The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Ilgar sank back into the soft cushions of the throne; the image of the boy-priest being dragged away still resonated and pleased him.

And so it had been done.

It had been easier than he thought.

Too easy perhaps - where was the sport, the glory of open combat?

Where was the blood and the howling of the newly-made widows?

The king had died quietly, without honour.

True, his attack had been sudden and unexpected - but the best attacks always are.

And what mattered most in this case was the swift decisive result, not the means of its achievement, or the stench of death and the beauty of the slaughter.

He reached for a goblet of the old king’s best wine.

The smooth gold felt at home beneath his grasp; the dark, heady liquid brought almost as much pleasure as a finely balanced sword, or a well-trained dancing girl.

Eram shuffled close behind him, near the throne, protecting his back as he had done in countless campaigns and battle-fields. He leant forward to speak.

“You are aware that the tribes in the boy’s homelands to the west, are still loyal to his father’s dynasty, my Lord? The boy, although useless on his own, could become a rallying point for some of the more powerful clan chiefs - they could unite around him and mount a challenge to your rule. However, if the boy were to be ‘lost’ somehow …”

“No,” Ilgar replied, “we may need the young pup yet. Keep him close - if he is seen to be supporting my rule, it may serve to persuade those in his homelands to transfer their loyalty to me.”

The stench of the slain king and his guards drifted into the tent on a warming wind; the stale odour of their heads, impaled on the stakes outside, already attracted a dense hum of buzzing flies.

Ilgar smiled to himself.

The remnants of their bloodied remains made the softness of his new throne feel more like the honour of conquest, than the under-hand subtlety of a coup.

“Also,” he continued, “while the boy is still a ‘guest’ here with us, they would not dare risk an open attack - for it would certainly mean the end of the old blood-line. I know that some are still loyal to the old dynasty - but from what I hear, even the clan chiefs in the west are unhappy that this weakling, the last descendant, is tainted by magik. No Eram, my trusted friend, there is no love in their hearts for him, a mere magikant - and their ardour for revenge will soon be quelled when I reward them for their support.”

“But he still has the right of a challenge to combat, my Lord.”

“Hmph. He is too young and scrawny to even dare think of such things. The whimpering puppy was almost in tears at the sight of his brother - he has no taste for blood. Anyone would think he was not even an Izani.”

Ilgar drained the ornate goblet and slammed it hard on the table next to him.

“More wine!” he shouted.

Yes, he could certainly get used to this victorious life of conquest.

Perhaps it was time to enjoy the spoils of war, rather than the glories of the field?

He leant over towards Eram.

“Besides, we agreed to keep him alive - at least for now - at least until all of the gold has been delivered.”

He smiled at the dark blood that had dried into a stain on his wrist-guard.

He would not clean it - not for all the sand held by the endless wandering dunes - it would forever remind him of the day he became the proud king of the Izani.

“But Eram, see that the guards keep a close eye on him - if there is any suspicious activity, do not hesitate to execute him.”