The Warlord's New Love

“I’m sorry my Lord, there was nothing to do for her. The babe yet lives, a woman child, fair of hair and with eyes of your own image. Your lady wife was not so lucky, the bleeding took her as the child breathed her first. Shall I send the babe away to her relations?” “No, I shall take care of it.”  “You don’t mean to, she is but a babe. I know your grief is deep, but you cannot..”  “I cannot what? As lord of these lands what can I not do? Care for a babe? Do I not have my own nanny still with me to this day?” “Yes, yes, my lord, care for… I am sorry, I assumed.” “That I would harm my own child? OUT OF MY SIGHT.”  He pinched his forehead between his fingers, sighing deeply as he wandered over to the silent bundle that had been left on his couch. All of the furs in the world could not have seemed delicate enough for the small babe. Eyes so blue they seemed almost grey, flaxen hair that might have been seen to have gone grey before her time, and a small pink mouth that was puckered slightly in sleep.  “Alys, I shall name you Alys. For alas I have lost my lady wife, dutiful and true as she was, yet within you I see her nobility. A fitting parting gift from the best lady in my lands.” He cleared his throat briefly, the tears that were welling up in his eyes threatening to spill over before calling out again; “Emmy, could you please come here?”  A well made up but older woman appeared, wiping her hands on an apron, obviously well made but not ornate by any means. She had an earnest look about her, a quiet dignity that made her appear regal, she was obviously comfortable in the presence of those of higher station.  “Yes my little lord? OH! The wee babe has arrived, and how is her Mamma?” Upon seeing his face cloud at the question she quickly changed tactics, choosing instead to focus on the babe. “Such a beautiful face, has she been given a name yet?”  “Alys, her name shall be Alys. If you could organize for her care Emmy? I should like for her to be brought up much as I was. She is my heir and shall be treated as such. Perhaps in the future I will marry again, but for now this is my duty fulfilled and I may focus on our kingdom.”  He said no more as the child was gathered close to the bosom of his childhood nanny, barely registering her murmuring about a wet nurse and a friend for her as she grew, before focusing instead on his military maps. A man not known for his emotions, he would instead focus his pain into military expansion, building a world in which his daughter would know she was always treasured. In the dark of the night he would admit that he never loved her mother as he should have, instead having praised her for her duties well performed, but in the light of the day he refused to let his pain be seen.  For days he didn’t leave his chambers, calling only those he had trained with as a boy and the sorceress he had befriended as a child to attend to his needs. His servants muttered among themselves, wondering that trays of food went untouched, he didn’t call for a bath, and that he didn’t even go to see his daughter. Some worried that he had killed himself, with those he had called also victims. Only the sorceress, Elyse, was exempted from these thoughts, her terrifying presence in various areas of the keep still a constant.  After almost a week he emerged, gone were the smiles of his boyhood, instead his eyes burned with passion, his attentions not focusing on those around him, even the immortally beautiful Elyse seemingly ignored by him. He called his subjects to his largest audience chamber the day he emerged, covering himself in all manner of pelts and tooled leather, taking for the first time in his reign the big throne, the smaller pair that was once there for he and his wife, simply gone.  “I am your king, Lord of Biten Hav. We have lost our queen, but we have gained as heir. Alys, first of her name. Honour her as you would me, for any that offends her offends me.” There was no other presentation of the new princess, for years it was wondered if she even survived among those who lived outside of the keep, while those who lived within wondered at the tenacity she showed.  What followed was no less than a blood bath, a quick annexation of every territory that had ever dared to defy him. No longer bound by the need to return to a wife and attend to her needs, he threw himself into the campaign with a renewed fervor. Resting only when his men needed to, and even then often choosing to take his more elite troops ahead while giving directions to his men for their eventual joining up, he cut a brutal path across the entire continent.  Soon, with the aid of sorcerers who were drawn to the libraries he was amassing, scholars coming to the schools he established to spread a common tongue and reckoning system, and soldiers born to serve the empire, all that remained were small vassal states, sending tribute and promising to avoid conflict with his home. He had been only 20 when his wife had been taken from him, 3 years after he had been called home from his military training to take over for his father. By the time he was in his 30s he had created an empire that would stand for centuries after his death.  Rumors of his never sleeping, of his need to constantly press outward, and his ruthless dealings with rulers who did not bend the knee spread far and wide. His eyes, said to look like the sky before a storm, and his tendency to favor stealth missions that took out the ruling class without harming those below them, earned him many nicknames, the nicest of which was “The white fox.”  It is here, in the 34th year of his life that our story starts.  In the long trains of goods sent along to his court, there were always people as well. Perhaps not there of their own free will, but certainly not slaves. Instead, these were souls who sought a more friendly location for their ideas and skills, choosing to avoid the majority of society in favor of quiet employment within the keep. It was well known that you must earn your place, with most not making it past the front gates, instead finding a home at the universities below the castle itself, but that didn’t stop many from making the trek. They would not be spoiled as many were at home, but they would have access to nearly limitless knowledge and those with magical skill would find themselves trained by the best magical tutors for the price of an oath of service to the empire.  Among these was a young lad from a newly conquered land, half in service to the Warlord and half in tribute. In his early 20s, he came from a noble family of reasonable means, the 6th son of a nobleman with more sons than positions. Raised all his life as a spare and with a penchant for getting in trouble, leaving the lands of his father and making his way towards a new kingdom had seemed like the only option after one last round of trouble. Too old for boarding schools and newly finished with the best education his own country could offer, the young man had set his sights on refining his bardly talents in new lands, learning all that his upbringing had not afforded, and perhaps avoiding the problems that had so long plagued his person.  The long journey from the small islands of his home had taken a toll on the young man. Fabrics that had once been considered fine by his people were worn ragged, his precious wooden instrument the only thing to have survived without damage. Days spent wrapped around it on the shallow boat provided by his father for the tribute shipment that our young lord had found himself on, proof of his dedication to craft.  Fate would have it that he arrived in port on the monthly audience day with the warlord, barely having time to scrub the salt from his skin at the only open inn before being herded into the line of tributes, a snaking line that spilled out into the city, people from provinces he had never heard of before presenting themselves to the warlord, hoping that their presence would make life easier for their people and that their families would be blessed if they entered service to King Azorin.  His washed out clothes and unshaven face earned him more than a few strange looks from the well coifed and groomed children of lords he found himself among. Many coming from larger areas, wearing gowns of trade cloth and leather rather than the woven wool and sheepskin clothing that had been used on his island. His skin was rougher as well, beaten by the wind for years and assaulted by the salt water during his crossing. His hands were cracked and thin, showing a life of hard work, even as the son of a baron. It was all enough to make him feel like he was out of place, perhaps that he was not even meant to be in the presence of the warlord.  Each kingdom had their own slot in the procession, his father’s recent pledge of tribute to King Azorim earning them a place near the middle. It was thus that he found himse;f sandwiched between the daughter of a duchess from a much closer homeland and an arrogant local boy who declared that citizens of the warlord were to be allowed in wherever they wanted. A statement that while met with much grumbling, was respected by all there.  It took hours of moving slowly up the steps to the keep, the rough rock worn from years of use, the wind blowing at the thinner cloths, to make it to the doors and the warmth they held within. Those who entered but were turned away exited through the back stairs, wooden and in better repair, they were still steep and many were not pleased at the idea of being thus humiliated, all hoping to stay within the much finer keep.  To pass the time, the young lad took out his instrument and tuned it, playing quiet tunes and listening to people from other lands humming, learning quickly the different songs that they were most wanting. It was thus that the time seemed to pass quickly for him, with even those who looked down upon him seeming more indulgent by the time their turn to enter had come.  The daughter of the duchess told stories of how her mother knew she would be the one to win the warlord’s heart, having sent her along as soon as she was of legal age, hoping that she would be selected at first sight. It didn’t seem likely to those present that she would be the one, but her hope was something our young lad enjoyed, so he secretly hoped she got her wish as well. Too little love existed in the world and too few hopes came to pass, perhaps if she found what she was looking for, he could too. After all, they were all after the same thing - a home that would let them be safe from the storm and that would afford them a life free from fear. A life that their parents had not so enjoyed.  Arriving at the door he was asked to announce himself to the guards. Giving his name and where he was from as well as the manifest of tribute that was sent through to the sorting yards. The duchess, having been loud enough in completing the process that he was ready when asked, and found himself quickly escorted through to another line, this one leading directly to the throne room.  The young man behind him did not fare so well, being turned away at the door and told that he needed to earn a place in the line, protesting as he was sent to the sorting yards as well, to do hard labor for his cheek in assuming entrance to the keep.  The line our fair lad found himself in was much smaller, many having presented themselves and been sent straight to the universities below, their orders from home making it clear they were there for training and nothing else, tuition paid in full by their families.