《In Service of the King (A Fantasy Tragedy)》


 Prelude- A Humble Scribes Confession

    For those that wish to know, my name is Ezra, son of Simon. I serve as a scribe for the Crown, as did my father, his father, and his father before him. We strived to give the best of ourselves to the one sitting upon the throne. Pen in hand, we transcribed the day-to-day events of the kingdom of Hatra, everything from military occupations to the rise and fall of the merchant market to the royal family business great and small. Our mission was to create a log of our nation''s history for posterity''s sake, that those that come after may read and learn from the experiences of those before. With the help of the gods, we have succeeded throughout the generations.


    As a short aside, for those interested in a scribe''s plight, from the day we take up the pen, we swear an oath, one older than our clan. We pledged, on our father''s hands and mother''s heart, we will write every event as they happened, removing our own personal feelings from it. In this line of work, each scribe must take great diligence in compiling the information on one piece of parchment. To complete this momentous task, he must seek those with firsthand accounts, so that he may not write half-truths or baseless rumors. Not a single stone must be unturned, the correct chronicle hinges on it. Throughout our lives, we broke our quills and bled our inkwells dry that the stories we leave behind were perfect in their retellings, from the events being described in accurate, concise words to the precise, elegant lettering of each word.


    At long last, I have reached the end of my tenure as Scribe. It will only be a few more days until I pass my position down to my son, who will teach his children our ways. Once I lay down my pen for good, I will retire out in the countryside, far from the daily struggles of the inner kingdom. Looking back, I still find myself surprised at how far the kingdom has come since the days of my youth. During the reign of three kings, it has fallen into war-torn poverty, edging closer to destruction, recovering to reach higher heights than anyone believed possible, suffered major setbacks during the Great Plague, picked up the pieces and achieved another golden age of art and literature, and now, at last, settling into a prosperous, but stagnant, society. Many have said that we risk falling back off our peak, plummeting into Hell again. That may be possible, but in my old age, such things do not interest nor worry me anymore. Perhaps that is a deficiency in my character, one I doubt I can change now.


    Not so many days ago, my lovely wife discussed the possibilities of what we shall do in our final years. She wondered if the King would permit us to travel with a caravan, seeing the world, entering new territory. I have no such desire, one of our many differences. Living a peaceful, pleasant life as my wife leaves her longing for more while the years of meticulous toil leave me wishing for peace, quiet, and a grassy hill to lie on, sleeping hoping one day, I will pass away into my next life with a smile on my face.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    While that dream brings a tear to my eye, I must admit that it is one that will never be mine. Long ago, my grandfather spoke on a matter, when I was four, and to this day, I remember it. Even if my memory dulled, losing the sharpness of my youthful days, I doubt I could forget. He spoke of a simple matter, a man''s peace of mind, "Peace is not for the dishonest," he explained, looking out on the world with dimming eyes. "If a man hides anything in the shadows, keeping it from the truthful light of day, it will fester in his heart, as an unclean wound. The pain will pulse through his chest, creating a never-ending aching, denying the rest he longs for a night. When at last he prepares to give up the ghost, stepping out of his mortal shell, his lies will haunt him into his next life."


    In my final days as scribe, these words come to mind more than they have in my entire life. I sought the advice of Barnabas, son of Ephraim. His days as priest long behind him, he could not see me, but his ears were as keen to listen as ever. He heard my worries and gave council. I do what I must, with his wisdom in my heart. While the current state of affairs does not concern me, there lie some beasts of the past which I cannot ignore further. I do not deserve to write another word in the name of the King, nor has that right belonged in my hands these thirty years. My actions have brought great disgrace upon my position as a scribe, my family before and after me, and to my name.


    I broke the great rule of the Scribes. Long ago, I used my pen for a sinister purpose. With it, I hid the truth. In the final year of King Li, my hand penned lies, ones kept in the Royal Chronicles, passed down as the infallible truth of those tumultuous days. It is with great shame I admit this wrongdoing and now, near the end of my life, I realize that it must be set right, otherwise my soul will have no rest.


    Within the confines of these pages, I will recount the events that transpired in the years of our great King, taking special care to deliver the truth in its original context. For what I was not present to witness, I corroborated through firsthand accounts. My memory serves me as well now as it ever has. These events have burned themselves into my brain with an invisible brand. As a scribe, I must add that to write this down, I will bend our order''s one rule, to the point of near breaking. All I write will be as they happened, but I cannot remove my stance in these matters. My heart is too close for my mind to remain impartial. This is not the retelling of past events, through the eyes of a passive observer, but these are the stories of my life, friends, and King. For scholars, this will be an abomination, but I forfeited the chance to transcribe them right the first time. Atonement is the only path I walk, and it is with this in mind I begin my confession.

 Ch. 1- The War Is Over

    Let''s begin with the Night of Weeping, also referred to as Hatra''s Lamentation. That night''s festivities, as I once penned, as well as everything leading up to it and all that followed, were well written within the Royal Chronicles, but many details were redacted before any mortal eyes witnessed them. It was not this tale''s beginning, but it is the best place to start. Few events, no matter their overall import, display the setting and introduce characters that will take part in this story. Here they took their place around the stage of this unforeseen tragedy, unaware as the fires of their own demise ignite, which would soon surround them all.


    To call anything that happened that the Night of Weeping festive is an outright lie, but there was a cause for celebration, (a grand reason that still stirs this old man''s heart to this very day.) On that evening, in the year four hundred seventeen of our great founder Gilgamesh the Immortal, the kingdom of Hatra experienced its first peace since before the reign of King Frederick, who became known as the Compromiser. It was ten years since the former King passed into his next life and his third son, Li, now called the Chaotic, first sat upon the throne. (The false names bestowed on these two men of royal breeding distresses me, but I must call them by it, if for no other reason so that those that find this will not mistake them for anyone else).


    (Looking over the Chronicles, they have one thing correct, if nothing else.) The last decade was one of bloody war and rampant death. Not a day went by without a mother witnessing her son''s gored remains being buried in the cramped graveyards outside the city. It was the best the kingdom could do for the fallen heroes brave enough to stand up against the raging enemies which longed for Hatra''s demise. Every night, a mother''s cries echoed from the mass graveyard.


    Hatra, the empire that began with one fortified city, now the vast kingdom''s capital, ended the almost half-century war with the kingdoms of Myndus, the coastal city-state which dominated the seas for the better part of two decades, and Petra, the mountainous people clad in the faces of demons, reappearing on the battlefields with massive armies of seemingly undead soldiers. How the war began was a mysterious thing. Most believed it started because of a disagreement between their merchants, each from a different nation. Others have reported that a ring of bandits committed deceptive robberies that made each kingdom suspect the other. Some thought it was a mere matter of courtly politics, the kind that expanded national borders and left destruction in its wake. To know the truth, one should turn to the chronicles of year three hundred sixty-seven, the year the war began, pages four hundred eighty-seven through five hundred sixty-two, where it explains the elements that created the long war go in greater detail than this volume of parchment can bear. Suffice to say the war began as quick as a bee''s wingbeat.


    A single battle, one that seemed to bring Hell itself to the world''s surface, closed the fifty-year chronicle of the war, and for most, this revelation was almost impossible to comprehend. When the sound of clashing blades, thudding of boots, twangs of bows, and the cries of dying men all ceased, every soldier stood with their weapon of choice poised, ready to deliver the death blow to any man in striking distance. It was then that the King''s Cry sounded his horn.


    Within battle, the war horn''s importance did not need explaining. All military strategy hung on its sweet notes. In the Hatran army, all messages relating to charges, retreats, rerouting, changes in the battle, reinforcements, victories, and defeats came from the King''s Cry, the Chief of the Buglers, and his devout men that repeated his message. Every nation has distinct calls relayed across the battlefield, serving as a code that only those within their ranks understood and any opposing military did all they could to memorize enemy calls and use that information to their advantage.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    On the last day of the war, as the men prepared to slay their enemies, the Hatran men held the Voice of the King''s Cry, relayed by his messengers. They faltered. As the clear, firm notes resounded, they pricked up their ears, unsure if they understood the message. There were a dozen messages that the King''s Cry could deliver, and some of them were not heard often, if at all. That ending cry was one never used on the battlefield, not once in the entire fifty years. As notes floated over the soldiers, they searched their memories, trying to remember what message resounded.


    Every note the messengers sounded were the King''s orders. Not a single message came from any other, so when they realized what the call meant, they bent down to the blood-stained ground of the Citadel and wept. Peace. The horns declared that peace, after a half-century, was here and that the war was over. On the hill, where King Li watched the battle, he heard the enemy horns relaying a message he knew was the same as theirs. He saw the enemies drop to the ground and weep alongside his soldiers. Late into the night, only the joyful sobs of battle-weary men came from that valley.


    Two weeks later, the Hatran soldiers returned to the capitol. News of peace preceded them and the streets burst with the cheers of poor elated citizens, giving no thought to their afflictions from years of poverty and malnourishment. Many from surrounding towns raced into the city to join in the celebration. Confetti rained down from the watchtowers, all the colors of the rainbow filling the sky. Children jumped up and down, screaming the names of the soldiers, their heroes. Women, with no gift for dancing, spun about regardless of if a partner would take her in his arms or not. Old men sat and cried, not believing that they would live to see that day.


    This brought a smile to the soldiers'' faces, but on that day, they could not enjoy their victory. Entering the gates, they displayed to their home what deformities they now bore. Of those that survived, most returned maimed. Missing eyes and hands being the lightest of the injuries. Some hobbled on makeshift crutches which made up for a leg they no longer had. Others hid their missing arms with shabby cloaks. Those were the lucky ones, while the worse off could not return, remaining in the closest city to the Citadel, where their ragged bodies received care, praying they would survive.


    No matter the joy of the festivities, the soldiers could not ignore what they lost and in mere moments, the crowd joined them in their silence. Behind them, the procession of the dead followed. Horses, weary from travel, dragged the carriages behind them, each piled with the bodies of that hellish battle. The shock of this display brought on an eerie quiet that not a single breath disturbed. Before returning, they took a census and King Li knew what the war''s end cost him. He paid the price for peace in blood, though he did not wish to, but to achieve the war''s end, this sacrifice was unavoidable. Of the ten thousand men he brought to the final campaign, all the soldiers he could afford, only fifteen hundred still drew breath. There was not a single battle in the entire fifty years which harmed so many and took so much life.


    That night, the entire city held a vigil for the fallen. No one ate a morsel or drank a drop of water. All thought on those that could not be with them. Widows wailed and children longed for the sturdy arms of their fathers. Mothers wished to see their sons again and old women prayed that their sacrifices would not be in vain. Every soul mourned, for those who died two weeks before, but also for those that fell in battle those fifty years. Those dwelling in the nearby towns heard the cries of Hatra throughout the night.

 Ch. 2- A Kings Sorrow

    Though most did not know, the Night of Weeping was important for one other reason. It was the first time in a year since the Twelve of the King''s Inner Circle were within the same city. One did not have to have any social status or wealth to know about the King''s Inner Circle. They were the best that the nation offered. The King handpicked each one to serve in this group. They were the King''s most devoted servants, loyal to every word he spoke, performing his orders without question. Thus, they received the name the King''s Body with the King himself serving as the Head.


    Each servant had a singular purpose within this inner circle and the King''s wishes sent them all throughout the land, often keeping no four of them in the same place at the same time. The end of the war and the Night of Weeping were an extreme exception to this rule, in particular with what was to follow. However, it was not the King''s desire that brought the Twelve together. In fact, they came for another reason, a more personal one.


    Separate from the city''s mourning, the King had a private service, one apart from even the vigils held for the captains of his army. He had it in the Court of the Body. Deep within the walls of the palace, there was a single courtyard, a place that only those of the Twelve could enter. Courtly subjects avoided it out of fear for their lives. That night, one by one, the Twelve slipped in by their own means. Tall hedges surrounded the stone yard, preventing any eyes from seeing them.


    On one end of the clearing, a stone throne sat, a seat that only the Royal Head of the Body could sit. King Li sat there that night. Across the courtyard were twelve more seats, forming a semi-circle around the King''s throne, but unless the Head called for official business, none of the Twelve sat in them, and even then, most of the seats were empty because of few being present. That night, they filled all chairs but one.


    Among those of his Inner Circle, King Li abandoned most of the formalities of his position, one that he had to maintain to the letter under any other circumstance. Before his most trusted servants, he wore a plain sackcloth, an irritating, uncomfortable outfit unfit for a King. He leaned back in his seat, exhaling a deep, weary sigh, placing a hand on his head burying it in his long unkempt dark hair. For a long time, he said nothing, not that he had to say anything. They all knew why they had gathered, but still, a speech must be made.


    At last, he stood up from his chair and spoke briefly but the impact was undeniable. "The loss of this war touched us all and, on this night, within the confines of these hedges, we feel the deep pain that came with this victory." He gestured past the chairs to a stone altar. On an elegant cot, resting on the altar, was none other than Charon, the King''s Blade. His white hair glistened in the firelight, having lost its full redness long ago. On top of his chest, there laid a sword, shattered in two parts, each stained with blood. He laid clad in his armor, still stained from his deadly wound and the blood of his enemies. No man could ask for a more fitting display. There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face, though a joyful spirit no longer resided in the corpse. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    When those present turned back to the King, they found their leader turning his back to them. "Forgive me if I do not face you," he said, his voice tight with pain. "But I cannot say what I must with your eyes gazing into mine." He paused and some wondered if he would finish his thought, if he could finish it. "I wish I could deliver a eulogy worthy of Charon, but I fear that any offering I bring to him, no matter how eloquent, would be a disservice to him, so I say nothing other than this. Not once in my life nor in my father''s time has Charon shirked his duties as the King''s Blade. He was a man apart from all others. Everyone had a different bond with him; still, each bond was as strong as an iron chain. We will miss him."


    The remaining Twelve met this speech with silence, none having the audacity to interrupt their King as he forced himself to continue talking. At the corner of the semi-circle, a tan man of eighteen years, Barak, sat with a hand planted across his mouth in a tight grip, stifling his cries of despair. Being the youngest, Barak lacked the years of controlling his emotions during these trying times, though he was not alone in his heartache.


    "I will choose another," King Li announced. "But for the time being, we need to recuperate from this tremendous loss. When the time is right, there will be another Blade to serve this circle, but for now, let us honor the man who gave his all for this country''s future."


    On that note, the King stepped away from his throne and walked around the courtyard. He proceeded towards the altar and took his place in front of the body. No one could see his face but all knew the closeness he once shared with Charon. There was not a youth that had not crossed blades with the master swordsman at least once and few had the pleasure as much as the young Prince Li did.


    With a slight tremble of his shoulders, he bowed from the waist and in a loud voice, declared, "Thank you for your service!" Another stifled cry gasped from Barak. King Li stood up straight. "Barnabas," he said. "If you will, please oversee the rest of the service." His orders clear, he strode away from the courtyard, taking his leave of the procession.

 Ch. 3- Six of the Twelve

    Another silence fell on the Twelve. At the center of the semi-circle, a man in a black robe, a holy man''s garb of mourning, stood from his seat. His clean-shaven face and short trimmed blonde hair glistened from the thin sweat on his brow. Though only a man of twenty-nine, he held the respect of most men, no matter their position, being the High Priest of Hatra and received the title of King''s Tome. With slow movements, he approached the body on the altar. As his King did before him, he imparted his final words to a man he looked up to. No one heard what the priest said, nor was he willing to repeat them for posterity''s sake.


    After speaking his heart, he took his place beside the throne. From the folds of his robe, he revealed a scroll. In a clear, loud voice, he read the text on the parchment aloud, words that all knew by heart after these fifty years, "In life, you gave all you could. We thank you for who you were. In death, peace has found you. May the gods watch over you as you pass into your next life. Perhaps we may see you again, but if we do not, goodbye. You will not be forgotten."


    They were simple, but their importance goes back to the foundations of Hatra, which can be found in the fifteenth year of the Royal Chronicles. They were the words spoken at the grave of Hatra''s first king, slain in battle, and since then, they were the prayer spoken over every departed soul, that they find peace in their next life, if that is where the soul goes. (Being a mere scribe, I know not the answer.)


    With the prayer recited, it was time for the Twelve to deliver parting words of their own. For a time, none of them left their chairs. No one knew who should lead the procession, but it did not take long for one to decide. In the second seat from the right, a thin, dark man with thick black hair stood. Among the Twelve, he was the King''s Coin Purse, but to all else, he was Levi. His shrewd eyes clarified that he had no interest in such services. Being the Royal Treasurer, he had many things on his mind. The end of the war brought about a major shift in his duties and mourning the dead was among his top priorities.


    Despite this attitude, he passed by the altar before taking his leave. He bowed in front of the body, murmuring words of thanks. With his parting delivered, he left the proceedings and returned to the palace, where his work awaited him. Following him was a man in black clothes, though he did not wear them in mourning. His beard was thick, wild, and bright red. Skin was pale and eyes were piercing green, but even with these clear, distinguishing features, few of the Twelve recollect seeing him enter the courtyard, nor when he sat down. If they did not pay attention, they might have missed his departure as well.


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    Such was Silas''s existence, the King''s Spyglass. He became one of the Twelve by being a man of perception and invisibility. When he found peace in death, there would not be a single sign that he even existed. As soon as Levi finished at the altar, Silas stood before Charon, the body at his chest. (Perhaps his smaller stature made him difficult to find.) He bowed, but said nothing, delivering his farewell in silence. Once he paid his respects, he vanished in an instant, and no one saw him again for months, but according to Haman, he did not leave the proceedings. The spy watched from the shadows, where he dwelled.


    Speaking of Haman, he sat in the open, with a rather irreverent air around him. This was to be expected in his line of work. The shifty glances of his brown eyes confirmed that he felt the disdain that some had for him, regardless of his attitude. The twins, in particular, looked down their noses at him, but a slight glint in his eye made them look the other way. A thin brown beard wrapped around his tan chin, forming a permanent smile on his face, no matter if his lips frowned. There was no doubt in any of the Twelve''s minds that scores of men saw that hairy smile as they passed into their next life, Haman''s knife protruding from their chest.


    The man surrounded by death, the King''s Dagger, (perhaps Hangman is a more accurate title) stood up and approached the body with almost a skip in his step. He nodded his head and walked back to his chair, sitting in it backwards, that he may watch the rest of the proceedings, though no one knew why.


    Disturbed by the assassin''s mannerisms, the twins, Nathaniel and Bartholomew, stood up and almost ran over to Charon. The pair were the youngest, being only seventeen at the time, but already, they scaled the ranks of society taking their places as the King''s Right and Left hands, his most trusted of advisors. (There is much to be said on these two, but that will wait for now.)

 Ch. 4- The Final Goodbyes

    Boaz, the King''s Horn, his messenger, took his time with Charon. The lamplight glittered off his long golden hair, which he pulled back into a long tail which ran down his back. It was the mark of a messenger, always waving in the air as he ran. He had a few chance meetings with the marvelous man. From what he described, he held each of them dear to his heart long before the hero''s passing. No one knew how he would react as all paid their respects. Some believed that he would bid Charon farewell with a grin and a joke. When he faced the rest, shocking tears rolled down from his blue eyes, glistening off his olive skin. He said that it had something to do with never sharing a battlefield with the man again.


    The Scribe kept to himself, watching the events unfold that he might keep a better record of it, though he did not know in what capacity. Still, he took time to spend a few brief moments with a man he respected above all others. If there was an important moment that they shared, now would be the time to reminisce on it; but the pair did not have such an encounter. The admiration the Scribe felt for the man was one that comes from watching from afar. Perhaps it was his youth that made him accepting of this travesty. With the graying of his hair and fattening of his belly, the memory becomes harder to bear. (I will not go into this further, lest my tears stain the parchment.)


    Of the last three remaining, a unique member of the Twelve stood up, making her presence known. It was no secret that the Twelve were a male organization, but throughout its history, there were some exceptions to this rule. Dinaz, the only woman in this current iteration of the group, was one of them. When she first received her appointment, some believed that she would serve as the smiling beauty, bringing a beam of sunshine among the drab men, but nothing was further from the truth. (A matter for later in this recounting.)


    Standing in front of Charon, she removed a windpipe from her elegant sleeve. Her long black hair brushed against her dark arms as she raised the instrument to her lips. If there was a poet among the Twelve, he would need to write an entire anthology to describe how wonderful every note of Dinaz''s song was. It was not a mere formality for her to receive the title of King''s Bard, sometimes referred to as King''s Lute. The crystal-clear notes danced around the courtyard, within them was a story, the ballad of the Great Charon. They took those present to the struggles of his youth to the exploits on the battlefield to the despairing low they found themselves.


    Tears from the beauty of this song would fall years after when they returned to the twilight of remembrance. When the last note faded, she lowered the pipe and sang in a language no one knew. Not even Barnabas with his extensive background on foreign languages knew which country these words came from. It was a language that only bards knew, and there were some secrets they refused to sing about. Despite this, those moved by the windpipe felt the same stirring as they listened to her song. When her performance ended, she bowed to Charon, stepping to the side, leaving everyone in stunned silence.


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    Last of all were Habakkuk and Barak. Of those present, no one could find two beings more different from one another. Barak, for lack of better terms, was a pretty boy, a fair headed child with pale skin that seemed sculpted from marble. He stood at the ideal height with perfect muscles. His eyes were sharp, seeing the world with a passion which made him an easy choice to become the King''s Bow, a position he only took two years before. It was difficult for him to walk through the city without youthful women swarming around him. He sat in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chin, burying his face in their embrace.


    Habakkuk, the eldest of the Twelve, was a massive, hairy man. His olive muscles bulged with an ugliness that struck fear in his enemies and respect from his friends, while strangers avoided being one and begging to become the latter. Unlike the others, who wore robes, he wore his chain mail, with greaves on his arms and thick leather covering his legs. The left shoulder bore Hatra''s symbol: the winged man, an angel. There were few times when he was without his uniform. Perhaps the biggest difference between himself and Barak was clear by the gray in Habakkuk''s hair, which he kept pulled into a long braid. While Barak was at the beginning of his life, Habakkuk was reaching the end, or at least the end of his life carrying the title of King''s Shield. It was rare that one reached his age and kept a position among the Twelve, particularly as a man who fought on the front lines during the war.


    They stood together, with Habakkuk holding on to the lad''s arm, helping him approach Charon. Barak''s weak steps vanished in the booming presence of Habakkuk''s self-assured clomps. When they reached the altar, pained expressions flashed on the faces of those present. There was no group around the Twelve that had as close of a bond as they. The Trio were together again, for the last time.


    At last, Barak could not hold himself up, and he collapsed. The lad laid on his face, young tears spilling from him like an uncontrollable river. Standing over the lad, Habakkuk held steadfast, his arms folded. No one that remained said anything as Barak''s sobs filled the air. In time, he regained his composure, though no one knew how long that took. When he did, his friend helped him back to his feet. Barak said what he could to their fallen friend. All of the words ran together, so no one knew what he said. Habakkuk remained silent.

 Ch. 5- Laying the Hero to Rest

    Once they stepped aside, Barnabas declared, "Those that would, please take our brother to his resting place." If he looked around, he would find that only six remained, with them being the only ones that could carry him out.


    Haman was the first at the cot, to the surprise of all. Perhaps he took some pleasure in this, though his face gave no indicator one way or the other, but the casualness of his gait was telling. Dinaz, who was not a frail woman, took a place behind him. Many looked down on women carrying men to their resting place, but given her status, no one would challenge her. Barnabas stood behind her. It was also uncommon for priests to carry the dead, but with so few to bear the body, he had no choice, but from the look in his eyes, it was not a burden.


    Barak shuffled to the middle left, at his comrade''s prompting. If he broke down, the body would not fall. There was no greater disgrace than for the dead to touch the ground. Habakkuk stood at the front left, that he might make up for Barak''s potential weakness. His face stood inches away from his old friend''s. Boaz took the last position, keeping his face toward the ground.


    Together, they carried him out, the cot resting at shoulder height, with Barak having to hold it to his head and Habakkuk propping it against his arm. With slow steps, in time with the memorized beat of the Hatran war drum, they took him from the courtyard. There was a brief flight of stairs leading them around the hedges to a long walkway. They ended up at the top of the palace stairs. A crowd awaited them.


    The moment they appeared, the anguished cries arose from the masses, creating a fever pitch of misery. Barak''s legs buckled for a moment, but the cot did not lower by an inch. They stood, allowing the crowd''s initial despair to subside, while allowing their youngest member the chance to regain his footing. In time, the wails dissipated into a babbling of blubbering men and women stifling their cries. "Hurry," Barnabas coaxed. "While they maintain control."


    At his urging, the procession carried on, walking to the internal beat of the drum. They had not practiced, but they navigated the steps where they glided down them, the cot floating between them. The crowd parted as they drew closer, dividing as water does before a bow. As the procession passed, many extended their hands toward the body, in an act of silent prayer and respect, but no one dared touch.


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    Looking back at the crowd, the procession found people of all walks of life surrounding them. Butchers, weavers, sailors, housewives, beggars, elders, soldiers, even nobility had a place within the sea of mourners, but there was one that all six noticed. Each only saw her for a moment, but that was all they needed. At the sight of her, Barak fell to his knees in a moment of weakness. It was difficult for him to stand up again.


    A girl, no longer than thirteen, stood among the crowd alone. In a crowd as large as this, someone as young as she would be pushed aside by the throngs around her, but she held her place, with a small circle of empty space around her. It was as if everyone knew not to draw close to her. She wore a simple black dress, which covered her from neck to ankle. A little veil clung to her face, but even through the thin fabric, her large, pitiful tears shone. Barak''s sharp eyes noticed that there was something familiar about her, although he knew he did not know her. There was this dignity in her eyes, a passion that he was familiar with. When he stood back up, he knew there was no mistaking it: the resemblance between her and the older man who laid on the cot. (If he could see her red hair from that position, he would have cursed himself for taking so long to realize this.)


    At the end of the crowd, they found their destination. The entrance to the Royal Catacombs laid at the end of their march. A small group of caretakers, clad in brown robes, waited beside the marble doorway. Once the procession ended, they would take care of laying Charon to rest. The closer they drew, Barak was not sure if he could bear giving up his dear friend, but he looked up at Habakkuk''s strong back. The old man knew Charon far longer than he. It was common knowledge that the pair grew up together, rising to prominence at the same time. How can he stand this? he wondered, his heart aching over his weakness.


    When they reached the end of their march, the caretakers lined up on both sides, relieving the six of their burden. For a moment, Barak almost pushed his man away, daring anyone to keep him from his friend, but he noticed something, and it humbled him. As Habakkuk gave up his position, there was a slight tremble in his shoulders. It was brief, but it was there. Shame gripped Barak and his weakness before a man that only had a single tremor display his sorrow.


    The lad relinquished his position and the six, as well as the crowd, watched as the caregivers took Charon away from the public eye, into the catacombs, where no one would see him again. Through it all, King Li sat on the roof of the palace, looking at what he saved, knowing what he gave up, and there is no doubt that Charon''s final moments haunted him until the day he died.

 Ch. 6- The Battle of Jacobs Ladder

    (Though touched upon before, and many pages in the Royal Chronicles elaborated on it, this Chronicle would not be complete without a brief retelling of the last battle, with both Habakkuk and Barak''s positions considered, in particular with their relation with Charon. If the reader requires more information, the more studious can refer to pages fifty-two through two hundred and ten of the year four hundred and seventeen. Otherwise, this recollection of the events will suffice.)


    It was a day that few could forget, even Barnabas, who witnessed it from a distance, remembered it in his old age as if it happened an hour ago. The place of battle was Jacob''s Ladder, one of the last Citadels from a time before Hatra. Who built them or their exact age was unknown, perhaps someone will answer it one day. There was a time when priests resided inside, but not a soul lived within the crumbling walls of that Citadel for centuries. Jacob''s Ladder was the ideal battleground. It rested in a valley. Hilly country surrounded it. Once the armies charged one another, there would be no easy escape. A perfect stage for the fight to end war.


    The armies met one last time, though the soldiers did not know that this would be their ultimate confrontation. Their commanders spared nothing from their armories, every weapon sharpened and no armor left behind. No horse remained in the stables. Each King sent out their finest warriors to claim the Citadel as their landmark of victory. Leaders delivered magnificent speeches along the way to the battlefield, sending pulses of strength through the weary men, who received the initial encouragement with slumped shoulders. By the time they reached Jacob''s Ladder, all approached the battlefield with hungry eyes, ready to bring the half-century war to an end.


    Among King Li''s men were Habakkuk, Barak, and Charon, the mightiest Hatran soldiers in the last century. The eve of the battle was upon them and it was their custom to sit down together and share a loaf of bread before a battle. They gathered at the top of a nearby slope away from the army where they could look upon the abandoned tower in the last light of day. Barak tore off part of the loaf and crammed it into his mouth. While chewing, he said, "So it will all end tomorrow."


    Neither of his elders paid any mind to his sloppy manners as Charon took his own piece, passing the rest along to Habakkuk. "I should hope so," Habakkuk said, his long, single-braided hair shaking as he chewed his part of the loaf. "If this continues much longer, no one will have enough soldiers to squabble over a pile of stones."


    He turned to Charon, waiting for his lifelong friend and comrade to deliver an encouraging speech, as was his custom. A frown formed on his lips as their de facto leader looked upon his faithful sword, which served him well through the countless battles, seeming uninterested in their conversation. He was not the first man to own it, being one of many. The history of that blade eclipsed the achievements of any one wielder, no matter how great. Legend said that one of its former masters held back an army of five hundred, its edge never dulling. The man that matched into battle with that blade would never taste the cruel bitterness of death. Charon attributed many of his own successes to this sword, called "The Dragon''s Fang."


    To their surprise, his friend''s shoulders slouched for a moment and Habakkuk''s eyebrows raised. Charon was not a man of doubt or complaint. Strength and courage were his defining characteristics. To see anything else was seeing an unfamiliar man, and for a moment Charon disappeared. The man who sat amongst Habakkuk and Barak was not their comrade-in-arms. The traces of fiery red hair amongst the gray lost their flare, as if the passion inside, which made them burn, extinguished. His shoulders hunched forward, as if he would collapse. Where had the fierce Blade of the King disappeared to? "Charon?" Barak called, his voice soft, but strained.


    The man''s eyes blinked as if he were waking up from a dream. He sat up and looked at his comrades with a kind expression. The red reappeared in his hair. "Do not worry my friends," he said in a stern monotone, unlike himself. "This war will end today."


    Habakkuk and Barak exchanged a glance, both concerned by their friend''s sudden solemn nature, and more by his temporary disappearance. Two years before, they stood at the gates of the river town Nile. Enemies had them surrounded, having rounded the walls under the cover of night. Hatra''s forces dwindled on the campaign. Victory was impossible with their troops battle-worn, weapons broken, and armor close to breaking apart at the slightest jostle. The trio sat together in the dead of night, knowing that there was no way to stop their enemies from surrounding them and for the first time in his life, Habakkuk believed that this battle would be his last and Barak, the most agile of them, doubted that he could escape with any dignity, knowing death would be nobler.


    Charon had not lost hope. He looked at them with a grin on his face when Barak, only sixteen, asked, "How are any of us supposed to survive this?" The question was a legitimate concern, but met with laughter from their leader. "What''s so funny?" Barak demanded, his voice raising in frustration. He witnessed more death than he wanted that day, verging closer to falling apart. Habakkuk remained silent, watching.


    "We will not die," he assured, his tone free of all doubt. Taking The Dragon Fang in hand, he raised it in the air. The rising sun glinted off the edge, shining as a beacon. "Today, we will fight for our King and the people we protect, but this will not be the last time that any of us draw breath. There are more years ahead of us." His words were boastful, spitting in the face of Death, but on that day, he spoke the truth. They did not win, but they broke through enemy lines, not losing another man to their foes. Neither Habakkuk nor Barak understood why the battle at Jacob''s Ladder would be anything different. Charon said nothing more on the matter. They ate the rest of their loaf in silence that night, retiring early for the oncoming battle. That was the last time the three warriors saw each other alive.


    The battle that brought an end to the Half-Century War was unlike anything seen before. For the first time in centuries, blood spilled at the Citadel, a place where, long ago, the forsaken criminals would plead for sanctuary from those that longed for their life. On every side of the battle, soldiers watched friend and foe alike torn limb from limb in the name of victory.


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    From his viewpoint, as the other rulers did, King Li watched in tight-lipped silence as his servants threw their lives away for the peace he so longed for, all the while being one of two men from Hatra who knew how the campaign must end. He knelt on the ground every hour the battle continued, praying to the cruel Fortuna, begging her to end it. As far as anyone knew, if the goddess existed, she withheld her right hand of good fortune while her accursed left tarried a moment longer.


    It was Hell. Wave after wave of soldiers charged into the valley throughout the battle. As they drew their blades to fight and ran down that hill, they ceased to be men. The hatred of decades of war twisted their minds. Bloodlust took over and they became demons. From his vantage point, Barnabas dropped to his knees, spewing bile on the ground. He could not bear witnessing these men slaughtering one another. The demonic men fought to claim the Citadel. They charged inside the doors, killing those that tried to overtake it, only to lose control and have an enemy gain the upper hand. No one could claim dominance over Jacob''s Ladder.


    The valley surrounding the Citadel was filled with bodies filled with arrows. Some slain while charging to the battle, and others from trying to storm the enemy''s position. At the Citadel, King Li''s trio showed why they were the best. Charon wounded two men with every stroke of his blade, and killed a man by the second. Habakkuk crushed his enemies beneath his shield, having no offensive weapon of his own. Both proved that their age had not weakened their prowess. Before them, the enemies were rain before a raging wolf. Barak kept up with them, slaying a foe with each twang of his bow. At one point, Habakkuk and Barak took the entrance, holding off two dozen foes.


    Hidden amongst the enemy ranks, Silas, the Spyglass, watched the proceedings. He saw the battle ebb and flow in each nation''s favor. No one could gain a permanent advantage as the day wore on. As the numbers dwindled, soldiers were more careful about their tactics, choosing their foes careful, drawing out the battle long into the evening. Some men raced around the tower, trying to kill one another as if they played a child''s game. Silas wondered how long this would go on, but none of the kings called off the battle. No signs of retreat. The battle raged on.


    Barak''s quiver ran out of arrows three hours before the battle ended, forcing him to use his bow as a staff against the tridents of Myndus. Habakkuk''s shield creaked as dry wood against the mighty hammers of Petra, and fear gripped his heart when he realized that he saw no ceasing to the bloody skirmish, though it would resolve in two hours. Their leader, Charon, battled his way to the top of Citadel to stand before the best warriors of the opposing nations. He knew not their names, nor they his, but from the looks in their eyes, they knew that the outcome of their war would end after the delivering of finishing blow in their three-way duel. Charon stood with no sword in hand. The Dragon''s Fang lay shattered on the battlefield, broken four hours before. With no fear, Charon stepped forward to play his part.


    As the sun set, at the King''s bidding, Boaz''s horn sounded. Barak and a soldier of Myndus stopped grappling, hearing the bittersweet cry. The King''s cry was echoed by Boaz''s men. The horns of Myndus and Petra joined. One by one, every soldier ceased his personal war, realizing what the horns told them. Swords dropped, shields thrown aside, helmets removed, and tears of joy shed. A great cry of victory arose from the battlefield. No man considered the impossibility of all three sides winning, which the horns declared. All that mattered was that it was over.


    That night, the warriors did not leave the battlefield. Those that could treat the wounded did so side by side with their enemies. Beneath the light of the moon, no one cared that only hours before, they were trying to kill one another. Everything was over. The groans of the wounded filled the night. Some slept, but others laid awake, wishing that the day would never come, because they did not wish to face what the light would bring.


    When the sun rose the next day, all saw the death that battle wrought. The sight of the lifeless eyes and pale bodies, contorted in painful death haunted many until the day they died. A deep groaning echoed throughout the three armies. In the heat of battle, they had no idea how many were slain and now they saw the consequences of that ignorant bloodlust. The list of Hatran deaths were many. It was placed in the Scribes to tally the census of the dead. All of the names were scrawled on the walls of the Citadel. It was the least that could be done. Among them was Charon, the King''s Sword, the Great Swordsman of the Dragon.


    Barak and Habakkuk did not see who killed him but upon finding his body, they made their assumptions. They looked at their friend, with two daggers sticking out of his chest. The archer turned aside, hiding his tears from his surviving comrade. The shield-bearer looked on, burning the image into his mind. Charon, the greatest warrior of Hatra, died, but he did not go alone. Across from him laid the opposing generals, one with an arrow in his throat and the other with his shoulders missing a head.


    With heavy hearts, they picked him up as former enemies retrieved their own generals. They exchanged a brief glance of understanding, one that felt like a small eternity. The duo were not the only ones who suffered this pain. Regardless, carrying that great man''s body was one of the hardest things that Barak had to do. Each step felt as if his legs could crumble underneath them. Shoulders slumped, his chest heaved as the pain of his friend''s passing racked his body. How can one maintain their lordly status with a broken heart? As they walked along, their comrades stopped what they were doing, mouths hanging in shocked horror.


    "Do not weep," Habakkuk said in a low voice as Barak sniffed back his tears. "We stand as symbols for our kingdom. If we crumble, this day will end in despair, and not joy." The young man heeded the command with difficulty, maintaining far better than he did at the burial. Together, they carried him away from the battlefield. They laid him on a hill, overlooking the Citadel. His friends stood beside him in silence while the battlefield was cleared. Throughout the day, many soldiers, from all three armies, stopped by the body, to pay their respects for a magnificent man. Habakkuk regarded everything with a firm gaze while Barak tried to hide his sniffling.


    When the Sun set again, King Li appeared. He said nothing, walking past his servants. Ignoring all protocol, he laid down upon the dead man''s mound and wept aloud. No one rebuked him, choosing to watch on in vigil. After a hard fought victory, this was a leisure that only the King himself could afford, as he wept for the whole kingdom which lost its greatest hero. It was this battle that brought the war to the end and was the catalyst for all else.