by P J Berman
‘Oh no, not at all. Well, that’s done then. I’d have liked to have gone myself,’ she added, being careful to hold back her rueful opinion this time. ‘But it is a good opportunity for you to see battle. How soon can your master march, Blavak?’
‘We can have a force of five hundred men ready to advance north at first light tomorrow. If our intelligence on the enemy’s current position is correct, we will meet them in a little under three days.’
‘Then we will wait patiently for your return,’ Silrith assured him, keeping her offence at his previous comments well hidden. ‘Go now, prepare and know that all our hopes ride with you.’
KRIGANHEIM, BENNVIKA
The walls of Kriganheim. Always a sight to behold, thought Lord Oprion Aethelgard as he crested the hill and laid eyes on the capitol. It didn’t matter that he’d been there less than a month ago. The effect was still the same. He surveyed it for a moment, taking in its imposing, thick walls and the tall, thin turrets of the city’s north and west gates. He could also see the rooftops of some of the city’s most recognisable buildings, such as the dome of the Congressate Hall, as well as the heads and shoulders of the two giant statues of Vitrinnolf and Lomatteva.
Behind Oprion marched his army; over a thousand troops in all. Half were of the Divisios and half were militia. A sizable portion each group would be tasked with keeping the peace in Kriganheim in King Jostan’s absence, while the rest would march on to Asrantica to do the same there. Jostan’s orders had told Oprion how many troops to raise in total and which provinces to protect. They hadn’t, however, specified how many to send to each city. With that in mind, of his whole army, Oprion had left eight soldiers in every ten to protect his own province of Hazgorata. King Spurvan of Medrodor had long had his envious eye on the place and Oprion would not have it taken from him in his absence.
In reality though, he was certain that protecting the north would be little more than a formality. These provinces were far from the conflict zone and as far as Oprion knew there was currently no tangible evidence to suggest that Medrodor was gearing up for an attack on Bennvika any time soon. With any luck, Dowager Queen Accutina’s proposed marriage to the new King would ensure that the peace continued to hold.
So it was with much confidence that Oprion had accepted the task given to him by his new royal master. Indeed it was an honour to have such recognition from the incoming monarch. He regretted the circumstances under which this was happening of course. The revelations about his friend Princess Silrith had come as something of a blow, but she had been branded a traitor and that was the end of it, especially after how she had spoken to him. There was no point risking one’s estate and reputation, let alone their life, over sentimentality regarding the fate of a traitor. Of course, he was also eager to consolidate his own position and to show King Jostan that he had been right to entrust him with a responsibility such as running the city as his regent.
He raised a hand to halt the column and told one of his officers to fetch his wife, a haughty Medrodorian noble named Haarksa.
Oprion turned his horse around and trotted over to a vantage point from which he could see the baggage train. Haarksa and the children had been travelling there, but she had insisted on riding into the city at his side for the sake of appearances.
He smiled to himself as he watched her climb on to her horse in the distance, then canter past the waiting soldiers, following the course of the snaking column, riding side-saddle. She was wearing a long, purple gown and was positively dripping with jewellery. If she was attempting to look any younger than she was, it was failing – whenever they met someone who wasn’t familiar with her name, they always looked a little surprised when he said the word ‘wife’ instead of ‘mother’. In any case, she looked ridiculous next to the soldiers of the Divisios, let alone the motley crew that was the militia. By contrast, of course, his own choice, a white tunic and cape that mimicked the eastern styles of King Jostan’s homeland, was the prime attire for exuding authority.
Haarksa reined in alongside him and scowled as she gave her husband a very unsubtle look from head to foot.
‘This country has been ruled by a Verusantian for less than a month and already you are dressing like one?’ she said scornfully in the harsh tones of her north Medrodorian accent. ‘Where is your sense of national identity?’
‘It is quite natural that certain aspects of Verusantian culture will come to Bennvika now that we have a King from those lands,’ said Oprion. ‘We should embrace the chances that are coming. Anyway, one’s identity is personal, not national and I think you’ll find my identity is in little doubt to those who look upon my army from the city walls. They say that even the Goddess Lomatteva was a member of the House of Aethelgard when she was yet a mortal.’ He pointed to the Aethelgard family banner above their heads as it flapped in the wind.
Its design was the most venerable of all Bennvika’s noble family standards. So much so in fact, that it even adhered to an entirely different set of heraldic rules. The result was two figures, a man and a woman, outlined in black, dressed for war and surrounded by flame; all of which was shown in a vibrant gold against an orange background. Of course, the woman was the Goddess Lomatteva and the man was the God Vitrinnolf, as depicted on the famous Amulet of Hazgorata, the great jewel that was passed down the generations of incumbent Bennvikan Queens.
‘Point to your standard all you like, Oprion,’ Haarksa countered. ‘Many will see this and believe that the fact that you wear Verusantian clothes while riding under such an ancient Bennvikan banner serves only as a metaphor. A metaphor that says that you profess to stand for Bennvikan interests while in reality, you are doing nothing to stop Verusantian culture supplanting that of Bennvika. We cannot afford for people to think that. I still dress and behave in a way that honours my heritage and you should do the same with yours.’
‘My love, I do not have time for your protestations,’ Oprion said curtly.
He turned to face his troops.
‘We march to the city,’ he called. ‘Follow.’
He kicked his horse into a gallop, head down, bolting ahead of his army; his horse panting. Within moments he was rushing towards the city gate and dropped to a trot as the guards came out to halt him. Looking back he saw that Haarksa was still far behind, trotting alongside the Divisio cavalry at the front of the column.
That woman is all about class and no energy, Oprion thought.
Turning his gaze forward again, he noticed that above the gate, tied to an upright wooden pole was the bloodied torso of a woman, presumably Silrith’s traitorous maid. Oprion was revolted by the sight. Couldn’t Jostan just have disposed of the body quietly? He pulled his eyes away from the gruesome spectacle and addressed the guard who had come forward.
‘I am Lord Oprion Aethelgard, Governor of Hazgorata. I come with my family and my soldiers to oversee proceedings in the city in the King’s absence. Would you care to announce me?’ He said formally.
‘Very good my Lord,’ said the guard and he ordered his troops to open the gate.
Oprion turned and waited for Haarksa and the army to catch up. He said nothing as she pulled alongside him. He looked at her and she frowned back. He made a clicking noise and the horse moved forward to enter the city. A pair of trumpets were blown from the top of the city gate.
Here it was, the glamour of a noble entrance, complete with a celebratory fanfare. The uncouthness of the drab looking plebeian crowd and the occasional mangy dog only served to emphasise the class of Oprion’s own self, the majesty of his white stallion and the gleaming armour of the Divisio cavalry that made up his and Haarksa’s personal escort at the head of the army. Yes, this was the moment.
‘Make way for Lord Oprion Aethelgard,’ called the officer as Oprion crossed under the gate and into the city streets.
The silence with which the proclamation had been met by the population was startling. Oprion was shocked. Usually the crowds would push and shove to catch the merest glimps
e of their betters. But this time they did nothing of the sort. True, it looked like they had been waiting for him. Oprion guessed they must have got word of his army’s approach when they had reached the hill. But this was no welcome. Instead, they simply glared at him with pure malice in their eyes.
‘Why are they so quiet?’ Haarksa asked.
‘Look, he appears to have brought the army. He’s scared of us,’ someone called. The voice sounded aged and well spoken. Oprion raised a hand to halt the column.
‘Who was that?’ he demanded. Nobody spoke.
A figure walked out from within the crowd in front of Oprion, his face hidden under the hood of his cloak.
‘Reveal yourself I say,’ demanded Oprion.
‘On the contrary, my Lord. I do believe that it is you that must reveal your true self to us,’ the man pointed a wrinkled finger at Oprion. ‘You, who betrayed our beloved Princess Silrith. Our Princess, who would have made a kind and generous Queen and who would have restored justice to this Kingdom. But instead, it was you who sealed not just her fate, but that of every soul in this nation, by welcoming in an invader, who is already crushing the poor under his boot. The nation will starve and once we are weak and desperate, the King will try to force his false God upon us and all because of you Lord Oprion. Therefore I brand you a traitor. A traitor against the people of Bennvika. A traitor against the Gods themselves.’
‘Traitor, traitor, traitor,’ the crowd took up the chant, punching their fists in the air. ‘Traitor, traitor, traitor.’
‘I will not rise to your untruths,’ Oprion raged above the clamour. ‘The King has appointed me to rule in his absence. His word is the law now and you will all obey. I will have my soldiers make the streets run with blood if I have to.’
The crowd gasped and jeered angrily.
‘Set your troops’ blades against our peaceful protest,’ cried the old man. ‘And you will prove me right in every regard.’
This isn’t a peaceful protest, Oprion thought. This is a lynch mob.
Surely it fitted the old man’s cause better if Oprion’s troops did attack, despite the man’s protestations. The man was calling his bluff. Well, Oprion wasn’t about to play into his adversary’s hands by making martyrs of him and his followers.
‘Invicturion, arrest that man,’ he ordered. ‘See that these people are cleared away.’
But the attempt was in vain. With surprising speed, the old man darted into the dense crowd and immediately disappeared among the angrily chanting throng. By the time Oprion’s soldiers tried to follow, he was long gone.
Oprion cursed loudly.
‘After him, after him,’ he ordered. ‘Clear the streets.’
He kicked his horse into a gallop.
If they try to stop me, I’ll just run them down, he thought. The cavalry, along with Lady Haarksa, followed suit as they thundered through the streets at a full charge, sending people running in every direction and leaving the infantry to clear the way behind. Eventually, they reached the palace gates and safety.
‘You are so weak,’ Haarksa spat at her husband as they passed through the palace’s North Gate and started down the long, peacefully quiet gravel track that led through the trees of the palace gardens. ‘You should have made your demonstration in blood. That is what the army is for.’
‘I had him arrested, didn’t I? My troops will catch him sooner or later. I have shown them that I have mercy, but that I am also sensible,’ said Oprion, frustrated.
‘You have shown them nothing of the kind. Only that they can taunt you and get away with it. You saw how the crowd blocked your soldiers as he ran. I doubt they’ll ever catch him.’
That evening, Oprion and Haarksa sat in the royal banquet hall. Due to their younger years, their five daughters ate in their own quarters and the servants fussed and bustled around the palace to make sure their guests felt at home. Oprion expected nothing less, as the baggage train had been held up outside the city for some hours because of the rioting. However, he personally didn’t want to see the servants working as he ate, save for those who served his food. Therefore, he and Haarksa sat in the enormous room at the end of a long mahogany table, with only five or six staff waiting on them, under the gaze of the dozens of Bennvikan monarchs whose portraits hung on the walls in the dim candlelight, mimicking the famous Gallery of Rulers in the Congressate Hall.
‘I have spoken to the chief servant,’ said Oprion. ‘It seems that there has been some unrest since the very moment the King left the city. He said there was a riot at the public assembly of the Demokroi recently, initiated by a speech by a man named Zethun Maysith.’
‘You know this man?’ asked Haarksa.
‘Not personally. But his late father was a prominent member of the Congressate in his day.’
‘Then you must have him brought to you,’ Haarksa said in her usual condescending tune.
‘Do you think I haven’t thought of that? If I bring him here, then that will look as though I am accusing him of starting the riot against me today. If I do that, I risk the wrath of the entire Congressate.’
‘You are risking that anyway. He’ll have his contacts there through people who knew his father. He has already started one riot in your absence. Why should he not be responsible for this as well? While you sit here, he could be making his escape, or planning his next move against you. You must have him brought to you. Make him our guest. Speak with him and question him, politician to politician. Meanwhile, you must send the city into lockdown so that neither he nor any of his associates can escape. It’s as simple as that.’
Sometimes, as much as Oprion hated her, he had to concede that Haarksa could be frustratingly insightful.
‘Fine. I’ll have it seen to. Sraeto?’
‘My Lord?’ said Sraeto, a thin, learned-sounding man in his fifties who wore the black tunic of a chief servant.
‘Get news to the garrison. The city must be sent into lockdown. Nobody gets in or out by land or by river without my permission until the King returns.’
‘Very good my Lord.’ He bowed and left.
.‘My Lord? May I speak with you?’ came a female voice.
Oprion turned in his chair to see that a young maid had entered the hall through another entrance and was standing near the door. She was wearing a blue and white dress with golden lining and was pretty enough, in her way, he decided.
‘And interrupt my dinner?’ said Oprion.
‘My Lord, I think you will agree that what I have to tell you is of great importance.’
She was rubbing her hands together slowly in a way that betrayed fear, but of what? Oprion gave Haarksa a confused look, but she simply shrugged.
‘Of course. What is it?’ he said.
‘May I speak to you in private, my Lord?’
‘Whatever you have to say in front of my husband can also be said in front of me,’ said Haarksa angrily.
‘Of course my Lady. I simply request that no other ears hear it,’ the maid stammered.
‘Leave us,’ said Oprion in a general address to every other servant that was dotted around the hall. The maid herself walked closer to the table.
‘So, what is your name and what is this urgent news you feel I should know?’ Oprion asked once the three of them were alone.
‘My name is Lyzina. I am Dowager Queen Accutina’s head Lady’s maid-’
‘-Then why are you not with her now?’ Haarksa interrupted.
‘She wanted me to stay to oversee the other maids. Apparently, the King said that servants from within the camp would suffice for the campaign.’
‘And she agreed to that?’ said Haarksa, clearly aghast.
‘I doubt she had much choice, my dear,’ Oprion laughed. ‘I’ve no doubt that our beloved new King knows when someone needs him more than he needs them. It is not for us to guess at who those people may be, but clearly, the Dowager Queen knows where she stands. So, if he wants to choose her servants for her, there isn’t much she can do to stop him.’
Haarksa rolled her eyes.
‘My Lord,’ whaled another maid as she burst into the room. She was even younger than the first maid, barely more than a child and her face was wild and panic-stricken.
‘What is it?’ Oprion asked. ‘What makes you think you can intrude on me in such a fashion?’
‘My Lord, my Lady, you must come quickly. It’s the Lady Jorikssa. She’s been taken very ill.’
Haarksa’s face went white with dread. She moved to follow the servant, but then paused when she noticed that Oprion hadn’t moved.
‘Are you coming?’ she asked Oprion.
Oprion gave her a surprised look.
‘Why? She’s your late husband’s daughter, not mine,’ he said.
Haarksa gave a sigh as she turned to leave.
‘If you were half the man her father was-’
‘-I’d probably be dead, like him,’ Oprion interrupted. ‘Enough. Now go and see to your brat.’
Haarksa glared at him a moment longer, before angrily stalking out. The second maid, still overcome with panic, followed and closed the door behind her as they left. Haarksa wasn’t fooling anyone. Even Oprion could see that Jorikssa had no love for her and he knew the feeling was mutual, yet the ridiculous woman insisted on carrying on the charade of playing the loving mother.
‘So, girl,’ said Oprion, turning back to the first maid. ‘Now that we’ve established who you are, why are you here?’ His patience was beginning the wear thin after all the commotion.
‘My Lord, I must tell you that my news is based only on a rumour.’
‘A rumour?’
‘Yes, but an important one if it turns out to be true, especially for you. The other maids were too scared to tell you, so I thought I should do it.’ Lyzina hesitated and Oprion sensed a high level of nervousness in the girl.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Well, you see, it concerns Afayna, the maid who was executed for helping Princess Silrith murder her father. Apparently, sometime before the murder, she had been gossiping about a letter she had found in the Princess’ chambers. I never saw it, but before she was arrested, she told me the letter had gone missing.’