by Brian Murray
Unseen by Zane, an axe-wielder blocked a crushing blow to the young king’s head. The Kharnack died as the axe-wielder buried his weapon in the man’s skull.
“Axe-wielders! To the king!”
Like possessed demons, the Rhaurns battled to reach their king. The first to arrive were the axe-wielders. Now the king of the Rhaurns fought side by side with the axe-wielders. His everlasting legend was being created. Within an hour, the Kharnacks sensed defeat and began giving up their weapons and surrendering or fleeing.
General Brooks rode into the battlefield with General Gordonia and Gan-Goran. The Rhaurien General felt so proud of each and every one of his warriors. He smiled and nodded at them as they saluted when he rode past. Reaching Zane, Brooks dismounted. The young king wiped away the blood and sweat from his face. He smiled when he saw the general and they embraced.
“You turned the battle and now you’ve won the respect of your army,” said Brooks softly.
“What do you mean, Brooks?” asked Zane, bemused.
“Mount my horse, raise your sword, and you will see.”
Zane climbed warily into the general’s saddle and raised his sword. In response the entire Rhaurien army raised their swords, chanting, “Zane! Zane! Zane!” They punched their weapons into the air. The noise startled the king’s horse. King Zane’s smile turned into a grimace as his horse suddenly reared up on its hind legs and he just managed to hang on. The army cheered.
Then Gordonia came alongside and said, “We still have work to do in the city.”
Zane nodded, dismounted, and called for his own horse.
The king, the two generals, and Gan-Goran with three companies of Royal Lancers made their way across the bloodied battlefield towards the open gates of Kal-Pharina.
***
Deep in Kal-Pharina, the group lead by the Chosen heard the Rhaurn army chanting their king’s name.
“I think the boy has done well,” commented Gammel, smiling but remaining vigilant.
“Aye,” replied a preoccupied Dax. The lack of defence within the city worried him. It did not look like a city under siege, with crowds of people appearing in the streets, bowing as the Chosen walked past. The remaining Imperial Guards and Priests of the Chosen came out of hiding and joined the march. But no Dark Brethren attacked, and no army appeared to be camped inside the city. This worried Dax.
The small procession walked up the winding road to the palace, and still there was no sign of enemy forces in the city. Reaching the summit of the hill, in the centre of Kal-Pharina, the Chosen ran up the steps to his palace, only to be faced by closed doors. Without a sound, one door opened and guards stepped out, bowing low. The Chosen re-entered his home.
At the top of his voice he shouted, “Tucci, your father is home!”
Without pausing, the Chosen walked straight to his throne room. As he approached, the doors were opened and facing him on the throne sat Tucci.
The Chosen stood motionless in the doorway, staring at his son. He had dreamt of this day for months and now he was faced with an agonising decision. Tucci rose and approached him. With fists clenched at his side, the Chosen watched his son produce a dagger, and lunge at him.
***
Zane and his men crossed the moat and entered the city of Kal-Pharina. Zane was the first Rhaurn king to step into the fabled white city. Escorted by General Gordonia, the men made their way straight to the palace. Gordonia could not suppress a smile and swallowed tears of joy. At last, he thought, at last.
***
In the palace, Tanas leapt forward to block Tucci’s lunge at his father. Time stopped for a moment, as the Chosen looked into his son’s eyes. He saw madness – utter, polluted insanity. Could I let my kin live? he asked himself. Then, slapping his son backhanded, Rowet sent him sprawling across the floor. Tucci’s dagger fell from his hand and slid across the slick, polished marble floor beyond his reach. Guards rushed into the room.
“Leave us, and close the doors,” ordered the Chosen calmly. The room emptied, last to leave Tanas.
When alone in the throne room, Rowet stared down at Tucci, who edged away from him. Rowet’s eyes blazed with controlled rage. “Why?” he asked coldly. “Why did you betray me? This would have been all yours anyway, so . . . why?”
“Because I hate you and all you stand for,” Tucci replied snarling.
“Why?” he repeated calmer, taking a step closer.
“Because you never loved me,” Tucci spat out. “Look at you standing there, all mighty and perfect. I was never good enough for you was I, not as good or perfect as Ireen.”
“How can you say that?” countered Rowet, feeling as though someone had stabbed him in the heart.
“You never loved me, Father,” hissed Tucci hysterically. “None of you did.”
“Son, your mother and I loved you with all our hearts. You had to be prepared for the future and I had to look after the Empire. Did you think I was ignoring you?”
“Yes, you hated me.”
Rowet knelt down by his son. “I never hated you, son. I loved you as much as I loved your sister. You are of my blood, my heir, my son, why would I not love you?”
“I thought you hated me, Father,” spluttered Tucci, his eyes widening with confusion. He searched his father’s face for signs of mockery or deceit, but there was none. Suddenly the magnitude of his failing bore down on his shoulders. The realisation he had failed his father, the man he had loved, struck like a vicious blow.
“Hated you? Never.”
Tucci reached up to his father. Rowet embraced him as Tucci sobbed uncontrollably in his father’s arms.
Rowet kissed his son’s cheek then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Tucci, I never did hate you, I love you, but I cannot stand to see you. You will be banished from the palace and I will never set eyes on you again. You killed your mother, my wife, and for that I can never, ever forgive you. I have been told that you have also killed children and babes – how could you do such an evil thing? How could you; how could you do that in our home? I should hang you for that. But you are my son, my blood.”
Tucci pulled away from his father, tears streaming down his face. Reaching behind him, his fingers touched his dropped dagger. He snatched up the weapon.
Waving the blade around, he asked, “Did you love me, Father? Did you?” Saliva flew from the prince’s mouth.
“Aye, son, I have always loved you.”
Tucci smiled sadly and for a moment, Rowet saw his real son – inside the evil shell, his eyes briefly glimpsed the boy he had known and loved. Suddenly, Tucci lifted the dagger and plunged it deep into his heart. Rowet rushed forward and held his son.
“I thought you hated me, Father,” were Tucci’s dying words. “I . . . I . . .”
Rowet looked into his son’s dead eyes. “Never,” he whispered softly. “I loved you.”
At that moment, Rowet remembered the day his wife had presented him with his new-born son, his joy. A tear rolled down his cheek, but not just for the death of his son; as now he truly missed his beloved wife, and what might have been.
The Chosen carefully lay his son down, rose, walked to the door, and opened it. “Remove his body and bury it. I do not want him anywhere near my wife,” he ordered the priests, his voice harsh.
The Chosen waited until the body was removed and the blood cleaned away, then he turned and marched to his throne. Facing his friends, Rowet slowly sat down. All except Tanas dropped to one knee and bowed. The Chosen laughed. “My friend Tanas, everyone else is bowing.”
“I know that, your Highness, but aren’t we forgetting something?” he said, waving his arms. “The madman and those relics.”
“Divine’s tits,” cursed Dax, who rose and strolled to the throne. “Your Highness, if you would not mind,” said the warrior, politely bobbing his head and motioning towards the carved stone chair.
“Of course not,” said Rowet, rising and stepping away.
Dax removed the cushion and examined the thro
ne’s seat. He frowned and stood with his hands on his hips. He glanced round at the Chosen. “I apologise,” he said.
“For what?”
Before the Chosen could say anything else, Dax pulled one of his axes free and smashed the seat of the throne. The Chosen closed his eyes and shook his head. Dax checked the seat and as he turned Zane, the two generals, and Gan-Goran arrived.
“They’re not here. The relics have been taken,” announced the old warrior grimly.
“Yes, I find this all very strange,” said Tanas, shaking his head.
“What do you mean?” asked Zane.
“Well, where are the Darklord, his bodyguards and the Dark Brethren?”
“Are they not here?” asked General Gordonia, frowning.
“No, they must have gone,” said Dax, puzzled.
“But where to? Back to the grey castle?” asked Zane.
“Maybe, but there are still two more pieces missing,” replied Dax shrugging his massive shoulders.
“True, but where are they?”
“Oh my, oh my,” said Gan-Goran. “I think I have made a mistake,” he added, falling to his knees
“Gan what do you mean?” enquired Thade.
“It all fits together now,” muttered the magic-master thoughtfully.
“Gan, what does?” persisted Dax, his temper wearing thin.
“I know where Rhamagabora is.”
Silence.
“Where is it?” asked Dax softly.
“Well, the final Dark Wars battle was near Rhamagabora, and the Dread had their backs to the sea. It is said the people crossed the scorched lands to find the white temple and hide the relics there.”
“Oh my God,” said Tanas, rubbing his bristled chin.
“Will someone speak plainly, without riddles?” snapped Dax vehemently.
“What Gan is saying is that we have been lured here. They wanted the Rhaurien army here and the Kingdom exposed,” explained Tanas, shaking his head. He had worked out the riddle.
“The ancient port the other side of the scorched lands,” said Gan-Goran, his words tumbling out. He paused and took a deep breath. The next sentence left everyone speechless. “If the scorched lands are the Steppes then . . . then Rhamagabora must be . . .”
Chapter 22
“. . . Teldor.”
***
King Logan had left the city of Teldor relatively unprotected after taking his army on the publicly announced training march. Only one company of Royal Lancers, the City Watch, and the City Reserves protected Teldor from assault. Most people in the city believed the king’s story, but a few either knew or suspected it was a ruse. There should be no reason for the king to leave the city so unprotected, unless the Kingdom was under some kind of threat. However, this did not stop the people in the city continuing with their normal life lives. For over a month, most of the inhabitants carried on with their regular daily duties, leaving the security of the city to those who knew best.
***
The city of Teldor woke at dawn. Along the streets, bakers started heating up their wood or charcoal ovens. Bread, cakes, and fresh pastries had to be baked for the morning rush.
One of those bakers, Krondo, lived in the trading district of Teldor; a short, plump man with brown hair and eyes and a red face, but always smiling. Blessed with Marva, the wife he had loved for the last twenty years and a son who loved baking as much as he did, he lived happily with his family and his small bakery. Not a rich man in terms of coin, though his bakery was successful, but rich emotionally as he always had the love and support of his family. Leaving his wife sleeping, Krondo woke his son, Felix, walked downstairs to the bakery, and lit his oven. Krondo was known as one of the best bakers in the city. People from all over flocked to his bakery to buy his goods, which he made on a small scale – quality rather than quantity. Even the royal family could be counted as one of his treasured customers. This morning, feeling particularly good, he decided he would make his fabled cheesy bread. Felix appeared in the bakery yawning, looking over-tired with his curly hair shaggy and wild.
“Son,” announced the baker, “you will make the pastries, for today I will make my bread.”
Felix smiled broadly and all tiredness evaporated from his body. There were two things he loved; one was making sweet pastries, and the second was eating his father’s cheesy bread straight from the oven. He watched his father pull the ingredients together to make the special bread. Two types of cheese and a mixture of herbs went into the dough. He knew that his father trusted him with the sweet pastries, so Felix started to gather the ingredients. Within an hour the bakery smelled delicious, but there was no stopping for the two bakers, as they were not yet ready for the onslaught of morning shoppers.
Marva awoke, dressed in a simple woollen frock, went to the kitchen, and made some tisane for her men. Her role in the bakery was to deal with the customers. She smiled as she could smell the aroma of cheesy bread waft up from downstairs, and knew today would be a good day.
“Morning, boys,” she said, walking downstairs into the bakery carrying a tray with three cups of tisane.
Both Felix and Krondo were covered in flour. Krondo was kneading dough while Felix rolled out sweet pastry on a large, floured bench.
Felix smiled. “Morning, Mother,” he said, kissing her cheek and lifting his cup of tisane. No time for small talk, he was too busy making his light honey pastries, including a special one for his sweetheart.
“Morning, wife of mine,” called Krondo, beaming a broad smile. “And what brings you down here on this beautiful morning? The sun is up, the sky is blue and the birds are singing. Tell me, tell me . . . tell me?”
Marva smiled and glided over to her husband, planting a kiss on his lips. Krondo laughed. “Now you’re covered in flour, oh wife of mine.”
Marva put down the tray. “Now, this is getting flour on oneself,” she said, hugging her husband and giggling like a child.
“Now, now you two, there’s no time for that nonsense, we have work to do here,” ordered Felix, shaking his head mocking disgust.
“And who put you in charge, lad?” snapped his father, faking irritation.
“Well, I am the only sensible one here. I don’t know how I work with you two smooching in the corner. Someone needs to take charge, and I’m the man.”
An hour later, a knock sounded at the shop door. Marva opened it, chiming the bell that hung above the door, letting the family know a customer had come into the shop.
“Morning, ma’am,” said the bakery’s first customer, a maid named Christie from the palace, a small girl with a friendly, freckled face, golden hair, and petite figure.
“Morning, Christie, how are you today?” asked Marva.
“Fine, thank you ma’am.” Christie peered around the door into the bakery. She saw Felix looking at her and smiled shyly.
Krondo glanced up. “Morning, Christie, I won’t keep you a minute. Felix is just finishing the pastries,” he called with a warm smile.
“Thank you.”
“Have a seat; would you like some tisane while you wait?” asked Marva.
“Yes, please.”
“Tell Cook Hamden it is a cheesy bread day today,” advised Marva.
“That’s great, we have been told the queen has been asking for it.”
Felix came fumbling over when his mother left the girl sitting alone in the shop.
“Christie,” he said, as his cheeks reddened. “I have made you something.” He handed her a small box. Christie smiled and opened the box. Inside was a honey pastry shaped like a butterfly and filled with fresh, whipped cream.
“Thank you, Felix.”
“It is one of a kind,” he announced proudly, carefully watching her reaction.
His father watched his son, knowing he would not ask her, so he intervened. “Have you asked the girl out yet, Felix?” he called boldly.
The colour of Felix’s cheeks deepened. “Father, behave yourself,” he yelled back. Turning back t
o Christie, he smiled bashfully. “You must excuse my parents; they’re old.”
The girl giggled and Felix melted.
“Not that old, boy. Now go and get the queen’s pastries,” said his mother, returning and slapping her son lightly on the back of his head.
“Yes, Mother,” said Felix, smiling at Christie.
Marva smiled at her son. He had been acting the same ever since the girl started coming to the bakery in the mornings, all smiles and no brains.
Krondo brought over half a dozen warm cheesy loaves and another one in a separate bag. “That one is for your mother.”
“Thank you,” said Christie, smiling broadly.
“Felix, where are those pastries?” called Krondo.
Felix came rushing into the shop, smiling, with two boxes of pastries in his hands. “These are the best I’ve ever made. I hope the queen likes them.”
“I’m sure she will.”
Felix stood there for a moment holding the boxes, still smiling.
“So shall I put those on the bill?” asked Krondo
“Aye,” was all Christie could say, as she gazed at Felix.
“Felix, are you going to give the girl her pastries?” called Krondo. “I’m sure she is busy.”
“Aye,” replied Felix, fidgeting nervously.
Marva boldly walked into the shop, grabbed her husband, and dragged him back into the bakery. “Leave the boy be,” she whispered sharply. “He will ask her out in his own good time.”
The shop door opened and the bell chimed. When the door closed, the bell chimed again. Suddenly, a whoop came from the shop.
Felix strutted into the bakery like a peacock, with a new swagger in his step. “I’ll be seeing the beautiful Christie at midday in the eastern gardens of the palace,” he announced to his parents. “Oh, I need to make a hamper for us. I promised a picnic.”
Krondo beamed a proud smile, then said, “Only if you finish your chores.”
