The Kingdom of Liticea: The Sorcerer Prince

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Nighttime Exploits

Night came quickly for Anton. The long summer days were waning and the chill breezes moved through the air foretelling the coming of winter. The northern chill would come first, and freeze the ponds and streams, shortly followed by the great snowfall. The people of Antonium and the rest of Liticea were already preparing. The main harvest had not begun, but in a month the fields will be empty and the granaries will be full, and people will go from tending crops to praying at the temple of Rannos for the winter to come an early end.

The feast came to a slow end. It lasted well past midnight, and the soldiers were lumbering to bed after what will likely be their last night of heavy drinking. Jon Malken was one of those that left the Great Hall of Anton and entered the Tower of Hospitality absolutely drunk. There was such a tower in every worthy castle in Liticea, but none of them were easily accessible for the inebriated. Freedmir was there to help him up. Jon wished he had one of Yorod's carriages so he could carry all the wine he wanted into the Westland.

"I'm going home, Freedmir," he spoke as they finally got to his room. Every room in Lord Oaran's castle was decorated with Orange and Yellow bed sheets. On the wall hung the banners and there was a fire across the room and two chairs for one to relax.

"Let's get you to bed, my Lord."

"No! Put me by the fire. I'm not tired," Malken collapsed into a hair and Freedmir took the other.

"We're going home," he said again. His eyes slide lazily around in their red sockets.

"We are, my Lord."

"It will be amazing. My Ancestral home. I've never even been there. I've never been to the Westland. Did you know that, Freedmir?"

"Yes, my Lord. We grew up together. I've been wherever you have."

"Yes, you have," Jon slide down his chair. He latched on the armrests and let his feet slide ahead of the chair, folding the rug that lay in front of the fire.

"It feels so good to be going home."

"It does, my Lord."

"Too bad Sarabath is gone," he lamented. The large town once belonged to the Malkens during the reign of the Rochistyr, but they were ousted during the Rebellion. Jon's great uncle was the last Malken ruling before it was taken from them.

"At least those ass-nibbling, boy-touching Tamral's are gone," he laughed, "They were real ass-rats, you know! Forced my family out because they would not kiss Rorchistyr ass. And Horith Ryden! What thanks did my family get for standing up for his cause?"

"You did not get Sarabath, my Lord."

"Didn't get Sarabath! Even worse, he gave my father this little, shit keep at the edge of the Rainwood. The Malkens belong deep in the wilds, surrounded by towering trees, by the great streams that cut through the land like a knife through butter! That's where I belong. That's where I'll die, whether it's fighting Morcars," laughing hysterically, the self-proclaimed Lord of Sarabath let the wine pull away his consciousness. He finally fell asleep leaning against the edge of the chair. Freedmir pulled a blanket off the bed and threw it over him. He then took the other chair and dozed off in the firelight.

Their room felt last refuge. Outside the window there was a great fire, and it was waiting to swallow them all. Naked,and the firelight outlining the muscles on his body, Julius gazed out the window, to the west, looking that great fire in the eye. Helg was in bed, his upper body was hanging over the side with a tipsy smile on his face. He too was naked. When they were together, there were no clothes allowed.

"You're worrying again," Helg said as he hoisted himself up to look at the knight staring out the window, "You're beautiful when you're worrying."