by Plague Jack
Trust me. The words still rang in Pendragon’s ears as he departed from Voskeer’s north gate. Commoners lined the streets and cheered him on as he departed with the Queensguard. Amernia had adopted the old Vaetorian tradition of naming roads after precious resources. The Silver Road led east through the Moss Wood until it merged with the White Wood Forest. Eventually the colossal whitewoods began to rot and soil melted into the sandy waters of the Bysmal Swamp. The Silver Road ended at Sinstolke, a grim, imposing city that was home of House Stolk. Stolk dominated the elfkin with a bloody fist, and because of Sinstolke’s remoteness, his atrocities were easily overlooked.
The road west was the Gold Road, warm and welcoming. The Gold Road crossed the Bay of Spice at the Imperial Bridge, an old but useful remnant of Vaetorian rule. To the south, across the great bridge and through the warm grasslands of the Sun Plains, was a hook-shaped island called the Talon. This was Duke Prosper Quintero’s domain, and he was harsh but fair in his dealings, caring not about the color of a man’s skin, nor the slant of his ears, so long as he kept his head low and his taxes paid.
It could be worse, thought Pendragon as he started upon the Iron Road north to Norfield. She could have sent you east.
Surrounded by marching Queensguard, Pendragon rode a gray-blue mare. He had had a new shield painted just for the occasion, a black dragon on a green base. This stood in contrast to the Queensguard’s tabards and shields, emblazoned with crowned golden flowers upon red fields, the Queen’s colors. Gold and crimson served as a reminder to Pendragon that these were the Queen’s men, not his.
He was one of two men in his company to have a horse; the other was the Queensguard’s leader, a hawkeyed man named Arterius Blake who cemented Pendragon’s mistrust. Blake was notorious for using extreme means to reach simple ends and had personally trained the Queensguard to obey any order without question. Those who spoke back or hesitated to obey were gifted with fifty lashes and expelled. My commands are only tolerated because it’s the Queen’s will. These men would turn on me in an instant like wild dogs if Blake wished it, thought Pendragon. I suppose my glory days are over.
They all have such a blind devotion to the Queen, thought Pendragon as they marched through the farmland north of Voskeer stripped barren and dry by winter. If they knew her as I do, would they still be willing to give her their lives? He had once made the same vow that they had, and there was little that he regretted more. She had deserved his help at the time. The damsel had been wounded, and her noble knight had come to save her. Try not to focus on things you can’t change, he urged himself as he marched. Still his thoughts wandered.
Solace was a small trading settlement that marked the fork where the Iron Road branched off and became the Stone Road. They stopped to replenish supplies and slept in the shadow of the massive Frost Fist Mountains that loomed to the west. Ravens cawed hungrily as they stripped flesh from three elves and a dwarf who hung limp from the village gallows.
“What happened here?” Pendragon asked an old crone who knitted outside despite the cold.
“Stole from the innkeeper,” said the crone as she rocked back and forth in her chair.
“So they were killed? The penalty for first-time theft is a lashing. The second time is hard labor on the Shattered Coast. We don’t kill people for thievery.”
“We ain’t got time to put up with arrow ears in Solace—no, Sir,” she said. “If you have a problem, take it up with the mayor.”
Pendragon did have a problem, but there were more pressing matters to attend to. Justice would have to be served another day.
Dried grass turned to snow and ice as they approached Norfield. When the Vaetorians had stolen Amernia from the elfkin they had built Norfield to serve as their capital. Norfield was built upon a large hill that jutted from the middle of the Massapon River. Ice formed a thick sheet at the base of the island, leaving boats encased in glistening frost. To call Norfield a fortress city was a bit of an understatement, as its only connections to the mainland were a pair of large bridges which extended on either side from the surrounding cliffs. The walls and bridges were built from a thick black stone which gave the city a dark, foreboding atmosphere. Cold, hard, and every bit as unwelcoming as I remember, Pendragon mused.
Norfield comprised three districts, each higher than the last, with large stairways forming the only connection between them. The first and lowest district was the subhuman ghetto. Norfield had become a sanctuary for the survivors of the Green War. Norfield lacked the beauty and charm of its sister city, Voskeer. If Voskeer was a brightly colored bird of paradise, then by comparison Norfield was a wrinkled old tortoise covered in spikes. Pendragon and Blake led the Queensguard across the bridge as the winter winds battered them towards the edge. A hundred-foot fall onto ice awaited Pendragon if his horse lost her footing.
A pair of guards saluted them as they entered the city. Over them waved the House of Ashen’s banner, a gray two-headed horse on a sun-yellow field. In the distance rang the echo of a horn, broadcasting their arrival to the city.
An elf ghetto is the last place I’m welcome. It’ll be a miracle if we can make it through without starting a riot, Pendragon thought, dreading what was to come. The shining warriors marched through mud and filth as the elfkin lined the streets. The elves were tall and slim, but not beautiful as Pendragon remembered. They were too undernourished to be considered beautiful. They all just stare. They know who I am, but they’ve been beaten so badly that glaring is all they can manage. They must think me a monster. I never wanted this.
A dwarf worked over a hot iron bar with a hammer, seemingly oblivious to the parade. His wife stood by his storefront, her three little children peering from behind her skirts. A gilnoid wearing a plague mask pulled a large cart filled with bodies, his thick, tree-trunk-like arms straining to pull the weight. The corpse’s lips were red and stretched—the markings of dog rot.
“Arterius!” called Pendragon. “Why haven’t these people been vaccinated?”
Arterius rode up beside him. “Roselock designated this area as a low-priority zone.”
“Low or lowest?” responded Pendragon angrily. “We’ve had a cure for decades; this is inexcusable.”
Arterius shrugged. “We shipped the cure to all middle- and high-priority areas. No more was made,” he said with a shrug.
“No more was made? You can’t be serious—these people are suffering!”
“Doesn’t look like the Queen cares. If she don’t care, than neither do I. Let the filth rot.” He spat in the direction of the crowd.
Is this what passes for the royal guard these days? Gabriel would never have allowed such a brute to serve, let alone be captain. This was never the future I envisioned during the Green War. The poor should not have to suffer for the actions of their leader. Pendragon’s eyes met the crowds. But who am I to talk? I’m the reason most of them are here. I wonder if they all hate me, or if some of them understand why we destroyed their cities. Pendragon observed the ghetto for a moment, focusing on the smell of rot and shit, the tightly packed crowd, the buzzing of flies. Don’t be a fool, old man, you would hate you too.
Not surprisingly the nicest building in the ghetto was Bleeding Hearts, the local whorehouse. Bleeding Hearts was a tall, slender tower built with angular red roofs in the style of the Glass Empire. Standing outside the door were a pair of bulky gilnoid bouncers, their hairy, simian bodies towering over the whores they protected. A beautiful black-haired elf woman smiled at Pendragon from behind a fan. She looks like Eva, thought Pendragon. The whore’s black hair and pale skin gave her an uncanny resemblance to his late wife. Pendragon’s stomach churned.
Working girls poured into the street, advertising to the wealthy Queensguard. Amongst the elves and the occasional dwarf were far more faeling prostitutes than one city should have. The faelings resembled children, except for their pointed ears and sharp teeth.
Originally the faelings had been a wild race of creatures known for eating bodies o
ut of graveyards. The wild fae had been “domesticated” by the elves during the Green War, since their size and resemblance to human children made them excellent spies and assassins. Fucking them was disturbingly popular amongst men. It was a relief when Pendragon and his? retinue reached the entrance to the human district, which was guarded by twenty Norfieldian guards.
The difference between the two districts was like night and day. Pendragon had almost forgotten that it was the Yulander festival until he saw the elaborate decorations that lay before him. Garlands streaked with red ribbon were stretched between rooftops and wreaths of holly hung on every door.
How can they celebrate while half the city rots? he asked himself. Oh, of course. They won the war—it’s their right. The human district’s prosperity glowed and the quarter smelled of freshly baked bread and apple wine. A horde of cheering common-born lined the cobbled streets in joyous mobs. The presence of the Queensguard was an obvious morale boost, but the public’s cheers only fed Pendragon’s guilt.
“All hail Sir Pendragon and the Queensguard,” shouted an old man using a cone to amplify his voice. The crowd roared in approval as gleeful children ran in front of Pendragon and Arterius, paving their way with flower petals.
Pendragon pulled up his helmet. Smile and wave—your people don’t want to see you sulking. One of the children dragged an elf doll on a leash behind her. No. These aren’t my people, he realized and put his visor back down.
The stairs to the palace were flanked on either side by a pair of twenty-foot-tall horse statues. They reared on their hind legs as if they intended to charge into the sky. Pitch burned in the statues’ eyes as if they were brimming with repressed rage. The joy of the human district faded into the distance as Pendragon and his men reached the steps to the palace. They climbed for what felt like ages before they reached the top tier. The palace was a large resort isolated from the rest of the city, more practical than lavish and built to withstand months of siege if necessary. Servants poured into the courtyard, taking the horses away to be stabled.
The Archduke’s hall was a grand square structure, a twisted mess of arches and buttresses. There were so many arches that the great hall was nicknamed the Ribcage by House Ashen. In honor of the Yulander festival the Ribcage was decorated with garlands which wrapped around the pillars and made the hall appear overgrown. Hung from the garlands were glass balls painted gold and wooden soldiers delicately decorated.
The floor of the Ribcage was crowded with guests, most of whom were Norfieldians. It was the tradition during events such as these for the nobles to dress in the primary colors of their houses—red for Voskeer, purple for Harpy’s Point, blue for the Talon, pink for Sinstolke, and yellow for Norfield. Twenty years ago there would have been a group proudly displaying green, but Pendragon’s House had since disbanded. Formerly House Pendragon had ruled Voskeer, but that responsibility was phased out when Pendragon became first bodyguard to King Gabriel Roselock. The rich clustered along the edges of the ribbed hall as Pendragon and the fifty Queensguard entered.
The Great Archduke Phineas Ashen had earned his title not for his accomplishments but for his size. Already today the Archduke had feasted upon two dozen pancakes drenched in honey butter, served with a side of six poached water iguana eggs and six links of raptor sausage imported from the jungles of Azmire. To wash all this down the Duke had chugged a flagon of syrup. His hunger satiated, he had then opened his mouth and stuck an ivory stick down his throat. After the Duke had spilt his breakfast onto the palace floor he’d then gulped down four flagons of mead to purge his mouth of vomit. Hungry once more, the Duke had begun his second breakfast.
“Oh, look! Our guest of honor has arrived,” said the fat man between mouthfuls. “Come to protect me, have you, Pendragon? I don’t think that will be necessary.” The whale slapped his bloated side with a grubby paw. “This fat deflects sword, arrow, and whore.” The Duke smiled. “Is it some sort of cruel joke sending you, old man? I think so. An insult to our late, great king as well. Will you let the assassin slip into my private chambers as I sleep? Open the doors for him, maybe? Tell me, does the Queen wish me dead?” Years of gluttony had rendered Phineas immobile as he sat upon a gold litter lined with satin.
Even Pendragon, who pushed the limits of human size, was dwarfed by the Archduke. I should be a good boy and kneel, thought Pendragon. But this pig doesn’t deserve the respect. “Our queen wants you very much alive, Phineas. You’re the best at stripping the poor of every coin and stealing every scrap of food off their tables.” Pendragon paused to eye the man up and down. “However, she clearly cares little for your health, since she hasn’t resorted to making you run up and down the castle stairs.” There was a murmur of suppressed laughter from the Duke’s more daring subjects, which made Phineas’s face flush pink and his eyes narrow.
“Always the crowd pleaser, Clark—your tongue is as sharp as your sword, just as I remember. Tell me, do you still remember how to use that thing around your waist?”
“Do you mean my cock?” asked Pendragon as the Duke’s subjects laughed openly. “Or my sword?”
“Shut up, all of you!” shouted Phineas, his explosive anger silencing the crowd. “Do I look like I want to hear about your cock? Why even carry a blade? You haven’t done any real fighting since the war,” Phineas snapped. “And yes, I know about the tournaments, but honestly that’s not real fighting. I heard Stolk stole your most recent vanity trophy; you must be getting soft in your old age.”
I’m going to regret this later, thought Pendragon, unsheathing his sword and pointing the tip at Phineas. “Why not take a step and see for yourself?”
The Duke was so mad his face was beginning to turn purple. “That sounded like a threat,” said Phineas. “Are you sure the Queen didn’t send you to make sure the assassin succeeds?”
“I won’t lie—it’s going to be tempting,” said Pendragon. “But I give you my word you’ll survive the night.”
Pendragon had every intention of being true to his word. The fifty Queensguard were divided up into several regiments. Twenty-five were assigned to be stationed around the pillars and walls of the Ribcage. If the assassin were to attack up close, he would have to fight through Amernia’s best, combined with Phineas’s personal guard. Twenty of the Queensguard were stationed on the second-floor landing. If any elfkin were spotted the crossbowmen would turn them to pincushions. The remaining five would dress as civilians and attempt to root out any assassins in the crowd before they could strike. In happier times the Yulander had been celebrated in public, with the Archduke throwing a feast for the people. Things had changed, and now the only ones wealthy enough to celebrate were the nobles, crowded and clustered in the Ribcage.
Children had been banned from the event so there was no need to worry about a faeling assassin. Maybe I am getting soft, thought Pendragon, who was nervous despite the fact that the night was going smoothly. He stood beside the Archduke, who remained seated as always on top his massive throne. Around him the elite clucked and cooed to each other, gossiping about various irrelevancies.
“Do wrinkled old tarts still drink?” asked Phineas, wine beginning to poison his senses.
“Can whales get drunk?” retorted Pendragon before pulling out a flask from a pocket in his feathered cloak. “I brought my own,” said Pendragon, taking a sip.
Phineas laughed and tipped his crown in a sign of approval. “You’re a prick, Pendragon,” said Phineas. “But goddamn, I respect you.”
“I wasn’t aware you respected anyone.”
“Don’t be an old fool. Do you think I would let just anyone talk to me like that in front of my subjects? Surely you know my reputation. Did you think I let your little outburst slide because you happen to be the Queen’s favorite bitch?”
“No. I thought you spared my for my pretty face.”
“Clark, I was skinny longer than you were pretty.” The Duke sipped from a large stein and spilt red wine down his chin. “I would have been w
ell within my rights to have you stripped naked and lashed half to death. Our dear queen would have thanked me for disciplining her pet.”
“Well, thanks for sparing me,” said Pendragon dryly.
“You and I have a lot in common, Pendragon, more than you would like to admit.”
“How so?” asked Pendragon.
Phineas smiled. “Look at them, Clark, look at all my dearly devoted subjects and tell me what you see,” said the Archduke, gesturing towards the dancing crowd as he spoke.
“I see people taking a moment to escape from a world filled with famine, disease, and terrorism,” said Pendragon. “Is that so wrong?”
“You really are an old fool,” said Phineas, finishing what little alcohol remained. “ More,” he bellowed, and from the crowd a dark-haired serving girl appeared and filled his stein from a pitcher of wine. “Do you want to know what I see, Clark? I see a herd of finely dressed sheep. Most of them were born into wealthy families and have never had to work a day in their lives. The other half are servants who lack the skill or the brains to be anything more than drones toiling away like little bees. I don’t value them as people any more than I would a farm tool. How can I when they seem so very intent on being objects? You and I, we’re real men and we control the storm of this world, while they… they choose to drown.”
Pendragon pondered Phineas’s words. “I don’t understand. You say you don’t respect your wealthy subjects because they’ve never had to work and thus have no perspective, yet you also hate your poor servants because they haven’t achieved wealth? I think you are just full of hate,” said Pendragon. Combating the backwards logic of royalty is not how I expected to spend my night.
