On the early morning of that third day, the day that was to determine the future of both Kingdoms, the small Lyonese party entered one of the larger Nekryan cities, the city of Venirtth. The townspeople were long aware of the nearing party of Northerners and waited for them at the gates of the city.

The Lyonese entered the streets of Vernirtth and formed a tight formation. The sun shimmered on the tips of their pikes and reflected off their shields. People followed them in silence. Hundreds of faces hung above them in the windows of the houses, on the balconies and the terraces.

Aezubah glanced around uneasily and eyed the mob with suspicion, watching them closely for any signs of trouble. Many of the Nekryans held makeshift weapons and wooden clubs, but no one yet made a threatening move or said a word even. That silence was the worst. The Lyonese were unable to determine what it meant, whether it was a good sign or bad.

“This could get ugly real quick,” Jasper whispered into Aezubah’s ear. The aged warrior nodded his head without taking his eyes off the masses before them.

“Thus far we have only driven through small towns and villages where the people still fear us and where they didn’t dare to openly stand up against us,” he replied, his voice loud, clear, and calm. He wanted to show the Nekryans that he did not fear them. “We don’t know what’s going to happen here. We’ll best make our way through as fast as we can and be on our way.”

“Coming here was a mistake,” young Skrol whispered behind him.

“Yeah, we should have gone around the town,” Jasper agreed.

“No, I mean coming here,” Skrol waved his hand. “Cursed Realm!”

Aezubah only shrugged in response.

“Our Iskald completely lost his mind,” Jasper said quietly. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

“We’re here to see about a girl,” Aezubah laughed. “As a side note, we’re also here to make peace with these people.”

“Doesn’t seem they want to be friends with us,” Skrol said.

“Let’s go!” Aezubah urged his horse forward.

The crowd stirred suddenly. A quiet murmur rose from hundreds of throats and slowly grew louder. More and more hands reached for the small party, more and more voices were heard, whispers, cries and shouts, more and more threatening gestures and cries were thrown at them.

Aezubah scowled. On his sign, the Wolves formed a tight circle around Iskald and his advisors, a wall impossible to break through. A mob, no matter how roused and angry, was no match for the skilled Lyonese soldiers, so there was little reason to worry. The sight was nevertheless quite disturbing and even Iskald looked distressed. The young King had not anticipated such a turn of events.

“It’s getting worse,” Jasper said.

“Is this city ever going to end?” someone from behind asked.

Then an ear-splitting cry broke through the clatter around them:

“Get them! Get the foreign devils!”

In a single moment all hell broke loose. The mob roared, stirred, then pushed forward, driving at the Lyonese warriors with wooden clubs and other crude weapons. The party halted abruptly and the soldiers bared their swords in one swift motion, like a well-oiled machine. But it was too late now and the sight of the shimmering blades did nothing to stop the crazed mob.

“Kill them! Kill!”

“Off with the bloodsuckers!” the cries around them intensified.

“Use your blades wisely!” Iskald cautioned his men. “I don’t want to see any corpses left on the street behind us!”

“Forward!” Aezubah urged the party to push through the mob.

The crazed crowd drove forward, but its ranks broke down when it came in contact with the solid wall of Lyonese warriors. The heavy swords of Northern soldiers, though turned flat side down so as not to inflict much damage, nevertheless fractured many bones and shattered many of the stubborn Nekryan heads before the people moved back. Rocks were launched from the crowd; they soared over Nekryan heads and fell into the Lyonese party like heavy rain.

“Damn those bastards!” Jasper barked angrily as one of them bounced off his steel hat. “Let’s go, boys!”

The Lyonese moved forward and pushed the crowd further back. Many of the Nekryans dispersed, running away and hiding in the side streets thus creating more room for the small party to travel. A large cloud of dust rose from the dirt road on the other end of the town.

“A party’s coming,” Aezubah turned to the young King.

Iskald did not reply. Pale as ghost and with blood trickling down his face he swayed from side to side in his saddle. Suddenly all strength escaped him and unable to hold on any longer, he slipped off his horse and fell to the ground, where he remained motionless. Aezubah stopped his horse, quickly slid off the saddle and knelt by his King. The others, not yet quite sure of what was happening, followed him.

“Iskald!” the old man cried in horror. He touched the young King’s head and then brought his hand to his eyes, studying it with disbelief. It was covered with blood.

Aezubah raised his suddenly frantic eyes to the sky, searching for any signs of the gods.

“What happened?” Jasper approached them quickly.

“Iskald!” Aezubah’s trembling voice was full of so much pain and fear that all those around him startled upon hearing his cry. They drew nearer and finally started to slowly realize what had happened.

“Someone hit Iskald with a rock!” the Lyonese shouted.

“Bastards! Cowards!”

“Nekryan pigs!”

“Iskald had no headdress!”

“Silence!” Aezubah roared.

No one save him realized yet just how serious the wound was. Both Jasper and the aged warrior leaned over their King.

“Iskald!” the old man said quietly, trying to stop the tears from streaking his aged, seasoned face.

The young King slowly opened his eyes and looked at the terrified faces above him. The fire in his eyes was burning out and quietly fading away.

“Aezubah...” he groaned. Blood streamed from the wound in his head and soaked the ground he lay on. A crimson pool was quickly forming in the place where he rested.

“Don’t worry about it, kid, it’s nothing,” Aezubah tried to make his voice sound convincing. “You’ll be good in a little while, it’s nothing.”

Jasper was quiet. Iskald shook his head slowly.

“No...” he whispered. “I feel... darkness and cold.”

The young King groaned painfully. Aezubah still could not believe in what was transpiring right before his very eyes.

“No!” he said, his eyes already swelling up with tears.

“Someone’s coming!” some of the Lyonese shouted.

“A party’s coming down the street!”

Horses halted abruptly before the group of Northerners who formed a tight ring around their fallen King, in case the mob would try to make another charge at them and their wounded ruler. Several riders quickly slid off the saddles, broke through the ring of Lyonese and fell to their knees before Iskald, who lay in the middle of the dirt road in a growing pool of his own blood. Diovinius and Laela were among the newcomers. They looked at Iskald with dread and disbelief, and then at one other, speechless and terrified.

“What happened?” Diovinius’ voice was hoarse. Laela raised her arms to the sky in a terrible, silent cry.

“Who are you?” Jasper eyed the aged ruler with suspicion.

Diovinius noticed Aezubah bending over Iskald and gave him a strange look.

“I am the King of this land,” he replied calmly to Jasper’s question.

A quiet whisper and a murmur of disbelief breezed over the party of Lyonese.

“Someone hurled a stone,” Jasper explained briefly.

Seeing that the young King was trying to speak, they leaned in.

“I’m dying...” he whispered.

Diovinius, Aezubah and Jasper said nothing and only looked at one other. The faces of these dangerous warriors and powerful men were now twisted in pain, a pain that despite their differences, united them and bound them together here in this place, in this very moment.

Laela could no longer control herself and she wept. Iskald heard her cry and slowly turned his fading eyes towards her. He smiled softly and reached out to her with his weak and failing hand from which all blood had already receded. The girl took it and showered it with kisses.

“Iskald!” her savage cry broke the total silence that hung so heavy in the air, it broke the hearts of all those that heard it before finally rising up to the sky, to the gods, the cruelest of all beings. A black flock of ravens screeched and rose from the roof of a near house.

Iskald looked at Diovinius, then at Aezubah. With much effort he was able to reach for the hand of his mentor.

“Lyons is yours...” he whispered. “Take care of her.”

Then he took the hand of the Nekryan Lion and joined it with Aezubah’s. Both men, both great warriors but sworn enemies, looked into each other’s eyes

“I wanted peace...” the young King said quietly. “Make it happen... For me.”

Those who witnessed this scene held their breaths, realizing instinctively that they were taking part in a moment that would define the course of history, a moment that was to send the world either back into chaos or into an entirely new chapter, one marked with peace and unity.

Two deadly enemies stared hard into each other’s eyes for a long, long time. Then they shook their hands. Over the body of a dying King these two men made a pact that no one and nothing could break.

The young King’s face lit up with a smile. He took a moment to shake Jasper’s hand, thus thanking him for long years of service. The tough highlander cried like a small boy. Iskald looked for Laela again. He gazed at her for a long time.

“I really do love you...” he said finally.

The girl breathed heavily, trying hard not to break into tears again. But they poured anyway; they streamed down her beautiful face and fell to the ground, marking sacred the place where the young King fell.

“I love you, too, Iskald...” she whispered.

The eyes of the young man lit up with a strange light. Never did he want anything more from life, save these few words from her lips. He sighed softly and closed his eyes, feeling the nearing end. Laela felt it too and she bit her lips down so as not to weep again.

Taking his bloodied head into her hands she leaned in to kiss him and for a while her long shimmering hair completely covered the face of the young King, in the last few moments of his short life shielding him from the cruelty of the world.

She remained like that for some time, still and motionless, and no one dared to interrupt the moment. When she finally raised her head Iskald was dead and his lifeless eyes were blank, clearer now than the sea could ever be. Laela staggered to her feet, but she swayed and fell back to the ground, lacking the strength to stand. She lifted her eyes to the sky and to the silent gods who never cared.

“Iskald!” her terrible cry sent chills through the hearts of all those around her.

A heavy silence hung in the air when the echoes of her cry finally faded away, a silence broken only by her quiet sobs. Everyone present had tears in their eyes. There he was, their King. He rested still on a dirt road with his head propped up against a filthy saddle; he rested in a pool of his own blood, his lifeless eyes looking blankly at the world that he loved so much, the world that rejected him now for the last and final time. Brought down by a cowardly hand, he was taken away again, but this time forever.

Diovinius rose to his feet and slowly made his way through the ring of Lyonese warriors. He stood before the Nekryan crowd and looked them all in the eyes. A magnificent scene it was: an old and defenseless man facing hundreds of murderers with no fear and only contempt in his bright eyes.

“Go to hell!” his voice was loud and clear, and he could be heard all over the city. All eyes were on him and everyone watched as he tore the crown, the sacred sign of his Kingship, as he tore it down from his temples and threw it to the ground with loathing.

“Go to hell, all of you!” he roared like a wounded animal. “Today I am ashamed to be Nekryan! I am ashamed to be your King!”

He turned his back on his people and walked back to where Laela still lay on the ground, sobbing and weeping uncontrollably. He took her in his arms and held her tight, cuddling her like a little girl, rocking back and forth.

Aezubah also slowly rose to his feet. He looked at his men and there was terrible pain in his eyes. It was terrible and silent, and was to stay there for the rest of his days because there was only so much one man could bear.

“Where will you bury him?” Diovinius asked. Laela wept in his arms.

“Home,” Aezubah said quietly. “Alongside his parents.”

Diovinius nodded. Two powerful rulers shook their hands once again. And then Aezubah leaned over his King for the final time.

“Farewell, friend,” he whispered and placed a soft kiss on his cold forehead. Two large tears rolled slowly down his weary face and fell to the ground, uniting with the blood of the fallen King and binding their spirits forever.

Copyright © 2008 by Slawomir Rapala

Open Challenge 307...