Dressed in fine mail, custom forged by a capital blacksmith, a birthday present from father, Nathan mounted Yuri.
The sky was grey, the last leaves were falling, and pine trees were cut down for the upcoming season. Larosa had yet to return, as she'd promised by the holidays to see him off, though he assumed he'd meet her in route or once he arrived at the capital.
Father approached, carrying the family sword, limping on a cane, though his face wasn't as swollen. He bowed before Nathan, saying a prayer of strength and protection, then shook his hand.
"Ya' make me proud," father said, eyes watery. "Fear the gods. Honor your family."
"Defend your king," Nathan finished.
"Do as your lord commands. You may not serve the king right away, but House Pyr's expecting you to obey and fight well when needed."
"Aye father," Nathan said, pulling up his hood as icy drizzle fell.
A four-day ride to the capital, most of it a bitter soaking ordeal, and he arrived at the largest city in all Creahllacia.
Allgrad's walls were black, high as an oak, taller than any he'd seen. Towers stood along each side, several at a time, a grey flag with the flame insignia atop, with archers on watch. Emmerhald's towers could be seen from beyond the gate, a flag of the holy cross, start, and tree swaying atop the centermost.
Nathan approached a great black iron gate, a dozen guards with fine mail waving him down.
"Fancy dress ya' have princess," a one toothed guard, broad in the shoulders said, giving him a crooked grin. "Don't believe the king's in need of another jester."
Nathan swallowed a lump of air, then blurted out, "I'm here by order of the House Pyr! Nathan, son of Nordwell."
The guard laughed, and all the others followed. "The son of Nordwell's a wiry rat atop a pony? Now why would I believe a slanderous turd like you?"
Nathan dismounted, a hand on his hilt. "I challenge you, er, gate guard! I best you in no less more than three moves, and you allow me to pass through no questions."
The brute glared at him, and his companions taunted or whistled. A man couldn't refuse such an offer before his comrades, and he drew a longsword while raising a shield.
Nathan took up a low stance, almost careless.
The guard took the bait, charging forward, thrusting hard.
A parry threw the guard off balance. Nathan knocked his sword away, then kicked him off balance. Guards by the gate cheered, laughing as the brute growled regaining his footing. He tightened his sword hand, holding it with his shield, taking careful steps.
Nathan kept pace, then lunged. Like his father many times before, he thrusted as a serpent. Fast, deliberate, merciless, and the guard yelped stumbling backwards, landing on his ass.
He pointed the tip of his sword at the guard, who dropped his sword and shield, then held up a hand.
"Like a serpent," the guard muttered. "My apologies, son of Nordwell."
Chains screeched, the gate opening at the command of the red faced guard, and Nathan whistled to Yuri.
His favorite steed behind him, he walked a cobblestoned road for the first few hundred meters, one or two story wood houses on either side of him.
Citizens ignored him, a few children pointed at his sword, and a decent number of them were thin in the face with tired eyes. Closer to Emmerhald the roads became white, paved clean, hardly a scrap of dust no it. Men and women wore bright colored tunics, market stands thrived with merchants from all over the world, buildings were made of stone, and the air didn't reek of shit.
Knights patrolled the streets and alleys, along with paladins of The Holy Order, who wore white armor with bright golden cloaks.
Town square was as large as a swath of villages along the valley, and Nathan examined the thirty meter high red bricked beacon, a black iron pit at the top. Fire blazed inside, bells rung ushering in high noon, and he was approached by a familiar face with bright hazel eyes.
"My lady," he said, smiling, making a small bow.
Larosa smiled back, but it wasn't as he'd remembered.
It was as if she were trying to hide something, and he led her to a nearby alley as trumpets blew within Emmerhalds' walls.
"I've missed you," he said as they hugged, though she only wrapped him with her right arm. "How've you been?"
"Don't you have to meet with his majesty," Larosa stuttered, covering her left hand with her right. "Don't delay because of me."
He looked at her, her blue striped black dress, and a dark grey apprentice's cloak trimmed with gold. Her face was red, but not as it did whenever they laughed and admired one another. She'd been drinking, as much as father without question, and took her hands in his.
"Tonight we'll have supper, my treat," he said, feeling her make fists. "If I can, and if not I promise to see you."
She nodded fast, tugging away from him. "Go on. I must return to the Archive Master."
She kissed his cheek, then hurried away, disappearing into the afternoon crowd.
One of her fingers was missing. He'd mention it later, as word reached him as it did in all the kingdom, the uncommon cruelty of House Pyr.
Emmerhald was surrounded by high walls, though not nearly as high as the city. It's tall steel gate was open, guards and knights chatting about, and one waved his way, long bright blonde hair and dark blue eyes.
"Ah, Nathan," Captain Winwell said, shaking his hand. "His lordship's been expecting you."
"Lordship?" Nathan asked.
Winwell nodded. "His majesty's on an expedition, much to the council's disapproval. Until he returns, you'll serve under Lord Isaac with his personal guard."
Anxious, and a bit puzzled, as he wanted to fulfill father's legacy as a sword of the king, Nathan asked, "When will his majesty return?"
Winwell looked around for a moment, then sighed, "For our sake, he's best in the belly of a swamp gator, or served on a stick to ogres."
Nathan kept his voice down. "You don't truly mean that, do you sir?"
Winell shrugged. "Of course I don't, as Captain of the Royal Guard, and servant of all Lords of Life as a paladin champion. Though as a concerned superior officer who's men are trusting him with their lives, I'd rest easier if it came to pass."
After turning Yuri over to a stable boy, Winwell led him to the throne room, down a dark hall with torches lit on either side.
They entered a courtyard, the wealthiest men and women in the lands whispering and eyeing them like pompous smug twats, then passed through a hall with tinted mosaic windows.
All the Lords of Life; the Eight Givers of the mind, body, light, darkness, combat, love, heavens, and faith, their cloaks and staves as he'd seen in father's holy word, imprinted with sunlight beaming through. Into the throne room, a massive hall with a dark gold carpet leading to the throne itself, they passed by holy knights standing on either side the door.
On the throne was Isaac, a boney man a chalice of wine in hand. At his side was Phoenix Blade, a tall muscular man with braided black hair and dark skin, a massive battle axe and spear across his back. Haven only heard the legends of what the blood feathered swords were capable of, Nathan almost held his breath as they got closer to the throne.
"My lord," Winwell bowed, to which Nathan followed. "Nathan, son of Nordwell, as expected. He is t-."
"What the hell is that?" Isaac slurred, pointing at Nathan.
Winwell's jaw tightened. "Son of the hero kingsguard who saved your brother's a little over a year ago. He was contracted by his father, with the signature of his majesty, to enter into the Royal Guards service."
Isaac looked, a pale green-eyed turd, at the Phoenix Blade, then back at Nathan, and laughed.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do with it? Looks like a valley rat that misses its mother's teat!"
Fuck your whore mother, needle pecker, shit eating turd, Nathan wanted to shout, but he focused on breathing. Always keep breathing, father would tell him, and never take anything to heart.
Winwell gave the lord stern suggestions, to which Isaac threatened to have him castrated if he so much as blinked for a moment longer. Before storming away the captain put a hand on Nathan's shoulder, giving a nod of encouragement or good riddance. Either or, he knew he'd be succumbed to petty horse shit or forced to indulge the bone thin cunt sitting on the throne.
Isaac cursed at him, telling him to stay out of his sight so long as he were to be in his presence.
"And don't let me tell ya' more than once!"
Until sunset Isaac drank, to the point white knights needed to escort him to his chambers like a squirming puking toddler.
Wine stained the throne, and the Phoenix Blade demanded Nathan to clean it. He hesitated, unsure as to whether to take orders from a foreigner, but the blood feathered mercenary lifted him by the collar with one hand.
"When the drunk chicken shit isn't in charge, I am. So the lord commands."
Thrown onto his arse, Nathan nodded, scrambling up to search for a bucket and towel.
After spending hours, the midnight bell ringing outside, scrubbing the throne he was relieved by a pair of white knights. While watching he holiest knights in the kingdom, swords worth a hundred or more regular soldiers, be reduced to latrine hands he considered getting Yuri and returning to the valley.
One thing would keep him in the capital, and he made his way to the Archives, a library of fortune known across all the world.
The desk maid informed him everyone left for the evening hours ago, and he cursed Isaac's name while walking the white roads of the inner capital. A whistle from a window turned him to Larosa, who was in a white night gown overlooking town square.
She held a finger to her mouth, then tossed a silk bedsheet down, and he climbed up when the clouds blotted out the moon.
"Apprentice's aren't allowed visitors," Larosa said, between kisses, stroking his hair. "Least of all fine warriors of his majesty's guard."
He held her against the wall, lifting up her smooth milky thigh. "Aye. We'll keep it our little secret."
She blushed, smiling just as he remembered.
He tore off her corset, stroked her breast as they kissed, then they strode one another until the morning bells rang. Atop his chest, her hair spread over her face, she slept so sound, as if she hadn't done so in ages.
'You look so peaceful,' he thought, a tear strolling down his cheek, then trumpets rang within Emmerhald's walls.
Fat Carl returned, or so it was believed, for Turd Face merely sounded the horns for a sense of urgency to stroke the lint between his legs.
Nathan was late to formation, all the castle guards, knights, paladins, and the Phoenix Blade, though Isaac was already on his seconds bottle of wine for the day. It'd be a miracle if he knew what year it was, though he listed off several orders decreed from his majesty whom no one wished to return.
"Ready yourselves for war," Isaac muttered, tossing a handful of papers to the side of himself. "The great families and forces on the western front are more cranky than usual, his majesty demands no less than twenty thousand additional swords for the battlefield by the end of the season."
Winwell cursed, in disbelief such a task could be accomplished. "My lord, all due respect, that's as good a task as taking the House name and throwing it into fire!"
Isaac shrugged. "His majesty's order. Lest you want a noose 'round your neck."
Winwell was left in charge for the day, and many days after as riders were sent out through the kingdom.
Mandatory service, anyone fifteen years of age or older, and Nathan found himself training men several years older than himself. Whenever he wasn't scrubbing wine out from the throne, Isaac's sheets, privies, or dining halls, he taught the fundamentals to men who'd never held a sword. Some were quicker than others, and he gave them simple techniques to practice using the snake style.
"Like this," he demonstrated, leaned on his back foot, blade low, sword palm facing up. "Not ideal for a shield wall, but should you find yourself in open space, you'll cut a man down before he even knows what's happened."
In three steps, pivoting off his back foot, he sliced a dummy to pieces.
Trainees dropped their jaws, and even a few of the onlooking knights' eyes widened. Winwell made a small nod of approval, then looked towards Isaac overseeing training atop a black stallion.
The Turd Lord spat, then turned his steed away.