by Greg Curtis
There had been a price for that victory though. At least a dozen of the enemy soldiers were down, while a score more were nursing injuries. But against that two dozen Abylonian guards had fallen and at least as many nobles and servants with them. Their bodies littered the chamber. Many more were bleeding from serious wounds. Blood was everywhere.
The musicians had stopped playing and were lying on the floor, hoping not to be noticed. In their place a new tune filling the air. It was the sound of people crying out in pain, of some gasping their last, and of women sobbing.
And if there were questions being asked other than why this had happened, they were mainly concerned with the who. Who had done this? Who would dare? And of course the darkest question of all – could this be the king's doing? He was known to suffer from madness. The servants whispered about it all the time. Had his insanity finally tipped over into something worse? Had he now reached the point where he actually tried to murder his own people?
Randell’s questions were soon answered when a man strode into the throne room with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He was big, and his heavy plate armour had been engraved with a pair of fighting bears inlaid in silver on his breastplate. The armour had also been magically warded. His face was covered in scars and a jet black beard that showed no signs of grey despite the fact that he was clearly no longer young. Some of the Court recognised him. Others recognised the symbol of the fighting bears on his shield and etched into his armour. Soon his name whispering across the sea of nobles.
Vel Moran. The barbarian Prince had arrived.
Randell knew his name too. He might only be a servant, but he knew of the barbarian Prince. And he knew as he hid behind the door peering nervously into the chamber, that his arrival was a very bad thing. The barbarian Prince killed people and ate their hearts. Randell desperately wanted to keep his beating in his chest.
“Gentlemen!” He called out a greeting, but the term was one of mockery from his lips. “I have come as asked. Where is my bride?”
His question was greeted with only silence and blank stares. No one knew what he was talking about. Or why he was even asking about such a thing after he'd just burst into the chamber and started killing people.
“No. Really. Where is she? She wouldn't have run away would she?” The sarcasm rolled thick off the barbarian's tongue. Then he clapped his hands and two men walked in carrying a heavy sack between them. A sack that they promptly upended to let half a dozen or more heads fall from and roll around the floor.
Seeing them on the marble floor caused another round of gasps. One or two of the guests could be heard vomiting. Randell also felt sick but managed to keep his breakfast down. The man truly was the prince of barbarians! Who else would carry people's heads with him? But he knew enough to remain silent. The prince had no love of servants, and Randell didn't want his head to also be rolling around on the floor unattached to his body.
“These men claimed that she had run away,” Vel Moran continued. “They said that Princess Elan had fled for parts unknown and a reward was offered for her location. But I knew they were lying. Because no princess would ever run away from her hand-fasting. That would be a disgrace to her, her family, her kingdom and her very blood. In fact, it would make me question if her family could be called noble at all!” He laughed as if what he was saying was somehow amusing. But no one laughed with him.
“So where is Princess Elan?”
Again silence greeted him, punctuated only by the sounds of men and women crying with pain and weeping over the dead. But the barbarian Prince didn't seem surprised. Randell was though. The barbarian Prince had come to be hand-fasted to Princess Elan? That made no sense.
“No? Then where is the King? King Harold the Good? Should he not be here to greet me? His new son and successor? At least that was what the papers that were sent to me claimed.”
There was a sudden collection of indrawn breaths. Learning of the betrothal was a shock, but for this person to become the new King? How could that be? But the one thing it wasn't greeted by was the voice of the King. That fact slowly dawned on the nobles present.
“No King then. The throne looks suspiciously empty.” “And the princes? Absent too?” He laughed some more, enjoying his speech. No one else laughed.
“But then that would fit well with the letter I was sent along with the proposal of hand-fasting. Because how could I be offered the succession to the throne if the princes were next in line?”
There was another gasp as the members of the Grand Court asked themselves exactly the same question. And in the backs of their minds was the fact that they had hardly seen anything of the princes in years. Could there be a reason? Or was the prince simply lying? Because it didn't seem likely that anyone would send him such a letter. Even the offer of hand-fasting seemed unlikely. In fact, though Randell didn't know the king at all – he was far too lowly to serve him – he couldn't imagine that any father would offer his daughter to this monster as a bride. Not if he had the slightest regard for her.
“You're right. What we need are answers. Where is Lord Sternfell Denbury?” The Prince raised his voice so that everyone in the chamber could hear him clearly.
There was a commotion at the western end of the chamber as people turned to see Lord Sternfell come forward. He looked scared. The Prince on the other hand let a huge smile grow on his face. A cruel smile.
“Ahh, finally we meet! The man who sent me all those communications on behalf of the King. So old man, where exactly is King Harold?”
Lord Sternfell did his best to stand there saying nothing and look defiant. As if he was a man in control of things. But he wasn't in control and everyone there knew it. Especially when the Prince drew one of his duelling pistols from his belt and pointed it at him. A pistol that Randell knew had already taken a number of lives. According to the stories, he added another notch to the barrel for every man he killed with it. It had a great many notches.
“I asked you a question old man. Where is the King?”
“I can't –”
The Lord's defiance was ended by the sound of a gunshot, and a few startled shrieks from the women in the chamber. Lord Sternfell collapsed to the floor, bleeding from a wound in his thigh. The Prince meanwhile calmly started reloading his pistol. Meanwhile Randell started calculating the distance to the hallway behind him which led past the kitchens to the servants' quarters. Perhaps if he was really fast?! He looked at the Prince again and the deadly looking pistol he was carrying. Best perhaps for now to remain in hiding.
“Again Old Man. I asked you a question and I expect an answer. Your letter on behalf of the King said you needed a new King. A strong King, as the threat of this wolf mother was growing once more. And that made me wonder. What has happened to your old King? Or to the princes? The ones who it is said are spending their days training?” Vel Moran finished cleaning the barrel and reached for a horn of black powder from which he poured a measure down the barrel.
“And the good news is that now I am here! You see a strong King before you. And yet you refuse to answer my questions?”
“You're not our King.” Lord Sternfell choked the words out as he lay there, awkwardly trying to prop himself up on an elbow. He was a proud man and he hated showing weakness.
“But it seems to me that I am. After all, the offer of hand-fasting was made and accepted, even if the Princess appears to have run away. The King from what my friends in the city keep whispering to me, may be dead. And the princes don't seem to be coming back from wherever they are. I'm the only man of royal blood here.”
It wasn't much of a claim. In fact, it wasn't any sort of claim at all. But he sounded confident. And he had a lot of armed men to back him up.
“And I have to say that my arrival has come only just in time. I entered the city with my honour guard and almost no one tried to stop us. No one really even asked us our business. Half the city appears to be in ruins, and there don't seem to be any soldiers on the street. What few th
ere are are poorly trained and don't seem to know anything about tactics or strategy. Nothing of discipline either.”
“Worse still, they aren't doing their duty. They aren't checking people arriving at the city gates. Anyone can just walk in! And even in the streets they didn’t think to check on us. They ignored anyone wearing what even looked like the clothing of commoners. And they'll carry messages from anyone wearing the right uniform without even thinking to check if he's really in command. I regret to inform you that after the messages were sent my men felt the need to explain discipline to them.”
Faces fell all around when he said that. He had disciplined them! Everyone understood what he meant. And they understood that that disciplining was still going on as every so often they heard another gunshot from elsewhere in the palace. What few soldiers the city had left were being killed off. This was a coup, Randell realised. And there simply weren't enough soldiers left in the city to stop the barbarian Prince.
“So I'll ask you again Old Man. Where is the King? Is he by chance dead?” Having finished reloading his pistol the Prince pointed it at Lord Sternfell's chest.
“Yes.” It took time for the answer to come, but eventually the word grudgingly forced its way past the fallen Lord's lips. There was a collective gasp from the entire chamber.
The King was dead! Randell was shocked. Even though it had been rumoured for some time, hearing the admission caught him and most of the Court by surprise. They had hoped to finally see the King. The Court had hoped to hear from him. To know that there was a future for Abylon. That Abysynth would be rebuilt. Randell had hoped the same. So had the other servants. And those who worked directly for the king had kept telling them that the king still lived. Now they realised that they had been deceived. The king was dead and everyone there instantly knew that Abylon was in trouble.
“And the Princes, are they dead too old man?”
There was another round of shocked gasps to greet the Prince's question. Because that was something no one had considered. Randell certainly hadn't. When the rumours about the king's death had started circulating he had thought that even if they were true there would soon be a coronation and a new king on the throne. He had thought he would simply have a lot more wine to serve. But then the Lord nodded and confirmed that they too were dead and Randell knew his days of serving drinks to the nobles had ended.
People cried out in disbelief and denial. It couldn't be. The King and his sons were all dead?! Suddenly the kingdom was left with nothing. No royal family. No one to lead them. No one to give them laws and commands. No one to command the armies. No one to direct the servants either.
But if the news almost laid half the Court low with disbelief and shock, there was one man there who wasn't upset at all. The barbarian Prince! Instead he let out a great belly laugh as if it was a cause for celebration. His soldiers joined in, also enjoying the moment. For them this was some sort of victory. For everyone else it was a disaster.
It took time for the laughter to die down. For the Prince to finish enjoying his triumph. And for him to tell them his intentions. But he didn't have to. Everyone there knew them anyway. Even a lowly servant like Randell knew them. He had come for the city and the realm. The barbarian Prince had always wanted his own kingdom, and by good luck or good timing he had gained one – Abylon.
“So, the entire royal family has gone. The Feldmights are no more. Abylon is left leaderless just as this wolf mother is preparing to strike once more. The only Feldmight remaining is a frightened little girl who has run away, but whose hand, fortunately for everyone, was offered for hand-fasting to me. That means the only man of royal blood remaining in the entire kingdom is me.”
He all but crowed the last as if it was some sort of legitimate claim to the throne. It wasn't. But the fact that he was standing there in the throne room with at least a hundred heavily armed soldiers was all the legitimacy he needed. The rest was just an excuse.
“Obviously I shall accept the throne as mine, and rule as regent until my bride is found and I can be crowned. In the meantime I shall see to the defences of the realm, and shall protect the people from this wolf mother. My men will hunt her down and kill her. Something that any good king should have done long ago.”
“You can't.” Lord Sternfell tried to object though the blood loss from his wound was leaving him weak. He could barely make himself heard.
“But I don't think as Regent that I'm going to need your advice old man.” The Prince smiled some more before he squeezed the trigger and made everyone flinch.
This time it was the Lord's chest that turned red after he collapsed all the way back to the floor. And once the smoke cleared everyone could see that the Lord was never going to say anything again.
As the blood slowly pooled around the fallen lord the people who witnessed it realised that this was a warning. The same fate would befall them if they defied the Prince. Then again he was a barbarian – he might well kill them anyway. Prince Vel Moran had little use for nobles. Not much use for servants either. Only for soldiers.
“Now Women; go home and attend to your wifely duties. Clean the houses and look after the children. The men shall remain here and tell me of how they may assist me in wiping this pestilent wolf mother from the city.”
What he meant of course was that he would be asking the nobles how many soldiers they could provide him with, or if not men then how much gold they could provide him with to buy more soldiers. Vel Moran was looking to build his armies and so begin establishing the legitimacy of his claim to the throne. Of course that actually meant conquering the rest of Abylon. This was the start of a war within the kingdom. Even a simple servant charged with pouring wine knew that. But as the women slowly began shuffling out of the throne room, Randell also knew that there was no choice in the matter.
The city had been captured. Easily. They had no king and no princes. No one to lead an army against the barbarian Prince. And members of the Court had now become his prisoners and could be dealt with as he pleased. And he would be pleased to strip them of their wealth and their soldiers. Maybe he even wanted their support – to a limited extent. But he didn't want their opinions or advice. He didn't want them to tell him how things were done in Abylon. If they so they would likely end up like Lord Sternfell. That was after all, the point of his execution.
So the Court members silently bade farewell to their wives and waited to be told how they could help the new king in his quest for power. None of them even thought of resisting. Certainly Randell didn't. He thought only about running.
But as the last of the women exited the palace as their new king had commanded, someone apparently thought about it. Randell knew it the moment he heard the howling of the dire wolves starting up across what remained of the city and his blood chilled once again.
As bad as things were, they had just become worse. The barbarian Prince had just declared his intentions. And so too had the wolf mother. Battle was soon to be joined. But Randell would not remain in the city to see it. It was time to leave Abysynth. Quickly.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The party finally emerged from the tree line a third of a league from the small town of Oster for which Briagh gave thanks. The road was good and he was becoming more familiar with riding, his thighs only aching a little after a long, painful week in the saddle. He'd also only fallen off a few times. But all of that couldn't compare with the joy of emerging out into bright sunshine. Spring it seemed had finally arrived in Abylon and while the air was cold, the sunshine could do a lot to raise his spirits. Riding through league after league of shaded forest road was hard on a body. Especially in the morning when the air was still heavy with the morning dew. He would have run in his wolf hound form but the Captain refused him that choice. He said it scared the horses. Briagh though thought that even if that were true it would have only been fair. After all, horses scared him in general. And the particular horse he had been given to ride hated him. He was certain of that.
But in this case even as he celebrated the warmth of the sun on his face, Briagh couldn't help but notice that something was wrong ahead. It was too quiet. It had been for some time. Riding through the forest he should have heard the sounds of birdsong and other woodland creatures going about their morning business. There should have been foxes yipping as the mating season came upon them. There should have been deer pushing through the undergrowth. But for leagues he had seen and heard nothing. It was almost as if the woodland creatures were in hiding.
Yet if the forest was quiet the fields beyond it were quieter still. There should have been sheep and cattle in the fields. Pigs and goats too. This was a rural land and people depended on their livestock. And yet the fields were empty. There weren't any animals nor any bodies. It was as if every single animal had been taken to market.
And where were the people? It was mid-morning. They too should have been out working in the fields. Shepherds should have been tending to their flocks. Farmers should have been weeding the crops. Foresters should have been out pruning the trees to make them grow tall and straight. But no one could be seen.