Chapter 21 - Thinking Back

Twilight of Kings

If you are just joining the adventure and wish to start at the beginning, you can find it in the link to the Overture - “The Scent of Time”.

For the complete immersion into the story, the following resources are available: The Map for the Twilight of Kings and the Language Underlying the Story.

Return to the Table of Contents, click here.

I hope everyone enjoys!

Bored and feeling like the walls were much too near, Revven shifted in the bed. His side sent a burning warning and he settled onto the straw-filled mattress. Everything seemed close and soft. He longed for a firmer bed, for a lack of walls, for the feeling of wind on his face. His entire being seemed to be humming, like a plucked cord. His hands clenched and unclenched in endless repetition. He fought to keep his mind from plunging back into memories of blood and death. But his mind kept returning to his mother’s words before sending him to the berry patch: I am placing my daughter’s life in your hands. Do not fail me.

Those were her last words, he realized. She knew what was coming. It made sense and it did not. If she knew the extinction of the Duunedii was near, why did she gather all the divisions? Frowning, he closed his eyes and from his mind’s eye he looked over western Duunevaal and the Danling River valley as like a map. He traced the movements of the divisions coming together to that fatal encampment. The berry patch was to the northwest, he thought, opposite the encampment from the ancient road.

The door of his room opened. He looked and saw a servant entering with a steaming pot. Watching the servant set the pot on a pad upon the chest of drawers, Revven could not comprehend why the man was there.

Turning, the servant said, “We are ready to bathe you, sir.”

Revven blinked and stared.

“Nay,” he said. “I will bathe myself.” As the servant began to speak, he added, “Later. A map. I need a map of the Danling River basin. Or paper. I need paper.”

“Aye, sir,” answered the servant, whose tone indicated question of Revven’s sanity.

Revven ignored the servant, his mind racing. Soon, the servant returned with a map and Prince Ortos following. Revven took the map with a wince and unrolled it across his lap.

The map was very old. It still showed the ancient roads between labeled cities, some of which had been destroyed in prior centuries. But he knew the land well having traversed it all his life. His finger pointed to the location of the last encampment. He slid it to the northwest, away from the ancient road.

“Mother sent many of us to a berry patch,” he said, half to himself, half to Ortos who stood at the bedside. “We at the berry patch were attacked at the same time as the encampment. That means, the scouting party that attacked us had already found the encampment, sent word back to a larger force, and circled the encampment to continue scouting until it found us.” He tapped the map. “We rode back and saw….” He swallowed hard. “It was a powerful force, but they were not in full battle array. They were moving fast….” His finger slowly slid over the map from the location of the encampment toward the Bridge. “All along the way, we were meeting swift voorko, mounted voorko…scouts…skirmishers!”

The path his finger was tracing over the map nearly paralleled the ancient road between the Bridge and Jalvin, now just ruins. His finger reached the road near the Bridge and paused. He remember the forces waiting there.

“We met a strong force,” he said, “but they were south of the road. If the Death Lord knew the Duunedii’s location and his aim was to destroy us, those troops would have been north of the road…to prevent escape. Nay…. But those forces were very many…and sitting there…waiting….”

“Waiting for what?” Ortos murmured.

Revven touched the road between the Bridge and Jalvin.

“This host,” he answered. “We were going into Winter quarters. We were not supposed to be anywhere near the Bridge. We were not supposed to be there. But my mother ordered the assembly.” His thoughts raced forward. “The Duunedii were not the prize! We were the surprise. We sprung the trap before it was fully set.”

“So the Iron Regiments stumbled over you instead of targeting you,” Ortos surmised.

“Aye,” Revven replied. “The prize was the Bridge. The Death Lord was going to overrun the Bridge in the middle of Autumn…too late for the Host of Pannather to assemble.”

“Giving the Shadow a bridgehead,” Ortos agreed. “Winter would have seen the Forest Hills scoured. And once Spring came, the Iron Regiments would march upon the Long Plain.”

Revven was looking at the last encampment of the Duunedii.

“She knew,” he whispered. “Somehow, my mother knew. She sent us away so that we would survive.” Tears pricked his eyes. A cold fury rose in him. “If we had not returned to the camp…. If I had commanded them to follow me, they would have lived—more would have lived.”

“Nay.” Ortos’ tone was firm, almost stern. “You cannot know that. Your mother thought cannot be fully known. And the dooms of those with you were never in your hands.”

Revven heard the words, but they seemed to be coming from the edge of his consciousness. The grief was too near, the hurt too close. His body longed to act, to do. But he was chained by his wound, his weakness. The new unseen weight seemed to increase its burden, pressing so hard that he almost made out whispers at the edge of his consciousness. The unintelligible weighted whispers coiled around him, teasing him toward something deep, something dark.

A hand clasped his left forearm, firm but gentle.

He came out of the dark place, realizing his clenched fists were shaking. He gasped and began to breathe again. How long he had held his breath, he could not say. Panting, he looked up to meet Ortos’ concerned gaze. He had a sudden urge to laugh at the concern. Catching that urge, he crushed it. I will not go mad, he told himself. He forced himself to focus on Ortos.

When Revven focused on the Pannan prince, Ortos said, “Each one of us has a doom. The doom of the Duunedii was not yours to decide, for you were not king. You must hold to this or you will go mad.”

Revven wondered if it was too late. But Ortos’ words calmed him for the moment. He looked at the lump of his lower body under the blanket.

“I must learn the sword,” he said. “I must regain my strength.”

“To what end?” Ortos asked.

“To survive,” he answered, startled and confused at the question. “To be ready for the Death Lord’s next move.” He met Ortos’ gaze again. “The Duunedii foiled his plan this time, because we were not his aim. He was coming for Pannather. He will come again.”

---

King Loren III of Pannather leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. He rubbed his temples, trying to relieve the tension building there. The silence of his office felt like a balm and he was glad to be alone. He opened his eyes to see the document laying on his desk where he had dropped it in disgust. Picking it up again, he reread it for the third time.

The document was a petition from a large number of merchants who desired the outer wall of Pannather be removed. The resulting masses of stone could then be used to expand the housing and commercial resources of the City. It was time, read the petition, to part ways with the useless and archaic edifices.

Loren snorted. The Death Lord removes his last obstacle east of the Danling River and they say the outer defenses of this City are useless, he thought. What fools! His thoughts verged on verbal exposure but a knock at the door stopped him.

“Enter!” he called, glad for an interruption.

The door opened and his tall son entered. Ortos drew near and bowed respectfully. He smiled as Ortos straightened.

“Sire,” Ortos began.

“Call me father,” he interrupted.

Ortos grinned, but his eyes were serious, troubled even.

“Aye, Father, I will,” replied his son. “I come from Revven’s room.”

“Is something wrong with him?”

“Nay,” Ortos answered quickly. “But he was troubled. He asked for a map and a servant got one from me. I came to see what he was thinking. And….” Ortos hesitated. “Father, if he is correct, then the Singer himself has spared this kingdom. And the Duunedii have paid for it.”

Loren felt a tug in his midsection. He well remembered Agrivaan’s ability to perceive any opponent’s mind. He well remembered what Agrivaan had said about his son.

“Tell me everything,” he said, pointing to a chair.

Shaking his head, Ortos unrolled the map on his desk and quickly walked through what Revven had said regarding the movements of the Duunedii and the desperate flight to the Bridge. As his son spoke, Loren felt a chill slide down his spine. The more Ortos shared, the more that chill danced up and down his spine.

“He believes the Duunedii were not the main objective at all,” Ortos concluded. “Rather, he believes the Death Lord’s true objective was to capture the Bridge.”

“And the rest of the Kingdom of Pannather after the Winter,” Loren said grimly. He slammed a fist on his desk, rose to his feet, and began pacing. “After Agrivaan was killed, I knew the Death Lord would move on the Bridge. I strengthened the fortress. I laid in weapons and supplies. And I waited. Then Time and silence did what no enemy could do. We lost focus.” He clenched his fists. “The Death Lord has waited for years to strike at the precise moment we would not expect.”

“But now his plan has been thwarted,” Ortos pointed out. “It could be years—decades even—before he strikes again.”

Loren stopped and thought on his son’s words for a moment. Then he shook his head.

“I do not believe it,” he said. “I cannot for two reasons. One, the Bridge is the most obvious objective. And since when does the Shadow only move in obvious ways? Two, Queen Allaan would not have risked her people if this was only a feint. She would have harried the Iron Regiments from the flanks and rear. And perhaps that is what she intended before being discovered. Nay, if she moved the Duunedii with specific purpose as Revven believes, then she saw it was the only way to threaten or hinder the Death Lord’s aims. Allaan never wasted any word or deed.”

“You are saying there was another assault planned if the Bridge would have been captured,” Ortos observed. The prince gestured at the map, mirroring the Danling River’s course. “But where?”

“That is what we must discover,” he answered his son. “And we must quickly discover it. For whatever the Death Lord has set into motion may have been interrupted, but it is not completely stopped.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “If it had, the Duunedii would still exist as the ever-present thorn in the Shadow’s craw.”

Copyright © 2026 L. T. Noble. All rights reserved.
This original content is protected under U.S. copyright law. Reproduction, redistribution, or adaptation without express written permission is prohibited. Sharing with proper attribution is welcome; lifting ideas without credit is not.