I glanced at the sky, calculating the time of day. How long had I been in Placidam Lapis, capital city of Aseaviel? I remembered leaving home at the impetuous age of seventeen, leaving Elwood estate and traveling here. Shielding my eyes against the midmorning light I sighed, turning them to the the soaring columns of the intricate and beautiful palace. The walls were ashy, as though shadows covered them – even against the bright sun gazing down upon it. I found myself wishing for the time when the capital was the gleaming legend it once was – as it was when I was a very small boy. My father had taken me to meet the king before this one. I could almost see the stone of the delicately carved monarchs that once rested in the gardens, their grave faces watching us walk amongst them with the late ruler. King Damian had been a warm man, as though the sun’s rays had sunk into his smile. I could remember his eyes, such energetic eyes that spoke of daring stories perfect for little boy’s ears. He was gone now. The statues were all gone now. Much of the history of Aseaviel had been torn out, burnt or thrown into the deeper recesses under the city. As though King Deo – a name he chose at his coronation – was trying to erase the past. King Deo may have named himself, but he knew his people named him the “dead King” for his never changing appearance, and the dying lands around Placidam Lapis.
Now the capital seemed like a burnt-out match, white rather than golden light blazing in the torches. They danced at all hours, revealing the king’s ghost-like court shuffling through under the light. It wasn’t the light we feared, it was the invisible creature that brushed against our thoughts. The moment you passed through the large stone-carved doors you were in the lair of the Watch-Dog, named so for it sniffed out all assassins, all traitors. It sifted through your thoughts until it found evidence of betrayal. It was an unholy creature, one that had appeared the moment the kind-eyed king had been slain.
My father had spoken of this invisible phantom in passing, as though he feared even within the safety of his own estate the Watch-Dog could hear him. Lord Elwood, retired senior War leader when King Deo rose to power, feared this king and his monsters. My mother had taught me mind exercises from babyhood, teaching me songs that later proved to be intricate incantations of mental protection. They were my inner dialogue, ever running through my mind after countless years of mindless reciting and concealed teaching. They had requested time to prepare me for court, releasing me at seventeen rather than fifteen. Everything my parents had done was to equip me for what I would see within the shadowy confines of the once beautiful Placidam Lapis. Though named peaceful stone, it had not been for many years.
Ten years have passed since I first entered, now accustomed to the frightened servants scurrying around my feet. Ten years since I had greeted the king, being told how very much I looked like my father. I had inherited my father’s silver hair – though where he kept it short, I enjoyed the slight wave and tangle of shoulder length. Now at twenty-seven years I aimed for a rugged appearance, the slight dusting of facial hair a failing attempt to conceal my mother’s fine features.
The king had liked me from the moment I made my appearance, often calling me in to show off his latest feats. Opinions were asked on monsters that could strip life force with their tentacles, one-eyed giants that shook the floor, small insects that could borrow into ears and build a nest inside organs… I had become accustomed to his bloodlust and deafness to empathy.
His gaze has always felt like a lightning blast held in place upon me. As though he desired my very flesh and bones. If he sensed my ability to soften the gaze of his Watch Dog he never said, only watched me. The thought of my younger days reminded me of when I had turned nineteen, officially becoming a junior war chief in the King’s council. It was at this ceremony that King Deo declared his intention and beginning of war against the people of Mechroria. He had smiled down at us from his throne, a tall and ancient seat made of living stone. He had outfitted the throne with a plush cushion across the arms, and a wooden board against the back. My father had said King Deo could not touch the throne of Aseaviel and live. Two servants had died refurbishing the two ancient seats in the palace found in the ballroom and throne-room, four soldiers before them in the attempt to remove them. Yet King Deo lounged in it with the air of a man who had found victory.
That had been eight years ago.
Now, we openly waged war against Mechroria. Monsters from the belly of our ancient castle had appeared to battle against the clever Mechrorians. The belief that the peaceful intellectuals would not repel us was dashed when all manner of machines came to stop us. Though crude in war making, our enemy grew in understanding and experience – now stalemates left scattered machinery and broken bodies across the clearing between our lands. Where daisies grew over the bodies of our fallen, I wondered who mourned the loss of those ticking, lifeless machines.
Yet for all my wonderings here I stood, gazing at the palace with a weariness I never thought a soul could feel.
“Ah, Sir Tirowen!” The palace chamberlain smiled, slinking up to me. His ferret like face emphasised his pointed nose, his eyes never able to make solid eye contact. For all his faults, Nathan was efficient and quick. He could ride the turbulent nature of the king and provide enough stability for the city to run. I could never say I liked him, but he was necessary.
“I was summoned Nathan,” I said in way of greeting, “how goes the city?”
He blinked and shrugged as he hurried to match my strides. “It runs. But ‘The Fertile Vine’ is not giving as much produce as it should be. Rot is being found in fields. I fear if we do not continue the conquest soon – there will be nothing left for us to eat.”
I whispered the incantation of peace in my head, knowing my fate and the fate of my soldiers rested in my ability to still my mind.
“That is distressing.” I said slowly. He glanced at me but didn’t reply, instead stood by the door to the throne room.
“I wish I had your stoutness,” Nathan sighed, “but not your position.”
I bowed slightly at the words before walking through the large glass doors and into the throne-room. This room was one of the few the King kept as it had been before his reign. As though keeping the grandeur of the ancient chamber would prove his legitimacy. He had attempted to smash or cover the mirrors in the ballroom, but nothing could scratch their surface. Coverings simply fell off or nails refused to dent the walls. Ancient magic kept these two rooms standing, magic that no one man could tear down.
“Ah, Sir Tirowen.” A voice purred from within, his voice gently echoing around him like ripples on the water.
I padded towards him, pressing a hand to my sword scabbard, and bowing to my monarch. He casually flipped his hand, ending my bow so we were facing each other. He had not aged since the year I had last seen him, or the years before that. If anything, he seemed to have lost the lines that helped tell age. Broad shoulders were braced against the wood, midnight ringlets curled behind his ears. He was a dark lion resting in a lair of songbirds. King Deo was commanding and feral in masculine beauty, such presence providing him the power he craved with every well-trained movement of his high cheekbones. To fear him was to stay alive.
“How fairs your family?” He asked me almost pleasantly, snapping his fingers so a wine glass appeared by his hand. He took it from the muted servant, looking at me over the rim.
“From their letters my parents are negotiating food trade.” I said, “my sister was married to Lord Westfield months back. I was able to pay my respects before my last deployment. Thankyou for the opportunity my liege.”
He waved my acknowledgement away like a bad smell, still watching me. I waited, watching for any sign of anger or aggression. I had seen him tear dresses of ladies, throw courtiers out of high tower windows and strike messengers so shredded skin travelled across their face from spiked gloves.
“What is it you wish of me?” I asked finally, “I provided my last report a week ago.”
“Ah, soldiers.” The dead king smiled, revealing a sharpened canine, “always wanting to get to the point. You have done well Tirowen Elwood- ever loyal to me. As well as sane… it surprises me how easily my court seems to lose their grip on emotional sanity.” He frowned, but a smile quickly lit up his ageless face. “I have a task for you.”
My stomach dropped. Tasks were often set for those he found disfavour with, impossible quests no one could complete. He had sent me on one months back, and yet thanks to my appointed knights had secured the required materials he needed for his monsters. We were the lucky ones.
“As you wish my lord.”
“It is a simple enough task in name.” He said, coming down from the throne. His aura of power never left him as he walked towards me. “And I know I often set tasks as punishment – but I set this for you because I believe you could complete it.”
“You honour me.” I said slowly.
He smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder, pulling me closer. “I know you do not love me.” He said softly, “I know you do not fully trust me – but you carry out my orders and are loyal to my decrees. You are no fool – you have not worked through the ranks from lack of imagination.”
My mind raced, unsure of my predicament. Was this his way of praising me, or was he lulling me into a false sense of security?
“I serve my country Sire.” I said, watching those violet eyes.
His canines slipped out of sight, but he did not release his hold of my shoulder.
“Indeed, Sir Tirowen. And now, you have another chance to serve it.”
He returned to the throne, leaning into the board. I followed, waiting by the bottom step. Rested his chin on his hands and looked at me again.
“I expect victory in this – you have your father’s knack for leadership, and your mother’s intelligence.”
“As you say.”
What he demanded next sent chills through my back. Yet all I could say was. As you wish.
o.O.o
It was late in the day when I swung open the doors to the Silver Saddle, the knight tavern. It was an ever-open alehouse – the last of its kind as the others had been forced to close with the dwindling supplies needed to function. My knights lounged in it, the roaring fire coating the walls in the warmth we sought. A pretty barmaid danced between my men as the lute player’s eyes watched her. They were rumoured to be courting under the eyes of her father, but we never spoke a word of it.
Other knights milled around the place, talking around their pints. We worked in factions, the king granting “knight royals” the pick of new knights every year. There were few of noble blood left – and what there was were sons of lesser nobles or brats still sucking on silver spoons. Being a higher noble, the moment I was granted junior war chief I set about making my own faction. Of course, being a war chief, I could pick from any other faction and none could refuse.
My faction was granted the title, “Silver Swans,” an ancient faction that was second only to the legendary knights that had once protected the king. Swans were loyal for life, and so I earned the title and the respect to carry it. As such swans were sewn onto my men’s uniforms in silver thread, and weaponry bore the likeness of a swan on hilts. My younger self had considered it a feminine, almost girly insignia. But now, ten years later I viewed it as both ironic and a good way to measure the hearts of others. Underestimate us at your own expense.
My second saw me making my way to him and he dipped his head in greeting. At Killian’s turn the men each saw me, the twins making room between them. Our space near the fire was a coveted one, one of the few places that still held golden light in the capital.
“Well Ti?” Killian asked me, “what news does the king bring?”
He had been my first pick when creating the Silver Swans. He was a natural swordsman and my once rival. It had been easy for the court ladies to pit us against each other as he was the black to my white, dark features and thick black hair that he kept short and clean. He was a stickler for the rules, but eager to find loopholes and manoeuvres within them. Sharp wit and brilliance that made him my natural partner. Our first years together had been trying, but after ten years even this only sharpened our wits and deepened our friendship.
“It does not bode well for us I’m afraid.” I said softly, “the king only sees our usefulness and not our mortality.”
Emmet and Elvi frowned, their identical faces watching mine. Only I and her brother knew Elvi was a woman, one of the few ladies to be granted knighthood. Their shining blond hair was secured tightly behind their heads, all manner of decorations hanging in the strands. Golden beads, small glass figurines, feathers and coloured wire was braided into it. Treasures. They were small and quick, masters of mimicry, hiding and sliding into small spaces.
“What is it we’ll be doing then Chief?” Galahad asked, his form taking up most of the space. His broadsword rested on his lap as he sharpened it, the massive block shield waiting by his chair. There were bigger knights than he, but none had the body control he had. This was partly due to the aggressive training Killian underwent to give Galahad the ability to fend off even skilled knights such as myself and Killian.
Rogan was braiding Felix’s long curling hair, his deft fingers never still. He was ever eager to pull the strings on his longbow. His never-ending training had him shooting flies from twenty meters away, deer in mid-flight. Felix was the youngest of us, a minor noble’s son who had written me begging me to take him on. I had accepted, surprised but willing to even out our numbers. Killian voted that he be put under Rogan’s care, Felix’s lanky body would soon turn to muscle as he learnt how to scout, hunt and shoot. The best place for the young in battles I believed, was outside a sword swing. More surprises came when we learnt Felix’s hair was not black, but rather a deep russet red. The king’s deep hatred for red hair had Rogan twisting black beads, feathers and ribbon into the boy’s hair to masquerade his apprentice’s hair.
The archer now locked eyes on mine, nodding to me. He never spoke much but for small murmurs to the boy.
“He wants us to sneak into Mechroria and disable their power station.” I said.
Cups hovered near mouths as my men processed the sentence.
“Sneak in we may – even blow up this power station.” Killian said thoughtfully.
“But we won’t be coming out again.” Galahad growled, “it’s a suicide mission.”
“Why?” Felix asked curiously.
“Sentinels” Rogan grunted behind him, “we can get in. But those giant monstrosities will not let us out again.”
I spread out the map I had on the table between them, frowning. “This might be a suicide mission lads. As one of the high war chiefs I give you permission to leave the Silver Swans without dishonourable discharge.”
“Just for the king to put us on the front lines?” Galahad snorted.
“This is the front lines.” Killian said, pointing to the map, “it’s beyond it actually.”
The twins leaned on the table to get a closer look at the map, nodding to each other before returning to their seats.
“Looks cold.” Emmet commented.
“Will have to fetch our snow jackets.” Elvi added.
I looked at them, my surprise obviously written in my face as they smiled in unison.
“Well,” Killian sighed, “pass me accounts for the trip – you always mess them up.”
Rogan let go of Felix’s hair, pulling the kid out of his chair. “Practise. Now.” He growled.
“Wait!” I said, meeting five pairs of eyes, “you’ll do it? All of you?”
Galahad gripped my shoulder, but where I had felt fear from the king’s hand, I only felt confidence seep into me from the touch. “Aye War Chief Tirowen – we’re with you until a sentinel buries us.”
“Thanks for the imagery,” Killian muttered.
Galahad smiled, “sweet dreams Killi – I’m sure those that returned from the lines tonight wish they hadn’t battled those lifeless machines.”
Killian went to reply, but at my look he only sighed.
“Another round for our lost,” I said, “and another for those bastards who tore them apart.”
ns 15.158.61.16da2
