Brother, Betrayed

by Danielle Raver

  “King Syah!” the warrior next to him cried as Syah collapsed to the table.

  Syah’s knights started for him, but the old warrior with the scarred face and their host were to him first, setting him back and seeing that he was somewhat awake, but unaware.

  “We are foolish, his journey was long and hard and we sat him here gossiping over soldiers and men,” the young warrior said.

  “He is wounded,” the gruff voice warned. As Syah’s knights came to him, the warrior had opened and set aside his shirt, showing where the white bandage was red with blood.

  “He…” one of the knights started, trying to step forward.

  Estone easily lifted Syah up out of his chair and said, “We will take him to his quarters and let him rest.” The warrior looked to the knights who were standing nervously beside him. “I will send a healer to tend to him. You will begin to learn that Gorusk holds more than waste and death.” The knights, not knowing what he meant but having to trust him, held still. The warrior looked down to Syah and anger came over his face. “The villain who wounded him will know the wrath of the Black East.” The warrior met the gazes of the other leaders, who nodded. The knights followed him as he carried their prince’s sagging body deeper into the building.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  BLACK HEART

  Syah woke, sensing the weight in his mind eased. His body more alive, as if blood now pumped through tissue it neglected before. Opening his eyes, he saw a woman above him, her sleek black hair cascading around her face. Startled, she drew her hand back from his bare chest.

  Syah pushed himself upright and she moved back as he sat up.

  “What manner of dream are you?” Syah asked her.

  “I am a maiden of the rocky edge,” she said in a smooth, rich voice. The sadness and anger over the warriors of Gorusk did not darken her face.

  “Does my soul wander the abyss? Are you a sentinel of passage?”

  A look of concern came over the young woman’s face and she knelt closer to him. “My lord, no,” she said, setting her hand on his chest. Syah’s lightheartedness faded when she addressed him that way. “You rest in Estone’s quarters.” A pause in her voice revealed the thoughts hidden in her eyes. “What manner of dream are you,” she said finally, “to come to Gorusk and join us together under one king?”

  Syah looked at the walls, the ceiling, anything but her. The ache returned inside him. He saw the furs on him, warrior’s prizes upon the walls. He closed his eyes again and felt her withdraw her hand. But she did not leave. Syah’s eyes came back to her, but his vision had darkened and he saw no more curious beauty before him. A little of the sorrow of the Black Waste was in her eyes.

  “You were wounded deeply and you are weary,” she said, placing her hand over his wound.

  He felt the deep piercing ache there again. Syah looked back up to her, a swell of pain inside him twinged with anger. But he let the anger go and laid back fully, allowing the pain to engorge inside him again. He averted his eyes from her, his attention slipping away.

  “It is a deep wound,” she said, leaning towards him. Her words were only a beckon back into the grief and choking pain. She removed the bandage from his chest. He looked down at the red streak, seeing, once again, the sword of his father cut him there, thrusting into him.

  But as it was about to consume him, he felt the touch of her fingertips running feather-like on either side of the wound. He opened his eyes to her, pleading for release. Her eyes had changed, now aged, adamant and mysterious. Then she leaned forward over the wound and exhaled her cool breath over it. For a moment it was a whisper of air, a zephyr. But then her breath penetrated him. For an instant he thought he saw it, like a gust of snowy wind in a storm. It was numbing, the strange coolness traveling deep inside him.

  Just as he thought he felt it, it faded. She sat up beside him, watching him. His eyes grew wider on her, as if seeing her with clear vision might make him understand what happened. The numbness remained inside him, as some of the sharp pain was now forgotten. He glanced at the wound, seeing nothing different about it.

  Had she…

  Syah’s breath quickened. The maiden seemed to smile, a little, in her eyes. Then she replaced the bandage over Syah’s chest.

  “I should let you rest.” She felt the dark young man take hold of her hand. The pain was still there on his face, but he seemed aware, curious again.

  “Don’t go,” he said to her.

  “Yes, my lord,” she answered after a pause.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling her hand wrap around his. “Please, don’t call me your lord.”

  Syah opened his eyes, feeling strange, or normal which was strange, due to the persistent feelings that were now softened inside him. His thoughts touched on his plight, his shallow existence, his brother, the king, and the sword. He was distracted, remembering the young woman, her dark eyes and her breath… Sitting up, he looked around for her, but he was alone in the room. No, as he turned to a chair beside the bed, he found her peaceful and asleep. He was unable to read any of her mystery now. She had stayed with him. He felt a comfort inside as he laid his head back down, wondering at the time of day.

  Syah settled back down on the bed, letting that feeling of comfort warm him. His mind quieted and he went back to sleep.

  Denire waited a moment at the door, listening before he stepped into Syah’s room. Syah, as he heard, was awake and sitting up in the bed talking to a woman he recognized as the eldest leader’s daughter. He eyed her carefully then looked back to Syah, who had stopped talking when he saw Denire in the doorway. The knight saw the lighthearted expression on Syah’s face tense and darken. Denire, however, didn’t react.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” Denire said, his eyes glancing to the woman a moment. “I must speak with you, King Syah,” he said and the woman stood and nodded to Syah. Denire bowed to her as she left.

  “Are you well?” Denire asked and stepped up to the bed. Syah paused a moment and then nodded hesitantly. Denire sighed and then knelt beside him. “Syah, you must be cautious. I have been speaking with the leaders and their men all day. They have accepted you, but I fear that they plan to use you. They say that you are their king, but I do not know how much power they truly wield over to you.”

  “How are the soldiers?”

  “That is the better news of it,” Denire said. “They have insisted on giving us all lodgings, and they have treated us with marked hospitality. I think that is us, also, that they plan to use.”

  Syah turned away from Denire and he let out a long breath.

  “The tribes in the past have warred a great deal. Now that they have comprised, there is some hesitance in their relationships. I do not know what advice would be the best, whether you should appear to be strong before them, or whether you should be swayed greatly by their desires and suggestions.”

  “So they are using me as a figurehead.”

  “Perhaps,” Denire replied, “but they also take pride in calling you their king. They revere you, and know what you have accomplished.”

  Syah searched the room aimlessly.

  “When you are well, they have requested that you meet with the tribal commanders, as they are calling themselves now.”

  “Yes,” Syah whispered.

  Denire stayed a moment, watching him. “Is there anything that you need?”

  “No. Go look after the men. Make sure they are safe.”

  Denire held his pleasure inside that Syah had ordered him. The knight bowed and turned to leave.

  His mind was drugged as he listened to the ramblings and bickerings of the warlords echoing through the large wooden hall. He sat atop a thick wooden chair placed apart from them, watching the separate speakers pace as they made their arguments. But they were arguing with each other, including him very little. They were discussing the army, defenses, and exploits, with his knights contributing advice and cautions intermittently. They seemed to strut across the floor before
Syah. His mind went back, remembering counsels his father held. This seemed chaotic and disorganized compared to his father’s controlled meetings. A dark cloud, like pain, interrupted his thoughts. So, your mind returns there again. He lowered his gaze and let his mind retreat into darkness…

  “What?” a voice with foreign sternness startled him. His eyes refocused as he realized the voice had been his own. The tribe leaders were turning to him silently, as if they had forgotten he was there. He blinked at himself and his arms pushed him up and his legs adjusted beneath him as he stood. Something inside him had decided to wake him, and dread filled him as he wondered what it planned to do. Dizzily he stepped towards the warlords, almost dragging his body as he left the chair. It was searching for something…

  Estone gazed his direction purposefully. His stern voice echoed through the silence, though it was tamed with civility. “We were discussing the summer raids, your majesty,” the warlord explained.

  Syah stepped forward from the provisional throne with eyes and a face that pierced the men circling around him. The gathering of weathered warriors and soldiers seemed confused by his outburst, but was unaware that he was confused himself. “Summer raids?” he decided to ask, sensing the trouble to be near.

  The tribal leader continued slower, and Syah sensed the duel meaning of his words, “The traditional raids Gorusk must hold to support our meager hunting turnouts.”

  Syah held his anger, guessing now at its cause and intentions. Warning was in their leader’s eyes.

  “You can’t mean to raid Arnith,” Syah stated in a low, aggrieved tone towards their leader. His words still met all in the hall, and as he watched the elder warlord glance to his counterparts, Syah could sense his knights go rigid.

  Estone lowered his gaze as if he were choosing his words and stepped towards Syah. “Those are our ways. Our people depend on the resources gained from other lands.”

  “No,” Syah commanded, his anger no longer detained from his words. Impulsive gasps and grunts of disapproval echoed throughout the hall, but they only strengthened Syah’s resolve. “We will not invade Arnith.” The noises of discontent were replaced by a silence of vacillation.

  One of the warriors stepped forward, his face hard and burned by sun, but youth and strength still in his form. He looked away from Syah and lifted his arms to his fellow leaders. The warrior laughed a little, though there was no humor implied in it. “He wishes us to starve.”

  “Mandril…” Estone started, chastising.

  “What are we to do,” the warrior continued, “without the stores they provide for winter?”

  “There are other ways,” Syah pressed.

  “What other ways!” the warrior shouted as he turned on him.

  Syah cowered, but his body, his face held firm. What other ways? “The Dikartians,” he answered.

  A mocking grunt came from the harsh warrior. “The Dikartians are as pressed for supplies as we are. Arnith has advanced its borders so much that most of the hunting lands have been claimed. They have fields and farms enough to support their people two fold! The greed of Anteria would cause ruin to all tribes that resist them.” The warrior stopped, turned back from crowd and faced Syah. “We cannot allow suffering and starvation of our people because of them.”

  All their eyes went to the young king. A transformation came over Syah’s face, his form, his eyes. His anger was no longer from frustration and personal despair. Sternness and strength came from nobility and aged his skin, power and purpose straightened him, made him appear taller, stronger than any of his knights had ever seen him. His dark eyes gleamed with anger, but were proud and calm, as if he had already won. His voice was formidable, compelling the stones and mountains of Gorusk to yield their majesty to him. His resolute eyes moved to the dissenter, but saw all of them. “We will not invade Arnith while I am king.”

  The rebel shook his head, having to lower his gaze to regain his thoughts. But Estone beat him to the argument. “But my king,” the elder warrior appealed, “without the raids our people will want for much.”

  “There are other ways,” the commanding voice persisted.

  “You will lead us to ruin!” the younger warrior cried, and Syah looked over to his hot, wet eyes.

  “Mandril, no,” Estone commanded.

  “That will not happen,” Syah promised, unfaltering as the crude, rugged fighter moved nearer to him.

  “We cannot hear this, the words of this Arnithian brat!”

  “Mandril!”

  “He will ruin Gorusk. It was a mistake to bring him here!”

  “Mandril, enough,” Estone commanded.

  The warrior turned back towards Syah. “You care not for the people of Gorusk. You are not our king!” he yelled, reservations and caution overpowered by anger. His hand reached for his sword.

  Cries rose from the crowd and Syah’s knights sprung forward to defend him, alongside the warlords, but whether they came to protect or eliminate him, the young king could not tell.

  “Stop!” Syah’s voice demanded the approaching men as he focused on the rugged warrior coming towards him. “Do not interfere!” The knights and warlords halted as the air vibrated with Syah’s command, and the rushing executioner paused in surprise.

  “King Syah!” one of his knights objected, Denire?

  “He has a right to question my command.” Syah’s eyes left the warrior to the warlords stalled around them. “It is the Gorusk way. A warrior can challenge his chief in combat, if he feels his cause is unjust. Battle will determine whose words hold virtue.” Wordless murmurs rose through the crowd. Syah’s gaze returned to the killer, whose face had gone vacant in effect of his words. “The righteousness of cause will be proven by victory in combat, as is custom. Do you challenge me thus?”

  The killer straightened from his battle crouch, the fortitude of his perspective faltering as he stammered: “Y-yes…” But then he swallowed, raised his head. “Yes.”

  Syah nodded. “Very well.” The young king reached for the handle of the sword on his waist. “I accept.” His sword lifted from his sheath with a resounding ring, only adding to the silence of the expecting warlords and nervous knights. The onlookers were so still they could hear the quick thud of their hearts. Syah bowed to his opponent and the rough warrior bowed slightly in return. The witnesses each held their hand over their weapons, but stood back from their king and waited.

  With a cry, the warrior charged, but Syah didn’t move to dodge him. The warrior’s large, dark sword slashed down over his head towards the lean, waiting king. And as the sword came, Syah’s rose to meet it. His hands pivoted on his hilt and his sword twisted as he stepped to the side. The warrior’s sword swung downward and impaled the wood floor.

  The warrior recovered and eyed Syah, realizing that his target had barely moved. His face tightened and he pulled his sword free. Syah was still, his sword held poised before him with his dark eyes set, unblinking, on his challenger. The warrior pulled away and stepped back to plan his next attack. Syah’s sharp, shining eyes showed no nervousness, no calculating, but were sure and calm, as if the entire battle had already been played and he knew its outcome.

  The Gorusk warrior tried to picture him as a boy, a naïve, inexperienced runt, but he couldn’t help see him as a formidable enemy. Mandril crouched; he would teach him what a Gorusk warrior truly is. He sprung and slashed, but Syah was ready, and reacted, countered, and moved away with riling ease. The fighter did not pause, doubling his attacks as Syah blocked them. The warrior’s brows lowered, like some foreign beast set on its prey. He cried out fiercely and bombarded the pathetic trespassing boy with blow after blow that was repeatedly blocked. Then the boy hesitated, took a step back. The beast’s eyes widened, sensing weakness and cried out and swung in rage.

  The swing came at Syah, but he didn’t move his sword to block it. Bending a knee, he sank beneath the deadly path of the blade. Like a dancer, Syah caught the floor and then moved his arms, pivoting his sword and th
en swinging it over his grip. But his hands grasped it for the final delivery as it severed through his adversary’s arm.

  The Gorusk warrior cried in horror before the clinging sound of his sword went through the hall, followed by the audible thud of his detached hand landing beside it.

  As Syah stood, the man staggered and fell back hard, locking his severed stump tightly against his chest and hiding it from his sight. The man’s cries affected Syah’s muscles, but he approached him steadily. The knights tensed; his pace quickened and he raised his sword. The warrior noticed him and was silenced. Syah’s eyes flashed and his bloodied sword slashed down for the warrior’s neck.

  The warrior gasped, realizing Syah’s sword stopped next to his neck, and he could feel it ringing next to his skin. He raised his gaze fearfully up to Syah as he gasped back his breath.

  “You see that I have won,” Syah said in a low tone, keeping the man’s eyes. “Destiny has chosen my words to be worthy. Do you concede?”

  The man’s breath slowed enough so he could speak. “Ye… yes, my king,” he answered and lowered his gaze to the floor.

  Syah withdrew his sword and stepped away from him, looking towards the crowd of warriors and fighters gathering around him. “This man will not be harmed further,” Syah said as he took out a cloth to clean his sword, and he saw the warrior look up from his mutilated hand in surprise. “He was brave to stand up for his nation and to fight what he believed in, as is expected of all Gorusk citizens. He will not be punished for questioning the king. All lands and rights he possessed will remain his.” Syah turned, seeing the blanche of pain taking his face, but respect and gratitude were still visible on it. “Have him taken to be healed,” Syah ordered.