City of IF

[Chinaren]

Chapter 4. The Hand of God.


Byrold made a decision. “We go to the Marshal. My father trusted him, let us hope that trust extends to the rightful heir.”

Hark scratched his chin and nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. I know the man, and he is at least honorable.” He looked around. “Come, the coast is clear, best we move quickly.”

The two slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, through a side-door and onto the streets with little difficulty.

“Remind me to perform a security review when this is over,” said Hark. “There should have been guards on that door.”

“It was not accessible from the outside,” said Byrold.

“Not unless some traitor opened it,” replied Hark, ducking as a militia patrol went past.

The streets were all but deserted, and they made good time, soon arriving outside the central barracks where the Marshal resided. They paused just around a corner, peering at the large main gate which, unlike their lucky door, certainly was guarded.

“How to we do this?” asked the prince, eyeing the men standing either side of the entrance.

“Stealth will work against us here I think,” replied the fighter. “Time for the direct approach.” So saying he marched out and headed towards the barracks.

Byrold quickly followed, trying to look calm and composed.

The two guards held naked blades. One stepped forward as the two closed. “Halt! Who goes there?”

Hark replied with a voice full of command. “I am Arms-master Hark, here with his Royal Highness Prince Byrold. We need to speak with Marshal Ren on a matter of importance! Open the gate and let us pass.”

The man-at-arms looked uncertain. Byrold could understand his dilemma. If they were impostors the man would be severely punished for letting them in, yet if they were who they said they were, he would suffer if he denied them entrance.

The other guard saved him. “Let them through Jasper, I recognize the Arms-master.” He saluted Hark. “I served under you in the Southern skirmish last year sir. It is a privilege to see you again.”

“A veteran,” Hark replied. “Good man. I will remember you.”

The second guard saluted again as the gate creaked open, allowing the prince and fighter to enter the barracks.

The first guard, Jasper, led them through the courtyard and up towards the officer’s quarters, finally arriving at a door no more impressive than any other. He knocked. “Sir! This is the Gate Sentry, there are persons of importance who wish urgent audience! Sir, are you awake?” He knocked again, loudly.

There was a noise from inside, and a gruff “Wait!” More noises followed, until a minute later the door was swung open to reveal a man of large build dressed in a simple dark tunic. Grey hair protruded at untidy angles, a testament to the Marshals sudden awakening.

“This better be good…”he started, then caught sight of Hark. “By the blade! Arms-master! What is going on here? Come in, come in!” He stepped back to allow the two visitors to enter before turning to the guard. “That is all, you may return to your duty.”

The guard saluted and moved off as the Marshal closed the door and faced Hark. Only then did Byrold notice he held a large sword in one hand.

“My apologies for this sudden intrusion Ren,” said Hark, stepping forward and grasping the other man’s arm in greeting.

“It has been too long,” said the Marshal, a tight smile on his face. He gestured at Byrold. “And is this…?”

“Prince Byrold, rightful heir to the throne,” said the prince, standing straight.

Marshal Ren appraised him with cold gray eyes. The Chief soldier was no longer young, and the years of command were almost etched onto his face. Byrold had to force himself to meet the gaze with a cool calm look of his own.

Eventually the Marshal nodded and performed a salute. “Welcome prince,” he said.

Byrold let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank-you Marshal Ren, it is an honor to see you again. The last time I was a young boy, standing behind my father in court.”

The soldier nodded. “Indeed, time has gone by, and we are now without a great leader. May your father ride in splendor in the Far Lands.” He drew a line across his chest, the symbol of the God of Battle. “Now, what is the problem? For I guess there is trouble afoot, or you would not be in here in the early hours like this.”

“We were captured by some rebel squad and thrown into a secret jail,” said Hark. “Luckily the Prince managed to free us.”

Byrold looked sharply at Hark, but the man ignored him as he carried on.

“We have reason to suspect Eldra is making an attempt to gain the throne for her son, ahead of the prince here.”

Ren scowled upon hearing Eldra’s name. “Her! If there is one decision that I disagreed with the late king about, it was his marriage to Eldra.” He turned to Byrold. “You must know I have no love for the use of magic, having seen too many of my men succumb to sorcery in battle, yet I have no reason to go against the rightful heir to the throne.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “At least for now.”

“You would rebel against the lawful ruler of the land?” asked Byrold.

“My first loyalty is to Yroth,” the Marshal answered. “Should I think you are leading it towards disaster, I will do whatever it takes to prevent it.”

The prince made a mental note to replace Ren once he was in power. Outwardly he drew himself up. “I assure you sir, I share your goals for a powerful country. Safe and secure for my people to live and prosper.”

Ren nodded. “Very well then. You have my support, and that of the army. What is your command?”

Byrold drew a deep breath. “Until the coronation I am vulnerable in a number of ways. I have not been in the public eye for many years, studying as I have been. Yet Eldra has made her presence felt, and allied herself with a number of parties. I feel I need to counter such influence with my own, start righting the balance.”

“Then may I suggest the Patriarch?” said Ren. “He holds sway over the masses, and the current man is too conservative to back Eldra. He would no doubt endorse your highness.”

“Sire!” Hark stepped forward. “What of Eldra? We cannot allow her to get away with this!”

Byrold held up a hand. “Yet what can we say? We have no proof she was behind this plot. To go charging in after her now would only anger her allies. No, I need to build a stronger following first.”

Hark stepped back, nodding. “As you say sire. Though we may not get a better chance than this.”

“It is a risk I have to take,” said the prince. “Now, we have a little time. Let us make plans…”

>

The prince's borrowed steed trotted into the courtyard of the royal grounds. Around him a squad of battle hardened soldiers drew to a halt at his signal. Hark approached as Byrold dismounted.

“The Patriarch agrees to your plan sire, the ceremony will be held at mid-day.”

“Excellent,” said Byrold. “Any word from the mages yet?”

“Not yet, but their hall is further away, it would take the messenger longer to get there and back.”

The prince nodded and climbed the steps to the main entrance, which swung open as he approached. Standing just inside the doorway a tall thin woman dressed in a long black gown waited. By her side was a short fat man, clad in rich clothes and sporting a straggly goatee beard on his pudgy face.

“Out for an early morning ride son?” The woman nodded her head as Byrold drew near. Long golden hair flowed down her back to her waist, covering ears that had a hint of a point to them. Eldra had elven ancestors which, she claimed, shared blood ties King Rivenel himself. “I apologize for missing you yesterday, I was in another part of the city. You arrived back faster than I anticipated.” She smiled an apparently sincere smile.

“Step-mother, how lovely to see you again,” Byrold lied. “How are you bearing up? You mask your grief well.”

“Her Majesty has spent many hours mourning for her husband,” piped up the man by the Queen's side. “Yet she realizes that life must continue.”

“You still have your faithful lap dog I see.” Byrold gestured at the fat man, who bristled.

Eldra smiled. “Meeks is a loyal servant, dedicated to the royal family.”

“You look tired your majesty,” Hark interjected. “I trust you didn't have a troubled sleep?”

Eldra pretended to stifle a yawn. “Grief keeps me awake still. I find it hard to rest when my beloved husband is not by my side.”

“Indeed,” said Byrold. “Yet we must go on.”

“I look forward to seeing you crowned,” said Eldra, bowing slightly. “Please take care, with your father and brother fallen there is only yourself and Mikal left to carry on the bloodline.”

“The babe is well I trust?” asked the prince.

“Resting in the royal nursery, I checked on him but a moment ago.”

“Very well. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to break my fast.” Byrold started to move away, then stopped and turned half back. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Please be ready to attend the Great Chapel at noon today. The Patriarch has decided to perform the Ritual of Renewal, to celebrate my return.”

Byrold thought he glimpsed a flash of anger on his step-mother's face, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. She bowed again. “I will look forward to it my son.”

The prince nodded and headed to his chambers. Hark and two guards followed closely behind. Eldra watched them go with a face devoid of all emotion.

>

Byrold was pulling on his boots when there was a knock on the door. “Your majesty! It is nearly time to depart.”

“Enter Sterling!” said Byrold, and the door opened to admit the old servant.

“You look like your father,” said the advisor as he looked the young man up and down. “That may work in your favor. The King was a popular ruler.”

“Thank-you. Now, let us be off.”

“A messenger arrived earlier,” said Sterling as they walked down the corridor. “He said the wizards will dispatch someone immediately to supervise your magical protection. They will also forward a list of candidates for Court Sorcerer, once you are king.”

“Excellent. Ah, hello Tarall, is everything ready?”

“The Patriarch is waiting sire, and there is a large gathering of citizens along the route to the Great Chapel. You are fortunate today is a rest day.”

“It was part of our calculations, I admit,” said Byrold. He stopped as a servant scurried forth with the princely crown resting on a deep blue cushion. The prince picked it up and placed it carefully on his head, checking his reflection in the hand mirror another servant held up. Finally satisfied he waved the underlings away and proceeded towards the main doors.

“Are you sure it is wise to ride a horse?” fretted Sterling. “It makes you more of a target. The royal carriage would be a safer choice.”

“I must be seen by my people,” said Byrold as they trotted down the steps to the waiting entourage. “I will take the chance.”

His advisors sighed, and looked at each other when they thought he wasn't looking.

Byrold ignored them and swung himself up onto his horse. Sitting straight, he could see ahead where the carriage holding his step-mother was pulling away.

Hark climbed onto his mount and pulled up alongside him.

“Any news on the chambers we were held in?” asked the prince as the procession slowly started off.

“Nothing yet. Perhaps the mages can detect something.”

Byrold nudged his horse forward.

“Good idea this ceremony,” said Hark, keeping pace with him. “It will raise your profile with the populous, and get the Patriarch's backing as well, plus Eldra will dare not interfere with the Church.”

“Let us hope not,” replied Byrold.

Hark nodded, but then fell back behind the prince as they emerged onto the central avenue.

Byrold waved and the crowd cheered. Looking out over his people, he decided that the mood seemed to be one of genuine festivity. There were no shouts and demonstrations, which would indicate a general unhappiness with the population at his impending kinghood.

Despite his advisors' worries, the parade went without a hitch, and it was a good hour later that Byrold finally drew up outside the Great Chapel, his arms tired from waving, and his face sore from smiling.

He dismounted and walked up the blue carpet towards the main doors, which were flung wide open. Garlands and pictures of the Inverted Sword were hung over and around the entrance. A large statue of the God of Battle was just inside, and Byrold bowed and drew a line across his chest in recognition. Then he did the same to the statues of the lesser gods.

His devotions complete, he stood straight and entered the main hall, walking slowly and carefully down the central aisle.

The hall was full of the more notable citizens of Uskk, who attended for the spectacle, and see this youth who would shortly be king.

Byrold nodded at the few faces he knew as he made his way to the front of the auditorium, and the raised platform that the Patriarch preached and performed ceremonies from. He climbed the steps and with a final wave, ducked out of sight into the priest chambers. The ceremony would require he enter later.

Byrold was wiping his brow and pausing for breath, his heart thumping from his first public outing, when Tarall ran up, a worried look upon his face.

“Sire! Come quickly please! We have a problem!”

“What is it?” asked Byrold as he jogged behind the agitated advisor.

“It is Father Tred your highness! He is refusing to perform the ritual!”

“What?? Why? What is the problem?”

“Here, come and see!” Tarall led the prince through half a dozen passageways, to the priests quarters. He barged past several monks and into the Patriarch's room.

The thin figure of Father Tred was in heated discussion with Sterling. “I will not I say! It is a sign from the Lord. I cannot go against the bidding of God.”

“What is going on here? Why is there a problem?” Byrold demanded.

Sterling gestured towards a table in the center of the room. In the middle of it, sat on its own was a gruesome sight. A mans severed hand, leaking blood.

“A hand? Who's hand?”

“Do you not know of the tale of Josh, from the Second book of writings?” asked Sterling.

Byrold looked puzzled. “It is many years since I studied the holy scriptures,” he confessed.

Tarall explain. “It is in the second book, from the time of The Red Plague. In those days the Grand Patriarch used to choose the King, after praying to the Lord for guidance. However, Father Horros, the Patriarch of the day, refused to listen to the Word of God and made his own choice, King Eran the Terrible as he was later known. As punishment God struck off the hand of Father Horros, and took away the right of the Patriarch to choose the king. Ever since then, the sign of the right hand is taken as a sign that the choice of ruler is not favored by God.”

“I won't perform the Ritual!” wailed Father Tred. “It is a message! The Right Hand.”

“This is ridiculous!” Said Byrold, “no doubt this is some enemy of mine has placed this here! Let's be rid of the thing and get on with this!”

“The Patriarch refuses,” said Tarall.

“We must perform the ritual soon! Everyone is waiting,” said Sterling. “For this to not go ahead would be a disaster.”

“Curses!” said Byrold. He looked at the Patriarch, who was now sitting in the corner and quivering. What could he do?


>>>>>>

A dilemma then. The ritual must go ahead, and soon. How is Byrold going to get round this one?

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