#sonofchaos

🎁🎁 #99cents 🎁🎁 #kindle Prepare for an exhilarating journey through a web of #mystery and intrigue like no other. "Son of Chaos: #Book 1" will challenge your perception of reality, leaving you questioning what's true and what's not. Join us as we unravel the enigma together.

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!”

Confirming Father Thasius’ greatest fears, the barbarians were already upon them. Rowan and a small group of warriors watched from the top of a nearby hill as Father Thasius’ distant figure disappeared down the West Road. Rowan had always heard that castles were palaces for royalty and sometimes nobles, but as he gazed upon the imposing wooden structure, he thought that it looked more like a fortress. Obviously, it must be both. Even though his barbarian hoard numbered in the thousands, Rowan had no intention of attacking the castle straight-on. Imposing as it was, the building was made of wood, and wood will burn.

As a full harvest moon rose over Kilbhrane, Rowan put his plan into action.

Earlier that day, they commandeered a fleece cart that was heading toward the castle, and they disposed of its owners. Four Valic warriors, disguised as fleece merchants arriving for tomorrow’s Fleece Fair, rolled their cart through the castle gates just before sunset. Laying low until the castle was mostly asleep, the warriors placed several tightly packed burlap bags of straw soaked in a strong liquor called Swollup around the base of the wooden tower, being sure to soak the surrounding wood with the flammable liquor as well. After nailing the door to the keep shut, they split up and ignited the bags of straw.

King Olan had just blown out his candles for bed when he smelled what he believed was smoke. Not the usual smell that came from his stone fireplace, but something stronger, more acrid. 

Little did the King know that the faint heat he felt in the wood under his feet was a raging inferno below him.

Gorran had warned Rowan to keep a further distance from the castle, but he stood not a hundred yards away, watching the fire spread up the wooden tower. Aware of the eery correlation this had to his childhood, Rowan watched and felt absolutely nothing.

As the floor grew alarmingly hot, the King sprang from his bed and swung open the door to the hallway. Smoke and flames spilled into the bed chamber, igniting the bed drapes and the King within an instant.

The fire spread so quickly, fed by the dry wood of the castle itself, that no one remained alive to come to the King’s aid, nor to hear his screams.

As autumn grew near, Father Thasius became increasingly concerned over the growing threat of a barbarian attack from the mountains. His sources confirmed that their numbers were nearing fifteen-hundred or more. This scale of unification among the mountain tribes was simply unheard of, therefore it was difficult to gauge just how real such a threat was to a fortified city, especially without any siege weapons.

King Olan and Father Thasius spoke in hushed tones, even though the great hall was filled with the noise of rambunctious knights. 

“Your Grace, the matter cannot be ignored any further. The mountain tribes have a standing army that WILL march on Kilbhrane any day now. We must send a sizable army to destroy them before they arrive at our gates!”  The King cut him off.

“Shhhhhh!! Do you want to start a riot among the knights? Thasius, if we meet them out in the wilderness then we fight on their terms. If they show up at our gates, we kill them on OUR terms...”  For once in his life, the King showed a glimmer of insight. 

“You have an excellent point, your Grace. However, their numbers are not enough to intimidate our army in the field, but they are enough to burn our villages, pillage our crops, kill your tenants... your people.”

“Exactly, MY people! The duty of my people is to fight for their King! We can have it your way, I will send fighting men to guard the less fortified villages.”

Thasius wanted to complain that he hadn’t asked for him to send men to the villages, but he decided not to contradict the King.

“Your Grace, while so many of your men are fighting our campaign in the west, why don’t we request the assistance of your uncle in Wendalough. I can ride their myself at first light. Sending me rather than a messenger will certainly secure a sizable force from him.”

“Alright, alright! Ride and beg to my uncle Sorrick if you are so eager, he’s always searching for a good fight, we’ll be doing him a favor.”

Father Thasius felt relief wash over him with the King’s begrudging consent.

“Very good your Grace, I will write up a request for you to sign and ride for Wendalough at dawn.”  The King rolled his eyes, already bored by the matter.

The Fertile Plain, to the south and south-west of the Dunlap Mountains, contained dozens of petty kingdoms and principalities, all loyal only to themselves. The largest and most powerful of these was the Kingdom of Valta, containing the large castle-town of Kilbhrane, as well as several prosperous fishing and farming villages. Power in Valta, however, never stayed in the same hands for long, as nearly every other king was violently overthrown by an ambitious upstart. 

The old wooden castle sat on an isolated bluff overlooking the town of Kilbhrane. A single wooden tower-keep rose out of wooden ramparts, surrounded by hundreds of sharpened spikes.

King Olan’s story was typical of every second generation ruler for the past century; his father had been a great warrior who has won his crown with the sword, and Olan seemed to possess none of his father’s great qualities. The King was snobby and childish, resenting his duties as well as the limitations of his power. Olan hated dealing with affairs of the state and usually refused to see anybody but his High Counselor, Father Thaseus of Palvia.

On this late summer evening, Father Thaseus was explaining the predicaments of the realm to the King in the simplest language that he could manage. One wrong shift of tone and Olan would sulk away, effectively ending business for the night. The subject was an uncomfortable one: the growing hostilities from tribal armies in the mountains, they seemed to be uniting forces at an alarming rate, compelling the crown to take the savage hordes seriously, for once. 

“I’m not saying that they are equipped with siege weapons or proper training, Your Grace, but once united, their numbers will be rather alarming.”

The King looked annoyed at being distracted from their chess game. “United?! They are savages with sharpened sticks, what could possibly unite them other than a bonfire?” Thaseus gave a gratuitous chuckle at the King’s ‘wit’.

“That is a chillingly accurate description of them, Your Grace, but my sources tell me that they seem to be uniting under a single leader. How? I don’t know, I have never heard of the mountain tribes commanding more than a hundred or so men under one rule. It would make some sense, however, given your ‘campaign’ into their territory...”

“So this is all my fault?! I cut out the vermin at the source Thaseus!”

“That you are right, Your Grace, I did not mean to suggest that you have any fault in this. We simply must take this threat from the mountains seriously. If our scouts could track the location of their growing army, we could outnumber them and cut them down before they grow into a real threat-”

“-Savages from the North are not and never will be a threat to my rule Thaseus!’

“Of course you are right, Your Grace, I will be silent for now on the matter.” However, Father Thaseus’ face bore the concern of a true threat to the realm.   “I hope you are settling in well with your... uh... beautiful new bride.”

An image of the young Queen arose in both of their minds. She was only nineteen, but they both had suspicions that her father had lied about her age to avoid paying a larger dowry. However, none of that mattered because the King refused to even share her bed as of yet. Father Thaseus would tell him:

“Just one night, one little kingly act, and she will bare you a son and it will be the end of the matter.”

King Olan protested like obstinate little boy, “But she is nothing like I thought she would be! I was told that she was pretty like my cousin Tulia, but she looks like she could be my aunt...  my great-aunt!”

“Don’t you worry, Your Grace. We will take it one day at a time. There are ways around this, especially for Kings... Now you rest and I implore that you think over what we spoke about.”