by M.Y. Roger
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CONSPIRACY AT GALADROSIA
It was dark on the west fold road that headed west for the Anin River. The banners that warbled above the helmed head of the riders fell flat, as they cantered to a halt at the brow of a hill. The ride had begun at dawn out of Mindol but it won’t be until another day before the party would reach its destination, Ain. Horton alighted from his horse, and walked tiredly up a slanting rock. To the north he could see the distant dusky summits of the Saran Mountains in the last glint of light. Already a fire had been made and tents were set on the dell behind.
“It is less than a day’s ride from there to Ain.” Gurlof said, startling the captain out of his deep thoughts.
“I guess it is, but that bothers me less for I have ridden farther than that. Is just that we are the first emissaries to come to Ain after the fall of Surrucia, and what hopes have I that the fair lady of the house of Zocos would accept me for it is said she is under a spell, cast upon her by a lover her father banished.”
“There is hope my lord. Though the maiden be under a spell of Sondon but how could she reject a lord of your caliber. There is none of your worth in all of Ain or Maul or beyond the mountains; you do her father an honour since he is not man enough to sire a male heir.” Both men chuckled. By now the darkness was too deep to even discern the aged face of Gurlof or the young steeled face of Horton.
Darkness had long cloaked the woods, the riders now rested in their tents, and in the gleam of the lanterns within the tents one could see their wandering shadows on the canvas. Horton was fast asleep on a fur in his tent, huddled in a cloak, by his side his armour sat next to his helm and sheath. A soldier came into his tent and roused him.
“My lord someone awaits you.” He said.
“Who awaits me in the middle of the night in this sombre place?”
“One who will not disclose his name, nor show his face to anyone except the captain of Fysia.”
Horton grasped his sword and a shield, but in his hurry did not strap on his armour. Outside the tent the gibbous moon stood upon the west but the wind was flat, his men were on guard and about twenty paces away stood the dusky figure that appeared to be wreathed in darkness.
“I am Horton son of Mattan, captain of Fysia, now by what name are you called you who rouses me from my sleep?” He asked.
“Put away your weapons I have not come with evil but with tidings of peace.” The voice said. “And if indeed you are Horton my search is not futile, as for your sleep many nights await you. I come in the name of my lord who now masters upon all the earth.”
“When last I checked I was no servant of your master, neither was my father nor his lands. I will have no word with any nameless servant of a nameless lord, do away with him!” Horton’s men approach cautiously towards the veiled figure with drawn weapons. Though unrevealed figure was unarmed but they could feel a lurking hideousness in their hearts, when all of a sudden they were on the lawn lying unconscious at the mere stretch of its hand.
“I have not come to spill blood or to cast spells, but to offer terms.” The shadowy figure said. This time its voice was menacingly cold and harsh as it approached.
“Show yourself! Show yourself.” Horton growled as he clutched tightly to the hilt of his sword.
“I am Cyran. The lord of Cyranous does not fear.” He said as he threw back his hood, and in his hands was Horton’s sword which he presented to Horton, only then did Horton realize that he had been clinging onto the air. Cyran grinned as Horton gasped in awe.
“A gift from me, but my master gives greater gifts more lavish than all the lords upon the earth, neither does he forget oaths and treaties to all who have sworn allegiance to him.” Cyran said. Horton looked in awe at his blade which had turned to gold and was glittering in the firelight.
“Though I do not know your face, but wherever that name is called it is evil and full of deceit. The harbinger of death, the hand that sundered the lines of the kings of men.”
“Then I should kill you.” Cyran sneered. “And your men would awake at dawn to find you of no use.”
“Are they alive?” Horton gasped.
“Aye, they only slumber because I wish to speak to you alone.”
“Then end your magic and speak to me plainly as men do, do not hide behind the subtlety of your crocked tongue.”
“That I have done, but a man I am not though I once was, and even after this age withers when there is no song or lore to remember those that strove in it I will remain. It is my lord’s wish that as many as he deemed friends should partake in his immortality and power.”
“Speak clearly Cyran; I do not have ears for riddles.” Horton growled.
Cyran chuckled.
“I bring word of him whose names you only dread to mention, him who the whole earth is smitten by his terror. Too long have the kings of Fysia languish in the shadows of the lords of Mythia, my lord brings war to Mythia and he seeks allies of men, only that they name their terms, say that to Mattan your father. Tell him my lord will see all men under one king, not the one in Ain but in Mindol if he agrees to his terms.”
“Even under the pain of death my father will not succumb to such terms.” Horton said hotly. Cyran halted and turned back.
“Perhaps you will.”
“I will not bind myself by any alliance to Ibisia for your terms are full of treachery.”
“It is said that there is a Nurdoress in Ain, whom all men seek. Lords and captains, you seek her hand too."
"They claim she is under a spell, a love portion spell placed on her by a lover her father banished."
"Indeed!"
"I do not know my chances of wooing her to myself; they say she yields to no man. You are a sorcerer, the greatest in this age. Help me, help me break his spell."
Cyran chuckled. "Horton son of Mattan, there are no spells for love. Return to your tent I have a gift in there for you, and do not bother seeking after me, I will return to you in due course of time.” Cyran said and instantly vanished into the night.
After Horton had overcome the shock of the strange tryst, he returned into his tent, unsure if he had seen an apparition. Upon his bed under his cloak was a large chest, fear consumed him as he beheld the riches within. In it were all gold coins which glittered to his face then it dawned on him that it was no illusion but reality. The wealth before him was twice what his father had amassed in his life time, even the king of Mythia could not boast of such wealth, he felt uncontrollably inclined to run out after Cyran and agree to his terms. The more he peered into the chest, the more his gloat for a greater hoard seized him, but little did he discern that the ill will of the enemy was gradually consuming him.
Before dawn on the next day, Horton had the chest wrapped securely in a cloak and strapped to a saddle, at the sight of such a hoard anyone could sell his loyalty and become a spiteful foe he thought gloatingly. The men appeared to be ignorant of the event of the past night, and gradually they began the ride for Saran.
Ragged clouds sailed in the sky and the mist parted reluctantly before them, throughout the ride Horton remained silent not even a whistle did he mutter to his horse, he rode at the rear with his gaze fixed eternally on his concealed chest.
Before noon the company of riders came galloping up the ardent pass below the shadows of the mountains. To the east was the realm of Maul and beyond the mountains was the Horol road that headed west into the realm of Mythia. At Saran they rested in the king’s fortress of Moilon where they were granted permission to ride in the king’s realm from the captain. As soon as lunch was over, they took the roads, hoping to reach Ain before dusk; it was a ride of more than twenty leagues from Moilon to Ain. The tempo of the riding increased as it seemed Horton could not wait to behold the much talked about beauty of Veasty or worst still he feared the fate of such a hoard in the wilderness, if discovered.
Later in the riding one of the riders called, as he pointed northwards with his reining hand. They could see the d
istant summits of the grey host rising from the oblivion. Nightfall came on the second day after setting out from Mindol when they rode through the gate into the city. Horton took a long look at the magnificent gates, either through Veasty or his new found ally he would soon become lord of this great realm he thought. He thought of the possibility of his armies laying siege to the impenetrable city, unless Cyran could furnish great armaments and troops it would be impossible he realized.
The horse’s hooves clattered up the paved streets for Thurin-hill, but even as the riders rode through the retreating crowds they were astonished that none took a second glance at them, as if Horton was not a lord, instead they could discern a sombre atmosphere over the city. The riders were bewildered at the sight of the golden court, where they were welcomed by a captain, and later that night after they had refreshed they were brought before the king.
The king was a cold, grey man. It seemed the last time he had a grin was a thousand years ago, but he appeared more powerful and wiser in his gloom that all approached him with an air of dread.
“My lord I present Horton son of Mattan, heir and captain of Fysia and his host.” The warden of the hall hailed. The king’s face rose with deep somberness as he beheld his guest bowing to him. Horton set out towards the dais of the high throne and bowed.
“I am Horton son of Mattan of Fysia; I come in peace before the great king of Mythia.” Horton said with a grin as if he had no deceit in his heart.
“You are the first Fysian in my hall in many years, but I will not draw my sword because of your pledge of peace.” The king said. Horton could see the great silver hilt girded beside the king’s baldric that was partly concealed by his richly braided cloak of purple.
“I bring word from my father your long forgotten friend. Words of peace and alliances just as in the former days, and as a token of our commitment I bring you a gift and in return I seek the hand of the Nurdoress of Mythia.” Horton said eloquently. Horton’s companions gave a round of applause with cheers, but were soon silenced when they saw the long, scowl faces that beleaguered them.
The king sat back as Horton motioned to his men to hurry with the chest; with much pride he opened the chest even as he peered tauntingly at the king. The content of the chest made all gasp in awe mostly Horton’s companions, but Roc gave him an unconcerned look.
“I hope this is not the hoard of your `father’s toils? For riches are of no use in an age when the foul throttling hand of evil is hot on our throats. I do not seek riches my friend, but one man for every sword in my armouries, as for my daughter I would leave you to find out if you can release her from the wizardry of Heres.” He said.
Horton was gravely disappointed by the cold shoulder treatment of the king, but crafty as he was he did not show it. “Since when did the courtesy of my courts grow cold like those of Rogoroth?” The king growled. “Serve my guest anything they wish, let the minstrels sing songs to their delight, as for me I must retire to my sordid bed though it mocks me with my sleeplessness.”
Horton sat at the head of the great table, about him his men were greedily munching their meals and gulping down mead furiously, he had lost all appetite for food tonight. His ploy had gone foul perhaps the king had discerned his deceit at a distance he thought, but if a quarry will not fall to the arrows of the hunter it would not elude the traps so it is said in Fysia. At dawn he would seek the princess but first he must glean word about her and the wizard called Heres. For a piece of gold he got the loquacious warden of the hall talking, who soon divulged everything the prince wanted to know about Veasty and I. Horton felt elated to learn that I was not a wizard or any conjurer as he had feared but a mere farm boy who must have long drown in the sea or hacked into pieces by the savage Ibis in Ibisia. He felt deep pity for Veasty’s helplessness and could envisage her grovelling after him to take her from her ignominious fate.
In the early hours of the morning, Veasty was strolling wearily in the flower gardens of Thurin-hill where legend had it that Theorbane met the Nurdoress. She would not let her maidens around her for at any moment she would fall to her knees and weep. To the north she peered in gloom as if to behold me in Ibisia as great tears gathered in her eyes. Beyond the distant sea her lover had gone on the most precarious venture of this age, though she had a withering hope that I might someday return, but ever after her father had mentioned that he had watched us sail into the northern oblivion under a bleak weather on a turbulent sea, she knew it was almost impossible to ever see me again but she remained resolute despite all that I would one day return out of the darkness.
“Are you Veasty, princess of Maul?” a deep voice called. She hurriedly wiped her tears and turned back to behold the richly dressed man who was clad in a red mantle adorned with many embroidery and gems, at the gates of the garden his companions waited on him. He must be a lord she thought, and from his cheerful look he was definitely another suitor trying to sway her heart.
Horton was flabbergasted when he beheld her enchanting beauty, the rumours he had heard were definitely true that he fought strongly within himself from falling to his knees and worshipping her but he was a prince not a stable cleaner. He realized that Heres wizardry was not in spells or potions but something many men would never discern. Veasty’s head fell in grief, how many of such suitors must she turn down before it all comes to an end she thought.
“I am Veasty.” She answered feebly.
“I am Horton prince of Fysia.” Horton said almost stuttering. “Indeed your beauty precedes you. I can swear none can vie with such beauty upon the earth.” He said as he stared deeply into her face while she turned away from his searching glance. Horton reached into his pocket and produced a bracelet of gold that was set with many gems of various hues. He held her and strapped it about her wrist, but Veasty would not have a glimpse of it.
“I am a daughter of kings; I cannot be swayed by such things.” She said calmly. “Though it cost you a fortune but my heart is beyond any hoard of gold, my love is my gift which I give willingly, it cannot be bought neither can I be coerced to yield to any man.”
Horton was stunned and lost of words.
“Have you heard of him?” she asked.
“Aye I have. But what hope do you hold onto knowing he would never return?”
“It is not in your power to say that.” She whimpered.
“It is clear to all, that any who ventures into Ibisia is dead before they even behold that accursed land.” Horton said.
“Indeed you have foresight my lord, but I wonder why you have not seen that you have no chance in my heart.”
“I come to rescue you out of your misery; a lady of your worth should not waste in such unending grief. I come to give you a new hope, come, live in splendour with me and you will never regret it, only if you would take a glance at me for a moment.” Veasty turned and took a weak glance. Horton had a great concerned look on his face. He was indeed more handsome than many a suitor but there was a cold light in his eyes that made her shudder.
“How come you never speak of love, or is it that you have never felt it. I will not yield to any man who does not love me.”
“Love is an illusion that gathers as the mist at dawn and withers before noon.”
“Oh! Love is like the sun, Rogoroth saw it in his age and after our age it will still be seen.” She said and holding his palm open she placed his bracelet and walked away to tend her roses in grief. Horton felt downtrodden, he grimaced and his rage knew no bounds, if this were somewhere else he would have smothered her, his face turned steel and with great indignation he charged out.
“Prepare my horses we ride at once!” he growled. Now there was nothing stopping him from allying himself with Cyran not even his father. For the embarrassment he had suffered from the king and Veasty the whole of Mythia was doomed with them. Let Cyran raise his hordes, bounty or no bounty to see himself avenge such embarrassment was enough reward for him, without even saying farewell to the king, Horton left in so much rag
e many described him as a ravening savage. For once the king was gladdened that Veasty had turned him down, but even so he felt a new fear for the men of Fysia were of the same stock as those of Iop, traitors whose trademark was treachery.
Cyran in his dark ingenuity must have planned the disappointment of Horton, and how he mused himself as he beheld it from his orb in his chamber. Just as he had planned, things were beginning to fall into place, he could see the yearning of Horton to destroy Mythia, it was now left to him to do his own bidding which he would not fail.
On the third day after hotly storming out of Mythia, Horton came to Mindol and immediately conveyed a council of the knights of his realm. In that council he disclosed his new ally and intentions, though the men were reluctant at first at the thought of war, but to avenge the dishonour shown to their prince which they saw as upon them all they were easily sold and when they saw the bounty that they each will receive, but one remained ever reluctant, Mattan the old wise king.
“All my life I have lived to hate the king of Mythia,” He began. “For in Mythia a Fysian is seen as a traitor but even the deepest hatred withers with time, except one, that which lies in the dark foundations of Sondon’s heart. Not in my days will I see a man and an ibis under the same banner in battle. If Mythia falls my countrymen, we are defenceless! Forget about bounties it is of no use to dead men. Cyran’s words are like water to thirsty men, but it is poison that will make you all grovel into your graves. As for that cursed sorcerer I will behold his face at Galadrosia even as he has requested and tell him to ward off my countrymen.” Mattan said trenchantly.
Horton looked down with a mortifying look, the same rage he had felt in Ain was gradually consuming him against his father but he restrained himself from striking his father dead right away. In another secret council oaths were taken by those captains whose allegiances were to him, but it was not without the substantial bribes of gold and a promise of much more to come. All the captains swore allegiance to him except the Morbids, Mattan became a prisoner in his own sanctum as he watched his own heir become perceptibly more powerful than himself. He knew the deceit of Cyran was not without any dark craft, and he knew how virulently it could thwart a man for it was before his eyes that Aardoo, a mere servant became a menace.
A week later, the riders of Fysia rode to Farkburg after crossing the twin tributaries of the Sinaren river, the river that ran east through the great woodlands called Fondir, a name given by the Nephilim of that age. At Farkburg ships were readied and across the gulf of Gul-minor they sailed, for it was shorter than the long ride through Morzor for Folodwith. After four days at sea in calm weather, they harboured at the ruins of Folodwith where they received a message that Cyran awaited them at Galadrosia, the battle plain where the power of Surrucia was broken. But the riders of Fysia would not dare ride near Galanim for fear of venturing into the dark lands, for any league beyond Folodwith was feared as an intrusion into Goon of Ibisia, a place no man had dared for many lives of men. It could not be ventured when they could not fully trust a new ally long renown for betrayal.
With a great exhibition of banners like the marching of the kings of old, the riders of Fysia came to Galadrosia where Cyran was already awaiting.
“Cyran!” Mattan gasped, as he beheld the lord of Cyranous. Though it had been many years ever since he was last seen, but he had not changed a bit. There he stood clad in a white overflowing robe as if he still represented the light, behind him stood a large company of battle clad Krocs, in serried ranks beneath the dark banner of Ibisia which was unfurled in the fair wind of the vale of Galadrosia. Once under the territories of Surrucia then Fysia, until Ibisia overran these lands it fell into the hands of the Ibis lords of Turgron. The ibis still holds bitter memories of their countless defeats here when Surrucia was strong.
“Mattan, lord of Fysia the tamer of wild horses.” Cyran called as he approached imperiously towards the pavilion where the king of Fysia stood clad in a purple cloak that hung onto his breastplates of gold. A sheathed weapon to his side, and a crown of gold helmed upon his head, behind him the best riders of the lands of Fysia. But even as Cyran drew nigh, he bore no weapon only his staff which he clutched to his breast, but that staff was more dangerous that any sword ever forged or wielded in the life age of the earth.
Both lords stood a few paces from each other in tension, a wind rose from the distant peaks of the mountains and poured down upon the pavilion that it shook.
“The last time you were seen, doom came upon the age of men.” Mattan said gravely. His eyes grey with age and his beard seemed like wool that shimmered upon his cloak, even as he peered into the subtle eyes of Cyran which seem to gleam with a white light as if a mocking laughter was in his heart at the waning strength of mortal men, a thing he would never suffer for he had tasted of the waters of immortality just like his master.
“I bring you word from the one who would soon be the lord of the whole earth.” Cyran said.
“You mean the dark one, Sondon!” Mattan retorted with a contemptuous tone.
“I came to offer terms of an alliance to you, for the lord of Ibisia would recognize just one lord amongst men, and he desires that it be you.”
“There can never be an alliance between light and darkness.” Mattan snarled. “Go back to the ruins and the shadows of the detestable lands you rule, for no man will be yoked under Sondon, in the name of any alliance.”
“If you will aid the servants of Sondon in the fall of Mythia, and bring the line of Edessa to an end just as that of Andron and Salmengras then shall the rule of Fysia, Mythia and Maul and all realms be under your lordship.” The sorcerer said.
“You are but an emissary of evil, who can discern what wickedness lies in the heart of your master? You speak words of peace and alliances while his hands move to bring war, and will the lord of Ibisia not impose any tributes on us, like our lives as his wretched slaves. I know you have read my mind by your dark arts, well, it is not difficult, for all though I hold a grudge against the king of Mythia, but I will not partake in his downfall.” Mattan said.
“Well if you would care to know there is one that will.” Cyran said, beckoning behind the king who on turning back saw his prince right behind him, his eyes cold and his countenance was ominous.
“Your own seed has turned his back against you and so has your captains.” Cyran’s voice now sounded grim and boisterous as if he now pronounced Mattan’s doom. The king of Fysia reached for his sword but Horton was swift and he drew it from the scabbard and pointed the blade sinisterly to his father’s throat.
“Indeed the evil hand of Cyran is long.” Mattan gasped. “But it will not last forever; a day rises when it shall be sundered and trodden.”
“Horton your son has chosen the right path, the path of power and glory. He will not be like his father who languished under the shadow of the king of Mythia, and not only has he become an ally of Cyran but even that of the lord of Ibisia.” Cyran said.
“You fool! Whose eyes have been clouded by the deceits of Cyran, can you not see it? Cyran is a serpent with sweet subtle words which only bring destruction. You have sold your race and my father’s house and you shall fall by it.” Mattan said.
“No father I have chosen to be great.” Horton snapped. He drew out his sword to strike his father, when Cyran restrained him.
“Hold it! Mattan I will take to the dungeons of Isenmorg as a gift of the allegiance of Horton to my lord.” Cyran said even as he peered into the pale, terrified and whitening pallor on the face of Mattan. And gesticulating with his hands the old king was seized by the Krocs and shackled in great chains, bound for the dungeons of the Dark Vale.
“Now you and your fair captains and riders come have a drink with me, of alliances unbroken to the worlds ending.” Cyran said even as he patted upon the broad proud shoulder of Horton. The wine was served in goblets of gold, but it was no wine but a portion that was fraught with the evil malice of the enemy to enslave the will of
the Fysian, transforming them into puppets in the hands of the puppeteer Cyran.
Cyran was lavish with his gifts, chests of gold and precious stones, and the best of the hoard of Ibisia which was of no use to the dark master. And with the side of his eyes did he watch their gloat, the very gloat that had corrupted him, Aardoo and many others that were now in the service of Sondon.
“If you will aid the hand of Sondon in the conquest of Mythia, as such shall I fill your halls with much gold and strange wealth that you shall spend the rest of your lives counting. It is in the power of my lord, he promises and he keeps to his words.” He said emphatically and looking up from his price of treachery, Horton said, “My lord.” And it dawned on the sorcerer that indeed his potion had begun to work its effect, and once again one more had been added to the ranks of traitors just as Aardoo fell secretly many years ago. One more traitor that would hasten the hand of the tyrant to wrought his implacable mischief.
Before Cyran left Galadrosia he had made known his intention for an invasion of Mythia at the beginning of autumn. With an army stationed at Gur-lotta which had been rebuilt to be led by the revived wizard king, Aardoo, whom Sondon had resurrected. Horton was to aid him with cavaliers for the strength of Mythia was in its infantry. Horton pledged his commitment to raise all of Fysia to Aardoo’s aid. When all was set and done, Horton returned to his lands with a strange rumour that he had engaged Cyran in battle and his father had fallen. Cyran returned to Ibisia to find that the tower of death of Basra had been sacked by the same hand that had dealt treacherously with Aardoo. Sirrion his most guarded prisoner was free along with three Surocs which he had left to rot in a potion.