“If they won’t make use of it, maybe we can take more coastline from them,” said Derich Bonsfogger, Admiral of the Sea.
“I might think it best to take the whole damn region if Duke Etburn cannot get his ass moving on new income,” screeched the King. “The annual sea harvest doth not suffice anymore; they must take further advantage of their location. If Fox Chapel had the land and coast of Waters Edge, hah, I would not need concern myself with this insolence. Havest thou the firth?”
I have been gone four years and nothing has changed with you. You are still making excuses and misquoting the Gods, father.
“Enough of this guff, let’s move to Burkeville,” the King declared.
His Master of Finance, Henley Moore, spoke up first, “Highness, they are behind again on monthly taxes. However, Duke Burke sends Ali-Tiste’s love and begs your forgiveness.”
The King smashed his scepter onto the table in a fury, startling his council. His face turned beet purple and he started shaking.
“Father, calm yourself now, be forewarned what Count Silzeus has told you,” Ali-Ster cautioned.
“Uh, yes highness, it is best you do not get worked up,” Count Silzeus feebly agreed.
King Ali-Stanley took heed of the advice and composed himself slightly, “If he believes he can hide behind Ali-Tiste’s dresses, he may sit in that sinking boat with Duke Etburn.”
Otto Cuthbart meekly said, “I have also been hearing that Duke Burke is no longer attending council, and is drunk most of the time. I think we ought question his allegiance to the realm.”
“I have heard these same whispers, your highness,” Henley Moore added.
“So, needless to say, Burkeville has not any prospects on the horizon?” the King rhetorically asked.
Henley remarked, “If so, that money is not reaching Falconhurst.”
The King shook his head at Henley. “I shan’t let this man sink the realm. Can we still depend upon him to shield us from Goldenfield? Someone prepare to send word.”
King Ali-Stanley stood by as Henley flattened the paper on the table. One servant retrieved the inkwell and gave it to Henley. Another servant brought him the quill. A falcon feather crafted from ebony, with an ivory tip, served as the writing tool. Henley Moore dipped it into the inkwell as the King dictated:
Duke Aston Burke,
The constant lack of appeasement from
Burkeville, has up until this point, received
a pass because of my sister Ali-Tiste.
Henceforth, preferential treatment will cease.
All past and future payments must
be paid on time, regardless of situation.
I have also received many unsavory reports
regarding several other fronts. I command you to
clean up this behavior at once.
It is fine to have a little fun but we must
carry out our duties to the realm first and foremost.
King Ali-Stanley Wamhoff, Defender of Donegal,
Keeper of the Seal and First of His Namesake
The King surprisingly remained calm and cool. Although he was in average shape for a sixty five year old man, father time was nipping at his heels. He walked around the room hunched over with a slight limp caused by falling off his horse. The King, a tall man, looked down at his previously well-toned frame. These days it only disappointed him as his body mostly consisted of loosely hanging skin. He even spoke like an old man, forcing the words out of his weary lips. His red hair had suddenly turned gray twelve years ago, as if someone had set fire to a bright autumn leaf. The King also lumbered around in his old age with a battered, portly figure caused by clumsiness and gluttony. He wiped some sweat from his round head.
“Two heads, two spikes. Shall we go for three?” snickered the King.
“My King,” Henley Moore interjected, “I am well versed on your differences with the Colberts, but Donegal is managing to get by in large part due to Mattingly. They have increased tax payments every month and scarcely turned the crown down for a loan. As we sit, Duke Colbert has twenty new revenue plans in progress which will all pay taxes to the realm. Mattingly, it appears, should be the least of your concerns, highness,” chuckled Henley.
King Ali-Stanley erupted, “The moment I stop worrying about Mattingly is the day you are kneeling to a bull and my head sits upon that spike.” He rammed the scepter into the back of Henley Moore’s chair, sending a booming echo through the vast room.
“Leave this room right now. You may return again when you regain your wits,” said a shaking Ali-Stanley.
Henley Moore rose, bowed in deference to the King, and quickly escaped the room.
“I damn near stopped worrying about Jasper Colbert. But I caught that rascal just in time, and we all know what he was planning,” uttered the King as he held the scepter to his chin.
We know what you think he was planning. I was not even born but I’ve heard enough stories to know.
Much of the time at war involved talking to the other soldiers. A lot of the men didn’t know Ali-Ster so they didn’t sugarcoat their stories about the King. If Ali-Ster had stayed back in Falconhurst, he would only hear the story told the way his father wished people to tell it. His father had a reputation for dealing harshly with anyone he suspected of the slightest offense.
The soldiers said at the time of “The Attack on Jasper” that his father had bad stomach pains and the solutions Count Silzeus prescribed made him temporarily mad. It coincided with the Ali-Stanley’s father dying, making him an emotional wreck. He almost barraged Waters Edge in this fit of rage but luckily refrained.
“Who else would like to counsel me not to worry about Mattingly? For what we know they could be planning to march north as you sit around on your asses. The Colbert family is a bunch of usurpers. They are filthy peasants masquerading as royalty. But they still possess the evil that all peasants do, the greed for more and more, and that will soon come out again. And by the Gods, we will be prepared this time,” screamed the King as he collapsed into his chair.
“Regarding Goldenfield? Let me guess, Pascal is still a drunk? The Warrior Princess is still stone walling any forward progress?” the King sarcastically wondered.
Jake Fielder, the Foreign Chancellor, addressed the King, “Yes on all counts, highness.”
“How can we let a girl mash us about on the battlefield?” asked the befuddled King.
“Your highness, it has been widely recounted that she is as vicious as any polished man. They say she has the teeth of a tiger, and she eats the hearts of fallen enemy to absorb their souls. They say her appetite for blood remains unquenchable,” Jake Fielder retorted.
The King peered over at his son, “Ali-Ster, did you see this little Princess bitch on any of the battlefields?”
“I did father. She fought about average for a man but she seems to have lady luck tied to her breast right now. She is even arrogant enough to wear a red cape on the battlefield while her troops wear white.”
“Perhaps she has a horseshoe stuck up her ass,” jested Derich Bonsfogger as the table erupted in laughter.
But Ali-Ster knew that the Warrior Princess was not a woman to laugh about. He had lied. He knew she amazed enemies on the field of battle. Ali-Ster even avoided her when he detected the red cape. His life couldn’t be captured by a woman, the Gods would laugh at him, he had thought. Ali-Ster had witnessed her shred through about a dozen of Donegal’s elite soldiers with ease.
“Her time shall come father, her time shall come soon enough,” Ali-Ster concluded.
“The battle rages on with Harbor Valley, highness. So half of Goldenfield’s resources are to be employed on the far side of their realm,” Jake Fielder announced.
“One spot of luck I suppose,” the King responded without enthusiasm.
Just when Ali-Ster thought he couldn’t take any more of this drudgery, King Ali-Stanley dismissed everyone. Ali-Ster thankfully popped out of his stiff seat.
“I’d l
ike for you to remain Ali-Ster.”
What does he want?
“I do not believe I have ever shown you the Alley,” said King Ali-Stanley as he slowly rose to his feet.
“I have seen many alleys father,” Ali-Ster smartly answered.
The King returned, “If you know not what I speak of, then you have not been down there,” he stated with an odd smirk.
Down there, what kind of alley is down there?
As they left the room, Sir Penrose Ellsworth greeted the King. “Uh, Sir Penrose,” the King said, “I was just going way downstairs and I bid you escort Ali-Ster and myself.”
Way downstairs?
“Your highness, it shall be my honor, as always,” said Penrose as he led the way.
The three proceeded to walk past the dining hall and through the kitchen all the way to the back room behind the castle cook’s closets that nobody ever entered. Ali-Ster was confused when they walked into a normal looking room constructed of stone. Penrose Ellsworth tugged on a certain rock in the wall and a door opened.
What the hells is going on? An alley in the dungeons?
Ali-Ster did not want to go any further but his father shoved him through the door. He had served four years in the war and didn’t scare easily, but this raised his heartbeat. They went down a stone stair case. Penrose illuminated the path with a burning torch. Ali-Ster knew they were beyond the dungeons at this point; he had never been this far underground and they were still plunging. It got cold at a rapid pace as they descended even farther. Ali-Ster was behind his father and Penrose so he could barely see. He brushed his hand along the wall and sensed solid ice.
“Right here, Penrose,” said the excited King as he took the torch from him. “Ali-Ster, it is time.”
Ali-Ster did not want to go with his father. He had heard too many stories about the dead from some of the toughest men he knew. They were haunted by the men that they killed until it drove them mad. He could feel the cold dead air surrounding him like he was wounded prey. The King fumbled with a few keys as they arrived at a locked door. The King finally looked at Ali-Ster with a huge smile.
“Are you ready my boy?”
“I suppose I am,” Ali-Ster nervously responded.
The door creaked loudly as King Ali-Stanley gently pushed it open. The atrocious smell hit Ali-Ster first. He had been around a lot of foul smelling battle sites but this really made his eyes burn and tear up. His father started lighting various torches that were set up around the room.
What in the hells is this? Are we in a frozen hell?
Ali-Ster saw marble altars spread around the room. Regally resting atop the altars were what appeared to be charred corpses.
Death is part of life.
They were laid out on their backs with hands folded over their hearts. Most of the altars had great swords penetrating them. The swords were just deep enough in the shrines to stand at attention. They were beautifully adorned with impressive gems and golden hilts. The swords appeared stuck in the marble near the midsection of each body.
“Have they been burned to death?” an astonished Ali-Ster inquired.
“No my son, what you see is a preservation of the body and soul for eternity. This ensures that the body will never erode and shall be around forever. Do you realize who these people are?” asked the King who seemed to be enjoying himself.
Ali-Ster took a closer glance at the resting spots that featured all seven Gods marvelously carved into each one of them. He also saw names etched into them.
“They are Wamhoffs?” asked a confused Ali-Ster.
“They are all family ancestors who shared the royal blood line. These are some of the greatest Wamhoff kings of all time. I am sure you have heard stories of the Raging Fox, King Ali-Sander Wamhoff.”
King Ali-Sander Wamhoff’s altar housed all the Gods and had an angry looking red fox engraved on it.
“And none of us would be here if it had not been for King Ali-Dus Wamhoff,” his father reminded him.
King Ali-Dus Wamhoff had a giant war ship carved on his altar.
“Is that truly him? But he died almost four-hundred years ago,” Ali-Ster pondered.
“That is where you are wrong, young one. He died more than four-hundred years ago. When I said forever, that is what I meant. And soon I shall join my family in the Alley to the Heavens for all of eternity.”
THE WARRIOR PRINCESS
LEIMUR
He stood directly in front of her. Again, she was face-to-face with the man who had violated her. The Princess thrust her ice-hardened sword through the man’s midsection.
It did no damage. No blood spilled.
She stroked again, gliding the steel straight through the well-dressed man’s neck.
No blood again? Head still intact?
The Princess started swinging wildly with reckless rage at her familiar foe.
Why can’t I kill him?
Leimur Leluc’s lavender eyes flashed open. The braying sounds of a dying horse had awakened her. The Princess wiped the sleep from her weary eyes. She always slept in armor, and even though her suit weighed much less than most of the men’s protection, it caused sleep to be extremely uncomfortable. However, once Leimur awakened, all she needed to gather was her sword belt and daggers. Her handmaiden, Tolaya, offered the Princess a cup of steaming morning water. The Princess eagerly drank the desperately needed liquid. Since taking co-command of the eastern army with General Rigby, sleep had become more and more elusive as the days passed. The tent felt chilly, but the Princess was sweating.
I must have been dreaming that dream again.
The Princess of Goldenfield, Leimur Leluc, had just turned twenty. She possessed short black hair with straight bangs across her forehead and haunting amethyst eyes. She stood tall for a woman and was in peak physical condition. Her skin glowed like a mix of gold and bronze and she had a jagged scar on her left forearm. Leimur concentrated on battle, but natural beauty shone through her rugged looks.
Dark aubergine lips rippled as she said, “Tolaya, I am off to the front line. Please be ready to send word to my father when I return later today.”
“Yes, my Princess. Be careful, my brave Princess,” responded Tolaya with a shy smile.
Tolaya pulled open the tent flaps and the Princess emerged into a new day. Either it wasn’t as cold as it should have been, or she was still perspiring from her dream. Tolaya fastened the red cape around Leimur’s neck. It featured a golden tiger in the center. The cape seemed to wave goodbye to Tolaya, aided by the early harvest wind gusts. The Princess walked toward her strong, obsidian destrier. She had named the horse Marius in honor of her great-great grandfather, Marius Leluc. The charger wore a black saddle and light battle armor. Black linen lined the horse’s body with a giant, soaring eagle proudly embroidered on the outside. It only took a few minutes for her to arrive at the front. The lined-up soldiers looked like waves from a sea of humanity as the Princess galloped along the perimeter. Thousands of men chattered and the drums rumbled through the morning air.
Boom, baba ba, boom, boom, boom. Boom, baba ba, boom, boom, boom.
These songs were the sounds the Princess heard on a daily basis now and she’d learned to enjoy the racket. The soldiers were ever prepared for an attack even though it seemed highly improbably given the current situation. The Donegal soldiers had claimed the high ground, forcing Goldenfield to wait to attack. But Donegal didn’t want to fight Goldenfield on even ground so the two month standoff waged on.
Never get caught with your pants down, her father used to say. It was one of the few things Leimur remembered from his almighty ramblings. She pulled back on the reins once she spotted General Rigby. The smell of shit, piss and puke permeated the air. But the malodor of dead bodies and rotting horses from the battle six months ago still lingered and overpowered it. Princess Leimur couldn’t decide which stench was worse but she knew one thing; she preferred that to the rank perfumes the highborn wore. For someone reared in a palace she odd
ly felt right at home on the putrid battlefields.
Death is part of life.
Leimur approached General Rigby and shouted, “Nothing still?”
“We are still at a standoff, my Princess,” the General responded.
“Let’s convene in the strategy pavilion in an hour’s time. Please alert Captain Salina and Tetine and Sir Pierre as well,” the Princess returned.
“Very well, highness,” said the General.
She loathed being called ‘highness’. At times she even wished she was lowborn.
Power should be earned, not inherited.
Out of nowhere, a giant pot of purple fire flew through the air. It blasted into a large tree about ten feet from the Princess, instantly igniting everything in its destructive path. She checked her body to make sure the fragments from the pot hadn’t hit her. She hurriedly climbed on Marius and galloped away from the burning mass. She passed two men whose primal screams of agony tore at her ears as the hapless soldiers watched the purple fire rip right through their organs. The Princess almost hit a tree branch as she stared in horror at the men struggle while death crept in.
Donegal is still up to these old tricks. Sneaking down the mountain and flinging purple fire is the work of cowards. They have no honor or courage. I have them afraid of a girl.
All the participants arrived earlier than expected to the meeting so the Princess saw no reason to wait.
TWO HEADS TWO SPIKES (The Pearl of Wisdom Saga) Page 4
