I don't own Eddings world or his characters, however anything that looks unfarmiliar here and doesn't come out of an Eddings book belongs to me entirely.
The Bezerker of Val Marn
Aldirin stood atop a perilously frail timber watchtower, the muscles in his hand frozen into a death grip about his spear shaft. Should anyone care to spring an attack from the pines to the east of Val Marn this morning he would be sure enough to sound the alarm, but he would be useless with his weapon until he'd spent an hour or so by a crackling fire to thaw the ice which now hardened his extremities into place.
As the Sun's first rays touched the clouds above the forest and painted them a deceptively warm shade of rosey pink, his thoughts drifted to the hall of King Jagmet the Wolf Crusher, his lord, master and clan chief, and his pretty blonde daughter who rested therein. Indeed, King Jagmet had been blessed (or perhaps, as some would have it, cursed) with twelve daughters in total, though he had lost four of them to the harsh Alorn winters, and all but one of them was as blonde as their mother Queen Thilde, who had been kept perpetually pregnant in her younger days by her virile husband in the quest for a son and heir. Four years ago his prayers were answered and Belar saw fit to send him little Prince Gortha, and just in time too for Queen Thilde had not since been able to bare a child.
But despite the cornucopia of pretty princesses for him to choose from, there was only one who stirred Aldirin's heart and kept his mind from his duties of Night Watchman this early morning. She was Herilda, Jagmet's thirdborn, and she was the sweetest maid in all of Val Marn in Aldirin's mind. He also considered himself the luckiest man in all of Aloria, for the coming summer he and his beautiful princess would be wed. But for now at least, winter was still upon them. The nights were dark, bitter and long and his mind soon wandered from the private bed chambers of Princess Herlida to his own hard bunk in the barracks, also a part of the King's hall, but with much poorer bed fellows.
Finally as the small town behind him began to stir into action, the morning shift arrived. The black haired brute, Branga, was as thick as an ox in both body and mind and Aldirin had known as soon as he was told Branga would be his relief that morning that he would not leave his post on time. Still he would not report him to their captain, for Branga was a good man at heart, and as hard working a man as any other once he finally got moving.
"Anything to report, Ald?" he asked once he had heaved his massive frame up onto the platform.
"Not a thing, as usual," Aldirin sighed as he flexed his fingers and brushed the frost from his flaming red beard, "There's not a soul for miles who's not sworn fidelity to Jagmet. Val Marn is safe another night."
"My turn up top tomorrow night," grimaced Branga at the prospect of the long night stood atop the haphazard structure, "Do you think I can sneak up a few blankets and catch some rest without the Captain catching me?"
"Belar!" Aldirin spat, "What precisely goes through that thick skull of yours? What do you think Krellick's going to do if he catches you dreaming like a baby up here? Fetch you another pillow?"
Branga rolled his eyes. He was a few years younger than Aldirin, who was himself still just a young man, and he was free and easy to take a few risks.
"I wouldn't be doing anything no one else aint."
"Do you see any blankets here? Do you think I've spent the night sleeping?"
"You could sleep on your feet you could," Branga jibed, "what do you need blankets and a pillow for?"
"Just be careful you don't do anything stupid Branga," Aldirin rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, pinching the bridge of his nose then rubbing back and pulling at his eyelids as he tried to shake the sleep from his mind just enough to make it back to barracks, "if I do get away with anything it's only because I'm part of Krellick's clan. You need to be more subtle. If subtlety is something you're at all familiar with…which I doubt…"
They shared a few more jibes before Aldirin was finally able to leave Branga to his job. He worried about his gigantic friend. He had been born into a clan which marched beneath the banner of the Silver Wolf, a clan which had for generations been at war with the clan of King Jagmet, the clan of the Sea Eagle. Shortly before either of the lads had been born, Jagmet had crushed the clan and had all but obliterated them. A few common riff raff surrendered and one such woman was Branga's mother, Aldirin's subsequent wet nurse. Her child at the time of Aldirin's weaning had died as so many did, but Branga was strong from the off. He grew up as close to a brother as Aldirin would ever know, for his own mother had died in childbirth and his father had never found it in him to take a new wife.
Still, as strong and hard working as he was, and as close to Aldirin's family as he had always been, the Silver Wolf clan was still sneered down on by the other residents of Val Marn. For some, whose clan's had never been in contention with them until they pledged their allegiance to Jagmet, they did it just because they could. Everyone needs an underdog to sneer at, and in Val Marn that dog was a silver wolf.
But enough of such thoughts, Aldirin thought as he caught himself mulling such depressing notions over. He somehow managed to skid across the streets of frozen mud intact and find his way back to barracks where breakfast had long been over (thanks, Branga). He took what remained of a flavourless gruel to warm up, though it was lukewarm at best, buried himself into his scratchy bunk and thought once more of sweet Princess Herilda.
He awoke to the sound of alarm bells and before the fog of sleep fully cleared from his mind he was dragged half up by the collar of his tunic by the Captain of the Guard.
"Alright lads up yer all get, yer King needs yer and yer'll look yer best for him. Full ceremonial and report to the main hall. Yer already late!"
Aldirin was already pulling on his fur lined boots as Krellick stormed from the room barking orders at all who lingered in the hallway. None of the others who had bunked down after their night shift knew what their sudden wake up call was all about, but it wasn't hard to tell what they thought about it. Twitching a sack cloth blind out of the way, Aldirin could see from the Sun that he had only slept a couple of hours. It was yet to reach its midday zenith.
It didn't take long before they had made their way to Jagmet's hall where the old self styled king of Val Marn looked about as bleary eyed as they. He was known for sleeping in late and had no doubt been roused from his chambers by the sound of those infernal bells which had only just now stopped.
Aldirin and his mates still had no idea why they had all been called. It seemed that every warrior in the town who was not on duty had been brought into the hall, and all dressed in their finest. His own father, chief of the Black Boar clan, sat at Jagmet's right hand side, their standards held aloft by small straw haired lads. In hierarchical order therein sat the clan chiefs of the Hawk and the Pine Martin clans. There was a representative of the Silver Wolf, but he wore no armour and bore no standard, a sign of the clans' subjugation. They had yet to prove their honour and loyalty to Jagmet on the battlefield.
To his left sat the matronly Queen Thilde with her five eldest daughters gathered behind her as her handmaidens. The young ones, including the Prince, were no doubt safely ensconced in their nursery. They were clothed in fine furs and richly dyed wools, their necks and fingers heavy with gold and jewels. The King and Queen wore their recently fashioned crowns which were no more than battered golden circlets. Aldirin, for all his intimacy with the royal family, had never seen them dressed and positioned as such, nor the warriors or clan chiefs arranged in such a manner. Certainly never on such last minute notice. A hushed whisper ran through the crowd gathered, wondering at what was going on. His father was bent close to the ear of the king, whispering carefully. Aldirin could not make out his words for the beard that hid half of his face, so he shot a questioning look over to his betrothed, but she was in quiet council with her sisters, a worried look upon her sweet face.
Shortly after he had taken position against the north wall of Jagmet's hall, a scrawny young boy ran through the doorway to the king's seat. The old man heard his whispered message then gave him a coin for his services. He disappeared off behind the dais to stand with the standard bearers, and the king stood.
He was tall and robust, though age and old battle wounds had done their work on his back to bend him forward, making him look much smaller and diminutive than he had been just a few years before. His coarse flaxen hair was peppered with iron grey and his ruddy skin, scarred and wrinkled as it was, was almost constantly twisted into a grimace. All in Val Marn knew that he was a just and fair leader, but on first appearance he was just a bad tempered old bear with a bad tooth. He took his walking staff and banged it against the wooden dais, which made a surprisingly loud noise. All in the hall came to immediate attention, but their leader said nothing more. He took his seat again and gestured towards the entrance of the hall. A thing which could only be described from first glance as a ghost had appeared there, dressed in gleaming chain mail (which was obviously too big for him) and white fox furs. He was crowned with an elaborate head piece that seemed to be a cross between a Morind relic, a war helmet and most astonishingly, a kingly crown.
The young man, whose beard was still just a smear across his thin pale face, was almost completely white. His skin and hair gleamed like snow and his eyes were like glacial ice. The unwholesome looking albino boy stepped forward slowly. His standard bore the image of a white fox, and his not insubstantial escort of warriors bore the vulpine face painted on their breastplates. It would have looked impressive had the dye not been flaking away or smeared or faded. Once they finally reached the centre of the hall, and the boy king was sure all eyes were turned his way, he cleared his throat, and a crackling voice which betrayed his youth announced;
"I am King Gerhyn the White, King of Belarheim and Clan chief of the White Foxes, and I have come to accept the unconditional surrender of Val Marn."
Authors Notes: This is my first ever fanfic, so any criticism/reviews are more than welcome. Just some background information...don't worry that there aren't any cannon characters, because they're coming up within the next couple of chapters! The story takes place in Eddings' "Prehistoric World" - the world before it was split by Torak, and before even all of the disciples of Aldur have been gathered together (as you will see!). As for the political stylings, the Alorns are mentioned in the original books to have been a tribal people living in clans. At this particular moment in time, one or two clan chiefs who have gained power through wars are bringing clans together into small proto-nations and styling themselves as "kings". There is no strict political system beyond he who has the "kings" favour and he who does not. Any other questions I would be happy to answer :)