by T. G. Neal
“How could it?!” Yelled a woman. “You pay nothing! You only earn wage!”
“Tsk tsk, my poor woman. You think I do not hurt for your hurt. You think I do not suffer for your suffering?” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes firmly with his palms. “I have already contacted King Tivanis on this matter.”
“Yeah?!” Spoke the first man. “What did his highness have to say?”
“That is why I chose to speak with you all now. They did not bother to send a retort. They did not send a Jackdaw, not a letter, not a squire with a scroll.” He gestured his hands out to the crowd in his main hall. “How could they ignore this much unrest?!” Jorvig stepped down the steps so that he was closer to the crowds. “They do not trust us.” He said quietly at first. “They do not trust us!” He shouted. “They know of our formation of an army but care not that it is to protect our own borders! They care not that we lost my father and mother to hired men who would have never gotten so far if we had only had ample protection!” He flung his arm behind him. “Even our Captain of the guard, Denevim was nearly murdered during a trip to Greyvale, which has also fallen under our protection.”
Murmurs erupted through the crowds. Some were still dissenting, and in support of the crown, but for the most part they were in a furious uproar of the King’s forces setting up on the borders of their brendoms and taxing them unnecessarily.
“Shh, shh!” Jorvig said, motioning his hands in a fashion to lower the voices in the crowd. “I hide nothing from you, my people. Yes, we are building an army, here, in Stormvale and in Greyvale. I and Brenness Miliria oversee all three of our Brendoms directly. But we only build an army out of a need for protection.” Jorvig suddenly was quietened when Tanys approached him. He lay a small scroll in Jorvig’s hands. “I see…” he trailed and looked up to the crowd. “This letter is from the crown.”
The crowd murmured again, but this time in hushed voices. One brazen man in the back spoke loudly “What is it?”
“From the crown, the prince was assassinated. They claim it happened on the docks in our lands, in Greyvale. They say he was assassinated with a team of Templars.” Jorvig frowned.
“Templars?” One man asked.
Another gasped, while a third man in the back shouted, “What were they doing with Templars?”
Another citizen said rather quietly. “They were planning on killing Jorvig.”
“Now, listen. There’s no evidence this really happened, or that was their intentions. Before we go marching on the crown, let us investigate.” Jorvig shook his head.
Miliria sat still on the throne. She stirred her finger in the palm of her hand over and over, leaving red circles as she swirled. If her magic could be seen by any eyes but her own, the room would be slowly but surely filling up with a black cloud, rising through and above the heads of the people there. She spun an intricate spell encompassing all in the room, drawing their mind toward madness, pressing them to make rash decisions.
Jorvig lifted his hands. “Now, now. There have been no murders on the docks in Greyvale. No one has killed the prince that we know of. And I surely do not believe that the crown intended to kill me.” He turned away from the crowd and walked back up so that all could see him. “I will do what I can to convince the crown to stop taxation of the borders. Drachenara is a brendom that trades most of her goods out to other nations, we are blessed in that prosperity.” He motioned for Tanys to draft a letter, and then turned back to his people. “If I could just urge you to patience for now; we will reimburse that which you have lost to taxation. Bring forward your claims and we will pay them for you. For now, please. Now return to your homes and come back tomorrow.”
Cheers roiled forward from the crowd. “Drache! Drache! Drache!”
One man stood up tall. “King Drache!”
A sly grin wrapped up from the corners of Miliria’s cherry-red lips. Her plan was working just as her Lord said it would.
The Left rapped on the door to the The Right’s personal chambers. Without waiting for permission, he pushed the door open. “We have neither the money, nor the quota met to cover all the stations thoroughly.”
The Right turned to meet the gaze of The Left and arched and eyebrow. “Hm?” Below his visage sat an unrolled piece of parchment with a long list of writing on it. In the corner of the room sat Commandant Broadsblade, who read a missive sitting in front of him.
The Left nodded to Broadsblade, who returned his courteous gesture, then looked back at The Right, “In case you haven’t seen the treasury call, which is likely sitting atop your desk, we haven’t the coin to afford a formal recruitment drive. Meaning, we can’t pay the recruitment bonuses to all these new men that we’re stationing at these borders. We need an…” he trailed, and accentuated the last word, looking at Broadsblade who now sat forward with his elbows on his knees, “alternative.”
Broadsblade sat the missive beside him and stood to his feet, walking to a nearby body-length window which was cast open. Behind him The Right shook his head, “Can we not authorize the reserves?”
The Left shook his head in response, “No, if this with Drachenara turns into actual war instead of these acts of treason, we will need coin to wage war. Paying sellswords, clearing forests for siege weapons, building fortifications—these are all things that cost money.”
The Right leaned back against the tall-backed mahogany chair that he sat in. He folded his hands together and thought deeply.
The Commandant who stood at the window continued to look outside pursed his lips a second longer, then without turning around gave his input: “Conscription.”
The Right pushed himself back in the chair hard enough to make the feet of the chair cry out as they rubbed against the stone floor. “No.”
The Commandant turned to face The Right, and then leaned against the windowsill he was previously gazing out of. “It only makes sense. We are on the verge of a war, this much is clear. These people have assassinated the prince. They are building an army. It is only a matter of time before the difficulties we face in this becomes an issue plaguing the whole Kingdom of Nine.”
The Right clenched his teeth together and turned back to look down at the papers on his desk. He sighed. He looked up at The Left and ran a hand across his face before sitting back against the back of the chair again. “I haven’t seen all of the numbers from the distant border stations. Just how serious are the numbers?”
The Left responded, fully prepared, “Most border crossings are attended by two guards who live at the post and rotate their shift without time off. Any mob of unhappy taxpayers could overthrow them in a moment and move right on through. Then we also risk the displeasure of families of murdered soldiers. Worse than that, recruitment isn’t drawing anywhere near the number of recruits as we had hoped for, especially in Drachenara, Greyvale and Stormvale. We almost have no other choice.”
The Right tapped an ink-drained fountain pen on his desk, leaving only the faintest memory of an ink dot on the stack of papers he used for notes. He thought long and hard while the Commandant and The Left waited on bated breath. “Okay. We will take the measure to King Tivanis for the final say.”
The three men went together to the King, who sat alone in his chambers silent, brooding. Their questions yielded a nod of approval from the King, who then waved them away. In his younger years, before he became King, when small wars were fought between the Brendoms, and a civil war encompassed the globe, he had been a brilliant warrior. Almost none matched him with a blade. Then after he became King he had children. Three boys. His first son died young, from the fever. His second son died during a bandit raid. The third most recently met his fate, and though the young man had been hotheaded and aggressive, he was still Tivanis’ son, and he still loved him. Now, though he was taken away forever, and there were none to rule the Brendom.
As The Right, The Left and the Commandant went about executing their newest order. The King rose to his feet and pondered his actions. Would he meet a new
army on the battlefield, or would he yield to their oppressions? Had he been the best King he could have been? Or had he failed his people. Was this why they came to usurp him? Was this why they built their own armies? Was this why they killed his son? With that thought he began to cry—sob, even. He slammed his open hand against the wall beside his fireplace and yelled as loud as he could. No, he would not let them have his Brendom. He would fight them for it.
The Left and The Right sought out Jackdaw for messengers and sent messages all over the Brendom. From one end to the other, the Sergeants and Officers stationed here and there were told to immediately begin conscription. Boys from age fifteen up could have a place in the King’s Grand Army. It would take time for the messages to reach their intended recipients, but when they arrived the rush to fulfill the King’s task took precedence. The garrison stationed at the northern barrier was emptied, and men left to conscript forces by official decree, directly from the King himself, overruling any Bren or Brenness that dare stand against it.
In the first day, the men without families and the boys just old enough to be on their own were conscripted. From the blacksmiths shops to the bakeries, young men were taken away and armed and armored. Then they would go to the houses of the younger men, where the soldiers could hold back the resistant mothers and fathers and take the children away.
If the taxes hadn’t been enough to tip the delicate balance of peace, in just a matter of days, balance was truly destroyed as the King’s armies grew.
The remainder of the trip through the desert lands of Mreindale was hot and difficult, to say the least. Everything about the place was arid. Gusts blew drafts of sand across the path, only to have the next clear the path.
The desert was almost a natural feign to the beautiful land that sat on the far southern side of the tropical lands that Mreindale had to offer. By the third day in Mreindale, the band reached the peak of a hill that allowed them to see all the way to the capital. From where they stood, they could see until a thick haze of humid air clouded their sight-lines. They could see the Old King’s Valley, grown over with deep green vegetation, shading the actual stone valley within. Past it, and over the tops of the trees, the sprawling city of Mreindale could be seen stretching until the haze obscured it from sight.
At the base of the hill they stood on was the Old King’s Valley, which is where they moved to, now early in the afternoon. The summer days had long nights, and the nights were warm in Mreindale. As they transitioned to the thick vegetation, the clear path stood out apart from the jungle, as did the massive statues of former kings from years past.
Aurelia craned her head up to look at the statues. Vaelen did the same. As they gawked, the others rode slightly ahead.
Mikael looked back at them and then began to name them. “The first statues are of Is—“
“Isiluren Kaelinstar. Elven Prince of the Burning Sun.” Aurelia finished. “I know my history,” she smiled. “The next one,” she gestured ahead of them, “is Masuritsa Tonoin, Queen of the Serpent Dragons, from across the great sea. The only foreign ruler of the Nine Brendoms. She never returned home to rule in her own land, but instead called this land home.”
Vaelen looked at each statue, and to Aurelia. Then back at the statues. Someone took the time to clear the vegetation from each statue. Each one’s intricate details were more and more worn away based on their age. The first had lost a great deal of its detail. The second was somewhat less, and so on and so forth. By the end, the most recent, the King before Tivanis, was in vivid detail and lacked even the growth of lichen on its bases.
Amidst the various statues, and at their feet, were memorial places where travelers and visitor could light candles in memory of the kings. Even now some still burned, some of which were pillar candles standing several feet off the ground. Which each minor gust of wind, the flames waved at the band as if they greeted them in their adventure. The sounds of a tumult of new creatures could be heard in the thick leaves of the tall trees. Varieties of birds, small woodland creatures and monkeys ran across the ground and from tree to tree.
These new creatures enthralled Aurelia and Vaelen both, having never been this far south. Seeing things that they had only previously seen in books was almost magical. The creatures’ calls into the jungle would stir the heart of any distant traveler. Excited, though they were, they rode forward, finally coming to an end of the King’s Vale. Ahead of them now was a vast open field surrounding a stone wall that stood twenty-feet tall or better and cast a shadow back across the grass. In the open field surrounding the safety and security of the wall were many shacks, each one bearing a different item for sale. One of the first few in view were food merchants, and a trinket barterer and a book seller.
The city itself was the largest in all the Brendom. Mreindale was massive. In fact, it was large enough that it took a day, often, to find your way around, or to go from one side to the next. Vaelen rode behind the group of men, and Aurelia rode directly at his side. As they approached the main gates, Rolyat rode slightly ahead of them and halted his horse. “I’m going to the Paladaeis. If you wish to go ahead and confer with the Protopriest, I urge you to continue. If you’d care to wait, I will return shortly. Consider a meal, perhaps?”
Mikael looked to Keneya, who was chewing on a leaf as Rolyat spoke. He quietly shrugged, and shot a glance at Vaelen and Aurelia, both of which nodded slowly in response. Mikael spoke, though, “I could certainly enjoy a hot meal before we go unveiling information that could unravel the Holiness as we know it.”
While Rolyat rode off to meet with the Paladaeis, specifically the Lightbearer – chief of his order – Mikael and the others rode to the first tavern inside the city walls. The spot they rode up on was called “The Suckling Pig”, and immediately upon entry to the large building, several suckling pigs could be seen spit-roasting a large fire just inside. The group looked to one another, almost an unspoken discussion about how delicious the food smelled. Mikael walked up front and raised a hand, “Four, please.”
Led to a four-chair table at the far side of the tavern, the group placed their order for food and ale, and sat back and talked.
“So, what is the Protopriest like?” Asked Vaelen. “I’ve worshipped – unreligiously – the Maker my whole life, yet I’ve never seen the Protopriest. I actually thought that it was something outdated.”
Mikael shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “The Protopriest is the direct line to the Maker, here on this plane. Or so we thought. If the Archpriest’s writings on the matter are true, who knows who he’s been listening to, or if he has been listening to anyone at all…” he trailed off. “I speak sacrilege.”
Keneya leaned forward on the table. “No. You speak truth. We know that a higher being exists, to not believe so would be arrogant, but what do they owe us? What makes any of us at this table worth being listened to by a god?”
Aurelia stayed quiet. She nursed her ale very slowly and listened to the conversation as it took place.
“Hm. What does he do, exactly?” Vaelen asked now.
Mikael pursed his lips a moment before answering. “He makes the decisions of how we worship and communicate with the Maker. What prayers to recite, and who is forgiven of transgression. Specifically, I don’t think anyone has seen him in many years. He is quite old, and his successor has yet to be chosen. That is an act only done when he is passed on.” Mikael stopped speaking as the barmaid placed their food down in front of them. “I’ve never seen him.”
Keneya looked over at him. “How do you know we’ll even be allowed to see him?” He asked incredulously, then took a bite from a roasted ham leg.
Vaelen looked to Keneya and patted a hanging messenger bag at his side. “We have a book that could unravel everything he stands for.”
Now Aurelia spoke, quietly. “Everything we’ve all ever known.”
Keneya sat down his leg. “But does it truly change anything? There being multiple gods and goddesses. Banishment. War among the go
ds. Does it change anything?”
Aurelia spoke again. “Of course. We were taught that the evil had been vanquished and left in ruin, banished forever. And now we look at the possibility of him returning… or having already returned. It isn’t that there are more gods and goddesses, it’s that our gods have left us in the shadow of pure evil.”
Her speech was chilling. It raised goosebumps on all of their skin, even Keneya. After that, they were quiet. They silently ate their meal, and made their way back out into the city, where they mounted their horses and rode toward the Mreindale Cathedral. Even not knowing what to expect, Vaelen and Aurelia knew it when they saw it. Clashing against the gray stone of rest of the city, stood a stark white granite Cathedral with intricate silver and gold inlay. The building’s main spire stretched hundreds of feet into the sky, and a single white Elven-gold bell hung at the top, unmarred, undamaged, and perfect in every way. It reflected light like a prism and cast it across the ground in a hundred little rainbow beams. The building itself stretched back several blocks, and multiple Exemplar Paladins stood guard outside the front door.
The sight alone was awe inspiring, but it was also so opulent that it seemed to stand directly opposed to its intent.
Mikael stepped forward and raised his hand to the two Paladins that stood guard. “I am Mikael Uruk, former Exemplar Monk, and my party and I are requesting audience with the Protopriest.”
The two Paladins never lifted their helmets from their faces, and with deep, emotionless words asked, “By what invocation do you request The Grace’s audience?”
Mikael never missed a beat, “I invoke necessity. Unveiling mysteries of the Maker. Old Script that should belong to the Minster.”
One of the Paladins raised his pike and slammed the pommel of it down against the ground. The loud clank stopped other passersby in their tracks for a moment. Seconds later a white-robed priest stepped out of the building “What is it?” Asked the priest, staring at the group.