Anttila was the most able of the group before, and after he finished the flaying. All while Milton built and lit a strong fire. Hot enough to fry any animal that had survived the roving armies of winter. And respectably safe from Finnish eyes for the time being. Due to the overcast day, above the thick canopy of heavy pine.

While underneath, Anttila cleaned his knife, and the axe he used before that. Speaking to Milton and Aleksandr in a volume, which the dark woods could easily swallow up. “Thank you for solving not one—but two problems for us Antt… Why of course.” He said, lifting his brows and bobbing his head a little, as he looked up at Milton. His head still arched down.

Milton dared not look back. Both eyes met his own empty provision pouch instead. Worn, with a broken binding. The sole reminder of their arduous, and costly escape from the ambush. And the source of an unending ache in Milton’s chest. Ever since his injured comrades had all but been done away with by the low temperatures, or by some folly such weather can bring. Which the fire gave no remedy.

“But I solve the problems for myself. Most of all.” Said Anttila, after a long pause, broken only by low pops from the burning sap. Then he stood up, went to the rifles, fixed them with bayonets. And skewered strips of long, red meat on three, out of four of them. While he spoke casually to Milton; the fire maker. “I would think you’ve seen a ghost in that bag of yours.” He said, sighed, then continued. “You surly caused some trouble with it.”

The pouch felt course in Milton’s cold hands. And he said, “But we barely had any food left in it.” As the taste of char on his tongue gave him no appetite. “Though—what there was might’ve well been gold.” He said and looked up at the silent Aleksandr across from him. As if he’d narrow his eyes and agree.

But he only sat, wrapped up tighter than an infant in swaddle cloth. Staring miles away into the sickly yellow tapers of the firelight that reflected off the gold pin on his ushanka. Anttila had demanded he remove it twice before in the escape. Saying, “I’ve killed people wearing that pin. In the war prior.”

As of then, however. Anttila said nothing to him as he dropped the rifle in his lap, with the bolt open and empty. Before approaching Milton with his rifle—bolt closed. Saying, “Throw that bag in the fire and cook quick. Don’t think on it, or else you’ll starve.”

Even in the afternoon, the gunmetal showed black before Milton’s eyes. And the stringy meat that dangled from its spear was a dark, rotten red. But he was cold, and growing colder. Colder than the coldest nights back home, far away. Anttila was right, he would die here otherwise. So, he tossed the pouch in the flames that gave rise to a swarm of embers. As he took his rifle by the fore and buttstock in one automatic motion.

And Anttila chuckled. “Hehe. A true soldier is worth more than any ‘comrade’.” He said, then looked over at Aleksandr. And at last, to the morsel simmering on his spear, speaking baser, and more serious than a moment before. “If only Gennadi knew that. Then he would be at the other end instead.”

The Following Day…

Having a long way to walk eastward, around the frontline. The three strode as quickly as possible across a flat, open lake, swept by drifting snow. Good cover, despite the bone cracking cold.

Which Aleksandr was stumbling, and disconsolate against. Walking on frozen feet and groaning as Anttila led them on without a glance behind him. Halfway across the lake to the other side, when Aleksandr faltered. Then fell against Milton’s shoulder.

Who pitched forward with his rifle in hand. Loaded and still fixed with the bayonet which he almost fell on to. When the buttstock caught in the thick layer of snow before him.

Aleksandr’s hands shook as they latched on, since his feet were of no more use. He dug his fingers deeper to keep himself. And he said, “I c-can’t do it. No. I didn’t think I could since yesterday. After we ate.”

Anttila stopped without turning and Milton could hear the metal of his bolt-action rattle against the wood. As if snatched up in a swift motion.

“No!” Said Milton, clenching onto Aleksandr’s hand, to warm them with his mittens. But in more truth—to get the mans talon-like nails out of his thin coat and flesh. “You must have some strength from it. You must try!” He said, looking at the man, perhaps dying. And so close to him he could smell the short breath of last night’s kill.

Where Anttila had shaken his head before—as he did there. Turning to face the other two and holding the spear of the rifle out. For the one cartridge he had left would find better use on an animal, or enemy.

Or not at all. For Aleksandr collapsed into the snow, soon as Milton got him off. “Help me, or k-kill me. I can’t try. I can’t stop thing about it.” He said to Milton.

Who looked upon him with eyes red, and watering in the wind of the place he thought was his true homeland. But in verity, was further from it, than anywhere else on earth. “I can’t blame you; Alek.” He panted out, taking off the bayonet that almost skewered him and pocketed it. Before continuing, “Yes, neither can I. And still, we are here starving and cold. Why should we try?” He said, dropping the rifle to crouch, and wrap his arm under Alek’s. “Because I can’t find it within me to let a sin like that go in vain.” He said, and at last lifted Alek up with one great push.

Alek said nothing in return, only nodding. While Anttila stomped over and kicked Milton’s rifle out of his way as he did so. Saying, “Vain? No, this is in vain.” Before he exhaled deeply and offered a reluctant hand to help Milton. “But fine, fine, fine. He might have his use later.” He said, wrapping one of Alek’s arms around him as Milton had done.

Slowly and surely, they crossed the lake. But Aleksandr’s condition did not improve. It likely would never, and in fact, it grew worse. He was barely conscious, yet Milton pressed on and carried him without question. Even though Anttila grew sluggish, lazy, or perhaps uninterested as he let Alek droop on his side. While he rocked his upper body back and forth.

Perhaps without knowing it himself, but Milton did see. And he did know Anttila was always troubled, even before the ambush and the previous night. So, in hopes to console or at least bring him back to the world in which they live. Milton reached across Alek’s back and gave his comrades arm a good shake.

Antilla looked over with a start, like someone woken from a nightmare. With a face of confusion and the occasional anger that could be paired with it.

“Like you said yesterday, right? Milton spoke as he clenched down to show he was there. “Don’t think about it.” He said with his voice growing a little weak. When he saw Anttila shake his head like earlier, like yesterday.

“Don’t think about it; Antt. He says.” Said Anttila, looking right through Milton. Who could feel his arm muscle crush down onto Alek. Then continued to speak to himself as he turned his head. “He does one little thing I tell him. Then all of a sudden, he gives the orders and I’m no better than one of these red army dogs I’ve been forced to fight with. Of course!” His tone rose as if he spoke to some annoying tramp on the street.

Milton felt warmer, because his heart beat that much harder in his chest. As he reached further up Anttila’s arm and said, “What’s wrong!? Come on Antt; don’t scare me like this, not now.”

“Ah to hell with you!” Anttila shouted. Then yanked his arm away and pushed back from Alek in quick succession. Leaving Milton crunched under Alek’s weight. As Anttila’s thumb stroked the strap of his bolt-action. Which hung loaded on the same shoulder. And continued, “Acting like you’re a better leader than me. But look at you!” He said, at last lifting the rifle and holding it in both hands. “You’re struggling to lift him.”

While alone, Anttila was right on this. Milton’s legs shook with ague when he said, “listen, help me out, and I won’t say a word about how you killed Gennadi. But if you fire that rifle. The Finns will hear it and we’ll all be dead.”

And Anttila’s response was a simple, low bout of laughter. He aimed with his rifle, and said, “Well, at least I’ll be able to run.” Then, he pulled the trigger.

And Milton’s senses burst with all sorts of sensations of pain and vivid clarity. He saw the smoke billow from the muzzle and heard the crack of the bullet whizz right past his head as if it hit nothing but air. And yet he felt splashes of thick liquid spill across his face, as his tongue drowned in the iron taste of blood. Before he fell with Alek, though it was a miracle he was still conscious, himself.

“I’m sorry, Milton.” Said Anttila, pulling back the bolt. Only to curse under his breath soon after. “damn. Well, either way, I can’t risk you telling anyone what I did to them.” He said, holding his rifle out like a spear. “I wish I could’ve saved you a bullet.” He growled, then began to race toward Milton in a charge.

Long months in battle made Milton’s hand’s rush to his rifle before his mind could react. And yet it did, this one time. Making his eyes wide and his cold skin turn from red to pale white. For his rifle was nowhere to be felt on his side, or underneath his back.

Which Anttila’s rifle, pent up for a good strike, clove clean into from Milton’s stomach. The point of the bayonet breached Milton’s jacket and sunk into his gut. Leaving the blood to seep out in one moment and grow cold on the next. As Anttila’s eyes pierced into his victim’s.

There, they did not stay long, however. They darted further down as Milton’s hand latched onto the rifles barrel and forestock with all the strength he had. And he could not tell if the burn was hot or cold, but he could feel the wooden handle of his own bayonet as he reached for it.

“Let go!” Anttila spat venom, and drool at Milton. As he walked in close for a better grip on the rifle. “Let go so I can kill you quickly!” He said, jerking the rifle this way and that to make the pain unbearable. And the relinquishing of life as no other option.

But the will to live is the chiefest of necessities. And necessity is the cruelest taskmaster. It kept Milton focused on his target, while the cold numbed the pain as best it could. And again, Anttila was right. Don’t think. But Milton didn’t even feel the bayonet plunge deep into the face of Anttila’s groin. Three times over.

Until Anttila’s pants changed color. And Milton sat up with his arms supporting him. Watching Anttila stumble backward into the base of a tall conifer. Sending snow slowly downward as Anttila slid into a sitting position against the bark. Where they stared a dozen strides apart at each other. Then ceased without a word, once Milton collapsed onto his back. And Anttila stared up at the falling snow, never to look back down again.

Milton must’ve laid there for an hour. Drifting in and out of a daze which he could not remember anything from. When a commotion of crunching snow could be heard on the lake shore whence, he came.

“There!” Came a voice.

“By God, they must’ve gotten so hungry they tried to eat each other!” Said another, less than serious.

Milton tried to move, but his arms and legs were completely stiff.

“Aye, it must be them. Pity, yet we would’ve never have found them without the shot.” Said the first, before the click of boots departing from skis rang in Milton’s ears. Making him jolt.

“Did you see that! By God, that one’s alive!” Said the second, now astonished.

“I see it… Sir!” Said the first, as his footsteps closed in. But Milton gave no answer.

“What do we do with him?” Said the second.

“Wha—no!” The first said, in response to some foul act, or extreme mercy, played out soundlessly by the second. “No, we take him and bring him back for questioning.” Milton heard. Then felt the warm touch of healthy hands underneath him.

“Well, he’ll be glad then.” Said the second. “There’s plenty of real food to go around.”

“There they are!” Hissed Herr Boris from the bushes, his sword steady at his side. With his loyal sergeants all around him. “There must be a hundred of them following that Bey.” He said, as a wild smile grew on his face. “But oh— how little do these Sarasin’s know, that these woods are watching them.” And his sergeants chuckled, ready for the command.

“And that they’ll be joining their friends.” Boris’s voice rose. “On the tips of our pikes!” He roared, soared and threw himself out of the bushes, into the open stands of the blood-soaked stakes. And it was as if the legions of hell followed out with him. Gripping the full attention of the Turkish warband, marching ornately on the road.

Although the warband were some of the best Mehmed had to offer. Slave Janissaries pulled from Christian households to serve when they were young. The forest had laid a trap all round them by the sight of the Wallachian’s prior victims, long before Boris showed his face. So, that the mad rush of the boyar’s fifty men, once they came. Gave the warband much doubt to the strength of their own arms. And, to the thought that these murders, were human.

“Kill them! Let not a soul flee from the doom we have laid out for them!” Cried Boris, as he rode to the Janissaries which held their banners. Slashing one mounted Bulgar across the throat. Before driving off the Turkish captain, with a strike to the man’s horse. While the sergeants cast themselves into the side of the main force, in one red wave of slaughter. As it was seen to the Janissaries.

But there, the threat had been revealed in full. There was nothing the Bulgar’s could do except hold, fight, and die to the end. So, abandoning their injured, the remaining Janissaries, all on foot. Formed a tight formation, the sergeants had been hard put to break through. And one of them called out to the sergeants, albeit, in a shaky voice, with dry lips. “Leave these lands I-Infidels! Or we s-shall remove you!” One spoke.

To which Boris shrugged his shoulders at. The Janissaries had no teeth, only grasping, flaying claws that swung at the sergeants each time they circled too close. A stalemate that only the captain of either side could swing. A balance of power, Boris stopped, and raised his blade at, to command toward his favor.

When a pound of hooves, and a blow against his helmet blindsided him. And dropped him hard onto the gnawing gravel of the road. “Dogs like you need to be bound by a chain!” Said a rich, royal voice. Lowered by some injury or humiliation, into a booming, proclamation of rage. And Boris found it was beyond doubt the voice was of the Turkish captain he had recently routed. Though, his look was shadowed, and his long locks were black against the cold sun above. It was the stammer, and the stream of blood from the bey’s horse that gave it away.

And Boris watched the bey throw up his sword to strike him down into the earth. While the sergeants circled the Janissaries. Their taunts an obvious sign of their obliviousness to Boris’s situation.

All while the bey thrust his sword downward, aiming to sever Boris’s jaw from his skull.

But it was a long way down, despite Boris’s wounded state, brought on by the blow to the head. His own weapon jumped up to meet the enemy’s. As if it were an extension of his arm. Sent into a harsh vibration, and an electric shock. As a loud twang sung throughout the whole forest.

“Coward!” Said the bey, hoisting his sword up again. “You should’ve fought me honorably, but you get what you deserve!” His growl was followed with a whistle of his sword. Unaware, that all his ruckus was finally heard by the sergeants, and Janissaries alike.

Watching Boris take another strike to the helmet when he turned his head. To slash the bey’s calf half open. Protected only by the strapping of a shin guard and baggy, Turkish hose.

Quickly drenched in blood, as the bey yelped and howled a moment after. Before he dropped to his knees, with his sword tip cloved into the rocks. As he cried, “Ah- fool! Did Vlad order this!? Urgh, you better hope he did. Or you’ll be joining me soon enough.” He said, as his dark hair shielded his face from his doom.

“Of course…” Replied Boris, clenching his helm as he struggled to his feet. “So no, I won’t be. But I wouldn’t lose too much sleep anyways, over some no-name Sarasin!” Said Boris, nearly cleaving his back with his blade, before he let the weapon fall, onto the bey’s nape.

It was a rough cut with all the hair, but it did the trick. The bey fell face first into the gravel. As the sergeants cheered and passed over the surviving Janissaries. Who woefully cried out and retreaded southward down the road in a mad frenzy.

No chase was given to them, however. Though the sergeants only had minor bruises, under mail wet with blood. The blood belonged to another, and no small wound could keep them from an easy kill. No, they stayed for their boyar, even ran to him. Once they saw him wobble and then fall to the earth. Where Boris heard them cry, “Herr! Tell us not that you are dead and speak!”

He only groaned in response, and yet it was a small miracle to see the boyar move his hands. Clasping for the brim of his helmet in slow, heavy strokes. Brushed aside by the firmer grip of another.

“C’mon, get that damn thing off of him!” Said one sergeant to the other, who appeared older than the boyar himself. The patriarch of his own house, who had seen many grave injuries and had the touch to prove it. While the rest of the sergeants stood about. Or walked over to deal with the fallen Turk.

And the boyar twitched when the old sergeant took the dented piece of metal off his head in one final push. Blinking painfully slow at the waves of the sergeant’s hand when the old man wrapped his cracked head in a dusty blanket. Unresponsive to the old man’s prayers, and none the wiser to the cry in alarm from the others. Who dared to peek at the face of the beheaded bey.

“God in heaven!” Said the young sergeant, throwing the head aside and covering his own face with his hands. “We’ve made a terrible mistake. Herr Boris has doomed us!” The old sergeant heard him say.

Before he looked up from Boris, with the others. And it was as if a ghost passed through their whole rank in a moment. Staring dead quiet at the head looking right back at them with glossy eyes from the road.

It was the silent face of Radu. And by God, the old man swore it was the face of Vlad himself.

“no…” Said one sergeant. “We’re as good as dead!” Came another, collapsing onto the gravel for forgiveness, as some began to pace around the scene. While a few others simply threw down their arms and ran off into the woods.

Save the old man, who knelt beside Boris. The youth that lost the wide grin of their first victory. And the sergeant who stood over and eyed the boyar close. And that one shook his head, saying “Well… It won’t do any good to help him now.”

And the youth’s brow arched at the sergeant, as his fingers tightened around his polearm. While the old man turned and glared at the man. Leaving Boris, to blink on, slowly.

Then the old man sighed and rubbed the mail over his breast, as if injured. Saying, “No, it won’t.” Before he turned to the youth with his arm raised and palm open.

But the youth stood frozen, his skin as pale as the corpse behind him. He said, “B-But what does it matter? We spilled as much blood as he did.”

“Just give him your dammed weapon!” Spoke the standing sergeant. When the old one fluttered his fingers and added in a collected voice. “Trust me, son. It matters.” He said, and the rigid wrinkles all about his face proved severity beyond what any word could do. It forced the youth to obey.

Afterward, the old sergeant threw the bloodied spear into the woods among the rest. And as the standing sergeant went to round up who he could. The old reassured the young. Saying that, Boris; was aware of the risk. And that all who fight no matter their blood. Would be lucky to go the same way. Numb to the pain, almost blind to the weapon, and surrounded by the arms of his loyal servants.

29 May, 1462. Curtea Veche, Wallachia.

“There you are.” Said the man at the end of the large table, fit for twenty, but seating only five within the dark, candlelit chamber. Four of which were boyars, adorned in fine woolen jackets of pitch black and warm white. As Boris was, when he joined them. While the man at the front wore one of a deep crimson. Fastened by a shining silken wrap around the waist when he stood to address Boris, in slow speech. “I was told you’d come. But I did not believe it. You are not a man to be trusted.” He spoke.

And a cold finger travelled up Boris’s spine, right after. His head arched over his breast that shuddered, to which anyone of the five could see. If they stepped in close, to feel his weak breath.

Which caught, when the man before him, leant all his weight on the wooden table. Creaking as he began again, “Even worse. You are a traitor.” He said, and the pace at which he said it began to pick up. “You, Herr Boris; order the death of my own father and older brother. Then, raise a rebellion with your late peers to overthrow me. And at last, come back here! What, were you thinking!?” Said the man, with wide brushy brows furrowed on Boris. With a heavy black moustache covering the top half of his grimace. While the lower jutted out into the grotesque shape of fangs in the dim candlelight.

And those few boyars who sat with the man, the prince apparent of Wallachia. Watched Boris as well. As he pulled his head back and glanced at them. As if they shared the same hounding doom their peers had faced. Or what Boris thought he would face in that room. When he forced his eyes over to the prince and spoke in a weak voice. “I come seeking forgiveness Vlad; my prince. Not, just for me.” Boris snatched a breath of the thick air, heavy with wick smoke. “For my whole house, too.” He spoke.

Then the room fell quiet as Vlad, the prince apparent, stood up straight and folded his arms. And there, one could hear the bristles of Vlad’s moustache as his fingers combed through. While the boyars sat patient, and still. As Vlad spoke slowly again, though that time it came low. Like the growl of one predator to another, lest the other steal away its prey.

“So be it.” Said Vlad “Many of the boyars have grown idle on the suffering of the nation and that ends. Now. But how it does is up to you.” He said, breaking his stance and marching around the timid boyars to Boris. His boots loud against the stone as he spoke, “Enclose your ranks along the road to Targovishte. You’ll know my work well there. And when the invader comes, add to my collection.” Said Vlad, a hand length away from Boris’s face when he stopped and held a finger up to the boyar’s neck. “Two weeks. Or surrender your title now.”

When at last, he finished. Boris took a deep breath, free of the odor of a dry mouth. Eyeing the boyars who lowered their heads as he ran his palms down the seams of his coat, to his belt and scabbard. All crafted with the skill of his servants. So, Boris nodded, looking right into the eyes of Vlad when he spoke. “I’ll do it. Your enemies are mine, my lord.”

Though he didn’t see it, one of the remaining boyars turned to look. While Vlad stood, glaring a moment, as if he’d decided otherwise. Until he suddenly broke out in a shout of elation. “HA!” He slapped Boris on the shoulder. “Lo, the prodigal son has returned. Good, good! Now, go your way, and come again when you have done my bidding.” Said Vlad.

Leaving Boris to bow and depart from the way he came. But as soon as his back was turned, Vlad’s smile dropped immediately. And the boyars went on discussing their tactics along the Ottoman border. Save one, that watched Vlad sit back down, so he may question him quietly, and calmly. “My gracious and forgiving lord.” He said “I mean to inquire you about what you said to Boris regarding, two weeks. Not out of any fault of yours, my lord. But, out of my own ignorance.”

Vlad turned to face him and rested his head against his hand. While the others stopped what they were doing. But Vlad waved at them with his free hand. So, they continued.

Leaving the boyar to speak, rubbing his collar as he did so. “W-well” he said “Isn’t your last brother Radu coming up around then? To negotiate peace, my lord?”

“Yes.” Said Vlad.

And all the hair on the boyar’s arms stood up. And he whispered, “But my lord, surely peace is what you want! You’ve secured your position. The traitors are dead. And everyone in Wallachia is willing to rat out any lesser lord that lays claim to your title!” He said “Or. That kills anyone close to you.” And at last, the boyar fell silent.

“Yes, I know this.” Said Vlad. “But let me ask you. Why, would my brother be coming for peace, so early in a war, when the Sultan has a greater force than me?” Vlad waited for a response but got nothing. “No. Not for peace, Radu lies. And Boris cares only for his own glory.” Vlad spoke with eyes unbreaking, as he gripped the rough edge of the table. Then lent in closer to the boyar. “But you are right.” He said “The people are willing to take justice into their own hands. So, when that dog kills my rival, his men will betray him. Then, in two weeks. I will have killed two birds with one stone.” Said Vlad, before he fell back into his chair.

“I see.” Said the boyar, his attention shifting back to the greater discussion. “Then so it must be, my lord. You know we have your back. Always.”

Afterword: A big thanks to you for reading through a piece I thought was experimental, and interesting to write. Because this was my fifth attempt at writing it!

But it’s finished both for you, and me. Now, we can look to the next installment. And I can move on from research about stakes. I’ll see you around.

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If you’re new here and don’t get why I’m changing my channel. Read these posts to see where I started.

Historical Fiction:

Down The Volga

Essay:

The Night Land

Onto the post.

I’ll admit, I’ve been lacking on my reading, notes, and restacks lately. Thinking on what I really want to do here instead. And it’s been on my mind for a while, really. Only reality had finally set in, or God had sent me spinning into making changes in my real life over the past month. And on my site over the past few days.

What changes exactly?

My publication name for starters. It’s no longer ‘Matthew’ thank the lord! No, I made it shorter, and hopefully, sweeter. I’ve changed it to, 4D History.

And why did I change it to that?

In short, I’m trying new things. But to be more exact, I’m changing the content I write on here, by adding something new. Essays!

I’ll be continuing my historical fiction of course. But I want to go a little deeper than that on occasion with essays. Examination’s primarily, or solely, on time.

Why time, of all things?

Because time is fascinating, and a loaded topic as much as death is. You can see it metaphysically, from all genres of fiction on or off this site, to a topic just as loaded, like math… Which I suppose is also on this site.

And history is one of its effects in action, of course. On top of the fact that I’ve been thinking about it more often over the past year or two. Take my first poem on this site for an example. You can read it here:

The Treasure Trove

Historical essays are done to death on here. There’s nothing wrong with that. But why not add something a little more niche?

As for posting essays—I’ll keep you, the reader, updated in my subscriber chat once I’m ready to write my first piece. It’ll be an occasional release. Unlike my fiction, which I’ll write to publish every two weeks.

That’s it! Thank you for reading, I’m genuinely excited to try new things. And I hope you’re just as ready to read them.

If you have any questions or want me to read your work (Cause lord knows I got some catching up to do). Message me or leave a comment below.

See you.

It was my younger sister, Sarah. Who mercilessly woke me from sleep the night before our departure from Norway. As she spoke in a loud whisper. “Micheal…. Mike!” She said, before switching on the lamp on top the nightstand which hit my tired eyes like a flashbang.

So, my hand’s leapt to my face before I groveled in a half-asleep drowse, “wha—What is it?”

She sounded giddy and towered over me. Stepping in closer before she spoke. “I just got back from my hike through the fjord. While you went and sent me pictures of that decrepit Stave Church. I found this jewel of a stone not too far from a cairn.”

Sitting up, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked closely at it. Noticing right away it was about the size of a cell phone. Though shaped, or cut, into the form of a rhombus. And pitch black. Like the cover of an old ‘Dostmann’ book. Like the one on Norwegian folklore, I had recently read. But nothing more. So, I waved it off, yawning, “Neat.” As my head bobbed for sleep.

Sarah scoffed in return. “Yeah, ‘neat’.” She said, trying to keep me up with pestering and snark as she did since we were little. “But aren’t you in the mood to know more about it? I want to add it to my collection, so I am.” Her eyes widened, and her snark replaced with awe. “Could it be something pagan?” She said, and lightening flared out the hotel window. Though the thunder was yet distant, matching the primitive feeling with Sarah’s mysterious find.

But I shook my head in a quick motion. Replying in a fatigued tone, though admittedly with a tinge of intrigue vowing to replace it. “Maybe—Why do you care about that anyway?”

She shook her head. Then put the stone down on the nightstand. Pausing for a moment, when her light drop crashed the stone against the wood. “Why?… Well, why do you care about that charm of Mary around your neck? Or, that church? That, in the photos had similar stones built into its foundation?”

The sleep fell from me almost completely when Sarah said this. Until it had been brought up, I completely spaced the weird beauty of the stones before I entered. And being both a place of worship and history. I sat in the pews for quite some time, then read the plaques in, and around the church. And one remarked on the foundation.

Apparently, those ‘bricks’ as the plaque called them. Were taken from an old-Norse Hall; their pre-Christian keeps that were also used as temples. But the ‘masonic’ history goes back before the church was reared. And before its founders, met violent ends.

The plaques said that the stones go all the way back to the ancient Sami people. Who Lived in those parts before the Germanic Norse pushed them back.

I remembered the text vividly in bed. And though I fled from Sarah’s belief of modern spirituality, seeing it as foolish to take the image of an old god and dress it in the new. I had to admire Sarah’s sharp eye for detail. So, I relented to her, “I think—no, you’re right. They’re, interesting.”

Then, of course, she smirked like she always did when the argument was hers. But her interest only seemed to grow from it. Her gaze turned and did not part with the stone. While the lightning grew closer, and the thunder boomed louder.

I watched her reach out to grab the stone, which was as dark as the night outside. She touched it, then immediately pulled her hand back from its surface. Her voice perplexed, “It’s, cold. Ice cold.”

In response I threw my hand out, “Well, you did just come back in. It’s late September after all.” I said, noticing the thick mittens on her hands.

But she shook her head. A wave of memory washing over her face. Her breaths slower than before, “It was in my pocket for a while, a long while. And now that I think about it—” She turned to the window, the smile gone from her face in the reflection on the glass. Before the storm lit the wooded slope outside. “It was an odd walk back. I saw that storm on the sea, raining, like now… And I thought someone followed me.” Then her voice deepened, “Like they were going to take my stone.”

The hairs on my arm stood up suddenly, “Unlucky.” I said, as that book entered my mind next. Dostmann’s Norwegian folklore. Which contained a chapter of those same stave churches. The one I visited in particular. So, I questioned her. A little fearful of the answer. “What was the name of the fjord where you found it?”

She turned again, but straight to me. And a flash of anger crossed her face. As if she thought the silent figure who wanted the stone was me. “You should know, I told you before—It was the Cairn of Vidarson!”

Sarah’s irritation, and that name, made me grasp the charm hung around my throat. Vidarson, Vidar. The Norse Hall that the stave church replaced had been in the worship of Vidar as well. The Norse god of vengeance. Silent vengeance.

Dostmann had written that Vidar rode with Thor. But as Thor had command of the violent storm; Vidar had command of its shadow. And, with some similarity to the Sami tradition which came before. Dostmann spoke about Vidar’s protection of wealth, the wealth only for gods. Which were jewels. And black stones.

And whoever took one of these jewels, was said to be cursed—forever.

Sarah must’ve seen the look of dread wash across my face when I made the connection. She stared right at me. But she did not stammer, or demand explanation for the way I so suddenly feared for her. She only swore at me, “Don’t look at me like an asshole! Don’t even say I stole it!”

It was as if I had stepped on the toes of a stranger out of the blue.

So, I tore my eye’s away, and my hand fell from my charm of St. Mary. As I brought myself up from bed. Then walked for the stone on the nightstand, for a closer look.

And though Sarah would never tell me where the cairn was, it didn’t matter. I felt, for my sister’s sake, that I needed to take the stone away like it was a bad omen. And quickly, I found that to be true.

For my sister, my dear Sarah. Caught me off guard as I reached. And her hands clenched down on me with a strength the sailors of the past would’ve respected. While she spat a curse at me, in a voice that sounded nothing like her.

“NO, damn you!

Sarah was always bookish growing up. So, I didn’t expect her rage in that room to be alike to a Valkyrie’s. When she knocked me into the nightstand, casting the lamp down and the room into shadow. Leaving the only light, to the encroaching bolts of white fire from the sky outside. While the thunder deafened our struggle like a whisper at the time of a gunshot.

I had no strength or will to strike her, I doubted my own fists then. No, my hands reached only for the stone. And when I touched it with my struggling hand, shaking in my sister’s grasp. The thing did not, would not move easily. It hardly budged. And my sister was right. For that stone was a cold as the lowest pit of hell.

But it was her own hands that were hot. Once they wrapped around my throat and embedded the charms chain into my skin. And Sarah growled into my ear, “I knew it. You followed me. You! I’ll kill you!” She said, making it impossible for the thunder to drown her out.

Thunder, that came as soon as the lightning. And when I thought my faith could not buckle any further.

It did. As the cold, earthly light cast a sight in the window I will remember until I lie dying.

It was—he was, dark against the light that his kin cast down. As a windowpane is dark when you shine a flashlight against it.

But he did not speak. God, he wasn’t even really there, he was beyond. In the dark underbelly of the clouds. And coming with the rain to take what was his. As an avalanche comes and swallows a village, then leaves nothing but long drifts of snow in its wake.

And it pushed me to lift the stone that weighed as much as the nightstand it sat on. Then I tried to speak, to tell Sarah this would be over, if I had the strength to hurl it out the window. But all that came out was a desperate gurgle between my lips. Ushering a violent thought over my dying brain. And a dark shroud across my spirit.

While the wind blew muffled over the laughter of my sister. Who taunted me, one last time, “Are you still sleepy; Micheal?” She said, a little to her right, away from my head. For all she saw was night. Like me, for the moment.

Until something snapped in my brain. When my vision turned from black death to red rage.

And at last, I acted without thought. I pent up the stone above my head with unyielding strength. Then crashed it against her skull.

The impact made a horrible thump before it faded to the sound of her terrible cry.

Then I heard her fall prostrate, and no sound issued again from her lips. It was over as fast as it began.

The lamp switched back on a moment after. As if this were some cruel test from the days when the world was built on pile of bones.

I saw the bloodied mess of hair that was my sisters face. I felt the stone warm with crimson. And I heard no more of Thor’s thunder, nor Vidar’s wind.

They left. Leaving me to walk with my head down for as long as I live. And to know that vengeance is older than forgiveness on this earth. And the old gods. Keep it.

Behind a canvas sheet of woodland colors. Near a rotting haybale of last year’s harvest. He waited.

Up the hill, about a five-minute walk from my childhood home. Grew a line of old oaks that had stood guard beside a rusted wire fence. Ever since my dad laid the first block cement.

The first footnote of my life. But the one thousandth of those hard woods, the field that sat beyond it, and the stranger that lay claim to both.

Mr. or, Sir. Donvan was the man’s or, thing’s name. And that was all I knew about him, until one afternoon in mid-September. The worst afternoon, which that Donovan made sure of. One thing I wish I knew would be before, and nothing more.

I can’t remember what I was doing before my brother Jack, and his friend Chloe asked me to come. As if it matters. But what did was how they asked me.

“Come see the old guy’s house with us, it’s like, settler-old. And sure, it is trespassing, but it’s not like he’ll see us through all the leaves.” Said Jack.

Don’t recall what I said. Only what I thought up. Giant logs of stripped pine, under a chimney of old stones emitting warm, yellow haze.

“We won’t go if you don’t come with us.” Chloe said as if I’d disappoint them. And now I wonder. If she feels more guilty than me, from those exact words.

But to me, they matter very little. It was my feet that walked up that hill alongside theirs. Watching the windbreak of oaks slowly close in at our approach. Like guards of a household, waiting.

But we passed through unscathed, despite three warnings. The winding, ancient trees, the rusted fence, and a sign which said, “NO TRESPASSING.”

There stood the tall grass. Still and golden in the evening light of summers end. Where uncoiled bales of their brethren lay about, unused, and rotting. While they stood unknowing to the cruelty of it.

But we three walked on, and my brother said, “Come on, it’s on the other side of the grass.” So, we whacked our way through.

Through the thinning blades stood the far tree line. And through that sat a solemn glow. As if it were a singular light in the darkening woods.

I remember our pace dropping, stopping in a moment. At the edge of the grass before the woods with a few feet of bare earth in between. When Chloe’s shaken voice sounded fatal in my ears.

“I hear someone walking.”

I glanced out in front of me and there was the house like I imagined, only a little smaller. With curtains over its only window where the light glimmered within. I looked to my right, where something odd was strung up. Like a large canvas on which someone tried their skill at painting the landscape before hanging it out to dry.

Then, I glanced to my left, where Jack and Chloe both turned. And I saw it, almost as if it were hunched over and afraid of us in return. Until it walked forward out of the low hanging leaves.

It was only a large Turkey. And my brother gave a hissing laugh at it. As the bird glanced at us, and the call of one of its fellows in the forest to my right.

Jack went on to scare the bird away when he broke out of the grass with me and Chloe at his back. And the call from the woods stopped soon after.

We should’ve gone back before that. The house was clear in my mind, and the season was not late enough to enjoy the vibrant colors. Or to shiver with excitement at winters coming cold. But Jack didn’t know better, he never would.

As he got to the center of that line between field and forest, I heard a sharp whistle. I’ll never forget that whistle.

For the sight that came with it was a stream of flushed, bubbly blood. Pouring from the side of my brother where an arrow had struck him. As he keeled over and stretched out across the bare earth like a fallen branch.

He did not yelp. We did not scream. We ran. And Chole was the faster.

She was halfway through the field when my leg’s had brought me upward. Yet my muscles moved like roots when I gave chase. Only picking up speed, after another sharp whistle of an arrow flew right past me. Kicking up a small patch of dirt ten paces before my feet.

I could’ve sworn the oaks in the distance failed to close in as they once did. And instead ran away for what felt like a marathon. I wondered if it was all for nothing the whole way through. When Chloe vanished beyond the trees, and I was left alone.

Next thing I felt was the rough bark of the oaks. Biting into my soft hands as the wire fence tore at my jeans. And the barbs ripped into my skin as a loud— WHACK came from the spot my hand had left a moment before.

The two of us, me and Chloe; escaped. Even if I have no visual evidence of her all these years afterward. And as for me, my leg has long since healed and the scars on my skin are long gone. But it is, as if—my soul is torn open every time I reach late summer. Every time I lay eyes on my mom… who my brother looked so alike. Every time I see an oak tree, or a simple bale of hay.

My dad has searched for him, more than once. To the cabin that has long since been abandoned, even if the fields title remains the same. But he doesn't go searching anymore. And in the new house—he did not build it. My dad doesn’t have the diligence, or the heart to retry.

And as for that ‘Donovan’ I’m beyond any doubt. If that was his old-school cabin and the title of ‘Sir’ really was his to bear. Then I take it upon me to show that old man, if I can. How we shoot in today’s day and age.

Thanks for reading. I haven’t written a story in first person, or this fast in a while. So, let me know how it went.

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There once was a young king who spent his days well.

And every night he came down from the towers with calm, steady feet.

All to check his treasure trove,
glimmering within his castle keep.
He admired the way he kept it,
all tall and neat.
And he held one under the moonlight out the window,
before he went to sleep.

But each night he left it a thief came stalking in.
Wearing a cloak of black, under his frame, frail and thin.

The thief stole one coin,
before he slipped away.
Waiting again to rob the king,
at the end of each and every day.

As the king grew older,
he found his tasks grow larger.
Many people to meet, and places to see that took him farther.
Not knowing his trove was getting smaller.

Whilst the thief grew cunning,
taking the lion’s share.
As God looked down from above,
at this great game,
unfair.

He pitied the old king,
who met with a young lord of much fame.
And he bestowed upon him,
man’s old feeling of shame.

The king held his chest as he saw the young lord’s trove.
And he cried out before the youth,
“By God, and by Jove!”

All the night long the king rushed home in sadness.
Not stopping to watch the sun come up in its chariot of gladness.

He continued unto the sunset,
when he reached his castle strong and grand.
Afraid for his trove,
was why he saw the white stones and painted glass as nothing more than sand.

The sun took its rest beyond the firmament of ground and of sky.
All while the king approached his trove saying,
“Why why why!”
Until he reached his trove once stacked high.
Yet one coin was all that was left,
and on the ground,
it lie.

In the show of a pillar, the thief did peer.
And with his face bound for hell, he issued an evil sneer.

God felt mercy for the king who fell down to weep.
So, he said to the old man,
“Pick up the coin, and peep.”

A king can wish that he still had all the rest.
But alone, this coin’s beauty shone out of all the others,
as one of the very best!

The king grew tired, on this last night of earth.
But before the sleep could take him,
he let the stars from the window reveal the coins true mirth.

The memory of all the others glowed on its face,
as the starlight fell.
Even as the thief came in boldness,
to cast his final spell.
But at last, the king had caught him,
and this, he did yell.

“Take it! For I can’t keep it… Though I have spent it well.”

THE END

Thank you for reading through, not only my first poem on this space. But my first poem altogether. And, before you go, answer this one question…

Have you spent your coins well?

^{Art By Ary Scheffer}

Part VI, The First Way Of War

To the north of Arthurus’s host, and beyond the strumming of Lucan’s party, rode the horde of the barons. Cloaked in red tunics and surcoats over mail of featureless grey. With intercisa helmets on each of their heads. This force of knights, squires, and men at arms numbered around five hundred. And followed their dual lieges eastward on a rough course.

Kept in tandem with Arthurus and Flavian to the south by relaying outriders. Arriving, then departing from the barons every few hours. While others went to the north to survey the land ahead, ever since the barons saw the ruin on the border. But after they went, north or south, they never returned once they crossed the border, or when the storm began to set in.

This made Lancelot silent, and easy to startle, when they crossed the open country, chiefly. For he hoped to see them in the distance, though all he got in return was rain, and the signs of fog coming. And as it began to chill his wet body in the enclosed field where they rode. Galahad spotted a small party approach from the denser wood to the south. And Lancelot slowed his march down to a crawl when he noticed them. As Galahad spoke to him briefly. “See, it was only the weather. Just like home.”

Furthermore, another one came from the north, only one. He must’ve heard the quakes of the riders. But this one man came unlike the trotting party, he rode headfirst, horse and rider alike.

“My liege!” Hailed the outrider approaching Galahad. Who threw his hand up at him to brace for mud. “I’ve been riding, trying to find you since the wind kicked up. My comrades have either abandoned or lost me!” The outrider spat out of his blue lips around the pale, bear skin of his face. And Galahad listened on, with a look of pity. While Lancelot narrowed his brows noting it, whilst he watched the party slowly close in from the other way.

“And not too far back. I spotted what looked at first were a band of outlaws. No, they were a war party of Sissons troops. Deserters— I don’t know. But they were on the move and not far off. They might’ve followed me.”

And Galahad replied calm yet direct like the tutor the upstart nobles knew him for. “Well, if they’re deserters. Once they see our size, they’ll either turn back or surrender to us.” He said, before resting his hands on the saddle with an exhale. “Unless they saw your comrades, of course.” Then, Galahad sent the outrider back into rank.

“They had better dammed not.” Said Lancelot, laying his spatha across his lap as the few hundred behind him finally stopped and gathered a tight formation. “Well, the party’s here.” Lancelot continued. “And it’s not the outriders. It’s that Lucan, with more worrying news I fear, like it always is with him.” Said Lancelot, his head cocked slightly to Galahad behind him. While he watched Lucan approach.

“Don’t be so hasty my boy.” Galahad said as he rode up beside the young baron. “It could be news you want to hear. Since you pride yourself so much on the attack.” Added Galahad, watching Lancelot perk his lips and nod. Until Lucan addressed them at last with his hand rubbing his neck. Rather than saluting, like the outriders would’ve done.

“My lord, Lancelot.” He said slowly, avoiding a direct look at the baron. “Arthurus has found the enemy. Four miles through this fog to the southeast.” Lucan pointed in that direction by turning and looking.

While Lancelot scrapped his fingers across the stubble on his upper lip before he spoke. “Well then, I guess you were right Galahad.” He said, trailing his glove up the edge of his spatha. As Galahad listened to the young baron’s next words carefully. “Tell on Lucan,” said Lancelot. “What would Arthurus have us do. As I’m sure Flavian is not, ‘equipped’ to handle such things.” He said, then wiped the rain from the brim of his intercisa forcibly.

“Probably not.” Lucan replied, as the corners of his mouth flattened. “Arthurus’s best interest would be for you to move up. A few miles east-southeast, by my reckoning, seeing that you’re off course… Wait until his squires give you the signal. The call of a horn. That’s when they begin the charge. Then, you’ll ride east and attack the encampment from the north.” Lucan spoke as efficiently as he could. Nearly turning to leave before Galahad caught him with a question.

“The idea’s fine by me. But to beg your pardon I’m afraid we’ve lost our outriders. Have you seen them? I think something could’ve happened.” Galahad spoke; his head pitched a little to his left.

“We have our mission.” Said Lancelot, wantonly, turning to face the direction where their mission would lead, and where the deserters would likely come from. For, what could happen to their mounted army in the surprise attack, with only a dozen men unaccounted? While a small, feeble party of deserters cowered around at their back.

Galahad scoffed at Lancelot’s disregard, but he still let Lucan speak. As this attitude from the young baron was nothing new. Only the oddity of the outrider’s, disappearing all at once.

“Well...” Lucan began, drawing the word in a long breath as Galahad lowered his head. “I, or Arthurus never spoke to them, not even Flavian, they were debating most of the way… Last time I saw them was maybe ten miles back.” Said Lucan, rubbing his chin hastily with the tips of his fingers as he eyed Galahad.

“Ten miles?!” Said Galahad and he grabbed the cantle on his saddle. While Lancelot peered over his shoulder, then stared off to the north where the outrider had come. “But the rain began no more than three to the west. They must’ve lost their way… I hope.” Then, Galahad looked to the north as well.

“Should I stay, my lord? Or tell Arthurus.” Lucan queried, with his boots ready to smack the side of his horse as if he prepared for a charge, or a retreat.

“We should move on!” Lancelot raised his voice, but Galahad could tell it came a little rattled. “Can’t let a few lives stand in the way of a victory over many.” He added.

But Galahad wavered, looking around, truly observing the field and forest around them. It had been engulfed in full, bosky murk. Watching the thicker drafts slowly move in the chill. Until a strange feeling hummed from his horse and onto his legs. Galahad felt it in battle and on the street. It was hooves, trotting. But it didn’t have the pounds of many, only a dozen, like a slow procession of a passed artisan from some common town. So, Galahad made his choice. “Stay; Lucan. And note in your mind what happens. For I don’t know if you’ll even make it back in time.”

Then, he left Lucan behind a few dozen strides and trotted to Lancelot. Who muttered as the men in formation that served under him did. “You felt it too?”

As Lucan sat and glanced all around to his north. Lancelot turned to his riders who whispered among themselves at the front. And bid a score of them, his men at arms, armed with lance and sword to dismount and wait in the thicker brush about two hundred strides to their north. Grabbing Galahads attention in a long stare, and a drawn breath before he could speak. “That might only worsen things.”

“But they won’t see it coming. Besides, it would be foolish to not warm up the troops.” Lancelot replied, as a smile shaped into an ascending crescent moon on his face. “We work together, which means we both give the orders. If you want to wait, then I’ll make ready for it.” Said Lancelot, receiving no retort by sight or sound. Other than Galahad’s armor shifting as he turned to the wood eastward that faded into the fog.

Waiting, Galahad lifted his intercisa then cupped his hands behind his ears. And the rain made his grey hair sag, while Lancelot maintained grip on his spatha. So tightly and for so long, that the hilt was still dry. But he held it in his lap, for even he could hear the clanking of ring mail, getting louder, above the murmur of rain. When he saw them.

As no more than odd outlines in the stands of the trees at first. They inched further through the natural pillars as if they were floating. Like specters on the grounds of a coemeterium. They hardly made a sound with their feet, or hooves. And for a moment, Lancelot looked at Galahad. The old baron had dropped his hands and stared dead ahead.

“Who awaits us through the fog?!” Came the rough voice of a man, tired or hurt, as the mist slowly unveiled the party around it. Into worn iron mesh, draped by cloaks of brown and burgundy. The barons narrowed their eyes at them. While soldiers at their back shifted at the light clamor, coming from the thicket a few hundred strides away.

“The men of Britannia.” Galahad began, his voice ending in a light pitch as if it were a question. As he beheld the adorned chest piece of decorated lamellar, that the man in the front of the party wore. The man’s Mediterranean features, thin hair, and poorly treated wounds on his thigh and forearms, caught Galahad’s attention further. So, he continued. “Tell us what your path is. We here would like to know.” He said, unaware, Lancelot winced when he spoke it.

“We’re scouting, for a weakness in the enemy.” Said a different, more articulate voice from the first. “Our path here started after the fall of Sissons. We’ve been skirmishing and taking losses ever since.” The voice added, as Galahad looked for the man who had it. But their mouths were shut, under their trimmed stashes of varying hair colors.

While Lancelot’s eyes rolled and his free hand fluttered across his spatha. “So then, you people are not deserters?”

“—But your group must’ve seen our scouts. One of them saw you.” Galahad cut in, only to settle himself when the soldiers looked at each other, then shook their heads. As their mute expressions endured like the trees around them.

“Gods no, to each of your accusations.” The voice came again sternly, and after a brief pause, continued. “Asking for help, from none other than our allies is what we’re after. You see, our commander has been gravely injured.” The man said, and at last rode slowly forward, putting a firm hand on his superior’s lamellar shoulder, to steady him. “Can you help? We’ll trade the favor.” He said, and it was beyond any doubt that the man who spoke had assumed command. Though he wore the umber tunic, rough-cut mail, and wool cloak of a typical foederati, with his long hair escaping his spangenhelm. A look which was the state of Gaul manifest; and both barons saw it clearly. But read it as no less than odd.

To see a foreign mercenary with such loyalty was a rare sight in times like these. Galahad knew. Yet not impossible, with a commander so amply donned in fine lamellar.

So, ever the baron of tact and discussion, Galahad approached the soldiers steadily with his knights. Skilled in healing as well as fighting. “Well, if it comes to favors, I’m sure we’ll need it. How bad are the wounds?” Said Galahad, placing a vicarious eye at their prior commander’s wrappings, seemingly stitched by the hands of a child. While Lancelot sat back and listened to Galahad’s frittering, as he waited for the call Lucan had named.

And shortly after a breath, with a few blinks of the eye. A curious sound came from the north. Far off or hushed by rain, it sounded to the young baron like a tree cracking in the wind, or a twig breaking under someone’s foot. But Lancelot shook his head at it, murmuring, “fools.” As he refocused on Galahad, and the party before him.

“—No no, that won’t do.” Galahad’s voice rose suddenly, already in mid-discussion. “He’s better off here. There’s no need to involve my grace and his ally.” Said the old baron as his knights dismounted from their destriers and inspected the commander’s wounds closer. The man groaned at their approach, shaking his head at them. “You’re… you’re out—” he said. While that man, the foederati or, leader-in-effect, watched the commander with intent.

“But it would be helpful for us to know them.” Said the leader, turning to face Galahad. Whilst impartial from under his helmet, where Galahad could peek. “It wouldn’t be wise to keep our use hidden from your grace.” He pressed on, heedless to the younger baron in formation. Who had listened and lifted the spatha from his lap.

“I don’t doubt your use.” Galahad began, drawing a deep breath. “But—with all due respect, how do you know he’d find you useful?” He said, placing one wrist over the other that held the reins. Watching the leader give him a slight smirk beneath the noseguard.

Before he could tell Galahad what he thought, however. The sound Lancelot was waiting for finally ruptured through the fog. One long, profound note of a horn tolled and wrenched the birds from surrounding trees in the murk. Everyone on all sides glanced in that veiled direction where Arthurus had begun his charge into the placate camp. Far enough to sound an alarm, but too close to do anything about it.

Nevertheless, those at the camp were not the only poor fools to be blind sighted by this rouge element. And Lancelot only came back to his senses when it was too late.

“WEAPON!” Was the word which snapped his attention. Twisting his head forward to watch the party they agreed to help, hoist their swords upward. Then thrust down into the napes and collars of Galahads knights. Powerless to retaliate whilst on their feet and taken by surprise.

Shouts and screams echoed down rank as the air cracked to their north a moment after. But Lancelot himself was stricken dumb. Left to gawk, as the cheat in his spangenhelm pushed his commander back. Only to slash Galahad clean through the neck before the old baron had a chance to properly unsheathe. Then Galahad’s courser took off to the east, with his body dragging by the stirrup.

And the horde of the barons began to waver at Galahad’s fall, or by the enemy that suddenly surrounded them. Pressing from the north, where Lancelot had set loose his men at arms. Or from their back, by a horde of riders posing as bucellarii.

They charged with lances. And from Lucan’s position, a few dozen strides south of Lancelot; they jumped out of the grey background. Sending a thwack into Lucan’s ears that made his body kick and churn toward the last baron. Who had stopped his dawdle and pushed toward Galahad’s butcherer.

“Good God Lancelot; Flee!” The baron barely heard over the rain, clamor, and common discord of war. Stretching his arm out with his spatha into a pike of iron and bone. While his most loyal knights and esquires rode beside him, with the last outrider following at his back. They went blade first into the enemy that sat on their horses like rocks in a windstorm. Their shields up, their commander hidden behind the true enemy.

Lancelot braced for him, folding his sword arm at the last moment to strike, as his men clashed with that familiar sound. And the baron’s face was filled with spite and red as the tunic over his mail, when his blade rang against the edge of the foe’s.

He growled at the miss, but his whole body squeezed inward as the leader in his spangenhelm retaliated. Cleaving through the sleeve of Lancelot’s jerkin and cutting into his flesh.

“Get out of there!” Lancelot heard Lucan say clearly, while his notched spatha leapt down on the wounded commander in return. Killing the man. Whose wide, glossy eyes and flushed skin made his roman features weak. In contrast with Lancelot’s wrinkled face and intolerable tone.

Who sped away like a falling boulder, as he broke through their rank. Clutching the wound in his forearm shut. And sneering at the noble blood on his sword edge. As his courser rode on and around, with a mind to charge again, out of its own nature.

Yet the enemy gave no chase at his reining in. When he stood apart from Lucan, and the rest of his army. Instead, their burgundy cloaks took flight above their steeds in a charge toward the Britannian army. Whilst they stamped down the bodies of the knights and outrider. Leaving a few of their own, and a defaced chest-plate, both in the mud.

And Lancelot gnashed his teeth at the enemy’s disregard for him. But he quickly found the why to be obvious. For there was no one left who stood beside him.

Despite that, Lancelot raised his spatha halfway up and blood dripped from the cuff of his jerkin. One switch of the spurs away from barreling down after his enemy. Until the messenger called out.

“For Galahad’s sake!” Lucan said as he started to the baron. With his guards following at either side. And yet a little ahead of him, ready to hit their shields at the baron’s command. But Lucan spoke again, “I wish not to see another baron fall by their hand. Nor to be the barer of the worst news to our grace in the midst of battle.”

Lancelot peered over at Lucan, as the messenger came to his side. His eyes narrowed at Lucan, but he stayed his hand. Unlike Galahad, the baron could at least turn Lucan down, and why shouldn’t he? For adherence to Galahad gave Lancelot this budding disaster. And yet the messenger’s words were more than loyalty or fear. So, Lancelot looked away, with a sharp exhale through his teeth.

“Fine—damn you! But I cannot do it alone.” Lancelot turned his courser about and rode for the flank of his army that was yet open. And continued to speak as Lucan and his party followed, “Call out to the captains and strike down anyone who gets in your way!”

Lucan’s guards were obligated to hit their shields then. Whilst Lucan himself grew pale with every gallop of his horse. It’s stumping deafened by the clamor of a battle he’s gotten so close to unlike any other. And a dreadful one to see. Watching riders so loyal to Arthurus and the barons begin to flee, before any command came out of Lancelot’s mouth that the messenger could hear.

Though, they were some of the very best of Britannia. Veterans from the wars against the Saxons. The baron pointed with his sword tip to the bulk of them who fled in a chain-rout. Saying to Lucan, “They’ll be killed in that fog, as the outriders did! Onward with your party, and I’ll follow!” Then, he split off to lead the brave, or the foolish, away from the danger as best he could.

A significant honor for a meagre messenger, to have a baron follow your lead. But the thought only made Lucan shudder as his fingers picked at the hilt of his spatha. And with all that had happened, only God knew what other devils awaited through the fog.

But Lucan did know the ones that rode beside him. And they made themselves known when one of them spoke. “C’mon my friend! Lest dishonor and death meet you in that order!” Said the knight of Lucan’s party, who rode on before the messenger like it were his own. And all others followed.

With only one from the party behind Lucan, when his palfrey took off. Wanting no more of this battle than he did. And he grinned a little at the understanding between the beast and himself. Whilst the aid of his comrades made him hold the hilt of his blade with a bit more confidence.

And at the right time. Since the knights before him that called out to their countrymen, were focused on their task and hindered by the fog. To the detriment of their lives. Unable to see the riders rising out of fog with their lances laid low. Until the iron went right through them and shoved them off their mounts. Leaving Lucan, and the last knight to fend for themselves on the task they all roused each other to complete.

Pushing Lucan, to draw his sword at last. As the enemy rode and stumbled to reform their line thrown askew from the charge. At a slower pace than the knight and the messenger coming to meet them. A perfect window for sword against spear, if only Lucan knew how to use his. But at least he knew how to ride. And, as a matter of fact, there was enough space for him to turn, and ride away.

Even though the enemy began to close the distance, with their spears pointed to heaven to block any blow. A few in their company drew spatha’s, showing faces grim, or grinning. To the point that even the mounts of the two riders wanted to turn away from their iron edges and eyes like daggers. Without understanding, in their beastlike impulses. That if they did not risk death, then dishonor would fall onto the shoulders of their baron, and all those who had fled before them.

This was Lucan’s last mission, his last campaign in one way or another. So, like many others before him, man or woman, weak or strong. He pushed against his better judgement and made his mettle. Reining in his horse, his companion followed, and drawing up his sword to strike, his companion did just the same. And the pair of them focused on one of the riders. Where Lucan struck first, cracking the rider’s polearm. Before the last knight of his party swung true into the rider’s throat.

The man keeled over like one who suffers from days of strain without sleep. Though he did receive retribution. When one of his comrades struck Lucan fiercely in the messenger’s right shoulder. While Lucan’s companion cried out, “death before dishonor!” Before being answered, by a streak of blood, and a sudden cut to black.

And Lucan was in the dark to this as he rode on. Dropping his spatha to hold his wound whilst his eyes darted for any soul that fled into the enclosing wood. There he gave trust to his mount who had trusted him. Raising his free hand like an impatient child with an answer, as his palfrey slowed. To call over any who would listen and could still fight.

Then, his eyes grew wide open. When they came to the messenger without him having to shout a word. And neither did they, as they arrived with shoulders drooped whilst their iron glimmered in the fog like small candles on a dark night. But he heard one more, a lot more, in one motion.

“Lead us out of here!” Said the stern voice, like that of a loyal younger brother. It was Lancelot. And his remaining host followed with him, as the enemy riders fell under their hooves.

—End of VI—

Afterword: As I wrote this, many thoughts of giving up on this story crossed my mind. Trying to juggle the subtext of Clovis’s ambush, the relationship between the barons, and Lucan’s struggle between courage and cowardice felt almost too much to handle. But like Lucan, I said, “screw it” and charged ahead. Not really knowing where the scenes would lead me. Which required a good bit of editing afterward. Though I’m really proud of how this turned out on top of simply finishing it. So, the lesson here is this— if you’re at times like our boy Lucan; like me. ‘Make your mettle’ and see it through to the end. Even if it ends in failure.

My final words here mirror what the title says. “All men die. But not all men die complaining.”

With all that aside, feel free to tell me what you took away.

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_{Art by Howard David Johnson}

Part V, Out of Exile

It was always easy for a Captain, of lineage common or noble, to grow weary commanding any number of soldiers across a body of water and a dozen leagues of countryside. All while the odor of charred farms and villas from Sissons slowly diffused over the channel from which they came. And it was the same channel where Arthurus, Lucan, and the two barons sailed across. As their enemy’s control solidified over northern Gaul. But the stress of logistics could end for a time, once Arthurus’s host met Flavian’s outside the port where the Britons landed.

Because Flavian had remained a trusted vassal of king Syagrius. Even after the king had been defeated or possibly killed outside the capital. He remained guarding the borderline of his own territory from the forces of Clovis. Who, now worryingly to Flavian, kept back from the watchful row of small wooden forts that guarded the feeble region of Armorica.

While Arthurus, Lucan, and the barons Lancelot and Galahad. Felt peace for a time under the combined army of eight thousand strong, with the defensive skill of their host Flavian to help. But he would have to be treated like kin, to persuade him past his own border. A tactic Flavin had done himself when allowing them, their warbands and all, to set up camp. And it did not slip then, when the local lord invited Arthurus and his fellow nobility to join him in his tent. To discuss matters on their coming war path.

“We Armoricans are in luck to have you three at our aid.” Said Flavian, as the three newcomers joined him in his tents center, where chalices of wine were poured lightly in such a way to promote debate around a table. “But I don’t suppose you lot will be staying on this side of the border long. As I should doubt Clovis will stay on his for much longer.” He added, only to Arthurus who looked back. Neutrally, with pale blue eyes that held a question, or answer waiting to be spoken. While Galahad’s soft glare made Flavian unsure of the baron’s offensive capability. And Lancelot’s made him uneasy.

“Won’t you be riding with us?” Arthurus spoke up, feeling the metal chalice begin to sweat as Flavian glanced down at his own. And Arthurus noticed the rough state of Flavian’s clothes compared to his, the tunic in particular. So, his next words came slowly and thoughtfully. “I’ll or, We’ll, need anyone with command in this campaign. In order to spare all who we can under us.”

Flavian had figured Arthurus would say this, it was a good point. But it still made his mind trip when he heard it. “Maybe so, but you haven’t seen the everyday goings of my common people… They need a present leader. Though of course I could spare you, my army. You’ll assuredly need them against both Clovis… and Alaric.” Said Flavian, grabbing the chalice that was his, then downing it.

“Both?” Lancelot said, oratorically, while abstaining from the drink before him. “Theres four of us here that can ride out tomorrow against their two. Why would you want to remain tucked behind your forts.” He rebuked, with Flavian meeting his glare as he did so. And the bitter taste of wine on Flavian’s tongue failed to prepare him for the soft contempt Lancelot had over his youthful face. But at least the other two reflected the same look onto him in return.

“Come now, lest you want no help at all from our friend here.” Arthurus held back from greater words of warning. For sake of his responsibility to lead.

“Okay. But his reasoning is no less built on sand. If we move now, without relent. We could split our forces in four ways. With Flavian here, fitting the best at the front.” Lancelot suggested to his countrymen. Only addressing Flavian himself when Lancelot heard him wince across the table. “Clovis knows about you more than anyone. They’d attack you. Then that’s where we come in.”

But the Armorican said nothing in return, though the way he clenched his hand on the table’s edge suggested an offense. Until Galahad spoke for him. “I fear that would only play into their own strength’s, boy. More than yours. The barbarians live to attack in the open field.” Galahad said, trying to be cordial. “I say we let them come to us outside the cities Clovis conquered. We take back what they’ve stolen so recently, then maybe our people won’t need to suffer unnecessarily.”

There was wisdom in old Galahads plan that Flavian admired. It would possibly solve two problems in one. On top of it being often in history, that Germanic tribes were better suited to capture cities, then they were at keeping them. And with further squabbles between the expanding Franks and Burgundians to the south. This option might be the best of the worst. Save one grand issue.

“Alaric. Surly your plan involves him.” Said Arthurus, reminding Flavian and the barons he was there, listening. And drinking his fill of the wine as he did so. “If my father is to wisely be believed. Alongside the recent history of the empire’s defeat in Hispania. The king of the Goths is no one to overlook. And more so, because we know so little of him.” And Lancelot nodded slowly at him after he spoke.

“Neither would his two sons be.” Flavian added, as he saw Galahad clasp his hands together and narrow his eyes. “But alas, I’m not sure if they wage war here too…”

Then came a moment of quiet, as Flavian sat back in his chair. Ready for Arthurus to give his own grasp on the situation, but there was none. And yet it was clear with all this information out in the open. That Clovis’s fall would not come, if Flavian rejected to aid in it personally.

“We know this land is as much yours as it is your peoples.” Galahad began as he stood, slowly, but still firmly. “But the rest of Sissons is still your responsibility, especially it’s cities. While Syagrius remains missing. Or is gone from this world.”

That was no lie; Flavian knew the responsibility was his. He only doubted how to go about it. Given the part about Syagrius which could be debated, if the nights lasted longer. And if Lancelot remained seated, and silent.

But Lancelot got up quickly instead. “I see your attempt to sucker him toward your choice.” He said in no hesitation. Only an unwillingness to rebuke his fellow nobility whilst sitting down. “Always diplomatic and over measured you are. Good traits for a mentor at home, not a commander in the field. For Armorica will fall by the time we capture one of these cities! And, what about the common people within the cities themselves?” Galahad heard him say, down to every word. As Flavian realized the young baron was smarter than he looked. Both sides carried points of strength and weakness. But it was in Flavian’s hands to stop them from arguing over it.

“I won’t deny that people will die.” Said Galahad methodically, retaking his seat. “But when it comes to foes such as ours, splitting up will be the death of us all.” He added, his arms folded in disappointment than any real anger. Before Lancelot opened his mouth to admonish, or maybe to point out. But it was the voice of Flavian they heard right then, voicing his choice.

“I admire each your volition. But if it would make your quarrel end. I will listen to what both of you have to say and no longer will I wait here.” He proclaimed, making it clear to all three Britons he meant it. And each of their eyes lit up as their heads leant in. “But it will be done my way.” He said, after a short pause, leaving the barons puzzled and Arthurus rapt, with his chin against his knuckles.

“We’ll take the road south than west, straight to Sissons itself if we can lay it to siege. But the host will be divided. Between me and Arthurus, and you two barons.” Said Flavian low and without a second thought.

Leaving Galahad unsure, Lancelot irked; to know he had to ride with Galahad, and Arthurus surprised. For he could’ve never guessed that a lord so comfortable could be so bold too. Then he laid his hands down to speak.

“Galahad and Lancelot together. That is a new one.” He stood up, laughing quietly at himself as the thought entered his mind. He saw the ideas of both barons in his plan. But he was interested in the finer respects. “How do you plan on splitting the troops? So, we know what to tell our captains.”

“The barons, your grace, will march with most of the cavalry. We shall take everything else. It’ll ease my worry, and It’s simple enough if the enemy should attack. With the barons being the hammer and we the anvil, if you understand.” Said Flavian, looking fixedly at the table in thought, unaware the others had all stood up.

“A fair plan among the rest.” Said Arthurus, though his impassive face made it hard to tell if he really believed it when Flavian finally looked up. “We’ll inform the rest of our army. As you should to yours.” Arthurus’s voice dropped a little as he turned to follow the barons out. But not without a few more words beforehand. “I have no doubt they’ll need it.” And at last, he left Flavian alone. Where, in solitude, the Armorican reached for Lancelot’s full chalice in hopes of calming his nerves.

But knowing of Flavians indulgence or not was none of Arthurus’s concern as he bid the barons to go their way and make ready for the following morning. While he had a more personal meeting, with Lucan in particular. After he grabbed something, the messenger would not like but would find useful in their campaign.

As Lucan himself sat at a small writing desk in his tent, offered to him by Flavian’s gracious guardsmen. Once they had learned Lucan was a messenger and a trusted friend of their greatest ally. But in return, he had promised to do something for them, as he did to his own countrymen, before battle in the past. For he was of the only few in all that host with the skill to write, and to write for anyone he could. And Lucan did it ceaselessly now, under candlelight, as the dusk deepened. Until someone could be heard on the other side of the canvas.

“I’m afraid my hands are tied for a while. Come back later or, in the morning.” Said Lucan without standing up or peering over. He knew the soldier would understand.

“It’s me.” Replied Arthurus, his voice muffled on the other side. Oddly foreboding, in a way that warned Lucan of bad news, rather than malicious purpose. And it gave him pause, but it couldn’t get in the way of his work.

“Oh, come in then.” He spoke onto the precious paper before him, like he did in private. But not without glancing over, to see Arthurus’s rough outline from the ink blue dusk behind him. “I didn’t know it had gotten so dark. But shouldn’t you be preparing the troops? I got their letters, at least the one’s I can manage.”

Lucan pointed to the small stack of paper with his freehand. A dozen finished, after he wrote down a list of family names given to him for a few dozen more. But they were all written in solemnities, nothing too personal, unless Lucan could remember it. Even forgetting the personal touch of one soldier, when Arthurus began to speak.

“I am preparing them, starting here.” Said Arthurus, inside then, but the tone of his speech was still soft, and stoically certain. Most would think him tired after all that’s already happened. But Lucan suspected something more, as he finally turned to face Arthurus directly. To see a scabbard, scrip, and gambeson in his hands. “They won’t assure your safety, I hope you understand. I know you’re not a soldier.”

“Then why are you giving it to me? Besides, I’m no good with anything but a dagger. You should know that too.” Lucan raised his brows as his forehead began to sweat. He knew Arthurus, but little of his situation. And something told Lucan, he wouldn’t like to know it.

“I do, and by all means keep your dagger ready in this upcoming fight.” Arthurus said in his small movements which did nothing to temper the humid air. As he gently lay the equipment on a small couch, Lucan intended to sleep on. Like the elites of old did on the frontiers. “And before you go on rebuking me, like you did back home. Understand that the upcoming danger in this battle is like nothing we’ve experienced before. No more unmounted warbands for us to defeat. It’s Clovis’s skill, and Alaric’s numbers now.” Arthurus went on to explain, nearly sitting down on the very same couch. But the change in Lucan’s expression told him to remain standing.

That being Lucan’s brow, from upward in puzzlement, to downward in a clear frown. Before he turned back in his chair, nearly cutting through the paper he wrote on with his inkwell as he spoke. “Good lord. And they say I’m the barer of bad news! You promised me I wouldn’t find myself in any fighting. That my role as a messenger, was just that. Like any other battle…” Lucan stopped a moment, as if searching for the best words to put on the letter. “…Where I didn’t have to kill anyone.”

Arthurus listened closely and shook his head. Perhaps, if the captains were already informed, he would’ve called it a night then and there. “Forgive me, but this had to be done, no matter which route we took. But like before, I won’t force you to march east with us, though I hope you do. Your swiftness as a messenger could save many lives before we even come to blows with our enemy. And I’ll do anything in my power to make sure you’re safe because of this.” Said Arthurus, with the quiet once in his voice, evened out.

Lucan said nothing in return, folding the thick paper letter neatly as possible. More so than he had done with all the others. But that one was for the sons and daughter of a footman whose name he forgotten. And Lucan hoped he wouldn’t have to give it if the host went without him and never returned.

“But I never planned on taking a life over it! Nor risking my own.” Lucan spoke out loud, placing the letter above, but uneven from the rest. “Highly risking… good lord.” Lucan dropped his inkwell to rub the sides of his skull. The joints white on all his fingers before he threw them up.

“Fine, I’ll bring all that along, but you must keep your word! Your full word, in whole this time.” Lucan spoke to Arthurus as if the roles of their two lineages were reversed. And Arthurus stood to listen. “If your honest with what you just said. Then command a group with some of your best or fastest to ride beside me.”

“Of course. And now I won’t keep you.” Was all Arthurus said in return. With a look as though he had struck someone by mistake, smeared across his face. But the balance in his voice on no account faded.

“Then, okay.” Replied Lucan to Arthurus’s words, that he should’ve seen coming but was little prepared for in its abruptness. And at the sound of the canvas wrapping open, then closed. Lucan glared over at his friend’s shadow on the other side. Still, it was, as if gazing into the camp beyond. Until the outline of another came and hailed him silently. Then they walked together, both swallowed by the yellow glow of firelight. As Lucan continued his work late into the night.

In the morning after, as Lucan threw on the gear given to him. Arthurus watched his army pack what they could carry, then stride into formation like workers approaching their site. Their march flowing steadily, carrying swords, spears, and bows of yew. And their destinations were separate bands, wielding weapons of the like. Each led by a loyal captain of Arthurus, or his two barons. While Flavians army behind them were scrambling with their spears and outdated javelins. A defensive army to be fair, but still one less professional than that of the Briton’s.

And the strong midsummer sun made that obvious to Arthurus. As the metal gauntlet he wore felt cool against his forehead but burned like a kiln underneath. And so was the rest of his body under all that lamellar. While he thought to take his mind off it, until Flavian approached.

What came to him was the night before when he spoke to Lucan, the writing of his letters to be exact. And Arthurus wondered if his old friend would ever need to write a note like that for him. Hopefully, for Guenevere’s sake if need be. He hadn’t thought about her at all since they landed, but he did there. And if his father Ambrosius is already gone she would be the only one to receive any of the kind. No better, for if these summer months, named from old emperors are to be compared to her. She was the high and bright July. To his August, lasting and reflective.

“This summer sun is far from forgiving.” Came Flavian suddenly, yet right in front of Arthurus, who threw his arm up quickly to hail the Armorican. “Still, my army is right behind yours nonetheless, your grace. And though the road to Sissons is long. The host is ready to move on our request.” Added Flavian, a little muffled under his own plating, and mounted. Unlike most of the troops he commanded.

Arthurus heard him clearly enough, as he jerked his spurs and rode with Flavian at an even pace. “I hope what you said about your army is true. Because once we start down that long road, we won’t stop.” He said, giving those last words good weight.

Then he narrowed his eyes as they passed the files of Flavian’s army. Whom leant on the ends of their spears or rested against the edge of their shields. At least the road ahead was well covered from the sun by large trees, but it was still dry and dusty. Forcing the troops altogether to turn their heads at their approach. Until the pair reached the very front, where Arthurus bid them to march, not Flavian.

And they obeyed, from the knights of Arthurus to the footmen of Flavian. As Lucan followed behind in earshot of the two commanders with a small band of his own. Never stopping nor slowing their pace up to the Armorican border.

But when they reached it. Arthurus beheld the source of all Flavian’s worry the night before. While the Brition army broke their first beads of sweat. At the smell of scorched farmland and villas. Or the sight of blackened plots and leveled households. It was a line of devastation in tandem with the border. Guarded only by askew watchtowers built in haste by Flavian’s men. The same men that marched at the back. Unmoved by the devastation unlike their Brition counterparts.

“I saw the flames the night it occurred.” Said Flavian, as Arthurus ordered his captains to march the troops onward. “Clovis and Alaric; the devils… One of them could be around. We should slow our pace, Arthurus.” Flavian glanced over, catching the Britons eye before he turned away. “Why not? Your grace, the troops are winded, if they march into a trap, this campaign will be over before we even reach Sissons.” Flavian pleaded, but his ally refused to budge.

“Because it’s a risk either way. If we wait, the enemy will be dug in further. But if we push on, with the barons on our flank, they might not see us coming until it’s too late.” Arthurus laid his plan out clearly, keeping his eyes on the road as he did so. “I respect your concern, and I honor the goal you gave last night. But please, leave the offensive to me.”

They continued for a while in an uneasy silence. Marching on by field and forest untouched from the burn behind them. As the sky above gave Arthurus, and Flavian especially, a welcomed pardon from the sunlight that managed to breach the canopy. By the dark underbelly of thick clouds. Yet they made the air heavy beneath them.

“Surly we should rest.” Started Flavian, as he turned to face the road ahead. “No one, not even our enemy, would be caught in the open field under such a sky.” He continued, as he heard the hooves of Arthurus’s horse persist. “My troops are spent; they’ll be the first to flee. Not those devils, don’t you understand? We shouldn’t risk everything we have for spare time!”

Although he stared ahead, Arthurus could tell the Armorican was speaking right at him. He nodded, while his knight’s muttered in his favor beside him. “But time is everything. And how do you know your army is tiring. You never went to speak to them after we left.” Arthurus spoke flat, cold, in a way that would make the hair stand up on the arms of the unseasoned.

“I only needed to look behind me.” Was all Flavian said in return.

And through the holes in his full helm, Arthurus finally glanced at Flavian. Grey, in all that reflecting lamellar under the dark sky. Then Arthurus did as he was told, turning as far as the armor and the saddle would let him. Where he could see, beyond the banners of the yellow dragon and the black cross. Hundreds of troops, lagging, and drinking most of their water. It made Arthurus give a long glare, but it was unable to stop him from persisting. For they approached the heartland of Sissons.

Where the land lay flat, and considerably open. Pressing Arthurus to lead on faster, hating to be caught in it. A fear, even the exhausted pushed through their pain to pass. Which the Armorican lord noticed for certain.

“We’re approaching the outer villas of Sissons… I hope these people had not been treated the same.” Flavian began, peering all about him, while the reigns wrapped tightly around his gauntlets. “But look to the wood ahead! It’s our last chance to stop and take in our surroundings I surmise. But it is your decision, your grace… your army is larger and even my men favor to follow you it seems.” And that was where Flavian left it. Perhaps thinking it best to save his voice for commands instead of argument. Or out of fear over what would force him to command.

But the wind didn’t dwindle or flatten. Nor did Arthurus make Flavian’s choice when they reached the woodland, even if he thought it considerable. Instead, they marched right through it, at a slower pace. Since the day darkened further to an early dusk. As the wind made the sound of flutes. And the smell of rain grew all the while.

“What better weather is there for a surprise attack?” Arthurus thought, seeing the truth in what Flavian said earlier. Until he got a strange feeling, it would be the last quiet thing he thought. Some might call it a gift of foresight. Yet either way, no matter if he had listened to Flavian or not. Arthurus considered the thought that it might well and truly be his last.

Arthurus then tried to beat the feeling away as they rushed over another opening. But the drag of the army’s long march over made him muted. They were surly close to Sissons. And only closing in, as the armies marched through the next stand of trees. Which began to drip softly, with the storms first drops of rain.

It fell on his lamellar like the taps of a child’s fingers, and the whole host of eight thousand, was hushed. Whilst a mist came up from the cooling earth, giving Arthurus the feeling this battle had already been decided from above. But for whom?

The answer was made immediately clear, perhaps too much. When the trees began to thin into another open plain. Where, seen roughly through the mist, was the encampment of a large force. Frankish or Gothic who could tell, but they were obviously unaware. All Arthurus needed then, was for Lucan to be sent out, and quickly to the barons. And the message needed to be followed down to every word. It seemed his risk paid off.

—End of V—

Side Note: One last chapter to wrap up this story. But I hope you’ve enjoyed this one, long as it was by word count, and by days it took to write and publish.

And, if there was anything you like, or didn’t. Please, let me know.

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I hope you enjoy this teaser. If you do, feel free to participate in the poll at the end. It’ll let me know if I should continue with this story. Thanks!

*

Chieftains of the tribe’s and the oracles of their circles say the cries of those who died in the fall of the old world. Could be heard in the desert wind of the wasteland. As their voices swirled about in the skeletons of their buildings. And their tears wet the shrublands and their sobs filled the rivers in the mountain valleys. But they remained silent among the clanking and fuzzing’s of structures bound by energy and steel.

In which the prison of Tibbets was where they were most quiet. And non-existent to those who were locked within its cells. To one, most of all. A man of many winters in the length of his hair with many experiences in the ink of a coiled snake on his arm. But he had no remembering of how he got them. And he had little strength to push his will to do so.

Though no amount of will could phase him through the barrier of light that shut his cell. Where he spent time uncounted sleeping and coughing on a bed of padded springs. Watching the guardians of the prison march in lines of red lights and limbs of steady tubes and steel. Silent as always, until their senses of silicon spun in their heads and their lines broke. At the thundering of ignited dynamite.

“CONTAINMENT BREACHED. ALL PERSONEL SEEK COVER.” Many guardians of the prison said, one by one as if their line still had meaning. While the lights above them flickered out and the forces that kept the prisoners gave way to the desert wind. And all those guardians in the wing repeated, while they moved to the sound of gun shots and those who fled their cells.

The man watched another flee with shambling feet past his open cell. Thumping onto the ground as a streak of fire followed him. The man stood for the first time in days; his cloudy mind filled with instinct. Holding him stalk still as the guardian walked firm past to the direction of the blasts that had now stopped.

The man followed. Going slowly on his sore feet, pass laying forms of black and white. His heart racing and aching as he passed a dark hall that lit with red beams onto a fellow prisoner within. Until the darkness returned as he crossed the hall and up the cell block. Where spouts of blue, illuminated the forms of men against the stone. But in this light, the men stayed standing.

Then, he held back and watched as the guardian passed beyond the wall. Metal sheering at a small spectacle of light. The sound of its march had ceased. And the man moved toward it, faster now, as the blue light disappeared.

His breath heavy, once he reached the corner where the guardian passed. He could smell the wasteland. When the lights overhead switched back on.

“Come out! Were here to rescue you. Any of you who can fight!” Came the proud voice of another man, muffled by a protective mask. Standing deceivingly normal and yet deserving of some pride. For the prisoner saw he had a good band of masked troops near the blasted doors. If the statues of docile guardians nearby, happened to be lost on him.

“Don’t worry, these Protectrons won’t harm you. You can thank this woman.” The man tilted his head to whom he mentioned. As if the prisoner knew little of anything.

“Come here.” Said the woman, her tarnished protective suit of white gave the ash grey of her comrades a pure shine. “Let me see the numbers on your chest clearly.” But she spoke to a small terminal in her gloved hand.

“Okay.” And the prisoner walked forward, coughing up thick green.

She looked through the glass over her mask and punched the numbers without a word. Pressing silence, when she gave the terminal to the man. And he had to double take, as a smile grew in his narrow eyes.

“Good find; Clarke.” He muttered, giving back the terminal. “We are in luck to have you alive. Al Van Buren.”

Visions, and passing nightmares of the prisoner’s life came to pass before he could ruminate. A wife, gone. A daughter, gone. And the backs of villagers, fleeing in fear. Van Buren stood like the Protectrons.

“A mouthful no doubt. So, let’s call you Alvin, for time.” The masked man stepped forward, strangely close. And Clarke walked to her field bag. “I know who brought you here. But forget the details. What we want is crucial to our coup and, to you.”

Alvin turned his painful stare to the ink on his arm, nodding. “What is it you need?”

“Someone Killed. Who you can take pleasure in killing, for your family’s sake.” The man watched as Alvin began to tense that arm. The light eyes lingered. “Vargas. He put you here, not long ago. And he’s near too, in Mesa Verde.” Then man turned to Clarke in her coming. Like a people watcher, in the shanty town squares. “Ah, she’ll give you some useful tools for your trade. And a remedy for the injuries Vargas’s men had plagued you with.” Then man stepped away as his words brought the two together.

Alvin took his inked hand to grab a holster Clarke offered him. Fit with a loaded 9mm and full waterskin. His other took a device not too dissimilar to the terminal she held before. Save for the keypad that was replaced by a speaker.

“The Argos.” She said as her rubber finger pointed to its uses. “The touchscreen is a map. There’s a flashlight here. A compass. And back here…” She gently twisted the device around in his hand. “Is an injector, use it anywhere on you. It’ll help you maintain your strength.” Finally, she backed off next to the man. Both waiting, to see some sort of approval.

“Hmph. Mesa Verde?” Said Alvin, his mind and sinuses clearing at the thought of revenge. As he strapped the holster to his waist.

“Yes. He’s captain of its garrison.” Replied Clarke.

“We’ll assault from the north, with these Protectrons while you infiltrate. It’ll be your best chance.” The man added.

“Of course.” Alvin turned, his base nature of relentlessness coming back to him. “I’ll be waiting.” He said, walking off and out the seared metal doors. With the Argos in hand, giving him a dose of liquid vitality. But offering him that painful reminder of his family once more.

***

Past the breached prison fence and beyond the outskirts of fallen houses. Alvin tattered his prison overalls on the path of the Argos east. Through the open desert where he did not sleep. But walked a whole fifty miles across the wasteland. Dusty, dry, and void of life save a bush of sage, or tree of juniper. As he thought on the situation the whole way. His mind clearer, due to the drug in the Argos.

‘Could those from the prison be trusted?’ He thought. Maybe, maybe not, but it mattered little. The need for conflict was one of the few things he could recall from before.

‘But you can’t recall Vargas… Does he deserve it?’ Well, if one deserves to have their family taken, by whoever. What more is there to think about, to consider, when one has nothing left. Not even a full memory. Only the sand on the trail before him.

Leading all the way to the bluffs of Mesa Verde, washing out into the north. With the settlement nestled at the valleys end and protected by a large cove in the cliff around it. Alvin hoped those from the prison wouldn’t be long as he studied the settlement. But maybe it was for the best.

The locals must’ve been proud of their ancestors to find such a place after the great war, and in the decades since. Fortifying the ancient palace of thin avenues and square towers. Into a retreat for settlers, passing caravanners, and any waster that fled from those like Alvin. Behind a protective wall of sandstone.

But outside, beyond the patrols of riflemen in vests, shirts and baggy pants of varied desert camo. There stood two dozen homes made from smooth adobe, in the valley below. Belonging to ranchers in sun caps in the late afternoon, settling in from herding in the bluffs. And Alvin watched on, the scent of the juniper’s shade easing him as he rested against a rock. Drinking his fill from the waterskin.

Drops of the precious liquid falling from his lips as he watched the night roll in. Right until the palace cove began to glow. By dim lamps, shimmering candles, and a flash of red fire.

Streaking in from the north into the broadside of someone’s home. Alvin could smell the singed adobe, like gunpowder. As a storm of crimson fell on the village below, and green lines of lead traced their way toward the palace wall. Smacking against it noiselessly amongst the garrison’s returning fire, a horn wailing, and those sprinting into the retreat of stone and dull flames. Before Alvin moved in along the hillside under twilight.

Where the tall fort wall met the dark rockface of the cliff above. Coughing, Alvin used a good boulder to scale the bricks. His fingers against the stones in a fierce white as he peered over the wall. Watching a group of riflemen as they waved the villagers into one of the palace’s short, square buildings of little orange windows. Before returning down the single file path to the wall with the others. Resting their weapons through built in gun-loops. All while Alvin scaled the opposing wall at their back.

Hiding for a moment, in the shadow of a nearby wellhouse. As another pair of soldiers draped in sown jackets of desert tan. Left a building that rose to the coves natural ceiling. Then ran, passing behind two towers manned by others extinguishing their lights. Until slamming against the wall beside their kin. Letting the lead fly into the brushland. None the wiser to their biggest threat. By more ways than one.

Alvin, like any thief, took the darker avenue up his side from the wall, toward the tall building. In a slow and steady pace observing the tower. Five windows high, each one a different shade of black, save up top. A good clue to approach and clear. So, he opened the wood door slowly. With a long hold on the lungs as it squeaked its rusted hinge.

Trying for breath when he got through. Alvin caught a small scratch in his throat as the darkness inside fell to dim lamplight at the door’s closing. The air was nice, cool. But it smelled of dried drool on a pillow. While gunfire from the wall and on top the other towers remained constant in it.

And at last, Alvin looked at the room around him. Helped little by the oil lamps low scarlet pulse, while it hung from a wood stud. Hammered into a crevice between the stone’s laid long before the great ruins came. Yet they were like any other that reflected the dim light onto opened lockers and emptied crates. The whole level was a preparation room, and Alvin spotted the stair at its corner.

In the ascent, pitch darkness fell quick onto Alvin. He couldn’t be detected without light. But he wouldn’t risk the chance of knocking something over. So, with the Argos, Alvin switched on its flashlight. A bar half full, above a lightbulb releasing narrow lines appeared on the device’s touch screen. As a weak, but direct beam revealed many cold lamps, empty cups, and chairs left out beside a central table. As shelves lined one of the walls and the side of the next stair.

The beam from the Argos showed little on the way up to the top. And almost less on the third floor it led to. Illuminating only the opposing staircase, and a built-in wall that split the floor. From the stair side to the other, behind two dark, uninviting doors of rotting wood. Alvin suspected the rooms were personal, like his own cell. Which was all the better, if the man who locked Alvin away never left his room again.

But onward to the fourth-floor Alvin’s breath shortened, his throat dry, realizing he’ll likely never leave this place either. A good reason for the brain to bring up his thoughts from the journey past. Despite having nothing left, but this mission.

Until the wooden walls of this floor revealed light through their cracks. He wheezed only a moment, before shutting off the Argos and gripping his 9mm.

“Hello?” Came a man’s voice young and indecisive across the floor. Where Alvin looked over in shock, to see the man’s dark outline bent and confused in the light from above. Responding slowly to Alvin’s sights fixed on his heart.

“Shit!” Said the young guard, both his hands up. As the light from above reflected the metal of Alvins weapon in his closing approach.

Passing the doors to the rooms, Alvin considered shooting him then and there. But his intuition, as muddled as it was, figured this was not his man. Considering instead, he would be better used as a shield against whoever walked above. “Come here. Or else I’ll shoot.” Said Alvin, grunting as the young guard back slowly up the last stair. The guards raised hands close to his head, as if to duck down at any moment.

And Alvin saw that he did, but no bullet had been fired. Only the creaking of heels against planks, then a waft of air brushing against Alvins back as a door quickly opened. He turned about, his finger on the trigger. To see a flash of someone prepared to strike him. Then he knew no more.

*

Thank you for reading through this teaser. This is only an eighth of the whole story I’ve prepared so It’ll take some time to revise and finish. And with editing the ending of my Arthurian story going on. I thought a poll to decide if I should continue, would be the best way of finding out.

And if there’s something in this story you’d like to know, in regard to the source material. Comment, and I’ll give you an answer. Other than that, I’ll see you on the next post! 👋

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Intermission, The Frankish King

Clovis rode forth like a hero amongst his men as he led a mounted entourage through the streets of faded red bakestones. Recolored in points awry by the dried blood of those slain who dared to raise their sword after the fall of Syagrius a few weeks prior. Who lay stripped of his chest plate and was now no more than nutrition for the crows and soil on which he and his last veteran legions rest. With their staffs of Chi Rho, broken on top of, or crushed below the ranks of their fallen.

While Clovis himself, silently pleased with such ease and little bloodshed in his capture of Sissons. Took it as his responsibility throughout the past days to lap around the upheaved avenues with his knights. Making sure those who stayed or survived lived as they always did, under their new masters of the land. Giving them a rare chance in the history of the defeated. To mourn their loss which they buried outside the city, without headstones. Time would forget their names, but what their deaths stood for was a thing no one could erase. And Clovis was one to know.

And in heaven, wherever it was, gave them a wide breadth from their accosters. Who either guarded inside the city, camped outside at a distance, or raided the last unprotected villas around Sissons. All within a plan to resupply the Frankish army, which only took a mere scrape from the battle on the fallow plain. And In hope, to move onward to the last region of Armorica, still openly defying Clovis’s rule as the new king of Gaul.

Though the raids and Clovis’s route would soon come to a halt as the day waned and the sun set over the dying Roman kingdom. As a newcomer to the city but no stranger to the king entered the Basilica, Clovis’s headquarters at the time. With enough authority and severity, the guards let him pass them unchecked. Which Clovis had no knowledge of, in his ride.

“Drill on!” Clovis made himself clear to his knights, turning his horse from theirs before the Basilica.

“There is more to plan than marching lines.” He added more to himself. Recalling the early days when lessons were learned as the kingdom he led was in its founding. While his knights went onward down the drear city square in their curfew patrol.

As the lesser guardsmen, the ones who stood before the Basilica each evening prior and at the same time of Clovis’s return. Felt the dreariness of his approach that night by no doing of his own. And it made them unable to look at or to hail him because of who they let in under sudden circumstances. But of course, the renown that proceeded the Frankish king helped not.

Then he dismounted, giving the reins to one to lead away, before striding right on past the other without a word. He never had the time to greet all anyways, in these latter days. Though he did wonder at their awkward silence as he entered.

But at least they had the drive to tend and light the place, besides protecting it alone. So well as a matter of fact, to see the structures central mason work clearly, down to the drab grout color. With murals depicting the faces of old Roman senators and generals.

Mortared into each pillar diving the main hall, refurbished with wooden chairs and tables for war plans and maps. From the side bays, at one time used for free walking. Now standing as open storage for weapons, in the shadow of nighttime.

But Clovis paid little heed to the shadow, or to old art depicting phantoms of the past. Once he noticed who stood at the end of the old debate hall, at the threshold between the candlelight and the dim outline of the rear apse. A small extension room built for orators of great debate. But at that time, given to a man who only cared about his allure, and purse alone. Who gawked at the punctured chest piece of Syagrius that sat on top the apse’s rostrum.

“You must be the reason why my guards failed to honor me.” Said Clovis, his leather cloak drooping heavy like he were a caricature, to one of the pagan gods he followed. But lacked to worship.

“It’s not my concern. Do you know how long I’ve stood here? Marveling at this covering that will be my ticket to win back the good graces of the western emperor. When or if victory is yours.” Replied the man, in a brooding resonance that’d make any civilized person fear the implication of law that would soon be delivered upon them. But the shrill undertone of it, given to men of a smaller frame, could’ve made Clovis laugh.

“I can’t say I care about the emperor’s thoughts around you, Arvandus, win or die. But why are you here so soon and without warning?” Clovis spoke, still at the other end, with no need to shout due to the design of the Basilica his people only began to understand.

And only on this question, fit for the supposedly limited intellect of the barbarian king. Did Arvandus rise to cease his gaze from his prize. Bringing a hand through his thin dark hair that only a life of comfort could keep on his scalp, though it had recently begun to fall.

“You have something I need for my wellbeing. Frank. And I, something you’ll want to hear for yours.” Arvandus could barely hold in the contempt between his teeth, but business was business now more than ever.

“It’ll make this little peace offering to Rome on the rostrum void, if not heeded.”

Arvandus brought his hand out before him, and it pointed to the central table as if it were his own. Civility from a man who delt in it so rarely. Which Clovis always resented over, even though the same acts gave him the key to this city by subterfuge. Through the head of Syagrius’s father and the son himself. So, Clovis accepted the sign whilst a scowl hid beneath the helm he still wore.

Until he sat down with Arvandus, tossing the piece onto the tabletop with a hallow clang. “So then. Speak.” Were the most cordial words Clovis could find as his attention was focused solely on parting the long hair from his steady gaze. Under eyes of a deep brown, like old, headlong spear tips in the candlelight.

“For a blunt man, you sure are a rare one.” Arvandus raised both hands close to his chest, to counteract the rumbling beneath Clovis’s stare.

“Well. A good bit more of coin is all I ask, once Rome is forced to align with you after your victory. That required a lot of loyal Roman heads to roll. And I’m sure you recall owing me greatly for the end of Syagrius’s lineage too… But this victory—will cost extra.” Arvandus caught his tongue, as his lengthy finger hit the tabletop map and his nail dug into the defiant province of Armorica.

Then Clovis opened his mouth in defiance, right when Arvandus made him listen.

“I know you’re planning an invasion soon. But what I have to say is that you listen to my words close. You have no idea in that small mind of yours who could kill you, while you play at conqueror.” Arvandus spoke with a straight face with severity, as one would show to a restless dog.

“Then I wouldn’t get my due for the trouble. And the goths would not house me against the empire.”

“Damn snake!” Clovis spoke up, though his usual stance of imposing will had shrunk to a hunch over the table. But weakness was furthest from the cause. “You’ll get your pay when my campaign is finished. No one you deem unexpecting in this land can stop me now.” He said, his eyes narrowed in waiting to be proven wrong.

“Who I speak of are not of this land.” Said Arvandus, his voice shaky before the shortened temper of Clovis, his free hand clenched. “They’re still aligned with Sissons, now Armorica. From across the channel, but further away from it, than either of us, plainly. And still close enough to be our problem.” Arvandus concluded, with his finger, torn through the province onto the wood below.

“Brittania. Led by Ambrosius? What, you’re afraid of an old man? Gods…” Was Clovis’s response, for men of Ambrosius’s age were unfit for battle, or tactics of this new age. Save for one’s last stand against the wolves, as its been always.

“No. But oh, I wish it.” Arvandus broke his gaze from Clovis, relieved the king had else to be angry over. And sat about staring at the old artwork in the Basilicas pillars. Like it was the last time he’d ever. “It is his son and heir, I fear. Arthurus.” And on that name, did Arvandus take that hand which hung over Armorica. And use it to drag across his scalp, at the detriment to his hair.

“The emperor told me stories about Arthurus that he found to his liking. Ambrosius too, when I knew him…And there’s one which I know to be true, for both men gave me exact details. During Ambrosius’s war against the Angles, you remember them.” Arvandus paused, for Clovis’s response, but the king much disliked to talk over the wars he’d lost. So, it was no surprise to Arvandus when he received no answer.

“Well, I remember. Ambrosius rebuked such foolish bravery as I aim to tell. But he was nonetheless stunned when he told me, what his son did… Like wood crashing against solid rock.” Said Arvandus, as Clovis steadily, silently leant into what he had to say.

“He lured a whole army of them into the woods near Eboracum. So foolhardy and futile it would seem. As they numbered three thousand of the toughest along the shores of that cold sea.” Arvandus crossed his arms to warm himself with the thought of that water, or the outcome of that battle.

“But they never saw him. Or lived to say so.”

“Unless they surrendered, but warriors of that breed do it little. Though, there were some who escaped. Out of the forest and back toward their fleet after the—short encounter, for armies of that size. And they could hardly fill one of their longships. As Arthurus pursued, looting and burning all the abandoned vessels in total war. With only Five Hundred behind him.”

Arvandus then shifted his attention back to the coastline, on the map below his now resting arms. As Clovis sat back in his chair, its joints creaked harshly in the wordless air.

“Really?” Said Clovis, as the candles glinted in his eyes. And his usual nature to fight birthed a new plan within his subtly sharp mind.

“Why else would I be here? Instead of my dignitaries to collect my reward for the emperor.” Arvandus stared him down.

“Then I need a way to stop him. Better yet, I need to force his hand.” Said Clovis. And now Arvandus lent into his words. As the Frankish king beheld the map before them.

“If Arthurus is no stranger to total war we’ll be no different.” Clovis pointed to the Armorican border in particular. “We’ll torch it. With Alaric by our side. Before his short attention is driven elsewhere.”

“We?” Arvandus quivered, he never killed a man, at least directly. Like the fangs of an adder are unlethal, before the spread of its venom.

“Yes, you’re the one who is in real danger if I am to lose, which matters little to me. Their God, and your stories do little to make me quail.” Then, after Clovis said this, he looked up from the map. With a smile that grew from the snake’s slithering and shudders. “Unless you prefer destitution, or a ride with Alaric.”

“No!” Arvandus replied, hell could not be worse than that, for a civilized man like him.

Clovis then stood back up, as air passed through his teeth in elation like the roaring of a waterfall at a great distance away. “Okay then! You ride with me. And you’ll wear that armor on the rostrum. As I’ll wear the armor of the men that followed it. Arthurus, who hails from such an isolated land will have no idea of it. Until it’s too late.”

“If you think it can work.” Replied Arvandus. “But where does Alaric come into this?” He said, disgusting himself at the Goth’s potential elation at such a cunning act, for the act of it alone.

“He’s the fodder.” Clovis stared down, carrying the grand stance of king, oddly coupled with the relentlessness of a tribal warlord.

And Arvandus only nodded, before he got up himself without another word and went back to the apse. Where a warm roll of wool waited for him to quell the cold sweat. As he remained stuck between the forces his actions built. And the story that brought it into question. Hopefully for him, the gold would be worth it.

Whilst Clovis stood, miles away, and back to his humiliating war against the old foe’s that his new one apparently beat so effectively. And if Arvandus was right, perhaps the descendants of Rome had one Cesar left. And it made him glad.

-End of Intermission-

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Not All, Die Complaining II

Pharus Mortuorum

Read, Part I and II, here.

Part III, Long Road Down

A fortnight past the last village of Londinium. The party in whole numbered two over a hundred on the southern approach to Castle Camelot. Where the King, Arthurus’s father, lay sick in bed behind the tall limestone walls lined with little embrasures and crowned with the battlements, cleaved from old Roman temples. Keeping Ambrosius inside with a disheartening sickness, a rotting from under the skin. Which no amount of quiet drink, or rest in any fortress could fix.

The messenger Lucan groaned once it rose through the trees. Growing long tired of the place in riding to, or from it. The long campaigns were finished. His homeland of Cambria was far enough away for him to miss it throughout each night of peace he was elsewhere. Knowing, over the years they never lasted long enough and yet holding onto hope this ride was the last for at least a short time to come.

As he, Arthurus, and all the Men-at-arms approached over the old grounds of some long-gone villa. Till the guards at the gate house, a few minutes ride away raised the castles portcullis without giving any call or demand. Apparently, despite the old age of Ambrosius, he still thought ahead on the littlest of things, all for time, the greatest resource of all. Leading to a little order both Arthurus and Lucan appreciated, Lucan especially so.

Now, with the whole band behind him, Arthurus eventually led them through. When the guards in mended armor, with shields of red painted Chi Rho said not a word but bowed as the whole trotted or walked past. Silence Lucan had no problem with, barely looking away from the path to see it in the first place.

Yet Arthurus nodded to each one in return. Until he bid the one hundred to depart from him for a time, continuing while they went to resupply, each in silent thought. Which Arthurus did also in these minutes up to the keep with Lucan. Finding the barracks, smithies and little gardens, kept together by skillful masons to be no less or more beautiful than the last visits. And it gave him back a feeling, for all the time he spent there in his youth.

A feeling that brought only a stare of longing for which one found it difficult to find the source within. Only being able to take it out onto the vistas of old buildings where the sunlight met shadow. Or through the windows where he once stood, gazing out in his off times of the past. And it grew stronger oddly enough, during peace time, or maybe with age alone.

Lucan suspected Arthurus’s attentive silence to be a lamentation, or a subtly growing fear, as the garrison hailed them by. All the way up the street that wound around buildings, built on top of the village that once stood there. Where you could see the past century of growing threats in the difference of architecture. With fountains and many arches of smoother stone in the area around the entrance to the keep.

Which towered with embrasures of its own over the rest of the structures. As a banner, depicting one golden dragon, with a look as if it were cornered in a tide of red velvet. Hung over the large wooden door, strengthened, with thick iron bars. And guarded on each side by a well-armed Sergeant. “Afternoon my lord, your father wishes to speak to you alone.” One came up to them, after a short, stiff walk.

Arthurus exhaled, giving the reins to the guard, he dismounted before Lucan quickly wished him luck, with a heavy heart through his words. “Tell the king I’ve done as he pleased… I’m sorry to leave, but I should waste no time to return home.” Lucan turned his horse around, without a single trot forward, as Arthurus gave one question. “Lucan, where is your loyalty?” The arms of Arthurus crossed over his own breast, disappointed. Be that as it may, his eyes only showed unchanging patience on the other hand.

“But—”

“Come now, I am your lord as much as I am your friend. And I beg you to put aside that which you want for the time being.”

Lucan felt the veins in his head swell, taking a deep breath to relieve it. “Surely, just my lord. If you would have me, put aside family and wait here to carry out your message, all alone.” Lucan’s words started at an exhale and cross to the point that’d dishonor him among most peers and nobles. So, he was fortunate Arthurus only had a chortle when his friend saw through the half-truth. Though low, so as not to disturb the peace.

“I’ll forgive that slap across my face. I’ve gotten to know you, Lucan Varius. Never patient, but always willing. And now I demand your will, to stay near me.” Arthurus summed up their four years of friendship, and Lucan’s disruptive action back in Londinium. That would’ve gotten him locked up, or worse, if not for Arthurus’s recognition of him.

“I guess you’re right. Fine.” Lucan abdicated in the face of that fact, perhaps long overdue from all the ill tidings he’d given to Arthurus in those four years. “Though I never said I wouldn’t!” And this, in the direct way Lucan said it, was no lie.

“I know and I thank you, but about what you’ve said with running my message…” Arthurus broke his gaze, in hope of a clearer articulation. “Possibly, in one way or another. If what I suspect about my father’s will is right. You’ll be coming with me one last time before your free to go.”

And Lucan raised his eyebrows, as the assignment sounded strangely dreadful. “Great… But where do you think that is?” The rumors of the south emerging in his mind as he spoke.

“North, I presume, along the old Hadrian wall. We’ve been there before... Just stay here for now.” Arthurus brought up his finger at Lucan, getting an irritable nod from his friend in return.

“Okay okay, I got you the first time. I’ll wait for you here.” Impatient, but in no way already forgetting what Arthurus told him, Lucan only wanted to be alone now. And as his lord went on into the keep, he gazed southwards beyond the wall. Starring at the water, in the channel below as natural as ever. A calm façade to what lay beyond, Lucan could only guess.

Meanwhile, Arthurus went through the front door, shutting it softly behind him. Before stepping into the lasting quiet of the king’s hall. Paved and pillared, this hall, finished in the times of his grandfather was masked in a solemn glow of unexpectantly warm torchlight. It rattled Arthurus to know this place was once filled with noise of song but now it sat unnaturally silent. A far cry from the tranquil hush that hung over the outside.

Though the tables, chairs, and throne itself sat empty, the room held four of the same banners with one of the household guard underneath each. If one were new here those guards would be no better than statues. And Arthurus treated them as such when he walked toward the back stairwell. Even as Heir Apparent, it was rude to disturb them and outright illegal as anyone else beside the king, or one who bared his mark.

Climbing the stairs Arthurus felt the sweat drip off his face and down his skin whilst the heat rose with him. He touched the right-hand wall with his palm, wetting it quickly. As perspiration, which fell off the ceiling and sill stones gave the sense this Donjon of the king was more of prison to his father, Ambrosius. Arthurus couldn’t blame Lucan’s wanting love for this place. Though he never really did.

At last, the door at the top ceased the spiral staircase, stopping Arthurus in return for an enduring stillness, one he found harder to bear. Then he wiped his face with one wet hand and opened the door with his other. Shutting it slowly on the other side, but just enough to reveal his presence. Onto two more of the household guard at the end of a short hall that turned into three separate rooms. The one they stood at was the king’s of course, the looks on their red blotched faces revealed honor and relief at the Heir’s presence.

Arthurus approached, bowing, with them doing so in return as an awkward pause held over their tradition of speechlessness. Until one opened the door that gave no more sound than a draft of wind over fields of grain.

Through the threshold Arthurus saw him, in bed, appearing no more than a disturbed pile of blankets, one was too lazy to mend. Again, Arthurus shut the door behind him. Striving a fine line in his approach, not too loud to annoy him, not too quiet to startle him. Though the many, somewhat open windows, and fine cardinal carpet under his feet, did help in this endeavor.

“On time, as you’ve always been.” The Kings voice, under all that weight of satin and sickness carried yet a modicum of authority. Even when all the land outside Camelot began to exchange it for the coming rule of his only son.

Arthurus smiled but could hardly stand looking at Ambrosius in his tired eyes. Or onto the old man’s rough skin, opaqued by his silver hair that matched poignantly with the silk he wrapped himself in.

“Have I upset you… My son?” Ambrosius’s words broke into small spats of wheezing. “Since I’m sure, from your punctuality… My order cut your ceremony short.” And despite his condition, Ambrosius’s attention never faltered.

“No, no it’s you, my king, I’m worried about—”

“Good lord above, spare my ears in this old age of mine! This sickness is my repentance. And that title is as good as yours… You will get it, when you return.” And despite the look of worry across his son’s face, Ambrosius sat up. Revealing the eastern indigo of his nightgown that was as much a legacy as the man himself.

“Return from where? Father.” Arthurus clenched both hands behind his back despite his collected character. He hoped beyond all the disappointment of this world he’d hear the word ‘north’. But disappointments were what he learned to bear, as all great men do. From his father’s strictness in training, and his mother, long gone into the arms of Christ.

“Gaul… Is where you must go and you know what I ask of you there…It is my last request. For, if you return, I will not see it.” Ambrosius leaned back into the pillow, staring out the nearest window, over the great channel limping on far below. And washing against Camelot’s port, filled by a dozen empty ships and then some.

“But you will, by no means… do it alone.”

Notwithstanding to the small hope Ambrosius laid out in that last line. It was obvious immediately that Arthurus’s thoughts turned from the sympathy he had for his father, toward the determination of his new mission and the faith in his swing.

“As you will, though I have trouble grasping why. We’ve won father, the only thing that should concern us now is our own borders, our own people. If Syagrius falls, then it is what it is. We should not risk our line for the protection of one less fortunate by mere circumstance of their position.” His son’s stance was firm as it was just, to the point it both honored and alarmed Ambrosius.

“But they were our allies Arthurus…” Ambrosius’s plea broke in another wheeze knowing full well his son could take the position of king at any time and deny his father’s command if he truly wanted it. “We are both successors of Rome. If Clovis and that wretched Alaric are allowed to continue, who do you think they’ll set their dogs on next?... Before themselves of course, like they always do.”

“Rome, is that any surprise? They are just as weakened as Sissons.” Arthurus grew irritable, as if he were talking to some petulant child on the street. Without knowing what tragedy could’ve befallen them to act in such a way.

“I get that you don’t see the whole of our situation… And I am sorry for all the coldness I have shown in commands before. But you must understand, Rome is not their target because of its weakness.” Ambrosius’s voice began dropping to a hoarse whisper. “More so, because it has been corrupted. And now we are vulnerable because we will be alone, without Sissons.”

Arthurus knelt beside Ambrosius, since the talk of treachery was something to put aside all other moans against. If what Ambrosius said was true. “Corrupted? That is nothing new to anyone, besides, Rome is far away now.”

“Not as far as you think. Know, that word still travels fast in the occupied south, because of those corrupted in Rome! Between one in particular and the barbarian kings of the west.” Ambrosius paused, afraid of what his son might soon think of him. “…One, which I’ve made the mistake of sharing our strategy with, in my youth. I was only an ambitious general at the time, like you were… I thought it would help with cohesion during our campaigns in Gaul, Syagrius’s father did too… But we could not see how it all could go terribly wrong. And look where that got Syagrius’s family, only death.”

Ambrosius’s nod was subtle, weighing odds in his head only he knew. “But your ways of war are different from mine. Something I never should’ve chastised you over.” Ambrosius then cleared his throat, he’s never spoken so much on a command before.

“The treacherous one I speak of is a Roman himself. Arvandus, who is the most sinful among the two barbarian kings he’s sold information to. His love for fortune has been the root of all evils that befell Sissons. And us, soon enough…” Ambrosius’s eyes shrunk beneath his lids in a small bout of anger and despair for what he’d done. And what he demanded his son of, because of his own folly.

“Arvandus is beyond our reach… But if nothing is done to stop his patronage, those kings of the Franks and Goths. Sissons will fall, and Camelot will see an armada from the south soon after.”

Ambrosius took a ragged breath after laying all that he had to say out. But in those few moments, he felt the hand of his son rest on his own, over the satin fabric. “I will go south then, but by more than your word alone. Though the people know not that they have told me to.” Said Arthurus, as Ambrosius gripped his hand in return. If the lords of Arthurus’s youthful days and all the rest who doubted his fairness in private saw or heard, they would curse that afternoon henceforth.

“But why tell me now, you must’ve had your suspicions for some time?” Arthurus stood up, breaking the last contact he would have with Ambrosius. Before it was time to see to the launch of his own fleet. And to the last goodbye of his wife.

“I was ashamed, until now. The bishop was right, when he once told me… ‘Dying of the flesh, finds a way to straighten the life of the soul.’ Go now, with my blessings that I was too foolish to replace with my complaints in your youth.”

Arthurus nodded, but had no words, the sting in his eye said all that was needed as he began to walk away. For anyone, the burden would be too heavy to bear though Arthurus saw the loss of many. Yet it was no wonder that he should stop and glance back once he reached the door. Where he saw his father, one last time, and could smell the fresh air through the windows. As the old man lay, looking out into the quiet channel once more. Arthurus then left.

But this time, the pass through the hall and down the great stair was much colder.

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Part IV, The Days of Preparation

“My lord! I’m afraid I’ve disobeyed.” Lucan began, clearly affable and collated to how he felt before. And clearly, wearing his accustomed attire of red and gold was the reason for this. As the guard which took his liege’s horse, stood beside Lucan’s in a stance more annoyed than disciplined. With Arthurus’s reined in mount casually kicking the dirt off the stones in boredom.

Arthurus, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, spoke not a peep, and how could he so quickly? With a friend’s speech, so opposite to the dour talk he had beforehand. Yet the guard that waited was surely lightened of heart, at each closing step. Bowing, and handing the heir back his rein.

And Arthurus heard plain the sergeant’s armor gnash against itself quickly, making his way back into the shade and onto his regular duty.

“That one either hates me, or this place as much as I.” Lucan made sure to say it lightly, even if the man couldn’t hear a thing under that iron helm. The true worry on the other hand was the quiet state of his friend, which pushed him from his affable voice. “Arthurus?” Lucan didn’t look, instead bent down to pat the mane of his horse, when silence and the effluvium of Arthurus’s sweat made the air cumbersome between the two.

“We’ll trot and talk.” Was more of a statement from Arthurus than a true command given to Lucan, but an odd one, drained of energy. Obviously, from riding and walking all the way for a conversation that Arthurus cared little to have right after a ceremony. Though the contents of that talk, whatever Lucan thought it could be, did not sit well within. Made worse, in motion of Lucan’s stumping horse.

With addition to the distance Arthurus gave without speaking Lucan; was the one to relent first. “Well, we’re moving. Now tell me, while the clean garbs I wear still pleases me. What did your father bid of you?” Lucan glanced elsewhere just the same, at the guards now paying them no mind at opposing ends of the street. Alongside that subtle change from the olden architecture back into the new.

“Alright…” Arthurus more so inhaled the word rather than spat it out. “His command was Gaul. In hope to aid Syagrius, if he’s still breathing. If not. Well, I’ll lead whoever I can there against Clovis, Alaric too.” Arthurus said, slow and flat. He never imagined giving Lucan the grim news instead.

“Oh.” Lucan shut his eyes, as his horse led him down that street to wherever Arthurus would lead them. “…But surely you won’t be heading off alone?” He said, as obligation no matter how bad his complaint was a hard thing to break.

“He mentioned something of ‘help’. So, I surmise those Ambrosius trust’s most will come.” Arthurus then leant toward Lucan. “Some I may not like…” He added, at last getting both Lucan’s eyes and ears.

“What are you trying to say?” Lucan’s horse, ever following the other, slowed down with Arthurus’s as the street came to an end.

“I’m saying—come with me. You’d make a good mediator between me and them; you’d be more detached. Not forgetting a good runner too by experience, but only if it should come to it. I will not make you, since lord knows this isn’t what I asked for in the first place.” Then, they came to a stop. The impassive glance Arthurus gave, didn’t.

“My life, or my way of it, huh?” Lucan’s mouth was dry in an instant, nearly too dry for another word. “Ahh… The one good thing about this place is clean drinking water. I’d like some and you could use it to wash up. Then I’ll have made my decision.” Lucan thought his comment was a clever one, maybe it only made him look weak.

“Fair enough. We won’t be going anywhere until help arrives. But when they do, come and see me.” Arthurus left with a wave Lucan barely noticed in rubbing the crimson linen worn over his shoulders. Someone in clothes like his wasn’t meant for war. But if it came to it, at least it would hide the blood.

And for three days it ate at Lucan, where sleep was his only reprieve from restless sitting, walking, or eating meals an average Cambrian would fight over for themselves. As the same veterans who nearly slew him in Londinium went about their business in drills or quiet conversation. But at the end of the third day, when Lucan had nothing better to do than quietly observe their drilling, from the second floor of the barracks. He had no idea the time to decide was upon him, with the coming of footsteps down the great balcony on which he stood.

“Are you Lucan?” Were the words that started him back to reason.

“Yes. Forgive me, I was somewhere else. What do you ask of me?” Lucan, resting against the railing, saw the guard’s pants and tunic were a cross-design red and blue. Signifying, the man had a long walk up from port, for a message.

“It’s lord Arthurus, he wants you to see him immediately.”

Without another word Lucan followed him across the winding side streets all the way to a hidden exit. Leading down the porous limestone cliffs in quick descent of short stairs, dug roughly into the near sheer cliff that’d prove lethal to one of little patience. So, Lucan was lucky he had a guide with him.

In the descent, Lucan saw not only the whole fleet which Arthurus would take. But also, the size each ship alone took up, not only by the hull of every navibus—by the oars too, laying in their downward position. Seeing one of the largest ports, in all the Kingdom of Britannia with its twelve docks filled at their sides and ends. Was masterwork, requiring all sorts of skill and planning from the king downward. Skill, a messenger of the king himself, could only begin to learn by gawking at it.

Another culmination of these two virtues was the help Ambrosius called upon. The multitude in whole must’ve numbered a little more than a hundred at the docks. While four, to five thousand, began to set up tents for those who found no space elsewhere. On one smoother slope, about a mile down the coast. Which shocked Lucan, to be so aloof to such a large force until then. And seeing the attention and persistence of the king was not at all gone.

“It’s not our full might, militarily, but Arthurus has sure made do with less.” The mariner said on the last few stairs, before stepping on level ground, just inside the border wall. “Good luck In Gaul my friend!” He then left Lucan’s side for the closest ship. Happily so, knowing he wasn’t going to be sailing on it most likely.

Sailing in such a great way or not, Lucan thought any sort of true happiness would be hard to achieve in such a choice. And what answer he would have for Arthurus he did not yet know. But maybe the small blessing which the mariner had given was some sign from above. Pushing his thoughts until he approached the multitude crowding the dockyard, mostly made up of infantry moving equipment and weapons onto decks. While mariners stored them properly below.

Cutting through the bulk of them in the garbs of a rich man conflicted with the wears of all the rest. Getting a few confused stares as he searched around, maybe called out to, if anyone of importance had been around. But nowhere in all that commotion did he find Arthurus, not even one of the other lords sent to aid him. Hopefully, Arthurus was not up the slope in the great camp beyond.

Asking around could’ve helped him, but when he came up with the thought he was already on the other side. Besides, the way each person who saw him in that crowd appeared despondent enough.

Continuing, Lucan turned from the armada and scouted the small dock houses, trade and guard posts, even along the small stone border wall. Until he found Arthurus, near the port’s customs house of short bricks. Rebuilt after a Saxon raid Arthurus himself fought off years ago in full armor of restored iron, once wrought for a young centurion. Which was the last conflict Lucan could remember being in amidst the struggle. Partially, by holding up in a nearby building, a past choice that took him months to move on from.

But that day he was out in the open. With Arthurus at a distance, wearing an overcoat of imperial red and pants dyed to copper that tightened below the knees. An outfit unusual for sea faring whether it be trade or transport. Aside from the journey he planned to take, however, it was who Arthurus stood beside that made it make sense. And she sure put Arthurus’s fine clothing to the test.

In a primrose palla trimmed inside the glinting orange of a rising flame, Lucan had no doubt it was Guinevere. Faithful in the word she gave to her husband back in Londinium. And their separation from the crowd forced Lucan to steady himself in his approach.

“Well, you’ve returned each time before, I know. Just never across the water, from a foreign land.” Was the first thing Lucan heard her say before spotting him. All the while Arthurus held her hand in the way of someone with a promise.

Guinevere, surprised at first, easily took her hand away and bowed once she recognized Lucan in the unfamiliar robes. “Ah, Lucan! Arthurus told me more about you. Clearly, my first impression of you was misled. Are you heading off with him, on this morning to come?” She stood straight again with both hands lapped lightly across her collar for Lucan’s answer.

“I hope I’ve given you enough time.” Arthurus spoke up, without impatience or anger, concerning that this was Lucan’s second interruption, by no fault of his own. “…But what say you, now? That were out here, before the largest fleet Brittania has seen in decades.”

Yes, what would he say? With the past three days in a slow burn of indecision, wanting nothing but to be far away from it. “I’m torn, to tell you both the truth. I am a loyal man.” It was true, but he could not look at either of them when he said it. “Yet I feel whoever your father has called, Arthurus. Galahad, Lancelot or whoever, would do better with loyalty in battle than I ever could.”

“That’s where your wrong, Lucan. That I do know about you without question.” Guinevere took a step closer to her husband, for what he thought or knew, she did too. “It seems you two have gotten to know each other greatly in a few years’ time. Then Arthurus has with all the vassals of Ambrosius from the northern wall all the way down to the shore on which we stand.” She disliked speaking this much, especially in ways of persuasion. When it came to the wellbeing of family, however, Guinevere saw it as her duty, nonetheless. “I understand you’d be a long way from home. But loyalty, requires all sorts of sacrifices.”

Once she said this, Lucan noticed Guinevere carried that same look he saw on her before they left Londinium. As the smell of the south that rolled across the channel carried a hint of pungent smoke.

“I am no fighter.” Lucan began turning to the ships, with a deep breath in his lungs. “But when it comes to standing with someone, who’s been fairer to me than all the rest… How can I abdicate the responsibility endowed to me?” He said, and had no need to see, for Lucan knew his answer mattered to them both.

“I’ll go.” At last, he expelled it, as if a weight fell from his chest.

“How wonderful, oh bless you Lucan!” He heard Guinevere nearly shout it before meeting her with a smile that’d say you’re welcome. Though he never got the chance to, when she embraced him like a brother soon as she saw his face.

“I’m grateful and in your debt.” Arthurus his stance of a watchful silence as Guinevere stood beside him again. “As all should be, if they knew you came by your own will. And with all that said and done, would you walk with us back to the castle?” Arthurus took his wife by the hand, his eyes gleaming for just a while. Before the mission came back to the forefront of his mind. “We’ve seen enough of the waterfront for today.”

Lucan on the other hand, thought it best to accustom himself to it. “Go on without me. I’ll see you two here tomorrow. Before the sun should rise, I assume?”

“Of course. Be seeing you.” Said Arthurus.
“Goodbye for now, Lucan.” Guinevere added.

Then they both walked off, holding one hand of the other as Lucan watched them go. In a wonder at the conflict of it. Two lovers amongst the bulk of an army on the move surely made Lucan think he saw everything. Until that sharp smell of something burnt wafted past him again. He gazed out, past the ships to the eerily calm channel in hazy daylight.

Recalling that previous thought and resting against the wall nearby. Once the pungency of the far-off burn began to shift into the faintly sweet smell of roasting meat.

This story will continue, to part V and VI.

Thank you for reading all the way through! If you’ve read the previous iteration, please, tell me what you thought about this one, how does it compare? If you haven’t, then I hope you scrolled all the way down, so I can tell you here, to scroll all the way back up and give to it a read!

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Part I, Beyond The Borders

Bands of a thousand old legionaries, scored with the marks of blades. Accompanied a thousand more ill-equipped footmen and archers from the surrounding villas. In rows of dull iron, they marched onto the fallow country, outside Sissons. With their staffs of Chi Rho bent and outlining the ground before them under the setting sun. Each a personal symbol of faith hoisted in some last effort to deliver them all, another chance. But their faith sat at an all-time low, with the loss of Reims.

As the gentle rise in the land met their feet and held them steadfast in the dry dirt. With the thick forest in the distance. The thousand spat the grit from their lips, watching the Equites and Foederati ride steadily outward. Led by Syagrius, a man new to the throne and dammed of it, after the tragic end of his late father. Who taught Syagrius little in the ways of the offense, before his supposed poisoning—or fate of a far worse kind. If rumors are to be believed.

Though all the skirmishes he led before were counted on one hand, Syagrius commanded the flank with grim bravery out of a desperation for Gaul and the last of the western empire in Italia. And on horseback in that wide country, with the forest, waiting to reveal what hid beyond its eve. Syagrius gave his only speech of his first, real battle.

“I hear the Bishops from Sissons to Rennes, say that I could not bring God’s judgement to the enemy—and so it might be. Beyond our borders. But with his symbol beside us here and now, God’s blessing is worth more than the tongue of any man. And his word to conquer above the arm of any soldier. And with these two hopes, let the skill of you, my cavalry—be one more!”

His voice, undoubtedly heard by the infantry through the wind, as any other could, mounted before him. Had thought his voice faded a little at the end of the sentences or at long pauses. Seemingly, all they could do was fight, die, and delay the enemy. But it was good defense, the best they could gather.

So, the Equites obliged to hit their shields, as the mounted Foederati saw in all red of anticipation. Beyond shine of Saygrius’s helm and the youth of his face, into the forest beyond. In the foliage, they noticed something greater with their wild eyes that the Equites couldn’t.

Until the bushes gave clear way to the drab brown of wooden shields, bound by cold iron and coarse leather. Each one, accompanying the burning tips of ten thousand spears. Glinting hot, either by the late sun’s reflection, or by the blood of those poor souls in Reims.

Syagrius turned at the wild gaze in the Foederati; he swore he aged fifty years at the sight it. “Our infantry is in place. Move—and be ready to flank the enemy!”

He spoke with resolution of death ground, as a shaking horn blast followed his word. Then, the horsemen of ten score hooked to their left, making a steady pace. But inside Syagrius had been deep in thought. “That many men… Surely—Rome is doomed, if we fail…”

Even if all the voices in his mind were to scream retreat. To hide behind the walls and wait for old Ambrosius or help from Rome that might not come. He knew there would be more risk than reward, especially with the paid Foederati, itching for this slaughter already. So, his formation sat, as the wall of the Franks marched into the archer’s line of fire. Their mass of footsteps on the open plain held the beat of a drum in a chant to their pagan Gods. Time would soon tell whose lord would be silent.

But it was a great sight for all the cavalry to behold, once the enemy crossed that unseen line of fire. Where the wave of arrows was upon them like talons that wounded hundreds but only made a scratch in the army’s totality. Syagrius saw his moment and got his charge ready, as it was unlikely he’d have another. Once the Franks came closer, showing Syagrius their side, he gave the order that sealed the fate of his military career.

“Go now—CHARGE!”

The order rang in the metal of his helm, and the horn blew beside him. The Foederati were reeling with delight as the Equites grimaced in ready for the impact of flesh on the lance. They all hollered as another wave of arrows lashed the air in a sudden gust. A great distraction for the enemy who knew not to bring their shields above their heads, or in front of their face. And the looks on them said it all, dread, plea, and hate.

Syagrius couched his lance into one of hate, slicing the neck of another in dread, with his spatha. Leading the few hundred Franks left of that flank to rout in the sounds of screams coupled to the cracking of bones. All for Rome, thought Syagrius; the kill, the backs of the enemy—all of it. Yet that isn’t exactly what he sought after but who of Rome did? In the whole of these last years.

Nevertheless, there was no time to think on it. Another line backed up their battered comrades, but more importantly, above the groans and commands, came the horn of the Frankish cavalry. Syagrius among his Equites, glared down the old position of the enemy ranks, now moving onward. To see a swarm of the mounted barbarians riding out of the opposing flank in such ferocity that’d crush the infantry of Syagrius in one, fell swoop.

Syagrius would fall to his knees if not for the horse under him. God pushed him on to act quick, to ride past the Frankish infantry—yet more spearmen came to hold them there. Forcing Syagrius’s decision to retreat, leaving that side open for the enemy. But he raised his blade for the command anyway, “Retre—.”

Yet, was cut off due to no action of the spearmen, for it came from behind. Like the sound of thunder from maybe a hundred hooves, undetected until now by the absence of a horn. Skewering the backs of the Equites and their Burgundian allies in a blast greater than any other. Syagrius knew it was over.

But he’d be surly tortured without a fight, so he loosed the lance that was now useless. Fighting desperately with those comrades who remained. With no time to lament the soon to be fall of his capital, he thrust his blade into the underarm of one mounted Frank. Unable to process the man’s death cry when he blocked the swing of another. But in that breath, Syagrius noticed this one was different. The Frank wore a cape of oiled black leather, as his chiton glistened with fine metal and jewels, likely crafted from the old works of Syagrius’s own people. Though the stranger’s face lay hidden under a helm and visor of iron. Syagrius thought for certain it was the Frankish king himself, Clovis.

At the realization in his enemy’s eyes, Clovis struck hard at the chest piece of Sissons itself. Stopping by mere luck at the ribcage, forcing Syagrius to retaliate like a cornered lion back in the old games. Aiming for the neck in his pain and missing. Giving Clovis a hard knock on the head for his trouble. Yet any Roman who is skilled in battle would tell, it is unwise to anger a barbarian, a Frank in particular. Over unlethal blows.

“You Roman dog! I’ll have your sword thrust in between your legs!” Clovis pointed the bloodied tip of his sword at Syagrius, as Equites fell to the Frank’s all around them. “Then you won’t take it from me alive…” Syagrius panted, becoming unnervingly weary in his heavy breath.

Until Clovis came at him again, a quick switch of his horse gave the strike deadly force. It would’ve driven clean through Syagrius’s right shoulder, paralyzing his hand. If he hadn’t the remaining strength and skill to block with the spatha still held in his left. The edge of it knocked the other away, then cut the flesh of Clovis’s arm that held it.

Clovis tucked his arm in before staring hard behind, at the king of Sissons. Drawing the Roman’s full attention, ready to kill one another in a fashion that was more than personal. And there, In the midst of mid battle, the two kings charged each other around the growing tide of Frankish knights. But as Syagrius hit his heels against his horse, a strong push into his back plating shot a great pain and tremble across his entire body.

The corners of his vision grew in a bright white, then blurred. But he could hear the cries of thousands in the pandemonium as a dull thump of a Frankish knight’s hooves slowed to a halt on his right. Slowly fading to the sound of his breath, drowning in running blood. Now, he could only see one thing—Clovis, trotting to him. His many jewels, shining like the stars in heaven before his sentence was carried out.

“Be glad, you fall in two blows. And one by a man alike to you, Syagrius. As you should already know, your father suffered far worse.” Clovis’s voice was deliberate, words unbroken. He knew Sissons was as good as his. “Damn you for it. Son of a—” Came a coagulated cough.

Syagrius would listen no more from the savage king, raising his sword for the neck, though weak and without prayer. It was beyond doubt whose God had spoken now. And Clovis almost let it land, but why let the loser have any say in how they die? It was never wise. So, Clovis gave one thrust to the throat for the curse, killing Syagrius instantly. With not a single blink from the eyes of Clovis, he watched the Roman king fall limp on the horse he rode valiantly—no more an hour past.

As blood wet its mane, the stallion stood merely frustrated before Clovis and the Franks. Paying no mind to the barbarian king cheer on his army’s victory over Sissons. Over, the wailing of the captured and the rummaging through the dead.

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Part II, The Heir Apparent

Down the main stone way of Londinium, the bright midday sun was above any other that year. As a man in white robes waited outside, impatiently asking the guard to be let through to see him. But other men, and women of King Ambrosius, cleared the shudders away from their windows within the city walls. Built into the packed concrete that made most of their buildings. While more in the multitudes on the street below, kept handfuls of roses and bluebells held close. Or threw them out into the oncoming procession of the general who proved himself to be their great victor in three battles. As the king’s only son, no less.

Who trotted before the ranks of his troop with a cordial smile toward the people above and below him. While the victory was the truest honor then. The smell of their picked flowers and voices of relief in the air all around, enheartened him the most.

Though his youth left him in the wars against the Saxons, with a few scars and a full beard to match. The whole scene managed to bring some of the illusion or magic of boyhood back to him a while. Or here and there. When the Magister Militum’s still showed their strength. When he thought the world beyond their shores were filled with the honor of adventure—and the light of the old world. Before he began his duties as the king’s marshal, before the walls of castle Camelot began to fill him with memory rather than pride.

But down the way, apart from the cheering of the crowds and the singing of minstrels, stood the city’s square. Hushed in holy reverence before one of the many churches, built under Constantine. Where the bishop of the city meditated on the blessings he’d soon speak by his own tongue. While the wife of the victor stood patiently beside his grace. And the son of Ambrosius was glad to see both as he approached, even if the absence of his mother and father in that silent crowd pained him so.

Not enough, however, for him to stop and think over much, while dismounting before the last row of the crowd. Leaving those soldiers who followed behind, but honored just this once, to stand without him. As the Bishop, Lady, and chroniclers, all under the silhouette of the church steeple—bowed. With a greeting from his grace.

“My lord, Arthurus. We are honored in your presence.” The words of the bishop were quiet with humility, carrying clear to all the square beyond the king’s son. “You have my gratitude, your grace.” Arthurus bowed in return to him and lower, to his Wife. “Guinevere…” His tongue caught on the name.

And since they met. Arthurus found it unfair. That out of all the outlander men he brought to his sword, a mere vassal’s daughter of the north. Could put a pause on his heart like no other threat of death could.

“Come Arthurus. The people await the sanctification of your deeds.” And the look of respect Guinevere had for her Husband put aside the elegance she carried in silence so often.

Arthurus held her in a stola of an ocean blue, but in a strange and merry light because of this. Though it only lasted by the blink of his eyes before joining beside the bishop. Gazing at the soldiers and the masses—who all stood in ranks of their own. Their arms held onto loved ones, but seemingly no tighter or loose than what Arthurus remembered in the haze of the past.

“Very few Kings or Emperors see days like this.” The bishop held his bible just as close, as Arthurus turned to face his blessing. “But if your God and your Father on earth wills it. You will see this day once more, as a King yourself.” And Arthurus took that first blessing, though it came solely from the tongue of a man.

Yet the ones of their God came soon enough. Prior to the giving of the title ‘Heir Apparent’ as was tradition. A trivial award, Arthurus thought, but he no less saw faith in it. Since every sole in that crowd beheld him as such already, long before the end of the bishop’s speech. And they cheered respectfully in Latin, or in the words of the Celts. But in the end, they rejoiced as one people, witnessing a new proclamation of their sovereignty in the ever-changing world. But the world which held them was mighty big, and someone came hastily to remind them of it. When the chroniclers gave Arthurus their most illuminated manuscripts, from the Sepulcher of Constantine’s first chapel in Eboracum.

“…Let these old laws be your foundation. And the lord of lords your rock. For all the days of your life…” The bishop ended light, as it was good-will never meant to cease. Arthurus could only bow, as he had done with his wife some years ago. Though he was different and the times were too, there was yet nothing new to say. So, he only listened to the cheers go down to a murmur. As a rummage of armor and spears came to take its place.

The rummage turned sharp into a surprise uproar. A dozen gauntlets reaching, clashing together on air, and shocked voices between the ranks of the guards. “Stop him, quickly!” One spoke out, in a panicked and angry pitch for a veteran.

And if one was wise or attentive in those days, at dusk of the empire. They would fear the sudden turmoil, after such a coveted title. It could well be nothing short of some rapid attempt at interference. Or a cunning assassination.

Guinevere was nothing short of attentive, or at least careful. Lifting the bottom of her stola, to reach her husband in a run as dainty, as it was brave, given the worst might happen. That Arthurus could’ve seen of her and rebuked, for endangering her own self. If he hadn’t been transfixed, on the raised voices that demanded a name. While his holiness and all his chroniclers did so stand the like.

They, in all, did wonder as the figure held responsible for the interruption came closer, now by force. The stranger’s linen robe of white was, however, an odd choice for someone who worked in usurpation. Though most in the crowd would find it foolish to assume anything else, as they began to back away. “Is this some trick?” Guinevere heard Arthurus—over the few guards that did bid the man in robes to stand still. “My lord! He wishes to speak to you!” Came a guard’s voice, intimidating and foreign to such a hollowed square.

Guinevere followed behind Arthurus, down the square’s center. “Wait, what if you’re right? Please don’t endanger yourself!” But he did not listen, Arthurus hastened down the main isle anyway. As the crowd waited to see what was the first punishment Arthurus would give out for the interruption.

But if it in fact was a trick, as Arthurus suspected, there was no need to get restless. He’s seen it all before and would handle it justly. So, the guards waited while he approached. Their full helms hiding the looks on the faces of each, with the stranger standing simply impatient at what had happened. And yet slightly disheveled over news, or some statement Arthurus could only guess at that time.

Which is what the Heir had surmised clearly now, it was some sort of trick to the eyes. But the most bewildering thing that could be put on the curious crowd. Was Arthurus giving a friendly, almost innocent laugh on the man that was in fact no stranger to him. Save his wear, that bore no insignia of a king’s messenger, only hastily tied knots to hold the linen together. Arthurus handed his wife the scripts.

“It is alright, stay your hands—and repent for your prying eyes.” Arthurus told his guard and gave the people his first command as Heir Apparent. Then they fell into a wave of whispers. Whilst the guards complied with a few short steps back.

“Lucan? I expected more extravagance, no wonder they thought you were a vagrant, or worse!” Arthurus hit Lucan on the shoulder, a small break from his usual self, but it had been months since they last spoke. “Why are you here?” The question was sincere like any other from Arthurus. But Lucan always found the answers he had to give were always dreadful over the years they’ve known each other. He could hate it himself for anything, while never ignoring clear command. “Well, I—.” Lucan stepped in closer, he didn’t want to say more than he needed to. He knew Arthurus would understand either way.

“I’ve been sent to call you back… To the king. I’m sorry, but it couldn’t wait. I was begging to be let in earlier.” That was his reason, and all Lucan wanted now was to leave here, with at least one more trip back to Camelot. As was commanded by Ambrosius.

And Arthurus understood, turning to Guinevere. Who grew weary again at the hardening of his eyes. “He’s come to ask for my leave. I’ll oblige him… As of right now. Please, tell the bishop and let the people know, I’m needed elsewhere.”

Then Arthurus leant toward her, the dread that was across her face dwindled away. “And take the old road south when you can. I’ll be there, safe, behind the walls I promise. The war is over… But I’m not sure if the next one has already begun.” Guinevere nodded slowly, until it broke with a kiss both turned away from soon after. Neither, able to rest with one another time and again, as it would’ve been, to many others. In the countless olden days of years long passed.

Arthurus left for his horse with Lucan. Who glanced back at her, as her husband bid the troops begin their march to the south shore. It wasn’t far anyway and Camelot would supplement anything forgotten. As for her, she didn’t know Lucan, but the way she turned from Arthurus sure filled his heart with pity. Out of the whole ordeal he made. It appeared to him, Arthurus was like a ghost, to more family than just his father.

The end. Thank you for reading this beginning piece.

Part III and IV Coming February 28th. If you’ve been waiting around for this release or any from me, I appreciate the patience! I didn’t think I’d be releasing this as series, but I’m hoping to keep it at a minimum of three posts. One after another. So, on iterative work like this your support, even just a like, goes a long way each time! Or a comment, if there’s something that interests you about this story, (Or something that doesn’t). Let me know, I always read ‘em.

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What will I be posting on there? Pretty much what everyone else posts. Updates on my day-to-day life, mostly within the writing sphere. With the occasional ‘Link your recent work’ threads. I’m hoping that’ll save my time in deciding who to read first. On top of building a more concise connection with you, the subscriber.

When will I be posting on there? Starting today, every Thursday. Though the exact time will likely vary. And I’ve already posted a thread on there, just to get us started. Check it out and comment on it if you're interested, or if you’ve already read it!

But that’s about it, a big deviation from what I do normally. So I appreciate you taking the time to read this. And when it comes to my regular fiction. I’m currently working on a ‘what if scenario’ around the Romano-British. But, if you aren’t caught up with my most recent work, check it out right here: Pharus Mortuorum

That’s all I really have for you, thanks for sticking around! And I almost forgot, here’s the link to my thread. See you there

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PS: Restacking this post would help out a lot. And don’t be shy to share your own work. I’ll read it, even if all I’ll reply with is a heart.

On countless routes across Hudson Bay, hauling the stripped timber of tall, ceaselessly wet pines out of fort Albany. Me and my compatriots of the northern, quiet type. Sailed recklessly close to many bare islands which give little awe, or attention, in forgotten nooks of the bay. Save one—off the cold shore, near old wooden fort Roggan. Barely distinguishable in its rot.

Rimmed with sharp granite, that small island had seemingly little significance to hold any alarm to casual, or seasoned sailors. Aside from its accompanying old lighthouse, worn, yet unnaturally tall for its supposed age. Which no one knew the certain year of its build. Nor its ‘decommission’ as we say. But to this status of deserted as it stands, I disagree… For I know what I saw, really—who I saw, there on my travels. A woman, thinned through my glass by fog. Whom watched out plenty onto the waters, holding the face of someone dead in their will. With their eyes, bright as if the oil burned in them. And in odd moments of my few observations each, weeks apart. I felt hers watch me too. And another’s.

It was nearly two months ago on my first voyage through that area, when humidity blew in hard from the south. Mixing quick with the ever present cold, guarding round the arctic like the last parapet against mankind. And it created a thick murk across the bay and eastern shore of it. A law of nature forcing us to stop near to that very lighthouse. But not all too close, the old captain wouldn’t have it.

That whole evening as the deck grew quiet and bare, I tossed and turned in my bunk. I had a fascination with old structures for as long as I could remember. And the opportunity to see one of local legend was slowly fading into the summer night. So, I got me up quietly with my field glasses and tip toed above to see—as clearly as I could. If the legend of its height was true as the stories had told.

They did not lie—even through the murk I could see it, towering and dark. But featureless in the distance which made it like a monolith carved out by giants long rotted into the earth. Then I brought up my glasses, and gawked through them dumb—more than likely. There was no visible dock, or a path that led to it. Only the tower, with its long-burnt lamp. And a cellar door off to the side of its base, which drove my curiosity. Like one would feel, who wonders what lies beyond a ridge within a strange country.

My field glass couldn’t be torn from it. The more I stared at the door the less it made sense. For it seemed shine dull in my glass like stainless steel—a luxurious alloy to haul so far. With an entrance so large, a condor could fly through it effortlessly. I couldn’t help but stand and wonder what was down there, feeling more of a pirate for it. Brazen—and daring in my thoughts to find my way over and seek… But what came through my glass, tore those feelings for, but a moment. When the large doors swung open, without any warning to my ears.

And it froze me, watching her rise out of that grave, calm. As if her circumstance was nothing to raise an eye over. With a Palla red and miraculously unscathed, which covered her thin body. That if I were to feel across my palm it would prove softer than the finest silk and lighter than a sheet of satin. Swearing, I could make out a change in the air whilst she held her face into the west—it was the pungency of death.

I shook violently, like a hand came up from behind as the steel doors shut forcibly by nothing I saw through my glass. But she only bothered to give a glance, barely so, once she spotted the ship. So odd… As I saw her face, gaunt, nearly starved. When the skin tightened in immense fear, darting around the masts and hull. Like we of the living were more cause of alarm than whatever lay on the other side of that door.

Then she stared right into me and I, her. Before making my own escape. Though, as you can imagine, my interest only grew in that brief meeting, despite the danger. For, her eyes shot through me—down to the depths of my mind. Akin to an ice pick into a glacier, cold and sudden, almost natural than malicious. Yet the thing that truly gave me a fascinating terror of her, one that I couldn’t help to entertain since. Was that I made the same connection to her. And what I saw… were the passings of whole nations and the lives of long dead men in the span of a second. Well as one more, a single man. Striking as the dawn—older than the civilizations I saw before him.

Into the night, and the one after I could not sleep as the face of that man, who I assume to be her lover, seared into my memory. It took weeks to shake the dread I held for that face—got accustomed to it in the end. Though it sometimes stole my attention, to the point of near death. As it came to me on the wrong end of a stripped tree one day at port. Nearly crushing me when the strap holding it snapped like the shot of a bullet.

And I did not speak to anyone about it there, or on the way back around. But I did work more steadily, whilst we made our way back. A week’s worth of my mind growing restless with each day we came closer to that island. Needless to say—I had my glasses ready.

In the early morning, we got close, while the sky was overcast. But the fog was long gone with the growing cold as I snuck up close to one of the shoreside windows. I saw it, a way off. With my glasses I stared and stared as we approached. Paying little heed to the hushing of my crewmates above me. While the steel doors in the distance sat closed as the ship kept its distance.

There she was. Same clothing but perched now at the top of the tower. Pacing here, than there without going all the way round. Maybe guilt kept her doing otherwise or driven by simple madness. Oh, but how I would come to see it all soon enough! Even as we sailed slowly past.

Yet she did not hide or quail this time, when we were detected. While the crew worked as quietly as ever. When the metal of my field glass grew hot with the blood pumping hard throughout my body. She stopped her irate passes and gawked like the last time. And when I changed my position to get a better view, I saw her face clearly. Rested on her arms over the railing—empty of all thought one would guess, in my shoes. Until the visions came again, though this time I was ready, so I thought.

If I could sum up all that I saw, it would be—pain. Seasons coming and going while you remain the same. Countless nights of holding back your simplest wants. And constantly betraying someone that once could barely be without you… Just to think I was alone whenever I found my own life insufficient compared to another’s.

At last, she tore away before I could. And I wonder what she saw in me, a man barely able to read his own mind. But it couldn’t have been any good… For I saw she held both hands over her eyes and perhaps shudder. Though how could I be sure at such a distance? So, I brought down my glass.

And you must think I was a fool for my pursuit of what had happened at the start. But I already let it in, like the sweet poison of drink. And it only got worse; I couldn’t sleep for nights after. While getting my final paycheck for a poor job was a deceitful blessing as the images refused to leave my mind at day or night. Like my life became a dream, and the only way to wake up—was to go there and find out myself.

Using every dollar I had left I sailed from fort Albany in a mad rush. I could tell they were glad to see me go but what did it matter anyway. I had purpose now beyond toil to see her up close and maybe, add to the legend, make my own way. But I know now that was only a fancy lie.

It took about two weeks of poor eat and sleep to reach the lighthouse. Covered in a thin layer of snow it was a beauty and a warning. My salvation from the cold and a solution to what plagued me. So I came ashore quickly as I could, leaving my small sail boat tied to the rocks before my ascension. Every footstep was a shout in that corner of the world as I glanced everywhere to hear Her’s.

But nothing—as the dread of my actions began to clear the fantasy from my mind. Before I even stepped through the front, iron door. I wouldn’t dare go down to the cellar now, not if those doors were made of gold. Cursing myself, as the iron screamed open—its rust chipping off like no one had been through it in years. Another sign of my idiocy. Still, there was nothing else but to continue and warm myself in the climb up to the top.

The inside of the lighthouse was bare save for a desk caked with dust and bits of trash thrown askew. Nothing inviting, but there was something else piled against the desk, on the far side. Now I wish I just got to climbing those stairs… But I had all the time of my life and I figured it could wait. So, I walked around into the grey side of the room. And I saw, on the other side of that desk—were a pile of weathered, broken bones. So grisly gnawed I couldn’t tell if they were animal, or human. Which made the fear all the more unbearable as I kicked trash in my slow steps backward.

What made me halt; however, was the sound of those steel cellar doors swinging open as if they were as thin as dry pine. Something powerful was coming, and after what I just saw, I doubted it was that sad woman. Quickly I got me to climbing, even if it meant my way down was through falling. And a cruel test of God this was, that I felt more alive now than I did on that silent water.

The hatch to the top was already broken off as I came up to the lamp. Down below was all white and grey as I made my last decision over that old railing. That’s when I saw her, one last time. Wearing that same Palla, she had her back turned to me as she gracefully walked down to my sailboat. I dared not to speak as she entered, then unfastened the rope mockingly slow. Didn’t even think to breathe, as the look on her face showed me I was doomed from the start and a fool to think otherwise.

Finally, her eyes met mine, before I was shown a green field under clear blue sky. Warmed by the grateful face of the morning sun. When he appeared, grim—and terrible. Not bothered by any light or any weapon of man.

She turned from me, then sailed away with nothing but what she wore. And I sit here now maybe a few hours gone. Thinking over my own guilt and wanting as the cold lulls me to my sleep. But I must write before I go, that there was someone else here. With the loud thundering’s they made coming out of that cellar I should’ve seen them. But I felt their presence, make no mistake. And I too heard their breath, as if it were the waves of the open ocean. But in my growing weakness, I have no firm answer what in God’s name I unleashed into this sleeping world. But I can think of one—of him.

I just can’t seem to get away from water in my stories. But if you didn’t mind it, flaws and all. Give it a like! And comment what you enjoyed about it. (Or what you thought I should improve on.) Thanks for reading!

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Tall I remember him as— and thin. However, well able to put the star on the tree or to sit upright in a chair. Because of this vitality or pure stubbornness, the old patriarch that sat under lamplight commanded my siblings and I listened close, despite all the hardships with old age I could not yet see. And the somber vacancy of the chair next to him. As my brother, sister and both my parents sat before him.

“What a dense, cloudy night it is.” He began; in a weak accent of the Rhineland, he had been trying to kick since his immigration. “Cold, and better yet to warm ourselves over this hearth and to sit and listen to what story I have to tell you.” The light from the mantel’s garland mirrored off his glasses as he spoke to me and my family. All of us attentive on the warm worn couch. “Only one.” And the thumb he held up was still, I remember. And lit in a gentle glow, by the old lamp.

“I’ve been up and down the coastlines of the lakes, from Duluth to Buffalo. Sailing with those who now have found peace from their work of sailors and experiences which I’ve touched on nights before. Some of their stories I dare not speak openly whilst on those waters of Lake Superior, or even here…” Otto’s hand at last fell to his lap in a soft pad. “Now that I am well enough away from her shore, let me tell one right Christmas story that’s more so history.” And the fire crackled with a low pop in that brief pause.

“Of a priest, whose faith saved him from a cold, cold death. Who my late friend and captain’s father knew well in his later years. A daring heart who carried the frown of a man who’s seen this land in its wild state. He was—Father Baraga.” Then, he cut his speech quickly. As the wind blew over the open fields, with snow blasting against the window behind us. Like an ancient spirit of the wind trying to hush his coming words. “He converted and cared for the tribes along the shores of superior that sat quiet in their legends for ages. Legends that carried some truth concerning the spirit of the lake. One that coveted its mysteries and killed those unworthy to cross.” He continued, as the wind began to settle. “Learnt in Ojibwe, Friedrich Baraga traversed great miles from one village to another in nothing but snowshoes and a stick. One could only imagine—how eerily quiet he would’ve felt under all the timber weighed with snow. While the winds of November rolled on through the Christmas month. It’s torrents crossing the unfrozen waves like the crushing hands of the devil! That can capsize ships… Even today.”

I remember his words at the end were given after a long breath. And now that I know more with age I can tell with certainty, he saw those accounts himself. “And on one winter deathly cold, as they can be so often. Friedrich received word of one far off village in his need—across the lake. And immediately, his mind was made up to sail, no matter the distance and his lack of skill on water. All the while a storm gathered over the surface of the water. And Friedrich’s close friend, my friend’s grandfather Lewis; his name was. Knew sailing through the lake was to put it bluntly, idiocy. On account of the weather I described, rather than belief in such mysterious spirits of superior the locals still held with reverence. Not to forget, the dying of the daylight, that made it all the more hopeless…”

Then the wind gave soft and cold again against the window. Creaking the wood framing in between like a hand on every square pane.

“’It cannot wait.’ Said Friedrich. After his partner insisted, they traverse near the shore. ‘It is a seventy-mile distance, it’d be impossible in my boat. We’ll be lost before the waves drag us down!’ pleaded the sailor, and why not? Better sail another day, he thought. But he knew also—Friedrich would go himself either way for, they in that tiny village, barely noticeable by settlers or opposing tribes. Needed the father. So, on the boat they went, with much reluctance from Lewis.”

“Quite quickly, the winds sent them sailing into the dark clouds. Barely lighter than the water itself… They must have just lost sight of the lighter, winter shore when their view shrunk to lanterns, barely luminous amongst the mass of water before them I should guess. And soon enough, they met with the very eye of the storm. Even if they had just entered it.”

“‘Paddle on! Paddle on!’ I could almost hear Friedrich shout the words by Lewis’ account. Shouting onward in the indomitable wind as I speak of them. But I find that small fact hard to believe. Because in such winds—you wouldn’t be able to hear a gunshot… Let alone a scream. A terribly lonesome thing.”

Otto’s voice gave way a moment. And the lack of it made the whole house deathly quiet. Save his old grandfather clock, ticking each second down to midnight. And now I think, with that memory frozen in time. How the ticking of that clock was the only thing my Great Grandfather would listen to in the days after that night. On his last December.

“Now, it would not be foolish to say those moments were likely the most decisive of Father Baraga’s life of wandering. And in such a small boat—every second, still conscious above the waves was a miracle in of itself. Though it remains doubtful they saw it as such before the giant torrents of water that froze as it sprayed through the pitch dark. A blizzard of happenstance and nothing short of a cruel test of faith that, dare I say. Would match those of the testaments.”

He put his palms up, and out in front of him. Looking ‘round, ready to hear or see someone disagree.

“But after a short while. I’d assume due to the lack of account of their clothes being utter drenched. The violent storm began to settle down. Not enough for either man to be relieved. Because they were well and truly lost either way. And on top of this, both Lewis, and Father Baraga were pushed deadly close to askew formations of jagged rocks at either side… And it is a curious thing to think. If those winds and waves kept the way they did. Then their story would be no better than all the others beneath that deep grave of a lake.”

“So, Lewis had no other option than to ‘paddle on’ so to speak. And, even after the thought I gave it. In all my work I’ve never come across such formations as a path through any labyrinth of rock. Talk to anyone on that lake—all of them. If one were to enter those places. That was it for you, and that folly was all you’d ever be known for.”

“But Lewis and Baraga saw it through evidently. The sailor’s boat, more of a raft if I haven’t already made that clear.” Otto chuckled all to himself. “Made it to the other side, without a single notch! Nothing short of a miracle. Or a lie, to one who can’t believe off word of mouth alone. But I say the truth is on the shore, which I’ll explain soon. And after an hour or so, when the gloom of winter’s day rose in the west. The wind finally ceased, while there before them the cliffs and gravel shores came into sight, dreary but no less welcoming. Like the strobing lamp of a lighthouse in thick fog.”

“I doubt old Lewis had much to be ungrateful for once his feet hit land. Still, it was Baraga, more like a legend then and now, than ever he was a man before that seventy-mile journey. And his words to Lewis on that shore made that status more than clear. ‘Did I not say I was called across? That I must go, and thou which be safe with me?’ Were his most famous words, that swept aside any doubt Lewis had. And they spoke as loud as Lewis’ actions did on that night. Or all the previous missions Baraga took upon himself in all his years prior, or even after that morning.”

“As for the evidence on the shore. What Baraga and Lewis first built there was nothing but a rudimentary cross of logs. Though has become a memorial of stone overlooking the great lake. Letting all who visit know that faith might not move mountains or part seas. But keeps all that is within you fast against all that is within the world.”

And once the short story finished Otto ceased to speak as the house groaned in the night, calling for sleep. Looking at it now in clear memory, the tale was nothing more than a glorified history lesson. One I might fall asleep to in a history class. Although at that age, in that dimly lit room of Christmas lights it roused my curiosity for history than any textbook. And it makes it all the more endearing and solemn knowing it was the last I ever saw of Otto unquiet or not lying in bed.

Then he noted it had gotten late, with a full meal in our stomachs which only enforced the feeling. My parents got up, leading my brother and sister both to bed as I still sat on Otto’s last words. “You should go to sleep. Good tidings are rare after midnight.” He told me, as ash from the fire begun to burn my nose as it slowly died. “But on Christmas eve? I don’t think I can.” I said, and I think he smiled softly, but a small thing like that is a pain to remember.

Obviously, he knew my small plight, and more. For me, sleep was so hard to come by if it wasn’t in my own bed. “Then remember what I said at the end. Morning will come, same with all the gifts… Just keep the faith, always. And good night.” He gave his assurance so true that to this day, after the countless trials that this world threw my way. I still hold close, even if he himself is now far, far away from me.

At last, he gestured me to go up, and I did, even if reluctantly. Before I walked into the hall which led upstairs, faintly lit by the garlands on the banisters. I turned to look at him one last time. And he was like a shadow before the embers concealed by the smoke of his pipe. Who I loved in the time that I knew him. Even if he was more of a mystery of the past to me. And that was all he’d ever be.

FIN.

It took me a good while to think and write out this story. So, I hope you enjoyed! And I’m grateful you’ve read to the end, thank you.

And a special thanks to my subscribers reading this. I know how much of a pain it can be to read through countless works of so many people on here. And it means a lot that you’ve stuck around this far, (Even if your new). But I’ll say, there’s still a long way to go! Even if my endgame isn’t quite clear just yet. The journey so far has been interesting, and you all give me a reason to continue.

And with all that said leave a comment before you’d go, I’d love to hear what you thought.

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Previous Chapter.

Chapter One

Over the past week whilst the well-researched maps revealed nothing but the continuous cold Atlantic. Captain Martin spent much time in the privacy of his firmly locked room. Going over again and again what he could’ve done wrong in his studies. Surely all that time had not been for a legend Gaspar could have told him. Or another warning Alonso could’ve predicted. After the loss of such a prized possession responsible, in the creation of his maps. He cared very little speaking to them openly. With Gaspar in particular, lording the deck above as Martin sat below, thinking or ruminating on his plight, but not at all lazy. Instead, he charted the course beyond further west using the recorded symbols of the old disc now lost. All within his room. If the old stars and symbols still had some truth to them, it would be in the land beyond that held more mystery than the isle of Atlantis itself.

Nonetheless, out of the losses of the crew, where some were bedridden from scurvy. On top of his estrangement from Alonso; Martin had grown weak in body himself. But it was something he saw almost as a blessing, how without fruit, bread or alcohol he managed to keep sane, at least in his own view. Though these two months he’s grown accustomed to, with his prowess and knowledge at sea, would not last much longer.

In the following days, a week after his first failures to be clear. Began to grow a bit cooler through the only window into his room. But in the cold, the deck above him thrilled with increased voices one late morning, with shouting and the stammering of many feet. Either a new hope arose for everyone above or desperation at last, set in. “My word, what is happening up there…” Martin set down his quill, his heart racing at either option for this rise in activity. And the beating in his chest rose with the falling steps down the main stairs, closing in on the door to his quarters.

He sat still, hoping for the former once those very feet reached the other side and gave out two loud knocks. “What is it?” Martin’s mouth was as dry as driftwood watching the shadow underneath the door. “It’s me.” Came the ecstatic voice of Gaspar, it did little to calm the captain. “I came to call you up Martin, it seems your mistake was misplaced!” Despite the slight insult, the news widened Martins eyes and shot his legs up from the chair. Hoping this wasn’t some trick or mutiny as he raced over to open the door.

There Gaspar stood alone in his stained clothes with as much excitement and hope as any who achieves victory over the sea itself. “Good God! Are you sure you haven’t seen some mirage?” Martin said in some attempt to hold his act together. “Sure as daylight that shines down the very land we see. So, we need someone with the skill to find a good place to drop anchor. Will you return topside?” It was obvious, Gaspar couldn’t wait to feel sand underneath his boots once again. “Lead the way.” Martin felt similar, though if his maps weren’t mistaken all along, this had been the moment he waited on for years.

Martin saw everyone leaning the Condenada downward on her starboard side as they in all starred out to the shoreline. Even the sickly if they could handle it, even Alonso who stood beside the tiller; Timon. Yet being the only one to see it newly fresh and so close, Martin kept his eyes on the hazy hills whilst his second nature led him to his usual position. But the vista undoubtedly looked like any other of the old world from that distance. And a nagging feeling at the back of his head knew this place was a lot less known to him than he previously thought.

With the clocking of Martin’s boots and a long breath in the fresh air, Timon left the friar alone to his duties. And those who could, to theirs. As a second wind gave life and vigor back to the hands of all below deck, apart from Alonso. Who leant over the railing with a look of one ‘bout to be cast overboard.

Though Martin thought not on the good or ill of his old friend at the moment and on the doorstep of his discovery. Instead, he pushed his curiosity, ordering Timon to turn west with the wind as the crew below did what they had not done in weeks. Their vocals shouting through the air in a rowdy tune, within their diligence for work. “What a month it’s been, eh? But I’m glad we’re finally on the other side. And no worse it would seem!” Gaspar spoke as if the sea was already far behind their jolly voices. “Indeed it has!” Was all Martin could say in a renewed focus, alongside that feeling of distrust with his first mate regrowing slowly, in tandem to the vast land before them.

What started as grey shapes barely wider than the horizon grew into rocky cliffs and forests down to the shoreline beneath cloudy mountains towering like sentinels. Everyone, even Gaspar, was mesmerized by its beauty. It reminded the lord of the alps of Innsbruck, but to Martin; it was the successor of the isle, and assuredly this was the outer land. “The strongest hold of Castille itself could not beat such beauty. Especially with one of our own built on such a place.” Said Gaspar but Martin found it hard to agree in the land that was his second concern. “One step at a time, Gaspar. Let us scout the land first. This is no different than anywhere else we have been.”

Leaving Gaspar to give a half-hearted grunt and a point of the finger. “You—can scout and work with anyone you come across. But either way, I think it would be wise to set up camp on firm soil. We’ve all seen enough of this boat.” Said Gaspar, showing the side of his smirk that came with being correct. One Martin found wanting of anything lighthearted. “If you want to meet in the middle, then by all means…” Martin kept his composure though it slightly shook him, in not knowing how long it would need to last.

“How about the friar.” Said Martin, more of a way to change the subject rather than a friend’s concern. “What has he said to you these past few days?” And Gaspar answered quite quickly. “Nothing.” Without a doubt or thought in his eyes for, he relied on and ordered only to those he paid anyway. “If not resting, he’s stayed where you put him. Loyal, I’ll give you that.” Gaspar went on to say, which grieved Martin, a little bit so. For despite his recent folly Alonso, like anyone at deep sea, without the experience could grow more than restless. Though it would be a lie to say Alonso had no clue to his follies. Still, Martin glid toward the shore with death the only likely to part him from this far place either way.

Then a long hour rolled by, wrapped up without a word amongst the top deck as the merry song of the others rang lower. Either by the thrill wearing off or by the day growing long with the sun casting a halo over the western peaks, with growing shadow in the woods. When Martin ordered a half sail, as shores northward began to wrap around them. Leading to as good a time as any for Martin to use his spy glass toward the far bight of the cape.

“Surely you don’t need that to merely drop anchor. We could row from here.” Gaspar threw out his hand like one would think themselves the more reasonable in a debate. Not to mention the lord could smell the earth of those forests over the breath of the cape. A great lure to be fair, after the numbing reek of fish and odor. Nonetheless Martins answer came shortly, saying “Let us scout ahead like I’ve said. You wouldn’t want your crew slain by unknown locals or by a sudden storm? It’s too open here.” which frustrated Gaspar beyond any doubt. “I get caution, but we’ve just made it nearly ashore. Let us anchor here a moment!” Said Gaspar within reason, but no more taming the situation. “At dark we stop moving Gaspar… And, I’m afraid I did make a mistake. For this is not Atlantis.” Came the captain in a wonder for the purely uncharted, but also a creeping dread of it. But it mattered little to Gaspar either way.

So, they sailed inland toward a river of glinting silver as shown to them by the waning sun. Where the land and wood were closer now, either growing in the small wash plains or rocky cliffs leading into the mountains at either side. But up ahead the river narrowed quickly into a gorge. Leading Martin to let out a sigh at Gaspar’s relief as the crew made ready to drop the sails completely. Though they found it difficult to with the ocean winds pushing them into the narrow valley. “First the disc, now the ship it would seem.” Gaspar’s voice growled and boiled over in the cool air. All the while Martin exhausted the tiller over precise changes to avoid being run aground.

And the lord thought it was best to take some initiative. Running down and over to the grates that gave light to those few working below deck to order they drop the anchor. Unknowingly pushing aside Alonso, who thought it best to tell Martin what he saw down in the water. But the Condenada lurched in all her planks and bolts violently into a hard stop.

“Good mother of god, what did we hit?” Said Alonso helping himself from a great stumble. “The dammed anchor!” Martin came, clearly dazed but still giving a hand to Timon who fell awkwardly hard into the tiller. “Where is—.” Martin stopped abruptly, cursing under his breath and leaving Alonso without answer but sorry regardless toward his old friend.

More or less, the blood dashed in Martin’s veins anyways at this near tragedy. As the old ship could’ve had its hull torn deadly wide. Although it was a miracle to see the sails fully closed in time and moreover, no one hurt, or killed. “Why do something even you know could be foolish! You could’ve wrecked the ship idiot.” Martin didn’t care he condemned a noble fighter, at least out here. No matter how reputationally damaging it was. “Did you not see that gorge up—you know, why do I even bother now? We’ve stopped and were safe. Which means were getting off this ship!”

Gaspar left Martin to stand completely dumbfounded, sort of like his mentors toward his own actions in boyhood and of natural waywardness. Whilst Gaspar gathered his crew to follow ashore. Who in all, if able watched the two and listened closely on Gaspar’s view. Either out of loyalty to his renown or coin alone. As Timon took the side of Martin from above and Alonso left to pray that Martin, in spirit be forgiven of pride. Even if the captain himself did not know this, instead all his senses directed at Gaspar’s active mutiny, which he could do little to nothing about.

Some could see it as pitiful, watching Martin slowly moving to rest on empty crates as men worked to send down the sick. Thinking to himself, that he might’ve listened to the friar earlier if only to spare watching his dream begin to slip from his fingers. “Let us leave this ship sir, lest he take all the credit.” Timon went on to console Martin, alongside the friar. “Yes, we are here. And there’s nothing else for it.” Alonso agreed though finding it more difficult than before to see a man lose almost everything in such quick action. “To hell with it then.” Martin stood up, oddly shaking. “This ship’s not going anywhere. With the way that anchor fell… It’ll likely be lodged and needed to be cut to sail again anyway.” And he went to follow the mutineers.

“That reminds me.” Alonso spoke up, being the last one to scale down the rope ladder. Though Martin was hardly listening after he leapt down onto the rock which was indeed dangerously close to the hull. Instead, eyeing Gaspar who stood up the shore at the tree line talking, and planning with his crew. “There were formations like old constructions I saw in the water. Perhaps that is what caught the anchor so abruptly.” Though Alonso’s sight was debatable and unnecessary given the circumstances, Martin broke his resentful tunnel vision and gazed into the water.

He stood frozen a minute as the other two landed without fuss. And lo, the rock that sunk into the water hadn’t been rock at all. But chunks of weathered bricks! Fit in weird shapes to appear as like a puzzle and seemingly without a splotch of mortar to hold them together. “They look, dense and sturdy.” Timon broke the silence of observation, continuing “Maybe Gaspar was right to let the anchor down so quickly.” he said rubbing the sore in his side whilst receiving a dirty glance from Martin.

It stole their attention, a good moment for Gaspar to make his way back to them, with two guards armed with matchlock’s to even any potential odds. “See Martin? I made a good as choice as any. I’m just glad the wounded—.” “what’s the meaning of this.” Martin had no more energy to argue, instead pointing out why Gaspar had his sword drawn. “Isn’t it obvious my friend.” Gaspar’s smile was of a reassuring commander and Martin’s looked as though a long sleep was about to cross over his own. “I figured Martin, that I am the better on land no matter where, you know this. Meaning the three of you can either help me.” He brought up his sword causing Alonso and Timon to nearly glide off the rocks. “Or stay at the ship.” The new captain then swung his sword back into its sheath. Needing not its use to point commands anymore.

“I could need you three at any case in the rest of our journey.” Gaspar said, mood seemingly lighter than when on the water. But more importantly, because his power was fully announced. “Then what journey would that be, but made by me?” Martin’s voice rang over harsh, for an obvious reason. Though Gaspar took no offense, with his arms crossed he barely acknowledged it. “Like I said before, Martin. And it’s not like what you found was really what you hoped for I’d imagine.” And Martin grew angry again at that fact. As, from his studies, beautiful mountains did take the place of great towers. And epic ports that had been long laid into rubble by the riverside.

It was undeniable he more than missed his mark, growing red in the face for it. But before Timon and Alonso could help lift him from the cold rock. The whole six of them shot looks above into the tree line. Where camp was made, and crew gathered at the sound of two gunshots echoing a little further in the wood. Gaspar hoping the hunt went quickly in such a wild place.

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Even after all for the greater good that has happened. It pains me to say, many men and women have fought gurling battles and died great and terrible deaths for me to get this message out into the lowest levels of the city. So, in my summary of the events that led up to the new war I ask you to keep the sacrifices of many of these heroes, in regard and some reverence as I tell them.

But if this is to go as far as the lowest levels I must go and give a short and simplified study to the history of our city for education and story’s sake. For our city, which is called Metropolis to those above and Babel to those below has much to be praised, and hated.

It began an odd, thousand years ago. When the currency of earth’s magnetic field was near full depletion and those who were brave and wise enough left this world. As those too poor wallowed and those too rich delayed. Until most land lay radioactive and bare, leaving none but desolation and sand to the eyes of a servant or master of the ‘stronghold’ the cities early name. As described in the great libraires of the upper city.

In those times the city was less structured, and all lived above ground in an air less toxic and lighter of dust. Where rich and poor together defended their redoubt against raiders and mutated animals that would gladly pinch out the last candle of civilization if it meant quick plunder or fesh meat. The poor took up weapons and orders while those holding power dealt with plans and strategy, in the unfair but necessary laws that governed both parties. Which kept the everlasting assault of the desert at bay. A rare occurrence in human history. A time when the two sides of hand and mind were joined together in wisdom and knowledge.

They not only fought and defended but repaired and expanded the existing walls, digging for resources underground to smelt and work the earth’s remaining raw materials. Then came the ‘airsphere’ to resist the growing winds and radiation. On top of many discoveries in medicine and the growing of crops in this new environment. All while the raiders perished and the creatures grew to hunt easier prey. And the populace grew faster than ever before. So fast that the walls, now permanently contained by the airsphere, had quickly proved outdated for the last millions of humanity, and could not be easily shut off.

People began to cramp together and even a fool could see the rise in distrust between wealth and district lines as ideas spread like old wildfires. Leading to the first revolts, with the ways of war that followed, paving the way for a disparity that is only beginning to break today, hundreds of years later. But the minor details to what lead us here are expansive and dull to most. Therefore, what had led the noble-rich of ‘Intercentral’ toward harshly subjugating and forcibly moving the separate people of the inner districts. All to drive the outer residents underground and bloodied. Could be summed up to what all of us desire. As a simple need of space…

Nonetheless, and all the teaching of old history aside. The dust settled and time inevitably fell into the hands of my generation, in the upper city of Metropolis. Where most of my peers worked minimally, every day a week to my own concern. Whilst upkeeping the law and watch of the boundary lines on our quiet outer district, of mostly residential and park grounds. Save the old posts on our side of the great wall, which every outer district abandoned. One of many rules enforced by Intercentral guards.

One other rule that was set. Toward much of the dread and stress of my body and mind, was to punish faulty routine of local guards. A law that is punishable to the whole group convicted, there and then. That obscene overreach was the reason why I remember that day so vividly. As it was the final nail in my faith toward the Intercentral.

The airsphere glowed a strong indigo from the severe dust that day as I walked from the district seat. What guards stood half slumped on my way out shot back into position. “Master Guardsmen.” They’d hail or stay silent as stone. The fear had become commonplace, much so it was merely a feeling of indifference. Being above ground in Metropolis helped with that.

Though disciplinary action was needed on them, my growing frustration and worried sweat came from the conversation I had just left. “Master Guardsmen…” said the district governor, unable to greet me openly. “I see your concern with the culture in my guards, but the resources are too tight for retraining. So, I ask you do what you can. And I’ll keep the Intercentral away.” The governor swayed in his chair as I stood before him, eyeing the many metallic and jeweled trinkets in his office. “Now please, I have work. And so do you. Especially with the youths in your company… Dismissed.”

“Lazy fool.” I mumbled on my walk to the district barracks. During which I wondered, how such a useless man could be of any value to our city, the last city. With a trait that could prove deadly on such a day. As a force of Intercentral guards had stomped a small revolt in the underground and their passage to the top was in this very district. So, I put what little hope I had into him and made my way through the quiet morning streets.

Entering the main hall of the old barracks of weathered concrete bricks. My red and tan robes met the gaze of almost all the local garrison. “Master Guardsmen! We have caught wind of something disturbing.” Came one, out of nearly thirty people paused, and watching close. “The governor’s incompetence, Sargent?” I said to lighten the mood as my head was full and my senses already numb with worry.

“No.” said the Sargent a little perplexed and muffled under his carbon vizor. “It’s some of the young guards, they were nowhere to be found this morning. I fear that Matilene may have fled her duties and brought some of the others with her.” I remember the Sargent’s stance was firm though his eyes were wide as bulbs whilst I rubbed my chin, not quite processing the new gravity of our situation. “I told you sir; she was a bad influence on the others.” His voice became clear and upset with me, but I could not blame him. Even if the hiring and firing of guards was on our governor, Matilene; and everyone she coerced, was my responsibility. “Well, do you have any idea where they went?”

After the fear began to set in the hall grew heavy with silence, and my heart rate must’ve doubled. “One from the night watch suspects they defected, underground. But do not blame them, Master! They thought the group were some Intercentral vigils… What do we do?” He said, and I responded the only way I knew how. “Return to your posts! I must go back the way I came.”

And I’m not ashamed to say that I ran from the building into the out yard. My skin felt clammy and my hands were shaking with terror; I had to state our case to the governor. But I still could hardly believe it, even as people that were about fled indoors, and a cadence of marching feet seemed to hush mine.

“You, halt!” A shouting voice came in a tone that could break the starving will of those below ground. And I did, immediately, what I saw down the road. There must’ve been a hundred of them. Covered in black carbon and ceramic plating. The blood pumping in my veins just as fast as their sprint down the road to me.

Aside from the rushing soldiers, stood a small gathering of Intercentral agents at the crossroads to the district seat, all clad in smooth dark cloaks. Apart from one in rich attire—and I knew immediately it was the governor’s sneering face starring back at me. In a tide of ones in no mood to talk or to care about my case.

For you reading this, you might understand that I thought this was it for me, being ‘thrown from the walls’ as we say. Though there came something from behind them. A domino that would cast the city above into a new turmoil. Yet it started with a single blast, and by its noise, any soldier who fought in the undercity would know it was pneumatic. For I could hear the tungsten ball rip through the air, sparing the guardsmen. Instead cutting through the agents, with pressurized precision toward a certain target in mind.

As the surviving agents retreated, the guards pushed on now enraged, having only me in their crosshairs. Although it was the grace of God or fate itself that the barrack’s border of brick had been on my side of the road. So, I leapt over it, as fired bolts of bright yellow flashed in loud jolts and streaks down the roadway.

“Master!” Came the Sargent franticly shouting from one of the windows as if he had just been hit. “Go around. Go, go!” He said as if I would do anything else but—perhaps he was right. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone cowered before the Intercentral. Either way the fear was real enough to freeze me at any moment whilst I made my way.

My once keen hearing, permanently burned like the stones I raced behind. Hearing no more calls from the Sargent, I felt completely alone. Though, finding an odd bit of thrill from it, legs pushing me around the building more than any drill could. But what I saw after gave me a true boost in faith, for there they stood. My peers turned allies in our shared punishment.

“There you are sir. Glad to see you’re in good condition now, let’s leave… Go underground… Beats death I suppose.” The sergeants grit from minutes before, begun to waver. Trying to move his quickly wrapped arm and wincing. I wanted answers in that brevity, but all words save— “Move.” Were totally useless.

Just a dozen of us fled through the park lands in a lagging run. Some were injured, others defaced, and despairing at our sudden exodus. Though the fearful glances and the sparse sobbing stopped in full once we reached the great wall. Where, under one of the old watch posts lay the stair and shaft to Babel. Unguarded, meaning the Governor wasn’t much of a tactician.

Besides that, we descended slowly after barring the metal doors with a busted volt rifle. “How could this happen so fast? Just yesterday those bastards took our taxes for the revolts! I hope they kill that damn Governor while they’re at it…” The Sargent dragged down the stairs, his face slackening from the pain. “Well, I saw him die, so don’t not stop now Sarg’.” I said, like one does retelling the last moments of a nightmare.

His eyes met mine intently, before the doors to the elevator shaft. Knowing me for years he could read my face and took my word with loyalty only those from the outer districts could hold. “Master.” Came a guard, backing away from the control console to reveal a fob reader. I scanned it, “Welcome. Master Guardsmen. Of. DISTRICT 30.” and the great elevator capable of holding up to a warband opened at a crawl. “Well, let’s hope we go out with more dignity than he did.” Said the Sargent, and we at last descended to the highest circle of Babel.

After a wide breadth of silence, the elevator screeched to a halt. “LEVEL 1. Mine entrance.” It rose over an electronic chime and everyone able to shoot made ready. But the doors did not open to a great causeway or checkpoint. Instead, the room that lay before us showed completely nothing but pitch dark. Only revealing, by light of the elevator. A fallen Intercentral guard stripped of all his equipment.

“Good God.” One guard nearly dropped his weapon, but there was nowhere to go save, deeper of course. But the Sargent sounded apart from them in his long sigh and I could tell he thought to get it over with. So, without my command as I stood paralyzed on what to do, he went casually into the darkness.

At that moment, a sensor tripped and a white light blinded each one of us. I thought to myself that the Governor had truly got the last laugh from beyond.

“Step forward!” I heard one say from a raised position in a tone of a leader that commanded respect. But as I, and my peers came forth, stepping over the dead. Another one called out in clear concern and a sister’s joy. “Master Guardsmen!” She exclaimed as either my eyes adjusted or the light’s dimmed. Showing us the face of Matilene running down from the captured fortification as a score of the youths, rebels and a man clothed in old camouflage followed suit.

She took one grave glance at the Sargent, who clearly fought back an understanding anger, before speaking to me. “Our move on the Governor didn’t go as well as we had hoped. But you are all safe here. I wanted to warn you for weeks, but the General said that would’ve been a bad idea. Intercentral would’ve degloved you if they found out. I’m sorry.” Matilene found it impossible to look at any of us in our battered state. Gripping the pneumatic rifle in her hands tight.

“The General?” Were all the words I could find to say. And she nodded at me, turning aside to give the fierce eyed man behind her a moment to speak. “It’s good to finally meet the Guardsmen that fought back!” His respect was admirable for a prior adversary, though he looked no more than a beggar. “My condolences for your losses out there. If they hadn’t sent down this—.” He looked down on the fallen enemy. “The Governor would be the only casualty… He was going to clear you all out, you know. Make room… But Matilene stopped him personally. You should thank her.”

Before the Sargent could speak his mind, I did. “Is this all true?” I said to her and she nodded, in her own volition. “Then thank you. But sill, what’s next?” Turning, I met the General as he eyed me of my worth. “We go topside and bring the fight to them. Many will fall but with that key fob of yours we have a chance of diversion. The only question is, will you join us?” He asked with honor but as if I had any other choice but to fight for the freedom of my home. “Yes.” I said, and the Sargent begrudgingly followed suit.

Thank you for sticking with me till the end! Especially when I write settings I’m not used to. With that being said, drop a comment below on what you liked and what you didn’t. I read every comment. And share if you got the energy or want to see my work in future challenges. But for now, it’s back to historical fiction….

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Let me go on to say, before I write down the reason as to why I’ve moved to my parents’ farm back in lower Illinois. Is to firmly express that I have never, do not, and will not fully believe in the demonic stories or lore that have been spoken in the mouths of the past. Stories to keep men and women spiritually firm or, the ones that keep children tucked in their beds. Some are maybe more real than others—but tales of horned creatures with rough skin, I find hard to believe are true. Although the simplicity or white and black of that pervious belief is gone now, after Chicago, after that night in the hallway. Hell assuredly isn’t empty, yet that night, there might as well been an exodus.

I was a mail carrier then, where my stops took me throughout the Englewood area day in and day out. Needless to say there wasn’t much time on my hands to pursue hobbies or relationships. At least, while I worked my way out of debt, taking my chances and keeping my guard up in the poorer region of southwest Chicago. Dotted with the husks of old eighteenth century homes, that I made sure to steer away from or, keep on the far side of the cracked pavement if needed. Old ground that hid history beyond the boarded doors, be it the stories of addicts or other things that come and go.

But none was so off putting and dark as the office where mail was received by truckload. Though appearing mundane with many cubicles and daily traffic, this government building held a dark history beneath. Quite literally for, its basement was built over the one that came before, under the floorboards and odd rooms of the notorious murder castle. Constructed with many misleading doors and hallways not too dissimilar to the Winchester house. Being more than strange, but horrific in my own experience.

Which all happened to fall on one grey, late December night below a depressing sky of clouds, reflecting the light of the city. Where I had just returned from my last mail route tired-- and burnt out from the end of holiday rush. Then, I entered the building as it stood mostly quiet, save the last words of leaving coworkers following the tacking footsteps of the others who left before, out into the employee lot.

Then frowning, as I knew my car would be the last to leave, save for a blue Minivan of offices head clerk. An older woman who, though carrying a warm demeanor, had and overly on edge look in both her eyes almost every day in that place, which I now realize consciously while writing this.

Though every part of me wanted to punch out quickly and head home to rest. I thought to check in with her before leaving, like a last warning of imminent loneliness in such a place disquiet and left with it’s past at night. But I’m guessing you know my choice already for, why else would I be telling you?

Sealing my fate, I knocked on the open door to the clerk’s office that was covered in a modern drab. Save her own personal corner where photos of family and rural, escapist countrysides decorated the walls around her as she glanced up from the blue glare of the computer. She smiled and welcomed me in, with a notion to take a seat that I gently refused. Keeping it short instead, asking if any small task needed to be done for her sake and a potential increase in pay on my part.

The head clerk put the end of a pen to her lip and sat quiet—her eyes fixed but miles away. As if she already knew though contemplated on whether or not, I should go and do it.

Finally, the pen dropped with her hand, taking me up on the offer. Right as a voice in my head began to hope for a decline and a clock out to follow suit. Nonetheless, this was my own doing and I silently cursed myself as the head clerk gave one task, one that sounded annoyingly simple then.

Locking a door, that’s all it was, to lock the heavy metal door that led into the basement from the outside. Easy enough I thought, even if I had to lock it from the inside were a dozen cobwebs likely guarded the unoiled handle. That was all I remember and thought about, easy or no—walking down the main hall. Where fluorescent lights reawakened above me as I kept my mind busy from the unnatural silence of modern space.

At the end of the hall led a stairwell down a dozen steps to an old metal double door. Trimmed and beautiful in the old days, now rusted and poorly matched with the concrete around it. Pausing—I wondered as I sometimes did in the safety of my apartment, if the beast of Chicago came that very way. In particular, if he brought some of his lured victims down into that place which their final moments or memories could not escape.

And my cause became muddled, and my fatigue caught up with me at the top of that descent. Once the lights behind me switched off one by one, palling my path up to the last two humming lights in darkness. I could spot the yellow glow of the clerk’s office in the distance which gave me comfort and reason to get it over with.

So I descended and opened the doors with a struggle until its hinges sheered—breaking the law of silence and lunging me into the cold basement air. In a shock and slight delight, the basement was well lit with industrial bulbs, likely older than myself with their deep orange casting black shadows of pipes or pillars all around me. Though the rise in spirit was temporary whilst I walked through the passageway that reeked of mold. Growing in the eroded joints of old bricks that made the foundation of the house of horror which burned long before the concrete was laid.

Then I turned the corner of that long passage, staring into a room so wide and pillared. Pockets of darkness stood in the stifled air between the few working bulbs. Now, looking back at it, I remember getting a sick feeling of awe from—something sublime, a warning to not approach. But beyond I could see the door, it’s metal bouncing light back at me. And it embarrasses me to say, apart from my coming experience, that I quickly ran toward the door fearing something from the old stories I ridiculed would grab me from the many shadowed pillars. But nothing—just my heavy breath met my ears, then—a loud knock of metal, when I locked the basement door. Likely opened to ghost tours earlier that day, as older footprints caked with dust from my own.

They got my attention as I began my walk back but slowly, apprehensively glancing where they led, parallel to my own prints. And in the middle of that open cellar, I paused—soon as I saw it. An old rolling machine, made of wrought iron and rusted since the eighteen hundreds. One of the beast’s many tools of his sick work with the dead? Likely, as what was set into the wall with old brick—were the dozen odd holes meant for those very victims of the beast of this city’s past.

And I… find it hard to describe what I heard then so, please forgive me if my words come across as mad or—cold hearted. But as one of the higher up holes gently opened its small door in the dead calm air, what met my ears was at first, faint. A whimper—impossible to detect where it came from exactly, as I stood frozen—locking my limbs in the exposure of that basement.

Then rose gently, like it clawed it’s way out of the December snow, or out of a cold, packed grave. At first my mind spun circles to rationalize the crying, and my mouth stood gaping. In want to call out and find the source of this strangled voice, dejected and feminine to my ears. Until I quickly found it hopeless with my nerves, on top of the growing mania in her rhythm I put aside some of the fear and made my way back to the passage leading up.

Either it was my blood or the air itself that dropped beyond cold, even for a deep winter night—even as I began to run for dear life. With the voice turned to many, and the manic crying turned to a painful screech of all the poor souls who found no rest beneath the foundation. Where surely—that wide room now lay, out of my view, and was then no different to me, than the nineth circle of the frozen inferno was to Dante.

And with the speed that I ran at, down that passage—my legs nearly gave way under the lights bleeding a crimson orange. Whilst the gnashing reached its peak behind me, in chase as I fumbled up to the door heavier than when I entered. Its old iron slowly sheering open and as you know all this now, it does not embarrass me to say I begged with it to give way just enough to slip through.

It sends a shadow over me still to think I nearly passed out from the exertion, if my heart didn’t explode first. But thank the lord I managed to cross over to the world above although, half expecting pounds and the bellows to continue from the other side as I slammed that damn basement door shut. After the loud slam of it, I listened close—but nothing came. Not a cry, curse or a plea for help. Silence only, the nightmare was over. But reality had just begun.

There, realizing my weak breath and shuddering arms, I took a deep breath under the grateful glow of office lighting above—and walked up. My hard boots sounded like falling letters opposed to the vividly horrific yells that came before. The dread of it—failing to wear off even a little, whilst I continued walking onward, though miles away in the same breath.

Once the familiar glow of the clerk’s office came only a few paces away, I gave into that lurking dread. I glared behind me hoping in an odd way to be met with the following darkness of deactivated sensors. But each one hummed on, unable to grant me peace after the fact, like the world itself left the inside behind.

It was down the hall, there and then—that I saw someone. But that which gave shape to my fear was not at all what the shout’s below had prepared me for… For, what I saw at the top of the stairs—was unmistakingly a straight standing man. His stare I could feel as a knife’s tip while my own were wide as headlights. Though I saw he had a long mustache on his lip under a dark head of swept back hair. And his clothes matched in a black cover of coat and dress pants, all giving him an archaic look. But he said nothing—eyes indifferent, and that was the darkest feature out of the rest.

Pacing backward, unsure of breaking my gaze I came to the doorway, backing into the trim around it. The familiar light now on my left welcomed me in with safety and a lock of its own. Although no voice from the head clerk came to greet with it. So, in my heightened state, I noticed and spared a few moments to peer inside.

There were the photos of family and calm landscapes, on the walls and desk where they should be. Her work itself sat untampered next to and under them but as for the clerk herself—she was nowhere around. Not a paper on the ground, or even a drop of blood on the chair. At last, I figured—the best place to be was out of this building, into the winter night. All I had to do was look again down the hallway. When I did the lights before me had gone out finally, without my noticing. But the last two at the end still shone that cold blue light. Yet no man stood beneath it—as a primal fear forced me back to the outside door. And once I reached it, those very lights. Shut off.

This story is part of the Unquiet world, A project from .

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Chapter Three

In one, blaring squeak, Alonso barged through the wooden door to Martins quarters. Stumbling, in his unease while a strong, sharp smell of ink refilled the drafty air around his robes. When his eyes spotted the desk, before drifting his sight down beneath its obsessive surface of countless paper. Martin had been writing recently it seemed, even though that role wasn’t his, on this voyage.

“Good lord. Surely I’ve gone just as mad!” He stood, as the feet under him wobbled, growing restless in their place. Lung’s stifling, as the air grew heavy and humid from the door behind him. “But I cannot dare put it off another day.” Alonso’s pressed himself on, as if the legs attached had never fasted, nor grew weak with lack of good earth.

“God forgive me for this. I know Martin won’t.” His knees popped in poor nourishment, as he crouched. Martin’s first lines at port came again to Alonso, with the cypress box resting in his lap, it’s latches disappointingly locked. He reiterated them again.

“I doubt he’ll think any higher of himself by the end… Or anyone else. ‘And those who are at sea.’” Alonso stood up, his knees louder than the phrase between his gnashed teeth. Throwing weights on the words, nearly cracking his head on the desk while getting up. Plato’s quote calling to thought what Alonso and Martin argued over, in the darker nights. Where, apart from duty and pride, had grown a resentment of the country Martin once called home. A feeling that drives one to quick action and not all for the best.

At last, he continued, taking the lockbox with. Alonso rushed out the room, for his own, bare quarter. But right when the friar had crossed the door’s threshold. The voice of Gaspar pressed through the hulking air. Each step lowering him down the midship ladders. “It’s been one, whole, month…” Gaspar started, descending slowly for a steady voice, leaving Alonso to act quickly himself. “And you indolent mariner’s and limes still can’t rouse yourselves!”

Then, Gaspar turned around, thinking to see someone he could command. Instead, just a slight shift of air wafted across his face paired, by the thump wood. And no one met his gaze, only shut doors on either side. While the one to Martins stood slightly ajar, a drive for Gaspar’s noble inquiry, into possible theft, so he thought to himself. During the time that Alonso sat on his bed, a few moments of silence crossing over him like hours. Before Gaspar at last, roused the crew from their short, famished sleep.

“Lord, I do doubt they have the strength to harm anyone but themselves. But I can’t shake the feeling.” Alonso sat pitifully, glaring out the cannonball sized peephole of his room. Ready to wait on the layered, iridescent sky of a coming night but still, taking in what light he could get. Before the crew grew weak, and a shadow would pass over his own soul. For what he had done or, what he needed to do. But despite Alonso’s judgement and personal dread, the crew at least left quickly.

Working steadily for hours up until the sky grew gold, as if a storm brewed in a desert of a far country west. A thing the friar took no time to notice, as the course was set for the ladders, down at Condenada’s bow, instead of the center. Easy walk no doubt, but the trouble came at the top of it. Where a thick wooden hatch lay shut. Taking Alonso valuable time to open the trap door with his weakened strength. As well, afraid to drop the case in a tumble and bang, though the hatch closing suddenly would’ve been no different.

If it had occurred so, rather than Alonso’s faithful resolve pulling through. Remaining silent, like some stranger in the night. All with good judgement too, as some of the replaced crew had started off in need of rest so badly stairs, seemed a safer option. While others paid no mind in their coming fatigue and settling scurvy.

Save one, walking easily away, avoiding Alonso’s deficient eyesight. The friar not minding in any case, the open bow was all before him. However hesitant he remained within.

“This is far enough… And a hard truth It’ll be indeed.” Alonso drew in a breath, easier in the oncoming ocean, former to a heavy sigh of release. Like one viewing from a ridgeline on a clear day or stood before the halls of a great cathedral. Then slowly, he put his arms out, the cypress biting his skin, if in hope to keep alive in its new purpose.

Alonso turned cold, even as both arms now burning, wanted to give way. Though stood locked above the currents of eroding saltwater and sinking sand below. Only the rhythmic pounding in his heart now, kept the arm steady before the last verdict.

“Alonso!” Came out a great, though shaken call, that broke the friar’s cold focus. Nearly casting himself overboard from fright within the spite of the strong winds pushing. Thus, Alonso reached for the railing in such a terror, before the unending ocean. Having to cast the case overboard in concert and at last, the artifact sunk with it. Suffering the same of its nation of making, in the legend as old as time.

Martin immediately put a halt to the dash he commenced all the way from the stern. Sucking in his lips, with a rough hand on his beard, the other pressed against his head. As if to release the pain of loss to that which was more physical. “Why have you done that? It would’ve been an offer of peace!” Martin’s fists grew white as foam at the knuckles, facing his friend, if he dared to still call him that. To the friar, who had not the lasting resolve to turn around, not daring a look upon the man, as of that moment.

“You know, you know why. Our conversations went nowhere, it had been you, and your mission. That’s it! Not about any life or person in your way.” Alonso said flat with guilt at first. Then rising only a little in wonder, if this moment had been the one he feared all those days ago… “Not true at all, I let you come abord! Ungrateful-.” Martin in his pause, could’ve slapped Alonso across the head then and there. Wanting to remind the friar coarsely, they were long way from the monastery. Or from anyone else abord for that matter, thanks to Gaspar.

“Well, it is what god says is right in the end.” Alonso’s hands let go of the railing in a nervous thrill to meet Martin. “Though it might sound selfish of me.” The two starred each other down harder than any night of quarrel back home. “I had to do what was right by him. And for all of us, everyone on this boat! I saw the writing across the desk then, and now I know, it’s… Fanatical.”

Martin took a step back, hiding a new glare in his eye under red shade of sail as Alonso concluded. “Smart also.” Martin’s stance remained tense and uncapitulating, his arms raised a little at both sides. “Even though our greatest bargaining chip is now sinking, there’s still no chance to lose my way because of your folly.” Martin assuredly spoke truth, being never one to slack on records, he remained.

While Alonso turned away westward, mind weighing on those scraps of parchment, only inches away then, but just as distant as the disc was now. “Of course, you know much of the sea either way. More than the sands of Spain, or the word that I taught.” Alonso held up a finger, akin to those in the works of Jan van Eyck. If to give a mandate, or warning. “So I’ll say once more, before the desperation grows. Don’t let your pride pull us over the edge so quickly! Even if it leads to far, rich soil… Or we’ll all commit acts on those shores even the devil wouldn’t dare.” Alonso gave away from the sea once more, his hands falling to wrap each other in the waxing shade upon his chest.

Until Martin came at him again, hand over fist to press him out of that high and mighty thought. “May I remind, this is my work; I will not cut and run! Besides, all of you vowed to come aboard. So your concerns come last!” Said Martin, aimed clear to such a point his mouth dried, and lips cracked at their ends. In that span eyeing Alonso close. Before an ocean, newly mild to the friar, under the sun below the world.

“Meaning. My, concerns come first so, let us go. I’m not losing sight of you again.” Martin threw his arm out in a wide wave with boots taping against planks. Tanned over and over again in many mundane passages around Iberia. Alas, for a month of days in its entirety, Alonso would be studying their knots and warps more often, to less pleasure than the sea. He knew it, and ought to frown over it for, Martin had his points and Gaspar’s nobility, weather at his fingers or no.

As for Gaspar, he came from the lower deck with another batch of crew roused from sleep, but no less worn. Then gave a glance of affirmation to Martin, smirking when the explorer offered none back. Still upset about the loss Gaspar gave little care of stopping himself, even with what he too had on the line. It left Martin, hating to think Gaspar saw those papers too.

“Friar, glad to see you up here.” Gaspar’s approving nod and calculating gaze gave one the thought he wanted to say more in private. Making Alonso take a wide birth from him, with what he learnt of the noble before in a day earlier. Following Martin with good attempt to shake the almost mocking feeling. “Off to work then, I see. And what a good night for it!” Gaspar spoke if to wish them Godspeed hoping, they found it a good tiding as much as he did.

The crew behind him on the other hand worryingly lit the lanthorns slowly or tended the deck in the doldrums. Board’s creaking again across the ship, even if Martins were more define in the weight of muscle under his clothes still, they silenced his, up to the very last step.

At last, where his own corner began Martin, roused the tiller Timon on a change in direction. “Bare the rudder rightways. And let’s hope for wind.” He sounded in his own if but a little again, and there was something to admire in it, especially after such an overloaded day. But it wasn’t over yet, their true journey had just begun, the friar understood. “Find a spot Alonso and get ready for a long night.” Martin churned back to face the deck below, all lit like a flaming arrow out of the dark ranks into the night beyond. Surely to hit their target, Martin knew. But into all that black it slightly troubled him, unknowing throughout the records, the slightest clue of what that target could truly be.

End of Chapter Three

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On the last night of autumn and across the frozen highlands Rorick, half barbarian, lord of the western frontier, ruminated. Instead of celebrating with his right hand Toros, and the soldiers which served under him throughout the long years of war across the kingdom.

Rorick’s thoughts kept reeling for the best option to cross into the lands beyond the towering, and fog set mountains, in order to aid his king. Who, mired in the wars across the eastern country. Now lamenting his decision to cast the undefeated lord into the forsaken frontier just a year earlier. However effective Rorick had been, defending that place against the moving tribespeople. And a lament of his own, the half Gott would soon carry. At the end of the following night.

But aside that, his free time in days before, were spent talking with his captain Toros, to no clear action of journey. And advice from local merchants, how few there were. In order to find a fast way through the glooming mountains by crag or crevice. Though no man or woman gave any answer to suffice, just vague stories of the stalking’s or vanishings of the superstitious people he had lorded over loyally, but unwillingly in that short year.

Rorick, in all his active perception hated the look of them. The black granite mountains, even covered in clear sun gave him a looming feeling, as with night, in a vast wilderness of tress. That grew beside creeks filled with frozen water, at the edge of the known world. A feeling everyone caught, even spoke of, in stories to scare unwanted folk away. Only on the name of one place his subjects dared not speak, least they have a lanthorn in hand, or prayer at their tongue.

Devils Gulch, it was called by outsiders. And only one man knew of its path. By Rorick’s own hand he was captured, and with God as his witness Rorick would find his way through. By loyalty of his liege and force of arms if necessary.

With fervor and six armed guards Rorick entered the cobbled dungeon beneath his wooden fort. Carrying torches, spatha’s and crossbows for good assurance, they entered the dank cellars. Rorick leading, unafraid of the Chieftains look of indifference to unspoken tragedies. A sight mirroring the Gott’s own, on certain pitch like nights wanting, of even the palest light.

“Stand up, all of you! And walk into the light.” Said Rorick to the gleaming jewels of eyes on the opposing side of the iron. They came forth the tribesmen and their Chief apparent. Solamon, a short man with matted hair, an exile, accoster and supposed butcher of his own son.

Though eased with mature age, Rorick’s civil side flinched under his skin at the man’s gaze, before he spoke. “With grit and force of arms I’ve beaten and humiliated you. As such I demand one last thing.” Rorick uttered, his voice lowering and now dulcet under the wet cobblestones. “What would that be?” Solamon responded nigh on immediately, already sick of him. As Rorick took a deep breath, like beginning to explain a mistake to a stern father. “Lead me, and two score of horsemen, through devils gulch.”

Just then, everyone, even his own backed away from Solamons long and low laugh. More so to himself, for allowing himself to be beaten by such a dimwit. “Foreigner, you know not what you ask. Or you have just let victory go to your head.” Solamon stood like a statue as Rorick stood near the bars, his impatience growing. “Maybe, but if I die it won’t matter in any way to you. Cause you’ll likely be coming with me.” Rorick said, though he, on the inside hoped that wouldn’t happen. For he tried to avoid that side of himself in these latter years.

“Hmm.” Solamon sat a moment, thinking on that place that seemed to redraw memories. Before his words came as falling gravel. “That Gulch has killed greater men than you. And all that ride with you. Be gone and leave by a less idiotic way.” Solamon then turned to look away and think not on such evils, as the iron door swung open and his kin coiled in threat.

Solamons indifference then turned sharply to fear, and the guards to a silencing stance. As Rorick’s fist hit the man and the thump of knuckle against flesh rang in the ears of all. “Tell me you scraggily bastard!” Shouted Rorick, from the half he had let slip temporarily. “Or I’ll do it, I’ll have all your people here killed. And you’ll soon see the man I used to be in battles before!” Rorick’s men kept their weapons fixed on the dark forms of Solamons kin. All the while Solamon began to hoarsely murmur curses in his native tongue whilst it slathered with blood.

“What say you?” Rorick begged in disgust, as the curses died into a harsh cough. Then, Solamon sat up, and spit blood onto the masonry beside him. “Fine then. And maybe it’ll please you, to say that gulch is no trap… More so a place that will repulse you to begin with.” Solamon’s words, without knowing then, would endure in Rorick if one was so unawares to speak to him of that place years after. “Release them, and I’ll lead you, whenever you call…”

Later on, after Rorick departed from his new guide. He went to inform Toros on the decision, as a common draft came down from the mountains. Giving him a shudder he hadn’t felt in years, once a voice came from the back of his head. “Don’t go…” It said as if it were a warning. Something he swore to have heard once in such a similar, longing, way.

And weighed on him until the noise of celebrious talk filled the air. With the voice of the valiant Toros joining, in the talk of family matters back home. “…Well, wish I could say the same. But my mother’s been gone four years. Still, good luck on your fortunes.” Toros responded in conversation Rorick had all but missed in his deep thinking.

“My lord.” Toros bowed humbly and then stared as Rorick gave a singular nod. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost sir.” Toros gave a short smile as the wind was a welcomed relief to him from the festive fires. “It’s about our road eastward… We’ll be taking the gulch way, tomorrow.” Said Rorick, as Toros nervously gripped his belt, something, he usually did to his horse’s reigns before battle or a quick witted reply. “Then, you have at least talked to one!” And Toros’ eyes failed to match the worried smirk on his face.

“It was Solamon so, you’re not far off.” Rorick always failed to not sound serious. “He’ll be guiding us early tomorrow and late into the night, so I’d advise you to get rest.” And Toros could read no tensity in the Gott, so he bowed again loyally, but no less uneased from the coming task. “I understand my lord. Shall I inform the rest?” He said as Rorick turned away. “No, that’s my job. Since I doubt, I’ll sleep tonight. See you in the morning.” Rorick left with the crunching snow under his boots. As a shudder came and went again under his surcoat, thinking again on those faint words. “Don’t go…”

Empty, and shudderingly still

Came the entrance to Devil’s Gulch on its first night of winter. So utterly pitch dark it was. Its moonless black showed clearly beneath the helms and behind the shadows of each soldier, old or green. As the wind whispered the faint past of the few who came before through the remaining tress. Like a burning memory to the hardened, and woe, to the young of the group.

That’s some, of what Rorick beheld not long after they entered. Their softened light of lanthorns and sputtering torches, doing little to grace their hastening trot, as the moon above hid her face in dreadful waiting. Every now and then, even before the night truly began, she peeked through the clouds in a morbid curiosity. like a child, hiding their eyes from an open doorway in the middle of night. All the while that Solamon had led them. Uneasily, by Rorick’s reckoning, a strange departure from the man once of seething indifference and dislike towards the easterners. Something of tragedy lurked inside his skull undoubtably, as did strange things beyond their torchlight.

“Even the moon and stars show little tonight.” Solamon’s panting words fell on no one else, as they felt miles off, while mounted on their horses, listening to the cold, oncoming draft. “They are watching us they can see our thoughts. We must leave… We must turn around!” His finishing words rang amongst the rimrocks. And with what hope remained in his use of guide, vanished there in the growing draft.

“Don’t leave us…” It said to Rorick, individually. Before Solamon’s shout roused them in all, as the wind left only the lights of their lanthorns.

And brought on a greater terror, as the whispers rose from the mind, and into the wind in great howls. Leading the horses to bolt now, in more natural wit, than the whole party since they left.

Men flew this way and that, their shuddering turned to outright panic, leaving Rorick alone with Solamon. And a dreadful choice in his hands, as his own worry gave rise again to violence. “Stop him…”

“Snap out of it and lead us out of here! Or else I’ll act on my promise and remove you!” The winds only grew stronger, with snow biting at Rorick’s skin, already frozen cold.

“It’s too late…” Came Solamon, after a muffled cry, more of man grasped out of the darkness in one last plea. Leaving Rorick in the shortsighted rage of his Gottish kin. Lifting up Forko to swing, as Solamon murmured one last time. “I’m so sorry my son… But I had no choice!” He begged, before the sword of Rorick found his vocal cord, silencing his distress. And he died as the wind did quick, and suddenly unspeaking. Being taken away by the returning moon, as if to see what she missed.

Rorick drew out a curse in his returning reason, spitting out an odd bit of blood. “Toros! … Anyone?” His anger turning fast to regret, as no response came from the night. But the edge of it receded beyond his lanthorn, and a dozen odd figures emerged out of the faint moonlight. Whilst holding Forko, Rorick nearly dropped it. As Toros came in at Rorick’s bidding, with a half of the party in tow. “What happened?” He said, and saw each of their faces, nearly blank, a recollection to those of battles long passed, but still remembered in full.

The Gott sat, dumbfounded, as one by one they ignored him. Trampling Solamon’s body beneath, in the crunching snow. And rode on past in vain hope of escaping the gulch that begun to enclose. Save Toros, who stopped before his lord of long years, and many victories. “My mother was out there; I could have sworn to hear her… Solamon was right.” Toros said, holding in much more. As he gripped the reigns once more, but that nervous excitement, which came along, and before countless battles, never came again. And they spoke no more, bestriding into the next pass of the whispering wind.

“Don’t leave us here alone.” It came in a chorus of many hopeless voices, doomed to haunt Rorick all his days after. And he did not doubt Solamon and Toros now. Cursing the strike, he laid so mercilessly on their guide.

“Work, you damn nag!” Rorick nearly gouged the spurs into the sides of his horse in anger he put on himself. Whilst the rare tears lashed against the sides of his aching temples. With the tunnel vision, now shrinking his horizon to a few footfalls, as the moon dipped away in a breath, akin to one before an arrow is released. Then both riders lost sight of the enclosing mountain sides. But what had worried them more came with the loss of everyone ahead.

Causing their horses to quail, then rear, as most prey does when cornered against something which gives chase. Forcing the last lanthorn from Rorick’s hand, casting both men in darkness with only the cries of their restless horses to accompany them. Or the new wails of their remaining comrades, echoed through the canyon in defeat beyond humiliation on any battlefield.

“I never even said goodbye…” Toros’ voice barely rung through the weighted air in the baleful dark. “Mustn’t say such things now, come on!” Rorick said, feeling with his right hand for Toros to strengthen him. Meanwhile, Solamon’s blood froze into the gauntlet of his left. “I don’t want to die here my lord. But I see nothing else!” Rorick found his friend’s arm, nearly crushing it. As Rorick, could not say the same for the latter.

One could say, Toros to be blessed at that moment, despite the pain. For the look on Rorick; the half barbarian and renowned captain. Displayed then, fully frozen as just pulled from ice, a look of whole shock. That someone might make if their close loved one, stood from their deathbed and, began walking. And the thing occurred to him, as such kinfolk, though pallid, or hardly with any bodily form. But wearing the face of an, off, Gottish warrior, that need not any axe or round shield now. For, the steeds of its prey dare not move.

It took Toros by the opposing arm in a short tug of war. That one could find almost funny, if told by an old vagrant, on a well tread street in the east. But here, it left the Gott’s own hand empty, with a bloodcurdling cry to ruminate on, and to silence a room over. If only he could escape that gulch in time to tell it to any fool who dare listen.

“You cannot leave… We see you.” They told him, with every word cut one by one from his memory, all at different times, across the grim moments of his life. “C’mon, go!” Rorick leant over the back of his horse, and it dug through the snow with its head turned either in pain. Or in fear of what lay ahead that Rorick could not see then. Still reeling from what he saw that stole Toros and led him to God only knows where. Until it forced him again to behold its work on those that dared to ride ahead.

One lanthorn dimly lit the murk, showing the treaded snow around their final resting place. And from what Rorick could tell in his hurried speed. Their shriveled bodies lay beneath a haze, or corpse light, aided from the lanthorn. Akin to what one would call ‘saint Elmo’s fire’ in a more pragmatic age.

But they surrounded it from the outside. They, that were above criminals in their deed. And beyond reasoning to know why they did it. Appearing as Gott’s of yore, their winged helms following Rorick in a taunt like a painting would give. Three to the left, and three on the right. With one more, waiting before Rorick with a similar appearance, holding axes in both arms of deep grey.

“No, wait-!” Came the only words he had time to shout, before the form cast his horse to the ground, sending him through the air. The armor driving into flesh as he hit the ground and lost Forko in all that snow.

“Look familiar?” Came seven voices of men, which the Gott had spent many months trying to forget. Just as he tried to avoid their faces of everlasting deception. “Please I… had no other choice.” Rorick’s nails dug into his face, looking up at them. Then shut his eyes, as that one lie reflected in the gaze of theirs. “You had, one.”

Their voices rang in his head as the gulch drew another deep breath. Their last word, droning on and on, until Rorick severed it with a shout. “Forgive me!” He said, a face red with cold and anger toward what he had done all those years ago. But all who stood to listen was the gulch, with the grey light of the full moon over it all. As he sat there alone and dazed from the fall and the last lanthorn glowing clearly beyond.

Rorick cared not to know where his comrades of old had gone, in the gulch that now sat as quiet as ever, if even they were truly that. He only cared to leave at once, hoping to his comrades of late, that they found escape in their own way.

Finally turning eastward, Rorick’s heart skipped a beat, with a gape across his face. For there the egressing gorge stood in the midst of the moonlight. And without thought he ran toward it, the clouds skimming across the surface of the moon. Turning his run into a bolt, whilst the droning wind let go at last, with a word of warning to never return.

Running into the hill country beyond, the sky cleared completely as pale light rose on the horizon. And with the snow, now sparse under Rorick’s feet, he thought what they might say at home. Thinking only to respond with lies regarding the harsh weather. To his liege, and the families of the fallen. A lie he wouldn’t dare to break for as long as he stayed loyal, for the rest of his days.

The End

Thanks for taking the time out of your day to read my first horror story! (Especially from someone that writes historical fiction.) Still, it means a lot to the point where I’d be more than happy to read your work, just post it in the comments! Thanks again.

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Links to other posts on my channel that you may enjoy:

The Sun Below the World, chapter one.

Down The Volga