A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  There seemed little danger at present that the Legion would steal another march on us especially since the kayetim were ranging further afield and using herald doves and ravens to send back regular reports and some mapping information when they found anything of use.

  By the time we had completed the diplomatic negotiations—at which Aarin was surprisingly adept—we would probably have the location of almost every safe watering hole between our camp and our destination the capital, Medravia.

  Our peace was interrupted suddenly by the unannounced and unchallenged arrival of the Aergin himself flanked by four of his personal guards and a couple of other rather emaciated looking priests who seemed barely able to stand under the weight of the gold they wore.

  Markos looked up briefly smirking as two of the guards closed shields in front of the High Priest He bent his head once again. Pointing to a highly insignificant clause in the treaty and asking Aarin if the language was clear to him. Aarin picked up the King’s ploy and asked a suitably innocuous question just to make sure that he had understood.

  The Aergin fidgeted and huffed. His jewellery rattled in sympathy with his irritation. Markos placed his quill carefully on the table before him and looked up.

  “You were neither summoned nor invited here. If you wish to stand there do so but stand still. Your clanking is distracting.”

  “Your majesty . . .” the priest began.

  “You were certainly not invited to address me. So either hold your tongue or lose it. I suggest that you return to your meditations—or whatever it is you call what it is you do to or with—or on—your novices.”

  “Your majesty, I must insist . . .”

  Markos rose. The priest’s guards flinched slightly but held rank. “You must what? Insist with me again and I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the Kendirith battle dog just there. He pointed to the young dog that Borthar had presented to him. I know why you are come here but there is a more pressing trial I must conduct first and I will decide the order of State Business. You will not. Now get out. The very sight of you is an offense to all that is decent.”

  “Well, that was harsh, even for you Markos.” Janir said his tone falling just short of true shock.

  “It’s sort of the way things are. It seems we are supposed to speak rudely to them. It shows them how manly and unlikely we are to engage in the unseemly.”

  Aarin giggled, suddenly sounding once more like the youth he was. “Among the Kendir everyone kisses everyone else. We are a very free people. Affection is to be enjoyed by all. Faedron would like living with us I think.”

  Markos leaned back in his seat. “Well. It has now been a full settan since father fell. The mandatory time for the prisoners to reflect upon their desecration of a fallen warrior has now passed and it is time for them to learn their fate.”

  Markos called for a guard. Faedron appeared in the doorway. “Majesty?”

  “Please be good enough to summon my Councillors, Faedron. Tell them it is time for the reckoning. They will know what that means. And also send word to my falconer that I wish to see him.”

  “As you wish, King Markos.”

  The Councillors and Generals arrived quickly eager, I guessed, to learn of the fate of their king killers.

  When the Council was assembled I made to leave, content to loan my space to Markos as he dispensed his justice to his father’s killers. “Please, I would be grateful for your company and that of the Lord Consort. You have both been beside me in this and I would not have that change now.”

  “May I ask what we are waiting for, Majesty?” Korlaq asked.

  “We are waiting for Karel.”

  “Your birdman?” Zarin asked. “We are waiting on a birdman?”

  “No, Commander Zarin. You are waiting on my command. And my command is that we are to wait for Karel since he has information I need for sentencing. Second guess me again and I will see you reduced to the ranks.”

  Zarin dropped to one knee. “Your pardon, Majesty, a misunderstanding on my part I merely sought clarity.”

  “Then I suggest you seek clarity with a tone and demeanour more suited to the task.”

  I shot Dthor a sideways glance. He returned a slight grimace. It was clear that at some point in time—and in the not too distant future—the tension between these two would run beyond control and Markos would be left with no choice but to charge the man with treason.

  Karel arrived slightly breathless having run all the way from the falconry. “My apologies, Markos, I was just making sure everything was just so.”

  “And is it?”

  “Twenty-five battle eagles prepared as you instructed. I have every confidence they will perform as you wish.”

  “And afterwards.”

  “I will see to it that I return them to their original state and those I cannot I will deal with.”

  “Then it is done.”

  Markos called to Faedron again despatching him to the holding pen to have the prisoners brought to the central area of the Morlan quarter of the camp.

  By the time we had arrived in the centre of camp the Morlans were gathered surrounding the ten stakes that had been erected there. Bloody manacles hung from each quietly clanking in the gentle breeze. The sound gentle sound was almost reminiscent of Thahrnian wind chimes.

  The prisoners arrived bound and appeared clean and well-cared for, a condition I would not have expected to as treatment for men who had killed the Morlans’ king. The men were chained silently two to each post.

  Markos walked up to each man in turn looking each squarely in the eye until each looked away. He turned slightly and moved back so that he could address the closely staked group with ease.

  “Before I execute your sentence I want you to understand why it is you have been sentenced to die.” The King paused to let his words permeate. “You are not sentenced to die because you killed my father and the king of these men. My father was a warrior king and fully expected to die honourably in battle. Indeed, he did die honourably in battle. Your crime was not felling a warrior. Your crime is that you desecrated his body. You were not content to have the honour of a battle kill, you took off his head!” Markos spat the words with such ferocity that the prisoners flinched to a man. Even some of the men in the front row of spectators jumped slightly. “And it is because you killed a brave and honourable warrior and behaved like carrion after the battle that you will die in the way I have deemed most fitting.”

  So saying Markos turned and pulled the canvas off a table revealing several tubs of offal. He picked up the first and began throwing the gobbets of flesh over the men until the tubs were empty and the men covered in blood and gut. He turned to his page and plunged his bloody hands into the bowl of water the young woman was holding. Pausing only to dry his hands on his cloak he turned and shouted Karel’s name.

  There was a sudden hush as the sun seemed to be eclipsed by a huge cloud. I looked up at the source of the dark. A cloud? No. It was a flight of eagles—obviously the ones that Markos had been discussing with Karel not a secta ago. The whole gathering stared up at the sky as the huge birds circled and screeched. Then they seemed to catch the scent of the men below and as one they stooped plummeting like falling stars their golden plumage flashing in the sun as they fell.

  They hit the chained men in a flurry of claw and beak tearing at them in a feeding frenzy that was as fascinating and it was horrifying. The screams from the birds and the men was an extraordinary sound. Occasionally the birds would break off and fly and then return to tear again at the soft parts, guts began to spill out, genitals were torn off and still the birds tore on.

  Slowly the men’s screams and struggles subsided and it was clear that all had succumbed to Markos’ sentence. The Morlan king turned away from the carnage to face his generals.

  “From this day, this moment,” he said coldly, “This will be the sentence for both treason and for the desecration of the dead. None will do likewise again to any Morlan or person under the p
rotection of our Crown.”

  Aldrigan. whom I had not seen for some time, appeared from the dispersing crowd and stepped up to Markos. “Do you believe that pronouncement truly wise, my king? I do not think our nobles will approve of it.”

  “My friend, I do not need the approval of nobles to be king and to make law. I merely require their obedience. I believe that demonstration will secure it—one way or another.”

  Aldrigan frowned slightly. “This could be construed more as vengeance than justice.”

  “They defiled my father, Aldrigan. Vengeance it may be, but it is mine to take and none will say otherwise.”

  The old ambassador clapped the young king on the shoulder. “You may not be your father, Markos, but you are a damned fine successor.”

  “I am so glad you did not say replacement.”

  The old veteran laughed. “No-one could ever be that, son. No-one.” Aldrigan turned to me. “Your pardon Lord Ez’n, I was not deliberately ignoring you, I merely wished to catch the attention of my new king, just in case he had forgotten me and I became sidelined in the coming campaign.”

  I gave the man a warm smile, suddenly remembering how much I had liked him on our first meeting. “I am certain that your king could not ever forget you and I am equally sure that there would never be any danger of your being set aside in any campaign.”

  “Certainly not,” Markos laughed and then growled. “Oh slethyas!” he spat suddenly annoyed. “Now that I’ve killed those prisoners I suppose I have to deal with the noxious vermin that calls itself a priesthood. I should have found a way to make today last longer. Maybe next time I’ll have a party first.”

  “Ah yes,” Aldrigan nodded, “I heard that the Prince Royal, Jae’nt, and the Kalthar Tariq have caused quite a sensation. More scandal than Prince Kylos and the Provost Aenar.” Aldrigan was grinning all over his weather-beaten face.

  Markos grimaced, “Sensation is one way of describing it, I suppose.”

  Aldrigan was suddenly serious. “You have already executed two of their priests, Markos. You are making a very dangerous enemy here.”

  “No, Aldrigan. It is they who are making a dangerous enemy. I executed those men with cause because they transgressed the law in unforgivable ways.”

  “So I heard. All the same, son, tread with care.”

  “You may be certain that any action I take will be well within the Law—to its letter and spirit in accordance with me pledge.”

  The old general grinned wryly. “Hmm! You know it used to unsettle me when your father said things like that. It always caused some kind of upheaval. Hearing you say such a thing takes me to a whole new level of terror. Now it won’t be upheaval it will end in some kind of massive trauma.”

  Markos shrugged. He would do whatever was necessary to safeguard his people from harm. He was their king and it was his duty. “It is not complicated.”

  Aldrigan saluted and began to walk away.

  “Aldrigan,” Markos called. The soldier turned. “I fully expect to find you at my table tonight for the Wake.”

  “The Kendirith battle dogs could not keep me away. I have a hogshead of Areggio Partha that I have been saving for this day. We shall drink the old devil into his second grave.”

  Markos guffawed. “That or we will end in our own graves. Bring plenty of water.”

  “I refuse to spoil a good liquor—even for my King.!” The old soldier declared. “Sire, if you are not man enough to down a horn or two I shall doubt you are your father’s son!”

  “In that case, old man, the challenge is set and accepted.”

  As the sun set and the lightmen went about setting the torches for the night marquees throughout the encampment began to light up. The air gradually filled with the aroma of roasting and frying meats, steaming vegetables and spices as the men prepared to celebrate the passing of their old king and the arrival of the new. Even the Zetans had started preparations having asked Markos’ permission to honour a man they had all come to respect through the march against the Legion.

  Markos had been truly touched when the delegates from every part of the Zetan army presented themselves and their petitions. He approved without the slightest hesitation and the men went away to prepare immediately.

  Dthor and I were strolling towards Markos’ Royal Enclave when we noticed that Morlans were making their way into to the Zetan marquees to join their allies and Zetans were breaking off from their quarters and moving into the Morlan enclave for similar reasons. Dthor turned and smiled at me. “Whoever would have thought this would be happening. Such different cultures mixing so freely and easily.”

  “Well, freely, at least,” I conceded, “I am not certain we have completely reached the “easily” bit yet.”

  Keelan’s wake was borne along on the wings of war ballads, romantic songs that the king had particularly loved. The warriors danced in his honour, the highlight of the night in the opinion of many (and especially Aenar) was Kylos whose skills as a dancer, I thought, exceeded my own, though Dthor refused to accept my comment.

  “Of course, your Consort is biased,” Markos commented.

  “I thought consorts are supposed to be biased in that way!” Jae’nt noted.

  Tariq grunted. “I’m not biased, you Zetan clod. You can’t dance worth a whit.”

  “But I have other more interesting skills,” Jae’nt stated bluntly.

  “Oh yes. Like constantly knocking me out of my saddle in mid battle!”

  “Perhaps next time then I’ll let some scrawny little legionnaire slice and dice you.”

  Markos laughed and shoved the pair against each other. “Keep up this bickering and I’ll be taking a leaf from The Lord Consort’s rule book and bang your heads together.”

  Jae’nt flinched at the memory. “I swear my ears still ring from that one. What about you Markos?”

  “No, but the memory lingers—painfully.”

  Dthor reached over and poured himself some wine. “You were both behaving like reprobates. You deserved it.”

  “They still behave like reprobates,” I offered.

  Dthor agreed, but now Markos was a King, Jae’nt was once more Prince Royal so he could scarcely do the same again and get away with it, even though he thought it would be fun trying. Markos took Dthor’s quaich and sipped from it.

  “The fact that I was Crown Prince did not prevent you from threatening to do something very inventive and unnatural to me when I arrived in Kalina.”

  “You kept calling me Golden Boy.”

  Markos chuckled and patted the battle collar he had gifted him. “I did it again when I gave him that for you.”

  “Yes, Meriq told me, Barbarian!”

  Aldrigan who had been sitting quietly to this point took Dthor’s quaich from him, emptied it and refilled it with the liquor from his cask. “Try a real man’s drink, Lord Consort,” the old man said with a smile.

  “Only try it slowly and carefully, Dthor. That old snake will have you drunk in a heartbeat if you don’t watch him.”

  The music started again and soldiers began to sing and dance sometimes alone sometimes with each other and as some of the dances progressed it became more apparent that the men were abandoning the formal lines of the dance for less rigid and more intimate moves actions which gave the choreography and entirely different and much more pleasing aspect. Markos leaned towards me as he noticed my shift in interest. “That is exactly how this dance should be performed. It was developed for war-brothers and—others. The rigidity was enforced by the M’rgaerdjinn who declared the dance obscene in its original format.”

  “How is a dance ever obscene?” Faedron asked, genuinely mystified.

  “If you’d ever visited the Moon’s Mask you would never have asked such a stupid question,” Jae’nt stated laughing.

  “I’d rather ask a stupid question like that than find myself in such a place.”

  “Well said,” Tariq smiled at the corporal. “I can see I shall have to educate my Prince here
in more seemly conduct.”

  I grinned to myself. “Good luck with that!” I thought and turned my attention back to the dancers occasionally glancing around the gathering to watch the reactions of the revellers. Many were looking on smiling and clapping in time with the music spurring the dancers on.

  When the interval came Markos broke from the main table and began to circulate among his guests accepting both condolences for his loss and congratulations on his coronation with equal grace. There was obviously the occasional currying of political favour from those with aspirations to power and influence. Markos fielded these approaches with consummate skill careful to take details and telling the individuals to speak to his seneschal on the morrow.

  I glanced around the gathering watching those who were watching Markos, noting their expressions and posture. I always found observing people in this manner gave me a much better insight into motives and likely actions than just talking to them alone. A voice and conscious mind can lie with ease. The instinctive, defensive or welcoming movements, smiles that touched or missed the eyes never lied.

  My gaze eventually came to rest on a quiet corner of the marquee where Tariq seemed to be teaching Jae’nt the steps of the dance we had just been watching. I grinned. What Tariq had said earlier seemed painfully accurate. Jae’nt was not a natural dancer. Equally clear was the fact that the archer was not easily discouraged.

  As I returned to my observations the sound of a disturbance in another part of the tent caught my attention. Zarin was arguing with one of the councillors. The man clearly provoked beyond reason by whatever Zarin was saying suddenly lashed out, knocking the colonel to floor. Tariq and Jae’nt covered the ground in moments and had placed themselves between Zarin and the councillor. Markos was at the point a heartbeat later just as the outraged councillor landed a punch on Tariq who had simply asked what had transpired. Wrong footed, the archer went down. Jae’nt went to grab the man intent on returning the favour, and doubtless he would have done so had Markos not stepped between them.