But what did worry him was the thought of a King-Maker in the city, influencing people to distrust one another, fight and brawl, causing general chaos. Marabaunze was right, a smart King-Maker could poke and prod the investigation too, changing its course to suit some end. Were they connected with Araa? But how, no one would purposely expose themselves to that Beast. But, that didn’t matter anymore. She was gone and they —or at least Miss Summers— might still was here.
Ed bolted for the door, opened it and called Taylor inside.
“Yes, sir,” Taylor asked.
“I need to see the Junior Magistrate,” Ed said. “Would you fetch him?”
“Yes, I will,” he answered, running off with J’rek looking on. A few of Ed’s troops out in the yard glanced a sympathetic look on Ed before glowering at J’rek beside him like an uninvited guest in a hostile house. J’rek, for his part, seemed pensive with a quiver in his brow, not the best show under pressure.
“How long have you serviced as a guardsman,” Ed asked, trying to put the man at ease.
“I…I wish I was one of them,” he answered instead, a longing in his eyes and an edge of regret in his voice. “This is as close as I have ever come.”
“You can always enlist.”
“I have, sir. I never made the lists.”
Ed rose an eyebrow. “Never made the lists? You can’t be more than twenty. You have two legs, two arms. I think you’d make it fine.”
J’rek shifted in place. “I’m…I’m from the south, sir,” he said softly almost at a whisper.
“We have southern people here too,” Ed replied. “Captain Marabaunze is from the south. As long as you passed all the screenings—”
“No, sir,” he stopped Ed. “I’m from the south.”
“Oh,” Ed said, realizing what he meant, a native. South was where the First Settler’s migration pushed the Nation of Ragnarok, south and to the sea. The First Families, Ladress being their chief, warred with Ragnars over their brutality and supposed necromancy. To be a native of the south meant to hail from that Nation and to be an enemy of the First Settlers and Ladress. ‘Enemy’ would be too strong of a word —the war too place hundreds of years ago— but ‘forgotten’ wouldn’t be right either, especially in any of the princedom’s military. Still, this boy had nothing to do with an extinct nation. “That was so long time ago.”
“Not long enough,” he said, stiffening up. “Someone leaked out my papers.”
Ed saw two soldiers, first yearers, leering at J’rek and whispering to each other. This petty rivalry between Central Office and the military was getting out of hand, and made worse if people were scrunching through personal records. This couldn’t be allowed to continue. He’d have to talk to their Commanding Officer —No, he couldn’t, not anymore. Instead, he stared them down until one of them caught his stare. They both stiffened in place, eyes forward and chest out.
“Just concentrate on bring honor to you and your family,” he told J’rek. “Opportunities will open up.”
“I can’t sir,” he said. “I have no family. The Steward-King’s purges.”
“Purges? The purges only affect those cultists and I thought they had stopped years ago.”
“Yea, my grandfather,” he said, his knuckles turning white while gripping his spear. “Funny how that works.” Ed didn’t know much of the Steward-King; he’d never been outside the three princedoms, but if J’rek harbored hatred for him, maybe denying J’rek and others like him certain privileges had its merits. Especially considering the prince brothers and the Steward-King were on friendly terms.
“If you’d rather be inside…,” Ed suggested.
“No,” J’rek replied. “They’re only faces, sir.”
Ed placed his on his J’rek shoulder. Maybe by doing so would deter some of the more immature soldiers from hazing the poor boy. “Yes, they are, but you’re welcomed all the same,” he said, before returning inside.
Ed scratched at his itchy chin, rough and for want of shaving, but he couldn’t now. He had too much on his mind. Glen should arrive soon and when he came Ed had to convince him of the King-Maker threat. Niklas wouldn’t do a damn thing about it; he wouldn’t have time anyway.
How exactly was Niklas going to pick up where Ed left off was something he would really like to see. The pompous man would go on stumbling in the dark instead of admitting he had forgotten to bring a lantern. But instead of stubbed toes, it’ll be mismanaged resources, confused logistics, and with the doubling of the forces here in Ruby City, redundancies to right any insane man’s mind. Of course, the man could come down to see Ed, ask him for his advice, but Olsen was right, he wouldn’t. His lineage was too high for that.
“His problem, not mine,” Ed said, walking over to his bookshelf. While waiting for Glen, he decided to reacquaint himself with a book, ‘the Exploration of Paulina’s Steppe and Paulina’s Peak,’ the curated journals of some of the supposed first explorers who rediscovered the King-Maker. Maybe something could counteract King-Maker’s influences or maybe help identify them. Mages had runic. Memorizes had those subtle muscular ticks that gave them away. Mages had runic and exhaustion. Those with strength like Ed had…regrets.
Ed tossed the book onto his desk, almost knocking the half-consumed Trader House Blue. He then opened his desk drawer and dropped the bottle inside but didn’t close it. Olsen seemed to like it, but Marabaunze and Greener had hardly touched it. Ed, himself, used to love the poison.
He uncorked the bottle and brought it up to his lips but stopped. “No,” he said, closing it and hiding it away in desk. He drink so many of these bottles, sneaking —more like stealing— bottles from his parent’s warehouse to share with Glen and Sera. Dry, semi-sweet and very intoxicating, and never again after he had lost —given— away control.
Glen called his ‘reflex’ the greatest favor anyone had ever done him, but Sera… the look from her face sobered him up in an instant, an agonizing mixture of terror, anger, and vulnerability. Ed had killed many people in battle, fifty-one whose faces he had memorized, but never had he murdered someone, and his friends’ father, no less. Whether he deserved it or not.
“It’s in the past,” he told himself, but did it make Sera’s decision to join Siga’s conquest that much easier? Another in a long of list questions he’d like to ask her. “Forget it.”
Ed read through the morning and afternoon with only a break for lunch, delivered to him by a runner. The book read like a journal, dates spanning eight months from Guthsmoth Harbor, now Winterwind Harbor under Siga’s reign, one of the bigger Islander cities. Most entries told of tales —most too outlandish to be believed— of sailing those icy seas, climbing unforgiving cliffs, crossing the sun baked Sands, through thick sweaty jungles, climbing up the cold Uplands and Highlands until the surviving and ‘suspiciously’ anonymous explorers came across the overgrown spires and bulk of the King-Maker.
That Beast hadn’t woken yet, so their description lacked for all the vegetation and vines that had choked it. They discerned two primary colors, a blue that matched the sky at noon and a dull goldish color. Not very much help, Ed admitted. The tale ended with a desperate search for food and water and hope that exploring south would provide both.
He had read this book before, and if he had Glen’s memory, he’d remember sooner that these damn explorers loved writing about their own heroism and mysticisms more than writing down anything they discovered. Sometimes, he envied Glen and Sera for their gift. They never had trouble remembering names, studying arithmetic or literature. Lessons heard, seen, and read once stuck with them. Even the ease by which they held conversations with others always surprised Ed, if not made him uncomfortable. ‘No one can ever lie to me,’ Glen once boasted, tapping at his temple. ‘It’s all here.’ …Neither could anyone tell the same story twice.
But that gift didn’t come without its own severe disadvantages. Glen wasn’t the only Chronicler in the war to suffer from the realities of war. It was bad enough for vet
erans like Predt who were tormented by old ghosts and ill-dreams. Even Ed had his terrors and nightmares and he’d seen everything Glen had seen. The destruction of Sosh’r. The fires, so many fires and smoke so thick, the sky clouded from horizon to horizon. Ed remembered the silence most. The strange eerie absence of screaming, shouting or running, only the moaning of dazed victims traumatized by the attack. The charred smell of cooking flesh, those burned to bones, and even to ash who were unlucky to find themselves in the center of the attack. And Ninn’s broken and burned body.
Glen’s memory. ‘Like I’m still there,’ he once said. Was it any wonder why he drank all the time? Ed closed the book he’d been reading, or rather not reading now that his mind had wondered. He looked out the window, now dark as night had come and fingers of frost climbed up the glass. Little orbs of orange lantern light lit the doors of the other barracks as well as the path to the gate.
Glen had so much on his plate right now. Would telling him Winters and Summers might be King-Makers make matters worse for him? He probably already knew, but at least Ed could use the opportunity to gauge how the investigation was going—
Ed suddenly became aware of heart pounding inside of him, then quicken, beating harder. Muscles around his ankles and neck tensed. He recognized it: a terror threatened to break on him like a gigantic wave reaching from the heavens.
“Why now?” There had been triggers in the pasted, hadn’t there been? He couldn’t remember, finding it harder to think.
A cold weakness seeped into his joints as his hand began shaking. He balled them into fists, but his wrists shook it.
He closed his eyes, whispering, “It will pass.”
Fear rose to a crescendo like a wall of water crashing upon him with all the terror of hell itself. His heart hammered into his ears, his chest constricted into short gasps as waves of anxious goosebumps passed over him, a static charge of panic threatened to send him to the floor. To fight? There was nothing to fight. To flee? From what!
Ed opened his eyes. The room seemed hostile now, a closed cage —Stop fighting me! Please, listen. They will cut me soon. I won’t be able to help. Blekengor. You can not rely on him! I don’t know if the other five survived. He butchered me when we were summoned. Maybe there’s still hope. If the other five are ready to enter the Dark Well, tell them to go now! It overflows and I can feel its poison in my body already. How much worse must it be for the Golden Lady. Zandagor, please be alive. But you must begin the counter! Rally your kind! Ragnarok. He may already have chosen a Champion. Kill them immediately. His body may be nearing completion. Destroy it. He won’t be able to stay long here without—
“Ed,” shouted Glen’s voice from outside. The terror passed as quickly as it came as his vision focused on a lantern light in the distance. Night already? Yes, it’s night, his thinking cleared. His breathing slowed; chest relaxed as his heart calmed. With a lingering weak grip, he wiped sweat from his forehead and massaged his quivering cheeks. No other terror before had matched the one that had just drowned him. The stress, he convinced himself. Yes, that must be it. “Ed, wake up, damn it!”
Legs still weak with a foreboding upsetting his stomach, he went for the door and opened it. “Took you look enough,” he said, trying to mask his last of the remaining anxiety.
Glen rushed inside, pacing while tapping his temple. He had trimmed his beard close to his face now, and cut and styled his hair more conservatively. He now wore a brand new uniform judging by the clinging aroma of freshly sweet powder the manufacture used: navy blue robes, dark blue shirt and paints; his ceremonial knife hung —as is the custom— on a gold chain around his neck. Though he still looked as if he needed to sleep for a month with bloodshot baggy eyes and jaundice skin, the stark contrast gave Ed pause, but then he remembered Niklas had taken over and almost smirked. With Niklas’s obsession with tradition, he wouldn’t let Central Office enjoy their new authority.
“You look good, Glen,” Ed said. “Almost like a human being.”
But Glen ignored him and continued pacing about Ed’s barrack, searching— “You don’t have your things together yet,” he asked urgently.
Ed stiffened. “Things? Why—”
“Forget your things. Come with me.” Glen pulled on Ed’s arm, trying to drag him to the door.
Ed grabbed his shoulders, holding him place with his strength. “What’s going on?”
Glen avoided eye contact. “It’s Niklas,” he said, his eyes tearing as they went out of focus. “He’s put a warrant out for your arrest. I…couldn’t stop it. It’ll go through tomorrow morning.”
Ed released him. “On what charge?”
Glen grabbed at his forehead, pain spreading across his face. “Treason,” he said with a pained sigh. “We got word from one of our spies in the Empire. He saw her there. Araa. That girl was there on the Golden Isle.”
Ed backed away, stumbling into his desk seat. “Maybe…they picked her up…out in the ocean—”
“No damn it,” Glen shouted with a mixture of anger and grief. “We have a doctor there. He saw her and sent word she’s been working for Sig’s Master of Servants, Cyne Munda. She’s always been working for him. You were set up, you stupid bastard! You stupid, stupid bastard! You were supposed to be the responsible one, the dutiful one! Why couldn’t you take my advice? Why couldn’t you get help, see that priest? She could have helped you. Now, Araa has fooled you like she fooled all of us.” Glen, with his face reddened and teary, pointed out Ed’s door. “Get the hell out of here before they come to execute you.”
“Execute,” Ed barely got the word out. “What about a trial, a court-martial?” He clenched his fists tightly, feeling his arm muscles electrify. The terror again? No, this was different.
Glen’s shoulders slumped. “General Order One,” Glen whispered. “He’s going to use it on you.”
Ed’s face flushed; he punched his fist straight through the desk, splinters exploding everywhere along with a raisin smell filling the air and wine pooling on the floor. “He can’t,” Ed roared. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be used!”
Glen grabbed at his face, clumsily wiping his eyes. “I told you. No one cares, Ed. They just want this to go away so we can go back to defeating Sig. The mob’s already on a knife’s edge and who knows what hell will break once word gets out about Araa and…you. Niklas…he has your testimony. He knows how much you hate those Beasts. I told you, Ed. I told you and now, he has everything he needs to make an example out of you.” Glen took in a deep breath. “So. Go. Get out here. While you can.”
“Where…,” Ed stammered; his mind overwhelmed and drawing blanks.
Glen grabbed Ed’s arm, pulling him by his wrist and shoved him out of the door.
Frosty air chilled Ed’s face as two patrol guards stopped and glanced at him and Glen who stumbled out of the barrack, wobbling on his feet.
“A bit to drink,” Ed told the patrol and thankfully, they nodded and went on.
Glen straightened his back, his face still red like he had held his breath, and marched to Ed, almost stumbling over. He pushed his finger hard into Ed’s chest. “You lied to me twice,” he spat through a clenched jaw, visible breath in the cold. “Sig knows now. All our work.” —He threw his arms in a wide circle— “Our chance to get back at them. For our Queen. For Sosh’r. For Papp. For our whole Beast-be-damned broken country!”
Ed opened his mouth, but Glen stopped him before he could say anything.
“Too late, Edgar Omen, far too late.” He shrugged. “I can’t help, not anymore, but I’ve got to stay.” He fell back, almost losing his balance again. “But if you stay, you’ll be hung, shot, or whatever.” A retreat, that’s all this was, Ed rationalized. He would find someplace safe, so he could think things through. Listen to him. You can’t die. I’m too weak to anoint another.
“I…don’t know where to go,” Ed said. “If Sig’s coming I want to fight!”
Glen sniffled, tearing a crumbled paper from under his
robe before throwing it at Ed’s chest. Ed picked it up from the ground. “It’s Gene’s last known,” Glen slurred. “Join her for all I give a damn anymore.” He went to stomp pass Ed, but Ed grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“They’ll go after you for letting me go,” Ed whispered. “They know our history.”
“Ed, my friend. We don’t have a history anymore.” And Glen ripped his arm free, stumbling on his feet.
Ed’s heart crushed inside him as nervous hollowness in his stomach marked the rising of another terror. But he gritted his teeth against it; he didn’t give a damn about terrors anymore. Not now. Leave for safety. Please. Better to be on your own.
“I… will be on my own,” he repeated the voice in his head.
Glen nodded. “You’ll be alive.”
I won’t be able to help you. I can feel Ragnarok’s poison with in me. I don’t know how much longer I have. Find Ragnarok’s body. Destroy it. Find his Champion. Kill him or her. Then you must find my surviving brethren and prepare your people.
“Ragnarok’s Champion,” Ed whispered
“What?”
“Ragnarok’s Champion,” he repeated, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. “What does that mean?”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything,” Glen shouted.
“Will he be alright, Major,” one of the patrols startled Ed.
“Uh…yes—”
“I,” Glen saluted, almost falling over on his back. “Was just on my way out.” As he passed Ed, he whispered, “Ask her….and if you see her, tell her I…. Forget it.”
He then stumbled toward the exit gate, leaving Ed to look at the piece of ripped paper still in his shaking hand. ‘Sat’r’ along with a list of business names were written on it. What should he do now? He’s lost everything. His command, his freedom, his life, his chance at justice and Sera. He’d leave Glen, his friend; they had always been together since they were children. And what would his Captains do now? His? They weren’t his anymore— “No, don’t think about; not now, later,” Ed whispered to himself, calming the flurry of question in his head. “Niklas, that bastard. He finally won.” He crumpled the paper into his fist. “This is only one defeat,” he told himself. “Regroup. Winter will lead to Spring.”
Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms Page 58