King of Bryanae

by Jeffrey Getzin

  She was sopping wet and freezing when the knock on the door came. Her drenched blonde hair half-blinded her as she grabbed first for her rapier and only then for her towel.

  “Go away!” she shouted. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, coughing when she accidentally swallowed some of the dirty runoff.

  The next knock was heavier, more insistent. Willow dropped her towel and drew her rapier from its sheath.

  “I said, go away!”

  The knocking ceased. Willow was about to re-sheath her rapier when the door exploded into the room.

  She ran toward the disturbance, her jaw clenched in fury. Depending on how many of them there were, she might just take her time with this lot. Make them pay for the impertinence of attacking her in her own office.

  She rounded on the doorway, preparing to repel an army.

  Instead, hulking before her was the Chancellor, his dark eyebrows furrowed with rage. His face was that dark red that manifested when he was furious. His hands were balled into monolithic fists.

  Willow lowered her weapon, jumped to attention, and saluted, eyes forward.

  The Chancellor seemed not to notice that she was nude. His eyes darted everywhere in the room. Snorts of air puffed from his nostrils.

  “Get the hell out of my way,” he growled.

  She took two steps back but remained at full attention.

  “My apologies, sir,” she said. “I was not expecting you today.”

  In fact, now that she thought of it, he had never come to her office. Ordinarily, she was summoned to his.

  Interesting.

  She kept her face impassive. She had almost two centuries of practice in doing precisely that. “Discipline” was more than just a word; it was her way of life.

  It did not surprise her that he paid no attention to her nudity. The Chancellor had never shown any interest in women, nor in men for that matter. The only things that attracted him were wealth and power.

  What was surprising, however, was this uncharacteristic rage. Ordinarily, the Chancellor’s demeanor was much like her own: patient, glacial … indifferent. He often appeared lost in thought—some might uncharitably call it “scheming.”

  But this … this was new. Interesting.

  Since his mysterious arrival two years ago, the unknown Giandro had risen from being completely unknown to the second-most powerful position in the Kingdom, second only to Queen Tiranda herself. Willow had yet to figure out how he had achieved this—politics were not her strong suit—but surely he owed someone a favor or two for the previous chancellor’s surprise resignation. As far as she was able to determine, there was nobody fitting his description named “Giandro” within a week’s ride in any direction.

  Regardless, her allegiance was to the office, not the man.

  The Chancellor charged about her office like a caged beast. When he found his path obstructed by her desk chair, he kicked it into firewood against the wall. Evidently, that wasn’t enough, because he kicked one of the pieces that still looked furniture-like through the Szun-manufactured glass window, shattering it.

  “Something the matter, sir?” she said, her voice droll.

  The Chancellor rounded on her, and drew his beloved battle-axe from beneath his cloak. It was notched from many years of hard use, and was stained with blood. Right now, the battle-axe looked like a regular chopping axe in the Chancellor’s massive grip.

  Willow didn’t flinch, but she did measure the distances, mentally selecting which organs she’d destroy first should he take one step toward her with that axe.

  He controlled himself with visible effort. The axe returned to its place beneath his cloak, but the Chancellor’s face remained dark red.

  “He’s back!” the Chancellor said.

  “He, sir?”

  “The King, Willow. The King! He’s been seen north of Venucha, and is heading this way!”

  “What?” For a moment, her control slipped; she was sure she’d let her shock and astonishment show on her face.

  The King had returned?

  King Eric the Strong had been missing for three years. The cognoscenti of Bryanae had long-since presumed him dead. No one knew how he had left the Castle, let alone the entire kingdom, without being seen. Indeed, Willow took his departure as a personal affront; technically, it had been her duty to keep the King safe at all times, and her duty also to use her ring of spies to know what transpired everywhere at all times. That he had escaped and she didn’t know precisely where he had gone … Given the Queen’s intense dislike of her, it was miraculous that Willow had not been demoted or even evicted from the Guard altogether!

  Willow watched the Chancellor as he bounded about her office, looking for something else to destroy. Then his eyes lit on her darkwood desk. He heaved the entire desk off the floor. Items rained onto the floor, including an inkwell, which spilled all over everything, including her ruined clothing.

  His enormous biceps bulged as he lifted the desk over his head and hurled it through the broken window. It crashed outside.

  “Please stop destroying my office,” she said, a note of menace lacing her voice. “Sir.”

  He spun around, his eyes gleaming, caught up in his own fury. His massive chest heaved and for a crazy moment, Willow thought his shirt might rip. He shook his head angrily as though saying, no more or not this time.

  “I want you to find him, Willow,” he said, pointing his granite-like finger at her. “I want you to find the King and bring him to me!”

  Chapter 5

  Now wearing a clean uniform, Willow was packing her travel gear with her normal speedy efficiency. She wouldn’t need much: food, a spare uniform, and a kit for cleaning and oiling her weapons.

  “You must find him before anybody else does,” the Chancellor said as he paced the floor of Willow's office. He was thinking as he talked, gesturing with his hands in jerking motions. The red in his face had vanished. The cold calculating Chancellor she knew so well had returned. “And if he looks any … different, I want him brought to a secret and secure location.”

  She paused and looked up. “Different in what way, sir?”

  “Just different,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing. Then he added mysteriously, “You’ll know what I mean.”

  She would have liked to press him on this point, but she knew from experience that this would be futile. He liked to keep secrets. Many people found his typical emotionless behavior and terseness intimidating. Willow merely accepted it as fact, and tried her best to work with what she had.

  Willow nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  This was, of course, an unusual assignment. Find the King before anybody else did and bring him to a remote location? It sounded nefarious at best.

  But she was too disciplined to pry. The Chancellor had given her her orders and she would follow them, just as she had obeyed all the other orders of all her other commanders for the two centuries she had served in the Guard.

  Willow was more than a little interested in finding the King. His mysterious disappearance three years ago had shaken the kingdom to its foundations. Nearly everybody at Court seized on his absence as an opportunity for political maneuvering. Succession battles were waged, with most people insisting the King either was dead or had abdicated. Only the Queen insisted he was still alive, demanding that she be shown a body before she would be convinced otherwise.

  His disappearance had also been a blow to Willow’s professional pride. Her men had been stationed throughout the Castle as normal, yet His Majesty had disappeared without a trace.

  The entire Guard had been mobilized but could find no trace of the King. In addition, Willow had done her own investigation but had turned up nothing, as well. She had her theories, of course, but without evidence …

  “I want you to start at Venucha,” the Chancellor said. “See if anybody recognizes his likeness.”

  Venucha was a tiny backwater town about three days south of Bryanae. It was a farming community, and as far as Willow knew, had n
othing to distinguish it from the dozens of similar towns up and down the seaboard.

  “Sir, that might not be the best app—”

  The Chancellor glared at her.

  “I want you to start at Venucha,” he said, enunciating each syllable, his dark eyebrows forming an ominous arrowhead pointing at his broad nose. “If you don’t find any leads there, you will head south to a village called Cerendahl.”

  Cerendahl was another small town of little note. It probably served as a way station between larger towns, such as Belefort and Milltown.

  “Is there a deadline?” Willow said. “Or should I continue searching until I find him, sir?”

  The Chancellor glanced up. He seemed to be performing some kind of mental arithmetic. He clenched his hand into a fist, released it, and repeated the gesture.

  “A week at most,” he said at last. “If you don’t find him, return to Bryanae and search for him here … with trusted members of the Guard. I want speed, Willow. I want discretion. And I want this done without any fuck-ups.” Was this an accusation about her losing the King in the first place? The Chancellor hadn’t even been in Bryanae then. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She shouldered her bag.

  “And I want you to take the boy with you,” the Chancellor added.

  That one caught her off-guard. If he had told her she had to wear a jester’s garb on this mission, she would have been less surprised.

  “But sir—!”

  The Chancellor shook his head, this time more in resignation than anger.

  “I know, I know,” he said, his shoulders sagging, and his voice unusually restrained. “Marcus is dumber than a headless chicken, but I promised certain … parties that I’d fast-track him in the Guard, and this is one promise I mustn’t break.”

  Willow kept her face a mask, but inwardly, she was trying to piece this one together. Of course, the Chancellor owed favors. There was no other way to explain his astonishing rise to power. But to have a patron who also had an interest in Marcus?

  The Chancellor seemed to realize he was being too forthcoming. His voice hardened. “You will take Marcus with you. You will keep him safe, and if at all possible, you will cram enough about soldiering into that thick skull of his so I can make him an officer as soon as possible. Is that clear?”

  Someone with a lot of clout had clearly taken an active interest in Marcus's career. The boy had barely completed basic training and already the Chancellor wanted Marcus considered as an officer candidate? It had taken her years just to convince the Guard to permit her to enlist.

  It wasn’t the unfairness of it all that was giving her pause. The boy truly was an idiot; he would jeopardize the mission, or at least slow her down. If this mission was so damn important to the Chancellor, why saddle her with the dumbest, least competent member of the Guard?

  Nevertheless, she had her duty. The Chancellor had commanded; therefore, she would obey.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Chapter 6

  Willow heard the taunting laughter as she approached the barracks. The boy: it had to be the boy. She strode quickly down the hall dividing the building, determined to nip this little fiasco in the bud. The first two squad rooms were in order. Correctly dressed soldiers snapped to attention as she passed through.

  The soldiers of Squad Three, however, were crowded around a moving figure. They pointed with shouts and laughter at a trapped form moving erratically in jerks and stumbles. Had they gotten the fool boy drunk again? If so, there’d be hell to pay.

  She waited, wanting the terror of being caught in the act to provide a memorable lesson. At last, one of the privates on the fringe noticed her and, face white as salt, called the squad to attention. They scrambled to line up before their bunks. Within seconds, the room was still … except for the solitary figure at the room’s center.

  Now that Willow could get a good look, she saw that Marcus was trapped; his head was fully inside his shirt so he couldn't see. Someone had tied his cuffs to his shirttail. He looked like a theatrical ghost trying to swing a sledgehammer.

  “It’s not funny!” Marcus cried, voice muffled by his shirt. He spun in circles, as though somehow that would free him. As he pivoted, Willow caught a glimpse of his pale white belly. Someone had written the word “Imbecile” on it in dark ink. “Come on, chaps! Let me out, please?”

  Willow felt a cold rage billow inside her. She had expressly ordered the squad to cease tormenting Marcus, but they had blatantly disobeyed her orders.

  She drew her rapier. It slid from its sheath like a viper emerging from its nest. The soldiers quailed, save for Marcus, of course, who was still writhing across the floor, bumping into one bunk after another.

  She approached each soldier, one at a time. Each was visibly terrified, and justly so. She held each man’s gaze, letting him see her fury. As Captain of the Guard, she had nearly unlimited discretion with regard to the soldiers. She could punish them in any way she felt appropriate, including throwing them out of the Guard or even challenging them as individuals to duels.

  When she had completed the circuit, she stopped a few feet from Marcus. When she spoke, her voice was laced with venom.

  “I seem to recall giving explicit orders with regard to the treatment of Private Marcus here,” she said, the tip of her rapier swaying with apparent carelessness in her grip. The soldiers were eyes forward, yet she knew the rapier commanded their attentions. “Is that not so?”

  “YES, MA’AM!” they shouted. By now, even Marcus had figured out that an officer was in the room and had stopped spinning. He stood as erect as he could, given his constraints.

  “So,” she said, her voice level. “Who did this to him?”

  When nobody answered, she shouted: “I said, who did this to him?”

  She walked past the lined-up row of stone soldiers. They were eyes-forward, their faces white with fear. The room was as silent as a spider web.

  Cowards.

  She spun, and her rapier whistled through the air twice, first slicing the inch-and-a-half of fabric that bound Marcus’s hands, and then the cloth that bound them to his shirttail.

  The unexpected freedom of his limbs caused the boy to lose his balance and fall to the floor, but he clambered back up and stood at attention. When he saluted, his tattered sleeve fell off his arm.

  “Private Marcus, would you be kind enough to point to your bunk?”

  Marcus looked at her in confusion. “Ma’am?”

  Willow ground her teeth. “Your bed. Which one is your bed?”

  At last, he understood, and pointed to a pair of bunk beds. It stood a little taller than Willow and was constructed out of solid iron.

  “Very well,” Willow said. “Since no one was brave enough to step forward, the entire squad will pay the price. When I leave the room, you men will gather around Private Marcus’s bunk and you will lift it off the floor. You will then proceed to remove said piece of furniture from the building, and you will carry it around the perimeter of the barracks. You are to do this until cock’s crow tomorrow morning.”

  She took grim pleasure in their horrified expressions as the enormity of their task began to sink in.

  “When I return, I will make inquiries. If I learn that any soldier took it easy, or that the bunk was allowed to rest upon the ground at any time, well …”

  She caught a corner of a blanket with the tip of her rapier and flung it into the air. Her blade whistled through the air, and the blanket fell to the floor in three cleanly cut pieces.

  “Have I made myself clear?” she said, her voice calm and her face a mask of discipline.

  “YES, MA’AM!” they shouted, but she heard some quavers. Good. She intended this to be educational.

  “Excellent. Now, Marcus, come with me. The rest of you, get to work.”

  Chapter 7

  Willow had seen countless soldiers come and go during her countless years of service in the King’s Guard. None had ever been so
pathetic a sight as Private Marcus.

  The boy was pale as a bleached shirt and scrawny enough that, walking down the central hall leading through the barracks, he looked like he was playing dress-up in his father’s uniform. His rapier’s frog was too far back on his belt, so he tripped over the weapon constantly as he followed Willow to an available private room.

  And his boots were on the wrong feet.

  She heard grunts and swearing from the bunkroom as Squad Three set to its punishment. Willow hoped they would remember this the next time anybody considered disobeying an order from her. They had been lucky this time; Willow was in a hurry and didn’t have the time to mete out discipline as per her usual standards.

  “So,” Marcus said as soon as he closed the door behind them, “you needed to speak with me, eh?”

  His voice was a dizzying combination of upper class vanity, puppy-like innocence, and toad-like stupidity.

  Willow sighed. This child was worse than incompetent. He seemed completely unaware that he was in the military.

  “Attention,” she commanded.

  Marcus leaned in, tilting his head to listen closer.

  Willow ground her teeth. Of course. He was “paying attention.” Naturally.

  “You are to come to attention in the presence of an officer,” she said.

  Marcus blinked twice and smiled hesitantly, like a recently scolded puppy.

  “ATTENTION!” she shouted into his ear.

  At last, the idiot leapt to attention. His rapier fell from its sheath and clattered to the floor. He stooped for it, reconsidered, and came back to attention.

  This boy was a simpleton. It would be impossible to travel with him. But orders were orders …

  “At ease,” she said.

  Marcus didn’t move.

  “I said, at ease.”

  Marcus’s eyes shifted nervously. “But … you just said to come to attention.”

  “Yes,” Willow said. “I know. Now I am telling you to stand at ease, and you will obey. If later I tell you to sit on that rapier, you will do that as well.”