Fractured Realm (eBook)

Chapter II

‘Political power stems from the point of a sword.’

Praetor Lee Kirt

The resounding boom of Trent’s huge trumpets echoed throughout the city. The vibrations were of such magnitude that they shook loose a number of burgundy coloured tiles from slanted roofs of the lower, poorer buildings and made many inhabitants look around in silent, fearful shock. For the menacing, deep blasts had become a sign of impending doom, or ill-news from the war-front, during the last eight years. Today though the symphony was in a higher key, a glorious triumphant sound. There were no panicked screams from startled women and frightened youth’s. There was no mad dash, scrambling of the garrison to man the walls. The bright noise was the prelude to the arrival of so many loved ones, made absent by conflict. But for all the joy that swept through the cobbled streets, a swirling of sadness followed in its wake. Many would be returning home, however not all who had left would be coming back. A fact that many young mothers, clutching infant children, realised as they moved with franticly beating hearts towards the city’s main gates.

Simon and Piotr strode victoriously through the enormous emerald gateway of Trent, flower petals fell upon their heads as droves of citizens lined the streets, heaping cheers of praise upon the returning soldiers. Crying women darted through the column of men searching for husbands and sons, many found their loved ones and let the hot tears of their pent up worry cascade down upon their cheeks. But not all tears were of joy, as for every happy reunion, there was a sobering moment of solitude and grief for those whose search ended fruitlessly.

Simon and Piotr did not look for any loved ones, they had none. They did not know the names of their fathers and their mothers were faceless whores who had dropped their crying, naked infant forms upon the church steps, almost as soon as the umbilical cord was severed. The only warmth either man had felt had come at the cost of a silver coin.

‘Everywhere looks different,’ Piotr muttered disappointed.

‘What did you expect after more than eight years away, time waits for no man, little brother.’ Simon spoke lightly, yet his eyes betrayed his true feelings of sadness and emptiness. What now lay ahead for them? ‘Let us wait until we are excused and then we can venture into Old town and see if any of our old haunts are still open.’

‘As long as Fat Amy’s is still open I will be happy!’

Simon rolled his eyes, his brother in arms had the simplest and cheapest of tastes, ‘of all the brothels in Trent, why do you always insist upon Fat Amy’s? Her girls aren’t even that kind to the eye.’

‘Did you ever have a go with Sally Long?’ Piotr asked.

‘No, the only relationship I’ve ever had at Amy’s was with their ale.’ Simon grimaced, ‘and even that was bitter and unpleasant, like the women.’

‘Well, when we get there ask her for a Krygan special.’ Piotr’s eyes lit up at the memories.

‘Why?’ Simon looked confused and ready to be disgusted, his friend’s proclivities were towards the extreme.

‘Just do it and you can thank me later,’ Piotr said mischievously, his entire body seemed to shake and shiver.

Minister Thomas Fulkrug stood atop the cream marble stairs of the parliamentary building, his fellow ministers stood patiently on either side. All waited with varying personal degrees of delight or discontent, for the arrival of General Marcus Kerr. Word had reached the capital five days previously of the General’s victory. It had lifted a great weight from his shoulders and that of their government, though he knew some would be wary of the general’s future intent. He cast a glance to his right, smiling warmly to King Reinhardt IV as they locked eyes.

The steady beat of encroaching drums heralded the approach of General Marcus and his conquering forces. Thomas saw Marcus riding at the head of his army, fresh ugly scars and haggard lines of premature aging dotted the man’s face. Hardly surprising considering what the man had been through, the Minister kept these thoughts to himself. He was a far cry from the man that had left Trent nearly eight years ago. The General halted his men and swiftly dismounted his impressive warhorse, before ascending the stairs rapidly. Falling to his knee before the King, Marcus Kerr bowed his head in supplication.

‘King Reinhardt the IV, son of King Reichgard the II, Lord of the Grey Towers, Guardian of the Sceptre of Fargenwolf, Supreme General of the seven armies; I your servant Marcus Kerr have returned victorious, with the traitor Arshak in chains.’ At an unseen command, a group of knights marched to the fore of the Imperial army. The stripped and bound Arshak stood broken, his skin dry and cracked, his injured leg barely able to hold his weight. Murmurs and furtive movements emanated from the group of Ministers as they shuffled nervously. Thomas Fulkrug had surreptitiously moved to the very rear of the group, his head bowed. ‘I brought the traitor here to meet judgment at your Majesty’s hand.’

‘You have my deepest thanks General. You have granted me a chance to avenge my son’s death. Take him to the dungeon, his fate is already decided.’ King Reinhardt hissed out the words in anger and all eyes followed the traitor Arshak as he was pulled out of sight. His screams and oaths stifled by the greying rag, still stuffed deeply into his mouth.

‘Rise Marcus,’ Reinhardt commanded his voice stern and forceful, but with an edge of theatre and playfulness. ‘We all owe you a great debt of gratitude.’ The king gestured for Marcus to stand, a request he complied with immediately. ‘You have served your King and our people with great honour and courage. In recognition to your services, I grant you the title of Lord Protector of the realm and gift unto you one million gold crowns.’

Marcus felt the ground tilt, he thought he might swoon from such plaudits and praise and from such a handsome purse that were suddenly being heaped upon him. He could not deny that a part of him had always desired to be elevated into such high regard, the Lord Protector not only commanded all the armies in the King’s name, he also held the title of Senior Minister in the Parliament and had a right of veto over all parliamentary decisions, a powerful position indeed. A million gold crowns! This was indeed a King’s ransom.

But it did not feel right. He looked to his rear and saw his tired and weary men. So many of them smiled at their General’s good fortune. He saw those that had gone with him through the hardest of trials and most harrowing of tribulations. He could still see the dead, out of the corner of each eye, trailing backwards behind him, they lined up as silent and stoic, sentinels to his conscience. At his command they had fought and died and at his request he would see their loyalty rewarded.

‘My King,’ Marcus bowed his head and said in a solemn, respectful, clear voice that carried throughout the great square, ‘you do me great honour with your gifts, yet I must ask a favour of you.’ A stunned silence fell upon the scene, no one ever asked the King for a favour, unless the King offered and no offer had been made. King Reinhardt’s smile disappeared behind a scowl of anger. Minister Fulkrug and his harem of political hangers on looked about themselves nervously. The Kings guard tensed, awaiting their king’s reply.

‘Ask and see it granted,’ King Reinhart boomed, smashing the awkward cloud of silence that had descended. He knew Marcus would not be unreasonably.

‘I would ask that all the monies, so graciously given, be distributed amongst those who have followed me loyally for many years and fought so valiantly by my side. As well as a portion to be divided amongst the widows and orphans. This war has created many of both. They are the true heroes, my King.’ And Marcus found he meant every word, he wanted none of the gold, none of the plaudits. It was all utterly meaningless. He wanted to go home, but knew that he would have to endure a few more days in the viper’s nest of the court.

‘Such a noble gesture,’ Reinhardt boomed, clapping his might hands upon Marcus’s shoulders. ‘I will see it done, my dear General. If only all my subjects were as noble as you Marcus,’ the King shot a cold glance at his group of Ministers, causing a few among their number to shift uncomfortably. ‘Please follow me, I have prepared a feast for you and your noble captains.’

‘Can you believe what the General did?’ Piotr spluttered, spitting foamy ale onto the table he, Simon and a number of their compatriots occupied. Once General Marcus had dismissed them, they had sprinted towards Old Town, in search of ale and women. Not one soldier had found the need to purchase a drink, the citizens of Trent had piled their tables high with a seemingly endless supply of the amber nectar.

‘I can,’ Simon replied thoughtfully, ‘General Marcus is a very humble and generous man. Do you not recall at the battle of Drunlot, he helped tend to the wounded?’

‘He took an arrow out of my knee, but he is still a fool. If you ask me,’ Rikard drunkenly barked. ‘The King offers me that much coin, I’m keeping it all for myself.’ All the men seated at the table looked at the rogue with a mixture of hatred and contempt.

‘Good thing King Reinhardt did not give it to you then,’ Piotr stated flatly. He had fostered a strong dislike for Rikard, the man was a selfish, egotistical bastard and Piotr had hoped on many occasions that he would have fallen to an enemy’s...