A Strange Land

Word Count: 894

It was the eve of a grand battle with the damnable heathens of the Armies of Alysia and the forward camp was alive with noise and excitement. The Teller had predicted an easy battle with minimum causalities and maximum destruction. The soldiers, knights and mercenaries were already dizzy from drinking the celebration wine. They sang songs of victory and their swords were far from hand.

“Fools.” It was the only word that Narus could think to describe them. He was only twelve years old but was the son of the GodKing himself, born and groomed for this role since birth. He was quick with a bow and flawless with his strategies. He commanded respect even from the most veteran knights of his Father's army.  He quickly grew impatient with the men's cavorting and laughter.

The only one who was not partaking in the merriment's was Vasil, Narus' personal retainer and bodyguard. He stood nearby as he always did. He was a eunuch but terribly effective when he had a dagger in each hand. He knew the price of merriment in front of Narus.

“Vasil.” Narus said. “Go spread the word throughout the camp that anyone who is not sober and in bed or otherwise training within twenty minutes will be put to death. If anyone gives you trouble you are granted permission to slay them yourself.”

“Yes Lord.” Vasil nodded and walked off toward the camp. One by one,the small pockets of soldiers across the camp dispersed and their laughter turned very quickly to silence. Vasil returned shortly.

“I needed only kill one before the others obeyed.” He said.

“Anyone important?”

“A mercenary from the FarLands.”

“So no.” Narus knew that he would need his sleep for the battle tomorrow. He was to ride at the very forefront of the attack. “I'm going to sleep, Vasil. Stay awake and watch for assassins. They will be thick on a night such as this.”

“Yes Lord.” Vasil paused briefly, as though trying to chew his words and decide what to say. He then respectfully muttered: “And happy birthday to you, Lord.”

Narus scoffed as he entered his tent. “I need no pleasantries. Tomorrow is my birthday and the glory of battle will be my gift.”

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Narus awoke slowly. Strange dreams had haunted his sleep. Dreams of falling, shifting, transformations. He would ask the Teller what they mean before the battle but even if they meant death he would still ride and fight. Glory would be his on this birthday.

He pushed aside the thick cover of animal skins. No wait. These were not animal skins. These blankets were fine cloth. His pillow was cloth too and filled with something that felt more like feathers than straw. Even his fine silk pajamas had been changed to something like cotton. He wasn't in the camp. Vasil had failed. Damn him! Narus must have been captured and transferred to a prison cell.

He opened his eyes slowly. No one in the room. It was well furnished but the furniture was made of cheap wood, so the cell was probably Frundian. All over the walls were posters of what seemed to be traveling minstrel groups and bards with strange names. Styx, AC/DC, Led Zepplin, Frank Zappa.

He sat up and grabbed the first thing he could find. It was a strange device on the end table. Like a tall candle stick but with a glass bulb on the end under some kind of shade. No room for a candle. What a stupid design; surely Frundian.

The door opened. A girl stood there, probably sixteen or slightly older. “Neil. Wake the hell up. We've got your cake and presents ready.” She tilted her head and asked: “Why are you holding the lamp?”

“Foul witch!” Narus shouted, brandishing the “lamp”. “You dare speak to me with such disrespect? I'll have you head for that!”

“You're such a freaking weirdo. Downstairs.” She left the door open. Narus was suspicious but surely a Frundian woman was too stupid to engage in such trickery. Still, he kept the lamp close by as he stepped into the hall. The hall was brightly lit but no candles burned. Witchcraft.

Still it seemed too small for a castle. More like a hut. Captured and placed in a Frundian hut? The shame! He kept close to the wall as he rounded a corner downstairs.

“There's the birthday boy!” Said a man. There were many people standing around a small table. A cake with the name “Neil” was the centerpiece. Off to the side, a bigger table held all kinds of strange wrapped boxes.

It looked almost like a party but completely pitiful. No dancers or jesters, no King's table. Where were the plates and plates of food? The concubines? There was no wine and the decorations were fit only for a peasant. There was plenty more wrong but the worst is when they all began singing in unison.

“Happy birthday to you... happy birthday to you....”

Had Narus stumbled upon some kind of strange religious ritual, perhaps? He watched as they used a small match to set fire to the candles on the cake. Why are they setting fire to the edibles?

This was a very strange land.