Dryad Eyes, part 19
3,857.
Mmmm... lots of work and video games have kept me from this over the past week. Damn you Pak-a-Sak! Damn you Mirror's Edge! :P
Orun the Untamed, Lion of Soldaria, was a wreck of a man. His normally well-groomed hair was several days uncombed, and his once carefully trimmed beard had become overgrown with stubble. From the puffy, heavy rings beneath his eyes, and the redness within them, one might have assumed that he had taken up drinking, given up sleep, or both. It was, however, the glowing woman that had appeared above his bath a few days before that so possessed him. Try as he might to put that lovely, glimmering visage out of his mind, he could think of little else. He dreamed of little else, and often found excuses to remain in bed a little longer than he should have. A cold, it was, one day. The next day, he complained of a splitting headache. Then, perhaps, the medicine he had taken for that issue had left him drained and exhausted, unable to rise.
The proud warrior abhorred what he was becoming. Whenever he could tear himself away from his obsession, away from his room and the comfort of his bed for any length of time, he tried to bury what he was feeling beneath a mountainous workload that no other man could have hoped to match. On one such day, he cleared a hundred mile long stretch of road that ran between the capital, Odern, and a smaller city named Lerenga. It had become overgrown as the land had tried to reclaim its own in the absence of able-bodied men due to the constant assault of Kerim Thiath in other parts of the country. Another day, he dug a massive trench and created a rockslide to divert the course of a river in order to create a lake. The wealthy landowner that had commissioned this work had stood in awe as Orun, with a few well placed kicks, had cleared the blockage from the river so that it could flow freely once again after the lake was full.
There was talk, of course, as there always is. Men whispered to one another when his back was turned, when they thought he was not listening, lamenting the Lion's descent into madness. He overheard one fat, drunken apothecary, swaying as he stood before another man on his front step, declare that the Untamed was almost definitely addicted to a chemical concoction that had been brought to this land from the far north. It was a dryad tonic, supposedly, and was said to make a man so happily disconnected with reality that a goat could look like the most beautiful woman in the entire world. Orun had scoffed at this, telling the man, who was horrified to realize that the very warrior he had been talking about was listening, that anyone who would fornicate with a goat while drunk would likely also do so when sober as well. The man had agreed, of course, wary of angering the rough looking giant of a man that could likely dismantle a mighty mountain with his bare hands.
As mighty as he was, Orun could recall specifically the last time he had felt so helpless. Only two years had passed, though it seemed a lifetime ago. He had been so very cold, lying naked and paralyzed in a shallow pool of water as five hundred of Soldaria's finest, most physically fit soldiers had opened their veins one after another. As their blood flowed into the water, their strength had flowed into him. It had been a painful experience, in many ways.
Finally, realizing that he would not be able to put that beautiful visage from his mind, and finding himself unable to cope with another night of unrest, the fantastic Lion of Soldaria used his status as the country's premier national hero to call himself before the Soldarian National Council. It was an incredibly bold move. In three hundred years, no man save one that sat upon it had been able to convene the Council, and its members did not take kindly to Orun overstepping his bounds. He had been created to be at their disposal, a living weapon that they might use to defend the country against the strokes of Kerim Thiath. That was not supposed to be a two way street. They claimed that in many ways, though he enjoyed great power and the comforts of status, he had fewer rights than the lowest criminal amongst their people.
That portion of the argument lasted through the better part of a day and a half. Council members came, and council members went, seeking their beds and returning, but Orun stood proud and strong before the bulk of their body for the entirety of that time. They were reminded that, before he became their Lion and a beacon of sheer, raw, physical strength, he had been one of the best and brightest Law Bearers that their military had ever seen. On and on, he argued, tireless and relentless until they finally conceded his point and agreed to hear what he had called them together to say. Then, of course, the argument began anew. His claims of a beauteous vision, and a terrible threat from the northern Free Kingdoms, were met with little but contempt and derision. A chorus of unanimous voices denied his request for leave, that he might pay a visit to Keeper's Gateway and ascertain the social climate there. There was yet ruder, speculative talk of his impending descent into madness, for, truly, why else would he make such a request? This line of reasoning so incensed the giant Untamed that he bellowed for silence, using a voice that had stunned entire armies, and delivered an ultimatum. They would allow him to take his leave, or they would lose their Lion for good. There was no other recourse. Taking this threat seriously, above anything else that he had said, he was given his way with but one provision. He would carry with him an Orb of Communication, by which he could be located and made aware of events within Soldaria. Should Kerim Thiath make a concentrated effort at taking the kingdom, he agreed that he would return home with utmost haste.
A week later, Orun the Untamed finally laid eyes upon Keeper's Gateway for the first time. Much of the art, poetry, and secondhand accounts, especially following the recent Battle for Gateway, could not have prepared him for the sight. Five of the fortress' nine walls were visible as the city sloped down from the mountain pass it inhabited, while the other four rested on even ground at the top. While the walls were dark, as if they had been cut from the very body of the mighty mountain range that slanted away from the fortress on either side, the majority of the buildings within were cut from a lighter stone, and a great deal of red slate roofing was visible even at this distance. A vast, flat plane that was covered with a thin layer of snow spilled out from the based of the southernmost wall, covered with miniature settlements and makeshift markets, and ran to the east and west and stopped almost exactly where the Lion of Soldaria had emerged from the trees.
It was a vibrant, lively place. That was not what he had imagined, when told of the fortress being accessed and re-inhabited by men. For centuries, a seething, mystic storm that had seemed almost a part of the mountain range they covered had driven away nearly every living being that had tried to approach it. His own uncle Gath, who drank himself into an early grave, had seen it once and described the spectacle to him. The mountains remained reminiscent of the dark, jagged spires the man had spoken of, though long gone was the dark, angry, churning cloud that danced from peak to peak. Even the way the mountains leaned away to the east and west was right, and the fortress had to be the vague, obscured edifice that had been mentioned. Even knowing this, and seeing the correlation in his uncle's story, he had trouble connecting the view before him to such a grim visage.
For a man of his size to go unnoticed would have been impossible, and so he simple strode forward, across the plane and toward the Southern Wall of Keeper's Gateway. Naturally, he drew a crowd. So many of the men and women that sat clustered about the camp fires that dotted the white expanse between himself and his destination were refugees from the south, having fled Kerim Thiathe and their endless wars, and they recognized him. His name was not unheard of on the Southern Continent, not even beyond the borders of Soldaria and Fyrendi. He did not know their names, but they had them. Here was Ajunna, a small, pale and very pregnant woman who, despite her exhaustion, took heart when she spied the Lion and followed him merely to keep him in sight a little longer. There was Phrala, a short, dark skinned man from far to the south, who roused himself from a drunken stupor and sang one of the songs that had become popular since the Untamed's debut. By the time he reached what he felt was a comfortable shouting distance, where he could make himself heard without shattering the eardrums of the people nearest him, the hopeful crowd that followed in his wake was nearly a hundred strong.
Pride lent him a fresh surge of energy, and his exhaustion no longer seemed as great as it had when he happened upon the fortress. His doubts, too, melted away. He was ready for this, he decided, and cupped his great hands to his mouth.
"GERAN!" He cried, using his Great Voice in the direction of the Keep. "BATTLE KING! I WOULD HAVE WORDS WITH YOU!"
An hour passed, during which Orun had sat down to take a lunch of water, bread and cheese that had been provided to him by members of the crowd he had attracted before, finally, a commotion at the Southern Gate drew his attention. Rising to his feet, he surveyed the developing situation. The Battle King came with an entourage all his own, it seemed, and it was not what Orun had expected. Instead of weapon-bearing soldiers, there were half a dozen well-dressed men flanking him. He could not know that he was looking at the City Council of Keeper's Gateway, or that the man immediately to Geran's right, whispering to him, was Turry Larn, who was attempting to hammer out the details of the King's appearance before the City Council in the days ahead.
"...must protest your attitude in this, your Majesty." The older Larn brother was saying as they drew near. "You owe it to us, and to all the people who flock to your banner, a prompt answer on this matter!"
"Peace, Turry." Geran, who wore a long, green jacket and loose fitting black trousers, clapped the older man on the shoulder. "You have my word that I will respond to the Council's inquiry before the week is out. Now, however, is not the time."
It was a moment that almost amused the Lion of Soldaria, for he had often had to deal with a number of too-pushy political types in a similar manner. He had to admit, politeness was not what he had expected to witness from a man who called himself the Battle King.
Geran spoke again, his eyes on the giant that was Orun. It was not often that he had to crane his neck so far back to look a man in the face. "You wanted to see me, my large friend?"
"I am no friend of yours, Usurper." The enormous man rumbled.
"Usurper?"
"Do you not understand the phrase?" Orun folded his arms, so massive that they were bigger around than Geran's torso. "How about conqueror? Tyrant? Despot?"
"What is this? Did you travel all the way from Soldaria just to insult me?"
"You have heard of me then."
"Yes. Recently, but yes." The Battle King nodded once. "By your size and the insignias on your leather armor, you can be none other than Orun the Untamed."
"Then you know what I am capable of."
"I have heard the stories."
"More than rumors, I can assure you." Lifting his great head and shifting his eyes from Geran's to the fortress behind him, Orun let that statement rest for a moment. Then, he added this question. "Tell me, where is the Lady Charis?"
"Charis?" Geran frowned. He did not like the way the man's voice had shifted when he said her name, softening for a moment as if he were a lovesick teenager. "She is indisposed. Shall I take a message?"
"Ah." Orun said, his voice understanding and his eyes lit with hope. "She still refuses to marry you, then."
"Actually..." Geran caught himself. His temper had flared for a moment, and he wanted to be brash, to throw the marriage-to-be in the bigger man's face. A year ago, he would not have hesitated. There was something not right here, however, and he felt it his responsibility to find the underlying cause of it. "Actually, that is none of your business."
"I am making it my business, Foul King." Orun allowed his Great Voice to leak forth again, just a bit, so that everyone present could hear his next words. "I challenge you, Geran, for the Lady's hand!"
"I refuse." A nervous murmur ran through the crowd nearest them, and worked its way back. The Battle King's voice did not carry as far as did the Lion's. "Her hand is not mine to give."
"Then I challenge you for her Freedom!"
"Again, I must decline." Geran answered again, shaking his head. "I am not so arrogant as to grant her that which is already hers."
Orun was left incensed, but with little to say. His temper seethed just beneath the surface, and his powerful muscles writhed like giant snakes beneath his skin. It was a terrifying sight, and both the crowd he had drawn and the members of the City Council that had accompanied their King drew back. Only Geran held his ground. Here was a man that had stood toe-to-toe with the very soul of Kaord'tan, the beast that consumed entire universes, and did so knowingly on a plane of reality that was normally reserved for Gods and other Greater Beings. Big, even freakishly huge muscles did not frighten him. He was studying the giant-of-a-man before him, considering the situation. It was, he decided, going to end only one way from that point.
Spreading his hands with a partial shrug, as if being nothing but reasonable, Geran added this to his last statement. "However, if it is truly your wish to fight... "
"It is!"
"...then I will oblige you."
Very deliberately turning his back on the Untamed, Geran walked across the distance they had withdrawn across to join the council members. His fingers were busy, unlacing the front of his jacket. Turry Larn, for his part, was standing aghast at this turn of events. If it was foolhardy for a King to ride into battle, and he believed it was, then what could he say of a monarch who would risk himself in a fistfight with a brute such as Orun the Untamed? It was surreal. When the Battle King, now bare-chested, deposited that green jacket in his hands, Turry managed to shake himself free enough of his stunned stupor to speak.
"Are you crazy--?!"
"Not now, Turry."
"I hope you know what you're doing!"
"I do."
As if Geran's choice to fight him had temporarily freed him of whatever geas it was that was driving him into such an incredible rage, Orun was once again himself and urging people to move further back. Several times, he assured them that all would be well, only to find himself without an answer for a tearful, pregnant woman named Ajunna, who demanded to know what he was doing. If he could but make them see Geran through the eyes of the vision he had been given, he lamented. The light that Lady Charis had given him shined through the illusion, and gave lie to the man's gentle, but firmly spoken commands for people to make room.
"I am ready." Orun spoke when, finally, a space that was about one hundred feet across in any direction was cleared. He turned toward Geran and flexed his fingers, beckoning the man. "Choose your weapon."
"No." The Battle King was moving to the center of the circle that the two of them had created. "I have but one sword, Orun. And should I feel moved to summon that fantastic blade, you would lose. Badly."
"You speak of the Lightblade."
"I do."
"I had heard you'd lost it."
"I did." With a dismissive shrug, Geran added, "But then I found it again."
As eager as he was to crush this would-be-tyrant beneath his boot heel, so that he might sooner get inside the Keep and find what had become of the Lady Charis, Orun balked at the thought of fighting an unarmed man. This was in spite of the fact that he knew that, even with a weapon, no single warrior would ever truly be a match for his power. It was simply the way he was built, with a sense of fair play that had been driven into his skull by his father, stout Penin, when he was young and enjoyed picking on his younger brother.
"You have no other hope against me, Battle King."
"I will make do." Assuming a fighting stance, Geran beckoned Orun in much the same way the latter had beckoned him moments before. "Come then. I thought you were ready."
Wasting no further words, the mighty Lion of Soldaria advanced on the smaller man and threw a powerful punch that would have caved in a mountain. It never landed, as his intended target swayed smoothly away from it. Not that it mattered, for men had tried to combat Orun in this manner before. He threw a second, third, fourth and fifth punch in quick succession. His speed increased as he moved, and the last of these was so fast that few of the people gathered crowd could follow his massive fist with their eyes. There were dozens of startled exclamations. How did a man so huge move so fast? And, he wondered with a curse on his tongue, how did he continue to miss his mark?
Geran, for his part, was preternaturally calm, and threw himself into his movements with the sort of intense focus that a master craftsman might exhibit while designing fine furniture or a delicate sculpture. Tens of thousands of men had the Untamed faced, usually in bulk, and only this one did not have the wild-eyed look of a man that knew he was in over his head. When a blow that could have shattered every bone in his body missed him by a hair, he did not cry out in fright or curse the Gods for creating such a being. He simply slapped the elbow of the arm that delivered it, and ducked again as Orun swung back toward him, that same enormous fist digging a groove into the ground without so much as slowing down.
Another slap, then another, came on the Untamed's shoulders, and he came around instantly. Swinging his fist in a downward arc without even trying to hit Geran, he drove it into the ground beneath them. His opponent leapt at the last possible second, just avoiding a radial effect of surging earth that continued so far away that it nearly caused the nearest of the onlookers to lose their footing.
Geran came down upon Orun's shoulders as the bigger man extracted his fist from the earth, and slapped the back of his head. In the same motion, he pushed off, sending himself into a backwards flip that just cleared him of the giant's retaliatory back swing. It was then, in mid-twist, that Orun experienced what was probably the most unpleasant sensation of his life since emerging from the pool with the strength of Soldaria flowing through him. There was a deep, loud pop from his lower back, and fire lanced down his spine and through his legs. The second most unpleasant sensation came a moment later; the Battle King, a few feet away, was grinning.
It had been quite some time since Orun had experienced the fear that came with knowing that he was losing a fight that he dearly wished to win. In response to it, he threw himself at Geran again, ignoring the pain from his back and giving his all to his movements. It was so close, he kept telling himself. If he could but find an extra ounce of speed, and lay a hand upon his quarry, he could win this. Every time he tried, however, he received nothing but more slaps and occasionally another painful pop from one of his joints as he tried to retaliate. Finally, after taking a slap right across his blond-bearded face and trying to tag the Battle King as the smaller man spun past and ducked under his arm, a chorus of new pops and snaps sang out from his back, hip, and shoulders, and Orun the Untamed, the impossibly strong Lion of Soldaria, could only groan as he toppled to the ground and lay in a heap.
"What have you done to me?" Orun demanded through gritted teeth as Geran approached. Had he been able to lift his arms further than an inch or so apiece, he would have snatched the man's leg and ripped him limb from limb. "What foul spell is this?!"
"I am sorry, Friend." Unconcerned by the rage in the Lion's voice, or the possibility of a threat to his own safety, Geran knelt beside the fallen warrior's head and placed a hand on his massive shoulder. "Your strength is irresistible as it seems, even to your own great body. I directed it against you through our little dance. Your ligaments. Your bones. Your internal organs. I could not begin to guess how much damage I have wrought."
Panting, the Untamed stared at his opponent. "You... are a very dangerous man."
"I am called the Battle King for a reason." Geran shrugged. "And Orun?"
"...yes?"
With a black, thunderous scowl, the King drew back his fist and struck his opponent squarely in the nose. "Charis did agree to be my wife. She proposed to me!"
The Lion's head barely budged, and he blinked at the Battle King a few times. A tiny trickle of blood appeared from his nose, and became a thin red line that connected his nostril to his upper lip. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Orun's eyes rolled back and he slumped against the ground. Geran rose, cradling his broken hand, and called out to the council members who were already approaching.
"Quickly! Call a healer! Find Kimera! We may still save this man's life!"
Mmmm... lots of work and video games have kept me from this over the past week. Damn you Pak-a-Sak! Damn you Mirror's Edge! :P
Orun the Untamed, Lion of Soldaria, was a wreck of a man. His normally well-groomed hair was several days uncombed, and his once carefully trimmed beard had become overgrown with stubble. From the puffy, heavy rings beneath his eyes, and the redness within them, one might have assumed that he had taken up drinking, given up sleep, or both. It was, however, the glowing woman that had appeared above his bath a few days before that so possessed him. Try as he might to put that lovely, glimmering visage out of his mind, he could think of little else. He dreamed of little else, and often found excuses to remain in bed a little longer than he should have. A cold, it was, one day. The next day, he complained of a splitting headache. Then, perhaps, the medicine he had taken for that issue had left him drained and exhausted, unable to rise.
The proud warrior abhorred what he was becoming. Whenever he could tear himself away from his obsession, away from his room and the comfort of his bed for any length of time, he tried to bury what he was feeling beneath a mountainous workload that no other man could have hoped to match. On one such day, he cleared a hundred mile long stretch of road that ran between the capital, Odern, and a smaller city named Lerenga. It had become overgrown as the land had tried to reclaim its own in the absence of able-bodied men due to the constant assault of Kerim Thiath in other parts of the country. Another day, he dug a massive trench and created a rockslide to divert the course of a river in order to create a lake. The wealthy landowner that had commissioned this work had stood in awe as Orun, with a few well placed kicks, had cleared the blockage from the river so that it could flow freely once again after the lake was full.
There was talk, of course, as there always is. Men whispered to one another when his back was turned, when they thought he was not listening, lamenting the Lion's descent into madness. He overheard one fat, drunken apothecary, swaying as he stood before another man on his front step, declare that the Untamed was almost definitely addicted to a chemical concoction that had been brought to this land from the far north. It was a dryad tonic, supposedly, and was said to make a man so happily disconnected with reality that a goat could look like the most beautiful woman in the entire world. Orun had scoffed at this, telling the man, who was horrified to realize that the very warrior he had been talking about was listening, that anyone who would fornicate with a goat while drunk would likely also do so when sober as well. The man had agreed, of course, wary of angering the rough looking giant of a man that could likely dismantle a mighty mountain with his bare hands.
As mighty as he was, Orun could recall specifically the last time he had felt so helpless. Only two years had passed, though it seemed a lifetime ago. He had been so very cold, lying naked and paralyzed in a shallow pool of water as five hundred of Soldaria's finest, most physically fit soldiers had opened their veins one after another. As their blood flowed into the water, their strength had flowed into him. It had been a painful experience, in many ways.
Finally, realizing that he would not be able to put that beautiful visage from his mind, and finding himself unable to cope with another night of unrest, the fantastic Lion of Soldaria used his status as the country's premier national hero to call himself before the Soldarian National Council. It was an incredibly bold move. In three hundred years, no man save one that sat upon it had been able to convene the Council, and its members did not take kindly to Orun overstepping his bounds. He had been created to be at their disposal, a living weapon that they might use to defend the country against the strokes of Kerim Thiath. That was not supposed to be a two way street. They claimed that in many ways, though he enjoyed great power and the comforts of status, he had fewer rights than the lowest criminal amongst their people.
That portion of the argument lasted through the better part of a day and a half. Council members came, and council members went, seeking their beds and returning, but Orun stood proud and strong before the bulk of their body for the entirety of that time. They were reminded that, before he became their Lion and a beacon of sheer, raw, physical strength, he had been one of the best and brightest Law Bearers that their military had ever seen. On and on, he argued, tireless and relentless until they finally conceded his point and agreed to hear what he had called them together to say. Then, of course, the argument began anew. His claims of a beauteous vision, and a terrible threat from the northern Free Kingdoms, were met with little but contempt and derision. A chorus of unanimous voices denied his request for leave, that he might pay a visit to Keeper's Gateway and ascertain the social climate there. There was yet ruder, speculative talk of his impending descent into madness, for, truly, why else would he make such a request? This line of reasoning so incensed the giant Untamed that he bellowed for silence, using a voice that had stunned entire armies, and delivered an ultimatum. They would allow him to take his leave, or they would lose their Lion for good. There was no other recourse. Taking this threat seriously, above anything else that he had said, he was given his way with but one provision. He would carry with him an Orb of Communication, by which he could be located and made aware of events within Soldaria. Should Kerim Thiath make a concentrated effort at taking the kingdom, he agreed that he would return home with utmost haste.
A week later, Orun the Untamed finally laid eyes upon Keeper's Gateway for the first time. Much of the art, poetry, and secondhand accounts, especially following the recent Battle for Gateway, could not have prepared him for the sight. Five of the fortress' nine walls were visible as the city sloped down from the mountain pass it inhabited, while the other four rested on even ground at the top. While the walls were dark, as if they had been cut from the very body of the mighty mountain range that slanted away from the fortress on either side, the majority of the buildings within were cut from a lighter stone, and a great deal of red slate roofing was visible even at this distance. A vast, flat plane that was covered with a thin layer of snow spilled out from the based of the southernmost wall, covered with miniature settlements and makeshift markets, and ran to the east and west and stopped almost exactly where the Lion of Soldaria had emerged from the trees.
It was a vibrant, lively place. That was not what he had imagined, when told of the fortress being accessed and re-inhabited by men. For centuries, a seething, mystic storm that had seemed almost a part of the mountain range they covered had driven away nearly every living being that had tried to approach it. His own uncle Gath, who drank himself into an early grave, had seen it once and described the spectacle to him. The mountains remained reminiscent of the dark, jagged spires the man had spoken of, though long gone was the dark, angry, churning cloud that danced from peak to peak. Even the way the mountains leaned away to the east and west was right, and the fortress had to be the vague, obscured edifice that had been mentioned. Even knowing this, and seeing the correlation in his uncle's story, he had trouble connecting the view before him to such a grim visage.
For a man of his size to go unnoticed would have been impossible, and so he simple strode forward, across the plane and toward the Southern Wall of Keeper's Gateway. Naturally, he drew a crowd. So many of the men and women that sat clustered about the camp fires that dotted the white expanse between himself and his destination were refugees from the south, having fled Kerim Thiathe and their endless wars, and they recognized him. His name was not unheard of on the Southern Continent, not even beyond the borders of Soldaria and Fyrendi. He did not know their names, but they had them. Here was Ajunna, a small, pale and very pregnant woman who, despite her exhaustion, took heart when she spied the Lion and followed him merely to keep him in sight a little longer. There was Phrala, a short, dark skinned man from far to the south, who roused himself from a drunken stupor and sang one of the songs that had become popular since the Untamed's debut. By the time he reached what he felt was a comfortable shouting distance, where he could make himself heard without shattering the eardrums of the people nearest him, the hopeful crowd that followed in his wake was nearly a hundred strong.
Pride lent him a fresh surge of energy, and his exhaustion no longer seemed as great as it had when he happened upon the fortress. His doubts, too, melted away. He was ready for this, he decided, and cupped his great hands to his mouth.
"GERAN!" He cried, using his Great Voice in the direction of the Keep. "BATTLE KING! I WOULD HAVE WORDS WITH YOU!"
An hour passed, during which Orun had sat down to take a lunch of water, bread and cheese that had been provided to him by members of the crowd he had attracted before, finally, a commotion at the Southern Gate drew his attention. Rising to his feet, he surveyed the developing situation. The Battle King came with an entourage all his own, it seemed, and it was not what Orun had expected. Instead of weapon-bearing soldiers, there were half a dozen well-dressed men flanking him. He could not know that he was looking at the City Council of Keeper's Gateway, or that the man immediately to Geran's right, whispering to him, was Turry Larn, who was attempting to hammer out the details of the King's appearance before the City Council in the days ahead.
"...must protest your attitude in this, your Majesty." The older Larn brother was saying as they drew near. "You owe it to us, and to all the people who flock to your banner, a prompt answer on this matter!"
"Peace, Turry." Geran, who wore a long, green jacket and loose fitting black trousers, clapped the older man on the shoulder. "You have my word that I will respond to the Council's inquiry before the week is out. Now, however, is not the time."
It was a moment that almost amused the Lion of Soldaria, for he had often had to deal with a number of too-pushy political types in a similar manner. He had to admit, politeness was not what he had expected to witness from a man who called himself the Battle King.
Geran spoke again, his eyes on the giant that was Orun. It was not often that he had to crane his neck so far back to look a man in the face. "You wanted to see me, my large friend?"
"I am no friend of yours, Usurper." The enormous man rumbled.
"Usurper?"
"Do you not understand the phrase?" Orun folded his arms, so massive that they were bigger around than Geran's torso. "How about conqueror? Tyrant? Despot?"
"What is this? Did you travel all the way from Soldaria just to insult me?"
"You have heard of me then."
"Yes. Recently, but yes." The Battle King nodded once. "By your size and the insignias on your leather armor, you can be none other than Orun the Untamed."
"Then you know what I am capable of."
"I have heard the stories."
"More than rumors, I can assure you." Lifting his great head and shifting his eyes from Geran's to the fortress behind him, Orun let that statement rest for a moment. Then, he added this question. "Tell me, where is the Lady Charis?"
"Charis?" Geran frowned. He did not like the way the man's voice had shifted when he said her name, softening for a moment as if he were a lovesick teenager. "She is indisposed. Shall I take a message?"
"Ah." Orun said, his voice understanding and his eyes lit with hope. "She still refuses to marry you, then."
"Actually..." Geran caught himself. His temper had flared for a moment, and he wanted to be brash, to throw the marriage-to-be in the bigger man's face. A year ago, he would not have hesitated. There was something not right here, however, and he felt it his responsibility to find the underlying cause of it. "Actually, that is none of your business."
"I am making it my business, Foul King." Orun allowed his Great Voice to leak forth again, just a bit, so that everyone present could hear his next words. "I challenge you, Geran, for the Lady's hand!"
"I refuse." A nervous murmur ran through the crowd nearest them, and worked its way back. The Battle King's voice did not carry as far as did the Lion's. "Her hand is not mine to give."
"Then I challenge you for her Freedom!"
"Again, I must decline." Geran answered again, shaking his head. "I am not so arrogant as to grant her that which is already hers."
Orun was left incensed, but with little to say. His temper seethed just beneath the surface, and his powerful muscles writhed like giant snakes beneath his skin. It was a terrifying sight, and both the crowd he had drawn and the members of the City Council that had accompanied their King drew back. Only Geran held his ground. Here was a man that had stood toe-to-toe with the very soul of Kaord'tan, the beast that consumed entire universes, and did so knowingly on a plane of reality that was normally reserved for Gods and other Greater Beings. Big, even freakishly huge muscles did not frighten him. He was studying the giant-of-a-man before him, considering the situation. It was, he decided, going to end only one way from that point.
Spreading his hands with a partial shrug, as if being nothing but reasonable, Geran added this to his last statement. "However, if it is truly your wish to fight... "
"It is!"
"...then I will oblige you."
Very deliberately turning his back on the Untamed, Geran walked across the distance they had withdrawn across to join the council members. His fingers were busy, unlacing the front of his jacket. Turry Larn, for his part, was standing aghast at this turn of events. If it was foolhardy for a King to ride into battle, and he believed it was, then what could he say of a monarch who would risk himself in a fistfight with a brute such as Orun the Untamed? It was surreal. When the Battle King, now bare-chested, deposited that green jacket in his hands, Turry managed to shake himself free enough of his stunned stupor to speak.
"Are you crazy--?!"
"Not now, Turry."
"I hope you know what you're doing!"
"I do."
As if Geran's choice to fight him had temporarily freed him of whatever geas it was that was driving him into such an incredible rage, Orun was once again himself and urging people to move further back. Several times, he assured them that all would be well, only to find himself without an answer for a tearful, pregnant woman named Ajunna, who demanded to know what he was doing. If he could but make them see Geran through the eyes of the vision he had been given, he lamented. The light that Lady Charis had given him shined through the illusion, and gave lie to the man's gentle, but firmly spoken commands for people to make room.
"I am ready." Orun spoke when, finally, a space that was about one hundred feet across in any direction was cleared. He turned toward Geran and flexed his fingers, beckoning the man. "Choose your weapon."
"No." The Battle King was moving to the center of the circle that the two of them had created. "I have but one sword, Orun. And should I feel moved to summon that fantastic blade, you would lose. Badly."
"You speak of the Lightblade."
"I do."
"I had heard you'd lost it."
"I did." With a dismissive shrug, Geran added, "But then I found it again."
As eager as he was to crush this would-be-tyrant beneath his boot heel, so that he might sooner get inside the Keep and find what had become of the Lady Charis, Orun balked at the thought of fighting an unarmed man. This was in spite of the fact that he knew that, even with a weapon, no single warrior would ever truly be a match for his power. It was simply the way he was built, with a sense of fair play that had been driven into his skull by his father, stout Penin, when he was young and enjoyed picking on his younger brother.
"You have no other hope against me, Battle King."
"I will make do." Assuming a fighting stance, Geran beckoned Orun in much the same way the latter had beckoned him moments before. "Come then. I thought you were ready."
Wasting no further words, the mighty Lion of Soldaria advanced on the smaller man and threw a powerful punch that would have caved in a mountain. It never landed, as his intended target swayed smoothly away from it. Not that it mattered, for men had tried to combat Orun in this manner before. He threw a second, third, fourth and fifth punch in quick succession. His speed increased as he moved, and the last of these was so fast that few of the people gathered crowd could follow his massive fist with their eyes. There were dozens of startled exclamations. How did a man so huge move so fast? And, he wondered with a curse on his tongue, how did he continue to miss his mark?
Geran, for his part, was preternaturally calm, and threw himself into his movements with the sort of intense focus that a master craftsman might exhibit while designing fine furniture or a delicate sculpture. Tens of thousands of men had the Untamed faced, usually in bulk, and only this one did not have the wild-eyed look of a man that knew he was in over his head. When a blow that could have shattered every bone in his body missed him by a hair, he did not cry out in fright or curse the Gods for creating such a being. He simply slapped the elbow of the arm that delivered it, and ducked again as Orun swung back toward him, that same enormous fist digging a groove into the ground without so much as slowing down.
Another slap, then another, came on the Untamed's shoulders, and he came around instantly. Swinging his fist in a downward arc without even trying to hit Geran, he drove it into the ground beneath them. His opponent leapt at the last possible second, just avoiding a radial effect of surging earth that continued so far away that it nearly caused the nearest of the onlookers to lose their footing.
Geran came down upon Orun's shoulders as the bigger man extracted his fist from the earth, and slapped the back of his head. In the same motion, he pushed off, sending himself into a backwards flip that just cleared him of the giant's retaliatory back swing. It was then, in mid-twist, that Orun experienced what was probably the most unpleasant sensation of his life since emerging from the pool with the strength of Soldaria flowing through him. There was a deep, loud pop from his lower back, and fire lanced down his spine and through his legs. The second most unpleasant sensation came a moment later; the Battle King, a few feet away, was grinning.
It had been quite some time since Orun had experienced the fear that came with knowing that he was losing a fight that he dearly wished to win. In response to it, he threw himself at Geran again, ignoring the pain from his back and giving his all to his movements. It was so close, he kept telling himself. If he could but find an extra ounce of speed, and lay a hand upon his quarry, he could win this. Every time he tried, however, he received nothing but more slaps and occasionally another painful pop from one of his joints as he tried to retaliate. Finally, after taking a slap right across his blond-bearded face and trying to tag the Battle King as the smaller man spun past and ducked under his arm, a chorus of new pops and snaps sang out from his back, hip, and shoulders, and Orun the Untamed, the impossibly strong Lion of Soldaria, could only groan as he toppled to the ground and lay in a heap.
"What have you done to me?" Orun demanded through gritted teeth as Geran approached. Had he been able to lift his arms further than an inch or so apiece, he would have snatched the man's leg and ripped him limb from limb. "What foul spell is this?!"
"I am sorry, Friend." Unconcerned by the rage in the Lion's voice, or the possibility of a threat to his own safety, Geran knelt beside the fallen warrior's head and placed a hand on his massive shoulder. "Your strength is irresistible as it seems, even to your own great body. I directed it against you through our little dance. Your ligaments. Your bones. Your internal organs. I could not begin to guess how much damage I have wrought."
Panting, the Untamed stared at his opponent. "You... are a very dangerous man."
"I am called the Battle King for a reason." Geran shrugged. "And Orun?"
"...yes?"
With a black, thunderous scowl, the King drew back his fist and struck his opponent squarely in the nose. "Charis did agree to be my wife. She proposed to me!"
The Lion's head barely budged, and he blinked at the Battle King a few times. A tiny trickle of blood appeared from his nose, and became a thin red line that connected his nostril to his upper lip. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Orun's eyes rolled back and he slumped against the ground. Geran rose, cradling his broken hand, and called out to the council members who were already approaching.
"Quickly! Call a healer! Find Kimera! We may still save this man's life!"