A Born King - Act One completed

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The sun was beginning to set when the army had finally gathered outside the Dragon gate. Every horse available, from simple plow horses to the specially-bred steeds of the nobility, were pressed in to service pulling the carts filled to the brim with supplies. The few servants who had remained behind when Fluvius passed through reluctantly clambered on to the wooden transports, carrying small sacks within which held their worldly possessions.

“It will not be a hard march to the western mountains, will it?” Smarv asked his commanders, who had waited patiently within the Coil’s courtyard while he put on his armour.

“No it will not be,” answered Zoticus, offering a smile to the king.

Fifty warriors stood in five straight lines of ten men, their heads held high at the honour they had been granted. Along with fifty men out harrying Bonifatius’ advance, these men would hold the Coil for as long as possible. The formation was almost entirely comprised of Chattelites; it was not an uncommon occurrence. These men needed to make a name for themselves if they wanted a chance at breaking free from their bonds: holding the walls against the horde was their chance. Most will die, Smarv acknowledged as he walked through the ranks towards the Dragon gate. If they fight then most will be killed, and if they surrender, then they will be executed. There would be no backlash from killing the slaves, whether they surrendered or not. They held no lands or titles, nor had any family who would seek vengeance. They were worth nothing to either side, in terms of prestige or wealth. The only thing the slaves had was loyalty to their master, and that was what ultimately would kill them every time.

“Will this place hold long against Bonifatius?” Smarv felt that he had to ask, even though the answer was already known to him.

“A month at most,” the Jarl acknowledged with a faltering smile. “As soon as he has constructed a ramp large enough to reach the walls, or enough rams to overwhelm the gates. When the arrows and pitch run out, then there will be nothing to slow down an assault.”

Smarv unconsciously looked up at the walls of the castle, unable to see the glow of the gun beyond. How could any man build a ramp high enough to reach the top while being strong enough to support an army? The question was one he didn’t really want answered. If he could come to a conclusion, then there was no doubt that his enemy would do the same.

“They will hold,” assured Acacius. “Each man is a volunteer. Each man is loyal.”

“I have no doubt in the abilities of these men,” answered Smarv quickly, looking around him as he spoke. “Every man who fights here will be made a free man. Lands and titles will be theirs.”

The fifty in question did not react at the boy’s words, but it did not matter to Smarv. He wanted to say something inspiring to them. However, no great speech came to his mind. And what if I ruin it? The garrison was willingly sacrificing itself for him, and he thought that words would sully this show of duty and honour. So instead he marched out of the gates saying nothing.

Outside, the column had already started the march west. The army would worm its way across the landscape for leagues until it reached its destination. Along the worn-down cobbled road laid down years ago, Smarv’s men trudged forward. They still had bright memories of the last time they had marched any distance. They were like blades which brought back the pain of the barely-healed wounds and blisters.

“Who have you left in command of the garrison?” Rollo asked as the commanders prepared to join the marching column.

Zoticus had fallen behind the men, hissing in to Acacius’ ear angrily. At the tribesman’s question, they looked up. With a final glance at his Jarl, the Agoge stormed away, tossing his shield and spear in to the nearest moving cart. That was strange. Smarv nodded to his men to follow Acacius’ example, leaving him to speak with the man who seemed unwilling to take another step.

“You haven’t left anyone in command, have you?” the king asked after a moment.

“This place is my home, Your Most Honourable.”

“You want to see your son again, don’t you?” Smarv tried to make it sound like a statement, but it came out as an accusation.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” he accepted without guilt. “Cephas is my child. My firstborn son. One thing I would want to do before I die is forgive him for his treachery to my family.”

Carefully chosen words there. “But that is not the reason?” He wanted to go somewhere in the castle to discuss this decision with the Jarl, but Zoticus seemed happy to say his farewell outside his castle.

“The Coil is the home of my family. It has been ruled by the Drygons for generations uncountable. Your father died on the walls of his home; it is only fitting that I die on the walls of mine.”

“But that too is not the only reason?” Smarv inquired.

Zoticus snorted softly at that. “You do not miss anything. A hundred men have offered their lives for you. They are simple men, with simple wants. Crowns, titles, lands, money all mean little to them. I asked them to fight for me, and they accepted willingly. My conscious cannot allow me to leave them. This is my moment, Your Most Honourable.”

A silence descended on the two. It took a little while for everything to finally be absorbed by the king. Only a few days ago I believed him to be Bonifatius’ man. Time and time again Smarv had misjudged people, yet he felt justified in that. As long as he was wrong about those he thought were enemies, he would be surrounded by friends.

“Is there anything you want me to tell your family?” Smarv asked after the silence had become awkward.

At that, the Jarl’s started to glisten. “Tell my wife that I did my duty out of my love for her. To my son Stylianus: I stood my ground.”

Smarv bowed deeply to the Jarl of the Coil at his words. “It would be my honour.”

And so Zoticus turned on his heel and strode back in to the castle, his head held high. Smarv watched him go away until the dragon’s mouth slammed shut, and the man was lost to him forever. The king vowed that the Jarl’s last message would be passed on. It is the least I can do for him. He may not have been the kind of man who could be relied on, like Acacius, but he was still honourable. Most men, in Smarv’s eye, could do far worse than aim to hold Zoticus’ ideals as their own.

He thought that he had only stood there for a little while, but the Jarl’s voice broke him out of his thoughts.

“Your Most Honourable!”

Looking up, Smarv saw the man leaning over the battlements of the Coil’s high walls. All around him were the already-dead garrison, saluting their king.

“Yes, Jarl Drygon!” Smarv called back.

“If Cephas does not accept his rightful place at my side, then have no fear. He stands beside Bonifatius, then he is just another foe. My spear will pierce his chest, even if it means I have to fight through a thousand men. The traitor Jarl himself, I leave to you.”

Not waiting for his king to answer, Zoticus turned and strolled along one of the walkways towards the main tower. Smarv also turned, and joined his army on their march west. He paused several times, turning round to look back at the stone monstrosity which would be a burning husk in a few days. Every man inside would lie dead. And somehow, he wished that he could have traded places with any man within.

Zoticus had the exact same thought, but he threw it away once his men gathered around him for orders. This is what every man lives for.

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY

“I always wondered what it was like to be on the winning side for once,” joked Regulus, keeping his voice low.

“You are going to get us killed with your humour, you know that?” snapped back Balius, keeping his voice equally low.

“I would have rather died without all of this muck on me,” Regulus replied in disgust, scrunching his face up and feeling the dirt dropping off of his cheeks.

“I would rather that we did not die at all,” joined in Fedde, silencing the Dallans with his gruff Flendrian voice. “And I would like for us to begin to properly repay the blood spilt by my people.”

They had managed to march three days without incident. In those three days they kept up a good speed. A speed good enough, in Smarv’s opinion, to keep ahead of Bonifatius’ hounds. Yet somehow the enemy had found them, and began harrying them. Almost a hundred riders armed with javelins, bows and swords, would ride right up to the column and launch their missiles before fleeing in the face of reprisal. Any attempt to bring them to battle had failed, until they reached the bearswood.

The forest was thick with undergrowth. Most of it was so thick that armed men couldn’t even get through. The only way to make any speed was along the singular road, and in doing so, open yourself up to ambushes. Something Smarv was more than happy to use.

Just over three hundred men had detached themselves from the main body and concealed themselves in the undergrowth. Most were clansmen, well versed in using the terrain to their advantage. Cloaks became moveable bushes and faces were smeared black with soil in an attempt to hide their presence from the enemy who were close behind them.

“Here they come Fedde!” Hagan hissed, slowly rolling his shoulders as to disturb his camouflage as little as possible. “When I say so, call the attack.”

Fedde almost nodded at the man’s command, but remembered what they were about to do, and instead eased the warhorn from within the folds of his leaf-covered clothing. I am still surprised King Smarv gave us the responsibility. Most had assumed, when the king declared his intentions to be part of the ambush, that he would give the signal. However, the volunteers were quickly proved wrong when he placed the warhorn in Hagan’s hands.

“At your command, we strike.” And with that, he had left, joining the first group to get in to their positions.

The riders came clattering in to view, riding five abreast. They could have easily managed eight horses, but they were wary of exactly the attack that was about to be launched. Yet no set of eyes watched the tree line to either side, and instead the riders laughed loudly as they followed the enemy army. It was not in sight, but there was nowhere else it could go.

Hagan and Fedde had been part of the last group to join the ambushers, meaning that they were the furthest from the eastern entrance to the woods. Once the riders pass by us, they will be isolated. The fighting would be chaotic. It would be bloody. They would have it no other way.

The first five riders were just coming level with Hagan when he let out an almighty roar. He sprang to his feet, raising his greatsword one handed at the riders. “For Halrof!” he cried.

Taking that for the signal, Fedde launched himself up, blowing hard in to the horn.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

The forest came alike as the riders were set upon from both sides. Some drew their blades to fight back, while others twisted on the reins to try and turn and gallop away. However they were blocked off by a group of eight, led by an armoured warrior with a crown on his helm. Fear was written across the faces of some. Others were wild with excitement.

Regelus took five long strides to reach the enemy, leaping forward like a madman. Balius was not far behind, launching his spear in to the chest of a Danage who tried to face the threat. Hagan threw his greatsword with a loud battlecry, laughing a beastly noise as the blade struck a man on its long edge. The victim recoiled from the sword buried in to his shoulder, falling off of his white horse.

Fedde watched as horses were skewered by Dallan spears, driving them on to their hind legs in fear to dismount their riders. Flendrian steel hacked off slender legs and hooves slipped on the pooling blood. Bonifatius’ men, unsuited to fighting an enemy able to get to grips with them, were torn apart. Javelins were thrown without aim and bows were frantically strung even as the bearer was gutted.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

And with that Fedde charged forward from between the trees, leaping over branch and wet stone in to the furious fighting. He led with his greatsword held out like a Havorian lance, his everything behind the narrow point. One man, a boy really, saw the clansmen coming out of the foliage. He urged his steed forward, forgetting the gaping wound which had near cut off his right leg. At the last second, Fedde dropped to one knee while bringing the point of his blade up. The boy had leaned over to slash at Fedde as he passed. The clansmen’s blade struck the youth in the stomach and went all the way through. Going with the momentum of the horse Fedde threw his blade over his shoulder, the boy following.

He grimaced as the body sucked at his sword as he pulled it out. He had to place one foot against the corpse’ chest to stop it from lifting off of the ground. He couldn’t have been that old. There was no hair on the boy’s face and beneath a cheap tunic he had a scrawny frame. He had not been a strong boy, nor a rich one. Caught up in a war he did not understand, he had followed the commands of his elders like any good son. Hoping for some sort of recognition, the boy would have been the first to volunteer a place among the raiders. And now he is dead.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

The clansman turned in confusion at the noise, suspecting that another band of traitors were coming up the road. Hagan did the same, fear momentarily crossing his face. However, the two caught a glimpse of the warrior responsible for the noise. He was an armoured Dallan, sword swatting away enemies as he blew his lungs in to the curved warhorn in his hand. There seemed no urgency in the action, and Fedde was sure that he saw a flickering smile on the soldier’s face.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Tearing himself away from his kill, Fedde lifted his warhorn to his lips to join in. The raiders were finished and they knew it. Those few still on horseback tried in vain to flee, some charging in to the waiting groups of soldiers, and others trying their luck at the forests. Neither way got them very far. Those on foot tried to link together, back-to-back. Lightly armed and armoured, they stood no chance.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

The two warhorns sounded in union, signalling the end of the fighting. It had not been part of the plan, but the tides of war were ever shifting. Nineteen of Bonifatius’ men had survived, throwing their weapons away as if they were alight. As if the weight of the world was on their shoulders, they flung themselves to their knees. One dropped too fast, and put his face in the way of a spear thrust which had not been halted.

“Eh, oops?” Regulus said, looking like he had been caught sneaking in a princesses’ bedroom, for once making no attempt at a joke.

Hagan was the first to react, a giggle squeezing from between thick, cracked lips. The giggle was contagious among the men who had seen the Danage’s kill. Soon every man was laughing, chests heaving to give voice to their humour. Regulus was hesitant to join in, thinking that he was to be punished. Yet soon he was gripping a Flendrian’s shoulder to keep himself up straight. Somehow it was funny to the soldiers. They had survived another battle, when over a hundred had not. A life had been taken in a split second, and they were not that unfortunate soul.

“Oh gods!” Regulus spluttered as he started to cry.

He collapsed on to his backside, shaking. He pulled his legs in tightly and hid his head between filthy hands. The guttering sobs silenced the laughing as effectively as a royal command. Fedde took a deep breath and then instantly regretted it, vomit forcing itself out of his mouth on to a carcass already attracting flies.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Smarv didn't’t have to give much encouragement to get the men moving west again.

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

He couldn’t remember what the mountains had looked like. As a child he had rarely visited the ancient paladins of the Narviric kingdom. However, as an adult, Smarv was taken aback by the immense power they represented. They were massive things, rising and rising and rising. A forest of stone lunging in to the skies.

“Not much further,” Rollo declared as he cantered back to the column, his horse frothing.

After the ambush in the bearswood, there was no more incidents on the way west. Part of him had wanted one more fight, but the other relished every day without the sight or smell of death. It can be glorious, he often argued. Like the stories of the heroic ages, of one warrior pitting himself against another. However, he had not seen any glorious fighting. Not in Flendria, and not in Narvir. A part of him, the child still living within him, was disappointed. He had been betrayed by the stories, as his father had been by Bonifatius. Yet, the mature side of him knew that the stories were just that. No song mentioned the opening bowels. None mentioned the victors weeping over the fallen. The king couldn’t have truthfully said that he hated the rush he felt as steel clashed, but the aftermath was something he could never stand. I will never stand it.

“Let us hope that Flavius has prepared for our arrival,” Castor said quietly, marching a step behind his king.

You are not wrong there. “Quickly gather twenty men, nobles and commoners. Let them carry their family sigils, those without one shall bear mine. See to it that the gates are opened for us.”

Rollo bowed in the saddle, and rode off further down the line. He merely nodded at a random man, who raced back to unhitch a horse to ride. There were no words spoken as this almost ritualistic selection process went on. Once twenty men had been chosen, Rollo turned and sped back off towards the Feet of the Mountains. A column of rippling banners followed, cloth flags bearing green wryms, crossed axes, burning fires, mermaids, pigs, cows and white bears. Those flag represent hundreds of years of history, Smarv smiled absently as the banners flapped this way and that.

“Should we keep going on till dark, Your Most Honourable?” Icarus asked, glancing above the mountain range in front of them towards the rapidly disappearing sun.

“Yes, of course. It is high time that we get a proper bath.”

A damn cloth had been all he had been able to use to clean his armour of the muck of the bearswood. While the metal itself was almost clean, the rest of his clothing was still disfigured by the mud. However, he had not changed his tunic or boots. An example needed to be set, and Smarv had never truly been one to like the trappings of royalty.

“Aye, I cannot disagree with that,” smile Icarus, already mentally preparing himself to see his brother. “And after that, we will march with the Lycans and save your realm.”

Bonifatius’ confident words came to him, unwanted. Lycans will not save you.

“It is Welntos’ realm,” Smarv corrected him. “My family is merely the tool he uses to keep it together.”

Icarus bowed at his king’s words, offering his apologies. “It will be good to finally finish this either way. It will be good to finally go back home.”

Yes, home. What was his home? Was it Narvir itself? Maybe it was the Beast Palace, nestled in the centre of Dalla? While in Flendria, home had been a vague image. Whenever he closed his eyes and thought of ‘home’ it had been a fog of random corridors and ghostly figures. Sometimes he saw only flames, and piles of dead, rivers of blood running down stairways and streets in to the gutters. Yet still he was pulled back there. Home. Now, when he closed his eyes, home was that peaceful village snuggly resting atop a small hill. There, he had lived happily. Sure there had been fighting, but when had he not had to fight? The winters were sometimes hard, but was it any different here? Your place is on the throne your family has sat for centuries, his father would say to such thoughts. What does it matter if life is better somewhere else? Welntos gave us this land to live on. Are you to be the one to defy the gods? Do I need to remind you of our history? Of the Anticuum? The gods are as powerful as they are proud, and Welntos will accept no slight.

“Tell me of your home, Icarus. Speak to me of Feastfires.”

He had heard little of the Helgate brothers’ home. There had always been something more important to discuss. There had always been someone else to get to know. In all of his life, Smarv had only gotten a few pieces from them. A name, and a vague location under the shadow of the Jarl of Palehills.

The man collected his thoughts for a while, suddenly uncomfortable. His eyes looked around him, peering at distant trees in the failing light. He breathed in the smell of stale sweat and recently turned soil. A hand rash on his neck while his feet continued to plod along in step with the column. When finally started to speak, it was with obvious longing.

“It is a small village, with only a few dozen families. The central keep is little more than a hall. I remember, when Flivius and I were still young, our father boasted that it was the grandest keep in the whole realm. Sure, with its high ceiling and space for a hundred guests I believed him. Everyone ate there. More often than nought, I would be helping with the cooking while Flivius dived around trying to keep everyone’s cups full. There was no formality there.”

Satisfied that he had revealed enough, Icarus fell silent. However, this brief gush of words only increased Smarv’s interests. Helping with the cooking? Feasting everyone, from noble down to slave? It was a world away from how Smarv had spent his childhood. Even in the Flendrian clans he had not needed to lift a finger unless he wished it.

“Were there any Agoges beneath your roof?”

There were always those displaced nobles without a keep to call their own. Some left their homes willingly, others were forced. The only thing separating them from the lesser Danages was their blood. Most of those landless Agoges were from lesser branches, their betters unwilling or unable to feed and clothe them any longer. My father always had room for them. Almost a hundred of these Agoges stayed in Dalla, drinking and sleeping with the city guard. All dead now.

“Only one: Fluvius Elbern. He arrived when I was seven, twice the age of my father. Wearing nothing but his armour and owning nothing but his shield, he was welcomed by my father like a brother.” The man paused to smile faintly, remembering times long gone. “It turned out that he had fought for my father during one of the disputes over the boundaries with a neighbouring village. He was the reason that we had kept Feastfires, or so my father would say.”

Icarus was starting to become more comfortable as he spoke, no longer taking long pauses between sentences. There was a little smile on his face, beneath the scars and rugged beard. It spoke of a childhood yet to be forgotten; of times spent living without worry or fear.

“My brother had been named for him, oh and wasn’t my big brother happy about that. “My name comes from a hero!” he would laugh. It made both of the men smile to see him so proud of something as common as a name.”

“Our names are the most important things we have,” Smarv replied instantly, catching himself before he started to quote his father. “It separates it from any other man,” he finished. It separates us from the barbarians at our feet and the barbarians at our gates.

“Maybe,” Icarus allowed. “but you can take any name you want. It is only if others accept that name that gives it any weight. Elbern was a great warrior in his time. He didn’t have much though, and that was something that always confused me. Surely a hero deserves his own land? He had earned it.”

And with that, the two quietened, content to eat up the last leg of the journey in silence. Behind them the men muttered and chattered and shouted. A few played tunes with flutes, keeping the column marching along in step. They were nearing their destination, and the worries of the war were absent for a few precious moments.

[Iron Aquilifer]

Sorry for this late update, will attempt to get back to the 3/4 day uploads for as long as possible (for whoever is reading this)

As to the story itself, without giving much away the end of the first "part" of the story is closing in (only a few more chapters... maybe 3-5 with a possible Epilogue/teaser for second part) and after that, I will take a break (hopefully coinciding with my holiday(s) (lucky me )) and write a bit for my "Clockwork" WW1 Story (which will be renamed) and after a little while, I will return to complete the second part.

However, for those who are reading this, I would ask that you please mention any and all points you would like addressed. From parts/terminology you do not understand, to improvements which could be made with my writing. In the second part (again, without revealing too much ) I hope to take a kind of slower pace, to flesh out the various characters, many of whom I feel I have not truly made good enough for you to see them as people.

But anyway, thank you for continuing to read this, all suggestions, support and other is greatly appreciated

Many Thanks

[Dude with the Food]

I've been lurking but this is great and I'm already waiting for part 2. I'd rep you but think I already have twice. Get to chapter 30 next.

However, for those who are reading this, I would ask that you please mention any and all points you would like addressed. From parts/terminology you do not understand, to improvements which could be made with my writing.

Just one thing. How are you pronouncing Welntos?

[Axis Sunsoar]

I have been following this avidly. The one thing I have noted, and that you already seem prepared to correct, is just what you have mentioned that you will change in the second part. Smarv is the only character that I really feel connected to, and even he could use a bit of extra detail for me to fully understand him, I think. Other than that, I'm loving the story, and look forward to the showdown!

+rep

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Father! Jarl Drygon!”

Zoticus refused to look upon his son, instead focussing on sharpening the edge of his kopis. The wicked looking thing had not been his weapon the day before. However, the previous wielder would never need it again, and it felt good to use a hero’s weapon. Like the man’s spirit lived on to seek vengeance for his death.

“Will you not speak with your own flesh and blood?”

They must be growing tired. Three assaults had been beaten off already. The first had seen a hundred men rush the dragon gate with a ram, ahead of the main host by half a day. Zoticus had led the garrison out of the western gate and hit them from the flank, while arrows poured from the battlements. The second assault came the day later: fifty men with climbing gear. Instead of wasting arrows and risking lives, Zoticus had his men drop rocks. The climber who got the furthest was barely halfway up the wall before a lump of rock caved in his skull. That last attack though, that was something. Five rams had been brought forward; a hundred men for each gate. Most of the defender’s resources had been used to drive them off. Even a blind man could see how desperate they were: the pitch was almost all used up; all the gates bar the dragon gate were wide open; barely thirty men remained standing.

“His Most Honourable Bonifatius Iphus offers generous terms, including the freeing of all Chattelites currently in the garrison. You have fought well, and the king respects such dedication.”

Cephas was speaking to himself, although everyone in the Coil could hear him. A fourth assault was being prepared behind the traitor, hundreds of men preparing to storm the unhinged gates of the claw gate. Zoticus did wonder if there was a reason that the assault would come from the west, but dismissed it as trivial. Whether Bonifatius remains to see the siege end in triumph or not, he has been delayed. The assault would succeed, there was no doubt about that. The last of the pitch had been lathered on the gate entrances, but it would only delay the inevitable. He would leave a few archers on the walls, to fire down on the enemies as they passed beneath the wall, but that would not turn the tide. The inner buildings would be set alight to cover their retreat in to the main tower, but it would not give them victory. The survivors would hold the winding staircase which led up to his chambers, but they would not live to see the setting of the sun.

“If I didn’t know otherwise, I would have thought that you have lost the stomach to live like men!”

Cephas rode round and round the castle, a drygon banner in his grasp. Several other mounted nobles followed him, each one bearing a different noble house who followed the traitor. Half of them have men with Smarv. The sheer arrogance of such an act made Zoticus furious. And he allowed that sweet warmth to flood through his aching limbs. It made him ten years younger.

“Felix, I want all of the men in the courtyard,” Zoticus finally commanded as he noticed his son’s departure.

The twenty-eight survivors closed ranks quickly, knowing that the final assault was imminent. They stood straight before their Jarl, their master, weapons held loosely in their hands. None baulked when he commanded them to kneel. These men had served their entire lives, and the presence of death did not change the habits of decades.

“You have fought well for me. For Smarv. For Narvir. I could not ask the gods for a better band of warriors to stand beside.”

Heads raised in pride at his words, smiles worming themselves on to blood-soaked face. Each one of them knew that they had more than earned their freedom. If they had wanted to, they could have walked way in to the supposed mercy of Bonifatius. There was even a chance that he would allow them to live.

“We have sacrificed everything we have for duty. Each one of us has had the chance to leave. None have done so. Not all of you are even Dallan and yet you honour Welntos more than those dogs outside our gates!”

Zoticus was moving between the ranks, slapping sweaty necks and gripping armoured shoulders. Most of them were wearing armour looted from the dead, trophies of their bravery. They had all picked up a shield, some from the armouries of the Coil, some from the dead bodies. The Jarl thought that it was fitting to have Iphus shields used against the traitor. It would not have done during the Summer War, degrading oneself to use the enemies’ weapons. However, in the face of standing against the enemy with a spear and light tunic, stripping the dead of all of their iron was nothing.

“You are the true nobility of this land! My family claims to rule, but look out there! My own blood rides beneath the Boar of the traitor! The king was slain by that cretin and yet my own son fights for him!”

Those who looked saw that their master was crying, for a number of reasons. Some saw the sorrow. Some decided that it was anger. One or two concluded that it had to be regret over what had happened, and what was to come. The Jarl would have agreed that all of the reasons his men gave were right. However the image of his lady-wife was before him. The idea that she would be alone in the world without her husband and firstborn made the Jarl doubt his decision.

“Cephas Drygon, as a descendant of the great Jarl Drygon who claimed this land by fire, is dead. Cephas Black is just another traitor to be slain. You are my children!”

He was quick, grasping at the nearest man, a lithe ghost called Marox. Pulling him to his feet, Zoticus kissed him on his forehead.

“Marox, in the sights of man and gods, I name you Marox Drygon, adopted son of Zoticus Drygon!”

Leaving the Havorian captive beaming, the Jarl moved to the next man: Ralf the Doe, a dark-skinned giant with a shaven scalp. He did the same with this man, declaring him his son. Three days weren’t long in the grand scheme of things, but in battle three days were a lifetime. I know all of their names. To do otherwise would have tainted their actions. By the end, all twenty-eight former slaves were on their feet, moist marks showing the world that they were now nobles. They were no longer comrades united by a shared adversary. They were brothers, and Zoticus was their father.

“Sons!” the word seemed to fit the mass before him, better than it ever had for his own children. “Let us regain the honour lost by Cephas Black! As a family, let us die with our shields held high, and our spears to the fore!”

The answering roar was deafening, even for such a small number in such a large space. Swords and spears clattered against shields and sandaled feet stomped hard on the cobbles.

“To your places men! If any of you die with your back to the enemy, I will drive you out of Welntos’ gilded halls!”

The claw gate had been the least impressive of the four gates which cut entrances through the thick walls, but it had been the largest by a good five feet. The simple oak door, nestled in the iron alcove of a dragon’s claw, had broken beneath the assault of the ram sent at it after the third strike. It was the easiest way for the enemy to enter, and Zoticus had made sure that they would suffer as they forced themselves in.

Siege warfare in Narvir was not very advanced, given that it was almost never needed. The defenders could sally out or surrender. If they did not, then their low walls would be swarmed with ladders and thin gates breached with fire or rams. Of course the Coil made things different, but it was a single seat, far from the populous and desirable lands to the south. Zoticus had always felt a need to prove himself in the face of his more wealthy rivals, but the Summer War, and the Rise of the Boar proved the power of the Coil. While the south was lit ablaze, his own lands remained almost untouched. While the other seats were stormed and the towns sacked, the Coil stood unassailed.

And now I will have to die knowing that I was the Jarl to lose the Coil. The thought didn’t seem to fill him with guilt. A younger man, still believing in the ideals of Narvir maybe, but not Zoticus. He had seen what men made of the gods’ words, and drew a kind of comfort from that. Even as the enemy swarmed against his small band’s shieldwall, half of them screaming as the pitch melted their armour and skin, a crazed smile was playing on his lips.

[General Brewster]

This is ing golden.

[Iron Aquilifer]

For Part One I feel that it will be 'ended' at Chapter Twenty-Six/Seven which will be roughly 36k words in total....which I am more than happy with. Any longer and I run the risk of just drawing it out instead of ending at the logical conclusion.
Part Two will definitely be 'fleshier' than this part...maybe...hopefully (40k is the target but that is in the future somewhere)

Just one thing. How are you pronouncing Welntos?

In my head (since I ain't saying it aloud ) I have it as Well-n-toss, with the well rolling in to the n... So more like: welln-toss
(said how it looks really...not good at pronunciation/language so I make it easy on myself )

And Many Thanks for everything guys

[Tigellinus]

This has got to be my favourite Creative Writing piece on here at the moment!

I love this story!

Thanks

Tigellinus

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Felecia flew in to the open arms of Acca, both women wailing. The men around them crunched their faces at the painful tone of the voices, the other Blackpyres noticeably more affected than the others. Clarissa joined the two, keeping her head high and walk calm until she reached them. A thin arm pulled her in and the three fell to the ground in grief.

Smarv almost made to reach out to them. To reach out to Felicia. Seeing her there, distraught, did not sit well with him. I should be there for her, as she was for me. Yet that had to wait. How long must it? He was king, and he had a duty. A duty to the only girl I have loved. A duty to the realm, and that duty included remaining above the activities of the gentle sex and dealing with the affairs more befitting the greatest man of the kingdom: War.

“Your Most Honourable,” bellowed a giant from his ornate throne. “It is an honour to have your near-divine presence in my humble halls.”

Jarl Mattrick Lycan was every part the beast on his family’s sigil. When he stood to formally greet the boy-king, the man towered over everyone present. He had thick ropes of muscle, and a very prominent brow, which hung over two beady eyes like the edge of a cliff. However, what most likened Mattrick to the ancient banner of the Lycans was the thick pelt of hair which covered him like a bear.
No matter how often he took a razor to it, no matter how many clothes he wore, the hair continued to grow and continued to force its presence on the man. Some called the family trait a curse, issued by Welntos on the most defiant of the Anticuum from their rebellion against his will. Others claimed it was a gift by the gods, to remind the world that the Narviric people were not only Welntos’ children, but also the children of the Great Bears.

“The honour is mine, Jarl Mattrick. It is not often that I am received by true Dallans, honouring their duty to my family.”

As he said the words, Smarv looked around at those who stood before him. The Jarl merely smiled in reply, baring white teeth and gleaming pink gums. However, the men around him reacted in a different manner. Some nodded their heads readily, beaming at the praise. They did not concern Smarv. It was those who narrowed their eyes, as if insulted. They looked at each other, looking for some sort of direction with how to proceed. My people are there, and have much more to offer them, the words rang in his head. That group was the larger body, comprised of young men with the look of warrior-born.

The two leaders came together in the centre of the hall, gripping each other by the elbow. All along the four edges of the Great Hall men stood watching the interaction with interest. Those who were loyal to Smarv waited to see if they would have to fight in sight of the women and children. Those loyal to Mattrick waited to see if they were to fight for this young king. Of those whose only loyalty was to Bonifatius, they scowled and spat as the Jarl spent the time to speak to the boy.

“Why haven’t you raised the Dallan Bear about your seat?” Smarv asked with a warm smile, keeping a tight grip of the giant’s arm.

“Bonifatius has already earned the loyalty of much of my household. He is this close to gaining mine.”

The giant had pulled the boy in close, so that he could smell his breath as he spoke. His pelt tickled Smarv as they danced on his skin. The Jarl didn’t seem to smell of anything, except for freshly-washed cloth. And for that small mercy, Smarv was grateful. Although the words being hissed in to his ear did not make him happy.

“What could possibly have turned you from your king!”

Mattrick pulled back an inch, to give Smarv a look of amused confusion. “If I were to support Bonifatius, then I would not be betraying my king. Your father lost the throne, and Bonifatius was named in his place, before the sight of gods and men. Every great family gave him their loyalty, and by extension all men and women under their protection or under their pay.”

“Are you saying that the Lycans will not support me?” Smarv hissed, already moving his free hand towards his waist. “Then why did you allow Fluvius entry?” A hundred different possibilities flashed before his eyes.

Noticing the youth’s movement, Mattrick span him round, gripping the king by the shoulder and pulling him towards the Lycan household. “Come,” he called out for all to hear. “You must be hungry! Come, feast with us and forget about the troubles of the realm.”

The troubles of my realm will not wait, he wanted to reply. The words got stuck in his throat as he glanced down at the women still crying on the floor. Icarus, now reunited with his brother, knelt beside them, pulling the Blackpyres to their feet. He whispered words of encouragement to them, ushering them in to the company of some Danages who took them away, out of sight.

“It has come to my attention that you are far for victorious over King Bonifatius,” the Jarl said as he led Smarv through a large oak door behind his throne.

Following closely behind the two of them was a mixed group of men and women. Some wore armour still dirty from fighting. Others were garbed in finery befitting the ruling body of the realm. They were young; they were old; they were happy; they were sad. Many would proudly stand by the side of the Last Bear, while the rest would rather hold the line beside the Great Boar.

Easing himself in to the Jarl’s seat, Smarv paid no heed to Mattrick’s confusion as his place was taken. As the servants hurried away to begin bringing in the drinks, the King looked around him at the other nobles who clambered for a seat near the two men. Caligula dropped himself at Smarv’s left, giving the boy a sad smile by way of greeting. Down from him sat Draco, still quiet after the death of his father. Acacius claimed the chair further down the left from the new head of the Blackpyres. Two of Mattrick’s men were able to claim the last seats on that side of the High Table.

“He is still at large, yes,” Smarv replied as he settled in to the throne. You are a very vain man, aren’t you? Lording over this town as if you were a king in your own right.

As the Jarl squeezed himself in to the seat on the boy’s right, the king looked down at those who had been fast enough to take the remaining seats. Another two of Mattrick’s were there, the elder of the two being a smaller version of Mattrick, though without the obvious Lycan trait. The other was a small, slim man. He had a well-kept beard and his well-oiled hair was pulled tight in to a ponytail. Icarus sat between those two men, failing to mask his displeasure at the arrangement. Rollo, now used to his position as Smarv’s hound, made to take the last vacant seat. However, Ovid gave him an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, before the Dallan was forced to bow and return to the lower tables.

“However, he is no longer the threat he once was. He will come and I will break him here as I broke him at the Coil.”

“And what makes you think I will allow you to fight our honourable king within sight of the Feet of the Mountains?”

The voice rumbled like thunder, silencing all the half-started conversations as warriors and nobles sat down to wait their meal. At those unhurried, accusing words, mothers pulled their children in tight, and hands went to weapons.

Looking up, a smile forced its way on to his face. It was not an angry smile, at least the king told himself that it was not. It was a genuine smile, just maybe not for the reason most people would apply to smiling.

I think I can persuade you; whoever you are. I am the firstborn son of Damon Frost and he never stood for defiance. I am my father's son.

[Scottish King]

It seems that the Jarl does not take kindly to Smarv. I wonder what Smarv has up his sleeves. I really liked your use of dialogue. It really captured the tension between the two men. Good job!

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“I demand to know!” the man shouted again, causing a hundred men to rise from their seats, weapons drawn.

“Peace, Dioscuri,” Mattrick snapped, launching a clean fork at the man. “I have the power here and you will hold your tongue!”

Dioscuri looked set the argue with the Jarl, his eyes narrowing to dark slits. His entire body was tense, one hand still raised, pointing at the young king, the other gripping the handle of his xiphos. And then he let out a wisp of breath, straightening his back. The accusing hand went up to rifle through his short brown hair before returning to his side.

Smarv, still smiling at the dead man, gathered up his thoughts. “No man, whether he is the lowest slave or the greatest Jarl, makes demands of a king. You may ask on your feet, or you may beg on your knees.”

He felt the anger building within him. The traitor before him could well have been Bonifatius himself, so intense was this loathing the king felt towards the man. He dared to question Smarv’s place. He dared to speak to the king as if he were a lesser. My father would not allow such insolence. Smarv Frost knew what he had to do. He knew what he wanted to do.

“I serve the king, Jarl Lycan. It will be known to him where you stood at such a time.”

There was a group forming around Dioscuri, eyes burning with hatred for Smarv, for Mattrick, for anyone not willing to stand beside the representative of Bonifatius. Some were armoured as if for battle, others wore their court clothing like a second skin. Forks and knives and daggers and swords were in their hands, softly glinting the light from candles and torches.

“The king already knows,” Smarv informed the man.

He felt rather than saw or heard the presence of his men behind him. They would wait for his command to extract revenge for the insult done by Dioscuri. They were his hounds, ready to be let off the leash: Caligula, Draco, Acacius, Icarus, Ovid. One command and they would leap across the table to rend and tear. The knowledge that he had such power made his smile broaden; his will was law.

“You will remove yourself from my presence!” Mattrick snarled, disgusted by what was threatening to unfold. “And take your pets with you!”

The traitors bristled at that, but did not give any opposition. The group slunk away, away from the guests who were ready to dive forward and gut them. The guards, almost twenty men in bronze armour and clutching spears, escorted them out, taking no chances.

“His sister was raped and killed during the civil war,” Mattrick offered by way of apology with the swift exit of the traitors. “It was one of your father’s men; your father himself to hear his telling of events.”

“I do not care for his petty hatred. His revenge should be satisfied with the death of my father. No, he is a traitor and shall be delivered the justice his treachery deserves.”

“This “justice” will not be carried out beneath my roof,” the Jarl replied sharply, lifting up a half-eaten pig joint. “Come! Let us finish this food!”

The appetites of those noble enough to have warranted a table in the Jarl’s presence had gone. The kids slowly munched on the food, glancing up to try and see why their parents were not eating. Some squirmed when their mothers or elder sisters pulled them away, off to their homes in the town or rooms rented or gifted in the Jarl’s Hall itself. Soon there remained only eighty men, clumped in two separate groups.

“I have an army camped within your hold,” Smarv mentioned as he split a small roll in half. “Why do you even consider to try my patience?”

“Perhaps I want to see how far you are willing to go for victory.”

Across the room there was a strained silence; no-one spoke for fear of starting something they would regret. The men were only pretending to be busy with their food, or belt buckle, or loose strand of fabric. They were waiting to leave, either with clean blades or swords glistening red. It was a standoff. A quiet standoff with thoughts turning to loved ones not seen in forever.

“I gathered an army of Flendrians to return home. I fought an enemy thrice my size without a second thought. I marched my men across half of the realm without food or rest. I shattered Bonifatius the first time I saw him. I allowed a loyal supporter to die. I had a dissenter murdered before he could desert. I will burn your hold to the ground, and butcher your entire family. And that is no threat.”

Frustratingly, the Jarl’s expression of mild regret did not change. He merely went on eating, as if the boy beside him had no army almost two thousand strong waiting for his command. As if he did not have fifty men waiting to be unleashed within that room. As if he did not have five tested warriors standing behind him. He went on, chewing on the cold meat as if he held all of the cards.

“What do you want me to say?” Smarv finally asked, exasperated. “Do you want me to beg for your loyalty? Do you want me to barter for your spears? Or shall I threaten and bluster, like your man Dioscuri out there?”

His voice had raised with the anger, with the soul-destroying despair that he would not get want he wanted. He would not get the Lycan’s support. He would face Bonifatius, outnumbered and alone with an army of exiles and foreigners. His revenge would be left unfulfilled, as he died in the massacre which would be his last stand. He would have failed, after coming so far, after going through so much.

It had been years since he had last felt like a child, scared and alone.

“I need your men, every last one of them. The might of the mountains much be mine if Bonifatius is to be defeated. I cannot face him without your men, and I know they will not follow me without a Lycan beside me.”

At least a thousand Lycans will march beneath your banner. The boast now sounded like what it was: a wild promise to give the returning king hope. Smarv would be surprised if half that were present in the town. Fluvius had assured me that the rest were still in the passes, just waiting to be sent for.

“My nephew is your supporter,” Mattrick finally said. “Every day he comes to me, screaming at me until he goes hoarse that I should be a beacon for the loyalists. “The Man-Ape has always been sworn to the Bear!” he would screech in my ear. If he had his way, the Feet would be a mustering point for an army of dutiful men. My reply would always be the same: There are no dutiful men left.”

“Yes there is!” Icarus snapped, ramming his blade in to the wood of the Jarl’s throne. “I am one!”

At the Agoge’s sudden strike, Mattrick’s men who stood behind him lunged forward. Their blades were aimed at the man’s arm, intent to hack off the arm which they thought had just struck their master. If Icarus had been alone, then the Lycan’s men would have killed the Helgate brother. If he had been one against four.

“Is this what you wanted?” Smarv demanded as the nine combatants clashed behind them, in front of them, all around them. “Do you want to see your legacy reduced to rubble and ash?”

Those at the lower tables had turned to see the sudden clash of steel. Then just as suddenly, they too lunged forward in to the fight. The men dived in to each other, happy that the waiting was over. It was an explosion of emotion and energy. It was fast and brutal.

“You lose as soon as my family falls,” Mattrick reminded the boy, a flicker of fear passing across his face as two of his protectors fell dead on to his table.

We are long past redemption. Smarv rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving the Jarl’s. What did he feel? Anger at the betrayal. Anger at his own failure. Disappointed that his life was over. Yet he also felt resolute. He knew what was to come next, what he had to do. I am not a naïve little boy, my just Jarl. I know intrigue as much as Bonifatius.

With a deep breath, Smarv called out as loud as he could. It was a single word, a command which needed no refinement for men who spent their entire lives in service to a greater. “KNEEL!”

And just like that, the two groups of combatants, ripping out great chunks from each other, threw themselves on to one knee, heads bowed. Arms which had been swinging for the fatal blow stopped their advance to fall down to their owner’s side. The blazing inferno extinguished instantly, as if by the hand of a divine spirit.

“There are your dutiful men, Jarl Mattrick.”

[Iron Aquilifer]

Due to holidays, next update will be at the earliest 27/28th. My apologies.

[Tigellinus]

THAT WAS AWESOME!

That chapter was the best so far, the tension, the emotion. Brilliant!

Thanks

Tigellinus

[Iron Aquilifer]

THAT WAS AWESOME!

That chapter was the best so far, the tension, the emotion. Brilliant!

Thanks

Tigellinus

You should make a pdf of this.

This is an thread which I will keep updated. Will be giving feedback when I can.

Many Thanks for the support, and Many Apologies for the late update

[General Brewster]

You should make a pdf of this.

[The Wandering Storyteller]

This is an thread which I will keep updated. Will be giving feedback when I can.

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

He marched out of the hall without looking to either side of him. He kept his head held high, when he wanted to look his men in the face. Instead of acknowledging the deaths he kept his eyes straight ahead. No emotion touched his features. He focussed on the entrance as he walked, willing it to be closer. He hoped that the men would understand. He doubted it, but he still hoped.

Icarus was silent as the nobles joined their king, his expression unreadable. A deep cut ran down his arm, another high on his chest. He was usually the first to speak, the first to offer his services. However he just dragged his feet, flinching whenever Smarv turned his head to look at those who were following. It was as if he was expecting his king to strike him.

Most of the men followed behind the king, dragging their dead and dying along without complaint. There were Lycan men alongside the Blackpyres and Wintrues and Drygons, helping the warriors they had been trying to kill mere moments ago. Maybe ten men from the mountains, stumbling and anxious, followed the boy who had saved them. There were moans and there were hushed whispers from the loyal soldiers, but nothing loud enough to reach Smarv’s ears.

“Your Most Honourable,” Ovid muttered, weaving to the front of the group to the king’s side. “What next?”

The question came out as if from a child: high and full of confusion. This was not the warrior Smarv had fought beside. This was a man slowly breaking under the pressures of a war that looked lost. Not that he was the only one.

“I am going to my chambers. Find the clan chiefs and bring them to me. They are to bring fifty of their best.”

Nodding, his happiness obvious, Ovid turned down a corridor, ten men following him closely. With the man’s departure, Smarv began to see the plan in his mind’s eye. Each step threw a little more wood on to the fire of his soul and it caused a twitch of his lips.

“Rollo, take the wounded to the healers, do not leave them until they have every need seen to. Acacius, let the men outside know what happened. Make sure they are on their guard.”

The Agoge bowed deeply, marching off to leave one of the limping warriors to inform the king of Rollo’s demise.

Victory, in my father’s name. The wish somehow sounded hollow now. What did it matter if he gained his crown? To the dead nothing mortal mattered. Shaking the defeatist thoughts from his mind, Smarv ordered the wounded away on their own.

Caligula and Draco found themselves walking stiffly beside their liege, bloodied swords still in their fists. Neither of them spoke, eyes darting round every corner and door, opened or closed. They had killed members of their host’s household, and for that, Jarl Mattrick had every right to attack them. If the Jarl so wished, he could end the civil war right there and then, without forever being known as a servant of Bonifatius.

The chambers Smarv had been granted were not much to boast of. It was a single room, with a bed shoved in to one corner to make room for a large oak table. The few rough-cut chairs which circled the unadorned table were quickly occupied by his staunch supporters. The wood creaked as metal and flesh pressed down, and at least one of the legs was warped by the weight.

“The end is near,” Smarv started, his back to his men, eyes on the wall. “There is nowhere else for us to go and I am tired of being chased by that murderer. We will burn this place to the ground and take everything we can carry in to the mountains.”

His plan was met with a series of sharp looks from those who had managed to squeeze themselves in to the room. However no one offered to voice their objection, so the king was allowed to continue without interruption.

“We will send riders to all of the mountain crofts. Whatever strength is to be found will be found and brought to join the shieldwall. A suitable location will be found to wait for the traitor. There we will hold. There we will hold.”

He took a deep breath before turning to face the men in the room. Jarls Draco and Caligula had claimed the seats which put their backs to the open door, allowing their eyes to meet their king’s without difficulty. Fluvius stood behind them, materializing with the red-eyed Felecia in tow. The Wintrue brothers had claimed the last seats, their dirty faces a welcome sight. The ancient brothers Aigidius and Kaius remained close to their grand-niece, preferring to protect Felicia than see their wounded brother Amedeus reach help. Eduardus stood apart from his family, remaining close to the Agoges Celer and Isocrates, the men rumoured to be vying for Felicia’s hand. They will be disappointed, I will make sure of that.

Sweeping his gaze over the rest, Smarv’s twitch of a smile faltered. I barely know the rest. He knew the names and faces of Jason Whyte, Lexus Vynes, Merianus Brus and Neleus Medrix. Somewhere amongst them could be a Calix Gamblix, but he did not know the man’s face. Many faces were vaguely recognizable, but their names remained a mystery. These were the men who were risking their lives for his cause.

“I have been in the mountains barely two years ago,” one of the men spoke up. “It is full of false passages and fatal paths cut in to the mountainside. When a spot is found to defend, then Jarl Iphus will not be able to remove us.”

The man’s words were met with a wave of relieved sighing. He could have been lying, Smarv reminded himself, but all the same he was thankful for the man’s support. These men would follow without any need for hope, but it was still a powerful thing to have as an ally.

“It is all well and good discussing the final battle,” Fluvius said with a hard look on his face. “But first we must deal with Jarl Mattrick. He will not pledge his family to us, and until that time, the men who have sworn themselves to him cannot fight with us. There are now five hundred Lycan fighters beside our two thousand. Will they stand aside as we burn this town to the ground?”

“They will if they know what is good for them,” answered Draco immediately, eyes never leaving Smarv’s. “Or better yet, they will help us do it.”

Fluvius’ laugh was a harsh bark which caused a few of the more tense warriors to flinch at its volume.

“Jarl Mattrick will be dealt with shortly,” Smarv intervened before there was a confrontation. “As king all people of Narvir owe me their loyalty, whether I sit in Dalla or not. As such, he is a traitor and shall be punished as such. His nephew will replace him as Jarl, and ensure the loyalty of the men are firmly placed with me.”

“And what of Dioscuri?” asked Caligula, stabbing the table with a bloody knife.

Smarv grinned as if he had just been told a piece of exciting news. “He is a traitor and shall be punished as such.”

[Iron Aquilifer]

Hopefully I will pick up the pace to get the first part finally finished It is getting there, just following a slightly different plot than I originally envisioned.

In the meantime, the monthly creative writing competition has need for voters...(wink) they are all good pieces which stand a chance....


http://www.twcenter.net/forums/showt...WC-VI-The-Vote!