Fate of the Fallen

by Kel Kade

  “Your Majesty, I am only briefly acquainted with the forester. We met on the road south. I hope to acquire his services in dealing with the blight in Ruriton when his business here is concluded.”

  “Then, you did not witness his presence in the forest?” said Rakith.

  “No, Your Majesty. I have had several dealings with the foresters in recent months. After speaking with Aaslo, I felt that his temperament, and, dare I say, culture were consistent with that of the foresters—with the fortunate exception of his willingness to leave the forest, that is.”

  The king turned his dark gaze back to Aaslo, and then proceeded to sit in silence for several minutes. The seneschal eventually returned with another man. The latter was of middle age with greying hair, but his form was fit and his forearms were thick. He wore a smock bearing multiple pockets over a sweat-stained shirt and had leather pads strapped to his knees. He held himself with the demeanor of a man used to subjugation but appeared anxious as he knelt at the foot of the dais.

  Rakith looked at Aaslo and said, “This is Master Pettridge. He is the head groundskeeper for the palace.” Turning his attention to the groundskeeper, he said, “Master Pettridge, you may rise. This man claims to be a forester. You will test the truth of his claim.”

  Pettridge blinked at Aaslo in surprise. “Your Majesty, I would be honored to discuss anything, anything at all, with Sir Forester.”

  “Perhaps you will have time for discussion later, but for now you need only to confirm or refute his claim.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know what to ask, Your Majesty. A forester’s knowledge is surely much greater than my own.”

  The king looked to the ceiling and sighed. “Then confirm that his knowledge is at least equal to your own.”

  Aaslo wanted to move on to business. Magdelay’s letter had said without delay, but the king seemed less than eager to comply. Aaslo said, “Master Pettridge, allow me.”

  “Idiot.”

  Remembering too late that he was not supposed to speak without leave, Aaslo continued before he was called out for it. “Your lellisa tree is dying. Your magi have encouraged it to grow to at least twice its natural size, and its leaves are white. They are supposed to be red.”

  Master Pettridge’s lips silently wagged before he sputtered, “It is a rare anomaly. That’s why it’s special.”

  “No, the leaves are white because the magic is forcing it into perpetual bloom. It should only bloom for two weeks per year in the spring. The rarity of the occurrence is what makes it special. The spells are sucking the nutrients, the life, out of the rest of the tree to keep up with the demand for flowers that your fancy nobles take for granted.”

  “Is this true?” said the queen, and Aaslo finally had an excuse to look her way.

  She leaned forward so that the loose strands of her long auburn tresses hung to her knees. She was only a few years younger than the king, but her heart-shaped face glowed with a healthy youth. Her face lacked the lines of a life well-lived, but her hazel gaze held intelligence and knowledge. Aaslo was surprised that she appeared genuinely concerned.

  Aaslo opened his mouth but paused. This time he remembered the seneschal’s instructions. He was not supposed to address the queen. Glancing back at the king, he saw the hint of a smirk behind the man’s beard. Aaslo thought it a challenge, and he accepted.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said with a bow for the queen.

  “Looks like I’ll be seeing you sooner than you thought.”

  Aaslo ignored Mathias and delivered the rest of his answer for the queen. “It is hard to say, due to the magic involved, but I doubt the tree has more than a year or two to live.”

  The queen stared at the groundskeeper, who shifted uncomfortably. The man looked back at the king and said, “What he says makes sense. I defer to the forester’s judgment in the matter, Your Majesty.”

  The king appeared contemplative for a moment; then his gaze flicked to the sword at Aaslo’s hip. “Your sword looks costly for a man who lives a life sustained by the forest.”

  Aaslo glanced at the courtiers before answering. He had no desire to reveal information that should remain secret, but he couldn’t lie to the king. He said, “I inherited it. My possession of the sword is further proof of the importance of the message I bear.”

  “I would see it.”

  Aaslo placed his hand on the hilt, then caught a motion on his periphery, and he was certain he was a breath away from becoming a pincushion. Instead of drawing the weapon as was his instinct, he untied the leather cord securing it to his belt. Then he held the sword in front of him across both hands in offering. No one moved to take it from him, and he was already at the end of the blue carpet. He glanced at each of the onlookers for some clue as to what he should do. His gaze passed over the queen, and he wasn’t sure if he had seen it, but he thought her eyes had flicked to the floor. Slowly, he sank to his knees and reached as far as he could past the end of the carpet. He laid the sword, still in its sheath, on the stone floor and then resumed standing.

  The king flicked his fingers, again, and one of the royal guardsmen beside the throne stepped forward to collect the sword. Rakith’s visage darkened as he examined the weapon. He said, “I know this sword. That it is in your possession is concerning. Very well, Forester. I will dismiss my court. If you fail to provide just cause, though, you will become well acquainted with my dungeon master.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Aaslo whispered as the courtiers shuffled out of the throne room. He could barely hear his own voice over the din.

  “I am on my side. Always,” said Rakith. “I have been lenient with you because of the high sorceress’s request, but you test my tolerance. It is not appropriate to question your king, particularly with that kind of query.”

  “My apologies, Your Majesty. Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t speaking to you?”

  “Who were you speaking to then? The marquess? I assure you, he is also on my side.”

  “No, I mean, yes, Your Majesty—”

  “Marquess Dovermyer!” called the king over Aaslo’s head. “Do you think to escape?”

  Aaslo turned to see the marquess following the crowd to the other end of the hall. The man turned at the king’s call, appearing startled. He hurried forward and bowed. “Your Majesty, I was heeding your command to clear the hall.”

  “Not you, Lord Sefferiah. You will stay.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  Rakith pointed a finger at the marquess and said, “You are somehow connected to this.”

  The marquess held up both hands and said, “No, Your Majesty, I have no knowledge of the forester’s message.”

  “You brought him here, did you not?”

  “Well, yes, but only because I read the letter from the high sorceress.”

  “Then, you already know as much as I. My seneschal says you have built a rapport with the forester. You will remain.”

  The marquess looked at Aaslo with accusation.

  “What?” Aaslo said. “I didn’t invite you to my mission. You and your men forced your way in—at swordpoint, if I recall.”

  The large doors at the other end of the hall closed with a thud, and Aaslo turned his attention back to the king. The room was not completely clear, of course, but all that remained besides the king and queen were the seneschal, the guards, including the archers, the marquess, and Greylan. Aaslo was uncertain as to why the marquess’s guard captain had been permitted to stay but figured it was some sort of court etiquette.

  “Now speak, Forester. What message do you bear?”

  Aaslo glanced at the queen, who looked on with interest. There was no easy way to break news of the world’s impending doom. He untied the burlap sack from his belt as he said, “I come regarding the Aldrea Prophecy.” Gripping Mathias’s head by the hair, he held it up for all to see. “The chosen one is dead.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Myropa watched in wonder as the forester re
vealed the evidence of their world’s certain demise. He stood strong before his king, pushing, or outright defying, nearly every rule that he had been given upon arrival. He showed no fear nor willingness to acquiesce to the expectations of others, despite their standing or authority. Like all foresters, this one, Aaslo, was stubborn. She wondered if Aaslo’s will was strong enough to withstand the gods. Myropa hated the way the gods made her feel small and incapable—like a child. She might have died a young woman, but she had been a reaper for over two decades. She had seen things she never could have imagined as a human. She hadn’t been a strong woman, though. She had succumbed to despair, to the darkness that had promised refuge from her misery, but it was the darkness that had led her to this.

  The king slowly stood. Myropa had been to this court several times, most recently to collect a young knight who had been stuck full of arrows. She knew the king never stood. Nobody cared now, though. They were all in shock—all but the forester. He held his ground, still gripping the head before him, as Rakith descended the steps and stopped in front of him. Rakith hesitantly brushed his finger across the mark on the dead man’s temple. His nostrils flared, and he looked to the forester.

  “You did this?”

  Aaslo scowled. “Of course not. Well, I did collect the head, but he was already dead.” Lowering the head back into the sack, he said, “Mathias was my friend, my brother. He and Magdelay … ah, the high sorceress … were attacked on the road their first night out of Goldenwood. I was hurrying to catch up with them when I found evidence they were being followed. I tried to warn them of the ambush, but I was too late. Mathias was injured in the first blast. While the high sorceress battled their magus, I fought off Mathias’s attackers.” The forester hung his head. “I failed to save him.” After taking a deep breath, he raised his head and met the king’s astonished gaze.

  Rakith said, “This is the message the high sorceress sends?” His voice rose with frustration. “Why bother?”

  Aaslo said, “Your Majesty?” Myropa was just as surprised as Aaslo.

  “What was her point?” snapped the king.

  “Um … because you are the king? You must find another savior—a knight or a soldier, one of the magi, or—someone.”

  The king tried to turn, but the heavy cloak made it difficult. He furiously tugged at the pins holding it to his shoulders, and he wasn’t satisfied until it lay in a puddle on the floor. He stomped up the steps to the top of the dais and sank into his throne. The queen reached over to place her hand on his. He looked at her with a sightless gaze more akin to the dead than the living. To Myropa, he looked utterly defeated, a feeling with which she was quite familiar.

  “It is over,” he said.

  “No, husband,” said Queen Kadia. “The death of one man does not mean defeat.”

  Rakith huffed and slammed his other fist on the arm of the throne. “Yes, it does! Such is the prophecy. Such is every prophecy! From every prophet! The best we can hope for now is to surrender and beg for mercy.”

  The queen’s face fell, and she pulled back her hand.

  “No,” said Aaslo. “We can fight. I knew Mathias better than anyone. He would have wanted us to fight. He never would have surrendered. If anyone could have saved the world, it would have been he.”

  “And he is dead!” shouted Rakith.

  “But we are not,” replied the forester. “All of the enemy were killed, so the only people who know Mathias is dead are the high sorceress and the people in this room. Someone else—”

  “No one can take his place,” said Rakith. “No one else can succeed. Even those who might try would be better off spending their final days with their loved ones. Such will be my order.”

  “But, Your Majesty, we must fight. The battle has not even begun—”

  “There will be no battle. We will wait and hope the enemy reserves a place for at least some of our people.”

  Aaslo did not hide his anger as he argued with the king. “The prophecy says it will be the end of life—all life. There will be no reserve. What can it hurt to try?”

  Rakith waved his hand. “If you want to try, Forester, then you may do so of your own accord. I will not stop you, but I do not claim your cause either.”

  Myropa was stunned by the turn of events, and it appeared that Aaslo was, too. He stared at the king. He looked as if he would protest again; then his jaw firmed and he raised his chin. “I will take up my brother’s cause. I may not be the chosen one, not even a mage or knight, but I’ll at least try, which is better than sitting around waiting to die. I wish to reclaim my brother’s sword so that it may meet the destiny for which it was forged.”

  Rakith spat, “You ask a boon?”

  “Give him the sword, Rakith,” said the queen’s soothing voice. “He has carried it all this way. It is important to him, and you have no use for it.”

  Myropa was unsure about whether she liked Queen Kadia. The woman was sensible and compassionate, but she need not be so placating to her husband.

  Rakith thrust the sheathed sword into his seneschal’s hands. The bumbling man nearly dropped it, and Myropa figured he had probably never before held a sword. Aaslo was not shy about taking it from the man, either. He tied it to his belt, along with the burlap sack.

  Not even an ounce of respect could be found in his tone when he said, “By your leave, Your Majesty?” Myropa couldn’t blame him. King Rakith had turned out to be a spineless coward. At least the forester would go down fighting, and even that caused her sadness.

  * * *

  Aaslo left the hall with the marquess and Greylan on his heels. He couldn’t believe he had made it all the way to the royal court in Tyellí and was walking away without aid. There would be no savior, no hero knight, and no army. Some mysterious enemy would swarm their borders, and the entire kingdom would lie down and show its belly like a beaten dog.

  “What will you do?”

  He decided the biggest problem with the monarchy was that no one would stand up to the king when he was being an idiot.

  “Sir Forester, what will you do?”

  Aaslo could not understand what the man was thinking. It was his job, above anyone else’s, to protect the kingdom.

  “Sir Forester, wait!”

  He wondered how anybody could be so—

  “Someone’s talking to you, Aaslo.”

  Aaslo shook his mind free of its brooding and noticed that the marquess was practically running to keep up with him. He slowed as he approached the exit, where he spied a young page delivering a message to the doorman.

  Aaslo paused and turned toward the marquess. “What is it, Marquess Dovermyer? Pardon me, Most Honorable the Marquess of Dovermyer.”

  The marquess blew out a breath and said, “I think we may dispense with that. Thank you for slowing. For a moment, I thought you’d not stop until you were back in your forest.”

  “Which is what you should do.”

  “Such is the dream,” Aaslo muttered.

  “Yes, well, what do you plan to do now?”

  “I suppose I’ll face an unknown enemy of unknown numbers with unknown power.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “The high sorceress has gone to the Council of Magi. I will go there to see if anyone is willing to help.”

  “I see,” said the marquess. “I have not been back to my estate since my father passed. I must return to set things in order. My brother is not the most dependable, and I am certain things have gone amuck.” The marquess ceased his rambling when he realized Aaslo had stopped and was staring at him. “What?”

  “Did you not hear what we were discussing in there?” He hooked a thumb toward the throne room. “The end is nigh.”

  The marquess cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I cannot exactly plan for that, can I. I figure it’s better to keep things running smoothly until it is no longer possible. I must have faith that you—or someone—will do something to prevent that from happening. Otherwise, I think I’ll go mad.” />
  “Then you support my endeavor?”

  “Wholeheartedly,” said the marquess. “Unfortunately, I cannot go with you. I’ve always been more scholarly. It was no jest when I said your swordsmanship far exceeds my own. I can give you money, and you are welcome at my estate. When the time comes to recruit an army, my men will be at your disposal.”

  “That’s assuming they haven’t all abandoned their posts in fear.”

  “Desertion is not an option in the coming war,” said Aaslo.

  “No, I believe you are right in that. I will begin preparing them as soon as I return. They will understand what is at stake.”

  Aaslo patted the burlap sack tied at his waist. “You cannot tell them about this.”

  “Of course. No need to make things worse.”

  “I will find another way.”

  “I appreciate your determination. It makes it much easier for me to live in denial.”

  “I’m just being practical. It’s not hard when the alternative is death.”

  The marquess leaned in and whispered, “You should probably keep those sentiments to yourself while you are here.” Then, more casually, he said, “I shall bid you adieu, Sir Forester. I must return to my estate to begin preparations. If you accept my patronage in this endeavor, I will have my secretary arrange delivery of a few supplies to your guild house.”

  Aaslo scratched his chin and glanced around the receiving hall as he considered the possible outcomes of accepting the marquess’s patronage. As a forester, he was relatively free to do as he pleased. Accepting patronage meant owing a debt. Magdelay and Cromley had taught Mathias and him not to trust people who offered much for seemingly little gain. The marquess seemed sincere, but nobles were practiced in manipulation and deception. Considering the circumstances, though, the prospect of continued life was a rather attractive boon—and there was still the matter of the blight. He noticed that Greylan seemed displeased with the proposed arrangement, and Aaslo’s mind was made up.