by Rex Jameson
“What are you—?”
As if in answer, Etcher pulled a foot-long stake from the sand and grass and held it over the shirt on the ground. He slammed the hammer down, and the clothes burst to life. A creature screamed from the sands, and Jandhar jumped back. Jahgo charged forward, sensing danger. He grabbed the undead fiend by the throat and shook it about in its powerful jaws, pulling a series of stakes from the ground that had held the creature to the ground. Etcher leapt and rolled backward with the grace of a disturbed cat.
The black dragon crunched the bones of the undead man as he chewed. He pounded the tattered-clothed man against a nearby rock until the undead man’s face and neck were crushed. The sound of the creature’s screams muted and grew wetter. Jahgo spat the undead creature out before pacing between Jahgo and Etcher. Despite its injuries, the undead groped toward the old man, the prince, or the dragon.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jandhar demanded as he stroked Jahgo’s soft throat to calm down his alpha.
“The undead are real,” Etcher said, pointing at the sputtering, injured creature. “I’ve been torturing it. Dissecting it. If it was going to talk before, it certainly won’t now. Your dragon has destroyed its face and vocal chords.”
Jandhar pointed at the burning city. “Is Sevania filled with them?”
“No,” Etcher said, “those are normal people you are killing. Undead roam all around the Mallory estate. I found this one staring at the sea not far from here. I pierced it in any manner of ways, but it kept lashing out.”
The creature twitched now but barely.
“I obviously hadn’t tried killing it with dragons,” Etcher said, wiping sweat from his brow. His face was just as weathered and impossibly old as Jandhar remembered it from years before.
Jandhar laughed, and Etcher smiled.
“You’re a long way from home.” Jandhar said. “Why are you here?”
“You’re here too. It seems I’m in good company.”
Jandhar chuckled. “Are there other Crelloni in the forest just ahead, waiting to ambush me?”
“There’s no Crelloni here,” Etcher said, shaking his head. “I came by myself.”
“To see the undead?”
“To ask you a question.”
“What’s that?” Jandhar asked, still amused. His men continued to file behind him toward the city and the smoldering ruins of knights and turrets.
“Why have you come to this place?” Etcher asked.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the King’s invitation…” Jandhar said with a straight face.
Etcher turned briefly toward the burning city of Sevania.
“I’m not sure this is what Aethis had in mind,” Etcher said. “What are you really doing here?”
Jandhar knew he didn’t have to answer the old man, but he was so entertained by Etcher’s random appearance and the accidental but overwhelmingly successful attack by his green dragons on the city that he decided to play along anyway.
“I’m here to cleanse this land of the evil that plagues it…” Jandhar said cryptically.
He smiled to himself as he joined the line of men walking toward the ruined walls, castle and city. He didn’t stay to ask Etcher if the answer had sufficed. When he turned around, the old man had disappeared—likely joining the ranks of the thousands of men disembarking from other boats along the long beach. 10,000 men and five dragons. More than enough to burn the Kingdom of Surdel to the ground, before sweeping the entire royal Eldenwald family into the dustbin of history.
7
The New Regent
Lord General Godfrey Ross stood on the second step below the throne in Kingarth. Blood curdled around his boots as he stared at the body of the headless king resting on the ornate chair with the stained tiger furs. His lifeless queen sat against the wall where Princess Cassandra continued to stroke her mother’s hair. Prince Ragnar and Olaf Eldenwald braced themselves against the stones beside their mother in silent grieving.
Guards marched in, draped the king in a purple cloth, and carried him out of the room, back toward the rooms where Godfrey’s son had been kept. Godfrey’s mind was a fog. In its morass, shapes came and went. Memories of King Aethis and Queen Shea. Magnus. Frederick. Edward.
Edward’s son Jeremy Vossen leaned against a nearby marble pillar. The elder Vossen had been murdered in much the same way as the King, though less bloodily. Edward still slumped against the stone walls of the approach to the throne room, his neck blackened but his head still attached.
The King and the High Lord shared the same murderer—the same wretched thing: Godfrey’s reanimated son Frederick. In a few moments, the guards would return for the Queen and attempt to pry her from Cassandra’s arms. In days, the undead would arrive, and without strong leadership, Surdel was in danger.
Lesser men than Godfrey might have panicked. Men without a conscience might have let shame overcome them, abandoned their duties and leapt from the nearest window that overlooked the dead, elven city of Ul Tyrion. Godfrey was not a lesser man. The Kingdom of Surdel was without a King. The state of Vossen was without an appointed leader. Regardless of what his son had done when he had been resurrected, Godfrey could not let the nation sail into this crisis without a rudder. Order would need to be restored.
“King Ragnar,” Godfrey said without emotion.
Ragnar’s head perked at his first hailing as a monarch. His eyes widened, and his brother Olaf pushed against his shoulder so that the new king might not fall over.
Cassandra silently cried, but she also shook with what Godfrey knew to be suppressed rage. He had seen her kind of grief many times on the battlefield. Others might not understand it, but he did. There was a certain point with fiery people when they forgot fear and thought only of vengeance. With soldiers, he had cultivated it into a weapon, but with a princess, he wasn’t sure how to channel it. Cassandra rocked her mother as she stroked Shea’s head.
“When your father was young,” Godfrey said to Ragnar, “just about your age, in fact, his father died too. Being not of age, he asked another to become the Lord Regent—to help guide the new king along his path to power. Being the Lord General at that time, I assumed the duties of Regent until he came of age. Your father asked me to support him and show him the way of kings…”
Godfrey let the suggestion hang for a moment. Ragnar nodded but did not mouth the words.
“Would you accept my aid as Regent,” Godfrey asked, “until the time of your eighteenth birthday, as your father did?”
Ragnar looked to his brother Olaf and his sister Cassandra. They each nodded slowly, but Cassandra looked at Godfrey with no small amount of accusation in her eyes. Or maybe Godfrey just thought it should be there. Had he been in her position, he might have thought the worse of him, as she probably did. Her father and mother dead and by his son Frederick’s hand. There were less obvious cautionary tales told to children at twilight.
King Ragnar cleared his throat as he grasped at the magnitude of his situation. He processed what to say for a long moment before he spoke calmly and firmly—a spitting image of his father in tone and command.
“Lord General,” Ragnar said, “our enemies are at our gates… Not just man or orc… but ghouls… demons walk our hallways, murdering our elders and noblest men… violating our sanctity and taking from us that which we hold dear… In these dangerous and uncertain times, when madness and chaos infect our great kingdom like a leprosy, a new king needs guidance. Our kingdom needs a protector. I, King Ragnar, need a man I can trust… to show me how to be a strong leader. I need a man who my family, indeed my own father, trusted with his life. Will you take up the mantle of Regent once more until I come of age? Will you serve me and the royal family of Eldenwald as Regent?”
The young king spoke so well that Godfrey had almost forgotten that he was actually the one who had suggested the action. But after quick reflection, Godfrey realized that he shouldn’t be so surprised that Ragnar handled pressure well. Ragnar had accompan
ied Crown Prince Magnus on multiple southern defenses against the orcish hordes. He had already seen death and dismemberment dozens of times. He held himself better and with more poise than his younger brother Olaf or older sister Cassandra, whose anger seemed to boil up inside of her until it almost ran over.
“With all my heart,” Godfrey said, “and with my last breath, I will serve and defend Surdel. If the King requests me to be of service to him and the realm, then I will do it. I gratefully accept the title and duties of Regent.”
“Thank you, Lord Regent,” King Ragnar said.
“My sincere apologies, My King, for what I must now do,” Godfrey said. “There is no time to truly mourn your father and mother. As you have said, there are enemies at our gates. We are assailed by a supernatural force, and we must act quickly or all of Surdel may be lost. Our foes will not rest and allow us time to regroup. Indeed, this scene of mayhem is undoubtedly meant to weaken our resolve and dull our preparation and response. With your permission, I will do what must be done.”
Ragnar nodded. Olaf and Cassandra did too.
“Lord Jeremy Vossen,” Godfrey commanded, “please rise and approach the throne.”
Jeremy looked up in confusion. Godfrey drew his sword from the sheath at his hip. He pointed the blade toward the base of the stairs from his position atop the dais. He motioned for Jeremy to move where the blood had dried.
Jeremy stumbled over his feet as he lurched forward.
“On your knees,” Godfrey said quietly but with command.
The young man knelt and held his head down. He kept his eyes open, almost as if he expected a chastisement instead of an anointment.
“The Kingdom laments its great losses,” Godfrey said. “Not long ago, a great son and a prince…”
He paused as he remembered his own son, but of course, he really meant Magnus.
“Now, a king and queen and also a high lord.”
Jeremy lifted his head in bewilderment, as he began to realize what was going on. His eyes held outrage. He appeared to want to fight what was coming, now that he understood the high lordship ceremony was upon him.
“A new king rises,” Godfrey said, “but enemies are all around us. The kingdom will fall without a strong southern bastion. The state of Mallory was only recently made solid. Now, the state of Vossen must also be fortified with a strong leader. The succession for the House of Vossen must take place and it must be done immediately. Lord Jeremy Vossen is the heir to this seat of power in the South, but a rightful heir to the full power of House Vossen is not the Vossen family’s right to give but the King’s. As Regent to King Ragnar, I act on his behalf. Lord Jeremy…”
Jeremy’s lip quivered as he made himself more rigid. Godfrey pressed on.
“Do you swear fealty to Ragnar, your king, and to his family for as long as you shall live?”
“Yes, Regent,” Jeremy said.
“Do you swear to protect all lands of Surdel as though they were your own?”
“Yes, Regent.”
“Do you swear to protect all people of Surdel as though they were your own?”
“Yes, Regent.”
“Do you pledge to fulfill your obligations as High Lord? If required, will you sacrifice everything you have, love, and hold dear for the sake of the realm?”
“Yes, Regent.”
“Then let it be known that on this day,” Godfrey said, “in the year 1501 of the Tranquility Era… no… year 1 of the… Magic Era, that Jeremy of the Vossen Clan is hereby pronounced High Lord Vossen. He shall inherit Vossen Keep and see to its repairs. He shall defend our southern reaches from any aggression, whether orc, human, elf or any other.”
“Hear, hear,” Ragnar said.
“Hear, hear,” Olaf and Cassandra mumbled.
“Rise, High Lord Vossen,” Godfrey commanded.
Jeremy stood with his shoulders hunched slightly. He looked like a pugilist in a final-round decision, all his energy spent and waiting for a judge to indicate the victor.
“As High Lord,” Jeremy said, “I must admit that the Southern lands might be lost. Not just my lands. The entire South may already fall under the power of darkness.”
Godfrey coughed and rested uneasily on his heels, which were caked in Aethis’ blood. He could not stop whatever Jeremy might want to say. He just hoped the damage would be minimal. If the young lord were to refuse the title and responsibilities, his younger brother or sister would be next in line. He didn’t know a fitting regent versed in the customs and politics of the southwestern lands. The entire south may indeed be lost.
“I have seen the enemy,” Jeremy said. “I have watched it work. I have seen it bring back the dead. I’ve seen them raise a person I’ve known and even loved as a true friend. I have seen the hatred in that man’s eyes—a man I thought I knew. But he was turned from us by evil.”
Godfrey couldn’t speak. To even name the victim or the assailant was too much. He prayed Jeremy would stop short.
“This is not a battle we’re prepared for,” Jeremy said. “I’m aware of the Regent’s plans, and they are well-formed and undoubtedly right and correct—for any normal cadre of knights and archers facing men. But we face an army of undead and worse. The lesser evils—the undead—I know we can kill them. We can dice them into small pieces that squirm harmlessly within the grasses. We can put them to the flame. They are not whom I fear and worry over in the southern lands. No, I speak of those forces even more supernatural—those that cannot simply be minced and burned.”
“The demons,” Cassandra said boldly from behind Godfrey.
The Regent turned to her. Her lips were pressed hard together, and he could hear her grinding her teeth.
“The demons,” Jeremy agreed with a wince and a pause. “I accept this commission, this High Lordship, but unless we find a way to defeat these new creatures, my lands are lost. No… Surdel is lost. Every effort must be made to learn what it is we are fighting, and every reinforcement and talented man, woman, and child must be brought to bear.”
Godfrey nodded. He almost sat down atop the still bloody throne as he staggered from his ruminations, but he caught himself before the thought had become action. He gulped hard.
“In case I am being unclear,” the new High Lord said, “I mean that we should reinstate any assets we have—no matter how taboo or—”
“Agreed,” Godfrey said, knowing who and what Jeremy was referring to.
Godfrey turned toward King Ragnar.
“Long ago,” Godfrey said, “your ancestor Jalak the Wise made a pronouncement. He outlawed a group of people, stripped them of their lands, and declared them traitors. With your permission, King Ragnar, I would seek a reprieve of this banishment so that they might help us in this hour of direst need.”
“I know of whom you speak,” Ragnar said, “and I know the steadfastness of my house on this matter. I have heard my father speak of the betrayal of the paladins. We have all been taught their lack of loyalty. We have been taught that they follow and work in concert with these demons.”
Godfrey placed a hand atop the throne. He looked down at the body of King Aethis.
“I loved this man,” Godfrey said, “and I would never speak ill of him or his words or actions. I would only ask you a question, Great King. The paladins are the stuff of legend. No one truly knows if their powers are real or imagined, but we know the stories—and we’ve heard these stories despite the threat of death should they be told in any way that might be misconstrued as holding their charge in positive light. But within these legends, they say that these men part the darkness with light. They say they can kill the unnatural and the damned. They say the paladins can kill demons.”
“You said you would ask me a question,” Ragnar said sagely.
Godfrey gulped hard and proceeded carefully. Not because he had to, but because he knew that if the plan backfired, he could lose his head for it. Ragnar was not squeamish or a cowed toddler. He was a war-tested man who had seen his fair share of
battle and executions.
Godfrey licked his lips and sighed gruffly.
“Do you think,” he said, “that your father would be dead right now if a paladin had been by his side? Do you think a demon would have attacked your father so openly if he had been so protected?”
Ragnar’s face displayed a stream of emotions. Surprise, momentary outrage, and then a sort of understanding and grief. He looked to his brother Olaf, who shook his head slowly and earnestly. Cassandra was unreadable.
“I don’t know,” Ragnar said.
“We will never know,” Godfrey said. “The only thing we know is that a single demon came into this room, massacred the royal guard, beheaded the king, murdered a high lord, and then walked right out of the castle.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
Godfrey didn’t need the young king’s permission. He just wanted him to know why he was going to do what he felt he had to do to protect the young king and the realm.
“And we also know,” Godfrey continued, “that a single demon ripped a great prince and knight in half and slaughtered dozens of your knights across the fields at Mallory Keep. You saw this on the killing fields. We know that that same demon clawed his way through stone walls to kill High Lord Janus Mallory.”
Ragnar nodded.
“And we know who,” Godfrey said, “out of a thousand hardened knights, was the only man who chased the demon down and shattered it with a luminous hammer.”
Ragnar nodded. He had been there. He had seen his brother die. He had watched the demon bust through the outer walls of the tallest, most-well-defended keep in all of Surdel, and he had watched the paladin’s bold charge.
“They say his name is Cedric Arrington,” Ragnar said. “I heard the Royal Guard whisper it on the field. I hear it whispered still in my very hallways.”
Godfrey acknowledged the name of the leader of the paladins. He and Jeremy had followed him all the way to Hell’s Edge, where they had kidnapped the Necromancer and caused this irreparable damage to Surdel by forcing Ashton to resurrect Frederick. Godfrey mentioned nothing of these facts.
