[EB AAR] Sons of the Wolf and the Bear

[Stingray970]

+rep ( about time )

[Beckitz]

+rep ( about time )

Thank you sir!

***



Chapter XI – Misinformation

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The shoddy merchant carts were poorly suited to the demands of the trail, haphazardly bouncing and crashing as they slowly wound their way through the ancient hills and forests. The caravan’s massive cargo – a gratuitous load of grain and fresh venison – did little to make the journey any easier. The nameless grunt assigned to harnessing the supplies clearly held his job in low regard; the fastenings were so few and so poorly done that even the tiniest bump would send loose rations rolling whimsically away into the pasty dirt.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The convoy had traveled far today, and they had further to go if they were ever to reach their destination. In typical fashion, they had been given little information with regard to the purpose of their expedition, and little reason to believe they would ever find out. No concrete mention had been made of their destination either, but that was a mystery easily unraveled; even a novice woodsman would have known that their trail was carrying them onwards towards the western tribes, where the last remaining followers of the Old Ways were assembling the remains of their hosts in a final, quixotic display of defiance.

No true man of Sweboz would dare to publicly question the judgment of their beloved king, but there were more than a few eyebrows raised at the decision to put his son Harjawulfaz in command of the operation. The young man was energetic, to be sure, but his princely wisdom and temperament were still painfully constrained by the boundaries of boyhood. Where Heruwulfaz approached statecraft with a gentle touch, Harjawualfaz had shown himself to be something of a lumbering giant, effectively battering his way through dilemmas by virtue of sheer stubbornness and tenacity. This indomitable spirit, combined with equal amounts of wisdom and ability, was the making of a great and worthy ruler; without them, it amounted to nothing more than the useless pugnacity of a tavern brawler.

“I hate these stupid wagons,” the prince whined as their cart cleared an especially monstrous rut. “They bounce all the time and there’s nowhere comfortable for a man to sit. When I am finally made king, they shall be banned.”

The horse driver, a man whose name was as forgettable and inconsiderable as his station, was having an increasingly difficult time of hiding his amusement. “I don’t know if that’d be such a good idea, your lordship,” the servant chuckled in his charmingly vernacular tongue. “The soothsayers can work many wonders, but I’ve yet to see the magic that can make a carriage fly – ‘cept in my dreams, of course.”

“I never said anything about flying,” Harjawulfaz retorted irritably, wincing helplessly as they cleared yet another bump. “We ought to just take boats out of the water, and put wheels on them. Then it would be just like sailing, but over land instead of the sea.”

The driver, not entirely certain if he was supposed to laugh or not, settled for a toothless smile. “I seem to recall they have those already,” he teased. “I believe they call them ‘wagons’.”

“Never you mind!” the Prince spat, ill-humor hanging stubbornly about him like a somber cloud. “What business does a miserable layman have talking to me anyway? You’re just as dull and stubborn as my father, you are!”

The servant grimaced slightly as he absorbed this latest salvo of curses from the prince. “Of all the words I have heard used to describe the king,” he began seriously, “I have never heard ‘dull’ and ‘stubborn’ among them. Perhaps we are not thinking of the same person…”

Harjawulfaz met the driver’s patience with a rude snort. “My father is undoubtedly an accomplished man, but none of his accomplishments hold a candle to his mastery of hypocrisy. Consider how he lambasts his enemies and rivals as being blind and narrow-minded, and then steadfastly refuses to accept any ideas other than his own. Or regard his scathing condemnation of warfare between the tribes – even as the soldiers and armies of Sweboz march to do battle in every corner of the Northlands.”

“King Heruwulfaz has a great and lofty vision for this nation,” the servant insisted calmly. “If the sacred values of law and fraternity are ever to be realized, it is perhaps necessary to temporarily forsake them in the name of pragmatism, no?”

The prince was plainly unmoved by the other’s vague rhetoric. “Tyranny begins with pragmatism,” he cautioned darkly, “and ends with the iron chains of slavery. Ideals are not petty trinkets to be created and discharged at will; you must always stand by them if you expect to be able to speak for them. The precedent my father will set in the years to come shall be the defining standard against which all our leaders will be measured until the end of time. He should be mindful of the example he is leaving for posterity.”

“You speak with the authority of a man who has never had authority,” the driver scolded. “It is well enough for you to criticize the weaknesses of the king now, but I must wonder if you will so easily rebuff the temptations of power when you sit upon the throne.”

Uncomfortable tension still edged the afternoon air, but when Harjawulfaz spoke his words were delivered with a certain flat resignation. “Only time will tell us that; and until then I think I will keep to my reflections, however speculative they may be.”

“Then allow me to speculate for a moment as well,” the driver continued. “No one has been very forthcoming with information about our destination, and the depot foreman seemed confused when I told him we were headed out west. What exactly are we doing, if your lordship wouldn’t mind saying?”

Harjawulfaz carefully held his words for a moment, biting his lip as if he were not certain he could trust this lowborn servant at his side. Eventually, he coaxed himself into explaining their assignment. “The time is fast approaching for my uncle Athawulfaz to strike at the western tribes, and put an end to their scheming. If he is to carry out a campaign, he will need ample stores of food; father had heard that the army was running low, and so here we are.” A skilled eye might have noticed the driver’s brow furrow at this assessment, but the man held his tongue. What little remained of their journey passed by quickly, and in comfortable silence.

There was a certain exaggerated majesty to the caravan as it flew into the open clearing, wheels thundering and hooves pounding rhythmically against the already flattened grass. Sunlight fell lazily down from the sky above; oozing a thin, glistening layer of orange gloss over everything it could touch. One-by-one the mighty ‘ships of the land’ rumbled to a stop, their drivers dismounting with all the grumbling and cursing that befits long hours of uninterrupted riding.

“Wait…this is wrong,” Harjawulfaz asserted, his brain at last beginning to process the empty plain in front of them. He jumped down from the wagon and began to pace erratically, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and frustration. “This all wrong,” he repeated, “there’s nobody here!”

“This grass is bent,” the servant observed as he knelt low to the ground, “and you can see the remains of campfires lying around. They were definitely here at one time or another – probably just went on the march again is all.”

The prince shook his head with rising agitation. “No – that’s not right. They should still be camped right here – they weren’t supposed to move out again for another month!”

The other could only offer an apathetic shrug. “All I can tell is that they were here before, and they’re not here now. Maybe somebody gave you the wrong instructions.”

Harjawulfaz confidently waved away his servant’s supposition. “This assignment was handed down from the very heart of the Confederacy; my uncle Hrabnaz explicitly assured me the army would be here. If he does not know what he is doing, then who does?”

The driver released a quiet sigh; working with a man as stubborn and independent as young Harjawulfaz was something of a mixed blessing – if that. “Dwelling on errors of communication is a fruitless endeavor, my lord. The fact of the matter is that they are not here, and we don’t know where they are. So…with this in mind, what do you want to do?”

This sort of unrefined mental coaching seemed to have a positive effect; the prince slowly began to let himself relax and reassemble his scattered wits. “We ought to wait here for a few days,” he proclaimed, oblivious to the general groan that erupted in response. “If my intuition is correct, uncle Athawulfaz and the troops will return here in good time.”

The workers slowly shuffled away, readying their tools and equipment with all the enthusiasm of condemned criminals. Harjawulfaz seemed to notice none of it, waltzing through the emerging campground as if the prospect of a wretched week spent in the lonely woods were some sort of coveted honor.

“Not even sixteen years old,” the driver seethed to one of his fellows, “and already making decisions on intuition! I tell you, prince or not, that man is nothing more than an imbecile!”

“Time and trial make for a fine polish – even on the roughest stones,” the worker said without interest, letting his words hang pointedly in the air. “Now help me prop this tent up – the sky looks ominous.”

***

Wherever the Sweboz marched, victory seemed to follow, faithfully marching at their side through one triumphant conquest after another. There was an enormous amount of credit to be given, and no shortage of honorable heroes to give it to; perhaps to lord Athawulfaz, for his bold and fearless deeds in battle, or perhaps to the beloved King Heruwulfaz, for the unity and purpose he managed to bring to the disparate nations of the Confederacy. Then there were the pious within society, who would doubtless heap the honor and prestige upon the omnipotent gods who watched over them all.

“You lads are the real heroes, I say,” Athawulfaz remarked to Okaz, choosing – in typical style – to march alongside his men rather than ride mounted. “The common folk love to chatter and gossip to themselves about their leaders and chieftains, but I’d wager that being good at fighting is a lot more valuable than being good at dissembling.”

Okaz returned a polite laugh. “You do yourself a disservice, my lord. A strong and worthy leader is just as important as having strong and worthy warriors. Ask yourself, ‘what is a fine sword worth without a man to wield it’?”

The nobleman snorted amicably. “You spout platitudes like a practiced greybeard, Okaz – perhaps you have a career in politics waiting for you once you retire. You may surely have my place, if you like.”

“I should think not,” Okaz grinned. “If politics was as simple as inventing proverbs we wouldn’t have any need for kings in the first place! Besides, your royal brother needs strong men like you on his council – for advice.”

Athawulfaz let out another snort, a little harsher this time. “My advice is of dubious value at best; both Heruwulfaz and I know it. I am a warrior; blood and death are my sustenance. Politics and diplomacy are like a meaningless buzzing in my ear – I go wherever I am bid, and I kill all who stand in my way. It is who I am.”

“At least you are good at it,” Okaz quipped. “There are many men who can do nothing but brag and boast – do you still remember the chief Harkilaz, and how hastily he deserted his loyal soldiers?”

“How could I forget?” Athawulfaz smirked. “I suspect I have never fought a more unworthy adversary – and his host was nothing impressive either. I didn’t even enjoy vanquishing him; there was no fight to speak of. It was just a chore.”

The conversation naturally trailed off, replaced by the reliable beating of tired footsteps against the trail. With enough time spent as a warrior, Okaz had become fully accustomed to the tedium and hardship that came with marching. While most of the young men whined and grumbled under their breaths, the old soldier glid across the dust with easy strides. Still, the man was careful to conserve his energy; although the path seemed easy now, they had a long afternoon ahead of them, and the black clouds rumbling overhead seemed to suggest that it would be a very wet journey.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

“This maneuver seems improvised,” Okaz observed as they began to descend into a rather densely forested valley. “I thought we were well-positioned before – why the sudden decision to move out?”

“Not my call,” Athawulfaz shrugged. “My brother originally said he wanted us to head south, where there’s less woodland, but then Hrabnaz showed up the other day telling us he had spoken with Heruwulfaz and we were supposed to head north instead. Doesn’t sound like a great idea to me, but it’s not my job to question my orders.”

Okaz wrinkled his nose suspiciously, “it seems odd that his Majesty would send lord Hrabnaz out of his way to do something a simple messenger could have done just as easily.”

“It also seems odd that a noble prince and an unknown killer should speak as friends,” Athawulfaz teased, “but then again I suppose the machinations of fate are always difficult to interpret – now more than ever, it seems.” The nobleman looked skyward, regarding the swirling mass of black and grey with dull foreboding. “Such a chill in the air…there will be rain tonight.”

“Let it come down!”

A peculiar series of events suddenly began to unfold, cascading one after the other in rapid succession. First there was a sort of general roar, rising from either side of the woods like a frothy wave crashing against a rock shore. A strange crunching sound followed shortly thereafter; the sound of twigs and leaves being mangled beneath anxious feet. Finally, in a moment of pure cinema the storm released a mighty jolt of the brightest lightening, illuminating – for but a fleeting instant – a terrifying mob of assailants charging the Sweboz from either side, furious screams reverberating in their throats.

“Ambush!” Athawulfaz cried, feeling the unfamiliar jolt of panic sweep through his bowels. As soon as the lightening disappeared a hellish nightmare of darkness and chaos emerged in its place, with the Sweboz sprinting every which way for want of weapons and leadership.

“My sword!” the prince cried as he fumbled aimlessly through the blackness, “where is my sword!?” He turned to seek aide from Okaz, but the warrior had already slipped away, lost amidst the tumultuous melee unfolding in every direction.

Quick, panting breaths began to emanate from somewhere behind him; almost instinctively, Athawulfaz spun around and planted a massive first in his assailant’s face. A sick feeling of pleasure tingled in him as he felt the other’s nose bend and splinter beneath the impact. The noblemen bent down over his victim with the anxiety of a grave robber, running his hands blindly over the comatose soldier as he searched for some sort of weapon. “Come on, come on,” he pleaded, but his search was fruitless.

Rain was coming down in a flood now, and Athawulfaz only just noticed the second enemy in time to dodge his thrust. The attacker began to make a patient advance, cautiously jiggling his spear in a bizarre attempt at feinting. In terms of skill and experience, however, the warrior was in way over his head; the nobleman easily dodged the second strike and yanked the spear from his enemy’s grasp, drilling the point into his adversary’s back as he tried to flee.

Finally having armed himself, Athawulfaz clenched his teeth and leaped into the fray, fighting with all the fury and bloodlust he was famous for. Against this human whirlwind of carnage, no man could hope to provide resistance. Friend and foe alike hastened to dive out of the giant’s path, mewling and squealing like young peasant girls.

At some point during the brawl, the royal brother lost his spear; he automatically reverted to fisticuffs, violently bashing and clubbing any who were foolish enough to think his martial prowess any the lesser. “Come on curs!” he bellowed as he effortlessly snapped the neck of a young juguntiz. “Better to die now then have me hunt you down later!”

“You lordship,” Okaz suddenly cried, breaking into the nobleman’s gory trance, “we need to get out of here, now!”

Athawulfaz slowly turned around, his face marked with casual confusion. “What are you talking about?” he asked of the warrior, “they’re scattering like ants!”

“You are killing many,” Okaz pressed, “but everybody else is getting slaughtered. Everybody’s trying to escape south again – we should join them.”

Athawulfaz scoffed and wiped blood from his mouth, half-heartedly following after his friend. “What’s the rush – I’m doing just fine!”

“You are not!” Okaz insisted as they broke into a sprint. “You were killing plenty, but you were also taking blows left and right – didn’t you notice!?”

A single glance to his person suddenly awoke Athawulfaz to reality; he hadn’t even felt the terrible rainbow of gashes and cuts that seemed to have spread across his body like a web. All of them looked painfully to the naked eye, and there were a few choice ones among them that made the nobleman wonder how he was still on his feet. “I guess I couldn’t feel…these look really bad,” he observed in a shrill voice he barely recognized.

“You’re going to be alright,” Okaz promised as the sounds of combat and slaughter fell to a soft murmur. “We’ll just catch up with the survivors and then…”

Okaz was still talking, but his words were little more than gibberish as Athawulfaz toppled hard to the muddy ground.

And we're back!

[Stingray970]

NO AUTHAWULFAZ CAN'T DIE!!!! Dammit, every story kills my favorite character.

[sinner]

that was a cruel cut of the story , never the less impressive writing, ironic how okaz seemed just about to figure the treachury when the ambush fell, again great writing from ur part. keep it up.

[McScottish]

Simply excellent, + rep for you sir!

[dezikeizer]

Great as always, and it seems Hrabnaz has begun trying to pick off the other brothers. Very interested in seeing if they survive, so keep it up.
Just a couple things:

cautiously jiggle his spear in a bizarre attempt at feinting

I think you meant: cautiously jiggled his spea in a bizarre attempt at feinting.

but everybody else is getting slaughter

Shouldn't that be: but everybody else is getting slaughtered?

[Beckitz]

Hey all,

Just wanted to quickly head off any suspicions; this AAR is still very much alive. I have some other projects that have been taking up a lot of time, but I promise another update is coming sooner or later.

[dezikeizer]

Fair enough, as long as the update comes.

[Stingray970]

OH TEH NOES IT'S DEAD HE ABANDONED IT!!!!

Or at least that's what the impatient people will start saying soon.

[Beckitz]

NO AUTHAWULFAZ CAN'T DIE!!!! Dammit, every story kills my favorite character.

Sounds like pretty rotten luck

that was a cruel cut of the story , never the less impressive writing, ironic how okaz seemed just about to figure the treachury when the ambush fell, again great writing from ur part. keep it up.

Okaz is a little more perceptive than most; especially someone with a royal upbringing like Athawulfaz. My thanks for your (undeservedly) high praise!

Simply excellent, + rep for you sir!

Many thanks sir - glad to have you along!

Great as always, and it seems Hrabnaz has begun trying to pick off the other brothers. Very interested in seeing if they survive, so keep it up.

Thanks for catching my mistakes - you've a highly trained eye. If I should ever be inclined to publish this, I'll know who to call


And now, after copious amounts of procrastination, our story resumes.

***



Chapter XII – A Storm Gathers

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Any fool with a tongue and half a mind for imagination can talk of heroism, but to rise up into the pages of history requires more than simple words or deeds. Rather, true heroes – the kind whose worthy names are forever immortalized in the minds of men – are born out of the highest virtue of them all: selflessness. To kill a score of warriors, or swim a raging river, is impressive to be sure; but to able to put aside all thoughts of oneself, and give without question to the welfare of others, is an ideal that most can only ever aspire to.

Okaz never stopped to question what he was doing, even as his back began to buckle and strain beneath the weight of the catatonic giant slung over his shoulders. The warrior couldn’t claim to be well-versed in the healing arts, but he had seen enough wounds in his time to know that Athawulfaz was in bad shape. Every now and again he could still hear the prince moaning in agony, his cries providing an eerie companion to the torrential storm that had begun to fall. Though he was running as fast as he could, Okaz could still hear the deafening sound of the melee close behind him; a tiny voice in his head begged him to drop Athawulfaz and take off on his own. Ashamed at himself, the warrior shook his head and redoubled his pace.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

A grotesque sucking sound indicated that the prince was trying to speak; Okaz did his best to push away the pounding of the rain. “I can…hardly breathe,” Athawulfaz complained weakly. “Who…” he began, but his voice wavered and disappeared beneath a clap of thunder.

“Hush your lordship!” Okaz begged with poorly concealed fear. “You must save your strength, please!”

The other squirmed and writhed blindly in his position, nearly causing Okaz’s knees to break beneath him. “What about…the battle,” Athawulfaz tried again, more insistently. “Who…who won?”

“We did,” Okaz lied, praying his answer would silence the nobleman. “It was glorious. We routed them from the field in just minutes; everyone fought bravely…especially you.”

Athawulfaz chuckled – or at least, the warrior guessed it was a chuckle. “I should have known…thank you, Okaz,” he added with a rattling sigh. “If I must go, at least I may leave in victory…”

It was a response that gave little reason for optimism; Okaz found himself speeding again as panic and adrenaline coursed through his body in equal measure. The manly sounds of battle had since faded away; only the rapid beat of the rains was left to mark their flight. Fickle and treacherous even in the best of weather, the country road on which they ran devolved into a veritable swamp, mud and refuse pulling stubbornly at Okaz’s feet with every step. Visibility became next to impossible; the tired warrior only knew that he was headed north, and that to slow down for even a minute would almost certainly spell disaster.

“We have been running for a long time,” Okaz panted, as if speaking to his lord would somehow keep him alive. “We must surely be getting close now.”

Athawulfaz was racked anew by coughing, his lungs sounding grotesquely thick and congested. “Listen,” he whispered, “tell my brother…tell him that we won…and that the way to the west is open.”

The warrior shook his head emphatically, feeling foreign emotions well-up deep inside of him. “No, you will tell him! Any celebration would fall flat without your lordship to grace it.” He squinted slightly, impatiently ignoring the sting of raindrops in his eyes. “You must be there to see his Majesty’s dream become a reality; to watch as our one-time enemies throw down their spears and take up our hands in friendship instead. It is as much your accomplishment as anyone else’s.”

“You talk…too much Okaz,” the prince chided, his pain now making him ornery. “Your head is…fat with dreams and…devoid of reason,” he squirmed uncomfortably. “Set me down…so that I may rest.”

“No,” the warrior insisted; disobeying, for the first time in his life, a direct order from his betters. “We need to keep moving. You are hurt, and there is further to go.”

“What’s the point?” Athawulfaz retorted angrily. “I’m no fool…I know how bad…my injuries are. I may as well…opt for a peaceful death…if death in battle is to be stolen from me.”

“No death is better than any death at all, wouldn’t you say?” Okaz secured the nobleman on his back and began to slow, every fiber of his body burning from exertion. “Come on,” he gasped. “We’ll stop at this farmhouse up here.”

If travel on the road had seemed difficult, it was nothing compared to the muddy cesspool that Okaz now found himself attempting to wade through. Clumps of mud – or at least, what looked like mud – rose up as high as his shins or even higher; it was a wonder that a farm had ever managed to survive there at all, in retrospect. Somewhere not far away, a single light pierced the swirling expanse of the fog – a beacon guiding the pair onwards toward sanctuary.

“There are people inside,” Okaz promised, hoping with all his heart that it was true. “They’ll be able to help us, I’m sure of it.”

No response came from the man on his back; anxious, the warrior shook himself as if to wake his baggage. “Your Lordship?” He repeated the motion, more aggressively. “Athawulfaz!?”

Still not a sound emerged. Cold panic gripped Okaz as his stimuli failed to generate a response; he found himself sprinting the rest of the way to the tiny farmhouse, all manner of terrible scenarios racing uncontrollably through his head. “Open up!” he demanded hysterically, his fist rattling the crude wooden door. “In the name of his Majesty, open the door!”

The door opened, swinging noiselessly inward to reveal a thin, scrawny peasant man standing defensively in front of his young son. A single dagger sat clutched in his trembling hand, its construction as crude and simple as the meager furnishings which adorned his home. “Who are you,” he demanded curtly, “to speak with the authority of the king?”

Okaz did not deign to provide a response; the farmer continued to bare his dagger as the warrior muscled his way through the door. The peasant drew back in alarm, and was about to raise a cry when his guest dumped the catatonic Athawulfaz onto the dining table, sending bowls and plates clattering to the floor.

“By the Gods,” the man breathed, his face becoming awash in unmitigated shock, “no…is that?”

“This is Athawulfaz,” Okaz announced darkly, “son of Swartigaizaz and brother of the great King Heruwulfaz – may his reign be long. Just an hour ago, this noble prince was badly injured in a fight with our enemies. I fear he will not survive.”

The farmer touched a clammy hand to his forehead. “Oh my…Baldaz!” he said to the boy, his voice hoarse and constricted. “Run and wake Oma – be quick!”

The child scurried further into the house, leaving the two men alone to their anxiety. “More inauspicious tidings there surely cannot be,” the peasant brooded to himself.

“Baldaz…” Okaz repeated curiously. “Is he the one who beat Brecca in a swimming race?”

“No, that was Beo,” the farmer dismissed, his eyes fixed morbidly on Athawulfaz’s heaving figure. “His wounds are very grave…how on earth did it come to this?”

Okaz sighed, powerless to stop the faint smile which crept across his face. “His Lordship is an exceedingly brave and energetic fighter; it usually does him a service, but today there were simply too many.”

The peasant tentatively approached the table, looking at the nobleman’s lacerated torso in a sort of horrified wonderment. “These wounds could have easily felled a bear, let alone a man; does he not feel pain?”

The warrior proffered a humorless laugh. “If he does, he certainly doesn’t show it. In the heat of battle, I have seen him become more animal than human; his fury and bloodlust are unequaled. I suspect he would have sooner been hewn in half than lay down his arms.”

The farmer shot his guest a cautious sidelong glance. “Am I correct to presume that you carried him to my home?”

“Indeed – and I have the bruises to prove it,” Okaz quipped dryly.

The other returned a polite laugh. “What is your name, warrior?”

“They call me Okaz – and you?”

“I am Hludaz,” the other explained. “You have already met Baldaz, of course.”

Okaz was about to respond when a tapping was heard, beating rhythmically somewhere within the house. Perplexed, the warrior was about to question his host when an elderly woman made her way into the room, hobbling along with the aide of a roughly made cane. Every aspect of her reminded one of a hag; her face was wrinkled and leathery from many decades of exposure, and even her limbs seemed to be gnarled and twisted out of shape. “What’s the rush for?”

“Mother,” Hludaz greeted, rushing over to help the woman walk. “We need your help. This man here,” he explained with a wave, “is the brother of the king. He is badly wounded and needs medicine.”

The old woman pushed her son away and approached the prince, examining his body with an utterly impassive countenance. A shaking pair of hands began to feel at the various cuts and gashes, appraising them for unknown qualities. “He is very badly hurt,” the woman assessed, “but if I set to work right away, I may be able to save his life.”

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

No sooner had this stunning pronouncement been made then the healer set to work, reaching for her various pots and jars without as much as a single word. Okaz watched with cautious excitement as she began to carefully mash ingredients together, shoving bitter spoonfuls of the medicine past Athawulfaz’s motionless lips.

The prince’s survival was still far from assured; but if nothing else, Okaz could be sure that he had at least been given a chance. All of the exertion and stress of the previous hours seemed to suddenly catch up to him; his whole body felt heavy as he flopped down into a nearby chair.

“You seem very tired,” Hludaz observed kindly. “Would you perhaps prefer a bed? I would be happy to open my home to you, after all you have done.”

“I am fine, thank you,” Okaz assured. “I would prefer to remain at his Lordship’s side until we are certain he will be okay.”

“I understand – and I will certainly be glad to have a warrior keeping guard for us!” Hludaz laughed, the tension of the previous deathwatch slowly disappearing.

“Ha,” Okaz laughed humorlessly, “you will need more than just one warrior if things are as I fear them.”

“What do you mean?” the other asked perplexedly.

“Only one man not in the army knew we were marching south today,” Okaz said with a simmering anger that surprised even him. “And that man is the same who gave us the orders in the first place.”

Hludaz gasped, “surely not King Heruwulfaz?”

“No – his brother: the honorable Lord Hrabnaz,”

***

“You have lied to me!”

King Bidajaz conducted his reaction with masterful theatrics, reeling backwards in his throne as his whole face was consumed an expression of shock and indignation. “Good Hrabnaz,” he chuckled incredulously, “I didn’t expect you back for another day, at the earliest! What on earth are you shouting about?”

Hrabnaz dashed the king’s good-humor with a single swipe of his hand, the pair of royal guards backpedaling cautiously out of the potential line of fire. “Do not play me for a fool!” the prince roared, leveling a trembling finger at his patron. All in the room were as still and silent as statues but for Hrabnaz, who continued to shake and heave in the center of the hall as if he might explode.

“I surely won’t,” Bidajaz said kindly, “but first I think you need to help me understand what has you so upset – else how can I hope to be of any help to you?” As an actor he was unmatched; his every word and mannerism, down to the slightest idle motion of his hands, was performed effortlessly and immaculately.

“The seneschal just brought me the report,” Hrabnaz explained, struggling to keep his voice level. “According to him, the main Sweboz army was just ambushed on its march southward.”

Bidajaz erupted into a chorus of triumphant laughter, his fist banging excitedly on the arm of his seat. “And it was a success too, so I’ve been told! After all our planning and skulking we have finally scored a tangible victory against our foes!”

“My brother was among that host!” Hrabnaz bellowed, utterly sickened by the king’s joy. “Who knows what happened to him?! What if he was hurt!?”

“It would be quite the shame if he was only hurt,” the king chuckled, prompting a small crowd of advisors to hurriedly do the same. “If he lives we may have to devise some way of finishing him off.”

No words were necessary; the horrified stare plastered on Hrabnaz’s face was an entire speech unto itself. What little mirth had emerged from the cluster of retainers quickly fell flat again, leaving silence to reclaim the hall. Bidajaz sighed as might a laborer put to a task, pushing himself reluctantly from the comfort of his throne. “Come boy,” he asked rather than demanded. “Walk with me for a minute – it’s a beautiful night.”

The other hesitated for a long moment, squinting suspiciously in response to this altogether unexpected invitation. His right hand hovered somewhere near the hilt of his dagger, betraying the ongoing conflict in his mind. A single clap echoed off the walls as he took a tepid step forward. “You had best explain everything,” he asserted as he took another step, “and if you lie then Gods have mercy on you, because I surely won’t.”

Bidajaz almost laughed, but he quickly thought better of it; even the slightest display of flippancy might have turned the young prince against him. Through Hrabnaz’s cooperation he had been handed the tools he needed to keep the independence of his people and orchestrate the downfall of the Sweboz; he would gladly do anything not to lose it.

It was a warm and windy night that the two men ventured out into, the purple sky above laced by a brilliant web of stars. Word had been passed around about a storm gathering somewhere in the east, but for now the weather was as pristine as could be. It was a strange time indeed for treasonous talk.

“We haven’t had weather this nice in ages,” Bidajaz commented pleasantly. “I was growing more than a little sick of the cold, let me tell you.”

“Hold your dissembling,” Hrabnaz growled. “We have more important things to talk about than the seasons.”

The king let out another sigh, no longer willing to beat about the subject at hand. “Yes, yes, I know. You’re worried about prince Athawulfaz, correct?”

“He is my brother,” Hrabnaz insisted. “The same blood that runs through him is in me also. You must have known that he was in the army as it was marching – why did you go ahead with the task.”

“I made a crucial decision,” Bidajaz replied testily, “one that will go a long way to protecting the Heruskoz. There is no doubt that it was the right thing to do.”

“But…” Hrabnaz stammered, “he could be dead! I’ve known him my entire life – better than anyone else, and-“

“So what? Hrabnaz, listen,” the king insisted, grabbing his pupil paternally by the shoulders. “You have already renounced your allegiance to the lands of Sweboz; Athawulfaz and the others – they are not your kin anymore. You may think to show them clemency, but what would happen, do you think, if they ever found out about all that you have done?”

A fleeting image of a sword flashed through the prince’s mind, the blade gleaming as it swooshed down upon the neck of a traitor. “I understand,” he said solemnly, “but this is not a case of mere treason, your Majesty. What we are talking about is fratricide – nothing less!”

“You told me that your brothers were always inequitable to you,” Bidajaz reasoned patiently. “That they stole your honor, robbed you of your glory, and consigned you to the most menial and wretched tasks they could possibly think of. Did you not spend half a year patrolling treacherous swamplands in the far south?” he asked theatrically. “That sounds as much like an attempt to kill you as anything else.”

“They may have tried to hold me back,” the prince relented, “but they were surely just misguided. It can be all too easy for lesser men to fall into the cursed vice of jealousy.”

The king managed to suppress a snicker. “Hrabnaz, if you are ever to be a king then you must now begin to think like one. Put aside the emotions that have made you weak and suggestible; discard all your foolish sentimentality and overactive empathy! Your brothers are no kin of yours; they have spent their entire lives keeping you weak and making themselves strong! Your lot is now permanently cast against them – the ancient laws will show you no mercy if you treachery is ever revealed. When you see them, do not see the faces of your brother but see them for what they really are: enemies and obstacles to be overcome and destroyed! When you treat with them do not do so with love and compassion, but with hate – for hate can be the most powerful of allies, when wisely and justly used.”

“To take up arms against my own family,” Hrabnaz whimpered, “what man would ever deign to look me in the eye again!?”

“What man would dare not to!?” Bidajaz cried, his eyes seeming to literally burn with passion in the darkness; the prince could only recoil helplessly. “All kings are beloved in triumph – your name shall be like legend, its echo ever carrying down the vaulted corridor of the histories. Wherever you shall ride your lesser will flock to you, straining and breaking themselves if only to look upon you. All those who thought they would be great – Heruwulfaz, Ansuharjaz, and Athawulfaz – shall be cast evermore from human memory, all of their achievements being raised to your name instead. From riverbank to rolling riverbank your domain shall stretch, encompassing all the worthy people of the world and leaving the rest to wallow in agony for want of your supreme grace.”

“But…what if it never comes to pass?” Hrabnaz moaned, his willpower draining from him with each passing second. “What if all of my – all of our efforts fail?”

“It is too late to worry about that,” the king asserted. “If you fail to fight, then time itself shall work against you – your treachery shall become bare and you will be hunted for a lowborn dog. If you pursue this dream then you may still fail, true, but the alternative is greatness everlasting. I think the choice is clear.”

Hrabnaz refused to commit to anything, but fate had already been set into motion. “If I were to…to fight…what should I do?”

“Ride to the house of your brothers,” Bidajaz said softly. “Do what you know you must.”

Later, with all others asleep and with only the Gods themselves to bear witness, Hrabnaz rode for the lands of Sweboz.

[ArtoriusRex]

Oh no! Well, the Prince will likely live, but with Bidajaz's plotting, will anyone else? Oh, the suspense. Excellent writing sir!

[Stingray970]

Yay he'll live! I'm guessing this side story is because he got that trait that happens if he's about to die in battle and it adds to his hitpoints?

[dezikeizer]

Great update as always, and good to see the prince has a good chance of surviving. Still, with Bidajaz's plotting, the upcoming updates will be interesting. You know, the funny thing is I think I saw this story over at fanfiction.net too when I was bored enough to check over there. Just a few things:

but is voice wavered

I think you meant: but his voice wavered.

Okaz was about to responded

Shouldn't that be: Okaz was about to respond?

A shaking pair of hands began to fell

I think you meant: A shaking pair of hands began to feel.

he would gladly to anything not to lose it.

Shouldn't that be: he would gladly do anything not to lose it.

[Populus Romanus]

Very nice! I just read this all in one sitting, very high quality.

[Beckitz]

Oh no! Well, the Prince will likely live, but with Bidajaz's plotting, will anyone else? Oh, the suspense. Excellent writing sir

My humblest thanks, good chap. All of the family members are indeed looking a bit...fragile right now - it's going to be down to luck and a little bit of intuition, I suspect.

Yay he'll live! I'm guessing this side story is because he got that trait that happens if he's about to die in battle and it adds to his hitpoints

You're partially right. My original prompt to write that party of the story was in response to him getting the 'scarred' trait, but it developed into a literary tool as well; it let me elaborate on Okaz and Athawulfaz as characters a little, and it was a neat way of advancing the plot.

Great update as always, and good to see the prince has a good chance of surviving. Still, with Bidajaz's plotting, the upcoming updates will be interesting. You know, the funny thing is I think I saw this story over at fanfiction.net too when I was bored enough to check over there. Just a few things:

Yep, it's up there for those nerdy enough to frequent it . If nothing else, it's really handy for the word-count it gives; it's basically the only easy way for me to get an account of the total length to date (which is ~50,000 words, by the way).

Very nice! I just read this all in one sitting, very high quality.

A herculean task, to be sure! Many thanks for your patronage, and very glad to have you along.


In line with the review I received in the Quill, I'm probably going to stop pointing Google Images pictures in with the text. They don't fit with the total war theme, and the more I thought about it the more I realized I was just putting them in because I was afraid of wall-of-text syndrome. I've realized now that this is already a WoT AAR, so no going back now anyway. When I do include game pictures, I promise they'll be .jpgs and they'll be downsized a little.

Coincidentally, this next update has no pictures; and here it is:

***

Chapter XIII – Family Reuinon

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Certainly Okaz was no stranger to malicious and disagreeable dreams, but his night spent in the house of the lay farmer Hludaz was marked by a sleep more restless and fitful than any other he had endured before. His mind seemed to be torn between the world of men and the world of dreams; he ceased to know for sure whether he was conscious or unconscious, watching helplessly as the low-burnt candles cast their elongated shadows up and down the walls. Everything he saw was fleeting, indistinct, and never fully comprehensible; he saw brief scenes of the elderly healer leaning over the prince, applying strange ointments and potions to his wounds. A split-second later and the room seemed to melt and swirl, finally emerging empty save for the catatonic Athawlufaz. With time and fatigue, Okaz ceased to see anything at all, his whole body slouching exhaustedly into his lap.

It had been a very long time since the warrior had been woken by the call of a rooster, but there was no mistaking that shrill and entirely unwelcome call as it reverberated through the house. No sooner had he been jarred from his meager allotment of rest then Okaz found himself tumbling ungracefully from the chair, flailing as he sprawled pathetically across the stale floor rushes. Either through the sound of his collapse or the continued exhortations of the rooster, the others in the house were roused to their feet as well, shuffling into the main room with the usual morning grumbling and eye-rubbing.

“You know,” Hludaz yawned as he stepped over his prostate guest, “if I had known you wanted to sleep on the floor, I could have given you the dog’s spot, near the fire.”

Okaz rolled onto his back and sighed, still searching for the motivation required to get up. “Spare me,” he mumbled through errant strands of hay, “it’s far too early for wit. I can’t have gotten more than five minutes of sleep.”

“Well I’m sure you fared better than the Prince did,” the farmer replied with a nod towards his table. “I kept hearing him moan throughout the entire night – probably all that medicine he was given.”

The haze over Okaz’s mind seemed to clear in an instant; grimy rushes went slipping into the air as the warrior bounded back over to the table. In his fatigue and complacency, he had all but forgotten about his Lordship’s struggle against death. His hands reached out uncertainly, as if he thought it would somehow be disrespectful to even touch a nobleman.

“Your fear is misplaced,” Hludaz promised as he followed his guest over to the dining table. “It is a good thing that he has been crying out in pain – it means he can feel it and respond to it.” The farmer turned away and proceeded towards his cabinet. “Do you remember when you first brought him here, how he wasn’t making any noise at all?”

An uncomfortable string of memories began to tumble through Okaz’s mind; for a brief moment he could feel the cold sting of the rain on his back, and the painful pounding of his heart as the prince ceased to respond to his questions. Back in the real world, he gave the slightest shudder. “I do indeed.”

“That was a bad sign,” explained Hludaz, now returning with a fresh slab of dough. “It meant that his body was shutting down – he wasn’t reacting to things anymore. Now he’s getting better, so he can feel things better – or worse, depending on how you see it.”

Okaz let out a humorless laugh, still keeping his eyes tightly trained on the body in front of him. “Hopefully he will be well enough to move again soon. I do not want to stay in one place for too long – and the remnants of the army will be looking for him.”

The peasant began beating the dough carelessly against the table. “I hope you’ll stay for breakfast, at least. Never sorry to have more company, and we always have plenty of food to go around.”

“I suspect I have no choice in the matter,” Okaz replied with a wave towards Athawulfaz. “I can’t go anywhere until he’s at least awake – the laws command it.”

Hlduaz put down the dough and withdrew from it, wiping a few early beads of sweat from his brow. The look on his face was one Okaz had seen many times over; the look of an entirely spent man, wondering how he was ever going to make it through the rest of the day. “Then I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a quick favor?” Hludaz said hopefully. “It’ll only take five minutes, I promise.”

Lingering traces of sleep were still harassing Okaz, tugging at his joints and making them sluggish; there was little he could have preferred less than to be sent on an errand. Still, after everything this farmer and his family had done, custom dictated that the warrior do his part to repay him. “With what do you need help?”

“I need somebody to run and fetch me some water, to cook with,” the peasant explained as he continued to rest. “I’d have Baldaz do it, but he’s not strong enough to carry the whole pail; and my mother is busy looking after the prince.”

There was a momentary pause as Okaz processed this report, mentally counting the number of people the farmer had cited. “And…there’s nobody else around to help you?” he asked rather consciously.

If Hludaz at all understood what his guest had insinuated he certainly didn’t show it; there was only the tiniest twinkle of emotion in his eye as he shook his head. “No – nobody else. That’s why I need to use the extra pair of hands while I still have it!”

For a few moments the warrior’s head was filled with a whole array of potential excuses he could have made; about sickness, infirmity, or even royal station. Just as quickly he had shouted down his immature reluctance; a little activity and movement in the morning was good for the humors anyway.

“I will return shortly,” Okaz pronounced with a sigh. For a moment he lingered awkwardly beside the table. “Is…is there a bucket somewhere?”

A solitary finger stretched out towards the doorway. “Right over there, by the entrance. Just go ahead and take it right off the hook; if you follow the dirt path down the hill you’ll reach the well in no time.”

Okaz plucked the wooden pail of the peg with little delay, the first rumblings of hunger beginning to stir in his stomach. It came to him that he must never have eaten supper last night, and he seemed to recall having something of a small lunch as well – a poor choice, but then again, so was marching on a full stomach. This modest breakfast would be the first time he didn’t plan his meal around the demands of soldiery; for that alone it was worthy of being enshrined as a feast.

Hludaz had perhaps not been entirely truthful with his directions – Okaz was finding it to be a little more than a mere short walk. The hill he was walking down was steep if, not sheer, and it seemed to gradually transform into a repetitive series of tiny mounds and depressions, the monotony broken only by the chance stream or boulder. Although a little dull, it was hardly an unpleasant walk at least; after last night’s terrible storm the new day’s sky had been left a vivid, healthy shade of blue, with the forest songbirds and insects having apparently returned in full, if their renewed chorus was any indicator.

The water-well was as dull and predictable as one might have expected, although perhaps looking slightly run-down. Like any well, it was little more than a ditch encircled by a pile of stones, although in this case there was a distinct sensation that either the construction or the maintenance portion of the assembly had been performed with underwhelming attention-to-detail. A notable film of moss and debris lay thinly spread across the greenish surface of the water; very hoping that Hludaz would be boiling this liquid, Okaz ran his pail through the puddle and started back.

For the first time in many weeks, the warrior found his thoughts drifting away from the mundane and the practical and towards the lofty domain of the philosophical; a topic of which, like most people, he knew little about but had no shortage of things to say. He found himself marveling at the meager world-wealth of these peasant farmers – rationing dough and drawing their water from stagnant pits in the ground. That which he had always found grueling and arduous – sleeping in tents on the march and eating military rations – seemed petty now that he held it in perspective to the poverty of the rural folk. Since the earliest dawn of man, the Northlanders had always been quick to trumpet the importance of freedom – but what was freedom worth if you were not also equal?

This train of thought would continue no farther; Okaz found his reflections interrupt by a rumbling, so faint as to be indistinct, emanating from somewhere nearby. By this point, his instincts acted without him even realizing it; he was only vaguely aware of his pace slowing to a crawl, his eyes readily scanning the field for anything at all out of place. His mind began to run through its vast catalogue of survival strategies and combat stances – all of this, he realized, without having been given even the slightest real evidence of a threat. It suddenly struck him how long he had gone without being truly relaxed.

Then, just when he thought it had been a false alarm, he saw them: a small party of horse-bound soldiers, their banner whipping violently through the air as they flew down the road. Armed warriors on the road were not terribly uncommon, but something about this particular war-band made immediately made them seem sinister; perhaps it was the furious speed at which they rode, or the unknown symbol which was sewn into their standard. Their conduct was entirely brisk and businesslike, implying no small amount of formal training; they dismounted in impressive synchrony, moving towards the farmhouse in an ominous, semicircular mob.

There was a loud knock on the door, a quick and tense exchange of words, and then they were gone, somberly filing one-by-one through the doorway. From his distant spot on the crest of the hill, it was impossible for Okaz to tell what had been said or what had transpired. The presence of armed soldiers this far west could mean but one of two things; either the Sweboz army had recovered already, or the armed agents of the Heruskoz were now patrolling the area for its remnants. Only the latter seemed at all likely.

Okaz crept silently along the wall of the house, his back pressed as flatly as possible against the uneven crags of the woodwork. In his right hand he still tightly clutched the water pail, splashing his trousers with loose discharges of water as he tried to hold it steady. It was somewhat foolish, he realized, to go through all the trouble of holding onto this tiny bucket, but he didn’t dare drop it – the slightest sound could have ended his impromptu spying in a moment.

Muffled voices were coming from beyond the wall; Okaz positioned himself beneath the open window and rose up to a crouch, placing his ear just beneath the sill. The conversation seemed to be reaching its crux.

“-still don’t see why you gentlemen stopped here. This is Sweboz territory; the laws of the Heruskoz don’t apply here.”

There was no immediate response save for a series of heavy, mail-clad footsteps. “We must have just been mistaken…this is the royal prince here, on the table?”

Okaz’s back was killing him now; the disks of his spine groaned ominously in his awkward pose. The warrior took a trembling hand and tried to ease his pain.

“I never said anything about a prince…”

“Don’t be so dense,” one of the soldiers snapped peevishly. “This is the royal heraldry of Sweboz here, on his tunic. I would recognize it anywhere.”

Hludaz was heard to pause uncomfortably. “I…I don’t know who he is.”

“You lie,” was all that the warrior cared to muster. “Irwaz, ready your sword and-“

A sharp jolt of panic hit Okaz as the bucket slipped from his grasp, scraping shrilly against the wall as it tumbled downward. As if this were not bad enough, the comedic charade continued as the pail bounced again and again down the hard dirt road, its hollow banging making a commotion to rival that of a full-equipped army. Finally, just when Okaz’s embarrassment had become all but unbearable, the circus ended; the bucket ceased to bounce and simply rolled the rest of the way down the path.

The party of warriors reacted in just seconds; as soon as the clatter of the water-pail had died away their angry cursing had risen to fill the void. Deciding that stealth had become irrelevant, Okaz removed himself from the wall and turned to run, burn the tired creaking of the doorway froze him in place. He watched reluctantly as the war-band came around the side of the house, their hands dangling over the hilts of their blades.

“Who is this?” demanded the leader, a fiery-faced gentleman with scowling wrinkles etched deep into his skin. “Some sort of thief?”

Hludaz, looking helpless and clueless in equal measure, followed his guests to the scene of the disturbance. “Oh – this is Okaz,” he explained blankly, “a warrior of the Sweboz – and a fine one, at that. It is he who brought me the body of the prince.”

No further words were ever passed between the soldiers, but when they finally moved, they moved as one, drawing their swords and bringing them to bear with finely-practiced precision. Okaz found himself flying into a retreat as a he backpedaled down the hill, his un-guarded arms raised in front of his face in a futile gesture of defiance.

One of the warriors at the head of the pack made a massive lunge; Okaz pulled his torso back at the last minute, but not quite fast enough; a brief sting coursed through his arm as the blade sliced into it. Genuinely afraid now, Okaz lowered both his arms and prepared for a final stand, watching with smoldering contempt as his enemies began a leisurely attempt to encircle him. A muttered prayer escaped the warrior’s lips as he curled up a punch.

“No more Sweboz die this day!”

All heads turned just in time to see a dizzying blur slash through the air; a weak moan went out as one of the assailants toppled to the ground, his limbs flopping like wet seaweed onto the dirt. In another second, all had found themselves recoiling in fear at the giant who had no joined them in their diversion.

“Okaz, you devil!” Athawulfaz laughed, hefting the carpenter’s hammer effortlessly in his right hand. “Thought you’d leave me out of this one, eh? Fat chance!”

“Your Lordship!?” the warrior cried, quite forgetting about the battle he was supposed to have. “I thought you were unconscious!”

“I’m awake,” the nobleman returned, “and I’m thinking it’s time for a little…morning calisthenics.”

Almost to a man the enemies ran for their lives; only their apparent leader, the dour-faced one, still stood his ground, his already venomous visage growing more furious by the second. As if something had been decided, his hand shot down reflexively to the hilt of his sword. “Then fight me, cur!”

His death was hardly worthy of the virile scream he had given; a dense crushing sound accompanied by the implosion of his skull, leaving his head to bounce and sag repulsively in the road where it fell; the captain’s sword, finely made and richly ornamented, cart-wheeled whimsically through the air before impaling itself into the grass.

Athawulfaz casually drew the blade with his left hand, turning it over beneath the fresh light of the sun. He seemed to really be studying it, as if there were something in particular he was looking for. Then, without any warning, all questions were answered; Athawulfaz hefted the sword high into the air and, with an unearthly roar, pelted it into the field.

“We have been betrayed,” was all he could say.

“Hrabnaz told the Heruskoz of our location,” Okaz was quick to add, grateful that his suspicions were being corroborated. “That’s the only way they could have known we were going north instead of south.”

The lord pumped the air furiously with his fist, grinding his teeth so tightly they seemed as if they might shatter. “Those men were Hrabnaz’s personal guard – his loyal thanes, sworn to do his bidding. He sent them here to finish me off!”

“There’s no telling how long he has been an agent of the Heruskoz,” the warrior cursed pensively. “Their foul king will have had access to even the most closely guarded secrets.”

Athawulfaz turned around haughtily, moving at an almost unmatchable pace. “Not for long he won’t.”

“Wait!” Okaz called after him, jogging to match his steps with those of his hulking comrade. “We should ride to the capitol,” the warrior agreed, “We should bring this knowledge to the king,”

“Aye,” the prince seethed as he swung atop a vacant horse. “And we will need to hurry if we are to get their in time. Saddle up,” he commanded with a sigh, “we ride for the east.”

***

“Once again you return!” Heruwulfaz laughed as he descended the courtyard stairs. “I swear you have traveled more in these past few weeks than ever before in your life!”

Hrabnaz coldly brushed away his brother felicitations, giving him a dark look that was at once solemn and exhausted. “Indeed brother; and I will continue to travel until I have done all that I must do.” He threw a hand irritably into the air; his servants took the message and made to quarter his horse.

“Your sarcasm ill-suits you,” Heruwulfaz responded chidingly. “It seems to have put you in a terrible humor lately.”

“There is no time for humor,” returned Hrabnaz, his voice seemingly trapped in the same, tired monotone. “With each passing day the ranks of our friends dwindle and those of our enemies grow more numerous. It is a crime for you to live as carelessly as you do.”

The king gave his brother a look of deep and genuine concern, laying his arm gingerly around the other’s shoulder. “You are not well, brother. Come on, let’s get you inside. Ansuharjaz has probably started eating already, the pig.”

For the first time that evening, Hrabnaz laughed, but it was like no laugh Heruwulfaz had ever heard. The usual mirth and warmth was replaced by an unattractive mix of malice and bitterness; it hit the ears like a mad-dog’s bark. “We may as well just throw him in the pot next time – slice some garlic in and you’d probably never taste the difference!”

“With enough garlic you won’t taste anything!” joked the king, carefully ignoring his brother’s bizarre and sadistic vein of conversation. “Now come on, I’m starving – and I’m sure you are too!”

For a moment the young prince seemed as if he meant to remain in the cold; his head turned slowly back towards the direction he had come from, his eyes boring an invisible hole into the surface of the road. He seemed almost enraptured, or maybe even lucid – his every tiny filament and particle seemed to freeze perfectly in its place. Only his hair was moved, whipping and fluttering under the influence of the nighttime winds.

Then the trance was gone as he turned back towards the awaiting feast; only the glossy stare in his eyes left to suggest anything was wrong.

[Stingray970]

I don't understand how he's healed for lethal wounds in only one night, much less moving and fighting.

*Sigh* Tis the logic of CA

[dezikeizer]

Great update as always, and good to see Athalwulfaz back, though with that last part I wonder what plot will be tried next. Just a few things:

Reuinon

Shouldn't that be: Reunion?

Okaz found his reflections interrupt by a rumbling

I think you meant: Okaz found his reflections interrupted by a rumbling.

made immediately made them seem sinister

Shouldn't that be: immediately made them seem sinister?

burn the tired creaking of the doorway

I think you meant: but the tired creaking of the doorway.

[sinner]

love the intrigue, though i agree with stingray, it was surprising to see him recover so quickly, more so to dispatch his assasins so effortlessly.

[Stingray970]

^ Thanks for the rep bro

[Maximinus Thrax]

Excellent quality and highly entertaining! Your writing capabilities have excluded the necesity of in-game screenshots with great succes. I can easily guess it's a time-consuming process to deliver such lengthy updates but there are plenty here enjoying your work. Keep it up and looking forward to more!