's mainly been your neighbors – the Derwydd – that've been the problem. We mostly get along with the Theosevites. My son wanted to convert at sixteen, he got married at nineteen and here he is at twenty-four becoming the youngest elected high seer in the history of the Theosevites' Catalyst Church. I'm so proud of me boy.”
They reminisced on old times, and recalled memorable moments of humor and family gatherings from years past. “It seems like there's never enough time to enjoy the finer things in life,” said Queen Ingrid, who hadn't spoken barely a word since they had arrived.
“Your wife was always your better half, Hans,” he said, swirling his liquor around in his glass. “Always the witty one, between you two.” He took another swig of his beverage and slammed the cup down on the table. “You're a lucky man, Hans! She always was right about everything.”
Then, without looking away from them, “guards!”
His shout boomed throughout the dining chamber and a fleet of his armed foot-soldiers stormed in. King Hans managed to kill one of them, but it wasn't long before they had his wife firmly in their clutches and arming swords centimeters from his face.
“Yeah, unfortunately we're going to have to overthrow the emperor, the High Seer – my beloved son – and I. It is the only way to protect our family from you. Our lineages go back millennia, and we've always been at war. There's no trust to be had here.”
“Let us go,” Hans demanded.
“You know I cannot do that, in the brig, now” he said as he turned to leave. “We've come too far to turn back now. House Eichenholz will live on!”
“Take me if you must but leave my family unharmed,” shouted Hans in vain.
The king deliberated, knowing he had to lead his soldiers but also knowing he needed to confer with King Michael due to his connections to the emperor. He not only needed to get his house conferred as a major player, but also needed to secure his daughter.
“Have the cleric pen a letter to Michael that I am on my way,” he said. Over the next several weeks, the King of Skogland traveled with his wife accompanied by an armed caravan to the Kingdom of Ausland to the south. Princess Grima and Prince Ingvar were established as Queen-Governess and Lord Commander of the Royal Skoglander Army in their parents' stead.
“He's not ready,” Hans had protested to his queen.
“He will be tested one way or the other,” she declared. “Perhaps the gods want that to begin now, my king,” she added. Hans put a hand over his mouth as he contemplated all of the ways this could go wrong. Nevertheless, they would arrive unharmed at King Michael's castle, dismounting and meeting his family.
The only one who refused to come out and socialize was Queen Gretchen of the Wessi House of Kraaienvolk – her mother being the Widow Queen Gertrude of the Royal Triumvirate of Westen – the most densely populated region of the Jagged Peninsula of Westernesse. “She'll be fine,” the Auslander had said to Hans in response to his inquiry about the condition of his wife. “Gretchen is never particularly social to begin with. You've barely touched your fish, Jesse” he added, changing the subject.
The young boy merely shrugged.
The two kings had nearly cleared their plates and had turned to 'Aqua Vitae Composite,' “the finest of spirits from south of the Riphean Mountains,” the Auslander monarch proclaimed.
“I'm pretty sure it's the only spirit that originates from there,” said Hans. “Meanwhile us Northerners have Syra and Akevitt, and our meads and ales of course,” the Skoglander added after a moment.
“I'm not so sure about that, Hans. I'm pretty sure Aqua Vitae has several different sub-categories,” said King Michael. “Go to your rooms, now,” he said, taking a sip. “It's past your bedtime. We have more grown-up things to discuss.” His grandchildren practically shot up from their chairs, eager to get back to their pre-dinner activities.
“It's been over one thousand, and one hundred years since the Elysian Empire shattered into a thousand pieces,” said King Hans between swallows of his salmon. “To think we've never gone to war in that time despite how far back our ancestors and relatives go fighting each other.”
“Well, y'know, it's mainly been your neighbors – the Derwydd – that've been the problem. We mostly get along with the Theosevites. My son wanted to convert at sixteen, he got married at nineteen and here he is at twenty-four becoming the youngest elected high seer in the history of the Theosevites' Catalyst Church. I'm so proud of me boy.”
They reminisced on old times, and recalled memorable moments of humor and family gatherings from years past. “It seems like there's never enough time to enjoy the finer things in life,” said Queen Ingrid, who hadn't spoken barely a word since they had arrived.
“Your wife was always your better half, Hans,” he said, swirling his liquor around in his glass. “Always the witty one, between you two.” He took another swig of his beverage and slammed the cup down on the table. “You're a lucky man, Hans! She always was right about everything.”
Then, without looking away from them, “guards!”
His shout boomed throughout the dining chamber and a fleet of his armed foot-soldiers stormed in. King Hans managed to kill one of them, but it wasn't long before they had his wife firmly in their clutches and arming swords centimeters from his face.
“Yeah, unfortunately we're going to have to overthrow the emperor, the High Seer – my beloved son – and I. It is the only way to protect our family from you. Our lineages go back millennia, and we've always been at war. There's no trust to be had here.”
“Let us go,” Hans demanded.
“You know I cannot do that, in the brig, now” he said as he turned to leave. “We've come too far to turn back now. House Eichenholz will live on!”
“Take me if you must but leave my family unharmed,” shouted Hans in vain.
Chapter 2: News of the Enemy Spreads
“Queen-Governoress, the falconer insisted I get these letters to you, one of them is from Ostenden, towards the southeast. Apparently, they have been attacked by... something inhuman. The other, is, well – more bad news, your grace. I am afraid it is grim,” she stated calmly, her voice quivering ever so slightly. Grima thought she could enjoy a moment's peace on the allure, but apparently she had been mistaken.
The creature described in the first letter matched the sightings of trolls in the olden days.
“A troll? B-but, they haven't been seen in thousands of years, surely it can't be a troll.”
The second letter was even worse, and the news it carried would sit with her forever.
She spent the afternoon under guarded carriage which took roughly three days round trip. It was cramped, and slightly smelled. The typical trappings of Northern poverty, it exhibited a matte brown, wood-colored facade built for practicality rather than luxury. It was strongly reinforced, and was guarded at all hours of the journey as the guards took turns sleeping in shifts.
When they arrived, they found the village devastated. Entire structures were collapsed, human remains could be found here and there. Grima was advised to remain inside the carriage, but she insisted on emerging to reassure and help the villagers wherever possible. Her appearance somewhat reassured them, although many were at first confused, while others solemnly understood that they were under attack on multiple fronts.
“The forces of both nature and man descend upon us, but we will endure,” she'd say, or something along those lines, almost as much to herself as to anyone else. When they were asked if they'd seen it, or what it looked like, most of them simply shook their heads or began stammering uncontrollably before breaking down into sobbing or screaming.
“There are beasts in those woods,” Sir Ivarr's voice said from behind her somewhat. She turned to her left to see he, too, was staring at the forest and mountains beyond. “Eyes that look back at us belonging to things we cannot possibly understand.”
“I need to see his body,” said Grima after a moment's pause.
“You know I can't let you do that. We must return to the castle after this, you know that.”
And she did.
The creature described in the first letter matched the sightings of trolls in the olden days.
“A troll? B-but, they haven't been seen in thousands of years, surely it can't be a troll.”
The second letter was even worse, and the news it carried would sit with her forever.
She spent the afternoon under guarded carriage which took roughly three days round trip. It was cramped, and slightly smelled. The typical trappings of Northern poverty, it exhibited a matte brown, wood-colored facade built for practicality rather than luxury. It was strongly reinforced, and was guarded at all hours of the journey as the guards took turns sleeping in shifts.
When they arrived, they found the village devastated. Entire structures were collapsed, human remains could be found here and there. Grima was advised to remain inside the carriage, but she insisted on emerging to reassure and help the villagers wherever possible. Her appearance somewhat reassured them, although many were at first confused, while others solemnly understood that they were under attack on multiple fronts.
“The forces of both nature and man descend upon us, but we will endure,” she'd say, or something along those lines, almost as much to herself as to anyone else. When they were asked if they'd seen it, or what it looked like, most of them simply shook their heads or began stammering uncontrollably before breaking down into sobbing or screaming.
“There are beasts in those woods,” Sir Ivarr's voice said from behind her somewhat. She turned to her left to see he, too, was staring at the forest and mountains beyond. “Eyes that look back at us belonging to things we cannot possibly understand.”
“I need to see his body,” said Grima after a moment's pause.
“You know I can't let you do that. We must return to the castle after this, you know that.”
And she did.
* * *
They reached Fort Falkefjordur on the northernmost tip of the territory near the border with Skogland and immediately received a letter from the shaman's servant, a hunchbacked man cloaked entirely in black cloth, leaves and bones. He ushered them forward to meet her as the party cleric read the letter aloud.
“'We are roughly three days' journey behind you on horseback, we will be arriving shortly.' Signed, Army Commander Hadrada, is all it says,” said Sir Egill, handing his bow captain the letter if he wanted to peruse it for himself. “Thanks, Sir Egill,” said Freyr Soren, handing it back to him. “We camp here, prepare, coordinate. Once the main force is in position we'll split up, with you – captain – leading one group and me leading another. One group will survey the Skog formations and the other will coordinate with the main army. For alt vi har. Og alt vi er!”
“For alt vi har. Og alt vi er!,” they shouted back in unison, which in New Standard Elysian meant “For everything we have, and everything we are,” the motto of the Royal Derwydd Army. The next day, they woke up early, and performed their rituals. The shaman saw them one at a time, each were expected to rub ground psychoactive mushrooms on their faces and into their skin – some would practically bathe in it, and were encouraged to do so. Many would undergo psychoactive episodes, and “go berserk,” as their namesake implies – but this was so they could later focus for the battle ahead.
The idea was not to enter an uncontrollable frenzy, but purge the mind of distractions and focus one's rage on the enemy before them. Soren wasn't much on substances, but some of his compatriots were heavy drinkers and pipe-weed smokers, and when time for battle came around, they indulged too much and became a liability.
He hoped that would not happen this time.
“'We are roughly three days' journey behind you on horseback, we will be arriving shortly.' Signed, Army Commander Hadrada, is all it says,” said Sir Egill, handing his bow captain the letter if he wanted to peruse it for himself. “Thanks, Sir Egill,” said Freyr Soren, handing it back to him. “We camp here, prepare, coordinate. Once the main force is in position we'll split up, with you – captain – leading one group and me leading another. One group will survey the Skog formations and the other will coordinate with the main army. For alt vi har. Og alt vi er!”
“For alt vi har. Og alt vi er!,” they shouted back in unison, which in New Standard Elysian meant “For everything we have, and everything we are,” the motto of the Royal Derwydd Army. The next day, they woke up early, and performed their rituals. The shaman saw them one at a time, each were expected to rub ground psychoactive mushrooms on their faces and into their skin – some would practically bathe in it, and were encouraged to do so. Many would undergo psychoactive episodes, and “go berserk,” as their namesake implies – but this was so they could later focus for the battle ahead.
The idea was not to enter an uncontrollable frenzy, but purge the mind of distractions and focus one's rage on the enemy before them. Soren wasn't much on substances, but some of his compatriots were heavy drinkers and pipe-weed smokers, and when time for battle came around, they indulged too much and became a liability.
He hoped that would not happen this time.
* * *
The Holy Emperor – Alexios IV of House Lascaris – was dead. His funeral procession was extravagant, prayers and rituals led by the new seer personally who would go on to deliver a homily over his exposed coffin. The mood and atmosphere was quite the opposite however. Sir Fluvian the Effervescent was joined by his compatriot and mentor Count Charles the Resolute, each of them just over four cubits in height – although both agreed Fluvian was slightly taller.
“Look,” whispered Charles. “It's the Bourgeonners, they've been in the running for the crown,” he added.
“Aren't they one of the most powerful royal houses in the lands,” inquired Fluvian.
Charles nodded. “Yep.”
Also present was Alexios's eldest son, Ajax III – King of Hellas and tower of a man, easily eighteen stone, four-and-a-half cubits – and his wife, Queen Athena IX, who seemed stern – reserved. It was as if the Hellenic king and queen had so many conflicting emotions their faces were unsure of how to respond to them. As one of the two leading candidates for the imperial crown, the king would give a surprisingly eloquent speech about the One True Lord and the Trinity of the Lord, Lady and Son – whom many believed to have been the late Elysian Emperor Theodosius I who ruled nearly one and a half millennia ago.
Fluvian noticed the Hellene briefly exchange words with Seer Jessop II.
“I hope your father is well, your holiness,” he repeated under his breath.
The seer – one of the most powerful men in Westernesse – nodded gingerly, before stepping forward to address the congregation. “We call upon the Holy Prince Darryn Bourgeonner of the Kingdom of Gaul, founder of one of the largest crusader military orders of the land, the Eden Cavaliers,” he declared in a brief introduction.
Count Charles seemed to perk up at this declaration by the priest.
“Thank you, your holiness,” said Prince Darryn as he replaced the seer at the dais, giggling like a child, which disturbed yet intrigued Count Charles. Yet, any misgivings Charles had began to melt away as he listed off his donations to various non-Gaulish crusader orders; the Westen Hospitallers, the Knights Tau, the Order of Lord Kraaienvolk, the all-male Sword Brothers and others.
“And, of course,” he said, motioning in their direction with his outstretched hand, to their surprise, “the Great Knights Exemplar of New Empyrea, let us give them a round of prayer and thanks for all of their hard work on our behalf,” said Prince Darryn, who's request was followed through on. Sir Charles leaned over and whispered, “that's our guy,” to which Sir Fluvian responded with, “I need to take this helmet off at some point, I have an itch on my nose.”
Charles nodded. “In due time, my squire, in due time.”
“I'm not a squire anymore, your grace,” Fluvian fired back.
“Thank you for your time, Presidium, I yield back to the seer for his closing statements,” as he turned away from the dais, he inquired in a whisper to the seer, “Is the Presidium always this crowded? Well, never mind,” he said, waving his hand. “You're new here, I forgot.”
“No matter, your grace,” he said, patting the prince on the shoulder and approaching the dais once again. “As we close out this Presidian, let us give thanks to the Lord, the Lady and the Son, as we engage in prayer before the Holy Trinity Symbol of Tau – I will begin. Dear Lord, Lady and God-King, we give thanks for this day we awake, and give thanks for every day ahead. We ask for strength, for will, for community – for clarity and understanding among our Theosevite people. Amen.”
“Amen,” said the congregation in unison.
“I forget you're more of a Hasid than a Theosevite,” Sir Charles whispered to his former-squire. “I forgive you, your family worked its way up the nobility for generations, and I am a recent convert.” As they exited the quorum, the count decided to press the issue.
“What is it about the Trinity you don't agree with,” he inquired, attempting to keep pace with the somewhat taller man.
“Oh, I just don't believe Emperor Theodosius performed miracles, I have a much simpler explanation.”
“Oh yeah, what's that?”
He turned and closed his helmet, concealing his face. “He was a wizard.”
The sun was high and the crowds were filling the streets, increasing the heat and humidity beyond what it already was down there in the marshlands near the southernmost tip of the peninsula. Due to Fluvian already being a somewhat large man, his size was amplified to intimidating standards in his breastplate, maille and helmet. The only heavy armor he wore were his pauldrons and gauntlets, however.
“That's not the craziest thing I've ever heard,” said Fluvian as they moved through the crowd. “Apparently, there's been troll sightings in the North. It's apparently behind the disappearing farmers and scouts.”
Charles whirled around. “That is complete and utter nonsense, there is no concrete evidence that trolls exist, or have ever existed! At some point, Fluvian, you need to grow up and stop living in the clouds, you're – how old – twenty-something?”
Fluvian went silent and looked awkwardly at the ground. “If you were to ask any citizen of this great city if they believed in 'the Hunchback Spectre of the Hinterlands,' they would say yes. And many of them would be grown adults.”
Charles sighed as they entered 'The Kelpie Korner Tavern and Grill,' taking a seat in the thick and humid air that carried with it the pungent scent of stale bread and ale. “Anyway, we will have to wait between a fortnight to a few months before the formal coronation takes place, which will almost certainly occur in Eden, while the formal debates will take place in Brocken and the nobility will gather in Vineta to cast their votes.”
The knight-monk almost didn't hear him, as he was distracted by the bardsong in the background, a guttural, ancient language he did not understand – but definitely Northern in tongue. After a few minutes of listening to Charles describing the ins and outs of Imperial politics, Fluvian couldn't help but turn to get a good look at the individual.
He was impossibly small, perhaps only three cubits in height, although his height was somewhat amplified by the stool – he was still noticeably much smaller than an average man. A long red beard flowed out from beneath his hood, and his face was obscured by beads and he was beating a drum. A small group of drunken men with large muscles had joined in, sporting tattoos that were clearly indicative of Northern lineage.
Fluvian groaned to himself, the noise was beginning to give him a headache. While Charles dug into his food, still explaining things between bites. “The Holy Ghost is like the Ki of the Nunki,” he would explain. “The stronger your faith, the stronger you will be both within and without,” he then scarfed down a tuna and took a glug from his ale.
“I think I'm going to be sick,” said Fluvian.
“What?”
With a swiftness that surprised everyone in the tavern, Fluvian wrenched off his helmet and exploded out the front entrance, projectile vomiting in the street. The barkeep leaned over to Charles. “I think your friend's had too much to drink.”
Charles shook his head. “Nope, just a sensitive stomach.” He finished his tuna and belched loudly.
“Look,” whispered Charles. “It's the Bourgeonners, they've been in the running for the crown,” he added.
“Aren't they one of the most powerful royal houses in the lands,” inquired Fluvian.
Charles nodded. “Yep.”
Also present was Alexios's eldest son, Ajax III – King of Hellas and tower of a man, easily eighteen stone, four-and-a-half cubits – and his wife, Queen Athena IX, who seemed stern – reserved. It was as if the Hellenic king and queen had so many conflicting emotions their faces were unsure of how to respond to them. As one of the two leading candidates for the imperial crown, the king would give a surprisingly eloquent speech about the One True Lord and the Trinity of the Lord, Lady and Son – whom many believed to have been the late Elysian Emperor Theodosius I who ruled nearly one and a half millennia ago.
Fluvian noticed the Hellene briefly exchange words with Seer Jessop II.
“I hope your father is well, your holiness,” he repeated under his breath.
The seer – one of the most powerful men in Westernesse – nodded gingerly, before stepping forward to address the congregation. “We call upon the Holy Prince Darryn Bourgeonner of the Kingdom of Gaul, founder of one of the largest crusader military orders of the land, the Eden Cavaliers,” he declared in a brief introduction.
Count Charles seemed to perk up at this declaration by the priest.
“Thank you, your holiness,” said Prince Darryn as he replaced the seer at the dais, giggling like a child, which disturbed yet intrigued Count Charles. Yet, any misgivings Charles had began to melt away as he listed off his donations to various non-Gaulish crusader orders; the Westen Hospitallers, the Knights Tau, the Order of Lord Kraaienvolk, the all-male Sword Brothers and others.
“And, of course,” he said, motioning in their direction with his outstretched hand, to their surprise, “the Great Knights Exemplar of New Empyrea, let us give them a round of prayer and thanks for all of their hard work on our behalf,” said Prince Darryn, who's request was followed through on. Sir Charles leaned over and whispered, “that's our guy,” to which Sir Fluvian responded with, “I need to take this helmet off at some point, I have an itch on my nose.”
Charles nodded. “In due time, my squire, in due time.”
“I'm not a squire anymore, your grace,” Fluvian fired back.
“Thank you for your time, Presidium, I yield back to the seer for his closing statements,” as he turned away from the dais, he inquired in a whisper to the seer, “Is the Presidium always this crowded? Well, never mind,” he said, waving his hand. “You're new here, I forgot.”
“No matter, your grace,” he said, patting the prince on the shoulder and approaching the dais once again. “As we close out this Presidian, let us give thanks to the Lord, the Lady and the Son, as we engage in prayer before the Holy Trinity Symbol of Tau – I will begin. Dear Lord, Lady and God-King, we give thanks for this day we awake, and give thanks for every day ahead. We ask for strength, for will, for community – for clarity and understanding among our Theosevite people. Amen.”
“Amen,” said the congregation in unison.
“I forget you're more of a Hasid than a Theosevite,” Sir Charles whispered to his former-squire. “I forgive you, your family worked its way up the nobility for generations, and I am a recent convert.” As they exited the quorum, the count decided to press the issue.
“What is it about the Trinity you don't agree with,” he inquired, attempting to keep pace with the somewhat taller man.
“Oh, I just don't believe Emperor Theodosius performed miracles, I have a much simpler explanation.”
“Oh yeah, what's that?”
He turned and closed his helmet, concealing his face. “He was a wizard.”
The sun was high and the crowds were filling the streets, increasing the heat and humidity beyond what it already was down there in the marshlands near the southernmost tip of the peninsula. Due to Fluvian already being a somewhat large man, his size was amplified to intimidating standards in his breastplate, maille and helmet. The only heavy armor he wore were his pauldrons and gauntlets, however.
“That's not the craziest thing I've ever heard,” said Fluvian as they moved through the crowd. “Apparently, there's been troll sightings in the North. It's apparently behind the disappearing farmers and scouts.”
Charles whirled around. “That is complete and utter nonsense, there is no concrete evidence that trolls exist, or have ever existed! At some point, Fluvian, you need to grow up and stop living in the clouds, you're – how old – twenty-something?”
Fluvian went silent and looked awkwardly at the ground. “If you were to ask any citizen of this great city if they believed in 'the Hunchback Spectre of the Hinterlands,' they would say yes. And many of them would be grown adults.”
Charles sighed as they entered 'The Kelpie Korner Tavern and Grill,' taking a seat in the thick and humid air that carried with it the pungent scent of stale bread and ale. “Anyway, we will have to wait between a fortnight to a few months before the formal coronation takes place, which will almost certainly occur in Eden, while the formal debates will take place in Brocken and the nobility will gather in Vineta to cast their votes.”
The knight-monk almost didn't hear him, as he was distracted by the bardsong in the background, a guttural, ancient language he did not understand – but definitely Northern in tongue. After a few minutes of listening to Charles describing the ins and outs of Imperial politics, Fluvian couldn't help but turn to get a good look at the individual.
He was impossibly small, perhaps only three cubits in height, although his height was somewhat amplified by the stool – he was still noticeably much smaller than an average man. A long red beard flowed out from beneath his hood, and his face was obscured by beads and he was beating a drum. A small group of drunken men with large muscles had joined in, sporting tattoos that were clearly indicative of Northern lineage.
Fluvian groaned to himself, the noise was beginning to give him a headache. While Charles dug into his food, still explaining things between bites. “The Holy Ghost is like the Ki of the Nunki,” he would explain. “The stronger your faith, the stronger you will be both within and without,” he then scarfed down a tuna and took a glug from his ale.
“I think I'm going to be sick,” said Fluvian.
“What?”
With a swiftness that surprised everyone in the tavern, Fluvian wrenched off his helmet and exploded out the front entrance, projectile vomiting in the street. The barkeep leaned over to Charles. “I think your friend's had too much to drink.”
Charles shook his head. “Nope, just a sensitive stomach.” He finished his tuna and belched loudly.
* * *
Little did the citizens of Elysium know, King Michael XIII of Ausland had been working his magic behind the scenes. He still recalled his wife's demand of him the night he'd incarcerated King Hans and Queen Ingrid.
“Now is the time to use your leverage, my king,” she'd said, seducing him into her bed that night. “You must use your power to sway them, the Bourgeonners must win the election.”
“Anything for you my love.”
How he yearned to be back in her warm embrace, but he was here – now – weeks later on the eve of the vote. He was to meet them on the eastern wall just before sunrise. He'd spent the past several weeks working the nobility, pitching the selection of Gaulish Prince Darryn Bourgeonner over Hellenic King Ajax III Laskaris – laying out how he'd be better for the military, better for defense, and better – overall – for the nobility.
As well as a better leader, a man with unyielding religious conviction and a devotion to crush the barbarians at the gates. He explained this and how he'd seen a fire in the eyes of the younger Bourgeonner compared to the aging and increasingly apathetic King Ajax. Ajax had a contentious relationship with his local nobles and barons at best, and this helped to sway them to his side.
Now, as the future emperor and his son – the seer – emerged from the shadows accompanied by their Inner Praetorian, Michael knew he had succeeded, even hours before the first vote would be counted.
He had won.
Now, the pieces were in place, and all they had to do was declare checkmate.
“Your grace, father, I am blessed to be in the presence of these men – both warriors, knights, of their ages.” He smiled at the two men, before hugging his father. “My son, I am so proud of you. You can't even begin to fathom,” said Michael, tears welling up in his eyes.
“I'll cut right to it,” said Prince Darryn, interrupting their moment. “We must declare a crusade against the berserkers, the Druids of the North and of the East, establish a collection of fiefdoms and feudal states loyal to the Tau and the Tau only.”
The high seer nodded. “Agreed. After the votes are counted, and you are coronated, I will declare a crusade against the pagans of the North and the East. We will bring those lands under the control of the church once and for all, we must be a unified landmass if we are to stand a chance against Zen.”
“Zen? You mean–”
“Yes,” said King Michael, interrupting the prince. “I have an old comrade, no longer with us, who journeyed to the east around ten years ago. What he said he saw... sent chills down my spine,” he explained, motioning outward to the fields and the forests and mountains that stretched out before their eyes. “As far as the eye could see – he said – were flames. An entire kingdom had been burned by these people. They have pyromancy the likes of which has never been seen before.”
“My father has taught me about my enemies well. The only thing standing between us and a unified front against the Zeno Empire, are the druids. The pagans.”
“Then it is settled,” said Prince Darryn. “I will crush them for you, your holiness.”
“Now is the time to use your leverage, my king,” she'd said, seducing him into her bed that night. “You must use your power to sway them, the Bourgeonners must win the election.”
“Anything for you my love.”
How he yearned to be back in her warm embrace, but he was here – now – weeks later on the eve of the vote. He was to meet them on the eastern wall just before sunrise. He'd spent the past several weeks working the nobility, pitching the selection of Gaulish Prince Darryn Bourgeonner over Hellenic King Ajax III Laskaris – laying out how he'd be better for the military, better for defense, and better – overall – for the nobility.
As well as a better leader, a man with unyielding religious conviction and a devotion to crush the barbarians at the gates. He explained this and how he'd seen a fire in the eyes of the younger Bourgeonner compared to the aging and increasingly apathetic King Ajax. Ajax had a contentious relationship with his local nobles and barons at best, and this helped to sway them to his side.
Now, as the future emperor and his son – the seer – emerged from the shadows accompanied by their Inner Praetorian, Michael knew he had succeeded, even hours before the first vote would be counted.
He had won.
Now, the pieces were in place, and all they had to do was declare checkmate.
“Your grace, father, I am blessed to be in the presence of these men – both warriors, knights, of their ages.” He smiled at the two men, before hugging his father. “My son, I am so proud of you. You can't even begin to fathom,” said Michael, tears welling up in his eyes.
“I'll cut right to it,” said Prince Darryn, interrupting their moment. “We must declare a crusade against the berserkers, the Druids of the North and of the East, establish a collection of fiefdoms and feudal states loyal to the Tau and the Tau only.”
The high seer nodded. “Agreed. After the votes are counted, and you are coronated, I will declare a crusade against the pagans of the North and the East. We will bring those lands under the control of the church once and for all, we must be a unified landmass if we are to stand a chance against Zen.”
“Zen? You mean–”
“Yes,” said King Michael, interrupting the prince. “I have an old comrade, no longer with us, who journeyed to the east around ten years ago. What he said he saw... sent chills down my spine,” he explained, motioning outward to the fields and the forests and mountains that stretched out before their eyes. “As far as the eye could see – he said – were flames. An entire kingdom had been burned by these people. They have pyromancy the likes of which has never been seen before.”
“My father has taught me about my enemies well. The only thing standing between us and a unified front against the Zeno Empire, are the druids. The pagans.”
“Then it is settled,” said Prince Darryn. “I will crush them for you, your holiness.”
* * *
He still remembered her question, “who or what do you fight for?” The shaman priestess had asked him as he splashed the mushroom butter on his face.
“The old gods,” he'd said.
“Louder!”
“The old gods!”
And now, as Soren stood at the stern of the ship – his eyes peeled for the first sight of land – his opponent was also getting ready for battle. Prince Ingvar Skogerrak IV practiced with his sword until he sweat, getting no sleep the night before.
As soon as Prince Ingvar awoke, he was equipped with his breastplate, helmet, lance and arming sword. He was mounted, and the largest complement of soldiers the Skoglanders had ever mustered was assembled to march forth into battle. Once they reached the Norse River Delta, it became abundantly clear that they had arrived before their adversaries... or had they?
“Show yourselves,” shouted Commander Lothbrok.
Only silence replied.
When the attack came, they were unprepared. At first, nothing happened, but then – one by one at first – arrows began hurtling out of the dense fog. Soon, many more arrows would rain down upon them, until they were forced back up the incline. After several men had been lost to the arrows, they began to see the berserkers themselves: heavily muscled men with tattoos and warpaint sporting a disorganized array of different armors and animal skins – some wolves, others... bears – and waving the infamous Raven Banner of Derwyddon.
“Fall back,” shrieked Commander Lothbrok.
But they advanced too quickly, the higher ground meant that the berserkers could more easily get at the foot-soldiers' legs. Prince Ingvar commanded a cavalry charge, but it was too late. By the time the prince and his elite soldiers went on the offensive and began killing the enemy, they had already lost nearly half of their men.
“Fall back, I said fall back,” an increasingly frantic Lothbrok screamed as his men followed the prince into battle. The entire campaign was deteriorating, and the commander was increasingly powerless to stop it.
The prince got several kills with his lance, and although his horse would be downed shortly after this in the midst of a desperate attempt by a dying berserker to kill him, the prince got right back up and kept fighting, drawing his sword and shield. He parried successfully everyone that came at him, slicing their throat or gouging out their eye with his sword – even decapitating one of them.
Just as the prince felt invincible, right as he was straddling yet another enemy and raising his sword above the man's dis-helmeted head – pain. Searing agony jolted through his entire body. He'd been shot in the back with an arrow – which had lodged itself just below his ribs. He collapsed, before becoming enraged, ripping the arrow out and immediately advancing in the direction the arrow had come.
Just as he saw the archer himself – another arrow ripped through his throat. Still, the prince advanced. Another arrow had hit him in his lower right-hand belly, next to his groin. He coughed up blood, and just as he saw the man's face – wreathed in a mane of black hair – he blacked out.
“The old gods,” he'd said.
“Louder!”
“The old gods!”
And now, as Soren stood at the stern of the ship – his eyes peeled for the first sight of land – his opponent was also getting ready for battle. Prince Ingvar Skogerrak IV practiced with his sword until he sweat, getting no sleep the night before.
As soon as Prince Ingvar awoke, he was equipped with his breastplate, helmet, lance and arming sword. He was mounted, and the largest complement of soldiers the Skoglanders had ever mustered was assembled to march forth into battle. Once they reached the Norse River Delta, it became abundantly clear that they had arrived before their adversaries... or had they?
“Show yourselves,” shouted Commander Lothbrok.
Only silence replied.
When the attack came, they were unprepared. At first, nothing happened, but then – one by one at first – arrows began hurtling out of the dense fog. Soon, many more arrows would rain down upon them, until they were forced back up the incline. After several men had been lost to the arrows, they began to see the berserkers themselves: heavily muscled men with tattoos and warpaint sporting a disorganized array of different armors and animal skins – some wolves, others... bears – and waving the infamous Raven Banner of Derwyddon.
“Fall back,” shrieked Commander Lothbrok.
But they advanced too quickly, the higher ground meant that the berserkers could more easily get at the foot-soldiers' legs. Prince Ingvar commanded a cavalry charge, but it was too late. By the time the prince and his elite soldiers went on the offensive and began killing the enemy, they had already lost nearly half of their men.
“Fall back, I said fall back,” an increasingly frantic Lothbrok screamed as his men followed the prince into battle. The entire campaign was deteriorating, and the commander was increasingly powerless to stop it.
The prince got several kills with his lance, and although his horse would be downed shortly after this in the midst of a desperate attempt by a dying berserker to kill him, the prince got right back up and kept fighting, drawing his sword and shield. He parried successfully everyone that came at him, slicing their throat or gouging out their eye with his sword – even decapitating one of them.
Just as the prince felt invincible, right as he was straddling yet another enemy and raising his sword above the man's dis-helmeted head – pain. Searing agony jolted through his entire body. He'd been shot in the back with an arrow – which had lodged itself just below his ribs. He collapsed, before becoming enraged, ripping the arrow out and immediately advancing in the direction the arrow had come.
Just as he saw the archer himself – another arrow ripped through his throat. Still, the prince advanced. Another arrow had hit him in his lower right-hand belly, next to his groin. He coughed up blood, and just as he saw the man's face – wreathed in a mane of black hair – he blacked out.
* * *
Once Grima was finally behind closed doors, and alone, she burst into tears. Having held back so much so that she didn't present fragility to the people of Ostenden. “My beloved brother,” she gasped between sobs. Eventually, one of the servants did come and check on her.
“Don't tell anyone you saw me like this,” she demanded, wiping her face.
“He's dead, isn't he?”
She nodded. “And Sir Ivarr wants us to enter into exile in Northland, we depart in the morning.”
“W-what will be of us,” the shocked servant inquired.
She shook her head. “I don't know, we'll surely take some of you with us, but we won't be able to fit everyone,” Grima admitted. “This is too much for me, too much, please leave.” The servant immediately retreated to her dormitory and began packing her things.
A few minutes later, there was another knock.
“What is it now, Lagertha?”
“It's Sir Alaric, your highness, I'm afraid I have terrible news.”
Oh no, the city falconer, she thought.
When she finally retrieved the letter it was worse than she thought. It was a direct message from the King of Ausland, who declared he had their parents prisoner and must vacate the premises or be forced out within a fortnight. She broke down crying once again, but this time, her sorrow flared up into anger. She began screaming in rage, flinging her hairbrush and breaking the mirror in the process.
“What should we do, do we send a contingent into Ausland to retrieve them,” he inquired.
She shook her head. “No. We'll go to Northland, we'll wait – gather our strength, form an alliance. Then, we will retake this kingdom. Even if it takes my death, I will not rest until our enemies have been defeated.”
Then, suddenly, she was panicked.
“Where are the children?!”
“Don't tell anyone you saw me like this,” she demanded, wiping her face.
“He's dead, isn't he?”
She nodded. “And Sir Ivarr wants us to enter into exile in Northland, we depart in the morning.”
“W-what will be of us,” the shocked servant inquired.
She shook her head. “I don't know, we'll surely take some of you with us, but we won't be able to fit everyone,” Grima admitted. “This is too much for me, too much, please leave.” The servant immediately retreated to her dormitory and began packing her things.
A few minutes later, there was another knock.
“What is it now, Lagertha?”
“It's Sir Alaric, your highness, I'm afraid I have terrible news.”
Oh no, the city falconer, she thought.
When she finally retrieved the letter it was worse than she thought. It was a direct message from the King of Ausland, who declared he had their parents prisoner and must vacate the premises or be forced out within a fortnight. She broke down crying once again, but this time, her sorrow flared up into anger. She began screaming in rage, flinging her hairbrush and breaking the mirror in the process.
“What should we do, do we send a contingent into Ausland to retrieve them,” he inquired.
She shook her head. “No. We'll go to Northland, we'll wait – gather our strength, form an alliance. Then, we will retake this kingdom. Even if it takes my death, I will not rest until our enemies have been defeated.”
Then, suddenly, she was panicked.
“Where are the children?!”
* * *
Freyr Soren delivered the killing blow with his dagger, cramming the blade down into the prince's eye socket and into his brain. He jerked it around, twisted, and pulled it out – wiping it down with a cloth. “Lord Soren,” said Commander Hadrada, approaching with two small figures with sacks over their heads. “Not only has the enemy began to retreat, we found these sneaking around behind enemy lines. One of them even managed to kill the cabin watchman and they almost got away with stealing our food.”
“Remove the sacks,” Freyr Soren commanded.
Underneath were two very obvious children – the girl perhaps about fourteen or fifteen.
“What's your names,” he inquired.
“I'm H–” the girl elbowed the boy before he could complete his sentence. “We're with the hospitallers,” she lied.
“Hmm,” Soren mused to himself. “You know, if you're no one special, then we cannot be compelled to take you alive.” He said, drawing his dagger once again. “But, if you have some sort of connection to the royal family here, we'll be more inclined to do so.” He smiled at the elder child.
The girl thought for a moment, and then reached under her makeshift armor and unfastened the amulet her grandfather had given her before he died. “Its Vikinger, only my family has the rights to the mines under the Skog,” she said, handing it to him. He studied it, licked it gingerly and nodded. “They're Skogerraks,” he said to his men.
“Put them in the brig. Maybe we'll find use for them after all.”
“Remove the sacks,” Freyr Soren commanded.
Underneath were two very obvious children – the girl perhaps about fourteen or fifteen.
“What's your names,” he inquired.
“I'm H–” the girl elbowed the boy before he could complete his sentence. “We're with the hospitallers,” she lied.
“Hmm,” Soren mused to himself. “You know, if you're no one special, then we cannot be compelled to take you alive.” He said, drawing his dagger once again. “But, if you have some sort of connection to the royal family here, we'll be more inclined to do so.” He smiled at the elder child.
The girl thought for a moment, and then reached under her makeshift armor and unfastened the amulet her grandfather had given her before he died. “Its Vikinger, only my family has the rights to the mines under the Skog,” she said, handing it to him. He studied it, licked it gingerly and nodded. “They're Skogerraks,” he said to his men.
“Put them in the brig. Maybe we'll find use for them after all.”
