The King's Banquet

by Ollie Odebunmi

  “She may be no warrior, as you see it, but she could best the mightiest of your warriors.” Castillan told him. “She is the High Priestess of the world’s oldest Order…and her magick rivals mine,” he added ruefully. “You have all seen the demons cannot be defeated by normal means. Needs must an alliance of warriors of rare skill and the likes of…me and her.”

  The Dark Man

  Lorranis-Halbro, King of Mellania, sat back in his throne and cast a red-rimmed gaze over the hundreds of people gathered in the great hall of Crag Halbrosin to celebrate the defeat of the soul eaters. His face was drawn with fatigue and dark hollows ringed his eyes.

  The thrones of his fellow kings stood either side of his, but care had been taken to ensure none of theirs was as imposing as his own dazzling red-painted, gold-inlaid edifice of authority.

  There was an air of merriment in the hall. One born of great relief they had been freed from the shadow of horrific death cast by the soul eaters. Courtiers, nobles, the rich and powerful of Mellania and the surrounding kingdoms, sat before large tables laden with platters of roasted meats, sweetmeats and flagons of the best wine. Servants, dressed in Halbro livery of black and gold hurried about, making sure none of the guests were wanting for any of the fine fare laid on.

  There was no room for the ordinary people who had somehow managed to survive the plague of soul eaters, for after all, they had to know their places. Dark airless taverns where they were now undoubtedly getting drunk and whoring, as they also celebrated the vanquishing of the Gualich.

  King Lorranis-Halbro lifted a gold, jewel-encrusted goblet and emptied its contents before dabbing his lips with a silk cloth. Rising to his feet, he looked over the assemblage. A young man not yet in his thirtieth year, his hair was already thinning under his crown – a result of the travails of his troubled reign. And though not a big man, he had the bearing of a warrior, his stance erect, and shoulders pulled back. The burden on him had been immense these past years, but he hadn’t buckled under it. He addressed the assemblage.

  “I was a boy when my father, the great king and peerless warrior Kirinos-Halbro, disappeared along with his entire court twenty years ago, and heralded the scourge of the soul eaters and their foul servants. My eldest brother as was his right, took the throne, but he was taken by the demons as was my other brother, within two years of wearing the crown.”

  The king paused, looking around the assemblage, then at the kings arranged either side of him, their appointed champions standing behind their thrones. There was little love between the kings. Petty jealousies and land disputes abounded, and they had all fought wars against their neighbors. Apart from individual champions – tall, broad-shouldered men with watchful eyes, all had brought detachments of their personal guard.

  “We have all lost people close to us by this scourge…this plague of abominations. My own wife…my queen… and daughter were taken.” He pointed at the throne to his immediate right. “King Arron-Borranus of Pallania, lost his eldest son and heir.” He gazed over the assembly. “Lord Malchiot over there lost his entire family, and Lady Amphrosia, my late queen’s sister, lost her husband together with two of their children. I could point out more examples of those who lost so much, but I fear we would be here all night.”

  Lorranis-Halbro lifted his goblet, frowned as he found it empty and gestured. A liveried serving maid hurried over, curtsied to her king, refilled the goblet and curtsied again before scurrying off. Other maids, reminded they had been somewhat remiss in their duties, hurried to refill the goblets of the other kings.

  Lorranis-Halbro drank from his renewed goblet, dabbed at his lips with the silk cloth again, then continued his address.

  “Our lands lay barren, fields untilled and crops unharvested. People fled, death and desolation everywhere. But the fates decreed a way was found to defeat this scourge in my reign. But this gives me no pride, for I wish it was otherwise and a way had been found much earlier, thus sparing us all this anguish and pain.”

  The great hall was still and quiet as the king spoke, except for murmurs and nods of assent and the lifting of goblets to lips. The serving maids had joined the kitchen master and the scullery maids and boys who had gathered under the arch leading to the kitchens and wine cellar, to listen to their king.

  “We are here to honor the four brave men and women who delivered us from this scourge...this plague of demons…this darkness,” Lorranis-Halbro continued, his voice ringing loud and clear to all gathered. “Kyung-Su, sister of the Emperor of Gaekche, Belash of Corralis, Castillan the White, and Kaliope the High Priestess of Mithros.” His brow furrowed in irritation. “For reasons best known to them, the sorcerer and priestess have deigned not to grace us with their presence…but our gratitude for their service and deeds remains undimmed.”

  Loud cheers rang out and those assembled banged tankards and goblets on tables in acknowledgment of their absent saviors.

  The king raised an arm, and silence fell. He gestured at a table set on a dais a few paces in front of the other tables. Naturally, it was lower than the one bearing the kings’ thrones. “I call on Kyung-Su and Belash to rise so all here can see them.”

  Belash hurriedly put down the succulent haunch of roast boar he had been chewing on, wiped his greasy hands on his trews, and stood up. He turned and grinned at Kyung-Su who had also risen.

  This time, the cheers were deafening, as all present even the kings, stood to acknowledge the two heroes. Lorranis-Halbro’s ageing hound – a companion since he was a boy – curled up at the foot of his master’s throne, lifted his greying muzzle and howled in accompaniment.

  Belash glanced at Kyung-Su and grinned again. Unsure of how to react, he turned to face the assemblage and bowed. The cheers continued, then the chants rang out. Belash! Belash! Belash! Kyung-Su! Kyung-Su! Kyung Su!

  Belash’s heart soared with pride. He pulled his shoulders back and tried to look dignified, as befitting a man so clearly held in high esteem by this assembly of nobles and kings.

  He stole a glance at his companion. Her wide eyes betrayed her astonishment. Haughty demeanor put aside, she inclined her head in acknowledgement, lips twitching as she tried to force back the smile on her face. She didn’t quite succeed.

  Born to a scullery maid in the garrison town of Corralis on the eastern border with Pallania, Belash had never known his father. But according to his mother, he was a giant of a man; a mighty black-bearded warrior. With the rest of the garrison slain, he had single-handedly held off a raiding party of Pallanian irregulars. When relief forces arrived, they found him grievously wounded, leaning on his gore covered axe amidst a pile of enemy bodies. He died of his wounds three days later.

  Cursing the gods for their cruel jest in granting him his father’s girth, but not his height, Belash grew up a bitter man, bowing and scrapping to those deemed his betters and taking the most unpleasant of menial tasks to get by.

  He resigned himself to a lonely miserable life, then he met Asha. He never understood what she saw in him, and his happiness was complete when she bore him a son. Thankfully, the gods relented in their cruelty, and the boy grew up inheriting his mother’s looks.

  Life was still harsh, but for the first time he could remember, Belash was content. And the simple pleasures of returning home each day to his son and Asha’s gentleness and soft smile, made him feel like a king.

  When stories of soul drinking demons plaguing the capital reached them, Belash wasn’t overly concerned for Corralis was at the other end of the kingdom.

  Then the refugees started arriving with horrific tales of gigantic demon-hounds and yellow-eyed demons devastating the land, leaving empty skulls and mounds of bleached bones in their wake.

  One evening, Belash returned home to find the door to their small single roomed house hanging on its hinges, and two mounds of bones – one small and the other larger – on the floor.

  Devastated, his life spiraled into one of drunkenness, despondency, and finally, wanton reckless viole
nce when he took up with a band of marauders taking advantage of the chaos in the countryside.

  Then news of the call for warriors to gather at Petralis reached them. Belash didn’t consider himself a warrior – though he had gained a reputation of a man not to cross, nor was he interested in the gold promised. Desiring revenge on the demons who had so cruelly taken his wife and son, and wishing to rid the world of their evil, he took up his father’s axe and journeyed to Petralis.

  He had thought the sorcerer Castillan mad, when he announced that his axe was a legendary weapon known as Ausak Demon Bane. His skepticism disappeared when one cut sheared clean through the bony torsos of two yellow-eyed demons Castillan had called Suanggi.

  The cheers continued. Belash’s mind went back to his wife and son, and tears welled in his eyes.

  Out of all those assembled in the great hall, one figure – a small man with thinning red hair and hooded eyes, sat apart at a small table to the left of the platform bearing the kings. Elander Zucross was the king’s chronicler.

  Gifted with a sharp mind and cursed with an inveterate curiosity, Zucross yearned to be much more than a scribbler of the mundane such as trade agreements and treaties between monarchs who had little intention of adhering to their terms. He wished to witness and chronicle great events, to be remembered as a great historian, and for people to read his words hundreds of years long after his death. Now, that was real immortality, not the fools’ errand of sorcerers seeking the means to prolong their lives long beyond the normal span.

  Driven by this desire, he’d surreptitiously followed the four designated demon killers as they went to do battle with the soul drinkers. A collector of old manuscripts and magical items, he donned an invisibility cloak he’d pilfered from a minor sorcerer a few years earlier and hid behind a large rock outcrop to watch the battle.

  Unable to take notes, he memorized everything he saw and chronicled them upon returning home. And what he couldn’t remember, he made up. Those who knew him had always said he had a febrile imagination, but nothing he’d ever imagined, or thought possible could match what he saw.

  Trembling in terror and praying to the fates that he wouldn’t be discovered despite being invisible, he watched the cataclysmic battle between demons and men as coruscating magicks were unleashed.

  He saw horrific yellow-eyed demons. Some impossibly tall and moving with sinuous snake-like grace, others wide, squat and shambling, and some, serpent-like, crawling on their bellies.

  He saw the Gualich shape shift into abominations beyond even the darkest drug-induced nightmares of the most depraved necromancer. He saw them conjure gigantic stone creatures that belched green fire.

  He gasped in disbelief as the mysterious High Priestess of Mithros summoned great winds that lifted the stone-creatures high in the air and scattered them like so many pebbles. His eyes widened for impossibly, the winds appeared to take huge ephemeral human-like forms.

  He curled into a ball, shielding his eyes, as lightning crackled overhead in the form of long angular bodies and limbs, and sharply delineated heads, as Kyung-Su used her swords to hurl them at the demons.

  Zucross had heard about the Elementals – great creatures that controlled air, water, earth, fire and lightning, but had never seen one. But here they were, though he had no idea how Kyung-Su and the priestess could call upon them as allies.

  He watched as the last of the demons were destroyed and the priestess, Kyung-Su and Belash departed, then much to his horror, Castillan turned to stare directly at him.

  “Foolish man,” the sorcerer said. “Did you think I wasn’t aware of your presence?”

  The sorcerer told him the Gualich were virtually immortal and the destruction of their physical forms had simply forced them to flee back to their home world through the gateway that

  had brought them here.

  He watched the sorcerer weave a magical barrier across the gateway. “What will happen when

  the barrier fails in time?” he asked.

  “I will ensure my descendants in the years to come are aware of today’s events, and their role

  in standing against the Gualich if they return,” the sorcerer told him. “They will need help, so I weaved a subtle spell into the empowering spells of the ensorcelled weapons carried by Kyung-Su and Belash. The Stormblades and Ausak Demon Bane will pass down the line to their descendants, and my cantrip will ensure that one way or another, they are drawn here to Arnath

  should the Gualich return.”

  Now, looking at Kyung-Su and Belash as they acknowledged the applause of the grateful

  assembly, he wondered if they knew that those who came after them, perhaps their children or

  grandchildren would one day have to face the same horrors they did.

  The cheers died down and King Lorranis-Halbro clapped his hands, summoning the night’s

  entertainment.

  A dozen scantily clad dancing girls filed into the room, followed by a troupe of musicians.

  Accompanied by the sound of lutes, cymbals and drums, they performed their dances, stamping their feet and writhing seductively between the tables.

  Belash licked his lips, eyes widening in appreciation as a red-haired particularly lithesome dancer with flashing eyes performed remarkable contortions before his and Kyung-Su’s table.

  The music reached a crescendo. The red-haired dancing girl leapt high in the air, landed lightly on her feet, then almost folded herself in half by bending backward until the palms of her hands were flat on the floor.

  Belash’s eyes widened further, and before he could stop himself, he leapt to his feet clapping his hands furiously in appreciation. His table companion arched an eyebrow in contemptuous

  amusement as every head in the hall turned in Belash’s direction. Feeling a hot flush creep up his

  neck, he dropped back to his seat.

  More entertainment followed featuring fire eaters, tumblers and jugglers. Belash found these

  tedious, though one of the fire eaters’ assistants had the largest pair of breasts he’d ever seen.

  A loud gong rang out, the fire eaters, tumblers and jugglers filed out of the hall, and Belash blinked in surprise as a tall figure strode out and stopped in front of the line of kings. Clad in a red cloak, a knee-length kilt of the same color and carrying a staff with a large wire-encased red stone embedded on the top, his upper torso rippled with corded muscle. The man had the darkest skin Belash had ever seen.

  “Shilat’s eyes,” Belash whispered, glancing at Kyung-Su. “Is he a man or demon, for have you ever seen a man who looks like that before? His skin is as black as…midnight!”

  “He’s simply a man,” Kyung-Su said. “He’s from a race that live at the other end of the

  world. It is said the men are fierce warriors without parallel.”

  Belash glanced back at the dark-skinned man before returning his gaze to Kyung-Su. He

  frowned as he noted her eyes were shining and her tongue visible between parted lips. “Gods,

  woman,” he grunted. “Don’t you have any shame? You’d rut with a barbarian…a savage?”

  Kyung-Su laughed. A tinkling melodious sound that aroused and angered Belash in equal

  measures. “That’s something you should know about, Belash. I bedded you…and the night did

  have its high moments…though I’m beginning to think it was a mistake.”

  Belash’s eyes darkened in anger, but he couldn’t find a suitable retort. He longed to spend another night with her but doubted it would ever happen. He reached out, grasped his goblet, tilted its content down his throat and returned his gaze to the tall black man as King Lorranis-Halbro began to speak.

  “This is Prince Amsaovor. A warrior and magicker of great renown in his land, he was forced to flee when falsely accused of plotting against his king. He has graciously volunteered to entertain us with some magicks.”

  The dark-skinned man the king had described as a mighty prince in his own lan
d, inclined his head. “With your permissions my lords,” he said, then turned to face the assembly. He lifted his staff and rapped it three times on the floor.

  Cries and gasps of alarm filled the hall. The kings’ champions standing behind their monarchs reached for weapons as the stone on the staff glowed brighter, dark smoke swirling from it and solidifying into a dozen figures. All wore elaborate head dresses made of multi-colored feathers and carried short stabbing spears and high shields. Six were clad in green kilts and the other half in blue.

  Prince Amsaovor raised a hand to calm the alarm. “They are not real, have no fear,” he announced, his voice deep and melodic. “They are merely images…phantoms, if you will. We use them to train and prepare our young warriors for actual combat. I present you the phantom wars!”

  He walked up to Belash’s and Kyung-Su’s table. “Forgive me,” he said. “May I ask you to move your table back to allow more room for the spectacle?”

  Belash looked up into deep-set brown eyes in a strong-boned face. The man’s accent was odd, his words clipped and precise in the manner of one speaking a newly-learned language. His eyes radiated great intelligence and power, and his bearing spoke of one accustomed to being obeyed.

  “We would be happy to oblige, Prince Amsaovor,” Kyung-Su said, smiling and holding his gaze as she stood.

  Belash glowered at her but remained quiet as he too stood. Despite himself, he too was fascinated by the dark-skinned man and was keen to see this spectacle he promised.

  Prince Amsaovor bowed to Kyung-Su. “I am grateful for your consideration, Lady,” he murmured.” Kyung-Su arched a delicately shaped eyebrow and favored him with another smile.

  Belash grunted an obscenity as the black man wandered off. Kyung-Su laughed. “Ah Belash, you call our new friend a savage, yet he displays far better manners than you, and doesn’t use foul language in front of a lady.”