That night….that night so many years ago. Scarred deeply into her mind. The fire which rained from the sky. The screams, burning smells and the dying gurgles of her father. Or the blood curdling pleads of her mother being carried away. Abathea was lucky to find shelter from within her home. Thoroughly concealed by her parents, she remained in her hiding place until daybreak.
Though unable to witness the carnage, she could still hear the screams, crackling roars of fires, and the smashing and looting of her village. She listened to the dying gurgles of her father before sometime in the night his grunting finally ceased and his life along with it. There she became accustomed to the burning smells of wood and finally…flesh. Etched deeply into her mind are these memories.
When she did finally muster the courage to emerge from her sanctuary, she opened the door of her home to find a town wrought with destruction. But her mistake was believing the slaughter to be over. Upon opening her homestead door, she was spotted by two marauders.
She quickly retreated inside but the vile men trailed her. She hid amongst the furniture as the men hacked away feverishly at the door. It was shattered with an axe and in came an evil looking man. He uttered vilely, “Here girly… I know you're here.”
Abathea shook and attempted to stifle her whimpers, her heart beating so furiously at the time that she was sure she would die if at least they did not kill her first.
Then came his accomplice, a man who groaned and squealed like a pig, announcing, “You are going to be my whore before I gut you!”
Though she could not see them from her vantage, hidden from within a dresser. She could however hear the heavy footsteps and followed by the groans of the wood planks giving her an estimate of where they were in the home.
She heard them rummage through the home. One spoke, “Look at this poor bastard, took an arrow to the heart.”
“You reckon this is the girl's father?”
“Don’t know but I think he'd look better without a head.”
Thus was followed by the heavy smash of an axe through the floor. Then the sounds of liquid dripping.
Abathea tried to stifle her terror but she was breathing so quickly that she could not get enough air. This led to her being dizzy as well. Her chest burned with the force in which she used her lungs, desperately trying to take in air without revealing her position. She felt she would faint if not die.
Soon the footsteps bode closer, she began to whimper but trying desperately to silence herself. Her body trembled with such ferocity that the wardrobe frame would occasionally screech.
Louder and nearer the footsteps approach. Her body was so frightened to the point of exhaustion that she almost didn't care if she was discovered…. well almost.
The heavy boots halted right outside her hiding place. The tension was unbearable at that point. Her nails had dug into her thighs and her lips bled from where she was biting in order to keep them from trembling.
Moments passed and she believed that maybe she may have been overlooked. But then… RIP! The doors of the wardrobe were ripped open and she is blinded by the change in light. When her eyes readjusted, she found her father's pale, lifeless head dangled in front of her. Held there by the marauder, “Come on girly, give your father a good night kiss!” This was followed by smooching and smacking sounds.
Abathea shrieked the loudest she ever had, forcing all of the air out of her lungs. Her heart felt like it would explode. There was no way to escape but to draw herself deeper into the wardrobe. But before she could, she was violently jerked out by her hair to land upon the floor.
At his feet, he demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?! We have just started the fun!” he yanked her hair to the point that he had elevated her off of the ground. Her head shot with intense pain as she was suspended. She frantically kicked her legs and violently shook herself in an effort to break free. All the while, looking up to see the grinning of ugly yellow teeth.
She had struggled to the point of exhaustion but before she yielded, there was the heavy thomp, thomp, thomp of footsteps approaching the homestead door. The sounds indicative of something extremely heavy. Then the chattering of metal plates clacking together and the ringing of chains. The homestead was rocked when the first foot stepped inside the threshold. Followed by another, the wood of the house groaned loudly. The footsteps, heavy and purposeful, came nearer.
Her assailant, also aware, dropped her to investigate. But before he entered the living quarters, she heard the slow grinding of a great sword being pulled from its sheath.
“You want a fight lad?!” demanded the other man. Which was followed by a deep groan and tremendous swoosh before ending in a loud THUCK! Soon after was the moans of a dying man.
Her assailant decreed, “You'll pay for that!” and rushed forward.
She could see from the doorway, a Knight, fully clad in armor, wielding a greatsword. His armor was partially covered by a black tunic.
The marauder charged the Knight which provoked him to draw his sword close. But before the marauder could fully draw his blade, the knight thrusted his greatsword deep into his chest. Blood spilled and the man gasped as air left him. He leaned upon the blade before it was forcefully removed from him. This caused the marauder to drop to the floor. Blood poured from his wound and trickled from his mouth. He gasped and gargled as air escaped his grasp. As he lay there about to die, the Knight dropped to his knee with a loud THUMP! This rocked the home and almost caused Abathea to stumble. There the Knight ushered the last rites of Anon, the goddess of forgiveness.
A deep voice from within the helm prayed, “Holy goddess Anon, forgive this trespasser of his transgressions. May he find peace within your bosom.” He then chanted, “In the name of Anon and the gods of old, I declare you forgiven and indebted to the most merciful Great Lord of Heaven.” He then made a X over the dying man before he rose again. This time the knight plunged the blade into his heart and the gurgling immediately stopped. “Go in peace.” he decreed.
Sheathing his great sword, he turned to Abathea. This frightened her and she stepped back. He kneeled once more with a heavy THOMP! He immediately took off his helm to reveal a beardless man with sad but compassionate blue eyes. This brought a sense of comfort to Abathea.
He held out a gauntleted hand and stated softly, “Be not afraid little one.”
And with reluctance, she took it. And has been by his side ever since.
~~~
It is a cool Autumn night and a light drizzle rains from the heavens. There the party sits deep in the forest of reds and oranges while leaves fall gracefully to the ground.
The group is huddled around a makeshift fire that flickers and brings warmth to an otherwise cold and foreboding place.
Camping in these woods was not the first or best choice. But given the circumstance, it pays to be discreet.
Abathea, now sixteen, is the youngest of the group. After much ordeal, she has blossomed into a beautiful young woman. And under the tutelage of the knight, Sir Jakob Wren, she has learned a great many things by becoming his aid. Now it is highly unusual for a knight to have a female aide but given the condition in which she was found, one could say she owes him a debt of gratitude. Orphaned and alone when he found her at the age of twelve, her home and family slaughtered by marauders. He gave her a choice, he could drop her off at the next town, or she could follow him where she would be fed, clothed, and on occasion…paid. As one could imagine, she chose the latter and has been faithfully in his service ever
In company with them is also Wilberht, and Edwulf. Companions of theirs for many moons, and of whom they trust with their life.
There sitting on a fallen log, her mentor Sir Jakob Wren of House Wren. Groomed at a young age to be a master of war, now in his mid age he is a master of none. Unbeknownst to Abathea, his family home and name were all but destroyed leaving him as the only heir and survivor. At about fifty years now, his face has shown considerable weathering despite its chronic paleness that stems from the heavy helm he wears. In fact, he is constantly clad in iron with a full suit of armor, the only heirloom that has not yet been burned.
It was ultimately his decision to camp here for the night despite the cold and the rain. He preferred the safety of the woods rather than an inn in a village. And for good reason, in the last coming months, war has ravaged the region leaving nothing unscaved. Another feud between Lords although not surprising, this one has become increasingly violent. Lord Kilgar’s, of House Verillion, only son and heir was ambushed and assassinated by mercenaries, whom he believed had been sent by The True King Daunte of House Canto. Although there is no way to fully prove this story, it has not stopped Kilgar from raising an army and pillaging his way to the royal capital of Verdinani.
Towns have become a dangerous attraction, and while the group may get wet, they won't get killed.
Wilberht is a former Brethren Ranger, an order of well renowned archers and huntsmen who are loyal to House Wren. He joined their company after learning of Sir Jakob’s lineage to House Wren. So apon finding that Jakob was the heir and sole survivor, he pledged his fidelity to him immediately and with the only regrets that the Rangers did not come to their aid sooner. He tends to be quiet but very analytical. Wisdom of long years at forty four, his consul is constantly sought and appreciated by Jakob.
The most recently acquired member of the group is Edwulf, a Man of the North. A mercenary who stems from the frigid mountains of Northgrad, a place well known for hardy meade and fierce warriors.
Once upon a time, the Men of the North waged battle against their southern neighbors in a hundred years long war known as the Winter Crusades. In time, the kingdoms of the south united in a great crusade against the Men of the North. After many fierce and large battles, the northern capital of Stonekeap was captured by the Southern Armies. But this was not before the Northmen poisoned their lands in a desperate bid to hold off their besiegers. Centuries later, the lands still hold that very poison in which no crops can grow and no livestock can graze. This in turn has left the kingdom in a constant impoverished state. And the men who are born here must learn to fight and die by the sword. Family clans have emerged, and are in constant conflict with what little resources the region has left. And because of previous resentment for their actions, the south hardly conducts trade with them. This has led to conflicts of loot, pillage and piracy for survival. And though a few Northmen come down from the mountains to dwell within the Southerlands, they are still eyed with suspicion and scorn.
Edwulf, despite his upbring, typically has a jolly yet provocative demeanor. His customs are of drinking and lusting, or whatever warring may come his way. His services were first purchased but then earned by Jakob. He has grown to respect Sir Jakob, not bad by the standards of a Northman, he does however resent Wilberht. Edwulf’s head-first approach is usually counteracted and succeeded by Wilberht's tactical and oftentimes diplomatic constitution. But since Jakob favors Wilberht's judgment highly, Edwulf resists the urge to split the Ranger's head with his axe. And as for Abathea, he has grown to respect her company. At first he believed her to be Jakob's wench, but he soon discovered her innate ability to charm with her resourcefulness. Also Jakob has made it specifically clear that she is exempt from any and all romantic gestures. Oh well, there are plenty of wenches out there somewhere.
“Kilgar’s army is moving north, they will reach Chambois in a fortnight by now,” states Wilberht while leaning against A tree and studying the forest.
Abathea utters, “Do you think we should turn back?” Her deep blue eyes, illuminated by fire light, gaze at him for wisdom.
“No,” Jakob responds sternly, “King Daunte has called for aid and as an ally to House Canto, I intend to oblige. We continue.”
“Sire you must understand that this venture could be considered suicide. Kilgar’s army numbers well over twenty thousand, including several thousand Corsack Horsemen.” Wilberht rebukes. His sturdy yet withered face has seen much battle to come to such a conclusion. His brown eyes passionately try to dissuade Jakob from the perils they face.
Edwulf replies, “As long as there is coin and women involved, I don’t care.” He offers a toothy grin which emerges behind a flowing red beard tied into knots at the ends with metal bits. His teeth are a horrible yellow and in places broken.
Wilberht raises an eyebrow at Edwulf and states, “You do know that Kilgar has recruited thousands of Northmen. You would be fighting against your own kind.”
Edwulf replies simply, “Kin or not, coin is still coin.” he grins again, his blue eyes alight from the flames. It reveals the diagonal slash from his left eye to his right cheek. A scar no doubt taken from battle.
Wilberht rolls his eyes, vehemently disgusted at the Men of the North's complete lack of loyalty. He groans.
This in turn provokes Edwulf to rise from his seated position on the ground. He begins to growl in anger.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Enough of this.” commands Jakob. “Abathea, how long until we reach Chambois?”
She responds, taking out a map while trying to shield it from the rain. “Says we can be there within a week's time at our rate.”
Edwulf butts, “They will be all dead by the time we arrive,” in his growling deep voice.
Wilberht responds, “Chambois has a sturdy wall. If they don’t capitulate, it could be a lengthy siege.”
Abathea utters, “Couldn't they just go around it? We know Kilgar's goal is to take Verdinani anyway.”
Wilberht rebukes, “Chambois is a vital trade hub on the river Ree, ignoring it would mean leaving behind substantial coin. Not to mention the city has sizable food stores which no doubt Kilgar will use to feed his army.”
“Speaking of food, when shall we eat again?” asks Edwulf.
Abathea replies, “We have just enough food to make it another day.”
“I will seriously eat Ponko this time.” utters Edwulf.
“Ponko” is the company mule that has been in service for just over a year. It was Abathea who affectionately gave it its name. It carries the heaviest of packs and is striden with saddle packs.
Abathea cries, “Not this again!”
Wilberht groans, “You buffoon, I have already told you that that Mule is not for eating! Are all of you Northman this dimwitted?!” His face is full of annoyed scorn.
Edwulf grins again, “Jokes on you! I don't even know what dimwitted means!”
Wilberht scolds, “How about stupid?!”
I'm sure you know what that means.”
“Aye, I know what that one means,”
Edwulf smiles, his annoyance of the Ranger gives him great entertainment.
Wilberht is about to scold again when Jakob decrees in his booming voice, “Gentlemen! Enough of this! Ponko is not to be eaten! We travel to Chambois and that is final. There should be a village nearby, we will restock and continue. Until then, I expected you two to behave yourselves.” He takes a breath and then utters, “We leave by first light. Gather rest, the journey will be long.”
Wilberht agrees, “Right, I will take the first watch. Rest well my Liege.” He then eyes Edwulf who grins, sticking his tongue out at him.
Edwulf then sits leaning against a tree holding a smile upon his face. His enjoyment satisfied by aggravating the Ranger. Such mischief makes him merry.
Abathea asks softly, “If it is alright my Liege, I would wish to retire for the evening?”
“Go ahead. But Abathea, wear your chain tomorrow. Trouble may be afoot.”
He refers to the heavy chain mail he had acquired. She however dislikes wearing it because it is quite cumbersome for her and now admittedly less flattering. But it's protection is superb, and it is most unusual for an aide to possess such armor, much less a young woman.
“Thank you my Liege.” She rises and enters the makeshift tent erected specifically for her privacy. A level of kindness afforded to her by the company especially since she is of a maturing age.
Soon the party is asleep, with Edwulf and Wilberht taking turns on watch. Also Edwulf eyes Ponko with devious, hungry eyes. One day he will make a meal out of that Ass.
Abathea awakens from the light which shines through the holes in her canvas tent. The early morning brings with it a certain chill. She can hear the voices of the others indicating that she is the last to wake. An odd development given she is usually the first to start and often makes a meal before the others rise. Maybe their journey has been more fatiguing than once thought.
She quickly dons her breeches and soles. And she also reluctantly places upon herself the heavy chain mail, and on top of that a brown tunic. In this attire, she appears more as a man which is unbecoming of a young woman. Though her feminine qualities are not yet exaggerated, this does have the benefit of allowing her to be disguised as a boy. In hostile lands, this deception can be most beneficial indeed. But she has not been directed by Jakob to take up such a ruse. So in that manner she takes time to braid her long blond hair that easily exceeds her shoulders. Though she longs for more feminine attire, she does prefer the practicality of her current clothing.
She dons her iron leg braces and vambraces. Considerably modest armament for an aide but completely unheard of for a woman. Her master Sir Jakob sought to ensure that she was well armored for their adventures. She also ties around her waist a scabbard which possesses a small and rather light short sword, which she has found to be quite easy to spar with. Jakob had it specially made for her.
She kisses the small wooden necklace from around her neck. It is of the idol of Edith, goddess of loving kindness and her last surviving heirloom, before exiting the tent.
As the bright sunlight rebounds radiantly from her face as she squints her eyes to the others are gathered around a dying fire munching on a roasted meat.
Edwulf spots her first and gleams a smile, “Don't worry lass, it's not Ponko.”
She glares at him and rolls her eyes while giving a huff and a slight smile. Even though he annoys her, she does find him humorous.
She does notice that Jakob is absent from the meal. He is instead found to be tending Ponko, gingerly petting the mare’s mane. He adjusts the packs around the mule’s harness. He also gently strokes his black beard as in deep thought.
Jakob is still in his armor, preferring to sleep with it on in preparation for any trouble which may come. The armor as a whole can weigh as much as a half fully grown man. It It is pockmarked with scratches and dents but most striking is the emblazoned gold crest upon the breast plate. It is of a sword within a shield flanked by angelic wings, the sigil of House Wren. It's elegant gold instensuling is defaced by multiple scratches representing the heavy usage of the armor. He wears over it a black tunic which leads her to be curious as to why he always chooses to hide such a beautiful crest. In fact he never reveals his House name in public, leading her to always wonder why.
It is true that Sir Jakob has been in many battles, and has bested many advisaries. But there is one battle that he won't describe, the destruction of House Wren. Nor will he tell of his part in the battle. In fact almost no one knows the details of such an engagement. There were no survivors to tell, except for Jakob.
This has remained a mystery to the group but most especially Abathea who has been by his side the longest
“Here love, you should eat.” says Wilberht offering a roasted hare’s leg.
Abathea takes it and eats sitting upon a fallen log. The dying fire still produces warmth on an otherwise cold and gloomy day.
Edwulf is fast at work dismantling the tent she was just in. Rolling the canvas and sticks into a bundle. “I sure hope there weren't any delicacies in there.” Edwulf grins. He often remarks about her maidenhood, much to the dismay of Jakob.
Before Jakob can scold, Abathea jeers, “I already packed them this time.”
Edwulf smirks at the revelation. The last time she was not as tidy, many of her undergarments were strewn about. This led to much embarrassment within Abathea at the time. So by now it has become a game between the two in order to see which one may be caught unprepared. Abathea had made the most recent blow by throwing the unaware Edwulfs's socks into a pond.
Although these games annoy Wilberht, Jakob seems to enjoy these displays of comradery.
Jakob returns and asks, “Abathea, what is the nearest village?”
“Orestatd sire.”
“And it's allegiance?”
“Unknown sire.”
“Then we shall be cautious. We embark at once.”
The party travels down a dirt path that is flanked by the forest and falling orange leaves. The morning is cast by gray skies which block the sun's rays and warmth.
Abathea follows close behind Ponko while Sir Jakob guides him. Jakobs heavy armor clangs and cracks with each step.
Wilberht leads the group keeping cautious eye on the surroundings. His green clock is up to provide warmth but also hides his bald head.
Edwulf follows behind holding his battle ax over his shoulder. His attire contains a fur lined coat that is open down the middle revealing his rather well developed abdomen and chest. His coat is dyed orange which is an unusual color for the south but a sign of pride for the Northmen. In a desolate and frozen land, the means of distinguishing rank and family is by brightly colored attire. He has black leggings that are covered by iron leg armor. His long red hair is unkempt and ragged unlike his well kept beard.
After several hours of travel, Edwulf speaks In his gravelly voice, “Hopefully this town has a brothel, I am in need of a dirty whore.”
Jakob stops, obviously perturbed.
Abathea immediately begins blushing.
Jakob approaches him and demands "What have I told you about making such comments in her presence?”
“No my Leige it is fine, I find no ill offense.” she says trying to hide her flustered cheeks.
Jakob states, “You are of bearing age now….so I do.” He continues, “Abathea, I could not defend you from the marauders. But I will shield you from the other evils of this world.” He then turns to stare at Edwulf.
“It is quite alright my Liege, I am of an age in which I find it humorous now,” she pleads.
Jakob turns to her with a face of quiet anger.
“Sire, Trouble is afoot.” announces Wilberht. The other three turn to look while he draws his bow.
Ahead of them are bodies, bodies hanging in the trees. Corpses hung by nooses dangle like chimes from the oranging trees that flank the road. Dozens of them bloated and pale, faces distraught.
Edwulf utters, “We must be close then.”
Abathea stares at them in horror, she had not seen such barbarism in her travels before. The corpses of men, but what horrified her most is that observation that each of them were naked.
Jakob quickly joins Wilberht and asks, “How far?”
“Close Sire.”
“This was recent, the bodies are not yet putrid. Be on guard.” He then commands, “ Abathea, disguise yourself.”
Abathea quickly takes a maroon cap and pervasively tucks her hair into it, revealing not a strand.
Edwulf belches, “Finally a battle, my ax yearns for blood!”
Jakob rebukes, “We are too few. We advance with caution.”
After a short travel, the smell of burning becomes ever prevalent. Then they come across the scolding ruins of what once was a small village. Homes if not gutted and blackened by flame are adjacent to heaps of black smoldering debris of what was once structures. The fatal failings of the village was that it possessed no wall in a time of war.
“On guard.” commands Jakob as they enter the ruins.
A new foul scent reveals itself to Abathea's senses, on which she has not smelled in a long time but she is all too familiar with. The putrid odor of burnt flesh.
“Who…who could have done this?” Abathea shutters to ask, “This couldn't have been Kilgar… could it?
“No.” utters Sir Jakob.
“Aye this is not the work of Northmen, not bloody enough.” Edwulf states.
“No this is by Corsack Horsemen.” states Wilberht having fought against them in a previous campaign.
Abathea asks, “What shall we do, Sire? Shall we search for survivors?
“No, there are none. We continue.”
As the party treks amongst ruins, Abathea turns to find a horrific scene. There in the common area are several dozens of charred bodies in a circle. Their hands and legs were bound by chains. Not even children were spared.
Abathea is repulsed by this sighting that sends her into a turmoil she has not felt in a long while. Violent memories of her vilage burning fill her mind. She begins to tremble as she remembers that night. But the she looks at Sir Jakob and remembers his kindness. He will defend her like he always has. “Should we bury them?” she asks.
Wilberht replies, “There isn't much left to bury.”
Jakob goes to the circle of disfigured corpses, kneels alone and says a silent prayer. A ritual he has performed countless times for any fallen, ally or foe alike.
As he does so, Edwulf groans, “Damn shame, they burned all the meade.” He sighs then says, “....I was at least hoping for a bath.”
Abathea asks in astonishment, “Since when do you bathe?”
“Aye, the bath wasn't for me lass,” he states with a devilish grin.
Abathea can't help but chuckle, “You're horrid!”
He upholds his mischievous smile causing Abathea to continue chuckling.
Jakob returns which stirs him to silence. He takes funeral prayers very seriously and thus expects his company to be somber. He utters, “We continue.”
After further trek, the company settles the evening again within the forest well off the beaten road. They are gathered around the warmth of a fire as the evening sun begins to decay, painting the skies above the forest canopy alive with deep purples and pinks.
“Abathea,” demands Edwulf, “ Come, we are to continue your training.”
She follows him to a place just with in sight of the fire but far enough to give her room. This training is the art of throwing small knives, a skill she has found difficult to master.
“I don't see why I must continue to practice. It is apparent my skill has shown no improvement.”
“Do you really think that blade will bode well against a man hell bent on robbing your maidenhood? Distance will be your greatest ally in a fight.”
He hands her three knives that are far heavier then they should appear.
He commands, “Attack this tree.”
She nods and musters all her strength. With a heave, she launches the dagger at its target. The blade, however, is harmlessly deflected and ricochets away with a metal ringing.
“See?!” she decries dismayed.
“Edwulf shakes his head and states, “ It is not about strength lass. It is about control. You do not force the blade.”
She huffs, aggravated, “How do you do it then?”
“Like so,” he reveals a dagger and cuffs it within his hand. In a sharp but almost graceful swing, the knife flies straight and true into the tree. He then utters, “You must do so in grace, it is an art not an ax.”
By that time Wilberht has joined them, “Any progress this time?”
“Not much.” Edwulf states, “Her frustration outmatches her determination.”
He replies, “I think she would do better with a bow.”
Edwulf rebukes, “She cannot conceal a bow. Daggers will serve her well.”
She butts in, “But I do not like the daggers.”
Edwulf replies, “You will.” Then in a quick session, he pulls a concealed dagger and hurles it at the tree. But before it can reach its target, it is struck midair by an arrow from the exceptionally skilled Wilberht.
“I curse you to be wenchless!” Edwulf jeers, furious.
Wilberht responds starkly, “Rangers are celibate.”
“Aye, I know that. It is also why you shave your head. So tell me, is that the only thing that’s shaved?” he remarks snidely.
“You are in the presence of a maiden,” he replies, annoyed.
Edwulf declares, “She is of age,” and informs her, “These Rangers are required to shave themselves stark bald. A sign of devotion.”
She looks at Wilberht, “Is…is that true.”
Wilberht pauses, his face contorts then blank, he then utters ashamed, “...Yes.”
Edwulf and Abathea burst into laughter while Wilberht frowns.
She then goes and sits upon a fallen log and asks, “So tell me again why Kilgar is marching on Verdinani?”
“Kilgar claims that he has proof of House Verillion's rights to the throne.”
“But I thought House Canto was the Royal house?”
“It is.”
“I don't understand,” Abathea states, confused
Wilberht huffs, and then says, “Then I will teach you again… this time do pay attention.”
Abathea nods.
“There are eight House Families, all with kinship to the Crown. Each House has their own lands and subjects but all respond to the decrees of the True King. Since King Daunte of House Canto has no heirs and his wife deceased, the crown then passes to the next house of closest lineage.”
“Ok then which House is next?”
Wilberht pauses, “Well err, we don't know.”
“What do you mean we don't know?”
“The next house lineage was recorded in the Decree of Elders, written in blood and agreed upon by all houses–.”
Abathea interjects, “But–”
“But the Great Library burned during the Winter Crusades.”
“By the Northmen?”
Edwulf burst into laughter, “Dear girl, do you really believe Northmen would waste good fire on a library?”
Abathea looks to Wilberht for an answer.
“It is suspected that one of the Houses burned it down along with the Decree of Elders.”
“But why?”
Edwulf answers, “So the other Houses can claim rights to the crown.”
Wilberht agrees, “With no way to prove which House is next in line, each House tries to lay claim.”
“But how would they prove that?” Abathea asks, frustrated, confused by the advanced politics.
“By the Council of Elders, wise men who represent each House and are well versed in legal matters. They will review each claim and determine the true heir. The decision of the Council cannot be rebuked… not even by the King.”
“Ok, so what proof does Kilgar have?”
Edwulf responds bluntly, “He doesn't.”
Abathea again looked curiously at Wilberht for an answer.
“Kilgar claimed that his son was heir. But when he was slain, Kilgar accused King Daunte of assassination. This has given him all he needs to lead a campaign of vengeance to claim the throne.”
Abathea is even more confused.
Edwulf groans, “Kilgar is using his son's assassination as proof that House Verillion is the true heir to the throne. And that King Daunte is trying to prevent that and hold on to power. This acknowledging the claim.”
Abathea, with sudden understanding, cries, “But they can't prove that!”
Wilberht replies, “Doesn't matter, House Hammond and House Rezel have already alined with him. They believe House Verillion to be the next royal house. And with King Daunte too ill to lead an army, Kilgar intends to take it by force.”
“But…but what about the Council of Elders? They could easily rescind him.”
Edwulf remarks, “Not if he slaughters them first.”
Wilberht shakes his head at the comment, “The Council of Elders is highly respected. Doing so would ignite a larger conflict.”
Abathea asks, “Then how does he intend to persuade them?”
Wilberht responds, “I'm…I'm not sure.”
Edwulf groans, “Great Lord of Heaven! You southernmen's politics are so convoluted. We northmen just duel to the death for the crown of thorns. Whoever survives, rules Stonekeap.”
“Hence is a very bloody process, and not well agreed upon by the families.” Wilberht interjects.
“Aye,” Edwulf replies with a smile, “But we Northmen like it that way.”
“Abathea!” commands the booming voice of Sir Jakob.
She rushes to him, “Yes my Liege?”
“Prepare to retire for the evening, and ensure Ponko is fed.”
“It will be done my Leige.”
She goes to the gray mule and rubs on his main, feeling the prickly coarse hairs upon her fingers. This causes Ponko to swish his ears in response. His brown eyes look to her. She retrieves from a pouch a small apple, and is a little dismayed at what little they have left. Without a proper pasture, Ponko can only eat what he is able to carry. This has caused, at least in Abathea’s eyes, the mule to lose weight. She worries foe the poor creature, but there is simply not enough food for all of them. Abathea truly would rather starve than to see him ill. She offers the apple and in exchange the creature chomps down on it with a crunch. His tale wags if even if only. She pets his mane and then presses her cheek into his side, “Oh Ponko, we will get you a proper meal soon. I promise.” The mule nods its head in reply.
Soon the group gathers around the bonfire, sharing chunks of hard bread. Abathea stares into the center of the fire, watching as the individual flames dance and flicker. The scent of burning flesh fogs her nostrils. The sight of charred and chained people vivid in her mind. Then…that night…that awful horrid night. Its dread lies deep within her soul, tugging at the mere strings of her despair. It seeks to resurface from its deep buried tomb within her. Emotion she tries to lock away, but it creeps ever so often into her consciousness. Feelings of anger, fear, sadness, and loathing fill her heart. She knows not if to yell fiercely or cry. Her home and family robbed of her. Her innocence was so violently violated. The sight of death reopens festering wounds of which she wishes would stay closed. With head spinning in turmoil, she cannot force herself to eat. This is not the first occurrence of these upsets and she fears it will not be the last.
Edwulf groans and announces, “What I would do for meat right now….I might even give up drinking and whoring!”
Wilberht stops eating and stares at him. Abathea raises her eyebrow.
Edwulf then agrees, “ No you're right, you're right. I could never give up whoring.”
He notices not that Jakob is staring at him. He states, “Do not worry, I will not eat the Ass…not this time at least.”
Wilberht frowns, annoyed, and Abathea chuckles. Jakob continues staring, apparently unamused.
Abathea retires to the privacy of her tent. There she begins the ritual of first removing the heavy chainmail. Upon doing so, her body is lighter and more relieved. She then takes off her shin guards and vambraces, her body welcoming their removal. She then opts to remain in her breeches and tunic though she would prefer the comfort of a sleeping gown. Her pale skin smudged with dirt and disgust from their long travels. Oh how she would long for a bath! Finally removing her soles, she finishes the ritual by kissing the idol of Edith which hangs upon her neck. She still can hear the others discuss strategies and plans for the upcoming day. A day in which she hopes they will find a village, preferably intact. Not long after is when slumber takes her.