Garen had been observing the men of Indius walking over to the horses laden with barrels of water, plunging their flasks deep within, and refilling whenever they felt like. Every man that filled his flask to the brim left Garen with a growing feeling of resentment and frustration.
They do not ask, they act as if they are free men, with no king over their heads. While the king sits alone and sulks in a corner. Why does he sulk when he can be fucking the Harduinian girl? Or can he? Now that I think of it, they haven’t spoken to each other once during the course of this journey. Is this why he sulks, because he can’t get a little cunt out in the wilderness?
The next day was even worse. The horizon before him turned into a mirage, a giant shimmering illusion that gave hopes of a lake or even a puddle of water, but always out of reach. The steel of Garen’s armor became so hot that a little drop of water would sizzle and then evaporate into smoke the moment it fell on it. Garen looked up and saw that the sun had grown larger, almost three times its normal size, an enormous sphere of fire, and it looked as if thousands of smaller suns were merging into it, causing it to grow larger with each passing hour.
Is this a mirage as well? Will the sun grow large enough to cloak the sky and, in the end, burn us alive inside our melting armor?
Garen could not see the blisters, but he could feel them whenever his surcoat brushed against one of them, and more than once, he felt his eyes close and unconsciousness wash over, but he would always snap out of it, terrified that if he would close his eyes for an extended time, they might never open again.
Perhaps it would be easier to just close them and die. To let the heat, melt the skin off my body until skin and ground are one, and I become part of the earth, as much as the earth becomes part of me.
“Man down!” someone screamed from behind him.
About time.
“Halt,” someone else shouted.
Why? Let them die. Let us all die.
“Seems like he fainted. Throw some water on his face.”
Garen turned his horse around and saw that it was a Harduinian man-at-arms who lay motionless in the glass, his helm had crashed open and saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth, collecting on the ground around his face. Olver Liongloom rode up to the man, while a soldier sprinkled water on his unconscious face. The man did not stir.
“Shove a flask of water in his mouth,” Olver commanded. A soldier scurried off to do the bidding, while Garen looked on with an annoyed face. He was not about to waste precious provisions on men he was about to kill.
“So, are we to waste our water on every soldier that faints? Because I can wager, a lot of us will be falling off our horses before the day ends, and we need enough water to sustain us in the forest as well.”
Garen could not make out Olver’s expression from behind his greathelm, but he did notice his eyes narrow, and a hint of anger flash for a second.
“So, what would you have us do, Garen…,”
“Your Grace,” Garen corrected Olver in an impertinent tone.
“You are not yet my king,” said Olver as he lifted the visor of his greathelm, revealing a face as red as a ripe apple, and weary brown eyes which were unblinking and unmoving, staring at Garen with fervidity.
“I will be, better you get used to it, and as I am to be your king, I disallow anyone from consuming more than their quota of provisions, no matter if they lie melting into the ground. And I expect the same to be done if and when I go through the same hardship.”
My father dies in Riverhelm, and this man wants to save Harduinian sons of whores. It's not men I need inside, but food and water, for as long as I am alive, I will find a way to the other side.
“Tread carefully, Your Grace, I gave your father respect because he has seen more springs than me, and we have been taught not to disrespect the ones who came before us, do not expect me to treat you the same way if you show me discourtesy”. Olver’s voice was cold and laced with subdued anger.
Garen knew that he could not surrender now. Fear makes men follow their king, not compassion or love. For if love were to keep men loyal, then our coffers would not be full of kings with daggers thrust in their backs, his father had always said. And if he were to let Olver do as he wanted, then his men would take him to be craven.
“Then strike me down, King Olver, for that man will not drink a drop of water as long as I live,” Garen said, dismounting from his horse and unsheathing his father’s sword, its edges glinting in the sunlight, its golden hilt and guard a blazing spectacle amidst the sweltering heat.
“You wish to fight me?” Olver said, astonished, while the soldiers of Indius unsheathed their swords as well, anticipating an attack on their king.
“I don’t wish it, but I see no other way to settle this. Tell your soldiers to sheathe their swords, let us keep this between you and me,” Garen said, dropping the visor of his helm and gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands, feet apart, and ready to battle.
“Of course there are ways to settle this without fighting over it like a bunch of bandits. Mount your horse, King Garen, and let us continue. I do not wish to be cooked alive in my armor.”
“What should I do, Your Grace?” said the confused soldier holding a flask full of water that he had brought for the unconscious man.
Silence fell, as everyone held their breaths, waiting and wondering with beating hearts. But before anyone could say anything, the sound of galloping hooves turned everyone’s attention to Elsa, Sanrick, and Diyana, who arrived at the scene, wondering what the commotion was all about.
“Give him the water, but let this duel decide what will be done from here henceforth. If I lose, then, by all means, stuff their bellies with so much water that they piss the drought away from Aerdon, but if I win, then no one gets extra provisions,” said Garen, “and you will call me ‘Your Grace’ the next time you address me.” Garen pointed a steely finger at Olver.
“I do not wish to resort to such petty ways for us to solve our disputes. Will you unsheathe your sword each time you disagree with someone? Where is the diplomacy in that? Let us conserve our energy, the heat is your enemy, not me.” Olver said as he turned to mount his horse.
“Is King Philis’s heir scared of losing to a man five years younger than him? Fight me and know your true worth. Show the men that you weren’t fit to be the King of Aerdon, and that I was the right choice,” Garen barked as he started to move closer to Olver.
“I believe it is you who wants to prove something more than me, King Garen,” Olver said, turning to face Garen once again, “but if this little duel will make you happy and a lot more tolerable for the rest of the journey, then we shall fight.”
The man sprawled on the ground regained his consciousness as he coughed and spat out some of the water that was forced down his throat. It took three men to haul him off the ground and lead him to his horse, where he sat with his eyes half shut, on the verge of falling once again.
“Fight and get it over with,” said Diyana in a lazy voice.
Out of nowhere, a gust of wind hit Garen in his face, and for a moment he felt relief, but it was gone as soon as it had arrived, and he was once again left with the calmness of the grasslands, devoid of wind and life. But at the moment, Garen had never felt more alive. This is what he was born to do. To wield a sword, to dance with it, to hack and slash, to fight.
“The king of Calypsos! The true king of Aerdon!” a Calypsian rider shouted and soon the cry was taken up by others. Steel rang on steel as the soldiers started to smash their swords on their breastplate. The men of Indius stayed silent, while the Calyspians roared all around them. Elsa and Sanrick Faerson just looked on.
And then it began. Garen lunged forward and dealt a massive downswing on Olver which Olver parried. Garen did not stop as he came at Olver with another side slash, and then another, and then another. Olver defended them all while backing away, and Garen kept advancing, his two-handed greatsword making full use of its reach. Garen’s blade
glinted and shimmered with each stroke, trying to find armor or skin, but only meeting Olver’s blade midway, or cutting air or grass. Garen drove Olver all the way to the edge of the circle of soldiers that surrounded the two battling kings, and that is when Olver began to counterattack. After having ducked and evaded a slash from Garen, he got down on his knee and hacked at Garen’s legs. The impact brought Garen to his knees as well and was too late to evade a thrust from Olver as blade found a gap in his armor and kissed his thighs as the mighty Indiusian blade, scraped through. A red gash opened up as Garen rolled to the side to get away from the blow that would have ended the fight then and there.
Both men were back on their feet.
“Yield, and we can stop this nonsense,” Olver shouted.
“It's going to take a lot more than just that to make me yield, King Olver,” Garen barked back, “I see you fight well when you have a maid’s heart to win. Tell me, will defeating me give you more pleasure than bedding your enemy? Do your men know that their beloved king sleeps with the girl whose forebears raped their women and plundered their lands?”
Elsa Faerson shouted something, but Garen did not pay her any heed as he ran towards Olver and started to rain steel on him. The men around them howled, sparks flew as blade met blade, armors clamored, and blood flowed like an angry river in Garen’s veins as he put all of his strength behind his blows. And then finally, a thunderous downswing made Olver lose the grip on the hilt, and for a moment Garen thought he had him. He went for the finishing strike, a menacing sideslash that would have left Olver’s body headless. He did not care. He was going for the kill.
How about that, Princess Diyana? My first kill will be a king.
But the weight of the sword along with the exhaustion of fighting in heavy armor in extreme weather had slowed Garen down. And before he could finish his attack, Olver’s gauntlet, that was clenched into a fist, caught Garen in his abdomen, taking the air out of his lungs as he staggered back, almost falling to the ground. Garen could feel the taste of blood in his mouth as he spat out the red liquid, his sides aching from the mighty punch. The howling of the men stopped. A horse neighed loudly.
Garen felt the strength leave his arm as the sword fell into the grass. The heat had worn him down. He could see the darkness slowly creep into the sides of his vision. He saw Olver Liongloom remove his helm and strip off his breastplate, breathing heavily, his hand on his knees, staring at Garen with eyes filled with exhaustion.
It was the heat and my anger that led to my defeat, and not you, King Olver. And now I must die, for what honor is there in living and leading the men who saw you fall to your knees, covered in your own blood, like a child born new.
But Garen Swolderhornn did not die. Although darkness did envelop him, and he did dream of a place where the gods must have resided. He found himself standing in a white hall with white pillars and a white marble floor. A golden throne was kept on a raised marble platform that towered over him, and the walls of the hall were so high that doves flew in circles where it ended, and a domed roof began. A man with a long silvery beard sat on the throne, his eyes closed as if in meditation, and then he spoke, and when he did, his voice rang across the hall, and Garen cowered in fear.
“Hatred and hegemony. Pride and pillory. Love and lust. Men do not yet learn. Throw away these crowns of glass and build something formidable. A new day will dawn, and a new sun will rise, but will it rise over death or life?” the man opened his eyes, and suddenly, he was looking straight at Garen, and Garen felt small and weak and scared.
“Will the son of Calypsos take heed?” the man spoke, and the moment he finished, the vision vanished in a puff of smoke, and the last thing Garen saw were the cold blue eyes of the man, staring into his soul, and he had never felt more naked. Darkness had once again taken over him as he drifted back into the depths of unconsciousness. Sometimes he would hear voices around him, talking in whispers or sometimes he would hear men scream, as if they were being skinned alive. Screams that he had only heard once, in a dungeon where he had lost his way and hands had grabbed him. He would try and open his eyes, but the sun would blaze before his eyes, burning with fury, round and larger than ever, like a formidable shield wrought in gold.
Surely this is a new birth. I have died and come back again as a child. A child born in a slum, where men die all around me.
But as time dragged on, the screams of the men vanished, and the air around him became cooler. He could feel the air on his face, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of green grass and rain, of mud and moss. And then finally, he opened his eyes to look at a starlit sky, and wisps of cloud floating like chariots in the sky. To his right, in the distance, he could see the border of a forest where the trees grew so close to each other that it seemed as if a wall of leaves, high and green, with thick twisted branches jutting out in places, protected the forest like a curtain wall around a castle. Sitting up proved to be difficult, but he managed somehow. He was lying on wet grass and all about him were the sounds of men singing and dancing, of women laughing and for a moment he thought he was back in the Great Hall of Cainhorn Castle, amidst the people of his homeland, and then the ugly memory of the grasslands and the duel with Olver came rushing to him, and the joy evaporated from his heart.
Why did you have to send me back, Odium? What place will I have among these men and women who will look at me with pitiful eyes and suspicious hearts?
“The king is awake!” someone shouted, and it took a while before everyone could understand what was going on and then the dancing and singing stopped and every eye turned to him. Garen noticed the massive broad-shouldered knight, Sir Marston, push his way out of the crowd and approach him with a smile on his face.
“Your Grace, the joy in my heart knows no bounds. We thought we had lost you,” said Sir Marston, kneeling down beside Garen and bowing his head with his hand on his breastplate.
“For how long was I unconscious?” asked Garen, looking around and gazing upon the men and women of Aerdon, soldiers of different kingdoms who now stood beside one another, frozen midway between dancing, singing or roasting a rabbit on a spit, staring at Garen with wonder.
“Seventeen days, Your Grace,” Sir Marston answered, “but you would open your eyes from time to time, and then the darkness would take you again.”
“And what of our men? What of Olver and the others?” Garen asked in a hushed tone.
“Well, after your duel with King Olver, the men wanted to attack and kill everyone, especially King Olver, for vengeance. Odium knows how formidable of a task it was for me to keep them under control, but they did finally calm down when they saw you were still alive, and they obeyed me, and since then, they have sort of taken a liking to King Olver. He led all of us out of the grasslands and saved as many men as he could, and you, Your Grace, he did all he could to save you.” Sir Marston whispered in Garen’s ear.
“So, he stole the loyalty of my men, and by the look of it, yours as well,” Garen said through gritted teeth, “did you like his manhood up your arse?”
Even if Sir Marston felt offended, he did not show it. “The men still follow you, Your Grace, for they know you are still king, and their homes and families are in Riverhelm, where your father rules.”
And he would butcher every woman these men have fucked and every child that they have fathered if he comes to know that they disobeyed his son and their king.
“And they have also seen how strong you are,” Sir Marston continued, “for no man escaped death once the heat got to them. Men died all throughout the journey, while they saw that you fought with all your strength, and then survived.”
Garen nodded, still looking uncertain. He tried getting up, and the world spun around him. He held onto Sir Marston for support and looked around him as one Calypsian soldier after the other got down on their knee and bowed their heads, hailing the last king of Aerdon.
Garen asked them to get up and then turned around to look at the massive wall of trees in the
distance, rising up like walls of a castle; a castle made of wood instead of stone, and trees as soldiers.
“Is that what I think it is, Sir Marston?”
“Yes, Your Grace, it is finally time, The Endless Forest beckons.”
Chapter Four
Olver Liongloom
IT BURNED THE skin, and yet we marched,
The sun shone bright and melted our hearts, and yet we marched.
Through yellow grass, under the stars,
Our legs did ache, and yet we marched, for hours and hours.
Towards the Endless Forest, and towards the gloom,
We will march again, for we are the storm,
We will march till the world is ours.
Olver sat beside a fire that had burned down to embers as the song ended with loud cheers and another began, this one also made by the soldiers, a song that spoke of four kingdoms coming together as one. His steel armor and tunic lay on the ground beside him as he enjoyed the feel of the cool wind on his bare chest which was covered with red gashes and blisters and burned skin. Many times, in the grasslands, he had thought he would never feel the wind in his hair, or he would never know the feel of rain on his face or the taste of cold water from a stream. Many times, he thought the fire would consume him.
The fire did consume a lot of men. Some fell from their saddle, already dead by the time they hit the ground, and some fell and sizzled on the ground before the blood dried up in their veins and light left their eyes. Some went mad as the heat affected their minds, and they would jump off their horse and run wildly into the grass, screaming and crying at the same time, until exhaustion would drop them to the ground, where they would cry some more and then eventually die.
Sanrick Faerson had proved himself to be stronger than Olver had thought. Although he would cry himself to sleep each night, scream whenever a blister or a rash would touch his armor, but the boy never fell, and never lost his mind. And then one day, when Sanrick Faerson was all but dead, his skin burned and cracked, his lips white as the snow, Olver saw the end to their torment. The yellow grass ended abruptly, and Olver and his steed emerged out of the ocean of fire and into the cool of a meadow, where flowers of all the colors in the world, bloomed and swayed gently in the wind, all around him. The sun suddenly lost all of its intensity, and the wind started to blow once again. The men cheered and clapped, shouted and screamed and leaped out of their horses and stripped their armor, and Sanrick Faerson lived to see another day.
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