Gurdor relaxed against the rough bark of an oak, pressing the soles of his boots deeper into the thick grass at his feet. Scratching his cheek with the back of his chapped hand, the man considered all that had taken place. It seemed as though the whole world had been tipped upside down by some unseen architect, leaving this simple slave with little to do but react. It was an unfamiliar feeling for him compared to earlier life experiences, and the simple culture of slavery they all had been thrust into from the time of their birth.

Since the fall of Fort Kilgore, the Nical mob had begun organizing itself into rank and file, and then marched to the outskirts of Fort Dravenpool, the next Dondel stronghold extending control over the slave camps. With the march north came solid ground, taller, stronger trees, and a crisp breeze most of the men had never before experienced. It was if awakening from a long, tortured dream – one that most Nicals would now avoid returning to at cost of death.

Gurdor sighed, quietly hoping this unplanned rebellion would last long enough to topple Dravenpool, the scourge of the slaves. Long ago, when Dondel invaders first rushed onto the western plains and over the Nical clans, they had swept all of Gurdor’s people south, to slavery. The first task his ancestors faced was to build Fort Dravenpool so that Dondel power might control the Nical masses. It was during this time that many of the old and sick, unprepared for the rigors of forced labor, met painful deaths in the project.

Gurdor felt his temper rise at the thought, but closed his eyes and let his head fall slightly, feeling the clean forest air brush against his face… it relaxed him to sit alone in this new woodland, with nothing but the clean breeze and his own desires to accompany him. Surely, this was how life was meant to be, a man should live for his own goals, fight his own fights, build his own dreams. An existence without freedom was nothing more than a shadow, lost to the world. He quietly resolved that this was one man who would rather die that return to the darkness of that shadow.

The Stone Pounder lazily reached down to a mug of dark ale at his side, sipping the brew and then, after a slight pause, tossing it all aside. This was not the time for celebration or drunkenness. Now, more than ever, the Nicals needed to remain clear-headed and focused upon their objective.

He rolled his eyes back in exasperation. Many of the former slaves were worthless now, intoxicated with their sudden freedom and exploring the petty and passing desires of their hearts. Only the more determined came with Gurdor to the north for more battle, more struggling, and more death. Almost half of the entire population stayed behind. One large group lay mired in the swamps, decadently celebrating in the hollowed out Fortress of Kilgore, while the other had departed on their own private exodus to the south, ranting about the vision of some Black Monarch, who had been their true savior from the Dondels. Gurdor bit his bottom lip in anger… the truth was they all saw the likelihood of their deaths in coming north - for The Struggle. As a result they found whatever reasons they could to run from their duty while they still had the opportunity.

The sound of movement broke through his thoughts, and Gurdor looked up to see Dolven approaching with a large bundle of thick red cloth in his arms and metal chain mail clinking over his shoulder. The dark-haired man grunted as he leaned to one side, letting the armor fall next to him in a clatter.

“Well, they’ve gone and done it to us old boy –“he started, dropping half of the thick clothing onto Gurdor’s lap and sinking down next to his companion. “- elevated us to the rank of chieftains, they have, even modified the Dondel armor to fit our frames. Marked in red we are now - we’ll be the first ones to die in any battle, if not searched out and assassinated in our own sleep!” Dolven kicked his legs out with a grunt, spreading his own bundle of red clothing upon his lap to take a look at the workmanship. Gurdor tossed his pile aside, and then looked back to his old friend.

“What exactly are you talking about Dolven… what is all of this? These are not clans that march to Dravenpool, and we are not the chiefs of old. When I see Dravenpool, I can only hope we’ll be lucky enough simply to over-run the jackal’s den before the Dondels send their elite troops out to annihilate us.” Dolven let out a sigh, placing his clothes aside and looking to Gurdor.

“I understand your misgivings old friend; I have the same thoughts as you. But most of these younger men, and even many of the older fighters assembled before us here today believe in the wild fantasy of a free Nical state. Are you going to be the one to rob them of that dream? Before a single Dondel blade is raised against the lads, will you take away their hopes? Two weeks ago, we led a rescue mission to recover a lost friend… a man most likely rotting in some Dondel grave right now. What did we do? We didn’t save him. What we did was wake up an entire race of people and bring them with us today… they can’t be slaves again! And neither can I! And so, before I die, I will kill as many of these cowardly bastards as I can, and you will help me you old coot!” Dolven’s elbow shot up into Gurdor’s side, and the man fell over to the earth.

Dolven’s deep, barking laugh sounded out again, and he grasped the beer mug Gurdor had thrown aside. “Ahhh now I see the source of all this cowardly rambling! Drinking your sorrows away, eh old man?! “He laughed again and stood, grabbing his uniform and tucking it under one arm.

Smirking, Gurdor reached down to grab his own bundle, and stopped short when he saw the insignia sewn upon its chest. There, in the middle of a blue shield pattern, the Roaring Lion of his grandfather’s clan stood staring back at him, calling him to arms.

The proud and sturdy man felt his eyes well up as he stared back at his lost identity, the ancestry of his clan. Through the golden beast he saw family, both generations past and to come, all were looking at him now, at this pivotal moment in his life. Victory would reclaim the pride and strength of his ancestors and bring to his offspring the lives they deserved. Suddenly he knew he could ponder nothing less than total annihilation of the race that now enslaved his proud people.

Stubbornly, Gurdor set his jaw. Nical weapons were superior to the clumsy, poorly made Dondel tools. The Nicals had a proud history and a superior fighting style, long tucked away into the memories of men and passed down from generation to generation. Kildor’s grandfather had been a master with the spear; Dalen’s an unstoppable force with the ax. Late at night, in the Nical camps, Gurdor could hear them practicing their arts in hushed tones, and he had thought them silly… but now, they would count on these men to win glory, and in the process become heroes.
Dolven’s thick hand came upon Gurdor’s shoulder, and he glanced back to see the man now clad in the ensign of his forefather’s clan… the Raging Wolf.

A deep smile came across Gurdor’s face as he saw the proud expression of his friend before him. They were no longer slaves; they were the pride of the Nical Clans, reborn, united against their enemies like never before. Long ago, the Nicals had been taken off guard – the clans were segmented and caught squabbling with each other, weak in spirit. They had been ambushed by a weaker yet more determined foe and paid dearly.

Dolven handed a suit of chain mail to his childhood ally. “Gurdor my friend,” he started, tightening a belt around his own chain mail and red uniform. “The time has come for the Nicals to rejoin the battle once started long ago… we’ve been elected chieftains by the troops we came here with – lets do our ancestors proud.”

Gurdor began strapping the chain mail and red cloth on as well, and before long they were walking towards the Nical camp. Gurdor thought of the others.

“What about Kildor and Gardon, and what about Tyla?”

“All outfitted and assembled in the chieftain’s tent. Did you know Tyla is from your clan as well? We’ve all been finding out who each other really is through the patterns sewn on these Dondel rags!” The gruff man chuckled to himself, patting Gurdor on the back. “Well now, here we are today. Right now they’re waiting for me to find you and come back… so we can figure out how to overrun this fortress and flay King Cutio next!” Gurdor laughed loudly for the first time in some days, and the two continued upon their way.

~~~

Aidden opened his eyes to the blinding mid-afternoon sun, made even brighter by the fact that it was no longer traveling through the dark blue glass of a horse wagon, but straight through a window onto his face. He cringed and began rubbing his eyes against the dry air. Rolling to his side, he realized he was lying upon a small pile of hay, his leg chained to a nearby timber post of whatever building he was now in.

Clumsily, the man pushed his back up against a nearby wall and cautiously opened his eyes fully, to better survey his surroundings. He was sitting in a wooden enclosure, with walls about 4 feet high all around him. The air was humid and earthy, and he saw a large bright doorway in the distance, most likely the main entrance to whatever building he was in. Nearby, a massive weight shifted and Aidden heard the grunting of a horse. The sound of shovels and several Dondel voices followed, but the conversation was hard to follow – the men were speaking in their Dondel dialect. However, from the little he could comprehend, and by viewing his surroundings, it was apparent where the Dondels had placed him for the moment. He was chained to a pole, somewhere within the vast horse stables of King Cutio. He was at Lexington Castle. Aidden sighed and looked to his throbbing wrists, now swollen and dark red from the leather straps that had held him during his journey, as were his ankles.

Scowling, he once again took to rubbing his eyes in a fruitless attempt to ward off the white light from above, only now aware how far away from his home he really was. The moments Aidden had spent in the armored wagon had turned into something of a time vacuum, filled with the same visions and nightmares during his sleep, and the overpowering humidity and odor of medication when he was awake. Now that he had finally left that blue hell, it suddenly dawned on the Nical how his life was truly changing at this moment.

He was leaving everything and everyone that was familiar to him, transported somewhere far away into a different climate, facing a different fate. Aidden curled his stiff legs in, and his thoughts wandered off to his friends, somewhere deep to the south, in the black swamplands. He wondered what they were doing; if they were once again sharing a meal in a small hut, laughing and swapping stories over Dolven’s pipe, drinking Nical beer and signing Nical songs.

A sudden image came to him then, of Tyla chained to the pillars of the correction mound. His spirits dropped. They had managed to save her, but they had been pursued as well… and really, where could they run? This was all Dondel territory now; there was no safe haven from the eastern swords. There was no where to hide, settle, and live. Most likely, they had been killed. He remembered Gurdor’s iron grip on his arm, and how he had ignored what it meant, breaking free to rush the mound. Then, he remembered how his older friend had stiffened when they had first gotten to the correction mound, before Lord Hayden began speaking. At the time, his instinct told him that his friend was indignant at the way Hayden acknowledged them, looking above the masses with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Now, however, it dawned on the younger man that perhaps there was a different reason for it. Perhaps Gurdor had seen Tyla before Aidden did. Perhaps he was reacting in his own way, through tortured restraint. Although she would be hurt, Lord Hayden said she would not be killed… Gurdor had tensed because it was all he could do from attacking the Dondels, but he had kept still all the same. Aidden clenched his still-blistered hands in rage. “It was his fault they were dead! He shouldn’t have been so impulsive and foolish! What had he been thinking?! He should have remembered his place as Gurdor had!” Grief overtook him, and tears rolled down the chained man’s reddening face. He was exhausted in every way, his body a battered shell of what it once was, his mind attacking him with guilt at what he had done. Aidden sat tortured by his thoughts in the sunlight for some time before finally drifting back into the bitter dreams haunting him since his journey began…