Tales of Dead Kings 1/?

Sir Evarin Omur

Days and weeks and months away from home had left a sour taste in his mouth and an even worse smell infused into the leather of his armor. There was something about going back, though. Somewhere in his mind was that child-like sense of returning. Other than the circumstances at hand, it wasn't an awful lot unlike riding back from Lord Perquin's stronghold a hundred summers ago. Back then, he had been Evarin the prince or—more importantly—the boy. Youth was so very, very easy. But, no more. Now he was Evarin the knight—one status exchanged for another, and youth traded for this.

“You should smile more, Sire,” came from his horse's left flank. The lift of a chin and a turn in the saddle would reveal the wide, emphatic grin of an approaching companion. Or, rather, escort, “We've been two days in from the coast and I've yet to see more than dour facades.” Rhys Haele was a good boy, gods save him. He could track and swing a club with the best of them, but being handsome of face and easy with his leisures had made him more than a bit full of himself. “I'm aware that the occasion demands it, but we're still on the grass.” Rhys shifted in his saddle and turned brown eyes to the horizon, “Save your frowns for the ivory streets of the Lady beyond.”

He took it back. That boy was a flea on the flank. Evarin would, however—with a huff—tilt his head enough to acknowledge the youth who'd been sent to fill an empty spot in that entourage and accompany him and his men to the capitol. “I've no reason to smile.” Why would he?

The boy straightened. “We've all heard what's happening, if that's what you're fussing over.”

No response was necessary. He knew that they weren't idiots. Every man from here to the Oldlands knew his tale. Bards sang of it, ladies simpered and spoke of thing like woe at their lost chance of being queen. And Evarin kept riding. He kept his head on his shoulders and his sword sharp.

Above all else, he kept his vows.

“Keosin was my friend,” he said, finally, after they had rode nearly a half mile more. “He was the father of my niece and your king. You wear your black and wipe that grin off your face like the rest of us, Sir Haele.” His voice was quiet, though. Not nearly the force it could have been. He knew it didn't have to be. All it took was for Evarin to catch his reflection and see what they all saw—king's blood; fiery-haired, tan-skinned, prominent, squandered king's blood—dark eyes would return to the youth's, “Respect is not an option.”

As things were, Rhys was not required to take notice of things such as appearance, lineage or—gods forbid—name. The title of “sir” shoved into it all, clumsy footed yet omnipotent, just the way a young prince had once demanded it. Back then, there had been no Rhys Haeles to contend with, though. There had been Sir Amarids and Sir Raynors—good, decent knights; men one could trust with their life; men one didn't mind being of the same standing with—not boys who took vows for the sake of tournament glory. “Our days are numbered, Sire. Do you not see?” He lifted a silver encased hand and pointed down the road. “There-”

Evarin had to squint and lower his visor a bit to catch sight of those glimmering shapes, but once he did, he didn't have to think twice about what or who they were.

Rhys smiled. “Without the king, your dear sister will be slightly more unbearable, I'm sure.” Clucking his tongue, he urged that tidy gray mare toward the front of the group. “Cheer up, Ev,” he called over an armored shoulder. “You'd hate to disappoint your queen by wearing that sour face when she has you piked!”

The Prologue

A canary sang in the center of the arc.

Sweet songs rang of nothing but truth, yet the men surrounding did little more than ignore her. After all, what was the insignificant song of a tiny yellow bird to the noble and wise? It was chatter to some—a background sound that they had grown accustomed to over the months. Others found it more... irksome. None smiled as the melody rose—a shame to the canary, who deserved much more than their grumbling. Smoke would be huffed past tobacco stained, but otherwise white beards—tendony, age spotted fists would slam against table tops.

All was in vain, however, because what was that songbird to do with her day if not sing her spite?

“Light it,” was the command that came on a voice whispery with age and disuse.

“Light it.”

The men turned to look the direction of their master—the noblest and wisest, surely...

...Doubtfully.

One would pipe up. A younger, more foolish member, of course. One who dared to allow such a thing as pepper to mar what should have been an entirely salt white beard. “Light it? Are you certain?” he stood from his workstation to whisk across the room. “No one has given us the command. His lordship is a fortnight's ride from the-”

“Light it,” said the first, with much more certainty.

If anyone had dared to ask the canary her opinion, perhaps the world would not have ended that day. Perhaps those wise men in that grand, circular room with all their age and all their power would have waited... Because on the horizon, riders did ride. Mounts foaming and bloodied from that all out race, they did indeed ride. They rode and rode and whipped their horses raw, sealed letters clasped in armor encased fingers.

Letters that should have saved the world.

“Light it, you thrice damned imbeciles!” But if you wanted something done, it was best to do it yourself. Turquoise robes furled as he strode to the canary—to the arc. She sang as billowy sleeves were rolled to the elbows of arms that had once been strong. Her tune would only falter once as the sparks jumped from hair to hair on those boney limbs, singes left in their wake.

This man could not possibly distract her, though. She had a job to do. The arc sparkled a vibrant yellow as its orb bobbed in response—floating happily to the tune of her music.

Someone shouted a plaintive “No-” but they were most likely too late.

An enchanted little bird had kept that orb happy. A happy orb meant a controllable arc meant stability in all their lives. Now that canary smoked and sizzled on the tiles.

The orb settled on a shivering black.

In silence and darkness the old mages worked, the riders continued to ride and a young king held his breath...

And there, the world stopped.

…

Only to be jump-started by that salt and pepper magician.

“Get me a box,” was said quietly. “Fetch a box,” came a bit louder. A glance over a shoulder would provide him with the reason for no “yessirs” or sounds of rushing foot-falls. He was the only one left—alive that was. The floor was a veritable sea of stinking corpses in vibrant mage robes. What it lacked, however, was the flame broiled canary. And now that he thought about it, the quiet was distinctly song-filled.

A small voice rose to grab at his attention. “What will you give?” it asked.

“Anything. Everything.”

“So be it.”