His Illuminated Highness, King Tegeere of the Kingdom of Ivonwell, Protector of all Memory, and First Cavalier of the Orders of Ivonwell, leaned wearily over the side of the stone balcony and gazed down at the men as they bashed themselves to pulp under the harsh eyes of the Sergeants of the knightly orders.  Staring hard at the various proxies of the Primarchs below, the King resisted an impulse to openly curse over the wall.  It would do no good, and would only lessen himself further in the eyes of his people.  Sighing, he moved away from the balcony and into the cold room beyond.

The King was by no means an old man.  Many would consider him to be in the prime of his life. It was the arduous weight of ruling that bore down upon him and aged him beyond his years.  He was tall, with a proud bearing and a faint shadow of youth lingered about him.  Years ago as a Prince, his broad shoulders and locks of golden hair marked the promise of his reign, and during years of plenty he would have been hailed as the greatest of monarchs by his people.  These were not those times, however.

 

Tegeere groaned as he sank into his chair in the corner of the dimly lit room, the only light source spilling from the open door to the balcony.  Wearily, he covered his eyes as if to block away the problems that confronted him.  How had his father and grandfather done it?  Were they ever in such a situation?

 

“Yes they had, and they did nothing about it,” he sighed to himself.

 

Over forty years ago, a bloody war had begun between Ivonwell and the Empire of Andelon.  The Knightly Orders united themselves under the banner of Tegeere's Father, King Artis.  A small country, Ivonwell was unable to capitalize on their few initial victories in the south, and soon found that their long running border skirmishes with the Andeloni Empire had unexpectedly turned into a war of survival.

 

Memory recorded that Ivonwell was an agrarian kingdom whose trade consisted of food, fine metal and wood work.  By contrast, the Andelon Empire was vast with seemingly unlimited resources. Within a decade, Ivonwell's industry and population was exhausted and a harsh peace was imposed.  Tegeere thought that was when the decline began.  A depression had settled over the kingdom.  The fields were untended and the towns became deserted.  Only the alehouses of the kingdom prospered during this time.

 

His father, confronted with the growing malaise and the harsh treaty imposed by the victors that took Ivonwell's key economic territories, was unable to manage the Knightly Orders who drew within themselves and began to focus more upon their own regions than their responsibilities to the whole of the kingdom.  The people sensed the shifting power within the kingdom, and like drowning men, clung to their warrior heroes, hoping to heal their bruised pride.  Ultimately, the Knightly Orders' influence grew to eclipse the King's.

 

If only his father had kept a tighter reign upon the Orders, thought Tegeere.  If only he could have seen what was happening instead of succumbing to depressions and rages.  If only...

 

Tegeere frowned and shook his head at his disloyal thoughts.  King Artis had done his best in an impossible situation.

 

“Brooding again, sire?” murmured a low voice.  A fond chuckle rumbled from the shadows of the doorway to the outer hall, “Sit slumped like that for too long, and your back will be hooked and broken, just like mine.”

 

The King of Ivonwell sat up abruptly and pulled his hand away from his face.  “Oulen!” he cried sharply, “You are doing it again.  After all these years, you still lecture me as if I were an errant squire.  I am a grown man, and your King!”

 

From the hall, Oulen stumped into the room.   Tegeere would normally have been comforted by Oulen’s familiar, scarred presence, but today even his closest friend and advisor seemed unequal to that task.  Oulen was one of the few King’s Men left and a Swordmaster of Ivonwell, two positions awarded in his youth by King Artis, and as such was one of the few men that Tegeere allowed such impertinence in private. 

 

In Ivonwell, it had been customary for the King to award his friends with grand but essentially empty titles.  A reward, or a bribe, for continued good behavior.  Others were bestowed because of social position or a fortunate marriage.  This however was not the case for the King’s Man.  This ancient title was a recognition of ability and service. It was a title that was solemnly offered and voluntarily accepted.  They were of the few men whose’s counsel the King prized above all else.

 

Oulen’s dark eyes fixed upon the King and shook his head angrily, “It is the only way I can snap you out of your gloom, Tegeere.”  Upon seeing the despair in the King’s face, his advisor’s expression softened as he approached the seated monarch.  Taking a plain ceramic jug from a side table, he poured a cool cup of water and offered it to Tegeere.  “I am sorry, my friend.  I should not be this way, but for all of us, you must take heart.”

 

The King took the cup silently and then sipped.  The cool water did seem to calm his nerves, but only enough to pull his mind from despair into anger.  “Damn the Primarchs!” he shouted, slamming the cup down on the narrow wooden table next to his chair.  Water sloshed over the rim of the simple vessel, pooling on the surface of the dark wood.  Tegeere leapt to his feet and jabbed his finger out the archway leading to the courtyard. “Those are my boys out there, Oulen!  My young men that they’re stealing from me!” he shouted. "Stealing!"

 

Oulen nodded.  Anger, the old adviser could deal with.  Yet, a part of him recognized a truth he could not argue with.  He remained silent.

 

“They no longer follow the crown,” continued Tegeere, turning to face Oulen squarely.  Furiously, he slipped his hand into the purple velvet of his robes and pulled out a note, of which he thrust into Oulen’s hands.  “Read this,” he ordered.

 

Oulen took the paper and moved to the light, squinting to see the scrawly, handwritten note.  “By the Memory, this has the signature of the Primarch of Red Wyvern!  What did you ask of him that he must so eloquently refuse?”

 

The King clenched his hands behind his back and turned to the doorway to gaze outside.  “I requested him to come to Prince Lyonel’s first Memory Ceremony.”

 

Oulen’s eyes narrowed as he returned to the note.  Reverence for the Memory was the one common strand that wove the Kingdom together.  The Ivonwellians believed the living Memory permeated everything, from man to castle, and tree to stone.   The Memory recorded all deeds, and all actions were recalled and judged.  Every man, woman and child were accounted for when their end came.  As children came of age, their lives were celebrated in a Memory Ceremony to remind them that their successes, even small ones, would achieve immortality.  “Lyonel's elevation to manhood is no small matter.  Primarch Adamerent of your own Order was too busy for your son?”

 

“In as much as was written.”  Tegeere pursed his lips tightly, “Adamerent was practically an uncle to me when I was younger.”

 

Pacing along the cold worn stone of the floor, Oulen followed the King’s thought to the end.  “Your family has been members of the Red Wyvern as far back as Memory is recorded.  And, if even such as he would refuse such an innocuous request…”

 

“Yes.  How can I rely on the other less formally attached Orders to obey my commands?”

 

Oulen grimaced once more, turning his craggy face into a blur of scars, “My King, that is a fearful leap of logic that you make.  Obedience is the foundation of the Orders.  As is loyalty to the King.”

 

It was King Tegeere’s turn to look kindly upon his old friend, placing a warm hand upon the elder’s more seemingly frail shoulder.  “You are a man of the Orders, Oulen.  You know the legends.  You even made some of them yourself.  Nowhere in these ballads and stories do the minstrels stress fidelity to one’s King.”

 

“It’s implied,” Oulen growled.

 

“Implied...” Tegeere chuckled darkly.  Once more, he pointed out the door towards the battling youths in the courtyard below.  “Those young men are not beating each other senseless out there for me, Oulen.  They are killing each other out there to impress the Sergeants of the Primarchs.”

 

The King’s Man nodded, unable to deny the truth. He exhaled, “I fear that I bring even more bad news.”

 

Tegeere stared at his adviser, and Oulen winced inward.  Wasn’t there enough burden upon this man?  But, he pressed on.  “When I passed through Iron Tree's lands to investigate their maintenance of the roads, I discovered another attack.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Uldrin."  Oulen’s face became a mask of fury, “Those animals didn’t even bury the dead.  All slaughtered and left to rot.”

 

The King inhaled sharply, “The women and children?”

 

“Taken.”

 

"Who are these people that do this?”

 

To his King’s question, Oulen paused and glanced towards the door and the hallway beyond as if drawn there by the shadows.  “On the third morning of visiting with Primarch Fervian, I saw on the horizon the smoke from a large fire.  When I asked the Primarch if he was going to investigate, he grew reluctant and secretive.  When I pushed further, he suggested that I go and look for myself.”

 

“Did you go alone?”

 

“No, I went with a half-dozen of his greenest Knights of the Order.  Political appointees they looked like.”

 

Tegeere shook his head and gazed in the direction of courtyard where The Selections were taking place, “Just like most of those boys.”

 

“Uldrin, your Highness, was different than the rest.”

 

“How so?”

 

Oulen met Tegeere's gaze, “They left one of their own behind.”

 

The King's eyebrows raised in surprise, “Tell me more.”

 

So Oulen told the King about the man they had found, tortured in the center of the village.  After he described the wounds inflicted upon the victim, the King looked away, shaken.  “Why?” he asked, “And how do you know it was one of theirs?”

 

Oulen frowned, “He was about the right size.  Their tracks were everywhere.  They did not hide their presence.”

 

“Still... was there any chance he might have been Ivonwellian?”

 

Oulen shrugged, “Certainly, that is possible.  However, I think it unlikely.  He was just too big... too, bulky to be one of our own.   His features… his hair was not right.  And then, there was his vest.”

 

“A vest?”

 

“Yes, it was made of fur of some sort of wolf or a dog... I couldn't tell which, but it was a hide I wasn't completely familiar with.”

 

“Still, perhaps it was a visitor to the village?”

 

“I had considered that as well,” replied Oulen with a sigh. “Until we buried the villagers.”

 

Tegeere shuddered, “That must have been horrible.”

 

“It was, my King.  However, they did not all die quietly.  There was evidence of struggle on many of them... bruised knuckles, torn nails.”

 

The King shook his head sadly, “May their brave deeds be recorded in Memory.”

 

Oulen nodded in agreement and continued, “Clutched in some of their hands, as if torn from their attackers while they fought, I found the same fur as the vest.  There is no doubt in my mind, the man I found was one of the raiders.”

 

Tegeere frowned in thought and motioned towards the cabinet in the corner of the room, “Come, Oulen.  Pour us something stronger to drink.  Suddenly now water will not do to settle my nerves.”

 

“Yes, your Highness,” Oulen replied, stumping across the room to the indicated cabinet.  Opening the doors, he withdrew a small bottle of wine and a pair of glasses.

 

Once relaxed, Tegeere turned to stare at the old warrior, “So, what you are saying is that these… creatures torture their own people?”

 

“Perhaps,” replied Oulen quietly, pouring the wine and offering a glass to his King, “They killed him, that is certain.”

 

Tegeere shuddered again and accepted the wine.  "Where do these animals come from?”

“From the North.  They seem well suited for it if the body is any indication.  They’re about a head taller than our people, and far heartier in girth.”  Slipping a hand into a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a charred piece of fur, “This is a piece of the vest.  I've cleaned it the best I could.  Feel how thick it is.”

 

Tegeere reached out to take hold of the fur, holding it up to the light with a trembling hand, "Perfect for the icy Northern climate," whispered Tegeere in wonder. “But there is nothing there but mountains and wasteland.”

Oulen shrugged, "The north is wild.  Who can say for sure?  A couple of the young Knights weren't completely useless and followed the trail from Uldrin to the Valley of the Horns.  They dared to go no further, however.  These raiders are bold, Tegeere.  They made no effort to hide their tracks.”

 

“The Valley of the Horns?  So close?"  Tegeere took a deep, calming breath, however it hardly prevented his next words from exploding from his lips, "That entire region was granted to Iron Tree.  Where were they when all of this happened?” Tegeere asked in vehemence, rising to his feet to hurl the matted fur against the far wall of the room.  It made a dry, smacking sound as it struck and then fell to the floor into a lifeless bundle.

 

Oulen leveled a solemn gaze at his King and curled his lip in contempt, “When I asked him to investigate further, the Primarch Fervian of Iron Tree demurred, claiming it was mere banditry.  He would double the patrols, of course.  But, even he must have realized it was far too little and far too late.”

 

“So in other words, he was complacent.”

 

“Or afraid to face the truth, my King.”

 

The King's eyes widened, and his breaths began to catch in his chest.  Desperately, he gulped for air, leaning heavily upon the arm of his chair as panic began to set in.  "Oulen...!" he cried out weakly, “If we can no longer count upon the Orders, then who may we rely on?  There is no one left!  Without response, these attacks will grow and soon they will be chewing deep into the belly of Ivonwell.  I do not have enough armsmen to protect the kingdom.  They all belong to the Orders!”
Suddenly, Oulen was upon his feet, moving quickly across the room to stand squarely before his King.

 

“Tegeere,” he hissed quietly, commandingly, “Get a hold of yourself.  Yes, our Kingdom is under attack.  But, all is not lost yet.  Do you remember what I taught you about battle?”

 

“That... that... anything...”

 

“That anything is possible in battle.  But first you must be brave enough to face it.  Tegeere, we will face this. We must face this.”

 

King Tegeere leaned back in his chair, gulping this time at his wine to fortify himself.  Finally, he asked,

“How?”

 

Oulen frowned as he gazed out into the courtyard.  Finally, he turned to Tegeere, “Tegeere, you must send for the Primarchs and form a council of war.  For all of them.  They cannot all be so broken, not every single Order.  It is impossible.  Many of them are my age and remember what was done in the name of the King.”

 

“Oulen, it won't be enough.  Only the smallest would attend…”

 

“Tegeere,” Oulen urged, “There are men loyal to you, loyal to this kingdom that would come.  Do not dishonor them by refusing to call for them in your need.”

 

The King sighed, all traces of anger having been sapped away by a growing despair gnawing at his bones.

 

“So be it, Oulen.  I do not understand how it will help, but I will call for all those loyal to the crown to gather in Emerald to respond to these raiders.  But, it will not be enough.”

 

Oulen took a deep breath, his eyes growing distant as he considered the options in his mind.  “Then, my King, we must add another string to our bow.  We must do the unthinkable.”

 

Tegeere stood a touch straighter as he eyed Oulen warily, “I do not like the tone in your voice.  Tell me.”

 

Oulen spoke uneasily to his king.