Chapter 20 - Chapter 30 (Combined Publication)

Chapter 20; Love’s A Strange Thing

/A Graveyard in Kais

Her burial had not been an easy ceremony for Theren to attend. The woman she’d looked up to all her life had just passed away in an instant. Faster than she could click her fingers. A woman so fierce and feared that the enemies calibrated a plan for months before finally killing her. Her grandmother—from her mother’s side—was truly a spectacle in the world of spies. It was like she knew things before they’d even happened—she could predict the landscape of strategy and enemy action with a better equipped knowledge than any of Lord Keran’s strategic advisors or coverlords. She was an ally, and more importantly, a necessity for the strategy of the Kingdom.
And as ruthlessly as she’d treated her enemies did she get killed. A painful poison slipped into her bath burned her skin right away. Theren remembers everything—the burn marks, her grandmother’s dead body, and worst of all the look on her face. This was not a woman who deserved such a gruesome death—she’d served her kingdom and nothing else her entire life. And she was the greatest spy who’d ever lived.

***

There she stood, by her grandmother’s grave. Her remains weren’t actually here—the dead’s flesh was burned away and bones of the hand kept to holster the trophy of their accomplishments. In the graveyards, however, the dead had a circular plaque installed in the ground. Her grandmother’s name—Yerone—was boldly engraved into the marble-stone plaque on the ground. A sight so beautiful yet sour—the graveyards of Kais was a place Theren would visit often. She was rather close to her grandmother and so only felt the obligation and love to come see her here. Krilin sent her to rest already, but her memory and spirit lived on within the ground, beneath her marble plaque.

It was a windy, cloudy day in Kais. The sound of the sea washing over the shore was prominent—seagulls cawed overhead, and large, windswept trees threw their shade of green over the entire landscape. The graveyard was just a level above the beach—to which led steps from here to there. Largely grown glass stirred towards the direction of the wind. Gerens flew overheard, breathtakingly flapping their wings in a smooth, coordinated manner—all of them moved as one unit; they flapped their huge wings at the same time as one another and flew in the same directions. 

Theren was glad her grandmother’s spirited memory rested in a place like this, she was glad her plaque was honoured in a land of peace like this. She rested easy knowing that Yerone rested easy.

She held a bouquet of flowers in her hand and knelt over her grandmother’s plaque.

‘Grandmother… times are perilous. Invaders from Kaandor walk on our lands, lay siege to our castles and are taking away our rest from underneath us. Tell me… tell me how to fix it. Tell me how to fix it all.’ Theren said, with a look of despair on her face. So many people looked to her for guidance and wisdom, but what should she do if she herself didn’t believe she had any? 

I’m not the banner of strength they think I am…

‘Grandmother, so many people, so many men and spies look to me, ask me for help, and they take my word. What am I to do? I cannot handle my tasks anymore.’ 

A cold wind began to blow towards her, as silent whispers arose from the ground. Indistinguishable muttering and breaths overlapped one another, as a strangely human sound enveloped her ears.

And out of a breath from nowhere, words came to light.

Are you a spy of the kingdom or a dim witted pussy? Said the voice of her grandmother’s, arising from her plaque.

‘I can’t—’

I bloody carried on being a coverlord of the spies, had wars fought on my behalf, and stuck by a man who betrayed his own family—your father! I wed my daughter to him too! If I cried for every little trouble on my road, I would’a reached this graveyard a lot sooner than I did! The voice said, sounding not much like a ghost but more like the old, fierce woman she always was. It put a smile on Theren’s face to hear these words. 

‘So what should I do?’
I cannot advise you on all affairs, but I must tell you this. Save the ones you love. Save them! Save them now! Go straight to The Bremingade and no where else! 

And the whispers slowly faded back into the grass, along with the thin wisps of light and precipitate that rose from her plaque. Theren frowned, contemplating her dead grandmother’s words.

Save the ones you love? Who? And why would I march to The Bremingade without my father’s orders? She thought. Odd words, but she was going to just that. Her grandmother wouldn’t have advised her to do so for no reason. She put the bouquet of flowers on her plaque—a spotlight of wiola shined upon it as it wasn’t dead just yet—and she bowed and began walking out of the graveyard, only to be intercepted by Shen. The valiant Nithronian spy rode on horseback like was born to do so, like the old Riders from The Face, save for he didn’t have the legendary third arm.

Alongside him rode Isolde, sword sheathed, chest proud, and face concerned.

‘My lady!’ He cried out. Their horses came to a halt and the two of them dismounted. 

‘I’ve spotted Altheas! He’s escaped Galathground.’ Shen proclaimed.

‘What? How is that possible?!’ 

‘We don’t know My Lady, but he harbours himself in a cave at The Folhom peaks.’

‘My lady, we must go at once.’ Isolde said.

‘We can’t. We have to march to The Bremingade.’ She said, upholding her grandmother’s request.

‘My lady, we have to. He’ll escape if we don’t catch him now, and then we’ll never know why they truly came. For all you know he may have already accomplished his goal. We must stop him in his tracks!’ 

She breathed in deeply. What was she to do? Her grandmother advised her to at once. But now Shen and Isolde have spotted Altheas on the loose? 

No, I can’t let him go. We can’t lose him just yet.

‘Fine. Round up my horse, the three of us ride at once.’

***

The horses galloped towards Kenneth as Theren’s eyes were affixed at the Folhom Peaks. She could not possibly let Altheas leave just yet. There was so much to be answered for. So much she did not know. Had she really even been carrying out her job as a spy if she let the most dangerous infiltrator in both the worlds enter and leave her lands without her knowledge? No, she would not have it.

‘Hya!’ She cried. Men and women on the street looked strangely at the three of them and whispered on the side to each other, as if shocked due to who the rider was. 

Her horse triumphed the roads towards Kenneth, as finally, about a twelfth later, they arrived at the foothills of Folhom.

What the hell brings him here? Why is he so close to the capital? Why in the mountains? So many questions in her mind, and soon she was going to answer all of them, or, have them all answered for her. This was a man who put her through more emotional torment than anyone in her entire life. A man who stretched her emotions like a rubber band and let it snap. A man who she loved and hated. And now he was an intruder. 

‘Come, My Lady. He hides in a former enclave your father held before laying siege in Kenneth. His entire troop force sheltered in these hills.’ Shen said. Even she didn’t know that. The Nithronian was a historian in truth—a scholar ready to become a master of information in his country, but came here instead. 

Isolde, Shen, and she began ascending the cliff far down the centre of the range, and sooner than later reached a point on the mountain where a muddy, unbuilt path lead into the heart of it. A strange blackness grew out of the centre—pitch blackness. It was almost as if the dark was a source of light on its own.

‘In you go, My Lady, Shen said, trailing both her and Isolde. Both of them had their swords drawn. Theren held a torch in her hand. As soon as she was about to walk in, she felt someone grasp her hand.

‘I would not carry the torch in with me, my lady. Alarms the enemy.’ He calmly said. She nodded and snuffed it, putting it on the ground.

She took a deep breath and entered the chasm of darkness that strangely embezzled her into it.

And suddenly, black. 

Nothing but black. It enveloped her, shaped around her, took her eyes away, gave caution to her steps and fear to her heart. How could her father possibly have kept his rebellion here? 

Swift footsteps moved past her side, as she quickly turned around in worry. ‘Isolde?’ She called out, unsure of what crossed her. All she heard was a muffled voice ahead, and that’s when the sound of a thud accompanied a forceful whack on the back of her head.

***

Some moments later, her eyes woke her from a deep sleep she didn’t want to exit. In a strange cave, in a strange mountain peak, and in a strange trance of sleep, she tried to recall what happened.

We walked through the path and into the cave, and then… I just…lost myself. 

So strange. She did feel a force whack down on her head, so clearly it was the work of another.
She tugged her arms, and realised she was bound by rope. She tried to wiggle her legs free—no luck there either. Her face rest against the slick, cold stone ground of the grungy cave. Her breath started to fasten as she began to panic.
She called out for help, ‘I-Is any one there?! Help me! Help me! I… who is here?!’ 

Desperate, she began to tear, but just at that moment a blazing torch blessed her eyes with the gift of light; unfortunately too much of it came her way. Hours of darkness nullified her ability to perceive the light as normal, and so the scorching heat of the torch right next to her face paralleled only the pain suffered by her eyes upon looking at it as the first light after waking. 

‘Get that away from me!’ She screeched, as she wiggled on the ground, trying to break free.

‘Now, now,’ a coarse, broken voice called out, that she very well recognised, ‘There’s no need for panic, my lady. All will be right. Boys, get her up and on a chair.’

A line of torching fires lit up almost instantaneously, as a band of men arranged a chair and a few more for themselves. Two of them helped her upright. 

Once the torches illuminated her vision, she saw the true majesty of this cave.

What she’d assumed to be a wasteful hideout in the middle of a random peak outside the capital turned out to be a proper harbour capable of housing an army and more! Some of the engineering done in this in-mountain hideout was truly magnificent—lacking even in the capital itself! But now was not the time to direct her focuses on the majesty of this cave. She’d been dishonoured and knocked over by the one true trouble in her entire life—Altheas.

‘You wish to sign a peace treaty with me,’ she said, quivering, ‘by knocking me down and dishonouring both me and my men?’ She said, looking upon the sight of both Isolde and Shen in chains, right in front of her. They were tied down to a stand-pole in the centre of the cave. Arms above their heads, their ragged clothes torn apart, and bruise marks all over their bodies. The sight made Theren truly shiver from within.
What has her former lover become?

The blue haired Weemlander walked over to her. 

‘Do you know the story of my mace, my lady?’ He asked, flaring a bright blue, glowing mace around him as he walked. A screeching sound came from within the cages of the mace—along with bluish lines dancing within it, as if they had a life of their own. The mace blared with a shifting—but loud—buzzing sound that sounded like the screeching of a dying animal.

‘You see, when your, gorgeous grand uncle Georgon decided to invade our land in the east, slaughter our children, butcher our women, and strip our men of their pride, giving them slow, torturous deaths, I feared for my life. I feared for the lives of the loved ones around me. ‘Keep in mind,’ he said casually, ‘that not much had ever touched upon the fear in me. Nothing had incited me to desert my loved ones and flee for my life. But your uncle, and your family, and all they brought upon ours, made me want to run. I left everything—my sister, my parents, my brothers, my countrymen: everything. I ran that day, like a little puss, until your family took me back,’ he laughed viciously, ‘oh, they thought it would all just be that easy.

‘But they didn’t understand the scars they left behind, in me. From that very day, I promised to protect the ones around me, and to never flee from my duties again. And I also promised vengeance for my lost countrymen. And so here I am, serving up that vengeance on a plate.’

‘You’re going to kill me?’ She asked, spitefully and nervously. 

He sniggered at her words, ‘No, idiot, I’m going to broker a peace agreement with ya.’

‘You can’t.’ She said. Her hands itching to break loose of the not and stab a sword into this man’s eye. But if she did do that, she knew she’d break down and lose a part of herself, almost. 

‘And why not?’ He asked, smiling. It was as if he was playing some sort of wicked game with her. She felt shadowed, as if he knew something more than her. He was playing his cards.

‘We are sided with your enemy, and you know this! We can’t offer you any support—’

‘Oh but you can and it won’t be an issue for you because,’ he said fast, taking a breather, ‘we’ll remove your Crocodilians’ green armours and mask them as our own soldiers.’

‘Ah. So you need our men, is it?’ Now she finally felt like she was a step above.

‘There’s a difference, my lady. We are going to take your men.’

‘And how do you plan on doing that?’

‘Tell me. Do you know where your father and your older brother are?’

She gasped. ‘What have you done?’ 

‘Oh nothing, nothing at all. Just gave them a new home.’

They’re in The Bremingade! Captured by Sarrona and his men.

‘All you have to do is give us ten thousand Crocodiles, and we’ll leave your country first dawn, tomorrow.’

She sucked in air. ‘No.’ 

‘Theren, be reasonable. We are losing this war, and we need your men!’ He shouted, showing vulnerability.

‘We can’t. We are your enemies, whether you wish to believe it or not.’ 

The man’s head boiled from the inside, she could see it. He walked closer to her and knelt down.

‘Theren, please. I’ll let you all be if you just—’

‘Are you dim?! We are indebted in forces to the South, we can’t just—’

‘I DON’T CARE!’ His scream echoed through the cave. Isolde and Shen watched worriedly. ‘Fine, don’t give us your recruits, just know this, my love. Oh, my sweet love. If you do not help us now, terrible, terrible fates will dawn upon your world. A wisp of ash will rise from the surface of your home’s floor, and your peace will be our weapon of release. Be warned, my lady.’

His eerie words echoed throughout every fabric knitted in her body, as chills thundered across her nerves. 

‘Leave them, we have no use for em. Take their weapons, and untie them.’ A few Kaandorian vicers accompanying Altheas did as they were told, snatching off Isolde and Shen’s swords, taking Theren’s dagger and cutting their knots. 

She got up at an instant, tears flooding her eyes, ‘How could you betray me like this?’ She asked, looking at Altheas, ‘How?!’ 

He looked down in shame, and walked towards Lady Theren, breathing a deep sigh. ‘Servitude to the ones who took me in times of poverty is the one thing I’ll carry on till the day that I die, oh but not of all; you must know. There is a woman in this world, a fair, brave, and strong woman, who is too stubborn for her own good. A woman that I’ll never stop loving till the day that I die, so be it. I cannot live for this feeling of love, and so I will no longer service it. I am sorry.’

He, and his company of vicers, walked out of the enclave and out of the mountain.

Theren fell to the floor, broken. Tricked, played, and left behind. Love did strange things to her, truly. Love changed her and the way she thought of this world. And she knew one more thing: sooner or later, love was going to leave her for dead.

‘It is war, then.’ Isolde said. She wiped off the tears from her eyes and sweat from her brows, and took his hand to raise herself up. She looked the honest, noble man in the eye—she knew he loved her, and she wanted to love him. But she couldn’t. I can’t.

She meekly smiled at him and turned to Shen, who still wore a rather worried expression on his face.

‘Come, we’re going to take that little fekhing shit Sarrona out of his own hold.’ She said, determined to do so. ‘They’ve got precious cargo.’

***

Chapter 21; The deep ravines of pain 

/The inside of Folhom

A cold, damp ground rested against the soft, unhurt cheek of his. His face dropped into a source of water on the ceiling, bit by bit, dropping. Chunks of his face fell into the water up above. Slow arduous hours passed as nothing happened outside of him, but instead it seemed the world functioned from within him. The ground shaped itself in the way of how he lay on it, the water didn’t drop on him; he dropped on the water. He didn’t lay on the floor; the floor lay on him. He’d lost all track of space and time—so much so, he couldn’t even process his own thoughts. Groans and moans escaped the tiny, unmoving hole through his lips, but he didn’t even notice. spiky, sharp rocks lay underneath him, pushing against his flesh. Bruised, cut, torn to pieces almost; Lothar was a lost man. The hilt of his sword pressed so hard against his hip that it was now numb—he couldn’t feel a thing there. In fact, he couldn’t feel a thing anywhere. That was until a pair of sharp claws came out of no where and scratched him right across his face. The claws gashed his face, as he woke in freight, screaming: ‘GAHHHHHHH’.

He gathered himself and brought himself onto his feet. His legs felt terribly sore, and his arms unable to keep themselves up. He shuttered and shivered and turned and muttered under his breath, breathing heavily. Was he still alive? How did he reach down here? He didn’t have very clear recollection of what had happened. A creature’s wings suddenly began fluttering in the corner of the enclave, followed by the fluttering of two, three, four, twenty, and almost a hundred more wings.
Bats! Krilin himself save me! At this point he realised the bats didn’t need eyes—they could find him if they wanted to, and so he began running about frantically. Covered in dirt, grunge, and a feeling of fear, he ran about in many directions, sword in hand, looking for a hiding place. He ran until he tripped over a higher level of ground and fell face first, letting out an ‘oomph’. He quickly got on his knees, and turned around—not that he could see anything—out of instinct. The intense fluttering followed his direction. He picked himself back up and began running forward, until he hit his head against an outcrop of rock jutting out from on top. He fell back on his feet but soon realised that it would make for an ideal hiding spot.
Enveloped in fear, he stumbled down into a deep trench, landing feet first—somehow. His knees took the hit for that one. He walked towards the left, unable to see anything, until the sound of the fluttering became indistinguishable in direction. Left, right, and centre, wings fluttered as the bats began to lose direction. Lothar sat down, eyes tightly shut and the only thing beating faster than his heart the flutter of the bats’ wings, he knelt in prayer to Krilin.

‘Good faith, lord’s faith, men’s faith do us no harm, and we shall pledge all of ours to all of yours, devoted to the world and the realm and the lords, oh please save us! Save me, save us! Save us!’ He mercifully cried—as softly as he could, but as dramatically as well. He’d died tonight already, and he didn’t intend on doing it again. Finally, the bats settled back down—or left, he didn’t know. Eyes half shut, Lothar knew that he couldn’t afford to rest here any longer. Not with the fact that his brother and his father had been taken siege. No one was going to come back to Folhom, or a cave in this mountain in a random peak, or further than that in a bloody ravine inside the cave. Besides, why was this even built? What possible use could anyone have for this. 

Judging by the fact that no one could possibly inhabit this trench, Lothar decided to make a torch out of the one stick-like thing he had with him—his sword. Cold as it was, he quickly took of his outer vest—made of a thin fabric—and wrapped it around the edge of his sword. He dropped it and began searching the rubble on the floor to try and find two rocks large enough. Soon, he found them and began clanking them together, like the men from the stories of old did. 

Absolutely nothing.

Fucking trash hell, Krilin save me! He thought, fuelled by unenergetic anger.  Why didn’t I eat anything before leaving the manor! Stupid fool!

He breathed in deeply, and struck the rocks again. 

No luck.

He struck them again, and again, and again.
Absolutely nothing. 

Breathing out deeply, he let the rage envelop him, and he entered a silent fit. He didn’t make a sound, but he tightened his neck and facial muscles and clenched his jaw harder than he ever had, till he felt pain upto the roots of his teeth. His cheeks boiled with the fury of red, and he smashed his hand into the rock wall on his right. 

Terrible idea. 

A gushing pain swathed his entire right arm as the force of the pain spread into him like the fear in his mind when he was falling down the ravine in his little cart, holding onto the little handle.

He held his hand tightly with the other, looked down in shame, and finally picked himself back up.

I am not going to die tonight. Not again. He dramatically thought, remembering his fall in the cart.

He picked the two stones back up, and hoped to light a fire his ancestors’ ancestors had with ease. He knocked the two stones together: no luck. He hit them harder: no luck. Krilin’s own hell! What was he doing wrong? He bit his lip as he looked up in thought. Maybe if I…

He took the two stones, and this time, instead of hitting them as hard as he could, he merely scratched the two rocks’ surfaces against each other, for a split second.
He saw a spark. But the bloody oaf he was, he didn’t hold it over his shirt.

You fool! He held the two rocks over his shirt, praying to Krilin to grant him light, and light he did. With the ease of the passing of rocks, a humble, yellow body of life caught onto a little rag on the edge of a sharp-edged sword. Soon, the young, energetic boy grew from a pale spike of energy into an energetic and radiant man, glowing yellow with pride, and heat unparalleled. A fire burned within his eyes. And the rest of him too. He was the fire. Lothar breathed a sigh of relief, as he held the makeshift torch up in his hand. He was now devoid of a weapon to defend himself even though all he had to do was not wake the bats up. He felt nauseous and afraid, but continued to look for an exit. He had to get word to his family about all that had happened. He began walking around, looking for a way out. Once the torch illuminated his sight, he saw the true grandeur of this underground trench. Much like the cave, this was an extension of the hideout up above, alongside an entire section for storage of goods and resources. There were full packages of stuff hidden within folded rags—an entire mountain of goods. He was surprised to see it—and famished—and so he went over to the goods, with steady, silent footsteps. Unfortunately, as he went closer towards the mountain of goods, a rotten stink entered his nose. It was all extremely old and inedible. He flipped over a rag over one of the items, and it was rotten bread with cheese that stank a hundred times more than a dead man left to rot. His nauseousness increased and he threw up on the side, tears welling in his eyes. Sickening pieces of undigested food rest inside his mouth and throat, leaving a terrible feeling throughout his entire body, but still he did not care. He continued to find a way out.

Maybe the cart that brought me down could… 

He turned away from the mountain of supplies towards what seemed to be an upwards exit out of the enclave. He hastily walked towards it and found a cart attached to a rail on the wall, and, thankfully, a lever on the side of it. He stepped into the cart, and reached out of the cart, over to the lever and yanked it, praying to Krilin.

The cart began moving. His heart, mind, and body all breathed a deep sigh of relief, as he worriedly closed his eyes and breathed out. The cart began moving up slowly, and his heart felt at rest. He was not going to die just yet, thankfully. Sure, he was an outcast in his father’s eyes, but he was going to do everything to get him and his brother back—whatever it took. He’d fight besides The Crocodilian forces, if it came to that. A pussy in mind, he was, but skilled with a blade, nonetheless.

The weary, unused wheels of the cart screeched and whimpered as it troubled the track below it, on its way up. Lothar held both handles tightly, being pulled off and down the cart by gravity. Its sides weren’t very long, and so his room in the actual cart was limited, in other words, he was prone to falling to his death. 

Krilin’s hell, with the speed I came down with… how’d I not fall off?
The cart screeched to a halt. He reached the ending tunnel of the hideout, and strangely enough, he could hear noises: sounds. People talking.
Worriedly, he took a step off the cart, hiding behind the wall that separated the main area of the cave from the entrance into the trench. With his hands on the wall, he steadied his slow footsteps. He tried to get a look at who it was conversing, but all he could see was pitch blackness. His ears did him better service though. He could hear a lady crying—a strangely familiar voice.

He took another footsteps, and to his grave misfortune, he stepped, and crushed, a rock in his path.

He closed his eyes in regret, as the painful feeling of stupidity entered him.

‘What was that?’ A voice called out.

‘It came from the back. Watch over her, I’ll check.’
The woman stopped crying, but other sounds even less pleasant entered his mind. A man unsheathed his sword, and footsteps approached him. Lothar’s fire had already stopped burning, and so he could not see a thing. A tense feeling began building up in his stomach, as a held his sword up, ready to fight. Before he could realise, a hard fist hit him right across the face, and he dropped to the floor, squealing in pain.

‘Who are you?’ A strong, raspy voice screamed at his face.

‘Lothar! I’m Lothar, please don’t harm me.’ He whimpered, dropping his weapon.

‘Oh-oh my, I’m so sorry my lord.’ The man said, helping him up. A tear or two dropped from his face, but soon he returned to the arms of safety. With support, he walked towards the centre of the cave.

‘My Lady, it’s your brother. We found him at the gateway to a trench deep in the mountain. 

‘Brother? Which brother?’

‘Theren?’ He called out.

‘Lothar!’ She cried, running over to him. He couldn’t see her but he was sure she looked fair as ever. She came over and embraced him in a deep, long hug.

‘What happened? Why are you here?’ She asked him.

Shivering, he drew a deep breath and answered, ‘They came for us. The vicers.’

‘The work of Altheas.’ She said, turning around. ‘Did you see brother and father?’

‘Yes. They’ve been captured. I was able to find my way down a trench all the way at the end of the cave. The cart ride down was far from pleasant, sister.’

‘We’re going to have to wage war on them.’

‘I know. And I’m going to fight.’

‘Are you mad? You’re a Rolan! We can’t risk you in a stupid—’

‘Theren. You are not going to stop me. I didn’t risk falling to my death for nothing. I will fight.’ She didn’t respond.

‘We have to get out of here now. The more we wait, the more time we give Altheas and Sarrona to prepare his armies. They apparently have another two hundred or so vicers coming in. I’ve word of this.’

‘Sister, how are we going to have men enough to lay siege to the Bremingade? Father mentioned our soldiers being indebted to the South! More than ten thousand men need to be shipped off. If we spare the remaining on this battle, there’ll be none to maintain order in the cities!’ 

‘I know, you foolish boy.’ She said, distastefully. Yet he was used to being spoken to in this manner, ‘Yet we must. There is no choice—our father is captured. Our brother is captured. We have to spare our men on this war.’

He tapped his foot on the ground repeatedly. 

‘So be it.’

‘So be it.’ 

Chapter 22; Something Meaningful

/The Fang Peaks

Why was everything so fekhing cold?

The blizzard captured the both of them as they climbed the peak in a terribly unequipped manner. In truth, Adi was nowhere near fit enough to make a climb like this. Deep into the centre of The Fang Peaks, Adi and Biv both shivered as they made their way up. Sure, it was ever cold here, but there was indeed a certain beauty to the entanglement of these cliffs. The sheer majesty of them—the size. Snow capped mountains so large they’d make twice over the size of Everest. And those were the smallest ones. Luckily for the two of them, they didn’t have that far a climb in plan. The Prophisiers’ home, according to Biv, was just about a mile high climb. Now, mind you, that is a terribly high climb, but they had to get there, no matter. 

‘Is okay man! You gonna be climbin here a lot, better get used to it.’ Biv said.

‘Is there really no other w-way u-u-up? Why c-can’t you u-use your light?’ He asked, pointing to his palm.

‘Oh my friend! I use it, sure!’ Adi smirked in delight. Biv was going to save them a disastrous journey climbing these peaks. 

He readied himself into a stance, and put his left hand up. Folding his thumb inward, a bright, white light began emitting out of his palm. It was almost poetic in a way. He was extending himself into a form more… elegant than his own. He was the light he wielded. He was a part of the magic he created—the energy he formed. And through that opaque beam of light formed an unshaped opening. Looking through it, Adi could see barely a thing. Last time around, Biv’d broken into his wall to make a gateway to a different place, this time he seemed to be doing it through thin air. 

‘My frien’! This time, walking through be not so pleasant, eh champ?’ He warned, worriedly. ‘Follow me.’ The strange man walked through the portal almost as if he was tearing himself into two halves. It looked like he had to squeeze through it with all the force that he could possibly put into it. Adi swore he saw a drop or two of blood from him while he was going to the other side. Eyes widened in worry, Adi stepped through it.
And the pain was more excruciating than any other kind of pain he’d ever felt in the world. The moment he was on the other side, he found his gut to be spilling blood like a leaky faucet further broken by a hammer. He looked down, and saw a straight split right through his stomach. Hell, he could even see his own innards. Blood sprayed everywhere, as he felt the life draining right out of him. He dropped on his knees, as his eyes began feeling droopy. 

Olivia… I think I’m going to sleep now.

A ray of white light burst his way right at his stomach, knocking him god knows how many feet back into the snow. He gasped for breath as he got up with a strange, newfound energy. He gasped again as he pissed himself with fright, looking down at his gut. 

No cut at all.

‘Frien’, next time you walk through one a’ those portals, don’t let the edge of it touch you, or that happens.’

He recalled his walk through the portal, and Biv was right; he did squeeze through tightly enough that his stomach ended up touching the edge.

‘Can’t you make a bigger one?’ Adi asked, shouting.

‘I can M'ro.’

‘Well WHY DIDN’T YOU?!’ 

‘So that you’ll be careful next time M'ro.’ He said ever so casually. The frustration boiled inside Adi, as he stood there, feet covered in snow. He cracked his knuckles, staring rudely at Biv. 

‘D-don’t fekhing d-do that, mate.’ 

Biv frowned and walked over towards Adi and opened his mouth, ‘This not your world. Here, the things are done different. If I don’t teach you, no one will.’

For all he thought, this was the first time he actually felt like going home, at least some part of his brain did. Sure, leaving behind the empty excuse of a life for this was worth it, but a part of his brain nudged him; a part of his brain made him fear the notion that he was leaving the safe comfort of the routine to enter a world he knew absolutely nothing about. He tried hard to ignore that part of his brain, but the thought most definitely lived on, buried away in the back of his head.

Still frustrated at Biv, he sulked for the rest of the short journey until they reached what seemed to be their destination. 

‘Here we are, M'ro. Home of you.’

‘H-home of me? Mate, I live all the way b—’

‘Of your kind, stupid man. The prophesiers. You are one.’

The word they’d used to describe his power to dream in the way he did was quite extravagant. Prophesier. It does have a nice ring to it. 

‘Come now. Is a short way away.’ The two ventured on for a few minutes, until finally coming upon a path. They steadied themselves as they climbed onto it and walked on. Finally, they came to a halt and the front of a wooden gate no larger than a barn door. Biv opened the gate and passed right through. And what they found inside was no less than anything they’d seen in all of Gr’Erhin. Devoid of snow, it was a camp built for no more than thirty or forty people. Large, pointed tents lay close to one another in a camp base formation. The most incredible part of it all was the wooden formations on the outside of the camp. Curving at the edges, large—no, enormous—planks of wood formed as protection from falling off the cliffs. The entire camp was on a level platform somewhere on the mountain, with both side-edges leading to a drop. And so enormous wooden structures curving upwards like the top edge of a concave mirror was built around the camp. And ahead of the camp was a large marble-built structure, with two dome-shaped pillars on each side and a vertical plate of glass, forming the entire frontier of the building. The building was truly one extravagance, Adi was surprised to find something like this here, of all places. A place fenced by a low barn door. Did these men not fear for their safety? But then again, they were high up in these mountains that no one would even bother to trouble them in the first place.

Except us. He thought.

‘I need to take you to Rys. Come with me?’

Adi put a string or two together and said, ‘H-he the head prophe-prophesier?’

‘Yeah, M'ro.’ 

They walked through the glamorous camp. Men, women, and children wore thick coats at large shawls around their chests. Their boots pulled up high, and mufflers worn brazenly. The people looked as if they were freezing, but very happy, all the same. There weren’t many of them, but they seemed a good community. 

A cold wind blew against Adi’s red, blushing face. He really wasn’t used to this kind of climate. Sure, London winters weren’t pleasant, but he was freezing his socks off here. Dressed in a large, leather trench-coat, he still managed to look, and sound, like he was freezing to death. 

Fires lit the entire archway. All the people cuddled around each other by the fire, enjoying either nice stews or juicy chops of chicken and mutton. A lively discussion flew across the camp with the light particles of snow—left, right, and centre. An aura of true happiness floated about. Something Adi’d never seen back on Earth. 

‘Issa beautiful place, no?’ 

‘Y-yes it is.’ Though it was cold, he was indeed spellbound by the beauty of this camp, by the way of life here. 

Moments later, the two made their way into the building. Unarmed men stood at the entrance of the palace. Unarmed men who gave them a wider smile than anyone he’d seen in recent memory. Life seemed so drudge back home compared to the liveliness of this camp. The men at the entrance of the palace swung open the palatial gate, using levers pulled automatically by a mechanism worked by a small button on the side of the gate, which resembled a button. 

‘May Krilin speak to you, and The Fibre hold you strong.’ A man, dressed in a black robe with a white shawl covering his chest, said. 

‘The Fibre holds me strong, M'ro.’ Biv replied, smiling ear to ear.

‘Is Rys in?’ He asked the man.

‘Yes, he awaits your presence.’ 

As if the outside wasn’t wowing enough, the inside was a different story entirely. Halls made of pure marble and slated stone seemed to seamlessly curl and twist into one another. One way led to another, and that led to another. A beacon of fire lit each hallway. For as eerie it was at first sight, the palace still radiated warmth. Men in gowns, loose rags, woolen coats, leather vests—warriors, scholars, and all the like, strutted about like it was a casual stroll in the park. Yet, in a weird way, everything seemed so… orderly. Sure, chaos ensued in his eyes, as a jam of people moved in every direction, but they seemed to be getting their work down timely so. 

‘Biv… why are there so man-many people h-h-here?’

‘The traders. The farmers. The prophesiers. The men of Gr’Erhin. They maintain this camp for the prophesiers to continue running their work. That require a lot of…. a lot of… uh… thoroughfare!’ He said, snapping his finger. Adi rubbed his eyes and followed Biv through what he’d called this commonplace as ‘The Mess Hall.’ Apparently it was a very important centre of the city. All the communications between the prophesiers and the normal men and wielders of the kingdom ran through here. Messages were sent, received, rations were decided, and prophesies were… prophesied.

Up a winding staircase, at the end of The Mess Hall, they went into a more silent quarter of the building. The noise had been reduced to a bare minimum, just two or three floors above.  

‘You’ll meet the boy now.’ Biv whispered.

‘The-the boy?’

‘Yes. Rys Unember of no title is a boy.’ 

He was bemused. A boy leading a legion of people who can tell the future? The two entered an extensive corridor. It was narrow and had a pleasant red shed looming over it. Thick tapestries divided the rooms from each other. The place almost felt like a temple to him. Finally, they entered a room at the end of the hall, with an entryway that was larger than your average door. Yet it was made of tapestry. The palace felt surprisingly warm for the fact that it was in the middle of an endless winter in snowcapped mountains a full mile above the ground. Biv held pushed open the delicate frame of the door—made of glass, it seemed—and gave Adi way to pass. Inside, he found a young teen, no more than fourteen years in appearance, standing by a window at the far end of the room. Adi turned back to Biv who signalled him on. The room was empty save for this boy. The walls reflected a light shade of red. Many delicate ornaments, fabrics, threads cutting across the room edge to edge, as if interwoven in some kind of elegant spiderweb. Figures of glass lay on the room’s floor and tables, in an organised, mannerly fashion. A resting place like none other he’d seen.

‘Adi Walkman. The Earthian prophesier.’ A light, prepubescent voice spoke out. This boy almost behaved like an old sage or a hermit, but sounded like himself when he was a young and curious boy. He too had light golden hair falling on his shoulders. He also had a slender build, and was of a rather tall height for his age. 

‘Y-yes, that’s—’

‘How many years has it been since your stutter first came upon you?’ The boy spoke strangely, putting almost an exotic touch on his consonants. 

‘A-Almost eight years now.’ The boy had a lovely smile, extending across his face. A genuine look.

‘I know, Adi Walkman, I look stupid. A smiling boy behaving like a religious priest. You probably expect me to be rather preachy, like the ones you read about in your novels, eh? What were those, maest—’

‘No-no of course not. I-I’ve barely met you.’

‘Fair enough. So, do you understand who I am?’

‘Yes. You’re a prophesier?’ Adi looked back at Biv, who was cheekily smiling at the two converse. 

He’s rather good at that, isn’t he? Standing at the back while I converse with others.  

‘He is indeed good at making you meet people, my dear Earthian.’ The boy turned to Biv and said. It almost felt like he read his mind, like Adi’d done on Nathanial.

‘Son of Earth, there is so much I must tell you, and so much about you I don’t understand.’ He turned to Biv, ‘He’s the first one of the foreign lands to be one with The Fibre.’ 

‘I-I’m sorry, foreign lands?’

‘You know, my mother’s from your planet.’ 

Fuck. I’m not the first one here after all. Adi grimaced subtly. He really did want to be a standout, at least in this one thing.

‘She used to tell me tales about your planet that made me question the fabric of The Fibre. It made me question the way of our lives. The way of life on your planet is said to be far advanced than ours. I have Earthian blood running in my veins too, but I know naught of these ways, for my mother brought me here, back home to my father.’

‘A-And where are they now?’ 

‘Dead, Adi. They were shipped off to The Banished Lands by—doesn’t matter who. They were shipped off to a countryside down south of Erhin. A permanent land of exile. Shipped off for reasons I never found out. Memories I was never able to… tap into. But one thing I remember my mother always told me. Not to go back to Earth. The foreigners weren’t welcome there, she said. And so it is foreign to me, and foreign to everyone here.’ The boy took a light breath and strolled over to Adi. ‘Layonas—the planet of Eastward—and Erhin have always been connected. But men rarely ever ventured into your lands. We fear what lies there. It is beyond us in many capacities. It is, indeed, foreign to us.’

He didn’t have to give me a bloody novel length explanation for it. Adi thought. The boy jerked his head towards him and sniggered under his breath. 

Adi looked up at the red canopy. Covered in intertwining threads, a delicate fabric made up the ceiling of this wall. He wondered how this entire palace, or temple, was so warm. The entire camp made him freeze his balls off, but he felt comfortable as home in here. Too much red, though. That was the only problem. 

‘S-so what kind of training am I go-go-gonna have to do?’

‘You will learn to be proficient with the blade, most definitely. Nathanial Rolan will see to it. He has a… a keen passion for the work in this kingdom. But the main thing I want to teach you is mastering your mind. You see, The Fibre keeps all the minds of all the people on our planet—’

‘I kn-know. Biv told me already.’ 

He nodded his head, ‘And so you know then that it is only amongst the people of my planet,’ he said, and then he pointed away, towards the window, ‘and of Layonas in Eastward.’ A grim feeling overcame Adi’s guts at the mention of it. 

‘And my friend, I, along with a friend of mine, have found one on your planet. The first of your kind. It is a miracle. You are a miracle. More than that, you have a potential to reach farther into the mind than any of us have ever seen in a novice. I had no choice but to inform the King of your presence when I learned of you.’

The next few hours were spent in discussion with Rys. He truly was one of the most fascinating people Adi’d ever met. A boy in age but a sage in mind. Maybe he was putting up some kind of facade, and was, in truth, an old man like he sounded to be. But, out of all the people he’d met on this planet, Rys made him more curious than the rest. Sure, Biv was an interesting travel companion, but from one interaction alone, Adi felt like he was on the same wavelength as the boy. Maybe because they both had the blood of Earth, but strangely enough, a part of him felt like a part of Rys.

Soon, Biv told Adi to find his own way down. He said guards would be waiting below for him. Apparently he would have to get used to this climb, for his physical combat training would take place down there, and he would “grow” up here. Whatever was going on, whatever affairs were running in this planet, Adi was up to help. He was indeed a sheep given the claws of a lion, and he was willing to follow like a sheep. This was not his country. He was with people who seemed to have genuine intentions, and, besides, he was in no place to judge or argue. This was more compensation than he could have asked for in the first place.

I’m willing to do what it takes to help these people. He didn’t even know why; these weren’t his people; this wasn’t his country, but he knew that here, at least he could contribute something meaningful. Something truly meaningful.

Chapter 23; Waging War

/The Lords’ Tower, Haimar.

For the first time, Theren Rolan was entering the Lords’ Tower in Haimar, in place of her father. Usually, in his absence, it would be either Nathanial or Rothrin, but considering their current circumstances, Theren was the best choice. She, alongside her brother Lothar, who seemed strangely worried since he exited that cave, made their way up the spiralling staircase upto the lords’ room. She was deeply frustrated. being one-upped and toyed with by her former lover heart her deeply. She was in no mood for reconciliation. If Altheas was going to be there at The Bremingade, so be it. She would have her men brutalise him, show no mercy, as he showed none. She was done and dusted with him forever. 

These were a few of the thoughts that waged war in her mind, back and forth, as she alongside her brother and a few Crocodiles made their way up the stairs. A daunting wooden frame was opened before her as she entered the room, bringing an aura of leadership, scented with a slight stench of insecurity and immaturity.

‘Lord Aldin Kora, I don’t think we’ve met.’ Theren said, smiling at the man in front. Lord Aldin ruled over the keep in Werro—a grand kingdom in Northern Loazer. Aldin was almost like a right hand man to her father. He had a short build and squinted eyes, with a disciplined look and demeanour dawning his entire personality. He came across as a man of loyalty and service, as and when required.

‘Forgive me, my lady, but I saw you right when you’d been born.’ He said, meekly smiling.

‘Oh, and this is my wife Josine,’ he said, pointing to her, ‘and my son Griffa Kora.’ The boy knelt, raising Aldin’s eyebrows.

‘Oh that’s really not necessary, my lord.’ Theren responded.

‘Get up, stupid boy.’ He said to his son, stealing his kneel from the ground. The poor boy looked confused as to why they’d stopped their gesture of respect. 

‘Right, down to business.’ Theren said, taking a seat across the table. Aldin, and a few other lords Theren knew of not, took their seats and began the discussion.

‘My brother Lothar went alongside Rothrin and Lord Keran into a cave in The Peaks of Folhom.’

‘Yes, the very cave where your father and I prepared our siege into Kenneth, my dear.’ He said, raising a finger. She was a bit surprised as to how casually he was talking even though he knew that his Kingdom’s lord had been taken captive.

‘He told me that they’d been captured, and that he heard their muffled screams as they panicked for escape. 

‘The same was told to me by Altheas. He captured me as well and threatened me if I did not give him what he wanted.’

‘And what did he want, dear?’

‘Ten thousand men, weapons, equipment, gem-boats, and horses.’

Aldin laughed aloud, ‘Impossible in every right. We need to send North of that number to Southern Loazer! If we don’t pay your father’s debts, who will?’ 

‘True words, my lord. So how are we going to lay siege to The Bremingade if we can’t afford the numbers?’ She questioned. 

Hands folded, Aldin lowered his back casually into his chair, breathing deeply as if judging the stupidity of Theren’s question.

‘Boy,’ he called out to a servant, raising his hand. A minute later, he brought a flask of wine and two goblets. The man poured it for himself and Theren, excluding Lothar from the toast.

‘Your father has always been a temperamental man, my dear. It’s always come down to me to save his ass, and the kingdom’s, when the time was right. But one thing your father did was command his fekhing Crocodiles to bite the arms off of any contending animals—the Peacocks or even The Snakes. That’s what has given us the power to control this world. So you may have misjudged our military numbers when considering the charge of the war.’ He said, in his harsh accent. His voice had a sort of raspy undertone to it. 

Theren breathed a sigh of relief.

‘How many can we realistically afford to send.’ 

‘More than five thousand, dear.’

She was shocked. This entire time, she’d been estimating a force no more than in the hundreds, but Krilin sent her thoughts to the grave. It was going to be a lot more than hundreds. But she didn’t let her excitement overtake her thoughts just yet, ‘Altheas is going to know…’ she muttered, ‘They’re going to know that, my lord. A number of only hundreds was mentioned to me, but they’re playing a game. It’s going to be a lot more.’

‘Sarrona’s men and incoming vicers.’

‘We’re going to need extra border patrol—’

‘And that’s where you’re wrong, my lady.’ She looked at him fiercely. 

‘I’m sorry?’ 

‘If we ramp up the Crocodiles at the borders, we sacrifice our control of the city. Sarrona and his spies get a scan of the environment. And even besides the fact, innocents will get caught up in warfare for no reason if we let The Crocodiles butcher in the thousands on the shores of Kais. 

‘My lady, keep a regular number at the borders, and let the vicers enter. Let them hide in the bloody Bremingade. We’ll break their hold and kill them all.’

She looked to the other lords who all spoke up and nodded in agreement. Of all people, she even turned to lothar, who shrugged. 

‘Fine. It is agreed then. We’ll muster our forces and lay siege on The Bremingade at first light tomorrow.’ A ruckus of dismay overtook the room’s silence.

‘My lady, preparations will take far longer—’

‘We can’t wait, my lord.’ She stood up and addressed the entire room. A few beads of nervous sweat trickled down her body as she wore a serious expression on her face.

‘My father, your Lord, and his oldest born son are held captive. The Kaandorians can do anything and everything they want to. We let the fate of our kingdom rest on the whims of dangerous men, of revolters, of foreigners. You all are shocked at that I say we attack tomorrow? I’d say we attack today if it weren’t for preparations.

‘We are far more powerful than the foreigners, far more advanced, and most of all, this is our territory. Whether we wait one day, two days, or a whole year, nothing can stop us from taking our lord back. We will not sacrifice the future of Loazian royalty for fekhing Kaandorian vicers!’ She proclaimed bravely. A sound cheer rippled across the room, splashing the waters of doubt into a more boisterous feeling of motivation. She couldn’t believe she’d just done that, but then again, she was good at handling groups of men and turning their opinions on matters in ways that would benefit her motives. She’d been doing that with Rean for the last four years of her life. 

‘Very well, the Lady of Loazer has spoken. We will charge on The Bremingade tomorrow!’ Aldin said, unsheathing his sword and swinging it wildly in the air, followed by the rest of the lords. What he said gave her chills. The Lady of Loazer. Everyone knew that her mother was unfit to rule. She pretty much lived in her own world - a prophesier whose practice consumed her time. She was always locked up in her chamber. So, with the current position of her brother and her father, she was indeed The Lady of Loazer. 

A few hours later, Theren found herself back home in the Rolan manor. She was sat on the balcony overlooking the city, on the fifth floor of the manor. It was shaped like an alcove. Large traces of vines and flowers swept both floor and air of the balcony, spawning from one side to the other. A hammock, edged on trees growing from the walls, spread across the balcony, intertwined with the beautiful greenery across it. The evening wiola was setting, and a dimming spotlight shone on Theren. She had herself up on the hammock, looking out the city. She was going to command the arching stations tomorrow, and was frantically nervous. She didn’t know whether she was going to get her father and brother back. Eerily, a small, tucked away part of her had an intrusive thought that she may not be so regretful if they do not return, for the lordship of Loazer would turn into a Ladyship—she would rule it. But of course, she tucked this thought away into the deepest corner of her mind in a place unreachable. She would not see her father’s hand on a trophy in the dining hall just yet. Or Rothrin’s, for that fact. He was one of the finest military commanders the kingdom had seen yet. 

A knock sounded at the balcony door, as she called for their entrance. 

A fit, well built man with beautiful locks of lush hair walked in with a posture of attractive confidence.

Krilin’s desire save me…

She smiled widely at her fellow spy Isolde, who gave her a beautiful grin back. 

‘My Lady.’ 

Though she felt anxious for tomorrow, the sight of him truly did lighten her mood up. 

We can make it work… it’s not like he was dirt-born either. But she was indeed confused. As much as she would tell herself she was entirely over Altheas, parts of her affection were never going to die.

But Krilin’s hell, sometimes she couldn’t resist herself around Isolde. The perfect commander, more loyal than any other spy of her’s. 

He took a seat in a chair by a bonfire she’d got going before she sat in the hammock. He looked her way and the two shared an extended moment of eye contact. It felt like her heart was pulled into two strings, both going different directions. 

‘You have beautiful eyes, my lady. Have I ever told you that.’

She giggled and turned her head skyward, ‘Oh yes, you never fail to remind me, love.’ 

‘I’m fighting front lines tomorrow, alongside all the rest of Rean.’ 

She’d already argued a great deal with her spies, but they’d all insisted. They provided tougher resistance than all the lords of Loazer ever could.

‘Isolde, don’t leave me alone in this world.’ A solemn look swept his face. ‘Don’t leave me alone in a broken love.’ For some reason, he turned his face the other way, with a sad expression on his face.

‘I’d ask your leave, my lady.’ He got up and started walking out.

‘No no no no… Isolde, please, wait a minute for me.’ 

He turned slowly and walked back in. Krillin… his eyes stole her entire self sometimes.

‘I’m really scared for tomorrow, Isolde.’

‘By all means, my lady, you shouldn’t be. We’ve got the strength, the weapon technology, we’ll make it out just fine tomorrow.’

‘And they have The Triad.’ 

‘Forgive me, my lady, but it’s only Altheas fighting tomorrow. Evan got a report in. Nesse and Qar have already left our countryside.’

She widened her eyes at first but followed it with a sigh.

‘You realise that means they’ve fulfilled their purpose already. But we never found it out.’ 

He looked down at the pad-stone ground of the balcony. 

‘I’m sorry, my lady. Truly, I am. We should’ve done better.’ A guise of regret sprung across the corners of his face.

‘Oh, it’s not your fault, you lot did what you could. Even you cannot trace The Triad. They’re far too skilled to be assessed by spies of any kind of experience.’

Whispers of her grandmother always reminded her how Rean was truly a group of spies based in Kaandor—in affiliation with their Council. They were her inspiration.

‘A gazing look sweeps across the winds of war. Peace found in a land of endless agony. Night falls, and the inn keeper’s mugs are turned on their heads.’ Isolde recited, turning his eyes towards Theren. 

‘A world filled by the ale of their stench, washed away by Krilin’s own Wielders.

‘For our souls lay entrenched underneath layers of earth, burying away the ashes of times forgotten.’ Theren synchronised herself to the passage, ‘In peril, the world shook, as the skies gave thunderous looks down upon us. The world left us shattered as we sought the ones we love in the times last. The times last. The times last.’ Her eyes dimmed the evening set-down of the wiola with a sorrowful, loving look towards Isolde. She reached her hand out and felt the warm touch of his skin. 

‘Come here.’ She said. 

‘My lady, I’m not sure if—’

‘It’s an order.’ She said, smiling lightly. He got up, and with his eyes affixed at hers, moved towards her. He smoothly slid into the hammock alongside her and wrapped his arm around her. She had no idea what she was doing—she’d never done anything with him before, but by Krilin’s own world she couldn’t control herself. She felt a deep sensation crawling out of her, searching for this man. She interlocked her fingers with his and stared deep into his eyes. She found torment and years of heartless labour, tucked away underneath an external look of love. His hand reached across her face and caressed her cheek, as he grabbed her and engaged in a deep kiss. Before late, one thing led to another, and the two of them lay with each other in the eyes of wiola himself. Stars lit the bright night sky by the time the two took a rest, snuggling with each other cozily in the hammock. Talk of this affair was not going to leave easy. 

‘We’ll make them fall together, my love.’ And so it was established. Isolde was the first man she’d ever thought of or been with since her leave from Altheas. A man she could truly look up to and be with.

‘We’ll stop them together, my lady.’ 

A part of her still nudged at unsurely. She could not yet turn her entire self to leave her past behind, truth be told. But she also knew that no matter what, she may never be able to leave it behind. 

Love was a tricky thing—an obstacle she never learned to tackle.

Chapter 24; The Furious Lion and The Cub

/Shores of Kais.

Rendron was a tall lad. He was only a boy-vicer, 16 years of age. The Snakes of Kaandor had taken a razor and slashed his entire forehead and left cheek, as was tradition, when the poor thing was no more than eleven years of age. The pain of the razor resided within him everyday. It was something he would never forget. His entire clan of Kaandorian vicers made for the perfect slaves—well fed, well kept, well maintained, given good resources, and treated respectfully. But none of that changed the fact they were all slaves, and had to pay the slave tribute of getting their faces slashed. The Mark of Kaandor, it was called. Rendron even received formal education, as was mandatory for all Kaandorian vicers that showed general or lieutenant -like qualities. Rendron knew that one day, he was going to make a fine commander. A fine slave commander, that is. 

A grave mistake on the part of the Council of Kaandor was giving many of these vicers an education, because that gave them the power to contemplate their situation, and when they contemplated their situation, many of them realised they were meant to be more than just slaves, and so arose the constant mutinies within the ranks of the Kaandorian vicer-slaves. Although many of the revolts were brave, Rendron being part of one, many of the vicers who did so were lucky to escape with their lives. While as fair treatment as can be given to slaves was given to the Kaandorian vicers, the ones who revolted were given slow torturous deaths. Boiled on a circular metal surface kept over a large pot of boiling water, or sometimes oil, the mutineers suffered torturous deaths that none of Chronisc’s servants should ever have suffered. However, this was their way of life; they had learned to compromise on their freedom, as if they ever had any, and in return were given fair treatment for good service—a deed of Koralisar Rathor. Before the eighteen-year-old boy came to rule Kaandor, his ancestors weren’t so fair on the vicer-slave tribes. 

Full of thoughts, Rendron, the general overlooking the incoming of north of five thousand vicers into the shores of Kais, was keeping a close eye at the bay. By Koralisar’s permission—Kaandorian vicers were being sent to Erhin. Rendron had to overlook the transportation of the entire pack through to the Bremingade. As mentioned, they didn’t expect much trouble at the border, for the generals of Kenneth knew that the fight was going to take place in The Bremingade. 

Honestly, it’s a waste of good vicers. We know we’re going to lose this battle. What’s the point of “sending them a message” if thousands are going to die for it? This is no true cause for so much death. The young, but genius vicer thought to himself. The boy was tall, but not much taller than the average vicer. His build, however, impressed more than most of his kind. He was an incredibly strong, muscular vicer. More impressive still was his fighting skill. He was trained like an assassin with his knife and rapier: the rapier sheathed at his belt and the knife above his behind. He was an expert aim with that knife. Sometimes he fought with both. Whatever the case was, he definitely believed himself to be one of the finest warriors in both the worlds. His expeditions had brought him many times to Erhin, and so he’d already scanned the lands a few times. But none he’s seen ever paralleled his skill. The same skill he was going to put to use in The Bremingade Battle.

The shore of Kais was quite beautiful this summer morning. Gerens with massive wing spans and scaled skin covered in velvet fur flew up above like the royals of the sky; the bristling of trees behind the shore brought all the birds calling towards it. The waves cleansed the sand of the banks, as fishermen swaddled their captured fish as they seemed mused, staring straight into the seas. 

A sign.

And that’s when massive gem-ships began pulling into the shore of kais. Dark, void-black in skin vicers sailed the ships, as was evident from miles away. Vicers were not just black like humans of that race; they were dark like the night itself, and stronger than the strongest of humans—an enhanced race.

And yet all of the Kaandorian vicers were enslaved, and most vicers in Erhin lived in The Banished Lands.

So much for equality.

Thousands of his kin docked their ship and began swimming ashore in paddle-boards. A few, not many, Crocodiles manned the entrances into the banks, seeming confused as to who was entering. 

‘Oye, fekher!’ One called out to Rendron. A man dressed in polished green armour with a large Crocodile carved on the chest plate held a spear to his neck.

‘You bringing these men in?’ He further asked. Rendron slowly raised his hands, but said no words. This man had no idea that he was just a sixteen-year-old. To these peasant humans, he probably just seemed as old as any vicer. They couldn’t tell the difference. He was going to use that to his advantage. Unfortunately, five or six more Crocodiles surrounded him on all fronts.

Unfortunate? What’s unfortunate about that? He was not afraid of any patrolling knight or Crocodile. To him they were all the same—meat for his hungry sword and knife. 

‘Alright, you peasant fekhs,’ he said in his strangely deep, vicer-like, but adolescent voice, ‘we can do this two ways.’ All seven or eight Crocodiles pointed their spears at his neck, standing in a circular formation around him. ‘One, I give you all an easy death, without any combat. Two, one of you pain-in-the-arses decides to call this as their lucky day and pick out some slave meat with your fancy spears, but end up getting torturous cuts in your throats, all a’ya. You decide, my humble Crocs.’

None of them lowered their spears. Oh, what a shame. Their loss at the end of the day.
He took a deep breath and shut his eyes, as he always did before combat. His hand was on the hilt of his knife, behind his waist. 

And then he ducked. All eight spears clanged into each other, as none of the guards had speed enough to stab him during his descent. He swiftly took his knife out and danced around the little space given to him as the hungry beast made its way into one of the Crocodiles’ eye. It ate the juicy, nervy meat in there quite savagely. Next, his bigger brother was taken out of his little cave. The bigger beast—The Furious Lion, he was called—went outside to get a little breakfast. Unlike him, his elder brother didn’t just feast on one crocodile or two. He would feed on all in his path. With his razor sharp tooth, he cut one Crocodile down, taking out its scaly chest from the rest of his body. Next, he fought his way out of a rampaging attack from the downtrodden Crocodile’s fierce brothers, but the lion only smirked, as it opened its jaw to take a few more juicy bites of a delicious, cold-blooded feast. Sparing no mercy, the cub watched his bigger brother cut down the Crocodiles one by one, until there were none left.

‘A fine feast for you, big guy.’ Rendron talked to his sword, as he cleaned the stinking, shit human blood off of his sword. He cleaned his knife, whom he called ‘Little Cub’, gave it a long, sexual lick, followed by a kiss, followed by its sheathing. He did the same with his sword.

Soon, all four thousand vicers docked their paddle-boats, and greeted him—well, some of them did. Looking at the sheer number of vicers who’d entered their city, both men and women dropped everything and fled for their safety.

Chronisc’s head… what biased pigs, all of them.

It seemed like the border guards got some sort of order to stand down, for they all did, allowing the vicers to proceed straight through. 

A loud, boisterous current of laughter and chatter invaded the shores of Kais, alongside the thousands of vicers. Their proud, black-wood fleet—made from the forests of Kaandor—stood valiantly in the rough Wild Waters. Large, twinkling gems helmed the front of each ship, giving it’s edge a unique shine. Gem-ships required larger gemstones, of course. More luggage had to be transported, more energy required. 

Soon, the vicers fritted into a line, and Rendron stood at the front of it. He unsheathed The Furious Lion, and opened it to the face of all his kinsman. Old vicers, young vicers, strong vicers, and some weak ones—they all stood together for one cause. As stupid a cause it may be—their orders, and their hatred for Erhinians. The most racist group of people who’d inflicted far more pain to the vicers than the Layonasians ever did. Slaves they were, sure, back in their home planet, but at least they were not banished in lands of never ending snow.

‘Tomorrow! We! Fight! Men! Tomorrow! We will spill the sweet blood of men! Tomorrow, we will DIE fighting men!’ All the vicers cheered Rendron on, as they lead the charge of an influx into the peaceful city.

To The Bremingade it is. Rendron thought, with a cheeky smile.

Chapter 25; I’m Good With a Sword!

/Shores of Kais - other edge

And the swords clanged. From the same grade metal that forged these swords under volcanic temperatures were the swords themselves. High quality finery crafted by the smithies of D’Wani. Sure, the place itself was reminiscent in smell of a trench pervaded with dead bodies, caulked with a stinking layer of rotten shit; shit that men shat when they died, but the tradeoff was an industrial outpour of weaponry and equipment; what the D’Wani leagues lacked in sanitation standards and housing it made up for in production and weaponry. 

Thoughts floated above the deeper layers of Hvit’s brain—the arrogant layers that believed he was a marked swordsman. Sure, he was decent, but even Dek the “gunman” of Earth had an edge over him with his sharp edge. 

The two clanged and parried swords by the bank of a river deposit going into the Wild Waters. It was a fresh river stream where, after the two were done sparring, they bathed. Cold, crystal clear river water washed down Hvit’s balding scalp—the boy was young but it was in his genetics to lose his hair early on: a trademark of many Etathesian men. What they lacked in hair they made up in talk—Etathes was famous for harbouring rich businessmen as well as skilled warriors with falchion swords—sharp on one side, blunt on the other; it seemed the Etathesians only needed one edge of a sword to do a hell of a lot of damage. They preferred slicing their enemies over stabbing them.

Hvit’s few hairs eagerly drank in the glistening blue drops of sweet tastelessness, cleanliness, as his body sunk into the fresh sense of the river. It was said that a man could almost be born anew and washed away of his Chronisc’s doings by bathing in a stream that led into The Wild Waters. While that sea itself was rather salty, the streams that led into it were quite the opposite. 

Quite the oxymoron. The illiterately literate Hvit thought. 

‘Trust me, champion.’ Dek said out of no where, wiping his freckled brow with a rose-fragrant towel. ‘Let me get a few guns into the coast. I’ll be gone only a few hours.’

‘No. No Earthian magic here—’

‘You stupid faggot, it’s not—’

‘No!’ He shouted like a dimwit, pouting at his friend from Earth.

‘But—’

‘No!’ He pouted. 

Dek licked his lips and, to Hvit’s obvious assessment, sat disappointed. Maybe he should let the poor man go to Earth and get his fekhing guns. Or maybe not. It was too risky. His father always said not to invite magic that was unheard of—it casted the wrong shadows behind even if its lights ran far ahead than that of the Grenorian Wielders. But then again, his father was an oaf for telling him something of this sort—Hvit was a poor male prostitute before he was recruited. Yeah, not the best of the lot was he when it came to talking about the past. Rean didn’t much shame him for it, save for the occasional banter: he was visibly hurt at the mention of it. 

He strapped his boots in and stepped on the soft, green grass by the bank. The pub was just a mile south of here, and the two fetched two mugs of ale, drank it, and returned. He picked his sword back up.

‘What?’ Dek questioned, dumbfounded. ‘You Geren-fekher we just trained!’ 

‘You’re going to get killed if you don’t practice, M'ro.’ 

‘Mate, I just walloped you thrice in three duels!’ 

‘Thrice in three, twice in two: doesn’t change the fact that you’re a soft little cock.’ 

Dek breathed in then clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth in frustration. He rose from his bench in coordination with his blooming anger. 

‘Fine. I’ll just hand your arse to ya once again—just like Connor did.’ 

He touched a really soft spot right there. One thing in this world Hvit hated the most: losing. Another thing he detested as much: people mocking him for his losses. It drove his anger to the roof, and so he drove his sword straight at Dek—a real sword, not a sparring sword, mind you. 

Dek grunted as he parried the lethal charge with his own sharp-edged sword. An advantage that Hvit thought was lent to him by his ‘heritage-founded’ falchion sword was actually his biggest disadvantage; unless mastered in the Etathesian way, the falchion sword was the hardest sword to use in combat, as one could expect with a single-edged sword. It took great skill to yield it—not that Hvit was not a good swordsman; he was just not as good as the master Etathesian falchion-sword-swingers. At his current stage he’d be better off with a normal two-edged sword. But his pride swelled as his swordsmanship deflated. Dek knocked a couple of his flurries back, as he finally knocked him to the ground with a kick to the chest. 

Poor fella loses more training spars than m’nan knits sweaters in a month! Dek thought.
‘Oomph…’ Hvit sighed, ‘Me mum used to whack and break us in half, you know—my brother and I. Fierce lady. She beat us a lot, but she made up for that with making us strong.’

All these years and Dek was still marvelled at how Erhinians harboured practically British accents—or maybe, according to their timelines, the British spoke Erhinian accents. That thought creeped him out even further. He shook his head.

‘She failed.’ He said. Hvit’s shoulders stiffened, as he brought himself to sit. Dek knew very well what he was doing. 

‘What?’ He said, in a tone of unspoken anger.

‘Your mother failed to make you strong.’ Perfect. In less than an instant, his sore muscles and aches went away, and Dek saw Hvit rise like a man born from the ashes of an unburnt fire—he had business to finish before putting his light out again. 

He firmed his grip on the hilt of his sword and attacked the not-so-ready Dek, who threw together a stance and built a parry. A boiling temper burgeoned in Hvit’s eyes, as he furiously attacked him, who all of a sudden wasn’t able to defend himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have instigated him—rather foolish that he did, actually. Dek still thought he’d manage, until the blows started to strike down on him harder and harder. The single edged sword cracked down on the now seemingly weak metal of Dek’s double edge longsword. Even as he was on the brink of yielding, Hvit didn’t stop.

Oh, fekh! 

He dealt a blow from the left, then a blow from the right, all the while screaming. Dek parried to the best of his ability, but Hvit brought his falchion down the centre and knocked his sword right off his hand. Dek was helpless now. His heart wanted to escape his chest, as his sweat wanted to swiftly slither away from his brow. He could do nothing to escape his friend now. Hvit screamed as he brought his sword down onto his head. 

Eyes squinched, Dek’s surroundings turned black. He felt nothing for a fleeting moment, until a spell of dizziness escaped his body alongside a riveting fear that swept away the rational thoughts of his brain. His eyes slowly opened themselves, as they came to find his Etathesian falchion-sword-swinger friend, Hvit, standing in front of him with the pointed edge of his sword at his neck. Dek took a long breath and paraded Hvit with a look of anger. ‘Are you,’ he breathed, ‘fekhing MAD?!’ He screamed. 

‘Don’t insult my mother.’ He said, dropping his sword on the ground and dipping into the stream. 

A tempestuous anger has steamed through Hvit’s veins—something he’d never seen in the poor Southern man. 

Krilin save me had I mentioned his prostitution. I’d better’ve expected a few more inches of downward swing of that sword had I mentioned it! He thought to himself, musing in fear as he overlooked the entire view. He was surprised, though, at how well Hvit was able to wield his sword when instigated by temper. Usually, emotions weren’t supposed to factor into one’s swordsmanship, but they seemed to enhance his game. Catching up his breath, he looked at his anger driven friend casually bathing in the stream a second time.

‘I told you I can fight.’

‘Then why do you lose nine out of ten spars?’ 

Hvit paused his breath for a moment and glanced at Dek. He looked aside, ‘Etathesians need to be ignited for the fire to be lit. Without an ignition, there won’t be a fire.’ 

Dek took a few deep breaths and sucked on his waterskin, sat on a bench. He flinched his eyes, looking towards wiola. A large spotlight surrounded him—a sign of midday heat. It did contrast the cool breeze blowing through the entire coastal region, however. Storms were frequent here, but were alternated with spells of bright days and a chilly breeze. 

‘Ready for another spar?’ Hvit asked.

‘Yeah, just don’t take a third bath after: you’ve had enough.’
The two sniggered and picked their swords up, but were shortly interrupted by the trot of a horse.

‘Fucking hell.’ A deep, measured voice called out. ‘We’ve been waiting on the two of you for a full third! Come on now.’ Isolde the commander said, stepping off of his horse.

‘What’s the call, faggot?’ Hvit snarled. The commander pursed his lips and walked up to him. The waters of temper began to boil in the kettle just set on the fire, as he put his hand on Hvit’s shoulder.

‘You insolent, Southern cock. Put your pride and worthlessness aside, and pick your FUCKING FALCHION SWORD UP. We’re going to war.’ Ignoring everything he just said, Hvit’s eyelids dropped steeper to the floor than his pride at the moment.

To war? Now? What in Krilin’s mind… the preparation was to go on for at least another week!

‘Why are we going to war now?’ Dek questioned, truly confused. 

Isolde turned his glance to him and said, ‘Lady Theren’s words. Not mine.’ 

‘She’s taken command?’

‘Yeah, until Rothrin and Lord Keran are back, leastways.’

‘Well, then,’ Hvit said, raising his one edged sword, ‘to war it is!’ 

‘To war it is.’ The other two said. Isolde pulled in front a second horse he’d brought along. 

‘I’m riding in front. I call it.’ Hvit quickened his pace, running towards the horse.

As soon as he got onto the horse, a sudden march of daunting footsteps began sounding from within the trees. 

‘Get on!’ Dek screamed, gesturing to Hvit to climb onto their horse. He took a moment, contemplating what to do. He was unable to decide where to go, and began to freeze in the moment. This was his chance to get some guns. Or should he just go back with Hvit. Oh fekh, he couldn’t decide. He took a footstep in front, but stopped. The footsteps began to sound more loudly, and faintness turned into evidence. 

‘GET ON, EARTHIAN!’ The commander screamed, as they turned their horses around. But all Dek did was look at Hvit’s face, as his expression turned from worry to horror. 

‘Oh fekhin Krilin… we’re going to have to leave him.’
The two trotted straight out of the forests. Confused, Dek turned towards the trees, where he found an entire army of midnight black, scarred vicers confronting him head on. Seven foot long spears pointed at him, archers with their bows drawn, and a force of thousands by the bank, and yet all he could think of was getting some guns in. 

‘We would have let you go,’ a vicer said, stepping up to the front. Dek knew the vicer distinctions, and he could tell by this one’s face that he was younger than most of the other—probably just a teen, ‘but you’re wearing a sheath on your waist. Big mistake, M'ro.’ 

He slowly raised his hands up. A crafty liar, he’d always been: ‘Look. I’m not even really from here,’ the drama began, ‘I’m actually… from Earth.’
A sudden murmur spread across the ranks of the vicers. Even the teenage commander seemed stunned. 

‘Oof. An Earthian?’ He questioned. His sharp uniform seeming not at all slave-like. ‘Why would you leave your advanced lands to come to this shitty fekhing world?’  

Dek didn’t like to think of the past, but he felt the best course to be just to speak his truth.

‘Me mother was a drug addict. Me father was a drunk. And a drug addict. And a rapist. If you know of Earth, you know what they think of rape. I had to leave.’

‘There’s no gem-boats in your world.’ The teen said, stepping upto Dek, still towering over him. He began to un-sheath his knife. 

‘You’re right. Rys himself came to pick me up.’
A plethora of laughter erupted among the ranks. 

The teen himself sniggered, ‘Rys? The Erhinian prophesier? That boy is as close to god as it gets, you fool. I don’t buy it.’ 

So this was the end. Unless he could talk his way out of it. 

‘Why do you need to kill me, even if I’m lying? Even if I’m holstering a sword. What’s your reasoning? You owe me that, at least? One’d think that.’ He said, tremendously calmly. 

The boy vicer looked back to his ranks, smiling a cheeky, casual smile. This was a boy on his enemy’s side, but Krilin and Jesus save him, he had a charm to him, this one did. And those dashing features didn’t particularly help Dek contain himself. He blushed red, but for different reasons than this teen’s fellow vicers would have thought. 

‘You’re right. I have no reason to kill you. The entire fekhing capital knows we’re coming. And they’re deliberately not stopping us from coming to The Bremingade.’ For a Kaandorian slave-vicer, the boy was surprisingly literate. But then again, Dek had read somewhere that Kaandorian vicers who showed promise were allowed education.

‘And that is why I wont. You see, I’m an understanding vicer.’ Even though Dek had been a citizen of one of the other two worlds besides earth, a vicer using the term ‘vicer’ in place of man or person still sounded stiffly out of place to his ears. ‘I don’t kill, rape, smoke weed, or act totally barbaric for that matter.’ Even this teen had the sound of a Southern British accent. Being from the North of Britain,  Dek never really spoke to men with accents like that, but he certainly founded it far too attractive. A slightly feminine and sophisticated touch to the men he’d touch always made the experience more pleasurable, considering he was as far from sophisticated as could get.

Put your sexual shit aside for a minute, you fekhing cock. He thought to himself, shaking his head. 

‘I like to… make sure everyone gets their way. To whatever extent that I can,’ he said, smiling. ‘And that is why you will live.’
He breathed a sigh of relief. 

‘But,’ oh fekh, ‘Leaving you with your life is now a debt you owe me. I could have taken it as easily as I could have picked my teeth with the metal spikes of slavery my fellow brothers had to suffer in their time.’ 

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

‘What do you want, M'ro?’ He asked in his raspy voice. 

‘Accompany us. To battle.’ The vicers started laughing. ‘It’ll send a good message to have one of their own among us.’ 

Dek’s indecisiveness began to factor into the situation. In truth, he had no idea what to do; should he accompany them? Should he risk fighting for the vicers, at least until he met other company? Or should he try and make for an escape. 

‘I can’t do it, friend. Like you said; there is nothing of value I can give to your enemies. There is nothing I wish to do to you. Just let me go—besides, by your warlord Chronisc’s own words: it is an omen of luck to show mercy before times of war. Follow them—show me mercy.’ 

The boy contemplated deeply. He was barely even a boy, in Hvit’s eyes. Vicers matured at a rate almost one and a half times faster than humans. He was pretty much a man. A look of disappointment overcame his face, as he granted passage to him.

‘Am I meeting you on the battlefield?’ The vicer asked, suddenly changing mood to solemn. He seemed like a boy with a lot of promise, but still many insecurities—a rough diamond. 

‘Aye.’ He walked up closer to Dek and whispered, ‘I know your men are going to win. You have the numbers and the technology. We aren’t even here to win. It’s a stupid cause, but people at our level can’t stop it. Just one request I have for you M'ro,’ it seemed like the boy’s confidence was just a costume worn over a face of doubt. 

‘Spare me on the battlefield—get your men to spare me. I’m not done with my life yet.’
That grit, that will, that desperateness, that want truly made the vicer all the more attractive to Dek. He nodded to him. ‘I promise, M'ro. You won’t be touched.’ He whispered. 

‘Right on.’ He responded, a bit louder. ‘You’re lucky to leave with your life. Good fortunes, M'ro.’ He said, winking at him subtly. 

‘I never got your name!’ He shouted, as the armies made their way. 

‘Rendron. Remember it.’ 

Dek tried to kill the urge inside as much as he could, because even though this vicer was mature as a man, he was still a teenager by age. He shouldn’t be having such thoughts. The army marched on through the forest, as he made his way opposite theres. He was going straight to the banks of Kais. For the first time in a long time, his indecisiveness favoured his fortunes: he was going to get some guns to fire things up at The Bremingade. Guns all the way from Earth. 

***

Chapter 26; Shit-stained floor

/The Bremingade

A damp, moist layer of dirt-water layered the mud-covered floor. The stench of unwashed shit entered through the sewage canals running all across from the lords’ chambers into the dungeons on the Westside of the tower. Rough, rustic bars of iron scratched the surface of Rothrin’s skin. After more than three days trapped in this shit-stinking dark corner of The Bremingade, being fed nothing more than a few sloshes of gob and dirty, unfiltered water, he’d already forgotten the strength he needed to open his eyes. He tried to move his legs, but cramps running all across the front side of both his legs refrained him from doing so. He felt the sheer pain of captivity: he was not built to be able to last in such conditions. Sure, he was a modest, humble man, but he was still noble in birth—he was used to having all the luxuries he could ask for at the snap of his fingers, even though he was never one to care for such luxuries. He liked to live a modest life—detached from the love of objects and things without a deeper meaning. Still, he was never built or born into circumstances like these. His father, who was with him in the jail cell, however, was rather used to being at the bottom of the pile. His uncle Georgon had thrown him out onto the streets, when he was the Lord of Loazer. He believed that Keran’s ideas weren’t a good influence in the ear of the royals. And so he threw him out. Of course, as his father never failed to remind him, that was the reason he revolted against the Lordship of Loazer and slaughtered his entire family—his own parents included. Rothrin knew that his father had a taste for blood. He was never able to contain it, and so after a while he’d stopped trying to. 

He let out a groan as he felt himself drenched in both stinking shit-water and invigorating thoughts. 

‘F-father.’ He weakly whispered.

‘Oh, ye bloody pussy. Can’t stand a cell, now can you?’ 

‘Your fault. Raised us up in a castle and all.’ He whimpered, followed by a snigger.

‘Oh, hah, boy. I don’t know if we’re ever going to make it out. I think we’re going to live out the rest of our days with Fomb.’ Fomb was their jailor. He had a thick accent and a bald head. He stared with eyes of death and seemed the type of man who was rather blunt. He always had a bludgeon handy, too. Fomb was one of a kind. Truly so. 

Rothrin laughed at his father’s joke: ‘Oh, Fomb. We’ll never live out to tell the tale.’ 

‘Who’s going to give the letter about your brother Lothar?’ 

‘What?’ He faintly knew what his father was talking about, but these last few days locked away in a dark oblivion had taken with it a few of his memories, alongside his dignity. 

‘The letter you wrote. The one you handed to me in Folhom.’ 

And the memories came back to him. Yes, the letter. The letter that was going to change a lot around the Rolan manor. 

‘I’ve lost it.’ 

‘What?’ He father asked, astonished. 

‘I can’t find it on me. They might’ve taken it alongside the rest of my belongings. Or maybe I just dropped it. I don’t know.’ The way he spoke so half heartedly and carelessly shocked himself as well. He was usually a contained, respectful person—and careless was the last thing he could be described as. 

‘Ah, fekh it. It’s no use to these men either way. If we make it out, we’ll draft a new one.’ His father sounded drunk to him, even though this was the first time he’d seen him without a flask of wine in his hand, and it was without a choice. But what really irritated Rothrin was the fact that what his father had said about killing all two hundred vicers, which he thought was barbaric, turned out to be the right course of action, now that their intentions were known. Still, the fact that he made that judgement on ambiguous information shocked Rothrin. He couldn’t believe the kind of violent disposition his father had. The sheer love for killing. It was something the two of them never really shared. 

Rothrin coughed as he put his hands on the mud covered floor, trying to get himself to stand. He felt his arms tremble, eventually collapsing. He couldn’t do it. He’d never felt this weak in his life. This feeling of disdain that overcame him; it made him believe that he was going to die as a stinking pile of shit. 

Out of no where, a mumbling voice began to sound from the corridor. 

‘Oh fekhin Krilin. It’s Fomb.’ 

Rothrin put his head down in despair. A door opened outside of their jail cell, and the bright, shining light of wiola lay its spotlights on the two of them, momentarily blinding him until he was able to open his eyes. 

‘Guh! Guh!’ Fomb shouted, waddling over to the two of them. This was his attempt to scare them. It worked. Rothrin balled up into a small corner at the end of the room. Shit, I feel like Lothar.

‘Guh! Get on! Guh!’ He screamed, eyes staring fiercely at the two. He turned quickly towards Keran, raising his bludgeon. ‘GUH!’ He screamed, threatening to whack him. He threw a bowl of gob at his feet and turned towards Rothrin. ‘GUH!’ He shouted, hitting him on his shoulder then throwing a bowl of glob at him too. It had been more than a day since he last ate. He got down on his knees and licked his bowl clean like a dog. After all, he’d been reduced to one. Once the both of them finished, Fomb shouted with another ‘guh’ and smacked the two of them. He then simply stood there.

‘Well, what d’ya want, ya filth?’ Keran asked, irritated. 

Fomb growled at him and opened his pants. He whipped his penis out and began urinating right at Keran’s face. 

‘Oh…. Krillin, fekh!’ He screamed, scrambling to his feet, but soon falling, unable to support himself. Fomb then turned towards Rothrin at began urinating at him. Instead of providing resistance, he simply flinches his eyes and pursed his lip, and thought of a nice bath back in his chamber. Unfortunately this was a very different experience. A hot, almost acidic, yellow liquid sprayed across his entire visage, making his already dry skin burn. ‘Agh,’ he retched, unable to avoid the taste of Fomb’s dirty piss. 

‘Guh! You like it, eh? GUH! Shtyoopid boy. Shtyoopid!’ He raised his bludgeon, whacking him on his back. He screamed out loud and fell to the floor. His entire world had been turned upside down. The constant smell of mud and shit and the darkness was truly beginning to drive him crazy. He couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t sit straight, and he couldn’t sleep at all. Looked like it was going to take no more than three days in here to finish him. As soon as he began to tremble and cry, alarm bells began sounding throughout the entire tower. 

‘THE ENEMIES ARE HERE!’ A soldier cried from the outside, as ranks of men covered in orange armour—with large crabs emblazoned on them—began running through the corridors. Fomb turned fast towards the other side, a worried expression on his face. 

‘Guh!’ He cried out, as he chained Rothrin and his father to a post, ran out the jail cell, locking the gate. He ran opposite to where all the soldiers were running. 

‘Father,’ he whimpered, ‘they’re here! The Crocs. Looks like we’re going to leave.’ He fell to the floor, gasping for breath. A breath of relief overcame him. He’d misjudged how many Crocodiles could come to fight for them here. In fact, they did have more than enough to lay siege to The Bremingade. They were going to get out of here, no matter what. Footsteps approached as Rothrin’s eyes opened. Those were armoured footsteps. He was well aware with the sound of metal and leather boots. 

‘You two aren’t going anywhere.’ A rough sound said. Two more soldiers rounded up at the gate of the prison, wearing orange crests on their helms. Bold, fierce looking crabs inscribed onto their chest plates. These were all Sarrona’s men. They wore his ren-call of a crab. 

‘The vicers aren’t gonna let the lot a’ya go!’ He said once again, beckoning a laugh between him and his men. Rothrin was never used to feeling so powerless, so helpless. He couldn’t do anything save for retching at the smell of the mulch of his prison. He wondered if his younger brother felt this sorry for himself all the time. Then again, he wondered where his younger brother was. If he was captured alongside himself and his father, he would have been brought here; but he was no where to be seen. 

Maybe he escaped… But that was highly unlikely. Last thing Rothrin remembered in Folhom was the sound of his younger brother plunging down the mountain. 

I don’t think he’s dead. Father mentioned a trench within that war camp in the mountain. Plus the carts on the walls had to be leading somewhere.

Whatever the case was, he hoped Lothar wasn’t dead just yet, and he hoped he’d come and save him. Or someone would. He couldn’t last in here any longer. 

Chapter 27; LEAD ON!

/On the road to The Bremingade. 

Rendron’s stomach churned in an unforgiving sickness, as they walked through the bland landscapes of the outsides of the capital. The Bremingade—the stronghold they were headed to protect—was a few more leagues far, but Kenneth was just about the same distance away. Oh, the thoughts truly did nudge at his heads, but he had to follow his superiors orders. He had to tuck away his traitorous thoughts. He had to die for his superiors—his, and his comrades’, time had come.
Or had it? 

The greens were filled with sprout, curling trees, intertwined with one another like vines but far larger, and with branches curling along both the trunk of the tree and the branches of other trees. The patterns formed by these Erhinian trees almost looked like a mad artist had sprawled paint all over a nature canvas. Dark green hills extended across the fields, as the large, almost indestructible walls of the fortress city that was Kenneth shined far brighter than what seemed to be the grey, mucky walls of the Bremingade, from afar. Kenneth’s walls were painted, or rather, designed, a beautiful, shining metallic green, with engraved crocodiles ravaging over the entire place. Contrasted smoothly with the soothing country just outside.
Rendron and his force of over five thousand armed vicers made their way towards The Bremingade. The young sixteen-year-old commander’s gut was wrenched, twisted into two directions: follow The Council’s orders and die with his fellow slaves, or follow his own strategy and actually have a chance of living, holding the stronghold with his vicers until ordered otherwise. As dreary footsteps continued, the logical part of him told him that it was not a reasonable plan and would result in no successful outcome, but the passion and love within him told him to do it. He had the power; he was their commander. All he needed to do was give the word. Just the one, and they’d do just as he wanted. 

Fuck the rulers, fekh The Council, I’ll do it, if it means I live, he thought. There might actually be a chance if his strategy was followed. He had proposed it to The Council, but was denied the first time round, for reasons he didn’t understand. In his mind, he was convinced it was the right way to approach the situation. However, Kaandorian slave vicers don’t often tend to get their way. Even the educated ones. 

‘Come on, Tofer,’ his friend Greives said, approaching from behind. He put a hand on his shoulder, ‘cheer up. We go and die today, relieved from slavery. We be born better next time round eh?’
Those words pierced him with a needle harder than the words of his superiors. He wanted to do many things before dying. Dying wasn’t even on his mind for a second. 

‘There is no next time, Greives. You live just the once.’ 

Greives shrugged and fell back into line. A thin layer of silence floated above the entire army—they knew they were walking to their doom, they were meant to do so, yet there was absolutely nothing Rendron, or The Tofer, as called by his vicers, could do about it. He knew his honour was going to make him feel responsible for all their deaths or foreign enslavement. He knew that, as their young general, the blame would be pinned on him, at least from his part. And he couldn’t bear to have that stress looming over him. 

That’s it. Seriously, fekh em. I’m taking my vicers from here. 

‘Vicers! Comrades! Pull stop!’ He screamed, facing his soldiers. The solid, muscular beasts were armoured in bronze breastplates, and each of them held massive longswords. Some even carried boulders of stones by the double. Thousands of them, perhaps. His legs trembled, as his fingers began to shake. Should he truly give the order? Should he really go by his plan—a slave’s—over the order of The Council? He was terribly unsure—after all, he was a slave, education and training aside. Born a slave, lived a slave—but he never quite adopted the slave mentality. He had a knack for revolting and rebelling against the system. But this wasn’t even about rebellious behaviour and arrogance for thrill. This was about death and survival. While every inch of his logical self warned him against passing the order, the passion and will within him made him scream it out into the open. He stopped the forces: ‘VICERS! COMRADES! PULL STOP!’ He lowered his sword. Fingers, and feet, trembling. Those nerves…

Now wasn’t the time for nerves. Now was the time to bring about his great change he’d been thinking of for the past few months. Since the very receiving of orders for this mission, since the conception of this endeavour. He would not give up his life to be a piece of the puzzle his rulers were building. He would not serve to be a pawn on the chessboard—he knew he was meant to be way back on that board than he was being ordered to be. And so he gave the order. Faces turned to sick, shocked, twisted, and some even amazed. Out stepped a vicer, from the head ranks. He had a few words: ‘Are you fekhin mental? Lost a nut along the way, you great, black brute of a youth?!’ Questioned one of his generals, Humpfreys. The averagely short vicer, reaching only 6 foot, walked out of rank, raising his longsword in question. Even now, of all times, he had a pipe of weed sticking out of his mouth, tongue twirling around its edge. 

‘No, you don’t understand—’

‘Course I do! It’s you who don’t.’ He said, stepping up and placing a finger on Rendron’s chest. ‘ “The Tofer” they call you. You ain’t no Tofer.  The last Tofer we’s had wasn’t a fekhin child.’ 

Rendron reached a bit of a crossroad here. How could he achieve what he needed to achieve, without showing an arrogant want for dominance? He’d earned the respect of his fellow vicers his entire life, and he didn’t plan on changing that any time soon. 

‘You know, you should really think before questioning your superiors, Humpfreys.’ 

‘Superior?!’ He screamed, ‘Boy, I’ve known your father since his days as a slave in the mines and—’ He roofed his jacket up into his head and gutted him with a fist, sticking out a blade at his neck. It was all so swift and gracious—the boy had been brought up as a true warrior, and Humpfreys was the last vicer on Erhin or Layonas who was going to stop him. 

‘Respect…your superiors, and learn your position. Understood, comrade?’ 

Humpfreys breathed heavy sighs, looking down on the blade sticking out his gut. Slowly, he raised his arms up high above his head, as The Tofer, Rendron, towered over him like an ordinary vicer over a human. The poor old vicer fell back into his rank, and Rendron chased up and down, spear high in hand. 

‘Have you not all the will to live?’ Didn’t quite incite the cheer I was looking for… he thought. 

‘Fine. I understand. You’re all slaves. Bitter, malnourished, disgusting, disgusted slaves.’ This is going REAL well, isn’t it? 

‘But what does that make me, your commander? Your chosen Tofer? Am I really any better than any the lot of ya? The truth is, no. No, I’m not any better. No, I’m not a free vicer. I’ve been born and raised, breaded and buttered, a slave. Just like the rest of you. Sure, I got education. I got proper training from proper masters. And why is that? So that I could push you all to do your duties as bitter slaves, and nothing more.’ He paced up and down furiously, eyes wider than the depths of his anger. Veins pulsed on the superficial parts of his body—his thumping arms filled with bloodlust and the will to live. 

‘But I say, we prove them wrong! They sent us here to our death, and all of you know that! He said, jousting his spear into the air and quickly fumbling to bring it back down. He took a short breath, as his arms twitched. Stupid fekhing nerves, he thought. 

Just tell them your plan, clear and simple. And so he proclaimed it, in length, and in a complex manner. He drew an overall shower of disagreement among the crowds, accompanied with occasional drizzles of amazement. He told them what he intended to do, now all he had to do was convince them. These people didn’t value their lives as slaves anyway, and so he knew he had to bank on a different premise.

‘Vicers, it’s not even about the will to live. It’s about the will to show to our “glorious” council who think of us as no more than slaves, that we are a hardy folk. We are darker than their nights, but that doesn’t make us duller than their beast-pets, like they think of us. Let’s show them the benefit of doing things our way,’ beads of sweat passed down his head. His legs trembled and his feet became the gateway of a strong pain entering his body. No, he couldn’t collapse right now, not now, of all moments. This was his time to shine. He could not let his bloody nerves get in the way of his greatness. He could not. 

Count seven, close eyes. Breathe. Count six, open… b-breathe…

He steadied his footsteps and entered the daunting reality of… reality, ‘let’s show them! Let’s show them we’re smarter, stronger, and we’re the strength and pillars of their kingdom. But most of all, let’s show them…that we’re better.’ He whispered. A flooring wave of thunderous claps echoed across the entire backend of the forest—lives of sound suddenly blossoming into a blooming garden of ever growing springs, as the just sounds of sonic boom came to no close. 

‘LEAD ON, VICERS! YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO! LEAD ON!’

Chapter 28; Open Fields Instead of a Castle

/Kenneth, outside the Rolan Manor. 

And the horses ran faster than the winds blew on that stormy day. 

The weather’d turned bad; tears seeped through Hvit’s eyes as vigorously as the rain showers on that particularly stormy evening in Kenneth. Hvit and Isolde had finally arrived outside of the Rolan manor after a third’s worth riding on their horses—a third being four hours. A third being the exact time back when Hvit had abandoned his best friend, Dek, to be killed and presumably eaten by those slave vicers. 

Worthless sons of bitches took my friend’s life. They’re going to pay. He thought. He was still mourning for his friend—but he still kept a thin line of hope hanging from a knot of thread almost broken by his emotional burden. There was a slight chance that his clever Earthian friend had talked his way out of that situation. He hoped to Krilin that he had, but for the most part he already assumed him dead.

‘Here we are.’ Isolde blandly said. That man was becoming more boring by the day. Thunderous eruptions interrupted the greeting between Isolde, Hvit, Theren and the rest of the spies who stood in front, just outside the Rolan manor. It seemed that there was another man of noble birth wearing a green chest plate by Theren’s side: was that Lothar? Krilin save him, he hadn’t seen that boy since… ever, actually. He’d only heard of the way he looked and pieced two and two together. 

He got off his wet horse and stepped onto the muddy, drenched grass. The winds blew fiercely and the thunders sounded loud as ever. Trees bent on their roots, laying siege to the ground and trapping little bugs scattering about the place trying to find shelter. Everyone had their eyes squinted, avoiding water from entering them. Hvit looked ahead, and could only see the eight other spies of Rean, and a few Crocodiles lined up ahead. 

‘WHERE ARE ALL OUR SOLDIERS?’ He screamed. Isolde greeted Theren with a casual kiss on the cheek. She turned towards Hvit, alongside the rest of the spies. Pires was towering over everyone, carrying a dead body wrapped in cloth on his shoulder. It was probably Izaak, judging by the size of it. 

‘May the storms lay rest to him on this young night.’ He mumbled under his breath.

‘Pardon me Hvit,’ Theren screamed in a confident voice, ‘but I think your eyes lost themselves on the way back from Kais.’  

She turned around to reveal an entire formation of Crocodilian soldiers. Forming ranks of what Hvit estimated to be twenty by twenty, there were more than twelve formations of blocks made by the soldiers. As was the Crocodilian way, all of them wielded spears, save for the last two ranks on each ends, commonly known as The Advanced Artillery. Lines of twenty to thirty men on each end of the spectrum held the feared Triple Bow: a weapon of war crafted in recent times by Keran Rolan, during his siege of Kenneth. It’d been key to laying into the defences of the fortification, giving each of his bowmen the advantage of three-to-one bowmen. Magnificent, her father was, as a war general. His creations and contributions to the Crocodilian forces were truly groundbreaking. He’d turned the ruling kingdom of Loazer into an unbreakable force. Hvit hoped Theren’s brother Nathanial—next in line of succession, as chosen by The Lord of Loazer himself—wouldn’t return; he wanted to see her rule this kingdom, he truly did. Breaking the silence of the atmosphere, rather, adding to the noise of the storm, Pires walked up to the front of the courtyard, handing over the dead body of Izaak as fruit to the weather. The rain poured into the skin and bone of the rotting corpse, as everyone put their heads down in a moment of silence. The torturing had gone too far—Izaak had been unable to withstand the pain. Hvit took a sharp breath, as he turned around to face the ranks of soldiers, who’d turned their heads up and looked ready for combat. He frowned and turned towards Theren, who breathed nervously, seemingly ready to give these men a talk. 

‘I wish that I could have brought more of your fellow soldiers, fellow Crocodiles, into the battlefields of the storm today. However, my father’s past debts prevent me from doing so,’ was she undermining her father’s rule already? Uprooting was too early, just yet, ‘however, I remain determined that brave, strong men like yourselves, even at this strength, will take back what rightfully belongs to the Kingdom!’  She screamed, as a loud cheer rounded across the ranks, butt-ends of spears banging against the ground. 

‘The archers will burn the men inside to the ground, the Slingers and the Spikemen will penetrate the walls, and the Linemen will rush in and butcher the traitorous foreigners, but all on one condition…’ she said, softened, unsheathing a sword by her waist, ‘ARE YOU WITH ME?!’ She screamed, raising her sword high in the air, raising her dignity alongside. Krilin… the determination of this woman blowed Hvit away. Her incredible aura of power and respect. A loud cheer sounded through the ranks a second time. Men with bows tapping the floor, spikes hitting the ground, ropes slinging in the air, wheeled ramps moving to and fro; these Crocs were determined to take back The Bremingade. 

‘AND WHEN IT IS OVER,’ She screamed, ‘I’ll cut off Sarrona’s head myself.’ That remark seemed to get the loudest cheers from the ranks. 

‘Lead! Mark-men, Crocodiles, Liners, Slingers, Rampmen, Spikemen—all of you—LEAD!’ She screamed, marching forward. He’d never seen this burning sense of determination within her before. But he wasn’t sure whether it stemmed for her want to retrieve her father and brother from their capturers, or from wanting to prove to the kingdom that she was a fit ruler for the men, especially since there seemed to be no sign of Nathanial returning from Gr’Erhin. Seemed like Lady Theren was the next best option. All she needed was the word of her father. Theren got back onto her horse and began marching at the forefront of the army. 

The lines came to a swift halt, as a general from within the ranks pulled stop. The quiet rustling of leaves accompanied the autumn weather. An eerie silence overtook the entire field.
Something’s wrong…

‘They’ve reached!’ He heard one of the generals call out. 

‘Mark the crossbows! Man the archers! They’re here!’ Another screamed. 

Confused, Hvit trotted up on his horse to the very forefront, and as he made his way ahead, his eyes got left behind in absolute disbelief.

An enormous rank of midnight black, Kaandorian vicers lined up the entire pathway and green fields ahead, two to three thousand of them at least. The landscape of hills and the Folhom peaks dropped further into the background, as the daunting prospect of a gigantic vicer army dawned at their footsteps. Hvit could tell the difference between vicers and dark skinned humans immediately—while the darker skinned men and women actually grew hair, and had only a shade of black or brown, vicers grew absolutely no hair or facial hair whatsoever—and their skin shade was blacker than the depths—midnight black, they called it. They almost looked like a void in the night-time. 

Scary creatures, I tell ya… They formed incredibly well organised ranks. Aren’t they supposed to be slaves? How do they even know how to hold a longsword correctly? His horse trotted closer towards the ranks, trying to determine their main general. 

‘What in Krilin’s ass are these vicers doing here?’ Hvit questioned, stepping up to Woura. 

‘Dunno M'ro.’ He glanced towards Connor, who kept his sword at the ready, looking ahead with keen, focused eyes. Hvit swallowed in fear and glanced back at the Midnight Forces. And out stepped a youthful, but muscular, vicer trotting proudly on his horse. He did have a look of worry on his face, from what Hvit could tell. As the boy trotted up on his horse, hooves beating soft against the muddy grass-grounds outside the Rolan Manor, many men and women murmured, watching from balconies of their homes and high towers surrounding the city. In time, a rally from afar even started, watching the two sides—The Crocodiles and the Kaandorian vicers. Hvit nervously glanced at the young boy, expecting him to say a few words. No words were said. Instead, the boy raged ahead, screaming as he held his spear forward, horse and him as one unit sprinting alone, along the path and into the Crocodilian forces. 

Why is this boy riding alone to his death?

‘Bows at the ready!’ Rumbled an unnaturally tall vicer, nine feet at the least. He stood at the frontline, hands at his belt buckle. He casually smoked his pipeweed, wearing a deep grin on his face. 

Hvit quickly trotted his horse towards Lady Theren, who wore concern more than anything on her face. ‘My Lady, what are we to do? We can’t stop them on open field battle without using our Triple Bows. Our siege weapons are useless. What should I do?’ 

She stared worriedly at the Midnight Forces, as if nothing Hvit said had been registered in her head. Her brother Lothar stood the same way. 

Oh, nudge her you fool!

He grabbed her arm and shook her: ‘My Lady! Give me the order. I’ll get the men firing the bows.’

‘No, we can’t.’ Has she lost her mind? Krilin save us… 

‘My lady, we stand no chance! They’re twice our height for Krilin’s sake! We need those bows.

She abruptly turned towards Hvit, ‘We have a limited number of Triple Arrows. I am not sacrificing them until we lay siege on The Bremingade.’ 

What in Krilin’s grave has gotten into this batshit crazy woman? 

‘There will be none of us left to lay siege to the Bremingade if we don’t let loose of our arrows now!’ 

In the time of this wasteful argument, the entirety of the vicer forces began charging onto the Crocodiles, longswords pointed front. 

Forget it, I’ll give the order myself. He trotted off towards the bowmen in no time.

***

And here she was, with her entire force of five thousand Crocodiles being confronted and trampled upon by the Midnight Forces of Kaandor. She had to give some orders, something, to give her men hope of making it to the siege. One thing she knew for sure was that she’d have to fall back on her reserve of men and order more Crocodiles and soldiers around Kenneth to actually lay siege to the Bremingade, possibly meaning more debt for her kingdom. 

Get yourself together, stupid woman. She shook her head and turned towards Isolde, who was commanding the entire force for now, on her order of course. He was appointed enacting general of the forces as Daren, the actual general, was off with Nathanial at his expedition in the North. 

Krilin I miss that man…

‘My Lady, give me the orders, they’re charging upon our line! We need to focus our forces, now!’ 

‘Alright…I….alright.’ She began to tremble. Her inner insecurities began to overtake her person. Isolde grabbed her hands, his warm touch enlivening her, almost turning her on, even. 

‘My Lady, you are the finest woman I’ve ever known,’ he said, closing his face in on hers; his warm breath comforting every muscle of her face, ‘you know just what to do, and you know this, my beautiful Theren.’
She took a deep breath and collected herself: ‘Right, split the forces into two lines on each side. They’re charging in a full front lay-down,’ she said, pointing to the vicers who charged ahead in a block formation, ‘I say we surround them on each side and pool them in from each front—give them no space for attack.’

‘Yes, my lady. And the siegemen?’ 

‘Send them back or hand them swords. Lay the weapons down on a ground behind, untouched.’ 

He nodded, ‘And the Triple Bowmen?’ 

‘Not to be used.’ 

‘My lady, this is an imminent threat—we can think of resupplying our bows for the siege later on: we need their arrows if we want to live.’

‘There is limited stock, and our engineers will take far more time than we can imagine to create more Triple Bows and Arrows with the same quality in the locking mechanism. We cannot afford to give up our arrows on an open field fight if we’re to lay siege on The Bremingade.’

Isolde swallowed, but nodded in agreement, ‘Fine, my lady, I shall give the order.’ Isolde moved his rank and whispered something into Hvit’s ear, who passed on the message to the rest of her spies. They began forming line at the head of each side of The Crocodilian forces. The vicers were beginning to get closer and closer, and their brutish slave smell began to disgust Theren. Creatures, nothing more are they? She was ashamed of her prejudice towards vicers but could not help it—they put her off, simply put. 

‘Men!’ Isolde screamed, trotting about. ‘FORM LINES! CHARGE TO THE SIDES AND SURROUND THEM!’ He charged right, and Hvit went left towards the bowmen, taking the other seven spies behind him. 

‘This came earlier than expected.’ She said, turning to face her brother Lothar. The two of them stood back in the formation, as the Crocodiles began to charge to the sides. The boy was trembling with nervousness, more so than herself even. 

‘You’re a good fighter, Lothar. You have to go and join the men. A Crocodile army needs a Rolan at its head. Go.’
Trembling, he nodded and moved forward on his horse. He took lead at the line of Crocodiles heading left, and joined alongside Hvit. Out of the five thousand soldiers, north of two thousand of them were siegemen and bowmen. They’d already retreated to the castle, save for the bowmen who held a line behind the entire Crocodilian forces. It was a very small chance Theren was half-willing to take, that is, to fire the bows, but she kept them there nonetheless. 

She kept a small dagger sheathed on her waist—the weapon of her choice. Of course, a flask of acid on the opposite side as well—she wouldn’t leave home without it. This one’s for Sarrona’s eyes.

Her brother Lothar had dressed in a bronze-silver armour painted green, with a deep, fierce Crocodile engraved across the entire front of the breastplate. It’s mouth was wide open and tongue out, eyes lit with a green fire burning the emblems of other houses of the past. Truly violent image, their ren-call sent. She’d change that as The Lady of Loazer. Perhaps not to something with a kind message, but something which painted pictures of both justice and fairness. 

Put your thoughts away, you crooked fekh. There’s a war on your doorstep.

By her side stood Aldin Kora, commanding his own force of about a thousand and a half, leading them in splitting lines. For some strange reason, Theren couldn’t entirely feel the rush or fear that two and a half thousand vicers charging your way with longswords pointed frontwards would give one. She simply couldn’t soak in the magnitude of her responsibility, and was surprised to find herself in a position of responsibility like this so rapidly. 

Well, it’s what you asked for, isn’t it?

‘Buckle up, my lady. It’s your first time in war, no?’ Aldin asked, facing her with his candid green eyes. The middle aged man’s dark brown hair flowed backwards, as he gripped his horse’s saddle-strap tightly with leather gloved hands. Theren reckoned he relieved his anticipation by pressing down hard like that. 

‘Yes…yes it is.’ 

‘Ah, don’t worry, you’re not expected to charge in alongside your brother.’ 

‘Will he die?’ She foolishly asked, turning towards the commander. 

‘Well…I…’ He fumbled, glancing left and right. He seemed in the same frame of mind as her—not entirely fearing the situation but rather soaking in a sense of…confusion. 

‘He will, my lady.’ He said simply, retreating back. She asked him not to join in alongside the rest of the warriors—he was of to much value to the kingdom, and a great, powerful ally to the Lordship of Loazer. She wouldn’t risk losing him in a silly skirmish. 

Theren stared on with kin, focused eyes, as the vicer forces began forming a circle, facing an outward line of Crocodiles poking into the vicers. 

***

A cold autumn wind coming from the north blew Lothar’s mouth dry. The sounds of deep, rumbling war-cries from the vicers invaded the roots of the tree that was his ear canals. Thin, wispy lines of clouds muddled the spotlights of wiola from truly shining onto the men and vicers charging. His heart rapidly began trying to escape his chest, as the scent of burning charcoal entered his nose from the depths of his imagination. 

The burns still ache…

He headed into the left, alongside one of Theren’s “spies” he’d found out about recently.
‘You reckon we can take em?’ He screamed into Hvit’s ear, turning towards his side, as the two raced their horses to form a line outside a force of incoming vicers. 

‘I know we can, M'ro!’ The confident man responded. After several minutes, the vicers with longswords found themselves surrounded in a well organised circle of men, pointing their spears and swords outwards. A circular line of ordinary arches stood behind the line of men that surrounded the vicers. For some strange reason, none of the vicers had bowmen of their own. Besides, in a situation like this, bowmen on their part, or bowvicers, rather, would be useless considering the fact that their line of upwards fire would be limited.

A man Lothar had learned to be Isolde led the charge of the armies, as he rallied his men to begin poking through the vicers’ defences. 

‘SPEARS FORWARD! FORWARD MARCH, CROCODILES! FORWARD MARCH!’ They rallied their three thousand odd men and began running inwards fiercely, towards vicers who seemed terribly untrained, with no space to move anywhere. They were being thrown on their knees and slapped to forfeiture. Lothar realised that he was only armed with his sword, and so he looked around the line of soldiers and managed to snatch a spear from a forthcoming soldier. ‘Sorry lad! Gonna need that!’ 

Focused, the boy led into a line coming in from the left side of the line of soldiers. He began charging into the circled vicers, who seemed absolutely cornered, until the cries of what seemed to be a youthful vicer led his vicers into a straight formation. Lothar took his spear and charged into a midnight black, tall vicer who charged towards him. Both of them on horses, Lothar’s whole self overcame a sensation of horror, as the enormous brute charged with what seemed to be an efficient quickness. He raised his longsword in a rallying cry and swished it towards him, blindly so—only because Lothar’d managed to spear the man’s head back out through the eye. 

Krilin…I’m not bad eh?

A thrilling sensation overcame the rather scrawny boy, as he came closer to the dead vicer, yanking his spear out of his gashed, mutilated eyeball. Coming to think of it, he fancied that longsword too, tucking it into his leather belt. Men and vicers clashed and clanged swords and spears. Shrill cries of men resonated through the open fields where the fighting took place, and gnarled trees moved up and down in a fit, shedding off green leaves in a cumbersome manner. Eyes wide, heart thumping, he turned his vision back to the battlefield, right when a vicer with an enormous longsword came charging his way, screaming at the top of his lugs. Lothar began lunging forward towards him. The moment his sword came swiping, Lothar ducked and swiftly turned his horse around, sticking the nib of his spear into the tail-end, right in the spine, of the vicer. Blood gushed out of the gaping hole Lothar left in him, as his back shrivelled and his fingers twisted in a most sickening way. The man seized to move and fell straight off of his horse. 

Fucking Krilin… this is enjoyable. He was unsure where or how he’d attained this kind of skill to fight. But upon reflecting, he realised that he was never actually a bad warrior: he just never had the chance to put his skills to the test. If only Nathanial was here to see me… 

His newfound happiness suddenly came to a sickening end, as a vicer who seemed entangled in a feud going on right behind Lothar streamed his way through a line of men, slashing through them, and stuck his sword straight into his horse. A strange sensation overcame him, as he looked down to find his beautiful brown stallion’s insides gushing out onto the autumn leaf covered mud-field. A sickening knot entangled and wrenched his gut into two. Ignoring the urge to vomit, he looked up to find yet another longsword coming slashing. Reflexes acting on his behalf, his entire back arched downwards as he fished for his Snakesword, pulled it out of his sheath and swiftly stabbed the brute in his groin. He could feel his blade pulling into the creature’s privates. He let out a disgusting belch, and both the sound and smell of piss and shit overflew Lothar’s ears and eyes. He himself couldn’t believe the damage a scrawny, spoilt brat birthed to a high lord could inflict upon eight-foot-tall beasts grown and bred in toughness. But the sights he’d seen in the passing moments had swiftly grabbed the fleeting moments of joy he’d received from his mini victories on the battlefield and instead filled those empty voids with disgusting globs of the painful, gut-wrenching stench of death. His entire perspective changed, as he looked up to find more of the same—spears in eyes and throats, longswords slashing through the innards of his men, cutting across even bronze breastplates and helms. The sickening feeling of disgust planted its roots deep inside him and rapidly grew into an immovable tree. It seemed to him that the trees and grass cried out for a stop, and a small rumble subtly erupted from the ground. No, they’re nothing more than the whimsical thoughts of a boy at war for the first time. 

He charged back into the field, and with great difficulty and resistance, began piercing through the guts and brains and eyes of more and more brutish creatures who came his way. It seemed clear: victory was near, and the siege would not be delayed by what seemed to be a setback. Theren’s spies conducted themselves extremely well, leading the ranks of spearman to charge into an inner circle of vicers, and Isolde did so especially exceedingly. His charisma on the field didn’t speak of a spy, but instead of an inborn commander. The way he glanced left and right, finding jobs on the field in the oddest of ways, fixing the lines whenever they’d lose shape; it was glorious. Watching the man do his job was simply inspiring. But the boy put these thoughts aside and returned with gleaming focus to the battlefield. Being at a disadvantage that his horse’d been cut down, he’d pulled his rapier-like SnakeSword out and threw it like a dagger at the heart of one of the vicers who was riding a great big stallion, and he took over the reigns of that horse himself. The chaos only further developed, ironically, by the fact that all the men and vicers trod on horses. As all the men went about slashing and killing vicers left right and centre, the youthful vicer, seemingly distressed, turned forward from his rank and oddly pulled his horse back out of visibility. 

Looks like the fekha’s retreating, now that all his fellow vicers are dying. He thought, wearing a smug grin on his face. Hands tight on the saddle-strap of his horse, he followed through the lines towards where he’d seen the teenager escape, trying hard to avoid the line of fire incoming from the Crocodiles. When he turned to find where the youth led his vicers, a feeling of horror overcame every fabric of his being, as he sunk low on his horse’s saddle in despair. 

Krilin save us from Chronisc… we’re done for.

***

Rendron was shocked. He genuinely believed that in open field combat, his vicers could handle the number of men they were going to face; but it didn’t end up being that easy. Turned out—the strategies employed in open field battle by the men and Crocodiles were ingenious. They wrapped the vicers’ forces in around a double enveloped circle—gave them no room for wiggle. The fleeting sight of victory escaped from the corner of his eye, as a horrible picture of death and disrespect dragged its way into his mind, leaving behind a trail of blood on its way. 

What must I do? I led my vicers here, how can I afford to fail them? He got some strange, regretful stares from his fellow comrades mid-battle. The shock and horror of loss enveloped their eyes. They were beginning to accept the same fate of death given to them by Koralisar, only this time on the brink of false hope given to them by Rendron. Spears, falchion swords and short-swords alike plummeted their way into vicer hearts—into the hearts of midnight. 

If only these people knew we’re not the monsters they think we are, they’d let us die peaceably at the least. 

Dust particles kicked up by the hooves of his horses made their way into his nose, as the faint smell of blood, dirt, and flesh ran through his entire being, he realised that he could not possibly give up his men so easily.
Frowning, he turned his horse around, gaining a stare from some boy wearing specially shining green armour, standing alongside those who seemed to be the generals of their army. The boy eagerly gazed at Rendron, who ignored his looks and trotted his horse past his defensive circle and to the other side of the garrison—and that’s where he found the key for his army. In the circle of stabbing Crocodilian spears, a weakening had developed—a hole: a passageway. He now knew what he had to do. He had to direct his men through and play the Crocodilians’ own game—surround them with their own forces and get pushed and eventually squashed into the centre. He knew he could afford to do this because the line of archers on the outer circle weren’t engaging all together—they must be saving their resources—bows and arrows—for the siege, which Rendron knew wouldn’t truly come. 

He raised his arm high in the general direction of the weakening.
If I can direct all my forces straight through their, we can make a gaping hole and surround them… it can be done, oh it can be done. 

‘VICERS! ON MY LEAD! FOLLOW STRAIGHT THROUGH HERE! NO, OVER’ERE I TELL YA!’ Battling vicers, screaming vicers, crying vicers raged through the gap that he commanded them to. They outstretched their longswords, and on their brutish, matching large stallions, charged through the evident weakening in the Crocodilian lines. With no elegance or class, but instead pure brutish skill and strength, the Midnight Men pressed holes as large as boots straight into the heads, necks, and stomachs of men daring to oppose their passageway. “Gahs” and “ahs” sounded throughout the entire field, as the look of focus and confidence on the faces of the men smudged into a resounding whimper of fear, as the great big brutes began clearing their way and overlapping their forces. Rendron charged through the fleeting lines of vicers, his classic longsword—with nothing more than the slithering tongue of The Snake on this hilt, rather than an entire snake head—being used as a killing machine, cutting through men left right and centre.

The way he swerved it about, he was the only one among the vicers who bore elegance in the way he warred and fought. He had the eternal skill of class, and moreover the more valuable, but limited, skill of youthful energy. Two Crocodiles conspired with each other, before charging with spears out, on both his left and right. He grinned, and held his longsword on the right. The two men charged very close to him, and were on the verge of piercing his head in on both sides with their spears. Vicers didn’t wear helms, or armours, in war, considering the fact that they were already so big and muscular, an armour on top of them would practically make them immobile. The soldier on the left raised his spear arm, and just before he thrust his spear in Rendron’s direction, he gripped the saddle-strap of his great brute of a stallion with his left hand, long sword in the right, and leaned backwards on his horse. The thumping motion of the riding horse hurt his back in this position, but the payoff was worth it. The Crocodile’s thrust ended up straight in the chest of another, right through the rift between his breastplate and helm. For good measure, Rendron swerved his longsword through the guts of the soldier behind him, and brought it down on the spearing Crocodile in front with an unescapable diagonal strike, slashing through his shoulder region and clanking with the metallic armour, as it mades way through the soldier’s armour. A deep, unending cut gave way to a gushing flow of blood sprouting from the soldier’s left shoulder—almost like a water fountain with the water dyed red. Passing through the aftermath of this encounter, revelling in the satisfaction of his effortless kill, he charged his Stallion to burst through the ranks and stop just before the non-interfering bowmen. He hissed at these bystanders and turned his horse back around. He found a beautiful sight—a turn of events; an upset. He’d given hope to his comrades, and now he was coming close to delivering on that promise. More than just solidifying his position as a solid commander in the ranks, this command of his would actually give him and his vicers hope to survive. 

***

What is that stupid boy doing? Hvit thought to himself, as Lothar followed behind the commanding vicer, who escaped rank and went around the circle of vicers and out of sight. The battle had been going on for about twenty minutes, and a tremendous amount of bloodshed had already taken place on both sides. The spirits of the ground kicked up in despair. Hvit could feel it. 

He rounded up his horse and followed through to Lothar, in a bid to protect his employer’s brother. He’d slashed a few vicers here and there with his one-edged falchion sword, but for the most part did more in avoiding conflict and actually helping command and organise forces, rather than feeding to his desire to kill. As the galloping hooves of his horse kicked up the mud and wet dirt of the ground so well mixed into the chaos of the nightmarish battles, Hvit’s eyes fell upon a true sight of horror. Long swords edged their ways into the hearts of men, splitting them open into two, in two ways—one: literally, and two: the longswords of the vicers made a gap in the circle of Crocodilian forces that surrounded them, giving them free passageway out through the surrounding attack. They’d been completely outmanoeuvred by the Midnight Forces.

Oh, bollocks, oh Krilin, oh fekh! Have a rest on me as I pass unto a new world…

No. Hvit had just beaten Dek in hand-to-hand combat, and Krilin save the boy, so he was not ready to die just yet. He had plenty to give, and take, before allowing himself to pass. He charged towards the hole, in a last ditch attempt to stop the vicers from passing, but soon realised that even a rush of adrenaline as crazy as his was not going to help his case of not dying on this battlefield. 

What can I do? How can I save them? Hvit couldn’t think of a logical solution—he’d never been logical minded. But something felt strange to him. Didn’t we come here with more men than this? Even the fighters and the bowmen? He’d just realised that the triple bowmen had not fired their bows at all. What in Krilin’s grave…

If they were firing, plenty of bloodshed could have been avoided, and this skirmish could have been won with ease. 

He steadied his horse in the middle of all the chaos, as the vicers discharged around him, completely ignoring him. They screamed strange, harrowing, but deep, rumbling war cries as they made their efforts to lead to victory here. For better perspective, Hvit steadied his horse, arms out, and he placed his feet on the comfortable grooves of its saddle. 

He stood on a horse. 

I’m standing on a fekhing horse, in the middle of a fekhing battle. What in Krilin has…

All the triple bowmen just stood their, a line behind the attacking forces, watching. Observing like cows done grazing a field. 

Krilin, no! 

Hvit jumped back into his saddle, hurting his groin harshly. He had no choice but to ignore the pain caused by stupidity, and began finding a way out of the circle he was trapped in. He cleared up some soldiers in his path and galloped towards the bowmen. His blood rushed fast and his heart thumped hard as he made his way to the bowmen. 

‘Where’s your general?’ He asked one of them.
‘Mr Fangrows—right there!’ He said, pointing at a man wearing long locks and beads atop his head. He was dressed in green and was currently shaming his Kingdom by being a bystander. 

‘Bring your men to their bows and make them nock, now.’

‘No. Lady’s orders.’ 

He gritted his teeth and grabbed the saggy old man’s face. 

‘I’ll fekhing cut a flesh wound in your throat you harrowing old fool, if you don’t line up your fekhing archers, and save your dying meTn!’ 

Worthless idiot.  The anger had truly wrapped Hvit and turned him into a machine fit for creating a raging fit.
Taken aback, Fangrows hesitantly signalled to his men to nock their bows. Hope.

***

Hope, finally, hope… thought Rendron, as his vicers enveloped the human forces with a fitting rage. Clustered attacks and slashes were carried out by their longswords unto the dying humans, who seemed to be all but lost on the battlefield. The tables had turned, and they were a step above the humans. Their checkmate hadn’t been much more than just a check. The vicers brought their king to safety and now threatened the white pieces on the board. Rendron viciously took part in his fellow vicers war cries—a shrill, but aggressive, outlet of fury and rage as they dissipated their energies into screams and causing the screams of their opponents. The rains of longswords poured down onto the humans, as their mud-covered foes slogged in their heavy armours, facing difficulty to stand and find the courage to fight. The Midnight Forces’ cries were too shrill to stand, their longswords too tall to escape, and their brute force too much to challenge. Rendron swiftly swerved his rapier and knife left and right, lunging his knife into many-a-throat. Killing was an art he’d perfected, but not thoroughly enjoyed, until and unless he held both sword and knife—left and right. 

His joy was short lived. A sharp rain of whistling shafts and fluttering fletchings flew down into a rank of vicers on his right, seemingly stabbing each of them in triple pairs of arrows—three arrows landing into three men in perfect coordination. 

What in the world…

More arrows in triplets began flying through the air and stabbing the fleeting hope of his comrades, splitting them into black spirits which escaped into the cold, damp winds of autumn. 

He rushed his stallion in great haste towards the bowmen of the Crocodiles. What he found was a shocking sight. 

The men held what seemed to be incredibly intricate bows—almost woven with strong, tensile fabric interlaced with strands of wood. The bows they held seemed to be almost double the size of a normal bow, and the mechanics twice as intricate. The arrow rest of the bow had three separate, escaping points for, well, three different arrows to shoot out of the bow at once. They were fitted with nuts and bolts of many different kinds. Large, spider-like threads wove tensely through the bow space between the wooden curve of the bow and its string. They held what seemed to be many different complex mechanics. He glanced at one of the archers, who loaded three arrows, seemingly joined to each other with a loose, barely visible thread. He nocked all three arrows into a splitting string of the bow, and fitted them almost effortlessly into the three different arrow braces on the front of his bow. He then pulled a small lever on the right side of his bow, and keeping it held, managed to separate the distance between the front of each arrow, making the spaces between them wider, and therefore their lines of fire as well. The man released his firing arm, and the three arrows soared loose throw the sky, audibly breaking the rope trying them together, in perfect coordination, finally finding their way into the hearts and parts of vicers. 

No, no, no…no no no!!! WE CAN’T, He thought, regretfully. painful stumbles tumbled him down to his knees. Dripping tears accompanied his fall as he watched the destruction of thousands of his kind. A deep pain in his heart—he’d always wanted to quench the thirst of leading his own battalions and ranks into war and do it his own way, but today he’d understood something important. 

Don’t defy your generals’ orders. 

Death was surely his sentence upon returning to Layonas, if he wasn’t killed here first. 

***

They’d done it. They’d somehow levelled the vicers in a battle which seemed all but lost. Those great, big brutes were succumbing like wimpy cubs unable to suckle on their mother’s teat out of a blood sickness. They crumbled to the floor as triplets of arrows exploded from the skies of autumn. Life breathed into those arrows—Lothar looked up, and an illusion of angle made it look like wiola shined its own spotlights on each of them. Terrible pleadings of mercy from the jaws of the Crocodiles had soon turned into long, sharp, and unforgiving bites—they tore into the creatures of night and severed their limbs, sending them back into the nightmarish hell from whence they came. 

Whichever vicers would be killed here was bound by ship to go South—to The Banished Lands. 

Lothar had rounded his horse up to follow the teenage commanding vicer, who had bravely broken rank and upheld his position, causing an upset and actually giving hope to the Midnight Forces for victory—but as Lothar’d seen, one of Theren’s spies, Hvit, whom he hadn’t chatted with, force fired the triple bows to save the Crocodiles. 

Why didn’t that bitch sister just do it in the first place instead of letting thousands die? 

Lothar tucked away his distracting thoughts and held his sword back up. The last of the fleeing vicers seemed to be heading his way.

He was good, but not that good. The fear began to overtake him, and his hands started to tremble. He hadn’t particularly had the best of histories with vicers—letting that rogue Firion escape Hal’s Prison, and letting his uncle die for it. Those memories didn’t particularly help his cause in holding his own as an entire force of vicers charged his way. His arms shook, knees quivered, and tears welled in his eyes. With great difficulty, he resisted a rage fit and held his sword up, breathing calmness into an air of turmoil. 

The longswords reached deep into the realms of his gut, causing a gush of stark red blood to burst into the muddy floor. 

Oddly, he felt no pain at all. He turned his head to the right, and an unarmored man with a blade in his hand fell off his horse—he’d taken the sword for Lothar. Before he had the time to fathom anything more, Lothar ducked in anticipation and fled the other way, turning sharp right on his stallion as triplets of furious arrows, which were birthed on the ground and grown in the air, died back where they were born, only this time taking lives alongside them. Scores of vicers fell limp on the floor as Lothar viewed the harrowing plains of death with wide eyes. The battle, sure, had been won, but the day had been lost. Sprouts of red, just red, implanted themselves into the deep fabrics that joined his brain together. They strung themselves deep into the corners he’d thought were unreachable. They made him ask a question—was any of this worth it?

No.

Chapter 29; A Graceful Visit

/The King’s Guesthouse

Adi Walkman awoke royally. His eyes opened leisurely to the sunshine—or the light of wiola, rather—and he rolled over in his plush sheets with a satisfied grin on his face. The honeymoon phase of his time on this planet had not yet worn off. He enjoyed every minute of it. Every second felt like a vacation away from a dull abyss he got used to calling home. And yet a part of him mourned at the thought of being yanked away. A part of him thought all of this to be detrimental. But it was no more than the devil on his shoulder, or what the people here called “Chronisc”. Apparently a figure named Krilin was their equivalent of Jesus, except that they didn’t treat Krilin as an actual god—only just godlike. Adi’d enquired and found out that the concept of religion didn’t actually exist in Erhin or Layonas. I guess you don’t need god if there’re people around you who’re shooting light out of their palms. 

Adi’s dreams with Olivia had been more productive than usual lately. She began telling him about the do’s and dont’s of the Erhin lifestyle—something she seemed to know somehow. She taught him the geography of the world, the ruling kingdoms and their Lords and so forth. They also spent quality time together just talking. She was an ageless girl who was lost in time—something he could relate to on so many different levels. For most of his adult life, Adi was drifting across space with his eyelids kept open by the binding bolts of time. His limbs were numb as he eternally drifted through the world, until Biv the Wielder pulled him out. 

Oh, and another thing he’d discovered in Gr’Erhin—alcohol. Unlike most medieval countries and times back on Earth, that he’d read about, these men also knew how to distill spirits into making whiskey and the like. Adi didn’t know how they did, considering that they weren’t entirely equipped to do so. He didn’t fret much over that, though, more than actually getting his fix everyday. 

I’ll just ask Olivia tonight. He’d found all her facts to be true by confirming them with Biv and the like. 

A familiar knock sounded on his door.
That meant time to head out. Over the last few weeks, Biv and him both journeyed up the Fang Peaks everyday, where Rys began training Adi to tame the beast that was his mind. He was connected to The Fibre of Erhin, somehow. He didn’t know why, or since when,  but he knew that he just was.
Hair fluttering about, he swung his golden locks onto his right shoulder as he stylishly got out of bed to greet Biv. He’d gotten used to him coming into his room and jarringly making a storming mess of the place, in attempts to get him out of bed. Yawning, Adi casually opened the door to his chamber, wearing wrinkly, loose bed clothing as he half opened his eyes to the sight of curly, shining locks of brunette hair falling over the shoulder of a sweet smelling girl, who stood in front of him dressed in a crimson red dress. Her skin radiated brightness as wiola cast an especially bright stage light of sorts on her. Her meek smile took Adi by storm and almost pushed him into the back walls of his chamber and dropped him to his knees. 

‘I…I…’ He stuttered, unable to find the right wavelength of words to string together into a sentence. He just oddly stared at the beautiful woman, seemingly young, who stood in front of him. 

‘I’m Grace, kind sir. A pleasure.’ Her beautiful, wide, but incredulously gentle smile and posture wowed Adi to bits.
What a beauty…

‘I…I…’ He oddly shook his head and closed his eyes tightly. 

‘I’m s-sorry, I h-have a stutter…’

‘A what?’ The fair girl asked. She stood with her hands clasped together. Gosh, this woman must have the softest touch, He thought.

‘I-It’s a disease. I can’t speak v-v-very well.’
‘Oh,’ she proclaimed, letting out a calm, contained laugh, ‘that’s alright, love! Do you know why I’m here?’ 

Gosh, those eyes… Her eyes’d already stolen Adi. Her amazing light brown eyes shone through like the Wielding palms of Biv. They created their own form of energy, and then penetrated his heart. 

‘No-not sure.’ He said, eyes fixated upon hers. Her gracious smile radiated warmth every second he looked upon her. ‘B-but I know I’ve gotta change first, y-yeah?’

‘Please! Go ahead, love!’ She excitedly said, as he walked back into his room, leaving the door upon.
She followed casually. 

‘U-uhh it’s okay, you can—’

‘So I hear you’re from Earth!’ She asked, holding a notebook in her hand like a secretary. Adi walked over to the washroom and began undressing his night-suit, picking out a casual set of leathers Biv had got for him.
‘Well, yeah.’ 

‘Tell me about guns.’ She asked. Adi was almost sure that she was close to peeking in. Honestly, he wouldn’t even mind. The last time he’d even touched a girl was… well, never. But he could feel eyes watching him, even though he hadn’t turned around. He swung his golden locks over his shoulder as he had a quick wash and wiped his face on a fabric interwoven with deer skin, apparently. This is what people here used in place of towels. 

‘Well, wh-why d’yo wanna know?’ 

‘Not many of us here have heard of it. But those of us who have just want to know out of curiosity.’ She smiled. 

‘Well, l-like you have Wielders down here, we have s-soldiers who carry guns.’

‘And these are the respected men in your planet?’

‘Well, n-not always. Others get their hands on em too. I-I…I’ve never actually s-seen a real gun before.’

‘Huh. I wish we could keep them here, but my mother tells me bringing in things from Earth is considered bad luck.’ 

Calling me bad luck, are you, dear? Real subtle about it. 

He pushed over his petty thoughts and turned towards the lady. 

‘S-So, why are you here?’ He asked, wiping the last few beads of water off his face on his leather over-shirt.

‘I’m an adviser and worker for Nathanial Rolan. You’re to, uh…’ she flipped open her notebook, ‘train in swords with him, today. He wants to size you up and teach you.’ 

‘I heard he’s the King’s right-hand now?’

‘Uh, yes. You’ve heard right. He doesn’t fashion going back home all too much, love.’ 

‘Huh.’ To that Adi could relate. 

‘For all I know he’d rather be tied to a noose than be anywhere but here.’

‘He-he seems like a-an ambition man, yeah?’ 

‘He is, sweetheart!’
Adi dressed up his finals and the two headed out on a little stroll out the guesthouse. Oh, how they called it a guesthouse—back on earth this would have been called a palace as magisterial as can get. The icy touch of the Fang Peaks didn’t disturb the silence and calm of the warmth that reached those inside here. Fires were always lit throughout, and unlike most castles, this one didn’t have gloomy walkways all the way through. Stone structures sprouted from all places and made the entire layout very confusing, yet it had an intricate style to it. Flourished with plants sprouting here and there, and the sweet sound of thrushes pecking outside always seemed to chord into the rooms and halls of the castle. Yet Adi hadn’t yet learned his routes entirely, and so the beautiful secretary Grace led him out. 

A forty-eighth later, as the Erhinians called fifteen minutes, the two reached a beautiful hillside down the far end of town. They’d passed through the hustle and bustle of the market places, the beautiful, escaping green trees which twined and tangled with each other, and the various large buildings which seemed to be filled with businessmen.
Adi could see an entire patrol of soldiers in green, with breastplates with Crocodiles on them. This was a ren-call, as he’d come to learn from Olivia. She’d told him about a regal family called the Rolans living in the West, and that Nathanial was next in line to inherit the empire, being his father’s favourite, even though he did have an older brother. The younger wasn’t much loved, he’d heard. 

‘There’s still about ten minutes to go love.’ she said, casually riding the horse. He could feel his legs touching hers by the sides of the horse. 

The warmth of her… take me away, god. 

She’d told him to hold onto her hips for “safety purposes” but he could see that she was indeed a major tease. But you couldn’t make yourself angry or cheesed off when it came to a girl of this class. He simply tried to enjoy her company as much as he could. 

‘Their patrol’s r-right here. Isn’t Nathanial going to be here then?’ 

‘No, love,’ she giggled sweetly, ‘this line of Crocs extends an entire mile that way.’ She said, holding his hand and pointing forwards. 

God, she’s crazy. Adi could feel himself smiling from the back. 

‘You miss your mum and father back home?’ 

She’d touched a lot of him today, but here she seemed to reach into a not-so-pleasant corner. Something he didn’t usually answer when asked. But this girl…

‘They live miles and m-miles away from me, Grace.’ 

Her expression changed, as the horse trotted on the path. The patrol all faced them, and it felt like all the men stood there watching over them. He felt almost royal, trotting on the only horse in the path. The elegance of this stallion’s stride did naught but help their case in feeling royal.

‘Lord Chamberlain.’ Grace said, with a whisper of a smile on her face.

‘I’m sorry, w-what?’

‘Nathanial’s official badge here. He’s Lord Chamberlain to the King. The right hand man.’

‘Y-y’know, it’s strange h-how similar the customs of y-your planet are and how m-my planet used t’be.’

‘Everyone here knows of the alternate dimensions, my love. In technicality your planet and mine are the same.’

‘Y-yeah this is what e-everyone’s told me.’ 

Minutes later the galloping horse stopped, but the line of patrol hadn’t. It extended a few metres into a hilly area. 

‘Get off first, love will you?’ She said sweetly. Adi got off the horse and turned around. What a beautiful sight for Christ’s sake. The snowcapped trees had a strange habit of gnarling into each other. They twisted and turned and it was almost mystical. Beautiful, still. Leaves blew across autumn like winds, yet snow trickled down the sky in a fashion most mid-wintery. He would have loved to bring Olivia here. Walk the snow fell paths upto these beautiful hills. If only the glowing ash wouldn’t obstruct his dreams.

‘Well who’s gonna get me off?’ Grace suddenly said, expression playfully aghast. Adi meekly laughed and held her hand as she grabbed onto his shoulders and helped herself down.

She did it to touch me up, innit? He thought in his head, feeding his ego just the tad.

‘Thanks, love. This way now.’ She said, leading up the hill. A patrol of “Crocodiles”, as these greenish metal plated soldiers were called, stood guard with the tips of their spears down in the snow. They stood alert and faced the two of them emotionlessly.

‘Like steel, ain’t it?’ She said, grabbing his arm and walking up with him over the hills. A few metres over Adi could see a decently tall, muscular man—incredibly muscular—wearing a green vest with the scaling features of a crocodile, holding a bow and intently shooting at what seemed to be some animal or the other. 

‘My Lord!’ Grace called out as she winced at the sight of wiola’s spotlight shining upon her. Adi’s couldn’t help but shift into her path.

Flash. 

Thousands of rushing lines of strained, red, and tangled vines and what seemed to be Wielding lines of light flooded across Adi’s eyes, as reality distorted into a centralised nightmare of an eternally stretched hell, as he perceived it. Beams of red and black shot up from below, fire raged on the sides of the canvas that was the painting of his thoughts, and rushing red lines streamed across his peripheral vision. He felt a rushing, throbbing gut in him pushing his insides, as if it was trying to rush out of his stomach. Shards of glass flew his way and cut him up, like thin piercings. A small human, male or not Adi couldn’t tell, stood up weakly, one knee on the ground. She, as he finally saw the girl’s breasts and hair, looked in front, slowly raising what seemed to be tired neck muscles.

‘Not,’ her voice was strained, and her words stretched out, ‘for Fangs…’ she said.

A rush of light entered Adi’s being as he suddenly got shocked back into reality, falling backwards in a dismaying manner. His eyes were wide open as he stared into the falling endlessness of the snow bleached sky. 

He quickly heaved himself up, not wanting Grace to see him in such a terrible state. Her snow stomping boots came to a halt as she turned around to glance at Adi who gave her a quick thumbs up and the excuse of having tumbled and walked on with her.
And there he was. The Hunter, they called him. Nathanial Rolan, practicing archery in all his glory. He was to inherit the title of ruler down in the West, but the man liked the snowy winters up in the land of the Wielders. 

‘My friend! Come!’ He shouted, opening his arms wide. Adi’d already taken to his companionship in good spirits. Over the last few weeks they’d trained together a few times, when of course Adi wasn’t talking through about mentality and spirituality with Rys. So far, Rys and him hadn’t reached much progress in finding the focus of his foresight, but they were getting there. The banter between him and Nathanial, on the other hand, was something of invaluable measure to Adi. First friendships for him, pretty much. 

The two embraced deeply as Adi looked up at him like an old friend. Something felt so right being brother in arms with him. 

‘Lord Chamberlain, eh? Th-th-that’s amazing.’ He said as streams of yellow light shot down on a candid looking Nathanial. The sleeves on his arms rolled and furled, giving way for his muscles to peak through in the slightest.

‘Yeah, well it’s not as commendable as being able to tell the future, now is it?’

The two shared a laugh and walked on into a small, circular field where soldiers sparred with training swords and spears. Men in all black, tightly fitted clothes sat on the side, watching.

‘Those are Wielders, mate.’ Nathanial said, pointing that way. 

‘So you’re not going back to Loazer?’ Adi asked, stutter-free. 

He winced, looking up at wiola and turned towards Adi, ‘I’m not quite sure yet, my friend. Even if I do, only temporarily. To assist them in these warring times. You see, message doesn’t come across from land to land as fast as in your planet. It’s going to take at least another week or so for me to get proper word on what’s going on. Last I heard there were tensions between my father and a lord friend of his. But let’s see what’s to come of it. We can only speculate.’

‘Well, I-I n-need you here too, my lord. Your king does as well. Who’s g-going to train me i-if you’re gone?’ Not so stutter-free.

‘Ha! Adi, you make me laugh. There’s hundreds of men here who’d probably do a finer job than I.’

‘A h-hundred less I’d have to train me.’

‘Ay, that’s a lad.’ Nathanial said, jesting loudly, patting him on the back. ‘Come on now, don’t you want to train?’

The two made their way into the circular field.

‘Oh! And I see you met my…Grace, what are you again?’ Nathanial called out, cheekily smiling at Grace. She smiled ever so cheekily back, ‘Your scribe…o-of sorts.’ 

‘Y-yes…I did.’ Adi said back, smiling at her.

‘Well,’ Nathanial said, moving close to Adi, ‘she’s a feisty one lad. Don’t take her signals to heart.’ 

It was funny how he called him lad even though he was only two years older than Adi.

‘Oh, these grounds are nice and all, but the training places we have down in the West, my friend. Those are a sight.’ He said, walking alongside Adi. Grace followed. ‘They’re like tens of…what do you call it, the one on your planet? In Rome, I believe…’

‘The Colosseum.’
‘Ahhhh, that’s the one. The Gladiators’ arena. We have more than tens of those, easily.’ 

Adi’d learned that Nathanial was a man who loved expeditions. He was a traveller by nature, and his gem-boats had taken him to Earth quite a few times. Unfortunately, the men here believed it to be cursed to bring weapons and objects of earth back to Erhin, and so it was travels only for Nathanial. 

‘I’d like to come down to the West some time. M-meet your family.’

‘Why, you must!’ 

‘S-soon. I w-will.’

They entered the sparring circle, and all the soldiers stood upright at guard instantly. Nathanial was handed two training swords, and he gave one to Adi. 

So sleek, so elegant. Far better than our guns, innit? He thought in his head, inspecting the lovely sword.

‘Alright, lad. Head up!’

***

Chapter 30; The Charge of The Bremingade

/The Commons’ Castle

What a close fekhing call that’d been. And what a shame that Theren hadn’t recognise that she would have had to use her Triple Bows in that fight.
And yet she was right; their arrows were depleted, the bows strained and not ready for use in the actual seizure of the Bremingade. They still had the rest of their siege-men and all their advanced equipment, but having suffered a loss of nearly a thousand on the battle in the field, this one was going to be a hard one to overcome. 

The company of four thousand siege men and Crocodiles sat in the war camps and across the halls of the Commons’ Castle, just a few leagues outside the Rolan Manor. The Commons’ Castle was a massive fortification meant to house all the helpers, soldiers, staffing, workers and men of the Lordship. It was absolutely gigantic. Set off the border of Kenneth, it cut across the wall that divided Kenneth and the rest of Northern Loazer. It was a beast of a grey building, extending to the left and right on four to five different flanks on each end. Stone walls and grey, undecorated interiors made up for most of the castle.

Theren and her nine spies, alongside Lothar, were housed in a main room, serviced by a few men who’d brought in refreshments. Not even a sixth ago, all the soldiers had moved in. The ailment assessors had been working their hearts out to fix the wounds of the injured soldiers, refreshments were being brought in for all the exhausted ones, alongside beds and adequate spacing for rest. The soldiers were undergoing their recovery period. Theren had been trying to decide when to lay siege on the Bremingade. The options seemed clear; wait for her men to recover fully, or attack as soon as possible and risk no further the safety of her brother and father.

The conflict of decision killed her within, as she weighed her options out in her mind. She absent-mindedly sat at the corner of the room, on a small chair with an extension for her legs. Lothar watched from the side, with a face of constant worry and wide eyes, as the nine spies debated on the matter and attempted to figure out the solution to the problem. The torch lit, small room reminded Theren of the confines of Shen’s room, or Isolde’s room, where they’d usually carry their business. The walls closed in on the red dressed Theren, and she felt an urge to just run free and atop the mountains. She wanted a gust of cold breezy wind to blow against her skin and for her red dress to fall off, as she stood on top of a peak, looking down at the entire world. She wanted to break the walls of Kenneth and gallop away on the sleekest Stallion.

And yet the red dressed part of her kept her confined in the uncomfortable, unbreathable environment of decision making and responsibility. 

It’s all a facade. My face is a facade. It’s all false…her uneasy thoughts spoke, filling her mind with gutting truths and untruths.

‘My friends! My friends!’ Pires called out amid the chaos of noise, as he stood up off his chair, accidentally hitting his head on the ceiling and squealing.

‘Oh, the pig! It’s like Chronisc took the fekhin pig by his legs and stretched em’ out to make ya!’ Hvit ranted at Pires, sweaty and a tad bloody from the fight. His falchion sword’s sharp end was on the ground, Hvit holding the hilt in a gruesome fashion. He was distraught, clearly so. It was the first war that some of her spies had fought, but most of them had been soldiers before, and so were trained and skilled with the sword. She’d made sure of that when recruiting her men. 

‘Hvit, that was uncalled for. Can I please have a word?’ He asked, low, booming voice sounding soft amid the noise.’

‘We’ve got to take a break! Don’t you understand?’ Woura, the middle aged, wiser spy, strained his voice to say, ‘Our soldiers won’t be able to fight! They need time!’

‘Yeah, you fekha, time in which the Lord and the Lady’s brother could be killed in! We need to get up and running as soon as we can!’ Dek, the earthian argued. He seemed to intently keen on finding out a problem and involving himself in the activities. The sage spirit from the North had brought Dek here and advised Theren to take her in. Over the last few years he hadn’t been short of decent as a spy but wasn’t anything all too special either. However, she wen’t by the word of Rys and kept him in her group. To give Dek props, he tried, and tried hard.

The chattering ensued for a few more minutes until Theren finally stood up and briskly waved her hand for silence. She took a foot off and paced up and down the room as the gloomy spies looked here and there, waiting intently to hear her next few words. She didn’t precisely know what she was going to do. She didn’t entirely know her decision, or which one to take, or whether she was even going to be sure of it. But her men waited upon her and needed an answer. She knew that to be a ruler, it was her who was going to have to change everything by making one decision.
Her who’d be blamed for the toppling of a kingdom for a bad decision. 

It was her call that would cause a domino of pieces of her country to fall one by one; all initiated by her. A foul, loathsome ruler. All her subjects would laugh at the fact that a woman was ruling the kingdom. She’d be sure to fail them all and—

‘My lady?’ An elegant, measured voice called out. Isolde’s, it had to be. She tuned back into attention and faced him.

‘We strike today.’ She whispered, as grins and woes flooded the room. ‘We don’t have a choice. We must get my father and my brother back.’

She did want to get Rothrin back. He wouldn’t stand in her way for gaining control. She wasn’t too sure about her father though. Wouldn’t it just be a lot easier to have him finished—

Tuck it away, you ungrateful whore. Throw them away. She thought, painfully driving away the thoughts of her nasty temptations. The whispers of Chronisc almost pulled her to dismay. 

‘The Lady’s right.’ Hvit said, standing up with the help of his sword.

‘Our men are fierce. Our Crocodiles’ jaws wide, and are hearts tough. We strike today, and we SEND THOSE VICERS TO THEIR ABYSS FROM WHERE THEY CAME.’ He said fiercely. Theren nodded in agreement, followed by the rest of the men, save for Woura, who looked upon him with a frown. 

‘I may not agree with this decision,’ the middle aged, wrinkled man said, ‘but I’ll follow the Lady anywhere she goes.’ 

Minutes later, the lot of them cleared out, and Theren and Lothar walked alongside Isolde across the barracks to go and meet Aldin Kora. He had supplied approximately three thousand of the troops and siege-men for the attack. He’d sourced them from countries they were already in debt to, but had also corrected her misinformed notion of the number of soldiers they could actually afford to send for war, debts and all counted.

‘I’m fekhin scared, Theren,’ Lothar said, tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, ‘we’ve lost thousands. How’re we going to win the fight?’

‘No, you fool. We’ve lost about a thousand, they’ve lost more.’ Theren responded, irritably. What does he think he knows? The fool’s assumptions are ridiculous. She thought to herself, cheesed off with her younger brother. 

Soon, Aldin approached with a meek smile, as usual, across his kind face. 

‘My lady.’ The croaky old man bowed. ‘Have you taken a decision on the day of the siege?’

‘Yeah. We attack in a second of the clock.’ A second would be 6 hours. ‘We give our soldiers enough time to recover, and we minimise the risk of death for my father and brother.’ 

‘Oh, my dear. You make a fine commander, have you been told?’ Aldin said, earnest eyes staring at her. She let out a soft, but troubled smile and walked on with the man.

***

Chronisc’s grave and all. 

Hvit and company were about to face a second war without the gap of even a day. 

And they were going to win it. 

The large falchion sword rested across his soldier. Hvit glared at the passing soldiers, fury and unrest boiling within him. A thirst for battle, in fact. He may not have the same skill as that boy fighter Connor, but he sure as hell knew how to cut up some large, meaty vicers into chunks. 

‘Get a mate on ye, sixty on it?’ Rob said, turning around and shuffling his laces.

‘How much pipe weed have you had, you babbling fekhin monkey?’ Hvit asked, sourly. Rob blankly stared back at him with a look of confusion.

‘Oh you fekha.’ Hvit smacked him across his cheek, sending him into a spur of blinks.

‘The ’tis it mate? Fuck off.’ 

‘Our battlements are going to be emptied in a third. We’re charging on the Bremingade and this is your state?’ 

‘I get high before a fight. It helps.’

Hvit considered taking a puff, but put aside his temptations and focused instead on getting in the zone for the battle to come. Dodging his way around hundreds of fiercely trained vicers was not going to be an easy task, granted. But it was definitely going to be fun. 

The two of them were sat in the largest common barrack, where soldiers were finishing their recoveries and plating up. The two of them were at the edge of the room, back against the concrete wall. Marble entangled with rough stone. A strange sensation to feel. 

Soon, Connor approached the two and took a seat, taking out his water-skin and having a drink. 

‘It’s like ye already know, we’ll cut ‘em up hard and dry mate! Midnight meat to decorate our walls, eh?’ He confidently said. Midnight was the term often used to describe vicers because of their skin colour.

‘Ah, yes. My friend, you’ll cut up less than me though.’ Hvit replied, sharpening his sword with a rough cut stone. 

‘I’m calling ye out on it! I’ll get forty above. You’ll finish on twenty kills m'ro.’ Connor replied

‘Nah…nah…my falchion’s gonna cut into more than just twenty, m’ro. I’ll finish on more than you. You see, you may be better in one-on-one combat, stances and speed and all, but on the war field, none of that matters. It’s shear grit, shear will that’s going to win you a fight. You’re a boy. You don’t know your way around battles.’

‘Dumbest fekhin logic I ever heard. Given a pig has grit, y’think it’ll survive a battle? Not much more than you, m’ro.’ Connor said, laughing at him. Rob laughed alongside as boiling frustration ensued in Hvit’s mind. He pushed it aside for the time being, judging that prewar may not be the best time to belt his sword out and cut through a fellow soldier’s neck.

Resist your urges. Control yourself, you ill tempered beast. 

‘We’re charging on the Bremingade in a third yeah?’ Connor asked. A third was four hours. 

‘Yeah, that’s the news we got—’

The doors to the barrack burst open as two informants alongside a coverlord—leader of the fourth brigade, and brother of Commander Daren—who walked in with great urgency.

‘ALL RIGHT BOYS, LISTEN UP NOW! WE CHARGE NOW! FORM YER RANKS, GET YER WEAPONS, WE CHARGE NOW!’ He screamed furiously, as a look of urgency accompanied his face on his exit. The men began furiously bustling about, organising their things, plating up and getting their weapons. The siege-men were in the other, more spacious barrack which needed room for them to house their ramps, scythes and what not. Screams and shouts echoed across the hall, as Hvit triumphantly began dressing in his plates. A large Crocodile sat across his chest. He felt proud to represent his Lady’s house and colours, and was willing to give anything for her and her nation. 

‘Time to find out, Connor boy, which one of us is the better.’ He said, grinning and facing Connor.

‘Time to find out.’ 

A twelfth or so later, the entire army began marching outside the gates of the Commons’ Castle. On a brave stallion at the front of the ranks sat the beautiful Theren of house Rolan, her nasty little brother Lothar alongside her, as well as Lord Aldin Kora and Isolde. 

They trotted forward.

Men on horses. Men on feet. Men carrying ramps and scythes and bows. This was a force to be reckoned with. The Midnights were going to face an unloading of furious power coming their way.

‘I mean, what were they even thinking, eh?’ Hvit said to Rob.

‘Who?’

‘Layonas. Sending even five thousand vicers is clearly not enough to defeat our forces. He hasn’t even waged full war. This mid ground won’t accomplish anything for him.’

‘True words. But I’m telling you, there’s ulterior motives here. Think about it,’ Rob said, as they passed through the green fields and escaping trees on their way, ‘Layonas need resources to fight their war against Linteres’. There’s no point of them to come here and send their men here.’

‘Unless…’

‘Unless they want to scan the environment. Show us their prowess. Take what is ours.’ Shen said, out of the blue. He stood besides the two of them. The rest of the spies followed in different ranks of the forces.

‘It’d explain the sending of the vicers. But they asked Lady Theren for ten thousand men. That doesn’t fit with that plan at all.’ Hvit questioned.

‘Probably for refueling their forces. Trust me, the Snakes would try to take our lands whether we’d give em ten thousand men or not.’ The Nithronian man said. ‘So they’re sending their vicers here as a warning to us. If we don’t give them what they want, what Altheas asked Lady Theren for, then they’ll send their everything our way. It’s a matter of consequence. Or for us, a matter of decision making. We’ll have to see how our Lady does.’

‘How’d you come up with this?’ Hvit asked, looking at him.

‘I don’t know. Just a thought.’ He said, casually staring in front. Something felt off about the way he responded. His disappearances were a topic of discussion amongst the other spies as well, but they didn’t read much into it. In terms of spying abilities, Shen was probably far better than the rest. Well equipped, well informed, stealthy and steady; he was able to carry out tasks to fuller utilisation than the rest, most of the time. The spies appreciated his effort and so they’d pardoned him just the once. 

‘You good with the sword?’ He asked Shen.

‘Why don’t you ask Pires?’

‘Our dead friend Izaak would’ve answered if he could’ve.’ Pires said back, towering over the rest of the men. All the available helms were too small for his head, so the man wore a strapped tin bucket on his head with carved out holes for vision. The sight was absolutely ridiculous. 

‘Ha. Fair words.’ He said.

The brigade marched on with divided legions of men—soldiers and siege-men. The mighty force seemed as ready today to fight as they were yesterday—unaffected by the loss of a thousand men yesterday. The Crocodilian forces were trained to withstand the toughest losses and to march on like the bosses of the world. Stomping leather boots sounded on grass as the force to be reckoned with bravely marched on. The soldiers’ spear tips were pointed upwards as they were marching, and a soft hiss sounded through the entire army. Trailing wooden wheels of ramps creaked, scythes dragged across the floor, and large metal spikes were held up, strapped onto the ramps and supported by a few siege-men per spike. Those weapons were specifically interesting. Hvit was thoroughly anticipating this fight, with fear, stress, and thoughts of death floating around his head parallel to anger, motivation, and a thirst to kill.

It was going to be a long day.

***

It’d been a few hours since the march had begun. Theren had established clear orders for citizens of Kenneth and surrounding towns to keep clear of the streets over these few hours. The army’d just passed Jutei, which meant they were approximately few hundred more metres away from the Bremingade. The anticipation was killing her. Was she going to be able to lead on an entire force? Her father had trained her in archery but she lacked in commanding forces. Luckily enough, she had Lord Aldin by her side to assist her and form her army’s lines, and essentially control the attack. The nervousness killed her. She held tightly onto Isolde’s hand and couldn’t let go.

I can’t believe Altheas would do this to me…take away my father’s second man and hold my family captive. I can’t…Theren felt shocked at the thought. The love between the two of them was so strong at a point of time that she was astounded at the fact that he’d orchestrated all of this. She tried to tuck away her nudging thoughts for the time being and focus on what was to come instead. 

‘You’re going to do greatly, my lady.’ Isolde said with a calm voice, holding her back, across horses. She turned to look at her brother, who shared the same look of scaredness on his face. He was dressed in shining green plate, but at the junctions there weren’t bulky screws and hinges, instead he wore a thin plate of armour with a flexible fabric joining the different pieces to compliment his agility, or his skinny figure. Depending on which way one would look at it. 

Cold autumn winds blew across the faces of all the soldiers who halted march at a distance of a hundred metres from the Bremingade. 

The tower was absolutely enormous.

Guarding the beast of a castle was an enormous grey wall made of bricks of stone and sharp wires at the top of it to keep intruders out, of course. Brick designs of the mortar ages lay flat across the platforms above and below the walls. Behind the behemoth defensive walls were domes structured with the bricks of enormity itself; a set of triplets of domes formed the entire structure of the castle. Around it were complimentary buildings and massive spikes shaped like spears. These spikes shot straight up into the sky like an endless stream of arrows firing upwards. The spikes were complimented by platforms on ascending levels of it alongside ladders leading upto each of them. Theren could see vicers standing atop each of them with what seemed to be bows strung across their shoulders. This was not going to be an easy fight from any angle. 

‘What’s that?’ Lothar said, pointing at what seemed to be a small source of light from afar. Theren shifted around in her saddle until she got a clearer vision.

Wells of Chronisc’s hell.

Pots the size of wells stood atop the ground with what seemed to be endless flames burning from within it. Lines and lines of archers stood near it, and another bunch of them circling it. Humans and vicers both stood united, wearing orange colours, the crab being the ren-call of the Sarronas—and the different shade of green of Koralisar’s house. The lighter green than the Rolans—the green of the venomous snake. The vicers dawned silk green robes to compliment their tough skin, but some were also dressed in armour. Theren and her army approached a gate which was slate in form and green in colour. A mechanism from behind sounded as the large gate slowly opened to reveal a force by the thousands within it. The armies seemed to have replenished their source of vicers even more, this force was probably north of five thousand in itself. As the gate opened, the vicers proudly screamed their war cries and hit the butts of their spears on the ground.The burning pots of fire were clearly visible now; they seemed like fire from the depths of Chronisc’s own eyes, if anything. Seemingly from behind the army lines, an ugly Midnight approached, bearing a longsword on his right hand. It was the same teenager she’d seen fighting fiercely outside the Rolan Manor. The grey stallion on which he was mounted came to a halt in front of the company of Theren’s men.

‘Know that there is a purpose that you do not understand, lady Theren.’ The teenager said, dauntingly so. He had an underlying voice that was of an adult, but it was relatively easy to tell teenage vicers apart from fully grown ones. 

‘And what purpose do your men seek that I do not already know? Fucking fools.’ Theren spitefully replied, hand at the hilt of her sword. The teenage Midnight turned around and giggled slightly, ‘Fancy dress, lady. Wonder how long you can keep it on.’ A cheer sounded through the crowds, both woos and war cries, as she stood terribly ashamed, waiting to give a—

‘FIRE AT THE BOY!’ Theren suddenly screamed from a place she didn’t know existed. Archers quickly lined up their arrows and began firing at the escaping boy, who dodged all in his path and found his way behind closed gates before casualty. 

War-horns began blowing and the armies on both ends began readying up. Theren’s siege-men took line ahead of the soldiers and began laying their equipment in front of the gigantic walls. 

‘DO NOT REST, MEN! WE TAKE BACK WHAT IS OURS WITH NO MERCY AND NO WEAKNESS. TODAY WE SLAUGHTER THE MIDNIGHT VICERS AND SEND THEM BACK TO THEIR HELLISH CAVES IN KANDOR!’ Theren screamed at the top of her lungs, unsheathing her sword and leading the charge of The Bremingade.