A Clash of Kings
They were gathered in a single room: the leaders and colossal figures of many of the world’s greatest nations. Among them were various zenos and arch-zenos of the academy. If yesterday’s negotiations had been utter futility, today’s represented only a marginal improvement. “…and yet Rouis is too craven to even show his face!” barked Silke of Kerremand. For a moment, other speech died down, and the voice that replied to her dripped with the patience of a learned elder addressing the concerns of a very small child. Ironically, it was the prince, Arcel. “I have said it twice already and say it now a third: my father does not believe his presence would be conducive to a peaceful settlement. I am empowered to speak with his voice and act in his stead.”
“More like your pop wants war, kid!” It was Prince John of Enth, brother to the king. “‘S a calculated insult.” He sat with his arm draped over the back of his chair, two empty bottles on the table in front of him and smoke slowly curling from the pipe that hung from the corner of his mouth.
“You assume much and know little,” snapped Salman Gahari, Vizier of World Affairs to his Magnificence Osman of Virang. “Who can know, beyond certainty, another man’s mind?” He rose and shook his head. “And, if it was, has not Perrence earned such a right after the disgraceful fiasco that was the conclave?”
“Hear hear!” roared a handful of voices. They hammered raucously on the tabletop and Salman was emboldened to continue. “We know it for an absurdity and injustice that Virang remains still outside the halls of power, and now Perrence, while minnows such as Joru and Kerremand occupy their rightful places!”
Atundo Yibozo, who had mostly been reading, looked up at those words. “A minnow that, if I remember correctly, you were not eager to tangle with last time around. I only pray that you recall that restraint and cooler heads prevail.”
“If much was slander, then the last bit was at least truly spoken,” interjected Arcel. Towards the back of the room sat the hulking figure of Horik. He had refused to speak among “imbeciles, vipers, and weaklings,” and contributed mostly the occasional glower. It was Namiri of Belzagg who spoke next, instead. “I share the concerns of my colleagues from Perrence and Joru,” she began. “Is not the idea of this conference to avoid a ruinous conflict, or am I yet young and missing some vital piece?”
Prince John leaned over, then, and whispered in the ear of one of his attendants, smirking. The attendant stifled a laugh. Namiri knit her fingers before her. “My Enthish colleague says that the piece in question is a ‘penis’.” She stood tall and stoic, expression regal and unamused, and a dozen sets of eyes found John. He glanced about and cleared his throat. “You mishear, my lady. I would never -”
“That is ‘your majesty’ to you, prince.” She looked down her nose at him before pointedly shifting her attention elsewhere. “Now,” she resolved, “Is this a council for peace or is the goal here to justify a war? Tell me, for this is my first such performance.”
“And a stirring one it is,” interjected a voice. Its bearer was a man in robes of state, his silver hair swept back. A signet ring on one finger. “And I shall answer your question in the spirit that it was asked.” Much in contrast to his customary approach, Prospero Malatesta had spoken little thus far. It had served as a source of great speculation. “Perrence desires war and Revidia, peace.” He clasped his hands at his back, pacing forward like a lecturer before a room of pupils. “The former is a declining power and unwilling to accept their changed status, while the latter shall make no apologies for its rise. Is it not natural that the one should seek to overcome the other? The results of the conclave are a referendum on Perrence’s place in the world. The only blow struck was to King Rouis’ pride. His fields are still green, his borders secure, and his people fat and happy.” The doge rapped his knuckles on the table. “We have done them no violence. I have said it before and will say so again: we are not desirous of war. It is in the best interests of no nation here and most especially of the common people under our care. The decision lies solely with my Perrench counterpart or, since he lays bare his contempt by his refusal to attend, his young son.” Prospero turned to face Arcel.
There were shouts of affirmation. People hammered on the table. From a far corner of the room, where a screen hid its occupant, attendants rushed in and out. Then, it was the prince’s turn, and Arcel stood. “I present to you the Revidian lie.” He was met with both vociferous denials and cheers alike as he gestured in his opponent’s direction. “They will frame this as a natural process. They will employ knowingly flawed logic and reductive reasoning to hold up a simplified picture where all of us, versed in statecraft, know it is not so. Nations do not rise and fall on their own. They do so as a result of greater processes and the machinations of their fellow nations. If Perrence is to decline, as the Revidian party so eagerly proposes, then it is because they would act to make it so. Was not the farcical removal of Perrence from the conclave just such an act? Is not the fact that we now conduct this meeting under the umbrella of the Revidian navy’s guns further evidence?” His voice had risen. “This man,” he gestured, open-handed, at the doge, “has made no secret of his enmity towards us Perrench. Is it not then our right - nay, our prerogative - nay once more, our duty to resist him?” He leaned forward, fists upon the table, and scanned the room slowly. “Were it your nation thusly attacked, would you not seek to take action? I do not believe that any of you would stand quietly by and allow what you have built, what it is your divine right and responsibility to protect, to wither on the vine, courtesy of a thousand small cuts.” Arcel shook his head, golden curls swaying as he did so. “It is a less obvious attack than the fire and brimstone of war, but one every bit as dangerous. Perrence will not bow to it. We come with demands and they must be met.”
“Belzagg stands with her allies,” confirmed the empress.
“I speak with the sultan’s voice in lending my support to our allies.” It was the Virangish vizier.
A Nikanese man in fine but simple clothes stepped forward. “His Divinity, the Emperor, recognizes Perrence’s right to act in its best interests.”
Johann the Pious stood, making the Sign of the Pentad. “I shall speak for all of Eskand, as Horik and myself are of one mind on this matter: the overreach of Revidia is unacceptable. We demand our nation’s reinstatement and make common cause with Perrence and our further allies.” He was quickly seated. Horik crossed his arms.
Further affirmations of Perrence’s position streamed in, from the quarters that one might expect. Queen Anne of Huulendam made clear her objection to Kerremand’s ‘aggressive actions and bald-faced self-promotion to the detriment of a great many others.’ Representatives of the other Darhannic nations followed that of the vizier. As Inipor and Virang went, so did they.
Then, it was the doge’s turn. “And who shall stand against war for the sake of pride?” he asked, rising. He scanned the room. “Revidia is committed to peace but stands ready to defend itself and its allies against the military aggression of hostile parties. Segona stands equally prepared. The interests of each serve the other.”
“Joru stands similarly resolved. We ask Perrence, respectfully, to cease this dangerous brinkmanship.” Atundo Yibozo was brief in his statement.
“Kerremand will not see the well-deserved and peacefully-earned fruits of its labour stolen away. We make common cause with Revidia.”
A colourfully-dressed Retanese gentleman stood, another having spoken in his ear moments earlier. “His Vigorous Majesty affirms Revidia’s right to peacefully advance its interests.”
Prince John scowled. “Aye, you’ve got Enth,” he spat. “This is no time for a war, but we’ll fight it if it comes to us.”
All eyes turned to King Sancho of Torragon - called ‘El Alacrán’ - for he was the linchpin on which this hinge swung. He let a brief silence build before getting to his feet. He removed his feathered hat and bowed gracefully in the direction of his royal counterparts. “Your majesties,” he began. “I lower myself before you now so that you may know that the words that I speak next are no insult but come in the spirit of honesty.” Murmurs rose. A few looked at him hopefully. Others glared. Sancho seemed unmoved. He returned his hat to his head.
“I have seen, this day and the one before it, the kings or… something like that of the world’s greatest nations gathered at one table. I have listened to their words. I have watched, with great interest, their actions.” He gazed upon them all, expression grave. “What I have witnessed fills me with shame that we call ourselves leaders.” He shook his head quietly as voices rose in protest. Prospero knit his hands over his midsection, face intense and pensive. The King of Torragon continued, however. “All of you stand here and puff out your chests, playing games with the lives of your people for the sake of your personal pride or ambition, for meaningless symbols of status and power.” He tilted his head. “You want to see true power? Look around this city. Look at the wealth, at the safety and prosperity! Much comes from magia, but much does not, and that is power! While you are busy fighting because you cannot accept that you are not what you once were -” he gestured towards the Eskandish, “Or because you still pursue an old grudge and wish to claim a piece of land -” it was the Darhannics this time, “Because many have spoken down to you and you need to be seen as strong and relevant -” Kerremand, “You fear that your bold new experiment will be sabotaged by others -” Joru, “You must maintain your power or else you fear they will feed upon your nation’s carcass -” Perrence, “You are threatened by a more powerful neighbour -” Enth, “Or you know that your country must have a friendly port on the ocean as trade booms with Callanasta -” He addressed the Doge last. “Ersand’Enise grows stronger through guarded peace and wisdom.” He paced slightly, now. “You are windows, all of you,” he decided, finger wagging about the room, taking a moment to sniff. “But what I have seen is that all of you are so afraid to lose that you don’t take the time to look.” He shook his head. “We Torragonese are known as conquerors, and it is true that we took the land that is now ours from another people, but that did not make us a country. That did not make us great. We were founded by war, but built by good policy, by wise action, by recognizing what it seems none of you care to: your goals, they do not need to be in such conflict. It is all of your weaknesses - the ones you will not share - that lead you to lie.” He shook his head. “It is these lies that fester and cut you off from understanding. Why do we believe that one nation’s rise must mean the fall of another? Why can Perrence and Revidia not both be strong? Why can’t the ships of Retan call at both sets of ports? There is no reason except the people here at this table saying it cannot be.”
Sancho clenched his jaw. He could feel the hostility in many of the expressions around him, but he hardened his resolve. “I do not say these things to insult you. I do not think that you are estupido. Perhaps you have entertained thoughts like mine yourselves, but you did not want to be the first one to say them. It was a risk and risks do not always pay off.” He nodded. “I understand, for I feel it too. In this moment, I feel it, but I must speak, for I will live in shame if I do not: the shame of failing my people, of failing in my duty as king, of failing all people!” He pursed his lips. “Why do we rule?” He spread his arms. “Are we not supposed to be a better sort of person? Are we not supposed to be above petty conflicts and squabbles?” He took a final look around the room. “Today, I speak for Torragon, and Torragon stands for the good of its people and, I hope, the good of all people. We have no quarrel with any of you and we will play this game no longer.” His courtiers rose. As one, the Torragonese turned. “Let the chips fall where they may.” They marched out, then: a single, purposeful unit. The remaining leaders were left to sort their issues out or else fail to. It was no longer a concern of Sancho’s or his subjects’.
The precise details of what took place next were known to none but those in the room and, perhaps, not even fully to them. The three arch-zenos of Ersand’Enise who were present had the next word. The Paradigm, Hugo Hunghorasz, scarcely raised his ancient head, though he could be heard muttering under his breath. Yet, that day, by methods unknown, the bickering monarchs turned reasonable. War was averted, and peace preserved. The great wizened wizard was the last to leave, visibly drained yet triumphant in his manner.
Apocalypse Now
He emerged from his bubble into a hellscape. He had known of the Zenith’s coming announcement. She had not been able to keep that from him. He knew, also, that many found it a threat and that there were others who would use the attention given to the opening of the portal to launch their own attacks for their own reasons.
Thousands of aberrations had been scattered across Ersand’Enise and Hugo knew who had done it. He had, after all, occupied a room with one of them for hours. He would likely meet them again this very night, in combat and he would succeed, for success was his only option. The world would fall to chaos if he did not.
So it was that the paradigm himself wandered the city of the bells as those bells tolled in urgency, meeting with those maddened by the gaps in reality. He handled them as people instead of problems to the extent that he could. He cleansed aberration after aberration. He reconstituted buildings. Then, his age caught up with him and the old man needed to rest. There were other arch-zenos who took up the banner, though not so effectively as he had. Zenos, students, and citizens rushed about. Many hid. Some did not. At least a few purposely absorbed the dangerous things. They had either figured out the first - encouraging- part of the secret but not the second, or they were agents of the Traveler. He could not stop all of the young and the foolish, however.
Hugo Hunghorasz sat on a bench for some time longer and watched Ersand’Enise burn. He could feel each fire and each explosion, each collapsing wall. There were flashes of temporal magic and even dark magic, but he was tired and would need his strength soon, he knew.
After his rest, he returned to his work and, soon enough, the city was set right. Soon enough, he placed himself in Balthazar hall and drew from space and time. He drew to set most everything right: to undo a thousand or more deaths, to reconstruct the devastated buildings, and to spare people’s minds the most painful parts of it all. He could not fix everything, however: not even Hugo Hunghorasz.
The aberration that formed as a result of his efforts was not one of the usual types. It was, in fact, of a kind that he had seen only a handful of times in his storied life. The first had been during his days as a student. The first had been with Benedict, Leluun, Vander, and …Enna. So the students, some twenty or so in all, proved worthy of the puzzle. Nobody else intervened. They stepped into the strange plane that existed outside of space or time as they knew it, and they emerged much as he had one hundred years ago: empowered.
Darkness Triumphant
It was that night when the titans clashed, just as he who stood at their head had anticipated. There had been the day’s other events, chief among them the opportunistic theft of the much-sought-after music box said to be able to pacify a Fiery Mountain Dragon. Moli’s Emporium had gone up in flames, its performers homeless, merchants jobless, and dozens of exotic animals released, pell-mell, into the local environment. That was not to mention the dozen or so people maimed and killed or the persistent stories that would soon spread of great flying insects, snakelike people, and a vast conspiracy involving wave upon wave of colossal sanguinaires and the Revidian Navy. To some, it seemed as if Velles the Ninth, DZ54 would be the end of the world. Those stories, however, are theirs to tell at length should they wish to share them.
Yet, this day of all five hells had saved its worst for last. As the Hours of Eshiran gave way to those of Dami, its final and most consequential act commenced.
There Will Come Soft Rains
They were awoken by the soft, moody rumble of thunder. Whether it was nature or the Zenos of the academy mourning the death of one great man - and, if people suspected the latter, they were loath to say so - the clouds cast a deep grey pall over Taldes, Velles the 10th.
In the short term, it was a victory of sorts. A ruinous war had been averted or at least put on hold. The Illustrious Navy departed, as did most of the quasi-military forces that had temporarily occupied the city. How Pyrrhic it all was, though. Many did not realize quite how badly so, and still, they had some inkling. The portal, opened with great ceremony the day before, remained closed, for the time being - its structure repaired, but not the magic that had animated it. Flags flew at half-mast and stores remained closed. Students who showed up to classes found them canceled for the day and for the next on top of it. For Trypano Somia, her long-awaited appointment with the Paradigm, scheduled for thai afternoon, sat there, pinned to her corkboard, a reminder of… something.
He had run a fever and died in his sleep that night, or so it was said, and few had reason to suspect otherwise. He was very elderly and had missed the morning’s event. The combat that had seen him felled had been assiduously kept from the senses of all but the most eminent of mages. And so the rain came and people huddled indoors in their small clusters, huddling around their fireplaces and discussing just what the passing of one man would mean for the world. It seemed somehow a bit of a colder place now, a little less certain.
In silent teams of five, Zenos swept the remote corners of the city, searching for remaining aberrations and either absorbing or cordoning them off for removal. Bells tolled at each hour and the rain did not subside. Yet, this was Ersand’Enise: a place where there was always a show to be taken and where it would need to go on. There flickered stubborn signs of life amid the lingering pall of death.
In a small tavern, a girl who lived under a false name leapt into her father’s arms. They held each other tightly for a moment before exchanging stories. He was worried. He was angry at others, but he placed that aside, for the girl was nearly a woman grown now and she had a full and bustling life of her own to share with him. A man used to talking stopped to listen. A girl used to listening had learned to be heard.
In a kitchen, a young couple, each half with brilliant blonde hair, moved about, endeavouring to cook a meal for friends and family to celebrate a bold and unexpected step in their lives. The young man spun his bride-to-be around and she used the Gift to lift a half-dozen implements and stir, heat, and knead ingredients.
Some of those who she found herself sitting among shortly after were also those who she left with. The mumbling groan of thunder and the spattering of rain accompanied them as they made their way across the city. The welcome was perhaps not quite so grand as it might have been under different circumstances, but the six youths found themselves passing through the threshold and into the Violet Enclave, led by the lone figure of Karan Harrachora. Before them lay the Forked Tower - an odd, ancient, and storied structure that evoked endless mystery and promises of fruitful learning. The week was theirs and it began now.
Of course, there were those left behind, but they found their own purpose. After bidding farewell to her friend, the younger of a pair of young business owners locked up and headed out in a different direction. It was… eerily peaceful as she splashed, idly childlike, through puddles. During the course of her walk, however, she came upon a cloaked man. He regarded her hopefully for a moment before turning away. There had been something of a rapprochement between them the day before, but it felt hollow now, given the context in which it had happened. They began to pass each other awkwardly until the weight in her heart grew to a point where she could bear it no longer. “...Hello, brother.”
“Hello, sister.” He turned eagerly and their eyes met. “Are you holding up alright?”
She nodded and shrugged. “As good as one can be, I suppose.” Marceline paused. “How about you?” she asked.
Manfred was about to answer a simple affirmative, as he always had but, this time, he caught himself. He paused and considered. “I’ve… been better”, he admitted, hesitating to meet her eyes. “I… failed my girlfriend. I failed my compatriot during that… aberration episode.”
“It was terrifying,” Marci commiserated.
Manfred swallowed tightly. “I… I wasn’t strong enough,” he squeaked. “She had to save me. Dory had to save me. I… died.”
Wordlessly, Marceline reached out and enfolded him in an embrace. “I’ve… failed some people too,” she admitted, patting his back. “Now, why don’t you go talk to her, hmm?”
He did not let go of his sister. “I… couldn’t burden her. I can’t let her see me like this.”
The girl rolled her eyes just a bit. “Silly brother,” she chided. “If you feel this way, do you not think she can sense it? Do you not think she is also worried?” Marceline pulled back to arms’ length.
“I did not think -”
“No, you did not, silly brother.” She shook her head. “Go to her. You need each other.”
They parted and Manfred took a few steps back before hesitating. “And you, silly sister: do you need anyone? Anything?”
The girl let out a snort. “Maybe,” she admitted, “but I have my stacks of money for now. They don’t make half-bad tissues in a pinch.”
He shrugged and managed a tight, knowing smile. “Well, I know we don’t have so much in common, but you always have me, for what it’s worth. I… love you… kid. Okay?”
Marci blushed. “Ahem… Iloveyoutoo,” she replied quickly, almost under her breath. “Thank you.”
He was walking backwards, smiling out at her from under the hood of his cloak. “No, thank you.”
The girl shook her head, also backing away. “No, thank you,” she insisted.
He shook his head. “Unacceptable. I am the more thankful party.”
“Nuh-uh,” she retorted I am and I’m the younger one, so you must concede.”
“I think not!”
“I think so!” They were quite some distance from each other now, shouting to be heard over the rain.
“Over my dead body,” Manfred warned.
“Ah, so then it is war between us, brother.”
He nodded in response. “Indeed, he called. I shall meet you on the field of battle!” Then, they were parted and Manfred found that he had strength enough for another conversation that was perhaps well overdue.
Indeed, across the city, there were myriad moments such as these, glimmering like stars amid a vast dark canvas. Sometimes, when we are pushed to our utmost, strained against the very limits of our endurance, we unlock doors, we progress. We find things within and without ourselves. Perspective is a powerful tool and it was, perhaps, Hugo’s final gift to the world.
Epilogue: The Scorpion’s Last Sting
“And you are certain there can be no rapprochement between us?” It was Sancho. “No compromise for the good of the nation?”
The man who sat across from him was Huarcan Frannemas. They were in a hunting lodge at the northwest tip of Lake Albadòn. A fireplace roared behind them and, above it, the mounted head of a froabas surmounting a coat of arms and a pair of crossed swords. The duque shook his head. “It is past that,” he stated evenly, if not quite smugly. “Though you would make things easier for the both of us and for our country if you surrendered and made this peaceful.”
“I have a great many supporters,” the king remarked. He reached for a decanter of wine. “It will be ruinous for you.” He rose to pour himself a glass and Huarcan watched him closely. “It will be ruinous for Torragon.”
“Which is why I know that you will propose something else.”
“Wine?” offered Sancho.
His great enemy snorted. The soon-to-be-deposed king poured it anyhow. “It is a very good Vintage: Casa Soledad AI51.”
He served the duque before seating himself and crossing one leg over the other. “My proposal is this, and I will toast on it: we duel, you and I.” He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Oh, there is little chance that I can win, but I must at least say that I tried. I owe this to my family and my honour. Surely, you can understand that. Can you not?”
Huarcan glanced down at the deep crimson wine in the glass. Sancho was a simple enough man. He had always been, and yet -
“What?” the king interjected with a smile. “You believe that I would win with poison?” He shook his head. There was no hint of magic being used as he took a hearty sip. “You are too suspicious, my friend. Let me give you that advice: it does not make for a good king. I would know. I have held the job for some time now, though I see I was merely keeping your seat warm.”
“Honour, I find, is a quaint concept, but there is only power, so far as I see it, in all of its various forms: social, monetary, military, magical. Why would I take even the slightest risk in dueling you?”
Sancho sighed and took another sip. Huarcan followed, though, out of habit, he cast a small chemical spell upon the drink to neutralize the taste-removing torzophine that it would contain if it were a deadly poison. That way, he might know.
“Well, for one, I will first give you the document you seek, written in my hand and sealed in wax.” The king shrugged. “The second is because it’s always been personal. Hasn’t it? You are so much better than me, and yet I have always stood above you. I will do so once again. You will see.”
It was all rather pathetic, Huarcan mused to himself, an obvious attempt to goad him. Likely, Sancho had some gambit. He was half-inclined to accept just to see what it was, and yet… one should always beware a cornered animal, even one so weak as this. “You will give it to me regardless, or your entire family will follow you swiftly to Echerran’s embrace.”
Sancho’s grip on the armrests of his chair tightened. “You are a wicked man,” he growled, “but you do not scare me. You would kill them anyhow.”
Huarcan took another sip and smiled. “Yes, I suppose I would. They are too great a political threat to be left alive.” He shrugged. “It’s… nothing personal.”
The outgoing monarch glared at him, then. “Fight me, you carriage-riding coward,” he snapped. “I know you are curious, what trick I have up my sleeve. I know you want to see it! Why don’t you see it!?” he taunted, rising from his seat. The duque merely sipped and watched. “Or are you scared?” tried the angry little man. There was panic on his face now. He had come to the realization that it was all about to end. Huarcan was unmoved. “Sign the document and I will let your daughters live, at least. I will even marry Radolfo to the one with the eight-point-ten.”
“She will own him,” hissed Sancho, “utterly.”
Huarcan downed the rest of his glass and rose. “Oh, I know, but I have another one anyhow: a better one, and I suppose you can consider this your revenge from beyond the grave.”
They stood across from each other now and the ‘king’ glowered helplessly. He clenched his fists and his jaw alike and then he broke. “I will do it,” he grated, looking quickly away. He strode stiffly to the small table nearby and pulled a sheet of parchment. The duque stood in front of the fire, holding his empty glass dispassionately.
“Tendremos nuestra venganza,” Sancho muttered beneath his breath. “Tendremos nuestra venganza.” Huarcan could see that his hands were shaking. He dipped the quill in its ink and began to write.
“I, Sancho Afraval, eighth of his name,” the duque dictated, “do hereby declare that, upon this tenth day of Viela, Dami-Septo cincuenta y cuatro, I release in perpetuity all of my duties and titles…”
“This ink,” complained the king, “is bad. It has sat for too long.” He straightened in frustration and then, he dropped the ruse. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword.
Huarcan tilted his head to one side. “You realize that, by doing this, you doom your entire -” Then, Sancho was upon him, with a lunging strike aimed for the duque’s midsection. He just barely leapt out of the way.
The greater of the two men did not normally carry a sword, for he had no use for one. Instead, he called upon the deep and ample strength that was his Gift. he called upon it and…
Dread congealed into an icy ball in the pit of his stomach. It… wasn’t there. Sancho swept in again and Huarcan pulled for everything - anything. His manas would not respond. He could not feel them! He managed a weak kinetic shove: enough to push the king’s blade out of line. “Let’s see what sort of man you are now,” Sancho snarled, relentless. Huarcan stumbled back. “Guards!” he called. “Guards!” But they were out of earshot, as he, himself, had earlier requested.
“If you are wondering,” taunted the king, “it was plushtail oil. Your little spell to remove the taste-maskers is what activates it.” Thinking quickly, the duque snatched one of the crossed swords from the mantle and parried Sancho’s thrust. He was by no means a poor swordsman, but he had learned with the Gift.
“Your paranoia,” grunted the king, “is as predictable as your arrogance.” Huarcan could not beat him in a swordfight, not without the Gift. He began circling, throwing out feints, until his back was to the hallway that he knew led outside. He swung in a great big feint from long distance and shouted and that would have to be enough. He turned and ran with everything that he had. “And your cowardice,” hissed the king, rushing after him. Plushtail oil! How could he have been so stupid! Hadn’t he checked for poisons? He always did so but, this time, he had not! Sancho had strategically interrupted him just as he’d been about to, and demonstratively taken a sip to reassure him! He’d purified his glass, just to be sure, and tasted nothing out of the ordinary. Then, a few sips from the king, to lead him on out of passive habit. He’d been led to this juncture like a steer by the nose, every step of the way!
Huarcan Frannemas was about ten paces from the door when the sword impaled him in the trailing leg. He screamed and stumbled and instinctively called upon the Gift to heal and empower him. Only, it wasn’t there. Sancho, the man who they called ‘Alacrán’, loomed behind him, and a mighty slash, barely blocked, dropped the duque to his knees. “You will be reviled!” Huarcan roared. “Your other banners: what will they think that you murdered a duque?”
“They may not all love me,” Sancho replied, grim intensity giving way - for a moment - to sadistic pleasure, “but they hate you even more.” It was a quick combination and it slashed the would-be usurper across the shoulder and down the forearm of his sword hand. True fear filled him now. This was not real. It was inconceivable! That he would die this way! For one stupid mistake, at the hands of this… weakling! All that he had worked towards! All that he achieved and had yet planned to achieve! His children! Dear Augusto and precious Avril! He would never see them again. They would have no father. He was sorry! Truly, he was! “Please,” he begged. “Please, your majesty! I repent! I will join the Sages! I will live as a hermit.”
“You are a bad man and a worse liar, cousin.”
There was a flash of cold pain. Then, he was falling and the world was spinning. For a moment, Huarcan looked up and thought that he saw a headless body.
King Sancho, the Scorpion, strode through the doors of Villa San Miguel. His white clothes were stained in blood and his gloves soaked in it. He held a sword in one hand. In the other was the head of the would-be-king: Huarcan Frannemas. Half of the guards were his men. The rest were the now-deceased duque’s. “I claim, once more, my throne by right of conquista del guerrero,” he shouted into the blustery wind of the lakeside steppe. “This man tried to kill me. He tried to take my throne.” He tossed the head on the ground at the guard captain’s feet. “I have handled the challenge as a Torragonese should.” His men formed up around him. “Your traitorous lord is dead. I am here for you to challenge should you dispute my justice.”
The Frannemas men exchanged glances. The king waited. Then, one by one, they sank to one knee and bowed their heads. He gazed upon them from above. “Lay down your swords and depart in peace. I am a man of honour when I deal with honourable men. You are free to go.”
He had little enough time for them. Stalking up to Vencedor, he mounted the great warhorse. It would now be known that Sancho was no fool. He was under no illusion that there would be repercussions. He had not acted without a plan in place, however. “Scribe!” he shouted, tossing his bloody gloves on the ground and pulling on his riding gauntlets. “Scribe!” he repeated impatiently, as one hurried up. “You are to send a message to his majesty Prospero of Revidia and Segona.” The man fumbled with his quill and papers. “Tell him that he may act with full confidence. Whatever action he takes, Torragon stands ready.”
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