The Forgotten Throne

by Elliot Burns

  “That’s not all,” said Carmichael. He took a step closer. “There is a good reason Lizzie scored a near-perfect mark.”

  “From the look on your face, I take it that studying isn’t the reason?”

  Carmichael shook his head. It was remarkable how he looked no different than he did three decades ago, when father brought him in to oversee Heren’s own education. That was Tachers for you, though. Rumor had it that the High Tacher was almost a millennium old.

  “No,” said the Tacher. “The reason is this.”

  He reached into his pocket, fished around, and pulled out two keys. One was old and dented at the top. On the other, the metal gleamed. Curiously, this newer key had the same dent at the top.

  “Lizzie stole the key to my quarters and had the blacksmith make a copy. But before you punish the smith, my lord, you should know that Lizzie threatened to say that the poor man had looked at her inappropriately. He hadn’t, of course.”

  “And what then?” said Heren.

  “The girl went into my quarters, found the answers to the upcoming test, and memorized them. She used the answers on the test, taking care to get two questions wrong to avoid suspicion.”

  Heren sighed. “Is this true, Lizzie?” he said.

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  “Confine her to her quarters, father,” said Dhynan, always happy to see his sister punished.

  Carmichael looked at Heren expectantly. No doubt he would want Lizzie punished too. Heren knew that his daughter was a handful and that Carmichael’s job was tough. He had to balance this out; deal with his daughter appropriately, whilst satisfying the Tacher’s desire for discipline.

  He took two steps forward until he stood over his daughter. She looked up at him. There was no emotion in her eyes. No smile at her father. No resemblance of him in her face.

  “Might I recommend two weeks of quarter confinement, with all meals taken in there?” said Carmichael.

  Heren looked at the Tacher. He shook his head.

  “Lizzie is to be rewarded for her efforts,” he answered. “In the real world, answers aren’t there to be memorized. You must improvise to get them. She is to be congratulated for her scheming.”

  Then he stared at Dhynan, who looked incredulous at the outcome. Heren held up a hand to stop him moaning.

  “People cheat in life, lad,” he told his son. “You can either be the cheat, or the victim. Veik’s aren’t victims.”

  Carmichael looked taken aback. “But Lord-”

  Before Heren could answer, there were three loud thuds on the throne room door. Dhynan spun around to face the noise. Heren didn’t need to look; he knew the sound of those thuds by heart, and he knew who made them.

  “Go to your room, children,” he said.

  Lizzie stood up and walked across the room and toward a smaller door that led to her quarters. Dhynan started to follow her.

  Heren had always taken care to make sure his children spent little time with the man on the other side of the door. If they did, Heren’s secret would be out before he had the chance to properly explain it to them. The problem was that Lizzie was clever enough to work it out, given enough time. He knew he’d have to tell them both someday, but not until they were old enough.

  Three more thuds. Carmichael looked at Heren, and the Lord nodded. The Tacher crossed the room and opened the doors. As soon as he did, a man came hurtling through them, head first. He landed on the floor, unable to stop himself. There was a horrible cracking sound as his front teeth hit the tiles and snapped in two. The man screamed. Even Heren winced at the scene.

  Another man came striding through the doors. He was big, but not in a muscular way. He wasn’t overweight, either. He was strong enough to take on most men, but still had a decent amount of athleticism. Despite his physical advantages, he rarely used them. He preferred to scheme his way to getting what he wanted.

  The man crossed the room until he stood over the man on the floor. Looking at Heren, he gave a deep bow. Then he looked at him and smiled.

  “My favorite Lord,” he said, bowing. Heren knew there was the utmost sincerity behind the greeting. If there was ever a man he could trust, it was the one in front of him.

  “Bruce,” he said.

  Bruce Frier was the kind of man who drew the attention of all the women in the keep when he walked through it. No sooner was their attention drawn, then they would get a rebuke from their husbands or fathers, who would tell them not to stare at such a dangerous man. He had a handsome face, but he didn’t give a damn about his appearance. This showed in his greasy hair, natural curled but never styled. His eyes had an open and honest look that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Heren often thought that Bruce had the smallest lips on any man he’d ever seen. Fitting, really, since he’d trusted him with the biggest secret of his life.

  Carmichael shuffled at the edge of the room. He looked at the blood on the tiles, and his face turned white. As a Tacher, medicine was supposed to be part of his duties. The problem was that seeing blood had the potential to make Carmichael hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. As such, Heren had been forced to hire a doctor.

  It was strange, then, that the man lying on the floor with blood pouring from his teeth was the very same doctor.

  “Would Sir Frier like to explain his grand entrance?” asked Carmichael, his words strained. He’d never warmed to Bruce, and it was obvious he didn’t like how close he and Heren were.

  “Don’t get your loops in a twist,” said Bruce, his northern accent booming across the room. “I’ll talk to the Lord about this. Don’t you have some more tassels to sew on your frock?”

  The doctor groaned. Blood dripped from his lips and onto the tiles. He put his hands on the floor to try and push himself up, but Bruce stepped forward and crushed his palm under his boot.

  “Have a rest,” Bruce said, to the doctor. “You’ve had a rough day.”

  The doctor lifted his hands as if to block a blow. When none came, he let out a sigh. From his bruised eyes and bloody nose, it was obvious Bruce had been beating him. The question was – why? Doctor Goster Brown had delivered both of Heren’s children. He’d been the family doctor for years. And yet, Heren knew that Bruce wouldn’t bring him into the throne room, covered in bruises, without a damn good reason.

  He sensed that privacy was in order. Although Carmichael was his advisor, there were some things that even he shouldn’t see.

  “Can you give us the room, Carmichael?”

  The Tacher, looking peaky at the sight of blood, seemed to be glad to be asked to leave. He put his hands in his sleeve and walked out of the room, his loops jingling in time with his footsteps. When the door shut behind him, Heren turned on Bruce.

  “What the hell is going on?” he said to his henchman.

  “He was planning on making money on your name, Lord Veik,” said Bruce. He moved his foot away from the doctor’s hand.

  Heren grabbed doctor brown’s arm and helped him to his feet. The poor man was so beaten he could hardly stand. He hated seeing such an old and loyal member of staff looking so bad.

  “You better have a good reason for this charade,” he said.

  Bruce walked over to Heren and stood in front of him. Despite there only being three of them in the room, he leant in and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “He had designs on selling your secret,” he answered. “He was going to use your children to line his purse.”

  The words hit Heren in the gut. He didn’t want to think Brown was capable of betraying him, yet he knew that gold turned even the stiffest necks. The fact was, Heren’s secret was his Achilles heel. No, not just that. More than an Achilles heel. It was something that could destroy his whole lordship.

  “And what do you have to say about this, doctor?”

  The doctor, with great effort, lifted his arm and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. It left a red smear down his coat.

  “I have 5 children, lord,” he ans
wered. “And a doctor’s life is short. Every day I’m treating people for their ailments, and some are infectious. I take precautions, but you never know when you’re going to pick up something deadly. I won’t lie to you, Lord. I was planning for the future. But not mine – my children’s.”

  This didn’t seem right. “There’s more to this,” said Heren.

  He looked at the doctor. When you saw someone you knew, it was easy to just glance at them. After all, you already know their face, their build. You didn’t see them anymore, not really. You just saw your minds image of them. For the first time in a while, Heren really looked at the doctor. He cast his gaze over his skin and saw how, in the parts that weren’t bruised purple, his pores looked old. Clogged. Slightly yellow. There was something wrong with this man.

  “You’re dying, aren’t you?” he said.

  The doctor nodded.

  Heren sighed. He needed to think of what to do here. Disloyalty couldn’t go unpunished. Yet, he’d known Brown for years. And if he could empathize with anything, it was with the desire to safeguard your children’s futures. This was a man – panic stricken and dying – who was trying to protect his family. Normally, Heren would have a traitor murdered. He couldn’t do it this time.

  “Take him to the dungeon. The best cell we have. Have him bathed and fed. Let his wife and children see him – just once.” Then, he turned to the doctor. “You won’t see daylight for the rest of your life, but I won’t swing the blade, either. You will live your final days without violence, doctor, but I can’t afford to let you sell my secret.”

  The doctor nodded. “Thank you,” he said, almost gasping. He looked ready to fall on the floor.

  Bruce gritted his teeth. He shot the doctor a disgusted look. Without warning, he shoved him to the ground. The doctor put his hand out, then let out a yelp of pain.

  Heren almost lost his head. What did Bruce think he was doing? He kept his calm, remained lordly.

  “You’re overstepping your mark,” he growled.

  “He’s a Mendel,” said Bruce. “A damn Mendel.”

  Ah. That changed everything. The Mendels had the ability to cast their thoughts out into the air, where other Mendels could receive them. This meant that even being in a dungeon wouldn’t stop Brown from telling Heren’s secret.

  If Heren’s father knew that a Mendel had been the families doctor for decades, he would be turning in his coffin. Lord Lucso Veik had dedicated the glory years of his life to the systematic slaughter of Mendels. It was that campaign which earned him the promotion from Lord to Kral, the highest title in Royaume. Unfortunately, the Kral title did not pass from father to son. Rather, you could only become the Kral of a region if the Kral council voted you in.

  “You’re sure about this? How has he hidden it for so long?” asked Heren.

  “He’s a devious man. And careful, usually. A merchant passing by his house heard him talking to his son about keeping it a secret. Mendels usually pass down their powers to their children.”

  Heren rubbed his head. Violence was a part of life. A means to an end. That didn’t mean he liked it. “You’ve put me in a difficult situation, doctor.”

  “What would you have me do with him?” said Bruce.

  Heren sighed. Suddenly, his chest felt heavy. His throne was behind him, but he never liked sitting in it. Instead, he lowered himself on the floor, so that he was next to the doctor.

  “You know you have to die, don’t you?” he said.

  The doctor looked away, as if facing a different direction would hide him from the words.

  Heren carried on. “Violence is the only way, sometimes. And if people were to find out that Lizzie and Dhynan aren’t my blood children, but Bruce’s, it would be the end.”

  The doctor looked at him. He seemed to be making an effort to look strong. As though he didn’t want to leave his life as a coward. “This is your own fault, Heren,” he spat. “If you could perform like most men…there wouldn’t be a secret to sell.”

  Anger flashed in Heren’s eyes. He stood up. “Get him out of my sight,” he said.

  With that, he looked at Bruce, and he knew the order would be followed swiftly and with no mistakes. Bruce was loyal to a fault, and since helping Heren with his…problem…the two men had become close. A gulf of authority still existed between them, but he was as close to a friend as Heren had.

  Bruce grabbed Doctor Brown by the collar. In one heave, he dragged him to his feet.

  “One more thing,” said Bruce, staring Heren in the eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “Lord Halberd is back.”

  Heren lost his train of thought. Any kind of sensible dialogue escaped him for a few seconds. Lord Halberd, back? It wasn’t possible. It was way too soon for that.

  “It has only been twelve years,” he said. “The cycle cannot have started so soon.”

  “It came from the most reliable intelligence. He’s back, that is for sure,” answered Bruce.

  A thought occurred to Heren. One that chilled his spine. “And if Halberd is back, does that mean that He is also returned?”

  Bruce nodded.

  Heren took a deep breath. Few things worried him. Not really. Most crises could be resolved by persuasion or force, and he had the means and resources for both. This news, however, could be resolved by neither. He needed to be decisive now.

  “We must take Halberd’s lands while he is weak,” said Heren. “We need to show we are stronger than him. And then the council will have no choice but to make me Kral. Come here this evening, and we’ll make a plan. And get the doctor out of here. The blood is making me sick.”

  As Bruce dragged the doctor out of the throne room, Heren turned to his throne. Reluctantly, he climbed the steps and sat on the chair. His days of avoiding the throne were over for the time being. From now on, it would be his station. As he surveyed the room and saw the crimson-stained tiles, the smell of blood seemed to grow in pungency. Heren pulled a lavender pouch from his pocket and pressed it against his nose.

  Halberd had to be stopped. Swiftly, and before he could gain allies. Most important of all, before he could regain his powers.

  Chapter Seven

  One man’s castle…

  It was getting too hot, and he needed air. He moved away from the glowing stone and left the room. The spiral staircase felt stuffy, and he needed to get to the top of it. He ran up the steps, pushing by the old man who squeezed against a wall.

  “What’s the hurry? What’s down there?” said the old man. “Did you find anything good? We can cut a deal.”

  Jack didn’t have time to wonder how he could suddenly understand the man. Instead, he followed the twists of the staircase until he saw light at the top. Thankfully, a rush of chilly air hit him. He reached the last step and then, readying himself for whatever waited in the room, he left the stairs.

  He’d expected to see more of the creatures waiting for him, but there were none. The room wasn’t empty, though. Instead, there was a woman stood in the centre. The corpses of a dozen monsters were around her.

  Next to her, rubbing its head up and down her waist affectionately, was an animal. At first glance, it looked fearsome; bigger than a St. Bernard dog, with a long neck, a pointed face, and two tentacle-like antennae floating from its head.

  The woman was tall. Her frame reminded him of a praying mantis; long, gangly limbs, a thin waist. She was certainly deadly; she didn’t have any weapons in her hands, yet she’d taken out dozens of the monsters. Certain aspects of the woman reminded him of Sarah; her rust-colored hair, face so pale she could have passed for a vampire. Unlike Sarah, this woman had milky blue eyes, and an expression so stern that Jack wondered if he’d done something wrong, despite only just meeting her.

  The strangest thing wasn’t her appearance, but the fact that her name floated above her head.

  Elena A Gaard IV – Tacher level 45

  And next to her, was her pet with his name.

  Blunt Fang

&n
bsp; When she saw Jack, she snapped her gaze in his direction. Next to her, Blunt Fang looked tense, as though he could leap at him at any moment. Jack heard footsteps behind him. Something told him that the old man was going to blunder out and cause trouble.

  As the steps became louder, he heard the old man muttering to himself. “These bloody castles with their secret doors and their hallways…”

  The man reached the opening and stepped into the room. He fixed his gaze on Jack and was going to say something, when he noticed Elena. His face changed. He had a look of recognition, but it wasn’t a sweet meeting. He and Elena A Gaard IV knew each other, that much was obvious.

  “You…,” they both said in unison.

  Elena looked at Jack. “Lord Halberd,” she said. “You must ready a cell in the dungeon for this man.”

  “Why? And how do you know my name?” he said. Then another question occurred to him. “And where’s the dungeon?”

  “He’s a thief,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guessed that already. Can you tell me where I am?”

  “I’m not a bloody thief,” said the man. “I’m a Loot Pilfer Artist.”

  Elena looked at Jack strangely, as if she was checking to see if he’d banged his head and lost his senses. “This is your castle, Lord.”

  “Bloody hell, you’re Lord Halberd?” said the old man. “I should have known, the way you opened that door. You could have said something, you know. I would have stopped trying to steal. I’m only here because I thought there was no bugger in the place.”

  Jack looked at the old man. He too had a name floating above his head.

  Mav Coyne – Explorer Level 65

  This was all too strange. Even if he could get his head around that fact that people’s names now appeared above their heads, what was with the titles and levels? He knew enough about RPGs to understand what they meant, but how was this happening? Was he going crazy? Was he in a coma? Had he tried on some kind of experimental virtual reality headset and become lost in a game?