Chapter 7:


    “Ah, yes, Lord Marillac, how was he?” the young king asked out of politeness.


    “He’s dead,” lied Anthanasius to see if the king listened. The members of the King’s court looked startled and either stared at Anthanasius who looked back and shook his head to show his test, or King Nigel to see his reaction. Several seconds passed before he answered.


    “Good, good, glad to hear. He’s always been a good friend.”


    A few more minutes passed at the high table before two of the king’s advisors asked Anthanasius to take a walk with them in the garden. He agreed and the three excused themselves.


    They arrived at the garden soon after and started walking slowly around the long path. Walking side by side with Anthanasius on the outside, the old friends bantered about nothing in particular until it slowly broke off.


    Taking the opportunity to change the subject to the real reason they wanted to talk to him alone, Boniface, the advisor closest to Anthanasius, breathed in audibly and began to speak.


    “You realize, of course, Anthanasius, that we asked you to join us here for a specific purpose, and you may even have guessed.”


    “I have some ideas,” he replied. He hadn’t spoken with Boniface much on the highroad.


    The second advisor, Cajetan, continued, “Well, you’re probably right. You know as well as anyone that King Nigel changed. I don’t mean the obvious ways, but even since you last left he seems more scared.” His voice shrunk to a hissed whisper as he went along and he leaned in so they could hear his words.


    His parent’s death last year troubled the entire kingdom as almost everyone loved the king and queen. An accident at sea proved harder for his subjects to reconcile than the king dying in a glorious battle. The people universally loved the young prince as well and he stepped into his new role as king out of manly necessity, handling the responsibilities well though still in his early twenties.


    Anthanasius kicked a stone in front of him in disgust and shot back, “We used to be friends and now he won’t even look at me; what have I done to him?”


    Boniface spoke again, using the same anxious whisper Cajetan finished with, “It’s not what you’ve done to him, but we think what he’s trying to do to you. Once you left—no, no, it’s not that way—” he said rapidly upon seeing Anthanasius’ face, “it’s just that once you left, and even before somewhat but mostly after, we think someone is threatening the king.”


    They stopped walking now and stood looking down at a chrysanthemum with insects stepping across the delicate petals on some blooms. Cajetan cut in and took over, “Not in huge ways, mind you, but cunning ways. Ideas and plans that seem brilliant at first thought, but are executed too hastily to be as effective as they could be.”


    Anthanasius started walking slowly and the king’s two advisors followed him, “Back to the King—what do you think he’s trying to do to me?”


    The two advisors with him looked at each other and finally Boniface spoke what they discussed privately for the weeks of his absense. “We believe someone is trying to have him kill you. We’ve been thinking it over and is it coincidence your last mission included as few men as it did? A coincidence he felt guilty to send you all on a mission he perhaps expected might cause your death? Another coincidence he took to his chambers the rest of the day after we learned of your safety at Echo Slope? The kingdom is weakening and we can’t blame all of it on the Shalmen invaders. We have no proof, but it seems Semias is the one facilitating the destruction. He spends more and more time with the king and as Cajetan said, whenever he makes a decision, it cunningly backfires.”


    “We grew up together,” Anthanasius said. “I don’t think he would try to kill me. Not even indirectly.”


    “What if someone threatened him?” Cajetan asked. “Is there any possibility he might? Any at all?”


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    Anthanasius kicked another rock off the path. He felt annoyed they asked him these questions. After all, he grew up with the former Prince Nigel. He spent time with the prince’s family through the years and knew them all. Mostly he knew his friend and King Hugh. This could never come from the Shantal’s.


    “I suppose he may,” Anthanasius answered peevishly. “Under dire circumstances.”


    “Well then, how is that so far off?” Cajetan asked.


    “How can a threat cause all this? Anthanasius asked him in return. “And how can Semias blackmail the king for the whole kingdom? He doesn’t even have a family anymore.”


    Cajetan started to answer but Boniface cut him off. “It’s true he doesn’t have a family anymore. Everyone knows that. But what he does have is power. Semias must have come upon a way to threaten him. I don’t know what that could be. Maybe a dark secret from him or his family. Anything might cause his desperation.”


    “I don’t think it is specifically against you, Anthanasius,” Cajetan said. “You’re just close to him. Maybe whoever is threatening the king thinks you are in the way. Close enough for him to confide in. As much as his father liked us, you and Luke are his closest friends.”


    Anthanasius sighed. He longed for the days when the three friends wandered around outside Rohalot while imagining they partook in grand adventures. Nigel wanted to grow into an older prince with time to learn to walk in his father’s footsteps. He and Luke played the part of forest rangers and honed their craft with the bow. All practiced their swordsmanship.


    Once Anthanasius achieved his dream he realized he didn’t always appreciate it. Especially at times like this and the previous month. Their childhood games never involved their friends dying or the future king plotting his friends’ deaths.


    Boniface and Cajetan felt a weight off their shoulders as they finished the conversation. Some from seeing Anthanasius and Luke return from their mission, some from confiding their worries in another. Anthanasius kept his resolution to himself as he parted with the king’s advisors.


    Chapter 8:


    “Foleri, where is Helkin?” asked Vilimont, impatiently.


    “Why would I know that?” retorted Foleri.


    Vilimont began pacing again and drew his cloak about him tighter. The two stood in the town of Kisdock, on the northern shores of Rohia in the region of Bronlum. All original inhabitants had been driven out or killed, and the Shalmen soldiers had immediately plundered the town.


    After months of Shalmen occupation, only the layout remained as a recognizable town feature. Filth filled the streets, houses were abandoned after rough use, and now winter threatened to overtake the autumn.


    Not that the Shalmen didn’t know the rigors of a hard winter, for where they came from the winter winds blew colder, the snow piled higher, and the winter nights lasted longer. The entire country tested the citizens throughout the year, but even in this relative warmth their anger made everything worse.


    “Get me a fire going,” Vilimont yelled at Foleri, wanting an outlet for his anger.


    “There’s no wood left, your highness,” sneered Foleri.


    Vilimont turned to him and would have cut him down there if looks could kill—Vilimont’s almost could when at his worst. He stomped heavily toward his second-in-command and grabbed him by the collar, glaring at him.


    “You. Will. Treat me with respect.” he said in a slow, menacing voice, scaring Foleri with his calmness. “Do you understand that?”


    “Yessir, yes, yes I do understand,” he stammered, trying to back away and turning his head partway to one side to escape the direct gaze, but Vilimont was not done with him.


    “See that you remember it!” he yelled, shaking Foleri violently, “Tear wood off these wretched houses if you have to! We’re leaving soon!”


    He threw Foleri to the dock and turned sharply about to look across the water for some light. Foleri scrambled back a few yards before standing up and scampering to the nearest house.


    The biting wind didn’t cool Vilimont’s seething rage. Foleri could feel the man watching him even more keenly when he fumbled the flint and steel. He was one of the Shalmen’s best tacticians, and burned with resentment from Vilimont’s treatment.


    He got a fire going, but dared not gather in as close as Vilimont. They waited two more hours with Vilimont’s anger never abating before they spied a light in the distance. It bobbed as it came closer, and before long they heard rough voices. Vilimont stood, walked to the end of the longest dock, and waited.


    As it finally came into view, they noted the boat held eleven men, eight of whom pulled at the oars. A man at the prow stood upon seeing Vilimont and remained steady in the rocking boat. His towering frame and missing eye revealed him to be the one for whom Vilimont and Foleri kept a frozen vigil.


    Before the boat even bumped the side of the dock, the large man stepped out, momentarily splashing the boat deeper into the water. He stood glaring at Vilimont, who critically sneered, “You’re late.”


    “Are you calling me an idiot? You think I don’t know that?” Helkin snarled back with a low rumbling voice.


    The two continued glaring directly into each others eyes for a time, willing the other to look away first, utterly ignoring the splashing about them from those disembarking. Finally Vilimont spoke, still not flinching his eyes, “Are you ready?”


    In reply, Helkin turned to the side, reached into the boat, and drew out an ax. He rested the haft on the hollow dock with a thump and placed one hand on the top by the blade, almost a full half meter in width. It shone in the moon and glistened with fire. His devilish smile bespoke doom for someone.