Treason

Treason

The great main hall of Merefen echoes with bawdy laughter and intoxicated merriment. A mighty blaze roars in the hall’s enormous hearth, its warmth and benign light blankets all. Torchlights hang from every wall, and candles flicker on the long trestle tables, laden with platters of roasted mutton and goat. Barrels of strong Galtish ale lubricate even the driest of souls. Men embrace each other in friendship, while children run through the hall, between the tables, as they laugh, play, and sing.

Algwain moves from table to table, making small talk and toasting their health. 

Eifear and Eindred sit at a loud table, guzzling ale, their cheeks flushed.

Nirtesh, perches at a quiet table at the far end of the hall with the child in his arms. He spoon-feeds her from a bowl of fatty mutton broth. 

The girl clings to her filthy blanket. She peers at Algwain as he approaches, and as their eyes connect, her lips move with the faintest of whispers. The old mage nods and gives her a cheerful smile.

“She's talking?” Algwain slumps down onto the bench and takes a gulp of ale.

“Talking would be a strong commitment; she screams in her sleep, but the odd meaningful sentence is becoming more apparent.”

“What does she say?” 

“Apa.” Nirtesh raises his single brow with a humorous smile. “Yes, she’s become rather fond of you. Her first words when she saw you. ‘Father’,” Nirtesh takes a slow sip of ale.

Algwain leans back, observing the small girl over the rim of his heavy flagon. An odd mix of joy, pride, and fear stirs in his chest. In the awkwardness of it all, he glances away from the child’s unblinking stare.

“General Algwain. You can fight a host of Umbal, but you are afraid of a child.” The mage cackles with laughter.

Algwain glances over his flagon and peers at the girl. She stares back at him from beneath her dirty blanket, playing a game of hide-and-seek. A happy little laugh escapes her lips.

“Well, general, you’re blessed indeed.” Nirtesh glances down at the girl in surprise.

“We should find her a new blanket.” Algwain changes the subject. “It stinks of stale sweat and old horses.”

“How caring of you.” Chides the mage in mocking grandeur. “Your little princess here won’t part with the fetid thing. She likes the smell of sweat and old horses. It reminds her of you.”

Algwain sniffs himself and winces as the mage bursts out in laughter before falling into a hacking cough.

“Are you well, Nirtesh?” Concern falls over Algwain’s troubled face. “You’ve aged.”

“Yes, we all age, general.” His old, crooked hands wipe at his dunes of wrinkled brow. “Even I.”

“You are old, Nirtesh. How many winters have you seen?”

“More than you have, general.” Nirtesh grabs a handful of his straggly gray hair. “I have lived many lifetimes, yet I still serve a purpose, and we still have time to counteract. You must remain here, guarding Merefen, until I return in spring.”

“Return from where?” Algwain’s voice reveals his agitation.

“East.” The old mage’s blue eye glimmers.

“Norgrad.” Algwain scoffs with a resentful laugh. “They’re nothing but savages dwelling on the ice sheets. If you insist on going, at least take good men with you. Eifear and Eindred would see you over the Benguire Pass.”

“There’s more in the east than Norgrad. If you go beyond the east, that is.”

“There’s nothing beyond those mountains but an endless expanse of ice.” Algwain exhales an exasperated breath.

“Have no fear, Algwain. Look for me on the first dawn of spring.”

“And in spring, then what?” Algwain scoffs, his skeptical eyes wandering the table in search of more ale.

“Reinforcements.” The mage’s eyes dance with merry amusement.

Algwain drains the last dregs of ale from his flagon. “What about the girl?”

“The girl will stay here; the wild is no place for her.” She peeks out from under the blanket, grinning at Algwain. A father’s fear takes him, he looks away.

“Madon takes the throne.” The old mage reaches across the table, placing his hand on Algwain’s. “He goes to war, but there is much more at work than the ambition of a young king. He is no mortal man; a powerful force resides within him. He is a vessel for destruction and chaos, and throughout the ages, he has been known by many names in every kingdom.” 

The Elim fixes Algwain with an unwavering stare. “Ana, as I know him, is as real as you and I, and his will is bent on destroying all that is good.”

Algwain raises a single skeptical brow, but his mind drifts back to dark times and darker deeds. “Are you telling me Prince Madon is a god?” Algwain barks a laugh.

The mage’s cataract eye gives an annoyed flash of power. “You have witnessed firsthand the powers of light and dark, yet you still do not believe? Most men do not have the mind to comprehend a man made a god, yet you have seen his works in the Umbal, you have felt his servants’ touch. His wickedness shattered the very foundations of this castle, its lineage wiped out, and its people ruled by fear. This is only the beginning, Algwain. Those who stand with him face a fate worse than death.”

“What is this fate?” Algwain rubs at his weary temples, as he wants to deny the old mage.

Nirtesh’s voice is dark and hollow. “The people of Galt will serve in a form he sees worthy of his domain.” The Elim’s aged eye rises to meet Algwain’s. “Do not seek friendships and loyalties beyond these walls, for what was once a friend will consider you a foe.”

“I have no desire to seek out the Umbal, and we cannot defeat the shadows without you.” Algwain shakes his head in growing frustration.

“It is not the Umbal I speak of.” The mage’s mood darkens. “The Umbal serve a new purpose, but such cunning and treachery I cannot fully see.” 

The old mage breaks the heavy mood. “Madon’s mind is on greater things than a few rebels behind walls of crumbling stone. Remain true to yourself and those you lead, and Merefen will hold until I return. Protect the people, Algwain.” 

Nirtesh shoots him a playful wink and hobbles to his feet. “People of Merefen.” The loud hall falls into silence as the mage’s booming voice echoes off the walls. “General Algwain has words for you.” Nirtesh turns to Algwain, then sits himself back down.

Algwain sinks into the bench as expectant eyes focus on him.

“Get up. Lead Merefen, Algwain. Stand with them,” Nirtesh pokes Algwain with his staff under the table.

“Men of Galt. My countrymen. My friends.” Algwain stands tall and commanding as the hall bangs their flagons on the table in support. “I am Algwain, General of the Garrison of Ossan.” He finds his general’s voice. “I serve Merefen and Galt. I have seen firsthand the butchery our new king commands against his own people.”

The great hall bristles with discontent. “You speak against the king?” A gruff voice bellows.

“Does a king water his lands with the blood of his children?” Algwain considers the man’s words with care. “Does a king slay his own kin and condemn his own loyal people to death? I am a soldier. I follow orders, and I have never been commanded to slay my own, nor can I give such an order. I will not kneel before a king who gives such commands.”

The great hall erupts in discord. “King Eiden is dead. Prince Madon claims his birthright.” An angry voice shouts above the crowd. “They summoned all to his crowning. You speak of treason.”

“I speak for freedom.” Algwain’s voice rises with authority. The hall falls to a sudden quiet. 

“For fifteen great cycles, I have protected our lands and guarded our borders.” Algwain holds the silence as he turns to face and looks each man, woman, and child in the eye. “I have served Galt my entire life to protect the people from fear and war.” Algwain paces around the tables, his strong gaze fixing on all. “I do not yield to fear or kneel to greed.”

A small, unified chorus of support sounds around him as flagons of ale knock on the wooden tables.

“If the cost of freedom is treason, then so be it. Those who wish to stand with me may do so, and we will defend the freedom of our people and land until our last breath. Those who wish to leave can take what is theirs and leave as they wish, but do not travel at night. Leave at dawn and be swift.”

“General Algwain speaks only truth for those with the ears to hear it.” The old mage stands, his back arched like a crumbling bridge, and hobbles forward. “It is Algwain who freed Merefen and dealt the lords’ justice on those who conspired against you. Algwain stood before the Umbal shadow horde in the ancient stone circle. The General stands before you now to defend all that is yours.” 

The old Elim mage releases a slender ripple of light from his staff. The crowd gasps. “It is Algwain who will stand for the freedom of Galt and lead the defense of Merefen.” 

Skittish eyes wander up and down the rickety old mage as he comes to rest on his staff; he seems to levitate as his staff pulses in blue light. 

“I, Nirtesh, Grand Mage of The Order of the Elim, The Grand Protector of the Domain of Men, Servant of The One and Wielder of Light.” The mage pauses as his words reverberate and shake the stone walls. “Decree, Algwain. The Guardian of Galt.” His staff glows and crackles with energy. “Those who wish to question my authority may do so.”

The hall gasps and falls into silence.

Eindred rises from his seat and voices his support. “You have my blade and my life in duty and in friendship.”

“And my bow,” adds Eifear, rising with a half-drunken slur.

A dozen men and women rise, pledging oaths. Too few.

“Now, general. What are your orders?” Nirtesh sits.

“Tonight, brothers and sisters, we feast, drink, and forget our times of trouble.” The main hall erupts in cheers and backslapping. “Sound the horns, light the hearths, and let Merefen burn bright with light.”

Far from the walls of Merefen, out in the valley of the moors, the old guard, Porker, staggers through the chilling darkness towards the border town of Ossan. He shudders with cold as all his hairs bristle, tugging upwards to the heavens. His ears pick up a ferocious scream, then a sickening crunch as teeth tear through bone, ripping mouthfuls of squelching flesh away. 

The ghostly light of the Great Moon breaks from behind the clouds, and Porker stares out into a foggy land of scattered dead. Human arms and legs are torn from their lifeless hosts; their bodies lie mangled beyond his comprehension, flayed to the bone, and turned inside out. 

Fear takes hold. He closes his eyes, and a torrent of his own steaming piss runs down his legs. He hugs his body and waits for death’s first bite. Nothing. He opens one unwilling eye and stares into the curtain of darkness.

A short whisper sounds right in his ear: “Hello, old friend.” Porker jumps in surprise, spins, and sees the mutilated face of a man he once knew. 

“You’re going the wrong way.”