Overlords

by Matthew M Pyke

  On the following day, as the camp was busy preparing for the long journey to the unfamiliar land of Vadaal, King Pallan was lounging in front of his second tent, a smaller tent off to the side of the camp where he would spend idle hours, musing about countless things or working on arts and crafts. Garan accompanied him. The two men were alone.

  A blue songbird flew past, chirping excitedly. The bird alighted on a swaying branch in a tree nearby; its head at once began pivoting in rapid degrees as it surveyed the pine forest with its speckled red eyes. King Pallan observed it for a time with quiet introspection and remarked to Garan, “I am going to miss these mountains …”

  Garan nodded to him a slight degree.

  King Pallan went back to working on a piece, depicting the surrounding landscape in bright oil colours. He stroked away in quick, successive motions, the sound of his tarylend brush seeming to gnaw at the canvas.

  Garan came over to him and looked over his shoulder. He glanced from the painting to the trees and the sky, then back at the picture of their surroundings the Paladian king was so deftly portraying. “That is quite good, My Lord. It had not entered into me, the notion that you were so talented a painter …”

  King Pallan smiled faintly as he worked away on the picture, which was freezing a moment in time, with some adjustments, of the larger world around them. “Thank you, Garan. You are too kind; I call it ‘Morning Glory’.” He paused momentarily from his artistic pursuit. “I do not mean to imply that the painting itself is ‘glory’, only that it feebly attempts to capture the glory and wonder of another day’s beginning.” He went back to illustrating the landscape.

  Garan made a slight grin. “Yes, of course, My Lord.” He began to watch with more interest as King Pallan started forming the bird that had previously alighted in the nearby tree. The songbird had gone, but its memory was solidifying in the startling impressions of the picture’s glum depicter. “Ah—the bird that had flown over to that tree.”

  King Pallan turned his head quickly toward the tree that had briefly supported the bird he was now furiously painting. “Yes—I hope to capture its essence on this canvas. I want to remember what it is to walk among these mountains, our sojourn in and among them, in later times. I find it comforting to remember …”

  Garan appeared intrigued; he stepped closer to King Pallan, carefully. “To remember what, My Lord?”

  King Pallan halted his activity abruptly and seemed to think for an instant. “To … to remember things as they were. To treasure the goodly things of the past, and to dismiss what was regrettable. You know—to remember.” He placed his brush back on the canvas, and after a second’s hesitation, went back once more to visualizing the slab of mountain and tuft of pine forest in which they were planted.

  Garan viewed him with the steel reserve of a hardened warrior, but there were times, momentary as they were, when the experienced soldier displayed the most indistinct signs of admiration for and pride in his new king, a king he was not necessarily subject to—not one of his flock.

  King Pallan soon commented, “You display remarkable obedience … to me and my people. Perhaps more than some of my own do. You are not technically under my rule. You are free to go and choose as you want. Yet, you remain with us … why is that, I ask myself. Why does this man show to me, and my soldiers, such unswerving loyalty?”

  With the face almost of a child, Garan observed him paint for a brief while; that brief intimation of something foreign to his scaly exterior at once vanished. “I am like your painting: a moment in time. A one being formed by something more excellent …” He meandered off with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  King Pallan turned to him for a few seconds and smiled. He returned to his task at hand.

  Garan came by a quiver lying on the ground. His eyes dilated a degree. Before long, he stooped down to inspect the leathern holder of arrows, which was brimming with them. The Kae’lem mercenary removed an arrow from the quiver gingerly and stood up. “My Lord—there is a quiver here, on the ground. Are you in knowledge of this? Whose is it, might I ask?”

  King Pallan finished several quick strokes of blue pigment for the bird’s breast and leaned back, turning to Garan. Holding his paint brush in his left hand, he made a quick survey of the quiver in question and grinned slightly. “It belongs to me, Garan.”

  Garan shuddered just perceptibly in place. He appeared embarrassed for disturbing the King of Paladia’s property and for pressing him as to whom the equipment may belong. “I am sorry, My Lord—”

  King Pallan dismissed his apology with a flick of his free hand. “No trouble, lad.”

  Garan’s ease returned. Inspecting the arrow, he had taken from the quiver, he noted, “I do remember something about you, perhaps, having a quiver; but do you shoot?”

  King Pallan watched him come closer, still surveying the arrow. “I do—or did.”

  Garan came by him. “The arrow is of remarkable quality.” He looked up at King Pallan. “Did you make this, My Lord?”

  King Pallan looked it over for a moment. He smiled gently. “I did—at least in part. Guilty as charged.”

  “You are not guilty—I have not seen you shoot, My Lord.”

  King Pallan turned in his seat back toward the painting; he was about to resume shaping the bird when Jardarah and Jaegar came walking up to them.

  “My Lord.” Jaegar came near, with Jardarah in trail.

  Jardarah made a slow bow of his head. “My Lord. I hope the morning finds you well …”

  King Pallan continued painting. “It does, Jardarah. What do you and Jaegar have to report?”

  Jardarah tried to see, circumspectly, what his king was painting. “Ah; the camp is in earnest for the departure from here.”

  King Pallan answered faintly, “Good.” He missed not a single brush stroke while forming his reply, the amulet around his neck jiggling a little in the process.

  Jaegar turned to Garan; his eyes focused for a moment or two on the arrow he was holding. Looking back at his king, he added, “The people are gathering berries and making preserves of them; grasses that are edible are being dried for meal; the camp is busy with preparations for our quest to Vadaal.”

  King Pallan finished a section of the painting, and after leaning back, with a tilt or two of his head to gauge his work, he answered Jaegar, “Very well, Jaegar. All is coming about as we had hoped.”

  “The preparations should take a day or two.”

  King Pallan turned to Jaegar in light surprise. “A day or two? You think? Tell the people they have a few days to get ready; there is no hurry. We’ve been here long enough. A few days more will not jeopardize our quest.” He dipped his brush in some more pigment.

  Jaegar nodded quickly several times. “Yes, My Lord. I shall tell the people of your kindness to them.”

  “Not kindness, Jaegar. Fairness. No need to burden them any more than they already are … by delaying our departure from here, these mountains, a few days, we shall be better prepared for the journey ahead.” He turned back to Jaegar and asked, “Do you not think so?”

  “Yours is the agreeable—and equitable—way, My Lord. It shall be done as you have directed.”

  “Good, Jaegar. And I shall return to my painting …”

  Jaegar made a slight bow to him. As he was about to go with Jardarah, he stopped alongside Garan and glanced at the arrow he was still holding. With a quick turn of his head back at King Pallan, who was finely detailing some feathers on the bird, he remarked, “Your arrow, sire. Do you intend to shoot? If you may, we have not seen you fire your arrows in quite some time …”

  King Pallan made two frayed ends in one of the songbird’s feathers and chuckled to himself for a moment. “Garan seems to think I shoot; perhaps I do. He was asking whose quiver lay over yonder.”

  Jaegar made a strong grin and looked over at Jardarah, who did a weak imitation. “Whose quiver, you say, My Lord?”

  King Pallan added more detail to the beautiful bird�
��s feathery coat. “Whose, indeed.” He smiled, as did Jaegar and Jardarah.

  Garan seemed slightly confused. “My Lord?”

  King Pallan made a few more brisk brush strokes, and after eyeing his painting of the environs, put his brush down and got up. “Perhaps today is a good day as any for me to shoot.” He froze for a moment and seemed to think. “Bloody been awhile since I have shot, has it not, Jaegar?”

  Jaegar nodded. “Aye, My Lord; as far as I can tell.”

  King Pallan clapped his hands together and began rubbing them together enthusiastically. “Yes, today is as good a day as any. Bring me my quiver, Jaegar.”

  Jaegar smiled. “At once, My Lord.” He fetched the leather bag, full of arrows.

  King Pallan came to Garan. Placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, and looking him in the eyes, he said, “You shall have that arrow, Garan. Do you shoot, lad?”

  Garan hesitated. “Infrequently, sire. The sword is my weapon.”

  King Pallan perked up. “The sword is as fine a weapon as any. Indeed! I shall fetch my bow straightaway.” As he was stepping away, he stopped suddenly, and then swung around. “Suppose you shall need a bow; I shall lend you my other!” He then made for his tent to gather the two bows.

  Jaegar returned with the quiver. He gave a quick nod to Jardarah, who understood that the king’s target ought to be set up, with perhaps a few other items on a fallen tree branch as auxiliary arrow catchers. Jaegar put the quiver down.

  King Pallan reemerged from his tent with the two bows. “I have fetched the bows!”

  Jaegar and Jardarah responded quietly, “Right, sire.”

  Garan came to meet King Pallan, who handed him a smaller bow.

  “Here, take this, Garan. Use it to shoot.”

  “I shall.” Garan took the bow from King Pallan and began inspecting it.

  King Pallan put his right hand to his brow and made a quick survey of the targets. Jardarah was just finishing the placement of the main target, a canvas circle with red concentric rings, supported on three sanded wooden legs. “There! I see you have set up some pottery for us to take down. Jolly well, Jardarah. Jolly well. I shall break the pottery with the points of my arrows.”

  “Straightaway, sire,” Jardarah responded as he aligned the main target with King Pallan’s yards-distant tent.

  “Here, take the quiver, Jaegar—did you want to shoot as well? Forgive my impertinence.” King Pallan appeared genuinely ashamed at his (evident) rudeness in forgetting to offer his lead soldier the opportunity of shooting with him and Garan.

  “No, thank you, sire. It is sufficient for me to watch.” He returned a reassuring look to him.

  “Yes, of course. I forgot—you do not shoot. Now, Jardarah, he is a man fond of his arrows.” King Pallan made a cheeky grin at Jardarah as he pulled on the bowstring of his bow (he had an arrow in it already but did not release it).

  Jardarah laughed. “Right, sire.”

  King Pallan reduced the tension on his bow’s bowstring. He said out of the side of his mouth to Garan, “He couldn’t shoot a bow if his life depended on it.”

  Garan struggled from chuckling.

  King Pallan asked, “Are my targets ready, Jardarah?”

  “Quite so, My Lord. They await your arrows … and Garan’s.”

  “Good, then I should think I shall take the first shot …” King Pallan closed his left eye as he pulled, oh so deftly, the bowstring back in a continuous motion, releasing the arrow as the bowstring reached the apex of its tension. The arrow bolted across the short distance to the canvas target, hitting it almost in the centre of the bull’s-eye.

  Garan looked from King Pallan to the target; his eyes enlarged several degrees.

  King Pallan took another arrow from Jaegar, placed it in his bow, and after commenting, “A bit out of practice, it seems; no matter, I shall split the aforementioned arrow,” sent the arrow on its way to the standing target with equal or greater deftness. The second arrow hit with such utter precision (and power) that it quite readily split the first almost all the way down its shaft, reaching nearly the hardened area where the arrow’s metal tip was secured.

  Garan’s eyes opened in full amazement as his mouth split open.

  Jaegar and Jardarah looked at Garan, and then at their king with manifest pride.

  King Pallan, grinning, turned to Garan. “Your shot.”

  Garan glanced at him and then focused on the target as he raised his bow. Drawing back the bowstring, he released it moments later. The arrow sailed across the yard and struck the canvas target in the penultimate concentric ring, above the bull’s-eye. Garan dropped the bow a bit and looked displeased.

  “Not at all bad, for a nonshooter.” King Pallan winked at Garan as he took aim at the main target.

  Garan swung his head around to him with an expression of disbelief. “How did you know, My Lord?”

  With one eye closed tightly and a curl of his lip, moments before he was to release the bowstring, the Paladian monarch and expert marksman responded quietly, “By the way, you held the bow and drew it.” After he said this, he released the bow and sent an arrow with incredible speed at Garan’s; in a second or two there was a pronounced cracking and splitting sound. His shot had severed Garan’s arrow completely, causing the metal head to fly off and strike, eventually, the bark of an adjacent kasamor tree.

  Jaegar shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. He looked over at Garan to observe his reaction.

  Garan dropped his bow completely; it dangled in his hands about his waist. His expression changed from intense to blown away. He himself began to shake his head in disbelief and profound amazement. “You are a deadly shot, My Lord … I have never seen nor heard of anyone who could draw a bow and shoot an arrow with such precision and force. If someone had told me that such and such did this or that—I would not have believed them. But, seeing it with my own eyes, I can now say, in truth, I have encountered such a one.” He turned to Jaegar and Jardarah, who were smiling so widely that they were almost laughing. He asked, “Did you know?” He did not finish, for he saw that they knew of their king’s amazing ability. He grumbled, “A well kept secret, I should think …”

  King Pallan finished smiling and prompted Garan, “Why don’t you take another shot? A friendly game of shooting—no competition. Go on … I insist.”

  Garan glanced between him and the field of targets; he had an uneasy look. Taking in a slow breath, he raised his bow after taking another arrow from Jaegar, and with a steady aim, released the bowstring after a period of several seconds. His arrow darted toward the target but seemed very slow and a tad wobbly in comparison to King Pallan’s lightning-bolt-like arrows. The arrow struck the canvas with force but way off from the centre. Garan put his head down in evident frustration.

  King Pallan winked at him again, to spur him on. Taking aim at a small earthen jar off at the end of the fallen tree branch Jardarah had used as a base for auxiliary targets, within a moment, he released his bow and sent the arrow flying at the diminutive jar. In almost the blink of an eye subsequent to the loud ripping sound of the arrow cleaving the air, the jar exploded into pieces.

  Garan almost gasped. He turned his head by degrees to King Pallan, who had a blank expression, his bow pointing at the ground, with his fingers still pinching the bowstring. Garan muttered, “Incredible.”

  King Pallan instructed, “Jaegar, give me another arrow if you would. I think I should like to take out that target—there, in those trees.”

  “Yes, My Lord, straightaway.” Jaegar eagerly handed King Pallan another arrow, of similar calibre to the others so far shot.

  Jardarah and Garan scanned the trees, looking for the intended target.

  King Pallan, using his bow, pointed to a pinecone that had fallen from a higher branch onto a lower one and was, amazingly, resting upright at the end of a dry set of needles.

  Jardarah remarked, “Oh, right, My Lord. I see.”

  Garan squinted to see the target. Ki
ng Pallan pointed it out to him. Within moments, the Paladian archery maven took the shot, and the arrow, after only a few seconds, for the pinecone was some distance away, hit the conical seed-bearing fruit dead on. The cone fell to the ground with the arrow protruding through to its other side.

  Garan put his bow down and gazed silently for a little while at the felled pinecone as King Pallan took another arrow, leisurely, from the quiver Jaegar extended to him. He asked, “May I ask, My Lord, where you learned how to shoot …?”

  As he secured the arrow to his bow, King Pallan answered nonchalantly, “You may ask.”

  “And?” Garan remained staring at the cone on the ground.

  King Pallan paused before setting up his next shot. “When I was a boy, Garan, my father used to take me shooting. He was a good shot, to be sure. I learned everything I know from him.”

  “So, you have been shooting for a while?” Garan released his reflective gaze from the pinecone and placed it on King Pallan.

  King Pallan nodded. “Aye; all my life, nearly, Garan.” He then took the shot, which handily dispatched another clay vessel, sending it bursting into pieces. “It was one of my pastimes in the old country—just something I do, I suppose. I shoot.” He shrugged after saying this, veneered with a puzzled mien.

  Garan breathed in gradually and then exhaled likewise. “I see … still, though, your skills are remarkable. I say this in utter truth; you should know, I am not one to shower praise.”

  King Pallan looked at him with mounting intensity. “Nor am I; but thank you for your kind words.” He then lowered his bow in vexation. “Ah—this all reminds me of the old country—Paladia. About this time, I would be finishing up another session of shooting with Jaid and Barrow, my fellows. And another tranquil set of hours of gavan would be upon us … but those days are over, it seems.” Quickly, he aimed at the main canvas target and released the bowstring. The arrow he had sent forth struck with such power and precision that it simply impaled the entire target, pushing the original arrow embedded in the canvas along with it to the other side.

  Garan jumped a degree in startlement.