He almost returned back through the door he had come through. The bodies of the guards who had forced him to enter through the door to his death lay scattered along the spiraled staircase before. Lord Aymon cautiously crept his way through the corpses. He made himself jump when he steadied himself on the stairs by laying his hand on top of a guard’s helm, only causing the head to detach from its corpse and roll noisily down the stairs.

He paused. He listened. He could hear the faint hissing of the snakes. The door was beginning the bulge outward as the pile of snakes pressed against its hinges. He didn’t mean to wait up for them, so he continued on. He was a few paces beyond the corpses until he began to wonder. Had the Rat perished as well? The Rat had commanded those guards and stood watch with them as he entered through that door. He turned around, trotting back down the steps again. The sound of hissing had grown louder.

He turned bodies over and flung helms off of heads. A couple heads had already been detached and Lord Aymon had to steady himself before taking a peek. He nearly vomited at the sight. He finished his search and figured the Rat must have gotten away from whatever skirmish had occurred. Unless…unless the Rat was behind it. His mind went spinning as he remembered his conversation with the king. Someone had forced the king into a corner. He thought back to the pained look upon his face. Lord Aymon brushed the thought aside. The Rat was not of the sort. His brain was too small. He was just a rat, after all.

He passed a passageway that broke off from the spiraling stairway about halfway up, figuring there must be another floor within. He listened for a moment, considering entering but the sound of prisoners wailing and begging through hollow chambers echoed loudly enough that Lord Aymon put it together. The real dungeon—where men who were not meant to die were put. He grits his teeth, thinking back to the look on the Rat’s face as he forced him to the dark dungeon of no return. He had never known of it—realizing it must have been one of the king’s secrets. He wondered just how many he did not know of. The biggest secret was still before him. Who wants him dead? And where is he now?

It couldn’t have been worse timing for the lord of Khudril. He had arrived at Brindvale for his wedding and that very same night had been the night of the king’s disappearance. Yet, Lord Aymon began to wonder why he, of all the guests gathered, were the one suspected of such an act. He realized it came down to his close relationship to the king himself. Their houses had always been of a strong allegiance to one another, but King Eyowen had taken a special liking to Lord Aymon. He had even told him that he was to be his replacement as king when he goes missing. Lord Aymon figured that part of his instructions must have gone amiss—assuming the king had left any instruction. It would have been odd not to, unless his captor or killer had demanded it be so.

He passed two more slain guards towards the top of the stairs where the sounds of the great hall above began to grow louder. He approached the barred door that blocked his entry to the floor of the great hall and the great Throne of Bones. Lord Aymon shivered thinking about bones. The men who attacked his hall at Castle Hildreth, the hawk, the skeleton of the dungeon…something’s amiss.

The door took some heaving to get open. Once cracked open he was forced to stand as still as paper against the wall. Men in cloaks and armor he did not recognize paced the floor just before him. Noticing the door ajar the men slammed it shut. Lord Aymon put his ear to the door. He could hear the gruff voice of a man coming from the direction of the throne, but he did not recognize it.

He creaked open the door slowly again. He peaked his head out and much and more had changed as he remembered it. Brindvale guards and protectors of the king were slain all around, leaving a messy trail of blood across the ground all around. He peered around the other side and saw into the great hall from a distance. He squinted his eyes, not believing what he was seeing.

Strewn up by rope and pinned by spears were the king’s royal family. Eyes glazed and mouth dripping thick, crimson blood. Lord Aymon was forced to place a hand over his mouth, kneeling his way back behind the door. He sat on the top stairs, head in hands. A tear threatened to roll down his eye, but he brushed it away and stood firm.

He realized he had been holding something in his other hand the whole time. He looked down and saw the black iron blade that the skeleton had given him earlier. He turned it over in his hand. It was dull. It would never do against whoever had just ransacked the throne. He snarled and tossed the blade down the stairs. He watched it topple end over end down the stone steps. Its sound echoed through the narrow stairway.

Anger beset itself upon his heart. His lord king was gone, and he had known it was to happen. He had done nothing, what could he have done? Now he was missing, and his family had been murdered and strewn up brutally upon the throne room walls. He slammed the door open.

He walked across the floor with his fists clenched almost as tight as his teeth. His face twitched with anger. Guards took note and withdrew their swords, but they did not move towards him. Lord Aymon walked beyond a line of guards. He leaned down and picked up a bloodied sword from the gut of a dying Brindvale guard. He groaned as the sword left its place inside him.

Lord Aymon tested its weight and approached the great hall. He stopped at the end of the hall directly before the man who sat the Throne of Bones. His blood went cold and his skin prickled. Sitting at the foot of the usurper in chains was his sister, Sarin. Beside her was his squire Qavrin, and his keeper of coin—Fance. They were full of fear, trembling with gags lodged in their mouths.

Lord Aymon’s eyes lifted to the face of the man upon the throne. The helm he wore covered all but where his eyes should have been, although shadows cast darkness across him so that his eyes were not seen. The helm was brazened and spiky. The mouth cast a permanent scowl across the helm. His arms bore no armor except for a rounded shoulder plate and tightly wound leather around his wrists. His skin was bronze and kissed by tattoos where leather and loin cloth did not cover.

The lord of Khudril knew him to be a warrior of the badlands. Those lands were out of the jurisdiction and governing of the nine kingdoms, and the Peace Treaty of Dras Kloot had indicated that neither land had rule over another. Yet, now the throne was occupied by an untamed warrior of the badlands, and Lord Aymon knew there was to be no bartering with a man of that sort.

“Has the sight of your slain constituents not been enough for you to stomach? We have plenty more prisoners to pierce and hang. These walls are too bare for my liking. I plan to hang all the lords of Osknia upon these walls. Tell me, friend, are you a lord?” the man upon the throne was arrogant.

“I am Lord Alaric of House Aymon, Lord of Khudril and protector of Castle Hildreth. I do not fear men like you, bunch of savages.” His words stung with contempt.

“Of course, you do not fear men like me. You have not seen what I do with men who spit treason like it is some light jest.” His accent was thick and Lord Aymon had only heard it when he travelled south of the nine kingdoms. “Your rules do not apply here, Lord Aymon. Since we are doing formal introductions, I am Thorck Drenyork of Drotia Quth. Now bend the knee or face the same fate as my new trophies upon these walls.”

“I will not bend to a king who does not show me his face.” Lord Aymon’s face was stern. His sword was held at the ready, his eyes darting busily as warriors began to surround him.

He removed his brazened helm revealing long mane of flowing dark hair. His face was young but seasoned. He rose from his throne. Lord Aymon studied him—his skin was paler at the face where the helm had hidden it from the sun. “Now you have seen your king. Bend the knee, Lord Aymon, and I shall reinstate you to your lands in Khudril. My men will accompany you, of course, and you will obey my dear friend, Hork Gilal.

From behind the throne stepped a man who was twice the width of his king. He wore no armor or chain—only a loin cloth covered his male parts and a half-helm sat upon his head. He stood over seven feet tall and his sword was near five feet long. Lord Aymon’s eyes glanced upon his face. He knew the face of men who meant harm, and Hork Gilal appeared no different.

“I will bend the knee if you return my sister to me at once. Only then will I bend the knee. Then I shall be gone from your presence, king.” Lord Aymon intentionally left something on the last word, glaring upon the man from the badlands.

“You have a lot to learn, Lord Aymon. You and your people both. I have been treated entirely unkindly during my stay here. I guess it is a surprise that I have decided to extend my stay, don’t you think?” Thorck descended from his place before the throne and approached Sarin, who still sat shaking with a gag in her mouth and chains upon her hands and legs.

“Do not touch her,” demanded Lord Aymon. He took a step forward, but no further. The man called Hork stepped forward with his sword at the ready. Dozens of guards had arrived now. They surrounded Lord Aymon with their short swords in one hand, a dirk in the other.

“You don’t tell me what to do, Lord Aymon. I don’t want to go over this again, but you have much to learn!” His voice had become dark and sinister, and Lord Aymon suddenly felt uneasy.

The sound of a sword ripping through flesh morphed into a gushing fountain of blood to Lord Aymon’s right. He glanced to his right to see that the sword of Hork Gilal had gutted the musician who had been hiding underneath a flipped table. Rich, thick blood splattered from his gut onto Hork Gilal’s blade and wrist straps.

His eyes returned to Thorck Drenyork, not believing this could be real.

“Please, Thorck…” Lord Aymon trailed off as a finger full of a warrior’s rings brushed gently underneath Sarin’s chin. Thorck glanced back towards Lord Aymon with a smile upon his face. It widened when he saw Lord Aymon’s anguish.

“Oh…does that bother you?” His fingers ran along the side of her face. Lord Aymon yelled, running towards Thorck.

Something hard slammed into the side of his head. His legs gave out underneath him and dropped to the floor. His vision blurred and threatened to black out, but it took all of his strength to steady himself and come to.

“I’m starting to think we are beyond settling things the civilized way. But I don’t like civilized anyways.” Thorck withdrew a dagger from his side. It was curved with emeralds and gems along its hilt. He tickled Sarin’s chin with it, watching her tremble. Lord Aymon dragged himself to his feet, the guards had enclosed him into their circle with swords bared.

Thorck nodded a mountain of a man called Hork, and he went behind the throne where a set of plush curtains hid whatever lay behind. He returned carrying a woman by the neck. Lord Aymon’s eyes widened in fear. His pupils were larger than life. It was Lady Kallee, his wife.

“I’m going to give you one last chance, Lord Aymon. But this time, it’s not so easy. Bend the knee, and I will spare one of them.” Hork Gilal had grabbed Sarin, holding her by the back of the neck in his other hand.

“One?” Lord Aymon quivered. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth where blood was pooling from.

“Or none? I can do that as well.” Thorck’s eyes had lit up at the prospect.

“Give me both.” Lord Aymon’s tone was dark.

“So, none, then? Hork, let them run.” Came Thorck’s reply.

Hork tossed them to the ground. Their bodies rolled down the stairs and off of the throne’s high dais. Hork unbound their arms and legs with his dagger.

“Ru—run?” stammered Lord Aymon.

Thorck gestured beyond Hork now to a man covered in a hauberk and thick leather gloves. He was holding the reigns to two vicious hounds that began barking at the loosening of their reins, saliva foaming from their mouths.

“We’ll make it fair. The ladies may run. Lord Aymon may run. But then soon after, the hounds too shall run. Actually, I change my mind. This one is quite fair,” Thorck drew Lady Kallee into his lap upon the throne. She was down to a bare cloth covering his lady parts. “Go on, run!” Thorck shouted at the two girls. Sarin took off down the hall towards the front doors, squealing at the top of her lungs. Lord Aymon turned to run but was hauled down by a guard who jutted the heel of his steel boot in his gut. Other landed kicks as well, keeping Lord Aymon on the ground. Sarin had stopped to see if her older brother was coming.

“Alaric!” she shouted.

“Go!” he managed, wincing. She gave one last panicked glance, before darting out the two large oak doors of the great hall. The hounds were released. Lord Aymon was still on his knees.

He scrambled, shoving aside the guards with his hands and flailing his stolen sword wildly. The guards only chuckled, nearly pissing themselves as the lord tried desperately to gather himself. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he brought his sword into both of his hands, holding it out before him. He furrowed his brows. “Come and try me you bloodthirsty bastards.”

The two hounds jetted past Hork Gilal and past the laughing guards, pouncing into Lord Aymon. He swiped his sword at the oncoming beasts, missing comfortably. The hounds knocked into his knees, clattering him to the floor. His sword scattered across the tile flooring. He flung the beast from his chest, desperate to snap its neck. He was dragged back by his feet by the other hound who had his feet in its mouth. It began to gnaw at his feet with its set of vicious teeth and Lord Aymon desperately attempted to bat at its face.

The other hound rose back to its legs, growling with a look of menace about it. But, before the other hound could make its way to Lord Aymon’s face, two arrows thudded into its side. The hound howled a high-pitch squeal and dropping in anguish. The other hound loosened its grip, growling and searching all around for the perpetrator. Lord Aymon followed the heads of all those around him. The Rat stood up along the balcony of the king’s bedchambers many stories up. Too far to make out his features but Lord Aymon did not need to see his face to know it was him. He had not moved a muscle since he released the two arrows into the beast. Lord Aymon knew that stance since they were just boys in the yard. Thorck stared, confused.

Another arrow came from a balcony along the other side of the great hall, although not as high up. The arrow whizzed by Lord Aymon’s face like an angry wasp and slammed into the skull of the other hound, black feathers along the end of the arrow’s shaft. Ser Godfrey Guildsworth stood with a golden bow upon the other balcony, two men either side of him. A host of ten men in the gold of the king’s royal guard were marching down the steps of Ser Godfrey’s balcony, yelling and hungry for blood.

Lord Aymon took advantage of the confusion, landing a hooked punch into the guard directly behind him. He stumbled, bringing a hand to his shattered jaw. The other guards, still unsure of what was happening, half-heartedly parried blows from Lord Aymon before crumbling to the ground with black feathered arrows piercing their bodies.

Thorck rose from his throne, tossing aisde Lady Kallee, and unsheathed his longsword. Raising his voice to a battle cry, he ordered his men to attack the men upon the balconies overhead. Lord Aymon shoved his way by a host of men with the sigils of the king upon their armor who had just crashed in through the great hall’s oak doors. A bloodbath began in the great hall, and Lord Aymon had no intention of getting caught in it.

He stumbled his way outside clutching his shoulder. One of the hounds had bitten a sizable chunk out of it and blood gushed busily from the cut. Rain poured onto the streets and light thunder roared somewhere far beyond. He ran for miles and miles through the citadel. He turned corners and alleyways, ran by markets and pig stalls, and even through the sanctuary of the Church of Brindvale and found just a single man who prayed silently on a trestle by his lonesome. Lord Aymon tried to blubber out the words to the effect of “have you seen a girl fleeing with tears in her eyes and fear on her face?” and it had only left the poor pious man with a look of bewilderment upon his face and so Lord Aymon had brushed him aside and returned to the citadel’s flowing streets.

Moonlight was all that lit his way as he searched. Sarin could have been everywhere and anywhere, but Lord Aymon had nothing else left to hold on to. Finally coming to a halt, his hands dropped to his knees as he caught his breath. He wondered to himself what had come of the skirmish inside the great hall. He had run past Thorck’s main host of men outside the Hand’s Keep which had seemed over three hundred strong, but Lord Aymon knew that if Thorck successfully usurped the throne that thousands and thousands more from the badlands would be on their way.

When he left the great hall, it had seemed that the numbers were in favor of Ser Guildsworth and his men, but it was known that there were rarely such seasoned brutes as the warriors of Drotia Quth—the badland’s fiercest men.

He continued running until the bottoms of his feet bled. He passed small skirmishes where royal soldiers put up a fight against a cluster of men from the badlands. The badlands men won every time, Lord Aymon seemed to note. He turned a corner of a tall, rectangular building and he wished he hadn’t. He was just in time to watch a warrior scream as he thudded his axe into the chest of a man, puncturing even his plated armor. The man faltered to his knees and the warrior jammed his dirk into his neck—sealing his death. Lord Aymon turned quickly, praying he had not been seen.

His hope had started to falter as he walked along the cobblestone path of the citadel. He had lost his way, as it was easy to do in these streets. It was like a labyrinth—hard enough to navigate on its own—but the dark had disoriented Aymon. The sound of heavy breath was approaching from behind him. Turning to learn of the approaching noise, Aymon saw just enough to know it was Sarin. Yet, she had not seen him and so she had turned onto another alleyway.

“Sarin!” He screamed. He sprinted after her. Water sloshed up onto his legs from the flooding streets. The citadel sat upon a hill so that the water flooded downwards along the cobblestone in streams. Twigs and hay floated along as small streams aggregated into larger ones.

He almost lost his footing turning a corner, catching the sight of her green cloak just as she turned another corner sharply. He ran and ran, screaming all the while. She must hear me…she must.

Finally, he turned a corner and she stood huddled at a dead end at the end of an alley. She crouched down with her hood still pulled over her face.

“Hey, Sarin, it’s me. It’s your brother, Alaric. It’s okay now, we escaped. We can get out of here.” He approached her slowly, crouched low to appear unthreatening. She said nothing.

He stopped a few feet from her. She was still facing away from him. She was sobbing quietly and softly. Lord Aymon took another step towards her, lightly tapping her shoulder. He turned her around. Lord Aymon gasped, taking a step back.

“You’re not…” Lord Aymon trailed off. Someone approached from overhead, standing upon the building that enclosed the dead end. “Who are you?”

The figure said nothing. He dropped a bag of coins from where he stood, and it landed beside the little girl who was not Sarin. She grabbed it and scampered away. Men approached now from the other end of the alley way with hoods over their heads and dirks in their hands.

“I will not bend the knee to Thorck! I will not do it!” Lord Aymon screamed at the man who stood atop the building before him.

“We do not serve a man with that name,” came his low reply. “We…are smugglers.” A hard blow slammed against the back of Lord Aymon’s head and his vision left him.

This time for good.