#legendofrowan

The power vacuum that came after the Battle of Kilbhrane was plugged by Rowan’s new regime. He had never observed his own ambitions for greatness, but now that he had brought an entire kingdom to heel, his mind obsessed over ideas of grandeur for a kingdom that was now his. The King’s first order:

“Build me a castle of stone, immune to fire and absolutely impenetrable! I want a palace that will stand for a thousand years and protect my dynasty from all who wish us ill.”

The project was absolutely impossible, of course. Father Thasius was now King Rowan’s chief advisor, however it was obvious that he only had a trial-run before the new regime disposed of him. Thasius knew that his entire survival depended on making the impossible, possible.

First dilemma: How will he fund it?! No stone castles have been built in this region since the rule of the Dratonians 350 years ago, and their architectural secrets departed with the collapse of the Empire. Though rich in many resources, this area of the Fertile Plain did not have enough rock quarries for such a massive undertaking.

The answer would have to be a military campaign, either resulting in the subjugation of riches and resources, or a hefty contract made through marriage. The King was, after all, unmarried and in need of an heir. And having been popularly declared the “Barbarian King”, Thasius did not worry about the King’s reluctance to charge into another battle.

Second dilemma: Who will build this massive stone palace? No man on this expansive island had the knowledge or experience to work with stone on this scale or in this delicate manner. 

Father Thasius resolved to employ the skills of craftsmen from his distant homeland: Dratoli (”drah - toh - lee”), originally the power base of the ancient Dratonian Empire, but now fragmented into dozens of rival city-states and principalities. Thasius came from the coastal city of Palvia, where stone castle-keeps had already been being built for the past hundred years. He would start his search overseas for the skilled manpower to take on this opus.

Strangely enough, King Rowan chose a small island, less than quarter mile into the massive Bay of Kilbhrane, to construct what was-to-be his center of power. He chose the location because of its surviving Dratonian ramparts, which would make a siege-by-sea even more impossible. Upon the advice of Father Thasius, Rowan reluctantly agreed to build a smaller stone keep in the town-proper of Kilbhrane, meant to serve as the seat of government within the actual walls of the city. 

Nine whole months after Rowan defeated the Duke of Wendalough and became the unrivaled King of Kilbhrane, ground was broken on what was to be the greatest structure for a thousand miles. 

From start to finish, the construction of his castle lasted the better part of eight years...

Rowan did not hesitate on the advice of his chief advisor, and made quick work of raising an army to launch a campaign westward; the folklore now associated with Rowan’s name made men flock to his side to fight for the legendary ‘Son of Chaos’. 

The eight long years of castle-construction went swiftly for the new King, who subjugated nearly every province that his army marched upon, increasing the size of his kingdom at an alarming rate. Father Thasius never failed to warn Rowan that such expansion simply could not be sustained in the long-run, but the King habitually turned a deaf ear.

When the final stones were laid in place for the ‘White Castle’, as common folk had come to call it, Rowan had nearly one-third of the vast Fertile Plain under his ‘complete’ control. Though the King’s regime had been impulsive and sloppy, Father Thasius quickly implemented strict order in each conquered province through a carefully selected hierarchy. The restraints on the subjugated populations were harsh, but they kept a rapidly expanding empire from descending into open rebellion. 

Another reason that the King chose this peculiar location to build his castle was a unique hot spring that he discovered bubbling up from the ground. The site was obviously revered by the Dratonians for it ‘healing’ properties, and likely a bathhouse once stood within the ancient enclosure. Father Thasius suggested that the steaming waters represented Hronna’s mercy in the dead of winter, and that surely she was the one responsible for such an anomaly. Therefore, Rowan built his castle walls around the hot spring, creating an isolated enclosure that he called “The Spring of Hronna”. This peaceful glade would provide the royal family with a religious refuge for prayer and devout contemplation, an idea which Rowan preferred over erecting yet another Keldetian temple. 

There were no banquets or balls to celebrate the completion of this grand stone palace, Rowan preferred the company of drunken Hasenuk warriors to that of frightened and groveling nobles. Of course Father Thasius advised the king to open up his court for the sake of “developing a relationship with the gentry.” But the King scoffed at the idea, saying that he hadn’t built the strongest castle in the land to invite his enemies inside its walls. Obviously, Thasius and the King had differing definitions of the word ‘enemy’.

However, getting on in years as King Rowan was, the issue of finding a Queen and securing an heir became increasingly paramount. Father Thasius was careful when pushing the issue because it often flared Rowan’s temper, who would exclaim:

“I have a wife!! I have a wife and her name is Sinesh!... At night I see her waiting for me in the Shadowlands... Everything I do, I do in her name and for her approval!”

The old Keldetian Basilica sat on a hill overlooking the town of Kilbhrane, across the river from where the castle once stood. The temple was constructed shortly after the death of Keldech, and it is said that his bones were laid to rest underneath the high altar. As the faith became increasingly more powerful over the years, many called for the construction of a far grander temple within the city walls. This, however, stood against the stark teachings of Keldech himself, who preached strongly against materialism. So the basilica remained humble while the church practiced its corruption discretely. 

As summer reached one of its final days, the temple’s bell rang nonstop all afternoon, announcing the coronation of a new King. The ceremony was attended by most of the nobles in the kingdom, though many stayed away, disturbed by the idea of crowning a “barbarian King”. Rowan conceded to deal with these absent nobles in his own time.

 After the monks’ procession, accompanied by their dissonant harmonic chants, Father Thasius led Rowan slowly down the aisle. 

He tried to keep his gaze forward, on the back of Thasius’ robes, as the nobles stared down and sized up the man that they were to call King. Rowan had nearly begged Gorran to accompany him to the ceremony, but his adopted father said that he would rather “lie in a bed of snakes” than turn in his blade and dress up in skirts. The monks continued their chants of praise from the temple’s balcony, and Rowan was powerfully reminded of his childhood in the monastery. 

Once Rowan was seated in the wooden throne below the altar, Father Thasius led a call-and-response chant with the monks, spoken all in Dratonian. Though Rowan had agreed to give up his “tribal rags”, he refused to be crowned with the Royal Crown of Kilbhrane. He was a son of the Horned God, and his crown needed to be the symbol of his new dynasty. Rowan had the goldsmiths guild his horned helmet with gold, and this was the “crown” that Father Thasius rested on his head, chanting the Dratonian phrase for “behold the King of man”.

As every man and woman in the temple bowed down to him, King Rowan felt a flush of panic that was quickly replaced by a deep gratification, knowing that he had truly won this power. He stared down at the strangers who were now his subjects and he thought savagely to himself: I will be the greatest King the world has ever seen. They will join me or they will die. 

Within a day and a half, the dead King’s uncle Sorrick arrived just outside Kilbhrane with the entirety of his army, as well as a chunk of straggling knights who remained loyal to King Olan. Rowan and his barbarian hoard were waiting for them at the edge of a large clearing, positioned up-hill from Sorrick’s army. They would need every advantage that they could get. Though the barbarians outnumbered the Duke’s army, they had far fewer mounted warriors. 

Rowan sat at the head of his army, making himself clearly visible with a horned helmet, given to him by the leader of the Siulmioch people. The symbolism was strong and inspiring to the men under his command. With drums blaring and men screaming and chanting, the barbarians were more than ready for a fight. As three captains from the Duke’s army began to gallop toward the middle of the field to discuss terms, Rowan shouted the command and the barbarian cavalry charged full force, causing the three distant figures to turn tail and gallop back toward their own line.

Stunned by the irregularity of the barbarian charge, the Duke’s army took several moments before they managed to give the command for their own, immediately followed by the unloosing of hundreds of arrows. Rowan’s horse was one of the first casualties to the arrow fire, flinging him from his mount and into the mud. He managed to retrieve his spear and shield, and began picking off enemy riders, one by one.

It was nearly impossible to know how much time had passed since the battle began, but after the secondary charge of the infantry, it seemed that the Duke’s forces were repleting much quicker than that of the barbarians. Rowan let out a scream of fury and fought on, knowing that he must either win or die. The eventual sounding of a horn, not far from where Rowan fought, signaled the death of the Duke. Within moments, the opposing army was either kneeling in surrender, or fleeing for their lives. Most fled. 

When the cacophony had settled and the submitting soldiers had either been killed or taken as prisoners, Rowan noticed a slim figure, dressed in long black robes approaching him from across the field. The man had the shaved head of a monk of Keldech, and face markings that symbolized his high ranking within the theocracy. The man stopped a few feet in front of Rowan and knelt, offering up his hands in submission. In eloquent vernacular speech, the thin man began to plead:

“Your Grace, I am Father Thasius of Palvia. I have served the past two kings of Kilbhrane with my tutelage and wisdom, and I beg thee to welcome my counsel as you take on this most noble and high seat of power.”

Rowan could see that the thin man was trembling, though his gaunt face showed no signs of trepidation. He left the moment in suspense for a while before Gorran broke the silence.

“Do not trust these monks, they say they serve the gods, but they only serve themselves...”

“You forget that I was raised from infancy by such men. They are not as you say, and this weasel just might prove useful if I am to face the ‘civilized’ world.” Rowan spoke to his adopted father in their rough mountain dialect, switching back to the vernacular as he addressed the trembling monk knelt before him. 

“I accept your counsel... Father Thasius of...”

“...of Palvia, your Grace.”

“Father Thasius of Palvia!”  

The monk let out a long sigh of relief, obviously certain of his own execution. Grabbing Rowan’s filthy hand and kissing it, Father Thasius exclaimed for all to hear:  “The King is dead, long live the King! Rowan, son of Chrumlough!”

“Lucky is the man with so few enemies, you’re too young to know how to feel.”

Even his father’s dry wisdom had little impact on him. Rowan found his mind fixated on Sinesh and returning to his beloved wife. Something seems wrong. No matter how hard he tried to revel in the ecstatic Hasenuk victory, something in the pit of his chest told him that he had already lost more than the dead Tulmechs. Instead of dwelling in this sense of doom, Rowan tried to picture the look on Sinesh’s face when he described the great battle and showed her all the plunder that he had brought home to her.

They had only just reached the mouth of the Hasenuk River Valley when the massive caravan of warriors came to a halt. They did not need any intuition to know that something was indeed wrong. Thick black smoke rose up in patches all over the valley, and death was in the air, they could all taste it. Chaos and hysteria broke out among the men as they sprinted in different directions toward their homes, toward their families. Rowan was no different; he dropped the sacks of plunder at his feet and ran as fast as his exhausted legs could carry him toward home. Along the way, the sight of burning camps and slaughtered women and children only confirmed his greatest fears. 

When he reached Gorran’s camp, the scene was no different. The longhouse had been burned to its frame, as well as all other smaller structures. Strewn around the camp were the mutilated and charred bodies of the seven they had left behind, including Haana. Rowan tried to cry out, but it only came out in a choked gasp. His eyes immediately darted to a figure laying apart from the others, motionless and covered in blood. 

“SINESH!!!!!!”

His legs gave out completely before he could reach her and he had to crawl the final ten feet, numbly aware of his chest hyperventilating while his vision narrowed into a tunnel. A wretched shattered scream escaped Rowan as he scooped up his wife’s limp body. What had they done to her?!?! Apart from various stab wounds to her mid section and back, her face had been cut apart and her eyes gouged out. Rowan stared down at the desecrated face of his wife and continued to let out scream after scream after scream, clutching her so tight that maybe her soft familiar form would hold him back to shelter him from this horror. 

Sinesh did not stir, she was gone. 

Rowan had no perception of how long he knelt there, weeping and holding his motionless wife. At some point, Gorran returned to the camp, carried in an animal skin stretcher. His own screams of despair seemed miles and miles away from Rowan, whose mind had sunk into a dull trance, staring in disbelief at what used to be Sinesh. Could this have been the Tulmechs? But how? Another tribe? Maybe-  

The snap of twigs in the nearby trees brought Rowan’s mind suddenly back. One of them is still out there! And he was off like a jackrabbit. 

The wounded soldier, dressed in a long tunic over chain mail armor, was staggering toward the stream when Rowan barreled into him, knocking the man clear off of his feet.

As Rowan pinned him to the ground, he got his first good look at his new enemy. The man’s hair was cropped and his beard trimmed reasonably well. His sword was not much different than Rowan’s but his shield was finely made, the work of a skilled blacksmith. As Rowan opened his mouth to spit out threats, the man cried out, saying something in the Valic vernacular. Rowan hadn’t heard or spoken the vernacular since he was a little boy. These men came from the south! The man repeated himself:

“Please don’t kill me!”

Rowan stared at the soldier’s pathetic form, helpless underneath his weight, helpless underneath the hatred that was pressing down on him. Rowan choked out the words slowly and clumsily, but he was clear:

“Where... did... you...c...come...f-f-from?”

“...W-what..?”

“WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?!?”

Rowan could feel the veins bursting out of his temples, throbbing and turning his face purple. He pressed the cold steel of the blade firmly against the man’s throat, practically choking him with its edge.

“We... we came from the Kingdom of Valta! The king is pushing his campaign northward, into... into the mountains.”

Rowan straightened up and stared down at this haughty little man; the hatred was still there, but he felt completely drained of all human emotions.

“Then he will die, just like you...”