The Captive

by Paul Lauritsen

  “It’s not very big,” the warrior who had challenged Garnuk earlier observed.

  “He will continue to grow,” Garnuk replied. “And he is already quite dangerous.”

  The warrior scowled. “Bah. You will not convince me, Exile. You have failed the vertaga before, and you will fail them again with this plan. Challenging the Sthan with this tiny creature is a suicide mission. Your grand plans will get what is left of our race annihilated!”

  “Not likely,” Garnuk countered. “But, since you have so little faith in our new ally, perhaps a demonstration is in order.”

  Zanove, kill him.

  The silver dragon never hesitated. He leapt forward, thrusting his scaly head towards the warrior in question. The other vertaga in the area scrambled to get out of the way, startled by the sudden movement. The warrior raised an axe, but Zanove spun and knocked it from his hands with his tail. The axe flew through the air and struck the wall of the council hall, the handle snapping in two.

  The warrior snarled and lunged forward, grabbing for the dragon’s throat, but Zanove evaded him easily, weaving to the side. As the vertag lunged past, Zanove leapt on its back, flattening it against the stone table. The dragon stood there, jaws inches from the back of the ram’s head, clawed feet pinning its limbs easily. The warrior struggled but could not even budge the silver dragon.

  Garnuk looked around the room, noting the stunned expressions on the faces of the other chiefs. “Disloyalty,” he said quietly, “Will not be tolerated. We are few enough, and we must all stand together. Those who seek to divide our race, will be treated as enemies and traitors to our kind. And will be punished accordingly.”

  Zanove roared, then bathed the unfortunate warrior in fire. The burning ram howled in pain and a foul stench filled the room. Zanove did not stop, maintaining the white-hot torrent for almost a full minute. When at last he closed his jaws, there was little left but a pile of charred bones and bits and pieces of soot-stained metal that had been the warrior’s armor.

  “Thank you, Zanove,” Garnuk said. “As I told you previously, he is already powerful and dangerous. He is not yet as large as the dragon that attacked Dun Carryl, but he soon will be. When this day comes, the world of men will be set ablaze.”

  The chiefs muttered amongst themselves nervously. While they were talking, Garnuk urged Zanove back to his cave. The silver dragon obeyed immediately, leaping over the assembled chiefs and swooping out through the open door. Tarq followed, sealing the portal behind them.

  “Are you with me?” Garnuk asked, looking around the room. “You have sworn loyalty to me as Ramshuk, but I must know for sure. Will you commit to this one last hope for our race?”

  “I will!” the An’Kal chief shouted immediately. “Glory and honor to the Ramshuk!”

  “Aye!” another chief agreed. “If this is the end, then let us make it an end the Sthan will not soon forget. Better to fight now and lose than to wither slowly over generations.”

  “Let our warriors test themselves in battle again,” another chief agreed. “Let our rams bring death to our enemies once more!”

  The other chiefs called out their support, each promising blood and slaughter, extolling the virtues of their warriors, and proclaiming Garnuk a cunning and worthy leader. The former exile smiled grimly as he accepted each of their oaths. This was what he needed: a united and motivated people, every last one ready to fight to the death for a final opportunity at victory.

  “It is decided,” Garnuk announced when the last chief had spoken. “Go now to your clans, to your villages and cities, to your strongholds. Muster your warriors, anyone who will fight. Arm them all and march here to Dun Carryl. In this hallowed mountain we will marshal our forces, and from here will march the greatest host of vertaga this world has ever seen!

  The clan chiefs shouted in agreement, the warriors they had brought pounded their weapons against the table and the floor, setting up a proud and clamorous racket. Garnuk kept speaking, raising his voice over the din.

  “At our head,” he continued, “Will be the silver dragon! And when at last men see that it was us behind the razing of their homes, they will truly know fear. They will know they have been played against their own allies, that we have made pawns of them. They will know what we are capable of, and for the rest of their short, miserable existence it will be them who cower and wait for the end to come!”

  The gathering was in a frenzy now, everyone striving to make their voices heard, but to Garnuk it sounded like a single united roar. A roar which would spread to all vertaga over the next few days, lift up their entire race, and shake the very foundations of the earth. He raised his voice still more, bellowing now to be heard as he concluded his speech.

  “It will be our armies that bring about this end, and with it, the fall of the Sthan kingdom. From its ashes we will rise, a glorious empire of vertaga, the whole of the world ours for the taking, and at last we will have revenge for our own losses. For the fallen!”

  “For the fallen!” several voices echoes, raw from shouting.

  “Go!” Garnuk cried, “Gather your strength. The time has come to fight!”

  Warriors stampeded from the hall, sent on ahead by their clan chiefs. Elders slowly followed, shuffling and stumbling from old age, but with the same passionate fire as their younger comrades in their eyes. Garnuk searched every rough-featured face for dissention, but found not a single vertag with doubts.

  Tarq entered the moment the last ram had left, shutting the door firmly so they would not be overheard. “You did it,” he said gruffly. “I can’t believe it. You actually stirred them up enough to follow you in this scheme. There might be a chance.”

  “There’s more than a chance,” Garnuk replied. “This is the chance. The opportunity to right all the wrongs, to bring our people back from the precipice of extinction.”

  “The Banuk did not come, though,” Tarq murmured. “Or did I miss them?”

  “They did not come,” Garnuk confirmed. “But they will come around. They will see.” He sighed heavily, then gestured to the door. “Go and begin preparations for the next phase. I will be along shortly.”

  Tarq nodded and left the council hall quietly, leaving Garnuk alone at last. He had done it. The war to end all wars was approaching. Overcome with emotion, the Ramshuk leaned against the stone table and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

  “By the spirits,” he murmured, “Let this be our hour. Watch over us and guide us in battle.”

  Then he squared his shoulders and left the council hall as well. The war was coming, and it was time for Garnuk to assume the mantle of the brilliant general once again.

  Chapter 12:

  The Time of Shadows

  Relam pushed back from his desk and rubbed his eyes. “Marc,” he said, throwing up his hands in disbelief. “When you said you would draft something this isn’t quite what I expected.”

  “Oh?” Clemon asked, peering closely at his own copy. “Was there some aspect of the regent role I missed, your majesty?”

  Relam laughed and brandished his own thirty-six page copy of the proposed agreement. “I don’t think you could have missed anything, Marc. Do you realize how long this is?”

  “Well, this sort of thing needs to be properly defined,” the chatelain explained, rifling through his pages. “I mean, future kings may not have the benefit of being on such good terms with their regents, nor is it a given that there will be the same level of trust and transparency. In fact,” he continued, growing deadly serious, “As I was drawing this up, I realized what we have proposed may well open the door to a violent fracturing of the kingdom.”

  “What?” Relam demanded.

  “Not during your reign, certainly,” Clemon said hastily, “But, say a weak king comes to power, one who is not prepared to deal with the burdens of ruling. He delegates more and more tasks and power to his regents, until they begin to think they are kings in their own right. Then there comes an issue they don’t agree on. The re
gents could split from the king and use their influence to carve the Sthan kingdom into a half-dozen smaller kingdoms. Whether it resulted in a world war or not would hinge on a few key factors, the potential for which I have tried to mitigate in clauses forty-seven to sixty-three.”

  “You’re forgetting something there, Marc,” Relam pointed out. “By then, the Keepers will be strong again.”

  “I didn’t forget,” the chatelain huffed. “But, I have my doubts about that organization, your majesty. There is a lot their young leader, Khollo, is not telling us.”

  “I trust him.”

  “Well, I trust Sebast Garenes more!” Clemon replied indignantly. “Any of the lordlings, even Laurencian, though his diplomatic skills leave a little to be desired.”

  “Delan does tend to rub people the wrong way,” Relam agreed. “But what have you got against Khollo?”

  “Your majesty,” Clemon said, trying for a more reasonable tone. “I spent a good deal of time around the boy when I visited the West Bank, at the start of the war. There is a . . . brashness and disregard for the rules in him which concerns me deeply. He clearly inherited some of his uncle’s eccentricities.”

  “You think he’s deceiving us?” Relam asked, confused. “I mean, I don’t know what he’s up to right now, and there’s a great deal about dragons and the Order he hasn’t shared – ”

  “It’s not so much that,” Clemon mused. “No, it’s more that I think he is the type to ignore the law or any agreement he has made if he believes an alternative path will lead to a better moral result.”

  “So, he’s a good man?” Relam asked, trying to discern why this was an issue.

  “He tries to be,” Clemon agreed, “But he can’t be right all the time. And with the power he wields and the role he will be playing in the events of this world, a wrong decision could have terrible consequences. Or worse, a moment of indecision.”

  “I think I understand,” Relam said finally. “He’s unorthodox, and it frustrates you that you can’t guess at how he will act in certain situations, or if he will act?”

  “That may be part of it as well,” Clemon admitted. “The boy, and the Order he represents, is something of an enigma for someone like me. I tend to focus on areas where the choice is clear, where things are spelled out perfectly and there are no gray areas.”

  “Yes,” Relam agreed, grinning, “And you try to make as many of those nice, clean situations as you possibly can. See page one through thirty-six as evidence.”

  “I thought my work might be appreciated,” Clemon sniffed. “I’ll just let you draft the thing next time.”

  “Your efforts are appreciated, Marc,” Relam assured him. “I’m just pointing out not all of us are made the same. Not everyone will be put in a box or stay out of murky situations. People have to make choices. They don’t always get it right. But with someone like Khollo, who is always trying to do the right thing, I can live with that.” He took a deep breath, then returned to Clemon’s draft. “Now, let’s refocus on this. Do you think the Assembly will pass it?”

  “I think they will be pleasantly surprised, actually,” the chatelain said eagerly. “You see, to the uninformed observer, this takes power out of your hands and puts it into the hands of sons of great lords. Of course, you and I know your friends are loyal to you, and they really aren’t taking power so much as helping with the day to day running of the kingdom. But appearances are everything in matters like these. I would imagine that your friends’ parents will be the most pleased by this turn of events. The only danger I see is if the Assembly thinks it is too good to be true and votes it down purely because they are suspicious there is something in it that is advantageous for you, more advantageous than the apparent redistribution of power is for them.”

  Relam sat back and let out a heavy sigh. “Marc, have I ever told you your ability to discuss at length even the driest piece of legislation is truly a wonder to behold?”

  “I don’t believe so, your majesty,” Clemon said. “Was that a compliment?” he asked hesitantly.

  “I think so,” Relam replied. “Anyway, thank you for your analysis of the situation.”

  “Of course.”

  “So, we introduce this to the Assembly tomorrow,” Relam said. “We get them to vote on it, ratify it.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, your majesty, but the process will not move along so quickly,” Clemon interjected. “I’m afraid the Assembly will insist on going through the whole thing word by word, analyzing every possible interpretation of every sentence, weighing the benefits and costs of each clause.”

  “How long will that take?” Relam sighed.

  Clemon shrugged uncertainly. “Well . . . the Assembly is not known for moving with alacrity. We might get a decision by the end of the month.”

  “The end of the month?” Relam exclaimed. “That’s almost three weeks away.”

  “Well, two and a half.”

  “Never mind,” Relam muttered, “I’ll just tell Sebast, Cevet, and the others to start performing their duties according to your draft. They can keep it quiet for that long, surely. If the Assembly doesn’t like it, well they can shove it.”

  “There’s a great deal of your father in you, your majesty,” Clemon observed. “Strange, I notice it most in moments like these.”

  Relam smiled fondly at the memory of his father, despite the grief he still carried with him. “He didn’t have much use for the Assembly either did he?”

  “And even less for the High Council,” Clemon agreed. “He could be very . . . creative when discussing the nobles of Etares, particularly the great lords and their families.”

  “Their families,” Relam muttered. For some reason the words struck a chord in his memory. But why?

  “Anyway, your majesty, I had best be going. Don’t you have an appointment with Lord Cevet to be getting to?”

  Relam groaned and jumped up from his seat. “Yes! What time is it? I’m not late am I?”

  “Not yet,” Clemon said, checking the water clock in the corner of Relam’s desk. “Assuming this is right.”

  “It might be,” Relam replied, throwing on his cloak and buckling on his sword belt. “Haven’t checked it recently. Finicky things those water clocks.” He caught sight of his reflection in one of the windows and quickly straightened his hair, then tugged at the hem of his tunic to banish some of the wrinkles and creases.

  “That will have to do,” he decided. “Anything else I need to be aware of, Marc?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. Good evening your majesty.”

  “See you tomorrow, Marc,” Relam replied, rushing out the door. Eric and Johann were waiting outside, talking quietly.

  “We were just getting ready to come and remind you, sir,” Eric reported. “We know how you two can get bogged down sometimes. All that paperwork, you know.”

  “Thanks, Eric,” Relam said, flashing him a grateful grin. “Good to know all of you are trying to help me stay on schedule as well. There’s just so much to keep track of!”

  “Yeah,” Johann agreed, hurrying after Relam and Eric. “Where are we going?”

  Relam rolled his eyes. “Oreius’ house,” he replied curtly. “We should have enough time, if we hurry.”

  “Seems like we’re always hurrying,” Johann muttered.

  Eric elbowed him sharply, eliciting a startled grunt from the other man. “Follow the king, no complaining,” Eric said sternly.

  Johann shrugged. “Wasn’t complaining. Just observing. Besides,” he added, “If I was going to complain it would be about you elbowing me all the time!”

  Relam sighed as the conversation devolved into another argument, and led his guards through the palace and out into the city. The setting sun was casting strange, long shadows over everything. The entire quadrant of the city behind the Citadel was already experiencing night-like conditions, but in other areas the failing sunlight still shone weakly. Several workers were moving along the streets, lighting l
amp after lamp to provide some illumination through the night.

  The young king followed the River Road, moving quickly and keeping his face concealed in an attempt to stay anonymous. Eric and Johann tried to be unobtrusive as well, but they were outfitted as palace guards and their clanking armor tended to draw the attention of passersby.

  Relam wove through a group of arguing merchants, then stepped to the side to avoid a lumbering oxcart. He smiled as he remembered sitting in Oreius’ garden, listening for the sounds of the city. How long ago that seemed now.

  The small group passed the Citadel quietly, hardly even glancing at it. The ancient fortress was already sealed tight for the night, guards patrolling the walls above the gate rather than the street in front of it. Relam made a mental note to check in with Narin later and see how things were going on that front, then hurried on his way.

  When at last they reached Oreius’ house, Relam ducked around the side, towards the gate that provided access to the old warrior’s backyard. There was no point in knocking on the front door, since Oreius never answered.

  Eric and Johann dropped back a few paces as they followed Relam through the gate, knowing he was safe now and that less interference on their part would be welcome. After several months of being king, Relam had his guards well attuned to his desires.

  Relam entered the backyard and slowed his pace immediately, taking a deep breath and letting it out. He had timed his arrival perfectly. The sun was just touching the horizon now, gold, orange, and red rays filtering across the land and streaming through the tranquil glade of trees and over Oreius’ extensive gardens. The plants, bushes, and trees seemed gilded in the evening light, positively shimmering with color and life despite the lateness of the season. In the center of the garden, the fountain gurgled and splashed happily, a soothing backdrop for the wonderful sight.

  Relam stepped further into Oreius’ backyard and saw two figures were sitting on the bench there, waiting for him. Cevet turned and glanced at Relam as he approached, but Oreius remained motionless.