Olver noticed his men gawking openly at the women that surrounded them as they rode through the tents of Maeryn. Why wouldn’t they? Women were good at raising their children, cooking their food and pleasuring them when they wanted, isn’t that what they had been taught? And now when they gaze upon women who can do much more than all of those things, it amazes them, and their minds cannot fathom it. I wonder which other sights would astonish us before the day ends?
As Olver rode deeper into the encampment, the color of the tents changed into grey and white, and Olver understood that they had now reached the heart of the campsite, where the banners of the Swolderhornn dynasty fluttered in the calm breeze that had picked up speed ever since Olver entered the campground. The grey and white tents far outnumbered the blue and white ones, and even more were being set up. Cookfires were scattered all around as men were busy roasting meat, cooking stews in large cauldrons, carrying pails of water hither and thither or practicing swordplay among themselves. Olver felt as if he had ridden into a whirlwind of activities as the sound of men shouting orders, steel on steel, laughter, and arguments were all about him. The men appeared to pay no heed as they labored on with their work. Amidst the chaos that was unfolding before Olver, a heavily armored man on a black horse wearing the Swolderhornn colors approached the men from Indius and halted a few feet away from Olver.
“I, Sir Jon Lowe, welcome you to the forest of Eravia, Your Grace, although our king would have preferred if he met you in more agreeable surroundings and in happier times,” the broad-shouldered knight said in a deep baritone voice as he lifted the visor of his half-helm. The white stubble on the man’s face was coarse and uneven, and his back was hunched as if he was carrying an enormous load on his shoulders.
“We would not be meeting if it were happier times, my dear sir, however now that my men and I are here, we would like to be shown to our tents so that we might eat and rest. We have traveled a great distance, and I want to be fresh with a clear mind on my head when I gaze upon this intriguing temple.”
“As you wish, Your Grace, however, our king would like a few words with you before that, if you would follow me,” Sir Jon said without waiting for a reply, and then wheeled around and started to head deeper into the labyrinth of grey and white tents that surrounded Olver’s host, just like the trees of Eravia.
I do not see any Harduinian tent. Have they not arrived?
Sir Jon led Olver and his men to one of the largest tents that Olver had seen in his life. The banner that flew from the top of the grey and white cloth structure was big enough to block out the sun, and the flaps were more than thirty feet in height and more than fifty feet wide, and ten horsemen riding side by side could enter the tent at the same time if they wanted to. Two guards stood sentry at the entrance to the tent, holding long pikes in their right hand and an ox warhorn in their left.
“This is where our King Henrick is staying for the moment. I am afraid I will have to ask your men to wait outside,” Sir Jon said, dismounting from his horse.
“The king goes nowhere without me,” Sir Pederick said firmly.
Sir Jon seemed a bit hesitant at first, and Olver thought he was about to object before he said, “then I will not want you to be left without him, but the others must wait.”
“They will wait,” Olver said, as he jumped off from the saddle and motioned one of his guards to take the horse away for watering, and then he entered the tent, followed by Sir Jon and Sir Pederick.
The inside of the tent was as luxurious as Olver expected it to be. Lush carpets covered the floor while the smell of sandalwood incense was heavy in the air. A large chandelier hung from the roof that appeared to be adorned with crystals and rubies, just like the heavy oak chair that dominated the center of the tent, its arms encrusted with jewels of all kinds, its back gilded and engraved with elegant designs. And on that chair sat a very heavy man, wearing a red silk robe, a massive gold crown on his head, his fingers decorated with rings that sparkled and shone in the golden light emitting from the braziers that stood in the corners. Golden chains hung loosely from his thick neck, and his fat fingers were coiled around the ruby-studded pommel of his two-handed greatsword that lay across his knees.
King Henrik of the Swolderhornn dynasty, ruler of Calypsos, the wealthiest kingdom in Aerdon was a sight to behold.
The man wears more jewels than a woman. And probably eats more than a bear.
“The young king of Indius, the tales do you no justice. You are even more handsome in person.” King Henrik made no effort to get up to greet his guest, and there was no chair that he could offer Olver. The enormous tent was vacant except for an enormous desk, the throne-like chair, and a sword rack that displayed a collection of exquisite swords that looked more fancy than dangerous.
“The honor is all mine, King Henrik.” Although I find it hard to compliment your handsomeness. The tales do not do you justice as well; you are even fatter in person.
“I find myself speaking to a lot of young kings nowadays. It seems like I am the only old bastard that lingers on and denies my son the throne. You might know which other king I speak of?” Henrik said, running his hand through his long beard that fell till his waist.
“The king of Harduin, I suppose?”
“Yes, the boy king of Harduin, fourteen years of age, not a hair on his pretty little face, and I have to speak to him as if he possesses all the knowledge in the world, as if he was my equal.” Henrik’s fingers slowly trailed the blade of his sword, his eyes fixed on Olver, his expression hard to read.
“I have heard the boy is mature for his age and fond of books,” said Olver, trying his best not to look at Henrik’s sword.
“Fond of books! Hah! Never thought I would live to see a day when a king would be praised for his fondness of books and not a sword. I thought you would be pleased that an incompetent arse sits the throne of Harduin. Didn’t your ancestors rape their queen and her daughter at some point?”
Olver was taken aback. He is fat, and he is discourteous.
“It was a long time ago, Your Grace, both sides suffered tremendously, and I think the future is a much bigger concern than what happened in the past. I do not concern myself with who sits the throne at East Shade; neither can they afford a battle, nor can we. I was called here because I was told a temple with magical properties was discovered. If it is true, then who raped who is a trivial matter. Surely, a noble and wise king like you, the oldest king in Aerdon, will agree?” Olver finished with a smile.
A smile is the most propitious weapon in a diplomat’s arsenal; his father had always said, you can get away with the most mischievous remarks, only if you end it with a smile.
“I thank you for reminding me of my age. Of course, I agree, who do you take me for? I did not drag my arse all the way from Riverhelm just to gossip with you about the Harduinians like a couple of serving girls in a tavern. I want to show you something before we head to the temple. I showed it to the boy king and the queen of Maeryn before you, although the meeting with the queen did not end well.” The king clapped his chubby hand three times, but they did not make any noise because of their plumpness. In the end, he resorted to shouting when no one showed up.
Two men carrying a hulking trunk made of wood entered the tent and carried it over to where the king sat. They carefully opened the lid and pulled out a crumbling parchment and an even tinier wooden box which they handed to King Henrik
“Give the king the parchment,” commanded King Henrik, “do you understand any of it?”
Olver stared at the old crumbling parchment and could make no sense of the words. However, he recognized the forgotten language of D’ran, as he had seen the language before, in books that were now collecting dust in the libraries of Indius. The words seemed to flow like waves in the sea, rising and falling with each word, without a break or a pause. It was as if the entire page was one big word, beginning at the top and ending at the bottom.
“No, I am afraid I do not understand t
he forgotten language.”
“Hardly anyone does, but after a long and tiring search, we found the only person who can read and understand the forgotten language, or rather she found us,” King Henrik said, as he signaled the two men to leave the tent.
“The daughter of the queen of Maeryn herself translated this page for us, the foul-mouthed brat,” Henrik spat, “we found it in this trunk that you see before you, hidden behind the statues of our great Wizard-Gods, who, it seems have finally remembered us,” King Henrik attempted to get up and after quite a struggle that Olver found extremely amusing, the king found himself standing, barely an inch taller than the chair he was sitting on.
“It is a part of a much longer story, written thousands of years ago, by Toren the Traveler, who, as you might know, wrote ‘The Beginning of Aerdon’, the book from where we derive all our knowledge of Aerdon, the Viranins who first inhabited it and the Vizarins, who created the kingdoms,” Henrik said, pacing around the tent, his long silken robe trailing behind him.
“So, is this a page from ‘The Beginning of Aerdon’?” Sir Pederick said, who Olver had almost forgotten was standing a few paces behind him.
Henrik chucked, his belly shaking and his golden chains rattling.
“It is not the beginning of things that this parchment speaks of, oh no, it speaks of destruction and decay, of death and demise, it speaks of the end of things.”
Olver was slowly losing patience with the fat king. He was tired, and his body ached, and he was in no mood for theatrics.
“Then what does it speak of?” Olver asked, trying to keep his tone courteous.
Henrik stopped pacing and his eyes bore into Olver, and when he spoke, his voice was a little more than a whisper, “the end of Aerdon, that is what it speaks of, as a matter of fact, the book that this parchment belonged to, was called ‘Ainzinaunhaf aun Aerdon’ in the forgotten language, or ‘The End of Aerdon’ in Aerdonian,” Henrik dug his hands into the pockets of his robe and pulled out another parchment, rolled and tied with a silvery thread that the king undid and handed to Olver. “This is the entire translation of the text, read it aloud so that your friend might hear as well, and I can once again listen to these grave words that echo in my head when I try to sleep, or eat, or fuck.”
Can he still bed women?
Olver took the parchment from Henrik’s hands and gazed at the bluish-black ink forming words he could easily understand. The translated text was written in Aerdonian, in elegant handwriting that could have only been the work of a scribe.
Olver began to read in a steady voice, “All will never be the same. The beauty of the world will begin to perish, and so will the people and animals that roam Aerdon. This is how they planned it, the Vizarins. It was the Great War that broke their trust in men, for they thought that men were incorruptible, a product of their own mind, of their own being, but they were proven wrong. On the day the Great War ended, the sand began to fall in the hourglass, counting down the days until every living being on Aerdon will perish, and nothing that breathes will endure, nothing but land and rock. When the sands of Dreadlands empty themselves in the hourglass, Aerdon will cease to exist, the kingdoms will cease to exist, only the lands beyond the forest will survive, for the races that dwell there are magical, a true representation of the Wizards, embodiments of the gods, more deserving of life and survival, as opposed to men, who are weak and easily swayed into greed and cruelty. But the Wizards did love men as well, and their heart did not allow them to extinguish the race of men without giving them a chance to prove their valor, their loyalty, their unity. And so, it was decided that a chance will be given to the five kingdoms, to get their people to safety, to cross the Vizarinpor, the Endless Forest, and join the realm beyond the forest, but only if they become one. A new king will have to be anointed, a leader that will unite the five kingdoms under one banner, and only when the last rituals will be completed, will the gates to the lands beyond the forest open for the people of Aerdon, and the scars of the Great War will be forgotten. Deep in the forest of Vizarinpor, amidst the ghosts of Viranins, inside the belly of the ground, in a temple long forgotten, the five stones , the five kings and the five kingdoms will need to become one, and only then, amidst the destruction of Aerdon, the Aerdonians will survive,” Olver’s voice shook as he read the last sentence, “otherwise death will reign in place of Calypsos, Indius, Harduin, Maeryn, and Azgun.”
Olver finished, but his gaze never left the parchment until Henrik’s voice boomed across the tent, “And inside this tiny box, I hold the five stones that were mentioned in the parchment, giving further legitimacy to the words that you just read aloud.”
The royal tent of the Calypsian king was suddenly imbued with a sense of dread and grief, as Olver felt sinister shadows creep out of nowhere and blanket the cotton walls of the tent.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a temple with statues and stones and a piece of parchment prove nothing. This can all be a work of a delusional king that had dreams of the world ending, and so he constructed this temple, believing his dreams to be real” Sir Pederick offered.
“Then I ask you this, dear knight, have you come upon a stone burning with such ferocity, that it would melt the skin right off the finger of the person who would dare touch it, or glow like a star in the night sky, of its own accord?” Henrik asked as he carefully lifted the wooden lid of the tiny box.
Olver watched as Sir Pederick slowly approached the wooden box, which sat on Henrik’s lap. Don’t touch it you fool, he wanted to scream, but he also wanted to see what would happen if he did. He watched as Sir Pederick peered into the box, and he watched as Sir Pederick’s trembling hand moved towards the box and then inside, and he watched Sir Pederick let out a high-pitched scream as he touched something he wasn’t supposed to.
The knight staggered backward, clutching his hand, his palm charred and blistered, pieces of skin hanging loose as it continued to melt before Olver’s eyes.
“Why don’t you try picking one up?” Henrik said, paying no attention to the knight in agonizing pain, as he dropped to his knees, wailing like a newborn baby.
“I like my hands the way they are, I would still like to wield a sword, Your Grace,” Olver said, unable to take his eyes off Sir Pederick, “why don’t you go see a healer, Sir Pederick, your hand requires more attention than me, and anyways, the only danger here is that wooden box and its contents.”
Sir Pederick struggled to his feet while wiping tears from his face, and hurried out of the tent.
That is the first time I have seen a knight weep.
“The stones will not affect you, Olver, if that is what you fear. I may be fat and rude, but I am not a liar,” said Henrik as he extended his hand, offering the box to Olver.
He would not have called me here just to burn my hand. It’s usually the head that kings are after, and I still have mine on my shoulders.
Olver stepped towards the outstretched hand of the king. And then, the stones were before him, five in number, as black as a moonless night, the sigil of the five kingdoms etched on the black surface, glowing and pulsating with a green light. The stone bearing the sigil of the Liongloom dynasty was placed in the center, the two pillars and the prancing horse looking opulent as threadlike green lines formed the sigil in exquisite detail.
Never has the sigil looked more beautiful than now. But for how long will our banners fly? For how long will any of the four banners fly? Throughout my life, I wished and prayed for a hint, a sign that would confirm the existence of powers and magic that was far beyond the understanding of mortal men. And here I stand before stones that seem to have come from a different world, and I only have to reach out and pick one, and I might be a step closer to seeing my wish of witnessing the tales of old come alive.
Olver could feel Henrik’s eyes on him as he touched the stone in the center, expecting his skin to burn, but all he felt was the cool, polished surface of the stone. The pulsing of the green light reached a crescendo as
Olver held the stone in his palm, a green glare in his eyes, a thumping heart in his chest. A gentle breeze caressed the goosebumps on the back of his neck, the fire in the braziers flickered, and for a moment, Olver could feel the ancient powers around him, and for a moment, Olver was no longer a king, but a boy of twenty-two, nervous and excited, all at the same time.
“Did the gods take you, lad?” Henrik’s voice broke Olver’s trance, “I take it from your face that you do believe me, or Toren, the Traveler for that matter, bless his soul for warning us of the impending doom.”
“I am amazed and saddened at the same time. I knew that Aerdon was slowly dying, that the gods were angry, but to have it confirmed is a dagger to the heart,” Olver raised his eyes and saw Henrik looking at him with a smirk, “I want to look at this hourglass as soon as it can be arranged, Your Grace, and then I suggest we call on other lords and kings and queens of Aerdon, for the time has come when we need to act as one.” Olver said with urgency.
“You are as naïve as you are pretty, Olver Liongloom,” Henrick sniggered, “I think you forget the part where the parchment calls for the anointment of a single king for Aerdon, and believe me, some of these kings and queens would rather have the White Curse take them, than relinquish their crowns for someone else, particularly someone from a different dynasty, why, I would myself never let that happen. The road ahead is a tricky one, and the realm has seen quite a few days of peace and calm. War is knocking on our doors, young king, and it will enter whether you let it in or not. Now go and rest, for even more wonders await you in the evening.”
Olver was too tired to argue, and rest sounded like a very tempting proposition.
“Then I will take your leave, King Henrik, and I thank you for your hospitality and wisdom,” Olver said as he turned around to leave, before handing the stone back to King Henrik, but something made him stop and turn back, a question that he could not wait to get answered, “The parchment speaks of five kingdoms, five kings and I saw five stones in the box, but for hundreds of years, the kingdom of Azgun is thought to have been vanquished, thought to have been destroyed by the wheel of time, but now we hear of it in Toren’s book. I do not understand. What do you make of it?”
The Passage of Kings Page 4
