The Bringer of War

Kate sat in her customary spot in the garden, seated on a stone bench. A thick dark orange cushion had been placed upon the hard surface, something she normally eschewed. The garden was awash in light, due in part to the clear sky and bright crescent moon hanging overhead. Dozens of torches and nearly a hundred candles made the expansive garden, if not bright at midday, at the very least more than sufficient for safety’s sake.

A serving girl stood nearby, using a long frond to fan the noble woman. The night was sultry, the air causing her fine gown to stick to her back. She had chosen a dress in muted yellow, with a more conservative bustline for her father’s sake. A pattern of green ivy leaves adorned the hemline of the skirt and shoulders, matched in color by the silk sash she wore around her waist. A pair of shoes with flat heels covered her feet, resembling fancy sandals more than anything. Her toes wriggled in nervousness as she waited for the first guests to arrive.

Dozens of chairs, as well as a long table, had been drug out to the fragrant, colorful garden. The table was laden with a fine repast of traditional harvest fare. There were fresh apples, their skin lush and green in a basket near the center. A silver bowl sat empty, waiting for a load of steaming potato mash to fill it. A large roast hoss, nearly the size of a small horse, sat glazed with honey, another servant diligently fending off a nearly constant assault by flies.

Nearby, a troupe of minstrels tuned their instruments, their merry laughter doing little to ease her tension. Ever since she and her father had discussed his involvement with the rebellion, she had been on edge. Frequently she would awaken in the dead of night drenched in sweat, having dreamed terrible visions of the Templars bursting into their manor and putting her father to the sword.

She forced a smile onto her painted face as her father strode into view. He had dressed in a rich burgundy doublet and matching hose. A golden hued belt gathered the hemline up to just above his knees. She noted with a bit of pride that his legs were no less muscular than a man half his age. His expression did not soften as he approached, and she swallowed hard when he stood stiffly before her.

“What is the meaning of hanging a portrait of a heathen god?” said Mannix harshly.

Kate blinked, then chuckled a bit.

“You mean the tapestry of Lesk?” she said chidingly “he’s not really a god, but-”

“I am speaking of the portrait of a black cat with a harvest moon adorning his head,” he said, rudely cutting her off. “Do you wish to anger the king?”

“That tapestry was woven by mother,” said Kate crossly.

Mannix’s eyes softened a bit, and he blew out a tired sounding sigh.

“I know,” he said “but we are in a...delicate situation right now. Remember our family proverb; The nail that sticks out-”

“Gets hit,” she said sadly. “Perhaps some nails were meant to jut out, Father.”

“I have no time for philosophy,” he said, irritation creeping back into his voice “the cornucopia I had planned to put out is riddled with mold, the wine tastes like the servants boiled their undergarments in it, and now I have to find someone to take down that heretical decoration.”

“I’m sorry if I have made things difficult for you,” said Kate, trying to sound sincere. More than a subtle hint of aggravation was in her tone, however.

“No,” he said, putting his face in his palm “it’s all right. If it were any other night, any other ball...”

He turned on his heel, leaving her without saying farewell. She noted the tension in his shoulders, and fretted inwardly. Her father had always seemed like a strong man, a man capable of handling almost anything save grief. To see him flustered, as a normal man might be, shocked her more than a little. She mused to herself that part of growing to an adult was realizing that one’s parents were but human beings.

She rose smoothly to her feet, as she noted the arrival of their first guest, a minor noble from Breslin. Her smile was easier to fake now, as she did not have to stare into her father’s soulful, hurting eyes. Kate would do her duty, even if it meant her heart was breaking inside.

** *

Aven stood with her eyes closed, one hand in a fist suspended over her open palm. Lines of deep concentration wrinkled her brow, and a bead of sweat slid down her forehead. The fire at her back was uncomfortably warm, but she focused on gathering her innate magic rather than her physical distress. The crescent moon shone down on her, making her skin seem silvery and luminous.

Seated before her, his hands bound before him with rawhide, was Crown. The assassin looked very uncomfortable as Aven stood stock still. Nearby, Bruno and Hector watched with eager eyes, hungry for the display of the faerie’s power. Neither dared to speak, and kept tight reign on their breathing so even its subtle rhythm would not disturb the maid.

At last, Aven felt she had gathered sufficient power. It was an old spell she was to cast, one dating back to the ancient beginnings of her people. She remembered the day she had learned it, many, many moons ago...

Forcing the painful, distracting memory from her mind, she opened her eyes and stared at Crown. The little man swallowed hard, as her green eyes seemed otherworldly even in her human guise.

“Killer,” she said “you will repeat the words that I say, precisely.”

“Of course,” said Crown, shifting a bit as Bruno put his hand on the hilt of his blade.

“Should treachery rule my heart,” said Aven.

“Should treachery rule my heart,” said Crown, his expression fearful.

“Then pain shall rule my hand,” said Aven.

“Then pain shall rule my hand,” said Crown.

Aven focused her energy, imagining it as an orb within her belly. Spreading her hands and thrusting her arms outward as if she were tossing it, she spoke the word of power.

“T’hrall,” she said.

Crown blinked, unsure if he should say the last word or not. He certainly did not feel any different. A bit of hope flared up in his chest that the maid had failed to use her magic properly.

“Is that it?” said Bruno skeptically.

“That is it,” said Aven, sighing a bit as weariness overtook her.

“Did it work?” said Hector, staring hard at Crown as if he could see the enchantment on his face.

“Only one way to find out,” said Aven, cutting the man’s wrists free with her wide bladed knife. She also slashed the bonds holding his ankles together. Crown rubbed his wrists and stared up inquisitively at her.

“Well,” said Bruno “ he is not leaping to his feet and attempting to throttle me. That’s a start.”

“Give him a blade,” said Aven.

“What?” said Hector, half laughing “are you mad?”

Bruno narrowed his eyes at Aven’s missive, but nonetheless he took Crown’s simple sword from his saddle pack and tossed it on the ground at the man’s feet.

Crown gingerly picked up the blade and rose to his feet. Not knowing quite else what to do, he belted it around his waist. He stared blankly at Aven.

“Finish your mission, assassin,” she said bluntly “if you dare to try.”

Crown turned to gaze at Bruno, who crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. The faerie had great faith in her magic. Perhaps he could get in a killing blow if he struck suddenly enough-

Faster than a striking snake, the blade was free of its scabbard. Bruno scarcely had time to put his hand on the hilt of his sword before Crown was thrusting the tip at his unprotected throat. Before the assassin could follow thru with the attack, the sword dropped from his fingers. This was due to the sudden burst of blue flame that licked over his hand, searing his flesh and eliciting a ragged scream. Crown dropped to his knees, holding his wrist with his other hand as the fire blazed.

A second later it was over, and the man stared in disbelief at his uninjured hand. As painful as the fire was, it was apparently not capable of doing lasting harm.

“I’d say it was a success,” said Aven happily, collapsing to her bottom on a moss covered log.

“Amazing!” said Hector, a delighted look in his eyes.

“Useful,” said Bruno somberly, still uncomfortable using faerie magic.

“The fire is burning low,” said Aven, unaware that she had stood still that long.

“I’ll gather some wood,” said Hector.

“I’ll go with the boy,” said Crown, rising to his feet.

“I don’t think so,” said Bruno, his voice a guttural growl.

“But I am helpless to raise a hand against you,” said Crown, spreading his hands. “Surely, this most recent display is enough to convince you that I am harmless as a kitten.”

“There are many ways to wound,” said Bruno “not all involve blades.”

“True,” said Crown with a wicked grin “there are garrotes, clubs, horseshoes...I once killed a man by gouging my thumbs into his eyes until...”

He swallowed hard, noting the three harsh stares aimed his way.

“I’ll be silent on these matters, I think,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Come, Gray Death,” said Hector, slapping the man on the shoulder “let us be about our business. We may have to range far and wide to find decent wood.”

The squire looked at Bruno and grinned.

“We may be gone for more than an hour,” he said.

As the pair made their way into the woods, Bruno looked with concern on Aven. She appeared drained, slouching on her log seat, her eyes half lidded. The knight trod over the soft ground and sat down next to her, making the log shift a bit with his weight.

“Are you alright?” he said.

“I’ll be fine with a night’s rest,” she said, managing a weak smile. “My magic drains me more than most of my folk.”

“Why?” said Bruno, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Because,” she said, staring away from him into the fire “I am only half faerie.”

“What?” said Bruno, nearly sputtering. “How can such a thing be?”

“My mother was faerie, and my father...” she turned to face him, a sad smile on her face “was a Templar.”

“You jest,” said Bruno, chuckling. “No Templar would...”

His voice trailed off as she gave him an incredulous look. Bruno swallowed hard.

“That is,” he said “what was his name?”

“I never knew him,” said Aven “their love was forbidden by my folk as well as yours. Our king put the man to death ere I was even born.”

“And your mother was not too happy about that,” said Bruno.

“Indeed,” she said “I had barely taken my first breath when she ended her own life.”

Bruno reacted as if slapped. He put a hand around her shoulder, pulling her close.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That is terrible. I...never knew my parents either.”

“You were adopted by Lord Cromwell, if I recall,” said Aven.

“Aye,” said Bruno “though it was guilt that motivated him. You see, he was on campaign far to the south, across the Drakken Sea-”

“We call it the Vast Water,” said Aven “but go on.”

“whatever one wishes to call it, he traveled many miles past Port Gar, to the land of my ancestors, the Sun People. Back in those days, the Templars were aggressively expanding the church’s influence. Many of the natives were understandably resistant to the idea of giving up their heathen gods. Sir Cromwell stabbed my mother in the belly while I was still within.”

“Horrific!” gasped Aven, scarcely able to comprehend assaulting a woman with child.

“It was not entirely his fault,” said Bruno “she had crept into the church to steal bread for herself, for the Drakken taxed the people greatly even then. When my...father saw her hiding behind a tapestry, he mistook her for an assassin and...ran her through.”

“But you survived,” she said, nestling her head against his stout shoulder.

“Aye,” he said “the blade slid past me without so much as taking a notch out of my ear. Fortunate, I suppose. Also fortunate that I was raised in the civilized north, rather than the mud huts and heretical culture of the Sun People.”

“You should not feel so,” said Aven “from what I know of them, the Sun People are a noble race, with their hearts close to nature. Much like the faerie.”

“I feel...traitorous,” said Bruno.

“Because you may have to unseat the king?” said Aven, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” he said “I feel traitorous to the Allfather. I swore an oath that I would be forever faithful, and here I am, in...involved with a faerie woman, using her magic to aid my cause...”

Aven leaned away from him and scowled.

“Sorry to so test your faith, oh knight,” she said stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” said Bruno quickly “my words do not always fit my emotions. As I said, Templars are trained to be stoic, silent protectors of the church. Besides, it has been some time since I, in my heart of hearts, truly had faith in the Allfather.”

“Why is that?” said Aven, leaning upon his shoulder once more.

“At my Confirmation,” he said “after I had survived the Heartfire, I was told that I would feel the Allfather’s love enter my heart, and my soul would sing in ecstasy. But I felt nothing, just glad to be alive.”

“What did you do?” said Aven.

“Being...different,” he said “means you have to put on a masquerade, at times. I fell to my knees and exulted the Allfather, as I had seen others do. The...approval of my order, of my foster father, it all felt so...wonderful. I suppose I buried my feelings deep and never cared to examine them closely since. Until I met you.”

“I’m nothing special,” said Aven “not faerie, not human. I belong nowhere. That is why I ended up toiling in a tavern, enduring the lewd looks and roaming hands of drunken louts. At least, it was a place where I was welcomed.”

“What of your folk?” said Bruno. “Did they not make you feel welcome?”

“Some did,” said Aven “I was adopted by...a kind faerie, who doted upon me as much as any father. He could not shield me from my own feelings, however. The faerie are a folk steeped in magic and enigma, much of which I lack the wit or power to comprehend. They were kind enough, but always a bit...condescending.”

Bruno laughed, his chest rumbling against her neck.

“I know the feeling,” said Bruno “so many people speak slowly, use their hands when addressing me, as if I am some savage just crept out of the wilderness.”

Aven chuckled, enjoying the comfort of his strong arm around her. Thinking back to how they had first met, she wondered at the complete reversal of their relationship.

“I never want you to let me go,” she said, sighing.

“Then I will not,” said Bruno, gently kissing her on top of the head.

** *

The garden was filled with over three dozen guests, and half that many servants, and yet it still felt spacious. Perhaps it was the lack of a ceiling overhead, or the excitement of the Harvest Ball, but Lord Mannix’s party appeared to please nearly all. Kate swirled in orbit around the stone fountain, waltzing with King Drakken. She was amazed at how graceful he was, despite his age. She felt the display of solid muscle below her hand upon his shoulder, and his step was steady and sure even as he dipped her so low her hair nearly brushed the stone floor.

“You dance remarkably well, your majesty,” said Kate, surprised to find that she genuinely was enjoying herself.

“For an old geezer,” he said, a smile lighting up his face.

“You are fit and virile,” she said “and move with aplomb that younger men can only envy.”

“My thanks for the flattery,” he said with a chuckle as they swished past her father. The elder Mannix had a look of distinct approval on his face as they flashed by.

“It is no mere flattery, sire,” said Kate. She could not help but note that many of the other unmarried noble women lanced jealous spears with their eyes at her. In spite of herself, she felt a swelling of pride in her breast. Despite what her father had seen, Drakken was still the king, and it was thrilling in a way to be doted upon by so powerful a man.

She remembered the feel of Bruno’s hands upon her, much warmer than the grip of the king. He had not been the most graceful of dancers, but he was always able to move his body in concert with hers on the dance floor...and other places as well...

Kate closed her eyes and buried the memory. Bruno was far to the south, had likely eased his heartache in the arms of some country maid who was willing to overlook his dusk skinned heritage in order to bed a man with lands and title. Though she lamented their parting, she knew it would be better for the knight in the end. Eventually, Bruno would have to act as heir to her father’s assets, and the vision of the man’s burly hand gripping a quill pin awkwardly, dipping the wrong end, made her giggle.

“Care to share the jest with me?” said Drakken gently.

“It is nothing, your majesty,” she said.

The song ended and all present rewarded the minstrels with applause. They began to play a slower, more romantic tune. Many of the couples on what amounted to the dance floor moved their bodies close, staring soulfully into each other’s eyes. Drakken gently pulled her towards his own seat, a padded, opulent chair her father had purchased just for the king. Without being bidden, one of Drakken’s hangers on dragged another chair next to it.

“Will you sit with me for a time, my lady?” he said.

“It would be an honor,” she said pleasantly.

Wine was brought, and Drakken sipped his in moderation. Kate found her glass half empty almost immediately, her nerves causing her throat to tighten up. It was difficult, pretending to allow the king to court her while she desperately tried not to think about her father’s treasonous acts. Reminding herself that the best way to protect him was to be in Drakken’s good graces, she willed herself through the ordeal.

“I am told,” said Drakken, drawing her gaze back to him “that you are something of a maestro at Castle.”

“I play, and sometimes manage to muster a victory,” she said modestly.

“I should like it if we were to play a game,” he said “perhaps in my chambers?”

“Of course, your majesty,” said Kate.

“And please,” he said “call me Edward. It feels strange for us to be using titles, does it not?”

“I,” said Kate, stammering “I do not know if I can! Using the proper title when addressing your betters was drummed into my head at an early age.”

“Well,” said Drakken “it would not hurt you to try, Katherine.”

His smile seemed genuine enough, and she had difficulty reconciling the kindly figure before her with the despotic tyrant who had taxed his populace nearly to starvation. Perhaps her father was right, and he needed a feminine touch to moderate his excesses. Perhaps being the queen would not be so terrible a fate after all...

The minstrels stopped, abruptly in the middle of their song. Kate glanced up, and noted that the king appeared puzzled as six men in Templar garb marched grimly into the garden. In their midst was a prisoner, one hand dangling from a badly broken wrist. He was a middle aged man of modest build, but the numerous wounds on his body seemed to indicate he had been in battle of some sort. Miserably, the fellow stared at the party guests as they parted way, not expecting succor and not receiving any. He was thrown to his knees before Drakken’s chair.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Drakken harshly. “This is a ball, a very special one. You do my friend Lord Mannix great injury by disrupting it.”

“My apologies, King Drakken,” said one of the Templars, his response seeming rehearsed. “But this traitorous dog has vital information that I believed you would wish to hear immediately.”

“If the news is not truly dire,” said Drakken “you have forfeited your life.”

The Templar seemed not fazed at all by the grim proclamation. Drakken turned his gaze upon the wretched fellow kneeling on bloody knees before him.

“Speak, man,” he said, not unkindly “if your words are true you may not hang for your treason.”

“You heard the king, dog,” said the Templar, shoving him rudely with his armored foot.

The man stared up at Drakken, his voice a quiver.

“Forgive me, my king,” he said, and again his speech seemed like a sermon prepared ahead of time to Kate “but my belly gnawed with hunger, and my children’s ribs stick out like the bars of a prison. I never meant to-”

“Quit groveling, worm,” said another Templar, kicking the man to his belly. “Tell us who was behind the treachery against the crown!”

“Twas Lord Mannix, my king,” said the captive causing gasps among the partiers.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Drakken, much to Kate’s relief. “Lord Mannix is a staunch supporter of the throne, and has always been so.”

“There is evidence, my lord,” said Quinn, striding forward to stand before Drakken. Kate’s mouth dropped open in shock, her belly twisting in knots. The first sword turned towards her for a moment and smirked just a bit before addressing the king once more. “I have gathered many letters and invoices that indicate Lord Mannix has been secretly supporting the rebels in the south. He has acted in concert with his former First Sword, Duncan Davros.”

Shocked silence greeted the accusation. Kate glanced up at her father, who appeared white as a sheet. She turned her gaze upon Quinn, teeth bared in a snarl.

“You bastard,” she spat.

“Now, Katherine,” said Drakken “I am sure the man is merely mistaken.”

“I wish I were, sire,” said Quinn. “I wish I were.”

“Well?” said Drakken, staring across the garden at Mannix. “What have you to say to these accusations, old friend?”

Mannix strode stiffly across the fire lit stone to stand next to Quinn. He did not look at the man, but his brown eyes bored into Drakken’s gray ones.

“It is true, sire,” said Mannix, eliciting shocked outbursts from the crowd. One woman swooned and had to be carried to stone bench to recover.

“And why have you turned traitor, Lord Mannix?” said Drakken. “Have I not always treated your family fairly?”

“Indeed, sire,” said Mannix “but it is the fate of the common folk that appealed to my better judgment.”

“Better judgment?” said Drakken. “You would judge your rightful king?”

“Yes,” said Mannix, putting his arms akimbo “I do judge the king, though he is not right in any way, shape, or form. You tax the peasantry to near extinction, viciously beat down any who dare to raise voice in protest, and hoard away mountains of coin beneath Fort Drakken for who knows what insane purpose.”

The nobility was shocked into silence once more. Never in their memories had any dared to speak to Drakken in such a fashion. Kate stared hard at her father, wondering if he had adopted a fatalistic streak.

“These are serious accusations,” said Drakken, his tone somber. “Perhaps you think another would better serve as sovereign...perhaps you think that Lord Mannix should sit upon the throne?”

“I hesitate to call myself worthy,” said Mannix “but I am more worthy of the crown than a madman!”

“Father, please,” said Kate “what game are you playing? Why do you lie to his majesty, pretending to be responsible for these horrid deeds?”

“A nice ploy, my lady,” said Quinn “but the evidence is insurmountable.”

Kate again gave him a black look, which he smugly shrugged off. Her eyes whipped back to the king when he spoke.

“Very well,” said Drakken “then I will give you your opportunity to take my throne. Duel me here, in your daughter’s garden, traitor, and if you defeat me I shall abdicate the throne.”

A cry rose up at the proclamation. Drakken quieted the rabble by spreading his hands dramatically.

“And if I should defeat you,” he continued “you shall sign a full confession.”

“Bah,” said Mannix, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand “your Templars would be upon me ere your carcass touched the ground.”

Drakken smiled, rising to his feet and turning his gaze upon the crowd.

“All who hear now bear witness,” said Drakken “should Lord Mannix best me, whether I survive or not, none shall lay hands upon him. He will be your rightful king, by my royal decree.”

Drakken turned his face back to Mannix.

“Will that be sufficient?” he said.

“Get my sword,” said Mannix, which caused Kate’s heart to catch in her throat.