Before long, he stood before the mighty palace. A behemoth of a building, it had its own massive wall running the perimetre with one exit to the north and another to the south. Blake had navigated to the southern gate, outside which stood ten guards, five on either side of the closed entrance. They stood ramrod straight and in perfect formation.
A bit different to the demeanour of their colleagues on the western gate.
Red cloaks adorned their armour, the material fluttering in the slight breeze. Apart from one soldier, the rich blue cloak hanging almost to the stone road behind him and covering his off arm. As he approached, Blue Cloak stepped forward and held up a hand covered in a plate armour glove. “You, halt!”
What? He dares to stop a royal diplomat?
He reined in the horse and turned the animal so the seal of the royal diplomat blazoned upon the saddlebags was seen more easily by the guards.
“Who goes there?” Blue Cloak continued to advance, spear now held in both hands, the weapon diagonal across his chest.
Blake did not consider himself a naïve man and was acutely aware the soldier could bring the weapon to bear and attack in the blink of an eye.
He tapped the thick leather of the saddlebag closest to the advancing soldier. “Isn’t it obvious? Now open the gate. I carry an important message for his majesty.”
“No, it isn’t bloody obvious! Get down off the horse, right now.”
“How dare you?”
The soldier levelled his weapon, the polished, razor sharp spear tip hovering mere inches from Blake’s nose.
One firm stab and that thing would easily puncture my skull. Looks like I’m dismounting.
He swung a leg over the saddle and stepped down onto the road, stretching his legs and supressing a groan. He paused as the red cloaks surrounded him. Spears levelled at him from all directions.
“What is obvious, is that this horse belongs to a royal diplomat. That doesn’t mean you are a royal diplomat. Show me your papers.”
“My papers?”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed, his jaw bulging. “Do it right now.”
Blake held his hands open before him, palms facing the sky and turned back to the saddlebag. He released the leather strap and threw open the lid, rummaging around in the bag, fingers touching cooking implements, a small haversack of what remained of his food supplies. His fingers touched a soft, pliable sac and knew immediately it was the water bladder.
No papers! Shit. I think they were on the other side.
He turned back to Blue Cloak. “Must be in the other saddlebag.”
The commander’s eyes flicked over Blake’s shoulder and he nodded once, then returned to bore into the diplomat. “Round the other side then, and hurry up about it. You try anything on and my soldiers will kill you. Do you understand?”
Blue Cloak’s eyes, hard as flint, spoke no lie.
“I understand.”
With legs weak as water, he stumbled around the rear of the horse, swallowing as he noticed the red cloak nearest him clench his hands tighter around the spear he held. Blake opened the saddlebag on the opposite side and delved into the large leather bag. Once again his fingers brushed against spare clothes, tinder and several large pieces of flint bound together with a narrow leather thong. His hand clamped onto a large paper envelope and relief flowed through him in a rush.
Thank the Gods.
He pulled it free and held it in the air, smiling. “Right here.”
Blue Cloak gestured to him and as Blake neared, snatched the envelope from him. The guard commander untied the small piece of leather binding closed the envelope and pulled free the papers Blake had kept so carefully hidden during his time in Lisfort. Were his true identity to be discovered there, he’d have a noose around his neck and been hanging beside the common criminals in the city square within the hour.
Blake watched the soldier as he perused the papers. “Show me your arm with the birth mark,” Blue Cloak said without looking up from the papers.
Blake sighed and rolled his eyes. “Are my papers not enough?”
“No.”
The papers described the location, colour and shape of the birthmark on the inside of his left bicep. Anyone trying to imitate Blake would be doing an incredible job if they’d managed to copy his birthmark.
Blue Cloak paused and glanced up at Blake. “Show me now, or this will not go well for you.”
Grinding his teeth together, he rolled up his left sleeve, pushing the bundled fabric as high up his arm as possible. Holding out his arm and rotating it outward so that the underside of his bicep was exposed, he allowed Blue Cloak to inspect the red patch of skin.
Blue Cloak nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Sir, that’s bloody more like it!
“One more question, sir, in which year was your mother born?”
He still doesn’t believe me!
He spoke the numbers in a growl.
“This all seems in order, sir.” He folded the papers carefully and placed them back in the envelope. “My apologies, lord, but we can be none too careful. You understand?”
He snatched the envelope back from Blue Cloak and nodded. “Unfortunately, yes I do.”
Thumps resounded as the soldiers came to attention around him, spear points pointing skyward instead of at his throat. Relief washed over him.
“One more thing, sir. I cannot allow you to be in the presence of the king with a weapon.” He gestured at the long, thin shroud wrapped thing he wore slung across his back.
“What, this?” he pulled at the strap running diagonally across his chest which held the parcel resting against his back in place.
“Yes, sir, that.”
“It’s not a weapon, I assure you.”
“Sir, my apologies, but you understand I can’t just take your word for that. My job, nay my life, depend on me doing my duty correctly. If it’s not a weapon, then may I see what it is that you carry?”
Blake swore under his breath. “I suppose so.”
“With all due respect, sir, it was not a request. You cannot proceed until I am sure you are unarmed.”
He sighed and nodded. “I understand.”
Blake pulled the chest strap over his head, brought the parcel clear and dropped it to the ground. Kneeling beside it, he untied the bindings.
Gods, I have to look at this thing again.
He paused at the last binding and licked his lips, not oblivious to the single step the guard commander took away from him, more than likely preparing to spear him if required.
Just get it done, you fool!
The bow holding the binding in place pulled free and he flicked the thin rope away before unwrapping the thing. He lay it bear for all to see. It remained unchanged apart from a new, faint odour of rot, drifting to his nostrils. He stood and took a pace back. He looked at the guard commander. The man stood transfixed, staring at the thing lying on the road at his feet.
“Is that,” his eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”
Blake shrugged. “I’m no seer, commander, but yes I’d say so. As I said, I carry an important message.”
The guard nudged it with a boot and recoiled. “Let’s get you on your way,” he muttered. “Wrap it back up, sir. We had to check.”
“I know.” He re-tied the bindings in place and re-slung it, feeling nauseous as the weight of the thing pressed against his back. During his journey, having it wrapped away and out of sight brought a certain amount of distance between him and reality. But laying eyes upon it again brought everything rushing back to him. He’d gained an appreciation for how fearless and skilled Tork and the soldiers of the King’s Own really were.
He took a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips. He nodded at the guard. “Ready.”
“Please, follow me, sir. Let’s get you inside so we don’t keep his majesty waiting any longer than necessary.”
Blake kept a tight grip of his papers and threw the
reins of his horse to a nearby guard still standing to attention. “You, see my horse is watered, fed and stabled.”
The guard reacted like lightning, catching the reins in one hand. “Yes, sir!”
Blue Cloak stopped by the closed gate. “Gate guards, open up.”
Blake looked up at the battlements above the gate and noticed it was lined with soldiers he’d previously not seen. But it seemed they’d been watching proceedings with a keen eye.
I probably alleviated their boredom for a while, I suppose.
“Aye, sir!”
A loud clunk thundered from the huge solid steel gate, followed immediately by a persistent rattle and the entrance began to yawn open inch upon slow inch.
“That’ll do!” Blue Cloak roared, then stood aside and gestured Blake onward. “Through you go, sir.”
Blake returned the guard commander’s salute with a sloppy rendition then walked through the opening, ducking slightly. He strode along the road, towards the palace, ignoring one soldier whom came to a halt and saluted. He jumped as a mighty explosion echoed out over the city behind him, the vibration resonating through the ground upon which he stood. He turned to see the gate had been allowed to drop closed under its own weight. Dust, thrown up from the steel gate slamming back onto the ground, drifted around the entrance.
Four gate guards jogged to him and came to a halt in a tight square, one saluting. “Sir, allow us to escort you into the palace.”
He shrugged. “Of course.”
Two guards moved in front him, side by side, the remaining pair marching behind him.
Now this is more like it! I could get used to this.
He was aware of soldiers and civilians alike stopping in the street to watch the small procession proceed towards the palace.
They advanced beyond the guards standing abreast of the long flight of stairs leading up to the palace. They marched past royal soldiers, who stepped aside and held open mighty wooden doors for them to pass. They saluted Blake, or offered respectful greetings. He ignored them all. As the tiny group moved deeper into the palace, the guards looked less complacent and more able to deal immediate and lethal violence at a moment’s notice. Blake clenched his jaw and hoped his face portrayed a look of confidence.
Negotiating an open portcullis guarded by several cruel-eyed, powerful-looking soldiers, he knew they were nearing the throne room.
“Halt!”
The group stopped.
Six royal guardsmen descended a short flight of stairs. “We’ll take it from here.”
“Good luck sir,” said one of the gate guards before they turned away to return to their post.
He sounded nervous.
“You’re here to see his majesty, I take it?”
Blake looked into the alert eyes and noted the old, white scars running across his cheeks, cutting through his beard and leaving the left side of his mouth in a permanent sneer.
No, I’m here on vacation.
He held the sarcasm at bay. “Yes.”
Scar Mouth appraised Blake, but didn’t seem impressed. “Before we continue, I require you to show me what it is you carry.”
Gods, not again.
Blake unslung the thing he detested and unwrapped it for inspection. The guard seemed to be better prepared than the others, or at least he seemed to hide his revulsion with more effect.
He gestured for him to wrap it back up again and cleared his throat. “And you are?”
Blake stood straighter, although fear began to grip his bowels. “I am Blake, a royal diplomat.”
The guard chuckled. “Silver tongue, hey?” Scar Mouth nodded. “You’ll come with us and we’ll pass you over to the guards who will take you to the royal chamber. If or when his majesty wishes to see you, they’ll escort you into the throne room.”
If?
“I carry a message, it is imperative I see the king.”
Scar Mouth snorted. “You all do. I’ve already escorted four diplomats into the royal chamber today. What makes you so special?”
“I carry a message from Wendurlund.”
Scar Mouth halted and the massive warrior turn back to him. The guard’s eyes glittered. “Do you indeed?”
“Aye, an important one. One that might mean victory for us all forever more.”
The guard gestured for his soldiers to continue on. They ascended the stairs to leave Scar Mouth and Blake alone.
“Diplomat, if you’re lying in order to gain an attendance with his majesty, I’ll hang you with your own entrails.” He leaned closer to Blake, his lips peeling back in a cruel snarl, eyes glinting with controlled fury. “Do I make myself clear?”
Blake’s head bobbed.
“Good. Then follow us,” Scar Mouth gestured towards his soldiers standing in formation nearby. “And we shall take you to see his majesty.”
The soldiers led Blake onward. He soon stood within the royal chamber. Blake’d never been this deep inside the palace before. Luxurious silks of every colour adorned the forty-foot stone walls. Hung above the doorway through which he had been escorted, two mighty broadswords crossed one another, above them a kite shield the height of a man was fixed to the wall, the royal colours, black and red, decorating the steel.
He ignored the ache in his neck as he looked at the ceiling high above and the intricate mosaic that stared back at him. The artwork was incredible, the mosaic depicting the death of the beautifully innocent god, Pord. He’d read the saga of the gods when he was a child. Pord’s death had always saddened him, but to see the scene depicted in such a stunning visual display was breathtaking. Blake recalled that as Pord closed his eyes for the last time, all trust and hope in the world would depart and a thunderstorm would wreak havoc upon the lands without break for two years. The world would flood. Blake allowed his eyes to sweep the mosaic, stopping and appraising each smallest detail. Several gods fought one another, waste deep in the waters of what would, in time, become The Frost River. The mighty form of Neath, god of the underworld was strangling his brother, Pord. Jasp, goddess of the hunt, stood nearby, her fury-filled face lending a hint of the power behind her fist about to slam into Neath’s face. Gulgon stood in the near distance, watching the altercation with fear filled eyes, hands held before him and mouth open as if about to plead for his siblings to cease their fighting. Behind the gods was a dark, angry sky, lightning spearing through thunderclouds, hinting at the terrible storm about to settle upon the world.
Blinking out of the reverie, he rubbed his neck and became aware of the room around him. It seemed there were quite a few people waiting in hope of an audience with the king.
Important message or no, I’ll have to wait like everyone else.
An elderly man holding a pile of ancient looking scrolls, sat closest the tall doors leading into the throne room beyond. The doors, however, remained closed and heavily guarded. Perched on a bench seat close to Blake was a man who looked like a farmer.
Smells like one, too.
Beside him were a couple of women, hands close to their noses, probably to alleviate the pungent smell drifting from the farmer. In one shadowed corner of the room stood a cloaked, hooded man. Blake was not oblivious to the empty sheaths hanging from his belt. One in which a sword would have rested and the other where his hunting knife would have resided. Both weapons would be safely in the hands of the guards outside the palace. No one other than royal guardsmen could be armed in the presence of his majesty.
Even though the hood hid the man’s face in darkness, Blake could not help but feel like the man stared back at him. A chill ran down his spine and he looked away.
The doors to the throne room creaked open and guards appeared, escorting an elderly woman out. She rubbed tears away from red-rimmed eyes.
“My son is innocent, sire. I beg you!” she shrieked.
“Shut your trap,” growled one guard as they brushed past Blake, leading the woman away.
“Royal diplomat!�
�
Blake turned back to the doorway and noticed a tall, blue-cloaked guard standing in the open entrance.
“Is there a royal diplomat here?”
Blake stepped forward. “Yes, right here.”
He held out a hand and gestured the diplomat to him. “King Fillip will see you now.”
“Have you been in attendance of his majesty before?”
He stopped before the tall soldier. “No.”
“I shall walk behind you, I ask that you kneel before his excellency and not to speak until he speaks to you. It’s all fairly straight forward practice. Think you can manage that?”
“Of course, yes.”
The soldier clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.” He looked Blake up and down. “Looks like you’ve travelled a long way and have spared no time in coming straight to the palace. Must be an important message.” He paused. “What is that?” he pointed at the long, thin parcel nestled upon Blake’s back.
He held out his hands. “It’s already been checked, several times, and all I can say is it’s no weapon.”
The guard nodded. “Very well. But hand it to me and I shall carry it in.” He held out an open hand towards him.
Blake pulled the strap over his head and handed the package over, relief washing over him. Bloody take it.
The guard snatched it from him. “Very well, let’s proceed. Guards!”
Blake noticed the troops who’d escorted the old lady away had returned and bustled forth to form up in front of him, facing the entrance to the throne room. The tall soldier whispered a command and the formation began marching forward. He felt a firm jab in the back. “You follow behind them.”
Did he just jab me in the back with the fucking spider’s leg?
With a few quick paces, he’d caught up to the guards and slowed to their pace. Looking around the huge open area, he realised the word ‘room’ was unfitting. It was more like a hall than a room. Several twenty-foot pillars adorned with intricate carvings from Huronian mythology stretched from floor to ceiling. His eyes locked onto the distant king sitting upon the large throne carved from pure ivory, the arm rests encrusted with gold. He was vaguely aware of a bearskin hanging on the wall behind the king beneath a beautiful square piece of silk bearing the royal colours. As the distance between he and the monarch closed, the hall seemed to constrict so that only he, the guards and King Fillip seemed to exist. Standing amongst a cheering crowd of thousands some years before, he’d seen King Fillip from a distance and then only for a few seconds before he disappeared into the palace.
Fallen Empire Page 18