The Minotaur was the first to speak, and not to the Prince’s displeasure. It was a fine instrument of warfare, and Mundhir had learned over the last few days that its name was Shorus. There were three dozen City Watchmen, laying in the cold earth that could bear testimony to the beast’s awesome raw physical power. As Shorus spoke in his simple-minded way, a smile crept across the lips of the Prince. In exchange for knowledge of machinery, this mighty weapon would fight for him – already the cause was bolstered. Thrandel of Nillanor, nor Jazeer of Eblistan, had themselves such a champion.
“Your do me great honour, Shorus,” said Mundhir with a deep bow of his head. “I have five hundred of Eulona’s best serving me, right here in these ruins. With you by my side, we may as well up that figure to 600,” he joked merrily. “As for machines, there is something you may wish to see – and might even be able to help me with. Captain Hazim, if you will.”
The Captain had stalked the shadows of the derelict council chambers, his eyes darting from one prisoner to the next as he weighed the potential threat they posed to the Prince. Though a large man, with the muscle capacity of a practiced warrior, he was also adept in the art of stealth. A former World Breaker, he was a formidable adversary, and he his name was blessed and cursed in equal measure. He stepped from seemingly nowhere.
Sizing up the Minotaur, Hazim grunted his approval, “you’re a big bastard, ain’t ya fellah?” Stroking his neatly trimmed beard with a ring-laden hand, he continued, “the Elves left behind a large weapon when we drove them from the ruins two months ago. They call it a
trebuchet. Normally the Longears use them to pummel us from afar, but in the battle for Baalor, they were forced to destroy them all – all but one. We can’t figure out how to use the bloody thing though, perhaps you have some knowledge that we lack?”
“Then it is agreed,” said Mundhir with a wide grin.
There was a brief commotion from behind, and the Prince turned half-expecting to see his assassins making a final attempt on him. Instead, it was the light hearted fellow he had not seen since the dungeon; the other prisoners had given his name as Tarwin, and the Prince abided the man’s entry.
“It seems one of you has gained his freedom without my assistance,” mused the Prince, “it was once said, in the Bak’Rah, that a
real man forges his own path, and relies not on the charity of others to break the chains put on us from birth. I believe you, young Tarwin, are such a scoundrel.”
The Prince then repeated his earlier words, proclaiming Tarwin a free man within the bounds of Baalor, and the surrounding lands carrying his banner. “Welcome, dear friend,” he finished with a warm smile. “Stay a while, and listen.”
Next, the mysterious forestkin fought for her turn to speak. Mundhir bowed to her, as if she was a maiden of the court, and his eyes dallied for perhaps longer than was appropriate. There was something strange about her, and it perplexed the Prince that he was both unnerved and yet made lustful by her thorn-studded figure.
After stating her gratefulness for having been rescued from the oppressive environment of Eblistan’s dungeon, the forestkin moved quickly to mention the dangers Eulona’s wars often posed to her peoples. As she continued speaking, the Prince found himself studying the exotic veils of flowers and vines that teased themselves around her modesty – a not-so friendly nudge from Sitara, promptly reminded him he was supposed to be above such deviance. Duranar would not entertain corruption of the mind, and Mundhir scrambled for his princely visage.
“If I am victorious, there will be no more war, no more fire – no more sieges, and no more orphans waiting on the streets of Eblistan for handouts from those more fortunate, my lady,” he said at last. “The Elves seek revenge; our histories have been lost, rewritten, and lost again, and so I know only pieces of their cause. My forebears brought them to their knees long ago, and enslaved them, but why Prince Thrandel wastes the lifeblood of his dwindling kin repeatedly against our borders is beyond me. I fear a tragedy befell him a long time ago, and that he is impossibly rageful. I solemnly swear, that should I defeat him once more, then I will push for an enduring peace between our peoples – at my own expense if needs be. Duranar willing, Thrandel will see wisdom.
As for Eblistan, I have grown ever so weary of one man holding all the power. If my father, Duranar forbid, is truly complicit in my murder, then it is my duty as the Lord of All’s chosen to slay him – and all those that stand with him. Upon the ruins of his sin, I will install a government made from the people, and elected by the people. Yes, if I am victorious, the western reaches of Eulona will enter a new era of peace and mutual cooperation.”
"I'll help, although I may regret it." Kyrtaar paused, and added. "You children of the earth lead such energetic, short lives." He finished.
“Ah, Master Elf, your assistance is most welcome. Make no mistake, though I war with your peoples, I hold nothing against your race. In a way, I long for human-Elven cooperation, and that our soiled pasts can be reconciled. I am a warrior, defending my country, but I always fight with a higher purpose in mind: in a dream, the Prohpet Ebli spoke to me, and he was very insistent that I unify all that I could under my banner. At first I assumed he meant for me to ride forth on my steed, and conquer Eulona as he once did, a thousand years ago. Recently though, I suspect he meant for me to correct his errors, and in this task I will not relent. War breeds hatred and division, and I must curb these weaknesses as best I can; alas, it seems battle is part of this process, one way or the other.”
Next, the Halfbreed – another fighting an invisible and unprompted war for the Prince’s earthly affections – offered her assistance. She spoke of a Norn, and the term was unfamiliar to Mundhir, but she mentioned the possibility of a cure for his affliction. She also made clear her contentment in travelling to Nillanor to see if she could retrieve an elixir. The Prince doubted either task was easy as it sounded, but he thanked her with all the courtesy he could muster; he noted Hazim’s disdain for such a practice. The Captain, unlike his Prince, was a warrior first and considered Elves his sworn enemy – and Halfbreeds an abomination. Not that he’d say as much, of course.
Rin demanded his fishing pole, and Mundhir nodded to one of his guards, whom quickly bowed and left the council chamber. “I believe the pole I have procured from the baggage train of the former Elven garrison will be adequate for your needs, Lizard.”
As the guard reappeared, carrying a long silk bundle, Rin continued to talk about hidden rivers, offering discreet passage to and from certain areas. Mundhir thanked him, stating that such information would be invaluable. Rin finished by announcing his delight in a recent bargain struck with the Prince’s physician, and Mundhir secretly pitied the fool, for the old crone’s food was less than wholesome. The horse stew could well be made from Goblin, for there were tribes of them residing in the sewer systems beneath the ruined city.
"My relatives hate you, Number 7. You've killed people they know, hurt the whole elven bloodline, and hurt their pride. I'm surprised my...brothers and sisters..have put up with you for so long,” said Wisdom, the Elf Mundhir’s men had shown little love.
With a sigh, Mundhir conceded, “I have killed many of your kin, their pristine faces mar my dreams. Though you must understand, Thrandel stormed these ruins despite a ceasefire between Eblistan and Nillanor, and was laying waste to the surrounding hamlets and villages that dot the land. It was my father’s inaction, which spurred me to launch a campaign. I do regret killing the Elfkin, for they are a wonderful people, but I do no regret the reasons for which I killed. Still, I gave that Prince every opportunity to surrender and withdraw, and never have I ordered my forces to pursue a defeated Elven host. They are a dying people, the folk of Nillanor, and I believe Duranar wills their continued existence.”
Wisdom's lips pressed deep creases up the hollow face, "It'd be an honor to help you. No way I could pass the chance to say I served the glorious Prince Mundhir of Eblistan. Just promise me a fine sword - preferably elven - and some good fights."
“I am delighted at your indifference to my worldly struggle,” said Mundhir, “though I cannot promise you will not have to use that sword against your own people.”
With a small army at his disposal, bolstered by the powerful adventurers he had happened upon in his misadventures, the Prince felt a weight lifting from him. This war was winnable, and the whole of Eulona would yet see a
good human arise to lead the hurting masses into a new era of peace and prosperity.
“Very well, I thank you all for your support and allegiance,” the Prince said proudly. His left arm suddenly felt numb, and it fell uselessly by his side. He sighed heavily, and his merriment was replaced with grim remembrance of his impending doom.
“I must retire, to the War Room. If you all truly wish to build a better world with me, then meet with me there, and I will explain to you how it is I plan to vanquish my own brothers,” he stopped as a lone tear rolled down his cheek, “and put to sleep the ancient anger of Nillanor.”
Turning, just as his left leg twitched in spasm, the Prince stumbled but was caught dutifully by one of the guards and Sitara.
The War Room, a simple name given to a simple structure of torn walls and shattered tiles. Five hundred years ago, it served as the Sultan’s very own temple to Duranar. In its old and decrepit state, the Lord of All had long abandoned his presence, and now it stood empty and cold of all divinity.
In Duranar’s absence, were tables strewn around the place. They were laden with several maps, some recent, and some as old as the city itself.
Mundhir was helped into a simple oaken throne next to the largest of the tables, where two young women with veiled faces and tight silken gowns tended to an array of figures dotted about a large map of Eblistan and Nillanor.
“If I am to win this war, I cannot have my brothers and the Elven Prince fall upon me at the same time, therefore I must keep one of the forces busy long enough for me to deal with the other,” he said with a raspy voice, heavy with sudden exhaustion. “I intend to send a force to the ruins of Ahya, hoping to draw my brothers into battle there. They have little experience in war, and will no doubt take the bait. The forces I send will need to first secure, and then hold the ruins against my kinsmen – whilst a second force raids their supply base. If we can put their grain to the torch, then it’ll be weeks, perhaps months, before my beloved peoples can try to murder me once more.”
“What of your brother, my Prince?” Asked Hazim, as if reminding the Prince of something.
“Oh yes, there is a third part of the plan. Crown Prince Jazeer will likely send my younger brother, Basar to the ruins of Ahya. With most of his army gone – I hope – he will be poorly defended, thus making an apt opportunity to cut the serpent off at the head. I’m talking of course, of fighting fire with fire, he may well have ordered my assassination, and in the circumstances, I am prepared to order his!” Mundhir said, a brief fire burning in his eyes. “What say my newest friends of these plans, perhaps your combined worldly knowledge can conjure something more grand?”
