by Liam Reese
“That, my Lord, is probably the greatest understatement I have ever heard.”
Besmir chuckled, smiling at her dry wit.
“You can stop with all that ‘my Lord’ business,” he said. “Just Besmir is fine.”
He shifted in Arteera’s bed, the covers falling away to reveal his bare chest. Arteera looked away, but not immediately. Besmir caught her eyes roving over his body.
“So, who has my clothing?” he asked.
Arteera lifted the clothes she had in her lap and he recognized them as his own.
“I was making a few repairs,” she said, her eyes still averted. “And adding this.”
Besmir leaned towards her, taking his shirt from her delicately fingered hands. She had embroidered a stag on his right chest, capturing the likeness of it in mid-leap. Using simple thread, she had rendered the creature so completely, it looked almost real.
“That’s incredible,” Besmir muttered, rubbing his thumb over the stitches.
“Thank you,” Arteera replied quietly. “My mother was a seamstress.”
“Was?” Besmir asked without thinking as he slipped his shirt back on. “What does she do now?”
“She is dead,” Arteera said bluntly. “My father also.”
Her matter-of-fact attitude was tempered by the agony he could hear in her voice, and he wanted to reach out, comfort her, hold her and promise everything would be all right.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Besmir said gently as Arteera wiped her eyes and sniffed.
The silence between them grew, neither one knowing what to say to the other, when Besmir heard voices outside.
“I should go,” Besmir said. “Thanks again for letting me sleep here. And this,” he stroked the embroidered stag again before dressing quickly.
“Are you really the king?” Arteera asked, looking up through her lashes again.
“That I am,” Besmir replied with a grin before slipping from the tent.
“Your Majesty,” the figure on the stone floor spoke.
Tiernon stared down at General Marthius from his throne. Disheveled and dirty, his robes of state showed stains that had been there for some time. Surrounded by the six guards who were always present and he knew, chilled the souls of any who saw them, the king grunted as General Marthius dared to glance up, his eyes filled with dread as he stared at the silent creatures behind the king.
Each guard wore a full face helmet, steel with small triangular slits to see through, chain mail coats over thick padding, and leather trousers tucked into black boots. Each carried the same weapon, a broadsword at least four feet in length strapped to their hip. Imposing as all that was, along with the fact that each of the guards was six feet in height and sturdy as an oak, it was what he could not see that made the general nervous.
Tiernon’s guards never spoke, never made a sound of any kind, and stood motionless as if they had been carved from granite until he twitched. No breath stirred their chests, no sound made them turn. “Get up, Marthius,” Tiernon snapped. “I can barely hear you when you mumble at the floor.” The general stood, eyeing the guards suspiciously.
“Repeat what you just said,” the king ordered.
“We have an informant in one of the tent towns south of Quilith, Majesty,” Marthius reported as sweat trickled down his back. “She is reporting there is an uprising led by someone proclaiming himself the rightful king and calling himself Besmir.”
Tiernon’s head snapped up, his expression curious and suspicious at the same time. His eyes bored into Marthius’s, making him tremble. The king’s attention slid away from the general and he muttered to someone only he could see.
“I will!” he snapped. “Silence!” Turning back to Marthius, Tiernon added, “This Besmir is an impostor. Take a squad and make an example of him. Leave his head on a pole in the center of the tents, burn a few and kill the occupants. Make sure they all understand the price of standing against me.”
“Your will, Majesty,” Marthius said, bowing.
“Marthius,” Tiernon called as the general was making his escape. “They have told me you should be one of the few to sire the new generation,”
Marthius frowned up at his king, confusion crashing through his mind as he tried to figure out who the king was talking about and what the subject was.
“Who, sire?”
Does he mean the guards?
“My advisers,” Tiernon said, waving his hand at nothing, “have decided you should father some of my soldiers.”
“Of course, Majesty,” Marthius said, puzzlement playing over his face.
“Let me take care of this uprising and I will return, sire.”
King Tiernon waved, grinning at Marthius, who backed away in obvious fear.
Word spread fast that there was a man who offered free food to any who asked for it, and the small tent town suffered a massive influx of new people. Besmir and Keluse tried to hunt as much as they could as well as getting some of the others to start fishing in the nearby lake and river. Game began to get scarce, and Besmir worried the situation might return to how it had been before they arrived.
On one of the rare occasions both he and Keluse were in the camp at the same time, Besmir called an informal meeting to discuss the situation.
“The problem is we’ve hunted and trapped just about every living creature within a day or two’s ride of here,” he said, yawning. “With so many mouths to feed and just the two of us hunting, we’re likely to have to start traveling farther and farther out to find game. I was thinking we ought to set up some kind of delivery system to relay animals back here. If Keluse and I concentrate on hunting while others clean and prepare the meat, we—”
Zaynorth held his hand up, stalling Besmir in mid-sentence. The older man stood, pacing before them with a troubled expression on his face.
“You have performed an honorable, noble thing, Besmir,” he said gently. “And the people that live here love you for it, but feeding them is not the reason we came here,” he said. “If you really wish to help improve their lives, we should be looking to get you on that throne. That is where you can make the greatest changes.”
Besmir sighed as feelings of resignation thudded through him.
“We both know that’s never going to happen,” Besmir said. “Even if I agreed to lead these poor souls into another war, who would fight? Old men and children?” He glanced guiltily at Suranim, who looked at the muddy floor. “What do you think Tiernon’s going to do when he finds out someone’s trying to raise an army against him?” he demanded of them all. “Wait for it to happen? You’ve all seen the horrors of which he’s capable. Burning children in tents and destroying whole towns.”
“But that is exactly why we must continue and try to find a way to beat him!” Zaynorth added in a pleading tone. “To release the grip of terror and violence he has on the whole country.”
“No, Zaynorth,” Besmir said gently.
“We must at least try,” the mage said.
“No, Zaynorth.”
Sorrow cut Besmir’s heart when he saw the tears brimming in the older man’s eyes. Zaynorth had spent years searching for him, seeking out the rightful king and bringing him back to Gazluth only to discover the land he had left had changed completely. Besmir watched as hope drained from Zaynorth’s eyes, adding years to his complexion. He slumped into a rough chair, defeat wrapped around him like a shawl.
“I want to end Tiernon,” Besmir said. “I just don’t see how.”
Silence dropped over the little gathering like a veil of depression. None were willing to speak. Each person was contemplating their own thoughts. Oddly, it was the normally taciturn Herofic who finally broke the silence.
“Arm the women,” he said.
Several heads whipped round towards him and a small smile played around his lips.
“You heard me right,” he rumbled. “As fighting men are lacking in numbers, there is only one possibility remaining to us. Gather as many women as will agree to
do it and train them to fight.”
Astonished silence greeted his statement as they all thought on his words. Besmir glanced at Keluse, who wore a little smile as she stared at her feet.
Would that work? Could I lead an army of women against Tiernon?
“What about training? Weapons?” he asked.
“You cannot be serious!” Zaynorth sputtered. “Your uncle has an army of battle-hardened, fully armed soldiers and you would face them with a few women carrying sticks?”
Besmir frowned at the old man, wondering where this attitude had come from.
“Have you ever seen a female protecting their young?” Besmir asked. “Not just women but any mother?”
Zaynorth nodded.
“They would attack with teeth and nails if necessary. I’ve spent most of my life as a hunter and I can tell you now, the most dangerous, fearsome and downright scary thing to face is a female with young to protect.”
“This will never work, Besmir,” Zaynorth said finally. “You will doom the entire country.”
“Not five minutes ago you were advocating war yourself,” Besmir retorted hotly. “Now you don’t like the idea because it involves women? It was your brother’s suggestion,” he added.
Zaynorth stared at Herofic with disapproval on his face, tugged at his beard and scratched one ear.
“Yes,” he said. “It was Herofic who suggested this and he knows why I am so against it.” The old mage got out of his chair again. “It seems there is not much more I can offer in this council, so I shall take my leave.”
Besmir watched the space where the old man had been, his brow furrowed with confusion in his hurt expression.
What’s that all about?
The young hunter watched as the man who he had come to regard as a friend stalked off and he thought back to his childhood. In the orphanage, the other boys had either ignored him completely or saw him as a target to be picked on. Later in life, his experiences with the hunters had left him as even more of an outsider and he had eventually exiled himself, preferring to live alone. Friends had been an afterthought, unnecessary, pointless. Zaynorth’s words had hurt deeply, and Besmir found himself wondering when he had become so attached to the old man..
“That might have gone better,” Herofic observed bluntly.
Besmir stared at him, daggers in his expression. “Might be worth you explaining what that was all about,” he said in a tone laced with anger.
Herofic scratched his cheek, looking a little embarrassed.
“It was...uh...a long time ago,” he began. “Zaynorth was deep in his studies, becoming a mage. The gift is a rare thing, as you know, so your grandfather was more than willing to support us all financially.”
Besmir let his mind drift as Herofic spoke, imagining the family he had never had the chance to meet, to be part of.
“I was in training to be part of the royal guard, The White Blades, responsible for protecting the royal family, palace, and anything else seen fit by the royal family.” Herofic sighed. “Women trained alongside men and we all served without consideration of what that meant. I was assigned a partner, to train and serve with, Yorain she was called, from a minor noble’s house. I saw her as nothing more than a friend and fellow soldier, but Zaynorth,” Herofic paused, looking back in time, “Zaynorth fell for her hard.”
“As his brother and her shield brother, I ended up covering for both of them during their secret little trysts.” Herofic smiled. “It was a pain at the time, but I would give anything to return to it.” Besmir heard the subtle catch in his throat as the warrior spoke. “And I endured hours of them just sitting, staring into each other’s eyes, like moonstruck children. Yorain and I were to travel with the king and his family on a tour, visiting some of the garrison towns along the northern border, and Zaynorth begged her not to go.” Herofic bowed his head, silent for a time as the past caught up with him. “Of course she said she had to go, it was her duty and there was no way she could leave me, her shield brother, to go on my own. She would see him soon and she loved him.” Herofic sniffed. “I had never seen my brother so happy before,” he said sadly. “And never since.”
“It was an easy tour. The old king was so kind and friendly to all. He never put himself above anyone, taking time to speak to any he encountered with respect. I do not recall ever hearing a bad word said against him.”
Pride filled Besmir then, an odd sensation to feel for an ancestor he had never met, but he languished in it regardless.
“In the highlands sits a little town, not much more than soldiers and their families, but it protects the Anver pass from marauding Oskapi.”
“Oskapi?” Keluse asked, turning red when they looked at her.
“Oskapi were human once but have somehow devolved into animal ways,” Ranyor explained. “They have become brutish and violent, grown larger and more muscular than others, probably due to the harsh conditions they live in up there. Attacks on Gazluthian settlements are rare, but when they do occur, the Oskapi come in number. A lone male is nothing and can be picked off with arrows, but a hoard of them wielding clubs and crude shields becomes an overwhelming force.”
“It must have been a hard winter or something, as they attacked the garrison at Anver pass,” Herofic said. “Throngs of them, as far as the eye could see, poured down from the mountains like a wave. Tusks jutting from their lower jaws, their beady little eyes filled with greed and gluttony.” Herofic’s words came out laced with hate and pain. “Filthy animals almost overwhelmed the whole town. Were it not for the fact the garrison commander had strengthened the walls during the summer, it would have been lost.”
“King Runalf ordered us all to join the soldiers in defending the town and repelling the Oskapi,” he said with tears brimming in his eyes. “There was no denying him, of course, and so Yorain and I ventured out onto the wall. We slaughtered hundreds that day. The catapults and ballistae decimated them with fire and massive boulders it took two men to lift.” Herofic paused as he recalled the details, the pain evident on his face. “It was as they were running that it happened. A lone Oskapi had managed to climb a mountain of the dead and surprised us. He grabbed Yorain before anyone knew he was even there and smashed her head open on the stonework.” Herofic swallowed, his voice thick with emotion as he struggled on. “She still looked as pretty as she always had, even in death. I hacked that...that thing to pieces, but it was too late.”
Keluse sniffed and rose, walking over and hugging the big man in a surprising display of feeling. Herofic looked utterly shocked but patted the young woman’s back gently.
“There, there, lass,” he said gruffly. “I had to be the one to tell him when we got back,” Herofic mumbled. “I saw something die inside Zaynorth that day and he has never been the same since,” the warrior added. “ Because he lost Yorain, the great love of his life.”
9
Life continued in the tents, the residents gradually beginning to carve out a life for themselves until panicked screams tore the dawn, one day as women and children ran through the gathering of tents.
Besmir stared toward the commotion with cold dread filling his chest. More and more people had come to the tent town looking for the new leader of the resistance in the hopes of being fed.
One such had been a farmer and he had driven his herd to join them, bringing cattle, goats and pigs along with a wagon filled with chickens. He offered milk, eggs and the possibility of making cheese. Besmir was about to worship him.
A few enterprising souls had begun to earn a small living from Besmir and Keluse’s kills, curing and stitching the furs from rabbits into small, useful items. These were traded for other items and a thriving market for various goods blossomed. There had been peace and happiness.
Until now.
“What’s the matter?” Besmir demanded as one girl ran past.
“Soldiers!” she screamed, her head flying around in wide-eyed panic. “Soldiers come to burn us all!”
Besmir grabbed he
r by the shoulders, swinging her to face him, and shook her hard enough to make her head flail about. It had the desired effect. The girl stopped shaking and looked up into Besmir’s eyes with her green ones.
“Go find Zaynorth,” Besmir said slowly. “Tell him to meet me in the gathering place and bring his brother. Understand?” Besmir demanded.
The girl nodded and darted off in a new direction. The tattered rags of her dress ended just below the knee and Besmir watched as her muddy feet cycled with her pale legs, flashing like the tail of a rabbit or deer in flight.
Besmir waded through the sea of fleeing people, trying to calm them as he went, without success. Some people were even trying to take their tents down, hurriedly throwing their meager possessions into the bale of cloth before dragging the whole thing away. A child of around a year old sat on the muddy ground, bawling at the top of her lungs. Besmir sprinted over to her, snatching her up and out of the path of the herd of feet headed directly for her.
“Who do you belong to, then?” he asked, searching around as the baby carried on screaming.
Wrapped in warm clothes that were surprisingly clean for anyone living in the tent town, the baby carried on yelling for her mother as Besmir yelled for anyone who knew her. A girl of no more than fifteen faced him, tear-streaked face a mask of worry as she held her arms out.
“Please, sir,” she said in a voice that trembled with utter fright. “She is my baby sister but I am all she has now.”
Besmir’s heart melted at the emotion in the girl’s face and he handed the child back to her sister, who engulfed her in the protective cage of her thin arms. He watched her disappear into the swirling mayhem of people and animals, waiting for a few seconds until the reality of the situation crashed back into him and he dashed for the center of the tent town and the impromptu gathering place.
Zaynorth, Herofic, Ranyor and Keluse were already there, all searching for clues as to what was happening, who was coming. Besmir noticed that while Herofic was not wearing his armor, he did have his heavy battle axe at the ready, arms bulging with tensed muscle.
