City of IF

[Chinaren]

Chapter 5. Threats.

Byrold took a deep breath as he walked over to the hand and examined it. It seemed to be just what it appeared, a severed appendage, dried blood clotting from a ragged cut, the bone protruding gruesomely. He spotted something and bent closer to look more carefully. One thing that his studies as a mage had taught him: Examination first, think and then act. Byrold had found this to be good advice in matters other than magical ones.

“Sire,” said Tarall, “what is your order?”

The prince ignored him and turned to the Patriarch. “You believe this is The Sign your eminence?”

“What else can it be? You have been found wanting, you cannot be our next king!”

“But Father, this ritual is not the coronation. It is nothing to do with my ascension to the throne. Why should this hand affect it?”

The priest frowned, his logic thwarted for a second. However, he was a holy man, used to debate, and soon rallied, standing a little taller as he delivered his rebuttal. “Even so, this ritual will be seen as the Church's endorsement of yourself. Yet this sign tells me you are not the chosen, not one whom the Church can favor.”

“And you are sure this is a sign from the God of Battle? The one who looks over us all?”

“What else can it be? It is the Right Hand, the sign of disfavor.”

“I would disagree,” Byrold stated, his voice firm and calm.

“You are but a child! I am the Patriarch, God's messenger on this earth! You would argue with me?”

The prince shook his head and spoke in a more gentle tone. “Patriarch, I would not dare to cross you word when you have the God's ear. May I see your hand father?”

“What?” The priest went from angry to puzzled.

“Please, if you would indulge me. Palm down.”

Father Tred nodded, and slowly held out his hands towards the prince, who looked at them closely. “It is said that the Great God struck off a hand of Father Horros. I assume the Patriarch was a fastidious man, much like yourself?”

The Patriarch sniffed. “A clean body surrounds a clean mind,” he said. “That is a doctrine passed down through the ages. I am certain all in my position have followed it.”

“And yet this severed hand is far from clean. Indeed, it appears quite the opposite, I see several lesions which would indicate ill health, and the nails are uneven and certainly dirty. This looks like the hand of someone who lives on the street. Perhaps a vagrant. Surely the Great God would at least provide a clean appendage?”

Father Tred looked uncertain for a moment, but again rallied, taking strength from his faith. “No. No, it cannot be. It must be the Hand. The Right Hand!”

“Father, I put it to you that some scoundrel has tried to put one over on you, with the intention of making you look the fool. Yet you yourself have seen through the ruse!”

“I have?” The churchman looked confused again.

“Indeed,” Byrold said triumphantly. “Just now, you said it yourself. The Right hand. Yet this,” he nudged the item in question, “is quite definitely a left hand. I congratulate you on seeing through this foul manipulation. I will chase down the culprits and turn them over to your Inquisitors as soon as the ceremony is completed.”

The Patriarch looked at him a moment, and then the hand. There was silence in the room as his face grew stern. After a short pause he looked back at Byrold once more. “You have the right of it Sire. I welcome your support.” He straightened up and looked around. “Come! What are you all waiting for? We have a ceremony to perform. Places!”

The room turned into one of activity again, and the Patriarch headed out towards the main hall. Byrold, Tarall and Sterling watched him go, surrounded by his priest underlings.

“You manipulated him well Sire,” said Tarall in a low voice. “You have the makings of a diplomat of some skill.”

“We were lucky, that's all. I can't rely on luck all the time,” the prince said. He looked at his advisors. “The Academy of Mages is sending a Court Wizard soon. Once he arrives bring him here and get him to examine this hand, see if he can't tell where it came from.”

His advisors nodded, and Tarall left to instruct the guards.

“Let’s get this show going shall we?” The prince straightened his garments and strode out the room, Sterling trailing along in his wake.

>

Once the incident of the Hand had been dealt with, the ritual went as smoothly as Byrold could have hoped for. He had the pleasure of sitting on the platform and looking down upon Eldra scowling to herself in the front row. Her face turned a particular shade of deep red when Father Tred announced Byrold as the favored of the Church.

The ceremony didn’t require him to say more than a few words. He stood for a while whilst the Patriarch prayed for him, drank a sip of holy wine and recited the Master’s prayer. In doing so though, he started to make his mark on the city, and the people who were powerful enough to make a difference.

>

“Sire,” said Tarall, after the briefest of knocks on the door. “The mage delegation is here.”

Byrold, put down a cup of wine. He was resting in the guest chambers in the Great Chapel. The ceremony was finished, his first objective complete. “Show him in,” he said.

“Her,” said a new voice.

He stood and turned to meet the speaker, raising an eyebrow as he did so.

“Mage Sylverna,” said the slim figure, bowing slightly.

The prince cocked his head. “Unless I am unaware of a new mage policy, I strongly doubt you are my new Court wizard,” he said.

“You are prejudiced against women my lord?” Asked Sylverna.

“No, of course not. However, you can barely be my age, to reach the height of the magic profession, and by implication, to be eligible for the post of court magician, takes, ah… more than a few years.”

The young woman smiled and bowed again. She was wearing wizard’s robes, though now Byrold looked further, they were a lot plainer than a mage would usually wear. “You are correct of course your highness. I am but Mazel’s assistant. A talented apprentice at best. Master Wizard Mazel is examining the hand, as per your request. He needs to see it before it ages too much.”

Byrold nodded. “It may already be too late. Where did you study? I don’t remember seeing you at the academy.”

“I have been cloistered with Master Mazel and some of the other senior staff for special classes.” She shrugged and smiled apologetically.

“Indeed.” Byrold raised an eyebrow. Only the most talented of wizards were put forward for such training. She may be young, but he would wager she was good. “And this is some field training I take it?”

Sylverna nodded and was about to say something further when there was another knock on the door, and Hark entered.

“Sire,” he said. “There is an envoy from Etherial at the palace. They wish to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

“The elves? What could they want I wonder.” He finished his wine in a gulp and turned back to Sylverna. “My apologies, I must return to the palace. Please tell your master I welcome him, and look forward to meeting him in person.”

“Sire, I should accompany you. Until my master has time to place wards over you, you are vulnerable to magic attack.”

Byrold thought it over. “See your master first,” he said. “Then follow us to the palace. I doubt twenty minutes will make a difference.”

Sylverna bowed, and the prince and weapons-master strode out of the room together.

“I need your military assessment at some point soon Hark,” Byrold said.

Hark grunted. “We should take the carriage back to the palace, I can brief you on the way.”

They walked briskly through the Chapel, pausing only for the prince to say farewell to the Patriarch, and to thank him for his support.

“It is nothing more than my duty,” responded Father Tred evenly.

Hark and Byrold moved on into the courtyard, and climbed aboard the carriage. They set off with mounted guards ahead and behind.

“Now, what are our neighbors up to?” asked Byrold, once they were on the road, and their voices were masked by the sounds of the streets.

“Generally quiet sire,” responded Hark. “To the south our spies report Swarm tribes have been particularly active along the Gerwain border in recent months. The Gerwainian Knights have met them in several engagements, successfully driving them off with relatively few casualties on both sides. The Swarm tends to run when the odds are not overwhelming.”

Byrold stroked his chin. “Such raids are to our benefit. They keep Emperor Keldric and his knights busy.”

“Indeed, anything that diverts his attention away from conquest of other lands is to be applauded.”

“Unless there is any real danger of the Swarm overrunning them? Such an event could pose more danger to us than Keldric does, he at least has a modicum of reason.”

“I believe such an event is unlikely, as long as the Knights of Gerwain remain strong. The worst case scenario would be a war between Gerwain and Karak which left both depleted and weak, an opportunity the Swarm is likely to take immediate advantage of.”

“As could we, under the pretense of defending against them, if nothing else,” said Byrold, thinking aloud.

“Indeed sire.”

“Could we ah... encourage such as situation?” Mulled Byrold, drumming his fingers on his knee.

“Such an act would not be without risk, should are machinations be discovered it would mean certain war, possibly with both countries. Though of course Karak does not border us, and the Emperor Keldric would hardly allow an enemy army across his land.” He paused. “There is something else. I have information, unconfirmed, that Keldric has sent an envoy into Karak, proposing an alliance. I have no idea what Emperor Erebus has said to such an idea.”

“Interesting. Keep a close eye on that situation. An alliance between those two would be dangerous indeed. Now, how about the dwarves?”

“The lands of Grum are as quiet as ever. The dwarves keep to themselves. Our intelligence shows that Neil-so still considers their territory to be a target, but the mountains make a formidable barrier, and the dwarves are tough buggers. They wouldn’t go down easily. Besides, who makes all the best weapons?”

Byrold laughed. “That is true.”

“Also Neil-so is still having problems in Farn, which it invaded two years ago. The locals there have organized themselves into freedom fighters, and they are causing the Tzar some headaches.”

“Keeps them busy then,” said the prince. “How about the west? The wizards are their usual selves I take it? I heard nothing of alarm when I was studying.”

“Yes, the Mordon High Chancellor sent his best regards the other day. I suspect they want to keep us on side incase this possible alliance between Gerwain and Karak goes forward. They border both countries, and a combined attack would be dangerous.”

“A worry. I shall speak to the Mordon ambassador and reassure him of our friendship. Perhaps remind Erebus and Keldric they are our allies as well.”

Hark nodded. Meanwhile the elves of Etherial have been their usual quiet selves, and of course nothing at all from Centic.”

Byrold sighed deeply as he assimilated this information, and the rest of the journey passed in relative silence.

>

The coach clattered over the drawbridge and into the palace courtyard. Byrold and Hark disembarked and entered the main building. The prince went straight to the Orange room, where the Elven ambassador was waiting.

“Prince,” the elf bowed as he entered, flowing green robes swirling about him.

“Ambassador, greetings and welcome to Uskk. It is a long time since I spoke with one from Etherial. All is well in your lands I trust?”

The elf nodded, pushing his long blond hair back idly as Byrold indicated he should take a seat. The elves were friendly to Yroth, and he wanted to keep it that way.

“I come with urgent news from Lord Rivenel himself.”

“Go on,” said Byrold.

“My Lord has recently obtained information that is highly alarming. Recently our border guards picked up a man crossing the Centic border. He was in bad shape, and he was able to impart little before he expired from various wounds. However, what he did say was deemed urgent enough for Lord Rivenel to send me to you at once.”

The elf paused and took a sip of wine that he had been served with earlier. Byrold leaned forward in anticipation, irritated at the delay.

“The man said that he had penetrated the Centic Capital, a strange alien place by all accounts, and discovered that the insects are amassing a huge army. They plan to ‘retake’ all the Fractured Lands for their race. They claim we ‘soft skins’ are interlopers that need to be driven off.”

Byrold’s face became stern. “Such news is not welcome. However, how sure are you of its veracity?”

The elf shrugged. “That is what my Lord is even now attempting to ascertain. We know nothing of this man, where he came from, or how he managed to penetrate Centic lands. Such a feat is near impossible.”

Byrold nodded in agreement. He knew that all efforts by his father to penetrate the northern border had met in failure. He stood up. “Ambassador, please relay to your Lord that Yroth will do anything it can to assist. I will speak with Marshal Ren to see about troops readiness to the north. My coronation is in two days, though I have barely had time to think on it yet. Once that is done there is the convocation of the Lands, and I hope to see Lord Rivenel there.”

The elf stood with Byrold and bowed. “It is a pleasure to speak with you Sire. I will convey your message with dispatch.”

The prince nodded, and the ambassador departed. Barely had he done so when there was a loud knock on the door, which opened to let in Hark and Tarall. They were followed closely by a tall man in wizards garb. Behind them, held securely between two burly guards, was Sterling, his face distraught.

“Sire!” said Hark. “I bring grave and distressing news!”

“What is the meaning of all this? Why is Sterling secure thus?”

The wizard stepped forward, his tall staff thumping on the ground. He performed a slight bow before speaking. “I am Master Wizard Mazel,” he said in a deep voice that practically rang with power. “I performed investigative magics upon the hand in the chapel, as requested by your good self. With what I learned from that, I was able to summon and direct a minion from the second realm to investigate further. It led me to this man.” He gestured at Sterling, who sagged.

“My Prince,” said Hark. “Sterling was behind your kidnap and our imprisonment last night. He is the traitor!”

Byrold turned to Sterling, who looked at the floor.

“Sterling! How can this be? How can a loyal servant perform such an act of treachery? Explain your actions at once!”

Sterling looked up. “I was acting in the interests of Yroth! This royal line is weakening our great nation. We are strong, we should be following the example of Grevor the Great and expanding! We have remained stagnant too long. The likes of Gerwain will jump at any weakness.”

“Bah, do away with the traitor sire,” said Hark, looking in disgust at the old man.

“Sire, I am truly sorry for my actions, I didn’t realize you were as strong as you are. If you give me another chance I will serve you, in the hope of a greater future for our nation.”

“Haw!” Hawk guffawed. “Trust you again? Not likely! Of with his head sire, after a session in the dungeons to see what information he has about others of his ilk.”

“What do you say Tarall?” asked Byrold.

“He may be useful to us alive prince, he knows more about the running of the country than anyone here, and he is a trusted person with certain key figures in the land.”

“Yes! Yes!” Said Sterling. “With my help I can assist you gain support. And I have information too, but only if you let me live!”

Byrold scowled. “You disappoint me Sterling. My father must be turning in his grave.” He stopped suddenly as a thought struck him. “My father! You were the one that killed him! Speak!”

“No! No sire! I swear, I had nothing to do with that! It was an accident as far as I could ascertain. I swear it I do!”

“He is lying! To the dungeons with him,” snarled Hark, hand on his sword. “A time with the Inquisitors will loosen his tongue.”

Byrold looked at his former advisor. “What was to be done with him?


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Finally then, another chapter.

What to do fellows? To the dungeons? A quick beheading? Something else? Comments and suggestions now being taken!

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