A/N: Hey guys...I told you I'd be back! I'm so happy to present to you guys the sequel to my Inheritance Cycle epic, "The Truth About Lies". Hopefully, y'all remember the epilogue of that story ;) The prologue is meant to give you a teensy-tiny glimpse of the main conflict for the majority of the story and it takes place far into the future, but the first chapter picks up about two weeks after Chapter 71 of "The Truth About Lies", and there will be quite a few time jumps throughout this tale, which will always be indicated. If you have any questions, don't hesitate to drop me a line.
If you guys are new here, I would highly encourage you to go read the first story, as you might be a bit confused about what's going on. Either way, I hope all of you enjoy. Drop me a line and let me know what you think!
Shadows seemed to swirl in the dark corners of the room, taking up residence where they were neither welcome nor invited. He could not be sure if they were real or imagined; day had faded to night many hours ago, yet he could not bring himself to leave this place. That seemed to be happening more, as of late. The longer this incessant conflict waged, the heavier it weighed on the Jarl's mind. His body rested on the throne of his forefathers, though his mind found no sanctuary in the hall where he had reigned for nearly ten years. Tension hunched his shoulders and pained his back, making him even more irritable than normal. Jarl Ingvar was not a patient man by nature, and the current position he found himself in only served to make his temper shorter.
Door hinges squealed in protest as they were made to move, but the Jarl's gaze did not leave the dusty stone floor of his receiving chamber. His chin rested on a curled fist, the golden signet ring he always wore digging into the bearded flesh of his cheek. The door closed, hinges squeaking once more, and the sound of footsteps followed. They were hurried, and the Jarl could only guess at their purpose. He had no concept of the time, so long had his thoughts consumed him this night. But he knew the hour was late; the torches burned low in their sconces, and moonlight pooled on the floor where it poured from an open window. A pair of pointed, dark-leather boots stepped into the circle of light, directly in the Jarl's line of sight.
Slowly, his gaze slid up to look the man in the eye. The dark green tunic he wore marked him as belonging to Clan Ylfring, and the condition of his person suggested to the Jarl that he had traveled a long way to get here. His hair was wet and stringy; crystals of snow still clung to the strands. A fine layer of dirt blanketed his homespun cloak, and his bloodshot eyes looked haggard from exhaustion, ringed by dark circles.
The Jarl stared at him a moment longer before drawing in a deep breath. "Speak," he intoned quietly, his baritone voice cracking slightly from hours of disuse. The hand that had been supporting his head a moment before now rested on his temple, a false show of leisure.
"Jarl Ingvar," the man replied, pounding a clenched fist against his chest and inclining his head, "I bring word from Freyr Reynar. The enemy have pushed back the line by their unholy means. Clans Ylfring, Kjær, and Åasgrin have suffered losses in the hundreds, totaling more than a thousand warriors. Freyr Reynar humbly requests aid from Clan Völsung and the righteous leader of all clans, Your Lordship." At the end of his report, the messenger dropped to one knee and tucked his chin against his chest, his right fist still pressed to his heart in a show of respect as the left braced against the floor.
For a few, agonizing moments of silence, the Jarl ruminated on what the messenger had relayed. It had not shocked him to learn that the enemy had pushed back their lines... What had shocked him, however, was the sheer magnitude of their losses. Hundreds? How was this possible? The warriors of the clans were well-trained and battle-hardened. Most of the men had been raiding the coasts for a majority of their lives, and the young men had been reared with the sole purpose of battle in mind. The Jarl had seen to that, as his father and grandfather had...
Finally, he broke his silence. "How many are they?" he asked, voice deceptively calm. The messenger's hesitation was palpable. It did not escape the Jarl's notice how the man's supporting arm trembled slightly. When he did finally answer, his voice was quiet and meek.
"The living number twenty, Your Lordship."
It felt like a flash of lightning coursed through his veins, and the Jarl felt his eyes widen ever so slightly. If the messenger had braved a look at the Jarl's face, he would have paled at the rage in his eyes. It took a few steady breaths before Jarl Ingvar found his composure once again, and even more before he could speak without wanting to roar.
"And... the dead?" he asked lightly, as though he was questioning the man on the weather.
The Jarl could hear as he swallowed a lump in his throat before answering. "Five-thousand... Your Lordship..."
This time, he could not control his ire. A fist the size of a blacksmith's hammer slammed against the arm of his throne, causing the wood to groan and split under the force of it. The messenger flinched, but to his credit, he did not fall out of his obeisance. "How did this happen!" Ingvar bellowed, raising up so that he was standing now. His hands were shaking from the force of how hard he clenched them. "I gave Reynar explicit instructions: to ambush them in the night before they had a chance to—"
"They knew we were coming, My Lord!" the messenger shouted desperately, mustering his courage. "When we arrived, they had already raised their armies. Someone told them we were coming, Jarl."
The rage churning within the Jarl's chest suddenly stilled, and he felt his heart slow to its regular pace. The man's words settled over him, leaving a blanket of silence in their wake. His receiving chamber was quiet as a tomb, and nearly as cold as one. Jarl Ingvar shifted his gaze to the open window, his mind turning. His warriors incapable of defeating an inferior enemy, that was something he could not abide. But a traitor... now that was a situation he could handle.
"Return to your Freyr," he said gravely, his thoughts suddenly running wild in a hundred different directions. "Tell him reinforcements will arrive within the week."
The messenger nodded quickly and shot to his feet, turning back towards the door from whence he came. "And tell him—" The Jarl paused until the messenger turned back to him, eyes wary. "Tell him to take stock of his house," Ingvar growled. "Give Freya Anja and Freya Vilde this message as well. When I discover the identity of this traitor, they will rue the day they were ever born into a clan."
Confused yet? Good ;) I'd love to hear your thoughts/questions/theories! :D