Light Of Loreandril (2 page)

They had known nothing except the safety of their valley, village and family. This had made the boys naive to the outside world of the Empire, taking their life for granted. However,
more recently
a dark cloud had slowly been brewing over the family. As sons of the Empire, both boys would be drafted into the Imperial Army for a minimum service of four years. At the age of eighteen they would receive their summons, and would, if necessary, be taken by force to join the ranks.

All sons of the Hundlinger clan had to endure this, a consequence of a treaty signed several centuries earlier after the Great Battle of Andkhuin. Each new birth was registered, with every resident of the Empire taxed and documented yearly in a census. There was little chance of escaping the clutches of the Empire and the drafting.

In three weeks the twins would turn eighteen, marking their entry into manhood and the army. It had hung over the family for months, knowing that each day drew them closer to the inevitable. Both boys had looked eighteen for the past few years, so their parents had been forced to carry their birth papers around with them at all times. This was their only defence against their two sons being dragged off prematurely to serve the Empire.

Still, life had to continue, and another year’s harvest had to be taken to market. The
boys, woken by candlelight, had started loading the wagon in the early dark hours,
yet the mound
of
sacks seemed endless.

“Are you two ready yet? If you loaded that lot any slower we’d be just about ready for market next year!” Jesfor, their father, leaned against the side of the cart, casually puffing on his weed pipe. He scratched his gristly beard, quite content to watch his sons hard at work.

The brothers gave each other a knowing look, silently comprehending each other’s thoughts. Since the two boys had been able to walk they had helped their father on the farm, starting with tending to the pigs and sheep, gradually working they way up towards the hard labour. The farm had been in the family for generations, and every son had worked on it.

Jesfor was starting to show his years now. Although he had aged relatively well, his beard was greying at the edges and his frame had become leaner as his muscles began to fatigue. Now it was his turn to watch someone else work hard.

Finally, the last bale was loaded and the sons mounted the cart next to their father. He promptly snapped his whip, and the old, grey carthorse began his laborious clip-clop down the track. Dawn was only just breaking, the sun tentatively peering above the valley hills.

It was a day’s ride to Ath’Ganoc via a well-used merchant’s route. This was a seasonal journey the Glamrind father and sons were forced to take in order to trade their surplus stocks. Under the regime of the Empire, all such commerce had to be carried out under the watchful governance of the Empire’s servants. The clans may not have liked it, but they were powerless in these times.

Ath’Garnoc was a walled city, centuries old. Its strong, wooden gates were heavy and ominous, with
a pair of foreboding, guilt-inducing
watchtowers built from sooty, volcanic rock cut from the mountain
s
of Penthor, far away in the south. The slate-roofed and thatched houses were built from the same black rock, giving the streets they lined a cold, regimental feel.

The Glamrind family reached Ath’Garnoc just before nightfall, quickly making their way to their regular inn for the night. Welcomed by the warm glow of firelight streaming through the windows, Jesfor entered, leaving the two boys to mind the cart. A fellow Hundlinger, Brathos Farnd, an old comrade of Jesfor’s owned the Inn. He was a large clansman, even compared to other Hundlingers, with a thick neck, tree-trunk arms and the broadest shoulders imaginable

“Boys, boys, it’s a joy to see you!” Brathos slapped his big, hairy hands on their backs, embracing them as if they were is own sons. “You have grown well. Strong!”

“Yes sir,” replied Nechan, somewhat muffled by the hairy arms that encased him.

“Rudok!”

A young, skinny boy, probably only twelve or thirteen years, scuttled from around the corner.

“Stable this horse and mind the cart. These folk receive only the best treatment from me!” Brathos Farnd smiled broadly and held the door open, ushering the family into the warmth.

Rudok,
muttering under his breath,
obediently led the horse and cart off somewhere round the back,
leaving them to
enter the cheery tavern.
M
usic and laughter
spilled out of the open door
.

Brathos was keen to hear news from Feolin and old friends. Content to let their father pass on the village gossip, Cradon and Nechan settled into a quiet corner for the evening. It quickly passed, aided by several mugs of ale and platter of bread and cheese, brought to them by the buxom, chirpy barmaid. They soon found themselves discussing the familiar topic of turning eighteen and the drafting. Neither was happy about the
ir
prospects.
Would they have to kill? Would they be separated?
Such t
hought
s plagued their subconscious day and night.
 

Unsympathetically, Brathos shook the young clansmen awake the next morning. Somewhat the worse for wear, with bleary eyes, they clambered into the cart. Jesfor merely huffed a
good morning
, ashamed,
although not surprised,
at the condition of his sons.
Ply any young man with free ale and this was the usual result.
The sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobbled street and squeaking cartwheels painfully reverberated around the twins’ heads.

Upon every corner of each street, statues of clenched fists and the Seeing-Eye Hand towered above them, carved from the volcanic rock: stark, depressing reminders that the Empire ruled these lands. The family passed them in silence, their eyes downcast, not in reverence but with an awareness of the oppression they represented.

As they entered the market, neither Nechan nor Cradon could fail to notice the guards that stood at the entrance and throughout the square. Dressed in heavy, black
chain mail
armour, breastplates marked with the crest of the Empire, the soldiers carried jagged halberds and tall shields. As they scanned the crowds and carts, theirs was an imposing presence.

“I don’t envy them! I wonder if they enjoy hassling the common people?”
mithered
Cradon.

“Let’s hope we end up with something better,” Nechan replied.

Jesfor curtly
interjected
, “Hold your tongues, we need to get a good price for this stock. Please do not cause me any unnecessary problems.”

The boys obediently fell silent. In recent years it was not uncommon for riots to break out in the market place, and it was the troops that had to deal with it. They were renowned for being brutal. To the boys it seemed the worse job imaginable, forced to be heavy handed with your own clansmen just because you wore the armour. Nechan wondered if you lost part of yourself once you put it on.

The family found a vacant lot and began sorting their stock, piling the bales of hay and sacks around the cart. People had travelled far and wide to sell and buy in preparation for the winter months, but
although
supplies seemed less plentiful this year,
prices remained
low,
and
the tax higher than ever.

Everyone was giving the pair of karzon a wide berth as they worked their way around the market
inspected the goods. Karzon dwarfed most men.
They wore decadent, heavy cloaks over their armour, t
rimmed with dyed, blood-red fur.
As usual, they were faceless. They both wore the usual all-encompassing helmet, with only a narrow slit to see through.
Their look was enough to send shivers down a man’s spine, but strangely, their voice had a charming quality. Any words spoken commanded immediate response, with only the strongest willed able to resist them.

The karzon passed between the stalls, conveying various orders to his following entourage. Everyone
eyed them warily,
bowing low, praying they would not draw any unwanted attention to themselves. Karzon were known for being ruthless for the slightest of infractions. At a whim,
t
he
y
c
ould command the soldiers to harass
a
merchant, ransacking the goods, deeming them unfit for sale within the Empire. Other vendors
would be
forced to pay additional taxes, despite the
ir
pleas .

The Glamrind boys struggled to hide their resentful looks as the
inspectors
approached their stall. Upon command, at the karzon’s pleasure, the guards tore open
several
sacks of grain,
spilling
their contents on the cobbles
. Cradon was hardly able to control his urge to grab the soldiers that rifled through the fruits of their hard labour, violating his family’s property. Keeping his hands hidden behind his back, he clenched his fists in frustration. Nechan struggled also, but maintained a steely composure. Jesfor just hung his head, silently praying his sons would hold their tongues and restrain their fists. It was not easy for any of them, but it was something they, like everyone else, were forced to endure.

Even with their stock destroyed and trampled into the ground, the
one
karzon was still not satisfied,
something was causing a lingering interest
He approached the boys and stooped low to look them both in the face. They could smell the sweet, sickly stench of honey liqueur and flavoured tabacco on his breath.

Then he spoke.

“Your sons look old enough to be in the service of the Empire.” His head snapped round to look at Jesfor,
hidden eyes examining the nervous father
. “Why have they not been drafted yet?” The karzon’s voice had a mesmerising quality, with undulating, melodic tones. His movements were strange, sharp and unpredictable, making the family even more nervous. He pointed at the boys with his bony, gloved hand. Everything about this being was unnatural, his actions and words carrying an ominous, menacing undertone.

Normally the brave one,
Cradon could not look at him, and found himself forced to close his eyes. He wrinkled his freckled nose, holding his breathe in disgust as he tried not to inhale the strange stench. Nechan however, found an unusual defiant strength burning in him. He refused to look away, maintaining an unflinching composure.

Sensing something different about him, the karzon turned his attention to focus on Nechan.

“Please, my sons are young,” Jesfor stammered as he
fumbled
about in the deep pockets of his breaches. “Please, I have their papers…..somewhere…..” He found what he was looking for and drew out two slips of stained, crumpled paper. “If you will, sir, these are their birth papers.”

Jesfor’s words seem to fall on deaf ears as the karzon flicked his gloved hand to command silence. He continued to stare at Nechan, studying him as if trying to read his mind or soul. Nechan braced himself, standing tall, struggling to maintain his composure, feeling his controlled breathing start to waiver. He felt Cradon beside him and knew he was not alone, yet his palms start to sweat, as an inexplicable, nameless fear gripped his mind and body. It was as though invisible hands were suffocating him.

T
he karzon leaned in closer, his breathing slow and almost strained as if in deep concentration. Nechan found himself staring
into the helmet slit;
could he see eyes? Cold black eyes?
An
icy shiver
ran
down his spine
as t
he long-fingered hand stretched out, grasping Nechan’s arm with a vice-like grip.

Nechan was unable to struggle, paralysed by an overwhelming fear. He felt an unnatural coldness surge down his arm, through his shoulder to the rest of his body.
Something disturbed the karzon.
Without warning,
his
grip
released
,
leaving
Nechan to
slump to
his knees, cradling his head in anguish. A burning voice was cutting through his mind,
eating into
his deepest thoughts and fears. He could hear it whispering words of an unknown, evil language. Within seconds, unable to take any more, he lost consciousness.

“Jesfor, Cradon, come quickly! He’s waking up. Come, quickly!”

Nechan blinked in the bright light, slowly opening his eyes. Gradually, he more became aware of the familiar warm touch of his father clutching his hand. He also sensed his brother somewhere by his side. Nechan felt cold and exhausted, as if he had perhaps fallen into a glacial lake, left trapped under the ice for hours. His body ached and his head hummed with thumping mugginess.

“Father…..What……..” Words came with an effort, each echoing in his head.

“Nechan, rest. You’re safe,” his father urged him, unable to hide the concerned tremble in his voice.

“Where……I can barely remember…..”

“It’s best you don’t, brother, you’ve been through quite an ordeal. You definitely know how to steal the limelight!” Nechan could just about make out Cradon’s bright, red hair through his bleary eyes.

At first Nechan could not remember what had happened, but as the vague memory slowly began to take shape, he struggled to breathe, hyperventilating, as if he was in the grip of the karzon once more. In his state of terror, his father and brother struggled to keep him pinned to the bed, controlling his thrashing movements, until exhaustion finally subdued him.

His sanity gradually returned and a few hours later Nechan mustered the strength to sit up and lift himself slowly out of bed. Cradon sent the maid to fetch some hot soup while he helped his brother dress. As he began to recap the day’s events, Nechan took the words on board with disbelief.