Chapter 17; Folhom

Chapter 17; Folhom 

/ Haimar - The Lords' Tower

A steaming mind rushed anger through his body as his large boots thudded on the floor like welding hammers on sword—thud after thud—making his way up to his advisors’ room in The Lords' Tower, Haimar.

‘Get the bloody fookah to my quarter. Q’i sacha Sarrona ci a misech!’

Doom awaits Sarrona and his men!

Lord Keran of House Rolan walked stiffly, rigidly up the swift, curving stairs to the rather isolated Lords' Tower in Haimar: the greatest bank of Northern Loazer. A few men in green armours—hands at their hilts—uniformly made their way up as pilots and escorts for the Lord, as he seemingly wished to meet a man he was everlastingly furious at. Dressed in dark green silk robes, Keran meant business today. He was going to show off a side of him that wasn’t—isn’t—a drunk fool who is overly and overtly temperamental and weak as he’d been in the last few years.

If only he wasn’t already drunk.

Slobbering all over the place, Keran took help from one of his Crocs  who supported his full flight up the steeping stairs to the headquarters of his tower, where Lord Sarrona, his consultant and Lord of the Bremingade, awaited him.

Half winking, half closed, his eyes twitched as his legs slogged behind his body, almost letting his heavy body fall down the full flight of stairs. Soon enough, with the assistance of several Crocs, Lord Rolan was able to make his way up to the his advisors’ room. In the centre was a round table. A few servants strutted about making sure everyone’s cups, and plates, were full. Keran walked into the grey chamber with a grim look on his face. The room was nothing lavish, in fact it was quite small and dull, save for the window on one of the walls, over looking all of Kenneth. The tower was rather tall, and this room was on the top floor. That caused all sorts of inconveniences for Lord Keran Rolan.

He affixed his stare at Lord Sarrona of the Bremingade. The slick, bald man sat rather satisfied on his seat. He had a few wisps of hair on either side of his head, and a grumpy, wrinkled face.

Ah, the perfect specimen. Keran thought, sarcastically.

‘What in good Krilin’s name are you doing, Sarrona? Give me an answer, now.’ Keran said, tripping on his way to his chair. Krilin, what was in m’wine today?!

‘Nothing more than I need to, my lord.’ He replied strictly and straightforwardly, in his sly, disgustingly coarse, yet high pitch voice. He was a lavish man most of the time—he played around with whores as and when he pleased, wore the finest clothes, built the finest hold in all of Northern Loazer, yet managed to come across as the most disappointed man there ever was. Not a word of delight left this man’s mouth.

‘And what the fekh is that, eh?’ He replied.

‘I’m harbouring two-hundred Kaandorian vicers in my hold. Is that what you wanted to hear? You satisfied now?’ He said, frowning at Keran.

A man stepped up to the side of Keran, and whispered something into his ear.

‘My lord, please tread carefully when choosing your words. Avoiding a battle is the best case scenario.’ He said, carefully whispering into his ear.

‘AVOIDING THE BATTLE? ARE YOU MAD? Why in Krilin’s name have I employed y’as my advisor?!’ Keran shouted, slapping the man across his face. A red mark appeared in the shape of his hand across the man’s pale white skin. Reminded him of the day he slapped Lothar. If he kept remembering all the times he did though, he’d be sitting here for days. 

‘What’s there to respect about you? You can’t even agree with your own men.’ Lord Sarrona spitefully said to Keran.

Keran widened his eyes and drew his sword. A sleek, yet beautifully sharpened blade, with the hilt of a Croc’s mouth. It had a greenish shine upon wiola’s light hitting against its reflective metal surface. It was as if Krilin himself assigned the colour of dark green as a ren-call to Keran. 

He pointed his sword towards Sarrona from across the table. He drew out his own sword as well.

‘I named you Lord of The Bremingade not twenty years ago you foul animal. You were a man of honour and integrity. It seems that greed has filled your mind.’ Keran boldly said. Sure, he was a drunk, but absolutely stable when it came to wielding a sword. 

‘Had enough wine, my lord? Or will another cup help you improve your absolutely shit fighting skills.’ Sarrona replied.

Men from all four corners of the room watched closely, worrying for each of their lords’ safety. 

‘I always thought your face’d look prettier without that Weemlandish nose a’yours.’ Keran said.

‘Dare you accuse me of—’

‘I’ll accuse you of whatever I bloody want to!’

The two men intensely stared at each other for a moment, but finally realised it would be rather stupid to start clashing swords right now. 

‘Why did you, Sarrona? You’re my first rank. How could you?’

‘Because someone needs to start bringing some changes around here. I’ve seen you, m’lord, the way you’ve been making decisions. The way you’ve been acting the last few months. It worries me, and the rest of Northern Loazer too.’

‘You cannot harbour Kaandorian vicers. We are allied with their enemy kingdom. Send them back, Sarrona. I’ll give y’this one chance. Reverse your treacherous crime and I’ll leave you, your title, and your position untouched.’ He said, showing a moment of sympathy. The Lord of the Bremingade had indeed given him years of service—years enough to let him bypass this error in Sarrona’s judgement.

Sarrona looked to be contemplating for a moment. A distraught, yet paused expression worn across his face.

‘No. I’ve got hundreds a vicers more coming in two days’ time. I hope you’re ready to fight this battle, Keran.’

His heart skipped a beat. Hundreds more? Doesn’t matter, he would crush him in his stronghold, The Bremingade, or not. He may have a few hundred vicers, but Keran had the entirety of Northern Loazer. 

‘You are brave. Treacherous, treasonous, stupid, ugly, dislikable, but brave.’

‘I’ll remember your compliments, Keran.’ The men around the room watched intently. Some wore aghast expressions, others angry. Keran was simply satisfied. He sniggered at Lord Sarrona. Did he really think he could defend his stronghold against the entirety of the Crocodilian force? 

‘You’re not going to spare more than four hundred men yourself, and you know it, Lord Keran.’ He said, as if replying to Keran’s thoughts, ‘Your men are indebted to serve in the Banished Lands, and in Wriceomel. You played your cards poorly.’ Keran sighed deeply. He was right. He was indeed short on men. Well, not in actual manpower, but he had to send many of his foot soldiers to the Southern Kingdoms to repay past debts. Lord Sarrona was right. He couldn’t afford much expense on this battle, at least not for a few months, until his men would have returned. Worst part was, he couldn’t afford to wait that long either. The Kaandorian expedition would have ended by then.
And so it meant only one thing—war.

‘So be it, Sarrona. You have outwitted me. I will not spare many of my brave soldiers on your worthless arse.’

‘Oh you would, my lord. The difference is, you can’t afford to.’

‘I’ll see you in a week’s time, Sarrona. And I’ll make sure to personally take your head.’

‘Good luck, my drunk lord.’

Keran felt absolutely outwitted as he walked back down the spiralling stairs, out the gate, and into his carriage. He did indeed have to send many of his men to the Southern kingdoms, due to debts he incurred upon himself. Debts many, many years old that he’d promised to pay off soon. If he was to spend even more men on this battle, the people of Loazer would be furious. He couldn’t afford to make it large scaled. He had to keep his honour.

And so be it. The Bremingade will surface a clean, even battle. I’ll still come out victorious, and he knows it. There’s got to be something else at play here. He’s upto something else. What am I missing? He thought to himself, as he made his way to the battle grounds.

By the time he’d sobered up, he realised that he had asked his guards to make a stop at The Peaks of Folhom, just outside Kenneth. He needed some time in the mountains to vent. They were on the foothills, surrounded by the sight of beautiful peaks. He could turn around and see the large wall guarding off kenneth from the rest of Northern Loazer. The Folhom Mountains weren’t far at all from Kenneth, and so whenever Keran needed a break, he made his way up here.

The fat men stepped off his carriage with some help, and he turned around, facing the carriage driver.

‘Call my son.’ He bluntly said.

‘Uh… which one, m’lord?’ The carriage driver said in a muffled fashion, as he had a toothpick in his mouth.

‘Oye, first ye take that bloody tooth pick outta yer mouth ya a’ra kanta!’ He said, swearing in Cor.

Bloody fool. He thought.

He nervously spat out the toothpick on the floor and looked back up at his lord.

‘Call Rothrin here. Now.’ 

‘Yes m’lord.’
‘Ah Krilin’s hell. Call m’younger one too.’

A few minutes later, the two sons of the lord made their way to Keran. Lothar wore an excited look across his face. Ah, for all the trouble he’s caused, his spirit was undoubtable at times. The boy was satisfied at the least that Keran would give him. There was some good in the lad.

‘Come on now, we’ve got some climbing to do.’ Keran said.

‘Where are you taking us father? To a random peak here?’ Rothrin calmly questioned.

The twisted spring of green and snow fled the area, as the sound of horses’ hooves trotting about, and the cutting of crops nearby made a rather peaceful, lovely evening. 

‘Come, son. I want to show you both something truly special to me. I wished I coulda waited for Nathanial, but I need some time ‘ere.’

Curious, Lothar stepped up, ‘Father, what exactly are you showing us?’ He asked abruptly.

Keran stared grimly at his younger son, ‘Could you shut up and just come with me? You’ll see soon enough.’

‘Alright father, no need to work yourself up.’ 

Rothrin raised his hand at Lothar, telling him to relax.

The three men started walking towards the mountains. A few Crocs followed behind.

It was truly beautiful. The peaks bent left and right, swerved across one another. They were some of the most unique mountains in all of Erhin. Long vines were snarled up in each other at the underpass below the peaks. Wiola was just setting, and so its red light shone upon those walking in a graceful manner. The sound of boot against grass was just as fitting as any sound around the three men, as crickets began chirping, birds were liberally singing their songs, and majestic, long winged Gerens flew across the sky—the most majestic flighted animals in all of Erhin. A strong wind blew against the three men as they made their way towards the mountains. 

‘Come now, sons, we’ve got a bit of climbing to do.’ 

The three of them, along with the Crocs, began climbing a peak in Folhom. Keran gripped onto the steep cliff with both his legs and his hands. He climbed steadily, and his two sons followed. The glow of wiola was dimming slowly, as they continued to make their way up. After climbing upwards a bit, Keran pointed to his two boys to get their footing onto a small path shaped with mud, leading into the centre of the mountain.
‘This way, lads. Come on now!’ He said, as he dragged himself onto the path. He took a breather and got back on his feet.

‘Sure you’re ready to walk father?’ Lothar snarled.

‘Just shut up boy, I’d outrun ye weak ass.’
Lothar sarcastically smiled back. 

The company followed Keran, as he began walking on the mountain path. It was narrow, and had no railing on the slope-side, and the mud was slick and slippery, and so each man tread carefully. 

‘Don’t slip just yet, boys. Except you Lothar. Slip away, I don’t care.’ The men shared a laugh. Soon, the path turned into the left and into a cave.
‘Pass me a torch, lad.’ Keran said. The Croc passed one on to Rothrin, who gave it to his father. 

Oh, it’s funny these boys think they’re entering any cave. They have no idea what they’re in for. He thought.

The moment they entered, everyone was in shock. It was absolutely majestic. A cave built as if for a king. It extended for numerous miles deep into the mountain, as far as Rothrin could tell. Rail tracks built along the walls went deep into a hole at the other end of the cave. The floor itself was tiled beautifully. There were many different compartments neatly organised within the cave itself—possibly for many people to stay here at a time. 

‘What, have you got some kind of treasure at the end of the cave or something? This is unebelievable!’ Rothrin said, softly so.

‘This is no cave boy,’ he replied, ‘it’s the secret hold of Kenneth, if we’re ever compromised under siege. I had this built myself all those years ago. My entire rebellion camped here before we overtook Kenneth. Come, let me show ya.’ 

***

Lothar was absolutely blown away. His drunk of a father had been able to build this? It was one of the most impressive things he’d seen in his entire life. The walls were shaped so neatly—not a single piece of stone out of place. Compartmentalised, organised, and absolutely astounding. This was no cave, like his father said, this was an army camp indeed. Seeing something like this made Lothar feel sorry for a facet of his easy life. He never had to work hard to achieve anything. He could just get whatever he asked for. Such a shame.

‘There’s an opening at the other end, a beautiful alcove. I come here to smoke my weed in tranquility when I need some.’ Keran said.

‘Need what?’

‘Tranquility… and weed.’ 

The brothers shared a laugh as they followed their father. 

When they reached the other end of the cave, Rothrin handed a pipe to his little brother and took out his own. A small, square shaped hole shone light in through the outside into the kingdom-like-cave. Rothrin stepped through and entered the alcove. It was, indeed, breathtaking. The circular shaped alcove overviewed the entire city—it was a delight. The wind blew against them, as they sat in small, cushioned corners of the alcove. This was indeed, true peace. Keran handed the torch over to Rothrin to light his pipe. The three sat there with their legs opened, overlooking the entire kingdom. Even the Loazian Ocean was visible from up here.

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Gr’Erhin.’ Lothar said.

‘I’ll happily ship ye off, lad.’ His father responded, like a wisecrack.

He frowned, and said, ‘Why are you always after my life, father? Why can’t we even enjoy just a single moment without you insulting me?’ 

‘Oh alright, little lad, calm down. It’s just a bit of jokes. Nothing more.’ 

Rothrin took a smoke of his pipe and breathed out into the air. Being Commander of the Crocodiles was not an easy job. By line of succession, he should have been the next Lord of Loazer, but his father gave him this responsibility instead, and so he happily accepted it. He’d do as his father willed, of course.

‘We’re at war, Rothrin. I just met the whore’s son.’

‘Lord Sarrona, I’m assuming?’

‘Yeah. I gave him the offer you asked me to. He didn’t listen—’

‘Father, we simply cannot spare more than four hundred men on the war.’ 

‘He said that.’
‘Who?’ 

Keran took a long puff of his pipe weed, and looked out at the view.

‘The night before. The night before the siege, I came up here. I sat here—right here, and overlooked the city. I knew it was going t’be mine. I sat here for hours, just looking at the people carry on with their lives, with no idea what was going to reign down on them at first dawn the next day.’

Rothrin uncomfortably shifted around. He didn’t know how to explain to Keran that this was a battle that simply wasn’t worth fighting, yet Sarrona wasn’t ready to sign a peace treaty. If they waited around, the vicers would have achieved their goal. 

‘Father, we’re really at a crossroads here.’

‘I know, son. We can’t wager so many men on this war for the good of the kingdom’s unpaid debts, but we can’t sit around and wait for the bloody vicers either.’

‘Why don’t we just march onto their gates with 500 men? Trample their slaves and send Sarrona to the Banished Lands.’

‘No, I’ll take his head.’ 

‘Besides the matter, father. We must march into his stronghold. There’s no choice.’ Rothrin said, puffing his pipe-weed. 

A small rumble came from within the caves—perhaps a few stones falling down from a higher level somewhere inside.

‘Let me go check that.’ Lothar said. He got up and went inside.

‘On that note, father, I’ve got something to show you.’ 

Rothrin handed his father a piece of paper from inside his vest. 

…signed RR and KR.

Keran looked at Lothar, investigating the caves, and looked back at Rothrin. ‘This works with me.’ He coldly said.

‘Good. I’ll get this sent out soon enough.’ 

Suddenly, Lothar came running back, but with swift steps.

‘Father!’ He whispered, ‘The Crocs are dead! There’s men lurking about the shadows underneath!’ Lothar looked panicked—sweating uncontrollably and on the verge of tears. 

‘What? Dead?’ Rothrin said, quickly getting up.

‘Keep it down! I don’t know who did it! We have to come inside, we’ll be spotted here.’ He said.

‘Krilin’s own hell!’ Keran said, getting up and throwing his pipe weed on the floor. The three men drew their swords and moved inside.

***

A swift sound wisped through Lothar’s right, as he kept his sword at a rather unstable ready. He was terribly nervous—frightened. His stomach churned, his heart beat hard and fast. The cave was completely dark—none of the three men carried their torch with them back inside the alcove.

‘Split up!’ His older brother said softly. The three men went in separate directions.

He stumbled upon a large pillar in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, and hid behind it. He tried to get a look at his father or brother, but saw nothing and heard nothing. He shut his eyes and took a nervous breath and turned the other way. Footsteps approached. He intensely shuddered and moved the other side. They were reckoning with some strange force. His guards dead, his father and bother frantic, and all of it in a pitch black environment. Lothar kept losing his footing, as he tried to tumble his way through the cave. He stuck his arm out in front but couldn’t find or touch anything. 

A man appeared. He walked right in front of Lothar. He could feel his breath, he could hear his heartbeat. He was not even an inch away. Lothar softly backed himself up against the wall, eyes shut deep in prayer. These swift creatures found their way around the darkness far better than he did. He turned and crouched the other way, walking in absolute silence. More footsteps sounded on his right, as another man walked right past—

‘AAAARRGHHHH’ A man cried. Lothar was unable to make out the voice of the man, but he heard a blade stab right through this man’s gut. His heart wrenched as he began looking for a way out. That’s when he heard a clanging of swords, followed by wild swinging. Three or four—or maybe more—men began fighting with each other in absolute darkness.

‘LOTHAR! LOTHAR SAVE ME!’ Rothrin cried out, as his father struggled what he thought to be was another man’s grip on him. His heart beat fast, but his feet beat against the ground faster. He ran across the cave as fast as he could. He could hear two or three men in his pursuit, until he stumbled upon a cart on the edge of the wall. He quickly jumped into the cart. He began pushing against the wall but got no momentum. Breathing loudly, he began trying to conceal himself by suppressing his breath. A man whizzed right past him, as swift footsteps ran left and right.

‘Come out, little boy.’ A deep, sadistic voice called out in an eerily playful tone. Lothar bent over his side, and found a lever.

He yanked on it harder than he’d ever put force or effort into something in his entire life.

He heard a quick turn of men approaching his way, running. Luckily, the cart began gaining some speed, as muffled screams—he assumed of his brother and father—began sounding. The cart starting moving faster and faster, but finally a man reached his position. He lit a torch and began following the cart. He looked the man straight in the eye—a vicer. A slashed, slaved, Kaandorian vicer. He held a blade in his hand and swung at Lothar, who ducked down to dodge the swing. His eyes were filled with tears and his gut was wrenching. He pulled out his sword and began parrying the man. 

And that’s when he felt it.

His cart came to a slow, creepy halt, as the vicer smiled him. 

Not for long.

The cart slowly began moving. Downwards. It picked up pace and began running ahead again, and so the vicer followed, with his eyes affixed at Lothar. The cart took a steep drop down a hole he could not see, and the foolish vicer followed and fell straight down into the ditch as he didn’t notice his footsteps.

Lothar held onto the side of the cart for dear life.
A stomach churning fall followed, as with the full speed of gravity, Lothar plunged into the nothingness of this world—the ashes upon which this world was built, deep within the confines of Chronisc’s mindless evil and devilish incarnation—right where Lothar Rolan belonged.
He was on his way to join his lost brother.

***