Dark Times

by Brian Murray

  “Captain, take ten men, circle his Highness. Have men either side, front and back. I will lead the rest of the men and will follow his Highness on horseback. We will bring his stallion in case he tires or we need to rush back to the palace.”

  “Yes sir,” said the captain, saluting, then barked out his orders. He chased after the emperor and deployed his men defensively around him. To Gordonia’s relief, he mounted his chestnut mare and followed his friend a safe distance behind.

  The group made their way slowly to the earth mound by the western gate. As they approached, they could hear the tell-tale signs of work underway. People from houses and shops stopped what they were doing, ventured out, and stood in astonishment when their emperor passed them. Most of the Kal-Pharina citizens bowed when he passed and in turn, the Chosen waved and smiled affectionately at them. They neared a bakery when the Chosen slowed, suddenly feeling hungry. “That smells good,” he said to Platos.

  “Aye, it smells good, and tastes even better.”

  “Do you have any coin?” asked the Chosen.

  “A little.”

  “Good, I am feeling hungry from all this walking.”

  “This is one of the best bakeries in the area. I use it myself.”

  General Gordonia nearly fell off his horse when he saw Rowet enter a bakery. Then he shook his head and smiled. Their adventures in the Kingdom over the past months had changed his friend and now nothing surprised the general.

  Inside the shop, the baker was busy, ducked below his counter. “I will be with you in a moment.” The Chosen stood patiently, looking around waiting for the baker to serve them. The baker was an elderly Tan-Phadrin with lighter skin tone than the Dar-Phadrin who lived on the Steppes. The old man with greying hair rose. “What can I . . . ” He did not finish his question, recognising the Chosen. He had only seen the man from a distance but he still recognised his emperor. He instantly fell to his knees.

  “Your greatness, you have blessed my bakery. I thank you.”

  Rowet peered over the counter at the baker who knelt on the floor bowing. “You cannot serve me on the floor, man. Please, rise.”

  The baker rose slowly, but kept his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him.

  “What is your name?”

  “My name is Ganq, your greatness.”

  “Well, Ganq relax. I am only another customer.”

  “What would you like, your greatness?”

  Rowet looked round at Platos, who nodded. “Ganq here makes good herbed bread, and even better pastries,” he answered, patting his own stomach.

  Ganq recognised Platos’s deep voice and looked up at him. “Platos?”

  “Morning, Ganq. I recommended your bakery to his Highness. We would like some of your herbed bread, warm of course, and some sweet pastries. Is that fine with you, your Highness?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “Good. We’ll have enough for three, please,” announced Platos, rubbing his hands together.

  “Three?” asked Rowet, frowning.

  Platos just patted his ample stomach.

  “Do you have enough coin for this?” whispered the Chosen softly.

  “Ganq, can you add this to my bill, please?”

  “I will not have my emperor paying.”

  “Please add this to my bill, Ganq,” insisted Platos.

  The baker turned to look at the blacksmith, who nodded. “I will, Platos.”

  Platos grinned at his emperor. “Now you owe me.”

  Rowet smiled at Platos, noticing the nod that passed between the smithy and the baker.

  The baker went back into his store, where Rowet assumed the ovens were located, and soon returned with some small steaming loaves. He handed the package to Platos, then busied himself collecting some pastries.

  Platos pulled out one of the small loaves and bit into the warm bread. Offering the package to Rowet, he pulled out a loaf and bit into the herb-rich brown bread. Rowet could not help but smile, chewing the rich bread with the juices flowing, teasing his senses. As the baker returned with the pastries, Platos finished his first small loaf. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Platos accepted the bag with the pastries.

  “Thank you, Ganq,” said Platos, his eyes wide with appreciation.

  “This is some of the finest bread I have ever had,” commented Rowet to the baker.

  The baker bowed. “Thank you, your greatness.”

  “I will have my cook pass by for a daily supply.”

  “I’ll be pleased to supply the palace, your greatness,” said the baker proudly, bowing his head.

  “Then it is done. Thank you again.”

  “No, thank you, your greatness, you honour me.”

  Both the Chosen and Platos left the bakery, eating their pastries. General Gordonia still could not help but chuckle at the change in his friend. Before his adventures to the Kingdom, the Chosen would hardly venture out of his palace, let alone visit a commoner. Everything had been brought to the Chosen and he wanted for nothing. Now the man, Rowet, needed the company of people—and this made him a stronger, whole, person.

  The procession continued down the road towards the city boundary. More and more citizens came out of their homes and shops to see their emperor boldly walk down the street. General Gordonia, following his emperor, noticed that his manner changed as he strolled down the streets. Initially, his eyes darted around, looking at everyone with suspicion. Now he swaggered down the road with a straight back and confidently waved, greeting strangers. But these strangers all had one thing in common—they were his people.

  Half an hour after leaving the forge, they reached the city boundary and the defensive mound. Platos and the Chosen climbed up the mound towards hundreds of toiling clansmen. Most of the men stopped their work and stood with open mouths, staring upon their emperor. None of them had been this close to their leader and here he stood amongst them, taking an interest in their work. Many of the men were confused over what to do; most just stood, motionless, gazing in awe at the emperor.

  Rowet walked up to a labourer who was giving out orders. “And what are you doing?”

  The young man turned. “What do you . . . ?” He stopped and stood motionless, staring at his emperor, his mouth gaping. Realisation stuck the Dar-Phadrin and he fell to his knees and bowed.

  “I’m sorry for my disrespect your greatness, please don’t have me slain. I didn’t know it was you.” Seeing their foreman fall to his knees, the other workers realised the man in the white leather leggings must, indeed, be their emperor and all of the labourers fell to their knees and bowed low.

  “What is your name?” asked the Chosen, standing over the foreman.

  “My name is Dalf, sire,” replied the young man, not lifting his head.

  “Dalf, rise.”

  The terrified worker looked up at his emperor, then at the huge man next to him. Platos saw the man’s worry and gave a discrete nod and reassuring smile. Dalf rose to his feet with his head still bowed.

  “That’s better. Now my friend here, Platos, my master armourer and I, would like to see the work that is being undertaken. We need a guide.”

  “It will be my honour to show you our efforts, your greatness,” replied Dalf, still in awe.

  Dalf was a Dar-Phadrin clansman, proud of his company of workers who would toil all day without complaint. But this was the first time they had worked in Kal-Pharina and someone had taken notice of their labour. Dalf looked around at his men and noticed that they were all still on their knees, bowing.

  “Cross-Swords, rise and continue your work,” he ordered.

  “The Cross-Swords clan?” asked the Chosen.

  “Yes, sire. We’re all from the Cross-Sword clan. I’m the chieftain’s son,” said Dalf, drawing himself up proudly to his full height.

  The Chosen paused for a moment. “Send my regards to your father, Zimbab. Is your mother better? Last time I visited your clan, she was not well.”

  “She’s fine,
your greatness. Thank you for asking.”

  “Good! Now about our tour . . . ”

  Dalf led the way, talking through the work that they had been commissioned to undertake. He stopped and commented, “I don’t usually ask questions about the work I’m doing, but I must say that part of the plans seem to be flawed.”

  The Chosen glanced at Platos, who just snorted through his nose in disgust.

  “Flawed?” snapped the master armourer.

  “We’re having problems with the trial models. The design has the sides sheered vertically.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “There’s the problem. There are no supports on the plans for the sides. The soil is compact, but in places the sides keep collapsing. We nearly lost a couple of men earlier today when one side collapsed on them.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked the Chosen, clearly concerned, when the three men arrived to inspect one of the catapults near the western gates.

  “Well, your greatness, I would increase the width of the model and build a wall to hold up the sides.”

  “Will that take longer?”

  “Yes your greatness. But it would be safer. I could get more men here, to speed up the work, and we can work during the night if permission is given.”

  “Do it,” decided the Chosen, strolling thoughtfully towards the model weapon. Just as he reached halfway, one of the sides of soil started to slide. At first only a few grains moved, but the slide swiftly grew. Dalf was the first to react. He slammed his back against the mound with his arms out wide, trying to reduce the slippage.

  “Get his highness out!” screamed the Cross-swords clansman frantically.

  Platos rushed in and pulled the Chosen from the model catapult. Both men turned around and saw the fine soil cover Dalf as he tried to retain the side. More and more soil continued to flow over the clansman, burying him. Other Cross-swords clansmen rushed forward, but Rowet shook free of Platos’s grip and rushed back in, reaching the slide first.

  Using his hands, the Chosen clawed at the loose brown soil, trying to reach Dalf. As he dug, Platos joined him. Within a few seconds, other clansmen joined in the rescue. The men clawed at the soil as more brown earth poured onto them. Platos tried to pull his emperor out of harm’s way, but Rowet continued to dig and would not leave.

  Seeing this, the Chosen’s personal guards charged in to assist their emperor.

  “Get some wood and poles!” shouted Platos.

  Two clansmen raced out and returned with wooden planks and poles.

  “Brace the top of the structure,” ordered the master armourer. The clansmen followed his orders. They slapped the wooden beams against the loose soil, while others braced them with the poles. Rowet and the imperial guards continued to dig with their hands. It was too dangerous to dig with tools in each they struck any of the trapped men.

  The men dug furiously and soon found Dalf’s torso. Rowet dug higher and cleared the earth from the clansman’s face. Another clansman found Dalf’s arm and soon he was pulled free. Dalf lay on the ground, his clothes, face, and hands covered in dirt. Suddenly he coughed, and a cheer went up from the other clansmen. Dalf slowly opened his eyes, rubbing the dirt from his face. He sat up and looked at his men. Turning his head, he saw his emperor’s white leggings and silk shirt were covered in brown stains. He smiled weakly.

  “Now I understand your concerns, Dalf,” commented the Chosen, relief evident in his eyes.

  “Can I make the changes?” spluttered the clansman, gingerly standing.

  “Yes, make whatever changes you think necessary.”

  The Chosen looked around the model, then turned and left the workmen, walking back with his guards. He mounted his horse and turned in his saddle. “Platos, I think you should stay here and supervise the changes.”

  Platos bowed deeply. “Yes sire, I will stay and see that everything is made safe.”

  ***

  General Brooks entered the king’s private chambers and bowed. Zane glanced up at his warlord from a report he was reading and smiled his crooked smile. His expression was obviously strained. He anxiously waited for news.

  “Anything?” Zane asked.

  “There’s no news yet from our scouts,” answered Brooks, taking a seat opposite his king.

  Zane sat for a while, gazing down at his hands. General Brooks studied the young king and could see the tell-tale signs of stress in his posture. His shoulders were hunched and tense, hands clenched into fists, and knuckles white. He waited patiently for his king to speak and shuffled in his seat to make himself comfortable.

  Zane cursed softly and rose from his chair. He walked around the desk and subconsciously poured two goblets of watered wine, handing one to Brooks. In silence, he returned to his desk and sat down, his shoulders still slightly hunching forward.

  “No news is good news, Zane.”

  Zane looked up at Brooks and could not help but smile at the older man. He knew Brooks was trying to cheer him up.

  “Aye, no news could be good news, but I know the army is coming. So in this case no news is bad,” he replied glumly. The young king sipped from his goblet, deep in thought, when a bang sounded. Zane nearly dropped his goblet from the loudness of the knock.

  Now annoyed, the young king snapped, “Come!”

  The door slammed open and a large man entered the room. “No need to be grouchy, boy,” barked Rayth, with a scowling look.

  “Rayth,” said Zane, his smile now genuine. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well,” he said, moving to take a seat next to General Brooks. “Greetings Brooks.”

  “Greetings Rayth.”

  Zane stared at his future father-in-law while he chatted with Brooks. “Rayth?”

  Rayth looked up at Zane as if the man had been disturbed from his own funeral. “Excuse me? I’m talking!” snapped the former axe-wielder sternly.

  Zane sat in shock while Rayth continued his conversation with General Brooks, but what else should he expect from the man? Rayth had no love for authority, he saw Zane as his future son-in-law and not as his king. As if chastised by his father, Zane again rose from his chair, walked around his desk, and poured a goblet of apple juice, handing it to Rayth.

  Rayth took the drink without breaking his conversation with Brooks.

  Zane returned to his desk, picked up another report, and started to read. It was not until he was half-way through the report did he realise the two men had stopped talking. It’s their turn to wait now, thought Zane smugly.

  “I don’t have all bloody day,” snapped Rayth tetchily.

  Slowly, Zane lowered the report so his eyes were visible to the others. He dared not lower it any further as a cheeky smirk grew. He raised an eyebrow to ask the question—what?

  “You may be the king of our lands, boy, but I can always change my mind,” said Rayth with an evil grin.

  Zane dropped the report, smile gone, his eyes wide open in disbelief. General Brooks could not help but chuckle. He knew exactly what the threat meant. It meant the tavern owner would refuse Zane permission to marry his daughter, Aurillia.

  “Now I’ve spoken to the Mistress and she believes she can help with your plans. I have requested she attend,” said Rayth. “She will be here shortly.”

  “That’s good to hear, but how?” asked Zane.

  “We believe your plan is sound, but . . . ” Rayth was interrupted by another knock at the door.

  Without waiting for a command to enter, Admiral Rendel marched into the room cursing, with Zorain, Captain of the City Watch. “I’ve just moored my ship, come straight here, and that bloody axe-wielder expects me to wait outside. Damn the man.”

  “Greetings Reedie, Zorain,” said Zane, smiling broadly. His circle was complete.

  “Yes, yes,” said Reedie, walking to the table and pouring himself a goblet of watered wine. He drank the drink in one gulp, then refilled his goblet. Now turning, he faced his liege.

  “Greetings, Zane. Good to see you we
ll.”

  “How was your journey?”

  “Uneventful thankfully. I can report that the princesses and General Gordonia arrived safely.”

  “Excellent. Please take a seat, there’s much to discuss.”

  Admiral Rendel said hello to General Brooks and was formally introduced to Rayth.

  “So you’re the legendary axe-wielder?” asked Reedie, looking at Rayth.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re to be his father-in-law,” said the admiral, almost laughing.

  Rayth smiled broadly at the term. “Aye.”

  “Well, good luck to you,” said Reedie, taking a seat next to the huge tavern owner.

  “Let’s get started. We’ve a lot to discuss, my friends,” said General Brooks, suppressing his own grin.

  Zane briefly related his dream, and the coming of the Dark One’s army.

  Reedie remained in silence when told the story, his face not giving away any emotion.

  Zane finished and waited for Reedie to respond. “Guard!” called the admiral.

  A guard entered the room, bowing low. “Yes, sire.”

  “More wine please. And tell them not so much water,” ordered Reedie.

  The guard closed the door and the muffled order for the wine could be heard being bellowed by the axe-wielder guard.

  “Are you sure?” was all Reedie asked.

  “Yes,” replied Zane.

  “Damnation,” cursed Reedie, shaking his head. “I thought we had seen the end of this saga. We stopped the Darklord—didn’t we?”

  “We only delayed the Darklord’s plans. The rite we interrupted was a devious trick and not the actual ritual to resurrect the Dark One. I believe the Dark One once again walks our lands,” explained Zane grimly.

  Someone knocked at the door. “Come!” snapped Zane, annoyed at being interrupted a third time.

  The door opened and Emyra entered the room. All of the men rose to their feet upon sight of her. Emyra looked at Rayth and smiled sweetly.

  “Zane, you remember Emyra, the mistress. Emyra, this is King Zane, General Brooks, Admiral Rendel, and you know Zorain, Captain of the City Watch.”

  Emyra shook hands and smiled sweetly at the men present. She sat down and looked Zane straight in the eye. “I believe I can be of assistance, your Highness,” she started.