by John Marco
“Yes,” drawled Mor. He stroked his cat and studied Akeela. “Sit, my friend.”
Akeela took a chair across from Mor. Breck remained standing. The significant distance between the two kings added to the air of mistrust. Akeela took notice of the room and the placement of the chairs. Tomorrow, he would have to be much closer to Mor. A servant came from the corner of the room, filling Akeela’s goblet with wine. King Mor raised his glass toward his guest.
“To you, King Akeela,” he said. “And to our meeting. May it be fruitful.”
“That is my fondest hope,” said Akeela. When he had drank, he put down the glass and looked at Mor earnestly. “King Mor, you know why I’m here. You threaten war with Reec, and even with Liiria. I’ve seen the buildup of your forces here at Hanging Man. But I can tell you honestly, there is no need for this.”
“No need? King Akeela, you surprise me. You make a treaty with my enemy, and yet you say there is no need for me to worry?”
“I made a peace treaty with Reec, my lord, that is all.”
“Words, King Akeela.” Mor waved off his remarks. “You gave them rights to the Kryss. You didn’t even think about us here in Norvor. We are like nothing to you. Well, as you can see, we will not ignore such shabby treatment. And we will not let Reec have the Kryss. If we must, we will take it.” King Mor leaned forward threateningly. “And not even Liiria will stop us.”
Incensed, Akeela wanted to spit across the table. Mor’s arrogance was boundless. But Akeela held his tongue, summoning the coward Mor expected him to be.
“No, my lord, please. We must avoid such a thing. Liiria doesn’t want war with Norvor any more than we wanted it with Reec. We must do what we can to stop it.”
Mor sighed, considering the cat in his lap. “Frankly, I am out of ideas. I made my anger plain to you in our last meeting, yet you have chosen to offer us nothing. Unless . . .” He looked up with a smile. “Have you come to offer something?”
“Since I cannot have war with you, I’m prepared to bargain.”
“I am listening, King Akeela.”
“First, the Kryss is no longer mine to give. You know that. We traded it for peace with Reec, and to take it back would invite war with them. But we still have rights to it, rights assured us by King Karis. If you are willing, Liiria will pay you tribute for use of the river. If you allow our ships to sail south past Hanging Man, each one will pay a toll of gold.”
Mor looked intrigued. “And Reec? What of their ships?”
“We will pay their tribute as well,” said Akeela. “It will come from our own coffers, provided you make no aggression against them. And provided you move your army back from the border.”
“Your own coffers? You would pay for Reecian ships just to avoid war?”
“My lord, you have given me little choice,” said Akeela. “If you attack Reec, Liiria will be forced to intercede. And we have no wish to fight you. I’m not happy about it, but I see no other options.”
Prince Fianor snickered. “You could act like a man.”
His father glared at him, warning him to be silent. But when he looked back at Akeela, he said, “My son talks out of turn, King Akeela, yet I fear he’s correct. Your father wouldn’t have come here with such an offer. He would have fought. But you’re not your father, are you?”
“My father sent thousands of men to die in useless wars, my lord. I am trying to avoid such waste of life.”
“By bleeding your treasury?” Mor laughed. “Well, if you are willing to offer such a deal, I am willing to accept it. Will you sign a treaty saying so?”
“Of course. Have your people draft a paper of intent. Have it ready in the morning, and we will both sign it before I leave. We can work out the particulars of the payments later.”
Mor’s grin lit the room. “Then we are concluded, my friend. But you must stay the night in Hanging Man, of course. And your man here with you.”
“Fine. But I must leave on the morrow,” said Akeela. “I’m eager to return home.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are.” Mor hid his disdain very poorly. “The papers will be drawn tonight. We’ll wake early and sign them, and you can be on your way. But I should warn you, King Akeela, I will hold you to your word. If payment is not made on every ship that passes south, my army will return. And I will not be so willing to bargain.”
Akeela frowned. “I am a man of my word, King Mor. You should know that by now.”
“Indeed.” Mor lifted the cat from his lap and held it to his breast, then rose from his chair. “You should rest now, King Akeela. You look exhausted.”
Akeela got to his feet. “Yes, I am. But so are my men. We’ve ridden for many days, my lord. I’m wondering—may they come inside as well? They need rest, a proper roof from the sun and wind. If you could see fit to letting them stay within the courtyard at least, I would be most grateful.”
Mor chuckled. “You try to be so strong, King Akeela. Yet here you are, in my council chamber with just one man to protect you. What will you do if I refuse your request?”
“To refuse would be unjust, my lord, for as you’ve chosen to point out, I’m no threat to you. I’m only concerned about my people.”
Mor thought for a moment, turning again toward the sentry. “Fifty men, you say?”
“Yes, my lord. And twenty are already inside the courtyard.”
“I would say that twenty Liirians are quite enough,” Mor concluded. “But they may shift if they like. When the first twenty are rested, twenty others may take their ease in the yard.”
“My lord, that’s not very helpful,” said Akeela.
“But it’s all I am willing to grant.” Mor gestured to the door. “Take your rest tonight, King Akeela, and be glad I’ve allowed even that many of your cowards into my fortress.”
At dawn the next morning, Akeela and Breck waited for Mor’s men to come for them. Akeela had hardly slept at all. He had dressed and he had planned, and he had checked and rechecked the dagger beneath his cape. The room Mor had given them was on the north side of the fortress, and Akeela had spent much of the night staring off at the dark horizon, hoping that Hogon and Raxor were prepared. They were to use the cover of night to advance on the fortress, ducking behind the hills and mountains to hide their advance. An hour past dawn, they would attack. Now that it was dawn, Akeela supposed they were very near. But he couldn’t see them from his window, and he wondered if they were there at all.
“It’s almost time,” he noted. The sun was rising, exposing the terrain. The dark mountains took shape and the river began to glow, but there was no sign of Hogon. Akeela turned from the window. “Maybe they haven’t come. Maybe Raxor wouldn’t join them.”
“No, they’re out there somewhere, my lord,” said Breck. Throughout the night he had been the voice of reason. Now he sat in one of the chamber’s spartan chairs, waiting. He watched Akeela with the cool gaze of a seasoned soldier. “Don’t worry about Hogon. Just keep your mind on the task at hand. And remember, you have to get close to Mor.”
“I know,” said Akeela impatiently. “I’m just worried about the timing.”
“Don’t be. Mor loves to talk, so keep him talking. Start him bragging about his army or something. We just need enough time for them to get a glimpse of Hogon.”
“And Raxor,” added Akeela. It felt odd for him to be taking orders from Breck, but the reversal of roles was necessary. As he was too often reminded, he wasn’t a soldier. He said, “I just hope he’s come as well. Do you think—”
A knock at the door interrupted Akeela. He jumped, staring at the portal. “Yes? Who is it?”
The door opened and Fianor appeared. The prince was alone. He smiled wryly at Akeela. “Good morning, my lord. I see you are ready for your meeting with my father.”
“I’m ready,” Akeela replied. “Have the papers been drawn?”
“Drawn and awaiting your signature, my lord. May I escort you downstairs?”
“Is your father already there?”<
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The prince seemed to laugh. “My father is anxious to see the treaty signed, my lord, and hardly slept at all last night. You said you wanted to leave early, so he made himself ready for you.”
“And my men? What of them?”
“Your men are still in the yard,” said Fianor. “They’ve been fed and sheltered.” The prince snickered. “They seem eager to be on their way.”
Akeela took the insult without flinching. “Yes, well, they’re a long way from home.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed. “Now, let’s go sign that treaty.”
Chancellor Hogon was exhausted. He and his army had marched hard through the night, following the river and ignoring the dangers of darkness. With Raxor’s army beside them, they had kept close to the hills bordering the Kryss, periodically sending forth scouts to make sure their advance went unnoticed. Their horses were tired and in desperate need of rest, and the feet of the infantry bloomed with blisters. Hogon himself had hardly been able to keep himself erect in the saddle. Desperate for sleep, he had nevertheless pushed his old body to its edges, for time was his enemy and Akeela needed him.
Dawn was coming, and that meant battle was near. In the growing light, Hogon could see the first hint of Hanging Man on the horizon, its ugly turret poking out of the rocky earth like a cobra. He ordered his company to come to a halt. His six hundred men silently obeyed. Raxor, who rode beside Hogon, repeated the order to his own men, and down the line the order went. Together they surveyed the terrain.
“So?” asked Raxor. “Do we wait or do we ride?”
Hogon wasn’t sure how to answer. He wanted to give Akeela enough time to meet with Mor. At just past dawn, it seemed unlikely they would already be meeting. But Akeela had given him clear orders. He looked at the sun rising in the east, echoing his king’s words.
“Just past dawn.”
Raxor nodded. “We’re already close enough to be seen. If we don’t ride, we’ll be discovered too early.”
Still Hogon hesitated. Even from such a distance, Hanging Man looked formidable. Between himself and Raxor, they had over a thousand men. Akeela’s company added fifty to their ranks, but still. . . .
“I hope Akeela knows what he’s doing,” muttered Hogon.
“Don’t fret for your king,” said Raxor. “All he has to do is get the gate open. If he succeeds, we will triumph.” He looked at Hogon for an answer. “Chancellor, there isn’t much time.”
Hogon didn’t argue. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly, raised one hand above his head, and gave the order to advance.
King Mor and his ubiquitous cat were already seated when Akeela arrived in the council chamber. As before, there was food on the table and wine to toast the treaty. General Nace was present with several other soldiers, all bearing the same smug expression. The general and his underlings rose when Akeela entered. Breck kept close to Akeela. Akeela looked about the room, disappointed that none of his other men had been invited. On the table sat the treaty Mor had ordered written, a single piece of parchment rolled out flat. Next to it was a quill pen in an inkwell. Mor’s face hovered over the treaty, smiling triumphantly.
“Welcome, King Akeela,” said the old ruler. “I trust you slept well?”
The incongruous question vexed Akeela. “Well enough. Is that the treaty?”
“Indeed.” Mor pushed it across the table toward Akeela. “It reads just as you said it should. You will pay us a tribute of gold for every Liirian and Reecian ship that passes south of Hanging Man. It says that the price of the tribute will be determined at a later date by our factions, likely based on tonnage, and that you, King Akeela, take full responsibility for seeing this agreement implemented.” Mor picked up the pen. “Ready to sign?”
“No,” said Akeela. “You have these soldiers here to witness for you. All I have is Breck. I think I should at least have more of my men present, don’t you?”
Mor made a sour face. “Yes, I suppose,” he sighed. He looked past Akeela toward his son, Fianor. “Go and bring three of King Akeela’s men. Tell them to leave their swords. Be quick.”
Prince Fianor did as he was asked, disappearing down the hall. Akeela tried to relax, sure that he had bought himself some time.
“General Nace,” he said cordially, “would you mind giving up your seat for the signing? I should be next to King Mor, I think.”
The general was about to sit down but stopped himself. He gave Akeela a peculiar look, then glanced at his king.
“It’s tradition, Nace,” said Mor. “Sit at the other end, will you? Let King Akeela have your chair.”
Akeela thanked the general and took the seat to Mor’s right. This close to Mor, he could smell the old man’s breath and the odor of his cat, still perched lazily in his lap. Breck remained standing. Knowing that he needed to stall for time, Akeela leapt on the first idea that came to mind.
“Great Fate, I’m starving,” he said. “And look at all this food! Shall we break our fast together, my lord?”
“Certainly, my friend,” said Mor. Then he took the pen from the inkwell. “But let’s eat after we take care of business, hmm?”
Akeela reached across the table for a loaf of bread. “Well, my witnesses aren’t here yet, so we have some time.” He held the loaf out for Mor. “Bread, my lord?”
Mor shook his head. “No.”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I help myself.” Akeela tore off a great hunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Seeing a servant in the corner, he said, “You there. Pour some wine for me, will you? I’m as dry as the Desert of Tears! Breck, sit down and eat. We’ve a long ride ahead of us.”
“King Akeela,” said Mor, “don’t you even want to read the treaty?”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Akeela. As the servant filled his glass, he pulled the paper closer to him. “Yes, have to read this carefully indeed.”
“As I said, it’s not complicated.”
“No, no, you’re right, my lord. Let me read this carefully. Don’t want to sell my country into slavery, now do I?”
Mor sat back impatiently. “No, of course not.”
With both eyes on the treaty, Akeela pretended to read. As he did he snuck a peripheral glance at the chamber’s only window. The stained glass began to lighten, warning him. Soon he would get his signal. He quelled his growing nervousness by draining his glass.
“Yes, well, this looks fine, mostly,” he said. “But we’ll have to work out a payment schedule, to make sure Liiria isn’t cheated. The treaty should address that, I think. Perhaps I could leave a man or two behind to account for the ships that pass?”
“Cheated?” The word made Mor bristle. “Why would you say such a thing? Norvor only wants what it deserves.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re correct, my lord,” said Akeela. “Still, a strict accounting is necessary. Do you think you could have some changes made before I sign it?”
“Changes? No, King Akeela, I don’t think so. I—”
Before Mor could finish, Fianor returned with three of Akeela’s men. The Royal Chargers greeted their king, then bowed to King Mor. They were, as Mor had insisted, without swords. Breck quickly explained to them about the treaty, and how they were to witness its signing.
“Yes, the signing,” Mor insisted. Again he held out the pen for Akeela. “Or are you changing your mind, my lord?”
“No,” said Akeela. He wanted to stall further, but couldn’t think of another ruse. Just as he reached for the pen, his salvation came.
“My lords!” cried a voice. “Soldiers!”
Akeela moved like lightning. While Mor sat up, confused by the call, he dashed his hand beneath his cape and freed his waiting dagger. Breck and the three Chargers did the same. Akeela exploded out of his chair, took a handful of Mor’s shirt, and put the dagger to his throat.
“Don’t you bloody move!” he ordered. “Or I swear I’ll cut your throat.”
Breck had his own blade at Fianor’s throat. A panicked page boy stumble
d into the chamber, crying that soldiers were approaching. Outside the chamber, men were shouting amid sounds of struggle. General Nace and his men stood still as stone, unsure of what was happening.
“Get out of the chair!” Akeela roared, pulling Mor from his seat.
“What is this?” Mor sputtered.
“Shut up and listen,” said Akeela. Quickly he maneuvered himself behind the gasping man, wrapping an arm about his throat and keeping the dagger to his cheek. “Do as I say, you stinking toad, or you’re a dead man.”
“Let him go!” barked Nace, even as the Chargers held him, too. All three of Mor’s men were subdued, as was Fianor. The prince fought violently against Breck.
“You cowardly scum!” gurgled Fianor. “What are thinking? You can’t get out of here!”
“Quiet!” snapped Breck, pressing hard against Fianor’s throat.
“Release us!” the prince wailed
Breck dragged him roughly around, faced him against the wall, and drove his head into the hard stone. Akeela heard the crack of his skull, then watched him slump slowly to the floor, leaving a smudgy trail of blood down the bricks. Mor writhed in Akeela’s grasp, crying out for his son. Breck turned like a wildcat on Nace and his men.
“Still don’t believe us?” he hissed, brandishing his dagger.
Mor’s fingernails tore at Akeela’s arm. “You won’t get out of here! You won’t escape!”
Akeela pushed the blade against Mor’s cheek so that the old man wailed. “We will, and you’re coming with us.” He barked at the page, “Get in here!”
The boy stepped into the room. He looked at his king helplessly, then back into the hall where the commotion was rising.
“How many men are approaching?” Akeela asked.
The page barely stammered a response. “I . . . don’t know. Maybe a thousand . . .”
Satisfied, Akeela dragged Mor toward the door. “Now listen to me, General Nace. We’re going to leave here, slowly and in order. I promise you, nothing is going to happen to Mor unless you disobey me.”