by Morgan Rice
“Is this your road?” he asked in jest.
Laughter erupted from all the carts, and Aidan blushed.
“Who are you?” Aidan asked, baffled.
“I think the better question,” he called back, “is who are you?” They looked down in fear at White as he snarled. “And what on earth are you doing with a Wood Dog? Don’t you know they’ll kill you?” they asked, fear in their voices.
“Not this one,” Aidan replied. “Are you all…entertainers?” he asked, still curious, wondering what they were all doing out here.
“A kind word for it!” someone called from a cart, to raucous laughter.
“We are actors and players and jugglers and gamblers and musicians and clowns!” another man yelled.
“And liars and scoundrels and whores!” called out a woman, and they all laughed again.
Someone strummed on a harp, as the laughter increased, and Aidan blushed. A memory came rushing back of when he had once met such people, when he was younger and living in Andros. He recalled watching all the entertainers stream into the capital, entertaining the King; he remembered their brightly colored faces; their juggling knives; a man eating fur; a woman singing songs; and a bard reciting poems from memory that seemed to last for hours. He remembered being puzzled as to why anyone would choose such a life path, and not that of a warrior.
His eyes lit up as he suddenly realized.
“Andros!” Aidan called out. “You’re going to Andros!”
A man jumped off one of the carts and came toward him. He was a large man, perhaps in his forties, with a big belly, an unkempt brown beard, shaggy hair to match, and a warm and friendly smile. He walked over to Aidan and put a fatherly arm around his shoulder.
“You’re too young to be out here,” the man said. “I’d say you’re lost—but from the wounds on you and that dog of yours, I’m guessing it’s something more. Looks like you got yourself into some trouble and found yourself in too deep—and I’d guess,” he concluded, examining White warily, “that it had something to do with your helping this beast.”
Aidan remained quiet, not knowing how much to say, while White came over and licked the man’s hand, to Aidan’s surprise.
“Motley’s what I call myself,” the man added, reaching out a hand.
Aidan looked back warily, not shaking his hand but nodding back.
“Aidan is my name,” he replied.
“You two can stay out here and starve to death,” Motley continued, “but that’s not a very fun way to die. Me personally, I’d want to at least have a good meal first, then die some other way.”
The group broke into laughter, while Motley continued holding out his hand, looking at Aidan with kindness and compassion.
“I expect you two, wounded as you are, need a hand,” he added.
Aidan stood there proudly, not wanting to show weakness, as his father had taught him.
“We were doing just fine as we were,” Aidan said.
Motley led the group in a fresh round of laughter.
“Of course you were,” he replied.
Aidan looked suspiciously at the man’s hand.
“I am going to Andros,” Aidan said.
Motley smiled.
“As are we,” he replied. “And as luck would have it, the city is big enough to hold more than just us.”
Aidan hesitated.
“You’d be doing us a favor,” Motley added. “We can use the extra weight.”
“And the extra mouth to feed!” called out a fool from another crowd, to laughter.
Aidan looked back warily, too proud to accept, but finding a way to save face.
“Well….” Aidan said. “If I’d be doing you a favor…”
Aidan took Motley’s hand, and found himself pulled into his cart. He was stronger than Aidan expected, given that, from the way he dressed, he seemed to be a court fool; his hand, beefy and warm, was twice the size of Aidan’s.
Motley then reached over, hoisted White, and placed him gently in the back of the cart, beside Aidan. White curled up beside Aidan in the hay, head in his lap, eyes half-closed in exhaustion and pain. Aidan understood the feeling too well.
Motley jumped in and the driver cracked the whip, and the caravan took off, all of them cheering as music played again. It was a jolly song, men and women plucking harps, playing flutes and cymbals, and several of the people, to Aidan’s surprise, danced in the moving carts.
Aidan had never seen such a happy group of people in his life. His whole life had been spent in the gloom and silence of a fort filled with warriors, and he wasn’t sure what to make of all this. How could anyone be so happy? His father had always taught him that life was a serious thing. Was this all not trivial?
As they proceeded down the bumpy road, White whined out in pain, while Aidan stroked his head. Motley came over and, to Aidan’s surprise, knelt by the dog’s side and applied a compress to his wounds, covered in a green salve. Slowly, White quieted, and Aidan felt grateful for his help.
“Who are you?” Aidan asked.
“Well, I’ve worn many names,” Motley replied. “The best was ‘actor.’ Then there was ‘rogue’, ‘fool,’ ‘jester’…the list goes on. Call me as you will.”
“You are no warrior, then,” Aidan realized, disappointed.
Motley leaned back and roared with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks; Aidan could not understand what was so funny.
“Warrior,” Motley repeated, shaking his head in wonder. “Now that is one thing I’ve never been called. Nor is it something I have ever wished to be called.”
Aidan furrowed his brow, not comprehending.
“I come from a line of warriors,” Aidan said proudly, sticking his chest out as he sat, despite his pain. “My father is a great warrior.”
“I’m very sorry for you then,” Motley said, still laughing.
Aidan was confused.
“Sorry? Why?”
“That is a sentence,” Motley replied.
“A sentence?” Aidan echoed. “There is nothing greater in life than to be a warrior. It is all I have ever dreamed of.”
“Is it?” Motley asked, amused. “Then I feel doubly sorry for you. I think feasting and laughing and sleeping with beautiful women is about as great a thing as there is—far better than parading around the countryside and hoping to stick a sword in another man’s belly.”
Aidan reddened, frustrated; he had never heard a man speak of battle in such a sense, and he took offense. He had never met anyone remotely like this man.
“Where is the honor in your life?” Aidan asked, puzzled.
“Honor?” Motley asked, seemingly genuinely surprised. “That is not a word I have heard for years—and it’s too a big word for such a young boy.” Motley sighed. “I do not think honor exists—at least, I have never seen it. I thought of being honorable once—it got me nowhere. Besides, I’ve seen too many honorable men fall prey to devious women,” he concluded, and others in their cart laughed.
Aidan looked around, saw all these people dancing and singing and drinking the day away, and he had mixed feelings about riding with this crowd. They were men who were kind but who did not strive to lead the warrior’s life, who were not devoted to valor. He knew he should be grateful for the ride, and he was, but he did not know how to feel about riding with them. They were certainly not the sort of men his father would associate with.
“I shall ride with you,” Aidan finally concluded. “We shall be traveling companions. But I cannot consider myself your brother-in-arms.”
Motley’s eyes opened wide, shocked, silent for a good ten seconds, as if he didn’t know how to respond.
Then, finally, he burst into laughter that lasted way too long, echoed by all those around him. Aidan did not understand this man, and he did not think he ever would.
“I think I shall enjoy your company, boy,” Motley finally said, wiping away a tear. “Yes, I think I shall enjoy it very much.”
CHAPTER NINE<
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Duncan, flanked by his men, marched through the capital of Andros, behind him the footsteps of thousands of his soldiers, victorious, triumphant, their armor clanging as they paraded through this liberated city. Everywhere they went, they were met by the triumphant cheers of citizens, men and women, old and young, all dressed in the fancy garments of the capital, all rushing forward on the cobblestone streets and throwing flowers and delicacies his way. Everyone proudly waved the banners of Escalon. Duncan felt triumphant to see the colors of his homeland waving again, to see all these people, just the day before so oppressed, now so jubilant, so free. It was an image he would never forget, an image that made all of it worth it.
As the early morning sun broke over the capital, Duncan felt as if he were marching into a dream. Here was a place he had been sure he would never step foot in again, not while he was alive, and certainly not under these conditions. Andros, the capital. The crown jewel of Escalon, seat of kings for thousands of years, now in his control. The Pandesian garrisons had fallen. His men controlled the gates; they controlled the roads; they controlled the streets. It was more than he could have ever hoped for.
But days ago, he marveled, he was still in Volis, all of Escalon still under the iron thumb of Pandesia. Now, all of northwestern Escalon stood free and its very capital, its heart and soul, was free from Pandesian rule. Of course, Duncan realized, they had achieved this victory solely through speed and surprise. It was a brilliant victory, but also a potentially transient one; once word reached the Pandesian Empire, they would come for him—and not with a few garrisons, but with the might of the world. The world would fill with the stampede of elephants, the sky would fill with arrows, the sea would be covered in ships. But that was no reason to turn his back on doing what was just, on doing what was demanded of a warrior. For now, at least, they had held their own; for now, at least, they were free.
Duncan heard a crash and he turned to see an immense marble statue of His Glorious Ra, supreme ruler of Pandesia, toppled, yanked down with ropes by scores of citizens. It smashed into a thousand pieces as it hit the ground, and men cheered, stomping on its shards. More citizens rushed forward and yanked at the huge blue and yellow banners of Pandesia, tearing them from walls, buildings, steeples.
Duncan could not help but smile, taking in the adulation, the sense of pride these people had at gaining their freedom back, a feeling he understood all too well. He looked over at Kavos and Bramthos, Anvin and Arthfael and Seavig and all their men, and he saw them beaming too, exultant, reveling on this day that would be written into the history books. It was a memory they would all take with them for the rest of their lives.
They all marched through the capital, passing squares and courtyards, turning down streets that Duncan knew so well from all the years he had spent here. They rounded a bend, and Duncan looked up and his heart quickened to see the capitol building of Andros, its golden dome shining in the sun, its huge arched golden doors as imposing as ever, its white marble façade shining, engraved, as he remembered it, with the ancient writings of Escalon philosophers. It was one of the few buildings Pandesia had not touched, and Duncan felt a sense of pride at seeing it.
Yet he also felt a pit in his stomach; he knew that waiting for him inside would be the nobles, the politicians, the serving council of Escalon, the men of politics, of schemes, men he did not understand. They were not soldiers, not warlords, but men of wealth and power and influence which had been inherited from their ancestors. They were men who did not deserve to wield power, and yet men who, somehow, still held an iron grip on Escalon.
Worst of all, Tarnis himself would certainly be with them.
Duncan braced himself and took a deep breath as he ascended the hundred marble steps, his men beside him as the great doors were opened for him by the King’s Guard. He took a deep breath, knowing he should feel exultant, yet knowing he was entering a den of snakes, a place where honor gave way to compromise and treachery. He would prefer a battle against all of Pandesia rather than an hour spent meeting with these men, men of shifting compromise, men who stood for nothing, who were so lost in lies that they did not even understand themselves.
The King’s Guard, wearing the bright red armor Duncan had not seen in years, with their pointed helmets and ceremonial halberds, opened the doors wide and looked back at Duncan with respect. These, at least, were true warriors. They were an ancient force, loyal only to the serving King of Escalon. They were the only force of soldiers left standing here, ready to serve whatever king ruled, a vestige of what once was. Duncan recalled his vow to Kavos, thought of being King, and he felt a pit in his stomach. It was the last thing he wanted.
Duncan led his men through the doors and into the sacred corridors of the capitol building, in awe, as he always was, at its vast soaring ceilings, etched with the symbols of Escalon’s clans, its white and blue marble floors, engraved with a huge dragon, a lion in its mouth. Being in here brought it all back. No matter how many times he entered, he was always humbled by this place.
His men’s marching echoed in the vast halls, and as Duncan went, heading for the Council Chamber, he felt, as he always had, that this place was like a tomb, a gilded tomb where politicians and nobles could congratulate themselves on hatching plans that kept them in power. He had tried to spend as little time here as possible when he had resided in the capital, and now he wished to spend even less.
“Remember your vow.”
Duncan turned to see Kavos staring back, intensity shining in his dark eyes, beneath his dark beard, Bramthos beside him. It was the face of a true warrior, a warrior to whom he owed a great debt.
Duncan’s stomach clenched at his words. It was a vow he had made that haunted him. A vow to assume the kingship. To oust his old friend. Politics was the last thing he craved; he yearned only for freedom and an open battlefield.
Yet he had made a vow, and he knew he would have to honor that vow. As he approached the iron doors, he knew that what came next would not be pleasant, yet it would have to be done. After all, who in that room of politicians would want to hand him power, acknowledge him as King, even if he had been the one who had won it for them?
They passed through an open arch and another contingent of King’s Guards stepped aside, revealing twin doors of bronze. The Council Doors, ancient things that had lasted for too many kings. They opened them wide and stepped aside, and Duncan found himself entering the Council Chamber.
Shaped in a circle a hundred feet across, the Council Chamber had in its center a circular table of black marble, and around this there sat and stood a huge crowd of nobles, in chaos. Duncan could immediately feel the tension in the air, the sound of agitated men arguing, pacing the floor, this room more packed than he’d ever seen it. Usually inside there sat an orderly group of a dozen nobles, sitting about, presided over by the old King. Now the room sat packed with a hundred men, all dressed in their fancy garb. Duncan would expect the mood to be jubilant here, after his victory—but not with these men. They were professional malcontents.
In their center stood Tarnis, and as Duncan and his men entered, they all stopped bickering and fell silent. All heads turned, stunned looks on their faces, looks of surprise and awe and respect—and especially of fear, fear of the change that was about to happen.
Duncan marched into the center with his commanders, while he had the rest of his dozens of men take up positions around the periphery of the room, standing guard silently all around the outskirts. It was the show of force that Duncan wanted. If these men resisted him, plotted to keep themselves in power, Duncan wanted to remind them who had freed the capital, who had defeated Pandesia. He saw the nobles glance nervously at his soldiers, then back to him, as he approached. Professional politicians to the end, they showed no reaction.
Tarnis, the most professional of them all, turned to Duncan and broke into a quick, forced smile. He reached out his arms and began to approach.
“Duncan!” he called out warmly, as if to embrace a
long lost brother.
Tarnis, in his sixties, with well-tanned skin, fine lines, and soft silky gray hair that fell to his chin, had always had a pampered, manicured look to him; of course he would, as he had lived a life of pomp and luxury his entire life. His face also bore a look of wisdom—yet Duncan knew that look was just a facade. He was a fine actor, the finest of them all, and he knew how to project wisdom. That, indeed, was what had enabled him to rise to power. From all their years together, Duncan knew he was a master of appearing to feel one way—and acting another.
Tarnis stepped forward and embraced Duncan, and Duncan coldly embraced him back, still unsure how to feel about him. He still felt stung, supremely disappointed by this man whom he had once respected as a father. After all, this was the man who had surrendered the land. It was insulting for Duncan to see him here, in this hall of power, after Duncan’s victory, in which he no longer deserved to be. And by the way all the nobles still looked to him, Duncan could sense that Tarnis assumed he still was king. It was, remarkably, as if nothing had changed.
“I thought to never lay eyes upon you again,” Tarnis added. “Especially not under circumstances like these.”
Duncan stared back, unable to get himself to muster a smile. He had always been honest with his emotions, and he could not pretend to feel warmth for the man.
“How could you have done this?” shouted out an angry voice.
Duncan turned and looked across the table to see Bant, the warlord of Baris, southern neighbor to the capital, staring back angrily at him. Bant was known to be a difficult man, a cantankerous man, as were all the people of Baris, living as they did down in the canyon, a hard, drab people. His people were not to be trusted.
“Do what exactly?” Duncan called back, indignant. “Liberated you?”
“Liberated us!?” he sneered. “You started a war we cannot win!”
“Now we lie at the mercy of Pandesia!” called out a voice.
Duncan turned to see a noble standing, staring back angrily at him.