Chapter three – Daughter of the forest.

Daughter exhaled, slowly, deeply. Her hands rested upon her knees, her small palms pushing softly against her thighs. Kneeling, amidst the sunrays tracing down upon earth, the ones avoiding the trees leaves and branches, she breathed deeply. Insects, leaves, wind. She could hear it all. Her senses were amplified, she could smell the dirt, and the grass and the wood of the trees.
She enjoyed coming to the forest down to meditate, Volta had been restless throughout the night. With the arrival of the defeated army from Tower, the entire city had been awakened, a grim welcoming party for those who were destined to save us all.
The forest was small, of no significance and far away from the city, it had taken her perhaps a long hour to arrive at it, even further south than Volta itself. Here, she could find respite, here she could be at peace, away from those who would always stir and mock and laugh. Her life in the city was not easy, and she had intended to stay away from it for a few days if she could help it.
Her chest rose slowly, then dropped slowly, she could hear her heart rate slow down, it’s beating pumping the blood steadily through her body. There was so much vitality, there was a strength, and there was something… else. Something different she had felt, it had been there all her life yet as of late, it had been much more intense. It was a burning emotion, a passion almost. There was something she was meant to do, there was a purpose for her to fulfill yet she did not know what.
Silently, Daughter took hold of her longbow, an impressive object of craftsmanship which she had created. It was an art that her own father had taught her. On her 14th birthday, her father had taken her to the forest to build it. She spent three days finding the right wood, she spent another three days in solitude constructing it. To her, the bow was a representation of her soul, it was a craft, and it was family; a strong remembrance of those who no longer were with her. Ten years ago, she had made the bow. Ten months ago, she had heard the news of her father’s demise. He had volunteered to fight the army of the dark and – she shook her head. The memory was painful. Inadvertently tears rolled down her cheek.
Exhaling for a moment, she blocked away all emotion, her sharp mind returning to focus, the vivid colors of the forest growing intense, detailed, the smells returning, burning against her nostrils and finally, her hearing catching again, the sounds from creatures of nature. Birds, moles, snakes, frogs and finally the soft steps of a doe. There was more, a fawn. A mother and a child.
“What must be done, must be done, little ones.”
Her voice came through as a murmur, then with incredible speed and in complete silence, she stepped towards the sound. It only took a breath for her to draw an arrow, and loose on target. Arrow flew with a whizzing sound, penetrating mercilessly through the beautiful doe, killing it instantly as it pierced its heart. The fawn ran away.
Stepping lightly, Daughter pulled her knife – this hunt was now her lunch.

After a few hours, Daughter had prepared the meat she was to eat for the rest of her little trip to the forest, now she had to make a place to sleep. She had been coming to this place for as long as she could remember. Knowing its landscape as well as she knew her aim with a bow.
Turning and walking for a few, she reached a clearing in the forest, sunlight was bright, and the beauty of nature was intricate, shapes and colors weaving together around the circling trees and flowers, and at its very center, a pillar stone. Ornate engravings ran down the form of the pillar, explicit depictions of an ancient unknown race, writings in a dialect long forgotten. She wondered how the pillar maintained itself so pristine, she knew well there was little that would ever impede the passing of nature.
Underneath this pillar, in a somewhat symbolic manner, she prepared a small makeshift bed, laying upon it and observing the sky. Something was wrong. Of course, everything was wrong, the war, the army of the night, the fallen armies opposing it. The defeat at Tower. The way Volta was attempting to support the population of a world inside its thick stone walls.
And yet… something was WRONG, she sat up, her fingertips tingling, and suddenly, by mere instinct, she stared at the pillar.  Thunderous voices of ancient times struck upon her ears, images drifted on her mind, flashes and roars. There was blood, there was death. Utter, endless, death. A river of bodies, gaunt and ghastly, the ranks of the enemy pouring down upon the landscape, annihilating anything and everything they touched. How many marched, millions. It was impossible.
But then, the army stopped and burned, it’s ranks decimated by a fire, three strong flames being the cause of the maddening fire, yet the fire diminished and diminished and diminished, and when it all seemed like the fire would die, when it looked like the army of the nemesis would return to strength, when she saw one of the flames dowse and disappear, only smoke left of it, then, and only then, she understood her sight.
Daughter awoke in a gasp. Rolled to the side and threw up. Over and over, leaving her a shivering mess.
What had she seen? A vision? A prophecy? The priests of Volta were eager to throw their prophecies on the faces of the mass. It kept them sane, it kept the entire dying world, alive. Yet this was different. The pillar had been secluded in a place not many other than her own bloodline knew about. There was power in the ancient construct, and she feared it.
How long had it been? She had emptied her stomach yet nothing much came out. She had not eaten or drunk anything in a long time, it seems. Drinking from a nearby pond, she found relief and strength, she had been asleep for hours, maybe days. The thought of it scared her, and with complete resolution, she decided to return to Volta. She now had a mission. She now had seen a future much darker than total destruction. An unspeakable horror would come for them all, as sure as the rivers moved down, following an endless path to the ocean.
“ughh but what if they deny you! Only men are recruited for war… dammit! Do I have another choice? They will listen to me whether they like it or not”.
For the rest of the walk out of the forest, until she found the road, she argued with herself, attempting to find a way for they garrison to allow her to enlist. Her mission was now to fight, and she would not manage to do so by meditating by the trees. As lush and beautiful as they were.



Chapter four – A general’s way

A heavy hand hammered down against the wooden table, the deep voice of king Roegal boomed across the conference room.
“What do you mean three weeks! Do you fools expect the city to be ready for a final battle in three weeks? Do you fools expect us to be ready to be besieged? It is impossible” his voice broke at the end, despair taking over as king Roegal bowed his head. He wanted to cry, he wished with all his heart to lay down and cry.
Vulkan broke the King’s silence “Your Majesty, we shall begin the preparations for the encounter immediately. Kings of seven other nations and the remnants of its armies are camping outside the city walls. A strat- “he bit his last word, grimacing as the king interrupted.
“Do not talk to me about those bastards Vulkan! Their own ineptitude became their emblem. How many years did the betray each other and the kingdom of Volta? How many years did they fat themselves on the abuse of their people? When the army came down upon them, one by one, I…” He broke down, falling to his knees. Vulkan was surprised. He had never seen the king broken in his entire life, he could have not foreseen what would follow.
The meeting room was a spacious place by the western wing of the castle, high above the ground and with large windows allowing sunlight, the windows were decorated with religious imagery, and the stained glass reflected colors against the center.
A large yet straightforward table laid in the middle of the room and upon it, a detailed map of the land. Each city was marked by a small carved wooden piece, and each city had a knife stabbed against it. Tower the last one to receive the knife. Vulkan had been there, and quite frankly, he had enjoyed his time. Strangely, Vulkan did not share the feeling of his king, or of the populace for that matter. Vulkan had found life in the battlefield, he had been raised into it, and he had been molded by it.
With a gesture, the king signaled the three minor generals and the ten Commanders of his army. The all left silently, having witnessed their king’s spirit come undone. “Is it the end, Vulkan? Have you seen the end of us all?” His voice was ragged now. Roegal’s eyes were glazed, yet tears did not roll. Vulkan understood, the king now had the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
The end. Vulkan thought. No, not the end. He had been at Tower, he had commanded his army. Arriving at Tower was an interesting sight, when he saw the army of the night laying siege to its mighty walls. Over and over, flying stones demolished the walls, yet they stood firm. Over and over flames ravaged the buildings, yet the soldiers inside doused the fire. Vulkan only observed so long, the army of the night had known he would come, and they laid in wait for him.
“There will always be a chance my lord. What we did on Tower had never happened. We rescued them, they’re here. We lost many men, but we are now together”. Vulkan’s voice was filled in conviction. The man would never hesitate on anything, he was born for greatness, and every inch of him showed.
The king spoke, “I have ordered my men out, for I am ashamed of what I must do.”
Vulkan frowned, the king’s words sounded vacant of life. Something made him very uneasy.
Stepping away, slowly, the king walked to the window, he looked to the horizon. The landscape was beautiful, mountains rolled on the north, a small pass giving view to a vast plain, bathed by rivers and forking distant around Volta. The rivers met behind the city again, flowing down to the great lake by the south. What a beautiful land it was. And yet, it all had become so tainted. “Call your men back, General” the king’s voice was flat, commanding.
Vulkan called his men back inside, the three minor generals were directly under Vulkan’s command, and the ten Commanders were divided unevenly amongst the generals. Heavy steps marked the armored soldiers as they stepped back inside the room. Vulkan strode towards the king. The king looked at Vulkan and drew a knife from his waist. Vulkan’s pale blue eyes looked sharply, and he understood.
The king drove the knife to his own throat and pushed himself off the window, gurgling blood. Vulkan’s nimbleness was unmatched for one in such heavy armor, and somehow, held on the king’s arm before he fell. The king’s eyes were now terror, his face was pale and yet, hanging there, only Vulkan’s grasp preventing him from falling to his certain death.
Yet the king had decided it all, he had thought about it for nights and nights, and could not take it anymore. A coward.
Yes. A coward.
He pulled the knife off his throat and stabbed himself the stomach over and over.
“NO” Vulkan demanded, desperately pulling back the king and falling backward, the king landing nearly lifeless on top.
Rolling to the side and sliding himself from underneath the king, Vulkan cleared the blood that now covered his face. “Bring the doctor! Now! Now! Now!” his men did not speak a word, and some ran out of the room in obedience. Vulkan was desperate. Roegal had committed suicide. The last nation to survive the onslaught of the enemy. The ruler of such land. Had given up.
Vulkan reddened in anger.
“Vulkan... I cannot… Ellia… Oh God” The king’s voice was a mere whisper, hardly able to speak as he bled from his throat and stomach. Paleness overcame the king’s face, and the light began to fade from his eyes. Vulkan kicked the table, slammed himself against the walls, cursed.

Chapter five – A narrow passage

With the king dying on the floor, two of the generals approached, placing their hands tightly against the wounds in an attempt to stop the crimson blood from flowing. Three self-inflicted wounds to the stomach and one to the throat had done significant damage.
The royal physician came, rushing in with the others that had left to find him. Hurriedly and muttering curses of his own, he knelt and began to undress king Roegal, the beautiful purple robe finally giving way to the naked skin. His efforts were valiant, but as it went on, the blood flow stopped. His heart had stopped beating now. King Roegal was dead.
Vulkan watched as the king died, then stepped silently towards the door of the conference room, and using his back, he pushed the door close. Heavily. He made it a point to be loud, this was for everyone to notice and crossed his arms nonchalantly, obstructing the only exit with his body and giving each and every individual inside a sharp look.
Three generals, he thought. He knew them well, had appointed them himself, he had spent many years with them, and they had, in a way, grown together. There was Donn, Roderick, and Bauldrimm; each aged in their forties and each slightly older than Vulkan. They were loyal, they were friends and they, such as himself, thrived in battle. He liked to believe he had the best army ever known, he was proud of the training, the discipline and complete devotion his men had to him. Not in the least pretentious.
They would not be a problem.
Then he stared at the others. They looked back at him, diminished, some even averted their eyes. The room had grown silent. They all knew what had just happened.
Donn walked towards the table and grabbed a chair, pulling it back and sitting down heavily. His massive body barely contained by the now seemingly feeble chair. He broke the tense silence in the room.
“King is dead. Word can’t go out”. He was brief, and his slightly rough voice was clear. Donn was not one to talk much, yet when he spoke, everyone made sure to listen. His temper was not any better than Vulkan’s.
Roderick followed Donn and sat next to him, Bauldrimm stepped to the window, taking in the same sight that the king had just mere moments ago. He muttered to himself “I suppose the bastard went out with a pretty view in his heart, curse his cowardice.” Bauldrimm was a sour man, patient but sarcastic, merciless, a long wavy beard already whiting despite his age and a completely shaved head, intricate tattoos adorning his scalp. The man was large and muscular as well, but not nearly as large as Donn. In a way, he was Vulkan’s favorite, he would get things done one way or another, just the way he liked.
Vulkan remained silent still.
“Have some respect for the dead, Bauld” Roderick said, his voice calm and soft “either way he left, he is in God’s province now.”
A much smaller man, with dark eyes and tanned skin, the pious Roderick. He wasn’t always that way, no. Roderick had found respite in the church after having his family massacred on the attack of Dune, one of the first cities of the north. His armor was now an intricate piece of art, dark blue like the other generals, but endless religious prayers, carved and painted upon the steel, he was the easiest to recognize, the man was insane. Regardless of Roderick taking an unexpected path on his beliefs – Vulkan always thought religion and war should not go together – Roderick was as loyal as ever, if not more, and he was an excellent warrior and tactician, and more importantly, Vulkan had known the man for over 25 years.
The ten Commanders Vulkan never cared to address by name, he had given them nicknames he found appropriate. Not pretty ones. There were greasy hair and ugly scar. Thick neck and sleepy. He quite frankly did not care who they were. They all remained silent, shocked and uneasy the cowards! Vulkan had his hand against the pommel of his sword, ready to strike at whoever approached. He meant to, if necessary.
At last, Vulkan broke the silence.
“If word goes out that the King has died, there won’t be much city to siege when the army of the dark arrives” His eyes were sharp. Short blonde hair and pale blue eyes making him seem bright, regal. “We must make a blood oath, that word will not be spread until we fend off the stupid fiends” Everyone swallowed hard. The way Vulkan referred to his enemies as if in his mind there was absolutely no doubt he was batting a fly with his hand.
In laughter that surprised everyone in the room, Donn looked at Vulkan, almost a glimpse of mockery in his tone “Ya think these idiots will respect the blood omen?” His grizzly voice insulting to the Commanders, yet they all knew that was his style. Bear of a man.
Murmurs raised, there was a protest, there was outrage, and then Vulkan spoke, silencing everyone.
“Everyone, draw your swords, cut your skin, draw your blood, and pool it by my feet” His words were as sharp as his sword. They would obey. Whether out of respect, admiration or fear, he did not care.
Vulkan prepared himself to cast a spell. Magic was long gone from the earth in the spectacular form of wizards and sorcerers, yet some of it remained still. Some rituals could still cause effects, if done correctly. The blood oath one of the most common. Blood was the vital source of life. Blood was the universal catalyst for magic. Blood was the most important item when casting a spell.
One by one, each one of them poked or cut on their hands, a few droplets of blood pooling on the floor by Vulkan. One by one they added to the blood pool, the red splotch growing larger.
“You too, physician.” Vulkan’s voice was commanding. The little man paled and swallowed, hardly finding the courage to make himself bleed with a dagger.
Lastly, Vulkan proceeded.
With the blood of each person in the room gathered down, he extended his hands forward, and without saying a single word, he channeled his strength, focused on the pool, feeling its life energy, it’s heat, it’s power. Vapor came from the blood pool, bubbles formed. It was boiling. Then finally, Vulkan drew his sword; the most magnificent blade ever wielded by a mortal, or so Vulkan felt. With thundering voice, he spoke the ritual words.
“YOU WHO BREAK THE PACT OF SECRECY, MIGHT YOUR BLOOD BOIL IN YOUR VEINS AND YOUR LIFE VANISH DOWN TO THE DEPTHS OF HELL. WORD OF WHAT HAPPENED IN THIS ROOM WILL NOT BE SPOKEN TO ANOTHER BUT THOSE PRESENT” He finished speaking and slashed his sword down, the bright metal hitting the floor causing sparks, a flash of light enveloping the room for a brief moment. Then, as soon as it began, it was over. There were no traces of blood on the floor, and each man had now taken a blood oath of secrecy. Vulkan only hoped It would last.
He exhaled deeply, loudly. Magic worked on intent, or at least, ritual magic. All you had to do was to think about it, to feel it strongly, will it with all your heart, and if all the circumstances were met, you could feel it happen. He knew he and the others were now magically bound to keep the secret. More had to be done.
“Clean up the blood and hide the body. The king must remain unburied for three weeks, then he will be given a proper funeral when we can afford to make the news public.”
The Commanders stared with wide eyes as if they heard the unspeakable
“We need to make a story of what happened here when that time arrives, suicide out of cowardice CANNOT be known to the citizens even after we are victorious” Vulkan’s gaze shifted, addressing his generals. His eyes did not show the usual disdain towards these three men
“Donn, Bauld, Roderick- “He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Each one of his generals diminished under Vulkan’s gaze. “You three take care of this mess. You have four hours. Militarize the castle, allow entry to no one, find a way to keep the family members and other nobles from finding out and then… meet me by the stables. We must prepare”.
His men grimaced, Vulkan tasks were monumental if possible at all. He was suggesting nearly a coup d’état, they had to think on a way to justify Volta’s monarch disappearance too.
They understood what had to be done, there was just too much at stake to refuse.
So, it was time. The meeting had been interrupted by a disastrous event, yet Vulkan did not falter, he knew well what had to be done and marched towards it. He was unafraid, and he needed to act.