by Kel Kade
“You are to fight with weapons?” he said. “And people will be killed?”
“Yes, of course. It is a battle.”
He threw himself into a rickety folding chair that threatened to collapse with the force. “Who are your warriors?” he said.
“That is the difficult part,” Yserria replied. “For this kind of challenge, I would be expected to bring my own forces. Since I have none, the echelon has agreed to allow volunteers to fight with me. It is in her best interest that both battles are won after all. I think it is safe to say that the best fighters will back her champion. She has chosen a different champion to lead the charge. His name is Ifigen. He served in the queen’s royal guard before Echelon Deshari claimed him. He has led several successful campaigns against the other echelons since he joined her.”
Malcius threw up his hands. “Great. How is this better than the archery competition?”
“Because this one does not depend on my skill alone.” She dropped her gaze. “I could not have won the other challenge.” Taking a deep breath, she hardened her resolve and looked at him. “I have never led a battle, but I am a Knight of Cael and a King’s Royal Guardsman. I have been training with Rezkin and the strikers for months. I can do this. I just need the people.”
Malcius shook his head in defeat. “Where is my sword?”
“You may use one of mine,” said a gruff voice from the tent’s entrance.
Malcius and Yserria both turned to see the intruder. He looked to be in his late forties and was quite fit, despite his limp.
“I am Balen,” he said. “I am Wolshina’s champion. He raised his hand, and two younger men stepped into the entrance. “These are my sons with my former matria. They are Vannin and Nolus. We have all fought in many battles, and we will fight with you, if you will have us.”
Yserria grinned at Malcius. She turned to the men and said, “Please, enter. I would be honored to have your assistance. I am surprised by your offer, though. I was not exactly accommodating with Japa.”
“On the contrary,” said Balen. “We are most appreciative of your acceptance. Japa is a gentle man in a warrior’s body. To take a life would break him. He will be happy in service to you. I can tell that you are compassionate.” He nodded toward Malcius. “It is obvious you do not want this one, but you will personally go to battle to keep him from the echelon because he is your fallen consort’s kin.” He glanced back at his sons. “The matrias do not often recognize this, but the men of Lon Lerésh honor our bonds. We have spread word of your motives for challenging the echelon. You will not go into battle alone.
Chapter 16
Rezkin peered at his prey from atop the parapet in the shadow of the building. Boulis was a dour man with short-cropped, black hair and a thin mustache across his upper lip. He wore a bright red suit with yellow frills about the neck and wrists; and his fingers, heavy with golden rings, anxiously gripped a wide-brimmed red hat bearing a large yellow plume. The saber at his hip was sheathed in a gilded scabbard, and he carried a small belt knife encrusted with gemstones. From his shoulders swayed a short red cape trimmed in gold, and his black, knee-high boots were polished to a shine.
Rezkin had been following Boulis for more than a day, and the man had yet to do anything of interest. He had no more reason to kill Boulis than the rantings of an addled old man who was convinced that Boulis had been responsible for his grandson’s death. The only truth he had found in the king’s claim was in Boulis’s money problems. Boulis was, at that moment, in the bailey cheering a sparring match between two soldiers who looked no better than street ruffians. Every bet Boulis had placed had been a losing one, and Rezkin knew this one would be no different. Since Boulis was a betting man, Rezkin wondered if he could entice him into a duel to the death. At least then he would have an excuse to kill the man.
More than anything, Rezkin was frustrated with the disquieting sensation of indecision. Killing Boulis was a means to an end. He should not have needed any more excuse than that. The strikers who had trained him at the fortress would have applauded the plan, but the strikers who currently served him would say it lacked honor. Others of his ilk would have no problem with the task. The Jeng’ri would likely shank Boulis in passing, while the Adana’Ro would use poison or slit his throat in his sleep. With the boisterous crowd, Rezkin could easily have killed the man at any time, yet he waited—he waited for an excuse. He wondered if he could let the man live, perhaps extract an oath of fealty from him, but it would be against the Rules to allow an enemy to remain at his back.
Rezkin was also frustrated with Moldovan. If any other monarch were to visit Ferélle, he would not be expected to run about doing Moldovan’s errands. To Moldovan, though, this was a test to see if Rezkin was worthy of the crown. Rezkin did not want the crown, though, and he did not serve Moldovan. So, he waited, trying to come up with a better plan. Perhaps he could find the sword on his own. Perhaps he would forget the sword altogether. Only one man stood between him and Cael. Was that man Boulis or Moldovan? Perhaps he should kill them both.
His gaze caught the familiar blonde head weaving through the crowd. Behind it was a darker one, followed by another. Rezkin scanned the perimeter and finally found what he sought. He slinked from the shadow back into the castle. He stalked through the corridor in the new boots and princely garb Moldovan had insisted he wear for that evening’s event. It was a sleek, black affair with silver buttons and a gold and silver baldric. The short, black cape had a silver lining, and the Esyojo family crest of two battling vuroles, one silver and one gold, adorned his chest. The silver and gold saber at his hip belonged to Moldovan.
Rezkin rounded a corner, and two guards at the other end of the corridor shouted to two others in an opposite direction before running to intercept him. As they neared him, they slowed and then came to a stop with a bow. Commander Tinen said, “Your Highness, we respectfully request that you stay with your escort at all times. It is our duty to protect you.”
Rezkin did not pause as he continued walking. He said, “How can you protect me if you cannot keep up with me?”
“If you will stay with us, we will be more than capable,” said Tinen.
“So, I should restrict my movements because of your inferior training?”
“I assure you, Your Highness, our training is superior to that of any other kingdom.”
Rezkin entered an empty office on his right. The two guards followed him, in addition to two more who had joined them. He turned and looked at the commander of his little entourage but said nothing. Tinen waited, but his confusion became increasingly evident under Rezkin’s icy stare. After several minutes, Rezkin said, “Yours is superior?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Rezkin stepped over to the doorway, reached into the corridor, and grabbed the woman passing by, placing a hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming. He held her squirming form tightly as he looked at the guardsman. Then, he nodded toward the doorway. “If your training is superior to that of any other kingdom, then defeat him.” As Rezkin finished speaking, a man entered the room in a rush. Just before the man met the guards, Rezkin said, “Do not kill them.”
The man looked at him, and then the guards were upon him. The woman suddenly stopped squirming as she peered up at him. Rezkin removed his hand from her mouth but kept hold of her.
“Um, Your Majesty?” she said.
“Greetings, Mage Threll,” he replied.
Coledon and Brandt hurried into the room on Farson’s heels but stopped when they spied Rezkin, who nodded for them to stay back. Then, all four of them watched as Farson battled the four royal guardsmen. The room was too small and heavily furnished to draw swords, and Farson quickly divested the men of their knives. The commander put up a good fight, better than Rezkin would have expected. Farson was breathing heavily and had a bloodied lip by the time he put the last one down. Two of the guards were unconscious, a third was wrapped tightly in the drapery, and Commander Tinen stared up at them fro
m the floor where he lay at the tip of Farson’s dagger.
Farson looked at Rezkin and said, “Was that really necessary?”
Rezkin shrugged. “They needed a lesson, and you need the exercise. You are getting slow.”
“I think he is getting old,” said Brandt.
Farson’s look promised Brandt retribution during their next training session. He gave the commander on the floor a warning glare then straightened and sheathed his knife. “Perhaps I am only pretending, to throw you off guard.”
“That is absurd,” said Rezkin. “You could be infirm and on your deathbed, and I would not drop my guard.”
Farson pointed at Tinen, who was glancing between them, waiting for permission to rise. “What did these men do to deserve a lesson?”
Rezkin said, “They thought they had superior training.”
Farson shook his head and then stared at Rezkin’s head.
“What is it?” said Rezkin.
“You are wearing a crown.”
He nodded. “Moldovan insisted. I am to attend court twenty minutes ago.”
“Moldovan does not hold court,” said Farson.
“He does today.”
Farson glanced at Mage Threll. “Are you going to release her or hold her all night?”
Rezkin released the mage, who spun to look at him. She said, “It looks good on you.”
“The crown?”
“All of it,” she said, her cheeks turning pink.
Coledon looked at him quizzically. “Why did you grab her?”
Rezkin nodded at Farson. “It was the easiest way to get him to reveal himself.” Then, he looked down at the commander. “You may rise. Four of you could not defeat one of him, yet you think to protect me?”
Tinen’s Ashaiian was decent but heavily accented as he spoke. “It does not seem that you need protection from him. He is your man?”
Rezkin shrugged and said, “He would kill me if he could.”
“Not that you would stay dead,” grumbled Farson.
Mage Threll looked at her uncle with disapproval and then cast a spell to wick the blood from his face.
Rezkin turned to Tinen, who was eyeing them all warily. “Gather your men”—he glanced at the unconscious guards—"if you can. We should probably report to the throne room. Boulis will have lost his bet by now and should be there—unless he decided to cast another.”
As Tinen moved to unravel the conscious guardsman, Mage Threll said, “Who is Boulis, and why are we going to the throne room?”
“Boulis is the king’s nephew,” said Rezkin, “and I was supposed to kill him.”
“You failed to kill a target,” said Farson with surprise.
“Are you sure you were not struck on the head?” replied Rezkin. “Of course, I did not fail to kill him. I only failed to see why I should.” Rezkin then strode through the doorway and headed toward the throne room.
Farson caught up to him. “This was a request from Moldovan?”
“Yes, in exchange for the sword.”
Farson narrowed his eyes and said, “What is your reason for not killing him?”
“That is a good point,” Rezkin said, but Farson continued to stare at him. Finally, he added, “You would not approve.”
“Since when do you care about my approval?”
“Not just you. All of you, my people. Outworlders require a better reason to kill someone than convenience.”
Farson said, “So, you are bound by the opinions of others?”
“It is my role as king. Kings should be bound by the will of the people.”
“Few kings feel that way,” said Farson. “What if a king must make a difficult decision for the good of his people?”
“Then, the king must be willing to suffer the consequences of that decision. This is not one of those times. It is too public. I will not allow Moldovan to seed doubt among my people for his personal vendetta.”
Farson did not have time to respond as they filed into the receiving room outside the throne room. The king’s seneschal, who had been overly flustered as he paced about the room, urged the guards to open the door promptly. Without another word, Rezkin strode into the throne room. Farson, Mage Threll, Brandt, and Coledon slipped around the side to stand at the edge of the somber crowd, while Rezkin strode to the top of the dais and stood beside the throne.
“You are late,” grumbled Moldovan after erecting a sound ward.
“I arrived before Boulis; therefore, I am early.”
“He was supposed to be dead,” Moldovan hissed.
“Perhaps you should take that up with your gods,” said Rezkin.
“I expect you to follow through.”
“We shall see. I do not serve you, Moldovan. I will determine if Boulis dies by my hand.”
Rezkin gazed across the sea of anxious, and even frightened, faces. Their flamboyant dress was in stark contrast to the nightmarish room. The women wore colorful, ruffled, high-collared dresses with sleeves that fell to their wrists and skirts that brushed the floor. The men were dressed in much the same manner as Boulis, and everyone wore large hats, making it difficult for anyone behind the front row to see what was happening. For this reason, the people stood on wooden risers that had been installed along the sides of the hall.
Boulis was not there. After another uncomfortable wait, he finally strode through the far door to the throne room. Upon entering, he appeared genuinely surprised. He peered at the gathered people and then grinned broadly as he nodded toward the spectators while proceeding toward the dais. Upon arrival, he bowed appropriately toward Moldovan and then noticed Rezkin. He appeared perplexed but returned his attention to the king.
“Your Majesty, I heed your summons.”
“You are late, Boulis,” barked the king.
“I apologize, Good King. I was delayed by urgent business.”
“Yes, I am aware of your urgent business in the bailey. I see you still have your shirt. Is it all you have left of your family’s fortune?” Boulis’s face turned scarlet to match his suit, but he refused to look at the chattering onlookers. Moldovan said, “If you were not so oblivious, you would have realized that you were not the only one summoned.”
The king stood and looked over his subjects. He lifted his scepter and tapped it on the ground. Then, he and said, “Today, I abdicate the throne.” He paused to allow the commotion to die, and Boulis’s expression brightened. Moldovan held a hand toward Rezkin and said, “This is King Rezkin of Cael, True King of Ashai, First King of Lon Lerésh, Ruler of the Cimmerian Empire.” The room was completely silent, not a creak or shuffle, as everyone stared at Rezkin. Moldovan met Boulis’s startled gaze and said, “He is the legitimate son of King Bordran of Ashai and Princess Lecillia Esyojo of Ferélle. He is my grandson. By right of succession, I name him King Rezkin of Ferélle.”
Moldovan took his seat as the crowd erupted in a roar of support and disapproval. Boulis stepped forward and shouted, “Fraud! The king has lost his mind to age, and this imposter seeks to usurp the throne. There were only two princes of Ashai, and he is neither!”
Rezkin noted that there were more cheers in support of Boulis’s position than rejections.
Moldovan said, “Did you not hear me? A Prince of Ferélle is emperor of three other kingdoms. Esyojo blood, Ferélli blood, rules the Souelian.”
This time, many of Boulis’s former supporters nodded and cheered the king. One man called out, “Long live the Ferélli emperor!” and many others took up his cry.
Boulis shouted, “Do you not think I was prepared for this, Uncle? I knew you would find a way to cheat me of my crown. I will not let the charlatan steal what is rightfully mine!”
He jerked his arm toward the open doorway, and a man sprinted from the hall into the corridor. A moment later, heavy footfalls and clinking armor could be heard growing louder. The royal guardsmen surrounded Moldovan and Rezkin, several imploring the king to seek safety. Soldiers began filling the throne room at the far end while more
of Moldovan’s guards filed in from the corridors on either side of the dais, trapping the panicking courtiers between the two forces.
Rezkin turned to Moldovan. “Where is the sword?”
“You think I will tell you now? You will take it and run.”
“It will be difficult to find if you die in this mess you instigated.”
Moldovan grinned at him. “Then, I had best not die.”
After Tinen gave his approval, Rezkin’s companions pushed their way past the royal guards. Rezkin drew Moldovan’s sword and tossed it to Coledon, which seemed to confuse the man, since he was already armed. Rezkin had prepared for Boulis’s refusal to accept the king’s decision by stashing his belongings where they would be more accessible. He reached behind the tapestry that hung at the back of the throne and withdrew his black blade. Then, he donned the mask of Dark Tidings and waded through the guards, descending the steps to stand at the center of the throne room.
In the eerie voice of Dark Tidings, he said, “I will destroy all who stand against me. I am the storm before the calm, and in that calm is death.”
Boulis drew his saber but began backing toward the soldiers as he shouted, “Kill him!”
Rezkin looked over his shoulder to Farson. “They were warned.” Then, he met the charge. With every strike, green lightning crackled within the blade. After the first few fell, Rezkin had to pursue his targets, since few stepped forward to meet him. The others were engaged with the king’s guard, and armed spectators fought on both sides.
A low two-handed swipe took off one soldier’s legs below the knees. Rezkin took the man’s head as he fell and kicked it into the face of another just before he stabbed the man through the gut. Then, two soldiers tried attacking at once. Rezkin ducked the swipe at his head and jumped over the one at his legs. He twisted his body as he landed to kick one of the men in the head so hard the man’s neck snapped. At the same time, he drew his belt knife and stabbed the second in the kidney. Then, he twisted back to bury the black blade in the man’s chest. Dark red blood burbled from the man’s lips to spill over the crackling green lightning. Rezkin kicked the man off the blade, turning just in time to miss a mage attack. Tiny sparkles of light slammed into the body of the falling soldier. The sparkles dug into the man’s skin and then exploded, causing bloody flesh to splatter all over Rezkin.