This series is a continuation of the Rogue Captain Chornicles, and takes place three years later in a prospering Clandoran. The main character focus has switched from Icefurr (Gethnoel) to Santena Ironpaw, who, if you recall, was a lieutenant under Icefurr.
Old Clandoranian Speech
ithiniel: light.
sen: must.
Doran: all, or abbreviated form of Doranfather.
tiren: cover.
akthali: forever.
rithna: rule.
eqtana: shall.
shantali: an ancient greeting.
cranathi: darkness.
luthen: recede.
sen: must.
Doran: all, or abbreviated form of Doranfather.
tiren: cover.
akthali: forever.
rithna: rule.
eqtana: shall.
shantali: an ancient greeting.
cranathi: darkness.
luthen: recede.
The White King
(Icefurr’s back, baby! Sorry to anyone who might be reading this about the delay between Shantali and this story. 3 year split.)
The night was cool and clear in Western Clandon. The moon hung bright and full over snowcapped peaks that shone far off, and the long grass waved in the gentle breeze coming down from the Mountainous lands. Trees everywhere swished along with the smaller plants, making their own beautiful song.
In a clearing near the edge of the region, shadows flitted back and forth with the moving branches. Almost all of them seemed to move in sync with the others . . . all but two. A quiet form in a black cloak, followed by another figure with its hood up, darted from dark spot to dark spot. Some distance away, a silvery-white fox sat cross-legged. His eyes were closed, and he wore a silvery chest plate, blazing with a white emblem of two paws holding up a crown. A white hood covered the back of his head and let the tip of his snout poke out. Chainmail reached down to his knees, stopping over a pair of white leather boots. His figure was majestic in the moonlight. The two figures didn’t have to see any crown to know that this was a king.
His head was bowed, his paws raised, and fervent words were pouring out of his mouth.
The two black-cloaked creatures drew flashing silver knives from inside their garments. The fox’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t notice. The would-be assassins crept across the open glade, behind the fox where he couldn’t see them. They froze, then crept a little closer. Soon, they were less than three yards from him. One brought his arm back. The knife glinted in the moonlight.
The fox’s ear twitched, and his murmurings silenced.
“Die, false king!” the assassin cried, and flung his arm forward. The knife spun through the air. The fox was too quick, though, and rolled out of the way just in time. It sailed harmlessly past. Another knife twisted from the other’s paw, but the king spun his body away, and only suffered a graze on his side. He stood and whipped out his curved sword.
Now the three were at a standstill. They were within two yards of each other, and the assassins had no weapons in their paws. Their hoods had fallen from their heads, revealing a brown hare and white fox, somewhat resembling the silver king. However, now that the pair got a better look at him, the two foxes looked quite different.
The king was far taller, and his snout and teeth were longer, as was his tail. His paws looked far stronger. A trace of silver ran through his fur, making him seem lit up by moonlight itself.
And his eyes shone silver. “What do you want?” he asked in a deep, strong voice. The two assassins stared up at him, mesmerized by his look.
Finally, the hare gathered enough courage to say, “A . . . free Clandoran!” He drew his own sword. It was curved, but not like the king’s; the sword bent twice, making the shape of an “s”, and didn’t curve straight from the hilt.
His companion also drew his own strange sword, and both rushed at the white king. The Foxwolf crouched, sword at the ready, then sidestepped the hare’s lunge. He followed with a spin and slice down, severing the hare’s paw and leaving him unarmed. The hare screeched in pain and hit the earth.
The other fox snatched up the fallen assassin’s sword and leaped at the king, swinging wildly. The king could easily see that he did have skill, though, and dodged the first swipe with some difficulty. He didn’t want to harm the fox. “Stop!” he yelled, but the fox lunged, swung, and finished with a figure eight swipe down towards the white king’s head. The king had no choice.
“Cranathi luthen, ithiniel tiren doran!” The words flowed from King Gethnoel Swiftblade the Foxwolf’s mouth. A wave of pure white light rushed from his sword, pushing back the moonlit darkness and slamming forcefully into the fox’s eyes and driving him backwards. He cried out and collapsed to the ground. “Thank you, Doran,” Gethnoel murmured, then moved to tie both assassins up and let them be found by their own.
Soon, both were struggling against their own belts, which Gethnoel had used to restrain their paws. “Wait here for your friends to find you,” he ordered. “Why you ‘Old Clandon’ clan members keep trying to kill me has me very confused,” he added, then moved off through the forest.
*****
“King Gethnoel, you can’t keep going out without bodyguards, or at least me!”
Santena Ironpaw was furious. In the three years since the war on Gulrag Northwind, the Rogue Captain had driven Santena mad with his ventures into West and East Regions. He would go off by himself, to see about a treaty or some other formality, then not tell his most trusted general and protector! “Those Old Clandoners could have killed you this time! You can’t always rely on your weapons skill to protect you.”
Gethnoel raised his arms in protest. “I’m sorry, Santena, I’ll tell you next time! I promise!”
“No you won’t. You may have Doranfather’s Spirit inside you, as many of us do, but you said yourself not too long ago that sometimes you will be required to suffer! It’s my job to keep that from happening.” Santena huffed.
He was a large wolf, about half a head taller than Gethnoel, and covered in black fur. Back in the rebellion, three years ago, he had been one of Rogue Captain Icefurr’s lieutenants. Now, he was King Gethnoel’s top general. This gave him the right to wear a breastplate and tunic like Gethnoel’s, with the same emblem on the silver metal, and the same white hood with white leather boots. The one thing that distinguished Gethnoel’s outfit from Santena’s was the crown of pure silver on the king’s head. It blazed on the hood in the shape of frozen flames.
“I’ll be careful next time.” Gethnoel gave Santena a look that clearly said, “This conversation is over,” and the black wolf returned with a glance that obviously meant, “No, it’s not. We’ll talk later.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes, then walked out of the throne hall of the new palace to find his chambers.
Santena though, He’s going to get himself killed someday. And if he does, I’ll be there with him. The general stomped bad-temperedly out of the hall.
Five minutes later, a page came running to his bedchamber door. “General Ironpaw, your services are required at the council meeting!” Santena came out in two seconds, dressed in his full gear. A straight sword dangled at his side, with -- you guessed it -- a silver hilt. And a white sheath. “They are in the smaller room this time,” the page added. The general nodded, then rushed down the hall to his right. “Um . . . sir! It’s the other way!” Santena snorted, then spun around and marched down the other passage. Stupidly large palace.
When he arrived, ten members of the king’s council were in a full out argument. Some were shouting. Santena rolled his eyes. These petty advisors could get riled up over the smallest things. No wonder Gethnoel needed help. He slammed a massive paw down on the center table. “Quiet for the king!” he yelled.
That shut them up very quickly. Gethnoel nodded to his general. “Thank you, Santena. Now, Lord Rake, what were you saying? Something about my potential . . . marriage?” He puncuated this last sentence with such a glare that the rabbit in question shrank back.
“I . . . it . . . I was just saying . . . that you might b-b-be aided in your search for a treaty with West Region m-might be aided if . . . i-i-if you were to accept the paw of the fox Spokesbeast’s daughter in m-marriage!” Lord Rake stuttered. He gulped. Gethnoel looked about the council.
“Do the rest of you feel the same way?” he inquired, gentler. Hesitantly, the rest of the lords nodded. The only one to shake his head was Santena. “Ridiculous,” the black wolf muttered.
“Her father did offer it, Your Highness,” an otter at the end of the table added.
“So, you believe that I should marry, not because I love another creature, but because it would be advantageous?” Again, a series of nods greeted this statement.
“Would you at least look at the document, lord?” Lord Rake asked, more confident now that the silver eyes weren’t on him anymore. He instantly procured an envelope with a green wax seal on it. Gethnoel sighed and took the papers.
After reading through the message, he slammed it down on the table angrily. “This is how he sends his daughter’s wish to marry? Or rather, his own wish?” He handed the paper to Santena, who stood beside him. The wolf looked over the paper. It said:
King Swiftblade, Rogue Captain and defender of old Clandoran,
I send you my highest regards. In light of our recent interactions, I might speak to you of a matter that has been weighing down on my intelligent mind.
My daughter is of marrying age, and I believe that you would make a suitable husband for her. I would like to offer you her in return for peaceful relations between our two kingdoms . . .
Santena had to read no more to determine why Gethnoel was so mad. The pompous buffoon dared to speak to the king of his own intelligence and splendour, and all the reasons that Gethnoel should listen to his wisdom, given him by many experienced years. Apparently, he still viewed Gethnoel as a young king, but Santena didn’t think that this was what infuriated the Rogue Captain. No, rather, he believed that it was the objectification of Lady Madian.
“At least meet him at Highlord Rock, Your Highness,” an older ermine suggested. Gethnoel sat in fuming silence for another two minutes of silence, then finally nodded.
Santena almost smacked his forehead.
The night was cool and clear in Western Clandon. The moon hung bright and full over snowcapped peaks that shone far off, and the long grass waved in the gentle breeze coming down from the Mountainous lands. Trees everywhere swished along with the smaller plants, making their own beautiful song.
In a clearing near the edge of the region, shadows flitted back and forth with the moving branches. Almost all of them seemed to move in sync with the others . . . all but two. A quiet form in a black cloak, followed by another figure with its hood up, darted from dark spot to dark spot. Some distance away, a silvery-white fox sat cross-legged. His eyes were closed, and he wore a silvery chest plate, blazing with a white emblem of two paws holding up a crown. A white hood covered the back of his head and let the tip of his snout poke out. Chainmail reached down to his knees, stopping over a pair of white leather boots. His figure was majestic in the moonlight. The two figures didn’t have to see any crown to know that this was a king.
His head was bowed, his paws raised, and fervent words were pouring out of his mouth.
The two black-cloaked creatures drew flashing silver knives from inside their garments. The fox’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t notice. The would-be assassins crept across the open glade, behind the fox where he couldn’t see them. They froze, then crept a little closer. Soon, they were less than three yards from him. One brought his arm back. The knife glinted in the moonlight.
The fox’s ear twitched, and his murmurings silenced.
“Die, false king!” the assassin cried, and flung his arm forward. The knife spun through the air. The fox was too quick, though, and rolled out of the way just in time. It sailed harmlessly past. Another knife twisted from the other’s paw, but the king spun his body away, and only suffered a graze on his side. He stood and whipped out his curved sword.
Now the three were at a standstill. They were within two yards of each other, and the assassins had no weapons in their paws. Their hoods had fallen from their heads, revealing a brown hare and white fox, somewhat resembling the silver king. However, now that the pair got a better look at him, the two foxes looked quite different.
The king was far taller, and his snout and teeth were longer, as was his tail. His paws looked far stronger. A trace of silver ran through his fur, making him seem lit up by moonlight itself.
And his eyes shone silver. “What do you want?” he asked in a deep, strong voice. The two assassins stared up at him, mesmerized by his look.
Finally, the hare gathered enough courage to say, “A . . . free Clandoran!” He drew his own sword. It was curved, but not like the king’s; the sword bent twice, making the shape of an “s”, and didn’t curve straight from the hilt.
His companion also drew his own strange sword, and both rushed at the white king. The Foxwolf crouched, sword at the ready, then sidestepped the hare’s lunge. He followed with a spin and slice down, severing the hare’s paw and leaving him unarmed. The hare screeched in pain and hit the earth.
The other fox snatched up the fallen assassin’s sword and leaped at the king, swinging wildly. The king could easily see that he did have skill, though, and dodged the first swipe with some difficulty. He didn’t want to harm the fox. “Stop!” he yelled, but the fox lunged, swung, and finished with a figure eight swipe down towards the white king’s head. The king had no choice.
“Cranathi luthen, ithiniel tiren doran!” The words flowed from King Gethnoel Swiftblade the Foxwolf’s mouth. A wave of pure white light rushed from his sword, pushing back the moonlit darkness and slamming forcefully into the fox’s eyes and driving him backwards. He cried out and collapsed to the ground. “Thank you, Doran,” Gethnoel murmured, then moved to tie both assassins up and let them be found by their own.
Soon, both were struggling against their own belts, which Gethnoel had used to restrain their paws. “Wait here for your friends to find you,” he ordered. “Why you ‘Old Clandon’ clan members keep trying to kill me has me very confused,” he added, then moved off through the forest.
*****
“King Gethnoel, you can’t keep going out without bodyguards, or at least me!”
Santena Ironpaw was furious. In the three years since the war on Gulrag Northwind, the Rogue Captain had driven Santena mad with his ventures into West and East Regions. He would go off by himself, to see about a treaty or some other formality, then not tell his most trusted general and protector! “Those Old Clandoners could have killed you this time! You can’t always rely on your weapons skill to protect you.”
Gethnoel raised his arms in protest. “I’m sorry, Santena, I’ll tell you next time! I promise!”
“No you won’t. You may have Doranfather’s Spirit inside you, as many of us do, but you said yourself not too long ago that sometimes you will be required to suffer! It’s my job to keep that from happening.” Santena huffed.
He was a large wolf, about half a head taller than Gethnoel, and covered in black fur. Back in the rebellion, three years ago, he had been one of Rogue Captain Icefurr’s lieutenants. Now, he was King Gethnoel’s top general. This gave him the right to wear a breastplate and tunic like Gethnoel’s, with the same emblem on the silver metal, and the same white hood with white leather boots. The one thing that distinguished Gethnoel’s outfit from Santena’s was the crown of pure silver on the king’s head. It blazed on the hood in the shape of frozen flames.
“I’ll be careful next time.” Gethnoel gave Santena a look that clearly said, “This conversation is over,” and the black wolf returned with a glance that obviously meant, “No, it’s not. We’ll talk later.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes, then walked out of the throne hall of the new palace to find his chambers.
Santena though, He’s going to get himself killed someday. And if he does, I’ll be there with him. The general stomped bad-temperedly out of the hall.
Five minutes later, a page came running to his bedchamber door. “General Ironpaw, your services are required at the council meeting!” Santena came out in two seconds, dressed in his full gear. A straight sword dangled at his side, with -- you guessed it -- a silver hilt. And a white sheath. “They are in the smaller room this time,” the page added. The general nodded, then rushed down the hall to his right. “Um . . . sir! It’s the other way!” Santena snorted, then spun around and marched down the other passage. Stupidly large palace.
When he arrived, ten members of the king’s council were in a full out argument. Some were shouting. Santena rolled his eyes. These petty advisors could get riled up over the smallest things. No wonder Gethnoel needed help. He slammed a massive paw down on the center table. “Quiet for the king!” he yelled.
That shut them up very quickly. Gethnoel nodded to his general. “Thank you, Santena. Now, Lord Rake, what were you saying? Something about my potential . . . marriage?” He puncuated this last sentence with such a glare that the rabbit in question shrank back.
“I . . . it . . . I was just saying . . . that you might b-b-be aided in your search for a treaty with West Region m-might be aided if . . . i-i-if you were to accept the paw of the fox Spokesbeast’s daughter in m-marriage!” Lord Rake stuttered. He gulped. Gethnoel looked about the council.
“Do the rest of you feel the same way?” he inquired, gentler. Hesitantly, the rest of the lords nodded. The only one to shake his head was Santena. “Ridiculous,” the black wolf muttered.
“Her father did offer it, Your Highness,” an otter at the end of the table added.
“So, you believe that I should marry, not because I love another creature, but because it would be advantageous?” Again, a series of nods greeted this statement.
“Would you at least look at the document, lord?” Lord Rake asked, more confident now that the silver eyes weren’t on him anymore. He instantly procured an envelope with a green wax seal on it. Gethnoel sighed and took the papers.
After reading through the message, he slammed it down on the table angrily. “This is how he sends his daughter’s wish to marry? Or rather, his own wish?” He handed the paper to Santena, who stood beside him. The wolf looked over the paper. It said:
King Swiftblade, Rogue Captain and defender of old Clandoran,
I send you my highest regards. In light of our recent interactions, I might speak to you of a matter that has been weighing down on my intelligent mind.
My daughter is of marrying age, and I believe that you would make a suitable husband for her. I would like to offer you her in return for peaceful relations between our two kingdoms . . .
Santena had to read no more to determine why Gethnoel was so mad. The pompous buffoon dared to speak to the king of his own intelligence and splendour, and all the reasons that Gethnoel should listen to his wisdom, given him by many experienced years. Apparently, he still viewed Gethnoel as a young king, but Santena didn’t think that this was what infuriated the Rogue Captain. No, rather, he believed that it was the objectification of Lady Madian.
“At least meet him at Highlord Rock, Your Highness,” an older ermine suggested. Gethnoel sat in fuming silence for another two minutes of silence, then finally nodded.
Santena almost smacked his forehead.
Let Letren Speak
Santena followed his king towards West Region’s border, where a tall pinnacle of rock shot up towards the sky. Gethnoel had utterly refused anycreature to accompany him besides Santena, and even that precaution was begrudged hesitantly.
The pair walked over the snowy, rocky ground with little difficulty. Santena’s paw rested on his broadsword, ready to draw it if the need arose, but Gethnoel didn’t let any part of him stray anywhere near his sword and shield. Noticing this, Santena protested, “Your Majesty, you must be prepared for anything!” They were nearing Highlord Rock now.
“No, I won’t show any sign of hostility,” the king replied evenly. He even wrapped the sword in his cloak! Sometimes, Santena thought, you can be such a royal idiot. Nonetheless, the tall black wolf said nothing.
When they arrived, nobeast was on, around, or near the rock. “What the . . .” Santena muttered. “Pompous fool, making us sit here.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes and sat down by the pillar. “You’re just going to wait?” Gethnoel nodded coolly. “You’re not upset?” The king calmly shook his head. Santena huffed, then plopped down beside his king.
They sat there, side by side, for about ten minutes. Finally, a trumpet sounded from somewhere on the other side of the rock. Santena jumped up before Gethnoel and dashed around to see.
A procession of rabbits and lemmings marched towards the pillar, carrying with them on a high throne a self-important looking fox with bright white floor, a red cloak, and a tall, golden crown. Beside him walked a beautiful young female fox, headfur braided in many strands down her neck and a silver circlet on her brow. She wore no fancy clothes, only a simple tan dress and leather boots with belt.
Gethnoel stood behind his general and wrapped himself in his warm grey cloak. He had left his crown at the palace, Santena noted. Again: royal idiot. The general fell back and stood beside his king, drawing his sword and planting the tip in the rocky ground.
The Westerners reached Highlord Rock in another two minutes. A little group of mice carried the throne to Santena and set it down in front of him. The prideful fox stood and walked to the general. “I was told that you were a FoxWolf, but perhaps my intelligence was incorrectly gathered,” he sniffed.
Santena looked down his nose at Tiren Letren. “I am not King Gethnoel. I am General Santena Ironpaw, and my master stands beside me.” He gestured respectfully towards the shorter FoxWolf beside him.
“Where is his crown, and robes?” The pompous fox snorted. “No king wears the garb of a peasant.” He pointed at the grey cloak.
Santena looked at Gethnoel, and the king took off his hood. His silver eyes stayed calm. “You doubt that given by Doran?” he asked quietly. Tiren rolled his eyes. One of his servants whispered in his ear, attempting to soothe his ego, but the proud Spokesbeast shrugged her off.
“Of course I doubt some make-believe god. Your eyes prove nothing.”
Gethnoel quickly became angry. His eyes literally grew brighter, flashing in the light of the grey sky. “Doranfather is anything but false!” he roared, and threw off his cloak. The white and silver of his bright clothes matched Santena’s identically, but for the white hood and fact that his seemed far more brilliant. Santena bowed.
Tiren took a full step backwards. “I . . . uh,” he stuttered, then made a valiant attempt to compose himself. “Well . . . it seems that I was mistaken.” He sniffed haughtily. “My most sincere apologies, young man. Shall we continue with our business?”
Santena was tempted to explode at the old fool, but Gethnoel had calmed down as rapidly as he had grown enraged. “Yes, we may keep speaking of your wishes for your daughter,” he said. He invited Tiren to sit on the ground.
In the keeping of old customs, Gethnoel and Tiren sat cross-legged across from each other, passing back and forth a vial of old, good wine. Once that was done, Letren started talking. Standing at attention behind Gethnoel, Santena got the impression that the fox didn’t care about his daughter, only viewed her as property, had a high opinion of himself, and thought of this whole exchange as a “business opportunity”. In short, everything that he had already gathered about the Spokesbeast from the message.
Finally, Gethnoel said something. It was so low that Santena had to strain his ears to hear it. “Let me speak to your daughter.” Somewhat astounded, the Spokesbeast hesitated, then Santena watched as he gestured to a servant, who nodded, ran back to the caravan, and whispered in the princess’s ear. She pointed her nose in the air and shook her head. The fox servant huffed and pushed her along towards the three standing beside the rock. She grudgingly obeyed.
The princess stood angrily in front of Gethnoel. She was furious. “What? What do you want, ‘king’?” she demanded.
“What is your name?” the king asked softly. She didn’t say anything at first. He repeated the question.
“Kaytlen,” she said hesitantly, but still casting furious glances toward her father.
“Kaytlen, let me ask you something. Do you want to marry me?” She quickly shook her head. Gethnoel shook his head. “Absolutely! Your wish shall be granted. We won’t get married!” he exclaimed cheerfully, then spun on his heel and walked off towards Karenian, his capital city.
Santena stayed for a moment to watch Letren’s reaction. The fox sputtered indignantly, then yelled after Gethnoel, “Don’t turn your back on me, you young pipsqueak!” Gethnoel ignored him and kept walking. “You’ll regret this! Listen to your superiors!”
Santena chuckled and jogged after Gethnoel, his chainmail jingling.
*****
The next day, while Gethnoel set about planning what to do about the forgotten possibility of a treaty with East Region, Santena was busy someplace else.
The castle had been built at the border between North and South Regions, placing it strategically in the way of any war-seeking Westerners or Eastlivers. A temple built to honor Doran, at His command, had been built right beside Karenian. The castle paled in comparison to the golden temple, but it is not here where our story focuses.
At the southern edge of the main palace, a small courtyard was spread out. The marble stones were scuffed and dirtied, but this mattered not to those creatures who used it now. Here, Santena fought.
He wore a different set of armor: it was black, and had no markings. His visor covered his ears and came forward over his snout. Instead of his broadsword, the wolf wielded a long, thin rapier. It felt odd in his paws, but that was only because he was used to something bigger. Across from him, on the other side of the courtyard, a smaller wolf stood, with the same gear. Both were sweating profusely. “Do you . . . claim a respite, sir?” the other wolf gasped, smirking.
Santena shook his head. “I may . . . be ten years your . . . elder, Ithiniel, but I am . . . still your teacher, and can still defeat you with all ease! Still . . . I cannot see why you chose this to train with, of all weapons,” he added. He leaped at the younger wolf, his sword flashing in a dazzling figure eight pattern, then darting forward, flipping Ithiniel’s sword back, and ending on the student’s neck.
Santena’s apprentice grinned and dropped his weapon. “Once again, master, you gained the better of me in this engagement,” he admitted ruefully. He and Santena both removed their helmets, sweat dripping from their fur.
Ithiniel’s appearance had obviously influenced his name, which meant “light” in the old speech. His fur was blindingly white, the same as Icefurr had left behind when his eyes and fur turned silver. His teeth were also perfectly white, and his eyes were a bright blue. Around his neck hung a pendant in the shape of a flame. Directly contrasting the rest of his attire, at his side, hung his black-steel rapier. His ears perked and turned attentively to everything that his master said. “I saw an opening in your guard. I had left plenty in the way I was holding my sword, but you must learn to look for them!” Santena sighed. His apprentice was still grinning like an idiot. “All right. Pick up your sword, and we’ll do it again. Unless, that is, you claim a respite?” He chuckled at the indignant look on Ithiniel’s face.
“Only if you need one, sir! On your guard!” He put his helmet back and picked up his rapier. Santena laughed at the younger wolf’s enthusiasm and stepped back into a defensive position. The pair was about to lock swords, when a scream sounded from outside the courtyard. It came from the south wall!
Ithiniel was too startled to do anything. Santena smacked him in the back of the head and dashed to the little wallgate where the scream had sounded from. The black wolf whipped it open, then stepped outside, followed closely by his now alert student. “Who’s there?” Santena called in the dusk light.
Two grim-faced hooded otters bearing the Old Clandon symbol on their cloaks were carrying a young female fox away from the castle. Her pretty green eyes were frantic, her limbs thrashing. One of the otters had a dark paw over her mouth, which was already covered by a grey scarf. “Stop! Stop in the name of the king!” Ithiniel shouted, and drew his dark sword, running at the two gang members. Santena followed close behind.
At the sudden interruption, the Old Clandoners dropped the fox and drew their own S-curved swords and kite shields. “Stay back, if you know what’s . . .” one started threateningly. Ithiniel stopped him by quickly snaking his flexible blade through both curves of the sword, flicking it out of the otter’s grip, then slicing his throat open.
The other otter fared no better. He soon laid on the ground beside his partner, dead by the master’s steel. Santena rushed over to the fox. She laid face-down -- she’d fainted. Santena bent over and picked her up, rolling her over to see her face. “Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked. She didn’t respond through the veil. Santena pulled it down to see her better.
“What in Doran’s name . . .!” he exclaimed. Laying in his arms was the Spokesbeast’s daughter, Kaytlen Letren! “To the king!” he ordered Ithiniel, and both hurried back into the castle courtyard.
The pair walked over the snowy, rocky ground with little difficulty. Santena’s paw rested on his broadsword, ready to draw it if the need arose, but Gethnoel didn’t let any part of him stray anywhere near his sword and shield. Noticing this, Santena protested, “Your Majesty, you must be prepared for anything!” They were nearing Highlord Rock now.
“No, I won’t show any sign of hostility,” the king replied evenly. He even wrapped the sword in his cloak! Sometimes, Santena thought, you can be such a royal idiot. Nonetheless, the tall black wolf said nothing.
When they arrived, nobeast was on, around, or near the rock. “What the . . .” Santena muttered. “Pompous fool, making us sit here.” Gethnoel rolled his eyes and sat down by the pillar. “You’re just going to wait?” Gethnoel nodded coolly. “You’re not upset?” The king calmly shook his head. Santena huffed, then plopped down beside his king.
They sat there, side by side, for about ten minutes. Finally, a trumpet sounded from somewhere on the other side of the rock. Santena jumped up before Gethnoel and dashed around to see.
A procession of rabbits and lemmings marched towards the pillar, carrying with them on a high throne a self-important looking fox with bright white floor, a red cloak, and a tall, golden crown. Beside him walked a beautiful young female fox, headfur braided in many strands down her neck and a silver circlet on her brow. She wore no fancy clothes, only a simple tan dress and leather boots with belt.
Gethnoel stood behind his general and wrapped himself in his warm grey cloak. He had left his crown at the palace, Santena noted. Again: royal idiot. The general fell back and stood beside his king, drawing his sword and planting the tip in the rocky ground.
The Westerners reached Highlord Rock in another two minutes. A little group of mice carried the throne to Santena and set it down in front of him. The prideful fox stood and walked to the general. “I was told that you were a FoxWolf, but perhaps my intelligence was incorrectly gathered,” he sniffed.
Santena looked down his nose at Tiren Letren. “I am not King Gethnoel. I am General Santena Ironpaw, and my master stands beside me.” He gestured respectfully towards the shorter FoxWolf beside him.
“Where is his crown, and robes?” The pompous fox snorted. “No king wears the garb of a peasant.” He pointed at the grey cloak.
Santena looked at Gethnoel, and the king took off his hood. His silver eyes stayed calm. “You doubt that given by Doran?” he asked quietly. Tiren rolled his eyes. One of his servants whispered in his ear, attempting to soothe his ego, but the proud Spokesbeast shrugged her off.
“Of course I doubt some make-believe god. Your eyes prove nothing.”
Gethnoel quickly became angry. His eyes literally grew brighter, flashing in the light of the grey sky. “Doranfather is anything but false!” he roared, and threw off his cloak. The white and silver of his bright clothes matched Santena’s identically, but for the white hood and fact that his seemed far more brilliant. Santena bowed.
Tiren took a full step backwards. “I . . . uh,” he stuttered, then made a valiant attempt to compose himself. “Well . . . it seems that I was mistaken.” He sniffed haughtily. “My most sincere apologies, young man. Shall we continue with our business?”
Santena was tempted to explode at the old fool, but Gethnoel had calmed down as rapidly as he had grown enraged. “Yes, we may keep speaking of your wishes for your daughter,” he said. He invited Tiren to sit on the ground.
In the keeping of old customs, Gethnoel and Tiren sat cross-legged across from each other, passing back and forth a vial of old, good wine. Once that was done, Letren started talking. Standing at attention behind Gethnoel, Santena got the impression that the fox didn’t care about his daughter, only viewed her as property, had a high opinion of himself, and thought of this whole exchange as a “business opportunity”. In short, everything that he had already gathered about the Spokesbeast from the message.
Finally, Gethnoel said something. It was so low that Santena had to strain his ears to hear it. “Let me speak to your daughter.” Somewhat astounded, the Spokesbeast hesitated, then Santena watched as he gestured to a servant, who nodded, ran back to the caravan, and whispered in the princess’s ear. She pointed her nose in the air and shook her head. The fox servant huffed and pushed her along towards the three standing beside the rock. She grudgingly obeyed.
The princess stood angrily in front of Gethnoel. She was furious. “What? What do you want, ‘king’?” she demanded.
“What is your name?” the king asked softly. She didn’t say anything at first. He repeated the question.
“Kaytlen,” she said hesitantly, but still casting furious glances toward her father.
“Kaytlen, let me ask you something. Do you want to marry me?” She quickly shook her head. Gethnoel shook his head. “Absolutely! Your wish shall be granted. We won’t get married!” he exclaimed cheerfully, then spun on his heel and walked off towards Karenian, his capital city.
Santena stayed for a moment to watch Letren’s reaction. The fox sputtered indignantly, then yelled after Gethnoel, “Don’t turn your back on me, you young pipsqueak!” Gethnoel ignored him and kept walking. “You’ll regret this! Listen to your superiors!”
Santena chuckled and jogged after Gethnoel, his chainmail jingling.
*****
The next day, while Gethnoel set about planning what to do about the forgotten possibility of a treaty with East Region, Santena was busy someplace else.
The castle had been built at the border between North and South Regions, placing it strategically in the way of any war-seeking Westerners or Eastlivers. A temple built to honor Doran, at His command, had been built right beside Karenian. The castle paled in comparison to the golden temple, but it is not here where our story focuses.
At the southern edge of the main palace, a small courtyard was spread out. The marble stones were scuffed and dirtied, but this mattered not to those creatures who used it now. Here, Santena fought.
He wore a different set of armor: it was black, and had no markings. His visor covered his ears and came forward over his snout. Instead of his broadsword, the wolf wielded a long, thin rapier. It felt odd in his paws, but that was only because he was used to something bigger. Across from him, on the other side of the courtyard, a smaller wolf stood, with the same gear. Both were sweating profusely. “Do you . . . claim a respite, sir?” the other wolf gasped, smirking.
Santena shook his head. “I may . . . be ten years your . . . elder, Ithiniel, but I am . . . still your teacher, and can still defeat you with all ease! Still . . . I cannot see why you chose this to train with, of all weapons,” he added. He leaped at the younger wolf, his sword flashing in a dazzling figure eight pattern, then darting forward, flipping Ithiniel’s sword back, and ending on the student’s neck.
Santena’s apprentice grinned and dropped his weapon. “Once again, master, you gained the better of me in this engagement,” he admitted ruefully. He and Santena both removed their helmets, sweat dripping from their fur.
Ithiniel’s appearance had obviously influenced his name, which meant “light” in the old speech. His fur was blindingly white, the same as Icefurr had left behind when his eyes and fur turned silver. His teeth were also perfectly white, and his eyes were a bright blue. Around his neck hung a pendant in the shape of a flame. Directly contrasting the rest of his attire, at his side, hung his black-steel rapier. His ears perked and turned attentively to everything that his master said. “I saw an opening in your guard. I had left plenty in the way I was holding my sword, but you must learn to look for them!” Santena sighed. His apprentice was still grinning like an idiot. “All right. Pick up your sword, and we’ll do it again. Unless, that is, you claim a respite?” He chuckled at the indignant look on Ithiniel’s face.
“Only if you need one, sir! On your guard!” He put his helmet back and picked up his rapier. Santena laughed at the younger wolf’s enthusiasm and stepped back into a defensive position. The pair was about to lock swords, when a scream sounded from outside the courtyard. It came from the south wall!
Ithiniel was too startled to do anything. Santena smacked him in the back of the head and dashed to the little wallgate where the scream had sounded from. The black wolf whipped it open, then stepped outside, followed closely by his now alert student. “Who’s there?” Santena called in the dusk light.
Two grim-faced hooded otters bearing the Old Clandon symbol on their cloaks were carrying a young female fox away from the castle. Her pretty green eyes were frantic, her limbs thrashing. One of the otters had a dark paw over her mouth, which was already covered by a grey scarf. “Stop! Stop in the name of the king!” Ithiniel shouted, and drew his dark sword, running at the two gang members. Santena followed close behind.
At the sudden interruption, the Old Clandoners dropped the fox and drew their own S-curved swords and kite shields. “Stay back, if you know what’s . . .” one started threateningly. Ithiniel stopped him by quickly snaking his flexible blade through both curves of the sword, flicking it out of the otter’s grip, then slicing his throat open.
The other otter fared no better. He soon laid on the ground beside his partner, dead by the master’s steel. Santena rushed over to the fox. She laid face-down -- she’d fainted. Santena bent over and picked her up, rolling her over to see her face. “Ma’am, are you alright?” he asked. She didn’t respond through the veil. Santena pulled it down to see her better.
“What in Doran’s name . . .!” he exclaimed. Laying in his arms was the Spokesbeast’s daughter, Kaytlen Letren! “To the king!” he ordered Ithiniel, and both hurried back into the castle courtyard.
Ambushed!
“Ms. Letren, you must tell us what you’re doing here!” Santena insisted, standing next to a bed in the castle infirmary. Kaytlen was awake now, but as silent as she’d been when she was unconscious. The stubborn fox shook her head furiously. The black wolf sighed. Why couldn’t these Westerners make things easy for once?
“Why did you leave your father, Kaytlen?” Gethnoel asked gently. She held up for another few seconds, then finally broke down crying. Through her sobs, she managed to give an account.
After she had refused to marry Gethnoel, and he had agreed, her father had become furious. In his rage, he had locked his daughter in her room for a full day with no water or food, intending the hunger to drive her to concur with his wishes. When that didn’t work, he had her beaten the next day. The lashes still stung her back as she told Santena and his king that she’d hoped for sanctuary here, and had run away to Karenian. “You’re the . . . only creatures . . . who have ever shown . . . me kindness,” she wept. Gethnoel took her up in his arms and held her. She didn’t even resist the comforting affection.
Gethnoel pulled away for a moment. “General Ironpaw, who was attacking her when you found her?” Santena knew that his king was serious, now. Whenever he used a formal title, he meant what he said.
“Old Clandon warriors, your Majesty!” He came smartly to attention. In the silence, he audibly heard Gethnoel’s teeth gritting. Santena continued his report. “Two dark-furred otters, carrying traditional Old Clandon weaponry and wearing assassin’s cloaks, sir! My apprentice and I caught them kidnapping her from beside the south wall.” He saluted, as was tradition for formal reports. Gethnoel stood, went to the at ease position, and nodded sharply.
“General, meet me in the council room. The larger one, and bring your apprentice,” the king ordered. Santena signaled Ithiniel and two maidservants. The maids rushed to take care of Kaytlen as Santena marched out of the infirmary, followed closely by his apprentice.
Fifteen minutes later, the general finally found the council room. He’d lived here for a year, and still didn’t know how to navigate this infernally large castle! Ithiniel had gotten lost somewhere, though, but ended up beating his master to the hall. He sat at the end of the table, next to King Swiftblade and three or four of his Majesty’s closest councilors. Santena sat down next to his younger counterpart, who was grinning cheekily at the general. “Wipe that smile off your face, Ithiniel. You’re working the obstacle course after this,” Santena growled. The smile fell away instantly.
“My good councilors,” Gethnoel began. “This ‘Old Clandon’ business has grown out of paw. We must do something to stop it.” One lord raised his paw. “Yes, Earl Fent?”
“What intelligence do we have on the matter?” the ermine asked wisely. “We can’t just rush into things.”
“Exactly right, my good friend! General, what have your searches uncovered about his clan?” Gethnoel turned to his bodyguard.
“Nothing much, but we have managed to find out that their most likely main camp is on the edge of the Mountainous Lands. Talk increases farther away from that point, making it obvious that the common folk are too scared. To say too much, that is,” he added. “They all use the same type of weapons: curved daggers and swords, no long-distance. All wear black assassin’s cloaks, dark tunics, leather vests, and one of these.” He held up a badge of black cloth, divided in half by a white stripe. “Nobody knows, though, what their hierarchy or leadership system is.”
“Thank you. Fent, did that answer your question? May I continue?” The earl inclined his head in the positive. “Thank you.” Once more, he turned to Santena and Ithiniel. “General, I want you to choose a score of strong, fast soldiers from our army. Preferably the ones who didn’t come from Northwind’s horde, though. Take them, leaving Ithiniel behind, and I would like you to find the main hideout of the Old Clandon clan.”
“With all due respect, Highness, why leave my apprentice behind? He’s the most powerful fighter in your military,” Santena added.
“He is to replace you while you’re gone.”
“He isn’t ready!” the black wolf insisted. Gethnoel looked him in the eyes, the two silver orbs locking with Santena’s black eyes. Finally, the general bowed his head. “Yes, your Highness.”
*****
The next day, Santena stood in front of exactly a score of creatures. The front rank of five was all quick hares, then one of foxes, then otters, and the last row was entirely made up of white wolves. All wore standard chainmail and round-top helmets, and each carried a straight sword, by old rebel tradition.
“Double time march, soldiers!” the lieutenant under Santena called. All twenty of them jogged at a high pace from the front of the castle, off towards the west where the Mountainous Lands were located.
*****
Five hours later, Santena called for a halt. All of them carried lightweight tents and bedrolls, but the general quickly discouraged the use of these. “Only a break for noonday meal. No campfires, not hot meals! Quick, pick it up!” he yelled. The soldiers immediately split up into their respective groups, which in most cases was by animal type.
Lieutenant Strend Walker, the fox who’d called out commands first, sat down beside Santena. He had an accent that distinctly reminded Santena of that of those living in the furthest north. “Sir, are we nearin’ yon Western border yet?” he asked. Santena shook his head.
“We passed it fifteen minutes ago, Lieutenant. Didn’t you know that? We actually ran right by Highlord Rock.” He took a large bite of some unintelligent bird’s leg. “Pay more attention.”
“Aye, sir!” Walker replied sharply. He attempted to salute, but accidently with the paw that held a ripe apple. “Owch . . .” he muttered.
Santena laughed. “A little too eager there,” he chuckled, then slapped Walker on the back. “Let’s finish quickly so that we can get this sorry lot on the move again.”
They did in another fifteen minutes, then the group was jogging again, armor and mail rattling as they went. Santena’s broadsword bounced at his side as he easily kept up with his troops. For another few hours, they kept an easy, but speedy, pace.
Eventually, they stopped again, this time for a longer period of time . . . in fact, the entire night. Santena gave a series of commands to Lieutenant Walker, then retired to his own tent, foregoing supper in favor of sleep. Strend turned to the soldiers and rapped out a series of commands in a lower voice than usual. “A’right, whae cook did we bring? Chalen? Bonny. Get the laddies some food, but nae fires, if’n ye ken what ah mean. Under the Set Treaty between our lands, we should be a’right, as we donnae mean harm, but we donnae want to take nae chances. Old Huffy the Spokesbeast’s huffed hi’sel into a grand ould mood, naow!” This got some chuckles. Tiren Letren was not too popular. He’d been resisting a treaty for two years. Even the Council didn’t like him, but still had to put up with him until . . . well, until he died.
“Aye, but he can huff until he’s blue in the face, we don’t care!” a voice called out softly. The soldiers roared with laughter at this, but Walker quickly calmed them down with motions of his paws.
“Nae, lads. We do care. By Doran’s almighty grace, we’re filled to thae bonny brim with his Spirit, and we can wish the same for Tiren! Naow, then, cook, get thae food ready!” The soldiers sobered at this, and began to set their tents. Chalen, the cook, moved off some way to prevent the other creatures trying to steal food while he prepared it.
The next morning, they were on the move again.
*****
Santena held up his paw for the company to stop. “Quiet!” he ordered. “We’ve officially reached the edge of West Region, the border between the Mountainous Lands and the rest of Clandon. Be on the lookout for any trouble, smoke, or Old Clandoners. None of our army have come this far,” he added in a whisper. Strend repeated this to those in the back, and they started to spread out into a wide-spaced line, for less chance of being spotted. All of them had donned white and brown camouflage cloaks.
After a long time of waiting and looking as he moved through the tall grass, Walker finally spotted a tell-tale trail of smoke rising into the air farther into the foothills. “There ‘tis!” he murmured, and put both paws in his paws to whistle a bird-call . . . but never got to through the crossbow bolt in his throat.
One at a time, bolts started firing from the treetops above. Each was very accurate. The otters and hares, with the least strong hearing, didn’t know it until it was too late. Most of the foxes went down easily, being too distracted with their mission. Only one managed to get out of the forest and dash away across the plains.
Wolves have powerful hearing. Santena knew something was wrong when he started hearing distant, muffled cries of pain. Two of his arctic wolves flanked him, about twenty yards away. “Hit the ground!” he whispered, knowing that they would hear. Both looked at him suddenly, then dove into the remaining snowbanks in this warmer weather. Santena quickly fell to the earth, but had a disadvantage: his fur. It was black, standing out against the dead grass and snow.
Frantically looking around for cover, he spotted an overhang of large, thick roots covering a hillside.
The general waited until the cries silenced, then stood up and made a run for it. A twig snapped in the tree on his near right, and he sped up, narrowly missing being skewered by a razor-sharp little missile. He was almost there! The overhang was ten feet away.
Just as he was going into a somersault towards the roots, a bolt whistled from the branches above and stabbed fiercely into his lower back. “Argh!” he cried, but still managed to get in among the roots, covering his bulk as best he could.
The black wolf held his breath. Nothing seemed to be moving outside, but he wasn’t going to take any . . . “Oh!” he murmured, stumbling back into a small cave. His glowing eyes determined that it was completely empty, and was made by collapsing dirt and roots long ago.
He waited a few more minutes, then decided that the attackers didn’t know where he was. “Now what?” he muttered. Well, first things first: his back wound.
He couldn’t very well stand in the small space, but couldn’t sit either, because of the pain, so Santena took a kneeling position. Quickly, he groped in the semi-darkness for his pack. Inside was a first aid kit. The general grabbed this, opened it, rummaged around for a few seconds, then pulled out a pair of small iron tongs. “Oh, Doran, this is going to hurt,” he whispered, then reached back with the tongs.
He had to bite down on his armor, hard, to keep from screaming. The bolt was barbed. It tore at his flesh and fur. Finally, he got it out and fell down to the earth.
“Damn,” he muttered.
*****
Santena had to spend the night in the cave. He had no doubt that somewhere outside was an entire gang of either Old Clandon cultists or West Clandoners, just waiting for any sign of him. So, without any rations or support, he managed to stay up half the night before falling straight to sleep -- on his stomach, of course, as his bandaged back hurt too much.
The next morning, he was suddenly awoken by somecreature crashing into the cave. Scrambling as best he could to his paws, Santena ripped his sword from its sheath and grabbed his shield from beside him. “Freeze!” he ordered, holding out the broadsword.
The two white wolves did as he said. “State your names, ranks, and guilds!” Walker had picked out all his soldiers, so Santena didn’t really know if these were in his ranks. That was why he asked them for their guilds: nobody outside of Clandoran knew about the new system that seperated the army into guilds, based on their skill strengths.
“Second Lieutenant Qentan Mc’Seron, Swiftness Guild, sir!” one whispered fiercely. He certainly looked the part, as he was tall, lean, and appeared as if he could take off at the slightest noise.
“Sergeant Driv Vire . . . Force Guild, sir!” the other gasped. He was shorter by half a head and well muscled, but certainly not built for the hard running that he’d obviously been doing. He carried, instead of the typical straight sword, a broadsword like Santena’s. Besides, on his shoulder, he carried a patch with a mace and hammer crossed on it: the symbol of the Force Guild.
Santena himself carried a patch with a single star on his shoulder. This symbolized his own guild -- he belonged to the Guild of Instinct. Total, there were five guilds: Swordmasters, Force Guild, Swiftness Guild, Distance Guild, and Guild of Instinct. Swordmasters excelled in all kinds of weaponry, and were mostly naturals. Force Guild were the shock troops of the army. Swiftness Guild were the messengers, spies, and backup infantry, and Distance Guild were the archers, slingers, and crossbow handlers. Those in the Guild of Instinct (there were only about a score) were trained in all the arts of all the other guilds.
“Good.” He sat them down on the dirty floor of the cave. Both stripped their helmets off thankfully, sweat clotting in their fur. “How did you manage to escape?” He directed this question to Sergeant Vire. He had no questions for Mc’Seron.
“Same as you . . . General.” He pulled off his pack, then chainmail. “Have you . . . eaten?” Santena shook his head.
“Well, we can’t have a starving leader,” Mc’Seron joked, and pulled out some biscuits and dried fruit. Santena accepted it gladly, but a thought plagued his mind.
What will we do now?
“Why did you leave your father, Kaytlen?” Gethnoel asked gently. She held up for another few seconds, then finally broke down crying. Through her sobs, she managed to give an account.
After she had refused to marry Gethnoel, and he had agreed, her father had become furious. In his rage, he had locked his daughter in her room for a full day with no water or food, intending the hunger to drive her to concur with his wishes. When that didn’t work, he had her beaten the next day. The lashes still stung her back as she told Santena and his king that she’d hoped for sanctuary here, and had run away to Karenian. “You’re the . . . only creatures . . . who have ever shown . . . me kindness,” she wept. Gethnoel took her up in his arms and held her. She didn’t even resist the comforting affection.
Gethnoel pulled away for a moment. “General Ironpaw, who was attacking her when you found her?” Santena knew that his king was serious, now. Whenever he used a formal title, he meant what he said.
“Old Clandon warriors, your Majesty!” He came smartly to attention. In the silence, he audibly heard Gethnoel’s teeth gritting. Santena continued his report. “Two dark-furred otters, carrying traditional Old Clandon weaponry and wearing assassin’s cloaks, sir! My apprentice and I caught them kidnapping her from beside the south wall.” He saluted, as was tradition for formal reports. Gethnoel stood, went to the at ease position, and nodded sharply.
“General, meet me in the council room. The larger one, and bring your apprentice,” the king ordered. Santena signaled Ithiniel and two maidservants. The maids rushed to take care of Kaytlen as Santena marched out of the infirmary, followed closely by his apprentice.
Fifteen minutes later, the general finally found the council room. He’d lived here for a year, and still didn’t know how to navigate this infernally large castle! Ithiniel had gotten lost somewhere, though, but ended up beating his master to the hall. He sat at the end of the table, next to King Swiftblade and three or four of his Majesty’s closest councilors. Santena sat down next to his younger counterpart, who was grinning cheekily at the general. “Wipe that smile off your face, Ithiniel. You’re working the obstacle course after this,” Santena growled. The smile fell away instantly.
“My good councilors,” Gethnoel began. “This ‘Old Clandon’ business has grown out of paw. We must do something to stop it.” One lord raised his paw. “Yes, Earl Fent?”
“What intelligence do we have on the matter?” the ermine asked wisely. “We can’t just rush into things.”
“Exactly right, my good friend! General, what have your searches uncovered about his clan?” Gethnoel turned to his bodyguard.
“Nothing much, but we have managed to find out that their most likely main camp is on the edge of the Mountainous Lands. Talk increases farther away from that point, making it obvious that the common folk are too scared. To say too much, that is,” he added. “They all use the same type of weapons: curved daggers and swords, no long-distance. All wear black assassin’s cloaks, dark tunics, leather vests, and one of these.” He held up a badge of black cloth, divided in half by a white stripe. “Nobody knows, though, what their hierarchy or leadership system is.”
“Thank you. Fent, did that answer your question? May I continue?” The earl inclined his head in the positive. “Thank you.” Once more, he turned to Santena and Ithiniel. “General, I want you to choose a score of strong, fast soldiers from our army. Preferably the ones who didn’t come from Northwind’s horde, though. Take them, leaving Ithiniel behind, and I would like you to find the main hideout of the Old Clandon clan.”
“With all due respect, Highness, why leave my apprentice behind? He’s the most powerful fighter in your military,” Santena added.
“He is to replace you while you’re gone.”
“He isn’t ready!” the black wolf insisted. Gethnoel looked him in the eyes, the two silver orbs locking with Santena’s black eyes. Finally, the general bowed his head. “Yes, your Highness.”
*****
The next day, Santena stood in front of exactly a score of creatures. The front rank of five was all quick hares, then one of foxes, then otters, and the last row was entirely made up of white wolves. All wore standard chainmail and round-top helmets, and each carried a straight sword, by old rebel tradition.
“Double time march, soldiers!” the lieutenant under Santena called. All twenty of them jogged at a high pace from the front of the castle, off towards the west where the Mountainous Lands were located.
*****
Five hours later, Santena called for a halt. All of them carried lightweight tents and bedrolls, but the general quickly discouraged the use of these. “Only a break for noonday meal. No campfires, not hot meals! Quick, pick it up!” he yelled. The soldiers immediately split up into their respective groups, which in most cases was by animal type.
Lieutenant Strend Walker, the fox who’d called out commands first, sat down beside Santena. He had an accent that distinctly reminded Santena of that of those living in the furthest north. “Sir, are we nearin’ yon Western border yet?” he asked. Santena shook his head.
“We passed it fifteen minutes ago, Lieutenant. Didn’t you know that? We actually ran right by Highlord Rock.” He took a large bite of some unintelligent bird’s leg. “Pay more attention.”
“Aye, sir!” Walker replied sharply. He attempted to salute, but accidently with the paw that held a ripe apple. “Owch . . .” he muttered.
Santena laughed. “A little too eager there,” he chuckled, then slapped Walker on the back. “Let’s finish quickly so that we can get this sorry lot on the move again.”
They did in another fifteen minutes, then the group was jogging again, armor and mail rattling as they went. Santena’s broadsword bounced at his side as he easily kept up with his troops. For another few hours, they kept an easy, but speedy, pace.
Eventually, they stopped again, this time for a longer period of time . . . in fact, the entire night. Santena gave a series of commands to Lieutenant Walker, then retired to his own tent, foregoing supper in favor of sleep. Strend turned to the soldiers and rapped out a series of commands in a lower voice than usual. “A’right, whae cook did we bring? Chalen? Bonny. Get the laddies some food, but nae fires, if’n ye ken what ah mean. Under the Set Treaty between our lands, we should be a’right, as we donnae mean harm, but we donnae want to take nae chances. Old Huffy the Spokesbeast’s huffed hi’sel into a grand ould mood, naow!” This got some chuckles. Tiren Letren was not too popular. He’d been resisting a treaty for two years. Even the Council didn’t like him, but still had to put up with him until . . . well, until he died.
“Aye, but he can huff until he’s blue in the face, we don’t care!” a voice called out softly. The soldiers roared with laughter at this, but Walker quickly calmed them down with motions of his paws.
“Nae, lads. We do care. By Doran’s almighty grace, we’re filled to thae bonny brim with his Spirit, and we can wish the same for Tiren! Naow, then, cook, get thae food ready!” The soldiers sobered at this, and began to set their tents. Chalen, the cook, moved off some way to prevent the other creatures trying to steal food while he prepared it.
The next morning, they were on the move again.
*****
Santena held up his paw for the company to stop. “Quiet!” he ordered. “We’ve officially reached the edge of West Region, the border between the Mountainous Lands and the rest of Clandon. Be on the lookout for any trouble, smoke, or Old Clandoners. None of our army have come this far,” he added in a whisper. Strend repeated this to those in the back, and they started to spread out into a wide-spaced line, for less chance of being spotted. All of them had donned white and brown camouflage cloaks.
After a long time of waiting and looking as he moved through the tall grass, Walker finally spotted a tell-tale trail of smoke rising into the air farther into the foothills. “There ‘tis!” he murmured, and put both paws in his paws to whistle a bird-call . . . but never got to through the crossbow bolt in his throat.
One at a time, bolts started firing from the treetops above. Each was very accurate. The otters and hares, with the least strong hearing, didn’t know it until it was too late. Most of the foxes went down easily, being too distracted with their mission. Only one managed to get out of the forest and dash away across the plains.
Wolves have powerful hearing. Santena knew something was wrong when he started hearing distant, muffled cries of pain. Two of his arctic wolves flanked him, about twenty yards away. “Hit the ground!” he whispered, knowing that they would hear. Both looked at him suddenly, then dove into the remaining snowbanks in this warmer weather. Santena quickly fell to the earth, but had a disadvantage: his fur. It was black, standing out against the dead grass and snow.
Frantically looking around for cover, he spotted an overhang of large, thick roots covering a hillside.
The general waited until the cries silenced, then stood up and made a run for it. A twig snapped in the tree on his near right, and he sped up, narrowly missing being skewered by a razor-sharp little missile. He was almost there! The overhang was ten feet away.
Just as he was going into a somersault towards the roots, a bolt whistled from the branches above and stabbed fiercely into his lower back. “Argh!” he cried, but still managed to get in among the roots, covering his bulk as best he could.
The black wolf held his breath. Nothing seemed to be moving outside, but he wasn’t going to take any . . . “Oh!” he murmured, stumbling back into a small cave. His glowing eyes determined that it was completely empty, and was made by collapsing dirt and roots long ago.
He waited a few more minutes, then decided that the attackers didn’t know where he was. “Now what?” he muttered. Well, first things first: his back wound.
He couldn’t very well stand in the small space, but couldn’t sit either, because of the pain, so Santena took a kneeling position. Quickly, he groped in the semi-darkness for his pack. Inside was a first aid kit. The general grabbed this, opened it, rummaged around for a few seconds, then pulled out a pair of small iron tongs. “Oh, Doran, this is going to hurt,” he whispered, then reached back with the tongs.
He had to bite down on his armor, hard, to keep from screaming. The bolt was barbed. It tore at his flesh and fur. Finally, he got it out and fell down to the earth.
“Damn,” he muttered.
*****
Santena had to spend the night in the cave. He had no doubt that somewhere outside was an entire gang of either Old Clandon cultists or West Clandoners, just waiting for any sign of him. So, without any rations or support, he managed to stay up half the night before falling straight to sleep -- on his stomach, of course, as his bandaged back hurt too much.
The next morning, he was suddenly awoken by somecreature crashing into the cave. Scrambling as best he could to his paws, Santena ripped his sword from its sheath and grabbed his shield from beside him. “Freeze!” he ordered, holding out the broadsword.
The two white wolves did as he said. “State your names, ranks, and guilds!” Walker had picked out all his soldiers, so Santena didn’t really know if these were in his ranks. That was why he asked them for their guilds: nobody outside of Clandoran knew about the new system that seperated the army into guilds, based on their skill strengths.
“Second Lieutenant Qentan Mc’Seron, Swiftness Guild, sir!” one whispered fiercely. He certainly looked the part, as he was tall, lean, and appeared as if he could take off at the slightest noise.
“Sergeant Driv Vire . . . Force Guild, sir!” the other gasped. He was shorter by half a head and well muscled, but certainly not built for the hard running that he’d obviously been doing. He carried, instead of the typical straight sword, a broadsword like Santena’s. Besides, on his shoulder, he carried a patch with a mace and hammer crossed on it: the symbol of the Force Guild.
Santena himself carried a patch with a single star on his shoulder. This symbolized his own guild -- he belonged to the Guild of Instinct. Total, there were five guilds: Swordmasters, Force Guild, Swiftness Guild, Distance Guild, and Guild of Instinct. Swordmasters excelled in all kinds of weaponry, and were mostly naturals. Force Guild were the shock troops of the army. Swiftness Guild were the messengers, spies, and backup infantry, and Distance Guild were the archers, slingers, and crossbow handlers. Those in the Guild of Instinct (there were only about a score) were trained in all the arts of all the other guilds.
“Good.” He sat them down on the dirty floor of the cave. Both stripped their helmets off thankfully, sweat clotting in their fur. “How did you manage to escape?” He directed this question to Sergeant Vire. He had no questions for Mc’Seron.
“Same as you . . . General.” He pulled off his pack, then chainmail. “Have you . . . eaten?” Santena shook his head.
“Well, we can’t have a starving leader,” Mc’Seron joked, and pulled out some biscuits and dried fruit. Santena accepted it gladly, but a thought plagued his mind.
What will we do now?
Assassins
Gethnoel Swiftblade paced back and forth, back and forth in his throne room. “Where are they? They’ve been missing for five days!” he exploded. “I specifically told Santena not to launch an attack yet. The company should be back now!” The nobles near the king came nearer, trying to reassure him. They all knew that Santena was his best friend and advisor, and if the wolf was lost, it would be devastating to him.
The king was not easily reassured. “Leave me, all of you. I need to think -- and pray.” The nobles and lords hesitated. “Go!” he commanded. Hesitantly, they finally made an exit out the nearest door. Gethnoel fell the the floor on his knees, tears that he’d held back in front of his men finally pouring out of his silvery eyes.
“Father,” he whispered. “Bring back my brother.”
*****
Well, at the moment, his “brother” was running for his life . . . again.
Just half a mile from Highlord Rock, Santena and Lieutenant Mc’Seron were dashing through the snow on an open plain. Sergeant Vire had already been caught by the sparrows and eagles they were on the run from.
Santena was trying to yank his horn from his belt. “Lieutenant! Split, crosspiece!” he commanded. This was a common order given among the Swiftness Guild: what it meant, when two, three, or four runners were pacing together, was a simple but effective straight split. If two, they instantly made a full 90° turn. If three, one kept up the forward dash, while the others split off. If four, the extra runner fell back at a full halt, then joined the second on the right side.
As ordered, Mc’Seron skidded to a stop, then took off at full speed towards the south. Santena quickly mirrored his action. Overhead, he heard the whistle of wings as the larger, heavier eagles spun over head, trying to check their speeding recklessness. The sparrows were able to turn, but without their backup, didn’t continue after their enemies.
The eagles had crashed into a cluster of trees. “Haha!” Santena gasped triumphantly. He’d been running as fast as he possibly could for over half an hour, and nothing had worked. Quickly, though, before the eagle troops recovered, he dove into a nearby cave, rolling over on his . . . “Aah!” . . . right onto his back wound, tearing it back open and ripping off the bandage he’d remade that morning. “Damn it!” he screamed, then slapped a paw over his mouth. Silence answered his outburst.
He held his breath. Still nothing. Five more seconds, and he was going to move. Nothing. He burst from the snowbank and cave, taking off back to the east and Kerenian. He’d have to trust Mc’Seron to find his own way back.
*****
His fur was matted to his body, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Kerenian was just there, right on the horizon! To gain speed, Mc’Seron ripped off his sword, belt, and chain mail hood. “Doran . . . help me!”
Thundering paws and loud roars were bearing down on him.
*****
Gethnoel was still on his knees, after two hours of prayer, when a loud, urgent knock sounded at his door. “Come in!” he commanded, standing and wiping the tears away. The oak door flew open and crashed into the wall -- followed closely by Santena. The black wolf stumbled to the floor, his face plastered with terror. “Santena!” the king exclaimed, rushing to his friend and catching him before he fell. “What happened? Where’s the company I sent you with?”
A group of medics rushed past the open door, followed by Earl Fent, Lord Rake, and Ithiniel. The latter group dashed into the throne room. The medics were carrying a body wrapped in white cloth.
“He’s unconscious,” Fent determined quickly. “Call those medics back: we have another one.”
“Another one?” Gethnoel asked worriedly. Rake nodded sternly.
“A certain Lieutenant Mc’Seron, Swiftness Guild, was severely injured. We found him right outside the center point of the kingdom. Broken back, crushed leg, but no blood. It looked as if he’d taken one, and only one, strong blow. Just one bruise.” Rake shivered. “What creature would be powerful enough to do that?” he wondered quietly.
“Only a few, Rake.” A new face entered the room. “Captain Icefurr, in that part of the country where they’d been coming from . . . I can guarantee that Mc’Seron was attacked by a bear warrior,” Jennter Mc’Kallen stated matter-of-factly. “And a powerful one, at that.”
“Lord Jennter!” the two other lords chorused, and came to one knee with a fist on their hearts in an ancient sign of respect. He nodded, and the pair rose again.
Jennter was Gethnoel’s primary advisor, and the only creature who still called him “Captain Icefurr Swiftblade”. Whenever he walked into a room, he instantly commanded respect from the lesser lords. His powerful frame and myriad of scars across his face spoke of his older role, only a few years ago. His arms and sword didn’t compare to that of Santena’s, but right now, he looked to be the most powerful creature in the room next to the unconscious wolf. “Didn’t you hear the lords, Captain? Call those medics back.”
Earl Fent yelled down the hall in a voice that was deceiving in relation to his considerable age. “Get back here, doc!” Even in the traumatic situation he was in, Gethnoel couldn’t help letting a grin flit across his face at the sound, and the speed at which two medics charged down the hall and into the throne chamber. They took Santena by his arms and legs, straining to lift him, but managed to move him out of the room with looks of determination plastered on their faces.
“Damned heavy wolf,” one muttered.
“Watch your language in the presence of the king!” Lord Rake commanded. He turned back to Lord Jennter and Gethnoel. “A bear? Polar? Why would they be so close? And why did this one attack one of our soldiers? Under the Set Laws, this is a declaration of war between the Mountainous Lands and Clandoran . . .”
Earl Fent immediately interrupted. “No, it isn’t. The Mountainous Lands and the Plainsterritories were excluded from the Set Laws three years ago, due to their refusal to cooperate with the main Clandon landmass and Terrenia. The Lands’ emperor believed that his empire was just fine without us when King Swiftblade sent his request for the old rules to be restored, and Kallenian Snapclaw almost attempted an attack. After Gulrag Northwind destroyed the ancient ways, put into effect centuries ago, he also got rid of the Set Laws. Therefore, we have no right to attack them back unless they actually encroach upon our territory. Which they didn’t,” he added.
“But they did! At least, the Mountainous Lands were on West Clandon land, which is protected under the Set Laws,” Lord Rake argued.
“Which places the issue under Western rule. Therefore, we can’t do anything, my good lord,” Fent said resignedly. “Only Tiren Letren, and I have a menacing feeling that he isn’t going to.”
“But he might!” Gethnoel exclaimed, a vague idea forming in his mind. “If we perhaps . . . . convince him with a mutual outcome of letting this continue any further than it already has. We’re going back to West Clandon. Call Ithiniel.”
Ithiniel was soon collected, and the king, a troop of one-score soldiers, and the lords Fent and Rake set off towards Highlord Rock once more. Meanwhile, back at the castle, something terrible was about to happen.
*****
Lieutenant Mc’Seron woke to the most horrifying sensation: he couldn’t feel anything but his shoulders and face. No matter how hard he strained, all that greeted his feverish efforts but a tingling feeling and a growing pain in his upper back. He was in the Karenian palace infirmary, surrounded by empty cots. The fox pulled his head forwards with a tremendous amount of effort.
“Oh, Doran . . .” he muttered woozily. What had happened?
Then it all rushed back to him in one wave: he’d been running towards the city, to warn the king about . . . the Mountainous Lands! They were coming! He had to . . . “Who’s there?” Nothing greeted this question. Then he heard it again: a slight swishing sound, like a moving cloak. Next, a small rasp of steel on steel, like a dagger being drawn. “Who’s there? In the name of the High One, come out!” Still, nothing.
He laid back down shakily. “Stupid brain, playing tricks on one creature,” he murmured, but didn’t quite believe it himself.
He was wrong. A bright knife descended from over his head, flying towards his skull. The last thing he got to think was, Oh, no. Old Clandon!
The king was not easily reassured. “Leave me, all of you. I need to think -- and pray.” The nobles and lords hesitated. “Go!” he commanded. Hesitantly, they finally made an exit out the nearest door. Gethnoel fell the the floor on his knees, tears that he’d held back in front of his men finally pouring out of his silvery eyes.
“Father,” he whispered. “Bring back my brother.”
*****
Well, at the moment, his “brother” was running for his life . . . again.
Just half a mile from Highlord Rock, Santena and Lieutenant Mc’Seron were dashing through the snow on an open plain. Sergeant Vire had already been caught by the sparrows and eagles they were on the run from.
Santena was trying to yank his horn from his belt. “Lieutenant! Split, crosspiece!” he commanded. This was a common order given among the Swiftness Guild: what it meant, when two, three, or four runners were pacing together, was a simple but effective straight split. If two, they instantly made a full 90° turn. If three, one kept up the forward dash, while the others split off. If four, the extra runner fell back at a full halt, then joined the second on the right side.
As ordered, Mc’Seron skidded to a stop, then took off at full speed towards the south. Santena quickly mirrored his action. Overhead, he heard the whistle of wings as the larger, heavier eagles spun over head, trying to check their speeding recklessness. The sparrows were able to turn, but without their backup, didn’t continue after their enemies.
The eagles had crashed into a cluster of trees. “Haha!” Santena gasped triumphantly. He’d been running as fast as he possibly could for over half an hour, and nothing had worked. Quickly, though, before the eagle troops recovered, he dove into a nearby cave, rolling over on his . . . “Aah!” . . . right onto his back wound, tearing it back open and ripping off the bandage he’d remade that morning. “Damn it!” he screamed, then slapped a paw over his mouth. Silence answered his outburst.
He held his breath. Still nothing. Five more seconds, and he was going to move. Nothing. He burst from the snowbank and cave, taking off back to the east and Kerenian. He’d have to trust Mc’Seron to find his own way back.
*****
His fur was matted to his body, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Kerenian was just there, right on the horizon! To gain speed, Mc’Seron ripped off his sword, belt, and chain mail hood. “Doran . . . help me!”
Thundering paws and loud roars were bearing down on him.
*****
Gethnoel was still on his knees, after two hours of prayer, when a loud, urgent knock sounded at his door. “Come in!” he commanded, standing and wiping the tears away. The oak door flew open and crashed into the wall -- followed closely by Santena. The black wolf stumbled to the floor, his face plastered with terror. “Santena!” the king exclaimed, rushing to his friend and catching him before he fell. “What happened? Where’s the company I sent you with?”
A group of medics rushed past the open door, followed by Earl Fent, Lord Rake, and Ithiniel. The latter group dashed into the throne room. The medics were carrying a body wrapped in white cloth.
“He’s unconscious,” Fent determined quickly. “Call those medics back: we have another one.”
“Another one?” Gethnoel asked worriedly. Rake nodded sternly.
“A certain Lieutenant Mc’Seron, Swiftness Guild, was severely injured. We found him right outside the center point of the kingdom. Broken back, crushed leg, but no blood. It looked as if he’d taken one, and only one, strong blow. Just one bruise.” Rake shivered. “What creature would be powerful enough to do that?” he wondered quietly.
“Only a few, Rake.” A new face entered the room. “Captain Icefurr, in that part of the country where they’d been coming from . . . I can guarantee that Mc’Seron was attacked by a bear warrior,” Jennter Mc’Kallen stated matter-of-factly. “And a powerful one, at that.”
“Lord Jennter!” the two other lords chorused, and came to one knee with a fist on their hearts in an ancient sign of respect. He nodded, and the pair rose again.
Jennter was Gethnoel’s primary advisor, and the only creature who still called him “Captain Icefurr Swiftblade”. Whenever he walked into a room, he instantly commanded respect from the lesser lords. His powerful frame and myriad of scars across his face spoke of his older role, only a few years ago. His arms and sword didn’t compare to that of Santena’s, but right now, he looked to be the most powerful creature in the room next to the unconscious wolf. “Didn’t you hear the lords, Captain? Call those medics back.”
Earl Fent yelled down the hall in a voice that was deceiving in relation to his considerable age. “Get back here, doc!” Even in the traumatic situation he was in, Gethnoel couldn’t help letting a grin flit across his face at the sound, and the speed at which two medics charged down the hall and into the throne chamber. They took Santena by his arms and legs, straining to lift him, but managed to move him out of the room with looks of determination plastered on their faces.
“Damned heavy wolf,” one muttered.
“Watch your language in the presence of the king!” Lord Rake commanded. He turned back to Lord Jennter and Gethnoel. “A bear? Polar? Why would they be so close? And why did this one attack one of our soldiers? Under the Set Laws, this is a declaration of war between the Mountainous Lands and Clandoran . . .”
Earl Fent immediately interrupted. “No, it isn’t. The Mountainous Lands and the Plainsterritories were excluded from the Set Laws three years ago, due to their refusal to cooperate with the main Clandon landmass and Terrenia. The Lands’ emperor believed that his empire was just fine without us when King Swiftblade sent his request for the old rules to be restored, and Kallenian Snapclaw almost attempted an attack. After Gulrag Northwind destroyed the ancient ways, put into effect centuries ago, he also got rid of the Set Laws. Therefore, we have no right to attack them back unless they actually encroach upon our territory. Which they didn’t,” he added.
“But they did! At least, the Mountainous Lands were on West Clandon land, which is protected under the Set Laws,” Lord Rake argued.
“Which places the issue under Western rule. Therefore, we can’t do anything, my good lord,” Fent said resignedly. “Only Tiren Letren, and I have a menacing feeling that he isn’t going to.”
“But he might!” Gethnoel exclaimed, a vague idea forming in his mind. “If we perhaps . . . . convince him with a mutual outcome of letting this continue any further than it already has. We’re going back to West Clandon. Call Ithiniel.”
Ithiniel was soon collected, and the king, a troop of one-score soldiers, and the lords Fent and Rake set off towards Highlord Rock once more. Meanwhile, back at the castle, something terrible was about to happen.
*****
Lieutenant Mc’Seron woke to the most horrifying sensation: he couldn’t feel anything but his shoulders and face. No matter how hard he strained, all that greeted his feverish efforts but a tingling feeling and a growing pain in his upper back. He was in the Karenian palace infirmary, surrounded by empty cots. The fox pulled his head forwards with a tremendous amount of effort.
“Oh, Doran . . .” he muttered woozily. What had happened?
Then it all rushed back to him in one wave: he’d been running towards the city, to warn the king about . . . the Mountainous Lands! They were coming! He had to . . . “Who’s there?” Nothing greeted this question. Then he heard it again: a slight swishing sound, like a moving cloak. Next, a small rasp of steel on steel, like a dagger being drawn. “Who’s there? In the name of the High One, come out!” Still, nothing.
He laid back down shakily. “Stupid brain, playing tricks on one creature,” he murmured, but didn’t quite believe it himself.
He was wrong. A bright knife descended from over his head, flying towards his skull. The last thing he got to think was, Oh, no. Old Clandon!
Clandon's Governments
An Explanation of the Governments of Modern Clandon (by country):
Therrenia: The simple breakdown is as this: Therrenia is split into four different, but small, territories. Each is ruled by a Quin (pronounced as shin), or governor. Overall, their decisions are dictated by the Raltin, who holds a position similar to that of a king. So, Therrenia’s territories are watched by the ruling Raltin who dictates decisions. Say that ten times fast. (Who says that explanatory posts can’t have humor?)
However, it isn’t that simple. They follow a very strict set of ancient traditions, even though the new King Gethnoel attempted to extend the arm of the Set Laws, which will be explained later. According to these traditions, ten things are set in stone:
The Plainsterritories: The Plainsterritories lie in the east, on the coast nearest Therennia and on the border of East Region. For a description of the government, I must give a history, which I did not give in the briefer explanation of the individual countries and their natural tales.
What I did tell you, reader, was that the Plainsterritories were ruled at first by a king. Ten kings ruled, for longer than Clandoran existed, up to the point when Mc’Kenthon Swiftblade was overthrown. Every one had been diverse in some way, and there were no restrictions on what animal could rule. Only one family had kept the throne for more than a generation, and theirs was the most stable reign. Kings weren’t very respected, and had no real power, except for in the village surrounding the castle and in the small army kept as a personal bodyguard to the king. This army usually consisted of jackals and badgers, the more powerful creatures.
The last king to rule, until about thirty years ago, was Stripeslash Yetwar. He did nothing remarkable for his “subjects”, and was overthrown almost immediately by . . . Kallenian Snapclaw, a powerful jackal warlord.
Of course, at the time, he was nowhere nearly enough to take down Norden Northwind, or his son Gulrag. However, he had his sights set on the Plainsterritories for two reasons: the many squabbling small-time rulers and king would be of no resistance, and . . . why would he want Clandon? It was cold and harsh, and he was an Eastern creature: the further east, the warmer. So, he built up a small army that was three times the size of Yetwar’s, rushed in, and quickly took the entire country with ease. Now, he’s set himself up in a dictatorship, likened in many ways to that of the Northwinds.
So far, Snapclaw has refused any sort of a treaty, including the Set Laws, offered to him. It’s not unknown that he has his sights set on Therennian next.
King Gethnoel Swiftblade, Spokesbeast Tiren Letren, and the Council of East Region know that he is there, and aren’t going to let it continue very much further, under their Set Laws, but are somewhat preoccupied with other matters at the moment.
So, by definition, the Plainsterritories are under a military dictatorship.
The Mountainous Territories: Unknown.
Clandoran (north and south): Clandoran, formerly known as North and South Regions, formerly known as Clandoran, formerly known as Clandon, is currently ruled by a military monarchy. King Gethnoel Swiftblade, son of Mc’Kenthon Swiftblade the FoxWolf, currently rules under many names, including: the Rogue Captain, the White King, Icefurr Swiftblade, and others.
Instead of a law set in stone for the country, this king trusts his subjects to make the correct decisions based on their instinct, their direction from Doranfather’s Spirit, and his dictation. However, Swiftblade did place into effect a police force, about twenty creatures in Force Guild and Swiftness Guild per village.
Speaking of which, he also installed a “guild” system. This split his army and any advisors or messengers of his into five different categories, based upon where their skills laid: Swiftness Guild, Force Guild, Swordmasters, Guild of Instinct, and Distance Guild. The names are all self explanatory. Almost the entire police force is made up of the first two, and the infantry is as well. Advisors, generals, and councilmembers are usually Guild of Instinct. Archers and messengers are almost always Swiftness or Distance Guilds, and the Swordmasters are solely shock troops.
It’s a military monarchy because that is the main outcome of many of King Gethnoel’s achievements: a stronger army. This is rumored to be so because of the overthrow of the original Clandoran empire, the death of the king’s parents, and the dividing of Clandoran into North and South Regions by Norden and Gulrag Northwind. King Swiftblade has vowed not to let this happen again, which causes him to be very, very intent on the destruction of Old Clandon (the cult) and Kallenian Snapclaw’s army. First, though, he has to smooth out the wrinkles in the Set Laws and help settle the war between East and West Regions.
East and West Regions: Both of these have the same government, with one major difference that I will explain later.
In short, each is ruled by a council. The councils have their own complicated sets of laws, that nocreature follows. No explicit history is to be given, except for this short synopsis:
At the start of written history in Clandon, when the old language was just being eradicated, the whole continent was ruled by one king. Two groups of smaller, less powerful creatures split from the union. One went east. One went west. Each had the same basic idea, and both ended up with councils and no armies. Thus, they had to form alliances with the other small countries that had broken off. Using their allies’ resources and strength, East Region and West Region became stronger and larger, soon opposing each other and the rest of united Clandon. Soon, they forced their ways in towards and through the center of united Clandon, creating the first North and South regions. Soon, they were at war, even with the Set Laws that the king of North Region had set in place.
Now, only a few things have changed: the first war ended with North and South pushing together, forcing the East and West Regions out and becoming Clandoran. Then, another war took hold, after the installment of Spokesbeasts in Western Clandon. Finally, King Gethnoel was successful in bringing the East and West under the protective shield of the Set Laws.
The Set Laws: The Set Laws were put into effect under the rule of Harken MacKay, king of North Region, before Clandoran, after United Clandon (which was essentially a bunch of creatures with no ruler). They constituted five things that would help all the countries bound by it to stay under some sort of code.
At first, it was only accepted by South Region, which eventually created Clandoran. East Region and West Region refused and ended up attacking the North. However, BECAUSE of the Set Laws, South Region came to MacKay’s aid and drove East and West apart. A few centuries later, King Gethnoel finally convinced almost the entire landmass to join, except for the miniature countries. He still continues to send envoys to the Plainsterritories and Therrenia.
The Laws have many sub categories and fine prints, but these are the main principles of the main body:
Old Clandon (cult): Old Clandon originated only half a year after King Gethnoel took the throne. Nocreature knows for sure who started the cult, but it’s said that he was part of the rebellion.
Old Clandon believes three things:
Old Clandon is a clan of powerful assassins, who are divided into a strict hierarchy. Each assassin is given a level. First comes the Divine, or the leader of the cult. After him come the Shamans, or top generals. After that come the level ten assassins, all the way down to the level one servants.
Each assassin, no matter their level or rank, carries a double curved sword and multiple throwing knives of the same make. All wear black cloaks, the “color of perfection”. --SPOILER ALERT-- These rogue fighters also carry poisonous crossbows. Along with these, they have an array of dangerous poisons and different types of darts and bolts. Each wears a special patch with a number and the Old Clandon symbol.
Well, there it is: every government and hierarchy and religion in Clandon, excepting the Mountainous Lands. I’ll let that one be a surprise. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Also, I hope it explained some things that were confusing, like the Set Laws and Old Clandon.
Therrenia: The simple breakdown is as this: Therrenia is split into four different, but small, territories. Each is ruled by a Quin (pronounced as shin), or governor. Overall, their decisions are dictated by the Raltin, who holds a position similar to that of a king. So, Therrenia’s territories are watched by the ruling Raltin who dictates decisions. Say that ten times fast. (Who says that explanatory posts can’t have humor?)
However, it isn’t that simple. They follow a very strict set of ancient traditions, even though the new King Gethnoel attempted to extend the arm of the Set Laws, which will be explained later. According to these traditions, ten things are set in stone:
- The Raltin must be a mongoose. One family has ruled for over two centuries, and they were all mongeese.
- The Raltin’s chief advisor must be a snake.
- Without a queen, the Raltin defers to the Quins.
- No territory may go to war with another. Strangely enough, this one is actually followed, and nocreature knows why (even me).
- Each year, all the creatures come together for one night of celebration, called Nishu (Peace).
- Any form of a treaty or a declaration of war on the Raltin’s part is sent to the Quins for review, and vice versa.
- The Therrenians live in a hierarchy: Raltin on top, then the Quins and the royal family, then the warriors (half of the population, even though it is a very peaceful country), the priests, and finally the peasants.
- Slavery is NOT allowed, due to their religion.
- Warriors are treated as gods, also due to their religion, which brings me to item #10 . . .
- . . . the religion! This is the biggest factor in Therrenian society.
The Plainsterritories: The Plainsterritories lie in the east, on the coast nearest Therennia and on the border of East Region. For a description of the government, I must give a history, which I did not give in the briefer explanation of the individual countries and their natural tales.
What I did tell you, reader, was that the Plainsterritories were ruled at first by a king. Ten kings ruled, for longer than Clandoran existed, up to the point when Mc’Kenthon Swiftblade was overthrown. Every one had been diverse in some way, and there were no restrictions on what animal could rule. Only one family had kept the throne for more than a generation, and theirs was the most stable reign. Kings weren’t very respected, and had no real power, except for in the village surrounding the castle and in the small army kept as a personal bodyguard to the king. This army usually consisted of jackals and badgers, the more powerful creatures.
The last king to rule, until about thirty years ago, was Stripeslash Yetwar. He did nothing remarkable for his “subjects”, and was overthrown almost immediately by . . . Kallenian Snapclaw, a powerful jackal warlord.
Of course, at the time, he was nowhere nearly enough to take down Norden Northwind, or his son Gulrag. However, he had his sights set on the Plainsterritories for two reasons: the many squabbling small-time rulers and king would be of no resistance, and . . . why would he want Clandon? It was cold and harsh, and he was an Eastern creature: the further east, the warmer. So, he built up a small army that was three times the size of Yetwar’s, rushed in, and quickly took the entire country with ease. Now, he’s set himself up in a dictatorship, likened in many ways to that of the Northwinds.
So far, Snapclaw has refused any sort of a treaty, including the Set Laws, offered to him. It’s not unknown that he has his sights set on Therennian next.
King Gethnoel Swiftblade, Spokesbeast Tiren Letren, and the Council of East Region know that he is there, and aren’t going to let it continue very much further, under their Set Laws, but are somewhat preoccupied with other matters at the moment.
So, by definition, the Plainsterritories are under a military dictatorship.
The Mountainous Territories: Unknown.
Clandoran (north and south): Clandoran, formerly known as North and South Regions, formerly known as Clandoran, formerly known as Clandon, is currently ruled by a military monarchy. King Gethnoel Swiftblade, son of Mc’Kenthon Swiftblade the FoxWolf, currently rules under many names, including: the Rogue Captain, the White King, Icefurr Swiftblade, and others.
Instead of a law set in stone for the country, this king trusts his subjects to make the correct decisions based on their instinct, their direction from Doranfather’s Spirit, and his dictation. However, Swiftblade did place into effect a police force, about twenty creatures in Force Guild and Swiftness Guild per village.
Speaking of which, he also installed a “guild” system. This split his army and any advisors or messengers of his into five different categories, based upon where their skills laid: Swiftness Guild, Force Guild, Swordmasters, Guild of Instinct, and Distance Guild. The names are all self explanatory. Almost the entire police force is made up of the first two, and the infantry is as well. Advisors, generals, and councilmembers are usually Guild of Instinct. Archers and messengers are almost always Swiftness or Distance Guilds, and the Swordmasters are solely shock troops.
It’s a military monarchy because that is the main outcome of many of King Gethnoel’s achievements: a stronger army. This is rumored to be so because of the overthrow of the original Clandoran empire, the death of the king’s parents, and the dividing of Clandoran into North and South Regions by Norden and Gulrag Northwind. King Swiftblade has vowed not to let this happen again, which causes him to be very, very intent on the destruction of Old Clandon (the cult) and Kallenian Snapclaw’s army. First, though, he has to smooth out the wrinkles in the Set Laws and help settle the war between East and West Regions.
East and West Regions: Both of these have the same government, with one major difference that I will explain later.
In short, each is ruled by a council. The councils have their own complicated sets of laws, that nocreature follows. No explicit history is to be given, except for this short synopsis:
At the start of written history in Clandon, when the old language was just being eradicated, the whole continent was ruled by one king. Two groups of smaller, less powerful creatures split from the union. One went east. One went west. Each had the same basic idea, and both ended up with councils and no armies. Thus, they had to form alliances with the other small countries that had broken off. Using their allies’ resources and strength, East Region and West Region became stronger and larger, soon opposing each other and the rest of united Clandon. Soon, they forced their ways in towards and through the center of united Clandon, creating the first North and South regions. Soon, they were at war, even with the Set Laws that the king of North Region had set in place.
Now, only a few things have changed: the first war ended with North and South pushing together, forcing the East and West Regions out and becoming Clandoran. Then, another war took hold, after the installment of Spokesbeasts in Western Clandon. Finally, King Gethnoel was successful in bringing the East and West under the protective shield of the Set Laws.
The Set Laws: The Set Laws were put into effect under the rule of Harken MacKay, king of North Region, before Clandoran, after United Clandon (which was essentially a bunch of creatures with no ruler). They constituted five things that would help all the countries bound by it to stay under some sort of code.
At first, it was only accepted by South Region, which eventually created Clandoran. East Region and West Region refused and ended up attacking the North. However, BECAUSE of the Set Laws, South Region came to MacKay’s aid and drove East and West apart. A few centuries later, King Gethnoel finally convinced almost the entire landmass to join, except for the miniature countries. He still continues to send envoys to the Plainsterritories and Therrenia.
The Laws have many sub categories and fine prints, but these are the main principles of the main body:
- If one country under the Laws ventures onto the land of another, it isn’t a declaration of war unless destruction or killing occurs.
- If one country under the Laws ventures onto the land of one not protected, it is beyond the reach of all under the Laws except the ruler of the first country.
- If one country out from under the Laws ventures onto the land of one protected, it IS a declaration of war on the entire Set Laws alliance . . . however, as demonstrated in “Assassins”, the country whose land was under attack must take offense first.
- In time of war between two countries under the Laws, the other countries may not interfere.
- Finally, when under attack by an outside force, Clandoran and the other countries all band together into one country for the time being. This is the law that finally sold the deal for East and West.
Old Clandon (cult): Old Clandon originated only half a year after King Gethnoel took the throne. Nocreature knows for sure who started the cult, but it’s said that he was part of the rebellion.
Old Clandon believes three things:
- Clandoran has no rightful ruler, and if there were, they would be chosen by the universe.
- The universe is intelligent, and knows all, the future, present, and past.
- King Gethnoel is a usurper who deserves to die -- he and his black magic.
Old Clandon is a clan of powerful assassins, who are divided into a strict hierarchy. Each assassin is given a level. First comes the Divine, or the leader of the cult. After him come the Shamans, or top generals. After that come the level ten assassins, all the way down to the level one servants.
Each assassin, no matter their level or rank, carries a double curved sword and multiple throwing knives of the same make. All wear black cloaks, the “color of perfection”. --SPOILER ALERT-- These rogue fighters also carry poisonous crossbows. Along with these, they have an array of dangerous poisons and different types of darts and bolts. Each wears a special patch with a number and the Old Clandon symbol.
Well, there it is: every government and hierarchy and religion in Clandon, excepting the Mountainous Lands. I’ll let that one be a surprise. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Also, I hope it explained some things that were confusing, like the Set Laws and Old Clandon.
Trapped Power
Santena’s eyes snapped open and looked around frantically. He’d heard a scream. “Where am I? Mc’Seron! Gethnoel! Vire!” he yelled, not even pausing to contemplate the dull walls and cots that surrounded him, struggling to rise against the bandages and restraints that stopped him from doing so.
Two aides rushed to his side, trying to hold him down. “Sir! Sir! Stop!” one ordered. “You’re injured!” Santena slowly stopped thrashing, breathing heavily, his paws still clenched. “Now, let us get out this shard of metal . . .”
Santena interrupted angrily. “Where in Deathgates am I, and where’s the king? And where in the damned country is my sword?” the big wolf thundered, the fiery pain in his back increasing his rage. The aides ignored him as they went on with their work. “Doranfather help me,” Santena muttered, and felt his fury melting away. He waited for it all to leave, then spoke calmly. “Where am I?”
“The secondary Karenian infirmary. We had to close the main complex because . . .” The ermine speaking paused. “Er . . . because the lord Jennter commanded it, right, Altic?” The other aide, a mouse, just nodded.
“Where is the lord Mc’Kallen at the moment?” the general asked.
“Go fetch the lord advisor, Altic! Hop to it!” the ermine ordered, and the mouse raced off. Santena noticed that both seemed nervous. They were hiding something, and that something had to do with Jennter and the infirmary. Never mind that now, though, he’d have to ask Jennter himself.
Santena snapped back to the real world with a gasp of pain as the aide finally ripped away the shard of metal left from the first arrowhead. “Is it out now?” he screamed angrily. The ermine nodded, and wrapped something in cloth, setting it aside with some distaste obvious in his eyes. Santena grunted in pain and moved up on his cot for a more comfortable position, just as Jennter came through the door.
“Lieutenant! You’re awake!” the advisor exclaimed. Santena huffed. Why did Mc’Kallen insist on calling everybeast by their preliminary titles in the rebellion?
“Jennter, I’ve already told you, it’s General. No more of this ‘Lieutenant’ business. Now, what’s going on? And where’s my sword and Gethnoel?” Santena demanded.
“The king has left to negotiate further with Tiren Letren, and your sword . . .” Jennter flicked his paw, and another servant rushed in with a bundle, placing it on the bed and scurrying back out. Santena tore open the cloth. Inside laid his sword, snapped in two pieces, clean through the middle.
This brought back a rush of memories, blasting through his head all at once: huge armor, battle-axes, and thundering war-cries. “Did you say that the king went back to West Region?” Jennter nodded calmly. Santena strained and pushed himself to a sitting position. “When did they leave?” The general felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“This morning. They should be at the border now . . .”
“Stop them! He can’t go!” Santena said, panicked. “It’s a trap!”
“What do you mean?” the advisor asked. Santena shook his head furiously.
“The Mountainous Lands . . . I saw their warriors wearing Old Clandon gear, with curved weapons!” Santena pounded the covers in rage. “Tiren Letren, that backstabber! Two years, and he can’t see that all Gethnoel wants is peace! Mc’Kallen, get your tail on this . . . now!”
*****
Ithiniel was just as wary as his master by the king’s side. “Lord, I don’t think that it’s safe to be coming back into Letren’s territory, especially after what happened to Masters Mc’Seron and Ironpaw,” he whispered. The entire company was silent. The atmosphere was heavy, and prompted a creature to shut their mouths.
“Nonsense,” Gethnoel replied confidently. “He wouldn’t dare do anything as rash as what you’re obviously thinking he will.” The silvery FoxWolf marched on without hesitation. In the distance, his bodyguard could see Highlord Rock, and beyond that, the now-menacing peaks of the Mountainous Lands loomed on the horizon. “Oh, I don’t think . . . I know,” Ithiniel muttered. “That pompous power-hungry fool. He’ll do something, all right.” This brought another matter to mind, of much more interest to the young fox. “Your Highness? Where is the Spokesbeast’s daughter?”
“At the castle, in the second infirmary. Why?” Gethnoel looked at Ithiniel with a mischievous glint in his eyes, which surprised the fox. The young king was usually far more solemn.
“Er . . . uh . . . no reason,” the apprentice stammered. “Just curious, that’s all.” The uneasiness returned. “Did you send a message ahead, sire, to meet at Highlord Rock once more?”
“I did,” Gethnoel replied, the serious look back in his face. Suddenly, the easy-going attitude was dropped altogether. “Okay, maybe he will try something cranat. Rake, send three Swiftness Guild soldiers forward to clear the perimeter. Ithiniel, take an Instinct Guild with you and follow behind by forty meters. Earl Fent, that means you.” The ermine nodded and pulled his spear from his pack. “Move! Quickly!” Gethnoel ordered, no longer whispering.
Ithiniel watched and waited for the Swiftness soldiers to start moving. When they’d dashed far enough ahead, the fox and the earl dove into the grass and sparse snow, making themselves relatively unseen and still managing to keep pace with the runners. After another four hundred meters or so, Ithiniel and Fent popped their heads up to check on the runners.
They were gone. Ithiniel heard a scream of pain from his left, and dove back into the snow. Earl Fent had frozen where he stood. “What was that?” Ithiniel demanded. No answer. He stood up to pull the ermine back down, and Fent fell over . . . probably because of the long bolt in his neck. “Oh, no . . . the king!” Ithiniel stood up and recklessly charged back towards the group, where soldiers were falling all over the place, pierced by the poisonous missiles.
A thought entered his head, and the fox skidded to a stop. He spun around. There! Just as he’d turned, he caught sight of three black-cloaked figures peeking out from behind Highlord Rock itself. Quickly, the apprentice bodyguard switched directions and disappeared again. Quietly, trying not to step on any ice or dry grass, he stalked towards the tall pillar.
Soon, he lay less than ten feet from the front of the pillar, breathing hard. Bolts were still firing, but thankfully, the king and Rake had gotten behind a pile of bodies and were firing back with Gethnoel’s longbow. The assassins were hard put to avoid the long, silver and red arrows, but they obviously had more ammunition than the king.
Ithiniel flattened himself against the stone and drew his rapier. “Wait ‘til they shoot again,” he muttered. He heard the click-swish! of three crossbows firing from his left and right. The lithe white fox spun around the rock and crashed right into a retreating assassin. Before the Old Clandoner could react, his neck was separated from the rest of his body. The other two assassins raised their half loaded crossbows, but Ithiniel dashed forward and cut their strings, met by loud whines of resistance from the wood.
The pair drew their curved swords just in time to block two rapid-fire strokes from the apprentice’s sword, and suddenly three more creatures in dark cloaks appeared from the surrounding snow. Now both sides paused. “Surrender, by Doranfather,” Ithiniel ordered.
“Excuse me if I’m wrong, but you are the one outnumbered here,” the otter on his left rasped.
“No, you are wrong. I have two on my side, as well,” Ithiniel laughed. “One.” He pointed to himself. “Two.” He pointed to his sword, then up. In the time they took to figure out what he meant, he whispered three words to the pommel of his sword, his paw, and his necklace. “Ithiniel, Doran’s xenot.”
“What did you say . . . woah!” a rabbit gasped, and pulled out his knife and crossing it with his sword. The other four also assumed this defensive position, fear in their eyes. Ithiniel’s sword was glowing, as was his flame pendant. They were both glowing a fierce white. Unlike the light of the king’s power from Doran, this glow was all white, not silver, but somehow Ithiniel’s seemed more furious. Gethnoel’s words produced blunt power; Ithiniel’s had the look of strategic and sharp flames, flowing symmetrically around his sword and necklace. “Witch magic!” the rabbit yelled, then looked to his companions. “Cleanse Clandon!”
All five assassins attacked with ten blades. Ithiniel ducked the first blow, then brought his rapier up and sheared straight through -- yes, through -- the S-shaped blade. It fell apart in two halves, and so did the otter’s knife a few seconds later . . . joined by the otter’s cloaked head. Two more strokes, and the rabbit laid dead as well. Now Ithiniel only face three opponents, and the fire was more intense than ever. His eyes had turned silver like Gethnoel’s.
The fight had moved outward, now far away from Highlord Rock. Ithiniel froze, then turned and dashed towards the stone column. Confused, the assassins hesitated. Finally, an ermine started chasing after the fox, followed by the remaining lemming and wolf.
The young apprentice warrior ran in a way that let the assassins catch up, but not catch him. When he reached the rock, he ran up the side, flipped backwards, and landed behind the lemming and ermine with a double strike that dispatched both. The wolf dropped his sword and backed up against the rock. The fire was gone now, but Ithiniel was terrifying enough that the larger, stronger wolf cowered against the pillar with panic in his eyes. “Please . . . don’t kill me! I haven’t fulfilled arka!” he whimpered. Ithiniel frowned at the strange word.
“Arka? What does that mean?” The menacing tone was less, and the wolf relaxed a bit, but the panic didn’t disappear.
“It . . . it is a set of guidelines that Old Clandon must follow. If its objectives aren’t completed, my essence will vanish into the universe, never to be retrieved! Please, anything! Take me captive, take my sword away! I’m only doing as told, I swear! I . . .”
Ithiniel cut off the rambling creature with his sword point to its neck. “Fine. I’ll take you with me, if you throw away your sword and behave. I’ll have to tie you.” The wolf nodded gratefully, stepped to his sword, and threw it up in the air. Somehow, it landed tip first in the top of Highlord Rock. “Paws behind.” The Old Clandoner turned around, and Ithiniel secured his paws with a strip of leather. “Now, come with me. In front.” The wolf marched out in front of the apprentice, and in this way they made it back to the two remaining survivors.
Gethnoel nodded in approval. “Always practice mercy. Rake, take this one, and we’ll try to get back to Karenian alive soon . . .” He was interrupted by a huge roar and clash of steel. The king spun around. His eyes widened. “No!” he yelled. “Doran, help us!”
Polar bears.
Two aides rushed to his side, trying to hold him down. “Sir! Sir! Stop!” one ordered. “You’re injured!” Santena slowly stopped thrashing, breathing heavily, his paws still clenched. “Now, let us get out this shard of metal . . .”
Santena interrupted angrily. “Where in Deathgates am I, and where’s the king? And where in the damned country is my sword?” the big wolf thundered, the fiery pain in his back increasing his rage. The aides ignored him as they went on with their work. “Doranfather help me,” Santena muttered, and felt his fury melting away. He waited for it all to leave, then spoke calmly. “Where am I?”
“The secondary Karenian infirmary. We had to close the main complex because . . .” The ermine speaking paused. “Er . . . because the lord Jennter commanded it, right, Altic?” The other aide, a mouse, just nodded.
“Where is the lord Mc’Kallen at the moment?” the general asked.
“Go fetch the lord advisor, Altic! Hop to it!” the ermine ordered, and the mouse raced off. Santena noticed that both seemed nervous. They were hiding something, and that something had to do with Jennter and the infirmary. Never mind that now, though, he’d have to ask Jennter himself.
Santena snapped back to the real world with a gasp of pain as the aide finally ripped away the shard of metal left from the first arrowhead. “Is it out now?” he screamed angrily. The ermine nodded, and wrapped something in cloth, setting it aside with some distaste obvious in his eyes. Santena grunted in pain and moved up on his cot for a more comfortable position, just as Jennter came through the door.
“Lieutenant! You’re awake!” the advisor exclaimed. Santena huffed. Why did Mc’Kallen insist on calling everybeast by their preliminary titles in the rebellion?
“Jennter, I’ve already told you, it’s General. No more of this ‘Lieutenant’ business. Now, what’s going on? And where’s my sword and Gethnoel?” Santena demanded.
“The king has left to negotiate further with Tiren Letren, and your sword . . .” Jennter flicked his paw, and another servant rushed in with a bundle, placing it on the bed and scurrying back out. Santena tore open the cloth. Inside laid his sword, snapped in two pieces, clean through the middle.
This brought back a rush of memories, blasting through his head all at once: huge armor, battle-axes, and thundering war-cries. “Did you say that the king went back to West Region?” Jennter nodded calmly. Santena strained and pushed himself to a sitting position. “When did they leave?” The general felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“This morning. They should be at the border now . . .”
“Stop them! He can’t go!” Santena said, panicked. “It’s a trap!”
“What do you mean?” the advisor asked. Santena shook his head furiously.
“The Mountainous Lands . . . I saw their warriors wearing Old Clandon gear, with curved weapons!” Santena pounded the covers in rage. “Tiren Letren, that backstabber! Two years, and he can’t see that all Gethnoel wants is peace! Mc’Kallen, get your tail on this . . . now!”
*****
Ithiniel was just as wary as his master by the king’s side. “Lord, I don’t think that it’s safe to be coming back into Letren’s territory, especially after what happened to Masters Mc’Seron and Ironpaw,” he whispered. The entire company was silent. The atmosphere was heavy, and prompted a creature to shut their mouths.
“Nonsense,” Gethnoel replied confidently. “He wouldn’t dare do anything as rash as what you’re obviously thinking he will.” The silvery FoxWolf marched on without hesitation. In the distance, his bodyguard could see Highlord Rock, and beyond that, the now-menacing peaks of the Mountainous Lands loomed on the horizon. “Oh, I don’t think . . . I know,” Ithiniel muttered. “That pompous power-hungry fool. He’ll do something, all right.” This brought another matter to mind, of much more interest to the young fox. “Your Highness? Where is the Spokesbeast’s daughter?”
“At the castle, in the second infirmary. Why?” Gethnoel looked at Ithiniel with a mischievous glint in his eyes, which surprised the fox. The young king was usually far more solemn.
“Er . . . uh . . . no reason,” the apprentice stammered. “Just curious, that’s all.” The uneasiness returned. “Did you send a message ahead, sire, to meet at Highlord Rock once more?”
“I did,” Gethnoel replied, the serious look back in his face. Suddenly, the easy-going attitude was dropped altogether. “Okay, maybe he will try something cranat. Rake, send three Swiftness Guild soldiers forward to clear the perimeter. Ithiniel, take an Instinct Guild with you and follow behind by forty meters. Earl Fent, that means you.” The ermine nodded and pulled his spear from his pack. “Move! Quickly!” Gethnoel ordered, no longer whispering.
Ithiniel watched and waited for the Swiftness soldiers to start moving. When they’d dashed far enough ahead, the fox and the earl dove into the grass and sparse snow, making themselves relatively unseen and still managing to keep pace with the runners. After another four hundred meters or so, Ithiniel and Fent popped their heads up to check on the runners.
They were gone. Ithiniel heard a scream of pain from his left, and dove back into the snow. Earl Fent had frozen where he stood. “What was that?” Ithiniel demanded. No answer. He stood up to pull the ermine back down, and Fent fell over . . . probably because of the long bolt in his neck. “Oh, no . . . the king!” Ithiniel stood up and recklessly charged back towards the group, where soldiers were falling all over the place, pierced by the poisonous missiles.
A thought entered his head, and the fox skidded to a stop. He spun around. There! Just as he’d turned, he caught sight of three black-cloaked figures peeking out from behind Highlord Rock itself. Quickly, the apprentice bodyguard switched directions and disappeared again. Quietly, trying not to step on any ice or dry grass, he stalked towards the tall pillar.
Soon, he lay less than ten feet from the front of the pillar, breathing hard. Bolts were still firing, but thankfully, the king and Rake had gotten behind a pile of bodies and were firing back with Gethnoel’s longbow. The assassins were hard put to avoid the long, silver and red arrows, but they obviously had more ammunition than the king.
Ithiniel flattened himself against the stone and drew his rapier. “Wait ‘til they shoot again,” he muttered. He heard the click-swish! of three crossbows firing from his left and right. The lithe white fox spun around the rock and crashed right into a retreating assassin. Before the Old Clandoner could react, his neck was separated from the rest of his body. The other two assassins raised their half loaded crossbows, but Ithiniel dashed forward and cut their strings, met by loud whines of resistance from the wood.
The pair drew their curved swords just in time to block two rapid-fire strokes from the apprentice’s sword, and suddenly three more creatures in dark cloaks appeared from the surrounding snow. Now both sides paused. “Surrender, by Doranfather,” Ithiniel ordered.
“Excuse me if I’m wrong, but you are the one outnumbered here,” the otter on his left rasped.
“No, you are wrong. I have two on my side, as well,” Ithiniel laughed. “One.” He pointed to himself. “Two.” He pointed to his sword, then up. In the time they took to figure out what he meant, he whispered three words to the pommel of his sword, his paw, and his necklace. “Ithiniel, Doran’s xenot.”
“What did you say . . . woah!” a rabbit gasped, and pulled out his knife and crossing it with his sword. The other four also assumed this defensive position, fear in their eyes. Ithiniel’s sword was glowing, as was his flame pendant. They were both glowing a fierce white. Unlike the light of the king’s power from Doran, this glow was all white, not silver, but somehow Ithiniel’s seemed more furious. Gethnoel’s words produced blunt power; Ithiniel’s had the look of strategic and sharp flames, flowing symmetrically around his sword and necklace. “Witch magic!” the rabbit yelled, then looked to his companions. “Cleanse Clandon!”
All five assassins attacked with ten blades. Ithiniel ducked the first blow, then brought his rapier up and sheared straight through -- yes, through -- the S-shaped blade. It fell apart in two halves, and so did the otter’s knife a few seconds later . . . joined by the otter’s cloaked head. Two more strokes, and the rabbit laid dead as well. Now Ithiniel only face three opponents, and the fire was more intense than ever. His eyes had turned silver like Gethnoel’s.
The fight had moved outward, now far away from Highlord Rock. Ithiniel froze, then turned and dashed towards the stone column. Confused, the assassins hesitated. Finally, an ermine started chasing after the fox, followed by the remaining lemming and wolf.
The young apprentice warrior ran in a way that let the assassins catch up, but not catch him. When he reached the rock, he ran up the side, flipped backwards, and landed behind the lemming and ermine with a double strike that dispatched both. The wolf dropped his sword and backed up against the rock. The fire was gone now, but Ithiniel was terrifying enough that the larger, stronger wolf cowered against the pillar with panic in his eyes. “Please . . . don’t kill me! I haven’t fulfilled arka!” he whimpered. Ithiniel frowned at the strange word.
“Arka? What does that mean?” The menacing tone was less, and the wolf relaxed a bit, but the panic didn’t disappear.
“It . . . it is a set of guidelines that Old Clandon must follow. If its objectives aren’t completed, my essence will vanish into the universe, never to be retrieved! Please, anything! Take me captive, take my sword away! I’m only doing as told, I swear! I . . .”
Ithiniel cut off the rambling creature with his sword point to its neck. “Fine. I’ll take you with me, if you throw away your sword and behave. I’ll have to tie you.” The wolf nodded gratefully, stepped to his sword, and threw it up in the air. Somehow, it landed tip first in the top of Highlord Rock. “Paws behind.” The Old Clandoner turned around, and Ithiniel secured his paws with a strip of leather. “Now, come with me. In front.” The wolf marched out in front of the apprentice, and in this way they made it back to the two remaining survivors.
Gethnoel nodded in approval. “Always practice mercy. Rake, take this one, and we’ll try to get back to Karenian alive soon . . .” He was interrupted by a huge roar and clash of steel. The king spun around. His eyes widened. “No!” he yelled. “Doran, help us!”
Polar bears.
Sacrifice
Santena.
In the old language it meant protector. Provider. Caretaker. It was even sometimes used to describe Doranfather, and was a high sign of respect. This name had inspired Ironpaw’s entire life and cause, pushing him to become the king’s bodyguard and guardian.
It also meant fire. Flames, heat, burning passionate fire. The kind of fire that would run rampant in a wild forest if you let it, the kind that could consume you in seconds. The kind that raged in Santena Ironpaw’s heart as his paws pounded the snow right now. The kind that made a warrior, a fighter.
These two words (protector and fire) were carved deep into the hilt of the wolf’s broadsword. These two words were his identity. These two words were the sounds that echoed in his mind as he ran. Ran to save his king. Ran to save his brother. Ran to save the FoxWolf that he had protected for two years.
Ran to save his apprentice. Ran to save his Lord’s chosens, ran to save the fox he’d brought up for two years.
*****
Ithiniel’s parents were worried. Santena and Gethnoel both looked at the young white fox and nodded to each other, both having the same thoughts sent them from Doran. Santena spoke them outloud. “Mr. and Mrs. Fex, your son is the FireXenot. Do you know what that is? He must come with us. You must have noticed something different?” he implored.
“No! Whenever a creature gets mixed up with you lot, he becomes all religious and wacked in the head!” the father protested. “He’s a normal teenage creature of West Region . . .”
“I hate to interrupt, but you’re flat-out wrong on that one,” Santena continued. “Gethnoel has already blessed your son’s gift, and given him the Amulet.” He pointed at a flashing silver item on Ithiniel’s neck. “So has Doranfather.”
Ithiniel’s mother panicked and dashed to her son, fumbling with the flame symbol and chain. “Take it off, son, take it off! It’s cursed by the gods, it’s . . .” she sobbed. Ithiniel shook his head and stepped back.
“No, it’s blessed by Doran. The king has been teaching me. There are no ‘gods’. Calm down, father, let Master Ironpaw explain,” the fox said calmly. His father hesitated, then finally nodded shakily.
“Your son is destined -- destined, mind you -- to be the greatest warrior in Clandoran. He is to become my advisor, body guard, and is to protect our kingdom from evil. He was chosen by Doran. He felt the call himself, and so did I and the king. We were led here. He wields the power of fire, already given him by the Almighty King, meant to help him. Show them, Ithiniel,” Santena added. Gethnoel stayed Ithiniel’s rising paw.
“Only a little bit. It is for dire circumstances and good causes.” The white fox nodded and gripped his pendant, the “Amulet”. The necklace had been blessed by Doran, as well, and was an accelerant for His power. Quietly, he raised his paw.
“Ithiniel, Doran’s xenot,” he whispered, and his sword ignited in a red flame. He focused, and the fire got hotter, turning blue. Finally, it swirled, turned white, and made a cross resembling the shape of the Clandonian landmass. His mother gasped and backed away. His father just looked confused. The fire vanished suddenly. Santena nodded in admiration.
“Get away! Take him away, take that cursed child from me!” Ithiniel’s mother screeched. The young fox gaped and stepped back like he’d been hit. “Get him away! Witch child! The universe rejects you!” Gethnoel shielded the other two, and for good reason, for the parents had suddenly drawn curved swords.
In one fell swoop, they had revealed their reasoning: Old Clandon had poisoned their minds. “Free Clandon!” the father yelled, and brought his sword down towards his son, his eyes turned black. The fourteen-year-old creature cried out in terror, but Santena’s own broadsword clashed into the older fox’s and threw it back. Ithiniel’s mother swung her weapon towards Gethnoel next, but the king’s mouth errupted into a frenzy of words -- “Et Doran’s uipta, luthen, pta cranathi!” -- and both foxes gasped, falling to the ground in two heaps. Black smoke rose from their bodies.
In shock, Ithiniel didn’t move. “Are they . . .?” he stammered. Gethnoel shook his head.
“Ithiniel, your parents were possessed by servants of the Shadow, Doran’s foe. You must stay away from them,” the FoxWolf said gently.
The young fox started breathing fast, to the point of hyperventilation. “Santena, quick, take him back to Karenian’s building site!” the king ordered, and the wolf scooped up his young charge. The general took off towards the east as rapidly as he possibly could.
*****
Captain Santena Ironpaw knelt on one knee before King Gethnoel. “For your wonderful service and bravery in the face of Gulrag Northwind’s army and the recent ordeal with Kallenian Snapclaw, I appoint you my Crown General and personal bodyguard. General Santena Ironpaw, rise and take your sword,” the king commanded. He took a sword from the pillow offered him by a small mouse aide, and, before the other commanders and soldiers there to watch, placed it carefully in the captain’s back scabbard.
Santena stood proudly. Only one year into service with the new king, and he was already Crown General. “Thank you, Your Highness . . .” The wolf paused and turned his face towards the heavens. “And thank you, Doranfather!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The crowd there applauded, and Santena followed his king off the stage towards the cluster of tents that surrounded the temple and palace building sites.
A few minutes later, sitting in his own tent, the new general took out his sword to examine it. It was a long, powerful blacksteel broadsword. Blacksteel was a very rare ore, and very expensive. The only exporters of the metal were the Mountainous Lands, and it was harder than diamond. It was imbedded in the pommel, as well, in the shape of a single flame. The flame had become the new symbol of Clandoran. It was repeated in Gethnoel’s crown, and in the silver and white gear that the White King and Santena now both wore.
The sword’s hilt was plain iron, as Santena had requested. He didn’t want any fancy trappings hindering him, or making him a target for robbery. Carved deep into the iron were two words, written in the old script: qinthi karetia. The first meant “consuming fire”, and the second “protector”. Both were definitions of Santena’s own name. “How did he know . . .?” the black wolf muttered. He’d never said anything of this to anybody.
*****
These things were pushing Santena onwards. The moment he’d heard when the king and apprentice had left, the general thundered out the castle gates, not even considering his injury. Two minutes later, Jennter had sent a regiment of soldiers after him, but the black wolf was long gone.
Santena didn’t even think about the logic of his charging headlong into the full army of the Mountainous Lands. All he knew was that he’d seen all of the polar bears in the Mountainous Lands dressed in dark cloaks and swinging curved battleaxes, and that he had to stop them from reaching his king. Ahead, in the dark hills, he heard a roar, and knew that he was almost there. “No!” he heard, and assumed this was the king.
“Doran, give me strength!” he panted, and a huge force propelled him over the next two hills, where he stood, breathing hard, looking down on the scene before him.
Polar bears in silver armor, wearing dark cloaks, lined the entire opposite ridge. In the valley below, near Highlord Rock, three figures wearing white stood still against the pillar. No, four, and one was wearing black. Of course, it was a small country, and the Lands’ army only consisted of about fivescore creatures, but they were all gigantic and terrifying.
Suddenly, the wolf felt a huge surge of courage within him, and he drew his sword as he charged down into the valley at the same time as the polar bears.
This would have been suicide if the regiment from Karenian hadn’t made wonderful time, appearing a split second later. Santena didn’t notice this: he was too busy seperating a bear’s axe paw from its arm. The creature roared in pain, exposing its neck, and Santena took advantage of this as well. The wolf roared right back. His sword was a flurry of destruction, an extention of his arm.
The other creatures did not fare as well. Cries of terror errupted all over the battlefield as the polar bears destroyed the ranks of the castle regiment. In the center of the valley, Ithiniel and Gethnoel were wreaking havoc, but they couldn’t keep it up for long. It exhausted them. Santena forced his way through the carnage towards them. “Ithiniel! Ithiniel!” he screamed, thrusting his sword into the visor of a nearby bear’s helmet.
The apprentice warrior fought his way towards his master. “What is it?!” he shouted.
“Take the king and get back to the city!” the wolf ordered, parrying a battleaxe strike as his apprentice sheared straight through it.
“No! What about you?!”
“Forget me! Get Gethnoel, and that prisoner of yours, and get your damned tail back to Karenian! It’s no use if you’re both dead! Your power can’t last forever! Now, get going! NOW!!!” The young fox hesitated, then leapt onto and off of a bear’s back, landing beside Gethnoel.
The pair grabbed the prisoner and fought to the edge of the battle, then broke away from the fighting. Ithiniel paused on the top of the hill.
Santena was fighting for his life against four polar bears. He sliced across the haft of the first axe, then parried a sword’s lunge. In a final, desperate act, he gave a tremendous cry of, “The White King!” and dove, sword outstretched, into the center of the group, slashing left and right and taking two more with him, before a burning sensation and darkness overtook him.
Ithiniel caught his breath as he saw his master’s broke body thrown across the battlefield.
Frozen once more with shock, the fox watched as he lost yet another father, crying out in pain. Fury filled his eyes. “Nooooooo!!!” he screamed, snatching at his sword. Gethnoel grabbed the young fox, abandoning the prisoner, and ran off towards Karenian, dragging Ithiniel away from his second father.
Tears filled Gethnoel’s eyes.
Those same tears were reflected in Ithiniel’s eyes, seven times over.
In the old language it meant protector. Provider. Caretaker. It was even sometimes used to describe Doranfather, and was a high sign of respect. This name had inspired Ironpaw’s entire life and cause, pushing him to become the king’s bodyguard and guardian.
It also meant fire. Flames, heat, burning passionate fire. The kind of fire that would run rampant in a wild forest if you let it, the kind that could consume you in seconds. The kind that raged in Santena Ironpaw’s heart as his paws pounded the snow right now. The kind that made a warrior, a fighter.
These two words (protector and fire) were carved deep into the hilt of the wolf’s broadsword. These two words were his identity. These two words were the sounds that echoed in his mind as he ran. Ran to save his king. Ran to save his brother. Ran to save the FoxWolf that he had protected for two years.
Ran to save his apprentice. Ran to save his Lord’s chosens, ran to save the fox he’d brought up for two years.
*****
Ithiniel’s parents were worried. Santena and Gethnoel both looked at the young white fox and nodded to each other, both having the same thoughts sent them from Doran. Santena spoke them outloud. “Mr. and Mrs. Fex, your son is the FireXenot. Do you know what that is? He must come with us. You must have noticed something different?” he implored.
“No! Whenever a creature gets mixed up with you lot, he becomes all religious and wacked in the head!” the father protested. “He’s a normal teenage creature of West Region . . .”
“I hate to interrupt, but you’re flat-out wrong on that one,” Santena continued. “Gethnoel has already blessed your son’s gift, and given him the Amulet.” He pointed at a flashing silver item on Ithiniel’s neck. “So has Doranfather.”
Ithiniel’s mother panicked and dashed to her son, fumbling with the flame symbol and chain. “Take it off, son, take it off! It’s cursed by the gods, it’s . . .” she sobbed. Ithiniel shook his head and stepped back.
“No, it’s blessed by Doran. The king has been teaching me. There are no ‘gods’. Calm down, father, let Master Ironpaw explain,” the fox said calmly. His father hesitated, then finally nodded shakily.
“Your son is destined -- destined, mind you -- to be the greatest warrior in Clandoran. He is to become my advisor, body guard, and is to protect our kingdom from evil. He was chosen by Doran. He felt the call himself, and so did I and the king. We were led here. He wields the power of fire, already given him by the Almighty King, meant to help him. Show them, Ithiniel,” Santena added. Gethnoel stayed Ithiniel’s rising paw.
“Only a little bit. It is for dire circumstances and good causes.” The white fox nodded and gripped his pendant, the “Amulet”. The necklace had been blessed by Doran, as well, and was an accelerant for His power. Quietly, he raised his paw.
“Ithiniel, Doran’s xenot,” he whispered, and his sword ignited in a red flame. He focused, and the fire got hotter, turning blue. Finally, it swirled, turned white, and made a cross resembling the shape of the Clandonian landmass. His mother gasped and backed away. His father just looked confused. The fire vanished suddenly. Santena nodded in admiration.
“Get away! Take him away, take that cursed child from me!” Ithiniel’s mother screeched. The young fox gaped and stepped back like he’d been hit. “Get him away! Witch child! The universe rejects you!” Gethnoel shielded the other two, and for good reason, for the parents had suddenly drawn curved swords.
In one fell swoop, they had revealed their reasoning: Old Clandon had poisoned their minds. “Free Clandon!” the father yelled, and brought his sword down towards his son, his eyes turned black. The fourteen-year-old creature cried out in terror, but Santena’s own broadsword clashed into the older fox’s and threw it back. Ithiniel’s mother swung her weapon towards Gethnoel next, but the king’s mouth errupted into a frenzy of words -- “Et Doran’s uipta, luthen, pta cranathi!” -- and both foxes gasped, falling to the ground in two heaps. Black smoke rose from their bodies.
In shock, Ithiniel didn’t move. “Are they . . .?” he stammered. Gethnoel shook his head.
“Ithiniel, your parents were possessed by servants of the Shadow, Doran’s foe. You must stay away from them,” the FoxWolf said gently.
The young fox started breathing fast, to the point of hyperventilation. “Santena, quick, take him back to Karenian’s building site!” the king ordered, and the wolf scooped up his young charge. The general took off towards the east as rapidly as he possibly could.
*****
Captain Santena Ironpaw knelt on one knee before King Gethnoel. “For your wonderful service and bravery in the face of Gulrag Northwind’s army and the recent ordeal with Kallenian Snapclaw, I appoint you my Crown General and personal bodyguard. General Santena Ironpaw, rise and take your sword,” the king commanded. He took a sword from the pillow offered him by a small mouse aide, and, before the other commanders and soldiers there to watch, placed it carefully in the captain’s back scabbard.
Santena stood proudly. Only one year into service with the new king, and he was already Crown General. “Thank you, Your Highness . . .” The wolf paused and turned his face towards the heavens. “And thank you, Doranfather!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The crowd there applauded, and Santena followed his king off the stage towards the cluster of tents that surrounded the temple and palace building sites.
A few minutes later, sitting in his own tent, the new general took out his sword to examine it. It was a long, powerful blacksteel broadsword. Blacksteel was a very rare ore, and very expensive. The only exporters of the metal were the Mountainous Lands, and it was harder than diamond. It was imbedded in the pommel, as well, in the shape of a single flame. The flame had become the new symbol of Clandoran. It was repeated in Gethnoel’s crown, and in the silver and white gear that the White King and Santena now both wore.
The sword’s hilt was plain iron, as Santena had requested. He didn’t want any fancy trappings hindering him, or making him a target for robbery. Carved deep into the iron were two words, written in the old script: qinthi karetia. The first meant “consuming fire”, and the second “protector”. Both were definitions of Santena’s own name. “How did he know . . .?” the black wolf muttered. He’d never said anything of this to anybody.
*****
These things were pushing Santena onwards. The moment he’d heard when the king and apprentice had left, the general thundered out the castle gates, not even considering his injury. Two minutes later, Jennter had sent a regiment of soldiers after him, but the black wolf was long gone.
Santena didn’t even think about the logic of his charging headlong into the full army of the Mountainous Lands. All he knew was that he’d seen all of the polar bears in the Mountainous Lands dressed in dark cloaks and swinging curved battleaxes, and that he had to stop them from reaching his king. Ahead, in the dark hills, he heard a roar, and knew that he was almost there. “No!” he heard, and assumed this was the king.
“Doran, give me strength!” he panted, and a huge force propelled him over the next two hills, where he stood, breathing hard, looking down on the scene before him.
Polar bears in silver armor, wearing dark cloaks, lined the entire opposite ridge. In the valley below, near Highlord Rock, three figures wearing white stood still against the pillar. No, four, and one was wearing black. Of course, it was a small country, and the Lands’ army only consisted of about fivescore creatures, but they were all gigantic and terrifying.
Suddenly, the wolf felt a huge surge of courage within him, and he drew his sword as he charged down into the valley at the same time as the polar bears.
This would have been suicide if the regiment from Karenian hadn’t made wonderful time, appearing a split second later. Santena didn’t notice this: he was too busy seperating a bear’s axe paw from its arm. The creature roared in pain, exposing its neck, and Santena took advantage of this as well. The wolf roared right back. His sword was a flurry of destruction, an extention of his arm.
The other creatures did not fare as well. Cries of terror errupted all over the battlefield as the polar bears destroyed the ranks of the castle regiment. In the center of the valley, Ithiniel and Gethnoel were wreaking havoc, but they couldn’t keep it up for long. It exhausted them. Santena forced his way through the carnage towards them. “Ithiniel! Ithiniel!” he screamed, thrusting his sword into the visor of a nearby bear’s helmet.
The apprentice warrior fought his way towards his master. “What is it?!” he shouted.
“Take the king and get back to the city!” the wolf ordered, parrying a battleaxe strike as his apprentice sheared straight through it.
“No! What about you?!”
“Forget me! Get Gethnoel, and that prisoner of yours, and get your damned tail back to Karenian! It’s no use if you’re both dead! Your power can’t last forever! Now, get going! NOW!!!” The young fox hesitated, then leapt onto and off of a bear’s back, landing beside Gethnoel.
The pair grabbed the prisoner and fought to the edge of the battle, then broke away from the fighting. Ithiniel paused on the top of the hill.
Santena was fighting for his life against four polar bears. He sliced across the haft of the first axe, then parried a sword’s lunge. In a final, desperate act, he gave a tremendous cry of, “The White King!” and dove, sword outstretched, into the center of the group, slashing left and right and taking two more with him, before a burning sensation and darkness overtook him.
Ithiniel caught his breath as he saw his master’s broke body thrown across the battlefield.
Frozen once more with shock, the fox watched as he lost yet another father, crying out in pain. Fury filled his eyes. “Nooooooo!!!” he screamed, snatching at his sword. Gethnoel grabbed the young fox, abandoning the prisoner, and ran off towards Karenian, dragging Ithiniel away from his second father.
Tears filled Gethnoel’s eyes.
Those same tears were reflected in Ithiniel’s eyes, seven times over.
The White King Legends are © 2017 WhiteFire.