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May 18, 2014, 10:58 AM
#21
Re: A Born King
CHAPTER NINE
Do the gods torment me so?
The wolfpack had driven itself deep in to the camp, setting upon the weak and exhausted as they tried to understand what was happening. With fang and claw they ripped open throats and severed limbs.
The few Dallans who had heard Icarus’ cry over the roaring beasts and screaming dead, stood shoulder-to-shoulder, just as they had trained to do since they were young. Few had their spears, and fewer yet had any piece of armour - the better-equipped stood clad in a tunic with a helmet on their head and a shield tied to their arm.
The first wolf to attempt to take on the group was skewered on the end of two spears and a sword, an almost naked Chattelite diving forward to drive his dagger in to its throat, laughing all the time. The beast managed to growl and snap its teeth even as blood gushed out of its thick neck.
Smarv watched a wolf circle around them slowly, eyes fixed on the king, mist coming out of its nostrils in the darkness. Other wolves, dripping blood, slammed in to the group, but still this one continued to circle slowly. As his men were dragged out of the formation and set upon, Smarv stayed still, licking his dry lips. The monster was bloody, with mere suggestions of a white pelt beneath. A flap of skin hung limply off of its side, a red patch where the pelt should have been.
The beast lunged forward first but Smarv was just as quick.
Their eyes, man and beast, were locked together as they closed the distance in moments. The beast hurled itself in to the air, jaw wide, claws reaching out for its prey. Time stretched, the sounds of death and war dimmed. All Smarv could see was the wolf. All he could hear was the thump of his heart. All he could do was drive his sword forward.
His sword was of Flendrian steel, forged by the master armourers of the city of Galburg. It had served him well for all the years it had been at his hip. That blade had served him better than any of his followers.
The king’s strike was guided by the Gods themselves, piercing through fur, bone and muscle, straight in to the wolf’s heart.
Smarv landed on his back, the sheer weight of the dead beast driving him to the ground. It let out a faint whimper as it collapsed on top of him, but did not attempt to tear Smarv apart.
Aided by two Danages, their chests heaving with the effort, the king escaped from the wolf’s embrace and scrambled to his feet, grunting at the news of the death of all of the assailants.
Yet it was not just the pack which had died.
Halrof was found beneath the wolf he had slain, his face covered with its entrails. When he was dragged out from beneath its weight, no one knew if the streams of blood flowing off of him were his own or the beast’s.
The camp was being dismantled by exhausted men by the time the chieftain was deemed to have passed from their plane.
The clansmen spoke no words at the news. Nor did they give him a burial fit for a noble. The young chief was left out for the carrion birds. He was left to gaze up at the sky as his body lay at the mercy of the scavengers which prowled the lands.
“Do not assume that we disrespected him,” whispered Halrof’s replacement, Aksel of the Uian.
He was smaller than the young boy-chief had been, despite being at least thrice his age. His mane was pathetic, like an ill-kept hound. His authority over the clansmen was far from absolute, and Smarv had overheard the grumblings of the men. The chieftain was obviously not the clansmen’s first choice, but all of Halrof’s relations who had come to support Smarv were dead. The other clan leaders seemed uncaring who would speak with their voice, and so accepted Aksel without much input.
He pales in comparison to Halrof. The shadow he had cast was large.
“We are not as fearful of death as others are. It is embraced, as is the nature of the decomposing of the flesh.”
He is much more fluent in Narviric than Halrof was. By his accent I could have mistaken him for a merchant of Knifepoint.
“We burn the body not simply because of our respect of the dead,” Smarv muttered, staring at the unmoving form of his former friend. “Disease spreads quickly from the dead. It is safer for the dead to be burned. The freezing of the ashes is to satisfy our gods. They are returned to the family, eternally preserved, to be looked after with honour for what they had done.”
The old man glanced at the king for a moment, before turning and stiffly walking away. He called out for the men to hurry up. The march had to continue, demoralised or not. With food or without it. With sleep or without it. March or die, those were the options open to the men.
At least he understands that.
Castor stood beside his king in silence, allowing the boy to say his final words.
“What is it Castor?” Smarv asked without turning to face the man.
“Your Most Honourable, I thought that you had best know of our shortage of food.”
“I already know friend. Share out what was put aside for us. The men deserve at least a morsel of salted beef.”
“That is what I came to tell you. There are only a dozen loaves of bread left, and they are stale. The water was finished just there, by the wounded.”
As if to voice it’s disagreement, Smarv’s stomach growled.
“Then share the bread out. And tell them the truth. Tell them that is all that was left. We are down to faith and duty, brother. Let us hope that is all that they need.”
The man opened his mouth to add something, but nothing came out. He nodded his head and left to break the news to the men. Smarv didn’t need to look to see the faces full of horror and disappointment.
They were soon marching again, slower and with less energy than before. Those who had not realised that they were losing saw the truth with the disappearance of the food. Sure, Fluvius may have roused the northern lands in the name of Smarv, but at that moment, they were fleeing before Bonifatius. They were the ones plagued by wolves in the night. They were the ones who had lost one of their fiercest commanders. They were the ones whose only sustenance was duty and honour.
If that wasn’t losing. Then what was?
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May 18, 2014, 10:08 PM
#22
Re: A Born King
What indeed?
Love it, Stannis. Keep it up, sir, keep it up.
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May 20, 2014, 01:25 AM
#23
Foederatus
Re: A Born King
Great story! Would give you +rep but it seems I can't yet.
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May 21, 2014, 11:00 AM
#24
Re: A Born King
I believe you need 25 posts as well as the week since account activation (so get spamming )
;------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER TEN
Not a single man spoke as the column caught sight of the battlefield.
It was once a farmstead, the residence of one of the wealthy Danage families who had thrived during the few years of peace which would grace the Kingdom of Narvir every so often. Dozens would have called the small collection of stone buildings home, jesting that their five-feet walls were stronger than even the mighty double layer fortifications which protected Dalla itself.
The smoke still rose from the ashes of the farm. The wall encompassing the buildings had been torn down, stained with blood and soot. There were bodies everywhere, many showing evidence of looting. The worst sight was the women and children, dangling from a balcony, the ropes tied around their necks sunk deep in to the wounds cut across their throats.
Spreading out slowly, the demoralized Dallans and clansmen searched in vain for survivors, knowing that if there had been any, they were long gone. Animal carcasses: dogs with their tails severed; cows whose udders had been hacked off of their bodies; even a cat, laying in a broken pile, a blood stain where it had been thrown against the wall. They vomited at the sight. They vomited at the smell. It was a scene from a dark nightmare.
“Who did this?” Ovid demanded, a sword in hand.
“Look at the shields, brother,” Icarus growled, his eyes focussed solely on the innocents swaying in the gentle breeze. “It was that traitor. He had fled before the battle and came here, out of spite if anything.”
“He knew what we had intended. He knew and so allowed me to waste my strength against the men he could afford to lose. And instead,” Smarv surveyed the scene before him. “He has struck north.”
"But why did our men fight him here?" demanded Ovid, angry and confused in equal measure. "They should be at the Coil or the mountain holds!"
“Your Most Honourable!” a Danage called hoarsely. “Come quickly!”
Not waiting for their king, Icarus and Ovid raced in to one of the gutted stables, followed closely by Rollo and Castor. Smarv walked slowly, stiffly, tears threatening to break free.
He out-witted me. That bastard beat me. He beat me like he beat my father.
It turned out to be Consus Blackpyre, his right arm hacked clean off and half of his skull smashed in. All around him, bathing in a pool of congealing fluids, lay corpses bearing the sigils of families loyal to Bonfatius or Smarv. There was maybe twenty dead in the small stables, nearly fresh from the lack of flies descending on the open wounds.
The smell was even more overpowering in the enclosed space. Nobleman and commoner alike had loosened their bowels in death. Blood and human excrement mixed to cover the floor a dark colour. Neither red, or black, or brown.
“Look at that man’s shield,” instructed Smarv, unfeeling.
“We knew that the Cornicos were loyal to Bonfatius, even before we marched from Casper’s Hill. We can still hope that these are the last of the traitor's supporters."
The king shook his head slowly, smiling bitterly. He pointed again, his hand steady as a rock.
Dorus noticed it first, swearing loudly. He knelt beside a dead boy, barely sixteen years old. The corpse’s face, miraculously devote of dirt or hair, seemed at peace. The rest of his body, however, had been through war. One leg ended just below the knee. One arm was broken, twisted at an obscene angle. And in death, he had soiled himself, the once fine clothing he wore stained with his own waste.
“That boy is a Drygon! No one else would claim the emerald wrym for their sigil."
“Then my brother was successful?” Icarus asked, frowning at the body, trying to figure out why it looked strange to him.
“We will find out won’t we?” Rollo asked the tired commander. “Once we reach the Coil, the whole realm will know that we have suffered two defeats. We have lost every battle fought.”
“That is defeatism,” reminded Castor, kneeling by Caligula’s cold body, closing the one eye which remained to him.
“That is realism.”
The Dallans turned to look at Aksel, standing just outside of the stable. The other chiefs were with him, seventeen men who, with the loss of their beloved leader, had now realized that the civil war was not going to be the swift war they expected.
“What do you have to say to it?” demanded Dorus, slowly raising his spear.
Icarus joined the Jarl, quickly followed by Ovid and Castor. Several of the Narviric warriors noticed the Flendrians and stumbled over to join their commanders. The confrontation soon looked serious, weapons in the hands of everyone.
“This Bonfatius has out-witted your king. He has commanded the wild beasts of this land to sap at our strength while he continues to gain power. We have lost. I am of a mind to hand you over to him to claim some of the gold you promised us.”
“You can try,” muttered Rollo, reinforcing his comrades, despite his comment. “But last I remember, the Dallans were better warriors than clansmen.”
Better? I had thought the very same. But I saw them in Flendria. I watched the professional armies of Havoria fall to their savagery. That was why they are here. I didn’t need soldiers. I needed beasts.
Finally acknowledging what was about to conspire, Smarv turned to the two groups.
“I promised Halrof gold. He lies dead. You were promised nothing, if you remember. You are all here to honour an oath. To go against that oath is to die.”
One of the older chiefs laughed harshly. A few others looked at each other. Aksel stepped forward, gesturing for the gathering clansmen to keep their distance.
“Don’t even try and pull that one, Dallan. We have honoured our oath. Flendrian gold paid for your journey. Flendrian might saw you to your realm. Flendrian power followed you in to battle. We bled for you. We killed for you. We lost our best for your desperate cause.”
“You have not fulfilled your oath,” muttered Smarv, frowning. “You all promised to see me to my supporters.”
“Ha! We brought you to Casper’s Hill. There you gained supporters. To Ten Ropes, and then the chase which earned you hundreds. We have gathered your supporters for you.”
“Chief Aksel,” one of the other chiefs stepped forward, a short fellow, the only man who had not owned anything to the Frost King.
He had followed Halrof. He had followed the man wed to his daughter. I wonder if he blames me? Or maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Yet why didn’t he take command?
The two men whispered harshly in each other’s ears, speaking in the gruff, throaty language of the high hills of Flendria. A language Smarv had not mastered in his time abroad. Every so often Aksel would glance back at the other chiefs, who had only uttered a few words their entire time in Narvir.
“We will see you to the Coil,” Aksel accepted when the two broke apart. “In exchange, you will give us what wealth you have access to at the town, and then we will leave. A few clansmen may want to stay, but we leave you to your war.”
At his words, the two sides sighed in relief. Both had not wanted blood to be shed. They had fought together, bled together. Duty to their lords outweighed their personal desires, but that only made it worse.
“To the Coil then,” agreed Smarv. “And then I will compensate you for your services.”
The clan chiefs nodded at that, some happily, others sadly, and turned away, helping to pile the dead in to their burning pyres.
Smarv returned to the dead Drygon boy. He crouched, so as to not sully his clothing. Almost tenderly, he retrieved the lad's spear, picking apart stiff fingers before yanking the point out of the boy's final kill.
The kill had been one bearing the crossed axes on his chest.
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May 21, 2014, 11:10 AM
#25
Re: A Born King
This is ing epic.
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May 21, 2014, 11:30 AM
#26
Re: A Born King
Just added in a little bit to the OP regarding the "truth" of the histories of the peoples of Sandria. ATM ( read in to that as you will) there are no physical manifestations of gods. Hopefully you see the Hellenic feel of the Dallans (granted I have yet to peer in to the day-to-day culture) and can safely gather that their religious mindset is relatively similar...
I will add to the OP in the coming days a little overview of the Narviric church (as it is) even though the entire creed will almost likely not feature in this piece.
EDIT: Thank you General Brewster, and I will try McScottish
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May 22, 2014, 02:13 PM
#27
Foederatus
Re: A Born King
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May 23, 2014, 11:50 AM
#28
Re: A Born King
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I don’t think I like our new leader of the clans,” muttered Icarus as the host readied to march.
They had slept far away from the farmstead, the sight of the dead still sketched in to the back of their eyes whenever they tried to sleep. The women and children, thankfully strangers to the men, had been burned with the other dead, their ashes collected and left by the farm’s entrance. Smarv hoped that at least one of the family had survived, so that the jars would be looked after properly, mounted honourably before the spirit trees.
Bonifatius left them standing at least.
The young king stood before the grey trees, eyes scanning the branches bearing light pink petals. They comforted him just by their presence, and not simply because they had been Welntos’ last gift to the Primores. He found peace in the soft colours of the trees, glad that there was at least one beautiful thing left in his kingdom. And their subtle smell helped soften the blow of the stench lingering around the farmstead.
“Don’t you think we should do something about him? Before he betrays us for Bonfatius I mean?” quizzed Rollo, tightening his armour as he joined the small group.
“We don’t have the numbers, nor the energy, to turn on the Flendrians,” answered Castor, almost regretfully. “But we have his oath. At the moment, he is ours.”
“We should pray,” interrupted Smarv, kneeling before the heart-warming timber. “To Welntos, for the lives lost, and the lives soon to be ended.”
“And for the strength to see us to victory,” Dorus added, kneeling beside his king.
Together, the five men prayed, their lips moving silently.
Great Welntos, King of Gods, master of stone and ice, I beg forgiveness for my weakness before your all-bearing sight. I ask that you armour my soul in stone. I beg that you strengthen my arms with ice. I plead that you cloak me with the aura of kingship that all rulers need have. Smarv Frost is your servant, from birth to death, as my father before me, and his father before him. See that he reclaims what is his by right. See that he finds Bonifatius on the field of battle. I shall do the rest.
He rose quickly, his men standing with him. Bowing their heads to the tombs of the spirits, Smarv’s council left to get the host moving. They still had a ways to go before the Coil was in their sights, and they needed to reach the keep’s strong walls before Bonifatius got inside. That, and before their men died of starvation.
Ameratos, Lady of the timber and the flower, I ask again for your kindness upon us mortal men. The souls presented before you have no one to care for them. I ask that you accept them in the holy bark of your trees, in the hopes that they may find some peace.
Having already spoken to Dieramatos during the burning of the bodies, Smarv refrained from saying words to the Woman of sun and flame. The gods were too busy with the uncountable dead, and their own affairs, to have time to listen to one lowly mortal.
Leaving the blackened farm behind them, the men moved off north, trudging through vast fields recently planted. Of the farmers, there was no sign, and after what they had seen, they were not surprised. Those who had survived would hide for several days before coming out, afraid to be the next targeted. They had learned from bitter experience during the rebellion seven years before. They had learned from the men who had been dragged in to the fighting so that their families were left in peace. They had learned from those killed in their sleep. They had learned from the infernos which engulfed entire villages. They had learned from the girls with their swelling bellies. They had learned from their own kind what it was to fear.
The army tried to keep the pace fast, but exhaustion forced them to slow. The wounded were not healing, and soon more and more were losing the will to stay awake and on their feet. Only a few marched in full gear, with the king allowing them to put their shields and armour in whatever cart could accommodate them. If Bonifatius attacked suddenly, then there would be near no chance of victory. There would be no chance of escape.
To make matters worse, Aksel refused to speak with any of the natives, and forced his men to march apart from their Dallan comrades. Those who went off in search of food were brought before the man and forced to unveil all that they had gathered. It would be divided up between the Flendrians, and none of the berries or mushrooms or rare rabbit found its way in to Narviric mouths. Yet even with their own stash, the big stomachs of the clansmen growled fiercely, and many were starting to thin.
For days they marched in silence, the only noise that of their feet scuffing on the cobbles of the old road. Men moaned faintly with every jolt in the carts, while their friends tried to keep them comfortable. They wrapped cloth, already crusted with black blood, around the wounds which refused to close. They tied small bundles of herbs under the chins and spoke softly, retelling stories of their youth.
They could do little else.
“Would you look at that?” Lucanus muttered as he eased himself on to a rock as the king called a sudden halt.
Rollo joined the Agoge, glancing across the field at what his old friend saw.
It was a deer, watching the men rest as it slowly chewed on a mouthful of grass. The doe looked to be quite a big thing, thickset, fat in comparison to other prancing animals. The deer was maybe fifty feet away, perhaps in range of a skilled bowman.
“Wishing you had learned to use the bow now?” Rollo asked with a smile.
The bow was a boy’s weapon, unfitting for a man of noble birth. Locked shields, straining against the enemy battleline, that was where a man should be. Only cowards or those of poorer blood proclaimed a ranged weapon as an honourable instrument. Welntos had used a spear in his war. The ancient Anticuum heroes waged war with sword and circular shield. Sure, they had never fought in disciplined ranks, instead facing the enemy one-on-one, but they had had the power of the gods flowing through their veins.
“My father had served ten years on the Paladins, five as captain of Oakprow. Not once did he pick up a bow. He alone trained with spear and sword and shield while his entire command stood on the archery range.” Lucanus spat at the mere mention of the training ground. “He lived, while many of them died. They followed Bonifatius, he followed Damon.”
“Trying to say that archers have traitors blood?” asked Brictius, staggering stiffly over to the two men. “It was Bonifatius who saved those of the straits from the Havorian raid. The Paladins owed him.”
“They swore an oath to Damon before Bonifatius appeared,” Rollo pointed out, trying to judge if Ovid could hit the deer. “They should have killed him and be done with it. Instead, they played right in to his hands, and we lost our eastern shores.”
“Oaths muttered ten years past have less weight than an action a few hours old,” Brictius intoned gravely.
“They opened the gates to the Flendrians!” Lucanus snapped, forgetting who Smarv had brought west. “If they had kept their eyes to the east, Damon would have been able to seize Palehills while Bonifatius’ mercenary scum were shattered in the straits. Instead, Bonifatius tripled his army and forced Damon to march against him.”
An arrow whizzed past their heads, followed by a soft cry of the doe. The animal collapsed without complaint, legs just folding under the weight of its body.
“Does anyone have any spices?” asked Ovid with a tight smile, retrieving his bow from a stone-faced Smarv.
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May 25, 2014, 05:19 AM
#29
Re: A Born King
CHAPTER TWELVE
There was great excitement as Lucanus and Brictius carved up the deer for the fire with quick, efficient movements. Most the camp which had the energy crowded around the single campfire, jostling for a lungful of bleeding carcass.
Smarv and his commanders distanced themselves away from the crowds. He was both relieved and upset that the Flendrians hadn't been enticed to join the jostling crowd. On one hand, a fight could easily spark, but on the other, it just showed how obviously the men under his command where split between two camps. If things did not change soon, it could literally be two camps.
“It had been a good shot,” congratulated Rollo, remembering the sound of the arrow as it passed overhead. “Straight in to the right eye and almost out the other side.”
“It won’t feed them all,” Icarus put in, his mood unchanged since the farmstead.
“It was a big doe. The largest I have ever seen,” put in Dorus. “The wounded should get a bit, and Your Most Honourable, of course.”
I cannot believe I thought that he reminded me of my father. He is just a youth. An ambitious youth. Loyal maybe, but he is more likely to bend than break.
“The wounded who may be able to recover will get the meat. Those too far gone will get nothing but the smell.”
The smell was good. The smell was divine. It was overpoweringly delicious. The men tasted it as they lay on the hard ground, chasing and eating the air to try and satisfy their cravings. However most just lay still, quiet, subdued, letting their bellies growl and roar and their mouths fill with saliva. Although some couldn't even get saliva to form in their dry mouths.
Birds were next to gather around the fire, after the men had lost interest, swooping low over the flames. They congregated on the treetops, they mulled around the camp extremities. Some, brave sparrows and robin redbreasts, hopped around between the unmoving legs of exhausted Dallans to cock their heads at the two cooks, glazed eyes looking without emotion.
The meat had barely even browned before Smarv ordered it to be cut up for the wounded. He didn't watch Lucanus and Brictius carve up the bloody meat, instead turning to order his men to return to the road. Smarv would have given them a little longer, but if he watched over the two Agoges, then he was certain he would catch them sneaking a morsel or two in between their cracked lips. Theft was a crime punishable by the loss of limb in peacetime to a Chattelite. In war, theft by an Agoge in service to the King of Dalla, a slow death caused by fire would be a merciful way to punish them.
The Dallans barely grumbled as they were forced on to their feet, some in that dream state which made them appear half dead, some simply too weak to waste any of their energy on words. Many were helped up, small groups assisting each other so weak that they that they couldn't rise on to their own two feet.
Smarv decided to march at the head of the column, something he had not done since he fled before Bonifatius’ army, so many days ago. Icarus and Dorus and Rollo walked among the men, attempting to speak to a few of those who were coping better than the rest. Smarv didn't have the strength for talking. He barely had the strength to put one step in front of another. His stomach growled just as loudly as his men, and his cheeks were now hollow alcoves, the dark rings under his eyes giving him a feral appearance.
We should really kill the horses, he told himself as they marched painfully from field to road.
Barely a score of horses had survived from their battle with the Iphus supporters, and from when the wolves lunged in to their camp at the dead of night. They were scrawny things, eating only enough to sustain them. Narvir was not a great breeding ground for horses, even ones brought up for generations off of the land.
But he dismissed the idea as soon as he glanced back, between the shoulders of men who hadn't washed or shaved in what looked and smelled like an age. The horses left were pulling the carts. The carts which held men dying slowly, painfully. His army was held together by thin strands of duty and courage. Without the horses, he would lose the carts, and if he lost the carts, he would lose the wounded. If he lost the wounded, then he would be cutting the last strands himself. He would lose the army, and almost certainly his life.
Once they were back on Narviric cobbles, the column made their way quicker, not having to worry about placing their foot in an unseen hole, or having to pull the carts out of a ditch. They unconsciously reformed in to their ranks, not entirely rigid, but more disciplined than what they had been across the empty fields. Their backs straightened, as if the road meant that things were looking up. They were nearing the Coil, a safe haven where they could sleep, eat and tend to their wounds.
The Lycans and Drygons another two thousand at the very least…
Icarus’ words rang in the young king’s head as he waddled along with his men, scratching at the bristles which had started to appear along his jawline. He knew what he had seen at the farmstead. He had seen a boy, either in service to Drygon or of the noble family itself, dead, slain killing a Wintrue. It could have been one of Bonifatius’ ploys. He would have happily sullied his hands, or more likely the hands of one of his men, in changing the clothing of some of the dead soldiers.
But there is no way that boy was changed after death, Smarv accepted. He went in to battle as a Drygon, and died as one, a traitor one, but with the sigil of the wyrm nonetheless.
It should have filled him with despair. Fluvius had failed, dead or captured along with the Wintrues and what was left of the Blackpyres. There was no hope left. The clansmen, even most of his Dallans, would desert. Some would decide it was high time to turn the boy in. For a bag of gold and their lives they would sacrifice their honour and sully their names by giving over their rightful king. The realm would cease to be the Kingdom of Ice and Winter, and become the Land of Rotten Decay.
But he did not. It filled him with energy. He smiled, a genuine smile. He had lived seven years in a foreign land, waging war in the hope one day he would return home to reclaim what was his. The crown, the throne, the realm. Great things that any man would die to make an attempt at achieving. Yet the greed he had for his birthright as king paled in comparison to his birthright as a son.
Vengeance. For a father slain dishonestly in battle. For a mother who was raped by a dozen men before death. For a father whose only flaw was to put the needs of the realm before those of himself. For a sister who was trampled by a hundred horses. For a father who gave his life to his people who betrayed him. For a brother who was tossed in to an inferno after having both legs broken by a rock. For daddy. For mommy. For big sis and lil brother.
He started to cry remembering their faces, seeing the ghostlike fragments of their perfect faces. He couldn't remember them truly, only their rough shape, like picking a cloak from a pile of a hundred identically-coloured ones. He had forgotten their faces. He had forgotten their smell. Yet he still remembered them. The tears trickled down his face without a noise, getting caught in the hairs and dirt of his face.
Yet the trickle soon stopped.
Forgive me for my weakness, great Welntos, just give me Bonifatius.
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May 27, 2014, 11:18 AM
#30
Re: A Born King - Updated 25th May 2014
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Coil was more castle than town, like the stone fortresses found to the far south beyond the Divide. It had high walls, so high that no ladder could reach its battlements. They were also thick, able to stand five ranks of men on them without worry of falling off either side. Seven walkways connected the walls to the central tower, which loomed so high that it was a wonder that it did not touch the sky.
Outside the walls, a mere smudge from where Smarv was standing, was Bonifatius and a force just over two thousand strong. They had set up camp in front of the amply named Dragon Gate, the beast’s mouth firmly shut. A few figures, barely more than indistinguishable grains, walked the walls of the Coil, as if oblivious to the men beneath.
“It seems that we arrived just in time,” Ovid declared, turning to go and collect his armour from the cart he had tossed it in days ago. “I have a few things to settle with those men down there.”
The army of Smarv, gathered around him, alive with energy. Some, the older ones, were veterans of the Summer War, others had survived through the Rise of the Boar, and yet some had only seen war under Smarv. All of them were straight backed, all smiles, all somehow eager. Bonifatius had put the need for revenge in to them, and for that Smarv was happy. The memory of Damon was faded, but the farmstead: its three woman, one still pregnant; and the children, five boys and three girls. Their memory was still bright and sharp in the minds of the men.
“There lies Bonifatius Iphus, traitor Jarl of Palehills. Do you see him scurry? Him and his traitor dogs sit outside the gates of the Coil, feasting on the food stolen from the dying hands of children! Do you hear them laugh?”
Do you smell that food?
He had started speaking quietly, slowly, dignified. Yet the anger was building up in him. The need for vengeance: the white hot heat which threatened to consume him in a frenzy of bloodletting. His men felt it too. They drew some of it in to themselves, allowing it to rekindle their own flames which may have been kept under control. They roared with every word he spoke.
“Two thousand men without honour sit feeding on spoils gained by evil! They do not deserve to live! Every breath that they take is a dagger in the heart of the gods! I shall gladly slay the whole repulsive horde of them! Will you do your duty to the dead?”
And with that, Smarv Frost, clad in the same, blood-stained armour that he had worn the last time he went in to battle, turned and started stomping down the small hill towards Bonifatius. He didn't have to look to see if his men were following. He could smell them. He could hear them. And by the gods Bonifatius could hear them as well.
They did not come as an army of Narvir. They did not march in rigid lines, shields interlocking, spears held in overhand grips ready to be thrust forward in the coming clash. They did not remain silent, conserving their energy for the push and the shove. They looked like wild beasts, hair reaching at least to their chins. Their clothing was mostly ruined, they smelled of the faeces dried in to their tunics. They were not an army of Narvir. They were an army of monsters.
They charged as soon as they had cleared the hill, bellowing at the top of their lungs. The king was at their head, outpacing his men by three clear strides. His arms pumped furiously, even hindered by shield and sword, to get him in to the fight a moment sooner. He breathed deeply as he ran, smelling only the cooked meat from the camp. He stared in to the mass of gathering men in front of them, each and every one with the face of Bonifatius. He was alive.
At the last instant Smarv raised his large metal shield, driving through the hastily-formed shield without breaking stride. Several foes fell backwards from the force of his charge, fear written plain across their faces. He almost lost his footing as he made his way in to the enemy lines, his kopis lashing out at unprotected limbs. For a moment, he was alone in a sea of enemies.
When the rest of his men crashed in to Bonifatius’ dogs, it sounded like thunder, such was the noise caused by the collision of near two thousand men. Driven by anger, Smarv’s men drove deep in to Bonifatius’ shieldwall, snarling as they took down the traitors. They were a relentless tidal wave, pushing the foe back, step by fearful step.
Smarv ducked under a Chattelite’s wild swing, his kopis swinging towards the slave’s knee, cutting the leg off in one fell sweep. As the man collapsed in agony, blood pouring out his new wound, Smarv slammed down on his neck with the edge of his shield. The blow almost decapitated the slave. Before the man had even stopped breathing, Smarv had swirled away, locking shields with an Agoge who was the exact opposite of the young king. Whereas Smarv was tall with lean muscle, the nobleman was small with thick slabs of iron. Whereas Smarv looked and smelled like a bandit, the man was freshly cleaned, clean-shaven with short blonde hair.
Smarv had still been kneeling when the man had attacked, something he used to his advantage. Forcing the bottom of his shield forward and up towards the heavens, Smarv made an opening for his kopis to dive in. Finding the man’s thigh, Smarv shoved the curved blade forward, swinging it diagonally towards the other thigh cutting deep in to whatever lay between his legs. Had hung between his legs.
The man screamed at that, and fell to his knees, hands darting to his blood-soaked groin in agony. Tears flooded down his cheeks and snot started to run down his face. The king darting forward with a snarl, driving his blade in deep. He left his kopis wedged deep in to the Agoge’s chest, drawing his steel xophos with a hand drenched in bright red blood.
The fighting had carried off of the field and in to Bonifatius’ camp, those loyal to the Jarl of Palehills trying desperately to reform on the ruined remains of their tents and campfires. Several of the weak had given up hope, and tried to flee before the onslaught of the clansmen and vengeful Dallans. They threw their shields off to the side, the blades they had carved the meat of innocents with already left in the wake of their cowardice.
“King Smarv!” a man called, friendly and confident.
Twisting around, the king noticed a figure striding towards him, a group of nobles keeping him safe from the attacks of lone clansmen. He was wearing a simple cloth tunic, dyed a dirty gold, the head of a black boar on its face. The beast has red eyes, teeth and tongue, giving it a nightmarish appearance. The only piece of armour the man wore was shoulder guards, thick and heavy. In one hand was a xiphos, gleaming with fresh oil. In the other was a small, thick headed axe.
Smarv’s eyes narrowed when he noticed the crown atop his head, a gaudy thing, gold and jewels aplenty. It contrasted starkly with the simplicity of the rest of the man’s attire, and for a moment drew the king’s eyes away from his enemy’s face. The thing was a cap of solid gold which covered much of his head, resting just above two thick eyebrows. A dozen thick rubies framed a single diamond which was the same size as Smarv’s eye.
“A pretty little thing, is it not?” the man asked casually, taking a confident step towards the once exiled king. “It was a parting present from the Havorians who placed my scarred bottom on the throne of your family.” He raised his arms in a gesture of apology. “My throne now, of course.”
“I will kill you,” Smarv muttered.
You have my thanks, Welntos. My life is yours to do with as you wish. A thousand days of agony is a price I would willingly pay for this moment.
“I am offended young Smarv Frost!” the man said with a smile.
Confident, even as his army was routed around him, Bonifatius Iphus took another step forward, his bodyguard spreading out to keep Smarv’s men away. They numbered barely twenty, but the fighting was elsewhere, and only a few of those loyal to the Frost dynasty neared the blades of the traitors.
Glancing at the boy-king’s blade, Bonifatius frowned.
“Why is your sword so short? Please don’t tell me that Flendria doesn't have enough iron to fashion a proper sword!”
Smarv’s laugh was barely half-sane. His eyes were wide, tongue darting out like a snake’s.
“It is long enough to reach your heart.”
And with that, the two charged at each other like the wild beasts they were.
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May 27, 2014, 08:53 PM
#31
Re: A Born King - Updated 27th May 2014
An epic battle is about to happen. Great update!
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May 28, 2014, 01:39 AM
#32
Re: A Born King - Updated 27th May 2014
I LOVE THIS!
BRILLIANT!
Thanks
Tigellinus
Proudly under the patronage of McScottish
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May 29, 2014, 11:38 AM
#33
Re: A Born King - Updated 27th May 2014
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bonifatius swung first, sending his xiphos in a long, sweeping arc. As steel scraped against steel, he followed up with a savage downward cut with his axe, spitting in to Smarv’s face as he lunged in to a frantic attack.
Smarv kept his shield high, weathering through Bonifatius’ attacks as he waited for an opening. He knew as soon as the traitor Jarl made his seventh impact that he was outmatched. Bonifatius had been a renowned warrior before adulthood, and his skills never withered away with age or peace. He was a man in his prime, living for battle. He had slain hundreds. He had butchered thousands. Bonifatius was the better and both fighters knew this.
Suddenly, the traitor kicked out at Smarv, sending him sprawling on to the ground. He tried to roll with his momentum, but his shield got in the way, and he only managed in turning his back to his foe. Cursing himself, the youth rolled back, bringing his shield up in time to meet Bonifatius’ axe. He followed up instantly with his leg, swinging it round, fueled by anger and frustration, to slam in Bonifatius’ shin.
The leg gave way, sending Bonifatius to his knees, a yelp of pain escaping from his thin lips. Bonifatius still tried to stay on the attack, overstretching to force his sword against the wide face of Smarv’s shield. Instead of meeting the scarred face of the steel shield, Bonifatius’ xiphos met the steel of Smarv’s xophos. Smarv turned the blade away and made to punch his foe’s chest, the rim of his shield making the strike.
The blow sent the Jarl sprawling, the blood of a dozen of Smarv’s victims marking where the shield had struck him. Bonifatius’ head hit the ground, softened by the brains of one of Smarv’s clansmen. The attack had been so sudden, so unthinkable, that the hero of the Battle of Greenhill forgot to roll. Instead, he lay there, out of breath, trying to figure out why the pup was not dead already.
“Bonifatius Iphus,” Smarv started as he heaved himself on to his feet, feeling the effects of the battle starting to wear him down. “you are a traitor, guilty of high treason, of regicide, of the murder of innocents and of acts which defy the gods. How do you plead?”
The accused did not answer at first, instead rising unsteadily to his feet, surveying his camp with a calm eye. His army had started to retreat, his men discarding shields and swords in their haste to flee before the wrath of thirteen hundred men . Yet still he did not show any signs of fear. If anything, he was happy at what he saw. The sight seemed to have been something he was eagerly expecting.
“Eight years ago, your father accused me of being a traitor. Before all of the great nobles of the realm. He called me traitor and was set to sentence me to death. I was freed by the nobles, those who saw the king for what he was. These same nobles sacrificed their themselves, and the lives of their families, to bring him down. Your father disgraced our land.”
Smarv didn't reply, knowing that the traitor was both trying to stall him with a pointless exchange of words, and to make him angry.
Angry enemies are fierce things, Smarv remembered his father telling him. The worst swordsmen in the world will cut through entire armies by the near divine power of anger. Yet anger makes fools of all men.
Bonifatius saw that the boy wouldn't answer, so took a step back, nodding to the guards who still remained. They turned and began to jog away from their king, keeping a tight formation even as order dissolved all around them. Someone had started a fire, and the smoke started to descend on the battlefield.
Smarv led with his xiphos, lunging and darting towards his enemy with practiced strikes. He wanted to get angry. He wanted to feel the energy he had felt only a short time before when he charged in to the shieldwall. Bonifatius wanted that too, so he resisted the urge. Instead, he advanced on his foe, trying for a lucky strike which would end the war. Both wars, which had started so many years ago.
When Bonifatius jumped away suddenly, Smarv was too slow to react, his lunge sending him forward when he needed to bring his shield up. Bonifatius then danced forward himself, his axe deflecting Smarv’s blade while he brought up his sword for the fatal thrust even as he took a step forward. The distance between the two combatants was too close for Bonifatius’ blade to have room enough to be aimed for the killing blow. The blade merely drove itself weakly in to Smarv's side.
The two of them drew away, beginning to circle slowly as hundreds ran all around them. Bonifatius looked set to lick the blood off of his blade before he dropped the sword.
“Like the heroes of generations past, Your Most Honourable,” Bonifatius said, his confident voice nowhere to be heard. “That is how this thing should end. Not by two armies of brothers clashing on a flat field. Not by the deaths of thousands of good men.”
“An honourable way,” Smarv hissed, wanting to laugh at the traitor's sudden loss of pride. “The old way. You have lost, and now you are grasping for any chance to see victory. You will die now!”
“Smarv, I have not lost. You are still outnumbered. You are still on the run, and reaching the Lycans will not save you. My people are there, and have much more to offer them than you.”
“They will submit, like all the rest, once you are dead.”
“I am not dead.”
“You soon will be.”
And with that Smarv made to attack Bonifatius, half expecting the man to meet him in the middle. Instead, the traitor turned and fled, long strides taking him out of Smarv’s reach in seconds.
That was when Smarv noticed the traitor’s guards, mounted not far away, unmoving rocks in among a sea of chaos. The traitor king leaped on to the back of an un-mounted steed and the group turned and made their escape. Behind them, screaming out for his unfulfilled revenge, Smarv tried in vain to reach them before they picked up speed, calling to his men to stop the riders.
The men who had followed Smarv were starving. They had not eaten a good meal in too many days. It was tradition for the victorious army to lay claim to whatever the defeated party had left behind, be that weapons, clothing, money or food. To these malnourished warriors, the only loot they wanted was food. Smarv would have had a greater chance telling the skies to boil and burn than force his men to go without food for an instant longer.
Watching his enemy flee, Smarv wanted to cry. To cry for the pain which was beginning to envelope him like a tight cloak. To cry for the betrayal of Welntos, who had let him get so close to his revenge, but snatch it like a toy from a begging baby. But no tears were willing to come. He himself was not dead. His men had been victorious. The tide of the war seemed to be turning. For the moment, he felt good.
Dorus was the first to stumble on to his king, both arms wrapped tightly around a gaping wound running down his chest. He had smiled weakly at his king before collapsing on top of the same clansman Bonifatius had landed on not long before. Smarv had not gone over to check to see if the young man was dead. The wound had looked fatal. There had been nothing he could have done. The king didn’t truly care if that man lived or died.
Icarus, one hand holding aloft a half-eaten slab of unidentifiable roasted meat, was the next to join his king, offering the meat cautiously. He smiled as his king took the meat, and started to wolf it down.
Rollo came after, followed by four bloodied men. He did not smile, instead simply stating that the Coil had opened the Dragon gate and warriors were streaming out. At their head rode Jarl Drygon of the Coil, calling out for his king.
And who is his king? Smarv asked himself darkly. I have questions, Jarl Drygon, and if they cannot be answered...
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May 31, 2014, 12:47 PM
#34
Re: A Born King - Updated 29th May 2014
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jarl Zoticus Drygon came at the head of fifty Agoges, all of them mounted on fine black beasts. Behind him some three hundred warriors jogged, a mixture of spear armed Danages and bow-wielding Chattelites. They had the marks of recent battle, congealing blood on their breastplates and wounds only just starting to heal. On all of their faces were wide smiles, which Smarv took for a good sign.
When Zoticus neared the victorious king, he leapt off of his horse and knelt in the open belly of a dead Dallan, barely noticing as blood soaked in to his rich clothing. He started to gush out thanks and congratulations to the young man who was half his age. The Agoges, proudly bearing their family crests on their shields, followed their Jarl in kneeling to the king, although any thanks they wished to say were kept to themselves.
“Rise, Jarl Zoticus,” Smarv instructed, stepping to the man’s side. “I have questions that require immediate attention.”
“Of course, Your Most Honourable,” the man said, trying a smile for his king.
The two groups were joining together, slowly at first, but the joys of victory brought even the wariest of men in to one mass of cheering brothers. The clansmen embraced the Dallans like long-lost family, forgetting all about Chief Aksel’s wish for the two to be apart.
“Why did men bearing your sigil fight for Bonifatius?” Smarv went straight in with the most pressing question, hoping to put the Jarl off-balance. If things came to blows then he wanted to have the advantage.
“My son, Cephas,” the Jarl couldn’t meet Smarv’s eyes, or indeed, anyone’s. “My former heir, he bought the loyalty of near three hundred men with promises of gold. Even some of the most honourable of my men were swayed.”
I promised Halrof gold.
“How did you not stop him before he joined Bonifatius?” Icarus demanded, sword suddenly against the man’s throat.
The nearby Agoges sworn to Zoticus made to protect their Jarl but Smarv just stared at them. The warriors glanced at the boy’s fierce helmet, marking out the simple gold band which served as his crown. They quickly backed away, hands relaxing off of sword hilts.
“What would the gods say, if I killed my own son?” Jarl Drygon asked his potential killer, no fear in his eyes, resignation maybe, but no fear. “I warned Consus not to follow him, but follow he did, with half of the men marshalled from the north-eastern lands. Bonifatius let a few score escape back here, as a warning.”
More loss will be felt.
Smarv looked over to the Agoges. “Look for Cephas among the dead, before they are burned. If he can be identified, that is.”
“Your Most Honourable, I know my son has disgraced himself and his family, but you must know that the men you see before you are loyal to the bone. These men have fought Bonifatius, beneath these very walls they have bled for your realm. A short battle I accept, but a battle fought in your name nonetheless.”
Rollo moved to Icarus’ side, gently pulling the man back behind their king. Both looked at the traitor’s father with distrust. Treachery was known to pass from father to son. It was not something which just appeared in a man. They did not need their king’s command to watch him closely.
“Yes, of course Jarl Zoticus, although, honestly you will not have my trust until Bonifatius is killed. Even then I will always suspect you.”
The Jarl accepted this brutal honesty with an awkward smile, letting out a held breath. He saw the threat, thinly veiled behind the truth: if anything happened then the Drygons would be blamed, innocent or not. The Coil would burn and its people would be put to the sword.
“Did Fluvius live?” Icarus asked suddenly, eyes staring at Zoticus’ chest.
“He has yet to fight Bonifatius, of that I am certain. Five hundred strong is his column, warriors as well as women and children. I watched them march off with carts brimming with the wealth of three great families, and enough food to feed them for a year.”
The relief on Icarus’ face was plain, but it was soon replaced with pride. He finally sheathed his blade, and wandered back in to the revelry without a word.
“Talking about food,” Castor called, squeezing between the Drygon Agoges. “I feel that the men have earned themselves a good feast. We should bring them in behind the walls first, of course.”
Zoticus leapt at that idea, his face brightening up. “Yes, yes! We should not be standing about in the mud!”
Smarv could only agree with that, it was not a fitting place to be celebrating their triumph. He nodded to Castor and Rollo to organise the men while he followed the Jarl and his bodyguard in to the Coil, stiffly pacing beneath the iron teeth of the Dragon.
“Oh, and Rollo, see to Dorus’ body,” he pointed vaguely to where the man had fallen. “He said his family had all died, so the remains will be returned to Ten Ropes.”
The man nodded slowly at that, lifting up the faeces-stained body himself. The gesture was one of respect, of a near-brotherly bond between two warriors. Smarv would have found the sight heart-warming. He would have if it was anyone else.
Turning to the four men who had followed Castor, Smarv dispatched them to bring Icarus to the Coil with all haste. The man’s loyalty and honest council was something Smarv leaned heavily on and while there was still a war to be fought, to be won, Icarus would remain close by.
The courtyard was almost empty when Smarv entered, flanked by Jarl Zoticus and his men. There were a few priests in their purple and gold robes, waiting to descend and heal the wounded with their magic and gift the dying with the mercy of the gods. Aside from a few wary washerwomen, there was no one else to witness the king enter the castle.
“Are there not many servants within the Coil?” the king asked, trying to spy any people hiding in the shadows.
“I have sent everything of value west with Fluvius and Caligula. Everyone is gone. With Bonifatius marching north, I decided that the Coil would need to go on to war footing. Four hundred mouths eat a lot of food, and a battle is not a place for those who cannot fight.”
“We saw fields aplenty beginning to show the signs of wheat on our way here. Why where they not harvested or destroyed?”
That was how war was fought in the Flendrian city-states: hordes of raiders blackening the ground with flame, destroying vast swaths of cropland in an effort to force the enemy to react. A war of food more than a war of steel. Smarv had first thought the idea ridiculous, dishonourable. How could you call glorified banditry ‘war’? He had asked himself. Yet he saw the results first hand while selling his sword with a band of clansmen. He had seen how the lack of food forced the defender to leave the high walls and come out on to the plains to fight a battle. They had been half-starved, exhausted. Smarv and the army he had latched on to went in to that battle fat on the food their enemy had worked hard to grow.
The Jarl offered an apologetic shrug of his shoulders at that. “And once you have defeated Bonifatius? Those crops will be needed to feed your people, and the food does not aid the Jarl of Palehills so you cannot hold that against me.”
Smarv didn’t smile with the man and instead strode towards the main tower, hoping that he wouldn’t have to sacrifice the support of the Drygons to quench his sudden anger at that man. With Icarus closing behind him, the king entered the main hall through a pair of thick oak doors. The hall was small, wider than it was long. However, it had not been decorated by a humble or poor man. Thick banners, depicting the green wyrm and a hundred great deeds covered the walls. The tables and chairs were of oak, big, strong things which could bear the heaviest of plates or nobles.
“A fine hall you have here, Zoticus,” Smarv observed, telling himself that he wasn’t complimenting the man himself. “My supporters will be well fed here, I hope.”
The King didn't hear the Jarl’s reply.
Last edited by Iron Aquilifer; May 31, 2014 at 02:25 PM.
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May 31, 2014, 04:34 PM
#35
Civis
Re: A Born King - Updated 31th May 2014
Great work man I'm liking this
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May 31, 2014, 04:59 PM
#36
Re: A Born King - Updated 31th May 2014
Note: the different spelling of xophos and xiphos is deliberate.... The xiphos is a merge between the shorter xophos used by the Spartans and another one of their blades (the name alluding me at this time) which was for cutting instead of stabbing.
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June 04, 2014, 10:59 AM
#37
Re: A Born King - Updated 31th May 2014
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Her dark brown hair was in disarray; snot drew a line from nose to mouth. Her eyes were red from crying and the tears glistened wetly on pale cheeks. Long fingers cut the thin flesh which had once covered her face. She was filthy. She was dirty. She smelled.
She was beautiful.
“Felicia!” Smarv croaked, overwhelmed, tears threatening to fall down his face.
The girl looked up at the king for a second, unfocused. She narrowed her eyes and held herself as still as a statue. Then realization hit her and she leapt to her feet, throwing off a brown cloak. Forgetting propriety, she raced over to him, a delighted-sounding noise erupting from between smooth lips. Smarv met her in the middle, enveloping the parent-less girl in a massive embrace.
For a time they just stayed like that, breathing in the stench of each other like the sweetest of perfumes. Felicia’s tears dripped down the front of the king’s bronze armour while his wet her tangled hair.
“I am so sorry,” he forced through his tears, not really knowing why, but knowing that it was necessary.
A shudder was all the answer he got; a tightening of her grip on him. Then she placed her blood-stained hands on his metal chest, looking in to his eyes. Those big eyes which looked like windows looking on to a deadly storm. Her hands trailed up, slowly, cautiously, expecting to be stopped. He was a king. He was the king. She was a penniless girl, highborn or not.
Yet she wasn't stopped. She ran her hands under his helmet, finding his greasy, unkempt hair. They leaned in to the kiss together with a sudden burst of energy. Smarv’s heart skipped a beat as Felicia parted her lips to admit his tongue. His hands ran up and down her body, following every curve.
“Your Most Honourable!” Icarus called, flinching when Smarv finally reclaimed his tongue and span round, still holding the girl close.
Zoticus had found his way to his high seat, already discussing plans with two of his commanders. Men had started to enter the hall, staggering to vacant seats before they collapsed with exhaustion. There were far fewer than Smarv had expected, barely five hundred falling in to hard chairs or on to the harder ground. They barely spoke, happy to just close their eyes without fear of someone slitting their throat.
Smarv left Felicia with a quick squeeze of her hand, striding across the hall towards the high table and Zoticus. Icarus staggered to join him, opening his mouth to offer a quiet apology. However, Smarv cut him off with a flick of his hand. You did right, my friend.
“Your Most Honourable, we were just discussing the route the army will take to reach the Feet of the Mountains,” Zoticus said, distracted by a map.
“Is the road through the bearwood unsafe?” Smarv asked, growing concerned.
Going straight through the heart of the bearwood was by far the fastest way of reaching the lands of the Lycans. If they skirted past it by the south, they would be dangerously close to Dalla, and the lands loyal to the traitor. If they went around the north, via the goat paths and narrow valleys of the ice-top mountains, then they would lose too much time. Either way, Bonifatius would catch them. There was no option but to go through the wood.
“No, thankfully, but possible battlefields and areas where ambushes-“
“There will be no fighting,” interrupted the king, slumping down hard in to one of the seats beside the Jarl. “I will not risk the success of this war without the support of the Lycans. We move fast and reach the Feet before Bonifatius has returned here, and then we will consider a place to end this thing.”
And with that, Smarv closed his eyes, sighing in to the uncomfortable seat. He felt everything just wash away as he breathed in deeply. It was a sharp pain which cursed through him as he lifted the weight off of his feet, but it still felt good anyway. For what felt like a few seconds, he was at peace.
Castor nudged him awake with a discreet elbow to the king’s shoulder. Smarv woke with a start, both hands going to his waist. The food was being brought out by a dozen haggard women who dodged between the rows of tables with a half dignified, half rushed stride. Few of the men attempted anything with the women, except to steal a few extra rolls of bread or a bowl of spices. They would have been grateful for that, if they didn't have so much to do.
“I am sorry that this feast is not befitting such a victory,” Zoticus muttered as a plate was put in front of Smarv. “But I do suppose it is better than nothing.”
“It is very fine,” he replied, ripping a small roll in half and taking a big bite. “However I am starting to regret having this now.”
The hall was full, every seat taken by a bloodied, weary soldier. However the lower tables, shoved against the walls with rough-cut benches, were taken by only a few men. There were now near seven hundred people crowded in to the hall, and just over a third of them were Zoticus’ men. Several of the men who had followed Smarv were starting to realize what had happened. Tears of joy or of horror ran freely. Ragged sobs echoed in the hall. Faces went pale and many vomited on to table and floor.
The lack of clansmen was something Smarv had always expected, and even then, there were almost a hundred of the foreigners, drinking and eating alongside their Narviric brothers. They were spread out, not clumped together away in a corner on their own. They will remain behind, Smarv hoped, considering if any more would do the same. He needed them still, and their loss would be worse than any defeat at the hands of Bonifatius.
The high table could seat twenty, but Smarv noticed that only nine seats were claimed. Zoticus was to his immediate left and Castor to his right. On from Zoticus was the two commanders he had been discussing plans with; they were young, with dark cropped hair and clad in almost untouched armour. And on the end, quietly nursing what looked like a cup of wine, was Icarus. On Castor’s side: was Rollo, the table in front of him covered with empty plates; and then Felicia, head bowed, declining all the food presented before her. There were no Blackpyres or Wintrues, although near twenty noble sons and brothers had stayed with Smarv after the host split.
But that was two battles ago, and a forced march which lost me over fifty men.
“Castor, where are the Blackpyres and Wintrues?”
The man glanced around the room, slowly chewing on some beef. Satisfied that he had done his job, the man offered an apologetic shrug. He went on to mutter something about the possibility that they were still outside, mourning the dead. Although the disgraced Brittle Beast did not seem to think that there was much chance of that. He had already written them off as dead.
"What of the situation of the other men? The wounded? The men we captured?"
Each question was met with a tentative offer of ignorance, the man's face paling as he realized his failure.
“I will go outside to see to the men then,” the king told Castor, leaving the man to fester.
He rose slowly, steadying himself on the back of his chair. The King of Narvir was weak with hunger and exhaustion. Giving a short bow to Zoticus, Smarv made to leave the hall. As he passed Felicia, she glanced at him with interest, but something in the man’s pale face told her to stay back.
His face was a mask, his eyes burning.
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June 06, 2014, 10:38 AM
#38
Re: A Born King - Updated 4th June 2014
CHAPTER SEVENTEETH
Smarv almost recoiled at the sight set out before him on the once empty courtyard. It was a scene from the depths of a nightmare. One part was so disgusted, so revolted, that he wanted to close his eyes tightly and wake up. Another part wanted to just turn round and flee back in to the hall. Flee in to the open arms of Felicia. He could drown out the image before him in the sweet touch of the girl who had suffered a rebellion alongside him.
He had forgotten about the realities of war. He had forgotten about the aftermath of battle, so wrapped up with dealing with Zoticus. So distracted by Felicia he had forgotten that men had died in their hundreds for him. So exhausted that falling asleep in a chair was the course he took, instead of doing what a king was meant do. The king would do. The king needed to do.
Damon Frost would have seen to the men before anything else. He would have spent his time softly talking to a dying man rather than go off to trade words with a possible traitor. Did I truly think he was a traitor? Smarv asked himself in a moment of clarity. A moment of self-loathing. Or did I know that this was the sight which would have assailed my eyes if I had remained behind?
What hit him hardest was the noise. This wasn't the screaming of battle. It also wasn't the loud sobbing of men who had figured out that they were still alive. There were no warhorns or trumpets or drums or merry conversation to dim out the piercing racket. Veteran warriors screamed like little girls as the priests closed their wounds and amputated lifeless limbs. Soldiers held down their friends as they thrashed in vain attempts to get away from the healers. The curses uttered were loud and numerous.
Here and there and everywhere boys too young to shave and men too old to have any need to knelt before the unmoving bodies of their friends. With small squares of cloth they wiped the blood and dirt from cold faces. They washed away blood and muck with buckets of dirty water, diverting the slime with stiff brushes. Tears streamed down their faces. Some were crying loudly, others were mute.
Gods! Welntos! Why do this to us? To me?
Swallowing, the king glanced down, to the steps leading down in to the courtyard. Sprawled out on the cold stone was a young man. Faintly recognizing him, Smarv slowly, ever so slowly, eased himself down beside the man. Lecanus didn't speak as his king lowered himself to be at eye level. He could barely breath through the blood which threatened to pour from out between his lips, and didn't want Smarv to be splattered with more red.
“You ate some of the doe, did you?” Smarv asked after recognizing the man. Tears welled up in his eyes.
The man’s insides were no longer confined by skin and muscle. Thick ropes of intestines trailed down the steps, and an ever increasing river of blood flowed from the open wound. His clothing and armour were stiff with congealing blood and Smarv was fairly certain the warrior had fouled himself. He looked quite pathetic, lying there alone with his insides escaping him.
“Did you eat any of the doe?” Smarv asked again, “because you don’t seem to be very hungry.”
Lecanus sighed at the attempted humour.
Weakly, with a pained expression of his face, the man raised a bloody fist in salute. The arm stayed high for a second, before flopping back down. The man had been one of Rollo’s friends, always speaking with the former tribesman whenever the latter was not preoccupied with following the commands of his king. He had been a fierce supporter of Smarv, the king gathered from how he talked about Bonifatius and his allies. You didn't deserve this. His eyes were nearly completely shut, with just a slight flicker to tell Smarv that he was alive.
“Shall I make it quick? Or do you want the healers to look at you?”
There was a chance. A chance that the healers would manage to keep the dying man alive. However, he wouldn't truly be alive. Bedridden, unable to walk, unable to fight. Unable to make love. It would be a pale shadow of life, but some would accept it gladly. Others loathed the mere suggestion.
In the end, dignity is worth far more than honour or duty or glory.
Lecanus shut his eyes at the boy’s words, letting go of his intestines with shaking hands.
I take that as a yes, Smarv decided sadly, thrusting his sword deep in to the man’s throat even as the tears started to drip down the boy’s face.
Wiping the blade on Lecanus’ rags, Smarv stood and walked further in to the mass of wounded and dying. There were too few trained healers for the amount of injuries his men had brought in to the castle. The priests raced from patient to patient, shaking their heads in disgust when they found a man they couldn't save. A score of women moved among the men, offering slices of bread and cups of water to those who could take it.
“Your Most Honourable!” someone declared weakly.
When Smarv turned to locate the man responsible, a dozen voices just as weak called out. He twisted and turned, trying to spot those who were speaking. More and more voices added themselves to the call until it was a chant. A pathetic, feeble, soul-destroying chant. Hands rose slowly, unsteadily, reaching out for him. A few of the stronger edged closer to him, grunting as their wounds reopened.
What do you want? He wanted to scream. Do you want my life in exchange for yours?
“Your Most Honourable!”
Smarv took a step back towards the hall. The men were getting on to their knees. Trailing their insides and motionless limbs, the wounded bowed their heads. The chanting started to die down as everyone, healer and dying, knelt under the watery gaze of their monarch. As silence descended like a sudden fog, the king realized that the men were expecting him to do something.
“Brothers,” he croaked. “Please, this victory is yours.” His voice wavered. The words choked him. “Please, raise your heads.”
They did as he commanded, relaxing back in to their previous positions to allow the healers at them with blade and prayer. They gave me their lives, and yet they are still willing to give me more. Smarv wanted to cry. He dearly wanted to let his emotions have a voice. Yet his father’s words still echoed at the back of his head. Those faint words of iron which he led his life by. Those words cold and without affection.
“You honour me with your loyalty. In the name of the gods. In the name of my murdered family. From my heart, I thank you.”
A cheer went up at that. A loud cheer. A cheer that was loud enough to force the man back a step. The Flendrians, emerging from a dark corner, cheered the loudest. They stomped their feet and slammed hairy fists against their chests. Hundreds of men were gathered around him as he wept freely. They didn't care that their king cried; the hundreds cried with him.
Looking around them, Smarv noticed Nicomedes and Patricius, the former with a fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his head. There were the clan chiefs, as enthusiastic as their men. There Amedeus and Kaius, as alive as the clansmen, despite the recent loss of the former’s hand, and the latter’s eye.
Where is Aksel? Was the question that suddenly leapt to his mind as the men started to converge on him. Near all of the chiefs were there. Almost all of the clansmen. The wounded were there. The healers and the ghosts of the fallen. Inside were the fit and Zoticus’ lot. Where is that thrice-damned scum?
The answer wouldn't offer itself to him, and that only made him angry. Some part of him had expected the man to reconsider. Smarv had wanted the man to honour Halrof’s oath and see Bonifatius slain. Yet he knew that Aksel would never have honoured it. Halrof had been an ally. Halrof had been a friend. Halrof had been a brother. The older man had been bought by the one coin which he regarded as the poorest of coin: honour.
The Flendrians were full of energy, raising the king on to the shoulders of two of their number who were the largest men ever seen in Narvir. He raised his fist in salute. I hope you ran far, Aksel. He no longer cared if that cretin would not honour his oaths. He was no longer frightened of the woes of the morrow. No longer did he suffer hunger or tiredness. No longer did the acts of the weak matter to him. He had the loyalty of an army. He was the last Bear King of Narvir, descended from Welntos the King of Gods. His being was focused like the bright light of the sun. A spear as cold as ice, as strong as steel, aimed true by duty.
All that matters is you, Bonifatius. Welntos has saved you for a reason. A reason which is as clear as day: to give me even more pleasure in watching the light fade from your eyes.
-
June 08, 2014, 02:52 PM
#39
Re: A Born King - Updated 6th June 2014
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“We have been here three days Zoticus!” Smarv fumed.
The wounded had been treated and given more than enough rest. The ashes of the fallen had been collected, with a few men given leave to return the remains to the families of the dead. Everything of worth had been salvaged from Bonifatius’ camp and the wealth distributed between the victors. The men had filled their bellies with food and wine. Swords were sharpened, spears strengthened, armour repaired and clothing washed. Hair was cut and beards shaven. The men were growing restless out of both fear and boredom.
“My scouts have informed me that Bonifatius is still several days away. However we must make sure that he is approaching from the south, and not the west.”
The Jarl of the Coil continued to preach caution, even as all the other commanders agreed with their king. Even those who commanded Zoticus’ men were saying that they had to leave soon, before Bonifatius’ grip tightened around them.
“He has five thousand men, Jarl Drygon!” One of the Coil commanders, Acacius Whyte, declared, raising five fingers to reinforce his point. “He has the number to come at us from both the south and the west. And who’s to say that he will even march on this place? Bonifatius knows that we are outnumbered and need to join with Fluvius and the Lycans. He can easily set up an ambush in the bearswood and wait for us.”
Acacius was the head of a powerful Agoge house who ruled over a large swathe of fertile land at the base of the stoneheart mountains. The man, barely twenty years old, rarely spoke of his family, nestled safely behind the wooden palisades of Whytepine. When he did speak of them, Smarv saw only a man who wanted them to be safe, at the same time knowing that his duty to the realm was more important. He had quickly become liked by the king. He is of a dying breed, Smarv had surmised while discussing the future with Acacius on the walls of the Coil. Few men would sacrifice their family in service to their king, but he would do it without regret.
There was no doubt in Smarv’s mind that if Acacius had to choose between his king and his pregnant wife, Clara would have no chance. Just the sort of men I need, the king had to admit guiltily. He will balk at nothing, for what is harder to do than give up your family? If his father had at his command as few as fifty Acacius’, then Bonifatius’ rebellion would have been crushed in a matter of days.
“No, he will not wait for us in the bearswood,” Smarv conceded. “We defeated him here. He will have to make up for that by taking this castle.”
“We do not have the strength to defeat him here, Jarl Zoticus,” Icarus said with weariness. He was growing bored of the arguing. “We do not have the supplies to hold this death trap in the case of a siege, and Bonifatius will not be so stupid to risk a frontal assault.”
“We have rested enough,” Rollo added with a smile. “The men are starting to put on weight. The dead have been mourned, and now fire burns brightly in every chest. Let us march.”
“And straight in to the spears of Bonifatius?” Zoticus turned on the tribesman. “What will happen when our forces are confronted by Bonifatius as you race west? Will battle be given? Will you accept defeat and flee back here?”
“Enough!” Smarv snapped.
The war was slowly slipping away from him. Those nobles who had yet to declare their support were marching north. Some were in bands as small as a few dozen, others being in columns hundreds strong. And while Smarv was stuck in the Coil, Bonifatius was free to merge those bands in to his host, willing or otherwise. He had to move, before Bonifatius claimed the loyalty of the rest of Narvir.
“We will march today. Zoticus, see that Felicia is prepared to travel. Acacius, Rollo, Iovus, gather the men outside the dragon gate. Castor, see to it that my armour is ready. Icarus, bring in the clan chiefs.”
Nine had remained, after Smarv declared Aksel’s desertion. “His break of faith renders all oaths unfulfilled. None of my wealth will be given to those who wish to leave. If you will go, leave now. The spoils of war will be given to you who remain, but have no illusions about great wealth. Narvir is a poor land, and you will receive little in the way of wealth.”
Six-and-a-half hundred clansmen remained to honour their oaths and the oaths of their chiefs. The rest were either already dead, or wandered off without a word. Some had tried to say their farewells, but those who remained looked the other way, oblivious.
“My friends,” Smarv greeted the chiefs that had followed him so far. “The end is nigh. One more short stroll and then one more battle.”
The men greeted that with deep nods, some excited at the prospect of war, others at the ending of it.
“I hope that you understand what your loyalty means to me. You crossed a sea for me. You sacrificed friends and family for me. It will not be forgotten.”
“Nor will your service to us in regards to Aksel,” answered Engel, who had finally assumed the mantle of leader of the Flendrians.
“What do you mean?” Smarv asked Halrof’s father-in-law, confused as to what he meant.
If he is talking about not giving him the gold, then surely he knew it was never going to enter than man’s hands?
“No need to feint ignorance, Your Most Honourable,” Poldi smiled. He ran a leathery hand through his recently-combed mane as he elaborated. “I saw your man, Dorus his name was? The man you had granted Ten Ropes to. In the midst of the battle, he confronted Aksel. His spear thrust should have killed the chief there and then: It went straight through his throat.”
Smarv could barely hear the words. Dorus killed him?
“Yet survive Aksel did, gouging a deep cut down your man’s front before I reached them.” He paused to allow Engel to continue the tale.
“Poldi delivered the fatal blow to Aksel before finding me. When he did, the battle was already over. We couldn't thank you until those dissenters had left. We knew not which among us had supported Aksel and did not want to risk our lives simply to offer our thanks.”
Breathing was hard. He gave his life for me.
“That man was dangerous, a snake instead of a warrior. He had played on our despair at the condition of our war to gain our support. We learned our mistake too late,” Engel added quietly.
“But now,” Poldi finished, “those who are left will die for your throne. For your vengeance.”
I thought he was like the rest, more Bonifatius than Acacius. He was surely the opposite.
The king’s silence brought on concerned expressions, as the chiefs tried to figure out what was wrong. They had gathered round a table beneath the Jarl’s seat, shifting in their chairs as they waited for Smarv to speak.
“Thank you, for confirming the loyalty of the clansmen,” Smarv said, distracted. “I will see that they are handsomely rewarded. Now, I must allow you to see to your men. We are leaving.”
To a chorus of “finally” and “could have warned us sooner” the chiefs left the hall just as Felicia appeared from a side door.
She had cleaned up since Smarv first saw her, hair washed and dressed in new clothes. Wearing a fresh white tunic which ended just above her ankles, Felicia reminded him of the little girl who would remind the little prince that everything was going to be fine. Her hair was braided in to one thick rope, with gold and silver thread weaving in and out of it. Her scars were healing well, and the powders helped to mask the worst of their presence. Despite being a woman, she was beginning to move on from the death of her beloved uncle.
“Felicia,” he breathed, casting aside his guilt over Dorus’ death as if it were nothing.
Compared to the delicate creature before him, it didn't matter. If Bonifatius were not alive, then she would be all that mattered.
“Your Most Honourable,” she replied coolly, flinching away as a smile forced itself on to her lips, unwanted.
Strange girl, he had to admit. In all of the three days that they had been at the Coil, she would only truly open up to him at the dead of night. Making sure that there was no one else awake, she would usher him in to her empty chambers like a dirty secret. There, the two young adults would speak until the sun rose up from beneath the sea and over the rolling fields. Afterwards, the king would be thrown out like an unwanted pest, a quick kiss drying on his lips.
“You are ready for the journey west, my lady?” he asked, gathering himself, deciding to go along with this annoying play for the moment.
The lady gave a quiet acknowledgement before requesting his permission to go on her way.
“Felicia, why are you doing this?” Smarv asked, exasperated.
He honestly didn't understand these sudden changes. When she had first recognized him she had flung herself at him. In front of the commanders of his army she had kissed him, even though it was not her place to do so. She had brought shame upon her house for that, but the girl had not cared. But this coldness was something the king could not stand. He felt that she was conflicted: she wasn't telling him everything, no matter how long they spoke.
At first it looked like she was not going to answer, but eventually Felicia opened her mouth. “We cannot be together.”
“Of course we can!” Smarv replied instantly, moving towards her with several long strides. “You are a noble woman of the House of Blackpyre of old Narvir!”
“My family is in ruin. We are penniless scavengers and what power we had is long gone.”
“Your family is loyal!” the king declared softly, as if that one fact trumped all. “The traitor families will be rooted out and killed, their lands gifted to my people. The Blackpyres will become more influential than ever!”
Even as he said the words, Smarv knew them for lies. Maybe not all of them, he reasoned. The traitors would indeed be removed from their positions of power. Most would be killed, either on the battlefield or during his coronation as a sacrifice to the gods. They are always hungry for the tainted. The lands would be given to those who had survived the war, whoever they were. Traitor or loyalist, they would have lands equal to their status under his rule; anything else would see years of war from which Narvir could not survive. However, the influence of the families would be weakened. Influence and power saw Bonifatius rebel, and I will not even allow my most faithful to be able to rival my power.
Felicia too seemed to see through his words towards the truth which was yet to be realized. Her smile was a slight thing, although her eyes betrayed her true feelings. She wanted what he promised to be true. She wanted to marry him, who wouldn't? He was to be a king: a powerful, victorious young king. Yet she knew he was only saying the words she wanted to hear. And for that she hated him. For that instant all she wanted to do was cast him away, before the eventual betrayal overwhelmed her.
“Even so, Your Most Honourable. Another will become your bride, and bear your children. I shall marry a strong Agoge and see my family retain some of its former status.”
And with that, the girl near ran away, her sandals clattering on the stone floor. Smarv didn't attempt to stop her. What she had said was true, and there was no point in denying it. Taking the moment to calm his heart, and clear his head of conflict, the king strode out of the hall through one of the small side doors, leading towards his room.
Castor had waited patiently for his king, already clad in his Brittle Beast armour. It was a magnificent thing, even after weeks of mistreatment. His armour was a light cloudy blue, like ice. His helmet was a bear’s head, its big mouth open to reveal the man’s face. When not in battle the beast’s jaw would follow the man’s jawline, but could be closed so that the only human part that could be seen was the eyes. The shoulder-guards were large things which covered the arms almost to the elbow, and linked together to form a high collar which protected the neck. His chestplate was sculpted to rest flush with his body, and then filled out to give extra protection. The vambraces were the bear’s massive paws with outstretched claws covering the wrists while allowing the hand to move freely. Strips of reinforced leather connected them to his vast shoulder-guards to protect the upper arms. His greaves reached as low as his ankles and as high as his chestplate, leaving no obvious area unprotected either side. The lower half covered the front of his knees, although at the back leather strips were used to allow the joint to bend.
In comparison to that, Smarv’s armour was horribly basic and common. His helmet was the same as the Beast's, except it remained open. It hid half of his cheeks and his forehead but left the bottom of his chin and most of his neck exposed. Zoticus had procured a pair of bronze wyrm shoulder-guards for the king which covered his shoulder joints from both sides with their brittle wings. His chestplate, sculpted bronze, was marked with a dozen cuts. A skirt of leather strips, strengthened by oil and bronze studs, offered protection to his naked thighs. His greaves covered only the front of his lower legs, from the knee down. His gauntlets, encasing his fingers in interlocking metal, protected only one side of his forearm.
Yet it has served me well enough. The chest piece had served him for nigh on four years in Flendria, and he had yet to face a man who had survived a strike from his iron fists. It has served me well, and will continue to do so.
Castor clad him in his repaired armour without a word. It was a sacred, religious occasion. At the start of the campaign, before he had set foot on Abelard's warship, Smarv had prayed for nigh on a day as he cleaned and oiled his armour. He had prayed when he put on his armour when Bonifatius’ men stole a march on them and he would pray every time he donned his armour for battle. Every Dallan prayed to the spirits of the armour; they were powerful beings who only grew stronger with every battle. The spirits protected the wearer and strengthened their spear-thrust. It was the closest thing to divine intervention most warriors could get.
Once it was done, Castor stood back and took in the sight of his king. His beaming smile made Smarv puff out his chest in pride.
The war will be over soon.
Somehow, the notion caused his own smile to falter.
-
June 12, 2014, 08:55 AM
#40
Re: A Born King - Updated 8th June 2014
Off to battle then! Good update!
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