by A J Callen
Dowrick raised his head. “And is it not also said, my lord, that fire and poisonous vapors rising from the very bowels of the abyss fill the air of the caverns so that only the Choldath may survive there?”
Jack rose from the Evermere table. “And what other choice do we have, my lord? We must find it and arm each protector so that we can destroy the demons with the same power shown by Lord Lionsbury and Callor.”
Callor chewed, silently, before clearing his mouth to speak out. “I agree, Jack, and how I wish that we young lords and our fearsome blades were allowed to accompany you.” He swallowed. “You and your lowborn friends are so brave and an example to us all for I am certain that you can accomplish your perilous task without our help.” He chuckled and swigged his drink as if he had no time to lose. “Isn’t that right, Marcus?”
Marcus looked away without saying a word.
Lord Lionsbury reached forward and, as if trying to hide the sight of the lands from the room, quickly rolled up the map. “I cannot dispute the words of Lord Dowrick, nor do I vouch for what the old stories tell us. The only way to discover the truth is to accept the risk and seek for ourselves what lies beneath.”
Lord Dowrick nodded in agreement. “As you wish and may Saint Kaja herself grant you good fortune.”
Goran stood. “But what if they fail? Do we send more, and more after that? We have already lost three of our number to the enemy, and all the while, they grow in strength.”
Dominique rose gracefully from her chair. All were hushed as she swept the Great Hall with her crystalline gaze.
Simon stared at her and this time she did not avoid meeting his eyes.
“My brother speaks wisely and we both agree with Callor Tiberion. Are we not here to choose the King? Well, aren’t we? How can we do this if, one by one, we are sent to wander the wastelands searching for something mentioned only in legend? Let this band journey where they may and good fortune to them all—but we cannot send more hereafter. We cannot afford to lose any more of our number, considering how our future King, and possibly future Queen, may be counted among us.”
Robert pushed his chair back. “Hear, hear. Dominique speaks most eloquently and to the point. We must conserve and rally the forces under the Council’s command, to protect our people until the new King is crowned. There is nothing to be gained by anymore reckless and dangerous acts. Venturing far and wide based on nothing but hearsay and tittle-tattle is the stuff of boys’ tales, and not for those who take seriously the future of our Kingdom.”
A storm of arguing voices erupted around the room. Callor leaned back, observing all with an amused expression.
The Holy Seer banged the tip of her cane on the dais. She raised her frail, quivering voice until she was hoarse with anger. “Each time we argue and delay, the Choldath grow in power. Ignoring the danger and denying the risk will not help us escape it. One by one we will be destroyed, our homes laid waste, and those we love murdered before our eyes or worse, their souls torn apart and feasted upon by the unholy legion closing in around us.”
“See how they tremble and cower from the very words the old witch speaks?” Simon shook his head and rubbed his temple. He thought himself rid of it but the scratchy voice could return and torment him without warning.
Rachel leaned over and spoke in his ear. “What’s the matter? You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’
“You should, boy. Set foot outside these walls and you’ll wish you had run away when you had the chance. I’ll skewer that little bitch alive in front of you and shove her roasted flesh down your—” Simon jumped to his feet as though forced by a will not his own. “Please, all of you. We can’t waste any more time arguing like this. We must journey before it’s too late.”
The Holy Seer rose stiffly from her chair. She squinted at Simon. “Are you certain you have fully recovered, child?”
“Well enough to do what must be done, your Holiness. All that I ask is that none should follow if we do not return. The young lords are right. The remaining protectors are needed here to choose our rightful King and fight for those who cannot… and when we return—and return we shall—we will join forces and destroy the demons once and for all.”
The assembly stared at him in silence. There was even a hint of something like a grudging respect in Callor’s cutting eyes.
Mr. Byrch lumbered to his feet. “I am honored to help the lad and his friends carry this burden through to the end.”
Jack pushed his chair back and stood. “Then we leave at first light so that we may safely return by the same, before the first snow falls. And then we shall see my brother crowned King.”
Callor spat and folded his arms across his chest. “Return at all, Evermere, and you will be surprised on whose head the crown sits.”
Rachel stood beside Simon and Jack. “Not as surprised as you, and of that I’m certain.”
Callor cocked his head to the side. “Then we shall see, my pretty lady, who has chosen wisely and with their eye on the future, and who has not.”
The Holy Seer raised her voice. “Enough of your bickering. You sound like selfish and petulant school children. Conduct yourselves with dignity as befitting your positions and respect for each other, as deserving of any person.”
Rachel bowed. “Forgive us, your Holiness. It will not happen again.”
Callor nodded in a half-hearted gesture of apology.
“Very well. Lord Lionsbury, Mister Byrch, and…” She squinted and pointed a trembling finger to the back of the hall. “Mister Kovoth will assemble and equip their party in preparation for the departure tomorrow morning.”
Kovoth furrowed his brow and offered his most humble bow. Raising his head, he exchanged a smooth half-smile with Callor.
The Holy Seer gestured feebly with a hand-sweep. “The remaining protectors will stay here and receive further instruction from Lady Bellemar and Lord Dowrick on their assigned duties and responsibilities. All shall be armed with the finest weapons Farrhaven has to offer, and henceforth shall fight our mortal enemy should any here be threatened.”
“And under whose command, Holy Seer?” Goran asked.
“That is for the young lords to decide. Will each family choose to command and fight alone, or unite with the others in a single force? The skills required to marshal our diverse people against its common enemy is one of the traits of a true leader, and on that, we must all agree or suffer the consequences for all eternity if we cannot.”
Simon’s cautious gaze slid across the hall to the Velizar table. A single glimpse of Dominique’s face bestirred the haunting melody once again, the children’s song that had plagued his sleep with dark, confusing dreams of a young, nameless girl from another time and place.
Lord Lionsbury and Byrch led Rachel, Jack, and Simon toward the rear door of the hall. Aware all were watching, Simon held his head high trying to mask the familiar, sickening anger of being a captive on display, yearning for the one thing most here possessed but that had denied to him by the fate of his birth.
The last to leave, Simon didn’t pause or glance over his shoulder at those glad to see him go. He didn’t want to look upon the hostile faces of any who believed the crown within their grasp if no one returned from this dangerous journey.
Chapter 15
Comforting Explanations
High Priest Worlaw stood back in the shadows behind a temple pillar across the square.
He observed the group of gawking freemen milling around the royal proclamation board; the most recent Council-approved summary of Lord Lionsbury’s Farrhaven report had just been posted for public viewing.
With grave and calculating eyes, he studied the reaction on the slack-jawed peasants, at least any capable of reading the large letters freshly inked upon the parchment. Those imbeciles who could not ascertain its meaning asked their semi-literate friends to explain.
“Ah, they be all the same,” the grimy-faced pig farmer declared, coughing up a ball of phlegm and spitting it into t
he mud. “Who cares who sits on the throne this time? Tiberion, Evermere, Strathwald, or Velizar? They look after their own and take turns passing the crown. They’re one and the same, to us.”
“Torold Hafgin speaks the truth,” the portly butcher added. “Listen to your neighbors. Do any of you see my noble family name of Pinchback on the list?”
The butcher’s slovenly cohorts chuckled and grunted in agreement. The one aptly named Smithwin Pinchback pointed at the crowd. “Or any of your own?” He scratched under his flabby arm and stood in front of them. “Nay, friends, you know me, a man of plain words.”
“And plainer women.” Hafgin, his loose-mouthed accomplice, gave the larger Pinchback a jovial push. Their neighbors laughed louder.
Pinchback wiped his grin on an oily tunic sleeve. “I’m a freeman like you, you know; a humble butcher, that’s what I am, so I know I speak for each one of you when I say these nobles should stop with this whole wasteful business. The next one who wins the crown keeps the crown, and however he does it be no concern of ours.
“He’ll be our rightful chosen King and he alone can decide who follows him, kin or not, without all these fancy lords and ladies interfering with their bloody rites and rituals. The five patriarchs be moldering in their graves from the so-called Age of Heroes that few care about in these grim days, I can tell you that.”
Hafgin patted his friend on the shoulder. “Spoken like a true countryman and defender of the crown. Why do they waste gold paid with our hard-earned taxes far away in an old castle when our crops have suffered the worst blight since any can remember? And the worst part is, there are rumors there may not be enough grain to see us through the winter. Will the lords and ladies of Avidene come to our rescue then and help feed our families… with a damned slave rebellion breathing hot fire down their necks?”
His Eminence studied the growing agitation in the rapidly expanding crowd. He made special note of the anger and fear creasing the raddled faces; it was clear they blamed the aristocracy and their prized possessions, the slaves, for the present shortages of food and unrest throughout the land.
Pinchback hooked his sausage thumbs into the waistband of his bloodstained breaches. “Make no mistake, my friends. What we need is a true King of the people, not another royal scallywag giving away more land and favors to the likes of certain lords and ladies, whose names I be too much a gentleman to repeat in public.”
“Or too afraid they’ll flog your sorry fat hide if they catch wind,” grumbled Hafgin.
The High Priest reached into the pocket of his dark red velvet coat and turned the six gold sovereigns over. The smells of fresh fish and horse manure curled around his nostrils, making him squint. He removed a rosehip-scented linen handkerchief from his other pocket, flicking it once and signaling his loyal aide, Sir Premek Malenkov.
It was his sign to Malenkov standing at the back of the crowd, that all was going even better than they had anticipated.
Pinchback nodded in the High Priest’s direction. “Well, I hope you’re wrong because look there, friends.” He pointed across the square. “There be his Eminence, High Priest Worlaw himself, and he looks not afraid to get the dark mud on his boots like the rest of us.”
The High Priest kicked away a maggot-infested dead rat and walked down from the stone steps of the temple. The surging crowd parted, allowing him to walk unimpeded before the submissive lowborns and cross the square without so much as brushing a single shoulder. He advanced toward the peasants gathered around Pinchback. All turned to acknowledge his presence in the customary, yet cautious manner.
Pinchback bowed as low as his porcine girth would allow. “Perhaps, his Eminence will be kind enough to say a few words to us and explain more of what is on this parchment and what these Rites of Succession might mean to we common folk?”
Hafgin lowered his head. “And many here are afraid, too, of these strange reports from the borderlands.”
“I understand, my good people.” High Priest Worlaw brushed the dust from the sleeves of his coat. “I have heard the dire fear in your words and neither of you shall receive any argument or reprimand from me.”
“Thank you, your Eminence. Know that we are your most loyal believers and only wish to do what is best for our Kingdom and our fellow freemen.” Pinchback bowed again and backed away.
The High Priest studied the silent rabble for a few moments. “As your fellow countrymen have told you, it is a great King we seek; on that we all agree, but he must be an exceptional ruler and warrior, one who knows deep within his imperial soul that the power he ultimately wields comes from you, his people, and not a small group of entitled nobles indifferent to your struggles and ambitions for a better life.”
Hafgin removed his patched cap and glanced at the crowd. “With all due respect, your Eminence, how do we know that you are not part of that same group of which you speak?”
The High Priest placed his hand over Miradora’s coat of arms, the silver six-pointed star emblem, above his heart. “In the name of all that is holy, each one of you shall bear witness. I give you my word that I am using all the powers at my command as spiritual adviser to the King’s Council, to ensure you will see the crown pass to the most courageous and magnanimous among us, one not afraid to seek out and claim new lands and treasure for his people. Our sovereign will be the richest, most powerful in the known world, yet he will have no need of physical wealth beyond measure. For, as I have told you, he knows the true source of his power and will share the riches of all fairly with each if you but swear allegiance to him and him alone as your one true King… for now and evermore.”
The crowd was gobsmacked, each looking to his neighbor and asking if they had each heard the same jaw-dropping words coming from the High Priest’s mouth.
Pinchback cleared his throat and spoke to the eager throng pressing in on all sides. “Is that not the most wondrous news we have ever heard? Who but High Priest Worlaw is truly concerned for our lives, both in this world and the next?”
The confirmations were swift and exuberant. Claps and whistles filled the square.
The High Priest opened his raised arms in a gesture of wide embrace. “Tell me, who among you does not wish to own a few acres of fertile soil to plant and your own livestock to sell, thus to feed your families?” He paused and studied the muddy pond of unwashed bobbing heads before him. “And to have enough gold to buy your own slaves?”
Hafgin stepped forward. “Begging your Eminence’s pardon, but are you saying the new King will do this for all of us?”
“That and more, much more, when destiny delivers him to us, yet we must all do our part and prove ourselves worthy for the arrival of such a generous patriarch of the people.”
“And the one you speak of… which noble contender at Farrhaven deserves such worthy praise from his Eminence and the Holy Seer? Is it Callor Tiberion perchance?”
The corner of the High Priest’s mouth curled ever so slightly. “The rites forbid I say any more on the matter but take heart that you shall all know his Regal name before the first snow falls.”
Pinchback glanced back at his cohorts. “I know I speak for all freemen here. We don’t care which family it is. We all desire the same things and would gladly trade our souls to have land to call our own, to feed our families and not watch our children go hungry. What must we do, your Eminence, to help one so magnificent gain the throne?”
The High Priest rested his hand on his Pinchback’s hairy shoulder. “Be patient and do not be swayed by any news arriving here from Farrhaven.”
“But what about these reports of monstrous creatures attacking our defenses?”
“That is nothing to fear. They are mere pests and our brave soldiers are dispatching the last of them at this very moment.” The High Priest raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Please friends, trust when I say all is being put into motion as we speak and soon, your new destiny will manifest before you. Trust and believe in this greater glory and when the heroic moment c
omes to choose, be not afraid or cling to a past that has not delivered the future you have always desired… and deserved.”
Pinchback clapped his meaty hands. “All hail, his Eminence and may our one true King be crowned before winter comes!”
The crowd broke into cheers, accompanied by the shaking of fists in the air.
High Priest Worlaw passed amongst them with one hand resting on the hilt of his family sword as he made his way to the carriage waiting in front of the temple. He allowed any fawning, foul-smelling peasant to touch his noble person and thanked each with a smile and wave of his gold and silver-ringed hand. If revulsion knew a depth past which it could no longer descend, then that is where his stomach had finally settled.
Sir Malenkov closed the carriage door and the driver set off for Thornfield Manor.
The High Priest peered out of the window at his exuberant admirers, grinning until the strain in the corners of his mouth was unbearable. He leaned back in the plush satin chair and drew the window drapes. Inhaling the refreshing aroma of his rosehip-scented handkerchief, he closed tight his eyes. Smithwin Pinchback and Torold Hafgin had earned their six sovereigns. More importantly, they could be trusted now to recruit others of similar ilk to help sway the crowds here and across the Kingdom.
Pandering and promises were the only ways to shape fickle freemen and vain nobles into the proper subjects required for the Kingdom’s rebirth in the new age fast approaching.
A noble was only as honorable as his word and High Priest Godric Worlaw had not lied when he swore his oath to serve and protect the one true King. Lord Delcarden’s miraculous escape from certain death had complicated matters, but Sir Gambryun could be counted on to seal the troublesome noble’s fate at the exact time and place of the High Priest’s choosing.
The High Priest winced from a sudden sharp pain and pressed his hand on his chest over the same spot. The pounding force of his heart had increased since Delcarden’s unexpected return, as though beating to sustain more than a mere single man.