The Spanish Sagas!

[History Guy]

Hail, citizens of all the world!

I, Hernan de History Guy Calamari the Younger, represent a small portion of the great people of Spain [Roleplay], which, as you know, owns a certain secret called the Alphabet. Now, over time, we have built up our own histories and sagas based on this language of ours, and the greatest are the Madridian Sagas that pertain to ancient Spanish history. Here is an example in eight parts. I have written the first three, and over the next week or so the last five will be out too. I hope you all appreciate this, a taste of Spanish culture.

And now, I speak of a King, failing and old, a king of Spain, thane lord Enerotogo, the son's son's son's son of Togas, and one of the earliest kings of Spain. He is dying, and his third son is the subject of the saga...
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THE SAGA OF EUSTOGKARO HORSE-FACE

The death of Togatxall I was on a summer day 180 years from the day of the battle of the Plains of Santiago, where Togas I, magnificent, war-maker, glorious builder of empire, expander of kingdom, defender of his people, slew the tyrant Alaric, King of the Visigoths and the Vandals, who crawled upon the earth, and he, Togas, united Spain as a kingdom, a free and whole people, undivided, but one. 180 years later to the day, another king died, another crown dropped to the earth. But on this day, it was not a great king-warrior who picked up the crown, but an evil man of such terrible power as never Madrid had seen before.

The day before, Togatxall lay on his death-bed. The sun shined down on him, bathing him in glory, though he knew he was dying. The wine he drank tasted as vinegar, and he could barely lift the cup. He lay there, the peach blossoms falling from the trees and covering him, and Ardergrin Swan-hair fed him there. As he bit into the squid, he thought back on the days of the kings of old. He lay there, watching nature around him, on a platform of stone, outside his palace, elevated far above the common people, watching the bird flocks circle. They circled on this day in the wrong way, and Togatxall knew that he was doomed to death.

Gathered round him were his oldest advisors and ministers. Lorenzo Clemente, the old chief advisor, Chancellor of the Left, an old man, but wise, and forever sharp. He stood watching the king, and his eyes rested on the king’s third son, Eustogkaro Horse-face. Eustogkaro was the third son, the third manifestation of his flesh. There could be no forth. The mother had died in childbirth, breathing her last to give the child his first, but some said he was not worth it. He was boneless, and yellow in flesh, like a death man, with skin that should have been rotting, and eyes like those of snakes. He face was long and bony like that of a horse, and his eyes were sunken, blue, and evil. Hatred burned in them, and in his twisted, inhuman form, he harbored great evil, for the dark spirits favored him, and he burned only to them, his devil-sacrifice, his offerings of unholy blood.

Also there stood the twenty-four men, the leaders of the old clans, united by Togas the Great on Santiago Field, who have stormed and burned Madrid, and conquered the Visigoths, and flattened the Vandals, and formed the kingdom on the rocks of the bones of the giants. Hastragal Gisgar there stood, a fine man he, but one of failing morals. The Torquemada were his kin, but they hated him still, for he sought only power, and misused it then. He was the Watcher, and he had done well, but now he was himself failing, and in danger. There stood Poupon Dejon, warrior-prince, of the oldest family of warriors. He had seen such days of blood and glory as none ever had. He was skillful of the axe, and he kept it sharp and painful. A fool would cross him, but no wit would do so. Astronicus stood there also, withered and ancient, his eyes fading from years of planning glorious architecture. His mind filled with the designs of the kingdom. Roberto Ninot there stood also, a man of few scruples, but a fine governor, the mayor of Madrid, and wise province-leader. There were also many more tribesmen, thanes all, but among them all, none was better than the High Priest, Tacticus, a great man, unequalled on all the earth.

“The kingdom,” spake Togatxall, aged and infirm, his weak voice arising from the bed of death, “shall not be divided, for stand it would not. It shall be given over whole. Madness over takes me, indeed it does, but I make this decision with the last vestiges of my sanity, the shreds of my sense. The kingdom shall be given to my first son, for three there were, and two there remain. The eldest, Enerotogo Gray-beard, he shall be king, the crown shall be his, on his pate it shall lie, and no man shall remove it, or suffer my curse, till his last breath is drawn. My second son, I regret, is dead these twelve years, for he died in a storm at sea. The third son, Eustogkaro Horse-face, is most cunning at all, and he shall be, the Chancellor of the Right, second only to the king, and sharing power with Clemente.

“In this way shall kings be decided. When Enertogo falls, so his family shall reign, Togatxall, his son, shall be first in line, and if he falls, Enerotogo the Younger, his son, shall be next in line, and then if they leave no sons of their own, the line of Eustogkaro shall reign on the throne of Madrid, and may they all rule wisely and peacefully.”

“I thank ye, father,” spake Enerotogo, diving to the floor, snatching up the withered hand, and kissing the ring of power. The withered hand slowly rose, and placed itself onto Enerotogo’s head. “Arise, my son, for ye too are far too old to kneel before me. I reigned too long, and used up thy time far too long. I fear thine young and impetuous son shall inherit far too early for his good, for he is bold and rash and foolish. May Petronius guide him further in the ways of kingship, so that he may learn, and his kingdom be great.”

The son, Togatxall, his hair long, his beard coming in, his eyes wild, bowed his head solemnly. He was too young and adventurous, and he was too immature. He favored the hunt to all else, and he cared little for governing. A poor king indeed he would make. The second son, Enerotogo, a mere boy, was too young to tell.

Silently watching, Eustogkaro thought to himself, “Would it be so bold as to strike this evening to gain the throne I deserve? No, me thinks. The king is old, he is dying anyway, it would not be bold to kill him now, if it looked sincere enough. If, me thinks, he were to die coughing up his phlegm, and suffocating on it, it would appear natural. His mouth is ringed in it, and so I have the chance. If tonight, it would look like a natural death, coughing to death on his vomit, and dying of that, as many have done before him. Many men have fallen in the past in such an ignoble way. Nothing would be thought of it now, me thinks.”

Eustogkaro dreamt of the crown on his head. As a boy, he had felt it over, and longed for it to be placed on his pate, to deck his hideous and twisted body, his deformed, devilish soul made manifest in the cripple’s trunk. Glorious kingship he dreamt, and it were only accessible now, the old fool had made it so. Were the old king’s old son to die prematurely, nothing could be thought of it. If the sons were to die, what of it? Then the line would be open for the only real king among them. Eustogkaro’s twisted, evil plans conflicted with nothing of his, for he bore no emotions, other than lust and greed. He was filled with twisted avarice, and the kingdom was his quarry. Like the hunter, he would not care if he killed for it.

Then, thunder roared on high, booming thunder-clap, ripping the air, sending down a cry like the demons of hell. Then came the rain, pelting the old king, and the wind, driving the peach blossoms off of his bearskin cloak. His bed became wet as the Watcher cried to the thanes, “Bring the king inside”. The huge oaken doors, tall as three homes, made by giants, taller nine times than a man, swung open at the bidding of the High Priest, and the thanes carried in the litter with the body of the king inside. Thanes were everywhere in the palace, and they gathered round.

“I thank you,” said the king, “but it is late now. Dinner is over, and the last of the beef for this evening eaten. The squid bowls are empty, the Calamari’s purse is fuller, the wine is downed, and the wood is on the fire. Return home, all gracious thanes, to your wives, and ride fast, for the rain is coming down hard tonight. I wish to be alone, for I feel that the spirits truly will come to collect me tonight, and curse the man who watches as the spirits come.”

The thanes lined up in a row, and each laid kisses upon the ring of power, which was fixed upon the king’s long, bony middle finger, and which had, so they say, been fashioned for the first king of the tribes, Toganius, by the first High Priest, Dertichek, the grandfather of Tacticus by forty generations of men. With this, they were off, mounting their rides, and making for their homes, thane halls most glorious, where men most valorous had made home for many generations. The king was left to his own, even beauteous Ardergrin was now gone to her husband, and the king lay back in silence. There was quiet in the hall of El Escorial, and the cold was there too, helped only by the bearskin rug, the giant roaring fireplace, which left great black marks from ages and ages of use, and the mead-goblet he bore in his hand.

“Father,” said the familiar, hissing, silky voice, coming from the shadows beneath the pillars, near the door, “I have alone stayed.”’

“Eustogkaro, you must leave, my son. I ordered everyone to go, and so they did, thane lords most worthy. Why have you alone stayed, my son? Do you not know that the hour is late, tomorrow is nigh, and the feast of Santiago dawns shortly? Do you not know that I feel my age will claim me, and that the spirits will come this night for collection? Do you not know that you are too near me, and that the spirits will have no mercy on your soul if you stay in spite?”

“I have no fear. It is not to your spirits I pray. Mightier hear me.”

“Have note, my son, that you are leading a dangerous path. I may be old, and my mind may be faltering, but I know that if you ignore the spirits, they shall have their wrath. Evil spirits are not to be trusted, for they themselves can only bring evil. They are limited, my son, just as one could expect. I beg you to trust in others…”

“Enough, old fool. I come to kill you, not hear your lectures. If I wanted that I could have gone to Tacticus. There is much work to be done tonight, and the time is fleeting.” The evil son then gripped a pillow, ripping it out from beneath the old king’s head, and held it on high.

“My son…! May the spirits have mercy on us both! This night shall be my day of reckoning, but I am prepared. Are you for yours?”

“Enough!” The pillow came down, but gently. The prince whispered into the king’s ear, “Here me out first, fool. You shall die now, but your first son shall not live long either. He has seizures, he cannot survive the year. His first son shall not survive him, and his second shall never reign. I shall be the king, and nothing will stop it. Know that your seed shall be crushed in him, but shall only survive in me! Long have I been ignored and hated, but I shall yet be king, and it shall be fitting that the line shall be my child in the end, for I am the one who deserves it most. Now die!”

The pillow came down, and down. The king lost himself in its folds, and vanished beneath it. He uttered a prayer, and spoke no more. The goblet clattered to the floor.

“The deed is done. Phlegm coats his lips. I shall depart. When he is found, it shall be seen as unfortunate, but as natural, something expected at his age. Me thinks that the first stage in my work is over.”

The prince turned, but his gaze was caught momentarily on the golden ring on the king’s head, the ancient crown of old. The crown had seen many masters. The prince took it up in his hand, looking it over, as he had done so in his youth. He then placed it on his head, and laughed.
-

[History Guy]

An arrow shot through the crisp air, cutting through the breeze, the shaft wafting through the sky, clipping the heavens. The flaming arrow embedded itself into the pyre, alighting the timbers, burning the wood. Ebbed on by the air, caught in a breeze, the flame spread over the pyre, engulfing it in heat-flame, fiery tongues covering. And fallen Togatxall, thane lord glorious, king of the past, once mighty and noble but now food of worms, cloaked in ermine, and bear-skin mantle, that day did catch the flame, and it held above him, engulfing the old body, and burning it away, disappearing slowly, the sword in his hand vanishing before him, who crinkled away like wax to a flame.

Thus was buried Togatxall, noble thane lord, king of the Spanish. And so a man died, and another took his place, like the phoenix arising from the ashes.

An aged man, the next of kin, Enerotogo Grey-beard, thane lord’s son, heir to Togas, mighty warrior, dead these many years, joined his ancestors. Enerotogo Grey-beard was King now, son of the dead king, and king eternal. And as the body of the past king burned away, Enerotogo mounted the stairs to the Spirit House of the High Priest, where Tacticus, gray and aged, High Priest most ancient, stood between servants, held aloft, gazing heaven-ward, towards the abode of spirits. Beside him stood Calamari, young and fresh, the High Priest’s assistant, dedicated and ready, loyal servant of the High Priest. The new king mounted, and bowed before them, the Priests of the Flame, holiest of Madrid.

“Come,” said the High Priest, and lead the man onward, into the bows of the temple, darkness surrounded, only a flame illuminating the forms in the room, the holiest of buildings, to be visited only twice by the king. The High Priest stretched out his hand, and unheard by the people, said a prayer to himself, and picked up the oil.

As time passed, the king emerged, his crown bearing, his head decked by the sacred symbols. His head was anointed with the oils of kingship, and his hands were full, in one hand his scepter, in one hand his orb. “Hail, Enerotogo, King of the Spanish, Lord of the Visigoths, Overlord of the Vandals, Thane Lord Eternal, Spain-head forever, servant of the spirits.”

And Eustogkaro Horse-face watched from his balcony, his hand on the stones, cold and hard, his twisted body filled with silent rage, shaking blithely, unnoticed by all. “The throne is mine,” he said to himself, “I shall have what is mine, and me thinks nothing stands in me way. I can overcome all, Ersgoth behind me, Ersgoth magnificent and horrible demon-prince. The throne is mine, and though my brother owns it, he is old and advanced of age, too long had my father reigned, robbing his first-born of his years to rule, and his second son also, paving the way for the third. A fool he was, and a fool he died, blessed by the spirits, but cursed by all men. It is my seed shall survive onward, not his, to be exterminated with the others, to survive only in me, kindled as a flame by the High Priest and his lackey.”

The eyes of the prince filled with rage, a dark flame burning in the pupils. His withered face, aged too soon, was hidden now by his head of ringlets, black as ebony, dark as obsidian. “When the elderly prophets spoke of the third son, the one who would conquer the seed, and alone he command, they spoke of me, and I shall enforce it, dark lord of Iberia, I alone shall rule, unhindered by all, lord of many, thanes will bow before me, lord of the peoples, king of the slaves of the Visigoth kingdoms. All bow before me, men of the earth, men of the sky, monsters of the land, monsters of the sea, giants of men, and giants of squid, all shall bow before me, ogres and kraken, I shall rule eternal, guided by Ersgoth, dark king of the demons.”

On the balcony nearby he spied three more figures, two clothed in black, and one in bright red. The red one stood lonely, aged and withered, but sharp and swift, cunning and clever. Clemente the Chancellor stood before him, watching the pyre, and the kingship below. “Deep in my heart, I feel he is too clever, too observant, too thoughtful, he knows far too much. Like his father before him, a wise man of government, wiser than most men, and highest thane of the kingdom. His daughter I want, Morgana Clemente, beauteous lady of the palace, wise maiden. He does not trust me, he knows too much, perhaps a wedding would cement bonds between us, would soften his heart…”

The woman beside Clemente, clothed in black, was radiant with beauty, like a star of the heavens, like a mermaid of water, or an elf of the woods. “Morgana Clemente, beauteous daughter of the Chancellor, she will replace my dead wife, withered with age and child bearing, died of a son, like the husband she had. Morgana is engaged to me, pressured by kingdom, lust for more power, and hopes of a son. Her father distrusts me, but pays a great dowry, me thinks can be won, if the bond is enough. Love can melt hearts, if well demonstrated, if the imitation is right from her and from I. Me thinks he can be won, but it cannot be told until the day comes, four nights and one. Then I shall be husband, and she wife, and we shall be one, and she shall have child, and I shall have prince, and king shall be I, and queen she, eternally reigning, by the demons blessed. Thus it shall be.”

Then last, Eustogkaro glanced down further, to a figure in black, tall and strong, his black beard graying, his black cloak of fur bristling with metal, a martial man he. The Watcher stood doing his trade, merely watching, the new king, his master, walking back down the stairs. The sun shone down, revealing the face of the Watcher, Hastragal Gisgar, trusted spymaster.

“Me thinks this one is the most unusual to master, the easiest to win, but hardest to master. He loves his master, but loves power greater, and will do anything to save it, even kill a prince, and kill one he may, if my slave he becomes. Gisgar is hated, the Torquemada despite him, though he is their brother, their own blood and kin. Gisgar is foolish, though a good spymaster, if a story is told to him well, he sees no defense but to believe it. Gisgar will be one, but will he ever be mastered? Me thinks he is a pawn, but one that must be let go of, to be disposed of when necessary, when no longer useful. For the day will come that he puts things together, that he realizes the truth, and fights me with force. That day cannot come, for the danger would be unfortunate, and danger there would be, so come it cannot.”

“Gisgar,” said Horse-face, crowing aloud, “Come along, sir, fly quickly!” said he, gesturing with finger. Eustogkaro retreated, into the shadows, away from the balcony, to the throne room beyond. He retreated yet further, past the doors of oak, and down the stairs, to the shrine beyond. The crowd had vanished, the king had entered the palace of stone, and the temple abandoned, even by the High Priest, for the crowning ceremony within the throne room.

Eustogkaro slithered keenly, his pace strangely quickened, though usually held down by his twisted, humped form. He walked over the road, and to the shrine beyond, and the Watcher closely followed, Gisgar walking quickly, as though some plot was already being invented.

“Down the stairs, Gisgar,” came the silky voice, from a cavern below, down beside the temple, below into the antechamber, behind the holiest of objects, the sacred flame itself. “Here we shall not be disturbed, Gisgar, not even the High Priest, ancient and watchful, is present here now, with the crowning above. Down here, in the holiest of places, only two men enter, the High Priest himself, and the Assistant, Calamari, to tend the dear flame.”

“But your Highness, this place is so holy, nothing equals it in all the world, brought by the spirits, this flame has burned here, never going out, since the dawn of mankind. For twenty thousand years this flame has burned, only the holiest have entered, not even the kings of old. It has been the domain of the Tacticii, the family of priests, blessed by the spirits, anointed by the spirit, Dertichek the first, father of the family, and first keeper of the flame. Here we cannot speak!”

“I come to you, Gisgar, in all good faith, to speak of a plot most terribly horrible, to slay the anointed son of the king, Enerotogo Grey-beard, my brother, a plot to kill him by his own beloved seed, a son most reckless and bold. A son who seeks the throne, and cannot wait longer, who wants the kingdom before he is old. I speak of Togatxall the Younger, the first son, my nephew, and dangerous enemy, who plots to slay crown-bearing king.”

“I do not believe this!” cried the Watcher, “I have tended the king, obeyed him daily, and not once have I heard of such a plot, when I am the Watcher, chief spymaster, king of spies, with eyes at all corners, forever vigilant.”

“But such things do happen, as you know yourself. Remember the Watcher before you, who died for such a plot, which he did not accept, and fell for ignoring. His body was stripped, his head was carved off, and he was thrown into the river, to vanish forever under torrents of water. The son that I speak of has developed his plans, and those plans entail the foul assassination of our thane lord, to be poisoned on his throne, vile hemlock mixed in his mead, murder most foul, most foul and unnatural. Then this son stages his own coronation, to be thane lord magnificent, king of Spain, kingdom built on blood and bones, the flesh of a slaughtered father, the blood spilled by the seed, parricide king, most evil and foul crime. This cannot be overlooked. Need you further proof?”

“I need it, your Highness, I need it.”

“Then follow.”

And the prince began to show him evidence of his own making, of every variety, logically leading to only one point: parricide. The Watcher accepted.
-

[History Guy]

The quarry ran through the thickets, past the brambles, under the peach trees, and into the King’s woods, seeking protection of the darkness and the thickness of the overgrowth, of the twisted, ancient shapes that lurked in the forest, of the trees themselves. The stag was a fine catch indeed, and watching it bolt along as it did inspired a sense of glory in the pursuers, the hunters most exceptional. The Prince Togatxall, young and reckless, bold but too senseless of the world around him, and how to manage it, rode at the head of the hunting party, his spear and his bow hanging from his arm. He was a fine huntsman, and he was sure to slay the animal this day, as always.

The quarry ran along faster now, down the hillside, and deeper into the wilderness, through the area of the river, and deeper into the darkness, devoid of light, obscured in darkness, fast as the wind. A fine beast, the most noble of the forest, the most worthy foe in the hunt.

Also in the party were the men of the council, Clemente the Elder, leading his party, his bow in hand, ready to strike, but to avoid striking first, so as the give the Prince his chance. Also among them rode the chronicler, Pikesfan, a keen sportsman, and swift at the throwing axe. There rode also the Watcher, Hastragal Gisgar, clothed in black, his studded metal suit, his gloved hands containing a bow and a mace, weapons worthy of a spymaster, devious and cunning. Lastly there rode, on a miserable nag, the teacher and guide, Petronius, the master, the watcher of the Prince, educator and moralist, keen and noble speaker. He had the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a hare. The Watcher closely eyed him, for he was now fallen, the servant of the Prince, Eustogkaro Horse-face, protected by Ersgoth, dark prince of demons.

“There, again, have I spied him, the fast and noble stag, master of his woods, the quarry of all! Come men, and we shall catch him, and feast on his flesh, his head shall be mounted above my thane hall tonight,” cried the Prince, the catch in his eyes, the kill in his blood.

His finger extended, pointing to the shape, that ran through the bushes, obscured by the woods, little could be made out, but his tail and his antlers, his mighty defenses, his ramparts most natural. He bolted along the river bank, but kept close to the woods, his best defense, the darkness of trees, which stretched ever long and graceful, marred by age, but keeping their secrets, tended by spirits of the forest, elves of the woods.

The Watcher rode up, Hastragal Gisgar, and came alongside Petronius on his weak little nag. “How fare you this day, noble Petronius? Good morrow,” spake the Watcher, in his deep throated voice.

“I fare well, noble Watcher, good morrow, dear sir. The Prince fares well also, advanced in his learning, the basics of life, he hath mastered already. I feel that with proper training, he may overcome his foolishness, his bravado most intense, may become more subdued. I shall make a proper prince of him yet, sir,” spake Petronius, his wise eyes gleaming, in the light of the day.

“Snow begins to fall, Petronius,” said the Watcher, looking heavenward, as flakes came down. The sky was becoming full of the snow, the clouds thickening, turning deep gray. “By nigh, sir, this land will be bathed over, covered in the whiteness of this new snowfall, like ash staining earth, the whiteness unblemished, all will come down, and cover this earth.”

The snow fell fast, whiteness pouring down unblemished, obscuring the quarry yet more. The hunt had become more than a game now, a campaign of men at arms, against nature itself. The stakes were now higher, the snow falling deeper, unnerving the hunters.

“Snow comes down far faster, even the gamesmen are troubled, the quarry vanishes, and so does the prince.”

“What?” cried Petronius, looking about bleakly. It was so, the Prince was nowhere in sight now, he’d vanished away. The snow had obscured him, and the darkness of forest, had made him invisible, as a spirit. “The snow has hidden him, in search of his prize, no further can we do this day, for both are missing to our eyes. Ah well, he is a bright boy, he shall find his way to us, though he rides on far faster than any of us now.”

The gamesmen uttered cries, shouting for the stag, to chase him out into the open, so that he might be a target. The snow came down fast, and whiteness surrounded, their task becoming yet harder, and their prize becoming scarce. Nature’s defense was now her own winter, the whiteness of snow, and darkness of sky. The prize would escape, and the prince would follow, but to no avail, the stag would survive.

Pikesfan rode up on his own bold, dark steed. “I see no sign, sirs, of our fine quarry. I suppose now we should withdraw, the prince we should find. Now there is no chance of finding our quarry, the hunt, sirs, is over, and we must retire. In our hall thane lords will be rewarded, for our fine show we shall feast tonight.”

“Cease!” cried the Watcher, “I hear the gamesmen calling. Petronius, let us ride onward, this quarry we shall find.” A little way onward, the gamesmen cried again, the snow nearly obscuring them, clinging onto the trees.

“There,” said the Watcher, “the gamesmen have chased it, it has fled to those bushes, behind which it stays. Here we now have it, a trapped stag, dangerous when cornered, but a prize all the same. We shall now pursue it, the game is not finished. It has met it’s own dying day.”

Petronius listened thoughtfully, and his head he nodded. He then parted company, and stringed his bow. When the arrow was positioned in place for the kill, he looked to the bushes, and saw his quarry. The rear of the animal was now plain to see, giddy and frightened, ready to flee.

“The quarry!” cried Petronius, “Behind those bushes, hiding from us!” he spoke as he pointed.

Immediately came the twanging of bowstrings, the fluttering of arrows, and the thud of the kill. The animal was struck, four arrows had been fired, and at this distance assuredly, the kill had been made.

And so, led by Petronius, the hunters led their horses forward, through the bushes, to the obscured kill beyond. They would feast on venison tonight, they knew, and the stag’s head would hang in the Prince’s glorious thane hall, above the roaring fire, around which they drank mead. A glorious day to the chivalrous hunters, the slaying of the stag, and the night of the feast.

And so they rode around the bushes, and at the quarry beyond. They were met by the sight of the violent slaughter, the kill by four arrows, the corpse of the quarry. But rather than the stag, what they saw made them shaken, and frightened with fear, at the butchery they saw.

High atop his dying steed was the Prince Togatxall, his bloody bear furs blowing in the breeze. His body was shining, the snow glistening there, and blood poured from three wounds, where arrows protruded. All four arrows had met their target obscured, and the Prince had been struck, his wounds were all mortal. One lay in his throat, from which blood emerged, trickling down like water from a stream. A second was nailed deep to his breast, issuing blood, staining his bear fur. The third was lodged in his chest, and the fourth was in his horse’s neck.

He sat on his horseback, watching his slayers, his eyes wide open, and wild with shock. His mouth swung open, as he contemplated his wounds, and he threw his head back, but no cry emerged. Together, as one, horse and man fell backward, crashing to the ground, both dead in the snow. The upturned faces with blank expressions watched the sky, unseeing eyes contemplating the heavens.

Life-blood stained the snow, and it became impure.

The King in his thane hall stood watching the snowfall, from the windowless balcony, as the whiteness came down. Enerotogo, Son of Togatxall, aged new King, thane lord eternal, stood in the coldness of the thane hall, no fire was blazing, not now, not tonight. His son’s hunting party had not made return, and this troubled him, for he was king only a month and twelve suns. What misfortune awaited, for one he knew must come, for their circled in the heavens crows, flying the wrong way. Such had happened the day his father died, and such happened on nights of foul play, and Enerotogo feared murder, or something unnatural, for he knew that this was a warning from the spirits of terrible death, and this could not be ignored by any man living.

Eustogkaro Horse-face also stood in the thane hall, his snake-eyes watching over his king-brother. Eustogkaro knew what the omens had meant, for the spirit had told him, the pawn had one his match. This day was finished, another game won, but yet another long move in the great game he played. Power he wanted, and power he would get, for Ersgoth protected him, and he had the power of the warlock. Eustogkaro would destroy his enemies, one by one, and he would stand, untroubled, to seize his lord’s throne.

He said nothing now, he just stood back and watched, obscured by his pillar, his twisted snake-body obscured by darkness. His breath cut through air, the only indication of his presence, his watching dark form, brooding in the blackness.

The huge oaken doors swung open, and in came a messenger, a Dejon son, a worthy foe-hunter, a man of the hunt, a member of the party, one who would know what horror had occurred, the work of Eustogarko Horse-face, the twisted evil form, the darkest of princes, or men of earth.

The messenger advanced, his eyes sorrowful. The King turned about, and looked in his face. “What news do you bring, Mustardo Dejon, young brother’s son of the Marshal, a noble of my kingdom? How was the hunt, what was taken, what occurred? Come, tell me quickly, for there are omens this night.”

The messenger’s face turned white, and his mournful expression betrayed the horror he’d seen that day. He whispered something long into the King’s right and good ear, and the King’s own countenance became soulful, and he turned back in horror. The messenger quickly withdrew, leaving the King to his own, accompanied only by the hidden Horse-face.

The King stood in silent, his body quivering, his face hidden to himself, turned toward the sky, as the snow came down quickly, blowing into his cloak, which blew madly around him, like a lost soul. The King threw back his head, and let out a cry, one word did he scream, prolonging it madly, shaking the thane hall, and causing Eustogkaro to cover his face. Surely the whole kingdom could hear such a cry. The hunting party, barely in sight, stopped in its tracks, the hunters throwing their cloaks over their heads, hiding their faces.

There was one word.

“No.”
-

The last five parts will be placed here as I write them, day by day. In my own land, the sagas are very popular. I hope they are appreciated by you all as well.

[Vlad Antlerkov]

Maybe you could submit those to the Stories competition?

[Meshelic]

Wow, amazing writing History Guy. Good storyline, plots, you weave a very magnificent tale.



Meshelic

[alva]

What is that little yello/green icon btw?

[Jon Shafer]

Nation States game... go to OT or find the link to the website somewhere for more info.

[vondrack]

Fine reading!

[History Guy]

I apologize for not writing the next piece sooner, though I am afraid some important things have come up for me, personally. I shall try and get the next bit done in a while. Thanks for the compliments, anyway, undeserved as they are.

[History Guy]

Here we go...Part 4...

Beside, a pillar, hidden in shadow, alone sat Eustogkaro Horse-face, by the roaring fire, alone in his chair, sitting by himself in the thane lord’s mead hall of Heorot, where thane lords of old, kings of Madrid, had long sat to themselves, or with others, feasting and drinking. But tonight there was no speaking, there was no feasting, there was nothing. Alone sat Eustogkaro Horse-face, prince and thane lord, brother of the king, uncle of the prince Enerotogo and the slain prince Togatxall, who had fallen fourteen nights before, slain in the hunt, in pursuit of the stag, the quarry, and lord of his forest.

Eustogkaro sat alone, watching the fire, oak logs bursting in the flames, showering the kiln with sparks of flame, embers flying away into the darkness. The weather was turning cold now, the snow was resting on the ground, and coming down in some great number. The world was turning white now, and the year was dying, to be born anew, like the phoenix falling into the flames to burn, and yet to arise in great glory from it’s ashes. The phoenix was, after all, the emblem of the Togans, the great family, the uniters of Spain, the ruling tribe, the greatest of men. The house, though, was now in danger. There lay among it a viper, Eustogkaro Horse-face, who sat in Heorot brooding.

“It is fourteen nights since Togatxall fell, slain by three arrows, the son of the king. Me thinks there be an end to the king’s sanity if such force is applied as to make treason all around him, terror and death, and inability to find recluse,” said Eustogkaro, aloud in the darkness, his voice silent compared to the roaring of his fire. He spoke alone, and yet he was heard.

A voice, shrill at first, but strangely assuring, broke through, from nowhere; speaking its words, though from no tongue did it emerge. The voice came from no place, and yet it seemed to fill the room. There was no start to it, but it surrounded the prince. “The King’s sanity is in shreds, Eustogkaro, my child, it is on tether hooks now. A great push would bring him over the edge. He has nowhere to go now, to seek refuge, to find trust. If a man whom he trusted were found as the guilty one, he would lose his senses, and be like the beasts of the mountains, a madman. You would be the only one he could find trust in.”

“Ersgoth, my Lord, me thinks that this can be done, for the King trusts no man more than Petronius, of late the guardian and teacher of the fallen Togatxall, who’s spirit makes his way to the thane hall of the dead, to feast for all time with his ancestors. Petronius did slay him in a sense, this has been arranged. My pawn has seen to it, the fool Gisgar, the Watcher of this kingdom, who has fallen into your spell, as has Morgana, my wife to be. Once my work now is finished, and this play is concluded, she shall be my wife, and you shall protect her as I, for me thinks that we shall be as one flesh.”

“Act this night to take measures against Petronius, for he is a danger. Many can testify as to guilt, and so we shall destroy him, and the King shall break, his thoughts shall disappear, and his dreams be thrown into darkness. There shall be an end to his sanity, and he shall fall into your power and your trap, to be as a servant to you while he lives, which shall not be long, for madmen seek to destroy themselves, and so they do. The horn of Togas Bloodaxe shall blow in the coming years, and he shall fall, and so shall his son, and you, child, shall be king in his place. Do this now, I shall protect you.”

“Yes, my Lord Ersgoth, I shall act tonight. Thus it shall be done.”

Then, Eustogkaro stood to his feet, and called loudly upon the guards, who entered the thane hall, opening the oaken doors, and marching in, the Watcher before them, his head bowed, cloaked in bear skin, his clothes studded in metal, a marshal of men, spymaster of Spain, fallen to Ersgoth, a slave of the demon, a pawn in the game of Eustogkaro. The guards were dismissed, and the two spoke alone.

“Ah, Hastragal Gisgar, the night is falling, the year is dying, and the citizenry is in discontent. The prince is slain, three arrows killing him, the hunt having claimed his life. The people know that there has been murder done, me thinks, and so, Watcher, bring in the man responsible, Petronius the teacher, the rider of the hunt whom called upon the archers, and aim was taken against the prince, who fell, his life blood spilling, and finished the prince, to drive the king into madness.”

“My Lord Eustogkaro, I shall do as you say, Petronius will be arrested, sir, and brought to justice. He shall answer for his foul crime, the slaying of the King’s son, the spilling of his blood, in vain stag-chase.”

“Watcher,” spake the Prince, grabbing the spymaster’s sleeve, “Petronius is dangerous to us, as you know, and he must be destroyed. It would be best, then, would it not, if you were to make sure of him forever. Do not simply arrest Petronius, Gisgar, destroy him. And with all haste, for the King languishes while nothing is done to avenge his son.”

The Watcher bowed, but there was a sorrow in his face, as though he knew what he were to do to be a terrible thing, though he had not the power to rebel against it. And so he departed, and the snow came down further, and the thane hall became yet colder. In the coming hours, a group of servants hung up more furs, and the walls became warm again, ready for the winter.

Petronius the teacher sat in his home, watching the fire, in his hand holding a stick, toasting his bread, a warm meal for supper, to go well with his mead.

The wrap came at the door, and the teacher bid enter. The Watcher strode it, the door swinging back upon its hinges, striking the wall, shaking the ceiling. The giant of men strode forward, his head back, and covered by his bear fur, his metal studded leather armor gleaming which the reflections of the fireplace embers.

“Tobias Petronius Thin-tongue, teacher and guardian of the late Togatxall, prince and thane lord, son of the King, I arrest you on the charge of foul man-slaughter, the slaying of Togatxall, fair prince of Iberia, and son of Enerotogo, to rid the King of his sanity, and advance your power,” spoke the Watcher, unsheathing his dagger.

“What madness is this that draws you here? You were there with me, Hastragal Gisgar, the day the fatal and most lamentable shots were fired, and prince and thane lord fell to the earth, spilling his blood, dying as a man, foully taken from this life too young. You know that it is not the fault of I, Watcher,” protested Petronius, throwing down his toast, tossing his mead goblet to the ground, to the feet of the Watcher.

The Watcher stood silently, preparing himself. Sweat rolled down the man’s temples, and he clenched his sword with fist. “My friend, I cannot hold myself against it. I have orders.” A strange glow appeared in the Watcher’s gray eyes, some pain appeared on his face, a tormented face, as though the soul within were writhing and twisting, screaming to hold back.

“A spell holds thee, friend,” cried Petronius, a look of realization appearing in his eyes. His face turned pale as he looked upon the thane.

“Aye, a spell holds me. I try to fight it, but I cannot. Ersgoth, the demon, has enchanted me. Eustogkaro, thane lord and prince, controls me. I cannot fight it. I am not strong enough. I must carry out orders.” The Watcher unsheathed his sword, the fire glinting upon it, playing upon it.

“May the spirits have mercy on thee, old friend, for thou art cursed,” said Petronius, closing his eyes, accepting his fall, preparing to join the mead hall of his ancestors, to feast with the spirits, an endless banquet, for all time to come.

The blade came down, and the spirit of the teacher departed, the empted shell collapsing, falling backward, crushing bowls, mashing plates, overturning chairs. The body rested downturn, and the mead from his cups slowly rolled down upon him, bathing him in wine.

“Aye, I am cursed,” said the Watcher, the fire growing in his eyes. “Enslaved by the dark demons, puppet of a madman, I am cursed for all time. May the spirits have mercy, for all can be forgiven, except those who embrace the demons as masters. I must atone for my crimes, blood for blood, life for life…another life I have departed from his body, cursed I must be…”

The Watcher brought his dagger to his own throat, and began to cut it, blood welling up, waiting to pour from his opened veins. However, his hand suddenly stopped, the blade becoming rigid, and stiff, unmoving. The Watcher found himself struggling with his own hand, wrestling himself for his blade.

His head was then filled with a voice, sweet at first, yet snakelike by nature, something evil, dark, and ancient. “Thou shall not take thyself yet, there is work thee will do. One last duty is called for, slave. Then, and only then, will I release thee. Then ye will be free, like the birds of the air, like the fish of the sea, but no longer shall ye hold earthly power. That is thy curse, thy bane, thy punishment.”

Suddenly, by it’s own accord, his arm struck back, flew behind him, struck the wall, the blade smashing, cracking off, flying before him, into the flames, the hilt dropping to the ground. Then, his arm was free again, free to itself, free to his will.

The door turned open upon itself, then, and the Watcher’s bodyguards burst forth and in.

“Gisgar, my lord thane, Watcher of this kingdom, are ye unhurt?”

“Aye, Captain, unhurt am I, but the prisoner is dead, tried to escape, armed he was, a dagger had he, he flew at me, and I gripped it, smashed the dagger, smashed his head. Unfortunate it was, but in self defense, against a murderer. The kingdom is safer, with such criminals dead. Send a report, from your quickest rider, forth from this district to the thane hall of Heorot, to the King, and the Prince, Eustogkaro Horse-face, be quick about it, swift as the wind.”

The King stood again, resting against his pillar, his eyes wide and gray, his head filled with questions. He was aging quickly, the effects of his torment. His gray hair was white now, his face lined, his features cracked and ancient, an old man now he was. The thane hall was lonely at this time of the year, the snow was falling, the world white and dead. Alone was Enerotogo, Monarch and Thane Lord, Overlord of the Visigoths, Flattener of Vandals, Master of Spain, Lord of Iberia, King of the Thane Lords, High King of the Tribes.

Alone that was, but for Eustogkaro, sitting alone in his chair, at his round table, watching the snowfall, speaking to himself. The words could barely be heard, from the roar of the fire, the crackling of timbers, the popping of woods. ‘Me thinks’ and others flowed from his mouth, barely audible, but recognizable to the thane lord. What was he now, this reptilian specter? The face of a horse, the body of a lizard.

The oaken doors, huge and ancient, opened wide once again, as envoy approached. His words were terrible, and to the King, they were maddening. “Petronius, vile traitor, slayer of thy son, was arrested this evening by Lord Gisgar, the Watcher, but in attempting to escape was slain by his sword.”

The King’s long nails sunk into the stonework, deep into the masonry, as he let out a howl.

[History Guy]

Part 5. Three more to come...
-

Lonelier and lonelier became the thane hall Heorot, the world around it dead and bleak, the winter killing away the year, a new one coming to be born, like the phantom prince returning from his ashes. Iberia was itself in distress, King Enerotogo’s sense slowly drifting away. Nothing that his son the prince or the priests could do would be able to save it, madness was coming on quickly. With madness, of course, would come death, and yet another thane lord would fall before his time.

The King himself was left alone, to Heorot’s dark stone halls walk alone. Many things weighed down upon his burdened and troubled mind. His Togatxall, his eldest son, his best prince, slaughtered like the stag he pursued. His well trusted teacher, Petronius, was the murderer, foul slaughterer of King’s son, thane lord smiter most devious and treacherous. The Watcher, most troubled yet noble Gisgar, in attempting to apprehend that man, himself was forced to kill, the assassin falling where he stood. Madness grew in the King, he could trust no man. Behind every corner stood a phantom assassin, one from whom he must be wary, or lose his life, a knife in the ribs, poison in the chalice. They would strike without warning, and he must be swift in seeing this.

Like phantoms that are sometimes seen in Heorot, the mead hall, thane lord’s lodge and palace, a shadowy figure silently stalked the footprints of the King. Wherever he moved, this dark figure followed, his twisted shape sometimes giving itself away in a shadow, briefly glimpsed by the King’s failing eyes. The King could tell who this was, this ominous shape, this dark, twisted figure, most repulsive and wicked. Eustogkaro Horse-face, his own brother, who alone held King’s favor.

Who else could the King trust if not his own flesh and blood, his own brother? The other thanes were plotting against him, of this he was sure. Alone could he confide in his brother Eustogkaro, whose silky voice gave words that seemed to him pearls of wisdom. Yet, what the King in his madness could not see was that the pearls fell from the mouth of a serpent waiting to strike, his vile poisons to inject.

The King turned his head in sudden panic, a terrible scream, transforming into a howl, like a wolf upon the moor-lands. The wind it was, blowing madly through the rafters, trying vainly to put out the fire in Heorot, roaring most brightly. “How terribly wind howls at this hour of the night, like the demons of Hell, calling for lost souls out on the moor, where ghosts walk frequently, for the dead do not stay dead when death comes fast and terrible…”

“Me thinks, Milord, that this foul winter wind is making a final show, a curtain call, before it dies down. Spring is coming on early this year. Thaw will soon be here, and in place of snow, rain shall fall from the skies. Once again the ice will melt away, the squid will emerge, and me thinks that once again we shall come out of this winter shell greater than before. It comes on quickly, Milord.” Eustogkaro Horse-face hovered in the shadows, he always stood in such places, where eyes cannot easily pierce, where he could remain dark and unseen.

“Aye, Horse-face, there comes a new year, brighter than the first, or so the seers say. A good harvest, a good catch in the squid markets, meat such as no man have tasted before. Yet, the year afterward, so they say, will be a dark one. It will be worse than this, far worse. It will only take the work of a pure man to help us through it. May the spirits have mercy on us.”

The King limped away, as madmen do, without a word, vanishing away, to where, he had no clue. The prince, Eustogkaro, sat himself down, in his long, arched, oaken chair. He sat near his window, looking down over the hill on which the thane hall was built.

The voice of Ersgoth arose from nowhere, reverberating in the darkness, heightened by the height of the stone ceiling, vanishing into the tapestries. “The King’s sanity hangs on a thread. Give him one more shock, one more death, a final advisor slain, a good friend, his trusted councilor, and he shall be as yours. Then he will be your puppet, and yours to dispense as you will.”

“Yes, Lord Demon, but who to use? Me thinks that it would be too bold, too audacious to kill Clemente, however troublesome his presence is to me. He knows too much, he is too logical. He already suspects me, he can see through my plan. Me thinks he must be removed, but to slay him now would be folly.”

“You know who to use, my child. The Watcher, Hastragal Gisgar, is only a pawn, a tool to be used, but when it is of no further use, to be destroyed. He has accomplished his task, the Prince is dead, and so is the tutor, the thane lord wise. There is only one more task he can be used for, and that is to destroy him.”

“But Master, is there not something more I could do with him? Me thinks he is a very valuable asset.”

“He was valuable, but a far more useful tool I have given you. You know of whom I speak, your servant, Weredur; he is wise, and cruel. He is cunning as the fox, he knows what to do. I have prepared him for this task, and you must use him, your greatest ally. In Gisgar’s place he shall be Watcher. Weredur knows only how to serve me, and he shall serve you well also.

“My hold on Gisgar, though strong as any demons, is as strong as his will. But, his will breaks through. His faculties return as quickly as the King’s sanity deteriorates. Now is the time to remove him, my child. Reveal the truth. The Watcher rode with the party, he spoke to Petronius, directed him to the prince, telling him it was the stag, he shot no arrow, but he killed him just as much, if not more, than any other man. He slew Petronius at his house to quiet him, to contain and to cease that voice that would give his evil plan away. Thus you shall destroy him.

“The King is mad. He trusts no man but you, his own brother. He fears invisible assassins, possessed by the dark spirits, incited to slay him, and to melt away into the darkness. Even now his walk is slow, he looks around every corner, to sight the invisible enemy. He has one hand outstretched, and the other curled about the hilt of his sword. He fears all, his madness most terrible, leading him to these things, unwarranted fear, pointless languishing. Tell him what I told you, he shall believe, he shall only trust you, thus I have made it. Like a fly in the spider’s web, he is trapped in your game, like the Watcher, a pawn to be used and disposed of for the final conquest.”

“Yes, Milord. Thus I shall do. The Watcher has been used, and his use is ended. Weredur will be the Watcher, and I shall be King.”

The gates of the thane hall burst open, and through the doors rode the eleven assassins, servants of the King, loyal to Enerotogo, instructed by he to wipe out plots, to smite the assassin, to foil the wrongdoer, the one who plans murder. They rode down the hill, and through the town, their hands fingering their sword hilts. They all had a single purpose, and they rode to execute the Watcher for the murders of Prince Togatxall and the tutor Petronius.

“We ride under cover of darkness,” called the first, “the blackness of our capes and of our horses shall not alert the murderer of our presence. He shall be surprised, we shall find him, he shall have no avenue of escape, the execution shall be carried out.”

They made their way swiftly through the gates and down into the city, past the fishmonger’s guild-hall, past the Marketplace, towards the residence of the Watcher, the villa most modest, but yet large and square. It was along the roadside, easy prey to the riders, the executioners of the Watcher, dispatched by the King, their duty to murder Gisgar, to cut his throat and to treat him in a manner befitting treason. His body would be cut to pieces with no mercy, and the pieces dumped into the river, or burned to ash. Thus he would suffer, and his fall would not be merciful. Only the spirits could protect his spirit, that his ghost could travel to the halls of the spirits, to feast with them eternally, an immortal banquet of the heavens.

The Watcher sat at table, a bowl in front of him, filled with fried squid and red sauce, bread on its side, for dipping. His goblet was filled to the brim with a fine red wine, befitting a noble such as he. On such a cold day as this, he needed something to warm him. A fire roared, and he held a great bowl of mead also, to drink down, to warm his soul, to make his heart glad.

He wore his great bear fur cloak, the skin of a great Iberian bear, giant and fierce, killer of many, slain in mortal combat by the Watcher when young, though he was given many wounds, his sword bit through the bear’s throat, cut it down, laid it to the ground, it’s life blood staining the earth, a fine trophy for the young thane, many years ago. His leather armor, studded by metal, lay discarded. He felt ready to die, he knew it would come. The time was soon to be; he felt it in his bones. He was ready. He had made his peace with the spirits, he had nothing left to fear, Ersgoth’s power could not hold him down to Hell, he would instead join his ancestors eternally, cut short from life in tragic murder-death.

Then, the doors burst in open themselves, ripping at the hinges, cracking in the center, splinters flying from the cracks, the two halves bursting inwards, showering the room with wood and bolts, slamming useless to the floor. The riders burst in, clothed in leather armor, their heads covered with the same black cape that cloaked their bodies.

Dismounting, the executioners marched forward in unison, proud murderers of a murderer, the foul slayer of royalty, the enemy of the crown, treasonous traitor to his country, evil and foul mastermind of the plot to seize power. What else could this be, but an act of treason to seize the throne? Such men deserve immediate death, or so the riders believed.

Unsheathing their long, graceful daggers, the perfect weapon of murder, quickest tool of dispatch, they strode forward. “Prepare to meet the spirits, Hastragal Gisgar, Watcher of Spain, Spymaster and Treason Maker, Killer of Princes. It is time for you to meet death, to be judged by the hands of the spirits. Whether or not they will save you is their decision, you who are most evil and treacherous of all men.”

A flash in the gloom, the first dagger cutting through the stale air, down, down, through the bear fur, down, through the robes, down, through the flesh, down. Ten more daggers, swiftly wielded, thrust forward, through the Watcher, now on his feet, carved open like a pig, like a sheep brought for sacrifice.

As the Watcher slipped down to the ground, life-blood gushing, flooding madly from his wounds, pouring out onto the floor, bathing the feet of his executioners, two words escaped his mouth, his dying words, his dying breath.

“I’m free.”

And the assassins felt strangely ashamed.

[History Guy]

OK, Part 6. Sorry for the delay...alot has occured since Part 5 in my personal life that has not permitted me much time for writing. Two more parts...the last...the best!

-

From the skies, rain fell, pouring down in torrents, like the great gods weeping, nature releasing the waters from the heavens, the dome sliding open, the waters coming down to cover the earth. Dirt turned to mud, and roads were washed away. A storm brewed in heaven, trouble in paradise, the talons of nature sharpening to dig into the earth, but to renew it again, to wet it’s dry lips, it’s parched landscape. Spring brought such showers, but rarely in such power, with such ungodly force, a deep gale brewing. Not in a lifetime had such weather been seen, Spain was now bathed in this deluge of water.

The floods that came some blamed for the snows of the mountains of the Squidimark, the lying whiteness of Ghernicus’ Peak, where in winter it collected, and stayed for long months. The warmth of the spring had melted snows too quickly, forming a deluge, a dam bursting flood, rushing out into the fields, dispersing the flocks, washing away roads, isolated floods coming. The rain was far worse, reinforcement to the attackers, the rains giving more water to the floods of the season.

The year had died hard, and the winter had vanished slowly, but when it did go, it went with its vengeance. The King’s sanity vanished; his madness took over, a new mind filling his own, a tired, worn down, beaten, unhealthy, unthinking mind replaced it, that of a madman, a man reduced to savagery, stripped of his humanity, nothing left but bestiality, manhood stripped away and put behind, vanished, like a breeze in autumn as the winter winds come on.

Outside the Thane Hall towers, the gates of the city swung open, under a dark sky, filled with cloud and rain and lightning, bearing down it’s anguish upon the earth, the gods revealing their sadness, mourning for lost children. From the gates emerged two men, one twisted and elderly, shouting and screaming, wild-eyed, bestial, humanity in it’s most devolved form, more dog than man, yet trying to break free, to understand the world around him. His white hair hung down in matted locks, unkempt, hiding his face, making him look all the wilder, like a wicked old demon, or a wandering criminal. Beside him stood a fool, the King’s court jester, a man of wit and foolery, and most favored man of the court.

From a tower above watched a shape in black, a man tall and angular, death-like in his appearances, his skin pale and yellow, his eyes wide and bulbous, his thin bony features were like those of a corpse, of a man dead some winters, yet moved by some power, animated by some spirit. Weredur the Watcher, servant of the King, and servant of Ersgoth the Demon Lord, and the Prince, Eustogkaro Horse-face, stood on those ramparts, watching the two men below, one trying to stop the other, the wild man, who marched steadily forward, raving as he walked. The fool clutched the King’s shoulder, stopped him in his tracks, and turned him about, soaking from rainwater, pouring down from the sky, bearing down upon his body. They turned round, back toward the gates, the tall black gates, high and mighty, made of stone and wood, built to last the ages.

“Hear me, Gatekeeper, close the gates now. Admit nobody more, listen to none of their cries, for nothing they say is to be believed, dark demons claw the hills tonight, coming in the rain, trying to get in, to find a warm body, someone to rest in, to wait out the night,” cried Weredur the Watcher, all seeing spymaster, dark servant of the devils.

“I shall act as commanded, Lord Watcher,” came the response, a singing voice from the gates, the great rotund gatekeeper.

“My master will have his will done, the King will be broken forever. His health is already poor, this shall destroy it, this rainstorm conjured by hell. Until morning he shall wait before he can return it, for the gatemen are fools, they fear what they do not understand, a serpentine spirit with the body of the King, they would see it as a ghost, a terrible form to behold, they would lose their wits, and thus my work would be done for the evening. A new king shall arise, short will be his reign, fruitful at first, but unmercifully quick, then my master, the dark one, shall have dominion over this earth, he shall dominate all, man shall bow before him, the servant of the darkness, and the lord of the demons, the master of hell.”

Night passed into morning, and rain continued through the evening, soaking the ground, bursting dikes in the fields, eroding bridges, washing roads away. The morning was gray and cloudy, sun obscured by clouds, by rain carriers, relentlessly pouring forth their works, releasing water from the dome of the sky, to flood the world below, for the waters of the heaven cannot always be contained, and when they are opened, hard is it for them to be stopped.

The King was dragged in by his servants, the fool treading behind him, water of his own making pouring from his eyes. He knew that his lord and master was doomed, this rain would now kill him, his life crushed away under relentless water. From the thane hall of Heorot, the dark prince watching, Eustogkaro Horse-face, brother of the King, guardian of the prince, Enerotogo the Younger, a boy still as ever, subject to epilepsy, doomed thus already. Eustogkaro watched as the King entered, “Me thinks this is his last day, he can live no longer, his will and health broken, his body smashed down by water, flattened like the Vandals, overthrown like the Visigoths, crushed down by burden, by malady of the mind. This is his last day, than King shall be I.”

The King was taken to his father’s bed, placed in the center of the mead hall, draped in bear skin, the royal animal of Togas, the Lord Master of Spain, the supreme progenitor of his race, great and never to be forgotten. A pillow of duck feathers was placed beneath his head, and rugs of bearskin soon covered his body, mead was given to him, to warm his spirit, and outside gatekeepers hung from their gibbet. The Watcher stood by a pillar, where Eustogkaro sat, Weredur would not answer for this crime of foul manslaughter, for who would take the word of a mere gateman for that of a Thane Lord?

And so the King lay comforted, surrounded by friends and lords, administered mead and herbs, given warm soup, his body wrapped in warmest robes and furs, a roaring fire blazing before him, befitting the greatest of mead halls. The High Priest and his Assistant stood before his bed, administered him blessings, prayed for his sake, blessed all the gods. The King lay watching, his mind broken by illness, saying nothing, only drinking, watching those around him. And so it continued through to daybreak, till at last he died.

A weeping arose from the womenfolk, gathered round the bier, for the King had died unnatural death, too soon had he fallen, and sprung forth to join his ancestors in eternal feast. The rule of a king is to be a long one, but Enerotogo, alas, enjoyed no fruits of it, his reign cut short, his life mercilessly crushed away by the forces of angered nature.

“The tragedy is great to the people, me thinks,” said Eustogkaro Horse-face, in unheard whisper, to he himself alone, stalking behind his pillar, enwrapped in darkness. ‘There shall be great mourning for the loss of so promising a man, so brutally and foully cut short of breath. The people will embrace the prince as king in a motherly embrace; a comforting love for their sovereign will be gained. Thus also will they have love for his guardian, I, the dark prince, whom they hath mocked and ridiculed in past times, when they knew not their own fortune.

“I shall put it aside, me thinks, pretend as if it mattered not to me, that I am above such things, as I surely am, and that I shall be frank and kind with the people. Thus I shall win them over, for the people have too much heart to them, they love princes as I too easily. They shall be my subjects soon, and they shall know the will of their king, and they shall love me as my brother and my father, and they shall tremble. Ersgoth will seal my reign, my everlasting reign, without end, for men possessed have unnatural long life, they do not die unassisted, and with such powerful a spirit, who shall slay me?”

The following day the ceremony was carried out, the old king burned, and the new king was crowned, from death came the new life of the new sovereign, the new lord of all thanes, the master of Iberia, the Lord Emperor King of Spain, the overlord of the Visigoths, the flattener of the Vandals, to whom all men bow and tap their heads, for they are the representatives of the gods divine, and all answer to them alone, masters of earth and sea.

The new king was blessed, the gods were behind him, they loved him as their own, they bestowed their gifts upon his land. The ill harvests were repaid in full by the earth; new growth came up for the sickle and the scythe. There was now great bounty in the land of Spain, and all men rejoiced in the warmth of the summer days, vanquishing the foulness of the year before, bitter year round, where so many nobles fell unnaturally before the reaper’s scythe, to be taken to Valhalla, the Heorot of the sky, to feast eternally.

But all would not remain well in Heorot.