The Twins of Legend

Prologue

          The moon's glare shone high over the earth, illuminating while the sun could not. It glowed an eerie pale white that seemed like a hole in the sky above the catastrophic lands of Vinculum.
          Vinculum's young lord chanced a look out his window to catch a glimpse of the orb in the sky. Quickly, he caught himself, and closed and covered the window at once. There was no room for him to err now; he had but one last mission left in life before he could die peacefully. He turned to survey his men. They were men of his household guard. Or what was left of it, anyway. Many of his soldiers had defected and joined the rebellion. The men he still had were the only ones who remained faithful to him, and they were greatly outnumbered by the rebels. There was no hope of winning, and every man in the room knew that. Yet here they stood, with him. A sudden scream pierced the night, cutting through the yells and pleads for mercy coming from outside. Jarl licked his lips nervously, then decided it was time. His lover's location had been revealed, and he could wait no longer. “My friends,” he began, “Thank you for standing by me. I have never known finer men. Men who would follow their leader long after the situation turned hopeless. Men who would fight against impossible odds to save a woman and two babes. Yet I would not think any less of any of you if you left me now to lengthen your own life. I would not even hold a grudge if any of you were the one to slay me in combat. You still have time. If any of you would desire to leave, do so now.” When he finished, none of the men moved. “This is your last chance. There will be no turning back,” he warned. Still, none of his men moved.
         Old Arstan stepped up and said, “You should be the one to take your own warning, my lord. You are young still. If you flee now, you may be able to get free. You are one man. One less man would not make much of a difference for our mission. Please, m'lord. Leave now, and save your own life. Don't throw it away.”
          Jarl shook his head sadly. “You know as well as I that I cannot. My life is not nearly as important as my lady wife's, and my unborn sons. I am the last of my lineage; there are no more to take over my position of Lord of the Chain after I perish. I have no brothers, no uncles, no one. My sons must survive this peril and live. They have to live to claim their rights and reestablish the Kryrek line. They are my last hope...My only hope.”
         “Then we'll defend them until we draw our last breath!” exclaimed Giran. “I think I speak for every man here when I say that it's been an honor following and serving under you, Lord Jarl. Our loyalty will never waver, for as long as we live.”
          “That, unfortunately, may not be very long,” Jarl replied wryly, a hint of a smile playing around his lips. Then he sighed, and all his energy seemed to leak out of him. “How did it ever come to this?” he asked himself. Yet he already knew the answer. The common folk had been unsatisfied with him for high on a year. He had repeatedly told them that the king was simply not interested in the barren lands of Vinculum, that it was not his fault. But he was the lord of the land, and naturally, any problems the common folk had would all lead back to him. He had known that he wouldn't be able to keep them under control for much longer, but he had not anticipated that they would riot so quickly and without warning. Well, perhaps that's what I get for being reckless.
          Then came another scream, louder than the one that preceded it. “Lord?...” Niro prodded.
          Jarl nodded. “I presume you are all prepared?” His men nodded their assent. “All right, then...Let's march.” Jarl strode over to the oaken door and carefully put his ear to it. He heard the distant sounds of pillaging and fighting, but it sounded as if there was no one nearby. Cautiously, he pulled the door open. No one. He beckoned to his men with a finger. One by one, they shuffled past him, out the door. Jarl looked on each face, trying to burn it into his memory. There was Arstan, his head held high with pride, and Giran, and Loki, and so many others. And he was leading them all to their death.
          Arstan stopped and sniffed the air as he walked out of their makeshift retreat. “I think it's going to rain today,” he murmured.
         Koli repeated the action, and said, “Aye. That it will. Might be a downpour tonight, eh?”
          Arstan replied glumly, “Mayhaps it'll put out all the fires that will be burning by the end of the day.”
         “Enough about the weather, old man,” grumbled Loki, ducking to avoid bumping his head on the door. “Instead of sniffing the air, why don't you listen?”
          Arstan looked ready to reply with something scathing, but Jarl held up a hand for silence. The men crowded around the door all paused as every single one of them struggled to hear what Loki did. Far off, there was the distant sound of...Metal on metal. “Damn!” Jarl cursed. “Looks like we've got a rat. Let's go.” He didn't bother to look back at his cadre as he broke into an all-out run immediately. He knew that they would follow him. Sure enough, he heard a barked order from Arstan, and the loud, thumping steps of Giran. Inwardly, he smiled to himself as he raced around a building. Perhaps they had a chance.
          It was not long before they came upon their enemies. A mob, all armed with paltry weapons. For the first time, Jarl realized that he would never see his wife again. “Forgive me,” he said softly to himself, as he slowed to a jog. Seeing that they were ahead of the rebels, Jarl stopped his men for one last chance to talk to them. His eyes scanned his group for the best archers. “Giran. Arstan. Find a high spot and take down as many of the crowd as you can. Maybe that'll discourage them a bit, make them think we've got a couple of sharpshooters. The rest of you, with me.” Jarl stopped to draw his sword, a beautiful blade made of the finest steel possible. It was Truth, the family blade passed down from Kryrek to Kryrek. If he were to die fighting, it would be with the sacred blade in his hands. “You all know that I am still young. I am brash, I admit, and rude, and insensitive.”
         “You forgot greedy, uncaring, shameless, and impertinent,” added Loki with a grin; the man was unable to not make a joke, even in the most dire of situations.
          “Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm a heartless bastard, aren't I?” Jarl retorted. “Anyway, I have made many mistakes in my life, and I've done some things that I'm not proud of...But no man will ever call me a coward. Now, I lay my life on the line knowing that it will be taken. I will go to death peacefully, knowing that I may have saved my family. But that doesn't mean I'll go down without a fight; I'm going to take some of these rebels down to hell with me!” With that, he headed into battle, and to his death.
         “This castle will not fail while I live!” he proclaimed, stepping out of the shadows and in-between the mob and the large, ornate door of his residence. “While I breathe, while I can stand, not a single one of you will get past me!” he said, as his men flanked him from behind.
          “Well, it's the 'great' Lord Kryrek, come to see us himself!” taunted a large man, clad in leather jerkin and mail. “Begging for mercy isn't going to do you any good. It's the end for you, m'lord.”
          “Then come up here and fight me,” Jarl countered. The man hesitated for only a moment, then yelled and waved his rusty sword about, charging forward. The crowd surged forward with him. As soon as the man was within range, Jarl shot out with his own sword, feinting at his left eye. When the man brought his sword up to block the non-existent attack, Jarl swept his sword downwards and cut deep into the man's thigh. When he opened his mouth to scream, an arrow came down from the sky and lodged itself in his mouth. Gagging, he fell back, but was replaced by two more men; one was armed with a spear, the other with a shortsword. Jarl tackled the shortsword first, attacking with a flurry of attacks that made him recoil backwards into another man.
          There was a sudden movement to his left, and Jarl turned just in time to see a man jab with his spear. The tip drove itself deep into his shoulder; with a grunt of pain, Jarl lopped off the end of the spear. The man hastily retreated, his weapon made useless. But more and more were coming, now that they saw that Jarl was indeed capable of being wounded; Jarl killed at least twenty, but there was no end to them. And his men were doing no better; Loki was cut down from behind as he slashed at a thin man, and Arstan fell from his position, a throwing spear protruding from his chest. In a desperate, last move, Jarl swept his sword in a high circle around him, creating a spray of blood...But one man ducked under his wild swing and sunk two grooved daggers deep into his stomach. Jarl groaned, instinctively bending over from the pain.
         The man said nothing as he pulled out his weapons, but the look in his eyes was murderous as he growled, “All of you, away from him.” Only the closest men heard him at first, but as he bared his knives, the mob was only too happy to obey, and they left the pair well alone, parting as they neared them. Jarl's world spun around him as his mind began to shut down. His killer gently set him down on the bloodied ground without a word. As Jarl faintly stared up at the man, his mind drifted to last thoughts of his wife and sons. They've probably been born by now...Wonder if they'll live the night...