EPILOGUE

The stony field was indicative of much of the Isle of Orre: wet, rocky, and covered in moss. Seabreeze filled the damp air on the cold, foggy day. Over the mild hill lay the salty water of the sea, slowly taking its toll on the coasts, thousands of years in the making, with thousands more until their unmaking. The field grew little more than grasses, moss, and lichen. It was a desolate place. Only boulders filled the space where trees and farms had once been. It was a sad place.

Standing amid this melancholic field was a giant of a man. He was dressed in an undershirt, soiled by sweat and mud, and too-tight slacks. His rusty head of bowl cut locks stuck to his massive head, leavened by sweat. His face was a rough sight indeed. An indistinguishable and invariable assortment of pox, warts, freckles, and boils smattered his face. In the middle sat a nose that had been broken so many times, in so many directions, that the very concept of uniformity was foreign to it. His left ear, what was left of it, hung flapping against his face like a massive skin tag. A thin shadow of a spotty red beard covered his neck. His arms were as big as tree trunks and muscular to match. His legs were much the same. What skin was exposed was covered entirely in scars varying in depth and size. He was truly a sight to behold. The most notable feature of the field by far.

He had in his massive hands, which were missing many fingers and portions thereof, a massive greatsword that held by any other would seem comically large. The thick blade was dented and chipped, battered and banged on all sides. The dull blade was caked in a thick coating of orange rust. The memory of death was stained into the cracks in the steel and on the faces of the blade, which had a slightly reddish tint. This was an instrument of death. The giant swung the blade with all his might to and fro, practicing on imagined enemies.

Prince-Admiral Charles Orre II was just as his title proclaimed him. He was King James Orre III, rightful King of all the Pax Isles, brother and heir until he birthed a son. More consequently, he was the Supreme Admiral of the Royalist Navy, the greatest navy that had ever or would ever exist. It had failed to stop the Duke from expelling them. That error would soon be corrected. The naval turncoats were being dealt with posthaste. He wore the regalia befitting his station. A blue naval cloak, golden emulets, red uniform with gold trimmings, and his mostly ceremonial sword. The Prince Admiral rode a great horse, as was fitting of a royal. His men mounted Komodon like all the rest. 

"Butcher," The Prince-Admiral called out to it as his retinue approached the giant and the field,

The giant took one more swing, turned, and spotted the Prince-Admiral and his persession. He giant thrust his sword down into the gravelly ground with such force and weight that the blade buried itself near a third of its length deep. He dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

"My Prince," he managed, not without difficulty struggling through the sounds. He had the voice of an ogre. The Butcher was not a learned man. He was a man of very few words, since he knew few enough words. Mostly the war ones. At least he knew his place. The Prince-Admiral dismounted and approached the monster.

"Rise, beast," The Prince-Admiral ordered, gesturing up with both his hands to assist the idiot. The Butcher returned to his feet. "I bring good news. We are readying for war. We will put that Cleavor of yours to good use," The Prince-Admiral promised.

A sickly, toothy attempt at a smile broke out across the Butcher's face. It revealed two thoroughly incomplete rows of teeth, not one of which was unblemished. Many of which were cracked and chipped. All ranged from yellow to brown. The beast was overjoyed. He did love his killing.

The Butcher took the hilt of his buried blade in one hand and in a single fluid motion, heaved it from the ground. He brought his other hand to the hilt and raised the blade high above his head. He brought it down onto a large boulder besides him. Like a death bell, it rang out. The sound was bone-rattling. The immovable stone gave way before the unstoppable blade.  The boulder was cleaved clean in two as if it had been made of clay. 

The Prince-Admiral smiled. He should have let the corpse kill him. The Prince-Admiral had much grander designs than death for his old cousin, Little Leo. 

FIN.