The shoddy merchant carts were poorly suited to the demands of the trail, haphazardly bouncing and crashing as they slowly wound their way through the ancient hills and forests. The caravan's massive cargo – a gratuitous load of grain and fresh venison – did little to make the journey any easier. The nameless grunt assigned to harnessing the supplies clearly held his job in low regard; the fastenings were so few and so poorly done that even the tiniest bump would send loose rations rolling whimsically away into the pasty dirt.

The convoy had traveled far today, and they had further to go if they were ever to reach their destination. In typical fashion, they had been given little information with regard to the purpose of their expedition, and little reason to believe they would ever find out. No concrete mention had been made of their destination either, but that was a mystery easily unraveled; even a novice woodsman would have known that their trail was carrying them onwards towards the western tribes, where the last remaining followers of the Old Ways were assembling the remains of their hosts in a final, quixotic display of defiance.

No true man of Sweboz would dare to publicly question the judgment of their beloved king, but there were more than a few eyebrows raised at the decision to put his son Harjawulfaz in command of the operation. The young man was energetic, to be sure, but his princely wisdom and temperament were still painfully constrained by the boundaries of boyhood. Where Heruwulfaz approached statecraft with a gentle touch, Harjawualfaz had shown himself to be something of a lumbering giant, effectively battering his way through dilemmas by virtue of sheer stubbornness and tenacity. This indomitable spirit, combined with equal amounts of wisdom and ability, was the making of a great and worthy ruler; without it, it amounted to nothing more than the useless pugnacity of a tavern brawler.

"I hate these stupid wagons," the prince whined as their cart cleared an especially monstrous rut. "They bounce all the time and there's nowhere comfortable for a man to sit. When I am finally made king, they shall be banned."

The horse driver, a man whose name was as forgettable and inconsiderable as his station, was having an increasingly difficult time of hiding his amusement. "I don't know if that'd be such a good idea, your lordship," the servant chuckled in his charmingly vernacular tongue. "The soothsayers can work many wonders, but I've yet to see the magic that can make a carriage fly – 'cept in my dreams, of course."

"I never said anything about flying," Harjawulfaz retorted irritably, wincing helplessly as they cleared yet another bump. "We ought to just take boats out of the water, and put wheels on them. Then it would be just like sailing, but over land instead of the sea."

The driver, not entirely certain if he was supposed to laugh or not, settled for a toothless smile. "I seem to recall they have those already," he teased. "I believe they call them 'wagons'."

"Never you mind!" the Prince spat, ill-humor hanging stubbornly about him like a somber cloud. "What business does a miserable layman have talking to me anyway? You're just as dull and stubborn as my father, you are!"

The servant grimaced slightly as he absorbed this latest salvo of curses from the prince. "Of all the words I have heard used to describe the king," he began seriously, "I have never heard 'dull' and 'stubborn' among them. Perhaps we are not thinking of the same person…"

Harjawulfaz met the driver's patience with a rude snort. "My father is undoubtedly an accomplished man, but none of his accomplishments hold a candle to his mastery of hypocrisy. Consider how he lambasts his enemies and rivals as being blind and narrow-minded, and then steadfastly refuses to accept any ideas other than his own. Or regard his scathing condemnation of warfare between the tribes – even as the soldiers and armies of Sweboz march to do battle in every corner of the Northlands."

"King Heruwulfaz has a great and lofty vision for this nation," the servant insisted calmly. "If the sacred values of law and fraternity are ever to be realized, it is perhaps necessary to temporarily forsake them in the name of pragmatism, no?"

The prince was plainly unmoved by the other's vague rhetoric. "Tyranny begins with pragmatism," he cautioned darkly, "and ends with the iron chains of slavery. Ideals are not petty trinkets to be created and discharged at will; you must always stand by them if you expect to be able to speak for them. The precedent my father will set in the years to come shall be the defining standard against which all our leaders will be measured until the end of time. He should be mindful of the example he is leaving for posterity."

"You speak with the authority of a man who has never had authority," the driver scolded. "It is well enough for you to criticize the weaknesses of the king now, but I must wonder if you will so easily rebuff the temptations of power when you sit upon the throne."

Uncomfortable tension still edged the afternoon air, but when Harjawulfaz spoke his words were delivered with a certain flat resignation. "Only time will tell us that; and until then I think I will keep to my reflections, however speculative they may be."

"Then allow me to speculate for a moment as well," the driver continued. "No one has been very forthcoming with information about our destination, and the depot foreman seemed confused when I told him we were headed out west. What exactly are we doing, if your lordship wouldn't mind saying?"

Harjawulfaz carefully held his words for a moment, biting his lip as if he were not certain he could trust this lowborn servant at his side. Eventually, he coaxed himself into explaining their assignment. "The time is fast approaching for my uncle Athawulfaz to strike at the western tribes, and put an end to their scheming. If he is to carry out a campaign, he will need ample stores of food; father had heard that the army was running low, and so here we are." A skilled eye might have noticed the driver's brow furrow at this assessment, but the man held his tongue. What little remained of their journey passed by quickly, and in comfortable silence.

There was a certain exaggerated majesty to the caravan as it flew into the open clearing, wheels thundering and hooves pounding rhythmically against the already flattened grass. Sunlight fell lazily down from the sky above; oozing a thin, glistening layer of orange gloss over everything it could touch. One-by-one the mighty 'ships of the land' rumbled to a stop, their drivers dismounting with all the grumbling and cursing that befits long hours of uninterrupted riding.

"Wait…this is wrong," Harjawulfaz asserted, his brain at last beginning to process the empty plain in front of them. He jumped down from the wagon and began to pace erratically, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and frustration. "This all wrong," he repeated, "there's nobody here!"

"This grass is bent," the servant observed as he knelt low to the ground, and "and you can see the remains of campfires lying around. They were definitely here at one time or another – probably just went on the march again is all."

The prince shook his head with rising agitation. "No – that's not right. They should still be camped right here – they weren't supposed to move out again for another month!"

The other could only offer an apathetic shrug. "All I can tell is that they were here before, and they're not here now. Maybe somebody gave you the wrong instructions."

Harjawulfaz confidently waved away his servant's supposition. "This assignment was handed down from the very heart of the Confederacy; my uncle Hrabnaz explicitly assured me the army would be here. If he does not know what he is doing, then who does?"

The driver released a quiet sigh; working with a man as stubborn and independent as young Harjawulfaz was something of a mixed blessing – if that. "Dwelling on errors of communication is a fruitless endeavor, my lord. The fact of the matter is that they are not here, and we don't know where they are. So…with this in mind, what do you want to do?"

This sort of unrefined mental coaching seemed to have a positive effect; the prince slowly began to let himself relax and reassemble his scattered wits. "We ought to wait here for a few days," he proclaimed, oblivious to the general groan that erupted in response. "If my intuition is correct, uncle Athawulfaz and the troops will return here in good time."

The workers slowly shuffled away, readying their tools and equipment with all the enthusiasm of condemned criminals. Harjawulfaz seemed to notice none of it, waltzing through the emerging campground as if the prospect of a wretched week spent in the lonely woods were some sort of coveted.

"Not even sixteen years old," the driver seethed to one of his fellows, "and already making decision on intuition! I tell you, prince or not, that man is nothing more than an imbecile!"

"Time and trial make for a fine polish – even on the roughest stones," the worker said without interest, letting his words hang pointedly in the air. "Now help me prop this tent up – the sky looks ominous."


Wherever the Sweboz marched, victory seemed to follow, faithfully marching at their side through one triumphant conquest after another. There was an enormous amount of credit to be given, and no shortage of honorable heroes to give it to; perhaps to lord Athawulfaz, for his bold and fearless deeds in battle, or perhaps to the beloved King Heruwulfaz, for the unity and purpose he managed to bring to the disparate nations of the Confederacy. Then there were the pious within society, who would doubtless heap the honor and prestige upon the omnipotent gods who watched over them all.

"You lads are the real heroes, I say," Athawulfaz remarked to Okaz, choosing – in typical style – to march alongside his men rather than ride mounted. "The common folk love to chatter and gossip to themselves about their leaders and chieftains, but I'd wager that being good at fighting is a lot more valuable than being good at dissembling."

Okaz returned a polite laugh. "You do yourself a disservice, my lord. A strong and worthy leader is just as important as having strong and worthy warriors. Ask yourself, 'what is a fine sword worth without a man to wield it'?"

The nobleman snorted amicably. "You spout platitudes like a practiced greybeard, Okaz – perhaps you have a career in politics waiting for you once you retire. You may surely have my place, if you like."

"I should think not," Okaz grinned. "If politics was as simple as inventing proverbs we wouldn't have any need for kings in the first place! Besides, your royal brother needs strong men like you on his council – for advice."

Athawulfaz let out another snort, a little harsher this time. "My advice is of dubious value at best; both Heruwulfaz and I know it. I am a warrior; blood and death are my sustenance. Politics and diplomacy are like a meaningless buzzing in my ear – I go wherever I am bid, and I kill all who stand in my way. It is who I am."

"At least you are good at it," Okaz quipped. "There are many men who can do nothing but brag and boast – do you still remember the chief Harkilaz, and how hastily he deserted his loyal soldiers?"

"How could I forget?" Athawulfaz smirked. "I suspect I have never fought a more unworthy adversary – and his host was nothing impressive either. I didn't even enjoy vanquishing him; there was no fight to speak of. It was just a chore."

The conversation naturally trailed off, replaced by the reliable beating of tired footsteps against the trail. With enough time spent as a warrior, Okaz had become fully accustomed to the tedium and hardship that came with marching. While most of the young men whined and grumbled under their breaths, the old soldier glid across the dust with easy strides. Still, the man was careful to conserve his energy; although the path seemed easy now, they had a long afternoon ahead of them, and the black clouds rumbling overhead seemed to suggest that it would be a very wet journey.

"This maneuver seems improvised," Okaz observed as they began to descend into a rather densely forested valley. "I thought we were well-positioned before – why the sudden decision to move out?"

"Not my call," Athawulfaz shrugged. "My brother originally said he wanted us to head south, where there's less woodland, but then Hrabnaz showed up the other day telling us he had spoken with Heruwulfaz and we were supposed to head north instead. Doesn't sound like a great idea to me, but it's not my job to question my orders."

Okaz wrinkled his nose suspiciously, "it seems odd that his Majesty would send lord Hrabnaz out of his way to do something a simple messenger could have done just as easily."

"It also seems odd that a noble prince and an unknown killer should speak as friends," Athawulfaz teased, "but then again I suppose the machinations of fate are always difficult to interpret – now more than ever, it seems." The nobleman looked skyward, regarding the swirling mass of black and grey with dull foreboding. "Such a chill in the air…there will be rain tonight."

"Let it come down!"

A peculiar series of events suddenly began to unfold, cascading one after the other in rapid succession. First there was a sort of general roar, rising from either side of the woods like a frothy wave crashing against a rock shore. A strange crunching sound followed shortly thereafter; the sound of twigs and leaves being mangled beneath anxious feet. Finally, in a moment of pure cinema the storm released a mighty jolt of the brightest lightening, illuminating – for but a fleeting instant – a terrifying mob of assailants charging the Sweboz from either side, furious screams reverberating in their throats.

"Ambush!" Athawulfaz cried, feeling the unfamiliar jolt of panic sweep through his bowels. As soon as the lightening disappeared a hellish nightmare of darkness and chaos emerged in its place, with the Sweboz sprinting every which way for want of weapons and leadership.

"My sword!" the prince cried as he fumbled aimlessly through the blackness, "where is my sword!" He turned to seek aide from Okaz, but the warrior had already slipped away, lost amidst the tumultuous melee unfolding in every direction.

Quick, panting breaths began to emanate from somewhere behind him; almost instinctively, Athawulfaz spun around and planted a massive first in his assailant's face. A sick feeling of pleasure tingled in him as he felt the other's nose bend and splinter beneath the impact. The noblemen bent down over his victim with the anxiety of a grave robber, running his hands blindly over the comatose soldier as he searched for some sort of weapon. "Come on, come on," he pleaded, but his search was fruitless.

Rain was coming down in a flood now, and Athawulfaz only just noticed the second enemy in time to dodge his thrust. The attacker began to make a patient advance, cautiously jiggle his spear in a bizarre attempt at feinting. In terms of skill and experience, however, the warrior was in way over his head; the nobleman easily dodged the second strike and yanked the spear from his enemy's grasp, drilling the point into his adversary's back as he tried to flee.

Finally having armed himself, Athawulfaz clenched his teeth and leaped into the fray, fighting with all the fury and bloodlust he was famous for. Against this human whirlwind of carnage, no man could hope to provide resistance. Friend and foe alike hastened to dive out of the giant's path, mewling and squealing like young peasant girls.

At some point during the brawl, the royal brother lost his spear; he automatically reverted to fisticuffs, violently bashing and clubbing any who were foolish enough to think his martial prowess any the lesser. "Come on curs!" he bellowed as he effortlessly snapped the neck of a young juguntiz. "Better to die then have me hunt you down later!"

"You lordship," Okaz suddenly cried, breaking into the nobleman's gory trance, "we need to get out of here, now!"

Athawulfaz slowly turned around, his face marked with casual confusion. "What are you talking about?" he asked of the warrior, "they're scattering like ants!"

"You are killing many," Okaz pressed, "but everybody else is getting slaughter. Everybody's trying to escape south again – we should join them."

Athawulfaz scoffed and wiped blood from his mouth, half-heartedly following after his friend. "What's the rush – I'm doing just fine!"

"You are not!" Okaz insisted as they broke into a sprint. "You were killing plenty, but you were also taking blows left and right – didn't you notice!"

A single glance to his person suddenly awoke Athawulfaz to reality; he hadn't even felt the terrible rainbow of gashes and cuts that seemed to have spread across his body like a web. All of them looked painfully to the naked eye, and there were a few choice ones among them that made the nobleman wonder how he was still on his feet. "I guess I couldn't feel…these look really bad," he observed in a shrill voice he barely recognized.

"You're going to be alright," Okaz promised as the sounds of combat and slaughter fell to a soft murmur. "We'll just catch up with the survivors and then…"

Okaz was still talking, but his words were little more than gibberish as Athawulfaz toppled hard to the muddy ground.