Clayton Emery - Sword Play

"I told you thrice now," Greenwillow finally snapped, "I'm a delegate from the High Elves of Cormanthyr, here to see the One King!"

"And I've told you, elf, the king is a busy man! He doesn't admit every saucy snippet that marches in here! Give me the missive to read, and I'll decide if it warrants the king's attention!"

Greenwillow cursed under her breath in elven, but handed over the missive, which Sunbright now saw for the first time. It was a wide and lumpy sheet of old parchment, much scraped and curled, folded thrice and sealed with blue wax with a simple sigil. With no pomp whatsoever, the clerk jerked her thumb under the wax and snapped the seal, uncrinkled the parchment, and read for a long time.

Finally she reread a section, then folded the missive shut. "I see. Wait here." She heaved her massive butt off a bench and passed through a wooden door.

" 'Kings think they rule, while clerks really do,' is a saying at court." Greenwillow sighed and studied the ceiling, reaching up and fingering dust along a beam.

Sunbright drummed his fingers idly, went to a shuttered window in the wall, and peeked between the slats. "What if the king… Garagos!"

His shout was drowned by an inrushing wave of orcs. They carried not studded clubs but hardwood batons, and wore red-and-black tunics and steel helmets and breastplates and greaves. There seemed to be a hundred of them, and they stampeded into the tiny room like a herd of mad buffalo. Before Sunbright or Greenwillow could even draw steel, the wave smashed into them, plowed them into a wall, drove them under feet and greaves and pounding batons. Sunbright was literally smothered under a ton of gray flesh and bright steel, and blows crashed, like an avalanche, on his head. He heard Greenwillow shriek just once. Then the lights went out.

Sunbright awoke abruptly and, remembering the attack, reached out to stop the invading orcs, lost his balance, and toppled off a bunk onto the floor.

Groggy, he crouched on hands and knees, listened and smelled and peered around.

He was in a room no bigger than a hayrick. A wooden door studded with iron spikes filled one wall; a tiny, barred window marked another. A wooden bunk with straw-stuffed ticking and a bucket were the room's only furnishings. Light from the window bounced off fresh whitewash.

A jail cell. The words came to him from tales he'd heard, for he'd never seen one. Indeed, he hadn't been in nine different buildings in his entire life. He'd spent almost every day outdoors.

Then he recalled what jails were for. With a choked cry, he scrambled up and pushed at the door, for he couldn't pull it open; there was no handle. Heedless, he threw his shoulder against the door until the iron spikes were tipped with blood. Failing there, he ran to the bars, grabbed and yanked and pulled. But the bars were thicker than his wrists. The view outside showed only another wall.

Howling, he grabbed the bunk and used it as a ram to batter first the door, then the window bars. But the crude bed was made of lightweight pine and soon cracked. Heedless, he smashed it to splinters that lodged in his hands.

Confined for the first time in his life, Sunbright, child of the tundra and the steppes, went berserk. He screamed and ranted and banged on doors and windows and walls until the whitewash was spattered with blood. And still he pounded and shrieked, all through the afternoon and long into the night.

Orc and human guards found the barbarian lying on the floor of his cell. Punctures and scrapes and crusted blood covered him from head to toe, and for a moment they feared he'd killed himself. An orc guard rolled back the human's eyelid, jammed his thumb into the eye, and felt the prisoner squirm. Grunting, four soldiers lugged him upstairs.

Sunbright came to when dropped into a tub of scalding hot water. Blubbering, lashing out, he was restrained by firm hands and gentle reassurances. Opening his sore eyes, he found himself in the grip of two dark servingwomen dressed in damp linen shifts that clung to their bodies. The shifts each had a small red hand painted on the front.

Sunbright lay half in and half out of a small bathtub. "I… I don't understand." His voice was raspy and raw from screaming.

"Rest, good sir. Be at ease. Let us attend you, and soon the One King will explain all."

Dizzy, groggy, still not at full strength, Sunbright gave himself up to their ministrations. Gently they washed and dried him, combing his golden hair and pulling it back into a topknot. Then they bandaged his hurts, most of which were self-inflicted, and fed him cakes and ale. They dressed him in a soft smock of light blue, painted with a red hand on the front, and slippers. Lastly, gingerly, they insisted he don silvery manacles. The barbarian refused, and argued, and finally pleaded in a way that amazed and shamed him, but the servingwomen were firm: he couldn't appear before the One King unless shackled.

"The One King? I'm to meet him?" Solemn nods answered.

Only the king could get him out of this mess-whatever it was-so, reluctantly, he extended his arms. The handcuffs and chain were cold, and glistened. With a shock, the barbarian realized they were silver, not steel. "Curious, this king's customs," he muttered.

Bidding the servants thanks, Sunbright gave himself over to the castle guards. These were unusually tall and upright orcs and a smattering of men, all in the steel soup-bowl helmets and breastplates and greaves and tunics of black edged with red. None of them spoke as Sunbright was escorted down wide stairs to the main hall.

The barbarian peered over steel helms; the guards were tall, but he was taller. The palace's main hall had plain stone walls, like those of many keeps, but banners and streamers of red and black hung where normally there would be the banners and pennants of enemies defeated in battles. As far as Sunbright knew, the One King had yet to conquer anything except this one tiny city. Courtiers lined the walls, city people and orcs and women dressed to kill, the oddest mix the barbarian had ever seen. There were more folks, guards and clerks and even a few dancing girls, seated along benches and tables flanking the throne. The throne itself was carved from ebony wood, and sported a pennant above it of a red splayed hand. The king looked like a bearded, black-haired man carved from wax. Sunbright waited a long time as the king attended business, making decisions and issuing commands in a flat drone.

Abruptly, the king stood and began to address the crowd. He began, "Fellow Tinnainens, citizens of the First World. Know that by doing my bidding, you cause the wonders of man to increase."

The proud and empty words rolled on for what seemed like hours. It was all fluff as far as Sunbright was concerned. The message was that the people, by obeying every order of the One King implicitly, would be part of some vague new order when he conquered the world. Independent, trained to think for himself-for only the alert survived on the tundra- Sunbright resisted the pettish arguments, but saw the city-born courtiers nodding in unison, as if hypnotized. Perhaps, the barbarian thought, if one listened to this mishmash of fact and fancy long enough, it would make sense.

At last, a plump, grayish man in a gray gown consulted a list, took command of the barbarian, and led him to yet another table staffed by clerks in an alcove at the back of the room.

The man was of middling size, stoop-shouldered, and distracted by his duties. If not for his average size and pompous nature, he would have been imposing with his grayish skin, pouchy jowls, black, burning eyes, and dark hair that formed a deep widow's peak.

In an unctuous voice he proclaimed himself to be Angriman, the One King's chief minister, which Sunbright interpreted as chief clerk. He apologized for the rough treatment Sunbright had suffered, then asked the barbarian's mission. Simple and direct, Sunbright told the truth: he had accompanied Greenwillow on her mission, and was seeking information on the One King for his employer, who fretted about grain prices.