by Ari Marmell
Thus the men- and women-at-arms assigned to guard the gates took their duties seriously indeed, and while they were equally as excited at the return of the prodigal baronet as anyone else, they were none too happy at the notion of allowing a “filthy goblin” into the palace grounds.
Even after several of the soldiers had personally identified Nycolos as being precisely who he claimed to be, their reluctance to accept his companion failed to diminish. Finally he announced, loudly and clearly enough for the entire courtyard to hear, “The goblin’s name is Smim. I freed him from servitude to the wyrm. I have saved his life more than once on our travels, as he has saved mine. He has sworn fealty to me, and I have accepted his oath. He is my vassal. An attack on him is an attack on me. An insult to him is a spit in my face. And I will respond accordingly!
“Now, does anyone wish to challenge us?”
“What a fascinating interpretation of events,” Smim muttered, softly enough that only Nycolos’s enhanced hearing could possibly have caught the words. Nobody else spoke up, and the guards stepped aside, though many still wore expressions of deep misgiving.
The lawns beyond the wall were more palatial than the courtyard of a castle, with winding footpaths and marble fountains. And although that lawn required only a few moments to cross, a crowd had assembled on the broad palace steps by the time Nycolos and his entourage reached them. The great double door—gilded, but built of thick and reinforced wood that would frustrate all but the heaviest battering ram—stood wide, with courtiers in colorful finery and knights in the finest chain hauberks and heraldic tabards gathered to welcome Nycolos home.
The salutes were crisp, the cheers many, and he struggled to maintain a modest demeanor while accepting it all as his due.
“Oh, yes, indeed, Sir Nycolos. Welcome back.” The voice cut through other nearby greetings and shouts, or rather those greetings and shouts seemed to recoil from the venom saturating the otherwise polite tone. “And I hear you’ve returned with a new vassal. Seeing him for myself, I have to say that, for the first time, I understand why someone would throw in his lot with yours.”
She proceeded down the steps until she stood just before—and just one stair higher—than Nycolos. Hair and skin neither particularly light nor dark, her only outstanding features were the faint scar on her chin, her broad shoulders, and the intensity in her bearing. The sabre at her side boasted a well-worn hilt, shaped to her grip by long and frequent use, and she wore the chainmail of a knight, her red tabard sporting a rampant wyvern in black.
Nycolos would have wagered she’d never even laid eyes on such a creature in her life.
“Perhaps,” she finished as she drew to a halt, “you should have remained with his people. You might have found your place among them more to your taste.”
At a wild guess, the newcomer thought, taking her measure, this is someone with whom Nycolos Anvarri doesn’t get along.
Having only this briefest of assessments on which to act, he chose the path least likely to reveal his ignorance of the woman while, to his mind, most likely to offend her pride.
He stepped around her without a word and continued up the stairs. To judge by the gasps of astonishment from nearby onlookers, and the hiss of fury from between her own teeth, he’d chosen accurately.
She lashed out as he passed, her fingers grasping his shoulder with such strength that he would have bruised had his skin been only as strong as a human’s. “You should have stayed gone!” she spat angrily, keeping her tone low. “It matters nothing what deeds you claim to have accomplished while you were away! You disobeyed orders so you might run off and try to impress everyone. You’ve handed the position to me! Kortlaus is no threat, and after this stunt, you’ll never be—!”
“Dame Zirresca!” Another stranger’s voice, but this one boomed from the doorway with such force that Nycolos might have found it impressive even in his true form. Another armor-clad knight, this one far older and sporting a beard equal parts ash and coal, emerged from within the hall. “His Majesty has heard only the rumors that raced ahead of Sir Nycolos’s miraculous return. Please go at once and inform him of their veracity.”
The woman released her grip, snapped off a salute, and was gone without another word. Fortunately, Nycolos heard enough of the comments in the crowd to have identified the old warrior addressing him now.
He mimicked the salute he’d just seen, and which the city guards had directed his own way—right fist, clenched, held to his heart—and bowed his head. “Marshal Laszlan.”
Orban Laszlan, Crown Marshal to the king and commander of Kirresc’s armies, returned the salute. “I thank God for returning you to us, Sir Nycolos,” he said, loudly and with what seemed genuine feeling. They fell into step, marching through the double doors and into the great hall of the palace—partly by choice, partly pushed along by the crowd that had grown impatient with hovering around the entrance. He continued, far more softly, “Oh, Nycos, you foolish boy. What did you hope to accomplish? You’ll be fortunate to come out of this with your rank.”
Nycos? Was he to have yet another name he must remember to answer to? How many did humans need?
Even stranger, both Zirresca and Orban had suggested that Nycolos’s quest to hunt and slay the wyrm had been undertaken on his own, without the approval of his superiors. What did that mean? What had the man hoped to accomplish? What did it portend for his future?
The corridor passed beneath his tread as he pondered his answer. The carpet was lush, though trampled flat by the feet of years. Portraits, statues, and ornate sconces graced the walls between soaring arches of expertly crafted stone. The stairways were broad, yet wound tightly enough for defenders to lurk in wait against enemies climbing from below, and the windows, full of ornamental stained glass, were yet narrow and angled enough to function as arrowslits. Oztyerva was, indeed, an excellent blend of the decorative and the defensive.
“Have you at least brought it back?” Orban asked before Nycolos—Nycos?—could formulate a response.
And although he could hardly be certain, he had a grotesque, stomach-churning feeling, accompanied by a surge of agony in his chest and wrath in his soul, that he knew what “it” was.
“Marshal,” he began hesitantly, “I—”
Again their conversation, and those of the people gathered around them, was interrupted. Again the guards—this time it was those assigned to the entryway of the royal court and throne room itself—objected to the presence of a goblin in their midst. And again Nycolos had to give a speech in which he claimed Smim as his oathbound vassal.
“You heard him!” Orban’s bellow could have been, probably often was, audible clear across a practice- or battlefield. “Or do you deny the baronet’s right to accept fealty from any he deems worthy?”
“Forgive us, Crown Marshal,” the nearest of the men-at-arms begged. “It’s not his right we question, it’s just…” He waved helplessly, jogging his spear.
“Yes?”
“I… With your permission, I should at least obtain permission from His Majesty personally.”
“Stay your post. I will go speak to His Majesty about the situation.” Orban’s scowl was dark indeed. “Among other things.”
Ignoring the guardsman’s salute, the marshal pushed past him, hauled open the double door just wide enough to slip through, and stormed inside.
Nycolos stood in the midst of a throng of strangers who believed they knew him, and waited.
“I anticipate a bright and joyous sojourn here, Master,” the goblin commented, “replete with sunshine and celebration.”
“I’ve no intention of remaining here any longer than necessary,” Nycolos replied, squatting to whisper in Smim’s ear and ignoring the odd looks directed his way. “I’m quite sure we’ll be gone long before you’ve run out of sarcasm.”
“Oh, thank you, Master. That was indeed my greatest concern.”
“I thought it might be.”
“Nycos! By the gods, it really
is you!”
Oh, who in hell’s name is it now?!
The man shoving through the throng was, like Zirresca and the marshal, clad in the mail and tabard of a Kirresci knight, though his ensign was a deep brown boar on a field of forest green. His hair and full mustache, its narrow ends reaching down past his chin, were the color of straw. He all but crashed into Nycolos, enfolding him in a crushing embrace.
“Grgh!” Nycolos greeted him.
Apparently feeling the violent flinch, the blond knight released him as abruptly. “Are you well?”
“Wound,” he gasped, hand to the new surge of pain in his chest. “Not… quite healed yet.”
“I’m sorry, Nycos. I had no idea.”
Rather than screaming at him, as emotion demanded, Nycolos forced a smile. Clearly this was someone with whom he was expected to be friendly; best to play along with that. “No reason you should have. It’s good to see you again, too.”
The unnamed knight beamed, a second sun in miniature. “I want to hear everything! Every minute of your journey.”
“Yes, I’m… certain you’re not the only one.”
That brought on a broad, almost conspiratorial grin. “I’m sure I’m not. Mariscal, in particular. She’ll be overjoyed to see you again. And vice-versa, eh?” He actually elbowed Nycolos with that, though only lightly and carefully avoiding the injury.
Nycolos felt his own smile go a bit wan. Obviously he was supposed to know precisely what this fool was blathering about. This may prove more difficult than I anticipated. Perhaps I should—
The doors drifted open, an unfamiliar voice called his name, and the man who was currently Nycolos Anvarri had no more time to ponder the situation into which he’d gotten himself. Head held high, Smim and the strange knight each a pace or two behind him, he marched into the waiting throne room.
Chapter Nine
The throne room, actually a grand hall, was precisely as Nycolos expected after what he’d seen of the city and of Kirresci culture. Great velvet curtains, trimmed in gold, overhung the walls between the hall’s engaged columns. Several massive chandeliers cast their light across the chamber, growing ever brighter as they approached the thrones themselves. Of these there were two, seated upon a slightly raised dais beneath a canopy of royal purple. One was draped in black and, though well maintained, cleaned, and dusted, still somehow gave the impression that it had seen many years since its last use.
In the other sat His Majesty Hasyan III, King of Kirresc.
Even seated he was an imposing man—and must have been even more so in his youth—as well as a figure of sharp contrasts. His skin was dark, darker even than Nycolos’s own, almost obsidian; yet his hair and beard were an iron gray, his robes of office white trimmed in silver and gold. Even his thin crown was of silver, so that only his ermine-lined cloak of wine purple added any real color.
Despite the empty throne beside him, the monarch was not alone atop the dais. Marshal Laszlan stood at his left, hand on the king’s shoulder, leaning to whisper in his ear. So softly and so closely did he speak that even Nycolos had no chance of listening in. A pair of knights armed with shields and broadswords rather than the more popular sabres, royal purple tabards and cloaks worn atop their mail, stood to either side of the two old men.
Most of the throng that had congregated about Nycolos in the palace corridors were forbidden entrance, yet the throne room boasted crowd enough of its own. Nobles of greater or lesser rank had gathered by the dozens, as had various officers of the court, with more filtering in every moment. Most had assembled along the right-hand wall—or the left, if one were the king or atop his dais. A very few, however, stood upon the lower step of the dais itself. These, Nycolos assumed, were His Majesty’s advisors and helpers. A handful of others stood along the left wall, and these bore sufficient resemblance to the king that they must be his children or other blood relatives.
The blond-haired knight moved to join the bulk of the gathered souls on the right, and thanks to the greetings he exchanged with several, Nycolos finally overheard his name: Lord Kortlaus, not another mere knight but the baron of someplace called Urwath.
Of higher rank than Nycolos himself, then, but the man had treated him as a friend and equal. Useful to know.
The knight Dame Zirresca was present as well, glaring his way with undisguised enmity and occasionally exchanging whispers with a young man beside her. And also in the crowd was a willowy, brightly-clad woman with coppery hair who also stared his way—not with Zirresca’s anger but something more positive yet equally intense.
The “Mariscal” Kortlaus had mentioned, no doubt.
“Humans are complicated and bewildering entities, Smim,” he muttered to his servant.
“There are ways to make them much simpler, Master.”
“Not when they outnumber us this greatly.”
A tall, gaunt man of middle years, stepped forward from his spot beside the dais and rang a small crystalline bell. The chime was hardly an overbearing sound, yet all conversation in the throne room ceased.
“His Majesty thanks you all for attending to his summons at such short notice,” he decreed in a raspy but steady tone. “We begin, as always, by seeking the blessings of the gods on our endeavor.”
A second man, dressed in an ecclesiastical cassock of deepest blue, advanced. Built like a barrel and sporting a long, thick mustache but otherwise shaved bald, he would have seemed more appropriate in a smith’s apron than priestly raiment. Nonetheless he intoned a long prayer, beseeching the many deities of the Empyrean Choir—with particular devotion to Inoleare the Guardian, patron of those who would rule with a just hand, and to Palanian the Judge—for their favor.
Perhaps because the priest spoke on behalf of not just the king but all who attended court, he acknowledged the other faiths in his prayer as well, naming the “one God” Deiumulos and the animistic Vinnkasti a time or two, but that his own devotion rested entirely with the Empyrean Choir was blatantly clear.
Nycolos, maintaining his façade, refrained from rolling his eyes or sighing aloud. Humans and their gods…
Finally the priest’s benediction wound to an end, the gathered courtiers had all bowed their heads and intoned their proper amens. He retreated to the dais and the first man advanced once more.
“Thank you, Prelate Domatir.” The priest nodded in acknowledgment, and the speaker continued. “Sir Nycolos Anvarri, please come forward.”
I’m already standing right here in the middle of the room, you protocol-obsessed primate!
Nycolos approached, tried to estimate the proper distance from what he knew of various human cultures, and—hoping he wasn’t about to prove himself utterly ignorant of details he should well know—dropped to one knee before the throne.
“Rise, Baronet Nycolos.” His Majesty’s voice lacked the power of the marshal’s own thunderous bellow, but was even deeper of timbre. It was remarkable, at least for a human.
“First,” King Hasyan continued, “we wish you to know how grateful we are that the gods have guided you home safely. Most of us had despaired of ever seeing you again.” He smiled, then. “Though not all. Madam Balmorra told us you would return. We should have had more faith.”
One of those who stood beside the dais bowed her head. An ancient woman clad in stiff finery, she appeared to be made entirely of wrinkles and leather with a tuft of cotton hair. “The stars never lie, Your Majesty. They told me Sir Nycolos had a part yet to play in Kirresc’s tale.” She turned then to Nycolos and smiled, cracked lips revealing a mouth that, belying her overall mien, still contained most of its teeth.
Nycolos, however, felt his shoulders tighten and his stomach twist. A court astrologer? That, he hadn’t counted on. If her divinations were potent enough, might she discover his true nature?
Nothing in her expression suggested she saw anything but a battered young knight, returned from an arduous journey. He smiled in return and determined to keep close watch on this Balmorra.
/> “We have little doubt,” the king said, “that your tale is a wondrous one. Ballads will be sung for generations of the man who bested the dread Tzavalantzaval!”
Several cheers erupted throughout the assembly, Kortlaus’s the loudest among them. Mariscal’s hand twitched at the wrist as though eager to reach out.
At the same time, it took all Nycolos had not to double over before everyone and retch—not merely for the pain of his wound, though it indeed flared in taunting mockery, but at the sound of that name spoken from human lips.
The name he’d been forced to abandon along with all, save Smim, that had been his.
As before, the man who’d first spoken rang his crystal bell, and the noise of the court subsided.
“Yet however great your deeds may have been,” Hasyan told him, “you will suffer the consequences of your actions! To run off on your own with property of the crown, against the orders of your commander and without permission of your liege? When the court had yet even to decide what to do about the rapacious beast? This behavior does not befit a knight of Kirresc, let alone one who would be Crown Marshal!”
Again the crowd reacted. Kortlaus and several others muttered in discontent, and Mariscal frowned, deep and sorrowful. Zirresca, however, could not quite suppress a gloating smirk, and the nobleman beside her raised his brow as though studying some peculiar specimen.
“Rapacious beast” stuck hard in Nycolos’s craw. True he had only recently awakened from a slumber of decades, had hunted beyond the bounds of the Outermark to sate his hunger, but he hadn’t taken that much livestock or that many travelers from within Kirresc’s borders!