Conquests and Crowns

by S E Meliers

  ‘I do not understand,’ she was distressed.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he scratched his forehead and looked to Song, exasperated. ‘I wish, sometimes, that you would speak,’ he said to her. ‘I am sure you would be doing a far better job than I of explaining.’ He turned back to the woman. ‘Let us just call you un-dead, how does that sound? As long as I live, so will you. You will find yourself more… resilient, however. You will not be affected by pain – you will feel it, but it will not disable you. You will also find that you are less limited by the normal boundaries of a person: you will be stronger, and faster. I am not sure why, it just works that way. You are not indestructible, however, so please take care of your meat. It will heal, slowly, but if you sustain major damage, I will have to exert energy to repair you, and that would be annoying.’

  ‘Oh,’ the woman blinked.

  ‘You are also limited as to free will. You are my un-dead thing, and as Song is owner of all that I am…’ he kissed Song’s fingertips and she simpered prettily. ‘You will do as she instructs you. You will find you will understand what she wants easily enough, once you become accustomed. Is there anything else?’ he asked Song. ‘No? Very well,’ he took a key from a hook near the door and unlocked the woman. She rubbed her wrists as if they hurt, then stopped, looking surprised as she realised they did not.

  ‘Song will take you to get clean, and then to where you and Song need to be. The city will fall any time now, and things are about to go very wrong for our dear friend Honesty, so you had best hurry along,’ he glanced out over the balcony. The sun was setting, but the mangonels kept up their destruction of the city walls. He could see torches moving at great pace within the city streets and within the castle walls. ‘Or maybe we will skip straight to the running away part of the evening. The people of the city have realised that Honesty is sacrificing them, and are rushing the castle. The Castle is holding, at the moment, but my Skeleton force is being overwhelmed, and smashed to smithereens, and the Shoethalian’s will be inside the walls any moment now. Are you sure you will be safe?’ he seized Song’s shoulders. She smiled, patted his cheek, and nodded. ‘Very well. I love you,’ he kissed her passionately and released her, stepping out onto the balcony.

  She gestured the woman to the door. As they reached it, he turned and called back to them: ‘What is your name, woman? I need to have something to call you.’

  ‘Tender,’ the woman said. ‘My name is Tender.’

  ‘Ugh,’ he pulled a face. ‘That is hideous, and highly inappropriate. You need something different. We shall call you… Sorrow.’ At that moment, a massive dark shape swooped down from the sky and seized him around the waist, jerking him up with a wing sweep that blowed a gale of air into the chamber, whipping the women’s skirts and hair towards the open internal chamber door, before carrying him off into the sky.

  Chapter Six

  Gallant

  He was lost.

  Having admitted it to himself, Gallant felt he placed his feet at the edge of a pit of despair so deep that if he fell within he would never stop falling. The sickening lassitude sucked the marrow from his bones, the thoughts from his head, made him weak and dizzy. He sat in the undergrowth with his legs tucked up to his chest, like a little boy, and breathed deeply. He had been here before, he reminded himself, at the edge of this pit, and he had fought his way free. He prayed to the Monad to guide him.

  ‘I am alive,’ he said out loud, a mantra to motivate his limbs to move. He stood, using a tree to hold himself upright. ‘I am alive.’ That bitch of a Hallow… ‘I will get my revenge,’ he swore, ferociously. He took stock. He had no horse, only the clothes he wore. No cloak as he did not normally wear one, the robes of a Priest being sufficiently warm. He had discarded the vestments, however, as it had not seemed wise to advertise his allegiance whilst wandering lost through what was still primarily enemy territory, although it was occupied by his people. He did however have a good pair of boots, his shirt and trousers were of good make, he had his knife and a purse of coins on his belt. There were many in the world that had less.

  That bitch of a Hallow, he scowled. He had known something was not right with that one. She was always too conveniently at hand, shadowing Cinder, himself, or the Lady Patience. Spider, he remembered, fixating the rune in his mind. A fat, matriarch of a spider, spinning her web, Cinder a fly caught in her trap, lured in by her pretty weavings. What was her ultimate goal? That was the most important question, he decided. If he knew what she aimed to achieve, he could anticipate her next move, cut her off at the knees… He imagined his revenge in bloody detail, relished her imagined screams.

  If only he could find his way through this fvccanting forest, he glared at the offending trees. A light caught his eye, a warm golden glow. A fire. A most welcome beacon of company in this miserable forest. He approached through the trees with caution. A wanderer’s camp, wagons parked in between trees, canvas tents pitched in clearings, cattle and horses snuffling in the dark. He could see the outlines of people against the flames, men and women cooking on the coals, mending tack and weaving baskets by firelight, spinning tales for their young ones. A homely scene.

  He salivated at the thought of food.

  There would be a guard, he realised, pressing himself up against a tree trunk. Someone keeping watch to ensure no one snuck up on the group. As if summoned by his thoughts, a cold blade rested against his throat. ‘Do not think of fighting,’ a female voice murmured in his ear with an odd intimacy, ‘my blade is keen, and I will spill your blood with pleasure.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I was just contemplating how to make myself known to your company,’ he said truthfully. ‘I am lost, in need of aid.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. The knife withdrew, and she gave him a shove in the direction of the fire. ‘Walk. Do not think to run, or tackle me. I am not alone.’

  ‘That would be most impolite of me, considering I seek your aid,’ he replied, his voice steadier than he felt. As they entered the circle of light from the fire, he could see she was white blond, her braid falling over one shoulder, with a fine fuzz of hair at her temples and the nape of her neck where the hair had broken and not regrown to its full length. She was also embarrassingly, considering her role as his capturer, petite with an endearing smattering of freckles across an up turned nose.

  There was no alarm or surprise on the faces of the wanderers encircling the fire, though there was curiosity. ‘Walk past the fire, to the red wagon,’ his captor instructed. The enclosed wooden wagon was a rich red with green and yellow trim decorated with suns, moons and stars. The door, just behind the wagon seat, and to the side, was open. ‘Enter. And be polite,’ she added frowning.

  He raised his eyebrows at the last, but obediently mounted the stairs and poked his head into the narrow door. The wagon was painted inside as it was out. He thought he would suffer nightmares to sleep in such a garish enclosure, but he was not a wanderer. The interior was claustrophobic, although there was a back door to the wagon, which was divided into two sections so just the top half opened outwards, letting in fresh air. Cushions were piled up against the walls. A flat topped chest, dressed with a semi-sheer scarf, served as a table, on which a candle glowed within a glass frame. The glass surprised him, as it was a rarity usually reserved to nobility or the very wealthy.

  On the other side of this table, watching him with eyes that missed no detail was a woman whose long white hair belied a youthful face. ‘Greetings,’ he said when she offered no salutation.

  ‘You are out of place and out of time, Gallant, Priest of the Monad,’ she said severely.

  ‘I am sorry?’ he was thrown by the reprimand in her tone and her knowledge of his name.

  ‘Sit,’ she indicated with her head for him to sit across from her. ‘We will have to adjust to this unplanned excursion of yours,’ she sighed in weary annoyance. ‘But, that is the nature of the world.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ he said, and did not know if he cared. He was hung
ry, tired, and her cryptic remarks were an annoyance. ‘You obviously know who I am, and as you have not harmed me, I believe I am safe to assume that you are Monadistic supporters. In which case, you will be willing to provide me with a horse, supplies, and a man or maybe two as a guard, so I can re-join the Prince Cinder.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she studied him. There was a knock at the wagon door and his blond captor entered with a bowl of stew and a wineskin. ‘Thank you, Prairie,’ she said, and Gallant realised it was an instruction directed at himself as her eyes did not leave his.

  ‘Thank you, Prairie,’ Gallant repeated bemused, as Prairie set the bowl and wineskin on the chest before him.

  ‘Will there be anything else?’ Prairie asked the white haired woman. She shook her head no, and Prairie stepped back out into the night.

  ‘Eat,’ the white haired woman instructed.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, cautiously, considering the risks. The woman knew who he was, however she had not confirmed herself to be his ally. If she were his enemy, surely she had had plenty of opportunity to harm him if that were her intent. On the other hand, poison was a woman’s tool of choice for murder, so maybe she had been biding her time for the poisoned food and wine to arrive. The stew smelt delicious. His stomach demanded food audibly. She watched him with a small amused smile as if she knew what passed through his mind as he lifted the wooden spoon from the bowl to his lips. ‘Delicious,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Hmmm,’ she produced two goblets from a basket at her side and poured from the wine skin. ‘The world is at war, Gallant,’ she commented, taking a sip from her goblet.

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘I am aware of that,’ he replied, amused. ‘I have been a participant.’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ she replied. ‘But, not only in the war between the Shoethalians and the Rhyndelians. That is a minor skirmish in the real war that is being waged over this world.’

  ‘You have my attention,’ he was intrigued.

  ‘Let us talk of sheep,’ she said with a serene smile. ‘To the sheep’s way of thinking, we are gods. We provide the land from which they eat, the water that they drink, and we decide if they live or die.’

  He was amused. ‘I can see that,’ he agreed, pleasantly. ‘Though I do not understand the relevance.’

  ‘Do we care about their sheepish personal goals, aspirations, or achievements? Do we interfere in sheepish intrigues and machinations? Do we know their inner thoughts and prayers? Or are they just a source of meat?’

  ‘The latter, of course, unless you have some particularly talented shepherds in your company,’ he smirked.

  ‘Of course they are just meat, to us,’ she sipped. ‘Do you think they know that, though?’

  ‘Why are we discussing the religious beliefs of sheep?’ he asked, baffled.

  ‘Because we are arrogant,’ she replied with a hint of sorrow. ‘We think that as we are masterful of the land upon which we live and the creatures thereupon, that the gods we worship see and acknowledge our achievements, when, in reality, we are but sheep to them.’

  ‘I disagree,’ he said. ‘I believe the Monad hears my prayers and watches over me. I am a child to him, and as precious.’

  ‘You are a fool,’ she said it as fact. ‘To the Monad, you are a ram within a flock of ewes and rams, no different than any other. You are too insignificant for him to pay particular attentions to your hopes and dreams. You are a meal, a source of wool or future lambs, and no more. Your consciousness is too small, too simple. As you would be astonished if a ram spoke up tomorrow asking you to forward his aspirations within the flock, so would the Monad be astonished if he heard your prayers. He does not even know that you exist as an individual, Gallant. You are meat to him.’

  ‘And you know this how?’ he said, angrily. ‘Blasphemy, and arrogance. Who are you to say such things to me? I have studied the Monad since childhood. I have lived and breathed him. I have spent months of hours in prayer. I have sacrificed and surrendered for him.’

  ‘And for nothing,’ she was pitying. ‘And I say this, Gallant, because I know. I have a gift, a talent, to see the future. Since childhood, I have seen visions that have baffled me. In recent years, they have become clearer. There is a war being fought, but we are not the victors, we are the spoils.’

  ‘Explain,’ he took a mouthful of wine to calm himself. He wished to cut out her lying tongue, to bury his dagger into her heart, to watch the light die in her eyes for the heresy she spoke, however, her company was all that stood between him and fruitless wandering in the forest slowly starving to death. He had no choice but to listen, and to do so politely, but it infuriated him.

  ‘There are gods,’ she said. ‘There is the Monad, and the Goddess of the Rhyndelians, and many others besides. Their power is fed by our prayer and belief. The god that has the most followers therefore has the most power, and they are hungry for power. But, like men, they have differing approaches, differing guiding morals. Your Monad’s approach is clear – he is the shepherd directing his flock to increase, by any means necessary, and thus, we have the Shoethalian invasion of Rhyndel.’

  ‘If we are but meat how is it that the Monad directs us to increase?’ he retorted. ‘A shepherd does not divulge complicated direction to the ram, after all.’

  ‘No, but the shepherd has methods of ensuring his flock goes where he wants them, does he not? The Monad may not hear each individual prayer, our minds may be too small to understand the complexity of his, but, as the shepherd can guide his flock, the Monad can provide simple direction to his worshippers.’

  ‘I dislike this analogy,’ he complained.

  ‘I am sorry. It is the best that I can think of,’ she smiled, amused. ‘If you think of a better one, feel free to explain it to me, and I will use it in future discussions.’

  ‘If I were to believe this, then what purpose to my life is there?’ he demanded. ‘I worship a god who does not hear my words; following scripture that he does not even know exists. Everything I am, everything I have done, is meaningless.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And that is something for you to consider. On the other hand, your actions support your god. By recruiting worshippers, you increase his power. Your life has a purpose, but maybe you will not reap the individual reward in the afterlife that you are expecting? Who is to know what follows this world… except, perhaps a necromancer,’ this thought amused her. ‘And they are notoriously reticent about it.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he demanded, frustrated and disturbed by the conversation.

  ‘I want you to think, long and hard, Gallant. Time flows a fascinating path. There are forces that can change the direction of that path. Some change it minutely, others in larger ways. You are one of those forces. I do not completely see how you change the flow, but I know you have a role in doing so. I want for you to take the knowledge I give you today and carry it with you. I want you to return to your Prince, and do what it is that you need to do.’

  ‘And in return for your aid in returning to my Prince?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Maybe, one day, I will ask you to do something that I have seen must be done, and you will do it.’

  ‘And what is your goal in all this?’ he narrowed his eyes.

  She smiled. ‘My goal is simple, really,’ she said. ‘I see a myriad of futures resulting from this war of the gods. I merely seek to ensure that the best world results.’

  ‘And what are your qualifications to decide what is the best world for us all?’ he scoffed. ‘Your concept of the best outcome may differ significantly from, say, my own.’

  She sipped her wine. ‘Yes, that is true, however,’ she smiled, her gaze savage in the glow from her candle, ‘I am the one with the power to influence the final outcome. If you gain the same power, feel free to try to sway it in your preferred way,’ she was arrogantly dismissive.

  He laughed. ‘And she shows her teeth. What do you offer me, in return for my role in your outcome?’

  She w
as amused. ‘Why, the ultimate goal of gods, men and sheep: power.’

  Praise

  Outside the billowing canvas walls, the night was restless with the sounds of slumber – a cacophony of snores and sighs, the slap of a loose tent flap slapping against a tree, the crackle of the fire - rising above the hesitant song of the crickets and the more confident orchestra of reed hidden frogs. Their tent was pitched not far from the main fire of their Truen abode, and the flames made shadow dance across the canvas curtain. Although her tent was richly furnished, an elaborately dyed, plush rug covering the earth, the scent of the crushed grass and the rich soil permeated the fabric. The scent was like a pheromone to her; she felt primitive and aroused.

  Ember lay back against the pillows and threaded his fingers behind his head. His eyes were slitted, watching through his eyelashes as she straddled his crossed ankles and crawled her way up the length of him, leveraging her body so that just the tips of her hair and her turgid nipples grazed his skin. She knelt astride his hips, so his cock stood free between them and pulled the ribbon from around her braid. Making sure he paid attention, she slowly and deliberately encircled his cock in the green satin and tied as perfect a bow as she could manage.

  ‘I would have thought I was pretty enough without such adornments,’ he commented with somnolent amusement.

  She smiled with a wicked light-heartedness. ‘Oh, you are very fine to look upon, my Ember Dragon,’ she said giving the member under discussion a lecherous look. ‘And wonderfully fine to touch,’ she wrapped her fingers around him just below the jutting of the head and ran her thumb across his tip so that he moaned and moved restlessly beneath her. ‘And…’ she wriggled her bottom down his legs so that she could run her tongue across the stretched to smoothness of his crown, ‘delicious.’