Roger
Aaaahhooo! That announced the day's troop come to an end as the soldiers unwounded in their minds and looked forward longingly so camp's cosiness. They were in a vulnerable position, geographically, yet the soldiers were worn and denying rest would be a sin. On all the sides, mountains surrounded them, and an unnatural mist hung as moonlight, from the east, penetrated with difficulty giving an eerie glow to the fog whereas, the other side glowed with an orangish hue from the sun, setting in the west. The moon was waning. Roger hoped that the king's rule wasn't.
They had crossed the Valley and were edging out of the Miros Range. He could sight many frozen rivers patted on the mountainsides; water flowed through them as sheens of water droplets.
Roger stared briefly at the sunset, edging on the horizon at the west, and so did Rulerstead and the Valley's mighty host — 10000 veteran archers, 25000 mounted warriors and the pulp - 5000 elephant riders. The elephant riders could slice through foot-soldiers as easy as a knife through butter. He was also proud of his all cavalry army, which none but Rulerstead could boast. What completed the host were the polished archers of the Valley. He should have rejoiced, yet he couldn't wipe the frown off his face.
The Lord of the Valley, Fletcher Greenwood, stood beside him. It was time for their daily scouting. They choose a mountain, Roger no longer troubling with the mountain's name, and climbed to some height.
Cold winds tugged savagely on him and the commander, attempting to snatch them from the mountain's surface and toss them into the open sky. He had to do this every day to get a clear view of what challenges lay ahead and how had the ice boulders shifted causing changes in their route. The scouts of the Valley were however well-informed, and they hadn't had any changes or new difficulties.
The trouble would start once they left the cold shelter of Miros Range. They would be in the enemy territory then, open to harrying from opposing armies. The snow had covered his shoes as if the mountain had shot an angry, icy hand at him. He couldn't wait to return to the ground. Lord Fletcher was climbing with a grim face, a robust bow in one hand and a green cloak pulling on his neck. Lord Fletcher had a bald head and a brown, imposing beard. Roger's own white stubble seemed a joke in front of it. His attention spurred to a piece of water, something he hadn't seen till now. It was only visible through a precise, narrow angle. It was the ocean he realised with shock! He could look at the see even from such a large distance to the coast.
The wind suddenly picked up and maimed them both with snowballs as hard as hailstones. The sleet of snow had gotten too thick, making everything obscure. He heard a shout from Fletcher, the words unclear. Roger assumed them to be 'return' and started backing down. The wind howled like a banshee; the sudden ferocity surreal. He could after some time make out a figure trudging behind him. Most probably Fletcher, he thought and shouldered his way down.
They were nearing the base when the wind faded, and all the snow settled down. He looked behind and saw Fletcher wading through knee-deep snow.
Shock was evident on his face. Fletcher saw it and reacted, "Relax. We can survive a day with only my scout's knowledge." Roger's mind was fixed on another detail: the wind had picked up the moment he had sighted the ocean. Someone didn't want him to see that. Who could it be? His first doubt was Fletcher as Fletcher had been the only one who had been with him and could have known, easily, that he had sighted the ocean. However, the magic needed to summon that maelstrom was something Lord Fletcher did not possess. Yet it didn't mean that Fletcher was not behind this. For all he knew, Fletcher could have informed a powerful mage who could have pulled this off. It could be someone else altogether. It could be a god meddling too. Or it could be a mere coincidence. He wouldn't know but he would learn it. As his father had said, "Time is the best teacher." Nukaton, the great historian had declared that that proverb explained every god's might.
Upon reaching the base, more ominous activity came with the general. The general complained idiotically, pointing to a man in shackles brought with him, "He was caught stealing food from another soldier's platter". Roger speculated for a moment and then said, "The penalty is ...". His voice trailed off when he saw his nephew, 10 years old, King of Cobardon and Rulerstead still playing with his stupid dolls. It changed his mind, and he completed, "... death! Get the prince."
An annoyed nephew returned, pouting childishly, with a servant. When he saw a man chained and tied his face portrayed unforeseen horror and tears welled in his eyes. Rodger was too annoyed by the idiosyncrasies of those around him. He said, in a tone that brooked no argument, to the prince, "Straighten your face. People don't like a weak king." His nephew's face hardened a little.
Rodger unsheathed his great-sword and marched to the felon. He announced in a confident, well-versed voice, "Your ignoble life comes to an end by the noble hands of the king's regent." The prince dropped all pretence of bravery. Robert ignored it, raised the great-sword and brought it down in a mighty swing ... chop! The severed head tumbled to the ground, and the body twitched before it lifelessly slumped. The immobile body strained against the chains binding him. He turned his head to face a nephew sobbing like cattle to be slaughtered next.
A fear, too great to bear, which he knew had existed since long, had returned. Roger had attempted evading it with no success. It echoed in his mind, breaking him internally.
He was old and not a shadow as skilful and valiant as he had been in his youth. What would happen to his nephew if he died, and death would come, sooner or later. He wished better later than sooner.
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Taperend
The host of Napemol and Dupark were crossing the river Maimer in the Mirzec forest. They had entered the Mirzec forest two days ago and now the host was crossing from the river's south bank to the river's north bank. Taperend already had crossed the river. He saw the Lord of Dupark sitting smugly atop an exotic horse breed he had not seen before. He swung to the west and tried to spot the river Trinier. The spot where Trinier and Maimer converged was held sacred to the goddess Raguela.
Four days ago, he had spotted the city of Dupark when he was atop a miniature hill. At that moment he had battled the urge to desert the armies and head to Dupark. Self-discipline. He had reprimanded himself on those thoughts. More, he had reminded himself that if were to stick to the plan he would get to arrive at Dupark and conduct his activities with pleasure and ample time. False hope most probably, he had realised the irony with a musing smile.
Well, he said to himself, right now I head where I had planned, and I head there on schedule.
The trees had started to shake and sprinkle millions of withered leaves on the trade routes giving it a scenic appearance. A cold wind from the east tugged on the branches and trees sagged, receding slowly against the wind. We all recede against nature – trees, humans, animals, birds, water, stone, wind, earth and sky and everything that made up nature was itself battered by nature, he realised. Even the gods were not immune to this! And yet, nature itself receded against the unconquerable and indomitable force well known as 'time'. Aye, he grasped, time is the maker and the breaker. The cycle of destruction and prosperity, breaking and making, repeated again and again under the name of 'the circle of life' until life became its own demise and ceased itself.
Taperend tried to reign in his thoughts. Such a bleak philosophy would achieve him nothing. But what he was trying to achieve, was it too nothing to the eyes of the immortal 'time'? How would he define something's value? Even a sip of water is more valuable than the largest diamond to a person trampling through the Barren Lands, his/her throat parched bone-dry. It seems everything's value is subjective to one's situation. Time itself changes in value. 10 seconds are nothing to a god, but it is everything to a person on his dying breath. Maybe wisdom is determining time as invaluable, indifferent to one's situation. Maybe if one devoted their life, they could judge and determine the true value of everything. And maybe, then they may arrive at the conclusion that everything is equally valuable. How any sane person could arrive at such a conclusion, Taperend could not comprehend nor fathom.
Taperend sighed. With such thoughts racing through his mind he was deemed to spend a sleepless night.
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