Michael Mathias - Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

A pair of full-size stallions rearing to fight decorated the ornate double gate. They were a study in detail and craftsmanship. The dark stone they were carved from was veined with blood red and pinkish white. The color went well with all the red clay around them. Mikahl found that he wanted to get out of Thunder’s saddle and examine them closer, but decided against it. General Spyra eased close to him, and as they waited for the gate guards to announce them to the castle, he spoke.

“Notice that the people who live inside the red wall are a little quieter about your arrival?” The General grinned. The sun reflected off of his bald head into Mikahl’s eyes. Mikahl had to squint when he looked back at him.

“Aye. Days of being cheered, then all of a sudden only stares and nods inside the wall. Why?”

“Outside the walls,” the General leaned in close so that he could whisper, “the craven king’s power is thin. They would put you in his seat in a moment, I assure you. But here, inside the walls, Broderick has thousands of ears and a much stronger base of support. He’ll lick your boots, but he’ll do it in private.”

If the capital of Valleya was unimpressive compared to Xwarda or Castlemont (before Pael had destroyed them), then King Broderick was a total letdown. The large, fleshy man was robed in wrinkled layers of golden cloth trimmed in red. His black hair and beard were thick, curly, and unkempt, and the people who were gathered around him at the top of the castle’s entry stair looked about as happy to be there as they would at their own execution.

Mikahl had an urge and followed it. Before the craven king could say a word, he spurred Thunder forward and quickly closed the space between him and the foot of King Broderick’s entry stair. The Valleyan King’s Guard was surprised by the move, but more than one of them stepped up, with hand on hilt, ready, if a little reluctantly, to defend their big sloppy king. Mikahl drew Ironspike and the purplish glow of its blade was clearly visible in the midday sun. The people around Broderick, guardsmen included, instantly shrunk back from him. It was as if they all half-expected Mikahl to take off the man’s head in that instant. King Broderick himself seemed only slightly impressed by Mikahl’s display. Still, he was more than a little nervous as he glanced over at his court announcer and gave a sharp nod. “Thump! Thump! Thump!” sounded the butt of a staff on the sun-baked clay surface. “All hail High King Mikahl Collum, the Blessed Uniter.”

Reluctantly, King Broderick went to a knee. Every person in sight of the scene followed suit, save for one, a slim man who was dressed quite regally and standing in the castle’s entry way behind King Broderick’s retinue. Mikahl’s eyes met his and the man gave a nod of respect, no more, no less. Mikahl smiled and returned the gesture.

At least there’s one here not ready to lick my boots, Mikahl thought, and found that he had more respect for the one in the doorway than anyone else he’d met here so far.

“Rise,” Mikahl commanded with forced authority in his voice. He had to bite back a laugh when he heard General Spyra mumble under his breath, “He might be too fat to get up.”

General Spyra was correct, for two men quickly stepped up on each side of the Valleyan king and helped him to his feet. All around them, the Valleyan people started to cheer. The look on Broderick’s bright red face showed that this wasn’t the introduction he had envisioned, and that he was none too pleased about the situation. The smiles on the faces around the King of Valleya showed Mikahl that it was an introduction they had enjoyed, though. King Broderick had been put in his place swiftly, and publicly, right from the start, and those who’d seen it, especially the curious man in the doorway, had enjoyed it immensely. Mikahl wasn’t really amused, though. In fact, he found that he was disgusted by the way Broderick carried himself.

The boat Dreg loaned Lord Gregory was as small as a watercraft could be and still be considered a boat. It was nothing more than a child’s skiff, with two oar locks, a rudder for steering, and two bench seats. With Lord Gregory and the man Dreg sent to escort him both sitting in it, the boat sat so low in the water that the slightest ripple threatened to wash over the sides.

The deal was fairly simple: Dreg would keep the chunk of gold, the horse, and Lord Gregory’s sword until he returned with or without his wife. If he did indeed return, they would travel to the cavern Lord Gregory said he had wintered in, where he had supposedly found the nonexistent deposit of gold. From there it would be an equal split. Lord Gregory had no choice in the matter that he could see. He hated to give up his sword, but it was only an object. His wife’s well-being was far more important to him than the blade.

Dreg was a snake, a slaver, and an opportunistic thug. There was a time when Lord Gregory would have imposed justice in King Balton’s name, and taken the man’s hands off, or worse. As it was, Dreg had the boats, and the men. Lord Gregory was nothing but a broken down cripple who was patiently bailing water from the boat as Dreg’s man, Grommen, cursed and pulled on the oars.

The flow of the river channel was carrying them in the right direction, but the boat kept drifting into the deep swamp grass along the edge of the marshes. It was a repetitive pattern: row over close to the western bank and then drift down river and back across the channel toward the swamp grass for most of an hour, row back, and start all over. By working the rudder to maximum effect, the crosscurrent drift could be delayed, but not avoided. They had taken turns rowing at first, but Grommen saw the pain in Lord Gregory’s face when he tried to work the oars. He’d taken over then. Not so much because he was chivalrous or kind, mind you, but because of the bugs. The western bank and the main flow of the channel were relatively free of them, but along the marsh grass of the eastern edge there were swarms upon swarms of flying, stinging, itching things that Grommen couldn’t stand.

Lord Gregory had a mind to get them deep in the grass, thinking that while Grommen was fighting the bugs, he might be able to get him over the side of the boat, or possibly even get his dagger into the man’s neck. If he thought he had the strength in him to manage the boat by himself, he might have done it. He didn’t, so he patiently bailed the water that seeped and slopped into the craft and watched with a sinking heart as they went floating by the upriver outposts of Settsted Stronghold one by one.

The single towered, squat gray stone buildings were manned now by glittery green-scaled, bug-eyed, lizard-men wearing mismatched pieces of armor. Lord Ellrich’s proud river guardsmen used to have that duty. What bothered Lord Gregory the most was the banner flying in place of Westland’s prancing lion. The bright yellow trio of crossed lightning bolts on the black field was irksome. The zard-man sentries, and their huge geka lizard mounts, weren’t even necessary at the outposts. There was no threat of attack from the swamp now.

The zard were natural creatures of the marshes and they came and went across the river freely into the endless expanse of muck that stretched from Westland’s border, south and east, all the way to Dakahn.

It was surprising that the boat went along unmolested. Not once were they hailed or stopped as they drifted down the channel. They passed a few fishing boats and were waved at by the human boys and zard working together in the nets, but not much else. His worries were blanked out of his mind when he got his first glimpse of Settsted itself. The ancient stronghold had fortified all of the men who manned the outposts along the marshland border. It had stood longer than Westland’s history had been recorded. Now it was nothing more than a crumbling ruin. The great green moss covered stones of its outer protective walls and main structure were scorched black and caved in.