Of course, any stronghold, no matter how well-built, could fall from within. The throne had to be secured.
Would that the lad had more steel in his back, like his father, the general thought, not for the first time. No one would question his ability to rule.
Citizens wrapped in furs and thick cloth coats bowed their heads as he passed along the cobblestone street. Torion acknowledged them with an occasional nod. Shop owners and craftsmen peered out of their establishments to eye the man known as the Sword of the Realm. Some likely wondered why Torion did not himself seek to take the throne from the weak heir. The general sniffed disdainfully at such talk, though. His duty was all that mattered to him. Not for Torion the unwieldy and oppressive weight of rule. Justinian was welcome to it.
At the wall surrounding the palace, wary-eyed guards in red uniforms, gray steel breastplates, and ridged helms stood at attention, their pikes held high, sheathed swords hanging ready at their side. Overhead, the royal banners fluttered madly, the lunging black bear in the middle of each seeming to be dancing a mad jig.
The guards gave way quickly, Torion the one man not needing to identify himself to them. Through the wrought-iron gates he and his party rode. The wind howled, but the commander did not notice it, his mind concentrating on more important matters. Indeed, he paid no mind to the rest of the journey to the palace steps, nor even to the trek up to the huge, iron doors with the glaring wolf heads … the symbols of the original masters. Only then did he pause, mostly to admire the power inherent in those images. The Sons of Rakkis might have died out as a ruling dynasty, but their legacy was everywhere, including in the blood of many of Westmarch’s people.
The tall, gray hall through which he trod was lit by torches and both walls were lined with Torion’s most trusted men. The lupine images continued uninterrupted, one snarling animal after another. However, a predecessor of Justinian’s had at least attempted to prove who now ruled by hanging huge, elaborate—and to the general, gaudy—tapestries from the ceiling with his own line’s emblem. The giant bears dangled overhead, but to Torion, they seemed more frightened then frightening. It almost appeared that they stayed so high up so as to be safely out of reach of the ancient wolves’ jaws.
General Torion made an abrupt right turn that took him away from the direction of the throne room. Justinian could never be found there; the new monarch preferred the comfort of his own quarters, where he had lived since a baby. His insistent refusal to sit upon the actual throne only worsened political tensions.
“General!” a voice suddenly called from behind. “My lord general!”
Torion immediately recognized the nasal tone: Edmun Fairweather, the new king’s aide, a high-strung, wheedling man who had far too much of Justinian’s attention.
“What is it, Edmun?” the general said, turning.
A thin figure clad in black vest and pants, Justinian’s man had a faint avian look to him. His pate was bald save for a ring of brown running from one ear back to the other.
“His majesty … his majesty you will not find there.”
“Oh? Is he down in the kitchens?” Torion’s new lord considered himself a bit of a chef, and when it had seemed he would never be ruler, he had spent much of his time toying with recipes. It was another trait that had lessened him greatly in the eyes of so many of the nobility.
“No, my lord general! His majesty awaits you in the throne room!”
The general grunted in surprise. This was a first. Justinian had stayed away from that chamber as if merely entering it would give him plague. Torion tried not to get his hopes up. It was one thing for Cornelius’s heir to build up his nerve enough to go there, another to actually look as if he belonged.
“Lead on, then.”
Edmun spun around on one heel, guiding them back to the throne room, where four sentries at the doorway stood at attention. Edmun snapped his reedy fingers and two opened the doors. The general’s personal guard took up positions in the hall. Their presence in the royal chamber would have been considered a slight to the king, and Justinian could not afford even the least lack of respect at this juncture.
But as he stepped inside, Torion’s brow arched at the sight he beheld. He went down on one knee without even realizing it, so caught up was he by the man before him.
Justinian IV—Justinian the Wide-Eyed, as so many called him behind his back—gazed down solemnly from the throne at the commander of Westmarch’s armies. Gone was the fearful, childlike figure. What sat before Torion had all the presence of the late, beloved Cornelius. The slim, sandy-haired youth would have been handsome if not for the pockmarks an early bout with disease had left on each cheek. He had the aquiline features of his father, but his eyes were definitely those of the long-lamented Queen Nellia, dead shortly after his birth. Those eyes generally had a weak, watery quality to them that had never been seen in the mother, but this day Torion’s gaze met a pair of rich, brown orbs that utterly snared his attention.
“My Lord General Torion,” Justinian greeted him, his usually-hesitant voice now matching his eyes in strength. “Always a pleasure. Please rise.”
He sounds exactly like his father …, the commander secretly marveled as he obeyed the command. Exactly like good Cornelius when he was fit.
The white sleeping robes that Torion had so often found the heir wearing no matter what the time of day had vanished. Instead, the new king was clad in the regal outfit tailors had worked day and night to fashion the moment it became clear that his father would not recover. It was highly reminiscent of the general’s own uniform, but with round, ornate epaulets of gold and silver and an intricate crest on the golden breastplate. The bear rearing to the left looked nowhere as fearful as those on the tapestries lining the walls and well reflected its present wearer. Golden stripes bordered the sleeves and legs. High, military-cut boots of black leather finished the magnificent effect. Torion, who knew how others reacted when he himself stepped into a room, now experienced that feeling toward Justinian for the first time since King Cornelius had knighted the general some two decades past.
“Your majesty—,” Torion finally began, realizing that for once he was the one stumbling for words. “It is my pleasure to be in the presence of my liege.”
Justinian opened his mouth, then seemed to hesitate. For a brief moment, he glanced to his side, his expression hinting of his usual, uncertain self. Then, just as suddenly, the confident young monarch returned. Rising smoothly, Justinian stepped down to take the hand of his most loyal servant.
“I know you’ve been worried about me, general. I appreciate the support you’ve given despite that worry.”
Again, Torion felt as if he stood in the presence of his previous master. “A change in command’s always a time of some uncertainty, but my trust and loyalty have never wavered, your majesty.”
“Good, stalwart Torion,” the king said with a sudden grin—a grin that was again so reminiscent of Cornelius. Justinian startled him further by slapping the veteran officer on the back. Only now was it obvious that they were of a similar height. The young ruler’s usual habit of hunching his shoulders from a lack of confidence had vanished. This Justinian stood as tall and as proud as any of his line.
The general fought back a grin of his own. If what he saw was a permanent transformation, then those eager to use their blood claims to take the throne from its rightful owner would soon have a harsh surprise awaiting them.
“May I say how well those garments fit you, your majesty,” he declared, much more at ease than during his ride.
“They do, don’t they? Who would’ve thought it?”
Pulling away, Justinian suddenly raised his arms up and laughed at the ceiling. Torion’s brow arched again and he glanced at Edmun, who judiciously found something of interest on his sleeve.
The king quickly lowered his arms. A brief glimmer of uncertainty passed across his expression. “Excuse me, general! Just a little—uh—anxiousness. Not all the butterflies have left my stom
ach.”
Considering what he had thought he would have to work with, Torion readily accepted the answer. Instead of a weak, untried boy, the commander found himself in the presence of a man more capable than any of the pretenders. A few idiosyncrasies were to be expected. Every monarch had them. It was in the blood.
“How strong is our support, Torion?”
Despite having already witnessed Justinian’s marvelous conversion for several minutes, the direct question caught the commander off guard. “Beg pardon, your majesty?”
“Who can we trust to stand with me, general? Who already stands firm?”
Torion’s well-organized mind took over. He immediately rattled off several names, concluding with the one he trusted most. “And, of course, there’s the Lady Nesardo.”
Justinian eyed him. “Nesardo is with us? You’re certain?”
“She gave her support without hesitation … and if I may say so, should you appear as you do now before several of those who waver, the tide will turn decidedly in your favor.”
Again, the sandy-haired monarch glanced to his side. This time, Torion simply waited. If this was the only affectation the new Justinian had, Westmarch was very fortunate.
“You have the right of it, general,” the king finally returned. With another grin identical to his father’s, he added, “Prepare an audience at first chance, Edmun! Invite all those old Torion here thinks should come!”
“Yes, your majesty,” his aide said with a grand bow.
“I think a show of strength is also in order, don’t you, general?”
He continued to catch Torion off guard. “Your majesty?”
“The military might of Westmarch must be made to be seen loyal without question to me. Can you arrange that?”
Torion considered. “Much of the realm’s marshaled forces are levies belonging to the various lords, who lend them to the crown as a sign of their trust. Several of those I would not wish near your presence at this time … if you know what I mean.”
“What can you deliver to me?”
“In addition to those I know are loyal, I can summon forces from the edge of Khanduras, I suppose.” Khanduras, to the northeast, was a region from which brigands often entered Westmarch. Khanduras itself was very jealous of its neighbor’s natural wealth and Torion suspected that its coffers received a share of the bandits’ ill-gotten gains. Unfortunately, the last had never been proven.
“Some might find that risky. Not sound judgment for a king,” pointed out Justinian.
“Your wisdom impresses me, your majesty.”
The king frowned, then looked to the side once more. A moment later, the steel returned to his gaze. “Of course! How silly of me! The City Guard is part of your personal force, isn’t it?”
Torion was not certain he liked where he thought this was heading. “Aye, but—”
Cornelius’s son clapped his hands together. “It’s perfect, don’t you see? Well, we certainly don’t need to worry about an invasion here, and any of the nobles who’ve been considering taking my place would hardly go up against them! We’ll use them to show the strength of our claim!”
Some of Torion’s newfound hope dwindled away. He considered the walls of the city an essential part of the realm’s defense, no matter how far away Khanduras and Ensteig might be. A strong capital gave confidence to the rest of the land.
But Justinian had made up his mind. Before General Torion could suggest anything else, the king declared, “Let it be done! I think we can strip the most men from the walls facing the mountains and the forest! Not much out there to worry about except a few wendigos, am I right, general?”
“Very likely,” muttered the commander. He did a quick calculation. Yes, if it had to be done, those walls would be the best to empty. Still, Torion would also need to reorganize the watches, and that would take some time, as would putting together the overall display. “It’ll take some doing, but it’ll be done.”
“Splendid!” Justinian patted him on the shoulder again, once more emulating the late Cornelius to perfection. “I leave you to see to it, then.”
Torion felt all turned around. He had not come here expecting any of this to happen. “Yes. As you wish, your majesty.” The officer recalled the reason that he had come. “King Justinian, if I may—”
“Yes, you may go … with my thanks and my blessing.”
Justinian turned to speak with Edmun. Seeing that the audience was over, General Torion bowed and exited the chamber. His mind raced as he weighed the good and ill coming from this change in Cornelius’s son. The general’s personal guard fell in line around him, but he barely noticed.
The walls should be left well-defended. It’s always been so, he thought. Yet, there were too many questionable factors concerning the levies, and for what Justinian desired Torion would have to gather quite a force. There was no choice but to temporarily strip the city walls.
But that matter aside, the commander left the halls with much-renewed hopes. Justinian had just showed more backbone than he had in all the years Torion had known him. With the general’s capable guidance, surely that backbone could be strengthened further yet. Many a king had started out uncertain and untried, only to rise above himself and become legend.
This is a good thing, General Torion insisted to himself as he stepped out into the foul weather again. This will preserve the kingdom. This will preserve Westmarch.
And in the end, that was what mattered most.
A servant brought King Justinian IV a goblet of rose-colored wine as Edmun droned on about the upcoming gathering of nobles. The young monarch took a single sip.
“Enough.”
Edmun paused in mid-word. “Your majesty?”
“Please leave me, Edmun. Take the rest with you.”
The aide bowed so low that Justinian thought he would scrape the floor with his prodigious nose. “As you desire, your majesty.”
Straightening, the black-clad figure snapped his fingers at the guards.
The lord of Westmarch watched all of them slowly file out. Their backs to the king, Edmun and the others did not see his eyes abruptly grow round with anxiety and his mouth twist down in deep distress. The hand holding the goblet shook so much that droplets rained upon his pristine garments.
When at last the doors closed and he was left alone, a gasp escaped his taut lips. Justinian let the goblet fall from his grasp, ignoring the clatter and the spreading stain on the stone floor. Moving like a caged animal, he stepped to the center of the throne room and looked around.
“Ah!” His gaze fixed on empty space in one far corner. With trepidation, the king reached one trembling hand toward the shadows there.
“Father!” Justinian gasped. “Did I do well, Father?”
In the dark of the storm, a single light flickered in the sky. Those few who might have seen it likely would have imagined that somehow the clouds had parted just long enough for this one star to shine through.
But had they now witnessed it drop toward the ground, they would have instead called it a portent, an omen.
In both cases, such onlookers would have been entirely wrong … and entirely correct.
But the light did not simply plummet, as most such astonishing sights did. Its descent was swift, yet focused.
And just above the city, it paused.
A guard on the outer walls happened to glance in its direction, perhaps somehow sensing a difference in the world. His eyes immediately glazed, then turned away. He went about his duties, the unearthly vision plucked from his memories.
The light continued down, dropping into Westmarch. As it did, its unnatural brilliance faded, blending into the gray realm below.
Just above the House of Nesardo, it faded from mortal sight.
EIGHT
The three hooded figures stood in judgment as a kneeling Zayl carefully drew the pattern in the soft earth. The harsh cries of the nocturnal denizens of Kehjistan’s jungle echoed now and then, eerie calls accenting the uns
ettling nature of the Rathmian’s task.
With his dagger, Zayl drew two arcs over a circle with a slash across it. Each image flared red the moment it was finished, then faded to a faint green. The young spellcaster’s breathing grew rapid as his work progressed.
“It is almost complete,” he announced to the elders.
“What does Rathma teach us of touching the Balance so?” asked the middle of the three, a gaunt, gray-tressed female with twin black stars tattooed on each cheek.
Zayl answered without hesitation. “That the least imbalance in either direction can cause great catastrophe.”
The woman pursed her thin lips. “That is the rote answer, what every acolyte is told in the beginning so that they do not see the skills they learn as something to use as they please. You are far advanced beyond that point, Zayl, son of Icharion.”
“Look deeper into yourself and your work,” suggested a bald male whose face was nearly as fleshless as the bones with which the necromancers performed their mysterious work.
“Concentrate,” murmured the third, whose visage could not even be seen under the voluminous hood. His voice had a curious echo to it, as if he spoke from deep within some cavern. “Think in terms of yourself, for that is where every spell and every consequence comes from.”
“Conclude the pattern,” added the cadaverous man.
Zayl added a wavy line—representing water—to his design. He leaned back, studying each detail and finding nothing amiss. At the same time, another compartment in his mind analyzed the question. So, it had something to do with the pattern upon which he worked. The questions of the elders were ever tied to the moment, for the moment was always the most important aspect of time. The moment shaped the future, decided the course the Rathmians needed to take to keep the Balance as it should be.
He studied the symbols—the broken sun, the water, the arcs that represented lives, the jagged marks that were fire. For some reason, they struck a chord deep within Zayl, one that stirred an emotion long buried.
Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 10
