“All hail! All hail! The reik has come!”

  Serf and bondi crowded along the stoney way leading unto Gruen’s heavy gate. The lords and wardens stood by on the walls, watching with narrowed eyes.

  And with the last of his potent rivals slain, Cleon returned to Gruen in triumph. With guards and clansmen to his left and right, he rode through the gate bearing the last brigands’ head, the townsfolk parting before him— some in awe, others in dread.

  At the steps before the keep, the high priest stood, barring the way in, declaring by his indignant expression, “no bastard bandit shall receive my blessing.”

  Cleon gazed down from his snorting high horse, his glare settling upon the narrow-shouldered priest arrayed in emerald vestments, silver staff in hand, capped by a tall purple mitre heavy with jewels.

  Cleon scoffed.

  Then, lifting the severed bandit’s head— still weeping its dark draught— he hurled it at the priest. The grisly trophy struck and burst, spattering the holy raiment with black ooze.

  Without so much as a pause, Cleon drove his horse forward bursting through the doors, the iron-shod hooves ringing upon the stone.

  Those within fled to the alcoves as he entered, scattering like startled rats. And when he had ridden well into the hall, he swung down from the saddle and strode to the throne of Clendyne. Thereupon he seated himself.

  And none dared protest.

  From Cleon’s ascension to Reik of Gruen, there arose great tumult over the mastery of Methundor entire. The four other reiks of Norland wrangled over oaths and laws, with each proclaiming himself the rightful rex. The thegns, lords of lesser villages, haggled over field and ford, and set their wardens upon the roads to extort silver tolls from merchants and peasants alike.

  Amid this clamor, Kethu, humbly robed and grey of beard, bent near and whispered into Cleon’s ear:

  “Delay is a sharper foe than sword or spell. Strike swiftly,” quoth he, “and claim the mantle of sovereign rex ere these petty rivals gather strength.”

  Thus, Cleon summoned all those who would be sworn to Gruen— veteran sellswords hardened by forest war, bandits who had bent the knee, and young men lured by the promise of looted gold and vengeance. Beneath torchlight they arrayed themselves, grim battalions clad in matte steel, their banners bearing the red fox: sigil of Gruen’s House. By night they marched from the city walls, the sound of their horse’s iron steps like hail upon stone.

  First did Cleon set his course against the proud House of Fy, keepers of the grainways, whose Fywold towers gleamed in polished bronze above the Caleah. But his hope of siege and compelling surrender was denied him, for the villages on the way lay empty— their doors unbarred, their hearths cold. From trembling elders he learned that Fy’s host had fled, mustering to the west, encamped along the river’s bend, where swift currents shielded them on three sides.

  Thus Kethu counseled, “Strike not at walls, but at their hearts. Break the riverbend host and House Fy shall kneel.”

  So Cleon marched by night, leaving behind a noisy company to draw the foe’s eye at the river. Northward he forded the Caleah, beneath the shroud of dark and mist, his trackers slipping ahead to silence the scouts of Fy. Through black woods they crept, the river whispering beside them, until they reached the bend ere cockcrow.

  At first light, Cleon’s battle horns gave voice, and the helms of Gruen burst from the trees like a swarm of steel hornets. The men of Fy, eyes turned toward the decoy host, found instead death behind them. Their lines broke and their cries drowned in the torrent as they fled into the river’s icy coils. Thus was House Fy brought low and near to ruin at the Battle of Caleah’s Bend.

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  The Blodwins, who had marched to join their kinsmen of Fy, were met upon the road by tidings of Cleon’s slaughter. At the bend, they found only corpses and a jeering host across the waters. For three days and nights they hastened home to Dregrove, but ere they arrived, shepherds brought grim news: Cleon had already fallen upon their undefended town. Their kin taken captive, and their stores seized in the name of the new reik.

  Upon the gates of Dregrove, Cleon’s captain Odax appeared, one mailed hand clamped upon the wrist of Una, youngest daughter of the Blodwin House. Her apron was torn and her face pale with dread. Raising her upon the edge of the parapet, Odax cried aloud:

  “Behold thy child, Reik Mendo! Know this: no harm shall come to her so long as thou dost bargain in good faith. Such is the clemency of Cleon Rex, sovereign of Methundor!”

  From below, the old reik’s voice thundered back, hoarse with wrath.

  “Rex? Speak not that blasphemy! Cleon is but a bastard whelp— stray seed from a tavern wench, painted in stolen blood and dressed in stolen raiment! Who is he to call himself Rex?”

  Odax’s tone was calm as frost.

  “He is rex who hath vanquished all his rivals; he whose host resteth within his enemies’ very halls; he who drinketh their wine from their own cups. Kneel, Mendo, and behold Methundor’s sovereign.”

  Gruen’s steel scraped upon shields along the Dregrove wall. The archers drew, though their hands trembled with anticipation.

  “And if we lay siege and starve thee out?” cried Reik Mendo. “Surely you can see our force remaineth the greater!”

  Odax pressed his blade to Una’s throat so that it creased her skin.

  “Then so too shall thy kin perish with us,” he hissed, “and this child shall taste the first pangs. No soul shall leave nor enter Dregrove whilst thou dost cling to thine defiance.”

  Mendo’s chin sank. He turned from the wall, his heart hammering like a smith’s forge. Behind him, beyond the timber ramparts, his household watched in stricken silence— his pregnant wife weeping into her shawl, his elder daughter Fia clutching her mother’s hand. Before him, his host, the guards too ashamed to meet his eyes. Then a single tear cut through the soot upon his cheek while he groaned under his breath.

  “Have I kept faith all my days only to purchase my daughter’s lives from a bandit?” Then, turning and facing his walls again, he called out, “If I swear fealty, wilt thou depart these ramparts?”

  “Aye,” Odax replied, with a cruel smile. “But thou shalt provide one thousand swords to uphold the rex’s peace. Five hundred forthwith, and another by the new moon. Let none disguise captains or sergeants as common foot, for any found so shall be taken and flogged without pity.”

  “I will have a day to consider this matter,” spake Mendo.

  “The reik hath but one hour,” Odax answered. “Then come forth and bend thy knee at this gate. Shouldst thou tarry, thy heirs shall suffer, beginning with the youngest thou behold.” He thrust Una forward, her scream rising like a gull above the wind. “Her cries shall ring through Dregrove ere dusk.”

  With anguish upon his brow, the Reik of Dregrove stepped forth unto the gate, arrows yet drawn upon him as he came nigh. And with torment upon his graying countenance, the noble knelt and bowed before his own walls.

  Then Cleon appeared atop the gate, black-crested helm gleaming in the twilight. He raised a hand, and the archers lowered their bows.

  “Rise, Reik Mendo,” said Cleon, his voice smooth as oil. “Thou art forgiven. Be thee loyal and none of thy kin shall suffer harm. And in days to come thou shalt find fidelity to thy new rex most profitable.”

  As Sol sank, five hundred Dregrove foot cast down their spears before the gate. At dawn, they departed with Cleon’s host, and with them rode Una and Fia Blodwin, both pale and silent, as living oaths of their father’s obedience. The Dregrove people wept, for they knew their beloved lord had bought peace at the cost of his very soul.

  When the gates of Dregrove were shut behind him, Cleon looked upon the silent road and called his triumph “peace”. Yet all Methundor soon whispered otherwise. For every hearthfire that burned that night, another smoldered in shame. Mendo, the Reik of Dregrove lived, yet his name was broken; his daughters rode beneath the banners of their conqueror; and the tale of Cleon’s “mercy” spread like frost, chilling the hearts of lesser lords. For Cleon bought loyalty not with honor, but with fear. So it was, that Cleon’s peace, though swift and splendid, bore the bitter taste of willow bark upon the tongue.

  Bondi: a free landowner