by Greg Ricker
Deril still could not figure out the reason for this game.
"Good." Danuel's confidence returned. "Are your men well armed, Mister Levin? That will be as important as food, and water, in the days to come.¨
"Adequately enough." Wade answered. "You asked for swords, but we also each carry what we truly know how to use."
That consisted mostly of old, battered bows, and daggers hanging from most of their belts. A majority of their swords were hanging without scabbards even.
Something would have to be done about that in Mynnorah also.
Danuel whispered to Kaylel, and he motioned for Moon's Eye to take her to her horse. It was right next to Wade's, and he caught her eye again as she made the transfer from the stallion to the gelding.
"If everyone is ready," Danuel started, "then we should move quickly!"
"Please lead on, Prince Talbarond." Wade bowed slightly again. He watched as Danuel and Kaylel, took the front of the line that was forming. The two young men, taking the rear.
The Prince was clever to have planned that.
"This isn't just an attempt at kissing another pretty face, is it?" Asked Deril, suddenly. After all, he always knew what Wade wanted.
Wade smiled at him. "I'm interested in this job, Deril. I think it's for real. If I'm correct, we could finish this as very wealthy men."
"We were doing just fine," stated Deril, "if you ask me."
"I think this is the one." Wade continued. "The job we needed to set us up for life."
The red-haired thief chuckled. Shortly. "If we live to enjoy it."
"Your bloody name might even be legend to nobles one day, Deril." The big man added.
Deril spat. He had no love of nobles.
Wade often reminded, 'the man who breaks the law, is constantly running, from the man who made the law.'
That line, was so irritatingly true.
Wade's smile never vanished. "Tell my men to continue to obey my orders. Tell them anyone may leave that wishes to, but they can then fear the day that I return."
Then he kicked his black stallion, and moved on.
Deril shook his head. He knew who would have to do the finding, should anyone run away. He trusted no one would.
Not in obvious sight, anyhow.
He would like to make bets, that a few would probably have plans to escape by the end of the day.
XI
Salted Wounds
The members of the Elders' Council could always count on at least five of the six to be present at meetings. Not every scheduled time could be convenient with everyone, and some meetings were announced with less than an hour before they began. Today, however, there was a full attendance. As there had been every day since the eagle arrived with Elssamon's letter. The Dwarves had then pushed their petty matters aside.
The meeting took place in a small room in the west wing of Mynnorah castle, an area with just enough space for a long table surrounded by high-backed chairs of worn redwood. Worn by the backs of the Elders before them. The only feel of space came from the ceiling, nearly thirty-feet above. It was domed, and had been painted to match the gardens at the main gate of the castle perfectly, as they looked, over eight hundred years ago. Its appearance was very different from today.
Nerol Blanford often looked up at that painting, to remember his childhood. The gardens had changed often throughout his life. Even after he had become King.
Then again, everything had changed.
Strange were these new days of overpopulated streets, spreading poverty, excessive crime, and a divided community with fading hope of a prosperous future.
Now, a Dy'Shan Lord was presenting a danger to all of the Four Lands.
It was like salting wounds, only to cut them open again.
Since the story of the attack on Bowenn had reached the city, rumor began to spread that Mynnorah would be next. True, or not, even without proof, it sank deep into the ears in its path. Then word spread of the King's call to Ayarlyn. Many accused him of fleeing a threatened city. Calling him a coward, of all things.
A coward, Nerol was not.
He looked upon anxious eyes. Something that every member of the council had not shared at one time, as far back as he could remember. His wizened face was carved from the stone that built his kingdom. If he woke to find a Dy'Shan Lord at the end of his bed, he would calmly ask the beast to have breakfast with him, before they both died. Every man in that room knew better than to name Nerol a coward.
In fact, they feared to even think it.
This meeting had been called only yesterday, but it had been well expected. The King had everyone's complete attention.
"First," Nerol began, "I would like an update on the security at the front gate."
"Fully inspected this morning, sire." Said a pot-bellied Dwarf in a fine military uniform. General Curic Montclaire. "In fact, I added to their numbers. There should not be a problem."
Curic wanted to rephrase that. He knew Nerol wanted a guarantee. They both knew that was impossible.
Strange days, indeed, when security matters began the council.
"Has there been an accurate count of the provisions needed for the journey to Ayarlyn?" The King asked.
Lord General Carmon Blayke shifted in his seat, signaling to the others that he had the answer to Nerol's question. Carmon was the highest ranked soldier just under the King. He had the makings to be the greatest military leader in the history of Mynnorah, and, despite being the youngest member, had proved himself worthy of his seat, as well as their trust. His hair was thick and brown, like his skin. Carmon was made from a different mold than the rest of them. He stood over a head taller than the second tallest Dwarf, and half again as wide as the broadest. His family had a history of producing giants, but Carmon topped anyone the Blayke's had engendered before.
"Also seen to this morning, sire." Said the Lord General. He was always so serene; he made the others look bad, most of the time. His uniform was too perfect. His black cloak was draped over one shoulder to display the five golden tassels on the other. He did deserve respect. He was not as untarnished as he appeared to be. "I then had a report made on the conditioning of the royal horses, as you requested, sire. Everything is in order."
Serene, indeed.
Nerol had actually forgotten about the latter order. Something that had just seemed important at the time it had crossed his mind. He nodded, instead of speaking.
"If I may intervene," spoke Loren Gabol, the white-haired Dwarf, whose joy in life was intervening, "at our last meeting we failed to conclude on the matter of your future absence."
Loren would be the one to press on the subject. He was one of the two in line to take the King's place, during his leave.
Former-Lord General Haln VanDoole was the other. He was the oldest member of the council. He looked straight at Loren. His gray hair, bushy mustache, and short beard, were all neatly trimmed.
Loren was younger than Haln's three hundred and eighty-five years by twenty, but he felt the city governor had far more power than an ex-militant.
The rest of the men at the table would be leaving with the King. A decision had to be made.
Loren knew the ideal person for the job.
Nerol had thought over the matter many times before. He had reached a satisfying conclusion. The worst part, was the fact that he had no heir to his throne, if by chance he failed to return.
The reason was well known. The Queen, Yudora Blanford, had repetitive trouble completing her pregnancies. The one time she did give birth, the baby was two months premature, and did not survive even the first day. Their longing for a family was great, and their emptiness was very obvious. Yudora often blamed herself, and was also known to pressure Nerol towards claiming a mistress to bear his children.
The King would have no part of it, however, even if his loyalty to her meant the end of the Blanford name, which it very well could.
"I see no problem with a unity between you and Lord General VanDoole." Said the King. He cou
ld read Loren's disappointment easily. Haln simply smiled at the governor. "You can discuss matters the same as we do here, and I am sure that the two of you will do just fine."
Haln could not care less who did what. He was going to continue his every day task of doing the jobs of everyone else, before they could get to them. Something he often succeeded in. He did not feel useful if he did not. He pleased as many people as he annoyed, but all who knew him, liked him. That could prove itself a far more powerful asset than Loren's profession. If the matter had come to a vote, which he was glad to avoid, he would have won.
However, elections created bitterness. Even among the Elders, despite the arguments or influences of the common people, votes would differ.
"There is news of the Advancement." Curic said suddenly, breaking the moment of silence. He followed with a loud clearing of his throat.
All eyes turned his way at the mention of the city rebels, a very uncomfortable subject to discuss, but also very real. Before the threat of a Dy'Shan Lord, it topped the discussions of their former meetings. Not security.
"Is that so?" Nerol groaned, ready for more bad news.
"Some off duty soldiers were beaten, sire," the General started, "and one of them died last night, as a result."
He noticed a sudden change on the King's face, to mad fury. "They have taken matters much too far, sire."
"What would you have me do?" Nerol was definitely angered by the raising of the subject. "Do you know who they are? Where they meet? Who their leader is?"
The eyes of his listeners went to the table. No one could answer even one of those questions.
The Advancement had remained a secret party since it began some years ago, as a small army that claimed independence from the laws of the King. They wanted total control, to get Nerol to step off of the edge, and to kneel to them.
That would be the same as asking a rock to roll over.
Killing someone, however, would not be a crime to go unpunished. Whether the men responsible knew the soldier had died, or not. Nerol had always believed in taking an eye for an eye, and in this case, the worst of all debts due for justice, a life for a life.
"I fear a slow process is in store for us." Said Haln.
"I meant to ask you, Nolin." Nerol started, ignoring the former-General's remark. "Have you selected your dogs for the journey?"
He had quickly changed the subject away from that of the Advancement. He did not care to hear about it now.
Not when he was leaving.
"I have, sire." Nolin shifted in his seat, taken aback by the change of topic, but mostly because he was more of a listener, than a speaker. He spoke when spoken to. He was the son of the former-governor of Mynnorah, who had since passed on, and left his entire estate to his wife and child. A fortune, handed down by his forefathers. Nolin was very near to Nerol's age, and had entered the military at the same time. They were friends. Best friends.
Outside of the Council Room, that is.
"The finest I have ever worked with." Nolin added.
"That is saying a lot." Nerol smiled. "They should be most impressive."
"I know you will be pleased." Nolin appeared to have full confidence in his pets. He trained dogs to fight. A hobby at first, then it became a full time career. People wanted to pay for his service, which he often declined in accepting. It was something to do after his retirement from the army.
He was a valued Commander, at the time.
"I'm letting all of you know now that I am scheduling a meeting one day after King Talbarond's arrival." Nerol announced.
That is, if the rumor of Nall's death proved to be untrue.
"I would like everyone to be prepared with your current plans and maps.¨ Ordered Nerol. ¨The morning after, we will dispatch."
Some of them nodded, and the others replied with "yes, sire."
Two light taps on the large, and only door to the Council Room, made all eyes turn to it. It bore fine, intricate carvings of flowered vines, with birds flying over them, high at the top. That door was actually older than the room itself. It was a survivor from the old castle that had been torn down to build the new, larger one. Even the newer structure itself, had been constructed over six thousand years ago.
It held many relics, inside its walls.
"Enter!" Ordered the King.
A middle-aged Dwarf entered the room hastily. His uniform was a most impressive chain mail that sparkled with polish, and faithful care. The most esteemed guard in the castle, but to the men at the table, he was just a hard-working soldier. Not that they did not notice the signature pin on his uniform.
He saluted instantly. Arm out straight, palm down, then the hand was brought back to his chest, and he bowed.
"Forgive the interruption, my King." He began, as he stood straight, feet together. Quite professional. "A small army has been sighted leaving Derimon Pass. They have not been recognized as the Bowenn army at this time, but they are all mounted."
He also knew about the one woman spotted, but he did not mention it. He had been told that it would not matter.
"I should get down there fast." Said Curic, as he began to stand. Then stopped in his tracks, when he realized he had forgotten to excuse himself. "If I may, sire."
He looked ridiculous asking then, with his knees bent, and his chair empty.
"Quickly, General." The King sent him hurrying out the door, the guard following behind. "I suppose we should all be on our way, then."
He was next to stand, and the others formed a line behind him as he exited the room. The door was closed and locked, by a guard standing in the hall outside.
Originally a gathering of visionaries, and over-zealous idealists, the Advancement had remained a secret party for the past four years, since it began. As its number of members grew, they gained power over much of the city. People began to feel like outcasts, if they did not belong to it. What started as a small gang, was now an army of hundreds. Its secrecy, though, was its strength. At least forty-percent of the city citizens belonged to the rebel party, and no one knew who they were. Only the members knew each other. They led normal lives, with families and work. One member would never give the identity of another, and a person who was not a member, had no way of knowing if his best friend was. So to prevent any trouble, or accidentally insulting someone, the people of Mynnorah did not openly discuss their feelings about the matter.
That fear, also helped with the rebels' secrecy.
"Silence!" A shout from one end of the assembly hall turned all heads in the direction of the voice. "Your Emissary is present!"
There was applause from the crowd of nearly two hundred Dwarves, as Traft Lilsyn entered the great room. His beautiful wife, Jesmane, had her arms locked around his right. He was a slender man, approaching middle age, but as handsome as a Dwarf in his prime. He kept his face shaven clean, an uncommon practice in Mynnorah, but he was not the only one. That would not be a smart idea. His bright eyes and smile, matched his green coat, with silver collar and cuffs.
Jesmane wore a blue dress that hugged her like a second skin. Her dark hair was long and straight. Her jewelry matched her husbands silver trimmings. They were far from wealthy, though. They only wore fine clothes for their meetings.
No one minded.
Traft, after all, was the Emissary of the Advancement.
In the beginning, there had been no such position held by anyone, but ideas had stacked upon each other, and someone was needed as a voice to all members. Traft had won the vote, and everyone knew he was right for it. He was not a greedy man, and did not treat the members like he was their leader.
Traft, wanted his voice heard throughout all of Mynnorah.
He could never give his speeches out in the streets, or in the park. He let notes slip into nobles' pockets, or under their front doors. They even ended up in the castle, quite commonly.
He knew his hairless face was easy to remember, but he had made eye contact with his opposers many times, and to them, he was j
ust another Dwarf in the street.
Traft stopped at the podium built against the wall nearest to the door, where his wife sat in a chair already in place for her. He stepped up to the pedestal, where he would usually set a stack of papers with scribbled notes to speak about, but today he carried nothing, and did not empty his pockets.
He looked upon the silencing crowd. They made up a third of the actual number of members. There was limited space within the secret assembly hall, so a plan was made that divided them into three equal parts, based entirely on the location of their homes. Traft had drawn a map that he had inked two lines through, making three similar sized sections out of the city. They would take turns attending meetings. There had been no protest. It was the fairest possible arrangement, and that was what the Advancement wanted, of all things.
The Emissary seemed to meet eyes with everyone, as his head slowly turned. He wore a deep frown.
A murder had been committed. Who had done it? A couple of young men, drunk enough to drown out their better judgment? He feared the result of their deeds, and he had never feared anything before in his life.
"A great step backwards has been taken." Traft began, his voice loud and strong, as well as sad. "A soldier has been killed."
Whispers broke out among the crowd.
"We are not to become a violent rebellion.¨ Traft insisted. ¨That is not what we want. It is not the way things get done!"
He pounded a fist on top of the pedestal, and the murmurs rippling through the audience came to an abrupt halt. "However, a few have chosen to build a wall before us. It is a wall far greater than that of unfairness. We are all, now, labeled as criminals."
It had happened before.
They all knew about the attacks on soldiers, and nobles. Stealing their money, weapons, and even their clothes.
No one had ever been killed before.
"I do not suppose anyone here knows who is responsible for these crimes?" Traft knew it was foolish to ask. He received no response, as expected. "A full investigation by the military is now imminent.¨
Voices began to emerge again, this time with a hint of panic in them. Some of them, had not yet heard the news.
