The Fall to Power (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Copyright © 2012 by Gareth K Pengelly.

  Writing and illustrations by Gareth K Pengelly.

  No part of this book may be taken, sold or reproduced without the express consent of the author.

  All characters portrayed are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One:

  The sweet, tantalising aroma of roasting meats filled the smoky air of the Great Hall with their promise and the Barbarian King closed his eyes in pleasure, drawing back his lips in a predator smile to reveal the tips of canine teeth, creamy and sharp.

  Hands on the stone rail of the balustrade that overlooked the vast stone hall, he looked out over his sea of subjects as they revelled and drank to the playing of innumerable bards , the tumbling japes of cavorting jesters and the writhing temptations of the exotic dancers that strode, lascivious and long-legged from table-top to table-top.

  He watched all this, his keen eyes and impeccable mind soaking in the scene, every face, every warlord, every Clansman; four thousand in total, absorbing every detail in an instant, before nodding and turning away, satisfied.

  A good turnout. Everyone he’d wanted there was there. And so it should be.

  He was the Barbarian King.

  Down the stone stairs he strode, passing servants as he made his way to the raised dais where he and his council were to feast shortly, his mighty warrior-form towering above the bustling workers, the proximity of his awesome presence sending a thrill of fear through the men, a shudder of excitement through the women.

  He reached the council’s table, the men and women that formed it sitting in a line, raising their goblets in salute to him as he passed them by, walking to the front of the dais to address the merry crowd.

  He stood, not motioning for silence, instead, waiting for it to be delivered of its own accord; it was sweeter that way.

  He did not have to wait long. The raucous din of merrymaking began to die away as the gathered subjects began to notice his presence, the hubbub dying down as, one by one, each person turned to the eye-catching figure that stood on the front of the dais.

  In the firelight, the Barbarian King struck an impressive figure, a startling sight that stole the breath and stilled the heart.

  Towering over his people, the majestic ruler stood a head taller than even the tallest of his Warlords and Marzbans, his lean yet rippling physique positively bursting from the simple silk robe he wore tied about him with a gold chain. He smiled that cat-like smile from a handsome face that appeared to have been chiselled from rock and, from the golden circlet about his forehead, long waves of brown hair tumbled to mighty shoulders, draped with the fearsome, black hide of a horned mountain-bear.

  But it was not the god-like physique that so enraptured the people that stretched out before him like a living sea, nor his astonishing looks. No, neither of these.

  It was his eyes.

  Green, emerald eyes, deep and blazing, shining out at them like beacons of otherworldly fire, hinting at the barely controlled power that lurked within. Power such as the world had never seen. The same power that they were here to celebrate.

  For this was the Barbarian King’s Jubilee, a feast held to honour his continuing reign over the vast citadel of Pen-Merethia, what was once called the Barbarian City.

  A reign that had so far lasted ninety-nine years.

  The crowd sat in hushed silence, the lutes stilled, the dancers motionless, the only noise that of several thousand bated breaths. And the hiccups and belches of several dozen revellers already the worse for wear.

  He looked out upon his people, smiling his smile that was at once disturbingly predatory and beatifically warm, and he spoke into the silence, his voice strident, powerful, rich and melodious, echoing with ease throughout the vast hall so that no subject of his had to strain to hear their ruler speak.

  “My friends, my children, I thank you, humbly and from the bottom of my heart, for making the journey from your respective holdings to Pen-Merethia. Thank you for joining us in our feasting and festivities, for marking, with us, yet another glorious year of expansion for our Kingdom.”

  He gazed about, making sure each subject was suitably enraptured, that each individual felt like he was talking to them personally, like a close, dear friend, rather than some distant and ruthless ruler. Like they were here by choice, not by fear of recrimination.

  “Clansmen” he gestured out to the warrior caste of the Kingdom, swarthy-skinned faces trailing proud moustaches. “You have done your job to perfection. Our armies are unstoppable and our advance has been implacable and for this you have our thanks.”

  The thousands of gathered warriors, from the lowliest of troops to the high-ranking Marzbans, raised fists in cheer, downing great, burning gulps of Vorda before slamming their goblets to the tables.

  “Lords of the Land” he swept his arm now to encompass the nobles dressed in their finery, originally hailing from the Merchant Coast with their dark hair and tanned skin. “You have raised cities, farmed the lands, kept our growing populace safe and fed. For this, to you, too, we give our deepest thanks.”

  More cheering, the twenty Lords of the Land and their closest lieutenants standing and bowing, as if the back-breaking toil of their farm-labourers and the unending vigilance of their wall-sentries was somehow all down to them as they sat in their gilded halls and counted their riches.

  The Barbarian King waited for the self-congratulatory applause to die down, before continuing.

  “I remember,” he began, his manner open, informal, as though speaking with friends at the hearthside rather than an audience of warriors and princes. “I remember when I first found this city, our peoples, so many years ago. None of you here,” he pointed out to them, “are old enough to remember the stick-shaking, fur-wearing savages we were only a hundred years ago.”

  The crowd were quiet now, rapt attention written across every face, reminded by the words of their ruler’s seeming immortality. Reminded, once more, that they were in the presence of, and listening to the words of, someone more than a man.

  “I found your fathers and your fathers’ fathers still beating each about the head with clubs, still waging wars between Clan and village, hunting with arrows of bronze and boots of fur.”

  Some of the older warriors in the audience nodded, reminiscing, hazy memories and tales told by their parents playing across their minds.

  “But I found you, I brought you out of that savage age and I united our peoples under one banner. I taught you how to wield iron, that we might have tools and weapons that would last us years, not months. I taught you how to raise castles, like this mighty Pen, with sewers and clean streets, that our people may grow safe and healthy. And I taught you how to farm the land, irrigation, crop cycles; how to keep our armies and populace fed and strong.”

  The crowd sat, mouths open, hushed, remembering all the glories their lord had revealed to them, so many generations ago.

  “And now, our disparate tribes and Clans are one people, one land, our might encompassing the Plains of the North, the deserts of the West, the Merchant Coasts of the East and here, to the Southern-Steppes, where this very city stands proud and majestic.”

  He paused a moment, letting his audience catch up, knowing that the wine and Vorda had been flowing freely.

  “But,” he bade them, “you should know that I labour under no illusions. For though I may be your ruler, I only showed you the way; it is you who trod it. It is your labours that bear the fruits of our Kingdom; you, Clansmen, that conquered our neighbouring lands and united them under our colours; you, Lords, that keep the food and taxes flo
wing freely. Without each and every one of you here, nothing we’ve accomplished would be possible and our Kingdom would crumble like so much sand slipping through our fingers.”

  Warriors sat, patriotic tears glistening in eyes as proud hearts beat in chests, for though they were all of different creeds and colours, they were one people united under this man, this demi-god, that treated them with respect and appreciated their efforts.

  “And so, my dear friends, it is with pleasure that I open the halls of Pen-Merethia to you, once more. Stay, feast, drink, for over the next week there shall be entertainment a-plenty.”

  The crowd roared their approval, for the King was lavish with his entertainments, as one would expect from the ruler of the City of a Thousand Slaves. Manpower was at his disposal and he was generous with it.

  “There will be Games!”

  Cheers went up from the masses, for the Games were entertainment indeed.

  “There will be Hunts!”

  More whooping and hollering, particularly from some of the Nobles, for it was rare for them to wield their finely-bejewelled weapons in anger and the Hunts provided a great outlet for the frustrations of courtly life.

  “And…” he deliberately stretched the silence, enjoying the tenterhooks upon which the men held themselves. “As always…” The necks of the crowd stretched as they all leant forwards, eager to hear his next words, despite being almost certain of what they would be. “There will be women!”

  A roar, once more, as, at the far end of the Great Hall the hundred-foot tall bronze doors were heaved open upon oiled hinges by the combined exertions of a hundred slaves, before a procession of women, scantily-clad and made-up, streamed into the midst of the feasting masses. They wound their way between the tables and cookfires, the sweet smell of their scented oils sending cross-eyed the warriors who’d been long posted to far-flung wildernesses about the Kingdom.

  That few of the females smiled mattered not to the leering warriors and intoxicated nobles, for it rendered their curves no less pleasing to the eye.

  “My friends, we have a great few days – and nights – ahead of us and I wish that each and every one of you enjoy it, for I will be asking much of you this coming year.”

  The crowd, as one, frowned in puzzlement, before a great, creaking rumble came from the still-open bronze doors, a tall, looming shape rolling into view, until it stood stationary in the Great Hall for all the gaze upon.

  “Behold – the Beacon of Unity!”

  The statue was blatantly a scale model of a much larger intended project; nonetheless, the stone tower loomed from its wheeled base, at least thirty foot into the air, its winding spiral staircases, columns and colonnades stretching higher and higher until the pinnacle, where, clasped in a stylised dragon’s foot of intricately carved stone, a giant emerald shone, its myriad facets refracting the firelight into a million dazzling rainbow arcs that captivated all who gazed upon its beauty.

  “This,” the King told them, his tone low, reverent, “is the brainchild of our Lady Seeress.” He looked behind him, to the Council table, where a radiantly beautiful woman nodded back to him with a slight smile beneath amused blue eyes.

  “The Beacon of Unity will be built on the Isle of Storms, rising a thousand feet from the rocks, the emerald beacon blazing out across the sea.”

  He could see in the eyes of the crowd that they were at a loss as to the purpose of such a monumental undertaking. He enlightened them.

  “Our populace is expanding, my friends. And, as many of you well know, an expanding waistline necessitates a bigger belt!”

  A ripple of mirth through the crowd, increasing into raucous laughter as a drunken noble clambered onto his table, hands jiggling his ample belly, before falling in a heap, taking several of his lieutenants with him.

  The King smiled, before continuing.

  “We need more land, my friends; this beacon will shine out across the sea, to the lands from where the ebon-skinned traders come, letting them know that we will no longer sit by and let them come and go as they please. For we are coming for them. To bring them, as we have brought so many others, into our fold.”

  A cheer from the warriors at the prospect of more bloodshed; another cheer from the nobles at the thought of a possible lessening in levies upon the capture of more land, no matter how slight that break might be.

  “Upon completion of the Beacon, we will begin work on an armada of vessels to take us to the Ebonlands, where we will unite them under our colours, through will or through might.”

  The crowd roared the traditional mantra, the air of the hall reverberating from the bassy might of four thousand combined voices.

  “Through will or might!”

  He smiled and made to continue, but was interrupted by the sounds of a nobleman clearing his throat.

  “My King…”

  The ruler recognised the voice instantly, his recall perfect, before searching him out from amidst the sea of faces, a feat he accomplished a mere heartbeat later.

  It was Lord Arbistrath, ruler of Pen-Tulador, a farming town of medium size; his black hair and sharply pointed nose betraying him as a direct heir to the Merchant Princes of the Coast, the prime caste from which the King had drawn his nobles, recognising their efficiency and organisational skills and putting them to good use.

  The noble spoke, giving voice to his question, a voice that was haughty and shrill, a voice that was used to being obeyed and woefully unused to speaking to a superior. Despite this handicap, he gave his best impression of deference.

  “My King, how long do you think it will take to complete the tower?”

  A pertinent question. The King smiled.

  “A year.”

  A gasp went about the crowd as the proclamation echoed from wall to tapestried wall. The noble spoke again.

  “But, my King… how can such a thing be possible?”

  The Barbarian King examined the noble for long moments before responding.

  “Kurnos will ride, bring fresh recruits for our slave workforce.”

  The bellicose and bearded council member rose to his feet behind the king, to the cheers of the gathered Clansmen; Kurnos, Lord of the Hunt, was a popular fellow who held true to the Steppes traditions of slaving.

  “But…” the noble began, before the King cut him off.

  “Of course, nobleman, you will be expected to provide labourers from your own populace to aid in the construction, along with a temporary increase in taxes. Small things to ask, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  The Lord of the Land was silent for a moment, nodding in acquiescence, his face quite unreadable even to the King’s scrutinising eyes, before finally sitting back down.

  The King’s eyes lingered an instant longer on the curious noble, before turning to the room at large and speaking, arms wide.

  “So, my friends, my countrymen; the plan is unveiled, we all know what is expected of us. But, these things are for another day! We have untold pleasures to enjoy these next few days, so please, I implore you, let us forget talk of hard labour, leave it for our future selves to worry about; tonight, let us feast!”

  A great roaring cheer from the crowd as the musicians struck up once more and the dancers began their gyrations anew. From doors along the walls of the hall, servants came, by the dozen, by the score, by the hundred, laden with great steaming platters of freshly roasted meats, vegetables and fresh fruits from the Pen’s kitchens, along with foaming jugs of fresh beer.

  The feasting had begun and, as tradition dictated, would not stop for days to come.

  ***

  The King turned from his audience and made his way back to the table where the rest of his council were seated, sliding out a heavy oak chair and taking his place in the centre of them. Even as he sat, servants attended him, bringing him fresh food and drink.

  A young serving girl leant over him, pouring fine red wine into his goblet, even as his eyes took in the curve of her breast, the paleness of her skin, the light to
nes of her hair. This girl was a captive of northern climes, these things told him. Of the Hill People.

  She noticed his attention as she poured, and he smiled as he watched uncertainty flickering across her face, despite her best efforts to hide it. He could smell the feelings radiating out from her, just as a mortal man could smell the flavours in a pot of stew as it bubbled over a stove; he could sense the cold resentment she had for him, as master of her life now, slave to his every whim. She held onto that hatred, desperately, out of pride, but beneath it, as easily as a hand could feel the curve of a woman through thin silk sheets, he could feel her fear of him, her desire for him.

  As she finished pouring and made to move away, she managed to catch his eyes, seeing in his twinkling green orbs the sure knowledge that he knew everything she was feeling at that moment. She turned, flushing, ashamed and angry with herself, to offer drinks to the other council members.

  The King watched her go, ever smiling, thinking to himself that she had no need to feel such shame, for it happened to all women, no matter their background or status.

  “You shouldn’t do that, you know. It’s cruel.”

  Well, not all women.

  He turned to the Seeress who sat next to him, smiling, looking deep into her ice-blue eyes, before allowing his own to rove over her form, never tiring of the sight of her long, slender curves and raven-black hair, even after nearly a century of familiarity.

  All he could feel radiating from her was a cool confidence, perpetual amusement and a latent sexual hunger, all underpinned by a sharp streak of cruelty and malice and topped off with the tangy, unmistakable aroma of sorcery.

  It was this potent and heady mix that so intoxicated him, keeping the sorceress never far from his side, year after year, decade after decade.

  “My dear, forgive me, but you know I must have my distractions from time to time.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I forget how many distractions you’ve needed over the years, my King. For an immortal you have a frightfully short attention span…”