A Born King - Act One completed

[Iron Aquilifer]

Looks like I was a little off with the estimation for the ending of Part 1 looks like your stuck with this for a wee while longer than expected.

;-------------------------------------------

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

All across the keep there was increased activity as Smarv’s men raced to-and-fro, locating the targets the king had set. It was a whirlwind with the eye centred of Smarv. Men presented their findings with hurried hand gestures on to a piece of paper which was beginning to detail the plan of the building. I have never done this before. However, he did not allow his inexperience to show, dispatching his packs throughout the Jarl’s home without doubt.

When Ovid returned with the clansmen the other nobles had disappeared, seeing to their myriad of duties. The Flendrians were wearing the same clothing they had worn all throughout the campaign. Segments of their armour was missing and the thick kilts were losing their colour. However, their two-handed greatswords were as sharp and well-oiled as when they were first unsheathed. Each blade was over a hundred years old, passed down from firstborn to firstborn since their creation. Few had names, the Flendrian clansmen were a practical people if anything, but they all had histories as long and storied as the clans they belonged to.

“Your Most Honourable,” Ovid said with a stiff bow, making his way to the side of his king. “They are here.”

The nine chiefs formed a human wall before the Narviric king. One or two smiled, one or two were all scowls. They had been told of Jarl Mattrick’s lack of loyalty, of Dioscuri and his pets who preached Bonifatius’ rule. What they had not been told was why they and twenty of their best had been brought before the king. Why the army outside was dismantling its camp in preparation for a battle.

“Mattrick Lycan, Jarl of The Feet of the Mountains, will not accept me as king. As such his title and lands are forfeit. All oaths sworn to him are null and void. Any and all persons who continue to serve him are named traitor. His line will no longer claim power within the boundaries of Narvir, and shall be taken hostage until such times as it is decided if they follow Mattrick in his treason. His nephew, the new Jarl of these lands, will swear loyalty to me, and sentence his treacherous predecessor.”

The chiefs did not respond at the boy’s words. Even before he went on, the nine men knew what was being asked of them, and their mouths twisted in to snarls of anticipation.

“As king, I have named you and your selected twenty as the honour guard which will see Jarl Mattrick Lycan and his supporters chained and dragged in to the great hall. All those who bar your way are deemed as traitors, and should be dealt with swift justice. Do any of you reject this honour?”

Not a single man even considered it.

“The nephew in question, Bertramus, has already been contacted, and is being escorted to the great hall by four men. The rest of the family are being gathered as we speak, so you need not worry about anything other than Mattrick. Ovid, you and I shall deal with Dioscuri and his dogs. Those scum would raise the Lycan men against us given half a chance. They have been penned in to their chambers until we arrive to lead the attack.”

The chiefs bowed when the king stopped speaking. Eight made to leave, drawing their blades as they went. Engel remained for a moment, long enough to reassure Smarv that his will would be done.

“The Lycans will be yours, do not worry.”

When they left, Smarv slumped in his seat. All this because he was too weak to accept me. He sighed, letting everything wash over his for a few brief moments. Felicia had been escorted back to the women and children, guarded by fifty men. She would safe no matter what happened.

“What if this nephew does not accept you?” Ovid asked suddenly.

What if he does indeed. “He dies and then I look for another replacement.”

There was no other option. He would lose the support of hundreds if Bertramus did not give himself to Smarv, but defiance would be met with nothing less than death. I have neither the time nor patience anymore. Die in service to me or die a traitor, that is all I will offer.

The once-tribesman accepted that with a nod. A spear was in his hand, a small thing that was shorter than he was tall. However in the confided space of the keep, the lack of reach would not be a disadvantage. He led the way out towards Dioscuri’s chambers, or more accurately, towards a huddle of men who knew where the traitor and his men were housed.

Smarv had his xiphos in an armoured fist and a small wooden shield in the other. The paint was flaking off of its surface, but the bear was still visible. The king advanced on the traitor’s chambers with a smile on his lips. He and his lackeys had been provided with several adjoining rooms, surrounding a bathing room. It was holdings more fitting for the king than for some landless Agoge, supporter of a king or not. At each entrance four men waited, their weapons ready. Bonifatius’ men had been driven back inside, eight cooling bodies lying unattended outside where they had tried to get out and rally the guards.

“We will kill them in service to the Gods,” Smarv told all those within earshot. “Break down the doors.”

All the servants had vanished, the noise of battle sending them to the darkness corners of the Lycan’s large home. Booted feet delivered powerful thrusts in to the doors, bending wood and rusting iron. Axes and blacksmith’s hammers collided with the obstacles and after a few minutes, the doors were wide open. A horde of Dallans flooded in, screaming as they set upon the enemy. There was no attempts at capturing them alive; life was too precious to be wasted on the likes of them.

With Ovid and Iovus, the late Jarl Drygon’s man, at his side, Smarv stepped through the nearest busted doorframe and paused a moment to take in the sight. Dioscuri’s dead body was the first sight to assault him, lying on a bed with his head caved in. The pot responsible was still smothering his face. The bowels of that treacharious dog had opened, and already the red was being turned a dirty brown. As he walked towards the retreating sounds of fighting, the king counted twenty bodies, littered across the place. They were face down on the floor, face up on tables, spread-eagled on beds. The Drygon Agoge knelt by each body, in an effort to check how many men Smarv had lost. However the man only knew a few faces, which gave the king hope.

Quick and clean, that is what is needed here.

The fighting was finished by the time he reached his men, who began to gather the dead traitors and dump them in to the bath without waiting for the orders. The water had not been added, so the firewood could be added straight away. The King had decreed that the ashes would be scattered over the fields, to be lost forever. Near forty men had fallen in the fighting, and the rooms which had held the conflict would bear the marks for a while.

“Ovid, you take care of this,” Smarv told the man, barely glancing at Iovus. “I want their ashes out of here before the other fires begin.”

Iovus was a young man, though he had let his hair become messy. He was no Acacius, and he was not that intelligent. However, to Smarv’s eyes, he was a powerful man to have as subject. He was tireless, and he was a fine soldier. A dependable warrior.

“Take me to the great hall, Iovus, I will wish to have the new Jarl’s oath right away.”

The crunching of axe on wood and the moans of the recently wounded was all the king got in reply.

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Looking on it, in all of its glory, Smarv thought that it looked like a funeral pyre. I suppose it is. The flames had fully taken hold, rising high in to the sky as if a part of the sun had fallen to earth. The light emitted was as intense as the heat, blinding all those who dared risk a glance. And it would have to be. With the great tongues of orange flame came vast, billowing plumes of black smoke and ash. It could be morning already, but none of them would know, such was the completeness of the darkness which hung over them.

Over the roaring of the burning town, the sound of a thousand stifled cries echoed through the pass. Most of the families had left the Feet weeks ago, as soon as they heard of Smarv’s landing. To distant relatives in the mountains or to the supposed safety behind Dallan’s thick walls they fled. Those that had remained had had no choice: slaves bound to the land; freemen who had no family to turn to; warriors bound to the service of the Lycan Jarl. Some had put up a fight when Smarv and Bertramus ordered them to leave their homes. Thirteen bodies had been added to the pyre by the time the first houses caught alight. By the time Smarv was marching towards the mountain pass at the head of his army, nearly forty cooling bodies were left.

“How can you be sure that Bonifatius will follow?” Bertramus asked, of height with his king.

“He has to,” Smarv answered instantly. He has to. “If he does not follow, then it will give us time to prepare. This cannot end in a stalemate, but he knows that we will not leave our positions once we decide to make a stand.”

The new Jarl accepted that with a stiff nod. His eyes were still puffy and his voice still wavered after even a few moments of reflection. Mattrick had been like a father to him, or so the traitor screamed in an effort to avert the inevitable. It could have been true, as the Jarl’s sons had died years before. Whatever the truth of it was, Bertramus had not allowed his loyalty to his family cloud his judgement. The blow had been a good one, ending the nobleman’s life with a suddenness that he did not deserve.

I will make more enemies in victory than in defeat.

“I have already sent out messengers to all those crofts which claim to be loyal servants of Dalla,” Bertramus mentioned, eyes never daring to look at the blaze. “We will be joined by a few hundred fighters, Danages mostly. Few Agoges wish to own any land in these parts.”

Smarv let the knowledge wash over him. A few hundreds will make a difference, but I need more than hundreds. Narvir was a massive kingdom, stretching for hundreds of miles from west to east, and north to south. Thousands lived in the towns beneath the shadow of the great Jarls, tens of thousands in the capital. If Bonifatius were to fall, it would only take a fraction to remain loyal to his daughter for all of the fighting to be for nought.

Casting aside such doubts, Smarv straightened his back. I am king. He drank in the sight of The Feet of the Mountains one last time, before turning his back on it. Bertramus let out a soft sigh as he followed the youth towards the head of the column. They passed narrow-eyed women and crying babies. Silent children watched the nobles march by with blank faces. Fighters bowed their heads in acknowledgement while the men who had no intentions of lifting up a spear made themselves scarce, investing all of their energy in the loose strands of their clothes.

The road they travelled along was uneven, rocks and pebbles forming an ever-shifting surface. It carved a winding path through the mountains, rising higher and higher. Past small huts full of fearful women and children and over streams trickling mountain water down to the fields the host marched north. The civilians slowed everyone down, more so than the carts which threatened to break with every turn of their wheels. No matter how many times the captains shouted themselves hoarse to get the moving faster, they continued to drag their feet.

By the time it came to set up camp, the pyre was still in sight. Although the fires still burning were becoming weak, a few of the bigger ones could still be made out. As such, Smarv ordered that no fires were to be set. It did not look likely that the barren mountainsides would provide much in the way of useable firewood anyway, but Smarv would not take the risk of letting Bonifatius’ spies have a better sight of his strength. Or indeed, of his weakness. Let them grumble, the king decided, sitting alone as his tent was prepared for him. Let them curse my name while Bonifatius marches blind.

None of his commanders interrupted him that first night after the burning. They were too busy preparing for the next days to sit still with their liege. Ovid raced ahead of the column with almost fifty riders with the dual purpose of gathering more fighters and locating a suitable battlefield. Fluvius and the three Jarls saw to the people who would not fight, ensuring that they knew that their sacrifices were worth it. Some had fled from The Coil, knowing that when they returned it could be a ruin. The rest had been forced to watch as their homes were burned for no reason they could fathom. Icarus and the other commanders saw that the guards were ready for anything, that food was being provided. None would get much rest, if they did their jobs well, Smarv had decided as he drifted off with an almost painful sigh.

Bertramus was the one to wake up the king, Castor and Fluvius watching the man’s every move. A gentle shake of the shoulders and Smarv was awake, forcing eyes open to face the weak light coming from a candle.

“Your Most Honourable, it is almost dawn.”

As he straightened his back, the new Jarl paused only a moment before leaving the tent. Fluvius followed him until he had fully left, before returning to his liege’s side.

“Five men have been watching him all night. His men have been seeded among the others and Acacius never leaves the arm of his mother.”

Smarv accepted Castor’s words with a frown. “He is loyal. As long as we give him a reason to be so. Watching his every move will do us no favours.”

The man was about to reply but Smarv just waved a hand in irritation. “Bring me Stylianus, he should receive his title from me.” Before the end.

Castor leapt at his king’s command, leaving Fluvius to attend to Smarv.

“How are the supplies?” Smarv asked as he was handed a tunic. No armour today it seems.

“Ample,” came the reply, along with some sandals.

And what of the men? Will they fight and die for me with the raging inferno that was their home still fresh in their minds? “Any news from Ovid and the outriders?”

“Not much, although a few men have joined us. They claim that there are hundreds of others who will join us. Whether they reach us in time is another matter.”

Letting the man lace up his footwear, Smarv took a gulp from a goblet, savouring the cold liquid. Five days march and then we will prepare the defences. Another five and then I will let Bonifatius know exactly where we are. “Fifteen days from now the fate of our kingdom will have been decided.”

Fluvius paused for a second, his lips tugging sharply in to a feral grin.

We are all animals it seems, Smarv noted grudgingly, his own grin showing teeth.

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I was two days off. That brought a smile to his face. I have been smiling a lot recently. That simply caused his lips to part. This is the end, he declared darkly. Seven years he had been away, living a life he was not born to live. Now it all ends.

The sun was there above them. Somewhere. He could feel its rays kissing his skin. He could see its brilliance light up the thousands who marched against him. Just because it was hidden by a writhing mass of grey clouds did not mean that its presence was lost on him.

The families had outdone themselves when they were ordered to provide for the men. Shields were freshly-painted. Armour was repaired as well as if seen to by a blacksmith. Swords were sharpened and clothes re-sown. A few of the Lycan soldiers bore marks of love from their wives or mothers. Lengths of coloured cloth were weaved in to the handle of their swords and small flowers were threaded in to the edges of their cloaks.

Carrion birds cawed and hissed from their perches on the trees which lined the plateau like a wall. Some of the brave ones dared to fly low over the heads of the soldiers, daring one of them to strike out. One or two hopped along the ground, triple-checking that there wasn’t already something on the ground to eat. The flap of their wings and the continuous calling caused the fighters to finger their spears, gauging the range for a spear-throw.

It was not fitting for a king to take part in any fighting other than the main clash of the shieldwalls. And so, with a twisted jealousy, Smarv watched the riders gallop back. Nearly two-hundred had set off that morning, clutching bundles of hastily-made javelins and light spears to harry Bonifatius’ advance. They had lost their missiles in among the enemy ranks, but had brought back a cloud of dust. It was only until they were almost upon the shieldwall when Smarv could even guess their number.

The plateau was nothing less than a gift from the gods. A ramp, with sheer drops on either side, led up to a flat field, littered with boulders. The ramp could fit at most thirty men abreast, while the narrowest point on the plateau saw sixty men in a line. It was as if Welntos himself had created it, cutting away mountain and stone at will until he had made something which would become the arena to decide the future of his realm.

I should have had more javelins made, Smarv cursed himself as he noticed the first of Bonifatius’ men step on to the plateau proper. Or bows. A hundred archers and they would be dying in droves. It was too late for that now, however. The strategy, simple as it was, was already decided upon. We are Dallans, he reminded himself. We have no need for complicated tactics.

He missed the presence of the clansmen, even if they could not have possibly fitted in to the shieldwall. The clans had been a family to him. Excluding those of the city-states and the Helgate brothers, Smarv had lived solely around the Flendrian clansmen. He had fought with them, against them, been friends to them and been enemies. Not having them on the plateau with him didn’t sit well with him.

“Tie your cloaks!” Smarv called out to his army, the order echoed by a hundred others down the line.

The cloaks, of various bright and gaudy colours, were pulled across the men’s shield arm. Practised fingers tied the knots which would keep the heavy cloth from falling free. It was an old tradition, lost to the tales of the priests like much from the Age of Heroes. It was only out of routine that the men knew how to tie their cloaks in such a way that their shields could not be cast aside. Bonifatius wouldn’t be making his men do it, and so Smarv saw it as more evidence of the justness of his cause. The cloaks would limit the movements of their left arms, but Smarv knew that the thick cloth would provide more protection draped across arm and chest than hanging loose across broad shoulders.

I should have had the women moved. The plateau could easily accommodate ten thousand, and the king had hoped that the presence of the unarmed families would incite greater ferocity in his men. Now looking on the army approaching, Smarv felt the guilt of putting their lives in danger. Raped and murdered, all of them. In the event that his army fell, the only hope that those huddled hundreds had was that Bonifatius enforced the ancient law which prohibited the rape of boys and girls. The girls would have a harder time, and no chance if they showed even the slightest signs of womanhood.

There he was. Smarv’s mind, which danced here and there, never truly focussing on anything, snapped back to sharp clarity. There he is. The smiling, confident Bonifatius rode in the middle of the shieldwall, six ranks behind the front. He looked almost regal in his armour, a golden crown which was more cap than simple band covering much of his head. Over thick armour he wore a heavy cloak of cloth dyed a rich gold. It cascaded down his horse’s hind quarters, hiding the beast’s belly like a curtain.

“Your Most Honourable, should we offer terms?” Iovus asked, checking that his kopis was secured in an easily-reachable position.

“I am sure that he will offer his first,” came the reply, Smarv forcing his eyes to look down from the traitor. Soon.

“And will we listen to them?”

“Of course not.”

Accepting that for the order that it was, Iovus raised his spear high, the metal tip catching the sunlight. Further back in the shieldwall there was momentary disruption as spears were transferred in favour of horns of polished bone. As the spear lowered, the horns were sounded, one then two then four then eight.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

The wall of metal and flesh took a purposeful stride forward.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Another step, more authoritative than the last. It was as if the long notes were a physical force, urging the solid mass forward.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Adding to the noise was drums, deep, booming things worked by a team of two. A dozen behind Smarv joined the warhorns, while from the ramp before them a score of the great instruments began to beat. Each side tried to outdo the other, until the sound was just a thumping, forcing itself in to the men’s ears.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Smarv was caught along with the tide, unwilling to be anywhere except for in the front rank. Keeping his shield up high, the king ran forward with his men. This is it. He didn’t feel anything as the walls collided, one receiving the strike of the other. There was anger, there was fear. Yet neither of these things seemed to matter. He jabbed forward with spear not because he wanted to armoured man before him to fall and never get up again, but because the alternative was that it would be Smarv on the cold ground.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

They were outnumbered, but in those first few moments, it did not matter. They had been the ones to throw themselves in, causing the enemy ranks to falter. The shieldwall was instantly fouled as men took a step backward to keep their balance. As they fell over from the weight bearing down on them the men caused those behind to also push back for room.

The first two lines of Bonifatius' host were annihilated in the opening seconds. The surviving thousands were forced to take a fateful step back.

[Iron Aquilifer]

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Launching the broken shaft in to the enemy ranks, Smarv called for another spear to be brought forward. For a moment he considered pulling back in to the second rank but dispelled that thought as soon as his fingers clamped down on the familiar shaft of smoothed wood that was a Dallan spear. He brought the weapon forward with a grunt, slamming the tip off of an enemy shield. The scrapping of metal was lost to the thundering backdrop of two bodies of men trying desperately to kill one another.

Smarv followed through with a strike at the man’s feet. There was a moment of clarity as their eyes locked, pale blue on dark brown. Victor on vanquished. Beast on prey.

Sweat dripping down his face, the king pursed his lips as his killing blow was averted by the intervention of one of his foe’s comrades. The boy, a Chattelite wearing nothing but a stained tunic, threw himself in to the path of the darting lance. He had lead with his shield, but moved too fast, and found the near-blunt spear erupting out of his shoulder like a volcano. His cries were cut short by a neat thrust to his throat.

“Keep pushing!”

The lines never separated, fresh bodies racing forward to fill in the gaps made by the dead. The list of dead ever-increased, and soon the sight of trained Dallans became a rarer and rarer sight. Instead of the bronze- and steel-clad Agoges, Danages and unarmoured Chattelites stepped forward to face the foe.

The traitor had dismounted from his horse, casting aside his cloak to be trampled by his men as they were driven back down the ramp. He remained three ranks behind the fighting, letting his men jostle past him like an island in the middle of the ocean. A trio of banners flew high over him, each one depicting the Iphus boar. They flapped here and there with every echoed animalistic roar. The banners were alone in the sky, declaring their false dominance over the land.

Smarv felt the men behind urge him on, further and further forward. A shield pressed down on his back, a gentle force keeping him from taking a step back. It was all he needed to know that they were winning. The momentum was still with them. The drive to cut down the enemy was still with them.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Still the beating of the drums kept the pace. Still the warhorns filled his head with a primal sense of power. The screaming was muted in face of such things. He could taste iron in his dry mouth. He felt sweat scratch its way down his face. Blood sprayed across him like a river breaking its banks. A strong, human smell tried to assault his nostrils, but the only fragrance he allowed to enter was that of the smoothed wood in his hand and the scarred metal drawn up to his jaw.

His spear being turned aside by the edge of a shield, Smarv lurched backwards behind his metal protector. And forward. He threw himself forward, aided by the men behind who pushed against his weight without complaint. The edge of his shield took the man on the bridge of his nose while spear point tore through the meat of his thigh. A cry of indescribable torment gushed out of the man’s mouth, a wounded animal’s last noise before the predator’s incisors tear flesh.

Before the clean end could be given, Smarv was pushing forward. He did not look, but he could feel the pressure relenting and that meant advance. There could be no respite. No thankful pause to inhale breath. No moment to survey the devastation wrought by mortal men. Someone in the fourth or fifth rank would deal the kill, wetting his spear before it was his time to move forward to the front ranks.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Maybe it was just him, but Smarv sensed as if the noise before him was diminishing. No longer was there a physical force bearing down on his forehead. All there remained was the beat from behind, keeping his moments focused on the task at hand. However there was no shortage of foes, his eyes hurting from the sight of them all. Still they poured up the natural ramp like a plague, eager to trade blows with the Bear’s men. Still they kept coming.

“Bonifatius!” the boy shouted as his men took a step forward. “Where are you, traitor!”

There was no answer from the mass of faceless men before him, nor from the beasts and contorted faces painted on their shields. Only a roar and a sudden urge. They did not come on in their disciplined ranks, something which pleased the men around Smarv. Locking shields, shoulder-to-shoulder, Smarv and his men bore the unleashed energy with a strained grunt. Spears dashed forward, from behind and beside the king, causing fountains of blood to spray red mist in to the already thick sky. As the enemy fell, Smarv led the advance again.

Three steps. Further down the line they could be getting driven back, but in the centre they were forcing the enemy back. That is all that matters. Somewhere ahead was Bonifatius, lurking behind his men. Another step. Smarv could see the briefest glimpse of his grin, arrogance radiating like a beacon across the battlefield. I am going to kill you. He took a fifth stride forward. And then another. And another until he was deep in the enemy ranks.

“Your Most Honourable!” Iovus called out as he darted forward to defend his king.

His spear was left embedded in the chest of a foe while his shield was held high, blocked a blow which would have killed the king instantly. Kopis freed, the Agoge sought revenge for the attack. The Chattelite was felled in three quick movements.

“Your Most Honourable!” the man called again, unable to put himself in the way of the second strike.

Smarv twisted at the man’s panicked tone, shield close to his face. However the traitor, wearing the colours of the great Cornico family, managed to strike true anyway. The two of them looked to embrace for a second, as the nobleman squeezed the king on to the edge of his blade. Then the moment was gone and Smarv reacted. His body worked faster than his mind, a once clenched fist letting go of his spear. Too long. He filled replaced the wood with the back of the nobleman’s helmet, wrenching it back with a strength that he almost felt ebb away. Before the traitorous scum could try anything, Smarv brought the head crashing back to meet his shield.

“Aaaaahhhhhoooooooooo!”

Even with a thousand voices crying out at the top of their lungs and a thousand shields clashing with a thousand spears, Smarv could hear the wet crunch as the man’s face disintegrated against the unyielding surface of his shield. The noise brought a smile to his face, which grew as he repeated the action. All resistance disappeared and suddenly the nobleman flopped to the ground, taking the blade with him.

“Protect the king!” someone cried, and soon the last Frost was surrounded by concerned faces.

The warmth was fading from him, replaced by a strange sensation he could only call numbness. That is bad. He should feel pain. Where is the pain? It was probably a serious blow, one which would see his revenge left unsatisfied. That threatened to bring the pain. It was almost about to burst out of whatever barrier contained it when Iovus appeared, grasping a furled banner. It was a grey banner, with a white smudge in the middle. A grey banner.

“Is it time, Your Most Honourable?” the man asked, the river of blood which ran down his face forgotten. The battle raging around them forgotten.

Is it time? I have no more time left to wait. “It is time, Iovus!”

He smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm, as if there was not a deep, open wound in his side. As if only two metres behind him men killed one another with a savagery known only to wild beasts. He roared as he let the cloth free from its loose bindings, raising it high in to the sky. Will they see it? It was atop a three metre pole, and they were only a few hundred metres behind. It was a risk he had thought worth risking the night before. Now, however, he realised that a messenger would have been more prudent. I will learn.

Welntos smiled on them, however, and as soon as Smarv turned to a loyal fighter to race back, the volley of arrows was arcing over their heads. Fifty thick shafts of wood were followed by another fifty, and then another until five hundred of the deadly things had been loosed in a dozen heartbeats. The confusion wrought was not something Smarv had allowed to be an argument for the sudden missile barrage to be used. The fifty volunteers had done their husbands proud but it did not sit well with the king that they should be part of the battle as anything other than spectators. And even that pushed the boundaries.

But they have done their duty well. The final flight of arrows could be seen clearly, the flaming tips contrasting with the grey sky. All could see it: the families waiting tense for the battle to end; the Frost loyalists waiting for their turn in the front ranks; the Iphus supporters still struggling up the natural ramp; the men waiting in the valleys and concealed on the mountainside all around them.

I will need more than hundreds. Of men yes. The clansmen were large and fierce, but they were just men and as such Bonifatius’ men would be willing to stand against them. The crofters were more kin to the clansmen than the Dallans, but the lowlander Dallans saw them more as barbarians to be scorned than savages to stay clear of. I will need more than hundreds. But none, not even Bertramus, had expected to be presented with a third force which would win them the battle, win the war.

They were literally unleashed on the rear of Bonifatius’ army. Fifteen they numbered, but to the eyes of even their oldest keepers they looked far more numerous. To those unaware of their presence the fifteen would look like a horde of death. The challenging roars which were vomited from their mouths shook the earth, stilling the fighting instantly.

Smarv could not see them, but then he did not need to. Nor did he need to tell his men what the noise meant. They redoubled their efforts, but already thoughts were turning to what they would do with the spoils of victory. The fifteen led the surprise attack, followed by their handlers, a hundred strong. Behind them swarmed four hundred crofters, covered in predator pelts. With them were the clansmen, but none of that thousand had any doubts about the fighting they would partake in. If they were lucky a few smart ones would throw themselves against Dallan steel. It would give them a quicker death.

[Iron Aquilifer]

EPILOGUE

“He doesn’t give anything when he takes away our way of life!” snarled Jason, slamming a fingerless hand down on to the table. “He is like his father, and we will all be dragged down the same way!”

Bertramus nodded at the noble’s words. “Our new king is set on doing away with the old families, even when we gave our lives for him. I served him even after my uncle was sentenced to death and my family chained like common criminals!”

Some of the assembled party voiced their agreement, the rest remaining silent. From all across Narvir they had come together, right under the nose of their new king. In the heart of the capital city they argued over the future of the realm.

“Your uncle was a traitor, as was yours Jason. By rights the two of you should be dead.”

Eduardus was of the minority of loyalists in the room, his words causing a rash of menacing looks to break out among the nobles who had sided with Bonifatius. He kept his hand near his sword.

“We should all be dead,” agreed Oeneus Cornico, tongue darting to the gash than ran down the length of his face. “But we are not, as so we must decide how we will move forward from this.”

From this. From Bonifatius’ death; from Smarv’s imminent marriage to Veronica Iphus; from the demotion of the Jarls to a mere administrative role. The old way was being ripped to shreds by a boy drunk on victory and self-righteousness. He claimed that he was defending the teachings of the Gods, but the assembled men knew that the truth was much less noble.

“It will take only a few years before we are no better than the Danages who now own our lands! By then it will be too late to do anything about it. We must act now, while the people still recognize our authority!”

They had lost lands, power, wealth, family. They were broken men, the dishonoured, the disillusioned. They had fought for Daemon and Bonifatius and Smarv in the wars which had engulfed the kingdom. They had spilled the blood of friends in the name of their king and now that the Boar was crushed beneath the weight of a dozen Dallan Bears they were being cast adrift.

“What if we did raise an army? How many would answer the call?” Eduardus demanded of the surviving traitors.

That is a question we do not want to see answered.

Few of the nobles were optimistic about the numbers that they could raise. A few thousand would be the maximum strength that could be raised, and that was only if they were prepared to make promises which would ruin their already impoverished families for generations to come. Yet that was still several thousand warriors who would be lost forever. Narvir needed every man who could fight if it was to survive against the foreign powers. Smarv needed every man to survive.

“We have enough support to defy Smarv,” insisted Jason. “We raise an army of Dallans against Smarv and he will be forced to meet our demands.”

The Jarl surveyed those who had answered the call. They were men too old to advance in the new system being created. They were men too young to know nothing but Bonifatius’ absolute rule. They were men who wanted power. They were boys who wanted glory. They were fathers mourning the loss of sons. They were sons wishing to avenge the loss of fathers.

He has them, whether they know it or not. It was worse than she feared.

“You are so sure that he simply agree to speak with us?” Oeneus allowed a hint of humour in to his voice. “He is a king. A young king. He is a boy who has just won a victory which will be preserved for a thousand years. He-”

Blasius Nordire cleared his throat, interrupting the Jarl of Hornvila mid-flow. “War is the only thing he knows. When an obstacle obstructs him, he would rather cut it to pieces than reason with it. To raise arms will be to clash shields with his supporters. Have no doubts about that, whatever is decided.”

The young man had lost brothers in the name of Daemon, uncles for Bonifatius and a distraught father for all the family who died. His loyalty was now to whoever could give him the respect he believed that he deserved. Smarv’s reforms alienated the traitor from the new king.

“Even if this is so,” Jason allowed, “his advisors will ensure that a less bloody course is taken. This course will favour us, immensely.”

Sighs of relief could be heard from the group, as men were assured that the risks they had taken to join together was worth it. There was a few cries of alarm from outside, but the nobles paid it no head. Petty crime always happened at night and it was not the concern of those of purer blood who was being robbed. Theirs was issues concerning the realm.

“What if we reach out to Marsis?” questioned an Agoge, still bearing the Iphus boar on his clothing, albeit half-hidden by a cloak. “The men of Harbrig would be a powerful force to augment ours.”

You were right about a lot of things, Your Most Noble. Not that this will make you happy.

“We cannot rely on the loyalty of any foreign power: They are as likely to take over our lands as to regain them.”

“We could still use the presence of the Trueblood militia to dictate terms. Even five thousand extra spears would be a welcome sight.”

The discussion became louder and louder, as the teachings of politics and military strategy came to the fore. They had an objective to achieve, and if honour and duty were ideals they could not uphold, then they would uphold the only teaching which decided life: war.

There was a low rumble of scores of sandaled feet hitting cobbles outside the blackened house, but none of the nobles noticed. It was the commoners who heard, and it brought grins to their mouths. Now there is no escape.

“We have it!” laughed Eduardus, the gold lining his clothing glinting in the candlelight. “The start of our uprising against tyranny.”

Wrong: It is the end of your treachery.

Ajax eased himself from his perch on the support beams, casting aside his black cape to reveal armour darkened by soot. The rasp of his sword being drawn from his scabbard caused confusion among the conspirators, heads being yanked round to the new presence. However they were too late to react.

Berengarius made no sound as he erupted from his own hiding spot, spear being engulfed by the belly of Oeneus. Even before the man could scream out in pain, the former slave had blade in hand, ripping another’s throat out with savage glee.

“King Smarv!” Ajax roared, claiming his first kill.

Glaucia responded instantly with a warhorn, the long note sounding throughout the city. An answering warhorn answered from outside, just as loud, and just as long. When Icarus burst in to the house, flanked by a hundred of the new Dallan army, there was little fighting to be had.

Veronica heard the twin notes as she lay only a few inches from her future husband. A smile graced her lips, brought on by relief and pride in her actions. Father would have done the same.

[Tigellinus]

I decided to read this again. It's been quite a few years, and I haven't seen you around here.

I KNOW I read this all before, though don't now why I didn't comment? Thought I had.

Anyway, this is one of the best pieces on TWC, Iron Aquilifier. You should be proud, and if you do see this, I hope you end up writing something else for us here.

Kind regards,

Tigellinus

[Iron Aquilifer]

I decided to read this again. It's been quite a few years, and I haven't seen you around here.

I KNOW I read this all before, though don't now why I didn't comment? Thought I had.

Anyway, this is one of the best pieces on TWC, Iron Aquilifier. You should be proud, and if you do see this, I hope you end up writing something else for us here.

Kind regards,

Tigellinus

What is this? Has someone dredged up my juvenile attempt at story writing? Do not say it is so.

Oh whoa that is some bloody high praise indeed. Left me a bit disoriented for a minute. I thank you deeply.

I do have an erratic mess of files and notes for the long overdue rewrite that I have been moseying through, though I dare say it will be a while before I get it straightened out for any public posting.

Maybe this year I will be able to come back and interact with the community again. Good times have been had here.


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

[Alwyn]

Maybe this year I will be able to come back and interact with the community again. Good times have been had here.

I hope you will!