LATCHLON AROSE FROM THE MIDST OF CORPSES. All corpses of his dead men. The might and strength of Syveria, slain like the whelps from the Iron Clans.
The men of the Iron clans were known to be spineless whoremongers who only preyed on the few summer dwellers lowlier than themselves. They lived off the edges of Syveria's borders, where they could easily scamper away on the occasion of an emerging army.
They were thieves and swindlers, and the summer dwellers had since learned to live with them. The name IRON CLAN was a jest made up by Bards in mockery of their non-existent strength. Iron was strong, they were weak. The joke never got old.
Latchlon looked all around him at the mass of still, bloodied bodies. He couldn't hope to bury them all. The men demanded honor, a knightly funeral. All he had was a disgraced pride and shrivelled balls.
He could still make out the ashen faces of the villagers staring out from open windows at him. The Commander of the Blue Cloaks sent to his arse by the wind and smacked on the face by a woman. Latchlon was furious at their mocking stares.
"Come and laugh in my face, cowards!" He barked to them.
They quickly slipped back in their houses and shut their windows. The Hamlet went utterly quiet as the villagers left him to deal with his murdered men.
"Bastards!" He cursed under his breath. His arrogance was his own downfall and he still didn't want to admit it. He looked around, looking for a shovel to begin a laborious process he knew could kill him, but his pride wouldn't let him ask the villagers for help. Forty dead men was no small hole in the ground.
He found a rusty spade abandoned to the side of a barn. He walked to it, his armor clinking with effort. Blood stains gleamed in the sunlight from his silver breastplate and his blue cloak was smudged in something dark and viscous. Blood, and something else. Entrails maybe.
Latchlon looked away from the wretched sight and grabbed the shovel. It was on lifting it that he found the handle was broken. He could take the insult no more and screamed up into the sky.
"Fuuuck!" He growled against an empty blueness. A flock of birds flew past, oblivious to his fury. He was about to lower his face when a white splat landed right on his nose. He immediately smelled the stench.
Bird shit.
Latchlon almost laughed at himself. He had been shamed to an inch of himself. A single man bested his entire squad, coward villagers laughed in his weakness, and now, even birds shit on his face.
He turned away from the barn and moved away with the shovel in hand towards the pile of broken soldiers. He lifted the shovel and slammed it into the earth. The ground was hard as a rock. He had barely gone three feet in for the very first grave when his skin pooled all over with sweat.
The might of the sun shone on his chain mail, heating the metal, and the damned armor burned at his skin. He growled and loosened the robe. The blue cloak fell to the ground. So did his entire armor. He stood in only breeches soiled with sweat, his feet bare on the ground. He was no longer Commander Latchlon Pierran, but a grieving man dieing of thirst.
Eventually, he became tired before he even finished the first grave. He dropped the shovel to the earth and looked to his arms. His palms already burned with blisters. They were red all over. Latchlon looked up, and right before his very eyes were maidens filling jars with the cool water he so desperately needed. But he couldn't ask them for a cup, for he recognized them.
He recognized them as the girl servants his patrol officers often manhandled. He recognized them as the daughters of the men he'd burned. He recognized them as the women he had wronged. How then could he open his mouth to ask for water from them?
Latchlon sighed. He turned around, left his men to their fate and walked away.
He was moving across the Thorp without shoes nor a shirt to cover from the sweltering heat when a large shadow fell on his path. He lifted up his downcast eyes, blinking away the sweat. When his blurry vision fully cleared, his eyes met a bulky farmer standing before him.
The man's eyes spat fire and his lips were pressed tight in a wrathful scowl. His hands wrapped around a pitchfork with prongs sharp as blades.
How befitting! Latchlon pondered; he was going to die in the very same hands of the men he had bullied all his life. He could already hear the gossip in the air.
A king's brother, dead by the hands of peasants.
Latchlon smiled then at the irony of the whole affair. He lifted up his blue eyes to the big farmer and resigned himself to his fate. It was then he saw something else in the farmer's eyes. Something calm and forgiving. It was like he had imagined it.
The farmer lifted up the pitchfork high in the air and Latchlon closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. After some seconds of nothing, he heard a clatter to the side. His eyes flew open. The farmer still stood before him but the pitchfork now rested in a shadowed corner near a dwelling.
The farmer met his questioning gaze.
"Yes, I should lop off yer arrogant head," the farmer growled. "I know it right in my heart, but my sister seems to think you have a debt to pay, so I let yer head remain on yer shoulders."
Latchlon looked to the man in wonder. The farmer's words were a thickly accented speech of the vulgar dialect; a watered-down version of the summerland tongue. He wondered who the man's sister was, and why the man seemed to think he had a debt to pay. Latchlon knew he had done many unforgivable things but he owed no one.
"Bring the man some water!" The farmer growled.
A pretty lass walked out of a house with a water pouch, some wrapped meat-bread and a dark change of clothes. Latchlon instantly recognized her. She was the wife of the man he'd killed. He had killed many men but hers' was a face he could not forget. She had screamed and thrashed the earth as the Blue Cloaks dragged her husband away.
Her husband was the farmer Illishan the Bleeder had beaten to death.
The whimpering man from the dungeons.
Latchlon almost swayed on his feet as he now understood what the farmer meant by debt. The woman pressed the water, food and clothes into her brother's hand and silently walked back inside the house.
Latchlon followed her with wide eyes until she disappeared into the home. The farmer looked to him, spearing him with angry eyes.
"Now, my sister tells me yer men were the ones that took my brother-in-law. They say you commandeer the army so I assume you know where he is..." Latchlon almost sighed in relief. The man didn't know his sister's brother was dead. Latchlon didn't correct him. If he did, the man won't hesitate with the pitchfork. The only way to assure his head remained on his shoulders was to keep silent and allow the man to keep on talking.
"...you are still alive because I want you to ensure the safety of the man. In the meantime, you will care for his daughter..."
"What?" Latchlon sputtered, paling at the farmer's words.
"Is there a problem... Ser?" The farmer growled, stretching the final word menacingly. Latchlon met the man's eyes and caught the ire in their depths. The man was daring him to say yes so that he could have a reason to hack away his head.
"No," Latchlon croaked, watering his dry mouth with his own spittle.
"Good," the farmer gritted, "the girl is to be returned only with her father. Until then, she is now a ward of the Ivory Castle."
"If I may?" Latchlon began. The man frowned at him but allowed him to continue. "I am an heir to a wealthy House. Isn't it better that I send gold here to you then..."
"We don't want yer gold, you slimy prick!" The man thundered. Spittle sprayed out from the man's mouth with the force of his words and Latchlon moved an inch away. The farmer walked to him until they were eye to eye.
"I only keep you alive...Commander, because of my sister. I am begging you, give me a reason to spill yer royal blood."
Latchlon gulped at the man's words. The farmer moved away and shoved all his sister brought into Latchlon's hands. He looked down and quickly uncorked the water pouch. He gulped down the entire thing, swallowing in delight as the refreshing water lubricated his throat once more. He sighed when his voice came back.
"Bring her out!" The farmer growled.
The farmer's sister, the pretty lass walked out once again with a little girl not more than seven summers old. She moved close to Latchlon and whispered into his ears.
"Her name is Caelywn, please protect her." Without another word, the woman turned and strode away.
From the brief moment shared with her, Latchlon could see the tears in her eyes. The woman mourned a man she didn't even know was dead.
The farmer growled at Latchlon before turning to walk away too. He disappeared off into a lonely hut in the distance.
"Ser?"
Latchlon looked down at the small voice. It was the little girl. Her eyes were a warm brown, like the bark of the chestnut.
"You should put on your coat. The sun is high in the sky."
Latchlon surprised himself when he smiled. Her voice was soft and her gaze was innocent. Too spotless for all his sins. He doubted even her innocency could wash away all his past. But it was start.
He put on the dark garment, noticing it smelled faintly of ginger. He stuffed the food into his pockets and looked out into the sunny horizon. He felt small hands push into his and he looked down at her. He stiffened at her grip. He had never been touched before. Not by a child. Her hands were small as mahogany leaves in his.
Latchlon looked into her bright eyes and wondered how he had ever threatened to burn her. It just signified how deeply the darkness had sunken into him. But he was happy now. He had a little light now to lighten a few shadows.
"Shall we go, Ser?" Caelywn said to him.
"Latchlon. My name is Latchlon."
"Can we go, Ser Latchlon?"
"Yes, Caelywn," Latchlon replied, "...we can."
The two set off into the distance, hands merged as one. Latchlon's black heart felt somewhat lifted as he held Caelywn. He had a feeling she would inspire great things out of him. She played mildly behind him and soon, she began to hum. Latchlon smiled at her singing. The words were a favorite of his. One of the first eulogies spun by Bards of the Golden One. It was called the 'Sigh Of Roses.'
Latchlon joins her and before long, they are both singing out their hearts' content. Caelywn with her shrill childish melody, and Latchlon with his bold rumbly bass. Caelywn giggled beside him as they walked on, hand in hand, into the summer sun.
Latchlon was immensely enjoying her company when the patrols spotted them. The men sighted a lonely man and a little girl from afar off and rushed in with their horses, fearing the worst. They almost fell off the huffing beasts in shock when they neared the duo. Right before their eyes was their Dark Commander singing out with pride, along with a little brown-eyed girl.
"Lord Commander!" The men spoke in manner of greeting. The two men jumped off their horses and moved away for Latchlon to take their place. One of them moved to handle the girl.
"I'll take the little girl, Ser."
Latchlon turned abruptly to him. "You will do no such thing. The girl rides with me."
Latchlon climbed one of the horses, lifting her with him. He placed her in front of him and her tiny hands gripped the reins of the stallion. Latchlon turned once more to the stricken soldiers.
"One more thing, Captain. Her name is Caelywn. Lady Caelywn."
"Yes, Lord Commander," the soldier replied.
Latchlon urged the horse into a slow trot. Caelywn began to sing again. Latchlon joined in, while the soldiers behind wondered what happened to their Commander.