Chapter Eleven.

Aragorn Pov.


Old parchment creaks as it's laid over an over older table. Both their edges show their age, small cracks in the fibers binding together maps of the world resting upon wood worn by men of power resting upon its side.

I watch the plump merchant finish unfolding the treasure, his family's personal records of land and sea routes across the known world. Notes cover valleys and mountain ranges, scribbled on the banks of the world's river and their million smaller offspring. Some mark major trading houses in some of the world's largest port cities, some only small rest stops along the thousands of kilometers of shoreline.

I observe its details at a glance, making a show of leaning over the worn table, of tracing my fingers centimeters above the fading ink.

Meaty fingers enveloped rings of finely engraved silver clink as he brings his hands together, looking at me with expectation of thanks.

I gave it to him.

"My thanks lord Bepagus. This is truly a kindness of your Clan."

He reaches for the cup on a table near the windows edge, saking his thirst before he responds.

"Its no trouble at all. Its been some time since somebody other than my rivals have asked to see the old maps. My father almost threw this one away in his older years. He was going quite mad then, forgetting himself often." His own gaze drifts across the ink with a fondness a craftsman might have for his craft.

"There are newer maps of course, my family has had them updated and redrawn every thirty winters or so. Just recently some of my contacts in the Mouth wrote me a letter saying they had made contact with a clan from the far south they had never heard of before. Truly the world is a strangle place."

The Mouth, the center of the world. The rivers upon Tarth flowed backwards, or so my father had told me once. They didn't follow gravity laws as it was on other planets. Octavian, the Tech-priest my father had brought into his confidence in our early years here, had many theories upon why. Not that he had been willing to share them at the time.

To the people of the world however, it pushed their ships to the far edges of the horizon, where stories of great waterfalls descending into the belly of the world were gasped by half starved crewmembers limping back across the lands, their stories filtered from town to town.

I wanted desperately to see these waterfalls, to look upon The Mouth and the water that pushed upwards from the depths to defy the laws of the galaxy. But such desires would have to wait, other goals took more centered attention.

No, I had requested this from lord Bepagus for different reasons. Firstly, I desired multiple sources of knowledge when it came to the topography of my world. Second, this map contained a route to the Tower of Ashes.

The mythical tower was barely mentioned in the books and scrolls I had poured over in my months here. Many of the townsmen I spoke to knew of the tower, information known but not pondered, a legend alongside so many others.

The more I learned of the world's history the more I sought out its contents. Old fables and legends hinted at monsters that roamed the north lands, of plants that consumed the living in the south.

I wanted to know the truth of these things.

Lord Bepagus waited patiently for me to finish my observations and thoughts. I knew him by reputation only, but his family was second in power only to Crongruls own.

I wondered if he resented my coming to his city. After Crongrul's death his Clan would have been poised to take leadership over the city. Bepagus had two strong heirs and fingers in most most circles inside the city.

But I saw none of the scheming I witnessed in others on his face. He was getting old himself, seemingly content with managing his own small kingdom inside another, all the money without the responsibility of leadership.

He was, strange, but I waste my time attempting to understand how mortal minds worked.

"I am finished. Is there someway I might repay this kindness?"

He only shakes his head, a bit of wine sliding across the hairs of his beard.

"What kind of honor would I have asking a favor in return for such a small boon," He laughs while rolling up his map.

"Just remember my sons fondly in the coming years."

"Its the least I could do." I respond as I finish my own sweet wine, a sudden question on my lips.

"Is there a reason you had the route to the Tower removed?"

He pondered the question for a moment and gave me a sheepish smile.

"I'm a merchant, I don't have much use for routes to old dusty libraries."

I managed to keep the disgust from my face.

"I see, good day."


The kiss of cold wind meets my skin as I step outside the doors of the hall. It bites through the clothing I wear, nipping at the exposed flesh of my hands. Fall has begun, the planet twisting itself away from the star above.

As I walk to the interior walls I wonder if the mortals around me know why the world chills as it does. They are not fools, they understand the turning of seasons, how the planet changes as the daylight grows shorter. But did they ponder the reason it changes, or simply accept it does? I had not met one yet, but that did not exclude their existence.

Against the horizon the sky is saturated in pink and orange, the sun's warmth caught by low hanging clouds that steal its light from the skies. I can hear my target already at work, the ringing of metal on metal a waking call to the masses.

Few made their way across the stiff ground, most early rising merchants eager to set up their stalls for the day. The rest guards passing by with drooping eyes, eager to fill their bellies and rest someplace warm.

I breathed in the crisp air, enjoying the woodsmoke that drifts over the town. I round the wall of the smithy to see Vesnar at work, skin red from the fire, steam drifting off it when he steps away to select a differently weighted hammer. He sees me from the corner of his eyes, continuing to work for a few minutes as I lean against one of the support beams of his shop.

"You want something lad?" The smith calls out to me, leaning away from the hissing as he dips the cherry red metal in water and animal fat.

"You stopped by a few days ago, wondered when would be back. Can I help you with something?" He continues, still not looking my way.

Around my shoulders Ignis sturrs, yawning wide and giving the man an appraising look. The smith rests the metal back into the coals and turns, leaning on his anvil.

"Are you taking on apprentices?" He takes a second to scratch the back of his head before shaking it.

"I'm afraid I already have one of those, but there are others around the city who might take you on." I walk closer, feeling the first touch of heat on my skin. Ignis drops to the ground and wanders close to the coals, seeking out its heat. Vesnar watches with a wary expression, but says nothing. Away from the wind I can smell the fire and earth that fills his forge, the tangy taste of iron and burning acrid smell of charcoal.

"What if I could prove to you I was better than him?" I ask, already knowing that he's the best in city. None other would be worth learning from.

But he just shook his head again.

"I promised the lads' father I would train him, and as I have no son of my own to pass on my trade, it wouldn't be right to dismiss him. Besides I don't know you, nor you level of skill. But you might be able to find others." He presses once more. I frown, irritation filling in my gut.

"Is there something I could do to prove myself? I know how to work metal, I only seek to improve my craft." Vesnar sucks in a deep breath and sighs to think, I can tell he's judging me, looking at my hands to gauge my worth. I felt irritation blossom into frustration, who was this mortal man to deny the honor of teaching me?

For a moment, it reminded me of Richard.

"You have some skill already then? Come, show me." He gestures almost mockingly to the cherry metal that lays in the coals.

"Lord Crongrul wants four dozen spear heads made before the week is out, form one, and I might teach you more."

I grasped his tools and felt the grooves from long years in strong hands. I placed my fingers where Octavian had instructed and began, the sound of ringing metal beginning anew. I visualize the spearhead in my mind's eye, seeing them a dozen times atop the shafts of patrolling guards. I manage only a few swings before Vesnar steps up and waves a hand for me to stop.

"Who taught you to smith lad? You beat the metal as if it's cold. Here, hand it over." I pushed down the flash of irritation that floods up with his words and hands over his tools.

"The metal is alive, you have to feel it, listen to it as it takes shape. Pour your soul into the craft." As he spoke he worked, beating out the impurities in its core.

"You have to notice every detail as you go, the smell, the sound, does it need to be heated or allowed to rest. Like pleasing a woman it takes effort and patience." I watched him, truly observed his movements and I could see the difference between him and Octavian. The Tech-priest had been mechanical in his workings, using hydraulic presses and machines to beat the ingots into shape, tools beyond what Vesnar could even imagine. But as I watched him, I couldn't help but feel as if the mortal smith had the right of it.

The faint grin on his face as he dunked the spearhead into water, putting the edge to a grindstone and working away the roughness that remained behind, all by hand. He poured himself into every action, finding joy in its creation. Time ended its hold on his mind as he fell into long held habits.

My eyes linger on the scars that decorated his hands, patches where the skin had been burned or marked, a lifetime of mistakes written across their digits. The way the hairs of his beard curled from where he had gotten too close to the fire.

There hadn't been any joy in Octavian. To him there was joy in finding the most efficient way, each swing a calculated thing down to the smallest kilogram of force. To know and count, yet watching Vesnar work, made me realize that for all the Tech-priest new of metalwork, he lacked understanding of it.

The smith put a new ingot of steel into the fire and let it heat, waiting until the metal was a ready by sight alone, speckled with impurities of black.

"Go on then, show me that you can work metal my way."

I take back the tools and start again, this time fitting my hands to where Vesnar had placed his own reflecting what I had seen in his methods. I tried to imitate the way he communicated with his craft, the fluidity of his arms as the hammer came down again and again, the rhythm of its beats falling into tempo with my twin hearts.

I ignored the rising sun, the gathering souls among the streets that sometimes paused to observe the king's guest. I tune out the calls of merchants and friendly conversation, the smell of animals moving passed the forge and taste of sweat as it slipped down my face.

Time lost its meaning, only the metal mattered then, refolding it over and over as it continued to take shape. All the while Vesnar stood nearby, watching with his arms folder over his chest. It hisses as it meets the water, a midday sun hanging high overhead. I grind away the rough outer edge, revealing the purity that remains underneath. Vesnar says nothing as he takes the cooling metal from my hands and inspects it carefully.

"You show some skill that I cannot deny. Perhaps with proper training something could be made of you." I grinned then, fully enjoying the challenge that presented.

We soon slip into a comfortable effort, Vesnar teaching as we work the forge together, our hammer blows falling in step with one another. I found myself at ease alongside the mortal, comfortable in his easy banter and guiding hand. By the fourth spearhead we were working at an equal pace, by the sixth I was outstripping him and forcing him to work to keep up. The challenge only spurred us forward together, the sun beginning its fall without our notice.

Ignis had found himself a place beside the forge, tuning out the world lulled into rest by the warmth that soaked his scales and found its way into his bones.

When the shadows started to crawl and worm their way across trampled earth the creak of bones and steady thud of a walking stick pulled me from my work, the skin of my arms red from the heat.

Edgar was there, hood drawn up around his wrinkled face. He said nothing until we finished our work, Vesnar glancing at him in confusion from time to time. I took off the leather apron ties to my waste and stepped outside the forge, steam rising from my skin.

"I wondered if I would find you here." He wore his small approving smile like a badge, almost ever present across his face.

"Vesnar has been an excellent teacher." I say, earning a laugh from the smith.

"I'm the best in the city, you're damn right I am."

Edgar's smile grows larger and he rests a weathered hand on my shoulder to regain my attention.

"Did you enjoy last night's reading?"

"I did. It was rather illuminating on several questions I had about the empire's rise and fall." It made me desire to reach the Tower of Ashes even more so than I had before. These people had thousands of years of history, I wanted to know it all.

"Good good, I had hoped you would enjoy it. But I am not here for that alone. Lord Crongrul has invited you on a hunt. It is a great honor."

I see Vesnar's eyebrows raise from where he leans on his anvil once more, and nod my acceptance.

"Tell the lord I accept. I am eager to see it."


At noon the next day the hunting party was assembled, Crongrul was surrounded by his retinue of retainers and house guards.

It was then I was introduced to the general of his army, a huge bald man with a scruffy beard and intense tattoos across his face marred by a scar that ran across his left cheek and took a chunk of his ear. His nose had been broken multiple times and was now crooked and stumpy. He wore simple yet beautiful looking armor of heavy furs and woven chainmail under pieces of solid plate, edged in the blue of the Clan.

His name was Rogata, and he would be joining us on the hunt.

Our party of almost twenty set out passed the city gates within the hour, passed the farmers and slaves who worked the harvest. Their fingers turned white from digging in the cold soil.

Slaves, a term I was familiar with but had yet to see. Being allowed into their library had provided for me the wealth of information. I had found the cultural norms and practices I had sought to know.

Raiding was one such activity that seemed present across the lands. While the great rivers allowed for trade and communication to flow between the cities and small kingdoms of the surrounding world, so did it provide chances for old grudges to be settled, weakness exploited.

There was always work that needed to be done. Forest to cut away, fields to sow, housework and animal tending. Labor unfit for landed lords with small retinues of their own.

Curiously there was no slave market in the city. No cages and platforms for humans to be shown upon. Mortals captured were the property of that lord, his to sell or to keep. But the practice was not commercial, there was no true industry behind it.

Slaves in the Xenta clan were marked by not only by their simple clothing, but by symbols. Their master's sigal was inked upon their hands, ensuring any would know they had lost their freedom.

I mulled over this as we passed those in the fields. Some, mostly the free laborers, waved a hand in greeting to their king. He nodded back to some, but mostly kept his attention inside our company.

How different were these peoples' lives to many in the Imperium? They did not choose their own masters, they did not choose their labors. Many Imperial worlds were the same way.

I gazed upwards into the sky and the canopy that soon threatened to swallow it from view.

While one might not be able to choose their labors, one should be allowed to choose his end.

Our group carried with us spears for the hunt. The lord himself carried a beautiful weapon in its own caliber, its shaft carved to represent coiling sea serpents, wrapped in leather with golden threaded stitching. Its spear point was sharp and flat, with runes for seeking carved into its metal, perfect for sinking deep into tough hide and between ribs.

Once past the fields we are swallowed by the trees, thier mighty trunks rising tall and canopies stretching out to catch most of the light. It was dark for the mortals, their eyes were unable to make use of what light drifted through the multicolored leaves. Our path was covered in crunching shades of yellows and reds.

"Lord Crongrul tells me you think of yourself as a fighter." I look to my right to where Rogata has fallen into step beside me, heavy armor clinking.

"I do." I say without hesitation, was he trying to mock me? Ignis leans his head up from my shoulder and snarls at the man, making him grin at the drake.

"Your companion is a fiery one too, are you willing to back those words?"

"If I need to."

The mortal lets out huff that turns into short laughter.

"Perhaps when we are done with this hunt you can show me what you can do." I look at him then, the scars on his hands, his face, the bulge of muscles under chainmail that wraps around his arms under his rounded pauldrons. I could kill him with my hands.

"We shall."

Any response is cut off as one of the forward runners comes back. Like all those present except for myself, he has blue paint running down his eyes.

"I've found the herd my lord, just over the hill passed the forest. We should be able to sneak up on them easily." With practiced ease the footfalls lighten, their heart rates picking up as they regrip spears in preparation. We make it to the forest edge, the same fields of tall waving grass mixing with the creak of branches above us. It's brighter now, some squinting as their eyes adjust.

"Stay close Aragorn, let me show you how its done." Even if they cannot hear them, I do not have such limitations. The heavy lumbering footfalls, the great gusts of air blown from mighty lungs, the grinding of thousands of flat teeth as they graze upon the pastures.

"Alright, let's get up on that hill and see." Crongrul says, leading the party forward, bellies pressed into the earth.

We creep forward, up the first hill to peer into the shallow dip beyond. A medium sized herd is there, grazing in the setting sun. With winter coming they spend all available time eating, fattening up for the cold. The men say was the best time to hunt them, the extra fat on their muscles enhancing the meat.

In the distance the Iron Mountain towers over all, a small circle of clouds hanging around its peak. I push thoughts of the Monastery from my mind.

I almost expect them to pull muck from pouches and smear it on their skin as I had witnessed before, and some carry it around their belts; but the wind is with us today, so there is no need.

We close the distance, from twenty meters to fifteen.

I stop as one of the beasts rushes from the herd and pounds just a meter in front of me, its beating hooves making my teeth rattle. Another chases it, bellowing victory at its defeated challenger.

We crawl another few meters, tension rising. More than once we stop as the herd shifts. It grows closer and draws away at random. Our spears remain ready, awaiting the call to action.

The sounds are deafeningly loud now, our own rustling muffled by the stamping of hooves and baying of beasts. Even the heartbeats of the mortals around me are difficult to hear over the blood rising in my veins. Crongrul slowly climbs to his knees, using the untrampled grass as cover. His arm rises, the men beside him copying his movements. One of the retainers slowly hands me a spear of cruder make.

With a rush of movement they drive to their feet, hurling their weapons into their closest quarries. A dozen spears loose, Crongrul's own flying true and sinking deep into a beast's side. Other spears found other targets, the air filled with pained baying and the panic that spread across the herd in an instant.

The ground begins to shake anew in terrible frenzy, the thudding of a thousand hooves filling the air like physical blows as the herd turned on its heel and fled from the sudden fear in their ranks. Two men struggle to keep their beasts wobble from their wounds, more spears joining the first salvo to sink into tough hides to spill more blood into the dirt.

The largest bull, the one that Crongrul himself had struck, refused to die. Filled with pain fueled adrenaline the beast bellows and rears its mighty bone covered head, charging the group down. Men yelled and yelped as they dive out of the way, Rogata pulling his lord aside and throwing him out of danger.

Time dilates and I feel myself focusing on every detail before me. The ichor that smears its way across the beast's nose, blown into the grass with every heaving breath. Its bared and bloody teeth, the dilation of its eyes and flexing muscles. The smell of fear and panic that spills across the plains. The hammering of its huge heart in its chest.

Spear gripped in both hands I drive forward, pent aggression and battlelust rising, bubbling outwards in a roar Ignis and I share that drowns out the beast's own. I slip my spear past its lowered head, slicing its eye and pushing out my backhand to curve the blade into the center of its chest.

It impales itself on my spear, my legs threatening to buckle under me as I skid backward in the dirt. The spear threatens to slip from my hands, the wood cracking as I tighten my grip. Our heads all but bashing against one another I heaved with all my might, using its momentum and my lower center of gravity to send it up and over my head.

A sick crack breaks the noise of hunt, its back broken where it lay gargling on bruised lungs. Fluid rushes into parts of the body it shouldn't, suffocating it. I have no desire to see it suffer, grasping my spear and pulling it back with a handbreadth, placing the heart on its tip and driving it deep. The creature lets loose one sorrowful moan as it dies. As the herds rumblings fade across the hills, silence descends, the eyes of every mortal upon me, gaping like fish as I rip my weapon from dead flesh.

I scoop Ignis from the ground where he fell, his breathing is heavy, his blood rushing in fight and fright. I smile and tap his horns, knocking him from the moment. His eyes snap to mine, teeth bared in the thrill of the hunt.

Nobody approached me, nobody speaks. Lord Crongrul rises from where he had been pushed to the ground, gaze flickering from bison to demigod.

"By the four, what did you just do?" I could have done a better job keeping the smugness from my voice, but my blood was singing in a way it had never sung before.

"By the looks of it, finishing your kill." The words sent murmuring through the men, Crongrul looking around at the four dead bison and snapped an order to his men.

"We will have time to think about this later. To the kills." In teams of four the men begin gutting and skinning each animal, large sacks made from previous hunts were stuffed with the legs, backstrap and other choice meats. Their hides were cut and folded, the horns cut to be made into drinking cups. Even the bones were taken to be grinded up, fashioned into art and tools or used for needles and toys.

Very little went to waste, the people of Tarth knowing well how to put to use every bit of the animals they hunted. By the time they finished, arms were coated in dried blood, flies filling the air with a constant buzzing.

I tossed Ignis a piece of the beast's heart I had slain, watching as he tears into the tough organ. His heart had quieted, perching atop a small rock that looked over the sloping hill below.

I smile to myself and scooped him up to rest him against my chest, scratching at his chin and feeding him another piece. He gobbled it greedily and climbed up to rest around my back once more.

The sun began to fall behind the treeline, the canopy illuminated in burned golden light. Crongrul poured water from a skin to wash his hands the blood from them, clearing his throat to get his men's attention.

"Good hunt lads, let's get into the forest and find a place to spend the night. Tonight we will drink!" They let out an excited hooray and shouldered their weighed down packs.

Night had come and swept us up in her embrace when we found our spot, nestled in a large gorge in the earth, surrounded by a ring of boulders washed away by heavy rains over long years. But tonight the ground was dry and shaved bark caught light easily, white smoke curling upwards as dead branches and logs were added. Soon we had a steady fire, more sticks placed together to form a crude spit, where the meat was set to hang over the flames

Dripping fat fills the air with its delight and makes the men stare in anticipation. They spread out bedrolles as light bugs fill the air, illuminating the forest floor above us in dazzling displays.

Crongrul rises from where he had laid and grasped one of the thick cuts of meat, speaking as he tossed it to me.

"As is tradition, the first to feast is that which did the most for the hunt. Aragorn, child of the mountain. This is yours by right."

I bite into the flesh, juices and blood running down my chin. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. Ignis paws at my neck and I pull a piece off to give him.

"Now, let us feast!" The men dive, good naturedly jockeying for the choicest pieces and who had done more on the hunt. Their boasting confused before I realized it was never about who spear sailed the truest, it was about the brotherhood, the combined triumph and continuation of tradition. I found a small smile etched across my lips.

I could understand this.

The night continued to crawl by, the fire reduced to a small pile of smoldering coals, lazy smoke curling, the last of any fat long since burned away. The men, bellies full, laid down for the night after drawing lots for who would be taking first watch.

I pulled the blanket tighter around myself, Ignis tucked against my chest. Letting eyes become heavy and my mind sluggish, tuning out the sounds of insects and small mammals that leapt through the undergrowth. This day had been a good one. I felt closer to these people than I ever had before, a brotherhood of my own.

I was torn from the realm of dreamless sleep when a branch breaks out in the darkness.

My eyes snap open, focusing on the sound that was out of place among the tranquility of the forest's nightly song. I flicked my gaze to those who kept watch. They were awake, looking out into the night with a bored expression, resting easily on their spears. Another crunch, measured, slow, not the movement of an animal, but the footsteps of men.

I counted the steps, pressed into the same earth to ensure the least amount of sound But they couldn't drown out the scrape of their boots on the leaves.

I rose, slipping a waking Ignis under the blanket and grabbed the spear I had kept from the hunt. The noise was coming from the east, the same way we had come from our hunt.

I moved silently north, up the rock and around, coming to see those who approached us in the dark. Seven figures crouched low in the undergrowth, clad in leather armor and brown cloth. I moved closer, wondering if it was a party from the city, coming to find their lord. I was wrong, these men were marked with orange lines that formed into disappearing swirls on their cheeks. Their hands were filled with knives and axes, the lead one holding up a hand and gesturing to his fellows.

They nodded and the group fanned out, slithering through the undergrowth to go around the sightlines of our guards. One of them was coming around the tree I stood behind, a young man, beard just starting to thicken.

He rounded my tree, eyes widening and lips parting in a warning shout when my spear sunk into his throat. His yell turns into a gargle, the panic in his face slipping away as his life deserts him.. Flung across the shrubbery as I draw my weapon back.

The noise makes the sleepy guards snap into attention, voices raising in alarm as I turn towards the next enemy. He was still rising from his hiding place, face filling with confusion as the forest explodes into noise. I cut the tip of my blade across his neck, cutting cartilage and bone. He too slumps to the ground, a battle cry rising as the ambushers roar and rush upon the still rising soldiers.

One leapt from his place above Crongrul, twin blades falling and a snarl twisting his face. Without hesitation I throw my spear.

It catches the mortal in the chest and runs him through. Sinking into the earth were he hung grasping his stomach

Others were rising, blades meeting shields and the cries of dying men filled the air. I reached down for the ax in the hands of the dead man under me and lunged into the battle.

The guard who had stood resting on his spear dies to a knife buried deep in his throat. Another attacker comes running out of the undergrowth, blade raised high.

He was moving so slowly, mouth open, filled with blackening teeth and bellowing a warcry. I stepped into his blow, hand rising to catch his arm and crushing it, denied any chance to react as my taken weapon cleaved him from neck to armpit. His blood spatters across my face, the smell of blood overpowering.

I turned back to the camp to see the last attacker killed by Rogata. The mountain man raises his ax to deflect a blow before bashing his attacker in the face, expertly twirling the weapon and sinking it into his chest.

Oppressive silence reigns after the lightning melee, those unkilled were unwounded, and Crongrul wasted no time in looking over the corpses. They find the orange marks covering their flesh, members of nearby Clan.

"Those filthy cowards. We swore peace, years ago! If they want blood, then we will give them blood!" His men roared and snarled alongside him, Crongrul's eyes finding my own, axe still held in my grip, the handle cracked from where I had gripped it too tight.

"But I must address something else, before the night is over. Aragorn, son of the mountain." I wondered if it was a title to him now, a lie that had been accepted as truth.

"Your actions tonight have saved the lives of me and my subjects. I hoped to learn more of you during this hunt, but I think I have seen all I need to know. Now, and forever, know you are a friend to the Xenta Clan." In unison they beat their fists across their chests and roared into the night.

"Hail Aragorn, son of the mountain!"


We walk through the night and back to the city, coming upon it as light broke through the trees. We carried our dead with us, leaving the corpses of the enemy to be feasted upon by the creatures of the forest.

Crongrul and his party bid me goodbye to summon his warriors and take stock of his army. With the coming winter it would be a challenge to mount an offensive, but there were still actions to be taken.

Left alone I wandered the city once more, happening upon the temple of Barbesa. It was a mighty structure, all solid stone and iron with eight round towers rising along the outside edges. Bridges stretched inwards to meet a central spire, where a deep brazier of oil burned open to the sky.

Wide double doors of solid wood grind open as Barbesa came striding out. Her hood was down, black hair tied back into a braid that came down her left front.

"Aragorn, I wondered when you would stop by." I considered for a second if she had been waiting for me to walk down this street, watching in the window of a tower.

"I didn't." Her smile never faltered, falling into step beside me.

"Well you must have come back from hunting with lord Crongrul. Was your hunt successful? No surprises?" The way she said it makes me frown. I glance at her to see her smiling.

"You knew."

"The gods whisper many things. Some are true, some are tests." We pass by a market stall selling salted meat and bread, wrapped together with vegetables and cheese.

Barbesa takes one and tosses a few silver coins in the man's direction. He catches them deftly and smiles at her, bowing in thanks or reverence.

Instead of eating it herself, she hands it to the first child she sees with grubby hands.

It's then that I notice it. The way the people looked at her as we walked passed them.

They love her, or atleast honor her in every way that matters.

"You never thought to tell Crongrul? To warn him his life was in danger?" She laughed then, a warm sound that made my skin crawl.

"There was no point. Why when you would be with him? The best protector he could ask for." I didn't respond, the image of chaos cultists my father had told me of recalled with perfect clarity. They were the whispers in the dark or a blade at your neck, a blood crazed maniac. This witch was none of these things, but I would never give her my trust.

"Why are you doing this?" She slyly raises an eyebrow, a smile never leaving her face.

"You know I will never accept your gods, I denounced them from the beginning, I despise you as well, and yet you persist, you pry and test."

"Because I see greatness in you. Greatness just waiting to be molded into the mightiest lord the world has ever seen." She looked away from me now, gazing up into the rising sun.

"You stand at the head of a mighty army, great warriors molded from iron standing beside you, your banners stretching beyond the horizon, the last bastion of defiance falling before you. Its towers are torn down and grounded to dust as you unify the world under your rule." Her eyes were wide in rapture and she turned that gaze upon me.

"I have spent my life seeking out my purpose. Since I was a young girl I have had dreams of the mighty warlord you will become. My only desire is to see you fulfill that goal, to see you reach your true potential. To serve you as my true king." Hair stands up across my skin, tightening as the temperature drops, the ground under our feet cracking as whatever moisture had remained was sucked away. Eyes glowing, she turned fully face me, and stretched out to touch my forehead.

"I have seen your future."

Images burn through my mind. A mighty host of men killing men on the banks of a river. The dead and dying shoved into the mud as their fellows struggled for footing. They die crying for help and gasping for air that will never come.

Commanding from the deck of a mighty battleship, watching a world burn from nuclear fire. Boots reverberating with the pounding of batteries bringing ruin to an entire civilization.

Standing under a broken sky, among a graveyard of heroes, screaming vengeance into howling winds.

I rip the witch's hand away, ignoring the crack of bones and wet blood that spills across my fingers.

"Invade my head again, and I'll rip you in half." I snarl through barred teeth, fighting the urge to tear out the witch's throat then and there. Around us, the air thrums with a disgusting kind of power. I feel it on my skin, a silk touch caressing my flesh.

She sinks to the ground, one good hand clutching where her others is bent almost in half. The flesh has torn and bits of her bone is poking out from her flesh. She looks up at me, eyes filled not with pain, but revelation.

"I know you would. I have seen it." On my shoulder Ignis hisses at the woman and I turn and leave. All around me, the common folk are staring back at the witch and providing me with a wide berth.

My fury burns deep, my perfect memory recalling the anguish that fills my soul in the last moments of the vision. I bring a hand to my chest and suck in a breath, feeling as if I have taken a physical wound.

I do not understand it. Never have I felt such an emotion and that lack of understanding adds fuel to the fire burning in my soul.

I reach the gates and step into the palace, the guards open the doors long before I am close, throwing fearful glances as I storm up the steps. I barely notice the ways their knees quiver as I pass.

My lips curl in dispain. These people are weak, at least my father could look me in the eyes, bear the weight of my gaze. A figure steps out in front of my path and I stop centimeters from bowling them over. I stop only because I see the wrinkled and aged face of Edgar.

He steps back in surprise and frowns in honest concern.

"You look deeply troubled Aragorn. Are you alright?" I almost lie to him, to brush off his questions and continue forward. But I do not know where I would go forward too.

"I ran into Barbesa. She touched me, put images in my head." Edgar's eyes flicked to mine, but just like everyone else, he can only meet my gaze for a few moments. His heart is pounding too, the vain on his neck pulsing.

"And what happened?" He asks in a soft voice, honest concern filling his voice.

"I broke her arm."

He blinks in surprise and frowns.

"She should not have encroached upon you like that. Those with her gifts are used to getting their way." I snort and feel the anger bleeding out from me, Edgar's lips turning into a smile.

"Come, I heard you had quite the hunt, and I would ever so love to hear about it." I follow him through the paths of the castle to his private chambers, where he heats water over an open flame and puts dried herbs and spices into mortar and pestle before grinding them into powder.

A cast an eye across the bookcases on the walls, hoping to see a new volume among the dust free paper.

He taps the mixture into two cups, taking the heated water and pouring them over it. Steam rises as they mix and swirl, before he places one of them in my hands.

"Let it settle and sip gently or you will catch the grounds." I do as he asks, cupping it in my hands and letting the warmth seep through my fingers.

Ignis slips from my shoulder to rest near the heat.

The minutes stretched onwards, neither of us speaking, watching the fire crackle and pop.

I take a sip, enjoying the heat and sweet taste of the tea.

"It's good." I comment, unsure of what to say.

Edgar smiles and sets his own cup down.

"It took me years to get the mixture correct. But I do believe you have a story to tell me?"

I started to recount the hunt to him, the rushing of the bison, the men who had attacked us. By the end his face is long and sorrowful.

"I cannot believe that the Teraung would attack us, after so many years of peace." I took another sip of my tea, now able to see the dark mass that settles at the bottom of my cup.

"Why would they attack the Xenta Clan?" Edgar thought on that for a moment, lips pursed in thought.

"During the wars of our ancestors, when our forefathers had fought for freedom, the Xenta and Teraung had joined our forces together, defending the mountain passes that protects us from the north. When the war was over, both cities tried to establish trade routes through the pass to the steppe people beyond. Our city is closer, and we won the race for the pass, establishing a fort there to tax the route. We have grown wealthy from that trade. Something they have long resented us for."

I nodded my understanding, they had been faster and stronger, it was natural they had won.

"We grow much of the same crops, produce the same goods. We do not stop them from trading, but our merchants always arrive first, get the best prices. They have been getting the leftovers for years. I suppose they have finally grown tired from it." It seemed a weak reason to go to war. Not for conquest, not for purpose. But for greed.

"And now? What will happen to them if Crongrul moves his army against them come spring?"

"If we win, I'm sure Crongrul will take their city and add it to our own lands. If we can only match them in the field, then peace may come again after a time, after blood and bodies have been spent. If it goes poory." He paused for a long few seconds, thinking about it.

"Well, then I suppose we will be the ones besieged." My eyes flicked to the door a dozen seconds before a knock came, Edgar setting down his cup and waiting. A servant pokes his head in, bowing to both of us before addressing me.

"Lord Crongrul has called together his commanders. He asks that Aragorn join him in the war room." I rose and bid Edgar a warm goodbye, thankful for his patience. Then turn to follow the servant.

Inside I see lord Crongrul, clad in a belted tunic, the same onyx crown across his head. Beside him Rogata in his armored plate, both glancing at me as I enter. There were a few other figures standing around the thick wood table, other members of the Huscarls and local lords.

Behind them a tall window to the outside showers the room in natural light. In the distance I could see where the forest was rising up beyond the walls, and even further beyond, white capped mountains.

"Aragorn, pleased you could join us." Crongrul gestures for me to stand beside him, Rogata giving me a nod of greeting. His manner had changed since the forest ambush and my bison kill. He hadn't asked me to back up my words.

"My thanks for the invitation."

I step up to the table and look down at the map laid out across the iron edged table. It was a sketch of the area, the half oval that formed the mountain chain that tapered out near the gargantuan river that flowed to our south.

They use small coins stamped with runes to showcase hosts and units. Forts and villages had their own symbols written into the map. I memorized all of this at a glance.

"Will you be moving any troops during the winter?" The question cut through the small chatter of the men, Rogata shaking his head.

"Our army is larger than theirs, our troops are better fitted. They could not break our walls and if they tried we have enough soldiers to break any host they bring outside our walls, as well as food to last for a siege. There is not much reason to risk the cold and our men's toes." The others around the table gave a small chuckle, but my eyes remained upon the map.

"So you will wait out the winter? Attack in the spring?" I ask, making a show of eying the map.

The general nodded.

"When the frost breaks we can march our men through the forest and raid their villages. Their stores will be taxed from the winter, we will bring them under siege and break them quickly."

"They will not try to meet you in the field?" The idea of such a battle interested me. I had read a dozen books on the matter from the Iron Mountain's library. But it had never satisfied my curiosity of what a true battle would be like. To hear the clashing of metal on metal, the crushing of flesh and smashing of bones. Rogata chuckled.

"They would be mad too. We can raise two thousand warriors. They can do only half that amount. No, they might try something, so we will prepare ourselves, but they cannot move during the winter for much the same reasons we cannot. Their assassination attempt failed, and now they will suffer the retribution."

The discussion at the table returned to more mundane things, food counts, organization of troops, amounts of spears, blades and armor. As the light from the windows started to dim the council was broken, Crongrul waved for me to stay behind as the others left.

"I have not thanked you properly for saving my life Aragorn. I do not want you to think I have forgotten it."

Before I could speak, to tell him that I hadn't slain the man just to save his life. He moved over to a chair, where objects were covered in cloth.

Crongrul removed the cloth and handed the contents to me. It was an ax and shield, well made and engraved with runes and symbols denoting protection and power. I took them in my hands, felt the worn handle and broke-in leather of the strap to the shield.

"These were my grandfather's weapons, the ones he used to break down the walls of the enemy and slaughter those who would shackle our people. I want you to have them."

"Thank you." I answered honestly, enjoying the feeling of their weight in my hands. Crongrul looked at them for a long few moments, something dancing across his face that I couldn't quite put down.

"Well, you will have plenty of time to learn to use them. Ask Rogata about finding a sparring partner among the Huscarls."


Winter came as an unyielding tide, sweeping across the lands to hold them in its deathly grip. Frost gathered on the edges of all things, glass, stone and fingers left in the cold too long. Huge worker groups went out into the forests and felled trees, quartered them and stripped their branches. They shared everything in this regard. Every family having enough to warm their homes.

There was less for the slave homes, families huddled around animals and worn blankets.

White smoke curled up from every chimney, breath drifting above the heads of all those clad in heavy furs rushing about in the cold. The entire city spent its time carving wood totems and telling stories. The warriors trained in large halls while men and women of trade craft did what they could inside their homes.

I spent my time sparring with the guards, learning to carve and weave, cutting hides to fashion into armor. I included myself in every trade and craft I could, trying to fill the days with something, anything.

I spent much of my time with Edgar or Crongrul. They told me stories of their youth. Of adventures they had undergone. It was slow, and almost unnoticeable, but I soon found that I no longer looked up at them, but in the eyes. Ignis grew as well, almost too large to fit across my shoulder, more than a meter in length.

During the middle winter, when wind howled and tore the heat from peoples bones, the city buzzed with activity. A large mead hall, sixty meters in length and built to the left of the castle, started to have workers come in and out, day after day. I watched this from the windows now and then, wondering what they were up too, until I saw the smoke curling from the chimneys that poked through the roof.

Seeking out answers I found Edgar, a cup of tea in hand alongside a small scroll from a raven. It was a crude form of communication compared to the vox relays and Astropathic messages of the Imperium.

Noticing my entrance he put the small letter down and smiled that warm smile.

"Aragorn, come for more stories? I fear that I have few left to tell you." I shook my head and seated myself in the chair beside him, a well practiced movement after the long months.

"I wanted to ask about the workers coming in and out of the hall beside the castle." Edgar leaned back in understanding.

"Of course, you have not seen it yet. We are preparing to celebrate the winter solstice, the darkest day of the year. We celebrate the gods on this day, and give it over to them in worship and feasting. To remember how they brought us from the darkness." I remembered my brief encounter with Barbesa and my lips curled in disgust. Edgar saw it.

"We know you do not share our faith, you do not need to join in if you do not wish too."

"How do you celebrate it? Some fowl rituals and blood sacrifices?" Edgar laughed and shook his head.

"Nothing like that, we sing the songs of the old and tell stories of our past. We eat and drink and dance. Or, the young do, I'm a bit too old now. Don't move like I used to." He did the thing where he gazed off into nothing for a minute, the corner of lips twitching upwards.

"We are celebrating tomorrow night. You are welcome to join us if you so wish, many lords and ladies will be there. The common folk have similar stories inside their homes and communal halls. This celebration is for the wealthy, the powerful."


I did end up going to the festival, closing the large doors behind me with a heavy thud, safe from the biting winds and deadly chill. Inside, a feast was already in full swing. Three large rectangular hearths were burning hot with beds of orange coals, large slabs of meat hanging over huge spits turned by slaves. The air was filled with noise and heat, mead cups were sloshing and men and women spoke loudly over their neighbors.

Through the crowds I saw Barbessa, her flowing black hair intervoved with golden thread. She turned and our eyes meet through the crowd. She raised her hand, the one I had broken, and waved it at me, smiling.

Not even a scar remained of the wound.

I looked for others I knew, seeing Crongrul and Rogata seated at a high table at the end of the hall. One step below them, Edgar sips his tea.

More tables were set a few meters from the hearths, and I spied Vesnar seated among them. I made my way through the crowd, Ignis's long tail draping my side as he put his head above the sea of people. They moved for us, bits of smoke curling up from my companions nostrils.

Vesnar looks up at me as I sat down, he was slightly in his cups, a satisfied smile plastered across his face. He places a mug in front of me, a sweet liquid sloshing inside .

"Aragorn, I wondered if you would come. I haven' seen you in a few weeks." It was true, as the cold came and drove people inside, the smith could no longer work his craft, demanding an outdoor forge. I had visited a few times to talk about the art.

"My apologies, I've been taken up with other crafts." The smith frowned.

"Don't tell me you're turning into a basket weaver." He laughs at his own joke and takes another drink, trails of liquid running down the sides of his face, which he cleaned away with a brush of his arm.

"A bit, it keeps me busy during this mind numbing winter." I say in response, grasping a mug from from a passing slave.

The blacksmith chuckled and took another drink, more spilling down the sides of his mouth. This time, he didn't wipe it away.

"O the winter ain't that bad. Gives a working man time to pursue other things." His dilated pupils followed a woman that walks by our table, long dark hair tied in a braid, wide hips swaying.

I looked from him to the woman, who vanished into the press of bodies only to frown. What was it with mortals and their appetite for the flesh?

Whatever thoughts I had been descending towards were halted as the torches flickered and the hearths dimmed. At the high table Crongrul stands up and raises his hands for silence.

"Friends, allies and companions. Tonight we gather on this sacred day to celebrate our roots, our ancient history and traditions. May the gods find us deserving, our enemies lacking, and if we are lucky, the mead forever flowing!" The hall erupts in drunken cheers, Barbesa coming to stand before the head table.

Like water over flames the hall hushes as she looks out among them. She lets the quiet settle for a few seconds, the air growing cold as she flares her power, the light around us dims further.

Then she starts to sing, a slow siren song of terrible beauty and purpose. Her eyes flash a brilliant lime green as the history of her people is recounted in oral form.

I listen intently besides myself, the song recounting mighty battles, dangerous plots, heroes and villains. Kings and lords, blood and death. Redemption, sacrifice and suffering.

Her voice carries me across the ages, over mountains and through thick woods of twisting nature. She lulls me across the rivers of the world, through its open skies and endless fields of swaying grasses.

For minutes she goes, all in the hall silent, all somber as the last notes die from her red lips. She smiles out over the crowd and the spell breaks, the hall erupting into thunderous applause. Barbessa's gaze settles on me, she knows I enjoyed her song.

It spoils the moment.

Crongrul stands again, once more raising his drinking horn high.

"Now that tradition has been satisfied and we have eaten our full, I have one more announcement to make to you tonight. Aragorn, son of the mountain, slayer of beasts and of our enemies, come." I rose from my place beside the smith, face pressed into the crock of his arm in drunken slumber.

The hall's attention laid heavy upon me as I went to stand before the lord of the city and his council. Barbesa sits off to my side, smiling as she always did, that same crazed look in her eye that made my skin crawl.

"As many of you know, I have gone many years without an heir. My wife, taken by sickness, my son, by the hunt. But I have seen now that those were tests, tests sent upon me by the gods we pay homage to tonight. For they have sent me a new heir, one strong of body and sharp of mind, who thwarted an attempt upon my life and slain greatest of beasts of the field." Crongrul looked down upon me, eyes filled with emotion, while I molded my own to adopt a look of surprise.

"Do you, Aragorn, son of the mountain, accept this offer, to become my heir and rule these lands after I have passed on into the gods embrace?" I nodded, mind whirling as new plans crisscrossed their way across my mind.

I had expected something like this, having seen Crongrul without a family. But I had not expected it so soon.

"I accept. It will be an honor to rule these good people for they have been kind and honest to me during my time here." As drunken men cheer and Crongrul grins warmly, I look to the witch.

She is not smiling. For the first time I see a flash of frustration press upon her perfect skin. Her eyes bore into mine with a fanatic intensity, pupils dilating randomly. She goes stock still as robed attendants snatch her from the press of bodies. Lackeys, followers of her faith who hover near the edge of her aura.

An icy wind suddenly steals away men's breath and laughter, numbs drinking hands and blows out the candles above. The warm air and atmosphere vanish as all look to the end of the hall.

A single guard staggers in, the darkness of night seeping in behind his bloody boots.

He reaches out a hand, trying to find words as blood bubbles up from his throat. He clutches his side, a dagger up to the hilt in his chest.

"Invaders." He gargles out before he falls, men in iron and fresh icor stepping over the corpse.