The Bloodied Company

       

            "My lord," the watchman heralded, taking a moment to catch his breath. "The company has returned. They're at the gates."
            Hunched on his granite throne, King Uthgard lifted his brow, stirring as if from an oppressive dream.
            Though winter's bite lingered in the spring air, no fires warmed the Great Hall. In the twilight gloom, at oaken tables, and in shadows between staunch pillars, several dozen highborn folk and servants gathered, bundled in furs and cloaks. They looked to the messenger and the king. Silence reigned while they waited, ghosts imprisoned in uncertainty.
            Slumped in an alcove, one arm over the hunting dog, Paynor was so drowsy he'd nigh drifted to sleep. Hearing the watchmen's words, he pushed against the wall until he sat upright. The apprehension everyone suffered was understandable. These past days they had all been holding their breath.

            King Uthgard now stared at the watchman with an intensity that seemed to bore through him, as if beyond he could see the shadow that haunted the Kingdom of Skyrimng. If the company had returned, Paynor new the tidings likely favored them. Yet nothing was certain. The gray days they lived had made that starkly clear.

            Under scruffy brows, King Uthgard deliberated. Between the fall and winter of his years, his long hair and his beard were white, save for tinges of pale gold. The bear and wolf furs appeared to weigh heavy on him of late, yet strong-boned features and hands attested to an enduring fortitude. For the first time in nearly a week, a hopeful gleam kindled in Uthgard's eyes, howbeit wary, guarded by steel.

            "Open the gates." He nodded. "Have them enter the hall."

            To the back, a pair of guardsman in chainmail and wielding spears, opened the hall's bulky double doors. The watchman departed swiftly into the shadows beyond. Few minutes passed before Paynor and those in the Great Hall heard the marching approach of bootfalls. King Uthgard sat up on his throne, more commanding. Folk who were not yet standing now did so; Paynor too. No one spoke a word.

            Tall, red-bearded Oakthrim entered first, leading a company of warriors. Paynor counted seven. Most were tall, thickset, and bearded. A few were veterans, a few younger; but none boys or old men. These were warriors in their fighting prime, hardened in the high mountain lands. They strode forth, gloved, in chainmail and iron-studded jerkins under capes of fur. Daggers, axes, and broadswords rested in harnesses. One man, - Derek - was wounded, his head wrapped over one eye. Still, he stood unflagging. Another, whose name Paynor could not recall, limped whilst gripping his torso's flank. At one stretch the man needed his comrade's help to stay afoot.

            Lara, Uthgard's eldest daughter, had entered the hall and was standing at her father's side. Swathed in long pale dress-robes and a cape of plush furs, her blonde hair tied back in a cascade of braids and gems, her beauty stood out as that of an angel's amid the solemn hall. Resting a hand on the king's shoulder, the princess stood boldly, bracing her father, and herself.

            The company drew nearer; Paynor saw that blood had splattered most of their garb. Sinking despair told that things had not gone well. Where are the rest? The blood and diminished numbers worried Paynor, far worst though, was the change taken hold in these men. Skyrimng's bravest and most proven warriors had set out five days gone; now fear haunted the eyes of those returning. Even mighty Oakthrim's gaze was unsettled.

            The bloodied expedition halted at the foot of the steps ascending to the throne. Those still wearing their helms removed them, placing them in the crook of their arms.
            "My lord," Oakthrim intoned, bowing. The other warriors echoed his words.
            For a spell silence kept, then King Uthgard spoke, "Thirty set upon this charge, yet before me I see seven. Where are the others? Where is my nephew?"
            Several of the warriors exchanged glances; their gazes soon fell, drowned in shadow.
            "Dead," Oakthrim ventured. "Leif too."
            A few women in the hall gasped. Men cursed, and troubled murmurs rippled. The king almost fell back on his throne. Princess Lara winced, but kept her hand firmly on her father's shoulder. The old king grimaced against waves of sorrow, shaking his head, and mumbling something. Nevertheless, he managed to remain upright, unbroken, like a crag braving violent squalls.

            Paynor wanted to weep for the king and the princess. After Uthgard's eldest son had been murdered at the hands of the Ghrols, and the second killed just months ago by the horror that stalked the Krona Mountains, Leif had been the next potential heir.

            The tidings that the young, well-loved Leif had fallen, was almost too much to bare. Paynor saw Lara struggling not to cry. She is brave. She doesn't want the rest to see weakness, or fear, for she knows if they see it in her or her father, then it will only grow in the others. She succeeded in masking her emotions, for now. Paynor knew that later she would grieve her cousin. At night, when Paynor walked the keep's halls to go to feed the hunting dogs in the kennels below, he often passed near her doors, and more than once heard her bawling into the pillows, sounding like something in her were being wrenched apart.

            "How?" demanded the king, his voice storming as he rose to his feet. "What in deepest hells has happened?!"

            Everyone in the Great Hall waited an explanation. Oakthrim appeared vexed, scowling into memory. Kieron, a shorter man, with limp blonde hair, a moustache, and an eagle look to him, stepped forth, and supplied, "We did as planned. We tied the goats in the center of the meadow-vale, in the Sonder foothills. It took over a day, but their bleating served to lure it from its lair."

            His heart beating, Paynor edged closer to the pillar sideward of the throne.

            Kieron continued, trying to sound bold even in defeat, "It came at night, when the moon was clouded. Perhaps it waited for that moment. It is cunning, to be sure. And twice bigger than any bull I've seen, with fur black as pitch. The goats were screaming. In the darkness we could scarcely see it, but it snarled when we fell on it." Kieron paused; his breathing had quickened, his eyes wide and unblinking. "It's roar was that of a hellion from the abyss. It set on us with fangs and claws. Nearly all of us were slaughtered before we could start a retreat. It even savaged the horses. That's why we had to foot it for the return."

            "We tried our best, lord," another warrior offered, shaking his head, and close to tears. "But nothing we did could slow it, nor bring it hurt."

            "Thank the gods it devoured the horses," said Kieron, almost laughing it out. "Elsewise, it would have killed us all."

            King Uthgard stared across the hall, at nothing. Paler, and with gaze petrified, he sank back on his throne. Princess Lara whispered some words into his ear, words he did not seem to hear. Paynor wanted to go to Uthgard's side, to support the man who'd raised him almost like a son, yet he restrained himself. The last thing the king needed was to look like he required a squire's solace.

            "What about the bodies?" Uthgard mumbled, running his hand through his unkempt hair.

            Frist - one of the warriors with Oakthrim - cleared his throat. "We couldn't recuperate them, ... save, ... for parts. What we brought is in a wagon, in the courtyard. Truth is we can't tell who ... -

            "Burn it all!" The king chopped the air with his hand. "The wagon too. I want nothing mauled by that devil near this castle."

            Paynor sensed hope leaving the Great Hall, as if what little warmth that had survived was drained away. The folk spoke worriedly amongst each other.

            "What's going to happen?" Paynor asked Grob, the castle's cook; a man who freely indulged in his own recipes, as his heftiness affirmed.

            "I don't know, son," he said, arms crossed over his chest. "Doubt anyone does now."

            Grob was right. Those were the best men they sent this time; and they had not even been capable of wounding the beast.

            "Something must be done!" cried out a baron, striking his table with a fist. "That, thing, ... it's killing all the livestock! I've got but three flocks left. At this rate there won't be any sheep or cattle left in the Sonder Hills by year's end!"

            "Aye," joined another highborn. "It's already ravaged the mountains. Now the shepherds and farmhands are deserting the hills. Some have even started abandoning the lowlands. With fields left untilled the lands will grow barren. If this keeps up, it won't be long before we're all forced to flee Skyrimng. That, or starve."

            The cork had come out, and others voiced their fears. Uthgard listened, though his spirit was distant. He has no answer for them this time, thought Paynor. I've never seen him so lost. And if he is lost, where are the rest of us?

            "What of Ghroldrim?" a highborn put forth. "We might call on their aid. Perhaps if we explained the situation they -"

            The proposal was quickly devoured by a chorus of shouts.

            "Impossible," one lord stated. "The Ghrols delight in our woes. Surely they are praying this evil will bring about Skyrimng's demise."

            "But what if they came to understand that it could also be a danger to them?"

            Oakthrim laughed. "Fair dreams you entertain. I would not be surprised it is the Ghrols themselves that somehow sent the abomination against us."

            Paynor knew that the Kingdom of Ghroldrim, their closest neighbor, and most ancient rival, would make no move toward their benefit. Worst, through the Krona Mountains was where the only passes existed to the other mountain kingdoms who might have lent aid. Now the monster hunted that range, and everyone was afraid to try those routes. The other kingdoms were much further away, concerned with their own troubles, and either did not believe in the evil that haunted Skyrimng, or were afraid of having that same evil turns its eyes on them. With such thoughts, Paynor felt the castle walls press in a little closer. We're alone. No one's coming to help. Maybe not ever.

            Oakthrim and the warriors deliberated potential strategies. They would try to use fire, again. No. New combinations of poison was surely the key. Perhaps a ballista? Yes, that would be good. And so on and they weighed options. Paynor doubted even they were convinced any of the new plans would work, since nothing in the past had. Nevertheless they had to keep planning, lest true despair spread, and the kingdom be plunged into disarray.

            From the shadows of the corridor behind the throne, a gray-cloaked figure emerged. Silent as smoke, the newcomer drifted into the Great Hall, until he stood upon the first steps below the throne. He pulled his cowl back, revealing the bony features of an elder man with sunken eyes, and head shaven close to the skull. His ashen skin was tattooed by a series of deep-cut runes. It was Vorm, the king's diviner. At his presence, the folk in the Great Hall hushed. Vorm waited until he had everyone's attention in his grip, then pointed over them with a crooked finger.

            "Fools," he decried. "Your plans will serve only to heap more death on this realm. You cannot defeat the Beast."

            "And how do you know this?" Oakthrim threw back in challenge, doing little to conceal his contempt for the diviner.

            Vorm held his tongue, taunting them with silence - or perhaps afraid to tell them the truth. After a lapse he answered, "Because I have seen it."

            Warriors and nobles murmured their uncertainty. Oakthrim scoffed. "You've seen it? You who scarcely sets foot beyond the keep's shelter? Nay. How can you possibly know what we are facing."

            King Uthgard, intent on hearing the diviner out, motioned for silence,

            Vorm grinned a grin that Paynor did not like, something cryptic, born of shadow. "Through currents of dream, my spirit vision sensed it's power, like an earthquake. Thus, I have followed it, deep into the Krona Mountains."

            "Oh? And did you find it's lair?" asked one of the warriors. "So we can kill it while it slumbers."

            "Almost, but even in trance, I had to be exceedingly wary, keeping my distance so it would not sense me. Thus I never beheld it fully. And yet still I managed to shadow it as far as the Stykker Peaks. I dared not spy closer. The region is obscured, by a dark spell that I cannot decipher. But now it is at least clear that the Beast's lair lies somewhere there."

            Uthgard's spoke with urgency. "What more did you learn? Surely, there must be some means by which to slay it?"

            "It is a curse," bewailed one noblewoman. "Sent to destroy our country."

            "Aye, a curse it is," said Vorm. "Regarding the origins of this curse though, I am yet unsure. One thing I did discover, and of this thing I am certain." He raised a hand, as if tightly gripping an invisible orb. "The Beast's feeds off of fear. Yes. That of animals, but most of all, that of man. It can smell fear, and this awakens its blood-thirst. The blood of the cowardly it lusts after most."

            Oakthrim and a number of his warriors growled at these last words as a slight against their bravery. With Uthgard lost in ruminations, the hall boiled with anger; the warriors shouting that their comrades were no craven, that they had not died in vain, and that Vorm not a diviner, but a charlatan, or worse, a warlock.

            "I only tell you what the spirit vision has shown me. Disregard it at your own peril." Vorm breathed deep, composing himself; Paynor saw this as a disturbing sign that what the cryptic diviner spoke was indeed truth.

            "Hearken closely if you wish to survive," said Vorm. He proclaimed flatly, with a hint of his own angst weighing on his words, "The beast can only be defeated if you have no fear." Vorm let the words settle among them before continuing, "Exactly how this can be done, I know not, but it is the key."

            Another mostly quiet lapse followed, before Kieron laughed aloud, with amused despair. "And how in creation not to fear it?" He looked around the Great Hall. "If you had seen it true, as we have, then you would know that what you propose is impossible. To not fear the Beast, a man would have to be witless, or utterly mad."

            The warriors nodded in agreement, and Frist asked, "Who would be the first to attempt such a plan? Fearless or no, one swipe from the Beast's clawed hand will open a man's guts to the wind."

            "And it is already stronger," added Decker. "It's true what has been said. Each time we have faced it, the abomination has grown larger."

            Dread had also grown in the Great Hall. Although everyone had heard out Vorm's wisdom, it was soon clear that most did not believe in it, or feared they were doomed either way. The nobles raised their voices anew.

            "We must defeat it, before it gets bigger!" bellowed one. "Before nothing can stop it!"

            Some beseeched King Uthgard for solutions, others accused Vorm of being a heretic, and the rest argued amongst each other, several coming close to blows. Paynor closed his eyes. He could feel it. Fear, like a murky water rising to drown them all. The weight of the keep threatening to crush them in a grave of chaos.

            At length, Uthgard erupted, "Silence! By the gods I swear, the next man who speaks out, I will take his beard."

            An uneasy quiet engulfed the Great Hall. Uthgard directed his words to Vorm, "Do not listen to their quailing. Tell us, what might it require for there to be hope of destroying this demon?"

            The diviner ascended the stairs until he stood at Uthgard's left hand, just below and opposite princess Lara. He spoke loudly, and for the first time his voice rang of hope. "It would require an exceptional man. A warrior who does not know fear." He paused, before continuing with a note of dejection. "Even then, there is no guarantee that such a one could overcome the Beast, ... but at least there would be a chance. Aye. And this is all Skyrimng has."

            "Where to find such a man?" asked one of the nobles, incredulous. "Surely, not even the bravest warriors live wholly without fear."

            "That is why we must search and pray we find an individual like no other," replied Vorm. "The one born to face this evil. A champion."

            The folk in the Great hall debated Vorm's proclamations, if they were valid or no, and what should be done. King Uthgard, brow furrowed, steeped on his throne, as if struggling to descry which paths led to life, and which fell into death. Of what was being spoken, Paynor gathered enough to know that a tentative spirit of hope had been instilled, howbeit cautious, engulfed by profound doubt. Before long, a number of the warriors and barons, Oakthrim among them, had already disregarded the diviner's advice, and turned back to strategizing other options.

            A ruckus had taken over by the time King Uthgard stood up and commanded silence. He looked them over sternly.

            "What is the cause for delay?" asked the king. "Who is willing to go forth and do whatever must be done to find this fearless champion? Who will return faith to our lands?"

            Oakthrim and his men stepped forward, pledging themselves.

            "No. None of you." The king shook his head. "We cannot risk sending our warriors, least of all those who have experience against our adversary. Every sword-arm must remain here, to defend the realm, in case the Beast draws closer, or if the Ghrals seek to attack us in this time of affliction."

            "Then who shall go, my lord?" asked one of the nobles.

            "Squires and sage-priests," said the king. "In all the realms it is forbidden to attack holymen, and so they shall pass freely to any lands. The squires will accompany them, see to their needs, and commit themselves to every task the sage-priest sets them to. We will send fourteen pairs, to every neighboring realm, and beyond, if need be, so long as they find this worthy warrior."

            King Uthgard turned his stony gaze to Paynor, and addressed him by name. "You will go to Hytherion. There is rumor of an invincible swordsman therein. Learn if there is more to it than mere myth."

            All eyes had turned to Paynor. He swallowed nervously, then bowed. "Of course, my lord. I shall see it done. By my life, I swear it."

            "Good," said the king. "For you are to set out in the dark before the dawn."