The Fall to Power (2 page)

The noble spoke, giving voice to his question, a voice that was haughty and shrill, a voice that was used to being obeyed and woefully unused to speaking to a superior. Despite this
handicap, he gave his best impression of deference.

“My King, how long do you think it will take to complete the tower?”

A pertinent question. The King smiled.

“A year.”

A gasp went about the crowd as the proclamation echoed from wall to tapestried wall. The noble spoke again.

“But, my King… how can such a thing be possible?”

The Barbarian King examined the noble for long moments before responding.

“Kurnos will ride, bring fresh recruits for our slave workforce.”

The bellicose and bearded council member rose to his feet behind the king, to the cheers of the gathered Clansmen; Kurnos, Lord of the Hunt, was a popular fellow who held true to the Steppes traditions of slaving.

“But…” the noble began, before the King cut him off.

“Of course, nobleman, you will be expected to provide labourers from your own populace to aid in the construction, along with a temporary increase in taxes. Small things to ask, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

The Lord of the Land was silent for a moment, nodding in acquiescence, his face quite unreadable even to the King’s scrutinising
eyes, before finally sitting back down.

The King’s eyes lingered an instant longer on the curious noble, before turning to the room at large and speaking, arms wide.

“So, my friends, my countrymen; the plan is unveiled, we all know what is expected of us. But, these things are for another day! We have untold pleasures to enjoy these next few days, so please, I implore you, let us forget talk of hard labour, leave it for our future selves to worry about; tonight, let us feast!”

A great roaring cheer from the crowd as the musicians struck up once more and the dancers
began their gyrations anew. From doors along the walls of the hall, servants came, by the dozen, by the score, by the hundred, laden with great steaming platters of freshly roasted meats, vegetables and fresh fruits from the Pen’s kitchens, along with foaming jugs of fresh beer.

The feasting had begun and, as tradition dictated,
would not stop for days to come.

***

The King turned from his audience and made his way back to the table where the rest of his council were seated, sliding out a heavy oak chair and taking his place in the centre of them. Even as he sat, servants attended him, bringing him fresh food and drink.

             
A young serving girl leant over him, pouring fine red wine into his goblet, even as his eyes took in the curve of her breast, the paleness of her skin, the light tones of her hair. This girl was a captive of northern climes, these things told him. Of the Hill People.

             
She noticed his attention as she poured, and he smiled as he watched uncertainty flickering across her face, despite her best efforts to hide it. He could smell the feelings radiating out from her, just as a mortal man could smell the flavours in a pot of stew as it bubbled over a stove; he could sense the cold resentment she had for him, as master of her life now, slave to his every whim. She held onto that hatred, desperately, out of pride, but beneath it, as easily as a hand could feel the curve of a woman through thin silk sheets, he could feel her fear of him, her desire for him.

             
As she finished pouring and made to move away, she managed to catch his eyes, seeing in his twinkling green orbs the sure knowledge that he knew everything she was feeling at that moment. She turned, flushing, ashamed and angry with herself, to offer drinks to the other council members.

             
The King watched her go, ever smiling, thinking to himself that she had no need to feel such shame, for it happened to all women, no matter their background or status.

             
“You shouldn’t do that, you know. It’s cruel.”

             
Well, not
all
women.

             
He turned to the Seeress who sat next to him, smiling, looking deep into her ice-blue eyes, before allowing his own to rove over her form, never tiring of the sight of her long, slender curves and raven-black hair, even after nearly a century of familiarity.

             
All he could feel radiating from her was a cool confidence, perpetual amusement and a latent sexual hunger, all underpinned by a sharp streak of cruelty and malice and topped off with the tangy, unmistakable aroma of sorcery.

             
It was this potent and heady mix that so intoxicated him, keeping the sorceress never far from his side, year after year, decade after decade.

             
“My dear, forgive me, but you know I must have my distractions from time to time.”

             
She raised an eyebrow.

             
“I forget how many distractions you’ve needed over the years, my King. For an immortal you have a frightfully short attention span…”

             
The pair laughed, this scene having played out a hundred times over the years, each perfectly aware of the other’s thoughts, before the King grew slightly more serious for a moment, eyes darting meaningfully towards the section of the crowd where the Lords of the land and their retinues feasted and drank.

             
“Tell me, what do you know of Arbistrath?”

             
The Seeress frowned, not because the question was unexpected – it was her duty as leader of the Seers to survey the kingdom from afar and spy out any trace of sedition – but because of the subject of his enquiry.

             
“He’s the ruler of Pen-Tulador, a town of no real interest to the Seers – he has few troops, his garrison small, most of his land devoted to the farming of crops.”

             
The King nodded, already knowing all this, but patient. It befitted an immortal to have patience.

             
“He seemed put out by the speed at which we will construct the Beacon, is all. What is Tulador like for wealth, these days?”

             
Another voice answered this, from the other side of him, a man’s voice, deep and youthful, full of mirth, instantly likeable.

             
“Their coffers are reasonable, my king,” replied Bavard, taking a deep glug of rich wine from a golden goblet, pushing his long, braided hair out of his handsome face so as to not get it in his beverage. “The lands there are fertile, the people happy. I rather enjoyed my stay!”

It was unsurprising
to the King that Bavard should have been there recently; his duty as general of the King’s armies involved him travelling from town to town, inspecting the training of the troops, ensuring that they be ready should they be levied to support the core of Clansmen in the event they march to war. It was also unsurprising that the handsome warrior should have had a good time there; for a general, there was rarely a serious bone in his body.

The
same could not be said for the maidens of whichever town he happened to be visiting at the time…

“Hmph. They have too easy a time of it, if you ask me.”

A gruff, bellowing voice now, from the other end of the table.

The King frowned.

“Why do you say that, Kurnos?”

The rotund, bearded Master of the Hunt slammed his stone tankard to the table, nearly shattering it, for though he had an appearance of someone older and out of shape compared to the rest of the council, his
barrel-chested frame belied the might of his seasoned limbs. Here was a true descendant of the Barbarian Clans of old.

“When the Hunt rides the land,” he spat, “the villages of his land are invariably empty. Always a market on in the Pen, a festival, a feast, a re-enactment. There is never any sport to be had in Tulador lands…”

“Aww…” cooed Bavard. “The Lord spoils your fun? It’s almost as though he doesn’t want his villagers plundered and captured at random…”

The two, the fresh-faced, flippant General and the rudd
y, grizzled Huntsman, descended into good-natured squabbling as they were so often wont to do and the King smiled, despite himself, even as he mulled things over.

That Arbistrath would forewarn his people of the impending Hunts w
as both admirable and a concern, for though it spoke volumes of the haughty man’s loyalty to his people that he wanted them to be safe from Kurnos’ predations, the Hunt was there for a reason.

It was decades now,
nearly a century, even, since the Barbarian King had risen to power, vanquishing his mortal predecessor and establishing his rule with an iron fist, and as such, far-flung towns would sometimes forget his might, his generosity with his gifts of learning and protection. Taxes would sometimes come in late, or worse, not at all.

The monthly Hunts led by Kurnos, with his ruthless henchmen and packs of baying hounds, served as a reminder to the provinces that they were
not Kingdoms in their own right and that they still had a duty to their distant ruler.

The Seeress caught his attention, her cool blue eyes seeing in his the reason for his quiet contemplation.

“You wish me to summon my girls, scry his lands?”

He thought for a moment, before nodding.

“Yes, but not now, tomorrow. Tonight, my dear, we enjoy ourselves, have fun.”

She smiled, raising her fine, crystal goblet of wine.

“Then to fun, my King!”

***

The night was drawing on yet the party still in full-swing, the stone walls of the Great Hall echoing to the sounds of merriment and cheer, as the King rose from the table and turned to the council.

             
“I wish you good night, my friends.”

             
Groans from the gathered lieutenants, Bavard in particular.

             
“Stay awhile, my king! The night is yet young and if we don’t drink what’s left then this fat tub of lard is gonna have it all!” He thumbed over his shoulder to the swaying Huntmaster to his side who’d obviously not heard him.

             
“Eh, what?”

             
The King smiled, but shook his head.

             
“I’m afraid not, my friends; I need to walk, clear my head.”

             
The council nodded, understanding, for their King’s senses were a level beyond and he always found such raucous gatherings tiresome on his ears after a while.

             
“Rest easy, my King,” bade the Seeress, her eyes ever-twinkling with amusement.

             
With that, the Barbarian King strode from his own jubilee festivities, leaving the Grand Hall via a small doorway at the side of the dais, entering the relative quiet of a long passageway of cold sandstone along which bustled the myriad servants, carrying yet more food and drink to the feasting guests, even many hours after the celebrations had begun. He paused and, with a thought, cleared his mind of the intoxicating alcohol, feeling sobriety restored in an instant; the poison only affected him when he chose to let it. Eyes widened as he walked on, servants flattening themselves against the wall in an effort to be out of his way as he strode towards the kitchens that served this section of Pen-Merethia.

             
After the cool of the corridor, the heat of the cookfires washed over him like walking out of a house and into the blazing heat of a summer afternoon. The kitchens were large, vaulted, with stone ovens attended by bellows-wielding kitchen slaves and overseen by baton-wielding chefs, yelling orders at bustling porters and cooks.

             
He passed an entire boar skewered on a spit, slowly roasting as two children turned it so that it cooked evenly, the crackling crisping nicely and the juices and fat dripping down into the roaring fire, causing it spit and crackle as though it were some ravenously hungry dog, snapping at a tantalising bone.

             
Through the kitchen he strolled, the servants and chefs bustling about him at a respectful distance, taking in the sounds and smells of the gargantuan culinary effort, before leaving through another door at the far end, out into the cool, castle corridors once more.

             
Up a spiral staircase, he strode, taking the servants route out of sight of the main drag, for people seldom ventured this way and he enjoyed being alone from time to time. Up, up, past numerous doors that led to the servant’s quarters, till at last he found himself entering the Seers’ Tower, where the lady sorcerers plied their trade, scrying his land for any hint of threat.

             
Even as the women slumbered behind locked doors, he could feel their power, their dreams haunted by visions of times and places, faces and voices that they might never understand.