The WorldMight

by Cyril L. C. Bussiere

  As he crossed the main hall in what he felt was a dignified fashion, the guards on duty saluted him.

  “Prince Hobgard,” they shouted, fist to their chest.

  Hob’s shoulders stretched back a tad more and his steps became more assured. He entered the common quarters, walked past the official dining room and reached a small, unimpressive door that anyone not in the knowing would have thought to be a closet, well, except for the two guards stationed in front of it. The guards saluted him in the same fashion the others had. Hob nodded to them.

  “The king is expecting me,” he said, a hard confidence in his voice.

  The older of the two guards bowed slightly at the waist and pulled a large key ring from his belt.

  “Indeed, my Prince,” he replied.

  He selected a large, black key, unlocked the door and pried it open. The door opened onto a small, closet-sized space with a couple of wooden shelves on its walls and candles burning atop them. Where the closet’s back wall should have been, the first steps of a narrow stairwell stood. Hob had glimpsed at that room many times while accompanying his father to one meeting or another, but he had never been allowed in. The door always closed before him, leaving him with the vision of his father climbing those steps and the urge to follow him. Hob stepped into the small space and the door closed behind him. The lock resounded loudly and silence fell around him. His heart was beating fast, his hands felt moist, and a small trembling took his fingers. He knew he should not have been so emotional about it. It did not befit a king and it was his fate after all. Yet, he felt like the little boy he was the first time he saw his dad and the trusteds enter this most sacred of spaces. Except that where wonder had beaten hard in his chest then, a mix of anxious pride and nervous joy did now. He took a deep breath to quell his excitement and stepped onto the stairwell. He walked slowly up the three floors, dreams of grandeur and magnificent glory fighting for a place on his mental stage. Princesses would be rescued and seduced, countries conquered, new lands discovered. People would worship him and his name would be written for all eternity in the hard stones of great mountains. As he climbed the stairs, following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and his ancestors before them, a sense of divine destiny overtook him and he almost felt the Breath of Hethens at his back. He reached the top of the stairs where another small door and another guard awaited him. Hob stated his purpose and he was let through. Beyond the door was the narrow bridge that connected the Lord’s Tower to the main keep. He stood on the narrow ledge, a step away from the wooden planks that would lead him to his father. A gentle wind caressed his face and ruffled through his jacket and shirt. The medallion at his neck filled him with purpose and a newly realized sense of empowerment. From where he was, Hob could see the whole of Syndjya sprawling before him. Dark red rooftops with smoking chimneys stretched quietly before him. The many plazas of the city, draped in bright colors for the season’s passing festival, were already spotted with merchants and early shoppers. In the distance, the Leafload River sparkled in the morning light as it snaked its way around the outskirts of the city. Beyond it, the great forests and fields of Syn-dya spread to the horizon in a glorious patchwork of earthy tones. Hob raised his chin to the sky and, eyes closed, savored the moment.

  “Today is a glorious day,” he told himself, “Praise Hethens.”

  Peace and contentment dawned onto him now. A small, satisfied smile lit his features. He walked across the suspension bridge purposefully and, once in front of the council room’s door, knocked on it without a second thought. A couple of seconds later the door opened onto his father. He was dressed in official attire as well, and his crown graced his brow. Behind him, at the center of the circular room and occupying almost all of its space was the fabled Table of Breath.

  “Father,” Hob greeted his king with a small bow at the waist.

  “Hobgard,” his father replied with a nod. “Come in.”

  The king retreated toward the massive table’s head and sat on a large chair, not dissimilar to the throne in the official meeting room, albeit less imposing.

  “No trusteds,” Hob thought.

  “Close the door and have a seat,” his father said, pointing toward the chairs to his right.

  Hob sat down, leaving an empty chair between his father and himself. For some reason he felt it was the appropriate thing to do. At the head of the table, the king looked tired. The inscrutable expression on his face reminded Hob of the one that had befallen his mother before she left his quarters.

  “The hand of power,” a voice, less than a whisper, rumbled in the back of his mind.

  The words sounded familiar somehow and came with a slew of murky feelings in tow. Hob dismissed them instinctively. There was no time for such nonsense. He shifted in his seat and focused on his father again. The king was looking through one of the four openings in the stone wall. His stare lost as much in thoughts as in the scenery beyond. The air around Hob was slowly losing its joyfulness. The longer his father remained absorbed in his silent reflection, the more the absence of the trusteds bothered him. Eventually the king blinked and returned his gaze to Hob.

  “My son,” he started. “To be king is a grace and a burden.”

  A fatigued smile flashed across his features.

  “It is to serve the people and the land, to tirelessly work for their benefit and in doing so to never get lost in visions or abstract notions, however attractive they may be.”

  He raised his voice slightly. A passionate edge seeped into his tone and his eyes shone with the absurdity of faith.

  “Alymphia is nothing but its people,” he said.

  He paused for a second and scrutinized his son who suddenly felt uncomfortable and out of place.

  “Never forget it,” he continued. “This truth must be carved in your heart and be with you wherever you go, for you are a GrandJoy. To be king is sacrificing who you are to the benefit of those you serve, and doing so with enthusiasm and joy. We are nothing but the instruments of fate and our service requires much of us.”

  The king leaned forward and without realizing it Hob mimicked his father.

  “Humility, compassion, clear-headedness and, most importantly, the broadness of shoulder to bear our uncertainties, for they are many and they weigh greatly on us.”

  The king paused again. His mouth tightened slightly and under his crown his eyes glowed with a strange intensity.

  “I want you to understand, Hobgard,” he continued, placing his right hand in his son’s direction on the Table of Breath.

  “I, I do, father,” Hob replied, slightly taken aback but his father’s earnestness.

  These were things he had heard countless times before, from both his father and his many teachers and advisors. And yet, there was an unusual, disquieting quality to his father’s voice; a disturbing tenderness in the rugged hand extended toward him. The king got out of his seat and paced to the closest opening in the wall. He stood there for a moment, his back to his son, which, unbeknownst to Hob, was a sign of great inner conflict in the king. Hob shifted again in his chair. He put his hands, fingers interlaced, on the table only to bring them back down to his lap an instant later. He felt annoyed and puzzled, and could not figure out where his father was going with his speech. He wanted to ask him, cut the charade short. But he knew better than that and did not dare show disrespect to his king, for that was who was addressing him as he sat, rigid and confused, in the council room.

  “I need you to understand,” the king eventually continued without turning around to face his son. “A king lives a life of service; service and sacrifice.”

  His voice was somewhat distant now.

  “The greatest challenge to being a good king is us; us and the glorious ideas we so easily dress reality with. A trap many have fallen into, the Angry King being a prime example of what it leads to. Thinking of Alymphia in anything but in terms of Alymphians’ well-being is opening oneself to the treacheries of ideas of grandeur. As if Alymph
ia was itself something concrete, a reality of its own which deserves respect and our blood. It is not and does not, Hob.”

  The king turned around and looked down at his son.

  “Only Alymphians do, Hobgard. Ideas are worthless constructs, especially if driven by vanity, fear, or pride; things we must constantly battle with.”

  The king stepped toward the Table of Breath and, planting both of his fists on the smooth surface, he leaned toward his son.

  “Do you understand, Hobgard?” he asked once again, his voice loud in the confines of the council room.

  “Yes, I do, father,” Hob replied, feeling small sitting in the shadow of his king.

  “Good. For what is asked of us, what Alymphia needs from us is not an easy thing. A great sacrifice indeed. But it is to be done, for the good of our people.”

  Hob stayed quiet, unsure of what his father was talking about. From across the table his eyes fell on his father’s fists, large and virile, unmovable rocks, hands that could crush without really trying to.

  “The hand of power,” the whispers started again, drawing his attention away from his father and the council room. For a split second Hob was surrounded by an oppressive, depthless void. And above him, a semi-open, nightmarish hand was ineluctably dawning onto him. Its palm was compressing space around him as it descended and for a short moment Hob felt nothing. He was neither seeing nor hearing, neither thinking nor sensing. He was vacant, absent to himself and to the world. Then, the voice of his father ripped through the thoughtless and emotionless blanket that enveloped him.

  “Hobgard! Did you hear what I said?” the king boomed.

  From across the table the king was leaning closer to Hob than he was before. A concerned, maybe slightly angry, expression lined his face with sharp wrinkles. His eyes were a muddy reflection of too many things, the fire behind them unmistakably fierce. Hob’s mouth was open. His throat was tight and dry. He felt cold or maybe warm, he could not tell. Why was he so confused? His attention was drawn back to his father’s hands and a shiver of horror coursed through him.

  “The hand of fate!” the whispers broke out again.

  An unbearable feeling of despair gripped him. The hand would crush him, he knew it, and there was no escaping it. His stomach felt as if it was trying to convulse itself inside-out.

  “I don’t feel good,” he managed to think to himself as beads of cold sweat pooled at his hairline.

  “Hobgard!” his father called out again, anger lacing his voice this time.

  “Father?” Hob managed to force out of his throat.

  Somewhere at the periphery of his consciousness, he realized that his hands were trembling on his lap.

  “Did you hear what I said?” the king repeated.

  “What you said?” Hob let out slowly.

  His father looked exasperated now. He pushed himself off the Table of Breath. Towering over Hob, he crossed his arms over his chest and his face hardened.

  “Do not make this harder than it has to be, Hob,” he commended, a rough edge to his voice.

  Hob was confused. He really did not feel good. Something he had eaten the previous day, maybe?

  “Make what?” he asked slowly.

  The king’s mouth tightened, pitting his lips hard one against the other. His nostrils flared and something in the lines around his eyes shifted and contracted. He sighed heavily and looked out of the opening in the wall where the sun was peaking above the main keep’s roof. He returned his gaze on his son, steel in his eyes.

  “Aria shall be queen in your stead,” he said with the finality of a last breath.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Slopes of the Great Barrier, Alymphia

  Year Hundred and Thirty of the New Age.

  Master Baccus did not look well. His face was pale and ghostly and his stare was vacant. The temple runner walked rigidly and stumbled every few steps as he followed King Rhegard. He mumbled to himself every so often and looked like he was about to collapse at any moment. Prince Hedgard thought that he was getting worse with every passing minute, and although he had been told to expect such a thing to happen, it diminished in no ways his concerns.

  “I will give my all to protect you both,” Master Baccus had told them before sitting down in preparation for the battle.

  “And you will watch over him,” the king had said to his son.

  Shortly before the start of the assault, the temple runner had opened his eyes. His stare was distant and yet strangely focused. His breathing was even, but, despite the continuously falling rain, Prince Hedgard recognized the beads that pooled at his hairline as sweat. Whatever Master Baccus was doing, it was taxing him.

  “He will provide us with protection against the Undoers. And I believe he will do so from the Other World,” the king told his son.

  “Watch after him,” he repeated. “He will not be able to protect himself.”

  Soon they realized that the temple runner had become mostly unresponsive. When they talked to him, they had to repeat multiple times what they said before he acknowledged them. That worried Prince Hedgard greatly. They were about to sound the attack against the Sisterhood, they did not know what to expect from the enemy, and Master Baccus would have to be cared for like a child. Prince Hedgard did not like it. He had no experience on the battlefield, and for his first time the conditions were by large too strange and surreal for him. His father, on the other hand, did not seem distressed at all by their situation. He was pragmatically discussing the upcoming assault with his lords and did not show any concern.

  “The archers are in position, my king,” Lord Hanrt was reporting.

  “Good. Check on the Spear as well. We will launch the attack soon. Gewaltt!”

  The elite appeared, seemingly out of thin air.

  “My lord.”

  “Are the elites and archers in place?”

  “As you commanded. They are fanned out in the trees by the archers and will direct their arrows toward the enemies showing the least activity.”

  “Good. Rejoin your rank,” the king ordered.

  The elite seemed to hesitate for the briefest of moments. He shot a side look at Master Baccus and then was gone.

  “He must be worried about being away from the king,” Prince Hedgard thought.

  “Lord Calvert! To me,” the king called out.

  The captain of the Alymphian Army reached them at a fast jog.

  “My king.”

  “Launch the assault in five minutes. We will make our way toward the camp under cover of the foliage, ahead of you.”

  “Is that reasonable, my king?” Lord Calvert asked, visibly worried.

  “Master Baccus is looking after us. Go. Now.”

  The captain shot a dubious look at the absent-looking temple runner, gave a neutral grunt, and took off toward his unit.

  “Let’s go,” the king said to his son.

  Prince Hedgard took the temple runner by the arm and led him after his father. They snuck along the riverbank, to the right of the camp, ahead of the attack. The king led the way, sword in hand, and Prince Hedgard stayed back behind the temple runner. Large bushes and small trees provided cover and the heavy rain made their being detected all the more difficult; although Prince Hedgard doubted it would matter much in regard to what the temple runner had told them about the Sisterhood. They stopped by a large bush at the edge of the camp. From there they had a clear view of a good portion of the settlement. It was more or less organized in a circular pattern around a large, central fire pit. Small huts of different sizes and shapes were strewn about the camp between bushes and small copses of trees. Most huts were big enough to house two or three people, but not more. They had expected activity but there was no sign of life in the camp. For a minute nothing happened. The rain fell monotonously. The river to their right rolled down the Great Barrier in an angry rush. And every so often lightning scarred the black clouds above them and the roar of thunder cracked in their ears. Then the king pointed to their righ
t where the river bent left and out of view.

  “Over there,” he whispered above the constant drumming of the rain.

  Some twenty five yards away, fifteen or so females dressed in an assortment of aged leather pelts and plaited vines came into view. They held fire-hardened wooden stakes and clubs and moved about anxiously like nervous animals.

  “Gewaltt was right,” the king said. “They are expecting us.”

  His tone was grave and Prince Hedgard thought he discerned worry in his voice. Behind them, Master Baccus let out a grunt. They turned to him and found the temple runner looking much worse than he did only a minute ago. His eyelids flickered slightly and his eyes seemed lost beyond the space in front of him. His jaw twitched intermittently and his breathing was irregular.

  “It has started,” the king spat, something ferocious and hard in his voice.