Story #118 - Fey'ted Thrones VII

Fey'ted Thrones - VII

King Alhendra was uncomfortable on his throne in Tir'dal. He would never say as much to the lackeys that came by asking for favors or the ambassadors trying to turn his mind from war, but the truth was that the Golden Throne was tall and hard, and the weakness of a cushion or backrest could not be tolerated.

“No, Ambassador,” he said flatly, looking down at the fawning man below. “We will accept none of your terms. Full surrender or death are your only options.” He had known there was going to be resistance from the other Kingdoms of men, but could not believe how short-sighted many of their rulers were being. A number had come under his banner easily enough, realizing he was their best chance at a final victory over the Fey realm, but half again that number sought to strike out on their own now that one Throne sat unoccupied. He had hoped to make his way into the land of the Fey sooner, but for the moment he would have to content himself with weakening their borders while he brought the other Kingdoms under his rule.

The green-haired man lifted his head from the carpet as if to speak, but Alhendra gestured to the guards at his side and the Ambassador was quickly removed. He had given an audience, as requested, and stated terms. Now, the petty kinglets and lords had two choices: acceptance or death.

As the doors closed behind his guest, Pyulon snaked out of the shadows. He hated the little Fey, but had known since their first meeting that the weasal was the key to final victory. It was Pyulon's knowledge that had given him the ability to directly attack the Fey realm, and the creature had been the one to lead Alhandro astray.

Thoughts of his brother caused him a momentary stab of pain, this time from his head instead of his back. They had seen each other only twice in their lifetimes, and the second had involved a horrible betrayal. He had to admit that he would have liked to know the other half of himself, but couldn't take the chance Alhandro had been infected by the moral do-goodery of their mother. She was a kind woman, and he had loved her for that, but her worldview was hopelessly naïve. Those with power were meant to wield it, not sit on their hands and protect that which did not require defense. He had known the necessary steps to take from the moment he learned the purpose of the Thrones, and Pyulon had been there to assist him.

Still, the Fey was foul as the day was long.

“My king,” Pyulon whispered, his voice low, “was that altogether wise? What if the Kingdoms of men band against you? Might that not be a war you do not wish to fight?”

Alhendra regarded his adviser coldly. “Only if the weapons you have made for me do not work as intended. You have led me to believe that they are far superior than anything the realm above has to offer. Are you now telling me that was a lie?”

Pyulon hesitated; to speak a lie in front of the King was death, and Alhendra was confident that the weapons delivered would do their job. The Fey simply needed to be put in his place.

“I...no, my King. It was no lie. They will work as they should, and they will deliver you victory. I merely wonder if such a battle could be avoided – perhaps through further negotiation -”

“No!” He cut the Fey off. “That will not happen. My terms have been issued, my conditions declared. Surrender or death are their choices, and they must make those choices now. If the next missives from any of the kings are anything but offers of full acceptance of my rule, we march the army to war.”

Alhendra could see the guards stiffen with pride. The forces of both Tir'dal and Dirlat were his to command, and together comprised the largest army in the known world. Even an alliance among the other nations could not stand against them under the best of circumstances, and his men would be using weapons never before seen outside of the realm of Fey.

“Of course, my King,” Pyulon said, bowing deeply, “I am your humble servant. May I be excused? I must see to our preparations.”

Waving a dismissive hand, he let the Fey go. The man was as humble as the throne was soft, and served only because the Thrones required one of Alhendra's blood to operate. Pyulon still had not divined their secret, but assured his King that he was getting close.

Alhendra relaxed his back for a moment, sinking into a slouch and letting the pain recede. All that was left now was waiting – waiting to see what the kings would decide and what the battle would bring.

A sudden thought occurred and he straightened. The truly forward-thinking man moved when no one expected him to, and in ways no one could predict. He could wait for the arrival of messengers from other nations, but the kings might delay or seek to mislead him with promises of capitulation that became drawn-out negotiation, and Pyulon would push for that the moment he saw an opening.

An attack, however – coordinated such that it would completely decimate one of the waffling kingdoms – would secure his place as a power to be reckoned with. The army could get some much-needed field practice, and under pressure from such a foe, any allies his target might have would quickly scatter.

Standing, he strode to the map in the corner of the room, closed his eyes and jabbed a finger forward.

“Guards!” He called, and they came running. “Inform the general staff that the army is to march in three days. We ride to attack Galtara – the world shall know the might of its true master!”

Grins on their faces, the two armored men dashed into the hallway.

- D