The Son of Thul

**The Son of Thul, (Part 1 - The Forevernight and the Frost-Sleighs of Thul)**

It was the time of year when the junipers lived quietly in the dark crevices of dormancy. Perched high across the steep slopes and frigid, mountain pass, they covered themselves with blankets of snow and went to sleep. The time of year when the sun departed from its immortal throne, escaping the maddening bells of day in favor of a respite that cast the people of the Highlands into perpetual darkness. A time known by the villagers as the Forevernight. Such was the name given to the polar night in the northmost regions. When all the colors out of space and sky gather round and go to sleep. When darkness ruled the land in the absence of its queen. But, not everything went to sleep in the Highlands during the Forevernight of winter. For, on this dark night, while the children gathered with their grandmums, the frost-sleighs of Thul had awoken.“On the morrow,” he began, his chest swelling, “We set out toward a darkness that surpasses that of the Forevernights,” said their ruler, his fists clenched. “To a land whose root is evil and flower is death.” The ears of his men tuned to his words. “Way beyond the ridge! But, not beyond our sword. Look there!” he pointed into the nest of darkness beyond their view. “To banish the curse that has polluted our lands and murdered our sisters and brides. This day the eve, men. Tomorrow, we ride! To Aramos!”

**The Son of Thul, (Part 2 - To Aramos)**

The sleds were pulled by teams of four, snowy white bears. Each team was fastened together along silver ropes with golden harnesses anchored to a single sleigh. Two long skis flanked the bottom to cut through the slippery terrain. Inside each sled, warriors. Masters of both the sting of winter and the blood of battle.

Together, every bear a brother, kin from an ancient seed of undomesticated magic mixed with insatiable strength and loyal servitude. The white beasts, restrained by the taught silver strings, drifted their black noses toward the stars searching the cold, dry air. Hungry. Just like the rest of the realm. The seal-skin drums of doom fastened to the sides of the sleds. Designed to mimic the sounds of the dark and mournful howling from the deep mines of Aramos where the imps were bound in perpetual dance reciting their fiery spells.

Giddy were the imps in Aramos where rivers of flame lapped out of the dark corridors leveling all that grew near. There was no air for man’s lung in these underground burrows. But, the imps breath was fed by the curse of a dark enchantment and fire totems. Deep in the belly of Aramos where imps were entranced by flame and fury. Yet, the men of Thul, carrying their long swords, were undeterred by what lay ahead. Rows upon rows of warriors rode atop their sleds. Aligned by rank, the warriors drove on as the forest brought to them the distant echoes of the imps’ repetitious incantations:

“One good burn deserves another; one good burn, deserves another;

Fire sister, fire brother;

Until fire is all, and no other!”

**The Son of Thul, (Part 3 - The Edge of Evil)**

While the burrows inside Aramos roared with the whistling of vile imps, hoards of aimless mercenaries strutted around on the snowy streets above. Gloating about their recent exploits with one hand on their purse.

“Come here!” The sirens called after them, casting their nets. “Come here, friend. We have something to show you!” One after the other, the simpletons fell trap to the feminine guile. For evil has no friend; only a friendly voice.

Sleeking across the snow, fastened to the great white bears of Thul, the ruler and his men drew near. They stood at their reins in search of the death dealer. That rider and his horse. The man who with one swipe of his battle axe destroyed so much of Thul. So many of her women. That day when the princess fell. The men of Thul had come to Aramos to find this man and remove him and his curse.

In all, the men from Thul numbered two hundred and fifty warriors and four times that many glacial beasts. Coursing across the dark land, hurried by justice. At the helm, with jet black eyes, stood one man. His helmet was drawn tight around his face and a breastplate was strapped around his barrel chest. A small covering of armor that did little to spare his life, but was set as a symbol of his place in their ranks. Ruler of Thul. Known among the men as Rettla, the King of Thul. Behind them, a great cloud of snow lingered behind the great warrior company as they routed through forest and field.The starry darkness of the Forevernights had guided their paths until they finally settled upon the hills overlooking the city.

“This vile land,” began Rettla, King of Thul, as they settled into their camp, “whose wayward paths are stained with the blood of the innocents, is she not pregnant with evil? And, already, has Aramos not already given birth to calamity?” At this, the band of men heartily clinked at their shields and sleighs. “Men! Her guilt has found her, and it hungers for justice.” Again, a riot of agreement surged in the men. The bears grew restless and began to tug at their leashes that had been fastened to the snow blasted oak trees surrounding their camp. The low growl of the bears called to their masters. “We are all hungry. Eat now men,” said the King, “and feed your beasts who have faithfully served our journey. Then sharpen your blades once more. For, in the morn, we ride into Aramos where we will not be greeted with a feast nor favor but with the viper and his venom!” As each man fed, they set their gaze upon the nearby lands of Aramos which dotted the Forevernight with flickerings of fire and the swelling sounds of the fire imps. The king pointed his sword, “Here lies Aramos. This devil’s egg. Here, men! Its yoke of evil covered in the white shell of snow. But, the egg is a rotten one. And, you! My men of Thul. We must break open this egg and pour it out. Lest evil be born again and the calamitous ruins of a scorched earth be allowed to snuff out any more life. The days of her destruction are over.” The men could not contain their zeal.

After the last supper, the warriors of Thul began to huddle into a tight ball, pressing together to stay warm. So tight was the circle that the innermost men, though standing, were able to sleep a few quick hours. Until it was their turn to move to the outer ring of the huddle. All the while, the king sat on his lead bear at the perimeter and kept a close eye upon the city through the night. He spoke to the warm bears with a cool whisper. “For, justice shall find fault where fault should be found. As sure as the tip of my sword be bloodied in battle. This time the morrow servants of Thul, we’ll have found little besides fault in Aramos. And, let us hope to meet this rider on his horse. That devil and his egg. Rest now, for when we wake it will be to the sounds of our drums. Doom! Doom! Doom! For tomorrow, we war!”

**The Son of Thul, (part 4 - The Princess of the Highlands)**

“Rettla!” she called after him. The sharp tool plowed into the dirt looking for goodies. Somewhere in underground rows were lined the potatoes, carrots, and onions of a garden. “Rettla, my love! Quick! Come and see!”
He came to the door of their rustic hut, “What now, Samara? What is it?”

“Be still!” she whispered, and pointed. “There. Over there.” Their eyes met on the small creature twitching its nose at the edge of the brush. “Oh Rettla! A field hare! Isn’t it…adorable?”

    “Adorable?” questioned Rettla. Then with the swiftness of a hunter, he withdrew a knife from his waist strap and sent the blade hurtling through the air. The twitchy nose came to an abrupt halt as the rabbit lay on the ground nearly sliced in half. “Don’t you mean, dinner?”

“Rettla of Thul!” she gasped, her blue eyes like sharpened icicles.

“Samara of the Highlands!” he called back. “Do not be mad! I do not argue that these little hoppers are adorable. Even more when gracing a piping hot stew, no?”

“You are a brute, Rettla. A brute I say! Had I known,” her voice threatened playfully, still in disgust, “I’d have married that prince from. . .from. . . from?”

“Yggdrasil?”

“Yes, from Yggdrasil!” she teased. “He would have been a suitable prince, I’m sure of it.”

“Nothing good comes from Yggdrasil, Samara!” he laughed. “I had him disarmed and on his back not two ticks before we began,” he boasted.

“Fair enough, yes! But, at least he would have spared this here field hare, no doubt!” she quipped.

“And, sit idle at his throne to watch you starve?” said Rettla, challenging her. “Hardly a man worthy to be King, Samara. Hardly a man at all, really!”

“Then, I shall feed myself enough without all of your hassles,” she said, growing agitated by his logic.

“Samara! My darling!” He tried to reason with her, knowing stubbornness was one of the attributes her father had warned him about after the ceremony. “Feed yourself? Really? With this here?” He looked across the small patch of land that was their garden.

“Do not scoff!” she cried. “It is a lovely garden, I should think!”

“Lovely? It may only be called lovely once it begins to yield something beside field weeds.” Rettla was not being mean. He was making a simple observation. “Did the Princess of the Highlands miss her lesson on gardening?”

“Grr! Oh, Rettla!” She began to fling the black dirt aimlessly into the warm breeze. “Dumb carrots! I know there’s a potato in here somewhere!”

“The Prince of Yggdrasil would, in the end, be quite unsuitable as your king. But, I will never have such hesitations. I made a vow, Samara of the Highlands. And, I shall make every effort to keep it. Do not be angry with me for wanting to provide for us a meal. I may not possess the luster of gold, but I should prove to be much more valuable than it, I can assure you.”

“Still though, Rettla!” she said, annoyed. “You really are a brute! A brute of a king!”

Puffing his chest. “Then, that is what I am. A brute. But, at least I am a well-fed brute perhaps, I agree! Besides, what should I know about what is proper for a king?” he asked her. She clicked her tongue and sent the garden blade deep into the soil with a sure strike to the ground. He continued, “I should reason, I am hardly a king at all!”

“But,” she softened, “that does not sway the people of this land who know that you are,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a coy smile. “I should say, I am not so disappointed after all,” she said as she bent low and plucked a small, orange carrot from its earthen home. “At last! A carrot! From my garden!” she held the small strand of a tap root into the air with pride. “Poor little hare! This could have been your little treat for visiting me today if it weren’t for Rettla the Brute.”

“It was a hare, Samara! A hare! It’ll feed us a meal.”

“But, it was adorable!”

“You, my Highland Princess. You are the only thing that is adorable!” he said, and touched her soft shoulder tenderly. He held it there for many moments.

“You can kiss me tonight Rettla of Thul. Not a moment sooner,” she said, as though warning a child who must wait for his treat. “After supper!”

“You mean, after the rabbit and carrot stew?” said Rettla, still humoring himself. He leaned over her shoulder as she knelt to harvest a second carrot that had been hiding. He peeked at the sweat that began to bead upon her chest as she labored at the ground. Her skin still fair and  unfamiliar to the sun. Her red hair flowing like airborne wisps. Her warm, smooth bosom loosened as she worked. Around her neck dangled a small, red jewel in the shape of a mystical egg. “A kiss?” he asked. “After dinner then? Something better than a dessert of field berries and mint?”

She smiled again. “You most certainly are a brute, Rettla of Thul.” She turned to him. “But, I love you today!”

**Son of Thul, (part 5 - The Message from the Swan Maidens)**

The abundance of Samara’s garden slowly grew over the years. No longer dominated by weeds, it eventually flourished with such a great quantity of food that the field hares grew plenty and plump. Perfect for the stew that fed her home and village. As Autumn fell, the men gathered their hunting gear for the final expedition before the arrival of the Forevernight when all hunting and gardening would disappear into the darkness.

Rettla and the men of Thul had followed their prey deep into the Geistwood Forest. The thickly tangled heap of green woods was home to meaty beasts and wild boars. The serpentine rivers bulged with swarms of fish headed out to sea. Each man an expert.

Along the banks of the River Blue signs of a successful hunt graced their camp. The roaring fire from the night before had dwindled to a faint glow and possessed the scant remains of their celebratory feast. The Geistwood Forest proved her value yet again.

Rettla was the first man to awake that morning. The light of dawn lay hidden beyond the forest and behind the hills. The morning chill kept the meat preserved and ready for carving before the men would make their trek home. To the village of Thul. Back to their families. Rettla imagined the joy that would fill the village upon their return. Interrupting his thought, the sky grew busy with a bustle of honking.

Dark silhouettes dotted the sky above Rettla before the birds began to descend upon the River Blue. They brought with them an announcement of grim and terrible news. A nightmare to drape over the camp like the dark skies of the Forevernight.

“No! It mustn’t be! Are you certain?” asked Rettla, pleading with the swan maidens.

“We are!” they lamented, dipping themselves back into the water. They felt dirty to have witnessed such a crime. “They are dead! We are sorry, lord!”

“And, what of my. . . Samara?” He could barely utter her name.

“Her too, my lord!” they sighed, as the king sank to the ground and wept violently.

“Who? Tell me, who would be so cruel to attack the women of Thul?” he cried.

“Who? We do not know, but we can tell you this, my lord,” the maidens looked at each other. One lifted her head, “A rider. On a steed. From outside the realm. A drifter. Dark and bloody. His axe was bearded and stained, his helmet brandished with the horns of a demon, and the crest of a black eagle was etched on his long shield.” She took a breath. “But, his name? I do not know, my lord, for he did not speak it. Nor from whence he came nor where he was going.”

“Why? Why not sound the alarms?” the king asked the swans, who were gathered with their heads low.

“He swore we shouldn’t, my lord!” The Blue swans grieved to recite the exchange. Shuddering as they remembered the deep, stale voice and hovering vultures in procession behind the horse and its rider. “He spoke, my lord, as one whom we would dare not disobey. He told us, ‘Remain still and do not intervene, swan maidens of Blue, and you shall remain only a witness and not a victim to the dark lord’s mercy!’”

“Cowards!” the King of Thul fixed his eyes on the swan maidens. “You let him slay our people!”

“But, my lord! Never had we imagined such a massacre when so veiled was his deal in death.” The cool fog lingered with bitter remorse.

“And, when the massacre began?” The king’s grief turned to anger. “How is it you remain idle while death greets our daughters, sisters. . .my queen?”

“My lord,” they appealed. “Is it too much that we chose our own lives so that at least some life should be spared? Do not be angry with us, my lord? We are fortunate to be alive! To be here and tell you, so that your vengeance might have an aim.”

“The realm is dead. Our women are dead. And, you chose to stand and watch?” His anger surged.

“We chose life!”

“You chose your own life, yes!” The Ruler of Thul began to tremble as he spoke. “Did you not think for a moment that, perhaps, in not sparing your own life you might instead spare the lives of our women? Women you’d sworn to protect. Has mercy not a home in your hearts, swan maidens of Blue? And yet, you are standing here.” The king’s rebuke stung. “Standing! Here with these masks of sorrow when it is your guilt that has you low.”

One by one, the swan maidens of Blue sank into the painted waters of the autumn river. Before the last of them departed, a maiden asked, “Where then, my lord, may we ask, were you? For it is not the Swan maidens of Blue alone that are standing here on this graven day.”

Rettla’s muddied hands wiped the tears from his curled lip. “Standing, yes! I am standing here, with you. But, we are not both standing here alive. For you have all been deceived. In sparing you from his blade, the death dealer sentenced you to an even worse fate. Indeed, he did not spare you at all.” The maidens had all but departed, submerged in the river beyond the reach of his condemnation. “For on this day, cowardice has slain the swan maidens of Blue.”

No earthen comfort existed. No mix. No perfect pleasure. Nothing. Just the harsh winds of grief. Until another man emerged from his tent, just old enough to have been brought on the hunt.

“Father!” The boy called out to the King of Rettla. “Why is your face troubled so?” For the boy did not yet know that his mother, the Queen of the Highlands, like so many other women in the village, was dead.

**Son of Thul, (part 6 - The Prophet of Aramos)**

Morning did not bring the dawn of light, and no standing steeples were found inside the city of Aramos. Only transgression. Only darkness. Here, revelry and every kind of lewd activity was to them their sole religion - gold their only gospel. Men stumbled about in the Forevernight not knowing if it was time to sleep or time to rise.

“Today!” cried the prophet, whose crooked tooth dipped over his lower lip and slurred his speech. “Today is the day, Aramos!” His warning cries going unheeded. Like seed upon the gravel road. There was no place for truth in a land of lies.

“Quiet your face, old man Fool!” retorted a helmet and spear. “Before I stick you like a pig and let the imps roast you in their furnaces.”

“Spare not the messenger, as you may,” said the prophet, standing like a crazed man and licking at his tooth, “but, on this day at least, spare yourselves? Yes? Spare yourself, oh man of many missteps. For a great and terrible judgment is nearly at hand.”

And, with that, another one of the soldiers tried to stand up and hurled a golden tipped spear at the old man. It pinged over his shoulder and landed by the refuse on the road. “He said to shut it! You dumb idiot. Where’s that muzzle anyhow? I’d like to latch it across your face, I would!”

“You cannot muzzle the truth, man!” said the prophet. “Your end is nigh!”

Another said, “Just dumb drunk, boys! With Aramos meade, I bet! Yapping this nonsense! Or, are you straight mad? A nutter, perhaps? That’s it. You’re a nutter. Hey, boys! The doomsayer is a nutter.” They all laughed in rowdy unison. “Were I a bit more sober,” he said, nearly shouting with glossy, red eyes, “I’d strap you to a donkey and send you straight out of Aramos. To Gnaak. Feed for the smokestacks. Now, leave us alone, lest you want to test my sword.”

The prophet did not even blink, but began to plead, “Turn! While there’s still time to be saved. A king and his men are hurtling this very moment into our midst.”

Poof! And, like that, where the drunk soldier had been standing, a pillar of fire emerged from a burrow below and swallowed the man in flames. Out of the pillar emerged a woman whose appearance was that of fire before slowly fading to flesh.

“One less muttering mouth,” said the cauldron crone, stepping out of the ash that was once a drunk soldier in Aramos. “Fire has a way of proving a man,” she said, wiping her feet off. She looked at the others whose laughter turned into a silent stare. “Leave the prophet alone,” she said. “I’ve found his doomsayings to only be a nuisance when standing right beside him.” She smirked as a faint flame returned to her fingertips. “Might I suggest you boys take your driveling and drinking and move along.”

The men did little to delay their departure. Tripping as they went along until they found some other corner, some other helpless victim for their harassment.

“You are running, men,” said the prophet, calling after his antagonizers, “but, you continue to run in the wrong direction!”

“Why do you worry so?” asked the crone, slipping away into the affairs of the morning night. “Always the saying, Doomsayer! But, rarely the doom.” The irony of her words as she passed back through the ashen remains of the drunk soldier she had just vanquished from existence. Yet, she had only just turned, when in the distance, the growing sounds of drums began to fill the city walls.

Doom! Doom! Doom! The prophet licked at his tooth. The time for his warnings was over.

**Son of Thul, (part 7 - The Disappearance)**

The slow melodic drums of doom thundered as Thul’s warriors began to descend upon Aramos. Crashing against the great wall, Thul’s bears began to claw apart stone and mortar as though it had been made of sticks and sand. Heaps of wall ripped from the structure. But, the great wall was thick and not easily overcome.

“Come out you filth scum of Aramos!” Rettla yelled. The bears continued to tear chunks of wall with each crashing blow. “Come out! You and your curse.” He called them with conviction and command. “Come out you murderers and thieves! Your rider cannot hide forever. Nor can his guilt.”

Inside the wall at Aramos, men began to stir. “Is it him?”

“It is, it is! It must be him!” They grew nervous behind the crumbling wall.

“Rettla of Thul?” asked one of them.

“Their ruler?” asked another.

“Yes,” snarled a man seated upon a horse. “The King of Thul! He is looking for something he cannot find!” The deep voice emerged as though it’d been locked in a dungeon. He grasped his bearded ax and touched the sharpened blade. Blood pooled at his fingertip.

“He calls for you, my lord,” said one of the soldiers shakily. Beigaldi wiped his hands to his pants.

“And, how I wish I could appease him,” said the rider on the horse. “What about the boy? Is he with his king?”

“The boy, my lord?” asked Beigaldi watching the great wall pulse with each pounding beat of the drum.

“Yes! The boy, you maggot! Don’t think you should escape my whirling blade if you are fortunate enough to escape Thul’s! The boy! Get me the boy!” The dark rider withdrew a small jewel from his satchel. The familiar red pendant cast a dark shadow in his palm. “The time is now at hand!”

“But, my lord,” pleaded Beigaldi. “How are we to fetch the boy? He is surrounded by his father’s soldiers. And, the snow beasts!”

He turned to the other soldiers who were standing there. “Throw this maggot over,” he commanded. “Perhaps Beigaldi shall better serve my purposes in death! Take him to the top. To the spire. To the Lich. Dash him against the rocks!" He turned to Beigaldi. "Out of your corpse will arise a legion of servants.”

A scurry of drunk soldiers dragged Beigaldi to the very top of the great wall where the spire lich was bound and lurking. Without hesitation, the men picked up the fearful fellow and hurled him over. The body slammed into the rocks and snow at the bottom. The blood ravens cawed, swirled above, and returned to their perches as the cloaked lich swirled his hands. Black mist began to pour from the body under the darkness of the Forevernight. A portal opened. Out of the hole, a swarm of horned creatures emerged crawling and slinking across the ground without sound.

“Thus born are my dead of night demons,” said the dark rider.

“Go now! Fetch the prince, my hellish throng!” said the lich in black tongue.

The swarming shadow skulked across the snowscaped land until they reached Rettla and his army who were quite unaware of their dark guests. Maneuvering between the beasts and the soldiers, the horned creatures examined every living thing until they came across the youngest of the men. A boy whose blonde hair whipped up from beneath his helmet. They whispered between themselves.

“The boy! The boy!” The excitement hurried their pace. “Master will be pleased! Master will!”

As Rettla continued to hurl threats over the wall and the bears tore at the stones with great force, the night demons encircled the prince. Their presence remained as hidden as the light of day. The demons held out their hands.

“Now!” whispered the Lich. And, like that, the prince disappeared so swiftly into the darkness of the Forevernight that neither man nor beast noticed his absence. Gone. Back into their hole that was born from the dead soldier.

Just as soon, the great wall drifted to nothingness and the city of Aramos behind it fell from view. As though it had been nothing more than a giant mirage. Where once the corrupt city had been bustling with every form of evil, a heap of snow undefiled. As though it had all been just a dream. The only remaining evidence was the busted body of a foot soldier lying a distance away across a large rock. Everything else that had been Aramos had vanished. Gone.

“What is this, my King?” asked one of the men. The breath from his bears sailed up into a thick fog.

“Some kind of dark trickery, I should expect. Be on your guard,” the king replied. “A darkness greater than the Forevernight has befallen this land! But, whether or not it is still here, I am not certain.”

“Back to your sleds! Ready yourselves!” called the frontline of warriors.

“Somin!” said the king, calling to his son. “Somin! To your sled!”

“He is not here, my King.” said one of the soldiers. “My king, Somin is gone!”

“Somin? Somin?” The king dismounted his sled and began to race around looking for his son. Fear began to surge through his body. Anger.

“My lord,” called a warrior of Thul. “His boot!” Snow and mud was plastered across the strap and a hint of blood was at the toe. It was not the blood of man nor of beast. Rettla took a hold of the boot into his hand. Touched the toe and held it to his nose.

“This is no ordinary blood, men! For, there is no life in this blood. No kindness. No mercy. Drawn from the veins of darkness itself!”

“What do you mean, our King?”

“I am afraid Somin is gone. Taken,” the king took a deep breath as he pondered the fate of his son, “by the night demons.”

“Taken?” asked a warrior looking at his king.

“But, not lost! Not yet, anyway!”

“Why, my king? Why should they want Somin?”

The king stood pondering the possibility. The unlikeliness of the scenario only irritated the possibility of its certainty. “Why indeed?” asked the king. “I should hope not, but I am quite certain of their intent.”

“Of what, my king?”

“To hatch their dark plan and make Somin their king!”

The slight breeze whipped up a thread of snow and draped it on the band of warriors. The night chill rippled across their faces.

“Make him their king?” asked the men. “Why should the wicked evils of Aramos want the prince as their king?”

“That wickedness should want a king should not surprise you. That this same king should also be heir to the throne of Thul should scare you.”

“Never, my king!” said a warrior. “The prince would never abandon us to the pendulum of perils.”

“It is not for man to know what is in his heart until tested.” The king spoke as one who was familiar with such confrontations. “Men, he will be searched. No doubt they will find greatness in him, I am certain. But, in the dominion of darkness, there is no guarantee that what will emerge will be any sort of glorious light.”

- - -

“Where am I?” asked the boy. His eyes were trapped in the darkness. “What have you done? Where is my father? How dare you kidnap the prince of Thul.”

But, his questions were only met with silence. And, a hand. It was gentle - a woman’s touch.

“Who goes there?” the prince asked demandingly. He swiped away her hand, but only just so. “Who are you? I cannot see! Reveal yourself!”

“It is I,” said the woman.

“Do I know you?” asked the boy.

“I should hope so, Somin Dabi.”

“How do you know my name?” asked the boy.

“It is a strong name,” she said. “For, that is the name your father and I gave you at birth!”

“Impossible!” he said. “You…are…dead?”

“Or, so you thought!” She took his hand into her own. “Indeed, I am very much alive!” The forked tongue of the simulacrum turned over in her mouth until it resembled the tongue of a woman. Her lips too. Soft and warm. She kissed his cheek. "My sweet Somin. I have much to tell you, my son!"

The worst of lies. The one you want to so desperately believe. So you do.

*Author - CjR80*