Roger
The sorcerer stood in front of him, waiting with unbreakable patience. Roger finally gestured him to deliver his message. "A spy in Lopelanzec informs that Lord Arthur beheaded a servant due to 'unclear reasons'," the magician declared in a raspy tone, "the spy believes the punishment was unjust." Roger contemplated his choices. Did he need justice for one servant, who might or might not be guilty? If he were to investigate the matter, it could sabotage his nephew's rule as he already had held Arthur for his vow many, many times. That well might as well be dry, he thought grimly, any more favours and Arthur is likely to break his vow! Best not to try Arthur's patience because yet Lopelanzec is still one of my staunchest allies, even though I made Arthur kill his son, Roger mused. I can't lose Lopelanzec, without them I might as well give up my nephew's reign. So, it was clear Arthur would go scot-free. Yet, Roger's conscience hurt! Arthur might as well have murdered an innocent man in his fury. No, he comforted himself, the Arthur I know would do no such thing. There must have been a clear reason! But wrath can change a person, what if…
He pulled himself out of the 'what if' train of thoughts. There would be no way of knowing the truth except an investigation – something he could not risk!
He marched out, leaving the mage alone in the room. He entered his own room and eyed the unrolled map of Cobardon. He already had gone over it 100 times: Wingbearer, had already threatened a war and it was not an empty threat. The war would soon start, though he only had calculated guesses for where it would start. Armies had begun amassing under each of the great houses. Some were forming hosts openly, some were doing it more secretively, yet all were getting ready. Each house would be involved: Morningstar, Napemol, Dupark, The Valley, Lopelanzec, Wingbearer, The Eye and Seachurner. He only knew for certain that The Valley and Lopelanzec were with Rulerstead and he knew for certain that Wingbearer was against Rulerstead. He was most uncertain about Napemol. Taperend, the ruler of Napemol, is one slippery person – as friend or foe!
Newtriko, his nephew, burst into his chambers with a finger to his lips. Newtriko slid behind a cupboard trying to hide. A 6-year-old boy followed behind searching for Newtriko. Newtriko was 12 and was yet playing such childish games, not yet able to even lift a sword. The boy stood at his chamber's entry, at a loss of words. Roger knew that the boy was waiting outside out of reverence. After all, this was the king's regent's room! And yes disappointingly, the king was Newtriko.
Roger said, "Come out Newtriko and continue your games elsewhere." while smiling fake at the 6-year-old boy. There was no use in asking Newtriko to practice sword fighting or to learn any new weapon or to even learn the devious magical arts or even learn all the useless knowledge of the world. Yet, no he would do none of these but just play the childish games all day. If he even forced his nephew a little bit, his nephew would throw a tantrum. And who can deny a king?
That was why he had not had any children; they were too difficult to raise. And yet fate threw at me the one thing I had always tried to avoid, he smirked bitterly as the thought passed through his head. Fate was cruel! If only someone had control over it; alas, even the gods didn't.
Oh yes, he remembered, in this war, even the gods would be involved. To his eyes, the war just got more interesting and much, much more devastating!
He walked out of his room and was pacing towards the bailey. A female servant was moving in the opposite direction, carrying a platter. As they were about to cross, she stumbled and the tray crashed down, scattering the assortments in it. Roger knelt to help her gather the items as she started and already placed four items on the platter with shocking speed. Once everything was arranged, she bowed down. In a flurry of movement, Roger saw her hand with a dagger strike out from below the platter. Roger's left hand rushed down to grab the hand near the wrist. He twisted the wrist and the knife wriggled free of her grip. His right hand zoomed to incapacitate the assassin. He tried to restrain her even as a blade slipped up her right sleeve and jutted out, parallel to her palm.
She laughed while saying, "You think you are safe? I am not the only weed planted here. Old man, you better learn to sleep with your eyes open." Her right hand suddenly wrenched free of Roger's grip. "I was meant to die!" she exclaimed as the blade shot towards her own neck. Roger shot his hand to stop her suicide. Her hand moved just too quick and the knife impaled through her neck. She thrust with more force as the blade suck deeper down her throat.
"Damn," Roger cursed as he released his grip and the body cluttered to the floor. Now I won't be able to get any information out of her. Wingbearer has sent elite assassins, she indeed had only meant to die … and intimidate him. It won't work Orwen. You shouldn't have used my own tactics against me, Roger mused with a wry smile.
Well Orwen, you have made a decision for me – less burden on my aged shoulders. He had no choice, it was final – Rulerstead marched to war!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Micura
The horse cantered out of the Nomer Forest to march across the lush plains. It had taken him a week to cross the forest and the river Bronkher. So, he was on pace. To his north right the Kalashkar mountain range arced to drain the Cromer, Bronkher and Maimer rivers and their many tributaries. Rumours said that the glaciers in the Kalashkar Range had been the centres of civilisations for other primordial races. Micura dismissed the thoughts of pointless imagination.
Before arriving at Wingbearer why had Orwen send him in the opposite direction was a mystery that would get solved once he reached Wingbearer … or before if he could figure the schemes out himself.
On top of a tiny hill, the entire Dupark host was camped. The host was heading to Napemol and amass under the command of Taperend. Due to an arrangement he had been given the responsibility to give the green flag to Dupark to head towards Napemol.
He did not understand why he, newly appointed second-in-command to Wingbearer, had to make an important decision for Dupark? It didn't make sense, unless… He kept those thoughts to himself.
He had commanded the Dupark host to continue towards Napemol (and Taperend). He had his own tiny escort of 20 soldiers – 4 veteran squads to lead him safely to Wingbearer. Micura had come to know each of them closer in the weeklong journey. He was at that point with the soldiers that if they lost their life while reaching to Wingbearer he would feely deeply bad for them but not show any public mourning. It was not that rare for escorts to die in such long journeys.
As if he had tempted fate, from the ample yet short shrubberies 3 crossbow bolts shoot in their direction. One just flew wayward while one went straight towards a soldier and one raced towards him. He quickly raised his shield and the bolt embedded into the wooden grain with a resounding thud. The other soldier was not quick enough as the bolt hammered into the soldier's left shoulder.
A sergeant took command of 8 veteran crossbowmen. The sergeant muttered softly, "Aim." The 8 soldiers immediately aimed their pre-clocked crossbows at the three bushes from which the bolts had come. "Fire." Eight bolts flew into the bushes and he heard two screams of agony and a lot of shuffling. Suddenly a dozen men, at least 200 meters away, ran headlong in the opposite direction. The pillaging bandits had noticed that this was a block of veteran squads who functioned with mechanic harmony. They knew they couldn't beat us.
He quickly skidded towards the fallen soldier who leaned on another comrade's lap. Blood was oozing out in uncanny amounts. Their company's healer knelt beside the body and felt for the soldier's pulse. The healer's eyes fluttered shut in denial. He turned his face away, opened his eyes to look straight at Micura and announced, "He is no longer!"
Micura parsed the lifeless body and rapidly blinked to push back tears. At one moment full of life and in another blink gone – the life sucked out savagely. I shouldn't delve on this so much, he reprimanded himself, this was just the start of the war – the first death – a bloodbath was to follow.
A rebellion was frothing with impatience, it just needed a catalyst, a starting point. And with the rebellion, of course, would come a massive rise in deaths and bandits. The marauders and robbers wouldn't appear out of the dust, aye. They would be forged by the coming war-hardened, sharpened and way beyond petty squabbles. Though once the chaos dwindled and law and order rose again, the bandits would perish. In a peaceful reign, there would be no space for plundering.
He was looking way into the future and he was assuming one important thing – that we petty humans in our rage wouldn't destroy this world, rendering it lifeless while becoming our own demise. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to such extreme genocide.
As his house's motto truly said, 'he could only hope'.
He resumed his journey singing under his breath,
"I march on and on,
on and on,
on and on,
upon these paths of horror."
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