The Chronicle Of Eboracum III...

Part Three – The War Council

Benedik reached the Borderlands safely and promptly. The Guardian’s unearthly coaxing had created a mount faster and more agile than he had owned previously. The slightest shift in his hold on the reins had them dipping and twisting as gracefully as dancers. The journey had also given him ample opportunity to consider how to proceed. The Guardian had not informed him of how exactly he was meant to convince the War Council of his identity or authority. Equally he was not certain in himself that he wanted to reclaim the throne of Eboracum. Returning to liberate his people presented the chance to make amends for any previous failure. He was the veteran of several battles so he could trust his well-honed body to fight until the last breath. It was his ability to rule, however, that had yet to be tested.

Upon arrival Benedik made a stealthy reconnaissance of the allied encampment. Morale was high amongst the soldiers as news had travelled that the kingdom of Costica had overthrown its Wallachian leaders. Hope blossomed that the other western kingdoms would follow, toppling incrementally until the empire was fully destroyed. Benedik’s own hopes, however, were cautious in this respect. Costica was merely a small, outlying kingdom. It would be much harder to remove Wallachian influence from its immediate neighbours such as Eboracum.

His investigations had also identified where the Lords were gathering for the Council and it proved surprisingly easy to infiltrate the grand tent. For a moment, in his dark attire, Benedik became merely a watchful shadow. The table, a huge circular arc, spanned most of the circumference of the tent. Around it the Lords were arranged by kingdom. Most of them were old with their beards full of grey and their eyes pale and rheumy. These men would have argued and debated with his father. The Lords had been the counsellors and advisors to the rulers of the west for centuries. They sat now, slumped over their chairs, fatigue and disappointment carved into every stooped and crooked bone. Scattered amongst this older generation were their sons. Their grip was strong on their weapons and their fists heavy on the table as they sounded their discord. Servants quietly poured wine into goblets in the background. Many had already been knocked askew by impassioned arms, their contents spilt and dripping to the rug-covered floor.

Disagreement was clearly rife in this tented War Council. Usually a king would preside over a council, standing in the space where the table didn’t quite meet. The table symbolised a balance that had to be reached between equality and leadership. Benedik could remember his father overseeing such a council, firmly decisive and even-handed. The Guardian had been right again, the Lords needed a symbol of authority to unite behind. It seemed that this was the role he was required to fulfil despite his own inner uncertainty.

Letting instinct guide him, Benedik began to sing. The low deep humming filtered furtively through the room until it had disrupted and silenced all discussion. It was a song that his father had sung once, and he had not realised until that moment that he was able to remember the words. Before the song’s end other voices had joined his to recite the story of heroic valour and courage. In the quiet that followed Benedik moved to stand in the gap between the edges of the table. His tall figure filled the space and cast a long shadow. The significance of his position was not lost on the Lords, and they awaited his speech with suspiciously narrowed eyes.

“My name is Benedik, son of Huwon and heir to the throne of Eboracum. I stand before this Council to offer my sword to your fight against the Wallachian tyrant.” It was, perhaps, not the most eloquent of introductions, but it was forceful in its simplicity. Several of the Lords began to speak at once, their cries of protest and scepticism interrupting one another.

“You don’t look like a prince to me.” –

“Look at his clothes, he’s nothing more than a common thief.” –

“You sully the name of that great man with your lies.” –

The condemnations clashed loudly in his ears, but he did not refute them. The truth was he did still look like the Nomad, who had been a thief and a liar. His hair was braided, the long length tied back in the eastern fashion. The clothes he wore were still torn from the pard’s claws, rough linen adhering to the wounds with the stickiness of dried blood. Traversing the world in a sennight had, after all, given him little opportunity to alter his appearance. Pulling the cord that lay hidden under his clothing, he unveiled the one object that might prove his identity to the Council. The metal was warm to his touch, heated by its proximity to his skin.

“Lord Tobin.” Despite the noise within the great tent, Benedik spoke with a quiet authority that ensured he was heard by all.”You were advisor to my father and lived for many years with our family. Tell me, is this not his sigil?” He tossed the old man the gold ring as carelessly as if it were a crumb of bread.

“It is.” Tobin croaked amazed. “It really is.”

“That proves nothing.” The younger man seated beside him snatched the bauble away. “Any thief could take this and claim it as his own.” Ignoring the disparaging comments Tobin stood and walked towards Benedik. Every move was a slow, agonized shuffle and when they were finally facing one another the old man wheezed from the exertion. Their eyes met and held, searching and assessing for what truths they could perceive. Beneath the tanned and scarred skin, the uneven growth of facial hair, the Lord could recognise the acute intelligence in the azure eyes that he had once seen in a young prince. Tobin embraced the man with all the affection he had once felt for the questioning child.

“Praise the Guardian.” He breathed, his voice thick with emotion. Benedik found himself equally overwhelmed by the acceptance and frail hold of an old friend. “If only your father were here to see you now.”

“If my father were here now I know what he would say.” He turned to address the assembled Council, concealing the keen slice of anxiety that followed any thoughts of King Huwon. “You can tell yourselves that we have a choice. That we can choose to wait for Wallachia to destroy itself or to give support to insurrections in remote kingdoms. But he would realise that there is no choice. We have to fight.”

“We cannot hope to match Wallachian forces. We could be annihilated in a single battle. It would be wiser to wait and consolidate our resources.” It was the same man who offered the criticism, yet it was clear from the series of nods around the table that he spoke for a larger faction of the Lords.

“There is a plant in the east known as the sheep-eater. It has thick thorny leaves low to the ground. The slower animals get caught on these leaves and, unable to escape, they die a slow death. Their decomposing bodies nourish the plant so that it grows stronger and more deadly.” He began to speak with increasing fervency as he outlined his plan. “If we wait, we will end up like those animals. Encouraging the other kingdoms to rebel will take time, during which the boy-child will grow into a man. Any resources that we might have consolidated through waiting would simply end up feeding a stronger Wallachian Empire. The time to act is now, whilst they are unprepared and unsuspecting. Sever the plant at the root rather than trying to pluck its leaves.” Gesturing fiercely towards the map painted on the finest silken cloth and hung on the far side of the tent he indicated a point close to Wallachia. “Strike here and strike quickly. It is our only hope to end this.” Breathing heavily Benedik turned to the supportive presence of Lord Tobin beside him. “I don’t know how to be a king like my father, but I do know how to be a solider. I can win this battle for you.”

The Chronicle Of Eboracum II...

Part Two – The Journey Back

The Nomad flinched when she said his name. It had been many years since anybody had spoken or even known it. Benedik was the name from another life, one where he had been a prince and he’d had a family. It was almost too long ago to remember and he had gone to great lengths to forget. He could not, however, deny his identity for the Guardian was one of the ancient deities and knew everything.

Benedik’s father had been King Huwon the Just and under his rule the kingdom of Eboracum had been a fair and peaceable land. The Prince had been raised by kindly and affectionate parents and he in turn helped to raise his younger siblings. He had always known that one day he would succeed his father and he was content in his own ability to do so.

The neighbouring kingdom of Wallachia, however, had not been so content. Its ruler, Aefon, was as ambitious as he was greedy. The prosperity of Eboracum was its ultimate downfall. Huwon’s kingdom became the first to fall and the first stone that Aefon the Conqueror laid to create his empire. The ruling dynasties of each conquered kingdom had to be killed so as to assure no rebellion against Wallachian control. Benedik’s family were murdered and through a simple misunderstanding of identity he alone escaped. The Guardian wrapped him in a cloak of protection and sent him far away. She promised him retribution and that one day he would return home.

In the intervening years he had plenty of time to reflect on the past. His inability to save his family or protect the people of his kingdom wrecked any of his previous self-assurance. He had failed as a son. He had failed as a prince. He had failed as a man. Time continued to pass until he could no longer remember what home looked like and so he decided to stop waiting for the Guardian. He adapted and he survived. Benedik became the Nomad.

“You waited a long time.” He said finally with great weariness. He usually made it a rule to reminisce about the past only when there was a bottle close to hand and it was certain that oblivion could be reached soon after. “Maybe you waited too long.” He shrugged, studiously indifferent. “It’s not been my home in many years.” The Guardian merely watched him with pale inhuman eyes, reading his heart as easily as if it were a document of state.

“Your people have waited a long time too.” She gently admonished him. Whilst he had found a new life in the East, the inhabitants of the kingdom had been subjected to Aefon’s tyrannical rule. “You’re needed in Eboracum, Benedik. Don’t let them down.”

“Why now?” His most recent quest had isolated him from civilised company and consequently he was unaware of the political machinations that had occurred in the wake of Aefon’s death.

“Aefon had always been too powerful to overthrow. No matter how we might have prepared we could not have succeeded against him. His death provides us with an opportunity. Disputes over the succession have weakened Wallachia. His heir is but a small boy and not all the generals will follow him. The Lords of the old kingdoms are gathering forces for a rebellion.”

“It sounds as if they’re managing on their own. And so am I.” He scowled darkly, trying to cover the cracks that were forming in his carefully crafted persona. “Eboracum and I have not needed each other for some time.”

“You’re wrong, Prince Benedik.” He wondered whether the Guardian persisted in using his real name in the hope that he’d be worn down and accept his rank. “The Lords are in need of a leader. Eboracum was the first to fall and it has become a symbol for all that has been inflicted on the western kingdoms. If you were to return and reclaim your title they would unite behind you.” Her gaze was direct and unwavering. He felt discomforted as if yet again he was a child of twelve in her presence. “You have lost your way. I think you are in need of them, as much as they are in need of you.”

“I made the choices that I needed in order to survive. I will not apologise for my past actions.” He was deliberately harsh and defensive. He had not been a prince for nearly a quarter of a century. He had been a thief and a killer, but never a leader of men. He was not sure he knew how anymore.

“Regret not the past, but learn so that you can improve the future.” For a moment it was as if she had spoken with the voice of someone much older and gruffer. He closed his eyes on the swell of emotion.

“Father.” Over the years the image of his family had dimmed and faded until all that he could recall were the vivid splashes of blood. His own certainty in his ability to rule had been rubbed away too. Yet the words reminded him of a father who had not been born great, but who had accepted flaws and learnt from them to be a better king and a better man. Perhaps it was only by confronting his own doubts that he would ever truly be able to overcome them.

Benedik opened his eyes, feeling as if he was seeing the world anew. Startled he noticed that the Guardian had moved. She had of course known the truth in his heart all along. His ultimate decision had never been in doubt. With a gentle hand she petted his horse, soothing its agitation and making it meek and insensible. The Guardian had dominion over all creatures and she coaxed the beast to do her bidding. The wings of his horse, usually so tightly hidden, began to twitch and unfurl.

“You have only a sennight. The Lords are preparing a War Council. You must attend and state your intention to reclaim the throne of Eboracum. Your horse knows where it must go.” She handed him the reins, his skin tingling where their fingers brushed. “Safe journey, my prince. Have faith. Only in Eboracum will you realise your destiny.”

The Chronicle Of Eboracum...

Part One – The Meeting

By anyone’s estimation their meeting that day had more to do with fate than the haphazardness of chance. True, he was not aware that the runes had been cast, the portents read, or that a messenger had been sent from the kingdom of Eboracum. Yet even half way across the world the Nomad could sense that something was changing.

News of Aefon the Conqueror’s death had spread quickly, even in the East. The mighty tyrant who had forged his own empire through the domination and enslavement of the western kingdoms was gone. The world had been tumult. The eastern realms had resettled now that the threat of imminent subjugation from across the Great Sea was ended. For the western kingdoms, however, there still remained a single shaft of hope that a new age might emerge from the shadows of oppression.

The Nomad knew nothing of these hopes as he travelled through the vibrant green lushness of the Many-Eyed-Forest. Moisture seeped and clung limply to every leaf and stem. As he wrestled through the dense, close-knit foliage the tiny droplets trembled and spilt. They dashed down his neck, across the scarred planes of his forearms and onto the glistening flanks of his mount.

“Not long now my sweet.” He crooned soothingly to the exhausted mare. They had been moving through the suffocating forest without pause for hours. The cloying, unrelenting heat was beginning to take a toll on both man and horse. He felt as if he were running a fever. His tunic stuck to his rough skin, patches of sweat darkening the already bloodied and soiled garment. Head pounding, vision blurred and throat parched, he did not attempt to slow their pace. Stopping was more dangerous than continuing in the Many-Eyed-Forest. The heat might drive a man to madness, but the eyes of the forest were those of the deadly hybrid creatures lying hidden and disguised amongst the upright trees and weaving vines.

He had already dealt with a pard. The creature had the stealth and nimbleness of a leopard, twinned with the savagery and strength of a lion. Its claws had opened the skin of his back and every lilting drop of humid moisture was like the touch of a flame against his wounds. He had injured the creature only enough to slow its lethal pursuit. The Nomad hoped it would give them enough time to reach the limit of the forest. Directly to the west lay the Riverlands, which were as cool and cleansing as the forest was stifling and deadly.

There came through the forest a sudden thundering and terrible shrieking. The pard was steadily catching them up. Its confidence in capturing its prey was such that it no longer made any attempt at secrecy. Its victorious cries alerted other predators to stay away from its pursuit. It effectively silenced the shrill chattering of the birds overhead until all that was left was the sound of hooves striking the ground and the mad thumping of the Nomad’s heart.

A gentle breeze caressed him and the hairs on his arms rippled with awareness. The thick canopy above him was gradually thinning allowing rapid and short glimpses of sky. Sensing approaching safety his horse jolted forward with a final burst of speed. Allowing the horse its head he gathered the reins in one hand and sought for his sword with the other. The blade sung as it came free from its sheath. It was thick and broad, twice the length of what a normal man could wield. The muscles in his arms bunched and corded as he raised it in readiness. The drumming in his ears combined with the beasts roars as it sighted its prey. The Nomad tensed, anticipating its agile leap over and above them.

It never came. Horse and rider burst through the forest. Hooves smashed the icy stillness of the river, sending shards of cool water slicing through the air like pieces of a broken mirror. Fording the tributary he drew the horse to an abrupt halt. They remained still apart from their chests which worked like great bellows as they sucked in huge mouthfuls of chill, refreshing air. He could see the pard pacing the boundary of the forest, snarling and sniping at their escape. The sleek ebony animal slowly withdrew back into the Many-Eyed-Forest until all that remained was its gleaming amber stare.

The Nomad fumbled with his sword and reins as he dismounted. His knees crumpled beneath him and he sprawled on the floor laughing. The deep, throaty sound echoed in the cool silence of the rocky valley. Taking a short cut through the Many-Eyed-Forest had not been, perhaps, the wisest of decisions. He had though made it a principle of most his adult life to avoid what was considered to be wise. Crawling forward he dunked his head into the revitalizing water. He came up for air gasping, pushing back the slick mass of his hair. Droplets dribbled down the angular sharpness of his face and across the broadness of his shoulders where his hair hung wildly.

After several moments of serenity he became aware of another sound, a tight thrumming as if the air was moving differently. Looking up he could at first perceive nothing different in his surroundings until he saw the strange light. As the light sparkled more intensely, the thrumming resonated louder until it scraped across his nerves like the claws of the pard. His eyes gradually adjusted to the unnatural brightness and he saw the light shimmer into the shape of a woman.

She walked directly across the river, but her feet made no dip or ripple in the surface of the water. The white blonde of her hair settled over her shoulders like a golden mantle. Her skin was so pale as to be almost transparent, a bluey-violet hue underlying the pure whiteness. The silver of her gown looked like the mail of armour, but the tiny rivets were cast from pure silver thread and not heavy metal.

“This can’t be happening again.” He muttered to himself, rubbing brusquely at the dirt on his britches before standing to attention. “What in Ebor’s name are you doing here?” His voice was scratchy, it had been a long time since he had cause to use that particular tongue. The Guardian of Eboracum glided to a halt before him, her face entirely unchanged from the last time he had seen it.

“I’ve come to bring you home, Prince Benedik.”

Murderous Acquaintances...

A reappearance by an old friend.

He had bitten, chewed and nibbled his fingernails over a period of weeks until they were raw and ragged. Blood had dried and crusted around the uneven edges of his nails, like rust that flaked and peeled on the metal links of armour. These weeks of worrying, however, had not been able to prevent his murder.

“It was natural causes, right? He was always complaining that his humours were imbalanced.” Matthew Harker looked up from where he was kneeling to scowl at the uninvited diagnosis. Captain Berringer leant closely over his shoulder, peering down over neatly trimmed facial hair at the body curled defensively on the floor.

“No.” Harker replied caustically. The captain’s stale breath was unpleasantly warm and moist against his face. “It’s murder.” Standing abruptly he moved, putting distance between himself and the captain, knowing all the while that the other man delighted in making him feel uncomfortable. For once, however, it was the captain who was visibly perturbed.

“That’s ridiculous. Nobody wanted Hugh dead. He probably just had some kind of seizure.” Harker considered the captain through narrowed eyes. His adamant denial of foul play was curious, but not necessarily suspicious. After all, Berringer knew the soldiers under his command better than a surgeon and outsider ever would. Yet the apparent facts could not be denied.

“His nails are bitten and there is some evidence of wear on his teeth from grinding. These indicate he was concerned about something.” The captain looked as if he wanted to interrupt, but Harker continued his observations in a clinically impassive voice. “There’s a slight redness and swelling to his mouth. If you turn him over you’ll find a small amount of vomit on his clothes. All evidence points to a poison of some kind. It most likely came from that.” He gestured towards the half-eaten meal on the table.

“But who would go to such trouble to poison him? Any of my men would just have gutted him if they felt they had cause. Poison’s the weapon of a coward. It has to be one of the locals.” Harker made no comment on the captain’s deductions as he efficiently collected together his instruments. “I want you to find out who did this. And quickly. Murder will be bad for morale and I don’t want to have to deal with any half-cocked retaliation.”

“No.” Harker protested fiercely. “You wanted cause of death – you have it. But I have no interest in the petty squabbles of soldiers, nor do you have the authority to order me to do so.” Harker was in fact one of the ‘locals’ of the occupied Eastern city. The French army had drafted him into their ranks to fix and mend their soldiers. His unwilling cooperation had been ensured through threats and his own insatiable curiosity.

The two men glared at one another, acknowledging the mutual animosity that had existed between them for several months. Harker knew things about anatomy that the captain considered to be dark magic. Whilst Berringer had a casual disregard for the sacredness of life that was evident in his willingness to kill anyone if it advanced his cause. The surgeon was not unaccustomed to violent death, but a true leader knew when to spare a life and when to take one.

“True, you may not be under my command, but I know lots of interesting things about you and yours Monsieur Harker.”Alarm arrowed through him and Harker struggled to retain his cool demeanour. He had not realised how much the captain had found out about a past he believed to be buried. Hot-headed anger demanded that he free the knife secreted in his clothing and strike Berringer. The captain smiled with as much charm as a deadly serpent. His tone was triumphant, knowing he had won this particular battle. “Find the culprit of this crime and I may forget them. Fail and I promise that they will suffer.”

Lions And Tigers And Bears, Oh My!

A grinning lion from Prior Crauden's Chapel, Ely.