by P J Berman
For a moment Jostan stood next to his horse, which itself was grandly dressed in cloth showing the Bennvikan flag, like the mounted Divisiomen. He began to walk over to the large group of Congressors who had gathered on the steps of the Congressate Hall, still wearing their dark blue robes. As he did, a large and comfortable looking litter, decorated in the blue and gold of the House of Vaaltanen, drew alongside him. Accutina pushed the curtains aside to look up at him.
‘Tell me again, your Majesty,’ she grumbled resentfully, quietly enough for those around not to hear. ‘Why must I join you on this campaign? The physician advised against it.’
Jostan laughed, causing a further grimace from Accutina.
‘My dear, this is a large and slow-moving army. It will take us at least a month to reach the Hentani’s territory. If we leave you here, then once we have reached our foes, defeated any remaining pockets of resistance and returned north, you will more than likely have given birth. When our son enters this world it must be to the grandest of receptions, as befits a future King of Bennvika. Think how ecstatic this city will be when it celebrates the birth of our son, then celebrates our triumph, our marriage to you, our coronation and yours, all within a matter of weeks of each other. Nothing wins over the common people like grandeur and a royal birth. I trust that you have made arrangements with regards to the Amulet too?’
Accutina’s answer was to give him a sneering look and quiet ‘humpf’ that was audible only to Jostan, she closed the curtain again. Silly girl. What could she do? He was the King and she was not yet even his wife. He turned his attention to the Congressors standing a short distance away by the steps of the Congressate Hall and he moved to address more pressing matters.
‘What are the final figures then Dongrath?’ he said briskly to the Congressor who had heckled him so ineffectually in his opening speech.
‘Along with your own Lance Guardsmen, your Majesty, our recruiters have managed to raise eight thousand men from Kriganheim alone, comprising of all forms of unit. Swordsmen, spearmen, heavy cavalry, light cavalry, lancers, longbowmen, crossbowmen – they’re all at your disposal, as are the ten thousand Divisiomen who are stationed here, your Majesty,’ Dongrath replied, looking very pleased with himself, remembering to refer to Jostan using the eastern term to deference, as Jostan preferred.
‘Good. Very good. And what of the other provinces?’
‘Asrantica, Hertasala and Ustenna have each more than surpassed your required quota of raising two thousand militia. From the Divisios of those three provinces, four thousand troops from each will join the army, leaving a further thousand in each province to man the garrisons there. Lord Oprion Aethelgard will stay in the north with all five thousand of his Divisiomen, as you ordered and will garrison Hazgorata and Kriganheim. Lord Aethelgard has also raised a militia to assist with the garrisoning of his own city and fifty of your Lance Guardsmen have been detailed to assist the Hazgoratan Divisios here. In total that takes the army to approaching forty thousand troops, which will surely rise to somewhere near fifty thousand once our Defroni allies are added into the equation. However, there is one concern…’
Jostan nodded.
‘Go on.’
Dongrath looked uncomfortable, clearly choosing his words carefully.
‘We have yet to receive any figures from Lord Yathrud Alyredd. I’m sure the messenger has just been delayed somewhere. It is a long road to Bastalf,’ he chuckled awkwardly.
Jostan was unimpressed.
‘Perhaps,’ he said coldly, not sure whether or not to believe him or not. ‘But if the messenger from the Defroni arrives with their official figures before the one from Bastalf does, then old Lord Yathrud will have some explaining to do.’
‘We have had no such issues elsewhere though, your Majesty,’ Dongrath put in, clearly eager to move things back to a more positive note. ‘The army of Asrantica under Lord Feddilyn Rintta will be ready to meet with you at Faen Tira and the armies of Hertasala and Ustenna, under Lord Lektik Haganwold and Lord Aeoflynn Tanskeld, will rendezvous with your forces just north of Celrun.’
‘Good. Now, what’s that?’ Jostan indicated the baggage of parchment and a wooden board held by one of the nearby servants. Congressor Hoban Salanath stepped forward from the crowd and addressed the King.
‘These are the new law suggestions put forward after the public assembly earlier this week.’
Jostan beckoned for the parchment to be shown to him and the servant handed them to Hoban, before quickly bending down on one knee with his right side facing Jostan, his head bowed and his back straightened as much as possible. He then put the wooden board on his back. The board featured short lengths of rope at each end, one attaching the top right corner to the bottom right and the same on the left. He put his arms through these to steady the board for writing.
Hoban handed the first piece of parchment to Jostan, giving a brief introduction, before Jostan signed it, feeling little interest. Most of these turned out to be fairly trivial and Jostan had signed his name many times before, finally, he reached the parchment that, judging by the title Hoban verbalised, outlined suggested land reforms.
Hoban again began to summarise the contents of the document. The moment he mentioned the phrase ‘common land to be returned to the common people’ Jostan snatched the parchment out of his hand and read the rest of it himself, his eyes almost bulging out of his skull and teeth gritted so tightly he felt like he might crush them under the pressure of his own jaws.
‘This insolent pig dares to question his betters?’
‘Your Majesty,’ Hoban began, attempting diplomacy. ‘My sources tell me that the vote in favour of this law was unanimous. You need the support of the people-’
‘-Do not presume to tell us what we should and shouldn’t do, Congressor Salanath. We don’t take kindly to instructions. We require the support of the Lords. The common people must then follow their example and accept us as their anointed King. To do otherwise would be insubordination in the extreme and simply to accept that would weaken the position of the nobility in every area. If we give them what they want, they’ll get a taste for it and will want more and more and more.’
Dongrath and the other Congressors, with the exception of Hoban, had subconsciously taken a step back under this unexpected onslaught from Jostan.
‘What is the name of the person who put this forward?’
‘It was Zethun Maysith, your Majesty, the new Demokroi for the district of Siggatt.’
‘Well then, this is what we think of Zethun Maysith’s proposals.’
Jostan held the parchment above his head and deftly ripped it in two, letting the two halves drop to the floor. He strode away quickly as he had no intention of spending any more time around people too cowardly to join the campaign or to stand up to the common people and keep the natural order.
And with the ripping of a single piece of parchment, I fear the King’s relationship with his people may be permanently broken also, Hoban thought as he angrily watched Jostan march away. With one slick movement, Jostan was astride his horse and the drummer boys that were dotted along the busy streets with the King’s soldiers began to strike out a march as the royal party moved forward.
Chapter 8
BASTALF, BENNVIKA
A few miles to the southwest of Rildayorda, the main column of Hentani warriors under Prince Kivojo was approaching its destination. Following the two thousand strong military force was the baggage train, populated by what must have been at least a further thousand camp followers. Some walked, while others rode in the back of carts. Many were slaves, but some were soothsayers, cooks, or men and women selling their bodies, while others were the husbands, wives and children of the warriors themselves. Some had travelled all the way from Intei, while others had joined the column closer to Lithrofed.
In the back of one open-topped yet highly claustrophobic cart crammed full of slaves and peasants from the latter of those two cities, were two young women, Ezrina and Je
zna. They were dancers by profession and both wore light brown, figure-hugging dresses, decorated with birds’ feathers in various shades of red, white and grey. More feathers dangled from around their bracelets, necklaces and anklets. The thin dresses extended down to a knee-length skirt and their bare arms and legs were decorated with patterns of red ochre.
At twenty-one years of age, Ezrina was the older of the two, with dark hair, tanned skin, a rounded face, big eyes and the buxom figure that was typical of the women of her race.
Jezna was three years Ezrina’s junior and was similar in hair colour and complexion but had small eyes with high cheekbones and also had the slimmer figure of the two, giving her a different kind of beauty. More significantly, it gave her the look of a Bennvikan; her costume aside. Her parentage had often been questioned, though her mother had always refused to speak of it. After all, she had been born during the years of King Lissoll’s conquest of the Hentani Kingdom, when he finished what his evil father had started.
‘I wonder what it’s going to be like in Rildayorda?’ Jezna speculated.
‘I think what you should be wondering is what the people will be like, sister,’ Ezrina replied, making sure to use the word sister. It was something she’d long been used to saying by now.
‘Yes, I’m sure they will give us a great welcome,’ said Jezna with a vacant expression and letting her imagination run wild. ‘Think of all the delicious food we can buy there and all the great buildings we’ll see. We’ll finally get to go to the Great Temple of Bertakaevey.’
Ezrina’s face contorted with disgust.
‘Jezna, I’ve told you time and again, the ‘Great Temple of Bertakaevey’ is a farce. Building that was all part of their plan to pacify us and make us doubt our own religious beliefs.’
‘I know. You’ve told me before. But how do you know what they’re telling us is wrong?’ Jezna asked, fiddling with her necklace.
‘Because it is written in the scriptures. The righteous shall not call on me by any name but one, Bertakaevey, for all those who use another are sinners, fools and imposters. Anyway, you mustn’t trust the Bennvikans, rebellion or no rebellion. They’re our oppressors and it wasn’t long ago that they were rampaging through our land, burning our villages, killing and raping our people and taking them as slaves, led by the very man who now offers us friendship. The only reason I agreed to come is that deposing their new King is the best chance for our people to regain their independence. You know this. If it wasn’t for them, your mother would still be alive and we’d still have your family’s farm to live on.’
‘Yes,’ Jezna conceded dispassionately. Then she turned to Ezrina, as if suddenly thinking of something.
‘But also if it wasn’t for them I’d never have been born at all and I don’t see how they oppress you and me any more than our own people do,’ she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, looking Ezrina in the eye and taking her hand, causing Ezrina to look around the cart nervously.
‘Even they oppress us just for being who we are,’ whispered Jezna.
‘Sssh,’ said Ezrina quietly. ‘Not here.’
‘But it’s true. Anyway, the Bennvikans haven’t attacked our villages since I was a baby and those ones were fighting for their King. These Bennvikans have risen up against their King.’
‘And what difference does that make?’ Ezrina sneered. ‘Don’t you ever listen to yourself?’
‘What?’ Jezna asked, visibly hurt. Ezrina relented.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sighed. ‘But I just don’t think you should believe that the Bennvikans we will be joining will be any different from the others. They’re all heretics and they will tell you that Lomatteva and Bertakaevey are the same Goddess. But they may be temporarily grateful for our people’s help if they win and we have to take advantage of that. That’s why we are here, doing Bertakaevey’s work for the benefit of our kin.’
‘I know. You don’t have to tell me again.’
‘It’s true. We are Bertakaevey’s chosen people and one day her chosen daughter will rise from the ashes of our civilisation to smite down our enemies.’
‘Well, maybe if you pray hard enough we’ll get there and find that they’ve all converted to our religion already.’
Ezrina knew that wasn’t a joke. It was the sort of thing Jezna would say just to end a conversation she had grown bored with. Ezrina simply looked at her in disbelief. Jezna just couldn’t see that not a single Bennvikan should be trusted. She was far too naïve. Sometimes she was envious of Jezna’s highly simplified view of the world. Ignorance could be bliss, she mused silently, but it was something that was bound to get Jezna into trouble sooner or later, as it already had in the past. That was the price of having a good heart in this harsh world, but then it was her implicit goodness that had made Ezrina fall in love with Jezna in the first place. It pained her so intensely that they still had to pretend to be sisters when around others. Ezrina looked at Jezna and felt a pang of guilt at the way she’d spoken. She ached to kiss her, but knew she could not. Not publicly anyway.
‘Sorry,’ was all she could say. Jezna smiled at her warmly; her eyes filled with the endless powers of forgiveness she always seemed to find within her heart and she put an arm around Ezrina’s shoulders.
Yet it was with much regret that Ezrina knew the truth of her own statements. She could see that this was just one group of Bennvikans against another and the Hentani leaders had simply backed the side they thought would give them the most favourable outcome if they were victorious.
Hojorak, the Chief of the Hentani had sent word to all the tribal villages that Lord Yathrud had promised the tribe independence from Bennvika if he defeated King Jostan and the discontent that had spread among the people of the Hentani in recent months had only helped with this. Ezrina found Lord Yathrud’s promises hard to believe, given that he had been one of the figureheads of the Bennvikan invasion, but now all those around her were dewy-eyed with ideas of regaining their liberty as they flocked to Yathrud’s banner and so she’d gone too. As far as she could see, it was the only way she could fight for the rights of those who had stayed at home to tend the farms and bring up their families. But then again, if it all went wrong, King Jostan surely would not forget it and that could spell doom for the entire tribe.
KRIGANHEIM, BENNVIKA
With Jostan’s army having left Kriganheim, Zethun was to attend a public conference at which the results of the proposed laws would be announced. These were commonplace enough and usually went on without much controversy. Yet Zethun was so incensed by the response he had received from the King that he vowed to himself that this would not be the case today.
The day had already started intriguingly. Earlier that morning he had gone to meet Hoban who, strangely, had arranged to meet him at the local magistrate’s clerk’s office. He soon saw why. Hoban had wanted to introduce Zethun to two of his associates. The first was a man named Naivard. The office was his and it became apparent that he and Hoban had harboured a friendship for some years. It seemed he had often served Hoban to give him legal advice in certain matters. What was also noticeable was the lack of surprise shown by Naivard when Zethun told him what Jostan’s response had been. Clearly this man was not the King’s most passionate supporter. This had been proven when Naivard said that the oppression of the poor that was now publicly sanctioned by Jostan had resulted in some members of his extended family losing their home and, worst of all, his teenage niece being kidnapped.
The other man whom Hoban had introduced Zethun to had been someone quite different altogether. From the moment he laid eyes on him, Zethun knew that Braldor was the muscle behind the politics. Tall and well-built with a bald head but a long bushy beard, he was Hoban’s bodyguard and for the foreseeable future, he would be the same to Zethun, especially on days like this.
Now standing on the stage at the public assembly, Zethun could see Hoban and Naivard in the crowd. Braldor stood with the militia guardsmen of Kriganheim’s overstretched garris
on, who were there in just about sufficient numbers to control the mob. Hoban and Naivard stood further back. With the speaker and the nine other Demokroi waiting patiently for him to begin, Zethun opened his address. It was unusual to ask to speak before the daily business was finished, but his wish had been granted.
‘Good people of Kriganheim,’ he began in a low, firm tone, breaking the deathly silence. ‘It is with great shame and astonishment that I reveal to you news of a deliberate and dastardly attack on the rights of the common people of this nation. When presented with the proposed land reforms designed to give the common land back to the common people, our new King rejected them.’
‘No,’ came the response from many members of the crowd.
‘Furthermore,’ Zethun continued, adding extra strength and passion to his voice. ‘I have it on good authority that not only did he reject the proposal, but he personally took the parchment on which it was written and ripped it in half.’
‘No,’ the audience cried, much louder this time, bellowing their anger.
He raised a hand to quieten the crowd again, though this took a few moments.
‘Rest assured, good people, that this is far from over and I will do everything in my power to continue this fight on your behalf.’
With that, Zethun turned to sit down; the crowd still incandescent with rage at the announcement. The guards were having to work hard to keep the heaving throng at bay and as Zethun watched, Braldor took the opportunity to slip in among them. Despite it all, the speaker stood up to start the announcements regarding the daily business. By tradition, the Demokroi all had to give their approval for the city’s various businesses and services to open.
