Chapter One

A curious morality grows within the children of kings. It’s a bright torch with flickering, dancing flames held in their hands and raised high (as if they were the first to discover it), and they proclaim, "Behold I have found this light." Some fix their eyes on the light cast, others on the shadows carved by the light. Fewer notice the room in which they hold this light.

Dux (king) Naeldric slouched in his high-backed chair. 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 before his grand table. 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, all 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 an orange light across the breadth.

Naeldric was irritable. It was the fifth and final day of Noel. Dehydrated from the days of drinking, endless nights and crowded afternoons, he was physically worn, mentally drained. He obsessed over whether his aims for this Noel would be met. Once he fixed his aim, the hours grated past, and wore away his patience exposing a hot resolve that was quick to anger. ‘Urgency’, he called it. And he had no patience for those who didn’t share his urgency. He had a grandiose sense of purpose, he spoke little, but when he did, he expressed grand ideas. Dramatic ideas. For those new to Naeldric, it was hard to take him seriously. He knew that. And whenever someone new dismissed his visions, he labeled them blind, lacking of foresight, and cast them aside until the day they proved their worth.

Once he set his course, Naeldric didn’t entertain alternatives. He would remind himself, ‘I am a Dux (king), I decree, not debate.’ But he never said that out loud. When someone challenged his decisions, he removed them.

His aim for Noel was to convince as many of the local Braet (lords) to pledge their lands and spears and coin to him, to Fael. A war loomed, that was what he preached. Giants in the Uest Veld (Lost Wood) mustered and grew in strength. Monsters who lurked in the shadows just beyond the horizon, a threat that loomed beneath dark clouds. ‘And the only way to withstand them is to stand with each other, under a single crown.’ The cynics would smirk, ‘And of course it’s his crown*.’ For two years, Naeldric put those cynics to the spear. He had captured, razed and assimilated half a dozen smaller holdings with his own army. Each victory swelled his ranks with converts and swelled his coffers with tribute.

When winter set, Naeldric declared they must take a different tact, ‘We don’t have the time to conquer all of Sterich in order to prevent it from being conquered. We must, must, convince the rest to join.’ Even his own ministers questioned the motivation for his change in tactics. Two years of campaigning had cost lives of soldiers, Fael’s soldiers. These losses were replaced with foreigners, and these foreigners did not fight with the same zeal. His stigvird (steward), Lothar, privately admitted as much. "We don’t have the men to unite Sterich in the time we’ve got. Diplomacy is a must."

Naeldric was a short man, but most people didn’t remember him as such. His eyes, wide, blue and steady, bored through the souls of those who met his stare. He said little. He spoke with his eyes. That night, his stare was steady, flat and cold. He was avoided by those who could. His stigvird (Steward) was not so fortunate. Lothar lingered at a nearby table, bowl of wine at his lips. He shared whispers and laughs with another man that Naeldric didn’t recognize. Naeldric waved his stigvird over.

Lothar sat at Naeldric’s left, on a stool. He leaned over and shielded his words with his hand. "A new minister to Otmar," he said to explain who he spoke with. "You dueled his father years back."

Naeldric looked again at the large man. Tall, young, broad shoulders, he had a steep brow and hands that could palm a watermelon. "I prefer the elder," smirked Naeldric.

"Ah, but you will like this one more. He whispers our words for us."

Naeldric nodded. He fixed his gaze on his son.

Bastion. A man by every outward measure. Twenty-two years old. Married, although his wife had not yet given him a child. 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. Even by a Lothar-ian head -- Naeldric disliked the shape of Lothar’s head, and the size. He thought it 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. Naeldric insisted Lothar wore a hat to cover it. Lothar was given a pass considering it was Noel.

Bastion sat at a lesser table. Naeldric had yelled at him earlier that afternoon. He had caught Bastion in the courtyard acting childishly. His wife beside him. They held hands. At first the sight warmed Naeldric’s heart. Bastion’s wife wasn’t cold like most of the northern women, but she was flighty in a way which made it difficult to read whether she was truly happy or just putting on a show. Standing there, holding hands as snow fell, gave Naeldric hope. Then he noticed how Bastion’s face was turned up, his mouth open. He was catching snow on his tongue like a child. Naeldric roared his disapproval. The memory of it bothered him so much that he closed his eyes. He put his hand over his brow and took a breath.

Naeldric recalled Bastion’s face when he had stepped up to his son. It had a blank look, like a mask Bastion hid behind in hopes his father wouldn’t see him in there. Naeldric rose up on his toes to shrink the height disparity. A handbreadth separated them. He shouted until the color ran from his son’s face. He shouted until Bastion’s eyes glassed over, flooded with tears that his pride wouldn’t allow to escape down his face. Bastion said nothing. That further enraged Naeldric. With each syllable, he yearned to see his son rise up to him. And Bastion didn’t. Bastion absorbed each word like the stuffing in a goose, filled so taunt that the seams of his eyes seemed ready to burst with tears.

Naeldric knew he had gone too far. All around stood courtiers, guards, stable boys, maids, runners, men, women, children, agape and silent, witnesses to his outburst. He knew it then. As he shouted, Naeldric felt as if some part of himself escaped and turned to watch from the outside, and that part disapproved of what it saw. But that part was powerless to stop it. It could only provide a whisper of an awareness. The louder part of Naeldric’s emotions cast these concerns aside and reasoned: I can’t relent now. It matters more that I am right. It matters more that what he was doing others could see. That diminished him. I’ve gone this far, I must see it through. For his sake as much as mine. He left his son standing with his back against the wall, his wife a few paces away, her hands covering her face. Naeldric hurled one last attack, "You won’t be needed on the hunt! Stay home with your books."

So, when the feast began that night, and the guests filed in, Naeldric watched as his son walked past his table, past where the prins of Fael should sit, and took a seat at the same table with the insulting emissary from Neeklow.

Luthar pulled Naeldric from his thoughts with a light tap on his forearm. Lothar then leaned close, and just loud enough that only they could hear. "Burkhaerd will not join us, though I am sensible that Ruedigar will use every persuasive in his power to with them to join us."

A glance from Naeldric stopped Lothar, and the stigvird responded as if he heard a question spoken aloud. "Yes, indeed. It it’s the youth. The young men of Balrode tire of Burkhaerd’s excuses."

"So we will have their spears?" Naeldric cut him off, bringing Lothar to what Naeldric thought the point.

Lothar didn’t hesitate to answer, "The gods know that answer, and they don’t often apprise me of their plans beforehand."

"Think of me as your god," quipped Naeldric.

"Then why are you asking me?"

"A test of faith, maybe?"

"What choice do we have?" Answered Lothar. "We need them."

Naeldric slapped the table with his palm, "That’s right. Good. You’re getting it. Tell me more of this Braet (lord) Ruedigaer."

As Lothar recited a brief biography of the woodland lord, Naeldric’s eyes found his son again, and his thoughts soon went back to his own anger.

Bastion’s wife sat next to 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 never left his bowl. Where is his head at, Naeldric couldn’t guess. Naeldric felt responsible, he pitied his son. He felt helpless to reach him. Bastion locked himself in a shell of fine clothes and blank stares. Naeldric attributed this retreat within to the abuse he poured on him. Which, to Naeldric, displayed weakness. This judgement of weakness snatched his thoughts from the pity he felt a moment ago and his disgust rose like a kite in a strong wind. Still a string remained attached, and as blinked and looked again into the face of his son, pity tugged on that string and for a moment he saw his son through the eyes of a father, and not the eyes of a Dux.

Lothar was reaching his conclusion, "He has outwardly defied your request. He courts others to do the same. He says you made up this threat of giants to scare the others into your coffers. Balrode is small, but Burkhaerd speaks with skill. He possesses a slick tongue, my lord." 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 faced him. He stared straight into that egg-headed man with a sinister joy. Naeldric watched Lothar wilt under his gaze. He imagined the fear 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."

"My Lord. He hasn’t your mettle."

"Nicely put. You raise me up to fit him underneath without having to lower him."

Lothar nodded, a satisfied smily crept across his face.

"Balrode," mused Naeldric. "Send Bastion there."

"When, my lord?"

"While I am on the hunt. Send him, with a force. Let’s put a spear in his hand."