Taking my shot at this, a story I'm working on
The Chronicles of Patlara
The Elder King
I – A Stolen Youth
‘Come here boy,’ came the stern call from a man exiting the small, manmade smithy. It was a warm summer afternoon in the countryside of Lorain, the skies were cloudless so the heavenly red shine could be perfectly seen in the horizon. The grass was so green that it seemed to be glowing. ‘When was the last time you practiced with your bow?’ demanded the voice.
‘Last week, father,’ the innocent child’s voice came. His light brown hair came down to his shoulders and partially covered his face. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, yet by the look of his physique he seemed to have the strength of a twenty-five year old man. Almost six feet tall he was, with a muscular body, he stood high and proud, yet under his father’s shadow he seemed like a helpless child. He looked down and shuffled his feet in the soft dirt. He didn’t like to train; he always felt it was pointless. ‘I don’t want to be a warrior’ he would always tell his father, yet his pleas always fell on deaf ears.
‘Now you know you’re supposed to practice once a day. What have I always told you?’ his father asked, with a slightly calmer tone. The massive man was once a warrior of legends, serving in the Elder King’s court as the highest ranking general – second in command to the King himself. The same court which he had once pledged his allegiance and his love to, was the one that betrayed his honour and his name. He had never questioned his position as a vassal to King Ilbatonor although he had always known his Majesty’s reign was unjust and corrupt. They once stood as brothers on the march to Mantlain Planes – the then soon to be King and the boy’s father – and on that march promises from Ilbatonor were made to his General in the name of The Fair Queen. Promises of what was to come after the glory of battle. Promises of kinship and brotherhood. Promises that the General trusted. Yet the promises that were meant to be bound forever in Her name were eventually unmade. The broken promises left the General in a state of loathing and lustful revenge. He had intended on restoring his honour in the Kingdom of Mourain but time had not slowed down for his ambitions. His time of fighting and commanding the Armies of Free Men in Patlara was but a distant memory. The mutiny done to him he had put in his past, all he wanted now was a simple life as blacksmith living on the countryside with his family. Although, after all the bloodshed and unspeakable horrors he had seen through his many years of leading the campaigns and wars, he knew that a simple life was nothing more than fool’s hope.
‘Be prepared for anything,’ the generic response came out of the young boy’s mouth, still staring at the ground. They had gone over this same routine whenever the he hadn’t trained. Ever since he could remember the boy was forced to learn the art of war with his bow, his blade, and his dagger. He knew how to wield any blade made by man with a precision and perfection unseen by most soldiers in Ilbatonor’s army.
‘And do you know why I tell you that son?’ asked his father, knowing full well that the boy knew the forthcoming answer. ‘Because anything can and anything will happen. It always does. Never let your guard down. The last time I let my guard down, well…’ his voice trailed off, he stared at the pendant on the young boy’s neck. It was the holy symbol of The Fair Queen Yyavaradina. The same pendant that young boy’s sister had worn before she was taken from this world to the next. ‘Never forget,’ he whispered beneath his breath as he nodded at the necklace. ‘Now, get your bow, and we’re going to train.’
The boy nodded in obedience to his father and ran through the field and into the house. The aroma of fresh flowers filled the house as it always had. He noticed his mother still asleep in her bed, with the sun shining through the exposed window onto her golden hair as she looked peaceful in her slumber. He continued past the corridor and crept through the hallway down into the basement. The cellar, along with the rest of the house was built, brick by brick, by his father. The damp, dark room emanated the pain that his father had felt when the bitter sting of betrayal was still with him. He had undoubtedly come down here to weep silently in the night, when no one could hear. The darkness of shadows in the room must have reminded him of countless nights on campaign trekking through the vast planes of Patlara. He could never escape the feeling of uncertainty before a battle, and felt it whenever he was in his lonesome. The boy grabbed his short bow, in the same place he had left it the week prior. He reached for his quiver and his dagger, and then ran back out to the field.
‘Show me your form.’ commanded his father as he stood beside his son.
The boy pulled up the bow and loaded an arrow from his hand crafted quiver. He stretched his arm back, pulling on the string and caressing his bow so masterfully that anyone would have to assume this child had been handling it since the day he came out of the womb.
‘Straighten you arm! Your back is slouched! Stand up straight!’ came the shouts. No matter how talented his son was with the bow, it was never good enough. ‘Now, release!’ he commanded, and the same instant the arrow flew off of the bow. The golden colour of the wooden arrow glistened in the summer sky then hit dead onto the centre of the target a hundred feet away. ‘Good, now, do it again.’ And once again the golden arrow was loaded and aimed, and once again it was released from the masterfully carved bow and once again it glistened in the summer sky, splitting through first arrow and hitting the target in the exact same spot. ‘That’s my boy!’ the man laughed. ‘I bet you won’t be able to do that with your dagger,’ he said with a snicker still on his face.
‘Oh yeah?’ was the boy’s reply as he grabbed the hilt of the dagger sticking out of his boot. He had done it countless times before, however his father had never seen it, and therefore, never believed him. Without even aiming, he flung the dagger at the target and watched as it flew.
‘Its going to miss!’ laughed his father. The dagger hit the target, just barely missing the arrow already imbedded into the wooden target.
‘Damn,’ the boy whispered to himself. ‘There was a wind,’ he tried to argue.
‘Come on now,’ the father chuckled, ‘keep practicing.’ The words were repeated over and over.
After countless hours of training it was soon dusk and the boy was visibly exhausted. ‘Sit down son, you need a rest,’ his father offered as he retired onto a wooden log. The two of them sat on the log as father and son, not sharing a word with one another, contemplating what the other was thinking. The boy was always so mesmerised by the red glow in the sky.
‘Father,’ he started, ‘why is it that all of Patlara is constantly in strife?’ The boy asked. He could never comprehend why the races of men, elf, dwarf, orc, or vor saw the necessity for the bloodshed that resulted in the war that constantly plagued the world. He was sick and tired of training. If it was up to him he would be spending his days playing in the fields and riding the ponies. Instead he lived by the blade because his father had always feared that when the time would come, his son wouldn’t be prepared. ‘Wouldn’t peace be more beneficial to everyone?’
His father took a deep breath. He had never fully understood why there was constant warfare in Patlara himself. All the nobles and so-called war generals he had known throughout his lifetime had always been captivated by spilling the blood of their enemies. Conquest of their own race had been more important than peace and prosperity to them. He, however, had never lusted to kill; he believed in the purity of battle. When enemies are clashing swords there is nothing but truth between them, no lies or hidden agendas, just the passion to live. That is why he served in the armies. He had never questioned the lore which his father and all the fathers of men had told their sons for many millennia.
‘We are bound to war, son,’ he began, ‘because existence as we know it was forged by that very thing. Many ages ago, before the world was even cast there lived The Great Father, creator of all existence and of all love. He formed his first children, the Allmin, as they were to be the heirs of subsistence and life. Though they lived in peace together, a few of Allmin were discontent and had risen against Him in rebellion many eons ago in the Heavens. They slew their Father in the Eternal Halls without remorse or conscience of what they had done. As His immortal blood was spilled,’ the boy’s father explained as pointed at the red glow in the sky. He was standing now, mesmerised by his own storytelling, ‘our existence was forever meant to be doomed.’
‘The Allmin still loyal to Him and His memory clashed with the rebels and eventually murdered the ones that betrayed their Father. In their grieving they created the three great bodies, Patlara, Amlara, and Uotlara as the final resting place of His soul, His heart, and His mind. As time continued and the woeful hearts of the Allmin began to heal, many things began to grow on Patlara as His soul and the earth became one. And Amlara was set ablaze, burning crimson even yet still as the courage of His heart is inspired into it. Uotlara became the brilliant azure glow that illuminates the night sky we know with His mind united with it.’
‘The Allmin who wanted children of their own forged the different races of this world and put us on it. Men, as you know, are the sons of Yyavaradina the Fair Queen, and elves are the offspring of the eternal love between Oullaratin and Vaalalnyr. And although our races were wrought in love and were unified together in harmony while the world was still young, our ancestors watched helplessly as the Allmin turned against one another in rage and fought epic battles in the Eternal Halls. For thousands of years they clashed until all but the Tyrant Allmin Roannbaral remained to conquer the mortal lands of Patlara. He had enslaved men, elf, dwarf, and vor alike to fulfill his perverted fantasies of power, and sent his minions of darkness down to strike fear in hearts of all races of the world.’
‘The innocence of the world was soon corrupted as men, women and children of all breeds were all forced to work for the agents of darkness. For many ages our ancestors lived in the shadows until the one named Lerathor, who had lost all his family and kin to the corruption of Roannbaral’s minions, took up arms against them. He struck the greater minions down one by one, and as each of them tasted the steel of his blade his bloodlust for Roannbaral grew more and more. Of all his stricken down foes he took their scales and forged them together to create his legendary sword Sinilaef. With Sinilaef in his hand Lerathor climbed to the peaks of the Northern Mountains and called upon Roannbaral to pay for his crimes. The last of the Allmin answered the challenge mockingly but was not anticipating the passion that had filled Lerathor for revenge and the Tyrant Roannbaral was smote by Sinilaef.’
‘It is said that as the darkness overcame the Allmin he placed a curse on Lerathor, hexing him forever to be chained to the summit of the mountains. He had also placed a curse on all of Patlara, damning the planet to eternal strife. He dictated that all races within the realms would fight for supremacy of their kind, no matter what the cost. And with his last breaths spoken, he fell from the Heavens and crashed into the far northern reaches of the world,’ the man concluded with vigour in his voice.
‘That is why son. That is why there is constant strife on Patlara. We are caught in an unbreakable chain of war. It hasn’t changed for thousands of years, and will not change until only one race of people is left in the realms. That is why you must be prepared for anything.’ The man said as he looked at his son who hadn’t flinched throughout the whole story. The boy was still gazing at the eerie red glow in the skies, yet his father was unable to decipher what he was contemplating.
If Lerathor was able to end the tyranny of the last Allmin Roannbaral, and the Allmin before him were able to slay their Father, the creator of all existence, surly there is no such thing and an unbreakable chain, the young boy thought to himself but stayed silent.
His father was studying him. He had hated the fact that his boy was forced to learn to fight for himself, but there had not been an alternative. He patted the boy’s head with his large hand. ‘We should be getting back home,’ he said, ‘I bet your mother is worried sick about us.’
The night was becoming damp, and a thick fog was moving in, seemingly out of no where. Both the boy and the man were exhausted from a hard days work and training, and couldn’t hold their enthusiasm for a warm cooked meal. As they approached the house they could vaguely make out the shadows of two cloaked figures riding on horses that seemed to blend in with the night sky.
‘Are we having guests for dinner?’ asked the boy.
‘No,’ his father said firmly, ‘stay here, I don’t like the feel of this.’ He had a genuine look of fear and anxiety on his face. The tall man walked towards the figures carefully. He could tell something was abnormal and picked up a blade that was lying near the haystack as he passed the outer fence of his smithy.
The boy waited patiently for seemingly an eternity. He was trying to listen to what was going on but could not hear anything from the distance. He was interested in what was happening and eagerly disobeyed his father’s orders, making his way towards the cloaked figures, trying stay out of sight. Ever so slowly he crept until he saw two tall, dark men, standing beside two tall, black horses clothed in war garments. On the ground in front of the two men he noticed a woman’s figure, lying there, lifelessly in a pool of blood. Crouched next to her was a large man, undoubtedly his father, holding a wound to his stomach with one hand and the hilt of a shattered blade in his other.
‘Duke Nolmiran, on three counts of treason to your King, His Divine Majesty, Ilbatonor, as well as your treachery to the race of mankind by the unlawful wedding an elvenkind, a sworn enemy to our proud and noble race, you are hereby sentenced to death.’ The tallest figure proclaimed in a voice that was as cold as a winter’s night. The boy couldn’t make out the figure’s face in the darkness but his voice was so threatening that he sat helpless behind the fence paralysed by fear.
‘Charged without trial I see,’ the young boy’s wounded father sputtered while still holding onto his wound. ‘I am the Duke Nolmiran you seek, but know that I committed not treason to my liege. Nay, the betrayal which was done was done so to me from His Divine Majesty. You serve his court like cows sentenced to a slaughter house,’ he said as he spat blood onto the boots of the man standing over him.
‘You have been convicted, and your punishment will be dealt,’ said the dark figure as he kicked the helpless man in his wound.
‘Who places these charges upon me? Was it the coward? Your so-called King? If so why then does he not show his face to his once most trusted general of war? Surely he doesn’t have more important executions to bare witness this eve.
‘You have been found guilty of the charges previously aforementioned,’ the cold figure continued with no remorse, as he unsheathed his blade. ‘Make your peace with whatever deity will bring you sleep, for you shall be visiting their halls imminently.’
‘Who are you to be judge and jury? Will you not give me the dignity of knowing my executioner’s name? Or has cowardice become commonplace for men in Ilbatonor’s court?’ screamed his father with conviction.
‘I am a mere vassal of the King, my name holds no meaning to you as you it will bare you no worth in the afterlife,’ the figure concluded as he raised his long blade high above his head. The blade reflected the light from Uotlara, the moon, and shone with an eerie glow. The man on his knees was no longer nursing the wound, instead his eyes were open wide, and were fixated on, almost even embracing the light. The next instant the tall dark figure thrust his glowing sword into the chest of the helpless man on his knees. What once stood a tall proud general of war, commander of all the soldiers of mankind, was now nothing more than a measly casualty of Ilbanotor’s Reign, now nothing more than a faint memory in the wind. The life of the man faded with a gasp as he fell atop his slain wife.
The figures turned to leave as they scanned around for witnesses. They hadn’t noticed the boy hiding behind the fence although he had seen all that had transpired. As quickly as they came, they had mounted their horses and disappeared into the night fog.
The young boy had witnessed the whole scenario unfold, and had not blinked nor uttered a word nor moved a muscle. He had not shed a tear. He sat in the darkness, starting blankly for what seemed an eternity at the two cold corpses, remembering all the things his father had taught him about courage and honour of men, and all the things his mother had taught him about the elegance of the elven race. He sat there wondering about the events that transpired that night and realising why his father had spent so much time teaching him the ways of combat. He realised why his father told him to be prepared for anything. Because anything can happen, he thought to himself silently. Anything has happened.
He walked over to the corpses and looked at his murdered parents in front of him. His mother’s bright blue eyes were still shining like she had just awoken from her peaceful nap. He closed her eyelids and walked down to the cellar to find the shovel that had been used only once before. He carried the shovel and walked down the field. The grass was no longer glowing green, but it whistled with the night’s wind. He walked all the way to the end of the large field, and made his way toward the outdoor sepulchre that his father had built. It was a tomb which was lit by the moonlight, a tomb with only one grave. “Elynal” it read. Without hesitation the boy started to dig. Two holes were needed, one on either side of his elder sister how had long passed. He kept digging into the dark of the night.
When he was finally done he went back to his house and picked his mother up and gently carried her to her final resting place. As he started walking back for his father he saw his dagger still embedded in the target, right next to a golden arrows. He pulled the dagger out of the target and held it gently in his hand, staring at the blade, and its hilt. He fingered the masterfully carved ivory grip that his father had found for him. He stared at the blade and his heart suddenly filled with rage. What sort of king turns his back on his most trusted friend and general he wondered? His father had never told him of what he loathed Ilbatonor so much. Flushed with hatred he made a vow that night to himself in the names of Yyavaradina and Oullaratin and Vaalalnyr. He would not stop. He could not stop, until the blood of Ilbatonor was spilling onto the ivory hilt of the very dagger he held in his hand. Griping it tightly he put the dagger into his belt and continued on his path to his father. It took the boy all his strength to carry his large father to the lot in which his mother and sister were already laying to rest. As he buried both of his parents he could already begin to taste the blood of Ilbatonor running his teeth and onto his tongue. War in Patlara may be everlasting, but the Elder King of Men is still merely mortal, he thought to himself as he stood in front of his family’s gravesite staring blankly at the ground. He stood there thinking of how one day his revenge would be had. If Lerathor slew the last of the Allmin, he thought, I could slay a weak coward of a man. He removed his dagger again and looked at it.
‘As Lerathor had Sinilaef, I have Daarth,’ he said under his breath, naming a weapon which otherwise would never have the honour of a title. He stood there, with his family watching over him, until daybreak imagining the look in Ilbatonor’s grey, faded eyes when Daarth would pierce his wretched black heart. At day break he said one final goodbye and began his trek to the vast Kingdom of Mourain to the northeast. He never looked back.
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Thoughts/comments/suggestions would be appreciated.
