The General's Daughter

The Tale of Kraven Ergeist

The General's Daughter

By Kraven Ergeist

Chapter One

In another part of the world, strife was brewing. In the capital city that presided over the Human lands, Cromwell, son of the king who had just barely lead the armies of the Three Kingdoms to victory against the Thalian Island's army of war mages, saving their estranged allies, the Elves, from certain doom, had inherited his father's legacy, and all the problems that came with it. In spite of the effort on the part of the Three Kingdoms in aiding the fair folk in their time of need, tension between the Humans and the Elves had remained even to this day, for the Elves had long lives and long memories, and did not come to decisions quickly or rashly.

Once, long ago, the Humans and the Elves had lived in harmony. Those were the days when the Three Kingdoms owed their glory to Draco Delphinus, the mercenary turned general turned national hero and public icon, whose noble actions inspired hope and goodwill in the hearts of the people, as well as cooperation and trust between Humans and Elves. With Draco's disappearance, so too did the bond between Humans and Elves, as the shadow that fell over the hearts of the people kept the good hidden in their homes and the allowed the criminals onto the streets. As theft, brutality, rape and murder pervaded the Human lands, the trust and respect that the Elves felt for their peers began to diminish. Many generations passed, and still the downward spiral of crime and poverty marred the once proud face of the Three Kingdoms.

For the Elves, such patterns were clearly visible to their long lived eyes, and since war was not in the Elves' nature, it was with great discord that the entire population uprooted themselves from the land that had once been just as much theirs as the Humans. The entire people set sail for the smaller continent of Nion from whence their people owed their heritage. There, they instated a period of isolationism that nearly crushed the Three Kingdoms' economy, sending the Human world even farther down the path of despair, as the order the Fair folk once imposed on the wilds and the creatures of the land became lost, and the uncivilized wilderness devolved into a hazardous realm filled with ferocious beasts that preyed upon whatever beings foolish enough to stray from only the most well established paths.

Some say the Three Kingdom's plummet into depression was only the proverbial straw that broke the Elves tolerance of their Human counterparts. Since arriving on the continent independently from (and barely a decade between) each other, and the two races had resolved long ago to share the land and cooperate with each other, some say that the religious differences, differing views of nature and the land, their differing lifespans and grasp of magics, that the two races were too different to ever cooperate. The two races had already lived in a relative self imposed cultural isolationism even as their peoples lived and traded amongst each other, separate but equal in their views, practices and teachings.

Cromwell, the King of the Three Kingdoms, had inherited his crown in the hopes that it would be his reign in which relations between the Humans and the Elves was finally restored, their trade reestablished and teachings shared between their two great people. Given his father's expedient response in sending aid to the Fair folk, Cromwell had expected an almost immediate result, and was disappointed by ever slowing diplomatic relations. Despite the Elves isolationism, word had spread quickly among the Three Kingdoms during his father's rule of the unprovoked attacks being made on them from the Thalian Islands, and his father, King Cornelius, had not hesitated in sending his armies and war mages to bolster the defenses of the non-magical Elves, both out of goodwill and for the sake of the greater good of his kingdom.

One issue that kept coming up in diplomatic debates was the reason behind Thalia's attack on Elven soil. The Thalian Islands had a scarce population, not even a proper kingdom as much as it was an oversized cult of zealous magicians. If a citizen of Thalia wasn't adept in magic, their life was destined to that of a servant, doomed to sweep garbage and scrub filth for the duration of their lives in the towers and abbeys of the Thalian Islands. It was for this reason that many of the non-magical adepts fled by ship to the neighboring Three Kingdoms, leaving the already sparse population of Thalia even thinner as a result.

While the mages were bound to pay war reparations, both to the Three Kingdoms and to the Elves residing in Nion, the hierarch of the Thalian war mages was found dead, his magical powers having drained his life essence to mere nothingness. The mages under the King's command lacked the knowledge or the fortitude to summon his soul from the ether, nor could they pry any information from his subordinates who knew nothing of their master's reasoning and followed in blind faith, nor could they decipher anything from the magically encrypted records the hierarch kept that crumbled into dust at the first sign of unauthorized access. Nothing could be determined as to why the Thalian hierarch had lead his mages on a rampage against the peaceful Elves, his mages who for ages had abstained from any war or bloodshed, valuing knowledge over political power and remaining neutral in any previous alliances formed.

One reason why this provided grounds for the Elves to remain unmoved by King Cornelius' unhesitating aide was that the population of the Thalian Islands was entirely Humans, as Elves practiced no magic, instead turning to their inner essence for strength, grace and communion with nature. Despite their political neutrality, both to the Three Kingdoms and to Nion, many Elven diplomats pointed fingers at the monopoly Human beings had on the elemental magics and their ability to prey on the non-magical Elves, making them into a ferocious species that the Elves should have nothing to do with, and cast aside King Cornelius's act of generosity as no more than cleaning up his people's own mistake, and demanding more reparations as a consequence. This sentiment inevitably bore the retort from the Human diplomats of the Elves' longevity and their command over nature, and pointed fingers at the Elves who abandoned the Three Kingdoms in their time of need, leaving them at the mercy of their own disorganized and short lived lives, to be preyed upon by wild animals set loose by the Elves reckless abandon.

King Cromwell sighed as he sat in the main hall of the royal palace in Pharaohaven, the capital of the Three Kingdoms. Tensions hadn't been higher since the days of his father. Why was it that it was upon his shoulders the duties of peacemaker should fall? His hair was fast going gray with the combined worries of these diplomatic missions taking him across time zones, as well as dealing with his own country's miserable state that still rank of crime and poverty, as well as his personal concerns – his wife had just bore him a son, Prince Cedric, and while this secured the succession of his family line for the time being, having and raising a child only added to his difficulties and concerns, chief of which being the fact that he had not even had the opportunity to lay eyes on his son since his birth, or his wife the queen for that matter, he had been so busy.

He looked up from his hands at his staff members, chief among them were the Prime Ministers of both Almsgard and Inisburn, the two capital cities in the neighboring provinces of the same name, the three provinces making up the aptly titled Three Kingdoms. Almsgard was seeing an increase in mercenary activity, which while good for the economy, decreased the city's public value. Most mercenaries were not the most pleasant of folk, and while they tended to be good at what they did (the ones that weren't usually ended up dead), their employers were liable to send them on any manner of errand, legitimate or not. And that wasn't even taking into account their behavior outside of work. Prostitution was at an all time high, and the physicians in Almsgard were overburdened with the number of sick from syphilis and pox.

Inisburn was faring no better. Being the smallest of the three provinces, its population was steadily decreasing as more and more citizens were migrating to the comparably richer districts. There was also an increase in wild animal activity, the number of beasts increasing as more and more land was marked as hazardous, and greater and greater roads were swallowed up and fell into disrepair, with the province slowly losing its population of humans to death or emigration as nature threatened to retake the land.

The King listened to his staff in silence, as they rattled off census of his own port city and province of Pharaohaven, though nothing good, and therefore nothing surprising, was revealed in the report. He ran a wrinkling hand across the polished and carved wood of his throne. It had once been encrusted with gold and jewels, its seat and back padded with silk. As the generations passed, the gold and jewels and silk were pried from the throne and sold to add to his city's dwindling coiffeurs, leaving only a wooden chair, though still impressive in size, and ornately carved and polished.

His mind was on his newborn son Cedric, how he and his wife's smiling face would appear to him when he might see them both at the conclusion of this meeting. Having just returned from a three month voyage too and from the Elven homeland, and having worked all through the night on pressing matters that had arisen in his absence that could not have waited until morning, he eagerly awaited for the moment the clock would strike the hour and he could send his ministers home for the day.

When the hour finally came, he hurried to his wife's bed chamber on the second floor of the palace – though it was little more than an oversized mansion, serving as courthouse and residence of his family and the city officials. His worn leather boots trod on bare wooden floor, the carpets and tapestries that would have decorated the halls all sold to support his dying kingdom. His robes were plain, though he was used to wearing simple wool and cotton clothes, having grown up in this era of depression. His only distinguishing ornaments were the woven steel crown that sat above his brow, and the silver ring that bore his family's crest, the one heirloom that he refused to sell. His jet black hair bore streaks of gray, his blue eyes sunken in over bags, his beard salt and pepper.

Cromwell threw open the doors to the Queen's bedchamber, indistinguishable save that it was the last door down the hall of the south wing. Within lay another plain room with a wooden framed bed, plain but elegant vanity and mirror, as well as a tall standing closet, all the same color varnished wood. There were two windows on either side of the bed, unadorned by drapes or curtains. The bed itself was large with homely maroon colored wool blankets and white feather pillows, inexpensive but plentiful in their warmth and comfort. There, he was surprised to find the sparsely decorated room's sole occupant was not his wife, but a young girl with ebony hair and a gray peasant's frock who sat at the foot of the queen's bed, her tunic pulled down to nurse the babe in her arms.

Cromwell's heart caught in his throat as he realized the babe was his son, Prince Cedric. Barely taking heed of the wet nurse's sudden cry of surprise, he knelt by her side, his eyes tearing as he touched his son's brow, his bearded lip quivering in the throes of the first real joy he had felt in what must have been months.

"Your majesty!" the nurse blurted, quickly covering herself. She had heard the king had returned but she had assumed that he would have been held back at the council meeting, having three months worth of problems to sort through.

His attention was solely on the boy in her arms. "Cedric… Oh, my Cedric…"

The infant's face wrinkled as he let out a cough and a sputter, his meal interrupted. His arms meandered aimlessly, stretching in every direction he could reach, his fingers clasping and unclasping at the world around him.

The king was crying openly now and the nurse's embarrassment quickly subsided at his emotional display.

"Yes he is…" she handed the young prince to his father. "Seven pounds, two ounces, and ten fingers and toes. A healthy boy, your majesty."

The king was cradling the first prince in his arms, eyes still wet as he gazed into those of his son. "Blasted storm, else we would have made good time into port. My father was present at my birth, my grandfather at his, and his father before him. I am the first of my family to have let their wife labor alone."

The nurse heard the sorrow in the King's voice and stood from the bed. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Your Majesty," she assured. "After all, the physicians had given the Queen two more weeks before delivering."

For the first time, the King seemed to acknowledge the young nurse. She could have been no older than sixteen, her ebony hair glimmering in the lamplight.

"My child…I know you…." He said, recognition dawning his haggard brain. "You're General Hawke's daughter, aren't you?"

The young woman curtseyed politely. "Jenna Hawke, at your service."

The King's stringent nature took over for a moment. "Aren't you rather young to be nursing?"

Jenna's gaze fell to the floor. "I…that is a tale for another time, Your Majesty…should you not see to the Queen? She is still in the infirmary."

Chiding his officious nature, the King nodded and held the boy in his arms out to her. "Yes, you're right. Please, continue to look after my son. I shall be back to finish our discussion."

He gave Jenna a smile, which she returned. Her father and the king had always been close friends, and so she had grown up seeing the King on a regular basis, and had always admired his selfless nature. It was his steadfast devotion to his people that had compelled her to give back to him and his family, in whatever way she could, rather than mourn the loss of her own stillborn child...

The King hurried down the hall, eager to share his joy with his wife, Queen Isabelle. While their marriage had been one of arrangement, Cromwell had spent his young life doing what he could to woo her. A noble's daughter by birth, Isabelle had been a strong willed little girl, and while growing up, she and then Prince Cromwell had seen each other in passing at social gatherings and the occasional ball, and Isabelle had not been interested in the idea of marrying, despite urging from her family, instructors, and peers.

Cromwell conducted himself as a gentleman should, and did not in any way overstep his boundaries or have any expectations from her, even knowing they were to be wed despite their nine year age difference. What truly caught Isabelle's attention however, wasn't the unfettered care he expressed for her, but the unquestionable respect he demonstrated for her. When she had something to say, he listened. When she gave her input, or wanted to share in a discussion, debate or argument, he gave her input equal share, and found himself agreeing with her more often than not.

As they grew older, more mature, and more open in their interest towards each other, she swore herself to him, not because she had to, but because she cared for him. Because he was her friend as much as he was her king. Because she could trust him, sometimes even more so than her parents, instructors or peers. Because she could count on him to be kind, honest and fair.

Sometimes, however, he was too kind. Too honest. Too fair. He threw himself into his work, often at his own expense. It was admirable…and at the same time, regrettable. He was a King first, and a family man second. He had to be. She didn't blame him for it. But today…

Isabella's eyes were closed. She wanted to see her husband. She wanted to hold her newborn son in her arms. But she was too weak. The physician had needed to cut her stomach open because her hips hadn't been wide enough for her son's large head to pass through unharmed. She had been stitched back up, but she had lost a lot of blood. Her conscious mind was wavering, fading in and out of existence. Sometimes, she thought she saw her husband standing by the infirmary door, their son in his arms and smiling down at her, telling her everything was alright. Sometimes it was the physician, telling her that her husband was lost at sea and her son had died of some deadly disorder or disease.

But now, she was seeing her husband flying through the door, kneeling beside her, a look of sadness in his eyes. There were tears running down his face. The physician came in, and Cromwell stood, putting his hands on the doctor's shoulders, a look of urgency and desperation in his eyes. He shook him, but the physician just frowned and shook his head. This made her husband cry even harder.

She didn't understand. What was she seeing? What did this dream mean? Had something happened to their son? Why couldn't she hear any of them speaking? She could see their lips moving, but she couldn't hear them. She saw her King take her hand in his, but she couldn't feel it. He saw his face tighten in desperation, looking at her as he mouthed a phrase, over and over again.

Come back. Come back. Come back.