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Thump! Thump! Thump!

Maeric was startled from sleep by the sound of banging on his door. There was no light spilling in from the shuttered windows of his room, so he surmised it was not yet dawn.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

"Baeren!" he called groggily to the unseen knocker outside of his door, "Go back to sleep"

A muffled voice could be heard from without the room. Though he could not understand the words, Maeric could easily tell the voice was far too deep to be his brother’s.

He swung his feet over the edge of his bed and hurriedly wrapped a cloak about his shoulders for warmth as he shuffled across the stone floor. Who could be knocking at such an early hour?

He removed the latch on the door quickly and was nearly knocked off his feet when the door swung open as if thrown. In the doorway stood Carl Mitter Wyke, the head of his father’s House Carls.

Carl Mitter was a man in his early forties. His face was lined with a maze of criss-crossing scars and lines of age, making him look far older. Though he was barely taller than Maeric, his shoulders were nearly twice as broad, and his arms looked like tree-trunks compared to most men. He was a consummate soldier. But this morning, rather than the blue and black tunic he normally wore around the keep, he was wearing a shirt of chain mail with a halberk of Black bearing the white owl of House Gendry. A short sword was strapped at his hip. He bore a torch, and the sudden black smoke brought tears to Maeric’s eyes and almost made him choke.

"What-?" began Maeric. Carl Mitter cut him off.

"I’ve been pounding on this damned door long enough to wake half the keep!" he shouted. "Get yourself dressed and to the main hall, and get there quick, you hear me? Your father wanted you down there half an hour ago!"

"What is happening?" Maeric tried to ask the soldier, only to be faced with the man’s back as he turned abruptly and headed down the corridor towards Baeren’s room. Before he rounded the corner, Carl Mitter paused and looked back toward Maeric, who stood dazed in his doorway.

"Now, boy!" growled the Carl at the stunned boy.

Maeric, finally regaining his senses, did as he was told, and dressed quickly. He did not even go first to Baeren’s room as usual for them to go to the main hall together. He walked straight from his room to the Main Hall.

Baeren was there before him, standing behind his father looking lost and confused. Orren Gendry stood in the dim candlelight in full fighting dress. He wore his shining mail shirt, and bore his great broadsword, Grülf, at his side. Around the room were a number of armed men, Maeric noticed they were all Carls, and all were from the Keep. They did not even seem to notice when he came in. They continued talking amongst themselves.

"…we received it two hours ago. These are all the men I could gather on such short notice. Messengers have gone out to the surrounding farmsteads and manors for all of your House Carls in Greywater Deep to join us at Highbridge as soon as they may." Maeg Rieven was saying to his father.

Maeg Rieven was the castellan of Greywater Keep. He had served Orren Gendry since he was a young man, starting out as a guardsman, and eventually earning the Duke’s trust. He had been a fine soldier in his youth, but a drunken brawl had left him without the ability to bend his left knee past a quarter of the way, so he walked with a severe limp. He began administrative duties with the city guard, and worked his way into the Duke’s household.

Maeric joined his brother near the far wall, his eyes wide, the excitement building.

"What is happening?" he asked his brother. "A war? Has the king summoned us to war?"

Baeren looked at him and shrugged.

"I don’t know." Baeren whispered. "I just got here."

"A war?" Asked Carl Mitter. "War is easy, boy! You see your enemy coming, you stand strong and kill them one by one. This is not war."

"No," said the Duke, "This is the Vÿkstraak."

Though all the fighting men in the room had no doubt been apprised of the situation, the frankness that the Duke used with the situation seemed to take them all by surprise. All conversation ceased immediately and all eyes turned to him. Maeric thought he saw something in their eyes, as if the simple statement from his father was a sobering experience. But it was more than that. Maeric saw something else, something he had never seen from such men; fear. These trained and experienced fighting men of the North feared the very mention of the Forbidden Song.

"Your brother sent a message from Highbridge a week ago." Said the Duke. "Clemond, Marten, and a few men left four days ago to investigate, but the men of Highbridge have heard no word from them since. There are reports of fighting in the towns around the city. We are going to put down a revolt."

"What has happened to Marten?" asked Baeren fearfully.

"We do not know the answer to that yet, boy." Said Carl Mitter. "We’ll find him. The House-Carls are gathering again, and we’ll put a stop to this singing nonsense, even if we have to hew a few heads from their necks!"

Several of the men in the room grunted in agreement. Though there was a hint of fear in their eyes, they were still highly trained professional soldiers who felt nothing could stop them in a fight. With less talk about he Vÿkstraak and more talk about fighting, they were regaining much of their confidence.

"Hewing necks is the last thing we need to accomplish." Said the Duke. "These people are my people. They are simple people of Horwald, though they are agitated for some reason. We will not indiscriminately slaughter these people."

Maeric could not help but notice a slight glint of something in his father’s eyes. Could it be worry? For Marten? For the Townsfolk they would face? Maeric could not tell.

"But what will you do?" asked Baeren.

"We do not know yet." Said the Duke. "The legends all tell that, once begun, the only way to calm the Vÿkstraak is to kill those singing it or satisfy their thirst for blood."

"Bah!" spat Carl Mitter, "A song is a song, nothing more!"

"But the legends-" started Carl Hügwelf, one of the younger Carls present, but he was cut off by Carl Mitter’s snort.

"The legends are just that," said Carl Mitter angrily, "Legends! Any man who fears a song is a coward or a superstitious fool! Those legends are for housewives to scare children in their cribs!"

"Enough!" said the Duke sharply. "What we believe is irrelevant at this point. If those townsfolk believe in the song, then it is real! That is all we need to know. Now let us get down to business. The town is a day’s ride east of Highbridge, so we will take the road south to Highbridge and find a guide through the forest from there. How many Carls can be gathered by dawn?"

"Not many." Said the castellan. "If the messengers can reach the outlying farmsteads and manors quickly, and if the Carls there are at home, we might depart with a hundred men, but no more."

"A hundred?" asked the Duke almost to himself. "That is more than enough. There cannot be more than fifty villagers in this town, and ten Carls should be enough for that."

He looked up from the yellow, cracked map on the table before him and counted the men in the room. "We have twenty here, and ten are on their way from the east ward of the city, we will leave when they arrive." He announced. "Maeg, when the rest of the Carls from the Deep arrive, have them head at once for Highbridge. They should wait for me in the city. We will go immediately for Harfield from Highbridge."

The Duke turned to the servants who waited patiently by the doors. "Have my horses prepared!" he called. "At once!" They scurried out of the room quickly.

He turned to the boys who stood silently behind their father. In their short lives, they had witnessed few instances of actual violence, and this caught them at unawares. Maeric had dreamed of such times all his life, as did any boy born to a noble line- the time when men sharpened their swords and rode off to glory in battle. But this was different. There was a hint of excitement in the air, and he had not anticipated it. And there stood his father, in shining mail, his great sword at his side. He stood regally, just as Maeric always imagined a king would stand. And the men, who normally jested and drank with him, regarded him as their sworn lord with a seriousness Maeric had never imagined. He was proud of his father. This was what a Duke was born for!

"Boys," said the Duke to his sons, "When I leave, Maeg will have command of the Keep. You will both stay here. We do not know where Marten is, and we do not know what will happen when we reach Harfield, so you will be the head of my household here in Greywater Deep. Maeric, if something should happen to either me or Marten, you will be Duke Gendry. Do you understand?"

Maeric’s words caught in his throat. He had never truly imagined the possibility that he would be Duke. After all, he was the second son, and he had always looked up to his brother, Marten. He had never truly thought of himself as older than his twin, Baeren, either. The two had always been friends, and always been together, and neither ever faced the possibility that their older sibling would not come to power. It was unthinkable.

"But…Marten…" he stammered nervously.

"Did you not listen?" His father said sharply, "We have heard no word. Prepare yourself for the worst, son, and anything short of that will be good news. Marten may be dead, he may be alive. We do not know. Do not lose hope, but prepare yourself, understand?"

"Yes, sir." Maeric finally said.

"Good." Said the Duke, patting his son on the shoulder. "Now, Baeren, watch your brother, keep him out of trouble!"

"Yes, father." Said Baeren.

"Good boys, both of you." The Duke said looking at their faces again. "Now go find breakfast while I get these men in order."

The boys left silently for the far door. Maeric had no desire to eat. His stomach churned and twisted. Dead? Marten? The thought made him sick. He turned back toward the living quarters rather than the kitchens. Baeren, who appeared less affected than Maeric, stopped outside the door to the Hall and motioned to the kitchens.

"Where are you going?" He asked, "Aren’t you hungry?"

"No," said Maeric, "I think I’ll go to my room for a moment. I need to think." Maeric did not wait for a reply, and instead turned to the stairs and started up them to his room. Baeren followed silently, a puzzled expression on his face.

"You don’t really think anything has happened to Marten, do you?" he finally asked Maeric as they walked.

"I am not sure." Said Maeric. "Father seemed to be a bit worried. But Marten is good with a sword, and I doubt that any townsman would best him. And Uncle Clemond was with him. He’s about as tough a man as I have ever met. I cannot imagine anything happening to him."

"Marten is fine." Said Baeren confidently. "No one could capture him, and he is too well-trained a fighter to be beaten in battle."

"No one is so well trained that they can be sure to escape death in battle." Said Maeric. "Carl Mitter told us that every afternoon in the training yards."

"But he was warning us against overconfidence in our own abilities." Answered Baeren, "Marten would never be overconfident. He knows better."

"I hope you are right, Baeren."

The fire in Maeric’s room had been well tended by servants while he was away, so when the boys entered the room, they were greeted by a warm glow from the hearth. A brazier was lit on the far wall, adding even more light to the room. The shutters were still closed fast against the cold air outside.

Maeric took a chair from the wall near his small desk and sat staring into the fire.

"Baeren, do you believe in the legends?" he asked without looking away from the flames.

"Carl Mitter said that they are children’s tales." Baeren answered.

"But what do you believe?" he asked.

"I suppose I believe a little of both." Said Baeren, his face unusually thoughtful. "Suppose the songs are just legends. Suppose they are just songs, as father Carl Mitter thinks. But if the people singing them believe them, and they thirst for blood because of that belief, then it does not truly matter whether the legends are true or not, does it? I mean, if they believe them, they will act as if the legends are true. They will fight until they have tasted blood."

Maeric was stunned by the logic his brother used. He was not used to Baeric putting much thought into answers like this. It was unnerving for a moment.

This has him worried too. It has him thinking. He tries to hide it in his words, and false confidence, but he is worried.

"And if they believe it, it might as well be true." Said Maeric, finishing his brother’s theory.

"But what of the legends?" he persisted. "A man can be frightened into submission, or beaten into submission, but if the legends are true, they will fight when their wills would otherwise be broken. If the legends are untrue, but they believe them, then the legends will serve as a catalyst, a motivation, so long as their sense of self-preservation does override it. If the legends are true, they will have no sense of self-preservation."

"I suppose." Said Baeren. "But can you really say you believe in a magic song?"

Maeric smiled inwardly at the thought. His brother was making sense this morning, and he was not used to it.

"You should relax a little, Maeric." Said Baeren.

"I suppose I am just worried," said Maeric, "About Marten, Father…having to become Duke if something should go wrong…"

"So that’s it!" said Baeren. "I knew it would have to come out eventually. You need to worry less. What could be so bad about being Duke Gendry? People do whatever you say! You have command of the House Carls. You would have free run of all of Horwald! You would even have private audiences with the King!"

"And I would have to bury our brother and father." Said Maeric sharply.

"Of course. Of course." Said Baeren quickly. "I mean, we should be hoping for this to happen, but if it does, you need to be prepared. Just as father said. Being a Duke would not be so bad, brother."

"I don’t know." Maeric said after a long pause. "The lives of so many people depend on the Duke."

"Well, let us not worry about this." Said Baeren. "Father will be fine. Marten is most likely with his wife, and that is why he has not written in a week. You would have other things on your mind if it were your wedding retreat, you know."

Maeric smiled at last.

"Now let’s go eat something before they ride. We should be in the courtyard to see them off." Said Baeren.

Baeren and Maeric made their way through the keep to the main door. The courtyard beyond was wet and muddy, but alive with activity.

All about the courtyard, pages and servants held riding mounts who champed at their bits to be off. The frost of their breath steamed like billowing smoke in the cold. Maeric noticed his own breath as he stepped into the overcast morning. The icy mist had returned, and it hit his face like a wave of cold. Across the courtyard, he could see his father's great charger, Syghum, saddled and ready to be off. Not too far away, His father stood talking to several of the Carls. Despite the cold, the men wore no cloaks over their chain mail. They all openly wore weapons at their sides, and their symbols of their hosues on their chests.

Maeric noticed the closed fist of House Wycke, the two headed hawk of House Jorgün, and even the leaping white wolf of House Grea. He even saw the white field and blue ribbon of House Orgreave, no doubt the mount of Fredreck Orgreave, his second cousin. But his attention was drawn to his father's shield that was strapped to the saddle of his horse. It was black, solid black, with the Blazon of a white owl for House Gendry. The owl had horns, which was the personal symbol of his father, who men called "the Bull." He never heard men call him that to his face. It was a term for soldiers, his father had explained. Men called him that when they rode to war, but seldom elsewhere. It was a rallying cry, a war cry, not a term of endearment. So his father never brandished the Horned Owl in the Keep. Since he had fought in no battles in the memory of Maeric, he had never raised the blazon before. Maeric had seen it, of course, when he visited the armory. He had always thought of his father's device as, well, ancient. He thought of it as a thing of the distant past.

Yet here it was, ready to be born into battle. Maeric wondered at that. There were many shields with only the Gendry Owl on them in the armory. Bearing the symbol of his wartime past against some enraged peasants did not seem to be a wise choice to Maeric.

He stepped onto the paving stones that outlined the courtyard and made his way around the throng of men and horses in the muddy courtyard. At the far corner, Baeren stepped off the stones into the mud of the yard and approached his father.

"Baeren, Maeric!" Their father shouted above the hustle and bustle of the action around them. "Come here! Maeric, we're soon to be off!"

Maeric stood before his father, for the first time scared that he might not return. It never occurred to him before seeing the men arrayed in the battle gear that there could be men lost, even his father! Now the thought of his father riding off and fighting something as mysterious and foreboding as the Vÿkstraak frightened Maeric.

"When will you return?" he asked his father.

"When I can." His father answered. "Expect me in a week, two if the roads are bad."

He looked at the two boys for a moment, then took off his right glove.

"Maeric, son, take this." He fumbled with the great golden ring on his third finger, finally working it off over his knuckle and placing it in Maeric's hand.

"This is the signet of my House. With Marten gone, it falls to you to bear this, or deliver it to Marten should anything...happen…to me. Do you understand, son?"

Maeric closed his cold fingers around the ring. It was huge, and heavy in his hand.

"But, you will be coming back." Baeren insisted, obviously feeling much the same worries as Maeric.

"I should hope so!" their father laughed. His laugh eased the worries in Maeric's mind a bit. "As I said, watch for me in the week, two at the most!" He pulled his heavy black glove back over his hand and grabbed the reins from his servant.

"Mount up!" He cried. "We ride at once!"

There was much commotion as the armed men mounted their beasts. They gave cries of "Ride!" And "For Gendry!" as was tradition before setting out on errands of war. Maeric once again thought it improper. They were not, according to his father, riding to war, but to calm the people. Arriving as an armed party howling war cries was not what Maeric thought was in order. He said nothing, of course. It was his father's errand.

Twenty men sat atop their horses in the courtyard of Greywater Keep. With cries of war they rode off through the main gate into the city, and thence to the south to whatever awaited them in the town of Maeden. Maeric knew, somehow, that this would not be over in a week.