Story #292 - Heavy Heart

Heavy Heart

Jarlen ate in silence, refusing to pay even polite courtesy to the woman sitting across from him. The priestess of the dark god had said little since they left the capital, save for issuing order to make camp or cook food.

It was with a heavy heart Jarlen had left Greyson’s stiff body behind at the castle, but no other choice was given. Selmira made it clear she expected to be led out one of the castle’s service entrances, and that there were to be no tricks along the way. Veiled threats about the King’s tenuous health served well enough to keep Jarlen in line, though he had no idea if the priestess could make good on such promises. The poison she had used to incapacitate Greyson was unfamiliar, and it was clear Selmira had no qualms about putting the kingdom and its leader in danger.

Getting out of the palace had proven simple – none of the servants so much as looked up as Jarlen passed them by, even with a beautiful woman on his heels. He was sure not a few glances were cast his way once those behind felt safe he would not see them, but for once wished that the palace staff were a touch bolder, more willing to defy protocol. Outside the kitchen entrance, two horses waited, held by a dead-eyed stableman. Both were loaded down with provisions, but when Jarlen attempted to confront the blond haired handler, he was met with only silence. A sharp word from Selmira had him mounting the taller of the two beasts, and as they rode away the servant disappeared back into the castle.

“He will not remember this,” his captor had said as they rode out into the bustling streets of the capital, “it was not by his choice.” There was a measure of relief in that – at least those in the crown’s employ were not actively seeking to harm their King.

“You are troubled.” Selmira’s voice cut across his memories, shattering them to ash and dust. He didn’t bother to reply, but continued to eat as she fixed him with a wide-eyed gaze. Jarlen had a great appreciation for the female form, something a number of noblewomen in the capital experienced firsthand, but to him the priestess was more repulsive than those who had endured bouts of the recent Merullian plague. She had torn him from his post, leaving his King frozen in agony on the throne room floor. No matter how beautiful her form, she was twisted and foul.

“You will reply,” she said again, “or I will leave you. Without my assistance, your King will be dead by month’s end.”

He growled, low and long, but refused to meet her eyes. She must be fought at every turn. “What do you want me to say?” His voice was hard – steel on steel.

“I have compelled you to an act of treason – are you not even curious as to why? I expected more from the famed Jarlen Kincaide. Reports of your intelligence and wit appear greatly exaggerated.”

“Fine,” he bit off the word. “Why?”

“It was necessary.” Selmira put on a slow smile. Moments passed with no further explanation, and Jarlen felt his frustration rise. At a smile from the priestess, a slow thing that spread across her face in measured stages, his anger could no longer be contained.

“Necessary?” He bellowed. “Is that all you have to say, all the explanation you can find? I would have thought your dark god to be more forthcoming – or are you not intelligent enough to ask when he tells you to betray the King and kingdom that have given you shelter, kept you safe under their banner all this time?”

“Excellent,” she said, smile still in place. “I knew there was a mind in there somewhere. Now, as to your question – of course I asked why, and was given an answer I could not ignore.” Her voice lowered, smile fading.

“What answer?” His tone was scornful. There was no explanation for what she had done – no reason that would satisfy for her to have broken bonds of featly.

“It was…” Selmira hesitated, and Jarlen’s interest rose. It was the first time he had seen anything but brash confidence from her – communion with the dark god must be an unnerving experience, at the least. “inevitable. Or so I was led to believe. My god was very specific, but the way in which he provides information can be ecstatic.” Her lips parted slightly. “Overwhelming.”

“And?” Their eyes locked, and Jarlen found he could not look away. Purple chased by swirls of lavender, they were unlike any he had ever seen. Men across the capital talked about bedding the priestess, but he was quite certain it remained only that – talk.

“My god showed me the shape of things to come, of the doom that will befall the kingdom without a strong King at its head.”

“We had one!” That was not entirely true, but Greyson had been improving, day by day. No matter his weaknesses, the priestess had no right to take matters into her own hands.

“Not strong enough,” she sighed. “I know this is hard, Lord Kincaide, but try to understand. Greyson is a good man, and a good King, I think – or can be – but he does not have the power to survive what is coming.”

“The Alturians?” Jarlen sniffed derisively. “Upstarts. We’ve dealt with them before, and will again.”

“No,” Selmira said firmly. “They are as smoke to the real threat. You have noticed a change in their behavior, yes? An alteration to their tactics?”

He frowned. The assassination of the King and Princes had been out of character, even for Alturians, as well as their attacks on the Kingdom’s borders.

“It is their leader, Illnor,” she went on. “My god has shown me his failing – Illnor has given himself to the Bleakness.”

Jarlen drew in a sharp breath. The Bleakness had not been seen in four centuries, and had nearly destroyed the Kingdom. It had been defeated, but only with the aid of –

“The Recolra!” He spoke the name in a whisper. “You mean to find it – and use the life-force of our King to bring it back from the nether.”

“Yes,” Selmira dropper her eyes. “And you will help me find the cursed weapon.”


- D

Story #291 - Heavy Head

Heavy Head

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

Jarlen Kincaide had heard the expression time and time again, but he’d never seen a King that embodied the sentiment so well as Pallan V. The young man hadn’t been prepared to rule – at eighteen, he just completing a callow and almost malnourished stage of development. While his father and older brothers had been north of the Kingdom doing war upon the renegade Alturians, young Greyson – his birth name, that could no longer be used by the people – was still learning the basics of the sword and shield. It wasn’t that the prince didn’t make his best effort, but rather that his skills lay elsewhere. Those truly in charge of the city in his father’s absence hoped that diplomacy might be his strong suit, but so far, he’d proven superior in only two areas: crossbowmanship and wooing peasant women. Neither one would assist him as King.

“So as you can see, your Majesty,” the thin merchant in front of the throne said in a strident voice, “a lowering of the tax for those of means would only benefit your rule. Our favor would be boundless.”

Also useless, Jarlen thought as he moved to stand at the King’s elbow. Ostensibly, he was there to ease the transition as Pallan V became used to his throne and his crown, but he would likely remain far longer. Greyson, along with the rest of the Kingdom, was devastated at the loss of the former King and his three older sons in an Alturian ambush. That it had come during negotiations for surrender made it all the worse, and the King’s army had quickly retreated, harried on all sides by not only the Alturians, but the mercenaries they’d hired to fight their battles for them. Greyson had been raised as soon as the generals arrived, but was completely unprepared for the honor.

As one of the new King’s oldest friends, Jarlen had been able to rally the army with Greyson’s tacit approval and keep the enemy outside of their borders. What had been an almost-assured victory quickly became a defensive action leading to an uneasy stalemate, one that neither side was willing to break. Into the void of military conflict came the merchants, the rich, and the opportunistic, willing to invoke the memory of the dead King Pallan IV to forward their aims. Sen Haldoth, First Merchant of the circle, was doing his best to convince Greyson to approve a measure that would benefit only those with massive amounts of gold in their pockets, and help them claw back even more from the crown.

Greyson glanced at his old friend after a light tug on his sleeve, and Jarlen shook his head, then stepped back. No other explanation was necessary, though he’d give one if pressed. By and large, the King had been willing to follow the advice Jarlen offered, much to the chagrin of those who were hoping to press their advantage.

“No, First Merchant,” Greyson said firmly, and Sen’s eyes bugled.

“But, your Majesty –“ he began.

“Sen!” Jarlen cut him off sharply. “Did that sound like a point of argument to you?” He could see Greyson’s face flush; his friend hated confrontation. “The King has spoken, and you would do well to respect that!”

“Of course, Lord Jarlen,” the First Merchant said in a tone dripping with sarcasm, “though I must ask why my most reasonable proposal was not fully considered – for the good of all in the Guild, you understand.”

Greyson’s eyes narrowed. Despite his shortcomings, he was no fool, and Jarlen was confident that with time and patience, he could be molded into a King worthy of the throne. “I have fully evaluated your request, First Merchant, and found it lacking. Do you have anything else to say on the matter?” Greyson’s tone made it clear that further discussion would be without purpose.

“No, your Majesty.” Sen said shortly.

“Excellent. You may withdraw.” The King raised a hand and two guards came forward, ready to drag the First Merchant from the room if he would not comply. With an oily smile and a swift bow, he turned on his heel and left.

The rest of the morning was a parade of nobles and military men, almost all seeking some sort of personal advancement. Out of twenty, only three had anything useful to say, and Jarlen found himself frustrated at their selfish indulgence. By the time the last supplicant arrived, he was exhausted.

“Selmira, Priestess of the Shadows!” The herald at the door announced, and the svelte form of the capital’s only supplicant of the dark gods slipped into the room. White robes clung to her form as though a part of it, and she moved with a grace that caught Jarlen’s breath. She had always been something of a mystery, and even Greyson’s father stepped lightly around Selmira.

“My King,” she said, bowing deeply, and it took all of Jarlen’s considerable willpower to keep his eyes where they belonged. Greyson, he noticed, was not so determined.

“Priestess,” the new King said with a nod of his head. “Speak.”

“I would,” she lowered her voice and moved forward – too much so, as far as Jarlen was concerned, but Greyson smiled broadly, “but I fear unfriendly eyes. May we speak in private?”

Jarlen felt panic rising, and moved toward the throne. He could not permit this.

“Guards!” Greyson called. “Leave us!” The steel-clad men moved quickly forward, closing the double doors to the throne room as they went. “Jarlen will stay, however.”

There was a quick relief at that, though Selmira’s smile gave him pause. What was her purpose?

“Of course, your Majesty. What I have to say is of the utmost –“ She lunged before Jarlen could stop her, a dart flying from her hand. It took Greyson in the throat and he stiffened, then tumbled forward off the throne.

Jarlen was on top of the Priestess in an instant, pinning her to floor. A scream rose in his throat, but she spoke first. “He is poisoned, my Lord, and only I can undo what has been done. He will live on, frozen in a useless shell, unless you do exactly as I say.”


- D