by Jeff Shanley
PART TWO
It was the year 3475 of the Third Era of Ánovén, just over one and a half centuries after the retaking of Taqár. Thousands had turned out to celebrate the king’s birthday, and there was much joy and drinking in Avakaš. For nights on end songs emanated out into the streets from the taverns in the city, telling of Etharon’s bravery and skill in battle, and the myth of the king’s eternal youth came once again to the fore, and the voices of the aged found new and young eager ears eager to hear what they had to tell.
“I tell you, lads,” said Aegoth one night, “in the days of the Childless King, Etharon was the fist that landed on the Werewolves’ snouts! He could lead a hundred men against a thousand of the most bloodthirsty sons of bitches Ak’horokaš could throw our way and pummel their generals into submission like domesticated puppies!”
“Hurrah!” shouted the soldiers around him, raising their mugs and slopping their ale on the stone floor, flickering orange and shadowy with the light of the hearth. Aegoth had fought alongside the king many hundreds of years before, when Etharon was still a humble soldier, and he witnessed firsthand the king’s force of will on a thousand men against the onslaught of Padakis. But now he was old and bent, and walked with a cane and was blind in one eye. But in this his mind’s eye was all the more clearer because of it, and he could still smell the stink of battle: decaying, charred corpses of his enemies, the blood and sweat of the men who had paid an ultimate price for the protection of their homes.
“But your sons and daughters should not grow gluttonous of their cheery lives,” he said again, and in a low voice, “for the price of this peace was great, and though our king made it so we must not forget that even he mourned the loss of life of men who fought alongside him. He personally came to my brother Maegroth’s pyre as it was lit, and it was here—” and Aegoth touched his left shoulder, “—that he laid his hand on me and called me a brother at arms, swearing personal vengeance for our loss. Our king is a good king, but we must remember that many of us, and you lads in your irons and steels, will follow him to our deaths if we are to keep our safety.”
This time when the men raised their mugs and goblets it was solemn and sincere, and after that many went home to their wives and children, cherishing both Aegoth’s words and the time they had with those they loved.
In the Great Hall Etharon sat, as if rooted to the High Throne. The hall had been decked with banners of black and blue and white, the emblems of his ancestor Athion hailing all who looked upon them. There was a glass goblet, framed with gold, resting in the King’s hand, still filled to the brim with liquor from his birthday feast earlier that evening. He had not drunk or even sipped, and his mind was restless.
Štolohir and Hlókoros entered through the main doors, and the sounds of cheer echoed throughout the hall. Behind them was Yavahro, the King’s Regent, descendant of Kan’hadjion, newly come from Štélue in the far south. The Regent was older than the King by a few decades, but he walked with the aid of a polished staff of silver birch, a silver tip on the bottom that clicked as it touched the tiles of the hall. Etharon saw them and his heart was lightened.
He bounded down the steps of the High Throne and embraced his sons.
“It is good of you to come,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t we? It’s your birthday after all, Father,” Štolohir replied. Etharon smiled; the boy would make a good king after Etharon was gone. But at the thought of his death the king frowned, and Hlókoros took notice.
“Is there something the matter?” he asked. Etharon nodded.
“How will I be remembered?” he asked. “We have won many victories, but always to aid another. Mehecali, Kôvudén, Degos Enath…it was all for others, never ourselves.”
“It is because of that that our borders are secure,” said Štolohir, “surely you wouldn’t want to risk that?”
“I wish to make good on the words I spoke the day the Wolf-crown was placed on my head,” said Etharon. “I wish to crush the Kânín, to make them fear the name of the Wolven and the sons of Athion. In the youth of our line is our strength, and we have wasted it.”
“I would disagree,” said Yavahro, “and as your Regent and friend I would advise against these poisonous thoughts. We have crushed them, Etharon. Because of your valor they now cower in their hovels and dens, and fear to attack us lest they incur your wrath.”
“In their fear they have incurred it,” Etharon growled, “I am a warrior, I rule with a sword not with words. I will make it known that they will stay put where they are for all eternity. I will end this war in one glorious battle.”
“Father…” said Hlókoros, but the king held up a hand.
“My mind is made,” he said, “gather your troops. We will take two thousand men and depart tonight.”
“But tomorrow is the King’s Day!” cried the Regent, “The people expect to see you before them.”
“They will see me on our return,” said Etharon, “when I bring them the Betrayer’s head and take Ak’horokaš.” At this a smile played at the corners of Etharon’s mouth, and Štolohir was disturbed. But Hlókoros returned his father’s smiled, and a light danced in his eyes as the moon passed over the high window, bathing the hall in a pale silver light. And in this light Yavahro the Regent saw his king, pale as a corpse.
Horns blared throughout the city, and thousands of men filed out into the courtyard just below the Towers. They came already in their armor and mail, helms tucked beneath their arms. Etharon emerged and welcomed them, clad in the armor of the king with a war-cape wafting behind him emblazoned with the sigils of his clan.
“Men!” he cried and the soldiers raised their heads. All was still and quiet, and no one dared to move while the King spoke:
“Nigh four hundred years ago I promised to crush the Kânín. To deal them a blow so devastating that Eredôn’s slaying of Kalahoth the Cruel would become but a mere footnote in the histories of the realm! We have waylaid Padakis, and the curs of Bazôkaš dare not show their hideous faces away from their beloved mountain caves!”
“Hurrah!” the soldiers cried, raising their helms, some summoning their swords and raising them as well.
“But now we will take the ultimate prize!” Etharon bellowed, and many of the younger soldiers stared wide-eyed and hung on his every word. The king said nothing for a long while, then raised his fist above his head and cried out into the night, loud enough for even Azgharáth the Betrayer to hear in his dark halls and torturous chambers, thousands of miles away:
“Ak’horokaš will fall!”
And then the soldiers cried, and their cry went up and out into the night, and the city shook with bristling glee. Etharon the Warrior King rode to battle once more.
