A War of Skulls and Horses

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. From the balcony of the royal keep, Thaudal Fairrehule watched the Loch drain through rivers and canals. As a boy, Thaudal was fascinated by the intricate system of locks that could turn Avergion into an impenetrable island at a moment's notice. The moment Gavrul’s army appeared, the garrison unleashed the flood waters onto the lowlands surrounding Avergion. Thaudal shuddered at its implications. Would she haunt him too? Would she be nothing more than a ghost of his boyhood joy?

If that’s the cost of my crown, so be it. Today was Thaudal’s day of glory. The plans had long been laid, and the timing of their execution was crucial. He gripped the ornate railing with his left hand.

“It’s done then?” Thaudal said, interrupting Watch Captain Ordal’s detailed accounts regarding Avergion’s defenses. If Gavrul assaulted the city, the only available approach would be the main causeway where one hundred men could hold off Gavrul’s host. Ensuring the unleashing of the Loch’s waters had been Thaudal’s…defiance of the plan.

“Of course, sir. She is gone,” Ordal said. Thaudal could not bring himself to meet the Captain’s eye. Across the draining loch stood the Cathedral of St. Berneditious, and Thaudal wished for intercession from within the depths of its towering belfry now. He would never set foot in those hallowed halls again, in good conscience at least. The winds of early winter blew down from the White Mountains, and Thaudal drew his fur around him, chasing away the thoughts of his eventual damnation.

“Good. I do not wish my rule to begin with blood flowing through the streets.”

“Any more blood.”

“Pardon?” Thaudal said, turning away from his city. Despite only seeing thirty or so winters, Ordal Gardson’s best days as a soldier may have been behind him. His leather armor clung tightly to his middle and he more often drew a table knife than his sword in anger, but the Gardsons provided an invaluable link between the Fairrehule dynasty and the Merchants’ Guild. Ordal had always served the family as a humble, loyal servant to the crown, and it was with him that Thaudal learned, then relearned, the sword.

“Thaudal, as king and ward I pledged you honest counsel. Blood already flows, unholy blood–I will say no more,” Ordal said, fending off the protest rising within the Thaudal.

“And you swear the deed is done?”

“I swear. Have I ever shown you disloyalty?” Ordal said, drawing a handkerchief and dabbing away beading sweat. How the man could be sweating in such a chill, Thaudal had no idea, but he also could not comprehend how such an esteemed knight could gather so many stones around his middle.

“And did she…” Thaudal’s voice trailed off against a chill that had nothing to do with the winds.

“Queen Katarina died as she lived, with grace and poise. All she wished was that I bury her in her beloved Chalon. If you wish to see the body, I’ve hidden it in the stables, but it was a messy…”

“I prayed for another path. I never wanted…but…”

“It’s done, my king. No more talk of it.”

Thaudal gathered himself. “I must prepare. Will you be joining me on the ride?”

“Alas, I cannot,” Ordal pointed to a heavily wrapped bandage around his thigh. “Sir Hildar managed to best me for but a moment, but I got the last laugh against that pompous, arrogant, slithering…”

Thaudal had never heard Ordal insult another knight. “You are dismissed,” he said with a wave of a gloved hand.

Oldar rose, steadying himself against the chair for a moment. “Is there something else you desire?” Thaudal asked when his captain did not depart.

“Reminiscing, my king. Reminiscing.”

“On?”

“Once, when you were young, we dueled. I didn’t say anything, but when I returned home, I collapsed. You were ferocious—well ahead of what I’d expect from a boy of twelve! I was proud of you that day.”

“This is a new tale,” Thaudal said, hiding his smile poorly.

“I never had the chance. Your…accident happened the next day…you were never quite the same with your left, I’m afraid.”

“And yet, I am now king.”

Ordal nodded. No challenge came. Despite there being plenty left unsaid, the new king of Avergion didn’t have the heart to hear it. Not today.

Arm braced against the heavy wooden door, Ordal paused. “That boy would have buried his brother long ago,” He said, departing before Thaudal could answer.

***

Thaudal rode through the streets of his city, striking in his polished white steel armor. For three hundred winters, the fortress city that controlled all trade through the White Mountains had been free of fealty to Chalon to the north and Feirenes to the south, an island of order and prosperity surrounded by eternal chaos. He passed below the nose of Thaudal’s father, King Gaudrick, freshly carved and glorious. Besides the effigy, the other statues of kings and queens long dead decorated the path to the causeway. Thaudal realized, under their sneering gaze, his statue would never stand on this road beside his father. There were no grand statues for those that sold the kingdom. He expected the thought to sadden him, for surely that same thought would have made the boy in him breakdown. All that saddened him now was his own inability to drive the knife into the queen himself…into mother, as Gavrul instructed.

Onlookers replaced the statues before him. Oldar, ever the loyal servant, had placated the powerful Merchants’ Guild–not that it had been difficult; open roads were preferred to a prolonged siege. With them aligned, it was simple: a bribe to some guards here, a threat to some merchants there, a careful placement of courtesans amongst the troublesome lords, and all was in place for Thaudal to ride forth and secure his crown.

The waters of Loch Ravar rushed ever onward beside Thaudal’s procession.

“Make way for the king!” A call bellowed from the gatehouse battlements. Thaudal looked around instinctively, readying to bow, only to remember it was for him they shouted. The soldiers, his soldiers, stood resolute above as Thaudal passed below the portcullis and out onto the causeway.

As he left Avergion, Thaudal’s mind raced along with the water draining from the wall’s stone dragon gargoyles.

He could turn back. Despite all their planning, there were enough men to hold the gate while he and Ordal undid the plans long in motion.

He could become a king like his father…like his mother would have wanted.

It was not too late to forge a solitary path in this.

Thaudal rode on.

Since word of Gavrul’s approach first reached Avergion, every cleric in the city had damned his host as hedonistic demons. As Thaudal’s company crossed unmolested through the palisade and into row after row of uniform tents, it was not the invader’s prescribed evil that unnerved Thaudal. Vast avenues criss-crossed the camp, wide enough for horses to pass three abreast. Several patrols stood at attention, but gave no challenge–Thaudal’s coming had been known amongst the rank of file, it seemed. They all donned castle forged steel adorned with the black skull of Feirenes. Still, no feral slaves or possessed courtesans walked the avenues. Not that Thaudal had truly expected that.

No, what unnerved the king was its size. By his best estimate, Gavrul’s host was at least twice as large as foretold, and Thaudal knew they could not hold against this many. Despite Gavrul’s assurances, Thaudal tightened his grip on the reins.

The new king of Avergion entered Gavrul’s command tent alone. Two braziers filled the orderly tent with a hint of smoke that chased away the cold winds.

“Welcome.”

The winters since his banishment had not been kind to Gavrul. A scar running from below his right eye to his lip framed once fair features. Strips of now wispy black hair that matched Thaudal’s own revealed half of his right ear had also been lost. He sat behind a simple table in a stunning green robe of a courtly cut and style, in stark contrast to his reputation as the Fist of King Rickard the Strong. Only an onyx skull clasp hinted at his menace.

“The south welcomes you, Brother,” Gavrul said without standing. If he smiled, the scars made it difficult to tell.

“I believe you are to bow to a king. I’m here to swear my vassalage to King Rickard as King of the independent kingdom of Avergion.”

Gavrul remained seated, but offered a low bow of the head and an open palm to the seat before him. “It’s done?”

“It’s done,” Thaudal said, standing resolute.

“Oh, sit brother. Wine?” Gavrul said, pouring himself a flagon of deep southern red. He poured a second and pushed it across to Thaudal. “Should we drink to our mother? She’d be proud, I think—her only sons, strong and wealthy! She had ambitions, but could never bend the knee as needed.”

Thaudal picked up the goblet, and raised a toast in response. Flecks of wine stained his doublet as his hand shook.

Gavrul smiled, unmistakable this time. “I missed you Thaudal, and truly do welcome you into the fold. Look at us. Fist of the realm’s most powerful army, and you seated atop its largest hoard of gold. Royal blood truly does flow through our veins. Long has Avergion been a thorn in King Rickard’s side. Now, with mother and that useless oaf of a father gone, we can finally usher in peace and prosperity where they could not. Come now, don’t sneer, he was useless.”

“He was our father.”

“And he was useless. Worse, he was weak. The merchants passed him around like a cheap whore. How he managed to twice spill his seed into our mother, I will never know.”

“Yet, the common folk loved them,” Thaudal said, and released the wood of the chair he did not remember gripping.

“I think even less of them. So, tell me did she squeal as she died?” Gavrul stroked the black gem of his knife tucked in its hilt as he spoke.

“I…she…she didn’t. Died proud. You know,” Thaudal said, looking away and draining the rest of his goblet.

Gavrul lunged to his feet. “I told you to do it yourself. Damn it, you’re weak like father. I should have known. Is she truly dead then?”

“Of course! I am not weak. There were items to attend to, courtiers to placate as you galavanted around the south. She is gone. I am the–”

Thaudal slammed to the ground. Despite still wearing his helm, his head rang. Steadying himself, Thaudal saw Gavrul’s gauntleted hand.

Gavrul loomed over Thaudal. “You lied to me.”

“And you arrived at my city with a host many times larger to threaten my kingdom…we all have our schemes.”

“You, a king? Ha. That crown should be mine by right of strength.”

Despite all of Thaudal’s willpower, tears ran down Thaudal’s cheeks as his locks opened like those of Avergion. He pulled off his right glove, holding the mangled and twisted remains of his hand before Gavrul. “Was I the coward who shoved me before a carriage, simply because you had been bested on the training yard? No. I loved you, brother. And, I loved our mother. She is dead, and I am here with you. Our blood flows as one. You think I wanted you sent away? Would a coward have gone to father and petitioned on your behalf? It is not my fault! He, not I, banished you.” Thaudal took comfort in the fear heavy in his brother’s eyes.

Gavrul drew himself up to his full, impressive height. “Who was sent to kill mother?” He said calmly. His voice turned Thaudal’s blood to ice.

“Ordal. He’s always been–”

Gavrul struck Thaudal again, and drew the knife at his hilt. “You ignorant whelp! You thought it was because of you I was banished? It was because I found her in bed with that damned Captain!”

Outside, Thaudal’s horse reared.

***

He pulled the cloak up tight. This high in the mountains, the winds cut like knives.

Not much farther now.

The snow fell harder now. If the wagon caught in a drift before he reached the rendezvous point, their death would be worse than any that awaited back home. He tightened his grip on the large package tucked beneath his arm.

Not much farther now.

As if they heard his thoughts, two riders burst onto the trail from beyond the trees, and flanked the carriage.

“About time, Sir Hildar,” the driver said, keeping his eyes cautiously on the trail, but the knot in his shoulders relaxed all the same. Two more strong horses eased his fear of catching a rut, and two strong swords eased the rest.

“I believe you’re the one who is late, Oldar. It’s damned cold out here. Trouble getting out of the city?”

“None but my own heartache. Avergion has been my only home, and I doubt I will set foot within her walls again.”

“The things we do for love,” Sir Hildar said knowingly.

“The things we do for love,” Oldar said with a smile to his oldest friend.

They rode in silence through the night. As the first rays of sun neared the horizon, Oldar felt the slight tug downwards as the trail wound them back north and out of the mountains.

“I believe it is time,” Oldar said as he unwrapped the package. Sir Hildar pulled the pole from the carriage and assisted Oldar with affixing the bright silver banner.

They rounded a curve overlooking a deep lush valley so vibrant in its yellows and golds Ordal thought it had been painted by God himself.

A knock came from the carriage. Ordal bit his lip, they were still not yet safe from danger.

The knock came again.

“Halt sirs,” Ordal signaled and dismounted.

“It’s not yet safe,” he said, standing beside the wooden chest.

“I must see it again.”

The voice was soft, and shivering. He hoped he had packed enough furs. With shaking fingers, he undid the latch.

Within, Queen Katarina sat upright. Despite her parlor, Ordal smiled.

“My queen. Your sons….”

“Will drown in Loch Ravar when I see them again. A moment please—I wish to see the light of my home. My dreams have been so very dark of late.”

She smiled as the morning sun illuminated the valley. Despite the love in his heart, Ordal sighed–a momentary lament for both Thaudal the boy and his home.

“Is something wrong?” she shivered, concern etched on the face of Ordal’s greatest love.

“It is nothing, my queen. Adjusting. That’s all.”

“Take heart, my knight. Even though the waters run now from Avergion, it does not mean Loch Ravar must remain forever empty,” Queen Katarina said, pulling the furs tighter around herself to warm the child already showing within her womb.

Under the dancing horses of Chalon’s royal standard, they escorted the queen home.