The High King

Fire caught the wood and rose like a great beast waking from a long slumber. Moments after the fire caught the entire pyre was consumed by the flame. Reds, oranges, yellows and golds danced together, exploding out of the wood with loud snaps and cracks.

The conflagration clawed at the sky as the black smoke stole away into the blue. The sun was low in the west, the last few spears of light thrust into the sky. The summer sky tore through the clouds across the sky, blackening in the east but filled with orange and white in the west. The dusk sun cast its orange lights into the sky, turning the once-grey clouds into drifting infernos in the endless, empty sea. Vilkas watched on as his king burned, lying silent among the fiery dancers, greatsword in hand.

The wind stirred the dancer’s flaming robes. Vilkas’ hair flapped in the wind like a black banner. Six other men stood beside him, watching their king burn. The fire burned as strong in Vilkas’ blue eyes as it did on the pyre. The lords of Joldir and the heads of the great clans had assembled for High King Bastian Oakenheart’s funeral.

Behind the pyre, ocean stretched out till the end of the world. They stood on the southernmost cliff of Joldir, where the Clan Oakenheart’s keep once stood. The stones that made the walls now sunk to the bottom of the Tranquil Sea and all who lived there held by the depth’s grip. The very earth beneath them had begun to shake and a great wave scattered itself on the cliff and the castle simply fell away.

A fisherman and his son found the body of the High King but a few days later, his skin was purple and white and shriveled, his flesh cold as winter and his eyes lifeless and pale. His skin could not be seen, even before the inferno took up. His flesh and steel was coated thick with pitch. The air was filled with the musk of burning flesh. Beside him a grizzled old man stood, with white hair down to the small of his back and a beard that fell just as far.

The man’s skin was callus and scarred. In his grey eyes he seemed more dead than alive. He was Rafnar, head of Clan Steelskin. “May Autumn guide him into the Hall of Four Kings to sup with the Gods.” He growled as he watched the fires. The men around him echoed the prayer, Vilkas too. The great clans lords stood in silence but as the fires smoldered away they would not hold their tongues. The Moot followed quickly after a High King’s funeral.

The clan leaders would argue amongst themselves about succession for hours until they came to a definite conclusion. It has to be Alexi this time, Vilkas thought as the fires danced before him. Alexi was leader of Clan Wolfkin, named such for their tendency to keep wolves as pets and their fondness of the Four. The Four was the prominent religion of Joldir, who had never embraced the Lord of the west. Their gods were simple, Ysvetur of the North, cheifest of the gods, ruler over the lands of winter and night, Ysnyár of the South, ruler over the lands of summer and day, Ysvår, of the East, ruler over the lands of spring and life and Yshaust of the West, ruler over the lands of autumn and death. Their names in the Lost Tongue were scarce used, many favoring the Annorian translation.

For half-an-hour the fires burned hot and fierce before settling back into the dust whence they came. The roaring beast withered away and slowly shattered into embers and cinders, floating off into oblivion. The holocaust left behind scorched earth, charred wood and blackened steel. The somber silence cracked and split as the clan leaders began murmuring.

Vilkas gazed upon the ruined pyre. The scorched bones of his former High King sent a stab of guilt through his mind. Each clan had a crown; most were sealed away in the Great Jold in Ystheim. And a new crown was forged with each new clan that was deemed eligible to participate in the Moot.

The road to Ystheim was not far, an hour’s ride if the destriers rode true enough. They started north the moment the pyre was cold. Each clan’s keep had a road directly connecting them to Ystheim and this was the shortest and easiest on the horses.

Leading the small group was Rafnar; the leader of Clan Steelskin’s horse seemed as old as he was. Despite his apparent age, the destrier was the strongest of the lot. Behind him rode Rune Battleborn, the young lord of Hjolmark had pale blond hair that fell just past his shoulders and the fuzz on his face that he boasted was a beard. And beside him was Danelius Firemane, lord of Jaasgard. A thick orange beard sprouted from his ever-smiling jaw, his fiery hair came halfway down his back.

Beside Vilkas rode two men; Alexi Wolfkin, lord of Hedjold and Amandus Stonefist, lord of Trolstad. Alexi was tall and proud, brown hair fell past his shoulders and onto his back and a thin beard covered his stern smile. Amandus was squat, falling short of five-foot-seven. Coarse black hair covered his head and shoulders and coiled forth from his mouth, grizzled with strips of white. At the back rode Arnfred, lord of Haavstheim, head of clan Seaborn and admiral of the Joldir fleet. His face was clean-shaven and brown curls tumbled over his shoulders.

The ride was shorter than Vilkas had suspected. His thighs ached with every step the horse took. Ystheim was the greatest city in Joldir, revered as the place where the Four first entered this world. The grey stone walls could be seen leagues away but their grandeur could not be appreciated until one stood at the foot of the walls.

Granite rose three hundred feet into the sky and stood sentinel before the city. The wall was a solid one hundred feet thick with two gates and a drawbridge sealing the entrance. A ditch was dug beneath the wall, fifty feet wide and fifteen deep. The bottom of the ditch was lined with sharp, jagged pieces of steel like many rows of fearsome teeth, stained with blood of all who have made attempt at taking the capital.

The gates opened at their approach and the thick oaken drawbridge lowered slowly over the trench. As they passed through the tunnel through the wall, Vilkas glanced once again at the open gates. The first gate after the drawbridge had two wolves carved into it, one with orange eyes and the other with green, Autumn and Spring, Yshaust and Ysvår. The second door had carvings of another two wolves, one with blue eyes and the other with red, Winter and Summer, Ysvetur and Ysnyár.

Such carvings suited the Holy City. The entire city was built around the first Jold. The Jold was a temple of the Four; built under the light of the Eastern Star. In the chamber altars to the gods stood, each altar built in perfect alignment with the directions.

Hovels lined the cobble streets on the stretch up to the Great Jold. Countless statues covered the city, all the High Kings of Joldir immortalized in granite. Countless though they claimed to be, Vilkas spent his childhood commiting each statue to memory as a orphaned boy in Ystheim. He passed a tall statue of a very broad man; High King Valdemar Steelskin. The first High King of clan Steelskin, who was said to have built Norrkholm with his own two hands.

He may have been the first High King to bear the name Steelskin but he was the sixty-second High King in Joldir’s history. The closer the envoy came to the heart of the city, the older the statues became. Half of the statues around the Great Jold had new-carved plaques at their feet as the inscriptions had worn away through time.

The Great Jold was nothing short of what the name boasted. Thrice the size of any building in the city and seated neatly on the tip of the hill the city was built on. The unadorned walls of granite rose a hundred feet into the air and another hundred beneath the earth. The temple had no doors, just an open threshold into the antechamber. Men and women and children had begun to crowd the edges of the street, watching as their lords dismounted and made for the temple.

Between the twin entrances to the temple stood the largest statue of all; High King Amon Iceheart, the very first High King of Joldir and head of the extinct Clan Iceheart. Vilkas slowed to behold the statue in its glory as he entered. As a child in these streets, he oft looked to Amon’s likeness and heard tales of his valor. As he grew he fought with Clan Iceheart’s sigil on his shield. He swore his fealty to the High King of Joldir, whoever may hold that position.

Vilkas had served High King Daggeir of Clan Firemane for just over two years before the High King’s untimely death at the hands of his own daughter Dia, older sister of Danelius. That was just over a decade ago, he served High King Bastian Oakenheart since then.

The temple antechamber was lit by a hundred tallow candles burning dimly, half a hundred more stood unlit and unburnt. Frescoes of old plaster and faded paint covered the walls. The frescoes depicted three men and a woman, warriors all, standing over the land. The four slayed the great Joldarin dragon Bálsláhata and took his kingdom in the transmundane. To his right was the fresco depicting the slaying of Bálsláhata and to his left was the four becoming the wolf gods that commanded Joldarin society.

Many of the candles were pools of hardened tallow on the granite. No priests kept the temple, as none did any Jold. The Jold was kept by all who prayed there, protected by all who could, and the supply of candles rejuvenated by the city chandler each day, to be lit at will by any who enter. A small doorway sat in the far right corner, leading upward into the Sacred Room, where any could pray.

Rumors fluttered about the citizens of another door. It was on the left, wrought of iron and sealed to all. The head of each clan owned a key, as did the High Sentinel. The clan leaders stood in wait; none had brought their key with them when they left their cities, but the High Sentinel always did. Vilkas wore his about his neck, on thin twine below his mail.

He reached up to his neck and fished it free with the twine that held it to him. The key was decades old, but it didn’t show. He pulled it over his head and stepped closer to the door, slipping the key through the lock. The ancient lock held stubbornly as he twisted it. The collision of the tumblers falling in the door echoed through the descending stair behind.

The hinges on the door screamed as they were woken for the first time in over a decade. As it swung open, the door fit comfortably into a niche in the wall designed for it. The stair was thin, one man and one alone could walk abreast. The High Sentinel stood aside and watched as all disappeared into the lower chamber. A pang of guilt and anger washed over Vilkas as he pulled clan Oakenheart’s crown from the leather haversack from which it was held. I failed. The High King is dead. But how could I have defeated the sea itself?

The crown was a platinum band with platinum strips along it, like pale silver merlons, adorned with moonstones, emeralds, garnets and fire opals. He returned it to its leather holdfast and followed Arnfred Seaborn as he descended the stair, closing the opaque iron and plunged the stair into darkness.

At the end of the deep stair the chamber opened up onto a grand room. Thirty thrones stood in a circle; all had pedestals behind them, seven of which had featureless busts upon them, six of which held crowns. The six lords took their places and Vilkas stood behind the late High King’s throne. “Vilkas,” Rafnar spoke in his raspy voice. “Take Clan Oakenheart’s bust into the Hall of the Extinct.”

The High Sentinel nodded solemnly as he lifted the bust from the pedestal. He turned to an open stair, leading further down into the earth. The room below was twice the size of the one above, and littered with countless busts and crowns. The air was dry and empty. Vilkas strode down the room, passing the empty pedestals, to where the crowns sat. He passed a hundred pedestals before reaching the crowns of the extinct clans. He placed the bust between an empty pedestal and the crown of Clan Thunderfist, an old clan from the time of Clan Iceheart, whose crown was gold, with thin fingers of gold clawing up the faceless stone bust’s head.

In the dawn years of Vilkas’ life, up until he was eight, his father was a vassal of Lord Rodgeir Thunderfist. His father had given him to Rodgeir as a ward. His father was slain in a raid and Vilkas was taken to Ystheim, three years before the death of Rodgeir and the death of the clan. When the bust was stable he lowered the crown onto his head and closed his eyes, whispering a prayer. He raised his head and looked into the darkness of the room. Shaking his head, he turned back around and made for the stair once more.

In the meeting chamber, the Moot was in full ardor. Rafnar Steelskin sat in contempt silence, with a surly scowl on his face while the others spoke. “Who dealt with the mountain clans? I marched in to their hovels and cut their chiefs from throat to cock.” Amandus Stonefist bellowed loudly but Alexi seemed less than impressed.
“You killed the mountain king and the head of every tribe came surrendered.” He scowled at the squat man. “But you didn’t hear their plea and continued your war.”

“Aye,” The lord of Clan Firemane spoke up. “You slaughtered each of the tribe leaders who offered to bend their knees to Bastian Oakenheart. What man with half the sense of a goat would surrender if it does not change their fate?” Danelius scoffed. “You’re just a vicious cunt.”
“Better a vicious cunt than a craven with a cunt.” Amandus stared down Danelius with a scowl hidden behind his coarse beard and large hook nose. Danelius on the other hand was calm; he almost had a smile beneath his fiery mane of a beard.
“Vouchsafe me, Lord Amandus. Is your firstborn ready to rule Trolstad?” He stood from the throne. “Keep running your mouth and he’ll have his chance.” He touched the hilt of his sword and the lord of Trolstad sat back defiantly, morose in his defeat.

Vilkas knew that was wise; there were few who could stand against Danelius Firemane, which is why he is lord of Jaasgard, instead of either of his older brothers. Rafnar Steelskin, lord of Norrkholm had heard enough. He pulled his dirk free from its scabbard and held the hilt with his right hand and the blade with the left. “Danelius of clan Firemane, lord of Jaasgard.” Silence fell over the table as the blade drew through his grip. His blood glistened on the long knife and dropped onto the table.

There was fear in Rune Battleborn’s blue eyes, but he unsheathed his knife and held it. “Alexi of clan Wolfkin, lord of Hedjold.” The blade kissed the soft flesh of his green palm and he didn’t so much as grimace. He laid the bloodied hand against the table as Rafnar had. Amandus was grudging in his choice, but nonetheless he removed his blade and cut open his palm. “Alexi of clan Wolfkin, lord of Hedjold.” Next was Danelius himself. If any would make a better High King than Alexi, it would be Danelius. The lord of Jaasgard was quick and strong. He was known for his power and the cold bite of his ancestral greatsword Summer’s Tear.

It was forbidden for one to elect themselves in the moot, any who did were stripped of their title and lands and their clan was given to their firstborn with their father’s head. “Rafnar of clan Steelskin, lord of Norrkholm.” His own dagger was freshly-forged and glistened just as much as his blood. Arnfred Seaborn was next, admiral of the Joldarin fleet. His seat of Haavstheim rested along the east coast, the bay hidden well from any ships scouring the sea for the Joldarin fleet.

His dagger was old and worn, but still sharp enough to pierce his hand. “Rafnar of clan Steelskin, lord of Norrkholm.” He joined the other four men in laying his wounded hand on the table. They all turned to Alexi, who smiled behind his beard. He’s won. Vilkas knew that by midnight he would be crowning High King Alexi and riding off to Hedjold on the morrow. But there was something in Alexi’s smile that bereft him of his certainty.
“Danelius of clan Firemane, lord of Jaasgard.” Fool, Vilkas thought as Alexi’s steel cut through his scarred palm.

Every man turned to the High Sentinel, as he knew they would. Vilkas closed his eyes a moment, before opening them in a scowl. “Two votes to Steelskin, Firemane and Wolfkin.” He said in his deep voice. “A test of valor and strength will determine the High King.” The silence was deafening. “Single combat between the elected.” Rafnar Steelskin was first to rise.
“I wish to die serving the High King, not fighting him. Consider me defeat.” Alexi may have been able to handle Rafnar, but Danelius will carve him from head to heel.
“Very well. Alexi Wolfkin and Danelius Firemane will be tested against one another.”

“Is this truly your will, boy?” Danelius’ ever-smiling face was without smile. “Perhaps you will slay me, but I am renown for my power to kill.” Alexi smiled still, a bold smile.
“You may have drawn much blood, Danelius. But as have I.”
“Aye, lad, you may slay me yet. There is honor in being slain by one such as you.”

Despite Danelius’ japes of Alexi’s age, the lord of Hedjold was no boy. The two lords were almost of an age. Danelius stood taller than most by a foot, he was broad of shoulder and thick of arm. But amongst all the flame that sprouted forth from his chin or his head, there was not a single strand of silver.

The sun had set behind the western walls of the city when both men came together. They stood silent on the Winterroad, the road running north from the Great Jold and out of the city. A small throng of men and women massed along the cobble road, some wore roughspun and soiled rags, others rich wool. Babes at the teat, crones and time-worn soldiers alike gathered to watch.

Danelius Firemane stood proudly, his back to the Great Jold. He wore mail over boiled leather, with a single newly forged steel pauldron on his right shoulder. His mail hauberk stopped halfway along his arm, leaving his elbow and forearm exposed but for the steel and hide vambraces warding his wrists. Over his mail he wore scarlet cloth, wound over the pauldron and across his side. On his back hung his greatsword, Summer’s Tear; forty inches of steel that had been his sire’s and grandsire’s before that. Vilkas had personally seen that sword cut through more men than he could count.

From his belt hung a longsword and dirk, but neither were as deadly as the monstrous blade the lord of Jaasgard held on his back. In his hand was his shield, a round ward of alder painted scarlet with two rampant wolves, one gold, and the other vermilion.

Alexi Wolfkin stood thirty feet from his opponent. His mail was fresh forged, his shield freshly painted and the cloth over his hauberk was white as first snow. Upon his white shield was a black wolf passant. “In the eyes of gods and men, may these two be judged.” Vilkas announced, hiding his contempt.

The High Sentinel stood between the largest gathering of denizens and the lords, beside him were the guardsmen of Ystheim, armored in fur and iron, to each a spear and round shield blazoned with the four stars of Ystheim.

The lord of Jaasgard roared as his longsword came free from its scabbard, charging headlong at the proud scion of Wolfkin. Alexi had not expected the force of the blow. He raised his sword to check the strike, but the sheer force behind Danelius’ attack almost sent the sword back into Alexi’s face. Danelius pulled his sword away and sent it crashing back down into Alexi’s blade with furious abandon. The steel sung a bittersweet song as their blades crashed against each other, not once did either blade slip past to bite into mail or cloth or flesh.

Alexi weaved around the taller man, trying to find himself behind with a view of a weak spot in the mail. With each quick movement, Danelius met him with one quicker; sending his steel down upon Alexi’s face. Alexi parried most of them, but lost a handful of hair when his blade came down unawares and struck the shining pauldron. The fire-bearded lord of Jaasgard checked a slash with his sword and another with his shield as his opponent circled him.

The frustration was clear on Danelius’ face as he spun, checking one blow and another. Alexi struck the larger man with his shield and weaved around him. His blow had done naught but anger the beast that was Danelius Firemane; as the lord of Hedjold came around him; Danelius raised his sword arm and drove his elbow into Alexi’s jaw, sending him stumbling back.

Two or more of his teeth fell onto the cobble path as Alexi seethed and spat blood and teeth. Alexi lunged at Danelius, slashing vehemently for the larger man’s head. Danelius met fury with fury. The steel clashed and rang together, with no signs of slowing. Alexi drove his blade into his opponent’s shield, splitting the wood. He pulled back on his sword but the wood held to it tightly.

With his own shield he parried a blow, and then another. But the lord of Jaasgard had him now. He pulled his shield away, pulling Alexi’s sword with it. Alexi’s stubborn grip pulled his arm, leaving the inside of his arm open to attack. And that is what he did. Danelius’ longsword came down hard and ripped through his flesh below the elbow.

The attack was met with a scream. Alexi wrested his arm away but never slacked his grip on the hilt of his sword. With another split and crack, the sword came free and he drove it forward, at Danelius’ sword arm. The steel bit into his flesh but pulled away as soon as it had. Alexi ducked and weaved around Danelius, landing another blow on his upper shield arm.

Where Danelius’ attack had been met with a scream, Alexi’s were met with roars, each more weary than the last. Alexi moved quickly as the large man spun around. He lunged low with his sword and caught Danelius’ leg. Right between where the mail stopped and the fur boot began. He cried and fell to his knees, the longsword slid across the cobble and out of his reach, he tossed the shield. He panted and grunted, but he did not yield. “You fought well, Danelius.” Alexi panted; he stood behind the lord of Jaasgard. “I need men like you. Rise.”

And rise he did. Danelius pulled himself to his feet. “If you don’t have the stomach to kill me, I ought to cut it out.” The sound of steel being pulled from a wood and leather scabbard sent a shiver through Vilkas. Summer’s Tear was in Danelius’ hand, reflecting the moon and the stars. The steel was dark as a starless sky and more than doubled his reach. He roared and swaggered down on the fearful lord of Hedjold. Danelius swung the greatsword with the speed and ferocity he had with a longsword. The song of steel was joined with the grunts of both men.

After several blindingly strong blows from Summer’s Tear, the greatsword shattered the blade of Alexi’s longsword. But the blows did not stop there; the blade came down again, cutting through the air itself before piercing the flesh of his upper arm. The blade bit down to the bone, cracking the concealed skeleton. Alexi screamed as the blade was pulled free. He fell to his knees.

Still shining in the moonlight, the sword was awash with crimson blood. “Alexi of clan Wolfkin, you are brave. You are strong. You bested Danelius Firemane. But you are a fool. May you sup for eternity in the Hall of the Four Kings.” He swung his sword down with one final swoop, Alexi said nothing. Not so much as whimper or a cry. The steel bit through the flesh and bone of his neck as a warm knife would butter.

Gasps of shock and the sound of retching came from the gathered smallfolk. Vilkas approached the bloodied lord and his dead counterpart. “All hail High King Danelius Firemane, lord of Jaasgard and one-hundred and thirty-second High King of Joldir!” Some roared their support for the new king, some continued retching, more still remained silent.

Two guards came to Danelius’ aid, four to claim Alexi’s body and another for his head. On the morrow I ride for Jaasgard.