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 separating 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 extension of his arm. The other creatures did not fare as well. Cries of terror erupted 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.
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I'm assuming that at least one or two of you Clandonians have noticed that I started by calling Ithiniel a wolf, but somewhere ended up calling him a fox. I apologize, I didn't see this myself. He IS, in fact, a fox. I may change this in the first stories, but don't know if I'll have time. I liked the wolf image, at first, but gravitated toward the weaker fox later because Ithiniel's powers would make him too strong for the storyline.
Speaking of which, I'll explain his fire powers later. - WhiteFire 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. Hey, all! WhiteFire here. Sorry about the long wait. I've had a major case of writer's block, and haven't had time to work on the Legends site due to my working my butt off to get this podcast and newsletter ready for all of you. It's gonna be HUGE (to quote Donald Trump)!
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AuthorI love fiction, fantasy, roleplaying, and reading. Nice to meet you too. All of my tales are little kid-friendly, except perhaps a few stories in the Rogue Captain universe. Those are more geared towards teens. Check with your parents, just in case. Archives
August 2019
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