by Wolf Awert
“You seem terrible to friend and foe alike; the Water cannot touch you, but you might choke us all on the mud. What is your name?” Sergor-Don asked the dwarf.
“They call me Sijem the Brown,” the short man’s answer came quickly.
“Are there other Sijems apart from you? Black, gray or even red ones?” the king asked, for Sijem was an ancient word for ‘ground.’
“My older brother was called Sijem the Pale. But he was rather small and did not live long. Then I came. When my mother saw me she cursed my father and denied him any more children. Now I am the only Sijem. But brown is a strong color, the best of them all.” The little man was bursting with confidence.
Auran-San realized to his horror that soon none of his lickspittles would be in the direct company of the king, and began to worry in earnest.
“The Fire Kingdom will unite iron and magic to an alliance the likes we have not seen since the days of the First Kings. Sorcerers and warriors will ride side-by-side and ensure that our home achieves its old glory. I enter the throne room as Prince Sergor-Don. I shall leave it as king.”
For the second time that day, Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben stepped forward to crown the prince, and for the second time Sergor-Don stopped them.
“Marshal Astergrise,” the prince called into the hall. Several nobles held their breath. None in the Fire Kingdom enjoyed regard equal to that of the old rider. Even Auran-San, with all his power as an advisor and the force behind the court sorcerers, never dared speak an open word against the white-haired old man, quite apart from fear of his still impressive use of a saber. What folly awaited the man who had served the old king with such unwavering devotion?
“Tell me, do you know the old Rockvice?” The relief in the crowd’s collective sigh was immediately undermined by tension at this new turn.
Astergrise gave a short nod before breaking the silence that usually surrounded him. “Yes, your Majesty. An old fortification at the borders of our kingdom. It was abandoned when your grandfather pushed our borders further towards Woodhold. Two days’ ride from Rockvice will find you at our current border. On the other side, closer to the capital, lies the land of the tribes, until the mountains cut it off. Follow the water to Ringwall; it can be reached in less than a day at a hard gallop. There are no troops in Rockvice, but some have settled in the old buildings.”
Astergrise knew the land well. Sergor-Don seemed satisfied.
“I would have Rockvice rebuilt. Three strong walls will surround it. The innermost will have a gate small enough to allow a single warrior through – no riders will pass. Within this ring there will be chambers for me and my councilors. The second wall will have gates large enough to allow riders, but no wagons. Within this wall the townsfolk will live. The gate in the outer wall will be wide enough to allow two troops to ride through without touching each other. This part will house our new garrisons. On the fire side of Rockvice there is a plateau of black glass, too smooth for sand and plant life. There you will build a tower with a winding stair and five rooms at the top. The highest platform will be open to all sides. You will have the time it takes for a foal to be born from the moment the stallion meets the mare. Can you have it done?”
Another short nod. “The fortifications can be made. Without haste, brick by brick. Give me the people to do it and it will be done exactly as you wish. The cisterns must be expanded and the water reservoirs improved. This too will happen, even if the rock does not give in willingly. Your chambers will be small and simple, and we may have to renew them in time. If the sorcerers help, there should be no problems in rebuilding Rockvice in the time you have given. But there will be no luxuries, no pomp. No decorations around the gates and windows. Not even a sorcerer’s magic could spur an artist’s mind to work in such time. Rockvice will be the town of a warrior. Traders will avoid it, unless they bring water.
“The tower is a different matter. It can not be built so readily. The black glass is not only too smooth for sand, but also stone. No builder could immediately build there, least of all a tower that could withstand the wind and storms.”
Astergrise returned his gaze to the prince questioningly, and found a smiling face.
“Very well, for the tower I will have to be my own builder. I can live without comforts. The more important thing is that the citizens are well protected, because there, near Ringwall, is where our new capital will lie. It shall be called Worldbrand.”
The uproar was immense. Gulffir had been the center of the kingdom for uncounted generations. Through steady trade with the other kingdoms the city had grown from a small hamlet to what it was today. The wooden huts had given way to mighty stone buildings. Many of the traveling nomads had found their home here and put up their tents around the town, later to be replaced by real houses. Streets had been laid and widened. The councilors, court sorcerers and magistrates had built themselves and their families small palaces, filled with luxuries and costly artwork.
Rockvice, on the other hand, was little more than a fortified village. The only stone structure there was the central command house, where each commander had lived and done his duty until the last soldier had left the place. These days it was commonly used by female donkeys as a refuge in which to give birth.
The roads were barely more than paths, trodden by men and horses over many years. The planned fortifications would be easy to overcome by any reasonably armed army. But nobody dared ask why. It took a long time for the uproar to settle and Sergor-Don to resume his speech.
“Send a messenger to the Magon of Ringwall. Inform him of our new location and of our wish to strengthen the bond between Ringwall and the Fire Kingdom.”
“What is the fool doing?” Haltern-kin-Eben hissed at Auran-San. “Does he honestly believe anyone will happily leave Gulffir to live in the middle of nowhere? I think it’s time we took action.”
“Let us wait until he’s done with his nonsensical commands. His fate lies waiting for him in the crowning ceremony. Have a little more patience.”
“Astergrise,” Sergor-Don again addressed the old marshal. “You will be accompanied by the palace guard and the warriors I have taken into my family. The defense of Worldbrand and the people who will raise it to glory is my first priority.
“Grand General Sarch will take a small troop to the foot of the Mistmountain range and set up camp where nobody is quite sure of the exact nature of the border between the Fire Kingdom and Woodhold. You have my leave to be a little generous when redrawing it.
“The other generals will take small contingents to the border towns and forts. I request particular care that peace is upheld on the border to Earthland.”
“Your Majesty,” Auran-San’s smooth voice rang out like a bell. “Perhaps some of these arrangements might wait until you are crowned king.”
The genially smiling face did not hint in the slightest at how the councilor felt inside. He had banished all thoughts from his mind and focused entirely on the magical band between himself and the crown, ready to unleash the magic of Earth to crush anything beneath it. Haltern-kin-Eben had stepped forward as well and bent over to pick up the crown.
“Very well!” the prince called out. “Let us dally no longer; but Haltern-kin-Eben, Auran-San, you have made a mistake. The thing you hold in your hands is a false crown. The future king’s true crown lies right here next to my throne.”
Auran-San stopped dead. With some effort he freed his mind from the Metal that had protected it. He stared in disbelief at the prince, as though he had not quite heard the words he had spoken. Haltern-kin-Eben straightened up and looked rather lost between the two thrones, the treasure of gold and gems useless in his hands.
“Here beside me, in the shadow of the throne.”
The councilor and the Keeper of Traditions stood between the prince and the household. Nobody could make out what was happening.
“What is wrong, my prince?” Auran-San whispered. “Have you taken leave of all that is holy? What crown is it you speak
of?”
The prince pulled back his black hood and removed his bandeau. “The red band of the desert.”
Sergor-Don bent over and picked up a simple black shawl from the ground. Upon it was a long red line, coiled up like a snake. In its center there was a silver ring, and from the ring hung a simple smoky quartz. It shook as the band moved.
“Wrap the band around my head, Auran-San. I command it.”
The old councilor took a step back from the throne, then turned around and ran into the middle of the throne room.
“Prince Sergor-Don has dismissed the crown and the king’s grace with it!” he shouted to the throng.
For a moment there was deathly silence. Then the crowd broke out into screaming and shouting, cursing and threatening. Several blades were unsheathed. Haltern-kin-Eben retreated as quickly as a cat. He knew where he stood and what he stood for, but this was not his fight. That was Auran-San’s concern. He suddenly noticed how worryingly small the number of sorcerers was. And he saw that Sarch had pulled out his weapon just like Astergrise. How would the old marshal act? And what would the other generals and captains do?
Sergor-Don had risen once more from his seat and now looked down at the crowd from the dais that held the two thrones.
“My crown is the red band of the desert. It is the old symbol of power all the tribes know. It is the only crown I will ever wear. The crown of gold you see there is my father’s crown, and it is heavy with the magic of falsehood, of treason, of broken trust. Auran-San, wouldn’t you agree that it suits you rather better than me?”
Before the councilor could respond the prince raised his voice to a roar.
“You betrayed the old king and now you want to do the same to his son! Did you really believe I knew nothing of your plans? My body may have been in Ringwall all this time, but my heart and my ears and my eyes were always here in Gulffir. The only reason I haven’t already had you drawn and quartered is your past services. My parting gift to you, my childhood teacher, is this chalice. Drink deep from it. The hemlock’s bitter taste is all but hidden by nectar and the sweet smells of plainsflowers. I wish you no discomfort in death.”
Sergor-Don picked up the goblet from beside his throne and made for Auran-San with determined steps. The councilor smacked the cup from his hands and the milky substance spilled onto the floor. The smell spread through the hall. It was sweet, but not the smell of flowers. It was the sweetish smell of decaying flesh. The breathing in the room grew shallow. Only Auran-San seemed unfazed by it.
“Fool! You believe I would bow to a child? This is the end of the line of Herfas-San. For generations my family has served the kings of your lineage. Each more foolish and weaker than the next, until finally we have this pitiful boy right here who humiliates dutiful generals, ignores border security, and abandons a flowering city to hardship to hide in the shadow of Ringwall. I too am a San like the Herfas, and can trace my father’s fathers back to the first rulers. Little prince, I am Auran-San of the line of Auran-San. My name itself is a constant reminder of my ancestry, and none of my family has ever forgotten it. I will promise you one thing, however: your end will be quite the show. I will grant you renown eternal. You will become a legend, and the people will tell of you in hundreds of years, of the death of the boy king who wanted everything and did nothing.”
At the last word he unleashed a wave of fire; the prince managed to deflect it, but the force of the attack knocked him flat on his back. Uul ran forward and strengthened the barricade. Auran-San flung fragments of meteorite at Uul, but they melted down to glowing droplets and hit the floor. Splitters of rock sliced at Sergor-Don’s skin. Auran-San called roots from the ground and sent Water to follow his Fire in an effort to boil the prince’s blood, and he pushed his foe through the hall.
Prince Sergor-Don was no match for the old sorcerer, but he fought back. Now was the moment to see whether his chosen guards were up to the challenge. Auran-San’s Metal attacks were held back by Uul, whose shield was flawless and did not give an inch. But Metal was not Auran-San’s only weapon – he switched between the elements at the speed of a galloping stallion. It was clear that he drew pleasure from playing with the prince.
“Enough!” he suddenly shouted into the din of crackling air and sparks. Silence descended on the hall once more. The flames flickered out and died. Into the silence the old sorcerer pointed a finger straight at the prince. Sergor-Don let out a scream and pressed his hands against his head. But as quickly as the vice had tightened around his brow it relinquished its grasp. For a moment Auran-San seemed uncertain. He stretched out a second finger and the pain shot through the prince’s feet into his legs, where it evaporated and left only a tingling sensation. The sorcerer raised his second hand to the ceiling and threw something at the prince. Sergor-Don was hunched over in pain and could no longer make out what was happening around him. He did not see a great stone loosen from the ceiling, just above Auran-San. It cracked like a nut that had been thrown in a fire as the stone came down upon the sorcerer’s head and crushed his skull.
“Take him away,” Sergor-Don coughed once his tongue could form any coherent sound again. “And open the doors for the King of the Fire Kingdom. Or is there another San who would deny my claim?”
The young king stepped out into the open, his magical guard behind him. The crowd and many soldiers in it burst out in cheers. Only the court sorcerers remained subdued. Sarch had sheathed his blade, Astergrise still held his weapon drawn. Haltern-kin-Eben was nowhere to be seen.
It was a day of joy, and Gulffir celebrated the first step into a new age. But many of the elders remembered earlier festivities that had been far more joyous. Too many shadows tainted the air. The Fire Kingdom finally had a new king, and the time of waiting and uncertainty had passed. But what a king they now had, who turned everything upside-down, who killed a court sorcerer with magic, whose chosen guard made up of half-arcanists had defeated as experienced and powerful a sorcerer as Auran-San as handily as a griffon kills a dove.
Those blessed with property could only lose under King Sergor-Don. Those with nothing could only win. And so there was drinking, dancing and laughing, but the royal household retired early. Worldbrand hung over them like a black cloud. No, security and trust had not been won that day. Instead, fear and unpredictability would rule the future of the Fire Kingdom. However, brave minds knew that limitless possibilities were open to them. The king had no more councilors; his guard was made up of just five sorcerers. The troops were disquieted and veteran generals trembled for their ranks. The almighty Haltern-kin-Eben had fallen from grace, even though he still held his position. The only one who had made it through the events unscathed was Astergrise.
King Sergor-Don reveled in the celebrations in his name. He had achieved what he had set out to. He was the new king and had destroyed his opponents. Nobody near him was strong enough to challenge him, and with every day the sun gave him he would grow stronger still. And yet his triumph too was not perfect, his smile even thinner than usual. He had underestimated the old man. The body might falter with age, but magic was seldom great in youth. He had hoped to subjugate Auran-San with the aid of his new shields, that they might together destroy the magic of the Other World. But Auran-San’s attacks had been too surprising, too wild and strong. He had not accounted for such ferocity. That was a mistake he loathed himself for.
The fact that he had won the fight was little encouragement; he had been unable to loosen Auran-San’s vice-like grip on his head, unable to stop the pain in his legs, unable to hear the last, fatal cast the sorcerer had attempted. Whatever had happened, he was not the victor. At least, not alone. Which of his guards was strong enough to break Auran-San’s spells and kill him?
King Sergor-Don called for Skorn-Vis and Uul.
“I grant you a temporary respite from your duty to defend my life,” he said quietly. “There is a more pressing matter. Go out and find powerful sorcerers. Search for them in the troops or wherever they decide to b
e. Search among Astergrise’s bowmen. Any sorcerer who knows how to use bow and arrow, or any marksman who has a spark of magic within him, is a gift to me. Do you understand?”
Skorn-Vis furrowed his brow and said cautiously:
“A sorcerer who has mastered a weapon is as rare as a warrior who knows magic. That is simple to understand. The rest only you understand, sire, for only you know why you seek such people.”
Sergor-Don stared at Skorn-Vis and attempted to reach the depths of his soul through his eyes, but failed.
“Your name, sorcerer. Vis is not honorific, it denotes no rank of lineage. Who has Wit in their name, what does it mean?”
“Everyone in my family has Vis in their name, my liege. It truly is not of honor or rank. It means ‘white as the mountain snow,’ where my ancestors came from. Others say it comes from wisdom, but that must have got lost long ago.” Skorn-Vis’ lips curled a little in his usually stoic face. “It may also come from wide, as in, a broad view, or open mind. Whatever it means, it merely shows my family’s origin, far from the desert.”