by Jeff Shanley
THE FOLLY OF ETHARON
CHRONICLES OF THE WOLVEN
Jeff Shanley
Copyrighted 6.6.2012 Jeff Shanley
Cover image © Jeff Shanley, 2012
PART ONE
Eight generations before Mathion ascended the High Throne of Ánovén, Etharon the First and Only of the Clan of Athion Któlkos began the dynasty of Hâr-Etheôn’s seventh and youngest son. Early in his life he had commanded the vast armies in the name of his good friend, the previous king Hâr-Mehecali, the last king of the Line of Úrevos. Etharon had won great renown for his ability to change the tide of battle, seemingly at will. He was a master tactician and could end a siege with an army half the size of a fortress’s total occupants, and many saw his succession to Mehecali as opportune, for the childless king lacked the fire of his ancestor Úrevos, and under his rule the werewolves would have overrun the garrisons of the Guardian Towers and many key settlements in Kôvudén as well, had it not been for Etharon.
Etharon was nine hundred and thirty-one years old when the Wolf-crown was placed on his head exactly one year to the day from Mehecali’s death, but his fiery ambition for glorious battle could not be smothered by the burden of rule. Etharon sought to crush the Kânín, the foul hordes of Azgharáth’s werewolves, and he rebuked his friend Mehecali for his perceived fear.
“I will see us to glory,” he said. “My predecessor, my friend, was a great philosopher, and through him we gained many words of enduring wisdom. But the hordes of the Betrayer care not for words. They care for blood, and I will give them plenty of their own.”
Immediately after his ascension, Hâr-Etharon led a massive army that crushed an army of Bazôkašian werewolves five thousand strong with three thousand men. Very quickly he secured the borders of the South-realm, and he brought the Wolven great security and prosperity. Many sons and daughters lived happy lives in those days, and so the battle-myth of Etharon’s “eternal youth” was spread, after he reached the age of one thousand and began his latter years.
When Etharon was eleven hundred and fifty-six years old the werewolves had not threatened the peace of Ánovén for over a century and a half. So they turned their eyes on Kôvudén; the Dominion of Men was much weaker than the kingdom of the Wolven, and the spoils of war were still great.
The everlasting war between the Wolven and the werewolves stood achingly still in this time, for Azgharáth knew by means of dark power that Etharon was not the threat he had foreseen, no matter how great his victories were. But Etharon saw this as the High Lord’s fear, which is where his greatest error was made, for to underestimate the High Lord of the werewolves was the height of arrogance, and in this Etharon was flawed. But in his flaw was the unyielding spark of ambition which Etharon had inherited from Athion, and in this way he proved himself a great king of war and a commander of men.
But in that year, when Etharon was in the prime of his latter years, the werewolves crashed upon the port city of Taqár. Its great barges were burned and destroyed, the people cowered in fear before they were killed by Azgharáth’s generals; it was overrun. One thousand soldiers were sent from Kalendu but they were not enough to drive the enemy back, but when all seemed lost an eagle found its way to Avakaš, just in the nick of time.
Etharon was ever eager for battle, and when he received this summons he saw it as a call back to war. Within half a month he had five thousand men behind him, and from Mekelir they sailed north across the mouth of the Great Gulf. They arrived less than a week later, and it is said that Etharon leapt from the ship into the bay, and swam to shore ahead of the armies. They fought for six weeks night and day, and many said they saw Etharon slashing through werewolf after werewolf under both eyes of the Shaper.
The king’s unconquerable thirst for battle inspired his troops, and they rose up around him and fed off his presence. They crushed the enemy in one year, and it would be many centuries before the city was besieged again. Etharon and his soldiers were honored by King Naliru V of Kôvudén for their valor and bravery, and returned home laden with gold and silver, and the gratitude of their long-distanced kin. Many recalled that there were none who dared challenge the king, and not since then has Ánovén seen such peace.
But though Etharon was flawed in his arrogance, he proved himself a wise man in matters of counsel. The Methir Edaeron knew better than to question him, and he saw to it that the bonds that tied the banks of the Greatwater were renewed and strengthened, and he gave more leniency to the High Steward of Kihar, naming him Lord of the East in the name of the King. He levied no tax against those who brought their goods to the Kingslands, and Avakaš prospered and spread out from the Kingshill. In this time of peace Hâr-Etharon gave his son Štolohir command over the armies of the Wolven, and in turn Etharon’s second son Hlókoros maintained the garrisons in Degos Enath under the guidance of the Wardens of the Guardian Towers.
After their defeat in Taqár the hordes of Azgharáth holed themselves up in their great cities far north of the Guardian Towers. For two hundred years Etharon sat on the High Throne with none to challenge him, and slowly his generals drew their forces back into the South, seeing that the Werewolves no longer dared to challenge their king either directly or from the East. And so Etharon sat and festered, and the lust of glory was rekindled in him. Gathering all the troops he could he broke through the Deadlands of Kânavad, sweeping over those barren wastes with his men behind him like a plague of locusts, and any werewolves they found they slew with prejudice and without mercy. The king thirsted for blood, and though in later years many called him mad in that time his men called him impassioned, fueled by the fire of Athion’s ambition for glory and battle.
After many months they came upon the city of Padakis and Etharon, still with ten thousand men behind him, beat upon the gates of the city and swore at Yehâgaf and Azgharáth, calling them cowards and lechers, demanding he witness their might for himself. And the gates opened and a thousand werewolves roared out onto the plain, and a thousand after a thousand swept upon them. But Etharon was gleeful of the kill, and he slew many of their generals and fires sprung up about him as his silver sword cleaved flesh and bone and fur.
But the cost was great. Etharon returned home with half the men he left with, and many women grieved, wives for their husbands and mothers for their sons. But they knew peace, and they had Etharon to thank for it.
