by Greg Curtis
In that one act Heri had lost all the respect of his subjects. No longer had he been the king. Instead he was just the naughty child thrashed in public by his older brother. His name was a joke on the lying lips of a thousand bards in a thousand inns across the realm. His reputation something the peasants joked about in the streets. King Heri the Bold had become Heri the Weak.
There had of course been only one thing he could do in the face of such gall; impose his authority. And he had done it. Guards in the streets of all the towns had been increased. Crimes had been punished speedily and without mercy. Taxes had been raised and the numbers of collectors doubled. Anyone openly speaking against him – even in jest – had been thrown in the dungeons, which were now full to bursting. The people had to know fear at his hand. They had to know he was their king. Soldiers, all of those who had been there at his defeat, had been flogged in the courtyard in front of the crowds, and then beheaded. Their heads had been stuck on polls along with all the others who in the past had failed him. Heri didn't tolerate failure.
As for the nobles who were all forever scheming, plotting and conspiring against him, he had demanded a price of blood from them all. He had required their nearest and dearest as “guests” in the keep. It was a strategy he'd considered before but had never risked because of the likely outcry. But it was too late to worry about that when he had become a joke.
He had been harsh and brutal. He had demanded fealty and if it wasn't given quickly enough he had harshly punished anyone who hadn't lived up to his standards. And it had seemed to be working.
But then everything had gone wrong again, and all in the space of a single morning. Assassins had struck and all his “guests” had been slaughtered. Who had paid them to act he didn't know though he suspected they were in the pay of the Fallbrights.
That was the end of course. He'd known it the instant his majordomo had brought him the news, and he'd wanted to kill the man on the spot just for speaking the words. What use were dead guests save of course as motivation to kill those who had killed them?
The noble houses had all taken the news badly. Their favoured sons and daughters had all been killed, butchered under the king's nose if not by the king's hand. They were angry. More than that, they were desperate that no other kin should ever be his guests. If their own kin could not be kept safe in the keep even when they were the king's “guests”, then how could they ever trust him again? Especially with more of their precious children. And that was assuming they didn't think Heri had killed them himself. They could certainly never again allow their sons and daughters to be held by him. Heri knew that that one act had united all the lords against him. They had decided that he had to go and they weren't considering sending him off to another realm. Unless it was the realm of the dead.
So war had been called and the battle drums had started their relentless beat within days. A dozen armies from a dozen fiefdoms had been hastily assembled, and they now all marched on Fall Keep, proclaiming his coming defeat. A keep that thanks to his poxy, bastard brother, had no walls. Without them his army could not mount a solid defence, least of all against twelve armies, and his soldiers weren't as loyal as they had once been. Apparently seeing their comrades in arms executed had gone down badly. Watching a wizard simply wander through their defences untroubled had also been poorly received. And knowing that a dozen armies were now marching on them while they had no walls to protect them; that had been the final spike in his crypt.
They had deserted. Run away like stinking little cowards, and taken half the people with them. Those who remained in the keep were either too stupid to run, well hidden, or likely to join his enemies even as they proclaimed their loyalty to him. Though they went through the motions of fighting the few renegades and spies who had started the war early, they were in truth paying lip service to him while they planned out what their next move should be in order to survive. Heri had no doubt they would save their skins by handing the enemy his.
Briefly Heri considered the toys in his sanctum. His most powerful weapon, the sun burst, could only be used once, and only on a single target. Activating it would also cause the user's death. Because there was no way that whoever activated it could get away before it exploded. The next weapon – the bronze golems the azure stone conjured – were slow and stupid. They were also few in number and would not be effective against an army. As for the blade of the dark assassin, it too would work only on one enemy at a time and only from a short distance. He would be lucky to kill more than two or three with it. Still, it might be a good toy to take with him.
But in the end it was his canon that had proved the most useful. And there was perhaps a lesson for him in that. The magical would not save him.
It seemed that neither his spymaster nor the soldiers who had locked him in had realised that the base of Heri's throne, a pair of miniature bronze cannon, were kept loaded at all times while he sat and heard his subjects. And even if the new throne hadn't been completely finished, they had been. Clearly Tommas had never been a disciple of the Red God. He did not think like a soldier.
No doubt the spymaster had thought the canon were ornamental. But then he'd also never informed him that the Fallbrights were planning to slaughter his hostages. He hadn't proved to be much of a spymaster in the end.
Augrim would die soon too, though he didn't know it yet. Sand scorpion venom took days to act when ingested. But it would not fail. Not like his pet wizard had. Augrim had spoken all the right words. But he too had lied to Heri's face and then fled with everyone else. No doubt he planned to reveal any and all of Heri's secrets to his enemies if it would work in his favour. He might even tell them about Heri's sanctum and the ancient magical treasures it contained. Augrim could see the writing on the wall. Unfortunately for him, Heri had seen his treachery coming, and made certain the wizard enjoyed a good last meal. And though Augrim had taken the precaution of using a taster as he did for all his meals, that had not been enough. The taster was now slowly dying as well.
So what did he do now?
He could perhaps fight his way out. He could reload the cannon and blast the doors down. But that would be suicide. He was not about to die no matter how gloriously. That was Samual's noble dream. Heri wanted to live. And then to hurt those who had hurt him. To make them bleed.
Besides, he didn't know who among those fighting outside the throne room he could trust. His thought was that it would be very few of them.
He knew that outside the huge double doors leading to the throne room there would be armed men waging pitched battles. That was already the case throughout the rest of the keep and the citadel beyond. They people were fighting, but more out of confusion as to who was on whose side than to protect him. Some he thought would still try to protect him, though there were precious few left. Some would be waiting outside the doors to either kill him or hand him over to his enemies. Most though were probably just waiting to surrender and save their worthless hides. And he had no idea which of them was which.
What he did know was that when those double doors swung open next, it would not be a good omen for him. And as the guards had heard the cannon roar, they knew he was armed. His enemies would be prepared.
It would be best to leave before then. And he had to leave.
He didn't want to. Heri loved being king. He loved the power, and he loved seeing those others who were also powerful bow before him. He loved making them do his bidding. And he loved watching them suffer under his reign. Especially those who defied him. He loved sitting on his throne and commanding them all. That was why the first thing he'd had rebuilt after Samual's attack had been the cannon throne. But he loved living more than all of those things.
It was time.
Reluctantly Heri got to his feet, said goodbye to his newly rebuilt throne for the last time, and stuffed his crown and new sceptre into a makeshift ermine sack he constructed from the furs draping his throne. Gold was gold after all. Then he walked around to the rear of the dais on which
his throne sat. Heri lifted the concealed lever that opened the stone trapdoor leading down to the floor below and hoisted it up with an effort. He'd never been the strongest – strength was for soldiers and soldiers were fools – but even with only one and a half hands he managed it.
After that it was just a short distance down the ladder after letting the trapdoor fall shut behind him, until he was safe in the secret passageway. A passageway that no one knew about since he'd had the artisan who designed it and all his craftsmen killed once the job was complete. There was no point in letting them live when they knew about his escape tunnel. Their work had been done.
It was dark and dirty of course – no one knew of the passageway so no one cleaned it – but he carried a small tinder with him to light the waiting torches that were hanging from the wall on both sides of the ladder, and soon he had enough light to see by. And all he really needed was enough light to be able to walk along the passageway and find the stairs at the far end. They in turn would take him down to an underground tunnel which would take him right out of the keep and to the public stables where he hoped to find a horse.
But before then he decided, he had some scores to settle with his loyal subjects. For his soldiers who had turned their backs on him. For his servants who had run away. And for the noble houses marching on the keep at this moment, planning to steal his throne and kill him. They would get nothing. No throne, no title and no keep. If he couldn't have them then no one could.
When he'd had the underground tunnel carved out, he'd made some alterations to the keep's foundations as well, and now fifty barrels of gunpowder were lashed to the joists and columns, with a long fuse leading from the base of the staircase to them. Just in case something like this happened. He had always intended that no one would take the throne from him. Or that if they did they wouldn't live long enough to enjoy it. And wasn't he just so lucky as to have a flaming torch in his hands!
He hesitated though, just for a moment as he weighed up his alternatives. If he didn't light the fuse his choices became two – running and hiding. He could flee the city – but he would be hunted and might well be caught. Or he could try hiding out in his sanctum with all his treasures. But even assuming he could survive down there, how long would he have to hide in it? Weeks? Months? Years? And of course he would still be hunted. And there would be the added risk that to get to it he'd have to exit this tunnel through the stables, then rush around to the gardeners' hall and down through the secret tunnel to his sanctum. He could be seen.
Of course if he did light the fuse it would mean he couldn't try hiding in his private sanctum. It would probably survive the blast as it was underground and some distance from the castle. But there was no certainty that it would, and Heri didn't want to be buried alive underground. And the gardeners' hall might well be destroyed making it impossible to get in and out. He would have to run. But he would also be dead as far as anyone knew, killed in the same blast that destroyed the keep. No one hunted dead men.
Destroying the keep was his safest option. And in the end that was what mattered.
Decision made Heri pulled loose the stone that hid the end of the fuse, and saw his prize in front of him. It took less than a heartbeat to set the fuse alight, and then he watched the pinpoint of flame and smoke slowly travelling away from him into the darkness beyond the stone wall. It was a good sight to see, knowing that it would destroy his enemy's prize and punish his disloyal soldiers, as well as rob his enemies of their victory. It would also cover his escape. He wished he could have watched it for longer. But to do that would end in his being crushed alive when the keep collapsed. The sight, no matter how cheery, wasn't worth that.
Instead of staying he hurried down the underground passageway until he reached the fake stone wall at the end, which led to the stables. A simple tug on the lever and the trap door opened, and he was in the stables themselves. Looking around he saw that there was only a stable boy there to see him. He looked surprised, the more so when Heri threw a knife at him which even with his modest skill found his middle. He might not be good with a sword, but long ago he'd trained himself in using a knife with either hand. It was a useful weapon and easily concealed.
The boy cried out and fell to the ground clutching at his belly, blood flowing over the straw and dirt. And then he lay there crying some more. Heri ignored his pleas for help. The boy would die now or when the keep exploded. It didn't matter what killed him. What mattered was that Heri lived. Instead he helped himself to a working man's robe that had conveniently been left hanging on one of the stalls, and a horse, a good riding mare. After that it was simply a matter of riding out of the remains of his gate, looking for all the world as if he was simply another peasant leaving the citadel. In the end he need not have even bothered wearing the soiled garment. There was no one patrolling the remains of the gate anyway. But he kept it on just in case.
Heri was at least five hundred yards outside of the citadel walls and heading down the road, when he finally heard the sound he'd been waiting for. It was the sudden roar of thunder in the ground that told him the gunpowder had ignited.
Heri looked back to see a glorious explosion of orange fire bursting loose from the very heart of the keep; a fireball ascending for the heavens themselves, and lighting the entire sky for as far as he could see. Pieces of burning debris sprayed out in all directions, raining a fiery death down on any of his enemies who had survived the initial blast. Heri smiled at the sight, knowing his work was done. Briefly he wondered if he should make an offering at the temple. Though he did not care for the gods or their priests, he had always found it appropriate that he should follow only the All Father. The king of the gods. And now he had proven himself the king of kings. The All Father if he even looked on as the priests claimed he did, should be proud of him.
Meanwhile those cursed nobles riding on Fall Keep would get nothing now. All their planning and scheming had been rendered worthless. All his disloyal guards and servants would meet their end in flames and falling rubble. Better still, everyone would hopefully believe him dead, buried in the remains of the keep with the others. It would be a long time if at all before they thought to send hunters after him. It gave him the time to make his escape.
Of course, he eventually realised, the explosion had probably killed his mother as well. Locked away in her cell in the west tower she had never stood a chance. Not when he could see that the tower was now gone along with most of the rest of the keep. But he felt no loss. She too had betrayed him as she had tried to make his throne hers. It hadn't worked. She had taught him everything she knew of politics and strategy and he had taken those lessons to heart. He had seen through to the truth of her ambition. She wanted to rule through him, and in time through his children. In any case if he had been able to take her with him she would only have slowed him down. A quick death was a good end for her.
In time, once the roar of the explosions had died away and the smoke had thinned, Heri could see the keep as it had become. A mound of rubble surely fifty feet high peeking over the remains of the wall his brother had destroyed, burning brightly and sending a huge plume of dark smoke rising into the sky. On the ground he could see people running. He thought he could just make out their screams and cries as they carried buckets of water to douse the flames. As busy as they were they would have no time to look around and spot him riding away. It was a good sight.
Unfortunately, judging from the flames leaping not just from the mountain of rubble that had once been the keep, but also from behind it, the city was also burning. That he hadn't wanted. If the city burnt and the people left, who did he have left to rule? But he supposed they would put the fires out in time and he would rule them again one day.
It was just a shame he couldn't go back and empty out his sanctum. Gather together some useful relics for the ride. But for all he knew it was buried. And he didn't want to be seen by anyone trying to enter it. Fleeing had to be his choice for the moment. It would be months before he could re
turn to the city in safety.
Heri turned back, and with a gentle flick of the reigns set his horse to trotting on down the road, away from the dead and dying. Away from Venti's approaching army too. Now he had only one more thing to do before he could begin his new life with the gold in his saddlebags. Before he could put in place his strategy to reclaim the throne.
He had a miserable worm of a bastard half-brother to kill. Before that though he had to make him suffer for what he had done. Samual would suffer as no man had ever suffered before. It would not be easy, but he knew there was a way. There had always been a way. The assassins had failed because they had attacked him directly. They hadn't guessed he was such a powerful wizard. The ease with which Samual had shrugged off those attacks and his subsequent show of strength forty one days ago showed the folly of that approach. But Heri knew exactly what Samual was, and he knew how to defeat magic as well as swordsmanship. He also knew Samual's greatest weakness. After all, he'd kept her locked away in his dungeon for five years. It was time to make use of her again.
