The Broken Reign

by Jeremy Michelson

  Lord Fortune himself had been consigned to the dank and moldy dungeon. Which seemed extremely unfair given that he had turned the castle over to Hurdroth with only three conditions. That King Hurdroth, one, leave the family’s fine dinnerware alone, two, not touch the ancient tapestries on the wall, and three, not let his men crap on his mother’s prized flowerbeds.

  In retrospect, he realized he should have said nothing at all.

  The passage of time in the dungeon was a matter of conjecture, since it lacked windows. They hadn't left him even a candle to warm himself or light his room. His stomach growled in constant protest. It had been a long time since he was forced to skip a meal. In the darkness, he heard skitterings across the rough stone floor. Occasionally there would be a furry brush against his leg or hand and he would jump. He had been contemplating the capture and ingestion of one of these skittering creatures when General Hemdell showed up and opened the heavy wood and iron door.

  For an instant, he had considered presenting a haughty face to the traitor. The thought crossed his mind of telling the general he would rather sit in Castle Fortune's dungeon than present him to the king's audience.

  That lasted but an instant. The next moment he was groveling at Hemdell’s feet, begging for release from this cold and dank dungeon. His old bones ached from the dampness and he was developing a cough. His sinuses, too, were clogged from the foul air.

  Walking down the hallway, seeing the tattered remains of treasured family possessions strewn across the smooth stone flagstones made him ill. Passing the open door of Yord’s office, he saw one of Hurdroth’s furry men having lusty sexual congress with one of the serving maidens on Yord’s desk.

  It made him wonder where his poor, bewitched brother Yord was. Yord had been a terrible warrior back during the wars. But he made an affectionate dog and an excellent administrator. The strange thing was, he never seemed to age. The golden fur that covered him had never grayed.

  “Come along, stop lollygagging,” Hemdell said, giving him another shove.

  “Keep your traitorous hands off me, cur,” Lord Fortune said. Being above ground, absorbing some light from the windows they passed, gave him some courage.

  Hemdell smacked the back Lord Fortune’s head with the flat of his hand. Hard enough that Fortune stumbled and his vision went white for a moment.

  "Keep your attitude to yourself, your Lordship," Hemdell said, "Times are changing rapidly again."

  “What, just because the King lost the filthy pile of rubble he called a castle?” Lord Fortune said, “The council of Lords will hear about this and the King will have to bend to their will. As he always has.”

  Hemdell chuckled. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said.

  Before Fortune could ask what he meant, Hemdell pushed him past the great archway into the throne room. Fortune stumbled again, flashing a hateful look at the man. Hemdell just grinned.

  “My Lord Fortune,” King Hurdroth said.

  Fortune straightened himself and turned to look at the man. It made his heart ache to see that filthy, unkempt ruffian sitting upon the elegant Bramblevine throne. The King sat with his feet stretched out, elbow on the armrest, chin propped on his hand. Even from across the room and through his clogged sinuses, the king’s odor assaulted him. Fortune made himself sketch a small bow.

  “Your Highness,” Fortune said, “I trust you have found the accommodations here comfortable?”

  “They’re fine,” the King said, “My boys are having a good time. For now.”

  Fortune thought of the serving maiden getting done in the office. Good time indeed.

  “Is your Highness planning an extended stay?” Lord Fortune asked.

  The King furrowed his bushy brow. “I’m not going anywhere. I like it here. I should have taken this old pile over years ago,” he said.

  Fortune clenched his teeth, biting back his first reply. He went for a more measured statement.

  "Sire, you no doubt remember that the Council of Lords has taken issue with such behavior in the past. Your father–"

  Hurdroth slammed his hand upon the throne’s arm and vaulted to his feet. “My father! Do not speak of my father, worm! He was a thousand times the warrior you or any of your spineless family has ever been!”

  Fortune took a step back, bumping up against Hemdell. “My King, I did not mean–”

  "If it wasn't for that red-haired bitch, my father would have never let you simpering fools tell him what to do!"

  “My King, the treaty–”

  Hurdroth’s face was livid with rage. “The treaty is broken! The treaty is no more!”

  The shock nearly stopped Fortune's heart. His lips trembled as he spoke. "Your Highness, the treaty was made to–"

  Hurdroth waved his hand in a cutting motion. “Enough. The fucking tree people have broken the treaty. It no longer stands, therefore I am no longer bound by it.”

  “What?” The tree people? Anta Vin’s tribe? What could they have to do with this?

  “That bitch used magic,” Hurdroth said, “She used magic to burn my castle and then fly away with the stranger. She stole...things. It is a declaration of war.”

  Fortune’s knees were shaking now. War. He was old enough to remember war, and the terrible price they all paid to end it. Hurdroth hadn’t even been born when Queen Amaya reigned. There was no way he could know the chaos and fear that gripped their world.

  “My King, please, before you go to war against anyone, please consider other options,” Lord Fortune said.

  The King eased himself back on the Bramblevine throne. His voice was calm as he spoke.

  “Should I consider diplomacy?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in mock sincerity, “Should I go ask them pretty please to go fix my castle? To return that which they have stolen from me?”

  Fortune sensed there was no right answer there. The feeling that he treaded on dangerous ground was so strong that he could not form any words.

  "Well Lord Fortune?" the King said, "What would you and your precious council of lords say to this situation? Would they send a sternly worded letter to Anta Vin? Would they impose a sanction of some kind? Perhaps tell the forest people they wouldn't buy any more of their baskets and knickknacks? Perhaps not buy any more wood to stoke the fires in their hearths?"

  Lord Fortune stood very still. Perhaps if the King let all his anger out in words he might listen to reason.

  “The treaty has stood for decades and what has become of us?” the King asked, “We are stagnant, running in circles chasing our own tails for entertainment. This is no way for men to live. True men are born to battle. We must fight and conquer, or we are not being true to our nature.”

  Lord Fortune saw that the King was trying to talk himself into something. For an instant, he had a dizzying vision of generations of Kings making the same conversations as they built they courage and their lust for war.

  Everything that has happened will happen again.

  This was an inflection point. There were sides to be chosen. In the space between heartbeats, he would have to decide which side stood a better chance of winning. Anta Vin's people were clever and quick-witted. But could they stand against the barbaric passions of Hurdroth's horde?

  But there was a wildcard here. The stranger. The red-haired man who Anta Vin's tribe stole. Was he still with them? Did he have any of Queen Amaya's power?

  "Your Highness," Lord Fortune said, "The forest tribe has done you a terrible wrong. They should be punished. But what of the stranger they stole from you?"

  The King frowned and looked away. Lord Fortune's heart skipped a beat. Beneath Hurdroth's bluster, there was worry.

  “What of him?” Hurdroth said.

  Fortune hunched himself slightly, putting his hands together in a supplicating manner. The King was a fool, but a dangerous one. Fortune knew he had to tread carefully.

  “You saw him with your own eyes, did you not?” Fortune asked.

  “He wasn’t much to see,” Hurdro
th said, “He was no warrior.”

  "But there wasn't any doubt that was from the other world?"

  “His manner was odd. And of course his hair was red,” Hurdroth said. He looked up at Fortune. “Did you know my father had nightmares for the rest of his life. He would wake with a cry the made the blood run cold. The red-haired one! he would scream over and over. He couldn’t stand to see the color red. The sight of blood would make him tremble. She took the heart away from him. She took the heart away from all of us. It’s long past time to take it back.”

  “But–”

  “Silence!” the King shouted, “Now comes the time for your choice, Lord Fortune. Do you wish to go back to your dungeon?”

  “No, sire,” Lord Fortune said.

  The King crooked a finger at him. “Then come closer and I will tell you what I am going to do.”

  Swallowing hard, Lord Fortune made his decision. He stepped forward.

  The King smiled, baring rows of crooked yellow teeth. “Tell me, Lord Fortune, there are rumors that your family kept some magic out of the Bitch Queen’s grasp. Is this true?”

  Lord Fortune closed his eyes and bowed his head. Now all was lost.

  “Yes, sire,” he said.

  Sixteen

  Vazsa

  Vazsa crouched behind a small patch of scraggly brush. Damp, earthy scents of forest filled her nostrils. The thin deer in the clearing pawed the light snow to get at the tender grasses underneath. It looked as hungry as she was. The little creature's ribs showed under its coat. Her stomach twisted, aching for food. How many days had it been now? She looked down at the short knife in her hand and wished for her bow and arrow.

  Damn Dovd.

  She made herself focus on the deer. With all the stealth she could muster, she crept closer. If she could just get close enough...

  The deer’s head snapped up, head pointing her direction. Vazsa tried to make herself still like a rock. Too late. The deer caught her scent. She could see the deer’s muscles twitch beneath its tawny hide. Vazsa jumped from her hiding spot and ran toward it.

  The deer sprang away, bounding beyond her reach, disappearing into the dim forest light. Vazsa cursed, falling to her knees. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes, but she refused to let them. She stood and jogged away from the little clearing.

  Along the way back to the shelter she checked some of the traps she set. Nothing. Not even a mouse. It worried her. The game should have been plentiful in the forest. Rabbits, foxes, deer, owls. She should have been able to set herself along one of the game paths and pick out an entire buffet.

  Instead, just the single, scrawny deer.

  This part of the forest was darker, the canopy very thick. Heavy mosses hung like beards from the branches and pale lichen grew on the trunks. It was also deathly quiet. Other than the sound of her own feet crunching on the light snow, there was no sound. No life at all.

  There was a scent of decay in the air. Not the rich earthiness of a healthy forest, but something else. A stink of corruption.

  She climbed over a thick tree root and dropped down into the hollow she had found under the tree. She paused, letting her eyes adjust. A shape in the corner stirred.

  “Cray?”

  The shape moaned and a pale face emerged from the furs. Cray's black hair stuck out every which way and he rubbed his face.

  “Did you get anything?” he asked. She could hear the pain in his voice. From where she crouched, she could scent his festering wound. She needed to get him to a healer before it was too late. If it wasn’t already too late.

  “No, I almost had a deer, but it ran away,” she said.

  He didn’t reply, but lay his head back down. She moved over to him and put her hand on his skin. Hot, burning with fever. It would consume his small body if she couldn’t do something soon.

  Everything was her fault.

  If she hadn’t stolen that stranger from Hurdroth...

  But how could she have known what would happen? She thought Anta Vin would have been joyful that she had stolen the prize from under the King's nose. You didn’t think this through, idiot child! Anta Vin had hissed at her. I thought you were smarter than that. That’s why I sent you to be our spy there.

  A job she had been doing very well until she failed utterly at it. She wasn’t used to failing at anything.

  “Vaz? Am I going to die?” Cray asked.

  A jolt went through her. She clenched her teeth together. “No, you’re not going to die. I won’t let you,” she said.

  He coughed and she saw blood on his lips. It was bad. Dovd had actually run Cray through with his dagger. From the look on Dovd’s face, it had shocked them both. He yanked the knife out, stumbling backward, eyes wide, as Cray crumpled to the ground.

  Vazsa had attacked in that moment.

  The shock disappeared from Dovd’s face, and the old, arrogant warrior returned. He fought like a man possessed, with a fury the drove her back against a tree root. His blade knocked the short sword from her hand and she was weaponless.

  He raised his sword for the killing blow and he hesitated. There was something in his eyes. Fear, remorse, uncertainty. Things she had never seen in him before. It lasted a few fleeting moments. Then his resolve returned.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  Then he was screaming, face twisted in pain.

  He wrenched himself around. Cray stood behind him, bloody knife in his hand. There was so much blood on Cray, Vazsa didn’t know how he was even standing.

  Dovd fell against the tree root, clutching his side. Blood spilled between his fingers. He still held the short sword in his other hand, though.

  Vazsa ran past him and picked up Cray just as he was collapsing. With him in her arms, she fled deep into the forest. It was only later that she regretted leaving her weapons and most of their supplies behind.

  She patched Cray up as best she could. The next day she hid him in the hollow under the tree and went back to where Dovd had attacked them. With her heart in her throat, she crept back to the clearing, wondering if she would find Dovd's body there.

  She didn’t. She found dark spills of blood on the snow and tracks leading back from where they had come. There were no weapons or supplies left behind. Somehow, Dovd had taken everything with him.

  Vazsa tracked him for a distance before fear overcame her. He knew her. Knew that she might track him. He could be waiting, laying a trap for her. If he captured her then Cray would die alone under the tree. No one except the animals to find him and fight over his bones.

  She had turned away and went back to dark part of the forest where Cray lay in the hollow.

  Now all she could do was kneel beside him and stroke his forehead. His eyes focused on her briefly. He was in and out of delirium. In the middle of the night, he had called out for their mother and then shortly after for father. Normally when he tried to speak of them, she would cut him off, either cuffing him upside the head or walking away. But in the cold and dark night, she had held his head against her and let silent tears slip from her eyes.

  "Vaz, if I die, will I see mamma and papa?" He asked.

  “Don’t talk like that, you’re not going to die,” Vazsa said.

  "I don't feel good. I don't want to be a warrior anymore," Cray said, "People shouldn't go around hurting each other."

  She didn’t know what to say. Ever since their parents had disappeared Cray had been angry. Angry at everyone and everything. He often declared he was going to be the greatest warrior the tribe had ever seen. That the men were amused by this declaration only made him angrier. Vazsa had tried to talk to Anta Vin about it. But her grandmother had dismissed her concerns. It is just his way of compensating for uncertainty in the world, the old woman said, He’ll either grow into it or out of it. It’s his path, let him find it.

  Anta Vin. How Vazsa wished she had listened to her now.

  "What happened to mama and papa?" Cray asked.

  Vazsa put her hands to her face. How much of he
r own anger was she sitting on? How much was she compensating for?

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Does Anta Vin know?” he asked.

  Vazsa shook her head. “I don’t know. I think she might know something.”

  “They wouldn’t have just left us, would they?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Then they’re dead, aren’t they?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Cray,” she said.

  He turned his head, pulled the fur up over his face. “You never have.”

  Heat flushed Vazsa’s face. She left the hollow and went out to stand in the cold air. She breathed deeply, then coughed the air out. The scent of corruption was stronger. Something was wrong with this place.

  The tribe didn't venture into this part of the forest. Anta Vin forbade it. There were stories about monsters and ghosts. She had never known anyone who admitted to venturing here. It made it a good place to hide from Dovd. She didn't know if Dovd was acting alone, or if he had like-minded followers. That he had attacked her and Cray was unthinkable. She knew he wasn't happy with everything Anta Vin had been doing, but...

  Somewhere deep in the forest a branch cracked. It echoed, bouncing off the tree trunks. Vazsa threw herself behind a root. She looked over the gnarled bark, trying to get a sense of where the sound had come from.

  A rushing of air and something flashed by her head, striking the tree behind her. The object exploded, showering her with bits of wood. In the momentary glimpse she had, it looked like a huge branch.

  The ground shook, then shook again. And again. Something creaked, a metal on metal sound. Vazsa looked over the root, her heart pounding. In the dim light, she saw a shadowy shape move between the giant tree trunks. Two red lights floated high about the ground. It had to be huge. Maybe as tall as four men. It stepped into the clearing and Vazsa gasped.

  A metal man. It had the rough shape of a man. Two arms, two legs, a trunk and a tapering head. The head was like a cone with the point cut off well below it. Two round, red eyes stuck out above a black grill. Its body was dented and streaked with rust.