by Jason Parker
Wexworth shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Just listen. Lord Shifan Vergilus belongs to a wealthy family that has ruled Harkovia since the fall of Vladrik. As a youth Vergilus was a carousing lush, consuming his family’s money like it was candy. He partied until his father became ill and it was time for him to assume the mantle of king of Harkovia. He now favors the taste of coin more than ale, but when offered, he’ll rarely turn down a drink.”
Jurg scratched as the stubble on his chin. “So all you have to do is get him drunk and then he’ll do what you want?”
Wexworth glanced at the clock above his office door. He needed to leave in five minutes. “It’s hardly that simple, but a few drinks will loosen his tongue and open him to suggestions. Make no mistake, though, Vergilus possesses a keen financial acumen and he could sell wool to a sheepherder. Fortunately I have been able to convince him of the value of science. In return for his support and funding he has reaped the benefits of the handsome profits generated by my grand inventions and scientific achievements.”
Wexworth folded his arms and tapped his toe. Jurg had drawn his sword and was examining the sharpness of the blade. “Is any of this sinking in?” Wexworth asked.
“Sure, I’m not completely stupid. Tell me about the other two lords.” Jurg replied.
“Just partially stupid,” Wexworth muttered under his breath.
“Hmm?” Jurg said, briefly taking his attention away from his blade.
“Never mind,” Wexworth said, shaking his head.
Jurg resumed his examination of the sword. “I’m listening.”
Wexworth smoothed his waistcoat and huffed. “Very well. Lord Havian Tyval’s background is in the military. As a young man he served in the Tuvir military and quickly rose through the ranks to become the commander of the South Outpost. He received high honors for his efficiency and effectiveness. The top military brass were loath to see him leave when he resigned to succeed his father as king of Caleria. He’s gruff and stern and his first inclination is to solve every problem using military force. He can, however, be dissuaded from this course with a reasonable counter argument.”
“Ahh, so he’s a man who knows the value of a good weapon.” Jurg smiled and held up his sword. “My kind of guy.”
Wexworth ignored him and continued. “As I mentioned before, Lord Dumare Markov is the newest and youngest member of the Triumvirate. His father, Armont, was a popular ruler. A down-to-earth man who was true to the agricultural heritage of Tarkania. Dumare is quite the opposite. He lacks his father’s charisma and zealously adheres to the doctrine of the Church of Keyaul. As a youth he became actively involved with the Church and desired to enter the clergy. Armont forbade this. Dumare was his only heir and he was firmly against the notion of a secular ruler also holding a position within the clergy. Dumare continued his involvement with the Church in an unofficial capacity. It’s popularly believed he is consulted in all matters of importance to the Church, though the High Priestess denies this.”
“Hmm,” Jurg frowned. “He doesn’t sound like my kind of guy.”
Wexworth glared at him in frustration. “No, I suspect not. However, someone who is more your ‘kind of guy’, Paladin, the commander of the Church Guard, figures into all of this as well. He appears to be quite close with Dumare. More so than with the High Priestess.”
Jurg scrunched his nose. “Paladin’s a freak. He may know how to use a sword, but he’s definitely not my kind of guy.”
Wexworth glanced at the clock and waved dismissively. “I must be on my way.”
He brushed past Jurg and quickly wove his way through the castle to the audience chamber of the Triumvirate. He pointedly ignored the greetings of castle servants as he hurried by. The brass ornamentations on the closed inlaid oak doors of the audience chamber appeared to glower disdainfully at him as he approached. Wexworth blinked and paused to rub his eyes and smooth his waistcoat. As he stepped forward, one of the two guards stationed on either side of the doors moved to block his path.
“The lords are not ready for you yet,” the tall, burly young man dressed in the black and red uniform of the Triumvirate Guard said.
Wexworth glared at the guard who impassively returned his gaze. From within the audience chamber he could hear raised voice. Vexed at being forced to wait while the Triumvirate concluded one of their interminable arguments, Wexworth took a step back and began pacing. He had not requested this audience. They summoned him to deliver news of his recent trip to Delon.
“Fools!” he scoffed under his breath. “Wasting my time.” He paused his pacing and moved a few steps closer to the closed doors, ignoring the stares of the guards.
He stroked the point of his oiled goatee. Well, perhaps the members of the Triumvirate were not complete fools. They did provide him with funding. Actually, compared to the buffoons at the Delon Science Institute, they were downright geniuses. He laughed inside. Fools or not—useful for now.
Folding his arms and inconspicuously cocking an ear toward the doors he heard Lord Tyval’s powerful voice boom above the others. “Now is the time to strike! We must send troops to depose King Vonador before he runs Delon into the ground. He hoards money. He gives little in return to his people. He is toxic. If dark times are truly approaching, the Delonians will be defenseless.”
Wexworth flinched at the harsh words of Lord Tyval. Although he would never admit it, Wexworth was intimidated by the man’s austere nature and was infuriated by allowing himself to become Tyval’s pawn on more than one occasion.
“While I admit military force is sometimes warranted—I do not see it to be the case in this matter,” Lord Markov countered in a steadfast voice. “While some of us may stand under different banners, the people of Gandany are at peace under the light of Keyaul. The great goddess encourages continued peace. I firmly believe in the need to enfold Delon into our unified nation, however, doing so by force is a grievous mistake and an offense to Keyaul.”
Wexworth almost choked when he heard Lord Markov’s holier than thou response. Wexworth found his attitude of superior piety irritating. Wexworth often attempted to garner the favor of Dumare by making a good show of religious conviction, but his efforts were met with contempt.
“Gentlemen,” Lord Vergilus interjected, “I must agree with Lord Markov. Military action would throw Delon into a tailspin and disrupt the supply lines through Crossroads. If we are to unite with Delon, we must keep commerce flowing. We must be able to take advantage of the revenue stream to further our cause.”
After a brief pause, he added, “and that of the Church.”
Wexworth silently chuckled at Lord Vergilus's final comment intended to placate Lord Markov. Lord Vergilus was indeed skilled at working a room to his advantage.
“Perhaps Wexworth discovered something of importance on his journey to Delon that will provide us with guidance on our course of action,” Lord Vergilus continued.
At the mention of his name, Wexworth took another step toward the chamber doors. The guards readied to block his advance but said nothing.
“Wexworth,” a soft feminine voice called from behind him.
Wexworth started and whipped around to see a female figure clothed in a hooded white robe.
“High Priestess, I…I…” Wexworth fumbled, turning crimson to the top of his cleanly shaven head.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the guards trying to suppress a laugh.
“Please Wexworth, call me Lancia. You know you needn’t be so formal with me,” she said with an amused smile.
“Of course, Lancia,” he said smoothing his waistcoat and attempting to regain his composure. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
Lancia smiled again, now with warmth rather than amusement. She pulled back her hood, freeing her long dark hair. She gracefully tied it behind her neck with a small leather cord. Gold circular earrings with the shape of a diamond embedded inside dangled from her ears. Keyaul’s symbol. The circle of life supported from w
ithin.
Wexworth stared at her. She was exquisite—unadorned and dressed in simple clothing. Her radiant beauty illuminated the hallway and Wexworth could think of nothing better than basking in it for hours.
Lancia walked toward him and placed a hand on his cheek. Her gentle brown eyes met his. “That is very kind of you to say, Wexworth. May the light of Keyaul always shine upon you.”
Wexworth’s breath caught in his throat. He was transfixed by her gaze and her touch made his whole body tingle. He managed to squeak out an, “and you,” as she removed her hand and withdrew a few steps.
He heard the sound of a stifled laugh from behind him and his anger flared, ruining his reverie. He fought back the urge to confront the guard and calmed himself, smoothing his waistcoat once again.
“What brings you here today, Lancia,” he asked, smiling as he returned his attention to the High Priestess.
“You, in fact,” she responded. “I was told by Lord Markov you would be giving a report of your travels in Delon. I wish to hear about it firsthand. If darkness is arising, the Church needs to be prepared.”
“Well, I wish I could…” Wexworth began, interrupted by the reverberating clang of a gong.
The guards pushed open the doors to the audience chamber and motioned for Wexworth and Lancia to enter.
“After you,” Wexworth said, offering a slight bow toward Lancia.
Lancia smiled and walked past him through the ornate doors. He waited a few moments then approached the guard who had found humor at his expense, the same one who prevented him from entering upon his arrival. Since members of the Triumvirate Guard rarely engaged in battle, the only keratium component standard to their uniform was a sleeveless black cuirass. It offered protection for the vital organs, but little else.
“You need to learn some respect, boy,” Wexworth said as he furtively released a small spike on the palm side of the sapphire jeweled ring he wore on his right middle finger.
“Whatever,” the guard replied as he dismissively rolled his eyes.
Wexworth grabbed the guard's forearm and pressed the spike of his ring through the shirt sleeve and into the skin beneath.
“Oww!” The guard pulled his arm free of Wexworth's grasp. “What did you do to me?”
Wexworth fixed his gaze on the guard and said in a slow, icy voice, “You will learn respect.”
Wexworth hurried through the doors of the audience chamber and caught up to Lancia who was offering a slight bow toward the members of the Triumvirate. Wexworth followed suit, though more ostensibly obsequious. He followed up with an overly enthusiastic, “Greetings, my lords!”
The lords of the Triumvirate sat next to each other behind a large polished oak table with ornate inlaid carvings of game animals and weaponry along the sides. The table was located in the rear of the chamber upon a raised dais five stair steps above the floor. Rich red bordered tapestries depicting scenes ranging from undisturbed nature to metropolitan cityscapes adorned the walls. Each lord was seated on a throne of matching oak uniquely fashioned according to their individual preference. The high back of Tyval’s throne was etched with a pair of crossed swords. A sun with emanating rays and intricate carvings of birds decorated Markov’s throne, while Vergilus’s was patterned with an elegant brocade design.
The lords were attired in their customary black suits with red waistcoats and wore stoic expressions. Looking at their faces caused anxiety to flair in the pit of Wexworth’s stomach. He subconsciously smoothed his waistcoat and bit the corner of his lip.
The normally unflappable Tyval’s weathered face exuded agitation with a furrowed bushy white brow and pursed lips. Wexworth noted tiny rivers of perspiration in the lines of Tyval’s forehead. Apprehension? Perhaps Wexworth could use this to his advantage. Markov, who sat in the middle, glowered at Wexworth, his plump face riddled with contempt. Common coming from him, yet Wexworth felt there was additional vitriol in Markov's eyes today. Typically congenial, Vergilus looked angry though most of his ire appeared to be directed toward Lancia. Wexworth found this curious.
Vergilus stroked a hand through his wavy, gray streaked dark hair. He donned a smile that lit up the room. “As always, it is good to see you, Wexworth.” Turning toward Lancia, his smile slipping, he continued in a harsher tone, “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit High Priestess?”
“The High Priestess is here at my suggestion, Lord Vergilus,” Markov interjected.
“Yes, Lord Vergilus,” Lancia said in a soothing voice, “Lord Markov thought it wise that I be included in discussions concerning the darkness that seems to be brewing in the north.”
Vergilus glared at Markov. “Perhaps Lord Markov would care to share his wisdom with the rest of us before making unilateral decisions,” Vergilus said.
Markov returned Vergilus's glare. The top of his head, visible through his thinning brown hair reddened. He began to counter, but was cut short by Tyval. “Yes,” he said, “you were out of line Lord Markov, but nonetheless, these matters are of concern to the Church and the counsel of the High Priestess is welcome.”
Vergilus looked for a moment as if he were going to respond but then shrugged, dismissively.
“Thank you my lord,” Lancia said in her calm voice.
Wexworth was thankful Lancia was in attendance. He enjoyed the serenity her presence promulgated. Since he had little of substance to report, the distraction she provided was also most welcome.
Tyval motioned toward Wexworth. “All right, Wexworth, let's get on with it. Tell us what you discovered on your visit to Delon.”
“My lords,” Wexworth said as he offered a deep bow, “let me begin by thanking you for your show of faith in allowing me to be your emissary. It is truly and honor and a privilege.”
“Your gratitude is duly noted,” Markov intoned with impatience, “now if you would get to the heart of the matter.”
“Of course, my lord,” Wexworth continued, “as you know my first order of business was to attend the court of King Vonador at his palace in Egenton. The king sends his regards and requested me to convey his open invitation for you to pay him a visit at any time.”
Wexworth placed his hands behind his back and faced Lancia. “He also asked after you, High Priestess, and wanted me to inform you that he offers his encouragement and well wishes to any and all that endeavor to establish new congregations of the Church within Delon.”
“Thank you, Wexworth,” Lancia said, favoring him with a smile. “That is indeed pleasant news.”
“You are most welcome,” Wexworth said, dipping his head toward her. “The king also made reference to many positive impacts the Church...”
“Wexworth,” Tyval interrupted, “this is all well and good, but hardly pertinent to your primary objective.”
“Yes, my lord. I beg pardon,” Wexworth said as he mentally calculated how much time he needed to fill before his planned distraction occurred.
He shifted his position a few paces, smoothed his waistcoat, and cleared his throat. “King Vonador acknowledged meeting with the white-haired ranger woman a few weeks ago,” he continued. “The king said she was most insistent that he immediately mobilize troops to travel to the Northern Territory and combat the plague of mindless psychopaths she told us about.”
Wexworth paused and again cleared his throat. “As you are no doubt aware,” he went on, “King Vonador is not a hasty man. He dismissed the woman and told her he would look into the matter.”
“And what did he do?” Vergilus asked as he scratched at his neatly trimmed goatee.
“Well,” Wexworth responded shrugging his shoulders, “not much. He sent a handful of troops across the border into Marn. They visited a few settlements, but saw nothing to corroborate the white-haired ranger's claims.”
“The ranger's name is Whitestorm,” Markov interrupted. He rolled his eyes. “It would be appreciated if you took more interest in the details of your assignment.”
“Yes, Whitestorm. Thank you m
y lord,” Wexworth said, offering a mock bow and pretending to ignore Markov's reproach. “In any event, the soldiers did hear some stories that were similar to Whitestorm's, but they were told a number of other outlandish tales as well. There were a few mentions of Vladrik, but the king concluded there was not enough evidence or consistency of stories to warrant any further action.”
“Whitestorm said the trouble was in the Northern Territory, not Marn. Did Vonador bother to send any scouts through the Auldhurst Forest and into the Northern Territory?” Tyval asked.
“It would seem not, my lord,” Wexworth replied with a wan smile.
“And what of the other members of the king's court?” Markov asked.
“What of them?” Wexworth responded, dressing his face with a look of confusion.
Markov glared at him. “There are several wise men and women in King Vonador's court,” he stated with annoyance. “You are well aware of this, Wexworth. Did you not interview them to obtain their opinions on the matter?”
Wexworth had spent time with the courtiers, but did not waste it discussing Whitestorm's fantastical tale or rumors about Vladrik. He was more interested in drinking the king’s extraordinarily fine wine and exploring lucrative opportunities for him to join the king’s court and relocate to Egenton.
As Wexworth mentally scrambled to comprise a suitable response to Markov’s inquiry, howls of anguish erupted from the anteroom. The timing was absolutely perfect and Wexworth could not help but crack a slight smile. He quickly suppressed it and glanced about to see if anyone noticed. No one was looking at him.
“Guards, find out what is going on,” Tyval ordered, rising from his throne. Despite his age he maintained a fit physique and stood with perfect military posture.
At the first sound of trouble, the eight guards in the audience chamber assumed a defensive posture in front of the Triumvirate. At Tyval’s command, two guards at either end of the formation broke ranks and moved toward the doors. Before they reached the doors, one flew open and a guard burst in from the hallway. His face etched with concern.