

### LORDS OF THE KINGS BOOK ONE

The Passage of

Kings

Anant.V.Goswami

For Nanu and Papa

Thank you for giving me the wings that help me fly today.

Copyright © 2019 by Anant.V.Goswami

The Passage of Kings

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof  
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever  
without the express written permission of the author/publisher  
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Printing, 2019

AG Publishing

www.anantvgoswami.com

### Prologue

THE MIST LAY heavy over the forest of Eravia. It was the kind of fog that made brave knights fear deep woods and grown men piss their breeches. An earthy smell left by a torrential downpour lingered in the air, and trees and grass alike appeared prettier than ever. The sound of a cart drawn by a horse could be heard in the distance, disturbing the eerie silence of the forest. The hooves sloshed their way over the muddy road which had now become home to puddles.

Cinto was in a hurry to get to his destination. He had been steering the cart for hours through the mist and a rutted road that had lost all of its distinguishing features, and all he wished for was a warm feather bed in one of the many taverns in Starhelm, and maybe a woman, although he did not want to spend his hard-earned silver on whores. The many barrels of wine stacked against one another in the back of the cart rattled as he whipped his horse, urging his stallion to increase the pace. Cinto didn't usually like whipping horses, they are the buttress that supports my livelihood, he always said, and so, whipping was something he utilized as a last resort when the horse was slouching beyond acceptable measure, or he was in a hurry. Presently, he found himself in both situations at the same time. By the speed at which he was trudging along, he expected to reach the hill city of Starhelm by dawn, if some kind of misfortune did not hinder his progress. His journey had been pleasant ever since he left the town of Fornhorn, ancient but well populated for its size, known for its exquisite wine and sturdy horses. And presently, it was a horse from Fornhorn that was currently pulling the old creaking carriage stuffed with barrels of wine that the king of Calypsos had ordered for the grand feast he was about to throw for the twenty-first name day of his son. And what a grand affair it was to be. Jugglers and minstrels from the corners of the Kingdom were invited, storytellers who were versed with the stories of old, acrobats who danced with rings of fire and fools known for making even the hardest of men laugh were all called upon by King Henrik.

But Cinto's mind was only on the path ahead. His eyes were fixed upon the fog that was thickening with each passing heartbeat; his hands were clutching the reins tightly, maneuvering the cart away from the sticky puddles which were proving to be a challenge for the Calypsian. Perhaps it was the flagon of wine that he had drunk a few hours ago or thoughts of the pretty wenches of Starhelm that distracted him, because of which he could not glimpse the massive puddle that swallowed the left wheel of his cart and brought it to an abrupt halt, almost toppling one of the barrels out of the cart. Cinto exclaimed irritably as he jumped down from his seat to inspect the source of his misfortune that he had been dreading all along. The grey clouds had cleared to give way to a large moon that hung in the sky like a lantern of the gods, emitting a pale white light that helped Cinto inspect the damage that his cart had taken. Relief washed over him as he realized that the wheel was still securely attached to the axle, and it was merely stuck in the mud, which was a lesser worry than having to reattach an entire wheel.

It was when Cinto was going over all the ways to pull his cart from the mud that he heard rustling among the trees behind him. At first, he dismissed it as the wind playing with the trees of Eravia, making them joust with one another. But the next time, the sound was more apparent, more distinct, and made by someone walking among the wild thicket of bushes growing on either side of the muddy road.

"Who goes there?" Cinto's voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

Silence followed Cinto's question. The rustling seemed to have stopped. The woods had gone back to being quiet. A quiet that was now starting to suffocate the wine trader. Was it a fearful mind playing tricks on him? Was it the thought of being stuck in the dangerous woods of Eravia that was causing the usually brave Calypsian to suddenly breathe harder?

The silence lingered.

Cinto's eyes kept staring at the bushes for a few more seconds before he went back to examining the wheel of his cart. He would have to unload the barrels of wine, all fifteen of them, and hope to Odium that he has enough strength to push the vehicle, and himself out of this misery. But little did he know that his suffering had just begun.

"Who rides the roads of Eravia in the middle of the night?"

Cinto felt the cold, sharp point of the dagger on the back of his neck before he heard the voice.

Fuck the king and his son, he thought.

"I am Cinto, a trader from the city of Riverhelm, and who might you be, sneaking up on weary travelers and scaring the piss out of them?" Cinto was amazed at the bravery in his voice. He was looking straight into coal-black eyes, set closely on a bearded face with a scar shaped like a hook on one side and an ear that was missing a lobe. The man was dressed in a black cloak that appeared shabby and overused.

"From where I come, the man with the blade does the questioning," a hint of a smile played on the dry lips of the cloaked man.

"Then ask your questions and be done with it, I still have a long journey ahead of me, and a cart that refuses to budge."

"And what can a Calypsian, so far away from home, be carrying in his cart that refuses to budge?" the man lazily trailed the tip of the sword along the sides of Cinto's neck, until it came to a stop at Cinto's Adam's apple.

"Wine." Cinto's voice had lost all its bravery at this point, and he was pretty sure he had soiled himself. Stories of men being robbed and murdered in the forest of Eravia were not uncommon, and Cinto knew he was in a situation where he could become the protagonist of one such story any moment. Suddenly, he was very aware of the leather pouch that hung from his belt, the pouch that carried the leftover silver from the purchase of the wine.

"I have no interest in your wine, traveler. If you have coins, then that can surely save your life."

Cinto was in no mood to lie. He favored life over silver. "It's in the leather pouch hanging from my belt," Cinto frantically beckoned towards the pouch with the help of his eyes. The man yanked the pouch with his free hand with a swift tug.

The sword never left Cinto's throat.

The man opened the pouch and peered inside. The shine of silver gleamed back at him.

"Is anyone coming up behind you, perhaps a fellow trader who might have gold instead of your measly silver, or a soldier with some steel on him ?"

"No, not that I know of," Cinto lied. He knew a party of ten men-at-arms was trotting a few hours behind him. The man peered at Cinto for a few seconds, as if having a hard time believing him, but something made him change his mind, and he removed the blade from Cinto's neck and fastened the pouch to his own belt.

"Can I go now?"

"How can you? Isn't your cart stuck?" the man said lazily. In fact, his mannerisms appeared too languid for him to be a robber. A sense of urgency that defines a robbery was entirely absent in the way he was conducting his business.

"Don't mind, sir, but seeing as how you have just robbed me, I would like to be left alone so that I can tend to my misfortune in the best way I deem fit."

"Stop playing with him, Craigon, and take his head. For all we know, the bastard may be lying, and someone might be following him," a short bald man appeared out of the woods, grinning, uneven yellow teeth visible in the moonlight. The newcomer looked as hideous as his companion but lacked the intimidation that the face of the bearded man bore. He limped his way closer to Cinto, a hand on his short sword that hung from his belt, a sly look plastered on his face.

"No! I gave you all the coins I had; taking my life will not add to it, will it?"

"I am in no mood for killing," said Craigon as he walked over to the Fornhornian horse. "But I am in the mood for some horse meat, especially meat pried off the bones of a Fornhornian horse. They say a man who feasts on a Fornhornian horse becomes more of a stallion than a man, he runs faster than the wind, fights better than a bull and fucks better than...well, a horse." Craigon looked hard at Cinto while stroking the mane of the horse. The horse neighed and tried to free himself of the harness that was restricting his freedom as if he knew what horrible fate awaited him.

Cinto's eyes were already wide with fear. He had heard of the bandits of Eravia. Fellow traders would talk of them in taverns and inns, describing in excruciating detail the way the bandits would roast their horses on a massive spit, while it still drew breath, while it still neighed in pain. But they were not just horse eating barbarians, they also delighted in human flesh from time to time, or any living being that walked or crawled the grounds of Aerdon. It weren't just coins that these vile men were after; they were full of lust for more than just gold or silver; they were hungry for meat. Meat pried off the bones of animals and humans alike.

"Take the horse, take everything you want, but let me walk away, please, I beg of you. I have a son waiting for me, a wife that..."

"ooh, a wife? I wonder how she will taste?" the bald man cut in.

A tear rolled down the cheek of the Calypsian trader. He knew what was about to happen. His fate was already sealed. They would never toy with him for so long and let him walk away alive. The bandits were not known for being amiable; they were known for being the opposite of that.

"Then get it over with, you sons of whores. Take my head and..." Cinto was interrupted once again before he could finish his sentence. The short sword flashed in the moonlight for a second, before it cut through Cinto's neck like a knife through hot butter. The head rolled off into the puddle where the wheel was stuck, an expression of bone-chilling fear frozen on the face, eyes unblinking and devoid of life.

"You should have let him finish; I was interested in what he wanted us to do with his head," Craigon said as he slowly thrust his dagger into the side of the horse until the blade was buried so deep into the flesh that only the hilt was visible.

"He called my mother a whore. I love my mother, Craig; you know that," the bald man shouted over the wild and deafening screams of the horse, "although she really was a whore, wasn't she? And you should have left the horse alive, the sounds are surely going to draw whoever is following the bastard."

"We will be deep in the woods by then. Stop being a coward, Hath, you give us bandits a bad name. Now help me drag this horse off the damn road."

This was easier said than done. The rain had caused the road to be a lot more uneven than it previously was. The two bandits grabbed two legs each and started to pull the dead horse out of the puddle that had turned crimson due to the mixture of human and horse blood. Finally, the cloaked men were able to drag the animal a few feet into the woods, where they sat down with their backs to a huge Wych Elm tree.

"Our friend's head and headless body still decorate the road" Hath sighed.

"And I assume your fat body is too tired from dragging the horse?" asked Craigon with an irritated look on his face.

"By the Wizard-Gods, I always knew you were too smart to be a bandit," Hath laughed while stifling a yawn, "and while you are at it, bring a flagon of wine from the cart, will you? Tonight, we dine on the juicy meat and exotic wine of Fornhorn."

"Don't forget the flesh of Riverhelm," said Craigon, thinking of Cinto's body, his mouth salivating.

It ended up being more than just a flagon of wine that the bandits drank. And within minutes, the sound of their snoring dominated the misty landscape of the Eravian Forest.

No birds sang in the woods, and no creature stirred among the mighty trunks of ancient trees. For hundreds of years, the barbaric bandits of Aerdon had ruled the ancient forest of Eravia, well, if the ruling was to comprise raiding and robbing and raping, and no king had been able to drive them out. The forest and the bandits were one, the trees were their watchtowers, the thick roots were their drawbridges, and the entire forest itself was one big castle. The four kingdoms and the 'Maharsha,' the chief bandit, had come to an accord a few hundred years ago. The bandits were to allow free passage to traders, merchants, and common folk, but the soldiers were to go around the forest, or sail up the river 'Vonsea,' and cross the humongous Lake Aerdos if they wanted to cross Eravia. And for hundreds of years that accord had remained intact. But then, Aerdon was hit with 'The Drought of Death'. Rainfall decreased year after year and crop production went down. The fertile lands of the kingdom of Indius started losing the richness of its soil, and that is when the accord was broken. The impact of The Unending Drought was horrific, and very bloody. Kingdoms turned against one another, the bandits resumed their killing, and even the common folk of the four kingdoms became flesh-eating cannibals in an attempt to satisfy their crippling hunger. People prayed to the Wizard-Gods, kings sacrificed animals to the count of thousands, priests were showered with gold and silken robes, and temples were decorated with rubies and emeralds, and then, somehow, the intensity of the drought lessened, and for the first time in a hundred years, death and starvation were replaced by corn and bread. Little did the people of Aerdon know that their respite would be short-lived, that the monster they thought they had killed would be replaced by the devil himself. Little did they know that death would come back to haunt them in a way that would be more painful, execrable and ghostly.

'The White Curse', it was called. 'The offspring of the devil', some called it, and a few others gave it names that were even more dreadful to hear. The curse had wiped out half the population of East Shade, the capital city of the kingdom of Harduin, and it was inching towards other kingdoms, ever so slowly, leaving corpses as white as snow and as thin as twigs in its wake. The people prayed again, kings sacrificed even more animals, and the priests and temples were showered with enough gold to fill Lake Aerdos. But this time, the Wizard-Gods turned a deaf ear to the pleas of the four kingdoms. The cries of men and women, as they were dragged to their graves, were perhaps not loud enough for the four Wizard-Gods, the ancient beings, the all-powerful, the creators of Aerdon.

The sound of hooves and men shouting woke Craigon. His first thought was that they were caught. But as sleep left him and his senses rushed back to him, he saw that they were still safe. The sound was coming from the road. He could make out a few horses, with men wearing plate armor, huddled together near the puddle where they had beheaded Cinto. He could see that two of the men that had gotten off their steed and were involved in an animated conversation, while the others sat on their horses, motionless. Suddenly, one of the men was pointing to the ground, and for a moment, he looked straight at Craigon, as if he had found what he had been searching.

Beads of sweat appeared on Craigon's forehead, and he was afraid the sound of his beating heart was loud enough for the soldiers to spot him. Hath had stopped snoring, and for that, Craigon was grateful. He nudged his sides in a futile attempt to wake him. However, the wine had had its effect, and the bald bandit was deep in slumber. Craigon's eyes kept darting from his companion to the soldiers on the edge of the road. A sudden movement would surely mean his discovery and staying put would only delay the inevitable. He strained his eyes to see what the soldiers were up to next, and his nervousness turned to cold fear when two of the soldiers started walking directly towards them.

"Hath!" he whispered in his companion's ear. Hath continued to lay motionless, his chest heaving in a rhythmic motion. A few drops of wine still lingered on the sides of his mouth, and the empty flask lay on his open palm, his fingers coiled around the cup like a lazy snake resting on the branch of a tree.

"Hath, I don't want to kill you, but I will if you do not get up," Craigon muttered under his breath, and nudged Hath with the tip of his sword. This appeared to have the desired effect on Hath as he woke with a start.

"The Calypsians are on us; we have to go."

Hath kept staring at him, bewildered.

Craigon grabbed Hath's bald head with his enormous hand and dug his nails into his skin. "If you do not come to your senses, you dumb dog, I will cut you open like the horse."

Hath nodded wearily, having a hard time comprehending the words that were coming out of Craigon's mouth.

"Now we are going to get up slowly, and start walking away from the men who want our heads, do you understand?"

Hath nodded.

The men-at-arms were already a few feet inside the woods, swords unsheathed, eyes searching the surroundings. Craigon could faintly make out the sigil of the Swolderhornn dynasty, a grey warhorn on a black circle, emblazoned on their grey breastplate, the visors on their bascinet were raised, and their red cloaks swirled behind them.

Craigon started to slowly back away, treading carefully, being careful not to step on a twig or a branch. Hath stumbled behind him. Craigon knew what he would do if Hath gave them away; he only hoped it would not come to that. Loyalty among bandits was a rare phenomenon, and Craigon was in no mood to change the tradition.

As the Calypsian soldiers came closer, the two bandits mover further away. We are not moving fast enough, thought Craigon, as he noticed the soldiers gaining on them. His only hope was that the Calypsians would give up before venturing deep in the woods. Perhaps the fear of the forest or encountering a large party of bandits would motivate them to turn back.

But no such thing happened. And it was when Craigon heard the loud bark of a hunting dog, that he lost all hope. He knew at that moment that stealth was no longer a practical option. No man had ever hidden from a Calypsian hound and lived to tell the tale. He turned his back to the approaching soldiers, took in a substantial gulp of air, and began to run.

He did not know whether Hath did the same; he did not care. In a matter of seconds, he heard the whooshing sound of arrows followed by a high-pitched scream of a man, and then a thud. He had received the answer to his question.

Craigon did not look back. He ran past hanging branches, cut himself on stray roots, jumped over some moss covered rocks with large red ants crawling up the sides, but did not stop running. He could hear the gallop of horses, the shouting of men, and the harsh barking of a dog. He expected an arrow to pierce him any moment, to penetrate his back and reappear through his chest. He expected the sharp, glistening teeth of a dog to snap at his legs; he anticipated a mace to hit his head and turn it into a gooey mess of bones and pulp. He heard the galloping of hooves getting closer, he heard the twang of the string as the arrow left the bow, and he closed his eyes to embrace his death. But instead of falling to the ground, he began falling inside it. The ground opened up beneath his feet, and he felt himself being swallowed, falling into a dark abyss, until the ground rushed up to meet him and smacked him across the face.

He tasted blood in his mouth for a few heartbeats before closing his eyes and passing out.

***

The bandit had vanished right before his eyes as if the threadlike fingers of the mist had coiled around him and had consumed him. Wynn Howell reined in his horse and brought it to a halt.

"Where did he go?" he shouted.

"Probably tripped and fell," the soldier beside him suggested.

"Doesn't matter, we have to find him. The king's justice awaits him. Branch out into different directions, men. Gareth, you go left, and Maelor, take the right. I am going to go straight and scout the area where we last saw him. Try to take him alive, but kill him if he proves to be too much trouble. But try to make it as painful as possible."

Gareth nodded and trotted into the dense thicket to their left while Maelor proceeded towards the clearing to the right. Wynn stood motionless for some time, studying the thick mist for a little while, trying to make out a silhouette, scampering off into the unknown. His eyes had been glued to the bandit for as long as they had been chasing him, and then in an instant, Eravia had swallowed him. Was it true that the trees of Eravia helped the bandits? How could something so majestic and ancient aid those who were so vile and barbaric? But it was said that the bandits made these lands their home even before the first tree of Eravia grew and matured. If the forest was a thing from the ancient past of Aerdon, then the bandits were descendants of 'Viranin', the first men that arrived on the shores of Aerdon. But history did not matter to Wynn. He was a man that lived by his sword, who was loyal to his king, and he was after the man who had killed his brother and left his headless body in the middle of the road.

He brought his horse to a trot, and plunged into the mist, with revenge on his mind. The mist thickened as he went deeper into the forest. Damp air filled his nostrils, and the closeness of the trees gave him the feeling of being surrounded by a host of enemy soldiers. The leaves swayed gently as a mild breeze tickled the green blades of mighty oaks, standing tall and proud all around him. He was about to be presented with the same fate as Craigon when he noticed the wide gaping hole, almost inconspicuous because of the light mist that still hung in the air. He peered into it but could see only darkness. He got down from his horse and bent to take a closer look. The hole was shaped like a square, a square that was well proportioned, with sharp edges and distinct lines, a clear indication that it was the work of men, and not nature. He swept the leaves to the side with his hand and confirmed what he had been thinking. It was a trapdoor, and the latch had been hidden under the yellow autumn leaves of Eravia. Calloused hands of the soldier fumbled at his belt and unsheathed a small dagger that he dropped in the blackness of the hole. A metal clank followed after a silence of three seconds. I can make the jump, thought Wynn. Will I find the murderer inside? What if he is waiting for me in the dark, ready to take my head the same way he took my brothers? Not if I take his first.

Wynn untied his leather boots and kept them to the side. I need to be quiet, he thought. The Calypsian dangled his legs off the edge of the trapdoor, ready to take the plunge into nothingness. He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the edge. He hit the floor faster than the small dagger. The landing was unsteady, and he lost his balance but did not collapse entirely. After steadying himself, he looked around or tried to, as his eyes could see nothing but darkness. He felt like a blind man trapped in a dungeon, where a bloodthirsty man may be hiding mere inches away from him. A putrid odor hit his nose, likely caused by the decaying of dead rats and other small creatures of the dark.

A few feet away from him, Craigon sat with unblinking eyes, his vision already accustomed to the darkness around him. His fingers were wrapped around the hilt of his short sword, which was hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. Everything was quiet for a few seconds. The Calypsian was trying to feel his way in the darkness, the bandit was waiting for the right opportunity to thrust his sword deep inside his opponent's heart. And then Craigon decided that he had waited long enough, and lurched forward, swinging his sword in the direction of the faint outline that he knew was his enemy.

The sword only cut the air.

Wynn ducked the moment he heard movement behind him, evading death by a few inches. Craigon had lost the element of surprise. The battle was now evenly matched.

Everything was quiet once again.

The two combatants shuffled quietly in the dark, waiting for the other to make a mistake. Wynn was wearing heavy steel armor, while Craigon donned just a cloak.

Steel was louder than cloth.

After what seemed like hours, the clouds cleared in the sky, and moonlight poured into the trapdoor, just enough to bathe the hole in soft silvery light. Wynn had a fleeting look at his enemy's face. He glimpsed the menacing scar, the grizzly beard, and dark eyes, which were darting left and right, trying to find flesh for a sword. However, Craigon was searching in the wrong place. But Wynn was precisely where he wanted to be. This time, the Calypsian threw himself at Craigon. The two men stumbled backward and hit a wall. Craigon felt the sword penetrate his abdomen and his mouth opened to let out a scream. But nothing came out of his mouth. His eyes stared at the horror-stricken face of Wynn, who had thrust the entirety of his blade into Craigon's body. But as life left him and darkness started to creep in front of his eyes, he took one last look at his own sword, now a part of Wynn's body, which had become a fountain of blood. And as the two men collapsed on top of each other, their white armor and black cloak now a shade of deep red, they unleashed magic that had been extinct in Aerdon since the passing of the last Wizard-King.

The blood-stained wall began to metamorphosize, the granite stones started to part, and the entire enclosure began to transform itself. The wall gave way to a passage, which led to an ancient chamber, with cracks running down walls and a floor with broken stone tiles. The high vaulted chamber was bathed in a soft golden glow as if the rising sun had made the ancient site its home. The source of the golden light was an hourglass that appeared to glow on its own, looking out of place in the desolation that surrounded it. Polished glass bulbs were held together by a golden frame with words from a language long forgotten etched on the sides in silver. However, it was not the golden frame itself that glowed, but the sand inside, that trickled grain by grain into the lower bulb, sparkling and shining like molten gold, counting down the time for a prophecy that was very near to being fulfilled. But there were other things in the room, more majestic, more powerful and more magical than the hourglass and its sparkling sand.

Five lofty statutes, carved from stone, were huddled around the hourglass, with the statue in the middle holding the ancient artifact in its outstretched hand. The other figures were in different stages of wonderment, their expression ranging from fear to happiness, with thick stone beards reaching the ground. The one in the middle wore a crown, shaped like a sword twisted into a circle, his eyes staring down at the hourglass, the only eyes among the five pairs that were shut, an expression of content and calmness etched on its face. One among them was a woman, tallest among all, the crumbling pieces of stones from her face still revealing the beauty she was, her big eyes and curvy body sculpted to perfection, and she was standing next to the crowned bearded man in the center. Crouched beside her, in a hooded cloak, was a man with a face that children dream of in their nightmares, a face that haunts men long after they had laid their eyes on it, the face of death. The statue to the extreme right was the strangest of all, for it had the face of a horse and the body of a man, and finally, the last statue was that of a dwarf, a staff longer than his body in his right hand, and an expression of mischief on his face.

These were the five Wizard-Gods of Aerdon, the creators of kingdoms, the destroyers of men, beings that became myths and legends, humans that had ascended to the status of Gods. Most doubted that they ever walked the lands of Aerdon, but all believed that they created the lands and everything that grew from it. From magic long forgotten, and spells long abandoned, they had resurrected castles, appointed kings and built cities that the Viranins inhabited. Five kingdoms were said to be created, one kingdom by each Wizard-God, and each kingdom, from that day onward, built temples, wrote hymns and recited verses and prayed to their own Vizarin, the name that they gave to the powerful beings.

And now, they held in their hand, the power to change the tides of history; the beginning of something terrible, the beginning of the end of kings, of the end of men, perchance the death of a realm.

### Chapter One

Olver Liongloom

"HOW MANY DEATHS?" asked Olver, leaning back into the granite throne, his hands resting on the polished black arms that shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the huge windows of the Black Hall.

"Twenty-eight, your grace, fifteen in the capital and thirteen in the villages and towns," Sir Pederick Blar said, his head bowed and eyes staring at the black marble floor.

"That is ten more than last week," said an old man cloaked in black and gold, his white hair tied in a long ponytail, sitting on one of the many chairs that lined both sides of the hall.

"And these are just people we know of, who knows how many have perished, unaccounted and unknown," the young king said, as he got up and walked over to one of the windows. A black crown, studded with a single large red ruby lay on a mop of auburn hair, and the king was garbed in a black velvet doublet, embroidered with golden flowers on its sleeves and chest. A black cape fell from the shoulders of the doublet, which shimmered every time the king walked.

"What of the potions, Bernard? Have they proved to be of any use at all?"

"They seem to work for a little while, Your Grace, the face retains its color, the eyes stop turning ghostly white, but then the curse always strikes back harden than before, and it seems the person dies faster than he normally would. It is as if the curse uses the potion and turns it against the body. And yes, the manner of death also worsens," Bernard said, bright blue eyes meeting the brown of the king.

"In what way?" asked Olver, dreading the answer.

"Well, by the end of it, the person loses any hint of fat on their body, imagine a skeleton with a thin layer of skin, stretched taut all over. And while the eyes turn entirely white in most of the cases, they also bleed when a person has consumed any potion that was supposed to stall the spreading of the curse."

The king grunted in disgust.

"Is this supposed to be my legacy? Will my children inherit a kingdom with graveyards teeming with corpses and houses devoid of people?"

"That is if you find a woman to bear your children, nephew."

The massive oak doors of the Black Hall opened, and Krastin Liongloom strolled in, wearing a brown leather jerkin over a white doublet, the sound of his black leather shoes echoing through the mighty hall. His black hair was cropped short and kohl-lined his eyes, giving his face a look of mischief and roguery.

"All the pretty ones are turning into scrawny wraiths, while the ugly ones persist," said Krastin with a sly grin, as he sat opposite Bernard. The old man locked eyes with the king's uncle, and for a moment, the two men stared at one another. Krastin did not lose his smile, and Bernard did not lose his scowl. It was only when Sir Pederick spoke that the two men averted their gaze.

"The king of Harduin has a sister, people speak of her beauty in all of the four kingdoms, if only His Grace would consider the marriage proposal."

"His Grace does not want to concern himself with pretty princesses and marriage alliances when half of the kingdom rots," Olver's voice rose a little, but his face did not give away his frustration.

"Perhaps His Grace can consider marrying the Harduinian girl for her fishes and not her cunt if those sorts of things do not interest our king. Our crop production is at an all-time low, but the Harduinians continue to catch fishes by the tons," said Krastin Liongloom, his eyes meeting the king's for the first time.

He thinks his words have an effect on me, thought Olver. I would have cut him down long ago if only my father did not bear any love for his brother. The king remained stone-faced, not letting his disgust show on his face. A true king keeps a calm head in court and a furious one on the battlefield; his father had always said.

"As always, I thank you for your suggestion, uncle, but Indius has enough wheat and corn. We do not need to turn to the fishes of Harduin. You may have a flawed memory, uncle, seeing that age is finally catching up with you, but I still remember the scars left on our lands by that wretched kingdom. Never in a thousand years will our families unite. At least not as long as I am king.

And how you wish that was not the case.

Krastin slowly lifted himself from his seat and walked over to where Olver stood, facing the window. He leaned in from behind and whispered in a sing-song voice, "Don't starve your people, young king. It's the people who protect you. They are your biggest strength, the fools. If it weren't for them, you would be long gone."

Olver turned to face Krastin, and for the first time, he smiled, and whispered back, "I like it when you don't hide your intentions about me. Makes you look less of a coward and more of a true born Liongloom."

The sound of approaching footsteps distracted both men. Valentin Mertens, master of messages, entered the hall, with an impatient walk. His black and white surcoat looked ordinary in front of the luxurious garments worn by the king and his advisors.

"Your grace, an envoy from Calypsos requests a meeting with you, he says it is a matter of utmost importance."

"From Calypsos? We haven't had an envoy from them since ages," Bernard remarked.

"Strange times solicit strange deeds, ask him to present himself."

"You may enter, envoy," Valentin barked.

A tall man, wearing shiny grey plate armor from head to toe, with Swolderhornn dynasty's war horn emblazoned on the front, entered the Black Hall of Indius. He held his great helm in his right hand, and the other hand lazily held the empty scabbard that hung from his belt. Blonde hair shone in the sunlight like serpents of fire coiled around each other.

He walked up to the dais where the king stood beside the Black Throne and bowed in respect.

"My Lord of Wildemere, it is an honor to stand in the presence of the youngest king of Indius, ever."

"The honor is mine, young Calypsian. Tell me, why did it take King Henrik so long to send someone from his mighty kingdom to our humble lands. Not that I am not pleased about it." Olver jested with the envoy.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but our King has been pre-occupied with happenings in his own kingdom. The bandits have started to violate the accord more often. Robberies and murders in Eravia continue to increase. Times are tough, Your Grace," the envoy raised his head to look at a face more fair and handsome than any he had seen before. Beautiful brown eyes and a strong jaw, a massive chest and broad shoulders defined young Olver, along with a stubble that peppered the kind face of the young king. A King that looks the part, thought the envoy.

"Times are tough for us all. Anyways, what is your name?"

"Marcus, Your Grace."

"Well, Marcus, what brings you to Wildemere in these rough times?"

Marcus hesitated before speaking. He knew what he was about to say was absurd.

Absurd, but very real.

"A few days ago, a couple of bandits killed a trader who was returning from Fornhorn. However, a party of men-at-arms caught up with them and chased them deep into the woods of Eravia."

Bernard shuffled in his chair, Krastin stood motionless, like a statue. The king took his seat back on the throne. Sunlight was choked from the windows as clouds began to evade the sky that had been bright blue and clear just seconds ago.

"One of the men went deeper into the woods than planned, and for hours, he did not return. Finally, we sent a search party to look for him, and that is when we discovered the temple."

Marcus stopped for a few seconds, anticipating a remark, or a question.

"Continue," was all Olver said.

"The man, along with the bandit had fallen into a trapdoor, where both killed each other after a messy fight. We found their bodies on top of each other; swords buried deep in them. However, it wasn't the corpses that were a matter of interest, but where we found them. As I said earlier, the trapdoor was an entrance to an ancient temple, buried deep within the ground of Eravia. And inside the temple, we found statues of the five Vizarins," Valentin concluded, while the king remained quiet, surely they would have something to say at this point, the envoy thought to himself.

"Five statues together? But that is not possible. The five can never be brought together," Bernard said in a low voice, shifting to the edge of his chair.

"Five? Who was the fifth Vizarin?" asked Olver with his chin in his hands.

"Vornoth of Azgun, Your Grace, the disgraced god of that evil kingdom," the envoy replied.

"Who would want to erect a statue of that hideous being?" Bernard said more to himself than anyone else.

"That is not all, my lords, the statue of Odium held in its hand an hourglass, with sparkling gold sand filled within. The sand glowed of its own accord as if it was not sand but Goldust, and the sides were engraved with words from the forgotten language of D'ran."

Krastin chuckled from where he stood.

"I am sorry, but your king could have just sent a troubadour instead of an envoy. We would have enjoyed his narration a lot more. Your narration lacks a certain amount of...flare, young Calypsian."

Although Olver despised the way his uncle spoke to an emissary of a neighboring kingdom, he could not help but feel a little amused himself. Sparkling sand? An ancient buried temple? He had heard such stories back when he was a boy, told to him by his nursemaid, or a traveling minstrel, but here stood a full-grown man, from the most powerful kingdom in all of Aerdon, going on about forgotten languages and temples of old.

"Why would I ride all the way from Riverhelm to entertain your court with children's stories? Especially at a time when our realm is plagued with droughts and curses? Our king is old, yes, but he has seen and experienced far more than any other living king of Aerdon. And that is why he requests your company, your grace, along with other kings of Aerdon, so that you can lay your eyes upon this marvel and decide for yourself if what we speak is true."

Olver studied the young envoy for a few moments. He is a loyal servant of his king, a rarity in my court. But he does not lie. Is the age of magic really upon them? Have spells I heard of in my childhood returned to take the place of sword and shield? But all I have ever learned is how to wield a sword, and how to kill a man with it.

"Marcus, I will not lie when I tell you that your words are hard to believe. But I also know that King Henrik is a wise man. He is not one to waste time on games. And so, I will ride to your kingdom to gaze upon this temple, and if what you say is true, then my dear Marcus, we will need all the wisdom you claim your king possesses, and then some more."

"I thank you for your understanding, your grace," Marcus bowed once again.

Olver looked at Bernard, who nodded in approval, agreeing with Olver's decision. He had served as the chief advisor to the Liongloom dynasty for years, and his opinion was one that Olver never ignored. Sir Pederick sat expressionlessly, who was more of a warrior than a strategist.

"You spoke of other kings who are invited, who have agreed?" Krastin asked nonchalantly.

Marcus looked at Krastin as if he did not expect such a question. However, he obliged with an answer.

"The queen of Maeryn, and...," Marcus hesitated before uttering the words he knew were going to be precarious, "the king of Harduin and his sister."

Krastin Liongloom roared with laughter. Marcus stared at Krastin with an expression of bewilderment.

"It seems like you will have to forget the scars of old for a little while, nephew. Now you can decide whether it will be for fishes or cunt when you meet her in person."

***

The castle of Wildemere was a majestic structure of fortification that was built from red sandstone, which was transported all the way from the mines of Wickerston, giving the castle a distinct red appearance that no other castle in Aerdon had been able to duplicate. Three levels of curtain wall enclosed three different sections of the city, with the innermost curtain wall shielding the Black hall of Indius and the Wilder Keep, which served as the residence of the king and his family, and also some of the high-ranking officers. The second curtain wall enclosed a large bailey, the armory, stables, the kitchens and other structures of military importance. A deep, wide moat lined with iron spikes separated the second curtain wall from the rest of the city, which was finally enclosed by the third curtain wall. The red walls, the red castle along with the roofs of houses, taverns, inns, and shops painted bright red led to Wildemere being called the 'Strawberry City'.

It was in the upper levels of the Wilder Keep that the luxurious bedchamber of the king was situated, with sweeping views of the castle and the city. Olver stood at the window, peering down at the bailey where archers and crossbowmen were practicing on hay stuffed targets, and young boys were dueling with wooden swords. Over the countless red roofs of the city and out in the distance, he could make out the faint outlines of the hills of Eravia. A patchwork of farms scattered around the outskirts of the city, dotted with straw and mud houses completed the view from the king's solar.

Thoughts of death and destruction dominated the mind of the young king as he pondered over the future of his beloved kingdom.

Kings can only do so much, Olver. When the tides of destiny turn, and when defeat draws nearer, that is when a king has to put on an act, convince his people that the storm can be weathered, and lead them to death, with a smile on their face. Because sometimes, a brave and beautiful death is all a king can provide to his people, because kings can only do so much.

The booming voice of his father echoed in the depths of his mind. But I will never let them die. He had then debated. They die all around me, and I do nothing, he now thought.

He heard the doors to his bedchamber open and knew that the only person who could enter without taking his permission was his sister. He turned around to look at the beautiful girl, dressed in a black gown, wearing a silver necklace studded with black onyx, lounging on his bed, her long black hair braided in the fashion of a rose, and a large ripe apple in her hand.

"What did the man from Riverhelm say?"

"That spectacular things are happening all over Aerdon while we sit behind our red walls and eat apples." Olver crossed the room and snatched the apple from his sister, smiling as he took a bite.

"Mock answers will not do any longer, brother. I am ten and six now; I need to know what is happening. Are we in danger?"

"When are we not in danger, Kimbr?" Olver sat down beside his sister, and gave her back the apple, "But you do not need to worry. As long as your brother lives, no harm will come to you."

"I can look after myself. What I really want to do is help you, Olver. With father so sick and our sweet uncle always plotting against us, I know how burdened you must feel. Let me sit with you in court meetings. Let my face be a source of comfort among the many faces you can't trust." Olver could see hope twinkle in the pretty black eyes of his sister, which made it even harder to say what he said next, "You are too young for that, Kimbr, father would never allow it."

"Father or you? Please help remind me who sits the black throne now, you or father? you are the king of Indius, and father is too old and frail to think of such matters." Olver took his sister's hands in his, a melancholic smile played on his lips, as he spoke with a heavy heart, "And the crown rests heavy on my head. There is a lot of pain in this world, a lot of suffering, and every day, people travel from the corners of the kingdom, bringing news of even more pain. How can I let my beautiful sister, still so young and cheerful, sit amongst men who talk of suffering? What sort of a brother would I be?"

"A brother who wants his sister to finally grow up to become what her mother was, what his mother was, a ferocious woman," Kimbr said, a hint of desperation in her voice.

And she paid for it, thought Olver.

"I will not further this conversation anymore. Your place is by our father, who battles death every day. If it is comfort that you want to give, then give it to him. Gods know he deserves it after the life he has led," Olver said in a stoic voice.

A gust of wind blew into the room, and the cloth over the massive bed flapped about, like tumultuous waves of the sea. Kimbr sat looking out the window, sad eyes observing the pale red sky.

"Do you think Krastin will try to kill you?" Kimbr asked, turning her gaze back to her brother, who was now sitting at the massive oak table that stood in the corner of the bedchamber.

"No, I do not think he will stoop so low. He may hate me more than he shows, but he is a man loyal to the family name, and believe it or not, he cares for the kingdom. I have seen it in the way he talks about it. He knows what my death will do to the kingdom."

"He may bear love for the kingdom, but his wife could care less about all of that. Rube is already twelve, and she may soon start desiring the Black Throne for her son, and I doubt Krastin will do anything to stop her." Kimbr took one last bite from the apple and chucked it out the window.

Olver looked up from the letter that he had been writing and turned to glare at Kimbr with an exasperated expression, "You worry like an old woman. I pity the man that will marry you. I hope the poor man does not hang himself."

"He will if he tries to control me as you do. Olver, listen to me," and Olver did look at her and saw that his sister was actually worried. Furrows developed on her forehead as she continued in a shaky voice, "I have been ill at ease ever since the White Curse first plagued our lands. A constant fear has made its home in my heart. I keep thinking who will be snatched away from me, and when. And you might try to hide me away from what has been happening, but I know of the temple that has been found in Eravia. And I know you will leave in a few days," Kimbr's voice trembled as she struggled to continue, but she did, "I sometimes think whether you will return or not, and the thought cripples my body. I do not want to be left behind with that wretched Krastin and his wife. I want to come with you." A tear rolled down the beautiful face of the princess of Indius.

Sadness filled Olver's heart. The same thoughts plagued him day and night. He too wondered about the curse's next victim, and whether it will be someone very close to him. It had already besieged his father, although the great king had been fighting longer than most men, but he knew his end would come. Sooner or later, the curse claims everyone. King and peasant alike.

Howbeit, he wanted a familiar face by his side when he would finally rest his eyes forever. His daughter should be with him in his final moments. Mother had died alone, I will not let father have the same miserable death.

Olver walked up to Kimbr and took her in his arms and whispered, "Stand in the balcony of your bedchamber and look out for me on the thirty-first day of spring, and I promise you, you will gaze upon the banners of Liongloom dynasty, and at that moment, you will know that your brother is home."

All Olver could hear were the faint sobs of his sister, her face buried in his chest. He knew his sister did not weep out of fear; Kimbr Liongloom was stronger than that. He knew she wept in anger; she wept because she was just a princess, but she wanted to be much more than that.

***

Fifty men were all that Olver took with him. Fifty of his most loyal and skilled warriors. It wasn't a battle that the men of Indius were marching to, although there hadn't been a battle in Aerdon in hundreds of years. The last time the fields of Aerdon were soaked in blood was when the armies of Indius and Harduin met on the Plains of Clashenfield, a battle that cemented the centuries-long rivalry between the two major kingdoms of Aerdon. The Battle of Lies, it was called, for it began with a lie, a lie told for love, that ended in a war. And since then, minstrels and bards and troubadours had sung of it, praised it and made it a legend. The greatest battle among battles, the battle of a hundred thousand men, the battle for love, no matter how they described the bloody battle of Clashenfield, people seemed to want more, and in their pursuit of quenching people's thirst for tales, storytellers had resorted to exaggerations. And thus, the rivalry between Harduin and Indius was exaggerated as well, and the kings on both sides bought into it and began harvesting a hatred that was far more than what was needed. And now, for the first time in ages, the two royal bloodlines of the two kingdoms would come face to face, at a time when magic stood knocking on the doors of Aerdon.

The ride to the forest of Eravia from the capital city of Wildemere wasn't a long one. It would take ten days for a man on a galloping horse to reach the hills of Eravia, without stopping for rest, and from there three more days to reach Lake Aerdos, on the border of the forest of Eravia. Olver Liongloom sat straight on his destrier, a metal chanfron engraved with elaborate designs protected the horse's face, as did the criniere and croupier, that glinted in the harsh sunlight flooding over the plains of Clashenfield. Fifty men in plate armor, with a red prancing horse between two black pillars emblazoned on a fiery red breastplate, were trotting along behind the young king, carrying the red and black banner of Liongloom dynasty. Olver himself wore the red plate armor but the horse and the pillars on his breastplate were gilded, and so was his great helm.

The commonfolk had left their houses, shops, and stables to come out and gaze upon their young king who had never looked so majestic, so powerful, winding his way through the streets of Wildemere, along with his small host of elite bodyguards. And Olver had never felt so jittery.

The king's host had presently left the city behind and was making their way through the farms that were the source of Wildmere's dwindling food supply. The sun was beating down upon the king and his men, and Olver could feel his surcoat beginning to get drenched under his armor. It was only when they entered the hills of Eravia and commenced the gentle climb, that they got any respite from the scorching sun. Massive leafy trees overhanging on the dirt road were a welcome sight for Olver. Here and there, Olver could spot a deer or two, grazing on the grass that was increasingly becoming rare to find. Legend said that it was in these hills that the Viranins first met the Vizarins, and from where the world of Aerdon started to take shape. It was called 'Azan', or God's own forest in the forgotten language of D'ran, but along with the language, the stories themselves were forgotten, and some that remembered, started to use them as fairytales, to make their wailing children fall into the arms of sleep on nights when thunder rolled in the skies.

I believe the stories. The gods did walk among us. And mightiest among them was Erdoher, the Wizard-God that created Indius. No, you are a fool to think that way, Olver, each kingdom deems their god to be the mightiest, but none of it matters as the gods have deserted their children. We are on our own. The four kingdoms and its people are one. The curse does not discriminate. Death does not discriminate.

"We have crossed the borders and entered Calypsos," Sir Pederick trotted up beside his king, "we should send a scout to inform king Henrick of our arrival."

"No, Sir Pederick, I do not want to cause a big fuss of my arrival. Anyhow, we will be meeting king Henrick in the forest, how grand a preparation can we expect?"

"But sire, we need to know who has arrived."

"And compare who has been given the larger tent?" Olver said as they crossed a small brook that babbled its way downhill from the upper hills of Eravia.

"But what if we show up with fifty men, where other kings have brought small armies?"

"Are you seeking a battle, Sir Pederick?" Olver said in an irritated voice.

"No, Your Grace, but I will not rule it out. Who knows what the Calypsians have discovered in their forest, and what it may mean for Aerdon? And with the Harduinians in such close proximity, I would have felt safer with a hundred more swords around me." Sir Pederick caressed his thick mustache as he steered his horse around a gigantic boulder that sat right in the middle of the road.

"And how will it seem when we show up with a hundred and fifty men, and the others show up with fifty? I would rather be underprepared than appear craven."

It was on the morning of the twentieth day of their journey that Olver finally gazed upon the royal encampment that had sprouted up amidst the dense forest of Eravia. The tents that they first came upon were bright blue with white stripes, huddled together on the perimeter of the encampment. Olver recognized the colors and knew that the kingdom of Maeryn had arrived with their delegation. The tents were scattered around the tent which was the largest among them, the sigil of the Ishoca Dynasty, a woman holding a sword in one hand and a quill in another hovering over a burning fire, was painted on the side of the tent.

That was when Olver noticed the soldiers of Maeryn. They were all women, armored like men, but towering well above any man that Olver had ever seen. Their faces did not seem battle-hardened at all, and their beauty could have rivaled that of any highborn maiden of any of the other kingdoms. Olver had been taught about the warrior women of Maeryn, as ferocious on the battlefield as any man, perhaps even more. And now when he looked upon them, all doubts that he had when he was young left his mind.

His eyes fell upon two Maeryn soldiers, two-handed greatswords in each of their hands, striking blows with a strength that seemed to shake the ground on which they dueled. They were fighting without a helm, and their golden hair flew about, as they twirled and twisted, parrying and attacking, looking graceful and dangerous at the same time. But not all of the Maeryn soldiers were busy practicing their swordplay as most of them were huddled around fires, or unsaddling their horses, or just sitting by tree trunks, engrossed in barely audible conversation.

Olver noticed his men gawking openly at the women that surrounded them as they rode through the tents of Maeryn. Why wouldn't they? Women were good at raising their children, cooking their food and pleasuring them when they wanted, isn't that what they had been taught? And now when they gaze upon women who can do much more than all of those things, it amazes them, and their minds cannot fathom it. I wonder which other sights would astonish us before the day ends?

As Olver rode deeper into the encampment, the color of the tents changed into grey and white, and Olver understood that they had now reached the heart of the campsite, where the banners of the Swolderhornn dynasty fluttered in the calm breeze that had picked up speed ever since Olver entered the campground. The grey and white tents far outnumbered the blue and white ones, and even more were being set up. Cookfires were scattered all around as men were busy roasting meat, cooking stews in large cauldrons, carrying pails of water hither and thither or practicing swordplay among themselves. Olver felt as if he had ridden into a whirlwind of activities as the sound of men shouting orders, steel on steel, laughter, and arguments were all about him. The men appeared to pay no heed as they labored on with their work. Amidst the chaos that was unfolding before Olver, a heavily armored man on a black horse wearing the Swolderhornn colors approached the men from Indius and halted a few feet away from Olver.

"I, Sir Jon Lowe, welcome you to the forest of Eravia, Your Grace, although our king would have preferred if he met you in more agreeable surroundings and in happier times," the broad-shouldered knight said in a deep baritone voice as he lifted the visor of his half-helm. The white stubble on the man's face was coarse and uneven, and his back was hunched as if he was carrying an enormous load on his shoulders.

"We would not be meeting if it were happier times, my dear sir, however now that my men and I are here, we would like to be shown to our tents so that we might eat and rest. We have traveled a great distance, and I want to be fresh with a clear mind on my head when I gaze upon this intriguing temple."

"As you wish, Your Grace, however, our king would like a few words with you before that, if you would follow me," Sir Jon said without waiting for a reply, and then wheeled around and started to head deeper into the labyrinth of grey and white tents that surrounded Olver's host, just like the trees of Eravia.

I do not see any Harduinian tent. Have they not arrived?

Sir Jon led Olver and his men to one of the largest tents that Olver had seen in his life. The banner that flew from the top of the grey and white cloth structure was big enough to block out the sun, and the flaps were more than thirty feet in height and more than fifty feet wide, and ten horsemen riding side by side could enter the tent at the same time if they wanted to. Two guards stood sentry at the entrance to the tent, holding long pikes in their right hand and an ox warhorn in their left.

"This is where our King Henrick is staying for the moment. I am afraid I will have to ask your men to wait outside," Sir Jon said, dismounting from his horse.

"The king goes nowhere without me," Sir Pederick said firmly.

Sir Jon seemed a bit hesitant at first, and Olver thought he was about to object before he said, "then I will not want you to be left without him, but the others must wait."

"They will wait," Olver said, as he jumped off from the saddle and motioned one of his guards to take the horse away for watering, and then he entered the tent, followed by Sir Jon and Sir Pederick.

The inside of the tent was as luxurious as Olver expected it to be. Lush carpets covered the floor while the smell of sandalwood incense was heavy in the air. A large chandelier hung from the roof that appeared to be adorned with crystals and rubies, just like the heavy oak chair that dominated the center of the tent, its arms encrusted with jewels of all kinds, its back gilded and engraved with elegant designs. And on that chair sat a very heavy man, wearing a red silk robe, a massive gold crown on his head, his fingers decorated with rings that sparkled and shone in the golden light emitting from the braziers that stood in the corners. Golden chains hung loosely from his thick neck, and his fat fingers were coiled around the ruby-studded pommel of his two-handed greatsword that lay across his knees.

King Henrik of the Swolderhornn dynasty, ruler of Calypsos, the wealthiest kingdom in Aerdon was a sight to behold.

The man wears more jewels than a woman. And probably eats more than a bear.

"The young king of Indius, the tales do you no justice. You are even more handsome in person." King Henrik made no effort to get up to greet his guest, and there was no chair that he could offer Olver. The enormous tent was vacant except for an enormous desk, the throne-like chair, and a sword rack that displayed a collection of exquisite swords that looked more fancy than dangerous.

"The honor is all mine, King Henrik." Although I find it hard to compliment your handsomeness. The tales do not do you justice as well; you are even fatter in person.

"I find myself speaking to a lot of young kings nowadays. It seems like I am the only old bastard that lingers on and denies my son the throne. You might know which other king I speak of?" Henrik said, running his hand through his long beard that fell till his waist.

"The king of Harduin, I suppose?"

"Yes, the boy king of Harduin, fourteen years of age, not a hair on his pretty little face, and I have to speak to him as if he possesses all the knowledge in the world, as if he was my equal." Henrik's fingers slowly trailed the blade of his sword, his eyes fixed on Olver, his expression hard to read.

"I have heard the boy is mature for his age and fond of books," said Olver, trying his best not to look at Henrik's sword.

"Fond of books! Hah! Never thought I would live to see a day when a king would be praised for his fondness of books and not a sword. I thought you would be pleased that an incompetent arse sits the throne of Harduin. Didn't your ancestors rape their queen and her daughter at some point?"

Olver was taken aback. He is fat, and he is discourteous.

"It was a long time ago, Your Grace, both sides suffered tremendously, and I think the future is a much bigger concern than what happened in the past. I do not concern myself with who sits the throne at East Shade; neither can they afford a battle, nor can we. I was called here because I was told a temple with magical properties was discovered. If it is true, then who raped who is a trivial matter. Surely, a noble and wise king like you, the oldest king in Aerdon, will agree?" Olver finished with a smile.

A smile is the most propitious weapon in a diplomat's arsenal; his father had always said, you can get away with the most mischievous remarks, only if you end it with a smile.

"I thank you for reminding me of my age. Of course, I agree, who do you take me for? I did not drag my arse all the way from Riverhelm just to gossip with you about the Harduinians like a couple of serving girls in a tavern. I want to show you something before we head to the temple. I showed it to the boy king and the queen of Maeryn before you, although the meeting with the queen did not end well." The king clapped his chubby hand three times, but they did not make any noise because of their plumpness. In the end, he resorted to shouting when no one showed up.

Two men carrying a hulking trunk made of wood entered the tent and carried it over to where the king sat. They carefully opened the lid and pulled out a crumbling parchment and an even tinier wooden box which they handed to King Henrik

"Give the king the parchment," commanded King Henrik, "do you understand any of it?"

Olver stared at the old crumbling parchment and could make no sense of the words. However, he recognized the forgotten language of D'ran, as he had seen the language before, in books that were now collecting dust in the libraries of Indius. The words seemed to flow like waves in the sea, rising and falling with each word, without a break or a pause. It was as if the entire page was one big word, beginning at the top and ending at the bottom.

"No, I am afraid I do not understand the forgotten language."

"Hardly anyone does, but after a long and tiring search, we found the only person who can read and understand the forgotten language, or rather she found us," King Henrik said, as he signaled the two men to leave the tent.

"The daughter of the queen of Maeryn herself translated this page for us, the foul-mouthed brat," Henrik spat, "we found it in this trunk that you see before you, hidden behind the statues of our great Wizard-Gods, who, it seems have finally remembered us," King Henrik attempted to get up and after quite a struggle that Olver found extremely amusing, the king found himself standing, barely an inch taller than the chair he was sitting on.

"It is a part of a much longer story, written thousands of years ago, by Toren the Traveler, who, as you might know, wrote 'The Beginning of Aerdon', the book from where we derive all our knowledge of Aerdon, the Viranins who first inhabited it and the Vizarins, who created the kingdoms," Henrik said, pacing around the tent, his long silken robe trailing behind him.

"So, is this a page from 'The Beginning of Aerdon'?" Sir Pederick said, who Olver had almost forgotten was standing a few paces behind him.

Henrik chucked, his belly shaking and his golden chains rattling.

"It is not the beginning of things that this parchment speaks of, oh no, it speaks of destruction and decay, of death and demise, it speaks of the end of things."

Olver was slowly losing patience with the fat king. He was tired, and his body ached, and he was in no mood for theatrics.

"Then what does it speak of?" Olver asked, trying to keep his tone courteous.

Henrik stopped pacing and his eyes bore into Olver, and when he spoke, his voice was a little more than a whisper, "the end of Aerdon, that is what it speaks of, as a matter of fact, the book that this parchment belonged to, was called 'Ainzinaunhaf aun Aerdon' in the forgotten language, or 'The End of Aerdon' in Aerdonian," Henrik dug his hands into the pockets of his robe and pulled out another parchment, rolled and tied with a silvery thread that the king undid and handed to Olver. "This is the entire translation of the text, read it aloud so that your friend might hear as well, and I can once again listen to these grave words that echo in my head when I try to sleep, or eat, or fuck."

Can he still bed women?

Olver took the parchment from Henrik's hands and gazed at the bluish-black ink forming words he could easily understand. The translated text was written in Aerdonian, in elegant handwriting that could have only been the work of a scribe.

Olver began to read in a steady voice, "All will never be the same. The beauty of the world will begin to perish, and so will the people and animals that roam Aerdon. This is how they planned it, the Vizarins. It was the Great War that broke their trust in men, for they thought that men were incorruptible, a product of their own mind, of their own being, but they were proven wrong. On the day the Great War ended, the sand began to fall in the hourglass, counting down the days until every living being on Aerdon will perish, and nothing that breathes will endure, nothing but land and rock. When the sands of Dreadlands empty themselves in the hourglass, Aerdon will cease to exist, the kingdoms will cease to exist, only the lands beyond the forest will survive, for the races that dwell there are magical, a true representation of the Wizards, embodiments of the gods, more deserving of life and survival, as opposed to men, who are weak and easily swayed into greed and cruelty. But the Wizards did love men as well, and their heart did not allow them to extinguish the race of men without giving them a chance to prove their valor, their loyalty, their unity. And so, it was decided that a chance will be given to the five kingdoms, to get their people to safety, to cross the Vizarinpor, the Endless Forest, and join the realm beyond the forest, but only if they become one. A new king will have to be anointed, a leader that will unite the five kingdoms under one banner, and only when the last rituals will be completed, will the gates to the lands beyond the forest open for the people of Aerdon, and the scars of the Great War will be forgotten. Deep in the forest of Vizarinpor, amidst the ghosts of Viranins, inside the belly of the ground, in a temple long forgotten, the five stones , the five kings and the five kingdoms will need to become one, and only then, amidst the destruction of Aerdon, the Aerdonians will survive," Olver's voice shook as he read the last sentence, "otherwise death will reign in place of Calypsos, Indius, Harduin, Maeryn, and Azgun."

Olver finished, but his gaze never left the parchment until Henrik's voice boomed across the tent, "And inside this tiny box, I hold the five stones that were mentioned in the parchment, giving further legitimacy to the words that you just read aloud."

The royal tent of the Calypsian king was suddenly imbued with a sense of dread and grief, as Olver felt sinister shadows creep out of nowhere and blanket the cotton walls of the tent.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a temple with statues and stones and a piece of parchment prove nothing. This can all be a work of a delusional king that had dreams of the world ending, and so he constructed this temple, believing his dreams to be real" Sir Pederick offered.

"Then I ask you this, dear knight, have you come upon a stone burning with such ferocity, that it would melt the skin right off the finger of the person who would dare touch it, or glow like a star in the night sky, of its own accord?" Henrik asked as he carefully lifted the wooden lid of the tiny box.

Olver watched as Sir Pederick slowly approached the wooden box, which sat on Henrik's lap. Don't touch it you fool, he wanted to scream, but he also wanted to see what would happen if he did. He watched as Sir Pederick peered into the box, and he watched as Sir Pederick's trembling hand moved towards the box and then inside, and he watched Sir Pederick let out a high-pitched scream as he touched something he wasn't supposed to.

The knight staggered backward, clutching his hand, his palm charred and blistered, pieces of skin hanging loose as it continued to melt before Olver's eyes.

"Why don't you try picking one up?" Henrik said, paying no attention to the knight in agonizing pain, as he dropped to his knees, wailing like a newborn baby.

"I like my hands the way they are, I would still like to wield a sword, Your Grace," Olver said, unable to take his eyes off Sir Pederick, "why don't you go see a healer, Sir Pederick, your hand requires more attention than me, and anyways, the only danger here is that wooden box and its contents."

Sir Pederick struggled to his feet while wiping tears from his face, and hurried out of the tent.

That is the first time I have seen a knight weep.

"The stones will not affect you, Olver, if that is what you fear. I may be fat and rude, but I am not a liar," said Henrik as he extended his hand, offering the box to Olver.

He would not have called me here just to burn my hand. It's usually the head that kings are after, and I still have mine on my shoulders.

Olver stepped towards the outstretched hand of the king. And then, the stones were before him, five in number, as black as a moonless night, the sigil of the five kingdoms etched on the black surface, glowing and pulsating with a green light. The stone bearing the sigil of the Liongloom dynasty was placed in the center, the two pillars and the prancing horse looking opulent as threadlike green lines formed the sigil in exquisite detail.

Never has the sigil looked more beautiful than now. But for how long will our banners fly? For how long will any of the four banners fly? Throughout my life, I wished and prayed for a hint, a sign that would confirm the existence of powers and magic that was far beyond the understanding of mortal men. And here I stand before stones that seem to have come from a different world, and I only have to reach out and pick one, and I might be a step closer to seeing my wish of witnessing the tales of old come alive.

Olver could feel Henrik's eyes on him as he touched the stone in the center, expecting his skin to burn, but all he felt was the cool, polished surface of the stone. The pulsing of the green light reached a crescendo as Olver held the stone in his palm, a green glare in his eyes, a thumping heart in his chest. A gentle breeze caressed the goosebumps on the back of his neck, the fire in the braziers flickered, and for a moment, Olver could feel the ancient powers around him, and for a moment, Olver was no longer a king, but a boy of twenty-two, nervous and excited, all at the same time.

"Did the gods take you, lad?" Henrik's voice broke Olver's trance, "I take it from your face that you do believe me, or Toren, the Traveler for that matter, bless his soul for warning us of the impending doom."

"I am amazed and saddened at the same time. I knew that Aerdon was slowly dying, that the gods were angry, but to have it confirmed is a dagger to the heart," Olver raised his eyes and saw Henrik looking at him with a smirk, "I want to look at this hourglass as soon as it can be arranged, Your Grace, and then I suggest we call on other lords and kings and queens of Aerdon, for the time has come when we need to act as one." Olver said with urgency.

"You are as naïve as you are pretty, Olver Liongloom," Henrick sniggered, "I think you forget the part where the parchment calls for the anointment of a single king for Aerdon, and believe me, some of these kings and queens would rather have the White Curse take them, than relinquish their crowns for someone else, particularly someone from a different dynasty, why, I would myself never let that happen. The road ahead is a tricky one, and the realm has seen quite a few days of peace and calm. War is knocking on our doors, young king, and it will enter whether you let it in or not. Now go and rest, for even more wonders await you in the evening."

Olver was too tired to argue, and rest sounded like a very tempting proposition.

"Then I will take your leave, King Henrik, and I thank you for your hospitality and wisdom," Olver said as he turned around to leave, before handing the stone back to King Henrik, but something made him stop and turn back, a question that he could not wait to get answered, "The parchment speaks of five kingdoms, five kings and I saw five stones in the box, but for hundreds of years, the kingdom of Azgun is thought to have been vanquished, thought to have been destroyed by the wheel of time, but now we hear of it in Toren's book. I do not understand. What do you make of it?"

"What do I make of it?" Henrik chuckled, "I am as clueless as you. But Azgun was a dark and evil kingdom in the past, and the reason for the Great War. As you would know, 'The Beginning of Aerdon' recounts the tale of how their king, along with its people, even infants, were forced to cross the Serpent Sea and spend the rest of their days roaming the Dreadlands, in search of food and water, as a punishment by the Vizarins. But man cannot survive on sand without food and water, can he? And Dreadlands is nothing but sand in every direction, as far as the eye can see, an ocean of desolation. But the way things have been happening, it would be no wonder if we see their ships docking at our shores, with their banners bearing the three-headed dragon with intertwined heads fluttering in the sea breeze, but what do I know, I am just a fat king who should have been dead by now of excessive wine drinking."

***

Olver Liongloom tossed and turned in his feather bead. Strange visions began to haunt the young king as soon as he drifted off to an uneasy sleep. It had been fifteen days since he had visited the ancient temple, where he finally saw the five statues and the wretched hourglass. He was accompanied by King Henrik, ten soldiers and a knight with a burned hand.

Queen Ayana and King Sanrick have already witnessed this ancient miracle, King Henrick had told him, and a Great Council will be held in a few days, where the fate of Aerdon will be discussed, and a final attempt to save our beloved realm will be made.

For a long while, he had gazed upon the five Wizard-Gods, but his eyes lingered on the statue at the extreme right, the statue of Erdoher, the tallest and the broadest of the five, wielding a scepter in his right hand, his face sculpted in the shape of a horse. In thousands of temples scattered all around the kingdom of Indius, he had seen Erdoher sculpted out of stone, wood, clay or any other material that could be given shape, but never had he looked more indisputable than in the Temple of the Five. But just how Erdoher filled him with hope and potency, the hourglass filled him with dread and despondency. The upper bulb of the hourglass was still filled half with the sparkling golden sand, but it did not take long for Olver to figure out that at present rate, the upper bulb would be entirely empty by next spring, or perhaps earlier.

So, five months are what I have to save my kingdom, he had thought, but how? Perhaps father would have known what to do; he would always come up with an answer, even if the obstacle was insurmountable. Lord Stefan had that quality about him. He should have been the one standing here, taking in the magnificence of Erdoher, battling the dread of the hourglass with resolute. My dear father, who instead lay battling death thousands of leagues away. No, I cannot begin to question myself, especially not now, when my people need me, when Kimbr needs me, when my father needs me.

His visions were changing rapidly. One moment he was standing in a crumbling castle, the walls collapsing all around him, crushing the people that stood beneath them. Blood flowed from under the collapsed walls, turning the grey floor red. A child trapped beneath the shattered portcullis extended her hand for help, screaming in a language Olver could not understand. But as Olver began to run towards her, the vision changed and now he found himself amidst a raging battle, where instead of the human soldiers, wild dogs howled and barked and tore each other's necks. Thousands of them, black and grey and white, their teeth wet with blood, a few lying dead, headless and grotesque. A dog sprang at him, saliva dripping from the corner of its mouth, and dug its teeth deep into the side of Olver's neck, and that is when he awoke, sweating and shivering.

The night was quiet and calm. The flaps of his tent were gently swaying as the cold wind found its way through the gap in the folds, caressing his sweaty forehead, and making him wish for warmer clothes. It had been fifteen days since he had been sleeping in this wretched tent, and each night the visions became even more vivid and strange.

The gentle sound of his guards snoring outside was the only noise he could hear, except for the occasional rustle of the trees whenever the wind picked up speed.

A walk through the forest is what I need, Olver thought as he donned a silk tunic and fastened his breeches and tied his scabbard that carried his longsword to his leather belt. The air felt crisp and refreshing on his face as he strolled out of his tent and into the thicket of trees that surrounded the encampment. He noticed a few guards engrossed in conversation and two others who were busy sharpening the edges of their sword with a stone. Olver made sure he was not seen as he did not want guards following him into the forest. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts and visions.

It was when he was a little way into the denser part of the forest that he heard a noise among the trees. It sounded like a sword cutting the air with great speed, or an arrow that had just left a bow. There were no braziers here to help Olver see clearly, as he had come a long way from the encampment, and the moon was hidden behind grey clouds that were threatening rain any moment. Olver strained his eyes to make out a figure among the trees, or the glint of a sword, but he saw nothing. He began to move in the direction of the sound, hiding behind tree trunks every now and then, concentrating on any noise that might help him in the darkness that surrounded him.

Must be a deer. Or a bear. But what if it's not? An arrow from the depths of this darkness and Indius will be left without a king.

For a few moments, everything was silent, and then he heard the noise again, this time directly behind him, however, he was too slow to turn as he felt the cold blade of a dagger on his neck.

The bastard got me from behind.

"A little slash and Harduin will have its vengeance," a girl's voice spoke from behind him.

Olver noticed the pronunciation and guessed that it was no mere soldier, but a highborn lady that he was dealing with.

"A noose around the neck will not suit you, my lady, perhaps a necklace will be more to your liking?" said Olver, as he tried to grasp the hilt of his dagger, undetected.

"I have enough necklaces to last me a lifetime, in fact, I have enough necklaces for several other girls' lifetimes. However, a noose around my neck for killing you would be something I would wear proudly, only if I had been any other soldier from Harduin." Olver's hand was already on the hilt, and he was about to pivot and thrust the dagger into his assailant's chest when the girl continued, " however, you are lucky that you are dealing with the princess of Harduin, sister to the king and daughter to the mighty Gavin of East Shade, and I do not believe in vengeance, but forgiveness," and with that, the dagger left Olver's throat and he turned around to look at the most beautiful face he had seen in his life. At that moment, the clouds parted, and moonlight came rushing, as it spilled into the little glade where the two found themselves, standing inches apart. In the soft milk like glow of the moonlight, Olver could make out the long straight golden hair that fell down to the heavy bosom of the girl. A thin, almost translucent flowy gown covered her body, leaving her shoulders bare, and a threadlike silvery chain adorned her neck. But it was the girl's eyes that really caught the young king's attention. They were emerald green, and as big as a rabbit's, looking up at him with a fierceness that he seldom found in the women of his court.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady, although if you would have held your words for a moment longer, then it would have been my blade that you would have met."

The princess chuckled.

"Never say never, Your Grace, and who knows, perhaps I am waiting to be introduced to your....blade," emerald green eyes traveled down to Olver's breeches, and the young king felt his cheeks redden.

"But allow me to introduce myself properly, I am Elsa Faerson, and I am the king's sister and his chief advisor, and it is an honor to finally meet you, Your Grace." Elsa gave the king a little bow and a slight smile.

"You are very pretty, my lady." Olver blurted out.

You are very pretty? That is what you could say, you dumb fool? No wonder that shrewd Krastin thinks you will die alone.

"Well, then why reject the marriage proposal?" Olver was not prepared for such a question, at least not so early into their meeting, and he found himself searching for words.

"Do not tell me you still linger on the scars of old, for we have forgotten them, and I think it is time Indius did the same, especially when the fate of the realm has become a frightening mystery," Elsa continued, sensing Olver's hesitancy. A wolf howled in the distance and soon was joined by a few more.

"Anyways, what drags you out of the comfort of your bed, so late into the night?" Elsa asked, sheathing her dagger in the small scabbard that hung from her belt.

"I could ask you the same. A forest is the last place for a princess to take a stroll in, especially when wolves howl all around us." Olver said, sitting down on the grass that was wet with dew.

"A question for a question? Are you being secretive, Your Grace, do you plan to murder us in our sleep?" Elsa sat down beside Olver, uncomfortably close for Olver's liking.

"I won't lie, the thought did cross my mind once, or maybe twice, as you see, I have had trouble forgetting the past. It seems I am not as forgiving as you, my lady."

"So, I was correct; it was because of the Battle of Lies that you rejected me. I took you for being a little more discerning than that."

"I would rather not discuss the Battle of Lies now, my lady, as one night will not be enough for that conversation. Yes, I did reject the proposal, but I did not reject you. I rejected the notion of my kingdom coming into an alliance with another kingdom that inflicted pain and misery on my people."

"Oh, how you have been brainwashed!" Elsa exclaimed, as she plucked a few blades of grass from the ground.

"I could say the same," Olver whispered, "I bear no ill will towards the people of Harduin, or the royal family for that matter. In fact, I admire the way King Sanrick has taken over the role of a king, and that too at such a young age."

"Then why such rigidity? Why be bound by thoughts that serve no purpose?" Elsa probed, staring deep into Olver's eyes.

Because it was my father's command. He asked me to say no, and how could I not obey a dying father's wish?

"It doesn't matter now, does it? Our marriage wouldn't have stopped the ticking of time or turned the hourglass on its head. We are all on the same boat now, sailing towards a fate we do not know how to escape."

"Oh, but we do know," Elsa remarked, as she shifted and sat directly in front of Olver, "be the king that would unite the realm, be the leader that the gods want from the race of men, and then, for one last time, lets try and cross the Endless Forest, and see what lies beyond."

"The Swolderhornns will never agree." Why is the girl so adamant about making me king? And why is she being so supportive? Have the Harduinians lost their mind?

"Marry me, King Olver Liongloom, and let us join our kingdoms. My brother will lay down his crown and accept you as his king, only to rule East Shade in your name. The Maeryns do not care who becomes king as long as they do the right thing, and the right thing would be accepting you as the king of Aerdon in order to save the realm. And when three of the four kingdoms agree on one king, the Swolderhornns will have no other option than to bend their knee." Olver could see that Elsa Faerson was excited, a fire burned in her eyes, and the beautiful petite princess of the Faerson dynasty looked like a lioness ready to pounce on her prey.

What has the world come to? Thought Olver, A Harduinian princess desperately desires to marry a king from Indius, while the king of Swolderhornn ridicules the king of Harduin, once regarded as strong allies. Is this all a ploy? Are the Harduinians and Swolderhornns working together to rid themselves of Indius? Has the final war for the throne of Aerdon begun?

"Why not the Swolderhornns? King Henrik has a young son, and they are twice as large and powerful as Indius. Why didn't you take your proposal there?"

"Because we share boundaries, Your Grace, your kingdom and mine. It is easier to rule one unified kingdom than a patchwork of them. And also, Henrik's son is just seventeen, and I have already been a nursemaid to my brother for years now, I do not plan on being one for a few more," Elsa explained, as she shuffled closer to Olver, their faces only a dagger apart from each other, "and I have come to grow fond of you from afar, Your Grace."

Olver stared back at the emerald green eyes, their ferocity now replaced by a mischievous twinkle. The howling of the wolves had stopped, and the clouds had disappeared entirely. Stars littered the blackness of the sky, shining above the hills of Eravia, above hundreds of colorful tents scattered all around Olver and Elsa, and the two just stared at each other for a few enchanting moments, before Elsa whispered, "Now walk me back to my tent, Your Grace, I can sense wolves in the shadows, wanting to rip open my gown."

More like a wolf than wolves, thought Olver.

### Chapter Two

Sanrick Faerson

THE TENT WAS bathed in the soft glow of a candle that stood flickering in a candle holder on a massive wooden desk, where Sanrick Faerson was finishing up reading the last few pages of 'The Myths and Legends of the Endless Forest' for the tenth time. A pile of books already read were kept on the far corner of the table, consisting of 'The Races Unknown', 'D'ran and Other Forgotten Languages' and 'A Brief History of the Harduin Dynasty'. Having slept little during the night, Sanrick had spent the remaining time going over the most important pieces of text written in the history of Aerdon.

I need to be prepared for the council; he had thought, although Elsa will just shut me up whenever I will try to speak.

After having become the king of Harduin, Sanrick had spent barely any time in the Great Hall, preferring to surround himself with books in Timehall instead, the greatest library in Aerdon, while his sister held court, sat on his throne and ruled in his stead. And Sanrick was happy to let his sister have her fame and fame she did have. The smallfolk had forgotten that a king still lived in the castle of East Shade, preferring to acknowledge Elsa as the true ruler of Harduin, giving her the nickname 'The Empress of Roses' and lining up on the streets, just to catch a glimpse of their gorgeous ruler. However, each night after holding court, Elsa would walk into Sanrick's solar and brief him about all that happened in court meetings, and then she would leave, without listening to what Sanrick had to say. And each night, Sanrick would make a mental note of all the things that could have been done better, of all the money that could have been saved, of all the people that could have been spared, but were beheaded by his sister, or were fed to the rats.

Ever since the rebellion of Lord Erling, Elsa had had a hard time trusting people, and a seed of doubt against a person usually meant his days being numbered.

But not everyone deserved to die. Young Frans did not deserve to die, and neither did his mother. Thomas the cook, Mille the serving girl, Olivia the bakester, none of them deserved to die. But she had them all killed. She does it because she fears for our lives, she fears going back to the nightmare she had escaped from. She kills these people because she wants to protect me. She kills them because she loves me. Or I hope she does.

And thus, time passed, and Harduin prospered. While harvests all over Aerdon declined, Harduinian fisherman thrived, catching more fishes each year, and feeding the entire realm. It was as if the gods were finally rewarding Harduin for the harsh times it had endured in the past. For the wars it had lost, and for the betrayals it had experienced.

The tides are changing brother, Elsa had once said to him, we may have held our own, surviving amidst kingdoms three times our size, but this invitation from King Henrik changes everything. It is time for you to finally start practicing with a sword and taking some blows. Start spending more time outside, start acting more like a king. Books will not win us battles, swords and men will. And the men don't follow you, because they never see you out under the sun.

It wasn't for the lack of trying that Sanrick was abysmally unskilled with a sword. But whenever he had held one in his hand and marched out to duel another person, a cold fear had always gripped his heart. The sight of steel made him shiver, and blood made him puke. Being ridiculed for being a craven did not help and crying openly always made things worse. And after having tried for the hundredth time and failing, Sanrick had given up all hope at being a good swordsman and tried his hand at archery. But after a stray arrow took out an eye of a poor serving wench, Sanrick gave up on that as well.

It's not just swords that can win wars. I need to prove that books can be lethal as well.

And from that day onward, Sanrick began to read about all the battles that had ever been fought in Aerdon, and how they were won. He began to read about battle formations and siege weapons, about castle architecture, about the forging of swords and mining of metals, about the varieties of crops and animals of the world.

And he also began to read about the Endless Forest and all of the failed attempts to cross it, and the Wizard-Gods that created it. And it was the knowledge and wisdom he had gathered over the years, the books that he had consumed, that he hoped would help in saving his kingdom and its people.

I might finally win their respect.

"Still buried within your books?" Elsa Faerson entered the tent, her long golden hair tied in a bun, a beautiful diamond necklace around her neck, shining bright even in the soft glow of the candle.

Sanrick peered from behind the massive book he held in his hands, only a hint of his face visible from behind the pages of the text.

"It is time you began getting ready for the council. Make sure you wear the most exquisite of garbs, and the brightest of jewels. The magnificence of the Faerson dynasty should not be lost on these lords and kings, because I can wager, we will be judged in every possible way."

"Your beauty will be enough to compensate for my lack of magnificence, sister," Sanrick said as he went back to reading his book. Elsa sat herself down on Sanrick's bed and spoke in an annoyed voice, "My beauty will not be enough for them to forget that you are the king, and our reputation is already a disgrace. You will have to act the part today, Sanrick, for my sake, I beg of you."

"Or you will have me fed to the rats?" Sanrick quipped, gazing over the map of The Endless Forest inside 'The Myths and Legends of the Endless Forest', estimated to be the closest representation of what lay within the forest of the occult.

"It pains me that you would even think of it. We should trust each other, especially when everything is at stake. Have I not taken care of you, little brother, did I not save our skins when Lord Erling was ready to burn us alive?" Elsa looked exasperated.

"I only banter with you, sweet sister, I know you would lay your life for our kingdom, and for me."

"Yes, I would, and I do not like you thinking otherwise, even in jest."

"Then I won't. Everything will happen according to your wishes, Elsa," Sanrick said as he put down his book and stared at his sister. He could not understand how she could look so beautiful and fair, while he looked like a potato. Freckles covered Sanrick's face, and his body was one big barrel, layers of fat hung loosely from his belly and arms, and his small beady eyes were nothing to boast of.

It wasn't just books that Sanrick was fond of. Food was high up on the list as well.

A fourteen-year-old fat king who fought like a jester, brother to the most beautiful woman in all of Aerdon, who is trained to kill a man in not more than three moves. Are we actually the children of the same man and woman?

"Then listen to me Sanrick, you are to speak as little as possible, and agree with whatever I say."

Just as I had anticipated.

"Henrik will try and mock you and get you to say something that would give him a chance to ridicule us further. And I will not have that cow of a man disgrace the name of the Faerson dynasty. So, keep your calm at all times, we have more friends on the council than you think.

Who has she slept with now?

"That's an insult to cows."

Elsa ignored him as she continued, "A vote will most probably be taken, and we might not have a chance to converse beforehand. So, keep your eyes on my hands. If my left hand is on top of my right, then vote no, and yes if my right is on top of my left. And if I am asked to be removed at the time of voting, or if, due to any other reason, I am not able to help you, then do exactly what King Olver does, try and speak with him, he will know what to do."

So that's who she has slept with.

"So, King Olver," Sanrick said as he rose from his chair and walked to the huge wooden closet that stood in the corner, engraved with the sigil of the Faerson dynasty, to pick out the clothes he would wear to the council, "why are we supporting him?"

"Because I am to be the new queen of Indius," Elsa said, walking over to the closet to help her little brother, the morning rays of the sun falling on her enchanting face, her golden hair ablaze, her lavender gown shimmering, green eyes twinkling with joy "King Olver has accepted the marriage proposal."

***

The Great Council was to be held in the little glade where Olver and Elsa had first met, the dry leaves had been cleared from the forest floor, and the place was now decorated with the banners of the four dynasties of Aerdon. Massive oak chairs were kept in a circle, and small tables laden with food and wine, and blue roses were placed beside each seat reserved for the kings and queens and lords that were to attend The Great Council. It wasn't difficult to comprehend who was given the seat of importance as King Henrik's throne, brought all the way from the capital city of Riverhelm, a chair made of gold and silver, its red velvet cushions embroidered with little gemstones, and its massive arms inlaid with diamonds, was kept on a raised platform, while the others were kept on the forest floor.

Sanrick and Elsa Faerson were the last to arrive, all eyes on them as they went and took their places beside a banner that flew from a lance, bearing the sailing ship of the Faerson Dynasty. Sanrick's eyes moved from one person to the next, and he tried to guess who each of these mighty royals was. The first person he recognized was King Henrik, garbed in a blue and white velvet robe, his trademark chains hanging from his pudgy neck, and a massive crown on his head. On his left sat a very handsome man, who Sanrick assumed could only be Olver Liongloom, with his red and gold plate armor, and a red cape that fell from his pauldron, a thin silvery crown on his head. A sly looking man with kohl in his eyes and a smug expression on his face sat beside Olver, and an old man in white robes with a long ponytail sat beside him.

To Sanrick's right sat a goddess of a woman, tall and mighty, golden caramel covered hair fell in waves from her head, and she too wore a crown, which held a topaz in the middle, matching beautifully with the color of her hair. Her eyes were the bluest of blues that one could find, and her lips were plump and red like blood. She donned a dark blue gown with a wide neck that barely covered her shoulders and floor-length draped sleeves trimmed with metallic gold laces. Sanrick could not take his eyes from this wonderful creation of the gods that sat mere inches away from him.

The woman looked at Sanrick as he took his seat and gave him a smile and a tiny nod. Sanrick could only reply with what could be described as a combination of half a smile and half a nod, simultaneously.

My sister must be burning with envy at the moment, looking at the queen of Maeryn, and her daughter, rivaling her beauty in all aspects.

The daughter sat beside her queen mother, almost a copy of the queen of Maeryn, except she did not have a crown on her head, and her hair were fiery red, and her gown was turquoise instead of the dark blue that her mother wore.

The only person that Sanrick had trouble placing, and who was decked up in so much gold and glinting stones, that he looked like a thinner, more handsome version of King Henrik himself, was a boy, not much younger than Olver himself, with long golden hair tied in a bun. He had a narrow face which ended in a sharp jaw, and a pointed nose that looked sculpted by a hammer. He was sitting beside King Henrik, wearing a blue doublet with golden buttons, a war horn emblazoned on his chest.

It's a wonder how King Henrik fathered such a handsome son.

A few other men sat at the council that appeared less important, and Sanrick assumed them to be advisors or commanders of the armies of the four kingdoms.

And here we sit, without our advisors and commander, because my dear sister thinks she is all of them combined into one.

"It fills my heart with great joy to see the two kings and the lovely Queen of Maeryn," King Henrik spoke with authority, as he looked at the Queen Ayana of Maeryn, "come together for the first time in a thousand years, although that joy does not linger for long when I think of the reason for this coming together of the four kingdoms and the dynasties that rule them." King Henrik paused, caressing his beard with fingers that had more rings on them than ever before.

Sanrick noticed the guards that stood on the edge of the glade, all of them bearing the colors of the Swolderhornn dynasty.

Henrik only needs to give the order and this council will turn into a bloody massacre, much like the one ordered by King Jornag of Azgun, thousands of years ago, thought Sanrick.

"I would like to begin by asking all present here if they believe in what they saw, and if they understand the danger we find ourselves in."

"I don't want to lose another hand in the process, Your Grace," a man with a charred hand spoke, the sigil of the Liongloom dynasty on his breastplate.

This elicited a chuckle from King Henrik. "Sometimes it takes a little pain to realize you had been living in pleasure all this time, I am sure your hand will heal in time, Sir, but I am not sure we will be alive to see it happen," King Henrik took a big gulp of wine from the enormous goblet that stood on the table beside him, and continued, "So, what do we do? I say we have until spring next year, although my advisors tell me it will be earlier than that, and as far as my understanding goes, it is in the Endless Forest that we will find all our answers, but who will dare venture into that wretched place, from where no man has ever returned to tell the tale?" King Henrik drank from the goblet once again and spilled some wine onto his beard.

"Except for Toren The Traveler."

Why did I have to open my mouth?

"Yes, Toren The Traveler, the man who also wrote about Giants and talking animals that roamed Aerdon thousands of years ago. I don't see any talking animals in Indius, the only lions that talk are the lions of the Liongloom dynasty." The man with kohl in his eyes, spoke in a velvety voice, almost feminine in its texture.

"I think we can all agree that Toren's texts are a good source of knowledge, it was a part of his book that we found in that trunk, hidden among the statues of Vizarins, and do not forget, the gods we worship were mentioned for the first time by Toren in his book. I don't think we can question the legitimacy of such a pious piece of text, which many Aerdonians hold dear to their heart." Queen Ayana's daughter said in a rigid voice.

"And aren't you the folks who worship the god with a horse face?" Henrik added bluntly.

Krastin's smile left its curves, and his lips straightened into a thin line, "how have we traced the parchment to his book, princess, was it mentioned somewhere?" he finally spoke in his velvety voice.

"No, but for anyone who has studied the ancient texts of Aerdon, they would recognize the unique way in which the forgotten language was written, the way only Toren wrote, and because we have the entire text of 'Beginning of Aerdon' and this parchment does not belong to it, it can only mean that it came from 'The End of Aerdon', the only other book written by Toren. But unfortunately, men who study the ancient texts are far, and few, and those who do are not respected."

I like this girl, although she errs, thought Sanrick.

"Another book called 'The Myths and Legends of The Endless Forest' was written by Toren, although many people wrongly accredit it to Torhin, his brother."

"Because he compiled his brother's work." The girl shot back.

"Work that was done by Toren, and not Torhin. It was Toren that went into the Endless woods and wrote about his experiences."

Elsa is surely going to feed me to the rats after this. What has gotten into me?

For a moment, it looked as if the girl would retaliate, but she was stopped by her mother. "Diyana, who wrote what is not a subject we should concern ourselves with, and as to your concern Lord Krastin, I can assure you that the only way this realm can survive is if we try and cross The Endless Forest, or at the very least, try and find the place where the last king of Aerdon will be anointed. For years uncountable, our warriors have searched the deep valleys and the hidden caves of the mountains of Zaeyos. We have even scaled Mount Shadowhorn, and climbed into its fuming crater, to depths no man has ever reached before, and we have unearthed books and artifacts, and things that all speak of a realm beyond the Endless Forest. My lord and ladies, for years, us Maerynians have lived among the mountains, and never meddled in the affairs of the plains, but this time, the end is near for us all. The realm is dying, and nothing can revive it. We can only escape, we can only run, and our path leads us through the Endless Forest, toward a new realm, toward a new world."

A hush fell on the council, and Sanrick noticed an air of unease surrounding the gathering of Aerdonian royalty. And then he saw his sister take a sip from a golden goblet, her other hand tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear, as she opened her mouth to speak, "Did you bring these books, these artifacts that you speak of?"

"Only Maerynian warriors and scholars are allowed to view them," said Queen Ayana curtly.

"Then your whole argument is as useless as a blind man's eye." Elsa's eyes spoke as much as her mouth did.

"Careful with your words, princess, you speak to a queen," said Diyana, Queen Ayana's daughter

"Who refuses to share information that would be helpful for the realm," Elsa replied coolly.

"You are much too young to demand anything from Queen Ayana, Princess Elsa, and I am much too old to sit and listen to girls less than half my age bicker like some peasant's daughters," barked King Henrik, "I believe the queen of Maeryn, for the evidence is there for all to see. The temple, and the stones, the hourglass and...the White Curse. The gods are trying to tell us something, even the horse-faced one," Henrik shot Krastin a look, and continued, "we must leave Aerdon, and find new lands, beyond the Endless Forest."

Sanrick saw Elsa bite her lips and lean back into her chair, her face cold and expressionless.

She does not like this one bit.

"Why don't we try and cross the Serpent Sea?" Garen Swolderhornn, eldest son of Henrik Swolderhornn chimed in.

"The Serpent guards the crossing, and even if we did manage to fool the creature, there is nothing beyond the sea except miles and miles of golden sands, and dunes as tall as hills, and dreadful beasts that roam the desert,'' said the old man sitting next to Olver, with a long ponytail and a braided beard.

"The Dreadlands. I don't think we need to go to the place where the gods sent the people of Azgun to suffer and die," said Diyana.

"But did they all die?" Garen asked with raised eyebrows, "I saw five statues in that temple, and five black stones, among which was a stone bearing the three-headed dragon of Azgun. What if, in a far desolate place in the Dreadlands, the kingdom of Azgun survived?

"Nothing grows, nothing thrives, and nothing survives in the Dreadlands, Prince Garen, it is a place created for torment. Only the ghosts of Azgunians may haunt the desert, but even they can never cross the Serpent Sea, for the Serpent kills all, ghosts and men alike," explained Diyana.

"I never knew ghosts could be killed," Krastin chortled.

"Anything can be killed, Lord Krastin."

"Especially if it is facing the wrath of Princess Diyana of Maeryn, isn't it," Krastin winked, and Sanrick saw Olver bow his head in embarrassment.

"I see only one choice left with us. To enter the Endless Forest and find an end to it. I know kings and entire armies have perished trying to cross that damned forests, but this time, we will enter on the Vizarin's command, and if we perish, then we perish. Death is coming for us all, it is better we die fighting, and not on a bed, weak and gaunt, with blood in our eyes," said King Henrik, his small beady eyes sweeping the gathering.

"And who will carry out this heroic deed? And who will be the king of a united Aerdon? Or have we forgotten that the gods ask us to demolish all our boundaries, and come to the temple as a realm united under a single banner, a banner that will not fly the horse of Indius, or the horn of Calypsos, nor the ship of Harduin, but a banner with all of them on one field, so I ask again, who will be king? Who among us will win the support of all the others?" asked Elsa.

No one answered. A silence fell over the council. Sanrick could feel the uneasiness in the air as each person sat staring at the other, hoping for someone to speak. King Henrik tore into a chicken leg, bits and pieces continuing to fall on his robe, and the handsome King Olver, his hand on his chin and his elbow on the arm of the chair, sat staring at the ground, deep in thought or waiting for someone else to speak.

When no one spoke, Elsa continued, "before we discuss that, I would like to have the stone bearing the sigil of our dynasty, as it only makes sense that each of us have their stone with them," Elsa said, and hastily added when she saw King Henrik scowl, "and I would also like to thank King Henrik for being honest with us about the stones. A selfish king would not have never disclosed their existence to us."

Selfish or clever?

"Don't you fret, Your Highness, you will have your stone given to you." King Henrik said through gritted teeth.

"It would make us a lot happier if we could have them now, your grace, why delay something inevitable," Krastin spoke, his thin lips curving into a smile once again.

Sanrick sat, staring at Henrik, waiting anxiously for the king to finish drinking from the goblet. Sanrick knew that King Henrik did not like being ordered around. He was too proud for that. And he had already drunk enough wine. Olver still sat motionless, his food and wine untouched.

"You want your stones, Lord Krastin? And you too, Your Majesty? What if I say no? What will the great kingdoms of Harduin and Indus do then? Sitting in this forest, surrounded by five thousand Calypsian swords, you are in no position to order me, Lord Krastin!" King Henrik said, as he shuffled in his seat, and sat up straight, pointing a long chubby finger at Krastin.

Krastin did not stop smiling. "I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace, but we thought we were invited to a friendly council to discuss the future, and not have threats thrown at us. But if I have offended you, then I apologize from the bottom of my heart."

Elsa warned me to keep my calm against King Henrik but looks like no one gave the same advice to King Henrik about Lord Krastin.

"And we will accept your apology, Lord Krastin," Garen Swolderhornn said, matching Krastin's smile with his own, "if you support my father's claim to the throne of Aerdon."

Krastin guffawed, "I would rather have your five thousand Calypsians stab me one by one, and then piss on my corpse...one by one."

A few men laughed, while the majority frowned.

"I would love to be the first in that line," Garen stood up and unsheathed his two-handed greatsword, as the guards who stood at the edge of the glade began closing in.

"Garen, sit down before I slap you like a fucking child," King Henrik roared, "This is what happens when you have more boys measuring cocks in a council such as this, than wise men talking sense. I do not want to be king. Who wants to rule a dying realm anyway? However, we know King Sanrick is too young to take on such a responsibility, and I know Queen Ayana doesn't want the crown as well. That leaves us with King Olver, and..."

"...and no one. Olver shall be king," said Krastin, as he swirled the Fornhornian red in his goblet.

"My dear Lord Krastin, if you would have let me complete, then you would have heard me say that Calypsos," King Henrik's voice rose as he took his kingdom's name, "the wealthiest, the strongest, the largest kingdom of Aerdon will never be ruled by an OUTSIDER!" King Henrik spat chunks of meat as his face turned red in rage and his voice thundered across the glade, "my son Garen shall be king; otherwise we go back to our castles and wait for the end of all things."

Whispering and murmuring broke out, as the lords and ladies of Aerdon began discussing King Henrik's offer amongst themselves.

"My father battles death at Wildemere, and I have already lost my mother to the White Curse. Families die of starvation and fathers bury their sons and mothers weep for their daughters. Aerdon, that has been home to our kingdoms, to our fathers and their fathers before them, slowly withers away," Olver Liongloom finally spoke, his voice starting out as a whisper, but slowly rising with each word, causing a hush to fall over the council once again, "you may surround us with five thousand men or a hundred thousand, it does not matter King Henrik, because in a years' time, no kingdom will have an army with which they can wage wars, and no king will have bodyguards to protect him, all that will remain will be white bony corpses, and eyes that will weep blood. I do not care for stones, and I do not care for kingship, I care for my people. Indius is ready to support any man that wants to be king, as long as we enter the Endless Forest and cross the damn forest, once and for all."

Sanrick actually heard Elsa take a sharp intake of breath. He glanced at her and saw her look away, and her hand clutch the arms of the chair tightly, and he knew Olver had made a grave mistake.

Then he looked at Krastin and finally saw the smiled wiped away from his face.

"So, you willingly lay down your claim for the kingship of Aerdon?" King Henrik looked pleased as he leaned back in his throne, and wiped wine from the corners of his mouth.

"Yes, I do."

"Then I put forward the name of my son, Garen Swolderhornn, to be the last king of Aerdon. I have been training him for all these years, preparing him to ascend the throne of Calypsos, he is brave, and he is just; the king of Aerdon should be someone from the Swolderhornn dynasty, the gods know we deserve it."

Sanrick could feel the tides turning, the crown slipping from his sister's fingers, and his heart ached for her, for 'The Empress of Roses', the woman who had endured torture for two years and had survived it all, just for the sake of her kingdom.

"I do not agree with this," Elsa Faerson spoke firmly.

"The matter rests with the Queen of Maeryn, it's up to her now, and if she decides to support our claim, Your Highness, then it will not matter whether you agree or not."

All eyes turned to Queen Ayana, who had mostly been silent throughout the course of The Great Council, and now, everything rested on her words. The power to decide who will be the last king of Aerdon, the power to unite the four kingdoms for the first time since the creation of the world, and the power to save the people of Aerdon.

"Although I do not like the way things have turned out to be, as my preference had always been young Olver Liongloom, but as he has so selflessly denied taking the crown, knowing that the Swolderhornns will never agree," she looked at King Henrik with a gaze that would have split a stone, "I am left with no other option but to support the claim of Garen Swolderhornn of the Swolderhornn dynasty, and to lead the expedition into The Endless Forest, to find a passage for our people, for King Sanrick is still too young to take on such a serious responsibility. And so, this is my decision, may the Vizarins have mercy on us all."

Sanrick had stopped listening to Queen Ayana midway through her speech as he already knew what she was going to say, and fixed his gaze on Elsa, and as Queen Ayana told her decision, he saw a drop of tear escape the emerald green eyes that the people of Harduin had come to love, and for the first time since the rebellion of Lord Erling, and for the first time since she had been wed to Lord Erling, and raped on her wedding night, he saw his sister weep openly.

***

The council stretched on for longer than what Sanrick expected. Dawn had given way to afternoon and evening was not too far away. The shadows cast by the lances bearing the banners lengthened, and the food on the tables lessened. Olver had still not touched the beef pie, or the roasted chicken or the rabbit stew with spices, contenting himself with the spiced red wine of Fornhorn. Sanrick had consumed everything on the menu, and then had ordered some more, with only King Henrik matching the amount of food he had eaten.

The woods had grown silent, as if the trees themselves, standing green and massive all around them, listened intently to what was being said. The birds had ceased their chirping, and an occasional gull would fly overhead, heading to Lake Aerdos, in search of a fish. And it wasn't just the woods or its inhabitants which had grown quiet; Elsa Faerson had not uttered a word ever since Queen Ayana voiced her support for Garen Swolderhornn's kingship.

I wonder what she is thinking, what plan is she hatching amidst the chaos that unfurls all around her?

But as the sun began to set behind the hills of Eravia, and the sky turned crimson, like a battlefield after a bloody war, the council had finally come to a decision. Everyone had finally agreed that the answers to all their problems lay hidden somewhere deep within the dark and mysterious woods that never seemed to end.

The Endless Forest had served as the eastern border of the world of Aerdon ever since the days of the first kings of the four kingdoms. And no king or army had ever been able to cross the massive labyrinth of trees and streams and cliffs that seemed to stretch forever, like a sea that has no shore, and then there were the stories. Tales of beasts and ghosts unknown to man, and of magic thought extinct, and of a world beyond, more beautiful than Aerdon, ruled by magical beings, had turned The Endless Forest into something of an enigma, a place thought to be as magical as it was dangerous. And into these woods, the men of the four kingdoms were to venture, for one last time, to find an escape from the end that drew nearer with each passing heartbeat.

"And now, we must decide on the participants for this journey into the Endless Forest," said King Henrik with a tired voice. Sanrick himself felt exhausted, as his muscles cramped and his back ached. Beside him, Elsa Faerson sat with her face resting on her hand, her eyes gazing absent-mindedly into the thick entanglement of trunks and branches and aerial roots which defined the forest of Eravia.

"I believe the bravest and the most fearsome knights from each of the four kingdoms, along with their commander of armies, would be most suitable for this expedition," said the old man with the ponytail, who was called Bernard.

"I will not send my warriors alone. My daughter will join this expedition," said Queen Ayana.

"And so will I," Olver declared.

King Henrik looked at his son, who was quick to look away.

"My son, and your future king will join you as well so that the men can see what a brave king he will be."

Sanrick glanced at Garen, who looked as if he had just retched.

All eyes now turned to the Harduinian section of the council. Sanrick could feel the heat of their gazes and could hear his own heart thumping in his chest. He looked toward Elsa, but her expressions were hard to read.

If only we had decided on a hand position for this sort of a situation, dear sister.

"I do not know how wise it is for all the kings of Aerdon to venture into such a dangerous place. And I am not willing to put Harduin at the risk of losing their king, for we have just begun flourishing. Therefore, I will represent Harduin on this historic expedition."

She saved me from certain death, and made me look like a coward at the same time. No. This will not be my legacy.

Sanrick could never understand what made him say what he said next, and for a long time to come, he would rue these words, and curse the moment he uttered them, "Harduin will still flourish without me, for it is the hardworking people of Harduin who are the reason for its progress, and not a king who sits on a throne and reads books day and night. I will join my sister as well, and together, we shall find a way to end the misery of our people."

Krastin sniggered, and King Henrik sighed. Olver appeared unaffected, and Queen Ayana looked sad. But the one person whose reaction he wanted to see, was the one person he was too scared to look at.

"And so, it is decided," King Henrik said, rising from his throne, crumbs of chicken falling to the floor, "I will lay down the crown for my son, and in three days' time, the three kings of Aerdon and the princess of Maeryn will enter The Endless Forest, and search for whatever it is that will aid us in our survival. A black stone will be given to each of the kingdoms, and if the time shall arrive, when the king of Aerdon will have to be proclaimed, then it will be Garen Swolderhornn who will wear the crown and become the first king of Aerdon."

We brought a hundred men-at-arms with us, and Indius and Maeryn brought even fewer, and three days is a short time to call for reinforcements. It seems we will be outnumbered by Calypsian soldiers in The Endless Forest as well.

The Endless Forest. I hope we find an end to it and change that accursed name, once and for all.

### Chapter Three

Garen Swolderhornn

HE HAD NAMED the horse 'Shatterhooves', for the ground seemed to tremble and shake whenever the white stallion galloped. He remembered the first time he rode the wild and unruly animal. It was when he was wild and unruly himself, and much like how he had eventually tamed the horse, his father had tamed him.

And as he combed the silvery mane of his horse with long gentle movements, he reflected upon the events of the past twenty days. From being awed by the magnificence of the Vizarins, to discovering the hourglass and understanding what it stood for, to becoming king in a ceremony that was bereft of any pomp and hullabaloo that he had dreamed as a child. It was all so surreal and yet so believable. And on the morrow, he was supposed to journey into the most dangerous place known to man, where he might become the lord of all Aerdon, and lead his people beyond the Endless Forest, far away from the death and despair that the Vizarins had destined for the four kingdoms.

Shatterhooves neighed happily as Garen began combing the tail of the mighty beast. Amidst the quiet of the night, and among the horses in the stable, grooming his beloved Shatterhooves, Garen finally started to relax and calm down. No one could have guessed that the fearless and gallant Garen Swolderhornn could ever be nervous or uneasy. But on this night, he had felt something he had only felt once in his life; he felt fear. The last time he had felt fear like this, was thirteen years ago when he was only nine. On a stormy night, when lightning roared in the sky and rain splashed down like arrows from the gods, young Garen had sneaked out of his bedchamber and tried to make his way to the stables, because he feared for the horses that whinnied wildly in the stables. But he had lost his way in the darkness of the castle and stumbled into the dungeons. Darkness had engulfed him, and he had felt his heart sink, and fear grip his bones. The prisoners in the dungeon had heard him, and that is when they began shouting for him, saying words that would haunt him in his sleep for years. Hands started to grab him, rotten and bloody, calloused and bruised, from behind bars made of iron. But just before he opened his mouth to scream for help, a hand had turned him around, and a man had embraced him.

There is nothing to fear now, son, I am here. Shh...don't weep. I am here..., his father's voice echoed in his head. The darkness...the men...I was lost...I am sorry father...I hate the dark...I hate it, he had wept as he held on to his father, his silken robes feeling soft on his face. Don't hate the dark, Garen, for nothing is ever lost in the dark, but only found. Men find courage and strength when they are surrounded by the dark, strength and courage that they never knew existed within them. Darkness makes men out of boys. Embrace it, my son, and you shall never know fear. And when the night is darkest, do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Rage!

His father's voice rang in his head as he felt strong once again. He gave Shatterhooves's tail one last sweep with the brush, patted the horse on his back and walked out of the stables.

A drop of rain fell on his forehead as he emerged out into the open and hid his face behind the hood of his cloak, and as he was about to walk toward his tent, his eyes fell upon a short, stout man that stood beside a brazier, a hood hiding his face as well.

What is he doing out? Are we all out of chicken?

Garen changed his course and walked towards his father, bereft of his crown and chains, clad only in an ordinary woolen cloak, a two-handed greatsword in his hand.

"Father, having trouble falling asleep?"

"I have that difficulty every night. If I started taking walks to solve it, I would be a thin man and your mother would finally enjoy my company in her bed." King Henrik pulled back his hood to reveal a smiling face.

He looks more like a king when he smiles. He used to smile more when I was a kid. What happened to him?

"Come, walk with me for a while," King Henrik said in a soft voice. And for a long time, father and son walked among the tents and among the trees, among sleeping guards and snoring sentries, in silence which was rarely broken by the bark of a dog in a kennel, or the howl of a wolf, until they were far away from the encampment, and deep into the woods. The rain was falling steadily now, and the sound of raindrops pitter-pattering on the leaves of the forest was all around them. The ground felt soft and mushy under Garen's leather boots, and he was enjoying the smell that accompanied the rain.

"We might as well walk into The Endless Forest if we have come this far," Garen jested.

"And discover the secrets of that horrendous forest all on our own? Won't that make a great song? A fat father and his handsome son, the saviors of the realm!" King Henrik stopped to catch his breath, the walk was obviously taking its toll on the king.

"You used to be handsome as well," Garen reminded, "a long time ago, when you liked to duel more than you liked to eat."

"Watch your tongue, boy, I called myself fat, not ugly," King Henrik roared in mock anger, "although that boy Sanrick is well on his way to be the fattest king in the history of the realm.

"It's not the boy that worries me, but his sister. She did not look pleased when you put forth my name to be the king of Aerdon."

"She is a cunning girl, that Harduinian wench. She took over as the ruler of Harduin when she was just sixteen and look how that shit of a kingdom has prospered under her authority. And that is why I must ask you to do something, once you are deep into the woods of The Endless Forest." King Henrik's voice turned grave, and Garen knew what his father was about to ask of him, although he prayed that he was wrong.

"I want you to kill the girl and his brother, and all of their men. I want you to eradicate the name of the Faerson dynasty while we have the chance."

"But father, we would be called traitors, and although I would very much like to see the girl dead, I am not sure I am willing to be called a traitor for that. And also, didn't you tell me yourself that us Calypsians are too strong to resort to treachery, that the might of our army and weight of our gold is enough to vanquish any foe? And anyway, she has agreed to support our claim. Do not make me do something we have no need of," Garen almost pleaded.

I will not be known as the king who killed a child to win the throne. That will not be my legacy.

"And who will praise your honor when there are none left to praise it?" King Henrick said, almost as if he heard what Garen was thinking. "My spies tell me of a growing closeness between the girl and King Olver. And the boy is still young, full of lust and love, the wench only has to open her legs, and the young king will forget all about his people and his kingdom, that he whines so much about. I cannot take that risk, Garen. I will be sending three hundred swords with you inside that forest, more than enough to take the Harduinians unawares.

"And what of King Olver and the Maeryns? In one stroke we will be losing their trust, and I will not blame them if they decide to withdraw their support as well." Garen said in an irritated voice. "Father, I know you want to see me as the king of Aerdon, but at what cost?"

"I could care less if you become the king or not. I only wish to see you survive the wrath of Vizarins. I want to see you breathing when the last grain of sand falls into that hourglass. And if Indius and Maeryn withdraw their support, well then you kill that pretty boy and that daughter of Queen Ayana. You will have enough men, but rest assured they will do no such thing, they know what is at stake."

Garen could sense that his lord father was close to being annoyed with his reluctance. For years, Garen had made it a point to obey every command that left his father's mouth, even if it meant his humiliation. But to kill a child was a sin unforgivable in the eyes of the gods, and at a time when the gods were seething with rage, Garen did not want to add to their wrath.

The rain pelted the ground as it fell in torrents. The wind roared angrily, and Garen's cloak swirled around his ankles. It became harder to see as raindrops lashed his face, and lightning flashed across the night sky, like swords unsheathed, ready for battle.

"You always taught me to honor my word. You always taught me that a victory acquired through deceit is a coward's victory. One that should be loathed, and not celebrated," said Garen as he tried to study his father's face, looking for a hint of the man he once knew, the man that raised him, "but now, you ask me to kill a young boy? I have no qualms about killing Elsa, perhaps I might even enjoy it, but I cannot kill Sanrick. My sword will not be raised to slaughter boys incapable of defending themselves. What has happened to you?" And as Garen said that, he knew he had crossed a line, and he waited for his father to rage like the thundering clouds above.

"I am not bound to answer you boy, you will do as I say, or you will refuse a dying man's wish, a dying father's wish," said King Henrik in an unexpectantly calm voice.

"Dying? Whose father is dying?"

King Henrik pulled back his hood and at that moment, lightning flashed in the sky, and the king's face was illuminated for a few heartbeats, enough for Garen to make out the tears of blood, red against the pale cheeks of the king, rolling down from eyes that were slowly losing their blacks to a hazy white.

The White Curse had found its next prey.

Garen staggered back, his heart in his mouth, and shock on his face.

"No. No. NOOO! Not you, father, not now, not when I need you the most." Garen's voice trembled and he felt as if he was back in the dungeon from his childhood.

"Don't embarrass yourself, you are a man grown. If you really want to do something for me, then kill the boy and his sister, and perhaps you may buy me some time, not that I want to linger anymore in this rotten world."

Garen knew he was defeated. He stood glued to the spot, as rain battered his cloak. He wanted to reach out and embrace his father, but he knew Henrik Swolderhornn was not a man made for embraces.

Men don't embrace each other, they embrace war, and they embrace victory, and when things don't go their way, they embrace death with a mad man's smile, Garen remembered his father telling him once, having completely forgotten the night when he had held young Garen in his arms in a dungeon that was dark and terrible.

"I will do it," Garen whispered. "I promise you, I will."

"Good," said King Henrik as he wiped the blood away from his face and hid his face behind the hood once again, "and do not speak of this to anyone, not Marston, not your brother, and definitely not your mother, although I know she would rejoice at the news. And don't take this gloomy face in front of others tomorrow, you have just been crowned king, show them you are happy, bed a few whores for all I care, and forget about me and the curse. Rage, my dear son, rage into the night."

You remember these words but forget who you were when you first spoke them to me. And now you die.

Why do you die?

***

The men did not look back, and neither did the warriors of Maeryn. Their eyes were glued to the road ahead, and they knew that looking back would only make them ache for the comfort and the safety of their tents. And where they were going, safety was one thing that no one expected to find. Garen Swolderhornn was mounted upon Shatterhooves, the horse looking proud and regal, adorned with a richly decorated grey and white caparison, and gilded chanfron and criniere. Garen himself wore a horned greathelm, and plate armor emblazoned with a grey warhorn on the chest and two golden warhorns on the gauntlet. A steely looking grey cape hung from his shoulders, draped on the back of the horse. Grey eyes with flecks of gold were the only things visible on the king's face, as he rode in front of a long column of archers, swordsmen, pikemen, and crossbowmen, on Fornhornian horses that trotted along with grace and elegance.

The soldiers behind him wore hauberks made of chain mail and surcoats that bore the grey and black colors and sigil of the Swolderhornn dynasty. Heavy coifs made of linked chains covered their head, whereas knights wore plate armor, without the cape. The grey and Calypsian men were followed by thirty Maeryn warriors, wearing light plate armor and no helm, their golden hair flowing behind them with a rage, their foreheads painted with three blue dots in the shape of a triangle, and leading them was Diyana, the princess of Maeryn, daughter of Queen Ayana, her turquoise armor and cape matching the blue of her eyes and the sky. The Maeryns were followed by the hundred men-at-arms of Harduin, all of them wielding a long sword, led by the boy king Sanrick, looking clumsy and uncomfortable on his horse that looked like a pony beneath him. Elsa Faerson rode beside him, a flower among steel, an oasis in a desert.

Finally, the rear was brought by Olver, leading fifty of his most elite bodyguards, knights sworn to protect him, on armored horses that shone like diamonds in the bright sunlight, along with mules and ponies laden with provisions that were supposed to last them for months. And so, this was the composition of men and women who were given the task of saving the realm.

Garen had said his farewell to his father, alone in the massive royal tent, where he had received an unexpected embrace from his mother, and also his father's sword. It hung heavy from his leather belt as he rode toward The Endless Forest, sheathed in a bronze scabbard that added to the weight. Garen wondered if Olver regretted not meeting his family before leaving, although he had declared numerous times that he did not wish to delay their departure by going back to his kingdom and saying his farewell.

The boy has more honor in him than I previously thought possible. I wonder what he would have done in my place, I wonder if honor would have lost against the wish of a dying father. But then, where is the honor in sleeping with the girl whose ancestors slaughtered your own? Although, my honor would also waver in front of a face as fair as hers.

The column of Aerdonians was slowly snaking its way through the forest of Eravia, their going made slow by fallen trees and broken branches, an aftermath of the storm that had raged on for the entirety of the previous night. Garen could feel the chill of the dawn through his steel armor, but he also knew that the sun would beat down on them like whips on a slave's back, the moment they would enter the grasslands of Calypsos. It was Diyana who had suggested that they enter The Endless Forest from the grasslands, and not from the forest of Eravia. "The trees are not so dense near the grasslands," she had said, "it will make our going easy for the first couple of days at least."

"And after that?" Olver had asked, pouring over the map of Aerdon sprawled on the table before him, his finger trailing the route that they were supposed to take.

"After that we are on our own, for no map has ever been drawn that describes the land after a journey of two days into the woods, Men who have returned from the Endless Forest only made it to two days, before either the dread of the forest forced them back, or they were just scouts who were sent to patrol the perimeters," Diyana had said with a smirk, red fingernails as sharp as knives tapping the arm of the chair she sat on.

"So, each day that we survive after the second is a victory," Garen had said.

"Or mayhaps, brings you closer to death." Elsa Faerson had spoken from the corner of the tent, where she had been sitting quietly in the shadows for the longest time.

My death or yours, girl?

After a few hours, the road had begun to climb steadily, and Garen noticed the dense growth of aspen and sweet chestnut trees giving way to the pines that grew on the hills of Eravia. Garen had studied the map as well, and he knew they would have to go over the hills of Eravia, and then through the swamps before they would emerge out of the forest and enter the grasslands, and he also knew that the hills were home to wolves and the bandits, although he knew the bandits wouldn't dare attack so many men, but he could not say the same about the wolves.

They had made good ground from when they had left early in the morning, but as the road began to climb a long incline, their going got slower, and the mules and ponies began to lag behind. More often than not, Garen and his men had to halt and wait for the others to catch up. By midday, they were well into the hills as Garen glimpsed the sea of trees from atop a hill, stretching in all directions, a splash of different types of green and brown scattered here and there, and Lake Aerdos, sparkling in the distance, like a small sea that had somehow been cut off from the ocean. Tracks of wolves and other four-legged creatures started to appear frequently and once or twice, Garen swore he saw something grey and massive run swiftly among the trees. For a long time afterward, Garen kept glancing sideways, hoping to spot a wolf behind the dense growth of trees and bushes, so he could hunt it down and get his blood pumping before they reached the grasslands, however, he did not glimpse anything, and he had to content himself by just ogling Princess Diyana, who had taken his fancy. The men were in a jolly mood as well, singing and laughing, and sometimes joking and jesting with the women of Maeryn. And during halts, Garen would notice a man sneak off into the woods with a Maeryn woman, only to return with disheveled hair, or a piece of clothing missing. Garen himself had been known for his womanizing ways back in Riverhelm, and it was said that he had bedded all of the fair maidens in the city, lowborn or high, and now he was just going through them twice. And perhaps he would have tried his luck with Diyana of Maeryn, if he had been in the mood, but the encounter with his father had taken away all the joy and happiness from him, leaving him miserable and gloomy.

Maybe after I save the realm and my father, I will pay a visit to the city of Silentgarde, up in the mountains of Zaeyos and discover what she hides under that turquoise armor of hers.

After having camped in the night, near a shallow stream and surrounded by the sound of howling wolves and running water, the column had resumed its journey with renewed strength and passion in the early hours of the day, galvanized by the fact that the road had finally ceased to climb, and had leveled off, making their journey easier once again, much to the delight of the mules and ponies. Leading his men from the wooded hills of Eravia, their leaves wearing the dazzling crowns of droplets giving birth to mini rainbows as sunlight bounced off their surface, Garen himself felt much more hopeful of the future. A sense of conviction had replaced the doubts of uncertainty that had been lingering in his head.

And so, the column continued its journey, men and women of the four kingdoms of Aerdon, led by their young and regal rulers, looking mighty on their destriers, except for Sanrick perhaps, who, Garen sometimes thought would fall from his horse or get tangled in his stirrups whenever they had been riding for long durations without a halt. That is when Elsa would scream for them to stop, feigning hunger or exhaustion; however, Garen knew that she did it all for her brother. However, Olver Liongloom never asked for a break, and neither did his soldiers look weary. They marched on, their faces resolute and their eyes full of determination

The men of Indius are hard to break, thought Garen as he remembered the tales of valor and bravery that had come to be associated with the kings of Indius. He remembered his nursemaid, the old, wrinkled Shauna, whispering to him in the dead of night, reading from a book that looked as ancient as her, stories from the Battle of Lies.

Three arrows in his back, and one he took in his eye, yes my lord, four arrows and still he fought, Shauna's voice came floating back, fought while his men were getting butchered all around him, fought as he plucked the arrow from his eyes, and pried his eye out with his own dagger, yes, he did, for the eye was bleeding like a river, and he wanted to see his enemy. They finally captured King Philis, drenched in his own blood and his enemy's, and they tortured him for days, but they could not break his spirit, my lord, they couldn't.

And now I travel with the boy who is a direct descendant of King Philis, thought Garen, who I will have to betray.

***

Twelve days went by, and it was on the morning of the thirteenth day that the descent finally began. It had rained every day, and it had not taken long for the joy of men to turn into sorrow, as sleeping on wet cloaks, finding dry firewood and insect bites started to take a toll on their morale. Even the men from Indius began to feel irritated, and it was only the warriors from Maeryn who dwelled in the mountains, and lived among the trees, who were finding no difficulty facing the tribulations of nature. But as the soldiers slowly started to crawl their way down the slopes, their horses waddling through streams, leaping over fallen trunks, the sky cleared, and a scorching sun emerged from behind the grey clouds.

"Rejoice while you can, for it is this sun that you will come to hate when you ride through the grasslands," Diyana had said, "you will find no tree to offer you shade, and no stream to bathe and cool your sweltering bodies."

What a rousing speech.

"If only I could fuck her mouth shut," Garen had heard one of the Calypsian soldier murmur in annoyance.

"The girl only wishes to warn us of what we will come across, you fool," an archer riding beside him had grumbled, "fucking her won't change anything."

"Oh, but It will give me the strength to face the heat of a thousand burning suns," the soldier sniggered.

"I'll tell ye' where ye' can find the heat o' a thousand burning suns, it's between them long legs of hers," another soldier with crooked teeth and half an eyebrow said with a chuckle.

Garen had stopped paying attention to their conversation as he did not wish to hear about the ways in which they would make love to the Maeryn princess. But he did know that the troubles of the past thirteen days would look petty before the days which were yet to arrive. The grasslands were known for their unbearable climate, and the ferocity of the sun and its heat, known to boil the water out of a steel cauldron and burn the skin off the bone.

Let's see if the mountain dwellers can bear a little sun on their backs.

On the fifteenth day of their journey, the trees around them began to grow sparse, with hardly any leaves on them, their color changing from the dark green of a rainforest to light yellow. The hooves of their horses made a crunching sound on the fallen leaves as they finally rode out of the beauty of Eravia and into the vast and desolate landscape of the dry grasslands of Calypsos. It was Garen who first emerged out of the woods and gazed upon the yellow plains that stretched before him, flat and without any depression or elevation, meeting the sky at the horizon where blue and yellow came together. Behind him, the other riders also emerged out of the trees, and for the first time the column spread out.

"The Great Grasslands of Calypsos, vast and endless, yellow and ugly," Sir Marston said as he trotted up beside his king, a tall, well-built knight, and the commander of the Calyspian army.

"Why does everything have to be endless, Ser Marston, The Endless Forest, The Endless Grasslands, I swear if I come across anything else that begins with the word 'endless', I am sure to end my life," said Garen as he plunged into the waist-high ocean of yellow grass, followed by other riders, their horses looking like ships sailing on a golden sea, their legs hidden in the grass.

Onwards and onwards they marched, until the sun was directly above their heads and the first drops of sweat started to adorn the wrinkled foreheads of their faces. Garen knew the time of extreme suffering was slowly drawing near, the stories of the men who burned to their death crossing the grasslands were sprouting in his head. He looked around and saw that the soldiers of the other kingdoms were all riding side by side now, no longer having to ride in a column, alone with none besides them to talk with. But the heat had forced the soldiers to ride in silence, for talking required energy and that was something the soldiers needed to conserve. The sun had still not unleashed all of its fury, for none had died yet, and Garen knew some of them would.

They rode until dusk, and as the sun slowly disappeared below the horizon, much to the relief of the Aerdonians, Diyana of Maeryn stirred her horse into a gallop, and caught up with Garen, strands of her wet blood-red hair sticking to her forehead because of the sweat that glistened off her skin.

Even sweat does not diminish her beauty. She looks as graceful as ever. And here I look like a copper-less peasant before her.

"We should halt for a break; our soldiers grow weary," Diyana said as she came to a trot beside Garen, her horse half the size of the massive stallion Shatterhooves, who towered above every horse and man alike.

"And make camp where? The size of the grass makes it impossible to sleep in."

"We can flatten the grass with our shields to make a clearing, and then, perhaps, his grace can sleep like a child in a soft feather bed, isn't that what his grace expects?" Diyana whispered in a low silky voice.

"Well, it escaped my memory that you lot carry shields. You see, men of Calypsos don't need shields. We attack and not defend, and when we do need to defend, then we attack some more."

Diyana chuckled, "what sort of foolish bravery is that? You are very proud of your skills as a swordsman, aren't you? Perhaps you consider yourself to be the next King Philis, or the next Sir Redwrath, The Knight of Pain."

"Who fought and died beside my ancestors, why shouldn't I take pride in such a lineage?" Garen asked with a wrinkled forehead.

"Because it was them who carried out the great deeds that make you so proud today, they fought the battles where thousands of men died, and battles where they killed hundreds. How many men have you killed, Prince Garen, or is it King Garen now?"

"I have won every duel I fought, every tourney..."

"How many men have you killed, Your Grace?" Diyana cut him short.

The bitch plays with fire.

"None," Garen responded.

"A man faced with death fights like a man who wants to live. A man who fights in tourneys fights for gold and fame. Although gold and fame are great motivators, but I have come to learn that staying alive is an even better one. It is against these men that the true mettle of your swordsmanship will be tested. But don't fret, for that time will be upon us soon."

"And I will kill everything that comes my way, my lady, I promise you," Garen said and then raised his hand and screamed for the others to halt.

***

The night did not bring any respite for the soldiers. The sun had long vanished and the stars now littered the night sky. The sun had taken the heat away but had left them with humidity which was proving to be as forbidding as the sun beating down upon their steel armor, if not more. And humidity meant an increased thirst, and an increased thirst meant an increase in the consumption of drinking water.

Garen had been observing the men of Indius walking over to the horses laden with barrels of water, plunging their flasks deep within, and refilling whenever they felt like. Every man that filled his flask to the brim left Garen with a growing feeling of resentment and frustration.

They do not ask, they act as if they are free men, with no king over their heads. While the king sits alone and sulks in a corner. Why does he sulk when he can be fucking the Harduinian girl? Or can he? Now that I think of it, they haven't spoken to each other once during the course of this journey. Is this why he sulks, because he can't get a little cunt out in the wilderness?

The next day was even worse. The horizon before him turned into a mirage, a giant shimmering illusion that gave hopes of a lake or even a puddle of water, but always out of reach. The steel of Garen's armor became so hot that a little drop of water would sizzle and then evaporate into smoke the moment it fell on it. Garen looked up and saw that the sun had grown larger, almost three times its normal size, an enormous sphere of fire, and it looked as if thousands of smaller suns were merging into it, causing it to grow larger with each passing hour.

Is this a mirage as well? Will the sun grow large enough to cloak the sky and, in the end, burn us alive inside our melting armor?

Garen could not see the blisters, but he could feel them whenever his surcoat brushed against one of them, and more than once, he felt his eyes close and unconsciousness wash over, but he would always snap out of it, terrified that if he would close his eyes for an extended time, they might never open again.

Perhaps it would be easier to just close them and die. To let the heat, melt the skin off my body until skin and ground are one, and I become part of the earth, as much as the earth becomes part of me.

"Man down!" someone screamed from behind him.

About time.

"Halt," someone else shouted.

Why? Let them die. Let us all die.

"Seems like he fainted. Throw some water on his face."

Garen turned his horse around and saw that it was a Harduinian man-at-arms who lay motionless in the glass, his helm had crashed open and saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth, collecting on the ground around his face. Olver Liongloom rode up to the man, while a soldier sprinkled water on his unconscious face. The man did not stir.

"Shove a flask of water in his mouth," Olver commanded. A soldier scurried off to do the bidding, while Garen looked on with an annoyed face. He was not about to waste precious provisions on men he was about to kill.

"So, are we to waste our water on every soldier that faints? Because I can wager, a lot of us will be falling off our horses before the day ends, and we need enough water to sustain us in the forest as well."

Garen could not make out Olver's expression from behind his greathelm, but he did notice his eyes narrow, and a hint of anger flash for a second.

"So, what would you have us do, Garen...,"

"Your Grace," Garen corrected Olver in an impertinent tone.

"You are not yet my king," said Olver as he lifted the visor of his greathelm, revealing a face as red as a ripe apple, and weary brown eyes which were unblinking and unmoving, staring at Garen with fervidity.

"I will be, better you get used to it, and as I am to be your king, I disallow anyone from consuming more than their quota of provisions, no matter if they lie melting into the ground. And I expect the same to be done if and when I go through the same hardship."

My father dies in Riverhelm, and this man wants to save Harduinian sons of whores. It's not men I need inside, but food and water, for as long as I am alive, I will find a way to the other side.

"Tread carefully, Your Grace, I gave your father respect because he has seen more springs than me, and we have been taught not to disrespect the ones who came before us, do not expect me to treat you the same way if you show me discourtesy". Olver's voice was cold and laced with subdued anger.

Garen knew that he could not surrender now. Fear makes men follow their king, not compassion or love. For if love were to keep men loyal, then our coffers would not be full of kings with daggers thrust in their backs, his father had always said. And if he were to let Olver do as he wanted, then his men would take him to be craven.

"Then strike me down, King Olver, for that man will not drink a drop of water as long as I live," Garen said, dismounting from his horse and unsheathing his father's sword, its edges glinting in the sunlight, its golden hilt and guard a blazing spectacle amidst the sweltering heat.

"You wish to fight me?" Olver said, astonished, while the soldiers of Indius unsheathed their swords as well, anticipating an attack on their king.

"I don't wish it, but I see no other way to settle this. Tell your soldiers to sheathe their swords, let us keep this between you and me," Garen said, dropping the visor of his helm and gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands, feet apart, and ready to battle.

"Of course there are ways to settle this without fighting over it like a bunch of bandits. Mount your horse, King Garen, and let us continue. I do not wish to be cooked alive in my armor."

"What should I do, Your Grace?" said the confused soldier holding a flask full of water that he had brought for the unconscious man.

Silence fell, as everyone held their breaths, waiting and wondering with beating hearts. But before anyone could say anything, the sound of galloping hooves turned everyone's attention to Elsa, Sanrick, and Diyana, who arrived at the scene, wondering what the commotion was all about.

"Give him the water, but let this duel decide what will be done from here henceforth. If I lose, then, by all means, stuff their bellies with so much water that they piss the drought away from Aerdon, but if I win, then no one gets extra provisions," said Garen, "and you will call me 'Your Grace' the next time you address me." Garen pointed a steely finger at Olver.

"I do not wish to resort to such petty ways for us to solve our disputes. Will you unsheathe your sword each time you disagree with someone? Where is the diplomacy in that? Let us conserve our energy, the heat is your enemy, not me." Olver said as he turned to mount his horse.

"Is King Philis's heir scared of losing to a man five years younger than him? Fight me and know your true worth. Show the men that you weren't fit to be the King of Aerdon, and that I was the right choice," Garen barked as he started to move closer to Olver.

"I believe it is you who wants to prove something more than me, King Garen," Olver said, turning to face Garen once again, "but if this little duel will make you happy and a lot more tolerable for the rest of the journey, then we shall fight."

The man sprawled on the ground regained his consciousness as he coughed and spat out some of the water that was forced down his throat. It took three men to haul him off the ground and lead him to his horse, where he sat with his eyes half shut, on the verge of falling once again.

"Fight and get it over with," said Diyana in a lazy voice.

Out of nowhere, a gust of wind hit Garen in his face, and for a moment he felt relief, but it was gone as soon as it had arrived, and he was once again left with the calmness of the grasslands, devoid of wind and life. But at the moment, Garen had never felt more alive. This is what he was born to do. To wield a sword, to dance with it, to hack and slash, to fight.

"The king of Calypsos! The true king of Aerdon!" a Calyspian rider shouted and soon the cry was taken up by others. Steel rang on steel as the soldiers started to smash their swords on their breastplate. The men of Indius stayed silent, while the Calyspians roared all around them. Elsa and Sanrick Faerson just looked on.

And then it began. Garen lunged forward and dealt a massive downswing on Olver which Olver parried. Garen did not stop as he came at Olver with another side slash, and then another, and then another. Olver defended them all while backing away, and Garen kept advancing, his two-handed greatsword making full use of its reach. Garen's blade glinted and shimmered with each stroke, trying to find armor or skin, but only meeting Olver's blade midway, or cutting air or grass. Garen drove Olver all the way to the edge of the circle of soldiers that surrounded the two battling kings, and that is when Olver began to counterattack. After having ducked and evaded a slash from Garen, he got down on his knee and hacked at Garen's legs. The impact brought Garen to his knees as well and was too late to evade a thrust from Olver as blade found a gap in his armor and kissed his thighs as the mighty Indiusian blade, scraped through. A red gash opened up as Garen rolled to the side to get away from the blow that would have ended the fight then and there.

Both men were back on their feet.

"Yield, and we can stop this nonsense," Olver shouted.

"It's going to take a lot more than just that to make me yield, King Olver," Garen barked back, "I see you fight well when you have a maid's heart to win. Tell me, will defeating me give you more pleasure than bedding your enemy? Do your men know that their beloved king sleeps with the girl whose forebears raped their women and plundered their lands?"

Elsa Faerson shouted something, but Garen did not pay her any heed as he ran towards Olver and started to rain steel on him. The men around them howled, sparks flew as blade met blade, armors clamored, and blood flowed like an angry river in Garen's veins as he put all of his strength behind his blows. And then finally, a thunderous downswing made Olver lose the grip on the hilt, and for a moment Garen thought he had him. He went for the finishing strike, a menacing sideslash that would have left Olver's body headless. He did not care. He was going for the kill.

How about that, Princess Diyana? My first kill will be a king.

But the weight of the sword along with the exhaustion of fighting in heavy armor in extreme weather had slowed Garen down. And before he could finish his attack, Olver's gauntlet, that was clenched into a fist, caught Garen in his abdomen, taking the air out of his lungs as he staggered back, almost falling to the ground. Garen could feel the taste of blood in his mouth as he spat out the red liquid, his sides aching from the mighty punch. The howling of the men stopped. A horse neighed loudly.

Garen felt the strength leave his arm as the sword fell into the grass. The heat had worn him down. He could see the darkness slowly creep into the sides of his vision. He saw Olver Liongloom remove his helm and strip off his breastplate, breathing heavily, his hand on his knees, staring at Garen with eyes filled with exhaustion.

It was the heat and my anger that led to my defeat, and not you, King Olver. And now I must die, for what honor is there in living and leading the men who saw you fall to your knees, covered in your own blood, like a child born new.

But Garen Swolderhornn did not die. Although darkness did envelop him, and he did dream of a place where the gods must have resided. He found himself standing in a white hall with white pillars and a white marble floor. A golden throne was kept on a raised marble platform that towered over him, and the walls of the hall were so high that doves flew in circles where it ended, and a domed roof began. A man with a long silvery beard sat on the throne, his eyes closed as if in meditation, and then he spoke, and when he did, his voice rang across the hall, and Garen cowered in fear.

"Hatred and hegemony. Pride and pillory. Love and lust. Men do not yet learn. Throw away these crowns of glass and build something formidable. A new day will dawn, and a new sun will rise, but will it rise over death or life?" the man opened his eyes, and suddenly, he was looking straight at Garen, and Garen felt small and weak and scared.

"Will the son of Calypsos take heed?" the man spoke, and the moment he finished, the vision vanished in a puff of smoke, and the last thing Garen saw were the cold blue eyes of the man, staring into his soul, and he had never felt more naked. Darkness had once again taken over him as he drifted back into the depths of unconsciousness. Sometimes he would hear voices around him, talking in whispers or sometimes he would hear men scream, as if they were being skinned alive. Screams that he had only heard once, in a dungeon where he had lost his way and hands had grabbed him. He would try and open his eyes, but the sun would blaze before his eyes, burning with fury, round and larger than ever, like a formidable shield wrought in gold.

Surely this is a new birth. I have died and come back again as a child. A child born in a slum, where men die all around me.

But as time dragged on, the screams of the men vanished, and the air around him became cooler. He could feel the air on his face, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of green grass and rain, of mud and moss. And then finally, he opened his eyes to look at a starlit sky, and wisps of cloud floating like chariots in the sky. To his right, in the distance, he could see the border of a forest where the trees grew so close to each other that it seemed as if a wall of leaves, high and green, with thick twisted branches jutting out in places, protected the forest like a curtain wall around a castle. Sitting up proved to be difficult, but he managed somehow. He was lying on wet grass and all about him were the sounds of men singing and dancing, of women laughing and for a moment he thought he was back in the Great Hall of Cainhorn Castle, amidst the people of his homeland, and then the ugly memory of the grasslands and the duel with Olver came rushing to him, and the joy evaporated from his heart.

Why did you have to send me back, Odium? What place will I have among these men and women who will look at me with pitiful eyes and suspicious hearts?

"The king is awake!" someone shouted, and it took a while before everyone could understand what was going on and then the dancing and singing stopped and every eye turned to him. Garen noticed the massive broad-shouldered knight, Sir Marston, push his way out of the crowd and approach him with a smile on his face.

"Your Grace, the joy in my heart knows no bounds. We thought we had lost you," said Sir Marston, kneeling down beside Garen and bowing his head with his hand on his breastplate.

"For how long was I unconscious?" asked Garen, looking around and gazing upon the men and women of Aerdon, soldiers of different kingdoms who now stood beside one another, frozen midway between dancing, singing or roasting a rabbit on a spit, staring at Garen with wonder.

"Seventeen days, Your Grace," Sir Marston answered, "but you would open your eyes from time to time, and then the darkness would take you again."

"And what of our men? What of Olver and the others?" Garen asked in a hushed tone.

"Well, after your duel with King Olver, the men wanted to attack and kill everyone, especially King Olver, for vengeance. Odium knows how formidable of a task it was for me to keep them under control, but they did finally calm down when they saw you were still alive, and they obeyed me, and since then, they have sort of taken a liking to King Olver. He led all of us out of the grasslands and saved as many men as he could, and you, Your Grace, he did all he could to save you." Sir Marston whispered in Garen's ear.

"So, he stole the loyalty of my men, and by the look of it, yours as well," Garen said through gritted teeth, "did you like his manhood up your arse?"

Even if Sir Marston felt offended, he did not show it. "The men still follow you, Your Grace, for they know you are still king, and their homes and families are in Riverhelm, where your father rules."

And he would butcher every woman these men have fucked and every child that they have fathered if he comes to know that they disobeyed his son and their king.

"And they have also seen how strong you are," Sir Marston continued, "for no man escaped death once the heat got to them. Men died all throughout the journey, while they saw that you fought with all your strength, and then survived."

Garen nodded, still looking uncertain. He tried getting up, and the world spun around him. He held onto Sir Marston for support and looked around him as one Calyspian soldier after the other got down on their knee and bowed their heads, hailing the last king of Aerdon.

Garen asked them to get up and then turned around to look at the massive wall of trees in the distance, rising up like walls of a castle; a castle made of wood instead of stone, and trees as soldiers.

"Is that what I think it is, Sir Marston?"

"Yes, Your Grace, it is finally time, The Endless Forest beckons."

### Chapter Four

Olver Liongloom

IT BURNED THE skin, and yet we marched,

The sun shone bright and melted our hearts, and yet we marched.

Through yellow grass, under the stars,

Our legs did ache, and yet we marched, for hours and hours.

Towards the Endless Forest, and towards the gloom,

We will march again, for we are the storm,

We will march till the world is ours.

Olver sat beside a fire that had burned down to embers as the song ended with loud cheers and another began, this one also made by the soldiers, a song that spoke of four kingdoms coming together as one. His steel armor and tunic lay on the ground beside him as he enjoyed the feel of the cool wind on his bare chest which was covered with red gashes and blisters and burned skin. Many times, in the grasslands, he had thought he would never feel the wind in his hair, or he would never know the feel of rain on his face or the taste of cold water from a stream. Many times, he thought the fire would consume him.

The fire did consume a lot of men. Some fell from their saddle, already dead by the time they hit the ground, and some fell and sizzled on the ground before the blood dried up in their veins and light left their eyes. Some went mad as the heat affected their minds, and they would jump off their horse and run wildly into the grass, screaming and crying at the same time, until exhaustion would drop them to the ground, where they would cry some more and then eventually die.

Sanrick Faerson had proved himself to be stronger than Olver had thought. Although he would cry himself to sleep each night, scream whenever a blister or a rash would touch his armor, but the boy never fell, and never lost his mind. And then one day, when Sanrick Faerson was all but dead, his skin burned and cracked, his lips white as the snow, Olver saw the end to their torment. The yellow grass ended abruptly, and Olver and his steed emerged out of the ocean of fire and into the cool of a meadow, where flowers of all the colors in the world, bloomed and swayed gently in the wind, all around him. The sun suddenly lost all of its intensity, and the wind started to blow once again. The men cheered and clapped, shouted and screamed and leaped out of their horses and stripped their armor, and Sanrick Faerson lived to see another day.

That is when he had seen and heard Elsa laugh for the first time. And that is when he knew he was in love.

From the first day he had seen her, he had been drawn into her beauty, her fierceness, and her aura. She was more a warrior than a princess, a warrior the could slay with her sword as well as her emerald green eyes. But she seldom smiled, and never laughed. Ever since he had met her for the first time, late in the night, among the trees and howling wolves; he had met her every day. They would walk together, hand in hand, beside slow-moving streams overhung by trees, beneath the canopies of leaves, and the words she would speak in his ears would be sweet and sad. She would tell him all about her kingdom and its people, about her brother and about her torments.

"I was only fifteen when the armies of Lord Erling assembled outside the city walls," Elsa had said, sitting beside Olver, their legs dipped into the cool waters of a rivulet, her hand on his. It was the type of day when birds sang in the woods and deer grazed on the grass without the fear of being mauled by wolves, "a host of fifteen thousand men, and catapults, trebuchets and all kinds of siege weapons stood on the battlefield like beasts from the depths of hell. But it did not deter my father from meeting him head-on, only five thousand men at his back, and yet the battle had raged on for two days, till every one of the five thousand Harduinian soldiers was slain, and only three thousand of the enemy remained. They asked my father to surrender, to lay down his crown and to kiss Lord Erling's feet, but I knew my father would die before he would bow down to such dishonor. And he did die, but not before he was stripped and paraded naked through the streets of East Shade. In front of people he had ruled, in front of knights and warriors he had commanded, and in front of his own children. Sanrick had wept as he clutched my hand, asking why they were whipping father, and I stood beside him without a tear in my eye for I did not have any more to shed." Elsa had then looked straight at Olver, without a tear in her cold eyes at that moment as well, and had said, "but I swore vengeance, I swore to strip Lord Erling of his skin, just how he stripped my father of his clothes, and before he could burn Sanrick and me alive, I asked him to marry me. And for five years he used me in every way he could think of. And when he would be done with me, he would send his commanders and knights into my bedchamber, who would rape me until my throat would be sore because of the screaming, then he would send the soldiers, ordinary pikemen or archers, chosen at random to fuck the Queen of Harduin. And then after an excruciating wait of five years, during which I thought of killing myself every night, as I lay raped and beaten by men that looked like goblins, I had my vengeance."

Olver did not ask how and neither did he care. He had kissed her at that moment, feeling her soft lips press into his and her arms wrap around him. She had parted her lips, and the taste of her tongue had lingered with him long after he had gone back to his tent. And when he had tried to slide his hand under her gown to feel her wetness, she had stopped him. "Not now," she had said with a smile, "You are a king, and I am a princess, do you really want our first time to be on broken branches and dead insects?"

"Then come back with me to my tent, and the only thing broken there would be the bed after we are done," Olver had said, leaving a trail of kisses on her neck. Elsa had moaned, and he had never heard anything sweeter.

"And risk being caught? Rein in your horses, my stallion of a liongloom, there will be plenty of beds for you to break once we are married." Elsa had said, trailing her hand down the front of his breeches and giving his hardness a squeeze.

And there, beside the lazy brook and its leaping trout, Olver had decided to marry Elsa Faerson.

But everything changed after the Great Council. Olver decided not to claim the crown for Aerdon and Elsa had did not spoken to him ever since. She did not speak to him when the soldiers sat together in the Forest of Eravia and shared stories of old, stories of war and plunder. She did not speak to him when the heat became a demon and started taking lives, and she did not speak to him when the misery ended, and they came upon the meadow, where he now sat alone while she swayed gracefully to the sound of a flute, and joined in to sing some of the verses.

No sword or arrow had ever hurt Olver as much as Elsa Faerson's silence, and he never knew that a maid could inflict such misery on him. For years, he had stayed away from the serving wenches who would regularly end up in bed with his friends and cousins. For years, he only had his kingdom on his mind.

A king is no ordinary man, his father had told him, and thus he cannot act like one. You will marry a girl who will one day become the queen and the mother to your children, and she should be the only woman you love. For honor cannot just be won on the battlefield or in the court of the king, but also in how you protect your family, and how you treat your woman, and raise your children.

"I was expecting you to come and gloat over your victory," said Garen Swolderhornn, as he joined Olver beside the fire, his long hair tied in a ponytail and his tunic hunched up to reveal the same blisters that now adorned Olver's body.

"It is not honorable to ridicule someone who has just come back from the jaws of death," Olver said, wearing his long shimmery tunic that was richly embroidered at the collar with golden threads.

"Honor? Is that all you care about? Is that what you moan when you pleasure a woman?"

"Well, we are not so different in that regard, King Ga...Your Grace," said Olver as his lips curved into a grin, "You are an honorable man as well, although you do not know it."

"Then pray tell me, for I have been called a lot of things in my short life; fearless, brave, handsome, and never forget my most favorite, cunt, but never have I been called honorable," Garen said as he collected the ashes of the burnt wood in his palm and blew them into the wind, some of them still alight and throbbing with a faint orange glow.

"You honor your father's wish by coming on this journey, even though you did not want to. I saw how you revere him. I saw how much you love him." Olver said as the glowing ciders floated all around him.

Garen chuckled. "I believe you can call it that, though if I ever said the words to him, he would laugh on my face and call me a woman. It's not the way of the warrior."

"And my father would never hear it even if I told him," Olver said, his voice full of pain.

"Why? Is he hard of hearing?"

"No, he has The White Curse. He does not hear, he does not see, and he does not smell. He breathes, but for how long, the gods only know." Olver said and saw Garen's expression change. For a heartbeat, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open, and the color left his face. However, he composed himself quickly, and averted his gaze.

"I wish him a speedy recovery," said Garen and stood up, brushing the cinders away from his breeches, "Well, King Olver, in the end, I think we might not be so different, you and I. Now put on some clothes and get some sleep, tomorrow we enter the Endless Forest."

***

Four hundred and eighty soldiers had left the encampment in Eravia, and only two hundred and fifty-six now stood on the border of The Endless Forest, the rest perishing in the grasslands, their corpses becoming a feast for the crows. Two hundred and fifty-six hearts were beating wildly, with long cold fingers of dread clutching and clawing the walls of their stomach, and two hundred and fifty-six pairs of eyes did not reveal any of it. The Endless woods lay before them. The forest that stretched from the lofty snowcapped peaks of Zaeyos all the way to the shores of Moonlands. An unending stretch of trees that stood taller than any in Aerdon, with leaves that were the lightest of green, with thin red veins all over their surface, like rivers of blood flowing on green fields. The Aerdonians had reached the end of the map of Aerdon, mayhaps the end of the world, and every step now would take them deeper into the unknown, perhaps towards death. Perhaps towards a new realm.

Olver looked back at the men and women behind him. Solemn faces looked back at him. Beside him stood Garen, Diyana, Elsa, and Sanrick, looking regal in their royal armor of various embellishments and colors, the bannermen of each of their dynasties standing beside them with raised lances bearing the emblems of their families, their eyes staring ahead into the eerie calm of the forest.

Are they as scared as me?

"We should enter, for the longer they wait, the more nervous they get," said Sir Pederick as he trotted up beside Olver.

"So do I, Sir Pederick," said Olver.

"Should I ask King Garen to give the command? He seems to be lost in his thoughts." Olver looked at Garen, and sure enough, the young king sat motionless on his horse, staring straight ahead into nothingness.

He has returned a different man ever since he came back from the darkness.

"I will give the command," Olver said and wheeled around to face the host of Aerdonians.

"Men and women of Aerdon," Olver yelled, surprised at the strength in his voice, which he himself was having trouble finding, "I know you fear the forest, you fear the unknown that awaits us. But I ask you," Olver said, riding his horse in between the lines of soldiers who sat grim and serious on their horses, their eyes following Olver, "How many of you have lost someone you loved to The White Curse?" silence followed, a few soldiers shuffled in their saddle, but none spoke. "Answer me."

"My son, Your Grace," a Harduinian archer shouted from the back. "My beautiful wife," someone else screamed.

"My Mother."

"Everyone in my family, Your Grace, the damned curse left none alive. I buried my children and my wife with my own hands, and I curse myself every day for having survived."

"Aye, and my father is not yet dead, but the curse has him, and he lies in his bedchamber in agony, in torment and pain that breaks my heart every time I gaze upon his face." Olver's voice was now roaring like the waves in a tumultuous sea, crashing down upon the soldiers with intent and intensity.

"For the children you have lost, for the fathers who still suffer, for the wives who weep blood, march with me into that forest. For the people who are still alive and may yet endure, and for the survival of your realm, your kingdom, your home, march with me into that forest. Let the swords of the four kingdoms rise as one and let the sound of our swords clamoring on our amour reach the Vizarins and let us show them that the race of men will not perish without etching our name in history. MARCH WITH ME! MARCH!!!"

And the sound of swords on armor was deafening. Olver turned to face the forest and was the first to enter beneath the canopy of trees that blocked the sun, the sky, and the clouds. Behind him, the Aerdonians followed, swords and lances and bows raised in the air, fists slamming on chests, banners fluttering in the gentle breeze.

And thus, it begins. The last hope for men to make it through the end of everything. The last hope for me to save my father.

Olver stole a glance at Elsa, riding gracefully on her magnificent horse, donning the most richly decorated armor he had ever seen, with a galley painted in gold emblazoned on her breastplate, sailing over the waves of the sea, represented by blue sapphires studded in a way as to give the image of waves of an ocean. Beside her rode her brother, far more cheerful than he had been when crossing the grasslands. Diyana rode behind Elsa, conversing with another Maeryn warrior who was taller than any soldier that entered The Endless Forest.

The Maeryns, known for their skill with the sword. Their skill will be tested like never before.

Garen Swolderhornn, who had been quiet while the soldiers around him burst into screams of passion, rode on his enormous destrier, his greatsword hanging from his sword belt and his hair tied in a bun.

Has he finally realized the graveness of the situation? Has he understood the importance of unity? Or is he just shit scared?

The Endless Forest was not so different than any other forest where Olver had hunted as a child with his father, except the trees were far taller and grew together closely and in shapes that were absurd and strange. And also, the red veins on the leaves of the trees gave them a distinct appearance, an appearance of trees that have been bathed in the blood of the travelers that dared to venture in. For many leagues, the scenery did not change, and Olver and the company did not feel any change in their hearts as well. They rode on with the hope of survival and victory.

Although the sound of birds or the occasional rustle of bushes due to the scampering of a rabbit was entirely absent, the sound of men and women talking and horses whinnying more than made up for the calm that would have surely filled the heart of a lone traveler with dread. Olver tried looking at the sun to determine the time of the day, but the overhanging trees entirely blocked out the sky, giving the impression of riding under a massive, lofty roof of leaves that stretched endlessly above and in front of Olver and the riders of Aerdon. And then the ground began to slope downwards, and the trees seemed to grow even closer, if that could even be possible. The Aerdonians had to form a single column once again, and suddenly the conversations stopped, and the sound of laughs and even the horses ceased. And as the Aerdonians slowly moved deeper into the green bastille of trees and roots, unease started to creep into the hearts that were earlier filled with hope. The descent was very gradual, but it gave Olver the feeling of riding into a valley, and as time slowly passed, the color of the soil began to change from the dark brown of a muddy ground to a light red, as if the forest floor was covered by the dust of crushed red sandstones.

Red leaves and now the red ground. Is the forest trying to tell us something?

Red be the color of blood, red be the sky at sunrise,

Red be the color of wine, red be the devil with horns and yellow eyes,

Red be the cheeks of a maiden fair, red be the color of lies,

Red be the color of death, and yet, it be the color of light.

The ancient war song of Indius floated in the corners of Olver's head, as he remembered the sigil of the Liongloom Dynasty, the red prancing horse between red pillars, and then he remembered his 'Strawberry city' and the red walls of The Wilder Keep.

Red is the color of your kingdom, you fool of a Liongloom, do not fear it.

And the descent continued. The color of the ground was now changing from the light red to a darker shade, and the soil was slowly transforming into sand, similar to the golden sand that covered the deserts of Dreadlands, the sand that slowly trickled into the hourglass back in the forest of Eravia.

"Olver!" Diyana shouted and beckoned for Olver to slow down and catch up with her.

"I do not like this one bit," she said, and for the first time, she looked scared.

"What troubles you?"

Diyana did not answer immediately, and it seemed as if she was mulling over something in her mind, and then she spoke after a deep sigh, "Everything that I read in 'The Myths and Legends of The Endless Forest' has been accurate up until now. From the leaves to the height of the trees, and now the color of the ground."

"Isn't that a good thing? We will know what awaits us deep in the forest, and we will be prepared."

"But what if something terrible awaits us, something we cannot escape, something we cannot kill?" Diyana whispered, making sure the riders around them did not hear, "If the book is correct, then I know what we will encounter in a few days, and my blood freezes in my veins when I think of it, when I imagine it."

"What is it?" Olver's heart pounded in his chest.

"Traznug, the human-bat, a vile creature that dwells with his army of Bat-soldiers deep in the woods. A monster born after The Great War to guard the Endless Forest, a creation of Vizarins."

"And they cannot be killed?" asked Olver, already used to such revelations by now.

"How can you kill something that is already dead," Diyana's voice wavered as she continued, "It is said that there was no Endless Forest before the Great War. In its place was a battlefield, where the war was actually fought, and then after Azgun and their Wizard-God Vornoth lost the battle and were sent to the Dreadlands by the other Vizarins, trees began to grow from the corpses of the thousands of men who lay dead on the battleground, and thus, each tree in the Endless Forest represented a fallen soldier and the veins on the leaves symbolized the blood that flowed freely on the battlefield."

Olver looked around, and suddenly the trees appeared to come alive, to become animated, living creatures who had a past. A painful past. The swaying of the trees and the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind became a language that Olver did not understand.

All he knew was that the trees were talking to each other. The trees were talking about them.

"And what of this monster? Why can't he be killed?"

"Toren says that as the trees grew and time withered away, and as the kingdoms rose and fell outside the Endless Forest, a host of bats made the forest their home. Hanging from the branches of the trees, their black wings wrapped around their body, they grew in number. And then, the trees turned them into something more, something evil. The souls of the dead soldiers trapped in the trees traveled into the bats, and that is when they became human, but not entirely. They grew in size, and stood up on two legs, but did not lose the wings and the face of a bat. They ended up becoming monsters with souls of dead soldiers trapped within. And the greatest among them came to be known as Traznug, or the bat-god, who was the commander of the armies of Azgun which fought the Great War," Diyana fell silent and then suddenly she spoke again, "the red dust and the red sand on the ground are the indication of the beginning of their lands, an indication of the blood spilled by them, the blood of travelers and wanderers who entered the Endless Forest Perhaps it is the blood of these travelers that we now walk on. Blood that became dust over thousands of years."

So much for red being the color of Liongloom Dynasty.

"Is there a chance of Toren being a wine drinking maniac who wrote the book when he had had a little too many cups?"

Diyana smiled, "There are better chances of Sanrick Faerson winning a tourney than of Toren being a drunk maniac. He might be a drunk genius though. There are a lot of those in Silentgarde as well."

Olver caressed the mane of his horse, as it whinnied nervously. Olver's looked at the ground, and at the red grains of sand that looked untrampled by humans or animals alike since the beginning of time. He knew a foe like the one Diyana mentioned was beyond the skill of any soldier who rode with him, and an impending sense of doom took hold of his heart.

"If that is the case then we need to prepare for these bats." Olver advised, and Diyana nodded and then asked, "but how?"

"By galloping away from them like the wind and hoping that they can't run as fast as a horse," muttered Olver, staring at the path ahead, "but be careful not to tell anyone else what you told me. It will cause a lot of wet breeches among the men, and I am in no mood to get my blood sucked by bats and to smell piss on the same day."

"I believe they ought to know. For if what Toren says is true and these creatures are in fact as grotesque as the book says, then their sight will cause the men to stiffen even before they can unsheathe their swords. It is better if they are prepared to face such creatures, at least then, fear will not freeze their muscles into inaction. I would prefer piss stained breeches to paralyzed soldiers any day, your grace," Diyana reasoned.

Even if the men did wet their breeches, they did not show it, and neither did the smell give it away. But the dread in the air was palpable. Sanrick Faerson had almost puked after Olver had described the creatures while Garen had sat still as a statue, expressionless and emotionless.

The men rode in silence, occasionally turning their heads and glancing back or sideways, imagining eyes peering from behind trees or from bushes. The forest was calm. A kind of calm that you wish would be broken by a noise, because it begins to haunt you. A calm that envelopes you and makes you imagine noises where there were none, a kind of calm that almost makes you wish for the sound of someone screaming, the sound of death. Olver's hand was on the hilt of his sword, which he had already unsheathed in order to save time in the event of an attack. Diyana had already nocked an arrow to the bowstring, the silver metal head of the arrow glinting menacingly in the sunlight that filtered through the canopy of trees.

But will it kill the creatures of death?

And then Olver saw it.

He saw a black shape, hanging upside down from the branch of a tree, a few strides to his right. Olver looked closely, and the figure looked like a cloaked man who had tied his feet to the branch and had hung himself on his head, his cloak wrapped around him like a second skin. And at that moment Olver's heart skipped many beats, and a sudden chill slithered down his spine, and yet he started to sweat under his armor. He raised his hand and signaled the riders to halt. He placed a finger on his dry lips and then pointed towards the black figure that hung among the trees like a corpse that had been left for the crows to feed upon. The Aerdonians stopped in their tracks, each pair of eyes on the black figure and each hand on a weapon.

"Let me shoot," Diyana whispered.

"No," Olver mouthed, "We keep moving forward."

The Aerdonians resumed their journey once again, but this time they moved slowly, almost riding at a crawl, their senses heightened by fear, and it was not until the black shape was left behind and was out of sight, did the soldiers remove their eyes from the ominous figure. For several long hours, the Aerdonians marched in silence and did not encounter anything terrible. But all the while, Olver could feel eyes on him, although he did not see them, and the fear of being attacked never left him, and as the sun waned, and the first twinkle of stars became visible among the leaves of the forest, darkness began to creep all around them, and the bathed the woods in an unnerving blackness.

"We rest for a bit, and then we move again."

No one questioned Olver's decision, for the dark was all around them and the thought of sitting by the light of a fire, attentively, surveying the forest with their swords in their hands, seemed like a good prospect to the weary soldiers.

And thus, the Aerdonians made camp in a small clearing that hardly justified the word. The fires that the soldiers thought would bring comfort soon turned to be the cause of their misery as the air around them suddenly turned warm and humid, and the red dust beneath their feet began to feel as if it had been exposed to a bright sun throughout the day. Huddled in groups of two or three, the Aerdonians sat quietly, each man and each woman battling thoughts of uncertainty, trying to gaze deep into the darkness that surrounded them, trying to find the enemy they did not yet know existed, while the enemy had been watching them throughout the day, waiting for the night to fall, and their warm blood to become ripe for sucking.

It took a while for anyone to notice them. Small beady eyes, red with black dots, flickering like beacons in a dark valley, gradually starting to appear all around them, surrounding them from every direction.

The bats had finally found them. Death had found them.

It was Diyana who sounded the alarm as she blew the war horn that hung from her neck. Three long shrill blasts woke the Aerdonians, three blasts that meant an attack. The soldiers on guard had already assumed fighting positions, fumbling nervously with their sword belts, unsheathing their swords in two tries, and guarding the parameter of the camp.

Other soldiers heard the call and soon, swordsmen were busy putting on ringmail, and archers were busy notching arrows on their bowstring. The bannermen had already hoisted the banners of the four kingdoms and men-at-arms had already mounted their destriers, and those who were far away from their horses had just huddled together in the center, forming the core of the defense.

Olver had not yet fallen asleep, and he was already giving orders as he rode in circles, rousing the soldiers and overseeing the preparations to face the attack.

But why don't they attack? What are they waiting for?

"Pikes in the front, followed by swordsmen and then the archers. Diyana, do you think your warriors can give us a shield wall?" Olver shouted amidst the sound of clamoring armor and neighing horses.

"Not enough warriors for a three-fold shield wall, or even two, but I can still give you a shield wall with a single line of warriors."

"That will do. Garen, I want Calypsian mounted archers on the sides, they will have a better angle from there."

"I will face the attack along with the pikes; it would be better if you stay with the foot soldiers in the middle," Garen shouted back.

"You need to be in the middle, Garen. You need to survive." Olver protested.

"I need to kill someone," and with that, the Calypsian shouted for his men-at-arms to follow him to the front of the defense, along with the warriors of Maeryn, who had already finished forming a shield wall. Icy cold and mortally dangerous tips of spears and swords which poked out from between the little gaps in the shield wall waited for the attack of whatever was hiding in the dark of the forest. Elsa and Sanrick surrounded themselves with soldiers of their own kingdom in the middle of the circle, and the fat face of the boy-king of Harduin looked ghostly white, and like a pigeon, his face kept twitching and jerking, and horror-stricken eyes kept darting from one pair of red eyes to the other.

Elsa Faerson looked as if she was made of stone. Her face did not give away anything.

And then they waited.

Olver stared hard into the dark, and suddenly he began noticing shapes and outlines. The red eyes were floating above a human-like body, and after staring for a while, Olver started to make out the faint outlines of legs, long, hairy and black, reminding him of the pillars that held the roof of the Black Hall back home.

Suddenly the wind picked up speed, and the massive trees swayed for the first time since they entered the Endless Forest. It was an astonishing sight, as Olver had never seen trees so thick and mighty, standing tall like holdfasts and watchtowers, moving about like giants of his childhood tales dancing on the peaks of Zaeyos. The tallest of them stood directly before Olver, its thick trunk and sprawling roots creating a web on the forest floor, and from behind this stocky trunk emerged the first creature. All black from head to toe, and with the face of a bat, or a hideously deformed rat, the ancient creature stepped in the light of the torches and spread its wings.

Ever since Diyana had told Olver about the human-bats of the Endless Forest, he had tried imagining how they would look in his head, but what stood before him was far viler and horrifying than anything he had pictured in his head.

Standing on two feet, with wings that had dagger-like claws at its end, and a mouth lined with yellow pointy teeth, and a long sticky tongue that hung a few inches from its snarling face; the human-bat stood taller than any soldier that accompanied Olver. The creature was breathing heavily, and the red eyes with black slits were staring straight into the brown ones of Olver.

Olver stared right back, unflinching and unmoving.

The ancient magic of the wizards stands right before me. The creatures sent to end the race of men. And death never looked so ugly. What are you waiting for, you bastards, come and attack me!

The creature opened its mouth and let out a long screech, and Olver could hear the beating hearts of the men behind him. And soon enough, he also heard the rustling of the leaves and the sound of wings flapping as more human-bats emerged out of the darkness and surrounded the Aerdonians.

The rush of the battle took hold of Olver, and he felt blood raging through his body.

"Archers!" shouted Olver, "DRAW!."

Olver did not need to look back, as the sound of bowstrings being pulled back confirmed that more than fifty arrows were now pointing towards the sky, ready to rain hell on the creatures of death.

The moment the human-bat stopped its screeching, the other creatures stopped advancing, and for a moment, nothing moved except the trees that were now swaying wildly in the wind that roared all around the Aerdonians. And then finally, when Olver thought the wind would uproot a tree and send it crashing into the creatures, the wind dropped its ferocity and almost completely stopped blowing. The banners of the four kingdoms ceased fluttering, and the human-bat in front of Olver started to run towards him, screeching and wheezing, teeth snapping and wings flapping, and behind it, the other creatures started to sprint as well.

"LOOSE!"

Arrows flew into the sky, curved and fell among the sprinting creatures. One went through the chest of a tall human-bat, and one pierced the red eye of a shorter one that kept running with the arrow still lodged in its eye socket. Many fell without hitting a target, but it wouldn't have mattered as the bats did not seem to get affected by them. Hairy legs, and feet with long sharp claws were bearing the monsters closer to the Aerdonians, and to Olver, whose fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword, ready to plunge the steel tip into the heart of the first human-bat that came close enough, if they even had a heart.

And then like crows upon a rotting corpse, the bats fell upon the Aerdonians, screeching and howling, biting and snapping. Olver raised his sword and slashed at the bat who had managed to outrun every other monster and was the first to be greeted by Olver's blade. The bat leaped in the air as it neared Olver and came flapping down on top of him, but before it could land on Olver's head and tear it apart from his body, Olver's longsword took a leap of its own and sliced through the neck of the bat, and the head dropped to the floor beside the headless body that was flopping on the ground like a fish out of water. No blood was spilled, and the blade of Olver's sword was as clean as it had been before the battle had begun. It took a few heartbeats for the headless body to stop flopping, and for the wings to stop flapping, and when it did, the body began inching its way towards the head. Olver looked at the hideous face of the bat and saw the mouth still snapping and the eyes, red as before, staring hauntingly at him, as if the bat was waiting to be whole again, so that it could finish what it started.

Before Olver could cut the headless body into pieces, another bat was upon him, and this time he blocked the assault just in time, before ducking and barely escaping another slash from a bat that swooped in from above. He heard the fury in the screams of men around him as they cut and slashed, ducked and thrust at the creatures that were slowly surrounding them. The screams slowly began turning into those of pain and death, as no matter what the Aerdonians did, the bats would rise and continue their onslaught as if nothing had happened.

And nothing was happening.

All around Olver, bats with arrows sticking out from their face, body, and wings, bats without legs and with eyes gauged out were still fighting, while the bodies of Aerdonians remained headless and lifeless.

"ARCHERS! AIM FOR THE EYES!" Olver heard Garen shout as an arrow whizzed past his ear and took out the right eye of the bat who had already spread its wings and was about to charge at Olver. And then, he realized why Garen had asked them to aim for the eyes.

It slows them down.

It causes them pain.

It makes them mortal.

The bat in front of Olver let out an ear-splitting screech, as the Human-bats around him froze for a few seconds. It flapped its wings in what appeared to be a combination of agony and ire, as Olver made use of the brief window of opportunity and stabbed the other eye as well with the long stiff blade of his rondel dagger and twisted it until it's tip pierced through the hairy back of the bat's head. The howl that followed was deafening, and the bat went into a frenzy as it whirled about, slashing and biting at nothing and everything, before dropping to the floor, motionless.

Olver turned around and saw that it was Elsa who had loosed the arrow. But he saw something else as well.

Filled with hope, the men of Aerdon began to fight with renewed fervor, and for a moment, Olver could see a happy ending to this bloody battle. He saw the Maeryn shield wall hold well against a horse of bats who were trying to break through, he saw the Calypsian crossbowmen loose quarrels at a speed he had never seen before, and he saw his own men hack and slash like men possessed, fighting for the glory of Indius and its king.

Olver ducked and rolled away from a bat who tried to swoop in on him from above and threw his Rondel with one hand, as it cut through the air and struck the bat right between its eye. But just as the tides were turning, a new swarm of Human-bats emerged from the shadows like demons from the black abyss of hell, and as they drew closer and Olver saw them clearly in the light of the torches, all hope left him, and he shook his head in dismay. The bats who had just joined the fight were not just bigger than the previous ones, but their eyes had already been gouged out from their sockets, and blood trickled down in thick steams from where their eyes had been. Olver's pulse quickened, and he felt paralyzed with fear as he realized who could have done this to such powerful creatures.

Traznug will soon be upon us. He is toying with us, waiting in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to step out and end this charade once and for all.

The fighting had now reached a crescendo, and Aerdonians were being killed all around him.

This is turning into a massacre.

The fighting had driven the Aerdonians to the edge of the clearing, and that is where, lying on the red floor that had turned a shade darker due to the puddles of blood everywhere, he saw Sanrick Faerson, with a bat on top of him.

"ELSA!" Olver shouted, but the sounds of battle drowned his voice. He started to run towards the bat and the boy sprawled beneath it. However, he could only cover half the distance before a fountain of blood erupted from where Sanrick's hand used to be, and he saw the mouth of the bat turn crimson as he ripped the meaty hand of the boy king from its socket, and the scream that left Sanrick's mouth was enough to rise over the din of battle and reach Elsa, who did not have to turn around to see what had happened.

The bat tossed the hand away and bent down once again to suck the blood that was flowing like a river from the hole that had been left behind. It could only take in a mouthful before two successive arrows took out its eyes and left it howling in pain.

Elsa Faerson dismounted her horse, caught the bat by the ear as it continued howling and snapping its teeth in an attempt to bite off something before perishing. However, Elsa had already unsheathed her dagger, and in one quick motion, she scooped the eyeballs out of the creature's eye socket and stabbed it repeatedly until all she was left with was red gooey pulp in her palms.

Olver wanted to rush towards the brother and sister, he wanted to comfort Elsa as she wept hysterically, cradling Sanrick in her arms as he lost consciousness, but Diyana's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"We have lost half of our soldiers, and I cannot find Garen," blood trickled down from her hair and into her eye, but Diyana did not bother wiping it away, "his men have lost faith. They think he ran away."

"I think the king of Harduin just lost his arm," Olver said as he saw Elsa trying to hoist Sanrick on her horse, "we cannot hope to survive like this. We no longer have enough archers left to aim for the eyes of these bastards, and not enough soldiers skilled enough to stab their eyes in one on one combat," Olver said as he threw his dagger and saved the life of a Harduinian soldier who was about to become a cripple.

"Let's flee. We still have a few horses, and I am certain we can outride these bats. Garen seems to have already run away, so why not us?"

"And leave men behind?" Olver spat back.

"This is why these men were sent with us, Olver. To ensure that the royal blood survives. They were nothing but sheep sent to be slaughtered. You and I both knew it. Think of the people back in Indius, think of your father, Olver, and let's run away."

Olver looked around and saw only a handful of soldiers, fighting, failing and perishing. Then he looked at Elsa, who had already mounted her destrier, with Sanrick slumped in front of her.

She plans to escape as well. And a wiser king in my place would do the same. And how I would love to follow her. But alas, it's death I must follow now.

"I must stay and fight," Olver said resolutely, "it's the stones that matter, not the royal bloodline." And with that, he shoved his hand inside the pouch that hung from his sword belt and took out the stone that glowed faintly with the sigil of the Liongloom dynasty.

"Here, take this and save the realm if you can," the stone sat in the palm of Olver's outstretched hand, as he sliced the head of a bat with a side-slash with his other.

"You are a fool, Liongloom. You are willing to throw away your father's life for a few songs of bravery that, perhaps, only dead men will listen?" Diyana shot two arrows, and they went through the head of the bat that Olver had just beheaded.

"My father would rather have me kill him with my own sword than be handed a life bought with cowardice. It's not for songs that I fight, but for tradition. And our tradition dictates that we fight until either no enemy remains on the battlefield, or until the blood stops flowing in our veins," Olver threw the stone towards Diyana and she had no other option but to catch it mid-air, "Now go after Elsa, for she is the only hope we have now. I am afraid Garen has deserted us." Olver did not wait to hear what Diyana said. It did not matter. It was a great blessing to choose the manner of one's death, Olver knew. And here, deep inside the Endless Forest, face to face with creatures no man had ever laid eyes upon, by the side of his men, he could die proudly, knowing he did what his father would have expected him to.

Death danced all around him, wearing the cloak of screams and pain. He saw Sir Pederick get mauled by a greyish human-bat, its mouth tearing open the knight's belly, leaving his entrails hanging out like a deer skinned. Olver readied himself for the last fight of his life, a dagger in one hand and his longsword in the other. A trio of bats stood facing him, breathing heavily, their saliva dripping and falling on the ground like melted cheese from a slice of bread.

But this time, it was Olver who started to run towards certain death, for even he knew he could not defeat three of these vile creations of Vizarins, although he hoped to die with his sword thrust in at least two of them. He raised his sword over his head, and the bats spread their wings to take flight, screeching in a voice that could wake the dead from their graves. However, Olver's own scream rang in his ears, as the king of Indius was enveloped and consumed within a storm of black wings that descended upon him like harbingers of demise.

### Chapter Five

Diyana Ishoca

SHE WAS COVERED in blood. Blood of Harduinians and of Calypsians, and blood of her own people. It trickled down from her hair and her armor and onto the white coat of her horse, leaving behind thin veins that looked very similar to the ones on the leaves. However, Diyana did not stop to wash herself when she crossed a stream, and neither did she stop when she thought she would fall off her horse because of sheer exhaustion and pain. The last sight of the battle still burned in her head; Olver running towards the bats, Sir Pederick lying in a pool of his own blood, a Maeryn warrior crawling towards her sword, one of her legs lying a few paces away from her.

To hell with Lionglooms and their foolish bravery. I thought the boy had wits about him, but all he had was a false sense of bravado. Perhaps Garen did the right thing. Perhaps he was the right choice.

Diyana had not cared to find either Elsa or Garen when she had escaped. All she wanted to do was get as far away from the creatures as possible, before one of them saw her and decided to pursue. But after having ridden for hours, she realized she had to find one of them, if this quest was to be salvaged. But she did not know where to begin. The scenery around her had not changed much, except for the color of the ground which had lost the red and now looked the usual brown. Trees still grew tall, and the leaves still had veins on them.

The early morning sky was above Diyana as she finally brought her horse to a halt. She stripped her armor and threw her sword and her bow to the side and collapsed by the side of a massive tree trunk and closed her eyes. She relished the lightness she felt after the weight of the armor left her body, and for a few heartbeats, she forgot the pain that throbbed through her arms ever since she left the battle. She looked down and saw bite marks on her left forearm, and a piece of skin missing. A gentle breeze picked up and blew over the open wound, causing it to throb with increased severity. She tore a piece of clothing from her tunic and tied it around her forearm, which caused her to squirm and scream in pain. And then suddenly, she felt the strength leave her body and darkness creep before her eyes. She went limp and surrendered to the weakness that assailed her.

Darkness was soon replaced by blurry visions. Smoky figures started to take shape, and she saw hints of mountains, rising from a great plain, and then she saw a city perched among the snowy summit of the mountains, and she realized she was looking at Silentgarde, her home. But soon, the snow that covered the summit of the mountains, and surrounded Silentgarde, turned into lava that slowly began to flow down from the mountains, towards her home and towards her people. She saw the lava consume houses and taverns, she saw the stables catch fire and horses running wildly, men and women ablaze, throwing themselves off from cliffs in order to end their misery. And then the vision went up in black smoke which slowly took the shape of a face she knew too well. And fear gripped her bones.

The face hovered before her eyes momentarily, before vanishing and causing her to regain consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat up straight, scanning the trees which were barely visible in the morning fog that floated menacingly all around her, expecting Vornoth to emerge from it, with the same smirk that he had in her visions.

The throbbing in her arm had subdued, and so had her breathing. The blood had dried up in her hair and on her face, sticking to her cheeks and forehead like dry mud. She tried scratching some of it off from her face and then realized it would take her the whole day to completely rid herself of the sticky substance. And thus, she waited.

It was for a long time that the Maeryn princess sat hunched against the tree, her horse trying to graze small patches of grass that grew around the trunk, it's coat and mare glistening with the blood that had oozed from Diyana's wound. But as the sun climbed in the sky, and the cool morning breeze began to get stuffy and humid, Diyana decided it was time to begin the search for her companions. She tried getting up with the support of her better arm, but the weakness beat her back to her knees, and she collapsed with a thud, surprising her horse with the sound.

It's my arm that is missing a chunk of meat, not my legs. Why can't I get up? Or am I destined to die here? At least dying with Olver would have earned me a place in one of his songs, whereas dying here would achieve nothing. I MUST GET UP!

Diyana tried once more, but to no avail. The horse, having gotten used to seeing its rider fall to the ground, again and again, continued grazing in ignorant bliss. However, it was the sound of another horse's hooves that really stirred Diyana into action. She got hold of the horse and pulled herself up, as pain tore through her arm and legs. She bit her tongue and prevented herself from screaming, although the pain was tempting her to open her mouth and howl like the bats she had recently killed. She hoisted herself over the horse and tried to bring it to a trot. A part of her wanted to stay and see who it was, but the rational part told her to hide.

But where do I hide?

Panic took hold of her when she realized the rider was upon her, and her horse was refusing to move. It neighed and whinnied and began to throw its head back and forth. Perhaps it was exhausted as well. Diyana realized there was no point in running now, and so she notched an arrow to her bow, and waited for the rider to emerge from the fog. The pain in her arm was making it difficult for her to hold her position, and just when she thought she could no longer hold onto her bow, the rider broke free from the fog, and galloped towards her, and for a heartbeat Diyana thought her mother had come to rescue her, to save her daughter from the torment of the Vizarins. But she knew that could not be possible. Queen Ayana was safe behind the white walls of Silentgarde, while she was deep inside a place where the queen could not find her even if she wanted to.

The rider drew nearer and Diyana saw that it was actually a woman who rode towards her and it did not take long for her to recognize who it was. The golden hair that flew behind her and the emerald eyes that shone even from a distance were the most recognizable features in the realm. And the fat boy that sat hunched in front of her, with eyes half open and an arm missing only helped Diyana to breathe a sigh of relief and let go of her bow and arrow.

Elsa Faerson rode up to Diyana in a dented armor and riding a wounded horse with claw marks on its neck. Her face bore cuts and scratches as well, but the blood that covered Diyana from head to toe was nowhere to be seen on the Harduinian princess. However, Sanrick was a different tale altogether. The boy appeared to be in a daze, his face white as the snow. The armor had been stripped from his body, and all that remained was the bloody surcoat over a dirty tunic that clung to his fat body, and a trouser that was torn in places. However, Diyana could not remove her eyes from the place where his arm had been ripped. Pus and blood oozed from the hole and bits of skin hung loose like threads from a ripped piece of cloth. Elsa would keep wiping the pus and blood away with a piece of cloth, but soon, the wound would start oozing again, and Elsa would dab at it, and the boy would shout and scream until the veins in his neck would become visible against his pale skin.

Poor lad won't survive. And death would serve him better at the moment. Anyways, he will wish for it by the end.

"How did you find me?" Diyana asked after Elsa had helped Sanrick off the horse and had laid him on the ground, his body trembling slightly.

"You overtook me, and after that, I just followed the tracks of your horse," Elsa said, as she sat on the ground and closed her eyes for a moment, "I called out to you, but you were riding like the wind."

"I wanted to put as much distance as possible between the bats and me."

"Hmm, I realized the battle was a lost cause when our soldiers started to drop like flies, and when my brother lost his arm." Elsa gazed at her brother, and Diyana saw the sadness in her eyes and felt the pain in her voice.

"I grieve for your brother," Diyana whispered, looking at the king of Harduin that lay shaking on the ground before her, "we never had a chance, did we? From the moment we were surrounded by those vile creatures, I knew escape was the only choice we had."

"So, who else escaped? I don't see Olver and Garen with you" Elsa asked, her eyes refusing to leave her brother.

"Garen fled within a few moments of the beginning of the battle."

"And Olver?" Elsa asked as her eyes finally met Diyana's, and Diyana noticed the strain in her voice.

"He decided to stay and fight."

"And you let him?" Diyana sensed a bit of hostility in Elsa's voice.

"You do not 'let' the king of Indius do anything. He is not a child, and neither am I his nursemaid. He decided that the tradition of dying a brave fool was more important than saving the realm." Diyana retorted.

"Did you try, Diyana? Did you at least take the stone from him? Or do you also not care about saving the realm?" Elsa's voice was restrained, but the words were cold and stabbed Diyana like icicles.

Perhaps her bitchiness stems from her grief for her brother. Or perhaps she is just a bitch.

"I did ask for the stone, but he refused. And before I could argue further, he was surrounded by the bats, because I hope you remember, we were in the middle of a battle, and not whispering words of love in a glade hidden away in the forest of Eravia."

Elsa did not show her resentment even if she felt it. She hardly displayed any emotion, and maybe that is why Diyana lied about the stone, for she had still not figured out the princess of roses and her motives.

"Well, then we should go back, shouldn't we? Without the stones, this quest or mission has no meaning. And believe me, I do not go back to lay my eyes on the dead face of a king I spoke a few words of love to in a glade in some forest. I go back for the stones that would save my kingdom and my people, and mayhaps my brother."

"That would be a folly," Diyana responded with exasperation, "We need to find Garen or continue forward. Even if we go back and do find the corpse of Olver, chances are, the bats will be standing on it, guarding the stone, just how the Vizarins would have ordered them to." Elsa smirked at the mention of the Vizarins.

"The Vizarins? Who knows what they really want? They ask us to unite and proclaim a single king, but to do it in one of the deadliest places on Aerdon. They ask us to repent for the mistakes of a kingdom that no longer exists, and then when we do make efforts, they send their monsters to stop us from doing it. I wonder why we continue to worship these gods, who play with us like a puppeteer with puppets."

"Who are we to question the beings that created the world? Who are we to question their justice?" Diyana said, "and who is to say Azgun has perished? Until yesterday, I thought bats were the size of my palm and posed no greater threat to me than a man trying to get in my gown at a tavern in Riverhelm. I will not be surprised if the sails on the ships of Azgun fly once more on the shores of East Shade."

"Why East Shade?" asked Elsa.

"Because that is from where they sailed away, into the waters of the Serpent Sea, thousands of years ago, and thus, that is where they might return. Don't you think?" Diyana said and thought she had finally won a small victory when Elsa did not reply immediately.

"Well, then East Shade will welcome them with open arms. For a kingdom that has returned from destruction and death is a kingdom that should be feared, not fought against, and that is where Olver Liongloom and I differ in our traditions. It's not always aggression that wins battles, Diyana, but also alliances." Diyana opened her mouth to respond but was cut short by Sanrick's scream of agony as Elsa dabbed at his wound once again. Diyana could see beads of sweat shimmering on his forehead like small diamonds studded into his skull.

"His body burns. He needs a healer." Elsa whispered.

"He needs his wound to be washed by the waters of Eliptis."

"What is that?" Elsa asked.

"The leaves of the tree Eliptica have healing qualities. They are soaked in water, and the wound is then washed and cleansed along with the paste made from crushing the leaves. It is known to bring dead men back to life."

"And where are these trees found?"

"On the mountains of Zaeyos, near Silentgarde."

"And did you bring these leaves with you? Knowing you will be going on a perilous journey where they would surely be of help?" Elsa asked in the same mocking tone that was beginning to test Diyana's patience.

"They only work a day after having been plucked from the branches. They would be useless on this journey."

"Well then this entire conversation was useless, wasn't it, Princess Diyana?"

"No, it did help me find out that you are an arrogant self-loving wench. So, it was pretty useful to me. And I will not be accompanying you back to Olver. I still think it would be a mistake because of more reasons than one."

One of them being me slitting your throat on the way.

Elsa was silent for some time, before she spoke in a voice that had lost all of its sharpness and assumed a sweetness that had been entirely absent previously, "I understand it must be hard for a Maeryn, let alone a princess to take her orders from someone else. Believe me, it is the same for me as well. But seeing as all the royalty of Aerdon rode together inside this wretched place, a little understanding on all our parts would only help serve our cause. I plead you to turn back and accompany me and search for the stone. If you want to save your people, then I am afraid those tiny black fragments of magic are our only hope."

But I have the stone, you dumb woman. Going back would be a waste of time and a risk to all our lives.

"I hope you are telling the truth, Diyana, that you do not have the stone," Elsa leaned closer to Diyana, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "I would be very disappointed if it were to tumble out of your bosom while you twirl around in a fight," said Elsa as her eyes traveled down to Diyana's chest.

Diyana's heart was in her mouth as she suddenly felt the presence of the stone tucked in her corset that she was wearing beneath her tunic. She knew Elsa would find it easily if she suddenly decided to be a little handsy. In a normal setting, Diyana would have welcomed that, perhaps she would have taught this fierce cat a lesson in the confines of her bedchamber, but currently, her word as a Maeryn was at stake, and she did not want to be bested by an arrogant princess. She was the arrogant princess, and the world had room for only one.

"Very well, I am willing to go back, but only if I get to hold onto Olver's stone if and when we find it and manage to escape alive."

"We have a deal, I accept...," Elsa could not finish as Sanrick opened his eyes and croaked in a feeble voice

"No...don't....please...don't...not back to them," Sanrick breathed in short gasps as words escaped his mouth with difficulty, "Toren's book...a whole chap..a whole chapter about...a...about not going back."

"Brother, conserve your strength. Do not think of such matters. Let me handle them," Elsa said, cradling Sanrick's head in her lap, but the boy looked back at her with wide open eyes. A look of horror was on his face. It was as if a nightmare had taken hold of his memory, a nightmare he was not able to shake off, as it played over and over again in his mind, even when he was wide awake.

"No...not this time...do...as...i...sa...sa...say."

"Which chapter does he speak of?" Elsa asked Diyana.

"Not one that I have read. Perhaps he is traumatized by what happened to him. Who wouldn't be?"

Elsa looked at Sanrick. The boy had closed his eyes once again, while his body shivered from the high fever

"We should not stay in one place for too long. We have to come to a decision." Diyana was getting impatient.

Perhaps the boy's injury has a silver lining to it.

Dark grey clouds were encroaching upon the pale blue morning sky, and a soft breeze danced its way through the trees of the Endless Forest. Elsa Faerson looked towards the sky, and a drop of rain fell on her plump lips and trickled down to her chin and then onto her neck.

"Elsa?" Diyana whispered.

"My kingdom named me the 'Princess of Roses', while the rest of the realm called me the 'Princess of Thorns'. They think I do not have a heart. And why would I? Only a woman devoid of emotions could endure the torture that I faced, all the while plotting her revenge," Elsa said, her head pointed towards the sky, her eyes closed, little drops of rain snaking their way from her face and onto her body, "but what people forget, is that love towards someone also has the power to make a woman do miraculous things. Now that love could be for a lover, for a father, or for a brother," Elsa opened her eyes and looked at Diyana with a soft gaze, "we will not go back if that is what my brother wants," she said, and for the first time, Diyana saw the 'Princess of Roses' smile.

***

Finally, the setting around them began to change. After having ridden for three days through a jungle of giant trees and veiny leaves, the trees around them began to grow shorter and less leafy. Their barks were less broad, and the thick entanglement of their ancient roots was no longer visible. They even came across a few boulders, strewn across their path, covered with moss, and a few low-lying cliffs that jutted out from the mouth of small caves and mounds of grass, that sometimes appeared to be as tall as hillocks. Diyana also observed the mouth of what appeared to be rocky tunnels, extending into the darkness, forming the base of some of the hillocks. Diyana wondered what sort of creatures dwelled in the darkness of these tunnels, and what would make them crawl out of their lair, and if it would be two maidens and a handicapped boy on horses.

Diyana tried remembering Toren's accounts of what he came across after the bats. But Toren had not known himself. He was made to travel with a cloth over his eyes by a race he called 'The Elves', and when he removed the cloth, he beheld the Vizarins in front of him, all five of them, and that is where the accounts of the Endless Forest had ended, and the story of the 'Beginning of Aerdon' had begun. The Vizarins had narrated the tale of the creation of the five kingdoms, and of Aerdon itself. They told him about the 'First men' or the Viranins, they told him about the 'Great War' and the fall of Azgun and the banishment of Vornoth. But these tales had come to be known as myths and legends, and Toren came to be known as nothing but a glorified storyteller. Although the five kingdoms kept worshiping the Vizarins, and kept erecting temples for them, however, they stopped believing in Toren's tale and the legitimacy of his words. The 'man who met the gods' they had named Toren thousands of years ago, but subsequent generations started calling him the 'man who lied about meeting the gods'. Why and how this happened, no one knew. But some scholars of old continued reproducing Toren's work and teaching the forgotten language to their disciples. And one of those scholars had been Diyana's teacher. Diyana had loved her as much as her mother, and her death had been the only time Diyana had shed a tear.

"Food, I need food," Diyana heard Sanrick mumble beside her, riding with Elsa on a greyish stallion. Diyana herself was starving. They had left all their provisions behind when they were fleeing from the bats. All Elsa could find in the pouch that hung from the saddle of her horse was a flagon of water, a few berries and a fried pigeon that the owner of the horse might have stolen and kept for himself for future consumption. But they had eaten everything by the end of the first day since the three set out together, and now they had not eaten anything since a day and a half. Whereas, it had been a victory for Diyana to get her horse to carry her, let alone find something in a pouch tied to its saddle.

The hunger seemed to have the worst effect on Sanrick. His fever had not lessened, and the skin near his wound had turned blue, indicating an infection that was slowly spreading under his skin. The blood had finally stopped seeping out of the grotesque hole left in the place of his hand, and Elsa had tied a piece of her tunic around his shoulder to hide his deformed upper body. Diyana knew he needed something to eat and drink. Otherwise, his death would be slow and painful.

A quick death by a sword would end his misery. But will Elsa have the heart to do it? Will I have the heart to do it if she would ask me to?

It was only at the end of the third day, on a starless night, with wisps of clouds floating by, did a miracle finally happen. Diyana had not come across any living creature ever since she had set foot in the Endless Forest, not counting the human-bats who were just dead people trapped in a bats body. But on that night, as she lay huddled under her cloak, trying to chase sleep that was becoming hard to come by, did she notice a tiny red worm, crawling its way out of the mud, slithering towards the bark of the tree she had taken the support of.

For a long time, Diyana had just sat motionless, looking at life in a forest devoid of it, and thought how the smallest of creatures hold importance in the right context. And then she had crushed it with her thumb and index finger and sucked the gooey pulp into her mouth. The worm had tasted earthy, and Diyana thought it made sense as it's mud that the worms eat, and thus they tasted like it.

She saw the head of another one pop out of the mud, and soon enough, her hungry mouth was savoring the taste of yet another earthy worm. That is when she started to dig around the bark of the tree with her ballock dagger, in search for more, and soon she found a host of them, trying to crawl away from Diyana as fast as they could.

"Elsa! ELSA!" Diyana had shaken Elsa awake, and showed her the food she had discovered, the food that she now held in her palm, trying to wriggle away from her grasp.

Elsa had been repulsed at first, but then she realized the importance of it when her eyes fell on her dying brother. Sanrick had enjoyed his meal that night, and it was the first time Diyana had seen him completely conscious, as he sat beneath an enormous beech tree, stuffing his face with worms still wriggling on their way to his mouth. Diyana had eaten a few more until she felt she would vomit if she ate another morsel, while Elsa sat observing the two, and no matter how much Diyana asked her, she did not eat.

"This might be our only choice as food for a long time. It's not what you would be used to in East Shade, but it will keep you alive," Diyana had remarked.

"I am certain we will find better choices in the future. I won't eat like a beggar from the streets of Riverhelm."

"From what I have heard, they eat rats," Diyana had said, wiping the blood from the corners of her mouth.

Elsa frowned, "does it matter?"

"I suppose not. Although if it weren't for the rats, there would be a lot of dead beggars on the streets of Riverhelm."

"I won't starve to death, if that's what you are worried about." Elsa had said with an air of confidence.

"What will you eat then, if we find nothing better?"

"The horse that you ride on," Elsa had said with a smile, and Diyana wondered whether she had jested, or she had meant it.

However, better choices did not become available for the next few days, and Elsa grew thinner as time passed. Diyana and Sanrick continued eating worms which they found near the barks of the tallest trees. The horses were the happiest out of the lot as there was plenty of grass all around them, and the trees began to grow sparsely as they continued onwards. It would rain every now and then, and Diyana would soak her cloak in rainwater and then squeeze it into her mouth and into the empty flagon that they carried with themselves. However, the rain usually meant a night of screaming and howling, as water would seep into Sanrick's wounds and the lad would writhe and squirm in pain and let out wails that Diyana thought would surely attract whatever evil that lurked in the rocky tunnels beneath the grassy mounds all around them. But nothing crept out, and Diyana gradually started to wish it did.

An encounter with another creature, or an event out of the ordinary would indicate that they were heading in the right direction. But presently, directions had lost all meaning to Diyana and time crept as slow as the worms she ate each night. She began wondering whether she was destined to ride eternally in this forsaken forest, or until the end of time, or the end of Aerdon. Her clothes had begun to stink, and she vomited almost every night, feeling progressively weak and frail as the days passed.

Elsa was also going through the same tribulations. Her body had begun losing its curves, and her face had lost the glow it had when Diyana had first seen it in the forest of Eravia. But no matter what she was going through, her face had not lost the look of tenacity and stony resolve that it had had throughout the journey. During starless nights, when darkness reigned all around them and when even Diyana felt her brave Maeryn heart beat a little faster, the Harduinian princess would walk among the trees, and her white silken gown, now torn and tattered in places, would be visible to Diyana as a soft white glow in the dark, and then after a few paces, she would disappear silently into the wall of darkness, and reemerge after hours, or sometimes just before the sky would start bleeding red in the morning.

On one such, when Sanrick had lost himself to sleep, Diyana walked over to where Elsa sat, huddled beneath a dark grey cloak, eyes staring into nothingness, and sat down beside her.

"You will die soon if you do not start eating." Diyana murmured, staring into the same nothingness that had seemed to catch Elsa's attention.

"I will not die before my brother."

Diyana did not know if she should say what she had been thinking, but then, something made her change her mind, "Do you think he will make it?" she asked.

"I will make sure he does. Do you have a sibling back home?" Elsa averted her gaze from the darkness and looked at Diyana.

"I had. A sister who was a few years elder to me. My mother had her, and then a few years later, I was born, and my father died the next day from the White Curse," said Diyana.

"The White Curse took her as well?"

"No, Maeryn and its thirst for knowledge, took her life," Diyana said as she leaned back against the tree of the trunk, and closed her eyes, "she was only fourteen, the age when Maeryn girls are sent on their first expedition, to scale the peaks of Zaeyos, and unearth the treasures Miervana has left behind, hidden among the caves and hollows of the mountains that surround Silentgarde. For years, we have ventured deep into these caves, and every time, we came back with books, and herbs, and sometimes weapons that no eye had ever beheld in the realm. From where you think the wisdom that Maeryn is known for originates?" Diyana said, and saw that she had Elsa's full attention, as a pair of emerald eyes twinkled in the light of the small fire that burned merrily before the two princesses.

"I thought your people were born with wisdom and above average wits."

"Well, we are. We do have a mind that is better equipped to grasp intricacies that the average Aerdonian struggles with. But we were also aided in our quest for that wisdom by 'The Mother', our Vizarin, and the protector of Maeryn, Miervana. For generations, we have been finding her statues, and beside those statues, chests filled with objects that are a sure indication of the Vizarins having walked on earth, on the lands of Aerdon," said Diyana, as visions of tall Maeryn warriors, wearing jeweled turquoise armor and carrying massive golden chests, entering the Floating Hall, filled her mind. She could see wisps of clouds drifting mere inches from the giant windows that lined the hall, looking out into a great drop of twenty thousand feet. She saw flashes of her sister, only eleven, pulling a huge oaken trunk filled with books on the forgotten language of D'ran, and the hall erupt in applause as the women in the hall screamed in joy and admiration at the young princess's triumph. And an instant later, the vision changed, and she remembered how they had brought her sister's corpse through the same door, and how the women had screamed again, but this time in grief, and how her mother had sat on the throne like an ice queen, with tears falling onto the white marble floor of the Floating Hall.

"My sister died on one of those expeditions. And it took a great deal of persuasion from my part for my mother to allow me to come on this journey. She did not want to lose another daughter, but then she thought as the queen of Maeryn, and did what we have been doing for thousands of years; she thought of the realm over her own emotions, and here I am." Diyana did not know why she told Elsa so much, but she had begun to like her. Diyana saw a steely resolve in her which was similar to what the Maeryn girls were taught to cultivate from a young age.

She loves her brother. And I know what it is to love and lose your own blood. Her demeanor is a result of the years of hardship that she faced, and before she could enjoy the fruits of her toil and patience, the world around her began to crumble. You may try to hide your emotions, but I know exactly who you are, Elsa Faerson, you are someone I was a long time ago.

"Have you ever loved someone, Diyana? A man? Or are the rumors true that Maeryn women prefer the scabbard over the sword?" Elsa broke Diyana's chain of thought.

Diyana chuckled, "Yes, but not all. The women outnumber men twenty to one in Silentgarde, so we need to look elsewhere. But I am a princess, and all my life, I have been surrounded by women. So, when the time comes, a man will be chosen for me, with whom I shall make babies, and that will be the end of it."

But I have already chosen mine.

"I loved Olver Liongloom, even though I know you will scarce believe me. I loved him from a distance, and when I met him, my love deepened. And then he too was taken away from me," Elsa said with a melancholic smile on her face.

"But I thought you did not care for him?"

"You expected me to share my deepest feelings after just a few days of riding together in a forest? I did not trust you enough, Diyana. You seemed arrogant, and behaved a little too much like me to be honest, and I would never trust someone like myself. But now, I respect you for that exact same reason, because I also know that it takes a lot to be like Elsa Faerson," Elsa's gaze fell upon her brother as she continued, "I am sorry for your sister. I cannot imagine your grief at the time. I hope I never go through the same."

"You will not. He will survive, I will make sure of it."

***

The well was a strange sight when they found it in the middle of the forest. Old and crumbling and made of black stone bricks that jutted out haphazardly, displaying poor masonry from the part of whoever built it. It looked out of place in a world that had previously been thought to be devoid of any man-made structure. It was Diyana who had first noticed it, concealed by the thick blanket of mist that had been following them for two days, it appeared before her as an outline of an ominous shape, which Diyana took for an enemy, or an obstacle designed to hinder their progress. But upon closer inspection, the trio was relieved to discover that it was nothing but a well.

"What do we make of this?" Elsa said as she circled the well on her horse, followed closely by Diyana. Although it hadn't turned out to be a foe, Diyana still had an uneasy feeling about its existence in the middle of nowhere. Its presence felt planned. Its aura felt evil.

Diyana dismounted from her horse and approached the structure, treading lightly and cautiously. One hand was on the hilt of her sword, and the other was behind her, clutching an arrow in her quiver, ready to shoot at anything that would dare to crawl out of the darkness. Elsa and Sanrick sat motionless on the horse, and she could hear Sanrick's labored breathing and the occasional wheezing of the horses behind her. As she neared the well, she noticed ivy creeping up the sides of the well and then disappearing into the depths below, and in some places, the ivy had burst from the cracks on the sides and ensnared it in its long leafy arms like a snake around its prey.

Finally, Diyana reached the mouth of the well and peered into it, to find pitch black darkness staring back at her. At first, the walls of the well appeared to have nothing extraordinary about them, but just as Diyana was about to turn back, her eyes fell upon the steps that were carved into the sides, spiraling, descending and then disappearing into the dark abyss.

"How deep is it?" Diyana heard Elsa's voice from a few paces behind her.

"Difficult to say, although we can find out. There are steps going down into the darkness."

Diyana heard Elsa say something to Sanrick in a hushed tone, then dismount her horse and walk to where she stood staring into the well.

"There might be water at the bottom. It hasn't rained for two days, and we are running out." Elsa said.

Diyana picked up a small rock from the ground. "Let's find out," she said and dropped it into the dark of the well. Diyana and Elsa waited for a few heartbeats before they heard a soft plunk that echoed back from the depths, confirming a pool of water that waited for them at the bottom of the well.

"I do not see rain for the next couple of days as well. We might do well to fill our flagons with as much water as possible. Fetch me the flagons. " Elsa said and turned to look at Diyana, who did not move.

Diyana shook her head, "no, your brother needs you. It is better if I go. Anyhow, I have more experience in climbing down slippery walls and descending into dark caves with wet floors."

"This is a well not twenty feet deep," Elsa argued.

"It's not the drop that I fear, but what we may find waiting for us at the bottom."

Elsa looked undecided for a moment, but then she nodded her head and said, "Very well, I will wait for you here. Scream if you need my help."

"That is the only thing I would be able to do," said Diyana as she climbed on top the wall of the well, and then lowered herself on the first step. Her foot landed on a slippery stone which was just broad enough for one of her feet at a time. Diyana looked up and saw Elsa's face peering down at her, displaying a sense of calm and composure that had become so distinguishing of the Harduinian princess.

"I will need light." Diyana heard her own voice echo all around her.

"Wait for me. I will be back," Elsa's golden hair whirled behind her as she spun around and vanished. Diyana looked down and thought she saw the sparkle of the water below, or perhaps a creature that had just burst through the surface and was slowly crawling up the walls, aiming for her legs. The air around her felt damp and stuffy, and a foul smell wafted from the bottom and made her think of dead animals and rotting corpses.

I did not escape the bats to die at the bottom of an old well. I wonder if they would write a song about that, and how it would sound?

'A warrior she was, brave and strong,

Her sword was sharp, her arrows were long.

But she ran when the bats approached,

while the king fought along with his Aerdonian host.

She ran till she found a well,

She found the steps, and then she fell.

She ran when the bats approached,

Only to die inside a hole.

Diyana chuckled at the thought of the song being played in taverns and brothels across the realm, and common folk laughing their hearts out at the manner of her death. And then she thought of her mother, and suddenly, she wanted to survive and live a little bit longer.

"Here, catch this," Elsa's head appeared over the ledge, and her face glowed from the light of the flaming branch that she held in her hand. She dropped the crackling piece of wood, and Diyana caught it from the end where it burned. A stab of pain shot through her palm as she quickly switched ends.

The well suddenly came to life as the light of the branch illuminated Diyana's surroundings, and revealed moss and algae covered walls that appeared to have once been under water. Diyana lowered the branch to have a better look at the bottom, and that is when she saw it. A shallow pool of murky water that had a greenish tint to it because of the algae that floated on the surface like small heavily wooded islands on a green ocean. Diyana did not know how drinking this water would be any better than dying of thirst, but she decided to continue climbing down.

Finally, she reached the bottom of the well and found herself standing on a stone platform that jutted out from the side, hovering over the still water that Diyana discovered was the cause of the revolting smell that floated around her. Diyana bent down to examine the surface of the water in the light of the fire. The water could not have been more than two feet deep, and definitely not fit for human consumption. As Diyana got up and turned around, the light from her torch fell on the glistening surface of the wall behind her and revealed words that had been scribbled onto the stone surface by swords, daggers, arrowheads, and other pointy devices. Diyana brought the flaming branch closer to the wall and what she saw left her stunned.

The words were names.

"Dan Wildernick," Diyana muttered under her breath, "Martijn Becud, Jurian Foer, Harold Frostman, Gilbert Dowse, Annalies Kort." Diyana's eyes swept over a few more names before they lingered over two names which looked to have been recently carved into the stone. Diyana's heart pounded in her chest like war drums. She could not believe what she was seeing. Her fingers trailed over the two names, as she felt the wetness of the wall and the scratches of the swords on her fingertips. The first name was written in beautiful handwriting, as if the person had taken their time with the work. The other was scribbled in a hurry and appeared to have been written by a child.

"But this is not possible." Diyana's whispered in a shaky voice. She did not waste time in beginning the ascent back to the top. She needed to find Elsa.

Elsa Faerson was already waiting for her, as she had promised. She was leaning over the edge, her hair covering her face in a veil of golden excellence, her face and its bony structure, caused by days of hunger and starvation, highlighted and accentuated by the light of the flaming branch, as Diyana handed her the torch and climbed out of the well and collapsed on the ground. The strain of climbing the well had taken its toll on the famished frail body of Diyana, and the strong stench of the water had left her nauseated.

"Did you find the water?" Elsa said as she helped Diyana back to her feet.

Diyana took the support of the well as she swept her hair from her face, and stripped the breastplate from her body, "a lot more than just water," she said when she was just in her tunic and trousers.

Elsa looked at her with curiosity, "What?"

"The names of men and women who made it this far, scribbled on a wall beside the water."

"How many were there?" Elsa asked, straight-faced.

"Ten, perhaps twenty. But two of them had been scribbled recently."

"And?" Elsa's calmness was slowly turning into a rare display of excitement.

"And they belonged to Olver Liongloom and Garen Swolderhornn "

***

Diyana did not sleep that night. Hope had been kindled in her heart. Hope that Olver Liongloom survived. Hope that Garen Swolderhornn was not the coward that she thought him to be. Hope that their fellowship was still intact. However, Elsa Faerson had slept early. Something Diyana had never seen her do, while Sanrick Faerson sat beside her, giving her company in the dark of the night, enthralling her with tales he had read in the various books that lined the shelves of Timehall. The boy had been feeling better ever since he began eating the worms; however, his skin still had a bluish hue to it which signified that the infection still lurked somewhere in his body.

"Do you know the tale of Rihaan, the unifier?" Sanrick asked Diyana.

"Yes, every child hears the story at some point in his childhood. The story of how Rihaan, the king of Indius, was the first and the last king to try and unify the five kingdoms into one, and how he was butchered by the king of Azgun, Jornag, at the council where the kings of the five kingdoms were about to give their consent for one unified kingdom." Diyana had herself heard the story from her mother, back when she was a child. She still remembered not liking the story, for it did not comprise a bloody battle, neither did it contain heroic deeds from a knight on a warhorse who overwhelmed hundreds of men, nor an account of bravery and sacrifice where a single warrior died trying to keep the enemy from breaking down the portcullis, as he stood alone on a drawbridge, his hammer slashing and cutting and hurling enemies in the moat around him. The story only contained an act of cowardice, treachery and cunning, and Diyana was not fond of any of those.

"Do you know why Jornag slew every king and queen that attended the council that day?" Sanrick asked in a strained, weak voice, his eyes fixed on the well which was hardly visible in the pale moonlight filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead.

"Isn't it obvious?" Diyana shuffled closer to Sanrick so she could understand Sanrick's whispering, "he wanted to rid all of the kingdoms of their kings, so he could leave them vulnerable, and ripe for an attack. And that is what he did and became the only king ever to hold the five kingdoms at the same time, if only for a week."

"Isn't it funny how perception forces people to assume the worst of people. And how those assumptions shape our understanding of the past and paint a picture that is far different from what actually was," Diyana saw Sanrick smile in a very long time, "People thought because Jornag was an Azgunian king, so he must have killed everyone to rule their kingdoms. Because that is what Azgun came to be known as, an evil kingdom whose ambitions led to the Great War and the eradication of half the population of Aerdon. Whereas the real reason was something entirely different." A gust of wind roared at that moment, charging at them like war horses on a rank of soldiers, blowing away Sanrick's cloak from his body and revealing his disfigured body.

"What was the real reason?" Diyana was finally intrigued. In the beginning, Sanrick's mumblings had seemed nothing but a sick boy's mind trying to distract himself, but as she paid heed to what he was saying, the boy's knowledge took her by surprise, and she found herself listening attentively.

"Love. He killed every one of those kings, their wives, their children, some so young that they had not even learned to walk, all for the love of a Harduinian girl," said Sanrick.

"A princess?"

"Far from it," Sanrick's mouth twisted into a nervous smile, "A whore he had the chance of...pleasuring. She wanted to rise above the work she had been doing since she was a girl of ten. She wanted glory and fame, but most importantly, she wanted respect. Jornag asked her to marry him, but she said 'only if you prove to me that I am more to you than just a whore, that I hold the same place in your heart that a girl of a higher birth would. And so, she asked him to kill everyone that attended the council."

"But wouldn't she have become the queen of the realm if the council had succeeded in unifying the realm?" Diyana asked.

Sanrick leaned forward, and Diyana saw a twinkle in his eye, "No, for the king of the unified realm would have been Gyen of the Liongloom dynasty. Indius was the most powerful kingdom then, even more powerful than, perhaps, Calypsos of today. And the girl did not like that. She was a Harduinian, and later, found to be the bastard daughter of King Dwen of the Faerson dynasty, the tyrant king who nailed the cock of her wife's lover to her wife's...um...thing. I wonder how the same blood runs through me." Sanrick lowered his eyes as they lost their twinkle.

"You seem upset about that? Isn't it better than you are not like him?"

"At least people remember him. No one will remember me when I die. I will be known as 'Sanrick, the pig king'. That is what the common folk in East Shade already call me," Sanrick said as he swathed the cloak around him once again.

"It's better than being called a tyrant." Diyana kept her hand on Sanrick's shoulder, and the boy's eyes lit up once again as he smiled timidly.

Your sister has the Faerson blood, the Faerson fierceness, but you have the Maeryn wisdom. It is sad that you were born in a kingdom that values a man's skill with a weapon over his skills as a strategist. And more wars have been won through strategy than bravery.

"After all of this is done, I invite you to visit me at Silentgarde. The great library of Timehall may possess the largest collection of books in the realm, stacked in shelves as tall as watchtowers, but we have books that no man ever knew existed, hidden in chests locked away in the deepest caves and tunnels of Zaeyos. Although we do not let anyone have a look at them if they are not a Maeryn warrior or scholar," Diyana said in mock condescension, "however, I believe we can make an exception for 'The Scholar King', Sanrick Faerson."

"I will come...cough...gladly...cough..." Sanrick said in a throaty voice and coughed again.

There is something wrong with his eyes.

Sanrick's eyes had turned bloodshot. A web of thin red lines began to cover the white of his eye as he coughed a couple more times. For a moment, Diyana thought it was the White Curse, but then she thought it impossible as Sanrick had not shown any indication that would suggest he was infected.

It was when Sanrick coughed blood that Diyana knew this was something else.

"Sanrick! What is it?"

How would the boy know, you dim-witted cow?

Sanrick did not respond as a fit of cough took him once again, and he sprayed blood all over Diyana's face.

He is dying. I must do something. But what?

Thick red blood now started to ooze from Sanrick's nose, and he began to claw at his neck as if a noose was slowly tightening around him and he wanted to rip it away.

"Sanrick? SANRICK?" Elsa woke up, and her voice was laced with fear, "Don't be afraid, brother, I am here, lie down, shh... don't cry Sanrick."

"I don't want to die," Sanrick howled, "please Elsa, save me. It hurts...my throat...please...fire inside...cough...my...throat...it...cough... hurts."

"Give him water!" Diyana's senses rushed back to her as she snapped out of the horror that unfolded before her. Elsa rushed towards the horse and came back with the flagon of water that Diyana had fetched from the well earlier in the day.

"It's the worms...they are...alive...inside...eating...cough...throat."

Sanrick could hardly open his mouth as Elsa poured the murky green water into his mouth. The boy lapped at it like a hound in a desert.

I hope this quenches the fire in his throat.

Sanrick drained the flagon swiftly, and then he just lay panting on the ground, as a wide-eyed Elsa stared at him with a face devoid of color. The wind had ceased its howling, and the silence around Diyana was a stark contrast to the sound of her beating heart and the voices that were screaming in her head.

Finally, the coughing stopped, and the blood stopped flowing from Sanrick's nose. Diyana managed a smile as she met Sanrick's eyes. Tears glistened in the corner of his eyes, and his throat was covered in scratch marks from his own nails which had become jagged and long during the passage of the journey.

"It was the water that saved him," Elsa said, dabbing at the blood smeared on Sanrick's face and hands. Diyana also realized that her face was covered in blood, as she wiped it away with her hand, like a warrior in a battlefield.

"But what caused it?" Diyana questioned.

"The worms. What else? Nothing in this forest happens naturally. The bats, the worms, thousands of acres of land meant to starve you to death, all of them are deliberate impediments created to prevent the crossing of the Endless Forest," Elsa said as she slumped beside Sanrick, "I hope his coughing drew Olver's attention if he is close. My heart grows frightful every day, and I know that whatever comes next will be the final blow of the horn, before we either come to the end of this forsaken place, or we die, and I would like as many people around me as possible when that happens."

I hope it did not draw the attention of something sinister.

Diyana's stomach growled, and the realization of intense hunger struck her as she realized she hadn't eaten in two days. Her eyes traveled from Sanrick, sprawled on the forest floor, drenched in sweat and blood, to his sister who lay beside him, her eyes closed from exhaustion and trauma. Then, her eyes fell on the well nearby, a grey shape in blackness.

Did the water from the well save him? Did it also save the others whose names are scratched on the wall at the bottom?

The hunger pangs started to become unbearable. Like small jabs to her stomach from a dagger, they began inflicting pain and misery in a way she had never experienced before. But that was before she felt the pain in her throat. It began with a slight tickle whenever she swallowed saliva, but quickly, it turned into hot flames of fire that were licking their way up inside the walls of her throat.

Diyana tried to scream, but only coughed. She tried to move, but the worms that were crawling up her body left her paralyzed. All she could do was squirm and throw her legs in pain, hoping the movements would draw Elsa's attention. And they did.

Elsa opened her eyes and looked at Diyana with an expression of...Diyana could not figure out whether it was surprise or amazement. Elsa did not spring into action, as Diyana hoped she would, neither did she reach for the flagon that lay beside her, still filled half with the green water from the well. All she did was stare back into Diyana's wide, horrified eyes as she attempted to brush away the imaginary worms that were crawling up her arms, biting their way red from her forehead and into her mouth, and then down her throat.

Sanrick stirred awake, and Diyana saw his mouth open to let out a scream, but she could not hear it. Her head was filled with crunching noises of worms eating through her skin and burrowing inside her bones, as if they were finding their way back to their homes, inside the mud and the earth. She saw Sanrick reach for the flagon, as Elsa got to it before him and snatched it away, while the weak and bloodied body of Sanrick could do nothing but plead to his sister. She saw tears roll down Sanrick's cheeks, and then realized she was crying as well. Had she ever cried before? She could not say. Was it because of the pain that she cried? It could not be, as she remembered suffering through gruesome wounds in her childhood, only to smile through the surgeries after. Then she realized she cried for her mother. And for her sister. And the realization that she was forever leaving one to join the other, wherever she was. And finally, she realized she was crying for Jaeriz, the tall bearded archer from Silentgarde, her beautiful secret, the love of her life.

Elsa crawled towards her, with the flagon in her hand, and a face as blank as an unused parchment. Sanrick still wept behind her, but it seemed he had surrendered and ceased his pleading. 'Your sister has the Faerson blood, the Faerson fierceness', the words echoed in her head as Elsa tilted the flagon, and the murky green water rushed out of the mud-covered opening and began to fall with a steady stream on the forest floor. Along with the water, Diyana saw her life being wasted away, falling and mixing with the mud, just how her corpse would in a few months. But then, the worms chewing through her would be real; however, she would not feel the pain, and the thought gave her relief.

Let it all be over.

Diyana closed her eyes, and just listened to the water falling on the ground. Just before she surrendered her life to the Endless Forest, and the deceit of Elsa Faerson, she mustered all her strength and whispered, "Why?"

Elsa brought her lips closer to Diyana's ear, and murmured in a sweet voice, "Because you had what I needed," Elsa's hand wandered from her neck to her cleavage, and then slipped inside her gown, and found the stone, nestled in Diyana's bosom, "and now I have no need of you,... and also, you lied," said Elsa as she unsheathed her dagger and Diyana felt the tip press into her stomach, "This is to end your misery."

Diyana barely felt the pain from the dagger compared to the pain that engulfed her throat, and just before she felt life leave her body, a voice whispered to her, "Harduin bows to no one," and then finally, her breathing came to a halt, and she died in a pool of her own blood.

### Chapter Six

Kimbr Liongloom

THE WAIT WAS becoming unbearable. Every morning, and every evenfall, messengers would ride in through the portcullis, and the fear of them bringing news of her brother's death would hover over her like dark clouds. However, no news of her brother had reached Wildemere, in fact, Kimbr hardly knew what news the messengers brought as Krastin never indulged any details of the kingdom to her, just as she had feared. She had first felt anger directed towards her brother when she found out he was to venture into the Endless Forest without even saying a farewell. However, that anger had turned to hot rage when she learned that he had chosen Krastin to rule in his stead, and not her, his own sister, his own blood. But as the days went by, and the more she thought about the danger Olver would be in at the moment, her rage subsided, and worry took its place. She had gotten used to Kristin's snide remarks, his insolence and even the way he ruled. But she never got used to the fact that one day, instead of the messengers, a few knights might trot in, bringing the corpse of her brother, or worse, remains of what his body used to be.

Sitting by the large window, on the window seat overlooking the barracks and the kitchens, and plagued by thoughts of death, Kimbr Liongloom was a statue of beauty mixed with grief. She saw a few soldiers practicing their swordplay, while a few others sat under a thatched roof outside the kitchens, waiting for a server to wander outside and hand them a bun or something. A spiral of smoke wafted from the kitchen chimneys, and she knew dinner would soon be brought to her bedchamber by one of her ladies-in-waiting. The smell of roasted chicken and sweet buttered corn was already in the air, although Kimbr was not feeling particularly hungry. A knock on the door distracted her from her thoughts, as she averted her gaze from the happenings in the inner bailey and saw Sylvaine standing in the doorway, bereft of a dinner plate, which seemed strange to Kimbr.

"Did you forget the food, Sylvaine, or have you come to regale me with tales of your new-found love, Harrik, the chef?" Kimbr jested with Sylvaine, who blushed at the mention of her secret paramour.

"No, my lady, Lord Krastin requests your presence in the Black hall, he says he wishes to discuss a matter of utmost importance with you," Sylvaine said, her head bent and her eyes staring at the ground.

Kimbr felt her heart skip a beat. Had her worst fear come to light? "Is it regarding my brother? Is he...please tell me it is not what I am thinking" Kimbr's said in an uneasy, almost fearful voice.

"He would not divulge, my lady, however, I do not think you need to worry. There have been no new messages today."

"Lord Krastin has other means to receive messages than just messengers," Kimbr sighed, "very well, I will meet him in a while, although I wonder what matter of importance has dragged him out of his bed at a time when he is usually lying drunk and naked on top of...well, you do not need to hear that, do you Sylvaine, although you would probably know." A smile played at the corner of Sylvaine's mouth, which she quickly concealed.

Kimbr dismissed the young maid, and then proceeded to wear a grey woolen cloak over her silken gown of white, as she knew the Black Hall would be a cold and chilly place at this time of the day. She fastened the cloak with a diamond brooch shaped in the form of a prancing horse and tied her hair in a bun held in place by a pin that was similar in shape to her brooch.

As she left her bedchamber and proceeded down the long corridor that ended with a spiral staircase leading to the Black Hall, she felt the autumn chill in the air and gooseprickles rose on her hand. The descent from the top of the tower to the Black Hall was a long one, and often, she encountered personal guards of the royal family, ladies-in-waiting of Ceilia Liongloom, and other servants tasked with various chores running up and down the steps, looking ruffled and nervous, fearful of the punishments they would be handed by the pitiless Lord Krastin and the terrifying Lady Ceilia if they would fall short of the work they were given.

Finally, Kimbr reached the end of the stairs and swept her way into the Black Hall, which appeared regal and hauntingly beautiful in the moonlight that filtered through the vast glass windows on either side of the throne. The shimmery granite sparkled as if diamond dust had been sprinkled all over the black stone of the Black Hall, and stone faces of all the Liongloom kings carved into the massive wall behind the throne looked down on Kimbr like ancient sentinels, watching over their legacy with pride and longing.

Kimbr found Krastin sitting on the granite throne, a sight that always left her seething. He was wearing a black robe over a black silk tunic, with golden embroidery at the collar and her brother's crown resting atop his head. Kohl lined his eyes, and a necklace of black amethyst hung from his long scrawny neck. Beside him stood a man who Kimbr did not recognize. He was large in a muscular sort of way, barrel-chested, with a balding head, close-set brown eyes, and a square jaw. He was wearing one of the finest looking scale armor, without a sigil painted on the breastplate and a long sword hung from his waist, without a scabbard.

"My lady Kimbr, you look breathtaking as always. I thank you for joining me at such short notice. I know you do not like to leave your chambers after sundown," Krastin said with a smile and a mischievous twinkle, while the other man just stared at Kimbr with lifeless eyes.

"Then there must be something important that you wish to discuss with me, uncle, for it is a long way down from my chambers and a longer way up and forgive me for saying but I do not like to make the trip so frequently." Kimbr returned Krastin's smile.

Krastin shrugged, "I believe I have a solution for that problem, but before all that, let me introduce you to this man over here," Krastin said, nodding his head in the man's direction, "this is Sir Amos Dilley, a renowned knight from the court of King Sanrick and his sister Elsa Faerson. He brings us news that, frankly, has placed our family in a spot of bother. Sir Amos, why don't you give Lady Kimbr the parchment, so that she can learn about the treason her brother has committed," Krastin said slyly.

Treason? What is this old fool up to?

The beefy knight unclenched his fist, and a crumpled piece of parchment opened up like a flower in his hand, which he just held out in front of him, expecting Kimbr to walk up to him and take it from his hand. Kimbr would have relished playing this game of power, but presently she was too tired, and so she walked up to the knight and snatched the parchment from his hand, while he just glared at her.

"Do read out loud. I would love to hear my nephew's words again," Krastin said.

Kimbr flattened the crumpled-up parchment and instantly recognized her brother's handwriting. Kimbr's gaze fell upon the first line of what he had written, and instantly felt the world around her collapse into rubble. She began to read out loud:

I write to inform you that Princess Elsa and I have come upon an agreement in the forest of Eravia, where we will be joining our two families and kingdoms in a marriage alliance. However, due to the task we have been handed by the council, and because we will be going to a place which is dangerous; our safe return is a matter of doubt and uncertainty.

Hence, keeping in mind the need of unity and brotherhood which our two kingdoms shall require should we fail in our tasks, I order the announcement of our alliance to be made in Wildemere and Indius, irrespective of our return and the same shall be done in Harduin. Additionally, as a gesture of goodwill, Harduin will start exporting fish and other seafood to our kingdom, and we will be supplying their army with ten thousand soldiers, which shall comprise two thousand men-at-arms, a thousand mounted pikemen, two thousand mounted archers, and five thousand-foot soldiers, along with ten thousand gold coins, and twenty thousand silver coins. I order this decree to come into effect as soon as it reaches Wildemere.

Your King,

Olver Liongloom.

The bottom of the page contained the stamp of the royal seal, the word Liongloom written in black, flanked by two prancing horses. Kimbr just stared at the parchment for a few heartbeats, which were coming in pretty quickly in her chest.

There is no way he just gave away half of the army, and half of the gold in the coffers, for a woman belonging to the kingdom of Harduin.

"Staring at that parchment won't make the words disappear, my lady. Yes, a marriage alliance was discussed many times in the court meetings, but never at the cost of our army and our gold. I guess my dear nephew got carried away by the charms of the 'Queen of Roses'. I suppose it's true what they say, Sir Amos, your queen or princess, whatever she goes by, truly does have a cunt that can start wars, or in our case, treason," Krastin guffawed as he looked at Sir Amos, who stood silently with a stoic expression.

"It is not treason until proven. A piece of paper proves nothing," Kimbr snapped.

"A piece of paper bearing the royal seal and His Majesty's own handwriting is a lot more than just nothing. Anyhow, I will be deciding whether it is treason or not. Poor Sir Amos here had to ride all the way from East Shade in hopes of an army, but I suppose he will have to go back empty-handed, or perhaps he would like a taste of Indiusian women, although I am sure they won't like the taste of him" Krastin sniggered once again.

"We will have our army and our gold," the knight spoke for the first time in a heavy voice, " and then I will have a taste of your wife and this wench, even if they don't like the taste of me."

"Be my guest; however, I will watch," Krastin cackled, but this time his high-pitched voice reverberated around the hall.

"You are a mad man. You have twelve days. After that, we want our gold and men, and you may have our fish," Sir Amos growled and then stomped out of the Black Hall, giving one last look of disgust to Kimbr.

An uneasy silence lingered between Kimbr and Krastin after Sir Amos's departure. Kimbr stared blankly at the faces of kings on the wall before her. They stared back at her with a thousand different expressions. Some smiling, some in pain, and some trying to hide the pain that they must have endured while dying on the battlefield.

Just how I need to hide my pain. I cannot let Krastin enjoy this more than he already is.

"I will not believe any of this until I hear it from Olver's mouth. Let us wait until he returns, and then the truth shall be revealed," Kimbr finally mustered the strength to force the words out of her mouth.

"And what if he does not return in the next twelve days?" Krastin leaned back into the throne, fidgeting with the oversized crown that kept slipping from his head.

"Then we go on as if nothing happened. What can the Harduinians do?"

"It is not what the Harduinians can do that bothers me, but what your brother might already have done. I hope you realize that by agreeing to this marriage and its terms without consulting his ministers, and chief advisor, your brother might have just crossed a line. How do you think the public will take this news? When they find out their beloved, righteous, 'king of the people... for the people' has sold half the kingdom to fuck a girl whose fathers and their fathers raped and killed their women and children over the centuries. I think I have a notion about how they will react to this little piece of information. They will want to see his head paraded through the city on a spike," said Krastin in a voice that barely contained his happiness.

"And won't that make you hard, you piece of horseshit," Kimbr howled. She knew what was happening. She understood the game that Krastin was playing, and it filled her with fury.

"Is that how you speak to your uncle? Don't forget that you are still a child, and I am your king for the moment. Next time you raise your voice, I will chop your tongue in a thousand pieces, and have it shoved down your throat," Krastin threatened, and then spoke in his usual soft, velvety voice, "Now, the news of this alliance will be shared with the people. And then, a court meeting will be held to decide the future course of action. Until then, you are under arrest for being too close to the king, and perchance a partner in your brother's treason."

"What?" Kimbr knew Krastin was a cunning old man, but she had not expected this. Royal guards of the king stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the hall and moved towards Kimbr.

"No...this is madness...you have no right to..."

"You will spend the coming days in the dungeons, until either your brother returns, or I have decided what is to be done with you," Krastin's voice rose over Kimbr's as two of the royal guards clutched her wrists with brute force.

"You will regret this, uncle. You might think all your dreams are finally coming true, but I swear they will turn into nightmares very soon."

"Slap her."

Thwack! Her cheek sizzled and burned. She felt the guard's hand before it even touched her. The abruptness of it, more than the force behind it, made her fall to the ground.

"Then I will relish this dream as much as I can, while it lasts."

***

The dungeons of the 'Strawberry Castle' were never intended to imprison humans, in fact, they were never intended to be anything more than vaults of rock and steel, used to store grains, wheat and sometimes gold, when the incomes of the kingdom grew so large that the coffers could not hold the extra income. But for hundreds of years, the coffers never reached full capacity, and the production of wheat and rice fell so low, that the kitchens were enough to store the produce. One thing that did increase were the cases of thefts, rapes, murders and along with them, prisoners awaiting their trials. The Tower of Crimes, a windowless stone tower, painted all in black, with a buttress carved in the shape of gargoyles, specially constructed to imprison criminals, overflowed with men and women who awaited their fate, some dying before their trial even took place. And as a result, the council decided to start using the dungeons, a massive labyrinth of stone cells, bathed in darkness and home to rats, rodents and snakes, as a place to house some of the most dangerous, evil and ferocious offenders of the land.

Kimbr had only been to the dungeons once when she was eight, and still believed in ghosts and fairies, and vampires that dwelled in the dark. The experience had been traumatic for her, but as her father said, it had to be done. She remembered being brought to a cell with iron bars and a low slanting roof, with cobwebs hanging from the corners and some reaching the ground. The memory played in her mind as if it happened a few days ago. Her father had held her hand as she looked upon the face of an old woman, with wiry thin hair and droopy eyes, wrinkles dominating her face and scars in the shape of small stars lining her forehead and scrawny arms. She had donned a battered old tunic, and nothing below, and her eyes had pierced Kimbr, as if the woman was searching her soul. However, Kimbr did not remember feeling scared, in fact, she had felt a wave of calmness wash over her.

"Say what you must, woman," her father had growled.

"My lady Kimbr, a Liongloom, a daughter, a girl," the woman hissed through gritted teeth, "but as brave as a man, you are, yes, and as dutiful as a son you shall be, yes...swords and shields shall be your brother's life, but you...you my dear Kimbr, shall flirt with magic, and dance with fire and swim with krakens," the woman's face lit up with a youthful energy that defied her appearance, "but at the cost of love."

"Is that all?" the king had inquired.

"Yes, and no, depending on when you wish to take my head, your grace."

"Then that is all."

The face of the woman floated before her as she presently descended the hard-cold steps of the dungeon. Her bare feet felt the dust that had accumulated over the years, and often she would feel something furry scamper across, brushing her ankles every now and then. Tears glistened in the corner of her eyes, but her lips were pressed into a thin line. She knew whatever that was happening was a fleeting discomfort, and soon, her brother would arrive at the gates of Wildemere and free her of her misery. So, she had decided to be strong; however, as she moved deeper into the dungeons, and came across the first cell, her strength started to falter. She saw grizzly old men, with torn tunics and shriveled cocks, and bony women with wrinkled thighs, stuffed into cells big enough for one, peering at her from the corners of their cells, their sad, gloomy faces and yellow crooked teeth illuminated by the torches on the walls. She realized she was in the dungeon where men and women were imprisoned for life, where day and night were one, and time crawled like a turtle.

The guard in the royal armor, who held her by the elbow, halted in front of an empty cell, one that was eerily similar to the one where the old woman from her childhood was imprisoned. She tried to recognize who the guard was, so she could starve him to death in one of these cells when her brother returned, but a barbute covered his face, with only his blue eyes and part of his thin lips visible from the 'T' shaped slit in the helm.

"Enter," the guard growled.

Kimbr obeyed and entered the small dingy cell that was to be her new home for an unknown period of time.

"Strip your raiment."

No, this cannot be happening. I heard him wrong.

"Strip, or you will be stripped."

"Your true king is Olver. He appointed you to his royal guard, he fed you, he clothed you, most of all, he loved you all like brothers. He is your commander," Kimbr's voice shook with rage.

"He is a traitor who sold the kingdom to lay with a Harduinian whore. And he did not give me shit. I was appointed by Lord Krastin. The former royal guard was chopped up, and their pieces were thrown in the river. They must have washed up on some forsaken shore by now."

Kimbr closed her eyes and began unlacing her gown. She could feel the guard's eyes devouring her body from behind his barbute as the gown dropped to the floor. The drop of tear that had been sitting in the corner of her eyes, finally rolled down her cheek as she felt her resolve disappearing.

"Wear this," the guard handed her an old dirty tunic, the official garb of a prisoner of Indius.

Kimbr donned the tunic over her naked body, leaving her legs completely unclothed. Gooseprickles rose on her thighs as she felt the cold damp air on her skin. The tunic smelled of vomit and blood, and other things which Kimbr did not want to imagine. She just stood staring at the ground for a little while, before raising her eyes and speaking in a whisper, "ask Bernard to visit me, if it can be arranged."

The knight nodded but did not move. He seemed to be enjoying the look of Kimbr's legs.

"Now leave me alone." Kimber glared at the guard.

"I apologize. It is not every day that a commoner like me gets to look at a princess's legs," the guard sniggered, and then turned and left, locking the gate behind him and leaving Kimbr standing alone in the dimly lit confines of her cell, and as the sound of his footsteps faded away, the princess finally broke down and started crying hysterically.

***

Sad, misty eyes filled with despair and devoid of hope had been staring at her for hours, and there was nothing she could do about it. She had tried to meet their gaze, but the misery on their face was too much for her to withstand, and so she had averted her eyes and surrendered to observing the random scurrying of the two rats that shared the cell with her. She watched as they chased after one another, trying to nibble at stones and walls, hoping to find a dead insect that they could share. Their search for food reminded Kimbr that she too had not eaten anything since she had broken her fast in the morning. For the past few days, Kimbr had not been feeling very excited at the prospect of food, as the stress of waiting for Olver had made her lose interest in some of the worldly charms of life, like tasting the exquisite food prepared in the kitchens of Wilder Keep, but now hunger began tormenting her, and suddenly she started noticing the rats in a different light.

No, surely it won't come to that. Krastin won't starve me to death. Although Olver had also said he loved the kingdom and the family name, and how wrong did that turn out to be?

The rats suddenly lost interest in the dust-covered walls and floor of the cell and scurried over to where Kimbr sat with her legs pulled in to her chest. The bigger one with greyish hair and a long curly tail tried to climb up her leg and only relented in his efforts when Kimbr kicked him away. The smaller rat with a shiny black coat took an interest in Kimbr's tunic which already appeared to have been ravaged by an army of rats. The silence around Kimbr was so great that she could hear the animal nibbling on the cloth, biting away in a frenzy.

The dust covered floor she sat on, the scrawny dying men and women staring at her from their cells, the rats munching on her clothes, and the silence that pressed around her like a bodice around a fat body, was slowly clawing at Kimbr's heart, scratching away the bits of courage and resolve she had plastered over her heart. No matter how hard she shut her eyes and tried imagining sitting under an oak tree in the royal gardens behind the Wilder Keep, the nibbling sounds and the feel of wet hair of the rats brushing her thighs now and then would drag her back to reality.

Just before the anger and frustration inside her filled her to the point where she was about to scream on the top of her lungs, she saw the passage between the cells lit up from the light of a torch, and she heard heavy footsteps approaching. Kimbr wiped away the tears from the corner of her eyes and stood up. She did not want to be seen as a girl who was finally broken. She would not let Krastin have that pleasure.

A man in a green hooded cloak approached her cell. He held a flaming torch in his right hand, and his left was buried deep in the pockets of his black woolen robes with golden embroidery all the way from the neck to the bottom of the cloth, that swirled around his feet as he stopped and turned around to face Kimbr. Kimbr recognized the braids in the long white beard of the man, decorated with small silver clasps that held the braids in place.

"My lady Kimbr, please forgive me, child," the man said in a throaty voice, " he gave no hint of his plans; otherwise I would have had you taken away from East Shade."

Kimbr approached the heavy iron bars of the cell and saw the face concealed by the hood, the face she hoped had also not abandoned her.

"How could you have known, Bernard?" said Kimbr, "Who could have seen this happening? Anyways, we do not have much time. How is father? Is he safe?" Kimbr asked the question that had been haunting her ever since Krastin ordered her to be sent away to the dungeons.

"Krastin has not harmed Lord Stefan, although his health has deteriorated recently. The surgeon and the healer both agree that our Lord's time draws nearer. He survives as long as the dust of horsebone covers his body."

Kimbr pressed her lips tightly as a tear rolled down her cheeks.

"Get me out of here, Bernard," Kimbr pleaded, "Father needs me beside him, he needs his blood beside him in his last hours. He wept when Olver left for the Endless Forest, he clutched his hand and asked him not to go, and so did I, but he went nonetheless, and left us alone to face the evils of Krastin."

Bernard placed the torch in an empty sconce on the wall beside the cell and grasped the iron bars with his long-wrinkled fingers and leaned closer to Kimbr.

"It can be arranged," Bernard whispered, as Kimbr came closer to the old man, "the trouble is not getting you out of here, but where to hide you once you are out. It seems every lord worth a castle in this kingdom has suddenly turned loyal to Krastin, and those who opposed him have either been bought with gold or silenced permanently. Krastin controls the commander of the army, and once he proves that His Grace sold the kingdom to a Harduinian princess, he will have the support of the smallfolk as well."

"What about the governors?" Kimbr muttered under her breath, but the silence was so intense that her voice still wafted around the dungeon.

"I am not sure if they would be willing to harbor a traitor when news of His Grace's marriage alliance breaks out, and Krastin plans to spread the news with the first light of dawn. Messengers and drum beaters will be sent throughout the kingdom, bringing news of the king's treason."

"But is he a traitor, Bernard? Did Olver really do it?" Kimbr asked in a frustrated tone.

"I do not believe it. Our king is not a man to be influenced by women, no matter how beautiful or powerful they may be. He would never marry the Harduinian girl. Lord Stefan himself made His Grace swear it."

"My brother no longer listens to our father," Kimbr paused before she said, "there must be someone we can trust who will still be loyal to us when the news breaks out? Olver has done so much for so many people; surely there must be a few who would want to return the favor?" Kimbr could hear the desperation in her own voice.

"Men are quick to gain favors and remiss in returning them," Bernard remarked, "However, there is someone who will want to help us, not because of the king, but because of you."

Kimbr tried to think of the person Bernard was talking about, but she no one came to her mind.

"Who?" she finally asked.

" Lord Fanis's son, Joannis. The boy took a fancy to you when you visited Easkerton last summer. Ever since, he has been pestering Lord Fanis to visit East Shade, and request Olver to wed you to him."

"But why would a boy risk his inheritance, and his life for a girl he wants to bed? Is his fancy enough for us to trust him?"

"Oh, but he doesn't just want to bed you. The boy is obsessed with you. He had men round up all the girls who bore even a slight resemblance to you, and then had them garbed in expensive gowns and robes, and then after he had bedded them, he gave them gold and precious stones and palaces, until he ran out of palaces to gift. I have been spying on him for some time, and believe me, he will do whatever you command."

"Make it quick, old man!" a voice fell on them like a whip that came from the end of the passage.

"Why didn't the guard come with you?"

"The prisoners scare them. They think the souls of all the people who have died here are trapped in the cells, searching for bodies with a beating heart to enter and then control. They think the prisoners have been here for so long that their bodies have become home to hundreds of souls, and if they come here regularly, then the souls would enter them as well."

Kimbr looked at the gaunt, bony bodies of the men and women in the cell opposite her once more. She saw the lifeless eyes still staring at her, glazed and unblinking.

"Now listen," Bernard's voice brought her back to reality, "you will have to stay in the dungeons for some time. After Krastin is done spreading his lies about Olver, and after I am certain that Joannis can be trusted, I will find a way to get you out of here, and help you escape to one of Joannis's palaces, where you will remain in hiding with one of his girls. Until then, my dear lady, all I can ask you is to be brave. I do not know when I will be able to visit you again, for this visit itself took a lot of begging on my part. Krastin might not be so considerate the next time. Have faith, child; you are not alone."

Kimbr felt a surge of emotions inside her, as she placed her hand on Bernard's.

"What about father? Am I to never see him again?" Kimbr said as she choked back tears.

Bernard withdrew his hand from Kimbr's grasp and said in a slow, mournful voice, "I am afraid not".

Kimbr had been expecting that answer, but to hear Bernard say it out loud pained her. Suddenly, she began regretting the days when looking after her father would make her miserable, and she would complain to Olver about having nothing to do while sitting beside the ailing man, who would mutter inaudible words, and strange names from a time long forgotten, perhaps names of women he had once loved, or men he had wanted to kill. But now, knowing that he will die alone in his dimly lit bedchamber, with no one to hold his quivering hand as the White Curse would whisk him away to lands unknown; Kimber felt numb with pain.

I will have my revenge. I will gladly take the title of 'kinslayer'; I will gladly let the realm brand me as a traitor, if only that could mean a death so horrible for Krastin, that Gods would not be able to find a punishment suitable for me.

"Make sure you give him a funeral fit for a king. The people loved him, and I know Krastin will not want to anger them by not giving them the last glimpse of the man they worshiped," said Kimbr, "and have Margarett wear my gown and my crown, and have her do her hair like me, and then make her hold father's hand when he dies.Make her say words of comfort, make her take my place, for he should not feel abandoned in his last days."

"It is a noble thought, My Lady, but he will know," Bernard pointed out, "a father can sense his daughter, even when he cannot see the world, even when he cannot feel his own body. But I will do as you say, and when Lord Stefan passes, I will bring his ashes to you, so that you may hold him one last time, even if it is just his remains."

"That will be enough," Elsa admitted.

"And one more thing, Lady Kimbr, a messenger from Calypsos arrived an hour back. King Henrik has decided to send the major part of the Calyspian army into the Endless Forest, as reinforcements for the party that initially set out from Eravia, but it is safe to say that he is shaken, and scared for his son."

"As am I for my brother. What does he want from us?" inquired Kimbr.

"He asks for our soldiers. He wants us to send our men along with his army."

"Does every kingdom in the realm want our soldiers? Half of our soldiers perish without fighting because of that damned curse as it is, and now we must send the remaining to look after his son."

"And your brother," reminded Bernard, his tone a little apprehensive, "do not hold anger in your heart for King Olver, my dear lady, it is not his fault that circumstances have suddenly taken a turn for the worse."

"I can never be angry with him. He is my brother, I would lay down my life for him, but if we were to send our remaining men inside the Endless Forest, then even a small army would be able to attack and capture Wildemere, even a Harduinian army. Can we risk that?"

"It does not matter what we think, does it? Our future is in those small greasy hands of that wretch Krastin. We can only wait and watch for the time being."

Kimbr shook her head emphatically, causing strands of her jet black hair to fall on her face, hiding one of her eye behind a shiny black curtain

"One is always in control of one's future, Bernard, and our present may be grim, but we will not be able to change that by waiting and watching, but by planning and executing. Just get me out of here, Bernard, and I will show you exactly how."

### Chapter Seven

Sanrick Faerson

IT WAS NICE to have a horse all to himself finally. Although the stallion was a wild one, difficult to maneuver and quick-tempered. Sanrick had often seen Diyana calm the wild beast with soft touches and softer whispers. But now she no longer rode with them. They were a long way from the 'well of cures', as Elsa called it, while Diyana's corpse would still be there, bloated to about double its size, decomposing in the mud, where the worms would finally have their revenge. However, the joy of riding a horse was not enough for Sanrick to drown the guilt that ate at him day and night. Diyana had been nice to him, had called him the 'scholar king', a name previously used for King Dorman of Calypsos, the inventor of the 'thundering eagle' attack formation that wiped out the bandits from the forest of Eravia for a period of twenty years, before the 'Band of Bastards' took up the mantle and started living like the bandits, thieving like the bandits, and then finally, roasting men on a spit like the bandits, and then claimed to be the 'new' bandits of Eravia.

She gifted me an illustrious title previously used for a great king of Aerdon, and my sister gifted her death. But why?

Sanrick never asked Elsa. In fact, he hardly spoke to her ever since they left the 'well of cures', but not before filling up their flagons with its magical water.

Magical water. Words that would have sounded absurd a while back, but now, Sanrick truly knew how magical the water was. It did not just quench thirst, but hunger as well. It gave him strength when he thought he would fall off his horse due to sheer exhaustion. It dulled the pain in his shoulder, and it would feel like warm wine flowing down his throat on cold nights and like cool mint when the sun would beat down on them in the noon.

The sun was directly over him at the moment, and they had been riding since dawn. Weather in the Endless Forest was as unpredictable as the bowel movements of a man suffering from dysentery.

The nights would sometimes make them sweat while the day would make them huddle under their cloaks, and sometimes, cold, menacing arrows would fall from the sky in the form of rain, while sometimes, hot and humid air would make them wish for the cool waters of a lake in the afternoon. And one such afternoon was tormenting Sanrick, as beads of sweat dripped from his hair and onto his neck and then seeped into the cloth tied over his open wound, causing his shoulder to sizzle in pain every now and then. But he was used to it now. The fat coward king of Harduin had found courage inside him he never knew existed.

"Something is different about this place," Elsa muttered, riding beside Sanrick on her grey horse, her pale, bony face displaying the exhaustion that her twinkling eyes were trying to hide.

"What is so different about it?" Sanrick asked curtly.

"The air is very damp."

"That is nothing new. It does get damp on some days. It has happened before," Sanrick pointed out.

"This time it is different. It has not rained for days, so there should be no cause for it. No, this dampness is caused by something else. I believe we are near a sea. You would know if you ever visited left Timehall and stepped out into in the sun, or ever visited Fisherman's Fame in Harduin."

The jape did not hurt Sanrick. He knew Elsa was annoyed because he had not been talking with her. He knew she wanted an outburst from him.

Sanrick closed his eyes and allowed the soft wind to caress his face. He felt the moisture and the dampness. He also sniffed faint undertones of salt, and he realized Elsa was correct.

There was a sea nearby.

And a sea meant the end of the forest, the end of the Endless Forest.

"It's a pity none of us can climb a tree. It was the one thing I never wished to learn," said Elsa.

"Why?" Sanrick asked without looking at her.

"Because I did not want to look like a monkey. Some things do not suit a princess."

"You never learned because you are afraid of heights." Sanrick sneered mockingly.

"That is a lie. Nothing scares me."

"Then why don't you climb one now? Prove me wrong, sister. There is no one here to call you a monkey. And we might find out about the sea."

"I do not want to."

"You are too scared to do it" Sanrick chuckled this time.

"And you are too fat to do it."

"And short of an arm, don't forget" Sanrick reminded Elsa.

Elsa's face suddenly lost its harshness, and sadness crept into her emerald eyes. Silence lingered between the siblings before Elsa spoke again, "I did not wish to kill her. Just how I did not wish to kill all those people back in East Shade. And I know you will never understand the motive behind my actions. You never have. But I kept us safe all these years, didn't I? My methods might be cruel, Sanrick, but they are effective."

"We were safe, Elsa. Perhaps safer with Diyana than we are now," Sanrick finally looked at Elsa, "initially, you used your methods to keep us safe, but now, they have become a part of you. A habit that you cannot break. And now, you don't use them to keep us safe, but to realize your ambitions, to become the most powerful woman in the realm.

Elsa met Sanrick's gaze and then looked away.

"Yes, whatever you say is true, I no longer have the strength to argue with you. I want power. But not just for myself, but for Harduin. Throughout the ages, in every battle, every war, we were betrayed, ridiculed, thought of as a kingdom good enough to just catch fish, while other kingdoms grew wealthier and stronger," Elsa once again met Sanrick's gaze, but the sadness in her eyes was replaced with rage, and for a moment, Sanrick was scared of his sister, "our merchants were made to pay far more than anybody else just so that they could sell their goods in Starhelm, while bandits plundered our villages and raped our women. We were choked by our throats, and the fingers that choked us were Calypsos, Maeryn and Indius. Enough, I say! It is time I did the choking."

Sanrick felt a wave of grief wash over him. And then, all he was left with was pity for his sister.

"Diyana did choke to her death," he whispered to himself, "but I am glad you finally told me the truth," Sanrick said as he sped forward, leaving his sister breathing heavily with rage and vehemence.

The siblings rode in complete silence after that, as the lands around them began to change drastically. The earthy soil of the forest began to change its color and texture, until the hooves of the horses were no longer trudging through sticky mud, but were falling on coarse black sand, with tiny white spherical pebbles scattered all around like hails after a hailstorm. The smell of salt in the air was no longer an undertone, but dominated the scent all around them, while the blanket of sky above them was devoid of the whites of the clouds, and a golden sun hung among the blues like a golden goblet floating in a pool of water.

Sanrick began noticing queen palms, standing a hundred feet tall, among the cluster of pines that were slowly outnumbering the oaks that had accompanied them ever since they left the well. And if he really paid attention, then Sanrick could hear waves crashing in the distance somewhere. Or was it just his imagination?

The anticipation of seeing the end to this miserable place is making you imagine things, one-arm Faerson.

One-arm Faerson. Sanrick had given the name to himself. He had read a lot about kings and knights losing an eye, or a hand, or a leg in a fierce battle, and then being called all sorts of fancy names like One-eye Mattis, One-leg Harrod, and One-nipple Stef, except the last one, perhaps. There was nothing song worthy about getting your nipple sliced by an arrow which left your own bow. How Stef Faerson ever managed to accomplish that feat, Sanrick will never know. The man had died four hundred years ago.

One-arm Faerson, The Scholar King, The Fat King, Sanrick had stopped worrying about how he will be remembered. Except if he reached the sea. Perhaps being remembered as the king who reached the end of the world would not be so crummy.

Sanrick and Elsa rode day and night, through hunger and exhaustion. Elsa did not want to take long breaks. She could almost see the end of the voyage, and Sanrick did not argue with her. He wanted this to end as much as her, for better or worse.

It was after a fortnight since leaving the well, that Sanrick first saw the child. On a starlight night, with queen palms swaying gently in the salty wind, was when he noticed him, hiding behind the trunk of a palm tree, wearing a black roughspun tunic that fell till his knees. He was bald, with scrawny twig-like arms and a neck that was longer in proportion to his body. Sanrick first thought he imagined him, just how he imagined the sounds of the crashing waves a few days back. But the child's pale ghost-like skin and his bald head shining in the moonlight were as clear and real in front of him as Elsa sleeping beside him under her cloak. And since then, he had seen him every night, always hiding, peeking from behind a tree, a mischievous smile playing on his rosy lips.

Sanrick had almost soiled himself when he first saw him. And since then, he had been too terrified to do anything about it. Apparently, his new-found courage had abandoned him just when he had found it. He had thought about telling Elsa, but his pride stopped him, along with the fact that it was evident Elsa could not see him. Sometimes, he would see the boy running alongside him, a few feet away, jumping over fallen trees and ducking under low hanging branches. The sound of his laughter would later haunt Sanrick's dreams, and he would wake up shivering, drenched in sweat, his head moving left and right, trying to find the little devil.

After a few days, Sanrick stopped seeing him. The gods seemed to have heard Sanrick's prayers. Days went by without Sanrick sighting him, and he finally breathed a sigh of relief. But his relief was short-lived. On a particularly hot day, with the wind humid and the sun blazing, their magical water from the 'well of remedies' was finally spent, and they were no closer to finding the sea, if it even existed. That is when Sanrick started praying again to Garandyll, the wizard-god of Harduin, but this time, he prayed to see the child once more, and he decided he would muster up the courage to approach him.

He saw him the next morning, crouched beside a tree and giggling, a large white pebble in the palm of his tiny hand, which he kept scratching with his long sharp nails. Sanrick did not look away this time. He looked straight into the boy's eyes. That is when he noticed they were mismatched; one was red while the other was black.

The boy stared back and stopped giggling. Suddenly, he looked angry. He stood still as a stone, a frown etched on his forehead, a menacing fire in his mismatched eyes.

For a moment, Sanrick felt the world around him spin. He felt his body go limp, as the child's gaze pierced his armor, his soul, and left him naked. For a moment, Sanrick felt all the agony and the suffering of the world filling his heart and crushing his soul, he heard the screams of women being raped and men being flayed, the cries of children being burned alive, he felt his joy being shredded to pieces by the weight of the world's misery, leaving it torn and fragmented like the black roughspun tunic donned by the child. For a moment, Sanrick wanted to cry his eyes out, but in an instant, it was all over, and the sound of the boy's laughter floated back to him like water flowing down the walls of a parched throat.

Sanrick had to hold on to the reins of the horse with his good hand, to keep from falling. With droopy eyes, he saw the boy gesture with his hands.

He wants me to follow him.

Sanrick turned a hard left, and galloped after the child, who started to run with great speed. In fact, he was running so fast that Sanrick's horse was having a hard time keeping up with him. Sanrick only had one arm to control the horse, and he kept thinking he would fall to his death any moment. He heard Elsa shouting behind him, and soon the sound of wind rushing to face him drowned her screams, while the boy kept sprinting, almost floating over the ground as he ran. Sanrick soon gave up on trying to maneuver the horse and clung on for dear life. The horse appeared to follow the boy on its own, neighing and whinnying as it sped through the palm trees, galloping on black sand and jumping over white quartzite rocks. Sanrick looked back and saw no sign of Elsa. And then it hit him. If the child turned out to be a figment of his imagination, or the work of some evil sorcery of the woods, then he would be left alone. All of a sudden, he felt his heart sink into a sea of fear.

I am about to die alone. This is how the Endless Forest will claim my life. It is all over.

Sanrick Faerson closed his eyes. It was better than to look at the child disappear into thin air while he ended up leagues away from Elsa. He felt the jerks as the mare jumped over a rock, he heard the sound of the wind whistling past him and the sound of the hooves thundering on the ground and every now and then, heard fragments of the child's laughter float back, assuring him that he was real, for now.

Sanrick did not know for how long he rode after the child. It could have been a few moments, or it could have been a few hours. All he knew was that his body was slowly breaking from inside, and he thought he would die from broken bones before anything else. Suddenly, he felt the speed of the horse dwindle, and the ferocity of the wind slacken. He felt the horse come to a halt.

He heard the wind blowing freely around him, uninterrupted by the web of leaves and branches.

He heard the cawing of a gull somewhere far above his head.

And then, he heard the sound of waves crashing all around him, and this time, One-arm Faerson was certain he did not imagine it.

***

Elsa Faerson did not usually smile much. Her face never unveiled the thoughts or feelings that usually besieged her heart. But she did smile ear to ear when she saw the body of water before her, lying vast and endless, light aqua in color where the water was shallow and a deep blue far into the distance. Seagulls circled over the rocky black caves that lined the seashore in both directions, interrupted by a few rocky cliffs and inlets where the water flowed into the caves and then disappeared into the darkness within.

It had taken a while for Elsa to find Sanrick, but in the end, it was a task that Elsa accomplished with ease. The black sand bore the tracks of Sanrick's stallion, and all the Harduinian princess had to do was follow them, until she emerged out of the trees and onto the shore, where the waves crashed and merged with the black shore. Sanrick was standing with his feet in the water, relishing the feel of the cold waves that flowed over his blistered and bloody legs, when he heard Elsa's horse trot up behind him. Elsa had leaped off her mare, her golden hair flirting with the wind and stripped her armor until she was wearing just her silken tunic and linen tights which showcased her strong, shapely legs. And then she had joined her brother in the water, that came up till her knees, and stood like that for some time, luxuriating in the feel of the water caressing her legs.

"What do we do now? There is nowhere left to go. We were promised a temple, but we found a sea," said Sanrick after a moment, walking back to the sandy shore with Elsa by his side. He had decided to be cordial with her, and no matter how hard he tried to ignore the fact, but deep in his heart, he knew he loved his sister.

Elsa shaded her eyes against the sun and scanned the shoreline, first to her left and then to her right. On their left were the caves, black and dark, some opening right onto the sea, while some were situated on the rocky slopes of black hills and cliffs that gradually rose from near the growth of trees from which Sanrick's horse must have emerged. On their right, the shoreline extended till as far as the eyes could see, with a dense growth of queen palms that hugged the shoreline, covering land that was even and without any elevation or depression for miles.

"This is not the end of the journey, this is just the end of the forest. I think we need to climb those hills."

"Then my relief was for nothing?" said Sanrick, exasperated.

"I won't say that. At least we won't die of hunger," Elsa said as she notched an arrow, pointed it toward the group of seagulls taking flight from a large boulder a few feet into the sea, and loosed. The arrow caught a gull in the throat, just as the bird was about to take flight, as the remaining birds flapped their winds in fear and took off as soon as they could.

"We don't have firewood. How will we cook it?" Sanrick inquired.

"Did you cook the worms, little brother? I think uncooked birds would be an improvement over uncooked worms, don't you think" Elsa said, as she waded toward the boulder, its black surface spattered with the gull's blood.

And it almost killed me. This time, I will make sure you eat them first.

Elsa found a nice spot in the shadows of a massive cliff, beside the mouth of a cave, where the sun could not touch them, and they could enjoy their gull without beads of sweat burning their eyes. Watering and feeding the horses became a problem as there were no patches of grass or even shrubs that grew for miles. The horses had hardly eaten anything since the grass disappeared and was replaced by tracts of sand. Sanrick's wild horse was still holding its own; however, Elsa's mare had dropped to its knees and collapsed with a thud. It was still breathing, but not for long.

Elsa had found some driftwood floating about, and Sanrick was glad they would not be eating a raw bird in the end. Elsa had lit a fire with by scraping a small black rock on the back of her dagger, as Sanrick lay against the hard-coarse surface of the cliff, admiring Elsa's work.

"The horses need feeding," Sanrick said as the mare neighed in pain.

"The horses need killing," Elsa replied as she set the bird down on its back and parted its feathers to make a small incision on its collar bone.

"You are not serious, are you?"

"I am. I am not going back into the forest. I have had it with trees and branches and leaves. We need to do some climbing now, and we don't need horses for that," said Elsa, dragging the tip of her dagger from the collarbone all the way to the bird's anus, slicing the bird open.

"How do you plan to travel back?"

"We can walk. And also, I am not saying we should kill both the horses. Your horse seems strong enough. We can just tie him and hopefully, he would still be here when we return."

Sanrick knew the chances of that were bleak. He wasn't much eager to climb anything, especially with one hand and a swollen shoulder.

Perhaps the boy will show me the way again.

He was nowhere to be seen when Sanrick had opened his eyes and gazed upon the aqua blue sea before him, and ever since, he had been on the lookout for him. Sanrick expected him to come running out of a cave any moment, and giggle like the way he did back in the forest.

But this time I won't look into his eyes.

"How did you find this place?"

"Hmm? What?" Elsa's voice broke his trance.

"How did you know where to go? And why did you not wait for me? It appeared as if you were not you at that moment. It appeared as if something else was controlling you. The Sanrick I know would never have dashed into a different direction, alone and fearless," said Elsa, pulling out the bird's intestines in one quick motion.

This is a tricky one.

"Something did take hold of me. Perhaps it was the hunger, or the pain in my shoulder that slowly wandered its way into my head and made me act the way I did. All I knew was, I wanted to feel the wind in my hair, and break the shackles of torment that haunted me day and night. I suppose I wanted to feel like a king for once, galloping into the battle one last time."

"Do you want me to believe that horseshit?" Elsa said, her eyes glued to the bird, her blood-soaked hands working the dagger with precision as she started peeling the skin off the gull, "you have never lied to me before Sanrick, now would be a very bad time to start. I don't care if you don't agree with me on most things, that won't stop me from loving you, but do not take me for a fool. That will certainly hurt me."

Sanrick turned his head away from his sister and stared at the sea. The waves were now arriving with ferocity, and the sea was rising with each passing heartbeat, its waters becoming tumultuous and frenzied as the sun began to sink into the horizon where the dark blue of the ocean met the coral and golden hues of the sky.

"Keep your secrets if you want. And I shall now keep mine," Sanrick observed the ire in Elsa's tone, but he decided to remain silent.

There was never going to be a good lie to her question. It is better this way.

The bird tasted like food blessed by Garandyll himself, and for the first time in many days, Sanrick ate until he thought his already massive belly would burst open and whatever remained of the gull in his stomach would burst out like water released from a dam. However, Elsa ate meagerly, her hands tearing tiny pieces of roasted flesh from the bird, her eyes moving back and forth between her food and the sea.

Sanrick had relished the view before him for the first few hours, but now, he was impatient to get a move on. The short burst of joy he felt when he first reached the sea was now extinguished, and the constant fear of never finding the end to this dreary world had once again assailed his heart. He finished off the last scraps of his food, and then realized they still did not have water.

"There must be a river flowing into the sea nearby, or a small pond in one of these caves," Elsa explained when Sanrick posed the problem.

The lay of the land is too impractical for a river, thought Sanrick. Along with reading about the history of the realm, Sanrick had also tried understanding the ways of nature. And all of his accumulated knowledge acquired through spending time in the great library of Timehall told him that there was no river for miles around.

There is only a great vast blackness all around. Black sand, black caves made of black rocks, and the lingering fear of impending black death.

Sanrick ran his fingers on the coarse grey-black surface of the wall of rock behind him, as his eyes followed the trail, studying the texture in detail. The rock was fine-grained with tiny white spots dotting the surface haphazardly. Sanrick studied the rock for a few more heartbeats, scratching the surface with his nails, bringing his nose close to the surface and taking a long sniff of the ashy smell emanating from the black expanse before him. And that is when the realization struck him like thunder on a stormy night.

"These are basaltic rocks with tiny crystals embedded in the surface," Sanrick exclaimed.

"Basa-what? Are you inventing words now?"

"No, these are basaltic rocks, or volcanic rocks to the common folk. They are found near volcanoes. Mount Shadowhorn, one of the mountains of Zaeyos, the volcano which consumed the city of Silentgarde a thousand years ago, is made up of these rocks. The white crystalline dots on the surface is their distinct characteristic, you see them, don't you? There has to be a volcano not far off, a large volcano at that, for it to make this large expanse of hills and caves all around us." Elsa had a confused expression on her face, "splendid, but how does that help us?"

"Well, wherever there are volcanoes, there are hot water springs. Fountains and jets of hot water that burst from the surface of the ground, steaming and sizzling, they flow down the slopes of mountains and are sometimes known even to create small lakes, capable of melting the skin of a man, if a poor lad ever decided to take a swim, but they are also known to be found in volcanic caves that surround a massive volcano like Shadowhorn, much like the ones that surround us at the moment. There can be water in one of these caves."

"So, all we need to do is scour the lengths of one of them, scuttling like rats in the dark, and hope there is a hole in the ground from which we can drink water that has the potential to burn our throats as it flows down from our mouths. And if we don't find it in the first cave we enter, then we just repeat the process a hundred times, for all I see around me are cave mouths, and who knows what dwells in the darkness within. I appreciate your wisdom, Sanrick, but I don't see how your discovery has helped us in any way." Elsa said in a dismissive tone.

There is the Elsa I remember. Arrogant, stubborn and with too much of the Faerson blood coursing through her veins.

"We do not need to enter all of them. The smell of the springs is too strong, and it is likely that in the confines of a cave, it would be even more severe. We only need to enter the caves where we smell can smell the springs," said Sanrick.

"And what is the smell like?" Elsa asked.

"Like burning flesh," Sanrick explained.

"How do you know?"

"I read it in a book."

"And do you know how burning flesh smells?"

"No, do you?"

"Yes."

"How?" Sanrick asked, fearing the answer.

"I have had men burned before my eyes."

Of course, you have, you insane woman.

Their search began with the cave next to which they ate the bird, and after an hour of walking, crouching and crawling through its labyrinth of dark passages filled with the salty smell of seawater, they finally decided to look into a different one. This one did not smell of burning flesh, but only a burning finger or a toe, according to Elsa. Sanrick wanted to ask her if she knew how every part of a human body smelled when it burnt, but then he decided not to delve deeper into the maniacal mind of his sister.

The cave with the smell of a burning toe also yielded nothing but low roofed spaces and narrow passages that ended in a wall or branched into even more passages. Sanrick had begun missing the horses and the flat terrain of the forest already, as he labored his way through steep rocky paths and climbed over raised platforms with the help of his left arm, sorely missing the convenience and the strength of his right. The wound below his shoulder had begun healing itself, and soon he knew it would transform into a little stump extending from his shoulder. However, the pain still sometimes made him weep, and although the puss had stopped seeping out from the wound, but the blood never did. Every day, the piece of cloth that Elsa had tied over his shoulder and remaining chunk of his upper arm would be covered in small patches of red, and the smell of the cloth, covered in blood and remains of the puss, would reach his nostrils, and Sanrick would start weeping again, this time not from the pain, but from the feeling of disgust he felt for himself.

I am a king. Or am I still? The people of Harduin accepted the fat, craven king that was appointed to rule over them, although grudgingly, but asking them to be ruled by a fat craven cripple of a king would be pushing it a little too far, unless I returned with the key to their survival. In that case, they might overlook a missing arm.

Noon turned to dusk, and dusk turned to night. The veil of stars above their heads sparkled in all its glory, as the sea calmed, and the waves lost their anger. Inside a cave that was devoid of any passages and was just big enough to host the two of them, the siblings had their dinner, another seagull that fell to the skill and accuracy of Elsa Faerson's arrow. They took their food in silence, only broken by the sound of the sea and the occasional cawing of a bird in the sky.

"Did I ever tell you about the night our mother died?" Elsa's soft voice echoed in the cave. Sanrick looked at her and could not understand how a woman so mesmerizing, be so stern and stone-hearted. Elsa had left her armor along with the horses. She had decided that the need for agility and speed was greater at the moment than the need for defense again swords and arrows, and Sanrick had followed suit. Her tunic was tied in a knot over her smooth belly that heaved lightly as she breathed. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and they still looked luxurious and wavy, even after facing extreme hardships during the past few weeks. Her emerald green eyes twinkled in the soft light of the moon that slanted through the opening of the cave.

"Yes, in bits and pieces. You said you were there when it happened. You said she was brave throughout."

"Oh, she was more than just brave. She was fierce. She was a lioness protecting her cubs," Elsa said, and Sanrick noticed a shadow of grief pass over his sister's face, "You and I would both be dead if it weren't for her. I remember those days so vividly. Lord Erling was the governor of Elesdon, and at the time the river pirates would sail down River Neuwin and meet up with the bandits near the town of Stonecrow, and then attack and plunder Elesdon, leaving children orphaned and women with babes in their bellies. Father never really liked Lord Erling, so whenever he would ask father for help in defending his city, father would ignore him, and the matter would be forgotten, until the pirates and the bandits would again attack Elesdon."

"But father did go to Elesdon once, didn't he, to put an end to the raids?" said Sanrick.

"That is when trouble knocked on our doors, trouble in the form of Lady Shimera, the beautiful wife of Lord Erling. She wept before our lord father, told her about the atrocities of lord Erling, told him how he would beat her bloody whenever she refused to sleep with him, told him how, once in a fit of anger, he had had her whipped until the skin peeled from her back, leaving scars that looked like claw marks from a tiger. That is when she had slipped out of her silken gown, naked and beautiful, to show the scars to our father, and that is when the honorable king Oskar Faerson fell in love and forgot that he had a wife and children in East Shade. For months, he kept visiting Elesdon, to meet with the lady Shimera, not even attempting to hide his meetings from Erling, who would listen to his wife's passionate moans as the king of Harduin pleasured her in the next room."

Sanrick had never heard this part, and he wondered why Elsa was recounting the story, now of all times.

"That must have made Erling torture her more than ever?" Sanrick guessed.

Elsa chuckled, "You get a few privileges when you are bedding a king, and in lady Shimera's case, that privilege came in the form of Sir Amos Dilley, the most fearsome knight in Harduin, who stayed back in Castle Windhook to keep an eye on her and her safety. Finally, after months of keeping his affair a secret from mother, he decided he was going to invite lady Shimera to live with him at East Shade. I still remember entering mother's bedchamber that night, and finding her sprawled on the floor, weeping hysterically, her face bloody from the scratches she had inflicted on herself in rage and hysterics. But what could she do? Tears are worthless in front of a king, even if they are the tears of a queen."

Sanrick had only been seven when Lady Shimera had first entered the Hall of Fire at Castle Embers, and dined with King Oskar, his wife, Queen Iris, Elsa and himself. He remembered being too young to appreciate her beauty, but he did remember her eyes, kind and understanding, with a mysterious glint in them that made her seem transcendental. But that had all turned out to be a façade.

"A great feast was held on the night of our mother's death. I remember feeling dizzy from the smoke of all the hookahs and pipes which all the great lord and knights of the kingdom were smoking, and so, I escaped the hall and made my way to the observatory tower. There, amidst all the candles flickering around me in gilded candleholders, wearing a silken golden gown with a netted silvery veil, staring out onto the Serpent Sea, I found lady Shimera waiting for me. I did not know if she knew I would visit the observatory tower then, or if it was mere chance, but there we were, standing on top of the world, while the world celebrated below, in the Hall of Fires," Elsa stopped for a heartbeat, as if she was lost in the memory for a bit, and then she spoke again, "she sauntered up to me, and held my face in her hand, adorned with sapphire rings more expensive than the king's crown itself, and asked me what brought me up here, on top of the observatory tower. I had replied that it was too loud in the hall and I needed quiet. I had then asked her why she was not in the hall, to which she replied, 'I am in no mood for wine, child, for I do not need wine tonight to make me feel alive. Thinking of what this night will bring, is enough to quicken my pulse'. Then she had turned around to leave, before looking back and whispering, 'you are beautiful Elsa, your beauty can be your greatest weapon. Go down and observe how men behave when they are drunk, start getting used to their inebriated state, for there are only two instances where men are most vulnerable, the first is when they are drunk and the second is when they are inside a woman, mix the two and there is nothing that you cannot get a man to do', and then she had left. I was only ten and four then, but her words were engraved in my mind like scriptures on a holy stone. Later that night, she opened the castle gates, lowered the drawbridge, and sneaked men it, who put the barracks and the stables to fire, with men inside, drunk and passed out in various stages of undress. By the time the royal guards came out and understood what was happening, half of the army and horses were burnt alive. I was watching everything from the window of my bedchamber, as men and women were fleeing the stables and barracks, shrieking in agony as the fire melted their skin and reached their bones. Some stabbed themselves to death to escape the pain, and that is when I realized death by fire is the most painful of all the deaths. Men who had escaped the fire were being trampled to death by flaming horses, while the horses themselves were jumping off the drawbridge and into the moat, only to be eaten by the crocodiles. That is when mother had burst through the door, and you were in her arms, sleeping and unaware of the horror unfolding all around you. We were fleeing through the corridor that connected the Tower of Coals and the Tower of Ash when she found us. She was still wearing her golden gown, but it was all bloody and torn. She had been fighting herself. She held an axe in her hand, with blood dripping from its edge, but her face was set in stone. I remember mother telling me to hold you in my arms, and to run back to my bedchamber and lock the door if she were to die, and then she had unsheathed her dagger and run toward lady Shimera. I saw her fight with a dagger against an axe, I saw her fight as gracefully as the way she danced when she would be most happy, and I saw her slice open Lady Shimera's throat while an arrow from one of Lady Shimera's men pierced her chest," said Elsa, moonlight falling on her face, bathing it in a soft milky glow that aggrandized her beauty, "I held you in my arms as she died, asking me to take care of you, while you were just waking up, your sleepy eyes staring at me with confusion and annoyance. I had vowed to take care of you, and I do not mean to break my vow, no matter what. Even if you think I am a cruel woman lacking compassion."

Sanrick had been staring at the star-filled sky while Elsa was speaking, but now he looked at her and saw the same care in her eyes that he had grown up seeing. He wondered if she was using this story to manipulate him, but in reality, he did not care. He knew his sister was unlike any other girl of her age, in fact, she was unlike any other boy of her age. She was ambitious, cruel and cunning, but she loved him, and he loved her too.

A light sea breeze had begun to blow, bringing with itself the smell of salt and ash. A cloudless sky, shimmering and twinkling like a crystal studded crown of a king, was bathed in the bluish white light of the moon, glowing large and round, with small grey patches against the backdrop of white. The sea was now hardly visible, except the white foamy waves which would come out of hiding every now and then and shine like pearls on the black surface of the sea. The gulls had stopped cawing and silence pressed all around, uninterrupted and unhindered. And in that silence, Sanrick and Elsa heard the sound of a whetstone whetting a sword.

Sanrick's breath caught in his throat, as his gaze shot to Elsa. She was already on her feet, signaling Sanrick to stay where he was, and not make any noise. Her sword was already out of its sheath, and the Harduinian princess had begun creeping towards the mouth of the cave. The sound signified that the person was using slow long strokes, taking his time with the movement, and it was coming from a few feet below the cave.

Elsa was now outside the cave and moving towards the edge of the cliff, where a drop of about thirty feet ended at the mouth of another cave which they had previously searched. Sanrick began crawling towards Elsa, trying to get a proper look at what was going on. He was almost outside himself when he saw a shadow move behind Elsa, creeping closer and growing larger as it neared his sister. Sanrick was about to scream when a figure in a hooded cloak leaped out of the shadows and tackled Elsa to the ground, with a blade glinting at her neck.

Sanrick looked on in horror as the assailant and Elsa rolled around on the hard-rocky surface of the cliff, while the blade of a dagger danced dangerously close to her throat. The sound of whetting had halted, replaced by the grunts of the hooded man and Elsa, as they wrestled on the floor. Just when Sanrick thought the attacker had overpowered Elsa, he stopped and backed away, throwing the dagger to the side. Elsa used this opportunity to pounce on the man once again, bringing her dagger down in an arc in an attempt to stab the man's heart. But just before the tip of the dagger could pierce the flesh and puncture the beating heart of the hooded stranger, the man screamed, and Sanrick instantly recognized the voice, "Stop! Stooop! It is me, Olver! Calm yourself, woman, it is me."

Elsa froze in shock. Even from a distance, Sanrick could see her eyes become as wide as a pommel of a sword.

"Why did it take so long for you to find us?" Elsa asked, slumping to the ground, breathing heavily from the physical exertion.

"You knew I was alive?" Olver asked.

"Obviously, she did. We etched our names in the well, didn't we?" Garen Swolderhornn pulled himself over the edge of the cliff, his greatsword slung over his back, his long hair tied back in a ponytail

### Chapter Eight

The Boy on the Ship

"YOU MISSED A SPOT, BOY, don't let teh' captain see, or it will be beetle juice for yeh' bony ass for dinner, with the side of a crisply roasted slap across yeh' ugly face," the sailor with the stinky smell and the crooked jaw yelled across the deck of the Sailing Misery. A few other sailors sniggered, while some were content with smiling.

Morgyn Mills had already noticed the spot, and he was about to scrub it off before Leon had opened his mouth and vomited a slew of japes at the boy's expense, something he had gotten used to as a helper-boy on the Sailing Misery. It wasn't a bad job, much better than what Dirk did; Morgyn was better off cleaning spilled rum and sweat from the wooden floors of the ship, as opposed to cleaning shit stains from the privy three decks below. However, the advantages of working on the upper decks came with a few concerns as well, one of them being the constant harassment faced by Morgyn from the sailors onboard. Being the youngest, with a body that looked more like an arrow than a quiver, he had expected to be the fool, the clown and the butt of jokes all combined into one, but sometimes, he wanted to throw the pail of dirty water on their rotten faces, or better yet, grab one of them by the back of his neck and thrust it in the water until his legs would stop flaying and his heart would stop beating.

However, today was not one of those days. Morgyn was in good spirits. The winds had finally picked up the pace, and the sails were bulging out in a glorious arc like the belly of a woman with child.

Not too long now. Once I reach Mattisport, the captain will pay me, and then I can go back to my Ma. Won't she be happy to see me, and the copper coins that I will bring along with me.

The captain himself had been a source of misery for Morgyn, constantly belittling him for tasks which Morgyn completed with utmost sincerity and hard work. Once, when Morgyn had forgotten to bring him a horn of rum after his nightly walk around the deck of the ship, he had stripped him of all his clothes and made him stand as the figurehead of the ship, posing like a mermaid, with his legs intertwined and his hands on his waist. He was commanded to smile, and every time his lips lost their curves, a whip would rise in the air like a crazed serpent and land on his back with a stinging pain.

All for my Ma. I will endure everything for her.

It had been seven days since the trading galley had left Ferryport of Indius for Mattisport of Calypsos, carrying in its hold a variety of exotic spices, herbs, and oils, only found in the vast plains of Indius, and soon, after making landfall at Mattisport, the goods would be carried to Starhelm, where they would be sold to buyers from all over Aerdon, in the biggest marketplace of the realm.

Three more days, Morgyn kept telling himself, as his hands worked tirelessly, moving back and forth, scrubbing away with all their might.

"Tis' time for food. Take a break and grab a plate from the kitchens", the good-natured Sal shouted, climbing down from the crow's nest, as a different barrelman began the climb to the top, to take Sal's position.

Morgyn nodded and raced toward the forecastle of the ship, then climbed down the wooden ladder, and jumped off on the second deck, where the kitchens were situated next to the living quarters of the crew. In a few minutes, the boy was back on the upper deck, with a steel plate laden with buttered bread, lentil soup and a boiled egg in his hand. Morgyn enjoyed having his food below the open skies, as he watched the deep blue of the sea all around. In those moments of peace and quiet, he would squint his eyes and try to look for the shore on the opposite side of the Serpent Sea, but just like many others who wandered the open seas for any sign of the hidden island of Dreadlands, he could not find anything.

"It wasn't the beetle soup after ol" Leon swaggered toward Morgyn, his long wiry hair slicked back, his mottled skin and beady eyes gleaming in the sunlight, "what is that? An egg? Why does this good for nothing whoreson get an egg? It just leaves less for us, ain't it?" and with that, the squat broad-shouldered sailor picked up the egg with his callused finger, hardened by working the running rigging of the ship, and stuffed it in his mouth.

"Cook Dollus gave me the egg for being a good helper-boy. It was the only egg he gave me since we left Ferryport ," tears of anger welled up in Morgyn's eyes as he stared at Leon with his big brown-black eyes.

"Tis more than yeh' deserve," Leon said with a mouth full of egg, "but if yeh' want it so much, then here yeh' go," Leon spat the egg out, as white gooey chunks flew from his mouth and spattered on the floor.

"Yeh' can lick it off. Or clean it afterward," he sniggered.

Morgyn stared at Leon for a few heartbeats and then turned his head.

All for my Ma.

"Stop toying with the lad. He is ten and thirteen, and alone at sea with the likes of you. Something terrible must have happened at his home, for him to board this wretched ship. What was it, boy? Where are your Ma and Pa?" a burly man with tattoos on his face, who Morgyn had never seen before, asked in a friendly tone, something Morgyn was not used to hearing on the Sailing Miser. Morgyn did not reply, but kept staring out into the sea, his food untouched.

"Pa must have run away with a serving wench, while Ma spread her legs for a handsome knight, or maybe for teh' king himself. I hear me some rumors that the king of Indius is a pretty lad. King Olver is it? Be happy lad, I would've smiled ear to ear if me mother was fucking the king," said Leon.

I would love to carve that smile for you with a knife.

"No, you shitstain, everything in this world does not start and end with fucking," another sailor with broken teeth and a stone for his right eye joined them.

"Aye, it does, Maddy. Yeh' was born because your Pa fucked your Ma, and yeh' will die when life fucks yeh'. See, everything does start and end with fucking."

Maddy ignored Leon's profound knowledge of life and said, "the boy is here because his father is locked up in a dungeon in Wildemere for not paying taxes, like most o' the farmers o' Indius, ain't that right, boy?"

Morgyn nodded his head.

"Yeh' don't say? Has King Olver turned a leaf? A rotten leaf, that is?" Leon said as he leaned back and took the support of the railing, picking bits of egg from his teeth.

"King Olver no longer rules Indius. He has gone into the Endless Forest, along with the other kings of the four kingdoms," said the tattooed man.

"Why is that?" asked Leon.

"You must be living under a rock if you don't know that," said Maddy with surprise.

"More like under a girl's skirt," the snigger was back.

"To find a cure for the White Curse. The Wizard-Gods have sent a hint or something."

"Why would teh' Wizard-Gods send hints teh' cure something they made? Won't they just end it by their own self, eh? Me says it's all horseshit. Me says the kings of teh' four kingdoms have found themselves teh' way out of the Endless Forest, with all sorts o' gold and silver and fancy bracelets at teh' other end, while the common folk dies o' hunger and all sorts o' curses."

Morgyn stood listening to their talk. He did not care for woods with no end and curses with no cure. The only end he was searching for was an end to his Ma's misery. He had been practicing with his wooden sword, slashing and thrusting at an invisible enemy, when the soldiers had burst into their hut, pikes in hand and shields on their back. His father had pleaded with them, promised to pay the taxes after the next harvest, but the soldiers had paid no heed, and dragged him outside, where a knight in a helm and plate armor, sitting atop a big chestnut destrier had asked him a few questions. Morgyn could not hear what his father had said, but whatever it was, the knight must not have liked it, for he commanded the soldiers to tie his legs with a rope, while the other end was looped around the horse's body. His mother had shielded his eyes with her hand at that moment, but he could still hear her sobs, and his father's cries and the crowd's murmurs. He had not seen his father since then, and his mother had not stopped weeping blood.

"Who sits teh' Black throne then?" Leon inquired.

"Lord Krastin. A devil of a fellow, that old man. Says King Olver sold the city to the Harduinian princess, and now he rules as the Steward, waiting for Olver to return so he can hold a trial," said the tattooed man, draining the bowl with the lentil soup in one gulp.

"I would sell me soul for that Harduinian girl. Saw her only once, when I went teh' East Shade, looking for a ship teh' sail with. I saw her trotting down teh' street, looking all royal and, what do yeh' call it, magic stick? Nah, maj...estic, yes, majestic on her white mare and smelling like lavender. Never did I see a face prettier than hers. Even under all them clothes, I could see she had them round ripe breasts. Had teh' hide me hardness from the onlookers. Thank teh' Vizarins for cloaks, eh?"

I bet my Ma is prettier.

"We are losing the shore!" the barrelman perched atop the crow's nest on the main mast shouted, "Turn to starboard!"

"Turn to starboard," someone else shouted from the forecastle.

"Turning to starboard," the helmsman shouted from the stern, turning the wheel with urgency.

Morgyn looked toward the shore, a fast disappearing landmass lined with trees and hills on the starboard side, becoming smaller and smaller as the ship sailed forward. On the port side, hugging the horizon where the sea met the sky, Morgyn noticed clusters of dark grey clouds, slowly encroaching upon the blue of the sky, threatening rain and storm.

"We do not want to lose the shore in a storm, lads," Maddy shouted as he held on to the railing, while the ship began changing its course.

An old saying often used by the folk in his village echoed in his head, The ship sails, as long as the shore sails with it, the ship sinks when the serpent slithers beneath it.

Morgyn held on to the railing as well, as the masts above him creaked and swayed, and the floor slanted. Empty barrels made of oak rolled from one end of the ship to the other, while the crew was trying to stop the barrels filled with rum from tumbling and emptying themselves all over the floor, which Morgyn would have to clean.

"Yeh' know why they call it teh' Serpent Sea, boy?" Leon stood beside Morgyn, clutching the wooden railing for dear life.

Morgyn did not answer.

"You don't, do yeh'? Of course, yeh' don't. Well, lemme tell yeh'. Yeh' see, teh' scriptures speak of this kingdom, Azgun. This was a very bad kingdom, oh yes, did all sorts of evil things, but very powerful as well. See, it was teh' kingdom that started the Great War. You must know about teh' Great War surely? Of course, yeh' do," Leon continued without waiting for Morgyn's answer, "but they lost teh' Great War, and teh' Wizard-Gods made them go away, yes, their king, their army, even the Wizard-God they worshipped, they banished them across the Serpent Sea, and teh' make sure teh' don't come back, they created a Serpent, yeh' know what a Serpent is, don't yeh'? A snake, with the face of a dragon. And since then, any ship that tries teh' cross the Serpent Sea, gets eaten by the snake. Well, not all, not the ones that sail with the shore in sight."

Morgyn turned to look at the shore. This time, he had to really squint his eyes and focus to see it.

Why is it disappearing?

"Why are these fools not turning the ship?" said Maddy in a panic-stricken voice.

" They are, don't yeh' see the helmsman on the wheel? Tis the wind. We are going against it."

At that moment, the doors to the captain's quarters burst open, and out walked the portly, overweight captain, wearing a long linen overtunic, with golden threadwork at the collar and sleeves, along with black woolen breeches and leather boots tied up till his knee. A heavy silver medallion hung from his chubby neck, and his long wispy mustache fell till about his chest.

"You maggots want to get killed? Why is my ship sailing the wrong way? Where is Derik?" the captain bellowed.

"I am at the wheel captain, but the wretched ship won't turn quick enough. The winds are very strong," said Derik, struggling with the wheel, his long muscular arms glistening with sweat as he put all his strength in maneuvering the ship.

"Aye, that's what they are supposed to be at sea. Strong and fierce, unlike you lot," the captain climbed the aftcastle and approached the stern, where Derik the helmsman had almost surrendered to the gusts of mind which were now intensifying rapidly.

Morgyn tilted his head and gazed skywards. The black clouds were almost upon them, and they had brought along a friend; a thick blanket of fog approaching from the port side, threatening to engulf the trading galley within its wispy belly.

"We have lost the shore!" the barrelman shouted, "the sea has surrounded us. It stretches as far as the eye can see. Gods have mercy on us!"

Morgyn wanted to pray as well. Not because he feared death, but because he feared not being able to go back to his Ma. However, he did not know any prayers. All he knew about the Vizarin of Indius was that he was called Erdoher, and he had the face of a horse and the body of a man. He had seen his statues in the small spherical stone temple with the conical roof, but while his Ma and Pa would pray, standing before the golden statue, a stick of incense in their hand, Morgyn would stare at the thousands of candles that burned in small marble alcoves lining the walls of the temple, and at the massive brazier suspended from the apex of the golden roof, its flames making the golden paint sparkle and shine with a life of its own.

The Calyspian captain had now taken over from Derik, and he soon realized that there was nothing he could do to turn the ship around. His feathery mustache swayed and danced in the wind, and beads of sweat shone on his bald head, as he too turned the wheel hopelessly from left to right in a circular motion, but the Sailing Misery had suddenly become rebellious, not paying any heed to the commands of its captain, disregarding the movements of the rudder, coursing through the water, sailing farther from the shore of Indius.

And then the fog was upon them.

It was difficult to tell whether the ship plunged into the wispy fingers of the fog, or whether the fingers extended and grasped the ship in its fist. Whatever the case, Morgyn could not see anything around him except slow drifting wisps of smoke and the grey clouds above.

But he could hear.

The captain was still screaming orders, but it seemed as if the crew had stopped caring. Soon, the shrill, squeaky voice of the captain was drowned by screams. Large, burly men, with bearded faces and menacing eyes, were screaming like girls chased by bandits. Morgyn could not see what was making the men scream. All he could see was the ashen face of Leon, still clutching the railing beside him, looking bewildered and as clueless as a dog searching for his bone.

A man came running out of the fog, his eyes wide in horror, his face smeared with blood, and he was heading straight toward Morgyn, but just when he thought the man would crash into him, he changed his course, jumped over the railing and fell into the sea with a loud splash.

And soon the splashes were all around Morgyn.

They are abandoning ship.

This was when Morgyn felt the first pangs of fear.

But what is it? Should I jump as well?

His heart was beating fast in his frail, bony chest. His breaths were coming in quick succession, and a deadly chill was all around him.

Soon, he started making out faint outlines in the fog. A shape like an arm of a huge giant was thrashing and tossing about, rising and falling behind the veil of smoke that hid its true identity.

Morgyn wanted to scream.

Morgyn wanted to run.

But all Morgyn could do was watch as the face of a dragon appeared out of the fog.

He was blue, and he was big. The fin that crowned his head was golden, and so were his eyes. Small droplets of water were sliding down his scaly body and dripping into the sea, as he reared his head and opened his mouth. The teeth were already red with bits of human flesh dangling from the corners. Morgyn saw the captain's head lodged between two teeth, like chunks of egg stuck in Leon's mouth.

The namesake of the Serpent Sea had found the Sailing Misery, and Leon, who stood directly before him, rooted to the spot, piss dripping from the folds of his breeches. But this time he had no cloak to hide it.

Leon opened his mouth to scream, and the Serpent did the same.

A high-pitched earsplitting sound escaped Leon's throat, while gusts of hot air escaped the Serpent's.

Before Leon could close his mouth, the Serpent closed his. The snake's jaw snapped shut, catching Leon's head in between, ripping his torso from his lower body.

Morgyn saw the serpent chew the sailor until he was nothing but juice and pulp, and that is when he decided he had seen enough. Morgyn began to run, not caring where he was running to. He could still hear the Serpent behind him, but he did not dare look back. The deck of the ship seemed never-ending as the boy closed his eyes and started to pray to Erdoher. He stumbled on a leg missing a torso, and fell to the ground, face to face beside a torso missing legs. Blood mixed with sea water covered the upper deck, along with knotted intestines and disfigured corpses. The Serpent had been hungry.

Morgyn tried to lift himself off the ground, but before he could stand on his feet, the Serpent slithered on deck and coiled around the mainmast, snapping the wooden structure in half. Morgyn tried to get out of the way but was too late. The mast fell sideways, groaning and creaking as it crashed like a watchtower destroyed by a trebuchet, part of its bottom half landing on Morgyn's feet, trapping him below its considerable mass.

Morgyn heard a snap, and then felt the pain. The scream that left his throat was louder than Leon's as he lost all control over his legs. Through the blurry vision caused by thick drops of tears swimming in his eyes, he saw the tattooed man rush out of nowhere and grab him by his armpits, as he began pulling him from beneath the rubble of the mainmast.

"Be brave, boy," he heard the man whisper in his ear.

"Here, give this to my Ma. Find her and give it to her," Morgyn fished a handful of copper coins from a pouch dangling from his waist, "she lives in a village called Krakenhill, near Wildemere. Dorthy, her name is Dorthy."

Morgyn felt his eyelids become heavy, and the pain in his legs begin to subside.

Is this death? I wish I could see my Ma one last time.

The tattooed man pushed the coins away, "You ain't dying, lad. At least not yet. Your leg is broken, that's all. Come, the Serpent seems to have had his fill, look, he has forgotten us."

Morgyn was in no condition to look at anything. He was fighting hard just to keep his eyes open. He thought he would never be able to open them again if he closed them now.

"You are almost free, just a lit..." the man could not complete his sentence as the Serpent tore through the gunwale behind him and carried him away in his mouth. Morgyn looked on with half closed eyes as the beast disappeared into the depths of the sea, his flaring nostrils and golden eyes with black slits being the first to go underwater, followed by his scaly body with golden fins lining the spine, all the way to his tail, which was the last part to vanish beneath the choppy waters.

Morgyn closed his eyes.

Colorful spheres of light danced before his eyes, moving back and forth in a haphazard manner. Sounds died away, and feelings left him as he felt his body go numb. Gradually, like fallen leaves flowing down a river, he felt life leave his body. And just before death claimed him, a surge of energy coursed through his body, sending ripples of strength from his broken feet to his head, and his eyes fluttered open.

The golden eyes of the Serpent were staring at him. His face inches from his body. Morgyn stared right back, unflinching. For the second time in the day, Morgyn saw the Serpent open his mouth, teeth ready to dig deep into the pale ashy skin of the bony boy.

I should have stayed dead.

Morgyn closed his eyes in anticipation.

Please Erdoher, keep my body numb. I don't want to feel the pain.

The attack never came. Morgyn opened his eyes and saw wings spread out before him, gigantic reg wings spanning the breadth of the deck, and for one moment, Morgyn thought it was the Serpent that had grown wings. But it was not, for it was something else. Something no one had ever told Morgyn existed in the realm of Aerdon. No sea had been named after it; no tales were told concerning its existence. It was just a creature imagined by nursemaids and storytellers to enthrall young minds. It was a creature much like the Serpent, but more majestic and less hideous to look at. It had the same face as the Serpent, but its skin was bathed in red and orange, blue and black. Instead of fins, it had two small horns, curved into a tiny circle, and atop its back, sat a man in black steel armor from head to toe.

It is a dragon. Erdoher has sent a dragon to protect me.

The Serpent turned and snapped at the dragon, which was hovering a few feet above the deck, its massive wings flapping with lazy elegance. The dragon evaded the snapping teeth of the water snake and flew higher into the air. The Serpent, annoyed and irritated at not being able to reach the hovering creature, thrashed his tail against the mizzenmast, which snapped just like the mainmast and came crashing down into the sea, sending waves of water over the gunwale.

The dragon and the rider hovered calmly over the sea, while the Serpent thrashed about wildly. It was only for a moment that the Serpent halted its frenzied movements, and it was only a moment that the dragon needed. The dragon puffed out smoke from its nostrils, and the rider unsheathed a sword longer and broader than a man grown. This time, it was the dragon that slowly opened its mouth, while the rider raised the sword over his head. Flaming fire, like arrows dipped in oil and set ablaze, shot from within the fiery depths of the red dragon, raining down blazing misery on the Serpent. The hard-scaly skin of the Serpent, thought to be as tough as the mountains of Zaeyos, caught fire like silken curtains near a flaming brazier, as the rider plunged his sword deep in the flesh of the sea monster.

A dreadful wail, like the sound of a million crows cawing all at once, filled the air, and the tail of the Serpent lashed out like a whip on a horse, before the black slits rolled into the golden eyes, and the Vizarin's pet succumbed to his demise.

The Dragon landed on the ship, and the rider slid off its back. A barrel helm covered his face, with a single horizontal slit for his eyes. Black steel armor covered every inch of his body, including a pauldron wrought in the shape of a snarling dragon which covered his shoulders, and gauntlets on his hand, one of which had a single black stone embedded in the center of the forearm, with green throbbing threadlike lines forming a sigil. The rider stood like a ghost sentinel, as still as a rock, while the dragon took flight, and soared into the sky. Finally, he turned to face Morgyn, and just before he closed his eyes, he saw the sigil painted on the breastplate of the rider; a three-headed dragon with intertwined necks.

### Chapter Nine

Olver Liongloom

THE HORSE BELOW him was nervous. He could feel it in the way it moved, neighed and whinnied. Olver himself felt uneasy. A sense of impending doom, like sailing through the calm before the storm had taken hold of the king's heart. He knew he was being watched. He had known it all along. But it only made sense to avoid the cold red eyes peering at him from amidst the wild web of woods and gnarled branches, slowly trapping him within walls of green. A cold wind swirled around him, making his cloak flap around his steel covered body.

A bat flew across the path before him, followed by another, and then another. Soon, there was a torrent of them, whirling around man and horse, like black clouds descending to wreak havoc on lands and lakes. Olver brushed one away from his face, but soon there were too many to ignore. The horse neighed once again, not from nervousness, but from the pain caused by the small pointy teeth of the bats biting into its shiny brown coat. It wasn't long before the stallion reared and threw Olver off its back, as hundreds of bats clung to it like leeches, sucking blood and life from its body.

Olver fell face down in the soft mud, the impact causing his half- helm to leave his head and roll to a few feet away from him.

I am exposed to them.

The bats were upon him before he had a chance to stand up and attempt to flee. He tried to hack and slash his way out of the storm of wings, and when that failed, he tried to hide his face behind the shield, but when a bat chewed its way through the middle, he gave up the hope of defending his face, and surrendered to the brutal onslaught of the black creatures of death.

The teeth tore through his skin, and found the veins carrying the deep red blood through his body. The sucking was even more painful than the biting.

Finally, no more running and hiding. I am ready to die.

However, Olver had to wait for the cold embrace of death. The bats left him in a hurry, fleeing into the darkness of the woods, leaving Olver with bits of skin and flesh missing from his face, thin streams of blood flowing down from the hundreds of gashes gleaming in the moonlight.

It is only right. A king should die by the hands of another king, or in this case, the mouth of another king.

Traznug, the king of the human-bats did not wear any crowns. Neither did he hold court in the shadows of the mighty oaks of the Endless Forest. However, he did command an army, and he did lead wars. As big as a giant and as grim as death, he stepped out of the trees, ready to feast on his prey. The red eyes shone like two beacons on a watchtower, and the teeth were bared like pikes against an invading army. He crawled on all fours, wings tucked to the sides, taking his time with Olver, making him fear death for which he patiently awaited.

Make it quick, you sewer rat.

But alas, death escaped him again as his eyes shot open and the dream vanished from the realm of reality. The forest melted before his eyes and the darkness of the cave took its place. Olver touched his face and ran his fingers over the enumerable scars left by the claws of Traznug.

A parting gift from the king himself.

Garen lay wheezing beside him, sprawled on the hard surface of the cave, his long hair falling freely over his face, liberated from the constraints of his ponytail. Elsa was also sleeping, and it was over her face that Olver's eyes lingered for the longest time. It seemed she had grown even more beautiful since the last time he saw her, galloping away with the crippled Sanrick in her arms. Although she was unmistakably thinner, with hollow cheeks and eyes which had sunk deep in their sockets, but her body had not lost its curves. Unbidden, thoughts of their walks beneath the canopies of the trees of Eravia came rushing to his mind. They would meet deep within the woods of Eravia, leagues away from the encampment and spying eyes of guards and soldiers. She would come garbed in a roughspun cloak, her face hidden beneath a hood. But soon enough, she would unfasten the cloak, and stand before him in soft linen tights that clung to her body in a way that would entice and annoy Olver at the same time. A simple white undertunic would cover the soft mounds of her breasts, and Olver would stand and gawk at her surreal beauty, not as a king but a grown man with raging needs. But it was not only lust that drew Olver to Elsa. It would have been simple if it had only been lust. No woman had made Olver want to hold her in his arms, to lie with her under the twinkling stars, to sleep in her embrace, to live for her smile, and kill for her tears.

Nothing good will come out of this, he had told himself one night, she is a Harduinian, and you are the king of Indius. Your forebears rode to battle against her ancestors. Your people still harbor hatred against her kingdom. Your own father made you vow not to marry her.

Your father, who is dying.

But every time he would lay his eyes upon her and hear her honey-coated voice whisper words of love in his ear, everything would seem insignificant, and his heart would drown the voice of his mind.

Kimbr would probably kill me if she knew.

Olver tried to find Sanrick, but there was no sign of him in the cave. He decided to venture outside the stuffy confines of the black basaltic walls and feel the sea breeze on his scar-ridden face. Out of habit, his hand fumbled in the dark for his breastplate and helm, but he remembered he had discarded it after his battle with Traznug. Donning only a cloak over his bare chest and fastening it with a silver brooch made in the form of a prancing horse, Olver tiptoed out of the cave and saw Sanrick sitting cross-legged with a rock in his hand. He appeared to be talking to someone, but there was no one around except for him and Sanrick.

"How is that arm of yours?"

Sanrick looked up at Olver, surprised and a little nervous.

"You mean the stump that used to be my arm?" Olver saw Sanrick hide the rock in the pocket of his cloak.

"It was a miracle that you survived. The gods must have something great planned for you," Olver said with a faint smile.

"Your god or mine?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not. I hope you are right. I will need a bit of help from the gods to face whatever they have planned for me. Cripples don't usually have a long lifespan, especially not in places with monsters and poisonous worms," said Sanrick, more to himself than Olver.

"Yes, about that. I meant to have a talk with you about the worms and...Diyana. I asked Elsa about her death, but she still seems to be angry with me, so I couldn't get a proper answer. All I know is that she choked to her death, after eating those worms. Can you tell me more?"

Sanrick did not reply immediately but kept fidgeting with the brooch that fastened his cloak. Olver was about to ask again when he spoke," We both ate the worms. It was the only way. We hadn't eaten for days, and I would have probably eaten a man if I had the chance. Worms still seemed a pretty tame choice," Sanrick's voice cracked as he continued, "Nothing happened for a few days, but one night, while Diyana and I were talking, I felt something crawling up my throat, and I began coughing. It felt as if a hundred tiny blades were scraping against the walls of my throat, and I had never felt more pain, not even when I lost my arm. Diyana suggested I drink the water from the well, which worked and saved my life. But unfortunately, it did not work for Diyana."

"She drank the water?"

"Yes."

"Are you certain about it?"

Silence lingered for a few heartbeats.

"Yes."

The boy is nervous. Either he is lying, or the memory is too painful, or too fresh.

"Why didn't anything happen to Elsa?"

"She never ate the worms. My sister is a remarkable woman, Olver. She is stronger than most men," said Sanrick, with a hint of pride.

And prettier than most girls.

"Whatever be the case. Diyana was a true Maerynian warrior. She was more valiant than most of the knights I know. I had hoped we would become friends on this journey, and learn more about the fascinating kingdom of Maeryn, as I have never been to Silentgarde, but have heard a lot about the snowy peaks that surround it, its white pebbled streets and marble palaces with glass domes. I have seen illustrations of the Floating Hall in many books, and each time, its splendor would take the breath from my chest. But alas, that was not to be," said Olver regretfully, "Before we had parted, I had given her my stone, the one with the Liongloom sigil on it. Do you know where it is?"

"I do not know. We never spoke to her about the stone. In fact, we hardly spoke. It was only during the end that I had a proper conversation with her. And that conversation made me realize how she and I could have been good friends as well. But as you said, it was not to be."

Olver nodded, and the two kings sat in silence for a while.

"How did you escape the worms? Did you not eat them?" asked Sanrick after some time.

"No. We had almost starved to our deaths when we found the well. We never saw the worms. Perhaps if we would have seen them, then we would have eaten them," Olver looked straight into Sanrick's eyes as he said, "It's strange, isn't it? That the water from the well would work for some and not for others. Perhaps it never worked for other travelers who came this far. Perhaps the well was as far as they could reach."

"Or maybe it did work for a few, and some might have even reached the sea. And that is where they died. Wandering these caves for days on end, not finding anything, and then succumbing to death," said Sanrick thoughtfully.

"Death caused by what?"

"Hunger, thirst, or another one of those monsters we found in the woods," said Sanrick, "how did you make it out of that battle alive? Diyana said that the last time she saw you, you were surrounded by three human-bats, while soldiers died all around you."

"Not everyone died. Sir Marston, the Calyspian knight fought alongside me for hours. We could almost sense victory, as one by one, we stabbed and slashed at those red eyes, crippling those monsters and then finishing them with single blows. When we were down to just a handful, something caused the bats to flee. We thought it was our terror and us," Olver chuckled, "but it was something else."

"What?"

"Traznug. Their king. More than twice their size, and dreadful to look at. It charged at us, screeching in a voice that shook the trees and rocked the ground, and killed Sir Marston right before my eyes, while I could just stand and watch, "for a moment, Olver thought he was right there, back in the woods, surrounded by chopped up corpses on blood-soaked ground, and a chill crept up his spine, "he charged at me next and I fought and fought, until my body was battered and bloodied. He shattered shield after shield, as his claws found my soft skin with each strike, scratching me in a hundred places until I could take it no more. I dropped to my knees and was almost glad to finally die and be rid of the pain, when Garen dropped from a branch above, straddled the beasts' head and stabbed his eyes. Traznug dropped to the ground, and so did I. However, he never opened his eyes again, but I did."

"Garen saved you?" Sanrick said, almost in disbelief, "the boy who wanted to kill you in a duel, the boy who ran away from the fight?"

Olver smiled, "People change, Sanrick, and I knew he had a side to him that was soft, and I knew he would show it before the end."

"And you did not wonder why he changed?"

"I was content that he did. I did not care to give it much thought." Olver said dismissively.

"It is not my place to advise you, for you are a true king, while I am just a farce in its name, but it would do you better if you began digging deep into people's actions and find motives behind why they do what they do."

"I will think on it, young Sanrick. And I do not think you are a farce. You are not afraid to admit you have weaknesses. That makes you the most genuine king in the realm," said Olver, "speaking of being genuine, as you said, I do need to be wary of people, and need to find their true motives. So, what is your sister's motive? Why won't she speak with me?"

Sanrick cleared his throat and pulled his hood to shield his face from the wind that had suddenly picked up speed, "Why do you think I will tell you? Why do you think I even know?"

"Because I do not need to dig deep for you, Sanrick. I think you have a good heart, and if I am wrong, then surely, the Vizarins are right in destroying our race."

Olver could not read Sanrick's expression behind the hood of his cloak, but when he spoke, his voice was strained.

"She trusted you, Olver. She wanted to see you as a king. But you threw all of that away. You gave the realm to Swolderhornns, the people she loathes the most, and my sister is very bad at forgiving."

"Then I am to assume that she never loved me. I am certain she didn't want to make me king for the realm, or its future. And she definitely didn't want to see me as a king because she loved me; otherwise, it wouldn't have mattered. Then what does she want?" Olver finally asked the question that had been haunting him ever since they set out for the Endless Forest.

Sanrick sat motionless for some time as if he was carefully choosing his next words, "It is all about motive again, isn't it? I couldn't tell you what my sister's motives are even if I knew, for I would not be certain about them myself," Sanrick turned his head to look at Olver as he continued, "but I will tell you this. A few days in the forest of Eravia, or a few words spoken with love are not enough to make Elsa Faerson fall in love with you. And if she said that, then she is lying. She loves herself more than anything else in the world, and I do not think even you can change that, King Olver."

Olver was not expecting these words to hurt him as much as they did. He was hoping she was just angry. That she was in a bout of rage that would pass with time, and he would be able to hold her again. He never thought she was lying; he did not want to.

"I thank you for your honesty," Olver said as he got up, "I think I will take a walk to the beach now. You better go inside and get some sleep. We still have a lot of caves to explore tomorrow."

Sanrick nodded, "I will, you take care, Olver."

Olver smiled. It was a long way down to the beach, which involved a lot of hanging down the side of the rocky cliff, and a lot of almost slipping and falling to death. Olver finally reached the bottom and felt the cool sand on the sole of his feet. He walked towards the water, where waves were crashing in a pool of white foam. The stars blanketed the sky, shining bright and big, almost twice their normal size.

There is something magical about this place, thought Olver, every grain of sand, every chunk of rock seems to hold secrets. A land hidden away at the edge of the world. Unknown and unearthed. I wonder what lies beyond this sea. I wonder who dwells there. I wonder if it's the gods themselves, or the magical beings Toren spoke of in his book.

Olver's eyes scanned the horizon, hoping to spot a ship with a hundred sails, as big as a castle, cruising the seas as fast as a swordfish, steered by beings with horned helms and golden eyes. However, he could only see blackness, a mystifying blackness that seemed to hide dark secrets behind its mysterious veil.

Olver stood and stared for a long time, his heart burdened with emotions and mind with questions. And time and time again, Elsa's face would come floating before his eyes, and sometimes accompanied by a naked body, glowing faintly in the moonlight.

I am becoming a slave to my desires. This is what father warned me about. But he warned me against women, he warned me against whores in brothels, he warned me against high born maids with ambitions, he never warned me about a goddess as beautiful as Miervana.

"It is unwise to be alone at this time of the day," Olver had not heard her approach him.

"Who would I have asked to accompany me?" Olver asked, turning around and finding Elsa standing before him, her straight golden hair dancing in the wind, her tunic tied in a knot below her breasts.

"Me?"

"So that could reject me vehemently? I am better off dying," said Olver, getting closer to Elsa. She did not move back, as Olver expected.

"The brave Olver Liongloom, the slayer of bat-monsters, is afraid of getting rejected by a girl?"

"Only of getting rejected by you." Silence fell between the two, broken only by the sound of waves.

"Why don't you speak with me like you used to? What have I done?" I sound more like a desperate man with his cock out than a king with dignity.

"You know what you did, Olver."

"I had to. You saw how the council was progressing. We would still be in Eravia at the moment, arguing amongst ourselves if I wouldn't have offered the crown to Garen. I did it to save the realm," Olver said aggressively, trying to conceal his desperation behind the mask of frustration.

"Very well. You did it for the realm. But did you ever think what will happen if we happen to find this temple that promises rescue for the people of Aerdon? We have no clue about anything, Olver, we do not know if the gods want to save all the kingdoms, or just one. What if the salvation that the parchment spoke of was meant for only one of us? What if it was meant for the kingdom ruled by the king of Aerdon? What if Calypsos survives because of your stupidity, while we perish as the world ends. There is a very thin line between being righteous and being foolish. I was also thinking of the realm when I offered you marriage. We would have at least been able to save our two kingdoms. And two kingdoms are better than one. My plan was righteous as well, Olver, except it was fair as well. Where is the justice in giving one kingdom, which already is the wealthiest and the strongest, all the resources to wither this storm? While kingdoms like yours and mine are left vulnerable to whatever catastrophe awaits Aerdon when the hourglass empties itself." Elsa's eyes were wide, and her face flushed. She was only inches away from Olver, and he could feel the heat emanating from her body.

Olver struggled to form a reply.

She is too close to me for my mind to function properly.

"Was faking love a part of your plan as well?" Olver finally asked.

"I never lied about that. In the beginning, it was just about marrying you for the practicality of it, but along the way, I did fall in love with you. And then you broke my trust. And my heart."

Olver took Elsa's hand in his, as the wind swirled around them.

"I never meant to, believe me. Death never scared me, but in that forest, while facing Traznug, I did not want to die. Dying meant never laying eyes upon your magnificent face, and I did not want that. I have missed you, Elsa. It was the thought of meeting you again that kept me going, even when my body was screaming for me to stop."

"These are just words," Elsa withdrew her hand from Olver's.

"Oh, how I wish they were. It would have been easier. But they are not. I ache for you." Olver murmured.

"So do I. But I am afraid I cannot give myself to you knowing what you did. I apologize," and with that, Elsa turned and started to walk away.

Olver had already seen tears in her eyes before she turned, and perhaps that was the tipping point for the king of Indius.

"What will you have me do then?" he screamed in desperation.

Elsa stopped in her tracks and slowly turned to face Olver once more. Her cheeks were glistening with tears in the moonlight.

"Tell me, and I will do it."

Elsa walked back to Olver. Her face was a portrait of grief, her body was a sculpture of seduction.

"It was on a night like this, that I killed Erling," Elsa said, holding Olver's hand and guiding him to sit beside her on the cold black sand, "I had been a good wife to him throughout the week, surrendering my body to him in all the ways he liked, pleasuring him until all the royal guards posted in the tower heard him moan. And so, when I asked him to take me to the 'Valley of Flowers' for a few days, he could not say no," Elsa slowly unhooked Olver's cloak, and threw it away into the wind, which picked it up and carried it away dancing.

"The Valley of Flowers is a desolate place in Harduin. Desolate and beautiful, a perfect place for an ambush. I had already hidden a few of the men loyal to me among the sea of flowers that covered the valley," Elsa pushed Olver on his back and began tracing the scars on his chest with her fingers. Olver could feel the small dagger in a ruby encrusted scabbard that hung from her sword belt, as it scraped against his thighs.

"In the night, when I lay with him for one last time, my soldiers waited for me outside the tent, hidden with naked swords in their hands, awaiting my signal." Elsa climbed on top of Olver as his hands fumbled with her tunic, finally ripping it away. Olver's blood rushed to his manhood as he felt Elsa wriggle her hips on his hardness.

"Just the thought of them waiting to slice Erling open got me wet," she said as she removed her tights and placed Olver's hand on her wetness, "just like this."

Elsa worked Olver's breeches off of his body, and then straddled him with her legs. Olver could not help but take one of her nipples in his mouth, as she moaned into the wind.

"As the...aah... soldiers held him down, and...as... as I strangled his throat, I asked him...I asked him who supplied him the soldiers for the rebellion," Elsa said through moans as Olver's mouth worked on her breast, "he whispered 'Henrik Swolderhornn' before finally dying in my lap." Elsa caught Olver's hair in her fist and yanked his head from her breasts and looked into his eyes, "Now do you know why I would rather die, then see the first king of Aerdon be a Calyspian, let alone his wretched son. You will have to promise me, that whenever we find the temple, and when a situation arises where you can be king, that you will not back down, that you will take the crown, and be the king of Aerdon, beside your queen, Elsa Faerson."

"I promise." Olver whispered, "You will be my queen. I love you, Elsa."

"Can I trust you this time, Olver?"

"Yes. I will do as you say."

"Then you can have me. I love you, Olver Liongloom."

Elsa lowered herself on Olver, and he felt himself entering her. He tried to embrace her, to kiss her, but she held him down and began riding him with ferocity. It was her who began kissing him, and it was her who scratched his already battered chest even more, as the waves reached their intertwined bodies, pooling around them and then receding back into the sea. Elsa's screams filled the air, as Olver was swept away into bliss. He kept gazing into her beautiful emerald eyes, twinkling like the stars above, and just before erupting inside her, he saw them lit up with a fire so fierce, that it awed and scared him at the same time.

***

It was the sun that woke him up. It blinded him for a few heartbeats as he opened his eyes and looked around. Blue waters stretched in all directions before him, and black sands behind him. And beside him, curled up under his cloak, looking like one of the black boulders scattered around the beach herself, was Elsa. Olver rested his eyes on her lithe, petite figure, the heaving motion of her bosom sending waves of tranquility through his body. The memories of the previous night rushed back to him, and he felt his loins stirring. And then he remembered the promise he had made, and the waves left as soon as they entered.

What did I do? I have broken a vow to take another. I have promised to betray the person who saved my life. A person who was finally learning to be a better man.

All of a sudden, blurry outlines of all the people he was going to hurt started to take shape before his eyes. The dying father, the loving sister, perhaps the spirit of a dead mother, the people of Indius, the god Erdoher, he went through the list in his mind, and each name felt like a punch to his gut.

They will forget everything if I find a way to save the realm, he tried to pacify himself, no one will care who marries whom, as long as their children are safe, and their future is secure. But what about Garen? He couldn't find an answer to that question, and the feeling of guilt fought its way back to his heart. His eyes scanned the horizon once more, but nothing stirred as far as he could see, except the gulls circling far above over his head.

Elsa stirred beside him, and her eyes fluttered open. She threw the cloak away from her body and sat up, rubbing and squinting her eyes as the golden rays of the sun fell on her beautiful face.

"Slept well?" asked Olver

"Better than most of the nights," Elsa replied with a smile, "We should be heading back to the cave. Others might be worried."

"Last night still feels like a dream. A very pleasant dream that was too good for the harsh realities of the world. Tell me I did not dream it." Olver said while caressing Elsa's cheeks.

"No. It was all true, my king. And the dreams that we are yet to turn into realities are going to be sweeter than last night. The world will be ours, Olver. Songs will be sung in our praise, and tales will be told of our love and labor, we shall start a dynasty that will rule for thousands of years." Elsa said expectantly, hope filling the green of her eyes.

At the cost of betrayal and blasphemy.

"What would the gods think of our union? Do you think it will make them happy?"

"Who knows what the gods want?" Elsa shrugged, "For thousands of years, we worshipped our individual Vizarins, thinking that worshiping other gods will be sinful. But now, at the end of everything, the gods want our kingdoms to unite, they ask us to be one kingdom, ruled by a single king. But they do not tell us who is to be worshipped then? Erdoher or Miervana, or perhaps our Vizarin, Garandyll, or maybe the god that those craven Calypsians worship? All we know, my king, is that they want us to come together, to show a united front," said Elsa, taking Olver's chin in her hand and coming closer to his face, "and what better way to show a united front of Harduin and Indius than by uniting my front with yours," Elsa kissed Olver, whose lips curved into a smile.

What sort of black magic is this? One moment, I feel burdened with the guilt of betraying my family, my people, and Garen, but the moment she looks at me, and her skin touches mine, every shred of guilt vanishes like clouds after a heavy rain.

"Do you know the song, A knight's maid?" Elsa whispered, nuzzling Olver's neck.

"I apologize, my lady, but I have never heard of it," Olver confessed.

"How could you? It is a Harduinian song, and no wedding is complete in Harduin until the minstrels recited the ballad of Sir Wilbor Wilkish and his paramour, Lady Prianka. A love for the ages, it was called, although the love lasted for only a night. You see, Lady Prianka was lost in the forest of Grimhall one day, and the night was drawing near. Scared and nervous, she ran into Sir Wilbor, the handsome and gallant knight who vowed to take her back to safety. But Garandyll wanted them to stay together a little longer, and so, a storm raged, and lightning thundered, leaving the maid and the knight to find shelter beneath the ruins of a castle, and there, as white swords flashed in the night sky and rain fell like a dam freed, they shared a passionate night of love. But in the morning, the soldiers of Lady Pianka's household found the girl in the arms of the knight and fearing embarrassment for their lord and Lady Pianka's father, they feathered the knight with quarrels from their crossbows, while the Lady Prianka just looked on in horror. Sir Wilbor's body never hit the ground as he fell and hovered on a bed of arrows that pierced his body in a hundred places. They say that lady Prianka's scream can still be heard on the nights when the sky is lit up by white flashes and when dark clouds rain hell on the forest of Grimhall. Seeing her knight succumb to his death before her eyes, lady Prianka pulled one arrow out of the knight's body and stabbed herself to death. She could only be his maid for the night, hence the name, A Knight's Maid."

"This story fills me with grief. Now that I have found you, I cannot ever imagine losing you." Olver said as his fingers moved through the golden tangles of Elsa's hair.

"Do not grieve for them, for that night, they lived an entire lifetime."

"Do you remember the song?"

"Not in its entirety. Just a few verses here and there."

"Will you sing one for me?" asked Olver.

Elsa smiled and nodded, "I just remember the ending, it goes something like this-

The leaves fell, and covered them whole,

two corpses and a single soul.

They left them there, for the wolves and crows,

but nothing touched them, not bird nor boars.

Men forgot but Gods remembered,

they welcomed them with crowns of emerald.

They lived together, in the halls of gold,

a knight, his maid, the beautiful and the bold.

And here we are, as the tale is told,

as the ale is poured and the night grows old.

We'll sing of love, and we'll sing of gold,

and sing we shall til' the ale is cold,

and sing we shall, of blood and bones.

Elsa finished, and Elsa waited, but Olver remained quiet. Far off into the sea, on waves shimmering in the sunlight, he had seen something that had caught his attention, which in turn caused breath being caught in his throat. Elsa followed his gaze and found what Olver was looking at, and she felt the world around her spin, as her heart pounded against her chest.

Olver's hand found Elsa's as their fingers intertwined and their breathing quickened. A horn sounded off in the distance, its tone melancholic yet powerful, and Olver knew from where it came. At that moment, Olver felt insignificant, a mere pawn in the bigger scheme of things, a puppet in the hands of gods, a cog in a massive wheel. He looked at Elsa and saw the same wonder and awe on her face that he was certain was plastered on his face. Who knows what the gods want? Elsa had told him, the gods want us to proclaim a single king, the parchment from the temple had told him, but the only voice that rose above all others and began echoing in his head, was the voice of Diyana.

Elves, Toren called them, her voice said in his head, beings from the other world. A world of magic, a world of wonder, a world home to the Wizard-Gods. Gold and white are their ships, and gold and white are their palaces. Gold and white is their armor, and gold and white are their eyes and hair. They are a race above ours, Olver, for they were dearer to the gods. And they were the ones who helped Toren cross the Endless Forest.

Olver took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

This is it.

"Who are they?" Elsa whispered her question.

"Living embodiments of the gods," Olver replied.

End.
Bonus Chapter

Travel to the city of Silentgarde, nestled among the mountains of Zaeyos, and follow Diyana and Jaeriz, as they overcome the obstacles that challenge their love, and react to the news of an hourglass being discovered deep in the forest of Eravia.

And finally, read about the first appearance of someone who will play an integral part in the second installment of the 'Lords of the Kings' series.

Visit <https://www.anantvgoswami.com/freebies>

to download the chapter.
Author's Note

Dear Sirs and Ladies of the realm,

I thank you for reading my first book and giving a young author like me a chance. I am sorry if the book did not meet your expectations. I am 24 and still trying to get the hang of creating fantasy worlds, and I am sure one day I will be somewhat decent at the craft.

If you did enjoy the book, then it would mean the world (the world of Aerdon) if you could leave a review, as it would motivate me to keep writing, and keep getting better.

Connect with me and get latest updates about the next book and free resources by visiting www.anantvgoswami.com.

I have already started work on the next book, and your suggestions would be welcome!

Yours Truly,

Anant.V.Goswami

(Disciple of G.R.R.M and J.R.R.T)

