There was hardly any sleep for Tauron the first night of the expedition. Even the soft, feather pillows felt hard and cold in the face of the task. The visions of the Morcars that was instilled in the mind of every Syanian child danced on the walls of the tent; hideous half-human creatures, some pig-like, some bull-like, many with malformed and twisted bodies, their mouths all had long, sharp, broken teeth. Their eyes were either pitch-black or blood-red, sometimes both. Their cloths made from the bones and skins of human children. Severed heads strapped to their belts, fingers and toes made into necklaces.
When sleep did come to him, the dreams tormented him. The Prince saw staring at him a whole crowd of people, like the one that bade farewell to the army, all staring at him, their faces emotionless with doubt. What haunted him the most was what lay in the place of their eyes; instead of brown, blue, or green eyes, there was nothing but a grey, empty void that looked onto Tauron without sympathy, without encouragement, and without love. There was only doubt. Behind him was the mutant hordes of the Morcars, now reduced to little more than hair, claws, and teeth. The white-eyed ones expecting him to stand and drive them off, but the horde stretched beyond the horizons of the mind. When they came upon him, Tauron finally awoke, still finding himself in the middle of the night, alone in his tent. There was no one to comfort him, not his father, or mother, or Master Borlin. If he sought help from anyone here; Malken, Noc, he would lose whatever respect he had.
No one to comfort him, except himself. Perhaps for him to learn that was another one of his father's goals.
The camp was busy with activity when Tauron stepped out into the morning light. He rolled and cracked his stiff neck around his shoulders, releasing a knot that had been annoying him since the early morning. Observing the tents collapsing in a neat order, every man seeming to have a job, and roll out moving efficiently, he guessed that Malken had already taken command for the day. He looked around to find Malken. He spotted him hurrying along some troops that were taking their time with their supplies.
"Come men," he cried, "War waits for no one!" he said very enriching and high voice. Tauron chuckled to himself. He was up there on his steed, giving orders as if he were the commander. After a day of being in his dust cloud, the Prince was tired of having his army being commandeered. Next to his royal tent, his brown stallion, Jerod stood ready to be mounted. Without hesitation the Prince hopped on and rode over to meet Malken.
"Good morning, Lord Malken," he said as he approached.
Malken turned and gave a pointed smile, "Ah, my Prince," he bowed, "I trust you slept well."
"Not terribly at least," Tauron took his eyes off the general and observed all the men scurrying to move out, "I see you've got the men up already," he commented.
"Yes, I ordered Noc to wake them at dawn about an hour ago."
Tauron nodded, "Very good. However," he said, "I am quite irritated that you prepared the men without my authority," he began to stare down the general.
Malken's exuberance came crashing down. Now the face of a child who had been caught stealing cake plastered his face, "I wanted to let you sleep, sir. I d-didn't want to disturb you."
"I see, well now you understand; from now on in this army moves a muscle," he held his finder an inch from Malken's nose, "without my knowledge and approval, and that especially means you."
The color drained from Malken's face, his red hair was like a bonfire on a hill of ice. Prince Tauron was surprised at just how much control he managed to invoke over the general.
"Now," Malken flinched, "How about you begin by getting some soldiers to take down my tent. The place is getting packed up so quickly one might think you were planning to leave me behind."
His tiny eyes never left the Prince as he dryly answered "Yes."
"Yes, what?" the Prince pushed further.
"Yes, Prince Tauron."
"This is my army, Lord Malken. You are serving as my adviser. You should remember that."
"I will, Prince Tauron."
"Excellent," Tauron lowered his finger, "Now get to it, General."
Malken rode slowly by the Prince, who felt his confidence rise as the general's head hung low. He laughed to himself that this pathetic man was supposed to be his adviser. Tauron was twice as big as the man, nearly ten years younger, but no one would ever know it by the cowering look on the Westlander's face as the true leader of the army put him in his place. The dreams that haunted the Prince in the night now seemed a faded memory from childhood. Perhaps he would be able to make it through this campaign.
Now, however there seemed to be no one around to give orders to. Tauron was anxious to exercise his authority and earn the respect of the army. Making Malken cower was an easy task; anyone over five feet and seven inches could do that. Tauron's sorcery skills also likely had an effect on the general's nerves. But winning over the admiration of Noc and the Brukalil would be significantly harder. They hardly look up to anyone who lives in a castle outside of the King and some esteemed generals. Tauron guessed they still viewed him as a child born in an ivory tower, or even worse, as 'The Sorcerer in the throne room.'
It was another half hour before the army set out again. At the rate they were marching, they would be at the gates of Blackfield by dawn the next day.
"Well, Quincy, let's get this over with," Austin grumbled as he and his servant prepared to enter the Chamber of the Royal Senate. The governing body that was designed to rule along the King had been nothing but a royal pain for the Heflite Kings every since they first came to power. It was one of the first instances in Litici history that the peasantry strong armed the aristocracy to do their bidding. The movement had such strong support that Austin's grandfather, Ardor had no choice but to cave to their demands. One of the first of many civil wars that the Heflite family managed to dodge during its young reign.
The king prepared for a grilling today, especially from Froyer. In the House of Representation, he had few friends. Often these bought-out politicians masquerading as 'voices of the people' felt they had more authority than the one appointed by Gods to lead the country. No Heflite that has sat on the throne has been thankful for this institution.
"Remember to be careful of Senator Froyer's traps, your majesty."
"Don't worry I can handle myself against politicians," that word used as smear by every man and woman in the King's court, "Remind again why I am here? I should not have to do this. I am the King!"
"You're honor-bound by our traditions to..."
"Shut up, it was a rhetorical question."
"I'm afraid I have a difficult time identifying rhetorical questions, my liege," Quincy coolly admitted.
"Well, learn to then," Austin said.
"Yes, your majesty."
The king rolled his eyes, "And learn to stop being such a boot-licker."
"...No?" Quincy said hesitantly.
Austin was shuffling in his boots with annoyance, but when Quincy spoke, he stopped and looked his servant directly in the eye, surprised at this act of disobedience. The King's silence worried Quincy, until he smiled and patted the loyal servant on the shoulder, "Good man," the king said.
"Thank you, sir."
The King and the servant waited in a small room adjacent to the Senate's main chamber. A heavy wooden door allowed them a moment's privacy before the subject went out to meet the Hundred and fifty Senators. There came a heavy knock at the door, meaning that the Council was ready. Austin found having to be called on Froyer's time especially infuriating.
"Well, let's go," the door was opened and the King, followed by Quincy, entered the chamber.
Westlander pride stems from their history as a warrior people. From the earliest pages of recorded history there has been few periods in the Westlands history that was not marred with violence. The current rulers of the Westland, the Rydens earned their place the flames of war, just as their predecessors, the Roschistyrs did hundreds of years ago.
The Westland is tough brutal land, so much so that even Rannos Litikus himself could not hold on to it for long before he died. Since then, countless Litici Kings have tried to take it. Pouring sometimes hundreds of thousands of men into the woods. Sometimes they succeeded, but they never held on for long.
His mother and father told the young Jon Malken of the heroic deeds of his ancestors; from driving away the Litici knights, to breaking the Spartican phalanx. His family name was up there alongside heroes the great heroes of the Westland. He marched to the Westland not out of personal desire to become a famous name in the court of King Austin, he could care less about what some Eastlander thought of him. All he wanted was to honor his ancestors, at any cost. To have his name mentioned in the songs and stories that will come out of this mission, just like his family.
Malken felt his pride torn down like a decrepit building after Tauron scolded him. The Prince was much larger than him and noticeably stronger and had certain grandeur in his voice that Malken sorely lacked. Now it seems the Prince was talking the reins of this army, and leaving the general in a lowly second-in –command, behind that confounded brat of a Prince.
"Everything alright, sir?" Freedmir asked, noticing the reddening of Malken's face.
"I'm not well at the moment, Freedmir," the general replied, "I need some time to think. Alone."
"Very well, sir."
This brief conversation managed to reach the ears of Captain Noc, who was smirking to herself with joy. She always marched right of the ranks, not five rows from the front, where many officers, including generals rode on their comfortable horses. She relished in hearing that little pipsqueak of a general cry like an infant. She never did care much for Westlanders. They were a dirty and violent lot. Malken however was an especially pathetic specimen. Confusion was all she felt at the reasoning of the King to give him any command.
She witnessed the prince put Malken in his place earlier that morning. It was quite surprising to see, though not exactly a hard task given the man who was being talked down to. From the start, the prince appeared weak to her; he did not even wave to his subjects as they left the city. And he seemed happy to let the little Westlander take control of the army from him. Perhaps he had fire in him after all. But, he was still a sorcerer, and if he had not been the prince and under the protection of the Kingdom's laws, it would have been a bad day for the magic using Prince. Noc could only guess when the empire would come to its senses and send them away.