by G W Langdon
“What happens to the unlucky ones?”
“The mind refuses to relinquish the pursuit of pleasure. The subject no longer has the capacity, or will, to disconnect from VR—to escape. The neglected body is eventually disowned, becomes diseased, and dies.”
“Is there not some kind of failsafe—a time limit?”
“Unless prearranged—Presets. If not, then it’s up to free will. The system does not presuppose and play God.” He clipped the case closed. “Do not underestimate the power of technology to heighten what you lust for.”
Such earnestness didn’t sit well on Ba’illi’s round and gentle face. Tom grabbed Ba’illi by the arm and gave a firm squeeze. “We are more equal in this world.”
Ba’illi half-wrenched away. “You are a good student, but don’t let the curious side of your nature impel you into rash situations you’ll regret.”
He released Ba’illi, disappointed he hadn’t tried to break free. He wasn’t so bold in the real world. “One last thing. The queen of King Jialin, the last of the Great Kings of Tilas.” He cleared his throat. “Is she Queen Lillia?”
A look of pain brushed over Ba’illi and a vein bulged on his temple.
“But she must be…”
Ba’illi finished the glass of Spirel and soothed the vein. “Over two thousand years old. The quality of her longevity is remarkable, even for Tilasian royalty.” Ba’illi leaned forwards in conspiracy. “It’s like her hope for revenge has kept time at bay, but now that you’re here... ”
“What?”
“Nothing really. It’s just that she seems… less assured.”
“Of me!”
“Maybe she had expected more. No offense, but it’s a vain hope to think you can defeat Decay.”
Chapter 15
The knight wrapped his fists around the golden handles of the floor-to-ceiling doors to the War Building and pushed with his full weight. Twelve mighty azure columns rose to a stained-glass domed roof and the smell of polished metal rushed into the gap.
Tom stopped cold.
A green dragon, bathing in the warm sun, slept half-crouched across the lobby beneath a long chandelier. The dragon blinked its emerald green eyes open and lifted its head.
“This is Gralin the Green, the steed of King Lorien.”
Gralin bounded over the marble floor in hops, skips, and short glides.
“I thought dragons only existed in fairy tales,” Tom said, slipping behind the knight.
The knight reached up and scratched Gralin under the jaw, the dragon’s bejeweled chest armor jiggling in a thousand sparkles as it stretched its long neck and purred. “You can pat him if you want to.”
Tom inched forward. Gralin crouched and lowered his head. His cold eyes widened, and his saber-sharp claws scraped on the floor.
“Let him get to know your scent, or he might try to eat you if you come here on your own.”
He wiped his hands on the front of his robe and stroked the dragon’s broad snout. Was dragon skin really this rough? Gralin opened his mouth. Six-inch dagger-sharp canine teeth tapered back to flesh-slicing molars.
“I think he likes you.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Did they truly ride on dragons?” he asked, unsure if Argoth wasn’t a stylized myth, like King Arthur and Merlin.
“Gralin’s a diminished copy of the real dragon that fought at Argoth. Dragons made the best battlefield platforms for directing the fight because they were above the fighting and strong enough to press into the thick of war.”
“I’m assuming it can’t fly with those small wings.”
“Dragons weren’t designed to fly, but those short wings can cut an enemy soldier in half with a single swipe, and the spurs at the wing joints can rip better than any handheld weapon.”
“Designed?”
“Ba’illi is the one to explain the science behind them. From what I understand, the dragons began as much smaller pets for the elites—curiosities for the spoilt. Did you think them natural?”
“I’m not from Tilas, but no, of course not.” The Beast of Woolmer made more sense now. Made; not begotten.
“Follow me,” the knight said, gesturing to the ‘Dael’ Room.
Gralin rose to his full height and turned in front of them. The spikes at the end of his long tail sliced above their heads.
Tom checked his appearance in a polished column. Was he actually so small in comparison?
The epic Battle of Dael painting covered the entire front wall and reached halfway to the twenty-foot ceiling. The lack of windows kept the room cooler than outside the painting’s thick golden-frame registered dull in the dim light. Soldiers in meshed uniforms and plate mail armor lined the sides of the carpeted pathway like a rabid crowd at a bare-knuckle fight. Behind them, archers stood with drawn bows in chariots drawn by Feheri. Huge hawks, strong enough to bring down a man if they had been real, glided mid-air. Cabinets along the walls housed the weapons used for hand to hand combat: knives and swords, shields and spears, slingshots, bows and guns. A somber silence closed in as they marched towards the painting. There was no dazzling chandelier or green dragon to amaze.
“The Battle of Dael in the year 4399 was the first of the great battles to shape the history of Tilas,” the knight said.
“I don’t see any dragons.”
“Dragons weren’t created then. King Harsl, the first of the great kings, led the charge and defeated Emperor Milertu. A great peace reigned after Dael. The romantics called this the ‘Golden Age,’ at least while it lasted.”
Tom ran his hand over a display case of medals and ribbons. Bits of metal and cloth exchanged for death and valor. An invisible cry pulled him forwards to witness the carnage. No battle at home came close in scale to the immense tragedy of Dael. Tens of thousands of casualties, many just mere dots of paint, littered the ghastly field. Closer and closer he peered, drawn first to the fear and rage in the soldiers’ faces then to the fine creases in their uniforms as they fought from behind shields and the raised flags of the Royal House and the Emperor’s Courts. Despite the inadequacy of the paint and canvas to convey the true magnitude of suffering, the king’s soldiers had endured and prevailed in a triumphant stand against villainy. He drew back, oddly uplifted.
The medals were a just reward for their honorable sacrifice. Failure would’ve allowed a bleak darkness to settle over the land. A noble king prepared to die to defeat the forces of hatred and protect those less able who loved and trusted him. He rubbed at the lump in his throat.
“How many died fighting?”
“Sixty thousand—on the first day.” The knight stared down. “A king chooses not to fight. He wants nothing but peace and prosperity for his subjects,” he said, returning to King Harsl. “A true king governs a compassionate society his subjects know they cannot achieve on their own. They follow because they want to, not because they must. Were your kings so brave?”
“Some—William the Conqueror—personally, Richard the Lionheart—a few others, but mostly our kings were cowards,” Tom said, in a hot flush of anger. “They would go to war to decide the next in line for the top job. It was just too bad if thousands of people died in their squabble. Worse still, our elites sought to extend their power across the channel to redraw borders they had no business with. They never cared about the common man.”
“Your kings are more corrupt emperors than true kings. The emperors lusted to rule over the lands, but their power came from the threat of harm. They were cruel and unworthy of the title they craved above all else.”
Tom glanced to the left side of the painting. “The Emperor?”
“Yes, he rides a battle Tyronal. Lumbering battle platforms compared to dragons. Their bulk and height advantage made them effective for close fighting, especially for the archers. However, their long legs were vulnerable to our axes.”
“Dragon versus Tyronal?” he asked, before realizing it was the question of a child.
“Dragon—no contest, but your black
and white thinking is inadequate. In battle, Tyronals outnumber dragons ten to one and advance in a crushing line. War is never so simple, much less so the political intrigues and quiet frustrations that fester and make war inevitable.”
“How would I know any of that? The Great Battles are tagged with your blue sword.”
“Come, Argoth is in the next room.”
Tom walked quickly across the lobby to keep up with the long-striding knight. Gralin had gone outside, unless he was guarding another wing of the hexagonal building.
“What would you do,” the knight began, “if the leader of the tribe in the next valley was careless and wasted his resources on an oversized army to keep himself in power and oppress anyone who thought differently?”
“Sounds familiar.”
“More subjects mean full tax coffers, but he has to take more water than he should from the river to grow the crops because there’re too many mouths for the land to naturally support. There is less water each year and his subjects grow restless. With no easy way out and caught in a decline of his making, he needs to preserve power whatever the cost. He covets your valley—the one you have reigned over in a careful way.”
“I would reason with him. Help him. Give him food and show him how to grow bigger crops.”
“He is unreasonable and sees your compassion as a weakness in your character. Your river is deeper and has more fish. Your forests have better summer hunting. Are you, the trusted leader of your tribe, going to let the invasion happen? The countless centuries of hard work and wise counsel of your ancestors are the reason you enjoy this fair life. Once your valley has a new king, you and your heirs to the throne are killed and he takes your prettiest wives for his own pleasure and breeding. Are you going to fight for a noble cause, or will you talk and lose everything?”
“I would fight. Lay traps and weaken him until the price of victory becomes too great.”
The knight stopped at the entrance to the Argoth Wing. “But your valley has lived only in peace. Nobody knows how to fight. You cannot win against such a formidable, highly trained adversary. Your empire falls and everything you hold true vanishes to become in time obscure mentions in a dusty old book or inscribed onto clay tablets lost under the desert sands.”
He shrugged off the gloom and raised his head. “I would find a way.”
“Not good enough, but it’s a start.” The knight smiled for the first time. “Your first lesson: good men have to fight—and they know how.”
The dark Argoth painting reached out from the far side—come see the horrors wrought in the name of the king.
“This is the Battle of Argoth where King Lorien, the second of the Great Kings, defeated and killed Emperor Tahulan in the year 6299.”
He kept to the middle of the path. To his right, savage Barakai of Tahulan snarled between the foot soldiers wielding axes and spears beside the lancers on war horses, sturdier than any draught horse. The four-sided archery platform on the back of the armored Tyronal reached almost to the ceiling. Tom looked at the king’s forces. The emperor had learned from the defeat at the Battle of Dael and the two sides were more evenly matched.
The Argoth painting’s cold realism inside a heavy, elaborate golden frame demanded reverence. Strong colors, applied in heavy brush strokes, magnified the brutality of war. Ominous black clouds filled the angry sky above a suffering landscape. Heroic figures frozen in time fought for a cause they believed in more than they feared death. Some soldiers had their weapons drawn, ready to strike, while others were locked forever in mortal combat against an equally skilled opponent. Bloodied steeds, taller and broader than the wispy-fast Feheri drawn chariots on the battle flanks, carried the king’s soldiers towards a frenzied wall of Tahulan’s minions enforced by a double-line of charging Tyronals.
The knight fixed on King Lorien. “The king rides on Krei the Red.”
King Lorien stood tall in the stirrups of his heavy saddle with his white sword raised to the heavens, roaring commands to his troops below. The fire in his eyes blazed an unshakeable challenge to the deadly mayhem.
“Such a battle would bring out the best in a soldier.” Tom stepped nearer to the terrifying masterpiece and reached up to the rough surface, blinking extra hard to make sure he was seeing right. Gralin the Green’s front legs were buckled and his bloodied side was a lattice of spears and arrows. He compared the knight beside him to the rider leaping clear of the mighty dragon into the angry horde of soldiers and beasts waiting beneath.
“He was the Second Knight of the Realm,” the knight said. “Great were his deeds. He died protecting the king, as he had lived.”
“Are you from Tilas?”
The front buttons on the knight’s jacket tightened. “I was born on Heyre, but for thousands of years my ancestral tribe served the Kings of Tilas.”
Tom stood rooted to the floor, humbled and embarrassed he’d ever thought he was the equal of anyone if given opportunity to prove his mettle. The heroism needed in these wars to stay the course when the tide turned was many times greater than any medieval war. Dael was achievable, but Argoth was beyond any man. The kings of England and Europe were vain fools compared to King Harsl and King Lorien. The flaws of his foolish kings were not those of the enlightened Great Kings of Tilas. He slumped away, shaking his head. “I couldn’t be him.”
The knight placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Queen Lillia has unrealistic hopes for you.”
“It’s impossible.”
“I can see it in your eyes you don’t believe in kings, especially the righteous might of a great king that I would serve.”
The words jarred in the watchful silence.
“However, she is determined,” the knight continued. “This is your first day and maybe I’m being too harsh. There is no shame in admitting your limitations in the most difficult of all arenas. Use Argoth to broaden your education. The qualities of kingship do not have neat solutions derived from clever formulas. Seek out wisdom and intuition, judgment, and perception, sacrifice, and loyalty, endurance, and… compassion.”
Tom pulled out a cloth and wiped his brow. “Did you not hear me? I cannot be your king.”
“Maybe, you are more suited to another set of beliefs. Ba’illi believes the sciences are all you need to navigate a life of purpose. He has an inexhaustible supply of knowledge to keep your mind busy. In time, you will look back and wonder at how far you’ve come, if that gives you purpose.”
“Why can’t we live in peace?”
“Do you mean if there were no kings and the commoner was happy to choose as he pleased?”
“Yes, that kind of peace.”
“There were fourteen hundred years of peace after Dael, yet war returned. War comes from the inside, not from somewhere out there. It is our nature to fight to see who is the strongest. Peace can never last.”
Tom stuffed the cloth in his pocket. “When did the evil come to Tilas?”
“What do you know about that?”
“Only what Choen has told me. It defeated the armies of King Jialin at the Battle of Orth. Is there a painting of that, too? Can I see Orth?”
“No. You’re not ready.” The knight gave a brief, pitying smile. “You have an uncertain future ahead of you. Find your purpose through hard work and a searching intelligence. Do not stand idle and watch your gifts go to waste. But remember this. No matter how much I guide and teach you, you have to face the challenges ahead on your own. My experience in such matters tells me that in the end there will come a fateful day when you have nothing to call upon but the strength of your mind to survive the obstacles set before you.”
Tom rubbed his forehead as the extreme deeds and emotions of Dael and Argoth piled up. “I will try.” His mind galloped faster and faster and worse would surely come if he didn’t find somewhere quiet.
“Are you all right? The flush has gone from your face.”
“I have to go.”
“Breathe,” the knight said, watching Tom mis-step off t
he platform. “These ordeals are only in your mind. They don’t exist anymore in the real world.”
“I cannot help you. There is no hope.”
Chapter 16
Tom stared into the slowly magnifying fractal in the lightScreen. The portal had expanded his knowledge beyond anything he could’ve ever hoped for. Indeed, it was a sparkling window to the world of knowledge, but it could never answer the question that gripped his mind and pierced his heart: was Sarra truly alive? Reuzk said she was, but his careful choice of words left ample reason to think he was omitting key parts of the full story.
He balanced the chair back on two legs and stared outside. In a similar vein, the far-away green fields across the river felt wrong as if there were parts omitted. It wasn’t in an obvious—‘see, there’s the lie’ way, but in the ambiguous way every clever deceit contains a thread of truth. Perhaps the outside view was a perfect ‘fit’ for him the same way his VR cap and tailored robe were. Maybe telling only half the truth was how they operated on this planet.
“Excuse my intrusion.”
He tipped backward in surprise and caught hold of the front ledge to stop from falling. There was no magnetic click as the doors unlocked, but perhaps there was, and he’d been too distracted to hear. Queen Lillia wore a knee-length ruby-red dress and carried a small handbag, slung over her shoulder. Her blonde hair was curled up at the sides into two rolls, accentuating the long, sparkling jewel earrings as she closed in.
“Ba’illi said you are frustrated with the portal’s limitations,” she said.
“Subjects are being kept from me.”
“Of course. The Libraries are incomplete and obviously, the spaceship that brought you here would need inventions you’re yet to discover—gravity drives, for example. Inconveniences I can soon remedy, but what truly troubles you?”
“I have to know if Sarra is alive,” he said, approaching the mess of drawings and pencil sketches on the high table. “Can you find out if Reuzk has her?”
