The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1)

by Kaeden, Tavish

  The warden's tapping stopped, and Bokrham was rewarded with a question.

  "Did he now?"

  "Yes," said Bokrham, pleased to hear a hint interest in the other's voice. "The King said Kazick had fallen into a stream while hunting, and did not make it to a fire before the chills set in. His fever was a terrible thing to behold. I've never seen one so virulent. It sent Kazick's body into convulsions nearly every day, each one leaving him weaker and weaker. I was called to keep watch over the boy and to make sure those who attended to Kazick were…discrete."

  "It is best to keep a prince's weaknesses, even those which are only natural, away from the public," agreed the warden. "We are all of us susceptible to illness, but royalty, particularly a man who will one day call himself King, must be seen as invulnerable. To exhibit weakness can damage the morale and confidence of his subjects, and undermine the governance of a kingdom."

  "Sounds like something Vichtor would have said himself," said Bokrham, slightly taken aback by the night warden's assertion. "Had the realm known how close Kazick came to death, it would have, as you say, caused a host of complications. There was talk of moving Kazick from the mainland, to take him somewhere more guarded and private. Vichtor wanted to send him to some medic he had heard of near the Isles of Three."

  "A sea voyage?" exclaimed the night warden, "It would have killed the boy."

  "Perhaps," allowed Bokrham. "Though I am convinced that Vichtor had only his son's best interests in mind. As you might imagine, Vichtor had huge demands on his time, so it was impossible for him to be continually at his son's side. Yet I swear that every spare moment the King had, he spent at the bedside of the ailing Kazick, even when for the good of the realm he should have been elsewhere. Day after day, he coached his son through the delirium of the fever, and personally saw to it that Kazick was given regular doses of spirits to dull the poor boy's pain."

  "Spirits, you say?" wondered the night warden, his voice distant.

  "To dull the pain," confirmed Bokrham. "And though I myself was beginning to lose hope, Rekon had always smiled upon the Mehlors. Kazick recovered without any lasting injury, and soon grew to be one of the most physically capable men in Esmoria."

  As Bokrham paused, lost in his own thoughts about Kazick, he was dismayed to find that the warden had nothing to say. Worse, he had the sense that the man was even more irritated than he had been, though Bokrham could not fathom why. After a long silence, the warden finally spoke.

  "Tell me," he said quietly. "Was Kazick an obedient son?"

  "The embodiment of obedience," began Bokrham, "and kind-hearted too. I was fond of the boy. Why if I had I son I…" Bokrham reconsidered. "If I had a son I wouldn't want him to be a prince," he finished.

  Once again the warden was silent, but to Bokrham's surprise, he could swear he heard the man's teeth slowly grinding together.

  "Is something wrong?" he asked. The warden did not respond however, and only continued to grind his teeth in the darkness.

  "If something is amiss, maybe I can help," volunteered Bokrham. "Maybe I can…"

  Bokrham's words were cut short by a loud metallic rattle, as the warden slammed his palm against the bars of Bokrham's cell and turned away.

  "Wait!" called Bokrham. "What have I said?"

  But the warden made no reply. Soon his form was lost amongst the shadows, and Bokrham was once again alone.

  After that, the night warden stopped making his regular visits to Bokrham's cell. Indeed, Bokrham neither heard nor saw any sign of the man at all. Silence was once again Bokrham's constant companion, for try as he might, he could not get a word out of any of the jailers who brought his food during the day. This return to isolation infuriated Bokrham almost more than his initial captivity, for at least then he had understood why someone would want him imprisoned. Now, however, he could not for the life of him think of what he could have said to so irk the warden.

  One morning, as Bokrham sat alone and puzzled in his cell, one of the jailers came bearing Bokrham's usual meal of soft mealy bread, and a bowl of greens boiled in broth.

  "I want to speak to the night warden," said Bokrham, as the man was sliding the tray through the cell bars. As usual, the man said nothing, and gave no indication he had heard Bokrham's request. Fear of losing his sustenance had long kept Bokrham from acting out, but in that moment Bokrham decided he could accept the man's silence no longer, and so made a lunge for the jailer's hands as they passed the threshold of his cell. The jailer jerked back, but not before Bokrham's fingers locked about one of the man's wrists. Though much weakened by his confinement, Bokrham managed to maintain his grip on the jailer as the other tried to shake him loose.

  "Where is the night warden?" demanded, Bokrham as he as forced the jailers arm against the bars of his cell at an awkward angle. "Tell me!"

  The jailer grunted in pain, but still made no reply.

  "Tell me!" yelled Bokrham, "or Rekon help me I'll break your arm!" Though he could already feel his muscles shaking from fatigue, he put all of his strength into forcing the man's arm against the bar. Blinking in pain the jailer opened his mouth and let out a strange, strangled yell. It was then that Bokrham saw that the man's tongue had been cut out.

  Chapter 40: Isic

  Though rare, there were days when the smith truly wished the universe was not as fascinating, nor so intricate. Isic often told himself that if the secrets of the world could have been learned in a single lifespan, he might have welcomed death much sooner. There would be no need for him to keep on living, no need for the painful rituals he was forced to use to bend the laws of nature.

  With a sigh, Isic eyed the vial on the table before him and the long needle, no thicker than a few hairs, next to it. The ice which had encased the vial had all but melted away, and its precious contents would soon be viscous enough for application. For the thousandth time Isic inwardly winced at the barbarity his life often necessitated. Only nine such vials remained, which meant that soon there would have to be another harvest—another death. His eldürcraft could turn air into light with the barest of gestures, or summon forth the cold-burning grüwnflame with a word. Such feats seemed a miracle to most, but for Isic, it was not enough—for the eldürcraft could not prolong life, and Isic Magmar had to keep on living.

  Placing the needle in the vial, Isic put it to his lips and sucked to draw the serum into the cavity within. He closed off the chamber with the tip of his finger, careful to make sure that not a drop of the liquid could spill onto the floor. Then, slowly, he pressed the needle to the back of his skull, searching for the tiny hole that he had made so many hundreds of years before. As the minuscule needle slid into his head, Isic tried to divorce his thoughts from the task at hand, to think of something pleasant as he guided the needle to the very core of his brain before releasing the liquid. It did not work, of course, for no matter how many times he performed the ritual, he could never concentrate on anything else.

  As he drew the needle out, a shiver of pain went through his body, and for a few moments it seemed like every fiber of his being gasped for air, paralyzing the smith as all his muscles clenched in confusion. Then it was over, and Isic fell to his knees, relief washing over him as his heart resumed its rhythm and air once again filled his lungs. Before he had completely recovered his senses, however, he heard the door to the small shelter open, and the sound of footsteps outside his room. Cursing inwardly, he staggered to his feet, and shut the case of vials which still lay open on the table while muttering the incantation to seal it properly. As he was replacing the case in the small chest of ice he kept by his bedroll, the door behind him opened and Tobin walked in.

  "Smith," began Tobin, "do you think me a fool?"

  Still disoriented, but accustomed to placating the tempestuous monarch, Isic breathed an unsteady, "No, my lord, of course not."

  Tobin shot Isic an annoyed glance. "What's wrong with you? Had a bit too much wine last night?"

  "No, my lord, you know I never partak
e…"

  "No matter," interrupted Tobin, cutting off the smith with a sharp wave of his hand. "Do you not recall me telling you that I wanted a force of gröljum to march upon the Blood Marsh capital in no less than one month's time?"

  "I do remember, my lord."

  "And do you recall me saying that I wanted to wreak as much havoc and destruction as we could muster? That I wanted the city brought to its knees—have every man, woman, and child all wetting themselves in fear of our disgusting little pets?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Then can you explain why," continued Tobin, his voice rising to a shout, "we are three days away from the start of the new month and this morning I learn that there are only eleven, a mere ELEVEN gröljum, 'ready' for the initiative?"

  Isic had known this would be coming. Tobin had been in particularly foul mood ever since they had lost contact with the lone gröljum sent out after the camp worker. The failure had made him all the more impatient to see "the usurpers of his birthright," as he called them, made to suffer as much as possible. Conversely, the missing gröljum had made the rest of the colony extremely anxious about the possibility of losing more of their number. The gröljum had been reluctant to answer any of the smith's questions as to how many creatures comprised the subterranean colony, and his inquiries into the birth process had been met with outright hostility. Based on those reactions, Isic was not surprised that gröljum were only willing to risk a small portion of their number to the Prince's hazardous cause.

  "Sire, it seems the gröljum are unaccustomed to the losses often necessitated by war. I am not sure it would be wise to press them on this point. Right now we need establish a relationship of trust. Remember the story I told you, of Lohidim, and how he used the gröljum as mere—"

  "Yes, yes, I remember," said Tobin, who still showed no interest in the history of the gröljum's former master.

  Isic could not help but continue, saying, "It did not end well for Lohidim."

  Tobin grimaced. "Enough, smith. I am tired of you making excuses for the stupid beasts. Fearsome creatures, my arse…to whine like old women when a single one of them is slain is ludicrous. I've no use for them if they can't help win my war—you tell them that. And remind them that I have the means necessary to subdue and eradicate every last one of them. I am at the end of my patience, and if they will not cooperate, then I see no reason why the ugly things should even exist. I will have them put down. Rekon knows humans will be the better for it."

  Although inwardly horrified by the idea, Isic kept his composure. He did not expect Tobin to understand how valuable a resource the gröljum were, and just how much could be learned through careful study of the creatures. But that was not all the prince underestimated. Tobin could not understand just how dangerous the gröljum really were, having had only a mere taste of the damage a single gröljum could cause. A demonstration would be needed, Isic realized. Something which might cure Tobin's misconception that eleven gröljum were insufficient to bring havoc to a city, and hopefully, help dispel the same sort of pride and ignorance that had cost Lohidim his life.

  "Sire, do we have a pressing need for the camp workers at this moment?" Isic asked.

  "What kind of question is that? What do they have to do with anything?" snapped Tobin.

  "If you will pardon my presumption, I think your mind would be eased by a…a little demonstration of how a gröljum might affect a crowd of people. Of course, the nature of this experiment requires that its subjects be expendable. We have forged enough azhaion for the time being, I think, and if you can always get more workers, then…"

  "Fine," said Tobin without hesitation, "you can do with the workers what you like. But this is your final chance, Isic. If you cannot convince the gröljum to contribute more of their number to our cause, and if you cannot convince me that their paltry numbers are sufficient for my current purpose, then I am shutting this operation down. The beasts will be bound and eradicated, and we go back to fighting wars the old fashioned way—with swords and men. You have until the end of the day.

  As Tobin stormed out the door, the smith could not suppress a tiny chuckle. Eradicate the gröljum? Even the whole of the mountain army stood no chance of such a feat, and Tobin was sorely mistaken if he thought Isic would let them even try. Still, Isic hoped his hand would not be forced in the matter. The Prince simply did not understand, or had forgotten, how impotent a man was when his mind was overcome with fear. Isic had an idea of how to change that.

  It proved easy to arrange. The camp workers were rounded up, their hands bound, their eyes blindfolded, and marched through the snows up past the treeline to a small field, which but for the path leading up to it, was surrounded by sheer walls of rock, extending hundreds of feet into the air. Isic and the Prince had positioned themselves atop one such wall, so they had a clear view of the field below.

  "This had better be impressive," muttered Tobin, his teeth chattering despite his many layers of warm clothing.

  "Do not think of it that way," said Isic. "Remember what I told you. We are here to observe, not so much the strength of the gröljum, but the weakness of man." So saying, Isic lifted his staff, and sent up a column of grüwnflame to signal the beginning of the demonstration.

  In the distance, a lone soldier appeared, leading behind it the shadowy figure of a gröljum on a long black chain.

  "Note that I have only brought a single gröljum, and that there are perhaps two hundred workers on the field. Remember also that the gröljum cannot see in such conditions. Their eyes are so sensitive to light that, even on an overcast day such as this, the sun would cause them extreme pain. We have fashioned blinders which encase the creature in darkness, but you shall see that even without sight, the creature can maneuver quite well."

  "They can't see at all?" groaned Tobin, as if Isic had just revealed another fatal flaw in his plan.

  "Not on the surface," explained Isic, "with one very important exception. When a gröljum has bonded to a human, it can use the human's eyes to see normally. When we do send the creatures into battle, each one will have been bonded with a human, so that they may take advantage of the senses of both species."

  "Wait, does that mean," began Tobin, and Isic could tell that whatever the Prince was thinking, it made him uncomfortable, "that they will need to be…attached to the humans?"

  "No," replied Isic. "I don't know how, but once the initial bond with the actual body is created, the connection can exist without further physical contact. Perhaps something is implanted when the—"

  "That's enough, smith," said Tobin, his shivers now having nothing to do with the cold.

  "As you wish, Sire," said Isic. "I believe we can now remove the chain. Are you ready?"

  "Do it," commanded Tobin.

  Isic sent another column of green fire into the air, and the soldier leading the gröljum loosed the chain that bound the creature and rushed away. The creature paused for a few moments as it sensed the air around it, and then continued to move up the path towards the gathered workers. In a few moments, Isic could see many of the workers begin to pace about nervously. As if it could sense their reactions, the gröljum quickened its pace, and soon the entire group of workers were moving about, in obvious agitation. Some began shouting out cries for help, and in no time an honest panic had settled in, and a chorus of shouts and screams rose into the air. Men and women began running about in circles, many crashing into the walls of rock or tripping over one another in their haste to flee the terror they could not see. The closer the gröljum came, the more desperate the worker's cries became, and Isic began to see men and women hurling themselves against the rock walls of the mountain in a senseless attempt to escape.

  When the gröljum came within feet of the field, it stopped.

  "Why is it stopping?" asked Tobin, perplexed.

  "It has been commanded to do so," said Isic. "It will only attack if a worker gets too close. The workers would be easy prey for its claws, true, but that is not what I intend
to show you. Years of living in virtual isolation have made the gröljum a merely passable physical predator. Yet, under such circumstances," Isic indicated the chaos below, "it does not need to effect a kill itself. If you look closely now, you can see that already there are many workers who are no longer moving. Dead, most likely, or at least no longer conscious. In ten minutes time, not a man will be left standing. Most of the humans will have killed themselves, or each other, in their desperate attempts to flee from the fear that consumes them. This is important, for not all people are equally susceptible to the gröljum's projection of fear, and in a crowded situation such as this, they are likely to perish from the irrational panic of their fellows. This is why the gröljum are so dangerous, for they usurp the will of others and can cause them to turn against themselves."

  "But we are unaffected," said Tobin. "I assume the range of the gröljum's influence is limited."

  "Yes," conceded Isic. "But in the walls of a crowded city such as the Marsh Capital, and with not one, but eleven gröljum, the effect would be…"

  "I suppose it will do," said Tobin, watching with renewed interest as one by one his countrymen ran howling into his own grave.

  Chapter 41: Xasho

  It was late evening when Xasho returned to the shed. Behind him rode a young woman draped in the white robes of a healer. Her name was Mehijxa and she was young, a novice, and to the best of Xasho's knowledge, mute. She was not the wizened matronly type Xasho had envisioned, yet when he had asked the village elders for a healer, she had been the one chosen. It had been an embarrassing ordeal, for the local villagers, so far from the culture of the River Cities, still spoke primarily in the old tongue and their command of Rekon's language was primitive. Xasho had barely understood a word of the elder's deliberations, so he had no idea why they had chosen to send this particular girl. Perhaps this girl was, in fact, a skilled healer, or perhaps she was being given a chance to prove herself to her village. It wasn't as if the elders had been glad to see her go, for they made Xasho promise he would return her safely to the village the next day. Then again, perhaps her selection had been meant as a slight to Xasho, an outsider even in the lands of his ancestors. Whatever their reasoning, Xasho told himself that it made little difference. All through his ride he had been puzzling over why he had agreed to help the two outlanders, inwardly cursing himself for giving his pledge of honor to the girl and wasting his own time. Now, however, he had kept his promise, and he would not allow himself to be delayed again.