The Kingmaker Contest

by Troy Clem

“Just get me out of here!” Dak exploded. Dak’s sudden anger made Theo’s heartbeat accelerate, but it was gone almost as fast as it came.

  “I guess we can talk when ya get settled,” said Tess, a little uneasy from Dak’s outburst. “Serv will get ya an apartment in the fortress.”

  Nagima looked in every cell as they all walked out, but she didn’t see Onqul. “Onqul is where?” she whispered to Theo.

  Theo got Tess’s attention. “We heard another Sigandar prisoner when we were in our cell,” he began.

  “I dunno anythin’ ‘bout that,” said Tess. “I jus’ became Vizier. Serv, ya know anythin’?”

  Dak walked a few yards further down the corridor as everyone else slowed to a stop; he turned back and waited impatiently for the others. Theo could feel Dak’s anger building again.

  Servantis nodded. “The guards said there is another prisoner: an old woman.” Servantis brought a torch close to one of the cells they’d walked past. Huddled in the furthest corner—still hard to make out, hiding in darkness—Onqul was cowering and shaking. She was covered in open cuts and battle wounds, and didn’t have her cloak.

  “Do ya want me ta release ‘er?” asked Tess. Servantis shot her a questioning look.

  “No,” Theo said quickly. “She’s dangerous. Never let her out.”

  “Whatever ya say,” said Tess, turning on her heel.

  Theo felt Dak’s anger fade away as they left the darkness of the dungeon.

  Servantis gave them an apartment to share in the king’s wing of the fortress—Tess’s request before returning to Pasqual. It had a common room with a fireplace, a view of the mountains, and four connected bed chambers. As soon as Servantis opened the door, Dak chose a bed chamber at random and shut himself in.

  “Is he alright?” Theo asked Nagima when they were alone in the main chamber. “I thought he was just acting weird because he was locked in that cell.”

  “Know I do not,” replied Nagima. “Shaken up he must be. Back to himself when he rises I hope he will return.”

  “Do you want to rest?”

  “Sleep I do not think I can.”

  Theo and Nagima walked the solemn corridors, seeing only the occasional guard. When they were quiet, they could hear the soft weeping of those mourning their loved ones. The smell of burnt flesh from the pyres outside seeped into the fortress through the seams of the giant entrance doors and the open arboretum.

  All the winding corridors led—eventually—to the hub of the expansive arboretum. “Here I like,” Nagima said when they were far enough in that you couldn’t see any of the fortress—if you didn’t look up—and the sounds were those of nature. It was like they were in one of the small forest groves that could be found secluded between mountain peaks. Above them, the great oak towered hundreds of feet higher than anything else.

  Around the arboretum—starting above the tops of the ordinary-sized trees—were dozens of balconies that looked out over the private forest. “Perhaps Servantis can find us accommodations there,” Theo said, pointing up.

  “From afar I do not wish to see the forest. From within is the only way to know it.” Nagima walked toward the great oak. “One thing there is that I want to do.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Rituals the Sigandar have many, but of one important ritual this oak reminds me. Buried the Sha must be under a mighty tree.”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t do that for her.”

  “The ritual we can still perform. Her body we do not need.”

  Nagima found a stick that had fallen from the great oak, got on her hands and knees, and used the stick to dig a small hole in the ground by the base of the tree’s trunk. She rotated her colorful cloak around her body until she arrived at a particular patch of forest-green fabric amongst the sea of colored fragments. She carefully tore it off along its seam, ensuring she didn’t disturb the other swatches—leaving a small hole in the otherwise colorful cloak. “This piece Danaje sewed on when began my apprenticeship.” She placed it solemnly into the hole. “Strong memories it contains.” Nagima covered the hole—the cloth inside—with dirt. She took a dagger from her cloak, cut her palm, and turned to Theo with eyebrows raised.

  Theo held his palm out to Nagima and she cut it, too, with her dagger.

  Nagima dripped her blood on the newly-packed soil and Theo did the same, wetting it slightly. In the blood-wet dirt she etched a Sigandar rune. Then she stood and took Theo’s cut hand. “Eternal life is given to those who have earned it through sacrifice. Worthy are these memories to prove her greatness. With this rune, entry her soul will be given to reside over us in this most mighty giant.” Nagima pressed Theo’s palm onto the trunk of the tree, then pressed her own right above—mixing their dripping blood together on the bark. She pulled their hands away, then drew a rune in the blended blood on the trunk to match the one in the dirt.

  Nagima sidled up to Theo and leaned against him, resting her head on the top of his. Theo smiled as they watched the blood-rune on the oak tree absorb into the bark and disappear.

  “You I love,” whispered Nagima. Theo said nothing; he knew she wasn’t talking to him.

  Thank you!

  If you enjoyed this book—and have the time—please leave a review on Amazon or your favorite book website. Your reviews make a world of difference, and even a line or two will have a powerful effect.

  Acknowledgments

  My wife deserves more thanks than I can fit on a page. She is the most important person in my life. She is also my very gracious editor. She read all the terrible versions that came before, and painstakingly edited the book for months. She put her blood, sweat, and tears into making my vision come to life. Thank you Mandie, a billion times. I couldn’t possibly express my gratitude to you. I love you.

  Thank you to my kids for being good and letting me write—sometimes—instead of playing with them. I love you both to the moon and back.

  Thank you to my parents for the unending encouragement, support, and advice. I wouldn’t be who I am without you.

  A special thank you to my mom for proofreading and giving critical notes.

  And, like Richard Dean Anderson in any movie where he isn’t the headliner, the last credit goes to Uncle Joey. Thank you for asking how you could help so many years ago, and for still calling to make sure I’m writing.

  About the Author

  An emerging figure in contemporary prose, Troy Clem was born in Orange County, California, in the late 1980s. He was raised on a steady diet of science fiction, fantasy, graphic novels, and pop culture, which has calcified his unique writing aesthetic. He relocated to the San Francisco Bay Area after graduating with a Film degree from San Francisco State University, and lives there today with his wife and two children. Having written throughout his lifetime for various journalism, film, and online ventures, The Kingmaker Contest is Troy’s first commercial novel.

  Connect with Troy Clem at troyclem.com.

  Stay tuned for Part Two of The Source of Magic series, coming late 2019.