by Emery, Ben
‘We arranged for the assassination of Villanus,’ the prisoner continued.
‘Why?’ Ursta pressured him for more information.
‘The Tribes have united,’ the whispering started again. ‘We will carve out new territories for ourselves, and see greatness once again, as one force. All of Caldoa will fall to our armies, and Villanus was the first.’ The prisoner passed out then, but Rural had heard enough.
‘Good work Ursta,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘At least now we know for certain what they are planning.’
‘What do you want doing with these now then?’ the Kingmaker replied, gesturing down the room at the still figures that filled several of the cells.
‘Kill them. Quickly,’ Rural replied, ‘but not this one.’ He pointed to the man still strapped to the board, head lolling on his chest. ‘Keep him under guard; give him food, water and clothes. There may be more he is willing to tell us.’
Galarus hated visiting the White Palace, and only did so when ordered. He tended to avoid the whole of the Holy District if he could. He had asked Lieutenants Jaxon and Placatas to accompany him on the short walk from the Military District, having had little chance to speak to them otherwise. It was early in the evening and the late summer’s warmth still clung to the city. The recruits of the New Ninth had been worked hard all day, and earned themselves an early respite from training. What was more, emissaries from the Palace had spent the past several hours announcing Rural’s decision to take the title of King, rather than Voice; a decision that had wholly, yet unevenly, divided the populace. The majority were audibly excited at the prospect of having royalty return to Caldoa, while some, more quietly, believed it was not Rural’s right to assume such a degree of nobility.
‘You’ve gotta admire the balls on him,’ Placatas was arguing. ‘How many people would even consider making themselves a king, let alone manage to pull it off?’
Galarus shrugged. ‘Who cares how he did it? I want to know why.’
Jaxon, walking on the General’s left, had remained silent for the most part. ‘Does anything even change if he becomes king? Title, perhaps, but what else?’
‘He might succeed in pissing off the Order,’ Placatas grunted, as if it were an upside.
‘I doubt it.’ Galarus shook his head. ‘There’s no way he could have done this without the Order’s backing in the first place. And the Iyannis family has always had the Order in the palm of their hands.’
At his own words, the General recalled suddenly something his father had told him many years ago, when he was a child: the Galarus and Iyannis families had been at odds for as long as anyone could remember, though for generations no one could recall why. True, he had never seen eye to eye with Rural, but he had based that on the fact that he thought him an arrogant prick, rather than any long standing feud.
The trio of officers reached the foot of the pathway that spiraled up the raised stone plateau upon which the White Palace sat, each of them silent, thinking to themselves.
‘I’ll find you when I’m done here,’ Galarus said sharply, already dreading the company of the Kingmakers. The lieutenants nodded, and left him to make the journey upward alone.
The magnificent view of the city was lost on him as the palace guards let him pass without incident through the pillared entranceway, and the echo of his military boots upon the marble floor resounded about the atrium as he made his way to the southern wing, where the Kingmakers were waiting for him. Reaching the Meeting Hall, the General did not wait for the guards outside to announce him. Instead, he pushed open the heavy door himself, and strolled inside, interrupting a low hum of conversation.
‘Ah! General!’ Rural greeted him, unusually warmly. ‘Welcome. Please, take a seat.’
Galarus refused, instead stared down the length of the long table in front of him at those sat before him. Rural, the soon to be ruler of Alloria, sat at the head, while to his left sat Ursta and Lidora. The former, a military man in his younger days, offered the General a curt nod, which was returned. On Rural’s right sat Paeran and, by far Galarus’ least favourite of the Kingmakers, Epi Vinnah. It was not the bribery that bothered him so much, nor the more sordid dealings. It was the way he treated those with less than himself; as though, in turn, their lives were worth less than his. The General could recall to mind more than a few of his soldiers that had been forced to enlist in the Legions after Epi had driven them from the homes and land with high taxes or rent, only to sell it, or worse, give it away to cultivate favour with another powerful family.
‘I have news for you, General, concerning the death of Villanus,’ Rural continued, bringing Galarus’ attention back to himself. ‘What I will tell you now is information that has yet to be released to the populace, so, tell only those that you must.’
‘It would have been nice to have received this information a little closer to the assassination. Perhaps on the morning his body was found?’ Galarus replied, respectfully enough, despite the critical nature of his words.
Rural stiffened in his seat at the challenge to his authority.
‘The palace guards were sufficient to deal with the issue, and far closer, General. It did not seem prudent at the time to try and coordinate each and every Legion in a city-wide search.’
‘And how well did the palace guards conduct this task of theirs?’ Galarus sneered, his obvious dislike of the Order’s troops showing through.
The corners of Rural’s mouth twitched into a smile ever so briefly, fully expecting the General’s criticism. ‘Excellently, as a matter of fact; upon Villanus’ body was discovered an amulet belonging to the assassin; it was of a Tribal design. Three images overlapping to form a single insignia.’
Galarus listened wordlessly.
‘Of course, we were reluctant to jump to any conclusions, as you can well imagine. We have shared a great deal of trade with the Tribes over the years without any hostility whatsoever. It was due to this that we took it upon ourselves to find out more, and a number of the Tribal merchants were questioned.’
Galarus knew what he meant by “questioned.”
‘The result of this questioning,’ Rural went on, ‘was the confirmation of what we had been afraid to suspect; the three Tribes have united against us, and intend to make war. This assassination was the first part of their plan, it would seem; an attempt to weaken us preemptively.’
‘You are certain?’ Galarus replied, hiding his surprise at this revelation.
‘We are,’ Ursta answered for Rural assuredly.
‘And,’ Rural continued, ‘as you can well understand, I am hesitant to allow another enemy force to march into our lands. Which is why I have summoned you here; you will lead an army west, against the Tribes, before they can strike at us. You will be granted supplies enough for two thousand men; a gracious offer from Paeran.’ He gestured toward the merchant Kingmaker with his right hand, as though the General were unaware of whom he was.
‘Two thousand men?’ Galarus repeated. ‘That’s it?’
‘It will be a sufficient enough force for the task ahead of you.’ Rural assured him. ‘After all, they are a band of savages, whose numbers will barely exceed your own. I’m sure any show of strength will send them running. In fact, might I suggest you send the new recruits you have been training; it will be a useful exercise for them.’
‘They are untested in battle and barely trained at all,’ Galarus protested.
‘Nonsense, General. I expect you to march three weeks from today. The men should have been suitably trained by then, I would hope.’
Galarus did not reply.
‘I also think it wise that the second Legion under your command for this operation be the Tenth; they are veterans themselves, and would provide a good example for our new recruits.’
There was nothing the General could do. Yes, the Legions answered to him, but ultimately they served the city, which would, within days, be under the firm control of Rural himself.
‘Is that all?’ he
muttered without any respect for the young Kingmaker.
‘It is, General. Thank you for your time. I hope to hear you are ready by the date I have set for you. Until then, I do not expect that I will need you.’
Galarus turned and left without a word. Sending two Legions against the Tribes was a joke, regardless of their number. No one truly knew how large their forces were, but he hoped that two thousand men would be more than enough. He stamped down the circular flagstone path quickly, winding his way down the central stone pillar in the city to the Holy District below. He was in desperate need of a drink, and kept his head down and walked quickly. The priests of the Order dotted the streets as he passed the well-maintained schools, colleges and gardens. They led a luxurious life here, and the Order itself was never short of money, while citizens in the surrounding settlements struggled to make a living. Even within the city there were people that needed the money more than those that preached charity to them.
Passing into the Merchant District, Galarus slowed his pace and made his way toward the narrow alley that ran close to its eastern side, and housed his favourite tavern; The Sword Arm. Mostly frequented by the officers of the Legion, it was a quiet enough place that he not be disturbed. His mind was still reeling from what Rural had told him. He found it hard to believe that the Tribes would stop fighting each other, let alone unite under a single banner against Alloria. Still, all evidence pointed to them, and Ursta’s convictions, no fan of Rural himself, only added more weight to it, regardless of how dubious he might suspect some of that evidence to be.
What plagued him more was the choice of Legions Rural had made. The Ninth and Tenth: Placatas and Jaxon’s men. They were undoubtedly good lieutenants, and the two out of the ten that he was most fond of. A very deliberate choice, Galarus suspected, despite there being more veteran Legions, and even more experienced officers.
He found his usual table outside of the inn and took a seat. A barmaid, pretty, if a little plump, recognised one of the more prominent of the establishment’s patrons, and brought him out a tankard of the ale he was known to order, a sweet smile resting comfortably beneath beautifully green eyes and a thin nose. He thanked her, and quickly swallowed half of it, wiping the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. That was better. He turned his attention to the few passersby that were on the street, watching as they went about their own business. Some fifty yards away, several figures, wearing the white of the Order, their faces concealed by hoods, huddled in a doorway, and hastily stepped inside as they caught the General’s eye. Galarus spat, disgusted. He well knew what the place was; one of many buildings that belonged to Epi Vinnah and served as brothels and sin-houses. The slimy Kingmaker’s influence was only bolstered by the extent and status of his clientele. This establishment in particular, close to the Holy District, was particularly favoured by the priests, and reputed to provide customers with the company of a much younger stock.
Vile bastards, Galarus thought to himself, sickened. He downed the rest of his drink, leaving a generous tip for the serving girl, and made his way toward the Military District, his mind ticking over the magnitude of the task that had been laid out before him.
There had not been a recognised king in all of Banmer for over four hundred years, and, as Rural’s chosen day of coronation dawned, the city was alive with excitement. Some still muttered amidst themselves concerning the illegitimacy of any claim to royalty, and none more so than the men of the Legions. The Order had, against all likelihood and beyond even Rural’s expectations, wholly stood behind him. This not inconsiderable feat had been achieved solely due to the efforts and influence of Oliune Korcus, though through what means exactly even Rural was unsure. He doubted that Oliune had revealed the full nature of their plans, but many of the more senior priests would have taken a great deal of convincing. And yet here they were, on the day they were to celebrate the return of a king to the Marble Throne of Alloria, lining the parade route from Forge’s Gate in the eastern wall of the city, to a carefully constructed wooden stage on the plains slightly north of where Villanus’ body had been burned.
It was a pleasant enough day; the sun shone down from a blue-white sky, its heat unimpeded by what little wisps of cloud there were to speak of, and people were enjoying themselves. Crowds spilled out into the countryside in every direction, and close-knit ranks of the palace guards were required to keep them at a distance. Vendors had swarmed in droves to the outskirts, and many offered food and drinks to those that waited for a glimpse of their new ruler. Pickpockets and thieves weaved with dexterous skill between the masses, apologising profusely for an intentional collision as nimble fingers pried into the recesses of clothing, searching for the cool kiss of metal coin upon their skin.
Upon the stage, the four Kingmakers stood, waiting patiently, as Rural took his time walking along the avenue that intersected the hordes of civilians, clamouring and jostling to see him. Flowers and petals were already strewn across the path beneath his feet, and yet more were still thrown before him.
His clothes had, for some time, proved a difficult choice; while a Voice of the Order would always wear the white of his faith upon robes of silk, none could safely say what a king might comport himself in at his own coronation. Rural had, eventually, decided upon a long white robe belted around his waist, under a cloak of pale blue, not dissimilar from those worn by officers of the Legion. It would be, to his mind, a diplomatic show of the union of the city and the Order through his coronation.
Behind his right shoulder, Oliune Korcus followed, shuffling alongside his young friend. In his hands were a specially made white velvet cushion, upon which sat the first crown to have been seen in nearly half a millennium. It was of a simple design, and by no means excessive or ornate; a band of gold, decorated only with the twin pillars of Caldoa standing upright at the front. Onlookers cooed as it passed them, and several of the palace guards, despite their duty to watch the crowds, craned their necks to catch a glimpse of it.
As the pair reached the stage, their escort of a handful of guards and a troop of standard bearers waving vigourously the colours of both the city and the Order fanned off to left and right. A row of palace guards, stood before the stage, parted to allow Rural and Oliune through.
The soon-to-be king had declined the services of the Legions as a line of defence for the ceremony. Not that Galarus had offered them anyway. Instead, the General had allowed any of his legionaries that wished to witness the ceremony leave to do so. There were some, but not all. Those that refused to encourage the spectacle remained as a skeleton guard within the city, should any prospective thieves or burglars try their luck in shops or warehouses. All of the Legion officers, however, were present, though watched from a distance together, studying, but removed from this farce of a coronation.
Galarus had shared with his lieutenants the entire course of his meeting with the Kingmakers, and the resultant plan that would see him and two thousand soldiers marching west. All had agreed that two Legions was a dangerously under-strength force to send against the Tribes, though whether or not their grumblings had reached the ears of the Palace, they went unheeded. Lieutenant Remolan had even petitioned Rural personally to allow him and the Eighth Legion to accompany the General, only to be denied with some flippant excuse pertaining to the safety of the city itself.
Rural took his place upon an intricately carved, high-backed wooden chair in the very centre of the stage. Oliune handed the white cushion to Epi Vinnah, and carefully lifted the crown from it. Try as he might, Rural could not help glancing quickly up at his old friend; the priest’s eyes were illuminated by pride and excitement, and a crooked smile edged briefly onto his face. Rural returned his gaze to the crowds before him, staring straight ahead as he felt the weight of the crown slide over his hair. Oliune took a step back and the multitude, muted as they had been as soon as the crown had been picked up, exploded into raucous applause and cheer. Rural regained his feet, and the cacophony only grew louder, audible even fro
m the other side of the city.
King Rural the First, as he was to be known now, stepped lightly back down to the ground, and, flanked on either side by the palace guards, made toward the city gates. He struggled, for as long as he could, to maintain what he thought a royal composure, but he was not a quarter of the way back to the high walls of Caldoa before he capitulated to his own exhilaration, and, beaming, began to wave to his new subjects with all the exuberance with which they greeted him.
It had been a good day, he thought, as he passed beneath the stone archway of Forge’s Gate and into the Military District; a good day, but still only the beginning. What would follow would prove a far more daunting test of his skill and resolve. But what lay beyond that, was a prize worth infinitely more; a power like no other.
Meanwhile, inside the city, in a side street in the Holy District, two guards slouched against a wall in front of the door to an unassuming building.
‘You hear that?’ the first asked his companion. ‘Probably the only crowning ceremony of a king we’ll see in this city and we’re stuck here, guarding some half-dead Tribe rat.’ He spat on the floor in front of him. ‘Who gives a shit what happens to him now? I’ve heard he’s already told us everything he knows. Leave him to rot for all I care.’
The other guard shrugged. ‘Rural wants him alive for some reason.’
‘Ah, careful!’ came the reply. ‘That’s King Rural to you now!’ He laughed. ‘Better not make that mistake again, I reckon he’ll make an example of you, show his power, establish his authority and all that.’
The second guard shrugged again, then without a sound dropped to his knees, and fell flat onto his face, spear and shield clattering off the ground, ringing out into the deserted street. The first sentry rushed to his side as blood began to pool beneath the downed man’s torso, seeping from a stab wound under the arm. The remaining guard stood up, frantically looking up and down the street for any sign of the assailant.
