by P J Berman
‘She will be executed and suitably, an accident has befallen the physician. It’s a pity we can’t do that with anyone else. But their fates should act as a warning to others to keep their mouths shut,’ Jostan assured her.
‘Excellent. Now all that remains is to gain my father’s approval and the alliance remains intact. That’ll be a mere formality once he reads my letter’s heartfelt plea.’
‘Is he a doting father then?’
‘No, just a pompous old fool who’s easily led. A few lines about how gracious and generous it’d make him look should do the trick,’ Accutina beamed. Jostan reciprocated, but in a moment his mood changed, as he suddenly recalled an awkward memory.
‘Of course, we’re very lucky to be in this position,’ he said.
‘Why? Everything went exactly to plan.’ Accutina looked confused at the sudden change in tone.
‘It nearly didn’t. Luckily we were able to turn things to our advantage, but nevertheless, your eagerness to lay the blame on Princess Silrith almost revealed our whole plan. ‘It must be poison’,’ he quoted her, mockingly. ‘That could have waited until the physician had confirmed it and announced his diagnosis. Did it not occur to you that you are not a doctor and that someone might wonder how you, a pampered Queen, might be aware of the symptoms? At that point he wasn’t even dead yet.’
‘I panicked.’
‘Why? As you said yourself, everything was going to plan.’
‘My apologies for not playing the part faultlessly after having my own husband poisoned! It’s not a regular habit of mine.’
‘You dare speak to us this way. We swear on the graves of our ancestors that if you were anyone else we would-’
‘-But I’m not anyone else. I am Accutina Vaaltanen, Princess of Medrodor, soon again to be called Queen of Bennvika and most of all mother of your unborn child.’
The calming tone of her voice over those last few words seemed to have a positive effect on Jostan and Accutina took his face in her hands tenderly, her big eyes now full of love and wet with happy tears.
‘The error was mine, my love,’ she admitted. ‘But none appeared to notice and now Bennvika is yours.’ She placed his hand on her belly. He smiled, looking down at her barely perceptible bump as he felt it, then looked back into her eyes.
‘Show your new subjects that they will be forced to fly with the wrath you will bring, because to fly in the face of it will bring about only their destruction,’ she told him. ‘That way you will be able to honour almighty Estarron for his blessing by converting them to his worship.’
He thought for a moment, then smiled grimly.
‘Not all will convert as willingly as you did. But once we have defeated the Hentani, the people will follow me unquestioningly and will honour him. They will beg for his divine Grace or be cast out. They will be too fearful to dare to question our route to the throne, or our stance on our relationship with the Empire and our position will be safe, as will yours. Almost all of the major nobles across the land are here in Kriganheim because of the King’s death. We intend to send them back to their provinces with orders to raise an army. It will be as if we were the intended heir all along. We are doing Estarron’s work here, but we must be patient. First, we must prepare the army for the coming campaign. It is vital that we start by securing a quick victory and use it to set a precedent; to make a statement loud and clear. We vow that we will put every man, woman and child of the Hentani tribe to the sword. We will prove in barbarian blood that only two entities rule this Kingdom now – our ambition and our will. The ambition and will of the King.’
Chapter 3
For Silrith it had seemed like there was precious little chance of many nobles standing against Jostan with any strength. They had too much to lose by doing so. Oprion’s visit had reinforced this view, but she had received a subsequent visit from another politician. He had said he could do nothing more to prevent her exile, but may be able to help her in the longer term by destabilising Jostan. That could take weeks, months, or even years and all the while she would have simply to wait. She had no idea what the conditions of her exile would be. Would she live in relative comfort, or would she be left to starve? How realistic was it to suggest that she’d even survive the first week? She had no idea. But at least here was a man prepared to risk his life for her.
The same could not be said for the majority of the nobles though. They had no pity for anyone else. She was well aware that one wouldn’t have had to travel far from the shining white tiles of the Congressate Hall to see that, rather than fighting for justice, the true priorities many Congressors were rather different from what Silrith believed they should be. Aside from her own predicament, she had long been aware that this vying for power and wealth was greatly affecting the lives of the common people of Bennvika.
SEVARBY, ASRANTICA, BENNVIKA
By now it was early spring. Jithrae was up early that morning and with the sun still low in the sky he left his wife and four children sleeping, before eating a breakfast of bread and water, then taking his work tools outside to start the day. He was two years shy of forty, with a bushy black beard and though he dreamed daily of a comfortable, easy life, he was as poor as he had ever been, with barely any more status than the lowliest vagrant. But at least he had a roof over his head. He lived with his family on a farm on the outskirts of the little town of Sevarby, which lay over a hundred miles southeast of Kriganheim, just over the provincial border into Asrantica.
Soon it would be the time of year when most of his days would be spent planting and weeding; a relentless battle against the wild plants that would choke his crop. Now though, as it had been for the preceding month or so, it was the time where a farmer’s work is largely based around ploughing and fertilising. Ploughing was in itself a job he didn’t mind, but like many others, his family could not afford a plough of their own, so they shared one with a number of other families and this often caused complications. Fertilising, however, in which he was engaged at this moment, was a most laborious task, which Jithrae had hated doing when he was younger due to its sheer repetitiveness, though by now he was well used to it. To lighten the load, all the local farming families would support each other throughout the year by picking up animal manure, so that it could be used as a fertiliser the following year.
As he worked through the morning, he started to pick up the smell of the bread his wife, Mirtsana, always made for their family. Looking uphill towards his house, he took a deep breath, enjoying the rich smell as it filled his nostrils.
‘You there! Are you Jithrae of Sevarby?’
Jithrae’s reverie was interrupted and his heart leapt as he heard the shout from far behind him. Taken by surprise, he spun around as he got to his feet, looking to see where the voice had come from. Around two hundred metres further down the hill, he spotted a single horseman, flanked by twenty or thirty more troops on foot.
‘Yes, I go by that name. Who are you?’ Jithrae replied, nervously moving to where he’d left his array of crude, sharp tools.
The horseman didn’t answer. He simply kicked his mount into a trot uphill towards Jithrae, motioning for the troops behind him to stay where they were. As the man approached, Jithrae could see that he was a soldier; more specifically a professional soldier from one of the province’s Divisios.
His fear rose as he noted the transverse black and white horsehair crest on the top of the man’s highly sculpted helmet. Evidently the stranger was a man of some importance. He wore an emerald green cloak that billowed out behind him as he rode. Jithrae saw that he sported a similarly coloured knee-length tunic under his waist-length chain mail, overlaid with segmented armour to protect his shoulders. He wore steel greaves on his shins, with sandals on his feet and was heavily armed carrying a short sword, a throwing axe and a dagger in his weapons belt, though it appeared he had deemed a shield unnecessary today.
Finally, the soldier pulled up in front of Jithrae, though he did not take off his helmet.
‘Vinnitar Rhosgyth, Chief Invicturion of Asrantica,’ he stated in a formal and rather sinister tone. ‘I hereby claim these lands in the name of Congressor Feddilyn Rintta, Governor of Asrantica. You have a right to continue living here, but on the condition that the noble Governor may claim up to a quarter of your annual harvest. If you do not agree, you will leave before sunrise tomorrow. Regrettably, however, I will require your answer rather sooner than that.’
‘But this is common land,’ said Jithrae.
‘No longer,’ Vinnitar replied bluntly.
‘What does your master need with this land? You mean to starve us? How are we gonna survive?’
Vinnitar chuckled smugly, before leaning down towards Jithrae.
‘It’s very simple. If you don’t want your family to starve, make sure you have a good harvest,’ he sneered. An aristocrat like him clearly had no concern for commoners. A moment later Jithrae noticed the Invicturion shift his gaze over Jithrae’s shoulder to something nearer the house. He turned to see that his wife and their sixteen-year-old daughter, Vaezona, had come to the door to see what was going on while keeping the younger children inside. Evidently sensing Jithrae’s fear rising, Vinnitar gave a dark grin.
‘Oh my, what lovely ladies. Be quick about your decision Jithrae, because I might just decide to hurry you along. Those two look to be just the kind my boys would enjoy.’
‘You dare threaten my family,’ Jithrae cried. He picked up a pitchfork from the collection of tools lying on the ground and wielded it wildly at the Invicturion, but he stopped short of actually stabbing him with it. Vinnitar laughed and jumped to the ground, opening his arms.
‘You can’t do it, can you? Peasants! Come on you funny little man. Hit me. Stab me through the chest. Impale me on your mighty fork.’
Insulted, Jithrae tried to look serious, hoping his face conveyed the level of menace he felt inside him, but he was too fearful. With all his strength he thrust the fork forward at Vinnitar’s chest, but the soldier simply side-stepped the attack, wrenched the fork from Jithrae’s grip and whacked him over the head with the handle, knocking him to the ground.
Jithrae’s ears were ringing as he tried to get back to his feet and reach the weapon, which Vinnitar had thrown down on the grass. Instead, he only found the tip of the officer’s sword now hovering over his throat, stilling him.
‘Will you let me speak to my family?’ Jithrae asked, not knowing what else to do.
‘It’s a bit late for that,’ Vinnitar sneered. ‘It appears you need help making your decision, so I’ve made it for you. We’re taking this land. Be gone by tomorrow or you will all be put to the sword.’
‘You can’t just take our land. I won’t let you,’ screamed a female voice from behind Jithrae.
‘Vaezona, no!’ he heard Mirtsana shout and Jithrae saw his daughter charge straight at Vinnitar; kitchen knife in hand, but the soldier simply laughed as he effortlessly parried the blow with his sword, knocking her weapon flying to one side. The girl’s momentum carried her straight into him and with his free hand he grabbed her and turned her to face her family, bringing the sword to her neck.
‘Oh dear, now look what you made me do. Stupid girl. One false move and she dies.’
Seeing this, his men had started to run towards them to assist their Invicturion, but he raised his hand to halt them, without even turning his head.
There was a momentary stand-off between Vinnitar and the family. He withdrew his sword and sheathed it, but kept his other arm around Vaezona’s torso; preventing her from moving her arms. While doing this, he turned and reached with his free hand towards the kit bag that hung from the side of the horse.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Jithrae, getting to his feet. In a flash, the blade was back at Vaezona’s throat.
‘I said no false moves Jithrae. Do you want her to die?’ Vaezona looked straight at her father, tears streaming, her bottom lip quivering and mouthed ‘No’. That, along with the menacing look in Vinnitar’s eye, was enough to wither Jithrae. The soldier again sheathed his weapon and with one hand pulled out some rope from the kit bag. He bound Vaezona’s wrists tightly behind her back, then roughly threw her on to the back of his horse. Her whimpers turned to wails, which pierced Jithrae’s heart, but she clearly knew that to offer up any more resistance than that would only bring her end.
Jithrae knew the same. It was all he could do to stop himself from attacking Vinnitar with his bare hands there and then, but he knew he was more than outnumbered.
‘I’ll come for you Vaezona,’ he cried, not knowing what else he could do. Vinnitar simply laughed as he remounted the horse. Then with one last sneering grin, he turned and kicked, cantering back towards his men. He called out to his second in command.
‘Corpralis. Mark this land down for cultivation. The inhabitants are evicted.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
This act will not go without retribution, Vinnitar Rhosgyth. You stole my beloved daughter, but I will get her back, Jithrae thought. On my life, I promise you that.
His eyes narrowed and his blood ran hot with rage as he watched Vinnitar trotting away without a care in the world, calmly giving the orders to make it official that Jithrae’s family had lost their home as easily as if he were telling a tavern owner to fetch him a mug of ale.
SAVIKTASTAD CASTLE, SAVIKTASTAD, ASRANTICA, BENNVIKA
Three days later, a large feast was taking place at Saviktastad Castle, the home of Feddilyn Rintta, Governor of Asrantica. One of the many guests was minor Asrantican noble named Zethun Maysith.
At twenty-two years of age, he had a thin face with short, brown hair and ever-serious eyes. He had recently become the head of his household following the passing of his father after a short but violent fever, though this most recent bereavement made the Maysiths a household of one. After a life poisoned out of any happiness by the loss of loved ones, he felt strangely disconnected from any feelings of grief that maybe he should have been experiencing, having gone through the process many times for someone so young. Instead, he was instinctively driven to focus solely on the progress of his burgeoning political career.
He hoped that his newfound status would bring him more influence and a place within the Congressate was a real possibility, although there were other political paths to consider too. That was the only reason that he had accepted Lord Feddilyn’s invitation. Feasts like this were designed to bring opportunities to form and nurture political alliances. Meeting some of these eminent people would help him decide which path to take. To create the right impression, he wore his best white tunic and breeches; the former featuring shining, golden, flame-like patterns on the chest.
The glowing, candlelit room was square, with a relatively low roof held up by large pillars and filled with four long tables. These were arranged in a square formation around the room’s centre and were piled high with a myriad of delicacies. Some guests sat at the tables, while others hovered around the edges of the room.
The walls were adorned with the Rintta family crest, a white trident on a black background, as well as various other designs in the family colours, interspersed with portraits of long-dead distinguished members of the Rintta family. Some musicians sat in the background playing lutes and an assortment of woodwind instruments and in the centre of the room, dancers performed gracefully.
Zethun had little interest in the arts and when he spotted his host, he decided to greet him, taking his chalice of wine with him. Feddilyn was dressed in a gaudy purple tunic with gold lining and by now Zethun guessed him to be in his late fifties or early sixties, as his long hair and bushy beard still held a hint of their original blond colour.
‘Ah, young Zethun,’ Feddilyn exclaimed, slapping him around the shoulder boisterously. ‘I’m so glad you could attend. I was desolated to hear of your father’s untimely death. Allow me to express my sincerest condolences, though I believe that congratulations are also in order.’ A wry grin appeared on the ageing man’s face. ‘I hav
e been hearing that you have plans to join the ranks of the Congressate. That would bring in some much needed young energy and ambition to compensate for the withered old fools that fill the Congressate Hall, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Err, well, I thank you for your kind words, Lord Rintta and I must congratulate you too on this fine feast,’ said Zethun, smiling awkwardly at the Governor’s words, as Feddilyn himself was also a Congressor and Zethun didn’t know if he was being tested.
‘The Congressate certainly has its appeal,’ he continued evasively. ‘But I’ve yet to make a final decision. There are other political paths to consider and I think there are a few characters within the Congressate who might find some of my ideas a little hard to swallow.’
‘Nonsense. Your father was a respected man and anyhow, influencing those old codgers isn’t too difficult once you’re established. Having a strong presence in the Congressate isn’t about what your ideas are. It’s about gaining enough authority to make people listen. It all centres on politics, Zethun. Politics! Politics! Politics!’
‘So, how do I gain this authority? Aside from their loyalty to the royal family, the only authority the Congressors respect is that which is gained through land and money.’
Feddilyn took a gulp of wine and shrugged.
‘It’s simple Zethun. Just do what your father did. All you have to do is add more land to what your family already has and make it profitable.’
‘Add?’ Zethun countered; his opinion of his host quickly changing as it dawned on him what Feddilyn was suggesting. He didn’t like the insinuations about his father either. Moyavedd Maysith had been the son of a blacksmith who had risen to catch King Bastinian’s eye through intelligence, wit and his tireless study of the law. The land and the manor house had simply come with the job.
‘Yes,’ said Feddilyn. ‘It’s only common land I grant you, but with a little work…’