While Fia was yet nursing Ceryd and heavy with her second child, Cleon set forth upon an expedition into the eastern reaches to secure the marches of Methundor against the stirrings of petty rebellions and the plague of banditry. With a vanguard of forty riders he departed the gates of Gruen, leaving the young queen under the ward of the Immigrant Kethu, counselor of many reiks before.
They rode far into the east, beyond the great spire of Agaddum, whose gray pinnacle thrust upward toward the heavens like the point of a spear bursting through the bosom of the earth. And upon the grassy piedmont they encountered many tribes and lawless clans. At first these outlaws took the field against them, and were swiftly hewn down. But in the weeks that followed, word spread through the villages and hamlets of Cleon’s red-helmed riders of Gruen, and soon the knaves and miscreants fled at the mere sound of their approach.
Ere summer’s end, they crossed the River Lunde, and soon after espied a plume of black smoke rising beyond the treeless ridge before them. Forming into array, they rode forth to inquire and came upon an unattended pyre of dried branches and pitch burning beneath a stony eave upon the far side of a ravine. Marking it for a snare, Cleon turned to withdraw— yet behind them upon the western crest appeared a company of near a hundred foot and twenty horse. Their faces were painted in grim array, and each bore pike or short-sword in hand.
Cleon’s riders turned and approached the brigands, halting for Odax to call out, “Stand aside and let us pass, for we are the host of Methundor’s rex!”
But the strangers yielded not. And from among them stepped forward a man gray of hair, his eyes wild and bulging.
He shouted back, “This land is not the rex’s. Methundor endeth at the River. Dismount and lay down thy arms, that we may judge thee for thy crimes.”
Odax called back, “Methundor endeth where we deem it to end. Submit and spare yourselves.”
“We will not submit. Lay down your arms and submit to our judgement,” said the old warrior.
“To judge us for what?” asked Odax.
“For trespass,” came the answer, “and for the murder of our kin who served no lord of thine.”
Odax turned to his liege. “What course, my lord? Surely we shall not disarm and yield to such rabble.”
“Nay,” said Cleon. “No sooner would they have our heads upon their pikes. Look there, the ravine closeth our path east and north; and to the south the ground riseth into forest, ill-fit for horse. We must break through them here, in the open, and make haste for the river beyond. They have not the riders to o’ertake us once we are past.”
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Thus Odax formed them into a line and charged. Downwards they galloped, off their hill, gathering speed, then upward they climbed toward the crest where the rabble held the ridge. Mid-charge the ridge itself betrayed them— the slope steeper than expected, the horses’ hooves slipping on wet stones. Two steeds faltered and tumbled, dragging their riders beneath the boots of men.
Only half broke through at the first thrust. These rode westward, ascending to the next ridge, and there, turning, observed their rex still entangled in the fray. Once more they charged back uphill, into the press of foot-soldiers, in order to rescue their sovereign.
Rebel spearmen pressed them in from both flanks. Steel nicked mail at Cleon’s side; a point gashing him, and he felt the heat of blood. He remained mounted though his horse staggered beneath him.
Odax fought his way alongside— steel flashing, shield knocking aside a spear aimed for Cleon’s throat. With a grunt, Odax caught the shaft in his gauntlet and twisted, dragging the brigand off his horse and giving Cleon space to turn his mount.
Cleon roared and circled, his cape whipping in the flinging mud, the roar of violence and chaos all about him. A second spear came at his side; he raised his sword and deflected. The ring of steel, the cry of wounded men, the stink of sweat and shit thickened the air.
Beside him two Gruen riders fell under the crush of foot-soldiers— one left a gash across his brow, the other’s thigh broken by pike. Odax reached for him but Cleon pulled him back, shouting, “Now! Up the ridge!”
They spurred southward through the melee, off the hill and ascending again. Few followed; just three riders remained. Cleon’s mail was torn, blood slicked his gauntlet, his horse huffing and groaning. Cleon glanced back and saw six rebel riders hard on their heels. “To the south!” Cleon cried, “into the woods!” And so they charged— up the stoney slope until the forest swallowed them.
Amidst the trees, stumps and stones, their pace was hindered as the rebel riders drew near. The three were separated by paths chosen in haste in the tangled terrain. Cleon bloodied, pressed onward, climbing where the forest thickened, until, at last, only his steed’s blowing and puffing could be heard; no shouts, nor clamor, nor the drumroll thuds of trampling hooves. Alone, he continued westward, the night enfolding him beneath dim stars and ancient evergreens.
At last, when the gray of dawn stole over the eastern sky, Cleon Rex made halt and listened to the hush. Hearing nothing, side aching, he descended, treading a forest ridge downward until he emerged from the shadowy wood-veil into the open.
His eyes swept over the wide, rolling plain below, where mists drifted in the vales. The birds chirped, and gentle deer gathered to graze in the dim light. No trace of pursuers met his sight. He felt his wound, deep-gouged though not mortal, it still bled.
Feeling assured of solitude, Cleon rode slowly forth from the wooded gloom. Westward he pressed until eventide, following a winding brook of black-stone guiding him towards a hamlet of sod-built huts encircled by a rough palisade of bound pine trunks. The sound of axes cleaving wood blended with dogs barking and the dusk’s hush. Upon the barricade stood a lone sentry, his spear planted, cloak stained with mud and sweat.
“Where be my riders?” Cleon called out before he fell from his steed into the cold stream.
