Eternity Calls

The state of Midheart was silent, eager for the new arrival. All-day. Nothing. It seemed that the new child was to be as stubborn as his father. Eventually, even the sun tired, exhausting its last light and retreating beyond the horizon. Clouds began to emerge. They were dark and dangerous and broke the sunset orange with a dirty brown haze. Soon, the night came and so too did this apparition on high. Rain hammered down onto the wooden roof of the Keep, and the deafening roar of thunder swept over the mountain town of Remire. 

The time had come. Inside the Keep, a small crowd had gathered by the birthing chamber. A man in white cloth graced the room; his body blocked the intrusive clatter of window shutters from disrupting this delicate affair. Many maidens were cradled around the Queen, who let out infrequent screams of pain. One of the girls, overbearing in her support, soon found herself shoved onto the cold stone floor. The King let out a smirk from across the room; he was standing at the door. A lady trotted towards him, overjoyed. “The kind Emperor sends his congratulations, Sire.” She was met and exiled by a nod, that seemed to exert an air only capable by that of a royal.  

The Queen’s pain had intensified, and she soon began to scream until she had no more air left in her lungs to give. “The baby’s coming,” shouted the midwife, who made ready, whilst the young maidens all shouted a plethora of contradicting advice.  

The midwife pulled away, child in hands. He was silent. There was no wailing, no crying, no screaming. The man in white raised his eyebrow and clutched his sacred text tight. The Queen said, breathless, “Let me see my child.” The midwife smiled and made her way to the Queen. 

 “It’s a boy,” she said. A particularly loud roll of thunder muffled her words, and then something most macabre did occur. The boy opened his eyes for the first time and looked up to the midwife. All she could see were two black orbs, soulless and hungry. Her scream shook the room, and the baby fell.  

The child’s head hit the wooden edge of the bed, and his body slumped to the ground. The King leapt forwards; teeth bared at the lady. He crouched down to his son and cradled him. An arching cut was etched into the baby’s face, from eye to chin. The King became as violent as the storm outside, and to the midwife he roared, “WHAT were you thinking?” Yet before the woman could answer, the baby lurched forwards, screaming. All of its limbs protruded to her, and in a sudden unholy surge the woman was flung backwards. Her body smashed through the wall and landed in the courtyard below. Silence returned to the room. The King rose and handed the child to his wife, who gingerly accepted it into her arms. He called for a guard and whispered for him to take care of the body with the utmost of discretion. Then he shut the door and stood with his head hung low. “Not a word. Not a word of this to a single soul,” he growled in a low and dangerous voice. He turned and left, slamming the door behind him. He was swiftly followed by the priestly man, who looked down to the bloodied corpse below and then cautiously to the child before making his own hasty escape. 

Here, like most days, I sat in my chamber, quill in hand. I sought to immortalise my memories in tomes that would far outlive me. My desire was not, however, to entertain others. It was a matter of the self, for I never wanted to forget the moments that had crafted me into the being that I am today.  

My name was Prince Leer of Midheart. Now it is Leer. I must stress that the omission of the title Prince does in no way simplify my name, for I carry a burden far greater than that of any royal. I am the shadow in your hall. The glass in your bowl. The knife at your throat. 

The ordeal of a birth seemed to usher in a newfound creative side to my father. It was clear that I was not fit for his court, what with powers like mine? So, he decided that I would be better suited as his weapon instead. Of the five years that I was allowed in his court, the day that I left is by far the clearest; it was, in my mind, as clear as the mountain air that I breathe now. I reached over to a book that I had written some years ago. The soft leather cover was brandished with the number, five. I opened it up to the day of my departure. 

~ 

The day that I left my home of Remire was, and still is, one of the most depressing and heart-wrenching days of my life. I can remember the unease from the start of the day. The people in the court all seemed to act differently around me. Some would not even look at me. They had the appearance that I now associate with guilt, but of course, as a child, I put it down to their disapproval of me. I remember seeing my father talking to a man with long black hair; he seemed gruff and frightened me most definitely. My father spoke to him as if they were bartering, and this went on for most of the day. I do not even remember seeing my mother until the afternoon, but when I did, I saw that she had been crying. The only person that treated me the same was my older brother, Laerka. We were playing with our wooden swords in the courtyard, when I tripped and fell over an odd patch of cracked paving stones. He accidentally knocked me on the head with the sharp edge of his sword. I didn’t cry but instead collapsed under the mounting pain. There were several ladies of the court watching us, and not a single one of them came to see if I was alright. I saw them look at me and then look away. Any other day that would not have been so. The only person that made sure I was fine was my brother. He fussed over my bleeding head and called for help, but none came. It was he who carried me over to the infirmary, and when the nurse even brushed me away, he stood up for me. I remember his voice. He was only nine, but when he growled at her, he sounded like he was King already. He said, “I am the Prince Apparent, heir to the throne of Midheart. You shall obey me.” The nurse did indeed. She apologised profusely to me and wept for her pardon.  

Later, I told my brother of how everyone was acting strange and of the man that father had been talking to, and he listened to me; he listened to it all. When I had finished, almost in a flood of tears, he wrapped his arms around me and promised that he would always protect me, never let anything happen to me. By evening, the mounting anxiety had turned into panic, and I remember feeling sick to the stomach and cold to the bone. Laerka did not leave my side, not even once.  

Then the both of us were called into the throne room. As we entered, I could feel my brother clutching on to me. When my father approached us with that new man, I can only remember the words of ‘a new home’ and ‘to be a warrior.’ My brother protested at the proclamation and shouted at my father and went to punch the black-haired man. I however remained silent. All the strength in my body had left me, and I was nothing more than a weak little boy, whose father had rejected him. I remember the man trying to pick me up and entering a tug of war battle with my brother. Then father nodded for the guards to hold back Laerka and I was swept up and on my way. 

A heavy black horse carried us out of Remire, along the wooded path that led into the greater mountains of Midheart. I sat in front of the man, who held the reins in one hand and me in the other. The chattering of his armour with the thud of the hooves and the constant motion only made me feel all the sicker. Yet then I saw something move in between the trees; the man saw it too. I remember the harsh sound of a bow shooting at full power and the falcon fast flight of an arrow, which flew straight over my head. The horse reared and choked out a wild neigh. When it had settled, I slowly looked up to the man above me. He was breathing still, calm, slow and measured breaths. His eyes were unblinking, inches away from the arrow in his clenched fist. He snapped it by tightening his grip further. “Son, I know that it’s you. Come out so that we can talk. I won’t hurt you.” The man’s voice was deep and rough but kind at the same time. From the shade of the trees and bushes, I saw my brother emerge. His eyes were filled with tears. The man got off his horse and then lifted me down, and I ran to Laerka. He hugged me and put his hand to the back of my head. All he could say was that he was sorry, sorry that he couldn’t protect me. The man led his horse off the path and sat down beside us. He spoke to my brother, “I have known your father for a long time, and if there is one thing that I understand about him, it’s that he’s the most stubborn man to have ever sat upon the throne of Midheart, maybe even any throne of the Continent. Now, your brother, he is special; he has abilities, but these abilities make him vulnerable, and your father knows that his child would be in danger if left in the court. I know that this is difficult for the both of you, but I’m afraid that there is no other way. Do you understand?”  

My brother slowly nodded and then asked, “Will I be able to see him again?”  

“Of course, my son, you two will always be brothers, and that bond must never be broken. I would never allow for that to happen and if your father does not permit for you to visit him, then write to me, and I will personally see to it.”  

“Thank you,” my brother said, finally letting me go. The man retook me and put me on his horse. 

“Chin up, boy; your brother is in the Iron Legion now and mark my words, when you are King, he will be at your side once again.” The man mounted up and started to ride before pulling back on the reigns and looking to my brother. “Oh, and nice shot by the way,” he said, gesturing to the broken arrow. Then we rode.  

It took a full night’s ride to reach the fortress of the Iron Scouts, and the road had been long and perilous. We did not encounter another soul, a human soul that was. On the final leg of our journey, I heard a haunting and wailing cry echoing around the mountain chasm that had encroached around us. The man, whose name was revealed to me as Arangar, spoke of a resident troll that lived in a cave system close to the fortress; it was not the kind of story a scared five-year-old wished to hear of his new home.  

By the time we finally passed through the stone arch that would lay the boundaries of my new life, the sun had come into dawn, and the mountains had opened themselves up to me. The view was truly as heaven itself. The dagger-like peaks of Midheart were all splayed below me, cloaked in what seemed to be floating patches of snow but were rather carpets of cloud. Beyond these mountain ranges that were akin to my birth, lay the vast luscious lowlands of the southern states and I knew that somewhere in the distance was the legendary Golden Isle, the place where a millennium of Emperors had lived, ruled and died. There was a moment when the fire of the sun was parted by a short needle of black; Arangar told me that what I saw was the silhouette of the Imperial Tower. I accepted this fact with my mouth ajar. Despite all that had passed in the last day and night, this view pacified all of my dread and fear, and for those moments that I watched the sunrise, everything seemed to be alright.  

~ 

Back in my chamber, nearly twenty years later, my mind was released from the penned ink words which like magic subdued me. It was dawn; yet the dawn had changed. The silhouette that I had once admired now cast a long shadow of depravity across the land. The Empire was not what it once was; it had turned on us. A knock at the door tore my eyes away from the small stone window above my desk.  

A boy, a young recruit, stood shuffling with a letter in hand. His words first came in stutters, but eventually broke through, “Sir – S – Sir Leer, a letter, for you!” I gave him a grin and sent him away. I then walked to the edge of the ramparts, which towered above the central courtyard. The letter had the red stamp of the Remire Court – my brother. I opened the envelope with a subtle haste, for any word from Laerka was either of the utmost importance or the most irrelevant of requests. Yet then I heard the bell, the warning bell. A visitor was here; we did not have visitors. 

My rank was unique, given my background and abilities, but it was certainly most respected within the Iron Legion by seniors and recruits alike. Thus, I stayed my ground at the top of the ramparts. A unit of men assembled in the courtyard, blades and spears at the ready, whilst sharpshooters lined the battlements. I could hear thunder, the thunder of hooves on iced stone. The noise grew louder and louder until eventually, I could see the glint of armour in between the snow-lined pine trees.  

A bald man led this unexpected visitation; he wore a priceless suit of black lamellar armour. On his shield was the crest of the Grail family; it consisted of a fattened eagle gorging itself full with carrion – quite fitting. The man trotted his horse portentously into the middle of the courtyard before spinning around to focus on me. A long period of silence engaged as we locked eyes. Then he snorted and began his spiel, “If it isn’t the exiled prince of Midheart. Leer was it?” 

“If you had shown up to the Battle of the Isle, then you would know that to be true, Baron Grail.”  

The man snorted once more in contempt and snapped his head back around to a group of young recruits who had found humour in my words. He turned back to me and if pigs could speak than that would be what I heard. “A petty jest, I’m sure. Like your father. Now there was a pathetic excuse for a King.” 

“What do you want, Baron?” 

“I am here to enact a warrant, by the issue of the grand and glorious Emperor!” The bulky man finished his sentence with a flap of the arms, a failed attempt to end with a flourish. The letter in my hand suddenly fluttered in the wind, and it came into my mind that the two arrivals may be linked; I could not let this go. The Baron was about to continue before I raised my hand. 

“Pardon me, Baron Grail, but I have some urgent business to attend to. I will be with you shortly!” I swiftly turned and marched to my door. “Get the man a drink!” I said before entering the familiar warm embrace of my chambers. I sat at my desk and pulled a candle closer to the letter, which I held cautiously over the flame. From the first words, I knew something was wrong; the hand was messy, with pen strokes overlong and affray and the paper had been blotted by a series of smudges; this letter had been written at great haste. So I read, and what I read shocked me. It shocked me to the pit of my stomach, and the hairs on my neck’s rear stood up, a heckle to this storm. The letter spoke of the Baron, and this letter spoke of murder. It concluded with a series of words that boiled my blood. ‘Your service is required, Leer. War is on the horizon. The advisor to my court is dead. The Empire is attempting to place the blame on you.’ 

I rose from my chair in a fit and started to prepare for my hasty departure. My armour was quickly buckled on and covered with my cloak. My sword that had served me since my first battle was sheathed and ready to slice once more. For my deathly discretion, an arsenal of daggers were concealed away and a fleet of poisons and potions were filled to the brim, ready to bubble and bane. Last came my shield which hosted the insignia of my rank, a broken skull engulfed in black. I strapped this to my back before flinging my door open and stepping out into the cold grey of dawn.  

The Baron was battling between control of his horse and his tankard of ale. The dark liquid sloshed away with every stray drop crumbling into a cold dust in the mountain wind. When he saw me, he angrily held out the drink for one of the recruits to take away. When no one came, he growled and threw it at the nearest person to him. Then he reached into his satchel and fussed for a moment before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “A warrant, for the arrest of Leer, on suspicion of murder!” I drew a breath to cool my hot and angry lungs. The only thing to my pleasure was the respect that had been gifted to me by my brethren. No one had batted an eyelid; all arms were still fixed to the Baron.  

I saw the figure of Arangar presiding high above us all at the balcony of his map room. He looked curious as to how I would react. “By the grace of the Emperor, I command you to come down here,” the Baron wailed, so I obliged. I felt my anger spike, and I channelled it. I focussed it onto the ground next to the man, and then I reached out with my mind. In a dark breath, I felt my being dissipate into the wind, and for a split second, my soul was in a strange yet familiar plane; I could see nothing but black. Then the ground opened up, and I was ripped back into reality. The cruel sound of my wake let out a silent scream. The Baron too did scream and his startled horse reared before my sudden appearance. The weight of his armour turned the piteous man into a dead weight, and he plummeted down onto the cold stone below.  

I took the paper from his hand and scanned it with my darkening eyes. It said that I was under suspicion for the murder of Count Rule, the same cadaver that Laerka had mentioned. I could not help but exorcise an angry huff before the paper was slowly shredded by my hands. The baron gasped, “Seize him!” His men shuffled forwards. 

“ARCHERS,” I shouted, and the combined motion of over fifty men drummed across the fortress. “Aim for the breaks in armour, the weak spots. Pick your target.” The Baron’s men stopped dead in their tracks and I turned to my soldiers on the ground. “Take the Baron and lock him in a cell.” The scouts rushed around the pathetic man and took him away by the legs. 

“Under what charges? How dare you – you… you scar-faced wretch,” the man said, trying to speak louder than the sound of his armour dragging across the ground. “Do you want war? You sadist; for when the Emperor hears of this… mark my words.” 

“Agreed,” I said coldly before craning my head up to Arangar. “War is coming, my friend.” 

“Then we have our first prisoner of war,” he replied, looking as if he had finally been satiated by a long-awaited meal. 

“Go easy on him; I hear the Grails are a delicate touch, too much care for pomp and riches and not enough metal. See what he knows of this murder and the Emperor’s intentions. For now, I ride. I ride to Remire and my brother.”  

Arangar nodded and crossed his arms behind his back. “And Leer, on what ground do you ride, as a prince?” 

“No,” I sighed. “As the Black Baron!” I saw Arangar’s pride falter slightly at the mention of this. It was the name people gave me, as the royal who dealt in dark deeds, nothing more than a shadow in the glorious light of the King. Yet still, Arangar snapped his hand into a salute, and he was followed by a hundred more men.  

 Then I heard the familiar voice of one youngster ring across the courtyard. “The Prince is returned.”  

Slowly every scout in the fortress began to chant, “LONG LIVE, THE PRINCE. LONG LIVE, THE PRINCE,” until the noise became a single hum under the light of the rising sun.