by J. M. Topp
She unclasped her cloak and set in on the table. Rebecca stood at nearly seven feet tall and wore black studded-leather armour. Long and jagged daggers were strapped at her sides, and a dozen small knives decorated her arms, chest, and legs. Rebecca poured herself wine into a golden cup and sat beside Bendrick. She smiled as the bubbling spirits filled her cup.
‘Queen Gwendylyyn has already assembled the armies. She plans to attack as soon as she has the opportunity,’ Rebecca said as she looked at her cup, shook her head, and turned to take a swig straight from the bottle.
‘How is it possible that the armies are already assembled? She declared war, but the order to assemble the armies has to come from the King Elmeric, her father,’ retorted William quickly, taking his seat once more. He lightly tapped his forehead in thought.
Rebecca set the bottle on the table and wiped the crimson moisture from her lips. ‘The King of Aivaterra…has fallen gravely ill. Reports aren’t accurate as to how, yet it isn’t a coincidence that this happened. Queen Gwendylyyn must have been planning this for some time,’ Rebecca said as she drew a small parchment and set it on the table, taking another drag from the half empty bottle. ‘The king must read this. One of my spies died getting this to me.’ She gazed out the window as if silently revering her fallen. ‘We must strike first.’
Bendrick picked the parchment from the table. It had dried blood on the edges, and it was partially torn. The black words etched on it stood out, however. Four words were written in a strange and cryptic language. Beneath that was Rebecca’s decrypted translation.
‘The murk shifts and stirs. She will kill all.’
‘Are you sure this means…?’ Bendrick hesitated, not wanting to finish his sentence, for fear of what the message might mean.
‘Positive, Bendrick. She is planning our entire annihilation.’ Rebecca stared into Bendrick’s eyes. There was no doubt that she held complete confidence in her sources. Bendrick realized that Rebecca and William were correct. If the queen did intend to completely destroy Weserith, as King Ayland had done to the neighboring kingdoms years before, they were in grave danger.
‘You will inform the council?’ asked Bendrick.
Rebecca craned her neck at him and then shook her head. ‘I cannot. I have business outside the city that requires my full and immediate attention. You will have to inform the council in my stead.’
‘The council will convene this evening . Gather your books—or whatever it is you do—before the war council. This has to be done, Bendrick,’ William said as he stood and bowed to Rebecca and Bendrick. He picked up his bronze circlet and placed it on his head. William then exited the room without another word.
Rebecca glanced at Bendrick in silence. Finally, she smiled and filled his emptying cup with wine. ‘I’ve heard so much about you, Bendrick Greystonne. Forgive me for not having visited you in this legendary tower sooner. I have been away from Weserith far too long.’ Rebecca grinned jovially and downed the rest of the wine, surprising Bendrick at the amount she could drink. She let out a sigh of relief and wiped the moisture from her lips, setting the empty bottle on the table. She turned to Bendrick with brow raised. ‘Is it true that you defeated the famed Ghidor the Crazed with a broken sword at Uredor?’
‘Is it true that you can disappear at will and summon spiders to do your killing for you?’ Bendrick smiled and took the cup to his lips.
Rebecca laughed. ‘Spiders? That’s one I haven’t heard before,’ she said with a seductive smile. Her eyes moved to Sieglinde, who opened the door and crept in.
‘Father?’ she asked, closing the door behind her.
‘Sieglinde, enter.’
‘Is everything in order?’ The innocence in her voice was as a harp being strung in beautiful note—a refreshing feeling Bendrick cherished greatly. Rebecca studied his face with keen interest.
‘You really do care for her.’
‘Of course I do. She is my daughter.’ Bendrick smiled warmly at Sieglinde as she reached for the empty bottle and retrieved the cups. She wiped the table off with her cleaning rag. Rebecca remained in silence until Sieglinde again retreated from the room. The sun was beginning to rise in the dawning sky. Rebecca drew her hood over her head and whispered something that confirmed to Bendrick that she indeed was the perfect spy.
‘The author of Enmity of a Deity was hung by an ancient king. The author’s point was that any evil act made by monsters and daemons of old could be done and outdone, by man. A man, that king thought, was referring to himself,’ Rebecca said, tapping the table with her knuckles. She then rose, gathered her cloak, and stepped to the door. It opened with a small creak. Like a soft breeze, she closed it behind her, leaving Bendrick in silence. Shivers ran up Bendrick’s spine, but he shook the thought of paranoia as to what all Rebecca would hear. There were more important matters at hand.
A third war? Most people didn’t live to see two wars in their lifetimes. For there to be three, declared by the same king, with Bendrick within his same court? It was unnatural and unlucky. Bendrick rose and picked up his practice sword. He twirled it in his hands and struck at an imaginary enemy. The style the Academy taught in terms of swordplay was archaic but extremely effective by those who mastered it. Bendrick jumped in the air, spinning the sword above him, and struck the stone floor with a pang. He pivoted and struck the chair William had been sitting in. The chair fell, and he turned to his next opponent. Bendrick didn’t notice that Sieglinde had entered the room again. She stood with practice sword in hand, mask drawn, waiting patiently. She lifted the sword in a challenging stance.
‘You sure you can fight inebriated, old man?’
‘The art of the drunken sword master,’ said Bendrick with a clever smile.
‘I have never heard such a thing, Father,’ Sieglinde’s brow went up with curiosity.
‘Then here is your first lesson,’ said Bendrick, preparing his stance. Sieglinde, however, knew him too well to let him make the first move, and she attacked him from a downward angle.
Crack, crack.
Wooden swords clashed again and again. Sieglinde parried Bendrick’s blow and had an opening to hit him in the chest. Bendrick caught the blade with his bare hands, and he placed his sword on her neck, signaling the end of the duel. Sieglinde grunted and removed her mask. Her face twisted in light of Bendrick’s trick.
‘That’s very unsportsmanlike.’ Her eyes sparked with frustration.
‘You don’t think an opponent might try to catch your blade with his bare hands?’
‘Not if my blade is sharp and cuts through it.’
‘What is meant to be sharper, the blade, or the one who wields it?’ Bendrick asked, releasing Sieglinde’s blade with a grin. But before he realized what he’d done, she struck his head sharply. Bendrick recoiled with a sideways strike but only swung at empty air as Sieglinde danced out of the sword’s way. She laughed heartily as Bendrick touched his head. He could feel a bump swelling beneath his hair.
‘The one who wields it, obviously.’ She laughed and crouched close to the ground, preparing for an attack.
‘Maybe I have had a little too much to drink,’ Bendrick said, setting his sword down on the table and rubbing his head. Sieglinde relaxed and placed her sword next to his.
‘Is it true, Father, there is a war coming?’ Sieglinde knew more than most what it meant to be a victim of war. She had enjoyed learning battle tactics and how to use a sword, but the idea of using it on a real person wasn’t too appealing to her. In that way, Bendrick felt a bond. Though, yes, they were studying the art of killing, it was for the purpose of education and safety. Bendrick knew that he had to approach this complicated council situation in the same way.
‘It’s beginning to look like it, Sieglinde. Gather my scrolls.’ Bendrick sighed audibly. ‘If we are to convince King Ayland to go to war, we must be prepared.’
THE MEETING WAS set to be on the highest floor of the Athenaeum, two stories above the sparring room. The council room bo
asted a skyglass, from which at night all the stars could be easily observed. The room, however, had been redecorated to reflect the purpose of the meeting. Banners of the conquered territories were hung on the walls of the circular room. The red phoenix upon a black field was the one that gave him the most sadness. The phoenix, the sigil of the Kingdom of Uredor and a symbol of rebirth. However, rebirth was something that did not happen to the territory that King Ayland had claimed. He had reduced Uredor Castle and the surrounding villages to ash, but nothing had risen from it, save the stench of death, disease, and darkness. The land had become desolate, except for a few scattered villages. Bendrick had always thought it was rather sad to hang them up there. Once, those banners must have seemed so majestic.
A massive oak table had been placed with tall candles dotting the center. Upon the table stood small stone figurines, which represented the king’s armies to the north and the queen’s army to the south. Red and black splotches had been painted on the king’s pieces, while the queen’s had blue to differentiate. Bendrick didn’t like the red paint. It made the pieces look as if they were bleeding. A banner of The Black Bull upon a red field hung above the others—the royal sigil of Weserith, most honoured and feared.
Bendrick was the first one to arrive at the council. He liked it that way; he was able to collect his thoughts and prepare his advice properly. Bendrick spread his parchments out in front of him and took his seat. He let out an audible sigh that echoed through the chamber. His black pourpoint with frilled white sleeves rubbed against his skin, irritating him. Bendrick scratched his wrist as he glanced at the parchments strewn before him. As caretaker of the Athenaeum Tower, he had become the unofficial historian. Once the Second War— or as historians called it, the Kingsfury War— had concluded, King Ayland had allowed Bendrick to retire from the military. Thirty-five years of service and now he was a teacher. Bendrick knew anger and hate; he also knew how dangerous it could be when wielded by those in power. Educating young minds was paramount to Weserith’s future.
Bendrick unrolled the parchment given to him by Rebecca.
‘The murk shifts and stirs…’ he mouthed almost inaudibly, looking over the dark words. Members of the council began to pour into the room. Most were out of breath. The king thought it comedic to place the war council on the highest floor of the Athenaeum Tower. ‘Make the old men’s knees creak,’ he had said once, laughing all the while. The king himself wouldn’t have to climb the steps, as he was carried just about everywhere he went. Now in his older age of sixty-two, time had caught up with him. For most people, this would only be the ripening of age to reap the rewards of a life well-worked, but kings and most royalty aged differently than their subordinates. Sixty years seemed like a hundred to a king, especially in times of war. Regardless, his sanity was mostly intact. It was only when he saw blood that he lost all control over his actions.
Footsteps echoed as Remy, one of the few other men Bendrick respected in the council, entered the room. He smiled as he saw his old friend. He had done well for himself after the last war. He had created the greatest trading route cutting directly through the Eldervale. The Thalasar Road kept Weserith’s economy on the rise with exports of silk, produce, and rare spices to Aivaterra and Alder Isle. An extraordinary businessman, he had served in both wars as well and had become very close to Bendrick. The bell-shaped man sat beside Bendrick in a huff, running his hand across his chest.
‘How do you fare, you old bastard?’ Remy said, struggling to regain his composure. Bendrick nodded at him and with a smile whispered, ‘Better catch your breath; I wouldn’t want you to keel over at a war council, old man.’
Remy laughed mockingly. Bendrick stifled a chuckle as the rest of the members entered the council room and took their seats. Two military generals, Mahkaman and Eldric, sat across from Bendrick and Remy. Eldric nodded at Bendrick and turned to Mahkaman in whispers. A knight entered the room in full black battle armour, holding his iron helm in one arm. Sir Jeyannin bowed at his generals and took his seat next to Remy. Scribe Kedwin stumbled in, completely winded. He took his place by the head of the table, gripping his long, white beard as if for support. William entered, gave Bendrick a knowing look, and scowled at Remy. There was no love lost between the two men. Yet despite their differences, they kept their interactions relatively civil.
Everyone’s gaze turned in unison as a man stepped into the council chambers. He was huddled in a thick brown bear cloak. His wiry brown beard covered most of his face down to his sword belt. The Lord of the Greenwood, Korhas Leadcloak, took a seat near the end of the table and eyed the other members of the war council wearily.
‘I wasn’t aware Korhas had been summoned,’ Remy whispered into Bendrick’s ear.
‘Why wouldn’t he be? His army is being housed at Estia Fortress. He commands the strongest army in the land,’ responded Bendrick.
‘The strongest but also the smallest.’
Bendrick turned to see two other men in grey with a white windmill stitched on their gambesons and cloaks, which indicated that they were from Whitetree Mills. The land to the Far East was regarded with little respect. Mud villages and riverlands held very little interest to most Weserithian politics. Even so, they had men for an army that the King would need for his war. Bendrick glanced around the room. The representative of Duren, Father Sabathiel, had been summoned like the other banner-men, but it was very usual that the old priest didn’t make the trip from Duren to Weserith. Old age was his reason. Whitetree Mills would relay any information relevant to the small mud-village.
‘Before the meeting begins, Bendrick,’ whispered Remy, with a grave look. He glanced around and then leaned in for Bendrick to catch his whisper, ‘we cannot have the Ayland go to war.’
Bendrick turned to Remy with confusion. ‘Gwendylyyn will march on us. She is determined.’
Remy shook his head. ‘She has declared war; that much is true. But all out bloodshed is avoidable. We must try a diplomatic approach before we jump into war. I know William spoke with you this morning, but the last…’
Remy wasn’t able to conclude his words. The king entered the room, and everyone stood with haste. King Ayland Erebryyn V, or Ayland the Cliobarhe, scanned his council slowly. The Cliobarhe was an old nursery rhyme involving a daemon child who was saved by a small family. The rhyme ended with the family being devoured by the daemon. It was a cherished Weserithian myth meant to scare children. King Ayland hated that nickname, yet he didn’t prevent the common people from calling him that. The more they feared him, the better he could control them. Yet today, the king looked exhausted. His once long, yellow hair had turned completely white. His piercing brown eyes were overshadowed by the dark circles beneath them. The king drew his sword and pointed it skyward as a signal for the council meeting to begin. Members of the council drew their swords as well. All members of the council were required to place a sword next to the table if they were to have a voice. Bendrick drew his bastard sword and placed it next to his chair. It was a heavy and long piece of sharp iron. Bendrick couldn’t lift the slab of steel in combat as he had once been able to. Though the sword was a reminder of dozens of lives taken, it was also a reminder that life could be protected. Bendrick swore to make it his mission to protect any and all life, if possible.
King Ayland leaned heavily on his scepter as he hobbled to the end of the table. With a heavy sigh, the king sat down. The council took their seats as well. In silence, he studied the men before him as if trying to read their minds. Sieglinde closed the door and waited at the entrance for any orders.
The king’s eyes met Bendrick’s gaze. When Bendrick had first met King Ayland, he wasn’t king yet. Being an acolyte in the Academy, Bendrick had been courier of the royal Erebryyn family. Ayland had been very different in that time. Youthful and brash, he would often earn his father’s ire. Even then, Ayland had worn a smile just about every time he attended his classes. He had always had some trick or dance meant to make people laugh or gawk in awe
. Bendrick remembered having a hard time keeping with his own studies, whilst Ayland would encourage him to mischief. Bendrick almost smiled at the thought. He had loved being the center of attention. King Thail Erebryyn had raised Ayland into a man as best he could before he was kidnapped. Ayland had more than filled his father’s shoes, but after the last war, he had made a dark turn somewhere.
‘Speak to me, War Council,’ muttered the old king crisply, stamping his scepter on the rock floor. William, the First Voice, stood and bowed to the king.
‘Your Grace, we must not go to war. It is a fool’s errand.’
Bendrick’s eyes darted to William in shock. He then turned to look at Remy to find that he had the same expression. William continued his statement with equal fluidity. ‘The Kingdom of Eldervale cannot sustain another war so soon after the Kingsfury War. As my colleague, Remy Ysben, will confirm, it is not a viable solution. Master Ysben?’
Remy was obviously caught off guard. It seemed that he was prepared to be the only member of the council to be against the war. For the First Voice to agree with him was a feeling Remy was not very well used to. He stood and bowed awkwardly to William and then to the king. ‘Your Grace, I agree with Lord Bhenhart.’ The words seemed to catch in Remy’s throat, but he swallowed them with distaste. His eyes darted from the king to William. ‘A new war at this level would be chaotic. The last time war broke out, Weserith suffered financially. The Thalasar Road runs directly in the center of the Eldervale Kingdom. If it were to be compromised again in any way, our economy would suffer greatly. Trade routes would immediately shut down. We must fortify the walls and await her arrival—wait for her to come to us.’