by Liam Reese
Besmir dragged the covers off, feeling a chill hit his skin despite the bright fire blazing in the hearth. He swung his legs out and sat up, gasping as soon as his feet hit the cold floor. An annoying feeling came from his chest, feeling like his ribs and lungs were aflame, something tried to punch its way from his skull, and his bones ached horribly. He coughed. Coughed until his back and stomach ached, his vision swam, and whatever had taken up residence in his head thrashed even more wildly for release.
Stubbornly he tried to rise, leaning heavily on the bed for support. His balance failed him and he fell to the floor, hands slapping the cold slabs.
“Would you like some assistance, Your Majesty?” Arteera asked sweetly, her needle flashing in the sun.
Besmir cursed, at length and colorfully as he tried unsuccessfully to lift himself from the floor. Eventually he gave in and slumped back down.
“Please help me,” he said.
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon?”
“Please, Arteera, I’m begging you,” Besmir whined, playing the victim. “Please help me back into bed.”
The dark-haired woman pursed her lips, not falling for his weak subterfuge in the least but tried to hide her smile as she made a show of folding her embroidery and sorting her needle before turning to look at him again. She shook her head when she saw his cheek squashed against the floor but felt a little pity for his situation. His eye followed her every move as she approached, squatting beside him to help.
“You’re a cruel, cruel woman,” Besmir muttered as Arteera chuckled at him.
Besmir let himself be guided to the bed, where he lay in its soft embrace, groaning as the aches in his limbs rotated until different bits of his body hurt.
“What did that doctor say?” Besmir asked after another coughing fit shook his body.
Arteera lay beside him, cradling his head on her stomach and stroking his broad back.
“You have a deep infection in your lungs due to weakness and poor living conditions.”
Besmir made a noise.
“I hate being ill,” he said. “I was never ill in Tyrington.”
“You surprise me,” Arteera said sarcastically.
“How long have I got?” he asked.
“What, to live?” she asked, laughing.
“I am glad my suffering brings you such joy,” Besmir muttered grouchily. “That’s nice, though,” he added as she ran her fingers through his hair.
“A few days should have you feeling better,” she said. “However, the doctor recommended you take your recovery slowly and not overexert yourself.”
Arteera looked down at Besmir, realizing he had fallen asleep. She pulled the covers over him and moved to leave, but his arm wrapped around her, pinning her in place so she shifted, getting comfortable. Without knowing she was going to, she started to hum, a sweet melody from her childhood that brought tears from her eyes.
Abruptly Besmir sat up, staring at her with enormous, sore-looking eyes. He searched her face in the same way he had when he thought she was a traitor.
“Besmir, what—”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” she asked in utter confusion.
“About the baby,” he said, laying his hand on her abdomen.
Cold shock hit her like a hammer to the chest, and she actually flinched as if he had slapped her.
“What do you mean, baby?” she asked. “We have been so careful... I-I-I cannot be... How can we have a baby now?”
Panic threatened to overwhelm her, and she had to try to control her breathing as Besmir struggled into a sitting position, pulling her into his arms and resting his chin on top of her head.
“I promise everything will be fine,” he muttered in his deep voice.
“But Tiernon...”
“Will never lay his eyes on our baby,” Besmir stated in a serious voice. “I’ll destroy him utterly before I let that happen.”
“I am not ready to be a mother,” Arteera said. “I have no idea what to do.”
“You’ll make the best mother anyone ever had,” Besmir said.
Arteera sighed, calming a little as Besmir thought about his parents, wondering exactly how much of what he had just promised Arteera he could keep to.
21
“I sent messengers to six of the nearest towns and villages, sire,” Yoran said as he lowered his bulk into one of the chairs not occupied by Besmir’s council. Keluse watched as the older man rubbed his head, frowning. “Four of the six replied with positive support,” he added, sipping wine from a cup. “However, they are the four town leaders I know personally and have had positive dealings with in the past. The remaining two, the town of Vernsar and the village of Fring,” Yoran paused, looking at the two women present. “Suffice to say their replies were similarly impolite.”
“Pity,” Besmir said. “I was hoping for support from all sides. Is it fear of Tiernon that halts them?”
“The information was not contained in their missives, sire,” Yoran replied. “However, I do not believe, from what I know of both town leaders, that it is loyalty to Tiernon that turns them from you. It must be fear. We were all punished during the war for siding against the crown,” he said sadly. “It has taken a long time to recover, and we will take even longer to grieve.”
The room fell silent as all present recalled someone or something they had lost.
“We’ll make for Fring village tomorrow,” Besmir said. “Make sure everyone knows.”
Mayor Yoran looked horrified, his chubby face pale and lips thin as he stared at Besmir.
“Will you attack them, sire?” he asked.
The chubby mayor flinched as everyone in the room turned to stare at him with hostility in their eyes.
“No, Yoran,” Besmir said with a chuckle. “I’ll not be like Tiernon. There will be no violence against innocent people, no examples made of anyone and no executions,” he said. “With one exception,” he added.
“Oh,” Yoran said, relieved. “So...what is the purpose of visiting them with an army?”
“To give them a choice,” Besmir said with a smile. “To ask them to serve me. Or at least beg them not to stab us all in the back as we move on. Like we did here,” he added.
Yoran blinked a few times as understanding filled his head. He stood, putting his cup down, and stepped over to stand before Besmir. Slowly he dropped to one knee before him.
“Please accept my apologies, Your Majesty,” he said. “For not giving you my pledge of oath sooner. It slipped my mind.”
Besmir reached out and accepted the rotund mayor’s hand, lifting him from the floor.
“It’s perfectly all right,” he said. “I never asked for it.”
The Mayor smiled. “I will coordinate with the other towns to arrange food and other supplies,” he said. “With pride and honor.”
“You’re a good man,” Besmir said. “I’m glad to have you on my side.”
Yoran nodded and turned to leave, nodding to the other people in the room as he went.
“Do you think you can trust him to deliver supplies to an army who has marched on?” Herofic asked skeptically.
“Oh, absolutely,” Besmir replied. “That little demonstration there?” He gestured to the floor in front of him. “That told me everything I needed to know about him.”
Herofic shrugged, accepting Besmir’s appraisal of the situation.
Keluse had been watching Arteera as the meeting took place and noticed her hands never strayed far from her belly. Suspicion ground at her, and she approached her as Besmir spoke with Zaynorth and Norvasil about packing up the army and how long it might take to march to Fring.
“How have you been?” Keluse asked, making Arteera jump.
The woman had been lost in her own little world until Keluse spoke. Now she turned her eyes toward Keluse, a question in them.
“Do you love Besmir?” she asked, surprising Keluse.
“What? No,” Keluse said in a shril
l voice. “Well, like a brother, I suppose, but I’m not in love with him. Why?”
She watched as Arteera looked down, stroking her hands over her flat belly and sighing. Keluse thought it might have been a sigh of contentment or sadness, and was at pains to tell which.
“May I speak freely to you?” Arteera asked. “In confidence?”
“Of course,” Keluse replied, following her to another room.
“I believe you have guessed,” Arteera said. “If not, then you might be surprised to learn I am carrying Besmir’s child.”
Keluse felt a wash of pleasure roll through her, but grew concerned when she did not see her grin matched by Arteera’s own.
“Is that not a good thing?” she asked.
“Would it be good if you carried Ranyor’s?” she asked bluntly.
Keluse reddened, still not comfortable with attitudes towards relationships here, but considered her question. While she knew she loved Ranyor, Keluse also knew they were in the middle of a potentially bloody and violent conflict. None of them knew if they would live through the next few days, let alone long enough to raise a child.
“I see your point,” Keluse said. “But still...”
“Do not mistake me,” Arteera said, her eyes filling with tears. “I want nothing more than to have a family with him.” She sniffed. “Yet the circumstances are...less than ideal.”
“Less than ideal?” she asked with a chuckle. “That’s the kind of understatement Besmir would make.”
Both women laughed at that.
“He promised he would keep the baby safe,” Arteera said. “But how can he promise such when faced with Tiernon?”
“I expect as he knows I’ll be right there beside him, protecting you also. Ranyor too, and Herofic. Norvasil and Zaynorth would also stand before you.”
“Not Zaynorth, I think,” Arteera replied. “He still believes I am a spy for Tiernon.”
Keluse hugged her awkwardly, not used to the physical contact even now.
“I’m sure your sister will be fine,” Keluse said, not believing her own words.
“I think not,” Arteera said. “But thank you for saying so.”
“So...a baby, then?” Keluse changed the subject.
“Yes,” Arteera replied, blushing a little. “It is unexpected...and odd, but I like the feeling.”
“It looks like it suits you,” Keluse said. “Have you had any symptoms yet?”
“Not so far,” Arteera said, frowning. “Do you think something might be wrong?”
“Of course not,” Keluse assured her. “I’m sure Besmir would know if something were wrong.” Arteera nodded thoughtfully.
Besmir sat on his stallion, staring in confusion at the fleeing madness before him. They had reached Fring village two days after leaving Yoran’s little town behind. Fring was poorly fortified and even more poorly guarded. A few men stood between Besmir’s army and the wooden barrier that was supposed to offer protection. They scattered as soon as the extent of the army became clear, spreading fear and panic through the villagers. Women screamed as they carried children to safety in their arms, while old men looked on in utter fear at Besmir, wielding farming equipment and pointed sticks in shaking hands.
Casting his eyes over the small village, Besmir saw it was little more than a gathering of simple huts, many of which were in need of repair. Some of the thatched roofs were falling in, sections sagging in and a few holes appearing. Half-starved pigs rooted in the dirt, desperately hunting for any form of nourishment as scrawny chickens scratched and pecked at nothing.
Two men and an older woman approached Besmir and looked up at him with a mixture of hate and fear. The two men were of middle age, thin and poorly dressed in long, dirty, brown robes. The woman might have been their mother or even grandmother, judging by her ancient appearance.
“What business have you in Fring?” the woman demanded, staring defiantly up at Besmir.
The hunter-king grinned and dismounted, handing his reins to a woman that appeared beside him. On his approach to the old woman he saw she wore a dress of velvet, mud-splattered and tired, a string of wooden beads hung from her wrinkled neck, and her thinning hair was white and curled. She looked stern and proud, barely accepting the arms the two men offered, preferring to stand on her own.
“Great Lady,” Besmir said. “I offer you my greetings and good tidings.”
“Offer me nothing at the head of an army,” she spat hotly. “Leave here! Fring has nothing more to give.”
“My name is Besmir, rightful heir to the throne of Gazluth a—”
“I care not for who you think you are!” the old woman said.
“Margarey!” one of the men said. “You need to show the king some respect.”
“Pah!” Margarey spat, her toothless mouth flapping. “He is no king of mine!”
“Perhaps you’d feel better having a visit from Tiernon,” Besmir said, staring into her eyes. “I’ve seen what he does to little villages like this.” Besmir pointed with his chin. “It’s horrible to see the women and children burned alive in their homes. I offer a more peaceful way of life.”
“I have seen the ways of men,” Margarey said. “Whether they offer peace or war, the outcome is always the same. Take what you will by force and leave us, you will.”
Besmir shook his head in disagreement but raised his voice so the villagers gathering behind Margarey could hear.
“You’re wrong about us. Ask any of my warriors, all proud women and young men like yourselves, each will tell you the same thing. I offer my protection from the evil Tiernon who murdered my parents and thought I had perished too—”
“We need no protection from Tiernon,” Margarey shouted, her voice loud and strong enough to carry to the crowd. “We need food in our bellies and homes to keep out the cold of winter. Will you give us that, King?”
Besmir grinned at the old woman, staring at her for so long even she started to feel apprehensive. Margarey and the others in the small village gasped and stared, pointing at the mass exodus of animals that marched straight at them. Rabbits, hares, squirrels, fowl of a number of varieties and even a small deer trotted peacefully from the wilds around the village.
“Catch them!” Besmir cried in a hoarse voice. “Feast on the bounty I provide.”
Zaynorth and Norvasil had approached Besmir as soon as they realized what he was doing, ready to catch him if he were to collapse. Still weakened by his sojourn in hell and recent infection, Besmir staggered when he returned to his body, but managed to keep his balance in front of Margarey.
“Maybe you ought to come in,” she said, reappraising Besmir. “Welcome to Fring, Majesty.”
Besmir smirked at Zaynorth, who merely shook his head as the three followed her staggering gait between the celebrating villagers.
Sharova’s world had shrunk to become a single, throbbing agony that rippled up his arms and into his chest with every heartbeat.
Initially he had thought Tiernon had found some small measure of kindness in his heart, as both he and Thoran had been fed and watered, despite being caged. Sharova had watched as the king had sacrifices brought to his chambers, casually butchering them on the vile altar that dominated the space. As the days passed and Sharova regained a little strength, he started to notice the air became colder with each sacrifice, every lungful of his breath frosting in the air.
“It is those things,” Thoran said when he mentioned it to her. “Have you not felt them?”
While he had felt cold chills, Sharova’s mind had convinced him they were symptoms of the overall cold and his poor health. When Thoran put it into words, however, the revelation hit him hard.
“Are they spirits?” he asked, making a protective sign over his heart.
“I do not know,” Thoran admitted. “All I do know is they are evil, horrible things.”
From that point Sharova had watched Tiernon with a keener eye, bearing the cold things in mind. The king’s madness was so complete, so deep and
all-encompassing, Sharova was convinced these invisible creatures had something to do with it.
Days ran into weeks as poor souls were led to the altar for Tiernon to casually butcher. Each time a fresh victim was dragged screaming and crying into the room, Sharova took Thoran into his arms and they both huddled at the farthest corner of their cage until the soul-rending screams of terror faded. Even then the pair huddled in the cage, partly for warmth and partly for comfort, losing themselves in each other’s eyes rather than enduring the horrific torments Tiernon exposed them to.
“Why does he do this?” Thoran begged when yet another woman died screaming on the table.
Sharova watched as a pair of the massive guards − further demonic beasts − dragged the woman’s remains from the room. Her desiccated husk hissed against the floor like a rough stone, reminding Sharova of his days at sea when deck hands would scrub the wood with heavy stones until the wood gleamed.
“It feeds them,” Sharova replied. “Whatever they might be, they feed on suffering, pain, blood and fear.”
He had taken her into his arms when her tears had started to flow.
Sharova woke to the smell of decay and rotten things puffing over his face. Blinking rapidly, he saw Tiernon’s wasted grin inches from his face and fright chilled his belly, clamping down tightly.
“Do you know the punishment for treason, Sharova?” the king whispered in a terrible voice.
“No,” Sharova said.
“Sire!” Tiernon bellowed, straightening his back. “No, sire! No, Majesty!”
Tiernon screamed the words over and over again, his eyes blazing with anger as he stared at Sharova.
“Say it. Say it. Say it.”
“No, sire,” Sharova said meekly.
A grin spread over Tiernon’s face again, revealing blackened and rotting teeth that must have been an agony in his mouth. The king seemed not to notice, however, looking down at the former fleet admiral with a benevolent expression.
“In times gone by, a traitor would be publicly flogged and displayed for all to see. People would be free to throw feces and rotting fruit at them while they baked in the sun. Three days would pass in this manner before they were released and dragged behind a team of horses up into the foothills of the Atranus mountains.” Tiernon squatted before Sharova, his once beautiful clothes now filthy and ripped, covered in things Sharova’s mind shied from. “If still they lived, their legs and arms would be snapped and they would be left for the beasts to eat alive.” Tiernon smiled, making Sharova’s insides writhe with cold fear. “I have chosen to be kind to you, Sharova, as a king must sometimes be, and so you will suffer a different fate. Guards!”