SciFi and Fantasy Stories: The Young Foxes

            “He shall come to that hill soon now if he comes at all.  The scout that saw us rode fast, and we are not far now from Ridilaun Wood and the coast.”

            The violet-caped horseman nods as he speaks, a small swift movement that shakes his long fiery hair.  The younger man beside him makes no comment, but slowly stretches his arms, taking care that neither his spear nor the green branch he carries catches on the grasping tree limbs around.  His cape is golden amber, and his hair is also red tinged with orange.  Their horses stand obediently under them in the speckled shade.

            A breeze ruffles by.  Clear and cold, as the pounding breakers of the Iopran Sea crashing just west of the heather-carpeted dunes.  Wild too, like the brown-flecked eagle shrieking as it hunts scampering prey on Mount Wyrcoulik’s rocky slopes, which gleam in the noonday sun.  Ghosting over the worn westward road and sweeping through the tangled branches of myriad trees, the zephyrous whisper dances somberly with the rider’s purple cape in stately, dignified steps, as if to sweep his mind clear.

            His brow furrows as he peers down the sloping valley, waiting under the trees just to one side of the road so as not to be marked by anyone on the summit of the matching hill.  He feels taut rolling muscles under his legs as the grey-spotted stallion shifts its weight uneasily.  The beast wishes to break the stillness with a thundering gallop, one that has broken many a Barran shield-wall and brought glory to his rider.  But not now.  The rider waits straight-backed in the saddle with his sword hanging motionless from his belt, and his fingers, empty for once of a spear, absentmindedly stroking the horse’s mane.  Despite the dark yet snow-capped authority of Wyrcoulik commanding the heights, the air up here is open and light.  A cold world, but a clear one.

            “Oh, Sworran Daor will come, brother,” says the amber-caped man, “of that I have little doubt.  But whether he comes to us with open arms or bristling spears I cannot say.”

            The rider with the violet cape lets out a low harsh laugh.  “Kinsman or no, the lord of Ridilburg is not likely to greet the three sons of Vorgremar, High King of Scyldja, with open arms and goblets of mead!  Not at first.”  He sniffs the air and inhales its cool draught deeply.  “But if he truly seeks the old secrets of Taralon, he will honor our mother’s necklace.”

            “If we can get close enough to show it.  It is customary for the Ridilaun to kill armed Scyldjmen on sight.  We risk much, my brother, so much.”

            His brother’s hand strokes the thin cord around his neck before bringing out the round emerald medallion.  “It spoke to her heart long ago and it will speak also to his.  That is why she asked us to bring it to him.  I could never understand her interest in the old legends or what they stood for, but now, it seems, I must risk all our lives for the hope of that understanding.”  The medallion’s face, glinting green in the sunlight, bears the chiseled image of a king bowing before a peasant and washing the poor man’s feet.  Rare it is for a thing of power to so glorify humility, but such was the way of mythic Taralon and its Servant King of old.

            The younger man is silent.  He glances behind him, where his green-caped brother waits in the trees by the small host of clan chieftains that have followed them by way of Candemhal.  Another head of fire, for there are three red-haired sons of Vorgremar the High King.  Red as foxes and just as clever, but with the pride of lions.

            A dark chieftain with wiry muscles rides lightly up.  “This is a grave deed, Vortinas my lord,” he says coldly.  “Have you in truth thought it through?”

            The elder, violet-caped brother drops the medallion back under his tunic and turns sharply in the saddle.  “You doubt our decision, Guirhenthar?”

            The man’s eyes are sharp and flitting, as though unseen things constantly offend him, and his voice flashes like soft steel.  “My sword I pledged to you, my lord.  But this…we have long served your father and opposed the schemes of Sworran Daor to rule all the vastness of Tabid-Ar; he who denies the traditions of our forefathers and seeks the arcane magic of Taralon.  Shall we now storm rashly to his side, as an indignant child after his favorite lamb is slain for a feast?”

            “Rashly?  You know well it is not for the loss of a mere lamb that I lead an army to Sworran Daor.”  A smolder is in Vortinas’s eyes.

            “Yet still, my lord,” continues the flinty-eyed man, “Vorgremar the King is a great man, and mighty with the new alliance to the Barrans.  You have made your displeasure known clear to him, and I for one still see hope for reconciliation.”

            “Sah, and how is this?  Truly your eyes must be keen.”

            “Think, my lord Vortinas,” says dark Guirhenthar, an edge in his voice.  “Sworran Daor, the slayer of our warriors and bulwark against our power, comes down this narrow road with naught more than a paltry guard, shadowed by grave Wyrcoulik, unsuspecting of our troop in the trees.  Our men are battle-ready and eager; they would not begrudge you this change of plans.  Such a prize Vorgremar the High King could not possibly overlook, so great as he is.  And what father could help but be proud of such a son who would do that for him?”

            The thought passes through the violet-caped captain’s mind like a seahawk which thinks it sees a fish below the waves and starts to dive, only to realize it is just the sun glinting off a patch of floating kelp, and must break the dive and return to the path it was flying.  “You ignore my father’s offense.  You act as if he had no choice, as though he were beguiled beyond any fault of his own…”

            “So he was, my lord,” interrupts Guirhenthar urgently.  “The magic in the Fire Hall…”

            “He knew full well what he was doing!” Vortinas snaps.  “My father Vorgremar has all but sold his own people to Regin and the Barran jarls.  And for what?  For ‘protection’ against the lizardmen tribes so he can concentrate on fighting Sworran Daor.  For a – ” His lip curls as though the next words are too bitter to speak.  He turns back to watch the valley.  “No, the Barran yoke is a viler one than that of the Ridilaun.”

            Guirhenthar glances briefly at the amber brother’s peace branch with a disgust he would not dare let Vortinas see.  Beneath his gray tunic, a series of thick old scars lie across his side: battle-gifts from Sworran Daor’s famed wolf Kulav.  Long since healed, they burn ever in his mind.

            “Then know, my lord,” he says softly, “that some men feel…uncomfortable about this coastland.  It is said that the black dragon Osheltazrog fled to this mountain after his defeat by the Dragonking, and some superstitious old warriors are not fain to trespass on his warded lair, nor make alliance with a chief who rules here disrespectful of the danger in ancient magics.”

            The low trees and heather rustle excitedly in a sudden breeze as Wyrcoulik’s gray shadow looms sharper in the crisp highland.  Vortinas turns his gaze levelly at the dark man, studying him.  Guirhenthar lowers his eyes and bows slightly.  His words spoken, he slips his horse back to the company of the muttering chieftains a few dozen feet back.

            The amber-caped brother glances at Guirhenthar before moving closer to Vortinas to whisper, “He doesn’t like this.  He shall follow us, for a time, but he does not like it.  It is my mind that even if it be only us three, we shall pledge our swords to Sworran Daor lord of Ridilburg, should he accept us.  But if the others have such doubts as he, we may only be bringing trouble upon Daor and ourselves.”

            “I know,” is the quiet reply.  Their third, green-caped brother rides quietly up to join them.  He glances at the other two men and sighs, shaking his head.

            “But,” says he of the amber cape, “we will follow your lead down either path.  It is hard for our men to fight their brothers after so many years.”

            “Will not their loyalty remain with us, as ever before?” asks the green-caped man.  He is young and his brow is not yet wrinkled by the burdens of leadership, but his heart burns as true as the sun.  “We are the ones who have withdrawn our oaths to our father, – curse his name! – but theirs were only to us from the beginning.”

            “Were they?  None but the Spirit in the heavens knows what is sworn in the dead hours of gloaming.”

            The younger man’s brow creases as he ponders this, and his hand rests uneasily on his sword pommel.

            Vortinas is silent for awhile, thinking.  It is no small thing to lead half the warlike tribes under your father’s rule into the service of his enemy.  But neither is it a small thing to love one’s mother.

            One’s mother…she was not present that day, had no knowledge of what would happen.  Not a year past, but he could see it still clearly in his mind…the honey light of the hearth in Regin’s Fire Hall glossing both Barran and Scyldjman in flickering hues.  All watching, with rapt attention and drinking horns full of hard mead, as Regin’s beautiful daughter sings a dark and mystic melody, a song of the Calaxion sirens, and steps to its rhythm.  Rowena, the young golden witch as she is later known, is said to have siren blood in her veins, and no man who hears her doubts it.  Even now, her song fills the beer-dulled minds of the warriors while her eyes smile beckoningly at Vorgremar the king, who grins wolfishly back.  The shrill flute mingles with a dizzy ringing in his head, and the fluid notes drip down the girl’s every voluptuous curve as she slinks and twirls her gown in the dance.  Her eyes, vibrant as jewels but cunning as a snake’s, goad the king’s lust as Regin her father smirks triumphantly at his men.  Vorgremar could only stare in wonder...his mind was lost, he was enraptured, he wanted nothing in life so much as her; that full smooth-skinned body, that brazen wink, that voice like dark honey laughing to him, calling him closer, tempting him with unspoken caresses…

            Vortinas and his brothers had left Regin’s Fire Hall in utter disgust, though their father thought nothing of them that night.  It is no small thing to betray one’s kin.  But neither is it a small thing for a High King to give his prime lands to Barran plunderers for the hand of their chieftain’s daughter in marriage, when he has a wife already who has given him three sons to be proud of.  Three proud sons, proud and fiery.  Three young foxes…

            A deep wolf howl echoes over the mountain pass, its undulating pitch riding on the back of a whipping sea wind.  The three caped brothers look expectantly down the westward road as the clustered chieftains behind them mutter nervously amongst themselves and grasp their spear shafts tighter.  Guirhenthar’s nostrils flare out as he steadies his horse.

            “Kulav…” he whispers, with hatred in his voice.    

            A small cloud of dust appears on the far side of the valley, rising up from behind where the road dips back towards the sea.  The Young Foxes lean eagerly forward.  Three horsemen, riding fast in the old arrowhead formation.  A brown stallion bearing a tall weathered veteran hurtles beside a strong red mare whose rider grips the reins with solemn guidance.  Before them lopes a large gray wolf with flashing yellow eyes filled with a depth not found in many men.  And beside the wolf, a powerful stallion with a coat blacker than the starless deeps of heaven gallops under a stout dark man who sits straight-backed as he surveys the winding road ahead.  A cape of deep indigo billows out from his shoulders.

            “The lord of Ridilburg comes.”  The amber-caped brother’s hand unconsciously wraps around his smooth-bound sword hilt.  “And without a battalion of Ridilaun cavalry to cut us down, it seems.  Could it be that he trusts us?”  A halting laugh, and then he holds out to his brother both the spear and the green peace branch.  “So, my brother, choose one.  How shall we meet Sworran Daor?”

            Vortinas watches the approaching riders with a face of stone.  His enemy before him, unguarded but for two companions; an easy target that his warrior training loathes to pass up.  Yet here also is a more honorable king than his father Vorgremar, and his one hope of defending his mother’s honor and driving the Barran hordes from his people’s homesteads.  He feels a cool touch on the skin of his chest, and draws out the emerald medallion, his mother’s medallion, the relic of Taralon and its Servant King of old.  It glows subtly green despite the gold sunlight.  He turns to his amber and green-caped brothers and nods, letting the medallion hang outside his tunic.  A deep breath he takes, then grabs the green branch from his brother’s hand and heels his horse forward onto the road.

            “Come, we shall meet him this way…”