Mortal gods, p.12
Mortal Gods, page 12
“Unless you think Nevan is a master assassin, I think we’re okay…” The King said, laughing.
“We have strict orders from General Kauto, Your Grace.” Ser Mallen said, unflinching in his vigilance.
“I bet you do.” The King said. “What can I do for you Nevan?”
Nevan was one of the hands in the Royal Keep’s vast rookery. The redness of his cheeks and the gulping of his breathe was because the Rookery was located in a separate structure to the main Keep and up many, many steps.
“A letter has come for you, Your Grace!” He said, but Khalen didn’t like his tone.
“Why the urgency?” He asked quickly, moving passed the three Knights. Ser Ulises and Tremaine almost reacted, but Ser Mallen restrained them both with a short, stern look.
“It came from the North, Your Grace!” Nevan said. Khalen snatched the letter from the young boy and gazed at the envelope intently.
“Thank you, you can go.” The King said quickly. He gave the door to his solar a rough shove and walked inside, Ser Tremaine in tow.
“A quick inspection, Your Grace.” The Knight said, but Khalen barely heard. The envelope from the North had gripped him so, because the only place North of Seroyah, was the Steel Mountain, and as was mentioned to the King in the earlier meeting, the Dwarves had retreated into the mountain in recent years. Ser Tremaine checked the room thoroughly, under the bed, in the adjoining wash room, the closets where the Kings clothes and wares were kept and even the balcony, letting the brisk air into the room.
“Good night, Your Grace.” The knight said, leaving the room. Khalen placed the letter on the table by the window and stepped back from it. He considered sending for General Kauto, but then resolved to dealing with it as he would. As the King tore the envelope, he could fear only the worst of its contents. Another Preacher Warren style warning, or a threat on the Kingdom or even the King himself? The paper opened easily from its folds and Khalen recognised the familiar hand of Chieftain Mirav Gando.
Khalen had met Chieftain Gando only once before, and even then he could tell the Dwarf was a hardened warrior who rarely wasted his words. Khalen studied the letter and scrunched his face, confused.
“We don’t have any men north of the Trench?” He said aloud. The Trench was the stretch of land in which the old Kings of Man and Dwarf fought for the north. The Trench had become a symbolic border between the north and the far north, where neither crossed in either direction without the express consent of the other. He moved to the door and pulled it open, catching the three knights unawares, speaking to one another.
“Ser Mallen, Ser Tremaine, could I borrow you a second?” Khalen said, backing into the room and leaving the door to crawl open slowly.
“Your Grace?” Mallen answered, wandering into the room with Ser Tremaine and closing the door behind him.
“To your knowledge, do we have any men north of the Trench?”
“North, Your Grace?” Ser Tremaine answered. It was clear from the look on his face he was confused, but Khalen already knew what he was to say next.
“There hasn’t been a Hyulian Knight North of the Trench since…”
“Since my father sent them there.” Khalen said knowing. The last time there was cause for Seroyah to march north, was early in King Septimus Khalen’s reign, when Chieftain Gando invited the King to make a formal acquaintance.
“Thank you both.” The King said, beckoning them to leave.
“Your Grace, may I…” Ser Mallen said.
“Of course.”
“I am to inform you that Ser Tremaine will be acting as First Sword, and as such, he will be in command of your detail.”
“Are you not the second in command of the whole army?” Khalen asked.
“Yes, Your Grace. But Ser Tremaine is a finer sword than I. I discussed at length with Remis and he was in agreement.”
Khalan eyed them both for a second and then shrugged. “Very well, if Kauto thinks it wise.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Ser Mallen and Ser Tremaine bowed and left.
Khalen pulled two pieces of parchment from the drawer of his desk, scribbled a few words on one, then the other and called for his Steward, Pheris. There was a racket outside as the Steward tried to navigate his way passed the three vigilant knights in the corridor, but when he finally emerged through the door, Khalen handed him the parchments, stamped in fresh wax with the eagle of Hyule, and told him to be on his way to the rookery with it.
“Inform my entourage I do not wish to be disturbed.” Khalen said, and the Pheris left with a bow.
The King slipped out of his formal jerkin and into a loose shirt and trousers of thick black cotton. He lit the hearth fire on the wall which stood proudly beneath a sculpture of the Golden Eagle of Hyule. As the heat began to rise in the room, Khalen strode to his balcony which Ser Tremaine checked thoroughly earlier, unlocked the door and stepped out into the brisk cold. There was something about that northern air that the King loved. He was cold, sure, but it never seemed to get to him. He had listened to the stories of the Freemarches merchants and envoys, who had travelled here from the east, talk about the coldness of the Hylian air but also its freshness. It was somewhat industrial with the smithies and the forges, but it was nothing compared to the Freemarches.
Khalen always looked out over the city with immense pride, but recently it was stained by the eyesore that cut up the view. The Kalutha Cathedral, all its lights and lanterns shining bright like a beacon at night. Lady Gretchen had told of services where this was referred to as the Lights of Clarity, forever burning brightly so even the most lost of men may find their way home. That annoyed Khalen.
They simply had the best lie.
Khalen was startled slightly when the door received three loud claps. But it was odd, it wasn’t the sound of a hard gauntlet on wood. He moved to it gingerly, suspiciously recalling the ruckus that had been made when Pheris had tried to make an entry earlier. He moved to table, lifted a small knife he used to open letters, and tucked it onto the sleeve of his shirt. His hand closed around the door handle and he pulled.
“Your Grace.” The brittle voice of Lady Gretchen said. Her face was wide and alert, which made the King uneasy. He glared over her shoulder to see the three knights that were guarding his room, still stood there, each with a hand rested on the hilt of their long swords.
“Lady Gretchen, what are you doing here?” Khalen asked, not yet inviting her in.
“We must speak at once, Your Grace!” She said with urgency. Her tone seemed to have stoked a reaction in Ser Tremaine, but as he moved to enter the room behind the Lady, Khalen waved a hand and shut the door.
“I have preparation to make for on the morrow, Lady Gretchen, please make this quick.”
“The Knight-Commander is in the city.” She said, and suddenly, Khalen understood her caution.
“Krone?” Khalen replied, curiously. “Why?”
“I don’t know, but he has sent an emissary to arrange an urgent meet with you.”
“At this hour?” The King said incredulous. “Where is this emissary?”
As the words escaped the King’s mouth, he decoded the apologetic expression written across Lady Gretchen’s face.
“How did he enter the city?” Khalen asked. “There would normally be a higher presence of Kalutha in the streets for an arrival such as this?”
“I don’t believe the Divine knows he is here, Your Grace. He mentioned nothing of it to me. Knight-Commander Krone requested we meet in the public audience chambers. He seemed to understand that they would be empty at this hour.” Lady Gretchen said.
“Travel ahead, let him know of my arrival.” Khalen said, “And send in the knights.” Lady Gretchen wandered to the door, mumbled a few words to the knights, and they entered to attention in front of the King.
“The Knight-Commander is in the city, I am to meet with him imminently in the public audience chambers.”
“Your Grace, is this wise?” Ser Tremaine said, toing the line Kauto usually did.
“Ser Ulises, fetch Ser Donald and have him scrambled twenty of the City Guard to the chambers immediately, I want Krone to see strength.” King Khalen commanded. Ser Tremaine visibly relaxed at the mention of more men, but he still wasn’t all together happy with the situation.
While Ser Ulises embarked, Ser Tremaine and Ser Mallen escorted the King to the public audience chamber, but there was no sign of Knight- Commander Krone, nor the guards that Khalen had asked for. The Audience Chambers were outside of the Royal Keep, deep in the city. It was where Sheriffs would preside over the law of Seroyah, where they passed judgement on troubles and grievances, mostly trifles over theft, farming, adultery, but on occasion, there was call for the King himself to sit in judgement. Khalen had never had to do this in his time, but there was a case his father sat over. The details were foggy in his mind as he had been very young when General Kauto had told him of it, but it involved a Lord, and love triangle and lots and lots of gold. The minutes ticked over quickly, with each passing one seeing Ser Treamine and Ser Mallen grow ever uneasier. At the head of the chamber was an elevated platform where the sheriff would sit behind a desk, a congregation of chairs facing it. The tall roofs held strong by pillars of solid stone that flanked from the desk to the door.
“Your Grace, may I?” Ser Mallen said, asking for permission. “General Kauto would frown upon us sitting here like this.”
“I agree Your Grace, we are too exposed.” Ser Tremaine said.
Before the King could think of his position, the tall oak doors to the chamber swung open. Knight-Commander Krone was an experienced warrior, almost in the same ilk of Kauto, but lacking the same class in Khalen’s eyes. His hair was black and slick and his eyes were a fierce emerald green. He strode into the chamber with a look on his face that Khalen couldn’t quite place, but he was not alone. Behind him marched four Kalutha Knights, but they were absent their breast plates and chain mail, instead garbed in the simple jerkins embroidered with the Eternal Tree of Kalutha. As they were trained to do, Ser Tremaine and Ser Mallen leapt in front of the King and half drew their steel with a rasp.
“We come in peace.” Krone said slowly, striding forward with his hands in the air. “I am better versed on etiquette to know you do not bare steel in the King’s presence.”
Khalen had met the Knight-Commander only a handful of times before, but he had never outright been forced to address him. He was a man who came tagged with rumours that spread across the whole realm. However, it was the one he learned first that was of most prominent in his mind at this moment. He had been accused of strapping a young girl to a tree some twenty years ago and lighting her ablaze. The name of the village escaped the King, but it was in the far reaches of southern Vacarian.
“This truly is a breath taking room.” Krone said, gazing upwards at the tall roofs.
“Why am I here, Krone?” Khalen said, getting to the point.
“Truly remarkable…” Krone said, seemingly having not heard, or ignored the King. “Correct me if I am wrong, but it was your great grandfather who constructed this wonderful structure? The justice saw in this room!”
Khalen’s gut tightened in anger, but he manged to swallow it down before it could invade his calm. “Grandfather.” He answered simply.
“Simply stunning. Although I must admit it is rather wasted up here with the cold, I much prefer the warmer pastures of the south, I’m afraid.”
“Why am I here?” Khalen repeated. His voice was calm and cool, but his temper was sizzling in the background.
“Very well,” Krone began. He reached into his long robes, but Ser Tremaine drew his sword completely with a ripping cut of noise and shouted him down. Ser Tremaine was a large man, lean and frightening, but the Knight-Commander laughed in his face with a gentle chuckle.
“Settle.” He said calmly, and tisked at the knight. He drew a rolled up piece of parchment from the pocket and handed it to Ser Mallen while Ser Tremaine tracked him furiously with wide eyes. When it finally passed the King’s eyes, it made no sense.
“What is the meaning of this?” Khalen asked.
“Well, it is exactly as it says, Your Grace. The Divine will be abdicating he power in the coming days.”
“And why would he do that?” Khalen said, cutting to the point.
“He has lead the Faith down a turbulent path, butting heads with the Crown on trivial matters when we could be building the future together.” Krone said.
“You don’t strike me as the philanthropic type, Knight-Commander.” Khalen said sceptically. Krone laughed a cynical purr, and stepped forward a little closer. The tension rose and Ser Tremaine snarled with intent, but there was a cool, cold look on Krone’s face that didn’t hint at violence.
“I have done the Crown a courtesy by passing this information. I have shown the King respect by doing so face to face. The Divine will step down.”
“And to what end does this courtesy owe?” Khalen said. He stepped down from the elevated platform and descended the steps in front of him, standing level with Krone. At closer glance, the Knight-Commander was a grizzled veteran with experience in his eyes.
“We both know of graver threats in the world than each other. You’re father knew. He tried to pull us together to fight it, but the Divine would hear none of it.” Krone said softly. “Tell me, are you like your father?”
“Some have said as much.” Khalen answered.
“This realm will need men like your father when the war returns. We would do well to stand shoulder to shoulder this time and not blade to blade.”
He stepped backwards as though he meant to leave, but Khalen had a burst of thought to ask a glaring question that he should have before now.
“Tell me, Knight Commander, who will take the Divine’s place?”
Krone turned back to the King and smiled, but he never broke his stride.
“I could not possibly comment, Your Grace. Although I will tell you one more thing for free. The Divine will not be alone at this sit down you have planned, I suggest you are not alone either. Good night, Aeon.” Krone said and whisked from the chamber, followed by his knights.
Before the door closed, Ser Ulises marched through it with 5 of the city guard and ten of the Royal Guard, but he was met with a chorus of hushed, harsh words from Ser Tremaine.
“Ser Tremaine, make arrangements for the Council to meet me in my solar.” Khalen said.
“At once, Your Grace.” The big knight answered. He sent the City Guard on their way and tasked his Royal Guard with fetching the council members.
Khalen took a moment, and sank onto the congregation bench, and pondered the night’s events. He was unsure of what to make of them, the vagueness of it all. But the only constant that he knew whole heartedly was his own short comings. He made a mistake sending General Kauto south.
Chapter 6
The Annual Celebrations
Adrian
The air around Adrian's head vibrated, shuddering any remnants of a coherent thought before it could form its purpose. The light drifted in and out of his eyes wearily, snapping shots of a dank room in bleary afterthoughts. It could’ve taken hours, but Adrian finally recognised his own room which grew from the fuzz. Slowly, he came around to catch glimpses of his rough bed and jagged cotton sheets, his leather armour and an empty sheath.
He fought back at the pain throbbing in his temples, trying best he could to remember what happened, but the blur stole the names and hid the faces. He shifted in the bed attempting to get up, but even the slightest murmur of a movement, stabbed and attacked his body.
“Pauper!” Adrian croaked but it was barely an audible gasp that wretched itself free from his parched mouth. He dug his hands into the bed and dragged himself from the sheets, but the moment he was upright, the rush of blood to his head double him over in pain. He thumped off the wooden boards with a crash. Pauper burst through the door, almost ripping the poor frail thing from its hinges. Her eyes widened as she see Adrian sprawled across the floor in dazed confusion. Light as air, Adrian was lifted onto his bed and renewed his relationship with the darkness heavy sleep brought.
When he next woke, it was the same as before. The dry mouth, the pounding headache, but now with the added rumbling from his stomach that echoed through his ears. He sat up, but this time he anticipated the rush. It hit him just as hard as before, but he waited on the bed for a respite before tempted him legs again. He gripped his hand to his head and felt the fresh bandages.
“Pauper.” Adrian called, this time his words went further than the cusp of his throat. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he awaited his Khamari keeper and tried to recall what had wrought such forceful havoc over him.
But the pain flared and further effort to force memories back into the light from the corners of his mind only served to elevate the scything stabbing sensation emanating from the back of his head. Nobody came to him this time. From the main room, Adrian could hear strained voices arguing. One belonged to Avari, the other to Pauper, but the third voice was foreign to Adrian’s ears.
Who is that?
In so far as he could recall, they had never received a visitor from anywhere other than Redbridge, and he would recognise a voice from the village. The mystery voice seemed throatier, mature but the accent was easily northern Hyule. Most of the fishermen who took a day’s rest in Redbridge were northerners, who would then move onto the voyage down the Witchbottom Aisle, under the Kingway Bridge that connected Oraan to the mainland and east, past old Vacarian towards the Freemarches. The Witchbottom was another shame from the Slaver King’s era. He would order women thrown from the cliff-side, into the Aisle. If they survived they were burned at the stake, if they died they were exonerated of dark magic.
Adrian climbed to his feet, even more slowly than before and crept quietly towards the door. He knew every floorboard that would sound the alarm at his awaken state. At the door he very gently twisted the knob, clicking it open just a crack. He hadn’t heard Arianna, but a whiff of her distinguished aroma floated past him. Pauper was angry. She spoke in a tone he had scarcely heard before as she tore into Arianna and Avari.
