Overlords

by Matthew M Pyke

  Garan could not seem to accept this, for his apparent ideal of Paladia and its ruling king simply did not allow for it. “No, you are not responsible for what has happened to your people—Paladia. You are a great king, from a line of legendary kings; Paladia is the jewel of the north.”

  “But I am, Garan. I am.”

  “In what way, My Lord? I do not believe this.”

  King Pallan peered off into the distance for a time. He answered after making a thoughtful, slow exhalation. “I let my kingdom go from indifference; I squandered my father’s inheritance, at least to a point.” He gazed into Garan’s face and said, “Do you understand?”

  “From indifference? But why, My Lord?—if you will permit me to venture such a question.” He made a solemn bow of his head as if to check his unsolicited curiosity.

  King Pallan made a long sigh. “From indifference, Garan. That is why the Denaveive placed a curse on my kingdom.” He fell silent for several long moments. Garan stood nearby, patiently; he appeared saddened by these revelations. “When I was a young man, in my twenties, I was betrothed to a beautiful maiden, of the land Kiflyk.”

  “Nom-Kiflyk.”

  King Pallan nodded slowly. “The maiden’s name was Lydia … oh, my sweet Lydia. I knew happiness for a time. The marriage was to unite the two kingdoms—Paladia and Nom-Kiflyk—Lydia being the only daughter of Seles the Wise the First.” He paused, giving the appearance he could not go on.

  “So, what happened, My Lord? Is she your queen today? There is no mention of such a queen from Paladia …”

  King Pallan shook his head as he began to break up. “No, Garan, there is no queen from Paladia bearing such a name.”

  Garan scrunched up his face and pressed, “You are without queen, My Lord—all these years?”

  King Pallan bobbed his head slowly and confirmed, “Yes, Garan, without queen; the land has been without a queen for many years, since the time of my mother.” With a dejected look and only after several long seconds, he revealed, “We were young and foolish, Lydia and me. It was on a particularly genial day that she and I had ventured to some nearby cliffs. My bride-to-be was of an adventurous nature—more so than myself. As we were acting up and carrying on, jubilant in the exhilaration and glory of each other’s company, she came to the edge of a particularly steep section of the precipice. I can still see her face … filled with excitement and joy. As I warned of the peril, perhaps too lightly, she inched closer to the edge, taunting me. Without warning, her left foot slipped. She began to flail her arms, wildly—she had such a look of terror. I charged with all my might for her, and in the last second, I caught hold of her hand. But I was too late … she slipped from my grasp and fell from sight, plummeting to her death. I can still hear her screams; I never forgave myself for letting her go.” He looked up at Garan and remarked, “If I had only been a second faster—I would have been able to secure a stronger grasp of her hand—I would have prevented her fall. I would have saved her!”

  “But you do not know that, My Lord.” Garan struggled to find comforting words. “There are so many possibilities; even if you had reached her in time, she still may have fallen, perhaps you along with her. You cannot blame yourself.”

  A downcast King Pallan replied, “Thank you, Garan. But I am responsible—responsible for her fall. I have replayed the event a thousand times in my head, trying various ways to save her; and it always ends the same, with her death. I have never forgiven myself. From my great grief, in a sense, I had given up on life, disgraced my family’s name. Let my kingdom corrode … collapse.”

  Garan turned his head to the side and sighed. Facing King Pallan quickly, he asked, “What of this king—Seles the Wise? Is he to be consulted?”

  King Pallan lowered his head a degree and went for the wood block, which by now largely resembled a miniature elf. “He died. Seles the Wise the Second, the brother of Lydia, became ruler of Nom-Kiflyk after his father’s death. With the death of his sister, Seles the Wise the Second never forgave me, and the two kingdoms have been estranged to this day.”

  Garan made an indistinct groan and took a few steps away. King Pallan resumed, spiritlessly, whittling the wood piece into a figurine.

  Perhaps a minute or two elapsed before King Pallan spoke again. He reflected, “I am tired … Garan. Tired of running from my problems; tired from running from myself.”

  Garan turned to King Pallan as he stared off at the bushes in silence. As King Pallan continued, he meandered back to him, his hand supported by the hilt of his sword.

  “I have sent men to their deaths—for what cause? For what gain? What has been gained in doing this?” His voice began to trail off. “Jerreth, Halcom, Araton, the rest …”

  King Pallan quietly carved the piece, which was nearing completion.

  Garan stopped before him, observing his progress with the weakest traces of intrigue and pity.

  “Barrow and Jaid, and the rest.”

  “Who are they, My Lord? Are they great warriors?”

  King Pallan did not respond; he remained at times wholly absorbed in his work, mumbling to himself of other men and women he had known, whom he now presumed to be dead.

  Garan smiled to him kindly and then walked off somewhat to give his king space to grieve.

  After a few minutes, Jardarah came scaling down the berm, holding onto a vine. Garan followed his course closely.

  Jardarah released the vine and approached King Pallan; he was surprised to see Garan there, watching him. He paused for an instant by the Kae’lem soldier, the two men giving each other cold looks. He continued on his way to his king, who seemed not to take notice of him. “My Lord … My Lord. It is Jardarah.” He came before him.

  King Pallan did not look up.

  Jardarah’s curiosity grew; he tried to see what it was his lord was making. “My Lord, it is Jardarah. We have been to the ruins.” He rocked back and forth to get a better look at the wood piece. “My Lord, what is it you are making? Forgive my curiosity.”

  King Pallan froze and peered up at Jardarah.

  “Yes, My Lord, that is right. We have been to the ruins; I have men there yet surveying it, as you have ordered. I thought it expedient to report on our early progress.” His expression half-soured, and with a flick of his head back at Garan, who had now come near, he remarked somewhat softly, “I thought this spot was known only by the council, myself, and Jaegar.” King Pallan remained mute. “Are you alright, My Lord? Have you heard what I have said?”

  King Pallan’s lips cracked apart and, very calmly, he replied, “I have heard what you said; I am alright. Our Kae’lem mercenary has discovered my resting place.”

  A sudden apprehension clouded Jardarah’s face; he became fidgety.

  King Pallan gestured for him to remain calm. “It is alright, my good Jardarah. He and I were discussing many things.”

  Garan stood alongside Jardarah and gave both men a bow of his head. Jardarah’s agitation began to lessen.

  King Pallan took in a long breath and let it out briskly. “Now, what have you found thus far?”

  “The ruins, My Lord—they appear to have been made long ago. There are no signs of recent activity within them, or in any of the surrounding grounds.”

  King Pallan became more alert. “Are they Catarri? Beldan?”

  “No, My Lord; they do not appear Catarri or Beldan in form.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, My Lord. Hadara the scribe insists they were made by a different people, perhaps unknown to us.”

  King Pallan seemed to express doubt at this.

  Jardarah added, “Olish believes as he does. None of the warriors present who are scouting the ruins are as familiar with its architecture as is Lentald.”

  This appeared to satisfy King Pallan’s hesitation regarding their findings. “How large are they?”

  “Large enough to house all our people,” Jardarah answered firmly.

  “How well do they defend against the elem
ents? Are they sturdy enough for us to bring the people under?”

  “They appear sound enough to defend against the elements. As to their being sturdy, that is yet to be ascertained. We are checking them over as we speak.”

  King Pallan rose and asked, “How quickly can you determine their sturdiness?”

  Jardarah strained a smidgen to give an accurate estimate. “Perhaps a day or two; no more.”

  King Pallan bobbed his head subtly. “Good. Do you discern any dangers in or around these ruins?”

  Jardarah shook his head. “None that we can tell; they appear long abandoned, sire, the ruins.”

  King Pallan’s expression turned contemplative. “Hmm … continue your search around the structures. Make certain that we are alone in these mountains. Keep me apprised of your progress. I should like to see these abandoned buildings for myself, once the reconnoitering has been finished.”

  Jardarah tapped his chest enthusiastically, with a quick dip of his head. “At once, My Lord.”

  “Take Garan with you; he shall be an asset to you and Jaegar.”

  Jardarah made no delay in his response. “Yes, My Lord.”

  King Pallan then stepped away from them as he looked off at the berm’s steep, sandy, vine-covered face. “I shall meet with the council tonight about this course of events.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Conrad and the ruins.” He pivoted to Jardarah and Garan. “Now go, the two of you, and scour these structures; they shall be ours depending on your discoveries.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Jardarah acknowledged.

  Garan nodded silently.

  The two warriors walked together to the berm, to the vine Jardarah had used to descend its crumbly slope.

  King Pallan watched them for several moments and returned to his stool, resuming once more the shaping of his wooden elf, which was becoming lifelike.

  The day passed, by gracious degrees, into night. After the communal evening meal, King Pallan met with Hadara, Olish, and Yarek, the interim council, concerning a decision to house the people in the strange remnants of a seemingly forgotten culture. There was much discussion, though little consensus. It was perhaps the persuasive words of Hadara and Yarek that turned the tide in favour of housing the people in them. King Pallan had given the impression that he was strongly for such a proposal but seemed to backpedal at the last minute for reasons not made clear. Whatever it was that concerned him, he kept it to himself and acquiesced to his senior leadership’s decision, which was to make the ruins their temporary home, contingent upon the expedition’s findings. After the meeting, all went to their tents to muse on the day’s events. Tomorrow would be its own worry.

  As the sun began clearing the mountain tops on the morrow, a Jardarah rushed to King Pallan’s quiet tent. Slowing as he neared his sire’s royal abode, he took light steps toward it, and whispered to the guards standing outside its entrance, “Is he awake?”

  The guard on the left shrugged.

  Jardarah turned to the guard on the right. “Is he—”

  The guard mouthed, ‘We do not know’—turning his hands up.

  Smirking at the two men, Jardarah came gingerly to the threshold of his king’s tent. King Pallan was snoring lightly. He called to him very softly, “My Lord?” The two guards had craned to watch Jardarah, who, seemingly under the impression of being watched, slowly pivoted back toward them; the two soldiers at once swung their heads forward. Jardarah, grumbling to himself, faced the entrance of the tent, and leaning forward more, said more loudly, “My Lord, are you awake? It is Jardarah.”

  King Pallan began mumbling, “Lydia … I must take care of Conrad’s dog. Must change Sir Clyde’s water; will you have it changed, will you?” He began snoring again.

  Jardarah stood up a little. He began to shake his head in moderate annoyance. “My Lord, it is Jardarah. I have news to report; as you commanded.”

  King Pallan stirred from his slumber. “Who’s there? Be gone—it is the middle of the night. I am so very—” He did not finish his thought.

  Jardarah’s vexation grew. He made a move to touch his sleeping king but retracted his hand hastily. The guards at the entrance had surreptitiously begun observing him once more. Jardarah searched for something he could drop that would, by happenstance, wake his king—thereby not incriminating himself in the disturbance of his resting lord. At last, he spotted a small pot near the corner of the tent. He crept over to it. Taking the pot up in sure hands, he then held it at chin height—and released it. The tin pot crashed to the ground with several tings.

  King Pallan shot up from his blanket. “What the blazes was that?!” He screwed up his eyes to see who was standing inside his tent. “Is that you, Jardarah?” He squinted hard at him.

  Jardarah’s voice cracked. “It is I, My Lord. I am sorry to disturb you at this hour. But you have enjoined me to discover the secrets—to make certain of the safety of the structures and the grounds round about for our people. I have something to report.”

  King Pallan’s face was twisted; he untwisted it. Running his hand through his long, dark hair, which was a fair degree tangled, he sighed most pronouncedly and said, “Go on. You speak in truth when you say I enjoined you. What is it that you have to report?”

  Jardarah tapped his chest. “We have scoured the grounds and the ruins themselves, as you and the council have decreed. We have found nothing out of the ordinary; nothing that could present a threat to the safety of our people.”

  King Pallan rubbed the back of his neck after struggling to stand. “Hmm, that is good. Of course, there is the issue of being trapped inside of them.”

  Jardarah answered steadily, “We have thought of that, Jaegar and I, along with our men. There is a risk by confining ourselves to them, albeit a small one. But a risk nonetheless …”

  King Pallan had begun to pace by the side of his blanket. “No different, I suppose, than confinement at the villa—perhaps, in a sense, at the castle. The risk of being in the open air without walls or roof to protect …”

  Jardarah made a slight nod back.

  “The area will need to be fortified—in case of attack.”

  “Of course, My Lord. As we speak, fortifications are being put in place.” He made a deep bow of his head. “Contingent on your decision and the council’s, of course.”

  This seemed agreeable to a waking King Pallan, whose wits were nearly about him. “When can they be made ready? For us to inhabit?”

  Jardarah gazed in a calculating way at the tent’s floor. “Barring the completion of the fortifications—a full survey of the structures and the land round about should be completed by early afternoon.”

  “Good. I shall inform the council of your progress. It is acceptable. Is there anything else?”

  “Thank you, My Lord. No, My Lord.” Giving a bow to him, he turned and was about to go, but froze for an instant and swivelled around.

  King Pallan turned to him. “What is it?”

  Jardarah slapped his chest with his loose right hand. “My Lord, you asked if there was anything else.”

  “I did.”

  Jardarah seemed to wrestle with something, as if he were unsure of it himself, as if it were the faintest traces of a fleeting vapour he was attempting to inspect. “My Lord, we detected strange writings in some of the chambers, in several of the hallways.”

  “And? Can you make them out?”

  “We cannot—we are without linguist.”

  King Pallan mused out loud, “Could be from a variety of cultures …” He appeared disturbed to find Jardarah still standing there, with a look of worry. “Is there something more? Speak. I grow weary of your delays.”

  “Yes, My Lord.” Jardarah gathered his strength. “There is something to the ruins, an ancientness to them, that emanates from the walls, the ceiling. It is palpable yet indistinct, like trying to trace the course of a breeze; it is both there and not there.”

  “Dust clings to that which is old, Jardarah. To that which has been forsaken.�
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  Jardarah bowed and left the tent, silently. King Pallan watched him leave with an air of restrained consternation, lending his countenance a perturbed aspect.

  The early afternoon began with a visitation from Jaegar, Jardarah, and Garan to a King Pallan brooding by his campfire.

  Jaegar made a quick glance over at Jardarah and Garan, and announced after a rapid nod of his head, “My Lord, the survey is complete. We have reconnoitered the lands round about the ruins and explored the structure thoroughly. We did not find any dangers that could threaten our people. It is true, we are unable to ascertain the maker—or makers—of the structures, but we are as certain as can be reasonably expressed that they do not present a threat. Contingent on your will and the council’s, my men and I are ready to move within the hour.”

  King Pallan gazed, with a look of emptiness, at a patch of ground devoid of grass. His campfire popped and hissed before him. After several moments, he responded in a low, steady voice, “I have already spoken to the council about my wishes; they are in agreement with me.”

  Jaegar appeared perplexed by his answer. “Then, we are to go there, to the ruins—to use them as a type of fort?”

  A long reply came after a thoughtful, quiet sigh. “We are to go; the camp was awaiting your news.”

  Jaegar’s expression relaxed from worry to determination. He tapped his chest hard, saying, “We shall be ready, My Lord. We have already laid plans as to how to best house the people.”