(or “The Liberation of Sira Zelaad”)
From The Histories of the Kepalan Kingdom by Ermine Baundalier
I must be able to see for a hundred miles. How does he manage to be at ease up here? thought Wodan Veld as he stood on the ramparts of Sira Kepala, his gaze falling on the hills beyond the city walls. He had come here to clear his head before what was to be at best a tense discussion. Wodan did not like being far from his little town with its big-hearted people. He was out of his element in high towers such as this one.
Give me some dirt on my hands and the ground under my feet any day, he thought. Descended from hunters and farmers, the grizzled old chieftain preferred a simpler life.
“Jory has quite a view, don’t you think?” said Duke Narcis Vask. Wodan was so lost in thought that he had not heard him approach.
“It is certainly grand. Good job our king has his feet on the ground or he’d get his head lost in the clouds,” Wodan answered without turning.
“This is the proper place for a ruler, no? Above everyone? Would that we were to aspire to such heights, Veld.”
“I prefer to look my people in the eye.”
“Down there with your regular folk, eh? I suppose you’re suited for it. I mean, you are a champion of the commoners, after all.”
Wodan was unfazed by Narcis’ none-too-subtle barb. “You’d do well to remember your family history. You Vasks owed your fortune to being men of the people. Until Otho and his reckless extravagances, that is.”
“Watch your place, Veld!” Narcis snapped, drawing close to Wodan’s face. “You would do well to remember who has the ear of the king and how quickly fortunes can change in times of war. After my victory, they’ll call me Narcis the Brave, and I’ll be second only to our king.”
Wodan placed a hand on Narcis’ chest and pushed him slowly but firmly back to arm’s length. Narcis’ face fell at the understated display of strength.
“There’s a saying where I come from, Vask. Don’t call for a feast before you’ve brought home the buck.”
“War is coming,” Narcis lowered his voice to a whisper. “This is a chance for us to claim what’s rightfully ours. Spoils. Respect. Glory.”
Narcis’ eyes flicked to the pommel of the sword Wodan wore at his waist. Wodan’s hand instinctively rested upon it like the arm of a young man around his lover.
“It’s no secret he always favored you, you know,” said Narcis, his eyes darting back to Wodan’s.
“Jory passed Windsong to me as a way to protect our people. All of our people. It’s not a trinket to be displayed as a show of opulence.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t giving his best friend a venerable blade and calling him a Guardian of Kepala the most high-flown of love letters?”
“I had a job to do, and that job was done, Narcis.”
“And yet you flout your standing by toiling in the mud like a common swineherd,” Narcis hissed.
Wodan cracked a lopsided grin. “Nobody ever changed this world without getting his hands dirty.”
Narcis Vask snorted at the provincial platitude, and a moment later, a royal steward appeared. “Duke Vask, Baron Veld, King Jory will see you now,” he addressed them formally. Narcis straightened his spine and spun on his heel, turning his back on Wodan and the steward as he made his way. Wodan, shaking his head at the unusual use of his title, followed after taking a last glance from the rampart at a world that would soon change forever.
King Jory Corin had converted the western library of his private residences into a war room. Large leather maps were unfolded on the even larger table in the middle of the room. The table, itself reputedly made from the door of a previous version of the same library, was scattered with markers indicating troop movements and war-related assets such as salt, ore, and grain. The various towns of the nation were similarly marked, as well as the unknown regions beyond their borders. There, on the far edge of the map, stood a model of the great and mysterious Sira Zelaad, ringed in a hemisphere of red blocks that designated the enemy army.
Jory raised his head as Narcis and Wodan entered, taking a pull at a steaming tankard in his hand. “My friends. Thank you for coming. It’s good to see you both again. Would you like some of this? It’s a concoction that old Izar brewed up to keep me alert while we plan. I must say, it’s doing the job.”
“One of Master Izar’s elixirs? If it’s good enough for you, Sire, I’d be only too lucky to indulge,” said Narcis, bowing curtly at the waist, sporting a thin-lipped smile from ear to ear.
“Narcis, it’s just us, no need to use titles in private,” Jory chuckled.
“This fancy fop never was good at dropping his airs, was he?” roared Wodan as he reached for Jory’s forearm and grasped it. The king reciprocated and they both clapped each other on the back as they embraced. “You have any of that ale the brewers from the low town get up to? The smoky black stuff. I always did like having a drink before picking a fight.”
“The Iron Rat. Yes, I have two capable men in my larders who keep a supply. I’ll have them bring a barrel up.” Jory motioned to an attendant who disappeared quickly.
“Drinking while planning to go to war. I have a man in my employ that you’d get along with like thunder and lightning, Veld,” Narcis snorted.
“I’m sure I’ll meet him soon enough, Duke Vask.” Wodan’s words had a bite to them.
“Boys, enough. We’ll have plenty of time for sparring after the bastards have been beaten back,” Jory chided with a smile. His cheeks flushed red with the natural cheer for which he was so well known. Through Jory’s full, grey beard and beneath the wrinkles, Wodan could still see the vitality in his old friend’s eyes. He mused for a moment on the times past when they had stormed the low roads near The Spur and the high roads on the frozen coast all those years ago. He longed for those times when life was simple, before they’d gone on to have families of their own, titles, and settled into the boring business of ruling a land.
“What’s all this, then?” Narcis asked, attempting to steer the subject back to business he could influence. He gestured at various features of the war room’s map.
“Well, in short, this is the yoke we have to bear, my friends,” Jory said, settling into a tone that was much more serious. He pointed to the model of Sira Zelaad. “There she stands, the old miracle of the gods that houses so many secrets. The Halafalok have her encircled, and without help, she won’t last the summer. They came up from the south as they usually do.”
The Halafalok. The air took on a grim tone at the mention of the invaders. An army made up of these creatures that were as much beast as man inspired fear in the most stout-hearted of veterans.
Jory continued, “They’ve ransacked their way through the region before, but never with such organized discipline. They’re learning from their mistakes. Now their greedy eyes are set on Zelaad. I need not tell you her strategic importance to the region.”
“Yes indeed, she’s the plump prize all the invaders want to pry the secrets out of,” Wodan agreed. “Izar always was fond of the place.”
Jory laughed and shook his head. “Six decades at the old fool’s side, and he still surprises me every day.”
“Why, if I may be so bold, must the Crown of Kepala spend its blood and treasure in the defense of a foreign city, Jory?” Narcis asked abruptly. “Why must we go to their aid when we have nothing to gain but the goodwill of a neighbor?”
Jory turned to Narcis and looked him in the eye for a moment, sizing him up. He took a brief sidelong glance at him, then motioned toward the map, pointing to the thriving town of Par Tilian near the center. “You see there, Narcis? That’s the lake that everyone in the kingdom gets most of their water from. All the fields, all the wells, all the water that powers the mills that grind your grain and feed your people – all of it flows out of Lake Tilian.”
To emphasize his point, Jory stabbed his finger into the representation of the lake on the map. Jory continued, “And all of this water comes from an underground source somewhere up here, in the vicinity of Sira Zelaad. The invaders dam up that river, Lake Tilian goes dry and people begin to starve. Do you want a horde of starving people beating down your door because they can’t feed their children? Would it not be better to attack these monsters with a well fed army at our side?”
“There’s more reason than that,” Wodan offered. “Who knows what the savages can puzzle out from the Great Library and the structure of the city itself. And after they fall, who’s next? Par Zelaad and Tankaash in half a season. Then Par Tilian. Then Harn’s End and Arrain. Without them, Sira Kepala falls and the beasts walk all over the world.”
“He’s right,” said Jory, motioning to Wodan. “Zelaad falls and it’s only a matter of time.”
“And what is there for the spoils of war?” Narcis asked, raising his chin.
“Loyalty, security, and a unified Kepala,” Jory said with a look of uncharacteristic seriousness in his eyes. “I have it on good authority that this is the path to a Kepala that counts Sira Zelaad as a part of it, not a neighbor. The great free city will become one of our own. We will have her resources, her knowledge, and her trade reach, and she shall have our protection.”
“Bold move, old friend. You’re certain you’re not trading the king’s crown for a conqueror’s whip?” Wodan said softly.
“Not today, bear cub,” Jory said, clapping Wodan on the shoulder. “The way to prosperity is with the open hand, not the shaking fist. They will join willingly or not at all.”
All three men stood in silence for a moment, pondering the map. The quiet was broken with the return of Jory’s steward with a tray of cups, and behind him, two more bearing a large wooden cask. Jory nodded to the stewards and they disappeared, leaving the cask and cups.
“Now to strategy. You two are to be the hammers that will beat these fiends into submission against my anvil. A swift cavalry to break their lines, and a stalwart infantry to look them in the eye and cleave them in two,” Jory said, indicating Narcis and Wodan, respectively.
“As I have corresponded, Your Majesty, I’ve set to raising five thousand of the finest horsemen the kingdom has yet seen,” Narcis said.
“Stop calling me that. You were always the better horseman, fitting that you should field them,” Jory said with a nod. “Wodan, to you falls the infantry then. Think you can look these beasts in the eye and bring them to heel?”
“My boys have been training since before they knew which side of the playpen smelled the worst. The fighting men of the north coast will bring down a cold rain on the beasts. Who is leading them this time anyway?”
“Strall, son of Sh’gang Thratch.”
“Thratch had a son?”
“He did, and he’s trying to make his bones where the old man failed.”
“Then let’s teach him a lesson, shall we?” Narcis interjected. “Let’s give them a reason to fear the fighting men of Kepala!”
Jory and Wodan shared a look. After a moment, Jory said, “The Kepalan regulars are mustering here outside the walls of the city. My commanders tell me that in two months time, we’ll be ten thousand strong. That ought to be enough to send them packing for good.”
For a while the three old friends drank the smoky ale and reminisced about the days when they were young men traveling the wide world seeking fortune and glory, before age and responsibility had drawn lines on their faces and white streaks into their beards. The sun set.
Narcis was the first to rise, stumbling a bit as he did so. Wodan began to rise to help him, but Narcis immediately protested, “Fine! I’m fine! Perfectly fine! These kingly ales are quite rich. Fitting! And good now… night friends! I am to plan my many horses for battle.”
Narcis spun on his heel, a little too far, and faced the door. He turned once again, and bowed lazily at the waist. A servant opened the door from the outside and Narcis bumped into the frame slightly as he made his exit. Wodan and Jory let the silence hang for a moment after Narcis had departed, then they both broke into a fit of roaring laughter, so hearty that their faces turned red.
“Jory the Jouster… why do we still let that pompous twat hang about?”
“Don’t let them hear you calling me that, I don’t want Aurora hearing about how that one came about.”
More uproarious laughter came from the two old friends, and in slapping his knee, Wodan knocked his cup onto the floor. “Oh, just put that anywhere!” Jory howled.
Wodan rose and grabbed his fallen cup on the way up. He grabbed Jory’s nearly empty one from his hand with a grunt and stomped over to the cask, filling them both. As Wodan placed the two cups on the table, then crashed back into his chair, he regarded his friend. “We’re getting old, Jory.”
“We got old quite a while ago, bear cub,” said Jory with a wan smile. “We can still have one last charge though, can’t we?”
“If I ever get so old that I can’t swing this sword, I’ll hang it up on the mantel and have done with it. Soon enough my boy Brehon will be of age to take over for me, and I’ll be able to finally take a load off these bones.”
“You can’t wait to lay down the sword and Narcis can’t wait to pick it up. How far we’ve all come, yeah?”
“As far as I’m concerned, the fun was over when you took the crown,” Wodan mused.
“No choice, Baron Veld!” Jory said, smirkingly jabbing Wodan’s title at him. “Sooner or later we had to get on with it.”
“Doesn’t mean we have to like it, Your Majesty!” belted Wodan. They both shared another belly laugh at the expense of one another.
“We’re doing this now so our children won’t have to. For your boy Brehon, as much as my own son Simon’s future. We’re fighting the beasts now and making a safe land for them so they can be spared the horrors of what we’ve seen,” said Jory, suddenly serious.
Wodan sat pensively for a moment, taking a long pull from his cup. “You’re a wise king, Jory. And a good friend. I’d stand shoulder to shoulder with you and spit into Morgorod’s face if you asked.”
Jory smiled. “There’s no one else I’d have stand with me, bear cub.”
Day and night, night and day, and for weeks on end, they drilled in open fields on the Veld family’s own farmlands. Ground once reserved for growing carrots and onions was tilled by bootheels preparing for war. The men of Arrain and the surrounding countryside had mustered there and lived in camps pitched on the nearby hills while they trained. The afternoon’s sparring exercises had ended, and Wodan had begun consulting his senior men-at-arms at the training ground’s head.
“Most of them are just boys,” said Lach Curada, the chieftain of Norburn, a small hamlet to the south. His blacksmith’s hands showed the long years of wear at his trade as he grasped the hilt of his training sword, idly making designs in the dirt.
“With any luck we’ll make men out of them before the war does it for them,” Wodan answered, his eyes lingering over the campground.
“Most of them, the worst they’ve known is a bloody nose and a few bruises scrapping with each other for fun. They don’t know what we’re coming up against. Gods below, I don’t even know. I’ve only heard rumors of the Halafalok.”
Wodan stroked his beard and considered it for a second. “Being aware of what we face is all well and good. They’ve got to know that we are not afraid, Curada. These boys need to know that together, they’re invincible.”
“No amount of drilling with sticks is going to get that done, Veld.”
“Mayhap you’re right. Gather them up. Now,” Wodan nodded with his chin toward the nearby throng of the citizen soldiers.
“All right, you lot of hairy-palmed pissworms! Baron Veld wants a word at ya! Get your arses over here and pay attention!” Curada shouted in the general direction of the men. Obediently and quickly they stepped up to Wodan’s position. He stood atop a modestly sized mound of earth and looked out at the gathered young men, numbering already in the thousands.
“Take a knee, boys,” Wodan said, and in a wave the gathered trainees hunkered down to regard their leader.
Wodan took a moment to gather his thoughts, looking over them all, then spoke. “There is evil in this world, my friends. Evil lurks around every corner and under every rock in this blasted world, and it’s up to those of us with the guts to stand up to it to shine a light on all that is miserable in this world and put it back in its place.
“The time is now, boys. The job is ours. Let us fight for our great country, our lands, and our dearest blood. I see the glimmer of freedom in our eyes, my friends. I know that Sira Zelaad is a foreign city, and you may well ask, what do we owe them? What we owe them, my friends, is what we would ask of them. Freedom from the tyranny of marauding enemies at their gates. The freedom of a Zelaadi farmer to harvest his crops. For a Zelaadi artisan to work her craft and sell her wares in peace. For Zelaadi children to know a world without blood and death. And freedom for the kingdom of Kepala to live without a ravening monster at her gates.
“Many of you might be afraid. Many of you might be full of piss and fire and claim you’re not afraid, but I know that in your heart, you are. It is natural to be afraid, but I want you to know that I am not afraid. I am not afraid to die, because what we are doing must be done. It might seem impossible, our enemies might seem like they crawled in legions straight out of Morgorod’s pit, but that doesn’t matter because the only thing standing between the light and the dark is us. I know that one man who has a stout heart and a focused mind can point it like Arkon’s sword straight at the heart of evil and win a battle. But if a group of brave and free people gather behind him to his calling, and if they strike true, then they can win a war. And that war can change the world for all free people everywhere.
“This is our spirit. Arkon’s might is on our side. I will fight this battle and fight it to win! I will fight for Zelaad, I will fight for King Jory, and I will fight for a free Kepala! Now who is with me?”
The ground shook from the thundering “Aye!” that bellowed forth from the gathered soldiers.
“Rise, fighting men of Kepala! Who is with me?”
A thousand boys rose as fighting men and once again thundered, “Aye!”
“For our freedom!” shouted Wodan. The thunderous cheering was so loud it shook the ground and drowned out the ringing bells of the town hall.
Wodan turned and dismounted his perch. Curada began dismissing the men, bidding them to fall out.
At the rear of his commander’s bivouac, Wodan came upon a lone figure standing straight with his hands behind his back. “Do you believe everything you say in those speeches, Father?”
“Brehon, my boy!” Wodan grabbed the young man of fifteen years and embraced him in a bear hug, from which Brehon awkwardly tried to squirm his way free. “What’s the matter, you don’t like my overblown, lofty speeches?”
“They sound just like what you bellow to the family when we’re falling behind on the harvest.”
“Well, when one finds a method that works…” shrugged Wodan.
“Pa! This is serious business. This is a war!”
“I know, and I’ll need my finest at my side.”
“That’s why you whip them into shape like you do, yes?”
“Ah, yes. But that’s them. I said my finest. What say you, son? Are you ready to follow your old man into battle, squire?” Wodan touched Brehon on the shoulder with the hilt of Windsong, and Brehon’s eyes went wide as cart wheels.
Brehon’s chest swelled so much, it could’ve split the seams of his tunic. Through tears, Brehon managed, “Father, it would be my honor.”
“The honor is mine, son.”
On the day they marched to war, the pride Wodan felt to have his loyal companies and his dutiful son at his side was tempered with the grim work that hung on the horizon. Wodan and Brehon stood beside the high road with Lach Curada, watching the men pass in their assembled ranks.
“They’re ready, Baron,” said Curada, matter-of-factly.
“I hate that fancy title,” Wodan glowered.
“I know. That’s why I use it, sir,” smirked Curada.
“Just call me ‘General’ like the other commanders. I don’t want them thinking I’m holding some kind of fancyman title over their heads.”
“As you wish, General. My point was that the boys are ready to follow you.”
“No amount of drilling is going to prepare them for the Halafalok.”
“I’m not afraid of them, Pa!” Brehon said, suddenly puffing up to the side of his father while trying to manage the best swagger he could.
“You should be, boy,” Wodan said, looking his son dead in the eye. “The Halafalok walk with their chins up and swing swords like men, but they are nothing like us. They eat their own dead. They kill women and children. They burn whole towns when they’ve stripped them clean. You will have to stay with me, Brehon. Never let your guard down. And never make the mistake of thinking these bastards are unreasoning beasts. They’re organized and they will attack like soldiers, not animals. And when they fight me, you can expect they will try for a piece of you as well. And attack they will, in hordes. I need you to be ready, Brehon.”
“I will, I will!” Brehon said, trying to reassure him. “Thanks to you, I know how to fight like a champion!”
Wodan gave him a sidelong look. “Don’t be too proud of your untested fighting prowess, my little champion. It will not be your own courage that sends the fiends running.”
“Yes, Father,” young Brehon whispered. “But you have Windsong. Anyone who has a legendary blade like that is invincible.”
“Ha!” chortled old Wodan. “If only that were true. Yes, Jory did give Windsong to our house when he named me to the station of Protector, but the power of a legendary blade like that is in the man who wields it. Even a sword humming with magic is worse than useless in the hands of a fool. And then there’s always fortune’s favor. What do we say about luck, my boy? When luck is on your side…”
“…small grey rocks will pass for brains!” father and son shouted in unison. They both laughed and then shared a quiet moment, knowing not to talk it away. Wordlessly, the three men mounted their horses and began to ride beside the column once again.
Wodan and Brehon stayed up late into the night and contemplated the faces in the stars together. They recounted the legends of many, and made up stories for the ones they couldn’t. After the others had drifted off to sleep, Wodan found himself staring up at the constellation of Arkon, the god of righteous war. Wodan had never been much of a believer, but nevertheless, he closed his eyes and whispered a quiet appeal to the first son of the creator of the world to guide their hands true in the coming battle.
The next morning, the columns converged on the field of battle. Wodan’s five thousand and Narcis Vask’s shiny cavalry flanked the imposing bulk of King Jory’s column of twelve thousand of Kepala’s finest footmen. The heads of the columns drew together, and the three old companions met again.
Against the polished leather and flowing cloak of Narcis’ cavalry uniform and the gleaming golden armor of the King, Wodan looked humble in his rough leather and furs, with the traditional battle sash of the Veld house draped across his massive chest. Nevertheless, he stood proudly at the head of his retinue with Brehon and Curada close behind.
“Boys, this will be our finest hour,” Jory said quietly to them both. “As we planned, Narcis, take the left flank and on my signal hit them hard. Wodan, you take the right and give the savages a wall to grind them against.”
“And what are your plans, Your Majesty?” Wodan asked affectedly, cocking his head to the side.
“I’m going to appeal to their instincts and give them a chance to get some mud on this shiny suit,” said Jory with a wink. He was going to pick a fight.
The three great men parted and the columns diverged after them. They passed the final hill, and there before them stood the great spires of Sira Zelaad, the teeming horde of Halafalok at the city’s doorstep like a ravening wolf. At the sight of the besieging hobgoblin army, murmurs rippled through the ranks of the men, betraying their shock at the sheer number of enemies before them. How could so many heinous monsters maintain such a rigid military order? How could they challenge them?
Their questions were answered soon enough when the sound to advance was called, and the assembled army rallied under the banner of King Jory to break the siege of the great free city. The three massive columns stood as one and challenged the horde. They loomed on the hill before the Halafalok invaders, and a single figure strode forward. Gleaming golden in the morning sun, King Jory shouted to the throng of fiends before him, “Strall Thratch! You and your clan have no place here in the lands of this city. We are the free people of Kepala, and we will not allow this to stand. Take your clan with you and disappear back to where you came from, and you have my word that you will live to see the end of this day! Obey this kind order from us, and we can yet be friends. Defy it, and none of you will live to see the morning. What say you, Thratch?”
To no one’s surprise, the great king was met with only jeers and laughter from the ranks of the enemy. Jory turned his back on the horde and waved to a lieutenant. The archers of the Kepalan army answered the mockery with a hail of arrows that for a moment blacked out the sun. Again and again, the archers fired in arcs toward the Halafalok siege, yielding screams of pain and taunts alike from their enemy.
Wodan knew the signal and prepared himself. He dropped his cloak to the ground and stripped to the waist, leaving only the Veld house’s sash draped across his shoulder. He unsheathed Windsong and held it sturdily before him. Suddenly, the arrows stopped spitting from the center column, and an eerie calm hung for a moment.
Then the silence was broken. “Forward, Kepala! Kill them all!” cried King Jory, and the roar of twenty-two thousand free men washed over the field as the center column raised their shields and marched in lockstep shoulder-to-shoulder toward the enemy.
From his position on a hill overlooking the field, Wodan’s could see Duke Vask’s cavalry breaking left to encircle the horde. Now they would batter the Halafalok against the massive center of the King’s regulars, with Wodan’s men serving to hold them in place for the beating. As the arrowhead formation of the cavalry pierced the enemy flank, the exhilaration of battle rose in the free fighting men, and Wodan drove them headlong into the lesser hobgoblin ranks. The men of the north coast of Kepala clashed with the Halafalok and began beating them into mud.
The Halafalok footmen fought ferociously, and without fear. Any idea Wodan’s fighters had of the invaders being a disorganized mob quickly vanished as they met a disciplined line of resistance. The enemy’s determined yellow eyes and red skin struck a terrifying contrast to their black armor as the Halafalok joined ranks and met the fighters of the north country.
At the head of the line, Wodan howled and swung his blade. The first of the besieging monsters fell with what seemed like little resistance, but quickly, even the imposing might of Wodan and his blade was slowed by their disciplined foes. “To me, boys!” the old warrior shouted, and Brehon and Lach Curan surged forward to assist him. Together, the three of them shielded one another as they attacked the enemy in turn, threshing their foes before them. Again and again, Wodan bellowed his war cry as Windsong flashed against the Halafalok soldiers, and with each slash of his blade, the silvery brightness of the sword and the burly form of Wodan himself became more and more covered in the black blood of their adversaries.
The clash of the armies was so thick that the soldiers could barely see more than a few dozen feet on the battlefield as a fog of war began to bloom. Above it all, they could see the enemy commander, Strall Thratch, in the center of his ranks as he wildly barked commands to his lieutenants. Wodan fixed his gaze on the monsters in front of him and dug himself in. He knew he only needed to hold them where they were, but on the opposite side of the field, Wodan saw something going very wrong. There was a tangle of horsemen falling before the Halafalok line.
Narcis’ cavalry was failing.
The sea of chaos parted for a moment, long enough for Wodan to see the familiar form of Vask’s flowing cape swirling downward as his horse threw the duke from the saddle. His flailing body smacked into the wet earth before him, and the rest of his cavalry charged headlong into death upon the Halafalok line. They were not breaking the enemy ranks before them as planned. Instead they were being skewered on longspears that the fiends had raised to defend themselves. Damn you, Narcis, Wodan breathed to himself, and renewed his assault. The plan had changed.
Now his goal was plain – confront and destroy the hobgoblin commander. He took a deep breath and drew Brehon close. “It falls to us now, Brehon. Narcis Vask has failed.”
To their right, they heard a harrowing scream – Lach Curan had been pulled from the formation. Now isolated, he was being cut to pieces by the killers of the Halafalok army. Brehon cried out in terror and moved to rush to Curan’s rescue, but he was violently jerked back by his father’s iron grip. Wodan turned him about and shouted into his face, “No, Brehon! He’s gone. Stay with me!” Brehon looked in the direction of his father’s man and saw the veteran fall, encircled by a half dozen of the enemy. With a wet slap, his lifeless form hit the mud.
Brehon’s face froze as the horrifying reality hit him. The outcome of this battle was not certain. We could lose. We could very well die here on this field.
Wodan saw the fear gripping his son, and did what he knew he must. Giving Brehon one last steely look, he turned to his men and bellowed. “Men of Arrain! This fight is now ours! We must cut the head from this beast’s army and feed them their own guts! I swear it on this sword before you, I will not stop swinging until they all lie dead at our feet! To me, men!”
Behind Wodan, the fighting men of the north let out a bloodcurdling battle cry and surged forward. Brehon felt the swell of battle and followed close behind his father as they rushed, riding the crushing wave’s crest of their combined might.
The Halafalok crumbled before them as they charged up the hill. With the dead and the beaten falling about them one after another, Wodan and his men finally reached the top of the hill to confront Strall Thratch, the enemy commander. The hobgoblin warlord’s retinue stood knee-deep in a pile of Duke Vask’s elite yet unprepared men. Their bodies were skewered like sides of meat for a roast.
“Strall Thratch! This ends here!” bellowed old Wodan. Suddenly the battlefield fell silent as the two commanders stared each other down. Enemy and friendly soldiers alike moved back to give both combatants a wide berth.
Without hesitation, the two great warriors swung their swords at each other, and the final battle was joined. Thratch, whose wiry frame belied his formidable strength, shrieked a curse at Wodan as his blade slashed again and again at the old master. His defenses did not break against Thratch’s fury. Wodan stood upright and strong, an ancient tower of granite, making only the smallest movements to deflect the fiend’s blows. For an eternity, Thratch beat against Wodan’s solid defenses without finding purchase.
Succumbing to exhaustion from dealing such a ferocious assault, Thratch relented for a moment to catch his breath. He opened his jaws to bark a profane taunt at his opponent, but at that moment Wodan struck. He heaved Windsong over his head and brought it down upon Thratch like a bolt from the heavens. Gleaming with righteous energy, the blade tore through the monster’s right arm and continued on to slice into his side beneath his breastplate, cleaving his trunk in two. As the commander of the Halafalok fell to the ground in two pieces, an astonished look crossing Thratch’s red face. A feral wail of pain shot from the hobgoblin as Wodan kicked away his enemy’s barbed sword and placed his boot heel on the chest of his defeated foe. Thratch’s legs, now liberated from their former owner, thrashed with spasms in the mud. Young Brehon had never felt such excitement as he did in that moment, and his father looked to him for all the world like Arkon himself, glorious and triumphant.
Through the haze of battle they could make out the remnants of Vask’s cavalry retreating. Brehon saw two horses riding forward, against the tide of the retreat. One rider was a young officer wearing an oddly clean uniform and the other looked to be a bard dressed up as a soldier. The young officer reached down and hoisted an older mud-covered man up to his saddle. There was no mistaking Narcis Vask’s sour face, even from so far away. The riders turned about and broke into full gallop for the rear.
“Your master is broken, you bastards! Run back to your holes and pray to your dark gods that we don’t hunt down every one of you!” Wodan shouted. His men howled with a roar of victory as the Halafalok ranks, demoralized by the defeat of their commander, began to break and run.
“This day will be remembered in the songs of our people as the day the free men of…” Wodan’s words were cut short, replaced by his own agonized screams. The still-living top half of Strall Thratch had grasped onto Wodan’s boot with his remaining hand, and the bloody fiend had buried his teeth into the heel of the old master. He screamed again as the hobgoblin ripped away the flesh and tendon with an obscene crunching sound. Wodan fell to the ground, cursing own luck.
“NO!” screamed Brehon, as he charged to his father’s aid. He picked up Windsong from Wodan’s side and buried it deep into Thratch’s skull. The monster fell back, lifeless. Brehon returned to his father, lying crippled in the mud.
“Well done, my son,” Wodan said softly, then groaning in pain. “You’ve made me proud. It is over.”
Above the dispersing battlefield, the soldiers on the battlements of Sira Zelaad cheered for the victory of their saviors. Wodan sat atop a hay bail that one of the men had brought forward to take pressure off of his wound. With each attempt of his men to swaddle his damaged ankle, he unleashed a further string of cantankerous curses at his would-be healers. He punched the hay bail repeatedly for emphasis. Brehon stood at the edge of the area, glowering.
Before they could see him, they knew their king was approaching by the wave of deferential gestures that preceded him. Line by line, the men stood at attention and bowed their heads. “Well, Baron Veld! It looks like you’ve found a reason to sit on your lazy ass even after this historic occasion,” King Jory said in a loud, jocular voice as he appeared from between the ranks. His golden armor was indeed spattered with a great deal of the battle’s grime.
“Your Majesty, it was the bastard’s need for a final snack that has me in such a state, I’m afraid,” Wodan shouted back.
The King of Kepala approached, and the assembled soldiery gave him and Wodan a wide berth. Jory, in a move a court official might have deemed beneath him, sat himself down on the hay bail beside Wodan.
“It’s bad?” Jory asked, nodding to his friend’s wound.
“I’ve seen worse, but I think my career in the royal dance cadre will suffer,” Wodan couldn’t help but joke back.
Jory clapped an armored glove on Wodan’s shoulder, and Wodan let out an audible groan. The king shared a sincere look with his friend. “Thank you, bear cub. This was your day.”
“It was for us all, jouster. What happened to Narcis the Brave?”
“The horsemen’s column folded when it hit the line. Rolled up like a carpet. One of the stewards told me they saw young Quinneth spiriting him away with a full load in the back of his trousers.”
“What’ll become of him now?”
“He’s beaten, but he’ll survive like he always does. We’re all damned lucky you were there to carry the day. The little red buggers held us fast when the lines clashed. Face to face, and we never moved more than a few yards for all the beatings we gave. And took.”
They both took a moment to survey the field in silence. Before them on the battlements of Sira Zelaad, two banners unfurled to reveal the twin-pegasus sigil of the Corin dynasty, the flag of the Kepalan Kingdom.
“Looks like you have work to do, Your Exalted Highness.”
“Yes, the fun appears to be over. The world will be different now, you know. Bigger. And smaller.”
“Yes, and complicated. I for one will enjoy not being in your shoes, Jory.”
“You know I still have a few barrels of the Iron Rat back at my headquarters. We could teach that boy of yours how to drink properly. Is that him over there?” Jory said, gesturing to Brehon’s stoic form at the perimeter.
“Squire! Your king wants a word with you!” bellowed Wodan in his son’s direction.
Brehon turned and stamped toward them. He had a look of frustration and hate in his eyes. “This was not how today should have gone, King Jory! My father will not walk again!”
“Shut, boy. It’s only a scratch. They’ll have their best healers to work on it. And have some respect for your king!” Wodan said evasively.
“It’s alright, bear cub,” Jory said to his old friend. He stood to address Brehon directly. “This was your first battle, wasn’t it, Brehon?”
“It was, Lord.”
Jory stepped close to Brehon, now placing his armored hand on the boy’s shoulder. In a quiet tone Jory said, “You may call me Uncle Jory, but not in front of outsiders, understood? You are as blood to me as my own children, and I need you to know that for what you and your father gave today, you’ve spared thousands much, much worse. You’re a Protector of Kepala as much as your father is, and one day soon that sword of his will be yours. The Zelaadi will sing songs of the day we stood together and became one. We are the light against the darkness.”
Brehon looked away in frustration, but then turned back to Jory and nodded sternly. “Thank you, Uncle Jory,” he said, almost under his breath.
Jory clapped Brehon on the shoulder and returned his attention to Wodan and the men assembled around them. “Now then, let’s go deal with fealty and oaths and all that claptrap. Zelaad awaits. Wodan, I’ll see you at my headquarters to attend to that matter we discussed.”
With that the King of Kepala moved away from the hill, toward Sira Zelaad. Brehon’s and Wodan’s eyes met, and Wodan smiled at him through all the pain. His son was a man, and his fight was over.
That night the council of Sira Zelaad knelt and swore fealty to King Jory, and willingly joined as part of a united Kepalan Kingdom. Under the banner of a good king and the sword of a great warrior, a new union was born.
A month later, Wodan and Brehon returned by caravan to their lands in the small town of Arrain. Wodan was victorious, but broken. The wounds he’d suffered had left him unable to walk without a cane. His fighting days were over.
“Oh, but won’t it be a pleasure to sit back and watch everyone else do all the work for a change?” Wodan joked to his son. They rode atop a provisions cart. The citizen soldiers were going home, and their caravan lost a few people every day as the victorious were reunited with their families.
“It shouldn’t have happened that way, Father,” Brehon said bitterly. “The monster cheated you.”
“Well, he won’t be cheating anyone anymore, thanks to you, little champion. How did it feel, slaying your first enemy commander?” he chuckled.
“It needed to be done,” Brehon answered. His stony face might have cracked if he summoned a smile.
“Come, boy, we’ll reach Arrain tonight. When we get there you’re going to help me drink all the beer at Porter’s Barrel, and then we’ll see if one of Mistress Flamona’s girls can put some hair on that chest of yours. Don’t tell your mother.”
Old Wodan clapped his son on the back and let out a big laugh. Brehon did not know exactly what his father meant, but he felt fear for the first time since the battlefield.
That night, the two men returned home. As they reached their lands, they could hear the familiar barking of Galena Veld ordering their household staff to and fro. She knew they were approaching, and appeared to be putting on something of a show. As they rounded the last hill, she stood there on the steps of their longhouse, arms akimbo.
“Wodan Veld, you would go and make yourself a cripple to get out of doing any more work, wouldn’t you!” she shouted. Though she’d adopted a stern pose, she had clearly made herself up for the homecoming, and there was a light in her eyes that welcomed the boys home.
“Galena, fire of my heart, come here and warm these old bones!” cracked Wodan from atop the carriage.
“You come to me, old man! Brehon, help your father!”
Brehon dutifully assisted Wodan to his feet and off the carriage. Wodan winced as his bad foot hit the flagstones. Galena’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Good to see you didn’t let them take that boy of ours apart, Wo.”
“He’s a man now, my love. He’s done us proud.” Wodan smiled at his wife.
Galena looked from Wodan to Brehon, and then drew them both in for an embrace. “Good to have you boys home,” she said, a quiver in the back of her throat. “Now come inside, I’ve got a good roast mutton for you.”
“You cooked?” Wodan said, astonished.
“Of course not, Veld. You’re a war hero, not a god. Now go!” she said, mustering a smile.
Wodan stepped through his doorway. He was home. He hobbled into his den on a cane that sported a golden pegasus at the grip, a gift from Jory that his smiths had quickly produced as thanks for his valor and his sacrifice. From the scabbard at his side, he produced Windsong, the now legendary blade, and hung the sword over the hearth. He patted it once like an old friend. This is a good place for you until Brehon is ready, he thought. I hope he never needs you.
He pulled a skin from his cloak, uncapped it, and took a sip. It was smoky, and burned ever so pleasantly on his tongue. Images filled his head of old times with great friends he might never see again. He sipped again. Damn you, Jory, This Iron Rat is indeed the best concoction I’ve ever tasted. Maybe I’ll take up brewing now that I have the time, he mused.
He sat in his favorite chair and looked at the fire, watching the embers curl upward. Wodan imagined a world without the clash of battle and the cries of the needy, and the old former soldier let out a long sigh. He took another pull on the ale and grinned. Yes, this will do nicely.
Tales of Kepala 