The Two Kings

by Marian Gray

  “Commander?” Torram caught his intentions. “What has happened to Iver the Eighth? Last I heard, he was Varund’s military commander.”

  “With the defeat of Ark Godromar, Iver was awarded Godromar’s lands, people, and title.” Svotheim held his composure, but the slight dip in his voice resonated with envy.

  “That was wise of Ulfur—with him aging and graying, Iver would have been a contender for his seat.” Torram turned to his brother. “The Varundian Ark is clever. Even now.”

  Erlend nodded his agreement.

  “Even now? In what way? You thought him too proud to call for allies?” Svotheim asked.

  “No, the two people who he chose as emissaries. You’re not elders. You’re not commanders or captains. You’re not blood. Those are all the usuals you send. You’re a cherished craftsman with an attractive slave from the land he wants to raid that most now know as a Daughter of Athiss. It adds depth to his request.”

  Heat swelled in my cheeks from his compliment, but I pushed aside the butterflies that built inside me. His tone made it sound as though he didn’t necessarily find me attractive, but rather that I was attractive in the conventional sense.

  But Torram was right. Ark Ulfur had said he chose the two of us to sail for specific reasons. We were simply figurines on his battle map that he moved around as he pleased. It was a thing all ambitious men did. Just Like King Sabanh of Sairasee had done with my father, and Iver had done with me. As people, we didn’t matter. Our worth was seen only by what we could provide them.

  “Or maybe it’s because Ark Ulfur is putting me to the test, seeing if I am capable of doing something with a much grander reward and responsibility,” Svotheim commented.

  “Like commander?” Torram shrugged. “Ark Ulfur doesn’t reward just based on merit. Come on, Svotheim. You should know this very well by now.”

  Svotheim’s face remained calm and unmoved, but the clenched fist in his lap told a different story. His knuckles were snow-white.

  “That may be true, but it’s not a unique trait amongst rulers,” Svotheim said. “It’s simply political strategy.” He sighed, releasing his fist. “Now, King Erlend, what is your answer to Varund’s request? Will you sail with us?”

  Despite Solvild’s warning, I still held my breath. I wanted Erlend to agree to send his men.

  The Temple, Iver, and Ark Ulfur had already given me some value beyond just a slave, whether they knew it or not. The Temple had told all the Norrender that I was the Daughter of Athiss. Iver had recognized my knowledge and powers, and Ulfur needed my face in order to reel in more raiders. If Erlend agreed, our success here would only propel my reputation. Piece by piece, I was rising above my title and gaining more worth and power.

  Freedom was on the horizon. All I needed to do was stay the course and then surrender myself to the Temple and the gods—whatever that meant.

  Erlend nodded in agreement. “You have my interest, Svotheim the Second. However, I am not certain how we can make a large impact in your numbers. We have an Esson King to the south of us that seems intent on taking our lands and pushing the Rekke people into the sea. He’s an abominable thorn in our sides.”

  “I understand and sympathize with your strife. But please, hear out my lord’s specific requests. We know the Rekke are vast in number compared to the other Norrender peoples. Ark Ulfur desires just five hundred men, as well as the boats to carry them. And, he asks that Torram head his armies as commander for this battle alone. We are striking those foreign shores not with hit-and-run raids but to conquer. There is rich land there that could alleviate our crowded coasts.”

  My breath caught. I had been under the impression this was a simple raid. When had their intentions shifted to something much more permanent?

  Erlend sighed. “I want to help, but my hands are tied. How can you ask for my men and my brother when the enemy is knocking at my door?”

  Svotheim gripped the cup before him. “What if this Esson threat were no longer in the picture? Would you consider it then?”

  King Erlend chuckled with a deep boom. “If you could make my enemy disappear, I would be more than happy to guide my sword in the direction of spoils and land.”

  XIV

  A Rekke Feast

  The evening air was warm and reminded me of Sairasee with its dry grasses and cracked-bark trees. Mithe and I would often play amongst them while my father worked outside. Every now and then, he would pause and watch us, laughing at our ridiculous games.

  I hadn’t heard that sound in over a decade, and sometimes it was difficult to remember its rhythm. I had to concentrate to hear the gentle, rolling ring, just as I did if I wanted to see his face. I always questioned whatever my mind would conjure though. Was the image right? Was it real? He had existed, but at times the memories felt more like figments of my imagination.

  “I hate hot evenings,” Svotheim said, fanning himself with his hand.

  “It’s not that bad,” I said as we pressed through the crowd.

  The tall windows within the large hall had been thrown open, allowing a gentle breeze to circulate throughout the grand white brick room. It was strong enough to move the heat, but not fast enough to replace the thick air with something fresher.

  Svotheim’s eyes lifted upward and remained. I followed his gaze to the barreled ceiling that was painted with a myriad of depictions. Nine to be exact. One for each of their gods, I assumed. My stare found Athiss in the center and held. He wasn’t depicted naked this time but wore crimson trousers and a white tunic hemmed in gold—Rekke colors. His long sword was raised at the ready in one hand, while his other arm held a scantily clad woman to him.

  “How soon do you think you’ll be ready to ride out?” Svotheim asked.

  “Ride out?”

  “To Essony.” His stare remained on the artwork.

  The idea smacked me hard. “You were serious about that?”

  “Absolutely. Why would you think otherwise?”

  I shook my head. This had to be a joke. “Because the idea is…” Ridiculous, absurd, laughable—there were too many to choose from. “I’m a slave. I’m not even a soldier, let alone an assassin.”

  “What? You believe you need to be trained in order to know how to kill someone?” He mocked me. “It’s very simple. You put the sharp pointy end of the blade into the other person’s body.”

  “If it were that simple, I think Erlend would have done it years ago.”

  “Maybe they wanted to, but they just didn’t have the right woman for the job.”

  “And you don’t either.” I wasn’t going to travel to a foreign land and kill someone I had never even seen before.

  His eyes narrowed upon me. Annoyance hung heavy on his lids. He didn’t like being told ‘no’.

  “Svotheim.” A familiar voice carried over the crowd. Solvild stood near the long hearth that ran the length of the hall. A rich scarlet tunic covered his poised frame. Gold embroidery decorated the hem, and several small chains looped around his neck. They dazzled in the firelight, polished to perfection.

  “Solvild.” Svotheim wheeled around to face his friend with a large smile spread across his lips. “I was hoping to see you this evening, figured we’d share a drink or two.”

  “You know I’d never pass up a goblet,” Solvild said as he and Svotheim shook wrists in greeting.

  “I must admit. It’s a bit unusual to see you in such finery.”

  “King Erlend is generous to his pets.” Solvild straightened his tunic, showing off a few choice rings. Both were encrusted with gems. “And you look so very…” He drew his lips in, not wanting to say what was on his mind. “Varundian.”

  Finely knitted black trousers, a plum tunic, and one long silver necklace with a circular pendant—Solvild wasn’t wrong. While Varundians did enjoy well-made and decorated items, the Rekke were far more flamboyant with their fashion. They wore their wealth as dazzling jewels and bright clothing colors.

  Svotheim chuckled at his frien
d’s response. “We simply prefer quality over attention.”

  Solvild rolled his eyes. “No, you all prefer to use as little as possible in case you might need it elsewhere.”

  “It’s called efficiency.”

  “Well, it’s boring and tedious, just like the city.”

  Svotheim’s jaw dropped. “I don’t remember you complaining much after your night out with a few of our soldiers.”

  Solvild grinned. “If there’s one thing Varund does better than the rest, it’s men. I’m not sure what is in the water over there, but you grow them well. I just enjoy a little more color and leisure in my life is all.”

  “So, you became the King’s steward? It may be colorful, sure, but I wouldn’t describe that position as leisurely.”

  He shrugged. “It does keep me on my toes, but I get to live a life of luxury thanks to King Erlend’s own expensive taste.” His hand drifted to his several golden necklaces and laced the links between his fingers. “Anyway, I didn’t come over just to badger you. You’ve been invited to sit at the King’s table for the evening.”

  “Oh? Pulled a few strings for me?”

  “No, actually, it was Prince Torram’s request.”

  Svotheim’s brow drew together. “Prince Torram? Why?”

  Solvild shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” His hand gestured toward the royal long table, stationed at the end of the white hall. “Shall we?”

  With Solvild leading the way, we plowed through the crowd with little struggle. Once we reached the table, I was struck by our placement. Our seats were suspiciously close to the center, a place reserved for the king’s favorites. Svotheim was right to question this undeserved honor.

  “Svotheim, Derethe.” King Erlend greeted us with his usual jovial smile and sparkling eyes. “Thank you for joining us.”

  We both bowed our heads in respect.

  “It’s an honor to be seated at your table,” Svotheim said.

  “I shall be on the wall should you need me,” I told Svotheim. It was customary for slaves to wait on the wall during formal feasts such as these.

  “No, the invitation was for you, too,” Prince Torram said. He sat at Erlend’s side, lounging in his usual careless splay. “Join us.”

  I glanced at Svotheim, unsure of what to do. He gave me a slight nod, indicating that I follow Prince Torram’s instructions.

  I swallowed down a deep breath as my body lowered into the stiff oak chair—only four spots away from the King himself. It was the first time I had been permitted at a table during a dinner, let alone a king’s feast. But this surely wasn’t for me. It was to honor Svotheim—to let him know that Erlend and Torram held Ark Ulfur and his messenger in such high regard that his slave could dine and drink with them as equals.

  Svotheim leaned over and whispered in my ear as our goblets were filled. “Our conversation about the Esson king isn’t over.”

  I turned to him with a glare. “You might as well whip me now, because I won’t—”

  A growing cling of silverware against a metal goblet filled the large hall, silencing me. King Erlend rose from his seat. His belly bulged from behind the tight-fitted pearl and gold tunic. “With the harvest season coming to an end, we celebrate a fruitful bounty.” The crowd cheered their king. “We have found ourselves within Fraith’s good graces for yet another year, and Rekkesov’s granaries are the fullest they’ve ever been. In her honor, we shall drink and feast, for it is she that has made our lands fertile and our crops grow. It is she that keeps us alive and our families growing. It is she that has made Rekkesov the envy of all.”

  His final words made the people go mad. Stomping the brick floor with their boots and hammering the tabletops with their silverware. I half-expected a retort from Svotheim, but he remained silent. His arms folded across his chest was his only protest to the claim.

  “Let us feast!” King Erlend yelled before sitting down.

  Nearly a hundred servants placed steaming platters of food on the many tables. The royal dining table was quickly filled with bowls and plates of delicacies and unique dishes. When the servants had finished laying it all out, there was practically enough for two or three people just sitting in front of me.

  As was proper, we all waited for King Erlend to take his first bite before we began eating, but he didn’t waste any time. His fork speared a bright red piece of meat, and he slipped the tender morsel between his lips. “Oh, he did it again,” Erlend said to his brother. “The venison is practically to die for.”

  The feast continued with little chatter along the table. Most were too focused on filling their bellies and draining their cups. But when the desserts began to roll out and the wine jugs were replaced, tongues loosened and forks slowed.

  “Derethe.” King Erlend turned his attention to me and, of course, the entire table followed. “Tell me about your land, Sairasee, and this peninsula that Ark Ulfur has his sights fixed on.”

  I shifted in my seat as a long row of gazes fixed on me. Almost all of them belonged to the richest and most powerful within Rekkesov. Svotheim licked his lips and scratched the back of his head—he was nervous about my response. Every word to King Erlend had to be precisely measured and pruned. We still hadn’t given up hope on our mission to secure his forces.

  I set my cup down before me while my mind rolled over what I could possibly say. “Well, Sairasee is a country that values tradition and strength through conformity. There are three main regions of the land: the woodlands, the midlands, and the highlands. Values and morals are the same across the country. For a long time, Sairasee has been a land of wilderness and weak rules, but that is changing.”

  Erlend took a sip from his goblet. “And how large is the city in which the king sits?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know exact figures. “Last time I was there, it looked to be about a quarter the size of Rekkesov.”

  The other guests laughed at this, but King Erlend maintained his composure. “And Ombria?”

  “Ombria is where all the riches of the region lie, if rumors be true.” I had never been to Ombria, but I heard many stories. “The west is filled with land so fertile that the soil is black and the grass grows in a vibrant bright green. The north is a mix of dry forest and mountains. Those mountains supply the entire peninsula with metals and gems. The east coast is where the capital and several large ports sit. It’s a bastion of trade.”

  “And the south?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what lies to the south. The country is vast—possibly two or three times larger than Sairasee.”

  “And how have they managed to hold such a profitable piece of land?” Torram asked.

  “Their army is well-trained, well-equipped, and well-paid. They haven’t lost a war in nearly a century.”

  Torram’s eyebrows raised with a smirk as he glanced at his brother. I meant for my tale to strike fear, but I believe it only sparked ambition with this new challenge.

  “Sairasee and her people sound weak,” a robust woman with a grating voice cut in. “No wonder you were captured. Perhaps it would be wiser for Ark Ulfur to raid your land first before your neighbors.”

  “They probably will,” I replied.

  King Erlend sent her a scolding look before turning to me. “Ignore Veny. She’s big, stupid, and lacks any charm.”

  Veny’s meaty torso was strapped in a gray tunic with a bronze necklace. Her hair was cut short, and what little length she had was pushed back away from her face. “She’s in our hall. She plays by our rules.”

  “Don’t insult my guests in my hall. Those are my rules. They are acting as Ark Ulfur’s emissaries and shall be treated as such.” The king’s voice boomed as he reprimanded her in front of the entire royal table. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she practically hissed.

  “Good.”

  Veny’s lips flattened into a fine line, defiant without uttering a word. Her gaze flicked to me as her head dipped. There was fire behind those eyes. />
  “I apologize on her behalf.” Erlend turned to Svotheim and me. “I wouldn’t put up with her if she wasn’t my cousin’s daughter.” He sucked back some miode. “She’s also a damn good soldier.”

  “Two battles doesn’t make her a good soldier,” Torram stated. “She’s hot-headed, quick-tongued, and if it weren’t for her size, I doubt she would have won as many fights as she has.”

  “I am right here,” Veny reminded them. “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak about me as though I can’t hear you.”

  A loud roar erupted at the end of the great hall. A few individuals rose from their seats to get a better look at what had sparked the commotion.

  One man stood tall with his shoulders back. His hands wrapped themselves into fists and his eyes stared down at another, still sitting on the bench. His face scrunched into a fine point of aggression. “Stand and fight!” Spittle burst from his mouth, spraying both the greasy tendrils along the side of his face and the stone floor before him.

  With wobbly balance, the other man rose onto his feet. He swung a leg over the bench and almost tripped when the second came to follow. It was Hafmar, the harbor master, but cleaner.

  “Put your hands up, you drunk.”

  Hafmar stood with his feet planted. “I’ll put my hands up when I’m ready. Right now, I’m just concentrating on standing.”

  The crowd laughed.

  Svotheim leaned in and whispered, “And the brawls begin.”

  The aggressor spat at Hafmar’s polished boots and raised his bony fists. His head was a mop of shaggy, dark yellow hair. It dipped around the shape of his face, revealing young features. “A joking tongue won’t win you a fistfight.” His feet shuffled fast, and he stepped in to land a jab. But his hand only made contact with the air.

  Hafmar stumbled to the side and weaved back upright.

  Again, the callow man advanced, and just as before, Hafmar swerved out of the way.