The Land of Two Kings
An 'Isles of Albion' Tale
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Prelude
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The midnight clouds flashed with the anger of the storm. Moments later, the growl of thunder rumbled through the sky, rolling overhead like the dice of the gods. The world was wrapped in fury tonight.
A second flash tore the skies asunder, the roar of the storm much closer now on its heels. The elements themselves were rebelling as the ancient wards sensed the oncoming danger. Rain and hail hurtled from the sky and slashed across the longboat's prow, scoring channels across the treated wood. Even as the torrent poured from above, the sea below was moving, swelling up in anger beneath the Norscan vessel, rebellious waves attempting to push them back, or else drag them down.
But still the longboat pushed forwards, the beat of the drum as unrelenting as the strength of the rowers. Manic faces snarled defiance at the elements, bulging muscles heaving in perfect unison. Waves pummelled them, but still the men held firm. If all else failed – and it had not – the rowers were chained in place, both to their oars and to their benches.
It was a work of sheer human willpower, but unbelievably the Norscan vessel was making headway against the violent current. If Lachlann had not seen it, he would never have believed it possible. He had been convinced, ever since the quest had been announced, that it was a fool's effort to breach the mists around Albion. He had stood on the shores of the grim land beyond this foul weather and watched ships innumerable go to their doom. Vessels of unparalleled design, too: dwarvern steamships, elegant elven vessels, frigates that had sailed around the world and back under captains of rare caliber. All crushed.
To attempt what these madmen dreamt was all but impossible. He had protested as much, but his opinion was not one which was widely respected in present company. Yet somehow it seemed that these brutish, uncivilised men may well accomplish that which no other foe in living memory had managed.
Lachlann turned his gaze downwards to the heavy steel chains which kept him in place on the longboat's deck. Unlike the rowers' chains, these bounds were not merely here to prevent him being washed overboard by the tumultuous waves. No. He was far from a willing accomplice in this venture.
And yet, if they got him close enough – as they now seemed likely to do – he would do what they asked of him. Not out of fear – though the punishments the foul shaman promised were gruesome, he had long since cast aside any fear of mortal agony – but simply out of sheer resignedness. He could not truthfully remember how long it had been since he fled Albion. More than anything else, he wanted to return. Once more to tread his homeland, before his disgrace finally brought him his end.
How many years had he spent fleeing the repercussions of his treachery? He remembered several lifetimes spent in hiding. Centuries more fleeing his vengeful pursuers, weaving his way back and forth across the Old World, fleeing south across the hot, barren deserts of Araby, only to be captured by profit-maddened slavers. There he had begun his circuitous route through all the far-flung kingdoms of men. He had thought himself safe in Ind. He had thought that there was no way his ancient brethren would ever find him there, deep in the jungles.
But they had come for him. Untold lifetimes after the Shadows, in a time when they were but forgotten history, the Truthsayers had come for their fallen brother. He had fled, as always. But there was only one place he could have gone to shake them. Back to the powers that had cursed him so. Back to the realm from whence the dark magic that had damned his eternal soul did spring.
The Wastes.
Cold water smashed Lachlann to the deck, and he felt blood rise in his mouth. He spat it out and glanced up, along the vessel's walkway to where his new master stood.
Hrut Manbane was a demon made man. From his position in the prow, he bellowed encouragement to his men, his snarling, deep voice drowning even the rolling thunder. He was barechested despite the whipping rain and cold, and Lachlann could just about make out the latticework of scars across the warrior's chest, marks of a million battles, a million unflinching charges into the fray. At times Hrut would turn and belt insults out into the storm, daring it to even attempt to take his life.
Lachlann had faced many foes and served many masters in his much-extended life. Not the least of these had been Daemons of many affiliations, including the one whose service had damned him in the first place. He would never think to question the power such beings had. But never had he met a mortal man with that power. Until Hrut.
Physically, the warrior-chief was like any other to be found in the maddened, frozen lands of Norsca. He was indomitable, bloodthirsty and fearless. Not so unusually as might be thought, he was also possessed of a keen – almost cutting – intellect. But it was none of this that impressed Lachlann, who had seen it all and more as he had wandered the wild and savage realms of man and beast. It was but a singular feature that leant this man his power. It was Hrut's eyes that made him so powerful.
Upon first locking gazes with the chieftain, at the meeting-place where his former captors had sold him on, Lachlann had physically sagged to the ground. He had felt his will simply erode beneath the pressure of those frozen eyes, and his muscles had involuntarily weakened. It was like staring into the swirls of madness at the pole. When Hrut had asked for him, for reasons he could only guess at at the time, his gaoler – a brutish, hard-bargaining man – had simply handed him over, without charge.
Later, Lachlann would see Hrut reduce raging berserkers to the ground with those daemon eyes alone. He had seen the man face down ogres and trolls, and cow whole herds of beastmen Gors. There was simply something about him that overshadowed the human form he took. He was possessed of a murderous destiny, a compulsion to greatness so strong it overrode the senses of all those who would oppose him. Somehow, Lachlann knew that the only reason the longboat had not struck a reef or foundered on the treacherous rocks was because Hrut was aboard. The man carried his fate like an axe, using it to hack aside all obstacles in his path. While this man willed it, no mere force of nature could prevent their advance.
Thick grey fog was beginning to spiral around the longboat, covering all in its cloying grasp, rendering even the most keen-sighted man to near-blind. Lachlann could feel a long-lost sensation awake in his veins. They were near. Storm and stones to no avail, they were near. He saw Hrut's head come around, the shaggy beard and rough-hewn locks drenched by the storm-water. He felt rather than saw the man's gaze on him, and instantly his chains felt heavier.
“Tattooed Man,” the booming voice spoke in its native Norse. “I see mists.”
It was fully within Lachlann's power to refuse, now. Hrut may kill him, but it would not do him any good. The mists would remain heavy, and even Hrut could not navigate the channels ahead while the wards rendered him blind. Lachlann could perhaps redeem his ancient treachery, and repay his debt to Albion.
But such possibilities were far beyond him. He had given up all hope of redemption in times long past, where he had seen the fate that awaited him after this life. No. He would obey, for all that it entailed.
Sighing what may well be his last breath, he began the ancient mantra with which he and so few others had been entrusted. How many of his kin remained to know these words? So many had died in the Shadows, and so many more in the elaborate hunt that followed. Did the Truthsayers still run strong on the island of their birth? Or had they all gone, with none but him returned?
The wards were resisting him. He reached out, spreading his soul along the current of power which flowed around the isles and fed the ancient mists. The lifting wards were sluggish, unused. He could feel the disjointed flow which spiralled over his homelands. How many circles had been corrupted in the Shadows? Could the treachery really have wounded the islands' defences so grievously that even now the damage was not repaired?
He began to will the change that he needed, feeling ancient defences query him, only to relax once more as he offered up the proper supplications. He had never forgotten, in all those years. Someday, he had told himself. Someday he would return.
It had been a fantasy, and nothing more, but now he did just that which he had whispered to himself those long nights in the jungle.
He was returning.
The mists were unused to being shifted, but Lachlann let his desire drive him, and pushed them into motion. Sluggishly, they began to lift. From his trance-like state on the longboat's deck he heard bellows of joy resound around him. He tied up the enchantment, anchoring his orders to ancient ward-posts. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to drift back into his body.
Around him, the men had never halted in their exertions. The drum-beat continued inexorably, the rowers pulled without pause. Hrut had returned his attention to the storm. It was as if the ancient mists which shrouded all Albion had never been more than a passing consequence. Perhaps that was true, for this man who would gladly wrestle thunder.
Only one motion marked the fact that something of significance had occurred. A burly man, who had until now been motionless at the rear of the longboat, now turned and lifted the oilskin-covered casket upon which he had been seated. From somewhere he produced a flickering torch, and set it patiently to a primitive fuse. The flame caught, and the man waited, blond hair dripping with filth and rainwater as he waited for the fuse to reach its limit. This was perhaps the most crucial part of Hrut's venture, yet the chieftain did not even glance back.
It seemed the fuse was at its critical stage. The blond giant hefted the casket of oil and flung it out to the waves. It was either a product of intense calculation or extreme luck that the casket burst into flames mere moments before it hit the waves. Swiftly, the blaze began to spread, the casket breaking open and flooding the surface of the sea with fire. A flickering light arose, a signal which could be seen far back along the passage they had traversed.
A few minutes passed. Then a faint glimmer shimmered through the storm behind them. The blond giant nodded to himself and took his seat once more, unmoved by the significance of what he had just observed. Lachlann hung his head in a wordless shame. Far behind them now, he knew, the rest of the fleet pushed forwards. The fleet that had decimated forests in its construction, and emptied swathes of Norsca and the Wastes in its recruitment. The fleet that threatened not only to raid, but to conquer and ravage the prize so long denied the hordes of the north. But they were not the worst. Amongst the thousands of vessels crowding the waves behind them, there were some which carried the fell blessings of the Dark Gods with them, like a plague of corruption to be spread upon his quiet homeland.
Lachlann the Truthsayer was returning to Albion. But the ravenous hordes of hell came on his heels, and he sailed with a daemon from the north. Once more it seemed he earned the thrice-cursed title that his forgotten master had gifted him. Dark Emissary he was indeed.