Private The Dawnbringer Rebellion

[Bors Greythorne]

Northern Midvinter
Half a century ago...

"Last call," the barkeep barked, wiping a clean enough tankard with a ratty rag. Few patrons remained this late at night, though it was difficult to know the time of day this far north where daylight was sparse most of the year. The northern parts of Midvinter had always been the wildest and most unruly, home to the mighty mammoth and little more than scattered villages, some of which took weeks to travel between because of distance and difficult terrain. Most rarely got to witness the world outside their home village, leading a spartan life before getting mauled to death by some predator and later buried down the road from where they were born.

"Oi," the barkeep shouted at the man in the corner too drunk to notice. "Closing time, soaker!" The man blinked up at the barkeep, a burly man with hairy arms crossed over his chest. He muttered something incoherent in response before somehow finding enough balance to stand. With a helpful shove from the barkeep, he was able to locate the exit and stumbled outside into the cold night. Unable to find his way to the boarding house he'd been staying at for the last couple of nights, the boozehound staggered his way into a nearby pigsty before passing out. At least the hay was somewhat warm.

He was rudely awakened by a bucketful of water splashed on his face, protesting loudly as he sprang to life only to find a great big sow grunting as she fed her young right next to him.

"A boar among pigs," a voice chuckled. "Someone's feeling homesick."

Bors squinted as he gazed up towards the midday sun, taking a while to adjust his eyesight to the bright light. There was a dark shape towering over him, only his sight was still far too blurry to make out any distinguishing features. Something about the voice rang familiar to him, however.

He did make out the empty bucket the stranger carried, which sent him into a sudden rage. He post-drunkenly lunged at the stranger, throwing a clumsy punch that couldn't hit the side of a barn before falling over into a pile of manure. The stranger knelt before him, bringing his face close enough for Bors to identify. His hair was long and dark yet sprinkled with grey, as was his neatly trimmed beard. Lines deeply etched into his face further betrayed the man's aged appearance, but what truly captivated him were those eyes. The bluest pair of eyes imaginable.

"W-who are..."

The stranger reached into his collar to pull out a neck chain from which dangled a bronze boar, the sigil of House Greythorne. He regarded it fondly for a moment, then presented it to the sad sod currently resting against a mound of frozen pig droppings. "The last time we saw each other, you gave me this to remember you by. I've kept it ever since." Bors stared at the all-too-familiar trinket with wide eyes before revealing a much simpler leather cord featuring a wolf's head, its depiction long banned by royal decree. All at once old memories surfaced as images of his youth flashed before his eyes. Brothers in all but name. An unbreakable oath.

He was still in shock when the stranger stood and offered his hand. Bors accepted, and as he was pulled to his feet he was finally able to fully see the face of his rude awakener.

"Thrand...?"

Even as the first syllable escaped his lips, he was engulfed in a warm embrace that might have crushed a lesser being. Nothing more was said for a long time other than the quiet sobbing of two long-lost brothers reunited after half a lifetime of being parted. The crushing weight of his loneliness bared down on him, emotions long kept locked within bursting out of him.

All at once, Bors Greythorne was brought back to life.

 

[Bors Greythorne]

One week later...

Bors stood upon the wooden platform in the village centre, awkwardly observing the crowd of locals that had been gathering for the last hour. Men and women, old and young, had heard whispers of the returned prince and that he wished to speak in an open forum. As a quasi-known visitor to this remote village, Bors had gone around and spread these rumours at his brother's request, as it was deemed too dangerous for Thrand to appear in public.

Today would mark his first-ever public appearance since his father's assassination.

"Well, uh..." he cleared his throat as he proceeded to stumble his way through introducing the man of the hour. "Hello, everyone! I, uh... I'd like to thank all of you for coming, and... uh..." Planks creaked under the weight of a cloaked figure appearing alongside him, and the hand he placed on Bors' shoulder seemed to give courage. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you now: Thrand, Son of Threign, Prince of Midvinter and rightful heir to the Throne!"

Thrand pulled back his hood as an eerie silence fell upon the crowd. The moment was tense, as there were armed guards stationed at every crossroads and potential escape route in case the village chieftain was in the Usurper's pocket. Arrows could start flying at any moment.

"Good people of Hjaarbalk! Sons and daughters of Midvinter, hearken to me! You do not know me, and I have never in my travels come this way, but as a child, my father - High King Threign - told me much about the North and its natives. He told me that nowhere else is Mother Midvinter a harsher mistress, and that those who choose to dwell here do so out of loyalty and pride. Loyalty to your kin, your community, and your history! Pride in knowing that you're the hardest sons of bitches on this frozen rock!"

There were some cheers and applause from a mostly stoic crowd, still sceptical about the situation.

"You, of course, wish to know why you are here. Why have we called for this gathering? I will tell you. Seven decades ago, those of you old enough to remember would have heard of the old king's passing, and that on his deathbed he appointed his trusted friend and advisor, Beorlund, to succeed him. I stand before you today to tell you that those are the fabrications of a snake! Lies and deceits propagated by a usurper's sycophants, buying the supposed loyalty of lords and chieftains across Midvinter!"

There were rumblings from the crowd now, though whether they were in favour of or opposed to his bold claim remained to be seen.

"My friends, many long years have I travelled the stars. I have seen such indescribable wonders and met beings and creatures both familiar and foreign. In my exile, I spent a great deal of time running from my troubles, but in doing so I was able to come to terms with who I am." He glanced down at the ring on his finger, caressing it with his thumb. "With help, I was able to see clearly, and when I look around at the cruelty and dishonour that have befallen our world in the years since my banishment, I know I can no longer remain silent."

He removed his cloak entirely, letting it fall to the floor as he revealed the legendary Sword of Kings, pulling it from its scabbard on his back and raising it above his head for all to bear witness.

"I am Thrand, Son of Threign, and I declare before you all my intention to seize back my father's throne and pledge to restore this noble land to its former glory - a nation founded on honour, duty, and kinship - and I challenge any supporter of the Usurper to present themself for the honour of their liege so I might remind them of the oath they once took! And should the Usurper not listen to reason, then let it be decided by the sword!"

Thrand pointed the Sword of Kings at the armed guards, one at a time. "You there! Will you not defend your King? Will you not draw your swords and strike me down where I stand for daring to utter such profanities? Or have my words of defiance stirred in you the truth you've felt in your hearts all along?"

As he spoke, the village chieftain had deigned to appear with a retinue of huscarls to find out what all the ruckus was about. Thrand unapologetically turned his sword towards him next, and the captivated audience all turned their heads.

"What of your chieftain? Will he demand my capture and swift execution? Torture in some dark, inescapable dungeon? Or does his heart yearn for the virtues I have promoted and the knowledge of serving a just king who remembers who his friends are?"

The old chieftain appeared like a statue, the only motion being his long beard caught by a breeze. There was no telling what his intentions were as of yet.

"I, for one, am willing to fight for a better future - one of decency, morals, and compassion towards my fellow man - and I call upon those of you who are willing to fight and die for such a noble cause! Not because it is easy, but because it is hard! And who are you, if not the hardest sons of bitches on this frozen rock?!"

The crowd exploded in cheers and applause but was soon silenced by the ringing sound of steel being unsheathed. Heads turned once more to their chieftain, sword in hand. There was no command for Thrand's capture, however, as the old man floated through the crowd towards the dais. They beheld each other for a moment until the chieftain placed his sword at Thrand's feet, then knelt before his rightful king.

Stunned, the crowd all followed suit, kneeling on the frozen ground, as did all the guards and the chieftain's retinue. When Thrand turned to Bors, he found his brother kneeling in the same manner, head bowed. "No," he frowned and pulled him to his feet. "Not you. Never you. You are my brother in all but blood, truest of the true. I need you to be my equal if we are to succeed."

Bors felt the sting of tears as their foreheads touched, the same as they had in their youth so long ago. A week ago he'd been a drunken lout too useless to tie his shoes. Today, he was standing in the presence of a king. His king.

"Long live the King," he became the first to declare. He would not be the last.

 

[Bors Greythorne]

Three months later...

It was tough going through the narrow and treacherous mountain paths. There were thousands of them now; some recruited from villages they passed by, while others were defeated in smaller skirmishes only to be spared and brought into the fold. To forgive one's enemy was one thing, but convincing them to fight for you was unheard of - a testament to the Dawnbringer's leadership skills. Great mammoths of the far north marched alongside warriors on foot and horseback, along with hundreds of carts of supplies, camp equipment, as well as spare weapons and armour.

Bors was in the back helping to push one such cart up the hill when cheers erupted through the ranks, spears raised in salute as the Rebel King rode past. Their eyes met, and Thrand dismounted to walk with his childhood friend.

"The men are in high spirits, Your Grace, despite our current hardships," he reported. "Miraculously, no one has managed to slip and fall." Thrand smiled at his brother's cynicism. "You still think we should've gone around, right?" Bors looked down at his feet as he nodded. "I do."

The King-to-be wrapped an arm around him. "Thank you for your honesty. I don't need yes-men sycophants on my war council, I need people unafraid to speak their minds and offer alternative solutions. If we take the safe route around the mountains, as any sane man would, our enemies might anticipate our movements and prepare an ambush. We cannot hope to match the Usurper's forces man for man, not yet, so we must use cunning. Be unpredictable. Sometimes reckless."

Bors understood the logic, but had he been the ultimate decision maker he likely would never have agreed to it. He was too stuck in his ways to embrace change, even one of such insignificant magnitude. It was his least-liked quality inherited from his notoriously obstinate father. He could at the very least take solace at how fortunate it was that their campaign did not rest on his shoulders, then.

As the mountain march continued, the skies cleared and the sun breathed some much-needed life into the men, as they were no longer pelted with heavy snow or having to compensate for strong winds. Upon reaching a bend in the mountain path, the two brothers stopped to take in the view. "Daylight will only be good for a few more hours," Bors noted. "Never mind that," Thrand replied. "Just look at that. The end of the world, and the Great Maw beyond. The sun dancing upon the waves like gold."

"Aye," Bors stated stoically, having never been easily awed by nature's wonders. He was a bit of a brick wall in that way.

"The lands to the west are a sight to behold," said Thrand as they resumed their march. "They will make someone a good home, someday."

 

[Bors Greythorne]

Three days later...

"Form ranks! Shields in front, archers behind!"

Bors barked his orders to the thousands of infantry rushing into formation, on foot amongst the men. He would fight in the shield wall, as any warrior would, rather than hide behind it. His way of fighting was inelegant, hacking and hammering with relentless aggression until the work was done, compared to the unmatched swordsmanship of his brother. He would be in the thick of it, holding the line long enough for Thrand to deal the killing blow.

Ahead was the enemy force, a vast horde of warriors led by Jarl Helsreach, a diehard follower of the Usurper. They'd caught them unawares following their successful trek through the mountains, a testament to Thrand's strategic mastery, and thus were able to move their army into position before being detected. Although fatigued from their arduous march, the rebels were lifted by the prospect of meeting a worthy foe, as each battle fought served to forge greater bonds of brotherhood between hitherto rival clansmen.

Bors strode out ahead of the shield wall, provocatively waving his broadsword and shield at the enemy host.

"Helsreach, you son of a whore! Your leash is tight indeed, dog, to have marched so far from home! Crawl back to your master while you still can, tail tucked between your legs!"

Even from where he stood, Bors could tell the Jarl became so flustered he almost fell from his saddle.

"I'll have your head, boar! It will decorate the hall of my liege next to your brother's!"

Bors chuckled, knowing what was to come. Goading the enemy into making reckless decisions was part of the plan, one that had seen great success thus far. He turned to his men. "Right, lads! I want a tight formation and shields held high! No slouching or excessive gaps, or I'll thump you myself! Watch over the man beside you, shield him as he would you, and we'll all make it out alive!"

War horns blasted followed by a roar as the enemy charged across the field, outnumbering the rebels two-to-one. Bors had the men form a semi-circular shield wall protecting the archers from all sides but the rear and providing plenty of room to manoeuvre. He calmly reentered the shield wall, filling the last gap with his own, serving as the anchor for the entire formation.

"Steady now," he bid his men as the enemy closed in. "For the true king! For the Allfather! For Midvinter!"

The entire enemy host smashed into the unbreakable wall of wood and steel. Men chanted prayers to the gods and shouted prophanities at their enemies amid flesh being pierced and bones being crushed. Arrows filled the air above, raining fire down on unsuspecting prey and taking potshots where the enemy left themselves exposed. Spears thrust out from the formation, stabbing from behind the safety of shields. Whenever someone was killed, their body was pulled to safety and the gap was filled with another warrior.

"Up onto the overturned keel, clamber with a heart of steel! Cold is the ocean's spray, and your death is on its way! With maidens you have had your way, each man must die someday!" The war chant was sung with revelry, bringing a sense of unity but also rhythm to the slaughter. Bors blocked the blow of a mountain of a man, the force of it enough to bring him to his knees. While kneeling, he thrust his sword up from beneath his shield into the groin of his attacker, leaving him wailing on the cold ground until another rebel split his skull with an axe.

It was never as pretty as the stories would have you believe.

He got back on his feet just as the sound of pounding hooves shook the earth, foretelling the successful execution of the plan. Thundering forth in full gallop, Thrand had led the cavalry around the battlefield to strike the enemy from behind. Horsemen led the charge alongside two dozen monstrous war mammoths, trampling and skewering the enemy from behind to devastating effect. Thrand hefted his greatsword, swinging it in a wide upward arc to bisect several foes at a time, spilling blood and guts in a spray of viscera.

By the time the battle was over, the entire loyalist army had been destroyed. Bodies lay strewn across a field of blood.

Bors had sustained a mean laceration to his shoulder and was getting his wound dressed when his brother appeared, having taken stock of their casualties. He took a seat next to Bors, having taken a slash to his leg. Both men were covered in blood and grime, looking like just another pair of soldiers. Nothing about them could have revealed their noble lineage.

Thrand took his brother's hand, and Bors held it firmly. Neither felt compelled to comment on the battle, but eventually, the silence was brought to an end.

"How many more, do you reckon," asked Bors, but not because he would not go to the ends of the earth for his king. Thrand considered long before answering. "We've dealt a crushing blow to the Usurper's forces. Beorlund is cunning, but he is not a military man. He will either take a defensive stance... or he will send everything he has at us." He glanced over at Bors. "I do not know."

Bors snorted loudly and spat a disgusting mix of phlegm and snot on the ground.

"The men have taken to calling me Grey-Boar," he muttered, seemingly disgruntled with the name chosen for him. His brother leaned back on his elbows, looking out across the blood-soaked field. "They already call me Grey-Wolf," he replied in the same bitter fashion. They looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

That night, in the capital of Tháinbroek, a burlap sack was delivered in the cover of darkness by the entrance of the Great Hall. It is said the Usurper raged for hours upon receiving the head of his most loyal Jarl wrapped inside a banner depicting the three-headed dog of House Helsreach. With it came a piece of parchment depicting the head of a direwolf devouring a serpent.

 

[Bors Greythorne]

​

One month later...

The rebel army continued their campaign across Midvinter, going from village to village and calling on those willing to rise against the Usurper, help rid the blatant corruption he's indulged in from these hallowed lands, and restore virtues of honour and justice to the world. Lofty goals indeed for any man, one that could only be achieved through hardship and, regrettably, bloodshed. Many young men and women eager to prove themselves signed up, especially as the balance of power was slowly shifting following the stunning victory against the Army of the North.

After a week of rest and replenishment after a hard-won battle and the arduous march that preceded it, the rebels headed south along the mountains until reaching Westgate Pass, a crossroads connecting the central, western, and southern provinces. The vastly outnumbered garrison at the checkpoint surrendered without a fight, allowing the army to cross peacefully.

That night, the army set up camp next to the mystical forest many had only heard about in children's tales intended to spook little ones into not wandering where they shouldn't. A deep fog shrouded the woods most unnaturally, and it was said that none who dared enter ever returned. A perimeter was set up with armed guards tasked with keeping the men from straying too far from camp.

"What do you reckon," Thrand asked his brother, stroking his trimmed beard in a most ponderous manner. "I reckon it's just fog, and that those that enter simply lose their way. That doesn't mean there are malevolent forces behind it." Bors had always been sceptical towards the supernatural, preferring the simple explanation to that of mystique or secrecy. Thrand didn't mind indulging a bit into the myths surrounding such places, though he certainly would not aid in the spread of superstition and misinformation. He needed his men rested - not worried about some old wive's tale.

Still, the shrouded forest was alluring enough to give pause. What if the stories were true, and there truly did exist elves and fairies within those ancient woods seeking to steal away children and lure men to their deaths?

"Ha! The Trickster God favours me this night," exclaimed Bors while Thrand was preoccupied, clapping his hands as his dice throw brought home another victory. Ever the good sport, Thrand raised his mead horn for a celebratory toast. Most satisfied with his third victory in a row, Bors put his feet up on a nearby keg as he drank from his horn.

"Tell me about this son of yours, brother," he prodded while emboldened by the drink. "You mentioned he came from... the stars?"

Thrand was visibly uncomfortable at the mention of the family he'd raised abroad, as there were too many painful memories to sort through. Still, he couldn't deny his old friend's request after so many months of respecting his wishes to remain silent. He'd earned the right to ask.

"Aye, he did. Crashed his flying longship not far from where I dwelled at the time, him and his wee lass." He smiled, thinking of sweet, precious Nina, only for it to swiftly fade. His face turned grim like the grave. "Understand that it is difficult for me to... I left that poor child when his mother passed because I couldn't bear to look at him and see her. The wound ran far too deep, I couldn't..."

Bors reached over to put another drink in his brother's hand, which was down all in one go, swallowing his sorrow.

"He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Bors. Tall and broad of body, yet wiser than any man twice his age. Strong like stone yet fair like the first summer wind. A man in his own right. And he had these powers, these... magical abilities. He could lift things with his thoughts, and even speak with nothing but his mind. Just like her..."

Bors leaned back, unsure what to make of Thrand's description of these magical powers. Perhaps he'd had enough mead, after all.

"And? Does he look like her?"

Thrand leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees while inspecting the empty contents of his horn. He looked across the improvised table at his friend, smiling fondly at the memory of his golden locks.

"Aye, that he does."

Satisfied, Bors went to refill his horn yet again only to wave his finger at Thrand.

"Know this: If he ever tries to enter my mind, I'll smack him upside the head."

 

[Bors Greythorne]

Three months later...

Battles were being fought across Midvinter as people's eyes were beginning to open. As word spread of the rebellion's successes and the loyalists tightened their nooses around the necks of the general population to compensate, the common folk started to see the truth; the downfall of their world, decaying into an unjust and authoritative nation lacking the moral decency of the olden days. They found themselves faced with the choice to either let their world fall deeper into corruption and depravity or stand up and fight to restore the honour of Mother Midvinter.

They had divided their forces for the time being. While Thrand was busy campaigning in the south to sway the mighty horse lords to their cause, Bors was asked to confront his past by marching his detachment eastward. It hadn't come as an order, for Thrand knew he couldn't force his dear brother to face his demons, and had offered to make the journey in his stead to spare him the pain.

It was Bors who insisted on going. He knew the lay of the land as well as the hearts and minds of its people, and he was not the orator his brother was. It was the most efficient choice for both of them. But above all, it was what his brother had asked of him. The only friend, the only family he had left. He'd never done anything right in life, but he would do everything for the person he loved and respected above all, gods included.

The gods were not there to console him the day Freida was taken from him. None but Thrand, his brother, his king.

Bors' ruminations were put to a halt as he looked upon his childhood home for the first time in half a century.

​

Greyhame. The ancestral home of House Greythorne and a prominent mining town. A most miserable sight, one he'd sought to escape a long time ago. Even from this distance, he could make out the bronze boar decorating its entrance. He recalled joining Thrand in defacing it with cow droppings once after another savage beating by his father. One of his few good memories of this godsforsaken place.

As the army marched up to the gate, they were met with nought but silence. Men were manning the ramparts, but they seemed less than threatened by the large rebel force arrayed outside their walls. Bors remained wary, for he knew his kin well. They were staunch opportunists, loyal to none but whoever proved more profitable, and the Usurper had been very good to them in exchange for ore with which to supply his army.

So it came as quite a shock when the gates were suddenly thrown wide open and none other than his blood-related younger brother presented himself, all smiles and welcoming, flanked by his wife and eldest son.

"The prodigal son returns," Lord Greythorne proclaimed triumphantly with arms wide open. "Bors, you scoundrel! Thought you could stay away forever, did you?" He was embraced, yet did not move a muscle to return the gesture. "You look good, brother! Wylla, doesn't he look just grand," he turned to his plain-looking wife adorned with more jewellery than Bors had ever witnessed in life. "Yes, husband," she squeaked a timid reply, eyes averted.

"This here is my son and heir, Barad," he motioned to the young man to his right. "Hail to thee, Uncle," he bowed to his elder.

Bors remained stoic like a stone wall, yet his hand loosened its grip on the pommel of his sword. "Brindal. Wylla. Nephew," he settled for a sharp nod to each one as he named them. "Greyhame appears... unchanged."

"Oh, you must come inside and see for yourself! We've prepared a grand feast in celebration of your arrival, brother!" Brindal tugged at his arm in an eager bid for him to join them, only to bump into the enormous man standing by Bors. "Oh, your men will not go hungry either! We've got enough red meat and barrels of mead to go around. I insist!"

Grey-Boar considered long before turning to his second-in-command. "We've been on the march for a fortnight, Manfreyd. The men could use a rest - but not inside the walls. Have them set up camp over in those woods over there." Manfreyd nodded, his long braids bouncing as he did. "Just make sure the sentries do not partake in the drinking, or I'll flog them myself on my return," he cautioned.

Against his better judgment, Bors accepted the invitation to join Lord Greythorne and his family for the feast, taking his first steps inside his childhood home since everything had gone to hell so long ago. He figured that if he could sway House Greythorne to Thrand's cause without a fight, it was worth him feeling uncomfortable for a few hours.

 

[Bors Greythorne]

That evening...

The general known as Grey-Boar leaned against the window, peering into the darkness. Greyhame had always been a gloomy place, but it had a lively nightlife due to all the miners returning from their hard work seeking pleasure and entertainment in all forms. Drinking, fighting, gambling and whoring were all in abundance, encouraged even. Not exactly a place you'd want to raise a child.

Off in the distance, he could barely make out a few faint torches in the nearby woods revealing the rebel encampment. If nothing else is gained this day, at least his men would enjoy a night of hard-earned revelry. Thrand had forbidden the doctrine of foraging or raiding, as was common practice for warbands in the past. The goal of the rebellion was to restore honour to the land and its people, not to terrorise innocent civilians in their homes and steal their food.

They needed to be better than their ancestors.

"Ah, there you are," Lord Greythorne appeared in the doorway. "Come, the feast is being held in the dining hall." Bors didn't deign to face his kin, even in his own house, but kept his back turned to him. Brindal could act the gregarious host all he liked, but he still didn't trust him and he certainly didn't respect him. He followed none the same.

The dining hall was as austere as he remembered it, though the gold goblets and cutlery stood out to him. A deliberate indulgence of wealth fitting of the inherent arrogance of his house. Wylla and Barad waited for them, as did Brindal's younger children in the form of two girls and a small boy.

"Please, sit," the host offered, with Bors moving to grab one of the lesser seats at the table. "Oh no, brother - that won't do! You're the eldest, so you should assume our father's high seat! I insist. After all, it used to belong to you, did it not?" Bors sniffed out his lesser brother's masked insult and regarded him coldly, making a stand by slowly dragging the chair he'd initially gone for across the floor before seating himself at the table.

Brindal scowled as he assumed the high chair himself, allowing his family to seat themselves only after he'd done so. The atmosphere was tense as brother stared down brother, the mask on Brindal's face slipping bit by bit at his elder's disrespect. Even as they partook in the food there was no casual conversation. Finally, Brindal broke the intense silence.

"So, Bors. This rebellion of yours has been the talk of Midvinter in recent months. When I first received the news of Thrand's return, I expected him to be hanged, drawn and quartered within the first week. Few would dare to speak against our High King, much less take up arms against him."

Bors downed the mead in his goblet. "People are not as cowed as you might think. And you underestimate his resolve."

Brindal sneered at his older brother. "Perhaps. Of course, I didn't grow up with him like you did. You would go through fire and brimstone for him, whereas you could give less than a damn for your blood kin, isn't that so?"

Bors stabbed his fork into the leg of the roasted pig. "Father was a cruel piece of shit. You looked up to him because you were never subjected to his wrath, whereas I protected you and our mother by taking the blame for every slight, every mistake. The day that boar killed him couldn't have come sooner, where I'm concerned."

Brindal lunged from his chair and slammed his fist against the table, startling Wylla and the children. Bors didn't flinch, expecting this sort of reaction. What caught him off-guard was the devilish grin that formed on his lips, followed by a nod of his head. In the shiny golden goblet, a shape appeared approaching him from behind. Bors leapt from his chair, shoving his skull into the lower jaw of a would-be assassin followed by Grey-Boar stabbing the cloaked thug in the eye with his table knife, leaving him writhing on the floor as three more men barged through the door. Bors threw the first punch but was quickly overwhelmed and brought before Lord Greythorne.

"Tsk, tsk," Brindal shook his head as his wife fled with the children. "You dare speak of our father, our name, our house with such insolence? You come here with an army at your back, asking me to abandon my king to serve that so-called 'brother' of yours?! Some of us know the meaning of loyalty, rebel scum!"

Bors struggled against his captors, only to receive a knee to his gut. "Well, no matter. Come daybreak, your men will be wiped out and I will present you in chains to High King Beorlund. We will flush the Rebel Prince out in the open and we will put his head on a spike for you to witness, but do not worry! You will join him shortly after."

"You are no brother of mine, cur! Unlike you, I do not forsake my oaths! I swore fealty to High King Thrand, the Bringer of Dawn, and I will serve him and his descendants until Beornskald beckons!"

Enraged, Bors spat the lesser brother in the face before putting his feet up against the edge of the dinner table and pushing against his captors with such force that they staggered back against the wall, impaling one of them on the protruding tusk of the same boar-turned-trophy that had once ended his father's life. Scrambling to his feet, Bors scooped a sword off the floor before hurling himself through the nearest window.

He fell two stories onto a lower roof before then falling another two stories, dislocating his shoulder. Able to steal a horse, Bors burst his way through the gate before they could lower the portcullis and trap him inside. He rode hard towards the woods only to find the camp under attack and fighting for their lives.

Rallying to their commander, a vicious slaughter commenced where the rebels fought the loyalists head-on, using tent poles, hammers and shovels as improvised weapons against the heavily armoured warriors of House Greythorne. Bones were snapped in two, brains were bashed in, and throats were slit. A dirty brawl as burning tents set the entire forest aflame, creating a natural shroud for the rebels to slip away in the night with enough men and supplies to keep the army intact.

Battered and bruised, Bors marched his weakened detachment back the way they'd come to regroup with the main host. The Dawnbringer Rebellion would never attempt another campaign in the East, for while Bors had narrowly escaped captivity and certain death at the hands of his blood-related kin, his true brother Thrand had successfully secured the fealty of the horse lords of the South without a single blade drawn.

The time to march on the capital was upon them.

 

[Bors Greythorne]

​

One month later...

It took them several weeks to gather all their warriors for the final battle that would see the end of the dishonourable reign of the Usurper as clans from across the world joined their warbands under the unifying force that was the Dawnbringer. Long behind them were the days of visiting village after village scrounging for souls willing to throw their lot in with a band of rebels. Now, brave fighters were drawn to their cause through word of mouth alone and every day seemed to add another banner to their war room, so much so that they were forced to expand the tent to thrice its original size.

While Thrand remained at camp to manage the disparate clans from across the realm, many of whom had fought each other in the past or still clung to the old rivalries of their ancestors, Bors was sent out regularly to ambush loyalist reinforcements and seize supply trains in preparation for the showdown outside the gates of Tháinbroek. As evening gathered, he returned with the latest catch.

"Get the supply cart unloaded and distributed. Have the lads eat hearty tonight, for tomorrow we will dine behind the walls of Tháinbroek!" The men let out a cheer as Grey-Boar rode on through the army camp, passing more tents and fireplaces than he could count along the way only to be surprised to see the many chieftains and generals exiting the war room in a long row, dispersing to relay tomorrow's strategy to their clans. Had the council concluded early?

He knew the council would convene this afternoon and that he would miss it, but seeing how he and Thrand conceived the strategy in the first place, he didn't feel the need to attend. But gatherings of such magnitude usually go on for hours as chieftains feel the need to inject their ideas or object to those of another, only to end up at square one. Better to be out there and do something concrete.

"Manfreyd," he nodded to the man who had been with him at Greyhame. "What's all this? Did they get an early start?" Manfreyd shook his head, making his red braids swing from side to side, grinning excitedly. "Nay, sire. It's the Prince!"

Bors raised an eyebrow, believing he referred to his brother. "Don't you mean 'King'?" Manfreyd shook his head again, laughing as he walked off to get drunk. "You'll see what I mean, Grey-Boar!"

Intrigued, Bors dismounted his trusty steed and led her by the reins to be tied up outside the war room when he overheard voices coming from within. One belonged to Thrand, but there were two others. A man and a woman he did not recognise, and by their accents they were not of this world. He peeked through the flap to find his brother talking to a young pair, one blonde and the other raven-haired. He'd never seen Thrand act so familiar with anyone other than himself.

"The Prince," he found himself echoing Manfreyd's words, eyes wide with realisation. Thrand's very own son in the flesh. The future of Midvinter. He wanted to step inside and pay obeisance, but the warmth on his brother's face as he held his long-lost boy was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Such pride and joy, sprinkled with relief and a hint of tears. It was an expression his father had never shown.

His astonishment turned into gladness for his childhood friend, that he should experience such joy on the eve of battle. He smiled as he backed away, posting himself by the entrance to keep others from walking in on the trio. An hour later, Bors stood aside as the flap was flung open and the Prince and his woman stepped outside, their arms interlinked and her head resting upon his shoulder. Young love seemed such a rare sight to the old soldier, stirring nigh-centennial-old memories. Painful ones.

Assured his brother was alone, Bors gently pulled the flap open. Within, he beheld Thrand leaning over the battle map with his back towards the entrance, his shoulders slumped. Drawing nearer, he could make out the faint sound of sobbing. Grey-Boar hurried his step, appearing at his brother's side and putting his arm around him. Thrand leaned into the embrace just as his knees gave way, leaving the two lifelong friends sitting on the floor of the war room as the Boar held the Wolf. Bors felt the sting of tears, if only because seeing Thrand in such a state was overwhelming.

There they sat like the two boys from a century ago, only this time their roles were reversed with Bors being the one to offer consolation.

"Gods bless you, my dear Bors," his High King uttered once calmed. "My unwavering rock, truest of the true. Long may your years be, regardless of tomorrow's outcome." Bors shook his head, unable to hold back tears of his own. "You were ever my rock, most worthy of brothers. I could not fathom wandering the world without you. The hope of your return was all that stayed my knife hand from ending this wretched life long ago. I owe you my life and dignity, and I can never repay you in a hundred more lifetimes. The threads of our fates are interwoven - no doubt we shall enter the Golden Gate side by side."

Thrand took his brother's hand and kissed it. The two sat back against the table, eyes drawn to the starlit sky glimpsed through the tent's entrance.

"I love you, Brother," he said the words Bors had longed to hear his entire life.

I love you. Those words echoed in his mind over half a century later as Grey-Boar looked upon his brother's statue in Heavenheim. They could never get his nose right. He knelt, placing his offering beneath the Dawnbringer's feet. There were many events of his long life he could no longer recall, but he could still bring back every memory of him and Thrand.

"Happy birthday, my brother. Please wait for me just a little while longer. I'll see you again soon."