by Awert, Wolf
“In the time Gulffir has had to rule itself many foals have grown to stallions and borne more foals still. What else could this noble city have done but rule itself, when the king, unparalleled in his wisdom, has his strength taken from him by the cruel breath of old age? Sitting and resting, moving but slowly, may grant unrivaled power. The wandering dunes of the desert already show us how to do it: they can strangle life that has taken generations to blossom, and yet we never see them in haste.
“But that is not how we live in the Fire Kingdom. Our riders are fast as the wind on the plains, veiled like the sun in a sandstorm. None can see them, and if they do, they die. The riders’ arrows are faster than their targets’ reactions. They can fetch the lord of the skies, the gray Master Falcon, to the ground with a single shot. Our tribes are always on the move; they have petty disagreements and then forge new alliances; they match each other’s strength and use it against the forces of nature. I returned from Ringwall to bring freedom back to Gulffir and the Fire Kingdom, to break it free of the shackles it has grown accustomed to, to tear open the doors of every stable and let the horses run free again. I will have Gulffir’s pride and standing flying high above our towers with the black and red banners, and the Fire Kingdom will take its rightful place once more.
“Riders of the plains and the desert, it is to you I now speak. My councilors have told me there is unrest at our borders. This is nothing new. It has always been so. But in the past it was our horses that caused it, our riders upon their backs, not the Earthlanders or the Woodwers. Should it stay as it is, I ask you? Should it really stay that way?”
For just a moment the question hung in the air like a bubble, and the tension was palpable. When it became clear that the prince would not answer himself, a voice shouted: “No!” and many others joined in, some clattering their swords and shields to add to the racket. “Hail to our king!”
Once the noise had subsided Sergor-Don opened his mouth to continue, but another shout came from the crowd.
“What about our pay?”
All heads snapped around to find the one man who had been so taken by the moment that he dared to ask for money. Before they could find him, another voice shouted: “He’s right, what about it?”
More and more unhappy soldiers joined in. The spell of the moment was broken. Astergrise frowned. Grand General Sarch smiled triumphantly, and Auran-San looked cold, yet pleased.
“My father’s debt to you will be paid,” the prince called out. “Haltern-kin-Eben has given me his word.” The keeper of tradition suffered from a sudden coughing fit as he choked on his wine. He could not recall having given any such promise. Auran-San clapped him on the back and whispered: “Stay still, we’ll have him soon.”
“But your future pay,” the prince continued, “you will first have to earn.”
He made another pause and waited for the outcry to subside.
“The only gifts a warrior gets are sword and board, arrows and armor. A soldier’s duty is to gain fame and fortune, for himself, for his king, for his homeland. And now, those among you who were so avaricious to ask for their pay ought to know the king’s duty. Would you not like to know? Well? Where has your inquisitive nature gone?
“I will tell you what the king’s duty is. His most sacred task is to provide his soldiers with the chance to prove themselves to the world. Prove their courage, prove their prowess, prove their pride. A warrior’s pay is his prey, and your king will show you where to hunt for it best.
“For too long have our neighbors made a mockery of us. Even in our own lands. You will return glory to the Fire Kingdom, and I promise you, your reward will be great.”
The prince raised his hands once more for his warriors and returned to the palace, the crowd’s cheers at his back. Generals and cavalry leaders, councilors, court sorcerers and high-ranking officials followed him.
“A rousing speech, your Majesty,” Grand General Sarch congratulated the prince. “I see so much of your father’s spirit in you, especially when he was young and strong.”
“You have my thanks, Grand General. I hope you will be as supportive tomorrow at my crowning.”
At these words the prince turned to the rest of his followers.
“Tomorrow, precisely between sunrise and noon, you will find me in the throne room. In the same place where my father once resided. Those of you who wish to aid me in guiding the reins of our kingdom would do well to be there, but consider this: to rule means to assume responsibility, and responsibility means duties. Both of these, responsibility and duty, have the power to grant a long and fulfilled life. They can also cut it short.”
The prince’s gaze swept across his followers as his mouth curved to a fleeting smile and left nought but confused faces behind. The mutterings in the halls would not die down before sunset.
You speak true, young prince, Auran-San thought.
“I have been silent all this time, Auran-San. I put all my trust in you, even though collecting the money has made me no friends, to put it mildly. But to keep trusting you I must know what you plan to do,” Haltern-kin-Eben whispered to the first councilor, his hand held in front of his mouth.
Auran-San lifted his chin and looked down his long nose. His voice lost all inflection and sounded oddly flat as he spoke. “The prince will not have long to relish his crowning and his soldiers’ oaths.”
“What are you going to do?” Haltern-kin-Eben asked in shock. “Do you really mean to topple the prince? I thought kingslayers had no easy reign.”
“None of that. I will let fate play its hand for us,” Auran-San responded calmly.
Sarch and the keeper of tradition exchanged glances before quickly fixing their eyes back on the first councilor as they waited for an explanation, but Auran-San took his time. He slowly turned to face the wide plains beyond the city walls, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, neither knew whether he was answering Haltern’s question or simply thinking out loud.
“There is a tale that has been told at countless evening fires in our kingdom for untold generations. It is the tale of the weight of the crown. You must know that the crown of the Fire Kingdom brims with magic and grants the wearer absolute power. But only if…”
“If what?”
“But only if the head it sits upon is strong enough to bear it. A normal person, without royal blood, or a weak youngling who dares take it before his time, will be crushed by its weight. So goes the tale.”
“Superstitious rubbish,” Sarch snorted.
“Certainly, Grand General, certainly. I agree with you; such stories are seldom entirely true. But what does that matter? The important thing is that the common folk believe in them. All that remains is to amplify the crown’s magic and give it a little extra weight. Then a – how did you say? – superstitious rubbish story can become a staggering truth in the most real sense of the word. The moment Sergor-Don is crowned, he will have to take it off quickly if he does not wish to crumble beneath its weight, and all will see it. And should he be so foolish as to put it on himself, the effect would be even more impressive. And if he denies the impulse to take it off, his head will be crushed. Just like this here, look.”
At these words Auran-San gripped a sweetfruit and squished it in his hand. All eyes followed the juice that ran down his fingers.
Earlier than had been agreed upon a crowd of splendidly clothed nobles gathered before the throne room. To everyone’s surprise the doors were still locked, and no guards were posted by the entrance. Traditionally the throne room remained open until the new king had been crowned and taken his place. Prince Sergor-Don seemed to have forgotten this tradition.
At the precise mid-point between sunrise and noon the bars were lifted from the doors. Two young lads clad in the yellow-brown garb of the dustriders opened the doors and quickly stepped aside to disappear into the shadows behind the throne.
The councilors, sorcerers and generals entered the throne room first and saw that the young prince had already t
aken his place on his father’s throne. Their steps faltered for a heartbeat, but the crowd from behind forced them onward. The hall grew fuller and fuller; later tales of this day would claim that not a single further squire could have fit inside.
Sergor-Don looked down at the jostling crowd before him and waited for all to face their new king.
Auran-San was satisfied with what he saw. The prince was already as tall as his father had been, but was still a slender youth. Two more young warriors could have fit comfortably beside him on the throne, but perhaps that was only an illusion, a trick caused by the dark wood and the equally dark robe the prince wore, and the jet-black hair that covered his head. It fell unrestrained to his shoulders. Only a simple red band kept his hair out of his eyes.
“He could not have shown more obviously that the throne is still too big for him,” Haltern-kin-Eben muttered. “If he’d asked me I would have advised for bright colors and wide robes.”
“You would have turned him into a songbird. We ought to be happy that your counsel was not needed,” Auran-San chuckled quietly.
The prince did indeed seem strangely lost beneath the carved black-headed eagle that decorated the throne’s back. Or perhaps it was the powerful embrace of the armrests, shaped in the form of a leonpedon’s paws, that made his slim figure seem almost absent. The huge throne of pitted queba-wood called for a true king; it showed Sergor-Don the same indifference as it had a mouse that had clambered up on it that morning at dawn.
As the dark throne imposed itself upon its surroundings, so too did the shining crown atop the steps. It glowed red and gold with countless white and yellow stones as it sat on a small table, the weight of countless dynasties pressing it deep into the soft satin cushion. It was a heavy crown for a great king, and now it sat there, expectant and imperious, waiting for its new bearer. None present in the room could overlook how young their future king was.
Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben had stepped forward to begin with the crowning ceremony. But the prince had risen. His robe was split down the front and revealed the fiery red of his battle-harness. Red and black, power and mourning. The prince had chosen his entrance well.
“I have decided to postpone the crowning until noon. The sun has not yet reached its highest point, at which it looks down on kings and peasants alike, but it has already begun its work. It shines. It shines for all of us. And so I will follow its example and begin making changes before I am crowned.”
The first councilor and the keeper of tradition nodded at each other. “As you wish, Prince Sergor-Don.”
You are making this easy for us, young prince, Haltern-kin-Eben thought. The court, generally disliking changes from tradition, showed only stony faces. The generals stood with their legs slightly apart, their arms crossed before their chests or with their hands resting on their hips, like a warrior readying himself for battle. The courtiers sought more stability in small groups than in their king, and the sorcerers had their cowls drawn low over their faces so no one could read their expressions.
“A king is only as strong at the people who hold him aloft, as the councilors that help him decide, as the soldiers who swing their weapons for him, and as the magic that fills all realms of his kingdom.
“The King’s Guard that protected my father so well is now dissolved. I will not hide behind the shields and swords of my soldiers. I have more worthy tasks for them. My protectors will be five sorcerers. One for each element. Each one so powerful that even an archmage could not pierce their shields. Is there any arcanist among you who believes their power to be such?”
The sudden change from military to magic caught many off guard. Only Auran-San smiled contently at this chance to increase his influence on the king further still. The court sorcerers, however, seemed less determined, their eyes flitting back and forth between themselves as though they meant to spin a web with looks alone.
They were all experienced and knowledgeable, skilled and revered for their cunning. But what Sergor-Don demanded was pure, brutal power, not the elegance in the magical arts they prided themselves on. They were sorcerers of the court, not magic-wielding shieldbearers. As such they were also diplomats and intriguers, and they knew exactly where power came from. Only their proximity to the king gave their whispers the strength and influence they needed. And so after several moments of agitated silence a pushing and shoving began as the first lesser sorcerers saw the potential that the position of a king’s guard could grant them. Only five would be near the king at all times, but who would those five be?
Zsorven-Sar was the first to step forward. He was the first among his equals. Even though he had not openly demonstrated his skills for a long time, he still held the most power and influence of all sorcerers at court.
“Can you craft a powerful defense for me?”
“I should think so, my prince.”
“Which element?”
The sorcerer allowed a small flame to dance around his hand.
“Fire.”
“A Water shield against Fire, or a Fire shield against Metal?”
“Whichever you wish, my king.”
“Very well. Make space. I wish to test Zsorven-Sar. My attack will utilize the strength and sharpness of Metal – it should be easy for anyone devoted to Fire.”
The crowed shuffled back, but the room was too full to clear a space big enough to remove any danger from a duel.
“Open the doors.”
To the great surprise of Gulffir’s citizens that had been waiting outside the palace, the doors suddenly burst open and the crowd of nobles flooded outside onto the great square. They quickly made space. The prince and the sorcerer stood opposite one another, surrounded by the gentry, behind whom a dense wall of soldiers, merchants and gawping children made any breaking through impossible. Sergor-Don’s black cloak swayed around him, the sorcerer’s magnificent gown weighed heavy and ornamental upon his shoulders.
“Are you prepared?”
In the same instant he spoke the words, Sergor-Don flung a spear of Metal at his opponent, but it had already begun to melt as it flew through the air, and what hit the ground near the sorcerer was only droplets. The triumphant smile on Zsorven-Sar’s face vanished as he saw the waves of bolts that now rained down on him. Some came at an angle, some straight. The shield flickered, threw sparks, expanded to catch the prince’s magic sooner – and broke. Flames billowed from the remains of his shield and returned to their creator. Zsorven-Sar fell to the ground, his front utterly blackened. The stench of burnt flesh was rank upon the air. The Fire Kingdom had one less sorcerer.
“Never promise something you cannot keep. Take him away. How would you protect me against a real mage, if you can’t even defend yourself against me?”
“I wouldn’t have guessed the prince was so strong,” Haltern-kin-Eben whispered, impressed.
“Zsorven-Sar was a fool,” Auran-San growled back. “He let his magic wither, he should have known an early end was coming for him. But power alone wins no fights. The prince will learn that in due course.”
The old councilor was upset. Zsorven-Sar had been a loyal servant of his, and Auran-San suddenly realized that the number of possible guards had quickly shrunk. None of the other sorcerers dared so brazenly prove their might. After many tense moments a young man stepped forward. His robe was plain.
“My name is Skorn-Vis and I have not served you long, your Majesty. But I am prepared to protect you from Fire.”
“You have an unusual name, Skorn-Vis.”
“My family tells of how we descended from the Snowy Mountains, but how we arrived in the Fire Kingdom I do not know.”
Sergor-Don rained fire down upon him, raised flames from the ground and attempted to burn the young man from within, but Skorn-Vis’ Water shield stood fast. The hot steam pushed the crowd back and hid the sorcerer from their view; fountains of water and fire shot skywards as the cobblestones seemed to bubble and melt. Skorn-Vis stood unfazed in the middle of the inferno, and the water tha
t ran down his face might have been sweat or just as likely remains of his shield.
“Skorn-Vis, you have proven worthy. You shall be one of my kingsguard.”
The sorcerer gave a low bow and retreated.
The next one to approach was still half a child. His eyes were wide, his clothing too large for his small frame and badly patched, and the dust of the plains still clung to his hair and skin. He did not speak as he stood opposite the prince. With one hand he pulled a few straws from his hair, allowing everyone to see where his last resting place had been. With the other hand he described a small circle and the air around him glowed with silent fire.
Sergor-Don clicked his fingers and flung a swarm of tiny metal bolts outward. Before they could reach the boy, he encased himself in a fiery globe and the attack melted away. Sergor-Don followed up by throwing heavy iron balls at him – their weight alone would have sufficed to break the delicate figure in front of him, and they were loaded with more than just Metal energy, in spite of what he had announced. The fiery ball changed its shape and the attack slid off it. The final test, a spear of incredible mass and with a point sharper than any ordinary weapon, got stuck halfway through and broke in two pieces.
“There is space enough for you under my shield, my liege,” the boy called out.
“What is your name?”
“Uul.”
“Just Uul?”
“Yes, my liege.”
“You stink.”
“Yes, sire.”
“You will be given new clothes.”
Sergor-Don turned to face the crowd.
“Two of five have been found. Fire and Water protect me. I am yet in need of Earth, Metal and Wood.”
They were a motley bunch gathered around the prince in the end. Apart from Skorn-Vis and Uul he had found a half-arcanist who could not feel the earth he walked on, but whose Wood magic was strong enough even to withstand most Metal attacks. He had a beautiful name, one that, when whispered, felt as though the flowers were reaching for the sky. He was called Phloe, for the goddess of the grasslands, who blessed the plains after the first rain and transformed them into a garden of blossoms. The courtiers were rather concerned that a man was named for a goddess. Even worse was Aulo, a simpleton with a face half lame, as rigid as a blade before it breaks. His Metal was strong enough to split Wood before it could even be summoned. Nobody was sure that Aulo was his real name – his mouth produced groans and howls more than words. King Sergor’s defense against Water lay in the hands of a small man who would in other courts not have looked out of place as a dwarf jester. He declined the use of a shield, instead choosing to simply channel the Water into the ground. Sergor only stopped attacking when the entire crowd was soaked and standing ankle-high in mud.