The Three Kings

by Slawomir Rapala

Chapter I: Troubled Tides

part 2 of 5

Two of the Jewel’s residents, however, were already awake. Just now a youth appeared on the main square of the palace, accompanied by an aging man. The boy had not yet seen more than fifteen or sixteen summers, but he was tall for his age, handsome and well built. He wore a light-colored woollen shirt, matching trousers and a pair of neatly tied leather sandals.

His aristocratic features exuded power and confidence that one could acquire only through noble birth. A mane of thick, black hair fell to his shoulders and covered his forehead. His keen eyes of light blue color, the sort the ocean is just after a severe storm, looked on without any fear. They were sharp and focused, but one could sometimes see a quick smile pass through the boy’s serious gaze.

The elderly man was tall and slim and despite his advanced age he held his lanky frame straight and showed no signs of weakness. His dress was similar to that of the boy’s except for a long double-edged greatsword hanging by his side.

His long dry face seemed to be chiselled in marble and its features were motionless and grim, like that of a statue. Tight lips and ruthless eyes spoke volumes of this man’s proneness to cruelty and his willingness to commit the most terrifying acts. He was a born warrior, a soldier in every sense of that word.

The boy’s name was Iskald and he was the only son of Duke Vahan of Lyons. The aging warrior who accompanied him was known as General Aezubah and his name was immediately recognized on each side of the ocean. His long-lasting trips and adventures were the subject of tales told by travelers resting around campfires late at night.

His armies had at one time shaken the foundations of the civilized world. He had dined and warred with Kings and Monarchs, befriended and beheaded them alike. Thrown into the cruel world of war at a very young age, Aezubah had thus far emerged victorious from every battle, campaign or war, though he had suffered many sacrifices along the way. Not the least one was the fact that his infamy had caused many Kingdoms, most notably Nekrya, to place a bounty on his head.

As a traveller, Aezubah had glimpsed the misty swamps of the legendary Realm of Yitia as well as the snowcapped peaks of Viking Kingdoms. He had made and then broken pacts with both men and demons, crossed the ocean dozens of times, and traveled over the maddening ice sheets of the North as well as the scorching wastelands of the South.

As a General, he had overpowered a crazed wizard and then a bloodthirsty tyrant while bringing peace to Estrata. As a Viking bati he had led the Arynosians to victory over a wicked Sorcerer, slaying him with his own hand. He was also the man who had escaped Biyackian dungeons and in the process, had burned the city of Reele along with its thousands inhabitants.

His greatness could not be disputed, then; not by the few friends he still had, nor by the many enemies who wished him dead. Few knew that Vahan had asked Aezubah to take shelter in Lyons once it was clear that he was not welcome anywhere else. There was a condition, however: Aezubah would teach Iskald the art and practice of war.

Vahan could not have asked for a better instructor because Aezubah lived up to every tale of which he was the subject; he was the incarnation of a perfect warrior. Fearless, patient and cold as stone, he possessed the ability to use any type of weapon with so much power, precision, and expertise that he had awed the warlike men of Lyons.

A very inventive and dangerous fighter, a quick and sharp fencer, a smart and conservative leader, Aezubah had never found a warrior of skill equal to his throughout his travels. And for the last four years he had been passing this vast body of military knowledge to Iskald, whom he grew to love like a son.

Both Vahan and Aezubah were extremely pleased with the rate with which the boy learned the difficult art and with the progress he made over the last several years. Iskald was much more mature than other boys his age, and was also marked by superior physical prowess and mental development.

He used both the crossbow and the traditional bow with impressive skill, and his ability to handle the double-edged sword in combat was remarkable.

He could hurl the knife, spear and war-axe with terrifying precision; he was no stranger to the strategies employed in wrestling and other physical sports, and he was also an accomplished rider.

Looking at him it was hard to believe that he was the son of a powerful warlord, born and raised among enormous comfort and luxury, born to lead a life of lavishness and extravagance, the sort of life that was due him as a noble and, moreover, as an heir to the throne of the Estate.

In addition, Aezubah spent much time teaching his pupil the skills necessary to be a successful leader. He focused especially on military strategy; for instance, how to completely vanquish the enemy while losing as little of one’s own men as humanly possible.

Iskald was an attentive student and he learned quickly. Even Aezubah was surprised with his ability to rapidly comprehend military concepts that sometimes eluded experienced warriors for years. He was indeed so pleased with Iskald that he once told Vahan he would be willing to put Iskald against the best warriors of Lyons, completely convinced that the boy’s skill and knowledge would enable him to emerge from such a contest victorious.

“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating?” Vahan was not as quick to share his friend’s enthusiasm. “After all, the boy is only sixteen.”

“That’s true,” Aezubah agreed, “Perhaps he still lacks the strength that can only come with age, but I’m confident of his ability. He will make a fine warrior one day!”

“It certainly looks that way,” Vahan replied, unable to hide his delight at hearing such words from Aezubah, a warrior legendary by any merit. Everyone knew that the Duke only had one wish in life and that was to see his son grow to be a splendid man and warrior, and a leader worthy of his heritage. And as the years passed it became more and more clear that Vahan’s wish was indeed becoming a reality.

Presently, Iskald placed a round target with a red eye painted in its middle in the far corner of the square, under a large oak growing in the shade of the castle walls. Then he measured thirty-five steps and turned towards the target with a bow ready in his hands.

“Now, remember what I told you,” said Aezubah as he approached his pupil. “Concentrate on the target and only on it alone. The rest of the world doesn’t exist.“

Having said that, he gave the boy a friendly pat on the shoulder and moved aside to monitor Iskald’s movements. Without wasting time the boy pulled an arrow from a quiver hanging low on his arm. He placed it on the bow, aimed with great deal of focus, paying attention to every minute detail before finally releasing it. The arrow cut the morning air and easily found the target, but it lodged itself far off the eye. A questioning gaze followed Iskald’s disappointed sigh.

“Your aim is off because you think too much,” Aezubah remained perfectly motionless. “Forget about the details, the world. Trust your instincts, point and shoot.”

This time as soon as Iskald drew the string and the arrow’s point matched the eye, he let loose of the missile. Aezubah nodded his head in a silent approval, observing that the point had wedged itself in the target a mere thickness of a hair away from its centre. Iskald smiled a little when he saw his mentor’s approval. Aezubah was not only his teacher, but also his best friend and caretaker. The boy felt a deep affection for the old man and knowing that his progress made Aezubah very happy, he studied attentively, determined to please his father as well as his friend. Seeing the quiet content on Aezubah’s face at this moment, Iskald was very happy himself.

His mother had died during childbirth and the boy never had a chance to meet her. Still, he loved her with all of his noble heart and all of his brave soul and not a day went by without him thinking of her, looking for guidance and advice. She was his angel, that’s what Vahan told him.

The Duke portrayed her as almost a divine being and talked of her in such a loving manner that it was impossible not to adore her memory. The proud Duke still loved his wife deeply despite the fact she had been gone for many years. It was no secret that Vahan never quite accepted her death that he never quite understood why someone so beautiful and good would be taken away from this world. He never understood why he was left alone without his angel, without the one person that accepted him unquestioningly and loved him unconditionally. He carried much pain within him and the only thing that eased the hurt was the presence of Iskald.

It seemed that ever since his mother was taken away, her son was blessed with her soul. Sometimes the Duke would sit his son before him and look into his face for a long time, trying to find in him the long-lost features of his dear wife. He loved her so much, after all, and he had lost her so soon and forever.

In such times the features of Vahan’s face would clearly soften, his burrowed frown would crease out, and he would drift far away to think about the moments he had spent with her, the times when they laughed and cried together. At such times he would often talk about Dynah, recount stories and anecdotes from the time when they were together, and he spoke with so much passion and love that Iskald’s eyes would swell up.

At those times the boy felt happy, but extremely alone. Vahan did everything in his power to make sure Iskald would not feel such solitude, but they both realized that the boy needed more attention. Early on Vahan recognized that no woman could ever replace his beloved Dynah and he quickly dismissed the idea of taking another wife. Nevertheless, he was aware that the attention he could provide Iskald with was not adequate and that the boy needed another person to spend time with.

As Duke of the Estate, Vahan had hundreds of responsibilities and details to attend to and it was not at all strange then that the boy often felt alone and neglected. It pained the Duke almost as much as the loss of Dynah.

Proceed to part 3...