The Journey Ahead

Dawn broke. The revels of the night were long over and the Ørkadians were now scrambling for their horses and supplies. Swords were sharpened on whetstones. Oils were rubbed along the length of the blade. Their edges were renewed with a savage keenness. The sleekness of the oils made them gleam in the sunlight. They tested their shields for balance; worked the straps on their arms for comfort.

The archers restrung their bows and tested the strength of the wood, drawing the string back as far as they could. An important step in the process of preparation. It tested the balance of the bow and the feel of the weapon in their hands. Wych Elm was the typical wood for bows in Raderic. Common to find in these parts and easy enough to craft that replacing them requires less effort than some wood, but at the cost of a weaker draw strength. Most archers these days mostly used their skills for hunting but the King would have to hope their smaller bows and inexperience in battle would be compensated by the speed in which they could knock their bows and fire. It was still, after all, better to have poorer archers than no archers.

The King finally emerged from his own quarters. His wife, Queen Ældrega, stood forlorn by the door as Brenjulf passed over the threshold and out into the courtyard. They had shared a passionate night together; coming together not as King and Queen but as husband and wife.

He had shared his deepest fears with her. His only comfort was with her. A king cannot be seen to show fear or concern. A king cannot confide in his trusted lords, for that is a weakness. A weakness the Valkrygr do not show. No, he trusted in his wife and his wife alone. She was his Queen, his partner, but most importantly, his rock.

'I fear we'll meet with failure by the time the sun ends three days hence.' he whispered while cradled in her arms. 'We don't have the strength any more. We haven't been a warring people for such a long time.'

'There is strength yet in Ørkady, my love.' she replied, whispering delicately as a mother might to a child. 'They have you. Ørkady has never had a finer king than you.'

'Your words are sweet, my love, but we both know they are not true.' He shuffled in her embrace and looked her in the eyes. 'I'm no warrior. I've fought in nothing more intense than the practice yard. There have been kings in Ørkady who have had great songs sung about them. I don't even have bad songs sung about me.'

Ælhdrega stared back intently, her gaze boring in to his eyes as though penetrating through to his mind.

'Ørkady doesn't need a warrior king. Ørkady doesn't need a great hero who the scops will sing about from mead hall to mead hall.' She held his head in her hands, gently caressing his face with her thumbs. 'Ørkady needs a strong minded king. A ruler, not a brawler. You rule as a fair and good man. The men will fight for you because they love you. Their King.'

'Good men do not win wars by their virtue alone. They don't throw down their enemies with their carefully crafted laws.' Brenjulf groaned.

'No, they don't.' Ælhdrega smoothed back his long hair gently. 'They place capable men as their marshals. They gain the support of their vassals as a king worthy of fighting for. They win wars by the extension of their virtues. You are the King Ørkady needs right now, and you will lead your men into battle as the great kings of old.'

'I am still no warrior…'

'You are brave my sweet. It takes a brave man to rule. It takes a brave man to make decisions which could lead to dire consquences and I have seen you do so in good times and bad. Your courage cannot be questioned by any.'

They stayed for a while in each other's embrace. The Queens words dominated his thoughts. They began to take form in his heart, where it solidified stronger than any armour. Cementing a resolve in him that he would take into battle with him. The Queen was wise. She always had been. Besides her beauty, her grace and her personality, he loved her for her wisdom.

And so it was that the Queen of Ørkady stood watching her husband leave. She had uttered words of encouragement to him and she knew he had taken heed of her. Yet, she could not tell him of her own concerns. Of her own fears. If this were to be their final parting. Should the King not return from battle, then at least they had one final moment together. That may be all the comfort she would get.

They had no son. They had not even a daughter. She hoped and prayed to the gods to gift them a child but their prayers had fallen on deaf ears. The gods were cruel at times. They distribute divine gifts on a whim; careless to the plight of their creation.

Now she stood staring in sorrow as her husband stalked off towards his Gesis to make his final preparations. Her luscious blonde hair fell to her shoulders, swaying in the cool morning breeze. She had been a true beauty in her youth. A beauty that made men envious of their King.

As the years wore on that beauty had faded slightly as care lines etched her face, yet it was her Queenly grace which men talked about now. She had always known the difficulties she and her husband would face would face together. To be a king was to never truly be at peace, yet it was to him she gave all of her love and understanding. Now. she understood the gravity of her duty all too well in this moment.

Soon he would ride to meet his tyvaal - his fate. Her mind swam with concern. Should he die, the throne would fall to whoever took it. There would be strife in the kingdom as the lords of Ørkady fought for supremacy. Should he die, her own safety would not be guaranteed. She thought it likely most of the lords would treat her with at least an iota of dignity; but not all of Ørkady's lords loved their king as much as others. Loyalty was a fickle thing.

Most would leave her a modicum of comfort. Perhaps a small hall for her to live in with a small entourage of assistants to tend to her needs. If she was unlucky, she would be raped first and then hurled from her home, a bedraggled mess. She knew of three of her husbands greater nobles who harboured a secret desire for the throne. One of whom, Lord Hagar of Tonbricg, she feared. His heart was black. He was a savage of a man. his family had once rebelled against the line of Bharac. Although they had been soundly defeated and forced to swear oaths of allegiance, she doubted very much that such a man would not relish the thought of Brenjulf dead on the battlefield.

Ælhdrega considered making a silent prayer to Friàga - the Goddess who birthed the first man and was the wife of Nûnë. Her province was that of love and marital guidance. After last nights ill news, however, she thought better of it.

It had been Brenjulf's intention to set out at the first light of dawn. He'd planned to arrive in Jorvinburgh in two days time. All preparations had been made, or so he thought. As he sat up the night before waiting on the druids to commune with the ancestors, he felt his mind would finally be at ease before the journey ahead.

Yet, more ill news had broken. The ancestors would not lend their favour. They would not utter the strife of Ørkady in to the ears of the gods. They would not break their feasting and drinking to aid Brenjulf's expedition. The druids had come to him in the night as the final flickering candles began to fail.They had disturbed the King as he was in deep thought to break the news. "The ancestors worry not over your troubles." They had said "The gods do not lend their power over a patch of grass and earth."

The impudence of speaking to a King in such a tone was not lost on Brenjulf; though he considered that they were merely repeating the words of the ancestors. Still; he hated druids for their arrogance. They really did believe themselves to be above the laws of the kingdom.

Nevertheless, it was not the end. The gods, the ancestors. All were uninterested in the troubles of mortal man; of the living. It was their lot to feast and drink and share in the glory of their own deeds.

Men knew not to trust too much in the power of the gods. Divine boons were not the right of man. They were a gift from the gods - if - they were feeling generous. Today, they were not. Today, Ørkady would march to war with nothing but their own skills and their own strengths to rely on. They would soon learn their own mettle.

As he approached his gathered lords and their men, Brenjulf finished fastening his ornate helm above his head. It was a grand helmet truly fit for a King. Flashes of golden filigree laced around the rim while depictions of Ørkadian warriors flanked the sides of the helmet in shining silver. It was a full face helm with a line of emeralds placed upon the front to outline the features of the face within. Along the crest and flowing down to the front there was laid in gold the form of a mighty eagle, wings abreast as though threatening any before it. It was typical work of Valkrygan goldsmiths. They shaped and wrought works of fine art within their creations. These were specially made for kings to use in battle and for Royal ceremonies.

His sword was long. It had a double edged blade of finest steel with a welded pattern along its length. This pattern welding process was believed to imbue the sword with the strength of the ancestors. The hilt was decorated with more filigree and emeralds were cut to form in to the slots with golden foil beneath to reflect light. Light Cleaver, he called it. A sword of kings.

It was important for the King to be seen in battle. As battles waged on things could get dreadfully confusing. Limbs skewed across the earth. Blood soaking the ground like great puddles of rainwater. It was chaos. It was horrifying. It was enough to turn even the bravest of warriors to thoughts of flight. But, upon the battlefield the king was a god. Upon the battlefield, the sight of the king in all of his battle glory gave heart to men. It empowered their resolve. Added fire to their limbs. In the few moments it took to glance at this god like entity on the battlefield, they were filled with an energy they did not know they had. As the sun caught the shining gold of his equipment, the King would appear as a mighty hero of legend. A god of war in human form. A terrifying being to behold.

Of course, it was all pomp and ceremony in truth. The prowess of kings in battle was more legend than fact. They fared well enough that they may be hailed in the drinking hall later but most times few dared to challenge a king to learn their capabilities in battle. Brenjulf hoped that this was still the case. He had never fought in a battle before. His nerves gripped him at the very thought of the battle madness.

'Mount your horses and be sure you have what you need!' cried Brenjulf to his lords. He would not address the rank and file directly. It would not do for a king to engage with the common men. 'We ride now to Jorvinburgh and to battle with the hated enemy!'

There was a burst of movement as men fell in to their pre orchestrated groups. Falling behind the banners of their lords. The march would be long and tiring. They would have to rest at some point before the next day in order to save whatever strength his men had before the battle. They would rest again the next night and arrive at Jorvinburgh early the day after that. He hoped beyond all hope that the fortress held. If it hadn't, then this journey would become far more complicated.

A raucous of calls from lords and men placed in charge of respective warbands followed as the Ørkadian army began to move. Calls for order. Some calls for a faster pace to those who had already began to lag behind. There was even calls amongst the lower ranks to sing battle songs; only, none had survived the long peace. No one could remember the words which commemorated glorious warriors or their mighty deeds. Or the tales of great cunning in the face of greater odds. Some attempted to sing the few words they did know, or recite tales they weren't completely sure were accurate. Eventually they gave up and the army marched in silence again, save for the barking of orders and the grumbling of men not used to long forced marches.

As the journey progressed, the scenery changed very little. This part of Ørkady was very flat with open land. It was excellent farm land for sure and many fields of corn and wheat flanked the roads as the passed by. On occasion they would see little hamlets which often sprung up when peasants had to move, usually due to a poor harvest in a previous area.

They passed over little streams and brooks which trickled delightfully as they marched over. The splashing of water on rocks reminded the King of his childhood days playing by the river Dervwen which ran along the border between Ørkady and Wræclas when his father, King Brenan, had occasion to meet with their King, Hereward. Now in the winter years of his life, he will soon be succeeded by his son, Herewulf. They had played together, he and Brenjulf, as their fathers discussed politics.

He always felt a connection to the young Prince even as they grew older. He felt he could always rely on his support. It was for this reason he had sent messengers to Wræaclas to garner support against the Northern Åscatorians. In fact, much of their plan rested on Wræclas' support. Though a fading kingdom in terms of political power, they still boasted some of the finest warriors in Raderic. Kjartan had planned the defence of Ørkady around the certainty, which Brenjulf had impressed on him, that Wræclas would send support.

'They will send their men. I guarantee it. They're likely readying their forces as we speak.'

It probably sounded very foolish, a fact which Brenjulf would admit only to himself, but he knew. He knew that Hereward would honour the oaths made between he and his father. He knew Herewulf would remember their friendship.

The summer's sun was blazing above them. It was not a good time of year to be marching in full battle dress. The smell of sweat was pungent in the air. Even Brenjulf began to notice his own odor. He wished for nothing more than a pool of water to duck in to. Something to refresh his musky body. He looked up at the sky. The sun had long since descended from its high point. Soon they would be heading into noon.

He was ever grateful of the late nights which the summer granted them. He loved the long summer's days. He would sit out on the walls of Caestenwalla with an ale in one hand and the vast green landscape before him. The powerful heat warming his body and the ale gladdening his heart. How he wished he could spend summer time in the same way again this year. Instead, he was off to fight a battle against a foe he'd hoped would never plague him during his reign.

Although the sky would remain bright for many hours yet, he knew his men had only so much energy in them before they were collapsing where they walked. He called out for his bannerman, Loedric. Loedric arrived on his horse and pulled his horse to keep pace with the King.

'My King?' he asked.

'We're getting late on in the day now Loedric,' Brenjulf informed him, 'We're going to need a place to settle for the night. Take a scouting party ahead and find somewhere we can lay our heads for the night. There's plenty of placed around here but I don't want us too exposed in the night.'

Loedric bowed low on his horse. 'At once, my King.' he replied before turning his horse around.

'Hastor, Ostred, Ilgor with me!' Brenjulf heard him cry. Good men, he thought. Good men with keen eyes and an even keener sense of comfort. They'll find a good place to lay their heads down tonight.

As they they continued their march, Lord Askladan rode up to keep pace with the King.

'A fine mess you've got us in to now, my King.' The latter part was uttered with a bitter, disrespectful cynicism. 'All the work of your father, and your father's father to ensure peace and in a few short decades of your reign and that has come undone.' He spat to the side of the road and glared at Brenjulf.'

'Well, Lord Askladan. That may be so, but we may still have one benefit to this war even if our battle is a debacle. At least I'll get to see you strewn up by a spear through the arse before I die.' Brenjulf smiled wickedly at Askladan, who returned the smile and gave up all pretence of his venom. He laughed heartily and clapped the King on the shoulder.

'Do not worry, my friend. I shall make sure there's plenty of space on that spear for you. Misery loves company after all!'

Both men chuckled. They were old friends. Firm friends. Askaladan had been the closest of friends since their teen years. They'd shared many winter evenings drinking to their memories and hunted together in the spring months.

'Well my friend,' began Askladan after he regained his composure, 'we always knew one day we'd royally bugger things up. Are you ready for the biggest mistake we'll ever be involved in?'

'As I recall the last big mistake you made was fatter than a boulder and had a bigger beard than even you.'

Askaladan indeed had a gigantic beard. It reached down to his naval and was twisted into two forks, tied together with leather. Bright and ginger, they used to call him fire beard until he punched the last man to call him that so hard it blinded him. He was a great boar of a man. Broad shouldered with tree trunks for arms. Brenjulf knew no tougher man to have at his side. Unlike Brenjulf, Askladan had a thirst for battle. His steading bordered Wræclas and he had ventured many a time into that same kingdom to assist in their border conflicts with the Langanbard's of the north. He was one of very few lords who had fought in a real battle before.

'She might have been a little rough around the edges, but she knew what was what in the bedroom. Ha! She knew what was what in whatever room we found ourselves in!'

'Except for when your wife caught you both at it. I don't think she knew much of anything after the beating she got. I'm not sure you've been quite as sensible since either now I think about it!'

They burst into laughter again. Any who witnessed their King at the back of the procession may have thought he had gone mad. How could any man feel anything but dread on this march? And yet, the King laughed loudly. He had always enjoyed Askladan's company.

Soon after, Loedric returned with his scouts. They had been gone for no longer than an hour and looked pretty satisfied with their mission.

'My King,' Loedric inclined his head in respect, 'we've found a suitable place to rest tonight. It's just a bit further from here, though I'm sure you know where the ruins of Taisu are.'

'Yes, thank you Loedric. I know the ruins well.' Brenjulf surveyed the land with his hand up to his eyes in order to block out the sun's rays. 'An odd choice. As a boy I used to be terrified of those ruins,' he chuckled, 'but it will suffice for the night.' He turned back to his retinue. 'We ride a bit further, men. We'll take shelter in the ruins of Taisu. Send word down the line that we will be resting for the night soon.'

Riders fell back down the line to distribute the message. The army began to quicken its pace somewhat, as though an unspoken consensus had been reached to hurry their way to their destination.

As dusk was creeping in, they made their arrival at the ruins. Remarkable stone structures, what was left of them in any case, greeted them as they crested the hill which led to the open fields before the once proud city of Taisu. The walls were faded and worn with age and lack of care. Moss and ivy grew through the cracks and flowed all over. Despite this, it was plain to see that in its hay day, they had been brilliant white walls. Pure majesty must have spewed forth from these commanding walls. Instead, however, It had been destroyed in the early years of the Valkrygan conquest. But before then, it had been the centre of commerce and religion amongst the native Eriskarian people.

The crumbled ruins of grand towers reached up to the sky like raised arms. Within the walls they could see different colours of wood and stone as though competing against one another for supremacy.

'It makes you wonder how such a people fell. They must have wielded magic of the finest quality to craft a city out of stone.' Askladan muttered to himself thoughtfully. Wood as still the main building material for the Valkrygans.

'Don't be ridiculous,' Kjartan said. He had joined the two men as they stood in awe. 'Magic is the province of gods. We had no magic. Just cunning craftsmanship.' he winked at Askladan who returned a sullen expression. He'd rather liked the idea of a magic wielding foe. It made the conquest of Raderic seem almost grander in his mind.

'My King,' Kjartan turned to Brenjulf and addressed him, 'I do not wish to make decisions for you, but we should not tarry here. These walls held evil secrets even in my peoples day.'

'Thank you, Kjartan. I will bear that in mind. I think we'll be safe for now. I do not believe in spirits or evil beings save those we become ourselves.'

The army marched on and gathered in the ruins beyond the tattered remains of the walls. Dotted here and there were the remains of statues depicting great men of Eriskarian history, no doubt. It must have been a vast city, with thousands of residents. Where there were people there was ale. Kjartan had once regaled the king about of the culture of his people. How there'd been "taverns full of people drinking and chatting." A tavern, he had been told, was like a smaller mead hall with beds for sleeping in. More for peasants than kings. Now, as they walked through the ruins, Kjartan pointed out the features which formed Taisu.

'We've just passed through what would have been the peasants section. Not much to see of it now but it would have been the usual hovels and, of course, I've mentioned the taverns to you.'

'Shame there's none still standing,' grumbled Brenjulf, 'I wouldn't mind an ale right now.'

'I'm sure you'd have liked our ales. They settled many a weary soul.'

Brenjulf raised an eyebrow. 'Just how long have you been living for anyway? I know your people could live many years, but you make it sound as though you've been here when it was still standing.'

Kjartan smiled. 'My King, I did have a father, you know. He told me of his youthful days here. I'm not quite as old as that.'

A handful of lords, their Gesis in tail, caught up with the three of them, including Hagar and Baelson. They greeted their King and the group continued forward.

'Typical Eriskarian cities were built so that the wealthier members of society lived towards the centre of the city. Closer to the temples and therefore to god, so they claimed. I think more likely it was for safety in the event of an attack.'

'Sensible. Let the peasants deal with the attack while their betters can flee.' Hagar said. His manner was always scornful to his lessers; and to his betters when they weren't looking.

'Perhaps. But in the chaos of it all I'd rather be on the outer limits of the city than caught deep within.' Replied Baelson. Not such a fool when compared to Hagar, Brenjulf thought.

They finally arrived at the middle of the city, within which there lay a large rocky hill, which held a commanding prominance in the city even as far as several miles away. Upon that hill there lay a grand white stone structure. From the little they could make out at this distance, they could see that the outer layer featured several columns which flanked around the sides. The arched roof was made from the same brilliant white stone but had begun to collapse in on itself in the years since it lay empty.

'Ah,' came a exclamation from Kjartan, 'The Temple of Hadshin. This once flocked with disciples to Hadshin as well as pilgrims seeking his favour. My father once came here to seek alms for warts on his buttocks.' Kjartan had an odd way of sharing perhaps too much detail.

'Do you see how the spires along the roof pierce the sky? It was believed that the gods could not hear their followers, so the ancients erected such towers so that our prayers would be better heard.' He considered the temple for a moment before shaking his head. 'I would not want to linger here for too long. Whether you believe in spirits or not, this is sacred ground and we would do well to not disturb it.'

At those words, the group walked on, taking a brief moment to regard the majesty of the temple, as though deeply regretful of their ancestors actions. Perhaps they could well have lived in this city themselves had it not been torn to the ground.

As the sun was in its dying embers, orders were given to make camp. The King and his Gesis found lodgings in the surviving structures which had solid covering on the roof and walls while the doors and windows also remained in tact. Every man felt the exhaustion of the march and soon they were glad for the rest. Brenjulf himself had allowed himself the comfort of sleep. His legs were sore. His buttocks ached from the saddle, and he was sure his foot hadn't always felt to tight. As he crumpled down on to the furs upon the floor, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion. Sleep soon took him and the dark silhouettes of the room blurred as he closed his eyes and began to snore.