by Chris Ward
What fate awaits us this day, was a sentiment whispered anxiously and often throughout the city of Ramos that morning.
A mighty silent crowd surrounded the public hall, and within, it was full of the braver citizens and all the city’s important officials. Every bearer of the Guild Medallions was there, knowing that their very livelihood now hung upon this moment. The Wolvers too had been allowed to enter unarmed, for Reigin had requested that these lost kin should see what might come to pass. The Wisden, few indeed but greatly respected and with a place of honour at the fore, sat in quiet but purposeful attention as the time neared when the new claimant to the throne of Revelyn would enter with her captives. All about were the wealthy traders and officials who held power and who had grown accustomed to using it in the service of King Petros, Lord of Luminescence. Each one knew that this was the most important day of their lives, for if the throne changed hands then nothing would remain the same. As they all waited, great effort was made by many in silent contemplation to think long upon what might be required of them to retain what power and influence they held; what actions would be most seemly should representations need to be made to a new ruler.
The Public Hall was full of anxious people. The mighty city of Ramos had never seen such a spectacle, and it too waited silently for what would come to pass.
Anderlorn led a small group into the giant vaulted hall. Outside his Edenwhood soldiers and their mighty scythercats formed an impenetrable wall around the building. The anxious citizens of Ramos watched and waited in absolute silence as he and several other giant Edenwhood escorted the new claimant to the throne into their presence. All who stood there that day were shocked that their powerful king, Lord Petros and his evil sorcerer Zelfos were paraded before them in chains. It seemed unthinkable that such things had come to pass.
At the public throne upon the wooden stage where only recently Lord Petros had held court and passed judgement over the lives of so many to their untimely fate, Anderlorn stood before the throng and addressed them.
‘Citizens of Ramos,’ his majestic voice carried easily to the highest vaults above, ‘I am Anderlorn, high Elder of the Edenwhood.’
At the mention of the Edenwhood a great gasp went up from the crowd, for all were astonished to at last behold one of their kind. When they were silent once more, Anderlorn continued.
‘Half an age ago we shared this land with you, but your ways of violence saw us separate to a higher land where we have lived in peace, until this time. Once we fought against the House of Hendon. Today I stand before you as one who fights for the sole true heir to the throne of Revelyn, Sylvion Greyfeld, of the House of Hendon. I do this because your king, Lord Petros as he has called himself and this vile sorcerer Zelfos have brought all Revelyn to the brink of such darkness as cannot be imagined by any mortal man.’ He let the words echo around the huge hall.
Zelfos bridled with a mighty anger but did not speak for he knew the time was not yet right. The king however seemed now more aware of his surroundings and stood proudly as though by his very bearing his people would see what injustice had befallen him.
He too did not speak but was acutely aware that all things which mattered most to him, now rested upon a knife edge.
‘Today Revelyn is faced with a mighty decision.’ Anderlorn spoke once more. ‘We have come here that this might take place in full view of all who care to watch. I present to you Sylvion Greyfeld and demand that any who has an eye to see or an ear to hear, let them listen well, for today your fate will be sealed.’
The mighty Elder finished his short exhortation with a flourish of his sword Anderwyn, and such was the sound that it made as it cut the air that all who witnessed it were mightily impressed by such a demonstration.
Sylvion stepped up onto the stage and stood before the empty public throne. The crowd wondered then at her smallness and fragility, for next to Anderlorn she seemed but a child, and yet when she spoke her voice carried every bit as much authority as the mighty Edenwhood Elder.
‘Citizens,’ she let the word hang on its own for a moment, ‘I am Sylvion Greyfeld, daughter of Sontim, son of Raven Hendon, daughter of King Mantira, father of King Richardo, father of King Frederic, the last king of the line of the House of Hendon to rule by right and acceptance of the Royal Sceptre. ’
King Petros felt his anger rise at these words for he believed that he had been ordained to succeed King Frederic and the Sceptre had proved this right; but her words sent a cold shiver down his spine, for her lineage was clear to all. She was a true heir. He was not.
‘This land has fallen into shadow,’ Sylvion continued, her voice carrying easily to all within that great hall. ‘I have come to restore Revelyn to peace and prosperity, to be once more a place where all are equal and where none can wield an evil power to hold another in thrall, and so...’
She looked at Zelfos then with an almost gentle pity, and despite his sorcery, he knew he had little with which to stand against this one, for she spoke of peace and equality and had shown mercy and kindness to her enemies. Against these his weapons of hatred and lies and cunning deceptions stood exposed as.... he shook his head and refused to let such thoughts overtake him.
‘...I claim the throne of Revelyn.’
Sylvion’s words rang clear across the hall and out into the crowd which pressed close in fear and desperate curiosity. A thrill ran through them all, for even though they had known she had come to make such a claim, the moment of it was spellbinding.
Suddenly Zelfos spoke. It was the moment for his final desperate victory. He knew that from defeat even now he could master them all. He stepped up onto the stage before Scion or Ofeigr could prevent him. His hands were chained behind his back but his voice was almost as of old, a little cracked and gravelly as one who had spent too long sucking upon a Revel pipe. But those who listened knew who this was, and trembled in fear at his anger.
‘A claim, a treasonous claim has been made against your king.’
His words resounded evilly all about them. None made a move to thwart his speech for even chained he had a presence which seemed to mesmerise them all.
‘King Petros was ordained by King Frederic and has held the Royal Sceptre and survived. By all the laws of Revelyn this proves that he is your king and any who claim his throne commits high treason.’
A ripple ran through the crowd for his words were true.
Zelfos was about to speak again when Sylvion cut him off.
‘Silence sorcerer! Your time has come and is now gone.’ She turned to the throng. ‘It has been agreed that the Royal Sceptre must choose between us, here this day, this very moment.’ But Zelfos would not be silent.
‘And you, imposter, have agreed that the king will hold it first, and if he survives the test you will suffer the consequence of what must be the fate of any who try to seize the throne of one so ordained.’
He shrilly screamed the terms of the contest in such a vile and evil manner that the crowd knew him then to be deranged. He stood and gaped at them all, for he had done what needed to be done. Zelfos knew with an absolute certainty that the king would pass the test. He had done it once. He himself had witnessed it. Victory was close by, and his enemies would soon taste the bitterness of defeat and a painful death. He briefly wondered why the crowd stared at him so, but suddenly Sylvion spoke once more.
She did so with a cold fear within her heart. She had come so far and now stood only upon the faith that her wisdom on this was true. She had no means to tell how the Royal Sceptre worked, she had never seen it. She was the true heir, but Petros had held the Sceptre and survived. It did not seem to be possible, and yet her path was clear before her. There could be no turning back. She took a deep breath.
‘The Sorcerer speaks truly for once,’ she spoke with a moving passion. ‘I have agreed to this. Let the Royal Sceptre decide upon this matter!’
The crowd was silent. The moment was upon them.
Commander Leander stood by Reigin. He had do
ne all that was required to arrange such an important meeting. His wounds had tired him and indeed his leg felt limp and lifeless, but he too was enthralled at this moment. He stepped forward and gave what he knew could well be his last order.
‘Bring the Royal Sceptre!’
The words sent a further thrill through the throng, and suddenly a single deep booming note from a ceremonial drum sounded, its reverberations shaking the ground on which they all stood. High up at the end of the mighty space, where the steps which led into the White Palace reached down into the hall, two bearers appeared carrying between them an intricately carved wooden box, held by two long poles extending on each side. Every eye was immediately upon them, for not in half an age had any but the most privileged seen this fabled box, or its sacred contents. All knew that the Royal Sceptre had, for many royal successions been used in strict privacy, observed only by a select few. This box contained the power to seal the authority of the true and rightful ruler in Revelyn. It could not be denied, for its power was of old, and upon it, Revelyn had been built.
Not a sound passed the lips of any until the box was placed upon the stage before the empty throne. As one of the bearers lifted the lid, a whisper of expectation ran through the crowd and word was passed quickly to the throng outside the hall and in succession to others nearby until within a short time all Ramos knew that the Royal Sceptre had been brought out to decide who would ruler thereafter, and the fate of all who lived that day.
The bearer slowly lifted out a beautiful velvet cushion upon which the ornate Sceptre lay. Bedside it there was an impression in the velvet as though to hold some missing additional object. Immediately Zelfos was reminded of the Shadow Blade, and he was suddenly overcome with a most intense jealousy for he knew that she held it. He had longed to own it, but instead in her hands it had dealt his plans a grievous blow. The other bearer now took the Royal Sceptre and held it out in both hands before the assembly. A murmur of awe swept through the hall for it was beautiful to behold.
Zelfos came to life and broke the spell.
‘Take it my Lord Petros,’ he cried in sudden and wild delight, ‘take the Sceptre and claim the throne once more. Now is the time my Lord to defeat your enemies. Do it now!’
And so the fallen king, Lord Petros Luminos, Lord of Light, obeyed his evil advisor; but in truth his heart too had leapt at this new chance to save his throne. He stepped up onto the stage and in one quick and confident motion took the Royal Sceptre and lifted it high above his head. The crowd gasped instinctively, thinking that it might be death to him, but it was not so.
He held it there for a moment as all eyes were held to the awesome spectacle.
‘I Lord Petros ruler of all Revelyn, claim the throne once more.’
His words cut the air like a knife.
Suddenly the Royal Sceptre started to glow. It gave off a sudden bluish white light which filled the hall and wrapped quickly around the arm which held the Sceptre. It crackled briefly and sparked about as though examining the wielder, and then with a flash, the light disappeared, and a silence fell upon the hall. Nobody moved, but a mighty tension held them all as one.
Suddenly and simultaneously Lord Petros smiled in relief, and Zelfos, who could no longer contain himself, danced despite his chains, and cackled in high glee.
‘We win, you fools, the Sceptre had spoken. It is the agreement, Lord Petros is the King. We have all seen it. I knew that this would be the end of it.’ He turned to Sylvion Greyfeld and hissed evilly.
‘You cannot go back on your word, for it is what you agreed. You will now die and the rightful power in Revelyn returns to me...to Lord Petros.’ He quickly corrected his words although all who listened knew he spoke truly.
Reigin drew his sword and Anderlorn too. The Wolvers, unarmed but seated together in a group sprang to their feet unsure of what to do. Leander cast a worried look around the hall and thought; this is going to fall apart.
Sylvion stood unsure and bewildered for she had not expected this. She had long trusted in the rightness of her cause. How could the Royal Sceptre let her down?
Rema drew his bow and aimed it at Zelfos’ heart for he could not fire upon his brother, but he knew that his arrow would not harm the evil man.
Zelfos was elated, and the Lord Petros waved the Royal Sceptre high and boldly, as if to show the throng that he alone was their ruler by every right and law which stood true in Revelyn.
And then a voice of authority rang clear across the Hall.
‘That is not the Royal Sceptre. It is not complete. It cannot rule in this issue.’
It hit the assembly like a thunderclap, and Zelfos turned to face the claimant with a mighty fury building in his wiry body, and he wished his hands were free for in an instant he would slay the insolent fool who saw fit to make light of such a moment.
Every eye turned with Zelfos, and there standing at the top of the stairs from whence the Sceptre box had just entered, stood a strange old man. His hair was long and white, unkempt as was his beard. His skin seemed bleached whiter than bones left long under a desert sun, or else he had been locked away in deepest darkness for an age. He stood upon one leg for his right one was missing below the knee, and instead he supported himself upon a crude wooden crutch. His eyes were deepest blue and all knew that in this mad man there was no fear and he would embrace his coming death without protest.
What folly is this? Some spoke it loud, but all thought it as though one.
Zelfos’ eyes widened and in recognition hissed like a sorcerer might.
‘Skolar, you dare to leave your work. You will die this day for such impudence.’ The crowd looked from the whitened old man to Zelfos and back again.
Sylvion felt a sudden rush of hope and in her heart she felt a strange and deep affinity for this poor wretch who spoke on her behalf.
The skolar seemed not the least intimidated by Zelfos’ threat and stepped out onto the wide elevated platform to his left from where official pronouncements could be made. Suddenly behind him, another could be seen. A monk like man, heavily cowled, moved effortlessly beside the skolar; none could see his features, but Zelfos felt a wave of intense terror sweep upon him. He did not understand it, but knew by some deeper intuition that he was in the presence of something he could not best. The sorcerer trembled mightily but like a dog protecting a favourite bone, held firm to his twisted quest.
‘Skolar you lie, you yourself told me that this Sceptre was complete. On pain of death you did so.’ And then Zelfos had a terrifying thought. What if he lied to me? He forced the thought away. It could not be possible. All obeyed him, and the Skolar was no different. Five years he had held him to his work...
‘The Sceptre is not complete. It must be complete to decide upon this issue.’
The Skolar’s cry rang eerily throughout the vaulted hall, and whispered words let those without know something of what had now come to pass.
It seemed now that the contest had become a battle of wills between this strange white man and Zelfos, with neither willing to give any ground at all.
‘What part of the sceptre is missing Skolar, ‘ Zelfos cried angrily and stamped about in great irritation upon the stage before the assembly, ‘tell us all what it requires you fool for it has not changed, it is the same Sceptre that Lord Petros used to claim the throne on Frederic’s death.’ Hardly had he spoken the words than he understood the weakness now which lay before him.
If it was different back then, the Sceptre could not have confirmed Lord Petros’ right in the very first instance when he, Zelfos had needed it to be, ...so what had just happened then was no more than a repeat, and he, Zelfos, had believed it to be true all along.
Inside the sorcerer screamed in silent fear, and looking up felt the eyes of the cowled one see deep into his blackened evil heart and lay him bare. He winced in pain but still he would not be thwarted.
‘What will make this Sceptre complete then Skolar?’ he spoke with all the sarcasm and cold contempt that
he could muster, hoping against all that what was before him was no more than a foolish desperate bluff.
And then his plans, so long prepared in darkened places out of sight, so carefully constructed so that other fell creatures might follow into the world of men, and take embodiment and fulfill the lusts of their hearts instead of wandering endlessly in empty etherealness. All his plans came crashing down as the skolar spoke.
‘The missing piece sorcerer, is the Shadow Blade.’
And now these words seem to echo endlessly around the vaulted rafters and stonework of the ancient hall, and hang in the air like a pronouncement of eternal doom.
Shadow Blade..., Shadow Blade...Shadow Blade...
Noooo !!’Zelfos screamed in fury. ‘No you lie skolar, you lie to me your master.’
The old and whitened man ignored his futile rantings. He looked upon Sylvion Greyfeld and smiled, for his heart had longed for this moment.
‘Sylvion Greyfeld, you hold the Shadow Blade. You alone can make the Royal Sceptre complete. Take it my child (and here he paused and seemed to linger lovingly upon his words); take it, my child and take the Sceptre, you will know what to do.’
All within the hall were enthralled by fear and curiosity in equal measure.
No one moved, save Sylvion, who took the Shadow Blade from its simple sheath and held it out before the throng. It glowed powerfully from some inner light. Zelfos screamed again in utter frustration for he knew what must come to pass and he had no power to prevent it...and so he screamed aloud.
‘Nooo !! it cannot be allowed. Lord Petros take the blade and claim the throne, do it now you fool or else I am lost...’
But the fallen king could do no more than any other. He watched enthralled as Sylvion took the Royal Sceptre from him and with the Shadow Blade stood boldly before them all. A deathly silence fell upon the hall as Sylvion Greyfeld looked from the Royal Sceptre to the Shadow Blade and back again. She seemed to think upon some puzzle and so after a time turned the Sceptre all about till suddenly she inverted it and gave a simple cry.
