Part One

Staring off into the haze of sunset, Aropal heaved a solemn sigh. Rubbing his pale knuckles with a weary hand, he studied the scars that crossed his fingers and joints. Years of working the forge had given the tall Dras an unhealthy fascination with how his body could adapt to different situations. When he was young, he marched through the Bleak looking for any who could challenge him. His Mergoin were skilled, armed with their ancestral weapons from times long since forgotten.

They’d claimed many in their long campaign, each kill adding another bone to dangle from the cross guard of their massive swords. Heavy bog iron with polished edges, the cleavers tasted the blood of many in their long lives. Aropal’s own sword, Glaurfang, had supped on Neran and Janoa alike. The perpetual diet of his fellow Dras kept his blade happy and pleased his ancestors beyond words. The striped warriors were always a challenge and could weather the heavy strikes that the wiry Dras delivered with Glaurfang. They’d always died with punctuated screams.

The idea brought a smile to Aropal’s dour face. He turned to incline his head at the approaching figure. His musings were coming to an end, it would seem.

“Chieftain,” the Dras said, a deep croak of a voice. “They’ve arrived.”

“Good,” Aropal said, rolling his shoulders to shake his arthritic joints loose. “I’m tired and need to have this underway before the nightfall.”

Stepping away from the mire, Aropal pulled Glaurfang from its place. Embedded in the soft earth, he shook the mud from the dark iron. Holding the heavy blade in his right hand, he studied it for a moment. He looked up when the other Dras cleared his throat.

Studying him, Aropal felt a surge of pride. His son was tall, a few inches shorter than him due to his mixed heritage. The Neran beauty had pierced the almost customary glower that all Dras seemed to have to grace their features. He was dressed in ceremonial leathers, a cloak bearing the title of heir to the tribe. Deep black with crimson lacing spun into the linen in brilliant webbing, his long arms held bracers of shaped bog iron styled to look like a pair of large scorpions clutching his forearms. Aropal knew that Grond was hesitant just by his stance, and the way he was regulating his breathing.

“You seem troubled,” Aropal rasped, licking his dry lips. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Grond replied, casting his eyes downward. “I think I’m just nervous about taking over. I don’t know if I’m ready…”

Aropal snorted. “You’d better get ready. This is an important night, and we’re playing host to our liege. We have the honor to have a future King in our presence.”

“That doesn’t help the matter…” Grond grumbled.

He turned and started towards the large home, the stilted building holding half a dozen rooms over the fetid waters of the marshes. Algae and vines choked the wooden pillars holding the structure aloft, and in the distance, the sound of the Larks sang a lilting lullaby. Aropal grunted and shouldered Glaurfang.

“Let’s go,” Aropal said. “You’ll do fine. I’ve taught you everything I know.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I was younger than you when I took over,” Aropal sniffed, leading his son up the ramp into the squat building. “It’s a difficult task that lies ahead of you, but a necessary one.”

“And you think I can do it?”

Aropal paused, sniffing the pungent air. “I know you can. Now go, get ready. I’ll entertain our Lord.”

Grond bowed and walked around the villa, off into the center of the village. Aropal nodded to himself and slowly walked up the ramp to enter his home. Dry wood and animal bone held together with iron nails and tar taken from the pits marked the home as his own, several rib bones hanging from above the doorway.

All were carved, with depictions of serpents and scorpions writhing about. As he stepped over a large boa that had curled up just outside his doors, he studied the spiderwebs that were part of a nest of Widows. The small black spiders crawled over the desiccated form of a bird that Aropal had given them this morning, the thick webbing holding it aloft.

“The natural order of things…” he murmured, opening the double doors.

The inside was dark, lit be several candles made from the bee’s wax gathered from the apiaries. Several bookcases held the polished skulls of past kills, along with scrolls on crocodile hide and imported papyrus. They detailed the settlements promise of tribute to the Darkholm family, to the Kingdom of Blackheart.

Walking through the back room, he stepped into the large den. There he found three armed guards, Mergoin warriors draped with red cloaks and heavy one-handed swords. They all bore a shield with the customary symbol of Blackheart, a stylized rose embossed on the bronze. Sitting in one of the large chairs was the imposing Dras whose father had tamed the Czermoon clan some fifty years earlier.

“Aropal,” the Dras said in greeting, not bothering to get up. “You look… well?”

Aropal laughed, a small smile gracing his face. “I know I look old Tiberius, there really is no reason to be nice. Please, I wish to hand over my title before nightfall. The village will have gathered by now.”

“No need to hurry Aropal,” Tiberius said, standing finally. His black robes were amplified by the violet and crimson scarves that hung over his shoulders and arms. His jet signet ring glimmered in the candlelight, and his wide eyes showed the empathy that Aropal knew the younger man would feel for him.

He quashed the feelings rising in his chest. “No, it’s time we handle this. It’s been put off long enough…”

Tiberius stared at him for a moment before looking to one of his guards. “Go and let Grond know that we are almost ready. The festivities will soon begin, and he’ll need to be prepared to take over.”

The guard inclined his head before striding off. Tiberius turned and walked over to one of the large weapon cases. He looked down at the padding and studied the smooth bone daggers that rested beneath the glass. Aropal watched as Tiberius picked one up, studying it.

“You like it?” He asked the royal. “It was carved from my father’s ulna. Slender, with a jet that was taken from his personal effects. The blade is hammered bog iron, sharpened by a whetstone to a fine point.”

“Yes… it’s quite the masterpiece. Can I…?”

“Of course,” Aropal agreed, motioning with his free hand to the case. “It has a leg holster that was fitted to the thigh. It’s an adjustable belt, made from Ursaphant hide.”

Tiberius chuckled. “Still hate the animals, do you?”

“They’re a nuisance to our apiaries,” Aropal shrugged. “They should be slain outright, but your father keeps them on as mounts for the Blood Knights.”

“The Blood has a kinship with the noble beast,” Tiberius said, fastening the sheath to his leg. “They’re proud and strong.”

“They’re clumsy gluttons,” Aropal snapped. He gave Tiberius an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“No,” Tiberius waved a hand. “This day you can act as you feel. No need to stand on convention with me now.”

“Thank you…”

“My Lord,” the guard that’d run off said, stopping at the doorway leading into the room. “They’re ready.”

Tiberius looked to Aropal. “Are you ready?”

“Been looking forward to it for nearly five years,” he replied.