Regnum: Children of War

Prologue

Prologue:
Eastrock
4.6 miles west of Regnum

If this were a movie, Barnaby thought dryly, it would be raining. Lightning would arch behind the brick building which towered menacingly before him and the door would swing open to reveal an elder woman. Her hands would be bony and voice like nails on a chalkboard.

But then again, if this were a movie he wouldn't even be here. He would be with the good guys, secure in the knowledge that the villains never win and they were on their way to victory. But this was reality. So he pushed the thoughts away, ignored the guilty turning of his stomach and took the stairs with his head held high and shoulders squared.

"Are you sure about this, George?" he murmured into his ear piece.

"Yes, Barney," the aggravated voice and static of bad reception filled his ear. "Just do it or I'll get someone else for the job."

Barnaby sighed, double checked his posture, and brought a determined fist to the wooden entryway, willing it not to shake and show his discomfort.

He was only a little disappointed when a middle aged man answered. "Yes?" his voice was gruff, scratchy and dry. It wasn't uncommon in Regnum; poverty had been high ever since Malum attacked their unsuspecting kingdom over three decades ago.

"Mr. Lovell? Barnaby St. James," he said. "We spoke earlier in the evening."

"Oh. Yes, of—of course. Come in, come in," he stuttered. Stepping back he gestured grandly, his movements clumsy and nervous. Everyone knew the story of King George Arden's rise to the throne and the lowly peasant—lovingly known as Barney by his village—he refused to leave behind. Times sure had changed.

Inside looked as bad as the outside—cobwebs littered the corners, the floorboards were scuffed and stained and the furniture was coated in impossibly thick layers of dust. A grand staircase spiraled up to the second floor; it was chipped, the steps sagged, and peculiar discolor was easily visible in the once chocolate brown paint but if you looked close you could see the ghost of a beautiful structure.

Mr. Lovell led him upstairs; wincing apologetically every time they squeaked which quickly grew annoying since it happened so often. At the top a wide hallway opened up before them, doors lined either side, each armed with a large golden lock (which seemed out of place in the sea of second hand).

Lovell pushed the last door on the right open with only a quick knock of warning thrown in as an afterthought. Barnaby stepped in and almost grimaced. The room was small, not quite the size of his bathroom back at the castle. A pitiful yellow stained twin mattress was pushed into the corner without any sheets, blankets or pillows and a desk with no chair, sat under a broken window with a black hefty bag taped over it, was falling apart, a few books holding it up to replace half of one leg.

And a boy, maybe three, sat perched on the bed with a thick paperback open wide at his side, too big for his lap. A mop of dark brown hair sat in a wild frenzy on top of his head, abnormally bright intelligent blue eyes staring out from behind too big spectacles and his clothes—several sizes too large—hung off of him, little more than rags.

Barnaby took in the way he sat—tense as if waiting to be hit, hands fidgeting uneasily and eyes identical pools of fear. He pushed his rectangular glasses up the bridge of his nose and dragged himself to his feet, biting his lip and standing, short but straight, a soldier ready for battle.

Barnaby turned away. He didn't like reminders of where he came from, who he once was and the boy was a living memory waiting to haunt his dreams and waking thoughts.