A Different World: Part 1 - The Siege of Penthorpe Keep - 2. Chapter 2: Rendevous at Pen'thorpe Keep

In the distance Pen’thorpe Keep stood next to a cliff, at the top of a small mountain. At the sight of it Maeglin Ara’jrye let out a sigh of relief. It had been a month of tense travel, of expecting a fight to erupt at any moment. Just another day-and-a-half, he thought, and we’ll be behind the safety of the walls.

Behind him the three wagons came to a stop. They were in the middle of the flatlands; Maeglin, King Yaldon’s three councilors, and the fifty soldiers tasked with making sure they got to Pen’thorpe Keep in one piece. Once at the Keep, they would wait for commander Skold to arrive, reconvene, and come up with a battle plan. Maeglin just hoped Skold would make it. Things weren’t looking good: Twenty thousand of Paladin’s troops were riding towards Pen’thorpe Keep, even at this very second. It was simply a matter who got there first. If Skold did get there before Paladin’s troops then it would be by the skin off the tip of his nose.

Maeglin straightened his back; the sharp tip of his ears perked up at the sharp audible pop his back muscles made. He felt tempted to call camp for the night. Surely they could afford some rest.

He glanced at Valyuun Laosx, his squire. “We’re stopping for the night.”

The young blonde elf’s eyes sighed in unmistakeable relief, his cheeks rosy from the cold. “Good riddance. A fire would do me just fine. I wouldn’t be surprised if my blood’s turned to ice.”

Maeglin grunted, irritated. Valyuun was always complaining, grumbling. Sometimes Maeglin didn’t know why he put up with him. He wasn’t quite ready to mention to anyone let alone himself, that he’d become rather fond of Valyuun. Despite his constant whining and complaining, Valyuun had proven to be smart and loyal, two virtues Maeglin treasured. In such perilous times as these such virtues were of high quality.

Valyuun turned, looked at the troops following along behind them and shouted, “We’re camping for the night!”

There were several cheers of relief, the gritty sound of boots hitting snow.

The back door of the second wagon opened. Counselor Viktor Kelbella’s head craned moodily in Maeglin’s direction. “Why are we stopping? We should be riding hard for Pen’thorpe Keep.”

After two centuries of protecting the counselors on their travels, Maeglin was used to Viktor’s constant badgering. He knew how to hide his true feelings about Viktor behind a smile. In truth, everytime Viktor opened his mouth to state a demand his voice grated along the edge of Maeglin’s skull. He was arrogant, obnoxious, and placed himself on too high of a pedestal. Still, Maeglin kept that smile ready at all times. It was as much a part of his arsenal as was his sword. “We have been riding hard for Pen’thorpe for two days. Paladin’s troops are a week’s journey out, at the very least. I think it’s best to give our horses a rest.”

As Viktor opened his mouth to object, Counselor Yethlossa Alagossa opened the door to her cabin and peeked her full head of tawny hair out. “Before you object, Viktor, remember we agreed to put Maeglin in charge of our safety, which means that when we’re traveling, he’s in charge. If he says we’re to stop and camp then we stop and camp.” She beamed at Maeglin. “I for one could use a break from travelling.”

Doing his best to hide the smug sense of triumph he felt, Maeglin nodded at her. “As you wish, counselor.”

By noon that day, camp had been set up. Maeglin sent out four scouts to hunt for game. Hopefully they would find a wolf or a warthog; anything would be better than the jerky he’d been living off of for the last week. Food had been worrisomely scarce.

But by nightrise, Maeglin felt the first pang of apprehension, for the scouts had not returned. He sat in the warm glow of a fire, his brow crinkled. There’s nothing to worry about, he thought. They’re probably still combing the area, trying to be thorough. Still, he couldn’t keep the apprehension at bay. Not apprehension. Dread. Somewhere, in the East, was a cropping of steep hills. It was in that direction he’d sent his scouters and it was in that direction in which his gaze remained.

“We shouldn’t have stopped here,” a voice said, startling Maeglin out of his thoughts.

He looked over. It was Althon Ralnor, the most influential, and perhaps the wisest of the councilors. He could be as fair as Counselor Yethlossa and as ruthless as Viktor in equal measure, when the moment caused for it. That didn’t mean he was loved.

No one loved the counselors.

Still, Maeglin always looked forward to his company.

“Do you sense something, sir?” Maeglin asked.

Althon nodded, gaze fixed on the hills. “I do, indeed. But I’m not sure what it is. All I know is it’s something dark and powerful.”

“Should I be worried?”

Althon smiled. Maeglin could make out the runes tattooed into the flesh of his forehead, runes of protection; a golden ring hung from his right ear, the ear facing Maeglin. “I don’t think so. Whatever it is, it has no interest in us - at least not yet. You should get some sleep, Maeglin.”

Maeglin nodded. He didn’t need to be told twice. Wishing the counselor good night he went to his tent. He thought of Althon’s words as he eased himself into his bedroll: I don’t think so. Whatever it is, it has no interest in us - at least not yet.

Then he closed his eyes and was asleep at once.

Skold jerked awake, letting out a shudder.

I fell asleep. His eyes scanned out the dark, picking out the shapes of his troops amongst the trees, where they hid in case orc troops came along. Stars twinkled with the light of a thousand distant candles, candles that unto death were beyond his reach. The sky, a vast black ocean at night, was Valhalla and each star was a spirit, a fae that had passed onto Valhalla’s endless white chambers.

The mortals had a similar belief: Heaven was above their heads and Hell was below their feet, deep in the bowels of the earth perhaps. It was ironic how close the fae and humans’ belief systems were. And why not? Humans and fae, particularly elves, were closely related. Several millennia ago, give or take, the ever-humorous universe birthed the faes’ lesser cousins from fae blood; the universe would do it again with the primates. Paladins’ plague was the universes’ challenge against it. The human race was on the brink of being wiped out and if Paladin wasn’t stopped then the fae would follow.

“Nightmare?” a voice said, a voice Skold recognized. He could make out his older sister’s lithe form outlined in shadow in the next tree over.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“You kept grunting in your sleep. You do that a lot. I don’t know how Konstantine can stand it. If I were him I’d tear my hair out.”

Skold scowled. “Well you’re not Konstantine, now are you? You’re my insufferable sister who prattles on and on nonstop. Have you seen Konstantine yet?”

“No,” she said, her tone softening. “I haven’t seen him yet. I’m sorry. Are you worried about him?”

“I don’t worry,” Skold said.

To this Sonja said nothing. The silence was thick. There was nothing but the occasional wail of the wind. Occasionally he’d see a flicker of movement as someone amongst the branches stirred. He was numb with cold.

He closed his eyes and an old familiar dream rose up.

He rose out of the black pitch of unconsciousness like a swimmer breaking the surface of an ocean. The healers stand over him, their white aprons covered in blood, his blood. Despite their healing magics he felt sick with pain.

He looked down. The area where his genitalia had been was nothing but a long straight slit sewed up.

“He shouldn’t be awake yet,” one of the healer said. The worry in her voice was impossible to miss.

“He must be trying to resist them.”

Skold gagged. He feels as though someone has pushed the blade of a knife up his scrotum and scrambled up his insides. Tears streamed from his eyes.

“Relax,” one of the healers said, reaching for him, her eyes gentle. The rage surging up inside of him exploded out like a unfurling rose. It provided relief from the pain, if only temporary. Despite the sluggish effects of the drugs and healing magics, Skold moved quickly. His hand clamped around her throat like a vice, fingers closing around her windpipe. Her eyes began to bug out of her skull.

The other healer ran to the other side. Her fingers scrabbled at his, trying to pry them away from the other’s throat. He lashed out with a kick; his foot connected with her diaphragm and sent her flying across the chamber. Her back slammed into the stone wall hard enough that dust rained down from the ceiling. A fresh wave of pain stabbed through Skold’s mangled groin; it stole his breath. He shoved the healer away from him. She fell her to her knees, the sounds of her coughs echoing off the walls. Fresh droplets of blood hit the stone floor, mixing with the dried droplets already there. As a consequence of kicking the healer Skold had torn open his stitches.

Despite the pain, determined to get out of the room, needing to get out of the room, Skold got to his feet. He started to move towards the double doors, and stopped when he saw his father standing there.

The two elves stared each other down. Though they were father and son they couldn’t be any more different from one another: Where Skold was fair like his mother Lea, Solomon was raven-haired. Where Skold was short, Solomon was taller. They regarded each other with ill-concealed hate.

“Now you’re complete,” Solomon said, glancing at Skold’s wounds with appraisal. “No more distractions with sexual excursions.”

Skold said nothing. He limped towards the door. Each step was agonizing; his knees threatened to cave out from underneath him. With raw determination, he willed himself to keep going. His father stood rooted the spot, a silent refusal to move from where he stood.

“Get out of my way,” Skold hissed, eyes burning with the promise of murder.

“It’s cold out there,” Solomon said. “It’s been snow-storming for three days past.”

Skold shoved past him and threw the doors open. Flurries of snow swirled around him, blowing his hair back from the contours of his face. The cold caressed his skin like an undead lover, risen to take him back to the grave with it.

He looked at Solomon, “The day they bring your dead body back from war I’m going to laugh and shit on your body.”

Then he stepped out into the cold.

Someone was calling his name.

Sonja. She was calling his name.

“Skold, wake up! Skold, wake up damn you! Someone’s coming!”

Deal with it yourself, he wanted to tell her. Let me sleep. But of course he had to deal with it. After Solomon’s funeral King Yaldon had appointed him commander instead of his sister. Skold had taken the title with indifference, not caring one way or the other, but now he just wanted to sleep.

He could hear the sound of a horse: hooves clopping away in the dark, breath huffing. He could see its shape, vaguely lit by the silver light of the moon. From the set of broad shoulders he could tell it was a male...but whether it was an orc remained to be seen. He wasn’t taking any chances. He’d kill them just for waking him up.

Drawing his sword in one fluid motion, Skold ran down the long tree branch and leapt into the air, cutting through the dark like an arrow. He slammed into the rider, knocking him off his horse. Skold leapt to his feet and spun around, teeth bared in a snarl, sword at the ready.

“Skold!”

Skold stopped, a breath away from slicing Konstantine’s head from his shoulders. His third-in-command held his hands up in surrender, eyes wide.

Skold scowled, slid his sword back into its sheath. “Do you know how close I came to decapitating you?”

“It’s a good thing you have excellent restraint then.” Konstantine’s witty banter couldn’t hide the undercurrent of relief in his voice. “You’re alive. I was worried you wouldn’t be.” Then he stepped forward, placed his hands on both sides of Skold’s face, and planted a kiss on his lips.

Before Skold knew he was doing it he stepped back, away from Konstantine’s touch, away from the silky touch of his lips. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Skold, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Konstantine’s shoulders slumped. His head dipped down towards his feet as if Skold had struck him. Skold could see the glimmer of his tears, pained tears. Skold felt the smallest tinge of regret. Why did he always have to be so cold? But it wasn’t enough - not enough for him to find the words he needed to apologize, to want to make things right.

“Right,” he said, as if Konstantine had spoken. He sheathed his sword, scanned the copse of trees surrounding them. “It’s time to go! We’ve rested long enough!”

“Maeglin, wake up! Maeglin, they’re coming!”

Valyuun’s voice tore through the dreamless embrace of Maeglin’s sleep. What in the Ferryman’s name has him screaming like that? he thought. Then he remembered he was in the middle of Hungary, racing for Pen’thorpe Keep. In the wasteland Europe had become every minute was a chance for danger to arise. Paladin’s troops were marching for them at this very moment. Had they caught up? Was it even possible, given that Maeglin had only been sleeping for a few hours…?

“Get up, get up!” Valyuun said, brushing the snow off Maeglin’s armor as if doing so will help him get to his feet faster.

“I’m up!” Maeglin growled, rising to his feet, sword in hand.

The rest of his guard stand at attention, swords in hand, arrows knocked. Nervous glances were thrown in his direction, ready for him to give command. The tension was so thick Maeglin could smell and taste it. Althon Ralnor, Viktor Kelbella, and Yethlossa Alagossa stood outside their wagons watching the approaching figures. There were a thousand of them heading stolidly in their direction. Most of them were on foot but a few rode on horses. Maeglin was a veteran fighter, as were the rest of his guard, but taking on a thousand warriors exceeded their skill. Maeglin gripped his sword tight, the grooves of the hilt digging into his palm. He pulled his will in, letting it gather, ready to unleash a maelstrom of magic. He could sense others in his guard doing the same.

“It’s too soon,” Valyuun hissed. “Much too soon.” His eyes were wide, reflecting the pale glow of the morning sun. “I’m not ready for this, I’m not ready for this at all.”

You say that as if you have much of a choice, Maeglin thought wearily. He shot a glance at the three councilors. What in the fuck were they doing standing out in the open like this? They should be running for the hills, for the castle, using the precious time Maeglin’s men gave them to get a headstart. He was about to say so (they could give him a tongue lashing for it later, but right now he was too scared to care), when Yethlossa smiled and said, “Maeglin, tell your guards to put their swords away and take another look.”

Maeglin looked and breathed a sigh of relief. In his fear he hadn’t seen the long silver-blonde hair and red cape: the cape bestowed to a commander by King Yaldon himself.

“Stay here,” Maeglin said, raising the flat of his palm, five fingers out straight.

The red-caped silver-haired figure made the same gesture and the two closed the mile distance between them.

Maeglin had never seen Skold Gil’eppsie, son of the former Solomon and Lea Gil’eppsie look so disheveled: His hair was tangled and greasy, his pale sharp-featured face was smeared with dirt and black splatters of orc blood. Still, Maeglin was relieved (and a little apprehensive) to see the young commander.

To everyone’s surprise, Skold had showed a surprising aptitude for command. Maeglin, who happened to hear a lot of talk from the councilors (they didn’t know, or at least he didn’t suspect they knew, he listened to them), that Yaldon had given Skold command as a sort of cruel joke. Even as Yaldon was trying to maintain the alliance between human and fae it didn’t mean King Yaldon wasn’t above being cruel; no politician was, no matter how noble they liked to appear to be. Skold had proved everyone wrong. In the last few years Skold had become Yaldon’s weapon: a weapon who didn’t fight out of loyalty to the king, or for the good cause, but because he enjoyed killing. He was indifferent to everyone and everything, rarely if ever showing emotion. Not once had Maeglin seen Skold shed tears: not for his mother or his father - in fact Skold had smiled at his father’s death, a smile which had sent chills up Maeglin’s spine. Still I’m glad it’s Skold who showed up instead of Paladin’s shoddy alliance of elves and orcs, Maeglin thought.

“You have no idea how relieved I am you’re here,” Maeglin said, smiling.

“Likewise,” Skold said, though his face gave no hint of expression. He was simply going through the motions.

Feeling a cocktail of relief, disgust and emotion, Maeglin thought, You poor creature. Your father ruined you beyond repair.

“We should move on,” Skold said. “We passed through Boar’s Head two days ago and were ambushed the second time. A horde of orcs were hiding in the trees.”

“I take it there were no surviving villagers?” Maeglin asked.

Skold shook his head grimly.

Maeglin swore. “By the time this war ends there won’t be any humans left.”

“It would be as Paladin wants, then,” said Skold.

Skold followed Maeglin into the middle of the camp and looked off towards the hills on their left, frowning. He felt uneasy: there was an undercurrent of power coming from that direction. It was fleeting, like a receding phantom, but just strong enough that Skold could sense it.

“You can feel it too?” Maeglin asked, looking back at Skold from over his shoulder.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m not sure. But whatever it is I don’t like it. It feels...old.”

“Older than us?” Skold asked.

“Older than us, yes. And more powerful. But the counselors have deemed it not to be a threat, not at the moment.”

So the lap dogs of King Yaldon are here, Skold thought bitterly. Of course they are. Where would they be if not sticking their nose in everything? Their being here was a liability - just three more royal heads to protect, making things more difficult, not easier. But he still couldn’t quite take his eyes away from the hills. There was something there...something watching them with great interest. It may not have been a threat but it wasn’t a force of good. Skold pushed it out of the way, filing it away for later, should the force become a problem.

Yaldon’s councilors were sitting on blankets around a large fire. They all looked up at once at Skold. Althon and Alagossa’s faces gleamed with approval - Viktor looked away and scowled. Alagossa rose languidly to her feet and came over to Skold. “Commander Skold,” she said with a gleaming smile, offering her hand. “You cannot conceive the level of relief I feel at knowing you’re here. It is good to see you.”

“You as well.” Skold took her hand but did not bend down to kiss it as was the custom when it came to shaking hands with someone of Yaldon’s royal circle. I will fight for you, I will kill for you, I will tell you where you tell me to go, but I will not roll over and play dead for you, was Skold’s sentiment towards them. After a few seconds he let her hand go.

“I grow tired of sitting around, waiting for the orcs to catch up,” Viktor said, looking at Skold as if the war was somehow his fault. “We should finish the journey to Pen’thorpe Keep. We have much to discuss, Commander Skold.”

“Indeed,” said Althon.

Skold raised his horn to his lips and blew on it three times. A little over thousand heads turned in his direction. He made a motion with his hands to carry on towards Pen’thorpe Keep. Maeglin shouted for his men to start breaking down camp.

It was time to go.

Skold and company reached Pen’thorpe Keep the next day. The fort stood before them, promising temporary refuge. Skold wanted a hot bath, good food, and a day’s worth of sleep, not necessarily in any given order.

The sentries on the west tower gave a shout and the gridded gate opened. A dirt path led through the gatehouse. Elven guards stood on either side at attention, backs straight, with torches in hand. They murmured salutes as Skold passed them with Maeglin behind him, and the councilors’ wagons at the rear.

The courtyard was busy and full of noise: wagons piled with barrels of explosive powder were being steered by elves on horseback, the sound of metal banging on metal as blacksmiths pounded swords and pieces of armor into shape, the roar of a bonfire. Embers danced in the air, swirling up towards the all-knowing all-seeing sky. Black clouds loomed heavy bringing the promise of more snow. The smell of roasting meat made Skold’s belly rumble and his mouth water. He did his best to ignore the painful pangs of hunger but there were times when the cries of an empty belly were impossible to ignore.

General Gendimoth Cevna stood in the middle of the courtyard, hands folded behind his back, red cape ending at his boot heels. Except for when he blinked General Gendimoth was completely still. His jaw was constantly clenched. His dark chestnut hair looked as if it’d just been cut.

“Commander Skold,” he said, his voice carrying smoothly over the activity happening in the fort, “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t make it.”

“We couldn’t have gotten here in better time,” Skold replied. “Things outside the fort are chaotic at best.”

“I can imagine. Which is why I’m grateful to be behind these stone walls, on this mountain. Hopefully it will still be standing when this war is over, may the Spirits of Valhalla be merciful.”

The Spirits know no mercy, Skold thought. He had to purse his lips to keep from saying so.

“I’m sure your troops are hungry and tired from their travels. The hall is being prepared for a feast. A hot bath is waiting for you. Take the rest of the day left and rest.” Cevna smiled. “Then the real work begins tomorrow. Your quarters are at the top of the east tower”

Skold thanked him and began to make his way towards the east tower. It was a long climb to the top of the tower; each step was an agony within itself but the prospect of a hot bath kept him going. His chambers were at the end of a long corridor. He found two chambermaids inside, dressed in white silk. They welcomed him with a smile, their voices silky and sweet. The bathing basin was waiting for him, the water hot and steamy.

He made a request for them to bring his dinner to his chambers - he wouldn’t be eating in the hall with the rest of his troops. After months of constantly being in the company of others I deserve to have a night to myself - at the very least, he thought.

Skold waded into the water and shuddered as its warmth crept up his body. He settled against the edge of the basin and gave his sore body a chance to recuperate. Rose petals floated on top of the water, perfuming it. An hour later when he came out of the bathing chamber his skin had been scrubbed clean, his hair was soft, and he smelled of perfume.

The top of the large chest at the bottom of the bed was covered with plates of food: roasted lamb, meat pies, fruits, desserts. His laryngeal prominence bobbed at the sight of food. He sunk into the soft feather mattress which was so much softer than the bedroll he’d been sleeping on for months, and began to eat. He started with the meat, relishing at the juices dripping from the fire-roasted meat. He ate a whole meat-pie, grapes, strawberries with cream on top, and gulped down three goblets of malt.

By the time Skold finished eating he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. He told the two guards standing outside his door that he didn’t want anyone to disturb him and blew out the candles. He crawled under the warm blankets and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

On this night he did not dream.