A New Dawn

by J. J. Johnson

  “In our home, the clan doesn’t see issues as our own. If there is a dispute, we all come together until it is solved. It has been a custom long before our time.”

  “Wasn’t your tribe under the rule of one of the Felled Ones? How could you trust any custom with such a ruler leading you?” asked Lydia.

  Izel gave her a curious smile. “No matter how vile a ruler, do not all cultures and people have things that are still admirable? Besides, this one predates even him.”

  The response had taken Lydia aback. Of course what the young woman said was true. Valkara’s ethos revolved around a warrior culture. Strength, violence, and hot-tempers for so long had ruled the day. Yet, there was still much to admire about her kinfolk. The hardships had strengthened them against all sorts of threats. Their love of nature and song was unparalleled in Islandia. Perhaps all these things could be redeemed.

  “If our discussion on culture and custom is at an end I would like to discuss the march home,” said Lancelin. Lydia rolled her eyes but stood ready to listen.

  “I believe the two armies should travel a good distance apart. We may have terms, but I doubt either side trusts one another. Last thing we need is some renegade starting a battle in the open plains or near a city.”

  “We could send delegates from each side to ensure no action is done to one another,” commented Zuma.

  “Hostages?” Lydia asked. “I don’t know if Aiden will be too thrilled.”

  “It’s a good thought, Zuma, but, no. Any sign of mistrust could send this spiraling toward conflict.”

  In that moment Lydia knew what to do. “I will march with Aiden’s men. We will go ahead of Kingshelm’s forces. That way, they cannot run off or strike us from behind. We can arrive quicker than our large force so negotiations can begin right away.”

  “Are you sure, Lydia? You’ll be alone with them.”

  “I will be fine. Just make sure our army doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  Lancelin gave her a nod. A messenger came darting from the camp. Lancelin stepped forward to address the man.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “A word from Kingshelm, my lord,” the messenger said out of breath.

  “From Titus?” Lydia asked with a tinge of fear gripping her voice.

  The messenger gave an affirming nod. “The High King wishes to inform you of strange visitors landing in Samudara Port. Hundreds of boats, it's said.”

  “What could this mean?” Lancelin asked to no one in particular.

  “No one is sure, my lord, but the High King requests your return immediately and he has asked that you bring the army.”

  Lydia looked at the others. The joy of the day suddenly seized by a rising sense of dread that one threat was now giving way to another.

  6

  Titus

  A dull hue of gray covered the sky. The cry of seagulls rang out above him, and his nostrils were filled with the scent of salt water. Titus found a calmness had always claimed him when he visited the sea. The sea with its endless embrace was untamable by any man. That thought struck fear into most, but for him the reminder that this world could not be hemmed in by sheer force of will brought him peace. No matter his striving, his vain attempts at glory, or his triumphs, there was always something that held greater power.

  When he stared out at the sea, it was the gentle reminder that he need not think his failings would be so great as to send the world crashing down forever. There was something greater that could overcome them, much like waves crashing into the banks of sand. What may be written could be washed over, molded to fit into the purposes of that higher power. The pounding waves also raised in him the courage that, though he may fail, he must try. The race of men must use their time wisely. What is written may be molded and changed, but what will it speak to those who are able to read it? He was called a steward for a reason. While many looked to him as High King, it was the purpose of stewardship that drove him. He was pulled from his thoughts as he felt Geralt step beside him. The grizzled warrior inhaled the salt water smell.

  “Never been a fan of the sea. Dry land is where I have planted my feet most of my days, and I prefer to keep them there. Give me dense evergreens and jagged rock any day,” said Geralt.

  Titus couldn’t help but let out a bit of a chuckle.

  “Something I say funny, lad?”

  “It was nothing really, Geralt,” Titus said with a faint smile. Internally he mused over how men could see the world so differently. Experience was the great shaper of perspective.

  The old warrior let it go, but Titus could see the man’s puzzled look as he searched inwardly at what could have been so funny. Titus turned his attention to the bustling port that lay to their right. He had taken some time alone by the sea before embarking on their true task. He searched for the answers and for guidance on what he should do next. No distinguishable answer came to him, but a sense of peace was all he needed. He drank in one last view of the vast expanse of water. Just off the coast floated several marvelously decorated ships of vibrant color. Their sails displayed varying symbols of their respective clans and homes. On their decks rested all manner of cargo. Some cargo was being offloaded and others were draped with tarps on deck. It was because of these ships that they had come.

  “We should gather with the others and head into the city.”

  Geralt gave him an agreeing nod. They returned to the small envoy that had accompanied them on the journey. The envoy held a mixture of royal representatives and ambassadors. All the politicians of Kingshelm wanted to investigate Islandia’s newfound arrivals. As they approached the city, Titus observed the strangeness of the place.

  Samadura Port was unlike any other city, town, or dwelling in Islandia. This port had come to be the only place with connections to the outside world. The Founders had always been paranoid of outsiders, wishing to keep what they had fled far at bay. Samadura had only risen out of necessity of trade, and it soon became a magnet to all and sundry. Most of the city was built from a strange colored stone, a mixture of dark grays and deep blue. It gave the entire city a wet look, as if every inch was covered by the spray of the sea. In juxtaposition the roofs of every building were a red clay tile. Large wooden pulleys littered the ever expanding skyline before them.

  The flair of the town had come from the melding of every kind of culture. Men of the south had first established the city as a fishing port. When it fell into Leviatanas’ hands it began to develop into an urban center. All manner of men gathered here and thus it became, in a casual sense, the port of Islandia. As Titus and the others wandered the streets, men of all colors and creeds carried with them carts of exotic goods. Fabulous furs of creatures Titus had never seen were draped from a nearby tanner’s shop.

  Fish of all kinds hung in the streets, the morning catch on display for sale. Even as the Steward King’s son, he had not ventured to this port often. With the import and export of so many goods from all manner of places, it had become a hard place to rule. It may have been one of his father’s greatest failures, letting the port exist almost entirely independent from the rest of Islandia, but the pressures of the time had drawn his attention to other issues to govern over.

  Now that left Titus in a precarious position. The High King prancing around the streets was an unfamiliar sight for many inhabitants of the city. Strange looks and ponderous glances were thrown his way. He could feel Geralt tense at his side as he, too, noticed attention being drawn to them. He was thankful to have a friend with him for this meeting.

  They soon found themselves at the port. An endless array of ships sat docked along the shore. As far as he could see, wooden docks housed all kinds of sea vessels. One in particular grabbed his attention. It was a mass of crimson and gold. At its bow was a sculpture craved in the image of a leviathan. Its snarling mouth and scaled neck protruded so far that it partially covered the docks it banked against.

  “That looks like a warship to me,” Geralt
said.

  “Indeed it does,” Titus said studying the behemoth.

  Just as the words left his mouth a dock-master came scrambling out of the crowds to meet them.

  “My lord the king, it is an honor for you to visit our dockyard. How can I best serve you?”

  The dock-master showed the veneer of pleasantries, but Titus felt the man’s distain for ruling authority hidden beneath his words.

  “I wish to speak to the owner of these ships,” Titus said motioning to the array of vessels.

  “Ahhh yes, the man named Ulric. That is who you’ll wish to speak with.”

  “Indeed, where is this, Ulric?” Titus asked.

  “Right here,” came a voice behind him. Titus turned to see a man standing with his hands on his hips. The man’s features and skin were worn from a harsh life at sea. His thick black hair and stubbled chin colluded with his rough exterior. Piercing eyes of deep brown sunken into a chiseled face stared back at them. There was fire to those eyes and Titus wondered if it was a sense of desperation the man carried within. The garb he wore was chainmail that had a tint of bronze. Peaking out from his midnight cloak was steel plating covered in gold. Over his shoulder rested a white fox fur, an exotic animal rarely seen in Islandia. It was a paradoxical scene. The features of the man told a tale of hardship while his clothes revealed great wealth. Behind this stranger Titus could see several others who stood armed and ready.

  “Ulric, High King Titus, it's a pleasure to finally meet you.” Titus extended a hand to the man. Ulric took it in his own with a cracked smile.

  “To meet such royalty, we are humbled.”

  “I wish to know why you have come to our lands and what it is you desire from us.”

  “Of course, High King.” Ulric’s eyes darted around the dock. “But I think it’s best we speak of such matters elsewhere. Some of my captains and I have lodging nearby. If it suits you, my King, he can join us there.”

  “Lead the way,” Titus said with a motion of his hand.

  Ulric and his companions turned, leading them down the main road from the docks. Ulric steered them to an elaborate lodge that overlooked the vast expanse of sea. The building bested any resting place Titus had seen in all of Kingshelm, even before the fires. Every kind of ornate decor filled the place. Sculptures of beasts and men both known and unknown to him. Gold trim covered every room’s frame. As they were ushered down the halls, he couldn’t help but notice the painted rich hues of indigo and crimson. Around every corner a servant was never far away. Ulric lead them into his private chambers. Large sculpted doors swung open to reveal a room painted with the familiar crimson and gold of the hallways. The room’s design carried a symmetry to it. Sharp lines and thoughtfully considered shapes all morphed into elaborate patterns. Thin windows stretched from the outer wall, letting the ocean air waft into the room. The song of sea birds and steady waves gently filled the room. Beneath them pillows and soft furs covered every furnishing.

  Titus had never seen such lavish dwellings outside the palace walls. He looked to Geralt whose face carried a hint of distain at what he saw. Who were these men?

  “I hope this is to your liking, my King?” Ulric asked as he seated himself next to a small fountain at the center of the room. Without command, a servant moved out from the shadows to offer Ulric a glass of wine.

  “I am afraid I will show my ignorance, but I didn’t know such a place as this existed,” Titus said, still marveling at the room.

  “Strange? A king does not know the finest places of his own kingdom?” Ulric asked in an innocent tone, swishing his drink.

  Geralt stepped forward with a protective air. “Best watch how you address the High King, outsider.”

  Titus rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What Geralt means to say is I am relatively new to the role of High King and Samadura Port has existed with some autonomy.”

  Ulric raised a curious eyebrow as he set his empty glass down on the servant’s tray. “It is a fine place. I haven’t stayed in such a dwelling in many years.”

  “But you have stayed in a place like this before?” Geralt asked.

  Ulric jumped to his feet with a clap of his hands. “Yes, in fact where I come from… sorry, correction, where I came from, I was royalty before… well before the time of reckoning.” Ulric’s voice hinted at disdain.

  “So, you are no longer a king?” Titus asked.

  “I am afraid not. You see, much of the world beyond your shores has been under the rule of one master. Baruuk, Monstro, Zhu, Inkosi, Maluuk all these are titles of the one who has dominated people far and wide.”

  “The Felled One,” Titus muttered.

  “Ahh, so you have a name for him as well? This Felled One, as you say, became enraged with many of his subjects a little over a year ago. In that rage countless rulers and peoples felt the fury of his wrath. He drove them from their homes and now some have washed up on your shores.”

  “So, you’re refugees? Strangest ones I’ve ever seen,” said Geralt.

  “I thought you said it's been many years since you ruled?” Titus asked.

  “Perceptive, High King,” Ulric said with a gleam in his eye. “My home was destroyed long before my birth, but my royal blood still counted for something. I have been a member of court in a kingdom friendly to my father. I grew up there all my life until Maluuk decided it was time to burn it down.”

  “What led you here?” Titus asked.

  “As I fled with many others, we bounced around various islands and kingdoms hoping to avoid Maluuk’s wrath. I began to see there were many like us, lost, unsure, and needing leadership. I was born to rule but was never given a throne. I decided to use that gift in leading a new band of people to safety. As all good rulers should.”

  Titus could sense the unease in Geralt at the casual certainty of this man named Ulric. A strange energy covered him and his followers.

  “Ulric, what would you ask of Islandia?”

  Ulric casually grabbed another glass of wine and took a sip as he paced the room. “I wish for my people to live in peace far from the rule of Maluuk. I followed a trail of rumors that spoke of a far off land that had repelled his rule.”

  Ulric’s eyes looked probingly up from his glass. Titus felt the weight of both question and judgment in the statement. What was this man’s intentions? Titus narrowed his eyes as he searched for what to say next.

  “You wish for peace, but do you bring peace with you?” he asked.

  “A wise question, my King. I will admit I am not always a modest man. I yearn for the finer things in life.”

  “That’s obvious,” Geralt grunted as his eyes scanned the room.

  Ulric let out a faint chuckle. “Guilty, but I do not wish to take what is not mine. I come representing a new clan of men and women from all sorts of lands in the hopes of finding a place to call our own, with your permission. Whether you have some quiet farmland you wish tilled, or some enemies we could conveniently overthrow for you. We wish only to honor your rule, however it best serves you.”

  “I do not wish to use your people as a weapon in my hand. As for a peaceful solution, I believe we could come to an arrangement,” Titus said.

  Ulric jumped to his feet. “That is all we could ask for, my King.”

  Geralt shifted uncomfortably beside him. Titus pushed aside his unease.

  “I cannot make this decision alone. I will call a council together of all the rulers in Islandia to decide what can be done.”

  “There may be no need for this. I have sent my men to all your lands and have heard back from at least one who has said the same as you.”

  “You’ve sent men out to all our lands?” Titus asked, trying to withhold his concern.

  “I did not mean to overreach, High King. I had not understood the rule of this land until now.”

  “I am not concerned with hierarchy, only where your request has gone. There are others who may not seek your good for
tune for free.”

  “We will heed only your voice from now on. I can only be thankful you responded to us first.”

  This complicated things, Titus thought. If Jorn gets word from these men…

  He lifted his eyes back to Ulric. “How many have you brought with you?”

  Ulric’s face squinted in thought. “Counting all, close to 5,000.”

  “That’s an army,” Titus heard Geralt say under his breath.

  “Are all of you so well armed and well off?” Titus asked.

  Ulric let a faint smile touch his lips. “No, not all of us. We are a company filled with people from many walks of life. However, we have those who could afford to provide for such a voyage. We fled, but not without taking our coin with us.”

  “You bought yourself your own personal army, and we are just supposed to believe you came sailing to our lands in peace?” Geralt growled.

  “Believe what you like, but we will prove our loyalty to you, High King. We do not wish to create conflict where it’s not needed.”

  “I don’t believe a word…”

  Titus raised a hand cutting Geralt off. “Ulric, for now, have your people camp this side of Lake Leviathan. This land is much less occupied than it once was,” the words tasted bitter as he said them.

  “You and a small company of your leaders may join us on our return to Kingshelm. We can discuss your future here with a full council.” His eyes shot to Geralt hoping he understood it was not his decision to make.

  “You are too generous, my King,” Ulric said bowing.

  “We will depart tomorrow morning. I suggest you make preparations in the meantime.”

  With that, Titus bowed and moved to leave. He could feel that Geralt was anxious to speak with him in the absence of Ulric’s listening ears. They followed the hallway and went down a cascading stairwell before reaching the door of the lodge. Once outside the doors, they stepped back into the bustling streets. Titus felt Geralt grip his arm.

  “Titus, we cannot let them into Kingshelm!”

  Titus ripped his arm free. “Do you think this is your decision to make? Am I to leave these people without a home, abandoned to that monster Maluuk, wherever he may be lurking out in the wider world?”