NaNo WriMo Day 9: Back to Castle Black

Chapter 9: Back to Castle Black

Gurley was surprised when Jacco cut his restraints.  He would have stood if his legs would cooperate, but pain still burned deep within his crippled leg which was now probably broken.  Yet, the feeling of a miniscule freedom of movement washed over him like the cool water of a mountain spring.  His momentary rejuvenation was interrupted by the sudden cracking sound of Jacco’s whip.  In the broken silence, a  stinging sensation across Gurley’s back.

“Get tup.” Jacco’s splintered speech rubbed Gurley’s anger.

“My leg.” Gurley tried not to plead.  “My leg you slant-eyed fucker.”

“You midlanders, always wit ta curses.”  Jacco strutted around Gurley as if he was a prized pig, prodding and examining him.  The look on Jacco’s face seemed to confirm Gurley’s complaint.  The word midlander stuck in Gurley’s mind.  He was tempted to reveal the fact that he was not from the midlands, or the east, or anywhere Jacco would know of, but the moment passed while Gurley reflected on the naivety of Jacco.  Why or how Orten withstood such stupidity was beyond Gurley.

“Tis is tow tis gonna work.”  Jacco went on to explain how Gurley was to act the part of a runaway slave that Jacco had been sent to retrieve.  As those within Castle Black probably did not know of Orten and the boys departure nothing would seem suspicious.  After all, Jacco had made a habit of coming and going unseen from the castle for years.  It would not be the first slave he had returned with.  Maybe the first male slave, but that was not of concern at the moment.  What worried Gurley was why Jacco wished to return to the castle.  Worse, why did he need him when he did return.

***

Enlil did not know quite what was transpiring.  The days and nights had spiraled about him in a patchwork of flashing colors and a web blurred talk.  He could sense things taking place but his mind lacked control of his physical self.  It was not long before he felt his mental state slipping into the void as well.

So when he opened his eyes and felt the cool roughness of wet beach sand clinging to his cheeks he did not question it.  He felt his fingers first, then his toes.  The directness of the midday sun forced him to squint.  The beach stretched about him in all directions.  He could tell immediately that he was a good distance from the camp as the cliff which Castle Black sat upon loomed over him like an angry god looking upon a damned sinner.  The sheer cliff face that had so tormented him stood clean of it’s normal ropes and pulleys.  He took mental victory of this fact.

However, when an itch came across his nose he realized he couldn’t raise his hand.  Terror struck him as he realized he had been buried up to his neck in the beach sand.  The tide was out, but Enlil knew that was the point. A slow and painful death at the hands of tide awaited him.  Enlil broke into a furious struggle which turned on him as he became further entrenched in the sucking mud.

A cacophony of metal and men brought his attention upwards.  He knew these sounds well from his many days as a soldier.  A siege had set upon the castle above him.  Ladders and orderly lines of men poured over the castle walls.  A crumbled tower could be seen collapsing in on itself.  

What Enlil saw next stunned him.  Thunder slammed through the area as bolts of lightning streaked into the castle.  Generous plumes and wisps of smoke rose from the inner walls, a new one appearing with every bolt.  The Thunderer.  Stories and children’s tales ran through his mind.  Years of service, dozens of bloody battles, and his time at the Academia.  Nothing compared to seeing the truth.  Had these great powers been kept secret from the nation of Alb?  What else had this midlands King held from the eastlanders?

Time passed slowly as a she-crab skittered across the sand before being consumed by the hungry waves.  Enlil had given up following the battle above as the sounds of men dieing trailed off and the sky grew silent.  Enlil surmised that the castle was taken.  Not even the finest cavalry in the land would have survived the force the Thunderer rained from the heavens.

The longer Enlil watched, the slower the waves seemed to encroach.  Death sat an eternity away choosing to punish him slowly.  Enlil slowed his breathing after realizing the harder he breathed the more the sand pinched.  Hope was fading, but his instincts failed to allow his body to quit.  

Enlil was on the verge of fading when the shadowy figures appeared at the range of his blurry vision.  It had seemed hours had passed since the crab, but the distance of the waves told him it had not been long.  

“Dig him up.”  The smooth voice cut through Enlil’s labored breathing.  It wasn’t long before Enlil could feel his body being escorted across the beach.  Wet sand faded into dry sand.  The late afternoon sun became hidden beneath a tent’s roof.  Slight comfort was found as he was propped into a padded chair, yet his vision had not fully returned.

“First the Fravashi and now that bastard Orten.”  Enlil could just make out the one speaking.  Golden brown hair stuck at ear level in knots of sweat.  “We have much more to discuss than I had thought Captain.  Our little ruse here seems to have escaped your minuscule understanding.  Years of planning wasted.”  The man paused.  “Do you know who I am?”  Another pause.  “What I am?”

“The Thunderer” It came out more of a question than an answer.

“Yes, Thunderer.  This is what you eastlanders call me in your stories. Stories no doubt until today you knew as nothing but fiction.  A man who calls upon the power of the gods to strike furious destruction from the heavens.”  The words flowed into Enlil.  “I am no story Captain.  I am the justice of the gods manifested in man.”

“My scouts saw no one leave the castle and only saw two men enter.  From the accounts of your paid man and smith, and those paltry fellows back in town who likened you more to a fart in the wind than a feathered Captain of the winded ranks, no one has left Castle Black in years.”  The Thunderer continued.  “I find it hard to believe a man as fat as Orten Fareen escaped unnoticed.”

“Not all is lost.  We have taken captives, two of interest above the others.  One of those being his brother.  When we have the garrison placed in the castle proper, you and I will be having a very long talk about things.  I suggest if you wish a better fate than the rest of your nation you start remembering some things.”

Word count: 8848

NaNo WriMo Day 8: The Sentinels

Chapter 7: The Sentinels

Orten had found the Sentinels just outside the reach of the storm’s edge. The smooth marble pillars hovered above the tree tops and stood silent, uncaring of his approach. Each was evenly spaced from the next one in a line as far as the eye could see, a visible barrier to the lands of Reichland to the south. He knew he was at the right location when he saw the jagged stones that criss-crossed the top of the hill. A single Sentinel pillar popped over the tree tops and overshadowed the area. The sudden realization that it had been almost twenty years since his last visit hit Orten with a saddening relief.

The ride through the storm had worn on Orten and as he dismounted the signs of exhaustion draped him like a cloak. A crackling sounded as he stepped through the dry leaves and tied his massive mount to a nearby tree. The beast stood eerily silent. He propped himself against a nearby stone and eased himself down. Streams of water cascaded off his outer clothing as he removed it. The hiss of steam could be heard escaping into the air as his rear settled neatly into a newly created puddle that had taken resident in a crevice between two stones. Orten knew the farther he went the worse it would get. The rising smell of smoke closed in on him. He drifted off to sleep as he waited for the boys to come through the storm and meet him.

***

It wasn’t often the hunter moved north beyond the protection of the Sentinels unless something interesting was to be found. The presence of the six women on the other side of the border had definitely scratched at his curiosity. He followed them slowly as he worked his way through the underbrush. He watched as their dresses flapped in the wind and they pointed this way and that. They seemed visibly uncomfortable standing in the open, yet none of them spoke or voiced a complaint. No horses or other mounts followed them. The women were traveling by foot.

At first he had assumed the group was lost, traveling on the outskirts of the storm to the north in the vain hope of staying dry. It wasn’t obvious at first, but the more he observed of the women the more he realized they were actively searching for something. While the women were interesting, the hunter figured it was best that he did not become that which they searched for. Once they had gone from the immediate area, the hunter worked his way back through the Sentinels to the south.

However, out of the corner of his eye, his curiosity was peaked again. A plume of smoke rose from the top of a nearby hill at the edge of the forest with a peculiar stone outcropping. Again, it was on the other side of the Sentinels. The hunter worked his way to the trees and Sentinel overlooking the area. The source of the smoke stopped him from crossing the Sentinel line. The rancid smell of burning flesh attacked him as he surveyed the scene.

At first it was a single burnt skeletal carcass propped up like a child’s doll against the rocks. More remains could be seen scattered throughout the stones. The hunter couldn’t put a solid count on it, but several doomed souls had met their demise here. A darkened circle on the ground crept outwards as more of the forest floor caught and the fire spread. A wide-shouldered horse stood tied to the tree nearest the stones, seemingly unphased by the fire and corpses.

The hunter turned and broke into a sprint. He headed south, not looking back. Sentinels save me he prayed silently as his lungs sought to keep up with his rapid pace.

***

Orten caught a second wind as he passed another marble pillar. A mental click turned over in his head noting the number of Sentinels he had passed. He knew the momentary burst of energy that the boys had provided him would only allow him to maintain his guise for a short period and the blasted storm whores had cut him off from his horse. Which may have been for the better as on horseback his guise would not have worked at all. His speed afoot sufficed to see him safely away.

Orten knew he couldn’t head back into the storm, their storm. Heading south was not a viable path either. First, there were the Sentinels to cross and secondly there were the Reichland forces. Not that the Reichs were particularly of concern, but he did not need any delays. And it did not matter as the presence of the Sentinels deterred any further movement south. He couldn’t be sure why that was the case; passing the Sentinels may be inconsequential or it may be disastrous. Orten was not a gambler at this stage and lessons taught long ago echoed in his mind. Mother had always warned of the Sentinels. Your kind is not meant in the south she was fond of telling him.

So Orten worked eastward towards the sea. The storm visibly curved back north towards Castle Black and it was very likely a boat could be found amongst the numerous fishing villages along the coast. He looked down at his hands and for the first time realized that years of hiding his true self were near their end. Streaks of crackling fire began to burst from the pores of his skin with tiny wisps of smoke disappearing into the air around him. Not long at all he thought to himself.

And on the 7th day he rested, #nanowrimo

Ran out of juice today and didn't get more than a couple hundred words in which will roll over into tomorrow.

NaNo WriMo Day 5 & 6

Note: I didn't get a good chance to edit this as I typed it offline and while away from home, so my apologies for any incompleteness if I left off anywhere.

Chapter 5: The Guildsman

Rodhero was the first to notice the rider as he approached.  It did not take Enlil and Govad long to follow the smith’s gaze up the road.  Govad fanned out, away from Enlil, as he put his left hand upon his sword hilt. He did not draw his blade.  Enlil took the lead and raised his hand to wave the rider in. 

As the rider brought his horse to a stop he reached up and pulled back the hood of a rain-soaked cloak.  Beads of water trickled down the stitched seam, down the laces of his boots, onto the underside of his horse, and eventually raced towards the ground in alternating plops.  The distinctive crimson star upon the white of the band about the rider’s head revealed him as a King’s man.  A messenger no doubt.

“Captain.” The rider nodded.  “I seek the one in command here.  Is that you?”

“I suspect I still command.”  Enlil paused.  “At least the little bit that is left here.” Enlil swept his arm out to point at the destruction that lay about the camp to ensure the rider had noticed.  “Bit of a storm rolled through here a few days past.  Most of my men are back in Gray Court while we survey our losses.”  It wasn’t a complete lie.  The men were back in Gray Court or scattered to the winds.  Whether they were truly his men any longer or whether they ever had been his men was debatable.

“Vigor.” The rider pounded his chest and gave a salute as he procured a scroll of parchment from his undercoat.

“Mortalis.”  Enlil returned the salute, stating his half of the confirmation and acknowledging his station.  He took the ornate scroll from the rider.  A wax seal featuring a crimson star sealed the scroll shut.  Thumbing through the wax, he knew almost instantly that it was not a message, but a writ of passage and supply penned by the King’s own scribes.

“The Thunderer travels from the north by King’s command.   By dark his host will be through the storm.” The rider stopped and handed the scroll over to Enlil.  The rider looked over the miscellany of the camp.  “Where shall he be received?  He requests it be of distance from the latrines.”

Enlil motioned towards his command tent which seemed to be the lone solid structure left.  “Not much left standing.  May I ask his business?”

“That should suffice.” The rider failed to acknowledge Enlil’s question.

“If you can take a message back to your lord, I will draft one quickly.  I would like to prepare him for the state of the encampment here.”  Enlil motioned for Govad to get quill and parchment.  However, something in the reaction of the rider’s face told him it wasn’t necessary. 

“I provided the writ as courtesy.  Not that there is much this camp can surrender in the King’s name.”  The rider again looked over the camp.  He continued, “The host will set camp on the grounds as well.  I’m here to lay the groundwork and plan out the camp.  Do you have a guildsman among you?”  The irony of the question hit Enlil.  He had petitioned for a member of the Guild to oversee the camp months prior and been rebuffed at the request. 

“Rodhero there is probably the closest we have, but he’s a simple smith.  Not a right King’s man either.”  Enlil didn’t bother to point out Rodhero.  It was evident the rider understood Govad was a paid man, leaving Rodhero to be the only possible craftsman among the trio.

The rider dismounted and removed his cloak.  The notches on his sleeve and the bronze crossed hammers attached to his collar revealed his membership in the Guild.  “Rodhero” the rider shook the smith’s hand, “good to meet you.”

Rodhero stepped in and spared Enlil and Govad from the monotony of laying plans for the Thunderer’s arrival.  Rodhero and the Guildsman seemed to build immediate camaraderie as they labored over details and spent copious amounts of time drawing detailed maps on the few dry sheepskins that Rodhero had stashed away.   Chuckles could be heard as the two counted off paces near the former latrine pits which had all but washed away in the storm’s passing.

After observing the pair for a while, Enlil retreated to his tent motioning Govad to follow.  Once inside the tent, Enlil discarded the scroll and dug a cup out of the scattered items at the end of his table.    “Find me a drink.”  The words were depressed.

Govad found a cask of ale nestled near the bedside and worked the stopper out.  He poured it slowly into the glass that Enlil held.  Enlil tipped it back and with an audible gulp emptied the cup.  Govad did not hesitate to refill it.

Enlil took a little longer with the second cup.  Standing near the entrance of the tent, Enlil pulled back the flap and looked out again on the two men he had left out in the camp.  Rodhero and the Guildsman had moved on from the latrines and appeared to be evaluating the stability of the stockade walls that now hugged the earth. 

On his third cup now, Enlil watched through the folds of the tent as the sun began to set.  “We’re right fucked my western friend.”  Friend.  Govad did not much care for Enlil’s use of the word.  The crack of thunder howled in the distance as lightning raced across the interior of the formidable storm wall.

***

Gurley awoke to the rumbling sound of thunder and the smell of fresh horse dung.  Aches throttled him from every limb and muscle.  A distinct and sharp pain emanated from his bum leg.  He moaned as he lifted his head and found himself sprawled across the back of a horse.  A moment later the reality of the situation dawned on him.  His hands and feet were bound, tied crudely together with rope.  A brief moment of struggling convinced him of his predicament.

“Is funny story.”  The voice was familiar to Gurley, but the waning light of early dusk combined with his restraints prevented him from looking his captor in the face. “A funny little man fell down and no fat ben broter around to pick him up.”  Jacco.  Gurley’s heart sunk in his chest.  “Good ting Jacco was dare.” 

Chapter 6: The Prisoner

Gurley didn’t struggle as Jacco eased him off the horse.  The ground was a welcome relief to what had been an uncomfortable eternity on the back of Jacco’s stead.  Tears drew silver lines down his dusty cheeks as his face nestled into a nearby clump of grass.  The silhouette of Castle Black in the distance was barely visible as he looked through the blades of grass encompassing his face.  His eyes slid shut as sleep set upon him like a wave upon the beach.

The looming darkness at the bottom of the stairs did not scare Gurley.  There was a renewed spring in his step as he bound around the final corner in the stairwell.  He felt the darkness wash over and cover him.  “Orten.” He called into the shadows.  No response came.

He continued down the hallway as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.  It didn’t take long before the underkeep’s features came alive to him in the darkness.    It was not often that his sibling chose to play games with him, let alone treat him a brother.  Even though mother had cautioned him to keep away from Orten, Gurley craved Orten’s attention.  He was convinced Orten was drawing him into a game of hide and seek and he was going to take advantage of the rare opportunity.  The crypt was a perfect place to play as long as the boys did not stray near where the prisoners were kept.  The guards did not care much for meddling children.

Gurley cleared the immediate area he was used to before continuing around the final corner before the hall that lead to the cell block.  He meticulously checked every nook and cranny up and down the hallway, each more painstakingly than the last.  Orten was nowhere to be found.

Taking silent footsteps Gurley approached the cell block entrance.  The ancient, heavy oaken door was held open by a stone that had been rolled over.  Curiosity took over and he looked further into the cavernous hall that held the various imprisonment cells.  The guards were nowhere to be found.  Their swords stood idle leaning against the table.  A discarded meal could be seen on the table as well.  Maybe there were no prisoners to watch?  Gurley took another step letting his eyes readjust in the presence of torch light.

What he saw next froze him in his tracks.  Orten sat cross legged outside of one of the far cells.  His voice echoed outwards through the entrance door.  He was talking to someone.  Mother would not be pleased with Orten.  Gurley took a step back, but fear struck him and before he could think he burst into a run.

He scrambled up the stairwell and back into the bright sunlight of mid afternoon.  His eyes could not adjust to the speed at which he exited the underground entrance and he was momentarily blinded.  Before he could see he slammed into the wagon that he knew was near the fence.  With hazy vision he struggled up into the cart and relied on his blind judgment to secure a foothold on the fence. 

He felt a pair of warm hands heft him from behind.  Without time to look he pulled himself upwards and he knew he was cresting the fence.  The hands suddenly changed the direction of their assistance and pulled him sharply backwards.  The screeching rip of cloth made way to the sickening sensation of torn flesh.  Bone grated along the metal of the fence.

Gurley screamed as dark crimson stains sprouted around the impaled fence post sticking through his upper thigh.  He floundered as his body lay stretched across the top of the fence.  He forced his eyes open and searched for his assailant half expecting to see find Orten running from the yard.  However, the yard sat idly by, not a soul in sight.  No one heard his screams.

Gurley awoke in a cold sweat clutching at his upper leg.  You bastard Orten, never where I need you.

***

Enlil looked to his left.  The sour look on Govad’s face told him everything he needed to know.  Bloody Thunderer is all he could think before another fist struck his face.  “I’ll ask you again Captain.  Where are the Fravashi.”  The brusque voice rang in Enlil’s ears as the man standing over him fixed his hand back into his ironed gauntlet. 

“They said…” Enlil spat blood and watched as it congealed in the dirt below his face.  “They said they came for the justice of the Thunderer.  They were not to be found after the storm.”  Enlil shook his head hoping for a moment of reprieve from the pain.  “My paid man here, the truest of trackers could not even find them.” 

“You are not a true King’s man.” This voice was different.  It came from a different direction than the man who had been striking him.  It was neither as harsh nor tormenting as his abusers.  This one had a soothing quality about it.  “No true man for that matter loses sight of the Fravashi.”  A thin grain of laughter coursed through the gathered crowd.

“Albs sir.” His abuser spoke up again.  “Not much more than pretty feathers.”

“Clydas let us not be inhospitable.  It is not often we find much company following a good storm.”  Clydas: Enlil took mental note of the name.  He had saved enough strength to lift his head and look this new speaker in the face.  Swept backward by the wind, the man’s hair shined with a dusty gold coloring.  It was neatly cropped below the tips of his ears.  Solid features highlighted his squared jawbone.  The handsome, powerful man stood at least a half stone taller than any other that Enlil could see.  “Captain, I suggest you start making some sense to Clydas.”

With a wave of his hand, the man disappeared back through the crowd.  Enlil’s head sagged down again, while his wrists continued to burn in the restraints that suspended him between two poles.  He could hear as Clydas slipped his gauntlet off again.


Word Count: 6730

NaNo WriMo Day 4: The Storm Wall

Chapter 4: The Storm Wall

The ominous gray wall loomed over Gurley like a drooling hound staring down upon a pile of discarded dinner scraps.  Wisps of rain sprayed outwards into the dead silence of the eye.   Sunlight drowned in darkness as the storm wall crept forward towards the band of stragglers before it.

Gurley’s horse whined as he struggled to keep his balance.  He pulled hard to the right on the reins and his mare steadied beneath him now that it was not directly facing the wall.  The other boys were having similar difficulty.  In front of the group, Gurley watched as the warhorse beneath Orten stood like a stone pillar, rain splashing against it’s bridle.  Gurley craned his neck and looked up and around the storm wall.  “You sure we need to be riding through that?”

Orten spurred his massive mount forward.  At first it was a slow trot, but he quickly built speed.  “Remember, meet at the Sentinels.”  Orten’s voice trailed off as he disappeared under a vale of fog and driving rain.  

Gurley knew this was not the time to hesitate.  Orten would not be gentle with those that did not follow, so he drove his good leg into the side of his horse.  The beast bucked and neighed loudly, but it obeyed.  Gurley approached the wall.  A quick glance to his side revealed the other boys following.  The bright day turned into dark night as he passed into the storm wall and a sudden cold cut a thousand wounds into his skin.  The horizontal rain sliced at his vision.  Fading pockets of light guided him forward and the occasional peak of the sun ensured he maintained a southerly direction.  He crested a ridge and spurred his horse hard enough to will it down the embankment.

The horse crashed through the undergrowth. Gurley never saw the tree branch.  He hit the ground with a sickening crack of bones echoing out into the fierce storm.  His horse screamed as he locked the reins in a death-like grip forcing the horses neck backwards.  The horse jerked and pulled free.  Come back.  The animal was gone before Gurley could push the thought to his lips.  Darkness consumed him.

***

Enlil looked up at the storm wall as it hovered over the road leading out of the camp. His assumption was Gray Court lay in ruin a short distance down the road, leveled beneath the massive storm.  This brought a smile to his face.  The final coward deserters that had left over the past day would have flocked to Gray Court only to find it in no better shape than the camp.  

Enlil turned and looked back towards the remnants of the camp.  Outside of the blacksmith, Rodhero, no one could be seen.  Rodhero, of stout frame, continued his picking and separating of the pieces of the camp before dragging select pieces back to his makeshift working area.  Rodhero was not part of the army proper.  Enlil had enlisted him after finding him slaving away on pots and trinkets in Gray Court.  Rodhero had proven invaluable during the supply shortages with masterful skill when working bladed weapons.  Enlil mulled over whether to release the smith from his duty.  

The camp was not going to be raised again.  Enlil knew that much.  Outside of a few tents, including his own, the destruction was final and months of supply shortages ensured there was nothing to rebuild with. The debris that lay scattered across the camp’s grounds would be picked clean once the storm passed.  From his estimate, the eye of the storm had situated itself like a prison directly over the castle which he suspected is what kept the castle’s inhabitants contained.  However, it wouldn’t be long before they realized nothing more than the storm held them captive.  The storm was destructive, but it wasn’t washing away a castle anytime soon.  Castle Black would most likely send scouts out sooner than later and at that point, Enlil knew his failure would be final.

The Reichland forces on the other side of the southern wall of the storm would prevent escape in that direction leaving the only route of escape to the north.  Without fear of the Eatern Army there was little to stop anyone that wished to flee.  Gray Court would more than welcome the refugees and their looted plunder from the Castle vaults.  That’s if Gray Court hadn’t been brought down to anything more than stone foundations.

While the events of the past two days troubled Enlil, they did not trouble him nearly as much as losing sight of the Fravashi.  After knocking him senseless for a fortnight, they had all but disappeared.  Not even Govad, with his trusted western senses had taken note of where they had gone.  It seemed that the Fravashi had been replaced by their cursed storm.  Yet, something ate at Enlil.  A gut feeling that told him they were not far away.  Which is why he had sent Govad to find them.

Turning once again towards the storm wall, Enlil let his mind wander.  He thought back to the days leading up to his arrival in the camp.  He remembered how fierce the force had looked that day, aligned in the marching yard.  The elegant organization: a dozen Cadres broken down into perfect formation, the feathers of the Wind Lords flowing in the wind.  The king’s banner: the crimson star upon a white field.  The white uniforms of the officers, punctuating the sections, stood in stark contrast to the leather draped soldiers.

The sight of a proper military force.  One for him to command.  It had inspired him that day.  His soldiery ways were in his past and his climb of the leadership ranks was about to begin.  There was hope in that first day.  However, it was crushed when he had met with the incumbent Wind Captain.  Vico had been his name, of house Katara.  He was young.  Too young to be a Feathered Sergeant, let alone a Wind Captain.  The boy had hardly began growing hair on his baby-smooth chin.

The situation grew cumbersome quickly as Enlil took military turn over from Vico.  The boy had not documented anything.  Supplies were not tracked, discipline was lax, and the camp finances were in disastrous shape.  Vico had done nothing more than ensure the men could form up in neat rows and put on a show.  The camp was meant only for show.  How this farce had kept Castle Black holed up was beyond Enlil.

However, in the despair of what Vico had left him, Enlil had found a mission.  And even though that mission eventually lead to disaster on the field below the castle walls and left Enlil drowning in ale and the handsome clutches of a different whore every few days, he felt accomplishment.  If anything he had shown the king the betrayal that this camp had thrust upon the kingdom.  It was him, after all, who was betrayed by the lack of preparation imparted upon his station.

It was no surprise that Govad had returned without having found the Fravashi.  He opined that they were probably in the storm, if not the storm itself.  Enlil had not been pleased with that assumption.  Enlil shook his fist towards the sky above the storm wall in a silent protest.

Word count: 4630