A Coronation of Kings

by Samuel Stokes

  The battle raged on, whilst Syrion picked a large group of Wolf nearby and hurled a fireball into their midst. Men ran screaming in every direction. ‘STOP NOW!’ the Astarii repeated, this time using his powers to send tremors through the earth. This time the melee slowed as soldiers struggled to keep their footing and all eyes turned to the young wizard.

  Seeing he had their attention, he continued, ‘Enough, surrender your arms. Any Wolf still bearing a weapon in ten seconds will die. I have no desire to slaughter you, but if you are determined to die, I will grant you your wish. Make your decision. One ...Two...Three...Four…’

  As the Astarii continued to count, the surviving warriors of the Wolf took stock of their position, surrounded on all sides, cut off from their leader with fire raining down from the sky... the fight at last went out of the Wolf.

  Slowly at first, men began to throw their swords to the earth. ‘Five...Six...Seven...’ the young Astarii continued counting. As the count drew nearer to ten, the ground began to quake and even the most stubborn Wolf began to fear. The tinkling of discarded swords grew to a cacophony of noise as the remaining soldiers threw down their weapons of war.

  Syrion nodded in satisfaction. Spotting his brother in the thick of things, Syrion dropped to his side. ‘Brother, the remainder of these Wolf are even now at the citadel’s gates. We must hurry.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you could give me a…?’

  Before Tristan could finish the sentence, Syrion had grabbed his brother by the breastplate and shot into the air.

  Chapter 37

  Inside the walls of King’s Court.

  Gerwold and his men stormed through the inner gates. The stout iron constructions had been blasted apart by the sorceress, Kalifae and her magic. With the path cleared to the Golden Citadel, the Wolf stormed the streets of the inner city. Here and there they encountered scattered opposition, pockets of loyalist troops falling back from the outer walls. The defenders of King’s Court laboured with every breath to defend their homes, but days without sleep were now beginning to take their toll as the weary men hefted their weapons once more.

  Spurred on by their success, the Wolf drove deeper and deeper into the capital. As they rounded the corner of a busy boulevard, they saw it - the Golden Citadel. The majestic fortress was a symbol of Valaar’s might. At its heart stood the Throne Room and the prize Gerwold had sought so long, the Golden Throne of Valaar.

  Since the last of the royal line had perished, no man had been bold enough to assert his claim, ‘Until today!’ Gerwold thought out loud. ‘Take the citadel men! Seize our destiny!’ he cried. In a thunderous charge, the Wolf stormed down the boulevard leading to the Golden Citadel, unaware they were being silently observed.

  Eager eyes watched as the Wolf made their way towards the citadel, the attackers ignorant that, concealed in the buildings on either of their flanks, lay almost a thousand King’s Consuls. The elite regiment were tasked with protecting the King of Valaar. In the absence of a king, they now stood ready to prevent a tyrant seizing their hallowed throne.

  The King’s Guard were chosen in their youth and apprenticed to the Consuls at age twelve. After a decade of training, they were granted a commission in the Consuls and would likely serve there the remainder of their days. At their head, their captain, Dariyen waited patiently for Gerwold to charge unwittingly into his trap, his last desperate gambit to protect the throne.

  *****

  At the Lion’s Gate, the world had turned inside out. The defenders had been routed as the forces of Fordham tore through the gate and over the walls. The Baron of Fordham had reveled briefly in his triumph - the fervid fighting of his people had breached the impenetrable Lion’s Gate and now they poured unchecked into the city. With Gerwold on the throne, Fordham would be made first advisor to the king and enjoy privilege and prosperity not known at Fordham in all of its long history.

  Unfortunately, all of those dreams were in jeopardy now as the Sisaron tore through the ranks of men still waiting to enter the capital. Fordham sat astride his horse in the shadow of the Lion’s Gate, unsure of how to proceed. If he turned to face the threat from Sisaron, Gerwold might fail in his bid for the throne and all would be lost. If he advanced into the city with his avenue of retreat cut off, his forces would be trapped.

  As he sat pondering his options, there was a blast of wind, accompanied by the vast beating of wings. Looking to the source of the sound, Fordham’s jaw dropped. There perched above the Lion’s Gate was a great clawed beast, its wicked talons sending troops flying off the tower in all directions as it moved in a flurry of teeth and claws. Its wings furled as the dragon gained purchase on the tower - even its sharp tail lashed about, cutting one man in two, his leather jerkin offering scant protection against the beast.

  The rider on its back moved quickly lashing to and fro with a long spear, attacking anyone who threatened his mount. Having cleared the top of the tower, the great emerald beast leaned its long neck over the edge of the tower and opened wide its jaws. An orange light grew within its dark maw and second’s later smoke and fire billowed out of the beast’s mouth, raining down on the hapless forces below. Soldiers screamed and milled about as they attempted to run away. The smoke and fire created chaos in the square as the frightened soldiers sought to escape the terrifying creature.

  With the beast positioned over the gate, the Baron’s decision was made for him. ‘Dragon!’ he screamed, ‘Run, into the city!’ The pudgy Baron spurred his horse into a gallop. Before the horse could make it ten paces, a second beast landed heavily in the street before him. The horse spooked and reared up on its hind legs - unprepared for the sudden move, the rotund Baron toppled heavily to the street.

  Free of his weight, the horse bolted; keen to put as much distance between itself and the predatory beast before it. The Baron reached for his sword, but the fire drake sprang forward. Using its forelimb, it pinned the Baron’s hand to his chest. The fire drake lowered its scaled head to within inches of the Baron’s terrified face and snarled loudly. The glimpse of its teeth, each easily the length of a long sword, was enough to cause the Baron to shake uncontrollably.

  Suddenly a man was beside the Baron. Dressed in bizarre, red-scaled armour the regal warrior bent over the fallen Baron. ‘Are these your men?’ the figure asked.

  The Baron shook with terror, unable to answer as the dragon continued to exhale inches from his face - the sulfurous fumes were both intoxicating and terrifying.

  The figure lost patience. Clearly his temperament matched his mount. The rider bent low. ‘Firenzir thinks you look delicious. If you do not answer me, I will let him eat you, armour and all. Now tell me, are these your men?’

  ‘Yes!’ the Baron shouted desperately. ‘Yes, they are my men. What do you want with me?’

  ‘Excellent,’ the rider responded eloquently. ‘I have it on good authority that you and your men are trespassing here. You are to throw down your weapons and surrender. If you do not do so immediately, I will find you and ensure Firenzir here does not go hungry. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand! Let me up and I’ll give the order at once. I swear!’

  The red-clad warrior smiled as he stroked the dragon’s snout. ‘What a shame,’ he whispered, just loud enough for the Baron to hear. ‘I’ve always wanted to barbeque a Baron. I was kind of hoping he’d say no.’

  *****

  Lord Alford of the Tanamere watched the charging Wolf from the walls of the Golden Citadel. As soon as they were within range, he began barking commands, ‘Loose!’

  A hundred archers let fly as one. The snap of bowstrings being released twanged in the air and a hail of death greeted the charging Wolf. The front ranks stumbled and fell, the open boulevard providing little cover. ‘Reload!’ Lord Alford’s voice rang out over the din, as he prepared his marines for another salvo.

  In the street below, Gerwold watched his men fall to the salvo from the walls. ‘Shields up, men, we cannot fail now. We are too
close to our goal.’ Pointing to the large golden gate that led into the heart of the citadel, Gerwold continued, ‘Kalifae, that gate is the final obstacle. On the other side lie the crown and the Golden Throne. Are you ready to be a queen?’

  The sorceress smiled and reached out her hands, chanting as she scrunched her fists. The Wolf watched in surprise as they huddled beneath the scant cover of their shields. The large golden doors buckled and twisted. Like a piece of parchment in a baby’s palm, the doors scrunched and buckled until their hinges gave out and the heavy gates fell uselessly to the pavement. Seeing the gates fall, Gerwold gave the order to advance. As the Wolf moved forward, the doors on either side of the boulevard were thrown open and the King’s Consuls threw themselves upon the Wolves exposed flanks.

  Hearing the din of combat behind him, Gerwold surged onwards. With Kalifae at his side, he stormed the Citadel. The Wolf burst into the large welcome hall where foreign dignitaries were normally welcomed to the palace.

  Dozens of guardsmen waited for them, weapons at the ready. However, Kalifae would not be denied. The sorceress chanted and the defenders fell to their knees in agony. Unable to draw a breath, they clutched at their throats helplessly as the Wolf ran them through. Storming deeper into the palace, Gerwold shouted, ‘The throne room is at the top of those stairs! Onwards men, onwards!’

  In the streets outside, the Wolf were thronged on all sides, those at the fore pressing on into the citadel. Others were less fortunate, and Dariyen and the King’s Consuls fell upon them. Spotting the shattered gates of the citadel, Syrion made straight for them, the weight of supporting both himself and his brother causing him great fatigue. ‘Almost there!’ Syrion reassured Tristan who was looking extremely uncomfortable as he dangled in the air.

  Soon, the two brothers landed heavily just beside the shattered doors. Employing a similar spell to that which he has used on Takoa in the DragonHold, Syrion set about assailing the Wolf. Concussive blasts of air slammed into their ranks, causing chaos as soldiers were sent flying through the air.

  Tristan sprang into the fray, attacking the Wolf from a quarter they had previously considered safe. Seeing the brothers enter the fray, Dariyen called to them, ‘Not here! We have this! Gerwold is already inside. Deal with him!’

  Tristan nodded his understanding and charged into the castle, Syrion only a step behind. As he entered the hall, he saw dozens of slain guardsmen. As he stormed past he could not help but notice that there were no Wolf amongst the fallen. Quickly, he stormed up the stone stairway leading to the throne room. More guardsmen lay scattered at the top of the landing, further victims of the Wolf’s barbarity.

  As he ran towards the throne room, Tristan saw that the door was ajar. Pushing it open, Tristan was greeted by a bizarre sight. There seated on the Golden Throne was Gerwold and perched on his brow lay the Crown of Kings. Two dozen Wolf flanked the throne and perched on one knee was a dainty woman with long dark hair and flowing, multicolored robes. The table where the King’s Council usually sat had been upturned and thrown unceremoniously to the side.

  ‘Kneel before your King!’ the woman cried giddily.

  ‘I’d sooner die,’ Tristan responded flatly. ‘Gerwold, you are a murderer and a traitor. Your delusions of grandeur have cost the lives of thousands of men, women and children. Surrender the Crown without further bloodshed and perhaps your life will be spared.’

  ‘You speak treason, Tristan Listar! I am the rightful King of Valaar! The city is taken, every second that passes more of my men approach this place. Your sad effort to stop me has been a fruitless struggle that has ultimately failed. With your death today the house of Listar will be at an end, history will not even remember your name...’

  ‘You are mistaken, Gerwold. In your haste, you have thrown caution to the wind. Most of your army never cleared the wall and those that did are bleeding in the streets outside as the King’s Consuls cut them down like wheat. Your allies too have surrendered their positions.’ As Gerwold’s face reddened, Tristan pressed on, ‘At home Belnair has fallen, your home has been ransacked and your son is dead. No doubt killed by that murderess he courted. Good idea that one, Gerwold....’

  ‘Lies,’ Gerwold spat cutting, Tristan off. ‘All lies! I’ll cut out your miserable lying tongue! Guards, take him!’

  ‘I would advise against that,’ Syrion replied, his tone overtly threatening.

  ‘Who the hell are you to threaten me?’ Gerwold demanded, his rage boiling over.

  ‘I am Syrion Listar, son of Marcus and Elaina Listar. You killed my father and have attempted to kill my brother on several occasions. On my father’s honor, you will not survive your next attempt on his life.’

  ‘How touching...’ Gerwold began. ‘Kill them both!’ The Wolf sprang forward to attack the brothers. As the Wolf charged across the throne room, arrows began to rain down upon them. Glancing to the galleries above, Tristan spotted dozens of soldiers with bows drawn. Lord Alford stormed into the room with the remainder of his sailors. Seizing his chance, Tristan charged the throne. Leaping over the body of one of the fallen Wolf, Tristan made for Gerwold.

  Gerwold sprang to his feet sending the petite woman scurrying from his lap. As Tristan approached, Gerwold drew his sword and swept his cloak aside. From her discarded place at the throne’s side, Kalifae began to chant. A bolt of green energy leapt from her palm towards the charging Tristan.

  Syrion was waiting, and seeing the beam, he summoned a shield to surround his brother. The bolt glanced off the shield and struck a nearby soldier. The man screamed as he fell, the flesh sloughing from his bones like a leper’s. Not waiting for a second attack, Syrion took the offensive, hurling a fireball at the deadly Sorceress. The woman ducked out of the way and threw a fireball of her own. It missed Syrion but struck several of Alford’s Marines who were still charging through the door.

  In the centre of the room, Tristan threw himself at Gerwold. Gerwold parried the blow and struck back, his blade narrowly missing Tristan as he ducked under it. Tristan thrust in an attempt to run through the false king, but Gerwold was a veteran of countless battles. He sidestepped the blow and delivered a vicious kick to the young Listarii as he passed. Tristan grunted in pain, the abuse of the past few days taking its toll, but the young warrior refused to give in.

  Gerwold personified all that Tristan hated in the world: greed, avarice, and a lust for power that drove him to genocide. Tristan knew that more than his own life hung in the balance. If Gerwold retained the throne, this suffering would only be the beginning.

  Clearing his mind Tristan readied himself. Gerwold slashed at him, but Tristan was prepared, he parried the blow and struck back, his rapier catching Gerwold in the shoulder. Gerwold rolled away from the blow, his chainmail absorbing most of the damage. Tristan pressed his advantage and launched a furious flurry of blows.

  Gerwold retreated, but Tristan would not be deterred. Gerwold slashed at him again, Tristan dodged the blade and again attempted to drive his blade home. This time Gerwold caught the rapier’s blade in his gauntleted fist and punched Tristan in the face with his sword pommel. Tristan collapsed to the ground, blood pouring out of a wound near his eye.

  Themed king loomed over the fallen Listarii, in one hand his long sword waiting ready to deliver the killing blow, in the other Tristan’s rapier still clutched in his fist. ‘Tristan!’ Syrion called, longing to help his brother, but unable to extricate himself from the deadly duel he found himself engaged in. Gerwold looked at Syrion and then, grinning like a madman, he began to bring his blade down.

  Whilst Gerwold was distracted, Tristan slipped his knife from its place at his wrist and plunged it through Gerwold’s boot at the ankle joint. Gerwold howled in rage and Tristan rolled out of the way of the thrusting blade. Tristan caught his rapier deftly as it fell from the wounded king’s grip.

  Springing to his feet, Tristan dodged a clumsy blow and lashed out with his rapier, the narrow blade finding its mark as it lanced across Gerwold’s
throat. Blood leapt from the wound as Gerwold stumbled backward in shock, clutching at his throat. Finding the throne, he collapsed, his life ebbing away as the blood pumped from his body. Tristan watched as the would-be king perished, his head sagging forwards as he finally gave up the ghost.

  Behind him, he could hear the last of the Wolf being subdued, their spirit failing as their liege perished. In the corner of the room, Syrion had cornered the sorceress in some sort of prison. Beams of golden light formed a cage surrounding the woman. The sorceress was angrily casting all manner of enchantments at her glowing cage, her frustration growing visibly with every failed attempt. Syrion watched as the woman struggled, readying himself should she manage to break free.

  Tristan approached the throne. Gerwold sat lifelessly upon it. Reaching forward, Tristan picked up the Crown of Kings. It shone like the sun.Its intricate gold work must have taken many artisans months to forge. Tristan had never seen it up close before. It was a thing of great beauty and power.

  ‘Put it on!’ A voice within him stirred, ‘You would be a good king, unlike that pretender Gerwold...Put it on... no one can stop you now, you would be King...’Tristan paused as the voice within whispered to him of wealth and power. In his mind’s eye, he saw Valaar, its verdant lands and prospering people prostrating themselves at his feet.

  Then the scene changed and he saw a narrow brook, one he knew well from his childhood. As he followed the brook, he saw a home and smithy. In the yard was a young woman, her dark hair gleaming in the sun. He saw Linea’s face as she smiled and he too smiled. For the first time in days, the young Listarii lord smiled. He strolled over to the shattered glass case that normally housed the Crown of Kings and set it back on its pedestal.

  Lord Alford watched quietly as the young man set the crown in its place and moved to his brother’s side. Syrion was speaking to the sorceress who now sat on the floor, resigned to her fate, as the young Astarii questioned her.