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This topic is for my "Ghantish Chronicles" series. Each post is a different chapter, which is a POV of a character from the history of Ghant.

Vol. I, 1000 CE- An emissary of the Lord of Onmutu delivers a message to King Richard II of impending Viking threats.
Vol. II, 1187 CE- Magnus IV, King of Ghant, struggles to earn notoriety in the face of losing power.
Vol. III, 1275 CE- Events surrounding Princess Belandra of Ghant, daughter of King Edward VIII of Ghant.

“Ghantish Chronicles”, Vol. I
Onmutu and Ghish, Ghant
Summer, 1000 C.E.

Gorleminoc had been to Ghish once before, many years ago. An old city, but not as old as most of the others in the south of Ghant. It was raining there, and as he approached the Great Castle of the King of Ghant, he felt a sense of unease. He reflected on the events that had led him there.

Gorleminoc took a great deal of pride in being the emissary of Lord Onius of Onmutu. Onius was the richest lord in all of Ghant, who sat fat and content in Argiadorre, otherwise known as the Lightower, his ancient fortress at the southernmost tip of the continent. Gorleminoc himself was born of traders in Onmutu, and as such lived much better then the average commoner, but did not experience the benefits of being either a Lord or Knight. In any case, his father was a good man and well respected, and Gorleminoc received a decent tutelage at the court of Onius, who had dealings with his father, and was impressed with Gorleminoc's sharp mind and keen eye.

It was not on good tidings that Onius summoned Gorleminoc to court with great urgency. He had been sleeping in his modest dwelling within the "tiptown" district of Onmutu, the part closest to the Lightower, when a knight of Onius knocked obnoxiously at dawn until he had risen from his slumber, bidding him come to court. Gorleminoc dressed quickly in a two piece suit and came rushing to Court. He had found Onius reading a letter.

Onius was a man of 45, tall and with dark brown hair and light blue eyes. He was dressed in fine robes of silk and satin lined with fur, and he sat perched atop his seat in the round hall of the Lightower, with ancient Ghantish Runes carved into the stone walls. Nobody knew what they said, and nobody knew how old the Lightower was either. Most just assumed it had been there since before the coming of the ice, from the time before the Gods punished Ghant with the cold for their vanity.

Onius looked at Gorleminoc down below. "I received a letter this morning, brought by a raven just before dawn. Read it".

Gorleminoc approached his lord and took the parchment from his hand. It read as followed:

From: The Sjömännen

To: The native tribes of these lands

Send forth your ships filled with tribute and send forth your sons to do us homage over the seas to where the sun rises, or, like the rising sun, we will burn and scorch your lands until your land gives to us all the fertile bounties that you gather by the sun's good grace.

Onius calmly looked at the emissary and decreed, "this letter is quite troubling. Although I fear not the machinations of wayward barbarian plunderers, the people of the coasts might be in danger. I would have you take this letter to the King of Ghant himself, and inform him of these tidings. You are to depart for Ghish at once. Return only once the King has seen the letter and provided his response to me on how to deal with it."

"Yes, my lord", replied Gorleminoc. He wasted little time in executing his orders. In three days time of riding hard through the towns and villages of southern Ghant upon a mare assigned to him by Onius, he came upon Ghish.

All he needed to do to get into the city and up to the King's Castle was show the guards the seal of the Lord of Onmutu. The Castle was old- it had been built by the Lords of Ghish from the time before the first King of Ghant almost 100 years ago. It was made of black stone, and dimly lit by torches that lined the sconces in the walls. Tapestries dangled from the walls, depicting great battles against Dakmoor, the Tjǫrnmenn and the Ecrans, all of whom had been vanquished by Ghantish strength and perseverance.

Gorleminoc followed the white carpet along the length of the floor of the castle, into a large round chamber, again dimly lit and scantly decorated. The chamber was so quiet he could hear a pin drop. At the end of the room was the Obsidian Throne itself, and seated upon it was his majesty, King Richard II of Ghant, with many knights, retainers and servants about him.

Richard II had reigned for 21 years. Once he was tall, strong, and well-respected. A hundred battles had left his once powerful body weak, mangled and deformed. He had whispy grey hair upon his otherwise bald head, a lazy eye, a lockjaw and scars upon a fat and pitted face. He was fat and gouty, and his left leg was crooked and bent. At the base of the throne sat an iron bucket.

Gorleminoc bowed before the king as he approached, and handed a retainer his official seal and the letter. The king coughed and then spoke, "So, the fat and happy great lord of Onmutu has something for me, aye? Hopefully it is his maiden daughter. Although I can no longer lay with a woman the way a man ought to, I am sure she would be most satisfying". The king laughed at his own vulgar joke, and then proceeded to cough up blood with what could only be described as chunks of flesh contained, into the iron bucket below.

"Only the Gods know what this cough is from. Such a pity, I won't survive the winter ahead. My time is precious, boy. Its good to be the king, but I don't have much time left to enjoy it. Me needs find me some pretty young wench, and quickly. So lets get this business over with".

"Your majesty", replied Gorleminoc, "There are matters of urgency that I bring before you today. My Lord received a letter via raven, and bid me show it to you. Please, my lord, I beseech you to read it."

The king reached over and snatched the letter from the retainer, and began to read it out loud. The room began to mumble once it had been read.

"These Sjömännen are such pleasant people. They took the time to learn how to write in Ghantish! Or maybe they had some poor Ghantish slave write it out for them. In any case, I mean to tell these arrogant fools to piss off."

"You mean to ignore their letter, your majesty?"

"No. I will write a reply. I am thinking about having it read something like this". The King took a blank piece of parchment paper and began scribbling down on it. After a few minutes, he handed it to the retainer, who then passed it onto Gorleminoc:

From: The Kingdom of Ghant

To: The Sjömännen

Please, send forth your barbarian pissants to our fair and noble land. Watch as we slay them with Ghantish steel and mount their heads upon spikes all along the coasts, and shove their filthy privy parts down their throats,  so that when anymore of your doggish brethren dare harass our lands, you will know their fate, and share in it if you so dare encroach. If you want our sons, feel free to come and capture them, and if you dare, feel free to harvest our fertile bounties. If you want it, come and get it, or may all of the World know you as craven barbarian bastards.

With all due respect,

King Richard, the Second of His Name, King of Ghant, Sixth King on the Obsidian Throne, Observer of the Old Laws, Defender of Justice and Protector of the Realm

"There you go, boy, you like that?" The King began to laugh, before he had to choke up more blood.

"Your majesty, do you think it wise to provoke and antagonize these foreigners?"

"Wise, no. Amusing, yes. Let them come, boy. This is Ghant! We pride ourselves on humiliating fools such as these. The sea protects us. We are far-flung and isolated from the warm lands. Any who dare sail the Sea of Ghant, and somehow find themselves upon our shores, best not be looking for trouble. They will find it, and it will bite them hard in the ass."

"Would you be willing to wager the blood of innocents on it, your majesty?".

The King frowned, and his yellow eyes glistened. "What do you know of blood, boy? Ghant is blood."

"I do not understand, your majesty."

The king rose from his throne, although it looked like a painful endeavor. He grasped a cane next to the throne, and limped down the steps. When he got to the bottom, he stood within arms reach of Gorleminoc. He paused, and then drew a knife from his belt, and dragged it across the palm of his left hand.

"You see that? You know what that is?"

"That is Odolzin, the ancient blood seal, a sign of great trust and faith. Any man who cuts his palm swears an oath upon his life."

"Indeed, you are correct. We Ghantish believe that blood is the most important thing in all the world. All the things that men do in the world, they do for blood. The blood of their women, children, their king, what have you. These Sjömännen, they seek resources, to preserve their own blood. That would come at the expense of ours. We can either give them what belongs to us, or they can come and attempt to take it, and fail. Then it will be their blood that nourishes the grass, not ours."

"I see."

"Do you? Hear me, boy. The world should fear us. We are a divided land, a land of many kingdoms. Gaemar, Dakmoor, Odolargia, Ashvagosha, Gauekoizarra, and all the rest. Each has their own blood. There is power in blood, more then most realize. It is precious, yes, but also expendable, in time. Although now it may seem unlikely, one day that blood could become one from many. The blood of all these lands could flow through the veins of one man. One man could unite all of these lands, with blood. And when that day comes, these Sjömännen will need to lock up their women and pray to whatever heathen gods they worship, begging them to show them mercy. Because on that day, not even their gods will be able to shelter them from our wrath. Then they will know the price of blood." The king began to cough more violently, and began limping on his cane back up to the throne.

"What should I tell my lord, your majesty?"

Still limping up towards the throne and without looking back, the King spoke. "Do nothing, and sit and wait. We will deal with the Sjömännen if and when they decide to come to Ghant. Until then, its business as usual. No go."

Gorleminoc bowed, and turned and walked out of the Castle, with the new letter in hand. His mind could not stop thinking about what he had just heard, and how it was a conversation that would need to be recorded. Time could only tell if the King would be right.

“Ghantish Chronicles”, Vol. II
Thule, Ghant
1187 C.E.

The snows fell, the winds howled, and the icy air stabbed at the King’s lungs. Every inhale and exhale was painful. The north of Ghant in the winter was not a good place to be.

Magnus IV of Ghant fancied himself a strong man. But nothing prepared him for this. His greatest test as a man. Leading a host of southerners against the barbarians of Thule, in hopes of conquest.

He was 36, and had been king since 17. He was a good soldier, but not such a good king. Well, he thought he was a good king, but not many other people did. He lacked the refinements that were said to be necessary for rule, and his Queen died young, leaving a stillborn daughter.

Magnus was a hard man. He had few friends, and many enemies. His kingdom was divided against itself, and men whispered of plots and schemes to remove from the Obsidian Throne, in favor of his brother. His brother was a weaker man, but a more influential man, who had many more friends at court.

His brother and others at court often mocked him openly to his face. They pointed out all the little mistakes and missteps he made, hunting for reasons to make him feel isolated and weak. He tried not to let all of that get to him, but eventually it did. He would lock himself away, in places of the Castle where he could be alone. For he few friends, and people that he could trust. The feeling of being a man against the world gripped him at times.

Magnus had to do something. So he declared that he would march north. Past Gaemar, Draconis, and the ice coasts, into Thule itself. He argued that by conquering Thule, that they would access to great beasts of the North, and they could move from there south into Eskura, and defeat the warring petty kingdoms, one by one.

He called upon on noble and virtuous men to rise for his cause. “Knights and Lords of the Kingdom of Ghant, the time has come to take the battle to the northern barbarians! Let us bring to them the light of modernity and justice! Let’s us purge them of their heathen ways. Let us make the realm for everyone, so that it might not serve a few, but serve many. Victory awaits our glorious cause!”

And many men did flock to his cause. It was thought that many encouraged the campaign, if not to see Harold upon the throne as soon as he left. After a month of gathering a large host numbering roughly 75,000 men, they left in the late summer, thinking they could get to Thule before winter.

He rode out with his large host, many of them knights and men on mounted horse, the rest foot soldiers. Many of the Lords were minor lords, seeking to add glory, fame and fortune to their houses. Others were hedge knights, seeking to fight and serve in exchange for food and the prospect of elevating their status. Still others were common men, looking to earn glory enough to elevate them from some small status to song and poem.

It took them months to move along the east coast of Ghant, through Langael, and then Onia, and then onto Gaemar, and then through the Grey Wastes, into Draconis. Beyond Draconis, they began to suffer many ambushes from barbarians, from Ziri and the mountains to the north of there.

But continue north, they did. After some time, they entered the lands of his cousin, Zalam the Ice King. Magnus’s mother was Isolde, who was the sister of the Ice King’s father. They greated each other warmly, and he and his greatest knights were treated to a feast. Perhaps our last one .

Zalam was a curious, as well as practical man. “What madness has lead you to ride against the northerners?”

“Glory, cousin. To prove my valor, and worthiness to lead.”

Zalam was not impressed. “You are foolish, cousin. Do you think that riding in on some horse, in a blaze of glory, and trying to become a big shot, will win you any support, and the admiration and respect of the people? It won’t. It will only lead to scorn, animosity, and your demise. They will turn against you all the same.”

Magnus was angered by that. “And what you suggest I do?”

Zalam stared at him with those, hard, stone cold blue eyes. “Earn their trust and respect. Become one of them, adapt to them. Then they will learn to like you enough to entertain the notion of allowing you to lead them.”

Magnus snorted. “But I have a Crown upon my head!”

Zalam chuckled that time. “If you think a Crown makes a man a King, then you are sorely mistaken.”

“How dare you mock me, like everyone else! I am the King! I am the best man for it, to lead and protect the Kingdom! How dare they cast stones at me, after all that I have done!”

Zalam contorted his face. “With that attitude, you are forsaken. I shall pray for you, Magnus, that you might see the error of your ways, and so that you might have the wisdom to preserve what little dignity and honor remains to you.”

Magnus pushed himself away from Zalam’s feast table, and readied his men to continue the march north. Who the hell does he think he is? That patronizing bastard! I will not bow, and I will not break. I shall defy them until the bitter end!

As the marched north, they attracted many free-riders, hedge knights, and soldiers of fortune to their cause, from the mountains. The supplementary forces were most welcome.

And then they reached the northern reaches of Izotzlurrak, west of the Lands of Black Ice. That country was a cold, desolate wasteland. Men froze in their armor, and horses began to die in droves, only to be converted into horsemeat to feet starving men.

They urged him to turn around, to turn back, to abandon his fight. “Your majesty, no man of the south can hope to survive in this country.” His loyal advisor Dago told him. “This country is filled with dragons, trolls, atogs and lhurgoyfs, and hairless men with filed teeth that live in caves and feed on the flesh of men.”

The king was fearless. “I am not afraid. Let the Gods throw at us what they will. I am the King of Ghant, and I am a rock.”

If he was a rock, he was a cold one. He had stuffed his armor with cloth, to keep his skin from freezing against the cold armor that encased him. Other knights were not so fortunate. They suffered from the frostbite, and their noses, ears, cheeks, fingers and toes turned black, and gave way to rot.

They had to slow down and hunt, in order to sustain their rations. But game was hard to find, and many hunters that went out to catch wild game, never returned. Magnus shuddered to think what happened to them. He thought that perhaps their bones decorated the cave of some savage cannibal of the Lands of Black Ice.

By the time they entered the lands men know as Thule, they were in winter. The blizzard swirled around them, thickening the air white. The wind was searing, and cut into his skin, even through the covers of face.

They had a general idea of where they were going. There was said to be a great fortress of a Thulak King, not too far north into Thule. He had heard that their defenses were minimal, with a light garrison, so Magnus assumed that a quick attack with his mounted knights would be enough to take the fortress. Once there, they could regroup and hunker down if needs be, before moving east.

They couldn’t find the fortress. He sent scouts out into the blizzard to look for it, and most didn’t come back. The ones that did, were either near death, or delusional.

And he missed the sun. Up here, there wasn’t one. The nights were pitch black, and the days were cloudy to such an extent that hardly any light could be seen at all. On occasion, when it did poke through, it was a dull color, like some greenish blue.

To make matters worse, the blizzards were so thick, that he could hardly see but a few feet in front of him. Men got lost and fell behind, and were never seen again in the thickness of it. And the way it howled when it blew. It was like some great and ancient beast, that consumed men and beast alike in its frozen maw.

And sleep was hard. Often times, he could not, even though he would lay there in a bundle of cloth and furs. He could feel the cold in his bones, stabbing at him, gnawing at him.

He was fortunate though. Many of his best men did not have the same luxuries that he did. They would sleep and not wake up, just laying there frozen. The thought made him sad, because these knights, loyal and true, would never return to their homes, to their families. Their bodies would remain, frozen in place, for all time, as grim reminders of a King’s folly.

But it was too late now, to turn back, to admit that he was a fool, or that he was wrong. He had what he wanted. He had marched into the heart of winter, and survived. He had survived whatever the Gods of Ice and Storm could throw at him. He just had to continue. He had to endure. He had to push on into the blizzard, against the odds.

One morning as they wandered through the blizzard, a boy approached him from behind on foot. The boy was freezing and gaunt, and rapped in rags.

The King looked at him. “Boy, how old are you?”

“Eleven, your majesty.”

“Where are you from?”

“Uptown Ghish, if it please your majesty.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“I was an orphan, your grace. A poor nobody, growing up in the streets. I heard you were gathering men, and I snuck off with some other boys. We followed behind the main host. Most of them boys are dead, done froze to death. I am the last one. And I would rather die up here, as part of your adventure, then live and die a nobody in the slums.”

That resonated with the King. The boy is right. Is not better to go out in a blaze of glory, fighting against the world, then it is to languish in the shadows and die a no one?

“What is your name, boy?”

“Karo, your majesty.”

“And your family name?”

“Ain’t got one, your majesty.”

“Well, Karo, stay close. You must be important yet, otherwise the Gods would have killed you already.”

The boy gave a slight smile. “I will try, your majesty.”

The following day, the King’s squire was found dead. He had froze to death in the night.

Karo was still alive, and not any worse for the wear. He was not far from where the King slept. “You, Karo.”

The boy struggled to his feet. “Yes your majesty?”

“It seems that I am short of a squire this morning. Perhaps you can be my new one?”

The boy dropped to his knees. “It would be an honor, your majesty. The thing is though, is I don’t know how to be no squire. I ain’t no noble boy that can be a proper squire.”

Magnus surveyed the field. He could make out the visages of black mounds on the ground, but he could not tell who was dead or who was alive. Much the same of late. Then he looked at Karo again. “All the noble boys are dead. You are the only boy that I see anywhere, and I don’t feel like looking for another one. Don’t be shy, boy, I will tell you a squire does.”

And so, in a day, he taught the slum orphan boy how to be a squire, there in the darkness and cold of the Northern blizzard. The boy learned fast. No wonder he is still alive.

He then asked the boy, “tell me true, boy. Does anyone care if you live or die? Do you have any friends or family, that pray for you back home?”

The boy looked sad. “No, your majesty. Nobody. Most people don’t like me. They cast stones at me wherever I go, and curse me. Such is the life of a poor boy, me thinks.”

Magnus nodded. Me and this peasant boy have much in common. There is no man or woman who prays for me. They all curse and mock me. No matter what I try to do that is good for realm, they wish ill upon me. I won’t die for them. I won’t give them the satisfaction.

That was when the King came to realize what he and the boy had in common. Resolve. The will to continue, to fight. The will to prove something.

And so they continued on, to find their fabled fortress, by now reduced to an unorganized band of men, wandering aimlessly through the blizzard, until they either dropped dead or survived long enough to accomplish the goal.

But the Gods were crueler then that. The horses died first, forcing the men to continue on foot. Even the King’s own horse died from under him, forcing him to find a new horse, which took some time.

His loyal advisor Dago was still alive, albeit barely. He was puny, sickly and weak. Raw horsemeat was any man’s first choice of food, but out here, it was better then nothing.

Dago spoke meekly. “Your majesty. There is a frozen lake not too far to the north, and on the other side is the fortress, so says the scouts.”

“Good, we ride for it with great haste.”

And so they did. They rode out to the edge of it. It was rather large, surrounded to the left and right by cliffs, barely visible through the snow and ice. They couldn’t see far beyond it. Magnus stopped at the edge of it, and waited for what was left of his forces to gather, which they did, slowly but surely.

“Good men of Ghant. We are close to our destination. On the other side of that frozen lake, lies our destined fortress. We have the strength in men to take it, and we can refresh ourselves upon its stores, and rest for a time as needs be, while we recover our strength.”

The men, already of noticeably low morale, feebly shouted in approval. The shouting of half-dead men.

Magnus wouldn’t waste any time. He rode out onto the frozen lake. The ice was thick beneath the hooves of his worse. There was a dim light penetrating the clouds ahead, through the blizzard. He squinted to look closer. There was castle nestled against a jagged protrusion of rock. Yes, we are almost there, Magnus thought.

A wise man once told Magnus, when he was but a boy, that often times, a man was the furthest away from that which he desired, when he was the closest to it. And also, be careful what you wish for.

That was what Magnus was thinking when he heard the horn. It blew off in the distance, a long, low, bellowing noise, that sent shivers down his spine. He had heard it said that you hear them before you see them.

And then, to his horror, he saw them. Great beasts of fur and tusk loomed in the distance, making noises with their trunks. Men sat atop them. And men began to appear along the cliffs to his left and right. We are surrounded, Magnus thought. Gods save us.

It was clearly a trap, set up by the Thulak to lure the king and his weakened forces into an area where they could be easily killed. And they were outnumbered too, he guessed, as the Thulak swarmed along the cliffs and on the opposite side of the lake.

The King wasn’t going to sit there and die. He drew his Ashengard steel sword, Ordainsari, and held it high, as he shouted. Then he charged. He rode straight and true, to the other side of the lake, where the beasts and their riders were waiting. His men rode behind him, what few had horses, and the others charged on foot.

The Thulak on the cliffs rained arrows and rocks upon them. Magnus shouted. “Stay in the middle!” Those who deviated to far to either side would be more likely to get hit by a projectile.

And then they came upon the opposite side of the lake. The great beasts bellowed, and rose up on their hind legs. When Magnus and his forces came upon them, he shouted “bring down the beasts! Go for their eyes and legs!”

And then the vanguard collided with the beasts. They came down with their front legs, smashing men undertow, and swinging their tusks, which were fitted with spikes. One swing of their tusks could impale several men, and they did, at least those who went for the beasts legs. Men were skewered right off of their horses, to die being flung around by some great northern shambling beast.

The archers and pikmen had no better luck going for the creature’s eyes. They were so harry, so shaggy, that they could not be seen. And when one soldier got close enough to the beast to do damage, the beast rider up on top would rain down arrows and rocks.

“Shoot the riders!” The King shouted, and the archers tried, to mild effect. Despite killing the rider, there was still the beast to be considered.

Several mounted knights swarmed one beast, cutting its legs, and brining the creature and its riders down. The morale gained from felling one such beast was short lived, as men began to charge their position. Grizzled men with massive, double bladed axes and warhammers. They bared down upon the mounted knights, crushing them or their horses with one mighty swing. The warhammers proved to be the bane of the mounted knights, as one swing could send a man to the ground with every rib shattered.

The King soon found himself beset by a pack of them. But he was ready. He used his horse to maneuver around them, and he brought Ordainsari down upon a few of their heads. The Thulak were heavily armed, but lacked in quality armor, seemingly fighting in leather and cloth. So the legendary sword of his house, with its black hilt and pale white blade, bore down and hacked away. One barbarian brought up his maul to parry the sword, and the sword cut right through the handle and bit down into his face. It was like bringing a hot knife through a stick of butter.

His short moment of triumph went away in one moment, when he looked and say a tall, strong woman with long, dark curly hair, wielding a double bladed battleaxe. She raised it high into the air, and then brought it down on his horse’s head. The head came off in a sudden burst of blood and gore, and the King was flung from its back as it fell to the ground.

While still disoriented, and before he knew what had just happened, she was upon him. With a knife she bared down upon him, as if to cut his throat. He struggled against the barbarian woman, but she was strong and swift. The knife cut into his face and on the sides of his neck. He could feel the pain, and the blood, barely against the cold that enveloped him.

He was losing his strength, it was hard to resist him. He wasn’t sure he could do it again. As she raised it high to come down with a powerful plunge into his neck, she grimaced in pain. A spear poked through her chest.

As she fell on top of him, he could see his advisor, Dago standing there, with spear in hand. “Rise your majesty. The battle is lost, we must fall back…”

Just then, his head burst open as a stone came upon him, from a nearby beast rider. Dago’s body convulsed as it collapsed in a bloody heap before him.

Magnus kept hearing something from deep within him. Get up, get up. You are not done! The Gods are not done with you yet!

Bleeding and wounded, he pushed the dead barbarian woman off of him, and he struggled to stand. His leg burned as he tried to walk on it, away from the carnage. He found his sword in the snow, and picked it up. He looked around him, and saw the barbarians fighting with a great sense of purpose, with a unity he had never seen . They hate me. They want to see me suffer. They want to see me die.

His men were being cut down at a rapid pace. The giant beasts were beyond count, and the barbarians were swarming now. Any man of his in the hoarde was dead within instants. Men were dying as they attempted to flee, many screaming in pain, crying for their mothers as they meet their demise.

It was all he could do to shout “fall back, fall back!” But he didn’t have to say that. Men were running the way had come from, many crawling, others throwing down their weapons as if to surrender or to run faster. There will be no mercy for us. We are beyond saving. Gods help us.

With all his remaining strength, he ran. Ran from the enemies, from certain death. Before long, he found himself upon the frozen lake once more. Many of his men were still there, fighting off barbarian footmen. The giant beasts could not follow them onto the lake, but the barbarians could. And so they did in great number.

The barbarians made a formation in the middle, as if to push the intruders to the sides, where the cliffs rose up to reveal archers and stone throwers. Any man too close to the middle was cut down, and any man too close to the edge would be picked off. It is an alley of death, Magnus thought.

He was not ready to die in such a despicable manner- to choose his death. He would defy them, they would cast arrows and stones upon him. And so, defiantly, he raised his sword and said “through them! Make them bleed!”

And the men of King Magnus pushed through the blizzard at the barbarians on the ice, that tried to corral the men towards the cliffs. Magnus achieved a second wind, and cut through them with Ordainsari. His brazen defiance of the barbarians gave a newfound source of strength to his men, who fought for their lives to get away.

Futile, though, he realized, upon seeing that the way they came from was also swarming with barbarians, who had cut down the rearguard, and were now moving out onto the ice. That is when the cold hard truth gripped him. There is no escape. We are surrounded. We will die.

The sudden realization that there was no getting out of this, and that death was inevitable, gripped him. The thought burned him on the inside, and filled his body with a limp despair. The time was near, in which his time would come to an end.

He looked around him. Many of the northerners who rode alongside him and helped him get that far, had turned him. They joined the barbarians in cutting down the knights. They were on all sides, mercilessly slaughtering.

It was all happening in slow motion now. Enough time for him to pray within his head. Not to the Old Gods, but to the God of the Christians. Dear God, I ask you for forgiveness. I have committed many wrongdoings, and I have sinned. I know it is too late for me now, but I only ask that you show me mercy, as I pass on. I ask only for redemption.

Then, for a moment, he thought of his predicament. It made him very sad. I could have avoided this situation. If I had been a better King, then I would never had felt the need to prove myself. To ride out here and lead men to their dooms. I am truly a forsaken man.

They were upon him now, cutting at him. His arms, legs, chest. He was being cut to pieces. But with Ordainsari, he fought back, cutting them apart with hefty swings of his sword. A few of his men were here and there, still fighting as well.

He could hear the barbarians shouting. “Die! Be gone! You are no King!” They were mocking him, taunting him. Brining it all down upon him. Just like everyone always has.

That was when he made a choice. He was not going to die their way, to wait to be cut down. He was going to go out his way. God give me strength, he thought to himself.

And then, he raised Ordainsari high in to the air, and he let out a mighty roar. And with a sudden, swift motion, he slammed his sword down into the ice beneath his feet. The Ashengard steel cut through the ice below, and sunk deep.

The ice began to crack around the sword. The sound of it echoed across the lake. Everyone heard it, southerner and northerner alike. Some continued to fight, and others began to run.

And then he pulled the sword out of the ice, in a jerking motion. As the ice began to give way, he looked out to the shore from whence they had originally came. There he spotted Karo, with a horse, being inconspicuous, as if to avoid notice. With one hefty heave, he threw the sword in his general direction, just far enough to clear the lake. Retrieve my sword, boy, and return to Ghish with it, he thought to himself. And then he began to fall.

He fell into the freezing water, and it took him quickly. He began to sink, under the weight of his armor. He looked around through the murky water. In the dull haze of the water, he could see horses, knights and barbarians alike, sinking to their watery graves.

Magnus struggled at first, fighting to get the armor off of him. But he couldn’t. He began to panic for a moment, knowing that he was drowning. He realized that his cousin Zalam was right. And this final moment was the culmination of his transgressions. Patu is real, and it has finally come for me.

His life began to flash before his eyes. His birth, his family, becoming King, getting married, his dying wife and his stillborn daughter. He saw everything happen again, right before his eyes. He wished he could have done things differently. But it was too late now. His time had come.

He struggled against the water filling his lungs. He grasped for air that wasn’t there. And, after a few moments, he accepted that death was upon him. To hell with them all. Down here, in the abyss, I will always be a King. That was his last thought, as he took his dying gulp for air. He tried to smile in that final moment, as he felt a soothing blissfulness surround him. And then he passed from this world, in the depths of that frozen lake.

“Ghantish Chronicles”, Vol. III
Ashengard, Ashvagosha
1275 C.E.

The Forgemasters of Ashengard spent their time divided between introspection and forgecraft. They made their fortunes forging weapons and armor for the King of Ashvagosha. Standard forges and practices, but better quality then one could find in most other places.

And so it was, upon one starry night, that the Chief Forgemaster sat high upon Mt. Ashengard, under a starry sky. He was an old man, shriveled and bony. He wore a brown rough spun robe tied at the waist by a silver belt. He was barefoot, for the Forgemasters felt the earth beneath their feet.

As he meditated, he contemplated the constellations. the Altar, the Archer, the Great Bear, the Bull, the Centaur, the Goat, the Crow, the Dragon, the Eagle, the Ram, the Stag, the Wolf…

…The Lady. He opened his eyes, and looked up. He saw the Lady burning bright in the midnight sky. He stared at it for a time in awe.

For all the constellations were at one time beings of great import, who earned immortality amongst the stars, for all the realms of Gods and men to see. Yet, of all the constellations, the Lady was the most tragic.

For long ago, before men were cursed by the Gods, when men lived together in peace and plenty, there lived a Lady, as beautiful as she was intelligent. So too was it that she was desirable, as all the men of the world coveted her hand. As if to be entertained, she decreed that all the men who wanted to marry her should sail to the end of the world, and return to her with the Great Amethyst of the Gods, and that whatever man accomplishes that feat, she shall marry.

One man in particular loved her greatly. He was not the most handsome, the strongest, the wisest, nor the cleverest of the men who vied for her hand. He grew up with the Lady, but never made his affections known. She always had affections for him as well, but never knew that he felt the same way. When the Lady announced the contest, he volunteered, and swore that he would pluck the gem from the realm of the Gods, and place it in her hands. He professed his love for her, and she professed her love for him as well. Then they kissed, but the Lady said that if he wanted to be with her, he would have to prove his affections by completing the quest, same as the rest.

And then the contest began. Many men hesitated, and others returned after many nights at Sea. Eventually, all men returned, save for the one. As the years went by, she realized that she should have married him, and that sending him on that quest was a mistake. So she waited for him to return, so that she might marry him nonetheless. He never returned, and she never married, nor loved another man. Eventually the Lady died, and old and sorrowful woman.

The Gods were moved to tears by the Lady’s story, and took pity on her and the man who swore to sail into the Realm of the Gods to prove his love for her. So, they granted the Lady immortality, and made for her a place amongst the stars, so that not only might she be able to await his return for all time, but also so that when he did return, he would need only look to the stars to find her.

The Lady shined high in the night sky. It beckoned to the Chief Forgemaster. He stared at the Lady for a moment, and then it seemed to speak to him. Within his mind.

He began to shiver. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. And suddenly, his mind was somewhere else.

After a minute, he came back to. He saw things. Knew things. He got up, and descended from the peak, with a sense of purpose.

After a time, he entered the Forge. The forgemasters were laboring over the forges, manufacturing swords, shields, helms, and armor. None seemed to notice him as he walked in. He walked nonchalantly towards an elevated platform near the back of the main hall, amidst the sound of hammers and tongs, and the heat of the forgefires. The chamber glowed a dim red, a combination of torches and firelight giving a dull aura to fill the hall. Steadily the men went about their work.

No matter, he thought. He approached the gong in the middle of the platform. He picked up the pole on the table, and with one hefty swing, he banged the gong. It echoed throughout the hall and beyond, loudly and profoundly.

Everyone stopped what they were doing, and turned to face the platform. Men from deeper into the mountain emerged from tunnels, and within minutes the main hall was full, and quiet.

The Chief Forgemaster cleared his throat. “Men of the Mountain, hear my words. The time has come to forge a new sword of legendary steel.”

The room began to fill with the sound of commotion. One of the Forgemasters spoke- he was tall and burly, and covered in hair and sweat. “And for whom might an Ashengard Steel sword be forged?”

“…Princess Belandra of Ghant.”

The men of the mountain began to roar in chatter. Another forgemaster, this one old and bald, meekly raised his voice. “And by what means did you come to this determination?”

“I was on the peak, under the stars. The Lady burned bright in the sky, and she appeared to me. She showed me what was to come, and what needed to be done. The Gods have ordained it. This I know.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a young woman, beautiful and intelligent, but also willful and headstrong. I saw a lion amongst white roses, dancing with swords in a field. And I saw a flag, much like Ghant’s, but the black was green. These are things that are yet to come. And it is our duty now to play a part.”

“Then by all means, let us begin to forge the sword. And when it is done, who shall deliver it to the Princess?”

“Not to the Princess, but to her father, and brother. They shall be north by the time it is done. It is to be delivered to them, and they shall present her with it. And when that time comes, I shall be the one to deliver the sword.”

************************************************************************************

Ghish, Ghant
Tournament Grounds
Summer 1275 C.E.

As was typical for the summertime, the King was hosting a grand tournament to celebrate the pleasant time of year. Many men of talent came from throughout the land to participate in the tournament, which consisted of a joust, a melee, and an archery competition. The event was to take several days, and was exceptionally grand, as the King and Queen spared no expense to make this tournament of great fame.

The occasion marked the 50th anniversary of King Edward VII’s death, at the tender age of 35, after a night of heavy feasting and drinking. The current King, Edward VIII, was his only child, and sought to pay homage to his father. Edward VIII was also known as the White King, for his skin was pale and so was his hair. He was also old- 58 at the time of the tournament. As he was in his youth, he was of medium height, frail with a small pot belly, and laughing blue eyes to match the delicate features of his face. To his left sat Queen Esmeralda, a Princess of Gauekoizarra, of an age with the King. Despite her being 58, she was still as beautiful as she had been in her youth, with her long dark hair, haunting violet eyes, and hourglass figure.

To her left sat their four sons- William, Robert, Henry and John. Near William sat his wife and son, also named William. To the right of the king sat three of his four daughters- Serra, Ashara, and Telara. Of the royal family, one was missing. The youngest child of the King and Queen, the legendary beauty Belandra.

As the guests and combatants filed into the tournament grounds, the King leaned into the Queen. “Where is Belandra? Damned girl never listens. All of our other daughters came when I called them to witness the tournament, but not she. Gods cursed me with that one, they did.”

The Queen laughed. “She is strong, and a free spirit. She will do as she pleases, my love. She is about, make no mistake. She can always be found wherever the action is.”

The King grunted, and slouched back into his seat. He leaned over the Queen again. “John”, he shouted to his youngest son. “Go find Belandra, and bring her to me.”

Unlike his older brothers, John was short and chubby. What he lacked in physical strength he made up for with his mind- he was exceedingly intelligent, if not somewhat lacking in the ways of common sense. “…but father, the tournament…”

“Gods damn the tournament, find you sister. Now.”

“…Where should I look…”

“Where do you think? In the tournament grounds, she is bound to be around here somewhere.”

John got up in haste and stumbled off in search of his siter.

Meanwhile, the tournament was set to begin. The heralds emerged with their trumpets to announce that the tournament was underway…

“It is with great pleasure that the King and Queen of Ghant host this grand tournament to remember the death of King Edward, the Seventh of his name, on this day 50 years ago. As is the custom of tournaments of this nature, the Champion of the Joust will receive the King’s honor, and will have the privilege of declaring any lady present his Lady Honor. Let the games begin.”

The crowd roared with applause, and the tournament was set to begin.

Over a hundred jousters entered in the list, which was presented to the King. A few mystery knights had entered the list, but otherwise all the names were known to him.

Great Princes, Lords and Knights broke their lances against each other. None seemed to stand out amongst the rest as a clear favorite. The day went by quickly, and the first day ended, with still no sign of Belandra.

As the first day ended, the King began snapping at the Queen, while riding back to the Palace. “Where the hell is she? John hasn’t found her yet. Silly boy probably got distracted by some mutton chops. I should put out a bounty for her return.”

“No, my love, do not do such a thing. Let her have her fun. Let her enjoy the tournament. She is meant to be free, not caged up like some bird. If she finds herself in trouble, she will know what to do. Belandra is special, remember that.”

The King sighed. “She is my baby girl, and I want no harm to come to her. I worry for her safety whenever she is away from my sight, for I know how beautiful she is, and how lusty men are after her.”

“Men are such silly creatures. Any man who thinks he can tame Belandra is a fool indeed.”

“All the rest of our daughters are married. Belandra remains the final maiden. Most of the men in the list seek to name her their Lady Honor. How can she be so named if she is not even here?”

The Queen shrugged. “I believe she will be present when the tournament concludes.”

For the next day, and each day after that, Belandra was still nowhere to be found. The King dispatched personal guards to find her, but to no avail. He kept it discreet, as to not distract from the tournament, but nonetheless more people noticed with each passing day.

After six days of more or less the same, the jousting tournament was down to just 8 combatants on the final day. Once it was down to just four, the atmosphere at the tournament grew tense.

First would be the match between Anatok, Lord of Baztan, and Bolon, Prince of Dakmoor. Following that would be the match between Gozo of Onmutu, and a mystery knight listed as “the Violet Knight”.

The King asked one of his informants about this “Violet Knight.” The informant told him that all that was known about him was that he never spoke and was never seen without his armor, and that he stayed at an inn on the outskirts of town. Also of note was the fact that throughout the joust, the “Violet Knight” had not been touched one time by a lance.

Prince Bolon of Dakmoor broke seven lances against Anatok before Bolon won the matchup. Then, the Violet Knight took just one to bring down Gozo. The Violet Knight took only two. He won the favor of the crowd, who adored his purple armor and white horse.

And then came the final joust between Bolon and the Violet Knight. As they charged at each other, Bolon leaned with his lance to attempt to strike the Violet Knight square in the chest. He knew it was coming, and leaned to the side hard enough to where his lanced missed. But the Violet Knight’s was right on target, hitting Bolon square in the ribs, and sent him flying off the back of his horse hard into the dirt.

The crowd roared with approval, and the Violet Knight rode up to the platform with the royal family on it.

The King rose from his seat and clapped. “I hereby declare the mystery knight known only as the Violet Knight the champion of the jousting tournament. As is customary, you may now declare any Lady present as your Lady Honor.”

A herald approached the Violet Knight with a wreath of roses upon a velvet pillow. The knight, still seated upon the horse, leaned over and plucked the wreath up off the pillow.

The King spoke again. “And who shall you name, champion?”

The Knight removed his helmet. It was a girl, with immaculate skin, long dark hair, and haunting violet eyes, with a wide smirk that stretched from ear to ear. She placed the wreath upon her head.

“I name Princess Belandra of Ghant as Lady Honor.”

The crowd erupted in commotion, the Princes and the Queen started to laugh, and the Princesses, along with the King, looked on in horror.

The King turned red as a beet. “Guards, seize my daughter and escort her back to the Palace immediately.”

Belandra sat there on her horse for a moment, and as the guards rode up to her, she raised her gauntleted first high in the air. The crowd roared in approval and chanted her name. “Belandra! Belandra! Belandra!”

The guards rode up beside her, and escorted her off the tourney grounds and back to the Palace.

Belandra was confined to her chambers, and bathed and ate under confinement there. Later that night, the King entered the room.

“What in the nine hells is wrong with you, girl? You could have gotten yourself killed!” He said as he embraced her.

“Oh, but father, not only did I not get killed, but I was the champion. I bested all the other entrants. All of them men!”

“Aye, I saw that. And you made me look like a fool!”

“Father, please. You don’t need me to make you look like a fool.”

“And that mouth of yours…you are worse then your mother.”

“Thank you father.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You want to play at men’s games, do you? Well fine, have at it. When me, your mother, brothers and sisters depart for Jehenna to treat with the King on the morrow, you shall remain, to rule in my stead. We shall see how last you long on the Obsidian Throne.”

Belandra tried her best to hide her excitement at that. “So we shall see, father.”

“Indeed, so we shall.”

************************************************************************************

Two weeks went by, and yet Belandra enjoyed the comforts of the palace, and the throne itself.

On one such day, a representative of the free folk of Onia had come to court as a supplicant. His name was Jehan.

Jehan was one of several supplicants in the throne room. He had never been there before, and the sight of the Obsidian Throne filled him with feelings of dread and awe. As did the sight of Belandra seated upon it.

She wore a thin blue dress, with her hair long and flowing behind her back. In one hand was a scroll and in the other a dagger that was dancing in her hand, between her fingers. She sat on the throne not as a proper lady would, but leaned over to one side.

“So, revenues are down in the ports? Simple solution- decrease the taxes on goods being imported. That would encourage more business.”

The advisor, old and bald, raised an eyebrow. “And how will the lost revenue be made up, Princess?”

“Easily. If not just for the increased business that the ports will receive, we can also increase the taxes on the lords of Gahen.”

“But princess, the lords will not be pleased…”

“Of course they won’t be pleased. But what are they going to do about it? They cannot move their lands or castles, they are wealthy beyond measure, and their taxes have been as low as they are since my father began his rule fifty years ago.”

“A most prudent measure, indeed.” The advisor scurried off.

The herald bellowed “Next!”

A man in religious garb approached the throne. “Princess, Lutheran Catholics are spreading their religion amongst the port towns along the southern coasts. There has been word of violence being committed against Orthodox followers and those who keep to the Old Gods. I come pleading for action against these zealots and ideologues.”

“Hmm, yes, I have heard of these Lutheran Catholics, from the Land beyond the Sea. They seem to think that they can do as they please with some mandate from the God of the Jews. Very well. Tax their churches and have the revenue be distributed to the Lords of those towns, for the purposes of funding town watchmen. Any man found guilty of religious zealotry to such an extent shall be fined, or imprisoned if unable to pay. We need to let these thugs know that we won’t tolerate their zealotry in our lands. Next.”

Jehan approached. The throne. “Princess, I come from Oniaton in Onia. The mayor of our shire sent me to negotiate prices for our harvests this upcoming winter. Would the Throne be willing to accept additional goods at a slightly raised price?”

Belandra smiled. “Of course. Last I recalled, the good folk of Onia have provided their bountiful harvests to Ghish for more years then I can remember, dutifully and without expectation of increased compensation. Consider it done. We can negotiate a rate that your shire considers reasonable later…”

From behind there was heard a loud thud, and an entourage of men entered the throne room. Leading the way was an older man with shoulder length grey hair, but very strong still, who also had a fresh cut across the cheek. Behind him was a man who was beaten and bound in chains.

The old man shouted. “I demand an audience with the King at once.”

The court stood there, whispering to each other. Belandra responded. “The King is not here…”

The old man grunted. “Who is this woman seated upon the throne? How dare she presume to sit the throne.”

The court grew silent. Belandra’s face turned into a frown as her eyes narrowed. She got up from the throne, and began to walk down the steps of the platform, although in truth it appeared as though she was floating down them.

“I am Princess Belandra of Ghant, daughter of the King. I sit the throne in his absence by his royal decree. And you will tell me who you are, and what business you have here, and you will do so with haste, before I have you thrown into the dungeon for barging into the Royal Palace and insulting the sitter of the throne.”

“I am Lord Unado Pazuzu of Nazar. I came to Ghish to conduct business in the ports, and this man struck me with his blade. He is a wealthy merchant who bears the badge of your father, so I brought him here to await your father’s justice. I want his head and his hands, and I will not be denied this.”

The man who was beaten and chained whimpered. “…he raped and murdered my wife…”

Lord Pazuzu rammed him in the stomach with his fist, sending the man to the ground.

Belandra was unamused. “Lord Pazuzu, you will tell me now, in the sight of Gods and men, is this true? Did you do that to this man’s wife?”

“He looked at her with those murky blue eyes. “No.”

She then asked the man in chains. “Tell me your side of it.”

The chained man wept. “Princess, my name is Zandor Harazar. I have served your daughter dutifully for 25 years, handling goods at port. I was at the docks with my wife when Lord Pazuzu came upon us with his men. They followed us back to our home. He fancied my wife, and demanded that she give him satisfaction. When she said no, they seized us both, and restrained me while he raped her. After she resisted him, he killed her, and then when I broke free from his men, I cut him across the face, before they beat me as well. I swear it upon my honor as a Ghantar, in the sight of Gods and Men, I swear it true.”

Belandra was furious. “I give you one last chance, Lord Pazuzu. Is this story true?”

“…No.”

Belandra sighed. “Well, there seems to be a problem…”

One of the advisors at court then spoke. “Perhaps it would be prudent to let the Gods decide this matter, by a Trial by Combat. Harazar swears by the Gods that what he says is true. So, if the Gods know it to be true, then the Gods will declare him victorious in such a trial.”

Belandra nodded. “Very well. Do you both accept this?”

Harazar nodded. Pazuzu shortly followed thereafter, and declared, “I would name a champion...a knight of my household, Sir Martax.” A large man stepped forward in red and grey armor.

Belandra responded by saying loudly, “and who would be Harazar’s champion?”

The room feel silent, and stayed that way for a few moments. Lord Pazuzu smirked, knowing that if Harazar was unable to field a champion, that he would have to fight for himself, and there was no way he could win such a fight against a large northern knight.
Belandra looked at the man in chains, and took pity on him. “I will be your champion, Harazar.”

Pazuzu’s face turned from a smirk to a ghastly frown. “When shall the Trial commence?”

“In an hour, in the courtyard. Be ready.”

After an hour, the people of the castle gathered in the courtyard.

Jehan was standing near Pazuzu and Martax, when he overheard their conversation.

“Martax, I ask of you a great favor. I need you to throw the fight.”

Martax looked at him wide-eyed. “…Why?”

“Because, I cannot afford to have this princesses blood on my hands. My name will be cursed for a thousand years. Throw this fight for me, and I shall see to it that your wife spends the rest of her days in comfort and with wealth, your daughter will serve as a lady in waiting to mine own and receive a marriage of quality, and your son shall squire at court, be trained alongside mine own grandsons, and shall rise to a position of at that of a Knight.”

“…As you command, my Lord.”

Belandra emerged from the castle, in a studded leather jerkin, with her hair tied behind her head. “Swords”, she called out, and a Castle squire came out with two slender blades still sheathed. She grabbed one in each hand and spun them around, so that the sheaths went flying off, exposing the blades, which danced around in the air.

A royal herald decreed. “And now, let the trial by combat commence, in the sight of Gods and men. May the Gods render their verdict through blood. Once a combatant has died, the trial is over. He who loses shall be found guilty. Fight!”

Belandra walked forward, with a blade in each hand, stepping this way and that. Martax, in full armor, walked forward with his warhammer, holding it loosely in his hands, at a horizontal angle. He swung it clumsily, but Belandra slid under it, coming up in front of him with her swords. With a quick jabbing motion, she tried to get under his armor, with some success. Martax grunted, and swung his fist to hit her. She slid out from under him and rolled to the side. She danced around him as if to study his armor in order to find a weakness.

Martax swung around, and tried to bring his warhammer down on her head. She jumped back as it plunged into the soil.

Belandra capitalized on the opportunity, and jumped forward, slashing at his neck with her right sword as she flew past his right side. As he lifted his warhammer up, he jerked at the feeling in his neck, wincing in pain. Belandra circled around him from behind, and with the sword in her right hand, put it up to his throat. She leaned into his left ear and whispered, “I give you death, sir. Die with honor now, and dine with the Gods.” With her left hand, she plunged the sword into his armpit, into his heart.

Martax fell to the ground. Belandra said a prayer. “May he be at peace now, amongst the Gods.” She thrust her swords into the dirt, and glared at Pazuzu.

The herald shoulted. “And so it is done. Harazar is innocent, and Pazuzu is guilty. He shall…”

“No.” Said Belandra. “Martax threw the fight. On Pazuzu’s orders, no doubt.”

Pazuzu was aghast. “I don’t know what you are talking about…”

“You think I am stupid, Pazuzu? Your family are nothing but sniveling, treacherous worms.”

“How dare you accuse me! I have served your family admirably. I demand to be allowed to leave, and return to my lands!”

“Lord Pazuzu, you are in no position to dictate any such to me. In fact, if I recall correctly, you fought against my grandfather in the Battle of the Ten Kings. You fought for my great-grandfather, King Magnus V, against your own liege lord even. The only reason you are loyal to my father now is because his mother was Orta, heir to Magnus.”

“Times were different back then…”

“Not as different as you would like. Constable, see to it that Pazuzu and his men are escorted to Ashengard with at least a hundred knights carrying my father’s banner, to await the King of Ashvagosha’s justice. Tell him everything that happened here, and let him decide what is to be done with this maggot. In the meantime, take him and his men to the dungeon, where they will depart on the morrow. And burn down Sir Martax, and see to it that his bones are returned to his widow, and that she is aware of the manner of his death.”

Pazuzu was enraged. “How dare you, you southron bitch.”

“It is a better fate then you deserve, Pazuzu. And I will make sure that the King of Ashvagosha knows that you called me a bitch as well. Now get out of my sight.”

And so Pazuzu and his men were escorted to the dungeons. Belandra then turned to Jehan. “So, about the payment for the harvest this winter.”

************************************************************************************

Belandra was seated upon the Obsidian Throne one night, staring out into the void. Her reputation had grown since the Tournament, and word of the Trial by Combat spread rapidly through the streets. Belandra the Untouchable, they called her, for she could not be touched in combat or otherwise, it was said.

The doors of the throne hall opened, and Belandra looked through the darkness to see her family emerge through the doors. Her father lead the way, and he had an odd look on his face.

“Daughter, my dear. I heard that Lord Pazuzu’s tongue was cut from his mouth by the King of Ashvagosha, and his head was taken off shortly thereafter. I heard you had something to do with that.”

“…I might have.” She said as she got up from the throne, and walked down the steps to greet her family.

“I heard the realm was in good hands while we were away. I couldn't have done a better job of it myself.”

“Thank you father, I did what I felt was right, and just.”

“If only more men were like you.”

Belandra noticed a robed man at the back of the entourage. “Father, who is that?”

“This, daughter, is a forgemaster of Ashengard. He met us on the road. He made us a gift for you.” The King stepped forward with his son and heir William, and together they presented her with a sword in its sheath.

Belandra looked stunned as she took the sword from their hands. She pulled the sword from its sheath, and stared at it.

“Father, this is Ashengard steel. An Ashengard steel sword, for me?”

“Yes, it has been ordained by the Gods.”

Most Ashengard steel was a grey so dark it looked almost black, as was true here as well. But blended into the folds was a violet so deep as the grey. The two colors lapped over one another without ever touching, each ripple distinct, like waves of night and velvet upon some steely shore. It was a slender blade designed for a woman's hand, and the hilt was moonstone decorated with amethysts. In the hilt was the pattern of the Constellation known as the Lady.

“What is it named?”

The Forgemaster responded. “Halabeharra.”

Kismet, she thought. How fitting. “And what am I to do with such a blade of destiny?”

“A marriage offer, to Prince Robert of Sorbia. I have been discussing the arrangement with his father, Roger II, King of Sorbia.”

“A strange prospect, father. Why?”

“In Ghant, you would never be able to utilize your skills and talents to the fullest extent. However, a woman of your abilities could have a major impact elsewhere. It is time to consider that, daughter. What do you think of this arrangement?”

Belandra smiled, as she examined the mark of the Lady in the sword’s hilt. “Like the Stars, I too might shine bright.”