“To what end?”
“The Council must be dissolved,” said Rancor. “I see no other way. As long as they remain they will undermine my legitimacy.”
“Without a Council wouldn’t you be a king?” challenged Desperous. “What check would there be to your power?”
“In time new councilors would be appointed,” said Rancor.
“But they would be of your choosing. Who would ever stand against you? You could become a tyrant.”
The dim light in the room made the wry twist of Rancor’s face appear all the more severe. He looked to Desperous with grief-filled eyes. “Is that what you think of me, brother? Is there no trust that remains between us?”
“What of Lordess Farsidian? Did you kill her?”
“I have never killed someone for selfish gains,” said Rancor, with an emphatic wave of his hand. “What happened to Tulea was best for the state. She deposed our father without reason and I knew she would try to depose me. This land needed its leaders then as it does now. I was not going to allow her or the Council to exact their corrupt will.”
“Yet even in death she thwarted you, and now by the Council’s decree you are to abdicate the throne.”
“A decree they have neither the legal right to make nor the power to uphold.”
“The laws in this land were set by great men. I do not take lightly the idea of ignoring that which was designed with such thoughtful care.”
Rancor scowled dubiously. “If not me, who would be high lord? Would it be you, Desperous? Would you have this for yourself? It was offered to you once and you refused. But now that you are the great general, do you believe that the throne is yours to possess?”
When the conversation began, Desperous feared his brother hated him, but slowly it dawned on him; it was something else entirely. Envy. Rancor envied him. Don’t, Desperous wanted to scream. Don’t envy me, not ever. He hung his head in pity. “You are right, brother, I have refused the throne before, and I would not have it be mine under such circumstances. You have every right to accuse the Council of unjustly calling for your abdication, and until you do abdicate, the throne is yours, I will see to that. But you do not have the right to draw this land into a civil war. How many lives do you suppose your rule is worth; one, a hundred, a thousand? You must remember those who laid down their lives before this city, and what they died trying to defend. After the sacrifice of so many, if you can still justify taking another life for your own selfish wants and desires, then perhaps the Council was right to do as they did. But I don’t believe they were.”
On those words, Desperous parted. They would not speak again for many years.
CHAPTER
XXV
A LIGHT IN THE DARK
Mounted upon his horse, Desperous could see for leagues in all directions. He had come upon the seemingly endless fields of farmland that wreathed the city of Manherm. The city was a husk of its former self, scarred by fire and war. From his vantage he could spy the countless hollow shells that had once been homes. Looming over it all were the high ramparts of Stone Keep, its pale walls now stained black with soot. A few bloated dragoon corpses swayed lithely in the wind, strung from the battlements so the whole city could see that their tormentors had been vanquished. The clack of hammers drifted across the plains, and a constant flow of wagons laden with supplies were coursing in and out of the city. The people were rebuilding. The city was moving on.
It is too easy to cover the scars of war, thought Desperous. The land would soon forget that war had ever come here, and a generation hence, the people would talk of the Carrion War as if it were some grand adventure. In the collective memory of the masses, triumph and heroism would replace thralldom and slaughter, and once again young men eager to prove themselves would appeal for the honor of battle.
“I must remember what others forget,” said Desperous quietly to himself. He spurred his ride into motion.
Without much trouble he was able to find the small estate on the outskirts of the city. The main building had been burned to the ground, and singed wooden beams were all that remained. A modest servants’ quarters stood adjacent to the charred estate, and a few crofter shacks were scattered here and there in the field. The arable land, which should be sowed and prepped for the coming season, lay fallow. The whole place appeared deserted. He dismounted his horse and began his solemn task.
Desperous had departed from Luthuania on an overcast morning with a heavy heart. There was no pomp or parade for the prince. In fact, he made certain almost no one knew he was leaving. His horse was naked of any military trappings, and he had hidden himself in the drab gray cloak of a merchant. Before he left, Desperous met with General Bailrich. He granted Bailrich supreme command of the Luthuanian army and ordered the general to follow High Lord Rancor as he saw fit. He left Rancor a simple note: Do not forget the lessons of our father.
Desperous fastidiously walked the perimeter of the estate. He traveled in concentric circles, and with each revolution around the building’s blackened frame he widened his search. But after an hour of scouring the land he was prepared to give up. His keen eyes had failed to spy what he sought. In truth, it had been at best a hopeful idea from the start. But then he noticed a lone willow tree set upon a hill near the edge of the property. Its sinuous limbs were a cascade of white flowers, and even from afar Desperous could smell their fragrance. He was drawn to the hopeful sight, this image of rebirth. It was almost as if the Weaver was tugging him toward the tree. He found what he had come for at its base.
There were two mounds of earth nestled between the bulging roots of the tree, one smaller than the other. Bundles of fresh posies were laid upon each. Someone had done them the honor of a proper burial. Desperous fell to his knees and prayed to whatever god might still exist. As he stood, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a clay urn.
He realized he was not alone.
A young woman was standing at the base of the hill. Her skin was weathered from too many harsh seasons in the field. Her clothes were austere, made of coarse wool grayed from filth. She did not speak and stared at him warily. Her eyes were overshadowed with pain. Finally, Desperous broke the silence.
“Is this where the lady of the house lies?” asked Desperous.
The woman nodded sadly. “It is where Lady Maya rests, and her daughter.” She approached slowly, eyeing the urn in Desperous’s grasp. “When the dragoons came for them, Lady Maya sent all of the servants scattering into the night. But I would not leave my lady so desecrated. I waited until the foul villains left and pulled her and the young one from the fire. I buried them as properly as I might. But my means are what they are. I have stayed to watch over this hill ever since, waiting for the master of the house to return.”
“And he has,” said Desperous quietly. “We shall see to it that he and his family are properly remembered.”
Desperous buried Bently’s remains beside that of his wife and child. Over the following days he purchased the time of several masons from the city, and a proper tomb was erected over the site. While the tomb was being built, he told the servant of Bently’s life. As the time drew near for Desperous to depart, he spoke to her earnestly.
“You are the only person in all of Capernicus to know of Captain Bently’s honors,” explained Desperous. “It is your duty to remember him. Watch over this site and tend to it with care. A king rests here, and never should any harm come upon this place.”
“Bently was like a king,” said the woman solemnly. “You have done the work of the gods to bring them together. I will build a home beside this hill and watch over this place, and my children will know of the great lord and his wife and child. They will not be forgotten.”
Many years later, long after the woman had passed, Desperous returned to the hill and found a meager house had indeed been built at its base. He knocked at the door and was greeted by a young couple. They invited him in, thinking that he was a beggar. They fed him and shared tales of Bently Troushire, last
of the great lords of Caper. It was their duty, they explained, and one day that duty would be passed on to their own children.
As Desperous departed from the hill, he read over the inscription on the tomb.
Here lies Bently Troushire, lord of his realm.
And his beloved wife and child.
Last of his line, first amongst kings.
• • •
Desperous rode north through the desolate and windswept Soccoto Plains. He savored the isolation, reflecting on what had happened and things yet to come. To the east, the Eng Mountains shadowed his every step. The gray-blue fingers of stone marched northward, shoulder upon shoulder, until somewhere, far beyond the realm of civilized men, it broke upon the ruined lands of Eremor. One day he would venture that way, Desperous supposed. He had an eternity to explore the world, yet he doubted its vastness would fill the dire want of his wraith soul.
After many days of traveling, he finally came upon the road leading to the Nexus. A heavy dust hung over the land, and the stench of smoke and burning flesh pierced his nose.
War had come here first and last, and as he neared the citadel he began to come across the awful vestiges of battle. A dead horse, a bloodied tunic, and eventually a killing field lined with tattered corpses. Most were members of the Nexian Order. Some were adorned with wicked cuts, while others were so severely charred they were nearly unidentifiable. Dragon fire had left little save the brittle carbonized stumps of torsos and limbs. Here and there amongst the dead he could spy the tattooed face of a phirop. The battlemages had died like everyone else when the wrath of the Avofew was roused.
Over the course of his journey, Desperous had picked up tidbits about what had transpired at the Nexus. Many a nervous trader was eager to exchange news of the outside world, and more than one drunken bar patron was willing to prattle on for the price of a drink. Through these disparate tales he had managed to piece together a narrative.
Men all over Capernicus were making their claim to the Throne of Caper, and for every realm there seemed to be half a dozen men proclaiming themselves king. While the lords of Caper bickered amongst themselves, the lumani marched on the Nexus. Kylick would not rest while the city of the Guardians remained in the hands of the enemy. Word emerged that Dai Thatcher had not been killed in the final conflict with the Wyrm. He was being held captive by the Order. The dragon clans would not leave the son of Baelac to such an ignominious fate.
The dragons came upon the Nexus in the dead of night and threw the Order guards from the ramparts. The city gates were burst asunder and the lumani flowed in. Nothing could withstand their combined fury. For two days and nights they cleansed the city of the Order’s stain, and on the morning of the third day, the battle was won. The remnants of the Order fled the city only to find Dai Ferrivo’s brood waiting for them outside the city walls.
The rout was thorough, and the wreck of bodies were scattered about the plain. Scavengers scoured the corpses, searching for anything of value, but there were few spoils to be had from this war. Just death. The Yanish brothers tended to the bodies, collecting them into piles that grew like midden heaps about the field. There the dead waited, their faces frozen with rictus, until they could be cast into the great fires that burned like beacons before the white walls of the city. The phirops were left to rot where they lay; the Yanish brothers were too superstitious to touch the bodies of the slain battlemages lest they inherit the Shadow’s taint.
Desperous passed one such corpse that lay supine on the ground. The man’s petrified arms were held upward before his face, as if he had been killed mid-spell. Desperous swore he saw the eyes of the corpse shift askance as he rode past. An unnerving shiver rippled through Desperous’s body, and he found himself instinctively reaching for his Razorwind.
“The dead no longer walk,” he reminded himself. “That is, except for me.” Disquieted, he rode quickly through the killing field.
The gatehouse was manned by a pair of lumani. Draped in their red cloaks, they stood out like splotches of blood against the white stone walls. A few dozen more lazed atop the overreaching turret with their feet dangling from the ledge. They were clearly enjoying their respite from war. Desperous tucked the Jeta Stone within his shirt and approached the gatehouse warily.
He was uncertain how he might be received by the lumani. They had revered Yansarian as their god, and had done all things in his name. With Yansarian’s passing they had lost both their deity and their guiding compass. Desperous had not forgotten the dangerous zealotry exhibited by Kylick. Now she was unchained, free to use her army as she saw fit. Once an ally, the lumani might eventually prove a threat.
The sentries reached for their blades when they noticed Desperous drawing near, armed as he was and seated atop a horse. But almost immediately one of the men stepped forward and saluted sharply; a glint of recognition shone in his eyes.
“Prince Desperous, it is an honor,” exclaimed the sentry, bowing low. The other lumani, taking his cue, lowered his blade and saluted in turn.
Desperous greeted them each earnestly, relieved to find that he was still considered a friend amongst their ranks.
“What might we do for you?” began the lumani who had first addressed him. “The enemy has been driven from the city and Priestess Kylick and Dai Ferrivo now command. Perhaps you would like to meet with them?”
So the lumani have allied themselves with the dragons, thought Desperous, and thus the cycle continues. The lumani have found their new god. A relief, perhaps; dragons are easier to kill than Guardians and Wyrm. He decided to keep his opinion to himself, and gave the sentry a disarming smile. “I would be honored to meet with Priestess Kylick and Dai Ferrivo, but in truth I have ventured here for another reason. I need to speak with Thatcher. Can you take me to him?”
The lumani seemed less than thrilled to lead Desperous anywhere other than to his master, but he said nothing ill regarding Desperous’s request. A pair of sentries were ordered to escort Desperous to where Thatcher was resting.
As Desperous crossed beneath the white stone battlements, his eyes immediately shot skyward in search of the rock outcrop upon which Yasmire Tower once stood. The monolith of rock was all that remained. Carved stones the size of oxen had been hurled across the city, and wreckage lay everywhere from the tower’s tumultuous destruction.
The people of the Nexus were still in a state of shock. For the most part the byways were barren. Foreign traders had not yet returned to the city, and only a few grizzled locals dotted the streets, fidgeting nervously beside their carts as they tried to sell their meager wares to a seemingly empty city. The necessity to eat appeared to be the only reason anyone left their home. Most of the women and children Desperous saw were bone-thin and haggard. They hustled by with averted eyes when they saw Desperous’s escort of lumani, clutching their groceries as if they were the most valuable thing in the world. The few men they passed carried blades at their hips and wore bright yellow badges on their chests. They saluted the lumani sharply as they made their rounds.
The sun had reached its zenith. In the distance the undulating voice of a Yanish brother called the people to noon prayer. No one emerged from their boarded up homes to answer his summons. The people did not seem to trust their new occupiers, and those that were in the streets looked at the lumani with a mixture of suspicion and resentment. King Johan may have been a despot, and the Order were naught but Shadow-worshiping savages, but at least they were of the race of men. These lumani were dark children, and this was not lost on the people of the Nexus.
With each passing step the rock monolith loomed ever higher. “Why do you lead me to the ruins of the citadel?” Desperous asked the lumani. They said nothing in response and began their ascent. A rough staircase was hewed into the blasted rock, and they led Desperous upward, traversing many switchbacks as they went. They finally reached the summit; a bald crown of rock girded by half a dozen flying buttresses. The buttresses had been shorn in two by the explosion, creating the
impression they were standing amidst a circle of fangs.
A wave of vertigo overcame Desperous atop this lofty perch, and he had to hold his knees to gain his balance. The whole city spread out before him. From this height he could see that an entire precinct was gone. What had not been crushed by the toppling tower was razed by the ensuing fire. Ramshackle warrens had cropped up in the alleyways and courtyards of the surrounding neighborhoods to accommodate those displaced by the war. He had to look away from the pitiful sight. He could only hope the lumani were as good at building as they were at destroying.
“This way, Prince Desperous,” said one of the sentries. He guided Desperous to a spiral staircase that bore into the living stone.
Desperous grinned. So there are chambers buried in the rock core that have survived the blast. He wondered what secrets they held.
As they descended into the earth it felt oddly reminiscent of the stairwell at Coralan. But unlike at Coralan, where the stairs led to the River Deep, this set of stairs led to a whole host of apartments and chambers. They filed by the rooms, one after another. It slowly dawned on him that this was where King Johan’s great hoard of wealth was secured. Through the iron portcullises that barred entrance to every room he could spy silver coins and bars of gold, vats of quicksilver and stacks of reeking brimstone. There were piles of rubies and adamant that nearly reached the ceiling, and suits of gilded armor. In one room he spied hundreds of ivory tusks and dragon teeth; some were carved in intricate detail, effigies of long forgotten gods. In another room a dozen jewel-encrusted crowns were discarded atop a table as if they were of no worth, likely the heirlooms of some conquered land or long dead lord. Finally, the passage opened into a grand chamber. Its ribbed ceiling vaulted away into the shadows, giving the semblance that they were walking into the chest cavity of some mammoth beast. This room held a very different hoard.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 23