His people.
A golden jeweled crown sat atop his head of brown hair. A red cape tufted with white fur hung at his shoulders. He wore a fine black tunic with gold trimmings above soft black leather pants. On his left hand was a single ring embossed with an emerald, the twin of the one his beautiful queen wore. She sat in a throne to his right, adding her opinion whenever he asked yet was not always present during these the more menial duties of the king. Today she was, for which he was glad. He enjoyed her presence, occasional insights, and she seemed to make the time go by faster. She wore a cape like his, a smaller smoother shaped crown, and a regal and stunning red dress that rose and fell with each of her graceful breaths. Her beautiful dark hair draped over the cape on her back, and she sat with her hands folded in her lap.
Both of their thrones sat atop a raised section of the stone floor higher than the rest by a single step not far from their feet. Before them, the main audience hall stretched out for nearly half a mile toward the other end, part of its high ceiling supported by a column of massive stone pillars on both sides near the walls that separated it from other rooms of the palace. Each had black iron sconces with pitch-soaked torches flaming brightly on four sides to keep all well lit. Alcoves built into the walls, a mere thirty feet from where he sat, held large fireplaces that gave his portion of the vast chamber that much more light and magnificence. Vast though it was, the court was full as always. A crowd stood gathered in the region near the other end, kept back by halberd-wielding guards in red uniforms who made sure they never crossed the invisibly delineated boundary, well before the king, and that they waited their turn for admittance.
Beyond that section, into the open area near his throne, which was by no means small in comparison, was a spread out collection of lords and ladies, distant relatives, and wealthy acquaintances. There was a constant buzzing hum from their talking. They were all dressed in fine clothes, opulent dresses of bright colors, and lavish tunics. Some had become so accustomed to loitering in his court that they comfortably sipped from wine goblets and socialized in groups of two, three, and five, passing amongst each other the latest bit of inconsequential news. Parasites and sycophants all, Glidewell detested them. He kept his daily routine of hearing grievances partly to keep them at arm’s length, yet many continued to remain. The audience chamber was so vast that even as they did so, mostly wanting the prestige of being near him, they were no hindrance to his official duties. They even stayed clear of the rabble brought before him by his guards so that he might hear their pleas. There were many times when he wished they were an obstacle, just so he would have an excuse to clear them from his hall and send them home. For now, he tolerated them. For now.
After finishing reading the petition before him, he stroked his brown beard twice and absentmindedly glanced once more toward his beautiful queen before lowering his hand. The scraggly old peasant man wearing tattered clothes was bald on top with light gray hair that hung on the sides of his head and had come from a dry farming community in northeast Ryga that was small and quite poor. He was still on his knees, face and arms flat on the ground before him, beseeching his king’s aid.
Glidewell at last spoke. “You claim here that you and your fellow villagers must walk ten miles to the nearest well because yours was built too shallow and has run dry?”
The old man raised himself only enough so that his head was not on the ground. “Yes, your majesty…” he answered in a raspy, weary, time worn voice, “…we are thirsty.”
“Why then can you not dig it deeper yourselves?”
“The ground is too rocky, your highness…we don’t have the tools or the labor…and the drought has kept the ground dry. Please, your majesty, it is not in our nature to beg, but you are the only one who can help us.”
“I see, then in that case…” Glidewell began.
One of his advisors began immediately whispering in his ear. “Beg your pardon, eminence, but wells are a private matter paid for by individuals. If you grant this request, other subjects will only be emboldened to beseech favors upon your treasury.”
He did not dignify the interruption by looking. “This is not about gold, this is about granting aid. By divine right I am their king. To whom else will they turn in their hour of need?”
The king saw in his peripheral vision his advisor bowing his head, not wanting to appear confrontational, and keeping it low. “It is a spurious expense, my liege.”
Glidewell’s tone became harsh. “I will decide what is ‘spurious.’” His advisor had become a nuisance of late, never telling him anything useful, just another parasite like the rest.
“Yes, sire,” he replied, taking a step back. The Rygan king had become accustomed to seeing his retainers intimidated by his height and strong voice if not his station.
His eyes, which had been looking at nothing in particular, returned to the pitiable old man. “Your request is granted.”
The weary peasant was so excited and overcome with joy that he raised his head for a tiny instant such that Glidewell was able to see the look on his face. “Many great thanks, your highness.”
“But not to the letter of your petition,” he announced in a loud voice, looking around at others gathered in his vast court. “There will be conditions.” The old man shook with a start. “Instead, my advisor, since he is so concerned about finances, will carry a royal ledger with him to oversee the project himself. He will accompany you and the diggers back to your home, escorted by two of my guards, to ensure that no coin is spent frivolously.”
“Thank you, your majesty.”
He didn’t think that his advisor would raise an objection, yet he started to. “Sire, I…”
Glidewell shot him a glare that silenced him. His tone remained harsh. “It is your duty to carry out my will.” He spoke slowly, punctuating his words with an underpinning that only frightened him further. “Is there any good reason why you cannot?”
He shook his bowed head. “No, sire.”
“Excellent, then I shall look forward to your return,” he added politely. He then stood and raised his voice to the entire hall. “Let it be known throughout the land that I, Glidewell, sovereign King of Ryga, will never cease to keep my people’s best interest at heart.” He paused, holding everyone’s attention. “I will not part with my gold foolishly, and I will have the head of anyone who tries to steal from my purse through trickery, but I will never hesitate to bestow my help to those who need it.” The peasants toward the other end of the vast hall waited silently, not knowing what to make of this proclamation, while those of more fortunate birth in front wore smiles and clapped in a vigorous though insincere fashion a short while before slowly returning to talking amongst themselves.
Before sitting back down, he glanced instinctively to find the arm of his throne and, already knowing where it was, instead caught a glimpse of the queen smiling at him. He smiled back at his loving wife. She seemed to enjoy moments like these when he asserted himself.
He did these though, not for the sake of pleasing her alone but because it was what a wise ruler should do. His father had always taught him that protecting the people, ensuring their well being and prosperity, was the way to gain their loyalty. And to a king, loyalty was everything. His subjects in turn would thrive and multiply, contributing more to his treasury and when need came, lay down their lives for him without hesitation. A greedy and selfish ruler, one who took without giving, gained neither loyalty nor gold. He merely sat on what he had, reaped what he could off the destitution and suffering of others, and then was finally expunged by the discontented masses who could bear it no more. Often throughout history, the forlorn would throw their lot in with a powerful noble seeking the throne, one who promised them things that their king should already have been giving them.
More though than any token of logic, Glidewell had seen his approach obtain tangible results time and time again. It was unheard of, a king who served his subjects was in turn served better by them, yet that was the
reality. He had seen too the effect that his benevolent actions always had. A self-satisfied grin spread on his face at the remembrance of the look on the old peasant’s face when he acquiesced, a desperate soul who would return to other desperate souls with their king’s generosity, happy and content, ready to live their full lives unabated once more. And it was not the first time he had seen it.
A steady beat of noisy clanks that he could not mistake approached from far to his left, echoing throughout the hall. They were from none other than the boots of General Wainwright, one of his most trusted. The general did not frequent the audience chamber unless it was to bring some new threat to his attention.
Glidewell rose prior to his arrival and held his hand up to halt the servant who was about to hand him the next petition. Wainwright’s metallic steps grew closer until he loomed in the left side of Glidewell’s vision. The Rygan king turned and looked toward him.
General Wainwright stood before him with a serious, perhaps almost angry, expression on his tight-lipped, muscular jaw, and cold blue eyes. The black mustache under his big nose drooped down each side of his mouth and only seemed to amplify his look of displeasure. His short hair was dark with gray on its sides, attesting to his many years of service. In his view, he stood more than the normal two inches shorter because of the stone step Glidewell was still standing on. The armor he wore was well-crafted plate after well-crafted plate of shiny, well-polished steel, with a raised lion head roaring from the center of his chest. Wainwright wore it comfortably like a second skin, appearing unimpeded by the weight. A wide black cape that draped loosely behind him was affixed to his shoulder plates by two round, flat gold discs that served as caps for the bolts. While on duty and not sleeping, his general never took any of it off, nor did he ever forget to wear his sword. Today, like other days, it rested in the gold embossed black scabbard at his side that was wrought with flowing designs.
There was a curious vellum scroll rolled up in his fist.
Glidewell’s eyes went to it before returning to that of his general. “Yes?”
“Highness,” he began in his deep voice, “there is something I wish to speak with you about. Privately.”
He nodded and made a flick of his hand, beckoning him toward the fireplace on the right of the room where no one else was standing. The general was silent except for the clanks from his feet as they both strode to it. It was not far from the two thrones. When they were both standing near the hearth, Glidewell turned to him. “What is it, general?”
“A letter, your majesty.”
“Many letters are brought to my attention daily,” he reminded, “why does this one trouble you?”
“It makes an unusual threat on your life, my king.” Wainwright handed him the rolled up scroll, the vellum of which looked to be made from a curious material.
Glidewell untied the leather string and unfurled it. It read:
You, the pathetic, mortal king of Ryga are nothing. You will soon be kneeling at my feet, for I am the slain, the betrayed, the vengeful,…but not the forgotten. Your flesh, like that of the worms you preside over, shall be joined unto me. Surrender now, and perhaps I will make it a merciful transition.
If you have read the prophecy, then you already know I will not fail. This life as you know it, is over. Defy me and your land will be destroyed. I offer you this one chance to lessen your people’s misery by joining my legions willingly, for my war upon the gods is at hand.
-THE LORD OF DEATH
His hand shook with rage before he finished reading. He thrust it back toward the general, who took the mashed yet flexible letter back in his hand. His back was to him while he stormed toward the throne. He felt his face redden in anger while he rose a clenched and shaking fist. “This is an insult!” His queen looked at him with a concerned frown, wondering what was the matter. “Who wrote this!” He demanded. “Where did it come from!” He turned around, standing in front of the queen’s throne. “Who delivered it!”
Everyone became silent and stared, it was unheard of to see him to lose his temper so.
“No one knows, my king,” his general answered.
“How can no one know!”
“It appeared mysteriously, highness. I checked. I had my men check. No one can verify how it came here. It’s as if it were borne on a wind.”
He turned and took a step to stand before his own throne, taking a deep calming breath before turning around once more. It wasn’t the written threat that bothered him. The letter had obviously come from a madman, an upstart necromancer, or both. Regardless, the insufferable fool could never hope to back such wild claims. Glidewell was more infuriated over the insult it’s existence conveyed, someone daring to offend a monarch such as he and wasting his time with such filthy libel, than by the insane ranting. Gradually though, the outrage was wearing off; written words could not harm him.
“What do you want done with it, my king?”
He finally came to sigh in indifference. “Throw it in the fire,” he ordered while sitting down.
His loyal general did as told, crumpling up the parchment in his strong hands and tossing it aptly toward the center of the hearth. An eerie darkness settled over the vast chamber, causing all gathered to cease their activities in alarm. The huge roaring flames changed to blue, casting a chilling hue across the dark hall.
Everyone waited silently.
As the luminescence slowly changed to a bright green, there were several sharp flashes of light accompanied by sparks. A voice deeper than any imaginable laughed “HA, HA, HA...” and then was quiet. The king then began to hear another sound. It was faint at first but then grew in intensity. It sounded like an unearthly wailing, the wailing of souls from beyond the grave. What was a few quickly became hundreds and then became the deafening roar of thousands. White streaks flew out of the fireplace, screaming and adding to the cacophony. His blood chilled.
The specters unleashed from the netherworld flew about his hall, killing at will. Their sleek forms sliced through their victims as though a sheet of the underworld itself. There were some that began flying dangerously close to his throne. After flinching back past one, he immediately came to his feet and jumped atop his queen, shielding her with his body.
General Wainwright kept his back flattened against the stone wall left of the fireplace, keeping out of the path of the screaming ghosts that continued to spew forth one at a time. He gritted his teeth in horror as he watched people in the audience chamber be slain on contact with the apparitions. As the bodies of noblemen and women, peasants and servants alike fell, blood was thrown across the floor. Everyone else in the packed hall began to panic and run for the exits, causing pandemonium. One of the court wizards dove behind a pillar for protection. Soldiers in red uniforms rushed into the room from different directions, accompanied by a handful of wizards. They kept their distance, yet a few of the less quick or wary were claimed.
The wizard behind the pillar yelled at the top of his lungs. “Someone pull that thing out of the fire! It’s the only way!”
Many guards wanted to, even a servant to the left of the queen’s throne kept testing how far he could get, but none could come close. Wainwright peeked past the stone edge and glared at the green flames in contempt, eyeing the crumpled vellum in the center of the blaze and ran his right thumb across an itch on his mustache. He inched in as close as he dare, waited until right after a ghost had passed, and then shot his hand in.
Hot burning agony like he had never known tore through his left hand. Not letting it force him to clench, he held it open until just the moment he could grasp the crumpled ball. Another specter flew past, barely missing him and leaving a gash in his breastplate, barely missing his flesh. With a growl of rage and pain, he threw the letter out onto the floor, where several of the wizards rushed forward and stamped it out with their feet. It had not even been singed by the fire and appeared the same as before.
Wainwright recoiled from the flames, which had returned to normal, sweatin
g profusely from the heat of having been so close. Natural light crept back into the vast court, replacing the dark. He looked around, his eyes searching for more of the wailing ghosts. Finding none, he returned his attention to his burnt hand. All was quiet once more. The pops of wood in the flickering flames of the hearth was the only sound.
The smell of blood, smoke, and his own burnt flesh lingered in the air.
Glidewell slowly turned from covering his queen to take a look. Everything had returned to normal. Normal, that was, aside from the corpses littering the floor of his audience chamber which was now otherwise completely empty.
More than an idle threat, he thought. In his forty-two years of life, he had never seen the like of it. He stood to his full height and surveyed the scene. Bodies were everywhere. Blood was everywhere. To his left stood his palace guards in red tabards, wielding swords, shields and halberds, and bearing his black lion crest on their chests. Beneath metal helmets he saw pairs of blue and brown eyes looking on worriedly over the carnage, a few looking his way, almost as if seeking assurance. It was an assassination attempt that they, men with steel and iron, were helpless against.
Glidewell’s eyes shifted to something he saw against the far wall on his left, beyond the pillars. It was a young boy of perhaps twelve, one of the pages, still standing with his back against the wall, trembling in fear.
The Rygan king would not be daunted by this magician’s cheap tricks. This so called Lord of Death would soon get his answer. And it was going to start with this boy.
Storm of Prophecy, Book I: Dark Awakening Page 25
