• The clang of steel meeting steel was piercing in the hallways of the palace. James Aybara was the leader of a rebellion opposing the indifferent and suborn King Lammon, who overtaxed everyone and kept most of the money for himself, causing many to have little money for even food. They had been able to get past the gates undetected, but one hundred men were too many to keep hidden for long.
    The plan was simply to kill the king—suicidal to be sure, but worth it. His men could keep the King’s Legion at bay as he strolled to the king’s sleep chambers.
    A shout from behind signaled an attack. James’s already bloody sword moved almost gracefully to greet the man’s heart, or near enough. Almost gracefully: nothing about killing could be even considered graceful. Sliding the blade out of the man’s chest, he did not even notice the armor crash onto the marble tiles.
    Before James continued, he created a fire in his head and fed all of his emotions into it, until the flames consumed everything. His body felt distant in the immense emptiness of what he learned to call the Void. He was one with the sword in his hands, his concentration sharpened, and his thoughts floated along the outside of the calmness the void created, distant. Fear tried to break through, but James clung to the Void with everything he had. He did not think he could kill another man without it.
    Skulking towards the king’s chamber’s large arched doors, he noted that there were no guards outside; very unusual for someone who understood rebels wanted him dead. He burst through the doors to find King Lammon in the doorway to the balcony on the other side of the room. Four guards stood between James and the King.
    Of the four men, one wore only a purple silk shirt with the symbol of the King’s Legion—a shining white sword held by the Red Lion—named him the Lord Captain Commander. He deftly held his heavy broadsword in two hands, and a stony, hollow face with cold eyes stared at James with scorn. The Lord Captain Commander was just a step lower in authority than the king himself. Another man shouldered a double-sided battleaxe, the wicked half-moon blades balanced by a pike at the end of the handle. The third guard, younger and more eager than the others, held a simple halberd, seemingly just a staff and short-sword attached together. Lastly, the forth man wore a longbow on his back with a full quiver at his side and a dagger in his belt, yet he reached for neither. The king himself had a long-sword which hilt was deeply embedded with rubies, pearls, and sunstones, and the dull edge of the blade was traced with smaller rubies. An equally begemmed scabbard lay on the ground by his feet.
    “It’s time for you to die, your majesty,” James growled in a cold voice.
    “I don’t think so,” was the simple reply from the king.
    The man with the axe took it off his shoulder, bouncing it on his palm. As he did, the man with the halberd began to slowly spin it by his side. James knew in the way they did so that they were merely distractions. What was the actual threat? James dared to glance to his left, were a closet was located.
    A flicker of motion made his attention return again to the guards. Just then the guard with the bow hurled two throwing knives, one after the other. The first was deflected by his sword, but the second was ricocheted back into the man’s skull.
    The guard with the battleaxe announced his charge in a gruff shout. James easily dodged the clumsy swing of the great weapon and kicked the man’s knee backward. He tumbled to the floor screaming. “My leg! My leg! My bloody leg, you bloody bast—” the rest was unintelligible as James eased his pain by simply stabbing his exposed neck.
    “Well, you went down swinging,” he muttered.
    An intense buzz filled the air behind him as the man with the halberd began spinning it until all that was seen was a blur. The humming became even more aggressive as he twirled it even faster, sauntering towards James with a wry grin painted on his youthful features.
    On instinct James stepped back, searching for an opening to strike. He wouldn’t dare attack while the halberd was spinning, for likely his sword would be thrown out of his grip into the wall, or worse, hit him. His opponent must have been relying on such irrationality, because, when it was obvious that James wasn’t preparing to strike, the grin disappeared. The halberd suddenly changed course so that the blade would more than scratch James’ belly. James moved his sword to block the potentially fatal strike.
    The young soldier was even better trained with the weapon he wielded more than James had assumed previously.
    And it cost him.
    Again the direction of the weapon changed so gracefully that James noticed only when there wasn’t time to defend himself. Instead of being sliced open, the other end struck him on the head.
    James fell to the marble tiles in a lump. Dizzily he stared at the man and his double smiling triumphantly over him. The throbbing pain was distant in the emptiness of the Void, yet it wasn’t completely removed. The guard possess little wits, however; any soldier that has seen at least one battle would know that an enemy is to always be considered unpredictable, always to be considered dangerous, even when he was down. Any soldier that has been in one battle would recognize the chance to destroy the enemy while he was down. James had sought after exciting adventures in the world before, and such mistakes almost killed him.
    Patiently, James waited unmoving, except a barely noticeable rising and lowering of his chest. Just enough that it would be noticed. The warmth that trickled down his face likely assisted in the illusion. “My Lord, he is still breathing, my Lord,” he announced in an excited slur. James allowed his eyes open into slits to see that the guard was facing the other way. “If it pleases my Lord, shall I—” he continued, but James never permit him to finish. Snatching the halberd out of the unwary guard’s hand (his sword was just out of his reach), James thrust it upward. The guard had turned only to find the blade puncturing his chest. There was a startled “Wha—,” and then silence following a thud.
    He leaped up, disregarding the burning pain on his head, picked up his sword, and turned back to the two remaining men. “What? You thought someone trying to kill you would be easy to slay?” he asked the gaping faces. “Now, which one of you volunteers for the next casualty?” Neither of the others shifted. “Well,” he sighed, adrenaline pushing him for more, “I guess I’ll have to decide,” he said just before he darted forward, which was scarcely second before he realized the stupidity of the action. He was now battling two men, alone, and a wound that he felt seeping energy from him every movement he made.
    There wasn’t any promising way he would emerge victorious in this mêlée battle; the probable outcome was his demise. It was the skillfulness and determination of one versus the superior ability and willpower of two. Additionally, the knowledge James possessed of combat was gained only through coarse experience, as that of the King and Lord Captain Commander were trained, gently developed in the area, and as James may have agility and stamina, the other two had justification to boast of raw power.
    James’ weakness began to reveal itself almost immediately. Barely deflecting attacks, counterattacks were impossible. The Lord Captain Commander, who was veteran of many battles, recognized the weakness and exploited it. James prevented the overpowering downward strike from hitting him, but he was knocked to the ground nonetheless.
    As soon as he hit the floor, James bounded up, only to find the man’s gauntleted fist greeting his face, the sharp ridges cutting into his cheek hazardously close to his eye—if it were to have been less than an inch higher, James was sure he would be half-blind. Closing that eye, he glanced at the man towering above him yet again, who was shaking his hand. The shiny gauntlet was now decorated with bright red stripes and dots.
    James attack was fast and quite literally from below. His body spun, and his stiff leg came into contact with the other’s, who lost balance. The Lord Captain Commander’s sword was lost in the fall. James scrambled up and stomped his foot on the man’s chest, forcing the air out of him. He raised his fist and battered the man’s face as hard as he could. A hand grabbed for his throat, but was only able to reach his shoulder, but James cried out as the hand tightened on his collarbone. Desperately, he grabbed the hand constricting on his shoulder and with the other hand grabbed the other man’s neck. Slowly, the skin of the Lord Captain Commander changed color, darkened, and finally his arm fell and his eyes rolled back into his head.
    Then he felt a cold edge of a blade at his neck.
    James slowly stood, and the blade followed closely. “Now, is this any way to present yourself to your king…what is your name?”
    “James Aybara,” he spat.
    “James Ay—would you in any way be in relation to a Phillip Aybara?”
    “He’s my father.”
    The king laughed. “I might have known.”
    James took advantage of the king's lowered alertness. He backed away from the sword and kicked it out of the king’s grip. It slid across the floor. As the king was caught in shock for just half a second, but that was longer than James needed. His first punch dislocated the king’s jaw, and the second was a quick jab in the stomach, forcing him to double over. James drew his dagger from a hidden sheath in his rough leather boot and stabbed the king in the stomach where his hands happened to be.
    King Lammon was now defenseless as he fell, with both hands pinned to his stomach by James’ dagger.
    Calmly, knowing the battle was finished, James walked over to where the king’s sword had come to a stop. “Now, ‘King,’” he all but sneered. “It is your time to pay for all you have done to my family, to your people. You, drowned in your riches, cannot possibly imagine the pain that—.”
    The king looked at the man that stood over him. His hands were covered in a crimson flood, and his shirt was dyed a darker red than it had been before. “You don’t understand,” he gargled through the blood in his mouth. “I was only trying—.”
    James couldn’t listen to him anymore. “Shut up!” he snarled, and drove the sword into Lammon’s chest. It was over; the rebellion had succeeded, the tyrant was dead. He could go home. James picked up his sword and left the king where he was.
    Walking out the tall doors to find the battle of the peasants and the Legionmen. It was rather ironic, since the trained and armored swordsmen and axmen comprised most of the fallen than the farmer recruits. James decided it was time to stop it.
    “Hold!” he commanded. There were only a few who heard, and even less complied. “HOLD!” This time the men stopped, mostly. “There is no king. Your oath is to the throne, and now there is no throne. You have no reason to fight now,” and then he added mentally, not that you had much reason to fight before, either. “Lower your weapons. You can wait for the next king to come kill us.”
    A moment passed, dragging by as the guards looked to their captain.
    The captain kneeled, one fist on the floor and the other on the hilt of his sword. “By law of Carlin, I take oath to King Aybara.”
    James’ first thought was to wonder how they knew his name, but the men who followed him in probably shouted it at one point or another. Then he thought about what the guard had said. “I’m not a bloody king,” he retorted, but then sighed, remembering on of the laws of Carlin: “If one is to kill the king for a just cause, he shall be crowned as king….” One of the many foolish things spawned by the Game of the Houses, in which the lords and ladies competed for power. “I’m not a bloody lord, I don’t play that bloody Game, and I cannot be a bloody king!” he spat. “I am a shepherd, no more.”
    The rest of the guard kneeled and swore the same oath as their captain. A hand landed on his shoulder. James turned to find his friend Gwyan Mandragoranel standing behind him. “James, I’ve seen you get away from and out of almost everything—y’know, certain girls, jails, and the like—but, I don’t see a way you can get out of this one,” he paused. “My King,” he knelt, and the rest of the men knelt to James.
    James sighed. “You know I don’t know how to be a king, Gwyan,” he whispered. “I can hardly put up with listening to lords and ladies!” Gwyan only made eye contact and shrugged. “Okay,” he announced. “Just don’t bow every time you see me.”
    The guards stood, chanting; “Aybara! King of Carlin! King Aybara!” and then his men joined in the chant.
    All except one: a man with a scar from his left temple to chin watched the scene with a grimace. Cold eyes met with James’, and the eyes narrowed. The silk coat and cloak in the colors of white and red with the White Sun and Red Lion of Carlin and the blue, yellow, and purple ensign of a songbird holding a snake in flight on his cloak and the breast of his coat proclaimed him as a relative to Lammon. He could only be the late King Lammon’s brother.
    The Void which had honed his skill earlier suddenly shattered. James couldn’t concentrate enough to even reform the flame. All the small cuts and bruises came to reality. The throbbing pain on his head felt as if he had just been whacked by a cudgel.
    Jefor glared at him, glared at the guards, glared at the farmers and shepherds and peasants. “You killed my brother,” he scowled in a quiet firmness that somehow reached James. His lips curved, baring his teeth. “You killed my brother!” he repeated louder, the firmness turning to anger—no, hatred. “You killed my BROTHER! Guards, seize him!” the guards did not move. “Nilicke; why don’t your men do as ordered?” The captain’s face twisted in distress. “Seize him! He is a bloody sheepherder! Take him, or I’ll have you all hanged for treason!”
    Every guard’s face was a mask of fear. Gwyan took out his bow, but thought better of it and exchanged it for his sword. Granted, he was decidedly better with the bow, but there were too many people between the him and Jefor.
    “The Shadow consume you!” he thrust his sword in James’ direction, and then glanced at the guards once more. “May the Shadow consume you all!” he roared. In a mad rush, he drew his sword and charged at James. As he drew nearer, James noticed the herons on his sword, the mark of a blademaster.
    Jefor threw down his sword, and James barely raised his up in time to defend. Gwyan swung his sword, but Jefor kicked his chest, causing the sword to fly through the air and Gwyan to fall.
    James winced as the tip of Jefor’s sword came dangerously closed to his eye, painting a clean scratch on the rough marks created by the Lord Captain Commander’s glove. He was pouring sweat, yet it seemed Jefor wasn’t even breathing harder than normal, instead looking as if relaxed. Another slice appeared on James face, drawing a hiss. He had to take the fight outside, to the king’s private garden, where no one else would be killed that didn’t deserve to die.
    He backed towards the garden stairs. No one used those stairs except the king and the gardeners. At this time of night, though, the gardeners would be long gone. Once Jefor raised his sword for a more powerful attack, James turned and ran, pursued by the sound of the sword hitting the tiles. At the top of the stairs, he stopped to make sure that Jefor was following. Indeed, he was, yet what James failed to see before he turned was Gwyan taking up his sword and run after Jefor.
    The king’s garden was lush and green, a sharp contrast to the rest of the city and its surroundings, which drought had claimed for itself. James turned, sword ready. Jefor should appear from behind the wall blocking sight of the stairs at any moment. The sweat streaming down his face stung the cuts, but the warm, moist night air hung on him. His shirt clung tightly to his chest.
    The first warning was the crash of steel meeting steel, then a rumble as Gwyan tumbled down the stairs, clutching a would on his chest. He growled and somehow took his bow from under him, took an arrow from his quiver, but when he tried to set it in the bow, it slipped from his bloody hands. He grabbed it again, but Jefor arrived at the bottom step and kicked the bow away, only a few feet, but far enough.
    Seemingly unhurried, Jefor moved with the grace of a wolf, a wolf that has found its next prey. The tip of his sword was tinted crimson, glittering in the moonlight. James swallowed. A dark smile appeared on Jefor’s lips—a smile that never touched his eyes. Eyes that gleamed with hatred and a thirst for revenge.
    Only when James tripped over a stone and hit the garden wall opposite the entrance did he realize he had been backing away from the wolf.
    “You killed my brother, Aybara, you killed your king! He was only trying to reverse what my father—curse him—had done to this country. Our father was blind to all but his own greediness. My brother repaired the city, brought order to the country. He made treaties with countries we were on the brink of war with. He brought peace—or near enough—to Carlin—and you ended it.
    “I knew your father, Aybara. He was the finest general Carlin had ever seen, leading men to victory and never fleeing from battle. He was brave, loyal, and trustworthy; I and many others have placed our lives in his hands countless times. Then, for no rational reason, he abandoned his men, his king; he abandoned Carlin to work on a farm! And now he is sick to his bones. If he had kept with the Legion, he would be Lord Captain Commander by now!”
    “If my father had kept with the Legion, he would be dead!” James spat.
    Jefor looked taken aback for being interrupted, but he recovered quickly. Kneeling beside James, he continued. “Aybara, you killed your king, you ruined a plan to bring together a nation on the brink of crumbling apart in the wind. And now you sit back and watch it fly away?
    “I would keep you alive, make you suffer, but, then again, I wouldn’t torture an animal before slaughtering it, so neither shall I do so with you.” He rose. “Farewell, Aybara.” His sword raised above his head…and fell. Jefor’s eyes were wide and his mouth gaping open. He rocked slightly back and forth before turning around. In the shadow of the wall, James couldn’t see what it was. Then Jefor started falling backwards and James scrambled out of the way. As soon as he heard the thud of Jefor’s body hitting the ground, he turned to find the arrow that the ground below had forced all the way through Jefor.
    “Gwyan,” James breathed. “Gwyan!” He looked to the stairs where his friend held the bow parallel with the ground. James rose and started towards him, but when Gwyan collapsed, he all but ran. As James reached his fallen companion, he examined the wound. It was very close to his heart, just missing it by an inch.
    “My…” he started. “My friend…My King, James Ay-Aybara.”
    “I can’t be a bloody king, Gwyan,” he snapped, and wished he hadn’t; he had no right to snap at someone who had just saved his life.
    “Yes, my King,” Gwyan smiled.
    “I-I can’t do this, Gwyan. I don’t have it in me. I don’t know the first thing about being a king. I can’t do it!”
    “Yes…you….can,” his friend replied stubbornly, faintly.
    “You know I don’t know how to lead a nation. I’ve herded sheep all my life.”
    “Well, you got the sheep to…to follow you, right? That’s a start.” Gwyan barked a laugh, and paid for it with a series of coughs. “You got us to follow you,” his voice was losing strength. “We believed in you—we still believe in you. That’s why we rallied to you. You do have a leader inside you. It’s your turn to believe in yourself. We had faith in you, you need that faith, to have that faith.” A pause, then he said, “This is…the end for me. Just promise…promise me one thing….” His eyes rolled back into his head.
    “Gwyan?” James asked. “Gwyan? Gwyan! No, not now. This is not your end, Gwyan; hear me? Gwyan? Don’t go now! You can’t—Gwyan!” his vision blurred with tears. His throat burned with the cries he would not let out. “Goodbye, Gwyan,” he felt the warm tear roll down past the cold sweat, reaching his mouth. He slid Gwyan’s eyes closed and stood. Then a pair of guards stormed down the stairs, stopping halfway. “Prepare a burial,” he called to them. “Tomorrow, at sunrise.”
    After a few minutes passed, he slowly marched up the stairs, his feet almost unwilling to carry him, to the king’s chambers. His chambers. He would have to become used to being king, but, at the moment he needed only a hot bath and a long, deep sleep.

    ____


    Lord Captain Commander Bernard Demodred jumped from the balcony of the king’s chambers to the one below, which led to his room. His fake death had so easily fooled that Aybara character. His sword had been in a pile of all the weapons that had littered the room. After taking that he had slipped from the room to the balcony unnoticed by the two women who were tending the sleeping Aybara’s wounds. He had considered killing Aybara then, but the women would surely have every armed man in the fortress after him if he let them go, and he thought killing women disgracing.
    In his quarters, he gathered his bow, quiver, and cloak and slinked out to the stable where his saddled warhorse awaited. He had known about the rebellion before it even started, having men in every village and town to tell him everything significant that might not reach his ears otherwise. The day before a farmboy had come on a shabby horse that had no better purpose than pulling a plow and told him that a group of farmers were to try assassinating the king.
    He had very seriously doubted they could pass the King’s Legion, yet, like every successful man in his field, he never took unnecessary chances. Bernard had told every man completely loyal to him above the king to make camp west of the Erinn River, with the great fortress the Stone of Carlin just in sight. A few he trusted were selected to ride to the village and kill anyone who was there. The men will have a painful return home from their rebellion.
    He pressed his black gelding as fast as he could towards the camp. A knife in the dark or an arrow from a rooftop would kill him. Yes, it would.
    Bernard was laughing madly by the time he reached the camp.

    ____


    James woke in the morning as the first light of the sun reached his bed. To his surprise, his mother and his sister Alys were sitting on a chest, talking quietly.
    “What are you doing here?” he asked groggily.
    “Oh, you’re awake! We had these brought last night,” Alys answered, opening the chest. Then she added hastily, “my Lord.”
    “Blood and death, don’t you start doing that now, Alys; you’re my bloody sister!” he shook his head. “You or mother, it would drive me mad!” He stepped out of the bed, but when he realized he was wearing not but his smallclothes, he jumped back under the sheets blushing. His cheeks heated further when his mother hid a smile behind her hand, and felt like they should burn off when Alys giggled openly. He wondered if kings were supposed to feel like this. “Can you…um…please?”
    Mother scooted her out of the room.
    “Women are very strange,” he muttered. “I wonder if I’ll ever understand one of them.”
    “They are strange indeed, my Lord,” a gruff voice agreed.
    James leaped. A servant in white and red livery stood in the corner. He stared at James with penetrating green eyes as if waiting for something. Finally, he said, “I am Artur Martin, my Lord. Do you need anything, my Lord?”
    “A little privacy, please?”
    “As you command, my Lord,” he replied, and walked out of the room.
    Shaking his head, James walked to the chest, searching for white pants, shirt, and cloak for mourning.
    Minutes later he reached where his escort waited for him by the exit of the fortress.
    Soon they cleared the city. He wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going, letting the guards herd him. Every step was an effort as memories poured onto him. Times when they had climbed the Mountains of Mist or swim in the Waterwood Pond. Times they had gone off to be away or pretend to have adventures like the heroes in the stories of legend. Times of when one got in trouble and dragged the other into it.
    He could remember clearly the pain of when they had encountered a mountain lion, when he had only one scratch of the arm while Gwyan, who had tried to protect him, had been clawed so severely that James had had to carry him back to the village.
    Then he tripped over a root, falling to the paved road. Blinking, he saw the blank eyes of the guard who had been in front of him were staring at him, lifeless. James scrambled up. It hadn’t been a root he had tripped over, but the man’s foot. He looked to his right arm; sure enough, there was a slash the arrow that stuck out of the guards back had cut. An arrow meant for him.
    James glared at the rooftops of the city not too far behind, searching for the source. Then his eyes fell on a man with a narrow face on the roof of the nearest building. It could only be the Lord Captain Commander. He raised the bow and fired another arrow, and James watched as it pierced the air, coming for him.
    James glanced at the guards, but they were all dead, each killed by an arrow. He then turned his sight back to the one arrow coming at him. It, like all arrows in flight, did not fly a straight course. It went left, right, up, down, inconsistently. James knew there was no time to react. It had left the bow less than a second before, and it had nearly reached him. He closed his eyes; he could hear the whistling sound it made now. Then it struck, just a scratch on his neck. James felt where it had grazed him. There was blood, but very little. On the rooftop, he saw the Lord Captain Commander nod, and then turn away, his cloak swept up by the wind.
    The message was simple: James may be king now, but he could kill him any time he wanted, and there would be no time for comfort, no rest, always a wary eye on his back.
    Alys and his mother came racing up the hill, asking if he was alright. “Yes, yes, I am,” he answered.
    Then he heard the sound of a galloping horse and turned to find someone nearing on a dun which had seen better days. “James! James!” he called. “This do be very bad! Someone had burnt the village, and then killed everyone there. Then men that remained, the women, and even the children be dead by either sword or fire!” James felt sick. “Herald, Wil, Perrin, and I do been just gotten back from a hunting trip. Luckily, only two saw us: once died by an arrow and the other we do have captured and questioned, and Wil, and Perrin does be bringing him here as we do speak. He does say that he be taking orders from Lord Captain Commander Bernard Demodred. I do no think he do be telling the truth, James. I do think he be lying.”
    James fell to the ground with a grunt. He did not want a war with Bernard. He knew that this would be a bloody reign. Yes, a very bloody reign.

    ____


    Bernard lied down facing the stars. He had decided to take his army north to Far Heldréa, capital or Tar Asaldia. There he would speak with the High Lords, then eventually work himself up to the king. The king would listen; yes, he would listen. He would take any opportunity to strike at Carlin—the two nations had been rivals ever since the Breaking of the World, when kingdoms were created after the collapse of the Empire, a thousand years ago.
    He would lead Tar Asaldia’s army, with his own, and wear Aybara down until he begged for death on his knees! He wouldn’t kill him, though; death was too quick and painless.
    Bernard knew he was mad—but he didn’t care. Aybara thought he was safe, playing king. No, Bernard would not stop until he had Aybara leap when he said jump.
    Others peered at him as he began chuckling madly. Until he owned Aybara, the man was going to have a very bloody reign.