- Joined
- Jun 28, 2007
- Messages
- 2,711
This is from the fantasy series I am writing. Here the main protaganist learns of his punishment for a misdeed he has done in Chapter 1.
CHAPTER 3 Father and Sons
NANTER 1079 VP.
Light filtered in through the purple drapes which blew inwards on the strong wind, that always seemed to swirl this high up in the crenulated tower of the royal residence. Caric started awake in his bed, he had slept the night through but there had been a darkness to his dreams. He spent a few moments prone trying to remember them. With a pounding head he turned to his side, facing away from the offending daylight.
He was loath to rise and face the coming day, his disgrace and punishment almost a certainty in the coming hours. The thumping headache which was preventing him from any clear thought was no doubt a result of the many nightmares he had suffered during the night, thought the Prince. All images of the various tortures his father might inflict upon him. From an early age, Caric had felt a certain amount of fear around the King. It was not that Ranald was an unduly cruel or evil man. There was just an air about him, a certain coolness and distance. Not for Ranald to tuck his third son into bed at night or ease his fears when Caric had a nightmare, or soothe him when he fell from his pony on his first ride.
For Caric there had being no display of paternal love or care, this had all come from his brothers Thrand and Dolfin. Ahh! Dolfin why did I do it? Regret was not an emotion that Caric felt often, but as he steeled himself to rise from the bed and face the consequences of his actions, waves of remorse and anger flooded over him. Standing before the mirror that he had purchased in one of the more expensive tailors in Nanter, Caric ruefully examined his features. It was a handsome face, even with the early morning shadow, with a strong jaw and the long nose of the Gulnarsons and fetching green eyes. A face to make most women look twice and that was the problem. Suddenly Caric smiled, damn he was good looking, and so handsome he could have ridden from the pages of a heroic saga.
“When you have finished preening yourself could you care to join us in the lounge as we have rather pressing matters to discuss,” a voice said from the door of his bedchamber.
Caric turned quickly to face his lifelong guard, Dagal. Surveying his nakedness Dagal snorted, “and dress accordingly you will be receiving the King within the hour.”
Slipping back out of the room, Dagal’s final words hit Caric like a war hammer and promptly led him to curse his good looks.When Caric joined his to guards in the luxurious surrounds that was his lounge he found Herk sprawled across a purple divan which he had had imported all the way from Dalaria. The giant guard seemed impossibly big for the divan and Caric groaned at the thought of it collapsing under the bulk of Herk.
“Get up from there and sit at the table with your brother. That thing cost more than what my father pays you in a year,” Caric snapped at him.
Herk stretched and slowly rose.
"That wouldn’t be too difficult as your father is not known to be extravagant with his retainers and anyway you might not have much use for it soon," Herk replied.
Dagal gave a small splutter of laughter. Caric moving to the table failed to hide his annoyance, he disliked been mocked and his father was indeed known to pay the highest retainers to all his retinue. Generosity was a trait of the current generation of Gulnarsons, although it had gotten them into trouble in the past. Flopping down on a chair Caric asked if they had requested breakfast.
“Breakfast! It is well past mid-day…” Dagal laughed.
“That late, ****, why didn’t you wake me?” Caric asked.
“I always find it difficult to disturb a sleeping beauty and could you not have dressed more appropriately," Dagal said, eyeing Caric’s attire with disapproval. Caric looked down the length of his body and could find nothing wrong with his dress. Maybe the crimson and gold doublet, with forest green sleeves was cut a bit too short to be fashionable above his turquoise hose, but then he was a prince and it was his station to drive fashion not follow it.
“What do you mean?” Caric asked, not a little put out.
“I mean it’s a bit ostentatious. Black would be more in line I think considering the events,” Dagal replied.
Caric was about to reply when his stomach growled.
“Lunch is on the way. Now to matters on hand. You are in fix no two ways about it and the only way out of it is for you is to volunteer to go into exile. Dalaria or some place like that, as far away from the Beuforts and your brother as possible. Now I know you are worried about the King but trust me he is the least of your concerns. Edland Beufort and his penchant for attempting to lopp off the heads of those who he perceives to have insulted his families honour is what should concern you,” Dagal said.
Caric felt his hunger dissipate. Edland Beufort, did he not have enough enemies without the possibility of that archaic monster hunting him.
“You two will deal with him if needs must,” Caric said.
Herk and Dagal exchanged a look.
“I was just coming to that…….” Dagal was saying when there came a hammering on the door to Caric’s chambers.
“Open for the King,” a loud harsh voice called, the Janterian thick with a Kalnordian accent.
Caric rose and gestured for Herk to unlock the door. What will I say to him, he thought, all coherent thoughts gone out of his mind. He rolled his tongue in a mouth suddenly dry and felt the palms of his hands begin to sweat. On the rare times that Caric found himself engaged in any conversation with the King, he had found himself completely tongue tied and the words that he did manage to utter were general inanities.
Ranald entered the room flanked by his two guards, Eric and Stormfist. Slightly behind them came Thrand, his two guards no where in sight. More than likely dicing in the palace guard’s mess hall, thought Caric strangely. Eric and Stormfist gave Herk and Dagal a slight if disapproving nod. Caric’s guards were not exactly held up as models of what Monks of Vishna should attain to. Caric looked at his father and as always felt that slight tremor of unease that took him when he was in his presence. He was not a big man his father, but he carried that air of absolute power with him that made him seem larger than what he was.
Ranald looked around at the lavish room, on the other side of the room there was a door leading out to a balcony. Spacious and richly decorated, the floors were bright and clean, the quality of the mosaics readily apparent to even an amateur eye. There was a table off to one side of a beautiful, richly grained cedar wood. It held room for four occupants. There was also a private bathing chamber through an archway on the south side of the room, where sunlight streamed in making the sunken marble of the bath even more inviting.
“I am pleased I am not the servant who has to fetch the water for your bath” noted the king.
He looked around the room and without looking at the guards he dismissed them curtly. “Noble monks you may leave.”
Herk and Dagal made to leave immediately but Eric looked to Stormfist , who simply asked. “ A moment if you please your majesty?”
The king nodded, knowing that Stormfist would never leave him in any room without first being satisfied that it was safe.
Stormfist directed Eric to the bath chamber where there was less obviously a source of threat and went himself to the balcony. He stayed some moments on the balcony checking the walls that surrounded it for any possible niche or enclave where a figure may be hiding. It was only after satisfying himself that there was no possible threat to the king in the chambers did he leave.
They left then and the door closed gently behind them and Dagal’s voice could be heard complaining. “Do you not think we already checked?”
Stormfist made a reply that was muffled by the closed door.
The three Gulnarsons stood in the room regarding each other. Thrand looked from Ranald to Caric, Caric stood there holding his fathers gaze. Even after a few moments Thrand realized the effort was beginning to wither him.
Thrand spoke. “Perhaps we should sit?”
Ranald nodded and gestured his two sons to the chairs. Both took their places but neither sat until the king had seated himself.
Caric made to speak but Ranald held his hand up to stop him.
“Before you speak I have a few words to say and I believe you will find them pertinent. After I have spoken then I will listen to what you have to say,” Ranald said measuring out his words.
Caric gave a slight nod thinking this was better than he hoped. It all sounded promising, his father not showing any signs of anger, even Thrand was smiling.
“I have given some thought to your position at court and it has concerned me for some time that at the age of sixteen you have no responsibilities. I know you are able as the reports I receive about your exploits on the race tracks of Nanter testify. What we need to do is channel that ability into something more suitable for a prince of the blood. A position has arisen in one of our royal regiments, a captaincy of cavalry…….” Ranald trailed off to gauge Caric’s reaction.
Caric looked puzzled. Janterian cavalry were levied from the nobility and no king had ever been able to afford to keep a unit of heavy horse in the field permanently. This was the first he had heard of a royal regiment of horse and he was to lead it! There was something amiss here, no mention of Dolfin and Cait, his father was up to something, of that he had no doubt. The King was speaking again. What was that he said? The Conerax! Surely I have misheard.
“……. and on the morrow you shall prepare to take up your command as their commander,” Ranald finished.
“Excuse me Father but did I hear you correctly. I am to be given a commission in the CONERAX!” Caric said, his voice rising as he uttered the words Conerax.
“Caric I am not in the habit of repeating myself and we are sure that you will understand that this is the best way forward, taking all the past events into consideration,” Ranald spoke as if speaking to a school child.
At that moment Thrand leant forward on the table and made a gesture to Caric.
“Think of it Caric, your own command with a chance to make a name for yourself. At your age I was given such an opportunity in the City- States …” Thrand was saying when Caric raised his hand.
“You served under Alward Steward not the bloody Conerax!” he snapped. The Conerax’s reputation was fearsome, even the name thought Caric, the Dakar word for war ground. It said it all really about a legion that drew its recruits from the dregs of humanity and held the loathsome task of patrolling the eastern marches that formed the boundary between the kingdom of Janter and the empire of the Dakars. So this was Ranald’s punishment, he felt sick to his empty stomach.
“Enough. You understand what is expected of you as a Gulnarson and my son. Serve with honour and distinction and I shall recall you within two years,” Ranald said rising from the table and gesturing for Thrand to follow. Caric remained seated completely winded at the turn of events.
“That’s it. Is that all you have to say. There you go my boy off to the bloody Conerax and try not to disgrace yourself! Surely we have more to say to each other?” Caric exploded.
Ranald coolly observed Caric.
“Not really. I will speak to you in two years time, the gods willing,” Ranald said and left the room. Thrand remained a moment longer and placed a parchment on the table.
“Those are your orders, brother. For what it is worth Relldmond Del Burg and Tosaran Stedarsson are good military men, as good as you will find anywhere. Take care Caric our paths will cross soon of that I have no doubt,” Thrand said leaning forward and clasping Caric’s forearm in a tight clasp.
“That’s the grip of warriors, brother, welcome,” Thrand said smiling and turned to follow the King.
Caric reached for the parchment and opened it with a faint heart. As he was reading the contents, Herk and Dagal returned to the room.
“Well what is to be Dalaria, Heskaria or Carad?” asked Dagal. Caric dropped the parchment and gave his guards a tired look.
“The Conerax,” he said simply.
They stood in the armoury, the walls about them adorned with weaponry. It was an arsenal of deadly killing devices from swords, to maces, lances, bows and the dreaded morning star. Racks of rough hewed wooden beams created little aisles across the room. From these hung suits of armour polished and oiled. Some of the armour had not been touched for a century or more, the men they had been made for were now long dead. Caric stopped at the suit of armour that had been commissioned for him by his father Ranald and finished not a month before. It had thrilled him to receive the armour, it was a sign of his manhood. He had dreamed of wearing this armour to joust, or better still to war. Now the time had come…
“It is a nice piece,” Ragnar 'Toothless' said, admiring the expertly linked iron rings of the hauberk. Caric reached up to remove the helm from the stand but Ragnar had not finished speaking. The weapons master looked around the room as he ran his hand through what hairs were left on his receding hairline “It will still be a nice piece when you return from the east and get to use it properly in a joust or the southern wars. But where you are going you will need something more functional.”
Caric looked at the old warrior with his thickset neck and bulging arms, of course as his nickname suggested the most striking feature of the man was his face and the deceptively weak chin. As the years had gone on, the jawbone had retreated due to the lack of teeth which he had lost in a fight during his youth. Ragnar spoke again his gravel timbre, harsh in the stillness of the room, was much more suited to the Kalnordian which he always used in preference to Janterian when he could. It was a language that had been drummed into the princes over hours of training sessions.
“This should do,” he tossed Caric a conical helmet with a nose guard and flaps that protected the cheeks when tied.
“This is ancient!” exclaimed the young prince.
“True, and battered,” said Ragnar pointing out scrapes and dents that had been beaten out of the helm, the legacy of many fights or one very hard one.
“But the man that wore that died in his bed.”
Caric tried it on to find that the helm fitted perfectly, much to his surprise. He tried on the mail hauberk that was with the helm to find that it was too loose. It also felt strange as it had no sleeves. But it was light compared to the heavy armour his father had commissioned for him. Ragnar looked on approvingly.
“Not to worry,” said Ragnar, “the smiths at the barracks will be able to adjust that for you.”
They then began to regard the weaponry.
Caric asked him a question.
“Should I take a bow?” He was proficient in the use of the bow and sword but he was best with the lance.
Ragnar shook his head. “No, in the east men are thought from boyhood to use a bow whilst at the full gallop. If I had thought you that art ten years ago, maybe...”
Mindful of the armour Caric decided to ask about the sword.
“What sword should I bring?”
Ragnar turned to regard him. “What do you think you should bring?”
Caric looked about at the array of swords.
“Long but light, straight not curved, I dislike sabres.”
Ragnar nodded in agreement.
“Three foot should do in reach, a bit of practice and you’ll learn the knack of using the lighter weapon.” The older man paused for a moment. “Forget everything I have ever thought you on warfare while you are in the east. You are going back to an older time. There are no rules, no ‘code’. The Hes and the Burgundians have strange notions of what is honourable. Think quickly but act even quicker.”
Caric suddenly felt very young and not a little afraid. It was starting to seem more real now and a world away from the jousts which though violent were only lethal by accident. Ragnar smiled at Caric.
“By all means be a little afraid, it will help keep you alive. If you survive your first fight, and you should, it will seem a little less awesome.”
Alone for once without even Herk or Dagal, the Prince allowed his mask to slip.
“What was your first fight like? Was it in a battle?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant. Caric was not sure if he was ready for the answer.
“All fights are battles. To fight one is to fight a thousand. There is a beginning, middle and an end. The scenario and players may change but the fear remains the same.”
Caric took it in, he had heard Ragnar spout this rubbish before.
“But your first…”
“It was like my first woman. I was not expecting it and it ended very quickly.” Caric broke into laughter and some of the tension on his features faded. Ragnar himself smiled and then continued.
“I was fourteen; it was in mid winter, a season before I met your father in Tromsfjord. I was returning home after cutting some timber for our fire. A local man who was himself gathering lumber saw my full sled and decided it would be easier to take my kindling then to cut his own.”
“He was wrong?” ventured Caric.
“Yes, he approached me and told me he would give me a copper for the wood. It was so cold I wouldn’t have given up the wood for a kingdom. I wanted to go back indoors. Then he threatened me. I told him I would kill him, he laughed, so I did. My temper wasn’t what it might have been when I was a young man. It was a failing of mine but I have thankfully worked on that over the years.”
“But how did you do it?” asked Caric pressing the issue.
“I picked up a piece of the timber and threw it, when he shied, I stepped in and hit him a blow with my axe. He fell to the ground and every time he tried to get up I hit him again.”
Caric pictured the scene in his mind, though Ragnar’s word were simple they painted a gruesome picture.
“How did you feel?”
“I acted…” Ragnar stopped to frame his words. “It is different for every man. For some it shatters their world and haunts their dreams, for others it changes them, it gives them a taste for violence and combat, they become villains or heroes depending on whether they won or lost.”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I have never thought about it much. I have served your father for many years and killed many men for him. That is my world. You will know soon enough if it is yours.”
Caric considered the sword in his hand and twisted it about watching the light catch the runic symbols along the blade. He knew enough of the Kalnordian script to understand the legend. Wield me true and fail you I will not, the runes said and Caric suddenly smiled.
“I name you Truthgiver,” he whispered to the sword.
“A good name for all truth lies in death,” Ragnar said approvingly.
“No dallying there, Caric. You must bid farewell to the Queen,” the voice of Rolf Del Chirtar called from the doorway in to the armoury.
The two, boy and man, turned to face the lord who looked at Caric with a strange expression on his face. Rolf quickly schooled his features and strode in to the armoury.
“Take that stuff off or else you will frighten your mother to death. I still remember the look on her face when she first saw Thrand accoutred for war,” he said, taking the helm from Caric’s hand.
Rolf raised an eyebrow at the helm and looked to Ragnar.
“Amoled’s?” he asked.
Ragnar nodded and Caric looked at the helm with surprise. Amoled had ruled Janter five hundred years in the past and was almost as legendary as Gulnar. His rule had lasted for an incredible sixty years and the time was considered a golden age of achievement for the Janterians.
“The sword?” queried Rolf.
“Also his but now Caric’s,” Ragnar replied.
Rolf turned to an astounded Caric and smiled.
“It seems you have chosen well for Amoled was never defeated in battle,” he said, clapping the Prince on the shoulder.
“Come let us go to your mother. She is fretful for you so it would be best if you put her at ease.”
As they left the armoury, Caric thought on Ragnar’s words. Life was fleeting and fragile. Death was everywhere and stalked the very halls of the palace. From a young age he had known that. Three of his siblings had not survived a year beyond their birth and his cousin Marcus had lost two of his brothers to plague only last year. At the age of eleven he had seen a man beheaded although it had been from a distance. But he had been close enough to see the spray of blood and the head tumble in to the basket at the end of the executioners block. He still had vivid memories of the Hooded Man holding the head up high and crying out to the crowd; “Behold the traitor! Witness the price of treachery!”
As the Hooded Man roared out the words to the baying crowd, Ranald who had stood beside Caric uttered bitterly; “Such are the wages of pride. Remember this son.”
Yes, he knew about death, it had touched him but could he kill? This Caric did not know
