The Passage of Kings

by Anant V Goswami

  Marcus stopped for a few seconds, anticipating a remark, or a question.

  “Continue,” was all Olver said.

  “The man, along with the bandit had fallen into a trapdoor, where both killed each other after a messy fight. We found their bodies on top of each other; swords buried deep in them. However, it wasn’t the corpses that were a matter of interest, but where we found them. As I said earlier, the trapdoor was an entrance to an ancient temple, buried deep within the ground of Eravia. And inside the temple, we found statues of the five Vizarins,” Valentin concluded, while the king remained quiet, surely they would have something to say at this point, the envoy thought to himself.

  “Five statues together? But that is not possible. The five can never be brought together,” Bernard said in a low voice, shifting to the edge of his chair.

  “Five? Who was the fifth Vizarin?” asked Olver with his chin in his hands.

  “Vornoth of Azgun, Your Grace, the disgraced god of that evil kingdom,” the envoy replied.

  “Who would want to erect a statue of that hideous being?” Bernard said more to himself than anyone else.

  “That is not all, my lords, the statue of Odium held in its hand an hourglass, with sparkling gold sand filled within. The sand glowed of its own accord as if it was not sand but Goldust, and the sides were engraved with words from the forgotten language of D’ran.”

  Krastin chuckled from where he stood.

  “I am sorry, but your king could have just sent a troubadour instead of an envoy. We would have enjoyed his narration a lot more. Your narration lacks a certain amount of…flare, young Calypsian.”

  Although Olver despised the way his uncle spoke to an emissary of a neighboring kingdom, he could not help but feel a little amused himself. Sparkling sand? An ancient buried temple? He had heard such stories back when he was a boy, told to him by his nursemaid, or a traveling minstrel, but here stood a full-grown man, from the most powerful kingdom in all of Aerdon, going on about forgotten languages and temples of old.

  “Why would I ride all the way from Riverhelm to entertain your court with children’s stories? Especially at a time when our realm is plagued with droughts and curses? Our king is old, yes, but he has seen and experienced far more than any other living king of Aerdon. And that is why he requests your company, your grace, along with other kings of Aerdon, so that you can lay your eyes upon this marvel and decide for yourself if what we speak is true.”

  Olver studied the young envoy for a few moments. He is a loyal servant of his king, a rarity in my court. But he does not lie. Is the age of magic really upon them? Have spells I heard of in my childhood returned to take the place of sword and shield? But all I have ever learned is how to wield a sword, and how to kill a man with it.

  “Marcus, I will not lie when I tell you that your words are hard to believe. But I also know that King Henrik is a wise man. He is not one to waste time on games. And so, I will ride to your kingdom to gaze upon this temple, and if what you say is true, then my dear Marcus, we will need all the wisdom you claim your king possesses, and then some more.”

  “I thank you for your understanding, your grace,” Marcus bowed once again.

  Olver looked at Bernard, who nodded in approval, agreeing with Olver’s decision. He had served as the chief advisor to the Liongloom dynasty for years, and his opinion was one that Olver never ignored. Sir Pederick sat expressionlessly, who was more of a warrior than a strategist.

  “You spoke of other kings who are invited, who have agreed?” Krastin asked nonchalantly.

  Marcus looked at Krastin as if he did not expect such a question. However, he obliged with an answer.

  “The queen of Maeryn, and…,” Marcus hesitated before uttering the words he knew were going to be precarious, “the king of Harduin and his sister.”

  Krastin Liongloom roared with laughter. Marcus stared at Krastin with an expression of bewilderment.

  “It seems like you will have to forget the scars of old for a little while, nephew. Now you can decide whether it will be for fishes or cunt when you meet her in person.”

  ∞∞∞

  The castle of Wildemere was a majestic structure of fortification that was built from red sandstone, which was transported all the way from the mines of Wickerston, giving the castle a distinct red appearance that no other castle in Aerdon had been able to duplicate. Three levels of curtain wall enclosed three different sections of the city, with the innermost curtain wall shielding the Black hall of Indius and the Wilder Keep, which served as the residence of the king and his family, and also some of the high-ranking officers. The second curtain wall enclosed a large bailey, the armory, stables, the kitchens and other structures of military importance. A deep, wide moat lined with iron spikes separated the second curtain wall from the rest of the city, which was finally enclosed by the third curtain wall. The red walls, the red castle along with the roofs of houses, taverns, inns, and shops painted bright red led to Wildemere being called the ‘Strawberry City’.

  It was in the upper levels of the Wilder Keep that the luxurious bedchamber of the king was situated, with sweeping views of the castle and the city. Olver stood at the window, peering down at the bailey where archers and crossbowmen were practicing on hay stuffed targets, and young boys were dueling with wooden swords. Over the countless red roofs of the city and out in the distance, he could make out the faint outlines of the hills of Eravia. A patchwork of farms scattered around the outskirts of the city, dotted with straw and mud houses completed the view from the king’s solar.

  Thoughts of death and destruction dominated the mind of the young king as he pondered over the future of his beloved kingdom.

  Kings can only do so much, Olver. When the tides of destiny turn, and when defeat draws nearer, that is when a king has to put on an act, convince his people that the storm can be weathered, and lead them to death, with a smile on their face. Because sometimes, a brave and beautiful death is all a king can provide to his people, because kings can only do so much.

  The booming voice of his father echoed in the depths of his mind. But I will never let them die. He had then debated. They die all around me, and I do nothing, he now thought.

  He heard the doors to his bedchamber open and knew that the only person who could enter without taking his permission was his sister. He turned around to look at the beautiful girl, dressed in a black gown, wearing a silver necklace studded with black onyx, lounging on his bed, her long black hair braided in the fashion of a rose, and a large ripe apple in her hand.

  “What did the man from Riverhelm say?”

  “That spectacular things are happening all over Aerdon while we sit behind our red walls and eat apples.” Olver crossed the room and snatched the apple from his sister, smiling as he took a bite.

  “Mock answers will not do any longer, brother. I am ten and six now; I need to know what is happening. Are we in danger?”

  “When are we not in danger, Kimbr?” Olver sat down beside his sister, and gave her back the apple, “But you do not need to worry. As long as your brother lives, no harm will come to you.”

  “I can look after myself. What I really want to do is help you, Olver. With father so sick and our sweet uncle always plotting against us, I know how burdened you must feel. Let me sit with you in court meetings. Let my face be a source of comfort among the many faces you can’t trust.” Olver could see hope twinkle in the pretty black eyes of his sister, which made it even harder to say what he said next, “You are too young for that, Kimbr, father would never allow it.”

  “Father or you? Please help remind me who sits the black throne now, you or father? you are the king of Indius, and father is too old and frail to think of such matters.” Olver took his sister’s hands in his, a melancholic smile played on his lips, as he spoke with a heavy heart, “And the crown rests heavy on my head. There is a lot of pain in this world, a lot of suffering, and every day, people travel from the corners of the kingdom, bringing news of e
ven more pain. How can I let my beautiful sister, still so young and cheerful, sit amongst men who talk of suffering? What sort of a brother would I be?”

  “A brother who wants his sister to finally grow up to become what her mother was, what his mother was, a ferocious woman,” Kimbr said, a hint of desperation in her voice.

  And she paid for it, thought Olver.

  “I will not further this conversation anymore. Your place is by our father, who battles death every day. If it is comfort that you want to give, then give it to him. Gods know he deserves it after the life he has led,” Olver said in a stoic voice.

  A gust of wind blew into the room, and the cloth over the massive bed flapped about, like tumultuous waves of the sea. Kimbr sat looking out the window, sad eyes observing the pale red sky.

  “Do you think Krastin will try to kill you?” Kimbr asked, turning her gaze back to her brother, who was now sitting at the massive oak table that stood in the corner of the bedchamber.

  “No, I do not think he will stoop so low. He may hate me more than he shows, but he is a man loyal to the family name, and believe it or not, he cares for the kingdom. I have seen it in the way he talks about it. He knows what my death will do to the kingdom.”

  “He may bear love for the kingdom, but his wife could care less about all of that. Rube is already twelve, and she may soon start desiring the Black Throne for her son, and I doubt Krastin will do anything to stop her.” Kimbr took one last bite from the apple and chucked it out the window.

  Olver looked up from the letter that he had been writing and turned to glare at Kimbr with an exasperated expression, “You worry like an old woman. I pity the man that will marry you. I hope the poor man does not hang himself.”

  “He will if he tries to control me as you do. Olver, listen to me,” and Olver did look at her and saw that his sister was actually worried. Furrows developed on her forehead as she continued in a shaky voice, “I have been ill at ease ever since the White Curse first plagued our lands. A constant fear has made its home in my heart. I keep thinking who will be snatched away from me, and when. And you might try to hide me away from what has been happening, but I know of the temple that has been found in Eravia. And I know you will leave in a few days,” Kimbr’s voice trembled as she struggled to continue, but she did, “I sometimes think whether you will return or not, and the thought cripples my body. I do not want to be left behind with that wretched Krastin and his wife. I want to come with you.” A tear rolled down the beautiful face of the princess of Indius.

  Sadness filled Olver’s heart. The same thoughts plagued him day and night. He too wondered about the curse’s next victim, and whether it will be someone very close to him. It had already besieged his father, although the great king had been fighting longer than most men, but he knew his end would come. Sooner or later, the curse claims everyone. King and peasant alike.

  Howbeit, he wanted a familiar face by his side when he would finally rest his eyes forever. His daughter should be with him in his final moments. Mother had died alone, I will not let father have the same miserable death.

  Olver walked up to Kimbr and took her in his arms and whispered, “Stand in the balcony of your bedchamber and look out for me on the thirty-first day of spring, and I promise you, you will gaze upon the banners of Liongloom dynasty, and at that moment, you will know that your brother is home.”

  All Olver could hear were the faint sobs of his sister, her face buried in his chest. He knew his sister did not weep out of fear; Kimbr Liongloom was stronger than that. He knew she wept in anger; she wept because she was just a princess, but she wanted to be much more than that.

  ∞∞∞

  Fifty men were all that Olver took with him. Fifty of his most loyal and skilled warriors. It wasn’t a battle that the men of Indius were marching to, although there hadn’t been a battle in Aerdon in hundreds of years. The last time the fields of Aerdon were soaked in blood was when the armies of Indius and Harduin met on the Plains of Clashenfield, a battle that cemented the centuries-long rivalry between the two major kingdoms of Aerdon. The Battle of Lies, it was called, for it began with a lie, a lie told for love, that ended in a war. And since then, minstrels and bards and troubadours had sung of it, praised it and made it a legend. The greatest battle among battles, the battle of a hundred thousand men, the battle for love, no matter how they described the bloody battle of Clashenfield, people seemed to want more, and in their pursuit of quenching people’s thirst for tales, storytellers had resorted to exaggerations. And thus, the rivalry between Harduin and Indius was exaggerated as well, and the kings on both sides bought into it and began harvesting a hatred that was far more than what was needed. And now, for the first time in ages, the two royal bloodlines of the two kingdoms would come face to face, at a time when magic stood knocking on the doors of Aerdon.

  The ride to the forest of Eravia from the capital city of Wildemere wasn’t a long one. It would take ten days for a man on a galloping horse to reach the hills of Eravia, without stopping for rest, and from there three more days to reach Lake Aerdos, on the border of the forest of Eravia. Olver Liongloom sat straight on his destrier, a metal chanfron engraved with elaborate designs protected the horse’s face, as did the criniere and croupier, that glinted in the harsh sunlight flooding over the plains of Clashenfield. Fifty men in plate armor, with a red prancing horse between two black pillars emblazoned on a fiery red breastplate, were trotting along behind the young king, carrying the red and black banner of Liongloom dynasty. Olver himself wore the red plate armor but the horse and the pillars on his breastplate were gilded, and so was his great helm.

  The commonfolk had left their houses, shops, and stables to come out and gaze upon their young king who had never looked so majestic, so powerful, winding his way through the streets of Wildemere, along with his small host of elite bodyguards. And Olver had never felt so jittery.

  The king’s host had presently left the city behind and was making their way through the farms that were the source of Wildmere’s dwindling food supply. The sun was beating down upon the king and his men, and Olver could feel his surcoat beginning to get drenched under his armor. It was only when they entered the hills of Eravia and commenced the gentle climb, that they got any respite from the scorching sun. Massive leafy trees overhanging on the dirt road were a welcome sight for Olver. Here and there, Olver could spot a deer or two, grazing on the grass that was increasingly becoming rare to find. Legend said that it was in these hills that the Viranins first met the Vizarins, and from where the world of Aerdon started to take shape. It was called ‘Azan’, or God's own forest in the forgotten language of D’ran, but along with the language, the stories themselves were forgotten, and some that remembered, started to use them as fairytales, to make their wailing children fall into the arms of sleep on nights when thunder rolled in the skies.

  I believe the stories. The gods did walk among us. And mightiest among them was Erdoher, the Wizard-God that created Indius. No, you are a fool to think that way, Olver, each kingdom deems their god to be the mightiest, but none of it matters as the gods have deserted their children. We are on our own. The four kingdoms and its people are one. The curse does not discriminate. Death does not discriminate.

  “We have crossed the borders and entered Calypsos,” Sir Pederick trotted up beside his king, “we should send a scout to inform king Henrick of our arrival.”

  “No, Sir Pederick, I do not want to cause a big fuss of my arrival. Anyhow, we will be meeting king Henrick in the forest, how grand a preparation can we expect?”

  “But sire, we need to know who has arrived.”

  “And compare who has been given the larger tent?” Olver said as they crossed a small brook that babbled its way downhill from the upper hills of Eravia.

  “But what if we show up with fifty men, where other kings have brought small armies?”

  “Are you seeking a battle, Sir Pederick?” Olver said in an irritated voice.

  “No, Yo
ur Grace, but I will not rule it out. Who knows what the Calypsians have discovered in their forest, and what it may mean for Aerdon? And with the Harduinians in such close proximity, I would have felt safer with a hundred more swords around me.” Sir Pederick caressed his thick mustache as he steered his horse around a gigantic boulder that sat right in the middle of the road.

  “And how will it seem when we show up with a hundred and fifty men, and the others show up with fifty? I would rather be underprepared than appear craven.”

  It was on the morning of the twentieth day of their journey that Olver finally gazed upon the royal encampment that had sprouted up amidst the dense forest of Eravia. The tents that they first came upon were bright blue with white stripes, huddled together on the perimeter of the encampment. Olver recognized the colors and knew that the kingdom of Maeryn had arrived with their delegation. The tents were scattered around the tent which was the largest among them, the sigil of the Ishoca Dynasty, a woman holding a sword in one hand and a quill in another hovering over a burning fire, was painted on the side of the tent.

  That was when Olver noticed the soldiers of Maeryn. They were all women, armored like men, but towering well above any man that Olver had ever seen. Their faces did not seem battle-hardened at all, and their beauty could have rivaled that of any highborn maiden of any of the other kingdoms. Olver had been taught about the warrior women of Maeryn, as ferocious on the battlefield as any man, perhaps even more. And now when he looked upon them, all doubts that he had when he was young left his mind.

  His eyes fell upon two Maeryn soldiers, two-handed greatswords in each of their hands, striking blows with a strength that seemed to shake the ground on which they dueled. They were fighting without a helm, and their golden hair flew about, as they twirled and twisted, parrying and attacking, looking graceful and dangerous at the same time. But not all of the Maeryn soldiers were busy practicing their swordplay as most of them were huddled around fires, or unsaddling their horses, or just sitting by tree trunks, engrossed in barely audible conversation.