A monk inched forward from behind the throne. Dagorat recognized his robes as those of an abbot, with the addition of a golden sash and an amulet of the Orb around his neck. That made sense; unlike Maynard, the abbot of Ethelton must be quite important, politically. After all, the Order had been founded here, and the monastery in Ethelton was still its nerve center. After a stealthy tug on Liberon’s sleeve, Dagorat whispered, “Who is that?”
Liberon whispered back, “I’ve never seen him before, but he must be the Grand Abbot Clementon. Head of the entire Order.”
“Why wait, Sire? Attack them now,” a courtier wearing a black sash said. He wore the tiniest hint of a smirk. Dagorat took an instant dislike to him.
Baldomir studied the man. “No, we will wait. The strength of the Golgent host is unknown, and our own numbers are not great. We can better do battle behind our walls.”
The courtier scowled, but gave a slight bow. Was it Dagorat’s imagination, or was there a hint of mockery in his stance? Regardless, the king either didn’t notice, or let it go.
“You,” Baldomir said to Cyril. “Why do you believe the Golgent have the strength for such an attack? We’ve only encountered small scattered bands in recent years.”
“Yes, to make you believe that they were incapable,” the mage replied. “To lull Easterly into sleep and comfort. We saw a portion of their host at the Gorthul Pass, and it is indeed formidable. Remember, the Golgent don’t make simple battle plans. They are rather patient, and the nature of the Orb’s theft reveals their willingness to pursue a long-term strategy.”
“What do you mean by the nature of the theft?” Baldomir said.
“It was done in such a manner as to prevent discovery,” Cyril said. “Since we are here now discussing their coming attack, we can say that we’ve already foiled that particular plan.”
Lhinthel nodded. “Our prophets see Ethelton under siege with you as king. Lightning, fire, death, and destruction raining upon you. I venture forth with a small band to verify this recent prophecy,” she said. “When this mage Cyril tells me of the Orb’s theft, I know that the prophecy shows not a distant future, but an immediate one. And so I visit Ethelton, and send word for regiments of Elven warriors to join us here.”
Baldomir sank deep into his throne. His hand rubbed his forehead, then his chin. He stared at the floor in front of Cyril and Lhinthel, then raised his head and shifted his gaze between the two of them. “When?”
“We have seen the armies of the Golgent, in the Gorthul Pass. They are staged and ready to march upon you. They were waiting for the Orb to arrive,” Cyril said. “Now that they have it, we can assume they’re making their final preparations. An attack could come any day.”
Baldomir sat in silence. The court stayed respectfully quiet at first, but people began to fidget when he stayed deep in thought. Dagorat found himself shifting from foot to foot. Can the king not make a decision? After a tense minute, the king rose and rolled his shoulders back, broad and square. “Commander of the Host, come forth!”
A man in full plate armor clanked forward and bowed to Baldomir.
“Ready our forces,” the king commanded. “Position the ballistae. Spread word to all smithies to drop their work and produce weaponry instead. Take account of our armory and dispense swords, arrows, and spears to all able citizens. Send scouts to the Pass, and send forth riders to collect more fighters from the countryside. None younger than their sixteenth year.”
The queen gaped at Plantagia, then at Baldomir. “Sixteenth year?” She placed a hand over her heart.
“Most of my subjects from the farming towns are excellent bowmen. Yet they’ll need some instruction with the sword. Go now, and make haste.” Baldomir dismissed the commander and gestured to a page. “Bring forth my armor, and Prince Kasomir’s. We’ll not be seen without it.” The page bowed and ran toward a door.
“Father,” Plantagia said, “shouldn’t they bring my armor as well?”
The page stopped short, and eyed the king for instruction. “No,” the queen snapped before Baldomir could answer.
The princess drew herself up, defiant and proud. “I have reached my sixteenth year.”
“No,” Suzanah repeated. She grabbed Plantagia’s hand. “Not my daughter.”
Plantagia squirmed away and hurried to stand next to the throne. Baldomir placed an arm around her shoulders. “She’d still be our child even if she had long gray hair. Yet she is a woman grown, and trained to fight as well as the next man.” He made a shooing gesture to the waiting page, who then scurried away. Baldomir approached the prince and princess, and placed his hands on their shoulders. The queen backed away and raised a handkerchief to her eyes. With a stern face, the king said, “My word is law. And all laws must bind our own family as well as the lowliest of subjects, or they are unjust laws. Fakir, are the crowds still out there?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“We will address them shortly.”
Fakir bowed and headed off toward the balcony.
Baldomir held the queen’s hand. “The affairs of state were always wearisome for you. Go and direct the staff to prepare a banquet for our guests.” Suzanah pressed her lips tight and walked off, still sniffling.
The servants entered with the armor, embossed with the crest of the house of Etheldreda – a golden image of the Orb circled by wings. Right there in the throne room, they readied the king, the prince, and the princess. The armor shone brightly, even in the subdued torchlight of the room. With his pauldrons in place, the king gestured to Lhinthel, and as a group they processed back toward the balcony. Dagorat and Cyril tailed behind, along with Liberon and a number of courtiers.
Fakir threw open the doors, and the crowd’s roars echoed all around the small space. Lhinthel, Baldomir and the royal children stepped out onto the balcony. The king raised his hand and the crowd quieted. “People of Ethelton and of the Easterlain realm. I have learned that the Golgent are planning an invasion, and a siege of this city.”
The expectant silence gave way to fearful murmurs. Baldomir took hold of Lhinthel’s hand and raised it high. “But the Elves stand with us!” The murmurs died down at that. “The evil ones from the north are about to learn a hard lesson. We’ll show them what valiant soldiers are bred in Easterly!”
A scattering of encouraging shouts sounded from below. The king leaned forward and bellowed, “We’ll meet their threat with more arrows, more swords, and more spears than they could possibly imagine! For we are Easterlains, and we show no fear!”
The mob erupted into fresh cheers, and a sense of resolve saturated the air. Dagorat had to hand it to Baldomir; he knew how to get people to follow him. But the king wasn’t done. “They will never cast a shadow on this blessed ground ever again.” Baldomir unsheathed his sword and raised it high into the air. “Prepare for battle!”
The resulting roar from below pounded against Dagorat’s temples. Despite himself, he joined in the tumult, raising his fist and letting out a war-cry. Even the courtiers applauded from behind.
***
Sudalya stood shoulder-to-shoulder among the crowds in the street, listening to the king’s speech. As the balcony doors closed, she feigned a happy face at those around her. If someone had asked her what the king had said, she could not have answered. She’d spent the entire time staring at the strapping young man standing at Baldomir’s shoulder. Someone nearby had named him as Prince Kasomir.
She’d studied the outline of his face, his strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. So fair and handsome he is. What would it be like, to run her fingers through his dark blonde hair? What if she teased at his ear, the way Connor did to her? She shuddered in pleasure, imagining how he’d react.
As the crowd dispersed, Sudalya wandered away, lost in her fantasy. She imagined dancing for him in his father’s throne room, shedding clothing piece by piece, until he could endure it no longer. After a clap of his hands ordered the room cleared, he’d have his way with her on the rug in front of the thro
ne. With each passionate thrust, she would gain more control over him. She’d been well-trained, after all. Lamortain and Xantasia had seen to that. Her heart beat faster. Armies rise or fall, but I will find victory.
***
Baldomir led the way back to the throne room and settled into his royal seat with a fire in his eyes. He cast an angry stare at Grand Abbot Clementon. “You said the Orb would be safe.”
“You understood the circumstances and agreed, Sire.” Clementon shuffled his feet. Behind the throne, the half-circle of courtiers had re-formed.
Dagorat poked Cyril from behind. He had wondered from the beginning why the Orb had been removed from the palace in the first place. Even Brother Maynard hadn’t known.
“What circumstances?” Cyril asked.
Clementon stepped up. “If I may, Sire.” A wave of the king’s hand gave him permission to proceed. The abbot held up three fingers. “Thrice, attempts have been made by Golgent agents to steal the Orb from the vault of this very palace. Therefore, we decided to keep it moving from abbey to abbey until two new vaults were built.”
It made an odd sort of sense, Dagorat supposed. “Making it difficult for future thieves. They’d have to break into three different vaults.”
“Precisely,” Clementon agreed.
Cyril shot a warning glance over his shoulder. But Dagorat refused to be silent. “Were these three attempts to steal the Orb feeble and ill-planned?”
The king and abbot gawked at each other. Clementon raised a brow. “How could you know that?”
Dagorat shook his head. “They never wanted to actually steal it from the royal palace. No, their goal was to make you worry about the Orb’s safety so that you would keep it somewhere else. Somewhere not so well-guarded. Now tell me, Brother, was it your own idea to move the Orb around? Or did someone else plant the suggestion?” He studied the courtiers arrayed behind the throne. One of them, a man standing on the edge of the half-circle on the right, stepped back and snuck behind the group. Then he started to edge toward the throne. With everyone’s attention on the exchange happening up front, no one was watching him. Except Dagorat. He hitched his thumb inside his belt and gripped his throwing dagger.
Clementon’s eyes shifted up and to the right. “Why…yes, come to think of it. Lord Mortinson presented the idea to me.” He scanned the crowd. “Where did he go?”
“Somra Lu Ketneglo!” Mortinson screamed. With a dagger held high, he charged at the king.
Plantagia leaped toward Mortinson and slid into his legs. He stumbled over her, and she quickly recovered her feet and landed a boot to his crotch. Mortinson bellowed and fell toward the throne. The king, now on his feet, seized the assassin’s hand and twisted his wrist hard until the dagger clattered to the floor.
Cyril aimed his staff at Mortinson. “Zimzoth!” A small ball of light shot out from the staff and penetrated the courtier’s body. Mortinson stiffened like a stone sculpture.
Out of the shocked and silent crowd, a short, wiry man wrestled his way forward and dove at Mortinson, plunging a dirk deep into his chest. Mortinson choked up a huge gout of blood, spraying the fine clothes of those nearby, then breathed his last.
Gentle-ladies screamed, and a stampede started for the exits. Panicked nobles ran over equally flustered servants, sending carafes of wine flying through the air to smash on the stone floor. Guards moved into position and surrounded the royal family. “Out! Clear the room!” their sergeant shouted.
A little late, you nobnoggin, Dagorat thought.
Sitting calmly on his throne, the king pointed to Lhinthel and the Mentirian entourage. “They may stay. And Master Milton as well.”
“May I always serve,” Milton said.
It was Mortinson’s killer. Dagorat studied the man. Why kill Mortinson? It was hardly necessary; Cyril had slept him, and he didn’t pose a further threat. Unless he knew something that Milton didn’t want told. Assassination. The best guarantee of silence.
“We thank you, Master Milton, for your daring and swift justice,” Plantagia said.
Milton placed an open hand on his heart and gave a bow. “I could not bear to see any harm done to my king.”
Katrina whispered to Dagorat, “He’s full of orc piss.”
CHAPTER 20
RED DESERT REZZIN
“COME,” BALDOMIR SAID. “I’VE ORDERED a small banquet to be prepared for us.” He led the way down the hall with Lhinthel at his side. Cyril, Dagorat, and Katrina followed close behind, while Liberon stayed further back with the other Elves. Interesting how nonchalant the king seemed after an attempt on his life. Dagorat supposed it must happen often, then. Not a surprise in this part of the world.
“We should go find a place to stay. We don’t belong here,” Katrina whispered to him.
Baldomir wheeled around, and pierced her with his royal gaze. “Of course you belong here.”
The king’s hearing was impressive. Katrina curtseyed. “We…we’re simple folk, Sire, unaccustomed to such splendor.”
“Perhaps, but you’re also the Mentirians that Lieutenant Lyghur told me about. After coming all this way to give warning to us, a small gesture of hospitality is the least I can do.”
She offered him a shy smile. “In that case, we will enjoy your company.”
They entered the banquet room, and a steward ushered them to stand by their seats. Musicians played a soft melody from one corner, and a great number of servants scurried about. Tall, slender windows of colored glass filled two of the walls. A horseshoe arrangement of three long, wooden tables lined the room. Dagorat ran a hand appreciatively along the edge of theirs. Despite lacking the splendor of Mentirian marble, it still spoke of fine craftsmanship. The tight-fitting joints, smooth feel, and gleaming shine made it as regal as any other banquet table in the world. Perhaps more impressive were the trays of assorted colorful cakes, accompanied by steaming pots of tea. His stomach growled audibly. All they’d had since meeting the Elves was trail rations – hard bread and dried, tasteless meat.
Grand Abbot Clementon moved to the center of the horseshoe, outstretched his hands and raised his face to the heavens. “O great Light, who hath made the food for us to feast upon. We give You thanks. Your bounty teaches us that You look upon our faith rather than our transgressions.”
“Pash budith,” some people responded in unison.
While the abbot continued the prayer, Dagorat discreetly scanned the room. Only the royal family, Liberon, Lhinthel, and a scattering of Elves bowed their heads. How odd; he’d thought all Elves would be devout, since they’d first brought the religion of the Light to humankind. The rest must not be followers of the Light, including Master Milton. He scowled in a far corner, clearly ill at ease.
Dagorat tapped his foot and leaned over to whisper to Cyril. “The king doesn’t seem like a bad sort, but shouldn’t he start making battle plans?”
“Perhaps. I sense he is wise and strong, but men like him don’t make hasty decisions or plans. Now shush.”
When the prayer ended, the guests settled into their seats. Servants scurried about the room, placing trays of foodstuffs on the tables. Simple fare, but varied enough to please all palates. Roasted meats and fowl, an array of vegetables, and even taters, or ground-apples, as Easterlains called them. Mashed and baked versions adorned the tables. Good, hearty food with little fuss – Easterlain cuisine at its finest. Dagorat dug in with relish. He thought back to the loud drunks at the tavern on the Solstice morn, mocking “a grand Easterlain feast.” The sight of this spread would shut them up.
A strange noise made him glance to his left. One of the younger royal children, Cyrene, played with a small sphere as she ate. She bounced it repeatedly on the floor, which made the odd sound.
Cyril tracked Dagorat’s line of sight. “What’s that?” he called to the girl.
She wiggled out of her seat, ran over and handed him the sphere. “It’s my bouncy ball.”
The mage examined the ball, squeezed it flat, and rel
eased. His eyes widened as the ball popped back to its original shape. He threw the toy to the floor and caught it upon its return. “Soft, pliable, and yet solid. What manner of material is this?” He handed it back to the princess.
“It is called rezzin,” Lhinthel said.
“But where does it come from?”
“The Red Desert,” Baldomir interjected.
Cyril arched a questioning brow. “You’ve ventured into the Red Desert? Amazing.”
“Hladomir told Etheldreda about rezzin and where to find it,” Baldomir said. “The knowledge has been passed down through the royal line ever since. I can’t take the credit for the actual journey, though. My loyal steward Fakir went on my behalf, many a long year ago.”
“Such great knowledge bestowed from Hladomir to Etheldreda is…is used for a child’s toy?” Cyril’s tone was so offended, Dagorat had to stifle a chuckle.
“The lightning attack of a dark mage is a deadly thing,” Lhinthel said. “Once it hits one person, it can jump to others. But rezzin absorbs the lightning, halts the attack. So yes, it is a perfect toy for an Easterlain princess.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Cyrene, who flashed a toothy grin and scampered back to her seat.
Baldomir unsheathed his sword and displayed the hilt to Cyril. “Unfortunately, rezzin is a rare commodity. We barely managed to get hold of enough for my own family and my commanders. Our hilts, the insides of our shields and armor, have all been treated. I can survive a lightning attack unharmed. Besides which, the polished surface of the sword can reflect the lightning back to the mage, and I will have one less enemy to worry about.”
“Is rezzin mined?” Cyril asked.
“No, it comes from a rare tree that only grows near the shores in the Desert. A small slice is made in the trunk, and the liquid seeps forth.”
Cyril scratched his head. “How do you get to the Desert and back, then? You would have to pass through Quintalian territory and pay a hefty tribute on goods.”
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