He found himself standing in front of the hut, a bit disjointed. Just where was he; he couldn't remember. The loud voices of soldiers and whimpers of tribesmen were quick to remind him.
Yes, he was at the tribe that they had conquered. He could hear the clang of weapons around him while the air held the scent of blood. It seems some skirmishes were still going on. One had to agree that the tribal folk knew how to give a good fight.
But what was he doing here? He felt that he was supposed to go into the hut. His uncle had ordered him to oversee this contingent of soldiers while the main army went further into the savage territory. There might be some insurgents hiding in the huts, so searching them all was a priority.
With the sword raised, he started towards the hut. The tribes lacked resources to make sturdy homes living in this Primal-forsaken land, making it hard for them to grow. Breaking the weak wood gate with a swift kick, he entered the hut.
The inside was standard, if not bare. There were only a few cots, a small kitchen and a few other doors were inside. Quickly refocusing on the task at hand, he started to search for people, keeping his footsteps as silent as possible. It wouldn't do good to lose the element of surprise if there was still a Halvar inside.
The main room was empty, while the cabinets too held nothing of import. The broken coins and tiny jewels might have been a fortune for the residents of this dwelling, but any soldier of his uncle got many times their value as payment, not to say anything about him.
With the search still incomplete, he moved on to other rooms. All the rooms told the same story of an impoverished family and all were equally devoid of life. Moving on to the last room, the storage beside the kitchen, he started his search anew, already expecting the same results as before.
Entering the room, he heard a whimper. Drawing his sword, he set his body in a battle stance and tried to identify the sound's source. There they were, two little children, under one of the shelves. Seeing them gave him a pause, just what should he do with them. Mad with grief, his uncle would have them executed, like all the others before them.
Kill them.
The shadows spoke. Yes, killing them now would be a mercy. Being born in the savage desert was their first mistake and not hiding better was their last.
So unfair.
Yes, it was unfair. It was them who had made mistakes, why should he be the one to correct them. Let Uncle get his hands on them, seeing their execution may lighten his grief a little.
The sound of crying drew his attention back to the children. The older girl was quietening down her crying brother. It seems like she knew what happened to people who annoy their captors.
Profit.
Why shouldn't he profit? He and his soldiers were the ones who captured these savages, but they had to be executed on his uncle's orders. Every single such barbarian would be worth their weight in gold at Silvara.
Jealousy.
Just look at Viscount Carten. That old man had convinced his uncle to allow him to do as he pleases with his captives. Once the campaign ends, the shrewd man would probably sell those 'exotic' captives to the highest bidder.
He took a good look at the children. The girl was malnourished and seemed old enough to have passed her first blood. The boy looked better fed though only a few cycles old, their parents probably thought a Halvar would be better than a Naja.
Savages. Thieves. Slaves.
The girl would probably fetch a good enough price at Silvara slave markets, he evaluated, but the boy would not be worth transporting. Bending down, he took hold of the buy's wrist, dragging him out of his hiding place. It would be better to end his suffering here for only the gallows and some unsavoury men awaited him outside.
Mercy.
It would be a mercy, wouldn't it? So why were there tears in his eyes and his sword shaking?
Kill.
No, he refused. This wasn't him; this wasn't Percivius. These weren't his thoughts but the shadow's lies. He couldn't sell or kill children, no matter which blood flowed in their veins. He started sheathing his sword; when had he placed it near the boy's heart?
The red eyes opened; his shadow smiled. A tendril of shadow nudged his elbow, plunging the sword tip in the boy's chest, piercing his heart.
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Percivius woke up in cold sweat; the nightmares were getting more and more terrible. And more realistic, though he chose to ignore that. And the cold desert wind did his sleep no benefits.
The tent flapped as if to remind him of where he was. Not in the warmth of Cliffpeak, his family's castle, but the outer reaches of the Frozen Desert. Not a place to be in with the cold season approaching.
It had started with the death of his cousin. Lawrance was Uncle Robert's only child, and his untimely demise caused the grief-stricken to start a campaign against the tribes to the north. Warring against the savages in the cold season was not adviseable; the previous records of the Black Wars showed that. But grief made one irrational, reducing a great general like his uncle to a vengeful man. And his retainers and soldiers had no choice but to follow him to their doom.
Getting out of the hard bed was easy. Percivious' body may have had the comforts of a feather bed all his life, but he was no shrivelling maiden. Moreover, the nightmares kept his mind occupied enough that his body forgets to feel tired.
No, it was playing the game with his cousins that was truly hard. All of them were snakes, with every action having an ulterior motive. Well, the Ouroboros is a snake, he thought, amused.
The death of his cousin Lawrance brought an opportunity for the side branches of House Lovare. One that they were unwilling to let go of.
With no brothers and many sisters and cousins, the line of succession was quite vague. Even though the Eternal Throne had recently seen a ruling queen in Queen Caella, the claim of a male cousin could equally contend with a sister. All of which meant that Archduke Lovare's words held a lot more weight than they would in a clear line of succession.
And like his mother almost all other contenders understood that it was the younger generation's political arena. Those who didn't were not important enough to contend with the others.
It led to Percivious and a hand full of his cousins being sent to - "help Archduke Lovare with his grief and quest for vengeance". And with them came their political games, with the breakfast table being one of those political arenas.
Getting to the breakfast tent from his temporary adobe was just a matter of navigating the camp. Though, he made sure to stop and jibe with soldiers.
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Always keep the soldiers happy, his uncle had said, for they hold the army's fate in their hands. Mother would probably disagree, but he believed his uncle to be the correct one here.
Seeing all his cousins present did little to lift his mood. Since the heir's death, all of them had started treating each other as enemies. Plots and traps were behind every word making even a single meal with everyone a chore. And his strong contention for the Archduchy did him little good in the eyes of his cousins, making him a common target for all of them.
And his persistent nightmares removed whatever good cheer he might have had. Either Herr was enjoying playing with his life, or Maella had touched him with misery.
Even in the early dawn, the tent was filled and full of the enticing aroma of food. He could already see cousin Lancaster with Uncle Robert's master-at-arms. As one of the prominent positions in his uncle's retainers, the master-at-arms held a lot of sway in the upcoming decision. Lancaster always enjoyed boasting, Percivius recalled, so it was no surprise that he was trying to impress the man. Talking about a recent expedition that he had led, no doubt hoping it would present him in a good light.
Similarly, cousin Kohen and a few others stood with other ministers. To exhausted to talk with any of them, he beelined to the nearest empty table, signalling a server to bring him his meal. Which he was quick to get.
Eating the food he cursed Lawrance again. The pompous Duke had to die and cause all these problems. If only he had satiated his lust for a day, the realm might not be on the verge of war. And Percivius would not have had to come to this primal-forsaken land to wage a useless war. And would not have had to suffer the nightmares.
The official story might have been that the young prince died heroically while slaying his assassins. But it was common knowledge by those in the know that he had died to a whore. The girl was smuggled into the castle and disguised as a serving wench. After satisfying Lawrance's lust, she had poisoned him and drugged his guards, making a quick getaway.
Percivius had to kill innocents all because Lawrance wanted to try savage meat. But it is the truth of life everyone has to follow their overlord's whims, he lamented.
In the middle of his meal, he observed a pristine white robe swishing in front of him. The wearer, Oroe Lacanis, was not a well-liked person. Nobility and clergy had been against each other in a silent war for centuries, making any priest an unwelcome but necessary sight in a noble gathering.
His mother had told him that it was all due to the clergy's apparent power in the realm as it challenged the Emperor's rule. But he was not naive enough to believe that. Percivius was sure something was going on underneath those still waters.
"Young Lord Corvus seems tired." The priest opened, "Maybe praying to Orus would alleviate your worries."
"Begone priest and let me eat my fill. Go bother the soldiers with your drivel."
Not looking up from his food, Percivius spoke, never one for flimsy politics. And it frustrated him that if his mother had her way he would have to deal with politics his entire life. To his surprise, he didn't hear the expected drag of chair and footsteps.
Looking up, he saw the man looking at him with fanatical eyes. And for the first time noticed a golden glow surrounding the priest. Looking around, bewildered, he saw many men with similar or subdued glows. Mostly his uncle's retainers though, all his cousins and the servants looked drabber.
Mundane
Yes, mundane might be the correct word.
"Lord, would you be interested in taking a walk with me?" The priest asked. "A little fresh morning air might do wonders for the psyche."
He still had the look in his eyes but now behaved a bit more subdued. Almost as if expecting his offer to be rejected. Any other day Percivius might have agreed, but yesterday he had been asked by his uncle to lead a contingent of soldiers to secure the nearby perimeter. And he had to go to the command tent to get his orders.
"Not now." He replied, getting up, he continued, "May the Primals bless your day."
The path to the command tent was straight towards the centre from the canteen. And with a few minutes walk, Percivius stood in front of it. Taking a deep sigh and trying to rub away a budding headache, he entered.
The tent only held the bare essentials and almost no comfort or luxury. His uncle's paradigm was to keep everything clear and orderly. The ostensible items might look pleasing to the eye, but they were nothing but cumbersome burdens on a battlefield. The only luxury allowed was a big table for Uncle Robert to work. And that was where Percivius found his uncle.
Despite being past his prime, Archduke Robert Lovare still had a gravity around him; Easily making the world wait for his opinion. Even though uncle's eyes were red-rimmed under his white mane, he did not look mad in his grief, unlike what the rumours said. His recent decisions looked rash but were not hasty by any means. Percivius believed that uncle Robert had some other motive behind such actions.
His entrance roused uncle Robert from his thoughts but looking at Percivius, his steel-grey eyes narrowed.
"Sit."
Came the Archduke's command and Precivius was quick to comply. The voice reminded him of his younger days when uncle Robert caught him in some mischief. While in the chair he began to think of the past few days, trying to remember any error he committed, almost out of habit.
Somehow he felt the shadows inside the tent thickening. The noise from outside also got subdued.
"You are Awakening." His uncle proclaimed.
It was a statement; there was no questioning uncle Robert. If he said that Percivius was awakening, whatever may it mean, Percivius was awakening.
"First Lawrance's death and now this. It seems Maella had taken a special interest in me."
Uncle Robert cursed. The stoic old man looked tired to Percivius, which made him shudder. He had never seen his uncle look so tired.
"If I may uncle, just what do you mean by Awakening?"
"You hear, I presume, shadows, boy. Your blood is awakening your blessings. It is not secure here to talk more about it even after I have created a barrier. So just tell me, what do you actually hear."
It seems it was not only in his head, he was hearing the shadows. And even though uncle Robert's words seem outlandish, Percivius believed them without any need of proof.
"The shadows, I hear only them uncle. They seep into my nightmares and ask me to do terrible things. Is there a way to stop them?"
"Your shadows are cold and cruel it seems, quite different than Lawrance's. I'll train you after this useless war is over. A camp is not a good place to talk about such matters. It looks like your mother's desire would come true, though."
Setting the matter of inheriting the estate aside, he pondered over uncle Robert's words. Even uncle thought that the war was useless, so why was he continuing it.
"Aren't we waging war for cousin Lawrance's killers?" he asked.
His uncle snorted, "I am on the wrong side of Vesuvic if I wanted to punish my son's murderers. This war is to make those thieves think that we have been fooled."
Percivius knew that House Lovare's position was precarious with many enemies. And his cousin's death has just shown that to be true. With the realm on the verge of war and Vesuvic not knowing its next master, House Lovare was in a crisis.
With a sigh, he continued, "On that night, Vesuvic suffered two attacks. Your cousin's assassination was a distraction to the theft of the Orb of Remembrance."
Despite not knowing what the Orb was, its theft brought out a primal fear in Percivius. The way his uncle spoke made him attach grave importance to it. It seemed House Lovare's survival was dependent upon it. And all this made him curse his cousin even more.