The Dagger's Wrath (BOOK 1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

A/N: This chapter shows a bit of King Darren's backstory, which was a really sad thing for me to write. And, also, the Circle of Divinity. Time for the Stand!

King Darren, the Burnwoods, the Darklands

King Darren and his faithful, hopeful and obedient men rode through the forest that smelt of smoke and forgotten dreams, that looked like the trees had burned themselves darker than the skin of the Varini Tribe, that seemed as if the last event that had occurred in these regions was a war. The king shivered, despite the warm clothing he wore—a blanket of fox's fur that clung to his skin like he'd been sweating in the cold weather. He also wore his coat underneath, a thin white garment, and some baggy bottoms, reaching to his ankles as well as his massive black boots. Meanwhile, his men riding behind him in lines of three wore their uniform: coats with the sign of blue, red, and orange, with the same bottoms as their leader and nice warm boots. The path they took was scattered with stones, sand and ash, with mist growing thickly around them, as if it had been following all of them for quite some time, but they just ignored it. Their job was to be done soon enough, if a raven did not fly down to the Burnwoods to send a message about another mission.

The trees whispered as if they were telling a prophecy through the winds of long gone winters, through the silhouettes of lost heroes and forgotten tribes. The leaves smacked harshly against each other, whatnot with the strong winds and tough weather as of late in these regions. Such temperatures and weathers were to come in these days; it was to be expected if kings and queens were preparing weddings and ceremonies. It seemed that the world was not fond of highborns. Hopefully the world would show considerable respect towards Darren. He exhaled heavily, his eyes wandering across the endless sea of gloom and grey. It was like a labyrinth of doom. A bit dark there, don't you think, milord? He could hear his squire, a small boy of fourteen with shaggy red hair named Deryk. Too dark for your wits, is all I'd say, milord. Too much darkness around your kingdom, milord, sir. Too much, yes. Darren shook Deryk out of his head, tilting his head to see his men behind him.

Darren's escort today was one of his worst. As of all the people he had with him today, these were probably the ones he wasn't prepared for. From left to right in lines, there was Lumber-Man Tom, Arken Stoghins, Grum, Lorke, Brundin Woodsplark and Quent. Quent was especially quiet today, when he had usually been rather vivid and nobody had seen him without a horn of ale to chug, and women by his side. As of late, however, there was darkness in him that only an axe to an enemy's body could solve.

"Lot of mists, lot of works; no cuts for the team," grumbled the narcissistic tone of Brundin Woodsplark. "Me brother'd rather go out he'e in the coldest of times; today is nothing like what I thought. Me mother would chop me down if she'd be alive, eh? Aye, what a season, what some mists we gots." Brundin was one of the many men of Darren's court that couldn't read. He hoped that many of the others in his escort today were sufficient enough with a bit of opening of a book.

"No cuts for the team? Kings are kings, is what I say. And if kings are king, men are men. We do what we do best: work until our guts are raw, until our mouths are full of the joy we should have during these times." Lumber-Man Tom chuckled, but the king didn't find anything about that comment to chuckle on. Lumber-Man Tom had almost admitted himself that working until near death was the only way to ensure a perfect and career-fulfilled life, but neither the king nor his beloved queen Arnaressa believed in such nonsense.

Arnaressa, my dear, oh, my dear, please help me. I'm trying my best; I just need to get back to you, his thoughts pondered like he was drifting towards the skies, towards the clouds—and imagined some kind of way to stretch out to his wife, to seek to her, to find her, but to no avail. He was trapped in thick mist, in a problem of his own.