King's Folly

by Jill Williamson

  Wilek had earned that ring. It should have been his. None of this should be happening. He glared at his father, who sat in his rollchair beside the Pontiff, just outside the stone barrier. The man looked more bloated than ever. Thick coils of herbs hung heavy around his neck. They would do nothing against Rogedoth’s magic.

  Wilek turned his glare on the Pontiff next—Prince Mergest, the banished. What had become of Rayim and Teaka and their search for evenroot? Had they found it? Or had they already started back to Everton to help Trevn flee the coming Woes?

  “Tonight we sacrifice two worthy men to Barthos,” Father yelled, drawing Wilek’s attention. “The value of a sacrifice is gauged by how much value it has to the offerer. As my eldest living son, Sâr Wilek’s value to me is beyond measure. He is the most I can give to Barthos. And Barthos will honor my sacrifice.”

  No, he won’t. They’d both die, and Rogedoth and Janek would rule until the Five Woes sucked them into the ground, straight to the Lowerworld.

  “Are there any others who would give their lives to the god of the soil?” Father asked. “His anger against us burns. He continues to shake the earth, so we must honor him, that he might let us live. Good men of Armania, who among you who would sacrifice to save our worthy realm?”

  Father gave this talk every so often, especially when ruled by fear. No one had ever taken him up on it—not since the day Chadek had died.

  The men on horseback shifted uncomfortably as they waited for the king to move on.

  “If there are none,” Father said after another moment, “we shall begin the—”

  “I will sacrifice!” a man yelled. “I will go into The Gray.”

  What was this? The crowd murmured and parted, revealing Oli Agoros, Duke of Canden, dismounting his horse. He approached the king, his expression somber, and dropped to his knees before the rollchair.

  “Mighty rosâr, may you live a thousand years,” Oli said, his voice choked. “I give my life for this noble cause.”

  Why would the duke do such a thing? Was this some trick of Janek’s?

  “No!” a voice yelled from the crowd.

  “I’m the prized heir of my family,” Oli said, louder. “My life should delight Barthos.”

  “Don’t be daft!” Oli’s father, Zeteo Agoros, ran out of the crowd. He gripped the neck of Oli’s tunic and dragged him back from the king. “Get on your horse, fool!”

  Oli fell to his rear. He pulled free of his father’s hold and knelt again before the king.

  Janek dismounted and came to stand beside the king’s rollchair. “We have enough offerings tonight, Oli. Obey your father.”

  “I have given my life to the rosâr, may he reign forever,” Oli said, glaring at Janek. “The decision is his.”

  “The offer has been made,” Father said. “To rescind is to insult Barthos.”

  “No!” Janek glared at Father. “This is my servant. He belongs to me.”

  “Don’t you kill my boy, Echad!” Zeteo yelled.

  The king raised his hands above his head, making his tunic stretch taught against his bulbous stomach. “My word is law! Any who disagree may feed Barthos as well.” He lowered his arms. “Zeteo? Janek? Will you die for Armania?”

  The silence was absolute. Everyone stared at the four men. Finally Zeteo spat on the ground by Oli and charged back into the crowd. Janek slunk back to his horse and mounted.

  This was madness!

  The guards stripped Oli of his belt and sword and checked his boots for knives. Pontiff Rogedoth stepped over the rock barrier and approached the pole. He knelt before it alone and muttered a prayer, while two guards pulled Father’s rollchair up the steps of the shrine. Rogedoth circled the pole five times before ascending the shrine to stand with the king.

  “Bring the offerings,” Father yelled.

  Wilek let out a short breath, fighting to keep his fear locked away where Charlon might not feel it and make everything worse. Two pikemen nudged Wilek forward. He knew them. A King’s Guard named Marret Gells and Trevn’s friend Hinckdan.

  “Since when is an earl a pikeman?” Wilek asked.

  “I volunteered,” Hinckdan said.

  Strange. “Trevn said he told you that Pontiff Rogedoth is a mantic. I informed my father, but the Pontiff controls him.”

  Hinckdan glanced at the king but did not answer.

  Wilek tried the first pikeman. “Gells? If we do not stand against the Pontiff, he will see to it that my father kills more innocents. Is that what you want?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Gells said. “I have a wife and five children.”

  Wilek nodded. “I understand. But if you let me die today, there will be no one left to stand against my father when he decides to feed you all to Barthos.”

  Gells looked away.

  Hinckdan narrowed his eyes, then squeezed one shut.

  Was that a wink?

  “Assume the formation,” Father yelled.

  The audience took their places. Wilek, Harton, and Oli stepped inside the barrier and knelt before the Barthos pole. Wilek bowed his head and spoke to Arman.

  Father Tomek believed you real. After Rogedoth’s behavior, I’m inclined to agree. So I pray to you, Arman, not to this Barthos pole. I pledge my life to serve you and all of your decrees. If you are merciful, as Trevn thinks you might be and as Kal’s prophetess claims, have mercy on me. Save my life so I can save my people. I must get them on boats, to obey your prophetess. Help me help you, mighty god.

  Wilek looked up to see Janek on his horse, looking down on him, expressionless.

  “You will go to the utter depths of the Lowerworld for this, Janek,” Wilek said. “Gâzar has set aside a special place of torture for Rogedoth and his son.”

  Janek smirked. “I am not his son, you fool.”

  “Silence!” Father waved to Gells. “Circle the pole!”

  “Will you stand, Your Highness?” Gells asked Wilek.

  Wilek and Harton leaned together, used each other’s weight to stand. They started around the pole, Hinckdan behind them. A third pikeman steered Oli along.

  Wilek considered running, but that would only make him look cowardly. He must continue his show of fearless bravado, even if it was a lie.

  Pontiff Rogedoth began his diatribe. “We, the children of man, sit in the shadow of Barthos’s glory. Our sins bind us in misery and we deserve his wrath. Barthos shakes the foundations of the—”

  “Arman is god over all!” Wilek yelled, suddenly inspired. “Barthos is false! Arman is god over all! Barthos is a fabrication!”

  “Silence the prisoner!” Father yelled as Rogedoth continued his speech.

  “What are you doing?” Oli asked Wilek.

  “Challenging my father one last time.” He yelled all the louder, until Hinckdan whacked his pike over Wilek’s head so hard that he fell to his knees.

  “Get him up,” Father said. “Finish the last lap.”

  “I’ve got him,” Hinckdan told Gells. “You stay with the others.”

  Gells and the third pikeman walked on with Harton and Oli. Hinckdan crouched beside Wilek. The earl grabbed his arm and helped him stand, slipping something cold and hard up Wilek’s right sleeve.

  “Sorry I can do no more, Your Highness,” Hinckdan whispered.

  A blade! Wilek ripped away from the earl and walked with his head held high, hoping to drive off all suspicion. The dagger was cold against his skin. He held his wrist carefully, desperate to keep the dagger in place. He finished the circle just as Rogedoth reached the end of his speech.

  “We thank Barthos for his kindness,” Rogedoth said, “and proclaim his wonders to all who have ears.”

  “Bring forth the offerings,” Father said.

  The three men came to stand at the bottom of the steps. They would go one at a time. Wilek first. He climbed the steps on his own, looked down on his father, and considered using the knife to kill him, but that would put Janek on the throne. Instead he said, “As we stand here m
y men are working to end this tyranny. You might kill me, but your reign is near the end. Not even your mantic puppeteer can save you.”

  Father’s eyes flashed. “You have been sentenced to die as an offering to Barthos, god of the soil. Tonight you atone for yourself and all Armania.”

  “I atone for no one,” Wilek snarled. “You murder me, just as you murdered Chadek and hundreds of others.”

  “Put him in the box!” Father yelled.

  Hinckdan opened the half door of the chute box, and Wilek stepped inside. Hinckdan closed the door, gave Wilek one last desperate look, then walked to his position at the outer edge of the platform.

  The box reached above Wilek’s waist, hiding his hands from the crowd. He could cut his bonds now. Try to escape. But there were too many guards. One dagger against two dozen pikes and swords would swiftly fail.

  He lifted his bound hands and gently ran his finger over the shards of broken glass that ringed the top edge of the chute box. No place to hold on. Not for Chadek. Not for him.

  Arman, help him. He would face Barthos and fight.

  Rogedoth looked to the top of the Barthos pole. “This man dies so that we might earn your favor and proceed to peace and long life.” Rogedoth smirked at Wilek. “Tell your concubine Moon Fang says good evening.” He yanked down the lever that opened the trapdoor.

  The floor under Wilek’s feet vanished and he fell.

  He felt Charlon then, for the first time all day. His terror reached across the distance and pulled her to him as he slid down the chute, one hand pressing the dagger against his stomach to keep from losing it. The journey seemed endless and he held his breath, waiting for the bottom, wanting to somehow brace himself for impact.

  But there was none. He slid over a tiny bump, which made a bell clang overhead, then the smoothness of the chute changed to dirt, and he came to a stop over packed sand.

  He sat up and shook the dagger from his sleeve. It fell between his legs. He felt for it, wishing he had a torch. His fingers found the hilt, and he carefully began sawing the rope around his wrists. The sharp blade quickly severed the hemp.

  Many thanks, Hinckdan.

  Hands free, he gripped the dagger and stood. He found himself in a narrow wedge of canyon. The walls rose high on either side, leaving the land before him open for Barthos’s approach. The sliver of moon hung above, seeming to smile upon his misfortune. Wilek gripped the dagger tighter and stepped forward, kicked something. Sticks covered the ground. He reached for one and stopped. Not sticks. Bones. Human bones.

  He shivered, thinking of Chadek here, just a boy, crying, afraid, then eaten by a god.

  Not a god, Trevn had said. A falsehood. A fabrication.

  God or not, something had eaten all these people.

  Rôb priests claimed that Barthos inhabited The Gray, despite there being dozens of Grays throughout the Five Realms. Father believed Barthos was omnipresent. Others maintained that the creatures in The Grays were servants of Barthos.

  Wilek didn’t know what to believe anymore.

  A snap above sent him spinning around. Something whirred in the chute. Harton was coming. Wilek waited, but before Harton arrived, the chute door above snapped again, and the whirring increased. Oli was coming too. Wilek’s words had affected Father. The guilt-ridden man wanted to leave The Gray.

  A bell clanged above, sounding much louder outside the chute. Harton exited face-first, coughing and spitting dirt from his mouth. Wilek ran over and helped him stand. The moment he cut through Harton’s binds, the bell clanged once more. Seconds later Oli arrived, sitting upright as if he took this adventure every week.

  Wilek held up the dagger. “Give me your hands, Oli.”

  “Where did you get that?” Oli asked. “They took mine.”

  “Hinckdan gave it to me by the Barthos pole,” Wilek said, slicing through the ropes.

  “Good man, Hinck!” Oli said, laughing. “I hope he survives Janek without me.”

  Something rattled in the distance.

  “I doubt that’s a snake,” Hart said.

  “I think the bells called him,” Wilek said. “Why would a god need a dinner bell?”

  “Curse that splintered moon,” Oli said. “It would help to see better.” He crouched and picked up a long bone.

  “I think that’s someone’s leg,” Wilek said.

  Oli gave it a swing. “You have a knife. I need a weapon too.”

  The rattling grew louder.

  Harton sat down and pulled off his boot.

  “Have you a knife too, Hart?” Wilek asked.

  “No.” Harton fiddled with something, put it in his mouth. “Gods, my throat is dry. I need water.”

  “What are you doing?” Wilek asked.

  The rattling swelled into an ear-piercing cackle. How Wilek hated that sound! He backed against the chute bottom, holding out the dagger.

  Oli came to stand beside him. “I have a feeling your dagger and my bone are only going to make Barthos angry.”

  “You have a better plan?” Wilek asked.

  Oli snorted. “I came down here to escape my father and Janek. My plan ended there.”

  To their left, Harton slumped to the ground.

  “Hart!” Wilek ran to his side and leaned over him.

  “Did he faint?” Oli asked.

  “I think not. His eyes are open.” Wilek kicked Hart’s leg, but the man simply stared into the black sky, breathing heavily, almost panting. “Harton, get up!”

  Out in the darkness, sand crunched as if someone had thrown a boulder into it. Another crunch. Another.

  “If those are footsteps . . .” Oli said.

  A shriek pierced the night, bringing with it a rancid smell on the wind.

  Barthos.

  “I say we feed him Harton and make a run for the chute,” Oli whispered.

  Harton groaned. “I heard that.”

  “Hart, get up!” Wilek whispered. “He comes.”

  An immense shadow rippled before them, blocking the sliver of moon. Three eyes the size of coconuts flashed in a body the color of sand. The creature screeched. Wilek trembled, squeezing the dagger as if that alone might save him.

  The three eyes flashed again, and somewhere high above came the rattle of countless hollow sticks clacking together. Another wail sent a gust of rotten breath over Wilek, who caught sight of a mouth bigger than he was tall. Gods, he must be huge!

  Harton was still on the ground, on his knees now. The fool would be killed if he stayed there.

  Barthos took another ground-shaking step . . . another . . . then three at once. The air rippled before Wilek, and he squatted.

  He could see Barthos clearly now, looming over him. His head looked similar to a rabid dog. Scaly ridges covered his body. He walked on his hind legs like a man and stood as high as a two-level house.

  Barthos lowered his head, so Wilek darted between the legs, keeping low. The creature moved his nose over the ground, sniffing, and Wilek slipped out the back between his legs and tail, raking his dagger over the hock of the beast’s left foot.

  Barthos howled.

  Wilek ran to the right. The creature twisted to look for him. Wouldn’t Barthos speak? Was this a god or an animal?

  Oli clubbed the side of Barthos’s head with the leg bone, which splintered, leaving the top half of the bone hanging limp from the bottom.

  The beast growled, wrenched around to get at Oli. Wilek slashed at the creature’s hip.

  This time Barthos turned back to Wilek so fast his snout batted him to the ground. Wilek hit the sand crawling and quickly rose to a run.

  “Hey!” Oli yelled, holding the two halves of his leg bone, splinters out. He whistled, as if calling a hunting dog.

  The creature spun back to Oli, who plunged his two bone halves into one yellow eye, giving Wilek the chance he needed. He stabbed his dagger high on the creature’s other leg. Barthos screamed and sent a kick to Wilek’s chest. Wilek landed in the sand and skidded all the way to the rock
wall. He gasped, trying to find his breath, saw the creature whirl toward him, stomp closer.

  Oli ran up behind Barthos and swung another bone at the back of his leg. The beast swiveled his head around and roared. Wilek seized the moment and ran.

  God or not, they could never kill the beast, not like this. They were like two mice fighting a desert cat that could swallow them whole.

  Oli screamed in agony. Wilek glanced back and saw him on the ground, cradling his arm. The creature’s head looked up at the moon as he choked down something.

  Oli’s arm? Gods, he would truly eat them alive. “Oli!” Wilek yelled.

  In a snap Barthos lowered his head to the ground, nose pointed toward Wilek, nostrils flaring. Behind the creature, Oli tried to stand but fell, moaning, his arms curled against his chest.

  Wilek backed away from the beast and held out his knife.

  The rattling increased—where was that coming from?

  Wilek’s feet tangled in a pile of bones. He struggled for balance, keeping his eyes on Barthos. He crouched, grabbed a bone, and threw it. The bone bounced off the creature’s face and earned Wilek a snarl. He switched the dagger to his left hand and tried again, this time getting some heft into his throw. The bone smacked Barthos’s snout.

  The beast merely growled.

  Wilek edged backward through the bone pile until his heels hit the rock wall of the canyon. Barthos crept upon him and roared, blowing hot, rancid breath into Wilek’s face. Wilek gagged, gripped the knife tightly, and prepared to fight for his life.

  Behind Barthos, a green light brightened the night. Wilek wanted to look to see what it was but didn’t dare take his eyes off the creature.

  Barthos, however, tucked his head between his legs and moaned like a frightened pup.

  The beast didn’t like the light.

  The brilliance shifted, spilling across the sand, growing brighter until a green ball of fire struck Barthos’s right shoulder. The creature howled and spun around.

  What in the Five Realms was that? Wilek looked back.

  A second ball of fire blazed into light, centered on Harton’s palm.