by J. M. Topp
Sieglinde Greystonne, Bendrick’s adopted daughter, served him as his apprentice and servant. Her silver hair was tied in a tight bun. It was silver, not due to age, as was very apparent, but to a strange genetic mutation Sieglinde had had when she was born, or so she liked to think. To say that she was strikingly beautiful was an understatement. She had clear green eyes and a soft jaw. Her smooth pale skin was accentuated by the brown gambeson she wore. Many times, Bendrick’s peers had suggested that he marry her, but he could not bring himself to even think such a thing.
Sieglinde was a result of the last war— a survivor. Bendrick had found her amidst the refugees of the destroyed Uredor Castle. Bendrick could still remember every detail of that day vividly. Smoke had still been rising from the burning castle. He had been leading his platoon through the burnt stone and wood of the scorched ruins the day after the battle when a little girl had approached him with a small, wooden bowl in hand, asking for a bronze coin. She had been clothed with tatters that were decorated in tear stains. Sieglinde’s silver hair had been a wonder to the entire platoon, and they had begun to jeer and mock her. Bendrick had raised his fist, an order to silence. The small girl had asked once more for a coin. At the time, Bendrick had known that she would not live for much longer, not with Uredor having fallen. He had found it very hard to refuse and instead took her in under his wing. Since then, Bendrick had nourished her and protected her. Sieglinde had surprised him and had proven that she was more than capable in politics and the understanding of war tactics. Bendrick had taken it upon himself to train her. She was a fast learner, and as his apprentice, she had learned much. Sieglinde had also blossomed and filled out as any woman would. Yet, a normal woman Sieglinde was not. Several men had come forth and offered marriage, but Sieglinde had refused every one. Her interests were to improve her speed and sword skills, and this made Bendrick proud. She was his daughter, regardless of blood.
Bendrick nodded at Sieglinde. She put her mask back on and poised herself in a sword art she had begun to master. They stood, ready to attack, but were interrupted by an angry man who stormed into the training room throwing the doors wide open.
‘That bitch! Bendrick, she has finally done it.’
The king’s adviser clenched his fists as he paced in circles on the wooden floor. His dark red robe trailed behind him as he disturbed the duo from their swordplay. Lord William Bhenhart, Voice to the King, clenched and threw his fists in the air in frustration. His jeweled bronze circlet glistened in the light. Bendrick removed his training mask and bowed curtly. His brown eyes scanned the inflamed man before him.
‘We will resume shortly, Sieglinde.’ Bendrick glanced at his daughter and stood straight again. ‘Go, catch your breath.’
Bendrick’s voice echoed softly through the chamber as he stood and set the wooden practice sword on a table. He loosed his gambeson and slipped it off. Stretching, Bendrick faced the irate aristocrat, removing his gloves and setting them on the table. William’s crooked nose twitched as he stared at Bendrick.
‘I knew she was irrational, but to make a move like this, after all I’ve…we’ve done for her?’ William said as he paced the practice room, stomping his feet. Bendrick wondered if he could put a hole in the floor with his boot. The wood creaked beneath his footfalls like it might give way.
Once, William had been an exceptional fighter. In his youth, he had been known for throwing his sword and shield away during battle and punching his enemies to death. Bendrick wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. He had once torn of the helm off an enemy and punched him until his face was completely caved in. It was a far cry from the old and angry man before him. Time had an evil sting.
‘William, I…’ Bendrick knew how dangerous the adviser could be in this state. It wasn’t often that William was as upset as he was in this that moment. Except for when he was in combat, he was a relatively reasonable man. He was strict but fair. As right hand to the king, he was an invaluable member of the aristocracy.
‘For her to declare war on us. How dare she!?’ William growled. He slammed his fist on the table, causing the opposite end to jump up slightly. Blood trickled from his clenched hand, but William didn’t seem to notice.
A look of confusion swept over Bendrick’s face. He scratched the scar above his eye, trying to understand the situation. ‘She declared war on Weserith?’
‘Not just Weserith, but the entirety of all fucking Eldervale.’ William threw his hands up in frustration once more as he shouted. ‘She thinks she can invade us.’ William turned his head sideways to look at Bendrick. Anger, mixed with fear, could easily be read in his eyes. He snorted shaking his head. Bendrick cleared his throat.
‘Please sit down, William. Sieglinde, fetch some wine.’ Bendrick snapped his fingers twice. Sieglinde nodded and hurriedly exited the large room.
‘No, Bendrick. No wine today. I need to think.’ William slammed his fists against the table once more before collapsing in a chair. His circlet fell onto the table with a soft clunk, but William hardly noticed. He turned to face Bendrick. His expertly-sewn robe was torn at the bottom, probably from his hasty ascent through the tower.
‘The king has called his banner men, and the war council is set to convene tonight.’ William lowered his voice. ‘You’ve denied me twice, Bendrick. The war council could have used you before. Now, for the sake of our friendship, you must join us. I need you at that council meeting.’
‘My lord,’ Bendrick paused, careful not to let his voice waver, ‘it has been years since I practiced war tactics, and the council does not heed my words. That is the reason why I left.’
William grimaced and took a deep breath. ‘Stop with that nonsense. You graduated from the Academy same as me. War tactics are not something you forget,’ William spat and looked to the window, letting out a sigh. ‘I regret the way you left, but things are different now. You are more than capable, Bendrick. If nothing else, join us for this one council meeting. It might save the lives of countless people.’ The adviser set his piercing gaze at Bendrick and sighed heavily once more. He picked up the practice sword Bendrick had been using just moments before and grasped it with his hand. William tested the weight of the wooden weapon. ‘Would you explain to me what exactly are you doing with this?’
‘I am teaching Sieglinde how to master a sword.’ Bendrick frowned, knowing what William was getting at. William grinned back and licked his lips. ‘To defend herself because you know you won’t always be there for her. Don’t you see? If we don’t defend ourselves from this attack, we all will be left defenseless.’
‘We can’t know that the queen means this declaration to attack us. She is rash, like you said. It could be she is acting out of anger. The king wasn’t always…patient with her.’ Bendrick took a seat at the table across from William. Saying that the king wasn’t always patient with his wife, the queen, was an understatement. The entire kingdom knew of the rages the king would fly into when provoked. It was also known how well the queen would provoke him, sometimes in public. It was regrettable when they fought, but all Bendrick could do was look away in embarrassment. Who could possibly stop a fight between them without losing their life?
‘You and I both know she isn’t bluffing,’ William snapped as he tossed the wooden sword on the table. ‘She will come. It will be brutal.’ He took deep breath and ran his fingers through his oiled brown beard in frustration. ‘If we don’t strike preemptively, she might win. It might already be too late.’
‘You’re overreacting, William. The people may have disliked the queen, but for her to attack because of their disdain is ridiculous. Weserith has never been defeated in battle. She knows this. Many of her people would suffer because of something equally rash,’ Bendrick responded calmly. ‘To attack preemptively and bring us into a new war against Aivaterra would prove as disastrous for her as it would for us.’
At that, William sat in silence, staring into Bendrick’s dark brown eyes. William leaned f
orward, firmly placing his fist on the table. ‘You knew her but not as I did, Ben. She wouldn’t fake something like this out of spite.’
It was hard to imagine the queen declaring war over minor troubles, yet here stood the First Voice to the King saying exactly that. Bendrick turned his head as Sieglinde entered the room with a bottle of wine and two golden chalices. She set them on the table and poured one for Bendrick. When she set the cup in front of William, he shook his head, declining the drink. Sieglinde gave a sideways glance at Bendrick, who nodded and took a small sip of the spirits. Sieglinde set the bottle and the empty cup on the table. Feeling out of place, she moved to sit down at another table in silence. Bendrick set his cup down and studied the king’s adviser carefully.
‘William, have you read the Enmity of a Deity?’ asked Bendrick.
William lay back in his seat with a scowl. ‘Of course I have. It was written shortly after the Kingsfury War. What of it?’
‘The Kingsfury War was the bloodiest conflict Weserith has been a part of in recorded history, the massacre of Rovulgad bridge being its highlight.’
‘I don’t need a book to know it was the bloodiest battle, Ben. I was there, and so were you.’ William spoke through his teeth and pointed a finger at Bendrick. ‘Plenty of mistakes were made but if you think the Kingsfury War compares to the fury Queen Gwendylyyn will bring upon Weserith, you’re making yet another mistake.’
The Battle at Rovulgad Bridge was caused by inflamed and sensitive egos. Bendrick had been one of them. A lieutenant at that time, he had been the one who ordered the attack that began the war. Bendrick could still see the faces of those scared villagers right before they were cut down. He could still hear their screams. Bendrick’s upper lip stiffened, and he took a deep breath before answering.
‘A mistake would be to look upon history and forget its lessons. That massacre of innocents launched us into a war we did not have to fight. We were only hours away from a treaty. We could have avoided all that bloodshed.’
‘By the abandoned gods, you have gone soft.’ William’s laughter danced across the walls. He leaned back in his chair, nearly knocking it to the floor. He regained his balance and rubbed his nose. ‘I had heard books were your primary concern now, but I didn’t expect a historic lecture from you.’
‘You haven’t visited in a while, William. Much has changed. I’ve had time to think,’ Bendrick said, lowering his eyes to the floor.
‘Too much time. The Enmity of a Deity. What a farce!’ William shook his head in disapproval. ‘I need you by my side to conduct a full-scale war! What use are you to anyone here, reading this fiction and playing with wooden swords?’
‘What you are asking, William, is for me to return to the military council and orchestrate the death of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands.’ Bendrick stood from his chair and walked to the tall window. Looking outside, he could see the entirety of the city of Weserith. The tops of its fortified walls were punctuated with the glint of moonlight from the soldiers’ steel helms as they went about their nightly rounds. The market square was empty this time of night, but a few lanterns were lit by some empty wooden stalls. Weserith was divided into three main districts: The District of Coin, the Royal Square, and the Insolvent District. Together they made up the capitol of the country of Eldervale. In a few hours, the market square would be bustling with business as usual. Bendrick couldn’t blame them. It was the bliss of ignorance that kept a man sane.
William cleared his throat and stared at Bendrick.
‘The mistakes we made in the past will haunt us, but this war will tear the people apart and add more to your conscience. Whether we like it or not, Aivaterra will move soon. Our people will starve and die. We must defend them. I need you to convince the council and the king that war is the only alternative. I need you by my side, once again,’ said William.
‘You do not need me by your side; the king will heartily agree to start another war. He has always been eager to ride into battle before,’ responded Bendrick slowly, turning from the large window.
A shadow of darkness fell over the First Voice. ‘Be careful how you say that, Bendrick. If those words fell on the wrong ears, it could mean something terrible for you.’ William’s gaze softened, and he turned to clutch the gold cup, studying its intricate designs. ‘Not only that, but it’s just not damn true. The King doesn’t want to go to war.’
‘What?’ That caught Bendrick off guard. The king was known for his aggressive tendencies. Any chance he had to spill blood, he would grasp without question. At the end of the last war, King Ayland had cornered the entire enemy army and tied the highest-ranking men to wooden posts. He had then proceeded to plunge his sword into their exposed chests. Dozens of men had been tied, but it had not mattered to the king. When his blade had dulled, he had continued his bloodbath with even more rancor, regardless of how long his sword took to pierce flesh. One by one, he had personally killed all the generals and lieutenants. He would have killed more had his blade not broken into the back of a screaming man. Even William had been shocked at the bloodthirsty display. It had all stemmed from the execution of his father that had happened in the same manner. Ten years of bitterness and plotting. The king had done to them what they had done to his father. He had earned the nickname Ayland the Cliobarhe. The name came from an olden tale of a daemon seeking revenge and delighting in it. To Ayland, the name remained a fitting one. To suddenly desire not to go to war and spill the blood of his opponents was completely beyond anything Bendrick could have predicted.
‘The king doesn’t want to go to war, and you want me to convince him to attack? All due respect, William, but what could possibly possess you to think I’ll convince him to go to war? If we can resolve this diplomatically, we should. I’ll do anything to avoid bloodshed,’ Bendrick said as he sat down once more before William and folded his hands over the table.
‘I’ve known Queen Gwendylyyn since she arrived from the Khahadran thirty years ago. She is acting out of anger, and it should pass. War can be prevented,’ said Bendrick. He wasn’t sure what William wanted out of him. He couldn’t convince the King of something he didn’t want to do any more than the royal adviser could. There was a soft knock at the door. Sieglinde stood to open it. She whispered to the person outside and nodded.
‘Pardon, my lords. You have a visitor.’
‘Not now, Sieglinde. Tell him to return later,’ snapped Bendrick, frustrated at the interruption.
‘As you say, Father, but it’s not a man—’ Sieglinde turned to the hooded figure who then forced herself through the door.
‘Don’t you worry, dear. I can handle this. You may go.’
Sieglinde bowed and left the room, closing the door behind her. The individual that had entered was unmistakably one of the more famous people in the Weserithian Kingdom. Famous only in the sense of being near myth, Captain of the White Dagger, Rebecca, smiled gaily at the men. It was only the second time Bendrick had seen Rebecca personally. She was known through the land as The Fang. Quick, quiet, and efficient, she was everything a King wanted in a spy. Most important of all, she never failed a mission; that was the official rumor least-ways. That wasn’t the most significant part of her celebrity status, however.
She was an elf.
Claiming to be from beyond the Whitecrown Mountains, Rebecca had come to King Ayland when he first had been crowned. Rebecca had offered her loyalty then. Bendrick suspected only the king really knew why she had abandoned her refuge in the mountains to serve a human king, but it wasn’t a question that he needed answered. It had become painfully apparent that she was invaluable to any operation the king had. It was said that she was never seen unless she wished it. Her clear silver eyes studied the two men before her. She turned to Bendrick and bowed to him, drawing back her hood to reveal her braided dark blue hair and pale skin. Bendrick tried not to look at her clipped ears. No one knew exactly why her ears were clipped, but most people were afraid to ask, including Bendrick and Willia
m.
Bendrick smiled at Rebecca. If she was here, perhaps she held information that could keep another war at bay.
‘My lord, we have to strike preemptively.’ She spoke crisply.
Perfect. Bendrick sighed silently to himself.
‘Rebecca, it is always a pleasure to meet an honoured spy,’ said William as he stood and extended his hand for her to kiss it. The spy stared at his hand for a moment as William drew it back, red-faced. Even though the elf was an informal member of the king’s court, she didn’t observe typical human customs and etiquette. The royal members who did interact with Rebecca, knew not to expect such manners. Most people would be beaten for such a breach of tact, but it was a fool’s errand to try and enforce etiquette on Rebecca.
It was rumoured that she would still perform her ancient elven rites in the small room she kept in the castle. Rebecca’s roost was extremely difficult to pinpoint, so it couldn’t be proven. Official religion had been disbanded in the kingdom of Eldervale, and science and logic were at the forefront of Weserithian culture. This move was frowned upon in the neighboring lands, specifically the country of the Khahadran, as their religion was their primary cultural motivator. But what were they going to do about it? Weserith had the most power in all the lands, so any disagreement between the countries went unmentioned. Since freedom of religion was allowed in Eldervale, it was against the law to persecute someone for their religion unless physical harm to other persons was involved. Few people remained that held to the abandoned gods and their customs. Sometimes these zealots would conduct private witch hunts in search of Rebecca or her roost. Most of the zealots would be thwarted and punished according to Weserithian Law. But Rebecca was the king’s furtive trophy. She was the greatest and most valuable secret the kingdom held. Most people who did know her didn’t ask about her kin, no matter how badly they wanted to. Everyone knew of the elven eradication at the hand of men three hundred and forty years prior. To say that she was the last of her kind would be a safe assumption.