by A. J. Smith
I recognized him. There was something about the way his shoulders stayed back, and his eyes remained focused. I couldn’t recall his name, but I’d met him at the Severed Hand, when Duncan Greenfire saved my life. He was a senior duellist of some renown amongst the Sea Wolves. As he walked past us, the man stepped to avoid Leofryc, and lightly nudged my shoulder with his own. The contact had been accidental, but each of us turned, as if a silent alarm had sounded.
“Excuse me,” I said, as we locked eyes.
He adjusted the hood of his red cloak, and looked at me. He was a warrior, older than me, with a face that didn’t need to say anything to be taken seriously. “Prince Oliver,” he replied, with a miniscule nod of his head.
“Your name escapes me,” I said, meeting him face to face. “But we met in the Bloody Halls. It is known that the glass broke above the Severed Hand and your hold was attacked from the void by spirits of chaos. I grieve for your lost Eastron. And Lord Ulric, I hear he is in ill-health.” I liked the Sea Wolves, despite the First Fang refusing to pledge to me.
“Rys Coldfire,” he replied. “I am called the Wolf’s Bastard” He looked me up and down, taking his time, and assessing every inch of my armoured frame. “You know how to fight, and you’re good at it. But don’t talk about the First Fang, or I will become… agitated.”
I knew the name, and chided myself for forgetting him. Whatever flaws the Sea Wolves possessed were eclipsed by their ferocity and skill in battle. And the Wolf’s Bastard was said to be the purest expression of their ethos. It was strange to look at him, perhaps one of the few men who was my equal in combat. He was shorter and slighter than me, though his limbs were thick and his every movement conveyed power and solidity. His eyes were focused, and moved slowly, suggesting a man who knew how to kill, and could do so with maximum efficiency.
Behind him, emerging through the press of black and silver robes, came a second flash of red. This time, the Sea Wolf robe was worn by a young woman, keeping her head back and her eyes hard, as she negotiated the ministers of the Silver Parliament to join Rys.
“Prince Oliver,” she said, trying to appear confident, though showing a sliver of anxiety at my presence.
“This is Lagertha Blood,” said the Wolf’s Bastard. “The Second Fang, and my ward. ” He spoke the last word with emphasis, taking a protective step in front of Lord Ulric’s daughter.
“We weren’t expecting to see you here,” said Lagertha. “But I’m glad you’ll hear our words. Adeline Brand, called the Alpha Wolf, has a message for the parliament. Perhaps your presence is a good omen.”
Silver Jack chuckled. “Trust me, young lady, it’s not,” he muttered, with an edge of condescension.
She frowned, letting her anxiety be replaced with Sea Wolf pride. Glaring at Jack, she gritted her teeth and appeared to be wrestling with how to respond to a perceived insult. Rys stood his ground in front of me, but offered no comment.
“What did you fucking call me?” growled Lagertha.
“Please,” I said, shaking my head. “Can we not argue. Enemies are easy to find, without creating more.”
My words did little to dispel the tension, with all three of my attendants puffing out their chests. Around us, ministers went about their business, to or from the parliament, oblivious to the pissing contest that was happening in their atrium. Leofryc stood at my right shoulder, and David Falcon’s Fang at my left. It was completely unnecessary, and the Wolf’s Bastard smiled at the show of strength.
“I plan to kill a man today,” said Rys, “but not one of you gentlemen. Please back down, for I might be too much for you.” He smirked, bowed his head, and added, “Noble Winterlords.”
“Let him pass,” I commanded. “Let them both pass.”
Lagertha Blood pouted, and quickly moved away. Rys Coldfire held his ground for a moment, looking me in the eye. I wasn’t sure what he intended to say, but I felt no hostility. I remembered Adeline Brand as a boisterous Sea Wolf duellist, but couldn’t comprehend why she’d have words for the Silver Parliament. Oddly, I found the presence of two red robes strangely reassuring. I’d secured no treaty and made no alliance, but the Sea Wolves would never be friends of the Dark Brethren. As the Wolf’s Bastard gave me a thin smile, and followed his ward, I wished that I’d spent more time at the Severed Hand.
*
The five envoys sat first. The Silver Parliament was a huge circular auditorium, with six levels of galleries, all looking down at the First Stone – a large, flat, granite block, around which the ministers were seated. When at capacity, the auditorium held two hundred ministers and as many spectators, though we were all expected to remain standing until the five blue-robed envoys had taken their raised seats next to the First Stone.
An elderly Winterlord, standing on the granite block, banged a tall silver staff on the floor, and announced the five names. “Marianne Death Spell, Fabien Darkling, Alexis Wind Claw, Trego Cyclone, Elizabeth Defiant. We are of the Eastron from across the sea, and you speak for us. Let your wyrd flow and your wisdom be heard.”
Three women and two men took their seats, with only a single Winterlord amongst them. Trego sat in the middle, a brown-skinned man in late middle age. I’d never met any of the Cyclone brothers, but his stare, directed solely at me, left me in no doubt as to who he was. He pushed back his black hood and gave me a thin smile from across the auditorium. Leofryc had taken us to a low gallery, just above the parliament floor, making my presence obvious to anyone who cared to look.
“Before we begin,” intoned one of the two female Dark Brethren, standing before the other four envoys, and approaching a podium, “I would like to greet the protector of First Point and heir to the Kingdom of the Four Claws.” She bowed her head. “Prince Oliver Dawn Claw, you are welcomed to the Silver Parliament.” Hundreds of eyes turned to me, and I raised my chin, despite the extreme discomfort I felt.
Leofryc grunted in my ear. “That’s Alexis Wind Claw,” said the commander of Falcon’s Watch. “It is said that she’s as cold-hearted as any of the Cyclone brothers.”
The woman had lighter skin than Trego, but still dusky. She was petite, with fine features and an alluring face. Around her neck, sitting on the thick, black cloth of her robe, was an ornate seashell, cast in metal, with jewels inlaid into the surface.
“Prince Oliver,” continued Alexis, raising her voice to be heard in all corners of the parliament. “Will you join us on the First Stone? I believe all present would welcome your words, and news of your father.”
“Indeed,” added Trego Cyclone, speaking with a faint lisp. “News of the Always King should take precedent over other matters. Come down, my prince.”
My hand started shaking, as silence was pointed at me from every angle. Winterlords and Dark Brethren, men and women of influence, wealth and great wisdom, most of whom had never seen me in the flesh, waited to see how I’d respond. I felt a churning in the pit of my stomach, as if this was a first impression that truly mattered. I was to be king of these people and I needed them to see me as king. They feared and respected my father, but I had yet to establish a reputation.
“I’m not going down there with you,” whispered Silver Jack, glancing at David and Leofryc, neither of whom looked comfortable under so much scrutiny. “Try not to kill anyone, my prince.”
I glanced around the galleries and saw too many faces to adequately process. Nine storeys above us and one below, with each and every pair of eyes looking at me. I was to ask them to recognize me as the Always King. I had the loyalty of the Dawn Claw, but needed the agreement of the parliament. They were the two pillars of rule, though one of them felt like a cold blade in my clenched fist, its edges sharp enough to cut me with the slightest flinch.
“I will accompany you,” said David Falcon’s Fang, placing a hand on his sword-hilt.
“Don’t worry, young man,” said Jack. “They won’t kill him on the First Stone of the parliament. Best to let him go by himself.”
Leofryc nodd
ed in agreement, and I bowed my head, reconciled to the fact that I was going to have to speak in front of several hundred Eastron, and ask to be recognized as the Always King. I wondered how different it had been when my father, Christophe Dawn Claw, called the Shining Sword, had stood before the parliament. I took a moment, allowing the silence to flow into whispers, before I put my head back and strode down the single flight of stone steps that separated the first gallery from the floor of the parliament. I wore no armour, but the sound of my heavy footsteps dominated the auditorium, as I emerged next to the First Stone.
“I will be heard first!” announced a female voice, with the speaker hidden somewhere on the far side of the parliament. Hundreds of eyes, previously focused on me, now turned to two figures, robed in red, and approaching the five envoys. “My name is Lagertha Blood,” roared the teenage daughter of the First Fang, “and before Prince Oliver speaks, I wish to claim the seat of envoy that is due to the Sea Wolves.” They were two specks of red amidst black and silver robes, and crystalline black stone.
The silence that had become whispers now became shouting, as hundreds of Dark Brethren ministers questioned the presence of the Sea Wolves. It was mostly jeering, directed at their apparent brutality and lack of culture, with scattered observations about the broken hold of the Severed Hand. The shouts continued until Trego Cyclone stood and raised his hands, calling for silence.
“We recognize the Second Fang of the Sea Wolves, but there is no seat for you here, young lady.”
Lagertha gritted her teeth and began to speak, but was stopped by Rys Coldfire. The tall duellist stepped past his ward and took a single large stride onto the First Stone. His red robe was pushed back, further emphasizing the falchion at his hip, and his chin was raised to the huge auditorium. Few in attendance knew who he was, but those few began to whisper of the Wolf’s Bastard, a name many had heard.
“You,” shouted Rys, pointing to the elderly Winterlord who’d struck the stone and begun the session. “We have lore-masters at the Severed Hand. Are you such a man?”
The old man, still standing on the First Stone and holding his silver staff, looked at Minister Elizabeth, unsure how to answer. She narrowed her eyes and nodded.
“I am Joseph High Heart,” he replied. “Speaker of the Silver Parliament.” He paused, assessing the armed Sea Wolf standing before him. “And I am well-schooled in the traditions and laws of this institution.”
“Good,” affirmed Rys, making sure to speak loudly enough to be heard by everyone. “Recite to me Halfdan’s Gambit, now!”
The Speaker raised his eyebrows and thought for a moment. “Hmm, fascinating,” he replied.
“What?” snapped Trego Cyclone. “What theatre is this?”
“No theatre, my lord,” said Lagertha Blood. “Just a law that’s never been used. Speak, old man.”
Joseph High Heart had relaxed, as if curiosity were more pressing than a legendary Sea Wolf duellist. “Halfdan’s Gambit was written into law in the one-hundred-and-thirteenth-year of the dark age, by the last Sea Wolf envoy. It was intended as a measure to ensure that a red robe could return if they desired.” He bowed his head, as if scanning his memory. “If the envoys should ever be without a red robe, then a red robe has the absolute right to claim a seat.” He was reciting the law. “But they must do so through blood, letting their wyrd flow and ensuring they are worthy of Halfdan’s Gambit.”
“A law written by the Bloody Fang,” spat Trego. “A Sea Wolf madman who butchered my people.”
“But still a law,” countered Elizabeth Defiant. “Halfdan Blood was clearly as clever as he was mad.”
“Stricken,” screeched Alexis Wind Claw.
“No!” roared Rys Coldfire, drawing attention away from the envoys. “You claim to live by the law. All of you.” He spun around, addressing all four hundred people in the auditorium. “And I recite you the law. ‘If the envoys should ever be without a red robe, then a red robe has the absolute right to claim a seat.’” He paused, casting his narrow eyes across the five envoys. “My robe is red indeed, and I will claim my seat in blood. So, which one of you will die?”
I stood motionless, just off the First Stone, as silence returned to the parliament. Trego returned to his seat and spoke rapidly to Marianne Death Spell and Fabien Darkling, the Dark Brethren envoys either side of him. Alexis Wind Claw, her face a mask of rage, kept standing, with a vengeful pout directed at the Sea Wolves. Elizabeth Defiant, apparently able to remain prosaic, shot me an ironic smirk, as if to say that Lagertha Blood and Rys Coldfire had spared me the torture of addressing the envoys. Above my head, all I could count on from my attendants was confusion. David and Leofryc were trying to assess whether the Wolf’s Bastard was a threat, and Silver Jack was ruminating on the foolishness of all those around him. It was nice to be ignored for a change, though I ached with a desire to proclaim myself king.
“Answer me,” challenged Rys. “Whose wyrd is strong enough to face me?”
“If I may,” offered Joseph High Heart, the Speaker of the parliament, “the envoys are required to choose one amongst them to answer the challenge. Though they can also agree to stand down, and allow the red robe to ascend without violence.”
Alexis had not resumed her seat, but the other three Dark Brethren envoys made it clear that they did not intend to give up a seat to any Sea Wolf.
“Also,” continued the Speaker, “Halfdan’s Gambit states that a minority envoy should not be named.” He smiled at Elizabeth Defiant, making it known that Rys Coldfire would have to kill a Dark Brethren.
Alexis turned, flicking her long, black hair behind her, and addressing Trego Cyclone in an angry whisper. I was surprised by his reaction. The middle Cyclone brother appeared cowed by the woman, as if he’d fight the Wolf’s Bastard at her word. The other envoys were silent, as Alexis Wind Claw decided who would stand for them. Elizabeth looked at me again, conveying complex thoughts that I couldn’t interpret. There was rotten wyrd, she’d said, and a Sunken God. Perhaps Rys was springing a trap meant for me.
“I will fight you, Sea Wolf,” said Trego Cyclone, keeping his eyes fixed on Alexis.
Rys frowned. “How old are you? Nearing sixty? Would not he be more appropriate?” He drew his falchion and pointed it at Fabien Darkling, a man far younger than Trego.
“My wyrd is deceptive,” replied the Dark Brethren, conjuring an orb of green energy into his hands.
“If you have words,” said Rys, “say them now, Cyclone.” He pulled a shirt of light-blue wyrd across his body, making the air crackle around him. The Sea Wolf’s power was formidable, making many a spectator gasp at his show of strength. Though neither Alexis nor Trego appeared impressed.
The ministers all stood, making it difficult for those others at ground level to see the First Stone. Even with my height, I had to nudge my way closer to get a good view, as Trego Cyclone and Rys Coldfire both removed their robes and met in the middle of the auditorium. The Brethren envoy was given a straight sword by one of several void legionnaires who flanked the raised seating, and came to a stop facing the Sea Wolf. The Wolf’s Bastard was younger by about ten years, and with a much larger and more muscular frame. Neither man wore armour, and I assessed Trego’s chances as minimal, unless his wyrd was indeed more potent than it appeared.
As two globes of spiritual energy faced each other – one pale blue, the other a sickly green – I heard a mighty eagle’s call in my head, as if the Dawn Claw, the totem spirit of the Winterlords, was warning me of danger. I glanced around, and saw that Alexis Wind Claw was staring at me, clutching her seashell pendant. I imagined her displeasure that the Sea Wolves had interrupted her carefully laid plans to embarrass me. Though her dark eyes appeared to convey something deeper, something strange and chaotic. Elizabeth had described it as a shadow over the parliament, and I felt it getting darker, as that shadow coalesced before me.
Then Rys Coldfire attacked, and all other considerations became secondary. The duellist was not holdin
g back. He used a huge eruption of wyrd, channelled into his falchion and aimed at Trego’s head. The auditorium gasped, but the blow didn’t land. Instead, the blade struck the orb of green and skittered away, falling in front of a void legionnaire.
“You want to hear my words?” cackled Trego, weaving the sickly green energy into pulsing orbs. There was something strange about his wyrd, as if it came from a place of death and decay. There was no shine of spirituality to it, just the hum of fetid power.
Rys backed away, as surprised as anyone that his strike had been so easily deflected. He pulled his wyrd back just in time, as his opponent launched fist-sized balls of fizzing energy at him across the First Stone. Each one began in the palm of his hand, and shot forth with dizzying speed, faster than any archer could fire arrows. Rys was unarmed, but he aimed his wyrd at each projectile, dissipating its power. The Sea Wolf moved like a stalking animal, staying on the balls of his feet and preserving his remaining wyrd.
“I hear the sea,” grunted Trego, with a look of madness in his eyes. “And it has granted me more power than an animal such as you could ever understand.”
“Fuck off!” replied the Wolf’s Bastard. “Gloat when I’m dead.”
He darted forwards, dropped into a slide, and aimed a powerful kick at Trego’s chest. But it too met the globe of rotten, green light, and Rys was thrown aside. He tumbled twenty feet or more, to land heavily on the edge of the First Stone. He grunted in pain and spat out blood, but defiantly got to his feet and pulled a sliver of his prodigious wyrd into a shield.
Trego raised his arms, pulling more and more power from the air. Alarmingly, the Dark Brethren envoy appeared to be channelling something other than the void. It was wyrd-craft I’d never seen, though the reactions of the ministers showed little surprise. “You can’t stand against us,” laughed Trego. “The Sea Wolves that remain are nothing. I’ll send your corpse back to your First Fang.”