Successor Lords

Rhotir, a hundred year old chieftain, divides up his conquests amongst his successors.

  The village had grown into a fledgling city, complete with roads and markets and walls. The streets were engulfed by stalls selling various wares, two-story housing, and over a thousand denizens- merchants, soldiers, and servants all going about their daily business before the sun descended. The main road passed between the two towers guarding the gate and winded through the maze of buildings and courtyards before coming to a second ring of timber walls that encircled a small hill. The street became a staircase that ascended the hill, leading to a complex of plowed land, stables, a well, and a large building of timber, stone, and thatch. The sun fell from the sky, taking to its hiding spot beyond the mountains. The hill-top complex lit up with torches and a large hearth in the main room of the building.

 

  The hearth lied in the largest room, its roommates being an assortment of mounted animal heads, furs hung from the rafters, and a long, oak table. Around this table sat seven men of varying years. They divulged in the tastes of drink and food alike as their hearty conversations came to a more serious tone, climaxing when the eldest man, who sat at the head of the table, stood up to speak. His grey beard hung down to his chest and his long hair of similar color erupted from beneath his copper helm and surrounded his face, like the mane of a mighty lion. As he stood up, he looked between the six men that made up his audience, staring intently at each of them with his grey eyes. Only, they weren't grey tonight. The fire to his left ignited the color in his eyes, bringing about a red glare as he looked at his constituents. The men grew silent and ignored their beverages and meals, giving their elder the ear he deserved.

 

  The elder stood, hands planted firmly upon the hard surface of the oak table, and continued to gaze about his audience. A minute passed before he began to speak. His deep, weathered voice echoed about the room, over-powering the sounds of rustling trees from the outside and the crackle of the fire to his left.

 

  "Over the course of this century, our people have grown into the epitome of greatness. Our fathers and gods smile upon us all and our success. Aye, our prominence has come at the expense of rivers of blood, both of our sons and daughters and those of our enemies. However, the blood of our fallen rivals and heroes has fertilized our lands, strengthening the expanse of our tribe. I have led many a man into battle, and carried many more away from it. But, my time draws near. Rare is it that a man lives as long as I have. I ache all over and my heart is heavy with loss. But, despite my prolonged suffering, I am thankful. For I have been able to safeguard the future of our people. They will never hunger, thirst, or freeze again. But the years have worn me down and my turn to ascend to the peaks is near," spoke the old man. He spoke slowly, but his age did not hinder his ability to retain the attention of his audience and his words fell upon active and eager ears. The speaker gave a cough and wiped some spittle from his beard before speaking again.

 

  "Before I depart, as tradition has dictated, I must select an heir. And so, I have summoned you six men of worth, you six warriors, you six fathers, you six husbands. I have summoned you six leaders to my table because you, out of all the others, are most fit to take my place. However, our lands are vast- thousands of tribes large. And because of such, this table, in its entirety, shall inherit the world from me. Amongst you six men of noble character, I will carve up my domain and bestow upon you my powers over your respecting realms. I trust you will follow my example and do what is best for our people-your people. If they have not starved to death, died of thirst, or been engulfed in the cold under the rule of one man, then they shall not do so under the rule of six," explained the old man before taking a drink from his tankard. He wiped his lips and sat the cup down upon the table once more before sitting down in his chair. He took a deep breath before continuing his speech.

 

  "To my grandson, Jaspar, I leave Therim and her surrounding lands. From the river Helnas to the Great Sea and from the Calkamar River to the Cadal Mountains, I leave you the heart of our people. You are young, but as was I when I took the lead of our people. I trust you will act in the manner I have- or better. Myron, Son of Duin, I leave for you Aldrun, the bountiful forests between the Chistel and the sea. Rule her as your father did under my reign and you will do your people well. Calmik, your valor in battle is known as far from here as Doria. The gods smile upon you greatly and so I leave to you Thania, the shadowed plains beneath the Thanetes, whose peaks are home to our gods and ancestors. To Ruland I leave the Dor tribal lands. Those b******s are fierce. May they come to all of your aid when the need arise. Avec, old friend, we have seen much together, though most of it we wish we didn't. I know you well enough to know that you will rule greatly and honorably. So, I entrust to you the Ebda Highlands, home to your forefathers. A chance to please your ancestors to an even greater level than you already have. Last, but not least, Trystan. You, young chaser of prosperity, shall take the reigns of Cadal, the belly of our beast. May your eye for wealth serve the people well along the coast."

 

  "These are your lands to rule over. Do not shame your families, your gods, or myself by failing your people. When I ascend to the Thanetian Peaks in my smoke, I will be watching you very intently. May Artos guide you during your years as chieftains. You may take command now... I will be dead before you reach your realms."

 

  The audience stood up and bowed to their former chieftain and hugged him one at a time as they took their leave. The old man stood up and received the hugs before leaving the room, venturing off to his bedroom as his successors entered upon their journeys to their new domains. As he entered his room, he stared at his empty bed, room enough for two yet always only home to one. A lone tear ran down his wrinkled cheek as he strolled over to a door opposite the curtain he entered from. The door led to a patio over-looking the small city that was Therim. His grandson, so much like him, would be back in a few days to take control of the mighty heart of his domain. The old chief rested upon the rail that surrounded his patio and gazed out across the torch-lit polis.

 

  "My suffering in this realm will soon be over, Rhaven. I will join you in the heavens shortly. Not even a life-time of war could remove the pain I feel for you. The blades to the chest did not compare the ever-lasting wound upon my heart. The burn of brimstone didn't hold a candle to the burn in my eyes caused by my tears. This pain has been unstoppable, unbearable. But I have had... luck, in battle. Never once have I been near death, no matter how badly I wanted to be rid of this pain. The gods would not take me. They would not bring me to you. But my time is coming. My old age will kill me better than any warrior has stood the chance to do so. We will be together again my love. Artos will take me to you soon," cried the man. The single tear became a waterfall of pain, as if a dam busted that was holding back a century of sadness. The tears soaked his beard and tunic, running down his forearms to his wrist where his wedding band was. A century had worn the band weak, but no blade had ever severed it. His night was filled with painful memories and burning tears.

 

Author's Note

Pretty short and not much going on, but it is all important to the stories soon to come. I am open to all advice and constructive criticism. Feel free to rate and leave reviews