"Very well, Lord Martial," Shardon had allowed, "the list was a little too long. But allow me fifty, just fifty names, and I will bring in those unequivocally known to have questionable loyalties to the—"
"Five. That is all you get. And no noble houses."
"But Sir! As you said, only someone with substantial power and influence could have orchestrated Kazick's disappearance."
"Well he won't have gone and kidnapped the Prince all by himself," Bokrham had retorted. "Work from the ground up. I warn you that if we ruffle the wrong person's feathers, you'll be fighting for your life, not scribbling up lists of people to bother."
Shardon's face had been positively livid as he had stormed out, and Bokrham found himself wishing that the man had never been made a captain of the Marshland army. Shardon was diligent, but he was a fool. Worse, he was a fool with high ambitions and an infuriating sense of righteous purpose. King Vichtor had conquered the realm to bring glory to his name and to his people. Though he had sought power over the mainland, he had never been so arrogant as to try and force his own morals on those he defeated. He demanded only obedience and loyalty to his name and banner, not strict conformity with a particular way of life. Shardon, on the other hand, viewed the Marshland conquest of Esmoria as divine providence, a sign of the superiority of the Marshland populace and its corresponding duty to govern and direct those lesser humans whom they subjugated. Unfortunately, Shardon's views seemed to be gaining popularity in the Blood Marsh. He was no help to Bokrham, but he could be a great hindrance, if not positively dangerous, should the Lord Martial choose to discard him entirely.
Bokrham often wondered if the same was true of many of the men who sat before him now. Ten men sat on the War Council, and of those ten, six would most likely have been at war with each other had their grandfather's fathers not sworn an oath of fealty to the throne of the Blood Marsh. The council had been difficult enough to handle when Bokrham merely sat in at the grace of King Vichtor, but now that the name of Mehlor no longer cast its spell over the lords of the Blood Marsh, any meaningful consensus had become almost impossible.
Even now, the room was filled with the noise of the little lords arguing amongst themselves. Some at least had the decency to voice their disagreements in civil tones, but others had abandoned all sense of decorum and were shouting heatedly at each other across the old oaken table. Young Lord Whitric, who always struck Bokrham as a sort of overgrown and nearly-hairless chipmunk, had a particularly shrill voice which unfailingly managed to send chills down his spine. Bokrham repressed an urge to cover his ears protectively as Whitric went on a tirade about how Lord Spondil, who controlled a neighboring province, had sent men into Whitric's land to poach some rare mushrooms. Instead, Bokrham hammered his fists on the table and shouted for the room to come to order.
"Enough. Enough!" bellowed Bokrham. "We have matters to attend! I will have silence!" When the room had at last quieted, Bokrham lost no time in starting. "Lord Zephor, what news in the North?"
Apart from Lord Edgmere, Zephor was the oldest man on the War Council. Though Edgmere was a full ten years older, it was Zephor whose cheeks had become most sunken, shoulders grown most stooped, and eyes gone milky and dim. His was the Blood Marsh's northernmost province, and many of the lands which the Marsh had taken from the Hinnjar were now held under his banner. The newly conquered lands which King Vichtor had granted Zephor for his many years of loyal service had made the old Lord the greatest landholder in all of the realm. It had proven a hollow blessing, however, for the land had been ravaged by famine and war, and was slow to reseed. Worse, Zephor's armies were constantly plagued by mountain rebels, and though they had thus far managed to maintain their borders, the cost had been dear.
"My Lord," began Zephor, his voice somber and heavy. "My Lord, I must beg the Council to send me more men and supplies. My own forces are spread thin along my northern borders and are completely dependent upon imported rations, for there is no game for them to hunt, nor fertile land to sow. Night and day they are plagued by Tobin's damned raiding parties, and if they lose fifty men in a week they count themselves lucky. We cannot hold out much longer on our own. I…I am afraid that just yesterday I received word that my men in the northwestern-most reaches of the borderlands were forced to abandon their post and fall back to a garrison nearly half-a-day's ride south."
Bokrham grimaced as an earnest silence filled the room for the first time that evening. This was the first news of a border breach since the Marshland army had been forced to abandon the Heart of Sand. Bokrham had often feared such a loss in the North as well, but he had hoped it would not be so soon. Though up until now, Tobin's influence had been limited to a few scattered settlements in the northernmost corner of the mountains, if news spread of a Blood Marsh defeat at the younger Stonelord's hands, more Hinnjari might end their complacent acceptance of the Marshland occupation and join Tobin's resistance in the hope that more such victories would be forthcoming.
"I am not surprised," spoke up Lord Jederli. "We all knew Zephor's little farm-army couldn't hold off the Mountain for long. Why King Vichtor ever gave those peasants so much land I'll never understand."
"An easy thing for you to say, Sir!" said Lord Zephor indignantly. "For your subjects doze peacefully in the heart of the Kingdom, while mine freeze in the barren north so that our enemy is kept far away from your lush gardens and fattened cows."
"Are you talking about his livestock, or his daughters?" yelled out Lord Carme, and the room was once again filled with the indignant shouts of the council.
"Order! I said order!" Bokrham called out, and when none was forthcoming he seized the great table before him, lifted the end nearest him up to his chin, and then slammed it down upon the stone floor. The sound of falling metal goblets accompanied a thunderous bang, as the ancient oaken legs crashed upon the flagstones, and for a moment, everyone was quiet.
"By Rekon!" yelled Bokrham. "We lay claim to all Esmoria, pretend to rule her, and yet a man cannot even ask his brothers for aid without the whole Council erupting into petty squabbles? Zephor's land is Blood Marsh land! Would you leave it to the mountain dogs, just because you yourselves cannot have it? This Lord's men are in need of provisions, and reinforcements. Give them what they require! I want all of you to send as many men as you can spare to the North. If we are to hold the Mountain foothills, then we must show Tobin that he has to contend with the Blood Marsh itself, not just a single Lord."
Lord Tindor raised his voice in protest. "My Lord, I have no men to spare! Our eastern border is just as difficult to maintain. What use to send men north if we allow the savage Curahshar to retake—"
"I know! I know," cried Bokrham. "Do not think I have forgotten of your men in the east."
At this Zephor put in, "My Lord, I have heard that in the last month, things have become very quiet near the Curahshena border. Tindor has not suffered nearly as many losses as I."
"My Lord this is true," said Lord Tindor carefully. "But I fear something ominous is brewing in the Curahshena sands. My scouts have reported that massive numbers of the Curahshar have disappeared into the desert. We suspect they may be converging at the Heart of Sand."
Bokrham did not like the sound of this. One of the greatest advantages the Marsh armies had in the dryland region was the Curahshar's lack of organization. If they were to unify their strengths and target a single River City, the Marshland armies, spread thin as they were, would not be able to withstand them.
"Send your scouts into the desert, then. We must know for certain if the Curahshar have indeed organized."
"The desert is a death trap for anything less than an army," disagreed Tindor. "Even the best of my men lose their way among the shifting dunes and, with nowhere to hide, they become easy prey for wandering hordes of Curahshar. What you ask of them is suicide!"
"I…" began Bokrham, before realizing he had no idea how to approach this newest problem. Sighing and slumping back in his seat, he wondered aloud, "What
in Rekon's name did Vichtor want with that worthless piece of land anyway? It's full of nothing but sand and ill luck."
"He took it because he could, because with Vichtor at the helm of our army the Curahshar were little more than a nuisance," said a pompous voice Bokrham knew all too well. "And if the realm were still in the hands of a Mehlor, perhaps our armies would once again resemble those which conquered the whole of Esmoria."
"I'm surprised to hear you say that, Dovorst," said Bokrham, looking at the Lord who fancied himself royalty because his mother was Minasia Mehlor, a distant cousin of Vichtor's, "because anyone can see that your hands are far too soft and delicate to be a true Mehlor's hands. Vichtor was practically born with a sword in his, and so was Kazick. They had the calluses of a swordsman before they could even say the word, 'sword.' No, Dovorst, no one would mistake your hands for a Mehlor's."
This earned Bokrham a few approving snorts from around the table, but not as many as Bokrham would have liked.
"This coming from a man whose oafish hands cannot even hold a quill properly," retorted Dovorst. "Victor and Kazick were scholars and statesmen, not just mere soldiers. And while you may crush your opponents on the battlefield with those callused hams on the ends of your wrists, it is our realm you are crushing with your equally ponderous arse while you sit atop the Blood Marsh throne."
"That is enough," said Bokrham through clenched teeth. "I've told you before, Dovorst, there is no argument here. I am the Lord Martial, whether you like it or not, and until you can raise an army that tells me otherwise, I will hold the throne until Kazick has returned."
"Kazick is dead," insisted Dovorst.
"Kazick is…" It was too much for Bokrham. He had been having this same argument with the war council for years now, and every time he had sworn Kazick would return, his promise sounded more and more hollow in his ears. Today, therefore, he said nothing. He simply rose from his chair and turned to leave the chamber.
"Go ahead," called Dovorst from behind him. "Turn your back on the realm's problems and maybe they will go away."
Keeping his silence, Bokrham slowly turned around and walked over to where Dovorst sat at the table.
"Let me see those hands of yours which you claim can hold the reins of this kingdom," said Bokrham in his most saccharine of voices.
"I never said…" began Dovorst, glancing about uncomfortably as Bokrham loomed over him.
"I said," interrupted Bokrham, loudly. "Let me see those hands."
Rolling his eyes, Dovorst held up both his hands. "There, are you satisfied? Perhaps now we can return to—hey!" Dovorst yelped as Bokrham reached out and took one of the Lord's hands in his. Keeping his eyes on Dovorst's face, Bokrham began to squeeze.
"Stop that. What are you doing?" said Dovorst.
Bokrham said nothing, but continued to slowly tighten his fist.
"I said stop!" yelled Dovorst, a note of panic now audible in his voice. "I said—aargh!" Bokrham heard the sound of knuckles popping, and could feel Dovorst's bones straining against the inside of his palm.
"Please…I…OH SWEET REKON!"
"Bokrham felt the first of Dovorst's finger bones crack in half, followed by others in quick succession. The resistance to his grip disappeared as Dovorst's hand collapsed in upon itself.
Rekon save me, thought Bokrham as every face on the War council stared at him in in horror. What am I doing?
Back in his chambers, smoldering after the day's earlier political disaster, Bokrham felt an irrepressible urge to change something. Too much of late seemed utterly beyond his control, he needed something to reassure himself, no matter how insignificant, that he still had some influence over his mess of an existence. He had worn a beard for more than twenty years, and as he raked the sharp razor against his face he could see that the skin behind his beard was a shade paler than the rest of him. He was halfway through shaving when he heard footsteps run up to his chambers, and a fist begin to pound on the door.
"Come in," he growled in the direction of the door. Was there to be a moment today he would have to himself?
A page boy slowly opened the door glanced around the room.
"I said come in!"
The boy jumped slightly, and rushed into the room where he stood at attention until Bokrham had finished wiping his face free of loose hair and soapy residue.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Bokrham.
"It's Lady Thilanea, she wishes to speak with you, m'lord. She says it is of the utmost urgency. She is waiting in the south tower as we speak."
Lady Thilanea was the wife of the Lord of El's Meadow. He was rich, old, bedridden, and senile, and even in his younger years had been of little help to the kingdom. She, however, had not yet seen thirty-five years, was quite an alluring woman, and possessed one of the sharpest minds in Esmoria. Thilanea was Bokrham's best informant, and there were few women, and even fewer men, from whom she could not pry even the darkest of secrets. She had her own network of agents scattered throughout the realm, men and women schooled in stealth and deception. More than once Bokrham had enlisted the help of one of these "nightbacks," so-called for their preference for black clothing, in his own military maneuvers, and he had yet to be disappointed by such a collaboration.
Thilanea was an invaluable aid to Bokrham, but even so, he was always wary of her. She was ambitious, like so many others who immersed themselves so deeply in the governance of the kingdom. Bokrham suspected she would never be so brash as to make an outright try for the throne herself, but he had no doubt that Thilanea knew all too well that sometimes those who stood behind the throne were often as powerful as the King or Queen which sat upon it. When Kazick had stood to inherit the throne, it had been no secret that Thilanea had made every effort to nuzzle her way into the Prince's confidence. She was married, yes, but her husband was old and oblivious, and Thilanea was the sort of woman who had no qualms about using every tool she possessed to see her goals accomplished. Bokrham was fairly sure that Kazick had seen through Thilanea's advances. The Prince had been surprisingly good about keeping his judgment from wandering down into his pants. But, now Kazick was gone and lately Bokrham suspected Thilanea of…refocusing her efforts. Bokrham was a sensible man, but he knew his weaknesses, and he did not care to have them tested. This evening invitation was unexpected and made Bokrham anxious. Even so, if Thilanea did indeed have urgent information, then it was not the sort which Bokrham could afford to ignore.
"I will see her. Tell her to expect me within the hour."
The page bowed low, muttered "m' lord," and rushed from the room.
Bokrham considered his reflection in the shaving glass. Patches of hair were missing on either side of his face, giving him a wild and uneven look. He did not want to spend the time to shave the rest off, but he couldn't walk the halls of the castle looking like a fool, so he trimmed his beard down to a broad goatee before he threw on his shirt and left for the south tower.
The climb to the top of the tower was more strenuous that it should have been, and by the time he neared the entrance to the tower's chamber he was breathing quite hard. This disturbed him more then he cared to admit. Not enough time on the training ground, he knew, and too many rich dinners, and hours spent with his arse in a chair and his neck bent over maps, letters, or scouting reports. He was getting older, but that did not mean he should be getting soft. He took a moment to compose himself, before striding up the last steps and opening the door to the tower chamber.
As the door swung open he could see Thilanea's figure, with her back towards him and her gaze directed out one of the chamber's large windows. She was wearing a long gown of blue and purple silks, but her hair was tied neatly above her head, which usually meant she had been working. When she heard the door open she turned around and Bokrham had to wince slightly; the gown she was wearing was brazenly low cut, and exposed rather more of her very ample bosom than Bokrham was comfortable seeing. Bokrham tried very hard to keep his gaze on her face as he greeted her, but it pro
ved a very hard thing to do, for though Thilanea was not a small woman, Bokrham's enormous size meant that for him to look at her face, he had to look down.
"My Lord," said Thilanea, with a twinkle in her eye, "I almost did not recognize you."
Bokrham scratched at his newly-shaven face awkwardly and said, "Eh, well, it cannot be too different."
"It suits you well," smiled Thilanea, and she reached her hand up to his face and stroked the newly smooth skin.
Her touch made him feel slightly woozy, but Bokrham steeled himself and cleared his throat meaningfully.
"You have important news for me?"
Thilanea gave him a pouting look.
"So quick to get down to business? How dull…or at least it would be normally, if I did not have such interesting news."
"What is it?"
"Well, you have, no doubt, heard the reports of missionaries fleeing the Curahshena lands in droves?"
"Of course," said Bokrham, a little impatiently. "Those fool johalids of theirs have issued a prohibition on the worship of Rekon. Anyone caught violating the rule risks beatings or humiliation. There have even been reports of some of the faithful being put to death. But, this is old news, what of it?"
"I have some friends within the Church," said Thilanea, "nobody terribly important, but they hear things and from time to time like to whisper little morsels of Church gossip in my ear."
"I would guess the Church is concerned for their fleeing flock. The poor monks are probably all quaking in their cassocks," said Bokrham.
"Concerned…yes, but not quite in the way I would have expected," replied Thilanea. "There are rumors that the old Sumpadri is not quite content to exercise the forgiveness he so often preaches. It is said that seeing his people suffer at the hands of the Curahshar has kindled the flame of vengeance in his heart. I have had it whispered in my ear that he plans to make a proclamation of his own."
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 10
