FlyingJesus
24-09-2006, 11:59 AM
This is the prelude and first three chapters of my work in progress, Genesis A.D.
It's long yes, about 25 paperback-book-sized pages, so I'm not expecting many people (if any at all) to read the entire thing, but if you wish to then full criticism is very welcome. I also acknowledge that some parts may be quite confusing or left without answers, that's because it's the first 3 chapters only and so things will be revealed. Still, tell me if there is anything that strikes you as incomplete in its description, I'll note it and make sure it's all worked out. There is also some mild swearing, which will of course be filtered out with stars. Thankyou :)
Oh yeah: All characters, plots and places copyright Tom Hopkins 2006 © :8
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Prelude.
A labyrinth of colours. The spectrum of the universe opened up to me. Creation… my will. Life… whatever I might choose for it. I sculpt, as if from clay and water, each part of my new world. Some cliffs over the sea, a stretch of coarse desert, wide areas of trees – each one a new model and none the same as the next.
There goes my beginning.
Power of a God. Sorcery, divinity, immortality, all mine for the taking. Light… I am the switch. Death… I am the scythe. Zoom in, zoom out, make a change to my view. Step back and squint. Watching my world: Dæmons ravaging the lands hunted by chivalrous knights, Mer-People exploring new depths of unpolluted clearwater oceans, dragons gliding over grey-blue mountain ranges.
Wait for my beginning.
Energy in my palm. All the rivers of the world flowing within me. Breath… mine to take. Existence… under control. Adding the final touches, the last brushstrokes, the closing of the curtains. A snap of my fingers, a wave of my hand, a nod of my head – weaving the fabric of existence as I move to the music of creation, electrifying exertions erupting into a series of short, stabbing steps.
This is my beginning…
One.
Long strides he takes, kicking up dust as he moves. This is Tweed, my companion, sparring partner, fellow general, friend. On his feet tight black boots cling, covered partly by the long leather trousers he wears on occasions such as this. They crawl up his legs, and sway wildly as he marches. Tweed never did like them tight. I smile and remember this, knowing that he would never change. Even with our new duties, our new campaign.
War.
A breath of wind blows, and the grey wolf-fur jacket of this 6’3" beast of a man flows about his body, hiding his 4-foot long broad sword that hangs from a heavy chain connected to his belt and over his shoulder.
‘Nearly there huh?’ under his breath, the question he asked himself quietly, but so that others could hear it and be comforted. It’s how he was, a team man. Even though he had command of part of the most powerful army I had ever known, but still he found time to know exactly how to react to every emotion, every situation, every word.
‘Just over the horizon,’ I replied, and he turned to face me, still walking. Smiled, acknowledging my inability to converse. It was always Tweed who gave rallying speeches and I who barked harsh orders to the troops… it was hard being a Prince that no-one knew.
‘Tired?’ I enquired. Anything to relieve the tension.
‘As I ever will be. Not wanting to go there again in a hurry.’ he replied, a jolly tone in his voice, even after what we’d just been through. War was never happy, but then again, Tweed wasn’t War. I knew he, I, and all of our remaining army ached and bled, yet still we marched home with heads high, an air of triumph guiding our dead feet.
There, just creeping up into view it came: home. That tall gateway, the patrolled walls connected. The castle with the village surrounding it which although I couldn’t yet see, I could envision perfectly in my mind how it had been before we had left 4 weeks previously…
It was in the rains of May.
It was in the season of hope.
There I was, Prince Veritu, General of the Eastern Army, a Prince bound by decree of my parents to a life with a sword and enforced by their will. Walking alone in the morning, dew upon my bare feet, each drop a sparkling jewel of translucency. The sky is a light grey, with the sun just peering forward, daring? No, it stays hidden by a cloud. Rain today. There was always rain, but it did naught to dampen the spirits of the people. Here, peasants, warriors, nobles, even royalty, lived in peace with one another, and sometimes the most humble of the upper class persons would marry into a lesser family. Such was the power of love and law combined – love compelling, law allowing.
It was in the words you say.
It was in the hangman’s rope.
Walking, walking, forwards, left, forwards, left, forwards, right, stop. I passed many things, but how much do we notice of the beauty of our natural surroundings? Flowers struggling to grow and show themselves up and through the street cobbles. A bird of a different colour, of a different song. The flight of a bumblebee, the call of a cat, the sting of a gnat. All this created by one being, one entity, one God.
It was in the darkness of dawn.
It was in the cold of night.
Or so some religions said. I myself was never sure, never quite willing to accept anything from the mouth of men. Men relied too much on themselves, too greedy to show a real truth. What I had never realised was that truth is all around us in all that we have not yet done, and what we must soon do. I walked on again, the delightful smell of a morning in paradise on the ledge of my lip. Bypass the baker starting his loaves. Slip quietly by the weavers shop – I never could stand his wife’s nattering. Away I go into the day, toward the castle and my own quarters, where I might sleep alone, no exercise before my slumber.
It was in the Dæmon’s spawn.
It was in the Winter’s bite.
… A hard sigh brings me abruptly back to reality and the present, and I realise that it came from me. We were now less than a league from home, our Kingdom of the Nameless, whose King is Might and Queen is Wisdom. Their two daughters, my sisters, are named Rhyme and Reason, and have more power than we men can ever dream of. Among the 18 generals of the army, 7 of us are Princes, but it matters little, as we are all of us raised equal, and our eternal parents, whose names even we have forgotten over the centuries, allow little by way of hierarchy within the generals. It is my brothers and sisters who do all of the real ruling of the city however, the 9 of us quarrelling endlessly and plotting one against each other, making secret alliances between ourselves to promote our own claims to the throne should our father ever abdicate or be taken by Mort, the Lord of Death, to spend the rest of that which we call Time in the Halls Of Shadow.
I look about me and know that all 18 of the generals have survived both the battle and the long journey back. This news brings me both joy and ill-boding, for I know that each day that my brothers live brings me closer to my own doom. Four family members have already fallen to an assassin blade, no doubt controlled by various brothers and perhaps even one of our dear sisters, and trust isn’t something that those of our blood are used to. It surprises me still that I have found solace and understanding in fellow General Tweed, who, although not a brother, is more fraternal to me than anyone in my household ever has been. He is perhaps the greatest swordsman alive that I am not related to, and better than one or two of those even. Born of a huntsman and a girl not unattractive in her youth, he had risen to favour of my father in marrying a lady of a wealthy house, and had there learned to ride, to wrestle and to fence like the best of us.
Another sharp readjustment to my surroundings tells me I have wandered too far into my reminiscence again, and I strain to keep myself together, just 10 furlongs or so to go before we reached the gates. I prepare myself for the final 20-minute march, and begin to plan how I can avoid the welcoming procession in order to get rested, that I might have a night of revels in a tavern, taking upon myself an image that is not my own and drinking away the horrors of the dæmons I encountered in battle not yet a week ago, dæmons that still haunt my sleep on occasion.
I drag my feet upwards and forwards in the direction of our destination, and both feel and hear them land on the hard, dusty path, vibrations resounding in my ears amongst the noise of other men’s footfalls. A weariness that I haven’t known for a decade at least covers me then in a grey mist of sleep, and I now truly must fight the wants and needs of both body and mind to keep moving, onwards and homewards. I keep myself focused on my leg movements, not giving in to the pleasantries that await me in dreams. Left knee bend, swing to’ and down. Right knee, as before, foot down. I count the steps, and reach the 2000 mark before any people are in sight on the battlements of the city or the gateway, and breathe a sigh of relief when I realise that my game has not only made time as to vanish, but has also replaced my weariness with a buzzing in my head of anticipation. Thinking forward I now embrace the idea of attending the celebrations as planned, thoughts flowing through me like water of being hailed in the streets, every man and woman looking upon me and my army with love, and later there would be feasting and music, with dancing girls to each of our fancies and more beverage than a titan could hold within himself.
With the gates no more than 200 paces from us, my eldest brother Kalmar signals to the flag-bearer to lift up the standard of our family, a gigantic flag depicting a green hawk ripping apart a blue eagle on a plain white background. I knew that the meaning behind this strange picture was as complicated as our family, and though most of our men knew it, most had been told the meaning by others, and had not realised it for themselves. The hawk was placed above the eagle, and obviously represented our kingdom and our family. A hawk had been chosen because of all creatures of the air, the hawk is renowned for its farseeing, and our father believes he can see any place in the world if he wishes. The eagle is a representation of our enemies, a sign that however strong they may be they will meet death and destruction at our hands. The white background is a show of the purity that conflict arises from, which is where most go wrong with their predictions. It was fitting for the kingdom that claimed to be as old as creation and just as grand.
As the flag is raised each of the generals as one give the order to march to attention, and the clatter of armour that now echoes around us could well have been heard at the now desolate battlefield from which we came as each man straightens up and clasps his sword to his heart as we advance upon the path. At a glance from above, through the eyes of a bird, we must look as a great metallic sheet, gliding across the wide dust road towards the equally impressive gates, which, I can see ahead of me, are just beginning to open as we march forward. On closer inspection of the army we are somehow even more impressive, and a strong sense of pride washes over me, droplets of it dripping off me as I walk on and splashing those around me with an aura of genuine happiness that seems to spread into the whole army, and we are all suddenly re-energised.
With the entirety of our grand army of the East high on endorphins, the generals and I reach the shadow of the gateway a few paces ahead of the other infantry. The cavalry rides behind so as not to obscure the view of our marching men, the only exception being the standard-bearer, raised on his white horse which is draped with green cloths and silks, dressed all in green himself and skin painted a deep forest green with the crushed petals of a bouquet of Lluria flowers to complete the effect, with a drum attached to the saddle for the marches into battle. The drum lies untouched for now, and instead Kalmar raises his horn and gives two short blasts followed by two longer soundings – the signal that we have returned victorious.
The entire army halts and stands to attention, stretching back from the gate across one of the many roads toward our city. I look up at that ancient gateway, more beautiful than any other structure in the East, and symbolic to the core. At either side of the base a carved angel stands, 17 feet of the way up. These angels face each other with bodies twisted inwards and feet facing away from the city, and their colossal hands are raised to head height, and upon their palms and scalps they hold the next part of the gateway, perfectly elliptical masses of solid stone, with sculpted hawk claws jutting out at angles, scattered about the front of these great monoliths, which also measure at 17 feet straight upwards. Atop these lies the walkway upon which the most important of city guards keep watch, patrols made constant and flowing throughout every second of the day, every day. Where the pathway of the gatehouse meets that of the walls at each end there is a spiral staircase leading down to the ground inside the city, and also a thick oak door to the walls which can be bolted as needed in case of attack, but is more for show, being of the finest trees grown in the most perfect of environments and shipped to our city in times before more sophisticated transport means had been achieved. Along the entirety of the gatehouse and wall were, are, always will be, the circular murder-holes for pouring burning oil, rocks and acids upon attackers, gilded around the insides and kept polished and lubricated ritualistically, inspected by the chief of guards in each sector and marked as a show of respect for our city and our prosperity under monarch rule.
I have to shield my eyes against the glare of Grotta, our summer sun, as I look further up still to the turrets, watchtowers climbing far above the city via the same stairs that lead to the ground, each curved brick placed perfectly to make these cylindrical menaces, roofs coning up to two mighty spires upon which each a flag is raised constantly, an unreachable taunt to enemies of the city. My gaze becomes fixed for a few moments as I take in the beauty of that entire construction before turning downwards once more, and I am brought back to the flat earth, my view now panning horizontal across from one angel to the other.
At the last roll call in the morning before we left our temporary camp we estimated that perhaps 21,000 of the 35,000 men we left with would return among the living to the Citadel That Is All, where housed is the Pool from which we drew these forces, men of all Eastern Alliance territories called forth, answerable all of them to the wishes of my father. We bade them come to us by means of Multipositional Radar Magicks, an idea thought up by my brother Ogtirk and developed by Rhyme and Reason, the sisters so old that it is speculated by some (often those with reason to oppose the principality it must be said) that at least one of them mothered at least one of us brothers.
I myself care little for where my genealogy comes from, believing myself to have next to nothing in common with any of my brothers, perhaps with the exception of my younger brother Reynold, with whom I have spent many a night and often days also discussing the plausibility of worldly religions, he being religious - at least for the sake of arguments, which he does love - and I calling myself a Truthseeker, a title I allow myself for the fact that I make study of religion, and pick out any minor truths that may lie hidden among the ancient texts. Brothers Ogtirk and Magrann flat out refuse to believe that any being more powerful than father exists. Kalmar, Reynold and Sik are the religious sort, Sik more so than any priest I have ever spoken with, and so defensive about his beliefs that I seldom seek his company. Myself and my final afore unmentioned brother Rhei share many similar views on religion, but I have never been able to bring myself to trust him enough to befriend fully. This is in part because I am unlikely to ever forgive him for beating me in a tournament of skills many winters ago by drugging me with my water pitcher beforehand, so atoning any wrongs he had caused Father, and placing him above me in the succession list. Being of a dignified nature I did not let slip the fact that I had been drugged, as it’s devilish difficult to prove such a thing, and would have been seen as a jealous stab at my brother. Reynold and Ogtirk, neither of whom care much for the throne or it’s affairs, feel that Rhei was behind more than one of the assassinations of previous brothers, and I am inclined the agree with them, at least on this matter. All grievances and quarrels aside, and despite his lack of ambition, we all hold an unspoken fear and respect for Ogtirk, the inventor of the MRM, and subsequently named the Moon of War, for his efforts have truly moved the tide, and we hope to soon wash over the Western armies in full totality.
The horn sounds again, this time carrying the message that the gates are to be opened for our entrance, and in the silence the sound of cogs being turned and the green reinforced steel gates scraping the ground become audible. A messenger from the palace courts, who I recognise at Collo, steps forward to occupy the space between the two gigantic posts of the gatehouse and reads aloud from a piece of parchment.
‘By decree of the palace and its Right Royal Monarchs, the army of the East is to be warmly welcomed home, and a festival to be held on condition of victory,’ he recites.
‘Party time, boys,’ comes a loud whisper from the direction of Kalmar, grinning like a court jester.
‘A parade is ready as per the usual battle victory honouring ceremonies, as well as the official knighting of heroes, and a service will be held to show respect for those deceased before the men not of this land return to their own respective villages, towns and cities at the end of the week,’ Collo continued. ‘Congratulations men, on behalf of all Eastern lands and allies, may your hearts beat ever strong and be remembered for their work in this campaign. Enter, Kalmar, and bring your men, one and all!’ He ended with a roar, echoed by everyone in the city, who eagerly waited for us as close as they could get to the 8-Furlong Walkway, the paved road that led straight from city gate to palace door in exactly 8 furlongs, measured to the quarter inch and credited by every architect as a show of Eastern superiority, with armed guards on constant patrol along the roadsides, which are littered with inset rubies which sparkle in the deep sun Grotta by day and illuminate the path by night, having absorbed Grotta’s gift of light and giving it off slowly, starting at sunset and working through to dawn, enchanted by our father as they were cut.
A horse is brought forward and Kalmar mounts it, a beautiful beast, bred together with a Nolleu – a creature more graceful than the movement of any moon you may wish to speak of – as all royal horses are, a pale yellow in colour and at least 3 hands taller than any normal thoroughbred. The Nolleu whinnies softly as Kalmar pulls the reigns tight, and walks forward, passing them both through the point that separates civilisation from the wilderness in which we stand. The beast turns a quart at Kalmar’s command, and he raises his horn and gives a final blast, long and loud, before turning back into the city and moving on.
As the echo of the horn dies down, the army begins to march once more, bloodstained weapons held against battered breastplates and shields (for those who still had them) raised horizontal to show the smaller, painted version of the flag we all swore fealty to. Chin up, shoulders back, smiles on faces, weary but happy, even those who had suffered injury or loss at battle. This was home, in the truest form, the centre of my universe, and also the main point at which all Eastern Alliance realms could gather at or come to for help.
We are a proud kingdom, and don’t use buffer states to protect ourselves from attacks. We feature our capital at the westernmost point of our territory, leaving ourselves open to attack, but none has come. Our family is one of arrogance, and we know that our enemies fear us, and so we taunt them with our walls, but of late they seemed to have grown in confidence, despite the introduction of MRM on our side of the war, and so we sent out scouts to report on their activity. When our scouts returned, their number halved, they revealed that no great change had occurred, save for their stealth tactics that had claimed the lives of the other scouts. There had been talk of a new militant force amongst the enemy in their camps, we heard, an unnamed entity whispering into the fragile ears of King Trae, our aging enemy, and so we prepared ourselves for coming war. Somewhere a bell chimed the hour before midnight in perfect key, and my world was awash with memories.
Two.
Privileges come and go like flies, my father once told me. They hover around you, just out of reach, and when you finally get them… more often than not it just makes a mess. So it was that on my first day as general, aged seventeen, a plot was discovered to assassinate the Family of Surrogate Brother Generals, a name given to the council that includes all current living generals of a time, a handful of heroes (some retired, some in service), all brothers and sisters of the royal family and of course, Mum and Dad. Such attempts had been made throughout our reign of course, and sometimes with some success, picking off a hero every few years. So it was that the news came not as a shock, but an annoyance, as I had been awaiting my ceremony for years, and now it was to be put off.
There was another man becoming a general on the same day as I, a man no more than 5 years my senior, the warrior Artikuk Tweed. On the day I met him I had almost killed him, for he mocked my youth at such a young age himself, and being of royal birth I believed myself then to be above criticism, and it was only his skill with a blade that gave him time before a guard came past and noticed, breaking up the duel. From then on I gained more respect for Tweed each day, often watching him spar against the men that he trained in the courtyard behind his suites. He had natural skill with a blade it seemed, having never been taught, and his technique was like that of a madman, making moves that would appear foolish and clumsy before flicking his gigantic sword just the right way to catch his opponent off guard, and then another turn of the wrist to bring the flat of the blade upon the attacker, knocking him to the ground and so ending the fight, as was the custom in training. His combination of skilled fencing techniques and berserk rushes was quite a thing to watch, and so I did, leaning out of a window in a storage room, of which I had made quite a cosy hide-away that I could survey Tweed’s training taking place; marches, duels, drills, repair, and one skill that I had never seen being taught to soldiers – medical care. It truly amazed me that he had thought of something so simple that could save us so many men. Of course, few among the many men would ever amount to much in that field, but it would be useful to us for our fighting comrades to know simple methods of medicine - dressing wounds and such. I was beginning to understand the genius of General Artikuk Tweed.
One evening, just before a moon had passed after Tweed and myself were instated as generals, I entered my chambers to find a fist-sized package on my bed. It was wrapped crudely in thick, dark paper and tied with a string. There was an envelope laying next to it, made of the same paper, and on closer inspection I noticed it bore two symbols embossed into the wax rather than the customary one, showing me immediately that it was from someone from an important house. My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and I saw what they bore; there was one of a hawk, talons outstretched – the seal of our family, and the other had a quickly sketched flute with a dagger-point extruding from the end. I noticed it to be the mark of Reynold, and I let loose a sigh of relief, glad that I was not about to be summoned away from the comfort of my personal quarters.
I reached into the draw of the cabinet by my bedside, extracting from it a knife to open the letter with, and let it fall onto the feather duvet of my bed after use, ready to open the package after reading the letter. Ye gods, though he was only beginning his teenage years Reynold had literary skills that would best many men of the court, and I had to read through the letter twice to make sure I knew what it was he wanted. I had not seen him since my initiation, and he wanted to meet me for breakfast in the morning. Cheeky sod, he’d invited himself to my suites. Oh well, I did prefer to be in my own area, so there was no reason to complain.
A noise from the corridor startled me, and I hastily put both the letter and package into my drawer before the servant Hauldey, my personal head butler, entered to ask dismissal for the night. I granted it to him and the rest of the staff, telling him to let them all know that I did not wish to be disturbed until Reynold called in the morning, and as he left I rolled over onto my side, and still fully dressed, I slept.
I awoke from dreams of rain to a sunlit room, an orange glow passing through the blood in my eyelids as I tried to ignore the brightness, forcing me to roll over. The form of a person in the bed next to me startled me, and I jumped up and brandished the letter opener at… well, whoever it was. My eyes were yet to adjust to the sudden flood of light that I had let upon them, and all I heard was a fit of raucous laughter – Reynold.
‘You *******!’ I cried. ‘What if I’d attacked you? You should know better than to pull crap like that!’ My words were wasted on the teen, who was drunk with glee at the result of his prank, rolling on the bed, laughing his pre-pubescent laugh, cut short into a muffled noise of confusion as I threw the blanket over his head.
‘Sorry,’ he grunted, pulling himself free from the tangle of sheets, ‘I certainly found it funny’. I hadn’t, and I now feared for my brother, I realised, if sneaking up on soldiers whilst they slept was his idea of fun. As he brushed himself off and straightened his clothes I walked to the window looked out at the day, bright and full of life, with hardly any wind if the trees were anything to go by. A group of about 10 servants passed the gates to the castle, each pushing a cart loaded with breads, cheeses, meats, fish, fruits, vegetables and any other ingredients required to feed the entire number of castle inhabitants, and they spoke to one another as they worked, already up and energetic so early.
Someone else who was not so far away seemed to also have endless energy. Reynold had taken hold of a cane from my wardrobe (which I used only for the most grand of occasions) and was swinging it around the room as if it were a sword.
‘I can teach you to fence properly if you’d like,’ I offered him. Whatever would keep him from breaking anything.
‘I’m not really a sword fighter to be honest,’ he replied. ‘I’d prefer to use an axe or pole-arm when I start going out to battles’. I mulled this over in my head. He’d never struck me as the type to go to war at all, let alone one to want to use such a tricky set of weaponry.
‘Get Sik to show you a few moves then,’ I replied. ‘If he’s not too busy in his praying.’ I made a move to the bathroom area of my suite, and splashed my face with cold water from a bucket. Once I had dried myself with a small towel, I stared into the mirror, and noticed Reynold standing in the doorway.
‘You can call someone to send some food up if you wish,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, and I’m near empty on the gut.’
‘There should be someone coming up pretty soon, I called for a large breakfast for two to be brought up on my way here,’ He said, turning on his heel and walking back toward my bed. He sat down near my pillow and opened the drawer of the cabinet, peered inside.
‘You’ve not opened my present,’ He said blandly, a note of disappointment in his voice.
‘Apologies, brother, but I was interrupted last night and fell asleep soon after. The package had left my mind, I must confess. We’ll open it when breakfast comes to call.’ I turned from the mirror and walked back to the bedchamber, closing the small door behind me.
I approached the bed and let myself fall onto it so that my face was buried in the duvet cover, and Reynold turned over his shoulder to look at me and I lay there, unmoving. I couldn’t see him of course, but I knew there would be a smile flickering across his lips then, for this was a game we had played since we were youngsters. I would pretend to be dead, and he would always try to wake me, despite the fact that I could make myself stiff as a rock, and had never been ticklish. We hadn’t played this in years, and he would know as well as I did that I was just fooling around, trying to cheer him up after I had let him down, but he submitted to the childish urges that I knew he would have, and began his routine of jumping on my back and tickling, until, a few moments later, I sprung round onto my back and caught him across the shins with my right knee as he was in mid-jump, forcing him downwards towards the devilish mock grin on my face, and he gave out a shriek of amusement as I flipped him onto the bed and began tickling furiously about the sides of his neck and shoulders. I knew he was most sensitive there, and I had him like that until he called out for mercy, small tears of laughter rolling down one cheek where he had tried wriggling away.
I stepped off the bed, and still he laid squirming and laughing, so loudly that I barely heard the knock at the main door of my suite, but hear it I did, and so I stepped away from the bed and greeted Hauldey, exchanging my royal blessing for the great trolley of food and drink he had brought up with him. I might have invited him in to eat with me, as I often did, but I had the company of my brother to attend to, and so off went Hauldey to assay other jobs around the grounds, for being my head butler entitled him to a place among the most important of all servants, and so granted him favour in the courts and a boost of respect in the city, and therefore the empire.
I wheeled the trolley into the room and, closing the door behind me, made a left turn to the room I used for entertaining guests. It had a small, square table made of pine (varnished with boiled sap) more or less in the centre, with a large white silk cushion on each side to sit on. I took two plates from the trolley and set them on the table, then placed a pitcher of water and a pitcher of milk between them, with glasses to compliment each plate. Reynold had by now gotten over his fit of tickle-induced giggles and was eyeing up the small feast put before us, his pupils widening as they came to rest upon a bowl of white grapes. It had been almost 3 seasons since grapes had grown in plenty in the empire, due to drought and other natural disasters, and the occasional farming mishaps that were common in our Northern trade allies, and so to have them with the first meal of the day now was a rich luxury, rare even for us in the royal palace of the capital. I chuckled to myself as Reynold manoeuvred himself around the trolley and table, seating himself, eyes fixed on the grape bowl.
‘They look good, huh?’ I said, placing myself opposite, and he snapped out of his trance and grinned at me.
‘Good enough to eat, I’d say,’ he replied, and we began our breakfast. Somewhere a bell chimed 8am in perfect key, and all was right with my world.
Three.
Sitting to breakfast with Reynold was a quiet moment, the only sounds from outside or from the happy munching of our own jaws, content to simply savour the burst of grapes between teeth, the ripping of bread, the sloshing of fruit juice, and every other individual item on the table. Damn my memory, I can’t remember to even a foggy sight what it was that Reynold had left for me in that dark wrapping. I stood in a fresh memory then, away from the peace of my chambers, this time many years on in a military march, a large movement North against a Western Army general who claimed to be a Prince, despite having no claim to the throne of any kingdom. I walked then with Artikuk Tweed, whose half-berserk style of fighting I had witnessed in awe at his training grounds. Where once I disliked the man, I now respected him and allowed him space to move within. There was plenty of space here. For league upon league there was nought but semi-solidified marshland, hardened by a long summer and reeking of decay in Grotta’s hot rays. The ground upon which we trod was a concreted mix of bogwater, dust and dead wildlife, fragile in places and hard as Sik’s war hammer in others. The weather would have been perfect on any other day, with a clear blue, cloudless sky, but on the day of a battle that we could not escape from it was mercilessly hot, posing a threat to how long our water supplies could last before we all perished. Rhei had ordered some of his men to crack holes in the ground in a bid to cool our path, but it simply served to increase the stench that surrounded us, and two men had drowned when they had struck too hard on thin ground.
‘Press on,’ shouted Kalmar from the very front, now walking with his Nolleu at his side. ‘We have a fortress to take!’ As one, the entire mass of the Eastern Army craned their necks to search for signs of any fortress, or even any safe ground. Kalmar let off a large goshawk bird, and it flew due North, the same way we marched. By squinting I could make it out still as it reached ever nearer to the horizon, and then –
‘There! The bird is down!’ a cry from a general up ahead as the goshawk fell and disappeared as a speck on the ground, a far away dust cloud chasing out from the dead bird’s body.
‘Due North it is,’ I called to my men, ‘to the fortress of the false Prince we ride!’ We broke to full march, advancing on our target as a gigantic mass of soldiers, equipped with both siege and hand-to-hand supplies, swords, maces and bows alongside packed-up components for rams, catapults and a mechanical ballista. We did not expect to be more than a few days in taking the fortress, but we had to take into account that we wanted it for ourselves as an outpost to protect our Northern allies, and so could not destroy it entirely without costing ourselves much grief.
The outline of the fortress comes into view in the distance, and slowly becomes clearer, details becoming sharper with each minute passed. It is not long before the marsh is left behind us, and we are on solid grassland once more, and those with mounts clamber up onto them, some two men to a horse, and we all are relieved to have made it so far in such conditions, Grotta still glaring angrily down at us as we prepare to tarnish her view of the earth with enemy blood. A shower of flaming arrows is let loose, falling far short of us, but creating an interesting illusion nonetheless, heat waves making the fortress seem as if to sway, and then as the arrows sink into the ground they fizzle out, and once the smoke is passed we can see clearly our goal. Kalmar calls us to a halt, and the generals ride forward to meet with him. We ride out as one, the 19 generals of the time, and we each raise a standard. Kalmar calls forward,
‘See us now and shake, false Prince. Thy time hath come to an end, accept defeat now and thou shalt be executed with honour, and your men will be let live to serve with the Eastern Alliance. What say you?’ A moment passed, and then a single arrow pierced the neck of a general to Kalmar’s left, a Northerner named Poll. He fell, half slain but still breathing, gasping for air, and Kalmar dismounted his steed to lift him to return to our own camps, which were being set up as we rode back, shields raised to guard against further attacks until we were out of range. When we returned Kalmar took the fallen general and examined him.
‘My lord, I have with me some men trained in medicine, let me take him to them,’ came a voice from behind me. Tweed stood there, arms outstretched towards the man, who was coughing thick blood.
‘Very well,’ spoke Kalmar. ‘Make haste, I don’t wish to allow those Westerners the pleasure of making the first grave here.’ Tweed rode off with the Poll slumped over his horse in front of him towards his camp, and was soon out of sight. We each went then to tell our men what they already were sure of – that we could not hope for a bloodless war, and that the siege was on. Kalmar sent a lieutenant of his own army to bear the news to the fallen general’s men, and to anoint his right hand man as temporary general whilst Poll rested and regained his strength. The mood at each camp was light however, so relieved we were to be out of the baking marshes and on living grass. Small fires were lit as evening fell, and men huddled around, laughing and joking as though we were in our own homelands. I watched one band of men as they recanted wild and descriptive tales of their previous campaigns, another small group talking about the treasures and spoils of war that they hoped to bring back for their wives, and others simply listening to the crackle of fire and chirping of crickets, which were hidden as the twin moons Weltya and Irro covered themselves in low cloud.
As I entered my tent and laid myself down to sleep, I couldn’t help but think that I’d seen all this before, even in this place. Absurd, I knew, the fortress had never been attacked by anyone before, which was probably part of the reason that its master had named himself as a Prince. Still... There was an air of deja-vous that I couldn’t put aside, and though it troubled me, I felt a sense of comfort, as though we had already won this battle before, and would do so again. I tried not to think about it, succeeded, slept.
On the morrow I awoke refreshed but clammy, took myself down to a nearby stream, stripped and washed. The water was far too cold to enjoy, and so presently I was back on land and drying, but I did feel better for it. Once clothed I walked back to camp and entered to mess tent to pick me up a hearty soldier’s breakfast of tough meat, watery eggs and bread with green and blue crust. Needless to say, it wasn’t like home, but it did the job and there was lots to be had. I was met by Ogtirk as I ate, and we had a lengthy conversation about what was to be done over an even more lengthy stream of food. Kalmar wanted the seige to take place with immediate effect, and had set up his catapults already. He had given the order for all generals to do the same and have them brought together at the East wall of the fort. Ogtirk told me he would begin preparations for his ballista once the catapults had commenced fire, which showed that he didn’t foresee a surrender today, and I was inclined to agree.
After we had eaten he left, to go make sure the others had been given the order, and I went to tell my own men. I found a captain of mine, Jannick, and told him to rally the troops to an attention. He was efficient, I must say. My army was assembled before even 15 minutes were up, and so I addressed them.
‘My men,’ I began. ‘As you may have heard, seige is the soup of the day, and we intend to dish it out in no moderation. All catapult tenders are to commence assembly. Those who are part of a ram squadron, you are to help them, and anyone else with seige building experience also. Commander General Prince Kalmar asks that we have all catapults up and at range of the East wall by evening, so Godspeed to you. All men not involved with the building are to train hand-to-hand combat and fitness until sundown. Men,’ I paused for effect. ‘At ease.’ As I walked away across the camp, I heard the murmurs of anticipated troops, and heavy footsteps as they moved to their assigned areas of work for the day. Myself? I would train later, but now I had to speak to my brother.
The land I walked was not all that different to the land from whence we had come, I noticed the deep green of a patch of fragile Lluria flowers here and there, protected by long, pale grasses, I saw young rowan trees dotted about, and off to my far East a dense silvery ash forest at its fullest, leaves well grown and ready to drop in the coming Autumn. The light stream in which I had washed earlier that day extended and widened I saw, and if my eyes did not deceive me then it ran through a lake which doubtless had a slow river to the North Sea. The sky about me served not to remind me of home, but rather was the defining factor that differentiated the land of my father from this. The day was warm, but the sky was a cold blue, only a few clouds but it was as though there was a sheet of ice above us. The clouds themselves were fixed, unmoving, as though trapped in this icy blanket of sky.
I reached Kalmar’s camp, and a man told me that he was currently in his own tent, so with his directions I made my way toward it, noting as I walked just how much more of an army he commanded than I. The green cloth tent was guarded, an as I approached a sentry entered in to tell Kalmar of my visit. He emerged just as I made it to the entrance, saluted, told me I was welcome, pulled aside a door-flap. I walked in, and saw that I was not the only one wanting to address Kalmar – Sik, Reynold and a general named Tarc were already seated and in conversation. I saluted my brothers, said a hello and joined them.
‘Greetings, brother Veritu, and how does today’s noon find thee?’ inquired Kalmar.
‘As well as such conditions allow,’ I replied. ‘ And I trust you are in good shape also, your orders indicate you are truly confident.’
‘Would’st thou think otherwise?’
‘Nay, I’ve been alive long enough to know that if I can trust a brother on anything, it is battle tactics. I hope I haven’t interrupted any private conversation?’
‘I should hope that war is not so private as to be kept from a general or a Prince, and so no, you being both are welcome to our words.’
‘I had rather hoped that the subject was already arisen,’ and truthfully I spoke, for I had no desire to make my brothers think me stubborn by strolling in demanding to talk tactics.
‘If it is not too rude,’ spoke Sik. ‘I feel I must take leave. I promised my captains that I would personally help with the construction of our seige.’ He rose, bid us farewell, and left the tent. A massive man, he was over 6 feet tall and must have weighed close on 400 pounds, and he was all muscle. His hair was short and flat, his arms were long and thick. Today he wear a plain brown tunic, but I knew he had heavy armour that shone an even heavier blue elsewhere, and a gigantic war hammer made of the same stuff. Weilded by any of us it wouldn’t be a welcoming piece of equipment, but Sik’s build and strength made it the ultimate killing tool, and even with my own sword and shield I would not relish the thought of facing him in battle. As far as I can recall, he is the only general who has never been properly injured in battle – and that includes even Kalmar and our father. Many hundreds, or even thousands of men over the centuries have fallen to Sik’s zealous bludgeon.
‘What counsel do you bring to us brother?’ Kalmar asked me.
‘I would have words about the strength of today’s attack.’
‘Aye? What words might be held on your tongue?’
I stopped myself replying, pondered over my answer and instead gave back another question.
‘First I would enquire what plans you have already laid out regarding the shelling of a potentially strong future outpost.’
‘All out as always. The fortress can be rebuilt, lives and time cannot. You should know by now, brother, that I do not do things with but a half of my ****!’
‘Calm, Lord. I did but beg to reason with you, as I do not believe that the False Prince will bend in a day.’
‘So what do you suggest? Ask him nicely again? Send some young chaps down to knock on the door and ask for a cup of sugar? Of course he shan’t yield in a day, but there is precious little to be done against such a man. The siege must continue.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more. I would simply advise that we do not show the full force of our catapults on the first couple of days. Do as little damage as possible, and aim to frighten his men rather than knock down the gates. If still there is resistance, then load up all weaponry – Ogtirk’s ballista included – and show him then why we rule the East.’
He hesitated. I’d given him something to think about, but I could see that the idea troubled him.
‘You expressed concerns that the gentleman occupying the fortress would not stand down in a day. If we go along with your games it will take at least a week to take the place, and I do not relish leaving the city as unguarded as things stand.’
‘Truth, brother, the city needs its men, but what use are they if they are all needed to repair a fortress which could be taken without unnecessary destruction?’
‘You believe a show of power will make this fakester to lose courage and flee then.’ It was a statement, not a question, as my mind was open to him. There was a murmur of general agreement about the tent.
‘If I were a gambling man I’d set a wager on it.’
‘Then I shall play to your wishes. Younger though you be, I do not contest the wills of comrades and brothers when so strongly do their thoughts run. If the three of you will enlighten the others as to the change of plans,’ he nodded towards Tarc and Reynold, who inclined their heads back to him. ‘Then I give your scare tactics three days, today inclusive. The price of your wager in this, Veritu, lies in the lives of men both here and homewards.’
‘Aye, brother, and thankyou. Good will to thee’
‘Good will.’
I rose, turned to leave. Tarc and Reynold followed me out of the tent after bidding Kalmar their farewells, paid the same homage to me, and went their separate ways to give out the new orders. Myself, I strolled lazily, watched a muddy frog on a wet rock snap at a passing yellow butterfly – missed; saw a long patch of deep green grasses rustle as a small bird ejected from within, holding a fat earthworm in her tiny beak – fresh; heard a slight chirp of crickets, quietening as morning ran on and the dew evaporated to become future rain clouds – dense. Sod it, I thought to myself, and summoned me a runner to send the word on my behalf. Somewhere a bell chimed for midday in perfect key, and foresight brought my world the gift of peace.
It's long yes, about 25 paperback-book-sized pages, so I'm not expecting many people (if any at all) to read the entire thing, but if you wish to then full criticism is very welcome. I also acknowledge that some parts may be quite confusing or left without answers, that's because it's the first 3 chapters only and so things will be revealed. Still, tell me if there is anything that strikes you as incomplete in its description, I'll note it and make sure it's all worked out. There is also some mild swearing, which will of course be filtered out with stars. Thankyou :)
Oh yeah: All characters, plots and places copyright Tom Hopkins 2006 © :8
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Prelude.
A labyrinth of colours. The spectrum of the universe opened up to me. Creation… my will. Life… whatever I might choose for it. I sculpt, as if from clay and water, each part of my new world. Some cliffs over the sea, a stretch of coarse desert, wide areas of trees – each one a new model and none the same as the next.
There goes my beginning.
Power of a God. Sorcery, divinity, immortality, all mine for the taking. Light… I am the switch. Death… I am the scythe. Zoom in, zoom out, make a change to my view. Step back and squint. Watching my world: Dæmons ravaging the lands hunted by chivalrous knights, Mer-People exploring new depths of unpolluted clearwater oceans, dragons gliding over grey-blue mountain ranges.
Wait for my beginning.
Energy in my palm. All the rivers of the world flowing within me. Breath… mine to take. Existence… under control. Adding the final touches, the last brushstrokes, the closing of the curtains. A snap of my fingers, a wave of my hand, a nod of my head – weaving the fabric of existence as I move to the music of creation, electrifying exertions erupting into a series of short, stabbing steps.
This is my beginning…
One.
Long strides he takes, kicking up dust as he moves. This is Tweed, my companion, sparring partner, fellow general, friend. On his feet tight black boots cling, covered partly by the long leather trousers he wears on occasions such as this. They crawl up his legs, and sway wildly as he marches. Tweed never did like them tight. I smile and remember this, knowing that he would never change. Even with our new duties, our new campaign.
War.
A breath of wind blows, and the grey wolf-fur jacket of this 6’3" beast of a man flows about his body, hiding his 4-foot long broad sword that hangs from a heavy chain connected to his belt and over his shoulder.
‘Nearly there huh?’ under his breath, the question he asked himself quietly, but so that others could hear it and be comforted. It’s how he was, a team man. Even though he had command of part of the most powerful army I had ever known, but still he found time to know exactly how to react to every emotion, every situation, every word.
‘Just over the horizon,’ I replied, and he turned to face me, still walking. Smiled, acknowledging my inability to converse. It was always Tweed who gave rallying speeches and I who barked harsh orders to the troops… it was hard being a Prince that no-one knew.
‘Tired?’ I enquired. Anything to relieve the tension.
‘As I ever will be. Not wanting to go there again in a hurry.’ he replied, a jolly tone in his voice, even after what we’d just been through. War was never happy, but then again, Tweed wasn’t War. I knew he, I, and all of our remaining army ached and bled, yet still we marched home with heads high, an air of triumph guiding our dead feet.
There, just creeping up into view it came: home. That tall gateway, the patrolled walls connected. The castle with the village surrounding it which although I couldn’t yet see, I could envision perfectly in my mind how it had been before we had left 4 weeks previously…
It was in the rains of May.
It was in the season of hope.
There I was, Prince Veritu, General of the Eastern Army, a Prince bound by decree of my parents to a life with a sword and enforced by their will. Walking alone in the morning, dew upon my bare feet, each drop a sparkling jewel of translucency. The sky is a light grey, with the sun just peering forward, daring? No, it stays hidden by a cloud. Rain today. There was always rain, but it did naught to dampen the spirits of the people. Here, peasants, warriors, nobles, even royalty, lived in peace with one another, and sometimes the most humble of the upper class persons would marry into a lesser family. Such was the power of love and law combined – love compelling, law allowing.
It was in the words you say.
It was in the hangman’s rope.
Walking, walking, forwards, left, forwards, left, forwards, right, stop. I passed many things, but how much do we notice of the beauty of our natural surroundings? Flowers struggling to grow and show themselves up and through the street cobbles. A bird of a different colour, of a different song. The flight of a bumblebee, the call of a cat, the sting of a gnat. All this created by one being, one entity, one God.
It was in the darkness of dawn.
It was in the cold of night.
Or so some religions said. I myself was never sure, never quite willing to accept anything from the mouth of men. Men relied too much on themselves, too greedy to show a real truth. What I had never realised was that truth is all around us in all that we have not yet done, and what we must soon do. I walked on again, the delightful smell of a morning in paradise on the ledge of my lip. Bypass the baker starting his loaves. Slip quietly by the weavers shop – I never could stand his wife’s nattering. Away I go into the day, toward the castle and my own quarters, where I might sleep alone, no exercise before my slumber.
It was in the Dæmon’s spawn.
It was in the Winter’s bite.
… A hard sigh brings me abruptly back to reality and the present, and I realise that it came from me. We were now less than a league from home, our Kingdom of the Nameless, whose King is Might and Queen is Wisdom. Their two daughters, my sisters, are named Rhyme and Reason, and have more power than we men can ever dream of. Among the 18 generals of the army, 7 of us are Princes, but it matters little, as we are all of us raised equal, and our eternal parents, whose names even we have forgotten over the centuries, allow little by way of hierarchy within the generals. It is my brothers and sisters who do all of the real ruling of the city however, the 9 of us quarrelling endlessly and plotting one against each other, making secret alliances between ourselves to promote our own claims to the throne should our father ever abdicate or be taken by Mort, the Lord of Death, to spend the rest of that which we call Time in the Halls Of Shadow.
I look about me and know that all 18 of the generals have survived both the battle and the long journey back. This news brings me both joy and ill-boding, for I know that each day that my brothers live brings me closer to my own doom. Four family members have already fallen to an assassin blade, no doubt controlled by various brothers and perhaps even one of our dear sisters, and trust isn’t something that those of our blood are used to. It surprises me still that I have found solace and understanding in fellow General Tweed, who, although not a brother, is more fraternal to me than anyone in my household ever has been. He is perhaps the greatest swordsman alive that I am not related to, and better than one or two of those even. Born of a huntsman and a girl not unattractive in her youth, he had risen to favour of my father in marrying a lady of a wealthy house, and had there learned to ride, to wrestle and to fence like the best of us.
Another sharp readjustment to my surroundings tells me I have wandered too far into my reminiscence again, and I strain to keep myself together, just 10 furlongs or so to go before we reached the gates. I prepare myself for the final 20-minute march, and begin to plan how I can avoid the welcoming procession in order to get rested, that I might have a night of revels in a tavern, taking upon myself an image that is not my own and drinking away the horrors of the dæmons I encountered in battle not yet a week ago, dæmons that still haunt my sleep on occasion.
I drag my feet upwards and forwards in the direction of our destination, and both feel and hear them land on the hard, dusty path, vibrations resounding in my ears amongst the noise of other men’s footfalls. A weariness that I haven’t known for a decade at least covers me then in a grey mist of sleep, and I now truly must fight the wants and needs of both body and mind to keep moving, onwards and homewards. I keep myself focused on my leg movements, not giving in to the pleasantries that await me in dreams. Left knee bend, swing to’ and down. Right knee, as before, foot down. I count the steps, and reach the 2000 mark before any people are in sight on the battlements of the city or the gateway, and breathe a sigh of relief when I realise that my game has not only made time as to vanish, but has also replaced my weariness with a buzzing in my head of anticipation. Thinking forward I now embrace the idea of attending the celebrations as planned, thoughts flowing through me like water of being hailed in the streets, every man and woman looking upon me and my army with love, and later there would be feasting and music, with dancing girls to each of our fancies and more beverage than a titan could hold within himself.
With the gates no more than 200 paces from us, my eldest brother Kalmar signals to the flag-bearer to lift up the standard of our family, a gigantic flag depicting a green hawk ripping apart a blue eagle on a plain white background. I knew that the meaning behind this strange picture was as complicated as our family, and though most of our men knew it, most had been told the meaning by others, and had not realised it for themselves. The hawk was placed above the eagle, and obviously represented our kingdom and our family. A hawk had been chosen because of all creatures of the air, the hawk is renowned for its farseeing, and our father believes he can see any place in the world if he wishes. The eagle is a representation of our enemies, a sign that however strong they may be they will meet death and destruction at our hands. The white background is a show of the purity that conflict arises from, which is where most go wrong with their predictions. It was fitting for the kingdom that claimed to be as old as creation and just as grand.
As the flag is raised each of the generals as one give the order to march to attention, and the clatter of armour that now echoes around us could well have been heard at the now desolate battlefield from which we came as each man straightens up and clasps his sword to his heart as we advance upon the path. At a glance from above, through the eyes of a bird, we must look as a great metallic sheet, gliding across the wide dust road towards the equally impressive gates, which, I can see ahead of me, are just beginning to open as we march forward. On closer inspection of the army we are somehow even more impressive, and a strong sense of pride washes over me, droplets of it dripping off me as I walk on and splashing those around me with an aura of genuine happiness that seems to spread into the whole army, and we are all suddenly re-energised.
With the entirety of our grand army of the East high on endorphins, the generals and I reach the shadow of the gateway a few paces ahead of the other infantry. The cavalry rides behind so as not to obscure the view of our marching men, the only exception being the standard-bearer, raised on his white horse which is draped with green cloths and silks, dressed all in green himself and skin painted a deep forest green with the crushed petals of a bouquet of Lluria flowers to complete the effect, with a drum attached to the saddle for the marches into battle. The drum lies untouched for now, and instead Kalmar raises his horn and gives two short blasts followed by two longer soundings – the signal that we have returned victorious.
The entire army halts and stands to attention, stretching back from the gate across one of the many roads toward our city. I look up at that ancient gateway, more beautiful than any other structure in the East, and symbolic to the core. At either side of the base a carved angel stands, 17 feet of the way up. These angels face each other with bodies twisted inwards and feet facing away from the city, and their colossal hands are raised to head height, and upon their palms and scalps they hold the next part of the gateway, perfectly elliptical masses of solid stone, with sculpted hawk claws jutting out at angles, scattered about the front of these great monoliths, which also measure at 17 feet straight upwards. Atop these lies the walkway upon which the most important of city guards keep watch, patrols made constant and flowing throughout every second of the day, every day. Where the pathway of the gatehouse meets that of the walls at each end there is a spiral staircase leading down to the ground inside the city, and also a thick oak door to the walls which can be bolted as needed in case of attack, but is more for show, being of the finest trees grown in the most perfect of environments and shipped to our city in times before more sophisticated transport means had been achieved. Along the entirety of the gatehouse and wall were, are, always will be, the circular murder-holes for pouring burning oil, rocks and acids upon attackers, gilded around the insides and kept polished and lubricated ritualistically, inspected by the chief of guards in each sector and marked as a show of respect for our city and our prosperity under monarch rule.
I have to shield my eyes against the glare of Grotta, our summer sun, as I look further up still to the turrets, watchtowers climbing far above the city via the same stairs that lead to the ground, each curved brick placed perfectly to make these cylindrical menaces, roofs coning up to two mighty spires upon which each a flag is raised constantly, an unreachable taunt to enemies of the city. My gaze becomes fixed for a few moments as I take in the beauty of that entire construction before turning downwards once more, and I am brought back to the flat earth, my view now panning horizontal across from one angel to the other.
At the last roll call in the morning before we left our temporary camp we estimated that perhaps 21,000 of the 35,000 men we left with would return among the living to the Citadel That Is All, where housed is the Pool from which we drew these forces, men of all Eastern Alliance territories called forth, answerable all of them to the wishes of my father. We bade them come to us by means of Multipositional Radar Magicks, an idea thought up by my brother Ogtirk and developed by Rhyme and Reason, the sisters so old that it is speculated by some (often those with reason to oppose the principality it must be said) that at least one of them mothered at least one of us brothers.
I myself care little for where my genealogy comes from, believing myself to have next to nothing in common with any of my brothers, perhaps with the exception of my younger brother Reynold, with whom I have spent many a night and often days also discussing the plausibility of worldly religions, he being religious - at least for the sake of arguments, which he does love - and I calling myself a Truthseeker, a title I allow myself for the fact that I make study of religion, and pick out any minor truths that may lie hidden among the ancient texts. Brothers Ogtirk and Magrann flat out refuse to believe that any being more powerful than father exists. Kalmar, Reynold and Sik are the religious sort, Sik more so than any priest I have ever spoken with, and so defensive about his beliefs that I seldom seek his company. Myself and my final afore unmentioned brother Rhei share many similar views on religion, but I have never been able to bring myself to trust him enough to befriend fully. This is in part because I am unlikely to ever forgive him for beating me in a tournament of skills many winters ago by drugging me with my water pitcher beforehand, so atoning any wrongs he had caused Father, and placing him above me in the succession list. Being of a dignified nature I did not let slip the fact that I had been drugged, as it’s devilish difficult to prove such a thing, and would have been seen as a jealous stab at my brother. Reynold and Ogtirk, neither of whom care much for the throne or it’s affairs, feel that Rhei was behind more than one of the assassinations of previous brothers, and I am inclined the agree with them, at least on this matter. All grievances and quarrels aside, and despite his lack of ambition, we all hold an unspoken fear and respect for Ogtirk, the inventor of the MRM, and subsequently named the Moon of War, for his efforts have truly moved the tide, and we hope to soon wash over the Western armies in full totality.
The horn sounds again, this time carrying the message that the gates are to be opened for our entrance, and in the silence the sound of cogs being turned and the green reinforced steel gates scraping the ground become audible. A messenger from the palace courts, who I recognise at Collo, steps forward to occupy the space between the two gigantic posts of the gatehouse and reads aloud from a piece of parchment.
‘By decree of the palace and its Right Royal Monarchs, the army of the East is to be warmly welcomed home, and a festival to be held on condition of victory,’ he recites.
‘Party time, boys,’ comes a loud whisper from the direction of Kalmar, grinning like a court jester.
‘A parade is ready as per the usual battle victory honouring ceremonies, as well as the official knighting of heroes, and a service will be held to show respect for those deceased before the men not of this land return to their own respective villages, towns and cities at the end of the week,’ Collo continued. ‘Congratulations men, on behalf of all Eastern lands and allies, may your hearts beat ever strong and be remembered for their work in this campaign. Enter, Kalmar, and bring your men, one and all!’ He ended with a roar, echoed by everyone in the city, who eagerly waited for us as close as they could get to the 8-Furlong Walkway, the paved road that led straight from city gate to palace door in exactly 8 furlongs, measured to the quarter inch and credited by every architect as a show of Eastern superiority, with armed guards on constant patrol along the roadsides, which are littered with inset rubies which sparkle in the deep sun Grotta by day and illuminate the path by night, having absorbed Grotta’s gift of light and giving it off slowly, starting at sunset and working through to dawn, enchanted by our father as they were cut.
A horse is brought forward and Kalmar mounts it, a beautiful beast, bred together with a Nolleu – a creature more graceful than the movement of any moon you may wish to speak of – as all royal horses are, a pale yellow in colour and at least 3 hands taller than any normal thoroughbred. The Nolleu whinnies softly as Kalmar pulls the reigns tight, and walks forward, passing them both through the point that separates civilisation from the wilderness in which we stand. The beast turns a quart at Kalmar’s command, and he raises his horn and gives a final blast, long and loud, before turning back into the city and moving on.
As the echo of the horn dies down, the army begins to march once more, bloodstained weapons held against battered breastplates and shields (for those who still had them) raised horizontal to show the smaller, painted version of the flag we all swore fealty to. Chin up, shoulders back, smiles on faces, weary but happy, even those who had suffered injury or loss at battle. This was home, in the truest form, the centre of my universe, and also the main point at which all Eastern Alliance realms could gather at or come to for help.
We are a proud kingdom, and don’t use buffer states to protect ourselves from attacks. We feature our capital at the westernmost point of our territory, leaving ourselves open to attack, but none has come. Our family is one of arrogance, and we know that our enemies fear us, and so we taunt them with our walls, but of late they seemed to have grown in confidence, despite the introduction of MRM on our side of the war, and so we sent out scouts to report on their activity. When our scouts returned, their number halved, they revealed that no great change had occurred, save for their stealth tactics that had claimed the lives of the other scouts. There had been talk of a new militant force amongst the enemy in their camps, we heard, an unnamed entity whispering into the fragile ears of King Trae, our aging enemy, and so we prepared ourselves for coming war. Somewhere a bell chimed the hour before midnight in perfect key, and my world was awash with memories.
Two.
Privileges come and go like flies, my father once told me. They hover around you, just out of reach, and when you finally get them… more often than not it just makes a mess. So it was that on my first day as general, aged seventeen, a plot was discovered to assassinate the Family of Surrogate Brother Generals, a name given to the council that includes all current living generals of a time, a handful of heroes (some retired, some in service), all brothers and sisters of the royal family and of course, Mum and Dad. Such attempts had been made throughout our reign of course, and sometimes with some success, picking off a hero every few years. So it was that the news came not as a shock, but an annoyance, as I had been awaiting my ceremony for years, and now it was to be put off.
There was another man becoming a general on the same day as I, a man no more than 5 years my senior, the warrior Artikuk Tweed. On the day I met him I had almost killed him, for he mocked my youth at such a young age himself, and being of royal birth I believed myself then to be above criticism, and it was only his skill with a blade that gave him time before a guard came past and noticed, breaking up the duel. From then on I gained more respect for Tweed each day, often watching him spar against the men that he trained in the courtyard behind his suites. He had natural skill with a blade it seemed, having never been taught, and his technique was like that of a madman, making moves that would appear foolish and clumsy before flicking his gigantic sword just the right way to catch his opponent off guard, and then another turn of the wrist to bring the flat of the blade upon the attacker, knocking him to the ground and so ending the fight, as was the custom in training. His combination of skilled fencing techniques and berserk rushes was quite a thing to watch, and so I did, leaning out of a window in a storage room, of which I had made quite a cosy hide-away that I could survey Tweed’s training taking place; marches, duels, drills, repair, and one skill that I had never seen being taught to soldiers – medical care. It truly amazed me that he had thought of something so simple that could save us so many men. Of course, few among the many men would ever amount to much in that field, but it would be useful to us for our fighting comrades to know simple methods of medicine - dressing wounds and such. I was beginning to understand the genius of General Artikuk Tweed.
One evening, just before a moon had passed after Tweed and myself were instated as generals, I entered my chambers to find a fist-sized package on my bed. It was wrapped crudely in thick, dark paper and tied with a string. There was an envelope laying next to it, made of the same paper, and on closer inspection I noticed it bore two symbols embossed into the wax rather than the customary one, showing me immediately that it was from someone from an important house. My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and I saw what they bore; there was one of a hawk, talons outstretched – the seal of our family, and the other had a quickly sketched flute with a dagger-point extruding from the end. I noticed it to be the mark of Reynold, and I let loose a sigh of relief, glad that I was not about to be summoned away from the comfort of my personal quarters.
I reached into the draw of the cabinet by my bedside, extracting from it a knife to open the letter with, and let it fall onto the feather duvet of my bed after use, ready to open the package after reading the letter. Ye gods, though he was only beginning his teenage years Reynold had literary skills that would best many men of the court, and I had to read through the letter twice to make sure I knew what it was he wanted. I had not seen him since my initiation, and he wanted to meet me for breakfast in the morning. Cheeky sod, he’d invited himself to my suites. Oh well, I did prefer to be in my own area, so there was no reason to complain.
A noise from the corridor startled me, and I hastily put both the letter and package into my drawer before the servant Hauldey, my personal head butler, entered to ask dismissal for the night. I granted it to him and the rest of the staff, telling him to let them all know that I did not wish to be disturbed until Reynold called in the morning, and as he left I rolled over onto my side, and still fully dressed, I slept.
I awoke from dreams of rain to a sunlit room, an orange glow passing through the blood in my eyelids as I tried to ignore the brightness, forcing me to roll over. The form of a person in the bed next to me startled me, and I jumped up and brandished the letter opener at… well, whoever it was. My eyes were yet to adjust to the sudden flood of light that I had let upon them, and all I heard was a fit of raucous laughter – Reynold.
‘You *******!’ I cried. ‘What if I’d attacked you? You should know better than to pull crap like that!’ My words were wasted on the teen, who was drunk with glee at the result of his prank, rolling on the bed, laughing his pre-pubescent laugh, cut short into a muffled noise of confusion as I threw the blanket over his head.
‘Sorry,’ he grunted, pulling himself free from the tangle of sheets, ‘I certainly found it funny’. I hadn’t, and I now feared for my brother, I realised, if sneaking up on soldiers whilst they slept was his idea of fun. As he brushed himself off and straightened his clothes I walked to the window looked out at the day, bright and full of life, with hardly any wind if the trees were anything to go by. A group of about 10 servants passed the gates to the castle, each pushing a cart loaded with breads, cheeses, meats, fish, fruits, vegetables and any other ingredients required to feed the entire number of castle inhabitants, and they spoke to one another as they worked, already up and energetic so early.
Someone else who was not so far away seemed to also have endless energy. Reynold had taken hold of a cane from my wardrobe (which I used only for the most grand of occasions) and was swinging it around the room as if it were a sword.
‘I can teach you to fence properly if you’d like,’ I offered him. Whatever would keep him from breaking anything.
‘I’m not really a sword fighter to be honest,’ he replied. ‘I’d prefer to use an axe or pole-arm when I start going out to battles’. I mulled this over in my head. He’d never struck me as the type to go to war at all, let alone one to want to use such a tricky set of weaponry.
‘Get Sik to show you a few moves then,’ I replied. ‘If he’s not too busy in his praying.’ I made a move to the bathroom area of my suite, and splashed my face with cold water from a bucket. Once I had dried myself with a small towel, I stared into the mirror, and noticed Reynold standing in the doorway.
‘You can call someone to send some food up if you wish,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch, and I’m near empty on the gut.’
‘There should be someone coming up pretty soon, I called for a large breakfast for two to be brought up on my way here,’ He said, turning on his heel and walking back toward my bed. He sat down near my pillow and opened the drawer of the cabinet, peered inside.
‘You’ve not opened my present,’ He said blandly, a note of disappointment in his voice.
‘Apologies, brother, but I was interrupted last night and fell asleep soon after. The package had left my mind, I must confess. We’ll open it when breakfast comes to call.’ I turned from the mirror and walked back to the bedchamber, closing the small door behind me.
I approached the bed and let myself fall onto it so that my face was buried in the duvet cover, and Reynold turned over his shoulder to look at me and I lay there, unmoving. I couldn’t see him of course, but I knew there would be a smile flickering across his lips then, for this was a game we had played since we were youngsters. I would pretend to be dead, and he would always try to wake me, despite the fact that I could make myself stiff as a rock, and had never been ticklish. We hadn’t played this in years, and he would know as well as I did that I was just fooling around, trying to cheer him up after I had let him down, but he submitted to the childish urges that I knew he would have, and began his routine of jumping on my back and tickling, until, a few moments later, I sprung round onto my back and caught him across the shins with my right knee as he was in mid-jump, forcing him downwards towards the devilish mock grin on my face, and he gave out a shriek of amusement as I flipped him onto the bed and began tickling furiously about the sides of his neck and shoulders. I knew he was most sensitive there, and I had him like that until he called out for mercy, small tears of laughter rolling down one cheek where he had tried wriggling away.
I stepped off the bed, and still he laid squirming and laughing, so loudly that I barely heard the knock at the main door of my suite, but hear it I did, and so I stepped away from the bed and greeted Hauldey, exchanging my royal blessing for the great trolley of food and drink he had brought up with him. I might have invited him in to eat with me, as I often did, but I had the company of my brother to attend to, and so off went Hauldey to assay other jobs around the grounds, for being my head butler entitled him to a place among the most important of all servants, and so granted him favour in the courts and a boost of respect in the city, and therefore the empire.
I wheeled the trolley into the room and, closing the door behind me, made a left turn to the room I used for entertaining guests. It had a small, square table made of pine (varnished with boiled sap) more or less in the centre, with a large white silk cushion on each side to sit on. I took two plates from the trolley and set them on the table, then placed a pitcher of water and a pitcher of milk between them, with glasses to compliment each plate. Reynold had by now gotten over his fit of tickle-induced giggles and was eyeing up the small feast put before us, his pupils widening as they came to rest upon a bowl of white grapes. It had been almost 3 seasons since grapes had grown in plenty in the empire, due to drought and other natural disasters, and the occasional farming mishaps that were common in our Northern trade allies, and so to have them with the first meal of the day now was a rich luxury, rare even for us in the royal palace of the capital. I chuckled to myself as Reynold manoeuvred himself around the trolley and table, seating himself, eyes fixed on the grape bowl.
‘They look good, huh?’ I said, placing myself opposite, and he snapped out of his trance and grinned at me.
‘Good enough to eat, I’d say,’ he replied, and we began our breakfast. Somewhere a bell chimed 8am in perfect key, and all was right with my world.
Three.
Sitting to breakfast with Reynold was a quiet moment, the only sounds from outside or from the happy munching of our own jaws, content to simply savour the burst of grapes between teeth, the ripping of bread, the sloshing of fruit juice, and every other individual item on the table. Damn my memory, I can’t remember to even a foggy sight what it was that Reynold had left for me in that dark wrapping. I stood in a fresh memory then, away from the peace of my chambers, this time many years on in a military march, a large movement North against a Western Army general who claimed to be a Prince, despite having no claim to the throne of any kingdom. I walked then with Artikuk Tweed, whose half-berserk style of fighting I had witnessed in awe at his training grounds. Where once I disliked the man, I now respected him and allowed him space to move within. There was plenty of space here. For league upon league there was nought but semi-solidified marshland, hardened by a long summer and reeking of decay in Grotta’s hot rays. The ground upon which we trod was a concreted mix of bogwater, dust and dead wildlife, fragile in places and hard as Sik’s war hammer in others. The weather would have been perfect on any other day, with a clear blue, cloudless sky, but on the day of a battle that we could not escape from it was mercilessly hot, posing a threat to how long our water supplies could last before we all perished. Rhei had ordered some of his men to crack holes in the ground in a bid to cool our path, but it simply served to increase the stench that surrounded us, and two men had drowned when they had struck too hard on thin ground.
‘Press on,’ shouted Kalmar from the very front, now walking with his Nolleu at his side. ‘We have a fortress to take!’ As one, the entire mass of the Eastern Army craned their necks to search for signs of any fortress, or even any safe ground. Kalmar let off a large goshawk bird, and it flew due North, the same way we marched. By squinting I could make it out still as it reached ever nearer to the horizon, and then –
‘There! The bird is down!’ a cry from a general up ahead as the goshawk fell and disappeared as a speck on the ground, a far away dust cloud chasing out from the dead bird’s body.
‘Due North it is,’ I called to my men, ‘to the fortress of the false Prince we ride!’ We broke to full march, advancing on our target as a gigantic mass of soldiers, equipped with both siege and hand-to-hand supplies, swords, maces and bows alongside packed-up components for rams, catapults and a mechanical ballista. We did not expect to be more than a few days in taking the fortress, but we had to take into account that we wanted it for ourselves as an outpost to protect our Northern allies, and so could not destroy it entirely without costing ourselves much grief.
The outline of the fortress comes into view in the distance, and slowly becomes clearer, details becoming sharper with each minute passed. It is not long before the marsh is left behind us, and we are on solid grassland once more, and those with mounts clamber up onto them, some two men to a horse, and we all are relieved to have made it so far in such conditions, Grotta still glaring angrily down at us as we prepare to tarnish her view of the earth with enemy blood. A shower of flaming arrows is let loose, falling far short of us, but creating an interesting illusion nonetheless, heat waves making the fortress seem as if to sway, and then as the arrows sink into the ground they fizzle out, and once the smoke is passed we can see clearly our goal. Kalmar calls us to a halt, and the generals ride forward to meet with him. We ride out as one, the 19 generals of the time, and we each raise a standard. Kalmar calls forward,
‘See us now and shake, false Prince. Thy time hath come to an end, accept defeat now and thou shalt be executed with honour, and your men will be let live to serve with the Eastern Alliance. What say you?’ A moment passed, and then a single arrow pierced the neck of a general to Kalmar’s left, a Northerner named Poll. He fell, half slain but still breathing, gasping for air, and Kalmar dismounted his steed to lift him to return to our own camps, which were being set up as we rode back, shields raised to guard against further attacks until we were out of range. When we returned Kalmar took the fallen general and examined him.
‘My lord, I have with me some men trained in medicine, let me take him to them,’ came a voice from behind me. Tweed stood there, arms outstretched towards the man, who was coughing thick blood.
‘Very well,’ spoke Kalmar. ‘Make haste, I don’t wish to allow those Westerners the pleasure of making the first grave here.’ Tweed rode off with the Poll slumped over his horse in front of him towards his camp, and was soon out of sight. We each went then to tell our men what they already were sure of – that we could not hope for a bloodless war, and that the siege was on. Kalmar sent a lieutenant of his own army to bear the news to the fallen general’s men, and to anoint his right hand man as temporary general whilst Poll rested and regained his strength. The mood at each camp was light however, so relieved we were to be out of the baking marshes and on living grass. Small fires were lit as evening fell, and men huddled around, laughing and joking as though we were in our own homelands. I watched one band of men as they recanted wild and descriptive tales of their previous campaigns, another small group talking about the treasures and spoils of war that they hoped to bring back for their wives, and others simply listening to the crackle of fire and chirping of crickets, which were hidden as the twin moons Weltya and Irro covered themselves in low cloud.
As I entered my tent and laid myself down to sleep, I couldn’t help but think that I’d seen all this before, even in this place. Absurd, I knew, the fortress had never been attacked by anyone before, which was probably part of the reason that its master had named himself as a Prince. Still... There was an air of deja-vous that I couldn’t put aside, and though it troubled me, I felt a sense of comfort, as though we had already won this battle before, and would do so again. I tried not to think about it, succeeded, slept.
On the morrow I awoke refreshed but clammy, took myself down to a nearby stream, stripped and washed. The water was far too cold to enjoy, and so presently I was back on land and drying, but I did feel better for it. Once clothed I walked back to camp and entered to mess tent to pick me up a hearty soldier’s breakfast of tough meat, watery eggs and bread with green and blue crust. Needless to say, it wasn’t like home, but it did the job and there was lots to be had. I was met by Ogtirk as I ate, and we had a lengthy conversation about what was to be done over an even more lengthy stream of food. Kalmar wanted the seige to take place with immediate effect, and had set up his catapults already. He had given the order for all generals to do the same and have them brought together at the East wall of the fort. Ogtirk told me he would begin preparations for his ballista once the catapults had commenced fire, which showed that he didn’t foresee a surrender today, and I was inclined to agree.
After we had eaten he left, to go make sure the others had been given the order, and I went to tell my own men. I found a captain of mine, Jannick, and told him to rally the troops to an attention. He was efficient, I must say. My army was assembled before even 15 minutes were up, and so I addressed them.
‘My men,’ I began. ‘As you may have heard, seige is the soup of the day, and we intend to dish it out in no moderation. All catapult tenders are to commence assembly. Those who are part of a ram squadron, you are to help them, and anyone else with seige building experience also. Commander General Prince Kalmar asks that we have all catapults up and at range of the East wall by evening, so Godspeed to you. All men not involved with the building are to train hand-to-hand combat and fitness until sundown. Men,’ I paused for effect. ‘At ease.’ As I walked away across the camp, I heard the murmurs of anticipated troops, and heavy footsteps as they moved to their assigned areas of work for the day. Myself? I would train later, but now I had to speak to my brother.
The land I walked was not all that different to the land from whence we had come, I noticed the deep green of a patch of fragile Lluria flowers here and there, protected by long, pale grasses, I saw young rowan trees dotted about, and off to my far East a dense silvery ash forest at its fullest, leaves well grown and ready to drop in the coming Autumn. The light stream in which I had washed earlier that day extended and widened I saw, and if my eyes did not deceive me then it ran through a lake which doubtless had a slow river to the North Sea. The sky about me served not to remind me of home, but rather was the defining factor that differentiated the land of my father from this. The day was warm, but the sky was a cold blue, only a few clouds but it was as though there was a sheet of ice above us. The clouds themselves were fixed, unmoving, as though trapped in this icy blanket of sky.
I reached Kalmar’s camp, and a man told me that he was currently in his own tent, so with his directions I made my way toward it, noting as I walked just how much more of an army he commanded than I. The green cloth tent was guarded, an as I approached a sentry entered in to tell Kalmar of my visit. He emerged just as I made it to the entrance, saluted, told me I was welcome, pulled aside a door-flap. I walked in, and saw that I was not the only one wanting to address Kalmar – Sik, Reynold and a general named Tarc were already seated and in conversation. I saluted my brothers, said a hello and joined them.
‘Greetings, brother Veritu, and how does today’s noon find thee?’ inquired Kalmar.
‘As well as such conditions allow,’ I replied. ‘ And I trust you are in good shape also, your orders indicate you are truly confident.’
‘Would’st thou think otherwise?’
‘Nay, I’ve been alive long enough to know that if I can trust a brother on anything, it is battle tactics. I hope I haven’t interrupted any private conversation?’
‘I should hope that war is not so private as to be kept from a general or a Prince, and so no, you being both are welcome to our words.’
‘I had rather hoped that the subject was already arisen,’ and truthfully I spoke, for I had no desire to make my brothers think me stubborn by strolling in demanding to talk tactics.
‘If it is not too rude,’ spoke Sik. ‘I feel I must take leave. I promised my captains that I would personally help with the construction of our seige.’ He rose, bid us farewell, and left the tent. A massive man, he was over 6 feet tall and must have weighed close on 400 pounds, and he was all muscle. His hair was short and flat, his arms were long and thick. Today he wear a plain brown tunic, but I knew he had heavy armour that shone an even heavier blue elsewhere, and a gigantic war hammer made of the same stuff. Weilded by any of us it wouldn’t be a welcoming piece of equipment, but Sik’s build and strength made it the ultimate killing tool, and even with my own sword and shield I would not relish the thought of facing him in battle. As far as I can recall, he is the only general who has never been properly injured in battle – and that includes even Kalmar and our father. Many hundreds, or even thousands of men over the centuries have fallen to Sik’s zealous bludgeon.
‘What counsel do you bring to us brother?’ Kalmar asked me.
‘I would have words about the strength of today’s attack.’
‘Aye? What words might be held on your tongue?’
I stopped myself replying, pondered over my answer and instead gave back another question.
‘First I would enquire what plans you have already laid out regarding the shelling of a potentially strong future outpost.’
‘All out as always. The fortress can be rebuilt, lives and time cannot. You should know by now, brother, that I do not do things with but a half of my ****!’
‘Calm, Lord. I did but beg to reason with you, as I do not believe that the False Prince will bend in a day.’
‘So what do you suggest? Ask him nicely again? Send some young chaps down to knock on the door and ask for a cup of sugar? Of course he shan’t yield in a day, but there is precious little to be done against such a man. The siege must continue.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more. I would simply advise that we do not show the full force of our catapults on the first couple of days. Do as little damage as possible, and aim to frighten his men rather than knock down the gates. If still there is resistance, then load up all weaponry – Ogtirk’s ballista included – and show him then why we rule the East.’
He hesitated. I’d given him something to think about, but I could see that the idea troubled him.
‘You expressed concerns that the gentleman occupying the fortress would not stand down in a day. If we go along with your games it will take at least a week to take the place, and I do not relish leaving the city as unguarded as things stand.’
‘Truth, brother, the city needs its men, but what use are they if they are all needed to repair a fortress which could be taken without unnecessary destruction?’
‘You believe a show of power will make this fakester to lose courage and flee then.’ It was a statement, not a question, as my mind was open to him. There was a murmur of general agreement about the tent.
‘If I were a gambling man I’d set a wager on it.’
‘Then I shall play to your wishes. Younger though you be, I do not contest the wills of comrades and brothers when so strongly do their thoughts run. If the three of you will enlighten the others as to the change of plans,’ he nodded towards Tarc and Reynold, who inclined their heads back to him. ‘Then I give your scare tactics three days, today inclusive. The price of your wager in this, Veritu, lies in the lives of men both here and homewards.’
‘Aye, brother, and thankyou. Good will to thee’
‘Good will.’
I rose, turned to leave. Tarc and Reynold followed me out of the tent after bidding Kalmar their farewells, paid the same homage to me, and went their separate ways to give out the new orders. Myself, I strolled lazily, watched a muddy frog on a wet rock snap at a passing yellow butterfly – missed; saw a long patch of deep green grasses rustle as a small bird ejected from within, holding a fat earthworm in her tiny beak – fresh; heard a slight chirp of crickets, quietening as morning ran on and the dew evaporated to become future rain clouds – dense. Sod it, I thought to myself, and summoned me a runner to send the word on my behalf. Somewhere a bell chimed for midday in perfect key, and foresight brought my world the gift of peace.