Chapter 14: Bokrham
Bokrham watched as drops of rain beaded on the brim of his tattered old woodsman's hat before growing heavy and splashing to the earth. Sitting beneath a great tree in the King's forest, he felt his brows begin to unknit as the gentle misty rain cooled the storm that raged in his head. Alone here, amongst the trees, was the last place that Bokrham could truly be comfortable.
What was he doing? He was a woodsman, not a Lord. This morning, after the news of the Sumpadri's decree had spread wildly through the city, Shardon had come back with his damned list.
"I want to question everyone on this list who is even remotely connected to the Curahshar," he had demanded.
"When I am dead I will bend my knee to Rekon and pray for his pardons," Bokrham had replied, "but let me remind you that this is not Church land. This is the Blood Marsh, and we will treat those within our borders as we see fit."
"By 'we' I think you mean the Marshland people," Shardon had replied, a satisfied sneer on his lips as he corrected the Lord Martial. "Have you not heard their views on this? Why, even now many of the faithful are marching in the streets and demanding that we expel all half-breeds from the city. Some have even called for the execution of all the Curahshar held in our prisons. I can say, most assuredly, that many of them would support—no, perhaps even demand such an investigation."
Shardon was right, of course. Centuries of war meant that most Marshlanders would jump at the chance to give injury to any Curahshar. It was a feud as old as anyone could remember, but it often surprised Bokrham how virulent the animosity towards their eastern foes remained. He had himself been wounded several times by the vicious edge of a Curahshena blade and lost dozens of good soldiers to the warriors of Vraqish, yet it seemed that his dislike of the Curahshar paled in comparison to those around him. To Bokrham, war was war, and while the Curahshena soldiers fought for an opposing cause, they were not themselves an embodiment of evil. Still, even if Bokrham could not understand the populace's absolute vilification of their enemy, he had to respect it. Support for his rule was tenuous enough. He did not need accusations of being soft on the Curahshar leveled at him as well.
And so Bokrham had grudgingly allowed Shardon to round up half-breeds, traders who dealt in Curahshena goods, and anyone else with even a remote connection to the sands beyond the marsh.
I was supposed to find Kazick, thought Bokrham bitterly, that was why he had taken control of the throne in the first place. We were all supposed to be looking for Kazick. Clearly this new news had, at least for the time being, wiped the memory of the absent Prince from many of the citizens of the Blood Marsh. Perhaps it was a sign that they had finally lost hope.
Bokrham had not wanted to be there when those rounded up were brought in to be interrogated by the royal guard. He had ridden out, cloak pulled tightly about him to hide his face, and made his way to the woods several miles beyond the western walls of the city. He had taken the loneliest route possible, but even so he had seen the circumstances which Shardon had described. It seemed that on every other street corner there were gathered small crowds of people, the sacred sigil of Rekon hanging from their necks, shouting for the support of the Sumpadri. The great Basilica was so full that its massive iron doors had been thrown wide open, and crowds spilled out into the street as folk strained to catch a word or two of the sermon being given within.
Thilanea was right. He could probably solidify his claim to the throne if he publicly declared support for the recent actions of the Sumpadri. Letting Shardon run loose would only increase his popularity among the faithful. Yet, the mere thought of doing so left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.
Bokrham could remember waking up in the morning, shouldering his axe, and walking out into the early morning mist with nothing on his mind but a day's work of felling trees, and the wife and meal that would be waiting for him when he came home in the evening. His happiest memories seemed to come from that point in his life. He did not fool himself, however. There were times when it had all seemed horribly dull and stifling. Still, as he thought back on how comfortable he had been he sometimes wished he had never met King Vichtor.
The King had come to The Silvered Woods with a great hunting party and had put out a call for an able-bodied guide who knew well the lay of the land. At the time, there was no one quite so able bodied as Bokrham, as years of marching through the woods and wielding his large axe had made him strong and uncommonly agile for a man of his size. He was thrilled when the King chose him to guide the hunt, and did his utmost to impress Vichtor with his knowledge of the forest and his skills as a tracker.
It had worked. The old King was pleased with Bokrham, so pleased that he promised the young woodsman a place in his personal royal guard, provided he leave the woods and spend some years training as a soldier. Perhaps it had been the awe of speaking to a king, or perhaps it was the chance at a new life—but for whatever reason, Bokrham had not thought twice about accepting the offer, and within the week had moved himself and his young wife into the city to begin his training as a guard. He had enjoyed himself. For the most part sword play came naturally to him, though his old arms master said he never could quite get the hint of an axe swing to leave his martial form. Most of his training partners he could best through raw strength, and those he could not, he bested through sheer determination and perseverance. It was not long before he was deemed ready to join the ranks of the King's personal guard.
The rest just seemed a blur. Battle after battle, honor after honor, plot after plot had raced by until one day the over-sized woodsman was awarded a lordship and given dominion over the very stretches of forest in which he used to spend his days felling trees and hauling lumber. To most folk his life might seem like something out of a fairy tale, but today all Bokrham could think of was his dead wife, his lost prince, and that it was a very long time since he could remember being truly happy.
As Bokrham gazed up through the trees at the graying sky, the absurdity of his so-called rule over Esmoria seemed to sink in as it never had before. He did not know exactly how these past few years had gone so far astray, but he made up his mind then that they would go no further. He was not a king, nor a holy monarch. He was a soldier looking for his lost Prince. And when he found Kazick, or discovered what had become of him, Bokrham swore to himself that he would leave behind all his influence and power and once again become Bokrham the woodsman.
The sky was beginning to darken considerably, with clouds so dark that Bokrham feared he would be caught in a terrible storm. But something was not quite right. The air was not heavy enough, the clouds not tall enough for such a storm. Yet, blackness seemed to steal across the sky as Bokrham watched, and when a strong gust of wind came from the direction of the city, Bokrham knew what was happening—the capital was burning.
Bokrham leapt up and dashed to where he had left his mount to graze. A moment later he was galloping out of the forest as fast as he could, and soon enough he could see the city through the thinning curtain of trees. A great black column of smoke rose from within, stretching through the sky as it was carried by the autumn wind. When he had reached the gates and entered the city, he grabbed the first soldier he encountered and demanded, "Where is that smoke coming from?"
"It started at an inn in the South District," said the man. "The Silent Chair, it's called, but it spread to several nearby buildings."
"What happened, how did it start?"
"I don't know, Sir."
Bokrham let the man go and thundered down the streets to the southern part of the city. He could see the column of black smoke growing larger as he neared the inn, but the farther he went the more the crowd of onlookers in the streets thickened, and soon he had to slow his horse to a walk in order to keep from knocking people over. He dismounted, left his horse, and plowed his way through the crowd on foot until he was standing directly across from the burning inn.
The scene that met his eyes made his stomach turn. A huge mob of men brandishi
ng torches were chanting loudly and hurling their torches at the nearby building.
"Traitors!" they yelled, as they swarmed through the street, "Let the traitors burn!"
To his horror, Bokrham saw many of the city guard standing idly by as they stared dispassionately at the sight before them.
"You fools, what are you doing?" he screamed at the guards. "Will you let them burn down the whole city?" Before they could answer, he threw himself into the mass of chanting men yelling "STOP! Stop in the name of the King," at the top of his lungs. But the rioters were too frenzied, too consumed with the rush of violence and destruction to pay Bokrham any heed. Desperate, and unable to think of anything else, Bokrham resorted to the one thing that had yet to fail him—using his fists to knock the men before him senseless. He saw a large group of city soldiers gather around the chaos, but none of them ventured into the fray.
"What are you waiting for?" shouted Bokrham. "To me! To me! Help me subdue these maniacs."
The men all looked at each other, as if considering whether to aid the commander of their kingdom. For a few horrible moments, Bokrham thought that the soldiers might not move to help, or might flee the scene, but then a few rushed, shields raised, into the crowd and the rest soon followed thereafter.
It wasn't much of a fight. The rage that boiled in the hearts of the mob was no compensation for their lack of strength or skill. The torches they brandished did not make good melee weapons and though Bokrham felt a few flames singe his beard, he and the city soldiers soon had most of the men on the ground, either dazed or unconscious. A few of the more cowardly or sensible men tried to flee, and Bokrham sent soldiers to chase them down. When the last of the mob had been subdued, Bokrham stood panting in the street, looking at the smoking buildings around him.
What is happening here? he wondered. What madness was it that would make men from the Blood Marsh want to burn their own city?
Bokrham whirled to one of the city guards and grabbed the man by his armor.
"What happened?" he demanded, shaking the smaller man inside his steely shell. "What in the hells were those men doing?"
"The innkeep at the…the Silent Chair…" rattled out the soldier, "…was harboring some half-breeds. They were supposed to be rounded up, but the innkeep barricaded the doors and wouldn't let anyone in. Word got 'round and a mob formed outside shouting for the sandy bastards to be turned over. Nothing happened. Then someone lit a torch…and it all kind of spiraled out of control."
Bokrham could not believe what he was hearing. "They burned a whole block of the Southern District just to scare a few half-breeds out of the inn?"
"Well…not exactly, Sir," said the soldier.
"What do you mean?" demanded Bokrham.
"Well, Sir," said the soldier, "they never came out."
Later on, as Bokrham dried himself by a roaring fire in his quarters, his thoughts were haunted by the smell of acrid black smoke, and the sight of the charred remains he and his men had found inside the inn. Some had been mere children, others had been women, but all of them were dead, the blackened husks of their bodies still huddled together in a heap inside the inn's pantry. The building itself was little more than a pile of charred wood and ashes by the time the fires finally subsided, and several of the surrounding structures had been severely damaged as well. Those outside the inn had largely succeeded in escaping the flames, though an elderly woman was found in one of the neighboring dwellings, choked to death on smoke.
It had taken Bokrham the better part of an hour to scrub the smell of charred wood and flesh off his body. The bath had helped him calm down, but he could still feel a great anger lurking in his mind. When he had stalked back into the castle halls, a couple of the chambermaids had screamed in fright and bolted from his presence. And it was no wonder, for his skin had been plastered with grime and soot and his eyes were red with irritation and fury. He must have looked like a demon risen from the fiery core of the earth, and he had felt like one too. Seething, he had crashed his way through the castle trying to hunt Shardon down. He wanted to curse him for fueling the actions of the angry mob, to clamp a fist around that skinny neck of his and choke some sense into the man, but the imbecile was nowhere to be found. Evidence of his handiwork was apparent, however, as Bokrham had been nervously informed by a messenger from the castle's prison warden that the cells were now filled to capacity with suspected kidnappers and heretics.
That had been too much for Bokrham. After the lunacy he had witnessed in the South District this afternoon, he had no patience for such a witch hunt.
"See that they are fed, and when the sun rises tomorrow release them!"
"Release them?" the man had been stunned. "But my Lord, I heard Captain Shardon give the warden explicit orders to—"
"I don't give a damn about what that fool said!" Bokrham had exploded, "I control this city, not that idiot, and I am giving the warden an order that these prisoners be released on the morrow."
The messenger had been about to speak, when Bokhram cautioned, "Question me again, and I'll have you flogged until not an inch of skin is left on your body. Is that understood?"
After a silent nod, the man had crept back down to the prisons.
All the rage that had pent itself up inside Bokrham's skull had given him a splitting headache, but as he sat in the comfortable confines of his great chair and felt the fire's flames warm the soles of his feet, the storms inside him began to subside. Exhausted, he was just beginning to nod off, when he heard the door to his chambers slowly creak open.
"Who's there?" demanded Bokrham as he sprang up from his chair, and turned to the entrance.
Thilanea, who was slipping through the doorway, gave a startled gasp and brought her arms before her face in a protective motion as Bokrham's huge silhouette sprang up before the fire.
"It's just me," she breathed.
Bokrham was not sure he wanted to see Thilanea just now, but he felt bad for scaring the woman.
"I am sorry," he said, "but I am accustomed to my guests knocking before they enter my personal chambers."
"I didn't want to be seen. It would not do for people to know I was visiting your chambers at such an hour," said Thilanea with a sly smile, but keeping her voice to a whisper. She was dressed for travel, and Bokrham could see that she had just returned from a ride. Her boots were dusty, her hair was tousled, and her cheeks were still pink with exertion. Bokrham had rarely seen her so lacking in composure and ornament, and yet he was a little disturbed by how attractive he found this new glimpse of Thilanea.
"I have some wonderful news!" continued Thilanea, visibly excited.
Bokrham, a little unsure of how to act, interrupted her before she could finish.
"Um, would you like a seat?" he said, motioning to the formidable chair he had just vacated. "You look as if you have been riding hard. I can find a servant to fetch you some refreshment if you…"
"No, no!" said Thilanea, a little impatiently, but then she seemed to catch herself, gave a small smile, and said, "But thank you, my Lord, for your offer."
Bokrham coughed a little uncomfortably. "Well, then…what news have you for me?"
Thilanea's eyes seemed to twinkle in the firelight.
"I have just heard that the Sumpadri has sent Alpadri Korus on a ship for the Blood Marsh. He will be arriving at our port in a matter of days. I believe he has come to talk to you."
Bokrham's curiosity was piqued. The Alpadris were second in power only to the Sumpadri, and Korus was rumored to be the most influential of them all. It was said that he was favored by the Sumpadri and would be his successor when the time came. That such a man would come to speak with him seemed, to Bokrham, portentous.
"What does he want with me?" asked Bokrham suspiciously.
"Why, I expect he may have been sent to investigate the possibility of forging an alliance between the Church and our people," said Thilanea brightly, a hint of pride in her voice.
Bokrham felt his headache begin to wors
en again.
"Why would he do that?" he asked, "Why would he even think we would consider such an arrangement? It is no secret that the kings of the Marsh have long been leery of the growing power of the Church. Vichtor himself did his best to limit the influence the Sumpadri exercised over our people."
"Vichtor's line no longer holds the Blood Marsh throne," said Thilanea pointedly. "But I need hardly tell you that."
"And the Sumpadri thinks I may be different?"
"Ha!" Thilanea gave a soft chuckle. "Anyone can see that you are not the type of man Vichtor was. And anyway, the Sumpadri knows you are more open to this subject than Vichtor ever would have been."
"He knows? But I haven't even…"
"You did not refuse the idea outright," said Thilanea. "Do you not remember our conversation on the subject?"
"Yes, I do," said Bokrham. "But how would the Sumpadri know about that?" He looked at Thilanea, "You haven't told anybody, have you?"
"I might have sprinkled a hint or two to some well-connected acquaintances of mine. Nothing too direct, I assure you."
Bokrham could feel his anger becoming dangerously volatile again.
"You did what?" he asked, raising his voice. "How could you presume such a thing? How could you presume to know my mind?"
Thilanea's eyes widened a little in surprise.
"We discussed it, my Lord."
"God damn it, Thilanea, I never gave you leave to act."
"But…"
"No, Thilanea, I have made up my mind. Send word to the Alpadri. Tell him he can point his prow back home, for he will just waste his time here."
"My Lord, you cannot be serious. Such an affront…" Thilanea began to protest.
"I cannot be serious?" growled Bokrham, his voice quavering with rage. "I cannot be serious? Do you forget who I am, woman? You must, to speak so."
"I…I am sorry, my Lord," demurred Thilanea, her entire disposition changing almost instantly. "I see that now is not the time for discussing such matters. You are tired and upset, perhaps I can relax you."
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 14
