The Twin Princes

by J. M. Topp

  He stretched and, with a yawn, stood up. His chest burned where the kouffingtooth had struck him, but the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. His bandages were spotted with crusted blood that had seeped through the wrapping. Eymeg took them off slowly, unwrapping them piece by piece. The three wounds on his chest were red, and bits of cotton were stuck to the bandages, but none of them looked or smelled infected. The salve Tiebalt had applied to his chest was working wonders. They would turn into scars before too long. Eymeg walked out into the morning dawn and stretched again. He hawked and spat a wad of mucus onto the ground. If he hadn’t known any better, the morning would have seemed as if there were nothing at all the matter. A wet, cold mist hung in the air.

  Tiebalt trudged up behind him, scanning the horizon. ‘We are ready to go,’ said the grey shuck.

  ‘How are we to carry Jolien? Are we going to tie her up and put her on your horse?’

  Tiebalt glared at Eymeg. ‘We are not going to tie her up. Jolien will ride with you.’

  ‘She will not,’ sputtered Eymeg.

  ‘She will, and you will do as I say.’ Tiebalt’s lips became a thin line. ‘Don’t forget. I saved your life. If it wasn’t for me, you would be dead at the bottom of Oarfish Bay. Seeing as you owe me, our travelling items will go with me and she will ride with you.’

  ‘Are you trying to do some matchmaking here, Tiebalt? Me with a recently widowed woman?’

  ‘No, you idiot, your horse had to carry your fat ass and your things last night. I’m giving your mount a break. She weighs no more than a sack of potatoes,’ said Tiebalt, walking past Eymeg into the wooden cabin.

  Eymeg shook his head. ‘Fucking hell.’

  Once they had mounted up, Jolien, who looked as happy as Eymeg did about the riding situation, sat before him with her arms crossed over her chest and her nose pointed to the sky. Her hair was tied in a loose braid, with strands of it falling to her cheeks. Eymeg gave a curt whistle to this mount and they moved away from the wooden house and the two graves.

  For miles they travelled without a word. Tiebalt would occasionally turn his head around and stare into the distance behind them. His neck didn’t have all the restraints of one set of neck bones. He instead had two cervical spines that allowed him to move his head in nearly a complete circle without strain—another of the advantages that permitted him to be an excellent hunter of daemons. Eymeg would have envied him, if it weren’t for the fact that Tiebalt was sure he was the last of his kind.

  Eymeg looked up to the sky.

  Bits of grey mites began to fall like pepper in the misty air.

  ‘Is it snow?’ asked Jolien with a shiver.

  ‘It’s ash,’ said Eymeg, sniffing the air.

  ‘Ash? There are no volcanoes around here.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s coming from a volcano,’ said Tiebalt from behind them. A strong scent rose, and Eymeg scrunched his nose, looking down at Jolien. The creek rushed beside them, and an idea crept into his head. With a quick smile, he glanced at Tiebalt.

  ‘Whatever it is you’re planning, ’Meg, don’t do it,’ warned Tiebalt, but it was too late. Eymeg spurred his horse into the river. Jolien shrieked as the cold waters rose nearly up to her chest. Eymeg grabbed a handful of her hair and dunked her into the waters. She slapped at his arms. Finally, he let her up for air.

  ‘You bastard,’ she gasped, water dripping from her face. Their horse whinnied and bit at Jolien, nearly catching her arm. She shrieked amidst a string of coughs.

  ‘Eymeg Farnesse!’ shouted Tiebalt from the edge of the river. ‘What in hell are you doing?’

  ‘Giving her a bath. She reeks.’ Eymeg shrugged. Jolien’s face turned red, and she folded her hands over her chest. Bits of mud and dirt fell from her head, revealing raven-black hair. As the earth was washed away from her face, Eymeg realised she was attractive in a plain sort of way. He also noticed that her torn dress clung to her body and her breasts could be seen through it. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. Finally, he guided the horse back to the banks. Tiebalt shook his head disapprovingly.

  ‘My apologies, Jolien,’ said Tiebalt, but Jolien’s face only reddened more. She clenched her jaw but held her tongue stubbornly. Eymeg shook his head, and they continued their travel south.

  Eymeg guided their horses through miles and miles of country road. The farther south they went, the more the Second Age of Fog was apparent. But then Eymeg saw tracks, different from the ones they had encountered before, and he leapt off his horse. The footprints in the sand were old, but the direction was clear. The tracks led away from the road into a grassy clearing.

  Eymeg held his hand up. He unslung the bow from his shoulder and notched an arrow to the string. Two arrows lay embedded in the tall, dry grass. One of them had been broken in half, and beside that lay the white bones of a creature long since killed.

  ‘A panther,’ said Eymeg.

  ‘Hunters?’ asked Tiebalt, who also had unmounted and crouched in the grass beside him.

  ‘No, the tracks in the sand are too deep for simple hunters. Whoever left these was wearing armour just like the ones before, and’—Eymeg scanned the surrounding trees—‘these, in particular, are deep, as if someone had been crouching here for a long while with a heavy weapon. Look, the indentation in the grass is in the shape of a sword. A bastard sword.’

  ‘Who would use something like that to hunt?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Eymeg. There was no sign of life except for the cicadas and insects in the brush.

  ‘The tracks lead to the north, to the Greenwood Forest,’ said Tiebalt, examining the sandy ground.

  Eymeg snorted and nodded, and they returned to the horses. ‘It’s a good thing our path leads to Rokiev Bridge then.’

  By the time they reached Rokiev Bridge, the sun was beginning to fall in the sky. The old, broken-down plank bridge rested across a relatively calm area of the river. It seemed, with one swift current, the bridge would inevitably collapse, except it hadn’t in all the time the bridge had been set there—for nearly a hundred years, some had said. Eymeg guided his horse toward it and then held his hand up. He noticed a glimmer in the sand on the opposite bank.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Tiebalt.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Eymeg, more to himself than Tiebalt. He crossed to the other side and dismounted. It looked like a silver bar, jutting up from the sandy bank. Eymeg pulled the piece of silver up and inspected it. It was a piece of armour. A shoulderplate. It was scratched up, but only one country used shoulderplates so wide and thick. ‘Aivaterrans,’ whispered Eymeg.

  Tiebalt rode up beside him. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘A piece of armour, but where is the knight it belongs to?’ Eymeg wondered, looking down the river. Here, the wind had covered up any traces of footprints.

  ‘The trail ends here, ’Meg.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We could go south, to the Kingsoul?’

  Eymeg sighed and shook his head. ‘I think you may be—’ Something else caught his eye, at the bottom of the river bed. A black sword hilt poked out from the middle of the river. Eymeg took his shirt off and threw it onto the bank along with his boots.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Jolien, folding her arms and glaring at him.

  ‘I see something down there,’ he said, then jumped into the river headfirst. The chilled waters made his breath catch, but Eymeg pushed his feet against the strong current. He swam into the deeper part of the river and then dived. Half of a man lay at the bottom, with the sword embedded in his back. His body was already bloated, and the blood had been drained from his body. Eymeg pulled at the sword but then realised it was no sword at all. It was a halberd, broken at the polearm. Its crescent blade glistened in the waters. He frowned and glanced at the body. It was wearing a black bull on a red field.

  A Weserithian. He swam back to the surface with the newfound weapon. He tossed it onto the sand and pulled himself onto the bank. He stared at it. Water dripped from
his hair and clothes. He sniffed and wiped the water from his eyes.

  ‘That is a very nice weapon, or it would be if it weren’t broken. You just dived in for a useless piece of junk, ’Meg,’ said Tiebalt, staring at the halberd.

  ‘Not useless.’ Eymeg turned the hilt and saw the letters AIA stand out. He glanced at the dead body as it rose from the bottom of the river and began to float downstream. ‘Recognize this? This halberd comes from the Iron Aegis in Aivaterra. Andre made this. An Aivaterran shoulderplate and halberd embedded into the back of half a Weserithian.’

  ‘They must have come from the north,’ said Tiebalt, scratching his chin. ‘His body must have floated from Weserith.’

  They both knew of the battles that had taken place only months before. The Second Age of Fog had begun with bloodshed, and there was no doubt it would end that way.

  A hollow scream echoed through the forest, making Eymeg’s skin crawl. Tiebalt drew his sword, and his mount whinnied nervously. Eymeg picked up the broken halberd and twisted it in his hands like an axe. Jolien turned pale blue as she looked around for the source of the sound. Eymeg walked to the edge of the brush. ‘That didn’t sound human,’ he whispered.

  ‘What in the hell?’ muttered Tiebalt. Then, a sound neither of them could have predicted in this area of the woods rose through the sky. It sounded like drums.

  Eymeg squeezed the pole of the broken halberd. ‘I know that sound.’ He licked his lips and motioned to Tiebalt to get off his horse.

  ‘Stay here, Jolien. We won’t be gone long,’ said Tiebalt, rushing after Eymeg before Jolien could protest. ‘If we are, ride to Aivaterra as fast as you can.’

  Eymeg, still dripping wet, crawled through the brush. The sound of drums began to grow louder and was now interspersed with the rustling of armoured footsteps. Eymeg pushed through the thick wood and climbed up a small ravine. He froze once he reached the very top. Tiebalt stopped a pace behind him and looked over Eymeg’s shoulder.

  ‘Holy shit…’ whispered Tiebalt.

  Hundreds and hundreds of creatures in black cursed armour that defied material makings giving them a ghostly appearance marched across the wilderness. Their weapons and armour glistened darkly in the dawning sunlight. Creatures Eymeg had only studied in the safety of Karagh Muín walked in his vision. He cursed his eyes for having ever laid sight on beasts and daemons such as the ones he was staring at, but he could not look away. Creatures named in languages he knew were forbidden walked on all fours and sixes. Two-legged men with horns poking from shoulders, forearms, and outer thighs marched at the beat of drums. A pain Eymeg knew all too well from hunting daemons began to surge through his mind. Siege beasts, three or four times taller than Jolien’s wooden cabin, with elongated necks and even longer tails, stomped the ground. One of them screamed into the skies, showing its rows of jagged, sharp teeth. A man stood on the back of the beast, stabbing it with a spear, prodding it forward.

  ‘The daemon horde,’ whispered Tiebalt behind him. ‘Weserith is on the move.’

  ‘They are moving to Alder Isle,’ said Eymeg, unable to turn to Tiebalt. ‘There are so many.’

  They were camped like an army. The echo of axes cutting down trees rang through the woods far away. Eymeg clenched his fists and stood up.

  ‘You bastards!’ he shouted with all his might. Not a single daemon heard his voice above the commotion of the massive war camp. Tiebalt stood up and frowned, but he remained silent.

  ‘There are too many,’ said Eymeg, falling to his knees.

  Wisdom of a Sage

  RICKERT’S FRILLED COLLAR made the skin of his neck itch incessantly. He found it best to ignore it, or at least try to. The Council of Alestaeyn had been called to order once more, thanks to a strongly worded letter that Rickert had written with his left hand threatening the seat of each and every council member. Despite Morrenwylf's protests, Rickert had revealed that humankind had been spotted north of Muldvale pass, which had led to the calling of the meeting of the era. Word of a human in the city of Felheim was buzzing in everyone’s mouth and ears. As the news went, this particular human had walked right up to the gates of Felheim and screamed for an audience. High Primarch Morrenwylf had captured him and brought him to the cells, but thanks to Rickert's efforts, he’d been freed, though he was being kept in custody under Advocate Estmund's watchful eye.

  ‘Measure your words, little brother,’ said Rhiannon. ‘This is the first formal interaction between elfen and man since the Banishment. History books will record your words.’

  ‘Great, like I needed another reason to be nervous, little sister.’

  Bodyguards marched in front, beside, and behind them, their armoured steps clinking on the stone floor.

  ‘I believe in you, Rickert,’ said Rhiannon as she kissed him on the cheek. Rickert glanced at he and squeezed her hand. She smiled at him, and they turned to the chapel doors, which then opened. They stood on a balcony overlooking the entire council. Primarchs and advocates stood opposite each other, all looking at the man being escorted by four palace guards into the chapel.

  The man wore a red-coloured pelt coat. His pants were grey and his boots black. He was unarmed, but Rickert figured that was his guards’ doing. The man was neatly shaven, and his brown hair was cut short and styled to one side. His steel-blue eyes seemed to scan the council, and then he spotted Rickert and Rhiannon. The human smiled at the twin princes with a nod and then bowed.

  Rickert nodded back, a gesture that came instinctively and surprised him. The man was bound at the wrists and the ankles, making it difficult for him to walk, but finally he reached the inner circle of the chapel.

  Rickert glanced up at the ceiling of the chapel. What he wouldn’t give to be up on the rafters, in silence and observation, witnessing this historic event. He turned to the man and walked to the edge of the balcony.

  ‘I am Prince Rickert Feldyr, soon to be king of the elfen of the lands of Felheim and the north. I will have you state your name, man of the southern lands,’ he said, mustering his deep voice of authority. His voice echoed in the chapel chambers.

  The man bowed and then flashed a smile.

  ‘I am only known as Hamlin. I command the Band of the Belligerent, which you may know is more than just a band now, my lord.’ The man studied the entire council as he spoke.

  ‘I have heard of no such band,’ said Rickert. Hamlin looked offended but didn’t comment on it. ‘Why have you come, Hamlin of the Band of the Belligerent?’ asked Rickert. ‘We can neither house nor feed your kind.’

  ‘Aye, nor would we want you to if you could, young prince.’ Hamlin bowed again. The council erupted, and Rickert saw the Kindler emerge from the crowd.

  ‘You will address Prince Rickert with respect,’ said the Kindler, glaring at Hamlin.

  Hamlin’s eyebrows flew up at the sight of another human in the council, but his eyes quickly turned to tiny slivers through which he glared at the Kindler. ‘It seems I am not the first human to enter this chapel. ’Tis a shame. There go my bragging rights.’

  ‘I will repeat myself. Why have you come here, Hamlin?’ asked Rickert, ignoring the man’s comments.

  ‘Daemons!’ shouted Hamlin. He allowed his voice to silence the anger of the chapel and the echo to stun everyone into their seats. Then, after a pause, he continued. ‘Weserith was the shining city of the Eldervale. Now, King Ayland and his entire line have been devoured. Weserith is a cesspool which all daemons call home. If they are allowed to stay, they will grow stronger and stronger. They already have adapted our technology to their own evil magic, and before too long, they will be an unstoppable force. The north will be one of their targets. I come, my prince, to ask for—’

  Hamlin was interrupted. Dozens of voices sprang from the council. Primarchs stood up and shouted at the man, preventing Rickert from hearing the rest.

  ‘Heresy!’ they shouted. The primarchs and advocates began to lob anything they could find at the Hamlin—books, candlesticks, quills. Ham
lin bowed his head but didn’t try to block the barrage of odd items. A book hit him in the eye, drawing blood. Advocate Edmund cleared his throat behind Rickert in disapproval.

  Rickert had had enough. ‘I will have order!’ he shouted, his fists clenched.

  Every primarch and advocate turned to look at the prince in awe. Rickert was not known for his outgoing personality, and an outburst like this would be talked about for a long time afterwards. Rickert commanded his voice not to waver and continued.

  ‘If someone else, man or elf, defies the silence I command, save for the one I choose to speak, that person will be thrown from the top of the Tower of Sanctuary.’ Rickert glared at his council. He let his words settle in the ears and minds of the council. Little by little, the people in the chamber took their seats, baring their teeth and squeezing their armchairs as they glared at Hamlin.

  ‘Unbind him,’ said Rickert.

  The Kindler unsheathed his knife and cut Hamlin’s ties.

  ‘I will not have the first true interaction with our species be met with barbarism. Speak freely, human. But do not take advantage of my patience or curiosity,’ said Rickert, measuring his words carefully. His legs were shaking. He took a deep breath after he spoke. Perhaps Rickert sounded like his father once had. Rhiannon squeezed his hand, but Rickert dared not look away from the human.

  The gesture of freeing his hands must have caught the man off guard. He rubbed his wrists and twisted his neck.

  ‘Simply put, my prince, the war will affect you before too long,’ said Hamlin. ‘Aye, Muldvale pass will protect you, but it is not impenetrable, as I stand now before you as proof. The daemon horde will pour through if not kept in check and stopped.’

  ‘We have been in isolation for hundreds of years. Only now has Muldvale Pass been penetrated. It can be sealed once more,’ said Rickert.