The blizzard passed on farther to the west, clearing the mountains and leaving the Eastern plain a clear and almost unbroken blanket of white. Through such thick snow William’s reinforcements would have to push savagely and even if they managed it, it would be days before they could possibly even hope to catch up with the main column of their army. On the wing, Vorador flew over all the obscured terrain unimpeded, pushed on by a strange compulsion that he could only call insistent nostalgia.
He could not say why he felt so compelled to make such speed. Certainly not for the sake of the life of a petty king of Man. The mere name ‘Weirstein’ was like a pulsing, constant reminder in the back of his mind, a motivating whip to his intentions. Even as he flew his mind ravenously began rummaging through the memories that name had unlocked within him.
In the face of this powerful mental stabbing, Vorador felt that he could put his search for the Lost City and its concealed Celestial Arrow aside for a short while and detour to indulge this suddenly sparked curiosity.
Ajatar-Cadre had told him that somewhere in the East on the shores of a lake of geysers and sulphurous water, Janos Audron had found him as a young Human boy and taken him back to the Citadel. Vorador had recalled nothing of his former, mortal life. As far as he had been concerned, his life began with his enrolling as a novice in the Order of the Serioli.
But the utterance of ‘Weirstein’, used in such a context by the soldiers back in Valeholm, had unlocked that submerged part of his mind. He did not recall everything and what did come back were uncertain images that were indistinct in his imagination, but he did remember that Weirstein had been the place where, as a Human, he had been born.
There he had lived until the age of seven, set out in the surrounding fields to watch the cows and ensure none of the semi-wild cattle wandered off. Even the very young were put to that menial task as back in those ancient days when farming and animal husbandry was rudimentary at best, the maintenance of the herds on which the community depended was essential. Vorador, however, remembered that something had happened to drive him from that community. Something had caused him to flee from there in fright. Exactly what that fear had been, however, still eluded him. It seemed not all of his long forgotten Human past had been unlocked. Many details were still obscured.
As night began to fall and the full moon rose up high to make the snow below glow faintly, he flew over the expanse of a wide but fully frozen river. The river stretched from the southern horizon to the north, where it emptied out into a delta in the form of an expansive arctic swamp. Beyond that, to the north, was a jagged, storm tossed gulf. Distantly on the horizon, rising out of that expanse of water were the fang-like protrusions of massive rocks.
Ignoring the scenery, but marking it as a recognisable landmark nonetheless, Vorador pressed on to the east. As he flew on, he began to sight more and more signs of the passage of a large number of men. Not even the heavy snowfall could hide that from a bird’s eye view. Where thousands of feet had successively trodden the ground into mud, the snow grey with the slush underneath, this left a distinct trail to follow.
The king’s army, perhaps a force of twenty to thirty thousand men, had proceeded up along the coast keeping in tight formation. The general of this army was experienced enough to know that it would be unwise to spread one’s forces out while in unfriendly territory during a march, giving your enemy the opportunity to ambush small parts of your army. If the width of their passage was any indication then they were walking single file, a good ploy to use to hide their exact numbers from unfriendly scouts.
Unfortunately such precautions were not sufficient to elude the enhanced hunting senses and practises of the Werewolves. Even from so far aloft, Vorador could see the beasts. The remnants of the pack which had besieged Valeholm were galloping east as fast as they could, covering the distance on foot with ease despite the thick snow. Vorador was having trouble keeping up with them even while flying.
Coming up to a swelling of land that rose up into a short range of hills, Vorador caught the swiftly rising air currents and ascended rapidly. For a short while he was lost in the obscuring greyness of the clouds. When he descended again, he was on the far side of the hills and flying out over a jagged terrain of gullies and interconnecting valleys. Some terrible earthquake back in the depths of antiquity must have torn the earth asunder, leaving it so scarred that from aloft it looked like some monstrous titan Werewolf had slashed the ground with its claws several times. Each of these valleys had streams running through them and their steep walls were thickly lined with evergreen trees. The area reminded Vorador immensely and with no small distaste of the canyons that had been used by traders going to and fro from Meridian during the rule of the Sarafan fascists, which in this time was still more than a century away.
Perched on the edge of a cliff-like precipice that towered over these thickly forested crevices was another walled settlement. Unlike Valeholm, left behind to the west, this fortified position was very different in style. Valeholm had essentially been a western colony settlement, made with imported materials and distained to follow native constructing practises.
Weirstein was an Eastern habitation and its construction was very different. No brick and mortar had been used in the making of this place. All the buildings were made out of solid blocks of grey stone, the same stone as the ground all around it and polished to an almost perfect smoothness. The roofs of each building were slate but reinforced by supports of copper and brass. The town almost looked like an outgrowth of the cliff on which it had been constructed, culminating in an impressively tall square watch tower that overlooked the entire scarred area.
Flying from the top of this tower were several long red banners, but it was difficult to make out the icon of the faction in control of the settlement. It was enough detail, however, to tell that the armies of the Northern Kingdom had not yet taken the town.
From the air Vorador began a lazy circling sweep, looking down and around at all that was laid out below him. Weirstein was different now, advanced from the primitive hovel he recalled. Much had been added since he had left it as a boy but there was still no question that this was the place where he had lived during his infant years.
Circling it far aloft, Vorador simply stared his fill at the place. For a long moment he was oblivious to everything else. Suddenly, however, he became aware of the mental trap that the place was, a pit of nostalgic paralysation. If he were to be drawn into such an entangling trap he might never get out again. With no small reluctance, his mind not quite his own, he tore his attention away from the feeling of connection with a long forgotten past and back to the here and now.
As he did so, the unmistakable sound of battle reached him. He heard the crash of swords, the blow of axes, the whistle of arrows flying through the air and the soul curdling cries of the mortally wounded.
Passing away from the town, just to the southwest, he saw the conflict that he had embarrassingly not even noticed before.
The king’s army was as large as he had anticipated, many thousands of men all armed with the cruel weapons used by the Northern men which intimidated many other nations. However, their general had made the mistake of marching them into one of the valleys in this maze-like area. Perhaps they had intended to approach Weirstein unseen, using the valley to hide their passage.
However, they had sacrificed the high ground for no gain as another large group of men had taken up positions on the overlooking cliff tops. There were not as many of them as the larger force below but they had good positions and were using them to full effect, raining down a thick arrow storm on the westerners while they themselves were out of range of a bow shot from the valley floor.
Vorador would have frowned but in the form of a raven he did not have the facial muscles to accomplish this. Perhaps he had been giving their general more credit than he deserved. If he had been commanding this force, he would have deployed scouts across those cliff tops in order to prevent such ideal ambush sites. Moreover he would not have tried to march his entire force through a valley to attempt a sneak attack upon the settlement, as it was obvious that Weirstein had a perfect position from which to view all possible approaches. It would have been better to use those valleys to hide the troops from direct sight, and then stage diversionary attacks to push the defenders out of position before beginning the main assault.
Flying in lower, Vorador skimmed the top of the valley while keeping prudently out of range of any bow. While the men were distracted and unlikely to fire at him, he did not want some bored reserve archer taking a shot at him.
Finally he flapped a few times and settled to perch on the bare branch of a tree that was growing precariously out of the side of the canyon wall. From here he watched events unfold dispassionately. He was not going to make the same mistake twice and get involved in the direct fighting in this conflict. However, the smell of such spilt blood down below was undeniably enticing and he did still need to replenish lost energies after the gargantuan elemental control he had unleashed back in Valeholm’s church. There would be opportunity to feed later, when wounded stragglers fell behind whichever armed force lost this battle.

Cavalry bearing the banners of the Northern Kingdom were galloping up a gorge to reach the cliff edges, their horses having trouble on the gravel slope. They moved fast enough, however, to avoid most of the arrows fired their way. Soon they had ascended to the ridge and in a tight formation were running over the enemy marksmen like an incoming tide over the sand of a beach.
Vorador was paying more attention to the men the Northerners were fighting. He saw at once they were natives to the East. They had darker skin than the men of the central Nosgothic plain and their eyes were angular and many of them had had their moustaches styled out to either side very much like tusks. The armour they wore was very different in style to the furs and metal plating used in the west. Their armour was made of thick reinforced leather which took on a strange hedgehog-like look with the scavenged horns, fangs and tusks of various animals riveted to their elbows, shoulders and outer thighs. It was almost like a mocking version of the thorn-like armour worn by the officers of the Northern Kingdom and by William himself.
In these native people of the East, Vorador saw perhaps for the first time in eons, the seeds of his own being. He did not remember what his physical appearance had been like when he had still been Human, it was so long ago now, but if this was indeed the place of his origins then logic dictated he would have looked like them.
Taking his attention away from the battle, the Vampire looked up towards the settlement again. He would be lying if he said that he was not sorely tempted to search this place, to uncover any clue to his first origins. But he had to keep his priorities now. His chief concern should be finding some clue to the location of the Lost City, not indulging his sudden urge to poke around in a long forgotten past.
However now, he supposed, he was out of leads. He was finally here, undeniably in the strange and untamed East as he had been directed. The only question was: where to go from here? Methodically scouring this portion of the continent for a location treasure hunters had been seeking for centuries was quite out of the question.
In such an enterprise, logic was the best detective tool. The city would have to be physically located in an isolated area, a place so cut off from the rest of the world that it would be impossible to simply walk there. In addition, the location would have to be shielded from view even from the air to prevent mages and sorcerers like the members of the Circle of Nine from employing magic to find it. A mountaintop plateau, perhaps? No, that was too simple.
Suddenly and with a sharp reverberation that echoed through the canyons, a howl rang out. It was the familiar and hauntingly unmistakable howl of the barrel-chested Werewolf. The sound was so loud that it pierced the haze of battle and all men paused to look up. Vorador, however, had sighted the source of the howl even before they had. The sharp eyes of the bird allowed him to see very clearly its origin.
The arctic Werewolf standing on the edge of the cliff was truly massive; three times the size of the others crouched around it, the thing was a true monster. It was hard to see details from this distance but the size and proportional strength of such a creature was unmistakable.
The monstrous Werewolf paused to look over the men scattered below in the valley and on the ridges, then with an almost imperious gesture it raised one paw-like hand and stabbed it forward. Snarling and crying out for blood and fresh meat, the regrouped masses of the feral horde poured down the rocks of the cliff towards the startled armies.
The enemy forces were the first to flee, breaking to run past up the slopes towards the debatable safety of Weirstein before the men they had been fighting a moment ago even realised they had gone. They wasted no time in putting their enemies between the onrushing white Werewolves and themselves. Such was definitely the course of prudence.
The men of this army, having never seen such terrible creatures before, flinched back from the awful pack of onrushing monsters. That moment of startled fright was fatal. Weakened by fear the men were almost swallowed up by the charge of the creatures. Blood and worse was scattered into the snow, dismembered limbs twitching and sundered heads staring in horrified surprise.
The army’s swordsmen fell back in a demoralised rout, screaming in terror but the archers behind them were more firm. At a barked command from their commanding officer, they rose up and let loose a volley of arrows that flew over the cringing heads of the infantry to slam full into the charging Werewolves. Many tumbled head of heals, killed instantly by the arrows slammed through their skulls. Their fellows, however, just bounded over them and came on howling in delight at the slaughter to come.
Vorador watched events unfold from his perch dispassionately.
-0-
“I was not Kain, to foolishly dabble in Human politics. It would be of greater benefit to me to simply be the observer and then perform my investigations once the chaos had abated. The wisdom of ages told me this was the better option.”
-0-
He turned his feathered head and looked up, narrowing his eyes. At the far end of the battlefield, the massive Werewolf he had seen on the cliff before was galloping on all fours. At its side were over a dozen of its regular sized kin. As one they were making towards the cavalry, which instead of trying to charge the Werewolves was withdrawing away from the battlefield. Vorador saw why instantly. In amongst the horses was the fluttering standard of the Northern Kingdom, which meant that amongst their number was the king himself.
While Vorador cared nothing if the king of some meaningless Human kingdom lived or died, his curiosity was stirred by the large Werewolf. Back in Valeholm, those of this feral breed he had spoken to had said that their extended pack was led by an alpha male.
Its sheer size and the clear dominant position this huge beast had over the others could only mean that this was indeed that very alpha male. An organised army of Werewolves, in thrall to a clear military mind housed in such a monstrous form was not something to easily be ignored. It had clear wide reaching ramifications.
-0-
“But if this ravaging Werewolf pack continued to plague me then it would be best to know of it now and, if necessary, pre-emptive action would have to be taken.”
-0-
Quickly Vorador slipped back to his own form and dropped down from the branch. As he did so, falling down towards the ground he slipped into his newest form, that of the giant spider. In this spindly form he was able to land on the branch of a tree that formed a short forest clinging to the side of the valley wall. Under the cover of the branches and on all eight legs the Vampire scuttled along. Leaping from branch to branch he covered a lot of ground quickly, making his way up towards the copse where the cavalry were rounded and attempting to make a stand against the onrushing Werewolves.
The anatomy of the arachnid was perfect for covering short distances in a rapid amount of time, especially over random obstacles such as the trees and soon Vorador found himself outdistancing the beasts. Quickly he scuttled down the side of a tree to the ground.
That proved to be a mistake as a large group of archers had been waiting in the brush alongside the entrance to the copse as part of a clear ambush which the army had planned for the approaching creatures. While in this form he had no access to his higher senses so Vorador dropped down almost right on top of them.
Hearing him come down, several archers turned around to look back. They took one look at the spider, about the size of a larger dog and let out cries of horror and alarm. They stumbled back against the other archers in their ambush and soon it was chaos. Many of them blundered out into plain sight in their panic, ruining the surprise attack completely when the galloping Werewolves saw them.
Vorador did not have time to change back into his regular form to fight these men so he employed one of the spider’s natural abilities in order to keep them at bay. Rearing back on his hind legs he arched his enlarged abdomen forward and discharged a fine spray of silk. It caught the startled men and ensnared them, entangling their arms and legs and causing many to fall over and get stuck. Several managed to free their arms to try and fire their long bows but their aim was now so erratic that they sent their missiles off almost directly up into the air.
Vorador scuttled past them quickly, perhaps leaving those who would survive the battle with intense arachnophobia for the rest of their lives.
Passing through the long grass on the side of the clearing, Vorador pushed thoughts of spiders away from his mind and flowed back gracefully into his own form. He was only just in time; not to act but only to bear witness.

The Werewolves were charging into the clearing in a wave. The biggest one paused at the edge of the glade and towered up on its hind legs, rising to an impressive nine feet tall. Close up Vorador could make out more details of the creature.
It was more muscular across the shoulders than its kin and had a shorter tail, which was bushy almost like that of a fox. The muzzle was shorter and distorted and somehow retained some vestige of the Human the creature had once been. The long arms were thickly muscled and the hands, more like paws, each ended in claws at least six inches long.
“You will not deny me, soft ones!” It declared at the horsemen and its voice, despite its more Human-like features, was echoing as if spoken from the bottom of a deep well. “Tonight I hunt royal game!” Vorador quickly reached behind him for the axes, Havoc and Malice, but even as he did the monstrous thing lunged forward.
With a mighty bound it shouldered men and horses aside through sheer physical strength and bore down on one rider in the centre of the protected circle of cavalry, ploughing through the defence as if it were not even there. At that same moment the other Werewolves in its pack charged as well and were on the other men and horses before any of them could bring up their weapons.
The massacre that followed turned even Vorador’s stomach and he had seen wanton bloodletting many a time before. Slowly he rose from his crouched position and simply watched as the creatures ate their fill of men and horse flesh.
When one of them finally noticed him it snarled, drawing back lips over bloodstained fangs, but did not charge. Rather it backed off, slinking off to one side. Alerted by the snarl, the other creatures looked at him as well. They too began to back off, skulking away to one side. All cleared a path between the Vampire and the massive one who led them.
The biggest Werewolf stared right at Vorador, its jaws locked firmly around the throat of a man in chainmail and with a fine fur cape over his shoulders. When it let go of the corpse, the golden crown that had been perched on his head tumbled away.
Bloodstained and smeared with gore, the beast rose up without ever breaking eye contact.
“I heard word of your presence from my pack at Valeholm.” It said, pausing to spit out globs of flesh and bone from its mouth. Almost casually it kicked the body of the man it had killed aside and advanced, slung forward because its body was so top-heavy. “This is none of your concern, Vampire!” That came out as a low snarl. “Be gone and I’ll forget you brought your aristocratic, rotting backside here!”
Vorador was neither intimidated nor impressed.
“Be civil, velutinous whelp.” He replied flatly, ears flicked up so he would hear the slightest movement from the other Werewolves should they decide to charge, giving him that fleeting moment of warning that would be an advantage. “You would be the alpha male that I’ve heard so much about?” He asked then without taking his eyes from the big one. In response it swished its tail around behind itself and flicked congealed blood from its claws.
“I am Remus.” It stated firmly and in response all the normal Werewolves around it lowered their legs to the ground.  “My will is the will of the pack.”
Vorador snorted contemptuously.
“What will drives you to this nonsense?” He demanded, casting a quick glance around at the scattered and decimated bodies of man and horse all around them. “You risk all of your bestial kind by such slaughter.”
Remus looked down at the corpse of a cavalry man at his feet for a moment and then deliberately stepped on the head, bringing his full weight down upon the skull. After a moment of cracking it burst into fragments, globs of brain spilling over the snow. The display of strength and disregard of danger was ostentatious to Vorador’s mind.
“My species is not as weak as yours, leech.” He said with no little arrogance. “This is merely part of the strategy.” He lowered his head and as his lips pulled back to reveal the fangs, Vorador knew that a charge would be ordered at any moment. “And your involvement is not requested and nor will it be tolerated.”
The Vampire raised one eyebrow slightly.
“Perhaps I need to train you like the dog you are to not challenge your betters.” He remarked. This was not just some throwaway insult but rather he wanted to goad them into making their inevitable attack on his terms, when he was ready for them.
Remus’ eyes burned with anger for the jibe and the fur across his back began to bristle. Even the regular arctic Werewolves around him looked enraged at the provocation.
“You have a sharp month, blood sucker.” The alpha male began in a voice that was more wolfish growl than speech. “Mine is sharper!” The tone he struck was clearly a command and his pack obeyed without question, launching forward one after the other to bear down on the Vampire.
Prepared for such an assault, Vorador altered the centre of balance of his body and began to turn in that lethal spin that made Havoc and Malice so deadly. Obviously those Werewolves that had assaulted Valeholm had not passed on the intelligence that once he had both axes in his hands, the Vampire would be a tremendous hazard. Several of Remus’ pack met their end sliced to death by the blurring edges of the twin axes, their bodies discarded in bits of torn bloody fur in all directions.
The others quickly backed off but Remus himself charged in to quickly take their place. The alpha male was not only bigger and stronger than his kin but he was also more intelligent. He was not foolish enough to attack the lethally spinning spiral of axe blades head-on but instead ducked low and lashed out with a back paw. The kick knocked Vorador’s feet out from under him and he was brought out of his spin in a moment, almost landing on his face in the snow. It was only his acrobatic skill that saved him, spinning his body around and back up before he could be set upon by the claws and fangs of the pack.
He was barely on his feet for a moment before Remus was on him, claws lashing out with such speed that the arm that delivered the blow blurred. Vorador grunted and backed off quickly but not quick enough to avoid the deep slash marks that had been opened across his chest. Blood oozed from the wound and down across his green skin.
This was most assuredly a bad situation, the Vampire was quick to realise. Remus was bigger, stronger, smarter and even faster than his fellows. To make matters worse the Vampire was still weakened by the burst of Serioli fire he had called up. But he had no time to make up another strategy. Remus was not alone, as the sudden galloping charge by the other Werewolves in the pack reminded him. They came at him from both the right and left at once.
Employing an evasion that Ansu had taught him, Vorador dodged backwards out of the range of snapping jaws and claws. His arms straining at the effort he brought Havoc and Malice up so sharply that the two nearest Werewolves had the underside of their ribcages collapsed under the blows. Blood welled forth from the injuries and Vorador acted on instinct.
He opened his mouth and telekinetically drew the blood from their injured bodies directly to his lips. Two swirling rivers of blood moved through the air and down his throat, giving him new strength and vitality. He drew it all out of them as quickly as he could, sucking their feral bodies dry in the space of a handful of moments.
The slashes on his chest healed, the flesh knitting back up and scabbing over and his spent energies were replenished. The two dried up husks of the creatures collapsed to the snow unmoving, chests gapping open like gutted poultry. Remus looked down at their bodies and snapped his head back up to Vorador. Utter rage was clear in his eyes at the action. As if unable to contain his anger he tilted his head and howled to the sky, the sound echoing like the clap of thunder. With that pure emotional outpouring he lunged at the Vampire with his massive arms spread wide.
With his energies restored Vorador found that he could indeed dodge the swipes that the alpha male left after him but only just, the claws passing a mere inch from his flesh. Unfortunately this did not provide much of an advantage because while he was able to avoid being sliced, he did not have the strength necessary to move Havoc and Malice fast enough to make a counter attack. They were just too heavy for this sort of a fight.
Remus made a lunge, snapping his jaw in a savage biting motion and Vorador sidestepped out of the way, using the moment to quickly sheathe the two axes across his back and in the same motion draw Marrow out from its scabbard at his side. The blade may have less impact than the axes but it was lighter and he could move this weapon far quicker.
When Remus attacked again, Vorador danced through his swipes and began retaliating with a few of his own. Marrow flickered back and forth like a falling autumn leaf, twisting left and right until finally its tip scraped alongside the alpha male’s snout. It left a wide gash running from nose to eye socket, stopping just short of the Werewolf’s right eye. Delivered such an injury, the alpha male took several steps backward and out of range. It was only a small wound, easily healed, but that it had come so close to blinding him had clearly startled the larger creature. Vorador took a moment to size up his own position. There were only four more Werewolves around them, easily dispatched if they decided to attack in aide of their alpha male. It was Remus who was the challenge.
“This is pointless, you cannot kill me.” He declared with finality.
“Nor you kill me.” Remus replied, wiping the blood that ran from his facial injury off on the back of one paw. Despite being shaken for the moment he had lost none of his arrogant confidence.
“All I desire is that you do not hamper me on my own endeavours in the east.” Vorador pressed in an emotionless tone, implying that he left the means by which this was achieved up to Remus. The alpha male snorted in disgust.
“My strategy with these Humans is played out.” He said. The Vampire gestured off with the tip of Marrow.
“Then take your puppies, run away back to your kennel and stay there.” He said with finality. Remus stared him down for a long moment and then turned to look over at the corpses he had discarded, his gaze fixed on the now crownless body he had let drop before. He pressed his leathery lips together, concealing his teeth.
“You will live to regret this meddling, leech.”  He spat and then turned, galloping off into the trees so quickly he was there one moment and gone the next. Almost instantly the other Werewolves ran off after him, giving Vorador not so much as a backward glance before they too disappeared into the wilderness.
Vorador stood there in the clearing, surrounded by corpses and silent for a long moment. Then he let out his pent up breath in relief. That had been very close. He had seriously underestimated Remus, a being with reflexes and strength superior to his own and with a cunning mind to match. If the battle had continued much longer he would have risked serious injury or perhaps even death. Startling Remus into thinking better of pressing their contest had been the only way to escape the fight.
Undoubtedly they would meet again for another test of skill but next time, Vorador was not going to enter such a battle unless he was totally and utterly prepared for the struggle of his life.
He turned his head to glance over at the corpse Remus had dropped, its neck torn open and the life blood still warmly splashed upon the snow. The face meant nothing to him but its likeness to William and the crown that lay a short distance away meant it could only be one person.
-0-
“The king’s body lay cleaved and carved before me, like a butchered hog.”
-0-
William De'Sengir came to collect his father’s body two days later, when his reinforcements managed to join up with the encamped forces of the Northern Kingdom main army. His reinforcements had been marched to near exhaustion through the snow to try and make it in time but they had still been too late.
The Werewolves had withdrawn once the king was dead and the generals had decided to cut their losses and hold down the fort until aid came. William himself had been seen to for the injuries he received in Valeholm, perhaps by a mage, for he moved without concern for injured ribs although he had a bandage wrapped around his forehead.
The king’s body was brought to William on a bier made from locked together shields, as nothing else was at hand. The young man looked down at the body, his face a contorting mass of conflicting regret and anxiety and slowly knelt beside his sire’s now cold body.
“Father...” He began and managed to keep his voice from being choked by sadness.  “May the hands of Angels bring you before the eye of God.” He said, reciting a brief prayer as he laid one bare hand on his father’s chest. He paused for a long while with his eyes closed in a moment of private grief, oblivious to all the men standing around him and lost in earnest lamentation.
“Take the bodies of my family back home.” He said to the retainers and warriors all standing around watching him. “Lay them to rest in the crypt beneath the colossus, titans that they are.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Ser Barentein replied in a subdued voice and set to work ensuring that this order was carried out. With that change of address from ‘Your Highness’ to ‘Your Majesty’, the change in William’s station was made more than clear.
The body of the former monarch was wrapped in a shroud and placed under the heavy guard of several cavalrymen. It would be taken back to Valeholm first and then the remains of all three slaughtered royalty would be returned home to be properly interred. The intended final resting place as the tomb for the royal family upon which recently construction had begun on a towering statue that many men were unimaginatively calling ‘the colossus’.
The army watched the corpse being taken away in utter silence, no one saying a word while the procession was still in sight. When it finally disappeared behind the trees the whisperings began.
“The King is dead...” Someone began in a low, fearful voice.
“Then we’re doomed.” Another one put in, sunk in dejected pessimism. This seemed to be the general mood in the armed force gathered there, gloomy thoughts of mortality and failure spreading like an insidious virus.
“We should never have come to this godforsaken land.” Someone else said a little more loudly this time and a depressed rumble of agreement went through the gathered soldiers.
At once William snapped around, his expression changed from anxiety to a rage so powerful that those in his immediate line of sight flinched back.
“You will never again utter such tripe in my presence!” He shouted, eyes fixing on the now very sheepish axe man who had aroused his ire. “Never again, do you understand me!?” He didn’t wait for the soldier to reply but strode past him, vaulting to the top of an outcropping of rock in two bounds. From the top of that rock he could be seen by most of the army and his outburst had gotten their attention.
“Aye, the King is dead.” He declared in a shout, amplifying his voice so that as many soldiers as possible could hear him. Those that could not hear him would have his words relayed by those up front. “But his death has birthed in his successor a fire of vengeance so powerful that it will crash over the guilty like a rising inferno!” He clenched a fist and waved it up towards the walls of Weirstein above on the cliff heights.
“Do you not see?” William demanded of them. “I have had reports already that our enemies and the tyrants of this land, the Dogma, use such feral beasts as their war hounds!” He shouted the words so loudly it was as if he was almost beside himself with rage. “It was they who sent these bestial assassins! It was they who murdered our beloved sovereign, my father and brothers!”
Another low murmur began amongst the soldiers, this time with an angry undertone. Many black looks were cast up at the settlement above.
“Do you turn your backs and run home to your mothers, like scolded children?” William asked them in his bellow. He pointed imperiously at the nearest soldier, carrying a sword. “Or will you pick up your swords?” He turned to point back towards some archers. “Pick up your axes and bows?” Swiftly he turned again to point at the cavalry. “Pick up your pikes and lances?” Turning around in a circle he cast his gaze upon them all.  “Will you brace your shields and mount your horse?”
His words began an excited stir in the soldiers and backs straightened, weapons were held up higher and the looks of depressed gloom began to fade like a receding tide from nearly every face.
“Will you do all this-” William began and thumped his fist to his breastplate. His gauntlet clanged against the metal armour. “-and follow me!?”
The cry of support was almost deafening. Thousands of swords, axes and bows were thrust into the air all at once to accompany the bellows of enthusiasm from the now riled army. William surveyed them all and nodded once in confirmation.
“Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!” He shouted and they roared again in total agreement. From behind William, Ser Barentein was slowly approaching. In his hands, he held out before him the discarded crown. Deliberately he marched up to the top of the rock where William stood. The prince, who seemed to have noticed him coming without turning around to see him, knelt down onto one knee in the age old tradition.
“The King is dead!” Barentein shouted. He had pushed up the visor on his helmet enough to leave his mouth exposed for the shout, revealing that he had a short black beard. With formal ceremony he placed upon William’s head the crown of the Northern Kingdom. It was a practical ornament, devoid of elaborate decorations favoured by other heads of state. It was a single band of gold with a coating of silver on its top and bottom. A single blue sapphire was set in the centre just over the forehead.  “Long live the King!”
As William rose back up to his feet, Ser Barentein turned and gestured out at the soldiers.
“All hail King William the First!” He prompted and the cry was taken up by the army in a recurring chant.

Up on the side of the valley cliffs, out of sight but still able to see all, Vorador folded his arms with an expression of frowning disapproval on his face.
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“A truly excellent speech, tailor made to appeal to the simple minds of such plebeian, nationalistic soldiers. Caught up in their national enthusiasm and male pride, I am sure none of them noticed that for a supposed spontaneous public declaration, William’s words had been intently rehearsed.”
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