Premonition

Extended Summary

A man on a quest to save his people and win the favor of his King stumbles upon a broken woman doomed to the fate of being burned at the stake and together they see the world in a whole new and terrifying light. Dodging dragons, battling trolls, and hiding from their own secrets is only the beginning as they fight to overcome all the odds to save a kingdom and ultimately save themselves.

- + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + -


The Southern Borders


- + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + -

         
The grass seemed a little soggy to the small girl as she picked thistle in the meadow. It did not have the same crispness one would usually expect. She thought nothing of it for the small purple flowers in her hand were still vivid and lush with life. She placed them in her basket then turned back for the village. Her mother told her not to leave the house since the fog gathered quickly and with out warning these days. One could easily lose their way and spend the night in the freezing dark, but that did not deter the little flower picker from doing what she loved best. The light in her mother's eyes at first sight of the bouquet sitting on the table just before dinner was enough of a reward to take such a risk. She held the basket close so not to lose a single flower as she started to trot home. This was in good time too for her insides grumbled and raged like the sea upon rocky shores. Mother would be cooking a pigs head tonight and that alone was a rare treat!

The little girl came to a stop and silently eyed the trees behind her. She was picking beautiful flowers under their sheltering branches only a few minutes ago, but now they seemed angry and threatening. Her breath now short and quick fogged lightly as the air grew cold and still. There was something in those trees… something that was not there before. A twig snapped and she held her breath. It was behind her now. Hot breath struck her neck and made every hair on her body stand on end.

A scream ripped through the fog and meadow, and then all was abruptly silent.

Three Weeks Later

The sound of rolling thunder vibrated through the forest as hooves beat the Earth at a terrifying pace. A wake of churned leaves and dirt spit up into the air then fell back to the ground leaving a noticeable track, but the rider did not care. He pushed his horse harder and faster as the forest faded to open fields and day gave way to night. The frosty cloudless sky was a welcome sight in the autumn, but this night did not fall in the months of autumn, it was the middle of summer. Such a chill during the hottest months of the year was alarming and surely a bad omen.
The rider reined his exhausted mount to a halt as he scanned the horizon before him. He had ridden all through the night and his horse was a moment shy of dropping dead. Before him lay the bustling capital and home of the King, but it was still a couple hours ride away and no time could be wasted. He spurred his mount on and it lurched forward with a weary groan.

- + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + -

         Thomas stood in the highlands of the northern boarders. His guards sat behind him in a circle around an iron pot over a temporary fire. The wind was fierce and stung with the cold bite of high altitude, but their warm wraps and animal hide cloaks kept them surprisingly warm. Thomas was not a proud man but he was proud of the Earth’s clever tricks. She most often hid her mostly glorious features behind a disguise of foul weather and seemingly barren wastes, almost as if she wanted to keep these precious gems for herself. The highlands were a breath taking expanse of land underneath a blanket of some of the most unpredictable and hostile weather imaginable. Yet here he stood in its very epicenter marveling at her grandeur and cunning. Thomas returned to his men before nature got wise to his accomplishments and told the bitter wind to blow him off the slope.
The steam from the pot blew right at him as he approached and the sweet smell of week old rabbit stew was absolutely enchanting. The guards, all dressed in dark green and red with furs on their backs, gobbled down their rations like starved wolves, but Thomas maintained the manners bred into his very blood. Conrad, the lead guard and Thomas’s right hand, announced the depressing news that they were completely out of mead and the men let out a disheartened groan. Thomas swiftly reminded them that by tomorrow morning they would be at Dunwall with fresh meats, mead, and warm beds to greet them. The men, forcing on their next wind, mounted their worn steeds and continued south.
Thomas tried to escape his thought once more in the beauty of the land but it was an effort made in vain. He could not think of all the messages he had sent back to the King over the last few months. They were dark messages filled with war, dark plots, and horrifying rumors of deceit and betrayal. The northern neighboring country was a long standing alley to the kingdom of Dunwall but their warring, civil unrest, and mysteriously rapid return to peace was baffling. To have such close friends be nearly torn completely apart from the inside out was vastly unsettling. The king had sent Thomas as desperate outreach to help stabilize the government and reassure the people. It nearly resulted in the loss of Thomas’ own life, but he was beyond lucky to have survived the ordeal. Now to return home with no tangible reason for the civil wars up rise and disintegration was not easy on the nerves. Even worst is the rumor that the coastal nations have grown silent. Thomas had sent two swift mounted messengers across the highlands and down into the eastern coastal valley. He had not heard of their returns yet and seeing his small party of twenty men was the last to head homebound made that fact very uncomfortable. At least the ride warm will become easier with every step.
The highlands dominate the northern territories with the mountain range acting as a barrier between the eastern and southern countries. They are a slim but highly elevated mountain range which is a blessing most days because it acts a natural shield from the sometimes hostile western coastal territories that have given many a neighbor grief. Because of the mountains they do not even bother trying to venture in the westerly direction, leaving them incredibly peaceful. They give Dunwall the snow melt in spring allowing for extremely fertile land and crisp cold drinking water in the spring and even summer months. For the most part the territory of Dunwall was rolling horse country to perfection. They had lush prairies, meadows, and wooded areas all through their kingdom. The only exception to this was Greyloch, the vastly deep and impenetrably dark watered loch to the south, which was surrounded by the fabled White Willow forest. It is named so, not because any actual willows, but because of an age old myth that a spring covered by a white willow grants everlasting life. Thomas thought it to be a terribly inaccurate since many people who venture into the forest are found dead from exposure simply because they became lost and could not find non-poisonous food or any source of water. The forest is truly a maze and seems to have soul piercing eyes that never close. Thomas was forced to search for pair of children after they dared one another to enter the tree line. Thomas eventually found the boys but the ordeal remains one of the more bizarre and disturbing moments in his life. Just revisiting the forest in his own mind brought chills to his entire body, which looked ridiculous since they had finally dropped out of the cloud bank and into Dunwall’s warm and sunny basin.
With a whistle he urged his dapple bay mount forward into a gallop and the guards on their heavy war horses followed suit. Thomas could taste sweet red meat and feel the sloshing of a robust wine go down his dry and raspy throat. As the night greeted them with the light of a full moon, the convoy followed the centuries old path back to the castle of Dunwall.

- + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + -

Prince Bruce Alexander Desmond of Dunwall was a proud man. He had been blessed with all the charm and wit of his mother with the strong build and masculine features of his father. He was adored by all seven sins, but as a boy he had decided that lust was his favorite. There was nothing more exhilarating, or simultaneously relaxing, than the comfort of a warm woman on a cold night, which he did so quite often if not every night. In his youth he thought nothing better than the position of a second born son of a king. He could indulge in all the carnal pleasures of the night without the responsibilities of learning the ways of an heir by day. His governess knew no different between Bruce and his older brother and punished their ill manners equally, but now as a grown man of twenty he was free of tutors, governesses, and late night chauffeurs.
Being the dark son had its own rewards as well. After his mother’s death the King insisted her lady’s maids remain in the castle with the intent of serving his next bride. The maids and laundresses busied themselves about during the day and busied him at night. They thought his older brother cold and boring, despite his heroic status as a battle hardened warrior. They flocked to Prince Bruce’s insatiable needs like moths to the flame. Not that his devastatingly good looks helped any. He was taller than most men and carried himself with the strength of a sound build. His shoulder length hair was very dark and his eyes even darker. He had a strong, well set jaw with high cheek bones and an only slight prominent brow. His skin was flawless and his teeth abnormally straight. He was arguably one of, if not the, most attractive man in the royal family, past and present. He was known for his brute strength and accuracy with a bow. He was a brilliant tracker and hunter of both land and aerial prey. He knew when to remain silent but had no tolerance for impudence and a raging temper to compliment it. It was all these talents and traits that laid the now blooming seed of desire for the throne. He was both physically and mentally superior to his brother, who lacked the raw aggression, apathetic backbone, and impenetrable force needed of a king. As every day passed it became more apparent to Bruce how inadequate his brother was.
Bruce stood in his chamber staring down at the burning coals in the stone hearth; furious the flame had been allowed to dwindle so low.  There was a knock at the door. Bruce did not even bother to look up at errand boy who nervously shuffled in. His dirty head was bent down low and Bruce’s nose wrinkled at the stench of his hair.

“Forgive me, my lord, but the King has an urgent need to speak with you.” The filthy boy bowed slightly then retreated before he could suffer the prince’s infamous wrath.

         Bruce continued to stare at the hearth as another boy shuffled in carrying a large pile of wood. Bruce turned his head slightly with a cocked eye brow as the six year old knelt down, with the wood pile at his knees, and began to place one log at a time over the dying flame. Bruce’s insides boiled with the sudden urge to kick the boy into the coals as a reminder to his duty. Luckily for the boy the moment of rage subsided as quickly as it arose.  Bruce turned around and stormed out the door and down the fire lit stone hallway. He pasted priceless tapestries, with the occasion painting, that had been in the family for generations. The castle was longer than it was tall, with the exception of the three guard’s towers and the King’s tower that housed his armory and passage to the dungeon. Bruce absolutely loathed stairs and loved how small the elevation was in comparison to their other castles. He passed the chapel and his late mother’s bed chambers then finally arrived at the great hall at the structure’s center.
         The Hall was filled with knights, servants, and a line of common folk hoping to have an audience with the king himself in order to voice their complaints and issues with the land and laws. This was a daily event that normally took place in the late morning hours before the mid-day feast. Bruce walked around the mass of wealthy and poor towards the throne seat when his father was seated. The room was massive with dark green and red banners hanging from the stone arches and exposed wooden beams. The room was lit brightly by countless flaming sconces and finely crafted silver chandeliers complemented by reflected light off the white marble floors and pillars. It housed all their finest paintings, sculptures, and tapestries, as well as their tasteful collection of foreign art. It was also the final resting place of the greatest menace that ever lived, Argot the Night Hunter. He was a giant among bears and took all of twelve men with countless arrows to bring down. His hide, now resting beneath the King’s feet, was eleven feet long with the thickest rich brown fur any man had even known. He had reigned terror on many villages for years, killing the bravest of men to youngest of children, before the King deployed Bruce and his personal guard to hunt the beast down. It was Bruce’s skillful thrust of the sword that finally sealed its doom and after a full day of careful skinning he was brought back to the King as a trophy and tribute. It was Bruce’s proudest day. For the first time in his life he out shined his brother in the eyes of his father, the king, and his kingdom. It was a day he wished he could relive for the rest of his life, but the reality of that was nonexistent.
Bruce strode up the gleaming white steps to the line of plush seating that had seen the coming and goings of the last few kings and princes. Bruce’s own personal chair had a tall back adorned with elegantly carved gold and silver plating on the head and arm rests. His seat was red velvet with a throw made from a collection of red fox hides that Bruce himself had hunted in his boyhood. He eased into his chair with a simple greeting of, ‘Father,” and the King softly grunted in acknowledgement. He took stock in his father today, as every day, and noted how drawn the old man seemed. He was losing weight, but the luxuriant fur coats and velvet capes disguised this fact from unknowing eyes. Despite his age and digressing health the King of Dunwall still had lungs as powerful as Argot’s and it thundered through the hall as he spoke.

“Tell us again, Lukas of White Willow, what is your plight?” The rumbles of gossip and spreading of rumor ceased at the booming echo of the question through the hall.

Bruce looked in on the gathering crowd and noticed a mud covered horseman in the center of the room. All eyes were on this peasant, as he drew up the last of his strength to approach the throne at the bottom of its steps. The king sat deep in his lush seal fur cover seat with the comfort of luxury, but his fingers were drumming the edge of his gold plated arm rest. The four-beat taps pierced Bruce with a nearly overwhelming irritation that made his stomach turn. How greatly Bruce despised finger tapping was beyond the spoken word. Bruce stomached his upwelling aggression by taking a quick glance at the massive head of Argot and reclaimed his pride and self confidence, which had the power so smother even the most unexpected of thoughts or emotions. He raised his head high and focused on the weather beaten messenger once more. The man was shaking from exhaustion and pale from lack of decent food or drink, but still he stood with shoulders back and chin high. Bruce thought a little better of him despite his filth. The man opened his mouth to speak but his spotlight in the King’s presence was quickly smothered.
         Just then the massive oak doors at the end of the hall erupted open and the sea of people parted for a strikingly handsome man with very short light brown hair. He had a full face and neck of perfectly short stubble of a slightly lighter brown. His skin was flawed with so many soft freckles that they could only be noticed up close. His well trained eyes were a liquid hazel that complimented his freckles. They gazed with a depth that only those who had held death in their own hands could comprehend. He was nearly as tall as Bruce, but not quite, with a powerful stride he had earned from months of combat. His knuckles were scabbed in a few places and the faintest hint of post-bruise-yellow sat under his left eye. He was Prince Thomas Edmund Alexander, the beloved son of the king and heir to the Dunwall throne, returned from the north country. Bruce could not help the instinctual roll of his eyes and stiffening of his fists. Every time Thomas returned from a diplomatic mission, or even a leisurely riding through the country side, Bruce wondered why his brother could not just get himself killed for once. It was a concept that became so impossibly unlikely that it sometimes over whelmed Bruce at night. He was the heir to the throne and certainly did not belong on a battlefield, warring foreign country, or any other place that did not include being at his father’s side. It was almost as if Thomas was avoiding his responsibly as heir, but then again maybe he was trying to be a gloat. Bruce promised himself that if his brother ever ascended to the throne as ‘Thomas the Great Warrior King’ or something outlandish like that, he was going to kill him with his own bear hands. Bruce looked down once again at Argot the great dead bear and the at his massive twelve inch wide paws with a muffled chuckle.
         As Thomas strode toward his father and brother the crowd surrounding him bowed respectfully as he passed them. Thomas passed the exhausted rider and hopped up the five steps to his father. The King was beaming with a pride and relief that his Thomas had returned home safely once again. Thomas placed his hands on his father’s shouldered and briefly greeted him before taking his seat on his father’s right side. Both of their smiles quickly vanished as the horseman dared to interrupt the royal reunion.

“My lord, please I beg of you to forgive me, but we are in grave danger!” the man finally bellowed out before immediately regretting it. Bruce was thrilled to end his brother’s praises but equally furious a peasant would speak out in such a manner. Bruce’s face was an open window to his rage and disapproval.




This a work in constant progress which I hope to finish as soon as possible. I have been toying with the plot and characters for nearly a year. Comments both good and bad are extremely welcome!