The Absent King
The Knights
"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power."
It was evident the Royal Knights were seldom seen this far from the castle walls in Marion Bay.
The Neratine River drew a lazy trail through the eastern parts of Areta, dotted with flourishing cities closest to the ocean’s coast, where the King of Areta was celebrated and most loved. The Knights were welcomed warmly and offered rooms in the luxurious inns, which quickly became decorated with the king’s colors: gold and blue. Here they would stop for the evening to rest and resupply, before resuming their trek at dawn. Boys waved their wooden words, and ladies their colored scarves.
As the Knights rode further upriver, less of the king’s influence could be felt. The cities diminished into villages, and then into hamlets as the Neratine led them to the country’s border. Here, the Knights encountered less welcome, and instead found more fear and agitation. No one lived this far from Marion Bay to call themselves patriots.
The inns here did not welcome the Knights without prompt. Instead, they were taken by royal decree. Offered assurances of leaner tax collection as compensation, the captain’s men were fed, wined, and housed on the locals’ own coin. If a village lacked an inn, they stayed at the largest house. When the time the Knights left at dawn, the locals breathed easier and traded spiteful curses.
By now, Captain Amon Serona had become specially skilled tracking down the impetuous King Alonso. The boy’s tastes were decadent and spoiled, and though not everyone recognized their ruler on sight, most recalled the finely dressed young man who bought only the freshest fruit, the best cuts of meat, and stayed in the cleanest rooms. Following the king’s trail was as simple as asking after suddenly wealthy whores in the area.
The sun was setting on the Knights’ second week from the comfort and security of the castle. On Serona’s map, the Neratine bent at a sharp angle just a few miles ahead, becoming the defining border between Areta and Vicenna. The King had likely foolishly crossed over.
The acrid smell of charred wood reached them before the carcass of a ruined settlement revealed itself from behind a rolling hill. Startled into awareness, the captain kicked his horse into a trot, prompting his Knights to do the same. Beneath a bleeding sky, their horses took them onto the still smoldering remains of a lonely hamlet.
“Look alive!” Serona called back, finally requiring their capacity as the kingdom’s protectors for the first time since they’d left Marion Bay. It was a lot to ask at this hour, when all of their asses were sore from riding all damned day. “This whole place is burnt! What the devil happened here?”
Half of a blackened waterwheel hung by its axle alongside one of the squat, stony structures situated on the river, large portions. The flames had died by now, leaving only patches of glowing embers. Two nearby homes had partially collapsed. Most intact was a tall barn, accompanied by the dilapidated skeleton of a low-lying fence. The first corpses they spied were two dead cattle, bones picked clean by buzzards and jackals, but no humans so far.
The road was littered with frantic foot and hoofprints, far too many to account for the dozen or so souls who must have lived here.
“All of you!” The Captain promptly stopped his horse and dismounted, leaving it to shuffle and bray in distress outside the hamlet. “We’re to look for survivors. Or bodies. Find out any indication as to what did this and report.”
Despite the clear sky, distant thunder murmured at them from the darkening Vicenna sky. Serona glanced upward and grimaced. It wasn’t anywhere close to the wet season.
“Gerald, your eyes are better that anyone’s, watch for movement. The tracks are fresh. There could still be someone here.” The Captain pushed back his hood. With the sun setting, there was no more need for it. “Falkenburg, those cattle don’t look burned. Find out what killed them. Kolbe… for god’s sake, if you find anyone, try not to frighten them.”
The Mummers
"When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw."
On the fringes of Vicenna, just beyond the Neratine river, a campfire cast an orange halo around a mass of tall, smooth faced rocks jutting up around a tiny spring. The wagons of the Mummers of Merry Andrew had set up in a circle within the sheltered area, alive with ribbons, vibrantly striped canvas, and the sound of jubilant laughter. The wagons were dark, and the theatre troupe was off duty now, but many were still in costume from their performance hours earlier.
Carven into each of the half dozen wagons were artful faces, both beastly and human, opened wide into jubilant smiles, unbridled rage, and overwhelming sorrow. Spry elven forms sat on and around them, as light as leaves on trees, drinking from clay cups or chewing on their share of meat.
Just beyond their camp was a small Viceni village, tucking in for the evening. It was called Muon Pond, and in the afternoon they had welcomed the Mummers and swarmed around their stages in awe. As their opening act, the dwarf had read his poetry, more tender and eloquent than a man like him appeared he could be. Following that was the enchanting voices of the she-elves Juna Hakallerva and Anuwelyn Deydra, producing a harmony few humans had ever heard.
Lothren of course played the title role in their following act, The Aurelian Collector, about a covetous villain who stole the land’s finest women to encase them in gold, preserving their beauty forever. Alan’s role in the play was of his comical assistant, whose fascination with anything lustrous resulted in his constant blundering. (Why must molten gold be so hot!)
The exotic Annara en’Sammat played the Collector’s newest victim, to be rescued by the dashing Aust Galen. An unconventional romance between an elf and a human always drew particular fascination (or disgust) from the audience. Often enough, their closing duet coaxed begrudging applause from the most stubborn spectators.
As evening settled in, the actors were resting and preparing for their twilight assault. Those who weren’t eating were readying their weapons. Archers oiled their crossbows, swordsmen sharpened their blades, and pistoliers tuned their flintlocks.
“Can’t believe the voice on you, Aust.” Alan laughed between drinks. He still wore his hooded cap from the play, but he’d removed his shoes to warm his feet by the fire. As usual, he avoided any and all interaction with Juna, the decided virtuoso of the band. “Almost forgot my lines.” He did forget them. “Annara, you’re lovely but I think you should listen to Lothren’s advice. You’re much too serious. Lady Isabella is a happy woman, it’s why she baffles the Collector.”
Alan glanced over his shoulder at the shape of Lothren, perched atop a nearby rock. No longer animated now that he was out of his role, he’d defaulted to his usual brooding state. No doubt troubled by the fate of his brother. It was evident in the way he aimed his arquebus at the distance, which gleamed in the crimson sunlight.
“Shame what we have to do tonight,” Alan mumbled into his mug. “But you heard Lothren. No bodies this time. No one needs to get hurt. We just have to scare them west in to Areta. Set a few fires, swing a few weapons.” The disguised king swirled his drink. “No need to kill the damned cows this time. Poor animals never hurt anybody.”
