A Coronation of Kings

by Samuel Stokes

*****

  Syrion awoke with a start, nearby voices interrupting his slumber. Heavy footsteps were thumping around the camp. There shouldn’t be anyone within a hundred miles of here, Syrion thought to himself. As he peered out of the lean to he could see a man kicking dirt on his fire to extinguish it. Bounding out of his lean to Syrion shouted at the newcomer. ‘What are you doing that for we’ll freeze without a fire?’

  ‘Oh ‘allo there, knew there was someone around here, where there’s smoke ere’s fire or so they say.’ Syrion took a look at the new comer. A dirty bandana pulled back his greasy hair, his worn and dirty clothes looked like they were made from an old sail and the accent he spoke with was totally alien to anything Syrion had previously heard. All-in-all, the stranger’s presence caused him great concern.

  The manner in which he was grasping the hilt of a wicked cutlass at his side did little to reassure the fledgling sorcerer. Erring on the side of caution, Syrion gestured at the now struggling fire and channeled a thought... Conflagrate! In response the flames leapt out of the pit growing rapidly in both size and intensity. The newcomer began screaming as he was caught in the sudden blaze.

  Seeing a second intruder he turned and willed the fire towards the new assailant who now had a weapon in hand and was charging towards him -the fire hurtled towards the foolish man. The assailant turned tail and attempted to flee but was consumed by the flames. A footstep behind him alerted him to the presence of a third unwanted guest. As Syrion turned to face the noise, his eyes caught a blur of motion, before something struck him heavily on the side of his skull. The world went black and the now powerless Astarii fell heavily to the ground unconscious.

  ‘That’s enough of that then,’ laughed the slaver, tucking the billy club back in his belt. The youth would be unconscious for hours. Perhaps he’d been a little heavy handed, but seeing Smitty and Dave burn alive had been enough warning that their prey was more of a threat than they had first thought. The remaining slavers made their way through the camp picking it clean of any possessions, and they stomped out the fire and tore down the lean to, leaving no sign that moments ago a camp had been present in the clearing.

  Two of the slavers bound their prize and the procession made their way down a steep path in the cliff to a small beach where their longboat was waiting. Manning their oars quietly, they cut quickly through the waves to a ship waiting at anchor. It was still dark on board with no lights to warn or signal its approach -it was clear that they had intended to approach unobserved.

  As the men scaled the vessels side, orders were barked from the quarterdeck and the crew leapt into action. The longboat was raised and secured and Syrion was carried down into the hold.

  Different to many ships of its vintage rather than endless banks of cannons, the guns at the rear portion of the ship had been removed and a bank of makeshift cells had been fitted. The old Valaaran frigate had been retrofitted into a floating jail. Without the weight of half her cannons to hold weigh her down, she was sleek and nimble, riding high in the water and able to outrun the much heavier vessels that made up the fleets of King’s Court and Tanamere.

  Emblazoned on her stern the words ‘Mistress of Misery’ were both a name and a promise of what lay in store for the poor souls who fell prey to her crew. Bound for the slave pits of Kashish, a worse fate could hardly be imagined for one of the free people of Valaar.

  On Valaar, slavery had been abolished for centuries. Whilst there were still serfs and servants, they were employed freely and paid for their labours. The people of Valaar, from the mighty to the meek, had rights that were sacrosanct -the violation of which would result in civil unrest and open rebellion.

  Syrion was dumped unceremoniously into one of the open cells. Before the burly sailor could close the gate, the first mate reappeared bearing a set of chains; on closer inspection, strange runes and glyphs could be seen carved into the harsh wrought iron surface. ‘Hold up Alistair! Put these on. Should this one awake without ‘em he’ll burn us to the waterline in moments. Gifted little pyromancer, it seems. He’ll fetch a fortune in Kashish.’

  The manacles were fitted and secured through a large bolt in the floor. The slavers stripped him of his possessions and his clothes, leaving only his simple linen pants to preserve his modesty. ‘Aye, sir. Check this out,’ Alistair called, rolling the unconscious boy onto his stomach.

  The burly seaman was pointing to a large tattoo that occupied the shoulder of their helpless captive. A golden dragon sat staring back at them with barred teeth and a menacing expression. ‘Incredible,’ the first mate responded. ‘Whoever did that piece was a master; it truly looks like the dragons of old. Maybe we can get him to tell us where he got it when he comes round.’

  ‘I don’t think the captain will delay our trip so you can get a new tattoo, sir’

  ‘I don’t mean now, you idiot! You never know when we’ll be back this way - maybe another time,’ the first mate mused quietly.

  *****

  Thumping pains pulsed through his head as Syrion slowly returned to consciousness. As he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, he quickly deduced his location. A ship-that explains the blasted rolling to and fro, he thought. Syrion’s stomach felt like he would hurl but whether it was the constant rising and falling on the waves or the certain concussion from what struck him in the side of the head he could not be sure.He only knew that this was certainly the worst state he could recall waking in, and that was saying something.

  The manacles clinked as Syrion lifted them. They certainly looked sturdy but an incantation would soon shift them Syrion thought as he stood to make his escape. It was difficult to focus with pain shooting through his skull and the efforts of standing nearly rendered him unconscious.

  Summoning his strength and leaning on the bars for support he pushed all other thoughts from his mind, this cell cannot hold me, he thought to himself. Focusing his thoughts, he willed the iron to shift shape to allow his wrists to pop free... but nothing happened.

  Refocusing his thoughts, he tried another incantation, less subtle this time, designed to shatter the chain links. Syrion felt the power flow through himself but dissipate as it made contact with the manacles. This time the runes and glyphs on their surface glowed an angry red color but did not budge an inch.

  ‘It must be some kind of enchantment,’ Syrion thought out loud. Although his power was growing with each day, he had very little experience with such devices. He’d had limited success enchanting some mundane items but something of this nature had never been available to study. Until I can discover the nature of the enchantment, I am not likely to be able to break it, Syrion thought to himself. With no other apparent options, Syrion resolved to attempt to reason with his captors.

  Taking a moment to summon his strength, Syrion cried out at the top of his lungs, ‘Captain! I wish to speak with the Captain!’ When no one appeared, he cried out again. The shouting only seemed to intensify the pounding sensation in his head. Not one to give up, Syrion took a different tack, he began running the wrought iron manacles back and forth across the jail cell, creating an unholy racket. The noise was deafening and caused his head to throb, but it soon yielded the desired result.

  After a few moments a deckhand descended the stairs leading from the main deck. ‘Oi cut that racket out! The captain is on his way. Much more o’ that though and he’ll toss you over the side, chains still attached and be done with you. No price is worth that incessant clanging.’

  Content that he’d made his point, Syrion waited in silence, leaning on the bars for support. After a few moments, a party descended the ladder and made their way over to the cell. The first down the ladder was a burly, barrel-chested individual - his fine apparel and perfectly shined boots set him apart from the ragtag mob assembled behind him. A large scar ran down his left cheek, the relic of a battle long ago. The wound added an air of menace to an already impressive man. The Captain made his way purposefully over to the cells.

  ‘What’s all
this about then? Demanding to see me, huh? I am Kastor, Captain of the Mistress and what would I want with you, ya scruffy little urchin?’

  ‘I am no urchin, Captain, nor did I ask to be here, your men beat and kidnapped me and now I awake to find myself here.’

  ‘Bit of tough luck there then. Urchin or not, we have you aboard, you’re bound for Kashish and you best get used to that thought. It’s a long and lonely sea between Valaar and Kashish. We’ll make a few more stops on the way of course to pick up a few friends for you to talk with, but you best reconcile yourself to the thought -there isn’t anyone out here to help you, boy.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone to help me, Captain. If you do not release me now, I’ll find a way out of these chains and when that happens you will all perish.’

  ‘Oh yes, Durales told me about your little trick with the fire. Unfortunately for you, those chains were forged by the Iron Ire Smiths, Dwarven folk with a talent for rune work. You aren’t the first magician we’ve bound and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Save your strength - you’ll need it for the pits in Kashish. If Eleen favors us, we’ll be there in less than a month...’

  ‘Hahaha,’ Syrion couldn’t contain himself. In spite of the pain, he burst out laughing so hard that he could barely stay on his feet.

  The slavers looked on in abject amazement; in their years of slaving, they had seen newly taken prizes react to their new station in many ways: fear, anger, uncontrollable weeping. They had even been spurned and spat upon. Never before had they been laughed at. The first mate Durales turned to the captain, ‘Perhaps I hit him too hard and he’s gone mad. It’s happened before.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ the Captain mused. ‘Boy, what is so funny? Care to share it with the rest of us?’

  Still laughing, Syrion endeavored to compose himself but failing miserably contented himself in getting out a few syllables between bursts of laughter. ‘You said Eleen...hahaha... bless our voyage...’

  Durales began nodding, content that his assessment was correct, and Syrion had indeed been rendered witless by the blow.

  ‘I did, pray tell, why is that so funny?’

  Syrion answered, his countenance changing from one of mirth to a more menacing visage. ‘It’s just the individual you just mentioned, I think you called her Eleen, the Patron Saint of Sailors right? Mistress of the Wind, Soul of the Storm and the embodiment of Natures’ Wrath, that Eleen right?

  ‘Aye, one and the same. Still doesn’t explain the laughter, boy.’

  Syrion met the captain’s gaze and replied in a cold, menacing tone, ‘Her name is rendered differently by the Valaar, they call her Elaina...She is my mother. When she discovers I am missing and tracks me here to this ship, amongst all of you, your blessed voyage will come to a world- shattering halt.’

  There was dead silence for a moment as Syrion’s words rang through the room. The captain held Syrion’s gaze for what seemed like an age before he too let out a hearty laugh and slapped his knee ‘That was a good one, boy. Almost had me going. Son of Eleen, hahaha, yes and I am the long lost King of Valaar.’

  The sailors joined in the laughing, but Syrion’s rage began to boil to the surface. ‘I am not playing with you, Kastor. When I do not return, she will seek me out. When that happens, you and your men will not live to see Kashish.’

  ‘I’m sure she will, boy, and when she does, we’ll pass her round the crew. They could use the company -it’s been a long trip after all.’ The slavers dissolved into fits of laughter as the slavers comments became even more lewd and debauched.

  The filthy comments stirred the blood within Syrion’s veins. Had he access to his powers, the anger flowing through him like a crashing river, would certainly have resulted in a torrent of destruction.

  Deep within, Syrion felt it again, the call of the Astarii calling to him from across the stars. The anger resonating within only seemed to strengthen the sensation. Where previously, it had been a fleeting feeling, it was now an all-consuming force threatening to cleave him in two. The feeling radiated through the centre of his being, and in so doing a revelation crystallized within his mind. ‘If I am Astarii, why do I to resist their call?’ Syrion embraced the sensation and a wave of power flowed through his body.

  Syrion felt it before he could see it - he knew at once the golden drake that usually idled lazily across his back was on the move. It stirred upwards towards his shoulders, Syrion watched with amazement as it grew, its mighty forelegs stretching down his arms concealing them beneath sleeves of shimmering scales. Likewise, Syrion’s legs gradually grew concealed by the shifting scales of its mighty hind legs.

  As the scales enclosed his bare feet talons formed where his toenails had once been, the wicked points of which dug into the deck beneath his feet. His body began to grow in bulk as the transformation continued.

  One of the slavers stirred from their levity and glanced towards him. As he spotted the glimmering gold of the scales, he cried out. ‘What in the hells is this?’ At his shout, the slavers turned and gazed upon their prisoner with a mixture of wonder and terror.

  As the golden scales of the dragon’s head moved up his neck, Syrion fixed his eyes on the captain, his last words were uttered with measured malice, ‘You have made a terrible mistake, Kastor.’ The scales covered his face and Syrion felt his senses sharpen.

  Syrion reveled as he felt his form shift and change, his mind expanding as his muscles increased in size and density beneath the scales. The talons on his forelegs flexed menacingly, the wrought iron manacles now resembled a child’s toy as his form continued to grow, the irons strained as his muscled limbs expanded against them, soon shattering completely.

  The slavers ran from the hold as Syrion’s draconian bulk continued to grow. With a swipe of his razor sharp talons he tore through the steel bars of the jail cell. The Golden Dragon broke free, sending shredded cell bars flying in every direction. With great striding motions, Syrion moved through the hold, but as he did so he stumbled, his growing form caught on the bulkheads. Turning his golden head, he spotted a pair of immense golden wings spreading behind him. ‘Wings!’ the thought filled Syrion with giddy delight. The ship began to roll as Syrion’s bulk unbalanced the vessel. Fearing that the vessel would sink with him still trapped inside its hull, Syrion launched himself at the wooden bulkheads of the ship, his talons tearing viciously at the timbers.

  The timbers splintered beneath his onslaught even as his immense bulk forced the ship to burst at its seams. The deck splintered apart and slavers scrambled overboard as the mighty golden dragon pressed its head through the shattered deck. Throwing his jaws wide, Syrion let out a guttural roar. The remaining slavers threw themselves into the water in terror, attempting to flee the horrifying creature.

  Pulling himself free of the hold, Syrion stretched his new wings taut, and after a few beats, he launched himself free of the ship. The battered vessel splintered apart as the dragon leapt into the sky. Waves crashed upon the broken vessel as it fell to pieces, scattering slavers and debris in every direction.

  Beating his mighty wings, Syrion took to the skies, surveying the wreckage below him and opened wide his jaws and let out a guttural roar. From deep within him, he could feel a sensation similar to the heat of a furnace burning within, but the heat felt brighter than the morning sun that now beat down on his golden scales.

  Without hesitation, Syrion unleashed a torrent of dragon fire that rolled over the sinking vessel, setting it ablaze and boiling the surface of the sea it contacted. Syrion knew the slavers would perish—if the monsters that dwelt in the sea didn’t consume them, their own fatigue would take them to a watery grave. Doubtless he had spared many innocents a life of misery by so doing. Guided by the sun, Syrion turned his gaze towards Tolanis. Joy filled his soul, displacing the hopelessness that he had felt only hours earlier. ‘Home, I must go home!’

  Clinging to a piece of debris, Kastor, Slave Captain of Kashish, watched in awe as the great golden dragon disappeared over
the horizon. ‘We will meet again, Son of Eleen...

  Chapter 21

  Outside of Belnair’s walls.

  Smoke and ash choked the air. The fields of Belnair were usually a vast spread of golden wheat swaying in the harvest breeze. Today the charred remnants of the fields stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. In the distance, guardsmen were working to contain the blaze but the damage had been done -the harvest wheat had been reduced to ashes and the usually overflowing tables of the Wolf would be sparsely spread this winter.

  ‘Another disappointing setback for our allies,’ Hitomi thought to herself as her envoy edged closer to the sprawling metropolis of Belnair. ‘If a few rebels can so thoroughly vex them, am I simply wasting my time with Falen?’The question sat heavily in the air unanswered. Alone as she was in the carriage,there would be no one to answer. Instead she dismissed the notion, Gerwold had moved closer to the throne than any man in the past hundred years.

  Hitomi’s purpose in visiting Belnair was twofold.First, she would cement her hold over the lovestruck Falen.Secondly, she wished to reveal to the Wolf the true identity of their foe. If nothing else, perhaps the Wolf would occupy their attention and buy the Mizumura enough time to develop a more permanent solution to their interference.

  As the envoy rolled towards the main gates of Belnair, the gates were thrown open and two companies of Wolf soldiers marched swiftly through the open portal, taking up positions around the carriage. At their head, a young man bearing a captain’s colors rode over to the halted carriage. Seeing Lady Hitomi’s disdain, he reined in. ‘Milady, my lord Falen begs your pardon for the delay but insists that you be escorted by an added measure of protection. These are dangerous times...even in Belnair.’

  ‘I appreciate your lord’s concern, but as the journey has been long and tedious already, I implore you to make haste.’

  ‘At once, Milady.’ With a crisp salute, the young man turned from the carriage and began barking a series of orders. In no time, the envoy was once more making its way towards the Black Iron Keep.