Day One. Killing the King
Chapter 1.
Kit threw the door to the king’s chambers open, quickly gripping his broadsword again with both hands and as he did so, he moved himself into a defensive stance, ready for anyone who might be waiting within.
The room was empty.
It had furniture and furnishings, of course, but no guards, no night nurses or butlers, and certainly no High King Godsmar, Ruler of Raelle.
“Not here,” whispered Eadric, entering the room just behind Kit.
The second man was the opposite of Kit in nearly every way, visible or hidden, from his blond hair and blue eyes to his pretty face and tall stature, and certainly the charismatic persona he carried through all interactions, friendly or professional. Eadric was the leader of the Knights of Arl, the band responsible for the night’s attack on the palace, and Kit was his right hand soldier.
Kit scanned the room quickly, piercing the corners of darkness of any signs of motion, threat, or life. He turned back to Eadric, watching the taller man do the same, his blue eyes cycling around, taking in what Kit saw, but formulating plans as he did so.
In the hallway, not yet in the room, stood a dozen of the Knights of Arl, men handpicked by Eadric for the assault on the king’s chambers. Borneld, another captain in line with Kit, was out in the city somewhere, organizing shutdowns of all the Raelle soldier stations, making sure no retaliation could occur once the King was subjugated. It was an insurrection, a coup, an overthrow, and Eadric wished for no war to spawn from the night’s dealings.
Kit moved to one of the open windows in the King’s chamber and stared out at the city below, spread on the low slopes surrounding the citadel. Fires burned and smoke rose in various places, and Kit wondered if Borneld had started fights, or if people were simply enjoying the summer night air. Then, the cries and shouting carried up to him on the wind, and his heart tensed.
Eadric joined him at the window, though what he saw seemed entirely different than what caught Kit’s eye, for the leader smiled a winning smile, full of joy and victory.
“Full moon,” said the man. “He’ll be in the throne room, casting leaves under moonlight. Let’s hurry! It sounds as though we have little time!”
Eadric turned and raced from the chambers and past his men in the hallway, turning toward the centrality of the palace grounds where the throne room would be. Kit was quickly at his side as they ran in silence through hallways and corridors, through empty rooms and vacant spaces. Servants watched them from the shadows, eyes wide and mouths sealed with silence, some bought with coin and others with promises, all admitting the tyranny of the current crown and believing Eadric’s hope. Kit knew the man would deliver if he was at all able, no matter if the Pits of Lorn pulled him into darkness, Eadric would keep his vows.
They reached the great hall, the final stretch of palace before the throne room, and Eadric slowed as they neared the wide double doors carved with golden dragons and encrusted with red jewels. Both colors of the currency dynasty, the former a long serpentine snake like creature that only could be known as a dragon for the feet, for the creature had no wings and breathed no fire, at least not in depictions. It was a myth, as far as Kit could tell, and he didn’t think much of myths.
Eadric turned in a full stop and faced the men behind him, raising a piece of red meat to his lips, placing it on his tongue and chewing with a purpose. “Goma,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear. Quickly, the men followed.
Kit dug his own piece of dried meat from the pouch at his belt, taking the bit and chewing it through, feeling the instant strength course through him as the magic settled in his belly. There was the meat of certain goats that, when prepared a certain way, gave powerful advantages to the eater. Goma was the meat of strength.
Eadric pushed open the doors to the throne room and the band fell upon an odd scene.
The throne was vacant and in the center of the large room sat a high table surrounded by five figures, three of whom Kit knew. The king at the head, tall and broad wearing a golden night gown and a small circlet upon his head, and a man and woman with blond hair and colorful clothes, musical instruments slung over their backs. They were Hyn and Hyg, the bard twins who had made Taro Myule their home. They were known throughout the kingdom and likely the continent, for their stories and the news they spread. People said that no musician could stand against them for expertise.
The other two figures Kit did not know, though he could guess their occupation by their dress. The woman was tall and old though without most of the wrinkles a woman of her age might bare, and she wore all green, a cloak that hung to the floor and was marked in gold symbols. Black makeup marked her eyes, giving diamond shapes to the bottom of them. The final figure may have been a man or a woman, so hidden where they in their dark hood.
Kit saw all of this in a split moment as they rushed into the throne room.
King Godsmar was the first to move, dashing away from the table to the throne where he reached behind it to draw forth a large sword that nearly matched Kit’s own. The man was known for his strength, with or without goma, and Kit knew it would be a tough fight subduing the man. Eadric did not wish for bloodshed, it wasn’t his way, and even when the Knights of Arl had captured outposts and overrun meat caravans, he never killed anyone if he didn’t have to. It was the code of the Knights, and one he was set upon, even up to the tyrant king of Raelle himself.
Eadric pushed past the bard twins and drew his sword, facing the king with Kit at his side.
Kit wielded a heavy double edged broadsword called Bloodswell, a thing heavy for most men to carry let alone wield with grace and efficiency. Kit found it the perfect weapon to use even without the aid of the goat meat. Eadric fancied a slender sato style sword, single edged with a round hilt guard and markings down the folded blade. It was the weapon of a dueller, a title Eadric fancied fit himself very well.
They faced the king as thieves in the night, ready to take his throne and his freedom, stripping away the subjugation he had wrought upon the land.
“How did you breach our defenses?” asked the king in a snarl.
“Hope,” smiled Eadric. Then, he struck and their blades met, and Kit waited, knowing his friend would wish to fight alone, to keep things fair and noble.
“Do you remember my father?” Eadric asked after a short pause in their clash.
A distant look entered the king’s eye. “Revenge?” he asked.
Kit didn’t hear Eadric’s reply as two squadrons of spear men dashed into the throne room from a side corridor. Not everyone could be purchased.
The Knights of Arl took to the fight with eagerness, having already put the others in a group, the bards, the woman in green, and the figure in gray, surely one of the King’s Spokesmen.
Kit dashed in and brought his sword to bear, striking where he could, bowling over the king’s guard as though he fought with a club rather than a sword, the weight of the weapon crushing them. Goma burned hot in his belly, fuelling his arms to power.
He watched the fight between the tyrant king and Eadric as best he could, watching to make sure his friend had it under control. Kit dodged a spear thrust and severed the man’s arm, then broke his legs with an armored sweep of his foot, and when he turned back to Eadric he saw the man had the king pinned against the throne, the large sword of the king cast aside. Eadric’s sword point was dangerously within killing distance of the larger man’s throat. Eadric was saying something.
Kit rushed over to urge his friend to follow his honor, just as the figure in dark robes moved from the gathered group, the Knight who had been watching them laying on the floor with a small blade buried in his eye.
“Cast upon him!” shouted the king, seeing the robed figure near.
“Eadric!” Kit called, running across the room. He wished he would have eaten sild rather than goma, the other meat had a yellow tint to it and gave speed rather than strength; he wasn’t going to reach his friend in time.
Eadric saw the approaching Spokesman and seemed to make a decision in those last few seconds. He pushed his sword between the plates of Godsmar’s chest, the weapon sinking in half way up the blade, the sound of metal striking the throne behind the king.
The Spokesman was upon Eadric the next second, dark hands reaching out of the robe and grasping the young leader’s face. They both screamed, and Eadric shook, and then Kit was there and his sword flashed through the dim lit room, cutting the Spokesman down, severing robe and body in one cut.
Kit caught Eadric as he fell, turning his face up so he could see. Dark lines ran like cracks through porcelain, splitting Eadric’s face in a web of terrible magic. They were young, Kit and Eadric, neither had reached twenty years though Eadric was slightly closer, but at that moment the leader of the Knights seemed to have aged a decade or more. His body had no strength as he collapsed in Kit’s arms.
“Eadric!” a voice shouted from across the hall, causing Kit to turn for the familiarity of it.
A blond woman, older than Eadric by less than two years, but near a mirror image of his features and height, sprinted through the mayhem as the Knights of Arl halted the defense of the King’s guard. They were winning the room, but Kit felt nothing but the loss of his friend and leader.
Valia mounted the steps of the dais and fell to her knees, her armor making cracking sounds on the stone as she came to a stop. The length of her hair was perhaps one of the few defining features that set her apart from her brother, aside from her feminine form, but with the Spokesman’s magic cracked across Eadric’s face, they were slowly looking unlike siblings.
“No, Eadric, no,” she whispered, touching his face and washing it with her tears.
Kit shed no tear but looked about, even as he still held Eadric, to see the state of the room. The bard twins remained standing beside a pillar with the woman in green, the King’s guard was dying or dead on the floor as were a few of the Knights of Arl, and slowly entering the room from a side door were four robed figures, dressed and hidden the same as the man who had killed Eadric. They could only be the remaining Spokesmen, the dark group of five that surrounded King Godsmar always, determining his policy and rule.
Kit narrowed his eyes and pushed Eadric off of him, giving the dead leader to his sister, and scooped up Bloodswill as he strode toward the coming mages. Before he could threaten with sword or word, the first of the approaching figures removed his hood in a careful manner and looked down at Kit from a pair of green eyes set in a clean shaven face and a smooth bald head.
“We will not attack, you have killed the king, and one of our five. Do not harm us, the state of the kingdom depends on it.”
Kit held his blade before him in both hands, a stance that begged to strike. “Why should I not kill you?”
“You don’t have it in you, for starters,” said the man. The other three robed figures remained hidden in their cowls, standing motionless behind the speaker. “And you need us, trust me on that above all else. This night has not gone how you would have hoped, I can assume, and there must be counsel to survive the uproar.”
“Uproar?” asked Kit, perhaps lowering his sword an inch.
The man pointed with a dark hand toward the doors that would lead to the terrace that overlooked the city. “Do you not smell the smoke? Can you not hear the screams? You have killed the king and brought terror to his subjects, I would expect unrest at the minimum.”
Kit’s mind was scrambling, a chaotic mess of pain and loss, unsure of his next move. Eadric knew what to do, how to plan and maneuver when the plans failed; Kit knew how to follow and protect Eadric. He looked back to see Valia still holding her brother, now covering him more with her long blond hair, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and he turned to see the Knights picking through the bodies on the floor, ending the misery of those close to death on both sides, and disarming the ones who were simply wounded.
Kit lowered his blade and stepped off the dais, then jogged through the hall, ignoring the cries of the wounded and peeling his ears for the exterior screams. The terrace doors were open and he jogged through, coming to the edge of the balcony and looking over to see exactly what the Spokesman indicated, and what he had seen a fraction of from the King’s window.
The city was burning.
Chapter 2.
Kit sat outside watching the fires burn in the city below. They seemed so far away, so distant, even as the smoke filled his nostrils and the screams filled his ears. The summer nights were warm in Raelle and a warm breeze rushed over his skin, but he felt it in a distant way.
He only saw and heard and felt Eadric, a man who was his brother if not by blood, and though the leader of the Knights, a kind man who was Kit’s closest friend, had been since they were boys. He could see the sparring practice with sticks in the forests east of Taro Myule, could see the running races through the meadows, the duchies they snuck into and stole coin when they were in their teenage years, even the losses and the failures and the pain, all of it was there in a rush.
His sword lay behind him as he sat on the terrace wall, his feet dangling over hundreds of feet of nothing. The place where he sat was the furthest edge of the citadel, built high upon the bluff that surrounded the city, and the terrace was built so as to hang over the steep bluff as an overlook.
A voice startled him out of his reverie, taking the joy out of the memories and bringing him back to the pain of Eadric’s death. It wasn’t supposed to go this way, he wasn’t supposed to die. Eadric didn’t want anyone to die, and there he lay, counted among the dead.
The voice called to him again and Kit turned, gripping the stone rail with one hand to keep from rotating too much and slipping over the edge. It was one of the bards coming toward him, Hyn, the sister, and though she grinned as she approached Kit could see something darker beneath the surface.
“Your sister requests your presence in the throne room,” said the woman, stopping well outside of striking distance. As if Kit could cut at her from his seated position.
“She’s not my sister,” Kit answered.
The woman shrugged, jostling little bells that hung from her pink scarf. It was a rare color in the land, and must have cost a fortune. It was also squarely summer, and the scarf must have been boiling on her neck.
“The Spokesmen wish for an audience as well, sir, and they’re not the type to be kept waiting.”
“I have nothing for them,” Kit replied, turning back to the burning city. What had Borneld done?
“You’re to be king,” said the woman from behind his back, her tone jovial and light.
Kit swallowed and turned, lifting his legs and dropping to the inside of the terrace, a much shorter fall to the ground. He lifted Bloodswill and rested the sword across his shoulder, then marched past the bard and toward the throne room.
The woman followed with quick steps, attempting to keep Kit’s stride length for a moment before failing, despite them being nigh the same height, and made little quick running steps to match his speed. Kit wasn’t sure why he was hurrying, but he found an ugly amusement in making the bard keep up.
The throne room had changed a great deal since he had left, making him wonder how long he had been outside. The dead soldiers of both sides were no more, though dozens more of both parties had gathered in the room, standing on opposite sides and making a narrow corridor down the center. All were armed, the king’s army and Eadrics, and Kit could feel the intensity in the room building even as he felt the magic in the goma meat fading from his stomach. His pace slowed and he strode slowly through the watching men, aware of the proximity to the swords, pikes, and crossbows of the enemy soldiers.
Standing on the dais behind the throne, stood a curious group of people. Eadric was not there, and any latent hope that Kit held that his friend perhaps had not died, vanished in his absence. Where they had taken his body Kit did not know, but he would burn in the Pits of Lorn before letting it succumb to dishonor.
Valia stood with straight back and arms folded, a look of strong determination etched across her face, carved in the recent pain of her brother’s death. Next stood the woman in green, old and young at the same time, and beside her stood the four Spokesmen, all with their hoods removed now showing that each was male, three of them as old as sixty perhaps, with the fourth perhaps half their age. They were pale of skin in the face, but the eight hands that hung from the sleeves of their robes were dark, not like the skin of a man born such, but as that of one who worked in the mines or had their hand soaked in darkroot water. It was a strange change from the skin of their faces.
Next to them stood a short man, shorter than Kit, of middle age and heavy weight, dressed well despite the hour, a scarlet cap on his head and red hair trimmed neatly in a beard to frame his round face. This man Kit knew to be named Rogo Half-Herian, a name both insulting and honoring at once.
Finally there was the captain of the palace guard, a tall man in black armor carrying what was clearly the King’s greatsword, the visor of his helm lifted but the darkness in his fade not, a man who had missed all the fighting and might have made some difference. Lastly, next to this giant of a man, was a plain looking young man perhaps only a decade Kit’s senior, with clean features and kind eyes, dressed modestly in a brown tunic and breeches, though he wore no shoes.
It was an odd assembly to be sure, and Kit joined the circle purposefully holding his sword before him, the point resting on the top of his boot.
“Power has changed hands,” spoke Rogo, the half-herian. His voice was low and clipped, as if foreign, but Kit thought it more of a choice than a nature. “Things have transpired which cannot be undone. Certain birds have sung before their wings could be clipped.” He looked around the circle as he spoke, though his eyes seemed to rest the longest on the twin bards. For their part, they looked as joyful and smug as possible.
“I’m not above death without trial,” growled the captain of the guard. The city referred to him as The Ox, and Kit didn’t know the man’s true name.
“Word has spread, I’m afraid,” put in Hyg, the brother of the twin bards. One of his stringed instruments was in his hands and he plucked at a string, muted by his other hand.
“It is the fault of your cursed witchery,” snapped The Ox, pointing an armored hand to the woman in green.
Before she could reply, the spokesmen who had spoken to Kit first after the killing of the king, stepped into the circle and spoke.
“There are men here who would strike you down should the word arise, the only thing holding them back is the lack of command. They do not know whom to follow. Our bardic guests have spread the word that this man has killed a Spokesman. You have garnered renown, if only through fear.” He pointed a finger square at Kit, and continued. “You must take the seat of power, for to allow another to rule would mean the death of one of us is not a difficult thing, and the veil will be destroyed, more than the tear already placed upon it. You must be king.”
All eyes turned to Kit and he found he didn’t know what to say. He rarely did, speaking was Eadric’s job, but he couldn’t even think of a snarky quip as the group watched him. Valia came to his aide.
“Eadric was supposed to become king, but you killed him.”
“He killed the king!” cried Rogo. “I’m surprised Jovis did not kill the rest of you!”
“We are not aligned with combat!” snapped the bald Spokesman. “Jovis should have killed no one, no matter the crime.” He smoothed dark hands over his pale scalp, a mask of stoicism fading for just a moment to show the panic beneath. But it was only a moment. He faced Valia. “You understand the gravity of what has transpired? Our friends here have spread the word that the king and one of the Spokesmen have been killed, while fires burn throughout the city. The government is only as strong as the people, and though Godsmar ruled with iron, iron melts with enough applied heat. If we do not ins your brother as the new king, the city will turn, the citadel will fall, we will perish in the battle, and the gate will. . .”
His voice trailed off and she licked lips that seemed paper dry.
Valia nodded all the while as the man spoke, then turned around to face the twins. Their hair was not as blond as hers, a more strawberry tint to it that might have explained the freckles on their faces, but there was some distant similarity to the three of them that called to a long lost ancestral land of familiarity. Valia reached out a hand and slapped them across the face, one after the other, quick enough that neither could move. She stood her ground and stared at them as they cried out and clutched their faces as though they had been shot with crossbows and not clapped single handedly.
“You truly have a hold upon the city, do you not?” she asked in a husked whisper. The volume of shed tears was marked in her voice. She turned to Kit and he saw the sadness there. “I’m sorry, Kit,” she said. “This was not supposed to happen so. You never wanted this. But I see no other choice.”
Kit didn’t answer, still finding words evading him. He thought he understood what was being asked of him and why, though he was certain that there were far more societal and martial implications that he did not yet know. The fact that none of those in the circle were making a move to cut him down seemed telling enough. It was all in the power of the Spokesmen, that seemed clear enough, for though the captain of the guard had spoken, it was obvious that he was not in command, nor even was the king’s advisor, the half-herian Rogo.
Before Kit could answer, despite being given plenty of time with which to do so, the bald Spokesmen spoke once more, directing his words to Valia who still stood in the center of the circle.
“The magic is broken,” he said slowly, dangerously. “Jovis was as integral to its structure as the rest of us, a death spread the moment he died, we could all feel it, it is why we came so quickly. There is a great danger far in the center of the Quakeslan, a terrible place where no good life lives, and a strange relic hides there, wreathed in the magic we hold. Jovis was bound to part of it, and now with his link missing, the magic is failing, and the bond is breaking away. What is trapped beyond the guard is terrible indeed. We must send someone who is able to go to the south, into the heart of the Quakeslan, to recover this relic and bond as the fourth Spokesman. Without such action, there will be no point in setting this brute as king, for there will be no kingdom left to rule.”
An eerie silence fell over the group and Kit was strongly aware of the waiting guards and soldiers on the other side of the throne.
“Give us two nights,” answered Valia, her voice calm. “We will fix the unrest in the city and send your waiting mage to the Quakeslan. Tell the people that Kit will be your new High King of Raelle.”
Kit still hadn’t spoken and found there was nothing he could say, as the circle knelt before him, one by one, and as he turned to look back at the crowd of soldiers, some the former kings and some Eadrics, and found them all going to one knee as well.
All was silent in the throne room of the new king.
