GALLADOR THORNSHIELD

The King's Encampment, Northern Jorden

GALLADOR THORNSHIELD AWOKE with a painful reminder that he was, in fact, growing old.

Well, not quite old enough to the point he involuntarily soiled himself, but old enough to wake with a sore neck and groan whenever he sat upright in his bed. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and nearly crusted together with every blink. What hour is it? The purple hues that bruised the sky suggested dawn was afoot, but the moon still lingered off in the distance, as though still clinging to the last hour of darkness like a jealous lover.

Gallador stretched his sore back, and felt a tremor of pain shudder through his neck. Gods damn these old bones. In his youth, Gallador would awake with energy coursing through his veins. He'd jump out of bed, stretch, exercise, and be well on his way to vanquish any challenge that dared face him that given day, all before the rest of the people of Jorden could be bothered to stir awake. But that was some time ago, some time ago indeed. Nowadays, when Gallador awoke, all he wished to do was piss.

The old ranger shuffled from his bed to his privy, where nothing else but a brass chamberpot beneath a wooden seat awaited him. A stream of yellow urine prattled against the metal like rain against a rooftop. Gallador sighed, almost pleasantly. It's been a while since I've had a good piss.

He stuffed his member back into his trousers and shambled over to wash his hands. The water in his pitcher was warm, and he assumed that at some point in the night, his stewards heated it for him and returned it while he slept. God bless the lads, the Old Thorn thought thankfully. A good steward was hard to find, especially one on a war campaign. The old fort was hardly comfortable, on the verge of being a ruin some might say, but such things never bothered Gallador. He was a ranger after all, and though he may have come from wealth, he was never above his duty.

He poured the water into a metal bowl and gently rinsed his face, letting the warm water run through his salted blond beard like a woman's teasing fingers. When he returned to his bed, he sank to two knees and clasped his hands together.

Allfather above, he prayed. Grant my men, my king, and myself your blessings of wisdom. Instill within us your godly virtues, that we may rise above our mortal ignorance, and walk alongside you down the path of righteousness and justice. Lord Ellmen, hear my prayers. Guide me as-

There was a rapping at the door. "Lord Commander Thornshield? Are you awake, my Lord?"

Gallador sighed. He hardly had time to both piss and pray in the mornings out here. The days began as soon as he woke, and ended only when he slept. "Just a moment," he replied tiredly.

He threw on a robe and went to the door. It was a King's messenger that waited from the other side, dressed in steel and sporting a golden shoulder cape draped across his left pauldron. "Apologies for the early hour, my Lord. The King has requested your presence at once."

His voice was solemn, Gallador noticed, though he was sure the messenger's tone didn't necessarily mean the message he carried was somber as well. They all spoke in such a way. The king could ask for a second helping at supper, and the messengers would surely relay the message as if the supper were to be the King's last.

Gallador sighed. The sun wasn't even up yet. Still, he knew Joras for the man he was, and patient was not a word he would use to describe him. "Thank you, good messenger. I will be with him shortly."

The messenger bowed and left with a flourish, perfectly pivoting on his heels and taking carefully measured steps until Gallador lost him around a corner. Gallador closed the door behind him, and set to getting dressed. His dress coat was modest, a gray woolen jacket chased with black and gold, held together by black buttons on the far right side of his chest, the collar perfectly encasing his neck, and his black trousers still had a little shine to them. He clasped his crimson mantle together with a golden brooch, and felt the cape gently graze against his calves.

Now it was time to choose his boots. He had two pairs, one made of supple black leather and shined until Gallador could see his reflection, and an old and broken-in pair of black leather boots near faded to gray. Gallador frowned as he yanked up the old worn out boots up to just below his knee. It was going to be a long day. The days always are...

* * * * *

King Joras Freemane, the first of his name, descendent of the Liberator and royal protector of the Kingdom of Jorden, was in a foul mood. Gallador could sense it as soon as he stepped into the King's chambers, let in by two knights in Joras' Kingsguard. The King was quartered at the top of the central tower of the fort, and allowed for a view that encompassed every direction of travel and approach for as far as the eye could see.

The King was bent over a table looking at a long discolored map. He traced his finger along a line that Gallador was assumed was a river, mumbling to himself as he did so. "Where are you, Casterlyn? I will find you."

Gallador bowed his head. "Good morning, your Grace. I am yours to command."

Joras looked up from his map and gave the old ranger a queer look. "I'd command you to address me as Joras, old friend. You've known me for how long now?"

Gallador smiled as recollected the tenure of the friendship. "Twenty years, your-" he cleared his throat. "Joras."

"Twenty damn years, Gallador, and damned all of them were. I'd be hard pressed to forgive you for forgetting my name after so long."

"I could never, Joras. You simply wouldn't let me."

Joras chuckled. "It's seldom a King has friends, and true friends, no less. It is wise to keep your friends close."

"And your enemies closer?"

Joras looked back to his map. "Not close enough, it seems," he said grimly.

For as long as he's known him, Gallador has known no greater thing to sour the King's mood more than Randor Casterlyn, the man they called the Oathbreaker. Nearly half a moon they've been situated in this fort, hunting day and night to find the man, leaving no stone unturned, and yet they found no trace of him or his "army". That is until they found the sightings of the recently abandoned camps west of the fort just two days ago.

"We'll find him, Joras, and you will have your vengeance. I'm confident something will come of our patrols."

"You sure that Stormwell boy of yours will find something?" asked the King.

Gallador nodded proudly. "Lieutenant Stormwell is one of my most promising young officers. There's no other ranger of mine I'd trust more with such a mission. He will accomplish his task to the letter." What he asked of Cristomir was a man's task, but Cristomir was no boy anymore. Some days, Gallador still saw the flickers of youth and mischief within him, but there was no denying he was a man grown now. Both him and Danticus. The sons he never had, but the sons life tragically gave him.

"All of your rangers boast of such diligence, but a lieutenant? Surely even a captain would have been a better choice to be charged with such a delicate matter. Green as grass, they say lieutenants are, always getting themselves lost in the woods and letting their steel rust. I'd suggest you and this Lieutenant Stormwell refrain from disappointing me, old friend."

Gallador smiled tiredly. "Or my head will find a new home atop a spike on the castle walls?"

"Your head, your arse, whichever one spews the most shit. It's hard for me to tell these days."

Gallador couldn't help but laugh. "Even I was a lieutenant once, Joras. There was never a time in my service that I was hungrier. I'm sure Cristomir will not disappoint you. If he does, well...I believe it's my arse that spews the most shit."

A smile tugged at Joras' lips. "On that, I think we'd both agree." The King returned to his table, and went back to studying his map. "It's entirely on the nose that he chose to return here to the Wolfswood. He wants to end things where they began, I suppose." He shook his head. "Arrogant as ever, that old bastard."

"It would make for a good song, I reckon," Gallador quipped.

Joras shook his head. "I'll have no more songs sung of him. It is best if the world forgets the man ever walked this earth."

"The songs of his defeat only strengthen the songs of your victory, Joras. It was you who deposed him and once again restored the Freemane line to the throne, where it belongs. You've exacted vengeance not just for your family, but for a kingdom. That's a song I find worthy of singing."

Joras' eyes grew distant. Gallador knew that look. Memories pulled at him, and he followed. "The Return of the Lion, the singers say. A lost prince, come to avenge his family and reclaim his stolen crown. Smuggled into my own city, hindered by my own people who turned their cloaks, spilling blood in the throne room where once my father ruled before Randor took his life. There was a battle, a triumph, a feast, all the ingredients the singers needed for their stupid little songs. My entire legacy, Gallador...is nothing more than a song sung in some wayward tavern."

A silence settled between them as Gallador scrambled to find something to say. He remembered the day all too well. He fought alongside Joras, and so did his brother Gareth, the Iron Rose. Randor cut him down when Gareth stood between him and his escape. He too lost family to the Oathbreaker, but no songs were sung of the Iron Rose. His death was lost in the shadows of Joras' victory. Surely, it must be better to be sung about than forgotten, Gallador thought but dare not voice.

"I've killed him already, Gallador," said Joras. "In my dreams, my fantasies...I've killed him a hundred times, and yet he still roams free. My mother and father are now bones in the dirt, my brother Collen was fed to dogs, and they never found Amelia's body after she threw herself from that tower into Red Water bay. And after what he did to Aldrien...he broke the boy. My brother was never the same. He was the youngest of us, and we could not protect him."

Gallador remembered when they found young Prince Aldrien in the castle dungeons. Randor left him in the Deep, the prison cells that drove deepest into the earth. It was a darkness only few knew, reserved for the the most wicked and vile enemies of the crown. Six years. Six years of darkness the young prince endured, and that was a type of suffering Gallador couldn't begin to imagine. The boy was as skinny as his bones, pale as snow, and feral as a rabid dog when they found him down there. Joras cried when they embraced, Gallador remembered. It was the only time he'd ever seen him weep. "What happened to Aldrien was a tragedy, your Grace, but he is a healthy man now, and one of your most trusted advisors."

"Not all wounds are of the flesh, Gallador. I love my brother, but there is-'' Joras hesitated. "There is darkness to him. The man has yet to take a wife and seldom keeps company besides those damn books of his. Ellmen above, he hasn't even sired a bastard child, and they say that's a lord's past time in Jorden."

"Some would say the lack of a bastard to be a sign of virtue," said Gallador.

Joras shook his head. "That's not the point, Gallador. The man is as solemn as the grave. At times, I wonder if I truly rescued my brother from those cells." The King sighed. "He asked me why I left him there, years later. He asked me why I left him behind to suffer at his hands. I had no answer for him, and I don't know if it's better that I would have had one."

Gallador's expression grew somber. "You were young, Joras. You were at the mercy of forces far beyond your control. What matters is that you came back."

"Yes, well...I think it was clear your mother wanted me gone by then," the King said with a sad smile. "There's only so many assassination attempts a woman can suffer before she finds her wit's end. I owe your family a debt I can never repay."

"You have more than made good on that debt, Joras. You are a fine king, a talented warrior, and an excellent husband and father." It was no easy thing, sheltering Joras during that time. Half of his tenure in Arnland, from where the Thornshield family boasted origin, was spent practicing swordplay, the other half securing secret alliances to plot his return to Jorden. Lyonel Thornshield, Gallador's father, orchestrated all of it, and sent with Joras five hundred picked men to see him safely back to Jorden. Jordein lords arranged for his safe return, and it was the knight Frederic Stormwell that snuck them into the city during one of his patrols in Castle Elderstone. Gallador made him a ranger for that. And he died for it...how many lives have seen their end in some way at the hands of the Oathbreaker?

Joras snorted. "I don't know about all that. August hardly said a word to me when I departed for here. He begged for a command, but I couldn't do it, Gallador. This is my fight, and I would not trouble my son with the burdens of my past."

"It was wise to leave the Prince in Elderstone, your Grace. Randor's cruel nature knows no bounds, and I've no doubt you've spared the Prince of his savagery. Besides, he is ruling Elderstone in your stead. There is a greater lesson for him there than there is out here. He is to be King one day, Gods willing. Let him rule," said Gallador. The decision may have been wise though Gallador didn't attribute the decision to sound strategy. If anything, the King's decision was made out of fear. It is one thing to lose a parent or a sibling, but to lose a child? That was a pain Gallador hoped he'd never learn.

Joras walked over to the window, cast in warm orange light that spilled from the rising morning sun. "Something troubles me about his return, the Oathbreaker...for twenty years that monster roamed free, twenty years my family went unavenged. And twenty years later, he returns with an army. And there was not a word from anyone."

"I've wondered the same, your grace, but messages can't be delivered by dead men," said Galador.

Joras sighed. "Still...I do not like it. Something about this troubles me. Where is this army of his? How is it impossible to find an army? Near half a moon we've been at this, and the bastard refuses to show himself. He is a coward."

"We will find him, Joras," Gallador said quietly with a bowed head. "We will find him, and you will have your vengeance."

The double doors that led to the King's chambers opened suddenly. "Your Grace," said one of the Kingsguardsmen. "Lord Granmund would like for you to know that the Royal Squadron is assembled."

Joras didn't turn his gaze away from the window. "Yes...thank you, Sir Caulder."

Sir Caudler nodded. "It is my honor, your Grace." He went back to his post.

"Come, Gallador," said Joras. "The Squadron awaits."

* * * * *

The War Room was stuffy with the warm morning air and the general haughtiness of the puffed up lords that served in Joras' Royal Squadron. They were all noble and proud men born from ancient houses that served the King in whatever way he'd have them do so. There were few of them Gallador cared for, and as an Arnish man, he doubted many of them cared for him either. The position of Arch Ranger was one of great honor, and if not fulfilled by a Freemane, was usually a command given to a second son of a proud bloodline. But no, it was he, Gallador Thornshield, a second son of a foreign family that filled the office, and they hated him for it, or perhaps envied. Hate was too strong of a word, Gallador reckoned. Any one of them would tell you he was a respected figure in Jordein politics, but Jordein politicians tend to prefer filling their political cabinets with other like-minded Jordein politicians. Still, he was appointed by Joras himself, and that was enough to quell these lord's qualms. They've learned that lesson quite a few times throughout his tenure.

Around the table sat the twelve men of the King's Squadron. There seemed to be something lucky about the number twelve, Gallador mused. The King of Farrenhelm, Agner Callahan, ruled alongside his twelve Thanes (though they were once thirteen), and the King of Arnland, Ryken Gartheyn also kept twelve men in the Arnish Ministry. Gallador couldn't say much about the Valdorian Empire. Their method of ruling was a strange thing, as only a woman was allowed to be crowned empress of the Empire of the Sun. Still, they've lasted a thousand years, just as the other of the Four Kingdoms, and there was something to be said of that, Gallador supposed.

To the left of King Joras sat the Royal Chancellor, Edric Granmund, a man older than both he and the King with thinning brown hair that went gray at the ends, and a hard lined face. He carried with him an air of superiority that could only come with wealth and power. He was the most powerful man in the kingdom second only to the King himself. It was his duty to oversee the King's Squadron, and it was a duty Gallador certainly didn't envy. Lord Edric Granmund and himself were different in every way two men could differ from one another. Politics, favors, parchment and quills and thousands of words, gold, self interest, these were the burdens of the office to which Lord Granmund assumed. Gallador was plenty happy with blades, speeches, and campaigns. The office of the Arch Ranger may come with its fair share of political action, but he was still a ranger in his heart.

Down the rest of the long table were the other members of Joras' Squadron, some fat, some old, some thin, some young, some married, some not, but all rich, that much was certain. The Lord Generals of the Five Orders of War, the royal legislator, justiciar, and treasurer, the young priest who made the journey in the Grand Bishops stead. They were all here, assembled to serve the king and fill their pockets. Joras sat at the head of the table, crowned with the simple ancient iron circlet embedded with garnets they called the Crown of the Liberator, the same crown forged by Jorik Freemane himself. It was an unremarkable thing, but it was with blood and iron that Jorik defeated and overthrew elvenkind, all those years ago, and thus, the instruments of freedom have become forever immortalized. Crimson and gray would go on to become the royal colors of Jorden, and the lion, its sigil. Gallador's own family adopted the roses of the Rosewood, their ancestral seat in Arnland, as their sigil. At times, he wished his family could boast of something as proud as the fearsome lion or as free as the soaring eagle for their family crest, but once one laid their eyes upon the red sea of roses that gave the Rosewood its name, such trivial desires faded.

"Your Grace," said Edric Granmund. "The Royal Squadron is assembled. We are at your command."

Joras took a sip of his wine. A glass of red wine in the mornings were good for the mind, Joras often claimed. It focused the senses and loosened the tongue, gifts that the king deeply appreciated. Gallador knew the king well enough to know that it was an excuse to drink at these dreadfully dull meetings. Perhaps he could also use a glass to "focus his senses."

Joras set down his goblet. "Reports," he said brusquely. "Starting with you, Lord General Wilken."

Lord General Wilken, the commander of the Order of Defense, was perhaps the only man on this council Gallador cared for. He wore the black mantle of the Order of Defense, but it was chased with gold lace and marked with a golden tower in its center, the sigil of his order. He was a good and honest man, old, stout, and proud, like some tall old oak in a lonely forest. His mustache was a grand and glorious thing, resting just above his lip and shaped perfectly like a bow. "The garrison forces have kept the walls of our fortress secure, and work tirelessly, be it night or day, in ensuring our safety here, your Grace. I have ordered the repairs of the upper ramparts after the incident with some falling stones. A pity for the young man the stone struck. He served his Kingdom well, and will be remembered as a hero."

We long for battle with the Oathbreaker, but war with this old fortress of ours instead, Gallador thought dryly.

King Joras nodded. "Duly noted. Please direct any financial needs you may have to Lord Byron."

Gallador saw only the briefest frown overcome the Royal Treasurer, Byron Granmund, younger brother to Lord Edric. It vanished as soon as it appeared. "Yes, your Grace," Lord Byron said dutifully.

"Thank you, Lord General Wilken," said Joras. "Lord General Callyn?"

The commander of the Order of Archery was a handsome man at the awkward age between being a young man and being an old man. His hair was a mop of curly brown rings that rested just above his green mantle, which was also, of course, chased with gold and sporting the two crossed arrows of the Order of Archery. He had charming brown eyes, and the commander couldn't help but remind Gallador of Danticus. Perhaps if the lad stays true to his duty, he could very well one day be Lord General Stormwell.

"Nothing new other than the sightings of the camps, as discovered by one of my archery patrols. I understand two rangers and a platoon of soldiers have been dispatched to investigate?"

Gallador nodded when Joras looked to him to answer. "Aye, I have charged Lieutenant Cristomir Stormwell and Sergeant Balamar Blackbridge to examine these camps. They left yesterday, and I am expecting their return tomorrow."

Lord General Callyn nodded. "It is good to know the fruits of my men's discovery will come to ripen. The rangers will surely find the whereabouts of the Oathbreaker. I would like for the Order of Archery to receive recognition for our contribution to this operation."

Gallador stifled a sigh. It is your duty, Lord General Callyn. That alone should be all the recognition you need. That was Gallador's problem with the Lord Generals. They were removed from the field, out of touch with their men, and more focused on lining their pockets and securing their legacies than they were serving their kingdom. The Ranger Order allowed for no such luxury. The men clad in crimson would never follow a bureaucrat, only the strong could stand to lead them.

Fortunately, King Joras responded on behalf of Gallador. "It is important to me that the Generals of my Orders receive their due credit, Lord General Callyn. You and your men who discovered their camps will of course be recognized for your efforts."

Lord General Callyn smiled smugly. "You are too kind, your Grace."

The King is kind indeed, thought Gallador. His response would have been far less diplomatic.

Joras took another sip of his wine, and Gallador heard a faint sigh escape his lips. He too dreaded these meetings, just as much as the Old Thorn did. Joras might have been a king, but Gallador did not doubt he possessed the heart and will of a Ranger.

"Have these patrols bore any fruit?" asked Lord General Bolkier, the commander of the Order of Cavalry.

"The patrol left only yesterday," said Gallador. "The second I receive word from Lieutenant Stormwell, the Royal Squadron shall know."

Lord General Bolkier nodded. "Lieutenant Stormwell hails from the Order of Cavalry. You have chosen wisely the ranger to lead such a foray."

A hint of a smile tugged at Galladors lips. "I would agree, Gordyn."

"We should double our patrols," Lord General Callyn chimed in, never one to leave the spotlight for too long. "We'd cover more ground and would find the Oathbreaker at twice the speed."

"And where would we find the men for these patrols?" asked Lord General Wilken. "This fort of ours is a behemoth of old stone, and every available man needs to defend these walls and their king. His security is paramount."

Joras downed his goblet of wine. "While your words move me, General Wilken, I assure you that I can speak for myself, and my security is well established. I want the Oathbreaker found, and I want him brought before me."

"And we will, in due time, your Grace," said Edric Granmund softy. The man was never one to raise his voice. Being the King's Lord Chamberlain offered such luxury. Gallador's own vocal cords were strained and rusty. Such is the price of having your voice be heard above the scraping of steel and bloody wails that come with death. "But I'm worried we may be chasing shadows. It's been a moon since he was last spotted here by our scouts, it's more than likely he's moved since then."

"And to where, Edric?" Joras said curtly. "Where has he hid this army of his? Why haven't more of our scouts reported sightings of the bastard?" He took another sip of the goblet, but turned it upside down in disappointment when there was no more wine to drink. "More wine, now!"

A page came and filled his goblet with a wine skin, and Joras quickly drained the goblet. The page, ever faithful to his duty, refilled it once more. "I am tired of toiling in this godsforsaken fort. You will find him, all of you, and you will bring him to me on his knees. He will pay for what-"

The doors to the war room burst open, and three knights of the Kingsguard burst through. "Your Grace!" Sir Caulder said urgently. "Your Grace, he's here!"

Joras rose quickly from his chair, knocking over the goblet of wine that spilled to the floor. On the stone tiles, Gallador couldn't help but notice it looked an awful lot like blood pooling at the feet of his king. "Who?" Joras snarled. "Who's here?"

Sir Caulder met the eyes of the Lord Generals and other Squadron members. They all stared back stupidly, with curiously blank eyes as wide and empty as a canyon. He took a breath. "It's him," said Sir Caulder at last. "The Oathbreaker. He's here."