The season waxed bitter as the chill winds howled. Each day, Sol burned lower and fainter than the last— until its disk rose no higher than a hand’s breadth above the high spires of the Norzcarpe. Cleon dared not journey unto Gruen in such a season, for the threat of storms loomed, and to be caught in the snows would mean certain death.
Amid those ever-lengthening nights, Amarah confessed unto him that she bore his child, yet his heart was not vexed for that reason for he held Amarah dear.
He laboured as a commoner: gathering wood for the winter fires, tending the horse and cow, and mending Amarah’s humble dwelling. Yet often he spied the villagers’ wary eyes and distant demeanour, and he suspected they knew him for the rex and regarded him a baleful presence. Though none dared speak it, he feared they might betray him for coin, bartering with the brigands to take him in the dark of night. Therefore, he fortified the door of Amarah’s hutch, and kept his sword ever at hand, sleeping lightly with one ear set for danger.
Winter fell hard upon the land and the snow lay deep, burying all beneath its frigid mantle. Cleon learned the ceaseless labour of clearing it away. In their sod hovel, they shared their nights with dogs, chickens, and two goats, while cats hunted the vermin which were then cleaned and cooked over the hearth and fed unto the hounds.
Midwinter passed and the days began to lengthen, but the air remained cold and the snow lingered still. Yet the brighter Sol lightened Cleon’s spirit and he oft pondered the day he might depart for Gruen. He planned to bring Amarah with him so that she might bear the child in safety. Yet none could know the babe was his, lest scandal rend apart the fragile alliances. Amarah’s visage bespoke the Aeonites, and so would he entreat them to shelter her and raise the child among their kin. Still the prospect of the babe inheriting his saffron hair troubled his schemes.
Spring finally arrived, and the world turned to mire. Though the air grew warm and Sol climbed higher, the dampness kept the chill lingering. Morning fog draped the land, and drizzle soaked through cloaks and garments. Amarah, now showing with child, would soon not endure the journey to Gruen. Thus Cleon wished to depart swiftly. Yet unwillingly he tarried, wary of springtime storms that might yet imperil them.
One morn, four muddy riders, clad as brigands in their looted leather and stolen capes, approached the gate of Canut, unsheathing no arms save their tongues.
“If thou hold one naming himself Rex, deliver him unto us,” spake they.
“We know of no man so named!” quoth the gatekeeper. “Be gone, knaves!”
“Should he dwell among thee, thou art wise to surrender him. For him, we shall pay two dozen goats or four cow.”
“If we did harbor such a man, we would not yield him for thy stolen bounty.”
“Be warned! For if we learn he is here, we shall return with greater force to tear down thy walls and claim him,” the brigand replied.
“...And we shall seize thy flocks and thy women besides,” added another.
“Come as thou wilt, villains! Thou hast ne’er breached these walls ere now.”
When the brigands had ridden off, Cleon allowed himself a brief nod of relief to the gatekeeper’s honour. Then, under the witching hour’s moonlight, he gathered provisions with care. With Amarah beside him and his steed bridled and saddled, they crept silently down the lane of Canut. The gatekeeper stepped forward; the heavy wooden gate creaked open and then shut behind them, the crossbeam thudding softly in the hush of the night.
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Under a crescent glow they rode straight west, the village’s torchlight receding until it lay far behind them. Then they turned south, sliding along rivulets and hidden depressions to conceal their tracks. They climbed into hills and forest, where pine‐needles muffled hoof-beats and mist hugged the ground, for sunrise must not find them exposed on the open steppe. Though the journey was swift, Amarah’s face grew pale as weariness claimed her; yet she pressed on, her breathing shallow, their lives bound to the dark shelter of the trees.
For seven straight nights they rode, and when the dawns came, Cleon tethered his weary horse and crept with Amarah into a hollow of a fallen pine or beneath a stone eave banded by lichens and moss, burrowing deep beneath brittle boughs on a bed of withered needles. With each exhale a haze in the chill, they warmed each other in a slumberous reprieve from the soaking cold.
At last, they neared the Bogwater. ’Twas there Cleon’s keen eye spied a prone figure on the riverbank, encircled by feral hounds. Recognizing the armour and helm of one of his own, he hid Amarah within the woods and spurred his steed toward it. The hounds scattered at his approach. He dismounted to find the lifeless body— then much consumed by decay and ravenous jaws. Turning it, he saw the ruin of the face, stripped to sockets and teeth; yet by the helm he knew the man— the ever-faithful Odax, now fallen.
Cleon strove mightily to drag the corpse from the water’s edge, purposing to grant it some honour and protection. Yet weak was he, unable to dig a grave in haste, and scant were the smaller stones with which to build a cairn. He laid the body straight, hands folded upon its breast, and set the helm upon the ruined visage.
After his horse drank deeply, he turned back unto the hills. Yet as he glanced behind, he beheld three riders gathered upon the eastern ridge. Dark clouds obscured the sun as the brigands began their descent.
Cleon dared not call for Amarah nor turn his gaze toward her, lest he betray her hiding place. Mounting his steed, he braced himself for battle. The brigands did divide, seeking to hem him in; but Cleon charged into their midst. Hooves thundered, and their steeds groaned and blew as they drove toward each other, and with a mighty stroke, Cleon’s sword nearly sundered his foe’s head from his shoulders. The lifeless form fell from the horse into the mire.
The two remaining riders wheeled about, crossing paths, and came at him anew. Cleon spurred his steed downhill toward the leftmost foe. Their horses clashed, casting both men to the ground. Cleon mustered the strength to spring up and fling himself upon his foe. Meeting his enemy’s thrust, he struck off part of his hand. But the other rider yet bore down upon him. While on one knee, with a swift stroke, Cleon smote the horse’s charging foreleg, and it fell over him, hurling the rider headlong— neck broken upon his landing. Yet Cleon knew that his own leg had been shattered.
The last brigand fled, wailing and clutching his maimed hand as Cleon lay helpless upon the field. Sleet struck his face; the sky hung low and grey. The crippled horse thrashed and screamed. Cleon found he could not crawl with his ruined leg. The sound of fleeing hooves faded into the mist. The wind then ceased, and it became utterly calm. He caught his breath and released his bloody sword which fell into the stubble of new grass.
Amarah finally came unto him and strove to aid him, but it was of no avail.
“Thou must ride away,” he said to her.
“I shall not leave thee.”
“Thou must, or all is lost for thee and our child. Call my horse and ride. Take the path through the Durnhal Crags. Keep to the highlands till thou seest the Clearwater. Then follow the river north to Welf. Tell none of my fate. Say only that they must send riders and that thou must go to Gruen to speak with Kethu. Give them this and they will take thee….” He pressed his gold and garnet ring into her trembling hand.
“I shall not leave thee,” she repeated.
“Thou must. Thou must ride away now, forthwith, ere the brigands return.” She embraced him tightly; their lips joining in farewell. “Go! Seek out Kethu. He is an Aeonite and will protect you.”
She stumbled down the slope unto his steed, turning back thrice, as though she did expect him to call her back. Then she paused, seeing the vision of a black wolf still beneath the pines at the tree line, its fur like shadow, eyes glinting silver.
Cleon shouted back, “Ride away!”
