The Bringer of War

King Drakken swept past the laconic guards standing outside his door, startling them out of complacency. They had to break into a trot to catch up to him, armor clanking all the way. Drakken appeared not to notice their tardy response, as his eyes seemed to be peering at something much farther away than the dank gray stone of the floor.

He hastily dashed down the stairs, spry as a teenager. The king was hardly breathing hard when he arrived on the first floor of the castle, while his entourage gasped and sweated under their metal armor. Drakken banged his fist hard against the stout oak door of Roland’s office. The chubby little man swung the door open a moment later, eyes flashing with anger. The color and rage drained from his face as he realized the identity of his rude visitor.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing with his head and neck. “What brings you to my door?”

The king reached within his gold brocade doublet and extracted a rolled up parchment. Without ceremony he slapped it hard against Roland’s less than masculine chest.

“My King?” said Roland, unrolling the missive to read it. He looked back to Drakken with confusion.

“The faerie have struck,” he said. “The scouts we sent to the Blood wood have never returned.”

“Sire,” said Roland “there is no evidence that the faerie were involved. Perhaps a bear, or brigands, or even a drag-”

“It was the faerie,” said Drakken with vehemence. “We must send a legion to the Blood Wood to quell this threat.”

“Forgive me, your Majesty,” said Roland, swallowing hard “but our army is already spread thin as it is! Between guarding the border with Breslin, tracking down those rebels in the south, and dealing with what seems to be an epidemic of dragons springing up all over the kingdom, we simply do not have enough men!”

Drakken chewed his lip, eyes lost in thought. He pushed past Roland and shut the door tightly. His raised his eyebrows at the seneschal in an unspoken question.

“Aye,” said Roland “the enchantments that prevent sound from escaping the chamber are still intact.”

“Excellent,” said Drakken, absent-mindedly picking up a coin from Roland’s desk and examining his likeness upon it. He frowned a bit, turning it over and over in his fingers. “Who was the artist who provided the master mold for the new coin?”

“Ah, I would have to check my records, Majesty,” said Roland.

“Never mind for now,” said Drakken as Roland hastily began digging through his numerous sheaf of paper. “I need you to draw up a royal missive. We are going to re-instate the conscription.”

“You, you wish to begin a draft, Majesty?” said Roland, blinking in confusion. “But many of the nobles have already given troops, weapons, even sons for the army. I do not think they will take kindly to conscription.”

“Not the nobles, you dolt,” said Drakken angrily “we will conscript the lower classes. They are often complaining they don’t have enough to eat. Soldiers for the king are fed three times per day-”

“Actually, sire,” said Roland with a polite cough “we have made certain...cutbacks due to rising costs. The soldiers are now fed twice a day.”

“Has that helped?” said Drakken with genuine interest.

“Indeed,” said Roland, bobbing his head eagerly “costs have fallen by nearly eight percent.”

“A wise decision,” said Drakken “and so is this. The thing about revolts, is they need manpower. We will sap the rebellion like a leech, until it collapses. Write up the missive. See to it that it is enacted immediately. I suggest you begin with the Gray quarter.”

“Beggars and thieves make poor soldiers, your majesty,” said Roland.

“Yes,” said Drakken with a smile that was somehow more unsettling than his earlier glower “but they will fill up a coffin as readily as anyone. The dead cannot revolt.”

“Of course, your majesty,” said Roland, bowing deep. He held the pose until he heard Drakken swing the heavy door open. The guards snapped at attention and followed the King as he walked with a much more relaxed stride.

“Never cross a Dragon,” said Roland, repeating an old proverb “or, it seems, a Drakken!”

** *

Lord Mannix sat in a comfortable chair in his ballroom, sitting behind an opulently carved wooden table. An embossed pattern of leaves ran around the sides of the tabletop, carved so delicately that but for their color they could have been shaking in the wind on a branch. The four stout legs had been designed to resemble tree trunks, complete with a bark striation. Mannix thought the chair might be a touch too comfortable; He was having trouble keeping his eyes open as yet another man strode forward, leaving a group that was milling about outside his front door.

The man was thin and wiry, his hair done up in a foppish style that the lord thought would have looked better on a woman. He was dressed in a glittering suit of mail which looked much more at home on a stage than on a warrior. A scabbarded sword was at his side, the pommel decorated with a large jewel.

“Greetings, Lord Mannix,” said the man in a voice that was barely an octave away from being a girl’s. “I am lordling Lant, second son of Lord Lant. It would please me greatly if you would do me the honor of accepting my humble application to be your First Sword.”

Mannix nodded politely through the rehearsed speech, having heard a dozen different variations on it already that day. He peered past Lant, noting that the sun was just reaching its zenith.

“And what qualifications do you bring, my good Lordling Lant?” said Mannix, unable to keep a bit of sarcasm out of his voice.

Lant grinned, folded his arms over his chest and began to extoll his own virtues with gusto.

“I was trained by the legendary duelist Harvell, and he oft said that there was no one he had ever taught who was as graceful as I with a blade!” he said. “I have served as advisor to my older brother as he campaigned against the Bresliners during the recent unrest. I am a master of tactics and strategy-”

Lant frowned as Mannix burst out laughing.

“Did I say something to amuse you, my Lord?” said Lant with a scowl.

“Yes,” said Mannix, wiping a tear from the edge of his eye “several things, in fact. For one thing, I have a hard time believing that your pretty little hands have ever been so much as nicked during an intense practice session. You are hardly old enough to have mastered stroking your own manhood, let alone something as complicated as military strategy.”

“Do you doubt my mettle?” said Lant, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Yes,” said Mannix, leaning forward and putting his chin in his hand. “Yes, I rather do.”

“Would you care to challenge me, sir?” said Lant, gesturing towards the front doors. “We could duel out in front of your fine manor.”

Mannix laughed again, but this time there was an edge to it. His eyes glittered as he spoke again to the boy.

“I have no desire to snuff out a candle that has only just been lit,” he said.

“Then to the first blood, then,” said Lant “or with blunted swords, if your old knees are beginning to knock.”

Lord Mannix rose to his feet slowly, brushing out a few wrinkles from his dark green vest. He smiled at Lant, gestured towards the exit.

“Shall we?” he said.

** *

“Father,” said Kate, coming out into the sunlight from the manor. She was dressed in trousers, the knees muddy from working in her garden. A wide brimmed hat atop her head made her appear almost as a peasant. “What is going on? Who are all these men?”

She indicated the mass of humanity over twenty strong that was lined up outside their manor. Mannix glanced up from his inspection of his sword and smiled.

“These are men who wish to replace Davros as First Sword,” he said.

Kate frowned, her eyes narrowing.

“I never understood why you cast him out in the first place,” said Kate “I had thought the two of you fast friends.”

“He insulted me,” said Mannix stiffly “and I am not to be berated by my own flesh and blood about a decision I made many moons ago.”

Kate opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and stared profoundly at her father as he checked the edge of his blade.

“Why do you have your sword?” she said, alarm growing in her voice. When she glanced at Lordling Lant, swinging his own blade through a few warm up routines, her expression fell. “Oh, father, really? A duel at your age?”

“There’s life in the old boy yet,” said Mannix, winking at her. “Besides, it has been long since I put Lucille through her paces.”

He held the sword out for her own inspection. She had always been impressed with the sight, for it was a rare blade indeed. Nearly three feet long, the single edged blade was slightly curved. The unsharpened edge was a bit thicker, designed to absorb impacts from the heavier double edged swords favored by many. Dark striations within the metal indicated that it had been treated with Bestas, a chemical the Templars used to prevent draconic acid from searing the metal. A basket style hilt, elegant yet functional, protected the wielder’s had, while a soft leather wrapping (rumored to be dragonhide) could soak up the sweat from Mannix’s palm, keeping his grip sure. The pommel at the bottom was carved to resemble a noble lady with whom the lord had been infatuated with in his youth.

“Lord Mannix,” said Lant tauntingly “I have not had the pleasure of meeting your son yet. Is your daughter about perhaps, to make the introductions?” He laughed hard at his own joke, while Kate’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you going to make him bleed?” she said under her breath.

“Without a doubt,” said Lord Mannix.

He strode across the smooth cobblestones until he was ten paces from Lant. The men saluted each other, the lordling with an arrogant smirk.

Scorning the mediator’s order to begin, they stood facing each other for a long moment. Lant began to circle to his left, his own light blade pointing at Mannix’s midsection. The Lord smiled, turning slightly on his heel so the boy would not flank him.

“Regretting your boasts, whelp?” he said with a grin.

“No idle boasts fall from my lips, old man,” said Lant. Suddenly, his blade was flashing forward. His attack was not unskilled, but Mannix parried it easily with only a slight turn of his wrist. Lant’s blade was thrown out wide, and his eyes grew wider still. Though he could have easily rushed into the opening and landed a precise blow, Mannix did not go on the offensive.

Mistaking his hesitation for fear, Lant launched himself into a frenzy, first attacking high at Mannix’s head, then aiming for his chest. The lord stopped each assault with a ringing of steel. He gave a small amount of ground as Lant pressed his assumed advantage. A line of spittle dripped from the boy’s mouth as he eagerly dashed inside a perceived opening in Mannix’s defenses.

Kate shook her head, barely able to see what happened next. Lant’s blade seemed to be heading unerringly for her father’s unarmored breast, but suddenly it was simply gone. A twist of the lord’s wrist sent the boy’s blade spinning from his grasp, to clatter uselessly on the stone.

“We...we agreed to first blood,” said Lant as Mannix leveled the point of Lucille at the man’s eye.

“Aye,” said Mannix with a frightful glower “but nothing was said of where I could draw blood.”

Lant gulped, shut his eyes tight as he prepared for the expected death blow. Mannix tossed his blade in the air, giving it enough spin so that it spun around in a circle. He caught it with adroitness that caused a murmur of appreciation from the gathered crowd, then used the basket hilt to smash Lant’s nose to the side. Blood streamed from his nostrils, staining his fine armor as the boy fell to his back. He blinked up in disbelief at the lord.

“Well fought, lordling Lant,” he said, offering the boy a hand up. “In twenty years, you may even have a hope of beating me.”

Lant slapped the hand away, struggling to his feet and snarling at the seconds who tried to help him. He stalked away stiffly without another word, as the gathered applicants raised their collective voice in praise of Mannix’s swordsmanship.

Kate smiled, gladdened by her father’s display. She sometimes thought that the only time he was truly happy was when Lucille was in his still strong hands.

“Your father’s skill is impressive,” said a man next to her. She turned to regard him, her eyes darting back and forth while her mind strove to remember his name.

“Lord...Quinn, was it?” she said politely, offering him a nod of her head.

“Quinn, yes, my lady,” he said “but lord no longer, I am afraid, thanks to my own cowardice.”

“Cowardice, Lo-Quinn?” she said slowly, narrowing her brown eyes.

“Aye,” said Quinn with a grin “that’s what they call it when you don’t send your men rushing into a nest of spears when there’s a better alternative.”

“I see,” said Kate, her lips drawing into a line. “Forgive me, but how is it you still have your head? Long has it been known that your family bears no love for the king...”

“Indeed,” said Quinn “but though I was stripped of land and title, the crown could not touch my other holdings, such as my shipping interests. I convinced his highness that my death would not prove to be....financially wise for him.”

“I see,” said Kate with a smile “it seems that his majesty’s mind is often on coin, these days.”

Quinn grinned back. He was about ten years younger than her father, not terribly tall but built thickly like an oxen. A black beard and mustache decorated his square jawed face, though it did bear more than a few streaks of gray. His pate was bald, but his handsomeness was not diminished as the flesh of his scalp was smooth and even. A brace of swords were at his sides, angled so he could draw them across his torso.

“I think that you clearly outdistance your competition,” said Kate, gesturing at the throng. “Some have seen too few winters, and the rest not nearly enough.”

“Not to mention the soft-footed lesser sons of noblemen,” he said.

“Not to mention,” she said with a laugh, her first heartfelt one in weeks.

“I do hope I don’t have to duel Lord Mannix as well,” said Quinn, indicating the man with a jut of his chin. “I am not entirely certain that I can defeat him.”

Kate chuckled, suddenly aware of him as a man. She looked down at her stained trousers and simple shirt, and her cheeks flushed.

“If you will excuse me, master Quinn,” said Kate “I am just come from my garden, and am in no state to receive visitors of your magnitude.”

“Bah,” said Quinn “I hardly noticed. It is not as if you need fancy gowns or jewelry to sparkle, my lady.”

Kate blushed, not able to meet his cheerful blue eyes.

“You flatter me, sir,” she said, walking towards the front door. Her father continued to accept congratulations from the applicants, some more fawning and obsequious than others. He was hard pressed to extricate himself from their conversational confinement, but did manage to smile and nod at her as she passed.

Kate nearly dashed up the stairs to her chambers, but forced her legs to move more slowly. Her nose detected the fragrance of lilac, which meant her serving girl had already drawn hot water for a bath. She stripped out of her worn gardening clothes and gingerly entered the water. It was just short of scalding, as she preferred. Dismissing the servant so she could luxuriate in the sudsy water, she closed her eyes and felt her muscles relax. When the last of the tightness had been banished from her calves and lower back, she leveraged herself out of the tub and toweled off.

She pulled the bell rope to summon her servants, who adroitly assisted her in getting dressed. Kate decided on a red satin gown with a sleek profile, the bustline a hair racier than her father approved of. A pair of shoes with a delicate, tapered heel clad her feet. The shoes had laces that went up to her ankles, and it took her servants several minutes to finish tying them securely.

Once she had added cosmetics and an ornate gold hair pin to hold her bangs out of her eyes, she walked down the shallow stairs to the first floor of the manor. She found her father speaking with Quinn, who was wrapped in his traveling cloak.

“Leaving us so soon, master Quinn?” she said with a warm smile.

“Regretfully,” he said, subtly running his blue eyes up and down her form. “My dear, you look even more stunning, which I had not thought possible.”

Lord Mannix hid a smile behind his hand as Kate’s cheeks flushed with red.

“Will you be taking the position of First Sword?” she said partly to draw attention away from herself.

“That decision is up to your father,” said Quinn, giving him a slight bow “and I will not put the Lord on the spot by asking him to make it this instant. Take care, my lord and lady.”

“Fare well,” said Lord Mannix, as Kate offered her hand to Quinn. He took it in his own and gave it a gentle kiss.

“Well,” said Lord Mannix, turning to regard his daughter “I know which of the applicants you would prefer.”

“Father, please,” said Kate with a pout.