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

Story #19 Notes

Feyted Thrones continues - I'm having quite a bit of fun with this one, enjoying the world as it develops around the writing. It's a nice change of pace from the quick-hitters than I'm doing the other six days of the week, though I have a fondness for a great many of those as well.

Novel submission went out this week; we'll see what kind of response I get. Ideally, it's going to be a "this sucks, but..." with the "but" being ways to improve it to a point of possible publication.

So far, this project is just what I've needed to get me writing as much as possible. Honestly, between copywriting, blogging, and novel writing I'm putting more words to page than I ever have and that's a very good thing.

It's also helped me to clarify something that's been eluding me for a while. I kept trying to pin it down but every time I went to think about it it would slither away from my consciousness and I'd get distracted.

Fact is, I get paid to do copywriting and some blogging, enough so that I've turned it into a part-time gig. I have a "regular" job that I don't mind but isn't really what I want to do for the bulk of my life. I've been hesitant to call myself a "writer" because to me that always carried tones of "successful" in front of it - meaning that I felt I needed to be published, critiqued and have a possibility of a future in the industry before I could really embrace that title.

As it turns out, being a writer isn't so much in what I do as what I am. Terrible or brilliant, genius or generic, I write. I write with the hope of success, the dream of a best-selling novel, but even if that never happens, I'll still be writing.

I'm glad to have figured it out, finally.

Now, if someone would be so kind as to get me published? ;)


- D

Story #19 - Fey'ted Thrones III

Fey'ted Thrones - III

The air was heavy with a slick, musty wetness that threatened to overpower him. He’d endured it before but now he could barely find the strength to breathe it in, let alone rise and…what? Pace around the cell again?

Alhandro sighed. He should have known that Pyulon was planning something, but the mansal’s scheming face always looked that way, as if he was about to cheat you out of your last coin or sell you something he didn’t really own.

Coming back to Dirlat had been unavoidable, but the plan had been to do so as Prince of Silver Throne, not like some common criminal stuffed into a hole so deep even the rats wouldn’t bother. Alhendra was King now, or near enough; he’d been granted that right once Alhandro spoke the words in error.

Though his mother had tried hard to teach him he’d retained little knowledge of the Fey and their convoluted system of rules and treaties. They were powerful - he knew that much - powerful and suspicious of humankind. Each of the Fey Houses believed that humans were in some measure responsible for their declining numbers and were afraid of the rampant growth of the non-magical world.

Alhandro didn’t understand the intricacies of it, but his diluted Fey heritage gave him the ability to claim both Silver and Gold.

“Two, separate and safe. One, broken and protected,” the creed he’d heard since childhood rang in his head and he whispered it into the pale lichen light. Something about the Thrones kept Fey and Human from each other’s throats, kept their worlds distinct.

Thudding his head against the stone wall he felt a rising sense of panic mixed with a healthy dose of failure. He’d done little during his time in Tir’dal to recommend him as a ruler; but he’d told himself it was because he was a caretaker only. His father and grandfather had died before fifty winters had come and gone, sick and aging though they should have seen half again that age.

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad. Allowances had been made for one ruler in the treaty, if not the Fey would have coming howling up from the Nether by now. Alhendra might be greedy and foolish but that did not mean he was evil, not truly. A small spark of hope flared – maybe his mistakes were not as glaring as he’d feared.

The smell struck him again harder than before, and he was reminded of surroundings. There was a clang and the access port on the door was pulled back and a plate containing watery gruel and crust of bread were shoved through.

Not bothering to stand he reached for it, but as his fingers closed around the plate edge a thunderous crash sounded, bringing a hail of stones from the ceiling and tipping the food from his hands. Thin brownish liquid sprayed across the dirt floor and the bread crust flipped into a corner. Moments later, he heard a skittering sound from the dark.

He’d had been wrong. Even here, the rats would bother.

…

Getting into Dirlat had been no problem for Slithus; the muddy ground and dreary skies perfectly suited his kind. Land Fey had been welcome here, once; some said it was from spike itself they were birthed.

Slithus had no idea if that was true or not and didn’t really care – he had a job to do and would see it done as soon as possible. Lomir was generous and likely more clever than he looked; the Mystral did not question how Slithus achieved results so quickly and was wise enough to keep his distance.

A score of dead humans littered his trail into the city, thought it bore little relation to a direct route. This was one of the things Lomir was smart enough not to ask about – his actions were a violation of the Treaty, but knowledge unknown was knowledge denied. Clearly, this assignment had been of the highest value to the Mystral for him to risk them being seen in the Hall together.

Another guardsman fell to his fangs; whatever the poor fool was supposed to be guarding would probably be better off without him.

A sinuous smile came to his wide mouth. Of course the human had no chance to sense his approach, but the pink fleshing could have at least made it look as though he was doing something other than staring blankly into the distance.

He glanced at the body as the swept past. It held the same wide-eyed expression as it had when he’d attacked; a result of the paralytic venom in his veins. Soon enough one of the fool beasts would raise an alarm, but by that time he’d be away with his prize.

The clanking of metal alerted him to a band of guards that seemed more attentive than the last and he slunk into the shadows. Within moments his skin had faded to near-black, a holdover from the first Fey divide. With a face and form that marked them as predators, his kind was among the most feared of Houses, owing largely to years of misconception. Still, such a reputation could be effective when required.

Slipping easily behind the guards he made his way to the lower floors of the dungeon. Humans were predictable creatures and this Alhendra more than most. He feared what his brother represented and would keep him as far from the Throne as possible.

A detonation sounded behind him, slowing him as he slid quickly around falling stones. The false King wasted no time, it seemed, in beginning his assault. Lomir had known the truth of this; diplomatic sanctions were merely a distraction. Slithus and his target held the true chance of the Fey.

Moments only brought him to the door he sought; a thing of human steel set in carved rock. The decision of legs over powerful unibody had been contentious for the House, but it now provided him the power he needed to easily tear the barrier from its hold.

Pale human eyes met his jeweled own as he stepped forward. Lomir’s gamble might yet pay off.


- D

Story #12 Notes

Fey'ted Thrones returns - hopefully you liked the first one as much as I did. I'm just starting to develop this world so we'll see how it turns out, but I'm enjoying myself so far.

Since you're reading, you get to come along with me and see where this goes. Speaking of those of you reading; whoever you are, if you actually exist, thank you. It's appreciated.

- D

Story #12 - Fey'ted Thrones II

Fey'ted Thrones -II

The Hall was louder than he had heard it in recent memory, and for his kind that meant the span of several centuries. The Fey grunted, they wailed; they screamed noises too low and too high for the human ear to catch, but in truth all they were really doing was wasting time.

Nothing could be done.

He had said as much, several times, but as the leader of a Council of equals his voice had only limited strength. The model had worked for eons, but then the Fey had not been tested in as many, so perhaps a flaw in the method was not surprising.

Holding up one thin hand, Mystral Lomir quieted the assembled throng. By law and custom, all Fey gatherings were open for the low to the high and the great to the small, but few cared to attend. It was no surprise that Alhendra’s treachery brought the masses to the Gathering, nor that Pyulon had helped the young human in his attempt to secure power. Several of the Land Fey had been taking on the traits of humans for far too long, something the Council should have had a closer eye on for centuries.

He sighed as he waited for silence. Another scream would just add to the confusion, and though his feathered chest could produce a sound piercing enough to fell the mightiest Hulcon, he would prefer not to use it on his own brethren.

Lomir kept his beak snapped shut, rocking back and forth on both small legs and simply waited them out. As the last quieted he stepped forward again to the podium and raised his voice.

“I am no more a supporter of these actions than any of you,” he cast his gaze across the Hall, along benches over-filled with those of the Land Fey and across past the beating wings of the Sky. To his right, Water Fey bubbled in their viewing pool, and Fire Fey churned behind their protective bubble. All elements were represented; all were displeased but the traditions had been followed. The treaty had been honored.

He said as much, bringing a chorus of jeers from the crowd but he pressed on, determined to drive home the point.

“The human has been named traitor and no friend to the Fey as has his accomplice, Pyulon,” his voice carried authority easily, but without joy to speak the words. There was a rumble from those assembled; an approval.

To his left, a complement of mansals shifted in their seats; they did not like the scrutiny Pyulon’s treachery had cast on their House, but in truth it simply brought out what had been hidden in many Fey - the fear of their union with the Humans.

“But they did not act alone! Dirlat itself, from shore to spike, is bolstered by their supporters,” there was another rumble, subdued and uncertain. All knew that both Fey and Human had joined with Alhendra and his tame mansal, many from great Houses and with lineage reaching back to the Forming. Now, they were here to raise their discontent, to show the Fey could be roused out of its slumber when the time came but they did not realize that their awakening came too late.

“Alhandro erred. The words were provided to him by Pyulon, it is true, but he spoke them as Prince, as an instrument of the accord. They cannot be taken back, their impact cannot be lessened. His error granted Alhendra the right to seize both Silver and Gold as his own and though a traitor, his station prevents action and he has extended his protection to all those under his banner.”

Splash, burn, groan, buffet; the houses railed their displeasure but there was little to be done. Alhendra had manipulated the treaty for his own purposes, but in such a way that left little avenue for the Council to act.

A semblance of calm settled once again and Lomir glanced to the other Mystrals, who nodded. All expect Chubol, of course; the Wryn could be stubborn about the simplest of proposals and was not about to agree with the Council even on a matter of such importance.

He heaved a great sigh and continued; this would not be well received.

“Until further instruction, the Council has decreed that all Fey/Human relations are to be terminated, all contacts severed. With luck, young Alhendra will see the error of his ways – we will use every diplomatic avenue available to use in order to send a message to the supposed King of Gold and Silver, the boy who would seek to stand astride the worlds.”

The hall erupted as he expected and he stepped down, heart heavy. It was quite possible that this would mean the end of the compact, the end of a peace brokered as the race of Men rose and the Fey were driven back, a peace that had held for six hundred years.

Moving quickly ahead of the other members of the Council, Lomir found the Land Fey he sought and pulled the small Reptilor into a darkened corner.

“Slithus,” his voice was urgent, “I have need of your talents once again.” The mottled brown head nodded slowly in response.

“No questions. Same arrangement. I need leverage. I need advantage. I need Alhandro – free him for me and bring him here,” he spoke quickly; the others were coming and he couldn’t be seen with such a Fey in public, but the Reptilor remained motionless, slit eyes still and wide.

“Yes, by Silver! Here!” Slithus was one of the best, but such a thing was unheard of, even for a Prince of the compact. The realm of Fey was well-guarded and with good reason – humans would be too tempted here.

Lomir was taking a risk, he knew, but no other option presented itself. Pyulon had forced his hand; not unexpectedly, just earlier than he was anticipating. Alhandro was old enough that he would understand, old enough that he might be useful.

A brother betrayed could prove a potent ally.


- D

Story #7 Notes

Well, I've made it a week - so far, so good.

I'm enjoying the experience overall; having to write something of a pre-determined length each day is useful in ensuring that I'm not shirking my self-appointed responsibilities.

Today's story I wrote because of a television show my wife mentioned to me called "Game of Thrones". From the little I remember about the show itself it was supposed to be historical medieval fiction of some kind, but it was the title that struck me.

What if there were thrones (two, three, many?) that were exchanged as part of an ongoing "game" to keep nations or kingdoms at peace? Of course, in such a situation, magical binding to the thrones would be a requirement, as would the desire for one ruler to obtain more thrones (and more power than the rest).

My intention is to continue this story at a later time in the year as I really like the concept and the characters, but we'll see how it pans out.

- D

Story #7 - Fey'ted Thrones

Fey'ted Thrones

“Summer and ten both Fey and Fen will arise and speak on their own. Swiftly and well and before the last Bell, two princes must each seize a throne.”

- Fey Warning of Mistros

Prince Alhandro vi Renthal was two weeks from his twentieth birthday. All around the city of Tal'dir mages scurried, ministers planned and scribes began new epics to capture the event of the decade.

Alhandro, for his part, sat with his head down on his Throne, picking at his redmail breastplate. Some of the links had begun to warp and he found it soothing to try and fix them, one by one. That, and it kept his mind off of certain things he'd rather not think about.

Tal'dir was an easy city to manage; the minsters took care of the administrate details and the mages knew how to keep the Fey creatures satisfied. Alhandro enjoyed the best of everything – he had been well trained in magic, management and man-to-man combat – but he knew it would all be over soon.

The first ten years of his life had been lived in abject misery; the ruler of a foul swap that had no more to recommended it than that it was necessary, and until he was eight years old, he'd had no idea why he occupied the stinking throne of Dirlat. As with so many endeavors undertaken by royalty, his role was one of maintaining a peace rather than forging a new one – of following tradition rather than marking his own path.

On his tenth birthday Wat, his closest adviser and only friend, ushered in a young man who looked distinctly familiar; a face Alhandro saw everyday in his cracked washbasin mirror. Alhendra, they called him, and he had a spoiled twist to his lips, a set to his stance that spoke of doing little for himself.

Words were spoken, Thrones exchanged and he was whisked away to Tal'dir.

Now it was all coming to an end.

“Your highness!” Viecroy Pyulon's voice cut through his considerations and he brought his head up slowly. Better to make the Viceroy think he had not startled him.

Pyulon was a weasel of a man, literally. Agreements with the Fey meant that at least one-tenth of the city's administrative populace had to be of magical stock, and that included the use of enhanced animals such as the Viceroy. Alhandro found it hard to look at him; although he walked on two legs, his face was too pinched, ears too large and his beady eyes always seemed to hold the reflection of clinking gold coins when he looked at his liege, as if Alhandro was a commodity to be bought and sold.

Prince Alhandro sighed. In a very real way, he was, and on a market he had no control over.

“Yes, Viceroy?” He looked to the side of the little mansal's face. Staring at those eyes wasn't something he could do for long.

“Preparations for the Exchange are nearly complete. I trust you know the words?” His voice was thin, reedy. Mother had been very clear that killing the Viceroy by accident or royal decree was out of the question as it would upset the Fey, something they could ill afford.

He smiled and the Viceroy frowned, misunderstanding the reaction. For ten years he had been alone, but it had taken his mother only two days to break his hardended adolscent shell and from then until the end of her life they were inseparable. The Viceroy lived simply because Alhandro loved his mother; Fey creatures be damned!

Turning back the mansal, Alhandro spoke with authority. “Of course, Viceroy. I stand ready, and do not appreciate your lack of faith.” In truth, the words were buried somewhere in his chambers; he knew they were different than the ones he had been required to speak at Dirlat but hadn't bothered to look at them yet. He would get to it.

“I hope so,” Pyulon was three steps closer to the Throne; when had that happened? “A missed word could plunge us into war.”

Alhandro stood quickly, sweeping his cape off of the Throne and striding down from the dais, forcing the Viceroy to jump out of the way or be bowled over. “I will be in my chambers, preparing for the ritual, Viceory,” distant irritation was best, here, “do not bother me again until we leave.”

Had Alhandro seen it, the oily smile on Pyulon's face would likely have resulted in the need for a new Viceroy, promise to his mother notwithstanding.

***

The throne room of Dirlat was just as he remembered it – dank and poorly lit, with strains of black fungus creeping down three of the four walls. The Throne itself pulsed with a subtle silver glow just as its twin did with gold and it was the only clean object in the room.

His brother looked worse for wear. While Alhendra's clothes were as fine as his own, the other man's face was drawn, his eyes sunken and hair lank. Dirlat was swampland through and through, something most Fey creatures favored, but it did not suit even half-humans well.

There was no embrace, no exchanging of goodwill. They were brothers in name and biology only – a requirement of the treaty, nothing more.

The Viceroy gestured in his direction and he spoke clearly, the words coming easily to mind.

“Throne of Wind, Seat of Stone, neither do I call my own. Distant power, both estranged, our compact is rearranged.”

There was a crisp silence as his words fell, one he could not recall from a decade ago. He had repeated the words as they were written.

But something was wrong.

Alhendra smiled and the Viceroy moved quickly to his side.

“Guards!” Alhendra boomed in a voice twin to his own, “seize him! He has broken the treaty, and I claim both thrones as my own!”

Anger, silence. Blackness.

- D