Of Treasure and Sanguinary Things, by James Crowell

Photo by Nik on Unsplash

Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. Bastard. Traitor. The words flashed in Gunnar’s mind, rage pouring into one final, ferocious thrust. The blade sank into the old man’s flesh, his grey eyes growing wide with momentary fear. His father, the king, was dead. There was no going back. Bonds had been broken. Blood had been spilt. Nothing would stop him now.

Gunnar brushed the hair from his eyes, the golden locks sticking to his sweat-soaked forehead. He paused, recovering, his hulking frame heaving with every breath. The room about him was a nightmare, heads and limbs scattered all about, the once-beautiful tapestries red with blood. Gunnar stared at his armored gloves blankly, their now crimson sheen reflecting back at him. With a start, he leapt to his feet, shaking himself from his ruminations.The warlord strode onward.

On the far end of the chamber stood two wooden doors. They were a feat of craftsmanship, their colossal frames rising high into the rafters above. Gunnar halted before them, as if afraid, pausing with cautious anticipation. Behind these slabs of solid oak was a treasure beyond compare. The Prize of Aurulion, the Twilight Widow’s Dowry, enough gold and silver to fill any king’s coffers for years to come. His rightful inheritance. Gunnar smiled faintly, remembering the stories of his youth, how he had dreamt of this day. But it had all gone wrong.

They had planned to attack in the dead of night, hoping the element of surprise would earn them a painless victory. Instead, they rushed in, the city riots forcing their hand.

The enemy was waiting. Gunnar’s warriors had fought well, but they were no match for the calculated discipline of the castle guard. What should have been a quiet assassination became a bloody massacre, and those he had once loved--brothers-in-arms, childhood friends, even his own kin--fell to the sword. But as the morning sun peeked above the horizon, only one man remained. Gunnar Godfrey, the Butcher of Dane, Jarl of the Emerald Cliffs, the Bastard Prince, and now--King. Gunnar breathed a long, painful sigh, the memory of the carnage still with him. It had been bloody, but unavoidable. And they had all died honorably, even his father daring to meet him in combat. Yet Gunnar could not escape the lie. For deep down, deep within the chasm of his soul, he knew a burning truth which could never be spoken. He had not shunned the slaughter. In fact, he had relished it.

With a grunt, the soldier pushed open the heavy oaken doors. They creaked stubbornly, their seal rarely broken. Inside was a cave. There were no wooden carvings, no embroidered tapestries, no golden statues, but a stone crypt, hewn crudely into the castle foundation. In its center was a single chest. Gunner was surprised at the simplicity of the chamber, but he brushed aside his momentary doubt, rushing to the treasure. The stale leather crackled as Gunnar pried it open, his eyes wide with anticipation. They grew wider still, slowly filling with silent tears. It was a chilling site. Amidst the scattered debris, the warlord slumped to his knees and began to weep. For within the grand chest was neither gold nor silver nor jewels of any kind, but heaps of leather and crumpled pages. Books.

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James Crowell is an aspiring writer and editor with a passion for entrepreneurial endeavors and a love of storytelling. When not pursuing these interests,he can be found managing his YouTube channel and full-time business White Noise Reacts, reading, playing Warhammer with his brother-in-law, and cooking for the special people in his life.