Haladras

by Michael M. Farnsworth

  “Skylar,” said Lasseter calmly, “there was no other option for us. Still, all hope is not lost. Denovyn is yet alive and in command of the city; you heard the guard speak of him. We must hope he is still a friend to our cause.”

  “A friend?” said Skylar dubiously. “If he were a friend, Krom would be with us now.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps, not. I’m inclined to believe Morvath’s presence has more to do with Krom’s absence than anything Denovyn might have done. Alas, we cannot know. Our hope lies in this: if Denovyn is loyal to you, he will not permit any harm to come to you in his domain. Morvath will not dare to oppose him, for news of it would spread throughout the people, raising calamity and possibly rebellion among them. No, I believe Morvath possesses less power here than you might expect.”

  Lasseter leaned forward in his seat and stared at Skylar grimly.

  “His power lies in your own weakness, my boy. He will try to win you over. He will try to make you join him. And if you do not have the truth firmly rooted in your heart, he shall have you without ever lifting a finger.”

  Skylar swallowed hard. The mere mention of Morvath’s name made his nape hairs stiffen. How would it be to stand alone in Morvath’s presence?

  Shortly thereafter the transport came to a halt. The guards filed the companions out of the transport’s rear holding cell. They were at the foot of a broad staircase leading up to a stone building, which stretched to the left and right of them for several blocks. Except for large glass windows running along the front, the building was unadorned.

  Spurred along at blaster-point, the companions mounted the steps, passed under an archway, and entered through two prodigious wooden doors. Doors which gaped open like the jaws to the underworld, waiting hungrily to swallow them whole. For through those doors, Morvath—the very Devil himself—lurked inside, hiding within some dark corner, wringing his hands in anticipation. Skylar suddenly felt grateful that it was morning. Facing Morvath at night seemed all the more terrifying.

  The doorway led to a lengthy hallway with a high ceiling and burnished wood floors. Paintings, hung at even intervals, decorated the walls. All of them portrayed the bust or full figure of some noble-looking man. Previous lords of the providence, no doubt. Their faces were all grim and solemn, as if they knew the fate that awaited him. Numerous doors, too, lined both sides of the hall. Doors from which at any moment Morvath might spring upon him.

  The hallway emptied into a great hall, with numerous corridors extending out on both their right and left sides. Colorful banners and flags of state hung from the protracted ceiling. Straight down the hall they were taken, until they halted at the far wall. Before them stood a pair of double doors. They were of that same wood as the floors and on each of its six panels was carved the shape of a single sun.

  The leader of the guards rapped on the door with the great bronze knocker, then opened the rightmost door and stepped inside. Endrick gave Skylar a look that seemed to say, “let’s hope they don’t wish to see us.” Skylar hoped it would be so. A minute later, the officer returned, signaled curtly to his men, and Skylar found himself being pushed through the doorway.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of the wall at their left. Their curtains drawn back, the morning light streamed in brightly. Yet despite the brightness, Skylar shivered with cold. This room felt colder than the air outside. He thought of the citadel on Dura Cragis.

  At the end of the room stood a man behind a finely carved desk, which matched the doors. He was looking with fixed attention at Skylar. The man possessed a proud, noble bearing that no commoner could imitate. Yet in his eyes there was a look of truth and honor.

  “These are the ones disrupting the peace of my city streets, Captain?” asked the man. “These three? Two men and a boy committing violence among my citizens?” his tone was incredulous.

  “There were others, Lord Denovyn,” stammered the captain. “Half-a-dozen, or more, Sir. They fled the scene when we came upon them. My men are rounding them up now, my lord. They won’t escape.”

  “And these three, Captain...they did not try to flee?”

  “No, my lord. They came peacefully.”

  “Yet you believe they are to blame for the violence?”

  The captain shifted uncomfortably, his rigid stance momentarily breaking. Denovyn’s questions were casting a shadow of a doubt on the captain’s judgment.

  “My lord,” continued the captain, obviously struggling to choose his words carefully. “There are three dead. And these two have swords.”

  “Who are those which are slain?”

  “We have not identified them. But they appear to be no more than bandits. Like those who fled from us.”

  “Likely of those accursed thieves who have plagued my city for nigh a year. You there—”

  Denovyn pointed his forefinger at Endrick.

  “Tell me, Sir, were any of these slain men companions of yours?”

  “No, my lord, they were not.”

  “Thank you.”

  Denovyn inclined his head respectfully to Endrick.

  “Captain, you say six or more of these rogues escaped you? Add these three and that’s nine or ten men. Nine or ten men against two men and a boy?” He paused to let the full weight of the question press down upon the captain, fixing him with his dark eyes and raised brow.

  “Captain,” he continued before the captain could form an excuse, “in the future, I hope you will

  exercise better judgment when making your arrests.”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied the captain humbly.

  “That is all, Captain. You are dismissed.”

  Nodding curtly, the captain turned stiffly on his heels, then strode toward the door.

  “And Captain,” added Denovyn, his voice sounding less severe. The captain paused midstride and cocked his head to one side. “Catch those bandits and all this will be forgotten.” Again, the captain nodded, then was gone.

  Lord Denovyn then turned his attention to the companions. His face seemed to have transformed in an instant, from commander to gracious host. Skylar could see that Denovyn was a powerful leader. He had no desire to punish the captain, only to reprove him, to hone his sense of justice. Denovyn was not angry. Anger cannot be dispelled so promptly.

  “I offer you my apologies for this arrest,” he said. “The captain of my guard is a valiant and skilled man. Yet I fear he can be overzealous at times when arrests are concerned.

  “I pride myself on the safety of my streets,” he went on, slowly making his way round his desk.

  He was rather large in stature, and walked with a firm, resolute gait. In his crisp white jacket, hanging with medals and lined with polished silver buttons, he looked more a commanding general than a governing lord.

  He drew near the companions.

  “Ah, but you are wounded,” he said seeing Lasseter and Endrick’s bloody bandages. “You are all three free to go, but I must insist that my medics treat your injuries before you depart.”

  “You are very gracious, my lord,” replied Lasseter from the depths of this hood. “Our wounds are not serious and we have lost precious time.”

  “As you wish. Guards, see these three safely on their way.”

  Denovyn gave them a brief bow of his bead, then returned to his desk.

  Skylar couldn’t believe his ears. Free to go? And there was no sign of Morvath anywhere. They would make it to their ship after all. His fists, which had remained clenched throughout the entire interview finally relaxed. His heart ceased its heavy pounding.

  One of the guards stopped in front of them and indicated with his hand for them to turn and leave the room. Just before Skylar turned, a stirring at the far end of the room caught his eye. A flitting of shadow against the wall. Then a chill. A chill he’d only experienced once before, in the citadel of Dura Cragis. Skylar caught his breath.

  The shadow shifted, morphed, into a solid form. How could it be? It seemed impossible that in such a bright room anyone, any
thing, could hide in the faint shadows undetected. But there it was—the cloaked form of some being, flowing unnaturally toward Denovyn, as though his feet did not touch the floor.

  Everyone else in the room had likewise frozen, like men caught under an enchantment. Lord Denovyn cocked his head slightly. The cloaked figure was evidently whispering something in his ear. Denovyn, though calmer than the governor of Dura Cragis had appeared, swallowed uncomfortably.

  “As you wish, my lord,” Skylar heard Denovyn whisper in reply. And the dark figure floated back toward the wall. “Hold, guards,” commanded Denovyn. “The king’s minister has requested a private audience with the lad.”

  Skylar took a step backwards, a wild fear suddenly seizing him. Lasseter put a hand on his shoulder.

  “He is but a boy,” protested Lasseter. “Tarus’ minister can have no interest in him.”

  Denovyn nodded understandingly and came round his desk again.

  “I assure you, the lad will be fine. Come, I shall personally see that your wounds are cared for. You shan’t have to wait long.”

  Skylar felt Lasseter’s hand squeeze tighter on his shoulder, then release. That was all. Lasseter did not argue further. It was pointless to do so. Lasseter and Endrick turned and walked slowly out of the office.

  As his companions left, Denovyn briefly paused and looked into Skylar’s face, a face that told him not to be afraid, to stand strong. Yet for all his comforting, when those doors closed and there was no one between him and Morvath, Skylar felt only one desire: to run.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “YOU NEEDN’T BE afraid,” said a voice that lacked any hint of malice. It almost sounded kind. No one else was in the room. Could it have come from Morvath? “I have no desire to harm you,” it went on.

  The cloaked form of Morvath drew a step closer to Skylar, moving with that same eerie stillness. He paused.

  “Calm yourself,” he said, soothingly. “I am a friend.”

  Then he slowly drew back the hood from over his face, and Skylar nearly gasped. How hideous and grotesque a creature Skylar imagined Morvath would be: scarcely human in appearance; with shriveled, gnarled skin, the color of spoiled milk; eyes that burned red with hatred; teeth pointed like fangs; and a nose like an eagle’s beak—long and sharp.

  No. This was an ordinary-looking man, as frightening to behold as an infant.

  Could this be Morvath? Skylar wondered. Perhaps he was some other chief minister to the king. His heart took courage at the prospect. That hope, however, almost instantly died. Who else could it be? Who else could have produced that coldness in his bones? Who else commanded such power and could make a great lord like Denovyn uneasy? There was no doubt. This man was Morvath.

  He appeared to be the same age as Lasseter or Krom, with noticeable sprigs of gray mixed with clay-colored hair around the ears. The skin of his face, marred by few wrinkles, was as pale as a corpse’s. It blended well with his thin, colorless lips.

  Morvath smiled. Not a mirthless smile filled with hatred, but one that—for an instant—drew Skylar in.

  “I’ve been searching a long time for you,” said Morvath, as a father might say to a long-lost son. “You’ve gone to great lengths to evade me. You’re a long way from Haladras, Prince Korbyn.”

  Skylar contemplated playing dumb, acting as if he didn’t know who Morvath was talking about. Somehow he knew that it would be useless. Morvath would know he was lying.

  “You must forgive my appearance,” continued the chief minister. “I’m cursed with poor skin—hypersensitivity to light. For our interview, however, I can bear the exposure.

  “You’ve been told much about me, I’m sure,” he went on, clasping his hands behind his back and turning casually toward a painting of Denovyn hanging on the wall. “The king’s nefarious advisor? A wicked puppet-master, perhaps? Plotter in the death of Athylian, your father? I’ve heard them all, Korbyn.”

  Turning abruptly, he fixed Skylar squarely in the eyes.

  “Do I look like such a villain to you?”

  The question was so frank and earnest, Skylar was taken aback. He considered it a moment, then answered hesitantly, but truthfully, “No…no you don’t.”

  Morvath smiled faintly and nodded, as if to say thank you.

  “I understand your confusion, Korbyn. Those men who have been guarding you from me are, doubtless, honorable men. But even honorable men may be deceived. Knowing who to trust is not always as simple as it seems. A man may get an idea and convince himself of its veracity. He feels in his heart that it is right. And he’ll let the entire universe be destroyed if it means defending that one belief.”

  Morvath took another step closer to Skylar, holding out his hands like a man who has said all that needs to be said.

  “You see for yourself that I am not what they accuse me of being. I am not your enemy. I wish only to help you.”

  He took another step closer. Skylar’s emotions raced.

  “I can take you away from this nightmare. No more running. No more hiding. No more fear of some imaginary foe. Return with me to Ahlderon. King Tarus shall adopt you. You shall live in the manner fitting to your noble birth. All the comforts the Castle Ahlderon can offer shall be yours.”

  He stepped closer, his pale blue eyes staring intently into Skylar’s, hypnotizing him. Comforts and status and honor Skylar could live without. But his mother…poverty was all she’d ever known. With his wealth, he could help her. She would never have to work again.

  What was the right answer?

  With one word—a nod, even—he could end all of it. He’d never asked for any of it. Never had he wished to be prince, to be king. For Grim’s sake he would not shirk it. If he went with Morvath, he would be prince, and eventually king. No more fighting. No more death...the word echoed in his mind. Death...Grim...

  A sudden blazing hot anger consumed his insides.

  “You may try to fool me with your smooth talking,” said Skylar, his words coming forcefully restrained through his teeth. “But I know what you are. A murderer.”

  “Murderer!” cried Morvath, taking a step back and putting a hand to his chest. “How have I earned such an abhorrent title? You would be wise not to judge a man without evidence, Korbyn.”

  “Grim is dead because of you,” blurted out Skylar. “If you hadn’t sent your men after him, he would still be alive.”

  Morvath bowed his head and shook it solemnly, completely unaffected by Skylar’s seething anger.

  “That was most lamentable. I still grieve over that. I never wished such to happen. I only hoped to find you. I can understand why you blame me. But let me remind you, I lost two loyal servants that day.”

  “You lie,” said Skylar icily. “You knew Grim would never let me go without a fight. You ordered Lothor and Gyle to use whatever means to get me.”

  “Then perhaps you should blame Grim,” retorted Morvath. “He was a traitor in the empire.”

  “No!” shouted Skylar. “Grim was the best man I ever met. He was no traitor.”

  “I’ve no question,” replied Morvath, “as to his character. Evidently, he was willing to die to defend you. No charlatan or coward would have done likewise. The fact remains, however, that he sought to hide you from the empire. And to what end? To overthrow Tarus at the cost of, perhaps, countless lives?”

  Skylar had cooled his anger during Morvath’s speech. Now he felt better able to think, to reason.

  “If I am the rightful heir to the throne, then wouldn’t Tarus and anyone who supports him be traitors? You say Tarus will adopt me. I do not need his adoption. The throne is mine by right.”

  Neither Morvath’s gaze nor his voice faltered.

  “Tarus is the crowned King of Ahlderon. It is not such a simple matter to replace the reigning monarch of an entire empire. Had you been discovered alive after your father’s death, the situation would be different. Being too young to assume the role of king, Tarus or some other would have been appointed regent until you coul
d be crowned on your eighteenth birthday. Alas, such was not our good fortune.”

  “You admit, then, that you would oppose me if I tried to take the throne?”

  “I,” replied Morvath with great dignity, “will follow my king. I am his servant.”

  “You mean, you will advise him to fight against me and anyone who supports me.”

  “I have no desire for any more bloodshed. I wish for you to accept my offer. Come with me to Ahlderon.”

  The chief minister spoke with such sincerity and reason that Skylar’s own convictions began to diminish. Could Lasseter, Krom, Endrick...Grim...could they all have been wrong about Morvath? No, they couldn’t be. Could they?

  Suddenly he remembered the wretched state of the people on Quoryn, and the fear that had stifled the streets of Dura Cragis. This was Morvath’s doing.

  “I’ve been to Quoryn. I’ve seen how your new governor oppresses the people; how the soldiers destroy villages and accost innocent girls in the streets. If this is your vision for the empire, I want nothing to do with it.

  Morvath shook his head sympathetically.

  “Yes, a few reports of ill conduct among the soldiers have trickled back to me. I condone none of it. Nor does his Majesty, I assure you.”

  “Then why doesn’t he stop it?”

  “Easier said than done, my boy. Many of the soldiers are new. They lack the proper discipline of seasoned soldiers. It will come in time. You have my promise of that.

  “As to governor Dungrad oppressing the people, you have not seen the matter clearly. The king has a great vision for the empire...for his people. He envisions a kingdom where corruption is rooted up; where inequality is banished; and poverty abolished. That is the future of our empire, Skylar. But the only way it can come to fruition is through increased structure of our government. Lord Braxton and Lord Orphlyus, as well as all the other lords of our empire, possess too much discretionary power within their own realms. The king cannot fully help his people without more direct control over all the affairs of the kingdom.

  “Imagine it, Korbyn! The empire shall own all property, redistributed equally among all the people. All shall have jobs, food, and clothing. No man shall be wealthier than another. Crime and corruption shall be dealt with swiftly and efficiently. That’s not oppression, my boy. That’s freedom from the oppression of greed and strife. Freedom from worry over providing for one’s family. Freedom from those who take advantage of others for their own gain. Imagine it!”