by Liam Reese
“You could come with me,” he said. “If you wish to, of course.”
Her tear-streaked face turned to him again, filled with gratitude, and a slight smile turned the corners of her mouth up. She nodded.
“I would like that, Lord,” she said.
Sharova stood from the squat he had been in and turned to pick up the young girl’s body from where he had braced her against a wall. Thoran’s scream split the night when she saw her staring at them with an evil grin plastered across her face.
“A beautiful betrayal, Sharova,” Tiernon said in the young girl’s voice. Her dead eyes rolled horribly in their sockets as the king turned her head like a puppet master. Her slack-jawed grin sent chills down Sharova’s spine.
“Do you like my new toy?” Tiernon asked through the girl. “I discovered something about the dead,” the king carried on as Thoran buried her face in Sharova’s side. “They are so much more reliable than the living,” he added in a dark tone.
Sharova pulled a long knife from beneath his cloak. The girl’s dead eyes widened even though they did not focus on Sharova.
“What manner of man are you?” Tiernon asked with false shock. “You have already murdered my little pet and now threaten her with a knife.” he chuckled horribly. “And you, woman,” Tiernon addressed Thoran. “How ungrateful you are. You were to birth a new race! You would have been the mother of the people, blessed above all. Now,” Tiernon added in a vindictive voice, “now you will suffer.”
The dead girl took a step towards them, arms outstretched and grinning awfully. Thoran screamed. Tiernon laughed.
Besmir sat at the head of a table. Zaynorth sat to his right with Keluse at his left. Herofic, Ranyor and Suranim sat beside them. Opposite the table, seated on mats or the ground, or simply standing with arms folded, were as many of the residents of the tent town as wished to be there. Besmir guessed there might be as many as two hundred, with the majority being women. A few older men dotted the crowd, as well as a few adolescent boys who had grown up fast.
So this is my kingdom? These are my people?
Besmir sighed and stood, glancing at Arteera, who offered him a warm smile. Besmir smiled in return, thanking any gods listening for the woman. He had spent most of his time in her company since the attack, finding himself irritable and out of sorts when she was not around.
“Friends!” he called, his voice rolling across the gathered crowd. “We have suffered a horrible loss at the hands of Tiernon’s men. We have buried our dead and must decide what to do next.”
Murmurs ran through the gathered people.
“Who did you lose?” Someone muttered.
“Who are you to decide what we do next?” An older woman asked.
“They only came here because of you.” An elderly man observed, leaning on a crude walking stick.
Besmir ignored their mutterings and continued. These people were grieving, angry and disheartened by the attack.
“I have heard in the past few weeks that some of you have expressed the opinion I should leave.” A whisper rippled through the crowd. “I asked you all here to decide your future, the future of your children, your families. I want to hear your voice in this matter.”
Zaynorth shook his head in disapproval.
“I know you don’t agree with me, my friend, but the people in this land have suffered so much because of decisions made by others, and I can’t expect them to just follow me blindly.”
“I believe you mean well, Besmir,” the mage said, pulling his beard. “And yet I believe considering the opinion of these people, no matter how good they may be, is a flawed plan. They have no conception of what we face, they are only—”
“Only what, Zaynorth?” Besmir demanded. “Peasants? Commoners?”
The mage looked away from his stare.
“I might be of royal blood, Zaynorth, but I grew up in an orphanage surrounded by people just like these.” He cast his arm at the crowd. “And one of the biggest concerns they have is not having a voice. If I am to ask them to die for me, I need them to want to do it.”
“They need a leader,” Zaynorth said. “They need telling what to do and where to go.”
Even Herofic turned an expression of displeasure on him.
“What an enlightened opinion, Brother,” he mumbled.
“What, you agree?” Zaynorth asked in shock.
“Look at them, Zay,” Herofic said. “A handful of broken women with nothing left to give but their lives. What hope can we possibly offer them?” He paused. “I do not know. What I do know is that treating them in the same way as Tiernon will get us nowhere.”
“You cannot rule by democracy,” Zaynorth grunted, folding his arms.
“I don’t intend to,” Besmir replied. “Now, can I carry on?” He tilted his head at the old man.
Zaynorth made a disgusted gesture, flapping his hand at the crowd. Besmir grinned and turned back to the people who were all watching their exchange with interest.
“Word will surely reach Tiernon of what happened here. You all aided in the defence of your homes, aiding me in defeating his soldiers.” He let his words sink in. “What response do you think this will bring? Acceptance? Do you think he will let this pass? Allow you to live in peace after defying him and killing his men?” Besmir paced before the table, giving them time to think. “No!” he shouted, making a few of the closer ones jump. “Tiernon has proved time and again he enjoys murder, lives to inflict pain and misery on his own people. He will come here in force, with hundreds of men if necessary. An army could descend on you all, burning and killing as it has done before. Yes, the soldiers came for me this time, but next time they will be here for you.”
Besmir waited as the women, children and old men chattered and wailed among themselves. Eventually he faced them and held his arms up for silence. Zaynorth watched as they quieted for him, accepting his lead already, and a slight smile creased his lips.
“I, Besmir Fringor, stand before you as the rightful heir to the throne of Gazluth and I make these promises before you all, as borne witness by the gods themselves.” Besmir thrust one finger up into the sky. “First, I will make sure that all are fed and protected to the extent of my own ability.” He watched as a few of those seated stood up. “Second, I will work tirelessly for the good of Gazluth and her people.” More stood at that. “And third,” he bellowed. “I will make my uncle Tiernon pay for his crimes against you all!”
A rough cheer rose from the gathered throats, quietly subdued but a cheer regardless.
“Before you are two flags.” Besmir pointed. “Red and green. I urge you to think carefully about the choice I now ask you to make. If you are willing to support me, allow me to lead you, stand before the green flag.” Besmir pointed once more. “If you desire that I should leave you to your fate, come before the red.”
Besmir sat back down, speaking to Keluse to give them all a chance to choose and move without him watching.
“Herofic was moaning about having to find new lodgings,” he whispered behind his hand. “Something about never getting any peace thanks to you and Ranyor.”
Besmir grinned as he watched the red blush creep up Keluse’s neck, her eyes widen and mouth open a little.
“I-I-I...after the attack,” she spluttered. “Ranyor...we...are fond of each other.”
“Really?” Besmir teased sarcastically. “You hid that extremely well.”
“You’re not angry, are you?” she asked.
“Gods no!” he said in surprise. “It’s about time.” He patted her hand and smiled. “You deserve a little happiness.” Despair hammered into Besmir then, pulling his face into a mask of doubt. “The gods know there’s precious little of that in the future.”
Besmir stood again, looking at the two groups that had gathered around the flags he had placed. Excitement and apprehension crashed into him in equal measure when he saw the vast majority had gathered around his green flag. Once more Besmir held his hands up.
“I have one last request,” he called to them. “I have given you my promises and now I demand yours. If we are to go forward as a nation, I require your pledge. Your pledge to serve me as your king!”
Silence dropped over the assembled crowd as his words sank in. Zaynorth looked at the milling crowd as they chattered among themselves. A flock of birds flew overhead, crying their woes to anyone who would hear. The old man rose, walking round the table until he stood before Besmir, staring into his eyes for a long moment.
“Zaynorth?” Besmir asked. “Is there something wrong?”
The illusion mage shook his head slowly before lowering himself to one knee before everyone there. He bowed his head to Besmir.
“I, Zaynorth Welforth, pledge allegiance to the land of Gazluth and to you, King Besmir,” he said, bringing tears to Besmir’s eyes. “Long live the king!” he shouted.
Besmir offered his hand, helping Zaynorth to his feet, pulling the old man into a tight hug.
“You need never kneel to me,” Besmir told him as the people moved from the green flag to surround them. “Your knees will never take the strain.”
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd at his comment, those closest relating his words to the rest. Herofic stood beside his brother, a warm smile on his face.
“You’ll have to kneel though,” Besmir joked.
Herofic stared at him with a flat expression as he grinned impudently back. A hush fell over the crowd as they watched the warrior who had defended their homes smile and bend his knee to their new king.
“I, Herofic Welforth, pledge my allegiance and my life to you, King Besmir. Long live the king!”
He rose, accepting Besmir’s arm in a warrior’s grip, turning to crook his finger at Ranyor. The rangy swordsman trotted around the table and knelt before Besmir, offering his pledge of oath as well. Keluse followed suit. As soon as she had stood, hugging Besmir and laughing, a figure pushed to the front of the crowd, who spread out a little to watch his progress.
Suranim had suffered a nasty stab to the thigh during the attack, but he limped across to stand before Besmir, the bloody bandage clear for all to see. He stared at Besmir with hope in his eyes and started to lower himself, but the king caught his arms.
“There is no need,” he said.
Suranim stepped back from Besmir, holding his arm out to Herofic, who helped him kneel. Besmir’s heart beat faster, his chest filling with pride for these noble people as they all began to kneel before him. Even those who had chosen to stand before the red flag grudgingly knelt before their new king.
Zaynorth stepped forward, holding his arms aloft and calling out loudly, “Do you pledge your loyalty to the rightful king?”
“Yes!” they shouted in unison.
“And do you swear your solemn oath to obey his commands and edicts to the best of your abilities?”
“We swear!” the crowd shouted.
Besmir swallowed, the lump in his throat gritty and hard as he cast his eye over the ragged, the poor and the starved of whom he had just become king.
“And how does it feel to be king now, Your Majesty?” Arteera asked Besmir sometime later.
Tent-town residents had pooled what few resources they could find for the impromptu feast that had been organized. Mead had appeared miraculously from somewhere, and Besmir was warm with the brew. Another large fire had been built in the middle of the tents, the ground around it trampled flat by hundreds of dancing feet. A few women had learned to play instruments in their youth and a rude band had formed, playing traditional Gazluthian songs for anyone to sing to.
Besmir regarded the woman before him, realizing again just how beautiful he thought she was. Her hair had gone back to its former lustrous self − long, straight and dark − catching the firelight in warm patches. Her flawless skin appeared to glow in his eyes and her round body called to his on a primitive level.
“It feels good,” he said simply, smiling at her.
Arteera looked up through her lashes, making Besmir’s head swim.
“All these people,” she murmured. “Willing to do your bidding.” Arteera ran her hand through her long hair, flicking it from her neck.
Besmir traced the line of her throat with his eyes.
“What would you order me to do, Your Majesty?” she asked in a low voice.
Besmir grabbed Arteera by the shoulders, feeling her delicate bones shifting as she breathed heavily, and pulled her against him.
“Is there anything you would deny me?” he murmured.
“No, my Lord,” Arteera breathed against his lips, smiling.
Besmir grinned and dragged her towards the tents.
Zaynorth and Herofic watched the young couple as they giggled their way across to lose themselves in the night.
“Looks as if our new king is about to receive his coronation,” the warrior grunted salaciously.
Zaynorth chuckled, tugging his beard and following Besmir with his gaze. Both brothers sat on logs that had been dragged across beside the fire, warming their backs as they shared a bottle of the valuable mead.
“Those used to be the days, eh, Brother?” the mage asked. “Do you remember?”
“Hmm,” Herofic grunted in response. “Do you really believe this is all about to work out for him?”
Zaynorth turned to stare at his brother with an expression of shocked displeasure.
“Where did that appear from?” he demanded. “This has been a good night until now. Why must you ruin it with mawkish questions?”
“It falls to us to ask those questions, Zaynorth,” he grumbled. “Besmir has no real idea of what he is up against. So, do you think he has a chance?”
Zaynorth sighed, his mind whirling over all the possibilities he could think of.
“I believed so when I left to search for him in Gravistard,” he said. “Now we have seen how bad things have gotten here, I... I simply do not know,” Zaynorth admitted in a tone of defeat.
Herofic was silent for a long time, making the mage believe he had fallen asleep until he grunted again, rising.
“I can feel the pull of my bedroll,” he said. “You need to consider the best course for that lad,” he added seriously. “I have become a little fond of him and would hate to see him crushed beneath your ideals.”
Without another word, Herofic nodded once and stomped off towards his own tent.
Zaynorth turned and stared into the glowing orange embers of the fire, spirits dancing in the heat mesmerizing and lulling him into a fitful sleep.
Steel grey skies met his bleary eyes when Zaynorth woke with a start the following day. His back ached as he struggled up, searching for the source of the commotion.
“Riders!” someone screamed.
“Soldiers!” another voice split the calm morning, waking the camp.
Squinting at the horizon, he could just make out a column of darkness moving in the distance, and his heart sank to think this might be the end before they had even begun.
12
Tiernon had used his puppet control of the dead girl’s body as a conduit to slam Sharova with lightning, making every muscle tighten in agony. Thoran had been screaming. A high-pitched and piercing sound that reached his ears even through the agony he felt and he hoped she was being spared the same fate as he was.
Eventually rough hands had grabbed him beneath the arms, dragging him along the ground unceremoniously, causing more pain. Shorova had tried to see where he was being taken but none of his muscles obeyed him and his head hung limply only allowing him to catch glimpses of the floor as it passed him by. After an eternity he had been thrown down some stone stairs into a pool of stagnant water, spluttering and coughing as it burned his lungs. Sharova’s first thought was that Tiernon had blinded him, and he had lifted his hands to his face, trembling fingers searching for any signs of injury. Relief had flooded him when he found himself intact, but fear grabbed him almost immediately when he wondered just what the mad king had in mind for him.
&nb
sp; That had been a long time ago, but his pain would not subside. The skin on his legs was hot and tight to his touch, and he knew infection had set in. Two of his fingers had snapped, and his scream had rent the blackness when he pulled them to reset the bones. Bandages torn from what remained of his clothing had pinned the digits together, relieving the pain a little.
Slowly and painfully Sharova had begun an exploration of his new world, his fingers flowing over the rough, wet stone that surrounded him. The chill ground against his bones made him shiver. He had no idea where he was or how long he had been here save that his beard had begun to grow.
The room was some kind of cell, he decided, cut from the rock and with a rough, wooden door fitted. The wood had swollen, wedging the crude thing in place so effectively, it was as solid as the stone around it. Sharova beat and kicked against the wood, trying to rouse someone, anyone, who might hear him. The silence grated on his ears, driving him mad with the need to hear someone else.
Minutes or years passed in silent darkness, giving Sharova plenty of time to consider his fate. Did he deserve this end? Possibly not, but then he could also argue it was entirely well earned. He had known there was something different with Tiernon when they had first met in his younger years. He had been quiet and introverted then, holding himself apart from others. Yet Sharova had been blinded by his own success and desire to advance to the highest rank in the navy. When the old king had died and his heir disappeared under unusual circumstances, Sharova had merely dismissed it as politics. He would serve his new king as well as he had the old one. He did not have to like him, after all, and would spend as little time in his presence as possible.
“You have brought this on yourself, Sharova.” His mournful whisper echoed like thunder in the small cell and he actually jumped.
The irony of being caught while actually doing the right thing was not lost on the former fleet admiral, and a bitter smile twisted his lips when he thought about how close he had come to escaping and saving them all.