Michael Mathias - Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

The tavern had long ago emptied of custom, yet Hyden and the dwarf still sat at the bar. Uncharacteristically, Oarly refused to do more than sip at a goblet of mulled wine. Beside him, Hyden sat quietly talking with the innkeeper, Zasha, about Mikahl’s youth.

“He was a troublesome cuss,” she said with a grin at the memory. “We all were. We caused a lot of silver hairs to grow in our time, I assure you.”

“If I wasn’t in such a foul mood, I would be prying you for an edge of information to use against him in the next prank I play.” Hyden took a long sip from his goblet. “As it is, I feel like I’ll never be able to jest again.”

“Whoever she was, she couldn’t have been all that.”

“Nay, Zash,” Hyden smiled and shook his head. “It’s death that has me feeling so low. Death, and the possibility of more of it.”

“Death is just part of life,” she said with an innkeeper’s practiced neutrality. After an uneasy glance at the big hawkling eyeing her from Hyden’s shoulder she asked, “Is there anything I can get for your feathered friend, Sir Hyden Hawk?”

“Please Zash, it’s Hyden, just plain Hyden.” The slur in his voice revealed that he was more than just a little drunk. “A few strips of red meat, and Talon here will love you for life. He’s had enough fish to last an eternity.”

Zasha wasn’t sure she wanted the fierce looking predator bird to love her forever, but she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a platter of meat strips. Talon leapt to the bar with a flutter and began to consume them vigorously.

The sound of the door closing behind Hyden brought a huge smile to Zasha’s face. She wobbled her pregnant self around the bar and hurried to greet a young man who looked to have spent a good deal of time laboring at some physical form of work.

“I thought you’d never return,” she said as she nearly leapt into his arms. “Oh, Wyndall, so much has happened. Lord Gregory has returned, and High King Mikahl, and look.” She pointed to the back of Oarly at the bar, who absently scratched at the crack of his wide, partially exposed buttocks. She had to stifle a laugh. “There’s a dwarf here at the Lost Lion,” she giggled.

“And the great wizard Sir Hyden and his hawk from the battle of Xwarda as well,” Wyndall added with a respectful grin. “After we offloaded in Seaward, we stopped at Weir in Highwander to search for more ore to purchase. Rumors of Sir Hyden and King Mikahl’s deeds are often spoken of over cups in those taverns. I think there’s even a song or two about them.”

Just then Hyden turned and fell from the stool into a crumpled heap on the floor. Oarly gave him a glance and returned to his reading. Talon peered down from his plate, but soon went back to his meal.

“He’s drunk,” Zasha said. “He just lost a few dear friends.”

Wyndall nodded in understanding. He had lost everything to Glendar’s insane campaign against Wildermont, but his smile didn’t falter. “I bet Lady Trella is pleased.” He gave his wife a long kiss on the lips.

“To say the least,” she replied and pulled him closer. “Promise me, Wyndall. Promise me you’ll not run off with them.” Her eyes took on a fearful look. “Lord Gregory is not your liege any longer, and you’re about to be a father.”

“You’re everything to me Lady Zasha,” he reassured her with a pat on her swollen belly. “I’ll not leave you for the world.”

“That is the smartest thing I’ve heard anybody say in months, lad,” Oarly said, turning from the bar with a grin. His voice was full of hope and joy, for he had just figured out what foolish young Phen had done. It was hard to have anything less than respect for the boy’s idiotic action. But after traveling for so long in the company of fools like Brady Culvert, and Sir Hyden Hawk Skyler, to expect anything less from the young mage was just plain silly.

“How many?” King Ra’Gren asked one of the underlords from the Dakaneese city of Owask. The title of underlord labeled a man whose station was a few steps above common. In Dakahn, if you were not a slave you were at the very least a lord. This man, Lord Antone, was Battle Lord Ra’Carr’s message runner, and he was fairly nervous. “So far we are thirty-five hundred strong. That’s not counting the men from Oktin and Lokahna. As far as Lord Ra’Carr has been able to tell, that is twice the number of men currently holding Wildermont.”

It was late afternoon and the torch-lit throne room was stuffy with the smell of pitch and men.

“I didn’t ask you for an account of our enemy,” King Ra’Gren growled down from his fur covered throne.

Lord Antone visibly blanched. The last runner, Lord Archa, had been impaled by the King’s trident only a week previous for arguing about Ra’Gren’s attack strategies. Sadly, Lord Archa had been right, and two days after his death the King altered the plan to the man’s suggestion. Remembering this, Lord Antone held his tongue. If he could keep himself alive, he would find great favor and vastly increase his holdings once Wildermont was taken.

“Where are they staged?” Ra’Gren asked. His eyebrows rose as he gazed on the nervous lord below him with a look that challenged him to say more than the simple answer to his question.

“On the border, just north of Pearsh, my King.”

Ra’Gren paused, his large hand clenching and unclenching on the shaft of the iron trident standing at his side.

Lord Antone almost added, “A half day’s march from Seareach,” but wisely decided that the geography of the area made that perfectly obvious to his king. He was glad he held his tongue. King Ra’Gren looked as if he was eager to gig somebody this day.

Seated in the rows of pews opposite the throne were many of the community leaders of the city of O’Dakahn; the owners of the mercenary companies, the major slave traders, the men who owned the farmlands and the like. A few men from the shipping industry, and a group of builders from the Isle of Salazar were there to bargain for Wildermont slaves. Most of the Dakaneese slave merchants usually had representatives in court in their stead, but with Ra’Gren’s coming attack on Wildermont on the horizon, and rumors of a huge slave purchase about to take place, they came themselves.

“Are there not more swords to be had?” Ra’Gren asked with a hard gaze out across the pews. “I know for a fact that there are more than thirty-five hundred sell-swords working in my kingdom. Why are they not in my service?”

The Dakaneese army was strong. Ra’Gren had thousands of soldiers at his command, but for some reason he was trying not to use them in this campaign. He wanted to take Wildermont with mercenaries who didn’t fight under his trident banner. The idea of paying them all with the Wildermont gold King Glendar had gifted him was a pleasant irony.

An older man stood, and visibly forced one of his competitors back to his seat as he worked his way forward. “If I may?” the man said over the murmur of the attendees.

“Speak, Lord Tromas,” Ra’Gren said, causing the room to silence. “You and your company have served Dakahn well. I Trust your words.”

“I can offer you a few hundred more men that have just come in from the sea,” he said with widespread arms. “I think I speak for all of the major companies when I say that we’re spread thin. The increase in our own piracy has created the need for ships and trained fighters to escort cargoes as of late. Most of my men are still away, my King, but as they return, I will gladly send them into your service.”

A man from the front row of pews stood and spoke over the old mercenary. “My King, I have four hundred trained men, and two hundred untrained men to offer immediately.”