The Three Kings

by Slawomir Rapala

Prelude: The Colors of War

Iskald, son of a powerful duke of a Northern Realm, is mentored by an aging General Aezubah. The duke is murdered, and Aezubah cannot rescue the boy from the clutches of the Tha-kian slave traders. Years pass before a princess, Laela, saves him from his masters’ whips.

Iskald is then torn between love for his home and the passions stirred by the princess. On the deserts of the Southern Realms he seeks to bury his life as a slave and soothe his tormented soul. In the process, he becomes a warrior.

Two powerful Viking Kingdoms vie to conquer Iskald’s homeland. His people, led by Aezubah, have mounted an impossible resistance. Iskald’s life is henceforth shaped by the swirling challenges of love and duty.

Gathered in a glistening hall of an Arynosian ice castle, twelve bearded men rested around a long and heavy stone slab carelessly thrown across four massive pillars. Giants almost, they sat in silence, their unblinking eyes narrowed slightly in anticipation and focused on the open entrance leading into the great hall.

Their enormous frames were fully clad in glimmering, frost-covered armors and long fur cloaks casually thrown across their sinewy shoulders. Awesome greatswords rested by their sides and heavy steel helmets, complete with long horns, completed their rich Northern-style dress.

They were the Council of the Twelve, leaders of the recently amalgamated Kingdoms of Othar and Arynos. For eons, the tribes of these two great Viking Realms had been divided by a great gulf born out of anger and resentment that had carried over from failed enterprises and campaigns gone awry thousands of years ago. For years, the red-beards of Othar and black-beards of Arynos shunned contact and pursued separate ways.

Despite great differences, however, they were united by common heritage, ancestry, language and culture, and such was the strength of these ties that even after so many years, few could deny them. The twelve giants who sat in the great ice hall of an Arynosian castle bore the resemblance of blood brothers, and the only difference between them were the colors of their hair and long beards: six were as black as tar, while the rest were as bright and red as fire itself.

Another man appeared in the crude opening chiseled directly in the frozen wall of the hall. His frame was not as gigantic as that of the men who sat before him, but his presence was great, and his arrival was immediately felt by the others. Long black hair escaped freely from beneath the Viking cap that protected his head, and he was dressed in a way similar to the members of the Viking Council. His keen eyes looked straight ahead without fear or uncertainty and they measured the men before him with a steady gaze.

“Brothers,” he nodded as he approached, his voice thundering off the cold castle walls.

“Irvinn of Arynos,” one of the giants rose while the rest acknowledged the arrival of the man with quiet nods. “What news?”

A wicked smile surfaced on the cruel lips of the newcomer and he smacked his bearded lips, a Viking way of expressing delight. “It is as you predicted, brothers,” he replied with a slight bow. “The warriors of Othar and Arynos have no objections.”

“We put our faith in our forecasters and the powers of sight that they possess,” the giant corrected. “It appears then that they have been right. Your candidature has been accepted?”

“More than that,” Irvinn smiled broadly and paused for effect. “I come to you now as the newly elected bati of the amalgamated army of Othar and Arynos.”

The unexpected news was greeted by the Council with grins and quiet murmurs of approval. The spokesman, an Otharian Viking of advanced age, nodded his head as well but quickly silenced the men behind him with a slight wave of his hand. A long silence ensued.

“Well done, Irvinn,” the giant said finally. “You now command a force unlike anything seen before. Thousands of blood brothers will flock to your banner and fight under your command. Your name will be sung by thousands of voices and cursed by thousands more.”

The Viking’s voice rose to the tall roof of the hall and echoed throughout, seeping into the hearts of all those present.

“For far too long our Kingdoms have been silenced by the hands of the Southerners, who to this day relish in the victory they achieved over our ancestors at the end of the Second Age.

“For far too long, they have relished in the goods that are rightfully ours by virtue of birth, nobility and superiority of our race.

“For far too long we have dabbled in their small-time politics and bartering, all aimed to keep the present state of the world and our great nations at bay.

“It is now time to bring fire and sword to their homesteads once again! It is time to rise and shed the eons of apathy that have plagued our Kingdoms! It is time to take back what is rightfully ours!”

“Aye, aye!” a dozen deep voices agreed.

“Aye, brothers,” Irvinn’s eyes burnt brightly. “And I will bring it all to you! The Kingdoms of the North and the South will bow down before our mighty armies once again. Our banners will once again fly over each castle and palace dotting their wretched lands. Their women and children will be our slaves and more spoils will come our way than ever before! And no ruler, monarch or King will dare rise above you, brothers. You will be the leaders of the new world!”

“And you our right hand and our sword of doom,” finished the giant.

“Aye,” a great smile again broadened Irvinn’s bearded lips as his thoughts ran forth to those days of spoils and glory that were fast approaching.

“How long?” one of the Council members asked after the ruckus slowly faded away from the quiet halls of the frozen castle.

“Patience, brothers,” Irvinn replied. “For the time being, we need to continue our policy and exercise tact and diplomacy in our dealings with the Biyackian tyrant.”

“The wretch will be the first to fall,” the Council spokesman grumbled.

“Aye, but not yet,” Irvinn continued. “Our armies need time to gather, our warriors to practice formations, our craftsmen to construct warships and catapults, our blacksmiths to create mighty weaponry, and our generals need time to plan the assault against the weakening Empire of Biyack. Joining our armies and arming them without depleting our resources is a challenge. As is moving them across the land undetected. Time is on our side, brothers.”

“How long?” the question was repeated.

“Three Southern summers from now, brothers, we shall be ready to strike,” Irvinn concluded and looked at the Council members expectantly.

“A long time to play politics with the Cursed King. He is not a fool.”

“No, but he is afraid, and his power is weak. Threaten him and show him a fraction of our armies. He will bring you gold to keep you pleased. Above all, do not let him suspect the amalgamation of our nations.”

“His Underworld spies roam freely,” another giant remarked.

“Our armies will assemble in the Ice Fields of Arynos,” Irvinn replied, “where his vision is limited and his winged spies will freeze and fall to the ground.”

The giants looked over each other and nodded their great heads.

“Three summers, then,” the spokesman said and gestured towards the opening leading out of the hall. “Until then, Irvinn of Arynos.”

The Viking bati bowed again, turned and walked away, shoulders straight and his chin up. Twelve sets of steel-blue eyes followed him with a heavy gaze.

To be continued...