The King Trials 2: Beyond.

On the timber horizon, wrought iron gates rise.

All nine of us ride fiercely, Kelan’s cape billows wildly behind him.

Figures before the gate appear, growing as we advance.

“Halt!” One of them yells.

My legs squeeze the sides of the stallion. I pull on the reins until the Arabian tramples on one spot, stomping until it calms itself to a standstill.

Bumlot’s estate has a concerning vulnerability, an easy point of entry that can be accessed by the same thing that lends them strategic cover from prying eyes. The woods. There are soaring trees as high as the gates that encroach the iron border. One can easily climb up one and spring right over the gate.

“Who goes there?” the same one asks. All four guards are dressed in a brassy, leather andracor sheathing with matching leather greaves and tassets.

“I am Primus Kelan of the First Legion of the Avangard,” he declares with unquestionable authority. “I am escorting the purebloods of the Decuria to visit Nobleman Bumlot.” He even makes Bumlot’s name sound powerful. “Herem Treyton knows him well.”

He looks to him. Treyton tips an invisible hat at the guard.

Kelan shifts gaze back to the guard. “Open the gates.”

“Pr—Primus—Purebloods,” he splutters in a mix of confusion and reverence. He turns on the others with a frantic look of excitement. “Open the gates.”

The guard beside him hesitates. “But—”

“Will you disobey a direct order given by a Primus?” he asks rhetorically. He launches a punishing fist at his shoulder. “Open the gates!”

On cue, the tall gates split and swoop open.

In unison, we all lead our horses into a steady trot inside.

Bumlot is clearly overcompensating for the misfortune of his name. Because his sprawling estate is surpassing my expectations, exceedingly impressive. I believe a large section of the forest is bound within his gates, seas of lush foliage.

On either side of the duel, gravelly road is a profusion of trees, densely grown, but they obediently stay contained by the margins of the pathway that lead to the manor house.

The road yawns ahead, everything concealed by the curtains of thick green.

The frilly, gentle blue material of the dress rests high on my thighs, exposing my daggers, its long wisps drape over the saddle. The only dress that survived. The material is a silk fabric, a thin-strap dress with no under layers and an ample open back that ripples until the hipline, ornamented with a singular gold chain that strings down my spine.

“What exactly are you going to use to intrigue the Nobleman into selling his stores?” Vince asks from beside me. “Since we cannot relay on the merit of his decency to aid those helpless people.”

“We do not need to rely on his lacking morality but on his patience,” Treyton says, and he peers over his shoulder at him. “I can reimburse him any amount he desires in shekels or cordenias. As long as he will wait until the King Trials are over, and that is if I am still alive.”

Silence meets his words. We stroll the rest of the way mutely. Suddenly the road widens extensively and opens up to a grand sand-coloured manor house with broad dimensions and cathedral-like windows.

Vince whistles two short bursts. I glance at him and he steers my gaze ahead of me.

Before the manor is two large stone structures on the flanks, protected by armed guards. The security is quite interesting; four guards that mane the gates, two guards posted beside the double-door entrance of the manor, and the primary security is localised round the two stone structures. The only infrastructure that is secured by guards round its entire circumference, the only ones that are armed.

Clearly, storehouses.

We all stop at the brink of the flagstone staircase. I look to my right at the far corner; a skylight horse stables. Three stable boys hurry out and briskly walk towards us.

Suddenly the ceiling-length doors open outwardly, each pushed open by two male servants. They both exit and stand by the door. Subsequently, a round-shaped being shuffles out, his unbuttoned top garment suffocates his bulging belly. He loudly sucks the grease off each of his chubby fingers.

“Who dare-th to disturb thy whilst I feast?” He places his beefy hands on his waist. His beady, blush pink eyes gloss over all of us. It becomes stagnant on Treyton. “Aresling?”

Treyton’s head hangs in fleeting shame. “Bum-Bum,” he says in a greeting tone.

He roars a laugh, his chin fat jiggling. “What are you still doing down there? Come here and give your brother a hug.”

“Brother?” Solaris and I echo simultaneously.

“Former brother-in-law,” Treyton corrects quickly. “He was married to my late sister, but she passed away at Light’s Crest, the dark summer. However, I think the true cause is apparent,” he says whilst his eyes drills holes into him.

Bumlot slaps a hand on his chest in mock offense.

Treyton dismounts and all of us follow suit.

I gracefully manoeuvre off the horse, the dress unfurls to my ankles. Treyton takes the lead up the flagstone steps. He sidles Bumlot’s flank, and he welcomes him with a meaty clap on his back. Vince, Solaris and I follow with the three Avangard soldiers at our rear.

We all drift inside to the main foyer. Directly opposite the front entrance is a bifurcated staircase, with one sweeping set of scarlet carpeted steps that splits off into two smaller flights going in opposite directions.

The interior of the manor is veneered dark wood. Bumlot directs us down the right to a long vestibule furnished with elaborate paintings like an exhibition hall. Walking amidst them, I now see that they are abstract portraits of Bumlot himself in various risque poses and wild backgrounds.

A harrowing sight that I can never unsee.

“So what brings you to my fine estate, brother?” Bumlot claps another hand on his back.

Treyton visibly swallows his ire. “All will be made known.”

We reach the end to walk through an archway, bordered by two handmaidens.

The lounge is brightened by the tall succession of windows that herald in a wealth of light. He leads us to the one side of the room with an unlit hearth. A low-lying table brims with platters of food, a choice of fruits, vegetables and sliced venison all arrayed in a hunger-provoking display.

Bumlot bends over to tear off a piece of venison and dangles it above him before it disappears in his mouth. He waddles over to a cream divan decorated with a plush white fur; he throws himself on top of it, shifting all his weight haphazardly, battling to find a comfortable position.

Huffing and puffing like a panting dog, he settles on a more upright position, reclining on the torso of the divan. He looks back at all of us with an impatient expression.

“Well. Sit!” he shrieks.

Grudgingly, we all comply. Solaris and I share a champagne gold lounger adjacent from him, and opposite from us Trenton and Vince seat themselves on a velvety armchair. A slender table with a round top interspaced between them.

Primus Kelan and the other spread themselves in front of the side wall. Assuming the position of statuesque guards, in sync, all of their arms fold behind their backs.

“First, who are your companions?” His gaze darts to each of us curiously. “They seem. Familiar. Perhaps I have seen the lot at the solstice ball?”

Treyton suppresses a smile. “They are from other Regnums, bum-bum.” He tosses a hand at Solaris and I. “Hera Aurora of Regnum Valwa and Herem Solaris of Regnum Cain.”

“Purebloods,” he breathes reverentially, he fixes his slight upright into a perked vertical.

Treyton nods his head to one side at Vince. “And that is Herem Vince of the Emikrol Empire.”

“An Emikrollian!” his voice builds with awe. “By the stars, I never thought I would meet one. Since the Empire is all the way on the other side of Urium.”

Uncertain of how to respond. Vince musters a cumbersome smile.

“Show me your mark, I must see it!”

Treyton gives him a stern look. “Bumlot, leave him be.”

Bumlot shoos his chides with dramatic hand flutters.

Vince heaves a heavy sigh, reluctant but willing. The top section of his dark hair is pulled in a neat, mid-height ball, the rest covers the entire back of his neck.

He pivots on his chair to turn away from him; he moves so that his back faces Bumlot. His hand rises and he lifts up the sheet of hair to expose his mark. Three silver beads, tiny metal spheres embedded in the back of his neck in a horizontal line.

“Remarkable,” Bumlot commends and offers a quick applause. “I know that they represent the three pillars of Regnum Ethane. “Honour, strength and valour. To mark its sovereignty earned through blood and battle, emerging to be one of the most powerful independent domain in all of Urium.”

Vince releases his hair and straightens. “Thank you, but we did not come here for a history lesson. It is a fact that we all know.”

Bumlot agrees with a broken nod. “I know. Aren’t you purebloods supposed to be, I do not know, partaking in the King Trials? I sense that Urium will need a new Ruler very soon.”

Though he says it jokingly, and he does not intend it as a slight. I do not take his words lightly.

Vince frees an irritable groan. “Enough—”

I silence him with a held-up hand. I face Bumlot. “What do you mean by that?”

Bumlot snorts a laugh, scratching his gritty, auburn beard that matches his cropped orange curls. “Civil unrest, my dear. An uprising. At first, I loathed being here, all the way in Tandem by the outland territories like a heathen. Far from proper civilisation where no-one can behold my beauty, such a shame to deprive the people of Urium so.”

Solaris sneaks a glance to widely mouth. Wow.

“But now I have never been more grateful,” he says, and waggles his fingers with melodrama. “The revolts ignited in all the corners of the realm. Attacks flaring, bolder and merciless with each one impinged. And now, the Black Death, the sudden shortage of food that shall plunge Urium into further chaos, how unfortunate.”

“That is why we are here,” I say. “We cannot save all of Urium, but we can start with one village. A village not far from here was attacked by the—”

“The northern raiders,” he says with feigned shock, swaying his hands with faux fear. “Umtera, the last. The final destination before you cross into the unknown. Umtera has been plagued by raiders for cycles. What, did they send you all to demand something from me?”

“They did not demand for anything,” Solaris says, voicing his contempt. “In fact, they do not even know that we are here in their stead, only at our own behest.”

Bumlot draws out a long, knowing sound. “Ah, I see. You would like for me to make a donation of some kind?”

I shake my head stiffly, losing every morsel of my equanimity with every word he expresses. “If it were that simple, we would do it ourselves. But as you have noticed, we are a long way from home. What the village need is grain, the recent attack destroyed all of theirs.”

Treyton adds on, and says, “Since I know familial ties will not buy your loyalty, what do you desire? Name your price and it is done, though payment will only be made once the King Trials have culminated.”

For the first time, everything of his impish nature fades, goofiness drains from his expression.

His eyes wander thoughtfully. Then it stops on Primus Kelan. “You are not part of the Vanguard….”

He is the most imprudent noble I have met, with the attention span of a rock.

Primus Kelan looks down at him, his eyes glazed with a steely look. “I am Primus Kelan of the First Legion of the Avangard,” he says with the same resonance of power.

Vince’s eyes nearly roll out of its sockets.

“A Primus,” he says, and he bows his torso in deference. “What an honour. Is it true that all the Avangard armed forces are metas, naturally enhanced super soldiers?”

“Bumlot,” Treyton says wearily, his voice rising. “What is your price? Name it so we can be on our way.”

Bumlot squeezes his lips together, forcing a pensive look like he is trying to relieve himself. “My price is priceless, brother. I have all the gold I will ever need, and in these complex times. Grain, barley, food itself is wealth and I have an abundance of it.”

“Then can you spare a fragment of that bounty out of charity?” I ask, too hopefully, wondering if I can summon even an ounce of sympathy from him. “There is an entire village of innocent people, children that will starve without your contribution. I am not asking for much just—”

“A fragment?” he completes with a condescending tone. “If I give to those poor wretches, that will only inspire them to demand for more. My answer, lovely Hera is no.”

He lifts an arm to the ceiling, snapping his fingers urgently. “Useless number seven, number seven!” he beckons.

Hastily, one of the handmaidens from the archway scampers over to us like a mare in a forest.

“Tell the stable boys to retrieve our noble guests’ horses, if you will.”

She nods meekly, turns and dashes out of the archway.

“Bum-bum, do not do this,” Treyton says pleadingly. “Those people need your help.”

“If they truly need, they will help themselves,” he says coldly despite his frolicsome voice. Something about it reminds me of Duce Merian. A jovial tenor that manages absolute superiority. “Have you forgotten my ascent? I was born a street scum, but I rose. Now look at me. I have purebloods begging for my aid.”

“I am not begging,” Vince spits out, and he rises from the chair intimidatingly. “We came here out of courtesy, but in case you have forgotten your place in the hierarchy, no matter how high you think you have ascended. It will always be beneath me. I order you to surrender an adequate supply of grain to feed that village.”

Bumlot’s eyes widen, sparkling with admiration. “That sent chills down my spine, an Emikrollian to the bone. But if in case you have forgotten, you are not in Emikrol. In this estate, I am king.” He extends his hand and wiggles his fingers. The smallest one bears a signet ring. “So kiss the ring, barbarian.”

Vince bolts forward. The eruption of his haste causes the entire table to crash onto its side, spilling all the platters on the floor. I snap the trail of my dress to the side to avoid the splash of sauce from the venison.

Bumlot wails an ear-splitting scream and hurls himself backwards in a desperate roll to flee. Treyton lunges to shove his way in front of him to be a blockade against a very wrathful Vince.

“Aresling! Leave me and take the savage with you. My answer is a resounding no!”

Treyton locks onto Vince and forcibly drags him away. Promptly, Solaris and I snap to our feet to follow after them. And Primus Kelan pursues us with the other two in tow.

Treyton angrily shoves Vince forward. “What is the matter with you? I thought you were the charismatic one, where is that renown charm? Or has all that testosterone gone to your head?”

Vince flings back a lethal look. “Perhaps, I am out of practice.” He snipes a glance at Primus Kelan. “Or perhaps the present company has me unnerved.”

Treyton throws up his hands exasperatedly. “What are you rambling about?” He gives a quick, vigorous head shake. “It does not matter now, does it? We have nothing and will get nothing.”

“Oh, no, we will have something,” I say cryptically, eyeing the approaching foyer. “After all, we are highborn, what is it that we cannot have?”

Treyton sends a worried look off his shoulder. “I must be mistaken because I hear Hera Aurora’s voice, but the words do not correspond.”

I blow off the remark. “I will expound later. But for now, it would be a shame to be late for our own party.”