Author: Johannes "Jergen[K]" Cruz			Viewing: Chapter 5

The King of the south sat resplendent upon his throne in the flowing white and gold robes of his office. Other than a fleece-lined cloak and the silver circlet that sat over his brows, he wore little in the way of ornament. King or not, he was a martial man, and had little use for the trappings of office and court. He was a young man, barely upon his throne if the truth be told, but there was no doubt to his lineage or right of rulership. Scarcely two days after his ascension hostile tribes had flowed into the land and attacked his soft northern holdings. The following winter had been harsh, and with starvation a very real threat for the first time since his family had controlled the royal lines, he had traveled north and struck a bargain with the Walmarch of the dwarven people, and through that his people survived the lean times. Songs had been written about him already by the time he mounted his war-horse and traveled at the head of a force to destroy the raiders. What he found there had been the blackest treachery. The enemies had not been a group of thieving highwaymen, but were a trained army led by a bastard brother that sought to lure a King from his castle. Against fantastic odds, the Lord won the fight, and brought back his traitorous brother’s head on his spear for all to see. Oh how they sung of him now in every tavern and soldier’s taproom. It had been nearly seven generations since a king had shed blood in defense of his kingdom, but here was a fine Lord who had not only lead his men, but had led them valiantly, and if all of the accounts were true, had defeated the enemy leader in single combat and won the day. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was terribly handsome and well mannered besides. Every Lord in the realm and even quite a few from other lands had sought to marry him into their families with exquisitely beautiful daughters. He had, of course, declined the offers, but he knew that some time soon he would have to take a bride or even his understanding council would begin to rumble at him. His audience hall was a vast chamber, thickly carpeted along the center isle with the scarlet and gold of the ruling house, and supported by matched marble columns every few feet. Nobles, many of them having occupied rooms in the palace their entire lives, milled about the place speaking in hushed tones or listening to the occasional performance given by the court singers. Then, like ripples in a pond, all of those in attendance became aware of a commotion at the great doors to the chamber. The two guards there, impeccable in arms and armor that were polished to a nearly reflective sheen, struggled with someone just out of sight. A moment later a great shout went up, and the one they had been struggling against broke free and strode towards the throne of his king. The reasons for the guard’s distresses at letting this man enter the chamber were immediately evident. His armor, that of a full Knight of the Royal Guard, was streaked with volumes of blood, and in places plates hung loose from the man’s body. He walked with a noticeable limp, and the sword at his side was thick with dried crimson from recent work. Where his boots touched the carpet, they stained, and where his cloak brushed onlookers that tried to get to close to him, it left marks of blood on priceless clothing. By the time he had reached the throne the guards had caught him and were attempting to pull him away, but the King sent them back with a look. “My lord,” he managed to croak as he crumpled to his knees. “Attacked, to the south, an army approaches.” The King looked down on his man with obvious shock growing across his features. “How long Knight,” the King asked the man before him. “Two weeks at best sire,” the man managed weakly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “They are a fine number my Lord, more than our levy last year.” The King nodded to the man, then stood and knelt near him. “We will ready ourselves Knight,” he said. “You have saved a great many people with this news.” The wounded Knight nodded, but before he could speak any words, he fell unconscious. The King leapt from his dais and picked the man up, armor and all be damned, and carried him to one of the great feasting tables that littered the room at odd intervals. “Get my healers,” he said to one of his council. “Also, send a bird to every Duke, and let them know we are calling in our levy today,” this said, he started to pull at the straps holding the man’s breastplate in place. *** Allan was ready to go with plenty of light left in the day. He had indeed taken the Lady Blue up on her offer of a good midday meal of meat stew and fresh bread, and had not regretted it for a moment. With a full belly, and three pouches full of the powders Tom had asked for, Blue bid him farewell and he began his run back to the tavern. If he was lucky he could get there well before dusk, and he might get another chance at the stream and the trout there. The forest, sometimes-called Guardian Wood because of the legends surrounding an estate at its heart, was quiet around him as he ran. Other than the soft thud of his feet on the pathway and the sound of his own breathing, all was still. After crossing a slight rise in the pathway and leaping a fallen log he stopped, his eyes scanning the empty forest around him. Even the spring winds seemed to have conspired to remain silent this afternoon. Not a single sound filtered through the thick of the woods around him. He strained for the buzz of insects or birds, but there was nothing. Then he smelled the smoke in the air. Panic welled up in his chest in an instant, seeking to tear the very breath from his lungs. Instinct screamed at him to run, and run fast, but he fought it down and struggled to calm himself enough to think clearly. It took him a while, but by lifting a leaf from the ground and dropping it several times he was able to tell that the wind was blowing north, leaving the fire to the south of him. Between himself and the flames was a large river, about three miles distant, and with any luck at all the flames would burn themselves out against it. Confident that he was safe for the time being, he continued his run. A branch, blown down in a storm two days earlier, saved his life. Allan was nearly home. Knowing that a fire burned in the wood added speed to his steps, and by the time he neared the inn he could easily smell the smoke in the air. The haze wasn’t enough to cause his eyes to water, but it was getting close, and he had no doubt that he and the others would be heading north tonight to escape the hungry blaze. He wasn’t paying attention to the path as he should have been when his foot hooked the fallen limb and tangled it in his legs. Before he could even try to catch himself, he was flat on his face, the wind knocked soundly from his lungs in the fall. Once he forced air into his burning lungs, he struggled to sit upright, and in so doing caught sight of the Inn below him. His first instinct was to run to it, but luckily he managed to push that thought aside and decided to skulk about for a moment instead. In the yard of the tavern there were at least a dozen men, all of them mounted on battle chargers and wearing dark standards he did not recognize. Behind them, the inn was already close to being completely engulfed in flames. The only one to make it out of the burning structure was Mirianne and with growing sickness he watched as one of the horsemen drew a crossbow from across his saddle and aimed it at the running girl. With a click he could hear from where he hid, a bolt shot out with such force that when it caught her in the chest it passed through her and lodged in the tavern wall. Poor Mirianne, her hair still smoldering from the flames, sunk to her knees in shock and complete disbelief as she struggled very hard to breath through the damage in her chest. Her lungs worked furiously, but like a fish beside a stream, she could not get enough air to keep her alive. Blood welled up into her mouth, and in a great crimson tide flowed down her chin and spattered amongst the already growing stain on the front of her dress. Clutching the ground with his hands Allan looked away and stifled a cry. His head thundered with each great beat of his heart. He couldn’t believe what was happening. In all of his days he had never heard of anyone being harmed this near to Caer Dublin, nor could he imagine anyone wanting to do it. Struggling with his quiver, Allan strung his bow and tried to get closer to the inn for a clear shot. When he next saw the building it was completely engulfed by the blaze and was already starting to collapse in on itself. The small stables had been lighted as well and would soon be completely consumed. Silent rage fought up in Allan, pushing sanity aside and demanding action. Every limb shaking, he began to slide down the small slope towards where the mounted men milled, watching the blaze and laughing at the still form of the tavern girl on the ground. It took him several minutes to get a clear shot, and just as he was about to loose the arrow strong hands clamped around his wrist and bow and pulled them from his grip. He tried to struggle against them, but he might just as well have been fighting steel chains. Just as he tried to cry out something crashed against the back of his head and the world went dark around him.