The Tide of Battle 

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" 

- Seneca

Cyprus scanned the ranger's field report. Slovenia appeared to be following an orthodox strategy even though it was in completely the opposite direction. She was slowly advancing her front lines, thus ensuring consistent access to the supply trains feeding her army. The sudden change from measured retreat to equally measured advance had not come as a complete surprise. Lord Jordan had been out of camp for a little over two days and suddenly her tactics were reversed. Cyprus was not an overly pessimistic man, however, he was coldly rational and the possibility that this turn of events was coincidental seemed slim. She was pushing back against the Poan lines with her entire army. Effectively risking everything. If it was a bluff, it was the riskiest bluff he had ever seen. 

He dismissed the ranger with a wave of his hand and a terse instruction to continue scouting the enemy lines. The ranger nodded and hurried out of the tent, disappearing into the general hubbub of activity in the camp. 

Cyprus followed him out and took a moment to observe the activities, trying to gauge the general mood in the camp. He detected some anxiety in the faces of the men hurrying to and fro, busy with the machinations and logistics of army life. To a more casual observer, there would have been no apparent change in temperament. However, Cyprus was no casual observer. He had an uncanny sense of intuition that served him well in his role as steward. He could tell a man’s mood by the set of his shoulders, the subtle tension in the mouth, or a furtive glance. The signals he was receiving now told him a lot. Thankfully, the general impression was of excitement and anticipation rather than overt worry or concern. It was apparent that Slovenia's change in strategy was not being perceived by the men like the potential disaster he could see looming in front of him. It seemed the men were itching for battle and were confident that the army could meet anything Slovenia might throw at them. At least, in a straight fight. However, news of Jordan's fate, whatever it may be, would ultimately define the impact on troop morale. Cyprus was worried. He had a bad feeling that the tide of battle was turning in Slovenia's favor. 

Jordan's warrior reputation was the stuff of legend among the rank and file of his army. Tales of his debauchery with the spoils of war had kept many a fresh-faced recruit motivated in the darkest moments of battle. Cyprus knew that his word would never carry the same weight that Jordan's or his heirs had done. Cyprus's mind raced furiously, he needed leverage and he needed it fast. He turned and marched back in to Jordan's tent. 

"I suppose it's my tent now," he thought. 

The tent was large and ornately decorated. Thick, opulent curtains of material divided it into separate living areas that served various functions. The entrance opened into a large open space that passed as a meeting room. The space was dominated by a large circular table that was covered with a large woven cloth. The cloth was expertly woven with a rudimentary map of the region that served as a strategy board. A multitude of small iron statuettes covered the map, representing the various troop placements as well as approximations of enemy positions gleaned from scouting activity. Cyprus leaned over the table and carefully adjusted the placement of Slovenia's front lines based on the rangers' report of their movements. He studied the changes carefully, his brow furrowing with concentration. 

She must have captured Jordan. Nothing else made sense. She was clearly outnumbered and he held the higher ground. He was better supplied and carried tactical advantage on practically every front. Yet here she was, squaring up for the mother of all fights. It was possible that this was a diversion but the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. Why risk everything, practically your entire army, unless you thought you could win? 

He stood up straight and turned away from the table. It was time a decision was made. He could never assume the role of general directly. He didn't possess the qualities expected by the warrior class, but he did have a final card to play. He pushed past the table and walked into Jordan's sleeping quarters. The space was dark and humid. The musty scent of Jordan's rutting hung in the air. Cyprus wrinkled his nose and shook his head to clear the unspeakable visions of Jordan's proclivities from his mind. The sleeping quarters led on to another area within the tent. Cyprus pulled aside the dividing curtain and peered into the gloom of the small ante-chamber. 

"Hello Norway, my darling." He spoke soothingly. 

There was a short intake of breath and a scrabbling sound. 

"I have wonderful news, but first let's get you cleaned up. The clan needs you." 

The young girl he was addressing was crouched in the corner. She was naked save for some tattered clothing that did nothing to protect her modesty. Norway was Jordan's third child. Twin sister to the brothers Sweden and Denmark. Unlike her brothers, she was not an identical twin, but rather a fraternal sibling. She had shared her mother's womb with them, but not an ovary.  

Something else that she shared with them was a unique genetic mutation, though hers was radically different from theirs. The mutations were unusual as they did not result from a random copying error in the DNA. It came from an external source. An outside agent that infiltrated the genomes of their parents, literally at the point of conception. 

The circumstances of their conception were clouded in mystery. A situation that Jordan had worked hard to engineer by revealing as little as possible about it. No Poan, save Cyprus, knew the identity of the children's mother. Though the warlord had been at pains to ensure that everyone knew that the holy blacksmiths of the Skyforge had blessed their union by showering the couple with the divine sparks of the Skyfall as they made love. This lent the tale a certain poetic beauty but also had the benefit of being true. Skyfall was perceived to be a good omen and this was confirmation of the warlord's noble status. However, the reality of what the Skyfall represented was beyond the understanding of the primitive Southland people. They could do no more than mythologize the rare event so that it would fit into their frame of reference.   

"He won't come back?" 

Norway was perched on the edge of the cast iron bath in Jordan's tent. Cyprus was industriously scrubbing away the accumulated filth and grime that caked her body. Underneath it all her figure was remarkable toned and lithe. 

The Steward shook his head firmly. 

"No, I don't think we will be seeing him again, " he replied, "I suspect your mother is keeping him occupied." 

"Good," she said, "I hope I never see him again." 

As she spoke a shiver ran through her causing her wings to unfurl slightly, knocking the scrubbing brush from Cyprus's hand. 

"I think we're going to have to find a way to control these unruly appendages of yours," Cyprus said, stretching one of the wings by the tip until it was fully extended. "In fact, it's probably best if we keep them under wraps until we figure out a way to introduce your, 'gift' to the clans." 

He marveled at the apparent strength and vitality of the wing. He better than anyone knew the torment and suffering this girl had endured at the hands of her father. She should have been covered in bruises and scars but the smooth skin stretched taut by the extension of the wing was unbroken and blemish-free. 

"Remarkable," he whispered. 

Norway folded her wings curtly. She was hurtling through adolescence and Cyprus's attention was beginning to make her uncomfortable.  

They had a unique relationship, the mutant girl and the elderly steward. Her existence was a closely kept secret. Even though she had been born at the same time as her brothers, the uniqueness of her gift had compelled Jordan to keep her existence a secret. It had been a herculean task, but with Cyprus's assistance, the female heir to the Poan kingdom had remained hidden. Anyone besides Cyprus who found out about her was swiftly silenced. Invariably fatally.  

Cyprus had devoted himself completely to the care and fostering of the child. It had been torturous, but he had swallowed his emotions when it became apparent that Jordan had taken a fancy to his daughter and had begun taking his pleasure from her. The steward had rocked her to sleep, cradled in his arms countless times, soothing the torrent of pent-up pain that spilled forth from her broken and battered soul. Her stoicism in face of such torment filled him with an immense sense of paternal pride. Now, here she was, turning into a beautiful young woman before his eyes. 

"Norway, my darling, " he said, holding out a large, soft fur for her to dry herself with as she clambered out of the tub, "I am going present you to the clan. The kingdom won't hold without Jordan or one of his heirs to keep it unified." 

Norway quickly dried herself before wrapping up in the luxurious fur. Cyprus walked over to the doorway and poked his head out. 

"Have the camp smith report to me immediately," he instructed one of the infantrymen who were guarding the entrance to Jordan's tent. 

The guard nodded stiffly and hurried off to the armory. 

Cyprus turned back to face Norway, "I think it's time we had you fitted for some armor of your own. Furs are pleasant, but if you are to be accepted by the clan you must at least appear to be warrior-like. I think the time is ripe for a woman to stake a claim on the Poan high shield. If it works for the Wreghan's, I see no reason why it shouldn't work for us." 

Norway frowned. 

"You think I should lead the army? I don't understand. Why would they accept me?" 

"Don't you worry about that, my dear. Let me deal with the captains. There is powerful mythology surrounding Jordan and his progeny. You bear more than a passing resemblance to the man, so convincing them of your bloodline won't be a problem. Your gift will serve as a sign of your divine right to lead. I don't think they will take much convincing once they see you." 

"But I'm not a warrior?" 

Cyprus shook his head in disagreement. 

"Oh, but you most certainly are! You have a strength of will the likes of which I have never seen before. What you have endured would have been the ruin of many who would call themselves warrior. Physical strength is not what defines the title. In truth, it's all a matter of perception. You'll see, once you have been fitted in armor you'll find they go a long way towards influencing that perception. As they say, the clothes maketh the man." 

"And what about my brothers? Why would you not have them lead us?" 

"I fear Denmark may have met his demise, probably a caver scavenging gang got him or perhaps some other foul hearthland beast. Your father and Sweden have been gone for far too long without any word. Slovenia's sudden change of tack makes me think she has happened upon them." 

One of the remaining guards announced the arrival of the camp smithy and Cyprus called for him to enter. The smith was a wizened old soldier who had lost most of his teeth. He hobbled in and set down his knapsack of tools. 

"Your excellence," he said, acknowledging the steward with a bow, "You have need of my services?" 

"Why yes, my good man," Cyprus answered, "We have need of full battle raiment for the lady you see standing before. Time is of the essence, so I must insist that you have it ready before ember-light." 

The smithy turned to look at Norway. She was still wrapped in fur. 

"Uh-huh," he said, "We're sending little girls into battle now?" 

Cyprus laughed humourlessly. 

"Norway, my dear, please reveal yourself to our guest. He needs to have his perspective adjusted." 

Norway looked back at the old steward nervously. She was not sure what he meant. 

Cyprus sighed in exasperation. 

"Child, if you are to lead these men you are going to have to learn how to grab them by the balls and drag them behind you. This man is a commoner and he has insulted you. Teach him the error of his ways." 

Norway got the message. She flung off the fur and extended her wings with a fluttery flourish.  The wingspan afforded her an imposing presence as she rounded on the smithy. The old wretch stumbled back in shock, mouth agape. Norway flapped her wings twice as she pounced on him in all her naked glory. With surprising agility, she landed with both feet squarely on his shoulders. Her added weight and his backward momentum caused the smithy to fall flat on his back, screaming in terror as she squatted over his face. 

"Hush now," she soothed, caressing his face as she loomed over him. Her wings twitching and flapping idly, helping to maintain her balance. 

"What the fuck are you?" he spluttered, his eyes bulging in their sockets. 

"Allow me to introduce you," Cyprus said with an evil grin, "This is Norway, daughter of Jordan and as of this moment, Warrior Queen of the Poan Clans."

Chapter 35
Art  by Daniel Sheldon https://www.facebook.com/speednperspective & https://twitter.com/Beatroute