The Sword to Unite

by Peter J. Hopkins

  Cedric once more approached the raging river, where the salmon calmly resisted its current. He wrapped his cloak up to his elbows and plunged his hands through the surface of the frigid water. His hands struggled to grasp the fish, which began thrashing wildly with each touch. It made a great splash in the water, and its long tail smacked Cedric in the face, before finally being pulled from the frigid water.

  The young king threw the salmon against the rocks and broke its head against a jagged stone. He returned to the campfire, where a smooth and thin plate of rock were heating over the flame. Cedric gutted and placed large strips of the gigantic salmon on the stone, where it cooked and sizzled with speed.

  When the fish had been cooked properly, Cedric lifted a piece in an offering to the old man. The old man slowly waved in hand in rejection. “That flesh is not for my kind.”

  Cedric took the chunk of fish already in his hand and ate of its flesh. The fish’s taste was typical, and there was nothing to distinguish it from one caught on the shores of Lorine. Suddenly Cedric felt a rush of energy tingle up his spine, reaching the back of his head and his mind was opened by the taste of the rainbow salmon.

  He knew that the old man before him was Loden the Wanderer, the Father-Son, Father of the Children, and First Son of Cinder. “I greet you Cedric, son of Albert, heir of Adalgott and king to the Northmen. I believe you know who I am?” The old man smiled a warm smile; he had not had company for some time.

  “Why have you brought me here Loden?”

  “So you can understand,” The old man said as he struggled to rise. Cedric rushed to his side and helped him to his feet. “This world is fading, as is yours. For in the darkening shadow of the Rat, our power weakens.” The two began to walk again on the stone road. “Soon the moon that guides our steps will be clouded, and nothing shall be known. It is only by your will that any of us can survive.”

  “How can this deed fall on my shoulders, are you not a god born of Cinder?” Cedric asked impatiently and confused.

  “I wish it did not, but it is the only way. For the battle of good and evil cannot be decided by gods and demons, the lords of those two opposites.” He stopped Cedric and placed his finger where the young king’s heart rested. “The battle of good and evil is decided by the lesser ones, by you and your foe Azrael.”

  “You say this as though Azrael is a mortal man.”

  “He is my dear boy, no less flesh and bone than you.”

  “How is that possible? They say his flesh is torn from his bones, and that he rides like a wraith across the night’s sky.” Cedric was distressed, for he knew not how Azrael, born of hate, could be of his same flesh.”

  “Here,” Loden said, as he pointed to the river, which now produced a memory of a time now distant and faded, “see what Azrael is wrought of.”

  Cedric leaned close to the glowing pool of water and saw the image of a nobleman, adorned in golden chains and bracelets. He rested beneath an oaken tree, just outside a mighty hall in fatted lands, where cattle and crop grew rich. At his side, his blade, used for justice rather than greed, along with a flute, where his people’s culture rested. This was a lord filled with the blessings of the gods, given what men envy, and yet, in his heart, there was a small flicker of ambition that could not be quenched. In his great hall, the banners of a golden blade, which was wrapped by two stretching vines, which grew fat with grapes for harvest. It was the banner of Clan Frisin, a noble house only remembered by the wisest magi in their record books.

  In the dead of night, as this lord’s courtly duties were winding down for the day, his guardsmen produced a hunched over cripple, with a dark cowl covering his head, caught cursing the blessed statues of the gods, which lay out in the green fields. The lord’s wife and children sat next to him, and they were filled with fear by the sight of this stranger. His people were terrified of this dark figure, and pleaded for their king to do away with him so that they might receive the gods’ favor.

  “No, my lord,” the wretched creature spoke with broken and screeching tongue. “You do not need the blessings of your gods. I was doing you a favor, my lord, for the gods only tempt your magnanimous power.” The king’s ego had been stoked, and the embers of ambition within him were set alight, and so he bid the foreign thing speak more. “Allow me just three days in your court my lord, and I shall offer that your enemies fall and you rise in splendor if I am false, then may you cut my head from my neck.” The king smiled smugly; it was a deal that had no chance of losing, as he would be entertained by how this foul thing’s head rolled from the chopping block.

  In three days’ time, the stranger had been hard at work in the laboratories of the hall, and in three days’ time, the neighboring kings had all fallen ill and died. As any king would, the ambitious lord let out his armies, and overcame his neighbors, bring their lands into his fold. When he returned, the stranger was waiting with chests filled with golden coins, minted in the lord’s likeness, for the stranger knew the ways of alchemy and had produced the coins from heaps of mud. The king was pleased by all of this, and gave a golden chain of office to the stranger, inviting the gift giver into his council.

  Now there came a day in the following months when the lord’s oldest child fell sick, and all feared he would die as he was as a pale as milk and coughed blood throughout the day. The king’s magi prayed and gave him medicine, but to no avail. The stranger once more appeared before the lord, “Lord Frisin, you must send away your courtly magi, for they only worsen your son’s health by worshiping deaf gods. Burn those wooden statues I so graciously once tried to rid you of, and your son shall be as healthy as the spring’s morning.” And so, the king cast out his magi, sending them down his roads in ragged clothes in disgrace. Next, the king burned the wooden markers of the gods, all to the pleasure of the stranger, who in return, cured the son of the king.

  In the years to pass, the kingdom grew in wealth, and the hall of Frisin was ornate with golden splendor. The king grew old, his hearing began to fail him, and his eyes deceive him, but his burning ambition grew brighter with age. With shaking hands, the king called in his trusted advisor and told him of his growing fear of death. “My lord you do not need fear, for I shall give you the answer you want, as I have for so many years.” The stranger leaned in and whispered in foul voice, words of absolute evil now made dull by the years of blasphemy. “The blood of kin is the only price for this gift of immortality, the blood which will sustain you forever. I see it now my lord, your wise rule shall outlast the false gods themselves, and you shall inherit the whole of the earth as your golden kingdom. Bring forth your two sons, and your wife my lord, invite them to feast on poisoned food and drink, then I shall speak of the next step.”

  And so, the king did as his advisor told, and prepared a large feast in his family’s honor. Each of his kin fell on their food, choking on the ground in agony, their faces turned purple and eyes red. The foreigner was pleased by this display, and next ordered that the king dig a great ditch in his most bountiful field. The king did this, and then threw the bodies of his now deceased family into the pit which appeared like a void under the moon’s dim light.

  It was at this moment when the king believed he was at his most powerful, that the foreigner took off his cloak, and revealed his real face. It was Crassus Baal, for his head was that of a rat, and his tunic underneath his cloak was adorned in royal splendor. The demon clicked his hooved feet with glee as he shoved the last Frisin lord into the pit to rot with his family.

  The trickster tossed piles of dirt onto the king, who had broken his legs from the fall and was writhing in agony at the faces of his family. When the last scrap of dirt had been placed on the tomb, the deceiver knelt and cursed the soil with foul whispers to forever bind the king to his will.

  For one full year, the king decayed in that pit, his flesh mixed in with the bloodied dirt of his family. Weeds overran his fields and died, for none were left to sow them. His hall was divided up by his neighbors, and the golde
n details were cast into coinage. His banners withered and grew dust until their golden image of a vine had faded both physically and from memory. On the same date as the last year, the king emerged from the tomb, his withered arm sending dirt flying from the mound. He pulled himself out, now less man than any alive, for his body had decayed and now he was left with mere sinew and bone. It was at this moment that his friend, the Rat, returned to him, and offered him news since his departure. “Your fields lay barren, and your neighbors grow fat off your gold, take up the sword, and claim what is theirs in my name, and I shall give you back your kingdom.”

  And so, Cedric saw the tale of the last king of Frisin, who is doomed to walk the earth as a servant to Crassus Baal, never to have his true name known by any.

  “And now you know your enemy, my child.” The old man said with deep sorrow, his face had turned down and wrinkled. “He was once a man, but now what is left is just a pale imitation of life. You must end his animation, for, with every step he takes, his lord’s dominion grow, for he offers the same to each man as he did that day. You must hurry to gather your forces, for not by the knights alone can this battle be won. Travel to Prav, and summon the Witan of Midland, for as we speak the remaining lords gather their defense. Awake now, Lord Cedric, for your hour draws near, and the tides of temptation swirl round like the tempest.”

  Suddenly Cedric’s eyes were forced open, and he lay in a cold sweat on his bed. He leaped from his room dressed only in his undergarments, carrying a candlestick and waking his friends and Amalric. They gathered at the main hall where many tapestries hung in vibrant color, and Cedric revealed what he had learned in his dreams.

  “For Loden to appear to you…such a thing has never been heard of,” Amalric said in shock, though he did not doubt the word of his king for one moment. He too was still in his sleeping clothes, though he had draped himself in a long bear cloak

  “We must heed his word,” Cedric implored. “Amalric, I know you trust in the strength of your order, but we have seen that even they cannot stand alone against this rushing tide. We need the other nobles of Midland, with Roderic already behind us we may yet have a chance to persuade them.”

  “I know you think you are king,” Amalric warned, “But Malcom Crawe does not see it that way, as with most of the other lords. To them you are a foreign invader, you must convince them otherwise.” Amalric paused and strategized their next move in his mind. “…We will ride to Prav, seek out whoever will join us. But we must return to Zweleran as soon as possible, Midland in support of us or not.” Cedric smiled and nodded in approval; he would not squander his one chance to seize Midland. “We ride at dawn, gather what you must now, for it shall be a dangerous road.” Amalric turned, spinning his brown cloak, and headed back to bed.

  Chapter 24

  The Dogs of War

  Upon the dawning of the sun, Cedric and his merry band packed their horses and prepared for the road. Out of the keep, Gwen and Atticus came bounding from the door, well-rested and in good spirits, though saddened by their friends’ departure. Leopold felt ashamed that he had forgotten to say his goodbyes to them, and with red cheeks on his face, he hugged them into his black cloak.

  “Will you come to visit us again Leopold?” Atticus said, his eyes welling up with glossy tears.

  “Of course, I swear on my life.” Leopold smiled to assure to the young boy. “Here,” the assassin reached into his pocket and produced a small token, a rune stone from the Ithon, painted in yellow and blue symbols. “When next we meet, I expect this trinket to be clean and safe, can you do that?”

  The young boy nodded, thrilled by this mystical little gift. Leopold patted them both on the head and mounted his horse.

  Eadwine smirked as he leaned forward on his horse. “Where’s my token Leopold?”

  Leopold simply rode forward without looking at the elf while giving his retort. “How long did it take you to think up that little joke?”

  Eadwine was pleased his with own sense of humor and gave a look to see if any in their party had found it funny, but found only the focused faces of those ready for war. Their journey had steadied them, and their hands were eager for their blades’ handles, for their feel had become second nature to them.

  The knights took the lead of the caravan, riding in full armor and carrying the banners of their respective houses, with Amalric at the head wielding the sigil of the Dawn, given to each Knight-Sergeant of the order. Cedric carried his household banner, the proud griffin flying freely in the breeze, released from its long slumber. Its golden and red designs were the paramount of royal splendor, and the fields of simple farmers they came across were in awe at its passing.

  The many fields of Midland had begun their harvest, and everywhere the party passed wagons were being filled with grain and barely, to be shipped to castles for the coming tide of war. The lesser houses of nobles had frozen in place like dogs to the sound of a thundering storm, cowering in their hovels rather than acting against the oncoming horde. Content to vanish with a whimper rather than a crackling climax.

  Prav, the city wrought of the vine. Founded by Scallion Crawe, an Eln man with no title, no land, and no wealth, only a handful of Iceberries in his pocket, names for their pale blue exterior. He came up from the south, a trader with an ambitious mind. In the land where men knew nothing but beer and ale, he intended to bring culture. His Iceberries could grow tall in stalk in even the mildest of northern winters. Upon where his family’s palace stands, in Elnish splendor with columns and courtyards, he planted three rows of these berries for his winery, which soon multiplied into numerous fields throughout the land. His wealth rivals even that of the first Erastrian kings, and his officers are donned in polished steel, with three golden vines along the breastplate. Long has this city stood growing like their vines, unchallenged by all. Now in this dark time, the might of the wine king shall be tested, and his fields will be thrown against the mighty storm that comes with Azrael.

  They made good pace to Prav, for the roads had been cleared of common thugs and highwaymen, now too afraid of Sibi and his roaming savages, who kill criminal and commoner without restraint.

  They passed by the Red Swamp, the swath of marsh just south of the northern coast of Midland, where Vaal and their ships come in the springtime to raid and reave. It had been many years since the last. The swampland was famous for its red lily pads, whose sweet aroma seeped into the murky water, turning its color to bright red in the summers when it grows.

  On their fourth night of travel, they had near reached the hills before Prav and stopped in a small town known as Harfield, where the peasantry made their final preparations for the capital. From the road, they saw a great stone mill across the town’s snug houses and expansive fields and vineyards. Within the fields themselves, great stone and wooden carvings of the gods lay for blessings of a good harvest, their stoic faces frozen in a blank expression across the landscape.

  At the edge of the township, Cedric’s party tied their horses by an inn called the Giant’s Delight. In the dry grass to the back of the tavern, a decently sized host had pitched tents and were in a loud row of music and drink.

  Cedric and his friends entered to find the bar filled with all manner of sellswords and brigands, and the inn was near filled with their company. They sat sported in aketons and tough leather jerkins, standard for such a group. Even from a distance, they could be made out as Elnish, preferring the company of wine to ale, and the captains of the company dressed in fine flowery armor. The knights scoffed and held their cloths to their noses, and found a small booth enclave where they slunk from the noise and spilling of drinks. At the host’s bar, they found a fat bald man manning the tavern, running around in a frenzy to refill the drinks of his unruly guests.

  Cedric approached and found an empty stool, while his companions stood behind him, darting nervous looks at the crowd of guests. “What’s the fare for twelve road weary travelers?”

  The man looked up for a moment in a daze
and immediately went back to pouring more beer and ale, shaking his head left to right. “No no no, don’t have any more room. These lads have seen to it.” Cedric looked back at the crowd of ruffians who spilled their drinks and threw their food, with the occasional fist thrown as well.

  A man approached from this row, appearing as though he were not a part of this rowdy lot. For this man wore clean and refined clothes, a leather jerkin embroidered in design, and slick trousers with a gilded belt which held a shining steel rapier with a thick blade. His hair was pulled back, and his beard was trimmed fresh.

  The man clicked his boots all the way to the bar, where he took the stool next to Cedric and snapped his finger for the fat man’s attention. “More schnapps this way, Thoron, there’ll be a gold piece for you when we reach the capital.” Cedric tried to hide his face, and turned the other way, for he had no way of knowing this warband’s intentions. The suave one looked at Cedric and reached for a glass of ale. “You heading to the capital too, friend?” He said in a warm voice.

  Cedric was brief and answered sharply. “Yes.”

  The man leaned in closer, and placed his hand on Cedric’s back, “what business could some noble, a band of misfits, and chain-clad knights have together?” Alfnod grasped the hand on his blade, showing its steel. It was as though that steel against the sheath was as loud as a storm, for the whole of the tavern fell silent, and stared at Cedric’s group.

  “What’s your business?” Cedric retorted, his hands growing wet with sweat as he thought of how much time it would take to draw his blade.