独家优惠奖金 100% 高达 1 BTC + 180 免费旋转

Bond of Brothers

Conto — NQ 5

Chief Madrak Ironhide listened to the reports of Belkord, a trollkin who had spent considerable time scouting at the periphery of the lands they had recently claimed. Belkord was an older kin, just starting to show his years. Like Ironhide he was an albino, born with skin bleached of pigment and inheritor to the powers of sorcery. The two could not look more different, as Belkord was thin, his muscles lean and wiry, standing almost a half foot shorter than Madrak.

From birth Madrak had been taller more stout than most albinos of his species, bearing himself with the brawn of a warrior and able to stand eye-to-eye with kriel champions. Upon his neck was a heavy necklace festooned with almost a hundred metal rune-cast plates, a legacy of sacred ancestral wards he bore as a reminder of his responsibilities. Once worn by all kriel chiefs, the custom had been slowly abandoned and Madrak knew of no others who still wore them, only himself and his father before him. The weighty necklace pinched his skin in a dozen places, a weight on his shoulders that he allowed himself to remove only when retiring for sleep. Each of his ancestors had added another warding plate to its length, chained together as an unbroken whole. Such wards were now worn in small sets as a protective adornment by sorcerers or shamans — those who dealt with or manipulated supernatural forces, and never in such numbers.

The burden of his ancestors seemed particularly heavy as Ironhide took council with Belkord, tasked with keeping tabs on enemy movements, collecting the reports of pygs and wilderness-wise trollkin. Recently attacks had been brutal, as skorne invaders from across the eastern sands beset them in periodic waves. There was now a strange calm, and Madrak did not trust it.
Belkord was saying, “The pygs sent out to the hills report no movement. The foe has pulled back entirely to their tents and forts further out in the dunes. They wait for something.”

Madrak sighed, tracing a finger along the scroll-tube at his waist, one of several holding scrolls of power rubbed from krielstones in the Thornwood. He missed his forest home, his village where he had grown to maturity, now abandoned. They had rebuilt here in the southern Glimmerwood, but it was not the same. Worse ground, worse trees, worse hunting. An onslaught of determined enemies. “How long will they wait?”

Belkord shrugged his pale shoulders, his eyes watery and troubled. “This is different than other times. I think their supplies have run low — this was a large withdrawal.”

“Maybe they gave up, decided to try another way?”

Belkord considered the idea, but shook his head. “I am sure they will be back. They regroup.”

Madrak paced, stopping to look out from his half-built hall on the village. Even late at night there was no end to activity, all of his people come together to make this a secure place. Kargess, his own mate, was out there, working with them, her hands adept at the stonemason’s art and a skilled carpenter as well. She had slept little these last few weeks. Nothing permanent would be made here, only temporary shelter. Defenses, earthworks, walls for cover, outward towers for sentries, wooden huts and houses for rest and recovery. Not true homes; this was not the land they would settle and call their own.

“I will have no better time than this. I must go to Caspia.” He turned back to his friend, seeing uncertainty, though the older sorcerer kept his eyes lowered in respect. Madrak added, “I dislike leaving now. I do not want to be away if the fight renews, but I must go now if ever.”

Belkord nodded, “Do as you must. I agree this is the time. We will be busy making defenses here and to the east.” He gave a small smile. “You are a poor laborer, we will not miss you.”

Madrak had been in ill-humor, but Belkord always found a way to amuse him. “The trolls listen to me,” he protested. They could never have erected defenses so quickly without the aid of the pure-blood trolls they had brought out of the Thornwood.

“The trolls listen to you in battle. Go, we can endure without you for a couple weeks. Just do not linger long in that stinking city.”

Madrak clasped his shoulder and strode from the hall to find his mate and tell her the news. Belkord called after him, “Take chiefs Horthol and Pokrul with you.”

His course took him past a fresh line of graves near the village’s impromptu shrine to Dhunia, each topped by a small stone cairn. Too many dead, many fallen in the last bloody battle before the recent calm. As tough and indomitable as his people were, there were limits.

As he walked, he pulled a thin chain of metal from one of the pouches at his waist, gold with links too fine and delicate for any trollkin to wear. Hung upon this were three thick coins also of gold, inscribed with fine detail he would have to squint to discern. One displayed the face of some unfamiliar human woman, and on the other side a sword surrounded by flame. The second bore a familiar swan. On the third was a stone keep covered in thorny vines above a bridge. Looking at their untarnished surfaces brought the memory back to him.

Madrak had journeyed far from his kriel, ostensibly on the hunt but he was testing himself against the forest. In recent months he had discovered he had a rare talent to connect with the minds of trolls. It was a gift he knew the kriel valued, but those who had it more often arose among the shamans.

Madrak had kept this talent a secret, unsure how his father would react to it. The chief had been getting older, and had a temper. He had been well past his prime when he’d sired Madrak, whose mother had been presumed infertile until he was born at last. His father’s health had begun to fail these last few years, losing the natural trollkin resilience as mortality exerted its inexorable pull. This made Madrak increasingly aware of the hope resting on him as the sole heir of the bloodline. Taking time to master this skill could be seen as a distraction from his duties.

He explored the forest alone, well beyond areas he felt comfortable. The dense underbrush and ancient gnarled trees made it impossible to watch his surroundings, and the forest was alive with distracting sounds.

Madrak followed a tickling in his mind which meant a wild full-blood troll was nearby. His only exposure to their breed had been in his village, among tamed trolls who helped the community, carrying logs, lifting heavy stones, and other labors. They disliked such tasks even more than the trollkin, as for them the only things of interest were eating and sleeping.

This one’s thoughts were raw, primal, and bloodthirsty. Madrak had no specific intent except to draw close to the troll and see if he could gain its trust, if it would listen to him. This was dangerous, but he felt confident, particularly once the troll had feasted and was no longer driven solely by hunger.

Across his empathic link he felt a sudden violent sensation, a rending tearing, and a sense of primal triumph. He could feel the kill, the delight as the troll brought down a fat deer, sinking teeth into flesh, tearing off raw meat and feeling a spray of hot blood.

Madrak shook off the sensation and crept through the brush into a clearing to get a good look. The deer should suffice, too large for one feast, even for so gluttonous a creature. The troll was feasting next to a stream so he could wash down his repast with great gulps of fresh water. The deer had been sipping at its surface when surprised by the troll’s leap, its instincts had failed it and it had frozen in fear.

The troll looked up from its feeding, steaming blood dripping down its face, looking in Madrak’s direction. The young trollkin prepared to exert his will on the creature, until he caught a glimmer of something else, unexpected, in its thoughts. The smell of something bad, a scent that meant danger.

Madrak had only this moment of warning. He tumbled forward as a long-handled axe splintered bark from the tree next to him. He rolled into the small glade and brought up his own thicker-bladed and shorter hafted axe. He could feel the troll’s thoughts still connected to his own, and there was no menace there, rather a sense of not unwelcome kinship.

Spinning around he had just a moment before hulking figures leapt from the trees, screaming strange howls. They looked like half-man, half-beast, coming at him so quickly he had no time to examine them, only noting they were howling, eyes blood-shot and mad, chests bare and heavily muscled, each bearing long-handled axes. He had no time to count them, but there were many, more than he could hope to fend away.

Madrak retreated, trying to get his back against something. He raised his axe to block a downward hacking slash from the nearest of the creatures, but this opened him to a second swing from the one next to it. That axe bit through his side — not a deep wound but executed with startling speed. There were too many, all bent on his death. He scrambled back frantically.

His mind was still mingled with the troll but did not realize he had called to it until it charged and slammed into the bestial thing which had nicked him with its axe, knocking it aside and into the one next to it. Another one swung, but the troll caught its axe handle, almost tearing off the creature’s arm as it wrenched the axe away for its own use. The troll’s attack bought Madrak the moment of pause to realize these creatures were Tharn barbarians, a maddened tribe of half-human berserkers that haunted the deeper forest.

Madrak had never seen them until now. At least eight remained, heads and faces distorted, as if they wore the masks of bears or wolves, their chests and arms almost human, but ridiculously muscled. Their fingers on each hand ended in unnatural claws. At first he thought their heads and hands must be taken from some beasts, but he could see now they were hideously transformed, not natural men.

They turned on the troll as Madrak cleaved into the shoulder of the one he fought, his axe sinking deep into the space between its neck and shoulder. It howled in pain and backhanded him, sending him flying into the underbrush. He barely managed to hold onto his axe, rolling to the side. The one he had struck collapsed, bleeding out from the deep shoulder wound.

Madrak was momentarily forgotten by the others. He could feel the troll’s strength waning as it endured great wounds along its legs and abdomen. Madrak tried to gather his thoughts, to ready some sorcerous spell which would help the situation, but he had difficulty thinking, still locked in the pain and rage of the troll. None of the magic he knew would help here. He focused instead on drawing the troll’s rage to himself, using it to strengthen the creature, closing several of its wounds. The troll’s enormous regenerative capabilities provided it with tremendous stamina, but it was a doomed struggle. It managed to cleave another of the Tharn with its stolen axe, but its strength was fading.

Madrak swore under his breath, knowing he should flee, but instead charged from the tree line. Grasping his weighty axe, he brought it up behind his head, and then swung with a mighty yell, sinking its edge deeply into a Tharn with a meaty crunch, shattering through ribs and lungs. The Tharn’s legs collapsed and its axe fell from numbed fingers.

A half dozen remained after the troll beheaded one with a powerful swing, its last revenge. The great creature collapsed under their blows, eyes rolling back into its head.

Madrak backed away, feeling true fear for the first time in his young life, the cold certainty of death. The Tharn turned on him, grinning madly, all but one who bent over the troll to hack into its chest, groping into the chest cavity. Behind the line of them the one desecrating the troll gave a roar and lifted a blood-soaked hand, grasping a massive purplish-red piece of meat — the troll’s heart. Seeing this Madrak felt a grimcertainty of his imminent fate.

There was a shout behind him — glancing over his shoulder, Madrak thought his eyes played tricks on him. He saw a raven-haired human youth with a drawn sword atop a black horse. The air seemed suddenly dark and strange, and there was a smell of ozone. Other men marched on foot, armored in dark blue and wielding oversized swords across which lightning danced.

Madrak had no time to spare wondering at this for he turned back to see the Tharn charging. The trollkin gave a yell to muster his courage, determined to take at least one or two with him, and stepped forward to meet their advance.
He heard a cry from behind, “No, sir, wait!” and was bewildered when the man on the horse charged past him straight into the fray, swinging his sword recklessly at those around them, drawing the Tharn attacks. The other armored men rushed forward on foot to defend him. With one great sideswipe of his keen sword, the youth managed to take the head clean from one Tharn’s shoulders with a plume of dark blood, but was quickly surrounded and yanked off his horse. Madrak rushed forward, swiping his axe through the skull of a Tharn who groped for the downed man.

The horse reared up and kicked at them, then turned to flee, a long but shallow series of clawed wounds bleeding along its flank. Madrak pulled the horseman to his feet and the two of them waded into battle side by side. Lightning crackled with a boom like thunder as the men with the oversized blades engaged.

Madrak saw that they were unaware of the last Tharn which had been gnawing the heart of the downed troll. This one’s eyes glowed with a savage light as it charged, axe raised to deliver a killing blow to an oblivious soldier. Madrak stepped up and snapped his axe forward, seeing it tumble once to sink into the Tharn’s face with a brutal sound like a split gourd.

The Tharn ran several steps, as its legs tried to carry forward the attack, and then collapsed. The rest of the maddened creatures refused to retreat and fought to the last.

By the end, only one of the humans was injured, and not badly. Madrak and the youth shared a look of thanks, a wordless moment only understood by those who faced death together in battle. Madrak took the human’s arm in a hearty clasp and grinned, repeating his thanks several times before letting go.

The youth was clearly some Cygnaran noble of importance. Madrak invited them back to his kriel so a proper feast could be held. Madrak learned the youth’s name was Leto, and they talked during their return trip. Madrak was versed in Cygnaran as his father had impressed on him the importance of being able to communicate with neighboring humans, but this was one of the first occasions he had to use the language extensively. He learned the noble had been on an errand to a northern human town when they had come upon the Tharn tracks and decided to investigate.

During the feast later the soldiers loosened up, particularly after drinks began to flow. The story of the attack was related to a rapt audience. Caught up in the emotion of the moment, Madrak offered Leto the honor of kulgat, rarely bestowed on outsiders. Without hesitation the noble agreed, and each sliced open their palms to mix blood in a clasp of their hands, bonding them as brothers. The human’s hand felt small in Madrak’s, yet he sensed an inner strength to him.

It was only near the end of this night that one of the soldiers slipped and referred to Leto as “prince,” and Madrak learned that this was the younger brother of the Cygnaran king. This did not phase Madrak; the brother of a king did not seem so different from the son of a chief. The full impact was not understood until later, when he spoke with his father, the chieftain. Madrak had never been outside the Thornwood, nor seen the cities of humanity. His father impressed on him the scope of power wielded by a king like this, with millions of vassals under his dominion. Leto seemed genuinely interested in the ways of Madrak’s kriel, and despite the protests of his men they stayed for another week. In that time Madrak and Leto hunted in the forest and told stories, finding themselves kindred spirits despite the differences of their species and lives.

When Leto finally departed, the prince left Madrak the chained necklace he wore, bearing three gold coin-like medallions. One represented a sacred woman of his faith, another the kingdom, and the third the symbol of his bloodline. The human explained that showing this would grant him an audience in the capital anytime he wished, and he should visit if ever his need was great.

Madrak kept the chain as a remembrance of the time in his rash youth when he had narrowly escaped death. It would be many years and after his own elevation to chief before he would visit his distant blood-brother, but he thought often of their battle, and the strange hand of fate.

Madrak had seen Leto only twice since that time, on both occasions making the long trek south. The first had been when Leto invited Madrak to attend his crowning as king. This was his first visit to Caspia, and it had opened his eyes to the reality of a city so huge, teeming with more humans than he’d imagined could exist, let alone in one place behind towering walls.

Attending the king’s crowning he had witnessed countless nobles bowing to this one man. He had later walked the maze of streets trying to take in the scope of the city, its factories belching smoke, the stench of spiced food and human waste in the same breath. His head swam and he had to flee out the north gate into the open land to take deep breaths, filling his lungs with fresh air. Even there he witnessed an endless flow of travelers on the road, marching in a column alongside wagons and horses, lined up for the gates. He had determined never to return, a decision he would gainsay twelve years later.

His second trip to Cygnar had only been a few months ago, though it felt longer. After war tore apart the Thornwood and Cryxian interlopers fell on the gathered kriels, he came to a difficult decision: against the advice of the more conservative shamans and elders he would at last leverage his relationship with Cygnar’s king and gain support.

Gold chain in hand he had made the voyage and presented himself. Once in the company of King Leto, he was shocked to see how much the man had aged. It was easy to forget humans had briefer lives, for all their influence, wealth, and numbers. This meeting and requested boon had required Madrak to swallow his pride, yet this was made less painful by knowing he spoke to his blood-brother. King Leto had responded with compassion and generosity.

Not only had the king delivered considerable supplies to Ironhide’s care, Leto made an intriguing proposition. He suggested Ironhide move his people out of the forest, east of the Black River, where there was considerable acreage of land unclaimed by any nation. This would be a temporary arrangement, but in this region the kriels could do Cygnar a service. Protectorate of Menoth forces had been joining the war front through this area. In exchange for protecting this border, the kriels could earn better lands within Cygnar, south of Corvis and away from the war front. The notion of fighting to earn land was something Chief Ironhide found appealing.

It was a fair offer, but this did not make it any easier for Madrak to uproot his people. His words to them had been passionate and aided by the memory of many recent horrors. They moved tens of thousands of trollkin out of the forest and entrenched themselves in the Glimmerwood and Widower’s Wood. Good to his word, King Leto had provided ample supplies of food, blasting powder, and even fixed weapons with which to defend their villages, both small cannons and other firearms. Yet shortly after settling in, the skorne had come against them. Unwittingly they had moved from one war front to another.

Madrak brooded on these things during the journey. He had gathered a small retinue of kinsmen and allies, each a veteran champion. Following Belkord’s advice he brought Horthol and Pokrul, who were chiefs of their own kriels sworn to Madrak Ironhide. Horthol was an old friend and Madrak was pleased to have him along. Pokrul was more of a handful, an embittered kin who enjoyed arguing and debating almost as much as the thrill of battle. Yet his strength of arms had served Madrak well, and there were few kin he’d rather have at his side in trouble. These and three other proven champions were all he was willing to spare from the defenses. They made their way first to Corvis, there to hire a boat to quicken their travel the length of the Black River to Caspia, Cygnar’s capital.

This river trip was not without danger, particularly in a time of war, as Protectorate raiders had intercepted a number of riverboats in recent months. Madrak felt naked and vulnerable without trolls in his retinue. But in the wild trolls were savage and cruel, and gladly preyed on mankind, thus were hunted and slain wherever encountered. Those in the Thornwood had only been saved from near extinction only by the protection of trollkin kriels who knew how to deal with them.

As he expected, Pokrul argued with him during the boat voyage south, although he had the courtesy to do so quietly, when the kin gathered in their cabins. “You place too much trust in this King Leto. We put ourselves in his power. Easier to take what we need, and tell him when it is too late to forbid it. Now we will give him a chance to refuse.”

“There is a way to do these things, Pokrul. We have an arrangement, and I trust this man. That is enough.”

Pokrul remained disgruntled. He later insisted on bringing up another matter. “We should have taken the offer of the blackclads. They have always given good advice to my kriel.”

“Enough. Let us not tread again that well traveled path.” Pokrul referred to an offer made before their exodus from the Thornwood by one of the mightiest of the wilderness prophets. “The blackclad offered us no favors. I have heard stories from the north, where they bid us go. There was no more safety there than in the Glimmerwood. I start to think there is no refuge for our kind.”
Pokrul scowled, fingering his axe. “Your friend has us fight his wars on his border. We have been betrayed by his blood before.”

Horthol had been silent witness to most of these exchanges, refusing to get involved. But in this case he interjected, “He said enough, Pokrul. Stop picking that scab. We made our choice. We cannot be always looking over our shoulders and second guessing the past.”

It was not the end of their bickering, but Pokrul let go of this topic for the duration of the voyage. Madrak could see he was still not satisfied, but knew no words would convince him. Pokrul had not traveled enough to understand just how arduous a move to the Scarsfell would have been. Moving fifty or a hundred miles east from their forest had been one thing. Trying to get them across all of Khador into the frozen northern forest would have been an impossible ordeal. Nor was Madrak willing yet to entirely give up on the Thornwood.

They gathered stares in Caspia, each decked in full armor, bearing large weapons, and wearing the distinct quitari kilts of their kriels. Chief Madrak was an impressive but exotic sight, with his heavy metal tiled necklace, amulets, and sacred scroll cases. He wore his full ceremonial regalia as Chieftain of the combined kriels of the Thornwood. This garb was strange to those in the city, even those few trollkin who had moved there to make their living. Madrak let them appreciate the sight of true kin who had not given up the ways of their people. For his champions this was their first visit to Caspia, largest and most ancient of the still thriving human communities. It was humbling, and also disquieting. Entering the gates of the massive towering blue walls was like being swallowed whole.

They disembarked near the northern end of the city, as fighting with the Protectorate made the inner-city waterways a hazard few captains were willing to take. Even here the eastern walls with their differently painted white and gold could be seen. Madrak had heard the gates of Sul had been breached, and fighting was ongoing in those streets.

Caspia’s Menite sister-city had proven difficult to swallow. Madrak was more versed on these matters than most kin, with a love of history and current events inherited by his father.

Even crowded streets cleared as they walked, and children pointed. Hardly anyone in Caspia traveled fully armed except the dauntless city guard. They confronted Madrak after leaving the boat, and he displayed Leto’s amulet. It was a tense time, as the token was part of an old and largely forgotten custom. He knew from the eyes of the first guard that he did not know its meaning. They were stalled until that man found a grizzled older captain — who took the necklace, staring at its coins in open disbelief. “Where did you get this?”
Madrak answered, “From Prince Leto’s own hand, twenty-six years ago.”

There had been similar ordeals his last two visits and Madrak accepted it as part of the ritual of his visit. The captain squinted again at the amulets, and then gathered a group of his burliest guards to escort the trollkin to Castle Raelthorne. The captain didn’t speak during the march, brow furrowed with worry, clearly concerned about the repercussions if Madrak had lied to him.

The castle was a formidable fortress which loomed over even Caspia’s ancient walls, the home of kings since ancient times, although expanded in the last century. Named Castle Raelthorne because of the efforts of Leto’s father and grandfather; each had added to its bulk. It was not built to please the eye, but for defense — defenses Leto had tested in his bloody coup, dethroning his brother. Madrak thought on this as he approached the ominous edifice.

The outer city guard passed them to more elaborately attired men serving as the castle guard, among them halberdiers dressed in armor not dissimilar from that worn by the men who had helped save Madrak over two decades ago. By the time they entered the castle both Madrak and his champions felt that they had passed through a half-dozen gauntlets and endured the scrutiny of hundreds. Madrak could see the strain on his kin, particularly when all but Madrak were asked to leave their weapons. He had warned them of this, and they obeyed, with some grumbling.

Madrak was allowed to keep his axe — this was Rathrok, an ancient weapon of enormous power he had taken up after Cryxian attacks on his kriels in the Thornwood. The castle guard eyed it warily, a fearsome looking implement even for those who did not know its power. He was treated as a visiting sovereign, and would not be forced to surrender his weapon until the throne room.

At last they were marched through the great outer hall, past dozens of richly attired onlookers whispering as they passed. As on previous visits, Madrak looked for the great painting on the wall which depicted the Corvis Treaties, upon which his ancestor Grindar could be seen standing amid the humans and dwarves of that gathering. He bowed slightly to the spirit of that great kin, whom his father had spoken of often.

The great doors to the enormous throne room were opened as horns sounded and a herald announced their presence. The Stormguards walked in step with the trollkin, who never looked more out of place than here. Madrak saw the king waiting for him, standing down at the base of his throne as a courtesy, his highest ranking vassals hovering behind him. At a distance of a hundred paces, marked by a change in the marble flooring, Madrak stopped and placed his weighty axe on thin line of carpet. Even muffled it settled with a heavy noise.

His champions stayed back near the axe as Madrak continued forward alone, the room almost painfully silent. He ignored the eyes upon him, curious appraising stares, and looked only to King Leto, who gave him a nod and a small smile. His eyes were tired, yet warm. The connection was still there, the old trace of the kulgat, which Madrak could smell as he got closer; a nearly imperceptible scent that marked his bonded brother. They clasped arms in the trollkin manner, as Madrak was reminded how small and slim the man was in person. Leto was not dressed in finery, but a ceremonial uniform he preferred to wear when his kingdom was at war. Nor did he bear a crown, its absence not reducing his authority.

“Chief Madrak Ironhide, welcome again to my hall. The hospitality of Caspia is yours. Tonight we will feast well.” His smile was warm.

“King Leto Raelthorne,” Madrak spoke the Cygnaran, which came easily to him. He had been speaking it recently as certain kriels in the southern Thornwood preferred it to Molgur-Trul. “There may not be opportunity or time for feasts. I cannot stay any longer than my needs require. Every moment away from my people is time they risk attack.”

Leto took a moment to look around him, his expression considered. Madrak had been avoiding meeting the eyes of any of those here, knowing little of Caspia’s politics. Several nearby were wearing what he took for military uniforms, although it was hard to tell a human noble from a human general, and often they were one and the same. He recognized one man behind the king as the highest general of Cygnar’s army, an older man with a sour expression on his face. That one had argued against Leto’s support in their earlier meeting, saying they could spare no supplies while at war.

Madrak was tired of such things. He had no patience now for human ways. But he knew it would not do to offend them. Leto spoke, his voice low so it would not carry. “I have heard news of your travails since last we spoke. My sympathies to you and your people. I know there has been hard fighting, and many deaths. I would have you tell me of what you have faced.”

“I can tell you stories which would sicken and enrage you. Perhaps once both our peoples are at peace we can do so. We can share tales of war and carnage and heroism in the face of death. But right now I have come for another matter, and my need is great.”

There was whispering from the fringes, but Leto took his words gravely, nodding. “We will not stand on ceremony. Had you the time I would welcome a distraction from my seemingly endless councils, and provide you entertainment. But our own wars go apace on two fronts, one within sight of these walls. Being brief serves my needs as well as yours.”

Leto paused; eyes troubled, and then looked up as if seeing those around them for the first time. “Leave us.” He said this in a clear and strong tone, which carried surprisingly well throughout the large hall. There was an instant silence and many surprised looks. “Clear the chamber, please. Stay near to hand, we will resume anon.”

They did not like enduring banishment from the hall like so many wayward children, and Madrak heard angry muttering. The men behind King Leto lingered, approaching nearer to hand, but the king inclined his head to them and indicated the door. Madrak’s champions gave him a look but he also nodded and they too left the chamber. The Chieftain knew he was not alone with the king. Even now some number of sharpshooters waited hidden in the balconies above, keeping him ever in their sight. Two of his royal Stormguards had stayed at their post by the throne, and two at the door which closed after those that left. Despite this, Madrak felt better with the others gone.

Leto spoke as soon as the doors had closed. “Madrak, old friend, I am afraid I have given you everything our kingdom can muster. I realize you are sorely pressed by the invading skorne. We too have been fighting them. They are probing all along our eastern border. We’ve had to fend them off near Fort Falk and even as far south as Eastwall. Our border garrisons are stretched thin. If we were not already at war I’d gladly send the army at Corvis to your aid. Weapons, food, supplies, all would be yours. But at this time, my larder is empty, and my soldiers committed.”

Madrak listened to this, having expected something of the sort. “I did not come to ask for supplies. That which you already provided has served well.” Madrak kneeled down on one leg to the carpet, bowing his head before the king, something he had never done before.

“Please, Madrak, rise! You are not my vassal. You should not kneel.” Leto’s voice was alarmed.

“Yet I do kneel, humbly, and ask at this time that you honor your debt as a great king and one who holds his word as a sacred bond. When last I came to you, you promised if we held the border, we would earn lands in Cygnar. Good farmlands, a place where our people could start a new life. We have fought and died at your border. Were it not for our sacrifice, the skorne would have fallen on your lands. Our blood paid this price. I kneel and ask you to honor your promise.”

There was a long silence at the end of this, and then Madrak felt Leto’s hand on his shoulder. “Stand, Madrak. I appreciate your sincerity. Know that I fully intend to repay this debt. Your sacrifices will not be ignored. We did not expect the skorne to return so quickly and in such force. We have no idea how they are crossing the Stormlands in such numbers. This is a crisis that comes at the worst time. You are not alone in your suffering.”

Madrak stood and scowled, feeling the first hints of the king’s vacillation. “I am not callous, but suffering is not new in times of war. What has this to do with the needs of my people? Tell me where our new lands are, so I can move my kriels to safer ground. Our warriors will continue to fight on your borders, but our young and elders must be shielded.”

Leto sighed. “Things are never as simple as we would like them to be. I will require more time to find lands to serve your people. Right now many of my citizens are also displaced and enduring serious food shortages — we have not recovered from last year’s drought. Every day we come one step closer to annihilation. The dukes and earls who oversee my lands are sorely pressed.

The lands I had hoped to pass to you were recently given to refugees from Llael and the northern Thornwood. This was a necessary measure to ease considerable suffering, enacted by the Duke of the Northern Midlunds, who was ignorant of my plans for that region.”

Madrak could not believe what he was hearing. “Are you refusing to honor your promise?”

Leto held up a hand, shaking his head, “No! Listen to my words. We will find land for your kriels. But it will take time. Duke Ebonhart is a reasonable and good man, a loyal vassal. His own honor is at stake, for the promises he has made to those asking him for refuge. He cannot evict those he has promised to shield, citizens driven from Fellig, Fisherbrook, and many villages as well as refugees of Llael.”

Madrak began to hear a ringing in his ears, and his fists knotted as he felt his heart hammering in his chest. “What has any of this to do with your sworn oath?”

Leto’s eyes were unyielding. “I understand your anger. But we are both rulers. We must be pragmatic. You rely on the support of lesser chiefs and elders, those who bring the young to fight for you. It is the same with me. There are those to whom I, as king, must answer. My highest nobles maintain the peace and my rule in their lands. I cannot dictate to them. We will find a home for your people. But it is more complex than it once was. It will require time to work through these difficulties. Abide with me. In less than a year we can settle this.”

Madrak gritted his teeth, his voice strangled. “Less than a year? My people will be dead! We cannot endure these attacks. We must have new lands now or face extinction.”

King Leto’s tone betrayed his own exasperation. “I have nothing for you now. Did you think there was fertile acreage of soil unused and awaiting your arrival? The Cryxians that attacked your kriels have also beset our lands.

Every farm within our borders is precious; finding arrangements for your kriels cannot be done in an instant!”

“We have defended your border, yet you will not allow us the same respect you give to humans of another nation? Those who flee hardship while we turn to face it? How is this just?”

“If I had something to give you, it would be yours. I am telling you now, you must have patience. Dig in as our own army has dug in at countless battlefields, and weather the storm.”

Madrak turned from Leto, his pale face reddening with anger. He stepped away and raised his hand, knowing as he did so he may be calling his own death. He pulled on the tension he always felt when Rathrok was not in his grasp, and the great axe lifted of its own accord and then shot across the air as if pulled by a heavy cord into his hand. He heard a rustling and shifting, a shouted query, and awaited the explosive boom of rifles. He held his breath against it, almost hoping it would come. Hoping to be shot before enduring this breach of faith. He stood with muscles tensed, facing away from the king for several long seconds.

He finally turned, seeing King Leto held up a hand to the unseen protectors, likely the only thing which saved his life. The king’s face was grave, but calm and unafraid. Behind him near the throne the two Stormguards had set their halberds at the ready, stepping to flank the king. The two nearer the entry door had also moved forward with their weapons.

Madrak spoke, his voice deep and intense. “This axe is called World Ender, and by lifting it in battle I have awakened a cursed doom, or so say the elders. I took this weapon only at last resort, in defense of my people. We abandoned all we could not carry, by your word. You promised we would earn shelter and protection, new lands, fighting on your border.”

Leto shook his head, “You can say it as many times as you wish. The reality will not change. Strike me if you must. I know your resolve. You could kill me before you are brought down, if my death before yours will bring satisfaction. This will not change that I have no lands to give you.”

Madrak shook his head. “I will not strike you. My oaths hold true, and I do not make them lightly. When we undertook kulgat you were bound to me, to my family. Neither you nor anyone you count as kin will be harmed by my hand, even if it costs my life. But this I vow: I will find a way for my people to survive. If I must take lands promised me by force, I will do so.”

Leto spread his hands, his expression aggrieved, “I do not seek any conflict with your people, Madrak. Not now or ever. But if you act against my citizens, we will stop you.”

“We will each do what we must, as we always have. If you do not want to fight, tell your soldiers not to get in our way. But we will take what you promised. I will not allow us to fight to extinction outside your borders so our blood does not stain your soil. Stand in our way, and there will be carnage. Only your protection, yours alone, do I promise.”

Chief Madrak Ironhide held up the gold chain which had granted him safe passage, its medallions gleaming in the light of the hall, and threw it to the ground at Leto’s feet. He strode from the hall ignoring the pleas of the man he had once called his brother. His champions waited outside — seeing his expression they knew better than to ask him questions. They followed in his wake as the great doors of the throne room closed again, with a sound like the sealing of a tomb.

Add a comment

What is your view?

Send

Related posts:

How to Create an Interactive Task Reporting Table in Confluence Cloud

Confluence Cloud is a new step of Atlassian towards the team collaboration platform. It has incorporated all the best features of Confluence Server and revamped the approaches to content editing and…

How Will YOUR Funeral Look Like?

The speaker of this month’s Creative Mornings Prague session was Jiří Hanek of Parteo. They try to disrupt the funeral communication design. To set the tone, the session was held in the ceremony hall…

Teach Language via Low Content Books

How can you teach language via a low-content book?. “Teach Language via Low Content Books” is published by Thinkologie by Nicole.