by Alex Aguilar
From the second floor of the palace, Lady Brunylda Clark observed it all. The formation of the outside guards was in the shape of a half-circle, rounding up the mob like sheep against the black gates. For a moment, the Lady admired Darryk’s tactical skill. The guards weren’t many, and they were certainly outnumbered, but they had the advantage of armor and weaponry. And it was enough to calm a few of the rebels; the shouts diminished and no longer did they throw anything.
Meanwhile, Darryk took his time walking down the palace steps… Within seconds, the place was relatively quiet, and the Lord Regent became the center of everyone’s attention.
“Lord Regent Clark! The gods smile upon us tonight!” Baryn Lawe spoke first, a mask of bravery plastered over his grinning face. Had his mob not been at his back, the man would have cowered before the royal guard.
Darryk stood firmly and intrepidly, unwilling to yield to the same mob that had ridiculed him just a few days prior. He looked at Baryn Lawe menacingly, but he chose his words as carefully as his father had taught him. “Explain yourself. Now.”
“With pleasure, sire,” the mad preacher took a bow. “We are all here to fulfill the wishes of our god, m’lord… We mean no harm to you or anyone else in your company, I assure you. Our demands are quite simple… We have been patient with you, as it was our king’s decision to appoint you Lord Regent of our beloved city… But we will hold our silence no longer! Our safety cannot be guaranteed, so long as that filth is in our city grounds!”
The peasants shouted in agreement, some of them praising Baryn for his courage.
“We demand that they be removed at once!” Baryn added, and the chants only grew from there. Darryk appeared rather calm, as a proper knight commander would look. He allowed the mob a few moments of chatter, before he craned his neck towards his guards. His face was blank, his eyes steady and unwavering.
“Arms at the ready!” he shouted.
The sound of armor clinking in unison resonated all around, as every soldier of the royal guard stomped a boot on the cobblestone and held their weapon out in defense. Even those few inside the gates had their swords out, aimed forward next to their shields.
Within seconds, the place was silent again.
“Outer flank! Forward, march!” Darryk shouted.
The formation of guards on the outside took one step forward. The mob was pressed tightly together. Some of them were forced to kill the fire of their torches so as to avoid burning their neighboring peers.
“Again! Forward, march!”
The formation took another step forward.
This time the mob was forced so tightly together that Baryn Lawe was pressed against the palace gates. The man had his arms up at his sides, trying desperately to control his own followers, but his worried gaze was fixed on Darryk, who stood firmly with a hand at the hilt of his sword.
“Halt!” Darryk shouted, and his guards stopped where they were, their swords still up and aimed at the herd. Darryk took a moment to pace back and forth along the inside of the gates. The peasants were almost like a herd of caged hens and Darryk like a wolf eyeing them through the bars.
Every single pair of eyes was on him, even from inside the palace.
For once, Darryk appeared almost like an actual leader.
“What is the meaning of this?!” the preacher tried to protest, his face pressed between two of the black bars. “We are citizens of Val Havyn!”
“Are you, now?” Darryk asked, his brows lowered and his jaw clenched tightly. “Because from where I stand, sir, you look more like traitors of the crown.”
The silence returned, and many of the gazes among the mob lost some of their confidence.
“Hektor?” Darryk called.
The loyal guard stepped forward. “Yes, my lord?”
“Remind me again what the punishment is for betraying the crown, if you will.”
“Death, my lord…”
Baryn Lawe’s face twisted into a grimace. Though the preacher was afraid, he was far too much of a pious vulture with an obsession for power, and thus he was not willing to succumb without a fight.
“We are loyal to his majesty, King Rowan!” he shouted confidently. “Not an immoral and corrupt foreigner who pretends to be a Lord!”
The mob began to shout angrily once again. It was quite interesting, the way a single man had the power to build up their buoyancy with just a few words. Then again, that was the way power often worked…
As the noise began to build up, Baryn’s grin slowly returned.
It did not last very long, however…
Darryk turned to Hektor and gave him a mere head nod. The guard, in return, proceeded towards the gates with the keys at hand. The rest of the inner formation huddled around Hektor as the man opened the gate and pulled the mad preacher inside. There was some resistance from the mob and the gates were nearly forced open, but the guards on the inside began jabbing the tips of their swords through the black bars, injuring a few of the more persistent rebels.
Hektor locked the gates shut again and then threw the mad preacher onto the stone steps, right at Darryk’s feet. Meanwhile, from upstairs, Lady Brunylda Clark took another sip from her flask, observing the young lord like a proud mentor watching an apprentice at work.
Well done so far. You have them… Now don’t you dare lose them…
“Silence!” Hektor shouted at the mob as Darryk paced about quietly, glaring down at the frail figure of Baryn Lawe, utterly stripped of his power. When the voices died down, Darryk spoke again, this time directly at the preacher so as to make an example out of him.
“You should consider yourself fortunate, Mister Baryn Lawe,” he said. “If this were any other city in Vallenghard, you’d be up for a beheading right at this moment. But this is the royal city of Val Havyn… And I would hate to stain my blade with the blood of a mad preaching rebel…”
Though much less confidently, Baryn couldn’t help but persist and talk through his rage. “I’m a servant of our god… as is King Rowan… If he only knew what you were keeping within his palace walls, he woul-”
“I’m afraid that is none of your concern now, sir,” Darryk interrupted. He then looked up at the mob, at the wary eyes and scowls, and addressed them all directly. “The matter has been dealt with!” he announced. “The orc woman has died from her wounds… She is no longer within our grounds. There is no more reason for concern or panic.”
There was a sudden mumbling among the peasants. The mad preacher’s face was riddled with a muddle of expressions; confusion, rage, regret, all of them vivid in his glimmering eyes.
“We have sent a caravan to the Woodlands, where she will soon be buried,” Darryk lied. “Normally such matters are dealt with discreetly, but… it would appear we’ve a few citizens who are far too eager to get involved…”
As he spoke the last few words, Darryk glared down at the mad preacher.
What are you? The young knight asked him through a glare. Are you truly this mad? Or is it all a ruse to rile up the crowds and make some coin?
Baryn Lawe couldn’t have been older than sixty. Though it was true that many people in Gravenstone believed in the Gods of Nayarith – the gods of the nine races – it was also true that such beliefs were more common among the elder folk. The young, particularly those who grew up motherless and fatherless, had never been properly taught about the religion and therefore scoffed at such beliefs.
Baryn, on the other hand, was a mystery to Darryk. The mere fact that he was a beggar suggested he had lived a life of poverty, as many orphans did. But his beliefs appeared far too strong to be a false pretense.
“Now,” Darryk finally spoke again, as he stepped around Baryn and towards the angry mob. There may have been black-painted steel bars between them, but Darryk glared at the peasants so confidently, it was hard to imagine he would have acted any differently had there not been. “Do try and listen, for I will say this only once…”
And listen, they did. During that brief
moment, there wasn’t a single mouth talking except for Darryk’s. And little to his knowledge, Lady Brunylda’s lips were curving into a smile as she continued to watch over him from above.
“This city is under my protection,” Darryk said boldly. “And such rebellious acts will not be tolerated… I do not care if you’re a nobleman or a peasant, the king’s law will pertain to any and every person within these city grounds. Anyone who dares break the king’s law will answer to me. Anyone who plots against the king will answer to me. Anyone who so much as disturbs the peace will answer to me.”
Darryk’s confidence appeared to be working somehow. But, as it so often happened, the tables turned suddenly against him when the mad preacher decided to interject yet again.
“To you?” Baryn said mockingly. “To you?! The very person who allowed an orc into our city?!”
“The orc woman has died,” Darryk responded instantly. “The matter has been dealt with.”
“And what about the child…?”
There was a sudden silence, during which Darryk noticed every pair of eyes in the mob turn to him. And the preacher, as usual, did not resist the temptation to taunt him. “Answer us, then!” he growled. “What about the orc child?!”
Darryk felt a tug in his chest as he towered over Baryn.
Are you really that heartless, you old fool? Darryk wondered.
But it didn’t matter at that moment. The only thing that did matter was that Darryk was at the center of attention. And anything he did could make or break his reputation.
He knew what he had to do. And, as it always happened, there was a brief moment of doubt, during which Darryk had to force himself to act with his mind rather than his heart. Once he was ready, he unsheathed his blade…
There were several gasps among the crowd. But Darryk had little time to focus on anything but the task at hand. Any image of him that the peasants had seen before was suddenly gone. He was Sir Darryk Clark again, and there was no sign of any Lord Regent present there.
“Hold him,” Darryk said.
Hektor and Bogden grabbed the preacher and pressed him down against the palace steps. Baryn tried to resist, but it was of no use; he was pinned down with a knee to his back and his hands were held against the stone, rendering him defenseless. Among the silence, Darryk paced again with his sword in hand. He appeared so determined, even the Lady Brunylda was gawking pryingly through the curtains, suddenly thankful that she had stayed to watch.
“It appears that I am not making myself clear,” Darryk said. “The peace will be held in Val Havyn... If I have to execute every rebel that defies the crown, then so be it! His majesty, King Rowan, has left House Clark in charge of his throne and, by the gods, House Clark will look after it if it costs me my life!”
The mob was listening intensely. And when Darryk looked upon them all, he noticed something right then. All his life, he was accustomed to gazes of respect and admiration. In the eyes of the Val Havyn citizens, however, he saw fear. They were indisputably afraid of him. And it was the final encouragement that he needed.
With one final exhale, Darryk made an unpredicted move.
He walked up to one of his guards and whispered something into his ear. The guard then rushed back into the palace, as Darryk turned his attention back to the frightened mob of citizens.
“However,” Darryk spoke up again, as every ear within a mile appeared to be locked on him. “Much like many of you, I’m sure, I am a man of truth… That is to say, I am one to recognize my own flaws when I am in the wrong…”
He glanced suddenly at the mad preacher; such a frail shivering figure compared the confident man he had been just minutes prior.
“Mister Baryn Lawe is right about one thing,” Darryk said, and it was such an unanticipated declaration, that even Lady Brunylda held herself back from taking any more sips from her flask.
You can do this, Darryk, the man told himself. And it was vivid in his eyes that he was struggling through the knot in his throat.
“I am not fit to be your Lord Regent,” he said, and it was followed by several confused stares and mutters. By then, it wasn’t just the angry mob that Darryk was worried about. Word about the rebellion had spread throughout the city and there were several peasants watching from afar, either out their windows or standing along one of the city streets. Within a few hours, the entire city would know about the failed Lord Regent. And, much to his surprise, Darryk Clark felt relieved rather than ashamed of the words he had just spoken aloud for the first time.
The palace doors opened suddenly… Brie walked out dressed in that same stylish red dress, holding in her hands an elegant silver box decorated with blue velvet on the inside. She walked down the steps towards Darryk and held the box out to him.
Come on, he told himself. You’re almost done… Get on with it…
“I, Darryk of House Clark,” he said as he gently removed the silver crown from his head. “Renounce the title of Lord Regent of Val Havyn…”
He placed the crown inside the box. Instantly, he felt the weight lift from his shoulders as his fingers brushed against the blue velvet. He knew, however, what removing the crown meant for him. He would never be crowned Lord of Roquefort, as word would most definitely reach his father of what had happened that night. He would be shunned for causing dishonor to his family and would most likely lose King Rowan’s blessing to marry Princess Magdalena.
It was the one thing he had been brought up to be, a Lord.
And he gave it all up the moment he let go of that silver crown.
Never in his life did he wish for a drink more than he did then…
“Ladies and gentlemen, it has been an honor to serve you all,” Darryk lied again. “But I’m afraid I cannot fulfill a role that I am not fit to take…”
He felt a knot in his throat once again, this time heavier than the last.
Say it, Darryk… Just bloody say it…
He took a deep breath.
“And so it is my sincere honor to appoint Lady Brunylda of House Clark… as the Lady Regent of Val Havyn.”
The silence lingered for what seemed like an hour. There weren’t just murmurs, there were glares shot at Darryk. Among them, several peasants asked each other questions such as ‘Is he serious?’ and ‘What in all hells did he just say?’
Darryk, on the other hand, held his stance just as well as he had done before.
“But, make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. The peace will be kept!” he said. “This city will be taken care of, I will see to it myself! I will serve our Lady Regent as knight commander of our city’s royal guard.”
He expected respect, but all Darryk got was a cluster of cold stares and worried faces. And, just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Baryn Lawe decided to speak up again.
“Blasphemy!” the mad preacher said as he lied face down against the palace stairs. “Are you bloody joking?! Appointing a woman as our Regent?!” Baryn snickered, but he underestimated Darryk’s resilience as a knight commander. “How dare you?! King Rowan would strike you down if he knew… You irreverent coward… No woman has ever been Lord Regent! Curse you and that wretched woman! House Clark should be burned to the ground for this!”
Darryk had suddenly heard enough. Without a moment of hesitation, he stepped towards Baryn with a frightening look in his eyes. “Hold him up,” he ordered his guards. Hektor and Bogden grabbed the preacher’s shoulders and lifted the man to his knees.
“W-What are you doing?” Baryn stuttered.
Another guard grabbed a fistful of Baryn’s hair and pulled his head down so that the back of the man’s neck would be exposed. Baryn began panicking in a way no citizen in Val Havyn had ever seen him panic. “Wait… N-No! Please! Mercy!” he said, his voice rising to a shrill cry.
“No!” Darryk shook his head; he’d never been fond of beheadings, particularly when the crime had merely been speaking too much. “His tongue…”
The mad preacher felt a sudden rush of relief,
but it was replaced by dread just seconds later when a gloved hand grabbed the tip of his tongue and forced it out of his mouth. He tried to protest, but his voice was no more than a muffled groan by then.
Sir Darryk Clark stepped forward, his sword at hand.
“Mister Baryn Lawe,” he said. “You have spoken ill of your Lady Regent… Now prepare to face your punishment…”
The preacher squealed in horror as the cold tip of Darryk’s blade touched the tender pink skin of his tongue. Darryk waited a moment, his eyes looking deeply into the preacher’s. You made me do this, he told him with his eyes.
All it took was one quick slice, and the preacher’s tongue flew into the air and onto the palace steps. The crowd watched in horror as the preacher fell to the floor, groaning and holding his mouth as the blood spewed down his jaw.
Darryk took a moment to observe them all, and it was the final affirmation he needed to know that he had made the right choice. They were frightened of him. Frightened of what he was capable of doing.
And it was exactly what he wanted; he’d tried to gain their respect the easy way, but Val Havyn had proven to be much more of a conservative city than Roquefort was. He had to resort to behaving like a soldier again.
“It appears you all may have misunderstood me,” he said, continuing to pace around a broken Baryn Lawe. For the rebelling peasants, it was as if they were looking at an entirely different man.
Darryk appeared firm and at ease, though on the inside he was on the verge of vomiting, as he always was whenever he killed or punished anyone. “The Lady Clark is your Lady Regent now!” he announced assertively. “And she will be treated with respect, as such.”
From above Lady Brunylda watched, dropping both her jaw and her flask of liqueur upon hearing Darryk’s words. She did not know exactly how to feel… All she knew, as she stood in that dark empty common room, was that there was no way in all hells she would be able to sleep that night…