by Jason Jones
“Go Kalzarius, discredit him while the soldiers move to arrest.” The Cardinal stepped back to allow him through. “Delay him.”
“Very well, very well. This is atrocious in the most dishonorable degree, where are your guards, King Phillip?” Kalzarius shook his head as he neared the railing, and yelled up to the men on the roof.
“And you speak of kings, knights, and noble blood so bravely behind your mask and paint! You are likely just some foreign spy sent to cause unrest! I say you are likely a gutter rat, so before this kingdom listens to your lies further, show your true self, vagabond!” Kalzarius tapped his staff, hearing some applause, trying to keep his grin from showing.
Richmond felt the towel, still wet, as Balric handed it to him from behind. He wiped his face, removed the mask, and the simultaneous gasps of tens of thousands rippled the very air. The Cardinal looked to Kalzarius, Kalzarius shrugged to Phillip unable to see up there at the angle of the balcony, then someone said it from the crowd.
“Richmond the Second!”
“Not possible.” Kalzarius gasped and looked to King Phillip and the Cardinal. “Richmond is dead, must be an imposter, or someone of close resemblance, your majesty.”
“My name is of no importance, all you need know, my people of Harlaheim, is that the Red Wolves of Agara have risen once more! You will hear howls in the night, howls of freedom, and of revolution! Do not be bought, do not be sold, and do not believe one thing this imposter of a king preaches to you!”
Richmond threw the red paint smeared towel, it fluttered in the air, and landed below on the balcony, next to Phillip. Arrows loosed, they came close to the Red Wolves, but not yet in range. The crowd was chanting his name, it was deafening, and the soldiers could not get through.
“Richmond, Richmond, Richmond!”
“Your men die in other kingdoms for foreign nobility, and your king holds a brand on his back, a brand of a spider courtesy of his master, look and see! Down with king Phillip! Out with the truth! Hold true to your kingdom, and the Red Wolves shall return!” Richmond pulled down his wolf mask as his compatriots pulled him back.
Richmond saw one of the men hand him a rope, the other two stood guard as he descended the fastest hundred fifty feet he had ever gone, straight down the backside of the castle. His hands burned through the gloves, yet he was on the cobblestone, rapier in hand. The others landed with him, seconds after, and the chase was on. Arrows flew, guards charged from every direction, and the people roared the name of the Red Wolves, and then they even howled like wolves themselves.
“Aaahoooo!”
Just as legions of soldiers converged upon the position of these four men, down the sewer grate they went, and out of sight. Balric slid the bar across the steel plate that Rodreigo handed him. Then Willian slid in the other, the grate was impassible, for now.
Richmond was smiling, from ear to ear, covered in sweat. His eyes blinked over and over, not believing what they just did.
“That..that was..incredible. I felt…hope.”
“Well spoken Richmond, well done.” Lord Rodreigo patted him on the shoulder.
“Indeed, even I was inspired.” Prince Willian of Caberra saluted him with his shamshir, and Richmond returned the gesture with his rapier.
“And now it begins. Time to move, men, time to move. They will be down here soon, we can congratulate one another when we make it back to the tower.” Balric led them quickly down into the sewers he knew so well.
Balric did not think of Vanessa, nor Johnas Valhera, nor all the troubles in Chazzrynn. His mind was on Alden, not revenge, but on his training, the men at his side, and the mission to bring his country out of wicked hands. He felt free, no more foreign guises and assasinations, no more cutthroat deals. Here, in the Red Wolves, with his former king, he could fight for honor. Here, Balric D’Vrelle finally felt purpose, passion, and pride for his Harlaheim.
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“Tell me the banners are down, at least that.” Phillip massaged his forehead in the dining hall by the balcony.
“They are down, the proper banners are rising, it is over, your majesty.” Kalzarius bowed. “Not even respectable artwork there, just scrawled paint on poor cloth. How dishonorable indeed.”
“Your grace, it is time then. My apologies for that little display of jovial vigilantes, I will have them hung from the castle walls for disgracing you, rest assured.” Phillip drank some wine, then poured another glass, and drank that as well.
Cardinal Ganaire paused, looked out the balcony, and thought of many words to say. He remembered his histories, from his long years past in tutelage at the mission. He smiled. He knew what the Red Wolves of Agara had stood for many centuries ago, why they had risen, and what they had accomplished. Few would know of it, unless old or well studied, and then the Cardinal looked to Kalzarius.
The master of the arcane looked back to Ganaire, no smile on his face, but one for certain in his eyes. It was a knowing glance.
“Your grace, how may I assist you?” Kalzarius bowed.
Ganaire turned and walked toward the balcony. He looked out as people roared and cheered for him, more for what he symbolized. God Alden had been kept from them and was more of a desperate hope than worship. It was not what it was long ago, and Harlaheim needed change. He made the sign of the feathered cross upon his chest, the masses followed, then he put his hand out in the air, and silently blessed the people. Ganaire said not a word, and walked back inside. Still, the cheers and shouts of thanks and love went into the humid Harlaheim air toward the new Cardinal.
“What..what was that? You are not going to speak to them? They have been waiting for days, Cardinal. What is this?” Phillip stood, angry, in disbelief that the Cardinal, a Harlian by blood, and after what had happened, would not give all he could to settle the masses.
“Your people need not the words of some old man with a title, nor decrees and threats and laws. They need love, King Phillip, and they need to see actions that show that love.” Ganaire sighed and smiled to Kalzarius.
“Give them displays of kingly generosity, inspire them with deeds, if you can.”
“This is preposterous, you said not one word out there, how dare you?” Phillip looked to Kalzarius, his eyes wide in shock again.
“Can you believe this?”
“How dare I? How dare you promise the Cardinal of the Aldane Church to hang men from your walls in his honor? Alden is the father of sacrifice, of love for mankind, of heaven, who had his wings torn from him for his people. He gave all, so that we would survive the darkness, Phillip. He is not a God of killing and vengeance that so many manipulate this feathered cross into for themselves, no.” Ganaire paused and took a breath.
“You want words, here are my words. I will take my Crossguard Legion, all nine thousand here, and leave tomorrow. We will return to Acelinne, and let you heal your kingdom on your own. You have enough interference as it is. I will return, in one years’ time, and see if you are ready to hear my holy praises. For right now, you are not. Your matters of rule, they are far more pressing.” The Cardinal began to walk out, followed by his holy guards, and priestly servants.
“My forces are minimal here, Cardinal. Saint Erinsburg is gone, I loaned five thousand soldiers to Chazzrynn, our ally, and by taking your Legions, I am at risk. You cannot do this, we have an agreed upon document.” Phillip was sweating now, he had worked very hard with Johnas to ensure that the documents were in place, forged of course, to keep that force here as he began his rule.
“I signed no document, King Phillip.”
“But the previous Cardinal, Desmonde, he signed and offered support.” Phillip replied.
“Pity. Farewell, King Phillip. Farewell, Kalzarius of Harlaheim. God bless.” Cardinal Ganaire smiled to himself as he walked out.
“The church will here of this, I will write to Acelinne, Cardinal. And you call yourself a Harlian?” Phillip growled.
Ganaire turned to say something
, then continued out of sight with his hand raised. Kalzarius bowed as best he could in his old age, and tried not to smile.
“Now what do we do, Kalzarius? I have an army that is one third of what I need. Johnas Valhera will be expecting us to meet in Willborne with battle plans, Caberra will not sit idly and wait, and I have not enough. I need an army, soon.” Phillip sat back down, slowly, his hand trembling.
“How may I assist you and Harlaheim, your majesty? I have no army, but I could help with smaller tasks.”
“I need those vigilantes found, I need the Caberran emissary found, I need protection in the streets….I….” Phillip looked up to the ancient old man, one that had been targeted by every king since he had been alive, and one Phillip himself had even laid siege to at his tower. He squinted.
“I do not know if I can trust you, Kalzarius.”
“Your majesty. I teach arcane study at my tower. I am older than old at this point, and I have lived all my life in Harlaheim. I love my kingdom, my city, and the people. You are the king, and you have my services. All you need do, is ask.” Kalzarius put his hand on Phillips back, right behind the heart, right where he knew the brand of the White Spider would be.
“Please do not judge what you do not understand, like so many kings before you.”
“Of course not, I am not Richmond.” Phillip reached for his rapier, slowly. He felt the pressure, exactly on his brand, then it was gone. He blinked and shook his head, then slid the blade back down.
“I will handle these, fools and their silly wolf banners, I have many eyes in the night. I could also have my students patrol the docks if need be. But beyond that, I can only give counsel, your majesty.” Just as he thought, his hand had seen through the clothing, and the brand was there. Kalzarius bowed with a serious demeanor.
“That should take some pressure off of you.”
“Yes, yes it will.” Phillip stood, defeated this day, but he was still king. “You have much to do, and by tomorrow, I shall have a long list of things I need done, Kalzarius of Harlaheim.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, many things indeed. You are loyal to your king, of course?”
Phillip thought of too much too fast. Diamond and Emerald, his Emerald Eight from Johnas, would have to follow Kalzarius closely, watch the tower, and hunt for those infamous secret entrances. His mind swam with plans on how to catch him with Richmond and Balric, for he knew, he sensed, that the old man was involved. Too many witnesses here now, but this wizard before him had outlived anything of use.
“And your king asks for your loyal assistance, starting immediately.”
“I will always serve the interests of Harlaheim, and always have, your majesty.” He winked to the king with a grin.
“Then we will have no issues, you and I. That will be pleasant for us both.” Phillip tapped his rapier.
“Surely it will.” Kalzarius started milling over in his mind how Cilano would have to watch the kings’ movements. The students would be taking hidden positions in parts of the castle, and who would start tracking the armies of Willborne, and even who would be setting up the opened and closed doors for the Red Wolves. His mind was racing as he smiled.
“It will be a wonderful change of pace, your majesty, for us not to disagree. Good afternoon, King Phillip.”
“I will see you tomorrow, Kalzarius, in the morning. Do not be late.” Phillip nodded to his hidden agents by the stairs.
Kalzarius turned, sensing something arcane by the stairs, a pendant on a man he did not see. “On second thought, I have not flown home for so long, the balcony looks most refreshing.”
Phillip watched the old man walk outside to the balcony, white and gray robes fluttering, and rose up and out into the air. He followed, slowly. He gazed across the city, the old libraries and castles, the gargoyle cornered Square, the statues of old Harlaheim, and then to the floating old mage heading toward the twenty stories of marble swirled gray and white that stuck out to the south and east like a thorn in the sky. He smiled down to the people that still loitered in L’Herrim Square and the castle grounds.
“Hail King Phillip!” About twenty people of the thousands still in view, shouted up to the king as he raised his hand.
“Long live the Red Wolves!” Someone, very drunk, shouted back over the crowd, then others followed. Then hundreds began to howl and laugh.
“Captain, you, yes you down there.” Phillip raised his voice to the front of the gates below the balcony.
“Yes, yes your majesty?” He fell to a knee.
“How many men with you, captain?”
“I have fifty, sire.”
“Imrpison anyone that speaks the name of the Red Wolves, beat anyone that howls, and do it in plain daylight. Now.”
Phillip smiled, listened to the stomping of boots and plate armor, the orders were heard and repeated below, and people scattered. Then he heard screams of pain, steel into flesh, and blood curdling fear from men and women. He closed his eyes, the square filling with bloodshed and punishment, and it was sweet music to his ears. He whispered to himself.
“God Bless Harlaheim.”
Heirs IV:III
Throneroom of Thane Kalivak
Kakisteele
“On your knees, Thalanaxe.” Mudren Sheldathain gave his prisoner a shove, but he did not fall. He hefted the blacksteel warhammer, as if threatening to smash his skull from behind, and hesitated.
“No, not yet servant. I want him to swear and beg for mercy, as you did once.” Arabashiel motioned with her boney clawed finger for Zen to be brought to her feet. She was almost done healing, only her hands remained to have flesh regrown.
Zen eyed the throne, while keeping his head down and trying to ignore the tingling sensation in his ash filled mouth. She sat, still injured and bleeding in a few spots, and the arms of the throne rose to her breasts. A brazier on each side simmered with quiet flames of green, but were large enough to stand on for a moment.
Four steps up the stairs, leap onto the brazier, then jump to the arm of the throne, c’mon Zen, that’s not too hard then. Shinayne does things like that all the time. Who ye’ foolin’, Zen, you be no warrior like that, oh Vundren, give me courage now.
He felt Carice in his right hand, the broadsword of James in his left, still hidden as his arms were behind his back and the blades placed through his belt.
“Kneel!” Mudren pushed again, but his prisoner would not fall to a knee. The cursed dwarf backed up, six steps, and kelt down.
“He is too proud, my mistress.”
“Would you care to beat the pride out of him, servant?” Arabashiel smiled, baring her fanged mouth, and her eyes glistened purple with wicked amusement. Her right hand smoldered, the long curved scimitar of embers and steel began to form from the dark realms.
“Or should I do it for you?”
“Let me try, my mistress. I have just the trick, right here, one that Thalanaxe will most enjoy.” Mudren tapped the warhammer to the golden stone.
“Aye, he will indeed.”
With a roar from deep within, and a savage eyed glare that was part curse and part angry dwarf, Mudren Sheldathain sprinted ahead with the warhammer back to strike. He ran right at Azenairk, weapon ready to crush his skull, and passed right by him.
Whoosh!
Thank ye’ Vundren, thank ye’ father, we come to meet ye’ soon now. Bless us. Zen thought and prayed fast, raised his head, and opened his eyes.
“For Kakisteele!”
Mudren lunged into the air from his dead run, armor, shield, and all. The warhammer slammed into her knee, shattering bone inside, and he clamored up the steps and stood between her legs.
Crack, crack, thud, crack!
“Aaaarrrgghhhaaa!”
The cursed dwarven king slammed Zen’s hammer over and over into her face, her chest, and her swordarm. He unleashed a fury of two thousand years of slavery, a hate of servitude, and a vengeance of knowing all she had done to his people in the name of their wicked God.
Arabashiel was distracted, stunned and screaming, and Zen went into action. He pulled Carice and the griffon hilted broadsword free from behind. His steps were quick up the stairs, ducking a strike from her black feathered wing. He jumped to the lip of the brazier, his bare feet sizzled from the heat of the hot gold and green flames, yet he did not falter.
No fear now, come on Zen.
He heard her screams, and the painful roars of Mudren, as she plunged the scimitar through him. Zen saw her other hand grab Mudren’s head, and the scorching blade began to tear him in two, yet on he battled with the warhammer. Azenairk leapt to the arm of the throne, barely landing with wobbly balance, and he stood. He looked at Mudren.
Don’t look, don’t look, just go, Zen.
Slap, slice, slap, thud
“Aaaarrgggghhh!”
First Mudren’s severed arm hit the stone floor, then his bottom half was sliced off with her ember scimitar, and then Mudren was held by the head. Then that too, was cut off from Arabashiel’s netherworld blade, and the pieces of the cursed dwarf fell down the steps of the throne. She went to stand.
Now, Zen, gotta’ go now.
Slice, slice, slice!
Zen leapt and plunged Carice deep into her chest, the glowing elven steel went through her flesh with ease as blood poured, and she fell back into the throne. Then the broadsword of James Andellis dove into her neck, and Azenairk pulled himself higher. As she grabbed him, his shirt tore free, and he pulled Shinayne’s blade out and dove it up into her lower jaw and out her mouth. Blood sprayed all over them both, and her claws dug into his back. Arabashiel dropped her sword, it was no use with him this close, and she grabbed his neck and squeezed.
Azenairk fought the grip, pulled the broadsword loose, and plunged it up through the roof of her mouth, and out the top of her head. Her scream would have driven the bravest of heroes into flight, but not Zen, not now.
Pulling down with his right arm holding Carice through her lower jaw, then pushing up with his left arm gripping the broadsword in her head, the dwarven priest of Vundren opened her mouth until immortal bone popped and skin tore wide open on her cheeks. He put his face in her fanged mouth, just as her fingernails clenched into his throat and neck. Her teeth scraped his face and drew blood. He did not care.
