Knightfall: Book Four of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  “May I offer assistance in the opening of the gate tonight?” I nodded, since I couldn’t speak. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Speaking of assistance,” I slurred, as soon as I could, “I notice I have two bodyguards from the Temple of Shadow. Shields, I presume?”

  “Yes, my lord. The grey sashes with blue tassels are Shields. The red tassels are the Blades. Banners wear black tassels.”

  “Very good.” I noticed his own were a silvery-grey. I pointedly failed to ask if the color-code was his idea or if it was “divine inspiration.” Maybe it was time to have that talk with Beltar.

  “If you will permit me, I must make arrangements for assistants this evening,” he continued. I nodded at him. He stood up from the table, genuflected, and hurried out.

  Or maybe I’d have that talk later tonight.

  A messenger slipped in while the door was still turning.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Yes?”

  “There is a… group here to see you. They have reached the southwest gate of the city.”

  “Group?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Group of who?”

  “I am told it is the Duke of Vathula and retinue, Your Majesty.”

  “So, they should reach the palace in another band or two of the candle?”

  “I… think they will have to go to the underdoor. The carriage will not be able to take the stairs at the, ah, mouth of the Kingsway.”

  “Show him to the throne room and I’ll see him there. Alone.”

  “It will be done, Your Majesty.” He bowed and backed away.

  “Alone?” Seldar asked.

  “He’ll be alone.”

  “Ah.”

  “Any word from Mochara?”

  “Tianna has retired to the Temple with Amber, so no fresh news there. Torvil says he’s not interfering with the council’s plans for defense. Instead, he has chosen to spread his forces among the Mocharan forces as observers and assistance.”

  “He’s keeping an eye on them, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, Lord of Perception. Civil wars are like that.”

  “I can’t say I like it, but I don’t have a better solution. –wait. Is that why we’ve got so many volunteers to ‘defend’ Mochara?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Your tone makes my suspicion sensor ring like a Christmas performance.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Look, if you set things up to keep an eye on any potential turncoats in the Mocharan forces, just say so. It’s part of your job to anticipate these things.”

  “Yes, Master of Subtlety.”

  “See how I’m not asking if your answer means you did it, or if you’re just agreeing with me? In the future—well, as long as I’m stuck being king—just tell me. You’re not going to get beheaded for doing your job. Okay?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Any word on the Rethven fleet?”

  “Still holding back. They have now a favorable wind, so they have changed course and struck some sail. I believe they still intend to arrive about dawn.”

  “So, no change.”

  “Nothing material, no, Sire.”

  “Okay. Has Flim finished mounting his crossbow?”

  “I do not know. The cradle was still under construction. Shall I ask Torvil?”

  “Please. I’m thinking they can start shooting the big one at the fleet way before the fleet gets into attack range. It may not do a lot of damage, but it’ll force them to start spending power to defend themselves long before they intended to.”

  “I shall suggest it to the ruling council immediately.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Seldar departed and I turned back to my dinner. Varicon cleared his throat and I nodded at him.

  “Is there anything else, my lord?”

  “Actually, yes. Why do you and Beltar always call me ‘my lord’? I’m a little unclear on the rules of etiquette for modes of address.”

  “You are the Lord of Shadow.”

  “Yes? Oh. I get it. It’s a religious thing rather than a royal one, right?” I tried to keep the distaste out of my voice. I can cancel out most of the input from my nose and tongue, but being worshiped still leaves me with a nauseating aftertaste.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Okay. When you’re done here, see if Beltar needs any help.”

  “At once, my lord.” He placed his utensils neatly on his plate and departed.

  The thought wandered across my mind: If I’m having so much trouble getting out of the king business, how much trouble am I going to have getting out of the god business? It’s not like I can hand it off to some poor sucker and leave it with him.

  Bob was in the great hall when I arrived. He immediately did his genuflection and waited for me to acknowledge him. I settled myself on the dragon’s head and told him to rise.

  Bob was utterly unchanged. Same white hair, same smooth face, still looking as neat, clean, and stylish as if he’d stepped straight out of the pages of Evil Elf Fashion Weekly. Nine years hadn’t done a thing to him. Typical.

  “I see you brought a box. Is it for me?” I asked.

  “Yes, Dread Lord. You commanded a crown be brought, and so I have.”

  “Open it. Show me.”

  The crown was a lovely thing, all bright silver and gleaming black, done in twisted wire like woven vines. The base circled once and sent shoots of metal up, weaving together in a net of shiny branches, until gems of green and gold sprouted at their tips, sweeping up and back.

  I think I appreciate why nobody likes elves. They’re immortal, beautiful, graceful beyond belief, and are generally better at pretty much everything. It must be frustrating to know that any elf who bothers to study something—swordplay, poetry, jewelry, whatever—will spend more time on his hobby than the lifetime of any member of any other race. A human master craftsman, at the height of his skill, will have spent fewer hours on honing his craft than an elven hobbyist. And then there are elves who decide to truly master some skill…

  It’s jealousy. Or envy. I get the two mixed up. But it’s not unfounded.

  Elves don’t go to any effort to make matters better. They would be openly contemptuous of humans and other races if they cared enough about them to have any strong feelings. As it is, they only regard mortal races as ephemeral bits of flotsam. The bits come and go, sometimes useful for a moment, sometimes not, and all of it will change, utterly and completely, if they only wait a moment.

  It's like meeting an ignorant, unwashed barbarian who can’t even appreciate the simplest nuances of art or civilization. Moreover, that ignorant, unwashed barbarian is doomed to die before you get around to breakfast, exactly like all the others. Why bother to teach it how to behave? Why bother to help it with anything? As long as it doesn’t get filth on you or get in your way, who cares what it does?

  Elves aren’t exactly evil. They just don’t see any other race as being real. Sure, the other races are living beings, but so are mayflies, mosquitoes, and goldfish.

  I realized all this as I looked at the crown. It was a thing of intricate, incredible beauty and, for a moment, I saw it as an elf might see it: A work of art too subtle for mortals to comprehend. Humans would treat it much the same as any child who might see the Venus de Milo and call it “pretty.”

  I looked it over for magical effects. There were none. I waved at the box and Bob closed it.

  “It’s perfect for what I want,” I told him. “Now, talk to me about some things.”

  “Anything you wish, Dread Lord.”

  “Are you aware of the issue with the Demon King?”

  “I have heard many things, Dread Lord.”

  “Stop me if I say something you know is wrong. Keria, as I understand it, wound up being inhabited by a demonic entity. I think she was possessed before she assumed the throne in Vathula—whether her mortal, daytime self was dead or not is an open question, but the demon inside her didn’t want to
deal with sunlight. I eventually got rid of it by killing Keria. Am I on track?”

  “Everything you have said is true, Dread Lord.”

  “I suffered a similar problem nine years ago. The Thing which possessed me, however, was of a slightly different order. It was my own darker nature, brought to life and given the power to overcome my naturally pleasant disposition. Tort, T’yl, and a number of others worked very hard to restore me to myself.

  “Now that I am myself again, bear in mind everything the Demon King did, he did without the influence of my natural kindness and tolerance. Whatever he wanted you to do after his demise or dethroning, cancel it.”

  I leaned forward slightly and looked him in the eye.

  “Make no mistake, however. All the qualities the Demon King possessed, I still have. If I wish to continue something he commanded, I will let you know.”

  “I understand completely, Dread Lord.”

  “Good. Now, you are the Duke of Vathula and the Eastrange. You’re responsible for the region and all the things living within it. I want to see peace, or as much peace as is practical, in the realm. Other than that, perform all the usual duties and obligations of a duke to a king or queen. Which means you help to preserve the realm.”

  “Dread Lord,” Bob replied, going to one knee and setting down the box, “I will obey, of course. It will help if you could explain your motives for this. I do not question you, merely hope to understand your purpose so I might serve you better.” He placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head.

  “Think of it this way,” I began. I paused to think, myself. How to skew the view so Bob’s bias could grasp the value of human life? Answer: make human life a commodity.

  “What do I eat?” I asked.

  “Blood and souls, Dread Lord.”

  “Where do I get them?”

  “From all things that live, I believe.”

  “Humans, orku, galgar, elves…?”

  “Yes, Dread Lord.” Was that a quiver in his voice? Possibly.

  “Are you familiar with the concept of ranching? Raising animals for the purpose of eating them?”

  “Yes, Dread Lord. I believe I understand, now.”

  “There may come a day,” I added, quietly, “when I seek to challenge a being of great power. On that day, I may need every drop of blood, every scrap of soul I can find. Perhaps a whole world of them, not merely some minor kingdom.” I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I may even need to promote a servant to an even greater level of authority. I hope when… if that day comes, I have a servant worthy of such reward.” I left the implications to his imagination. He lifted his head and looked at me seriously.

  “I am certain, Dread Lord, that you do. He need only prove himself.”

  “It would please me to find you are correct. Now, tell me about the army headed for Vathula.”

  “It has begun its preparations to penetrate Vathula and use the pass. It will break upon the walls like sea-foam on the shore.”

  “Very good. I plan to arrange for its recall, so do try to turn it into a simple siege.”

  “As you command, Dread Lord.”

  “Also—what is your proper response to a request for help from someone in my service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good answer. Sir Sedrick is a Hero. He is currently looking for T’yl and for Tort.”

  “I regret, Dread Lord, that I must inform you of the possible death of both of those servants.”

  “Listen carefully, Bob. Very carefully. You’re immortal, right?”

  “Yes…”

  “In a different way, so am I. Right?”

  “Yes, Dread Lord. The power of chaos from beyond the world flows in your veins.”

  “As may be, if I find someone has killed either of these two, my personal pets—and if either or both are killed, I will find out—I can spend ten thousand years hunting for clues, inquiring among the gods, and working to find who was responsible, who paid them, and who paid the ones who paid them, on up the chain to the person who decided it should be done.”

  “I understand fully, Dread Lord.”

  “Now… you know I am no longer the Demon King.”

  “Yes, Dread Lord.”

  “Were you aware I can love? Not merely desire, covet, and lust after, but love?”

  “I was not, Dread Lord.”

  “I love these two—and others. But these two are missing, and I will have them back. You know I want my pets protected and safe. You know Sir Sedrick is looking for them on my behalf. Please take a moment and consider these things.”

  “I have considered them, Dread Lord.”

  “This pleases me. It would be best if I remain pleased, and that means he should have all the cooperation and aid you can give him.”

  “It will be done, Na’irethed zarad’na.”

  I settled back on the dragon’s head, relaxing and smiling. The formality implied we reestablished that, even during the day, I’m a dark and terrible Thing. Fine by me, if it drove the point home.

  “Good,” I told him. “Now, what do you need from me? Anything?”

  “If it please you, Dread Lord? The population of the duchy of Vathula grows restless. Their numbers are growing at an alarming rate and their ability to feed themselves is becoming questionable. Perhaps you might descend upon some of the settlements and empty them?”

  “Possibly,” I allowed, shuddering inwardly at the thought. I don’t relish the idea. I’ve killed my hundreds and my thousands, but it has never been a pleasant experience.

  Let me rephrase that.

  Killing by the hundreds, sucking the souls out of masses of living beings, feeling the surge of blood pouring into me, all of these things together—yes, it is a pleasant experience. It is an overwhelmingly pleasurable experience. It’s taking a hit of your favorite drug, eating your favorite meal, enjoying your favorite music, revisiting your favorite dream. It is, quite possibly literally, a fiendish delight.

  As a matter of principle, I try to avoid being fiendish, and to avoid overindulging that particular delight. If I indulge in it too much, I might come to miss it. It worries me enough as it is. In a thousand years, will I be the evil thing stalking the night and killing anyone who crosses my path? Is it inevitable? Or is it optional? I don’t know.

  “I take it the undermountains are a much more peaceful place of late?” I asked.

  “Yes, Dread Lord, but the pressures caused by youths growing to adulthood and their subsequent offspring bode ill for the coming decade.”

  For the first several thousand years of humanity’s existence, their favorite form of population control was war. Killing each other off was fundamental to the success of civilizations, if you can call them that. How much worse are the orku? Or any other bunch of violent species living in the Eastrange? While they may not be worse—humans are good at self-destruction—I’m certain they’re no better. They’re fairly well confined in a long strip of mountains with limited resources and enemies on both sides. Population pressure must be like a pressure cooker.

  Killing each other off might not be the worst thing for them. Unfortunately, I’ve participated in wholesale slaughter. I have to admit I don’t care for it. Giving them a pressure valve might not be a bad idea.

  “Perhaps they need some form of blood sport,” I mused. “Gladiators, that sort of thing.”

  “Dread Lord?”

  “I’ll see about forming a great arena somewhere. The most violent of them will volunteer to fight each other. Most of those will die in the arena. Given how violent most of those races are, it might actually be a good form of population control. Spectators—from within the Eastrange, but also from Rethven or anywhere else—can pay to watch. Maybe even participate. You can give the winners a cut of the proceeds as prize money. It’ll encourage the stupid and the violent to get killed. The rest of the money we can use to help finance the government, reduce taxes, and encourage the economy.”

  “This could be amusing,” Bob agreed.
“But what of this great arena of which you speak?”

  “Probably somewhere in the northern regions, where it will be out of the way. Maybe near the headwaters of the Averill. The viksagi have a similar problem, although on a much smaller scale. They have enough things trying to kill them to keep their numbers manageable. They might want to send some of their more bloodthirsty types to try their skill in the arena. If we could get the frost giants to participate, that would be even better.”

  “Dread Lord? I still do not fully understand about the arena.”

  “What’s not to understand?”

  “There is nothing in that region, and with good reason. It is inhospitable and untamed.”

  “Hmm. Did you ever visit Zirafel?”

  “I have.”

  “Do you recall the Plaza at the Edge of the World?”

  “I do.”

  “Imagine that, but in a circle instead of a half-circle. I’ll tell the mountains to move around and change shape. You should be able to see obvious results within the month, so locating it shouldn’t be difficult.”

  “As soon as I find this place, I will begin the games, Na’irethed zarad’na.” I ignored the formality. I obviously said something to terrify him again. He only calls me that when he’s exceptionally nervous. Are all elves this skittish? Or is it just Bob? Or, as Mary tried to tell me, am I really so frightening? Or would he be this nervous around anyone who put a hand-shaped imprint over his heart and told him it could squeeze?

  No, wait; I remember something. Having power over the ground is a frightening thing to elves and other denizens of the Eastrange. Maybe that’s it.

  “Shall I invite the viksagi, viskagar, and the frost giants on your behalf?” he asked.

  “Once you have the details worked out, yes. Anybody who wants to fight for prize money, I suppose.” Then I thought about the viskagar. “I intended to put this on the western side of the Eastrange, near that lake above the Averill. The viskagar live on the eastern side, in the northern regions of the plains, don’t they?”

  “They do, Dread Lord, where the plains turn to high hills and the world grows colder.”

  “Is there an easy way for them to get across the Eastrange?”

  “No, Dread Lord.”