The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

  Marciano paid no heed to the honey dribbling from the man's jowls. He knew that it was the Ostero flag, a proud and strong ally tossed upon the winter fire by what were once friends. The Baron continued to babble such flattering claptrap Marciano was afraid he'd slip right out of his chair from the slobbery kisses on his posterior. It was giving the General a headache that would father bastard headaches for weeks to come.

  The Baron was a viner; someone that climbed by grabbing onto those above him, passing flattery and praise as if actually substantial, and hoisting himself up little by little until he forgot he also came from a pile of dirt. Marciano knew them well, lords and ladies of court who spent most of their days trying to tear each other apart in the most polite ways possible. Meanwhile, he gained his notoriety and power actually tearing people apart. On the darker days, he was loath to determine which had more purpose in the world.

  Lavish parties and feasts in the honor of the Empire bored Marciano, who still had men facing a freezing winter and another matter that was proving more difficult than he expected. Losing waking hours listening to a man more properly suited to unload half rotted wagons on gullible fools drone on about the nobility of his family was splints under the General's nails.

  "And tonight we...I shall host some lavish entertainment in your honor," the pug faced man was babbling, directing his full attention upon the General who deigned a thin smile and found his experienced eyes wandering up the walls for arrow slits. Assessing his lodgings for fortification purposes was the closest he came to a hobby anymore.

  A great commotion, like someone dropped an entire knight's kit and kicked it down the stairs, clattered at the end of the hall as his lieutenant, Sir Gian, tripped over one of the misplaced ladders from the Baron's servants hanging festive lanterns off the vaulted ceilings. The man caught the ladder before it and the servant crashed to the ground and, after steadying it, continued jogging towards his General.

  "My Lord," he said breathlessly, still stinking of sweat and horse as he bowed deeper than was tradition. Foolish ambition was a young man's game, but it didn't stop Marciano from enjoying the spectacle every now and again as long as he didn't have to play.

  "At ease, before you fall over," he said, steadying the young man and leading him towards one of the eastern tables and away from the Baron's prying ears.

  "What news have you to report?" He'd sent Gian after numerous failed attempts at trying to butter up and then threaten the local populace. Even in a full set of armor the scout looked about as threatening as a sack of flour left in the rain. People opened up around him without meaning to. At the rate he was climbing, soon enough he wouldn't be able to put his natural skills to use anymore and find himself behind a line of men instead of to the side.

  "Regarding the prince? Nothing," the lad shook his head sadly, wispy hair barbered by a drunk or blind man, half falling in his face.

  "Impossible. Royalty does not simply vanish." He'd watched it enough before; high society trying to flee when a treaty or agreement has gone south, or their serfs are banging nicely on the door asking for a cup of freedom. They have an elaborate escape plan, tunnels carved for years, secret doors triggered from trick lute strings, but every blasted time they pile themselves up with all the silver plated back scratchers and other trappings of their golden lives that will do jack squat in exile.

  Weighed down and demanding of the inn owner two towns over, "Don't you know who I am?!" to get a free room always ensured a matter of days before their enemies caught up with them and handled the outstanding bill.

  But this boy was proving to be a ghost. None of the Knights remembered seeing him. Marciano tried to trace the steps of the battle as it progressed across the castle, but at one point the surprisingly capable soldiers of Albrant finally wised up to what was going on and fought back. A few of the Empire's own men fell to the brute force of the barbarians, some even wandering far from the hall near the sleeping quarters, but no signs as to how a boy and a few guards surely with him could escape.

  There were whispers, half rumors really, that the princeling was spotted fleeing into the night with, of all things, a daughter of the sands. Also, with two of their own Knights of Eritaller and a pet bear, and in one he rode forth on a unicorn with wings and swooped into the wintry sky. Each rumor led to more whispers, more half ideas.

  Most seemed unaware there even was a second son, pointing to the first when asked about a free prince. Everyone in the "free territories" knew that their beloved Prince Henrik was safe with his father's armies, plotting to bring revenge. Marciano chuckled a bit at that, knowing how well revenge worked out for the other kingdoms falling under the Emperor's shadow.

  "If you know nothing of the boy, why did you come running up to me?" the General pressed.

  "It is the Queen, Sir," Gian said.

  "The Queen?"

  "She did not travel with the Albrant men. She, she's raising an army in the East, Sir."

  The General tugged on his mustache, trying to slot the information into place. "How can she possibly be raising an army out where ours is camped? The East has been loyal to the Empire for almost a generation."

  "So you say, Sir. But there is talk of traitors, willing to shed blood to reclaim their lands."

  Marciano laughed mercilessly, "Farmers, Smithies, Shop keeps, Merchants, old men who have seen too many winters. That is not an army. That is a pebble to try and hold back a stream."

  But the news concerned him. Most reports said it was in fact the woman behind the throne directing the ass previously squatting in it. A girl, raised in the further reaches of Arda, who took her father's throne at a young age and led her own people to victory until the Osteros began eyeing the land. Rather than risk what would be certain annihilation for her famished people she took the second option and married the King, bringing to his weak rule a strong fist camouflaged behind a perfumed hand.

  The Queen was no fool, and the fact that she raced off to the dangerous East rather than the North with her now dead husband's army was most interesting. For all Marciano knew she had been their inside traitor, the Emperor wouldn't say who it was, only that he'd been communicating and planning for months. And it wouldn't be the first time she'd exchanged her family for ambition.

  "We ride tomorrow, toward Magton, and begin to assemble our men. This cannot wait until spring. A small, local band fighting for their home can be far more dangerous than an entire thousand strong foreign platoon."

  "Yes, Sir," Gian nodded.

  The General sighed, "And tell the priests to write their best fire and brimstone. We'll need it to convince the locals as we go just how hellish their lives and mortal souls will be if they refuse to help us."

  Gian frowned too, not wanting to give the priests anymore power than they'd already leeched from the Emperor. They said there were no atheists on the battlefield, but it's hard to find gods when all you know is a sea of red. Bowing again, the boy skittered off towards the door, sending a chair crashing to the floor. Marciano stood slowly, already feeling the burn of the Baron's hospitality upon him.

  "My lord," the pug man started, but the General waved him off.

  "Things have changed and I am afraid we must leave your open doors and march in the morning," Marciano told him ruefully, lying through his teeth.

  "Well, that," the Baron was flustered, he'd been planning this shindig for over a week since news came of the Emperor's elite passing through his fief. "That doesn't mean we cannot still celebrate tonight."

  "What?" Marciano was already measuring out provisions necessary to make it to the next point, setting up patrol schedules and considering loyal farmsteads along the way. He wasn't a hands off kind of General.

  "It can be a Bone Vo-yage party," the Baron said, eliciting a small groan from Marciano for both having to put up with excruciating minglings with miss-entertainment and for the atrocious pronunciation.

  But he could think of no easy escape short of packing everyone up and riding into the afternoo
n sun before the pug man became something approaching wiser. Tempting as it might be, he'd probably have to leave half his troops behind and that seemed particularly cruel, "Very well."

  "That shall give me time to give you the thorough tour!" the Baron exclaimed. Marciano moaned again, falling into step as buttresses became an important point of conversation.

  The party was even worse than Marciano feared. While most of his men spoke either fluent Aravian or the garbled common trading tongue, the local "nobility" could only eek out "Where's the Bathroom?" "I'm allergic to the fish," and "You are quite handsome for a donkey, wish to make a vote?" Everything else they said was in their local muck of noises dressing itself up as a language.

  And to make matters worse the Baron had set himself at Marciano's right hand and his wife, a pickled woman who seemed far more interested in the wine cask than her husband, at his left. Every man he could actually converse with, or wished to, was seated tables down and hidden behind hair pieces stuffed with sea shells, quartz, and feathers. By the panicked chirping coming from one woman's head, he feared some of the feathers were still attached to the previous owner.

  Everyone outfitted themselves in their finest, which would have amounted to street clothes in Aravingion. Silk was in short supply so it was used in limited quantities to make small roses on bodices, or sashes for gentlemen who kept their guts pulled in the entire night. The soup course made for some entertainment as each local tried to figure out how to swallow and not breathe at the same time.

  One woman took it upon herself to stitch silken panels with wool, leaving entire gaps in her dress see through. Marciano shook his head sadly and kept his eyes trained upon the poor beleaguered bird trying to make a break for it, but his men seemed to be enjoying the show, especially when she bent over to retrieve a lost spoon.

  "Send in the entertainment!" the Baron clapped his hands loudly.

  Argur, take him! Marciano cursed in the back of his throat; the chances of the locals surviving the night grew less and less likely. At least the mead was palatable and the roast venison actually quite tender. Perhaps they could convince the chef to go with them. He'd have to fight off an urge to burn the rest of the castle to the ground behind them then.

  A set of men, thin as pikes and hobbling, walked into the great hall. Their beards, carefully cultivated over what looked a few lifetimes, hung so low each carried it like a woman would her train. They approached the ring of tables surrounded by both the lords and ladies that could make their lives miserable, and the traveling soldiers who already were.

  They both bowed deeply to the guest of honor. Marciano waved his hand at them, wishing he had the power or the vocabulary to dismiss them.

  Rising, the first grabbed a hold of the second's beard and pulled. The second man yelped, jumping up as the first held up his hands displaying the beard hairs ripped out of their cozy home. Marciano shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the second proceeded to do the exact same to the first, also showing his treasure proudly in his fist.

  The soldiers looked to each other, trying to make sense of this madness of men slowly ripping hair off each other when the real show began. Each man grabbed the others beard and began to spin, the centripetal forces increasing as their feet flew like a pair of children spinning until they fell down or vomited. Soon they were both at the far edge of their extravagant beards, twirling in a circle, gaining in speed.

  The locals clapped in time with the feet, speeding up with each man as they leaned closer in their chairs. Conversely, the soldiers leaned back, grasping delicately to their own chins, some of which had barely begun to sprout hair.

  Then, one of the men -- it was hard to tell which at this point -- jumped up. His feet bounced at first a few inches into the air, then a foot, then a few feet, until finally the man went completely airborne. He began to hum, as did the other one upon the ground, still spinning faster than a dust devil.

  A hum broke from the flying man to the assembled crowd, the lords and ladies banging their hands on the table in a metronome beat. Even a few of the soldiers got swept up in the spectacle of a man suspended only by the whiskers on his face. It was electrifying; the low beat surging up everyone's spine out through the fingers and into the chin.

  As they watched the man, still flying freely, his humming growing louder, each spectator could feel not just his pain but his exhilaration. To be as free as a bird spun about by its chin.

  Then, as the humming reached a crescendo, the beard slipped from one man's fingers and the flying one tore free from his bonds. He tried to sail over the tops of the guests, catching one of the wigs with a tiny house on his boot and spectacularly met the wall with his face.

  Dead silence washed over the crowd as they breathlessly watched the old man's body now crumpled in the corner. Time slowed as he twitched a bit, testing his arms and legs, then rose slowly before turning to face the crowd. A dribble of blood coursed from his mouth and a large gash on his eyebrow but he seemed no worse for his defeat and then reacquaintance with gravity.

  As he bowed deeply along with his partner, the nobility exploded into applause. Marciano cocked an eyebrow at the bowing forms, noticing that their beards seemed a bit longer after that display. The old men raised their hands once more and, tenderly taking their beards into their hands, scurried back out the talent and servants' door.

  The Baron was clapping and braying like a mule stuck in the mud, believing it had one-upped its owner somehow. Marciano tried to suppress an eye roll as his host called for the next entertainer.

  A small man, dressed all in black entered more hobbled than the ancient beards moving aside. An oversized cloak masked his features and most of his form. Only a small white hand was visible as the specter inched towards the makeshift stage, each step reverberating over the silencing crowd.

  The hush grew near deafening as the dark shadow unfolded itself and rose to its full height towering over the assembled guests who at that point were a bit too inebriated to realize they were all sitting. They saw a grim vision of eternal blackness rising to eight feet in front of them when it was really more a six-foot guy in cheap black bleaching itself brown from overuse.

  A single white hand curled like a withering flower in winter and pointed out into the crowd. Each face it touched dodged and weaved out of the way, trying to flee from whatever powers this invading specter cast.

  As the shadow came upon the Baron, the finger paused. Slowly the hand turned upwards until the finger extended towards their lord. The guests waited for the menacing digit to pull the soul out of their host, but instead the entire hand fell open and curled around something invisible in its palm.

  A second hand as pale as the first, lunged forward grabbing onto the invisible force in front of it and pulled itself forward, the cloak wafting in the breeze. The first hand reached ahead, inching the specter closer and closer to the Baron. The Lord stood, his terror replaced by what he thought leadership looked like, and raised his two fingers like a pair of scissors. While the specter held tightly to whatever life threads attached him to the Baron, the man smiled and brought his fingers down upon the line.

  The specter flew back, as the invisible physics sent his form tumbling to the ground. All the guests could spot peering around their goblets was a cloak piled upon the floor. Then, as quickly as he'd fallen, the shadow rose, the blackness falling away from him to reveal...a mime.

  Marciano audibly groaned at the man in stripes whose makeup was so smudged in his pratfall he looked like an eternally confused silent destroyer of hope and dreams. He spotted his lieutenants rising and unsheathing their swords, but he waved them away.

  The Empire had long ago outlawed mimes, and death awaited any man caught pretending to be trapped inside a box or crawling along an invisible rope. Even a man pretending to go downstairs to poorly entertain children was looking at a night in the scorpion pits.20

  This was considered the best contribution to modern society the Empire had ever offered. But Marciano wav
ed his fellows off anyway. Let the Barbarians have their fun, mimes only had a 5-10 year lifespan anyway.

  The man did the box, he did the ladder, he even tried to flirt with a countess who looked like she'd been around for the Old Empire. But the locals sensed the growing discomfort from the soldiers shifting in their seats, trying to not look directly at the man capering around as if he were on a horse, the way one would politely ignore the uncle with underpants on his head standing on top of the roast chicken during family dinners.

  The mime's last act, pretending he was spinning plates21 got a smattering of applause and a few coughs. Bohrs, one of the "Knights" the Empire picked up during their prisoner liquidation sale, growing restless, defied his superior's direct order and picked up the mime by his collar and waistband. Without waiting for a response, he rushed the man to the door and threw him headlong into the corridor.

  As the hulk turned back to his fellow diners, the hall erupted into applause. He wiped his hands once and smiled wide. Marciano held back the reprimand on his tongue in front of the others, but there were going to be some serious discussions with his men later. He'll probably have to break out the hand puppets again, the only way he could get through to some of the discount "Knights."

  The Baron shifted in his royal robes, not expecting the mime to get such a frosty reception or such an airborne exit. To cover his mistakes he stood and raised a glass.

  Dear Argur, no, thought Marciano. Anything but that.

  "A toast!"

  "Here, here!" the townies shouted, raising their sloshed glasses up.

  Marciano gritted his teeth and turned to look at the man beside him, getting a good eye full of a belly poking overtop a gold belt that probably never fit.

  "To the Empire!" the Baron said.

  "The Empire!" the locals responded in exhilaration.

  The soldiers glanced at each other but mumbled back "the Empire?" For them it was like toasting the air they breathed, or the water they drank. Sure, you could, but then you could also spend your days sitting quietly at home not stabbing people. Where was the fun in that?