Banner Lord

by Jason L. McWhirter

  “Does anyone else have any other options?” the prince, now King, asked, looking up from the fire. It had seemed he wasn’t listening, his mind drifting elsewhere, but clearly that was not the case.

  No one said a thing.

  “Then we will do as you suggest, Brant,” Jarak said, his voice emotionless.

  Ari looked up from the fire. His young face was streaked with dried sweat and dirt, his exhaustion apparent, but he had not complained once. Ari had been a servant to Kulvar Rand for most of his life, found as an orphan and taken in when he was eight. “I do know of a small village east of here, no more than a day’s ride. They do not have much but perhaps we can find more food and a healer to help with Prince Jar…I mean King Jarak’s wounds.”

  “Do not call me that!” Jarak snapped. “I am a king of nothing. Our city is gone.”

  Ari looked down, away from Jarak’s furious gaze. “I’m sorry, Ki…Prince Jarak. I meant no offense.”

  “Jarak, the boy is right. You are now the King of Dy’ain,” Rath admonished.

  Jarak turned his eyes on his friend. “To be a king one must have something to rule. I do not. I am no different than any of you.”

  Rath shook his head, his expression one of shame for his friend’s rude remarks. Ever since they had left the city a melancholy cloud had engulfed Jarak, and nothing any of them could do or say had thus far snapped Jarak from his dark frame of mind. They did not begrudge him; after all he had just lost his mother and father, his city, his crown, and had been betrayed by his own uncle.

  “You were never different than any of us,” Brant whispered from across the fire.

  “What did you say?!” Jarak snapped again.

  Brant looked up from the fire, his green eyes hard, the firelight reflecting their intensity. “I said that you were never different than any of us. And your behavior now proves my words to be true. I wonder if I saved the wrong person.”

  No one said a thing, shocked at Brant’s words.

  “I am your prince!” Jarak stormed, standing up from the fire.

  Brant didn’t move…his voice calm. “Then act like it.”

  Cat was up in an instant standing next to Jarak, her hand on his arm as his hand reached for his sword. She had witnessed Brant fight, and knew that if it turned into a physical quarrel that it would not end well for Jarak. She did not think blood would be drawn, but knew that there was a real possibility that Brant would embarrass Jarak, fueling the anger that buzzed around him like a swarm of hornets. “Stop it, Jarak! We know you are hurting. You are in pain, physically and mentally. But we all are. I do not know if my father is alive. Brant risked his life to save you. We are all here because of you, because we believe in you.”

  Jarak’s body deflated, his hand slipping from his blade as the fury in his eyes disappeared. Without another word he slipped from her hand, disappearing into the night. Cat looked at them imploringly, then followed him into the darkness.

  “He does not mean all that he is saying,” Rath said, in defense of his friend.

  “You sure?” Brant asked.

  “In his youth he was spoiled and arrogant, I will not deny that,” Rath added.

  “Once a fruit is spoiled it is ruined,” Brant interjected.

  “It saddens me to hear you say that; such a defeatist attitude for one so young. All you need to do is cut out the spoiled part and the fruit is perfectly fine. When King Enden Dormath sent Jarak to Lyone, to the western garrison, I thought it would destroy him. Within two years, however, he came back a different man, a man worthy of being king. Give him a chance. He has suffered much and he needs time to adjust and to heal. Do not count him out just yet.”

  Brant sat silently, processing his words. Perhaps the young king did deserve another chance. After all, he himself had been given several chances in life, and he was lucky enough to have found people to believe in him, to help him when no one else would.

  They slept little that night and were up early, the clear sky giving way for the bright sun to bathe the cold grassland in its warmth. After eating a cold and meager meal of stale bread, some dried fruit, and a thin slice of cheese, they were up on their horses and heading northwest, towards the small town of which Ari had spoken. Before he had come to Cythera as an orphan, he had lived in the village, where his parents had both been farmers. They had died of the black fever when he was but seven, setting off a series of events that had eventually landed Ari in an orphanage in the capital city. It was there that he was found by Kulvar Rand. It was a long time ago since he had left that village, but he figured he could find it.

  Several hours into the day Jarak guided his horse over next to Brant. They had changed riders and Cat now sat with Jarak while Rath rode behind Brant. Jarak’s wounds were clearly bothering him, but now that he was awake he would no longer ride in the rear. Jarak looked at Brant but said nothing for a few moments.

  Finally Brant broke the silence. “How are your wounds?”

  Jarak shrugged. “Painful.”

  “Hopefully we can find something to soothe the pain soon enough,” Rath said from behind Brant.

  Brant glanced over and saw Cat nudge Jarak with her arm. The young king looked at him. “I want to apologize for last night. You saved my life and you do not deserve my contempt. I have not…been…”

  “You were frustrated and angry, and you reacted without thinking,” Brant interrupted. “That is one thing I can understand.”

  Jarak looked at him, this time with more curiosity. “You get angry often?”

  Brant smiled. “I do. Anger was my childhood companion. My father made sure of that. I did not have much to look forward to. Anger was an emotion that seemed to comfort me.”

  “Well, it is a new companion for me,” Jarak said ruefully as he stared ahead at the expansive grasslands which were flanked by thick forests that expanded outward on both sides for as far as they could see.

  “I am still trying to control my anger. If I may give you some advice, do your best to control yours. Actions born of anger cannot be undone, and will always lead to more sorrow and grief.”

  “Sound advice. Did you come up with it on your own?”

  Brant shook his head. “No, Master Rand gave me that advice.”

  “I see. Did he know you were a Merger?” Brant looked at him, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Do not worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “I was told that the royal families hunted down commoners with the Way.”

  “True, but not my royal family. My father made no effort to hunt down those born with the Way outside of the noble houses…unless they used the power for evil or personal gain,” Jarak added.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As you know, the Way can make someone quite powerful. Imagine people with ill intentions learning how to control their auras…they could become thieves, brigands, or sell swords, using their powers to take advantage of others.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Commoners born with the Way are very rare, so no, it does not happen much. But it has occurred.”

  “What happens to them?”

  “They are hunted down and killed,” Jarak said matter-of-factly.

  “To answer your question, yes, Master Rand knew I was a Merger, which was part of the reason he took me in. He wanted to train me how to use the power.”

  “Makes sense I guess. Why have someone like you serving nobody. It would be a waste of your talent. I’m sure he figured he could use your skills to serve the greater good,” Jarak reasoned.

  “Maybe, or perhaps he was just being kind to a young man who needed help.” Brant looked ahead, his mind drifting to images of Kulvar Rand. “Do you think he is still alive?”

  Jarak sighed. “I do not know, but it is unlikely. The Dygon Guard are sworn to protect the royal family at all costs. They would face a thousand men before fleeing the city without a fight.” Despite the thought of Kulvar Rand dying, Brant’s lips perked up in a slight smile, and Jarak not
iced it. “Is that funny to you?”

  “No, I was just thinking of how many men would be dead at his feet.”

  This time Jarak smiled with him. “That is a comforting thought. I have never seen him fight in battle. I would have enjoyed that.”

  Brant looked at Jarak. “He is incredible.”

  “You’ve seen him fight?”

  “Just once. He killed a Schulg chief’s son with three strokes of his blade. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Was he a better swordsman than your uncle?” Cat asked, breaking her silence. She had not wanted to interrupt their conversation, hoping that the idle gossip would breach the gap created by Jarak’s recent outburst.

  “My uncle,” Jarak sneered, spitting on the ground, “is a snake.”

  “A snake who can wield a blade, I saw it myself,” Cat added.

  “Kulvar Rand is the better,” Jarak said, “but yes, that fool is a very skilled swordsman, perhaps the second best in Dy’ain. It would be a close contest between him and Tolvanus.”

  Brant remembered Kaan mentioning that name. Tolvanus is the Captain of the guard at Kreb whose job is to protect the Lord Chamberlain. Brant wondered what the leaders of Kreb and Tanwen were going to do once word reached them of Cythera’s fall. It wouldn’t be long before the Saricon war machine conquered those cities as well.

  As if he were wondering the same thing, Rath spoke up. “I wonder when Kreb and Tanwen will know of Cythera’s fall. And what will they do about it?”

  No one said anything for a while, thinking of Rath’s words, and wondering what would happen to Dy’ain. Changing the subject, Brant looked over at Jarak. “I’m sorry about your father and mother. Were you close to them?”

  Jarak lowered his head, his mind drifting to images of his parents. When he looked up, his eyes were rimmed with moisture. “Yes, I was close to them.” But he said no more before looking away.

  They made it to the village just before sunset. The little cluster of homes and shops were nestled next to a small creek with several gently rolling hills behind it. Surrounding the town was a sturdy wall of logs that had been dug into the ground and lashed together by rope, then secured with horizontal boards attached to the back of the wall with iron nails. The gate was similarly fashioned, but with logs that were bound together by two thick bands of steel attached to the gate frame with huge iron nails that had been pounded all the way through to the back of the logs. It looked sturdy enough and would offer some protection against marauding bands of Schulg nomads or raiders intent on theft and rape.

  They could see that the gate was open, but they pulled up short before they got too close. “What should we do?” Cat asked as Jarak looked off in the distance towards the town.

  “What’s the village called, Ari?” Jarak asked.

  Ari and Rylene rode from the rear to stop next to them. “Silvi, if I recall correctly. My memory is spotty but I vaguely remember my mother, before she died, talking about how the village was named after a lord who, as the youngest son, had left his father's crowded estate to make his own way, accompanied by a small group of farmers and tradesmen looking for better land and new opportunities. They settled the land and founded the town over four cyns ago. I don’t know if there is any truth to it but I do think the village is called Silvi which was the lord’s last name.”

  “Should we just ride on in?” Brant asked, his voice skeptical.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Rath offered.

  “I agree,” Jarak responded, “and although I doubt anyone will recognize me here, we don’t want to risk leaving evidence of our passing. My guess is once the Saricons secure Cythera, they will send troops to as many outlying towns as possible.”

  “I agree,” Rath added. “The first thing they will want to do is re-levy taxes and re-establish trade. After all they are here for the Kul-brite trade and coin.”

  “This town may not even know that Cythera was sacked,” Ari said.

  “Shouldn’t we warn them that Saricon troops will soon arrive?” Cat asked.

  “Perhaps,” Jarak said softly, appearing to be deep in thought.

  “We are here for food and supplies, as well as a healing salve for Jarak,” Rath said. “Let us not dally long.”

  “I think we are safe to stay one night,” Cat reasoned. “There is no way that any Saricon patrols will be out scouting this far so soon. I think we all need a bed to sleep in and warm food before we get on the road again.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Rath argued. “When the Saricon patrols do arrive, which they will, they will be asking if anyone passed through here. They will know that six people stayed one night, and they will have a description of us all.”

  “That makes sense,” Brant agreed. “King Jarak, I think it would be better if you stayed behind so no one can give your description. Why don’t I go with Rylene and Ari. We can pose as a family passing through and it will be much less suspicious.”

  Everyone looked at Jarak, clearly thinking that Brant’s idea was the best. The silence was tense for a moment, fearing that perhaps he would become angry again as he had the night before when Ari had called him king. But he surprised them. “I think that is a good plan. How much coin do we have?”

  Everyone checked their purses. Together they had ten gold dracks, six silver shikes, as well as twenty three copper tiggs.

  “I have over sixty gold dracks that I took from Master Rand’s estate when we left. The coins are stored in the saddle bags on my horse,” Ari added.

  Jarak smiled. “Well done, son. That was smart thinking.”

  Ari blushed. “Thank you, my Kin…I mean Prince Jarak.”

  “It’s okay, Ari. I’m sorry I snapped at you last night. Listen, I think it wise that everyone call me Jarak. I do not want it announced that I am the lost king. Do you agree?” Everyone did. “Good, now, take the coins and get us plenty of food and supplies.” Jarak handed the bag of coins he collected to Brant. “We will light a small fire so you can find us by the creek. Good luck.”

  Brant, Ari, and Rylene dismounted and walked off toward the village, the darkness of night fast approaching. The rest took the horses and moved off the road, through the grasses, to make camp in the small grove of trees in the distance.

  ***

  Tongra Taruk stood on the barbican looking down onto the expansive inner courtyard where over three thousand men and women stood before him. King Daricon and his wife, Queen Mylena, stood just back from him, both wearing splendid armor that sparkled in the morning sun. Surrounding the prisoners were thousands of Saricon warriors, grim faced, holding axes, spears, and swords. The people before him were Legionnaires and civilians alike, the soldiers stripped of armor and weapons and all wearing dirty and torn clothing.

  The city had been taken three days before and many Dy’ainians had been killed. Some had surrendered, throwing down their arms as the city became overwhelmed by the enemy. Each day since then hundreds had been executed as they were given the choice to convert or die. Many chose death. But others chose life, swearing their allegiance to Heln by approaching the massive statue of Heln now erected in the courtyard just inside the main gate. The stone statue depicted Heln as a muscle-bound warrior, as tall as three men, and grasping a two handed sword. The sword he held was longer than a Saricon warrior was tall and was not carved from the stone, but was actually made of steel, the handle held in both hands at his waist, the long blade angling down, and the tip embedded into the stone base. Reaching out, the converts ran their hands along the razor sharp blade and then smeared their blood across the statue, staining the dark gray stone with streaks of crimson. They then recited the oath, swearing their allegiance to Heln, and in return they were given life.

  “You have one last chance to swear allegiance to Heln!” Tonga Taruk announced from the barbican. “Your false gods have abandoned you. Heln has been proven the stronger. From Belorth to Corvell his armies have conquered, bringing his word and his strength. Jo
in us! Be a part of greatness!”

  The prisoners below were listening intently, staring at the massive statue before them, the blood of the recent converts covering the entire base of the statue. Despite the blood, one couldn't help but be impressed by the sight of the idol, the god's massive muscular frame, his proud visage staring boldly ahead, crowned by thick wavy hair flowing down his back, with his powerful arms gripping the huge two handed sword.

  “Argon!”

  The shout came from an older man in the middle of the throng of people. Soon, more men around him picked up the chant.

  “Argon! Argon! Argon!”

  Within moments nearly a hundred people were chanting, while more than a third of the other prisoners stepped away, not so eager to be associated with them.

  “Argon! Argon! Argon! Argon!”

  Quickly, Saricons moved in, grabbing the chanters and herding them forward to stand before the barbican and Heln’s statue. There were nearly three hundred people chanting Argon’s name, their cries getting louder as they were pushed to their knees.

  “Argon! Argon! Argon! Argon! Argon!”

  Tonga Taruk shook his head sadly. “Such a waste,” he whispered to Daricon and Mylena. “They die for nothing…and all for a god too weak to protect them.” Then he looked back out over the expansive courtyard. “Kill them!” he shouted.

  Hundreds of axes and swords came down, and the cries of the dying men and women filled the air as their blood pooled, then ran in rivulets along the stones that paved the ground. Within moments the chant was replaced by absolute silence as the crowd watched on with horror. The Saricons then dragged the bodies away, to be unceremoniously disposed of in a mass grave, leaving the remaining prisoners standing in silence as the bodies of their comrades were removed.

  “What say you?” Tonga Taruk shouted down at the prisoners. “Join them, or join us! What will it be?”