****
The Prince lay gasping out what little remained of his life on the forest floor, a boar spear embedded in his chest and pinning him to the turf. The purple ribbon on the shaft proclaiming boldly that the offending weapon belonged to his best friend and most faithful servant, but that could not be possible; it must be an accident or a mistake, but the ribbon flapped unabashedly in the stiff breeze and declared the perpetrator for all the world to see. His various companions stood over him helplessly, wearing varying expressions of horror, pity, and fear. He almost wanted to laugh at their discomfiture, but found the situation too hideous and the act too painful. Just then, the company parted and his cousin Ike loomed over him with the alleged miscreant held firmly before him, proclaiming triumphantly, “fear not Highness, the traitor did not get far, though it will do you little enough good, I am afraid.” He tried to make his voice doleful but there was an undeniable note of triumph in his voice, perhaps at catching the offender, or was it something else?
The Prince turned stricken eyes upon his dearest friend and exhaled in relief, though the lad was horrified, there was no malice or triumph in his gaze. Whatever had happened, the boy had not done it intentionally, at least with that knowledge he could die in peace, though the news would grieve his father terribly and leave the crown without an heir, at least he had not been betrayed by those dearest to him. The darkness finally won out, the Prince moaned quietly, and passed from all mortal striving. Ike smirked down at his dead cousin, his triumph no longer hidden, as he threw his captive to the ground beside the deceased Prince.
Bayard glared up at the traitorous young lord and said quietly, “your treachery will come to naught.”
Ike’s smirk became malicious, “so says the one who murdered the crown prince? That is boldness indeed.” He turned to his companions, fingering the fateful shaft, “what did you see my friends? Is this not the spear of this overbold and accusing wretch? Did he not kill our beloved Prince, his dearest friend and benefactor?”
The others murmured their hesitant agreement, none having seen exactly what had happened, but knowing at least that that particular spear belonged to the accused. Bayard said defiantly, “it may perhaps be my weapon but my hand did not hold the shaft nor cast the spear. It was your own hand that moved against your cousin that you might claim the throne in his stead, but the King will never allow such a one as you to wear the crown, regardless of blood...” Bayard cut off with a strangled gurgle as Ike clutched the Messenger’s throat.
Snarled Ike, “I will have no more of your vile lies, traitor.” Their companions drew back uneasily and exchanged horrified looks, wondering who or what to believe. Ike growled, “who will you believe? Me, who you have known your entire life and know to be of noble blood, or this wretched upstart from who knows where?” They stared at him with wide eyes and began to back away. Ike roared in fury and cast Bayard again to the ground, this time reaching for his sword and turning to face the cowards who would not stand and declare the truth. This was too much for the cowed hunting party and each was immediately in his saddle and galloping off in blind terror in a different direction. Snarling imprecations under his breath, Ike turned back to the gasping Bayard, whose ruined throat bore noisy testimony, with each rattling breath, to the strength of his gasp. Ike smiled slowly at his foe’s distress, knowing the fool would soon follow his friend into eternity, but he did not have time to watch, he must reach the King before the cowards who had flown before him with this grievous news. He gave the stricken boy a last, malicious grin and then mounted his horse and sped to the King.
Bayard lay gasping for a moment, but soon enough he was hale and whole once more. He stood and pulled the spear from the stricken Prince, looking down with a mixture of pity and joy upon his blankly staring friend. In preparation for his assumption of the crown one day, the Prince had sought out the Stone earlier that summer, though now the crown would never be his, neither would death have its due. An azure light engulfed Bayard’s hand as he knelt beside the dead prince and pressed his glowing palm to the lad’s chest. The horrid wound knit itself together and the prince drew a long, shuddering breath as his eyes blinked in amazement. He looked up into the eyes of his friend and smiled wanly, said he with a wry grin, “what will my father say?”
Bayard shook his head ruefully, but offered the former prince a hand and helped him to his feet. Said he quietly, “he will sorrow at his loss yet rejoice that he has not lost you utterly.” Bayard smiled reminiscently, “besides, he has seen far stranger things than this.”
Brinn smiled sadly, “I suppose he has at that.” He frowned at Bayard and then a mischievous smile blossomed, “and you have never been what I assumed you to be.”
Bayard grinned in echo of his friend, “aye and nay, aye and nay, I have truly been your friend, servant, and faithful companion these past years, but it was you who assumed me to be simply a mortal man.”
Brinn laughed warmly, “and I suppose my father was well aware of your deception?”
Bayard grinned impishly, “he and about fifty other people who have been involved in this from the start. You are far from alone my friend, and neither is your father. As tragic as this news shall be to him, it is far from devastating. Come, we had best seek him out before your treacherous cousin finds him.”
Brinn frowned in consternation, knowing their horses were likely long fled with the ruckus that had ensued during his murder. But Bayard’s horse walked up as if called, but before they could address the issue of Brinn’s mount, a far more intimidating crisis loomed out of the murk of the surrounding trees. An elfin knight, astride a great horse, towered over the boys but Brinn only showed the slightest traces of fear, rather he felt far more astonishment at his own relative calm in the presence of such an awful warrior; he mused grimly that he had already been murdered that day, what worse could this fell knight inflict upon him? He exchanged a rather amused grin with Bayard and then turned to face the intruder, said he without hesitation or quaver, “how may we be of service, Sir Knight?”
The elf studied the pair with a thoughtful frown, snarled he at last, “I seek the son of the usurper King for my Lady. A dreadful trick was played upon her some years ago and now she demands recompense. He will marry my Lady’s daughter and thus cede this realm to her or his blood shall be spilled in payment of his father’s betrayal.”
The boys exchanged an impish grin, not at all befitting the grim words of this fell messenger, but they could not help themselves. Said Bayard with a roguish smile, “I will leave you two to your business then, I must tell the King of all that has happened this day before your renegade cousin has that pleasure.” He bowed to them both, mounted his horse, and was off like the wind with the uncanny speed of his kind.
The remaining pair actually exchanged a quizzical look before the Knight growled, “good riddance, that wretched youth was at the heart of the deception that so deceived my aggrieved Lady.” He turned a grim eye upon Brinn, said he, “are you not the only son and heir of the upstart King?”
Brinn grinned insolently, “I am the only son of my father, the King, but he is hardly a usurper or rebel.”
The Knight nodded gravely, “and will you take the offer so magnanimously granted by my Lady? Will you have her only child to wife?”
Brinn frowned, “how is it your Lady would deign to allow her daughter to wed a mortal? It can only be a scheme to lay claim to this realm upon my own assumption of the throne.” He cocked an eyebrow quizzically, “and I do not doubt my own demise would follow not long after, leaving your Lady legal heir to the Kingdom and her daughter free to marry again.” He glared at the Knight, “it is death for me, either now or later, but I will not give your Lady my father’s realm. Do your worst Knight and let your Lady’s pathetic idea of justice be satisfied.” The Knight studied the boy for a few moments, rather taken aback that the wretched creature had so easily figured out his Lady’s scheme, but then shrugged indiffere
ntly, what was one mortal more or less, and drew his sword.
Bayard easily reached the palace before any of the hunting party and hastened to find the King. He was well known both as companion to the Prince and also as a long time confidant of the King, so none dared hinder his passing or delay him with insipid excuses, for if he wished to see the King, the matter must be urgent indeed. He found the King alone, save for his usual retinue of servants, guards, and advisors, in one of the smaller audience chambers. He looked up with interest as the servant announced Bayard, but his face grew grim as he noticed the boy returned alone. His Majesty immediately dismissed everyone else from the room, knowing this news was for his ears alone; they left after the usual complaints and dithering regarding his safety and their relative importance, but they did finally leave the pair alone.
Bayard offered the appropriate courtesies and then stood silently before the King, as if unsure how to proceed in telling him that his only son was dead. The King said quietly, “if you bear grim tidings, you had best get on with it, for I can only assume the worst and that is far worse than knowing the truth.”
Bayard nodded and said quietly, “the Prince was slain this morning upon a hunting foray by his cousin who wishes the crown for himself. It was no accident Highness and the perpetrator rides hither this very moment to claim it was I that pierced him through, for the spear in question bore my colors.”
The King nodded grimly, his countenance pinched and grey, but he lifted stern eyes to those of the uncomfortable Messenger, “but there is more to the tale.”
The boy nodded, a ghost of a grin on his face, “aye Sire, you know he sought the Stone this summer.”
A wan smile touched the King’s lips and a hint of color returned to his face, “so I have not lost him utterly, though I must find a new heir to the crown.” He lowered his eyes and gazed unseeing at his hands in his lap, said he softly, a tear in his voice, “but my only child, and murdered by his own cousin...”
A ruckus sounded outside the chamber door, bringing the King’s head up, he locked eyes with his Messenger. Bayard smiled ruefully, “I shall return to the scene Sire, and see that things are found as they were left. That elf Knight should be finished with his business by now.”
The confounded King mouthed the words, ‘elf knight?’ but raised a glowing hand as he did so, sending the boy back to the scene of the crime ere the witnesses arrived. He would have to wait to hear the full tale. He smiled grimly towards the door as the servant entered and announced the advent of his brother’s son.
Bayard gathered himself together out of the mist that warded a stream that wandered carelessly through the dank and hoary wood, a cheerful intruder oblivious to the forest’s eternal brooding. He hurried up the slope and out of the trees, into the clearing where tragedy had been wrought. There was no sign of the elf knight, but the former Prince lay headless off to one side of the glade with no sign of his head. Bayard smiled to himself, wondering what the fell knight would think when his trophy suddenly dissolved into mist and moonlight. He knelt beside his slain friend for the second time that day but did not yet waken him, but rather repaired the damage the elf had wrought. He drug the corpse back to the place where the spear had pinned him to the earth and took up the weapon, blue light played along the shaft and engulfed the tip. Bayard thrust it into the place where it had formerly lodged, the flesh obligingly drawing aside to give it passage. He then sat where Ike had thrown him and allowed his throat to resume the recent insult; gasping for breath, he passed out and lay unmoving beside his friend. The King’s soldiers arrived not long after and looked with grim eyes upon the tragic scene. They took up the stricken Prince and the unconscious perpetrator and hastened back to the castle.
The King remained in the small audience chamber but summoned Master Tuttle and the Captain of his Guard; he also bid his nephew Ike to remain. The murdered Prince and stertorous Messenger were soon borne in and the soldiers dismissed after giving their statements. The King turned grave eyes upon his nephew, all in the room wore looks as grim as death, save the smirking Ike, said the King, “you stand by your story then?”
The boy looked uneasily at the unconscious Bayard, mortified to find him yet alive, but what testimony could the stricken wretch provide and who would believe him? He drew himself up, met the King’s stony gaze, and said boldly, “that I do Majesty, this so-called friend of the deceived Prince struck your son down with his own spear when there was nary a sign of game. It was murder, pure and simple.”
“Very well,” said the King solemnly, “let us see what the other witnesses can tell us. The spear in question undoubtedly bears the colors assigned to the suspect, but that does not prove he cast the weapon.”
Ike looked very uncomfortable, other witnesses? But he reassured himself that the rest of the hunting party had seen nothing and were so terrified and confused as to make their testimony useless. But the King did not summon any of the hunters, but rather arose from his throne and approached the dead Prince and rasping Bayard. Ike’s jaw dropped as the King’s hand suddenly iridesced brilliant blue; Ike had heard the stories surrounding the King and his supposed powers but he had never believed them, but now he had no choice but to watch as they were unabashedly displayed before him. First the King approached the gasping boy and restored him to form and function before facing his murdered son. He smiled sadly down at the tiny silver unicorn just visible in the neck of the lad’s tunic, grateful to still have the lad with him but devastated that he bore the mark at such a young age. He placed his radiant hand upon that mark, both healing the late prince and wakening him from the sleep of death. The boy blinked awake and looked into his father’s eyes with both joy and chagrin. The King smiled sadly and drew the boy to his feet; they could not yet speak as they both so desperately wished.
The King turned his hawk-like gaze upon his gaping nephew and said quietly, “do you wish to revise your story?”
The irate youth snarled, “I have told the truth as I saw it Majesty, but how is it your son lives?”
The King smiled sadly, “he lives indeed, but no longer can he be heir to the throne nor even abide long in my house, for he now has his own duties to be about.”
Ike brightened, “so I shall still be your heir?”
The King frowned, “that is rather presumptuous, is it not, being that we have still not resolved the issue at hand?”
The boy blanched and the King continued, turning to Bayard, “tell all here present what it was you saw.” The boy told all he had seen and as he finished, the King nodded grimly and faced his nephew, “what do you say to that?”
Ike looked ready to fly, but there was nowhere to go; fury replaced fear as he snarled, “you take the word of this wretch over that of your own flesh and blood?”
The King smiled wanly, “in this case, yes, for I know what this boy is. He is incapable of either lying or murder.”
Ike sneered, “that perfect is he? Will you make him your heir then?”
Master Tuttle, the Steward, looked ready to either faint or assault the insolent youth for his lack of courtesy to the King, but he wisely held his temper and remained silent. Continued the King, “he is neither perfect nor capable of wearing a crown any more than my son now is. But his occupation prohibits him from either lying or killing mortal men. Would you care for a demonstration?”
Ike gaped but shook his head, not wishing to see any more of the madness that passed for normalcy in the King’s presence. The King nodded gravely and said, “do you now deny what you have wrought?”
Ike snarled, “no, and I rejoice in what I have done. I only regret that my plans did not play out as I had intended.” He smiled coldly, “but you cannot execute me for murder, seeing that the victim still lives.”
The King shook his head sadly, “justice will have its due. You killed my son and the penalty for that is death, regardless of the Master’s mercy in the situation. I will give you a full day to make peace wit
h your Maker and say your farewells before the sentence is carried out, will that suffice?”
The youth howled as if his soul had been ripped from his body and flung himself at the King, but Garren and Bayard easily restrained him and forced him to his knees before his Highness. The King approached, a mournful but hard look in his eyes, his hand luminescent once more. Ike flinched back but the Messengers held him firm. The King placed his hand over the boy’s heart and said, “I give you one day to make your peace and say your farewells, then your heart shall beat no more. Let this be a private matter between us and these witnesses. Your father’s heart need not break to know that his son is a murderer, for it shall be tried enough with your untimely death.” The boy felt his heart beat in time with the pulsating light of the King’s hand and knew the man spoke truly. He shuddered and collapsed into a sobbing heap upon the paving stones.
They left the boy to his misery and withdrew to the far side of the room to confer about what next must be done. The Prince approached his father, smiling eagerly but with a sad light in his eyes, said he, “I must be off Sire, I feel drawn inexorably elsewhere but we shall meet again in days to come I think. This was not how I intended my story to begin, but we have little say in such matters.” The King nodded, smiled proudly, embraced his son, and then sent him on his way in a flash of blue light.
The King then addressed Master Tuttle and the remaining Messengers, “now what of the rest of this messy business? By now the entire kingdom knows the Prince is dead yet we have no corpse for a proper funeral.”
Bayard grinned, “Sire, this is a matter easily rectified, is your entire castle not wrought of mist and light? Have you not ridden horses and conquered beasts of like composition?”
The King smiled ruefully, “aye lad, you have the right of it but my skill is rather limited in that area. Will you assist me?”
The boy bowed, dashed to a sofa along one wall, and returned with the cushions. He laid them in a row, touched them with his glowing hand, and suddenly they shifted in guise from cushions to that of the slain prince. The King nodded his grim approval and sent Master Tuttle off with orders to make the appropriate arrangements. He then glanced at Bayard, “lad, people think you slew your friend, you cannot remain in my service as we have ever known you.” The boy nodded and allowed his features to shift enough that none would now know him. The King nodded his approval and then frowned, “what was that you said about an elfin knight?” Bayard grinned sheepishly and finished his tale.
The inconsolable Ike wept until he could weep no more, but the villains who had wrought his ruin paid him no more heed, caught up as they were in their own selfish desires and plots. As they conferred quietly off to one side of the room, the wretched boy gained his feet and dashed silently from the chamber, only the servant stationed outside the door noticing his exit. One day to live?! How wretched, how dreadful, how cruel! He was too young to die, too young to rot forgotten in some dusty tomb. It was not fair! The Prince wasn’t even dead! Fury roused in his heart and he vowed to have his revenge on all of them, but terror quailed back to the fore, how could it be done in a day? Desperately he cried out for rescue, for vengeance, to any ear that might hear. The ear that was always there, always waiting, heard and a hand reached out in comfort, but it was slapped away in derision, not even here, upon the brink of death would he seek solace from Him. No, there must be another way, one that did not include complete surrender of himself and he would find it. A grim smile played across his lips as he hurried from the castle in search of he knew not what.
Twilight was deepening into full dark as his dragging feet brought him to an inn on the outskirts of the city; the music, light, and laughter within drew his agonized heart like a flame the moth. He collapsed wearily upon a bench in a shadowy corner at the back and wondered if this was all his life would amount to, the end of all his grand schemes and high ideals. He sighed heavily and buried his head in his arms, despairing of everything, suddenly feeling mocked by all the joy and life around him. All he wanted was for the darkness to consume him utterly and then his problems would be over. Instead he must sit and wait until his treacherous heart quit beating and that was it, it was a mockery and nothing more. At least send him to the headsman for a proper execution rather than this quiet death with none the wiser, at least let him die infamous if he could not die King.
He suddenly felt burning eyes upon him and lifted his head in fury, ready to assault the insolent fool both verbally and physically for his temerity, and half hoping to get himself killed in the ensuing brawl, but he shuddered when his eyes fell upon the gawker. It was no insolent fool but the most terrifying man he had ever seen or even imagined. He cowered before that gaze and knew fear indeed. “Come,” said the dreadful voice, “we have little time.” Without question or quibble, the boy rose and followed the man silently from the inn, the various patrons flinching back in terror as they passed. At last a malignant hope started to flutter in the boy’s heart, perhaps he could have such power one day. His smile was malice itself as they vanished into the night.
The Kingdom was properly horrified at the sudden death of the crown prince, but their response was not overt grief, as might be expected, but rather a sudden wariness and suspicion of their once beloved King, for rumors began to circulate, dreadful tales, that said the King had sacrificed his only child to augment his already terrible powers and had blamed his nephew for the fell deed. Folk began to murmur that things were just as bad as they ever had been under his Lordship and that dreadful Beast, perhaps worse! The entire Kingdom turned out for the burial of the young prince; the crowd was stone faced and grim, but in fear and dread rather than in grief. Some whispered that the deceased was the lucky one, having escaped the horrors to come. Nothing had been seen of the accused nephew in several days, which only fed the rumors further.
“I do not like this, Sire,” said the Captain of the Royal Guard to the King in an undertone as they left the castle proper, leading the funeral procession.
“I do not like it either,” said the King, “but what is to be done?”
Garren shook his head gravely, “nothing but proceed as we have begun and pray the Master gives us wisdom.” They continued on in silence, as solemn and grave as the occasion demanded.
“Lies!” bellowed a fell voice, as the mourners arranged themselves in an orderly fashion at the burial site, “lies, betrayal, deception, and black sorcery!” A tall, broad man swathed all in black stood in the middle of the proceedings, pointing an accusing finger at the King. Snarled he, as he gestured towards the seeming corpse, “behold! Such has been the foundation of his entire reign!” For a moment, nothing happened, but then the image of the slain prince wavered for a moment and then vanished in a flash of azure light, leaving three sofa cushions in its stead. The crowd gasped in astonishment and all eyes turned to the man in black. He laughed darkly, “that is nothing! Even his castle is a mirage!” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the palace and it too wavered and vanished, leaving the spectators speechless.
“Who are you?” demanded the King, “and what right have you to interfere in matters far outside your ken?”
The man laughed harshly, “ah little King, these matters are very much within my purview, it is you, who dabble in things he should not. I am merely a servant of the people, here to reveal the deception and lies upon which your house and rule is founded. Why, here is your own defamed nephew, whom I rescued from a most unjust future.”
Ike strode boldly out of the crowd, people drawing aside as if stung in passing; he stood arrogantly before the King and sneered, “ah, uncle, have you reconsidered your vile tales? How could you so heartlessly accuse me when it is your own hands that are red with the blood of your own son?” He laughed coldly, “but then who thinks to hear the truth from the mouth of a murderer?” Ike turned eager eyes to the shadowy giant beside him, “what shall come of it, sir?”
The dark man shook h
is head sadly, “that, the people must decide.” There were many murmurs of fear, astonishment, and worse among the gathered throng, deepening the man’s malicious smile. Addressing the Royal Guard he said, “you had best seize these villains while we sort this matter out.”
Garren turned a stony gaze upon his own men as they stepped forward, a few held back or wore a look of pity or anguish, but far too many eagerly laid hands on the King and his closest associates, including their own Captain. The shadowy man turned to Ike and asked in feigned deference, “what is to be done? How is this matter to be resolved?”
Ike said in insincere regret, “if the King is truly a worker of evil magicks, he should be marked, as will his nefarious associates. And according to his own laws, all such warlocks and sorcerers are deserving of death. We can but mete out the justice required by our laws.” With these words, he stepped forward and grabbed his uncle’s collar, ripping it open and baring the man’s chest. The King glared at his insolent nephew, but said nothing, knowing there was nothing he could say to improve matters. The crowd gasped as they saw the little silver unicorn glint in the sunlight.
Ike shook his head regretfully, “it is as I feared, but how many have joined him in his evil?” He motioned towards the other captives and each was given similar treatment, but only the Captain, Bayard, and Master Tuttle were found so marked. The benevolent nephew waved vaguely towards the others, saying quietly, “bring the traitors forward, but release the others.” He then turned to the shadowy fellow with questioning eyes.
The dark man demanded of the crowd, “what now is to be done? You have seen with your own eyes that your King has sold himself, body and soul, to powers in which no mortal man has a right to dabble. Your own laws prohibit such meddling, yet he sees fit to ignore those proscriptions. What then is to be done with a King who will not obey his own decrees?” The crowd murmured darkly in response and the man smiled in triumph, “very well, let justice be meted out this very day!” The crowd went wild in their bloodlust and eagerness for vengeance. “The Sword,” said the dark man to Ike.
The boy nodded eagerly, and with a malicious grin, approached the pinioned King and drew the Sword from his scabbard. Ike turned to Bayard, saying quietly, “my uncle is not the only one who can pull a sword from a stone.” He ran the Messenger through and then thrust the bloody blade into the nearest rock of any size. Bayard collapsed with a pained gasp, wondering at the irony that his blood would twice avail such a miracle. Proclaimed Ike for all to hear, “let the true and rightful King pull the Sword from the stone!”
The crowd cheered eagerly, all knowing the tale of the King’s ascension but most not having been witness to it and excited to have the matter rectified. Ike motioned for several of the guards to try their hand at drawing the blade forth, just to show that it was no trick, and then set his own hand to the hilt, easily drawing it forth as the spectators broke out in whistles and raucous cheers. He held the blade aloft in triumph and shouted, “let mine be the hand of justice!” The cheers became rabid and crescendoed as Ike thrust the blade through the King’s abdomen. He held the bloody blade aloft once more as the King collapsed with a groan and the crowd continued to cheer. He then motioned for the two remaining prisoners to be brought forward. Garren and Tuttle were forced to their knees before the murderous boy, who killed the Captain with a quick thrust, but said to the Secretary, loudly enough for all to hear, “you need not die like this, Master Tuttle, your skills could be of great use in solidifying my reign. Recant of your villainy and I shall be gracious.”
Master Tuttle glanced at the unmoving form of Garren beside him, at the gasping Bayard, and the stricken King in his moribund agony, then he met the insolent boy’s gaze with stony eyes, “I am not the villain sir, but if such acts are considered justice, then happily do I resign my position...” His comments were cut short by a final thrust of Ike’s sword, silencing him forever.
Ordered the dark man, “string up the carcasses, that all might see the price of such villainy!” The guards jumped to comply as the spectators reached new levels of jubilation and excitement, forgetting completely the tyranny which they had endured under his Lordship and from which the Master had rescued them but a few years prior, and happily thrusting themselves again into such despotism and darkness. As the guards approached, the rejected King at last lay still and with a final gasp, Bayard too fell into darkness. Most of the gathered throng withdrew with their new King and his shadowy advisor for the coronation and feast to follow, but a very few fled from that place, knowing the horrors had only begun. An elfin knight watched from a distance, a smirk on his face, he turned his horse and returned to the Wood, to inform his Lady of all that had happened, leaving the dead to the carrion fowl that were even then gathering in the trees and circling hopefully overhead.
But only one little magpie was bold enough to approach the slain men, sitting on the shoulder of the murdered King and seeming to whisper quietly in his ear. Suddenly the rope broke and the inert form tumbled to the ground, as the magpie took wing and fluttered to the ground beside the prone King. The bird breathed full on the face of the dead man, and suddenly there was life in his being once more. Kyan blinked in confusion, his vision full of nothing but a small black and white feathered creature, but the eyes were not native to any mortal bird. “Easy child,” said He quietly, “you have a decision to make.”
Kyan sat up and glanced about, grimacing in horror at his murdered friends, bowing his head in dismay, he said, “have I failed utterly, Lord?”
“Nonsense,” chirruped the little bird, “you have remained faithful, it is your people and nephew that have broken faith. Now what is to come of the matter?”
Kyan frowned, “I thought death would put all that behind me? They have rejected me and chosen a new King; they want nothing more to do with me!”
“Or so they think,” said the Bird quietly, “I too was rejected, not just by a Kingdom, but by the entire world, yet they desired nothing more, even if they knew it not. They think their new King is what they want, but soon he will prove otherwise and they will long for their True King on that day. As to death, what is that to Me?”
Kyan gazed off into the distance, he could hear the sounds of excitement and merrymaking coming from the distant city. He had lost everything: his son, his crown, his Kingdom, even his life; he owed them nothing, but they were his people and they would suffer if he stood aside, even though they had forsaken him, he could not in good faith abandon them even so. He met the eyes of that persistent little fowl, and for a moment, he understood the reason He came to suffer and die for wandering, faithless humanity, at least as much as any mortal could comprehend of such lofty matters. Kyan said nothing, but the Bird needed no verbal answer, for He knew the hearts of His children and of all mankind. “Good!” sang out the little creature, “then there is still hope for this traitorous people. I am ever with you child, remember that, whatever betide. Fare thee well!” Suddenly Kyan was alone, sitting on the blood soaked ground, his three dearest friends hanging by their necks from the surrounding trees.
He stood suddenly, angry that such valiant and faithful men should meet such an end. But what was death to them? He smiled grimly as he drew forth his belt knife and cut down the corpses. His hand began to glow, easily rousing Bayard and Garren, but he paused over Tuttle, unsure of how to proceed. The Messengers joined him, sharing his conundrum, for though Marked, Tuttle had never seen the Stone or sworn his life to this particular service. Garren smiled sadly, “it won’t hurt to try, at worst nothing will happen.”
And nothing did happen, save the unicorn on Master Tuttle’s chest flared blue in response, but life did not return. The King said with a sigh, “he’s truly gone then.”
Garren placed a reassuring hand on Kyan’s shoulder, “from the mortal sphere, yes, but a human soul is made to last forever. We’ll see him again one day, and until then, he’s safe in our Master’s keeping. What of you?
”
Kyan smiled wryly, “what of me?”
Garren nodded, “will you be content to roam the world, a nameless Messenger?”
Kyan snorted, “someday perhaps, but for now I have a Kingdom to save.”
Bayard gaped, “but I thought all that was now behind you?”
Kyan’s smile became grim, “perhaps it should be, but I will not abandon my people to their folly, especially when the Master Himself called me back to mortal life to do just that.” The Messengers exchanged an eager smile and then went to one knee before the resurrected King, who gladly accepted their renewed pledge of service on his behalf.
“What are your orders, Highness,” asked Garren eagerly.
Kyan shook his head, “perhaps we should refrain from such formalities until I again have a throne and court that require them.” He turned sad eyes upon Tuttle, “first we must see to our dead, then we shall see about the Kingdom.” They buried Master Tuttle in a quiet little glade, and as they finished the formalities, a quaint cottage, quite at home in the tranquil setting, suddenly appeared. They exchanged a joyous look and hastened in to the fortuitous abode, wherein the Captain and his Aide greeted them warmly and urged them to partake of the light lunch and waiting tea.
Refreshed, heartened, and comfortable, the King and his army of two settled in to plot with the Captain of the Messengers and his Aide in All Things Military, Martial, and Otherwise. Guyare shook his head in dismay when Kyan told the tale, said he, “don’t the fools remember life under his Lordship?”
Garren said quietly, “men have short and fickle memories, especially during times of peace and prosperity; they soon forget that life is not always a summer picnic, but begin to feel that that is exactly what they should expect and deserve.”
Kyan sat back in his chair, “how am I to reclaim the crown if they don’t want me?”
Bren smiled grimly, “perhaps letting them enjoy their new King for a time is all that is needed to convince them otherwise?”
Bayard nodded, “my thoughts exactly, but what exactly are these new villains?”
Garren scratched his chin thoughtfully, “a good question, certainly not mortal men, else the King’s sentence upon the boy should have come to pass. And no mere man can so easily unravel something wrought of our Master’s light.”
“Hunters?” asked Bren.
“No,” said Garren, “though something of equal power and malice, but they don’t strike from the shadows nor are they shape-shifters. Perhaps a type of undead sorcerer?”
Bayard shivered, “Hunters are bad enough, now we must deal with some sort of warlock as well?”
Garren smiled broadly, “I told you no two of your missions would ever be the same, and our Enemy is always trying to find new ways to undermine our Master’s plans, including the invention of new weapons and foes.”
“At least I’ll never get bored,” said the boy dryly.
Bren arched an eyebrow, “you’ve had it quite easy the last few years I should think, lolling about the royal palace and gadding about with the crown prince.”
Bayard laughed, “perhaps I have, but after my first few adventures, I will not say it was unwelcome.” They all laughed at this, knowing well the strange tales with which the boy began his service with the Messengers.
Once the party quieted their mirth, Kyan frowned, “can such creatures legally rule a Kingdom of men? The Messengers are thus prohibited, what of such fiends?”
Garren snorted, “when has the legality of anything stopped our Enemy from doing it? Of course it is forbidden, but that just makes it all the more enticing.” He eagerly touched his sword hilt, “but then it also makes our interference all the more necessary.”
“So we are just going to march into the middle of Gormanth and challenge the usurpers to a duel?” said Bayard in wonder.
“No,” said Kyan quietly, “we have an adventure to be about while the usurpers make themselves at home. Once the Kingdom is thoroughly convinced of their folly, we can ride to the rescue.”
“And what mad scheme do you have in mind?” asked Bren curiously.
Kyan smiled eagerly, “we need to find an heir to the throne.”
Bayard asked, “you aren’t thinking about getting married again are you?”
Kyan smiled sadly, his wife’s death still a painful memory, “no, we’ll have to find a ready made heir.” His smile grew wry, “any peasant or beggar will probably suffice.”
Bren chuckled, remembering a certain wide-eyed boy that had once appeared at his very door, “not just any peasant, lad.” He chivied the lot of them to bed ere anyone could offer any more excuses or protests. In the morning, all rose refreshed and eager for the adventure to come, surprised at the sudden sense of freedom they felt. Bren laughed, “you’ve all been tied down in one place for far too long. You’ve got itchy feet!”
Garren smiled ruefully, “true, Messengers aren’t meant to put down roots.”
Kyan sighed sadly, “and what roots I had have been pulled firmly out of the soil and I don’t think our quest involves repotting the plant.”
“What are you saying, lad?” asked Garren quietly.
Kyan said thoughtfully, “I will rescue my people from their foolishness, if that is their wish, but I do not think I will be the one to rule them in the coming years.”
Bren laughed, “we all must pass into legend lad, each in our turn, but fear not, you’ve plenty of legends to make even so.”
Kyan brightened, “I forget that I need not simply ride off into the sunset at the end of the tale, rather I can find one story after another to lose myself in, if I so wish.”
“Or you could jump into a story even bigger than anything this mortal world has to offer,” said Bren quietly, “you mortals have no idea what lurks beyond the walls of the world.”
Bayard grinned, “but you came back.”
Bren scowled good-naturedly at his minion, “because the Master asked it of me, had I my druthers, you’d never have seen me more, at least this side of eternity, you scamp!”
Kyan laughed, “I believe that is our cue to leave, we do not wish to anger our merry host more than politeness demands.” Warm farewells were exchanged all around and then the party set out, afoot but well supplied. None were surprised to find the world utterly changed as they exited the little cottage, for they stood on a stark mountainside rather than in a young and pleasant wood.
“Back to the Stone?” said Kyan as they set off.
“So it seems,” said Garren, “for all the best stories have it at their very heart.”
“A truer word was never spoken,” said Kyan, his heart suddenly aching for that bloody stone, all of his problems, griefs, and sorrows seemed rather insignificant in its shadow. With this strange comfort, he set forth eagerly for the rock that had changed the world, or rather what had happened upon it, many long years ago. His friends hastened after, their hearts too drawn towards that infamous stone.
They found the Stone, where it had sat for centuries, but it was not alone, as was its wont, rather a great crowd had gathered, as if some event, great or terrible, was about to commence. There were murmurs of astonishment and no few gasps of horror as the late King was recognized; all drew back in horror from the ghost, no doubt at home on this haunted mountain. They approached the Stone, a great empty circle having opened up around them, for none dared come too close, save those closest to Stone, whom even a ghost come for vengeance could not disrupt in whatever it was they intended. The usurper King looked up in surprise, but not in disappointment, to see who this interrupter of his grand exhibition was. Ike smiled maliciously at his uncle’s approach and sneered, “come back to haunt me then? Good luck, fool ghost! Know you not that you cannot touch such as I?”
Kyan replied quietly, eyeing the quivering figure bound to the stone, “I did not come to stop you. What is it you are about, anyway?”
Ike straightened from leaning over the boy upon the Stone, momentarily sheathing hi
s dagger, “do you know what has happened in the Kingdom since your demise?” Kyan shook his head, as Ike continued, “it has not rained in two years! The peasants grow restless and begin to talk of rebelling against their accursed King, even though they know such foolishness would be suicide. I have shown them no mercy and have not made their lives easy, yet they refuse to be cowed. Thus I set forth to this place to prove to them that I am not accursed as they call me; I will use this boy’s blood to appease the gods that it might rain again.”
“Why him?” asked Kyan.
Ike shrugged, “no reason in particular, he was available; naught but a ragged shepherd lad met upon the road hither.”
“Take me in his stead,” said Kyan, tears strong in his voice.
“You?!” gasped Ike, “you are naught but a ghost, an apparition come back to annoy me without a drop of blood to his name.”
Kyan stepped close enough to his nephew that the boy might reach out and touch him, had he a wish, said he, “I am no ghost, but a mortal man, though one raised from the dead. Do not harm the boy.”
Ike frowned, “hold out your hand.” Kyan complied and received a dagger slash across his palm for his trouble, but the welling blood and grimace of pain were proof enough for the increasingly eager Ike, “you really mean it? These peasants might be desperate enough to even ask you to be their King again if this does not work!”
Kyan bowed his head, “these are my people, it is my duty to lay down my life if it will spare theirs. I will not incite a civil war nor see innocent blood shed to no avail. Take my life if it will spare the boy, though I warn you, what you intend will not end well.”
“Bah!” scoffed Ike, “blood and magic wrap themselves around this ancient rock like vines around a tree! This is no natural drought, therefore a supernatural cure must be found. The bloodlust of the lesser gods must be satisfied, and a King is a much better gift than a scruffy shepherd boy! Lay yourself down on the stone and let us see if you truly have the nerve to go through with it.”
Kyan exchanged a sad look with his two companions, the pity and horror in their eyes nearly unmanned him, but he approached the stone as two of the King’s guardsmen roughly shoved the bound lad aside. He laid himself upon that crude altar, as many a Messenger had done before him, but this was no illusion to be stopped at the pivotal moment. Ike smiled triumphantly and raised his dagger, and with a scornful laugh mocked his victim, “poor little King, giving your life for naught!” With that, he plunged the dagger into Kyan’s heart as utter darkness momentarily covered the mountainside and a roar of terror arose from the gathered crowd.
“What have you done?” bellowed the minotaur, charging down the slope even as the darkness lessened to a gloomy twilight.
Ike snarled, “what I must, Beast! Who are you to challenge me?”
“The Warder of the Stone,” said the creature grimly, “will you repent of your evil, or will mine be the hand of justice?”
“Justice?” scoffed the boy, “I am King; justice is what I proclaim it to be. Have you any idea what I could do to you, had I a mind?”
The Beast hefted his axe, “let us see how dangerous you truly are then!” He charged the ersatz King, who hissed like a frightened snake, but held his ground, but not his form. Suddenly a great wyrm crouched where Ike had once been, his true, hideous form revealed to the world. This was too much for the onlookers, with another horrified scream, they stampeded down the mountainside and away from the looming battle. The melee was long and intense, but at last the Warder smote the wyrm and it did not rise again, said he with a shudder, “a grim foe indeed, let us hope our enemy does not produce such villains with any regularity!”
Garren nodded, “indeed my friend, but well fought!” All eyes then turned to the murdered King and the wide-eyed hostage, the only ones remaining on the slope, save Bayard. The Warder cast aside his bloodied axe and lay a glowing hand upon the unmoving form.
Kyan roused again to life, a rueful but triumphant smile on his face as he greeted his comrades, a King no longer. He drew his dagger and approached the still bound shepherd, who flinched back at his approach, but could not escape the man’s blade, though he had no need, for only the ropes fell afoul of the dagger. The boy fainted in relief and it took some minutes to wake him, when he awoke, he still could not believe what had happened.
“It is all too much,” said he, overwrought.
“Yes,” said Kyan with a smile, “but that does not make it any less true, and to make matters worse, you have to decide whether you want to be this land’s next King.” The boy’s only answer was to fall senseless once more.
The Warder shook his head in amusement, “you really need to learn how delicate these poor mortals can be, sir.”
Garren chuckled, “you are certainly one to talk, playing on our worst fears to frighten us away from your precious Stone.”
The Warder raised an eyebrow, “that is another matter entirely.” Thankfully their mirth had died away by the time the boy roused once more.
Said the lad with a sigh, “I’m not sure I want to be King, especially after today!”
Kyan nodded grimly, “that might be true wisdom, for this is a hard hearted and fickle folk, but I hope they might yet see sense and turn to the Master once more.”
The boy shivered, “the past two years have been a nightmare for the commonfolk, the tales my mother told of life under his Lordship seem bright by comparison, yet none seem to remember your reign, Sire, or at least they dare not speak of it openly.”
Kyan grimaced, “I am a King no longer lad, just a man about the Master’s business. As for our comparative reigns, I do not doubt things have been dark indeed, yet however much they regret their decision regarding the Kingship, pride will keep them from admitting it. They are also unlikely to support another King sent to them in the Master’s name. If you accept the mantle, you will meet resistance, if not the same fate as I did.”
“As to that,” said the boy with an eager light in his eyes, “how did you survive, not once but twice?”
Kyan smiled sadly, “nay lad, I did not survive, but rather my Master’s grace redeemed me from death’s cold grasp.”
“That is what I want,” said the boy desperately, “King or not.”
“Then kneel before the stone,” said the Warder solemnly. The boy knelt, swearing himself then and there into the Master’s service.
After, said he with wide eyes, “if it is our Master’s will, I will take up the crown, though I do not think I shall long be in possession of it.”
“Perhaps not,” said the Warder, standing over the yet kneeling boy, “but even so, it is a great responsibility.” His hands began to glow and suddenly a silver circlet appeared in his hands, which he set on the boy’s head, saying, “rise Highness.”
The Messenger’s bowed as the King rose, and then Garren advised, “we had best descend and see what has come of your subjects, no doubt they’ll get up to some mischief if left too long to themselves.”
The Warder bid them ado, Kyan adjusted his features slightly, happy to be in possession of that useful skill at long last, and then they all mounted up, Bayard having produced horses out of mist and light for them all, the new King watched it all with wonder and dread, astonished at all he had seen that day. They hastened down the slope, the gloom their constant companion. They found the fugitives clumped at the foot of the mountain, the most important and influential men in the Kingdom among them, along with many a curious peasant. They looked up in eagerness and dread as they heard the sound of hooves upon the stony ground. A knight in dark armor rode out of the throng, sword in hand.
The small party drew rein and waited his approach, the King at the fore. Said the knight, sitting his horse a polite distance from the new arrivals, “what news from the mountain?”
The boy exchanged a nervous look with his companions, but they nodded encouragingly as he turned to face the knight, said he with surprising boldness, “the usurpe
r king is no more, he has suffered the fate due his crimes.”
“Ah,” said the knight in triumph, turning to the watching crowd, “then let me assume the crown as I have proposed!”
“No,” said the boy, for all to hear, “I am your new King.”
“You?” scoffed the knight, laughing with the rest of the onlookers, “have we not had enough of all such blood and magic? What say you, my people?”
Suddenly the entire throng erupted in derisive shouts, demanding they would have no King but one of their own choosing and that the knight was their chosen sovereign. The knight motioned them to silence, as Kyan broke in, “have the past two years taught you nothing? Or the years under his Lordship? Were you not happy and content under the rule of the Master’s appointed King?”
The crowd hissed at this, the knight interrupted and their derision quieted, “a poor argument, that! If he was such a great and mighty King, why was he so easily overthrown? Why was rescue not sent during the awful years under the usurper?”
Kyan shook his head, “because you chose your own King and lived to regret it; it was your own folly that caused your troubles, even if you choose not to see it.” The booing and hissing trebled, forcing Kyan to silence.
The knight raised his sword and motioned towards the boy, “come boy, let us settled this like civilized men in trial by combat, the winner will take the throne.”
The boy shook his head, “nay sir, for I know not the use of a sword and I will not rule this folk if they will not have me willingly.”
“Very well,” shrugged the knight, motioning to the crowd, he asked, “shall the boy be king?” He was utterly rejected and the knight heft his sword, “the people have spoken.”
As he struck down the would-be king, the boy gasped with his last breath, “I thought we were civilized men?”
The knight drew back his bloody sword and laughed, “I can’t take any chances.” But the boy did not hear. With a scornful glance at the dismayed Messengers, the knight turned his horse and rode back towards his eager subjects. Garren dismounted and took up the dead King, then the whole party rode off into the encroaching mist.
Wakened again to life, the boy said in wonder and dismay, “so much for my reign, what will come of them do you think?”
Garren shook his head, “they’ll live to regret this choice also, likely the Kingdom will soon collapse into civil war and rebellion and eventually it shall fall utterly, only to rise again with a new name in an age to come, but that is not for us to wonder at or worry about. Such mortal concerns are no longer within our purview, rather we have our Master’s business to be about. Welcome home, lad.”
The boy smiled widely, realizing that the fate of a mortal kingdom was of very little importance in the grand scheme of eternity, for all such were temporal and ephemeral things, whereas a soul was made to last forever. Kingdoms would rise and fall, but their Master’s grace was eternal and unchanging, and those who embraced it had nothing to fear, through all the ages yet to come and in whatever came after.
The Greylands: Volume VII Page 2