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Prologue

“Heaven forbid these children be harmed!”
The priestess stared at the heavens above her and, eyeing the clouds, prayed for luck to pour down with the next rainfall. Regretfully, she traced the salty liquid that lined her aged cheeks with trembling hands. She closed her eyes, feeling the bitter sting of tears as the afterimage of the unfortunate children was engraved in the darkness of her eyelids.
She opened her eyes and disdainfully viewed the shabby appearance of the seemingly careless man who would be transporting the gloomy children to their new residence.
“Don’t ya worry fer a single sec ‘bout these menaces, madam,” he said, tapping his hat in a polite salute as he mounted the carriage. “They’ll be mighty fine.”
“These menaces will grow to become better men and women than your kind, I hope,” the priestess answered sneeringly. The man blushed as the children snickered, and he said nothing more whilst he climbed unto his seat behind the four strong horses who would pull the carriage, and the children with it, to its destination.
The old lady stepped back as the tattered man whipped the horses into motion. As soon as the carriage started moving, the children began to cry and wail and they clutched the bars that refrained them from running back to the warmth and safety of the Temple, where they had spent several months after the flood that killed their family members.
The priestess bowed her head in a feigned prayer to avoid heaving to look the children in their sorrowdul eyes, but when she saw the tracks the carriage left behind, she finally let her facade drop. Crying, she ran after the carriage and screamed, until the children were well out of sight: “Heaven forbid these children harm! Heaven forbid these children harm!”

The children, who now huddled together in an attempt to create solidarity and safety, let out little wails of anguish.
“Where are they taking us?” a 3-year-old sobbed.
“To an orphanage,” replied the oldest of the children.
“Where is it?”
“The priestess said it was near the Lake of Baldinde.”
The 3-year-old bowed her head. “Is it nice there?”
“I don’t know.”
“They’ll beat us with sticks,” cried a girl hysterically.
“Of course not,” replied the oldest, who quickly put his arms around the 3-year-old. “The priestess would never send us somewhere where they’ll beat us with sticks.”
They didn’t speak for some time after that. All one could hear was the steady rattling of the carriage, the pounding hoofs and the occasional sound of a whip.













Chapter I
Victoria aut mors.
Victory or death.

Dead silence. A few moments of serenity before the march. The northern wind blew softly and without noise, because there was little the wind could play with nearby.
The hills sloped gently op towards the foot of the cloffs, where many travelers (to whom the area was unknown) lost their lifes. Those cliffs were steep slopes, where few plants and trees could survive, yet infamous for their majesty at sundown, when even the roughest ridges looked miraculously beautiful, and harmless, as the light turned them a soft shade of gold.
Sundown it was, but none of those present in the valley which the cliffs oversaw were able to enjoy the sight of it.
The vultures, however, sat on the few branches that protruded from the unstable rocks and enjoyed the sight of hundreds of soldiers marching through the southern and northern passes, for it most definitely meant food. There, at those passes, the mountains met in a sturdy embrace, providing passages that were overseen by the King’s Citadel on top of the eastern cliffs.
With the sound of the vultures’ shrieks, which made every hair on the soldiers’ bodies rise, the warriors were welcomed to the infamous Citadel Valley.
Tales of heroic deeds and magnificent marches, but also tales of craven retreats, they all were tales that the locals told of when they told of Citadel Valley.
Being famous across the nation, even though the locals tell the tales of the earlier mentioned craven retreats, they also never forget to stress how it became so famous; it so happened to be that despite multiple attempts, the Valley has never been conquered – and neither has the Citadel.
For everything there is a reason, and therefore, there is also a reason why the Valley has never been conquered yet – it’s ideal location.
Citadel Valley was a piece of open grassland, completely surrounded by cliffs upon which could never hope to climb in a short time, only accessible through the two juxtaposed openings in the rock’s surface: the northern and southern pass. The northern, being used only by enemies of the Crown, was constantly guarded by one or two horsemen, who could see an army coming from several miles away. Then, they would gallop in full speed to the southern pass, make a left turn to the east and ride up a carefully hewn road, where the King’s army would be warned. Within ten minutes, all soldiers would be afoot and striding forth to meet those who dared to thwart the King and his autocracy.
This meant that the King’s army had enough time to take their positions in Citadel Valley. Usually, five soldiers would creep up to the northern pass, through which no more than three men could pass simultaneously. If that natural bottle-neck could not slow the enemy’s warriors down enough, the five soldiers would, through any means possible.
In this way, the King’s army could occupy most of the Valley even before the enemy could set foot in it, limiting their battle space.
Also, the Citadel was protected through various means, the most important being the double rows of untrespassable cliffs north of the fortress’ walls.
Furthermore, since the Citadel was built upon a mountain top, the King’s army would have a considerable advantage if the enemy, through any unprobable way, had been able to survive Citadel Valley. Fighting on a slope would wear the soldiers out, but offered relief for those further up the hill. If anyone would tumble down, he’d most certainly drag a few other men with him in his fall.
But, Citadel Valley has got one final advantage. War planes and catapults would never be used to aid the warriors afoot. It was too dangerous, the damage area being so far extended, that it would kill at least half of the own army. And thus the enemy wouldn’t use them.
A long story in short, Citadel Valley was unconquerable.
Today, warriors under the command of the Ice Regents had come to challenge the King’s army.
But this was no ordinary battle.
Some two weeks earlier, the Regents from the northern Ice Community had sent word that they were not inclined to cooperate in a unification of all Communities.
Standard procedure was to send one or more negotiators, since nearly all Communities had rejected the initial idea of a unification, afraid that their identity would be lost in the whole.
The unfortunate man who had been sent to come to terms with the Ice Regents never came back in one piece. He was decapitated, and his head was put in a woolen bag with a message stuffed in his mouth. Under no circumstances would the Ice Community be willing to cooperate.
And that meant war.
So, the Ice Army had come to settle the case. Being taught new strategies, they were confident in their abilities to withstand the King’s army.

And thus the armies stood facing one another. The sergeants shouted to the squadrons that they had to stop.
Only the sound of clanging spears and rattling armors disturbed the silence that covered the Valley like an unusually heavy cloak.
The sergeant majors of both armies rode their horses to the Valley’s dead center. The king’s sergeant major was dressed in a strong, leather armor and wore a magnificent purple cloak: the King’s colour.
The Ice’ sergeant major, on the contrary, was dressed in a sleeveless tunic with a very frail and lightweight hauberk underneath, even though it was midwinter. However, the Ice Community could withstand very cold weather and the lowest temperatures.

As the sergeant majors met, in the middle of the 20 feet that seperated the armies, the colourbearers, seated on swift horses, took the places of their leaders. In reverent awe for the courage with which the latter rode towards one another, shoulders back and chin high, they themselves felt their spine grow weak and their heads too heavy to lift. They were afraid.
Kai, the King’s colourbearer, was a strong, tall lad of a mere seventeen years old, who had been incorporated into training at the age of 15, because he was the King’s kin: a nephew. His long, blond hair obscured his vision lightly, as he tried to uncover the secrets the sergeant majors exchanged. Streaks of filth marked the skin beneath his tired eyes,which he had rubbed with gloves that were left uncleaned after the last practice.
His horse was shivering beneath his legs, not used to cold conditions. The winter had been extremely harsh to them. And yet, Kai mused, these soldiers from the Ice Army are dressed in summer clothing.
Then, the soldiers felt adrenaline rush through their bodies, as the King’s sergeant major had spoken loud enough for those in the back to hear what was being spoken of.
“You will get one last chance to turn away. If you do not, the King’s men will slaughter you. This is your final warning.”
The King’s men roared and Kai’s horse trampled the ground beneath him nervously.
“It is the final warning you have given, indeed,” said the Ice leader. “You will succumb to the Ice Community’s grandeur!”
“You have sentenced you and your men to death,” said the King’s leader. He raised his hand in a salute. “May the Lake of Souls accept you in its waters.”
The Ice leader said nothing more, and turned his horse.
Silently, both men rode back to their own armies, whom were waiting for instructions. The king’s sergeant major Carmeth had just spored his horse to make haste, when he heard something, like a soft whistle. He pulled the reins. Just as he was about to turn around, to see where the sound was coming from, a single arrow pierced his upper arm.
Carmeth screamed, the King’s army roared. A second arrow was soaring through the air, but he was able to lift his shield in time, and he heard metal hitting metal. He yelled a single command to the army.
“Charge!”
Instantly, the army responded, and marched forward, their shields held high, interlocking, forming a metal wall behind which the first five rows of men were safe from the hundreds of arrows that were soaring through the sky.
Kai had responded even before Carmeth had fully shouted his command, and left the rest of the army well behind him. Just several meters in front of him, the two sergeant majors were about to collide head-on in a fierce battle of life and death. The very second before the first clash of metal on metal – the arrows had stopped, since the armies had gotten to close to each other, and the bowmen were making haste to reach the higher cliffs – it was dead silent in Kai’s head.
Dead silence.
With the blink of an eye, the first clang echoed through the air. Kai was lost in the violence, the only indication of his presence by the purple banner he wielded.
The battle would soon be known throughout the nations as the King’s First Ice Battle.


























Chapter 2
Media vita in morte sumus.
In the midst of our lifes, we die.

The King proceeded through his usual duties in battle. Nevertheless, he found himself intrigued by every aspect of warfare. One of the reasons why many nations had declined his offer for unification. Most of them were afraid of his autocracy; dictatorship always lured around the corner.
At this specific time, the King was going through the finances of the war, when a messenger entered the room and bowed. “My Lord.”
The King answered: “Proceed.”
The messenger, who was a tall, slender, black-haired man with roots in the Desert nation, and therefore dark-toned and dressed in a warm, woollen cloak, lined with the fur of a bear, straightened his spine, pulled his shoulders back and spoke the words the King had been waiting for. “I have received the latest news on the battle in the Valley.”
The King leaned forward in his chair, and dismissed his financial advisor before he made a polite gesture to encourage the messenger to elaborate on his message.
The messenger, who went by the name of Issil, nodded and frowned as is he was thinking carefully, and after a few seconds, finally organized his mind and took a breath to start his story.
“The Ice Army surprised us by bringing bowmen, whom no other enemy has ever dared to send to the Valley, because of the risk. But these bowmen were extensively trained, perhaps even beyond the bowmen’s Third Degree. They strike with deadly precision and their accuracy is amazing.”
The King frowned upon the messenger’s choice of words, and the messenger quickly restored himself.
“But still it remained an act of cowarcy. Fortunately, the sun was setting, and it was soon becoming darker. The bowmen could not see anymore and those who had not fallen off, ceased their shooting.”
“How many men were lost to the arrows?”
“Twenty-six, my Lord.”
The King sighed deeply. “Continue.”
The messenger nodded. “After that, the Ice men were quickly cornered on the northwestern Valley hill. According to the latest information, the men are rounding up the battle.”
“When is the body count?”
“The first dead will be here within ten minutes.”
“Very well,” said the King with a crease between his brows, which dominated his crow’s legs, in the corners of his eyes, due to his frequent laughter. He waved his hand, dismissing the messenger, who bowed reverently and took his leave.
The King was stricken with grief over the visions of crying widows, who would soon be standing at his feet, always with one single question: “Why?”
The King never knew why. All he knew was that men died in battle, and that some died too young, and that some died unfairly. Men died, and there was nothing that could be done about it.
But the King, a wise man, felt as if he was dead himself, very frequently. The crease between his brows grew deeper as he thought about his unfortunate fate. At his birth, the Gods had burdened him with infertility. The people started to whisper, as the King was reaching his thirties and still had no successor.
But the people always whispered about issues that were never meant to be reaching their ears, nor should it leave their tongues. But, naturally, what was a secret, was always widely known throughout the Kingdom.
The King dreaded the task to come. Body count. The Valley would be cleared of bodies, and the Ice’ men would be laid to rest on a stone platform, on which branches were neatly assembled into a circular shape, drenched in kerosine. The circular shape resembled the Lake of Souls. The stench of the inflammable liquid and the bodies were hardly bearable, so, therefore, the burning site was situated about 50 feet above the Citadel. If smoke arose from the mountains, the surrounding cities would once more be remembered of the King’s power.
The King’s men would each be individually granted the Final Blessing by the High Priest or Priestess, and it was the King’s task to survey that the bodies were balsemed properly for their final journey to Shell Sea, where the bodies would be laid on a burial boat. The boat would be set on fire, and pushed into the current. Common belief was that liberating the soul from the body was done fasted by burning, and that it brought the soul good fortune if it was burned on water, since it would be departing to the Lake of Souls.
Weighing his dagger in his hands, the King thought about the last time he had felt cold steel slash his skin. He had been twenty years and a day old and was sent overseas by his late father, who, at the time, was an honorable and respected King. Due for duty only the next day, he convinced the captain of the White Myst to make port in Gryllun, a dock that was assigned by the King to hold excess stock and meanwhile provided a safe haven for sailors on their way to Hassit, the Desert Community’s main port, before passing through the Gulf of Lyssandil.

The young Prince, standing on deck while the White Myst was being secured to the dock, looked out across the waters and, shifting his view slightly to the right, saw the first of many whirlpools that characterised the Gulf. It took an experienced sailor to come out of it with the boat still intact.
He heard the captain approach, his wooden soals producing a hollow sound as they touched the wooden surface of the deck. For the sake of dramatic effect, the Prince did not turn towards the captain, but stared out over the waves.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” The raw voice, roughened by frequent attempts to outroar the wind, was remarkably soft when he spoke of the vast waters he motioned to.
“Indeed, she is,” the young Prince replied.
The captain stood next to him, streaking across the wooden beams with fingertips that were toughened by hard work. “The sea has always been my only love.”
“No women could ever satisfy your lusts?” smirked the Prince.
“Oh, plenty of women satisfied me,” replied the captain, “but I don’t want satisfaction. I’ll grow tired of it, and it kills my lust. No, the sea always made me long for more, and no woman could ever offer me that.”
“I admire that,” the Prince sighed and added, laughing: “but I’d much rather spill my love in women than on the sea.”
“You’re young and idealistic. You’ll learn that life is harsher for you than anyone else could ever be.”
“Ever is a very long time. We’ll see.”
They remained silent for a few seconds, watching over the gentle waves.
“The Gulf of Lyssandil.” The Prince cautiously brought up the subject he wished o speak about with the captain, for it had worried him and motivated him to stop before they’d cross it. “Is it as dangerous as the sailors claim it is?”
“Yup,” said the captain. “It’s one barking mad sailor that dares to thwart its raging waters.” The captain leaned in towards the Prince and lowered his voice in a whisper. “They say that the spirit of Lyssandil himself roams these waters.”
The Prince, in turn, pouted his lips and pulled the crease between his brows as he struggled to remember what his history teacher had told him about the story.
“With what ship?” he asked, mockingly.
The captain opened and closed his mouth several times, but remained silent.
“Legends and lore have no ground,” said the Prince.
“Maybe, young Lord,” replied the captain, “but one can’t be too careful. If Lyssandil decides to burden our journey with his curse, our passage through the Gulf will become infinitely more difficult.
“Im too old for fairytales, captain,” smirked the Prince.
“Lyssandil, the ancient hero, will most certainly be displeased with ignorance towards him. He swam across these waters, all alone, desperately trying to reach he Desert Community after his exile from the King’s Castle. If you be the one to conjure this wrath, I’ll be happy to see you swim these waters.”
“Careful with the words you speak, captain,” the Prince replied angrily, “Even still, I do not cling to fool’s stories.”
“It’s a fool who ignores them, Roderic.”
Young Roderic spun on his heel and struck the captain with a fist. The poor man stumbled and fell backwards, tripping over a loose piece of wood.
“You will not speak to Royalty in that tone!” Roderic roared.
The captain, who lay on the ground, sputtered random sentences before he managed to sit up and say: “You are hardly more Royal than my mother’s teeth!”
Roderic, who was already angered, put his feet wide apart and threw his head back, with his chin high in the air, while looking down upon the miserable man that was clearly inferior to him. He was enraged, but still spoke with a soft voice, though with a tone that implied total power over the man: “I’ll have you locked up for this.”
“Your father wouldn’t. If only he could see you now. The mighty Prince, losing his temper.”
Roderic could not control himself anymore, he grabbed the captain by the front of his hauberk, and screamed in his face, with the necessary consumption: “He would have you decapitated for speaking to me in such proposterous tone. Know your place, man!”
And with those words, Roderic threw the captain back on the ground and stormed away.
That night, while the prince was half asleep, the captain sneaked up to the foot of Roderic’s bed and drew a short dagger.
Roderic, who had woken up from the high-pitched sound of the dagger’s blade brushing against the iron-brimmed sheath, quickly rolled out of the old stretcher he’d been sleeping in, but was not swift enough for the captain’s miraculous fast movements. That’s when King Roderic had last felt the cold steel of a blade slash his skin.
The wound had taken a month to heal and the captain was deserted on an island. The King never served duty again from that day onwards.

Walking the great halls of the Citadel, the King refused to acknowledge the angst he felt about battle since that day. Sometimes he thought a part of him had died that day.
Recognizing the depression he conjured over himself, Roderic spoke strictly to himself. A King must be a King. Even though his days of glory were long gone.
So, as he waited for the servants to open the main doors for him, he straightened his shoulders and focused and the dreaded task that lied ahead of him.
“The King is here!”
“Bring the soldiers’ registry!”
“Clear the way!”
“Take your places!”
“Mind yourself!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Move the dead into position!”
“Make sure the number tags are visible!”
“Stand straight!”
“Make way!”
“Good day, my King.”
The King stared at the man that just spoke to him. “A day like this is never good, soldier.”
“Yes, my King.”
“My Lord?” Sergeant major Carmeth saluted.
“Carmeth!” Roderic exclaimed.
Carmeth bowed.
“No formalities today, Carmeth. It is improper to honor a man who has not fought with the men who have closed their eyes in their final sleep.”
“Yes, my King.”
“And do call me Roderic, Carmeth. You and I are friends.”
Carmeth touched Roderic’s arm and gently motioned him towards the doctor, who was waiting for his sign to start the examination of the dead. A servant of the palace stood beside him, his eyes sorrowful, his heart heavy and his expression grim. He stood with a heavy stack of leather-bound books in his trembling hands.
Roderic nodded at the doctor, initially ignoring the servant.
“Proceed,” he said.
The doctor nodded and proceeded to his work. The dead lay in a row, white cloths covering them. The doctor lifted each cloth to examine for wounds and possible cause of death, checked their arms for their registration code and ordered the servant to note down the names of every man, whom the servant could find in the leather-bound books he carried.
It was administrative work. The registration numbers of the dead men would be marked with a cross. After word had been sent to the family, the numbers would be stained with ink until it was illegible. In the King’s archive rooms stood the Black Books, the books in which every single number was stained. Roderic saved them for reasons he did not understand himself.
Half an hour into this process, the doctor lifted the white cloth from the body of one of the youngest men Roderic had seen among the dead so far. The servant recognized him. He let out a wail of anguish and dropped the book unto the ground. He kneeled at the head of the dead man and shook with tears. Gently, as if he were afraid to bruise the dead man, he kissed him on his forehead and looked at him through his tears.
His body was covered in dirt, an arm was ripped off – it lay next to him – and his head showed a deep ound that ran from the corner of his mouth to his temple. He was wounded almost beyond recognition.
“You know this man?” Roderic asked the servant.
The servant stumbled, and spoke reluctantly: “He was my brother, my King.”
Roderic sighed, and kneeled besides the crying servant. “What was his name?”
“Kai, my King. He was the flagbearer.”
“Listen,” Roderic said, pulling the cloth back over the body. “Your brother died an honorable death as flagbearer. The Lake of Souls will brighten at his entrance.”
The servant weeped.
“But you must remember that we all will one day enter the Lake of Souls.” Roderic closed his eyes. “In war, men die. And even if war did not exist…” he searched for the right words, and found them in a memory of his Latin teacher when he was a young boy.
“Media vita in morte sumus.”
“In the midst of our lives, we die,” the servant translated.
“You know Latin?” Roderic was shocked.
“I learned it at a rich family where I spent three years as an orphan, my King.”
“You both were orphans?”
“Our parents died in the Great Flood.”
Roderic smiled. He was a clever boy. But it was with deep sorrow that he took the servant in a strong embrace, for he knew that sometime earlier in his life, he had already died.






































Chapter 3
De fidel.
With faithfulness.

It was with silent remorse that Carmeth strode through the Citadel’s halls, for one of his best friends had died in battle some days before. And by the looks of things, the officially declared war between the King and the Ice Regents was far from over.
Lookout posts throughout the Kingdom had signalled the arrival of a new army, twice as large. Yet, what was more alarming was what they brought with them, in heavily enforced iron cages through which only the giants of the Ancient Times could break through. They contained Tundra Lions, infamous for their sabre teeth and nails, hardened by the ice. Encountering them meant an almost certain death.
Carmeth held back to speak to one of the women in service of the King. He required a few things in his chambers. Quills and paper, wax and the official stamp of the King’s army. It was his duty, as sergeant major, to sign a letter of apology to each of the grieving families who had lost a father, brother, son, or in some cases, a grandfather.
Having spent most of his life in the army, Carmeth had toughened up in the outside. He had learned to cope with death.
Death, he mused, is like a flower. A baby, or even a child, can find itself baffled by its shape, color or any other aspect. But when a human grows, he notices the presence of it less than he used to. It becomes almost mundane.
A flower, covered by an untimely frost. That was death. The fading away of beautiful things in an unwanted state of being.
Carmeth turned to the window and looked over the hills below him. The King’s Castle, located besides the Royal Lake, looked as if it were attacked by ants. Today, the King was keeping open auditions and he would speak publicly to anyone wishing to speak the King personally.
It was no wonder, of course, that it would become a busy day for the King. Many next of kin would come to complain about the loss of a family member. Therefore, it was no wonder either, that security had been raised to maximum level. It would not be the first time that the King is threatened with death.
Carmeth stared out over the lake and silently acknowledged his morbid wish to join his lost friends of the Army in the Lake of Souls. But he would not. An act such as suicide would only prove him incapable of dealing, and that was unforgivable in his eyes.
Such grave thoughts Carmeth had. He opened the window and slowly, deliberately breathed the fresh air. For a while, he rested with his arms upon the window and gently leaned forward. Beneath him, he suddenly saw, was a young man, sitting on the balcony of the servant’s chambers.
He looked down upon the man – no, rather a boy, Carmeth thought – and figured he should go and keep him company. So, he walked down the stone stairs and opened the doors that secluded the servants’ wing from the rest of the Citadel.

Down at the Castle, the King prepared himself in the Royal Chambers. A servant had just finished securing his shoe buckle and he stepped in front of the mirror to view himself.
Two blue eyes stared back at him from underneath a showerfall of brown curls which were turning grey at his temples. His freshly shaven face did not conceal the dark stains beneath his eyes, nor did it conceal the reluctance with which he smiled at himself.
His eyes slid past the cravat, adorned with a golden pin that was given to him by his late mother, past his darkblue tunic, finely woven by the best of his craftwomen, subtly decorated with white embroidery. The sleeves widened when they neared the wrist, but were bound together just above it, so the fabric wrinkled, creating slightly more volume in his arms. His own muscles had shrunk over the years, due to lack in physical exercise.
He wore beige trousers, secured in the waist by a goldbuckled belt, tucked into his ankle-high leather boots. From the same fabric as the trousers were made from, his servants had customly designed a gilet. The total picture was quite informal, but that air was reduced by the presence of his crown, forged from gold and titanium that both derived from the mines in the south, emblazed with the Royal Mark and adorned with a single diamond that rested just below the Mark.
King Roderic was a man of more than average height, but who was often cast from his alleged position as pivot by various men that, he admitted it, exceeded him by far in courage as well as appearance.
It dawned on him, as it did every day, that the impression he leaves on people is one of past glory.
Roderic made way towards the Throne Hall, casually throwing the Royal cloak over his shoulders, securing it with a loose knot in the strings, and grabbed the Royal Sceptre and Crown, the latter of which he carefully fitted on his head.
In the Throne Hall the crowd that gathered to wait for the arrival of the King grew, standing impatiently in line, but polite enough not to start a quarrel. More than half of those present came to complain about the war and the losses they’ve suffered. The others were primarily there to put in complaints on the Kingdom’s malfunctioning distribution system, inevitably related to the horrible state of the country’s infrastructure.
The people that gathered were mostly men, apart from the usual exceptions: young women who wished to be part of the King’s household. Word had it that the king could get you a high position, or even a marriage, somewhere in the Kingdom.
Unwashed men that reminded of vicious droopy-eyed pups filled the corners of the great Hall, feeling rather out of place as poor workers beneath a handpainted ceiling. Said roof was especially designed by the best painters in the whole Kingdom. It wasn’t a surprise that these painters had their residence somewhere near the King’s Castle.
Subsequently, the prizes of land that directly surrounded the King’s Castle were highly favored among the general public and therefore, prizes were outrageous.
Finally, after an hour’s worth of wasted time waiting for the arrival of the King, the doors of the Throne Hall opened, and the restless crowd let out a joint sigh that reflected both heir anxiety and relief. Some men rubbed their calves that burned with pain, and shifted their weight continuously, occasionally standing on their toes and stretching their necks in an attempt to see past the crowd and catch a glimpse of the King.
Roderic walked the thirty metres from the door to the Royal Throne with long strides, head lifted high, his shoulders back. An air of authority radiated from his walk, but his eyes betrayed his depression by the lack of that gleam that Kings before him always bore.
He slowle ascended the five steps to his throne and sat down on the cushion that lay on the marble, decorated with gold, copper and silver. Quite contrary to the expectations, the King faded to the background in that chair, as if he was an unimportant figure in a huge portrait by one of his beloved painters. He lacked radiance, yet nobody dared to challenge him.
Binten stood at the bottom of the stairs, left of the King. He brushed back his sleak, blonde hair, which was just too long for a man of his caliber, but he did not care much for appearances. He was the King’s personal guard. That was his official job description, at least. But his work extended much further than the mere protection of the King. Many didn’t know, but he was the spokesperson in every meeting similar to this one, since the King was often reluctant to speak in public.
Binten did not know why, and he didn’t ask questions, but he had his own theories as to why Roderic would not speak in public. A few years earlier, when Binten had first gotten the job, Roderic had refused to speak as well and even though he hadn’t heard the details, rumor was that the King had done or said something that the Council had disapproved of. Therefore it seemed best at the time that the King’s guard would be spokesperson until the King had gathered himself together again.
As it seemed, that day was yet to come.
Binten said to himself, happy that the King could not read his thoughts, he seems incapable of ruling.