5 Ill Omens

Dawn broke. A flight of sparrows chirruped as they flew overhead towards some unknown destination. Brenjulf raised his hand up to his eyes and observed their progress. How fascinating it must be to flap your limbs and find yourself lifted above the ground, speedily moving to a far off location. He sometimes wished he could leave the world behind and take off. The burden of being a king drifting away from his shoulders in a single flap and his life projected to the great unknown. Adventure; how he yearned to see what was beyond his own borders. How had it come to this? He had spent so much of his life tending to his Kingdom that he'd forgot to tend to his own dreams. Now, ere the rising of the sun in the next day he would be facing death, not his dreams.

Perhaps he understood more of Ældelwalbhert than he realised. Perhaps he too dreamed of flying away. Perhaps their exodus from the north was a metaphorical flap of the wings. It still ended in war though. War was an infection of society. No matter how hard men may try to avoid it, there would always be some reason to harbour resentment to others. The simple fact was, it was easier to fight a war than not to. Humanity was drawn to war as the fly was drawn to shit. A primal, basic instinct; more nature than need.

It was a misty morning. The common folk in Raderic were used to such sights. Their work began before the sun had awoken from its own slumber. Yet, to Brenjulf, it was a mystifying sight. He mused on the unintentional pun he had created for a moment. It was as though the clouds had fallen from the sky and taken up residence above the grass. Perhaps that made him a giant in his own rights? Such a foolish notion, but it kept his mind off of the foreboding drama laid out on the road before him; at least until he'd eaten anyhow. Pretty soon they'd be embarking on the remainder of the journey. He hoped to arrive at Jorvinsburgh before dawn the next day.

A servant brought him a horn of ale and some thick bread smothered on one side with sweet, sticky honey. It was a good way to start a day in any other circumstance. Here he was sat in the ruins of a city which had once been the centre of everything in Eriskarian society. So many stories must have been weaved by the thread of time here. He sighed contentedly. He once heard that wealthier citizens of the Artuan Empire regularly travelled to other places for something they called a "jaunt" . He didn't really understand what the word meant but, were he not on the precipice of a battle, he felt that this journey would otherwise qualify as something similar.

One of his men approached a short while after he had washed down his honey and bread.

'Argile', he nodded to the man as he approached. An ugly man by all accounts, especially since he lost half of his front teeth in a drunken brawl. 'I see you're alone'. He raised an eyebrow at the disheveled man.

'Apologies, my King', the man responded with an almost unintelligible voice, on account of the spluttering caused by his missing teeth, 'I can't find him anywhere. I've searched the whole camp'. He was referring to Kjartan. The King had summoned his marshal before he broke his fast. They needed to discuss their plan of action now while their minds were active. Before they were too focused on the road. Clearly, Kjartan had made himself unavailable somehow.

'And you scoured the entire city ruins looking for him?'. The King offered Argile a probing glance, 'You've covered much ground in so short a time.'

Argile thumbed his hands and looked down at the ground dejectedly. 'No, my King. I did not'.

'Gather a few men. Spread out and find him'.

'Yes, my King. Right away...'

'And Argile?' Brenjulf stopped the man before he traipsed off, 'Don't be long. We won't be tarrying here too long, we have an appointment with Åscator and it would be in bad taste to be late'.

With that, Argile walked off to gather a search party.

Brenjulf was once again alone. He found that most of his Lords were loathe to disturb him. How had that come to pass? He wasn't a stern man. He wasn't quick to anger or terribly commanding in his mannerisms. Perhaps it was just the title. King did have a certain ferocity about it. Yet, not ferocious enough that his marshall could find convenient time for him. Was that typical Eriskarian behaviour? Were they so laid back that a king's summons was so easily disregarded? He may have to have a few choice words with the man when they find him.

An hour passed. Still no sign of Kjartan. The scouts had returned twice in that time reporting the various sectors of the city they had searched were, indeed, bereft of any life safe a few spiders. Finally they had returned altogether to declare the city swept from head to toe.

'We searched the entire city, sire'. Said one of the scouts.

'Everywhere? What about the temple on the hill?' Replied Brenjulf. It was clear from his tone that his patience was getting low.

'Even there, sire. Couldn't get in. The entrance was blocked by rubble. Looks like it's been that way for some time too'.

Brenjulf considered the possibility that his marshall has abandoned them. Nowhere in the city, no reason to leave. A bloody battle ahead where death was certain? He played the thought out in his head and resigned himself to the likelihood that this was the case. What other reason could there possibly be? Gods, but that was infuriating. As though their chances of victory weren't already slim. He added a mental note that if he were to survive this battle, however unlikely, he would need to add this moment to his personal list of reasons why he was unlucky. He hoped to all the gods that he wouldn't be branded something ridiculous like "Brenjulf the Unlucky" by his successors, if there was even a kingdom left to succeed.

There was nothing to it. There was a battle to be fought and a kingdom to defend. They couldn't tarry any longer. He called his banners to prepare to march and soon they found themselves on the road once again heading to their final destination, however foreboding that sounded. The army tramped along the dusty road silently. Impending doom was an excellent mood setter if you favoured a mixture of fear and dread. They made good time as it happened. Very little happened along the road. Nobody spoke, not even Askladan. Perhaps he sensed the Kings mood? Perhaps he felt it himself. It seemed everybody was determined to be with their own thoughts that day.

****

Night began to fall, they had long since reached their destination and were a few short miles away from Jorvinburgh. They needed rest. Two days worth of hard marching made for sore legs and weary minds. If they met the enemy in battle now they'd lose just as certain as the sun will rise in the morrow; though apparently even that wasn't a sure thing in Raderic. Still, for now they had to rest. Food was the primary suspect when an army would march no longer. That and the need to sleep. A cynical man might say that the greatest army in the world was one which could function without either of these. Thankfully, such an army was impossible.

Night was once again upon them. The stars were out in full force. awas familiar comfort was felt in those bright twinkling lights, way up in the black abyss of night. It was reassuring to know that it was night time. A real night rather than the queer pitch black night which led in to day that had happened only a short while ago. The moon's rays beamed refreshingly on the earth. Yes, there was comfort in a proper night sky.

Brenjulf had just finished organising his equipment and cleaning his sword, an act he preferred to do himself than leave to servants, when the guards called loudly that a rider was approaching. Kjartan? It was possible. Maybe he had followed their path upon realising they had departed. Peculiar man, but he was undeniably a useful and capable man for all of his quirks. Still, he needed to speak to the man urgently. He headed towards the entrance to the camp to which the rider was now heading. The silhouette of a horse reeled its head as the rider slowed its pace. He was closer now, and as the light of the moon radiated his features it became obvious that this was not Kjartan. Instead, it was Hirsha. A messenger he had sent to Wræclas before they began their journey. Brenjulf's heart raced as he came to terms with the man's arrival. News from Wræclas, at last!

'Sire', cried Hirsha as he dismounted his horse, 'we must speak immediately!'

Brenjulf squinted inquisitively. 'Of course, Hirsha. This way'. He arced his head towards a small cluster of trees.

As the two men reached the their destination, there was a notable hesitance from the messenger. He seemed anxious. Bad news? Or perhaps he simply did not know where to start.

'Hirsha, what news of Wræclas?' He drew a steady breath as he prepared himself for the usual overload of information which typically came from King Hereward.

'King Hereward is dead'. The news came slowly and steadily. 'His son Wulfhere has ascended to the throne and has refused to send military aid.'

It took several moments for Brenjulf to process this news. He'd known Hereward was in the dying embers of his life, but he hadn't expected this. Wulfhere refusing to send aid though? Why would the man tear up years worth of diplomacy in so short a time?

'And why does King Wulfhere feel the need to reject our request?' Brenjulf struggled to keep the anger out of his voice, but it would be unseemly for a king to show emotion during such times.

'He says that he would not send his Kingdom into another man's war as his first act as king. He believes his people would resent him as a warmonger'.

Brenjulf sighed. He understood the man's perspective. He truly did. How can a man be asked to join the war of another when he's just become king? His people would never respect him if they saw him as a puppet. A man must make his own stake in life, not toe the line with another.

'I'm sorry sire, but I have more ill news'. Said Hirsha. 'I met groups of fleeing refugees heading west from the direction of Jorvinburgh. Couldn't get much out of them other than some delusion about beasts and monsters but it seemed pretty clear to me that the Åscatorians have already begun burning villages'.

Brenjulf stared distantly to the East, unresponsive; as though deep in contemplation. After a few moments he spoke, though his response was so soft it was barely a whisper.

'Gods save us'.

The news of Wræclas' withdrawal from the war sped around the camp in the usual manner that rumours did when any reasonably sized group is gathered in a small area. Men often spoke of gossiping womenfolk, but there was no bigger gossip than men in an army camp suffering from all the hallmarks that make war so great: Fear, anxiety, sexual frustration and general boredom. It took even less time for the uproar to commence.

'It's an outrage!' Cried one man. 'We've planned everything on a foolish man's foolish son. We gambled on an old man and a boy!'

'The gods did not favour war. They send their omens to dissuade us'. Muttered another.

'You're all cravens'. Bellowed Askladan in return. His face was red and spittle was dripping down into his beard as he spat abuse at the other lords gathered. 'Never fought in a battle, yet now you're experts on war? Are you all touched in the head, or did you forget we're being invaded?'

The Lords had gathered at the King's summons. He had broken the news to them as honest as possible. He made no illusion to their odds and allowed them to consider and discuss amongst themselves.

'My Lords, please...', began Brenjulf, desperately trying to gain a hold on the discussion. 'We must trust in our own army and take the fight to the enemy before they savage our lands any further.'

'What good does fighting do us now? Our chances were unlikely when we knew we had the support from King Hereward, but now? It would be suicide.' Lord Hagar said. 'Our only hope is in diplomacy. It worked for our forefathers and we had centuries of peace. Now, by the will of one king all of that will be brought to ruin for the sake of his own pride'. A charming man, as ever. Brenjulf was all too aware that the man would take every possible opportunity to undermine him. It was clear he coveted the throne. "Gods be damned, but he can have it if there's anything left". He thought to himself.

Nevertheless, many affirmed their assent, though not necessarily to the slight towards the King.

'Peace is our only option now. We've marched long and for naught'. Said Lord Gawent.

'Aye, Hagar is right. Diplomacy. Our fathers knew it to be the right path and their fathers before them. It was a foolish notion to stir our people into a war we cannot win'. Followed Lord Jarrow.

'Diplomacy is it? And when we've exchanged our land in return for peace what aid will that be to us? When our people find themselves sorely under the thumb of a madman who would start wars what good will diplomacy be to them?' Brenjulf steeled himself to suppress the rising anger he felt inside himself, but it was a fruitless endeavour. 'And when they keep coming despite the cost of our so called "peace" what good will diplomacy be then? Shall we be meek? Shall we cower with our tails between our legs? Perhaps you would have us spread on the floor with our breeches down to save our enemy the trouble of stripping us?' He spat angrily at the ground. 'That, right there, is your peace. If you don't care to fight, my Lords, then perhaps we should send you to Crægaric with our diplomatic terms. Be sure to tell him all about our forefathers too. I'm sure he'll be terribly interested'.

There was no response. The Kings fury was met with a humbled silence. Few could meet his eye. The rest stared sullenly at the ground as though it was suddenly fascinating to behold. Brenjulf was not an angry man. For the most part he was calm and collected, but when you spend a length of time facing misfortune after misfortune. When the world around you closes in. When you're pushed to the limit and then pushed beyond, you break. You break into an explosion of emotion that would send a daemon running. You burn all those around you with a hideously uncomfortable barrage of the truth. The real truth. The deep truth that comes only in intense moments of genuine emotion. You see, the truth is an unspeakable creature. It's outcast from the world of man, never spoken of, and invisible to the human eye. It can only be seen when it is summoned. To look upon it is to witness a vision of grotesque, foulness. An ugly being whose very presence can stun the observer in to silence.

That very creature now stood proudly in the centre of the group of Lords gathered. It prostrated itself mockingly at the silent group who were wrapt in self pity at the Kings tirade. It was not the anger which stunned those present. It was the awareness of their position, the true situation, that they found themselves in. There was no going back. Battle was unavoidable. They had never been so aware of their own mortality in that moment.

'We have only one choice', said Brenjulf, in a drastically calmer tone, 'and that is to meet the enemy in battle. We're sons of Bharac are we not? When have the sons of Bharac ever faltered?'. He scanned the men around him with a furious glare, seeking out their eyes as though to direct the question personally to each of them. 'Are we not men of Ørkady? Are we not proud Valkrygan's? I cannot promise you that by the setting of the sun tomorrow we'll be victorious, but I can promise you that we'll take the bastards with us!'

And then it happened. He'd given speeches before. Gods, he'd given one only a few days prior. In those moments he'd been greeted with cheers of support, but they always felt half hearted or forced. Now, he had roused something in his lords. Perhaps it was his anger, perhaps it was large dosage of fact. Good honest terrifying fact. He didn't know. But now they did not cheer. They did not whoop or bang their fists in fabricated support. Now, they fixed their King with a fiery determination.There was an inexorable purpose in their eyes. They saw their king, perhaps truly for the first time, as their leader. As a man who could instil fear and inspiration in their hearts. They needed a man with ferocity. They needed a man who could put the fear of a king in them. His fury had awoken a courage in their hearts that they did not know they had. Gods protect the Åscatorians; because nobody else would.

****

Morning was nigh. The crows still slept and the sun had not yet dispelled the night sky with its rays. It was a time for weary minds to shake off the numbness of sleep. it was a time for brave hearts and foolish deeds. There was a deep deafening silence throughout the camp. Men who were coming to terms with the likelihood that they would not survive took their own inner counsel. There were no words they could impart on each other. No mutual comforting words of support. Only the setting sun was guaranteed to see the end of the day.

'Collect your equipment and form ranks. We march to Jorvinburgh!' Came the cry from ahead. It wouldn't take long to reach the fort, and they had to be prepared to meet their enemy on the road should the garrison have fallen. They began their final, short march just as the sun was rising. In the distant skyline they could see thick clouds of smoke rising high into the clouds. A foreboding sign of what was to come.

The warriors trudged along in their ranks. Their equipment clinked at each move of their limbs. They looked bedraggled from the journey, yet their faces were firm and determined. The very sight of the ruin the Åscatorians were leaving in their wake was a reminder of why they were here. This was their home soil. The enemy was not going to stop there. They would scour the lands looking for easy plunder if they could. There was no doubt in their minds any more. This was what they could expect from a cowardly enemy.

'See how they fight peasants?' Cried Askladan from ahead. 'I guess they need the practice before they fight real men!'

There was no reply. There was no need for a reply. The words added fire to their hearts and strength to their limbs. Today, they would kill many Åscatorians. Today, they would send them screaming back across the border and they would remember the time they visited Ørkady. They would remember how their army was shattered and broken on the fields of Jorvinburgh. They would remember all of this, and they would tell their children. They would tell their children the horrors they saw. How the Ørkadian King in all of his glory tore the Åscatorian army asunder. They would learn to fear Ørkady once again.

The acrid smell of smoke hung in the air, drifting steadily in the air as it was carried by the east wind. Even at this distance the devastation was plain to see. They shuddered to think of the dead or dying peasants in their hamlets. The nearby burghs would provide a modicum of protection if they could make the journey; though forts with a minimum garrison were little better than being without the walls. Some of the burghs were in such a state of disrepair that they were mostly rendered useless.

In older days, they had been fully manned, and repair work was regularly attended to. In those days Åscator was under the firm rule of King Wensceswulf. A sturn ruler and a brilliant tactician. His ambition knew no bounds and he had his eyes set on dominion over all of Raderic. He believed himself to be the true and rightful heir of Ældelwalbhert, and declared himself Waldanörsecry - Emperor Nörscry in the common tongue.

It was Ørkady that first saw the potential of the burghal line along the border. The idea being that there would always be garrisoned forces along the border within a days march of each other. Ultimately, it made invasion into Ørkadian lands impossible, in theory at least. If you fail to man those fortifications, or keep them in repair, then they fail to serve their purpose.

Now the Ørkadian army was steadily approaching one of the few burghs that was still manned. Lord Pyrelig held the garrison at Jorvinburgh. Unlike the other garrison commanders, he'd seen fit to maintain a strong force there and attended to all the maintenance work. A good man from a strong military family. They'd instilled a sense of duty in to him at a young age. Now, in the autumn years of his life he continued his duty and, as it would seem, was validated in his vigil. Of course, the Åscatorian forces would head straight to Jorvinburgh. They could not hope to invade further in to Ørkady with a sizeable force still behind them. Such was the beauty of the burghal system.

Nobody spoke it, yet somehow the thought was on everyone's mind, like a mental image distributed throughout a hive mind. They all hoped that Pyrelig's forces were still standing. Gods, but the man was akin to a bastion in their minds right then. The line of defense that had to hold at all costs. They knew the man was capable in practice, but how would he fare in a real fight? As they crested the hill, and were met with the warm glow of a raging fire, they knew they were soon about to find out.

Ahead of them was a smouldering wooden structure with a thatched roof. It was a farmstead; or what was left of one. Splinters of wood and upended carts were strewn across the yard. The smell of rusted iron was thick in the air. That meant only one thing: blood. Sure enough, around the side of a wooden shack was a large pool of blood seeping from a pile of mangled corpses. Their horribly disfigured features were a mix of horror and pain exposing the torturous end they had come to; if the savage wounds weren't evidence enough. It was clear that the Åscatorians were beyond the bounds of Jorvinburgh. Whether that meant that the fortress had fallen, or if they were raiding around the fort in order to draw the defenders out, they weren't sure. It was clear, however, that the situation was dire.

From behind the well they heard a whimper. One of the scouts moved closer to investigate, crying out in alarm at what they saw. It was a woman. She was huddled up with her face in her hands weeping at the misery bestowed upon her. They called out to her but she would not move. The scout eased towards her and lifted her to her feet, though she was too weak to hold herself up. As she was turned around, the true horror of her suffering was revealed. Her face was a mesh of cuts and blood. Her hair was torn and her cheeks were bruised. Leaking down her face was a jelly like fluid. This fluid was leaking from the holes that used to host her eyes. They'd been cut out. The epitome of her torment. This was what lay in store for Ørkady. This was why they fought. The burning farm. The scattered, mangled remains of the villagers, the tormented woman. All these things embodied the outrage of the invasion. It stoked the fires burning inside each and every Ørkadian present.

The woman did not live much longer. She'd lost too much blood and her feeble limbs could no longer sustain her. She drew her last breath shortly after she had been found. Perhaps she felt the comfort of her kinsmen and knew she would not die alone. Perhaps she was snapped back into the reality of her state and the shock finished her off. They did not know. They placed her respectfully on the ground and resolved to return and bury the dead once the battle was over. Now they turned their attention to Jorvinburgh and knew more than anything that they had to reinforce the doomed garrison before it was too late. As the sun began to shine in earnest, they came upon the field in which the wooden palisade of Jorvinburgh could be seen. the early morning sun gleamed off the tall rooftops within the walls. Horns blared in the distance and the shouts and curses of men hung in the air.