Chapter 1

A war loomed. At least that's what Naeldric, Dux (king) of Fael, claimed. He gave an impassioned speech to his * meisteurs (ministers) about the threat of giants in the Uest Veld (Lost Wood). "They muster and grow in strength. Just beyond our horizon, just far enough to doubt. I can see in your eyes, you see a pretense. This is not a pretense, this is either a twilight or a dawn, which one is up to us. If we do nothing, we are marking the end of our days, the end of the sterish way. We will be squashed under the boots of giants. If we act, if we unite, you will see the dawn of a unified Sterich, and the prosperity that will bring. You see, this threat is close enough that we have all heard the shepherds begging for relief, for hunters, for promises of protection. And we all have heard one way or another from the farmers along the Dairy Road, miles from the forest, and yes miles from here, that they are finding their cattle mangled, bellies ripped open. They come to me, on their knees, begging for our protection because neither Neeklow nor Veinheim will come to their aid. And to the person who is about to object and tell me that they are not our people, that they pay their taxes to another dux (king), I shake my head at you. For we are all sterish. And dangers that lurk in the night into their yards will, unless met, in the bright of our last day, charge through our walls!" By this point, he stood with his fists planted on the table, he was leaning over it, his eyes wide, daring, ready to battle.

His meisteurs had feared that Naeldric was simply exploiting this latest rustling in the woods to claim more of Sterich for himself. He assured them that was not the case. "We will send messengers to Neeklow and Veinheim and we will bargain for a united response. Which he did, and no response came. None of his meisteurs expected a response. It was preposterous to think other duxs (kings) would cede any authority to Naeldric.

In truth, the other duxs (kings) had grown tired of listening to this young dux from next to the sea. According to their spies, Naeldric was spoken of in dismissive ways. He was called a tyrant. They thought he invited the gods ire with his hubris. Naeldric knew this, and he didn't entirely disagree. He received the reports with a smirk. He knew his history as well as they did. He had, in fact, just concluded several years of raids and warfare so he could consolidate his rule in the countryside that surrounded Fael. And he had started that consolidation just a few scant months into his rule. "Ah, but this is different," he had countered. "This, this! There is a real danger. Right. I have seen it. And this time, a dux here, a dux there, a braet (lord) over there, that won't be enough. This is the real test. May the gods strike me down if what I say is to mislead. The sterish must do something they haven't done since the days of Empire, we must come together."

But they didn't. And another winter passed. His ministers attempted to assuage his concerns, which only angered him. He began to question their loyalty. His preferred method was to point out all that they had, all that they had gained since he ascended to the throne. He would take them out of the cramped council chamber, out into the brisk coastal air, along the walls, and point to the harbors filled with merchant vessels. His hand would sweep from the river to the hills and then to the sea, and he would say, "And how have you fared? As well as Fael? And still you do not trust me?" It was the sort of question that people of integrity could only answer with silence.

Naeldric expressed great reluctance when he declared that spring that the only path left for him, for Fael and for all the sterish was to unite the realm at all costs, with spears, with blood. Not everyone believed this was a last resort. And again the rumors of pretense whispered through the shadowed corridors of the Aechtung (Keep at Fael). Once Naeldric proclaimed his intentions, he suffered no dissent. "I tried reason. Reason is the comfort mortals concoct in the face of the gods." He called up his soldiers. If a village didn't honor the call, they were put the spear. For three years, he campaigned across northern Sterich. Braet after braet took a knee or lost a head.

But war is costly in coin and blood. After those three years, his meisteurs saw the need for a change in strategy. And they felt they had time. Rumors of giants striking from the dark shadows of the woods had not ceased. But no invasion had yet occurred. Naeldric admitted he agreed. A new strategy was chosen, the same strategy that had failed three years prior: diplomacy. Win their pledges with wine and merriment instead of spears and bloodshed. Things were different this time. Three years of fires, smoke and blood changed how seriously the braets would listen.

Naeldric invited to Fael all those who had not pledged to him. He invited them to observe Noel with him. The five day celebration which was traditionally a time of truce and coming together. In first four days he made great progress.

On the fifth and last day of Noel, Naeldric doubts about diplomacy returned.

5 Noel 1061

Dux (king) Naeldric took his breakfast in his quarters. It was a drafty room with a high ceiling. A large, blue, translucent crystal window dominated the far wall. A tapestry hung to cover it, but was pulled aside which allowed a faint, blue light in the room. It left the impression of eating underwater. He sat at the lone table.

His wife ate with him, seated across from him. She looked tired, but he wouldn't tell her he thought so. Her Noel had been demanding due to what he asked of her. When he needed to speak to someone alone, she isolated his quarry with laughter and wine and made his approach look natural and unintended. When he wanted sympathy, she spread tales of his charity. When he needed to think aloud, she listened silently.

"The coffee is cold," he said.

"You keep the window uncovered." Her voice was far off. She picked at her bread, in an absentminded way.

"Cover it, then."

"What?"

"Get up. Loosen the tie. Cover the window. If you're cold, that is."

She looked up at him with fierce challenge in her eyes, but a smile played across her face. "I will." She pushed herself up from the table and walked with a sway to her hips. She passed just close enough for him to reach out and grab her, but would need to stretch.

He did. He pulled her into his embrace. She fell across his chair with a laugh and a mock kind of resistance. He loved her when she was playful.

"Milord," came a voice from just outside the room.

"Go away, Lothar." Naeldric shouted, then he kissed his wife.

"Milord," the same voice pleaded.

"Speak with him," his wife said. He watched her walk to their private quarters.

Lothar, Naeldric's stigvird (steward) entered with a sheepish expression. He wore the blue pointed hat of a meisteur (minister). It sat high on his large forehead, and exaggerated the size of his head. He took a few steps then rubbed his arms. "Why do you keep it so cold in here?" He walked past Naeldric to the window, loosened the ties, and let the tapestry fall closed. The room dimmed, the blue light drained and the only light that remained came was the orange flickering flames from the fireplace. Shadows danced on the walls. He gestured to a servant in the doorway to come and stoke the fire. He took the seat vacated by Naeldric's wife. He removed his hat and placed it on the table. His bald head glistened as if it were polished. Naeldric wanted to mock it, but he chose not to.

Lothar touched the cold pitcher of coffee. "Sulphur, Naeldric," he admonished his dux, and held the pitcher up for the servant to replenish. "As hot as you can keep it," he said. Then he addressed Naeldric, "Where do we begin?"

"You came into my room, interrupted my breakfast, scared off my wife. You tell me where we begin."

Lothar glanced dismissively over his shoulder at the dux's private chambers. "I hoped to begin with a hot bowl of coffee. But alas," he said with a tone of mock disappointment.

Lothar was a year younger than the dux and was the first meisteur Naeldric had appointed after his coronation. They had been friends since childhood. Which granted him a latitude in his dealings with the dux that few others possessed.

Naeldric fixed his stare on Lothar. Lothar waited, brows raised in a stately sort of disapproval at how long it was taking to get a warm pitcher of coffee. Once it arrived, he said, "Finally, thank you."

Naeldric watched him pour himself a bowl, blow the steam off, take a careful sip, then snap his mouth back. "Hot," he said.

"Well then. Braet (lord) Burkhaerd holds out."

"And?"

"And, and that's not good for us. Clearly. But before you say it, don't dismiss him. I know his little hill town brims with simple folk but," Lothar raised a finger and repeated with emphasis, "BUT that man can speak. And people listen."

Naeldric stood up, poured himself a bowl of coffee, then paced around the room with the bowl cupped in his hands.

Lothar continued, "It's become a game of tides. We win a few to our side. He comes after and coerces a few back to resist. We then go with those back, and so on and so on."

Naeldric sipped his coffee. He stopped before the window, pushed the tapestry aside with his foot, the blue light cast a ghostly glow on him. "What does he want?"

"That's the thing. As far as I can tell, all he wants is to defy you. I can't find anything else. Concubines, coins, caravans: the usual lures don't work. I tried them all: women, men, boys, girls, silver, luxuries. He really just dislikes you."

"Ha!," Naeldric said with a start. "Imagine, Lothar, if I only worked with those I liked? We never would have forged our close partnership."

"I was thinking the same thing. By Mrith you're a fortunate man I'm patient and easily bribed."

"Expensive, though."

"Cheap and easy are not the same thing, it's why they are mentioned in the fashion of a list."

"So, he's principled, then? What higher calling is there than uniting to fend off a threat to the realm under the standard of a dux?"

"Half way there. It's not the principle he dislikes. It's just you."

"What did I do?" Naeldric was puzzled. He had no recollection of dealing with Burkhaerd, or anyone in his lineage. Balrode, the village Burkhaerd speaks for, had never been raided by Fael.

"Am I speaking in tongues? It's you. Nothing you did or do other than being you. I looked for a motivation, something to tell me why. No one, living or dead, and I have spoken to so many at such length about this that I'm sure I have personally bored several good people to death -- knows why he feels how he feels. All I can come up with is that he simply doesn't like you. Wait. Ha! That's it. You can't imagine someone not liking you?"

Naeldric turned to Lothar. The humor gone from his face. "I am not a likable person. I have no delusions on that point. But to loathe me without cause? A braet that loathes a dux without cause, is shortsighted. It's personal. This isn't a personal game. Maybe it's ambition."

"I don't think so," said Lothar. "He's telling others to defy you, not to join him. He's got nothing to join. Unless you like thick fingered hill people and fingernails stuffed with black soil." Lothar took a breath. "We can't let him be. It's one thing if he refused and then kept silent. But he's out there, every night, telling other braets to defy you as well."

"Right. Then we return to the tried and true. We burn his village."

Lothar looked hesitant. Naeldric closed his eyes, took a deep inhale. "What?"

"That takes time you don't have. There's the Weide (The Hunt). That loses a month. And you must attend that. And there are a scant few men willing to commit violence during the Weide without your presence to appease the gods."

"Raban would do it." Naeldric favored Raban. For three years, no soldier had shown greater courage, tenacity and battlefield prowess. Lothar had long been jealous of the praise Raban gathered. Naeldric watched to see how Lothar reacted.

Lothar inhaled, and then held the breath, and gave time for his mind to work out his response. "Give me one more chance before we decide on who rides on Balrode."

Dux (king) Naeldric searched out his son late that morning. He wanted to learn what Bastion knew of Burkhaerd. That was what he told himself. Naeldric struggled with Bastion. He didn't understand him and found him to be an idealist, a trait he considered fatal for a ruler. Conversations felt forced. Conversations with pregnant with huge gaps of awkward silences and questing for topics to discuss. Naeldric had slipped into a habit of finding excuses to speak with Bastion.

The sky was clouded over by a wash of indistinguishable grey. The sun was a hint, a pale spot on the heavens. The cold leached the warmth from the keep. Naeldric's breath trailed behind him in clouds that quickly evaporated. When he reached the portico around the Vaell Ontaenus (Ontaenus' bailey) he caught sight of his son.

Bastion. A man by every outward measure. Twenty-two years old, married, although they remained childless. He wore fashionable attire: a tunic with a bright embroidery, tied at the waist with a woven cord. He kept his beard trimmed, a short black wedge, the trend with the younger men in Fael. Bastion was taller than Naeldric, by a good head.

Bastion and his wife held hands. Naeldric paused to take it in. They reminded Naeldric of he and his own wife, when they were young, before he wore the crown. A gentle memory of a simpler time that he didn't like to look back on.

Naeldric found northern women cold, but Bastion’s wife was a warm, welcoming soul. She seemed happy enough, although she was flighty. Naeldric wondered if she was convincing herself of her happiness. Standing there watching them hold hands gave Naeldric hope.

Then he noticed Bastion’s face turned skyward, his mouth open. Bastion caught snow on his tongue like a child. Naeldric's blood went hot and he went straight at him, taking long brisk strides. He caught Bastion by surprise, and roared his disapproval. Bastion jumped. Naeldric continued his advance. Bastion backpedaled. Tendons taunt in Naeldric's neck. Veins bulged from his temples. He cursed Bastion for acting childish. "You are a heartbeat from the throne!"

Courtiers, guards, stable boys, maids, runners, families, children bore witness with open mouths and silent shock. While Naeldric shouted his displeasure, he was visited by an odd sensation. It was as if he had stepped outside of himself and watched from above. He disapproved of what he saw. A louder impulse from deep within said in a stern, clenched teeth voice, I can’t relent now. It matters more that I am right. Others saw him.

He left his son standing with his back against the wall, his wife a few paces away, her hands covered her face.

Afterwards, Naeldric wanted to be alone. He postponed the Duxhalle (small council meeting). He shut himself in his quarters, sat at a table in cold silence. He stared at the blue window. The winter winds howled outside. His wife asked what happened. "Bastion," he said. She stood for a moment, then he heard her leave. An attendant came in to light the fire, but Naeldric dismissed him.

He rested his head on his hands. He thought of Bastion. He thought of him as a boy. He thought of him as his son. He replayed moments, moments that felt distinct and meaningful, moments where he reacted harshly, often too harshly and he asked himself if he was at fault for the man Bastion had become.

His wife returned just before the Noel feast. She ordered Naeldric dressed and had a fire lit. She said nothing to Naeldric. He was grateful. He went through the motions of readying. She sat not far, on the arm of a chair, and observed with a cold look.

As they entered the feast the attendees rose and lifted their bowls of wine to honor his entrance. A cheer went up. Naeldric's expression was blank, even cold. He made a quick, casual scan but he didn't locate Bastion.

He opened the feast with a shot speech. His expression flipped from empty to lively and cheerful. A smile appeared, wide, and toothy. His eyes were bright. He mocked the quality of the wine, "After four days drinking with this lot, no wine cellar would remain intact!". Formalities complete, he slouched in his high-backed chair. The cheer left his face. Servers poured into the hall and tended to the guests. It would be another hour before Naeldric would be served.

Waes Langhaus (Great White Hall) yawned before him, a long timber hall cut down the middle by a fire pit that teemed with red, pulsing coals. Tables clumped in front of his. Bowls of wine, most empty, some still making their way there, picked-over ham bones, chicken bones, baskets of crumbs that once were filled with loaves of a yellow bread, littered the tables. Some people still straddled the benches, but most had already risen to mingle, dance and conspire. Torches fed the growing haze with an inky smoke that clung to the high ceiling and cast a jumpy orange light. Servers rushed fresh food Naeldric and his wife. As tradition, they ate last. And they ate little.

He remained irritable. He made no attempt to hide that. Those that could avoided him. His stigvird (Steward) was not so fortunate. Lothar lingered at a nearby table, a bowl of wine at his lips. He shared whispers and laughs with another man that Naeldric didn’t recognize. A tall, young man with broad shoulders, a steep brow and hands that could palm a watermelon. Naeldric saw how Lothar avoided his gaze. He heard of the spate with Bastion. Naeldric waved his stigvird over.

Lothar carefully took a seat at Naeldric’s left, on a stool. “Braet Otmar,” he said to explain who he spoke with. “You dueled his father years back.”

“I'm sure I preferred the elder. Wasn't he a smaller fellow?”

"Yes, yes he was," Lothar answered automatically. "Come to think of it, so was his mother. I'd wager that one of their guards was a tall fellow."

They shared a quiet laugh. Lothar looked relieved.

"But," continued Lothar, "I think you will like the younger more. He speaks for our cause. And people like to listen to him"

"I don't care much for the ones we've won over. What of Burkhaerd?"

"We might be able to use this young lordling to influence Burkhaerd."

"How? I'm to trust the word of someone who I don't know well enough to trust?"

"Well, when you put it like that, it certainly makes diplomacy sound like a delicate and fickle thing. It's a wonder anyone engages in it." Lothar leaned forward, elbows rested on his thighs, his hands clasped.

The music struck up. People rose and hooked arms to dance. That was when Naeldric spotted Bastion. He sat at a lesser table with his beside him. She was engaged in a conversation with the governess of the child prins from Neeklow. (Neeklow sent a child to his Noel feast! The insult of it!). Bastion sat silent, almost oblivious. He sipped wine, his eyes fixed on his bowl.

Naeldric looked at Lothar. He disliked the shape of Lothar’s head, and the size. He thought it looked like a dragon’s egg stuck atop a broomstick. Smooth, shiny, light reflected off it in glints. The skull beneath the skin was too apparent. The sight of it bothered him more than usual, and he recognized his mood was affecting how he saw his friend.

"Why is my son seated there?"

Lothar's face went blank. It reminded Naeldric of Bastion's face during their confrontation in the bailey. Lothar answered, “He defies you. He encourages others to do the same. He alleges you concocted the threat of giants to scare the others into your arms. Which plays into Burkhaerd's hands.” Lothar looked at Bastion and back to Naeldric. “My lord, do you wish me to fetch the prins?”

Naeldric inhaled deeply. “Lothar, was I too harsh?” His voice low, raspy.

Lothar considered.

Naeldric stared straight at that egg-headed man with a sinister joy. Naeldric watched Lothar wilt under his gaze. He imagined the anxiety he must feel, the confusion as to how to answer a Dux about his behavior. Then Naeldric laughed. “Can’t find it in you to criticize your Dux?” He slapped Lothar on the shoulder. “Go on, I asked for it.” His tone lacked humor.

“Naeldric. He hasn’t your mettle.”

“You raise me up to fit him beneath.”

Lothar nodded slowly.

Naeldric's voice came out flat and slow. “Send Bastion. Send Bastion to Balrode. Send him to raid Balrode and get me Burkhaerd's head.”