by Marin Landis
The effect of half a bottle of brandy meant that he was inclined to be well disposed to whomever was interrupting his faux mourning. Ordinarily he would ignore or rebuke an unexpected visitor. "One moment," he shouted as he stood gingerly.
He lurched over to the door, suppressing a giggle at his unsteadiness. "Right then," he said loudly as he yanked open the door, expecting maybe a maid or some other attractive woman, but it wasn't. "Oh, Arnkoer," he murmured.
"You sound disappointed, Marcus. Also drunk. Ironic really," sneered the head of the spy network Sunar kept.
"What are you doing here?" Marcus asked, slumping back into his chair sulkily. "I thought you'd be gone with the wind now that your meal ticket is gone."
"I wanted to deliver some news in person. You'll probably hear it by tomorrow anyway, but I couldn't miss the opportunity." The Spymaster had a smirk on his bearded face that Marcus found insufferable. Nobody liked Arnkoer but he had his uses.
"Don't tell me Sunar was broke," said the Prince's heir, suddenly panicking.
"Much worse, for you anyway."
Marcus stood. "Don't make me beat it out of you, you little wretch, what's the news."
"I'll let that pass. This time. Anyway, the news is that you're no longer in line for the throne. Unless Melvekior Martelle meets with an unexpected accident sometime soon."
In his booze addled state it took a few seconds for the young dandy to appreciate the import of Arnkoer's words. "What? Are you sure?" His voice started getting louder. "On whose authority anyway? I am the rightful heir."
"The Elder Council I believe, or at least King Alpre and the Church. There was talk of High Priest Hestallr himself being present."
"Prince Sunar himself decreed that I should be his heir. I have documents to prove it," shouted Marcus, almost hysterical now. He hated Martelle and had plans for him once he had assumed the mantle of Prince of Maresh-Kar.
"Sunar is dead, unless you hadn't noticed. His desires are no longer relevant. It is rumored that Martelle was the one who engineered his demise. I wouldn't be surprised if you were next on his list." Arnkoer turned on his heels and left, laughing all the while.
Marcus was stunned. What would he do? Move back to his family home? It was no hovel but it was no palace and then what? He wasn’t a military man like his father and had no business acumen. All he had was his animal intelligence and ruthlessness and contacts. Yes, that's it, he thought. I have enough supporters to make it difficult for Martelle and then I'll do a deal with him. He has no idea how to rule and I know Maresh-Kar inside and out.
More sober than he intended to be at this time of the night, he sat on his bed with the bottle of brandy. Time to plan, he thought. Within minutes he was snoring.
Once Melvekior had signaled his intention to take on the throne of Maresh-Kar, and been assured as to the continued health of Janesca, he was swept away by the King's butler and taken to an enormous room filled with robes and boots and cloaks and coats, floor to ceiling cupboards and boxes of undergarments and shoes and hosiery.
The man tried to undress the young knight but was swiftly chased off. "Bring me the clothing I am to wear and I will wear it." Melvekior said sternly. He wasn't prudish, but he wasn't about to change the habits of a lifetime. He needed nobody to dress him, let that be the purview of the more spoiled nobility.
The man brought him in some clothes that he almost declined to wear but decided that he would have to make some concessions to the role he was being asked to fulfill. As King Alpre and Hestallr had assured him, a quick replacement for Prince Sunar would mean less chance of unrest in Maresh-Kar. There were a lot of very rich people in the city state, the long run of beautiful and warm coastlines made sure of that, and they needed to be mollified for surely they will be nervous of a new ruler. Kept in their correct place lest they start looking at the crown with envious eyes. He could hardly stand before the richest men and women of the Three Kingdoms dressed like a farmer or a disheveled knight, the only two suits of clothing he wore. He donned his white silk and leather surcoat over a cotton undershirt, a pair of crimson leggings and some shiny leather boots. He refused to travel unarmed however but argued some with Ortense about the sword.
"You simply can't wear a sword with this clothing, Sire. It would look odd." She was standing her ground stiffly and Melvekior was a little intimidated by this extremely well dressed woman who seemed to have an opinion on every aspect of his appearance.
"What then would not look odd? A mace? An axe, perhaps? A tournament lance?"
"I know that you're mocking me, Sire, but I will not rise to it. A long knife would be suitable and I have just the one." She scurried off yet again and returned after a short time with a heavily ornamented sheath and a thin leather belt. "Arms out," she commanded and tied the belt around Melvekior's waist, attaching the sheath by some loops made for the purpose. "Now, adjust it to your satisfaction."
Melvekior did so and withdrew the blade. It was a beauty, two feet of fine steel. The lines were clean, it was free from nicks and scratches and had been polished to a bright sheen. He tested the point against his forearm and decided to forgo the test of the edge when it broke skin with nary an effort.
"Don't get blood on the tunic, Sire!" screeched Ortense. "That blade belonged to the late Prince Sunar's grandfather, also Sunar of course, but his successor was less interested in weaponry so he abandoned it here. Such a shame, but at least now you have a weapon in case you're attacked by some jealous husband, envious of your noble presence and lady-killing looks. Right, now we know this fits, it's time for your bath and do hurry, we must rush to make the appointed time." She explained no more but rushed away again, shouting something as she left and an old female servant directed him to a steam room wherein were baths and as objectionable as he normally found bathing, in this sort of environment, it was quite pleasurable.
He didn’t get a lot of time to relax with Ortense nearby, hidden behind a screen, urging him to make haste, so he washed and got out of the bath, dressed and followed the King’s secretary who was moving at double time.
They went through a couple of corridors into a room that he recognized; the mirror room. The Fassway, King Alpre had called it once. Standing there were half a dozen of the King’s guards, Hestallr, the King himself and another man he’d never seen before. The stranger was conversing with the High Priest animatedly.
They looked over and Hestallr smiled and beckoned.
“This is he, Povimus,” Hestallr said to the man next to him. The fellow was nearly bald but had a few long wispy hairs that floated around his head. There was an odd feeling near the mirror and he felt his hair rise too.
“An honour, brother,” Povimus greeted Melvekior. “I am the chief adherent here in Uth-Magnar. Hestallr here says you have some concerns about the undead, is that correct?”
“I have,” said Melvekior, suddenly very interested in this odd little man. “It’s a story long enough for a decent meal and an occasion other than this. Would you mind if we spoke shortly?”
“I am at your disposal. Would you also think on, while I have you here, re-introducing the Church back into Maresh-Kar city? Your predecessor had an objection to our presence, but many people cry out for us. For the people if not for the Church.”
“Yes of course, there’s no question of it. We will discuss that too, but please, Your Grace, consider it done.”
“My Lord,” a plaintive voice rang out clear and loud. It was the Mage who oversaw the mirror. “We should consider leaving forthwith, there is some disturbance at the Maresh-Kar side.”
“What sort of disturbance?” said King Alpre. All eyes were on the Mage.
"There is a," he paused, looking for the right word, "an uprising. There are armed men attempting to enter the Fassway chamber in Maresh-Kar city. Vatre is currently holding them off. He has barricaded the doors and is ready for reinforcements from this side."
"How did he know to do that?" demanded King Alpre, ever suspicious.
/> The Mage stared at him blankly for a few moments. "Lord Thacritus has spies in Maresh-Kar, Your Majesty."
"Well I never..." started Alpre, outraged.
"In fact," continued the Mage rapidly, "some of them work for you as well."
"Send us through immediately," Calra changed the subject. "Let us see how those insurgents fare against the combined might of the King of Uth and the High Priest of the Sun God." He waved Melvekior towards the gate who complied with a nod.
Melvekior stepped through, the now familiar lurch and disorientation of being somewhere different instantly only marginally impacting him. He moved forward as quickly as he could, leaving room for anyone else coming through. A crashing noise, accompanied by shouts greeted him. There were two others in the room, the Mage, Vatre he guessed, and an old man at a table scribing something.
"They're at the door!" shouted the Mage as guards streamed through the portal, swords at the ready.
Melvekior pulled out his new knife and it felt comforting in his hand. He didn't want to start his rule by stabbing one of his own subjects but he would defend himself if it was necessary.
He felt the platform holding the mirror groan under a large weight and he turned to see Hestallr duck through the magical portal followed by King Alpre and Povimus.
The giant High Priest didn't pause, he stepped down from the platform and walked straight to the door. It gave a terrific thud as something bashed into it from the other side. Vatre jumped in fright, as did the man writing. "Bloody hooligans," he cursed as he threw his stylus to the desk.
Hestallr was unperturbed. He yanked the door open, behind which was about a dozen men packed into the corridor wielding a large metal lamp post as a battering ram. Their shouts stopped and left behind them an auditory void. Two of them immediately bowed their heads and enough recognized the Living Mountain that they dropped the post, the metallic clang breaking the silence.
Various cries of "Lord," broke out with more taking the knee or making the Sign of the Hammer.
“Where is Marcus?” Hestallr asked nobody in particular.
“In the courtyard, Lord,” a young looking Mareshian soldier said. “He’s trying to convince everyone to revolt against the ruling of the Council.” He dropped to his knees. “I felt I had no choice, Lord.” He looked stricken, almost in tears.
“You were given bad advice. Protect these men here, all of you, I so charge.”
Again there was a chorus of “Aye, Lord” and “Mithras’s blessing be upon thee.” The men filed into the mirror room and stood warily, watching the door. Hestallr stormed down the hallway, Melvekior following closely behind. He seemed to know his way, presumably he had been a guest here more than once. Three times they ran across guards, loyal to whom they didn’t know and each time they were calmly, yet assertively influenced by Hestallr. Melvekior almost wished someone would defy him. It wouldn’t be pretty.
They passed into a large hall, not as grand as King Alpre’s but still lavishly decorated. There was an odd odor in here, and the floors weren’t clean. Sunar hadn’t insisted on cleanliness evidently. Melvekior found himself judging harshly, seeing as this was to be his. He almost allowed himself to be distracted from their immediate task, finding Marcus. There would be plenty of time for secret gloating and planning when the Principality was secure. He wasn’t worried overly and had been thinking about his first actions as ruler since he’d accepted the offer. Hestallr’s influence and returning religious freedom to the people should win most over. The rich and spoiled he would promise free trade, a good relationship with Uth-Magnar and Amaranth, low taxes as he had no desire to build a personal fortune at this stage and he wouldn’t see anyone become wealthy on the back of taxes. While peasants, merchants and nobles alike needed to pay for the protection of the crown, it would be entirely inappropriate to pay for someone else to live a life of indolence. His first move should be to send for Aeldryn, but it seemed presumptuous.
There were more guards at the door outside to the wide steps down to the courtyard. These guardsmen must have been closer to Marcus as they didn’t immediately prostate themselves to Hestallr but made some pretense of holding him up. There were only four of them and the first one approached, waving his sword feebly, only to receive a resounding slap to the side of the head which knocked him down and out. The other three just stood and stared while Hestallr and Melvekior swept out to find Marcus at the landing halfway to the bottom of the stairs. He was making some sort of speech and did not notice their approach. His audience were more observant and all eyes rested on Hestallr as he descended the grand stone staircase.
Marcus, thinking his oratory skills were more mesmerizing than they were, started to speak louder, imploring the rich and poor alike to rise up against the evils of imperialism and unelected monarchs. There was no way the rich would react positively to that and the poor hated Marcus no matter his fine words. Hestallr and Melvekior reached the landing, the shadow the giant man cast causing Marcus to look behind him fearfully. He leapt back and pointed dramatically at the High Priest, his face twisted in anger.
“There! There, my friends, the King sends his bully boys. Rise up and we shall face them together.”
There were a few shouts from below, but nothing like the surge of support that Marcus had been expecting.
“The trouble,” said Hestallr, loud enough for only Melvekior and Marcus to hear, “with being pampered and spoiled is that you don’t understand how difficult anything is.”
“Well, to Hells with you,” shouted Marcus, flicked his wrist forward and simultaneously threw himself down the stairs. The poorly thrown knife bounced from Hestallr’s leather tunic and tumbled down a couple of steps. The blade was covered with some sort of substance and Melvekior quickly scooped it up. Marcus was not so lucky. Head over heels he went, landing awkwardly, his right leg at an odd angle and blood started to seep from a head wound.
The fall of Marcus provoked a stronger response with several screams and loud gasps from onlookers and guards alike. Hestallr walked slowly down the stairs towards his prone figure. He looked down at the body of Marcus and raised his head. “Marcus yet lives, but he will face justice for his actions.” Hestallr stooped and picked up Marcus as though he were a child and walked back up towards the main hall of the palace. The crowd started to follow him and before Melvekior could shout at them to go back to their homes they were swarming past him. Either they didn’t know who he was or they didn’t care. Hardly an auspicious start to his reign.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Pardons and Rats
“Truth is a fine weapon. It disarms people with its simplicity.” - Hestallr
He hadn’t spoken to anyone for over seven years. The old man, who wasn’t as old as he looked, walked in an endless circle around the room that he jokingly referred to as his “little kingdom”. That is to say, that’s what he called it when he thought about his living area.
One man, he assumed it was a man, would bring his food, once per day, and slip it through the slot at the bottom of the cell door. Within the first two weeks of his incarceration he had learned not to bother to speak with the person who brought his food. The first time he did so, he went without food the next day. The second time he was woken by the kind attention of two men with clubs. He never spoke aloud again. Even to himself.
His little kingdom was exactly that. Little. There was no light, so he couldn’t really even think accurately how it might appear. It was big enough to walk around, pulling the stone behind him, in a little over half a minute. He’d walked the perimeter countless thousands of times over the years, wearing a wide groove in the floor and one in the wall. The stone itself was a disk of stone about four feet in diameter connected to a thick chain roughly three feet long in turn connected to a metal belt around his waist.
Caravice Wintom. Now that was a name he hadn't thought of recently. His name. One that nobody had said in the past seven years.
Once it was a name that people spoke with res
pect. He had money, power and the most beautiful women on his arm. His father had won the Royal Shipping Contract for two years running when Caravice was a boy, taking them from being a minor merchant family to a wildly successful merchant family. Transporting Volcanium was a task entrusted to only one merchant family or organization at a time and it offered reward that could only be termed as ridiculously excessive.
This at once, transformed his life entirely. He could afford the best tutors, the best friends and the best prospects. Even after those two heady years, with shrewd management, his father and then he himself, had managed to maintain a very profitable business.
They moved to Maresh-Kar, the playground of those with wealth. Sunar made it very easy for the very rich to live there. While the taxes were a little higher than Uth or anywhere in the Malannite Empire, money could buy everything.
Except one thing.
Her name was Deena and she was one of Prince Sunar's women. She wasn't the most beautiful women in his harem, nor was she among his very favorites, but she was his.
It was love at first sight. Caravice couldn't see why Sunar couldn't let one of his women go if she truly loved another so he wasn't as careful as he should have been.
The Prince's lickspittle, Marcus, had seen them kissing and that was the end of that. He was taken from his own bed to an underground room, beaten and tortured, his teeth pulled out and he was emasculated in the most extreme sense. He was then forced to watch while Deena was horrifically tortured to death. Even after seven years of mind destroying, blind nothingness, he could still recall every second of it. Her ruined face screaming in anguish while her insides were pulled out of her and burned. Sunar's gloating face as he watched and directed from the sidelines, the last thing he remembered clearly.