9 A Feast Before the Storm

"Toasts for our lords and masters; another toast in the names of 3-Divines and only!"

"You there, a good bard, pray sing us a song that would breath a spirit even into nostrils of the dead!"

"Blessing to wise Lord Rothgarr! Another blessings to valiant Prince Aelthred of Geats!"

So was the jolly cheering of knights and barbarians alike in the banquet. They poured the liquor both into their mouth and goblets. They gobbled up the grubs that seemed endless in their quantity. They then even sometimes punched each other's face out of their tipsiness. This was a sight of liveliness to Aelthred's eyes, indeed. He gave a good, hearty laugh at it, while he was reaching out for his own loaf of roasted meat.

"Aye, these truly are the spirits of vigor that dwell in this midnight feast! Let us cheer more, rejoice even more, for there await only swords and plasma at the end of our lives' journey!" So were the words of the Prince.

"Yet, my lord, there too await our eternal honor and glory should we meet our ends up in a bloody battlefield, for the very number of foes slain under our tech-swords is countless and numerous." Gael, a tech-maiden of valor, added up his sentence.

"Now that is a right thing to be said, my old friend. We have absolutely no fear for our upcoming death, for there shall be not a shame nor mockery, but only our glorified names being passed down generations to generations forevermore! Those who are willing to face thy destiny without remorse, cheer in the names of thy ancestors!" Aelthred said out loud.

"Cheers for our lords and ancestors!" Gael followed up, uplifting her goblet full of wine.

There, too, soon followed joyful shouts of the barbarians in exo-skeletons. Tech-knights in their power-armors then joined up the yelling with enthusiasm.

As the time went by, and just as the mood of the entire banquet got elated more and more, talks on Glen-gohr began to be heard among many parts of the crowd. Mostly by the tech-warriors and tech-knights, groundless boasts were ceaselessly made out of their recklessness, pride in their own skills of war, or just the alcohol they were pouring into one another. Already in dreams and hopes of those, the hideous monster lay dead cold underneath their mighty war-gears. Yet, some still remained sober enough not to underestimate their foe's formidable strength. Aelthred, now looking far from a delightful company at the banquet, was trying hard to come up with an idea that would bring down the abomination with efficiency and effectiveness.

"Aye, my lord. I see you are deep in your thoughts just before our imminent battle with that loathsome beast, are you not?" Gael spoke to him.

"My poor Gael, after all these years, nearly every moment since your being born, of your service unto me, you still not seem to understand the very essence within my such thoughts. I affirm that we shall be triumphant against our foe in the end, yet I do not wish to spill any of my brothers and sisters' blood in vain, including that of yours. We should slay it with minimum, affordable price to pay. This, truly, is one among my major concerns regarding the upcoming battle with Glen-gohr." Aelthred answered his friend.

"Yet my lord, I must say there shall not be a single drop of sweat nor blood wasted on our hunt. There awaits no humiliation but the glorious thrones for those fallen with honor, even if we should die killing it. We already planned out how to slay it many days ago; we just have to follow it well to ensure our victory. For that, you should relax your muscles and spirit right at this moment. As a matter of fact, I am getting my intestine ready for our combat by having some fine booze here and keeping my eyes keen by taking some good look at a sight to behold."

She then gave a flirting glance to the tech-knight, the eldest son of Rothgarr, sitting across a few tables yonder. As soon as his eyes met hers, he at once turned his face away out of frightened heart. Then, the young knight's face soon went pale with terror. She enjoyed all of them, as if she became a fearsome chimera looking down on a squirming, and yet juicy prey under her claws. Even Aelthred couldn't help but let himself out a short laugh at it.

Cardinal Esteban and his bishops had taken seats a few floors above the ground where the knights and the warriors were having a feast. No one up there was ever willing to partake in such earthly, lowly banquet full of savages. They seemed rather disgusted at what they were seeing down below. Esteban, too, was not that fond of the mess being created by those mindless barbarians out there. However, that was not mainly of his interest. He saw profanity, and yet at the same time, potential among them. The very possibility, which would allow him to exact revenge on his nemesis, was what concerned him most. He was looking into their eyes, capabilities and even their essence that would all serve him well in his act of vengeance. Like a gem found in the dirt, so seemed to Esteban their savagery and ferocity lying under their ugly façade.

"Thou shall all serve me well in my grand purpose unto that monster. Thou shalt splatter thy blood on the ground not for the sake of thy glory, but for my vengeful soul hungry of its marrow."

A plenty of them shall be horribly butchered, for certain. This did not matter to him; they would at least die doing what they had enjoyed for their lives.

Rothgarr, now retreated to his bedroom despite the solicitation for him to join the banquet, sipped his liquor without anyone there to tend him. Strong essence of alcohol sled down into his stomach, scorching its passage made out of flesh and blood. He wanted to be intoxicated so bad, to forget everything around him. Nevertheless, none of his finest bottles had ever been able to do so for their master.

He then looked at his family heirloom proudly displayed on the wall, one of the tech-swords that he had once wielded in his both hands; he passed down the other one to his eldest son a few years ago. It seemed to be shining, faintly and yet surely, like it was trying to remind its master of his past glories. He was nearly invincible in any battles with those ancient swords right at his disposal. He was indomitable, unyielding, and mighty whenever he marched onto his foe with his war-gears ready and Wuntwail covering his behind. The warrior named Wuntwail, surely, was one among his true friends he ever had.

Soon, he found himself slowly drowning into the swamp called sorrow. He did not know why he came to think of his long-lost friend out of nowhere. Sorrow then became regretfulness. He shouldn't have done it. He should not have done such horrid thing to his dear friend. He should have saved him from a presence of doom approaching him. Rothgarr, now the Governor, didn't deserve to be called as his utmost ally; he had just been a coward, or even a betrayer. Then again, he reached out for his liquor and finished it up.

Glen-gohr, a reincarnation both of his horror and remorse, shall die pretty soon; he could feel it. He did not know who would be its slayer, but he was certain that the hall within his palace, into which Aelthred shall lure the terrible beast, would be covered thick in blood. In spite of his vassals' rejection, Rothgarr had consented to leave that part of the building at Aelthred's hands. The hall was large enough for warriors to effectiviely engage their foe, and at the same time small enough to prevent the beast from hiding into shadows. Such was an ideal place for combat, so did Rothgarr agree, too. The beast shall be killed once and for all; only then his soul shall be saved from eternal doom. However, even if he earned his own salvation, what would eventually become of his friend, Wuntwail?

With these thoughts on mind, he passed out in his bed.