by P J Berman
‘Furthermore, Princess Silrith was a falsehood-worshipping heretic, as were all those who fought for her, in the eyes of the Goddess. I know that all of you here who did that have long since repented, but there are many elsewhere who will still fight for her if she yet lives. Let it be known that she is as much an enemy to us as King Jostan. All those who do not believe solely in the divine Bertakaevey are enemies to the Goddess; even those who falsely claim that the Bennvikan demon they call Lomatteva is Bertakaevey in another form, or the Defroni, who insult Bertakaevey by accepting other fictitious deities alongside her. They simply want to pull her followers away from the true light. I must warn you all that this will only get worse for us once King Jostan starts to convert his people to the worship of his God, a fiendish monster with serpents for hair, crushing fists and an insatiable hunger for blood.’
A bit of embellishment added to an already threatening truth never hurt in swinging public opinion.
‘I have seen with my own eyes that he plans to do this. If we are to survive, then the followers of all Gods other than Bertakaevey must be destroyed or converted.’
The crowd cheered wildly.
‘High Priestess!’ called a voice, cutting through the noise and using Ezrina’s newly acquired title, which had been officially and permanently bestowed on her by Jakiroc after Archpriest Askorit had been found slain.
Ezrina turned in surprise at the interruption and saw a young man in tattered clothes running from the direction of the abandoned port. He looked like a fisherman, judging by his image.
‘Do not go near her,’ Jakiroc commanded, blocking the man’s way as he tried to mount the stage from behind.
‘It’s alright Jakiroc, I wish to hear what he has to say,’ Ezrina intervened in a kindly tone. She reached out to the man and lightly beckoned him forward.
‘What is it?’ she asked him.
‘A great ship, High Priestess. I was out fishing in my boat when I saw it. It was far out to sea, but it’s heading this way.’
‘And why are you telling me this?’
‘Because it’s unlike any ship I have ever seen. It’s huge, with many sails and it’s coming from the south.’
Ezrina was suddenly most interested.
‘It’s coming from the south?’
‘Yes, High Priestess.’
She looked at Jakiroc.
‘Well that’s no Bennvikan vessel if it’s coming from the south, or of any other origin, I am familiar with. We must go to the port. If they dock here we can find out who they are, what they are doing here and if there’s anything we can gain from their presence.’
‘Yes, High Priestess,’ Jakiroc bowed, all formality now, in stark contrast to his earlier manner.
The crowd looked confused by this turn of events, most of them having heard only bits of the exchange if anything at all.
‘Tell the other priests and priestesses to ensure that the ship’s approach doesn’t panic the people,’ Ezrina added, still speaking to Jakiroc, though still looking at the crowd.
‘We will go to the port,’ she declared to her followers. She found herself overcome with anticipation as they walked down towards the port, as were the crowd by the sound of their babbling. Would this development be their saviour or their destruction? There was no way of telling. Yet it was definitely not fear that she felt and she took that as a sign from Bertakaevey that it was not something that would threaten them.
She found herself struggling not to break into a run, such was her impatience to see who or what the Goddess had sent them. Finally, she reached the abandoned port and made her way along the length of the main wooden pier. She stopped just before its end and remembered the crowd again as the wooden planks creaked and vibrated with their hurried, heavy steps until they too came to a nervous halt.
Out to sea, she saw a ship. It was like nothing she had ever laid eyes on. It was still far away, but clearly heading towards them, just as the fisherman had said. It was a tall vessel, with a huge, bulky hull and three main masts with enormous sails, as well as many smaller ones that were dotted all over it and reached as far forward as the ship’s pointed prow.
She had no doubt in her mind as to the vessel’s significance. On that ship would be the warrior from the prophecy. The Hentani’s freedom would be won back and most of all, Jezna would be saved from King Jostan’s demons. Feeling a level of certainty that she could only describe as the Goddess’ divine blessing, Ezrina turned to face the crowd.
‘You see,’ she announced, pointing to the ship. ‘The prophecy is true. My mother, the mother of earthly fire, mother of the world, has decreed that I, Daughter of her Ashes, must be a mother to you all. Yet I have no earthy child of my own blood. So I must become a mother of many, while still a mother of none. A Queen has fallen and now our warrior has come and though the Bennvikans tried to deny it, the prophecy has proven holy and true in its entirety; for it even predicted the fate of our great city and its rebirth, for now as the divine Bertakaevey said, amid the burning of our homes by the Bennvikan King, our warrior has come in a rain of fire and from the ashes of destruction, a daughter shall rise. I shall rise.’
KRIGANHEIM, BENNVIKA
In the teeming streets of Kriganheim, throngs of people had turned out to see the death of two who had risked all to fight for them. Of course, many had no idea that fighting for the rights of the common people was what they were really going to be put to death for, regardless of any connection with Princess Silrith. Zethun hoped that some, at least, might recognise Hoban’s face, or at least his name. But then, during all his secret dealings with his various contacts, Hoban had kept his identity concealed from all but his closest allies. Zethun had thought he was one of those and maybe he was, but he still felt that he had been played for a fool. Yet, he could see now that it had, for certain, been for the greater good.
Seated astride his horse, he looked over the heads of the babbling crowd at the scaffold and the pair of nooses. Next to them stood the executioner, in his black, hooded mask.
A blaring fanfare caught the whole crowd’s attention and there was much jeering as Lord Oprion Aethelgard rode into view surrounded by his Verusantian Lance Guardsmen, some mounted, with others on foot, though he seemed unintimidated by the crowd’s aggression.
Zethun’s horse spluttered. He had never enjoyed riding, yet now he was astride an enormous grey gelding. He had bought the animal from a livestock trader who had apparently become stranded in the city when Lord Oprion had sent it into lockdown. Zethun had been forced to pay way over the odds to buy the animal, but at least the muscular beast was in prime condition.
He hoped that by riding such a large steed, yet using only the cheapest and most basic saddle and reins while wearing a brown tunic and breeches meant that he looked imposing without appearing overtly rich. Yes, strong but humble was what he needed.
Keeping to the back of the crowd, he scanned the scaffold for any sign of Hoban and Capaea, but still he could only see guards and the executioner. The general babbling of the crowd turned to jeers from those at the front. Zethun’s heart sank at the dishevelled, undignified look of Hoban as he was led on to the scaffold, now wearing only the dirty white robes of one who is about to be put to death. The days spent in the confines of a cell had clearly not been good to him. Capaea looked much the same by now and neither gave any resistance as the guards marched them towards the gallows. Zethun hoped that the fact that they were prepared to die for their cause wasn’t lost on the crowd. He noticed that the jeering was largely coming from those at the front. Had Oprion been forced to employ paid jeerers in an attempt to further sully the name of his opponents? Zethun wouldn’t have put it past him. The executioner walked to the front of the scaffold to address the onlookers.
‘Behold the faces of traitors,’ he declared; his traditional black mask giving him the look of a demon from the underworld. He strode over to where a pair of nooses dangled in front of Hoban and Capaea. Even from the other side of the crowd, Zethu
n could see the glee on Oprion’s face as he watched.
‘Stop,’ Zethun commanded, causing the executioner to hesitate and look over his shoulder at the crowd. Many other heads turned to lay eyes on Zethun.
‘What is this?’ Oprion shouted in palpable consternation.
‘Good people of Kriganheim,’ Zethun said, ignoring the question. ‘Do you not see what is happening here? These two people have risked all to fight for your rights and yet you believe the words of those who think themselves your betters and simply look on as these two heroes are put to death?’
There was murmur amongst the crowd, though whether it was through fear or anger Zethun couldn’t be certain.
‘Traitor,’ Oprion bellowed.
‘On the contrary, my Lord Aethelgard. I do believe that a traitor is a person who betrays their own people, whereas I am actively fighting to protect the welfare of mine. Good citizens, I implore you, you must understand that once in a lifetime a person realises the sheer unacceptability of their position and that of their comrades. Even rarer though is the chance for them to stand up and fight and to tell their suppressors that they will live at their whims no more. But I tell you, that time has come.’
‘This is treachery of the highest order,’ Oprion jeered, though his voice faltered and Zethun sensed fear in him.
‘I know that I am not from an un-moneyed background, as you are,’ Zethun said to the crowd, ignoring Oprion. ‘But I do ask the most important questions of all. Why is it that the working people of this nation are not given the full ownership of what they produce? Why instead, is so large a sum of it claimed by people who have done nothing to deserve such a right, save claiming to be the Lords of the people who produced it? In the recent past, these people have taken more of your crops from you than ever before. They are happy for you to watch your families starve. They have forced many of you from your homes. Yet you are still expected to fight and die for these nobles and this King in times of war. Right now, the soldiers of this Kingdom that marched away to fight for the King are in the south, not fighting the Hentani as the King told them they would be, but suppressing a rebellion led by Princess Silrith.’
There was an audible intake of breath at the mention of that name. Clearly these people were all aware of the speculation surrounding the events in Bastalf.
‘Yes, I tell you that it would appear that the rumours are true and Princess Silrith is very much alive. There is a letter to prove it and the reason that his lordship here wishes to see these two good people dead is that they discovered another letter that proves that Lord Oprion Aethelgard was in love with her. How can the people trust a man who pledges his loyalty to one candidate for the throne, while being known to be in love with the other? How can we know what he will do when the King returns with the army? Will he order you to open the gates, or to stand and fight? The people cannot be used as pawns in this way. The people have a right to know what is going on and have their say and they must fight for this right. Right now, Bennvikans slaughter other Bennvikans to decide who rules us, while King Jostan and Princess Silrith each convince their own soldiers that it is the other and not they who killed King Lissoll. Either way, we risk spending further years under the boot of a tyrant.’
There were cries of indignation from the crowd.
‘Tyranny in Bennvika has gone on for generations and must stop now. I propose that instead of welcoming back the victor of this war, we stand up for ourselves. If we are strong, then the troops in any opposing army will see their folly in fighting for a leader who believes themselves their Lord by right and will join us in our revolution.’
Another cheer.
‘There is only one way forward for the people of this nation and that is for it to become a republic, starting with this very city,’ Zethun declared, punching his fist in the air. The crowd cheered again as an army of fists were violently raised in unison.
‘That’s enough!’ bellowed Oprion. ‘Arrest that man!’
Two of Oprion’s bodyguards kicked their mounts forward into a trot towards Zethun, but their way was blocked by the angry crowd, who held firm despite the soldiers ordering them out of their way. As the crowd continued to block their path, Zethun spotted one of the soldiers look over his shoulder towards Oprion; his face unreadable under his Verusantian helmet but his body language distinctly uncertain.
‘Let them through,’ Oprion commanded. ‘This man will be arrested! Any who defend him will be branded traitors. Listen to me! I am giving you a chance to save yourselves!’
‘See how our noble Lord and his soldiers fear our unity,’ Zethun said amid the chaos of the fight. ‘They try to intimidate us and suppress us, but when we stand together against them it strikes fear deep into their hearts. Our oppressors would tell us that would be impossible. They would tell us that we need them in order for there to be any law or organisation in our society. But if we pull together and if every man and woman works for what they get, we can prove them all wrong. Now, behold. Here is the stooge of the man who would take from you all your liberty. I beseech you, seize the day, starting with him.’
He pointed at Oprion and his entourage and the crowd erupted with an angry roar, hurling themselves at the guards.
‘Execute them! Execute them! Arrest the traitors!’ Oprion commanded. Zethun saw the executioner hurriedly forcing the nooses around Hoban and Capaea’s necks, clearly desperate to dash any attempt to save them. With every fibre of his being Zethun willed his newfound followers onward. The guards had drawn their swords and members of the crowd were cut down as they fought their way forward, but the flood of desperate people would surely soon burst its banks.
‘The city is its people and the people will rule. Here and now, I declare the independence of the Republic of Kriganheim,’ Zethun proclaimed amid the clamouring rabble, which erupted into a new roar. Zethun saw a guard slip and fall at the front of the line. The inspired crowd forced their way into the gap, crushing him, heedless of the swords of the other guards. The enemy line buckled but somehow still held against the disorganised mob, with some of the peasants pushing forward, trying to reach Hoban and Capaea as the executioner fumbled hurriedly as he tried to force the nooses around their necks, while others seemed hell-bent on reaching Oprion.
Oprion looked on aghast. This couldn’t be happening. All control had been lost. Finally, the line of guards on foot protecting him collapsed and the wretched peasants burst through. Oprion watched in horror as his soldiers were overrun. Now there was nothing between the crowd and him, save for his mounted bodyguard.
‘Retreat! Retreat!’ he commanded. He turned and kicked his horse into a gallop, with the Verusantians following suit. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the crowd had given chase, picking up stones and hurling them. His horse reared in panic, throwing him from its back as a projectile struck its skull and he felt his arm crack as he hit the ground.
Dazed, he attempted to lift himself up, but a large peasant threw himself at him and the last thing Oprion knew was a hail of blows amidst the clamour of a jeering crowd, before his soul left his battered and broken body for the afterlife.
Seeing their master fall, those few soldiers protecting the scaffold turned and ran, as did the executioner himself. Some of the common people chased after their retreating prey, but most poured toward the scaffold as the first men and women reached it, taking the weight of Hoban and Capaea’s bodies while others untied the nooses. Even from the back of the crowd, Zethun could see Hoban and Capaea gasping for breath as their lives were restored to them. He kicked his horse into a trot. The crowd, now beginning to calm into a stunned silence, opened up before him.
He dismounted and walked on to the stage, very aware of dozens of expectant eyes watching him. By now Hoban and Capaea seemed able to stand, albeit uneasily. He approached them and ushered them to the back of the scaffold, away from where the majority of the crowd could hear.
‘All is forgiven and what is done is done,’ he said to them quietly. ‘Now
I must tell them what we need them to hear.’
Both looked confused.
‘Come, we must address our people,’ said Zethun, turning to lead them back to the front of the scaffold.
‘We have thrown off the shackles of tyranny,’ Zethun bellowed, punching his fist in the air. The crowd roared.
‘We have ushered in a new era for our city, for today, our city becomes a nation and that nation is a nation of freedom.’ The crowd exulted into a chant, as they too punched their fists into the air.
‘Kri-gan-heim, Kri-gan-heim, Kri-gan-heim.’
‘We shall pull down all memory of all Kings and Queens. We will have an elected Congressate and we shall fly our flags of banners of freedom from every turret, every gate and every rooftop, so that all will know that here is the capital of the free world. Our Gods were never mortal Kings and Queens as our more recent rulers would have us believe to their own benefit. They were always Gods, who chose to come down to earth in human form and create Bennvika all those centuries ago. It was then that this event was prophesied, for almighty Lomatteva, whose blessing we all have, is a mother to all Bennvikans and therefore the mother of many. Capaea, here, the common girl who infiltrated the nobility to make this illustrious event happen, is yet to assume motherhood and is therefore perhaps the foremost mother of none in the land. You all know the rest of the prophecy and yes, a Queen has fallen, as will our King. All that is left is the warrior. I shall be that warrior. We must all be warriors. Warriors of liberty. And so I say to you now, Mother of many, Mother of none, a Queen will fall and a Warrior will come.’