RE: Monarch

“It seems your prediction was correct, my lord. The prince has led the bulk of his regiment to the warehouse district in Topside.” Thaddeus reported, arms wreathed in the sleeves of his robe.

The King of Uskar stroked his beard, not particularly pleased at the news. It was often a great pleasure to fool one’s enemies. But fooling one’s heir, and so easily at that? The disappointment outweighed the pleasure. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but a sense of wariness washed over him. Multiple scouts reported the boy prioritizing brutal efficiency over honor during his recent mock battle. On one such occasion, he’d even stooped so low as to pose as a simple soldier, using deceit to make up for the numbers advantage. In Gil’s previous estimation, his heir was far better suited to the role of a general rather than a prince. But now, it seemed like even that no longer held true.

Like so many other so-called tacticians who lost their edge the moment battle turned personal.

“And there’s confirmation they saw his face?” Gil questioned. “He wasn’t wearing a helmet, or obscured by his troops?”

“Multiple eye-witnesses confirmed it, my lord.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Gil had even lingered, taking his time unseating the elf banner-lord to select a group of men from his pre-existing honor guard, releasing a few with problematic egos for trumped up infractions. But now, even the meager force he’d gathered seemed excessive. Dagon, captain of the black shields, trailed behind him, crimson mage’s robes modified around his chest plate.

“Captain.” Gil called him.

“Yes, my lord?” Dagon sidled up beside him, maneuvering the chestnut war horse deftly.

“Go home. Eat dinner. Fuck your wife.”

Gil shook his head. “Or your section. There is no battle to be had. Only a child who will not be spared the rod.”

“Fair enough.” Dagon sighed, staring up at the sky. “Guess I can sit out discipline duty. Plus the market’s still open. Quality cuts might not be picked over yet.”

Gil looked to Thaddeus, grinding his teeth in displeasure. “Much as I hate to say it, House Westmore will need to be handled through more subtle means. Wait until the princess is dispatched. Then gut them. Make sure whoever is promoted from within the house understands their place.”

“Are you… certain that’s wise?” Thaddeus hesitated as he spoke. Still lingering, Dagon gently yanked the reins, forcing the horse to maintain some distance from the spymaster. “Obviously, you are more than capable of handling the boy, his regiment likely too green and spread out around the district to react in time. But he is not the only threat.”

“Someone keeping you up at night, spymaster?” Gil groused, too annoyed with the way things were shaping up to give Thaddeus’s mothering his full attention.

As always, Thaddeus latched on to the opportunity. “Currently, there are two individuals that give reason for concern. The prince’s infernal banner lieutenant, and his bodyguard.”

“Why does any of it matter if the regiment is as spread out as your people claim?”

“He’s keeping both close at hand.”

Gil would begrudgingly admit he was slightly less versed in urban warfare, but only slightly. He could easily see that a warehouse was an ideal place to spring a trap. They were secure, sturdy buildings. All he needed to do was wait for his heir to grow preoccupied searching one. His men would hold the door, while he dealt with his errant spawn.

“Your concern is unnecessary. A silver sword and a stray mutt plucked from a refuse pile in the annals of Topside pose little threat to me.” Gil shook his head. This was all such a bother. Perhaps he should follow his own advice to his second. Come nightfall, Annette would be gone, married off to a second-rate house with nothing but her brother’s incompetence to blame. That might be punishment enough for the failure.

“The bodyguard I cannot speak for, other than a few scattered rumors that give pause.” Beads of sweat collected on Thaddeus’s brow. “However, I would caution against underestimating the silver sword. The infernal is notorious for his time in the plains.”

“And why haven’t I heard of him?” Gil asked, growing less interested by the second.

“A combination of factors, I suspect, largely stemming from his race and low-birth. Were Sevran human, I believe he would have his own regiment by now. In terms of martial prowess with a spear, it is possible he is the best we have. Both he and the bodyguard are staying close to the Prince. If my liege intends to force a close confrontation, you will likely have to contend with all three. But Sevran may use the opportunity to… escalate grievances.”

There was an idea. Cairn had handled himself well during their earlier altercation. He made no attempt to fight a superior warrior on even-footing. In some ways, Gil lauded the pragmatism of it. But what if, instead, Cairn’s back was against the wall, bolstered by a powerful warrior and whatever the hells the bodyguard was? Maybe then, he could finally see it. The iron that even now, from Whitefall to the Enclave and beyond, was slowly giving birth to legend.

Even now, the possibility interested him. This might not be a complete waste after all.

“Where’s the diplomat?”

“No one’s seen her.” Thaddeus answered. “She was sighted accompanying his regiment for a brief time, then disappeared.”

“Still has enough cunning to realize he needs to keep her out of harm’s way. Hasn’t completely lost his mind.”

A silence went by before Dagon spoke up. “So, am I going to the market or…”

“Leave.” Gil commanded, and Dagon went.

/////

Taking the warehouse was a simple matter. The hardest part—fighting their way through the bulk of the mixed regiment and getting him inside—was already done. With that milestone accomplished, the black shields were experienced in maintaining a foothold rooted in hostile ground, and on average, his soldiers were simply more experienced than his son’s. Numbers mattered more, but they were evenly matched on that front, and the experience showed through.

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It was far too easy.

And while he’d hoped the battle would ease his bloodlust, it simply wasn’t the same. The dull thumps of blunted weapons didn’t sing the same song as the razored steel they replaced.

The interior was dark, fraught with more shadows than light. On their approach most of the opposing soldiers had poured out of the warehouse. But there could be more, held in reserve.

However, if there was a trap—any sort of cobbled together reversal—Gil believed there was less than twenty men to carry it out. Twenty seemed to be the magic number regarding the amount of fully armored men. Any more and he’d already hear them, the subtle shifts in their armor, clinking scabbards, echoing in the black.

Less than twenty.

Gil left his retinue behind with instructions to keep watch at the door. It wasn’t ego. Not exactly, though he was confident in his ability to overcome such a scant number. It was to drive the lesson home. Foreign royalty and leadership often performed poorly in battle. The King of Uskar had no such luxury. Perhaps if he could punctuate that fact, demonstrate how strong a leader must be, his son would finally understand that trickery and tactics did not make the whole.

A King was a force of nature, unstoppable, no matter the foes that plagued his path.

Gil stopped, cocking his head and listening. “Is that a rat I hear, scurrying in the dark?”

Someone sprang from the shadows. Gil cursed and planted his feet. He’d expected them to bide their time and wait for an opportunity. Instead, they were attacking before his eyes adjusted.

Sparks flew as blade impacted blade, illuminating a fierce visage for a split second before the blade pulled away, its bearing sliding back from the impact of the return stroke.

“Human. Better than an average mercenary. The mongrel.”

A half dozen vicious swings answered, each cloaked in darkness, giving him minimal time to react. He blocked each in kind, feeling a thrill as he allowed them to land as close to their intended targets as possible.

Underside of the arm, legs. Striking at the throat only after realizing the attack is unlikely to connect. Holding back. Well. That won’t do at all.

“Much better than average,” King Gil grinned at the shadow, feeling the blood beginning to boil in his veins. “But there’s a bit of wasted motion holding you back. An islander, perhaps? Suppressing the clownish movements that plague your kind?”

The explosive response forced him to retreat a step, wincing at the sparking flares that punctuated every impact.

Definitely an islander.

“Tell me. Have your folk finally stopped shitting in bushes and wiping their asses with leaves? Or are they still the same savages they’ve always been?”

The mongrel stopped. His face was wreathed in darkness, but Gil could feel his disdain. “Are we primitive? Maybe. But none of us are animals enough to torture their own child.”

“I’d never expect one as simple as you to understand the complexities of—”

The attack from behind was a whisper. If the din outside the warehouse were any louder, it might have gone entirely unnoticed. Gil pivoted, moving on nothing but instinct as he spun, catching the heft of a spear tightly in his fist. The sharpened xescalt tip was a mere finger span from his face, dark metal glistening in the darkness.

Cold white spheres studied him from the darkness, detached and analytical.

Sevran, I presume.

Before he could so much as make a mocking rejoinder, the infernal pushed forward with a terse, brutal movement, nearly driving the point home. Gil slid back with a grunt.

So, Thaddeus was right. The infernal’s fighting to kill.

Without hesitating, the mongrel footsteps padded pavement, intending to capitalize on the lapse in attention. Gil released the spear and skipped backwards, fully expecting the two of them to collide. Only to his shock, they didn’t, passing each other effortlessly and ending up on opposite sides.

They’re good.

The realization was as elating as it was irritating. Because, if the spymaster’s report was correct, Cairn had won the loyalty of both largely through combat prowess. And while facing a pair of competent opponents who didn’t cower at the thought of engaging the crown was a delight, he still nursed the ever-growing desire to see what his son could really do. While his idiot daughter’s resistance to questioning was unfortunate, it meant that all the pieces were there. The berserker rage of the Northmen was rooted in Cairn just as deeply as it was rooted in himself. Gil could see it when Cairn talked about the arch-mage, the way the embers of hatred burned in his very soul. Only he was hesitant to lose himself in it. Every time he fought, he seemed so committed to remaining in complete control that he ended up holding himself back.

Clinging to outdated ideals of decency.

If he could break Cairn of his reluctance, the boy could be a force to be reckoned with. Untouchable. This most recent setback with the commoner wench in the graveyard would be nothing more than wood tossed on a blazing bonfire. Losing the younger princess would still be unfortunate. Necessary, but unfortunate. It was an uneven trade and there was nothing Gil hated more than to be on the losing side of an exchange.

But an heir that could topple empires beat the loss of an odd daughter unfit for politics or combat any day. Securing that would be worth almost any sacrifice.

The mongrel and the infernal were moving faster now. There was a synchronicity between them that felt spontaneous, as if they’d only just discovered it. If Gil had to guess, they hadn’t fought together much before today.

Better to put a stop to that now.

King Gil changed tact, minimizing pointless exchanges that accomplished little and giving ground, shifting his position, forcing them to come within close proximity of each other. Eventually one of them would strike the other, and their uniformity would be broken. This sort of thing wouldn’t work with a disciplined line of spearmen, or squad of soldiers, but it was an excellent way to drive a wedge between two warriors.

Only, it didn’t work.

The mongrel was a wild dog, biting at every feigned opening, recovering quickly enough to escape the follow-up. But the infernal was his shadow. His dark armor in the low-light condition made him difficult to track. More impressively, he was always there, spear coiled and ready to strike the moment the mongrel needed to recover. Again, Thaddeus was correct. If they’d lined up and fought him tournament style, the infernal would be the better fighter. His motions, while simple, had a certain flair to them that only the most experienced spear fighters used, adding up to give each strike an astonishing amount of force considering the weak nature of the weapon that delivered it.

How long has it been since a mere two men posed a challenge for me?

His mouth split wide, and he smiled despite himself. Against all odds this had turned out to be entirely worth his time. And his son hadn’t even shown his face yet.

Probably hanging back and letting these two wear me down.

Though his first instinct was to find that cowardly, it wasn’t a terrible strategy. Cairn was strong, but he had hardly finished developing. He had the stamina of youth on his side, yet it would take a great many battles before he was fully battle-hardened. And Gil knew, from minute changes in their reaction-times and counters, that these two would tire long before he himself did.

Without even the slightest shift as warning, Gil shot forward, leveraging the full-strength of his muscled body, ducking beneath the spear-tip that lashed out after him and charged the mongrel, knocking his sword aside and grabbing him by the neck, lifting the man’s weight as if it was nothing and continuing to run, eventually slamming the mutt into the warehouse wall with a resounding clang.

The mongrel grunted, sliding to the floor and coughing. The scent of fear filled the air, Gil laughed, raising his blade.

And brought it down.

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