The son of Vahan of Lyons, the sole heir to the vacant throne of a proud and fearless Realm struggling for survival in a war-infected Far North, stepped off the wobbly plank and stood on a wooden deck that reached far into the ocean, one of many adorning the colorful shores of the biggest Lyonese port, Triahnnem. He stood still for a moment, as if wanting to make sure that ground beneath him no longer swayed.

Glancing over his shoulder he noticed the Nekryan sailors quickly pulling the plank back into the ship, unhooking the lines, scrambling to lift anchor, and running to the oars. Iskald smirked. It seemed that his Nekryan friends were as eager to get away from the Lyonese soil as he was to step on it. The Omen was soon out of reach and heading into the distant horizon.

Aldhu had wasted no time as soon as the crew unloaded the shipment of weapons, something they did in record time; as soon as he had received payment from Aezubah’s messenger, who waited for them ashore, and as soon as the Lyonese porters had restocked his ship with enough provisions to enable the Nekryans to journey home, he gave orders to raise sails.

Iskald, despite all the eagerness he felt, hesitated for a long time before finally stepping off the ship and he left it only when it was ready to sail. As much as he wanted to stand on native soil, the idea frightened him, and he delayed it for as long as he could.

He raised his hand now as a farewell sign and Aldhu, who stood on the deck looking back on Lyons with the inseparable cigar placed between his lips, returned the gesture. Though they had said little to one another during the trip and although each man came from a land that was in a state of war with the other’s, they had grown to tolerate and even to like one another. The Nekryan Captain wished Iskald the best of luck in his newly-found home.

Turning his attention towards the shore, Iskald felt a wave of overwhelming emotion and his breath quickened. A great weight rested on his heart, a pleasant weight though, and he had to open his mouth to gasp for air, as if breaking the surface of the water after being submerged for a long time.

Everything he saw was familiar. Every rock, every bush and plant that he could see from where he stood, appeared the same as four years ago, before that fateful day when he was so brutally torn from his home. Even the birds sang in the same manner as always, chanting the same cheerful tune.

A few dozen Lyonese warriors guarded the shore and kept a watchful eye on the ships as well as the people strolling decks, and Iskald could swear that they were the same men that Vahan had placed there years ago to ensure the safety of the port. Everything seemed to be so normal, so everyday-like, that Iskald found it difficult to believe that he had been gone for so long and that he had changed so much over that time.

Some of the ships anchored in the port were empty, but others were full of life as their crews made preparations for upcoming trips, loading and unloading the vessels, securing ropes, sweeping decks and unfolding sails; a few fishermen were inspecting the nets for the day’s catch just a few hundred paces up the shore. Everything was the same, it seemed.

Iskald smiled and was about to start towards the land, but he stopped for a moment longer after catching a glimpse of his reflection in the clear waters of the bay. Though his home had not changed, he had. No longer a boy, but a man, no longer helpless, no longer young and naive, he was a man now, a warrior. Yes, he had changed, he thought, even if his home had not.

Lyons was still there, still the same, though in the clutches of a hopeless war. It was home and Iskald felt himself to be Lyonese again, a feeling he felt for the first time in four long years a few days ago when the Omen met the patrol ship. He felt it with twice as much strength now than before.

He picked up the sword with his right hand and the travel bag with his left, then swung the latter over his shoulder and started towards Lyonese soil. When his feet touched his native ground, he felt another wave of emotion overcome him, but he fought it bravely and continued on without breaking his pace.

Passing by a nearby warrior Iskald nodded to him and the man nodded back. Without hesitation, the young Duke turned onto the very familiar dirt road, one he had traveled on foot and on horse thousands of times, the road that would lead him straight into Hvoxx.

Walking briskly, he soon passed many people on the road to the city. He passed small groups of off-duty warriors who were returning to the Triahnnem after a long day of drinking in the inns of Hvoxx. The majority of the men were Lyonese, and some of them wore the distinct signs of belonging to the elite group of soldiers, the Order of the Northern Wolves, whose responsibility was to guard the Duke of Lyons always, no matter what the danger was and no matter what the cost would be.

Iskald also spotted several foreigners among them, easily distinguishable by the strange clothing and hair that was much fairer than that of the locals. The soldiers chatted cheerfully amongst each other and with the girls and young women that traveled the same road. The girls laughed and joked back, stealing burning looks at their handsome faces, their broad shoulders and massive biceps, the shining steel amour, the heavy swords that hung at their sides.

Many of the young women looked at Iskald with the same awe and fascination. His giant posture worked like a magnet and even in the largest crowds, the young Duke was easily noticeable. Iskald walked steadily and confidently in the middle of the road, breathing the fresh mountain air and looking around carelessly, barely noticing the people he passed, so lost he was in his own thoughts, memories and recollections.

Several times he almost walked through groups of younger men that blocked his path and pushed them aside with massive arms. They threw him a few furious looks, clenched their fists and cursed under their breaths, but not one dared to stand up to him. Iskald’s colossal frame, the stern look on his face, and his strangely pale, penetrating eyes, held them back. He continued on, encountering no obstacles and moving quickly forward, nearing Hvoxx and the Jewel with each long stride.

Having reached a place where the road diverged, he did not hesitate at all, taking the longer path, the one that would take him all the way around the city and directly to the palace. He walked quickly and effortlessly, and although some people made attempts at conversation, he passed them all without a word; men, women, warriors, peasants, townspeople and wagons pulled by horses or ox.

The path leading to Jewel was also full of carriages bringing the wealthier Lyonese merchants or citizens, Biyackian politicians, aristocrats of noble birth, foreign heralds and couriers, all going to the palace either to offer their services to Aezubah or simply to find protection against the onslaught of invaders that had flooded the North of Lyons.

Passing through such a diverse crowd of people, Iskald heard bits and pieces of different conversations, and though some did not interest him at all, he did at different times hear things that confirmed what he had already learned from the Captain of the Lyonese warship.

Almost the entire fleet of Viking ships was locked in ice far up North, in the vast Ice Fields of Northern Arynos. Until the ice would break, the Vikings would not be able to attack in full force. Because of the surprising resistance of the Lyonese army, all they could do for now was to hold the tough Northerners on the shore and wait for reinforcements that were to arrive with bati Irvinn, who was coming down from the lands of former Biyack like a sinister storm, bringing forth death and destruction.

The Vikings were utterly shocked by the grim welcome that Aezubah had prepared for them in Lyons and were completely unprepared for the stubborn and steady resistance of the small Estate, a place they had thus far thought of as nothing more than a Biyackian outpost. Having defeated and crippled the ancient Kingdom they thought the entire North to be in their grasp.

The Lyonese resistance was a surprise never predicted, and Irvinn was fuming. The Council of the Great Northern Order had planned the invasion carefully for years, and everything had gone just as they had expected, until they reached Lyons. By Irvinn’s calculations, the troops he sent to conquer the province should have succeeded easily and should have been already preparing the Viking ships to sail South to invade the nearby Izmattic Isles and then the Southern Kingdoms.

Now, however, the thrust of the attack was halted because of the stubborn resistance of a puny Estate. Irvinn was mad, and he wasted no time, coming down on swift feet to take matters into his own hands, ready to slaughter every Lyonese he could find.

Aezubah, in the meantime, informed of every move that the Vikings made by the Lyonese highlanders who formed several large militia groups and lurked amidst the forests and mountains of Northern Lyons, was well aware of the approaching storm and was doing everything in his power to prepare for it. He concentrated all of his efforts on preparing for a battle that was to take place inevitably, a battle that would ultimately determine the fate of Lyons and the thousands of her inhabitants, perhaps even the world.

Each long stride brought Iskald closer to the palace and he longed to see his home. He longed to see Aezubah and the warriors loyal to him and the Kingdom, men around whom he had grown up, men he was practically raised by because his father was always away, attending Estate matters. At the same time, however, Iskald was afraid of his first encounter with the long lost friends, an encounter that would perhaps determine the rest of his life in Lyons.

He was afraid of how Aezubah and the others would react to his coming: what would they say? Would they believe him when he revealed himself? Or had they already dismissed him as dead and perhaps it would not even matter to them that he had come back? Would they not be cross with him for staying away for the last two years, though he had been free to come back? Would they not accuse him of abandoning his Kingdom and his throne? Of abandoning them and the people when they needed him, when Vasil usurped the throne for himself and for Biyack? Would they not blame him for being weak?

And how would he, himself, react when he saw them, when he would see Aezubah again, his old mentor and teacher, the man who had raised him and taught him everything he needed to survive, the man who filled the void Iskald felt as a boy growing up without siblings, without a mother, a boy whose father was a distant ruler?

How would he feel after returning to the Jewel after so many years, not as a boy anymore but as a man, without an overprotective father to make decisions for him, a grown man, a warrior, swordsman, and future King?

Iskald saw himself only as a simple soldier, perhaps even unfit to rule others; how would he perform the responsibilities that lay ahead? The two terrible years he had spent as a slave had left their mark as had the service in the tough Nekryan army and the last months of traveling through the Southern world.

If he ever had a drop of aristocratic blood in him, a touch of empty pride; if there was ever any indication that he had come from a proud and noble heritage, that enormous wealth and prestige was bestowed on him from birth, that he was meant to rule thousands of people, if anything like that was ever in him, it was long gone now, erased by the harsh life he had behind him. He was a simple soldier. A skilled warrior and an able leader as well, but would he prove himself a good King?

Iskald reached the top of yet another rise and there he halted, because the view that had appeared before him left him breathless. The path wound down the slope and through a lush valley, passing a thick forest on the right, an impassable forest that stretched farther North for miles and miles on end.

The beaten track followed a steep slope all the way up to the edge of a rough crag ending with a sheer drop overlooking the Azmattic Ocean. Atop this crag the Jewel rested, presenting herself to Iskald in all of her magnificent beauty. It was a colossal building, bounded by high walls, constructed of large clay bricks and surrounded by a bottomless moat.

Several towers that almost touched the sky were located on each corner of the stronghold and kept continuous watch over the lands surrounding it. A masterpiece of modern architecture, the Jewel shone in the last rays of the dying sun, as if by some sort of magic it was able to capture the sunlight from all around the world and use it now to shed light on herself.

Iskald felt his heart rising as he was suddenly overwhelmed with a tremendous number of childhood memories, recollections from a lifetime ago. It was here, on these green meadows before him, that he had ridden his splendid steed, Ruppé; it was here that Aezubah had taught him swordsmanship and the mastery over other weapons; it was here that he had wrestled with the Wolves, sometimes even pinning them to the ground when they let him; it was in these forests that he had hunted with them and alone as well, chasing deer and wild boar all day long before returning home at sunset, weary but full of joy after making a kill.

Iskald breathed deeply and clenched his teeth. This was no time to be emotional, he thought, not now, not when there was so much to do, when he had to keep his head clear and on his shoulders. He regained his composure quickly and angrily eyed a peasant man who tried to push past him, but who only succeeded in knocking himself off his feet in doing so. Rising and cursing, the peasant went on, without giving Iskald as much as a second look.

The young Duke resumed his trek as well, but at a slower pace now, as if scared of reaching the Jewel too quickly, as if in need of more time to collect himself before facing Aezubah and the highest ranking Lyonese Wolves, men whom the General undoubtedly kept by his side. Iskald slowed even more as he neared the gates of the palace, allowing himself to be passed by those people he had overtaken earlier.

Lifting his eyes towards the sky he glanced at the watchtower overlooking the main gates, its top already too high to be visible, enclosed by the rising clouds. The sun slowly lowered itself behind the horizon and only the last glimmers of daylight lingered on; but they, too, soon disappeared.

A small troop of Wolves guarded the massive metal gates and stopped all those who sought to enter, questioning about the business of the visitors and searching the wagons for things dangerous and hidden. Most of the folk they allowed through; but some were taken aside for further questioning, others were simply taken away, presumably to be thrown into dungeons, perhaps suspected to be spies or assassins.

Aezubah was not willing to take any chances, especially not in a place where he wanted to feel safe and comfortable, a place he wanted to be a haven for the Lyonese who were escaping Viking ruthlessness; any hint of danger was immediately addressed. Spies were dangerous because once inside the palace, they would be in a position to retrieve important information about the placement of Lyonese troops and any planned movements.

Aezubah would rather have all those under suspicion stopped at the gates and have them spend a night in the dungeons as opposed to being too trustful and welcoming towards everyone and then paying for it with his head. If the suspects were later determined to be in fact innocent, they were set free and could go on about their business. People grumbled and complained about the severity of the procedures, but Aezubah never apologized for the precautions he took.

“What’s your business here?” one of the guards asked Iskald as the young Duke approached the gates. The warrior was young, even younger than Iskald. He had only recently become a Wolf, something that Iskald guessed immediately because of the overzealous and confident attitude the youngster greeted him with. Iskald looked him hard in the eyes until the young man lowered his.

“I come to aid in the war,” he said.

To be continued...

Copyright © 2008 by Slawomir Rapala